A 
 
 BCK ElEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP 
 CALIFORNIA 
 

! 7 ><*^p 
 
 ^v ii . * 
 

 
 
 
 
 
LlBRAtY 
 
 inivi«m of 
 
KATHARINE BERESFORD; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 OF 
 
 WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 A ROMANTIC STORY 
 
 Mrs. H. M. LOWNDES, 
 
 {late HA NX A II MARIA JONES.) 
 
 AUTHORESS OF 
 EMILY MORELAND," " SCOTTISH CHIEFTAINS," " GIPSEY GIRL." 
 " GIPSEY MOTHER," " CHILD OF MYSTERY," 
 
 &c, &c. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED FUR THE PROPRIETORS, 
 
 BY M'GOWAX & CO., 1G, GKKAT WINDMILL i«TriI>]:T. 
 
 1852. 
 
kcJt 
 
 KATHARINE BERESFORD; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 OF 
 
 WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 Alas ! the love of Woman ! it is known 
 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 
 And if 'tis lost, life has no more to brine; 
 To ihem, but mockeries of the past alone. Anon. 
 
 " A Mother ! — Have you ever known the feelings of 
 a mother, and can you persist in spuming from your 
 door — in consigning to irretrievable, hopeless infamy and 
 ruin, your erring but repentant child? Look at her: 
 Does she appear hardened in vice? Is that a face or form 
 to be driven forth to buffet with the world — to become 
 the companion, the victim of — " 
 
 "She has chosen it for herself. It was not I who 
 made her what she is — a disgrace to me and my name ; 
 a polluted wretch, whose very sight is hateful to me. 
 Would that she were lying a corpse at my feet — that I 
 had never borne her! Take her away, I say— I have still a 
 child; a good, dutiful child. She shall not have her 
 mind tainted, her character blasted, by association with 
 that infamous, that degraded wretch. Take her away, I 
 
 614 
 
# SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 say! You have no right to intrude here, to dictate to rne. 
 I bade her never dare enter my doors. My curse is upon 
 her ! the curse of — " 
 
 " Oh, mother ! Recall, only recall those horrible 
 words," exclaimed the wretched girl, sinking on her knees 
 at the feet of her unnatural parent. " Night and day, those 
 dreadful words are sounding in my ears. I cannot live ; 
 I dare not die. Oh, have pity upon me ! I will be your 
 servant — your slave. I will not ask — even hope — for a 
 return of your affection. I will never even 'speak to my 
 sister, if you wish it. I will give up every hope, every 
 claim, if you will not drive me from you ; if you will only 
 let me stay under your roof. Oh, if you could only know 
 what I have suffered, the miseries — the horrors that I 
 have endured ! " 
 
 " You have brought them all upon yourself. As you 
 have sowed so must you expect to reap. I should be 
 wanting in my duty to myself, and to my daughter " 
 
 " I am your daughter, too. Oh, mother, do not drive 
 me from you ! " 
 
 " You are not," she exclaimed with vehemence. " I 
 disclaim you. You have forfeited all right to the title 
 And now what brings you here ? Not penitence ; not 
 bitter repentance of your crime. No ; but because you 
 are suffering from the effects of it : because the villain 
 for whom yeu quitted your home, for whom you re- 
 nounced your mother, your bright prospects, your cha- 
 racter — for whom you became a thing I cannot disgrace 
 myself by naming — because he has deserted you, has left 
 you to well-merited poverty and shame. If he had still 
 continued to support you in splendid infamy, to make 
 you the degraded companion of his vicious pleasures, I 
 should never have seen you ; you would never have re- 
 turned to me." 
 
(»K WOMAN S LIFE. 
 
 " I should not have dared," replied the unfortunate 
 rirl for the first time raising her streaming eyes to the 
 countenance of her stern unrelenting parent. " It is 
 only that I hoped my sufferings — my penitence— might 
 be accepted as some expiation of my fault, that they 
 would plead for your forgiveness — " 
 
 Her voice faltered. There was a slight relaxation in 
 the countenance of the heretofore unbending mother ; 
 and Vivian St. Orme, the young man who had attempted 
 in vain to awaken her maternal feelings, and who was in- 
 tently watching every movement of her strongly-marked 
 (yet still handsome) features, felt his heart throb with 
 hopeful anticipation of the moment when she should 
 yield to that tenderness which he could not believe was 
 quite extinguished in her bosom towards her erring 
 cbild : but, alas ! a simple incident blasted in a moment 
 those hopes. 
 
 " Mamma, may I come in ? " exclaimed a youthful 
 voice ; and before an answer could be returned, the par- 
 lour door opened, and a young girl, who, though of a 
 totally different style of beauty to the weeping penitent 
 (who still remained on her knees) was too like to allow 
 of a doubt that they were sisters, bounded into the room. 
 For a second she stood speechless, and like a statue, 
 gazing at her unfortunate sister, and deaf to her mother's 
 imperative command to leave the room. 
 
 " Katharine ! " she at last shrieked. But Katharine 
 could neither speak nor move; she stretched out her 
 arms to her sister, and fell senseless on the floor. 
 
 No one was with her when she recovered but two 
 female servants, whom Katharine had never seen before, 
 and who seemed to regard her with a mixture of pity and 
 contempt. 
 
4 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " My mistress desired me to tell you, that the gentle- 
 man is waiting in the eoach for you, at the door, Miss," 
 observed the elder of the two ; " and she ordered me to 
 give you this, and to say, that she desires it may he the 
 last time that — " 
 
 " That is enough," faintly articulated Katharine, at- 
 tempting to rise, and looking round her with an expres- 
 sion of anguish. 
 
 " You had better put up the note safely," observed the 
 other female, seeing that Katharine held it loosely in her 
 hand, as if unconscious of, or disregarding, its value. 
 
 " The note ! What note ? Has she written ? Where is 
 it ? But no, it will only be a repetition of those cruel 
 words, and — " 
 
 " It is a bank-note for ten pounds, Miss," observed the 
 elder female, in a rather pert tone; " such things are not 
 to be picked up every day, and so, as Jane says, you had 
 better take care of it." 
 
 Katharine looked at it abstractedly for a few moments, 
 then folded it neatly in four, and again looked at it. 
 
 " Sure she a' n't going to be such a fool as to refuse 
 it," whispered Jane to her fellow- servant. But when the 
 poor girl, as if struck with some sudden recollection, 
 again crumpled it up in her hand, and tottered towards 
 the door, a satirical smile wrinkled both their features, 
 and the one whispered to the other — " Ay, ay, I thought 
 she knew hotter. She knows what a ten pun' note's worth 
 as well as we do." * 
 
 The hackney-coach was at the door, and Vivian St. 
 Orme sprang out to assist her the moment he beheld 
 the poor girl, with uncertain steps, and looking as if she 
 was bewildered, crossing the hall. The two prim maids 
 followed her, but looked as if it would have been coinpro- 
 
or WOMAN S LIFE. •> 
 
 mising their characters to offer her any assistance, and 
 were only desirous to fulfil their mistress's orders, in 
 seeing the discarded one safe out of the house. 
 
 Vivian lifted her into the coach with as much care and 
 respect as if she had heen his sister, and they drove off. 
 What had passed during her insensibility she knew not 
 — did not inquire ; hut his countenance told her that it 
 had dissipated all hope. If she had known that, with 
 hands and eyes uplifted, her mother had prayed that her 
 wretched child might never again unclose her eyes to the 
 light ; had forced her sister from the room, as though 
 Katharine's very presence brought with it contamination; 
 and, to St. Omie's remonstrances, had replied by the most 
 cruel, the most unfeminine insults : had she known all 
 this, it could scarcely have added to the anguish that ren- 
 dered her speechless, though it might have strengthened 
 her conviction, that she had, indeed, no longer a parent. 
 
 The coach stopped, and the driver looked in through 
 the front glass for further direction. St. Orme was at a 
 loss what to say. 
 
 " I know so little of London," he observed, half speak- 
 ing to himself, " that — if you can name any place where 
 I can leave you in safety until — until — " a deep scarlet 
 suffused his cheek, as he added — " I can make some fur- 
 ther arrangement." 
 
 Katharine pressed her hand to her forehead, as if to 
 collect her scattered thoughts, and, in so doing, the bank- 
 note fell at St. Orme's feet. 
 
 It certainly was not the love of money that caused his 
 eyes to sparkle, and his whole countenance to assume a 
 different expression to that which it had worn for the last 
 few minutes. No; but he felt that the possession of that 
 note smoothed his way through all difficulties : for the 
 
G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 fact was, that Bt. Ormo, with the spirit and generosity 
 which should be the attributes of wealth and rank, was at 
 that moment so poor in pocket, that he had begun to 
 have serious apprehensions, that his whole stock of 
 money might be insufficient to satisfy the demand of the 
 hackney- coachman. Now, however — 
 
 " Where are we, coachman ? What is the name of this 
 street?" 
 
 " Oxford- street, yer honour." 
 
 " Oxford-street. Ah ! that is right," replied St. Orme. 
 " I remember, now — Wardour- street, Oxford-street. 
 Drive to Wardour-street." 
 
 " What a green !" muttered the coachman ; " wc 've 
 passed Wardour-street ever sich a much;" and he turned 
 his horses and rattled back again to Wardour-street. 
 
 Katharine had just began, in faltering accents, to ex- 
 press her gratitude to her companion for his kindness, 
 and to observe, that she could not think of longer intrud- 
 ing on his time, &c, when the coach again drew up. 
 
 " Which side of the way — what number, yer honour?" 
 
 Vivian St. Orme looked anxiously out of the window 
 of the hack, up and down the street, without, as it 
 appeared, being able to make up his mind how to answer. 
 
 " I cannot recollect the number," he replied, " and I 
 have never been here myself; but it is a laundress I 
 want; a woman who washes for — Perhaps, if you ask 
 in that shop — " 
 
 " It 's like hunting for a needle in a load of hay," 
 grumbled the man, who had certain reasons of his own 
 for wishing to be discharged, or, as he would have termed 
 it, to get rid of his fare. " What name must I ask for ? 
 yer honour," he added, turning round with the handle of 
 the shop-door, which was closed, in his hand. 
 
OF WOMAN S I.TFE. 7 
 
 "Her name," repeated St. Orme ; but in vain ho taxed 
 his memory to recall the name of the tidy, bustling littlo 
 woman, who, it had struck him, might be useful in his 
 present dilemma. It became almost doubtful to him 
 whether he had ever heard her name. He had recollected 
 Wardour-street as her place of residence, from the circum- 
 stance of her having, while he was recently discharging 
 her bill, and listening to sundry inquiries she had thought 
 proper to make as to the quantity of starch she was to 
 put in the collars of his new shirts, and whether he liked 
 small plaits or box plaits best, she had suddenly diverged 
 to the horrible fright she had suffered during the previous 
 night from a dreadful fire, which had burnt two houses 
 down, and was only twerity houses off where she lived in 
 Wardour-street, and was the third fire that had happened 
 in that street since she had resided there. 
 
 He had asked where the street was that had been so 
 particularly unfortunate, and had received not only a very 
 precise account of its situation in the great map of Lon- 
 don, which hung on the wall of his chamber, but a very 
 graphic description of the various conflagrations which 
 made her so " timorous," living as she did in the attic of 
 a very high house, that she sometimes could not close her 
 eyes for nights together, for fear she should at last be 
 burnt in her bed. 
 
 All this Vivian St. Orme could now very distinctly re- 
 call to his mind, but her name — that was a different 
 thing ; he had not the most distant idea of having heard 
 it, and ho was obliged to acknowledge that he was, as a 
 sportsman would say, " at fault." 
 
 The surly coachman opened the carriage door, and let 
 down the steps with a bang. 
 
 "My 'osscs is knocked up," he sulkily observed. 
 
8 SHADE AND SUNSTITNK 
 
 "They've been out ten 'ours, and havn't got a leg 
 to stand upon ; so you '11 please to pay me my fare, 
 as I can *t be driving about no longer on a wild-goose 
 chase." 
 
 Novice as St. Orme was in the ways of the Great 
 Metropolis, he had had sufficient experience in hackney- 
 coach ways to know that the fellow had no right thus 
 abruptly to terminate his services. Katharine was still 
 looking deadly pale ; and she was, besides, if able to 
 walk, dressed in a style that rendered it very undesirable 
 that she should do so. It was this consideration indeed, 
 that had induced St. Orme in the first instance to incur 
 the expense of a hack from the place where she had 
 passed the preceding night and breakfasted that morning, 
 to her mother's residence in Euston Square, New Road. 
 
 " What is your demand ? " he now coolly replied, 
 though by no means feeling cool on the subject. 
 
 " Seven shillings, " was the reply, " accordin' to time, 
 it was ten o'clock when you took me off the stand in — ." 
 
 " A quarter to eleven," replied St. Orme ; " I will not 
 pay you one farthing over your legal demand, for your 
 incivility ; " and he referred to the miniature ' Guide ' 
 which he took from his waistcoat pocket, for directions 
 as to the amount of fare. " You are entitled to five 
 shillings only, and I shall give you no more." 
 
 The coachman muttered a succession of oaths between 
 his teeth, ending in a rather more audible tone with the 
 assertion — " That he knew his fare was no gentleman ; 
 nothin but — " 
 
 "But a what?" demanded St. Orme, jumping out of 
 the coach in an instant. 
 
 " Pay me my fare, fust, afore you axes questions," re- 
 turned the fellow. 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. «J 
 
 St. Orrac drew forth all the silver he had. It was 
 sixpence short of the amount. 
 
 " You must wait until I get change for this," he 
 observed, exhibiting the note. He had previously whis- 
 pered to Katharine, though not without great reluctance, 
 and visible shame, his fear that he should be compelled 
 to draw upon her little stock to answer the demand for 
 coach-hire ; and received in reply from her, the as- 
 surance that it was all at his disposal. Was she 
 not indebted to him for more than money could ever 
 repay ? 
 
 " Wait a moment, I will get change," he repeated to 
 the coachman, as he entered the shop opposite to the 
 door of which the coach had drawn up. 
 
 "Oh, no ! a ten-pound note — he couldn't do such a 
 thing for a customer, much more a stranger ; " was the 
 reply from the precise straight-haired gentleman behind 
 the counter, who had been watching through the window 
 the progress of the dispute between the coachman and 
 his fare. Two other shops — one on the right, the other 
 on the left — were entered with as little success; the 
 proprietors appeared astonished that a stranger could 
 expect such a favour. 
 
 The coachman had followed on each occasion close 
 at St. Orme's heels, and planted himself at the shop 
 doors with an insolent look, which was intended to say — 
 " I will take care you do not give me the slip." 
 
 It is strange what a savage delight is sometimes 
 evinced by the low and uneducated, in witnessing the 
 mortification of those superior in appearance and man- 
 ners to themselves. More than twenty persons had 
 stopped to witness the termination of the dispute between 
 " the jarvey," as they called him, and his fare; and 
 
10 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 numerous whispers, grins, and coarse jokes, were 
 bandied about at the expense of the latter and his com- 
 panion — " the lady," as they significantly termed Katha- 
 rine ; who, shrinking from their curious and impertinent 
 looks, was leaning back in a corner of the coach, 
 concealing her face as much as possible with her pocket- 
 handkerchief, and scarcely conscious of the cause of the 
 detention of herself and St. Orme, though she felt how 
 painful it was to her. 
 
 Katharine's appearance, in her present dress was, it 
 must be confessed, far from being prepossessing as to 
 her respectability, even in the eyes of the most unprejudiced 
 and kindly judging. The book-muslin frock, which, on 
 the over night, when clean and stiff, had appeared new 
 and becoming, was now dirty and tumbled. The French 
 white satin bonnet, trimmed with blonde, and a profusion 
 of gay artificial flowers, had looked tolerably well by 
 candle-light, but in the strong light of day was mise- 
 rably shabby, dirty, and out of shape ; and the pale pink 
 crape handkerchief, which was an apology for a shawl, 
 scarcely afforded a decent covering for her fair neck arid 
 shoulders. Her luxuriant hair had fallen from its con- 
 finement, during her hysterical struggles at her mother's 
 residence, and was now hanging disregarded far below 
 her waist. It must indeed be confessed, that poor 
 Katharine's appearance but too well warranted the ob- 
 servations made upon it, especially by three or four 
 females who stood regarding her with malignant 
 curiosity, and then expressed their surprise, that anybody 
 calling himself a gentleman, should " take up with such 
 a creature." 
 
 "A gentleman !" repeated one of the bystanders. "I 
 dare say he's about as good a gentleman as she's a lady. 
 
of woman's life. 11 
 
 I shouldn't wonder, if the note he's flashing is one of 
 vour Bank of Elegance ones." 
 
 St. Orme had, in the meantime, tried every shop near 
 •without heing ahle to effect his object, and the coach- 
 man's surliness increased. 
 
 " What is the matter here ?" demanded a policeman, 
 who had been drawn to the spot by the crowd, for the 
 idle and curious lookers-on had now increased to a crowd. 
 
 St. Orme briefly explained the difficulty. 
 
 " You will get change over the way, sir, I dare say," 
 observed the man civilly. 
 
 It was a pawnbroker's to which he pointed, and St. 
 Orme immediately darted across, still followed by the 
 coachman, who growled — loud enough to be heard by the 
 bystanders, though not by the former — 
 
 " He ar'nt agoing to bilk me, I'll take care." 
 
 St. Orme entered the shop, and Katharine, for the first 
 time seeming to take any interest in what was passing, 
 lowered the glass on the side next the street to gaze after 
 him. She had, in fact, been so completely abstracted 
 bv the anguish she was suffering, that she had not at- 
 tended to what was passing ; she knew not, therefore, 
 what was the cause of the delay, or for what purpose 
 her companion had left her. 
 
 She was still gazing after him, and conjecturing what 
 he had gone into that shop for, when she saw a man 
 come to the door, and speak with extreme earnestness to 
 the coachman, who was standing outside the shop, looking 
 in at the window. The next moment a cry of police was 
 raised by both of them, and the policeman, who had re- 
 mained by the coach-door, dashed across, followed by all 
 the people who had collected, and leaving Katharine 
 sitting alone and apparently forgotten. 
 
12 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 What could be the matter. She tried to collect her 
 thoughts and to form some conjecture, for she could not 
 doubt that it was something connected with her friend. 
 But she was not long left in suspense. In a few moments 
 the coachman returned, and though she could not com- 
 prehend much of the language in which he addressed 
 her, she found that some charge had been brought against 
 her companion in which she was involved, as he laid 
 hold of the horses' heads, and, having first closed the 
 coach-door, led them across the way to the shop, which 
 she had seen St. Orme enter. 
 
 " Come, madam, turn out if you please," he observed 
 iu a brutal tone. " You're wanted here." 
 
 Katharine's trembling limbs could scarcely support her, 
 and he roughly seized her arm to drag her out of the coach. 
 
 " God keep harm from every one's child !" exclaimed 
 an old Irishwoman who was close to her; " and she so 
 young to be in such bitter trouble. Dale gently wid her, 
 can't ye. Don't ye see she's so wake she can't stand. 
 Lean upon me. jewel; I'm a mother myself, and it's in 
 my heart I am sorry for ye." 
 
 Katharine gladly accepted the offered support. It was 
 the only word of kindness that reached her ears. Among 
 all those who pressed around to stare arid offer their 
 comments, there was not one who pitied, or who saw 
 anything in her deadly paleness, the indefinable sensa- 
 tion of terror which rendered her utterly powerless and 
 speechless, but the symptoms of guilt. 
 
 The note which St. Orme had offered was a forgery. 
 When she entered the shop he was in the custody of the 
 policeman, and she had been brought thither to be 
 charged as an accomplice, or detained as a witness 
 against him. 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 13 
 
 In the first moment of surprise, and in the conscious- 
 ness of innocence, St. Orme had exclaimed, on being 
 told that the note was a forged one, that it was impos- 
 sible. It must be a mistake. He had received the note 
 from a lady of the highest respectability. 
 
 This, as has been already related, was not exactly the 
 case. He had not received it direct from Mrs. Beresford, 
 the mother of Katharine. In point of fact, he had 
 not even seen it given to the latter ; morally he was 
 convinced it had been given by Mrs. Beresford ; but moral 
 conviction is not legal fact. 
 
 A few, a very few questions from those who were 
 accustomed to that sort of examination, elicited the truth, 
 and a sneering smile accompanied the observation from 
 the master of the shop, " that he (St. Orme) did not seem 
 very clear as to how he had become possessed of the 
 note; he must give an account to a magistrate." St. Orme 
 was at first indignant. He then became alarmed — not at 
 his own situation, though that was unpleasant enough, 
 but lie was grieved for Katharine, who he foresaw would 
 bo dragged forward some way or other. He was right, 
 she was brought into the shop; her incoherent replies 
 strengthened the impression against her and her com- 
 panion. In a few moments they were both prisoners on 
 their way to the police office, Bow-street. 
 
14 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 And if a mother's eye did bless 
 
 Thine own, and fondly on thee smiled, 
 A mother's bosom once did press 
 
 Thine own — though only when a child : 
 Or, if a sister fair and mild, 
 
 Hath laid her soft cheek thine upon, 
 Then fathom thou the anguish wild 
 
 Born of the thought that both are gone. Anon. 
 
 "Pshaw ! Honour, integrity — fine high-sounding words 
 — they never made a man's fortune yet, nor ever will. 
 Society is all humhug, from heginning to end — from the 
 prime minister to the chimney sweep. I tell you, self is 
 at the bottom of all. The only difference lies in the 
 varnish. — Disinterestedness ! I put as much faith in the 
 disinterestedness of my fellow-men, as I do in the purity 
 and innocence of the other sex. They — " 
 
 "I will not listen to you on that subject, Marlow!" 
 interrupted with warmth the person to whom the pre- 
 ceding observations were addressed. "I know — I feel — 
 from the bottom of my soul I am convinced, that your 
 opinions respecting women are false, scandalous, libellous. 
 Ay, and of men too. My own heart contradicts you. 
 I am not — I do not pretend to be — superior to my fellow 
 mortals ; but I do feel that I am capable of acting dis- 
 interestedly, and that I have never yet been guilty of a 
 dishonest, no, nor a dishonourable action — " 
 
 "How old are you, Vivian?" interrupted his com- 
 panion with seeming earnestness. 
 
 " Nineteen," was the reply. 
 
 "And you have been three months in London?" said 
 Marlow. 
 
of woman's life. 15 
 
 " Thereabouts," replied Vivian. 
 
 " Well, then, remain in London till you are twenty- 
 one, and we will settle this matter of debate. If you 
 then persist in your faith in women, and can with truth 
 declare that your opinion of men is unaltered — from your 
 own feelings, mind — " 
 
 " That is to say," observed Vivian, smiling, " if I can 
 then declare that I have not become dishonest or dis- 
 honourable, the words have the same meaning, but I 
 know you men of the world attach different ones. Well, 
 and then — ?" 
 
 "Why then, I will become your pupil," returned 
 Marlow. " Now you know you are mine. But a truce 
 to this prosing. Let us go and see the new pantomime." 
 
 This conversation passed between the young men on 
 their way from a coffee-house in the Strand, where they 
 had been dining. Marlow had drank freely, though his 
 companion had been very abstemious, having pleaded a 
 violent head- ache as an excuse for passing the bottle. 
 They turned up Catherine-street. The pantomime of 
 that season was very successful, and it was now the 
 middle of Christmas week, consequently numbers were 
 wending their way to the great point of attraction — the 
 theatre. Carriages were dashing about in all directions, 
 while at the pit and gallery doors dense crowds were 
 collected, impatiently waiting for their opening, and be- 
 guiling the time by numerous jokes, some not of the 
 pleasantest nature to those who were the objects of them. 
 
 " What a happy set of beings !" observed Vivian, who, 
 in spite of his friend's caution that he would stand a 
 chance of getting his pockets picked, stood still to 
 observe them. 
 
 "Happy!" repeated Marlow. "Tush! say thought- 
 
16 SHADE AND SUNSIIINE 
 
 less rather. How many aching hearts arc veiled under 
 that appearance of mirth ? How many plans of villainy 
 under that affectation of indifference ? I have known 
 an instance where a murderer was taken at a theatre. 
 He had paid for admission with the money taken from 
 his victim. Even among those, perhaps — " 
 
 Vivian shuddered, hut his attention was suddenly 
 drawn from what his companion was saying. There was 
 a commotion in the crowd that surrounded the pit door, 
 and the next moment a stout determined looking man 
 appeared, dragging from the midst of them a slender 
 youth, whose face and lips vied in whiteness with the 
 linen which was ostentatiously displayed in all the glory 
 of small plaiting and emhroidery within his primrose 
 coloured waistcoat. 
 
 "Ay, ay, I knew we should ketch him here!" ex- 
 claimed a tradesman-looking man in a leather apron, 
 who was hustling hy the side of the officer ; he it seemed 
 was the captor. " Yes, this is what comes of yer play 
 goin'. I told you, many a time, it would hring you to 
 the gallows. Look, I'm hlowed if the rascal hasn't got 
 his missus's — my wife's — hrooch stuck in the front of his 
 dickey. Oh, you precious villain ! if Sally was here, 
 and see that, she'd tear the eyes out of yer head, she 
 would." 
 
 " Come, come, mister, stow this if you please," ob- 
 served the officer with an important air ; " the chap's in 
 the hands of jostis now, and you've nothing' to do 
 with him." 
 
 " Nothing to do ! when he's broken open my box, 
 and — " 
 
 " Silence, I say, Sir !" vociferated the officer. " Tell 
 yer tale to the magistrate, that's all you've got to do, 
 
or woman's life. 17 
 
 Come, young feller, use yer feet, can't yer, and don't give 
 me more trouble than's necessary." 
 
 " If you were to relax your gripe of his neckcloth and 
 suffer him to breathe," commenced Vivian — who saw the 
 poor wretch was almost strangled by the pressure of the 
 officer's immense knuckles on his throat — but before he 
 could finish the sentence, or the officer's fierce glance 
 discover who it was that had dared thus presumptuously 
 to address him, or, as he would have said, to obstruct him 
 in his duty, a sudden jerk from Marlow's arm turned 
 Vivian completely round, and the officer with his captive, 
 and the crowd that was pressing on them, passed on. 
 
 " You must be mad to interfere with that fellow," 
 observed Marlow. " In another minute he would have 
 insulted you, perhaps charged you with wanting to rescue 
 the prisoner, or being an accomplice." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " ejaculated Vivian, contemptuously, " he 
 would not have dared do that." 
 
 "He would have dared do that and more," returned 
 Marlow. "He would have dared, if it so pleased him, 
 to have taken you into custody on the charge, and, when 
 brought before a magistrate, he would have dared tell his 
 worship that he knew your face well enough as an asso- 
 ciate of thieves, and believed you were a regular swell 
 mobsman, though he would not swear that you had ever 
 stood at that bar before ; and when, after an infinity 
 of trouble, and, perhaps, being locked up for a week, 
 you bring your friends forward and disprove the charge, 
 what redress have you ? The magistrate coolly tells 
 you that he is very sorry you have been put to so 
 much inconvenience, but that you brought it all on 
 vourself by vour improper interference with the officer 
 of justice; and the fellow himself laughs in your face, as 
 
18 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 he pretends to beg your pardon, and tells yon that he 
 really took you for Bill or Bob somebody, a most noto- 
 rious character, you're so like him; and then you've the 
 further satisfaction when you get borne of seeing your 
 name in every morning and evening and Sunday paper, 
 under the head 'Awkward Mistake,' or 'Case of mis- 
 taken Identity," or But you are not listening to 
 
 me, Vivian. I do believe all my good counsel has been 
 thrown away upon you. What are you thinking of ?" 
 
 " Of — of. Oh, I beg your pardon. I have heard all 
 you said, and will be more cautious for the future," re- 
 plied Vivian, turning his head over his shoulder and 
 gazing after three young girls, who, engaged apparently 
 in earnest conversation, were slowly walking down the 
 street in the opposite direction to that which the young 
 men were pursuing. 
 
 " I cannot suspect you of such bad taste as to be 
 attracted by those creatures," observed Marlow con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 " Attracted ! certainly not," returned Vivian ; " not in 
 the sense, at least, that you use the word, but — Let 
 us follow them, and if you can look on that girl's face 
 without feeling an interest in — " 
 
 Marlow burst into an obstreporous laugh. 
 
 " This boy will be the death of me," he exclaimed, 
 when he had ceased laughing. " She is one of tbe 
 models of purity and innocence, I suppose, that is to 
 make me a convert. But, my dear fellow, seriously T 
 entreat you to dismiss these romantic follies from your 
 mind. Shall I tell you what your interest in that girl's 
 face would in all probability lead to — " 
 
 " No, no ! no more advice — no more cautions. I am 
 sick of it," interrupted Vivian. 
 
OF WOMAN s LIFE. 19 
 
 " Well then, come and see the pantomime," rejoined 
 his friend. 
 
 They entered the theatre ; pit, boxes, galleries, all were 
 crowded, though the first piece had not commenced, and 
 for some minutes Vivian found sufficient entertainment 
 in viewing the rows of anxipus, yet merry faces, that, 
 tier above tier, presented themselves on every side. In 
 the boxes, especially, all was unalloyed cheerfulness and 
 tip- toe expectation, for three parts of that portion of the 
 audience were children, and the remainder the parents, 
 who, whatever might be their secret cause for care and 
 anxiety, seemed, for this night at least, to have dismissed 
 them from their memories, and to be bent only on pro- 
 moting the comfort and happiness of the joyous little 
 beings who surrounded them. But the first flush of 
 excitement over, Vivian's heart saddened and his coun- 
 tenance became clouded. How short was the period 
 since he, a happy boy, released for a time from the 
 restraint of school, and accompanied by a fond indulgent 
 mother and two sweet sisters, had for the first time taken 
 his seat in that charmed circle. He could point out now 
 the very box they had occupied ; he could recall even- 
 word and look and tone of his beloved companions ; the 
 jovous, merry laugh of Bertha, his youngest sister; the 
 look of surprise and earnestness of the more timid and 
 gentle Agnes, and the soft whisper in which she had 
 appealed to him to enquire, whether those beautiful 
 creatures, the fairy and her attendant sylphs, with their 
 gauze wings glittering with gold and silver foil or tinsel, 
 were "real living creatures, flesh and blood like our- 
 selves?" and his mother's chastened smile as she listened 
 to their remarks, all — all were present to him as if it 
 were but yesterday, and yet, of that happy party he only 
 
20 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 remained. Two were mouldering in their graves, and 
 the third — 
 
 He could bear it no longer, he started from his seat. 
 
 " Where are you going ? What is the matter ?" de- 
 manded Marlow. 
 
 " Nothing — nowhere. I shall he back directly." 
 
 But it was not so easy to make his escape as he had 
 hoped, and, before he had quitted the box, Marlow found 
 an opportunity of whispering — 
 
 " Vivian, be careful what you are about. No romance. 
 No deep interest in faces, or — " 
 
 Vivian did not hear the conclusion of the sentence, 
 nor did he wish it, but it recalled other feelings, which 
 the painful reminiscences of the past that had been con- 
 jured up by the scene around him had for a time 
 banished from his memory, and when he reached the 
 street his first thought was of the face that had excited 
 so powerful a feeling in his mind, and given rise to 
 Marlow's obtrusive and unaccustomed caution. 
 
 It was, indeed, a face of exceeding beauty, but it was 
 not the regularity of features which might worthily have 
 formed a subject for the painter, a model for the sculptor. 
 It was not the deep— intensely deep blue eyes, the long 
 fringed eye-lashes, that were but momentarily raised as 
 Vivian gazed upon her, and then again veiled the 
 brilliancy of the orbs beneath ; it was not the pencilled 
 eye-brows, the snowy forehead so strikingly defined by 
 the simple braid of glossy raven black hair, that re- 
 sembled bands of silken velvet crossing each other above 
 it. No, nor the pure Grecian elegance of the nose, the 
 chin and the finely chiselled lips of deepest scarlet, nor 
 the brilliancy of the complexion of the purest red and 
 white. No, although words cannot describe the ex- 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 21 
 
 quisite tint of that cheek, the clearness of that trans- 
 parent hue, it was not all these beauties, combined 
 with a form of perfect symmetry, that had made so deep 
 an impression on Vivian's mind. It was the extreme 
 melancholy, the utter hopelessness which that beautiful 
 countenance expressed, the sighing sweetness of the voice 
 which lingered like notes of softest music on his ear. 
 
 " Can such a creature as that be the willing votary of 
 vice?" he thought as he gazed after her, and thus excited 
 the satirical observation of his companion. 
 
 Whether the amount of vice in London has decreased — 
 whether the denizens of the Great Metropolis have be- 
 come essentially more moral — since the period at which 
 our true story commences, is perhaps doubtful, but cer- 
 tainly, whether it be owing to the introduction of gas, 
 placing in a stronger light the deeds and doings which 
 were than half- hidden in the " darkness visible" of the 
 old method of illuminating the streets — whether it be 
 the vigilance of an amended police, or the improved 
 intelligence of the age, vice dares not with some few 
 exceptions, stalk, forth in our streets and lanes in its open 
 and unveiled deformity as was then the case. 
 
 There are many yet living who must remember when 
 'the neighbourhood of the theatres especially exhibited 
 such sights as brought blushes on the cheek of modesty, 
 and excited at once disgust, indignation and pity, in 
 the bosom of the virtuous and reflective of the other sex. 
 In the close and dirty courts and lanes immediately ad- 
 joining Drury-lane, were huddled the wretched beings 
 who at dusk sallied forth parading the adjacent streets 
 in groups, offending decency alike in appearance and 
 language. At the time alluded to, it became a fashion 
 among them to adopt the dress of childhood. Alas, for 
 
22 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the depravity of human nature ! Many among them were 
 children — mere children — but the frock and pinafore, the 
 hare arms and neck, were adopted by all, so that at a 
 cursory glance all looked alike, the youthful victim, and 
 the hardened, long practised, haggard or bloated woman 
 of full age. The group who had attracted Vivian's atten- 
 tion were of this description. They were all dressed alike 
 in pink gingham frocks, white pinafores, and small 
 childish-looking coarse straw bonnets. One of them, 
 however, was a woman of mature years, certainly not 
 less than forty, though her short stunted figure, the 
 rindets of false hair that fell from beneath her bonnet 
 on her fat bare neck, and a thick coat of paint, united 
 with her juvenile attire to give ber a much more youthful 
 appearance. The second (there were three of them) it 
 was still more difficult to judge of her age. Her extremely 
 petite figure, dressed as she was, appeared that of a child, 
 but her withered pinched-in cheeks, and the livid hue of 
 her complexion, were in sad contrast to this appearance 
 of juvenility, and any one merely looking in her face, 
 without regard to her figure, would have taken her (in 
 spite of rouge and false ringlets) for an old woman. The 
 third of these unfortunate beings (for such no one who 
 beheld them could doubt them to be), was the young 
 girl whom we have in our first chapter introduced to our 
 readers by the name of Katharine. Though fully grown 
 to that medium height which has been pronounced the 
 just standard for woman, and though moulded in the 
 most perfect symmetry, Katharine was still in the first 
 flush and bloom of youth. She had not reached her 
 eighteenth year, and the childish dress before alluded to, 
 in which she was not distinguished from her companions, 
 made her appear even much younger than she was. 
 
of woman's life. 23 
 
 Never had Vivian St. Orme — a devoted admirer and 
 enthusiast on the subject of female beauty — beheld a face 
 and form so faultless ; never experienced so keen a pang 
 of sympathy and sorrow for the fallen and the lost of 
 his fellow beings, as when gazing on the lovely, the — it 
 might be said without profanation — the angelic features 
 of Katharine. Whether from consciousness that her 
 beauty needed not the meretricious heightenings that 
 distinguished her companions, or that she was indifferent 
 to its effect upon the beholders, she wore no ornaments, 
 and her cheek was without a tint of colour. Yet it was 
 not the pallor of sickness, nor the dull dead white which 
 is so often misnamed fair, but the purity and clearness 
 of Grecian marble, to which, indeed, the classical beauty 
 of her features fully corresponded. Vivian had seen the 
 Medicean Venus, 
 
 " The faultless statue that enchants the world — " 
 but its beauty he felt at that moment fell short of this 
 living specimen of female perfection. " Can such a form 
 conceal a depraved, polluted mind?" he thought, as, 
 after leaving the theatre as has been related, he strolled 
 down the street and beheld the same female who had 
 before attracted his attention, sauntering slowly towards 
 him. The same revolting women were with her, but 
 Vivian thought riot of them, neither did he notice the 
 looks of keen enquiry with which they regarded him 
 as he passed them. Apparently there was nothing 
 in his countenance to encourage their purposes, and 
 they immediately renewed the conversation in which 
 they appeared deeply interested, although it was im- 
 possible to judge, from the downcast eyes and fixed 
 immovable expression of melancholy in the features of 
 their young companion, whether she felt an equal, or 
 

 <H SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 indeed any interest in the subject they were discussing. 
 Vivian went on but for a few paces, and then, though 
 unconscious of any motive, or at least of any purpose 
 in so doing, he turned and followed the trio so quickly, 
 that he was soon near enough to hear what they were 
 saying. 
 
 " And wasn't you never up afore the beaks, that's what 
 we calls the magistrate ?" demanded one of the women, 
 looking in the face of her youthful companion with an 
 expression of curiosity and surprise, rather than of doubt 
 or distrust. 
 
 " God forbid !" sighed a voice of silvery sweetness, 
 while a manifest shudder shook the whole frame of the 
 young girl. 
 
 " Ah, well, you can't expect to be always so lucky," 
 observed the other. " But did you never go to hear the 
 trials at the Bailey neither ?" 
 
 " Never !" was the reply in the same soft, sweet accents. 
 "It is a place nobody, I should think, cou]d find any 
 pleasure in visiting." 
 
 " Oh, as to pleasure, there aint much of that, certainly, 
 but for all that it's a place sich as us ought to go to, 
 that we may larn to know how to behave when it comes 
 to our turn, and not be all as green as I was the first 
 time I was had up afore the big wigs. I was a proper 
 fool then and couldn't do nothin' but pipe my eye. Do 
 you remember it, Tilda, how I shook and trembled 
 every limb ?" 
 
 " Oh, I've seen too many such cowardly fools to re- 
 member you in particular," replied the eldest of the 
 three in a voice so hoarse and repulsive, that Vivian 
 almost started and recoiled with disgust. 
 
 " Well, sessions aint on now," resumed the first 
 
of woman's life. 25 
 
 speaker, " but you put me in mind of it, Kate, and I'll 
 take you to the Bailey when they are. I know ever so 
 many of the nabs there, and they'll let me in, and its 
 right that poor girls like us should know — What the 
 devil's the matter with you, Kate ; you shiver as if you 
 were cold. I wish some good chap would give us a drop 
 of summat short, just to put the life in you, for 111 be 
 hanged if I don't believe you're ready to tumble down 
 on the pa'ment in a fit, and that would bring us into a 
 peck of troubles." 
 
 The speaker had accidentally discovered Vivian's vici- 
 nity to herself and her companions. With the shrewd- 
 ness of her natural character, and that acquired in the 
 school of vice of which she had been but too apt a pupil, 
 Louisa, as she was called, saw in an instant that " the 
 gentleman" had not turned and followed them " for no- 
 thing," as she would have said. That his eye had been 
 caught by Katharine's beauty was her very natural thought, 
 " though, for her part, she saw nothin' very particular in 
 such a poor pale-faced thing, and the foolish cretur, do 
 all that ever they could, would'nt have a dash of red put 
 upon her cheeks, though it would have made her look 
 twenty times better." This, however, is a digression. It 
 formed a part of the conversation between Louisa and 
 her companion. 
 
 To return to the party in the street : Vivian was not 
 insensible to the appeal made to him by the last ob- 
 servation of the woman. He saw in the countenance of 
 the pale desponding-looking creature before him quite 
 enough to warrant the fear her associate had expressed, 
 that she would fall on the pavement, and, regardless of 
 all eyes and all observations, he sprang forward to her 
 assistance, exclaiming — 
 
 s 
 
2G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " This poor young woman is very ill ! Where does 
 she live ? Can I assist in taking her home ?" 
 
 The poor girl shuddered, her lips moved but the sound 
 was inarticulate. Vivian, however, fancied that it was 
 the word " home " that she repeated with that frozen 
 look of despair, and this was confirmed, while it heigh- 
 tened the interest he already felt for her, when he heard 
 one of her repulsive associates observe to the other in an 
 ironical tone — 
 
 " I think he said ' home,' indeed. Much she'd get 
 there, I don't think." 
 
 "It would be more charity to give her a glass of 
 brandy," observed the elder of the two women. " There's 
 a place over the way where she can sit down a bit. It's 
 the cold more than anything has knocked her up." 
 
 "Yes, that's it," added the other; "she aint used to 
 standing about on the cold pavement, and the wind 
 comes round the comer there very sharp — leastways, 
 I used to think so, though I don't mind it now. One 
 gets seasoned to every thing in time." 
 
 Vivian thought that the very palpable shudder that 
 shook the whole frame of the poor girl who leaned 
 heavily on his supporting arm, was less the effect of cold 
 than the despairing feelings her companion's observation 
 excited in her bosom, and this supposition was con- 
 firmed by the exclamation, gasped rather than uttered, 
 by her now pale lips — " Heaven forbid ! — Oh, never, 
 never" — and increased his anxiety to know more of her 
 history. 
 
 The two women, her companions, after a moment's 
 whispered conference together, now led the way to the 
 house they had pointed to across the street, skipping 
 over with an air of alacrity and exultation, that showed 
 
of woman's life. 27 
 
 how little they regarded the means by which so desirable 
 a consummation as a treat at the expense of the gentle- 
 man was brought about, and evidently quite indifferent 
 as to the result of their unfortunate associate's indis- 
 position, though even now it was with difficulty, even with 
 Vivian's assistance, that she tottered after them. 
 
 " Well, what are you going to give us '?" demanded 
 the stout woman, turning her fierce, almost ferocious 
 grev eyes full on Vivian when they reached the counter. 
 
 " Anything. Whatever you please ; order anything you 
 wish for," he replied confusedly, for he comprehended 
 in an instant how totally they had mistaken the purpose 
 for which he had accompanied them thither ; " but this 
 — this place is not exactly what I expected," and he 
 looked round in vain for even the accommodation of a 
 chair, a bench, anything indeed, to seat his trembling 
 burthen upon. 
 
 The lady, with a profusion of scarlet ribbons, vying in 
 intensity of colour with her complexion, and almost 
 eclipsing the duller hue of the thick cable of coral beads 
 around her bare neck, who presided behind the counter, 
 returned a broad stare, in which surprise and contempt 
 were mingled, when St. Orme civilly requested that she 
 would accommodate the poor young woman — glancing at 
 his companion's pale face — with a seat for a few minutes 
 till she should have recovered." 
 
 " Oh, no ! we don't allow no sittin' down here," she 
 replied, turning away to take the orders of the two 
 women, who, after a moment's consultation together, had . 
 agreed that " a drop o'rum was the best thing to keep out 
 the cold such - a night as this." 
 
 " You can do as you like, you know, Sir," added the 
 elder, " but if you'll take my advice, you'll give Kate 
 
28 SHAKE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 a good bumping glass o'brandy. That'll soon bring the 
 life into her, and she can sit down there a'top o'the 
 barrel. The lady," and she glanced deferentially at the 
 presiding goddess, " won't object to that nohow, will 
 you, ma'am ?" 
 
 The lady nodded haughtily, and Vivian, not without 
 hesitation and a look of disgust at the sloppy, dirty, beer- 
 stained accommodation so ungraciously acceded, led 
 his companion to it, while with still more palpable 
 hesitation he inquired — " whether she w r ould take her 
 friend's recommendation — brandy, or would she have 
 a glass of wine ?" 
 
 St. Orme was at first disappointed, when she replied, 
 with seeming eagerness — 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! no wine — brandy !" but the tone in 
 which she added — " Anything that can make me forget, 
 that can remove this — this weigbt here — " and she 
 pressed her hand upon her heart, with a look and in a 
 tone that thrilled his even to agony. 
 
 The two women, her companions, had — before the glass 
 of spirits which Vivian St. Orme, though conscious of 
 the necessity of her taking something, almost unwillingly 
 ordered and presented to her, scarcely been tasted by 
 Katharine — swallowed their more common beverage, and 
 now turned round to observe more particularly the pro- 
 ceedings of the former. 
 
 " Lawk, toss it off, Kate," observed the elder and 
 coarser of the two, from whose hoarse voice and un- 
 daunted looks St. Orme shrunk with scarcely dissembled 
 disgust. "Toss it off at once," she repeated, "and if 
 that don't do, have another. The gentleman won't grudge 
 it, I'm sure, if it'll do you good." 
 
 " Certainly not," returned St. Orme coldly, " but 
 
OF woman's life. 29 
 
 I differ from you in thinking that it would do her 
 good." 
 
 " Well, this has done her good at any rate," returned 
 the woman sulkily ; " for her colour's come hack to 
 her face, and she's strong enough to walk now, aint 
 you, Kate ?" 
 
 The young girl murmured her assent to this, but made 
 no attempt to rise, nor did she even lift her eyes from 
 the ground, though the quick heaving and panting of 
 her bosom showed that the liquor had considerably 
 excited her. 
 
 There was silence for some moments : Vivian St. Orme 
 was in vain racking his brain to devise some means by 
 which he could render the unfortunate being, who had so 
 deeply interested him, more lasting service than mere]y 
 removing the physical weakness that had overcome her. 
 What her thoughts were, it would have been perhaps 
 difficult to define, but the tears that stole silently from 
 between her closed eyelids, and the soft sweet voice in 
 which she replied to his question — if she felt better — ■ 
 " Much better, I thank you, Sir," — convinced him that 
 he had not erred from the first in believing that she was 
 of a very different class to those with whom she was 
 associated, and that, however the badge and livery of 
 infamy — as her dress might be called — degraded her in 
 appearance to the same level, it was not worn willingly, 
 nor could have been worn long. 
 
 " I must and will learn something more of this girl's 
 history, before I lose sight of her," he thought to him- 
 self. " Who knows but that the intervention of a disin- 
 terested friend — " but at that moment his thoughts 
 were most unpleasantly broken in upon by the hoarse, 
 grating voice of the elder woman, who exclaimed — 
 
00 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Come, Kate, you 're well enough now to walk. It s 
 no use to stay here any longer, a-doing nothing. The 
 gentleman aint a-going to stand no more, I s 'pose, and 
 they '11 he coming out o' the the-ater in a few minutes." 
 
 She added something in an under tone, of which St. 
 Orme only caught the word " Mother ; " hut, whatever it 
 was that the woman suggested, it had evidently the effect 
 of rousing her young companion to instant exertion, for 
 though her lip quivered, and an indefinable expression 
 of horror and desperation distorted her beautiful features, 
 she rose hastily from her homely seat, and declared she 
 was quite ready to go. 
 
 Undecided still how to act, St. Orme followed the 
 three females out of the liquor-shop without uttering a 
 word, the two elder seeming to take no further notice of 
 him, since he had turned a deaf ear to the hint for more 
 drink ; hut at the moment that each seized an arm of 
 their young companion, and, assuming the jaunty hop- 
 step-and-jump which was probably intended to harmo- 
 nise with their juvenile attire, attempted to lead Kate, as 
 they called her, across the street, and thus finally to 
 separate her from St. Orme, she turned round — her eyes 
 met his, she read in them the expression of deep com- 
 miseration and earnestness, and, suddenly extricating 
 her arms from the two women, she exclaimed, in a voice 
 of the deepest pathos — 
 
 " Oh, Sir ! save me — save me ! I am a lost, ruined 
 creature, but — " 
 
 "The fool's drunk," interrupted the elder of her 
 wretched companions, laying hold roughly of the girl's 
 delicate arm, and trying to drag her on. " Lay hold 01 
 her t' other arm, Loo," she continued ; " She 's cryin' 
 drunk, and she '11 get a mob about us presently. Don 't 
 
of woman's life. 31 
 
 mind her, Sir," she added, seeing St. Orme about to 
 interfere — " Kate often gits into these tantrums, when 
 she 's had a drop too much. Come, there 's a good gal, 
 don't make a fool of yourself, Kitty, come home, and 
 lie down a hit, and — " 
 
 " Home ! I have no home ! For heaven's sake, do 
 not speak to me of that den of infamy as my home ! 
 There is no home for me hut the grave ! " exclaimed the 
 unfortunate girl, looking wildly around her, as if dis- 
 appointed at St. Orrne's hesitation and silence. He was 
 meditating, in reality, how to withdraw her from her 
 companions without rousing them into violence which 
 might produce a scene. 
 
 Vivian St. Orme was little used to London, or 
 London ways, or he would not have felt thus at a loss. 
 He shrunk almost with horror from the possibility of 
 raising the violent passions of the creatures who scarcely 
 appeared human in his eyes. Their abuse — their 
 language, of which he had heard several specimens while 
 in the spirit shop which made him shudder — almost ter- 
 rified him from becoming the object of it. What would 
 any person of respectability think, who should behold 
 him thus openly championising one of this unfortunate 
 creature's appearance against her own class and com- 
 panions ? Above all, and he glanced over at the theatre 
 with a feeling of alarm, at the moment the thought 
 suggested itself — what would his prudent, cautious friend 
 Marlow say, should he come out and see him engaged in 
 such an affair. 
 
 " What will the world say ? " Oh ! how often are our 
 best intentions frustrated — our noblest impulses checked, 
 even at the very momeut of fruition, by the consider- 
 ation — " What will the world say ? " 
 
32 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 St. Orme's reflections were suddenly put to flight, and 
 the climax he so much dreaded accelerated, hefore he 
 had time to put in practice his half-formed, selfish reso- 
 lution of making a hasty retreat, leaving the women to 
 settle the matter as they could. 
 
 " What's all this to do about : " exclaimed a coarse 
 female voice ; "what's been the matter with my lady here. 
 Showin' off some of her airs, I 'spose, Tilda ? Why 
 didn't you and Loo bring her home at once ? I'll be 
 bound I'd have soon found a way to cure her of her fits. 
 Come, ma'am, I must have a bit o' talk with you, so come 
 along if you please." 
 
 The woman who uttered this, and who enforced it 
 by placing her coarse red arm within the delicate ivory 
 one of the hapless girl whom she thus peremptorily ad- 
 dressed, was advanced in years, of enormous size, and 
 that peculiar cast of countenance which betrayed her 
 unchristian origin. In plain terms she was a Jewess, 
 possessing the strongest marked peculiarities of her tribe, 
 rendered more than usually revolting in her case by the 
 impress that a life of vice and intemperance had stamped 
 upon her features. Her dark greasy complexion was now 
 inflamed to a purple red by the suppressed rage that shot 
 fire from her intensely black eyes, though half- veiled be- 
 neath her thick shaggy brows. St. Orme shrank back, 
 with a feeling of mingled horror and aversion, from this 
 libel upon her sex ; but if he beheld her with horror, how 
 much greater was that depicted on the countenance of the 
 unhappy being to whom she addressed herself so peremp- 
 torily. At first the poor girl seemed disposed unhesi- 
 tatingly to obey the arbitrary mandate, but her eye 
 caught the expression of St. Orme's face ; she felt 
 intuitively that she had made a friend who would not 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 33 
 
 suffer her to be the victim of the violence which it was 
 evident the woman and her coadjutors were quite capable 
 of, and with an attempt at firmness, though her lip quivered 
 and her complexion resumed the ashy hue it had so re- 
 cently but partially recovered from, she replied — " I 
 have nothing to say to you, ma'am, nor shall I go home 
 as you call it." 
 
 "Call it! you wicked, ungrateful hussy ! Have you 
 any other home, I should like to know ? " exclaimed the 
 woman, foaming with rage ; "where would you ha' been I 
 should like to know if I hadn't a took you in when 
 you was standing shivering about the streets with- 
 out a place to put your head in, or a bit of bread to 
 put in your mouth ? Havn't I been more than a mother 
 to you ? Aint the very clothes that you've got on your 
 back mine ? Come, come, you think that you 're 
 going to come over me in this manner ; either come 
 along home at once, or I'll charge you with robbing me of 
 the good things you've got on your back, and then we'll 
 see how you '11 look, my pretty bird, when you're caged." 
 
 The look of terror which the young girl darted at 
 St. Orme at these words was not without its effect. He 
 had heard the execrations against the woman, and the 
 expressions of pity for the poor young creature who had 
 fallen into the clutches of the harpy (as they called her) 
 that burst from the crowd, by whom the party was now 
 surrounded, and dismissing all selfish and prudential 
 considerations, he now stepped forward openly to the 
 rescue of the unfortunate creature, observing to the 
 Jewess — 
 
 "You have no right to detain this young woman con- 
 trary to her inclination, if she is willing to give up the 
 clothes you claim as your's." 
 
34 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Oh ! yes, yes, " exclaimed the young girl " she shall 
 have thern all directly, let her only give me those I had 
 on when I was so unhappy as to fall — " 
 
 "Ah, but there's two words to that bargain, my pretty 
 innocent," exclaimed the woman, sticking her immense 
 fat arms a-kimbo on her hips, and advancing her face 
 close to that of the trembling girl in the most offensive 
 manner ; " you dont have one rag of me till you pay 
 what's owing for your keep for the three days that you 
 chose to sham sick and was waited^ upon like a lady, as 
 you pretended to be." 
 
 The poor girl looked at St Orme with consternation. 
 
 " I had nothing of her but a cup of tea, once or twice," 
 she observed in a low tremulous voice ; " I was too un- 
 happy, too utterly miserable to eat, even if it had been 
 offered to me, which it was not." 
 
 There was a general groan of detestation against the 
 old woman amongst those who were near enough to the 
 young girl to hear this explanation ; and the former her- 
 self began evidently to feel her present situation not a 
 very pleasant one. 
 
 " Dont suppose I want to keep anybody against their 
 will," she observed, in a more conciliatory tone; "if the gal 
 can better her sitivation, why let her pay me vats lawfully 
 due for board and lodging." 
 
 St. Orme half drew out his purse, and was about to 
 demand what she had the conscience to consider her due, 
 but he recollected that it was indispensable that the 
 young girl should give up the livery of vice she at present 
 wore. It mattered little to him what the dress was for 
 which she had exchanged it, since nothing could be so 
 horrible in his eyes as that which, suitable as it might have 
 been in other circumstances to her slight, juvenile, and 
 
OF woman's life. 35 
 
 indeed., almost childish figure, appeared quite the reverse 
 when it became the type and badge of infamy, and was 
 shared in common by the repulsive and hardened beings, 
 who, whatever might be their secret feelings, had arrayed 
 themselves on the side of the old Jewess, and against 
 their late associate, whom they loudly accused of shame- 
 ful ingratitude to one who had been " sich a friend to 
 her as Mrs. Jonas had." 
 
 The latter lady, however, was evidently disposed to 
 adopt a different system of tactics. Her keen eye had 
 read in St. Orme's countenance and evident indecision, 
 that he was but a novice in the ways of the world, es- 
 pecially of what formed her world ; and she now therefore 
 civilly proposed that he should accompany " Katharine 
 to her house in the court hard by, where they could 
 settle the matter between them quietly." 
 
 There were not a few among the crowd that had 
 gathered, who gave audible intimation of the light in 
 which they viewed this proposition, but St. Orme scarcely 
 comprehended the meaning of such expressions as " Will 
 he be green enough to go with the old devil ? " or even 
 the motive of the derisive laugh that followed him, as the 
 old woman bustled before him and the young girl, to 
 whose trembling form he was compelled, as he con- 
 sidered, by common humanity to afford the assistance of 
 his arm. Had he even been inclined to recede, it was 
 now too late, for the performances were over, and crowds 
 were pouring out of the theatre. In another minute he 
 would have been exposed to the observation and keen 
 satire of Marlow ; and, to avoid that at the moment, he 
 felt that he would have rushed into far greater peril and 
 annoyance than he considered was likely to arise from a 
 visit to the place which had been for some days the resi- 
 
oG SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 dcncc of the delicate, fragile being who clung to his arm, 
 as though on him rested her every hope of rescue from 
 destruction. 
 
 Repulsive as were the looks of his conductress and 
 her supporters Til and Loo, as she called them, being the 
 abbreviations (though certainly not deserving of the 
 French term of " noms de caresse") of the sentimental 
 appellations of Matilda and Louisa, by which they chose 
 to be distinguished. Horrible as they appeared in his 
 eyes, he was yet unprepared for such a horrible den as 
 that to which he was introduced as the dwelling of 
 Mrs. Jonas. The dark, narrow, stifling court in which 
 it was situated — the mixture of vile smells that saluted 
 his nostrils, and the unhealthy and repulsive looks of the 
 few persons whom he saw lounging at the half- closed 
 doors of the houses they passed, one or two of whom 
 addressed his guides in language which, as well as their 
 answers, was totally unintelligible to him, except that it 
 referred to him and the business he was upon — all con- 
 tributed to depress and render him uneasy. It was too 
 late, however, as he felt, to go back from the enterprise 
 in which he had embarked. He cast an anxious look 
 around, when the woman stopped at the door of that 
 gloomy, dirty-looking house, which she thus indicated 
 was her residence : but of all the throng who had in the 
 open street gathered so closely round, and appeared so 
 deeply interested in his proceedings, only two or three, 
 and those not of an appearance calculated to inspire con- 
 fidence, had been instigated by curiosity, if no better 
 motive, to follow him so far. He felt as if the inscrip- 
 tion of Dante over the gate of the Infernal regions, might 
 with propriety have been engraven above the door of this 
 repulsive mansion; but there was no alternative, and 
 
or woman's life. 37 
 
 -with the young girl clinging so close to his side that he 
 could feel the quick loud throbbing of her heart, he fol- 
 lowed Mrs. Jonas into the dark, dirty den (illuminated 
 by one small candle.) which she called her own parlour. 
 
 All Mrs. Jonas' assumed civility disappeared, however, 
 the moment she found herself under the protection of her 
 own roof, and surrounded by some half-dozen of her 
 wretched dependants, who, whatever their secret feelings 
 might be towards her, evidently considered it their inte- 
 rest — if not their duty — implicitly to adopt her tone, and 
 second every assertion she chose to make. Katharine 
 (the only name they seemed to know, or at least chose 
 to address the poor trembling girl by.) was loaded with 
 abuse in language that made Vivian St. Orme, whose 
 unaccustomed ears had never before heard from the lips 
 of a female anything approaching to it in violence and 
 profanity, absolutely shudder with horror and disgust. 
 
 She (Katharine) had, according to the old woman's 
 statement, been brought to her by one of the "gals," 
 dying from hunger and cold. She had been already two 
 nights in the streets without shelter — had been driven 
 from " post to pillar," wherever she had sought for a few 
 minutes rest on the cold steps of a door, or under some 
 projecting gateway, by the unrelenting guardians of the 
 night (the ancient watchmen), to whose protecting care 
 the midnight morals and safety of London streets were 
 then confided, and who (to adopt Mrs. Jonas' expressive 
 language, in this instance.) "had no mercy on any poor 
 devil who hadn 't the price of a glass of gin or a pint o' 
 beer to give em." 
 
 " And she had taken her (Katharine) in, had warmed 
 and comforted and cherished her, though she (Mrs. 
 Jonas) didn't know from one minute to another but that 
 
-'>* SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the wretch might die ; and then a pretty mess she should 
 have got into, with the coroner's jury sittin', and a 
 parcel of lies, maybe, put in the newspapers about her 
 and her house — a house that she'd paid rent and taxes 
 for for thirty years, and defied her neighbours to say 
 black was the white of her eye. The jestices at Bow- 
 street knew what pains she took to keep her house 
 respectable. Sir Richard Birnie himself said, the very 
 last time she was up a'fore him — ' Mrs. Jonas,' says 
 he—" 
 
 St. Orme interrupted this voluble harangue, which 
 seemed to be otherwise interminable, by observing, " That 
 the question in discussion was neither her respectability, 
 which he had no intention to dispute, nor the humanity 
 of her conduct to the young woman, of which of course 
 the latter was the best judge" — Katharine cast down her 
 eyes, and the slightest possible movement of her bare 
 polished shoulders, expressed more forcibly than any 
 words could have done her appreciation of the favours 
 that had been bestowed upon her — while St. Orme pro- 
 ceeded to say that, " The purpose for which he had 
 come was to settle, if it was in his power, payment of the 
 debt clue to Mrs. Jonas from the young woman ; to re- 
 claim the clothes she had worn at the time of her intro- 
 duction, and return those she then wore." 
 
 He paused, for Katharine's look of alarm and conster- 
 nation lest he should, even now, step back from the pro- 
 ject into which he had entered, went to his heart, and 
 defeated all that prudence had whispered. 
 
 Another voluble, and indeed, scarcely intelligible 
 tirade from Mrs. Jonas, was cut short by St. Orme's 
 peremptory demand that she should at once name the 
 sum Katharine was indebted to her. 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 39 
 
 "Otherwise," he continued — again drawing the young 
 girl's arm through his, — "I shall at once leave the house 
 with her, and leave you to your remedy, that of recover- 
 ing the deht — if there he any — hy the regular course 
 of law." 
 
 K Oh ! that's your game is it, you dirty, whipper- 
 snapper, lawyer's slavey," exclaimed Mrs. Jonas, who, 
 unobserved by St. Orme, had contrived to get between 
 him and the room door, against which she now placed 
 her enormous person in a manner that fully corroborated 
 the determination her words expressed, namely — "that 
 neither he nor his companion should leave the room till 
 her demands were satisfied." 
 
 St. Orme's passion rose. It was not altogether the 
 value of the sum demanded— although that, in the pre- 
 sent state of his finances, was a formidable one — it was 
 the open attempt at gross imposition, the treating him — 
 he considered— as a novice, whom she could play upon 
 as she pleased, that provoked him. To use violence to a 
 woman was impossible to one of his nature, or he might 
 have easily removed the impediment to his free egress, 
 but, while hesitating what course to pursue, he was 
 startled by a whisper close to him, that said — 
 
 "If you value your life, get away on any terms. In 
 less than ten minutes, Mother Jonas will have half a 
 dozen fellows here to take her part, and then— God help 
 you ! You'll never get out of the place alive. 
 
 The lips from which this precaution issued, were those 
 of a miserable looking emaciated female, who apparently 
 acted as servant, or rather house drudge, to Mrs. Jonas, 
 and who, though one ofthe loudest in her asseverations 
 of her mistress's disinterested humanity in her reception of 
 Katharine, had contrived by sundry winks, nods and 
 
40 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 pushes of the elbow to the latter, when unobserved by 
 the old woman aud her party, to convey a meaning very 
 different to what her words did. Katharine, indeed, as 
 she afterwards acknowledged to St. Orme, had been 
 indebted to this poor lost creature for the only real 
 sympathy and kindness she had met with from her 
 entrance into Mrs. Jonas' den of infamy, misery and 
 despair, and placing now implicit confidence in the 
 alarming suggestion of the danger that threatened St. 
 Orme, she exclaimed to him — 
 
 " Oh, leave me — pray leave me, Sir. I have been 
 very wrong and foolish to bring you into this trouble. 
 I shall never — never forget your kindness, but I see now 
 how impossible it is — how selfish I have been to hope. 
 Mrs. Jonas will forgive me — I will make all the atone- 
 ment in my power to her. Oh, yes ! I must yield to my 
 fate. Heaven forbid that I should involve you in any 
 danger for such a worthless, lost wretch as me. Forgive 
 me — do forgive me !" and she seized the old woman's 
 great fat hands and pressed them between her own fair 
 delicate ones. " You shall never again have reason to 
 complain of me. Only let the gentleman go — go directly, 
 and I will — I will — " 
 
 " The gal's out of her mind, I think," observed the old 
 woman, moving, however, at the same time from her 
 position at the door, in a manner that showed she had 
 no longer any intention of opposing St. Orme's egress. 
 " It wasn 't me that brought the gentleman here, and if 
 he chooses to go quietly, I don't want to keep him. No, 
 nor you neither, so long as I gets my rights. Pay me 
 what's due and you may go directly. I never keeps no- 
 body against their will, not I." 
 
 Katharine, however, paid little attention to these as- 
 
of woman's life. 41 
 
 sertions. She was occupied in earnestly, almost franti- 
 cally, urging St. Omie to retreat before the arrival of the 
 persons — who Peggy's (as she was called) whisper had 
 prognosticated had been sent for — should arrive. The 
 very means, however, which the unfortunate, though 
 still artless girl adopted, were those most calculated to 
 determine St. Orme not to leave her in the power of the 
 old wretch, who evidently considered it far more to her 
 interest to retain the hapless Katharine in her clutches, 
 than to accept of even the exorbitant terms she had 
 herself demanded for the liberty of her victim. 
 
 The young man drew from his pocket a note case, in 
 which was deposited a Bank of England note for ten 
 pounds; it had been treasured there for a sacred purpose, 
 and all ordinary, almost, indeed, every extraordinary 
 temptation to break in upon it had been and would 
 have been resisted. He had, indeed, utterly tutored 
 himself almost to forget that he had it in his possession, 
 and earned it constantly about him. Honestly and 
 honourably he had mentally replied to every suggestion, 
 either of inclination or necessity — " No, no ! It is not 
 mine, I will consider it as already not merely as devoted, 
 but actually appropriated to the purpose for which it has 
 been reserved, and then I cannot part with it or even 
 lessen the amount." It had occasioned many a severe 
 struggle in the bosom of one so facile, so easily guided 
 by sudden impulse, so alive — alas, it must be confessed — 
 to the mistaken dictates of pride and vanity — that pride 
 which could not brook the slightest appearance of obliga- 
 tion to the companions among whom chance rather than 
 inclination had thrown him — that vanity, which, neglect- 
 ing the real elements of superiority over those com- 
 panions that existed in his education, his principles and 
 
 G 
 
42 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the power of his mind, sought to distinguish himself by 
 a false and spurious liberality, or rather recklessness in 
 pecuniary matters, which they neither could nor would 
 practice. Still, however, as has been said, St. Orme 
 had with regard to this comparatively small — but, in his 
 present circumstances, important sum — triumphed over 
 every temptation; but it was now a holy, a sacred im- 
 pulse that actuated him. The welfare, the eternal 
 welfare of a fellow creature was — or so he considered it 
 — at stake. If he deserted the hapless girl, whose 
 agonised look and almost frantic entreaties to him to 
 save himself and leave her to her fate, spoke volumes as 
 to the undebased and native integrity of her heart and 
 the warmth of her feeling, he felt that he should not only 
 consign her to inevitable ruin, to a fate to which death 
 in its most horrid form were infinitely preferable, but 
 should be laying up for himself a subject for repentance, 
 repentance that would end only with his life. 
 
 "Hush, hush!" he exclaimed, breaking away from 
 Katharine's impassioned grasp — " I will settle all this 
 in a moment. Let this poor girl have the clothes in 
 which she came to you, Ma'am," he continued, showing 
 the note to the old woman, "and give me change for 
 this, and the affair is settled." 
 
 It was impossible to tell from Mrs. Jonas' countenance, 
 whether she was satisfied or displeased at this apparent 
 termination of the affair. 
 
 " Take the gal up stairs, Peg," she observed to the 
 woman who had given the intimation to St. Orme of his 
 threatened danger. " You 11 find her rags in the cup- 
 board in my room," she added, giving the woman a key ; 
 " mind you leave all right that belongs to me. Come, 
 stir your stumps and make haste ; what are you standing 
 
of woman's life. 43 
 
 gaping there for ? Did you never see a ten-pun' note 
 afore in your life, that you 're lookin' so hard at it ?" 
 
 The woman's eyes had indeed been riveted on the 
 note, with an expression that was quite indefinable to St. 
 Orrne, though his attention was drawn to it by Mrs, 
 Jonas' observation. 
 
 Peg's spirit, however, seemed suddenly roused by her 
 mistress's taunt. 
 
 " Ten-pun' notes ! ay, and twenties; fifties, too; as you 
 know, Mother Jonas," she exclaimed, with a look of 
 fury. " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Who knows better than Mother 
 Jonas how many ten-pun' notes — " 
 
 " There now, don 't be a fool, Peg," observed Mrs. 
 Jonas, with an assumed, but false, hollow and grating 
 laugh. "We've all on us, you know, been better off in 
 our times ; but never mind, old gal, we can' t eat our 
 cake and have it too. Come, go and help Miss Kate 
 to pull off her borrowed toggery, and take back her own 
 fine rags." 
 
 Peg, who seemed in her resentment of her own griev- 
 ances to have lost sight of the interest she had evidently 
 felt in the termination of the affair between her mistress, 
 St. Orrne, and Katharine, now moved mechanically 
 towards the door, muttering, though sufficiently audibly 
 to be heard by Mrs. Jonas, had the latter been inclined 
 to hear it, and gradually raising her voice, as she pro- 
 ceeded, to a pitch of unnatural excitement — 
 
 " Ay, ay, it 's mighty fine, but I know who had the 
 greatest share of the cake, as you call it : precious Little 
 it was fell to poor Peg's lot. But never mind, it 11 be 
 all the same in a hundred years, as far as this world goes. 
 Poor Peg will sleep as sound in her workhouse shell in 
 the parish burying- ground, as Mother Jonas, even if she 
 
4! SHADE AMD BONSHINE 
 
 has a velvet coffin and a marble monument: and if 
 there 's another world, as the parsons tell us — Ugh !" 
 and she shrugged up her shoulders with an expression of 
 horror — " Ugh ! Who would change with Mother Jonas, 
 then, I wonder ? Not Peg, I know ! Not poor Peg, 
 had and wicked as she has heen ! " 
 
 " Oh ! botheration to you ! " exclaimed Mrs. Jonas, 
 again forcing a laugh, although her cadaverous com- 
 plexion faded to a ghastly paleness, and her purple lips 
 quivered with the influence of the terror her poor vic- 
 tim's words had inspired — " Botheration to your preach- 
 ment, Peg ! you 11 turn Methodist, next, I expect. Do, 
 Kate, there 's a good girl, go with her at once, or she 11 
 be giving us a sermon that 11 last till the middle o' next 
 week." , 
 
 Apparently deceived by the assumption of returning 
 good humour on the part of the old woman, Kate, who 
 had previously betrayed considerable reluctance to leave 
 the room and St. Orme, now — after one eloquent look to 
 the latter, which was easily interpreted by him as an en- 
 treaty that he would not now desert her — hurried away, 
 Peg, as it appeared, mechanically following her, lost in 
 deep and gloomy thought. A pause of some minutes 
 ensued, but one or two significant looks and whispers 
 were exchanged between Mrs. Jonas and her associates, 
 or, as she termed them, her lodgers, which did not escape 
 St. Orme's observation, or tend to tranquillise or reconcile 
 him to his present (as he felt) rather critical situation. 
 There was an ill-suppressed expression of triumph in the 
 old woman's malignant glance, and of anxious expecta- 
 tion in the looks of one or two of the others, which he 
 fancied predicted that the business which kept him there 
 was not likely to be quite so easily or amicably settled as 
 
of woman's LIFE. -15 
 
 he hoped for. There was a noise in the outer passage, 
 and footsteps of one or two persons heard, and St. Ornie 
 drew back from the .door, and placed himself in an atti- 
 tude as far as possible of self-defence, though, all un- 
 armed as he was, except in the possession of a dauntless 
 spirit, and the consciousness of a righteous cause, he 
 could have had little hope of effectually opposing any 
 attack. One of the women lighted a second candle and 
 hurried out, but the apparent danger passed away, for 
 no one entered the room, and St. Orme's confidence 
 returned. 
 
 " You vant change for your note ? " abruptly remarked 
 Mrs. Jonas, who observed that he still kept it in his hand. 
 St. Orme briefly replied " Yes." 
 
 " Veil, I don't know how it's to be got," she returned, 
 " vithout you '11 trust one of these here young vimen to 
 take it to the liquor-shop just by. I don't mind standing 
 treat for once, as you behave so much of the gentleman." 
 " I do not drink spirits," replied St. Orme, " and I 
 should prefer your giving me the difference to sending 
 the note out." 
 
 " Lor' bless you, man ! do you think I git money at 
 
 that rate, to have fivepound in the house? I wish I did." 
 
 St. Orme folded the note smoothly, and then grasped 
 
 it in the palm of his hand, with a smile that Mrs. Jonas 
 
 comprehended, for she observed, in a tone of pique — 
 
 " Oh, you think yourself mighty clever and cautious, 
 no doubt ; but you needn 't be afeard, I aint a goin' to 
 be sich a fool as to get myself into trouble for the sake 
 of a paltry Fiver." 
 
 " It would not be you, but me, that would get into 
 trouble, if it was not forthcoming," observed St. Orme, 
 smiling again. " But I will not offend you so much," 
 
•K) SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 lie added, " as to believe that you could not give the 
 difference of a much larger sum than this," and he again 
 held the note between his thumb and fore-finger, 
 taking care, however, to keep a watchful eye on the 
 motions of more than one of Mrs. Jonas' adherents, 
 whose longing looks were fixed upon it, and who ap- 
 peared quite bold and impudent enough to have made a 
 sudden snatch at it, if they could have seen a fair oppor- 
 tunity of making their escape with the booty. 
 
 " Veil, veil, I must see what I can do towards making 
 up the change," observed the old woman, drawing from 
 her pocket a dirty canvass bag, which appeared pretty 
 heavy, though with what sort of coin St. Orme had no 
 opportunity of ascertaining, for precisely at the same 
 moment Katharine entered the room by the door at 
 which she had gone out, and winch it seemed communi- 
 cated with the staircase and upper part of the house ; 
 while at the other appeared a showily-dressed but vulgar 
 and repulsive-looking man, of the same peculiar cast of 
 countenance, though many years younger than the mis- 
 tress of the house. St. Orme caught a glimpse, too, of 
 one or two other black-whiskered, dark faces, in the pas- 
 sage, as the first comer drew-to the door behind him, 
 leaving it, however, ajar, so that all that was said or done 
 could be heard and seen by those outside. 
 
 Katharine uttered a faint scream, and flew to the side 
 of St. Orme, the instant she beheld the, man, whose 
 scowling look was bent on the latter the moment he 
 entered. 
 
 " What the devil 's the matter with you, Ma'am ? " he 
 demanded in a savage tone, looking at Katharine. " You 
 don't fancy that you can play off your sentimental tricks 
 here, and impose upon them that know you so well as 
 
OF woman's life. 4? 
 
 wo do, as you 've done upon tho greenhorns that you 've 
 picked up so often out o' doors. Come, let us know 
 what game you 're up to now ? Trying to impose upon 
 this young gentleman, I suspect, with some of your 
 pretty innocent stories. Oh, you 're a precious deep one, 
 
 Kate, young as you are. I 'm if you don 't heat 
 
 half the old hands on the ' par-wee,' as the French 
 call it." 
 
 " I never saw the man hut once before, in my life," 
 observed Katharine, addressing St. Orme, with a look 
 and tone so truthful, so indicative of disgust and sur- 
 prise, that, had any suspicion that he had been imposed 
 upon for a moment entered the breast of St. Orme, it 
 would have been instantly removed. 
 
 " Once ! only once ! Ha-ha-ha ! Oh, Kitty, Kitty ! 
 Can you look me in the face, with them sweet, innocent 
 eyes of yourn, and try to pretend that we don 't know 
 one another ? But you won 't get me to father your lies, 
 whatever the game is you 're playing or trying to play. 
 I don 't know who this gentleman is, or what he 's got in 
 his head about you, that 's brought him here after you ; 
 but I '11 just tell him this, that if he has anything to do 
 with you beyond a mere acquaintance, on parsong, as 
 they say in France, he wont be many months or even 
 weeks older before he 11 have reason to curse his ill for- 
 tune, as I have many a time since I first saw your pretty 
 face, as you know well enough, Kit." 
 
 "I will run the risk of that," observed St. Orme, coolly, 
 advancing towards the table, behind which Mrs. Jonas 
 had, as it were, entrenched herself, keeping her canvas 
 bag concealed in her lap beneath it. "Now, Madam," he 
 observed, " if you are prepared with the change, here is 
 the note, and — 
 
48 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the 
 caudle, which stood loosely in a tall slender candle-stick 
 in the middle of the table, was, in obedience (as Katha- 
 rine afterwards explained to him) to a signal from the 
 man (whom she had seen once before, and heard of as 
 the reputed husband of the old woman, though young 
 enough to be her son,) suddenly swept off the table 
 by one of the females, and St. Orme found himself 
 seized and pinioned, as it were, by the powerful arms 
 of a man, whether or not the one with whom the 
 preceding colloquy had passed, or one of those who had 
 waited their opportunity to rush in from the passage, he 
 was unable to judge in the darkness and confusion that 
 ensued. 
 
 Tall, slender, and youthful as was the form of Vivian 
 St. Orme, compared to that of the full-grown, sturdy and 
 ruffian-like person of his antagonist, the former, in spirit 
 and real courage, and even in that which has been dig- 
 nified with the title of the science of self-defence, would 
 have proved, in all probability, a formidable opponent ; 
 as it was he struggled manfully against his assailant, and 
 even succeeded in getting the latter under him on the 
 ground, still retaining the note, which he guessed was the 
 object in view, in his firmly-closed hand. But he soon 
 found that he had more to contend with than one ; and 
 bruised and almost senseless from the blows that were 
 indiscriminately rained upon his back, head, and shoul- 
 ders, he was compelled to relinquish the tight grasp of 
 the throat by which he had held his first assailant, who, 
 with the most horrid imprecations called upon his co- 
 adjutors to "mill the blackguard," who he declared had 
 nearly choked him. 
 
 St. Orme, now deprived of all power of resistance, the 
 
of woman's life. 49 
 
 whole weight of a heavy man keeping him down by 
 kneeling on his chest, submitted to the hands, some of 
 which, and no doubt correctly, he conjectured to be those 
 of the females whose quick and eager whispers he heard 
 without comprehending, as they dived into, and even 
 turned inside out, his different pockets. His watch, the 
 guard-chain from around his neck, his pocket book and 
 papers, even the shawl from his neck, and the silk and 
 cambric handkerchiefs from his great-coat pockets ; not 
 a single article — except a few loose halfpence, among 
 which were a shilling or two — escaped the rapacious hands 
 of his plunderers. But Vivian St. Orme thought less of 
 these losses, or rather he cared little or nothing about them, 
 his great cause of alarm and apprehension being for the 
 safety of the unfortunate Katharine, whose first agonised 
 and piercing shrieks had been suddenly suppressed, as if by 
 some violent force. She might have fainted, but no — he 
 could not hope that — bad as it was — for two or three times 
 he heard, at no great distance from where he lay, a 
 struggle and then a choking noise as of some one trying 
 to release themselves from the violence which prevented 
 the sufferer from crying out. 
 
 St. Orme felt that his only chance of personal safety lay 
 in keeping silence, and suffering the wretches by whom 
 he was surrounded to believe that he was insensible, if 
 not actually dead, in which case they would most pro- 
 bably seek their own safety in flight ; but compassion for 
 the unfortunate Katharine, who he feared might actually 
 fall a sacrifice to the violence which was employed to 
 prevent her shrieks alarming the neighbourhood, pre- 
 vailed over every selfish consideration. He raised 
 himself with difficulty on one arm, and regardless of 
 what might be the consequences to himself, exclaimed—' 
 
 H 
 
50 BHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " If you are men, or have anything of manhood about 
 you, do not ill-treat that poor girl, let her go with me as 
 soon as — " 
 
 " There's no men here, they've all bolted," exclaimed a 
 female voice, and at the same moment Peg, as she was 
 called, entered the room with a lighted candle, looking 
 wildly about her. 
 
 " Gracious goodness, what's all this !" she exclaimed. 
 " Missus in a fit, and Katharine — Oh, Lor a'rnighty ! 
 sure she aint dead ? They haven't been a'fighting, have 
 they ? " 
 
 " Fighting ! We might have been all killed and 
 murdered, it seems, afore you'd a' come anigh us," re- 
 turned the only female who remained in the room beside 
 Mrs. Jonas, who was lying back in her large arm chair, 
 as if totally unconscious of what was passing. " There 's 
 been a parcel of fellows broken in upon us and a 'most 
 killed this poor gentleman. I 'm afeared Missus has 
 fainted away with fright, and as to Kate, I dont know 
 whether she got an unlucky blow among 'em, or what's 
 the matter with her." 
 
 Peggy looked for a moment undecided whom she 
 should first attend to, her mistress, Katharine, or the 
 gentleman, whose pale countenance, and the blood that 
 streamed from a cut at the back of his head, either from 
 some sharp weapon, or, as was afterwards suggested, from 
 having come in contact with a leg of the table, or the 
 fender, in his fall, seemed certainly to demand immediate 
 attention; but (alas! for human nature) self-interest, as 
 usual, prevailed over every better feeling, and regardless 
 of St. Orme's earnest entreaty that they would first attend 
 to Katharine, she and the other female devoted their 
 whole attention to the recovery of Mrs. Jonas from her 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 51 
 
 pretended (for such St. Orme was convinced it was) 
 fainting fit. The application of a smelling bottle, and 
 a copious draught of brandy and water, mixed from a 
 bottle produced from a cupboard in the room, which 
 seemed well stored with cordials, soon effected a restora- 
 tion of Mrs. Jonas' consciousness and speech, but it was 
 her policy to affect to know nothing of what had passed 
 since the sudden extinguishing of the candle, and 
 Katharine's horrid 'shrieks' — as she called them — had 
 terrified her, so that she should never get over it she 
 believed till her dying day ; and she now pretended to 
 be struck with horror at discovering how severely St. 
 Orme — or the gentleman as she now called him — had 
 suffered, as well as that Katharine still remained insen- 
 sible on the floor. 
 
 All that Peggy's, the other female — who was the one 
 distinguished as Loo — and Mrs. Jonas' united skill and 
 knowledge suggested, was now resorted to, first to recover 
 Katharine, who was a considerable time before she became 
 rational and collected enough, either to remember what 
 had passed or to comprehend her present situation, and 
 then to administer to St. Orme's wounds and bruises; and 
 Mrs. Jonas, with a liberality that gave rise to an ex- 
 change of significant glances of surprise between Peggy 
 and Loo, not only insisted upon St. Orme and Katha- 
 rine's partaking of her restorative bottle froru the cup- 
 board, but extended her generosity to the other females, 
 observing — " That no doubt they was frightened enough 
 to make a drop o'summat comfortable necessary," a sug- 
 gestion in which they both heartily concurred, though 
 they considered it necessary to utter a profusion of thanks 
 and praises of Missus' generosity and kindness. 
 
 It did not ; escape St. Orme's observation, confused 
 
53 SHADE'" AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and weakened as he was by the treatment he had received, 
 the various attempts which were made by Mrs. Jonas, 
 and seconded by her servile instrument and dependant, 
 Loo, to impress him with the belief that the recent 
 attack upon him had originated in some previous con- 
 nexion between Katharine and the man, who they pre- 
 tended was a stranger, or, at least, had been seen only 
 once or twice there, as an acquaintance of Kate's. Jea- 
 lousy, therefore, according to their insinuations, was the 
 motive which had prompted the assault upon St. Orme, 
 for of the robbery they pretended to be utterly un- 
 conscious, and the latter, though not in the slightest 
 degree deceived or duped by their pretences, considered 
 it the most politic course he could pursue under the 
 present circumstances to suffer them to believe that he 
 credited all that they asserted. 
 
 A single glance from Katharine, timid as it was, had 
 sufficed to convince him of the falsehood of Mrs. Jonas' 
 assertion that there was any connexion between her and 
 his brutal assailants, but it was very evident to him that 
 the poor girl was too much afraid of the old woman and 
 her associates to venture to contradict anything she 
 chose to say, however unfounded and degrading to her- 
 self were the assertions of the former. 
 
 Weakened, exhausted, and suffering from the blows 
 he had received in the contest, and anxious as St. Orme 
 felt to leave the infamous den, in which he could not 
 even now consider himself free from apprehension of 
 farther danger, he still regarded the unfortunate Katha- 
 rine with so deep an interest, that he could not resolve to 
 quit the house, leaving her to the mercy of the wretches 
 with whom she was so strangely associated, without 
 making some effort to benefit her. or at least having 
 
of woman's life. 53 
 
 some communication with the unfortunate girl, whose 
 trembling limbs and deep hysterical sobs from time to 
 time, though she evidently tried to suppress them, or at 
 least to disguise them from her hardened companions, 
 added to an occasional stolen and imploring glance at St. 
 Orme, when she was unobserved by the others, proved 
 not only how deeply she regretted what had taken place 
 for his sake, but also how new and revolting to her were 
 the practices in winch she had been made an involuntary 
 instrument. As yet, however, she was not aware of the 
 extent of the robbery committed on the young man, 
 whose looks and manners had inspired her with hopes, in 
 the first instance, that she dared hardly now venture to 
 indulge. The expressions she had overheard from St. 
 Orme's assailants as they quitted him convinced her that 
 they had reason to be satisfied with their booty, though 
 she believed that their victim had not as yet discovered 
 the extent of his loss, and she dreaded, that in making 
 that discovery he should include her in the resentment 
 which he would naturally feel against all concerned in 
 the affair. 
 
 " And I — I," she mentally exclaimed, " who have been 
 in reality the cause of all — I, for whose sake only I am 
 sure he was led to enter this vile den of thieves and of 
 infamy. Oh ! can I hope or expect that he will still feel 
 any interest or compassion ? He may, perhaps, even 
 suspect that I have been a willing participator — but Oh ! 
 no — no ! he does not, will not, condemn me, and, even if 
 he should desert me and leave me to my fate, this hor- 
 rible fate — worse ! oh, how infinitely worse than death ! 
 it will still be with pity. He will feel that which I felt, 
 that I would have given my life to have rescued him 
 unhurt and uninjured from those villains." 
 
54 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Katharine, however, was, as we have before shown, 
 mistaken in supposing that St. Orme was ignorant of the 
 extent of the injury he had suffered. He knew that his 
 watch had been broken from the chain to which it was 
 suspended and torn from him, and that his purse, con- 
 taining nine or ten guineas, together with a pocket-book, 
 in which were notes to more than double that amount, 
 had shared the same fate, for he had felt the hands of the 
 robbers in his pockets, though at the moment so ex- 
 hausted with the resistance he had made, as to be unable 
 to make another effort to protect himself against them. 
 He felt, too, that his very existence might be endangered, 
 should he persist in resisting their nefarious designs ; 
 and, even beyond the natural love of life, to which all other 
 considerations must be expected to yield, was another 
 feeling, that induced him quietly to submit to their villany, 
 and this was the fear of involving the unfortunate Katha- 
 rine in still deeper peril and misery. More than one invo- 
 luntary and impassioned exclamation on her part, proved 
 the indignation with which she beheld the conduct of 
 these unprincipled ruffians towards her generous protector, 
 and St. Orme feared, lest, timid and terrified as she 
 evidently was at the wretches by whom she was sur- 
 rounded, the threats and denunciations against them, 
 which she mingled with her prayers and entreaties to 
 them to refrain from further violence towards him — St. 
 Orme — might bring down upon her the personal ill- 
 treatment towards the helpless and unfortunate girl 
 which was more than once threatened, not only by his 
 ruffianly assailants, but by their scarcely less brutal, and 
 infinitely more disgusting and depraved female associates. 
 It was for her — Katharine's — sake, therefore, that St. 
 Orme suppressed, as far as possible, not only every ex- 
 
of woman's life. 55 
 
 pression of rage and indignation, but concealed in some 
 measure the full amount of the injuries he had received; 
 and especially forbore to utter any complaint as to the 
 robbery that had been perpetrated, although it was with 
 difficulty he restrained the expression of his indignation 
 and contempt at the vile and hypocritical insinuations by 
 which Mrs. Jonas and her base satellites attempted, after 
 the disappearance of the two men, to throw upon Katha- 
 rine the whole blame of the affair; and even to hint that, 
 in spite of her pretended sorrow and pity for the gentle- 
 man, who had, to use their own expressions, acted as a 
 " raal gentleman," to her, she had been as deep in the 
 mud as they — the two men, to whom they affected to be 
 utter strangers — were in the mire, and knew very well 
 what would be the consequence of acting so double-faced 
 to one that deserved such different treatment at her hands. 
 
 A glance from St. Orme restrained the indignant 
 denial that Katharine was about to utter. 
 
 " It is no use to argue now, as to who was right, 
 or who was wrong, in the first instance," observed 
 St. Orme, with feigned calmness. " I trust, how- 
 ever, my good lady," addressing Mrs. Jonas, " that 
 for your own credit's sake you will endeavour to dis- 
 cover who these men were, and assist me in taking 
 proper means to punish them for their unprovoked vio- 
 lence. I will willingly make you any compensation you 
 may require ; and, by-the-bye, there has been some 
 damage done here, I see," and he glanced at a table, 
 which, with two or three glasses that stood upon it, had 
 been broken in the tumult. It is but reasonable that you 
 should be paid for this mischief, and as I suppose there 
 is very little probability that my gentlemen-like assailants 
 will trouble themselves as to the mischief they have done 
 
56 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to you, any more than to me, and as I, however inno- 
 cently, have been the cause of that mischief, I feel that I 
 am hound in honour to compensate you for the damage. 
 Tell me, therefore, what you consider "will enable you to 
 replace these articles, and I will give it to you." 
 
 It would have been difficult for any one to judge what 
 were "Mia. Jonas' thoughts, as she listened to this appa- 
 rently generous proposal. 
 
 "Could the man be really so ' green as to believe 
 what his speech inferred?" was the form into which those 
 who comprehended the expression of her features, would 
 have translated her first impression. "But if it were not 
 so, what could be his motives for this unlooked-for offer? 
 Her thoughts ran quickly back to all the circumstances 
 of the scene of violence and fraud, and she felt — probably 
 self-convicted — that it was next to impossible that he 
 could believe her so entirely innocent of all participation 
 in the affair as to have any claim upon him for remune- 
 ration. But there was another thought that, as she after- 
 wards said, struck her with astonishment at this minute : 
 — '"'Did the man know that he had been robbed ?" or. 
 as she expressed it, ' cleaned out.' Either he did, or he 
 did not. If he did, he must have some deep motive for 
 pretending ignorance, though what that motive could be 
 was beyond her comprehension. If he did not, it was 
 most desirable that she should get him out of the house 
 before he made the discovery. It was under this latter 
 impression, therefore, that . she vehemently refused to 
 listen to his offer of paying for the broken furniture, 
 declaring that she should be "ashamed to think of such a 
 thing as to take advantage of such a generous gentleman. 
 No ! she was a poor woman — one that had a hard matter 
 to live in these times ; but she had a spirit, and she 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 07 
 
 scorned to take advantage of ginerosity. She wouldn 't 
 take a farden of his money — No ! not if the damage was 
 twenty times as much — " 
 
 " No, no ! keep your money in your pocket, young 
 man ! " she almost screamed, as St. Orme made a feint 
 to draw out the purse, which, no one knew better than 
 she did, was not there. " Keep your money; there shall 
 no more be spent in this house to-night — not if I 'm the 
 missus of it ; and so, with your leave, I think the best 
 thing we can all do will be to get to our beds and rest 
 arter what we've all gone through. You '11 want a coach, 
 I 'spose, Sir, for you aint much in a plight to walk, 
 specially if you 've far to go. Well, any of my young 
 women will fetch a coach for you. Or, where 's Peg ? 
 she '11 run in a minute. 'Tilda, you must help me up- 
 stairs ; for I tremble so yet that I can hardly walk. Good 
 night, Sir ; you '11 ha' got over it, I hope, after a night's 
 rest ; but as to me, it '11 be a long time, if ever I 'm 
 myself again." 
 
 During this hurried speech Mrs. Jonas had, with the 
 assistance of her two female associates, who, though they 
 looked puzzled to comprehend the motives which induced 
 their mistress to act so contrary to her usual system, in 
 thus abruptly dismissing one of whom they imagined 
 there was still something to be made, and who appeared 
 to them not even yet to have been taught caution or dis- 
 trust — could not doubt that the old woman was really 
 anxious to get him out of the house, and that for some 
 reason she was equally anxious that they should remain 
 with her, instead of, as they wished to do, accompanying 
 St. Orme, or, at least, until he should himself dismiss 
 them. The manner in which the old woman took pos- 
 session of an arm of each, as she repeated"her farewell tq 
 
58 SHADE AMi SUNSHINE 
 
 the latter at the door, which was immediately closed, left 
 them no alternative ; and, though evidently with great 
 reluctance, they disappeared with her, leaving St. Orme 
 and Katharine together, having apparently totally over- 
 looked the presence of the latter, who, with, her face 
 hidden in her hands — and once or twice only raising her 
 eyes to dart a look of surprise and investigation at 
 Mrs. Jonas, during the latter's unlooked-for and un- 
 wonted display of disinterestedness — had continued 
 sitting far apart from the other occupants, and in the 
 darkest and most obscure part of the room. 
 
 Could she believe in her unexpected.good fortune, in 
 being thus left, if it were only for a few moments, free 
 from the hateful society, the repulsive surveillance, 
 of the female harpies who had assumed and practised 
 such unlimited power and tyranny over her very thoughts, 
 looks, and actions. It seemed as if she could not believe 
 it, or at least expected this interval of blessed freedom 
 would soon be terminated ; for she started wildly from 
 her seat, and looked wildly towards the door, listening, 
 as it appeared, half in terror, half under the influence of 
 new-born hope — though scarcely daring to encourage it 
 — that her wretched associates had left her a free agent, 
 to act as she should think proper. Suddenly her eyes 
 met those of St. Orme, who was regarding her with a 
 look of mingled curiosity, pity, and deep interest. 
 
 " Oh ! you do not believe that I am the wretch those 
 women would have you think me," she exclaimed, 
 clasping her hands with fervour ; " I dared not contradict 
 them ; I dared not say what was the truth, but I hope 
 you do believe what I solemnly declare to be the truth — 
 that I know nothing of the man by whom you were at 
 tacked, or of their motives, unless it was to rob you. 
 
of woman's life. 59 
 
 One of them I have seen in this horrible house two or 
 three times, and I -believe he is a near connexion of the 
 old woman's, for he was here the very first night, when, 
 driven to desperation, maddened, homeless, friendless, 
 and with no prospect but of perishing in the streets, I 
 suffered myself to be persuaded by those who professed 
 kindness and sympathy, to accept the shelter of this in- 
 famous roof. Would I had died then ! "Would I dare 
 die now ! for death — death in any shape — is preferable, 
 — is a Welcome haven to such a life as this. Yet do not 
 despise me that I still live on — that I dare not — Oh ! 
 Heaven, how many have, with a courage I dare not env- 
 ulate, sought the refuge which, though it is ever before 
 my eyes, though I pray that Heaven of his mercy will — ? 
 The sound of voices raised, as if in contention, at this 
 moment reached the car of the unhappy girl. 
 
 " Oh ! what a wretched, selfish being have I become !" 
 she exclaimed. " I know that you ought to seize the 
 opportunity so strangely afforded you to leave this place 
 immediately. Yet I have been occupying your time in 
 listening to my useless repining. But let me entreat you, 
 do not lose any more time. The way is clear for you 
 now, but you do not know how long it may remain so. 
 What the old woman's motives are for suffering you to 
 depart without any further demand upon you, I cannot 
 comprehend ; but it is so unlike her usual conduct, so 
 contrary to all I have seen since I have been here, to 
 allow any person to escape her extortion while they were 
 known to possess even the most trifling sum, that I 
 cannot help trembling with fear that there is some dark 
 scheme hid under the pretence of generosity, and which 
 can only be defeated by your getting away as soon as 
 possible— now, this moment, indeed, while escape is open 
 
60 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to you. Should those fellows return and find you here, 
 or should they suspect that you intend to ascertain who 
 they are, and punish them for their hrutal attack, I would 
 not answer for even your life being safe. Go, then — 
 pray go ! It will be some consolation to me to know 
 that you have escaped from what I at one time feared 
 would have ended much more seriously; though even 
 now I fear you will suffer more than at present appears." 
 
 " And are you content, then, that I should go and 
 leave you here ? " demanded St. Orme, who had listened 
 to her impassioned language — so unlike her first torpid, 
 confused, and almost bewildered manner and looks. 
 
 " Content ! " she repeated with emphasis, her large 
 beautiful eyes assuming an expression bordering on 
 frenzy. " Content to remain here ! But where am I to 
 go to ? "Who will receive me ? What am I to do, with- 
 out a friend on earth, a place to shelter me even for a 
 single hour ? Yet you are right," she added, in a hurried 
 tone, and starting up, as if to quit the room : " anything 
 — anyplace; the cold, inhospitable streets would be pre- 
 ferable to such a home as this. They tell me that the 
 laws can condemn me to a prison if I am found wander- 
 ing about, without being able to point to any place as 
 my home. Tell me, is it so ? Do you think they would 
 afford me the shelter of a prison ? Heaven is my judge, 
 I would accept it as a blessed refuge ! What horrors 
 can a prison offer, to those of such a home as this ? Yet 
 there are those that live on days — months — years ; and 
 they tell me that I too shall become reconciled to what is 
 irremediable ; and those that say so were once innocent 
 as I was — suffered as I do. Oh ! no — no ! it cannot be. 
 Time — years ! Oh ! no ! nothing can ever reconcile 
 me, as it has them. I shall never — " 
 
OF woman's life. 61 
 
 " Heaven forbid that you should ! my poor girl," 
 remarked St. Orme with solemnity. " Heaven forbid 
 that you should ever become reconciled to a life so 
 revolting ! — that any necessity, however stern and exact- 
 ing, should induce you to regard with other feelings 
 
 than hatred and repugnance, a course of life But 
 
 come, I must now remind you of your own words, that 
 there is danger in every moment of delay in this den of 
 infamy. Come, we will leave it together, and trust in 
 Providence to suggest some means which may enable 
 both of us to look back, even to this moment, with 
 thankfulness and gratitude." 
 
 For a moment or two Katharine was speechless. Her 
 bosom heaved with a tumult of emotions, to which no 
 words could do justice. Her eyes — her clasped hands — 
 were raised in pious thankfulness, not to Heaven, but to 
 him whom she regarded as Heaven's messenger and in- 
 strument, and she would have fallen on her knees before 
 him, to pour forth the gratitude for which she wanted 
 words, but that he restrained her, and again suggested 
 the necessity of their instant departure, reminding her, 
 that although the people of whom she felt such terror 
 might attempt — although they would find it difficult — to 
 prevent his departure, supposing they had any motive for 
 wishing to detain him, they would be differently situated 
 towards her, and might invent claims upon her which he 
 should find it difficult to rebut. This was enough to rouse 
 all Katharine's natural activity. The bonnet, gown and 
 shawl, which were her own, which she had worn when, on 
 that wretched night which she had so often recurred to, she 
 had entered Mrs. Jonas' proffered domicile, were dragged 
 from the corner into which they had been crushed, and 
 smarter ones, for which she had been made a debtor to 
 
G2 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the old woman, substituted. These the poor girl now, 
 by St. Orme's suggestion, left behind, placing them 
 where they would not be too soon seen, to give notice to 
 the infamous old woman that her destined victim had 
 escaped from her den of infamy and destruction ; and, 
 leaning on St. Orme's arm, Katharine hurried on, speech- 
 less with contending emotions, until her companion and 
 protector, considering they had attained a sufficient dis- 
 tance from her late residence to prevent any fear of their 
 being followed and intercepted, at length paused, just as 
 they had entered a quiet street in the neighbourhood of 
 Holborn, and, looking compassionately in her pale and 
 agitated countenance, observed — 
 
 " It is necessary that you should have some rest ; but 
 I am so unacquainted with the ways of this great city, 
 that I know not where to proceed, or whom to apply to. 
 Can you point out any decent place where, by paying for 
 it, you can be sheltered for a few hours ? It is now 
 nearly morning — and by that time I shall have been able 
 calmly to reflect; and come to some resolution as to tht 
 future." 
 
 It seemed as if the manner in which St. Orme uttered 
 this, for the first time placed before Katharine's view the 
 full extent of the obligation she was under to her com- 
 panion, and the importance of the part he had undertaken. 
 Her head drooped, her lip quivered, and after a few mo- 
 ments she burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh ! how unworthy I am of your kindness," she 
 exclaimed, " and what an unfortunate wretch I am to 
 have involved you in so much trouble and embarrass- 
 ment." 
 
 " Do not speak of that," returned St. Orme, in a tone 
 of gentleness. " Believe ine, that I shall not regret any 
 
OF woman's life. 03 
 
 trouble or momentary embarrassment, if I should be 
 happy enough to succeed eventually in rescuing you v 
 from the dreadful fate that threatens you ; but, as I said 
 before, I am puzzled where to bestow you for a few 
 hours, that you may recover from the effects of the ex- 
 citement you have suffered, and be enabled to aid my 
 efforts as to your future establishment. Have you no 
 friends — no connexions, who may be willing to receive 
 you, under the certainty of being paid for their trouble ?" 
 Katharine's voice was choked, and almost indistinct, 
 as she replied — 
 
 " None ! none ! When I was deserted by him in 
 whom I trusted, whose wily arts and persuasions induced 
 me to leave my home — when it was discovered by those 
 with whom he had placed me that I had no legal title to 
 the name of ' wife,' which he had bestowed upon me, and 
 which he had sworn so often — so solemnly — to ratify at 
 no distant period — Yes ; at the very moment when I 
 most needed protection and sympathy — when I dis- 
 covered how cruelly, how grossly I had been deceived — 
 I was turned out into the street, loaded with insult and 
 abuse, accused of having conspired with the author of my 
 ruin to impose myself in a false character upon respect- 
 able people, who scorned all connexion with such dis- 
 reputable characters, and bade to seek my living among 
 those who were of the same class as myself, and who 
 would, no doubt, gladly receive one who possessed such 
 qualifications for my infamous trade. From that time I 
 wandered about in a state of distraction. It might be 
 days — weeks : I know not, for I was mad — distracted. I 
 fancied that every one who looked at me read my guilt 
 and degradation, as if it was written in legible characters 
 on my forehead— But I forgot what I was saying ; I 
 
G4 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 meant only to reply to your question by showing you 
 that I have no connexions— not a friend in the world. It 
 seems as if I could be content to remain as 1 am; to 
 walk by your side until — until — But I am unjust and 
 cruel to you, in wishing to entail such a burthen upon 
 you. You have need, too, of rest and refreshment, and 
 without me you could, of course, easily procure both. 
 Tell me, then, what shall I do ; let me not have the 
 additional misery of thinking that — " 
 
 With a melancholy smile, St. Orme interrupted her. 
 
 " This is a dilemma that any one better acquainted 
 with the ways of London would smile at, and easily find 
 a remedy for. Do not then let us create an imaginary 
 misery, my dear girl." 
 
 As if to prove the justice and prudence of his last 
 observation, St. Orme's eyes at that moment rested on a 
 glass lamp placed above the door of a decent house, on 
 which was painted the word ' Coffee,' and at the same 
 time he observed two females and a male companion 
 enter the passage with an ease and confidence that 
 showed there was nothing extraordinary in doing so, 
 even at that late hour of the night. Here then was a 
 place that offered the desired shelter, if not the means 
 of repose, which he would willingly have secured both 
 for himself and his companion ; and without any hesita- 
 tion he led Katharine forward into the warm, well- 
 lighted and comfortably fitted-up room, which held out 
 so welcome and hospitable an invitation to the weary 
 and homeless travellers. It was a strange motley assembly 
 by which that room was tenanted; females, whose gay 
 flaunting dresses harmonised badly with their care-worn, 
 haggard features and hollow eyes, which even rouge 
 failed to kindle into animation, were strangely mingled 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 65 
 
 with men, whose coarse and soiled habiliments declared 
 them to be of the lowest class of labourers or mechanics, 
 while here and there were scattered individuals of the 
 male sex, whose once fashionable but now faded clothes, 
 dirty linen, and generally neglected toilet, rendered it 
 much more difficult to judge of their occupation or 
 standing in the world. In one or two instances, these 
 indications of poverty, amounting to almost painful desti- 
 tution, were strangely contrasted by what appeared a 
 natural air of superiority, a refinement in feature and 
 person, that plainly bespoke a fall from a very different 
 station to that now occupied by these apparently miser- 
 able outcasts of society, who, by trifling over the smallest 
 modicum of coffee, seemed glad to avail themselves of 
 the comforts of warmth and shelter, while they shrank 
 unostentatiously into the darkest recess of the boxes, or 
 occasionally took advantage of their position to snatch 
 unnoticed a few moments of "tired nature's chief re- 
 storer" — though it could not, in continuance of the poet's 
 words, deserve the epithet of " balmy " sleep, which was 
 liable to be imperiously broken up at any moment by 
 a rude shake of the shoulder, and an exclamation from 
 one or other of the evidently " better fed than taught " 
 attendants, to the effect that it was " against rules — they 
 must not sleep there ;" while not unfrequently — if the 
 waiter had not been rendered surly by a too frequent 
 necessity for enforcing the rules of the house — he would 
 bespeak the laughter and applause of the more fortunate 
 and wide-awake among the customers, by some thread- 
 bare joke or facetiousness at the expense of the miser- 
 able, half-awakened sleeper ; such as advising him " to go 
 home and fetch his night cap and a warming-pan, before 
 he tucked himself up for the night ;" or having startled 
 
66 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the poor creature out of his temporary nap by a loud 
 halloo in his ear, would observe that — " he had made a 
 mistake in the place, for that Smitkfield was the market 
 to which he must drive his pigs, as they didn't keep no 
 styes in the Coffee-room ;" an attempt at wit, which, 
 much to St. Orme's disgust and indignation, was, soon 
 after his and Katharine's entrance, pursued through 
 numerous phases by a saucy youthful waiter, at the 
 expense of a miserably emaciated, but intelligent and 
 once well-looking, and without doubt gentlemanly, indi- 
 vidual, who had been detected in the heinous offence of 
 trying to snatch a few moments' oblivion of his cares, 
 after — as the waiter indignantly observed — " having 
 ' hockepied ' a seat, part of a table, and enjoyed the 
 benefits of light, a fire and a newspaper, and all for the 
 dirty profit upon a three a' p 'ny cup o' coffee." 
 
 " There is no occasion for all these remarks," observed 
 the poor man, as he raised himself in his seat and but- 
 toned his tattered coat as close as possible to his throat, 
 apparently more to conceal the deficiency of his under 
 garments than with a hope of increased comfort. " It 
 was not designedly that I trespassed on your rules, if 
 there are such rules, but I see there are some exceptions," 
 and he glanced at a big fat man, of the coarsest and most 
 repulsive appearance, who, with a tray before him well 
 supplied with coffee, muffins, eggs and water-cresses, 
 seemed scarcely to have commenced his meal, but with 
 mouth wide open, and a face swollen and bloated from 
 drinking, was snoring loudly, but quite undisturbed, and 
 apparently unnoticed by the authorities. 
 
 " X'eptions," repeated the waiter, whose eyes had 
 followed those of the speaker and then turned back 
 angrily on the latter — " And what is it to you if there is 
 
of woman's life. G7 
 
 'ceptions, as you calls 'em. I hope you aint agoing to 
 set yourself up for a 'ception, with your paltry three 
 a'porth of coffee and nothin' to eat with it, with one that 
 eats and drinks like a gentleman. It aint sich customers 
 as you that pays rent and taxes, and coals and candles, 
 and gash — " 
 
 " And saucy servants' wages to enable them to insult 
 those whom they are paid to treat with civility," observed 
 a bold, flaunting, but still well-looking woman, though 
 bearing evident traces of the ravages of time and dissipa- 
 tion in her once fine face and splendid form. She had 
 entered the room at the commencement of the waiter's 
 insolent vituperation, and, as it seemed, recognised in 
 the spirit-broken man, who was the object of attack, a 
 former acquaintance, one who had indeed seen — in her 
 own impressive language— better days, and whose spirit 
 she had attempted to soothe and restore, by uttering in a 
 loud whisper to all around that—" she had known the 
 time when that very man, poor and miserable as he now 
 looked, could have bought half London." 
 
 " But never mind, Charley, old feller," she continued, 
 turning to the object of her sympathy, who seemed to 
 have been thrown back upon his early recollections by 
 her unexpected address, and to forget all that was 
 present or passing around him. "Nevermind, we are 
 all born but not buried; and who knows what luck 
 there may be in store for you and I yet. At any rate, 
 it shall never be said that Nelly Garrick stood by and 
 saw her old master and friend, Charles Fitzharland, 
 esquire, insulted by a — " 
 
 Katharine, who had apparently paid little attention to 
 what had passed around her, started so violently at 
 hearing this name, that the coffee-cup which sin; had 
 
68 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 just raised to her lips dropped from her trembling hand 
 and was broken. The circumstance was sufficient to 
 draw all eyes upon her and put an end to the woman's 
 (Mrs. Carrick as she called herself,) further exposure of 
 her former master's history ; but it did not escape St. 
 Orme's observation, either the tone in which his com- 
 panion had repeated the name of Fitzharland, or the 
 eager and agitated look with which she regarded both 
 the person who had uttered it and the man whom that 
 person had designated by that name. There were, but 
 too evidently, painful, agonising feelings connected with 
 it, yet they could not apply to the poor man in question, 
 for it was plain they — Katharine and the man — were 
 strangers to each other. St. Orme had watched the 
 countenance of Fitzharland, as, startled by the noise of 
 the breaking of the cup, he looked up from the ground 
 on which his eyes had been fixed in the melancholy 
 retrospection which was forced upon him by Mrs. Car- 
 rick's remarks, but the look was that of an entire stranger; 
 neither was there anything in Katharine's countenance 
 that denoted any recognition of him, and yet from time 
 to time the young girl's eyes were stealthily turned to 
 him as he sat in an opposite box with his garrulous com- 
 panion, who had invited him to partake of the abundant 
 refreshments she had ordered, and was now chattering 
 away to her silent, melancholy companion, mixing up 
 her reminiscences of the past with her regrets for the 
 change in his circumstances, as denoted by his present 
 appearance, and endeavouring to cheer him with hopes 
 for the future, and with a total absence of reserve that 
 spoke much more in favour of her warm kind- 
 heartedness than her understanding or the delicacy of 
 her feelings. Surprised as St. Orme had been at first 
 
of woman's life. 69 
 
 by the emotion Katharine had betrayed, he might, pre- 
 occupied as his mind was, both by the unpleasant occur- 
 rences of the last few hours and the difficulties in which 
 they had involved him, have forgotten the circumstance, 
 or it would at least have faded from his memory as a sub- 
 ject of little comparative importance. But anxious as he 
 felt to hear from Katharine something that might lead, if 
 not direct his exertions in her favour for the future, he 
 could not but see that her whole thoughts and attention 
 were engrossed by their neighbours, and that, especially, 
 when the former situation and connections of the man 
 Fitzharland were the themes of the garrulous com- 
 panion of the latter ; so much so, that she (Katharine) 
 occasionally appeared scarcely conscious that any one 
 else was present, or had any claim upon her attention. 
 Angry almost that it should be so, and yet half-inclined 
 to believe that there was some mystery connected with the 
 affair which was deeply connected with the unfortunate 
 girl's previous history, St. Orme was meditating in what 
 manner to introduce the subject to her without the 
 hazard of exciting emotions which might attract the 
 observation of the persons concerned, with whom it was 
 very plain she did not wish to have any intercourse, 
 deeply interested as she appeared in their conversation— if 
 indeed it could be called conversation— in which nearly all 
 that was uttered was by one party — Fitzharland scarcely 
 did more than give a brief assent or dissent, and often 
 even that only by a deep sigh or a motion of the head ; 
 but, at the very moment when, excited by some new proof 
 of how totally Katharine's attention was occupied by 
 these people, he was about to risk an inquiry into her 
 motives for the interest she betrayed in the strangers, 
 when all impediment to a free communication was re- 
 
70 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 moved, by the persons in question rising and quitting the 
 coffee room together. St. Orme's astonishment was, how- 
 ever, infinitely increased when, having followed them to 
 the door with his eyes, he turned, and beheld Katharine 
 looking the image of despair, her hands clasped with that 
 expression which he had before observed as so peculiar 
 to her, and her beautiful features almost convulsed with 
 the intensity of her feelings. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this, Katharine ?" he ex- 
 claimed in alarm. " Those people, who have just left — 
 tell me — or forgive me — it is, perhaps, a subject too pain- 
 ful for you to speak of. I am imprudent in naming it to 
 you, but be assured, that in so doing I am actuated by no 
 impertinent curiosity ; I would not ask you a question 
 that would give you pain for the world; do not, therefore, 
 answer me if this will do so." 
 
 " Oh, no ! no — you have a right to ask me — to know 
 everything," she replied, bursting into tears. 
 
 " Not as a right, Katharine. No ; " he returned. 
 " Not unless it can in any way benefit you — not unless 
 you feel that it will be of service, or is necessary that I 
 should know something of the sad circumstances that — 
 
 "That have made me the wretch I am !" she uttered; "a 
 desolate miserable wretch, thrown upon your benevolence, 
 indebted to you for — Oh ! — for more than life." 
 
 " I wish to hear nothing that will give you pain," 
 returned St. Orme, with gentleness, "yet, as we have an 
 opportunity of speaking unobserved, for all who are now 
 present are too much absorbed by their own affairs 
 to pay any attention to utter strangers, as we are; 
 and if you think, that, confiding to me the circum- 
 stances that brought you within the power of the 
 wretched creatures with whom I found you so unequally 
 
OF woman's life. 71 
 
 associated, may assist in suggesting some plan [for your 
 future benefit." 
 
 Katharine shook her head with an air of despondency. 
 Though as yet unacquainted with the full extent to 
 which St. Ornie had suffered from his generous sympathy 
 in her behalf, she could not but suspect that it had in- 
 volved him in considerable difficulty and embarrassment 
 on her account, and that even now he knew not how to 
 carry out whatever plans he had formed for her benefit. 
 An order for a fresh supply of coffee, &c, secured them 
 the undisturbed possession of the compartment or box 
 they occupied ; and Katharine, shaded from the obser- 
 vation of the other occupants of the room by the position 
 she had taken in the far corner, after a few tears, which 
 St. Orme wisely did not attempt to check, considering 
 them, truly, as the natural relief to an over- charged brain, 
 commenced her melancholy story. 
 
72 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Restored to life, one pledge of former joy, 
 
 One source of bliss to come, remained — her boy. 
 
 Sweet in her eye the cherished infant rose, 
 
 At once the seal and solace of her woes. 
 
 When the pale widow clasped him to her breast, 
 
 Warm gushed the tears, and w-ould not be repressed ; 
 
 In lonely anguish, when the truant child, 
 
 Leap'd o'er the threshold, all the mother smiled. 
 
 In him, while fond imagination viewed, 
 
 Husband and parents, brethren, friends renewed, 
 
 Each vanished look, each well-remembered grace 
 
 That pleased in them, she sought in his young face ; 
 
 For quick his eye, and changeable its ray, 
 
 As the sun glancing through the vernal day, 
 
 And like the lake, by storm or moonlight seen, 
 
 With darkening furrows or cerulean mien, 
 
 His countenance, the mirror of his breast, 
 
 The calm or trouble of his soul expressed. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 " My father, most unfortunately for his children, died 
 nine years ago, when I, his eldest daughter and second 
 child, was under eight years of age, my hrother being 
 only one year older than myself, and my sister Ellen 
 three years younger than me. My mother was many 
 years younger than my father; and, though doatingly 
 fond of his children, and desirous, as I am sure he was, 
 to secure their happiness and do them strict justice, he 
 had so high an opinion of my mother's prudence and 
 affection for her children, that he left her by his will, the 
 uncontrolled mistress of the handsome fortune he had 
 accumulated, leaving my brother, as well as us, entirely 
 dependent on her, even if she married again. This, 
 however, I will do her the justice to say, I believe she 
 for years never thought of, though she was still a very 
 handsome woman, and in the prime of life; but she 
 
OF woman's life. 73 
 
 was proud of her children, and, though stern and cold in 
 her manner, devoted to their advantage, especially my 
 brother Leopold, whom she almost worshipped, and for 
 whom I and my sister were comparatively neglected, 
 and made to feel ourselves inferior beings — from our 
 very infancy taught to give up our very wishes, if they 
 were opposed to his. Fortunately for my sister and my- 
 self, Leopold, though impetuous and self-willed, as might 
 be expected, was kind-hearted and good-tempered, and 
 we seldom found it any hardship to submit to the autho- 
 rity he assumed over us. On the contrary, I, especially, 
 learnt to regard it as a right which was due to his supe- 
 rior understanding. Whatever he said was law which 
 I never thought of disputing ; and he repaid my devo- 
 tion to him by always standing between me and my 
 mother, whose violent temper, and stern, exacting dispo- 
 sition, was oftener displayed towards me than any one 
 else, and would have made me very miserable, if I had not 
 had a friend in her favourite Leopold, whom she could 
 not resist, or hardly, indeed, ever ventured to differ with, 
 haughty, and cold, and unbending as she was to her other 
 children. It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that 
 all my love and affection was bestowed upon my brother, 
 iD spite of my mother's unjust preference of him, and in 
 spite of what was not unfrequently whispered to me by 
 ignorant dependants, who, pretending to pity me and 
 Ellen, would tell me that our share of my father's fortune 
 would be very small ; that no doubt my mother intended 
 it all for her favourite ; with the addition, that it was a 
 great shame, &c, and that even the plain manner in 
 which we were educated, dressed, &c, all arose from her 
 desire to add to her darling's fortune. All, however, as 
 I have said, failed in shaking my affection for my brother. 
 
74 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 I believed him too noble-hearted and too well-principled 
 to take advantage of my mother's injustice, but I confess 
 all this did not increase my affection for my mother, and 
 the older I grew the more I learned to resent the neglect 
 — to call it nothing worse — with which I and Ellen were 
 treated by her. Nothing that Leopold required was 
 denied him. She seemed to live but to study Iris wishes 
 and happiness, and no thought of expense ever seemed to 
 enter her mind as regarded him ; while we were denied 
 not only every indulgence which we had a right to expect 
 in our circumstances, but were deprived even of the 
 education which had been commenced during my father's 
 life-time. This, I confess, I did think of, and, as far as I 
 dared do, resented as a hardship. I had a natural taste 
 for music, and a voice of which my poor father had been 
 very proud, and which, had he lived, would have been 
 cultivated. For nearly two years before Iris death I had 
 been placed under the tuition of an eminent, and of 
 course an expensive master ; but this, as well as every 
 other accomplishment, was discontinued after my father's 
 death, and I verily believe Ellen and myself would have 
 been left to grow up in downright ignorance, but that my 
 mother had an opportunity of providing us with a gover- 
 ness at the very cheapest rate — less even than she paid 
 her housemaids — in the person of a niece of my father's, 
 who, having been left an orphan, and totally destitute, was 
 glad to accept a refuge, with a title entirely unfitted for her, 
 her acquirements being of the very plainest description. 
 Little more, indeed, than plain reading and writing was 
 she capable of teaching, but she was a first-rate needle- 
 woman, and more than earned her trifling salary by 
 the use she was of in my mother's household affairs, 
 while she was perfectly satisfied with her efforts, and 
 
of woman's life. 75 
 
 considered that she quite fulfilled her duty in hearing 
 our monotonous daily lessons, teaching us the Church 
 Catechism, hearing our prayers morning and night, and 
 exacting so many hours of needlework daily. This life 
 was only varied hy an occasional walk, which was limited 
 to the shrubberies of the square to which we had a 
 key, or rarely extended to make purchases at shops when 
 my mother had not time, or wanted inclination to go her- 
 self, or not unfrequently as our governess, as she was 
 called, slily observed when out of hearing — ' Mrs. 
 Beresford fancied she should get cheaper bargains by 
 sending such a shabby-looking set to purchase, who 
 could not be expected to pay such prices as they would 
 ask of ladies.' My mother indeed little suspected the 
 mischief that was done to her children, by these and 
 similar remarks from the apparently humble and unpre- 
 suming woman whom she considered totally devoted to 
 her, and grateful for her favours ; but who was in reality, 
 under the pretence of affection to us, the daughters of 
 her much regretted uncle, fanning the feelings of mor- 
 tified pride and vanity in my bosom, and teaching me 
 secretly to rebel against the injustice of my mother's 
 treatment. As I became older, it was but too natural 
 that I should become conscious I was as well, if not 
 better looking than many girls of my own age, who, 
 being the children of neighbours, and living in the same 
 square, we encountered in our walks. But even if I 
 could have passed it over with indifference, Martha 
 Beresford, our cousin, or governess, by which title 
 alone we were allowed to recognise her, took care that 
 I should be fully aware of the advantages all these girls 
 possessed over me in the article of dress. Nothing, indeed, 
 could be plainer or less expensive than the clothes 
 
70 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 allowed to Ellen and I, while my mother was distin- 
 guished both for the elegance and taste with which she 
 increased her natural advantages of person ; and Leo- 
 pold's handsome face and figure was a source of pride to 
 her, on which no expense was spared. Nothing, indeed, 
 could he a greater contrast, when, as sometimes it hap- 
 pened, my mother and her son, in the very height of 
 fashion and extravagance, encountered the two shabby 
 looking, barely decently dressed girls, whom she was 
 forced to recognise as her daughters, although it might 
 much more easily have been imagined that they were 
 some poor relatives of her much smarter and more sub- 
 stantial looking domestics. To our governess, the subject 
 was of much more importance for a long time than to 
 me, and Ellen was as yet too young to think about 
 it at all, but to Martha Beresford dress was the sine qua 
 non of all that was desirable to woman-kind. Possessing 
 a rather showy person herself, it was a bitter mortifica- 
 tion to her to be confined, not only by her paltry salary, 
 but by my mother's regulations, to the plainest attire; 
 but I really believe that she was sincere, however mis- 
 taken, in the pity and indignation with w T hich she re- 
 garded our paltry wardrobe. I was especially the object 
 of her pity, and I must tell the truth. I was but too 
 willing to listen to and believe her, when she told me 
 that I had only to be dressed like other young girls of my 
 age to be universally admired. But this was not the worst. 
 I listened but -too readily to her insinuations that my 
 mother was jealous of my growing attractions, and I 
 cannot disguise the fact, that so far from regarding her 
 as I ought to have done, as my best, my only real friend, 
 I learned to look upon her as my worst enemy, and 
 to think that I only did right in joining in any schema 
 
OF woman's life. 77 
 
 that had for its object to deceive her. I will not now 
 enter into all that this led me into. Fortunately, Ellen 
 was too young and too thoughtless to be united in these 
 schemes, hut I was often made very miserable by the 
 way in which I was led to unite in what I was heartily 
 ashamed of, but which my governess thought and re- 
 presented only as fair retaliation for the cruelty and 
 injustice with which we — including of course herself, 
 who, as a near relation, ought to be differently treated — 
 were regarded. In this manner, that is to say, in this 
 secret enmity and resentment against my mother, though 
 openly in complete subjection to her, for never had I 
 dared to oppose, or even allow her to suspect the re- 
 bellion that reigned in my heart, I attained my sixteenth 
 year, when Leopold, my brother, who, in accordance 
 with his own wishes, had been removed from the private 
 boarding school at which he had been placed after the 
 death of my father, to Eton, returned homo to pass a 
 vacation. The two last had been passed in visits to 
 different school-fellows, with the exception of only a few 
 days flying visits to his home, but now he came at the 
 pressing instance — as I understood — of his mother, to 
 devote to her several weeks, and not only to enjoy, but 
 to introduce, to all the pleasures that the Metropolis 
 could afford, the friend and school- fellow in whose so- 
 ciety, and with whose family he had passed his former 
 holidays in all the enjoyments that rural life and sports 
 could afford. Wonderful was the alteration that this 
 announcement made in our house. Everything was, as 
 I may say, turned topsy-turvy. No expense was spared 
 in fitting up rooms worthy of the expected visitors. 
 New and elegant furniture was purchased; extra servants 
 hired, and, in short, everything done that my mother 
 
78 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 could think of to place my brother on an equality with 
 his friend ; but in the midst of this, not a thought 
 seemed to be bestowed by my mother on us — my sister 
 and myself. We were even deprived of the little comforts 
 and indulgences we did possess. Our school-room was 
 taken from us to be converted into a billiard-room for 
 my brother and his guests, and after numerous changes, 
 and being driven about from one room to another, as 
 if neither our accommodation nor that of our governess 
 was of the slightest importance when placed in com- 
 petition with that of the heir of the house, or his visitors, 
 we were at length driven to take refuge in two small 
 rooms in the attics, where we should be quite out of 
 sight among a quantity of discarded furniture, ' lumber,' 
 as Martha said, ' like ourselves, and regarded with much 
 the same feeling as only to be got rid of with as little 
 inconvenience as possible.' Here then for three or four 
 weeks before the expected arrival we were constantly 
 confined, working incessantly, occupied at work upon 
 such jmrts of my mother's dresses as she could trust to 
 our hands; but not a word — not a single thought seem- 
 ing to occur to her of the necessity or propriety of any 
 change being made in our appearance, although, as I 
 have said before, I was now a tall girl of sixteen, indeed 
 much older in appearance, and, from the remarks and 
 assurances of my governess, considering myself as quite 
 qualified to play a much more important part in the 
 forthcoming festivities than it seemed ever to have entered 
 my mother's head to allow me. It is but natural to 
 suppose, that in my secret heart I bitterly resented what 
 I considered a cruel injustice, though I was too com- 
 pletely under my mother's subjection openly to say a 
 word on the subject. Martha, indued, tried all in her 
 
OF woman's life. 79 
 
 power to induce me to speak of it to my mother. Not 
 an hour in the day passed in which she did not lament 
 over the injustice with which I was treated, and point 
 out how differently matters would have heen arranged had 
 my poor father lived. I knew that in some measure her 
 regrets were selfish. She did not, indeed, attempt to 
 deny that she could not venture to make any alteration 
 in her usual plain style of dress, unless it was coun- 
 tenanced hy some addition being made to our wardrobe ; 
 but at the same time I fully believed in the sincerity with 
 which she lamented that my beauty should be so entirely 
 obscured by my childish, old-fashioned frocks, and total 
 want of ornament, such as my fortune warranted, and 
 which any other girl of my age and station would have 
 demanded as a right. Stimulated at last by her incessant 
 lamentations, I took an opportunity, when my mother 
 appeared in uncommonly good humour at our success 
 and industry in the work she had employed us on, to 
 hint that our best frocks were getting shabby and old- 
 fashioned, and — what I thought would be the most 
 forcible argument that I could employ— that I was afraid 
 Leopold would be mortified if his sisters' appearance was 
 not suitable to everything else around him. All my 
 mother's good humour fled in a moment. 
 
 "'Pray who has put in your head, that the ap- 
 pearance of two insignificant children like you is of the 
 smallest importance ?' she replied ; ' or who has dared to 
 suggest that I am not the only and proper judge of what 
 you should wear, should chance bring you and your 
 brother's visitor together. You do not surely indulge the 
 vain conceit that you and your sister are at an age to 
 be brought forward otherwise than as you are, children, 
 whose education is not yet finished enough to entitle you 
 
80 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to mingle in society, even if you were much older, and 
 had made a better use of your time than I am sorry to say 
 you have, I assure you I should think the finery you 
 seem to covet quite superfluous. The young require nc 
 ornaments but their youth. It is only those whose per- 
 sons are fading that have need of dress to make them ac- 
 ceptable, and secure them the continuation of those atten- 
 tions they have been accustomed to. Let me hear, then, 
 no more of this nonsense, or I shall be apt to think that 
 something else than the folly of children is at the bottom 
 of it, and resent it accordingly.' 
 
 " Poor Martha," continued Katharine " I could not 
 help pitying, while I despised, the eagerness with which 
 she disclaimed setting any value on dress or appearance, 
 but I knew her very existence depended on her retaining 
 her situation, poor as it was, and I therefore magnani- 
 mously took upon myself the whole blame of coveting an 
 addition to my wardrobe, and incurred a still greater re- 
 primand from my mother, by hinting that I did not 
 believe my kind-hearted brother would be satisfied at 
 seeing his sisters banished to the garrets, and unable to 
 join in any of his pleasures because their appearance 
 would] disgrace him.' 
 
 " I cannot describe to you " continued Katharine " my 
 mother's awful rage at hearing these first symptoms of 
 rebellion from one who had hitherto appeared all mild- 
 ness and compliance — to have no will but her's, but un- 
 fortunately, as I now feel, I inherited from her not a little 
 of her own disposition, and I scorned to be subdued by- 
 threats and denunciations, especially where, as in the 
 present instance, I felt that I was in the right. The con- 
 sequence of all this was most injurious to me, for I learnt 
 to look more than ever upon her as unjust and oppressive, 
 
of woman's life. 81 
 
 and a feeling of opposition was roused in my bosom 
 which I was firmly resolved to maintain whenever I had 
 the opportunity. From this time there was nearly open 
 war between us ; I even ventured to reproach my mother 
 with her unjust preference of her darling son, and hinted 
 how ill she repaid the trust my father had placed in her 
 in confiding to her the fortunes of his daughters. But I 
 soon had bitter reason to repent this ; my mother's pene- 
 tration immediately discovered that from our governess, as 
 she was called, I must have learned the secret of my 
 father's disposal of his property; jand though she could not 
 conveniently revenge herself by discharging her, it led to 
 poor Martha's situation being rendered ten times more 
 irksome than ever. Can it be wondered at, that, weak 
 and narrow-minded as was our governess, she took in her 
 turn her revenge, by encouraging me and Ellen in every 
 possible wav against our mother ? My sister was, fortu- 
 nately for her own peace, too young and timid to enter 
 fully into the feelings which Martha delighted to excite, 
 unnatural as it was, in the bosoms of the children 
 against the mother; but I — I acknowledge it with shame 
 — learned almost to hate my mother, and to resolve upon 
 opposing her in every possible way, whenever the oppor- 
 tunity should arise. As it was, I entered into every 
 paltrv scheme which servants are but too apt to practise 
 against their employers, and which I am sorry to say 
 Martha Beresford was but too well practised in. The 
 pride which had hitherto led me to prefer even the dull- 
 ness and monotony of the school room was all laid 
 aside to join in the secret parties in the kitchen or 
 servants' hall, by which they made themselves amends 
 for my mother's strict government ; and I learned and 
 
 practised all the lessons of deceit winch they so well un- 
 
 M 
 
82 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 derstood how to teach. Little did my mother suspect, 
 while she was enjoying herself in the pleasures of society, 
 which, for the sake of my brother she was daily exten- 
 ding — little did she think that her daughters, who, under 
 the strict system which was laid down for our governess, 
 were forbidden to hold the most distant intercourse with 
 the servants — to whom she had lately added two, afoot- 
 man and groom — were now the regular associates of their 
 pleasures, and listening with greediness to all the low 
 cunning flattery, which confirmed what the governess 
 had previously insinuated, that my mother's chief motive 
 for keeping me in seclusion, and denying me the in- 
 dulgences enjoyed by other young ladies of my age and 
 fortune, was her jealousy of my beauty, more than her 
 unjust preference of my brother. Leopold's return home 
 was, I scarcely know why, delayed three months beyond 
 the time originally fixed, and during that interval my 
 mother's haughtiness, and cold imperious temper towards 
 me, who seemed particularly obnoxious to her, became 
 more unbearable to me, and her opposition to the slight- 
 est relaxation of what she called her system of education, 
 more and more determined. But I must do myself here 
 the justice to state that it was not only from my governess, 
 and her friends and associates, that I heard Mrs. 
 Beresford condemned for her mistaken method of bring- 
 ing up her daughters ; it had become whispered about 
 even among the tradespeople with whom she dealt ; our 
 appearance confirmed all that was said of her niggard- 
 liness towards us, while the plain table which was kept 
 for the governess and her pupils, and which I knew was 
 very unwillingly submitted to by Martha, who bitterly 
 regretted the loss of the plenty and delicacies she had been 
 used to during her parents' lives, were exaggerated, no doubt, 
 
of woman's life. 83 
 
 by the reports of the servants, into something nearly 
 approaching starvation, and I was sometimes not a little 
 startled at discovering that we were the objects of a pity, 
 which I confess I felt degraded by more than once. I was at 
 once hurt and angry, at finding that my pale cheeks and 
 slender form were the natural consequences of close con- 
 finement and sedentary employment, increased too by the 
 unhappiness of my mind at my mother's treatment of me, 
 and — for I had still so much good feeling left towards her, 
 and so much self-respect, as to regret the system of decep- 
 tion in which I had become involved — more than once I 
 was mortified at discovering that these appearances were 
 attributed to the actual want of the necessaries of life, and 
 scarcely could I restrain my indignation at seeing the sa- 
 tisfaction and gratitude with which our governess ac- 
 cepted the good things that were secretly added to our 
 certainly plain, but sufficient fare, sometimes from our 
 own cook, but not unfrequently from the kitchens of the 
 substantial tradesmen with whom my mother dealt, and 
 who really felt for the poor governess and her pupils, for 
 what they conceived the worst of all inflictions. It seems 
 scarcely necessary to mention these things," continued Ka- 
 tharine, "but they were of importance, for, though conscious 
 how greatly exaggerated they were; and indeed, for myself 
 little valuing such indigencies or regretting their depri- 
 vation, they all added to my causes of complaint against 
 my mother, and confirmed in my mind the spirit of op- 
 position, and the determination to act independently of 
 her, and to show her how deeply was engraven there, my 
 resentment of her injustice. How ashamed too, did I feel, 
 as by degrees I became more fully aware of my mother's 
 ruling foibles — the mixture of deep-seated avarice with the 
 love of show and parade, which led her into a thousand 
 
84 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 inconsistences, and was so well understood and profited 
 by those about her. How have I blushed for her, when I 
 have heard her ridiculed for some ostentatious display- 
 amounting in fact to extravagance beyond what, as it was 
 asserted, her fortune warranted, and which it was said was 
 gross injustice to her children ; and then almost in the 
 same breath she would be abused for a series of petty 
 meannesses — paltry savings, at the expense of her im- 
 mediate dependants, which it was impossible not to des- 
 pise, and which none of them hesitated to declare they 
 would seize the first opportunity to avenge by taking 
 her in, as they expressed it, to a much larger amount 
 than she imagined she had gained by them. And I was 
 compelled to hear all this, and to seem to approve — aye 
 even when my bosom was swelling almost to suffocation 
 with pride and mortification — while the highest compli-, 
 ment that could be paid to me by my unworthy asso- 
 ciates, was the certainty that if ever I had it in my power 
 to show it, my conduct would be completely the reverse 
 of my mother's. But of that there was little hope. No, 
 the more was the pity, was almost universally the con- 
 clusion come to on such occasions. Her darling would, no 
 doubt, inherit all, without the " old woman " should 
 luckily die without making her will; and I was bid to pray 
 for this as the luckiest chance that could befal me ; un- 
 less, indeed, by equal good fortune, it should happen that 
 " the darling boy " should break his precious neck in a 
 steeple-chase, or be taken off by some other fortunate 
 chance, before he came of age. And then would follow 
 numerous speculations as to what would be my mother's 
 conduct to us — I and Ellen — but this was a subject I 
 would not, could not, bear to hear discussed ; I really 
 and sincerely loved my brother, and it excited no little 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 85 
 
 surprise, and I believe some doubt whether I was iu my 
 right senses, when I declared that I should hate myself 
 if I were capable of harbouring a wish for my brother's 
 death ; on the contrary, I would willingly give up every 
 shilling that was likely to fall to my lot, if it was neces- 
 sary to his happiness. Alas ! how little did I, or even 
 they who thus coolly calculated on the probabilities, or 
 rather the possibilities of such an event, foresee how 
 near was the event which was thus argued between them 
 as a mere distant chance, which I ought to feel grateful for, 
 if anything so unlikely should happen. Thank Heaven ! 
 I never for one moment indulged such a thought — 
 admitted such a possibility. On the contrary, I resented 
 its introduction, and, as I before said, vindicated my dear 
 brother from every unjust accusation, and declared I was 
 quite willing to depend solely on his generosity. I loved 
 Leopold indeed, butter than any human being; and not 
 my mother herself welcomed him with more warmth than 
 I did, when he at length stood in the parlour in which I 
 had parted with him nearly three years before. My 
 mother had frequently seen him during that time, but he 
 had never visited his home nor held any intercourse with 
 us, (his sisters) but I still retained all my affection for 
 him, and not even my mother herself felt happier or 
 prouder of him than I did, when I saw how wonderfully 
 he was improved. Leopold did not come alone, as we had 
 been taught to expect from the preparations that had 
 been made, for my mother had never condescended to 
 enter into any explanations. He brought with him his 
 favourite schoolfellow and friend, with whom he had 
 spent his previous holidays. Cecil Fitzharland — that was 
 his name — was two or tlnee years older than Leopold, that 
 is to say, he was turned of twenty, and certainly appeared 
 
86 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 even older than that. He was, undeniably, a much 
 finer figure than my brother, for Leopold was scarcely 
 middle-sized, while his friend was very tall and im- 
 posing in his appearance, but I scarcely saw that or indeed 
 anything else but my brother's handsome animated face, 
 and I was half angry with my governess for the admi- 
 ration she bestowed upon Fitzharland. It was soon 
 however but too evident that Leopold was not equally 
 satisfied with my appearance. I had contrived, unknown 
 to my mother, to be in the parlour below when he arrived. 
 I took care to let him see me through the window when 
 he alighted from the post-chaise, and I saw him look at 
 me with an expression of curiosity, and then I rushed to 
 the door to welcome him, quite indifferent to the looks of 
 his friend who followed him. But I could not be blind 
 to the change in Leopold's countenance, as he replied to 
 the whispers of Fitzharland — 
 
 " c Yes, this is my sister Katharine ; ' and I shrank 
 back, hurt and abashed, for his manner seemed to say 
 that he was disappointed in my appearance, and half 
 ashamed to acknowledge our relationship; but at this 
 minute my mother's voice was heard on the stairs, and 
 without bestowing any further greeting on me, he hurried 
 his friend away to meet her. 
 
 " ' How could it be otherwise,' observed my governess, 
 when with tears I spoke of his coldness : ' he was vexed, 
 no doubt, at seeing you look so dowdyish, as that frock 
 makes you. I'll be bound I understand it all. He knew 
 how handsome you promised to be when he left home, 
 and he's been talking of his beautiful sister Katharine to 
 his friend, raising his curiosity and expectations, and 
 then, when he saw you — besides, only think how strange 
 it must have appeared to Mr. Fitzharland, instead of 
 

of woman's life. 87 
 
 meeting a fashionable, elegant girl, introduced properly 
 by her mother, who ought to be proud of her daughter, 
 he finds you trembling, and hiding yourself to steal a 
 word — a kiss — with your brother, and hears you say, 
 ' Don 't tell my mamma you have seen me, she does not 
 know I am out of the school-room, or not gone to bed 
 as well as my sister Ellen, who longs to see you, as well 
 as me, but had not courage to disobey mamma's com- 
 mands.' That was what you said, or something like it, 
 was it not, Kate ? 
 
 " ' Yes, I believe so,' I replied, 'but what then ? Leo- 
 pold could not blame me for being anxious to see him, 
 and what right had his friend to — ' 
 
 " ' None at all,' interrupted my governess ; ' but cannot 
 you see that your brother has been representing you 
 to his friend, as a beautiful, accomplished girl — perhaps 
 even planning to secure you not only an admirer, but a 
 husband ; and then how provoked he must have felt to see 
 nothing but an awkward, bashful girl, talking like a child 
 of being sent off to bed — and you don 't even look to advan- 
 tage to day, for your eyes are swollen with crying and — 
 
 " ' There, that is enough of it, Miss Beresford,' I in- 
 terrupted, half-angry, and forgettiug the compliments her 
 remarks had conveyed, in the mortifying conclusions she 
 had drawn. I dare say,' I spitefully added, 'you would have 
 made a much more favourable impression if you had been 
 in my place. However, I care nothing what Mr. Fitz- 
 harland's thoughts were about me; and as to my 
 brother's intentions, I really don't believe he ever 
 thought of the match-making scheme you attribute to 
 him. It is not likely — it is quite improbable — that he 
 should think of such a thing for a girl of my age.' 
 
 " ' Your mother was not older when she married your 
 
88 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 father,' replied Martha quietly. 'However, you need not 
 blush and tremble so, my dear,' she continued in a sar- 
 castic tone, ' for, whatever were your brother's intentions, 
 I dare swear your appearance has put them all at rest, 
 and your mother will take care to keep you in the back 
 ground, so as to prevent your appearing to better ad- 
 vantage in Mr. Fitzharland's eyes.' 
 
 " ' Again Mr. Fitzharland !' I exclaimed angrily. 
 ' What do I care what he thinks of me ? He is nothing 
 to men or ever will be, and I really wonder that you should 
 persist in making his opinion of so much consequence. 
 If you consider him of so much importance you had 
 better try what your own clianns can effect ; come, do now, 
 Martha, make up your mind to set your cap at him. I 
 should be delighted to be the confederate of a love affair, 
 and who knows but it may end in an elopement, and in a 
 trip to Gretna Green, with me for a bridesmaid. Oh, 
 what a surprise it would be to Mamma." 
 
 " ' Take care that you do not give her a surprise 
 some day that she would be less likely to forgive,' re- 
 plied Martha, with malicious emphasis. 
 
 " I was startled I confess, half- frightened, at her look 
 and manner, though in the innocence of my heart, for I 
 was innocent then — Oh, yes ! Heaven be my witness, I 
 dreamt not of offence — of aught that was inconsistent with 
 the utmost purity — I could form no idea to what she al- 
 luded. What I had said was prompted only by girlish 
 levity seeking to be revenged upon my governess, for 
 what I considered the unprovoked mortification her re- 
 marks on my appearance in the eyes of my brother's 
 friend had occasioned. My raillery, I have no doubt, 
 sounded bitterly in Miss Beresford's ears, for she 
 could not be blind to the fact that her looking-glass 
 
of woman's life. 89 
 
 taught her, that the few personal attractions she might 
 have once possessed had long since departed. She had 
 neves been handsome in her best days, but now years of 
 petty cares, mortifications, and disappointment, added 
 sourness to her countenance and rendered her even more 
 than plain. She was, besides, though she would have 
 been vei*y unwilling to own so much, fully ten years the 
 senior of the young man with whom I had so thought- 
 lessly connected her as a lover. Vain, as she certainly 
 was, Martha Beresford could not but feel that the sup- 
 position was too ridiculous, but she attributed to me 
 what I did not deserve, in supposing that I was capable 
 of a cold-blooded insult to her. I was in fact too much 
 attached — too sincerely compassionated her under my 
 mother's haughty treatment of her. Besides, we were 
 fellow sufferers on that account, if there had been no 
 other bond of union between us; but there was, for 
 I gave Martha Beresford credit for disinterested and 
 warm-hearted attachment to me, which I fully appre- 
 ciated and returned by as much love as it was possible 
 to feel for one who had many — many striking defects, 
 both in character and temper. 
 
 " I am afraid all this is very tedious and uninteresting 
 to you, Sir," continued Katharine, sighing and looking 
 up to St. Orme with a pleading look, and a blush that 
 rendered her singular beauty more than beautiful ; "but 
 this conversation was — if I may be allowed the expres- 
 sion — an epoch in my life, to which I now look back 
 with regret — with, I may say, agony — for I feel that on it 
 depended — from it arose — all that I have since done and 
 suffered. Martha Beresford never forgot or forgave the 
 imaginary insult, and bitterly — oh, how bitterly she 
 avenged it." 
 
 N 
 
90 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Katharine hid her face with her clasped hands, but 
 they could not conceal the large tear-drops that betrayed 
 the feelings, which words alone were insufficient to ex- 
 press, and St. Orme did not seek to repress those tears, 
 for he felt that they were a necessary relief to the over- 
 charged brain. 
 
 " From that time," she continued, " my governess 
 spared no pains to inculcate in my mind feelings that it 
 should have been her duty to repress ; she made my 
 mother's conduct towards me the never ceasing subject 
 for reproach, and at the same time flattered my vanity by 
 inducing the belief that it was jealousy of my youth and 
 beauty that actuated her (my mother), in keeping me so 
 entirely confined with Ellen, that I scarcely ever — and 
 then merely by accident — beheld either Leopold, or his 
 friend, Fitzharland. My mother was engaged constantly 
 in a round of pleasures with them, or when at home, 
 they were surrounded with company. But we, as well 
 as our governess, were strictly forbidden to leave our 
 rooms (the attics), and the only enjoyment we partook 
 of, if it could be so called, was when from^Xhe landing 
 of our prison we could listen to the music below. My 
 mother, I afterwards discovered, had satisfied my brother 
 that I was, partly from natural stupidity, and partly from 
 obstinacy and perverseness, so behind-hand in every ac- 
 quirement usual in girls of my age, that I was unfit to 
 be introduced to society for at least another year. Ellen 
 was of course too young to be thought of. The round of 
 pleasure in which Leopold moved, left him little time to 
 think of me, and except that Miss Beresford, in defiance 
 of my mother's regulations, contrived once or twice to 
 throw herself in the way of him and his friend, I believe 
 it would have been forgotten we were in the same house. 
 
OF woman's life. 93 
 
 Leopold, indeed, came up-stairs with oiir mother the 
 morning after his arrival, when I and Ellen were engaged 
 at our everlasting needlework; but though he looked at me 
 as if better satisfied with my appearance than he had been 
 the evening before at my stolen interview, his general 
 expression of disappointment in his sisters — for we were 
 both too much in awe of my mother to enter into con- 
 versation with him freely — and indeed, his manner to- 
 wards us was anything but encouraging, while he seemed 
 to regard our governess with something nearly approach- 
 ing to contempt. 
 
 " ' Whv don't you try what a good school would 
 effect?' I heard him say to my mother, as he stood 
 looking through one of the windows upon the tiles and 
 chimnev-pots which comprised all our view. 'It's enough 
 to make the girls dull and stupid, to be stived up here." 
 
 My mother bit her lips. 
 
 "'I have reasons which I will explain another time," 
 she replied ; and he appeared satisfied. I was, I confess, 
 more angry than pleased at his suggestion, much as I 
 wished for any sort of change from the life we led. But 
 led as I had been by my governess to believe myself fully 
 qualified to take my place in society, and enter into all 
 its enjoyments, I felt mortified and indignant at a propo- 
 sition which seemed intended to throw me back into 
 childhood, with all its restraints. Miss Beresford was 
 still more angry, when I repeated what I had heard. 
 
 "'Never mind, dear Kate,' she observed at last; 'let 
 me alone — we shall find some opportunity of convincing 
 this upstart brother of yours, that your time has not been 
 so much thrown away, or your governess so badly quali- 
 fied, as he seems to think. You want only the oppor- 
 tunity, to show them, that you are not only equal, but far 
 
92 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 superior to ninety-nine out of a hundred girls of your 
 age ; and as to person, I defy him, among all that are 
 admitted to your mother's circle, to find one that can 
 compete with you. Ay, and we '11 find means to make 
 him and his friend, Mr. Fitzharland, acknowledge this.' 
 
 " Three weeks passed in this manner, and I had only 
 seen Leopold once, except when he visited our school- 
 room, I began to despair of the desired opportunity; but 
 one morning, when we had been into the Park for our 
 usual morning's exercise, which was always concluded 
 before the time at which my mother, her son and friend, 
 appeared at the breakfast table, we accidentally delayed 
 our return half an hour beyond the prescribed time. 
 
 " ' Run up-stairs as quickly and lightly as you can, 
 girls,' observed our governess, as, after ringing the area 
 bell, to avoid disturbing my mother, we were admitted 
 into the hall. ' Take care not to speak as you pass her 
 chamber door, or we shall have a fine lecture. Stop, 
 give me your bonnets and shawls, and then, if you are 
 seen, she will not suspect we are just come in. You can 
 make an excuse, that you have stayed down in the par- 
 lour an hour, by way of change; that will be better than 
 owning that we have been out till now, for it may give 
 her an excuse for stopping our morning walks, and quite 
 shutting us up in our prison.' She caught my bonnet 
 off as she spoke, and in so doing brought down my hair 
 with it, which is unusually long and thick. I happened 
 to be in rather a gayer humour than I had been for a 
 long time, and shaking my head wildly brought the thick 
 clusters of ringlets— of which I was very proud — over my 
 face, so as completely to veil my features. 
 
 " ' There,' I observed, ' if she catches a glance of me 
 she wont know me, but think I am some wild nymph of 
 
of woman's life. 93 
 
 the woods ;' and, without waiting for my companions, I 
 darted up the stairs, jumping rather than running — 
 taking, in fact, two stairs at a time, and whirling my 
 curls around, like a mad, thoughtless child, rather than a 
 girl of the mature age of sixteen years and some months." 
 
 The sweet, arch smile, that for a moment lingered on 
 Katharine's rosy lips, sent the warm hlood thrilling 
 through St. Orme's heart, and sparkled in his eyes. If 
 she had appeared to him so heautiful, oppressed with 
 sorrow and home down under the influence of shame, 
 how much more lovely must she have been at the period 
 of happy innocence and thoughtlessness to which she 
 now alluded. His momentary rapture was succeeded by 
 a deep sigh of pity and regret ; and Katharine — who 
 seemed to read his thoughts in that transition — cast 
 down her eyes, and suffered the thin, transparent lids to 
 veil them, till the dark lashes rested on her cheeks and 
 concealed their expression, as though she felt ashamed 
 of having for a moment suffered herself to be betrayed 
 into something like levity, or at least a momentary for- 
 getfulness of her sorrows. 
 
 After a few moments of mutual silence, she resumed; — 
 
 " I had passed safely the dreaded chamber door, 
 and had reached the second landing, on which my 
 brother's and Mr. Fitzharland's sleeping-rooms were 
 situated, when my course was suddenly interrupted — I 
 was caught in the arms of some person, which were ex- 
 tended to stop my giddy career, and pressed closely to his 
 breast. Not for an instant suspecting that any one 
 would have assumed such a liberty but my brother, I 
 exclaimed — without trying to release myself, or even to 
 throw buck the locks that intercepted my sight. 
 
 " ' Oh Leopold ! how you frightened me. My dear — 
 
94 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 clear brother, you do love me then still. I thought you 
 had quite forgotten me; that you despised your little 
 sister, who loves you so very — very dearly.' 
 
 " He answered me by returning — with such violence 
 as almost to take away my breath — the kiss with which, 
 in spite of my long locks still veiling my face, I enforced 
 my words. But what was my astonishment, my terror, 
 when a voice that was strange to me, but which sounded 
 the most musical and soft I had ever heard, replied — 
 
 "'Despise — forget such an angel! how could it be 
 possible ? But tell me, lovely creature, can it be that 
 you are the sister of my friend Beresford? Most cer- 
 tainly not the sister whom I saw the evening I arrived ?' 
 
 " I had by this time recovered my recollection suffi- 
 ciently to feel the insolent liberty he had taken, and this 
 last remark increased my anger. 
 
 "' I do not know that there was anything in my man- 
 ner upon that occasion, to induce you to suppose that 
 such freedoms as you have taken would be welcome,' I 
 replied, with a dignity that — as he afterwards told me — 
 surprised him even more than the alteration in my 
 personal appearance, from the awkward, constrained, 
 childish being I had then appeared. 'You are mistaken, 
 I assure you,' I continued, ' if you suppose, because you 
 do not see me in my proper place in this house, that 
 I am so ignorant of the rules of propriety, as to submit 
 patiently to your impertinence. If my mother treats 
 me with so little consideration as to subject me to the 
 insults of her guests, I shall see if my brother will 
 countenance it.' 
 
 " He interrupted me by the most humble apologies. 
 ' Nothing,' he said, ' could be farther from his thoughts 
 than to offer me any insult. He had been betrayed into 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 95 
 
 what — he acknowledged — was an improper freedom, solely 
 by the charms of my appearance — the singular beauty of 
 that chief ornament of womankind,' glancing at my 
 dishevelled hair, which, recalled to sudden remembrance, 
 I now attempted blushingly to gather up and twist into 
 a knot. While I was so employed — he watching me 
 with undisguised admiration — my governess and Ellen 
 came up the stairs, and leaving him to explain to her, 
 if he chose, what had passed, I ran up the other flight 
 of stairs to our prison, as Miss Beresford always called 
 it, and disappeared. 
 
 " She was in raptures with Mr. Fitzharland when she 
 joined me. He had enlisted her completely in his cause 
 by the compliments he had paid her, for to her instruc- 
 tions and example, she said, he attributed the dignity, 
 elegance and propriety with which I had reproved his 
 impertinent freedom, for which he now implored in the 
 humblest terms, my pardon. Alas ! few females, I am 
 afraid, sincerely resent offences which are attributed to 
 their beauty. Martha declared it would be quite ridi- 
 culous in me to persist in showing any indignation at his 
 involuntary offence. Besides, if I put in practice my 
 threat of appealing to my brother, I should only foment 
 a quarrel between him and Fitzharland, and perhaps, 
 drive the latter out of the house. ' I will not repeat the 
 arguments or the arts by which she succeeded in her 
 plans, for plans I afterwards knew they were, to bring 
 about clandestine interviews between Fitzharland and 
 myself, until at last, every hour that he could steal from 
 my mother and Leopold, was devoted to me, and I be- 
 came as ardently and sincerely attached to him as he pro- 
 fessed to be to me. I knew I was doing wrong, and many 
 times I almost resolved to seek an interview, either with 
 
9G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 my mother or Leopold, and acknowledge to them all 
 that had taken place, for, I confess, a secret presentiment 
 told me that it would end badly; but my mother's cold, 
 austere manners seemed to increase every time she con- 
 descended to come to our room and inquire how we were 
 getting on, and she seemed more than ever to be deter- 
 mined to consider me as a mere child, to whom the 
 prospect of being liberated from the constraints of the 
 school-room was yet far distant. How then, could I 
 dare to talk to her of a lover, to own that I had entered 
 into a solemn contract — as I considered it — to become the 
 wife of Fitzharland, whenever he should be in a situation 
 to require its performance? Besides, it would be the 
 ruin of my governess, to betray the part she had acted, 
 and, as I then believed — though I knew she was doing 
 wrong — that she was actuated solely by her attachment 
 to me, and her desire to secure my future happiness ; it 
 would have been the height of ingratitude to have re- 
 vealed what would have inevitably caused her being 
 turned out of her situation, and deprived, not only of 
 her only friend, but of her character, and consequently of 
 her living. Oh, into what a labyrinth of art and decep- 
 tion was I now plunged, without the power of extricating 
 myself, and yet, Fitzharland became more and more ex- 
 acting and bold the more I shrank and became terrified. 
 As to Leopold, he — as I too soon learned from Fitz- 
 harland — was gradually emancipating himself from his 
 mother's control and guidance, and plunging into dissipa- 
 tion and pursuits which rendered her, and, indeed, every 
 friend, truly miserable. To him therefore, I could not 
 apply for advice or counsel, and I was obliged to stifle my 
 uneasiness as much as I could, and hope that all would 
 end as my governess predicted it would and as it ought, 
 
OF woman's life. 97 
 
 in a happy marriage, and my mother's first mortification 
 and then forgiveness. More than once, at the persuasion 
 of Fitzharland and Martha Beresford, and taking advan- 
 tage of my mother's being safely engaged till a late hour, 
 I accompanied him to places of public amusement. It 
 was shameful, they agreed, that I should be denied 
 pleasures which every young woman of my age was 
 allowed to enjoy. Fitzharland always behaved with the 
 strictest delicacy and propriety on those occasions, and 
 every time they were repeated I learned to tremble less 
 at the possibility of my absence from home being dis- 
 covered. The worst of all was, the injury I knew I was 
 doing to Ellen— my dear little sister— by involving her 
 in these disgraceful secrets ; her silence was secured by 
 repeated presents from my lover, and indulgence of 
 every kind from Miss Beresford, who only replied to my 
 conscientious scruples that it was all nonsense. ' Ellen 
 is too young and thoughtless to draw such conclusions 
 as you in your wisdom think of. She will forget all 
 about it after you are married.' 
 
 u I only tell you this," continued Katharine, looking 
 up in St. Orme's face, " to prove to you that I was not 
 the reckless, depraved creature my mother represented 
 me to be. Heaven knows, many — many and bitter were 
 the tears I shed, even at the very moment that I assumed 
 the appearance of happiness and contentment, for I felt 
 that I was doing wrong, and I trembled less for the 
 consequences to myself than to others. All this time 
 I knew nothing with certainty of Fitzharland's circum- 
 stances or position in the world, except that he was the 
 only son of a merchant in the city of London. He was 
 always fashionably dressed and appeared to have plenty 
 of money at his command. He would, indeed, have 
 
98 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 pressed upon my acceptance many expensive presents, 
 but I always refused thorn, for, besides that my natural 
 pride revolted from such obligations, what, I observed 
 to him, could be the use of things so unsuitable to 
 my appearance in other respects — I, whose dress was as 
 plain, though not half so good, as a quakeress'. A hand- 
 some, though not showy shawl and bonnet, as different 
 as well could be from the one I usually wore, and a 
 thick black veil — for the purpose of disguise should we 
 encounter any one likely to recognise me in our stolen 
 interviews — I did, most unwillingly, consent to accept 
 from him, though not till persuaded and urged to it by 
 Martha Bcresford, who, besides pleading the necessity of 
 it, suggested also the additional argument that it placed 
 me on greater equality with him in point of appearance, 
 and saved him the mortification of being seen by any of 
 his companions with one whose appearance would disgrace 
 him. One or two adventures, which I will not trouble 
 you by relating, convinced me she had judged rightly, 
 for it was with difficulty — and certainly owing entirely 
 to the change made in my appearance by this dress — 
 that I escaped beiug recognised by acquaintances of my 
 mother, who had casually seen me at home, and knew 
 Fitzharland as Leopold's intimate friend. Once, espe- 
 cially, in the pit of the Drury Lane Theatre, I was 
 addressed by name, and, but for Fitzharland's coolness 
 and presence of mind, should have been discovered ; as it 
 was, the gentleman went away only half- satisfied that he 
 was mistaken. To avoid the consequences that might 
 ensue from this person's mentioning the circumstance to 
 my mother, which actually was the case, Fitzharland 
 took the bold and dangerous step of telling her himself 
 jthe mistake her friend had made, adding — 
 
of woman's life. '••'•> 
 
 •••The gentleman,— Mr. Wickhani, I thmk he is 
 called— surprised me very much, my -dear Mrs. Beres- 
 ford, by saying that you have a daughter as old as my 
 cousin Julia, who was my companion. I thought your 
 daughters were both children still at school.' 
 
 "'You were quite right, Mr. Fitzharland," replied my 
 mother, with even more than her usual stiffness, though 
 somewhat rather confused. 'But, pray how old is 
 your cousin ?' 
 
 " Fitzharland laughed. 
 
 " ' Ladies' ages are a delicate subject to speak of,' he 
 replied, ' but, I may tell you, though Julia would not 
 like to hear the secret betrayed, that she is out of her 
 ' teens,' though she looks much younger and would wil- 
 lingly persuade herself she is quite a girl.' 
 
 " ' Pshaw, ridiculous !' exclaimed my mother. ' I. have 
 no daughter near that age. But, now I recollect, Mr. 
 Wickhani is very near-sighted.' 
 
 " The conversation was dropped, but long after this 
 circumstance was remembered to my disadvantage. It 
 was one among many proofs that were brought forward 
 to substantiate the charges of my consummate art and 
 duplicity, and acquit my mother of harshness in shutting 
 her doors against me, and forbidding my dear sister from 
 ever speaking or thinking of one who was accused of 
 having done everything in her power to corrupt that dear 
 girl's innocent heart. 
 
 " I am hastening to the conclusion," continued Katha- 
 rine, drying the tears which had been forced from her 
 eyes by these recollections. " For several days after this 
 narrow escape from detection, I remained firm in my 
 determination not to run such a risk again. Martha 
 Beresford, who was completely won to Fitzharland's 
 
100 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 interest by his continual presents, in vain tried by argu- 
 ment and raillery to shake my determination, and my 
 lover at length adopted a new means of inducing me to 
 yield to his solicitations. He had long expressed an 
 earnest wish that I should hear Madame Pasta sing at 
 the Italian Opera House, declaring my voice strikingly 
 resembled hers, and only wanted cultivation to make it 
 as delightful. My vanity and curiosity were, I confess, 
 greatly excited on this subject, but still, my terror at the 
 danger I had ran triumphed, and I resolutely resisted 
 his entreaties, though he offered to go into the gallery 
 with me, where, though he said the company were very 
 respectable, it was not likely we should meet any of 
 my mother's friends. 
 
 "'Well then,' he observed, when he found it impos- 
 sible to shake my determination, ' it must be put off 
 until I have a husband's authority to command your 
 attendance. Say that you consent that I should make 
 the necessary arrangements, dearest, and I will not 
 delay my happiness another day.' 
 
 ,; I could only blush and tremble in reply to this. It 
 took me, indeed, quite by surprise, for he had never 
 before talked decidedly of marriage, or, at least, had 
 spoken of it as an event yet at a distance. At last, I 
 recollected myself. 
 
 " How shall I ever look mamma in the -face," I ob j 
 served, " when she comes to know all ?' 
 
 " ' Mamma's authority will be at end then, dear Kate,' 
 he replied, ' and you will have no occasion to fear her 
 condemnation. Besides,' he continued smiling, ' she will 
 be like other mammas, she will feel it to be no use to 
 scold when the deed is done.' 
 
 " But you do not surely mean/' I replied, "that— that 
 
of woman's life. 101 
 
 it can be done without letting her know — without asking 
 her consent ? 
 
 "'I do mean it, my dearest girl,' he replied, ' and if 
 you love me — if you are sincere in your professions that 
 you wish for no greater happiness than to pass your life 
 with me, as you know you told me the other night, you 
 will not make a single objection to my plan. Your 
 mother, you say yourself, and every action of hers 
 proves it, has little regard for you, it will therefore give 
 her no pain to discover that you have transferred your 
 love and duty to a husband ; but I know her character — 
 the secret springs of her actions better than you do, dear 
 girl — and I am convinced, were I or any one else to 
 apply for her sanction to address you, she would not 
 only refuse, but take every means in her power to pre- 
 vent an union and separate us for ever. Here is your 
 governess, I will appeal to her good sense and her 
 knowledge of Mrs. Beresford's disposition, whether I am 
 not right.' 
 
 " Fitzbarland would, I knew, be right in Martha's 
 eyes, were he ever so wrong ; yet I suffered myself to 
 be guided and influenced by her decision in his favour, 
 and to believe her open and positive assertion, that my 
 mother's jealousy of me, and her desire still to appear a 
 young woman, would be quite enough to prevent her 
 giving her consent to my marriage. 
 
 " ' And then the expense too, my dear," she sarcas* 
 tically observed, ' for of course if she consented, there 
 must be a new wardrobe, and a thousand etceteras out 
 of her pocket that would break her heart. No, no, Mr. 
 Fitzharland is right, it will never do to consult her on 
 the subject.' 
 
 "I will not repeat the arguments I used, or the ob- 
 
102 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 jections I raised, they were all over-ruled, and Fitzhar- 
 land left us, transported as it appeared with joy, at having 
 received ray permission to put up the banns of marriage 
 at the church of Caraberwcll parish, in which he had 
 lately taken a temporary residence, aud occasionally 
 slept there, solely, as he acknowledged, with a view to 
 carry out this plan, a licence being out of the question, 
 on account of our being both under the age of majority. 
 
 " My fate was now, I considered, decided, and though 
 still of course anxious to conceal everything from my 
 mother, I became less scrupulous in my compliance with 
 Fitzharland's requests, and when, at the end of a fort- 
 night after the second publication of the banns — as he 
 informed me — he again pressed me to accompany him to 
 hear the celebrated Italian singer I before mentioned, I 
 scarcely offered any objection ; and yet, as the time 
 approached that I was to steal out of the house and join 
 Fitzharland, who was to meet me in the neighbourhood, 
 my heart failed me ; I seemed to have a presentiment 
 that it would end badly, and I almost prayed that some- 
 thing would happen to keep my mother at home, and 
 thus afford me a sufficient excuse for breaking my en- 
 gagement, for while she was in the house it would have 
 been impossible for me to leave it. Whether she had 
 any suspicion that her orders were not strictly obeyed, 
 that we — Miss Beresford, Ellen and I — were in bed by 
 nine o'clock — we did not discover, but for the last week 
 or two she had made it an invariable rule to come into 
 our room the last thing before she went out for the 
 evening. It was within twenty minutes of that time, 
 and I began to think, almost with satisfaction, that I 
 should be obliged to go to bed instead of dressing to go 
 out, when we heard a carriage drive from the door, and 
 
of woman's life. 103 
 
 a minute after Martha, who had been listening over the 
 balusters ran into our room — 
 
 '" She is gone, thank goodness!' she exclaimed ' with- 
 out coming up to drive us to bed. Come, Katharine, 
 make haste, your lord and master will soon get im- 
 patient for you.' 
 
 " I don't know how it was, but this expression seemed 
 to reconcile me to go; and yet, when I was quite ready, 
 my courage deserted me. My legs trembled under me, 
 and I sat down, as if it was impossible to make the exer- 
 tion of going down the three flights of stairs and stealing 
 through the hall, although my governess always accom- 
 panied me, prepared with an excuse for my going out, 
 should any of the servants intercept me. There was little 
 fear of that, by-the-by. They were generally too anxious 
 to make the most of their own hours of liberty, when 
 they had got rid of their mistress. Besides, I really be- 
 lieve they all pitied the life we led— so much worse even 
 than their own — and would sooner have assisted than 
 impeded any attempt on my part to elude my mother's 
 strict discipline. It was done at last, however; and, 
 trembling in every limb, though trying to appear calm, 
 and even delighted, I joined Tutzhaiiand at the comer of 
 the street. Oh ! that I had but listened to that presenti- 
 ment ! Such feelings are, I am sure, sent from Heaven, 
 or breathed in our ears by some good angel, to keep us 
 from acts that must lead to ruin ; but I shut my eves 
 and ears to everything but the handsome, animated lace 
 that was regarding me with looks of fond approbation, 
 and I heard nothing but his rich, harmonious voice, con- 
 gratulating me and himself that all necessity for secrecy 
 and constraint would soon be over. The evening passed 
 away quickly and delightfully. Everything was new to 
 
101 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 me, and my own opinion of myself was raised beyond all 
 moderation by the compliments my companion paid to 
 my voice and musical talents. We did not leave till the 
 conclusion of the ballet. Fitzharland knew the party 
 with whom my mother was engaged, and he assured me 
 there was not the slightest fear that she would return 
 home before two or three o'clock ; and, even if she did, 
 it would not be difficult for him to get me into the house 
 without being discovered. His own servant was devoted 
 to him ; and more than once his (Wilson's) ingenuity had 
 rescued us from the danger of discovery. It was not 
 until we were rattling along the streets in the hackney- 
 coach he had hired, that my terrors returned. Fitzhar- 
 land tried in vain to re-assure me, and at last became 
 almost angry at my perseverance. The carriage stopped at 
 some distance from the house, and we proceeded in silence. 
 The moment we came in sight of it my presentiments 
 were realised ; there were lights in nearly every room, 
 and as I looked up to the drawing-room I saw more than 
 one figure reflected on the blinds, as if hurrying back- 
 wards and forwards in consternation. 
 
 " ' Something dreadful has happened ! ' I exclaimed. 
 1 My mother has been taken ill — perhaps she is dying ! 
 Oh ! why did I ever leave the house ? I knew it would 
 end in misery. Oh ! if she should have called for me, 
 and discovered that I am away.' 
 
 " l And if she should,' replied Fitzharland, f it is not 
 irretrievable. We have but to tell the truth boldly — that 
 we are engaged — to do away with all impropriety, and 
 prove that it is entirely her own fault that we have been 
 compelled to have recourse to deception, to enjoy each 
 other's society.' 
 
 " These words gave me courage, but still not sufficient 
 
of woman's life. 105 
 
 to go at once openly to the door of my home, and seek 
 an explanation of the unusual appearances. I had ob- 
 served, while I was still hesitating how to act — unwilling 
 to let my companion leave me, and afraid to knock my- 
 self for admittance— the front door was opened, and an 
 old man-servant, the only one my mother had kept who 
 had lived with the family in my father's time, came out. 
 I rushed across the street to him. 
 
 (i * Oh, Joseph ! ' I exclaimed, ' tell mo what has hap- 
 pened. My mother ! Is she ill — dying ? Tell me at 
 once ! ' 
 
 " f No, no, Miss Katharine,' ho replied ; ' my mistress 
 is not one to he killed so easily, though Heaven knows 
 what has happened is enough to break many a mother's 
 heart. But she will get over it after a bit — perhaps bo 
 the better of it ; for it seems like a judgment fallen upon 
 her for making such a difference between her children. 
 Ah ! if my poor master had lived, this would never have 
 happened, either to our young master or you, for both 
 would have been brought up under proper government.' 
 
 " I interrupted him, by again demanding what had 
 happened. 
 
 " "" You know, I suppose,' he replied, ; that Mr. Leo- 
 pold persisted, in spite of his mother's prayers and tears, 
 in going off to Epsom Eaces this morning, on the horse 
 he bought a few days ago, though he was warned that it 
 was very fiery-spirited, and he, as everybody knows, is 
 far from being a good horseman. Your mother and he 
 quarrelled sadly about it at breakfast-time. Heaven for- 
 give me for saying so now, but they were but too much 
 alike in spirit ; and the more she said against his going, 
 and his being incapable of managing such a horse, the 
 more resolute he was to go. They were on bad terms, 
 
100 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 too, iu other respects. She was angry at his having 
 spent so much money lately; and especially at his having 
 given such a price for this very horse — a hundred and 
 fifty pounds, I believe it was ; she said he had been taken 
 in by some of the set of sharpers he had got intimate 
 with, and threatened him that she would make a great 
 alteration in his goings-on ; that she would no longer 
 supply him with money to fool away in extravagance ; 
 and that she should alter her ways altogether as to the 
 girls — meaning you, Miss Katharine, and your sister — ■ 
 and not let them any longer be the sufferers, to encou- 
 rage him in wasting what they ought to share. This put 
 him in a towering passion, poor young man, and he said 
 many bitter things to her, declaring that he wanted 
 nothing of her but his just rights, and declaring that she 
 sought more the gratification of her own avarice and sel- 
 fishness in keeping you as she did, and that he would 
 sooner give up all claim to his father's property, and work 
 for his own living, as his father had done before him, 
 than be a party to such injustice as she was showing to 
 her daughters. I heard all this as I was waiting at break- 
 fast, and though I knew Mr. Leopold was right in some 
 respects, yet still I was sorry for my mistress, because I 
 know she told the truth when she accused him of being 
 ungrateful, for that it had been for his sake she had neg- 
 lected her other and much more dutiful children.' 
 
 " ' However,' said she, ' I shall know how to act for 
 the future. Katharine is old enough to be brought for- 
 ward and become my companion, and to her I shall 
 henceforward look for the duty and gratitude that you 
 deny me.' 
 
 "'Poor Mr. Leopold!' continued Joseph. ' I will do 
 him the justice to say, that I believe he was more pleased 
 
OF woman's life. 107 
 
 than vexed at her determination, but he scorned to give 
 in to her, even in appearance ; so he walked away with- 
 out even bidding her " good morning." ' 
 
 "'You are determined, then, to go on that vicious 
 horse ? ' she called out, as he got to the head of the 
 stairs." 
 
 "'He made no answer, and you know how dreadfully 
 passionate my mistress is,' continued the old man ; ' but 
 I never in my life saw her in such a passion as she was 
 now. She seemed determined to frighten him out of 
 going, by the shocking wishes she uttered, if he did per- 
 sist in his obstinacy ; but he only laughed contemptu- 
 ously, and went out at once to the stables, where the 
 horse was already waiting for him, and a few minutes 
 after I saw him dashing along at full gallop on the 
 beautiful horse — for it certainly is beautiful to look at— 
 followed by his groom. 
 
 " ' And it has thrown him ! ' I interrupted, having 
 with difficulty restrained my impatience to listen to the 
 old man's tedious way of telling the story. ' Is he much 
 hurt, my brother— my poor brother'— I repeated. 
 
 " Joseph shook his head. 
 
 " ' Two hours ago,' he replied, ' he was brought home 
 insensible. He had nearly reached London in safety — 
 Kennington, I think they said — when the sudden slash 
 of a whip, from the mischievous driver of some sort of 
 carriage, as he passed, startled the horse. He reared up. 
 Poor Mr. Leopold ! he had been drinking freely of Cham- 
 pagne on the race-course, perhaps to drown the remem- 
 brance of his quarrel with your mother, for you know 
 how fond they were of each other. However it was, he 
 had no command of the horse. It reared up again and 
 again, and at last fell over. Your poor brother's head 
 
108 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 was dashed against the curb -stone, and when they picked 
 him up he was insensible. Everybody thought lie was 
 dead ; however, they took him to the nearest doctor's, 
 and after awhile he came to himself and insisted upon 
 going home, saying that there was nothing the matter 
 with him. He had been stunned, he said, but that was 
 all, and they could hardly persuade him from mounting 
 his horse again, for his groom had caught it, and followed 
 with it to the doctor's. They did persuade him at last, 
 however, to get into the doctor's carriage, which was at 
 the door, just going to take him out, and so he came 
 home with him ; but before they got to our house, Mr. 
 Leopold had gone off again in a sort of fit, and we 
 brought him into the house like a corpse. It was lucky,' 
 continued the old man, ' that the doctor did come home 
 with him, for we shouldn't have known how to act. As it 
 was, he was carried to bed and bled, and then he came to 
 again.' 
 
 " ' My mother — where is my mother ? ' were the first 
 words he uttered. The governess, who was on the stairs 
 when he was brought in — though we thought she had 
 been in bed long before— wrote a few words on a slip of 
 paper, just to prepare my mistress for what had hap- 
 pened, and sent the groom off with it to Bedford Square, 
 where Mrs. Beresford was gone to a concert ; and then 
 Mr. Leopold, who seemed very impatient for his mother 
 to come, suddenly asked for his sisters.' 
 
 " ' Let Katharine and Ellen come to me,' he said ; ' I 
 have neglected them too long. Poor girls ! I have not 
 done my duty by them, and now it is too late — too late. 
 But I will insist that they shall be differently treated ; I 
 will make my mother promise to alter her conduct to- 
 wards them. Oh ! if I could live, I would be a brother 
 
op woman's life. 109 
 
 to thein indeed. It was but last night I dreamed that 
 my father came from the grave to reproach me for my 
 neglect and indifference to them — to tell me that I ought 
 to be a guardian to them — that I should force my mother 
 to do her duty by them. And I will do it, if my life is 
 spared. But it will not be. I am dying — I feel that I 
 am dying. Lose no time — bring them to me.' 
 
 " ' He is delirious, Sir,' whispered the governess to the 
 doctor. 'It will never do to frighten the poor children by 
 bringing them into such a scene.' 
 
 " 'Are they children ? ' said the gentleman, surprised. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; too young to be of any service here,' re- 
 plied Miss Beresford ; ' besides, their mamma is so par- 
 ticular, that I dare not rouse them out of bed without I 
 had her leave to do so. Try and pacify him, if you can, 
 Sir, till Mrs. Beresford returns home.' 
 
 " ' Poor Mr. Leopold wouldn't be pacified; he insisted 
 upon his sisters being brought to him before the opera- 
 tion that the two doctors said was necessary — for the first 
 had sent for another, and they agreed that his head was 
 fractured, and he must suffer an operation — the trephine, 
 I think they called it — but, poor young man, he said 
 from the first that he knew he should not live through it.' 
 
 " ' And is it over !' I cried, interrupting the old man. 
 ' Oh ! do not say that he is dead ! Joseph. My brother 
 —my dear brother. Let me go to him directly. What 
 must he think of me, to stay away from him at such a 
 time. But he is living, is he not ? 
 
 " The old man shook his head. ' He was living a few 
 minutes ago, Miss Katharine ; but it is too late to do 
 him any good by seeing him, even if you were let to do 
 so. But, I am sorry to say, that I am afraid your mother 
 will not suffer you to enter his room ; if, indeed — . But 
 
110 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 you had better see her yourself. Angry and violent as 
 she is against you, I can't think that at such a time she 
 will keep to her resolution, though she would not listen 
 to a word the governess had to say, neither for herself 
 nor you. Poor woman ! it was hard upon her to turn 
 her out of the house at such a moment.' 
 
 "Until this moment," continued Katharine, "I had 
 scarcely given a passing thought to the situation in 
 which I was placed by this melancholy event. I knew, 
 indeed, that the discovery of my absence from home was 
 inevitable ; but how could I suppose that at such a mo- 
 ment, as Joseph had said, my mother would be sufficiently 
 collected to bestow any attention on so comparatively 
 trivial a subject as my disobedience ; for in that light 
 only I regarded it. Conscious innocence prevented my 
 suspecting that my mother would put any worse con- 
 struction on my conduct than it deserved — that she 
 would be so unjust — so unnatural as to believe her child 
 guilty of anything worse than imprudence. What, then, 
 was my consternation — myterror — when I heard that she 
 had considered Martha Beresford's participation in my 
 error deserving of so severe a punishment as to have 
 turned her into the street ! At such an hour, too, for I 
 learned from Joseph that it was dark; somewhere, he 
 said, between ten and eleven o'clock (it was the month of 
 May). Where could she have gone ? She who was so 
 utterly friendless ; so helpless — so ignorant of tho world ; 
 for though so much older (twice my age, indeed), my poor 
 governess, as I told Fitzharland, from the manner in 
 which she had lived in my mother's house, was as igno- 
 rant as a child — as 1 myself should be in such circum- 
 stances — how or where to procure the shelter necessary 
 to her safety, even in such a place as London. 
 
OF woman's life. Ill 
 
 '* Fitzharland, however, who — except an exclamation 
 or two of surprise and sympathy with his friend, my poor 
 brother — had listened to Joseph's narrative in silence, 
 checked, with an expression of almost contemptuous 
 levity, my lamentations on Martha's account. 
 
 " ' There is no danger that any one will think her 
 worth running away with, or betraying her innocence, 
 mv dear Katharine,' he observed, with a sneer that seemed 
 to cut me to the heart. ' Do not, therefore, waste your 
 tears and sympathy on your late governess, who, without 
 doubt has not gone unprovided with the means to find 
 herself a home, which can always be got for money in 
 London. Nay, dearest, do not look so an desespoir at 
 me ; depend upon it, y r our governess' — and he laid what 
 appeared to me a spiteful emphasis on the word — 'is in no 
 danger. We must think, my dear girl, of your own case, 
 and how you are to be got off with your mother. If we 
 did but know what representation Miss Beresford made 
 to the old lady. You did not hear, I suppose, Joseph, 
 what was said on the subject of Miss Katharine's ab- 
 sence ? ' 
 
 " Joseph replied very coolly that he knew nothing 
 about it. All he could say was, that his mistress seemed 
 dreadfully put out, and had given orders to all the ser- 
 vants, that she was to be called down-stairs to Miss 
 Katharine, if she came home. 
 
 " ' And her son dying,' observed Fitzharland. ' It 
 seems incredible. Surely, she cannot be aware of the 
 danger he is in, or perhaps it is not so.' 
 
 " Joseph shook his head. 
 
 " ' Both doctors told us, before my mistress came 
 home, that there was no hope,' he replied, " though he 
 might linger some hours.' 
 
112 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "My thoughts were again recalled to my poor bro- 
 ther's situation by this remark," continued Katharine, 
 " and while I gave free vent to my grief for him, my fears 
 of my mother's resentment were forgotten, until recalled 
 by Fitzharland, who appeared much more disconcerted 
 and at a loss how to act than I had expected, after his 
 previous assurances, that, should I be found out by any 
 accident, he would be able easily to reconcile my mother 
 by revealing our approaching marriage. 
 
 " Joseph, who I could see regarded my lover with no 
 friendly feeling, and who evidently watched with great 
 anxiety to hear how he meant to act, was now obliged to 
 leave us, to go on some errand on which he had been 
 sent by my mother, and which he dared, as he said, no 
 longer delay ; but, before he went, he asked to speak 
 with me for a minute alone. 
 
 " 'Whatever may be said or done, Miss Katharine,' he 
 observed with great earnestness, when we were out of 
 Fitzharland's hearing, "' go straight home to your mother, 
 and tell her the whole truth. Don't, for the love of 
 Heaven, for your own sake, and for your father's — my 
 good old master's sake, that's in his grave — don't let this 
 man persuade you to stay with him, or go anywhere but 
 home, and tell the whole truth to your mother, whatever 
 has happened to you. Don't let him persuade you to tell 
 any made-up story, to get yourself out of a scrape, as I 
 suppose he would call it. Mistress is violent, and she 
 hasn 't done altogether as she ought to you and your 
 sister; but still she is your mother, and must have a 
 mother's feelings. Besides, my dear child, everything 
 will be changed by your poor brother's death. You will 
 be heiresses to large fortunes, and your mother — ' 
 
 " I interrupted Mm by a burst of grief. I could not 
 
of woman's life. 113 
 
 bear to hear Leopold's death spoken of as an advantage 
 to me. Heaven knows my heart ! I would have given 
 up, -without a sigh, every prospect of wealth, to have 
 saved him ; hut Joseph again pressed me on the subject 
 of going home, and, as he said, telling the truth to my 
 mother, and I gave him the required promise. Fitz- 
 harland pressed me, when I rejoined him, to tell him 
 what the old man had said to me, but I felt that Joseph's 
 remarks conveyed reproach and distrust of his intentions, 
 and therefore, for his sake, declined to tell him. For a 
 moment he seemed angry, but soon resumed his usual 
 soft, insinuating manner. 
 
 " 'What is to be done, dearest? ' he at last observed. 
 'Do you think it advisable that I should go with you 
 openly to your mother, or will you see her first alone ? I 
 can remain in the neighbourhood, and if you find it ne- 
 cessary to call upon me to corroborate w r hat you say to 
 her, you can send some one for me. Do not look so 
 alarmed, dear girl. I will tell you candidly, that, for rea- 
 sons which I have not time now to explain, I am desirous 
 for the present to conceal from Mrs. Beresford that we 
 are so soon to be married. It is, in fact, absolutely ne- 
 cessary that it should remain a secret for the present. 
 It may, in truth, be the means of utterly wrecking our 
 prospects, if it should be made known to my friends that 
 you are about to make me the happiest being in exist- 
 ence. Do not look so pale, my beloved ; it is only a 
 temporary obstacle, which a few days — perhaps hours 
 — will remove, and then with what delight — what triumph, 
 shall I claim this dear little hand. I must trust, there- 
 fore, to your prudence, dear girl, to evade your mother's 
 questions; and should that stupid woman, Martha Beres- 
 ford, have betrayed our secret, as perhaps she has, in vin- 
 
 Q 
 
114 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 dication of herself, although she knew well how anxious 
 I was to avoid it — ' 
 
 " I was thunderstruck," continued Katharine, " at 
 hearing this. 
 
 " ' Oh ! how have I heen deceived!' I exclaimed ; 'and 
 now what can I do ? What shall I say to my mother ? 
 —How shall I persuade her to forgive my imprudence ? 
 You have taken from me all that I relied on — all that 
 could have vindicated me in her eyes. And if Martha 
 has told her that I was engaged to he your wife in a few 
 clays, can you expect — can you wish — that I should utter 
 an absolute falsehood, and deny it ? Deny the only 
 thing that can plead for and prove my innocence ! ' 
 
 " ' No — no ! I see I cannot expect it, my dear girl. It 
 is too much to require of you, and I must yield to my 
 wretched fate. I must sacrifice myself — my every hope. 
 And you — you, Katharine ; will not you mourn our sepa- 
 ration ? But no ! your honour will he saved ; you will 
 he at rest in your conscience ; and some one more worthy 
 than I am of your love, will soon banish me from your 
 memory.' 
 
OF woman's life. US 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 We say that people and that things are changed ; 
 Alas ! it is ourselves that change : the heart 
 Makes all around the mirror of itself. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the beautiful flowers of spring, 
 
 That haunted your homes and your hearts ? 
 Where is the sunshine of earlier hours ? 
 
 Where is the music the birds used to bring ? 
 
 Where are the flowers ? why, thousands are springing, 
 And many fair strangers are sweet on the air ; 
 
 And the birds to the sunshine their welcome are singing — 
 Look round on the ralley, and then question " Where ?" 
 
 Alas ! my heart's darkness ? I own it is summer, 
 Though little 'tis like what it once used to be ; 
 
 I hare no welcome to give the new comer ; 
 Strangely the summer seems altered to me. 
 
 'Tis my spirits are wasted — my hopes that are weary, 
 
 These made the gladness and beauty of yore ; 
 To the worm and the withered e'en sunshine is dreary, 
 
 And the year has its spring, though our own is no more. — E. L. 
 
 " Words cannot describe/' continued Katharine, " rny 
 wretchedness. To lose at one blow the happiness I had 
 felt so secure of in a marriage with Fitzharland — to 
 be condemned for an indefinite term to lead the same 
 miserable life I had been so long suffering under the iron 
 rule of my mother, to say nothing of my love for Fitz- 
 harland— and I did love him — Heaven is my witness, how 
 truly, disinterestedly I loved him ; leaving all those con- 
 siderations aside, — but I will not attempt to describe 
 what is indescribable. I was distracted— frenzied. I can 
 plead no excuse but those I have given, for what even now 
 I blush to recall. Alas ! it was but the first introduction 
 to a series of actions for which no repentance can atone. I 
 consented to all Fitzharland required; and before I left 
 
110 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 him to face my mother, I had solemnly pledged my word 
 to deny positively that there was any engagement be- 
 tween us, or any thought of such a thing. As he had 
 promised, Fitzharland remained at a short distance from 
 the house, awaiting the result of my interview with my 
 mother — it having been agreed that I should make a 
 signal from the upper windows, which would let him 
 know whether it would be advisable for him to come to 
 the house or not. With a heart trembling and throbbing 
 almost to suffocation, I rang the area bell, and was 
 answered by one of the servant maids. 
 
 "' Oh, Miss Katharine !' she exclaimed, 'how could 
 you do so ? You've got us all into such trouble. Your 
 mamma blames us all, and says we knew of it, and ought 
 to have told her. Do — pray speak to her, and tell her 
 that we knew nothing about it, or we shall all get turned 
 out of our places. If she had not been in such trouble 
 about your poor brother, we should have been sent 
 about our business at the same time that the governess 
 went.' 
 
 " Here was another trouble to add to those by which 
 I was already overwhelmed ; but I had not time to reflect 
 on the injury to poor Sarah and her fellow- servants, for 
 my mother's foot was already on the stairs, and I heard 
 her austere voice inquiring where I was. In another 
 minute she was in the parlour, where I sat trembling, for 
 I could not stand.' 
 
 " ' I have only one question to ask you,' she said; 
 ' Has this fellow, for whom you have sacrificed all decency 
 — all pretensions to delicacy — all that is valuable to a 
 young girl — Has he, I say, entered into any engagement 
 to repair the injury he has done, by giving you any 
 promise of marrying you that can be enforced ? Do you 
 
OF woman's life. 117 
 
 not understand me, girl ? ' she continued, her passion 
 increasing at finding that I remained silent. ' Has he 
 given you any written promise that he will marry \ou ? 
 Have you any proofs that he intends to do so ?' 
 
 "'No, I never thought of such a tiling,' I faltered. 
 1 1 did not suppose that you would consent. My gover- 
 ness always told me I was too young to think of 
 marrying; that you would he angry and certainly pre- 
 vent it, even if he were willing.' 
 
 " This was what Fitzharland had instructed me to say, 
 if she questioned me on the subject. 
 
 " ' And yet you have been out with him night after 
 night,' she exclaimed, growing pale with passion. 
 
 " ' Oh mother, forgive me ! I did not think I was doing 
 wrong' — and I fell on my knees before her. I was terrified 
 at her looks. 
 
 " ' Wretch !' she exclaimed, spurning me from her. 
 ' Do you suppose that you can impose upon me with 
 your pretended innocence ? Dare you look in my face 
 and tell me that the villain has not brought ruin and 
 disgrace upon you ?' . 
 
 "Alas! I was too innocent — too ignorant, I may 
 say — to comprehend the full force of her expression/ 
 continued Katharine, concealing her face with her hands 
 with an expression that evinced the natural modesty 
 and delicacy of her nature, which not even the horrible 
 scenes into which she had been involuntarily plunged 
 had effaced. 
 
 " ' Oh, no, no !' I exclaimed. 'Nobody knows it but 
 ourselves. There is nobody in the house that does not 
 wish me well, and will keep the secret.' 
 
 ' ' And do you suppose that I will encourage vice ? or 
 can you have the ridiculous folly to suppose that the 
 
118 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 secret — as you impudently call it — will not be blazoned 
 forth to the whole world by those you are pleased to call 
 your well-wishers ? No, poor fool, that you are, your 
 character — your reputation is ruined for ever. Still, I 
 am not willing to abandon you to utter destruction.' 
 
 " She added after a few moments silence — 
 
 " 'You may remain here for to-night, until I am able 
 to think and devise w T hat is to be done with you. Go up 
 stairs, and remain there until — ' 
 
 ' Will you not let me see my poor brother ?' I said, as 
 soon as I recovered the power of speaking, for so com- 
 pletely was I paralysed by the view she seemed to take 
 of what I considered, and what in reality was, but a 
 venial offence, that it was not until she was quitting the 
 room that I gained courage to make this request. 
 
 " * Your brother,' she replied, ' disclaims you. He 
 will not see you — will never speak to you again.' 
 
 "Distressed as I was at this, still it conveyed con- 
 solation, for I was convinced she would not speak of 
 Leopold in that manner if he were really in the 
 dangerous state Joseph had represented him. Fitz- 
 hai'land'had at the time expressed his disbelief, and 
 had pointed out the natural propensity to exaggerate, 
 especially in cases of accident like the present. Alas ! 
 I found too soon, that I, as well as my mother, was de- 
 ceived, for Leopold was actually dying, although, from 
 mistaken kindness, the medical attendants had concealed 
 his danger from her. Mistaken, indeed, for to me it 
 was absolute ruin and destruction ; for well am I con- 
 vinced, had she known the real state of her darling 
 son, her mind would have been too much occupied to 
 have bestowed a thought on me or my transgressions. 
 Perhaps, indeed, if she had thought of me, her heart 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 119 
 
 would have been softened. But I must go on with my 
 sad story. She was, as I said, leaving the room, after 
 having ordered me to bed, when a sudden thought 
 seemed to occur to her, and she turned back. 
 
 " ' Where did you leave your vile associate ? ' she 
 demanded. ' Was he aware of what has happened, and 
 that your infamous connexion with him must have 
 been discovered ? Tell me, I insist, the whole,' and 
 she stamped with rage, as. she saw I hesitated how 
 to answer. I thought, indeed, of poor Joseph, and 
 feared I might draw her resentment upon him. There 
 was no possibility, however, of avoiding it, for I had 
 not ingenuity or presence of mind to invent a story, 
 to account for my knowledge of what had occurred. 
 As I expected, poor old Joseph was now the object of 
 her violence. 
 
 " ' They are all alike !' she exclaimed — ' all in the 
 plot against me ; but I will clear the house of them to- 
 morrow. They shall know what it is to join with an 
 artful, depraved villain, and an equally depraved, vicious 
 girl, to bring shame and ruin on me.' 
 
 " It was in vain I tried to explain — to plead for the 
 old man, and prove how guiltless he was ; she would not 
 let me speak; and then again she demanded where I had 
 left Fitzharland ? 
 
 <C I was compelled to own that he was then awaiting 
 in the street the result of my interview with her. 
 
 " ' And how were you to communicate the result, as 
 you call it?' she demanded. 
 
 "I explained the signal agreed upon between us; I 
 could not do otherwise. Of course I saw that her rage 
 was increased by every word I uttered, although she 
 tried to suppress the appearance of it. For some time 
 
120 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 she remained lost in thought, evidently pondering on the 
 course she should take. 
 
 " ' Then, if all passed off quietly,' she ohserved, ' that 
 is to say, if I were still fool enough to he deoeived by 
 your assumption of innocence, he was to return here as if 
 nothing had happened?" 
 
 " ' If you forgave my disobedience. If you were con- 
 vinced that I thought only of enjoying pleasures which 
 you denied me,' I replied, .gathering courage from what 
 I felt to he injustice on her part. • 
 
 " c Answer my question,' she interrupted, again stamp- 
 ing with rage. 'Does he intend returning home if you 
 make the signal, as you call it ?' 
 
 " ' Yes. He said that he could easily convince you — 
 that is, easily induce you to forgive him for what 
 he had done.' 
 
 " ' Indeed ! — He thinks so !' she ohserved. ' Well, he 
 shall soon know my determination on that point. Come 
 up stairs and make the proposed signal. He will then 
 have the opportunity of trying his boasted influence.' 
 
 " I dared not disobey her, though I trembled at the 
 tone in which this was uttered. She kept close to me 
 as I approached the window and made the agreed signal, 
 which was the waving of a white handkerchief. 
 
 " ' Now, you will please to remain here till you are 
 sent for," she observed, and left the room, locking the 
 door after her. 
 
 " In a few minutes I heard Fitzharland's well-known 
 knock at the front door, and then a long silence suc- 
 ceeded. How all this would end I knew not, but I 
 trembled, as I thought of my mother's look as she left 
 me. At last her well-known footsteps were heard on 
 the stairs — she was pale as death, and without speak- 
 
OF woman's life. 121 
 
 in» she made me a sign to follow her. I expected of 
 course that she was leading the way to the parlour, and 
 that I should find Fitzharland there, though what motive 
 she could have for bringing us together, I could not 
 divine ; but, to my utter surprise and consternation, she 
 went straight across the hall to the front door, and when 
 I stopt in alarm, she seized my arm with a gripe 
 that made me cry out with pain, and dragged me to 
 the door, which was ajar, evidently for the purpose she 
 contemplated. 
 
 "'There, go to your paramour — vile, infamous wretch!' 
 she exclaimed, trying to throw rather than push me out. 
 
 " It was not until this moment, that I comprehended 
 to the full extent the horrid consequences of my im- 
 prudence." 
 
 " Your imprudence !" exclaimed St. Orme, who had 
 hitherto refrained from interrupting her narrative by any 
 remarks, but whose indignation was now too powerfully 
 excited to allow him longer to remain silent. " Your 
 imprudence ! poor girl, say rather your mother's un- 
 natural, brutal conduct. Merciful Heaven ! could she, 
 with no other provocation than those you have related, 
 persevere in throwing out to destruction a child like you 
 — a child in age, in ignorance of the world — one too 
 possessing — But proceed, my poor sacrificed girl, I am 
 wrong to interrupt you, only it seems so impossible — so 
 inexplicable, that without some strong motive — " 
 
 " There was a motive," replied Katharine, casting 
 down her beautiful eyes, as if from a feeling of shame, 
 while St. Orme almost started with surprise and sorrow, 
 believing that Katharine had hitherto deceived him in 
 asserting her innocence — that she was about to make an 
 acknowledgment; that although it could not vindicate 
 
122 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 her mother's conduct, would have had tho effect of ex- 
 cusing it> at least in the eyes of the pitiless world. 
 Katharine, however, soon undeceived him. It seemed as 
 if she read his thoughts, as she continued — 
 
 ■* I feel, indeed, that it would be scarcely possible you 
 could believe the truth of what I have told you, were I 
 not to reveal the real sourco of my mother's violence, 
 although it was not till some time after that fatal night I 
 knew it myself. I have already told you that my mother, 
 having been married very young, is still in the prime 
 of life, and looks much younger than she is. She is, 
 indeed, generally considered, I believe, a very handsome 
 woman — but I don't know why I should mention this, 
 except to show you, that the match would not in appear- 
 ance have heen so preposterous as it was in reality. 
 Certainly, it was not her person that had fascinated 
 Fitzharland. You start," she continued, faintly smiling ; 
 " imagine then what must have been jury astonishment 
 when I made the discovery. There had been, it seemed, 
 for some time a secret correspondence between my mother 
 and her youthful lover. Her fortune was of course his 
 only object; hut that vanity, which I am sorry to say is 
 my mother's ruling passion, if I may so call it, blinded 
 her completely to his real motive, and she had actually 
 consented to marry him "before that accident — ■•the meeting 
 with me on the stairs — which I have described to you, 
 gave a different turn to his thoughts. I "believe, cruelly 
 as he has since behaved to me, that he was then sincere 
 in his professions of love to me, and from that time he 
 became every hour more and more anxious to break away 
 from his engagement with my mother. But she was in- 
 fatuated in all that regarded him, although she could not, 
 as yet, make up her mind publicly to avow her intention 
 
Q| woman's liil. \-: 
 
 of marrying one so unsuitable to her. Above all, she 
 dreaded its being made known to Leopold. It had been 
 concluded, therefore, between her and Fitzharland, that 
 the affair should remain a secret until my brother had 
 left, as it had long been his intention to visit France 
 and Italy. All Fitzharland's growing coldness and 
 estrangement, therefore, she attributed to his desire to 
 avoid exciting Leopold's^ suspicions'; and indeed, as he 
 afterwards acknowledged to me, he encouraged her to 
 think so, knowing, that, should she suspect the truth that 
 he had changed his intentions towards her, he would be 
 compelled to leave the house, and thus lose all chance of 
 seeing me again. Every day — and hour, indeed — increased 
 the difficulty of his situation, and yet he declared he 
 buoyed himself up with the hope that eventually my 
 mother would of her own accord break the contract 
 between them, frorn the feeling of shame at acknowledg- 
 ing it to her son, and thus they might still remain 
 friends. He had even planned, he said, should this take 
 place, to confide to my brother his attachment to me, 
 and hoped through his means to reconcile my mother to 
 his marriage with me, and induce her to bestow a part 
 of the money to which I was in justice entitled, he being 
 entirely dependant on his father, who he knew would 
 not consent to his marriage with any ^one entirely with- 
 out a fortune. I have told you already how all these 
 hopes and plans were at once frustrated by the premature 
 discovery of our connexion. On my mother the shock 
 fell like a thunderbolt ; for never had she for a moment 
 doubted that he intended to make her his wife the 
 moment she consented to name the time. He told me 
 that she was perfectly frenzied in her interview with him, 
 —she loaded him with the bitterest curses — accused him 
 
121 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 of having seduced mc, and intending to marry her to 
 secure her fertune, and keep me in the house as his 
 mistress. It was in vain that Fitzharland protested my 
 innocence. His avowal, that he meant to break his 
 engagement witli her, and demand her consent to marry 
 me, increased her fury tenfold. It was evident, or at 
 least he afterwards told me so, that the very reverse of 
 this was the only means that could have induced her to 
 pardon all that was past ; and, in fact, such was her 
 weak, her mad infatuation, I may say, that she actually 
 required him to hind himself solemnly to keep his 
 former promise of marrying her, leaving her to dispose 
 of me, so that I should he no hindrance to their future 
 happiness. 
 
 " ' If you refuse,' she continued, ' if you suffer that 
 baby-faced girl to triumph over me, take her, and may 
 my eternal curse light upon you both ; I will do all I can 
 to ruin you. As to the fortune that you hint she has a 
 right to expect her share of, I will take care that not 
 one shilling of it shall ever come to your possession. 
 It is all at my disposal, and if I thought it probable that 
 you could ever work upon the feelings of either Leopold 
 or my other daughter, to give you or her (meaning me,) 
 the slightest share of it, I would put it out of their power, 
 by leaving every farthing of it to some public charity. 
 As to your exposing my folly, as you hinted just now, 
 I set you at defiance. Who would believe you ? No — 
 no, my character for prudence is too well established. 
 You have no proof but your bare word, and, as I said 
 before, who would believe that I had ever been mad or 
 foolish enough to think of marrying you ?' 
 
 " ' And yet you declare that you are willing to adhere 
 to that engagement, Mrs. Beresford?' replied Fitzharland. 
 
of woman's life. 125 
 
 "'Yes, anything — everything, rather than that girl 
 should triumph over me,' she replied. ' I have always 
 hated and dreaded her. I have always foreseen that she 
 would prove a thorn in my side — that, if once she forced 
 her way into the world, I should be regarded as nothing 
 — nobody, except as being her mother. Aye, you may 
 look as surprised and shocked as you please, but I tell 
 you it is so ; and now, once more I repeat, you have but 
 to make your choice between her and me. Consent to 
 keep your engagement to me, and I will do my best to 
 forget all that has happened. I will make a settlement 
 upon her that shall leave her no cause to complain, and 
 at liberty to follow her own inclinations, though of course 
 I shall take care to remove her beyond the power of 
 interfering between us and our happiness.' 
 
 " Need I say, Fitzharland rejected her offers, and in so 
 doing increased her fury almost to madness, until he at 
 length left her, observing, that he ' trusted a few hours' 
 calm reflection would induce her to change her reso- 
 lution.' 
 
 " ' Stay ! ' she exclaimed at the moment he was leav- 
 ing. ' Stay ! and take your — ' I am ashamed to repeat 
 the word she used, and which, Heaven knows,' exclaimed 
 Katharine, clasping her hands with an emotion that ren- 
 dered her more lovely and attractive than ever in St. 
 Orme's eyes. 
 
 "Fitzharland," she continued, "again — or at least so 
 he u told me — protested my innocence, but she rushed 
 furiously from him; and, as he quitted the house, she 
 flew up stairs to me, and the scene followed that I have 
 already related." 
 
 " And she — your mother — actually persisted in turn- 
 ing you out of her house ? " observed St. Orme, in a tone 
 
120 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 of mingled pity and indignation, as Katharine, overcome 
 with the remembrance of that fatal and cruel act, gave 
 way to a flood of bitter tears. 
 
 "She did, Sir," she replied, "though I clung to her as 
 if for my life — though I prayed to her to save me from 
 destruction." 
 
 " ' You are already ruined, wretch,' she exclaimed. 
 ' You have brought it all upon yourself, and you must 
 abide the consequences. Do you think that I would 
 suffer you to contaminate your sister with your society ? 
 — that I am going to lose all claim to respect — to be 
 scorned and despised by the world, by giving shelter to a 
 creature who has debased herself as you have — who has 
 made herself the talk of my own servants, stealing out 
 night after night, and remaining out till all hours of the 
 
 morning with a profligate, a villain, who but I will 
 
 waste no more words upon you. Go, and take with you 
 my curse — my everlasting curse ! May you perish in 
 misery, as you deserve to do, as you will do, when the 
 wretch to whom you have sacrificed yourself becomes 
 tired of you, as he is sure to do ! ' 
 
 " I heard no more," continued the unhappy girl, " for 
 I became faint as she uttered these dreadful words ; and 
 she threw me forward with such fearful violence that my 
 head struck the curb of the pavement, and I lost all con- 
 sciousness of my situation. How long I lay I know not; 
 but when I recovered I was supported in the arms of 
 Fitzharland, who had remained, it seemed, to watch, 
 though scarcely expecting, he declared, that she would 
 actually put her threat into execution. He raised me 
 up, and entreated me to exert myself to walk until we 
 could reach a coach-stand at no great distance. My fore- 
 head was cut, and blood was streaming down my face, 
 
of woman's life. 127 
 
 and he was afraid, as lie whispered, that my situation 
 might he noticed by some passer-by, or a watchman, and 
 lead to an exposure by no means to be desired, even on 
 my own part. I was so faint and confused that I scarcely 
 knew what I did, but by his assistance I managed to 
 reach the place he mentioned. But it is no use my 
 troubling you with every minute event that followed, 
 until I became indeed the degraded being that my mother 
 had chosen to believe me. But what could I do, thrown 
 thus upon Fitzharland for actual subsistence ? for I was 
 literally penniless when turned out of my home. Only I 
 would have you to believe — I do entreat you to believe — 
 that I did not voluntarily become the votary of vice. I 
 believed still that Fitzharland was sincere in his promise 
 to many me, as soon as the obstacles were removed that 
 then stood in his way, though I did not know what they 
 were." 
 
 " But did you make no further attempt to soften your 
 mother's heart in your behalf?" demanded St. Orme. 
 " Surely, when that first paroxysm of jealous fury — for 
 such it undoubtedly must be called — was passed, she 
 would have listened to your application." 
 
 Katharine shook her head despondincrly. 
 
 "Alas! I hoped so too," she replied, "though I was 
 then unacquainted with the real source of her violence ; 
 but from Fitzharland I learned the melancholy news, that 
 my poor brother only survived till the evening of the 
 second day. I had written to him, stating the whole and 
 real truth, and imploring his aid to reconcile my mother 
 to me, and rescue me from my then (only) unpleasant 
 situation, dependent on Fitzharland, and he entered the 
 room at the lodgings he had taken for me just as I was 
 weeping bitterly at the disappointment of receiving back 
 
128 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 my own letter enclosed in a blank envelope, and directed 
 to me in a hand which — though attempted to be dis- 
 guised — I recognised as my mother's. 
 
 " ' If you had told me of your intention, dear Katha- 
 rine,' he observed, 'I could have spared your feelings this 
 shock, though at the expense of another. Poor Leopold 
 is removed beyond the reach of your solicitations. He 
 is no more, my dear girl. Fortunately, he died without 
 knowing how cruelly your mother had treated you. I 
 learned the particulars from Doctor Howard, whom I 
 met yesterday after I quitted you. Poor fellow ! he 
 asked repeatedly both for you and me ; but your mother, 
 who you know is never at a loss for excuses to secure her 
 purpose, invented some story that satisfied him as to our 
 absence.' 
 
 " My grief and despair at this loss was increased 
 by the conviction, that my mother must have read my 
 letter to my poor brother, and yet remained unchanged 
 towards me ; yet I thought it my duty, under the sad 
 circumstances, to write immediately to herself, which I 
 did in the most pathetic terms that feeling could supply. 
 I entreated her to let me return to her, and, by the most 
 unlimited devotion and obedience to her, endeavour to 
 console her for her loss. I repeated, again and again, 
 that I was innocent of all but an imprudent desire to en- 
 joy amusements of which I had heard so much; and I 
 pointed out, in the most forcible manner, the ruinous 
 effect it must have upon my character and future pro- 
 spects, its being known that I was depending upon Fitz- 
 harland for subsistence. I showed her how impossible it 
 was that I could succeed in getting into any honest 
 means of supporting myself, destitute as I was of a single 
 friend or recommendation. In fact, I left nothing unsaid 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 129 
 
 that I thought could induce her to listen to my praver, 
 for God knows my heart was then uncorrupted and in- 
 nocent ; and though I then loved Fitzharland, and tried 
 to believe him sincere in his professions to me, I could 
 not divest myself of the presentiment, that my only 
 safety lay in my return to the protection of my mother 
 and my home." 
 
 "And she remained inexorable ?" demanded St. Orme. 
 
 " My letter was again returned," sobbed Katharine ; 
 " but this time it was torn to shreds, while in the en- 
 velope were written these cruel words : — 
 
 " 'Would that I could as easily destroy your worthless 
 polluted self as I have your hypocritical professions. 
 Everyday brings forward fresh proofs of the vile decep- 
 tions practised upon me by you and your wretched ac- 
 complice. May you and he meet the reward you so well 
 merit, will be my prayer to the end of my life ! I forbid 
 you to write again ; or, if you persevere, your letters will 
 henceforth be returned unopened.' 
 
 " Can you wonder that I became desperate after this? " 
 continued the weeping girl ; " that I gave up my whole 
 heart to the only being that was left to love me, and 
 who seemed by his constant attention, and his endea- 
 vours to surround me with everything that could 
 contribute to the pleasures of a young, inexperienced, 
 and thoughtless girl, to prove his love ? And yet I was 
 not wholly thoughtless — I enjoyed, it was true, the scenes 
 of amusement to which he introduced me ; I was delighted 
 with the elegant apartments he procured for me, and in 
 which I bore the title, and apparently the respect, of his 
 wife ; and above all, I confess, I was fascinated with the 
 rich and expensive dresses with which he provided me, so 
 
 different from the mean old-fashioned style I had been 
 
 s 
 
130 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 used to, and which he declared my mother had confined 
 me to only with the hope of ohscuring my beauty, and pre- 
 venting my out-shining her. Oh ! do not blame me, that 
 I listened to and believed all he said. And yet I was not 
 happy. Oh no! willingly would I have relinquished all, to 
 everything but his love, to have been restored to the path I 
 felt I had for ever quitted. To become his wife in reality, 
 to feel that I deserved his respect and esteem, as well as 
 his love, I would, with the most heartfelt pleasure, have 
 relinquished all the glory and glitter of the empty show 
 with which he strove to compensate me for all I had lost. 
 Soon I became tired and weary of the constant round of 
 dissipation in which Fitzharland seemed only able to live. 
 My spirits failed me, and I became gloomy, wretched, 
 and constantly in tears ; Fitzharland at first rallied, 
 laughed at, and tried to rouse me, but soon he became 
 angry ; and when he found that my thoughts were con- 
 stantly fixed on his promise to marry me, he threw off all 
 disguise, and told me at once that it was impossible. 'He 
 was entirely dependent upon his father, who had already 
 expended more upon him than was warranted by his 
 circumstances, and who was now only kept quiet,' he said, 
 1 by the belief that his son was about to marry a woman 
 of fortune.' One explanation led to another, and the 
 final blow was given to all my happiness and trust in 
 Fitzharland, by the discovery that my mother was the 
 person whose fortune was to set everything right. Oh ! 
 what was the agony I felt, as I discovered the reckless, 
 heartless character of the man I had so idolised, when I 
 heard him own ' that even now he did not despair of re- 
 conciling himself to my mother, and becoming her hus- 
 band.' He had, it seemed, up to this moment deceived 
 his father into the belief that their marriage was only 
 
OF woman's life. 131 
 
 delayed by my poor brother's melancholy death, which, 
 while it secured to him a much greater portion of my 
 father's fortune, and rendered him (Fitzharland) more 
 secure in his influence over her, rendered the public an- 
 nouncement of their attachment impossible till a decent 
 interval had elapsed, and indeed rendered it, for de- 
 cency's sake, necessary that he should leave the house in 
 which he had been so long an inmate. 
 
 " Can you be surprised — can you blame me — that 1 
 became mad, infuriated, by an avowal that was so re- 
 volting — so unnatural, or that I reproached him in terms 
 the most violent that my feelings could supply ? I would 
 have left him that very hour, but the violence of my 
 agitation brought on a severe attack that at length 
 assumed the form of nervous fever, and I was confined 
 to my bed with little hopes — as I afterwards heard — that 
 I should ever arise from it, or if I did, that it would be 
 in full possession of my senses. For my own part, my 
 only prayer — when I was capable of reflection — was for 
 death. As might be expected from such a character, 
 Fitzharland deserted the sick chamber of his victim. At 
 first, indeed, he preserved the appearances of decency, 
 by inquiring at night when he came home, or in the 
 morning before he went out, as to the progress of my 
 disorder; but the time soon came that he abandoned even 
 that appearance of interest in my fate, and long before 
 I recovered perfect consciousness, he deserted me alto- 
 gether, leaving me to the mercy of the people of the 
 house, already exasperated by the certainty that they 
 should never get the large sum that was due for rent, 
 attendance upon me, and the incidental expenses of my 
 illness, which they charged for at an enormous rate. 
 It was of little consequence what they charged, for I 
 
132 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 possessed not a single shilling to discharge the debt. 
 Whether Fitzharland knew or not the literally penniless 
 state in which I had been kept and had left home, I 
 cannot say, but he had made no offer to remedy it. The 
 splendid dresses, trinkets, &c, which I had been liberally 
 supplied with, had all been ordered by him and sent in 
 from the most fashionable dressmakers, jewellers, &c. ; 
 and thus I had not been allowed to feel any necessity for 
 money, although I own, I had sometimes wished that I 
 had been supplied with the means of making trifling 
 purchases, rather than leaving all to him to discover my 
 wishes or my necessities. Still, how could I find fault 
 where all was so liberally supplied, and where I had 
 scarcely to hint before my wishes were, in a measure, 
 anticipated? The effect of this system was, however, 
 most painfully brought home to me, as I began to re- 
 cover strength and recollection, after my long, painful, 
 and dangerous illness. Unconscious as I had hitherto 
 been how my wants — few and unexpensive as no doubt 
 they had been — had been supplied, I naturally enough 
 expressed a wish for some more substantial nourish- 
 ment, than the weak tea and dry tonst which were daily 
 brought to my bedside, night and morning, by one or 
 other of the female servants of the establishment. The 
 young woman to whom the request was made, hesitated 
 apparently what to say in reply — 
 
 " ' Has the doctor forbidden my having meat or fish ?' 
 I demanded. 'It appears to me that I shall never get 
 strength to leave the bed upon my present weak diet ; 
 but I shall speak to him on the subject when he next 
 comes, if he thinks it would be doing wrong to let mo 
 have what I consider necessary to restore my strength.* 
 * ' Oh, no ! it is not that,' she replied, looking at me 
 
of woman's LIFIi. 133 
 
 compassionately. 'Indeed, to tell you the trufch, the 
 doctor has taken his leave of you. He said, two or three 
 days ago, that you wanted the cook now instead of the 
 physician.' 
 
 " ' And why then have I heen still kept upon this 
 everlasting tea and toast ?' I demanded resentfully. 
 
 " The girl cast her eyes down and occupied herself in 
 smoothing the bed clothes, as if she wished to avoid my 
 looks ; but I again repeated the question, though I 
 began to have a distant idea that something unpleasant 
 was involved in the apparent mystery. 
 
 " ' I would rather you would ask my mistress, if you 
 please, Ma'am,' she at length replied. ' I am very — very 
 sorry, but I am but a poor servant, and have not it in 
 my power to do what I've got in my heart to do. My 
 mistress, too, is so very near in her ways, and keeps us 
 so short, especially in the way of meat and. that like, 
 that there's seldom a bit to spare that comes into the 
 kitchen ; and though I'm sure I'd willingly give the last 
 bit out of my mouth, rather than a lady like you should 
 want, yet I've two fellow servants that would grumble, 
 when we're so short ourselves, if I was to — ' 
 
 " I interrupted her by hastily demanding whether her 
 mistress had authorised her to refuse what I considered 
 necessary for my support ?' 
 
 " ' Why no, Ma'am,' was the reply, hesitatingly given. 
 ' She did not downright order me to say anything about 
 it to you, but as I've heard her over and over again, since 
 you've been getting better, declare that she would not 
 spend another sixpence on your account, till she'd got 
 some good security for what's owing already, and that 
 she should'nt wait much longer till she came to a settle- 
 ment with you, either to pay your rent and other 
 
134 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 expenses, or give up the apartments for them that 
 could pay her, I thought it hest to tell you, so that 
 she mightn't come suddenly upon you when you wasn't 
 prepared to give her an answer.' 
 
 " ' But does she then imagine that my hushand — that 
 Mr. Fitzharland will not return ; that he is so dishonour- 
 able as to have quitted her apartments without intending 
 to pay her ?' I tremblingly demanded. 
 
 " The girl hung down her head. ' I'd rather, if you 
 please, Ma'am, say nothing about that,' she replied. 
 ' I wish Missus may be wrong for your sake, I am sure, 
 but I am afraid you'll have to hear a good deal that's 
 disagreeable, and hard for one brought up as you've been 
 to bear with ; but, as I said to Jane, my fellow-servant, 
 this morning, it would be better to give you a hint of 
 what you may expect, than to let it all fall upon you 
 unexpected like. Ah, it's a cruel unfeeling world,' she 
 added, seeing the agitation her observations had pro- 
 duced, ' and Lord help them that is left to it's mercy, 
 I say.' 
 
 " I need scarcely say," continued Katharine, " that 
 after those hints I was by no means desirous of provoking 
 my landlady to an explanation, yet still, I was far from 
 looking on Fitzharland's absence in the light in which — 
 according to the friendly maid's representation — it was 
 regarded by those about me. How, indeed, could I 
 believe him guilty of such deliberate cruelty, as thus to 
 desert me ? The uneasiness and suspense I suffered, 
 had the effect, as might be expected, of retarding my re- 
 covery, and consequently the landlady's attack upon me ; 
 but the dreaded time came at last, and though yet so 
 weak that I could scarcely support my trembling frame, 
 she commenced by asking me when it would be con- 
 
of woman's life. 13£> 
 
 venient to give up my apartments, as she had already 
 let them to a party who had hefore resided with her, and 
 was anxious to return to them. 
 
 "■'It's of no use mincing the matter with you, Ma'am,' 
 she ohserved, ' I can't afford to lose any more, and if 
 you have any principles of honour or honesty, you wont 
 keep me a day longer out of my rights. I know all you 
 are going to say,' she added imperatively, seeing that I 
 was summoning courage to remonstrate upon such an 
 arbitrary mode of proceeding. ' I understand perfectly 
 well how you are situated, and I am sorry for you, but 
 you cannot expect that I am to be the loser, because you 
 have been foolish and imprudent enough to trust to the 
 honour of a man, who, like all the rest of them, cared for 
 nothing but his own pleasure and gratification, and left 
 you the moment you could no longer administer to them.' 
 
 " My spirit was roused," continued Katharine, '* by 
 the contemptuous tone of pity she assumed, and I ob- 
 served, that I knew not what right she had to insult me 
 by such remarks. As to giving up her apartments, I 
 certainly could have no wish to remain where I had been 
 so unwarrantably treated, but until Mr. Fitzharland 
 returned — 
 
 " ' Psha ! this is all nonsense. You can't impose upon 
 me,' interrupted the woman. ' I have kept house too 
 many years, and know the world too well to be deceived 
 by persons in your situation. If, indeed, you have 
 deceived yourself, and really believe that your gentleman 
 will return, I am still more sorry for you than I was 
 before, because I happen to know otherwise.' 
 
 " ' Know it !' I repeated. 
 • " ' Yes, I do know it,' she replied. ' It don't matter 
 a pin's point how I got the information, but I can assure 
 
136 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 you that it's the truth, that the young man is com- 
 pletely ruined, and that he has been obliged to make off 
 to America to save himself from a jail. You cannot 
 deny, I suppose, that he is the son of Mr. Fitzharland, 
 the banker, of Lombard Street?' 
 
 " I knew not what reply to make to this, though from 
 the remembrance of the slight observations that my lover 
 had made respecting his family, I believed she was cor- 
 rect. I remained silent, therefore. 
 
 " ' Well ! I can tell you, then, if you do not know it, 
 that your young gentleman's father has failed for an im- 
 mense sum of money, and that there will not be a shilling 
 in the pound for the creditors. There's many beside me 
 that's got reason to curse the name ; but that is neither 
 here nor there, only I have got this to tell you, that I am 
 not going to be any further a loser by it. It was Mr. 
 Fitzharland who took my apartments, and of course you 
 have no right to stay in them a moment after he left 
 them. In consideration of your illness, I have not hither- 
 to pressed you upon the subject, but I cannot submit to 
 be any longer robbed of my lawful dues, and I therefore 
 give you notice that I shall expect you to give up the 
 apartments to-morrow, that I may prepare them for the 
 party (this was a favourite expression) who are coming in 
 the next day.' 
 
 " What could I object to this ?" continued Katharine ; 
 "I knew not where to go — what to do ; but what was the 
 use of my saying tliis to the cool-blooded, mercenary 
 being, who, though she pretended to pity me, maintained 
 the most insolent tone and manner towards me, and an- 
 nounced my utter ruin as a thing of course, for which I 
 ought to have been prepared ? That night was indeed a 
 night of agony, and I arose in the morning as wretched 
 
of woman's life. 137 
 
 and' undecided what to do as when I lay down. The 
 only person who really seemed to feel for my unhappy 
 situation was Anne, the servant I have mentioned as 
 having given me the first intimation of the peril that 
 threatened me. My natural pride, indeed, for a long time 
 stood in the way of a thorough confidence in her good 
 intentions towards me ; hut as the time came near when 
 I foresaw that I should be expelled from my present 
 home, I was compelled to relinquish the last remnants of 
 that pride, and with tears I entreated her advice and 
 assistance. 
 
 " ' Dear, dear, what a pity you did not speak to me 
 before,' observed the girl, when I had acknowledged to 
 her the truth, that I was absolutely without a shilling, 
 and knew not where to go for a night's shelter. ' If you 
 had but spoke in time,' she continued, ' I could have 
 managed to have raised you a good bit of money on your 
 clothes and things, without Missus suspecting it, and 
 with money it 's easy enough to get a lodging in London ; 
 but I 'm afraid now it 's too late, for I doubt if she '11 let 
 you move anything till her bill's paid, and she took 
 precious good care, while you were too bad to know any- 
 thing about it, to search your trunks and boxes, so as to 
 know what there is worth anything in them. However, 
 I'll run any risk, sooner than see you turned out penniless. 
 You Ve got, I know, two or three rings, and your coral 
 necklace, and bracelets and ear- rings, must be worth a 
 pound or two. Promise me, then, that you won't betray 
 that I took them, and I '11 see what I can get on them, 
 and then the woman that 'chares' for Missus, I know, 
 has a bed that she lets to a single woman, and if I speak 
 to her I don 't think she '11 be against taking you in, pro- 
 vided we can keep it a secret from the old devil.' 
 
138 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "I readily gave the promise required, though I scarcely 
 could believe that the obsequious landlady, who for so 
 many months had treated me with the most flattering 
 attention and apparent kindness, could, in reality, be so 
 utterly devoid of feeling as to meditate depriving me of 
 the few articles of value that I possessed ; or that, blunt 
 and indelicate as had been her announcement of her con- 
 viction of my real situation, that she could merit the 
 coarse appellation Anne had bestowed upon her. 
 
 "Alas! I was too soon convinced that the girl's appre- 
 ciation of her had not been overrated. Whether my ap- 
 parent pride and reserve towards the servant had misled 
 her — or that she considered me, as I really was, too ig- 
 norant of the world to suspect her intention of detaining 
 my trunks and their contents, I know not, but she made 
 no effort to guard against that which I should never, 
 but for Anne's proposal, have dreamed of; and two or 
 three hours after the girl put thirty shillings into my 
 hand, observing that it was all she could get, though not 
 a sixth part of what the trinkets had cost, and cautioning 
 me to conceal carefully from the old woman that I had 
 that, as it would not only betray the means by which it 
 had been raised, but that it would inevitably be taken 
 from me — even by force, if it were necessary. She an- 
 nounced at the same time, the then gratifying intelli- 
 gence, that the charwoman had consented to accommo- 
 date me with her spare bed until I could better myself. 
 Everything happened as the girl had predicted. Scarcely 
 had I disposed of the money about me so as to defy dis- 
 covery, even if the threatened search was made, before 
 the landlady entered the room, to know if I was pre- 
 pared to give up the apartments, as she wanted them for 
 the party who were coming in the next morning. 
 
of woman's life. 139 
 
 " ' Where am I to go ? What am I to do ? ' I ex* 
 claimed, bursting into tears at this confirmation of her 
 intention. 
 
 " ' That is nothing to me,' she replied, seating herself 
 in the large chair by the bedside, from which I had just 
 risen, as if she were thus taking possession. ' If, how- 
 ever, I understood right what you said during your ill- 
 ness, when you were, as the doctor said, delirious, you 
 have a mother living, whom you left to live with the 
 fellow who has deserted you. It is not for me to advise 
 you, but I think the most natural thing for you to do will 
 be to go back at once to her, tell her the truth — and, 
 perhaps, to save you from further disgrace, she may re- 
 ceive you again.' 
 
 " I knew that this was the most proper advice she 
 could give me ; but, alas ! I felt at the same time how 
 utterly hopeless it would be for me to follow it. I 
 affected, however, to coincide with her views, and ob- 
 served, that if she would allow one of her servants to 
 fetch a hackney-coach, to convey my luggage, I would go 
 at once. 
 
 " Just as Anne had predicted, however, the woman at 
 once threw off the mask of pretended sympathy, and 
 affected to be surprised at my assurance, in expecting 
 that she was going to give up all that remained to repay 
 her for the expense and trouble she had incurred during 
 my illness. It was in vain that I represented to her how 
 inaderpuately she would be repaid by detaining my 
 clothing, while to me they were of the utmost impor- 
 tance, as, should my mother refuse to receive me, they 
 were all I had to depend upon, to enable me to get into 
 some way of providing for my existence. 
 
 "'Yes, no doubt,- of picking up some one else to 
 
HO SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 keep you in idleness and extravagance,' she insolently 
 replied ; ' of enabling you to impose upon some other 
 poor hard-working woman, like myself ; but you wont 
 do it by my means, I assure you, and not a thing do you 
 move out of this room till my bill is paid as far as regards 
 yourself, and you may thirjk yourself lucky if I let you 
 have your things when you 've paid your own bill, and 
 leave Fitzharland's for himself to pay, if he ever comes 
 back.' 
 
 " I knew this was only an affectation of generosity or 
 liberality, for there was just as much probability that I 
 should pay the whole sum as what she affected to call 
 my own share of it, but I thought it best to appear 
 thankful even for tins indulgence. My only aim, indeed, 
 at the present moment, was to get away quietly, without 
 the woman's discovering the few shillings which were my 
 sole dependence. This, however, was not to be ; whether 
 my apparent resignation to my fate excited her sus- 
 picions, that I was not so utterly destitute as I pretended 
 to be, I know not, but I did not escape the dreaded in- 
 vestigation. At my earnest entreaty, almost upon my 
 knees, my tyrant had consented to allow me to take away 
 with me a single change of clothes, taking care that they 
 should be the oldest, most worthless that I possessed ; 
 the very ones, in fact, in which I had left my home with 
 Fitzharland, and which I had preserved, not as being of 
 the slightest value, but merely as a memento of my 
 mother's parsimony and injustice. Tied up in a little 
 bundle, these, now my only worldly possessions, were 
 already on my arm ; I had tied on my bonnet, and my 
 foot was on the threshold of the door, while I darted my 
 last tearful glances around the room from which I was 
 expelled like Eve from Paradise, for so it then appeared 
 
of woman's lifk. 14J 
 
 to me — thrust out, as I was, into a world of which I knew 
 so little, and that little calculated only to depress and 
 alarm me. 
 
 " ' Stop a minute, ma'am, if you please.' Oh how terrific 
 those words sounded in my ear. I tried not to hear 
 them, and was already down more than half-a-dozen 
 stairs, but the virago was not to be thus eluded. In a 
 moment her hand was upon my shoulder, and I was com- 
 pelled to return, while she entered upon the dreaded in- 
 vestigation of what she was pleased to call my jewels, of 
 which she unhesitatingly avowed she had taken a regular 
 catalogue, as well as of all my other valuables. It was in 
 vain, however, that she demanded an explanation of the 
 disappearance of my trinkets — that she loaded me with 
 abuse of the lowest description — that she threatened me 
 with I know not what penalties of the law. I was a thief, 
 an impostor, a common swindler — in short, there was no 
 epithet, however vile, that she did not load me with ; but 
 in spite of all I still remained silent, until, having at 
 length, as it appeared, completely exhausted her strength 
 as well as her terms of abuse, she drove me before her, 
 literally by force, down the stairs and into the street, 
 closing the front door upon me with the greatest violence, 
 and her last words, denouncing ruin and destruction to 
 me, sounding at the same time with the slam of the door 
 in horrid discord. 
 
142 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ' Tis hard to smile when one would weep'; 
 To speak when one would silent be ; 
 To wake when one should wish to sleep, 
 And wake to agony. 
 
 Yet such the lot by thousands cast, 
 
 Who wander in this world of care, 
 And bend beneath the bitter blast, 
 
 To save them from despair. 
 
 But nature waits her guests to greet, 
 
 Where disappointment cannot come ; 
 And time guides with unerring feet, 
 
 The weary wanderers home. Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 " Once more, behold rne then, turned from my home 
 into the streets, to seek as I best could a shelter ; but 
 alas ! this, my second exile — if I may so call it — was in- 
 finitely worse than the former, for I had then a lover 
 to console me for the loss of a mother. Hope — pleasure 
 in various forms — then courted my acceptance for the 
 future, while for the past I had little cause to regret. 
 I did not stay long, you may be sure, to indulge my 
 regrets," continued Katharine, drying the tears which 
 from time to time would force their way, in spite of her 
 efforts to appear calm and collected. " Anne had given 
 me very particular directions as to the way I was to take 
 to the house in which Mrs. Barker, the charwoman, re- 
 sided, and I found it with very little difficulty; but, I 
 confess, I was not a little startled and surprised, when I 
 discovered that the clean, quiet, respectable lodging that 
 I had been promised, was situated in a wretched dark, 
 close alley, swarming with troops of dirty, barefooted 
 
OF woman's life. 113 
 
 children, who having just been dismissed from a Ragged 
 School at the entrance into the court, were now whooping, 
 screaming, and in various other ways testifying their de- 
 light at being set free from confinement — 
 
 ' That full expanse of voice, to children dear, 
 Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here.' 
 Often and often had I repeated those lines of Rogers, 
 with a full conviction of their truth and beauty, as I 
 had heard the children at play in the neighbourhood of 
 my mother's residence, perhaps feeling them the more 
 from the contrary state of prim, demure restraint in which 
 my sister and self were brought up by my mother's direc- 
 tions; buc I must confess, that in Homer Alley, where 
 I now sought — according to my directions — for Mrs. 
 Sarah Barker, widow, nurse and charwoman, I was 
 inclined to think the poet's lines much less beautiful 
 than hitherto, for never had I formed an idea of such 
 horrible discord as was produced by the children of 
 Homer Alley. 
 
 ". ' Oh, you are the new lodger that Mrs. Barker ex- 
 pected?' said a voice, as, having with difficulty groped 
 my way down some stairs to the front kitchen, which 
 I had been told at the entrance door was Mrs. Barker's 
 room, I stood knocking for some time totally unnoticed. 
 
 "'Who's there? — what do you want?' demanded a 
 harsh, repulsive voice ; to which I replied that, ■ I had 
 expected to find Mrs. Barker there, she having promised 
 to wait at home for me.' The reply to this I have already 
 given, but I cannot describe the effect that discordant 
 voice had upon me. I was in doubt whether it was a 
 man or woman that spoke ; for coming, as I had, out of 
 the light, down to what appeared, by the contrast and 
 the steepness, more like the bottom of a well than any- 
 
144 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 thing else, had prevented my discerning what or who 
 was the being that addressed me. 
 
 " ' Yes, I am the person she expected,' I replied at 
 random, ' will she be long absent ?' 
 
 " ' Why, that's oncertain,' was the answer, ' because 
 her time aint her own, as a body may say, and she's 
 been sent for in a monstrous hurry to one of her places, 
 which she couldn't refuse no how what'sumever, else she 
 wouldn't ha' gone. Howsever, you can come into my 
 place and sit down till Mrs. Barker comes back.' 
 
 " I was thankful, of course, for this accommodation, 
 though I confess, independent of the warning I received 
 from the smell of the place into which I followed the 
 speaker, my heart sunk at the first view of the den — I 
 cannot call it a room — into which I had been ushered, and 
 which gradually became fully unveiled to me, as my 
 eyes became accustomed to the obscurity — the darkness 
 visible — which supplied the place of light. A few bricks 
 loosely piled upon one another in the fire place, and be- 
 tween which some bits of iron hoop had been inserted 
 for bars, supplied the place of a stove, in which a few 
 handfuls of cinders, and some wet wood and other rubbish, 
 had been coaxed into a resemblance to a fire, which the 
 coldness of the day, although now far advanced into the 
 spring, rendered highly necessary. A single chair, the 
 once substantial bottom of which having disappeared, its 
 place had been supplied by pieces of rope, tied across 
 and across, was placed for my accommodation, the other 
 seats being only a basket, and a pail of which the bale 
 was gone, and thus reversed was appropriated by the 
 hostess, whose attention to and attempt to render me 
 what she called comfortable, seemed greatly increased as 
 she was able to discover my appearance. But I will 
 
of woman's life. 145 
 
 not attempt any further description of the wretched place, 
 which hy degrees I learned was the sole residence of Mrs. 
 Wyatt — the woman who had invited me in — her hushand 
 and five children, who were — fortunately, I felt — all but 
 one poor little decrepit being, an idiot and deprived of 
 the use of its limbs, among the noisy crew through 
 whom I had passed in exploring my way to Mrs. 
 Barker's "quiet, clean, respectable residence," which was, 
 for I knew not how long, to be also mine. 
 
 " ' If it is anything at all resembling this,' I thought 
 to myself, as I glanced round Mrs. Wyatt's wretched 
 den, 'how shall I be able to endure it for a week — or even 
 a day ? ' I thought of the handsome, well-furnished apart- 
 ments I had so recently quitted. Even the attics which 
 had been appropriated to my sister, my governess and 
 myself, at my mothers, which we had so often beheld 
 with such intense contempt, appeared now a palace in 
 my estimation, and I actually trembled at the anticipa- 
 tion of the home which, at Anne's recommendation, I 
 had been so anxious to secure. The woman (Mrs. Wyatt), 
 who in the meantime, after apologising for the mess the 
 place was in, on the score of her numerous young family, 
 which left her— she said — no time to attend to appear- 
 ances, attempted by numerous indirect, but shrewd 
 questions, to ascertain the causes that had made it 
 desirable for a person of my appearance to seek even 
 a temporary shelter with her neighbour in the front 
 kitchen; but I had been cautioned not to betray by 
 what means I had become acquainted with the char- 
 woman, lest her affording me a shelter should injure 
 her with her employer, my late landlady, and I therefore 
 replied that—' I knew nothing of Mrs. Barker, but had 
 been recommended to her by a friend, who represented 
 u 
 
146 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 her as a decent, steady -woman, with whom I could stay 
 for a short time, while my husband was in the country.' 
 
 " ' Oh, you've got a husband, have you ?' returned the 
 woman, with a keen searching look that brought the 
 deep colour into my cheeks. 
 
 " I do not know why I had uttered this falsehood, for 
 I had previously resolved to bury, if possible — at least, 
 as far as I was concerned — all remembrance of my con- 
 nexion with the unworthy and unfeeling being, who I 
 was now convinced had deliberately deserted and left me 
 to struggle with the world. The fact was, that I feared 
 and distrusted the woman who questioned me. I felt as 
 if it were necessary to have some protector against her, 
 and, as the most natural one, it occurred to me to name 
 him, whom up to this time nearly I had trusted in as 
 such. An hour passed — it seemed an age to me — with- 
 out Mrs. Barker's appearing, and during that time 1 
 had been compelled to listen to the whole history of 
 my companion's domestic grievances. She had been, 
 according to her own account well to do in the world, 
 but she had imprudently married, after her first hus- 
 band's death, his shopman, who by his extravagance, 
 drunkenness, and bad conduct of every kind, had 
 brought her to ruin. So much, indeed, she revealed 
 to me, a perfect stranger, of this man's brutality and 
 ruffianism, that, in addition to my other troubles and 
 uneasiness, I sat on thorns — trembled, indeed, at every 
 sound, lest it should announce the ruffian whom she 
 had already contrived to make an object of terror to 
 me. Another cause for alarm and disgust with my situ- 
 ation soon, however, engrossed all my thoughts, and 
 banished all fear, or, indeed, recollection of the dreaded 
 Mr. Wyatt. 
 
of woman's life. 147 
 
 "'Well, I do wonder that Mrs. Barker couldn't 
 manage to find her way home before this/ observed my 
 companion, who I thought began to show some symptoms 
 of finding my presence there troublesome, observing 
 once or twice, that it was time to get her young ones in 
 and put them to bed.' 
 
 "Bed! I looked round the horrible place involun- 
 tarily, but she caught the expression of my eyes, and in 
 an offended tone observed — • 
 
 " ' Ay, I little thought, when I was as young as you, 
 that I should be obliged to put up with such an apology 
 for a bed as that ; but as you 're a married woman, with- 
 out you're luckier than I've been in a husband, you may 
 live to be glad to have even that to stretch your chil- 
 dren's limbs upon.' 
 
 "I apologised as humbly and delicately as I could for 
 my inadvertence, disavowing, indeed and truly, any in- 
 tention of reflecting upon the subject that had offended 
 her, and trying at the same time to divert her attention 
 from it by saying that I would leave my bundle, and go 
 and walk about till Mrs. Barker came home. 
 
 " ' Goodness knows what time that 11 be ! ' replied the 
 woman significantly; 'for I'm afraid she's upon the 
 spree, and when she once begins, home 's the last place 
 she thinks about, so long as she 's got a penny in her 
 pocket.' 
 
 " Merciful Heaven! and this was the woman to whom 
 I was to trust for my home, my only refuge from what 
 appeared scarcely less to be dreaded — the streets. It 
 was too late, even if I had known how, to make a differ- 
 ent arrangement — that is, to seek for another shelter; be- 
 sides, who couli I hope would take me in, destitute as I 
 was of recommendation. Even this woman— this Mrs. 
 
U8 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Wyatt — seemed to regard me with suspicion, though be- 
 lieving that I had been properly recommended to her 
 neighbour. I persisted, however, in leaving the wretched 
 place she called her room, so as not to inconvenience 
 her while she got her children into bed. It was, in- 
 deed, a blessed relief to breathe in the open air, though 
 only the close and tainted air of the alley and adjoining 
 narrow street, for I dared not venture further from the 
 place, which, wretched and unpromising as it appeared, 
 still grew in importance as a shelter with every advancing 
 hour. There, then, drawing my large bonnet as far as 
 possible over my eyes, to hide the tears I could not re- 
 press, I continued to pace up and down, terrified even 
 then at the attention my appearance excited, and still 
 more terrified at the thought, that perhaps the woman 
 who had promised to receive me might not return at all 
 that night, or, if she did, might refuse me the shelter she 
 had offered, at that late hour. She came at last, how- 
 ever. I recognised her voice as sbe passed me, though I 
 had scarcely seen — or, at least, noticed — her at my late 
 lodgings : but I was afraid now to speak to her ; not 
 only because she was evidently intoxicated, but that she 
 was in conversation, laughing and apparently joking, 
 with a smartly- dressed, impudent-looking man, who had 
 annoyed me for the last half-hour, and had prevented my 
 entering the court in which Mrs. Barker lived, at the en- 
 trance to which he stood, and drove me away several 
 times by attempting to force his unwelcome conversation 
 upon me. I ventured, however, to follow at a little dis- 
 tance, hoping he would take leave of Mrs. Barker at the 
 door of the house where she lodged ; but though she en- 
 tered it, he still stood there, until at length growing 
 
OF woman's life. U9 
 
 alarmed, lest she might go to bed and forget me, I made 
 a bold attempt to pass him. 
 
 "'Ah! I thought you would come to, my skittish 
 little darling,' he exclaimed, putting out his foot, and 
 extending his arms, so as to prevent my entrance. 
 ' You 're like the rest of your sex, as the old song says : 
 
 " If we fly you, you "11 pursue." 
 Now, you'd have led me a fine chase, I suppose, if I 'd 
 pretended to care about overtakiug you ; but the minute 
 you thought you were likely to lose me, you turn round 
 and come slap into my arms.' 
 
 " 'You are mistaken, Sir,' I interrupted, again trying 
 to force my way past him. ' I want the person who has 
 
 just gone inhere, Mrs. the woman who came to the 
 
 door with you,' I added, for, in my fright and confusion, 
 I had forgotten the charwoman's name. 
 
 " ' Pooh, nonsense ! ' returned the man, who I now 
 saw was completely intoxicated ; ' What should you want 
 with that drunken old devil, who by this time has tumbled 
 in like a pig in her straw. Come, take my arm, and 1 11 
 take you where we can have a little chat together, and a 
 drop of something good to raise your spirits, for I can 
 see you 're a cup too low, as the poet says.' 
 
 " ' Oh no, no ! I must and will go in,' I exclaimed, 
 becoming every instant more alarmed: but I had scarcely 
 uttered the words, and was still struggling violently to 
 release myself from the man's grasp, when the woman I 
 had previously seen — she in whose room I had been, as 
 I related, accommodated with a seat, to wait for Mrs. 
 Barker's return — rushed out, and, with her face livid with 
 rage, and the most demoniac expression of countenance 
 that human features could bear, tore me from the man, 
 
150 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 uttering at the same time the most horrible expressions 
 ami accusations against me and her husband, for such it 
 appeared was the fellow who had so annoyed me and pre- 
 vented my entrance. 
 
 " ( It isn 't enough,' she continued, addressing herself 
 to him, ' that you should rob and starve your lawful wife 
 and honest-born children, to spend the money upon such 
 dirty hussies — such cattle as this,' again seizing me, 
 and throwing me with such violence against the opposite 
 house in the narrow alley that I rebounded, and, after 
 staggering two or three times, in a vain effort to recover 
 my footing, fell helplessly on the stones. 'It isn't 
 enough that you should go away for nights and nights, 
 with she and such as she, playing the gentleman, and 
 wasting what ought to be ours upon — ' I cannot repeat 
 the horrible epithet she used," added Katharine, casting 
 down her eyes, while a burning blush suffused her lovely 
 face and neck at the recollection : " ' but now,' continued 
 the woman, ' you 've brought one of them under my very 
 nose, to insult me — you and that drunken hypocrite, 
 Mrs. Barker. But I '11 tear her eyes out, the old wretch, 
 the minute I get hold of her. I knew from the very first 
 words she uttered, the hussey was trying to impose upon 
 me, with her lying tales about her husband, and her 
 coming to stay a night or two with Mrs. Barker, as if 
 any decent married woman would be knocking about from 
 post to pillar, to be glad to take up with such a bed- 
 fellow as Mrs. Barker.' 
 
 " ' Married, indeed ! she looks much like a married 
 woman, don't she?' echoed two or three wretched- 
 looking women, inhabitants of the neighbouring houses, 
 who had been called together by the woman's outcries ; 
 and from their looks at me, as well as their expressions, 
 
of woman's life. 151 
 
 seemed quite ready to second her in any assertions, or 
 even violence, she might choose to put in practice 
 against me. 
 
 " ' Wyatt ought to he ashamed of himself,' observed 
 another. ' The poor woman 's had enough to put up -with, 
 as we all know, what with one thing and what with an 
 other ; and it 's hard lines, God knows, for her to have to 
 scratch a living for her children, while he's out and 
 about, dressed up and playing the gentleman, as she 
 says; hut when it comes to bringing home his ladies and 
 trying to impose upou his lawful wife — ' 
 
 " ■ Come, stow this, Ma'am, if you please,' interrupted 
 the man, whose drunken folly had been the cause of all 
 this uproar and misery to me, and whose manners sud- 
 denly changed from the ridicule and levity with which he 
 had at first listened to his wife's accusations, to a look 
 and manner so ferocious as to startle me, and induce the 
 woman whom he addressed to retreat behind one of her 
 companions. ' If I choose to put up with my wife's 
 jealous-pated whims, which there's no foundation for, 
 seeing that I never set eyes on this lady before — ' 
 
 " ' Lady ! — Oh yes, to be sure, they 're all ladies. 
 Thank goodness, I 'm an honest, hard-working woman, 
 and don 't pretend to ladyship ! ' was echoed from one to 
 the other in the crowd, which was every moment in- 
 creasing. 
 
 " ' Nor I neither ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Wyatt, the man's 
 wife, 'though the time has been that I could have held up 
 my head with the highest — not such creatures as this, 
 but real ladies. Little did I ever think I should come 
 to this.' 
 
 " ' Ah ! tell me what I am, not what I have been,' ob- 
 served one of the women, evidently piqued at the assump- 
 
152 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 tion of Mrs. Wyatt, and the look and tone of importance 
 with which she asserted her former superiority over her 
 present companions. The moment seemed favourable to 
 me, for the man was now apparently attempting to con- 
 ciliate his wife, addressing her in a low voice upon the 
 folly and unreasonableness of her suspicions. 
 
 " ' I do not know what right any of you have,' I ob- 
 served, gathering courage, ' to insult me, or dispute my 
 being what I represented myself. Circumstances, which 
 I am not obliged to explain, have compelled me to seek 
 a temporary shelter here with Mrs. Barker, but she can 
 tell you that I am — that I have been — ' I paused and 
 burst into tears, for at that minute the reality of my 
 unhappy situation rushed suddenly on my mind, and 
 made me feel that, innocent as I was, as regarded the 
 accusation brought against me by Mrs. Wyatt, I was 
 assuming a character I had no right to, in calling myself 
 a wife, and that in reality I dared not even appeal to 
 Mrs. Barker, to support my pretensions. 
 
 " There were by this time several men added to the 
 group — I can scarcely call it a crowd — which had collected 
 around the door of the house, and although it was very 
 evident they were more disposed to espouse my cause than 
 to second the cruel, unfeminine attacks of the women 
 upon a poor defenceless girl, there was something in 
 their looks and manners that made me shrink from them 
 with almost as much fear and even greater aversion than 
 from their female companions. 
 
 " Winks, nods and whispers, expressing anything but 
 respect, accompanied, and in fact totally destroyed all 
 consolation, not to say confidence, in their expressions 
 of pity and compassion for the unmerited ill-treatment 
 I had received. 
 
of woman's life. 153 
 
 " One would Lave thought, indeed, that no person 
 possessing the common feelings of humanity, could have 
 beheld it without sorrow for me, and disgust and abhor- 
 rence for the furious woman who had so cruelly treated 
 me. My clothes, which, though the plainest I could 
 select of those Fitzharland had purchased for me — my 
 original wardrobe, namely those that my mother had 
 provided me with, I had, by Fitzharland's desire, given 
 away as soon as I received them from home, and I be- 
 lieve Mrs. Barker, the charwoman, had had the greater 
 part of them, they being considered too old-fashioned 
 and mean even for the servant maids of the establish- 
 ment — I had nothing, therefore, plainer than a delicate 
 quaker coloured cashemere dress, trimmed with satin of 
 the same colour, and this was now hanging in tatters ; 
 my bonnet and veil torn and bent ; the comb which had 
 confined my hair, trodden to pieces under foot; and my 
 hair, of which she had -literally torn out handsful, hang- 
 ing loose below my waist ; and when I add to this, that 
 the blood was streaming from a cut on my temple, and 
 had soaked my cambric habit shirt, as well as the front 
 of my dress, although some one — with something like a 
 glimmer of human feeling — had, while I was in a state 
 of unconsciousness, tied my own pocket handkerchief 
 over the wound as a bandage, but which had little effect 
 in staunching the crimson stream, wdiile it added con- 
 siderably, no doubt, to the ghastliness of my looks — if, I 
 say, you can picture all this to yourself, with the addition 
 of every limb still trembling with terror, and the hysterical 
 sobs and tears, which I in vain tried to suppress — from 
 time to time bursting forth with a violence that seemed to 
 threaten me with suffocation, if not instant dissolution — 
 
 you will, I am sure, agree with me, that I presented a 
 
 x 
 
154 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 spectacle, which one would have thought no one could 
 have beheld with indifference, much less that it could 
 afford a subject for levity and laughter. 
 
 " What I have since seen, however," continued Katha- 
 rine, with a deep sigh, a look half of sorrow mingled 
 with melancholy reminiscence, " what I have seen since, 
 short as, thank God, has been my experience in such 
 scenes, has taught me how habitual even cruelty and in- 
 humanity may become in hearts, that would, perhaps, 
 under other circumstances, shrink from such an imputa- 
 tion. The tearing of eacly)ther's clothes off their persons ; 
 the destruction of bonnets and veils — especially if ex- 
 pensive — and the loss of which are almost ruinous to 
 their unfortunate possessors; the disfiguring the face, 
 however beautiful, with perhaps indelible marks, all 
 these are occurrences so frequent among that class to 
 whom the epithet ' unfortunate,' though generally applied 
 in levity and derision, ought in reality exclusively and 
 emphatically to belong ; that even among themselves, 
 and to their added shame and dishonour, among the 
 other sex — among men — men, as they call themselves, 
 but oh, most unworthy of the title — such a scene is 
 sought and encouraged as one of the highest fun, exci- 
 tation and enjoyment. One which they will feed and 
 heighten by liquor — for which they will spend money 
 that they would deny to them if in want of bread — until 
 the unhappy creatures, maddened into absolute ferocity, 
 would complete the enjoyment of the wretches who thus 
 urged them on, by literally destroying every vestige of 
 each other's clothing, and have only yielded when 
 bruised, maimed and bleeding, they have scarcely 
 retained a resemblance to human beings, and have 
 been left in misery and solitude to repent the madness 
 
of woman's life. 155 
 
 which had induced them thus to ruin and degrade 
 themselves, even beneath the deep degradation of their 
 former state. 
 
 " You shudder," continued Katharine, whose excited 
 manner and crimsoned cheeks betrayed that this was no 
 imaginary picture she had drawn, but one for which 
 memory had held the pencil and supplied the tints— it 
 had been, indeed, drawn from life. 
 
 " At the time I have spoken of," she continued, in a 
 voice broken by tears, " little did I — the unhappy victim 
 of that woman's jealous fury — suspect that I was regarded 
 by the wretched, unprincipled people among whom I had 
 fallen — little did I think, I say, that I was looked upon 
 as one of that wretched class, to whom such scenes were 
 familiar, and that, if any pity was felt towards me by the 
 men, as to the women, I was not considered worthy of 
 the slightest commiseration. I had only met — as I heard 
 it afterwards remarked — with what I deserved for my 
 audacity, in daring to come with a made-up story under 
 the very nose of Mrs. Wyatt, a lawful married woman 
 and the mother of a family, to take the very bread out of 
 their mouths, and encourage her villain of a husband to 
 treat her worse than ever ; while by the men — or, I should 
 say, fellows who called themselves men — I was only pitied 
 as not being a match in strength, spirit, &c, &c, for 
 my assailant, whom I do believe they would have been 
 very well pleased could they have seen her change places 
 with me, as to the punishment — as they called it — I had 
 got ; and still more would they have been interested, 
 had we — to use their own hateful language — had we been 
 more equally matched, that there might have been a fair 
 fight, and no favour on either side. 
 
 " I have already mentioned," continued Katharine, her 
 
156 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 voice faltering, and the silent tears coursing each other 
 down her now pale cheeks — 
 
 Like drops of orient pearl : 
 " I have already acknowledged that my conscience 
 checked me in the vindication I was about to offer of 
 myself. Innocent as I felt myself in intention, I dared 
 not deliberately utter the falsehood that trembled on my 
 lips, and assert that I was also, as Mrs. Wyatt called 
 herself, a lawful wife ; I felt, that in the sight of Heaven 
 I had bound myself to Cecil Fitzharland, by ties, that on 
 my side could not be broken ; but, among such as I was 
 now surrounded with, I felt intuitively almost, I may 
 say, that to avow the truth would only be to expose my- 
 self to still deeper insult ; and if I already shrank from 
 the eyes and the manners of those men, whose bold, 
 open licentiousness betrayed itself in every expression 
 and look, even in the presence of the women, who, in 
 several instances, I heard claiming them as their husbands, 
 how much more insufferable would it be, should they be- 
 come acquainted with the fact, that I, in spite of my half- 
 uttered assertion to the contrary, could boast of no legal 
 protector — that I was, in reality, a ruined, deserted, dis- 
 graced creature, though innocent of all but too trusting 
 confidence in him whom my heart acknowledged as my 
 husband, but who I now believe never intended to make 
 me his wife. 
 
 " I cannot tell you by what motive I was actuated, for 
 my mind became every moment more and more confused ; 
 probably it was the effects of the blow I had received, 
 but I forgot, as it seemed, my intention of seeking refuge 
 with the woman I have mentioned as Mrs. Barker. She 
 had never been visible through all this scene though it 
 had taken place close to her window, nor had it ap- 
 
or woman's life. 107 
 
 parcutly ever suggested itself to any ouc to awaken her if 
 she was sleeping, and learn from her the truth of my ex- 
 planation of the cause that had brought me there. It 
 might be perhaps that they knew the attempt would be 
 useless in the state she was in from drink, or that her 
 character was so bad, that anything she might say would 
 be disbelieved or disregarded. Either of these causes 
 would account for their not applying to her, but does not 
 acquit me of folly in not persevering in awakening her, 
 and persisting until I made her sensible of what I required 
 of her, both as to vindicating me from the accusations 
 brought against me by Mrs. Wyatt, and affording the 
 promised shelter of her room, for which she had been paid 
 exorbitantly beforehand. 
 
 " I have already said, that, instead of acting thus 
 reasonably, I was suddenly seized with an impulse I 
 could not account for, to get away entirely from the 
 people bv whom I had been so insulted and ill-treated. 
 A vague sense of danger — danger to which I could give 
 no ' form or body' — suddenly seized me and urged me to 
 make my escape from these people, though I knew not 
 where to go, or what I had to dread from my present 
 association; worse than I had already experienced, it was 
 scarcely possible I could meet ; and yet, as I have said 
 before, an inexpressible terror came over me, urging me 
 to get away from the people, and the court or alley, as 
 soon as possible. Had the inhabitants of this place 
 been merely poor — had their appearance only indicated 
 extreme poverty, and their language and manners been 
 suitable to that appearance, there would have been no 
 cause for suspicion or alarm. It would have been only 
 what I had been prepared to expect— only what the 
 wretched appearance of the houses, the neighbourhood, 
 
158 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the groups of half-naked dirty children playing ahout, 
 and the scarcely hetter dressed women, whom I had ob- 
 served on my first arrival, gossiping in twos or threes at 
 the doors, or sitting on the thresholds, or just within the 
 miserable entrances, busily occupied in needlework, from 
 which they only raised their eyes to observe and utter 
 some saucy — or what they considered witty — remarks 
 upon any stranger who was unlucky enough to come 
 within reach of their observation. But I do not know 
 whether I render myself intelligible in saying, that with 
 all the outward and visible signs of poverty that presented 
 themselves among these people, they did not appear to 
 be of the class that depend upon the labour of their 
 hands for subsistence. The men, though many of 
 them absolutely ragged, were for the most part of that 
 appearance which is called shabby-genteel, their clothes 
 in some instances — though not fitting them — made in the 
 first style of fashion. There were two or three whom it 
 was impossible not to distinguish in the group, of whom 
 Mr. Wyatt — my assailant's husband — was one, whose 
 snow-white and fine linen, and good and well-made 
 clothes, gave them an air of gentility, strangely con- 
 trasted with the misery of their abodes and of their 
 connexions ; but in general the dirt, which, with scarcely 
 an exception, rendered their dwellings so repellant and 
 in many instances absolutely disgusting, extended to 
 the persons of both the men and women, and rendered 
 the attempts at smartness vain, and their looks alto- 
 gether disreputable. In like manner, their language, 
 frequently startlingly low and plentifully interlarded with 
 what — I have since learned — is called flash, betrayed 
 from time to time an acquaintance with better things ; 
 and I remember, even in the midst of all my trouble and 
 
OF woman's life. 159 
 
 confusion, being struck with the readiness and facility 
 with which they quoted and applied the sentiments of 
 different authors, and especially, as I observed, the 
 modern dramatic writers. 
 
 "The explanation of all tins seeming mystery was, 
 that for the greater part the men were, in the dearth of 
 better employment, underlings, or what are generally 
 called supernumeraries, at the theatres, in the neighbour- 
 hood of which the court is situated, and in some few 
 instances the women partook in this miserably-paid em- 
 ployment, while others eked out their wretched means by 
 employment in the wardrobes, or as dressers to those who 
 were fortunate enough to be able to pay such assistants. 
 But with these persons, generally reckless and dissipated 
 as I am told they are considered, were unfortunately 
 mixed up some of very different character — persons in- 
 cluded in that class who are said to live by their wits, 
 and who in reality shrink not from the most desperate 
 means of getting money, and of these Mr. Wyatt, as he 
 was called, was the most desperate. 
 
 " Heaven knows I had little to lose — little to fear — 
 from the most determined robbers ; and yet I do believe 
 that it was the fear that I had fallen among people of 
 that character, that rendered me all at once, as they re- 
 marked, so anxious to get away ; and yet, with a strange 
 inconsistency that could only be accounted for, as I said 
 before, from the confusion of my head, arising from the 
 blow I had received, I totally forgot that I had entrusted 
 the bundle, containing all I possessed in tbe world, to 
 the safe keeping of the woman who had behaved so bru- 
 tally to me. With difficulty — indeed, not without help 
 from one or two of the men — I rose to my feet, and, re- 
 jecting the offer of further assistance, crawled along a 
 
1G0 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 few steps towards the entrance of the court, unnoticed by 
 those I most feared and wished to avoid, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wyatt, who were still engaged in mutual abuse and recri- 
 mination, although they seemed to have forgotten the 
 recent source of their quarrel, at least so far as I was 
 concerned in it. I was not, however, allowed to escape 
 so quietly. At this very moment, a woman who had 
 taken upon herself the office of peace-maker between the 
 husband and wife, in that character proposed, that all 
 further animosity should be drowned in glasses of gin all 
 round, and that, for the purpose of providing it, a general 
 collection should be made among Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt's 
 friends and well-wishers. 
 
 " ' Come, lend me your hat, Fred,' she observed, 
 snatching off the hat from a young man's head who 
 had assisted me to rise, and was now warmly pressing 
 his services to conduct me anywhere I wished to go. 
 ' Lend it me for a minute,' she repeated, as he made an 
 effort to prevent her, ' and everybody can put what they 
 like in towards the " jackey," because we know it isn 't 
 always we 've got the ways and means to pay our shares; 
 but a penny shows the heart, sometimes, as much as a 
 shilling. There, there's that to begin with,' she added, 
 throwing a handful of halfpence into the hat, and then, 
 shaking it as she held it to me, she continued — 
 
 " ' Come, Miss or Ma'am, whichever you be, throw in 
 your share. It ought to be something handsome, as 
 you were the beginning of all the row ; however, we 
 don't want to be hard upon you, so if it 's only as much 
 as will pay for a quartern we '11 be satisfied.' 
 
 "/Satisfied ! ' repeated the young man who had prof- 
 fered his services to me. ' I don't see that you 've any 
 right to call upon the young woman at all, if Mr. and 
 
of woman's life. 161 
 
 Mrs. Wyatt are not to pay. If it 's to be a treat to them, 
 I think it would be fair she should be included. She 's 
 lost quite enough already — her clothes torn, and spoiled, 
 and destroyed — and I say she shan 't pay a farthing, if I 
 can help it.' 
 
 " ' Well, perhaps you '11 pay for her, as you 're so 
 mighty generous, Mr. Fred,' observed a young girl of 
 rather respectable appearance, who was evidently piqued 
 at the young man's espousal of my cause. 
 
 " * Well, I can do that, too, Miss Emma,' he observed, 
 imitating her tone. ' There is a shilling' — and he threw 
 the coin into the hat — ■ that will pay for her and me too.' 
 
 " Wretched, ill, and confused as I was in mind, I was 
 still capable of comprehending that I was making another 
 enemy by quietly submitting to this, for the girl Emma, 
 as he called her, looked daggers at him and me both, 
 and I trembled at the prospect of another scene of vio- 
 lence, such as that of which I had already been the vic- 
 tim. I therefore insisted that the young man should 
 take back the money he had paid for me, and, producing 
 a sixpence from my pocket with assumed calmness, threw 
 it into the hat as my contribution. 
 
 " There was a cry of bravo from the men, and two or three 
 of the women joined in the approval of this, declaring I was 
 a girl of spirit, and deserved encouragement. Alas, they 
 little thought that it was terror rather than spirit, that 
 induced the sacrifice — for a sacrifice it was, in more than 
 one point of view. I would fain now have renewed my 
 attempt to get away, though beginning to awaken to the 
 consciousness of my hopeless, homeless state ; but in this 
 I was completely borne down and prevented ; upwards of 
 five shillings had been collected in the hat. which was to 
 be converted into beer, gin, and tobacco; chairs were 
 
16£ SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 brought out into the court, and all discord was proposed 
 to be buried in what seemed to be considered the height 
 of enjoyment, from -which I in vain attempted to escape. 
 One or two of the women civilly assisted in what they 
 called putting me to rights; my face was washed, the 
 wound on my forehead strapped up, and I was compelled 
 to take a chair among the party, who a short time before 
 would have seen me almost murdered, without even ut- 
 tering a word in my favour. I had, however, suffered too 
 much — was still, indeed, suffering too much — to enter 
 into what these people called pleasure and enjoyment; 
 and I was besides, as I have said, suspicious of them. 
 In fact, I fancied I was not safe in such society, though 
 I should have been at a loss to say what particular 
 danger I apprehended. Yet still my thoughts were occu- 
 pied with one subject — how to make my escape without 
 exciting their observation. Independently, indeed, of my 
 suspicions of the character of my present companions, I 
 had another motive for uneasiness, and tins was the in- 
 trusive — I might say insolent — manners of more than 
 one of the men, whom I in vain attempted to check and 
 keep at a distance by the most studied reserve and cold- 
 ness, but which they openly treated as mere affectation 
 on my part. I have already mentioned the feelings of 
 jealousy towards me which had been excited in the young 
 girl called Emma, by the attentions of one of these men 
 who bore the name of Fred, and who appeared to be 
 recognised by all as her lover ; but who seemed bent on 
 mortifying her, or showing how little he regarded her 
 feelings, by the most extravagant compliments to me, 
 and the most shameful insolence towards her, whenever 
 he had an opportunity of exhibiting it. I tried in vain 
 to conciliate this girl, by showing her that I had no wish 
 
OF woman's life. 163 
 
 to encourage the man ; I even positively refused to sit 
 near him, turned a deaf ear whenever he addressed me, 
 and by my frowns, as well as by every other means I could 
 adopt, endeavoured to convince him, as well as her, that 
 I had no wish or intention to encourage him. Nothing, 
 however, seemed to satisfy her, and she took every oppor- 
 tunity of insulting me, as well as trying to provoke him 
 into a quarrel. In all this she was seconded by Mrs. 
 Wyatt, who, though apparently reconciled to her husband, 
 and disposed as much as any one present to enter into 
 the spirit of what they called enjoyment, and make a jolly 
 night of it, was still evidently most maliciously inclined 
 towards me, and gave utterance, whenever an opportunity 
 occurred, to the most spiteful insinuations against me. 
 
 " For a long time I bore all in silence, and tried to 
 appear unconscious that I was the object of the attacks 
 of these two vulgar, narrow-minded women. The dread, 
 indeed, of being again made the victim of the violence 
 from which I was still suffering, made me resolve to bear 
 with anything so long as they confined themselves to 
 words ; but, though I suffered both Mrs. Wyatt and her 
 friend Emma to utter, without contradiction or an attempt 
 to vindicate myself, the most infamous and unfounded 
 assertions, I could not succeed, as I hoped, in concili- 
 ating them by my patience and forbearance, or allowing 
 them to exhaust their spite, which was beginning, it was 
 plain, to get troublesome to those who, taking little or no 
 interest in their cause for rancour — if they had cause — 
 and were more inclined to be angry at the interruption it 
 gave to their pleasure, than disposed to espouse either 
 their part or mine. Among the men, indeed, I could see 
 plainly neither Mrs. Wyatt nor Emma had any friends ; 
 and though I had no reason to flatter myself as to the 
 
164' SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 sentiments they entertained towards me, or believe, in- 
 deed, that there was one among them from whom I could 
 hope to meet with disinterested friendship, or even jus- 
 tice, since I verily believe that none of them credited my 
 pretensions to respectability, or thought otherwise than 
 as Mrs. Wyatt asserted, that my modesty and reserve 
 was all art and affectation, and my pretence of being a 
 married woman — which, by the bye, I had rather led them 
 to infer than downright asserted myself — was, as she 
 politely said, and her friend Emma boldly confirmed as a 
 fact well known to her, all moonshine : though I have 
 little doubt, I repeat, that there was not a man among 
 them who did not credit this assertion, they cared nothing 
 about it, and were only inclined to espouse my cause 
 against the two women, because, as they said, in the first 
 place, they wanted no more rows, having had quite enough 
 uproar already; and in the second, as it was very plain I 
 did not trouble my head with other people's affairs, they 
 did not see what business anybody had to concern them- 
 selves with mine. Another reason they alleged for in- 
 sisting that 'the ladies' should drop the subject alto- 
 gether — and in this they were warmly joined by several 
 of the females who had hitherto been neutral — was that 
 they intended to have some harmony ; this, as I have since 
 learned, meant, not as I then understood it, but they were 
 disposed tp join in singing their favourite songs, and 
 were not going to be baulked by a parcel of women's 
 clack and quarrels. 
 
 " • So if you cannot behave yourselves, ladies,' concluded 
 the speaker, 'I shall move, as they say in the parliament, 
 that we adjourn this meeting to the parlour at the Red 
 Lion, and leave you to have out your debate here, by 
 vourselves.' 
 
OF woman's life. 1*35 
 
 " The threat of going to the public-house seemed to 
 have an instant effect upon all the women/ continued 
 Katharine; 'Mrs. Wyatt sulkily observed, that she did 
 not wish to interrupt anybody's pleasure, and the young 
 woman (Emma), who it seemed was a singer of no mean 
 abilities, and a still greater portion of vanity, consented 
 — by implication — to forget her fancied wrongs, and 
 join her lover in a duet. 
 
 " Strange, indeed, was the scene of which I was now 
 a silent spectator, but I could not dismiss from my 
 thoughts the fear that had fastened upon me, that it 
 would end in some misery to me worse than I had yet 
 encountered, and still the desire to escape from the 
 people, whose manners, habits, language, and appear- 
 ance, seemed so inconsistent and mysterious to me, was 
 the sole occupation of my thoughts. What I should 
 do, or where I should go, was a second consideration, 
 if, indeed, I thought of it at all, I felt ill — very ill, but 
 even that gave me no trouble, so that I could get away. 
 The fact was, I was more than half delirious, and the 
 idea of personal danger from the people I was among, 
 was, I verily believe, more the effect of my disordered 
 head than the dictates of reason. It was getting late, 
 so I heard them say, and they seemed to fear some in- 
 terruption to their amusement, if they remained out of 
 doors. It was agreed they should adjourn to the parlour 
 of the house opposite to the one I had first entered and 
 which belonged to some one of the company. Had I 
 been capable of rational reflection this would have given 
 me no uneasiness, because it was not likely that they 
 could carry on their noisy amusement all night in the 
 open court, and indeed, I believe some of the neighbours 
 had already objected to it; but to me the thought of 
 
166 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 entering this strange house in such company, gave me 
 the greatest terror. I resolved, indeed, let what would 
 be the consequence, I would not go in. It was a noisy 
 party that now broke up their sitting. There were chairs 
 and tables to be taken in to accommodate them, and, in 
 so doing, the candles were knocked over and extin- 
 guished. In a moment all was confusion. It was, in 
 fact, a game of vulgar romps the younger part of the 
 company were engaged in, but to my frightened imagina- 
 tion it was far more serious. As usual in such cases, 
 laughter mingled with affected shrieks and exclamations. 
 It was too dark to see, but I heard footsteps as if in 
 pursuit; as with strength, which only terror could have 
 given me, I darted away from the spot on which I had 
 stood a moment before bewildered. Once or twice some 
 one grasped hold of me, and uttered an inquiry who it 
 was, but I shook them off with the strength of a maniac 
 and fled. I had taken by chance the right direction to 
 get out of the narrow passage which led out of the court, 
 and soon I found myself in the open lighted street. It 
 was Holborn into which I had got, but I did not then 
 know the names of the streets. The light of the lamps 
 and some shops still open, and the sight of a few 
 straggling passengers, far from re-assuring me as they 
 should have done, only increased my terror. I fancied 
 that I was pursued, and that the people I had left would 
 drag me back again to the place I had quitted, and I 
 continued to fly along the pavement as if I had wings to 
 my feet, though more than once bade to stop — I suppose 
 by watchmen — but I knew not who spoke, and paid no 
 regard to their orders. 
 
 " ' Stop ! I say, where are you running to ? "What 
 have you been up to ?' at length exclaimed a voice ; 
 
OF woman's life. 167 
 
 a man had placed himself directly in my way, and ex- 
 tended his arms to arrest my course. It was not he who 
 spoke, hut he had seconded the attempt of the watch- 
 man, who now came clattering up hehind me. I re- 
 member his seizing me with a grasp that at another 
 time would have made me shriek with pain ; hut I uttered 
 no sound, I saw nothing but the face of Fitzharland. — 
 Yes, he it was whose arms had arrested my flight, and 
 now, pale and ghastly — as must have been my own — was 
 bending over me, as I sank down upon the pavement." 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, 
 
 And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade ; 
 
 With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, 
 
 And a sad splendour vainly shines around. 
 
 So looks the nymph -whom wretched arts adorn, 
 
 Betrayed by man, then left for man to scorn ; 
 
 Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, 
 
 While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; 
 
 Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress, 
 
 Exposing most, when most it gilds distress. Crabbe. 
 
 " When I recovered my recollection, or rather, when 
 I returned to life — for it was long after this that by 
 degrees the remembrance of what had happened broke 
 upon my memory — I was in a strange rude place, and sur- 
 rounded by men equally strange and rude to my eyes ; one 
 of whom, with a red night cap drawn low over his brows, 
 and a hat over it, a rough white coat with a number of 
 capes, and a short pipe in his mouth, from which he was 
 
168 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 puffing clouds of smoke, was seated in a high backed 
 leathern chair opposite to me, and though the weather 
 was quite warm, by the side of a large fire. There were 
 several other men in the same kind of rough attire, either 
 seated on benches or standing about talking, but I could 
 not comprehend what they said, nor did I look at them — 
 my eyes were rivetted as it were to the face of the man 
 in the chair, who was bending down to look at me, and 
 who, strange to say, seemed to my confused mind to 
 occupy the place of Fitzharland, whose face I had last 
 seen in precisely the same position, and bearing the same 
 expression of pity and surprise. Yet, oh ! how different. 
 
 " ' It must be a dream, I thought,' and again I closed 
 my eyes, and again opened them, but there was the 
 same strange face still regarding me with the same 
 fixed look. 
 
 " • She is not dead,' he observed, drawing himself up 
 in the chair. ' I wish this doctor would come, that we 
 may know what's to be done with her. It won't do to 
 lock her up as she is, for if anything was to happen 
 to her — Besides, I don't see what charge there is against 
 her. The gentleman didn't say that she'd robbed him, or 
 tried to rob him. Did he ? ' 
 
 " ' No ! ' replied a gruff old man, to whom this ques- 
 tion was addressed. ' He wouldn't answer no questions, 
 and pretended he knew nothing about her, though I'm 
 very sure he knew her well enough, and she knew him, 
 for you never saw how they looked at one another, till 
 she dropped down like a dead thing at his feet.' 
 
 " ' But she'd got these hurts, you say, before that ?' 
 observed the speaker. 
 
 " ' To be sure, she had,' was the reply. '■ It was seeing 
 her all over blood, and her head bound up, as she flew 
 
of woman's life. 169 
 
 past me, for I could hardly call it running, and her 
 scared wild look, that made me try to stop her ; but I 
 might as well have tried to stop the wind, if so he the 
 gentleman, who was coming sauntering towards us, 
 hadn't stretched out his arms, and then, as I told you 
 before, they stood staring at one another as if they were 
 two stone images, till she dropped.' 
 
 "A dispute now arose whether the watchman — for 
 such I discovered the man was — ought not to have de- 
 tained the gentleman, from which I learned that on 
 my having shown symptoms of returning life, Fitzhar- 
 land had hastily retreated, having previously declared he 
 knew nothing about me, but recommending the watch- 
 man and others, who had come to his assistance, to 
 have me taken to an hospital or workhouse, where I 
 should be properly attended to. 
 
 " ' It would have been more like a gentleman to have 
 put his hand in his pocket and given the poor girl some 
 money to get a lodging, and pay a doctor, instead of 
 his advice,' observed the man who had questioned the 
 watchman. 
 
 "I did not distinctly hear the reply, for the watchman 
 muttered rather than spoke out, and he had scarcely 
 uttered a word when there was a general laugh, as if in 
 derision of what he said. I have no doubt they all 
 thought that the man had received money, which he 
 had kept to himself. To me this Avas of no importance ; 
 in the agony — the anguish — of my mind, I would have 
 perished at that moment, rather than have owed my 
 existence to Fitzharland's money. 
 
 " I need scarcely explain to you that this scene 
 had taken place in a watch-house, to which I had been 
 conveyed while in a state of insensibility ; but I cared 
 
170 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 not where I was, or what became of me, as gradually I 
 became capable of comprehending all that I have related 
 to you. That I might die was the only wish I was 
 capable of forming, indeed, I felt as if that wish would 
 be realised, as I closed my eyes upon what was passing 
 around me. How long I remained in this state I know 
 not, but again I was recalled to misery. The doctor 
 they had spoken of was by my side when I became again 
 conscious. He had pronounced — it seemed — that my 
 life was in danger, and as there was no charge of any 
 kind against me, had ordered that I should be carried 
 immediately to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Contrary 
 to his prognostication, however, in a few days I was 
 pronounced out of danger, and then too soon the time 
 came that I was compelled to leave this asylum; to 
 go I knew not whither, without a home — without a 
 friend — without even the means of buying a single meal. 
 What had become of the little money I had about me, 
 when I first entered the house in Homer's Court I 
 never knew, but it was gone; and weak, nervous and 
 terrified at the recollection of all I had endured there, I 
 dared not even apply for the bundle I had left in Mrs. 
 Wyatt's care. I have blamed myself since for the folly — 
 obstinacy, I know not, indeed, what to assign as the 
 motive that had kept me silent, while I was in the 
 hospital, as to the cause which brought me there. It was, 
 perhaps, pride that made me revolt from answering the 
 questions put to me. I saw that I was looked upon 
 with suspicion; the manner in which they talked of 
 the fight in which I had been engaged, the levity and 
 curiosity which seemed to prompt the questions I was 
 asked, sealed my lips. Bitterly I have since repented — 
 bitterly regretted what I now feel to be the ruling fault 
 
OP woman's life. 171 
 
 of my disposition, that pride which "was not even then 
 humbled by what I had suffered. To kindness my heart 
 was ever open. I could have humbled myself to the dust 
 to those who would have shewn confidence in me, but I 
 could not submit to remove suspicion, and scorn I have 
 been ever ready to repay with scorn. Alas ! how have 
 I now fallen beneath even scorn." 
 
 Katharine hid her face with her hands, and deep sobs 
 for awhile prevented her utterance, while St. Orme, more 
 than ever compassionating her feelings, endeavoured, by 
 the kindest and most soothing attentions, to restore her 
 to tranquillity. 
 
 " I have little more to add to my wretched history," 
 she at length resumed in a low desponding voice. " I 
 have already told you that still weak in body, and as 
 I now feel, still weaker in mind, I found myself in the 
 streets, without knowing which way to turn my trembling 
 steps. It was, noon when I passed through the gates of 
 the hospital, and while the daylight lasted, I continued 
 slowly to walk on without regarding whither I went, and 
 only anxious to shun the inquisitive looks that from time 
 to time I saw were turned upon me. Several times I was 
 accosted in words of levity, and more than once of insult, 
 by those who, I suppose, were encouraged by my slow 
 steps and undecided manner, but I had still pride of 
 manner and self-respect sufficient to awe into silence 
 those at whom in reality I trembled. But night came 
 on, and weary, sinking, and exhausted for want of food, 
 the horrors of my situation seemed suddenly to burst 
 upon me with tenfold force. 
 
 " ' Oh, that I could find some corner where I could 
 lie down unmolested and die,' I thought, as I still 
 dragged my trembling frame along a street, which I had 
 
172 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 turned into to avoid the noise and lights, and the bustle 
 of the more crowded thoroughfares. A few more weary 
 paces and I sank down on the steps of a house, repeating 
 my prayer, that death would relieve me from my miseries. 
 Suddenly the recollection occurred to my mind that I was 
 in the neighbourhood of my mother's residence. My 
 heart throbbed violently at the thought, and a mist came 
 over my eyes, but tears came to my relief, and I softly 
 murmured to myself the words of Scripture, ' I will 
 arise and go to my father, and will say, Father, I have 
 sinned against Heaven and against Thee, and am no 
 more worthy to be called thy son. Make me, I pray 
 Thee, as one of thy hired servants.' 
 
 " The words seemed to give me courage and con- 
 solation. 
 
 " She will not let me perish in the street, I softly 
 uttered, and summoning to my aid all my strength, I 
 walked swiftly on along the well-remembered street, as 
 if fearful that my courage would fail if I did not im- 
 mediately put in practice my resolution. I reached the 
 front of the house, and holding by the iron rails to sup- 
 port my trembling frame, looked up to the well-known 
 windows. Oh ! what would I not have given to have 
 been at that moment reinstated in that attic, that I had 
 so despised, never again to leave it. 
 
 " ' Yes, I would — Oh ! how willingly I would bind 
 myself by any obligation she might require/ 1 exclaimed, 
 * never to quit that room.' 
 
 "The words were still on my lips, when a woman, 
 whom I had not noticed standing under the shade of the 
 portico, came hastily down the steps and looked inquir- 
 ingly at me, as if to ascertain whether she knew me. I 
 turned away my face, for the tears were streaming down 
 
of woman's life. 173 
 
 my cheeks, and I was unwilling a stranger — as I took 
 her to be — should see my emotion. The woman, how- 
 ever, was not to be so easily evaded. 
 
 " ' Are you waiting here for anybody, young woman ?' 
 she demanded. 
 
 " Heavens ! how I started. The voice was familiar 
 to me, and yet — could I believe the evidence of my 
 senses. Could that poor, shabby, miserable looking 
 creature, be Martha Beresford ? 
 
 "'Martha!' I exclaimed. She hesitated a moment, 
 and then peered into my face, as if in her turn, doubtful 
 of my identity. 
 
 " ' Do you not know me, Martha ?' I faltered. 
 
 " She drew back as I stretched out both of my tremb- 
 ling hands to greet her. 
 
 " ' Know you ! ' she repeated, contemptuously drawing 
 back. ' Oh, yes ! I know you well enough now, though 
 I Little thought it was you prowling about here at this 
 time of night.' 
 
 " I have already,' continued Katharine, ' owned the in- 
 firmity of my temper. I forgot everything else at the 
 moment but resentment at the insolence — for such it 
 appeared — of her manner and words. 
 
 " ' Prowling !' I repeated. 'Whom have I to thank but 
 you, that I am here, a wretched outcast from my home — 
 friendless, houseless — ' 
 
 " She interrupted me with a deriding laugh ; but it 
 sounded so strange, so hollow, so unlike anything I can 
 describe, that I drew back from her with a feeling of 
 alarm. 
 
 "'So, it has come to this already, has it?" she ob- 
 served. ' Well, you have met with your deserts ! Why 
 should I be the only sufferer ? You have brought ruin 
 
174 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and misery upon me, and it is right you should suffer 
 as well as me.' 
 
 " I do not know how it was, hut, conscious as I was 
 that this accusation was false — that in reality it was 
 I who had a right to reproach her as the source of 
 my misery, as well as her own, I could not help pitying 
 her. 
 
 " ' Why should we seek to add to the unhappiness we 
 are hoth suffering, Martha/ I observed in a tone of con^ 
 ciliation ? 'We have hoth of us much to regret, and blame 
 ourselves for. Do not let us add to our mutual suffering 
 by reproaches and bitter words. Tell me, what are you 
 doing ? Why are you here ? — has my mother relented ? ' 
 
 " ' Your mother relented ! ' she replied; ' as soon may 
 you hope to see these stones — stamping her foot on the 
 step on which she stood — melt at your touch, as that her 
 cold, unfeeling heart will ever feel — will ever relent the 
 misery she has brought upon me. She is a wretch with- 
 out one human feeling. No ! she would glory — rejoice 
 — if she could see me perishing at her feet. Ay ! and 
 you too ; so, if you have come here with any hope of 
 getting assistance from her, I tell you at once you are 
 throwing away your time and trouble. She has told me, 
 that, were she to see you, as well as me, dying for want, 
 perishing in the streets, she would spurn us both — rejoice 
 to see us reap the consequences of our guilt. No, no, 
 Kate ! if you have come here with any hope that your 
 sufferings will induce her to relent towards you, dismiss 
 it at once, for I tell you again, her heart is harder than 
 stones — that she has not a spark of human nature in her 
 bosom.' 
 
 " I sank down again on the step from which I had 
 risen when I first recognised Martha. 
 
OF WOMAN S LITE. 175 
 
 " * Then her wish will be gratified/ I faintly replied, 
 ' for I shall die here.' 
 
 " Martha stood a moment or two, looking at me in 
 silence and with a perplexed air. 
 
 " ' Pshaw! ' she at length observed; ' it is easy to talk 
 of dying, but you don 't suppose that you would be let 
 stay here quietly to die, or that she wouldn 't soon take 
 means to have you removed, if she should come to know 
 you are here ? Have you no pride left ? I should have 
 thought that, with your high spirit, you would seek any 
 place rather than this, where everybody knows your 
 history ? ' 
 
 " ' Pride ! ' I repeated in anguish. ' But why, then, 
 are you here, Martha ? ' I demanded, suddenly recollect- 
 ing myself, for it struck me she was anxious to get me 
 away. There was something of her old cunning in trying 
 to work upon a feeling to which she had seldom appealed 
 in vain, that excited my suspicion. 
 
 " ' Come a little way with me, and I will explain,' she 
 replied. ' She will be going out soon, and — ' 
 
 " She stopped, as if she had inadvertently said more 
 than she intended ; but what she had said roused me in- 
 to instant exertion, and, in direct contradiction to what I 
 had previously said and intended, I hurried away with 
 terror at the thought of being seen by my mother in that 
 situation ; and it appeared that Martha Beresford, from 
 the manner in which she urged me along, shared in that 
 feeling. It was not until we turned into Manchester 
 Square, and were completely out of sight and hearing, 
 however, that my companion showed herself in her true 
 colours. She endeavoured at first to evade the question, 
 to which, however, I was determined to have a decisive 
 answer — For what purpose she was waiting where I had 
 
J 76 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 seen her, if my mother were really so inveterate against 
 her ? Whether it was true or not, I cannot tell— I have 
 sometimes heen inclined to doubt it— but she declared 
 that but for the compassion of my mother's cook, the only 
 one of my father's old servants who was not discharged 
 immediately after my brother's death, she (Martha) 
 should long ago have been starved, the little needle-work 
 she could get to do only enabling her to pay for her poor 
 lodging. 
 
 " It is at the risk of losing her place,' she observed, 
 ' that the old woman saves the broken victuals for me, 
 which your mother would sooner give to the dogs than 
 suffer me to have, to keep soul and body together. So 
 now you know the mighty secret that you 've been so 
 wonderfully anxious about.' 
 
 " I made no reply to this, though I did not like the 
 manner in which it was uttered, and she went on lament- 
 ing her hard fate, and bestowing every abusive epithet 
 she could think of upon my mother, and those who had 
 brought her to such a state. 
 
 " This was, of course, levelled at me, but I tried to 
 evade answering her. I will confess at once the truth ; 
 the wretchedness I had for the last twenty-four hours or 
 more suffered, since I had been without a home, and the 
 prospect before me, rendered me selfish and mean. From 
 the moment I heard Martha — more fortunate than me — 
 had a lodging, a room which, however slightingly she 
 spoke of it, was at her own disposal, I was meditating in 
 what manner I could propose to her to let me share it 
 with her. Selfish as I knew her to be, I could not think 
 that she would refuse. I would work my fingers to the 
 bone, I thought to myself, to pay her whatever she de- 
 manded. At any rate for this one night — this dreaded 
 
of woman's life. 177 
 
 night, which had already commenced — she would not 
 refuse me an asylum. Alas ! Martin's cunning had fore- 
 seen — " 
 
 "She could not — she did not — refuse you?" exclaimed 
 St. Orme, his cheeks glowing, and eyes sparkling with 
 indignation. 
 
 "She did, indeed," returned Katharine; "though almost 
 on my knees I begged — I prayed — her not to leave me 
 in the street." 
 
 " ' Do you suppose I am going to let you bring ruin 
 upon me again?' she observed. No, no, Katharine; I 
 have suffered enough for my foolish indulgence of you, 
 already, but I have still a character to lose, and it is all 
 I have to depend upon, and I will not hazard it by intro- 
 ducing you into a respectable house.' " 
 
 " Wretch ! — vile, infamous wretch ! " exclaimed St. 
 Orme, unable to suppress the indignation poor Katha- 
 rine's anguished reminiscence of this fearful period ex- 
 cited. 
 
 " I will not pain you by dwelling on Martha's cruel 
 rejection of my earnest prayers to her to save me from 
 the misery I anticipated. One of her reproaches to 
 me I must relate, to show the extent of that selfishness 
 which had ever been the most striking trait in her cha- 
 racter. 
 
 "'Even now,' she observed, 'my meeting with you 
 has done me a great injury. I shall not be able, perhaps, 
 to see Cook to-night, and shall be obliged to go supper- 
 less to bed, instead of having a good meal, and enough, 
 perhaps, to last for a day or two, for your mother gave a 
 graud supper-party last night on account of Ellen's birth- 
 day, and Cook told me if I came to-night — ' 
 
 '•'And I am without bread,' I uttered in the bitterness 
 2 A 
 
178 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 of my heart, little foreseeing the conclusion Martha 
 would draw from this avowal. 
 
 "'Yes/ she ohserved hastily, ' I know you think that 
 you ought to share what I get out of your mother's 
 house ; hut I can tell you that it 's quite little enough 
 for myself, and you could not expect — ' 
 
 u ' Oh, no, I expect nothing ! I want nothing hut 
 shelter from the streets ! Dear, dear Martha, do not deny 
 me that ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 " Martha, however, had steeled herself against all my 
 prayers and tears, and I saw she was meditating how to 
 get away from me, when a carriage with lighted lamps 
 dashed hastily round the corner of the square, close to 
 where Martha and I were standing. 
 
 '"I shall he in time, after all,' she exclaimed, evidently 
 thrown off her guard hy her joy at the discovery. ' Well, 
 yes/ she added, in answer to my look, for I could not 
 command my voice to speak — ' It was your mother. I 
 forgot you did not know she has set up her carriage since 
 Leopold's death. She can well afford it, now that she 
 has got nobody but Ellen to provide for. But I can 't 
 stop any longer ; I am sorry for you, Katharine, hut 
 you know it was all your own seeking, and I 've suffered 
 quite enough from my foolish attachment to you, without 
 running the risk of ruining myself a second time.' 
 
 "I did not answer her. I could not : for the' glimpse 
 I had got of my mother, and Martha's matter-of-fact way 
 of speaking of the improvement in my mother's circum- 
 stances, by the death of one child and the ruin of another, 
 had, as it were, paralysed me. I clasped my hands, in a 
 last attempt to implore her pity, but she was gone before 
 I could utter a word. Gone" — added Katharine, trying 
 to smile — " to secure her supper and the dinner for next 
 
of woman's life. • 179 
 
 day, -which she had so feared I should claim a share of, 
 as to consign me to nun and despair." 
 
 A long pause followed this remark, -which had called 
 forth a bitter execration from St. Orme on the head of 
 Martha Beresford. 
 
 " What can I add to what I have already told you ?" 
 murmured Katharine, in broken accents. " That night 
 was a night of horror ! Again and again I threw myself 
 down, -whenever I believed myself unobserved, and 
 thought it impossible I could ever rise again ; but I 
 could find no shelter that -would screen me from insult 
 and profligacy ; or, if I escaped that, I -was harshly roused 
 from my cold seat by the watchman, whose language and 
 manners were scarcely less offensive. But that night 
 passed away at last, and the next day — I scarcely know 
 how. I had not tasted food when the second night came, 
 and with it a resolution which I dared not attempt to put 
 in practice while the daylight lasted. Accident had led 
 my trembling steps into the neighbourhood of the river. 
 It was the middle of the day when I reached Blackfriars 
 Bridge, and, though still shrinking from the eyes that so 
 often encountered mine with the unfeeling gaze of curi- 
 osity, indifference, or perhaps even a worse feeling, I 
 gladly sunk down upon one of the stone seats, which I 
 saw were happily free to any who were disposed to accept 
 the accommodation. It was a cold, gloomy day for the 
 time of year, and I shivered beneath the wind that came 
 through the open balustrade ; yet there I sat, hour after 
 hour, immovable, and almost unconscious of the busy 
 scene around me. More than once I was afldressed by 
 men who came and sat down beside me, but I gave no 
 reply to their questions or remarks ; there was nothing 
 in their looks or voices that could thaw the ice that 
 
lbO SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 seemed to have frozen my heart, and one after the other 
 they walked awny, leaving me to my despair. I cannot 
 attempt to describe to you the sufferings of those long 
 — long hours ; the pangs of hunger and thirst. I was 
 there literally perishing, sickening with want, before the 
 eves of hundreds, who passed on without bestowing, per- 
 haps, a second glance or thought upon me. I did not 
 reflect — I was not, indeed, capable of reflecting — that 
 there was nothing in my dress or appearance, except it 
 might be my pallid countenance — and that I concealed 
 as much as possible — that could betray the utter desti- 
 tution I was reduced to. During my stay in the hospital 
 my clothes had been washed and mended, and a decent 
 shawl had been given to me, when I left, by the sister or 
 head nurse of the ward, which effectually concealed all 
 deficiencies in my apparel. I was then too ignorant — 
 too inexperienced in the ways and means of poverty in 
 this great city," added Katharine, with a deep sigh, " to 
 be aware that by parting with tins, the only disposable 
 article I possessed, I might have procured the means of 
 prolonging my wretched existence for many hours ; but 
 it never occurred to me ; and there I continued to sit, 
 condemning in my heart, when I could think — for there 
 were times in that long day when I fell into a lethargy 
 that forbade even thought ; condemning, I say, the whole 
 world for their cruelty and indifference to a perishing 
 fellow- creature, without considering that it was probable, 
 that my appearance could not have conveyed a suspicion 
 of my distress to one out of the hundreds who passed 
 me. I have said I waited for night ; not now with 
 fear and trembling, but as the welcome period that should 
 relieve me from all suffering. Yes ! I will not disguise 
 the truth, although I now shudder at the recollection. 
 
OF WOMAN'S LlfE. lbl 
 
 From the first hour that I gazed down on the water from 
 the balustrades, the thought incessantly recurred to me, 
 that there, and there only, should I find a refuge from 
 all my miseries. 'Yes; one plunge, and all will be over!' 
 I repeated to myself again, ' It is better to fall at once 
 into the hands of God than to trust to the world, whose 
 most tender mercies are cruelty.' I know not where these 
 ■words originated, but they incessantly recurred to my 
 memory ; and yet I felt that I dared not raise my 
 thoughts to that God whose laws I was about to violate. 
 Oh, no, no ! I will not attempt to excuse the act I medi- 
 tated. I feel — I know — that it was madness; that it was 
 frenzy, which only those who have suffered as I then suf- 
 fered can properly understand, that prompted my reso- 
 lution, and that seemed to close my heart and under- 
 standing against feeling any reflection that might have 
 induced me to hesitate. It was beginning to grow dusk, 
 and the crowds that passed and re-passed my chilly seat 
 were gradually diminishing : from time to time I turned 
 an anxious gaze upon the deep, still waters below, and 
 shuddered ; but still my resolution was unaltered ; I felt 
 it only necessary still to delay its execution, lest I should 
 be seen and prevented. During all the time that I had 
 sat there, and it must have been many hours, I had never 
 received the slightest indication — beyond, perhaps, a look 
 of curiosity — from one of my own sex ; but at this time, 
 just at the first indication of evening coming on, a 
 female seated herself by my side, with an expression of 
 satisfaction, as if to rest from a long walk. She had the 
 appearance of a decent servant, and carried a parcel in 
 one hand, and in the other a large street-door key. 
 
 " ' This is a cold seat,' she observed, looking at me, 
 ' especially at this time of day.' 
 
182 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "I answered briefly, 'Yes ;' and she then asked me if I 
 had been sitting long there. I was little disposed to 
 talk, but I was compelled to make some answer, and I 
 replied again, ' Yes ; a long time.' 
 
 " ' Gracious goodness me !' she exclaimed in a tone of 
 kindness, 'why it's enough to give you your death sitting 
 upon this cold stone, and the wind comes so cold and 
 chilly off the water. But, maybe, you're like me, waiting 
 for somebody ; that's what made me ask you how long 
 you 'd been here, for I thought, perhaps, you 'd seen 
 a young woman looking about for me. It's my fellow 
 servant/ she added, before I could reply. ' I've been out 
 for a holiday and to buy myself a new gown, and she 
 was to meet me here on the bridge, but somehow we've 
 missed one another, though I don't like to go home 
 without her.' 
 
 " I saw she expected an answer, and I replied I had 
 not observed any person waiting. 
 
 " ' Well, I shall stay a bit to see whether she comes,' 
 she observed, ' that is, if you're not going just directly, 
 for I should not like to sit here by myself. A young 
 woman can't be too careful in these Lunnon streets, 
 there's so many bad characters about. You aint in a 
 hurry to go, are you ?' 
 
 " I shook my head and faintly replied ' No, it is of 
 no consequence how long I stay.' 
 
 " ' Dear me, you're lucky,' she observed, ' to be your 
 own mistress. Now, I'm obliged to be home by ten 
 o'clock at latest.' 
 
 " ' Lucky !' I repeated with emphasis, scarcely know- 
 ing what I said. 
 
 " ' Well, excuse me, my dear, everybody knows their 
 own business best. Perhaps you're out of place, and I 
 
of woman's life. 183 
 
 know what that is too -well ; many a time I've walked 
 about with a smiling face and a heavy heart, ay, and an 
 empty stomach too, till I got into the place where I'm 
 living now.' 
 
 " ' Unfortunately I have never been a servant,' I re- 
 plied, bursting into tears, my heart opening as it were to 
 the voice of kindness. 
 
 " ' Ah !' she observed, ' that's worse still, but I might 
 have guessed you'd been brought up a lady. Gracious 
 knows, service is bitter bread after all, and as the old 
 saving goes ' Service is no inheritance ;' but if I aint too 
 bold in asking, what do you do for your living V 
 
 " The question drew from me a confession that I had 
 hitherto done nothing, that I had, up to a recent period, 
 been living with my friends, and in short, that I was 
 then destitute, despairing, without hope or home. 
 
 " But, I need not proceed to detail minutely the parti- 
 culars of this artful conversation. It is sufficient for me 
 to tell vou, that this pretended sympathiser in my mis- 
 fortunes — this homely, artless servant girl, was one of 
 the women whom you saw with me when you first met me, 
 and that she had come out in her assumed character that 
 night, an emissary of the infamous Mrs. Jonas, and having 
 failed in the particular object of her mission, and being 
 struck with my forlorn appearance, having — as I after- 
 wards learned — passed and repassed me several times in 
 the course of the afternoon, had planned the introduction 
 to me, which succeeded according to her expectation. 
 Supported between her and her companion, who came 
 up according to previous arrangement, I was carried 
 rather than led — for I could scarcely stand — to a public 
 house at a short distance from the bridge, and supplied 
 with food and liquor — brandy, I believe — but in the state 
 
18 t SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 of utter exhaustion I had heen reduced to, very little was 
 sufficient to bring on utter insensibility, and in that 
 condition, I was conveyed in a coach to the infamous 
 house from which you rescued me, and where I remained 
 for many days hovering between life and death, with 
 little probability, as the wretched old woman — the mis- 
 tress of the house— continually reproached me, that I 
 should ever repay her for the trouble, anxiety, and 
 expense I had put her to. 
 
 e Heaven knows," continued Katharine, "my debt to 
 her was in reality trifling : indeed, to the natural kind- 
 heartedness of the poor lost creature — the drudge and 
 slave of the house — who is called Peggy, I owe my 
 existence, if it be a debt for which I ought to be grateful. 
 Alas ! I did not think so when I discovered into what 
 hands I had fallen ; but vain was my despair, my abhor- 
 rence of the wretched life into which I was now to be 
 initiated, and by which Mrs. Jonas purposed to repay 
 herself for the imaginary debt with which she charged 
 me, but which in reality extended little beyond the 
 shelter of her house and the miserable bed, which I 
 shared with the unfortunate being, whose addiction to 
 liquor amounts to insanity and renders her a slave to 
 a life she has still feeling enough in her sober moments 
 to abhor and detest, and who in her fits of frenzy and 
 rage, brought on by excess, would at one moment weep 
 over me, as a sacrifice destined to utter ruin and de- 
 struction ; and the next, reproach and insult me for my 
 cowardice, which induced me to consent to prolong my 
 wretched, worthless life, at such a price. Yet, though 
 thus inconsistent in her treatment of me, and though 
 shocking and repulsive to every feeling of delicacy or 
 decency as was her language and conduct under the in- 
 
of woman's life. 185 
 
 ffuence of the maddening liquor she swallowed, to her 
 ingenuity and influence with the woman she called her 
 mistress, it was owing, that I was enabled to protract 
 so long my actual introduction into the life of infamy 
 and vice, of which I was compelled to be the daily 
 witness ; while her possession of some secret in which he 
 was concerned, and with the disclosure of which she 
 boldly threatened him, relieved me from the persecution 
 of the hateful fellow, who, whether the son or husband 
 of Mrs. Jonas, I know not, but who went by her name 
 and lived in the house — the man I mean, who headed 
 the attack upon you, and who pretending — unknown to 
 the old woman — to be desperately in love with me, 
 would, had it not been for Peggy's protection, have been 
 the cause of infinite misery and degradation to me. All 
 my excuses, however, had at last failed ; my health, in 
 spite of the misery I was suffering, was renovated ; the 
 attractions, on which she set — apparently — so much re- 
 liance, were restored ; while, as she bitterly reproached me, 
 my debt to her was hourly increasing, and at length I 
 was compelled yesterday to adopt the hated liver)- — for so 
 I must call the dress in which you beheld me — and for 
 the first time accompanied the two women, to whose arts 
 I owed my introduction into that infamous house, and 
 who were now to act at once as spies upon, and com- 
 panions in, my initiation into a life, from which, I felt, 
 there could be no hope or escape, but in death. Oh ! in 
 what words cau I express the gratitude with which my 
 heart is bursting — " 
 
 " Only yesterday ?" interrupted St. Orme, whose eyes 
 had lighted up with an ineffable expression of pleasure 
 at the conclusion of Katharine's eventful story, and who 
 
 was anxious to interrupt her expressions of gratitude, 
 
 2 B 
 
186 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 which, from their very intensity, were painful to him. 
 *' And you have never then," he continued, u seen your 
 mother since the death of her son ?" 
 
 " Never !" returned Katharine despondingly, " since 
 that fatal night that she closed her door upon me. I 
 have — as I informed you — written to her, hut if she was 
 thus inexorable to me when I was really innocent of 
 orime, how can I hope now that — " 
 
 " We will at least make the trial, Katharine," inter- 
 rupted St. Orme. " Time and reflection may have done 
 much to convince her that she has acted with un- 
 pardonable severity to you." 
 
 " Alas, I fear with her disposition it is hopeless to ex- 
 pect that she will ever believe, or acknowledge herself in 
 fault," replied Katharine; "yet I own that my heart 
 yearns to throw myself at her feet. I am willing to sub- 
 mit to any humiliation, to be received and acknowledged 
 by her ; I feel that there is no safety for me but under her 
 protection. Oh ! surely, did she know what I have suf- 
 fered, my bitter repentance, and the further miseries 
 from which your generosity has rescued me — " 
 
 " We will at least try the effect of your pleading. To 
 morrow morning," observed St. Orme, with animation, 
 " I will accompany you to your mother's." Katharine's 
 pale cheek became even paler at the anticipation of once 
 more beholding her unnatural mother, but she felt it to 
 be impossible that she should hesitate at any measure 
 proposed by her generous and disinterested companion. 
 
 The bribe of a shilling to the waiter, secured the un- 
 molested occupation of the box in which they had taken 
 their coffee. He even carefully closed the curtain which 
 shielded Katharine from the observation of the qu^-kly 
 changing guests, and St. Orme rejoiced to see that for 
 
OF woman's lite. 187 
 
 more than a hour she found a temporary respite from her 
 uneasy thoughts in sleep. Gladly, indeed, would he have 
 sought a similar oblivion from the perplexing cares that 
 pursued him, hut he could not for an instant forget the 
 situation in which his ardent and benevolent feelings 
 had involved him, and as he contemplated the lovely 
 features of Katharine, which, though now hushed in 
 calm and apparently sweet repose, still bore the im- 
 press of deep sorrow and suffering ; he shuddered at the 
 thought how powerless, in reality, might prove his efforts . 
 to rescue her from the miseries that still threatened her, 
 should her hitherto stern, implacable mother remain 
 inexorable. On his own account too, St. Orme could 
 not but feel considerable uneasiness. He shrank from 
 the thoughts of the sarcasm, the ridicule, with which 
 he knew Marlow would receive his explanation of the 
 cause that had separated them and occasioned his (St. 
 Orme's) unwonted absence. To the man of the world — 
 the sensual self-indulgent Marlow — St. Orme felt how 
 impossible it would be to explain the pure feelings 
 by which he had been actuated. There were moments — 
 we cannot conceal the truth — when St. Orme felt in- 
 clined to regret the part he had acted when under the 
 pressure of the heavy difficulties that the future pre- 
 sented. Yet a heavy sigh — a transient shudder — dis- 
 turbing Katharine's slumber, and which evidently arose 
 from the remembrance of the j)ast, breaking even the 
 bonds of sleep, at once banished every selfish feeling, 
 and strengthened him in the generous resolve to sub- 
 mit to every personal sacrifice rather than desert the 
 unfortunate being who relied upon him with such confi- 
 dence as her guardian angel, or rather as the noble and 
 generous benefactor, who had snatched her from a fate 
 
188 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 compared to which death, in its most hideous form, would 
 have been a blessing. 
 
 The result of their interview with Mrs. Beresford we 
 have already related in the first chapter, and now return 
 with our readers to the police office in Bow Street, at the 
 door of which we left St. Orme and Katharine, sur- 
 rounded by a crowd of curious, and, for the most part, 
 unfeeling spectators; some of whom gave utterance, even 
 in the hearing of the unfortunate and terrified girl, to the 
 most cruel and insulting remarks upon her appearance, 
 and the most callous speculations as to the probable 
 result of the judicial inquiry into the charge brought 
 against her and her companion. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 
 Truth, simple truth, was written in his face ; 
 Yet white the serious thought his soul approved, 
 Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved ; 
 To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, 
 And with the firmest, had the fondest mind . 
 Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, 
 And gave allowance where he needed none ; 
 Good he refused with future ill to buy, 
 Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ; 
 A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast 
 No envy stung, no jealousy distressed. — Cbabbe. 
 
 " What is your name, prisoner ? " demanded a harsh 
 voice, breaking suddenly in upon a host of confused 
 thoughts that had occupied St. Orme's mind, so as com- 
 paratively to have rendered him blind and deaf to all that 
 had previously passed while on his way to the bar, as it 
 
of woman's life. 189 
 
 was called ; and where, a few minutes after, Katharine — 
 from whom he had been momentarily separated, to allow 
 her to recover from the faintness which had rendered her 
 unable to stand — was placed by his side. 
 
 " Prisoner ! " Could the term be applied to him, and 
 in a tone which seemed to carry condemnation in it? 
 
 The blood rushed to his cheeks, and his dark eyes 
 flashed fire ; but he recollected himself in time to repress 
 the angry remonstrance that rose to his lips, for the look 
 of indifference — almost of abstraction — that the magis- 
 trate's features wore, immediately suggested to him (St. 
 Orme) that the expression used was not intended to con- 
 vey any peculiarly unfavourable impression towards him ; 
 but — however wrong and degrading to the person whose 
 guilt or innocence yet remained to be proved, and there- 
 fore, according to the legal fiction, ought still to be con- 
 sidered innocent — was merely an official habit. 
 
 "Vivian St. Orme," he replied calmly, but in rather a 
 low voice, for he felt at that moment the painful conse- 
 quences that might result from the public exposure of 
 such a name, which there could be scarcely a hope would 
 be appropriated to any but himself, in London. 
 
 " Speak up. What did you say ? " demanded the 
 clerk, who was taking down his answers. 
 
 St. Orme repeated his name more distinctly, but as he 
 did so his face again flushed, for he felt the satirical 
 smile and keen look that was for a moment fixed upon 
 him, and saw it repeated in the countenances of the 
 officials who were standing near him. 
 
 " What did he say ? " demanded the magistrate ; for 
 the first time fixing his sharp, penetrating eyes, glower- 
 ing from beneath his heavy eyebrows, with a look of in- 
 tense curiosity upon the prisoner. 
 
190 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "Vi-vi-an Saint-Orme, your worship," repeated the 
 clerk, with syllahic precision, and still with the smile up- 
 on his lips that had disconcerted St. Orme. 
 
 "Is that the only name you are known hy ?" demanded 
 the magistrate. 
 
 St. Orme's countenance expressed at first his extreme 
 surprise, and then equal resentment, at the question ; but 
 again he repressed the expression of his feelings, and re- 
 plied briefly that it was. 
 
 " Do any of you know the prisoner ? " was the next 
 question, addressed to the officers. 
 
 A laconic "No, your worship," was the reply from one, 
 in which the others by their silence acquiesced; and then 
 two or three who had been behind, so as not to have a 
 perfect view of his features, came forward, and with the 
 utmost nonchalance surveyed him, totally indifferent, as 
 it appeared, to the proud and defiant look with which 
 St. Orme drew himself up to his fullest height, and scorn- 
 fully returned their glances. It was evident, indeed, that 
 his anger made no impression upon them, from the cool 
 manner in which they disavowed all previous knowledge 
 of him. 
 
 The magistrate's attention was now transferred to 
 Katharine, who, pale and trembling, with difficulty raised 
 her voice so as to render intelligible her answers to the 
 questions put to her. 
 
 With difficulty St. Orme reined in his impetuous tem- 
 per, as he listened to the contemptuous observations 
 which were elicited by Katharine's candid statement of 
 the manner in which she had become possessed of the 
 bank-note which had been the source of so much uneasi- 
 ness and trouble to her companion and herself. A very 
 slight investigation of the circumstances which had led 
 
of woman's life. 191 
 
 to Katharine's being included in the charge brought 
 against St. Orine, had sufficed to induce the magistrate 
 to dismiss her as a criminal, and she was then removed 
 from her place by the side of St. Orme, and called upon, 
 as a witness, to state what she knew as to his becoming 
 possessed of the note. 
 
 " What do you know of the prisoner ? " demanded the 
 magistrate in his roughest tones, and bending his scowl- 
 ing looks upon the trembling girl, who hesitated how to 
 answer a question, which was likely to lead to an expo- 
 sure of her misfortunes. 
 
 " When and where did you first meet with the pri- 
 soner ? " he demanded, finding that she hesitated to reply 
 to his first question. 
 
 " I met Mr. St. Orme accidentally," returned Katha- 
 rine tremulously, and hanging down her head still lower 
 than before, to avoid the numerous eyes that were fixed 
 upon her. 
 
 " Oh, accidentally ! " repeated her interrogator, with 
 marked emphasis ; " and pray when did this accident 
 happen ? " 
 
 " Last night," returned Katharine, with increasing- 
 confusion. 
 
 There was a half-suppressed murmur, and an evident 
 disposition to laugh, among the crowd of idle spectators 
 that was rather increased than moderated by St. Orme's 
 evident impatience and anger at the course adopted by 
 the man in authority ; but the latter still preserved, un- 
 moved, his stern impressive manner. 
 
 " What are you ? " How do you get your living ? " 
 he demanded. 
 
 Katharine's pale lips quivered, and she cast a look of 
 anguish towards St. Orme, whose whole frame trembled 
 
192 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 with indignation at this inquisitorial style of exa- 
 mination. 
 
 " Have you a right, sir, to put these questions ? " he 
 demanded ; " because, for my own part, I would 
 rather — " 
 
 "Hold your tongue ! it is not your time to speak," 
 exclaimed the magistrate with vehemence. " Officer, do 
 your duty ; keep the prisoner from interrupting me, or 
 else I will order him to be remanded, and take the depo- 
 sitions in his absence." 
 
 " St-st-silence ! You will only do yourself harm," 
 whispered the officer who stood beside him, seeing that 
 St. Orme was about indignantly to reply to the imperious 
 administrator of justice. 
 
 " Why don't you answer my question ? " observed the 
 latter, again addressing Katharine : " Who and what are 
 you?" 
 
 " I am nothing — have no means of getting my living," 
 replied the trembling girl ; " till within a few months I 
 have been dependent upon my mother, who is a widow, 
 but I unfortunately offended her and was discarded. 
 It was in the hope of inducing her to forgive me, and 
 suffer me to return home, that Mr. St. Orme accompanied 
 me to her house this morning, and, as I said before, it 
 was from her I received the note — " 
 
 " I did not ask you to repeat what you said before," he 
 interrupted. " You will have to tell that story to a jury, 
 and see whether you can make them believe it. And so 
 you had the confidence, according to this account, to take 
 this man — a stranger, whom you had picked up over-night 
 by accident — to your mother, the poor widow, whom it is 
 plain you disgraced by your conduct, and expect that he, 
 by his plausibility, would prevail on her to suffer you to 
 
OF woman's life. 193 
 
 quarter yourself upon her, to be maintained, I suppose, 
 in idleness until you were again tired of leading a 
 decent life." 
 
 " Oh no, no ! " exclaimed Katharine, clasping her 
 hands with an expression of the deepest anguish, " I asked 
 nothing ; I would have submitted to — " 
 
 "Don't interrupt me, I say," he broke in upon her 
 pathetic explanation of her situation, without betraying 
 the slightest indication of sympathy ; although it was 
 very evident, from the change that had taken place in the 
 countenances of many who had before regarded her with 
 levity — or, at the best, had been disposed to form the 
 most unfavourable suspicions as to her character and 
 situation — that the truth and earnestness of her manner, 
 seconded as it was by the expression of her lovely and 
 delicate features, had made a deep impression upon 
 hearts but little in general disposed to sympathy. 
 
 " Keep up your spirits," whispered a man who stood 
 behind Katharine, and who thus took advantage of the 
 magistrate's attention being for the moment called away 
 from her, he being engaged in searching for his snuff- 
 box, winch it seemed he had mislaid among the papers 
 that were scattered before him — " Keep up your spirits, 
 and don't let yourself be daunted. His bark's worse 
 than his bite ; besides, you 've got no occasion to be 
 afraid of him." 
 
 Alas ! this well-intended consolation was far from 
 effecting the good that was purposed. The unexpected 
 voice of kindness seemed but more forcibly to impress 
 upon her the sense of her desolate condition, and should 
 she lose the protection of St. Orme — as was implied by the 
 magistrate's hint of referiing his case to the decision of a 
 
 jury — her utterly hopeless and destitute situation ; and 
 
 2 c 
 
194 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 an hysterical flood of tears for some minutes rendered 
 her incapable of replying, when again her authoritative 
 questioner returned to his inquisition into her past his- 
 tory and present circumstances. 
 
 u And so your mother, you say, in spite of your having 
 acted so shamefully as to compel her to disown you, was 
 still so tenderly inclined towards you as to bestow, ac- 
 cording to your account, the handsome sum of ten 
 pounds upon you, no doubt with the view of enabling 
 you to get an honest living, instead of continuing a life 
 of guilt and dissipation ? Poor woman ! she is greatly to be 
 pitied; perhaps she could little afford to part with it; and 
 again — according to your ovrn account — instead of hus- 
 banding her bounty, you go driving about in a hackney- 
 coach with the prisoner, who is so destitute that you are 
 compelled to give him your note — your poor mother's 
 liberal gift — to pay the fare — " 
 
 u Infamous misrepresentation ! Katharine, rouse your- 
 self, and vindicate not only yourself but me from — " 
 
 But St. Orme's vehement remonstrance was allowed to 
 proceed no further, or rather it was drowned by the magis- 
 trate's loud and coarse exclamations, and commands to the 
 officers — " Take the prisoner away ! — Drag him out, if 
 he wont hold his tongue and pay proper respect to the 
 court!" but there was evidently a reaction in favour of 
 St. Orme, in the opinions of those who had sense and 
 feeling enough — however incrusted by habit and experi- 
 ence of the numerous deceptions practised by the majo- 
 rity of those who stood at the bar of justice — to under- 
 stand the feeling that spoke in St. Orme's voice and 
 countenance ; and though there was a pretended bustle 
 to obey their imperious director, no one in particular 
 seemed to consider himself called upon to enforce his 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 195 
 
 commands, or to go farther than repeat their former re- 
 monstrances, anil persuade St. Orme to be silent till it 
 came to his turn to speak. 
 
 On Katharine, however, her friend's brief and only 
 half-uttered adjuration had produced a powerful effect. 
 No longer pale and trembling, she drew herself up to her 
 full height, her lip curling and eyes flashing, with an ex- 
 pression of pride and haughtiness that startled those who 
 had been previously compassionating the humiliation and 
 mortification which had seemed to crush her to the earth, 
 and without waiting for the magistrate to resume his 
 questions or animadversions on her conduct or situation, 
 observed — 
 
 "You have fallen altogether into a mistake, Sir, both 
 as regards me and Mr. St. Orme. I have been unfor- 
 tunate, it is true, in incurring my mother's displeasure, 
 but, I am not the degraded being you would infer. This 
 is no place," she continued, " for me to enter into a 
 history of my mother's motives or conduct towards me; 
 but allow me to assure you that your pity is greatly mis- 
 placed as regards her, as she is the possessor of a hand- 
 some fortune, to a share of which I am — by the will of 
 my father — entitled, if not in law, in equity, to succeed. 
 Your praise of her liberality, therefore, in bestowing ten 
 pounds on the daughter, whom her violent passions and 
 not that daughter's vices — as you have chosen to assume 
 — threw into the degrading position which compelled 
 her to sue for and accept even that comparatively paltry 
 assistance, is as misplaced as your pity. With respect to 
 Mr. St. Orme, the accident of his being without the 
 means of coach hire without changing the note, arose 
 from circumstances which have made me his debtor to an 
 extent that no money can ever repay, and amid all the 
 
196 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 misfortunes I have endured, I shall ever reckon the 
 greatest, that I have (though innocently) been the cause 
 of his present undeserved suffering." 
 
 Katharine's lip again quivered, her voice became 
 choked, and with difficulty she restrained the tears which 
 glistened in her beautiful eyes, as she looked towards St. 
 Orme with an expression of the most intense gratitude 
 and deep sorrow for the evils she had brought upon him. 
 " Pray, are you an actress ?" demanded the magistrate, 
 who had at last recovered from the astonishment which 
 her passionate address had excited and which had kept 
 him until then silent. 
 
 " I have already said that I have no occupation, Sir," 
 replied Katharine, calmly. " If I had been fortunate 
 enough to possess such a resource, I should not now 
 have stood here exposed to the mortification of answering 
 such questions." 
 
 Again the man in authority betrayed evident signs 
 that he was disconcerted, and he for a minute or two- 
 remained silent, but his eyes, which seemed to avoid 
 meeting Katharine's, suddenly rested on St. Orme — whose 
 animated countenance betrayed his perfect approval of 
 the spirit with which the before timid, sinking girl, had 
 vindicated herself — and though he affected to speak calmly 
 and dispassionately, a malicious gleam of satisfaction 
 betrayed the magistrate's secret triumph at the power 
 which he felt rested with him . to retaliate Katharine's 
 evident contempt. 
 
 " Well, " he observed, addressing the latter with 
 assumed mildness, " It will rest with you to produce 
 your mother — if there be such a person — on the trial of 
 the prisoner. Of course, if she acknowledges that this was 
 the identical note she gave the prisoner, and if she is the 
 
OF woman's life. 197 
 
 F . . 
 
 respectable person you represent her to be, that will go 
 far to remove the charge of his wilfully attempting to 
 pass a forgery upon the prosecutor." 
 
 " Oh, Heaven ! you cannot — you do not surely doubt 
 his innocence !" exclaimed Katharine, in agony. 
 
 The magistrate was about hastily and peremptorily to 
 interrupt her, but at this moment the man who had 
 brought the charge against St. Orme, stepped forward to 
 plead in favour of the latter — 
 
 " He was convinced," he said, " that he had acted too 
 hastily in making the accusation. The fact was, he had 
 been irritated by having within a few days taken a note 
 of the same amount, which had been returned to him 
 from the Bank of England, marked ' Forged,' and which 
 so strongly resembled the one offered by the gentleman 
 in the present instance, that he was led to believe that it 
 was the same manufacture." 
 
 "And how do you know it is not?" demanded the 
 • magistrate, sternly. 
 
 The man appeared for the moment daunted, but he 
 glanced at Katharine who seemed to dwell upon the 
 words that issued from his lips, as if her life depended 
 upon them, and he replied " That it might be. He could 
 not say it was not, but that did not prove that the gentle- 
 man who offered it was aware of it. He had not himself 
 found out that the first note was a bad one till it was 
 sent back to him, and it might have so happened that he 
 had passed it in the way of trade, instead of sending it to 
 the bank, and he should have thought it very hard indeed 
 if he had done so to be charged with knowingly uttering 
 a forgery. For his part he confessed that he firmly be- 
 lieved neither the gentleman nor the young lady were 
 aware that the note was a forgery, and he would, with 
 
198 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 his worship's permission, withdraw the charge he had 
 made." 
 
 This, however, the magistrate decidely refused to 
 allow. " There were quite suspicious circumstances 
 enough/" he observed, " to warrant his sending the 
 case to a jury. The yirl had, it was true, told a very 
 plausihle story as to the possession of the note, but 
 there was no legal proof that it was the same note she re- 
 ceived from her mother. The prisoner might have changed 
 the note she gave him for the false one he offered." 
 
 " I was searched, and no other money was found in 
 my possession," observed St. Orme. 
 
 "Yes, of that I was a witness," eagerly observed the 
 prosecutor, who seemed now as anxious to establish St. 
 Orme's innocence as he had been in the first instance 
 to prove his guilt. 
 
 The magistrate shook his head with an incredulous 
 smile, though he did not choose to explain how or why 
 he doubted a fact, which could have been farther con- 
 firmed by two or three officers, in whose presence St. 
 Orme had undergone the humiliation of having not 
 only his pockets, but every part of his clothes closely 
 examined. St. Onne felt every hope desert him as he 
 beheld the expression of those lips which were to pro- 
 nounce, not certainly his final doom, for of that he enter- 
 tained not the slightest fear. It was not merely the 
 consciousness of innocence that assured him of acquittal 
 by a jury, for his understanding assured him that there 
 was not in reality a single proof of the crime with which 
 he was charged, but it was in that mans power at once 
 to discharge him, or to condemn him to an ordeal that 
 was scarcely less dreadful in anticipation than would 
 have been the certainty of final condemnation, and from 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. l'.H) 
 
 that dreaded ordeal — that expression of scornful incre- 
 dulity left him scarcely a hope of escape. 
 
 St. Orme's first thoughts were certainly given to the 
 perilous situation in which he stood, for inevitable ruin 
 of all his fair prospects in the world must, he felt, be the 
 consequence of his being arraigned at the bar, while even 
 an acquittal would not remove the stigma which would 
 henceforth he attached to his name But he glanced at 
 Katharine, and all selfish considerations were in a 
 moment forgotten. What would be the fate of that 
 unfortunate girl, thus deprived of his protection, and 
 thrown again upon the world literally penniless and 
 houseless ? How could she exist without being again 
 thrown into the companionship of vice and misery, from 
 which he had at such a cost to himself rescued her ? 
 Would her mother attend to any representation of the 
 circumstances that had deprived her unhappy child even 
 of the temporary relief she (Mrs. Beresford) had bestowed, 
 or intended to bestow upon her ? Alas ! he feared the 
 severe truths that Katharine had uttered in her excite- 
 ment, as to the conduct of her unnatural parent, would 
 be an effectual bar to her doing what was in fact strictly 
 an act of justice, and which a stranger could have de- 
 manded of her, namely, to replace the fictitious note 
 she had given her by a good one ; and bitter was the 
 execration which rose to his lips against that proud, 
 austere, hard-hearted woman, as in imagination he be- 
 held Katharine again driven with contempt and reviling 
 from the door, which, even had she been the guilty 
 creature her mother chose to believe her, ought to 
 have been thrown open to her repentance, and have 
 gladly admitted her to the only shelter that could save 
 her from deeper degradation. But was she guilty ? Oh, 
 no ! St. Orme's heart fully acquitted her. He saw in 
 
200 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 her only a helpless sacrifice to the viliany of man and 
 the cruel injustice which visits his crime on the head 
 of his victim. 
 
 "Heaven in its infinite mercy protect her," he mur- 
 mured, his heart softening from the burning indignation 
 which had a few moments before vented itself in curses 
 on the head of her unnatural mother. 
 
 " Vat is she to you, mine goot friend?" muttered a 
 voice close to his ear. " Is she your sister, or your 
 shweetheart, or vat is she ?" 
 
 St. Orme turned in surprise to the speaker. He was 
 a man advanced in years, with features that were still 
 handsome, though decidedly of that peculiar cast that 
 bespoke him to belong to the Hebrew nation. 
 
 (< If you had attended to what has passed here, you 
 must know that she is neither," replied St. Orme in a 
 tone of marked displeasure. 
 
 <s Veil, veil, don't be angry, my goot friend," returned 
 the 3ew. " I have not been here long enough to larn 
 vhat she is, put I do pity her from my shoul, the poor 
 ting that look so proken heart." 
 
 St. Orme made no reply. He was — it must be con- 
 fessed—by no means desirous of encouraging the Jew's 
 familiar remarks, for he remembered at that moment 
 the injuries he had so recently suffered at the hands of 
 one of the tribe (Mrs. Jonas), and, contrary to his usual 
 liberal mode of thinking, he became instantly suspicious 
 of the man's intentions, and beheld with extreme indig- 
 nation that he had contrived to make his way through 
 the throng to the side of Katharine, and was apparently 
 addressing her in a whisper, although she was evidently 
 totally unconscious of it, her whole attention being 
 engrossed in watching the expression of the magistrate's 
 features, the latter being engaged in conference with the 
 
of woman's life. 201 
 
 prosecutor in a- voice tliat was inaudible to either her or 
 St. Orine, who, totally forgetting all that concerned him- 
 self, was solely occupied in trying to catch her eye, that 
 he might convey by signs to her an intimation to shun 
 the Jew, whom he suspected to be actuated by the worst 
 motives, in his attempt to communicate with her. 
 
 The magistrate at length resumed his most imposing 
 and authoritative position, and silence having been en- 
 forced in obedience to an intimation from him to one of 
 the attendants of the court, St. Orme was again called 
 upon by the term "Prisoner — " 
 
 " In consequence of the representations of the prose- 
 cutor in this case," he continued, " I have determined to 
 remand you for farther examination until this day week, 
 which will give time to make inquiries into your character 
 and connexions, as well as afford you an opportunity to 
 communicate with your friends, if you have any that can 
 serve you. You may go," he added, looking at Katha- 
 rine, " and let me caution you, if you get another ten 
 pound note to be careful whose hands you trust it to. 
 Call on the next case, officer !" 
 
 The remonstrance St. Orme would have addressed to 
 him, at being thus unjustly consigned to a prison for so 
 long a time, for which in his estimation there was not a 
 shadow of reason, was effectually prevented by the bustle 
 that took place in bringing up a prisoner, an Irishman, in 
 a state of mad intoxication, and who required the united 
 exertions of half-a-dozen officers to force him to the place 
 from which St. Orme was now withdrawn, and the latter 
 in vain attempted, through the crowd and confusion with 
 which he was surrounded, to catch a sight of Katharine, 
 whose faint shriek, as the magistrate pronounced his de- 
 cision, had pierced him to the heart. The last glimpse 
 
 2d 
 
202 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 he hiid of her, at the moment lie was withdrawn by the 
 rough grasp of the man to whose charge he was, it ap- 
 peared, committed, had shown him a countenance bearing 
 the ashy hue of death, her eyes fixed on him with an ex- 
 pression of utter despair, and her arms stretched out 
 towards him, as if taking an eternal farewell of every hope. 
 
 St. Orme's mind was in a tumult of mingled emotions. 
 At one moment he felt disposed to resist with violence 
 the power which separated them, and force his way to her 
 side ; hut the next showed him the hopelessness of such 
 an attempt, for what could his unaided strength do in a 
 contest with the powerful, reckless men to whom he 
 would have been opposed, and who would, no doubt, 
 have exerted all their force to resist such a daring vio- 
 lation of the forms of the court? He was still, however, 
 hesitating, when the officer who had taken charge of him 
 observed — 
 
 <f Perhaps you would wish to speak with the young 
 woman before you go ?" 
 
 St. Orme eagerly replied in the affirmative, adding — 
 
 " I shall indeed feel most grateful to you, if you can 
 procure me a few minutes' conversation with her. Unfor- 
 tunately, I have nothing at preseut but my thanks to 
 offer, but — " 
 
 " Oh, there, that 's enough of it ! " interrupted the man 
 gruffly. *' We know very well blood can't be got out of 
 a stone. I 'm quite aware people think we can't do 
 anything without being paid for it ; but we 're not quite 
 brutes ; though, in course, we don't throw money in the 
 kennel when we can earn it." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," observed St. Orme, fc if I have 
 offended you, but I am so utterly ignorant in affairs of 
 this kind." 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. -^08 
 
 "Ah! you needn't tell me that," returned the man, 
 with a grim smile. "It don*t require a double 'prcuticc- 
 ship at Bow Street — though I Ye served that — to sec 
 with half an eye you're a regular green un at this work.'' 
 
 St. Orme scarcely comprehended whether this was 
 spoken in contempt, or intended as a compliment, and he 
 therefore wisely remained silent, while the man made 
 some communication to one of his companions, who was 
 the only unoccupied person belonging to the court. 
 
 " I have sent word to her not to go till she has seen 
 you," he observed; "so now come along. It'll be an 
 hour or two yet before you 're sent down to Clerken- 
 well j so there 's plenty o' time to tell her all you want. 
 Come on." 
 
 Without being able to form the slightest conjecture 
 where he was going, or the meaning of being sent down 
 to Clerkenwell, the name of which he only recognised as 
 having read of as a place of resort for the citizens of 
 ancient London, for their various pastimes — St. Orme 
 silently yielded himself to the direction of his conductor, 
 who, to his surprise, led him out of the office across the 
 street, and through the passage of a public-house, which 
 he saw was distinguished as the " Brown Bear," and at 
 the back of which was situated the temporary prison in 
 which were immured the prisoners who had undergone 
 examination at the office, until, the business being con- 
 cluded, they were collectively conveyed to the gaol at 
 Clerkenwell, there to remain until their trial. 
 
 St. Orme's heart sank as he beheld the heavy door, 
 studded thickly with large nails, which his conductor 
 unlocked; and still more did he feel appalled at the 
 dismal, dirty interior ; destitute of all accommodation, 
 except a solid wooden bench, which was not moveable, 
 
204 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 being fixed to the wall of the room, which received all the 
 light and air allowed the unhappy inmates from a window 
 too high to be reached, and from which all hope of escape 
 was prevented by the heavy iron bars, admitting only so 
 much of the blessed light of Heaven as served to render 
 " darkness visible." There were already two inhabitants 
 of this wretched place, but this St. Orme did not dis- 
 cover till some time after the key had turned gratingly in 
 the lock, shutting out for a few minutes, as he thought, 
 all hope — sealing his ruin. 
 
 " And Katharine — poor Katharine ! " he uttered aloud, 
 unconscious that any one was near him. 
 
 " Ah ! that a the worst on it, master," observed a 
 voice that made him start, so near it was to his elbow. 
 
 St. Orme now discovered that the speaker was lying 
 along the bench, so as to bring his head almost in con- 
 tact with the former ; but the next moment the stranger, 
 as if excited by his (St. Omie's) words, raised himself to 
 an upright position. 
 
 " That 's the worst on it," he repeated, "it 's the poor 
 wives as suffers. As to a man's own self, why he 's only 
 got to make up his mind to take things as they come, 
 and not show his teeth when he can't bite, and he may 
 manage to pull through it pretty easy; but it's when he's 
 left his heart outside — when the cruel stone walls and 
 cold iron gates shuts out the poor wife, that's got not 
 another friend in the world, and, perhaps — as is my case 
 — two or three young uns ; it 's them, I say, that makes 
 a gaol a hell upon earth. Oh ! it a mighty fine to talk 
 of making a good man out of a bad one, by taking and 
 shutting him up away from all his fellow-creatures — de- 
 nied even the use of his speech, that the Almighty gave 
 him to distinguish him from the brutes; shut out, 
 
of woman's life. 205 
 
 almost, from the sight of the blessed sun, and seeing 
 nothing but the faces of them that 's as bad, or perhaps 
 worse than yourself; or, if they are good, are so proud of 
 their goodness, that they look down upon you as if a 
 different race of creatures to them — " 
 
 "And so they are," hastily exclaimed another man, 
 who had gradually, St Orme observed, drawn nearer to 
 the speaker, from a corner in which he had been pre- 
 viously seated in a desponding position. "They are 
 different to us. What do they know of our feelings— of 
 our cares— our troubles? Why, they ain't even the same 
 flesh and blood. Nonsense ! do you say ? No, it isn't 
 nonsense. Look at their pampered bodies ; fed on all 
 the delicacies— the very fat of the land— what have they 
 in common with us ? I say, nothing. And yet they 
 pretend to judge of our feelings, and talk of what we 
 ought to do, and how we ought to act, just as if they 
 were better judges than ourselves, and as if we didn't 
 know what 's right, and what 's wrong, as well as they, if 
 we could do it ; if we could— that's what I say— but we 
 can't. Oh ! I should only like to put a few of them into 
 our places for a few weeks — I wouldn 't ask longer. Let 
 them suffer all we suffer — what I have. I say, I won't 
 judge for any one but myself. Look here, Sir," and he 
 turned to St. Orme; " it 's five months since I have had 
 a week's work. How we Ve lived, my poor old woman 
 and I can't tell you. It hasn't been living— it was dying 
 by inches ; many a day we 've laid down at night without 
 breaking our fast, except with- a drink of water. Nobody 
 pitied us, because we had no family— no children. 'Go 
 and work,' was all the answer I got, wherever I applied. 
 Work ! I would have worked till my arms dropped off, if 
 they would have given it me to do. But, oh no ! it 
 
800 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 wasn't their place to find me work, and so there it went 
 on, day after day, week after week, till at last — Well, I 
 don't care. Hunger will break through stone walls, they 
 say. It did more with me — it made a thief of an honest 
 man. Yes ; I don't care now who knows it. Nobody 
 can gainsay it; I was an honest man — I had never taken 
 to the value of a pin's point that didn't belong to me, 
 but I saw my wife — the woman that twenty years ago I 
 swore to love, and cherish, and nourish — dying before my 
 eyes, on the bare ground, for a morsel of bread ; and I 
 left her with an oath upon my lips — Heaven forgive me ! 
 — that she shouldn't perish in a land of plenty. Well, I 
 did save her — thank Heaven ! — but I was an awkward 
 hand at my new trade, and we 'd hardly finished the 
 meat I 'd bought at such a heavy price, when I was 
 tracked to my wretched home, and now — here I am. 
 I don't know what they 11 do with me, and if it 
 wasn 't for her, poor soul, I shouldn 't much care, for I 
 know I shall eat while I 'm in gaol. They daren't let me 
 starve there, and that 's what puzzles me ; it seems as if 
 poverty is a greater crime than thieving. I can't make it 
 out at all, for I know if I'd kept honest I must have died 
 in some hole or corner; and now they tell me I shall 
 have a bed and victuals, three meals a day. Why, one a 
 day, and a little straw to lie down upon, a week ago, and 
 I should have been still an honest man ; I wonder how 
 they can answer this, our great people, that — " 
 
 The door was unlocked, and St. Orme was relieved 
 from the painful attention to this piteous story, which 
 had been delivered with a feeling and excitement that 
 would not permit a doubt of its truth. Supposing it to 
 be, without a doubt, Katharine, who was now introduced, 
 St. Ormo started eagerly forward to receive her, but he 
 
of woman's life. 207 
 
 retreated and returned to his seat with a look of equal 
 surprise and disappointment, at discovering that the new 
 comer was a young man, or rather lad, for his age could 
 not have exceeded eighteen, and who, with an air of the 
 utmost case and assumed fashionahle vonchulance, ad- 
 vanced towards the middle of the room, and drawing out 
 a showy eye-glass from his hosom, which was suspended 
 by a broad black ribbon from his neck, commenced a 
 deliberate survey of the previous occupants of the room, 
 dwelling especially on the features of St. Orme, who 
 felt the blood rush into his face — to the very roots of 
 his hair — at this impertinent scrutiny, which he naturally 
 supposed was in pursuance of the observation made by 
 the magistrate at the close of the previous examination, 
 that the adjournment, as St. Orme would have called it, 
 or, in the technical term, the remand, was principally in- 
 tended to afford time for a discovery of his (St. Orme's) 
 character and connexions. The fashionable, almost it 
 might be said, elegant style and the expensive materials 
 of which the clothes of the new comer were made, was 
 very striking, although their effect in giving him the 
 decided impress of a gentleman, or a man of fashion, 
 was in a great measure marred by an expression of 
 vulgar and impudent self-sufficiency, which destroyed 
 what otherwise might have been the favourable impres- 
 sion which is generally made by a handsome regular set 
 of features, a fine florid complexion, very white teeth 
 and a profusion of glossy well-kept chesnut curls, 
 arranged round the face and over the white forehead, 
 in a style of boyishness that was at that time very 
 peculiar and uncommon. Had St. Orme been entirely 
 self-possessed and capable of exerting his naturally acute 
 powers of observation, it is probable that he would very 
 
208 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 quickly have discovered the imposture that was attempted 
 by these borrowed plumes, although his inexperience in 
 the ways of the world, especially the metropolitan world, 
 would even then have prevented his suspecting the true 
 character that they concealed ; but his mind was at the 
 present moment pre-occupied with the galling idea that 
 lie was an object of suspicion to all around him, and he 
 therefore came at once to the conclusion that the young 
 gentleman — or, as he would have been called in times 
 nearer our own, the (/cut — was now endeavouring with 
 the aid of his glass either to trace a resemblance to some 
 criminal who had hitherto escaped the hands of justice, 
 or was impressing on his memory the most striking traits 
 of his (St. Orme's) countenance, to guard against him 
 for the time to come. In either case the conviction was 
 sufficient to rouse almost to madness his pride and indig- 
 nation, and starting from the bench on which he had 
 thrown himself he imperiously exclaimed — 
 
 " Fellow ! how dare you insult me by making me the 
 subject of your observation ? Put that ridiculous toy out 
 of sight, or apply it to some better purpose, if you do 
 not wish to see me crush it under my foot." 
 
 "Feller, who are you a fellor-ing?" returned the youth 
 in a vulgar, discordant, and insolent tone. " You arn't 
 all silk, I spose, any more than I'm satin. Vhy shouldn't 
 I look at you if I likes, as veil as anybody else. Blow 
 me, but that is a rum go, and no mistake." 
 
 " I have been mistaken in you, it appears," returned 
 St. Orme in a contemptuous tone, and calmly reseating 
 himself, half-smiling at the secret conviction that he 
 had totally mistaken the character and intentions of the 
 young man, who, having carefully wiped the offensive 
 glass, dropped it within the bosom of his splendid satin 
 
of woman's life. 209 
 
 waistcoat, as if to secure it from the threatened danger, 
 and then swaggered to the farther end of the room, 
 keeping however his eye on St. Orme with an expression 
 of mingled doubt and curiosity, and muttering to himself 
 some expressions, which, though sounding like terms of 
 defiance, were nearly unintelligible to him to whom they 
 were indirectly addressed. For the next half hour he 
 continued to pace up and down, at first with the same 
 assumption of superiority, although it sat very awkwardly 
 upon his evidently naturally sociable good tempered 
 disposition, while St. Orme endeavoured for a time to be- 
 guile himself from the contemplation of his own miseries, 
 past, present, and to come, by forming a thousand con- 
 jectures as to the actual situation in life of the would-be 
 young gentleman, and the course that had compelled the 
 latter to become an associate of those whom he affected 
 so deeply to despise, for he had never condescended to 
 address a word to the two poor men, who, each absorbed 
 in his own peculiar cause of unhappiness, nevertheless, 
 from time to time made an attempt to console each other, 
 especially by the frequent repetition of that which never 
 fails to suggest itself to low and narrow minds, namely, 
 that, after all, there were many, even among those that 
 they had left behind them in the world — from which they 
 were now shut out — that would be glad to change places 
 with them. This was a subject which seemed at once to 
 possess the power of thawing the ice in which the splendid 
 young gentleman had endeavoured to encrust himself. 
 
 "Aye, what's the odds as long as you're happy !" he 
 exclaimed, taking a place on the bench by the side of 
 the last speaker, and throwing up his legs as if in actual 
 enjoyment of the sudden dismissal of his dignity. " They 
 
 can't scrag a fellor for helping himself to a reader and a 
 
 2 E 
 
210 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 few flimsies in a civil way, and if they give me a couple 
 o' years in the Stone Jug, or even seven penn'orth, why 
 they must find you in grub and huh for that time, and 
 only take care of yourself and keep up your sperrits, and 
 you'll come out at the end o' the time as fresh as a four 
 year old, and have larn't maybe whal'll make you a master 
 man for the rest o* your lives." 
 
 "What is the meaning of all that he has said?" de- 
 manded St. Orme in a low voice of the man nearest him 
 — the poor fellow who had so deeply interested him by 
 • his warm attachment to his wife, and the unsophisticated, 
 though undoubtedly erroneous vindication of the offence 
 he had committed against the laws — " What does this 
 strange being mean, for I scarcely understand a word he 
 has uttered, although he appears to intend it especially 
 for my edification ? Do you understand his strange 
 terms ? " 
 
 The man replied that he did, and then, glancing to- 
 wards the youth, and seeing he was engaged in some very 
 animated detail with the person who had been the first to 
 address St Orme, he proceeded to enlighten the latter 
 as follows : — 
 
 " The boy — for he isn't much more than a boy, though 
 he takes upon himself to play the man, and can beat half 
 the men in London in wickedness — is a pickpocket, and 
 has been so ever since he was the height of this table. 
 His father was transported, and he was bom in Newgate, 
 — the Stone Jug as he calls it — and where his mother was 
 serving her twelve months, for helping his father in the 
 robbery he was sent out of the country for. If she hadn't 
 been a lawful wife they 'd have sent her too, for it was 
 she that planned it all, and got into the house and let 
 him in ; they do say, if he'd listened to her, they would 
 
of woman's life. 211 
 
 have murdered the poor old lady, who was their landlady, 
 and had been very good to her. Oh, a wicked woman is 
 ten times worse than a man, you may depend on it, master. 
 However, as I said, she was a lawful wife, and so she 
 got off with a twelve month, and there this hoy was horn. 
 Well, I h'lieve if they had done anything for her like 
 Christians, when her time was up, she might be living 
 now and a decent woman, for they say her heart was 
 changed for good by what she learnt there, and she was 
 always willing to work at the worst of times in his life 
 time ; hut much more would she have done now for the 
 sake of her child, for him she doated on. But no, the 
 time came round and she was turned out with the baby in 
 her arms, and a few shillings in her pocket. They said 
 that she went down upon her knees to them to let her 
 stay ill prison ; but no, in course that could n't be done. 
 Well, there's the workhouse, you'll say. Yes, but her 
 parish was over in Scotland, and there, they said, she 
 must be passed. Well, she was proud, and her friends 
 there decent people. They didn't know the disgrace that 
 had fallen upon her and her husband, and she made up 
 her mind rather to die and kill her child than be sent 
 to her friends with such a story as would go down with 
 her. And her husband had a father and mother too there 
 in the same place, religious people, that never dreamed 
 of the shame that had fallen on the boy and girl that had 
 left them innocent and good to come up to London, 
 where they was to make their fortune, and get back to 
 live with them (the old people) in their latter days. It's 
 too long a story, and, indeed, I don't rightly know how 
 they fell from one thing to another, in this horrible Lon- 
 don, till they grew desperate, and turned altogether to 
 bad ; till, as I 've told you, he was transported, and she 
 
212 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 stood a beggar in tbe streets, with her child— that boy 
 there — in her arms. But the old people never knew it. 
 She swore they shouldn't, and she kept her oath. Nothing 
 could get out of her where was her settlement till her 
 dying day. She wouldn't let even the boy know it, for 
 fear he should some time make his way down, and carry 
 disgrace to them with him. Well ! it's a sad story. 
 Starvation forced her to go back to them that had ruined 
 her and her husband first, and soon all her good resolu- 
 tions were drowned in drink. How could the boy be 
 expected to turn out any better than he has, in such a 
 school, which was all the education he received ? But 
 her heart wasn't quite hardened, even yet; and so, though 
 it was nothing but what she might be sure would happen 
 — but so it was, that when, at nine years old, he was 
 taken with some others, older and bigger, for picking 
 pockets at Peckham Fair, and the Justice— the very same 
 that his father had stood before, and she heard him — a 
 harsh, severe man he is — sent the boy to gaol for three 
 months, to hard labour and a flogging; and, what was 
 even worse to the poor mother's heart, prophesied that 
 he was doomed to come to the gallows, and laid the 
 blame upon the parents, and said he was sorry he could 
 not punish them as well as the boy, and that they'd have 
 to answer for it in another world, for the ruin of the boy 
 — that was her death-blow. She wandered about the 
 prison — the House of Correction, as it's called — day 
 and night, neither eating nor drinking, and calling for 
 her boy — her beautiful boy. He was as handsome a child 
 as ever eyes were set on ; but that 's nothing, a child 's 
 always beautiful in its mother's eyes. Well, to make an 
 end of my dismal story — when he came out of prison his 
 mother was raving in a madhouse, and he had not a soul 
 
OF "WOMAN'S LIFE. 213 
 
 to give him a crust of bread except those who had first 
 taught him to steal. None could wonder that the boy 
 listened to their persuasions. Well, from that time he 
 has been a regular thief, and is in a fair way to make the 
 Justice's words come true, for he is now the Captain — as 
 they call it — of a gang that 's known well to all the 
 officers ; and clever as he is — they say the cleverest in all 
 London — he 's been in prison half his time since his 
 mother died." 
 
 " He has little chance, then, of getting off this time, I 
 apprehend?" observed St. Orme, who had listened with 
 extreme interest to this melancholy detail. 
 
 "Heaven knows," returned the man; "nobody can 
 tell, till the trial 's over, how it will go. It's not a man's 
 guilt or innocence that you can judge by how it will end." 
 St. Ormc looked at him with surprise. It was evident 
 he believed what he asserted, and yet there could he no 
 doubt he was but too well experienced in such matters. 
 
 " How do you explain what you 've said ? " at length 
 observed St. Orme. " On what can a person charged 
 with crime rely, if not on his innocence ? " 
 
 " His counsel," returned the man briefly. " Heaven 
 bless you ! I, myself, would almost rather be guilty, with 
 
 Counsellor or to defend me, than be innocent, 
 
 and have either of them against me. Ah ! if you 'd heard 
 them, as I have, turn and twist truth into falsehood, and 
 falsehood into truth, and wheedle, and coax, and bully, 
 and frighten— just as suited their purpose best — a witness 
 who meant to tell nothing but the plain truth ; but, be- 
 fore they have gone out of the witness-box, have been 
 brought to say the very reverse — to utter such lies that 
 they have afterwards been frightened to think what they 
 have done, and have been ready to hang themselves at 
 
214 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 reflecting that they had been made such dupes by men 
 who were paid to make black appear white, as I may say, 
 and through whose cunning and art they have perhaps 
 been made the means of making a man, whom they knew 
 to be innocent, appear a monster of guilt ; or, on the 
 other hand — just as it happened the counsel was paid — 
 have been made the means of getting off a wretch that 
 wasn 't worthy to live, and whom both he — the counsel, 
 I mean — and the witness knew to be so, at the very 
 minute he was calling Heaven and earth to witness that 
 he believed him to be as innocent as the babe unborn.'' 
 
 " But the jury," observed St. Orme, still unwilling to 
 believe, though confessing that it was a subject on which 
 he had never thought until it was brought home to him 
 by the situation in which he was so unexpectedly and 
 undeservedly placed — " The jury, surely, are not easily 
 misled by men such as you describe ? They must know — " 
 
 " Psha ! the jury !" repeated the man, " what are they 
 in genera], but men as easily led one way as the other, by 
 
 such as or ; or, as is the case ninety-nine 
 
 times out of a hundred, scarcely know, in spite of the fine 
 speeches that are made to them, that they have a right to 
 decide contrary to what the judge takes care in his sum- 
 ming up, as they call it, to let them know is his opinion 
 of the prisoner's guilt or innocence. No, no ! they 
 may talk as they like about a jury deciding, but it 
 is the judge — the judge. 'We couldn't do otherwise.' 
 I once heard a juryman say, after he and the other 
 eleven had given a verdict that he knew was un- 
 just, and was reproached for it — 'We couldn't do 
 
 otherwise. I was against it at first, and so was and 
 
 , and perhaps others that didn't speak what they 
 
 thought ; but our foreman said that we couldn't, after 
 
of woman's life. 215 
 
 what the judge had said, find the man ' not guilty.' It 
 would he flying in the face of his lordship, who sat there 
 to guide us, to go into court with such a verdict ; and, of 
 course, we were ohliged to say what our foreman said, 
 though I own it went against the grain with me, who 
 knew the poor fellow was innocent.' This is fact," con- 
 tinued the man, who saw that St. Orme still looked incre- 
 dulous — " Mind, I do not say that it was a London 
 jury ; it may he they are in general hetter informed ; nor 
 was the case one of life and death ; perhaps, if it had 
 heen, the Welsh jurymen — for it was in South Wales I 
 speak of — might have hesitated a little longer; but I tell 
 it you, to show how possible it is that — " 
 
 St. Orme did not hear the conclusion of what had 
 given rise to so many contending feelings in his bosom, 
 for the door of the strong room, as it was called, was 
 again unlocked, and this time it was Katharine Beresford 
 it admitted, who stood in trembling hesitation, and then, 
 advancing a few steps, looked eagerly round for the object 
 of her search, who was at the further extremity of the 
 room. 
 
 " Me ! my adorable, beautiful angel ? " exclaimed the 
 youth, whose probable fate had given rise to the discus- 
 sion on judges and juries — " Me, is it, that you have 
 come to visit ? " and he sprang to her side at one bound 
 from his seat, which was much nearer to the door than 
 St. Orme's. " Oh, say 'Yes!' and make me the happiest 
 mortal on the face of the earth," he added, in the same 
 tone of levity and bombast ; " I will defy chains, fetters, 
 gaols — all that the cruel world — " 
 
 Before he could finish the sentence he felt himself 
 seized with a powerful grasp, and thrown off several 
 yards' distance towards the spot he had quitted. 
 
210 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "Keep your distance, fellow," exclaimed. St. Orme, 
 who had seen with indignation how greatly his abrupt 
 and ridiculous address had added to Katharine's alarm 
 and perplexity, in this to her novel situation. 
 
 "Feller!" again he repeated; "this is the second 
 time you 've chose to call me that to-day. Who are you, 
 I should like to know, that you 're to come Cappen 
 Grand over us ? Let the gal speak for herself. I don't 
 want to interfere with any man's woman, and if she says 
 it 's you that — " 
 
 St. Orme, however, did not let him finish the sentence 
 — the epithet he had applied to Katharine, and the inso- 
 lence with which he attempted to seize her hand, to draw 
 her from the side of the former, to which she clung as for 
 protection, kindled his naturally impetuous temper, and 
 seizing the offender by the throat, he dragged him away, 
 and threw him with violence on the bench. 
 
 " Let go ! Don't go to spoil my neck-handkerchief ! " 
 he exclaimed with violence. " I '11 be bound you havn't 
 got blunt enough in your pocket to buy me another." 
 
 St. Orme, with a feeling of utter contempt, instantly 
 released his hold. 
 
 " Miserablewretch ! " he exclaimed, " you are, indeed, 
 beneath my resentment." 
 
 " Oh ah ! to be sure, that's mighty fine," returned the 
 other, who had by this time taken off the treasured 
 article, and, having satisfied himself that it was not in- 
 jured by St. Orme's violence, deliberately laid it aside. 
 " It's mighty fine to turn your nose up at it," he repeated, 
 " but, may-be, if you knew what it has cost me to make a 
 gentleman of myself, you wouldn't think any part of m y 
 dress so despicable." 
 
 " That is true — true, indeed," replied St. Orme, speak- 
 
of woman's life. 217 
 
 ing rather to himself than to his late antagonist, and 
 struck with a sudden emotion of pity for the poor igno- 
 rant and infatuated victim of the world's neglect and 
 cruelty — " Forgive me/' he added ; " if I have heen rash 
 and hasty with you, I am sorry for it." 
 
 The young man looked up at him with an expression 
 of mingled curiosity and distrust. 
 
 " Well ! you 're a rum un, I must say, and I "m hlowed 
 if I know what to make of you. First, you try to choke 
 me, and then heg my pardon for having heen like to spoil 
 my 'broidered neck-handkerchief ; though, may-he, I shall 
 never want to wear it again, for, if I get seven-pcnnorth, 
 it will he out of fashion hefore I come hack again." 
 
 St. Orme turned away from this strange compound of 
 vice and levity, through which he fancied he could dis- 
 cern some trace of a better feeling. But again his for- 
 bearance was put to a severe test. 
 
 He had seated himself by Katharine, on the bench 
 near the door, and as far as possible from the other occu- 
 pants of the room, to enable her and himself to confer 
 without being overheard, and had commenced giving her 
 instructions as to the course which he wished her to 
 adopt, when his late antagonist, who had been from time 
 to time throwing strange sinister looks towards the pair, 
 while he himself had been busily employed in removing 
 from his dress all marks of the discomposure it had — or 
 which he fancied it had — undergone during the late con- 
 test ; brushing his knees and elbows with a handsome 
 silk handkerchief, pulling his waistcoat down and his 
 trousers up, smoothing the creases in the elaborately dis- 
 played embroidered shirt front, and finishing all by re- 
 tying the splendid covering of his throat, which had 
 occasioned the late discussion, and excited feelings in 
 
 2 F 
 
218 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 St. Orme's kind heart which the other was incapable of 
 comprehending ; he at length arose, and placing his hat, 
 which, had also been carefully smoothed, on his head, so as 
 to bring it down over one eye, and thus give what he, no 
 doubt, considered peculiar smartness, but in reality in- 
 creased considerably the expression of vulgar impudence, 
 which had from the first struck St. Orrne as being so 
 inconsistent with the style and quality of his dress; he 
 sauntered towards the spot where they were sitting, 
 whistling, but evidently not like the rustic swain of the 
 poet — "for want of thought." On the contrary, it was 
 plain, from the expression of his countenance, that his 
 present movement, as well as the careful toilette that had 
 preceded it, were the result of what he considered a pecu- 
 liarly clever and decisive resolution. 
 
 Katharine was the first who noticed his approach, and 
 divined immediately his intention of again addressing 
 either her or St, Orme, and with trembling solicitude she 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Do not suffer this man to provoke you again into a 
 quarrel ! " 
 
 St. Orme started in surprise. A suspicion for a mo- 
 ment darted into his mind, that she had known him 
 before the present meeting, and was solicitous for his 
 safety ; for, though robust and particularly agile, he was 
 still too youthful to be a dangerous, or, as he (St. Orme) 
 thought, an equal match for himself in a personal contest. 
 The unequivocal expression of disgust and haughtiness 
 which Katharine's fine countenance unequivocally be- 
 trayed, as the conceited being approached, banished the 
 suspicion almost as soon as it was formed ; and, though 
 provoked at the man's pertinacity in again attempting to 
 force himself upon their notice, he smiled as he assured her, 
 
op woman's life. 219 
 
 that he was determined to show the utmost forbearance 
 towards one whom he said he regarded as an object of 
 pity rather than of any resentful feeling. 
 
 " I tell you what it is," observed the young man, 
 stopping before them, and throwing himself into a swag- 
 gering attitude, resting one hand upon his hip, and twirl- 
 ing a slight polished black cane with a silver head, which 
 formed a part of his fashionable equipment, round and 
 round on the finger of the other, so as to describe a series 
 of circles in the air — " I tell you what it is ; I should 
 just like it explained what you mean by treating me in 
 the manner you 've done in the presence of this young 
 woman, because the last time she and I were together 
 she behaved very different to me ; and if it hadn't been 
 for a bit of jealousy — not that I cared for the other gal 
 a bit, and I 'd have given her turnups that very night, if 
 she — (looking at Katharine) — " 
 
 St. Orme, who had been, as it were, paralysed at the 
 fellow's first observation, and unable to utter a word, 
 now started up ; he could bear no longer the impudent 
 familiarity with which the former spoke to and of Katha- 
 rine, and yet there was something in her look and man- 
 ner — an absence of the natural surprise which she might 
 have been expected to feel — that scarcely admitted a 
 doubt that this was not the first time they had met. 
 
 "Silence, rascal!" he (St. Orme) exclaimed. "How 
 dare you address your insolent observations to me or this 
 young lady, who I am sure — if she has had the mis- 
 fortune to be thrown into your society — knows nothing 
 of your character? Speak, Katharine," he continued, 
 turning to her — " What — or — How do you know this 
 man?" 
 
 "I have seen him before," uttered Katharine; "it is the 
 
220 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 young mnn to whom I was indebted for defending me, as 
 I told you, at the time I — " 
 
 Before, however, she could finish the sentence, it was 
 interrupted by the object of the explanation, who, having 
 suddenly taken off his coat, threw himself into a fighting 
 attitude in front of St. Ormc, and exclaimed — 
 
 " Come, let 's have no more of your palavering ; we '11 
 soon see which is the best man, you or I ; and that shall 
 settle it, for I know, if the gal was left to her own 
 choice — " 
 
 A blow from St. Orme, who was too much enraged at 
 his unexampled impudence to listen to the dictates of 
 reason, sent his assailant staggering half across the 
 room, and he was only prevented measuring his length 
 upon the floor, by coming in contact with the officer to 
 whose charge St. Orme had been committed, and who, 
 unobserved by cither party, had at that moment entered 
 the room. 
 
 "Holloa! What the devil is the meaning of this?" 
 he exclaimed, looking at St. Ormc with surprise and 
 doubt. " Surely you and ' Windsor Fred,' or ' My Lord 
 Frederic,' as they call him — " 
 
 "I know nothing of the fellow," interrupted St. Orme; 
 " never saw him before; but he has insulted this young 
 lady, who was unfortunately thrown into his society by 
 accident." 
 
 " Pretty society ! " interrupted the officer, looking con- 
 temptuously at Katharine. " I 'd advise her to recollect, 
 that ' Birds of a feather flock together ; ' and if she wants 
 to keep herself out of trouble she 11 drop ' My Lord's' 
 society altogether, though, for the matter of that, she 
 wont be likely to have much of it for at least seven years 
 to come. But let's have no more of this nonsense. Mr. 
 
of woman's life. 221 
 
 Fred., put on your coat, for time's up here, and you 11 
 find something else to do than quarrelling about the 
 women." 
 
 St. Orme's face glowed with indignation at this morti- 
 fying treatment of Katharine, against whom the man was 
 evidently prejudiced by some means, although he had 
 previously appeared interested in her favour. But the 
 former felt that time was too precious at the present 
 minute to waste it in endeavouring to remove this preju- 
 dice against the poor girl, whom he now drew aside to 
 repeat to her his instructions — all, indeed, he could do in 
 her favour — which was to seek Mr. Marlow, whose ad- 
 dress he gave her, and communicate to him without any 
 reserve all that had happened, including of course her 
 own sad history. 
 
 " There is some money due to me from the concern in 
 which I hold a situation," he concluded; " but, even should 
 my friend Marlow think it unadvisable to apply for it, he 
 will, I am sure, not refuse my request, which you will 
 convey to him, to advance what he thinks necessary to 
 enable you to take a respectable lodging for the present, 
 until I get over this disagreeable business and can make 
 arrangements for the future. Keep up your spirits, 
 Katharine," he concluded. " I will not deceive you by 
 pretending that I am in circumstances to provide for you 
 as you ought to be supported, but I will at least promise 
 that — " 
 
 "Come, come, Mr. What 's-your-name," interrupted 
 the officer, who had evidently been listening to St. Orme's 
 observations impatiently — "I can't have no more of this, 
 the lady must go. Besides," he added, in a sneering 
 tone, "your keeping her here may be the means of her 
 losing a better chance than you, it seems, can offer her." 
 
222 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "What do you mean ? " demanded St. Orme, surprised 
 and angry at the man's tone. " What do you know of 
 Miss Beresford, that — " 
 
 "Oh, Miss Beresford, if that's her name, knows what 
 I mean," he replied; "but it's nothing to me if you 
 choose to be gammoned with a pretty, modest face, and 
 soft words; though I should think you 've had enough of 
 the trouble they bring young men into already. She 
 wont find the old Jew quite so easily talked over,'' he 
 added in a half- aside tone, and with a significant and 
 most offensive wink to the bystanders, the two men whom 
 St. Orrne had found in the room when first he entered it, 
 and who had both started forward on the first indication 
 of violence on the part of " Lord Frederic," as he was 
 called in derision, and whom, we need hardly say, Katha- 
 rine had recognised as the young man whose interference 
 in her favour had excited the jealousy of his sweetheart 
 Emma, on the night that she had been so cruelly assaulted 
 by the woman Wyatt. 
 
 " The old Jew ! " The words seemed to strike like a 
 dagger to St. Orme's heart. " Could it be possible that 
 the man had any reasonable foundation for the insinua- 
 tion his words, and still more his looks, conveyed ? Could 
 it be that, after all, he was deceived in his belief of 
 Katharine's innocence ? Oh no, no ! that lovely appeal- 
 ing face, which, at first dyed deep with the crimson blush 
 of insulted modesty, now paled beneath the keen pene- 
 trating look he turned upon her, as though he would 
 have read her heart." The quivering lips which with dif- 
 ficulty breathed forth the words — 
 
 " You cannot — you do not — believe me so lost, so de- 
 graded ;" and the passionate burst of tears that followed 
 —all attested the truth. But St. Orme was prevented 
 
OF woman's life. 223 
 
 requiring the explanation of her traducer which he felt 
 was due to her, hy the entrance of another officer, and 
 the peremptory order that was given to Katharine imme- 
 diately to leave the room, the last comer angrily exclaim- 
 ing against the indulgence that had been shown, in suf- 
 fering her to remain so long. 
 
 " I was a fool for letting her in at all," grumbled the 
 first one. "If I'd known as much as I do now, I wouldn't 
 have done it. Why, she 's an old acquaintance of ' My 
 Lord's,' here, it seems; and when I came up just now he 
 and this greenhorn were pitching into one another like 
 bricks about her." 
 
 With difficulty St. Orme restrained the expression of 
 his rage at this palpable misrepresentation, w 7 hich he 
 could not avoid hearing, though apparently not intended 
 for his ear. But his thoughts were soon withdrawn to a 
 more immediately personal source of mortification, if 
 such an expression could be applied to the tumult of 
 feelings that overwhelmed him at learning that he should 
 be compelled to pass along the streets in the open day to 
 the gaol, fettered to one of his companions, there being 
 then no carnages appropriated to the conveyance of those 
 charged with offence against the law, and all being alike 
 subjected to this horrible exposure who could not pay for 
 indulgence. 
 
 " I will die first," exclaimed St. Orme, springing back, 
 as he saw the preparations made to handcuff him to one 
 of the other men. " Do you think I will submit to what 
 must stamp indelible disgrace upon me, wdien I know 
 myself to be innocent ? No, no ! do not touch me, fur I 
 tell you I will die first. I will never leave this place 
 alive, unless some other means are adopted to convey me 
 to the prison. Promise me that and I will go quietly." 
 
224 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Chut ! cliut ! this is all nonsense, young fellow," re- 
 turned the officer who had last entered the room, hut 
 who, however, took care to keep out of reach of St. Orrae, 
 who had snatched up the pair of handcuffs, and now 
 stood, with frenzied look, prepared to rush on and strike 
 down with them, as a weapon of defence, the first who 
 should approach to seize him. " You had better give in 
 quietly," continued the man," " for I can soon summon 
 assistance that will show you what child's play all your 
 resistance is. If you 've got money to pay for a coach, 
 you, as well as c My Lord,' here, can ride like a gentle- 
 man ; but if you have not — " 
 
 " I have not ; I have been robbed of all I had about 
 me," replied St. Orrne ; "but I have friends to whom I 
 have sent, who will repay — " 
 
 " Well, come, I will trust for once to the honour of a 
 gentleman," interrupted the gruff old officer, to whom St. 
 Orrne had been indebted for the introduction of Katha- 
 rine. " I '11 go and get a coach." 
 
 "More fool you !" exclaimed the other. "I should 
 have thought twenty years' experience would have taught 
 how little the promises of these sort of gentlemen are to 
 be depended on." 
 
 But the man was gone without listening to this re- 
 monstrance, and in a few minutes St. Orrne was released 
 from the presence of his antagonist, the pickpocket, who 
 had evidently enjoyed his mortification at the prospect of 
 being compelled to pass along the streets on foot. 
 
 The old man returned, and announced that the coach 
 was waiting. 
 
 " You wont, of course, object to these two men going 
 with us," he observed, alluding to the two whom St. Orrne 
 had found in the room, and who were already prepared 
 
OF woman's life. 228 
 
 for their degrading exhibition in the streets, by being 
 handcuffed together. 
 
 "Certainly not !" was St. Orme's ready reply ; " I am 
 glad, indeed, that it is in my power to save them from a 
 degradation -which none should be subjected to whose 
 guilt has not been proved." 
 
 " Well then, come. This I can't save you from," he 
 added, taking up one of the handcuffs, " but nobody will 
 see you, you will be in the coach in a minute." 
 
 St. Orme's heart sunk, but he felt too much indebted 
 to the man to resist what he declared to be indispensable, 
 and with his wrist linked to that of the officer, and pre- 
 ceded by the other two men, who were fastened together, 
 he descended the stairs. The coach was waiting at the 
 door, and St. Orme would have sprung into it and thus 
 escaped all recognition; but, besides that he had to wait 
 while the others awkwardly ascended the steps, he was 
 further detained by the heavy, slow movements of the 
 man to whom he was attached, and, while thus kept stand- 
 ing on the pavement, he furtively glanced around at the 
 persons who — probably aware of the purpose for which 
 the coach was drawn up at the Brown Bear — were 
 eagerly awaiting the appearance of its destined freight. 
 Among those who were nearest, and whose countenances 
 expressed no feeling beyond vulgar curiosity, there was 
 no face that St. Orme recognised as having seen be- 
 fore, and with inward satisfaction he turned from this 
 rapid investigation, and was endeavouring to assist and 
 accelerate the movements of his awkward heavy com- 
 panion, when an expression in the keen eyes of the latter, 
 as he directed them through the open window of the 
 coach to a group standing on the other side of the street, 
 
 and a half- suppressed, chuckling laugh, as he turned to 
 
 2 G 
 
220 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 him (St. Ortnc) ut the moment the latter seated himself 
 by his side, attracted his attention, and induced him to 
 look eagerly in the same direction. 
 
 Yes ! it was her ! There was no disputing the evidence 
 of his own eyes. It was Katharine, who, seeming totally 
 unaware of St. Orme's proximity, was listening with 
 downcast eyes, and apparently thoughtful attention, to 
 the very man whose address to him, while in the office 
 before the magistrate, had aroused in his mind suspicions 
 so contrary to its usual liberal feelings— in fact, to the 
 " old Jew," as the officer had called him ; a misnomer, 
 certainly, as regarded age, as the person in question was 
 probably little beyond the prime of life, but which was in 
 all likelihood attributable to the long beard, which gave to 
 his naturally handsome features, in the sight of those un- 
 accustomed to such an appendage, an appearance of 
 much more advanced age than really belonged to him. 
 
 At the very moment that St. Ormc made the discovery 
 who was her companion, the Jew's dark brilliant eyes 
 met those of the former, and a look of surprise was fol- 
 lowed by a smile, which St. Orme translated into an 
 expression of triumph, as the next instant he communi- 
 cated his discovery to Katharine, who started while her 
 eyes followed the direction his had taken, but St. Orme 
 saw no more. He could not pretend to tell whether 
 Katharine had felt pleasure or pain at the recognition, 
 whether she too, as well as her companion, had triumphed 
 or felt ashamed, for the horses suddenly started onward, 
 and. the old officer, unprepared for the sudden movement, 
 was thrown forward, dragging with liim his fettered com- 
 panion, and before the latter recovered a perpendicular 
 position the coach had moved on so rapidly that the 
 corner -of the street was passed, and St. Orme had 
 
03? woman's life. 227 
 
 entirely lost sight of those in whom he was so deeply 
 interested. 
 
 "Well, seeing is believing," grumbled the old man, 
 when he had at last entirely recovered from the incon- 
 venience he had suffered from this unexpected movement, 
 and exhausted his anger in a thousand imprecations 
 against the coachman, coach, and all who had been 
 instrumental in inducing him to trust himself in such 
 a conveyance, instead of keeping on his legs, which had 
 served him faithfully — he said— for upwards of sixty 
 years, without having ever once brought him into danger ; 
 and more especially, having condemned himself for an 
 old fool, who deserved all, and even worse than he had 
 met with, for having suffered his tender-heartedness to 
 get the better of him, in language, which — fortunately 
 for St. Oram's feelings — was more than half of it unin- 
 telligible, partly from the slang in which it was uttered, 
 and partly from his mispronunciation of the terms he 
 used ; he at length — as we have said — recovered his 
 equanimity sufficiently to turn his attention from him- 
 self and his sufferings, to the subject which his natural 
 shrewdness suggested to him still occupied the thoughts 
 of his companion. 
 
 "Well, seeing is believing, arn't it?" he repeated. 
 " I hope you won't go to make yourself unhappy any 
 longer about that pretty painted piece of flesh, that's 
 brought all this here trouble upon you. Bah ! it makes 
 a man sick of the werry name of a woman, to think of 
 one that's got eyes in her head, and hern are eyes, 
 sparklers, that I must say — Sartainly, if beauty's an 
 excuse for a man's making a fool of himself she's got 
 her share — But, as I was a saying, it's enough to make 
 one hato their very names, to see them after they've 
 
22S SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 drawn a man into trouble over head and ears, how cool 
 they "11 turn round and Lake up with the first that offers, 
 for the sake of money. But above all, a Jew— a feller 
 with a beard more like a billy goat's than a Christian's. 
 And she setting herself up for a lady too ! But I hope it'll 
 be a warning to you as long as you live, never to put no 
 trust in womankind. Ah, if you knew as much as I do 
 of the misehief they do among men with their pretty 
 faces, 'specially these here modest hinnocents, that looks 
 as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths — they're the 
 worst of all. Why, even I was took in with this gal of 
 yourn, and when I saw her turning first pale as a lily, 
 and then red as the rose, and the tears a streaming down 
 her cheeks like so many dew-drops glittering on the 
 flowers in a morning, why, I say, I was took in my- 
 self at first, like an old fool as I am, and thought that 
 for once a woman could be true-hearted, and a pretty one 
 too — for they're always the worst. Yes, take my word 
 for it, they're all outside show, painted dolls, without a 
 bit of heart in their bussums, but plenty of art and 
 mischief in their heads. Ay— ay, let 'em alone for that, 
 old or young, pretty or ugly, they're all more than a 
 match for us here; plenty of art in their heads, I say, 
 but not a bit of heart in their bussums." 
 
 A triumphant chuckle concluded this long harangue, 
 in which he had suffered no interruption from St. Ormc, 
 who although he felt the man had taken a false view of 
 his situation, as regarded the connexion between him 
 and Katharine Beresford, was too much hurt and mor- 
 tified at her supposed worth! essness and the imposition 
 she had apparently practised upon him in her assumption 
 of innocence. 
 
 And yet, could it be assumption ? Those tears, those 
 
of woman's life. 229 
 
 blushes, those shudderings at the recollection of the 
 scenes she had witnessed? The fervour of gratitude, 
 which looks and gestures, more even than words had 
 expressed, for her rescue from the horrible degradation 
 which a few hours longer would have consummated? 
 Could all this be unreal ? 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! It is not in human nature to practise 
 such hypocrisy !" he exclaimed aloud, " and she so 
 young, so lately released from the strict, too strict 
 dominion of her mother — her home, where it was im- 
 possible she could have acquired habits so depraved, so 
 repugnant to all feelings of delicacy or modesty. No, I 
 will not believe it." 
 
 " "Well, von must do as you like about that," returned 
 the coarse rough voice of the officer, whose presence 
 St. Orme had forgotten till roused from his kind and 
 generous reflection. " As to her mother," he continued, 
 " I don't know nothing about her ; I didn't know she'd 
 got a mother till now that I hear you say so; and maybe, 
 after all, that's all a flam. There's many of that sort 
 passes for mothers that never was worthy of that name. 
 I didn't hear her story, I wasn't in court then, and so I 
 won't purtend to judge whether it was true or not, but — " 
 
 " But — I know it was true," interrupted St. Ornio with 
 warmth, " for I accompanied her to her home, which she 
 quitted only a few months since, and it was from her 
 mother — who is a woman of fortune, the widow of an 
 eminent merchant — that I received the note which has 
 been the source of all this trouble and suffering to me." 
 
 "Ah, indeed! is that the story?" returned the old 
 man, with evident surprise. " Well, I didn't hear all 
 that, and so, you know, I couldn't fonn no judgment 
 upon it." 
 
230 SHADE AND bl'NSHINE 
 
 "And yet," replied St. Orme, with surprise, "it is 
 very evident that you have formed a favourable opinion 
 of my veracity, I mean" — he continued as the old man 
 opened his large grey eyes to their fullest extent, and 
 stared at him in apparent ignorance of the meaning 
 of the expression St. Orme had used — "I mean that I 
 am sure you consider me innocent of the charge brought 
 against me, and believe my representation as to the 
 respectability of my situation in life, as well as my 
 previous character." 
 
 "Well, maybe you're right," returned the old man, 
 " and maybe you'll think it likely that I havn't been so 
 many years about the court and seen so many of all 
 sorts as I have, without learning to distinguish between 
 an honest man that speaks the truth from his heart, and 
 an impostor that only utters a parcel of lies to deceive ; 
 not but what there's many of them sort that are very 
 clever, and can make out a capital story for them- 
 selves, but then there's mostly summat that betrays 
 them to me. Now, your face speaks, as well as your 
 lips, and though I told you to hold your tongue, because 
 I knew you was hurting yourself by putting yourself in 
 a passion; it was that very passion as told me you was 
 an innocent man." 
 
 " Thank you — thank you for that declaration," re- 
 turned St. Orme warmly, " though I did not know it was 
 you that administered that caution. It is a pity — not 
 only for my sake, but that others wrongfully charged — 
 that your magistrate does not possess a little of your 
 discrimination — I mean, that he has not the power of 
 forming a just judgment of those brought before him." 
 
 The old man put his finger to the side of his nose and 
 winked significantly. St. Orme smiled. 
 
of woman's life. 231 
 
 ,( Do you mean by that ?" he observed, "that it is his 
 head or his heart that is sometimes in error ?" 
 
 " Why, maybe they both gets a bit of a twist the wrong 
 way ; .sometimes the one, sometimes the t'other," he re- 
 plied ; " howsomever, it isn't for us to say whether he's 
 right or wrong, but there's a vast difference between 
 them that's took from their home and hardly knew any- 
 thing of life before they was put on the bench, and them 
 that's been all their lives in the court studying the dif- 
 ference between rogues and honest men. Bless you, it 
 don't take long for me to know which is which, though 
 I've — many's the time — seen his worship puzzled, ay, and 
 perhaps took in at last ; but then it's not two years since 
 he set on the bench for the first time, and I've been 
 about the court for more than thirty." 
 
 " But you do not mean to say that you are never 
 deceived ?" observed St. Ornie, who thought with some 
 uneasiness of the unfavourable opinion the man had 
 formed of Katharine Beresford. 
 
 " I'll say this," he replied, " I seldom or never takes 
 a reg'lar rogue to be an honest man, but I won't purtend 
 to go no further than that." 
 
 " That at any rate is acknowledging that he has been, 
 and may be mistaken," thought St. Orme, " in adjudging 
 persons to have been guilty who have been proved 
 to have been innocent, and why should he not in this 
 instance ? Surely, there is nothing in Katharine's looks, 
 except her beauty, against which he appears to have taken 
 a prejudice, to warrant his condemnation of her. And yd, 
 why did she listen to that man ? She must have seen that I 
 did not like him ? She must, she did see, how I revolted 
 against the supposition, when this man spoke of, nay be 
 charged her, openly charged her, with encouraging the 
 
232 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 addresses of the Jew. She did see it and her face, 
 then spoke denial, and yet, I saw her myself — Oh, how 
 I wish that I could hear her deny it, that she could 
 explain what now appears so confirmative of this .man's 
 assertions." 
 
 For a long time St. Orme remained silent in deep and 
 painful reflection. The officer, who possessed a full 
 share of the garrulity generally attributed to old age, 
 and was not a little disposed to pride himself on the 
 sagacity and knowledge he had gained by experience, 
 was now engaged in conversation with the other two 
 men, to whom he was either deciding as to what would 
 be the probable result of the charges brought against 
 them, and lie (St. Orme) was thus left undisturbed to his 
 own painful reflections, among the most prominent 
 subjects of which, after the doubts he could not repress 
 as regarded Katharine, was the effect his misfortune 
 would have on his future prospects, and the manner in 
 which his friend Marlow would receive the intimation of 
 what had happened from Katharine, if she fulfilled the 
 directions that had been given her. 
 
 If — that word implied a doubt, yet surely, were it only 
 from the impulse of mere gratitude, she would not neglect 
 that on which entirely depended his freeing himself from 
 the imputation that now rested upon his name, his 
 character, his — yes — his very life, for never could he 
 survive such a sentence as would result from his being 
 pronounced guilty. The noise, the bustle, the novelty 
 of all that had passed around him, and above all the 
 various incidents in which he had been — as it may be 
 said — personally interested, had for a time deadened or 
 obscured the acute feelings of misery which had at first 
 attended his arrest upon such a charge. The conscious- 
 
of woman's life. 233 
 
 ness of innocence had, indeed, so far supported him as 
 to enable him outwardly to maintain the semblance of 
 calmness; but now, left in comparative quietude to his 
 reflections, the full cxteut of the evil that had befallen 
 him presented itself so formidably, that he could not 
 avoid its painful effects pourtraying themselves on his 
 features, or suppress the agonised expression that broke 
 from his lips, in a momentary forgctfulness that he was 
 not alone — 
 
 " God in Heaven how will all this end ?" 
 " End !" repeated the officer, clapping him on the 
 shoulder with an expression of hearty friendliness, " why, 
 it'll end as it ought to do. You'll be discharged at the 
 end of the week, and that will be the end of the story, 
 except that you'll have learned a lesson from experience, 
 that'll do you good to the end of your life." 
 
 A long chuckling laugh at his imaginary cleverness in 
 this play upon the word end followed, but it did not have 
 the effect he hoped for in raising St. Orme's spirits, or 
 inducing him to regard without a shudder the gloomy 
 walls and iron gate of the prison, before which the coach 
 was now drawn up, and which in a few moments closed 
 upon him and his companion with a clang that seemed 
 to strike upon his heart, as if it shut out every hope. 
 
 2 h 
 
234 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
 Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
 While in his softened looks benignly blend 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ; 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 
 Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life, 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 Where shall that land, that spot of land be found ? 
 Art thou a man ?— a patriot ? — look around ; 
 Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy home. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 Vivian St. Orme was the only son of a clergyman, the 
 vicar of a large parish and a very small town, of which 
 the greater number of the inhabitants were fishermen, or 
 persons connected with the fishery. Educated entirely 
 at home with his sisters, Bertha and Agnes, in the deep 
 seclusion of the Parsonage, the name by which their 
 residence — a large old fashioned stone building, standing 
 at some distance from all others — was known, Vivian 
 attained the age of eighteen, without any occurrence 
 having taken place to disturb the quiet, even tenor of 
 their ways, or to suggest any thoughts, much less wishes 
 for pleasure, or enjoyments superior to those natural and 
 quiet ones he now enjoyed.' 
 
 Situated on the rise of a hill, near the embouchure of 
 the splendid river Severn, or at — as it is there called — the 
 
of woman's life. 235 
 
 Severn Sen, the Parsonage commanded a most extensive 
 and delightful view, hoth by land and water, and in the 
 contemplation of the limitless and never failing charms 
 of nature, Vivian found more than sufficient compen- 
 sation for the deprivation of pleasures, such as to most 
 young men of his age, gifted as ho was, would have 
 been the constant objects of yearning and regret, but on 
 which he seldom or ever bestowed even a passing thought. 
 The elder St. Orme, the father of Vivian, was a younger 
 branch of a noble family, distinguished indeed more for 
 a long line of noble ancestors, than the possession of 
 wealth. Sir Orlando St. Orme, the present head of the 
 family, the uncle of Vivian, on his succeeding to the 
 baronetcy, nearly the oldest in England, discovered that 
 the improvidence of his ancestors had left him means 
 very insufficient to keep up the style which had been 
 considered necessary for the honour of the title and 
 name — a name and title so highly valued by its possessors 
 that it was with Sir Orlando a matter of proud boast, 
 that more than once his predecessors had refused to 
 merge it in a peerage, though offered by the reigning 
 sovereign on occasions highly honourable to them. Sir 
 Orlando, though straightened and embarrassed by the 
 circumstances in which he found himself on the attain- 
 ment of his majority, possessed even more than the usual 
 share of this pride of birth, and turned a deaf ear to all 
 the suggestions of his would-be advisers and friends, as 
 to the course he should henceforth pursue. To cut down 
 the wood in the extensive park that surrounded the 
 ancient seat of the family, was the most ready expedient 
 to enable the young heir to appear in the world in a 
 manner suitable to his birth and station; but this was 
 instantly rejected. 
 
236 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Sacrilege !" he exclaimed. " Yes, it would be worse 
 than sacrilege. Never while I live, shall the axe be laid 
 to the roots of one of those venerable denizens of the 
 forest. Sooner would I earn my bread by the labour of 
 my hands." Equally decided was Iris repudiation of other 
 suggestions which it would have been considered quite 
 en regie for a young man in such circumstances to adopt. 
 He refused to listen to an advantageous offer that was 
 made by a rich East Indian, to rent the mansion with 
 all its appurtenances for a term of years. 
 
 "None but a St. Ormc has ever called themselves 
 masters of Beauvale Abbey," the name of the family 
 seat, " and sooner would I see it in ruins, not one stone 
 left upon another, than yield it to a purse-proud upstart, 
 a creature who has sprung up like a mushroom from the 
 dirt. No, perish the thought that the home of my 
 ancestors should be thus desecrated." 
 
 The result of this determination was that the Abbey 
 was deserted as the dwelling of the heir of the family 
 name and honour, who preferred thus to leave it rather 
 than inhabit it without keeping up the ancient style and 
 splendour which had for centuries distinguished it ; and 
 except a casual visit from some curious tourist, attracted 
 by its venerable appearance, grand even in decay, or the 
 record of its valuable picture gallery and other heir-looms, 
 which still kept it upon the list of places worthy of claim- 
 ing the notice of strangers in the ' Guides,' &c., of the 
 county, seldom were it's gates unclosed to admit visitors 
 by the old couple to whose care it had been entrusted by 
 Sir Orlando, whose continued existence was only made 
 known by the regular payment of the comfortable stipend 
 he had allotted to them, and which was transmitted to them 
 quarterly through the agency of a banking-house of the 
 
OF woman's life. 2-37 
 
 nearest town, and through whom also any application 
 from the old man respecting necessary repairs, &a, and 
 which were strictly confined to what were absolutely 
 necessary, were forwarded, and the expenses unhesita- 
 tingly defrayed. 
 
 Twenty years glided over the heads of the now vener- 
 able Richard Shclburnc and his wife, the custodiers of 
 the Abbey, without any intelligence having reached them 
 of their master, as they still respectfully designated Sir 
 Orlando, of whose "whereabouts" even they knew no- 
 thing, except that he still remained abroad, having quitted 
 Endand a few months after he became the possessor of 
 the title and estates. During these twenty years the 
 monotony of the lives of Richard and his wife had been 
 broken by only two incidents, and those almost simul- 
 taneous. The first was the announcement of the death 
 of the heir presumptive to the St. Orme family and 
 estates, the younger brother of Sir Orlando, on which 
 occasion they received instructions to put themselves into 
 suitable mourning, and to furnish with the same any of 
 the ancient dependants of the family with whom they 
 were directed to meet, at a certain distance from the 
 Abbey, the mournful cavalcade, which had been arranged 
 to bring down the corpse and deposit it in the ancient 
 burial place of the St. Orrnes, which was about a mile 
 and a half from the Abbey. Nothing was said in the 
 brief communication received from their master on this 
 occasion, whether he (Sir Orlando) intended to accompany 
 the remains of this near, and it may be supposed dear 
 relative. Every preparation the old people could make 
 was carried into effect to receive him, but to their great 
 disappointment he came not, and the presumptive heir 
 of the St, Orrnes was lowered into the vault in the 
 presence of strangers. 
 
238 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " I could not learn even whether the young man had 
 been married," he observed to his wife, " though I don't 
 know, something runs in my head that ho had been, and 
 that the match hadn't pleased our master, for when I 
 hinted to the gentleman that had the management of the 
 whole affair, how grievous it must he to Sir Orlando to 
 lose the last of the family, he started and said — 
 
 " The last ! Who told you he was the last ?" 
 
 " And what did you say ?" demanded old Millieent, 
 Richard's wife. 
 
 " I did not well know what to say," replied the old 
 man; "he spoke so sharp like; but after a bit I re- 
 collected myself, and then I thought, surely I've as 
 much right to speak of what concerns our master as he 
 that's a stranger, as I may say, while I have been all my 
 life in the family ; and so I said that I never knew that 
 there was anybody left of the family but Mr. Vivian, the 
 poor gentleman that we had just now left in his last 
 dwelling place, and therefore, it was quite natural that I 
 should speak of him as I had." 
 
 "And what did he say to that ?" demanded Millieent. 
 
 " Nothing. Not a word," replied the old man, " but 
 he looked at me just as much as to say, 'You want to 
 get me to tell all I know, old man, but you are mistaken, 
 for I shall tell nothing more than you know already." 
 
 Millicent's looks betrayed her disappointment. 
 
 "If I had been there," she murmured, " he should not 
 have baffled me so easily, but men with all their pre- 
 tended sense never have their wits about them. It was 
 so natural," she added aloud, "that we should be anxious 
 to know who the Abbey and all belonging to it would go 
 to, if anything should happen to Sir Orlando. He's 
 younger than we be to be sure, but that's nothing ; Mr. 
 
OF WOMAN'S life. 239 
 
 Vivian was younger than liim by a-many years, and yet 
 lie's gone before us, and now if Sir Orlando should go, 
 it would be hard for us in our old age to see strangers 
 take possession of — " 
 
 •'Pooh, pooh, Dame! remember the old saying," re- 
 turned Richard, " there's little fear that we shall live to 
 see that. Remember the old saying ' The young may 
 die, but the old must,' and our master, I take it, is some 
 ten years younger than we be. Make your mind easy then 
 on that score." 
 
 Millicent, however, had soon sufficient reason to excuse 
 her feeling a considerable degree of uneasiness at the re- 
 flection that on the life of Sir Orlando St. Orme alone, 
 depended the security of their present situations. Richard 
 and Millicent Shelburne had, of a large family, reared 
 only one daughter beyond the years of childhood, and this 
 daughter had at an early age married her first cousin and 
 settled in London, from whence they occasionally heard 
 of and from her, and to their great satisfaction always as 
 doing well ; William Shelburne, the husband, haying, 
 soon after their marriage, been taken into partnership with 
 his father, in an old-established business as a cabinet- 
 maker and upholsterer in Oxford Street. One daughter 
 only had been the fruit of this union; and proud and 
 happy indeed were the old people, nine years after the 
 marriage, which they had opposed as separating them for 
 ever, as they considered it, from their only child, she 
 came to visit them at Beauvale Abbey, bringing with her 
 the child whom they hud so often longed to see, and 
 which more than answered the description her mother 
 bad given them in her letters of thjeir grandchild. Never, 
 indeed, whs there a more lovely, seraph-like being than 
 the youthful Milly — for she had been named after her 
 
240 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 grandmother — and her acquirements at that ago appeared 
 to them more like supernatural gifts, than the effects, as 
 they really were, of a naturally intelligent mind, extreme 
 docility, and unwearied attention on the part of the proud 
 parents, who spared no expense, even to an extravagant 
 degree for their situation in life, in cultivating her natu- 
 ral talents; and, in fact, devoted themselves to their ex- 
 traordinary child with an enthusiasm that certainly knew 
 no bounds hut what their comparatively limited circum- 
 stances imposed, and, unfortunately, too often exceeded 
 even them. The old man and woman, Richard and Mil- 
 licent, while they listened with rapture to their beautiful 
 grandchild's heavenly voice, and watched her lovely- 
 formed and delicate little hands flying with a rapidity that 
 seemed to them like magic over the keys of the old- 
 fashioned harpsichord that still stood in the music-room 
 of the Abbey, and had been, at what seemed to them an 
 enormous expense, put in tune for her by the organist of 
 the neighbouring church, heard, with an alarm and 
 uneasiness they could scarcely conceal, of the hundred- 
 and-fifty pounds piano she had left behind her in London, 
 and of the guinea a lesson that it was still considered 
 necessary to pay to her music-master. What was to be 
 the end of all this ? was a question that more than once 
 rose to the lips of the thoughtful old woman ; yet she 
 could not bear to damp the proud pleasure of the happy 
 mother, or suggest to her what plain common-sense dic- 
 tated — Would not this money have been better applied in 
 providing against the future ? The old woman trembled 
 as the thought involuntarily arose in her mind — " What 
 would be the fate of this extraordinarily- gifted child, 
 should," to use her own common expression, " anything 
 happen to the father before he had accumulated a pro- 
 
of woman's life. 241 
 
 vision for her?" That tins was not yet done her daugh- 
 ter had unguardedly avowed. But what then ? William 
 and she were both quite young — neither were thirty. 
 
 The old woman sighed heavily. " The young may die," 
 she murmured, repeating part of the axiom her husband 
 had used so lately, on an occasion that proved its truth. 
 
 Alas ! how soon — too soon — was its truth again veri- 
 fied. The mother and her child were recalled to London, 
 before the month was expired which it had been agreed 
 they should spend at the Abbey. William Shelburne 
 was ill — " not seriously ill," he said, in the commence- 
 ment of his letter — "only nervous, low-spirited, and oh ! 
 so anxious to have his wife and his dear — dear child at 
 home, that he was compelled reluctantly to entreat them 
 to shorten their leave of absence." The letter was written 
 in a trembling hand, and broke off abruptly here ; the 
 conclusion being written by the confidential servant who 
 acted as housekeeper in Mrs. Shelburne's absence, and 
 had lived with them ever since their circumstances had 
 enabled them to keep a servant. 
 
 " Pray, my dear mistress," she wrote, " don't stop a 
 single hour after you get this. Master won't own it, and 
 laughs at me when I say there 's something more than 
 bodily sickness the matter with him ; but oh ! such a 
 laugh — it frightens me. He told me to fiuish his letter, 
 and say what I like, so long as I didn't frighten you with 
 any of my foolish nonsense; but, somehow it runs in my 
 head that he wished me to write, that you might be pre- 
 pared for the worst, though what is the worst I can't 
 guess ; only I know that mere bodily illness would not 
 make him sigh, and groan, and walk the room all night, 
 instead of going to bed, as he's done more than once this 
 
 last week; neither would it make him start, and jump up 
 
 % l 
 
242 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and wring his hands, when I talked of our dear little 
 Milly, and was going to say how glad the dear child 
 would he to see him again. ' Don't speak of her — don't 
 mention her name again, Hester,' he cried out, no longer 
 ago than yesterday at dinner time. ' She will curse her 
 father — she will hate, despise his name. Fool — fool — 
 fool that I 've been! Yet it was all for her. Thousands, 
 if I 'd had them, would not have been too much for — ' 
 He saw my frightened looks at that minute — for I was 
 frightened — and then he said in his kind, gentle voice — 
 " ' Hester, my good creature, you will never desert my 
 child, will you ? ' 
 
 "I could not get out a word for sobbing, and then he 
 got all at once quite calm and composed. 
 
 "'I talk a deal of nonsense, Hester,' he said, 'but you 
 musn't mind it. I 'in going to write for them to come 
 home to-morrow, and then we shall be all right again.' I 
 could only say, what indeed 's the truth, that I hoped 
 and prayed it might be so; and as to his child's ever 
 blaming him, or thinking anything he had ever done was 
 wrong — But there he stopped me. 
 
 " ' Don't talk any more about it, Hester,' he said; ' this 
 headache confuses me so, that I scarcely know what I 
 do or say.' 
 
 " And, indeed, this is too true, for others beside me 
 have noticed how strangely he acts and talks at times. I 
 am, perhaps, wrong in saying all this, but I think it 's 
 better you should be prepared for the change, whatever 
 may be the cause of it. Heaven grant your coming 
 home, which I 'm sure you will directly, may set all to 
 rights again, prays 
 
 " Your faithful and affectionate 
 
 "Hester Elmore." 
 
of woman's life. 243 
 
 Sad, indeed, were the presentiments with which old 
 Richard and his wife beheld the departure of their daugh- 
 ter and grandchild from Beauvale. There could be little 
 doubt, from Hester's letter, that William Shelburne was 
 suffering, in body and mind, from the pressure of pecu- 
 niary embarrassments, and that he now saw the folly he 
 had committed in educating his beautiful Millicent as if 
 she were to be the possessor of an independent fortune, 
 giving her tastes and habits which it would henceforth 
 be impossible for him to gratify, instead of bringing her 
 up, as the old woman observed, as her daughter — the 
 child's mother— 'had been brought up, " to work, and 
 assist her parents." 
 
 " If she 'd been older, indeed, before this happened," 
 continued old Millicent, "she might have turned her 
 education to some good use in teaching others, and so 
 have paid back the hundreds it has cost 'em, and done 
 'em credit beside; but now, I suppose, the grand piannee, 
 as they call it, must be sold, and the lessons all stopped, 
 and by the time she 's old enough to be of use to them 
 all will be forgot that has cost 'em such a mint of money, 
 for her mother said, when I thought it was foolish to 
 spend a guinea to have the harpsichord put to rights for 
 such a short time, that the child would lose more than 
 the worth of the money if she was stopped playing for a 
 month." 
 
 Worse, however, than the anticipation of the sale of 
 Milly's piano-forte, or the cessation of her expensive les- 
 sons, was the intelligence conveyed to the old couple, by 
 a letter written to them by Hester, the faithful sharer in 
 the misfortunes that had overtaken William Shelburne 
 and the two dear objects of his affection — his wife and 
 child. Mrs. Shelburne had arrived in London just in 
 
244 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 time to behold liiin expire, the victim of the anxiety and 
 grief which had been preying on his mind from the mo- 
 ment he discovered that he was a ruined man, and which 
 had at length terminated in brain fever. He was already 
 insensible when his wife and child stood at his bedside, 
 and they had the misery of seeing him die without having 
 recognised them, though their names were the last sounds 
 his parched lips ever uttered ; and reproaches to them 
 for having deserted him, were mingled with the most pa- 
 thetic prayers to them, to forgive him for the misery and 
 ruin he had brought upon them. 
 
 By the management and exertions of the faithful 
 Hester, it was concealed from the agonised wife and 
 daughter, until after he was laid in his grave, that an 
 execution — as Hester called the form of law by which 
 possession had been taken by some of poor Shelburne's 
 creditors — had been sent into the house a few hours after 
 the master of it had been conveyed to the bed from which 
 he was doomed never again to rise, and that only the 
 utter hopelessness of his recovery, and, indeed, the immi- 
 nent peril of his expiring on the road thither, had saved 
 hiru from a prison. The unfortunate man, it appeared, 
 had been tempted by the deliberate arts of a worthless 
 companion, to enter into speculations soon after the 
 death of his father, by which he had become possessor of 
 a considerable sum of ready money, as well as the whole 
 of the well-established business. But though the latter 
 secured a handsome living to the child on whom he 
 doated, it did not satisfy the fond and proud father as 
 equal to the beauty, the merit and talents, which his 
 weak mind and doating affection magnified into almost 
 supernatural endowments. To gain a fortune for his 
 Millicent, by one lucky stroke, was a temptation that 
 
of woman's life. 245 
 
 almost blinded him to the possibility of failure, or the 
 dreadful consequences that must result, should such be 
 the case. It was the imaginary certainty into which his 
 treacherous guide had led him, that a few weeks would 
 crown their plans with success, that had induced him to 
 yield a ready assent, or rather to promote his wife's visit 
 to her parents with the child, whom he already in imagi- 
 nation beheld the heiress to a splendid fortune, antici- 
 pating the triumph with which he should go down to 
 Beau vale in their own carriage to reclaim the objects of 
 his affection and vanity, and the surprise and envy of 
 those who had known him in humble circumstances, as 
 the nephew of old Richard Shelburne and his wife. In 
 a few days after their departure William had drawn from 
 the Bank of England the few hundreds which had been 
 deposited there after his father's death. But this was not 
 enough to satisfy the cupidity of the villain who had tre- 
 panned him into the scheme. At least as much more 
 w r as wanting, he represented, and with that success was 
 certain. His unhappy duj)e was thus led into raising 
 money, on various pretexts, from persons connected with 
 him in business, and with whom his honesty was hitherto 
 undoubted. But the bubble at length broke. The fellow 
 who had concocted the scheme which was to enrich them 
 both, absconded with every farthing of the money, and 
 William Shelburne found himself not only robbed of every 
 shilling he possessed in the world, but that he had been 
 the means of robbing others ; that his credit — his good 
 name — was irretrievably gone, and he must henceforth 
 appear in the eyes of the world a dishonoured, dishonest 
 man. It was the discovery of the falsehood of the pre- 
 texts by which he had raised money, which there was no 
 chance of his ever paying, that had led to the harsh mea- 
 
240 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 sures that had heen adopted against him ; and it was not 
 until he had found shelter in the grave from the re- 
 proaches aud accusations that pursued him, that it was 
 acknowledged, hy even the most acrimonious of his cre- 
 ditors, that William Shelburne was at least as much to 
 be pitied as condemned. 
 
 Among those whom it was most difficult to convince of 
 this fact, were old Richard Shelburne and his wife, who, 
 while they wept over the sorrows and sufferings of their 
 daughter and her child, could not be induced to view 
 with any indulgence the faults, or rather misfortunes, of 
 the husband and father, who had thus blighted all their 
 prospects, and consigned to hopeless poverty the beings 
 for whom he would have forfeited his very existence, 
 could it have secured their happiness. It was the know- 
 ledge of this implacable feeling, on their part, towards 
 her lamented husband, that induced the bereaved wife 
 resolutely to decline returning to them at Beauvale, 
 although she felt the kindness of their offer to share with 
 them their humble lot, until some opportunity arose of 
 improving her condition. She felt that it would be im- 
 possible for her to hear her unfortunate husband con- 
 demned by them, and the equal impossibility of .explain- 
 ing to them what their total ignorance of business ren- 
 dered an unfathomable mystery to them ; and she con- 
 tinued, therefore, to linger on in an obscure lodging in 
 London, with her child — the petted, pampered, all but 
 worshipped idol — to whom every thought of the fond 
 parents had been given, and for whom the father had, in 
 reality, sealed his devotion with his life. 
 
 Supported, tended, waited on, and consoled by every 
 means that Hester's fond, faithful heart could devise, 
 Mrs. Shelburne and Milly gradually were soothed into 
 
of woman's life. 247 
 
 composure, and the former became capable of reflecting 
 and consulting with her attached though humble com- 
 panion, as to the means that could be made available for 
 their future support. A subscription which had been 
 raised among the former friends and neighbours of the 
 bereaved wife and child, and to winch even the creditors 
 of William Shelburne — too late convinced of his compa- 
 rative innocence — had contributed, yielded sufficient to 
 enable them to live in their present humble style for 
 some months to come, especially as Hester — whose worth 
 and sterling qualities were well known— had secured her- 
 self employment for several days a-week, thus preventing 
 her being an incumbrance to the widow, and enabling the 
 devoted and affectionate servant to remain with the latter 
 and Milly, and prevent their feeling the humiliation of 
 descending to menial offices. That ever Milly should be 
 compelled to sully her beautiful hands in such offices, 
 appeared to Hester an evil that must be avoided at all 
 sacrifices'; but there was another consideration that occu- 
 pied the mother's most serious thoughts in connexion 
 with Milly. This was, the impossibility of the child 
 keeping up the accomplishment in which she most ex- 
 celled. " To think," as she said to Hester, " that such 
 sums of money should have been spent in vain — that all 
 should now be lost from the impossibility of providing 
 her with an instrument to keep up her practice, just at 
 the very time that her master had owned that it wanted 
 only resolute perseverance to make her perfect mis- 
 tress of the science, and with her voice, which only 
 wanted a few years to give it strength, would ensure her 
 a fortune, should she require its exertion. And now, to 
 think that all must be lost," she repeated, " and the dear 
 girl, buried in this miserable lodging, be compelled to 
 
248 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 slave from morning till night, for a bare existence, at 
 needlework." It was while, for perhaps the twentieth 
 time, discussing this painful subject with her faithful at- 
 tendant, that a letter was received from Beauvale, in 
 which, among other inducements held out to their daugh- 
 ter to accept their offer of an asylum at the Abbey, 
 Richard observed — 
 
 " Your mother, too, often cries, as she looks at the 
 harpsichord in the grand drawing-room, and thinks of 
 dear little Milly's delicate hands running over it like 
 lightning, and her sweet voice chirping like a bird's, 
 and making us all so cheerful and happy where all is 
 now so dull and gloomy ; and then she wonders how 
 those dear little hands are employed now, though, as I 
 say, it would have been better if they had been early 
 taught to work, as yours were ; for what prospect can 
 there be now of all she has learnt in the way of music 
 and drawing, and such like, being of any mortal use to 
 her, especially, as your mother says, as all will soon be 
 forgot, now that she must, if you keep her with you, 
 work for her living ? for, poor thing, I hav 'nt it in my 
 power to do much for her at such a distance, though we 
 should never miss the trifle it would cost to keep her with 
 us, or, for that matter, you too, as I take it you wouldn't 
 want clothes for a good long time to come, where there's 
 nobody to see how you 're dressed ; and you wouldn't 
 want to go beyond the Abbey grounds, except of a Sun- 
 day to church. However, if you've made up your mind 
 that you can make a comfortable living in London, and 
 shall be happier there, we can have no right to interfere ; 
 but I beg that you won't forget, that there is always a 
 home, both for you and your child, if it's wanted." 
 
 A post-script was added to this, in which the old woman 
 
of woman's life. 249 
 
 contrived to express — in her own peculiar writing and 
 spelling — her hopes that her daughter would spare Milly 
 to them, as it made her "miserable to think of the dear 
 child poring out her beautiful bright eyes over needlework 
 in a dark room — all rooms in London must be dark, ac- 
 cording to old Millicent's belief — and sitting till her limbs 
 were cramped and the bright colour faded from her cheeks ; 
 when she might — if her mother chose it — have nothing 
 to do but play on the harpsichord all the day, and run 
 about among the trees and flowers, and sing like the 
 birds that always put me in mind of her, whenever I 
 hear them. Tell your mother, dear Milly," she con- 
 cluded, " to let you come and try how you like it for 
 a few months, and I'll contrive to send money enough to 
 pav vour coach hire. If she goes to the Bull and Mouth, 
 in Aldersgate-street, London, and asks for John Williams 
 that drives the Bristol coach, and tell him who you are, 
 he '11 bring you safe down, for he's the father of seven 
 girls of his own. One — you '11 remember — was Milly "s 
 little maid, when she was down with us that happy 
 month at the Abbey. She's gone home now, but we '11 
 have her back again if it will make Milly more contented 
 to have a youDg companion ; and Annie only went home 
 because the Abbey was so dull and gloomy after Milly 
 went away, so that I know she'll be glad to come back 
 again. John will take care to see Milly off in the boat 
 from Bristol, which will bring her — you know — within 
 two miles of Beauvale, and most likely they will manage 
 that Annie shall come with her, so that you see there 
 can be no trouble or difficulty ; and tell Milly that 
 I can always find a few shillings — if the harpiscord wants 
 anything done to it, or a music book bought — that her 
 
 grandfather needn't know nothiug about." 
 
 2k 
 
250 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Mrs. Shelbume's lip quivered, and tears stole silently 
 down her cheeks, as she read these thoughtful and affec- 
 tionate expressions. 
 
 " Can I — ought I to refuse this generous offer ?" she 
 demanded of Hester, whose hard features had softened 
 down under the emotion kindled in her bosom by old 
 Millicent's] plain and simple exposition of her feelings 
 towards her beautiful grand- daughter. 
 
 "We shall be very miserable without her," returned 
 Hester, with a deep sigh, "but for her sake — " 
 
 " Oh yes ! for her sake the sacrifice must be made," 
 replied the affectionate mother with decision. " It seems 
 as if the letter had come purposely, in answer to our 
 regrets, and I dare not hesitate to take it as such. Our 
 only difficulty now will be to reconcile Milly to the part- 
 ing, and to do that we must conceal from her how hard 
 it will be to us to lose our only comfort and blessing." 
 
 Hester's tears were scarcely less bitter than the mother's 
 at the prospect of this bereavement. The poor woman 
 felt, indeed, that in losing the child whom she had nursed 
 and regarded with an attachment scarcely inferior to 
 that felt by its parents, she should lose the chief motive 
 to her unceasing exertions. While she could indulge 
 Milly in dainties which would otherwise have been un- 
 attainable, or bestow on her pretty person articles of 
 dress, which, however suitable to her beauty, were far 
 from being so to her present station in life, or her 
 mother's humble circumstances, Hester had all the re- 
 ward she wished for, after clays or weeks of hard work — 
 washing, scouring, anything in short that presented it- 
 self, and which without that reward in view she would 
 have called slavery, but which one bright smile, one 
 pressure of the lovely arms around her neck, or a kiss 
 and the breathing of the words — ' Thank you, dear, dear 
 
of woman's life. 251 
 
 Hester/ from the rosy lips of the delighted Milly, would 
 more than compensate. Now all this was to vanish for 
 ever, while to Hester the reward seemed much less pro- 
 portionate to the sacrifice than it did to the proud and 
 anxious mother, who fondly hoped to find it in her 
 daughter's future exaltation, or the influence it might 
 have in inducing her to be sought in marriage by some 
 one whom her beauty and accomplishments would com- 
 pensate for her poverty and humble station in life. 
 
 11 Castles in the air," murmured Hester, shaking her 
 head. " Yet, God forbid I should stand in the way of 
 her having even the chance" — and in pursuance of this 
 resolution she joined with apparent heartiness in Mrs. 
 Sherburne's persuasions to her daughter to accept the 
 invitation of the old people to Beauvale Abbey, which 
 Milly at first refused to listen to. But Milly was an 
 enthusiast not only in music but in her enjoyment of the 
 charms of nature, and the recollection of the trees and 
 flowers and birds, of which her grandmother's letter 
 spoke so simply, yet powerfully to her heart, and which 
 was contrasted so strongly by the confined room in a 
 noisy crowded thoroughfare, in the eastern suburb of 
 London, from whence it was a journey of some hours 
 to reach any place worthy of being called the country — 
 that, united with her mother's representations of the ad- 
 vantages as well as pleasures which would attend her un- 
 controlled possession of the harpischord — one of the most 
 superior of its kind, though of course, far inferior to the 
 pianoforte of which she had been deprived — all these 
 advantages, dwelt upon and even exaggerated by her 
 anxious mother, at last prevailed over her reluctance 
 to quit her beloved parent and scarcely less beloved 
 Hester, and Milly departed under the guardianship of 
 honest John Williams, for Beauvale Abbey. 
 
25*2 SHADE AND SlTNSIIINE 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I'll love you, like bright heaven. The fixed stars 
 
 Shall never he so constant. I am all 
 
 Your own. Not sin, nor sorrow, nor the grave, 
 
 Not the cold hollow grave shall chill my love. 
 
 It will survive beyond the bounds of death, 
 
 The spirit of the shadow which may there 
 
 Perhaps do penance for my deeds of- ill. — Barry Cornwall. 
 
 We pass over the first four years of Milly Shellmrne's 
 residence with the faithful guardians of Beauvale Abhey, 
 the monotony of which had been broken only by one 
 visit from her mother, who, in accordance with the pro- 
 mise given when they parted, came down at the end 
 of twelve months to pass a few days with her child and 
 parents. Milly was at that age when twelve months, 
 especially when passed in the enjoyment of fresh air, 
 uncontrolled liberty, and wholesome abundance, pro- 
 duce correspondent personal improvement. She was 
 now nearly fourteen, and her mother gazed with rapture 
 and surprise upon her glowing beauties, the symmetry of 
 her beautifully proportioned form, and listened with never 
 wearied delight to the powerful and harmonious voice, in 
 which she carolled not only all her mother's old and 
 favourite songs, but many new ones, with which she had 
 been supplied by the secret fund which her grandmother 
 had spoken of in her invitation — a fund, however, which 
 had been, at Milly 's intercession, much oftener drawn 
 upon for the supply of comforts to her mother in the 
 way of presents from her daughter and her grandmother, 
 than for what Milly properly considered luxuries that she 
 could well dispense with. Whether Milly's improvement 
 
OF woman's LIFE. 25o 
 
 in music kept pace with those of her person, Mrs. Shul- 
 burne was not an adequate judge; but to her industry in 
 the way of practice old Richard himself involuntary 
 bore witness in the half-grumbling observation, that he 
 " wondered her fingers didn't ache, or become sore with 
 such constant rattling over the bits of ivory, that she 
 called keys." 
 
 "Yes, but I hope by that constant rattling, as you 
 call it, to turn the ivory into gold, dear Daddy," ob- 
 served Milly, who had learned to call him by that title 
 by way of endearment, from the example of Annie, her 
 only companion, who always addressed her father by 
 that name. 
 
 The old man shook his head. " I wish it may prove 
 so," he replied. " I wish you may never have reason to 
 be sorry that you have wasted so much time, instead of 
 learning something useful, something that would get 
 you a living when I am gone." 
 
 The tears stood in Milly's eyes. She had never before 
 given a serious thought to what might be her probable 
 situation should she be deprived of her aged protectors, 
 and the look of uneasiness which the remark had excited 
 in her mother's face, increased the impression it had 
 made on her own mind. 
 
 " Mother," she observed, on the morning the latter was 
 about to depart for London, '* I wish I was going with 
 you ; I have thought a good deal of what my grandfather 
 said about my getting my own living, and I don't see 
 why I should put off the trial till after I've lost hint. I 
 should n't like to stay here to be, as I should be, turned 
 out if anything happened to him," and her lovely coun- 
 tenance reddened with pride. " I am young, it's true, but 
 still, I think if I were in London I might turn what J 
 
254 SIIADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 have learned to some account, while here I can do no- 
 thing. Think of it, dear mother. Grandmother would, 
 I know — though she would fret at -losing me — find 
 money to pay my expenses to London, and oh, how I 
 should like to see poor Hester." 
 
 " Do not think of it, my dear child," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Shelburne hastily. "It would be the ruin of all your 
 prospects in life. Your grandfather had no meaning in 
 what he said. It was only the peevishness of old age. 
 Promise me that you will think no more of such a mad 
 project, or I shall leave you very unhappy. Besides, to 
 tell you the truth, though I did not like to grieve you by 
 telling you before, Hester has left me, and I have not 
 seen or heard from her for some time." 
 
 "Hester left you!" Milly was thunderstruck. "What 
 could have induced such a separation ?" which had never 
 entered her mind as being within the pale of possibilities. 
 
 " Yes, she got tired of the life she led with me," re- 
 turned Mrs. Shelburne, " and an opportunity presenting 
 itself, she took a situation in a gentleman's family, and I 
 believe is gone abroad with them." 
 
 " Believe ! " repeated Milly. Could it be possible 
 that her mother spoke with such indifference of one 
 whom she herself regarded as a second mother. But 
 there was some secret connected with the affair that she 
 saw distressed her parent, and she asked no more ques- 
 tions, though often it recurred to her mind after the 
 latter had left, and always with increased surprise and 
 sorrow, that anything could have parted those who were 
 so attached to each other. For herself, she felt that 
 she had lost, next to her relatives, her most sincere 
 and attached friend, and many were the tears she shed 
 at the thought that she might never behold again one 
 
of woman's life. 255 
 
 to whom she was so deeply indebted for the most disin- 
 terested kindness and affection. 
 
 A few weeks, however, explained the mystery, though 
 it did not diminish Milly's sorrow and regret. It was, 
 indeed, the first heavy sorrow she had met with since 
 her beloved father's death, when her mother by letter 
 communicated the fact that she had supplied his place 
 by an union with another. Mrs. Shelbume was now 
 Mrs. Morison. She had been married — she acknow- 
 ledged — some time before her recent visit to Beauvale, 
 and though she endeavoured to reconcile Milly to this 
 act by assuring her that she was very happy, and that 
 her situation was much improved in a worldly point of 
 view — Mr. Morison having a good situation, which he 
 had held for some years as foreman to a builder — Milly 
 felt it impossible to regard her mother's marriage with 
 any satisfaction, or, indeed, to look upon it in any other 
 light than a misfortune, which robbed her of her dearest 
 and nearest friend. 
 
 " And Hester. It has been her disapproval of this 
 marriage that has driven Hester from her. It is this, 
 too, which made my mother so strenuously oppose my 
 going to London with her. She feared to introduce me 
 to the man whom she calls my second father. Perhaps 
 she knew that he would look upon her daughter as an 
 incumbrance. But he need not fear; I would starve, 
 rather than be indebted to my mother's husband for any 
 favours." 
 
 Milly was right in her estimation both of the man her 
 mother had married, and the cause of Hester's desertion 
 of the former. Always more prudent and clear-sighted 
 than her ci-devant mistress, Hester from the first had 
 opposed the marriage, and prophesied that Morison 
 
256 SHADE AN* 8TTNSHINB 
 
 would make her miserable. There were few, indeed, 
 whom Hester would have considered worthy to take the 
 place of her beloved and regretted master, William Shel- 
 burne ; but that a low, ignorant, narrow-minded man — 
 as she denounced Morison to be — should be chosen by 
 her mistress, as she still called and considered her, was 
 not to be borne with patience ; and thus, to escape at 
 least the sight of the misery Mrs. Shelburue was bringing 
 upon herself by this, in her sight, degrading marriage, 
 Hester accepted the first situation that offered, to attend 
 an elderly lady, who had been ordered by her physicians 
 to a warmer climate than England. 
 
 All that she had foreseen was soon verified by Mrs. 
 Morison. The man proved utterly unworthy ; and, even 
 in worldly circumstances, his poor wife soon found that 
 she had reaped no benefit from her marriage ; for, though 
 in the receipt of a good salary, his miserly and selfish 
 disposition compelled her to work as hard, indeed harder, 
 than she had done while single, with the additional mor- 
 tification of being continually reproached and abused 
 for what he chose to consider extravagance in her dis- 
 posal of the money for which she laboured. One espe- 
 cial object of their matrimonial disputes was her daugh- 
 ter, towards whom his mean jealousy was from the first 
 excited, and for whom he constantly accused his wife of 
 robbing him — such being the term he applied to her dis- 
 posal of the money for which she worked, and of which 
 she — still retaining some portion of her natural spirit — 
 resolutely refused to give him an account, maintaining 
 that she had a right to do as she pleased with what was 
 her own ; while he as obstinately asserted, that no mar- 
 ried woman could call anything her own, and had no 
 right to dispose of a shilling without his consent. Little 
 
of woman's life. 257 
 
 did he imagine that Milly 's pride had, from the moment 
 she knew of her mother's marriage, rejected the slightest 
 gift from the latter, believing that it must have been 
 purchased with Mr. Morrison's money, a mistake which 
 the poor woman could not correct without betraying the 
 error she had committed, in marrying a mean-spirited, 
 heartless wretch, who rendered her life one of hopeless 
 shivery. 
 
 Three years passed over without any change in their 
 relative situations. Milly diligently studied to improve 
 in all those acquirements, of which the foundation had 
 been laid during her father's lifetime, and upon which 
 she felt that she must depend for her subsistence, when- 
 ever it should be the will of Heaven to withdraw her 
 present protectors — her aged parents. How those accom- 
 plishments were to be turned to account she had a very 
 vague idea, for of worldly affairs Milly was profoundly 
 ignorant, though she still retained a perfect recollection 
 of her father's joyous anticipations that her talents, 
 especially her voice and musical talents, were to be a 
 certain fortune to her. 
 
 " Surely then," she thought to herself, " I need not 
 fear that I shall starve." 
 
 Young as she was, there were times when these reflec- 
 tions pressed heavily on her mind, and often did she 
 regret that the humble and obscure life she led at the 
 Abbey offered no opportunity of acquiring any friend 
 who could advise, or direct her how to proceed in render- 
 ing those acquirements — in which she had been taught 
 to trust — available, before the necessity she foresaw 
 should actually overtake her. From her grandfather or 
 grandmother, she could not expect to receive the assis- 
 tance she desired. In the old man's eves, the time spent 
 
 2 L 
 
258 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 at herlessons of every kind was thrown away, nay worse, 
 they were looked upon as a positive evil, for, as he said, 
 in making a fine lady of her her parents had shut her 
 out from the more than probability that she might he 
 well married. 
 
 " For what man in his senses — that is, a man in 
 suitable circumstances to you, (as my grandaughter, ) 
 would think of a fine lady that's been brought up as if 
 she'd been daughter to a lord, and as to a gentleman suit- 
 able to your eddication marrying you without either 
 high birth or money — such gentlemen are only to be 
 found in the novels your grandmother is so fond of 
 hearing you read, though they're nothing, I take it, but 
 a parcel of lies, which I wonder our master should have 
 in his library." 
 
 " And which you are as fond of hearing read, Daddy, 
 as grandmother is," Milly would laughingly reply, taking 
 his rough bearded chin between her soft white hands and 
 stopping his denial with a kiss from her rosy lips, while 
 yet too young to suffer his observations to make any im 
 pression on her. 
 
 At sixteen, however, Milly's reflections were much 
 more serious, and, great as were the pleasures she derived 
 from her studies, assisted as they were by the library, 
 &c., she would sometimes dejectedly admit to herself that 
 it would, perhaps, have been more conducive to her 
 happiness, if, as her grandfather said, she had been 
 brought up to work for her living, and with no more 
 learning than to read the bible, and write her own name 
 when it should be necessary. 
 
 The time at length arrived when those gloomy antici- 
 pations, which had so often overshadowed her naturally 
 gay and lively nature — by hearing them dwelt upon by 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 259 
 
 her aged friends — appeared likely to be speedily realised. 
 A particularly severe winter increased the old man's 
 cough and asthma, from which he had long suffered in a 
 most alarming manner, while poor old Millicent's rheu- 
 matic affections at last settled in her lower limbs, so as 
 totally to disable her from active exertion. It was, indeed, 
 a gloomy and trying time for Milly, who had, in addition 
 to her painful and wearisome exertions in attending upon 
 the aged sufferers, to bear with their petulance and queru- 
 lous tempers and eternal complaints. At Christmas 
 too, Annie, who had shared her labours, deserted her 
 to get married to a young farmer, to whom she had been 
 sometime engaged, and who would not consent any longer 
 to delay his happiness ; and this gave rise to a thousand 
 bitter repinings from the old man on the old subject, 
 the folly that, in lifting Milly so far above her situation, 
 had sbut her out — as he said — from the chance of being 
 equally provided for. It was in vain that Milly — with 
 forced gaiety — suggested that he ought to be thankful 
 that she was not likely to be tempted to desert him as 
 Annie had done ; or more seriously asked him with tears, 
 if she was so bad a nurse that he wished to be rid of her. 
 Richard was not to be driven from his position. 
 
 " You are a dear, good girl, Milly," he would reply, 
 '* and it would be a heavy loss, indeed, if you were to 
 leave us, for none can ever be to us what you have been, 
 since this affliction fell upon us ; but that is the very 
 reason that makes me grieve to think that we shall leave 
 you unprovided for ; and they will none of them believe 
 that you would make one of the best of wives to any 
 good creditable young man, or think of you as such, 
 because you are in their eyes nothing but a fine lady, and 
 fit only to play the music, or paint pictures, or — " 
 
260 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Oh, dear grandfather, don't enumerate any more of 
 my crimes," exclaimed Milly, laughing away the tears 
 which his pathetic allusion to leaving her alone in the 
 world had forced from her eyes. " You shall see, whenever 
 one comes in the way that is worth having, how soon I 
 will convince him that I am not merely a fine lady, fit 
 only to be looked at." 
 
 " Ah ! if they .did but know you so well as we do, my 
 dear child," added her grandmother ; " if they could see 
 you losing your sleep to watch by us, night after night, 
 and giving up all your music, and painting, and every 
 thing that you are fond of, to tend and nurse two cross, 
 grumbling old folks, that — " 
 
 " Hush, hush, grandmother, that is no more than my 
 duty," interrupted Milly, deeply affected ; and then, 
 shaking back her thick, clustering, golden curls, with a 
 toss of her head, that at the same time dissipated the 
 pearly tremblers that hung on her dark eyelashes, she 
 added, with a musical laugh— 
 
 "I shall catch one of these good young men that 
 grandfather talks of, some day, and then I will send him 
 to you for a character, and you shall tell him how well I 
 can make broth and gruel, and how I have learnt, under 
 your instructions, to roast and boil and bake ; and you 
 know, when grandfather gets well he is going to teach 
 me to milk the cow ; and that already I have almost 
 managed to churn and make a cheese; and then, if 
 they are not satisfied, why we'll send them packing, 
 and neither you nor I will ever care about husbands 
 again." 
 
 All Milly's cheerfulness, whether real or only assumed, 
 as was too often the case, could not dispel the gloomy 
 presentiments of her aged protectors, that they should 
 
of woman's life. 261 
 
 leave her unprovided for ; but, as the spring came on, 
 their health sensibly improved, and though neither re- 
 gained their former strength, or became capable of much 
 exertion, death seemed to have been again driven to a 
 distance, and Milly, released from her constant attendance 
 upon them, was enabled to renew in part her practice in 
 those studies on which she in secret placed her whole 
 dependence ; though she humoured the old man in his 
 hopes — for they had become real hopes — that, sooner or 
 later, her real worth would become known to some 
 deserving young man, especially as her beauty became so 
 striking, that he considered it impossible any one could 
 behold her with indifference. 
 
 Milly was indeed very beautiful, and the eyes of many 
 of the young farmers whom she encountered, either on 
 her way to, or even in, the village church — almost the 
 only place in which she was seen — betrayed that they 
 thought her so, and were far less intimidated by the report 
 of her pride, fine ladyism, learning, and accomplishments, 
 than old Pdchard had imagined. It was, indeed, with con- 
 siderable difficulty that the really diffident and unassum- 
 ing girl managed to keep them at the desired distance ; 
 for among all she had hitherto seen, though there were 
 several who would have been received with satisfaction 
 by her grandfather, there was not one who found favour 
 in her sight. 
 
 "Besides," as she remarked to her grandmother, to 
 whom she could speak without reserve — "besides, it will 
 be time enough, some years to come, for me to think of 
 marrving. Grandfather seems to forget that I am only 
 just turned of sixteen — too young a great deal to think 
 of taking upon myself the cares and trouble of a house- 
 hold." 
 
262 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Your mother was no older when she became a wife," 
 observed the old woman, with a deep sigh. 
 
 " Yes, but that was quite a different thing," returned 
 Milly. " She had been attached to my poor father from 
 childhood, and circumstances rendered it prudent they 
 should marry rather than be separated ; but grandfather 
 talks as if I ought to make a curtsey to the first that 
 offers, if he has got the means of supporting me, and say 
 — ' Yes, if you please, Sir ; I am much obliged to you." 
 '• Oh no, dear, don't talk so. Richard is only anxious 
 to see you well provided for. Think, if we had died 
 when we were both so bad in the winter ; and now, in a 
 few months, winter will come again, and with it, perhaps, 
 my rheumatism, and grandfather's cough, and we can't 
 always hope to get over our complaints. I am seventy- 
 six, Milly, and Richard is ten years older." 
 
 All Milly's assumed gaiety vanished. It was impos- 
 sible for her to deny that her prospects were gloomy, and 
 that her grandmother's anticipations were but too well- 
 founded; but still her heart revolted from the idea, 
 which it seemed to her the weakness of old age could 
 alone induce her grandfather so to dwell upon, of an 
 advantageous marriage. Old Richard, however, was not 
 so unreasonable on this subject as he appeared to her. 
 More than once he had received indirect intimations 
 from young men in the neighbourhood of Beauvale, with 
 whom business had brought him in contact, that they 
 would be well pleased to be on more familiar terms with 
 the inhabitants of the Abbey, and invitations had been 
 repeatedly sent to them to join in the merry parties at 
 harvest-time, Christmas, &c. ; all which, he well knew, 
 were to be attributed to Milly's growing beauty and 
 attractions, since in all the years that he had lived there 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 263 
 
 nothing of the kind had ever been thought of, till within 
 the last year or two, the family having lived perfectly 
 unnoticed by those who were now most forward in making 
 their advances. Annie's fortunate and advantageous 
 marriage, too, had made a great impression on the old 
 man. It showed him, as he said, that all men were not 
 mercenary ; and surely, if a girl who had nothing but a 
 pretty face and a good disposition to recommend her, 
 could secure a well-looking, thriving young fanner for a 
 husband, how much more was Hilly, with her extraordi- 
 nary beauty and attractions of every description, likely 
 to secure an advantageous match. 
 
 " If she would but lay aside her pride, and consent to 
 make herself agreeable to them that only want a look of 
 encouragement," he would add, w T hile discussing the 
 affair with old Millicent. "I dont want her to catch 
 at the first that offers — have a man that she couldn't 
 like : but while she shuns them all alike, and keeps her- 
 self from everybody, as if they 're not worthy of bestowing 
 a look upon ; or as if she was the Queen of England, 
 that must have an ambassador sent to ask her in mar- 
 riage — what prospect is there that we shall ever see her 
 settled ? " 
 
 Millicent dared not repeat what her grandaughter had 
 said to her on the subject. She ventured, indeed, to 
 1 her beloved Milly from the imputation of pride, 
 and quoted a hundred instances to prove, on the contrary, 
 her humility; but, though the old man could not confute 
 them, the discussion ended as usual, unsatisfactorily, for 
 — he said — " if it was not pride, what was it that kept 
 every one at a distance, and made her blind and deaf to 
 every attempt that was made to be on good terms with 
 her. and get her among them by their neighbours '.'" 
 
204 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 The fast increasing infirmities of the old people im- 
 posed upon Milly a task which was sadly at variance 
 with the pride which Richard condemned, hut which, 
 nevertheless, she hore with — in consideration for them — 
 with at least the appearance of meekness and humility. 
 This was attendance upon the parties who occasionally 
 came to view the Ahhey. She had, indeed, become 
 familiarised to the routine by attending her grandfather 
 in his progress, giving him the support of her arm from 
 room to room, and anticipating, with alacrity, whatever 
 personal exertion was necessary in displaying objects of 
 curiosity, &c. But even then she always contrived to 
 avoid being present when the old man received the gra- 
 tuity which was bestowed upon him, and which, in fact, 
 he rightly considered his due, and a part of Ins income ; 
 she shrunk with ill concealed vexation from all parti- 
 cipation in the increased receipts, which the old man 
 declared was not only due to her intelligence and exer- 
 tions, but had been more than once expressly left for her 
 by those who had been not less surprised than interested 
 by her beauty, her superior manners, and extensive in- 
 formation on historical subjects connected with the 
 edifice, for which they would in vain have applied to its 
 ancient guardian. 
 
 " And yet, what right have I to feel mortified ?" she 
 reflected. " It is the only way by which they know how 
 to express their satisfaction ; and even if it had been 
 given me personally as payment, I should have been 
 doing injustice to my grandfather to refuse it. No, I 
 must bend my proud spirit — as he calls it — and accom- 
 modate my feelings to my circumstances." With that 
 cunning that so often survives the decline of intellect, 
 old Richard soon discovered the advantage of substituting 
 
of woman's life. 265 
 
 Milly's attendance for his own on these occasions, and, 
 painful as it was in most instances, she dared not de- 
 cline what she felt to he her duty. 
 
 "There he a gentleman wanting you to come and 
 show him the place," observed the rough and half stupid 
 girl who had been taken to supply the place of Annie 
 at the Abbey. 
 
 Milly rose hastily from the harpsichord, at which she 
 was accompanying herself in the pathetic ballad of Lord 
 Ullin's daughter, tears coursing each other down her 
 cheeks unnoticed, from the recollections with which it 
 was connected, for it had been one of her father's especial 
 favourites, and she never sang it without recalling his 
 tender expressions and rapturous predictions of her 
 future excellence. 
 
 " Where is he ? Why did you not acquaint my grand- 
 father first, Jenny ?" she exclaimed, feeling a more than 
 usual unwillingness to encounter a stranger, and to go 
 through what was often an ungrateful and monotonous 
 task, where the visitor evinced no feeling superior to 
 that of curiosity. But Jenny was gone, and Milly 
 started in confusion as she encountered the dark eyes 
 of a stranger, who in evident surprise observed — 
 
 "Excuse me, Madam, I was not aware that any of 
 the family inhabited the Abbey. It was of course a mis- 
 apprehension of my errand that induced the servant to 
 bring me hither, instead of introducing me to the old 
 servant of Sir Orlando St. Orme, who, I understood at 
 the inn where the coach set me down, would show the 
 Abbey to any one who applied." 
 
 "It is all quite correct, Sir. There is no mistake, 
 except in the woman bringing you up here, instead of in- 
 
 formincr my grandfather of your wish," returned Mill v. 
 
 2 m 
 
2G6 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 beginning to recover from her confusion, and no longer 
 feeling reluctant to enter upon her task. 
 
 " Your grandfather ! " he repeated in extreme amaze- 
 ment. "Pardon me, is it possible that you are — I did 
 not know Sir Orlando had returned to England. I would 
 not intrude. It may he inconvenient to — to the person 
 who shows the Abbey— and I am, I fear, intruding on 
 your apartment. I trust you will believe—" 
 
 " Oh no ! I am here only on sufferance myself, I may 
 say," replied Milly, who really pitied the pain and con- 
 fusion which the stranger seemed to feel, and which she 
 knew could only arise from his misapprehension of her 
 situation, and even that seemed greatly exaggerated, as 
 she thought. " Sir Orlando is still abroad," she con- 
 tinued, " and my grandfather is the old servant to whom 
 the care of the Abbey is entrusted. If you will be seated, 
 Sir," she added, scarcely able to repress a smile at his 
 bewildered and astonished look, " I will let my grand- 
 father know your wish, and he will wait upon you as 
 quickly as his infirmities will allow." 
 
 The gentleman, for such he evidently was, although 
 he had — as he so unostentatiously acknowledged — arrived 
 in the neighbouring village in the stage coach, pro- 
 tested warmly against giving the trouble she proposed ; 
 but as — even while he said so — he accepted the proffered 
 seat, Milly very properly concluded that he still retained 
 the purpose that had led to his introduction, and she 
 therefore hurried away to communicate his wish to the 
 old man. 
 
 " Only one gentleman ?" murmured Richard in a tone 
 of discontent. " How did he come ? I did not hear a 
 carriage, or was he on horseback ? " 
 
 " Neither," returned Milly ; " he walked from the 
 
of woman's life. 2G7 
 
 village, I suspect, for he spoke of having learned at 
 the inn that you would show him all that is to he 
 seen here." 
 
 Milly suppressed all mention of the stage coach ; she 
 would not for the world that the stranger should he dis- 
 appointed, or not treated with the consideration due to a 
 gentleman, which, from her knowledge of her grand- 
 father's prejudices, would very prohahly he the result if 
 he knew the humhle manner in which the stranger 
 had come. 
 
 " Couldn't you have managed without me, child ?" 
 again grumbled the old man. " My breath is so bad, I 
 cannot stand being dragged about from post to pillar." 
 
 " He will be too considerate to require it, I'm sure, 
 grandfather," replied Milly ; " but you know it would 
 have looked strange and bold for a young girl like me to 
 volunteer to conduct a single gentleman through — " 
 
 "' The child is right, Richard," interposed old Milli- 
 cent. " You must go with her at any rate, even if you 
 sit down and let Milly go on with him." 
 
 " If he behaves as shabbily as the last that came by 
 himself," murmured the old man as he proceeded, leaning 
 on his gran daughter's arm. " He kept me two or three 
 hours asking all sorts of questions, and then put me off 
 with a paltry half-crown. But I shan't take it again 
 as quietly as I did then." 
 
 "Oh, grandfather! you would not, I'm sure, affront 
 one who is a real gentleman, though he may have but 
 little money," observed Milly with earnestness, and 
 suddenly stopping on the stairs, as if conscious there 
 was a possibility this might be the case in the present 
 instance. 
 
 " A real gentleman ! what does the girl mean ?" ex* 
 
2C8 SHADE AND BDNSHINE 
 
 claimed the old man ; " a real gentleman, as I take it, 
 is one that would never take a favour of a poor man that 
 he could not afford to pay him for." 
 
 ^filly could not controvert this observation, still — she 
 knew not why — she felt a presentiment that the stranger's 
 finances were not in a condition to enahle him to reward 
 Richard's services equal to his expectations, and she 
 fairly tremhlcd, lest, should it prove so, her grandfather 
 should fulfil his threat, and insult the stranger. 
 
 " What the dickens ails the girl ?" demanded the old 
 man, as, laying her hand upon his arm hefore she opened 
 the drawing-room door, in which she had left the young 
 gentleman sitting, she exclaimed — 
 
 " Don't, pray don't say anything if he should not give 
 you as much as you expect." 
 
 " Do you know anything ahout the man ?" added old 
 Eichard, looking suspiciously into her agitated face, and 
 stopping short on his way. 
 
 " Grandfather," she replied, in a tone of reproach, 
 " what could I possihly know of a person who has only 
 arrived in the neighbourhood within a few hours, and 
 who knew so little of it as to have supposed me to be the 
 grandaughter of Sir Orlando ? " 
 
 " Sir Orlando, our master!" returned Eichard ; "what 
 could he know of him ? What did he say of him ? Did he 
 say that he had ever had a child ? It is odd that a stranger 
 — as you say he is — should talk about Sir Orlando, who 
 has been away from England years and years." 
 
 Milly felt that it would be useless to attempt, without 
 detaining him longer than she wished to do, or would 
 have appeared respectful to the stranger, to bring within 
 the old man's slow comprehension what had really oc- 
 curred to lead to the mention of Sir Orlando's name. 
 
of woman's life. 209 
 
 Jennv's blunder, too, in introducing the gentleman while 
 she (Milly) was seated at the harpsichord, would, the 
 latter knew, bring upon her a whole host of reproaches 
 and grumblings on the part of the old man, who, except 
 when he was in extraordinary good humour, and required 
 her to play for his amusement " God save the King," 
 "Rule Britannia," "Bright Chanticleer," "Tom Tow- 
 ling," and a few others, the songs of his youth, con- 
 sidered the time she spent at the instrument as thrown 
 away. Milly, therefore, at once opened the drawing-room 
 door, and introduced her grandfather — not without some 
 trepidation, lest the appearance of the stranger should 
 fail in making as favourable an impression on the old 
 man as it had done on her, and almost wishing that her 
 grandfather might — as he had frequently done before — 
 delegate to her the task of conducting the visitor over 
 those parts of the Abbey which were shown on such 
 occasions. And yet, she knew not why, an unusual 
 timidity restrained and induced her to shrink back, and 
 suffer the old man to advance alone to the stranger ; 
 while, thinking to escape the reprimand which she knew 
 would follow a discovery of her previous employment, 
 she softly approached the harpsichord, to which Richard's 
 back was turned, and attempted quietly to close it. 
 
 "Oh no!" exclaimed the gentleman, whose eyes had 
 been rivetted on her from the moment she re-entered the 
 room, and who appeared to have paid no attention—' 
 scarcely, indeed, to have been aware of the common- 
 place expressions which the old man had addressed to 
 him. — " Oh no ! do not for the world ! " he repeated, " let 
 my unfortunate intrusion be the means of interrupting 
 your delightful employment. I have been reproaching 
 myself ever since you quitted the room, for having suf- 
 
270 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 fered my surprise, my confusion at unexpectedly hearing 
 such entrancing sounds here, where I expected to have 
 found — to have met with nobody superior to — to — " 
 
 He paused, evidently more confused, more confounded 
 than ever; it might be said, at the alarm and distress 
 which was visible in Milly's countenance, as her eyes in- 
 voluntarily, as it seemed, were turned upon her grand- 
 father, whose looks at once expressed extreme surprise 
 and anger, and the stranger, though unable to compre- 
 hend the cause of it, immediately saw the necessity of 
 seeking to conciliate the old man. Unfortunately, the 
 very means he adopted were those that increased the evil. 
 
 " May I entreat your interference, my good friend," 
 he observed, in a tone which could not be called haughty, 
 but which evidently betrayed a consciousness of superi- 
 ority over the old domestic of the St. Orme family — 
 " May I entreat your interference with this young lady, 
 to induce her to forgive my intrusion, and that, as a 
 proof of it, she will repeat the song she was singing so 
 beautifully — so angelically, I might say, without any ex- 
 aggeration of the feelings with which I listened to her?" 
 he added, lowering his voice, and regarding Milly with 
 a look of intense admiration, that sent a thrill of 
 delight through her heart, and for a moment banished all 
 feelings of regret, or fear of her grandfather's disappro- 
 bation. 
 
 The old man's angry " Humph ! " however, delivered in 
 his gruffest tone, soon recalled her alarm, and prepared 
 her for what followed. " Humph ! the young lady, as 
 you call her, Sir, ought to be better employed than sitting 
 there jingling and squalling away her time ; but if that's 
 all you want— to listen to her — I may as well go and — " 
 
 " Then she is really your grandaughter," interrupted 
 
of woman's lifk. 271 
 
 the stranger, without seeming at all disconcerted by the 
 old man's anger. 
 
 " I don't suppose it matters to you who she is," grum- 
 bled the cross old man. " Howsomever, if you are come 
 here to see the Abbey — " 
 
 "I have come here to see the Abbey, my friend," 
 returned the stranger, in a kindly tone, " and it may 
 perhaps induce you to regard my curiosity with a little 
 more indulgence than you seem inclined at present to 
 bestow, when I tell you that my name is St. Orme ; not 
 the only, but, I believe, the youngest representative of — " 
 
 " Merciful Goodness ! Forgive me, Sir ! Dear, dear, 
 how little did I suspect — how could I ever think — that I 
 should ever live to see one of the family ! And to come 
 here as a stranger, too!" ejaculated Richard; "but you 
 will excuse me that — " 
 
 "There is no necessity for any excuse," interrupted 
 Mr. St. Orme, smilingly ; " if there is any apology due 
 it is from me, for breaking in upon your domestic ar- 
 rangements. But suffer me to ask — You are Richard 
 Shelburne, are you not, of whom I have heard my mother 
 speak, and whose name has been always connected in my 
 thoughts with the Abbey ? " 
 
 Richard made his best bow in assent, 
 
 "And you, Sir, are the son of — " 
 
 " Vivian St. Orme, the younger brother of Sir 
 Orlando," he replied, seeing the old man hesitated. " You 
 were present, I believe, when the remains of my poor 
 father were deposited in the family mausoleum ; at least 
 I have heard so from my mother, to whom your name 
 was familiar, as an attached and faithful servant of the 
 family. I did not, however, know that you had any 
 children : on the contrary, my impressions — though I 
 
272 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 know not why — were that you were single, and that, 
 together with some reports connected with Sir Orlando, 
 my uncle, led me into the error respecting this — " he 
 hesitated for a moment, and then added — " this young 
 lady, your grandaughter." 
 
 "Milly, my dear, go to your grandmother, and tell her 
 who the gentleman is," said the old man, " and hid her 
 get tea ready. You can help her get out a china cup and 
 saucer, and plates, and all that's proper to put before our 
 master's nephew, from out of the china closet," he added in 
 a whisper, as he followed her to the door. Nearly two 
 hours, however, passed, and old Millicent had had full 
 time to discuss all the various suggestions and antici- 
 pations of the consequences that might arise from this 
 most unexpected discovery, that there was really living a 
 young heir to the St. Orrne estates, for such they con- 
 sidered, undoubtedly, must be the nephew of Sir Orlando, 
 who, as far as they knew, had never married. It was 
 strange, indeed, that he should know so little of his own 
 family concerns, as to have been led into the mistake ot 
 supposing that Milly formed one of that family ; for 
 Milly did not now hesitate to repeat to her grandmother 
 all that had passed between her and Mr. St. Orme, on 
 his first introduction. She was not, however, equally 
 candid as to her own feelings on the subject. She did 
 not reveal that, for the first time in her life, she felt mor- 
 tified that she could boast no higher birth than the 
 grandaughter of a servant of the St. Ormes — that she 
 was not, in fact, what the stranger had believed her — his 
 equal in birth and station. Gladly would she, if pos- 
 sible, have excused herself from the task her grand- 
 mother assigned her. 
 
 " It won't do to trust that awkward, stupid creature, 
 
of woman's life. 273 
 
 Jenny, to take the tea-things into the parlour, my dear," 
 observed Millicent ; " she knows no more how to wait 
 upon a gentleman than the cow she 's gone to milk ; 
 perhaps, too, he '11 like his tea to be made for him ; Sir 
 Orlando never took his, while he was here, without 
 making me sit down and make it for him ; and then, too, 
 he 11 maybe have many questions to ask that your 
 grandfather won't be able to answer and he 11 be glad 
 to have you to talk to: so go, darling, and put your 
 last new frock on, and your coral necklace and bracelets, 
 and then you 11 be ready to wait upon him, as soon as 
 your grandfather gives us notice. Why do you colour 
 so, Milly ? 1 11 go in with you, dear, for of course I 
 must go to see and speak to him, so that you won't feel 
 awkward to wait on him, and you say that he 's a perfect 
 gentleman, so there 's no fear of his making too free with 
 you." 
 
 Poor Milly ! never had she felt such painful, such un- 
 definable sensations, as those which now deepened the 
 roses on her cheeks, and made her heart swell almost to 
 bursting. She refused however, decidedly, to make the 
 desired change in her dress. " No ! a silk dress, coral 
 necklace, and bracelets, she was sure," she said, " was 
 not a proper dress for a servant to wait upon a gentleman 
 in. She should do nothing but wash her face and brush 
 her hair ; that was quite sufficient for such a purpose." 
 
 There was a bitterness in the tone with which this was 
 uttered that startled her grandmother. Was it then 
 true, what Richard had so often said, that Milly was 
 proud, too proud for her station, or to do herself any 
 good in life ? 
 
 "If it wasn't for my rheumatiz, I'd do it all myself, 
 
 without asking you, my dear child," she observed in an 
 
 2 N 
 
274 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 apologetic tone; "but, you see, if we were to trust Jenny, 
 and she was to make any of her stupid blunders, our 
 young master would think we didn't show him proper re- 
 spect Maybe, after all," she added, with sudden recol- 
 lection, " he won't stay to take tea, and then you won't 
 have to do what I can see is disagreeable to you." 
 
 Milly protested that her grandmother was wrong. Why, 
 indeed, should it be disagreeable to her, to do what was 
 only her duty ? The thought that Mr. St. Orme might 
 go away without taking tea, without even seeing her again, 
 was in fact worse to Milly than her being compelled to 
 wait upon him as a servant, and did more in the way of 
 reconciling her to what had at first appeared so serious a 
 mortification, than any argument that either reason or 
 conscience could have suggested. Fortunately, however, 
 for Milly, she was spared either ; for, at the conclusion 
 of his conference with Kichard, and after the latter had 
 conducted him over the Abbey, and exhibited the trea- 
 sures of art it contained, they (Mr. St. Orme and Kichard) 
 to the surprise and consternation of the old woman, and 
 the heart-felt satisfaction of Milly, entered the kitchen 
 together, where the family usually lived, and where the 
 former was now seated by her grandmother, anxiously 
 awaiting the summons she expected to receive, to wait 
 upon " our young master," the title which, unconscious 
 how gratingly it sounded in the ears of her grand- 
 daughter, old Millicent had already dutifully bestowed 
 on their visitor. " He had heard," Mr. St. Orme said, as 
 he kindly took the old woman's hand, and insisted on her 
 keeping her seat in her arm-chair — " he had heard from 
 Kichard how painfully she was afflicted, and had come 
 there, therefore, with the intention of takiug his tea with 
 the family.'' Even the best china and the separate tea- 
 
of woman's life. 275 
 
 board were rejected, as soon as offered. Mr. St. Orme 
 was determined, it appeared, to be on terms of perfect 
 equality with the family, and he soon contrived to put 
 even old Millicent so completely at her ease, that he 
 drew from her the full and complete history of her own 
 domestic affairs, from that, the most important event of 
 her and every woman's life — her marriage, up to the 
 present moment, which had realised a long- cherished 
 wish and desire of her heart — the beholding, if only for 
 once, one of the family, to whom she had been indebted 
 for so many — many years of quiet comfort. 
 
 If Kichard had not been present, or even had there 
 been anything like encouragement in his looks to a more 
 confidential communication of her hopes and wishes for 
 the future, Millicent would certainly have seized the 
 present opportunity to have recommended her grand- 
 daughter's interest to Mr. St. Orme, to have secured for 
 the poor friendless girl — as she would have called her — 
 his protection, or at least his advice and recommendation, 
 in any course she (Milly) might adopt, when death 
 should have deprived her of her present friends, and of 
 the asylum which they had, through the favour and libe- 
 rality of Sir Orlando St. Orme, been enabled to afford 
 her. But there was an expression in the old man's natu- 
 rally stem face — now rendered doubly stern, though she 
 knew not why — that first discouraged, and finally alarmed 
 his subservient wife into silence, before she had uttered a 
 sentence on the subject nearest her heart. The poor 
 woman had indeed, led by the kind and familiar, though 
 perhaps somewhat too curious, questions of Mr. St. 
 Orme, entered into a full explanation of the cause that 
 had occasioned her poor Milly — as she called her — to 
 have received an education (as far as it went) so superior 
 
270 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to her station ; throwing in, at the same time, hints how 
 little probability there was that the poor child's singing, 
 and music and drawing, and painting pictures and dancing* 
 and all sorts of beautiful needlework, and her speaking 
 French and Latin — 
 
 "Latin, don't you call it, Richard? — what they speak 
 in Italy, where Sir Orlando went ; but I forgot, Sir," 
 appealing to St. Orme, whose eyes sparkled with surprise 
 and pleasure, as he smilingly replied — 
 
 "Italian, you mean. Is it possible that — " 
 
 "Oh yes!" rejoined the old woman, eagerly. "All 
 Milly's best songs ; at least, what she calls her best, is 
 Italian, but I — " 
 
 " Cursed nonsense ! " 
 
 The poor woman started. Never — or at least for many 
 a year — had she heard such an expression from the lips of 
 her husband, and now to have given utterance to it in 
 the presence of Mr. St. Orme, his young master, as she 
 called him. She was astounded — absolutely terrified. 
 Anxiously she turned to look at him, in the hope he 
 would apologise ; but Richard's dogged look was fixed 
 on the ground, the expression of his eyes hidden by his 
 heavy frowning brow. 
 
 Mr. St. Orme was for a moment disconcerted, but he 
 quickly recovered himself, and imagining he had dis- 
 covered the source of Richard's displeasure, laughingly 
 observed — 
 
 "Your husband is old fashioned enough, Mrs. Shel- 
 burne, to prefer the songs of his native language, and I 
 confess that I so far resemble him in taste, that I do not 
 believe it possible that any Italian music could equal, 
 much less surpass, that of which I was so unlucky as 
 only to hear your grandaughter sing the conclusion. I 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 277 
 
 hope, however, that I shall, before I go, have the pleasure 
 of hearing her repeat it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, to be sure, Milly will be delighted to oblige 
 you," commenced the old woman, forgetting in a moment 
 all her previous uneasiness at her husband's disapproval, 
 
 Another gruff, though unintelligible exclamation, from 
 the old man, silenced her, and rendered almost imperative 
 some observation from Mr. St. Orme, who, however, 
 thought it better to treat the subject lightly than make 
 a serious matter of it. 
 
 " I'm afraid you have not much taste for music, 
 Richard," he observed laughingly. 
 
 "Music's all very well in it's place, Sir," replied the 
 old man seriously ; " but I'm vexed to see my wife, or 
 anybody else, encourage Milly in what is all thrown away 
 upon one in her situation. What good can it ever do a 
 girl that's got no prospect when we 're gone, but to get 
 her bread by the labour of her hands ? I begin, indeed, 
 to feel that I've done wrong in not locking up the instru- 
 ment when she first came to us. But it's never too late 
 to mend, and — " 
 
 " Then you will do a most ill-judged and unjust thing 
 by your grandaughter, Shelburne," interrupted Mr. St. 
 Orme with warmth. " I have sufficient knowledge of the 
 science to know that she possesses talents, and a voice 
 that may be a fortune to her." 
 
 "I should like to know how it's to be done," grumbled 
 Richard. " Of course," he added more deferentially, 
 " you know more about such things, Sir, than I do, but 
 this I do know, that I would be glad to get a situation 
 for her in a gentleman's family, either in the nurserv, or 
 to wait upon ladies, so that I might see her comfortably 
 settled, before it should please God to call me and my 
 
278 SHADE AND SUNSHINI 
 
 wife ; and I can't think it would be any recommendation 
 in either place, to say that she can play music and sing." 
 The colour rushed into the young gentleman's face. 
 "A servant!" he exclaimed. "Good Heavens! can 
 you be serious in the intention to make a servant of that 
 beautiful and — " 
 
 "And why not, Sir?" demanded the old man, almost 
 angrily. " Why should she be above what we are, and 
 have been all our lives ? What her own mother would 
 have been, if it hadn't been for her getting married so 
 young ; and what was the consequence of that ? why that 
 she was left without a penny, when it was too late for her 
 to go to service, and has been struggling with the world 
 ever since. No, no, Sir, depend upon it that there's 
 nothing better for them that's got no means of furnishing 
 a table for themselves, than to get their feet well planted 
 under somebody else's, and the sooner in life they begin 
 the better. Millicent was not so old as her grand- 
 daughter is now, when first she went into the service of 
 your great-grandfather; and from that day to this, she's 
 never been — what the world calls — her own mistress; 
 and yet, I fancy, few have been happier or better oft 
 that began the world with nothing. And why shouldn't 
 Milly do as well, and be as contented as she's always 
 been, if she would but forget all the rubbish that her poor 
 foolish father half-ruined himself to teach her ?" 
 
 " And does the young lady — does your grandaughter 
 know of your intentions towards her ?" demanded Mr. 
 St. Orme, whose countenance had expressed extreme 
 impatience, not unmingled with contempt, at what, he 
 no doubt would have termed the grovelling sentiments 
 old Shelburne had expressed. 
 
 "What can she hope for better?" replied Richard 
 
OF woman's LIFE. ~70 
 
 evasively. " She knows our good character would be 
 sufficient to get her a situation, whenever one oilers ; and 
 that is all that we can do for her, and I should not thank 
 anybody that encouraged her to refuse an opportunity 
 if it offered. This, I know, they wouldn't be her true 
 friends that did so," he added with empbasis, and looking 
 alternately from St. Orme to his wife, in a manner that 
 sufficiently betrayed to the former that Mrs. Shelburne 
 was far from sympathising in her husband's unambitious 
 views for their grandaughter, though her habitual defe- 
 rence to him, and her inability, from total ignorance of 
 the world, to suggest any better plan, prevented her 
 attempting to argue with him on the subject. 
 
 The return of Milly — who had been absent during the 
 preceding conversation — prevented the remarks to which 
 Mr. St. Orme had been about to give utterance on the 
 subject, but it soon became evident that he was not of a 
 disposition to be deterred from the object he had in view 
 bv old Shelburne's frowns and scarcely repressed oppo- 
 sition, and the tea-things were no sooner removed from 
 the table, than he claimed what he affected to believe a 
 promise given, and conducted Milly to the harpsichord 
 in the drawing-room, followed by the old man and wo- 
 man, the former murmuring the whole way in the ear of 
 his passive and half- frightened wife, his determination 
 that he would " put a stop to all this rubbish." 
 
 To sav that Mr. St. Orme was surprised and delighted 
 with Milly's musical talents would be but a faint ex- 
 pression of his sentiments, but it was not only these, 
 every word that she uttered — every look— increased the 
 feeling with which he uttered to himself the words — 
 
 " A servant! perish the thought, that such talents ;is 
 these should ever be so degraded.' 
 
280 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Even Richard Slielbume himself, bigoted to his own 
 opinions and prejudiced against every thing that could 
 oppose the realization of his plans for his grandaughter's 
 supposed benefit, was shaken by the enthusiasm of his 
 "young master," and inclined to suspect that he had 
 undervalued Milly's attainments, and was thus induced to 
 lend a more willing ear than he otherwise would have done 
 to the suggestions of Mr. St. Orme, that he should, at 
 least for the present, suspend all thought or effort to 
 carry into effect his intention of — to use his own phrase, 
 getting Milly a place. 
 
 " I cannot, immediately," observed the young gentle- 
 man, "suggest the means by winch her extraordinary 
 acquisitions and endowments by nature may be made 
 available, but I have friends, whom I will consult on the 
 subject. Friends, whose connexion with fashionable 
 society will enable them to point out methods of which I 
 avow myself ignorant. Promise me, then, that you will 
 do nothing — that you will not even hurt her feelings by 
 alluding to that miserable plan — until I return, when I 
 trust I shall have that to communicate which will set at 
 rest for ever all thoughts of condemning her to such 
 an unworthy — such a degrading position as that you 
 alluded to." 
 
 St. Orme had been led into this warm exposition of 
 Iris feelings by Richard's acknowledgment that he had 
 not only secretly come to a resolution of no longer 
 delaying Milly's establishment in the world, in what he 
 considered the most eligible manner, but had communi- 
 cated — unknown to his wife and grandaughter — his 
 wishes to several of his old acquaintances, tradesmen, 
 formerly employed by the St. Orme family, and one or 
 two butlers in gentlemen's houses in the neighbourhood 
 
of woman's life. 281 
 
 of the Abbey ; all of whom had promised to communicate 
 to him whenever an opportunity should arise that they 
 considered suitable for the young girl, whom they only 
 knew by the report of her grandfather, aud dreamed not 
 of her objecting to an arrangement so perfectly suitable 
 to her situation in life. 
 
 St. Orme's remarks, however, and especially the hints 
 he threw out as to his return and future intentions, while 
 they surprised the old man, made an impression on him 
 which induced him at least to delay putting in practice 
 his plans for Milly's establishment in life, and though, 
 not without some secret murmurings on the part of the 
 grandfather, as he saw more than one favourable oppor- 
 tunity pass by without being able to profit by them, 
 Milly was left unmolested to pursue with an enthusiasm, 
 of winch in her innocence she knew not the source, those 
 studies which Mr. St. Orme had so highly commended, 
 and in which he had afforded her so many valuable hints 
 for her guidance and direction. 
 
 " What will Mr. St. Orme say to it ?" was the leading 
 thought, and even unsuppressed exclamation, whenever 
 she had conquered any difficulty, or succeeded beyond her 
 expectations, though, it must be confessed, but seldom to 
 her entire satisfaction, for that, nothing but perfection 
 could have realized ; and isolated, unassisted as she was, 
 how could she ever hope to attain all that her ambition 
 prompted ? For a long time, Richard heard in silence the 
 expression of her hopes, and sometimes of her exultation 
 at what Mr. St. Orme would think and say of the results 
 of her indefatigable application, but the time passed over 
 that the young gentleman had fixed for his return with- 
 out their hearing anything of him. Milly was uneasy, anx- 
 ious, and disappointed, but she strove, she knew not why, 
 
282 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to conceal these feelings from her friends, and relaxed 
 none of her former efforts, although gradually the old man 
 resumed his discontent and murmuring, of which " wasted 
 time," " useless rubhish" and the like, formed the con- 
 stant burthen. Mr. St. Orme's name was never now 
 breathed by Milly ; and when the old grandmother some- 
 times in the simplicity of her heart recurred to his former 
 visit, and wondered where he was, and what could have 
 happened to prevent his keeping his promise, she was 
 scarcely less surprised at the girl's silence and evident 
 unwillingness to enter upon the subject, than she was at 
 her husband's angry and resentful exclamations, which 
 even went the length of saying that, "she must be a 
 fool to expect that he (St. Orme) would think or care 
 anything about poor people like them, except just when 
 he had nothing else to occupy or amuse him." 
 
 "Why no, not you or I, maybe," replied the old 
 woman, unconscious of the effect these remarks pro- 
 duced on Milly, whose fair cheek first blushed " celestial 
 rosy red " at the mention of St. Orme's name, and then 
 paled lily-white at her grandfather's self-humiliation ; 
 " Not of us old folks, maybe," repeated the old woman, 
 " he mightn't think after he went away, but he seemed so 
 taken with Milly — I mean, he thought so highly of her 
 cleverness, and — and — " 
 
 Mrs. Shelburne hesitated, for she saw the old porten- 
 tous frown on Richard's countenance, and dared not 
 hazard the word — St. Orme had principally taught her — 
 accomplishments, lest she should bring forth some of 
 the ancient sarcastic or angry remarks, which had so long 
 been kept in abeyance by the old man, but now again 
 threatened her and her grandaughter with all their 
 former annoyance. The storm, however, was not to be 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 283 
 
 allayed by her forbearing to use the offensive word, which 
 had formerly excited old Kichard's angry and contempt- 
 uous observations when applied to his grandaughter. 
 
 " Milly — taken with her !" he repeated. " Yes, to make 
 a fool of her, and a still greater one of me, for believing 
 he meant what he said. I wish he'd never come near the 
 place — never seen her. What good has it done ? Only to 
 make her idle away week after week, and month after 
 month, and give way to a parcel of romantic nonsensical 
 stuff that can only bring her to ruin in the end. There, 
 don't cry, child — don't cry. I 'm not blaming you," he 
 added, softening at the sight of Milly's tears, which she 
 could not repress or run away to conceal, being at the 
 moment engaged in making the usual supper of gruel for 
 the old people. " I don't blame you," he repeated, " but 
 them that's done the harm to you, by flattering you up 
 with such nonsensical ideas, that I'm more than ever 
 convinced now, can never do you any good. As to Mr. 
 St. Orme, I do say it was one of the cruellest things 
 that ever was done by a gentleman like him, know- 
 ing as he did too, how I'd got things all under-weigh for 
 you to get into a situation, and provide for yourself if 
 anything should happen to us, as God knows how soon 
 it may please Mm to call us both, — and then to come and 
 spoil it all as he did, just for his own amusement, for it 
 couldn't be for nothing else ; and, I dare say, all the 
 time mocking at our pride, and thinking it great im- 
 pudence to be setting ourselves up for what we had no 
 right to. I shouldn't wonder if I was to receive master's 
 orders from the agent, when he pays my wages, to lock 
 up the drawing-room and the music, and to keep to my 
 own rooms ; I know, so proud as Sir Orlando was. if it 
 came to his curs — " 
 
284 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " I will never touch the instrument again !" exclaimed 
 Milly, her cheeks burning with resentment and wounded 
 pride. " If you had said all this before, grandfather, 
 I would never have entered the room." And again, the 
 tears which seemed to have been dried by passion in her 
 burning and glittering eyes, burst forth with fresh ve- 
 hemence. 
 
 " Nonsense, child," whispered her grandmother, as 
 she took the basin Milly handed her — " Nonsense, your 
 grandfather only says this because he is vexed. It's not 
 likely a gentleman like Mr. St. Orme would go tittle- 
 tattling and making mischief to his uncle, Sir Orlando, 
 about poor servants like us. He would have something 
 of more consequence to talk of, I should think, even if 
 he's gone to him, which I don't believe." 
 
 Far from soothing Milly's wounded spirit, the old wo- 
 man's remark did but add to the humiliating view in 
 which she for the first time beheld her own situation. 
 
 " I will get away from this place," was her first 
 thought, when, having at last escaped to her own little 
 chamber, she threw herself upon the bed and gave vent 
 to the storm of passion that assailed her. " Yes, my 
 grandfather shall never again have the opportunity of re- 
 jiroaching me for idleness. I will go and w T ork in the 
 fields, rather than stay here to be looked down upon with 
 contempt by him, as a miserable dependant on his uncle's 
 servants. Oh mother, mother, why did you desert me — 
 why did you persuade me to leave you ? I could have 
 worked with you, and have been independent of the whole 
 world. And I have been so blind too to my wretched 
 situation. So blind and thoughtless, I never saw when 
 he was praising and affecting such interest towards me — 
 I never suspected the contemptible light in which I must 
 
of woman's life. 285 
 
 have appeared to him. Oh, yes, he must indeed, as my 
 grandfather said, have laughed at my folly, and regarded 
 my pretensions as mere matter of amusement to one so 
 much ahove me." 
 
 Milly's heart, however, soon whispered that she was 
 wrong — that she was doing St. Ornie injustice in attri- 
 buting to him such unworthy motives for the attention 
 he had paid to her. She recalled his looks, his words, a 
 thousand evidently unstudied, involuntary looks and ex- 
 pressions, that compelled her to believe in his truth and 
 sincerity, and proudly she drew herself up and dashed 
 away the tears from her eyes as she exclaimed — 
 
 "No, he cannot — he dare not despise me; humble as 
 my station in life is and may be, it is my conduct only 
 that can degrade me. No, I will force him to respect 
 even the child of his family's domestics." 
 
 For the first time in her life, probably, Milly passed a 
 night of sleeplessness. A thousand wild schemes and 
 plans floated before her mind's-eye, and arose only to be 
 rejected as soon as formed. On one point only was she 
 determined. She would quit Beauvale. Never again 
 should Mr. St. Orme behold her there, a miserable 
 intruder in the dwelling of his ancestors. Oh, how her 
 cheeks glowed, and her eyes darted fire, as she recalled 
 the circumstances of their first meeting, and thought it 
 possible that her grandfather's suggestions were correct, 
 that St. Orme had beheld with secret contempt her ap- 
 parent confident assurance, and that his pretended mis- 
 take, his seemingly respectful address, was only concealed 
 satire, only intended — as the old man said — to show her 
 that he could not believe it possible any one in her 
 humble situation would dare be guilty of such an in- 
 trusion. 
 
286 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Determined only on that one point, to leave the Ahhey, 
 and henceforth depend on her own exertions for sub- 
 sistence, Milly arose from her sleepless bed, and calm, 
 pale as a marble statue, joined her aged relatives at their 
 breakfast table. It was some time before the old people 
 noticed the alteration a single night had made in Milly's 
 looks. Richard had entirely forgotten all that had passed 
 the preceding evening. He had given vent to his ill- 
 humour excited by the unlucky mention of Mr. St. 
 Orme's name by his wife, and having done so thought no 
 more of the subject. Great, therefore, was his surprise, 
 and no less his uneasiness, when an exclamation from 
 his wife drew his attention to the pale, but firm and de- 
 mined looking countenance of his grandaughter. 
 
 " Merciful goodness ! child, what has come to thee ? " 
 he exclaimed in a tone of kindness and most earnest so- 
 licitude. 
 
 For a moment Milly's resolution was shaken. Her 
 lip quivered, and a choking sensation rose in her throat ; 
 but she resolutely suppressed the emotion, and, with only 
 a slight tremulousness in her voice, replied — 
 
 "There is nothing the matter with me, grandfather ; 
 but I have been thinking how very foolishly and incon- 
 siderately I have been idling away my time, and being a 
 burthen to you, when — " 
 
 " Oh Milly, dear child, don't talk in that way ! " inter- 
 rupted the warm-hearted old woman. " Burthening us! 
 you, that have been a blessing ever since you came into 
 the house. What would have become of Eichard and I, 
 all last winter ? Ay, and long before that ; see how 
 you kept up our spirits when we were low and sinking, 
 and nursed and coddled us, and — Yes, I don't care what 
 anybody may say" — and she darted a reproachful look at 
 
of woman's life. 287 
 
 the old man — " but I know that I, for one, should have 
 been in my grave long ago, but for the care you 've taken 
 of me ; and Eichard, too, if he speaks the truth, he 
 can't say otherwise. He knows that many a time he 's 
 said to me — ' Bless her ! she 's a real comfort to us. 
 It seems as if Providence had sent her to be the comfort 
 of my old age, and to make up for her mother breaking 
 away from us, just at the time when we most wanted 
 somebody that had a true love for us, and — ' Yes, you 
 know, Eichard, that I could — " 
 
 " Well, well, I don't gainsay it, Dame ; nor I don't 
 want," rejoined the old man, in a kindly tone. " But 
 now let us hear what Milly has got to say. What it is 
 she 's took in her head all at once." 
 
 "Nonsense! what should she have took in her head!" 
 repeated the old woman, half-frightened, and evidently 
 anxious to stifle the subject in its birth, lest it should 
 lead to the end she dreaded ; but Eichard' s peremptory — 
 " Hold your tongue, and let the girl speak for her- 
 self !" and his tremendous frown, showed that he was in 
 earnest, and not to be trifled with ; and his wife, turning 
 a piteous and imploring look on Milly, prepared herself 
 to listen, with as much patience as she could assume in 
 appearance. 
 
 " Well, go on, child," said Eichard, mildly. " What 
 is it you have to say ? " 
 
 " Only to repeat, grandfather, that I mean no longer to 
 stay here doing nothing— that I am convinced that you 
 are quite right, that I cannot get a living by playing or 
 singing, or, indeed, by any of the means that I have 
 hitherto suffered to occupy my time, and that I shall be 
 very glad, and am ready to begin directly, if you can put 
 me in the right way, let it be what it may. I am not 
 
288 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 afraid of work, grandfather/' and she forced a laugh — 
 forced it evidently was — " and I shall soon get rid of my 
 fine lady hands, as you call them. A few weeks' good 
 hard work — " 
 
 " Haymaking, pea-picking, or hopping, for instance," 
 interrupted the old man, with a sly malicious laugh and 
 glance at his wife. " But, in soher earnest, I am glad, 
 my dear Milly, that you are beginning to see what's 
 right and proper, and moreover necessary, though just 
 at present I do not see that I can do anything to help 
 you fprward. Three months ago, if you had said to me 
 what you have to day, I had it all at my fingers' ends, as 
 I may say, for there were four or five plates, any of winch 
 would have been glad to have you, and more than one 
 was half affronted that I didn't take their offers. Mrs. 
 Mansfield's butler could have got you in there as still- 
 room maid, and that, you know, is first step to house- 
 keeper ; and then Lady Basford was distressed for a 
 second nurse in the nursery; you 'd soon have been head 
 there, for the one that's there now is going to be married ; 
 but that's gone now: and then there was a parlour-maid 
 a-wanting at the Rectory at Bedingfield, and I 'd only to 
 speak, to have it for you. But it's no use fretting over 
 shed milk ; only when I think what a fool I 've let my- 
 self be made by him — Well, well, I won't say any more 
 about that, though he ought to be ashamed of himself, 
 and I think if he knew the mischief he 's done with his 
 falseness and foolery — " 
 
 It would be hard to describe Milly's feelings during 
 this enumeration of eligible situations, which, according 
 to her grandfather, had all been sacrificed by his depen- 
 dence on Mr. St. Orme's promise of visiting the Abbey 
 at a stated time. In realitv, thev were even above what 
 
of woman's life. 289 
 
 she, novice as she was, and recommended only by her 
 relatives' excellent character, could hope for; and yet 
 nursery-maid, still-room-maid, parlour-maid— even the 
 ne plus ultra in Richard's catalogue, the housekeeper — 
 all struck discordantly on Milly's ear, and seemed to chill 
 her very blood. But another thought arose — one that 
 quickly sent a glow through every vein, and mounted in 
 scarlet torrents to her cheek. What could Richard have 
 anticipated from Mr. St. Orme's promised visit ? What 
 could the latter have said to her grandfather, as to the 
 purpose of that visit, of sufficient importance to induce 
 the old man to pass over in silence, at the time, so many, 
 and, in his estimation, such advantageous opportunities 
 of putting her forward — of, in fact, establishing her in 
 the line of life for which only he considered her suited — in 
 which only he believed she would find'safety and security ; 
 in short, every advantage she could hope for or expect. 
 The thought had never before occurred to Milly, or at 
 least, never in so forcible a light as at the present mo- 
 ment. What would she not have given to have known 
 the subject of that last conference between St. Orme and' 
 her grandfather ! She recalled minutely to her memory, 
 every look and word uttered by the old man after his 
 young master — as he provokingly persisted in calling Mr. 
 St. Orme, although the latter disavowed the title — had 
 departed. There was something — even her grandmother 
 had observed to the same effect — something mysterious, 
 unaccountable, in the old man's manner towards Milly ; 
 his forbearance from all opposition to her disposal of her 
 time. At times, indeed, he had so far departed from his 
 former system, as even to express an interest in her im- 
 provement, to express his admiration of her paintings, 
 
 declaring the different views she had completed of the 
 
 2 P 
 
290 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Abbey, &c, were " nntur its ownself, and beat all the 
 fine things that were hung up in the gallery, and said to 
 be worth such a mint of money." Milly, of course, 
 laughed in her sleeve at her grandfather's connoisseur- 
 ship ; but she did not laugh at his judgment, when he 
 pronounced the miniature likeness of Mr. St. Orme, 
 which she had painted from memory, perfection. Of the 
 likeness there could be no doubt, for even stupid Jenny, 
 on seeing it, cried out, that " It was the gentleman who 
 had given her the money to buy a new gown, only that it 
 was littler and smoother, and she might say prettier, if 
 its eyes had been made to sparkle more, as his did ; for 
 she never did see sich eyes ; they seemed somehow to go 
 right through to her very heart, like a sharp bright knife, 
 only that they was so good-natured-like that they didn't 
 frighten her, though they made her tremble and feel as if 
 she should shake in her shoes, if she had ever done any- 
 thing wrong towards him." 
 
 " How strange, that this ignorant, uncouth being," 
 thought Milly, " should thus so accurately describe what 
 I, myself, feel towards Mr. St. Orme." But there were 
 other feelings hidden in the depths of Milly 's heart, 
 which she would have trembled to own, even to herself — 
 feelings which made her shrink with abhorrence from all 
 that could increase the distance which she felt that fate 
 had already placed between them. 
 
 The nursery-maid to Mrs. Mansfield the still-room- 
 maid to Lady Basford — the parlour-maid at the Eec- 
 tory — whichever, if either, of these (in the eyes of old 
 Eichard Slielburne) desirable lots might fall to her share, 
 would rivet for ever, Milly felt, the insuperable bar that 
 separated her from St. Orme. The fatal step taken, it 
 could never be repassed; and she seemed to breathe 
 
or woman's life. 291 
 
 more freely — to have thrown off a weight that would have 
 crushed her to the earth, as she heard the old man regret 
 that the time was gone by. The places — either of which 
 she could so well have filled — were now all occupied; 
 and unless, by some extraordinary " piece of good luck, 1 ' 
 she could no longer hope to fill either of these desirable 
 situations. 
 
 " What then, could she do ?" was the question which 
 Milly tremblingly propounded to the petulant, discon- 
 tented, yet at the bottom, good-hearted and well-meaning 
 old man. 
 
 " Here, in the Abbey, I cannot — will not — stay ;'' she 
 added — " I should despise— hate myself. Oh no, he 
 shall never, never, see me here again." 
 
 " And why not ? " demanded the wondering Richard. 
 " What is he to you any more than he was when first he 
 came here ? You thought very differently of his seeing 
 you here then. However, we won't talk any more about 
 him. He 's disappointed me as much as he has you, and 
 there let it drop. As to your leaving the Abbey, of 
 course that can't be done till you 've got a place to go to, 
 though I say, as well as you, the sooner the better, as 
 matters stand, for then my heart will be at rest about 
 you. Don't suppose, Milly, that I and your grand- 
 mother want to get rid of you, or that we shan't suffer a 
 good deal when we are left here so lonely. Nor don't 
 think, because I seem cross and fractious at times, that 
 I don't feel a proper love for you. It will be the most 
 melancholy day we've known, since your mother left us, 
 when we lose you ; but I know it will be for your good, 
 and so we must bear it. Now wipe your eyes, and don't 
 cry any more, Milly. All will turn out for the best ; and 
 what now seems a bitter disappointment may prove the 
 
292 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 best thing that ever happened in your life. This be 
 sure of, I '11 do the best that lies in my power for you ; and 
 at the worst you know that, while we live, there's always 
 a home for you here, if you should 'nt got a situation to 
 answer your expectations." 
 
 "Expectations !" repeated Milly, in a bitter tone, when, 
 released from her attendance on the old people, she found 
 herself free to indulge, in her own little room, in reflec- 
 tion on what had passed between her grandfather and 
 herself. " What expectations can I form — what hopes 
 have I, but to become a miserable drudge — a degraded 
 being— subservient to the will and humours of those who 
 will see in me nothing but the grandaughtcr of old 
 Richard Shelburne— who will, perhaps, make it matter of 
 offence that I have ever acquired anything beyond the 
 duties of my calling ? " 
 
 Milly's heart reproached her for the tone of bitter 
 contempt in which she uttered the last sentence. Her 
 reason told her that she was wrong, and that it would be 
 far more to her advantage, as well as more satisfactory to 
 her conscientious feelings and her sense of right, to 
 endeavour to reconcile herself to what appeared her 
 inevitable fate, and in the plain and simple language of 
 the Catechism, which she had so often repeated at her 
 grandmother's knee, to do her " duty in that state of life 
 into which it should please God to call her." Gradually, 
 Milly became more calm under the influence of these 
 feelings. There was one image that at times rose up 
 before her, inciting her to rebel against her better feel- 
 ings — to darken her conviction of what was right, and 
 her cheek would flush— her eye kindle — at the thought 
 of perhaps, at some" future time, meeting St. Orme, 
 when she should have sunk down into the character 
 
of woman's life. 293 
 
 which seemed assigned to her, when the talents and 
 accomplishments which he had so lauded, and encou- 
 raged her in perfecting, should all have heen smothered 
 and huried under the exertions that would be necessary 
 to enable her to sustain the character of parlour-maid, 
 still-room, or nursery maid, as it might be ; but, by de- 
 grees, these impressions grew fainter and fainter, and the 
 silence which was preserved by her relatives, by whom 
 the name of St. Ormc was now never mentioned, assisted 
 her in at least burying in the deepest recesses of her 
 heart — if not in wholly obliterating— the image to which 
 she had paid her secret, devoted, though almost un- 
 conscious worship. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It never through my mind had past, 
 
 The time would e'er be o'er, 
 And I on thee should look my last, 
 
 And thou should'st smile no more ! 
 And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook, 
 
 That I must look in vain ! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 
 
 In thinking too of thee : 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before, 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 
 And never can restore ! — Charles Wolfe. 
 
 True to her determination, however rashly and un- 
 reflectingly uttered at the time, Milly Shelburne never 
 again entered the drawing-room in which stood the harp- 
 
294 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 sichord. Her drawing materials were locked up, and 
 every pursuit abandoned that did not strictly come under 
 the denomination of useful. Even her books were but 
 rarely resorted to, and then they were such as she 
 trusted were calculated to strengthen her mind, and 
 enable her to support with fortitude and equanimity the 
 trials which she foresaw must be her lot, whenever the 
 time should arrive for her going out into the world, or, as 
 her grandfather persevered in saying — grating as it was 
 still to her ears — "going to service," or "getting a place." 
 Milly struggled in vain against the humiliation these ex- 
 pressions inflicted. She knew it was foolish, but resigned 
 as she was — striving as she was — to bear everything with- 
 out repining, she could not help revolting from the sound 
 of these simple but coarse expressions. If they had been 
 used purposely to mortify her by the old man, she could 
 have borne them quietly, because she would have con- 
 sidered her grandfather thought it necessary to subdue 
 the last struggle of pride in her bosom ; but no, it was 
 not so. Kichard used them because he considered them 
 the only proper and suitable ones. They were such as 
 he would have used in his own case if necessary, and he 
 never dreamed of the harm he was doing in kindling again 
 the embers that Milly had so striven to extinguish. 
 
 The time anticipated with so much anxiety by the 
 formerly happy and contented inhabitants of Beauvale 
 Abbey, at length arrived. Eichard had been on an errand 
 of necessity to the nearest market- town, from whence 
 they procured their stock of such necessaries as the farm 
 on the estate did not furnish, and he returned at a later 
 hour than was usual on such occasions — and what was 
 still more unusual — somewhat elevated by the extra 
 glasses of ale he had taken with old acquaintances whom 
 
of woman's life. 295 
 
 he had met with there, it being the monthly market for 
 cattle, &c, and, therefore, attended by nearly all the 
 farmers, gentlemen's bailiffs, stewards, &c. His first 
 inquiry on entering the room was for Milly. 
 
 " Milly has got the head-ache," replied his wife ; "she 
 staid up with me till she heard you drive into the stable- 
 yard, and then she went up to bed, poor child." 
 
 Milly's head- aches, to tell the truth, were of frequent 
 recurrence lately. It might be that the pain was deeper 
 seated, as the frequent sighs and the hand pressed in- 
 voluntarily on the side, beneath which beat her throbbing 
 heart, might have indicated to those who regarded her 
 carefully. 
 
 " Psha ! nonsense ; head-ache," repeated the old man. 
 " Girls have always got the head- ache, when they want 
 an excuse for whims and vapours. Call her down, I 've 
 got news for her." 
 
 Mrs. Shelburne would have objected, but she knew 
 that Kichard in his present humour would not submit to 
 contradiction, and observing, therefore, that she would 
 go and see whether Milly had begun to undress, she 
 left the room. 
 
 " And if she is gone to bed, she must get up again," 
 bawled the positive and obstinate old man, after pro- 
 ducing at the same time a letter from his pocket, the 
 superscription of which he carefully examined, turning 
 it over and over, and drawing the candle close to him 
 for that purpose, and looking, especially — with a signifi- 
 cant, knowing smile — at two little drops of wax near the 
 seal, to which custom has attached the name of kisses, 
 however they may have been the result of carelessness 
 or accident. 
 
 " Miss Millicent Shelburne !" he read, laying a strong 
 
290 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 emphasis on the first word. "Ah, poor girl, she'll miss 
 more than she'll catch, I'm afraid. It won't do, though, to 
 have any more letters directed this-a-way, if she gets this 
 place. I remember, when I was a strip of a lad, writing 
 a love letter to the dairy maid, a great elephant of a 
 woman, old enough to be my mother, and big enough to 
 roll out into two or three as big as me. And then, like 
 a fool as I was, I must go and write her a love-letter, 
 copied out of the Complete Letter Writer, though I lived 
 in the same house with her, and then came a puzzle 
 how to direct it. Betty — her name was plain Betty, but 
 that wasn't fine enough, and romantic enough for me, 
 and so with a grand flourish, I wrote ' To Miss Eliza 
 Mudge.' Gracious ! what a row and confusion there was 
 in the breakfast- room when the letter was found among 
 my master's. A boy used to fetch them and the news- 
 papers every morning from the Post-office, and there was 
 mine among them as large as life. ' Who the devil is 
 Miss Eliza Mudge ?' cried Master. ' Miss Eliza Mudge !' 
 said one of the young ladies ; and then another took the 
 letter and looked at it ; and there was I standing by the 
 door ready to drop. I'd just been rung for, to give me 
 some orders. 'There's nobody in the house of that 
 name, I'm sure,' said my mistress. ' Do go and ask, 
 Richard, down stairs, if anybody answers to the name, or 
 expects a letter.' What a fool I looked like, and what 
 to do I didn't know ; I fancied Master looked very 
 suspicious, first at me and then at the letter — however, 
 away I went to ask the question, though I didn't of 
 course, because I knew very well who it was for, so I 
 stood a minute on the stairs, and then I went back, and 
 stammered out that it was for the dairy maid, and — Oh, 
 the roars of laughing there was at Miss Eliza. I thought 
 
of woman's life. 297 
 
 the young ladies would have gone into hysterics, and 
 there I stood trembling and colouring, as if I'd got a fit 
 of the ague. But the worst was to come. I thought, to 
 be sure, they'd give me the letter to take to her, and I 
 meant to put it somewhere that she should find it, but 
 no, the young ladies must have more fun out of it, and 
 so I was ordered to go down and send Miss Eliza up. 
 I didn't know whether I went down stairs on my head or 
 mv heels, but I managed to get down somehow, and then 
 I sent one of the girls to go and tell Betty she was 
 wanted, for I didn't dare tell her myself. Never was 
 any poor fellow in such a fright at what he'd done as I 
 was. I'd a great mind to run away, as I saw Betty go up 
 stairs to the breakfast-room, tying on her clean apron as 
 she went. What a Miss Eliza she looked, with her great 
 broad cherry cheeks and monstrous waist, and legs like 
 bedposts, set off too by blue stockings and thick leather 
 shoes, that would have suited a ploughman uncommonly 
 well. All my love fled in a moment, as she went grum- 
 bling through the servants' hall, thinking she was called 
 to be found fault with, for something about the cheese or 
 butter. What passed in the breakfast parlour I never 
 knew exactly, but it seemed she denied that the letter 
 could be for her, because there was nobody in the world 
 that could write a letter to her ; and besides, everybody 
 knew that she couldn't read, so what was the use of 
 sending her a letter." 
 
 " ' Well, shall I read it for you, Betty ? ' said one of 
 the young ladies. ' Who knows, but it may be something 
 to your advantage.' 
 
 " Poor Betty, she was ashamed to say she would rather 
 
 not, and indeed, before almost she could say yes, or no, 
 
 the letter was broken open. 
 
 2q 
 
208 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " I had crept up stairs to listen, but the minute I heard 
 Miss Fanny begin ' My angelic Eliza,' away I scudded 
 faster than I 'went up, a plaguy deal, but not so fast but 
 that I heard another roar of laughing, and Betty's voice 
 begging they ' wouldn't read no such stuff; she only wished 
 to know who'd had the imperdence to write it, she'd lug 
 their ears for them, if they was as big as Goliah.' 
 
 " I really believe that I should have jumped into the 
 first pond I came nigh, rather than face my dear Eliza 
 under such circumstances, but luckily I remembered I 
 had not put my name to the letter ; I had copied it so 
 closely out of the book, that I concluded it ' your ever 
 sincere and affectionate lover,' and forgot it wanted a 
 name; and that saved me, for I knew Betty could not 
 know the handwriting, if I kept my own counsel and never 
 offered to make love to her again. But, I believe the young 
 ladies suspected me, and it was a long time before I 
 could hear Miss Eliza Mudge — as they used always to 
 call her — talked about, without colouring and looking 
 sheepish, 'specially when Miss Fanny would ask me — 
 when I carried in the letters and papers of a morning — 
 with a sly look, 'If there was any letter for Miss Eliza?' 
 and Miss Ellen would add ' By the by, Richard, have 
 you no suspicion who the nameless lover was ? It is 
 strange his love for his angelic Eliza should have cooled 
 so soon, that he never made a second attempt to win 
 her heart.' " 
 
 Milly's looks as she entered the' room betrayed that 
 her grandmother had warned her that the old man was 
 rather — what he would himself have learnedly styled — 
 non compos mentis; words he would have been puzzled 
 literally to translate, and which it must be acknowledged 
 he very seldom illustrated as he now did. 
 
of woman's life. 299 
 
 Milly's suprise, and it must be confessed, her conster- 
 nation, at the long soliloquy in which he had indulged — 
 and to which she had listened without perfectly compre- 
 hending its import, although she did not venture to 
 interrupt it — had in a great measure rendered her forget- 
 ful of the cause of her being summoned thither. True, 
 she was not aware of the letter that had given rise to her 
 grandfather's garrulous reminiscences of his youthful 
 follies, or she would, perhaps, have been less able to 
 control the expression of her curiosity, or preserve the 
 air of indifference and nonchalance, with which she now 
 observed — 
 
 " Grandmother tells me you want me." 
 
 " No, no, / don't want you," he interrupted with a 
 very significant nod of the head. " It is not me that 
 wants you, child." 
 
 Milly's heart began to beat at a quickened pace. 
 
 " Not you ?" she repeated, " then who is it ? There 
 are so few," she added in a hurried tone, " that are 
 likely even to remember such an insignificant person as 
 I am, that — that I cannot even guess what you mean, or 
 whom you allude to ?" 
 
 " In-deed !" returned the old man, still keeping the 
 letter concealed under his large broad hand, to which 
 Milly did not even glance, so intent was she in trying to 
 read in his countenance whether the communication he 
 so tauntingly delayed was pleasing to himself or not. 
 
 Poor Milly, there was only one person present to her 
 imagination at that minute — only one she could think 
 of as likely to have chosen her grandfather as the channel 
 of communication. 
 
 " In-deed ! and so you can't even make a guess who is 
 likely to write you a letter, and pay the postage too ?" ha 
 
300 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 observed, partly withdrawing his hand and peeping at 
 the letter, as if determined, not yet at any rate, to relin- 
 quish its possession. " Yes, post paid," he added, " and 
 a long way it's come too, by what's been paid for it, 
 though I don't think it's a foreign letter neither, by the 
 look of it. No, no, it isn't come from abroad, I'm 
 scholar enough to make that out, though I can't exactly 
 tell where it does come from." 
 
 Milly's breath grew short and her bosom heaved with 
 emotion. What would she not have given to have been 
 able to snatch the letter and carry it off to ascertain its 
 contents in private ; but she dared not hazard the attempt 
 in the ticklish humour the old man betrayed. She was 
 afraid, indeed, to betray any great solicitude to become 
 possessed of it, lest it should rouse his strange contra- 
 dictory temper, and that love of teasing, which he was 
 too often — even when quite sober— in the habit of dis- 
 playing, and in his present state might be carried even 
 to the extent of refusing altogether to give up the 
 precious epistle. What stratagem should she try — Milly 
 hesitated two or three minutes, but her natural in- 
 genuousness prevailed. 
 
 " I will tell you candidly, grandfather," she observed ; 
 " there is but one person that I think likely to write to 
 me, besides my mother. You know, of course, whether 
 it is her hand- writing ?" 
 
 " Yes, of course I do. That is to say, I know it isn't," 
 returned the old man. " She would hardly be such a 
 fool as to direct her letter to ' Miss Millicent Shelburne, 
 or send it to the Post-office, instead of putting my name 
 and my direction on it, to the Abbey." 
 
 Milly quite agreed with this ; though the harsh, coarse 
 term — fool, had sent the red doubly deep into her cheeks, 
 pale before from agitation. 
 
of woman's life. 301 
 
 "'Well, and who is the person you expect to write to 
 you ?" demanded her grandfather, determined, as it 
 seemed, that she should not evade the painful, embar- 
 rassing task of uttering the name. 
 
 " Oh grandfather ! not expect — I did not say expect," 
 she replied ; " hut I thought it possible — just possible, 
 you know — that Mr. St. Orme might write to explain — " 
 
 "Ay, ay, I guessed what your foolish head was running 
 on," drily interrupted the old man. " However, it may 
 be so, though it's of little consequence whether it is or 
 not ; and that's what I want to talk to you about, not 
 this nonsensical letter. I've got good news for you, my 
 girl, and what will put an end at once to all bother and 
 uneasiness, both for you and me. The young woman 
 that got the place I wanted most of all for you — you 
 know when — as my Lady Basford's still-room-maid, didn't 
 suit at all, from the first. The housekeeper and her 
 couldn't agree no how. You know they always hire here 
 for a twelvemonth, and so it seems she tried very hard to 
 weather her time out. .1 forget how many months she's 
 been there ; but that 's no matter to us, for she has been 
 gone nearly a week. Mrs. Foster — that's the house- 
 keeper — and my old friend, John Foster, the butler — and 
 she (the still-room-maid,) had a terrible quarrel; came 
 from words almost to blows, if not quite ; but John 
 wouldn't own that, because, of course, it was letting his 
 wife down, to say there was any fighting in the matter, and 
 she had been housekeeper at Koseberry Hall for so many 
 years : but however that may be, my lady, the still-room- 
 maid, packed up all her things, without saying ' nothing 
 to nobody,' as the old song says. I'm afraid you won't 
 have much song- singing there, Milly, my girl, for Mrs. 
 Foster's very religious; rather over and above so, as 
 
302 SnADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 John says, for her situation, for the Basfords are a very 
 gay family. However, she contrives to keep herself a 
 great favourite with my lady ; and if she does hut take a 
 liking for you, Milly, and I don't doubt she will, for she 
 was a great friend to your mother, when they were girls. 
 She 's younger than my old friend John by a good 
 many years, as she said to me this afternoon — for I ve 
 been over to the Hall and settled it all with her, and 
 you re to go as soon as possible ; and the sooner the 
 better, as Mrs. Foster said, because the spiteful creature 
 that 's gone, took the poor woman all at a nonplus, 
 just when they were going to gather in the fruit and other 
 things, and begin their pickling and preserving for the 
 season. You 11 be quite at home in them sort of things, 
 as I told the housekeeper. She won't have no trouble in 
 teaching you ; for, as I told her, though you have lost a 
 deal of time in that music nonsense, and the like, your 
 grandmother has taught you to be as clever as herself in 
 them sort of things; and Mrs. Foster said directly, when 
 I told her that — ' You needn't £ay another word, Mr. 
 Shelburne, for if your good dame has been her teacher, 
 she must be stupid indeed if she don't know quite as 
 much as I want her to know. I only hope she won't 
 know too much, and beat her mistress ;' meaning herself, 
 you know, Milly, for you '11 understand, the still-room- 
 maid is the housekeeper's maid, and has nothing to do 
 neither with my lady nor any of the family. But what 
 makes you look so pale, child? You don't look pleased. 
 Sure-ly, after all the pains I have taken, and — " 
 
 " Oh no ! I am only surprised — and I have had the 
 headache all day," faltered Milly, stealing another glance 
 at the still unread letter, on which her grandfather had 
 placed his elbow, by way of securing it. 
 
of woman's life. 303 
 
 Oh how fervently did Milly pray in her heart that this 
 ardently longed-for letter might contain some information 
 to her advantage, that might induce her grandfather to 
 give up this cherished still-room-maid's place, as he 
 called it. She dared not, however, give the slightest 
 hint of this — her only hope — lest it might rouse in the 
 old man that contrary and obstinate disposition, which 
 would end in refusing her even a sight of the letter, lest 
 it might he the means of defeating what he considered so 
 advantageous a settlement. 
 
 " Where is my grandmother ?" thought Milly, driven, 
 to use a favourite expression of the old woman's, to her 
 wit's end what expedient to adopt to induce the old man 
 to give up the letter, ou which, she believed, it depended 
 whether she should at once refuse to fulfil the engage- 
 ment her grandfather had contracted for her, or sink 
 helplessly down into the degraded position he seemed to 
 consider a certain refuge from any evil that might befall 
 her. One only resolution could the poor girl form, but 
 to that she determined at all risks to adhere. She would 
 do nothing — promise nothing — until she had seen the 
 contents of the letter, and ascertained whether Mr. St. 
 Orme had performed his promise of putting her into the 
 road, or of suggesting some certain means by which she 
 could make the talents he had flattered her into believing 
 she possessed, or had honestly and frankly confessed, 
 that he had overrated her abilities, in supposing them 
 equal to procuring her a subsistence. 
 
 But how was she to ascertain this, so long as the ob- 
 stinate old man continued to retain the letter, and what 
 possible means could she adopt to induce him to give 
 it up? 
 
 Again Milly murmured the question to which there 
 
304 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 appeared no reply — " What bad become of her grand- 
 mother ? " In her she was sure of an ally — if a power- 
 less one — for well she knew the old woman would reject 
 with indignation the still-room-maid's place, which ap- 
 peared the height of her husband's ambition. 
 
 "Well, what are you thinking about?" demanded 
 llichard, who, in spite of the unusual confusion — or 
 rather, to speak more expressively, the muddled state of 
 his brain, from the effect of his potations with his old 
 friend, the butler at Roseberry Hall, was sufficiently alive 
 to the effect of his communication on Milly, to be sus- 
 picious that it was not so satisfactory to her as he wished 
 it to be. "What are you thinking about, Milly?" he 
 repeated ; " I fancied you would have been glad to go 
 and tell your grandmother how capitally I've settled it 
 all for you. You 've got no time to lose, I can tell you, 
 for I've promised Mrs. Foster you shall be up at the 
 Hall on Thursday, at the latest, and to-day is— is — " 
 
 " To-night is Monday night," returned Milly, smiling 
 at this proof of his capability of settling her affairs so 
 satisfactorily. "Well," she added with sudden recol- 
 lection, " I will go now and tell her what you have told 
 me." 
 
 The old man looked suspiciously after her, as she 
 quitted the room. 
 
 "Foolish girl," he murmured, "she don't even now 
 know what 's for her good, but I musn't give in now I've 
 got so far. Her grandmother will, I dare say, encourage 
 her not to go, and I shall grieve to part with the poor 
 child myself; hut it's no use fretting, we can't none of 
 us do as we like, and so we must do as we can." 
 
 Gradually the old man's voice had dropped, and his 
 utterance became slower. He gaped, hung down his 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. -\0o 
 
 head, stretched out his feet under the table, and, having 
 evidently forgotten all about the letter, the object of so 
 much solicitude, folded his arms, and in so doing shuffled 
 it off the table, where it lay unnoticed at his feet. 
 
 Many minutes had not elapsed after his first loud expi- 
 ration had giyen firm assurance that he was asleep, 
 before Milh', who, with Mrs. Shelburne, had been watch- 
 ing for the desired sound, stole softly in, and carried off 
 the prize. The old woman had explained the cause of 
 her absence by her knowledge of his disposition, which 
 she knew would, had she come forward and have betrayed 
 — as she must have done — any dislike or opposition to 
 his plans, would but have rendered him the more deter- 
 mined, and perhaps have led to a scene of violence and 
 contention, which she was most desirous, of course, to 
 avoid. 
 
 Now then, at last, was Milly in possession of, and left 
 to read unmolested, the important letter. But at the 
 very first glance at the address, the expression of hope 
 and expectation which had brightened her beautiful 
 eyes, and deepened the rose of her fair cheeks, faded into 
 the blank hue of disappointment and almost despair. 
 No ! there could be no mistake — no hope. That coarse, 
 ugly, vulgar handwriting, could bear no resemblance — 
 the most sanguine fancy could trace none — to the clear, 
 elegant characters, of which she had preserved every 
 scrap that had by any chance fallen in her way. 
 
 " Why don't you open it, my dear child '? " repeated 
 Mrs. Shelburne, for the third time, before Milly became 
 conscious of the anxiety with which the latter was re- 
 garding her. 
 
 " I do not — I cannot think it can be for me," she at 
 
 length faltered, after turning it over and over, and exa- 
 
 2r 
 
306 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 mining every corner of the letter ; trying first to make 
 out the blurred attempt at an impression on the sealing- 
 wax, which had evidently been the work of some un- 
 practised hand, and then pinching the sides of the paper 
 together, so as to gain a peep into the interior — a pro- 
 cess, however, which revealed nothing but a few uncon- 
 nected and unimportant words. 
 
 " Not for you — not for you, Milly ? Isn't your name 
 upon it, child ? Didn't your grandfather bring it for 
 you ?" expostulated the old woman. " It can't be for 
 any one else. Come, come, break it open, there's a good 
 girl, and let us see who it comes from, for I declare you 
 quite frighten me, you look so strange." 
 
 Milly felt strange, as well as looked so ; but she 
 obeyed, almost mechanically, her grandmother's request. 
 
 The signature, which was the first thing she looked 
 at, conveyed no elucidation of the mystery, for a mystery 
 it was that a letter should he addressed to one so totally 
 unconnected, as Milly believed herself to be, with the 
 world ; and, though it now apparently lay open to her, 
 it was not without considerable difficulty, and after long 
 study of the almost unintelligible handwriting and im- 
 perfect orthography, that she was enabled to read as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Dear Miss — I take the liberty to write to you about 
 a subject that I think may suit you, as well as be of ser- 
 vice to myself, if we can come to an agreement about 
 terms, &c. Of course, you will be surprised at a stranger 
 writing to you; but I am not so much a stranger, as will 
 appear to you — as you will discover — when I inform you 
 that I am a relative to your father-in-law, Mr. Morison; 
 my first wife — who has been dead five years — having 
 been his sister. I now proceed to tell you the purport of 
 
OF woman's life. 807 
 
 my writing to you. I am by profession a musician, and 
 have been leader of a band at many theatres in my life- 
 time, as likewise conductor at concerts at various places ; 
 as I am, indeed, at the present time, having taken for 
 that purpose a very elegant and spacious concert-room, 
 which I shall open for the season, as likewise for 
 balls, &c, in the course of a week or two. Now, what I 
 have got to propose to you, is as follows. Your father 
 and mother have informed me that you have a fine voice 
 and some knowledge of music ; your mother, indeed, 
 considers you a very fine player; but you'll excuse my 
 saying, that she ain't a competent judge enough upon 
 that point. However, I'm willing to run the risk of that, 
 as you are young enough to learn what you don't know; 
 and I will agree to allow you one pound ten shil- 
 lings a week, if you will sign an agreement to sing 
 as often as I shall require your services — say three 
 evenings a-week, though that will depend on circum- 
 stances. Of course, I shall expect that you will bind 
 yourself to me for a certain time, as it would not answer 
 my purpose to introduce you to the public, and then for 
 you to leave me for another engagement ; but this, of 
 course, must be settled when we meet, which, if you agree 
 to my terms, will be as soon as possible. If you make up 
 your mind to come off at once to London, and will write 
 to say what day you will be in London, your father-in- 
 law will be in waiting for you at the coach-office, to con- 
 duct you to your mother, as we suppose that you would 
 prefer to go to her, rather than anywhere else. 
 " I am, your obedient servant, 
 
 "Frederick Augustus Briggs." 
 "N.B. Please to write as soon as possible to me, 'No. 45, 
 Street, Lisson Grove, London.' " 
 
308 SIIADK AND SINSHINK 
 
 Milly's first sensations as she concluded this elegant, 
 but frank and unpretending epistle, -were those of Joy 
 and exultation. She was at once relieved, she thought, 
 from all fear of being compelled to submit to her grand- 
 father's arbitrary arrangement — to his degrading accept- 
 ance of the still-room-maid's place, from which she could 
 never hope to rise ; while his own description of her 
 intended future mistress, Mrs. Foster the housekeeper, 
 was quite sufficient to terrify and disgust her, and she 
 would, if Mr. Briggs' representations were correct, be at 
 once launched fairly into that line of life in which she 
 could only make her long and unwearied application — 
 even if she did not possess the talents attributed to her 
 — available for her future benefit. Her first impression, 
 therefore, was to write without a moment's delay, to 
 signify her immediate acceptance of her correspondent's 
 terms. It was an opportunity that she could never hope 
 to meet again if she suffered it now to escape; and what 
 was the alternative that offered itself? To become a 
 wretched drudge, deprived of all that had hitherto formed 
 the charm and occupation of her life. No, it was not to 
 be thought of. Her relatives, none that reallv wished her 
 well, none who really valued her as she felt she ought to 
 be valued, could — she was sure — blame her for unhesi- 
 tatingly accepting Mr. Briggs' offer in preference to the 
 still-room-maid's place. MiUy's expressive face betrayed, 
 without the utterance of a word, the utter contempt and 
 disgust with which this, the ne plus ultra of her grand- 
 father's ambition for her, was contrasted in her mind with 
 the prospect Mr. Briggs' offer had opened to her. Until 
 this moment, when all was finally settled as she con- 
 sidered in her mind, she had forgotten the anxious 
 alarmed countenance that was watching her every look — 
 the kind heart that was trembling for her welfare with 
 
of woman's life. 309 
 
 fearful anticipation of a thousand dangers, should her 
 beloved child — as she had every reason to anticipate — 
 resolve on accepting the stranger's offer. 
 
 Milly started as she read all these emotions in her 
 grandmother's looks. Until this moment she had for- 
 gotten that the happiness of any one but herself depended 
 on her acceptance or rejection of Mr. Briggs' proposal, 
 but she saw plainly now that the poor old woman re- 
 garded it with terror and dismay. 
 
 "What can you object to it, dear grandmother?" 
 she demanded. " Is it not exactly what I have always 
 wished for — what I have been working so hard for, 
 above all, what my poor father looked forward to, to 
 repay him for the sacrifices he made for me ?" 
 
 Mrs. Shelburne sighed deeply. 
 
 " Yes, but he looked forward then to be able to pro- 
 tect vou," she replied, " but now — I know very little 
 about such matters, my dear child — but it terrifies me to 
 think of a young girl like you — and I may say, without 
 making you vain, a beautiful girl — going out in the 
 world in such a way, without anybody to guide and 
 protect her. Oh Milly, Milly, if anything should happen 
 to vou. If your innocence should be taken advantage 
 of, and you should be led astray — " 
 
 Tears prevented her continuing, and for a minute or 
 two Milly's resolution was shaken by the poor o]d wo- 
 man's distress, but she quickly recollected herself. 
 
 " Then you would rather see me made a common 
 drudge of a servant, compelled to put up with all the in- 
 solence and tyranny of this Mrs. Foster — the servant of a 
 servant. All the monev and time that has been spent upon 
 my education worse than thrown away, for it is plain I 
 must hide and forget it all if I take this place, as my 
 
810 SHADE AND 8UN8HINE 
 
 grandfather calls it, and for what ? There was nothing 
 said ahout wages." Milly's pretty mouth expressed the 
 utmost contempt, as she uttered the word, but her 
 grandmother either did not or would not understand 
 its meaning. 
 
 " It is not usual, my dear, to give any wages for the 
 first six or twelvemonths in such a situation. It's a kind 
 of 'prenticeship, you see, to the housekeeper, hut I under- 
 stood from Richard — when it was talked of before your 
 going there — that Mrs. Foster proposed to give you eight 
 pounds for the first year, and if — if you suited — to raise 
 it something every year you stayed." 
 
 " And for this you would have me give up a handsome 
 provision for the present, and a fortune hereafter?" re- 
 turned Milly reproachfully. " Nay, Grandmother, do 
 not shake your head so doubtfully. You have heard it 
 from better authority — a better judge than you or I — that 
 my voice is a fortune. There is no vanity in speaking 
 the truth of what is the gift of nature, nor do I boast of 
 it ; but I cannot help saying, that it would be the height 
 of injustice to insist upon my giving up the only oppor- 
 tunity I may ever have of establishing myself in the 
 world, for such a wretched provision as this my grand 
 father thinks so highly of." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Shelburne was silenced. Her limited know- 
 ledge of the world suggested none of the arguments 
 which might have been successfully opposed to Milly's 
 confident and unsuspicious reliance upon Mr. Brigg's re- 
 presentations. To the innocent, inexperienced girl, all 
 appeared couleur cle rose ; she echoed, indeed, heartily, 
 though silently, the old woman's wish that Mr. St. Orme, 
 who knew so much better than they did how to judge of 
 Mr. Briggs' proposal, were present to give his advice, but 
 
0¥ woman's life. 311 
 
 it was with quite a different view to that of her grand- 
 mother, for the latter believed, though she could not 
 have given a reason for that belief, that Mr. St. Orme 
 would have disapproved of Milly's hasty decision in 
 favour of Mr. Briggs' offer, and have suggested objections 
 to it, which would have been sufficient to induce "her dear 
 child to reject it altogether. 
 
 Farther discussion led to no satisfactory results. The 
 poor old woman could add nothing to what she had at 
 first said, and that amounted in fact to little more than 
 that she did not like the plan ; for as to her not being 
 able to protect herself, or, in fact, requiring any protec- 
 tion beyond what of course she would receive from those 
 with whom she would be associated, Milly proved— to 
 her own satisfaction at least — that her grandmother's 
 fears were utterly groundless. What more protection 
 should she need there than she would in a household like 
 Lady Basford's, which was notorious for its gaiety and 
 the number of its visitors ? And there too, for at least 
 some months of the year, she would be entirely separated 
 from her natural protectors, her grandfather and her 
 grandmother ; perhaps resident for that time in that very 
 London, of which the latter had such a formidable idea ; 
 " and if there was any danger to be feared from her 
 beauty," she added with a disclaiming laugh, " would 
 she not then be quite as much exposed to it, perhaps in 
 the character of a poor humble servant maid, less pro- 
 tected from such perils, than possessing the means of 
 living in respectability and independence, as she should 
 be able to do by accepting the handsome offer now made 
 to her ?" 
 
 Poor Milly ! little did she suspect the emptiness, the 
 futility of her arguments, to which, however, her grieved 
 and apprehensive listener could offer no reply. 
 
312 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "Thank Goodness!" was her remark on parting for 
 the night with her usual affectionate embrace — " Thank 
 Goodness there is no post to London to-morrow, so you 
 will have a good many hours to think over this matter. 
 I haven't made up my mind whether it will be best to 
 tell Richard at once all about it, or leave it till you've 
 had time to make up your mind what to do. It will be 
 a sad blow to him, I know, come when it vail. But we 
 will talk about this in the morning. He'll be glad to Lie 
 a-bed two or three hours later than usual, I know, both 
 because of his having been so foolish as to drink more 
 than has done him good, and his having had a harder 
 day's work, as I may call it, than he's had for many a 
 long day, so we shall have plenty of time to talk it over 
 before he comes down stairs." 
 
 Milly acquiesced in silence. She did not say what 
 however she felt, that her mind was already made up, and 
 that it mattered little to her how or when her grandfather 
 became acquainted with it, for, though sorry to grieve 
 him and act in opposition to his wishes, she was far less 
 so than she would have been had he not acted so arbi- 
 trarily in his arrangement with his friends, (the Fosters) 
 without thinking it necessary in the slightest degree to 
 consult her wishes and feelings on the subject. That 
 she should meet with strong opposition from the old 
 man, she had no doubt, but Milly inherited, perhaps, 
 sufficient of his own disposition to be roused to a certain 
 point and to be as decided and determined on pursuing 
 her own way as himself. 
 
 The result was as she expected: Richard Shelburne 
 was at first indignant at his grandaughter daring to form 
 plans for herself, in contradiction to his, which he con- 
 sidered all that was desirable. Then the insult offered to 
 
OS WOMAN'S L1FK. 313 
 
 his friends the Fosters, excited his rage. It was the 
 second time that he had been made a fool of in their 
 eyes. What would they say now at discovering that he 
 had no authority over a girl of her age, and for whom 
 he had done so much '.' 
 
 Milly's bosom swelled as she acknowledged her great 
 obligations to his kindness, but she hoped now that 
 it would not be long before she should be able to prove 
 her gratitude by more than mere words. As to the 
 Fosters, she gently hinted that all disagreeables might 
 have been prevented, if they had shown a proper con- 
 sideration for her, by requiring to see her, and learn from 
 herself whether she was willing to undertake such a 
 situation. 
 
 This was flat rebellion in the old man's eyes, and he 
 was not sparing in his predictions of the evils that such 
 pride and assumption would bring on her ; but this only 
 served to increase Milly's determination. Her pride was 
 noAv really enlisted against the old man, and no argu- 
 ments would have availed to induce her to relinquish the 
 opportunity of proving to her relatives how greatly they 
 were mistaken. Yes, she would show them that no such 
 dangers could exist to one who was guarded by the best 
 principles — who was determined never to be led out of the 
 strict path of rectitude by any temptation that could be 
 offered. " Fore-warned is fore-armed," repeated Millv to 
 herself. She would act with such reserve and caution, 
 as not only to bid defiance to all these imagiuarv dangers 
 with which her grandfather supposed a public life must 
 be surrounded, but she would take care that not even the 
 breath of scandal should dare to sully her name. How 
 many were there at the present time, even within her 
 
 limited knowledge — gaiued from the newspapers — who 
 
 2 B 
 
314 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 were respected in the highest degree, welcomed in the 
 highest society, and spoken of as models, both of the 
 domestic virtues and of the most generous and benevolent 
 qualities. Yes, it was an insult to himself and the 
 principles which, in his homely way, he had constantly 
 inculcated, to suppose that, as soon as she was released 
 from the constraint of home, all was to be forgotten, and 
 she was to fall with her eyes open into any trap that 
 might be placed in her path. 
 
 " And pray, what does your mother say to this fine 
 scheme ?" demanded the old man, when he had pretty 
 well exhausted his anger in denunciation, prophecies, 
 and vituperation against her and all who had contributed 
 to ruin her, by encouraging her in such useless, worse 
 than useless rubbish, as had lifted her above all honest 
 and creditable ways of getting a livelihood. " Not that I 
 should wonder at any mad nonsense she has got in her 
 head," he continued, " for see what she's done for her- 
 self — from first to last brought nothing but trouble and 
 poverty upon herself, by fancying herself cleverer than 
 her friends, and taking her own way instead of being 
 guided by them that was older and wiser than herself. 
 If she'd have been persuaded by her mother and me, 
 she'd never have gone and got married to your father 
 before he'd got settled in the world, and able to provide 
 for a wife and family, and then she wouldn't have been 
 left as she was, poor and destitute." 
 
 Milly felt that in that instance, at least, it would have 
 been easy to have defended her mother from the charge 
 even of imprudence, since her father's success in life had 
 been for some years even superior to what her mother's 
 situation in life could have entitled her to hope for, and 
 though he had afterwards failed, it had been rather the 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 815 
 
 effect of misfortune than imprudence ; but she did not ven- 
 ture to attempt a defence of her mother, conscious that the 
 second marriage of the latter afforded hut too good an 
 opportunity to condemn her for imprudence. Until this 
 moment it had not occurred to Milly's mind that it was 
 strange she had heard nothing from her mother on the 
 subject, so interesting to both of them, and she would 
 willingly, if she could, have avoided replying to the old 
 man's question, fearing that she should furnish him with 
 an argument against her acceptance of Mr. Briggs' offer, 
 by acknowledging that her mother had not thought it 
 of sufficient consequence to write to recommend it. 
 Shelburne, however, was not to be baffled by her silence, 
 and, as Milly expected, he at once drew the conclusion 
 that Mrs. Morison knew very well that it was not such 
 a situation as she would wish her daughter to accept, and, 
 therefore, as she could say nothing good of it, she had 
 determined to be silent about it. 
 
 " Who knows," he observed, " but the fellow she's 
 married to, is doing all this without her knowledge — that 
 he and this man Briggs, as he calls himself, have kept 
 it all from her, for fear she should spoil their market by 
 telling you the truth about them." 
 
 Milly was herself startled at the suggestion, and, had 
 her grandfather confined himself to getting her promise 
 not to proceed any farther with the affair until she had 
 written to her mother and received a satisfactory answer 
 from her, the time for reflection that would have been 
 thus obtained might have suggested many doubts and 
 objections that had not now occurred to her. But 
 Richard's obstinate temper was roused to its utmost 
 pitch, by the prospect of Milly's again losing what he 
 considered so eligible an offer as Mrs. Foster had, for 
 
316 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the second time, made on his account; he therefore no 
 sooner learned that her mother had not only not signified 
 her approval of that made by Mr. Briggs, but that, from 
 the wording of the letter — as he remarked — it was doubt- 
 ful whether she knew anything of the application, than 
 he declared, in the most positive terms, that Milly should 
 not even answer the letter she had received, declaring 
 that it was nothing but some villanous deep-laid plot on 
 the part of his daughter's rascally husband, to entice her 
 (Milly) to London. 
 
 " Morison," he said, " was a wretch that would do 
 anything for money, and sooner would he see the girl in 
 her coffin than trust her in the hands of such an unprin- 
 cipled fellow. He should not wonder if there was no 
 such person as this Briggs in existence. Morison knew 
 very well that they had no knowledge of his handwriting, 
 for he had never troubled himself to write a line to them, 
 and he would almost lay down his life," the old man 
 added, "that the letter was his own writing. And if it 
 were not, if there were such a person as this Mr. Briggs, 
 what good could she expect from such a connexion? " He 
 concluded by reminding Milly that, " at her age she had 
 no right to form any engagement without the consent 
 of her lawful guardians, and that, as her mother had not 
 come forward to signify her approbation, he had a right 
 to believe, either that she knew nothing about it, or that 
 she totallv disapproved of it, and refused to give her 
 consent. It was he, therefore, that now stood in her 
 place, and it was he who now positively forbade her to 
 think any more of what — to put the best face on it — was 
 only a wild goose scheme; for how could this Briggs, or 
 Morison, or whoever it was, know that she was suited to 
 them, much less whether she was worth the money they 
 
of woman's life. -117 
 
 offered;" which to Kichard — totally ignorant in such 
 matters — appeared an incredible sum for such nonsense 
 as singing a few songs, and was, therefore, in his opinion, 
 only held out as a bait. 
 
 Millv smiled in scorn at this depreciation of her talents. 
 She had not forgotten what Mr. St. Orme had said as to 
 the pecuniary value of such a voice as hers, and, far from 
 looking upon Mr. Briggs' proposal as anything like that 
 value, she regarded it only as a mere introduction, which 
 was soon to lead to a much superior offer. 
 
 Two days passed away in continual altercation and 
 strife between Milly and her grandfather ; he had taken 
 care that she should have no opportunity of sending the 
 letter she had written to Mr. Briggs, and the next day 
 was that appointed by him for her to enter upon the 
 situation at Lady Basford's, which was, in the old man's 
 opinion, to put an end to all anxiety on his part as to 
 her future welfare. 
 
 Accustomed all her life to pay the most implicit defe- 
 rence to her husband's will, and believing his knowledge 
 and judgment in almost every case quite indisputable, 
 Mrs. Shelburne, although truly unhappy at her gran- 
 daughter being compelled to accept of a situation, which 
 in her own secret heart she felt was beneath her deserts, 
 had on the other hand been so completely won over by 
 the old man's arguments and assertions, as regarded the 
 proposal of Mr. Briggs, as to be quite as anxious as 
 himself to prevent Milly 'a embracing it. Much rather, 
 indeed, would the fond and affectionate old woman — had 
 she been suffered to decide — have kept her grandaughter 
 still with her, and trusted — as she said — to Providence 
 for her future provision ; but to this Milly herself posi- 
 tivelv declared she would not submit. No, she had made 
 
818 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 up her mind — she said — to leave the Abbey, and though 
 she refused to give any explanation why she had formed 
 this decision, her grandmother felt that it would be 
 useless to try to persuade her to second a plan which she 
 was sure would have been successful, would she have 
 tried it. Yes, she knew that even now Eichard would 
 have compromised the matter, and given up the plan of 
 her going to live at Lady Basford's, if she would, on her 
 part, renounce altogether the London scheme, promise 
 that she would never have anvthing to do with Morison 
 or any of his connexions, and acknowledge to her grand- 
 father that she should be happier to remain with them 
 and take care of them so long as it pleased the Lord to 
 spare their lives, than ever she could be anywhere else. 
 
 " Eichard is, I know, already fretting in his heart at 
 the thought of parting with you, my dear child," con- 
 cluded the old woman, " and a very little from you would 
 bring him to own that he should be happier for you to 
 stay with us ; but, while he thinks you're still hankering 
 after the mad scheme of going to London, he won't give 
 in, and I can't tell what will be the end of it. Certainly, 
 he can't make you go with him to-morrow by force, but 
 he seems to have made up his mind that if you are 
 obstinate so will he be. And — Oh, Milly, if you could 
 know how I do tremble as I think how it will all end ; 
 both of you so high-spirited, and both thinking your- 
 selves in the right, and neither of you willing to give up 
 to the other ; though indeed — indeed, my dear child, 
 I must say the truth — it is your place to give up to 
 your grandfather, who must know better than you what 
 is for your good ; and though he is passionate and obsti- 
 nate, you know he loves you dearly ; I'm sure it would 
 break his heart as well as mine, if any harm was to come 
 to you." 
 
OF woman's life. 319 
 
 Milly's tears for some time choked the angry feelings 
 to which she had, more than once during the poor old 
 •woman's expostulation, evidently heen about to give 
 vent. Her grandmother wept with her, and for a long 
 time not another word was uttered ; but the great clock 
 in the hall striking ten, reminded them that they must 
 part for the night. Kichard had retired at his usual hour 
 — nine — and it was a strict rule with him that no one 
 should remain up in the Abbey more than an hour after 
 him. Milly frequently transgressed this rule ; but then 
 she either remained occupied with her own pursuits in 
 the room appropriated to her, which was at a sufficient 
 distance from those occupied by the rest of the family 
 to prevent their hearing that she was still up ; or, when 
 the weather was suitable, and tempted her to prefer 
 the open air, and the enjoyments afforded by the spacious 
 and beautiful garden — which was secluded from all possi- 
 bility of interruption or danger by the high substantial 
 walls with which it was surrounded — she could always 
 gain access to it unheard and unnoticed, by means of a 
 small door, the key of which she had taken into her own 
 possession, that entrance being seldom used by any one 
 but herself, as being less convenient than the regular one, 
 which was near the rooms inhabited by the other inmates 
 of the Abbey. Many — many — delightful summer hours 
 Milly had thus spent, amid the sweet sounds and sights 
 of Nature, when the bright moon shed her calm light 
 over the broad walks, or more faintly illumined the intri- 
 cate mazes which formed a part of the plan of this 
 delightful spot, and through which her light feet wan- 
 dered without doubt or few, long hours after the inhabi- 
 tants of the grey old Abbey, which was only here and 
 there visible at certain points of view from the garden 
 
SiiO SHADE AKD SUNSHINE 
 
 were buried in sleep. It was a source of pleasure thus to 
 listen to the nightingale, and sometimes to mock and 
 emulate its flexible notes, with scarcely less sweetness 
 and plaintiveness than its own ; to mark the effect of 
 light and shade — the silvery moon stealing through the 
 foliage, or glittering on the fishpond, which trembled 
 beneath its rays ; and often, as she threw herself on the 
 mossy bank beside it, she would pass hours watching the 
 inhabitants of the clear, pellucid stream, which she could 
 see almost to the bottom ; and would mark them pur- 
 suing each other, like harmless children at play, or dart- 
 ing upwards, as if to breathe the sweet air, while the 
 circles spread round and round on the surface of the 
 water, till again all was silent and motionless. Vain, 
 indeed, would it be to attempt to describe half the en- 
 joyments which the innocent and pure mind of Milly 
 Shelburne derived from these stolen moments; perhaps, 
 it must be confessed, the more enjoyed, that they were 
 secret and stolen : for, although it would have been 
 impossible to have attached any blame to them, old 
 Richard's strict family discipline, and especially his un- 
 varving discouragement and opposition to whatever he 
 considered romantic or sentimental — a term he had 
 learned to apply to everything out of the common-place 
 monotonous routine in which his own life had been 
 passed — would certainly have not only opposed, but 
 have taken effectual means to prevent, his grandaughter's 
 future enjoyment. It was in this lovely, though old- 
 fashioned and in a great measure neglected garden, that 
 Milly had more recently passed some of the most delight- 
 ful moments of her life — moments they indeed appeared 
 to her, though not unfrequently they were extended to 
 hours, to her great surprise when she discovered it : but 
 
of woman's life. 321 
 
 how could she "take note of time," when listening to sub- 
 jects so interestingly told as they were, by one whose voice, 
 manner, and looks would have conferred a charm on the 
 most common-place subjects. Never until Mr. St. Orme 
 visited the Abbey, and found there charms which drew 
 him to prolong his visit to the very latest minute — beyond, 
 indeed, what prudence and self-interest would have bade 
 him stay — never, until then, had Millicent Shelburne met 
 with a fitting companion — one who could respond to her 
 feelings — could draw forth the rich treasures which had 
 hitherto been buried in her mind — could guide and direct 
 the wild flights of her imagination, and sympathise in all 
 those beautiful and pure aspirings after knowledge, which 
 had hitherto been hidden and kept in check, by the fear 
 of incurring the reproof of those to whom she was sub- 
 jected, and who looked upon what they could not under- 
 stand as folly and romance ; nonsense, in fact, which, so 
 far from being of benefit to her, would only render her 
 unfit to get her living, and, far from recommending, 
 keep at a distance and render her a subject of ridicule, 
 not only to those of her own station in life, but to her 
 " betters," on whom she must depend for a living. Oh 
 how different was the doctrine St. Orme taught '.— and 
 how sweet to her ears was the encouragement he gave 
 her to persevere !— how valuable the instructions by 
 which he taught her to direct, henceforward, those studies 
 which had hitherto been pursued at random. He pointed 
 out the volumes in the library which she was to read 
 during his absence ; he read with her, and enriched his 
 readings by remarks, which seemed to her more valuable 
 than the works they elucidated ; he was, in fact, to her, 
 all that Milly had so long sighed for — a guide, com- 
 panion, and friend : but, alas ! Milly dreamed not how 
 
 2t 
 
322 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 much more sho had found ; she suspected not the true 
 character of the feelings St. Orme had inspired in her 
 innocent and inexperienced heart — the real cause of that 
 charm — that new light — in which everything was beheld 
 n his presence. Even the delight with which she had 
 contemplated the charms of nature was doubled when 
 enjoyed with him; and never did she experience this so 
 forcibly as when, either seated by his side in some shady 
 nook, or leaning on his arm and listening in rapt silence 
 to his remarks, she strolled through the most retired 
 avenues of that stately, old-fashioned garden. But St. 
 Orme left the Abbey, and how quickly was the scene 
 changed. All that had before afforded her unmixed de- 
 light, became " dull, flat, stale, and unprofitable," as the 
 time passed away which he had fixed for his return ; and 
 as she listened to her grandfather's animadversions 
 upon that absence, accompanied as they were by the 
 mortifying truths — for truths she could not deny they 
 were — as to the difference in their stations, which of 
 course made what appeared of such importance to them 
 pass from his (St. Orme's) memory, as mere trifles 
 scarcely worthy indeed of being remembered, except as 
 having afforded him temporary amusement, or even 
 worse, accused his " young master" of having purposely 
 led them all into a " Fool's Paradise," as he emphatically 
 called the hopes St. Orme had excited as to Milly's future 
 career, merely that he might mock at and ridicule the 
 assumption of his uncle's servants. When in these 
 angry and ill-tempered moods, old Richard set before 
 his unhappy grandchild, in the darkest colours, what she 
 could not controvert — the impassable gulf that existed 
 between her, the poor, penniless dependent on the low- 
 born, uneducated domestics—and he, the heir of a long 
 
OF woman's life. 323 
 
 line of distinguished ancestors, destined at no very distant 
 time, according to the course of nature, to return thither 
 to take possession of the estates, ■which he had no doubt 
 visited only to enjoy in anticipation that happy period — 
 then, indeed, Milly's heart sank, and all hecarne to her a 
 hopeless blank. That pride, however, which it has heen 
 already confessed formed so prominent a trait in her 
 character, was at length roused hy the very means old 
 Shelburne adopted to crush it, and visions of future dis- 
 tinction — vague it must he acknowledged, hut still not 
 wholly baseless, for they were founded on the assertions 
 of one whom, in spite of all assertions and appearances 
 to the contrary, she could not believe would have de- 
 graded himself by deliberate falsehood. "No !. Mr. St. 
 Orme might, perhaps, as her grandfather said, have 
 sought nothing more than amusement in his transient 
 connexion with the humble inhabitants of Beauvale, — 
 he might have, perhaps, in secret derided the assumption 
 which, flattered by his frankness and the unsuspecting 
 kindness of his manner, had led her — for on her alone 
 rested that imputation — since with Eichard Shelburne 
 and his wife he had never been considered or treated in 
 any other light than as their young master, the presump- 
 tive heir of the honours and estates of the St. Orme 
 family ; but if it were an error she had committed — as 
 she now feared it was — that she had too often forgotten 
 the distance between herself and him, it was, she felt, one 
 that was attributable more to the pains that he had taken 
 to banish the distinction from her mind, than any 
 assumption or self-conceit on her part. Even now she 
 could not — w T ould not — be convinced that he regarded 
 her in the light her grandfather represented ; but be it as 
 it might, at least she w T as determined, that by no act of 
 
324 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 hers would she increase the distance that already existed 
 between them. No ! he might remember her only as the 
 humble, insignificant daughter of his uncle's servants ; 
 but if she could not raise herself above, he should, at 
 least, never behold her sunk so immeasurably beneath 
 that grade, as she would be, in even her own eyes, by 
 the acceptance of the service her grandfather founded 
 all his hopes and ambition upon. 
 
 But how was it to be avoided ? Milly saw but one 
 possibility, and that, unfortunately, was but too agreeable 
 with all her hopes and aspirations. It was the only 
 prospect which offered of at once turning to account 
 all that she had with such diligence acquired — the only 
 opportunity that it was probable would offer of distin- 
 guishing herself, and profiting in the way her mother 
 had always suggested ; and to which even Mr. St. Orme 
 himself, as she believed, alluded, when he spoke of the 
 inestimable gift of nature she possessed in her voice, on 
 first hearing her. It was true that latterly — while still 
 praising, admiring, and encouraging her, with seeming 
 enthusiasm, and still listening unweariedly, hour after 
 hour — he had gradually dropped all allusion to the pecu- 
 niary advantages which he had at first spoken of, and 
 had seemed rather anxious to avoid speaking with his 
 usual frankness and straightforwardness, when the sub- 
 ject was hinted at by her relations : but to what else 
 could he have alluded, when, in his last conference with 
 Richard, he had required of the latter to abstain from 
 making any arrangement respecting her (Milly) until his 
 return, fixing at the same time the period of that return ? 
 That that period was long passed, had left her, therefore, 
 at liberty, she considered, to act for herself, and this she 
 considered she should be doing to the best advantage by 
 
OF woman's life. 325 
 
 accepting Mr. Briggs's offer. Milly had, in fact, as she 
 believed, weighed with due deliberation every argument 
 her grandfather had brought against this proposal, and 
 all appeared as nothing compared to the advantages: but 
 she saw, also, that to have avowed this would only have 
 incited the old man to use the power he pretended to 
 have, to prevent her going ; and, therefore, she had come 
 to the determination — daring and bold as it appeared — 
 secretly to leave the Abbey, and repair at once, not to 
 the address Mr. Briggs had enclosed for her direction, 
 but to her mother, who she could not doubt would 
 receive her with gladness, and under whose protection 
 and advice she could then, without fear or impropriety, 
 conclude the proposed engagement. Fortunately for her 
 project, Milly's purse had shortly before been unusually 
 replenished by her grandmother's secret bounty, as she 
 believed, for the latter had concealed from her that it was 
 by her husband's desire she had presented her with a 
 guinea, the old man observing, that he "would not wish 
 the child to go from home penniless, or mix among the 
 society of the housekeeper's room at the Hall without hav- 
 ing the power to do as they did, should money be required 
 for any purpose among themselves." To this liberal gift 
 Mrs. Shelburne had added twelve shillings, her own 
 secret hoarding, which she had intended to keep until she 
 could make up the same amount, as a present for Milly's 
 birthday ; but Richard's unexpected liberality altered her 
 determination, and induced her at once to surprise her 
 dear child, by giving her a sum larger than the latter had 
 ever possessed, at one time, in her life. Little did the 
 poor old woman suspect the use to which it was to be 
 applied, or that she was herself supplying her beloved 
 child with the means of clandestinely leaving her, never 
 
326 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 again, perhaps, to return ; for scarcely could it be hoped 
 that Eichard Shelburnc would ever forgive so daring a 
 violation of his authority. It was this last reflection that, 
 when the hour of parting came to which we have alluded, 
 and the old woman clasped her in her arms, as she wished 
 her " good-night," with more than usual tenderness, be- 
 lieving that Milly had at last made up her mind to submit 
 to her grandfather's authority, and accompany him to 
 the Hall — Lady Basford's residence — on the morrow. 
 It was the consciousness how much longer and more dis- 
 tressing would be the separation from her kind-hearted 
 relatives that now impended, that for a few moments 
 shook Milly's firm determination, and she hung upon her 
 neck in such violent agitation as nearly to betray that 
 some deeper cause for it existed than appeared, or than 
 she was willing to avow. Fancying, however, that she 
 discovered that cause in the casual mention of Mr. St. 
 Orme's name, and the recollection of the visionary hope 
 which she, as well as Milly, had founded on his promises, 
 the old woman attempted, in the best manner she could, 
 to console the weeping girl, by predicting that some 
 happy event, as yet hidden in the future, would compen- 
 sate for all past disappointment ; and Milly, thus again 
 recalled to the promise held out by the project in which 
 she was about to embark, tore herself away, still in pos- 
 session of the all-important secret, and retired, as her 
 grandmother supposed, to her bed ; in reality, to com- 
 plete the few preparations that were necessary for her 
 journey. 
 
 There were yet some hours to.be passed before she 
 started to walk to where Milly had ascertained the coach 
 to Bristol would pass, and from thence she knew there 
 were numerous conveyances to London. Taking there- 
 
of woman's life. 327 
 
 fore with her the bundle of clothes she had made up, and 
 having left in a conspicuous place — where she knew it 
 would soon be found — a letter to her relatives, expressive 
 of gratitude for their kindness, and excusing the step 
 she had taken, by declaring her conviction of its being 
 the only opportunity she could ever hope to meet with of 
 providing for herself in the way she was most fitted for ; 
 and, which her taking the situation provided for her by her 
 grandfather, would have for ever rendered it impossible 
 she could have hoped to do. Entreating, therefore, again 
 and again, their forgiveness, she concluded by expressing 
 her more than hope — her firm conviction — that the time 
 would come when they would acknowledge that she had 
 chosen wisely, and forget her apparent disobedience. 
 
 The time she had still to dispose of was spent in 
 taking a farewell of the scenes in which she had passed 
 some of the happiest hours of her life; the garden, now 
 lying under the full influence of a calm and beautiful 
 moonlight: but it must be confessed that Milly's mind, far 
 from sharing in the tranquillity that reigned around her, 
 became more and more agitated as the time approached 
 when she must quit it — she sometimes feared — for 
 ever. A thousand fears and terrors, as to the step she 
 was about to take, rushed into her mind, and seemed 
 to increase with every passing moment. Difficulties and 
 dangers which hitherto had been unthought of crowded 
 upon her and shook her resolution. Even the solitary 
 walk to meet the coach, though less than two miles, 
 terrified her ; and if that were got over safely, how should 
 she face the obstacles that might present themselves to 
 her safe continuance of such a tremendous journey 
 as it now appeared to her, from Bristol to London? 
 And then, again, supposing those overcome — suppose 
 
328 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 herself arrived without hindrance in that great Metro- 
 polis, of which she retained so slight a remembrance, 
 how formidable appeared in imagination her arrival in 
 its crowded streets, a stranger and alone ? If she 
 could but have written, so that some one might have 
 been in waiting for her, this source of alarm, at 
 least, would have been obviated; but that her grand- 
 father's watchfulness had prevented ; and with every 
 succeeding moment Milly's terrors seemed to acquire 
 additional weight, and almost induced her, before it was 
 too late, to relinquish what now appeared so rash, so 
 formidable a resolution. She looked at the bundle which 
 lay at her side on the wooden bench on which she seated 
 herself, near the entrance gate, through which she was to 
 pass into the road, and even that suggested a danger 
 which she had not before contemplated. It was not un- 
 frequent for wanderers, beggars, or perhaps even worse 
 than those, to find their way to Beauvale, even on that 
 little travelled road, but which led into the Bristol road ; 
 and if she should at that early hour encounter any of 
 that class, might not her burthen attract their notice and 
 induce them not only to rob but ill-treat her ; she re- 
 membered one circumstance where the whole country had 
 heen alarmed by an attempt at 'robbery, and though that 
 was years ago, and it had been defeated by some means, 
 she did not now remember the particulars — was there not 
 a reasonable cause for her to be alarmed in the present 
 instance ? Everything appeared to combine to frighten 
 poor Milly from her adventurous undertaking. The 
 courage which but a few hours before had seemed to her 
 so invincible was gradually deserting her altogether. In 
 another quarter of an hour, according to her calculation, 
 she must either be on the road, or have returned to her 
 
of woman's life. 329 
 
 room to prevent the possibility of her absence being dis- 
 covered, and she had almost decided on the latter, when 
 a circumstance occurred which at once gave a different 
 turn to her thoughts, and without another minute's 
 hesitation, without waiting for the striking by the Abbey 
 clock the hour of five, which she had previously resolved 
 should be the signal for her departure, she slung the 
 bundle over her arm, unlocked the gate, of which she 
 had brought the key from where it hung in the kitchen, 
 and passing through, locked it again, flung the key over 
 the wall, and set off on the road at as rapid a pace as 
 if she had been pursued by some of those she had left be- 
 hind totally unsuspicious of her flight. 
 
 The cause of this sudden alteration and access of re- 
 solution was very simple, merely the sight of a light 
 cart, which had been placed under a shed at the side of 
 the gate, which was an entrance seldom used, except for 
 the admission of similar vehicles, bringing wood, &c, 
 for the use of the inhabitants of the Abbey. Milly had 
 looked at it several times without remembering that 
 she had never seen it there before, or reflecting for what 
 purpose it had been used or placed there ; but the sun 
 rose above the tree tops, and the first bright beam that 
 fell upon the shed revealed to her the name and resi- 
 dence of the owner, painted in large letters on the front 
 of the cart, and in an instant the purpose for which 
 it had been brought thither darted into her mind. It 
 belonged to a farmer, a tenant on the estate of Sir James 
 Basford, and living close to the Hall, and it had been 
 sent overnight, borrowed by Richard Shelburne, un- 
 doubtedly for the purpose of conveying him, his grand- 
 daughter, her trunks, &c. to the former's residence. Yes, 
 
 Milly read the whole plan in a moment. A feeling of 
 
 2v 
 
830 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 vehement indignation recalled in an instant the colour to 
 her pale cheeks, which had heen till then banished by in- 
 dignation, not only by the obstinate perseverance of the 
 old man, in compelling, as he imagined, her submission 
 to his will, but still more at his concealment of his pre- 
 parations, for she was well convinced that not even to 
 her grandmother had he said a word as to the means of 
 the intended journey, but had had the chaise cart secretly 
 brought there, and hidden until the moment when he 
 should think proper to produce it. There was a feeling 
 of triumph, it must be confessed, added to Milly's other 
 instigations, to commence her journey without farther 
 delay. She felt that he deserved the disappointment in 
 reserve for him when he should discover her absence, and 
 it was not till her rapid footsteps had traversed the whole 
 distance that she had to walk, and she found herself — 
 having arrived a full half-hour before the time that she 
 could expect the Bristol coach to pass — without any 
 further motive for personal exertion, left to the uninter- 
 rupted contemplation of the step she had taken. Long 
 and tedious, indeed, did that half-hour seem, and many 
 were the tears of bitter sorrow and regret she shed as 
 the conviction forced itself upon her mind, that she had 
 taken the decisive step on which was to depend the future 
 happiness or misery of her life ; but the sound so 
 anxiously listened for was at length heard ; the tears were 
 hastily dashed from her eyes ; her bundle lifted from the 
 ground, and before the coach drew up in obedience to 
 her signal, she had attained sufficient outward composure 
 to prevent any unpleasant conjectures being formed from 
 her appearance, it being nothing unusual to meet at that 
 spot persons from the surrounding neighbourhood, de- 
 sirous of proceeding to Bristol. 
 
or woman's life. 331 
 
 CHAPTEB XI. 
 
 The house that surrounds it stands first in the row, 
 
 Two doors at right angles swing open below ; 
 
 And the children of misery daily steal in, 
 
 And the poison they draw they denominate, Gin. 
 
 There enter the prude, and the reprobate boy, 
 
 The mother of grief, and the daughter of joy, 
 
 The serving-maid slim, and the serving-man stout, 
 
 They quickly steal in, and they slowly reel out. — James Smith. 
 
 My love thou surely knewest before, 
 
 It ne'er was less, nor can be more, 
 To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 
 
 And hate the night, I knew not why, 
 Save that we meet not but by day. 
 
 "With thee to live, with thee to die, 
 
 I dare not to my hope deny. 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
 And lighten half thy poverty : 
 Do all but close the dying eye, 
 For all I could not live to try ; 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire ; 
 More can I do ? or thou require ? — Byron. 
 
 It was, Milly thought, a favourable omen of her future 
 success, that she had met few difficulties in Bristol to the 
 continuation of her journey. She had contrived, indeed, 
 to learn as much as possible on the subject from her only 
 fellow passenger in the coach, a plain, motherly, though 
 rather garrulous, woman, a resident in Bristol, and there- 
 fore capable of giving her all necessary information, and 
 who expressed surprise at such a very young person 
 taking such a long journey alone. Milly answered that 
 she was going to take a situation in London that she 
 was already engaged for. 
 
332 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Oh, then of course you'll have friends waiting to 
 receive you ?" she replied, " otherwise, I should say, it's 
 running a risk — a terrible risk for a young creature so 
 good-looking as you are, to go to such a dreadful place 
 as London. Bristol is bad enough, at least there's plenty 
 enough of bad people in it to take advantage of strangers ; 
 but it's nothing, I am told, to London, where they're 
 always on the look out, like so many spiders, ready to 
 dart out and catch the poor innocent flies in their webs." 
 Milly's heart sank. She did not dare avow how little 
 hope or expectation she had of finding any friends in 
 waiting to protect her from the imaginary dangers, that, 
 according to her fellow-traveller's description, awaited 
 every stranger in this dreaded metropolis, but she listened 
 with the utmost attention and deference to the cautions 
 the friendly woman thought necessary to give her, as to 
 the silence and reserve which it would be prudent to 
 preserve towards those with whom she might be associated 
 during the journey from Bristol, especially the latter 
 part of it as she approached London. A succession of 
 dismal stories followed in which one subject was pro- 
 minent, the dangers and even ruin which had ensued to 
 young and innocent females, by suffering themselves to 
 be deceived into confidence by artful, unprincipled people, 
 whom she represented as being always on the watch for 
 opportunities, until Milly, completely terrified, without 
 daring to avow how little expectation she had of being 
 protected from such dangers, could only secretly resolve 
 to guard herself against them, by observing the strictest 
 reserve, and repelling every attempt that might be made 
 to draw her into a revelation of her friendless and unpro- 
 tected situation. Fortunately, all these prudent resolu- 
 tions proved needless. The quick succession of pas- 
 
of woman's life. 333 
 
 sengers, of whom not one who departed with her from 
 Bristol remained until the end of their journey, left but 
 little time or opportunity for any attempt at confidential 
 communication, and though she did not altogether escape 
 the common-place expressions of gallantry, which her 
 beautiful face and form might be expected to eliminate 
 from some of her male companions, and one, from whose 
 age more decorous manners might reasonably have been 
 expected, had endeavoured to force upon her attentions 
 that were annoying and troublesome, yet there was no- 
 thing on the whole that could give her any real cause of 
 alarm, or call on her part for more than determined 
 silence and reserve, until at one of the towns through 
 which they passed, she was relieved from even this un- 
 pleasantness, by the man's departure, and she finally 
 entered London, and was driven to the Bull and Mouth, 
 in Aldersgate-street, the only remaining inside passenger. 
 And now she was indeed alone. During the drive through 
 the crowded streets, with all their attractions, the quick 
 succession of objects, all so new and surprising to her, 
 had prevented her even thinking of the near termination 
 of her journey, or forming any settled plan how she 
 should proceed; but when at length released from the 
 confinement of the coach, she found herself standing 
 amid the bustle of the Inn yard, no one attending to or 
 speaking to her, except the man who, staring at her, de- 
 manded what luggage she had, and saw him turn away 
 with what she interpreted an expression of contempt, as 
 she replied, " None but that," pointing to the bundle, 
 which was the moment after thrown at her feet. For a 
 few minutes she stood utterly bewildered. Her presence 
 of mind — all her previous plans and resolutions for her 
 guidance scattered ; and not knowing what to do — 
 
334 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 or whither to turn in what appeared such a scene of end- 
 less confusion and hustle — 
 
 " Want a cab, Miss, or a porter ?" demanded a youth 
 in corduroys and glazed hat, who seemed to he lounging 
 ahout without any fixed employment in the yard of the 
 Inn. There was something in the expression of the sly 
 eye that was fixed on hers, that did not impress her very 
 favourably towards the questioner; on the contrary, it 
 recalled to her some of the numerous cautions which had 
 been impressed on her by her friendly companion in the 
 Bristol coach, not to trust to any strangers who might 
 offer their services when she arrived at her destination in 
 London, if she should not find any friend awaiting her 
 arrival. Alas, Milly knew but too well how little reason 
 she had to hope for such an interposition in her favour. 
 She hesitated, however, what to reply to the young 
 man's offer. 
 
 " I can get you a coach in two minutes, Miss. And 
 they'll take you anywhere you want to go to," he re- 
 sumed, as if reading in her looks the meaning of her 
 confusion and indecision. 
 
 This observation recalled at once to her mind the 
 course she was to pursue, and while — having received her 
 assent — the youth darted off to fetch the coach, she 
 drew from her pocket the little red morocco book, in 
 which was treasured the few letters she had received from 
 her mother since her marriage, in one of which she had 
 given the address to which she had removed since that 
 event. 
 
 Was it the confusion of her mind at the novel circum- 
 stances in which she found herself; or could it be possible 
 that that very letter was the only one wanting. Milly 
 knew not how to account for it, but undoubtedly, so it 
 
of woman's life. 335 
 
 was; she in vain opened every letter — traced line after 
 line, in none could she find the desired information. 
 She remembered that she had read the identical letter, 
 and had even thought of copying the address on a 
 separate slip of paper, while making preparations for her 
 departure from Beauvale, but unfortunately, she had in 
 her distress and hurry of mind forgotten that intention, 
 and had thus laid aside the letter and forgotten it. But 
 though thus enabled to account for the loss, Milly felt 
 with alarm the impossibility of remedying it, for she in 
 vain tried to recall to her memory the particulars of the 
 direction. All that she could remember was, near the 
 principal theatres — Drury Lane and Covent Garden, and 
 that was impressed on her recollection from an observa- 
 tion of her mother's, that Mr. Morison was induced to 
 fix his residence there, though it was a close, confined, 
 miserable place ; those had been her words, because he 
 had occasional employment after his regular hours of 
 business at one or other of those theatres, and of course 
 she added, it would not do for him to have far to go 
 home at such late hours of the night. This, however — 
 even the little Milly had as yet seen of London — was too 
 vague to be regarded as affording her any hope of dis- 
 covering her mother's residence, and with many a bitter 
 condemnation of her own thoughtlessness and impru- 
 dence, she returned the other useless letters to her 
 pocket. There remained but one alternative, and dis- 
 agreeable as it was, she was compelled rather to rejoice 
 in the possession of Mr. Briggs' letter and address, from 
 whom she thought she could soon procure that of Mr. 
 Morison, and of course her mother's. She had glanced 
 
 over it and had ascertained that it was No. 45, ■ 
 
 Street, Lisson Grove — in order to direct the coachman — 
 
;33C) SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 when her messenger returned and informed her that the 
 coach was at the gate. 
 
 Milly gave him the shilling which she had already in 
 her hand for the purpose, and was ahout to follow in the 
 direction he indicated, when he suddenly darted his sharp 
 eye around, and in a voice that made Milly start, ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " Hullo, Missis ! why where's your bundle?" 
 
 Where, indeed ! Milly could give no explanation. She 
 had been so absorbed in searching through her letters, 
 that she had totally forgotten all her previous caution ; 
 and the bundle — which she had only removed from where 
 the man had thrown it from the coach, to place it in what 
 she considered more security, close to the wall where she 
 stood, her foot almost touching it — was gone. Gone, as 
 if it had sunk through the stones, or vanished through 
 the brick wall by her side. 
 
 " Well, I never ! — why, where must have been your 
 eyes, to be sure ! " exclaimed the lad. " And sich a big 
 'un too as it was;" reading in Milly's surprised and 
 changeful countenance that she really had lost it, not as 
 he perhaps had at first thought, disposed of it in some 
 other way. 
 
 " Can it have been stolen ? Good Heavens, it is but 
 a few minutes since it was here," observed Milly, looking 
 round her, as if unable to credit the evidence of her own 
 senses, that it was indeed gone. 
 
 " Stole !" repeated the youth with a half-laugh. " You, 
 none of you neither did n't see nothin' of it, I 'spose, 
 did yer ?" 
 
 " Took — what's took, h&veyou lost anything ?" replied 
 two or three of the men who were engaged in different 
 occupations about the yard. 
 
of woman's life. 337 
 
 ".Me ! No, I should have kept a better look out than 
 that," he replied; '"'they'd be clever un's that -would 
 thieve from me before my very eyes, as I may say ; but 
 it's this poor young woman as has lost her traps, maybe 
 all she's got in the world, poor thing," he added in a 
 lower voice, as he saw the expression of alarm and 
 distress which had gradually stolen over Milly's expres- 
 sive countenance, as she by degrees became conscious of 
 the loss she had suffered. 
 
 A whole string of questions as to the particulars of the 
 robbery, now poured in upon Milly, as the intelligence 
 spread among the persons in the yard, but the alarmed 
 girl soon became conscious that pity or compassion for 
 her loss, bore but a small share in the feelings of those 
 by whom she was surrounded. Saucy remarks, uttered 
 in a tone which only affected to be not intended for her 
 hearing, were passed upon the lovely, bashful countenance 
 that in vain tried to avoid their scrutiny, while more 
 than one openly expressed either their contempt of the 
 folly that could have allowed a person to be thus robbed 
 before her very eyes, or hinted their disbelief that such a 
 robbery had taken place at all. 
 
 On the latter point, however, Milly found a warm 
 defender in the lad who had fetched the coach for her, 
 and who now loudly declared, not only that he had seen 
 the bundle on the ground by her side, though he did 'nt 
 think she was so green, or he should have told her to 
 keep a sharp look out after it, but also appealed to the 
 man who had thrown it to her from the coach, and who 
 was still engaged in removing the luggage that was 
 piled up on the outside. 
 
 " Yes, I handed it down in course," replied the man, 
 
 jumping down and joining the group who were collected 
 
 2 x 
 
838 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 round the confused and distressed girl, " but it wasn't 
 my place to look after it when she'd got it. You should 
 have took it in- doors, young woman, it would have been 
 safe there." 
 
 " Yes, and while you're all telling her what she ought 
 to ha' done, and what you ought n't to have done, you've 
 given the thief time to walk quietly off with it," observed 
 an old ostler, who stood eating his bread and cheese with 
 a large knife, with an air of supreme indifference. " Ah, 
 it's too late to hope you can catch him now," he added, 
 as the men looked round at each other, as if questioning 
 what could be done. " If the young woman 11 take my 
 advice, she'll make the best of her way to her friends 
 before she comes to any more harm. They must be 
 rum un's, I think, to let sich a gal come to sich a place 
 without looking after her, poor thing." 
 
 Hilly with difficulty suppressed the tears that rushed 
 to her eyes at the thought how really friendless she was, 
 and how unfit she had already proved herself to meet the 
 difficulties and dangers of the Metropolis. Her look, 
 however, thanked the old man for even this equivocal 
 expression of kindness, and she followed the lad to the 
 coach which was waiting for her, the latter expressing 
 all the time in language that was scarcely half intelligible 
 to her, his sorrow and vexation at her loss, and regretting 
 that he had n't run off directly in pursuit of the thief, 
 instead of — as old Sam said — standing with the other 
 fellows to talk about it 'till it was too late. 
 
 " And now, where shall I tell Jarvey to drive you to ?" 
 he concluded, when he had put up the steps and closed 
 the door of the coach. 
 
 Almost mechanically Milly referred to Mr. Briggs's 
 address, which she had torn from the bottom of his letter ; 
 
of woman's life. 339 
 
 the youth repeated it after her to the coachman, and the 
 carriage drove off, but in a moment after the lad's hand 
 was on the door, and he thrust his head in. 
 
 " Give me that 'ere hit o' paper, will you ?" he said, 
 taking it from her hand before she had time to speak. 
 " If I should happen to find out who has got your 
 things, I shall know — " 
 
 He left her to guess the remainder of the sentence, 
 being unable probably to keep his hold, and the coach 
 went on. 
 
 Milly's first thoughts were occupied by the loss she had 
 sustained, which, though of no very intrinsic value, were, 
 in her present situation of the utmost consequence to her, 
 and a loss which would be for some time irreparable, as 
 well as subject her to infinite inconvenience and diffi- 
 culty. Denying herself the slightest indulgence on the 
 road, she had travelled much cheaper than she had 
 expected, and furnished with all that she considered would 
 be necessary for some time in the way of clothing, it had 
 been a source of satisfaction to her that she should be 
 perfectly independent of her mother's mercenary husband, 
 even if she should not immediately enter into the receipt 
 of the salary Mr. Briggs offered to her acceptance. The 
 loss she had sustained, however, placed her in a very 
 different position, and it was with the deepest mortification 
 that she felt she should be compelled to incur obligations 
 to replace mere necessaries, which it would be some time 
 before she could hope to repay to her mother, or, as pro- 
 bably he would consider, to her mother's husband. But 
 this was the whole extent of the mortification Milly ex- 
 perienced at what she could not help condemning as the 
 result of her own carelessness, for how could she make the 
 avowal of her destitute state known to her new patron, 
 
310 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Mr. Briggs. She wondered whether he was married — the 
 father of a family, or — in short, she husied her thoughts 
 in a variety of conjectures respecting her correspondent, 
 which had never occurred to her before, and which would 
 not have troubled her now, if she could have gone at once 
 to her mother. Milly's thoughts, however, were gradually 
 recalled from these subjects to one of more immediate 
 uneasiness. She became alarmed at the distance the 
 coach had traversed. It seemed to her as if the man 
 was taking her away from London, and when he at 
 length turned up a narrow, and then only half-built 
 street, and she was jolted from side to side by the ruts of 
 the unfinished road, she could no longer forbear the 
 endeavour to express her fears to the driver that he had 
 mistaken the way. It was some time before the man 
 heard, or at least paid any attention to her call, for 
 Milly was not aware of the regular mode of communica- 
 tion with the driver by means of the string. At last, 
 however, he heard her and stopped. 
 
 " I 'm looking for No. 45," Missus," he replied, " but 
 the dickens a number 'anything, can I make out. Do 
 you know the people's name where you're going ? Maybe 
 I can find 'em out that way. " 
 
 Milly's confidence revived when she found she was so 
 near her destination, and she replied by giving the name 
 of Briggs, while the man alighting, entered a dimly 
 lighted shop to make the necessary inquiry, it being 
 almost the only house, at least at that part of the street, 
 that gave any signs of habitation. 
 
 " Briggs — Briggs !" repeated an old woman, who came 
 out to the door on hearing the^sound of a bell, which 
 was fixed inside the door, and peered in through the 
 coach window with intense curiosity. "' Briggs ! I don't 
 
OF woman's life. 341 
 
 know no such a name in the street. What is he, or she, 
 that you wants ?" 
 
 Milly hesitated for a moment how to designate Mr. 
 Brig'gs, but at length replied — 
 
 " He is a musician, I believe." 
 
 " Oh, a musician !" repeated the woman in a con- 
 temptuous tone. " No, I knows nought of such sort of 
 people ; but, maybe, you may hear something of him at 
 the ' Harlequin.' There's fiddling there most nights." 
 
 Milly drew back with a feeling of disappointment and 
 vexation. 
 
 " That is not the sort of person I am in search of," she 
 observed to the driver. "Can she not tell you where 
 number 45 is ?" 
 
 " Ah, that's it, to be sure," returned the man. "You 
 can tell us, can't you, old lady, whereabouts to look for 
 forty-five ?" 
 
 " Forty-five ! Let's see, mine's nine, and the numbers 
 runs down to the road and up t'other side. But, now I 
 think of it, it must be either the 'Harlequin ' itself, or 
 next door to it, for my daughter lives — " 
 
 The coachman did not wait the conclusion of this ex- 
 planation. He remounted his box and having with con- 
 siderable difficulty, and with the accompaniment of many 
 oaths and much grumbling, succeeded in turning the 
 horses, in a few minutes drew up at the door of a tall 
 narrow house, which was distinguished by a painting in 
 very glaring colours of a Harlequin in front, and a very 
 glaring lamp projecting over the entrance, which, though 
 it was scarcely dusk, was already lighted. 
 
 Milly's heart sank as the man, jumping down from the 
 coach-box, exclaimed — 
 
 " All right now, Missus, this is forty-five," at the 
 same time opening the coach door. 
 
342 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " T cannot think — there must he some mistake. Will 
 you he so good as to inquire if Mr. Briggs lives here," 
 uttered Milly in a tremulous tone. 
 
 The man hesitated ; muttered something in a dissatisfied 
 tone, which Milly was too anxious and agitated to attend to 
 or comprehend, and then turned sulkily into the house, 
 from whence he came out again in a few moments, followed 
 hy a very corpulent, very red-faced man, without a coat, 
 hut with linen of unspotted whiteness, and amply dis- 
 played by his unbuttoned waistcoat, and his head orna- 
 mented rather than covered by a fur cap of some inde- 
 scribable skin, set on one side, so as to give its full effect 
 to his broad bold face, and large, staring eyes, which he 
 fixed upon Milly with an expression that made her shrink 
 back almost into the corner of the coach, as if for refuge. 
 u Do you want Briggs, Miss?" he demanded in a 
 hoarse voice, as he advanced close to the coach door, 
 with his hands deeply immersed in his breeches' pockets. 
 Milly felt a slight accession of courage. The question 
 assured her this was not — as she had at first supposed — 
 Mr. Briggs himself; and, with as much dignity and 
 calmness as she could throw into her manner, she 
 replied — 
 
 " Yes ; I was directed here by a letter I received from 
 that gentleman, and which I should have replied to, in- 
 stead of coming, but that circumstances — " She hesi- 
 tated. There was something in the mans look and 
 manner that prevented her proceeding with the expla- 
 nation. 
 
 " Oh ! that accounts for it," he observed ; then you 
 are the young woman that Briggs expected to come up 
 from the country?" 
 Milly bowed a reply. 
 
of woman's life. 343 
 
 ' Well, he ain't here at present," he replied ; but he's 
 sure to drop in by-and-by. Perhaps you'll like to wait 
 and see him." 
 
 Milly shrank with repugnance from this proposal ; but 
 a second thought came, as she imagined, to her relief. 
 
 " Do you know a person of the name of Morison ?" 
 she demanded. 
 
 " What ! Jem Morison ? " he replied. " T should 
 think so. He and I are old pals : though I hav'nt seen 
 him now a long time. But you'd better 'light and send 
 the coach away. It won't be long before Briggs is here, 
 because he's got nothing for to-night, I know." 
 
 Milly did not comprehend the meaning of this last ob- 
 servation; but, without replying to his invitation, she 
 requested to know if he could give her Mrs. Morison's 
 address. 
 
 " What ! Jem's wife ? No, I'm blessed if I can," was 
 the reply ; adding, " She 's a relation of yours, isn't 
 she ? " 
 
 " My mother ! " faltered Milly, betraying by her coun- 
 tenance her deep disappointment. 
 
 "Ah! so Briggs told me," he replied. " Well, you'd 
 better take my advice, and come in. My missus is just 
 going to get her tea, and you '11 be glad of a cup, maybe, 
 after your journey." 
 
 The mention of a " missus," which Milly interpreted, 
 of course, to mean a wife, removed in part, at least, her 
 objection to accept his advice, as he called it. The coach 
 was discharged ; not, however, without a considerable 
 contest between her new acquaintance and the coachman, 
 the former succeeding in -compelling him to accept little 
 more than half of what he demanded ; but at the expense 
 of so many oaths, and so much low abuse on both sides, 
 
344 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 that Milly could scarcely rejoice at being saved from 
 such an imposition, and she followed the publican into 
 the house, trembling and alarmed at the prospect that 
 awaited her ; for what could she expect of Mr. Briggs, if 
 this man was a specimen of his friends and connexions. 
 One source of consolation only remained : she should be 
 sure to learn from him, when he arrived, where to find 
 her mother. 
 
 In the bar, to which she was now introduced, was 
 seated a female of that description of person that has 
 been so often, alliteratively and graphically, described as 
 " fair, fat, and forty ; " though the juvenile style of her 
 dress, her flowing ringlets, rouged cheeks, bare neck, and 
 profusion of ornaments, evinced a strong desire to con- 
 ceal the age, which she had certainly rather exceeded than 
 fallen short of. Milly shrank with timidity from the 
 scrutinising survey which the lady, without rising from 
 her seat, bestowed upon her. 
 
 "It's the new singer, Betsey— Miss Morison, you 
 know— that Briggs is a-going to bring out," observed her 
 introducer, seating himself in a large arm-chair, taking a 
 long pipe from the mantel-piece, which he seemed to 
 have laid aside before he came out to the door, and now 
 commenced again to smoke. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir," observed Milly, whose pride 
 immediately revolted against the name he had given her; 
 " my name is not Morison — it is Shelburne." 
 
 " Oh ! ah ! yes ! I forgot. You 're only daughter- 
 in-law to Jem Morison ; and in course your name can't 
 be—" 
 
 "Oh! as to that, Mr. Perkins, it's very little conse- 
 quence ; singers and theatrical people has so many 
 names," observed the lady, with a toss of the head, 
 
OF woman's LIFE. '345 
 
 " I have never borne any but my own," observed 
 Milly, mildly, but still with a dash of that pride which 
 was not inclined tamely to submit to insult. 
 
 " Ah ! you don't know how soon you may be glad to 
 do so," pertly returned Mrs. Perkins. " Theatrical 
 people" — this seemed a pet phrase, on which she laid a 
 peculiar emphasis — " Theatrical people has so many ups 
 and downs, that they 're often glad to take any name 
 but the right un." 
 
 " I am not a theatrical person," retorted Milly; " nor 
 do I expect ever to become one." 
 
 '•'Oh, indeed!" returned the lady." assuming an ex- 
 pression of great astonishment ; then, if I may be so 
 bold as to ask — " 
 
 " Do hold your fool's tongue, Betsey, and talk about 
 what you understand," interrupted the husband, who saw 
 the colour rush into Milly's cheeks at this gratuitous 
 insolence. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! I 'spose I'm not to open my mouth 
 next," exclaimed Mrs. Perkins. " I should like to know 
 what you understand about such things ; but ever since 
 Briggs has got you into a string — " 
 
 Her further explanation on the subject was interrupted 
 by the appearance of three young and very showily dressed 
 females in front of the bar ; and Milly beheld with sur- 
 prise the instantaneous transformation of the vixen-like 
 countenance of the landlady, whose face was immediately 
 dressed in smiles, as she courteously addressed them as 
 " Ladies," inquiring at the same time " what they would 
 please to take." 
 
 " Oh ! a quartern and a half of ' Old Tom,' " returned 
 the youngest and prettiest of the three ; and Milly, with 
 
 2y 
 
346 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 a disgust and horror she could scarcely conceal, heheld a 
 glass of liquor placed before each of them. 
 
 " Is there anything up to-night, Mrs. Perkins ? " in- 
 quired one of the women, leaning over the bar to arrange 
 her bonnet at the large chimney-glass which faced her. 
 
 "Nothing particular, Miss," was the reply; "though 
 as Briggs '11 be here by-and-by, maybe — " 
 
 " There '11 be nothing to-night," interrupted her hus- 
 band, in a peremptory tone. " If Briggs is a-coming, 
 it's on business, and nothing else." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins checked herself in something she was 
 about to say. She had caught her husband's look, and 
 was sufficiently alert, when their mutual interest was con- 
 cerned, not to hazard injuring it by the spirit of contra- 
 diction which she indulged in on general occasions. 
 
 " Well ! but I say, Perkins, when are you going to 
 open your new concert-room ? " demanded another of the 
 young women, addressing the master of the house. 
 
 " Oh ! Briggs's Madame Whats-her-name Squallini, 
 that is to beat Catalani, ain't come from — Where's 
 your new singer coming from, Perkins, that is to bring 
 all London up into Lisson Grove, and beat all the nobs 
 at the playhouse into fits ? " added the first speaker. 
 
 " Nonsense ! you don't believe a word Briggs says, do 
 you ? " replied one of her companions. 
 
 " Briggs! " exclaimed another, "Why he's the greatest 
 
 " What ho ! Who calls on Briggs ? Behold him here !" 
 exclaimed a voice behind them, and a thin, pale, dissi- 
 pated-looking man made his appearance, attired in very 
 shabby black, buttoned up to the chin, his light (almost 
 flaxen) hair evidently carefully brushed smoothly over 
 each cheek, and a hat that seemed to have been knocked 
 
of woman's life. 347 
 
 into all sorts of shapes, but never returned to its primi- 
 tive one, placed very far behind on his head. 
 
 Milly shrank even farther than she had before done 
 into the corner, where she had, uninvited, found a chair, 
 and which she had taken possession of literally from 
 inability to stand ; and Mr. Briggs, who had evi- 
 dently overlooked the presence of the stranger in the 
 bar, thrust himself to the front, between the females, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 " Well, now, my little angels, what have you got to 
 say to Briggs ? But, first of all, what are you going to 
 treat him with '.' It must be something extras, for I 'ni 
 out of sorts to-day ; want something out o' the common." 
 
 " Well ! but you forget that it 's your turn now to 
 ' stand Sam/ " observed one of the females. 
 
 " Yes, you promised the other night, you know, when 
 Lizzy paid for the brandy-and-water," added another, 
 " that the first time you met us you would stand a bottle 
 of sherry." 
 
 " I said the first time I was in cash, my darling," he 
 replied : " and so I will, but not to-night, for I 'm as 
 poor as a church mouse now. Stop till next week, I 
 shall have the tin then." 
 
 " Ah ! I was just asking Perkins when the new con- 
 cert-room is to be opened," observed one of his com- 
 panions. 
 
 " Yes ; and your new singer, that's to make your 
 fortune ? " added another. " Tom Thornton says it 's all 
 ' Betty Martin' about her coming up from — where did 
 you say ? Bath, wasn't it? He says, it '11 all turn out a 
 bottle o' smoke, for nobody worth twopence would engage 
 with you." 
 
 " 1 11 punch Tom Thornton's head, the first time I get 
 
348 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 hold of him," returned Mr. Briggs. He 's only mad 
 that—" 
 
 " Nonsense ! it 's only Lizzy's chaff," interrupted 
 another of the ladies. ''But come, what are we going to 
 have, after all ?" 
 
 Mr. Briggs, however, did not reply to this interro- 
 gation. He had at last caught the significant look hy 
 which his friend Perkins was endeavouring to put a stop 
 to his free communication with the ladies ; and although 
 he could not fully comprehend its meaning, or guess who 
 it was that was sitting with her back turned both to him 
 and his companions, and evidently anxious alike to 
 avoid seeing or being seen by either, he understood that 
 he had in some way committed himself. 
 
 From the position in which they were seated, Perkins 
 could give no explanation without Milly's hearing all 
 that was said ; but he had read too plainly the disgust, 
 horror and alarm, which was portrayed in her expres- 
 sive countenance, not to be anxious to put an end, as 
 speedily as possible, to a scene which he instinctively felt 
 must be as revolting as novel to her. 
 
 For a minute or two Briggs stood silent and confused. 
 A dispute had arisen between the females, as to whether 
 they should have more gin or should change it for rum, 
 which withdrew their attention from him, when, suddenly 
 seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh, Perkins, I forgot, I have something to tell you ; 
 come out for a minute, will you ? Ladies, excuse me for 
 a short time, if you please. Business, you are aware, 
 must be attended to, but I will return immediately." 
 
 " Ay, you'd better," replied oue of them, " or we shall 
 drink all the daffy before you come back." 
 
 Mr. Perkins followed his friend out of doors, and the 
 
of woman's life. 849 
 
 three ladies entered into a half- whispered conversation 
 together, to which Milly paid no attention. Her 
 thoughts, indeed, were fully occupied with her own situ- 
 ation. What she had already seen was quite enough to 
 convince her, that the sooner she got away from Mr. 
 Briggs and his associates the better : and, in an agony of 
 impatience, she awaited the moment that she could learn 
 from the former the place of her mother's residence. 
 Beyond that — beyond the time that should behold her 
 safe under her mother's protection — she could think of, 
 resolve upon, nothing. She had restrained herself from 
 speakiug to Briggs at once, from the fear of being dis- 
 covered by the women at the bar as the singer they 
 talked of, and perhaps insulted by them ; or, if not. their 
 kindness she felt equally desirous to avoid. It would be 
 a disgrace, in fact, to be recognised at all in the character 
 she had so unwittingly embraced. Oh ! what would she 
 not have given to have been at that moment replaced in 
 the home she had so madly deserted. How willingly 
 would she have renounced all her ambition to distinguish 
 herself. Yes ; even the situation she had so despised — 
 almost, even, the still-room maid's place — would be 
 acceptable. At least, she would resign herself patiently 
 to it, to be freed from Mr. Briggs and his associates. 
 Customers flocked in to the bar of the " Harlequin," 
 and the landlady, fully occupied in attending to them, 
 and occasionally conversing with the three young women, 
 her first visitors, seemed totally to overlook Milly's pre- 
 sence ; while, on her part, her thoughts were divided 
 between her impatience to find the opportunity of putting 
 the important question to Mr. Briggs, and remaining, as 
 at present, unnoticed either by the women, who were the 
 chief objects of her alarm, or those who entered after 
 
350 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 them, and. who — the female part of them — to her alarmed 
 imagination, appeared all of the same disreputahle class. 
 In several instances, indeed, it was too palpahle to admit 
 of a doubt, from their recognition of each other, and their 
 mutual remarks ; while the prejudice with which she had 
 from the first beheld the mistress of the house, became 
 momentarily strengthened by the familiar (even confiden- 
 tial) terms which evidently existed between her and her 
 customers of this sort. Men, too, whose looks and 
 manners — little as she knew of such a class — appeared 
 far from respectable, passed, and occasionally stopped for 
 a few minutes, on their way to what, from the sound, 
 seemed to be a large room at the back of the house ; and 
 from which — whenever the door was opened, either to 
 admit new guests, or the supplies of beer and spirits that 
 were from time to time carried from the bar, by either a 
 saucy low-looking boy, or a still saucier, dirty girl— there 
 rushed out a Babel of tongues and noises, that made 
 M illy shrink still more into the corner in which she had 
 found refuge, although it seemed to pass quite unnoticed, 
 or to be regarded as a matter of course, by the landlady 
 or the persons at the bar. 
 
 The absence of Mr. Briggs and his friend now began 
 to excite considerable impatience in their female friends, 
 before whom the spirits they had ordered still stood un- 
 touched. More than once, inquiries were made of those 
 who entered from the street, whether they had seen 
 Briggs and Perkins as they came in. At first the reply 
 was affirmative. " They were standing talking a little 
 way from the door," was the answer at first ; but one or 
 two of the later comers declared they had seen nothing 
 of them, and this was at length confirmed by one of the 
 ladies going out to ascertain the truth, and returning to 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 351 
 
 complain that the two men "were off" — had given them 
 " the go-by altogether." Kemarks and threats, which 
 Milly did not, or wished not, to comprehend, followed; 
 and the females, having swallowed this second portion of 
 the " hot rebellious liquor," departed, to Milly's infinite 
 relief, relieving her of the fear lest she might attract their 
 attention and be discovered. 
 
 "My master and Briggs '11 soon be back now," ob- 
 served Mrs. Perkins, throwing herself on a chair by the 
 side of Milly, in a momentary relaxation from business, 
 and addressing her with much more friendliness than had 
 before distinguished her; " they are only gone out of the 
 way to get rid of these here gals. You see, we can't 
 affront 'em, because they spend a deal of money, and 
 bring a great many customers o' concert nights." 
 
 Milly was about to ask her some questions respecting 
 these concerts, but Mrs. Perkins was again called away 
 to the bar, and in a few minutes, as she had predicted, 
 the publican and his friend re-entered. It was very 
 evident that Mr. Briggs's natural levity and assurance were 
 considerably damped by the recollection of the manner in 
 which he had been first introduced to Miss Shelburne's 
 notice ; for by that name he immediately addressed her, 
 inquiring into the particulars of her journey, and express- 
 ing his surprise that Morison had not been in waiting for 
 her at the inn, and sent for him (Briggs,) to wait on her, 
 instead of giving her the trouble of coming there. 
 
 Milly briefly explained the circumstance which com- 
 pelled her to come to him for her mothers address. 
 
 " I am only waiting for that to go there directly," she 
 concluded, folding her cloak around her, as if desirous 
 not to lose a minute. 
 
 A strange expression crossed the man's face at this 
 
35/i SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 explanation, and she fancied that there was a look of 
 secret intelligence between him and Perkins by no means 
 satisfactory. 
 
 '"Your mother! my dear Miss Shelburne," he repeated. 
 " Dear me, how very unfortunate that I never happened 
 to ask Morison where he and his wife lived. But don't 
 frighten yourself," he added, as, turning pale as death, 
 Milly dropped on the chair from which she had arisen at 
 his entrance. "It can't he long before I shall contrive 
 to find your friends out, in the meantime you are per- 
 fectly safe here. It is too late to-night, for me to go 
 to the houses where Morison frequents, and where I 
 sometimes meet him, but to morrow I 11 set about hunting 
 him up, and — " 
 
 "But if you will tell me — if you will direct me to those 
 houses," said Milly with earnestness. "I am so — so 
 anxious to see my mother," she added, scarcely able to 
 restrain her tears. 
 
 "My dear girl— my dear Miss Shelburne," returned Mr. 
 Briggs, correcting his first familiar expression ; perhaps, 
 from the rather awkward recollection of those she had 
 heard him so recently address to his female companions in 
 front of the bar — "My dear Miss Shelburne, you are not 
 aware what you are proposing to undertake. In the first 
 place, the distance is too far for you, especially after 
 dark and a stranger as you are to London ; and in the 
 second place, public houses — and those not the most quiet 
 and respectable in the world — are places I should'nt think 
 young ladies would much like entering. No offence to 
 you, friend Perkins, for yours, we all know, is quite 
 another sort of place to those Morison is sometimes to 
 be met in." 
 
 Milly became more and more dissatisfied and unhappy 
 
OF woman's life. 353 
 
 at every word that was uttered. If Mr. Briggs's represen- 
 tations were correct, what sort of character could the man 
 be whom her mother had taken for her husband ; and 
 with her usual single-heartedness she observed, that she 
 felt surprised that a man of Mr. Morison's age and ex- 
 perience, holding too — as her mother had represented — a 
 respectable station in the world, should be in the habit 
 of frequenting such disreputable places, as he (Mr. 
 Briggs) described. 
 
 The latter gentleman laughed significantly at his friend 
 Perkins, who had resumed his pipe, and was now silently 
 and diligently watching every turn of Milly's expressive 
 countenance. 
 
 " Oh, you must n't run away with the idea that I want 
 to insinuate anything against your father-in-law, my 
 dear Miss Shelburne," he observed ; " men of business 
 in London must do many things and visit many places, 
 and associate with many sorts of people that ain't quite 
 the thing — you understand ?" 
 
 Milly did understand, so far at least, as he meant this 
 as an apology or explanation of what she had witnessed, 
 but she only cast down her eyes, and he proceeded pulling 
 up his shirt collar on each side until it touched his nose, 
 throwing his head back and assuming a pompous orato- 
 rical tone. 
 
 "You see, my dear Miss Shelburne, it is one of the 
 penalties we public people must pay, to submit to asso- 
 ciation, at least in appearance, with the low and ignorant, 
 the kenile (canaille,) as a celebrated author, a particular 
 friend of mine, calls the vulgar mob of plebeians ; how- 
 somever, I don't mean to say that you ladies are obligated 
 to submit to that sort of thing. In fact, quite the con- 
 trary, and it's a lesson, I hope, you'll never lose sight of 
 
 2 z 
 
854 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 in your public capacity as well as private life, always- 
 to keep up your dignity to the utmost. You understand 
 me, keep your inferiors at a distance, and, as tbe poet 
 says, your superiors is sure to respect you." 
 
 Milly listened with forced patience to this farrago of 
 pompous ignorance and assumption, unable to compre- 
 hend what bearing it had upon Mr. Morison's haunting 
 public -houses of disreputable character, and scarcely 
 able to restrain her desire to assure Mr. Briggs that his 
 lessons were valueless to her, who had no intention of 
 becoming a public character, or, in his phrase, one of us. 
 She repressed, however, for the present, the expression of 
 contempt which was but too visible in her eyes, and which 
 undoubtedly formed the subject of a private communica- 
 tion from Mr. Perkins to his friend, who sat down 
 silently to ruminate upon it, and in all probability to 
 resolve in what way he should circumvent her resolution 
 and secure to himself her services, should they prove to 
 be as valuable as they had been represented, or, as Mr. 
 Perkins had said, in his first explanation to his friend, 
 " if they'd spoke as true of her voice as they had of her 
 good looks, they'd made a hit of it." To ascertain this 
 was now Mr. Briggs's object, for which he was willing to 
 sacrifice even his wounded self-love and pride, which had 
 received a mortal blow by Perkins's hint as to the manner 
 in which she had received his lecture. 
 
 " She's as proud as Lucifer, that you may depend 
 upon," concluded the publican, " so you must mind 
 what you're at, or else she'll slip through your fingers." 
 
 " Will she though?" returned Mr. Briggs, with a signi- 
 ficant wink — and without another word he returned to 
 take his seat by the side of his intended victim. 
 
 A hint from Mr. Perkins to prepare tea, or. as he 
 
of woman's life. 355 
 
 genteelly entitled it, " scandle broth," for their guest, was 
 at first disregarded by his car a sposa, but on its being 
 repeated rather energetically by the gentleman, who 
 seemed by no means disposed, or habituated to have any 
 of his commands disregarded, produced an order to the 
 servant-maid to bring in the tea-things, although Milly 
 disclaimed any wish for tea. 
 
 " Or, indeed, anything," she observed, " I am too 
 anxious to — " 
 
 It wasMr. Briggs's policy to prevent her recurrence to 
 the subject, which — her countenance, however, sufficiently 
 betrayed — wholly engrossed her thoughts, and he effected 
 his purpose by affecting not to hear the commencement of 
 her observation, arid asking her abruptly some question 
 respecting her journey, and then launching out into a 
 history of his own travels to Bath and Bristol, where he 
 said he had, a few years back, held an engagement at the 
 two The-aters Royal. 
 
 A number of anecdotes ^followed, in which the names 
 of the principal actors and actresses of the day figured 
 with himself, always, of course, on terms of perfect 
 equality ; but Milly, ignorant and inexperienced as she 
 was on these subjects, was too acute not to detect the 
 falsehood of such assumption on the part of one who, in 
 every sentence he uttered, betrayed his excessive ignorance; 
 and all his " I says," to John Kemble, " John, says I," or 
 his " Mrs. Siddons used to say to me, ' Briggs,' says she, 
 one night when we was playing together at Barth — no 
 faith, it was at Bristol we was playing then," these and 
 similar introductions to hackneyed anecdotes of which 
 he was invariably the hero, or worn out bon mots, which 
 he claimed to have originated and represented to have 
 caused an immensity of laughter, and for one of which. 
 
3JU SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 ' Old Jack,' as we called him, that is, John Kemble, yon 
 know, Mrs. Perkins, he hit me a slap o' the shoulder, and 
 says he, ' Briggs, you droll devil' — I believe, by the by, 
 it was Fred, he called me, for he generally called me 
 Fred — but its no matter which, ' you droll devil,' says 
 he, ' if you keep on making them laugh at the wings 
 when I'm on the stage, I '11 knock you down, when I 
 come off.' And what do you think I said to him, Mrs. 
 Perkins ?" 
 
 Mrs. Perkins's look expressed the desired interrogation, 
 and Mr. Briggs continued — 
 
 " Well then, ' Jack,' says I, as cool as a cucumber, 
 just as I may say it to you — 'Well then, Jack, old 
 feller, you must pick me up again,' and with that he 
 walked off ready to bust his sides with laughing." 
 
 These and a dozen other similar instances of the 
 familiar terms which had existed between himself and 
 the " great knobs," as he styled those persons whose 
 names he thus dragged forward as his intimate associates, 
 failed entirely in making the impression he wished upon 
 Milly Shelburne, who, when he was in the very midst 
 of a story of which Mrs. Jordan figured as the heroine, 
 and Mr. Frederic Augustus Briggs was the hero — " she 
 always called him by his full name, because, you see, the 
 Dook of York's name was Frederic" — in the very midst 
 of his story, Milly looked up in his face with a look so 
 expressively arch — so full of derisive, though not ill- 
 natured meaning, as completely to change the character 
 of her beautiful, but before anxious and dejected coun- 
 tenance ; while it so surprised and discomposed the 
 speaker, that he forgot the thread of his story, and in 
 spite of all his assurance he remained for some minutes 
 silent and utterlv confused. Conscious, however, of what 
 
of woman's life. 357 
 
 she had done, though entirely unpremeditatedly, Milly 
 became equally confused with himself; but she little 
 suspected the depth of the wound she had thus inflicted 
 on Mr. Briggs's vanity and self-love, or that it was 
 possible it would rankle into a venomous hatred of her 
 whom he had hitherto looked upon as an innocent 
 instrument in his hands, by whom he hoped to reap 
 a considerable harvest in the way of money-making, 
 should her musical talents prove as satisfactory as her 
 personal attractions. It was some time before Mr. Briggs's 
 natural levity and acquired assurance could surmount 
 the check they had received, but he contrived to conceal 
 all appearance of resentment against the involuntary 
 offender, by appearing to enter with earnest sympathy 
 into her feelings of disappointment and anxiety with 
 respect to her mother, assuring her that he would leave 
 no means untried to discover Morison's residence on 
 the morrow, and naming several places to Perkins — in 
 their apparently earnest consultation together — as being 
 likely where they should hear of, if not meet with the for- 
 mer. There was one circumstance only that momentarily 
 shook Milly's confidence in his sincerity, and renewed 
 her former fears, and that was a passing gleam of what 
 looked like malicious exultation, when by cunning and 
 adroitly put questions he had elicited from her, first, that 
 she had clandestinely left home, as she — with tears dim- 
 ming the brightness of her beautiful eyes — called the 
 Abbey, and that her aged friends there were vehemently 
 opposed to her coming to London ; next, that she had 
 had no communication with her mother on the subject, 
 and therefore only knew from the letter Mr. Briggs had 
 written to her, that the former was prepared to expect 
 her, and last, but probably not least in her auditors' 
 
358 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 estimation, that, in addition to the loss of her clothes, 
 nearly all the little stock of money she had brought from 
 home was exhausted by the expenses of her journey. 
 She had not — at least as she ingenuously owned — suffi- 
 cient left to last her more than a few days, and this, even 
 if there were no other motives, made her most anxious to 
 meet as soon as possible with Mr. M orison, and through 
 him her mother. 
 
 With seeming heartiness and earnestness, however, 
 Mr. Briggs entreated her not for a moment to make her- 
 self uneasy as regarded money matters, saying that he 
 would take care that she should suffer no inconvenience 
 on that point, restored again her confidence in his sin- 
 cerity, although resolutely — as she thought — determined 
 that she would contract no obligation to him or his 
 friends (the Perkinses,) and in pursuance of this deter- 
 mination she requested to know what she was indebted 
 for tea, &c. Mrs. Perkins was evidently about to name 
 the sum very readily, but a frown from her husband 
 checked her, and taking the hint, she assumed to be quite 
 hurt that Miss Shelburne should think of such a thing ; 
 the husband adding, that he hoped the young lady would 
 make herself quite at home, and consider them as friends 
 who were proud of her company. Very unwillingly, 
 Milly was compelled to accede to this liberality, but 
 Mrs. Perkins now declared that she should feel quite 
 offended if she persisted, and Milly was compelled to 
 return the silver to her pocket, which she had offered in 
 payment. 
 
 " Well, this is all as it should be," observed Mr. 
 Briggs, rubbing his hands with an air of exultation, 
 " and now we'll have a glass of grog to drink to our 
 better acquaintance with Miss Shelburne. I declare, I 'm 
 
of woman's life. 359 
 
 hardly sorry now that you was ohliged to come here first, 
 instead of finding your friends waiting for you, for it's 
 made us all acquainted, as I may say, at once. Mrs. 
 Perkins is the best creature in the world," he added, in a 
 lower tone, but evidently intended for the lady's hearing, 
 " she'll make you as welcome and comfortable for the 
 night as if you were queen of England, so now I hope 
 you'll cheer up your spirits, and make yourself — as 
 Perkins says — quite at home." 
 
 Milly could not be so ungrateful as not to express 
 herself indebted to Mrs. Perkins for her intended as well 
 as present kindness, but she could not divest herself of a 
 suspicion that this kindness and attention on the lady's 
 part were very far from voluntary or disinterested, and 
 that, had she not received some strong hint to the con- 
 trary from her husband, she would have been much 
 better pleased to have taken the money of her guest for 
 the accommodation afforded. She exerted herself, how- 
 ever, to set her visitor quite at her ease, and though she 
 resolutely resisted every persuasion even to taste of the 
 grog — as it was called — which Mrs. Perkins had mixed, 
 as she declared, expressly for their " two selves " (her- 
 self and Milly), having placed a glass before each of 
 the men; and though she felt no trifling degree of 
 surprise and disgust at the readiness with which Mrs. 
 Perkins despatched the double portion that thus fell to 
 her share, and then proceeded to replenish her empty 
 glass as well as theirs, yet Milly became by degrees far 
 better reconciled to her companions, whose desire to 
 oblige and render her temporary stay there comfortable, 
 appeared to her a proof of their kind-heartedness and 
 disinterestedness. Cautiously, and seemingly quite un- 
 designedly, the subject of music was at length introduced, 
 
300 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 but Mr. Briggs's observations and questions, though in- 
 tended by him to fathom the depth of Milly's knowledge 
 theoretically, very soon betrayed to her how very super- 
 ficial and common-place were her intended patron's 
 knowledge of the subject. Beyond modern dances and 
 songs, of which Milly had never even heard, he seemed 
 to know nothing, not even the names of those whom she 
 regarded as masters in their profession ; but it was very 
 plain he regarded with equal disappointment her igno- 
 rance of all that was in his phrase " poplar and fashion- 
 able," until Milly's vanity was at length roused into 
 almost a wish, that she could have an opportunity of 
 showing him that her knowledge of music was quite 
 extensive enough to enable her to conquer at once any 
 of the difficulties which he seemed to suppose would 
 require time and study. 
 
 "But do you mean to say, then, that you could play 
 and sing at sight such songs as these ?" he demanded, 
 unrolling and placing before her some half-dozen of the 
 songs he had spoken of, and which Mrs. Perkins at his 
 request produced from a drawer. 
 
 Milly's half-contemptuous smile might have been a 
 sufficient answer, but she replied modestly, that she 
 hoped she was not over-rating her own abilities in saying 
 that she thought she could. 
 
 Mr. Briggs and his friend Perkins exchanged looks of 
 surprise and satisfaction, and a proposal was now made 
 that they should introduce Miss Shelburne to the new 
 concert-room, where there was, they assured her, a Grand 
 Piano-Forte of the most superior kind, with which she 
 would be delighted. Milly at first shrunk from the pro- 
 posal. She was scarcely sufficiently recovered, she said, 
 from the effects of her journey, but Mrs. Perkins's hint 
 

 OF woman's life. 301 
 
 that she would accompany her, removed one of her ob- 
 jections, which it must be confessed was founded on what 
 she had seen of Mr. Briggs in the first instance, and his 
 disposition to levity, which, though he took some pains 
 to suppress it, evidently in compliment to her, occasionally 
 went beyond what Milly considered the bounds of pro- 
 priety. Mrs. Perkins's offer, however, removed — as has 
 been said — her objections on this point, and farther, 
 Milly's pride was piqued by what she considered an im- 
 plied incredulity, on the part of the friends that she could 
 realise her promises ; she therefore, without farther hesi- 
 tation, signified her readiness to attend them. Candles 
 were lighted : the care of the bar was committed to the 
 servant, and Milly followed her conductors up a rather 
 narrow and inconvenient staircase, which terminated, 
 however, in a much more spacious room than she had 
 expected to see, though too long in proportion to its 
 width, and much too low to be considered handsome. A 
 sort of orchestra, or stage, raised a few feet from the 
 floor, occupied the end farthest from the door, and long 
 benches and tables, stretching from end to end, and leav- 
 ing only a narrow passage down the middle. The walls, 
 coloured a bright red, were bare, except that sconces to 
 hold lights were here and there appended to them, each 
 being furnished with a bright tin reflector, which, as Mrs. 
 Perkins assured Miss Shelburne — when pointing out the 
 beauties and advantages of the room — made " a great 
 addition" when they were lighted. It was plain that both 
 Mr. Briggs and his friends were not a little proud of the 
 new concert-room, and anticipated with great delight the 
 appearance it would present when lighted up and with the 
 seats filled with company. The mention of the latter, 
 
 however, was rather unfortunate at the present moment, 
 
 3 a 
 
3G2 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 for it recalled to her recollection all she had seen and 
 heard of the expected company— the ladies who had been 
 so anxious for the opening of the new concert*room and 
 the appearance of the new singer, on whose merits or 
 demerits they appeared to be quite prepared, and to think 
 themselves quite qualified, to decide. And if these were 
 a specimen of those who were to be her future patrons — 
 if their manners, and conversation and habits were such 
 as she was to be condemned to hear and to tolerate, nay, 
 from what Mrs. Perkins had alleged in excuse for her 
 own familiarity with them, to go even beyond mere 
 listening to and bearing with, for certainly, if she (Mrs. 
 Perkins), who was comparatively independent, was com- 
 pelled to submit to all this, how much more would be ex- 
 pected from one whose very living might be said to depend 
 upon the favour of the company, whose appearance 
 Mr. Briggs anticipated with so much satisfaction and 
 delight. Milly's gradual reconciliation to w T hat had at 
 first appeared so strange and repulsive, but which, 
 under the influence of the apparent kindness and 
 respect with which she was treated by her new com- 
 panions, had almost yielded to a conviction that her first 
 impressions were the result of her own inexperience, 
 and that, though so different from all that she had antici- 
 pated, she should find her new connexions less objec- 
 tionable upon further acquaintance than they at first 
 appeared — all her more favourable impressions towards 
 them, indeed, again received a shock by the manner in 
 which Mr. Briggs and Mr. Perkins spoke of the company 
 who were expected to fill those benches, and the numerous 
 slang terms, in which even Mrs. Perkins participated, 
 while conversing on the promises they had received, and 
 the prospects of the profits to be derived from the opening 
 
of woman's life. 3G3 
 
 night. Milly did not, in fact, comprehend one-half of 
 what was uttered, nor could she feel any interest in Mr. 
 Briggs's explanation of the arrangements and improve- 
 ments he contemplated making before " the grand night." 
 All that she heard, indeed, tended still more to lower her 
 anticipation of the place and its frequenters, and she 
 could scarcely conceal her disgust as an amicable dis- 
 cussion between the publican, his wife, and her intended 
 master, whether an additional penny per pot should 
 be laid on the beer, or added to the price of admission, 
 betrayed to her that that elegant concert-room, of which 
 they appeared so proud, was, after all, to be — what to 
 Milly's unsophisticated imagination appeared — nothing 
 better than a common pot-house parlour. 
 
 " Was this the path which was to lead to fame and 
 fortune ? Could her mother know all this, and, knowing 
 it, suffer her to be deluded into renouncing her home, 
 and forfeiting the protection of her beloved friends ? — 
 and St. Onne, what would he say — what think — could 
 he behold her the heroine of such a scene ? No ! she 
 would die — starve — before she would submit so to de- 
 grade herself. And yet, if her mother did know it all — 
 if she was really acquainted with these people— if she 
 knew the nature of the engagement into which she 
 (Milly) had been so nearly trepanned— Milly was thankful 
 that there was as yet no decisive engagement. She could 
 not be compelled into what was so utterly repugnant to 
 her feelings, her taste, her principles. But if her mother 
 did know all this, and had tacitly encouraged it, by not 
 explaining and warning her against the application, 
 which she might, in deference to her husband, have been 
 afraid openly to oppose— in that case, what hope could 
 her daughter encourage that she would afford her the 
 
364 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 necessary assistance to escape from the snare, for such 
 she could not help thinking was a just description to 
 apply to the application of Mr. Briggs, which had pro- 
 duced such false impressions, and nourished such false 
 expectations in her mind." Miss Shelburne's utter 
 silence during the course of these reflections, and the 
 despondent expression of her countenance when she came 
 to the conclusion how fragile was the hope she could 
 found on her mother's assistance, or even of finding a 
 refuge with her from her present hateful situation, seemed 
 suddenly to recall to Mr. Briggs and his friends that 
 they had in the heat of the discussion of their pecuniary 
 interests, been somewhat deficient in their attention to 
 one on whose personal appearance they already founded 
 great hopes as an object of attraction. The grand 
 piano-forte, winch was indeed a very handsome instru- 
 ment — and, as Milly thought, very little consistent with 
 the character of the room — was opened ; Mr. Briggs 
 struck a few chords, and Milly, as the harmonious 
 sounds, to which her ear had so long been a stranger, 
 filled the room, forgot for awhile, or at least stifled, her 
 unhappiness and discontent. Mr. Briggs and his com- 
 panions were in raptures as she played and sung, without 
 hesitation, the songs to which he attached so much value, 
 as absolutely necessary to the success of his intended 
 concert, though most of them were of a sort that con- 
 vinced her of what she had before suspected, that his 
 knowledge and taste for music were very far from what 
 he assumed, in fact, most superficial and limited ; while 
 Mr. Perkins, having encored the duet of " Pretty Polly 
 Hopkins," which Mr. Briggs conceitedly observed he 
 was always called upon by the company to sing three 
 times over, whenever he took a part in it — insisted on 
 
of woman's life. 3G5 
 
 fetching up the best bottle of wine he had got in his 
 house to treat Miss Shelburne, who, he declared, could 
 beat all the Catalanis and Squallerinis at the Opera into 
 fits. 
 
 " Now comes my fit again," might Milly Shelburne 
 have said, as this expression pained her ear, recalling 
 what had been uttered previously by one of the women at 
 the bar, in nearly similar terms, and she glanced a look 
 of dissatisfaction and discontent around upon the empty 
 benches, as she imagined them filled with similar com- 
 pany to those who had excited so strong a prejudice in 
 her bosom against Briggs and his companions. It was 
 some time before she could be persuaded to touch the 
 instrument again ; but Milly Shelburne was a real enthu- 
 siast in music : she had gratified her present companions, 
 by going through all that they placed before her, even 
 repeating two or three times their peculiar favourites, or 
 those which they considered most effective, as being 
 most popular and fashionable ; and she had administered 
 to Mr. Briggs's personal vanity by accompanying his sing- 
 ing several of what he called his "crack" songs, although 
 they were most repulsive to her own pure taste, and, as 
 she ventured to tell him, very unworthy of the fine voice 
 which he certainly possessed, and which, with a little cul- 
 tivation, might have been rendered very attractive in a 
 different style ; and now, left to her own choice, she was 
 rewarded by being enabled to play over from memory the 
 favourites of her youth, or those of the dear friends 
 whom she had left, she feared for ever. It was a dan- 
 gerous indulgence, for it brought back in all their force 
 scenes of happiness that she might never hope would be 
 renewed; and tears streamed down her cheeks and choked 
 her voice, even in the midst of those which she herself 
 
306 SnADE AND SfTNSHINE 
 
 hud been used to consider her master-pieces. She re- 
 sisted, however, all the persuasions of her new friends to 
 take another glass of wine, to raise her spirits, and hinted 
 her wish, upon the plea of fatigue, to retire for the night 
 This was obstreperously resisted on the part of the two 
 men ; and Mrs. Perkins at length fell into their plan of 
 getting Miss Shelburne to join them in a little comfort- 
 able bit of supper, which the former lady had already 
 given orders for, and as a motive for Milly's consent, 
 stated the impossibility of having her bed-room ready for 
 an hour or two to come, her stupid maid not having un- 
 derstood what she (Mrs. Perkins) had told her early in 
 the evening, and taking upon herself to suppose the 
 young lady was not going to stay that night, but was 
 to come the next day, had, like all " sich lazy hussies," 
 drove off till the morning what she ought to have begun 
 at once. 
 
 " She 's got a fire lighted now in the room," she con- 
 cluded, " and the bed and the bed-clothes down afore it ; 
 so that it '11 be well aired in another hour or so." 
 
 Milly was of course compelled to submit to tins ar- 
 rangement; the two gentlemen, as Mrs. Perkins inva- 
 riably styled them, withdrew to hold a private conference, 
 and the latter, after ascertaining that Miss Shelburne 
 would not be "afeard" to be left by herself in the concert- 
 room, retired to superintend the preparations for supper, 
 promising to return to fetch her guest when supper should 
 be ready. 
 
 Milly was now left to free and uninterrupted medita- 
 tion on her situation, but it was in vain she tried to 
 come to any definite conclusion as to what course she 
 should adopt. All must, she felt, depend upon the 
 power or inclination of her mother to assist her in re- 
 
of woman's LIFE. 3(37 
 
 thieving the false step she had taken ; and until the in- 
 terview, which she depended upon Mr. Briggs to hring 
 about with her mother, and which she earnestly prayed 
 might not be delayed many hours after the night had 
 passed away, it would be folly to attempt to form any 
 conjecture even as to her mother's inclinations on the 
 subject. Again, from the future, over which hung so 
 impenetrable a cloud, Milly's thoughts reverted to the 
 past, and to him with whose image the happiest hours 
 she had ever known were inseparably connected. -What 
 would he think of the rash step she had taken ? Alas ! 
 too deeply was it impressed on her mind, that he would 
 condemn it — that it had separated them for ever. He 
 would despise her as one fallen beneath his notice ! And 
 yet, would she* not have been equally degraded in his 
 eyes, had she succumbed to her grandfather's propo- 
 sition ? How could she, as the servant of Lady Bas- 
 ford's servant — for in that light she persisted in viewing 
 the advantageous situation to winch old Richard would 
 have had her confine her ambition — how could she ever 
 again have raised her eyes to St. Orme, should fate again 
 bring him in her path ? No ! — and the proud blood 
 mantled to her cheeks — No ! let the worst come that 
 could result from her present situation — that, rejected by 
 her mother, or that finding her powerless to assist her, 
 until she should find some better, more respectable means 
 of supporting herself independently — supposing that at 
 the worst she should be obliged to engage with Mr. 
 Briggs, she should not — would never — repent that she 
 had rejected the still-room maid's place. She remem- 
 bered (how could she ever forget ?) the vehemence with 
 which St. Orme had declaimed against the old man's 
 degrading avowal, that he looked no higher for his 
 
368 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 grandaughter's establishment in life than a respectable 
 service. How his eyes had sparkled with surprise and 
 indignation ! How he had protested against the very 
 thought as sacrilege ! — yes, that was the word — and had 
 smiled with contemptuous pity at the grovelling argu- 
 ments by which Richard had, with such obstinacy and 
 self-opiniation, attempted to prove that those were Milly's 
 best friends who discouraged her ambition, and taught her 
 that she had no right to soar above the situation in which 
 he and his wife had led a life of contentment — that her 
 father and mother had done her the greatest injury in 
 having her taught a parcel of frippery and useless non- 
 sense, not even exempting his own wife from the condem- 
 nation with which he visited all who encouraged her, in- 
 stead of, as he said, "teaching her to work for her living, 
 and be content to do her duty in that state of life unto 
 which it had pleased God to call her." How quickly 
 changed the expression of Milly's face, and what pleasure 
 glistened in her eyes, even in the midst of so much to 
 perplex and distress her, as she recalled the enthusiasm 
 with which St. Orme had controverted these assertions — 
 arguments she would not call them. How he had proved 
 the value of her acquirements, and had at last — stolid 
 and impenetrable as old Eichard had hitherto proved on 
 this subject — shaken even his long-cherished belief in 
 the worthlessness of those accomplishments her father 
 had, while he lived, so proudly cultivated. How he 
 (St. Orme) proved almost to even the old man's con- 
 viction, that it was a species of ingratitude to her Creator 
 not to encourage and improve the splendid gifts be- 
 stowed on her — gifts that might hereafter become the 
 passports to fame and fortune. Eichard Shelburne lis- 
 tened without daring to deny his belief in what was 
 
of woman's LIFE. 369 
 
 asserted by one who he could not but feel was far 
 better qualified than himself to form a judgment on such 
 a question. 
 
 " And what have I done," whispered Milly to herself, 
 " but tried to the best of my ability to profit by those 
 gifts and acquisitions ? If I have failed, it is only from 
 my inexperience, from my want of knowledge of the 
 world, from the want of some directing hand to guide me. 
 No ; he cannot blame me, for he has deserted me, and I 
 have only failed in practising the lessons he taught ! And 
 he shall have no real cause to despise me," she added 
 proudly, drying up her burning tears, " for, however de- 
 graded by the persons among whom I may unfortunately 
 be thrown, I will take care to act so as to defy even the 
 most uncharitable to affix to my conduct the least 
 stigma, the slightest appearance even, of impropriety. 
 Yes ; that, at least, is in my own power !" 
 
 Again Milly's fingers ran over the ivory keys ; and 
 now that she was alone — now that she could indulge 
 her feelings without fear of betraying herself to the re- 
 marks of those who could neither have comprehended 
 nor appreciated them — she ventured upon those songs 
 which had been the chosen favourites of St. Orme — of 
 her lover, we were about to say ; but Milly, with all her 
 pride, with all her self-appreciation, and the romantic sen- 
 timents she had imbibed from uncontrolled and undirected 
 reading, had never dared whisper such a word as love, 
 applied to one so far removed, so infinitely her superior, 
 as Mr. St. Orme : not as to the fortuitous advantages of 
 birth and station — on those points her ideas were quite 
 sufficiently — arrogantly, many would have perhaps said 
 — liberal. There were persons possessing superior ad- 
 vantages even to St. Orme, as to family and fortune, 
 
 3 B 
 
370 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 who, as far as she knew by report, she would have 
 disdained to accept — whom she would have rejected as 
 beneath her. But he, the idol of her imagination, what 
 woman could be worthy of his love? Of herself, she 
 had never dared, even in thought, to connect his name 
 with her own. She would have started at the bare idea 
 of such presumption. She would have despised, hated 
 herself, could she have dared for a moment to encourage 
 such ineffable assumptien. Pure and innocent, there- 
 fore, as the worship paid to a superior being, were the 
 feelings with which she now recalled every word and 
 look of St. Orme during her first interview with him, 
 while unconsciously her fingers brought forth from the 
 keys of the piano the notes on which they had then 
 lingered ; and, perhaps, gave now more heartfelt expres- 
 sion to the melancholy strain of "Lord Ullin's Daughter," 
 ever reserved as sacred, as it were, to him with whom 
 they were henceforth indissolubly united in her imagina- 
 tion, and which it would have appeared something worse 
 than profanity to have desecrated by uttering them in the 
 hearing of her new associates — Messrs. Briggs, Perkins, 
 &c. But from the delightful dream which thus, as it 
 were, enwrapped her senses, Milly was roused by sounds 
 so utterly discordant, that she sprang from her seat, and 
 stood for some moments bewildered and alarmed, gazing 
 upon the persons who, taking advantage of her abstrac- 
 tion, had entered the room, and stolen up close behind 
 her, before she became conscious of the presence of a 
 single human being. 
 
 "Bravo !— Bravissimo ! — Bravo! — Encore! — Encore! 
 En-coraar ! — Huzza ! — Huzza ! — Hurrah ! — Hooroar ! 
 — Capital !— Beautiful ! — Superb !— Splendid ! — Stun- 
 ning !" Such, or very like such, were the exclamations 
 
op woman's life. 371 
 
 that, apparently quite uncontrollably, broke from the lips 
 
 — or rather, we should say, as more suitable, the open 
 
 mouths — of the party, who now, their eyes all fixed on 
 
 Milly's beautiful face, surrounded her music stool, from 
 
 which she had risen, and stood supporting herself by 
 
 resting one hand on the instrument, her bosom heaving, 
 
 her colour changing from red to white, and then again 
 
 from 
 
 " Fairest lily to the crimson rose." 
 
 Milly's first sensations at this most inopportune and in- 
 harmonious reception of her song, were those of extreme 
 surprise and alarm. Absorbed as she had been, not 
 merely in the harmony of words and music, but in the 
 sympathetic feelings they had kindled in her bosom, on 
 the occasion before alluded to — her first meeting with 
 Mr. St. Orme — she had for the time forgotten all that 
 had since happened — forgotten where she was, or the 
 existence of such persons as the Perkinses, Briggses, 
 and all connected with them ; and the roar (no other 
 word could express the noise,) that thus violently broke 
 the whole chain of soft, delightful sensations, scattered 
 them all into air, leaving in their place only a vague 
 feeling of surprise and terror. From this, however, 
 Milly soon recovered, as she became aware, from a cur- 
 sory survey of the party, that they were not, as she had 
 at first supposed, all strangers to her, and that, boiste- 
 rous, rude, and uncultivated as their salutation had 
 betrayed them to be, it was not intended, as she had at 
 first imagined, either to insult or frighten her ; but was, 
 on the contrary, an unexaggerated expression of their 
 delight and approbation. Milly, we have said, had by 
 this time discovered that the ladies and gentlemen to 
 whom she was indebted for this flattering appreciation of 
 
372 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 her talents, were not all seen by her for the first time, 
 three of the females out of five being the same -whose 
 appearance and manners at the bar of the Harlequin 
 had not only shocked and. disgusted her, but given rise 
 to fears and suspicions of the character of the house and 
 its proprietors ; which, though^ they had been in part 
 explained away by Mrs. Perkins's remarks after they 
 were gone, and Mr. Briggs's excuses to the same effect, 
 namely, the necessities imposed by trade interests, had 
 tended to confirm Miss Shelburne's resolution to free 
 herself as soon as possible from all connexion with such 
 people as Briggs and his friends. The gentlemen were, 
 some of them — for Milly took no account in detail of the 
 number who had thus, as she considered, intruded upon 
 her — of the class she had seen pass, from time to time, 
 in the course of the hours she had satin the bar, into the 
 inner room, tap-room, or parlour, or whatever it was 
 called, giving their orders in most cases for beer, and 
 stopping to exchange familiar inquiries, jokes, laughs, 
 and chat, for the most part unintelligible to Milly, from 
 the slang terms used on both sides, either with the land- 
 lord or his lady, the latter, however, seeming to prepon- 
 derate in their favourable preference. Although trying 
 to avoid listening to these conversations, if they could be 
 so called, as sedulously as she did the observation of 
 these men, by her position it could not escape Milly's 
 ears, that some allusion or inquiry was made respecting 
 the new concert-room or the new singer, who had, it was 
 plain, been made a person of extraordinary attraction to 
 them by some means. To Milly's inexperience, all that 
 she heard appeared a complete mystery ; but it tended to 
 confirm her in her prejudice against Mr. Briggs, when 
 she heard a tissue of the most unfounded falsehoods as 
 
of woman's life. 373 
 
 to the fame she had acquired, for there could he no 
 doubt it was of her they spoke ; though, instead of repre- 
 senting her truly, as a novice about to make her first 
 essay in the profession, Mr. Briggs had described her as 
 having been received with the most enthusiastic applause 
 in several foreign courts, and been rewarded with gifts of 
 jewels, &c. to an immense amount, from almost all the 
 potentates of Europe. What had secured her services to 
 Briggs, seemed a mystery which produced immense laugh- 
 ter from some of the gentlemen, as well as remarks and 
 insinuations which it was fortunate for the future mana- 
 ger Milly could not comprehend, or her indignation and 
 shame would certainly have led to some rash and perhaps 
 for herself even dangerous proceeding. 
 
 To return to the party assembled in the concert-room. 
 Milly 's quick eye had, as we have said, so far recognised 
 the men and women she had seen before ; but there were 
 two others of a very different description — two who, from 
 their style of dress and conversation with each other, the 
 difference of their pronunciation, and that nameless 
 something which attends the most profligate and de- 
 bauched, when accustomed to mix in good society, would 
 have been pronounced by those more experienced than 
 Milly Shelburne — gentlemen. How they could have 
 come there, or could submit to be mixed up with these 
 persons, of so different a stamp, would certainly have 
 appeared an unfathomable mystery to Milly, had she not 
 been occupied by other and more immediately personal 
 reflections. The elder of these men was a tall, striking 
 figure, who had evidently long passed the meridian of his 
 days. Milly would have been indeed astonished, could 
 she have known his real age ; for, by the aid of glossy, 
 jetty locks, teeth whose whiteness rivalled those of un- 
 
374 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 tainted youth, the various paddings with which a skilful 
 tailor contrives to supply those defects of symmetry 
 which age bestows even on those to whom nature has 
 been most favourable, and all the meretricious advantages 
 which wealth enables the faded man of fashion to bring 
 to his assistance and conceal the ravages of time — 
 Mr. Chester, as he here called himself, or was called by 
 his temporary associates, appeared nearly twenty years 
 younger than he was, especially by candle-light ; though 
 nothing could entirely conceal — not even the glossy, full, 
 jet-black whiskers, or the skilful touch of rouge — yes ! 
 incredible as it may appear, it is a well-known fact, that 
 even the rouge-box is as indispensable an adjunct to the 
 toilet of a faded roue or man of fashion, as to that of a 
 passee coquette or court beauty, who supplies from thence 
 the roses and lilies that have long vanished before the 
 health- destroying influence of late hours, crowded rooms, 
 and all the misnamed pleasures and enjoyments of dissi- 
 pation. But to return to Mr. Chester : not even, we re- 
 peat, could the most skilful touches of his French valet, 
 or the arts of the most fashionable perruquier, conceal 
 the ravages of time so effectually but that a near 
 inspection betrayed the numerous wrinkles, especially at 
 the corners of his eyes and round his mouth. The eyes, 
 indeed, still glittered with somewhat of their pristine 
 brilliancy, and with the aid of the artistically pencilled 
 eyebrows gave rather a striking character to his face ; 
 but when, not as they were now, excited into that, in 
 reality, unnatural brilliancy, they were deep-sunken, and 
 puckered with those telltale wrinkles which no art can 
 efface. Such was the man, or at least such his personal 
 appearance, who, advancing from among the group who 
 so rudely intruded themselves, addressed Milly in terms 
 
of woman's life. 375 
 
 of compliment very different from the hyperbolical, bois- 
 terous, but perhaps not less sincere exclamations of his 
 associates. Why -was it, then, that Milly shrank from 
 this man with even more of alarm and aversion, if such 
 terms could apply to her present feelings, than she expe- 
 rienced towards any of the others ? She drew herself up 
 to her full height, and with an expression of dignified 
 reserve, that seemed at once to chill the insinuating smile 
 Mr. Chester had assumed, replied to his soft and gently- 
 uttered entreaty, that she would resume her seat and 
 confer on him — he did not say us — "the inestimable 
 favour of repeating her last song." 
 
 : ' Of which I only heard part," he added, " but that 
 part was sufficient to — " 
 
 " Excuse me, Sir," interrupted Milly, " I sing no 
 more to-night ;" and she stooped to pick up her bonnet 
 and shawl, which she had thrown under the piano when 
 she found herself alone, not having taken them off be- 
 fore from the time she left Bristol. 
 
 It was an exertion which would not have suited Mr. 
 Chester, braced and padded as he was, to have stooped 
 to anticipate her, courteous and gallant as he attempted 
 to be ; but there was one present to whom she had been 
 equally an object of attention and observation, and who 
 eagerly put himself forward to her assistance, the shawl 
 having beeD, probably by the feet of some of the intru- 
 ders, removed to the end of the instrument, beyond her 
 reach where she now stood. This person was an insigni- 
 ficant little man, as far as regarded his figure, which was 
 far beneath the usual stature of the male sex. His 
 features were, however, striking and intelligent — of that 
 description called aquiline ; his complexion extremely 
 dark, and with altogether the appearance of a foreigner; 
 
37G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 which, however, he was not, as the moment he spoke any 
 person of the slightest experience would have discovered 
 him to be an Irishman. Not that the brogue could be 
 detected in the slight difference between his dialect and 
 the pronunciation of the most refined Londoner ; yet 
 there was, as before observed, a peculiarity in Mr. Fitz- 
 gerald's language, and especially a tendency to exagge- 
 rated terms and exclamations, that, independent of his 
 name, at once betrayed his country. His dress, too, 
 while quite as fashionable, and much more showy and 
 ornamented than that of his companion (Mr. Chester), 
 showed much less attention to neatness, and particularly 
 in the point of linen, which, on the part of the latter 
 gentleman, was not only of the finest quality, but of the 
 most spotless purity. This, however, was, in the eyes of 
 most, counterbalanced by an immense display of jewel- 
 lery, whenever it could be pressed into service on his 
 diminutive person ; a massive gold chain suspending an 
 eye-glass of extraordinary dimensions, dangling outside 
 of his waistcoat — a brooch equally exaggerated in size 
 confining his neckerchief— rings sparkling with gems on 
 every finger, and his gold watch-chain,' in unison with 
 the rest, bearing an immense bunch of seals. Such was 
 the figure, who, possessing much more personal activity 
 than his more portly friend, contrived to gain possession 
 of Milly's bonnet and shawl from under the piano, and 
 now, with a low bow and courteous smile, insisted on 
 being allowed " the supreme felicity of assisting her in 
 attiring herself, if she was indeed resolved to inflict upon 
 them the misery of refusing them the delightful gratifi- 
 cation of hearing again her celestial tones." 
 
 " Bah ! quel sottise ! " observed his friend, in a half- 
 whisper. " The young lady, I am sure, is not serious. 
 
OF woman's life. 377 
 
 I am sure," he added, turning to Hilly, "this young lady 
 will allow me the pleasure of hearing her. Come, let 
 me prevail upon you to resume your seat;" and again he 
 attempted to take her hand, having drawn forward the 
 music-stool, while his friend, as if in compliance with his 
 intimation, fell hack behind hdm, still keeping possession 
 of the bonnet and shawl, which Milly had in vain reached 
 out her hand to get hold of. 
 
 " Allow me to pass, if you please," she observed, 
 without making any reply to Mr. Chester's imperative 
 address, for such the tone in which it was uttered rendered 
 it. Her request was addressed to the persons who had 
 gathered together, and were laughing and talking to each 
 other in under- tones, but all evidently interested in ob- 
 serving what was passing, though there was a sort of 
 deference shown to the gentlemen, which prevented their 
 openly interfering — all except the females, who seemed 
 to consider themselves on terms of perfect equality, and 
 from whom Milly heard several insolent observations 
 addressed to them, of which she was the object. One of 
 them, who was evidently much worse for the potations 
 she had swallowed, rushed forward as Milly uttered her 
 solicitation to be allowed to pass. 
 
 " What rubbish is this ? Do you expect people to 
 go down upon their knees to you, to get you to play and 
 sing a song or two ? If we havn't paid to-night, we shall 
 all pay our money when the room's opened, or, if that's 
 all, there's nobody here, I'll be bound, that'll mind 
 bringing out their browns to make it worth your while to 
 give us a little harmony. Come, Bill, lend us your hat," 
 and she snatched one off the head of the young man 
 nearest her. " I 11 take it round, and let them that's got 
 
 3 c 
 
3 78 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 plenty pay for them that's got none, that's fair all the 
 world over." 
 
 The colour which offended pride had before kindled in 
 Milly's cheeks faded to the most pallid hue, and she 
 sank down on the stool, her trembling limbs refusing to 
 support her. 
 
 " Nonsense, Matilda, you're a fool ! " exclaimed another 
 female, who had observed the effect her companion's 
 violent manner had produced. "Give it up, I say; the 
 young woman's a stranger here and ain't used to our 
 ways. Where's Briggs ? he'd soon convince her we don't 
 mean no affront to her." 
 
 "Affront ! I would spill my heart's best blood before I 
 would allow the lady to be affronted," exclaimed the 
 gentleman, who still, however, in obedience to his friend's 
 intimation, kept possession of Milly's bonnet and shawl. 
 
 " Oh, you're a brave little darling, we all know, Fitzey," 
 exclaimed the lady who had been addressed as Matilda. 
 " There's nobody wants to affront her that I know of, 
 but if she won't be pleased any way, she may go to the 
 devil for what I care. I dare say there's others can sing 
 a song as well as her, without making such a bother 
 about it." 
 
 " Matty wants to sing herself," whispered one of the 
 women leaning down to Milly, who sat bewildered and 
 not knowing how to escape from a scene so new and so 
 incomprehensible to her. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Briggs ?" demanded the gentleman who 
 had been addressed as Mr. Chester, who had been silently 
 watching the changes in Milly's countenance. " He is 
 answerable," he added, " if he has deceived us respecting 
 this young lady, whom he represented as the person he 
 had engaged as a singer, and who is to make her appear- 
 
or woman's life. 379 
 
 ance on Monday. If this is not true, he shall certainly 
 apologize for — " 
 
 " Apologize ! I will have his heart's best blood ! " 
 exclaimed Mr. Fitzgerald. " Speak, my angel, and I 
 ■will draw the villain to your feet, there to expiate his 
 vile offences." 
 
 A loud roar of laughing — perhaps as much excited by 
 Milly's start and look of horror — interrupted the little 
 gentleman's hyperbolic exclamation, and before it had 
 subsided, Mr. Briggs himself entered the room, looking 
 quite unconscious, although he had in fact been listening 
 at the door of the room to all that had passed. 
 
 " Dear me, this is quite too bad," he exclaimed, 
 glancing at Milly's pale face. " I little supposed, that 
 when you pressed me to know who was playing and 
 singing up stairs, and I told you it was Miss Shelburne, 
 but that she was too much fatigued with her long 
 journey to be introduced to company to-night, that you 
 would force yourselves upon her in this manner. I cer- 
 tainly consented that these gentlemen," looking at Mr. 
 Chester and his companion, " and one or two friends 
 might go up-stairs to listen to the young lady, but I did 
 not suppose they would go any further, and I must 
 request now that you will withdraw. You will have the 
 pleasure of hearing Miss Shelburne a great many times, 
 I trust, in this room, where we hope to be favoured with 
 your patronage." 
 
 Loud shouts of " Bravo, Briggs! Well done, Briggs !" 
 followed this speech from all but Mr. Chester and Mr. 
 Fitzgerald ; they were evidently rather ashamed of the 
 position in which they stood, and walked towards the 
 lower end of the room, which they pretended to be 
 examining, laughing together, as if in derision of all 
 thev saw. 
 
380 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 The lady who was called Matilda, appeared to be dis- 
 satisfied. She had thrown herself on a seat, and stretched 
 out her feet in a posture, which evinced no inclination to 
 withdraw. 
 
 "And so this is to be the end of all this precious 
 bother about nothing. For my part, I hate to see people 
 taking such airs, and showing off without any reason. 
 We can come another time, when Miss Whatever-she-is 
 — is in a better humour and is paid for her squalling, for 
 that's the meaning of your fine blarneying speech, after 
 all, Mr. Briggs. -However, if other people like to be 
 insulted, I shan't, so you may have their patronage. 
 You won't get mine, I can tell you, and they're a parcel 
 of fools, if any that's here to night ever enter your house 
 again, that's all." 
 
 During this speech Briggs had contrived to get close 
 to Milly, and had commenced an apology for what he 
 declared he had no hand in, but his whisper was drowned 
 by the woman's loud voice, and it was plain there were 
 several who were inclined to adopt her opinion — that 
 they had not been well-treated — although it would have 
 been difficult for them to have proved that any offence 
 had been given. 
 
 " What am I to do, Miss Shelburne ? " he whispered. 
 " You see what these people are. I am ruined if they go 
 and represent that they have been insulted by your 
 refusing to sing. I have a wife and five children, and I 
 have sunk every farthing I have in the world in building 
 and fitting up this room in partnership with Perkins. 
 Oh, if I could— if I dared presume to ask you. Only 
 one song. It would save me from ruin — my children — 
 my poor little ones, from starving. You cannot think 
 what influence these women have — " 
 
of woman's life. 381 
 
 Briggs saw that he was going too far, and again he 
 recurred to the injury to his poor wife — his five children, 
 in a tone so pathetic, that Milly — grievously as her pride 
 had been wounded — roused as she had been by his 
 assertion, for such it was, that she had engaged to open 
 the room, as he called it, forgot everything in pity — 
 not for the man, for she was convinced of his worthless- 
 ness — but for the unfortunate wife and children. 
 
 " I do not think it will be possible for me to command 
 my voice, Mr. Briggs. I have been so agitated, so — " 
 
 " Oh, I know you have. I know it is shameful — 
 cruel— to ask it," he replied, " but the attempt even will 
 save me. They will see that you are willing to oblige 
 them, and they can then have no excuse. And my 
 gratitude — eternal — " 
 
 The sound of the instrument, to which Milly had 
 turned, drowned the conclusion of his speech. Could 
 she have seen the look of low laughing derision which at 
 that moment he directed to the group behind her — but 
 she did not, and Milly, gaining strength and courage 
 by the time she had played the symphony, commenced 
 her song. Strange as it was even to herself, never per- 
 haps in her life had Milly sung with more spirit and 
 effect than in the present instance. Her voice, which 
 had at first been low and trembling, acquired power and 
 sweetness with every note she uttered, arjd when she con- 
 cluded amidst a perfect storm of enthusiasm, and had 
 applause been the motive that actuated her, or that she 
 had looked to for her reward, it must have indeed fully 
 repaid the exertion. With a total indifference, however, 
 to all the compliments that were showered upon her, and 
 turning a deaf ear to the audibly expressed wish that she 
 could be prevailed upon to repeat the song, she now 
 
382 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 arose from the piano, and gracefully curtseying generally, 
 though with an expression of pride and reserve that had 
 the desired effect of preventing a more open expression 
 of the wishes of her auditors, which she would have 
 found it difficult to refuse, she whispered to Mr. Briggs 
 to get her honnet and shawl, which Mr. Fitzgerald still 
 held, and accompany her down stairs. The first was 
 easily attained, though it gave the gentleman an oppor- 
 tunity to reiterate a string of hyperbolical compliments, 
 which, under different circumstances, Milly would have 
 heartily laughed at, but she was already beginning to 
 feel the exhaustion which was consequent on her previous 
 excitement, and had besides too great a dread of the 
 woman (Matilda), not to be most anxious to get out of 
 the room, although the latter had been as loud in her 
 commendations as any one present, as if she would thus 
 make up for her previous insolent remarks. There was 
 an expression in her face whenever Milly accidentally 
 encountered her glances, that convinced Milly she was 
 by no means satisfied that matters should end thus peace- 
 ably ; and the latter heard her uttering expressions, 
 addressed to Chester — as she familiarly called him — 
 that seemed to include him in the cause, whatever it was, 
 of her ill -suppressed anger and discontent. From this 
 man, Milly knew not why, she shrunk with an unaccount- 
 able fear and aversion, and yet his manner in the latter 
 instance had been such as she could not object to, his 
 admiration had been expressed in terms which could not 
 be otherwise than acceptable, for it showed that he under- 
 stood what was deserving of commendation, and despised 
 the noisy, indiscriminate applause of the mob, as it might 
 be called, as much as she did herself. He was evidently, 
 indeed, if not a musician himself, accustomed to hear 
 
of woman's life. 3*3 
 
 good music and to value it properly. And yet Milly 
 avoided his delicate compliments and returned not a 
 single acknowledgment. She trembled even at the 
 consciousness that he was bending over her shoulder 
 as she played, and when she had finished and turned 
 round to avoid being asked to continue, she sought 
 refuge from his looks even in the fierce and defying 
 glances of the woman who had seemed determined almost 
 from the first to be her enemy. The latter, however, 
 soon proved that she was not disposed to let the meeting 
 be so easily broken up. Most of the men — over whom 
 Mr. Briggs appeared to possess more authority than he 
 dared evince towards Mr. Chester, his companion, or the 
 females, who, Milly learned by their observations, had 
 introduced the latter gentlemen — unceremoniously de- 
 parted, when they saw by Miss Shelburne's determined 
 look and manner that they need not hope for further 
 amusement or gratification. Briggs had persuaded the 
 latter to sit down for a few moments on a seat at some 
 distance, until, as he whispered to her, he saw " the 
 fellows safe out of the house." Miss Matilda now took 
 the opportunity of giving vent to some of the ill-humour 
 which she had been nursing up " to keep it warm" till 
 that moment. 
 
 " So, then, I suppose we are all to be turned out, like 
 a pack of dogs, just when it pleases Mr. Briggs and his 
 
 " For shame, Matty, what do you want ?" interrupted 
 one of her companions, the same who had before good- 
 naturedly interposed in Milly' s behalf. 
 
 " What do I want ? " she replied fiercely ; " why to be 
 treated like a lady, as I have a right to be while I can 
 pay for it. I'm no poor devil, obliged to sing for my 
 
384 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 living ; though, maybe, I could do it quite as well as 
 them that sticks themselves up as if there was nobody 
 worth listening to but themselves." 
 
 There was a titter from her two companions, and they 
 looked significantly at each other, as if they were quite 
 aware of the cause of her displeasure, and prepared for 
 this demonstration of it ; while Milly looked anxiously 
 and uneasily towards the door, meditating the possibility 
 of an escape without waiting for Mr. Briggs's return, 
 though afraid of moving, lest she might draw the lady's 
 attention more immediately to herself. Mr. Chester bad, 
 meanwhile, approached Matilda, and was evidently trying 
 to conciliate her. 
 
 " Oh, you go to Bath !" was her polite and lady-like 
 reply to his gentle address. " I'd have seen you and 
 Fitz both hanged before I'd have come here with you, if 
 I'd have thought you was going to behave in this shabby- 
 manner. The least you could have done would have 
 been to call for a bottle of wine, if it had been only to 
 drink to the lady that you've been flattering up to the 
 skies, though I've known the time when there were other 
 people that you thought — " 
 
 She was evidently returning to the theme " on which 
 hung all her sorrows ;" but Mr. Chester again attempted 
 to divert her from it, by expressing his readiness to com- 
 ply with any wish of hers, adding — " Briggs will be here 
 in a minute, and then you can give what orders you 
 like." 
 
 " Well, that's something like," she replied, her good 
 humour seeming to revive in a moment. " We'll have a 
 lobster salad and a couple of bottles of wine, and make a 
 night of it, and if Miss Whats-her-name's too tired to 
 sing any more, I'll try what I can do to please you; 
 
of woman's life. 385 
 
 though I ain't a professional ; and so you musn't expect 
 me to be equal to her." 
 
 There was no reply to this, but she did not wait for 
 encouragement; but, throwing off her bonnet and gloves, 
 seated herself at the piano-forte, and commenced in 
 tolerable style, and with a good though uncultivated 
 voice, the popular song of " Eobin Adair." Earnestly as 
 Milly longed to seize this favourable opportunity of 
 escaping, she dared not to draw this violent woman's 
 resentment upon her, should she not entirely succeed ; 
 and this, from her ignorance of the ways of the house, 
 was, she feared, possible; but the entrance of Mr. 
 Briggs, just as the song was ended, and the discussion 
 that ensued between the whole party as to the supper, not 
 only withdrew their attention momentarily from her, but 
 convinced Milly that if she did not now get away, it would 
 be impossible to avoid being included in the supper party. 
 The manner in which Briggs had thrown the door back 
 allowed her to see the staircase, though in perfect dark- 
 ness, and, without further hesitation, she stole softly from 
 the room, flew down the stairs, and without reflecting 
 where she was to go, or what would become of her there, 
 would in another minute have been in the street, had she 
 not been intercepted by Mrs. Perkins, who was just 
 coming to listen apparently to what was passing above 
 stairs. To her hurried inquiry of what was the matter, 
 Milly replied by entreating that she would let her go 
 somewhere where she could avoid those people, adding — 
 
 " I cannot, indeed I cannot, remain with them any 
 longer ;" and the landlady, though seemingly inclined to 
 remonstrate, immediately led her to the foot of another 
 and narrower staircase ; at the top of which she told her 
 
 3 D 
 
386 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to open the door which was her (Mrs. Perkins's) bed-room, 
 where she could remain in safety till she came to her. 
 
 For nearly an hour Milly remained uninterrupted in 
 the room, except by the entrance of the servant maid 
 with a candle (for she had fled in the dark), who in- 
 formed her that her mistress was so busy with the 
 supper-company that she could not find a minute to come 
 to her. 
 
 " They're as mad as fury," the girl observed, " that 
 you went off in such a manner, for they think you're 
 gone home, and Missus said she tried to stop you, but 
 couldn't; but that Briggs is such a funny devil, that 
 he's got 'em all into a good humour again, and goodness 
 knows what time we shall get rid of 'em ; but if they 
 don't talk of going soon, Missus will send you up 
 some supper." 
 
 Milly replied that she had much rather go to bed. 
 She wanted no supper, and tried to learn whether the 
 promised room was ready for her, but the girl seemed 
 unwilling to say anything more than she had been 
 ordered to do, and she would only promise that she 
 would tell her mistress what the young lady said, and 
 bring her an answer as soon as she had an opportunity. 
 That opportunity did not, it appeared, arrive for a long 
 time. Milly tried calmly and quietly to review her situa- 
 tion, and resolve how she should act, should the worst 
 arrive that she could anticipate, namely, that her mother 
 should prove unable or unwilling to assist her in getting 
 free from her present embarrassing situation with Mr. 
 Briggs, who, she saw, was determined, if possible, to 
 hold her to what he pretended to consider her engage- 
 ment with him. But it was in vain she tried to form any 
 rational plan, and even the power of thinking seemed to 
 
of woman's life. 387 
 
 desert her, as from time to time the boisterous fits of 
 laughter and the loud voices of the party from whom she 
 had escaped, reached her ears. Gradually these noises 
 became louder, and Milly shrank farther into a corner of 
 the room as she became convinced that their mirth had 
 given place to a violent quarrel. The loud and vehement 
 expostulations of men were mingled with the shrill scold- 
 ing of females, in which she plainly heard the voice of 
 Matilda predominating over the others; and this was soon 
 followed by screams, the breaking of bottles and glasses, 
 the falling of chairs and tables, and all the heterogeneous 
 sounds that, even to her inexperience, betrayed that the 
 contest, whatever it was, had ended in a battle. How 
 did she rejoice, in the midst of all her terror and disgust, 
 that she had escaped being a witness of such a scene; 
 and how resolutely did she pronounce her determination 
 never again to enter the house when once she had quitted 
 it. Poor Milly ! she knew as yet little of the characters of 
 the people with whom she had so rashly entangled herself. 
 The various sounds at length subsided into com- 
 parative quietness, and Milly ventured to unlock the door 
 of the room, which she had fastened in her first terror, 
 lest any of them should, knowing the ways of the house, 
 rush there for refuge, as she had done, and discover her ; 
 but again she retreated, and stood in breathless terror. 
 This time, however, she soon ascertained that the 
 sounds which had alarmed her were occasioned by the 
 rapid and heavy footsteps of the party descending the 
 other stairs. Complete quietness succeeded, and in a few 
 minutes Mrs. Perkins entered the room, her face redder 
 than ever, though the artificial rouge had disappeared, 
 and her dress sadly disordered, probably from the part 
 she had been compelled to take in separating the lady 
 
388 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 combatants. Milly, however, firmly though mildly, 
 resisted her persuasions to accompany her down stairs, 
 and declined her offer of supper, observing that she 
 stood in need of nothing but rest. 
 
 Apologising for the litter which, she said, she was 
 afraid she would find the room in, Mrs. Perkins at last led 
 the way to a bed-room ; but here she would not be denied 
 bringing up a glass of wine and a biscuit, observing, that 
 " it made her quite miserable to see Miss Shelburne go 
 to bed in such an uncomfortable manner, without sup- 
 per;" and Milly, glad to cultivate the friendly feeling 
 towards her in one who had at first appeared so diffe- 
 rently inclined, consented to take the proposed refresh- 
 ment, which the landlady herself brought up, observing, 
 that she " would make sure her guest did take it, by 
 waiting herself for the empty glass." 
 
 " I'm sure I quite felt for you," she observed, " being 
 obliged to put up with Matilda's insolence ; and so did 
 Briggs and my husband. Indeed, Perkins didn't dare 
 come up-stairs while she was there, for he said he should 
 be sure to fly in a passion and bundle her neck-and-heels 
 down stairs. But then, you see, he knew it was only 
 her being drunk that made her act so, for when she 's 
 sober she's quite the lady, and has had a boarding-school 
 eddication, and belongs to very respectable friends — 
 though, since she 's turned out gay, they won't notice 
 her, and that drives her mad at times, 'specially when 
 she 's got too much liquor." 
 
 " Poor creature !" sighed Milly, shuddering. 
 "Ah! I'm afraid things is getting bad with her," 
 rejoined the landlady, who evidently did not comprehend 
 the source of Milly's feeling. " Lor' bless you ! she 
 was the most dashing woman in Lunnon a twelvemonth 
 ago, and has spent thousands. Briggs knew her when 
 
of woman's life. S89 
 
 she lived with some great nobleman in the highest of 
 style, and used to ride about in her carriage, with two 
 footmen; and many a pound Briggy, as we call him, has 
 had of her, for she cared for money no more than dirt. 
 That's the worst of these gay women, you see, they 
 never think of laying by for a rainy day ; and so, ever 
 since my lord turned her off, she 's been going lower and 
 lower, though she 's got such a sperrit, that, even now, 
 she '11 spend to the last farthing, and never think of to- 
 morrow. Mr. Chester s a great friend to her, I believe, 
 for he's the most generous gentleman that ever lived, 
 and as rich as a Jew, though I never saw him before to- 
 night, but I 've heard a great deal about him ; and, I 
 assure you, my master and I thought it no little honour 
 that he should condescend to come into such a house as 
 our'n, and he pays like a prince, too. Briggs says, if 
 he could only get him to pattemise one of his concerts, 
 all our fortins would be made. He went so far as to 
 say, that he shouldn't rest till he had heard you sing 
 again ; and as to that little gentleman, who often drops 
 in to treat Matty and the other gals, my master says 
 you 've druv him quite mad. So you see, my dear Miss 
 Shelburne, you 've made a famous good beginning in 
 Lunnon. Many a young lady might sing her heart out, 
 as Briggs says, before she 'd be noticed or praised by 
 such gentlemen, and one word from them, as he says, is 
 worth a thousand from the common sort, in getting you 
 forrard. Who knows, as he says, but that in a year or 
 two, when you 've had more practice, and know more of 
 the world, but that through such interest as this you 
 might get to be a tip-top singer at West-End concerts, 
 or even the Opera itself, and then your for tin 's made. 
 But I see you 're sleepy, and tired of my chat, so I '11 
 leave you to go to sleep and dream of good luck.'' 
 
390 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 What though corrodiiig and multiplied sorrows, 
 
 Legion-like, darken this planet of ours, 
 Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows, 
 
 Even when anguish hath palsied its powers ; 
 Wherefore, though fate plays the part of a traitor, 
 
 Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of hope, 
 Fearlessly certain that sooner or later, 
 
 Over the stars thy desire shall have scope. 
 
 Courage !— disaster and peril once over, 
 
 Freshen the spirit, as showers the grove ; 
 O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover, 
 
 Soon the " forget-me-not" rises in love: 
 Courage, then, friends ! though the universe crumble, 
 
 Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, 
 Patient and trustful, and joyous and humble, 
 
 Smiles through the ruin on darkness and death. — Seewis. 
 
 Nothing could have been more wisely calculated to 
 efface the disagreeable impression produced by Mr. 
 Chester on Milly's mind — to soften the impatience and 
 unpleasant feelings with which she had listened to Mrs. 
 Perkins's dissertation on his generosity, and the horror 
 and disgust excited by the landlady's exposition of the 
 character and circumstances of the wretched Matilda 
 — nothing, in fact, was ever more adroitly applied, than 
 this (Mrs. Perkins's) appeal to Milly Shelburne's hopes 
 and ambition for the future. Too innocent to suspect 
 any sinister motives on the part of the woman in these 
 remarks, and too inexperienced in the ways of the world 
 to be aware of the folly of expecting the desired advance- 
 ment through such a channel as an engagement at the 
 " Harlequin," or the patronage of a man of notoriously 
 
OF woman's life. 391 
 
 profligate principles, Milly began already to be more 
 reconciled to the connexion with Mr. Briggs, though 
 still resolving to be guided entirely by her mother's better 
 judgment and advice ; and, at all events, should the 
 latter be favourable to the offered engagement, that 
 she would strictly confine herself to the business 
 engagement, and preserve the utmost distance towards 
 the people she had seen that night, not even excepting 
 her apparently now warm friend, Mrs. Perkins; and with 
 these wise and prudent resolutions she wrapped her cloak 
 round her and lay down, the appearance of the dirty and 
 uninviting bed, as well as a vague distrust of not being 
 in absolute safety in a house so badly managed, and fre- 
 quented by such characters, preventing her making the 
 usual preparations, by undressing herself, to enjoy a 
 night's repose. The fatigue she had suffered — mental 
 and bodily — had its natural effect ; and Milly soon lost 
 all recollection of past troubles and present discomforts 
 in sound sleep. Once or twice in the night she was 
 partly roused by some indistinct sounds, but they died 
 away again, or were so faintly heard, that, half asleep as 
 she was, she satisfied herself they were outside the house. 
 She had some recollection of the noises that used occa- 
 sionally to disturb their nightly slumbers when she lived 
 with her mother in London, and therefore again laid her 
 head on the pillow, which she had covered with her 
 shawl, and again slept. Little did she suspect the scene 
 that was passing under the same roof with herself, even 
 till long after daylight; but Mrs. Perkins had purposely 
 taken her to this room, and had closed a heavy door at 
 the foot of the staircase, so that she was fortunately 
 saved from the affright she would have felt could she 
 have known the real source of the sounds that had dis- 
 
392 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 turbed her. The sun shining in through the dirty un- 
 curtained window, assured Milly, when she awoke, that 
 she had slept till a very late hour, and she hastily arose, 
 rather surprised that no one had been to awaken her. 
 There was no water, no towels, in the room ; and, dis- 
 appointed in her wish of washing herself, she sat down 
 to wait till she heard some one moving. An hour passed 
 and she heard a clock strike ten. She was beginning to 
 feel the want of breakfast, but still no one came, and at 
 last she determined to find her own way. But here 
 another obstacle arose ; the door on the staircase was 
 locked outside, and her timidity for a long time prevented 
 her knocking or calling, although she heard steps and 
 voices outside of it. But necessity conquers all objec- 
 tions ; and, after waiting till she was faint from exhaus- 
 tion and anxiety, Milly was at length compelled to call 
 to the servant, whom she heard singing and scrubbing 
 outside the door. The girl civilly asked her to walk 
 into the bar, observing that her mistress would be down 
 presently — she generally got up at eleven, but "the row" 
 last night, and one thing or another, had made her rather 
 later than usual. 
 
 "Cannot you get me some breakfast?" asked Milly; 
 " I will pay for it," she added, as the girl looked at her 
 without answering. 
 
 " Lord bless you !" she at length observed, " it isn't 
 that, but everything 's locked up here. I can't so much 
 as get a bit o' bread till Missus comes down. Oh ! 
 she 's a regular screw, I can tell you. Master's a deal 
 more good-natured, but he daresn't show it before her, 
 for she's as jealous as thunder of him, and would tear my 
 eyes out if she thought he showed any favour towards 
 mo. Oh ! thev're a rum set here, all of 'em, I can tell 
 
of woman's life. 393 
 
 you ; and so you'll say when you know 'em as well us I 
 
 do. You won't blab if I tell you, I know, but she got 
 
 into her tantrums about you last night, and onney for 
 
 Briggs there'd have been a precious fight betwixt 'em. 
 
 Briggs can manage her better than anybody when she's 
 
 how-come-you-so, and at other times too, for the matter 
 
 of that, More shame for him, I say, for he's got a wife 
 
 of his own, and it would become him better to be lookin' 
 
 arter her, I say. Missus says she ain't his wife, and 
 
 that he's had a dozen such wives in his time ; but it 
 
 ain't all gospel she preaches, and specially when she's 
 
 takin' his part aginst Mrs. Briggs, when she comes 
 
 kickin' up a bobbery about his stayin' away from home 
 
 days and days." 
 
 Milly had listened with breathless surprise and disgust 
 
 to this unsought-for expose of Mr. Briggs's and Mrs. 
 
 Perkins's affairs. She remembered the pathetic appeal 
 
 which the former had made to her feelings on behalf of 
 
 his wife and family, the previous evening ; and though 
 
 ashamed, even in appearance, to encourage the ignorant 
 
 and treacherous garrulity of the servant, she could not 
 
 resist the desire of trying to learn something more of 
 
 Mr. Briggs's domestic history, as well as how she (Milly) 
 
 could have been the means of causing what the girl had 
 
 called " Mrs. Perkins's tantrums." 
 
 " But Mr. Briggs has a large family of children, has 
 
 he not?" she demanded, when the girl stopped, having 
 
 seemingly run herself out of breath in her gossip. 
 
 " Children ! " she repeated, looking up in Milly 's face 
 
 with a laugh, f " what could put that in your head ? I 
 
 never heard of no children, and if they had 'em I don't 
 
 know where they could hide 'em in their one bit of a 
 
 room, that vou couldn't swing a cat in, for I went once, 
 
 3 B 
 
394 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 when I was out for my holiday, to drink tea with Mrs. 
 Briggs on the sly — Missus would have murdered me if 
 she'd knowed it — you see it was after there had been a 
 precious kick-up at our house, when she (that's Mrs. 
 Briggs, you know) found out that he spent most of his 
 time here with my Missus, and left her without any 
 money at home ; and so she pretended to be very thank- 
 ful to me, because she and I went into the kitchen and 
 put her clo'es to rights, for there'd been fine pulley- 
 hauley work, I can tell you; Briggs luggin' her one way, 
 and my master luggin' Missus t 'other, to keep 'em from 
 tearin' one another's eyes out — and so she told me where 
 she lived in the New Cut, and I promised her I'd come 
 and drink tea with her the first time I got out for a day ; 
 and so I did, though I knew very well that all she 
 wanted with me was just to pump me, and get out of me 
 all she could about my Missus and Briggs. But in 
 course I wouldn't know nothin' ; I wasn't a-goin' to lose 
 my sitivation, just to obleege her, else I could have told 
 her plenty ; but you can't catch an old bird with chaff. 
 ' A still tongue makes a wise head,' as my mother used 
 to say ; so, though I went two or three times to see her, 
 and she made me very comfortable — that I must say — 
 she got nothin' out of me that I was afraid of hearin 
 again, and so then she dropped axin me to come. But 
 as to children — Lor' bless you ! she ain't got no children, 
 no more than I have. Indeed, from what I could make 
 out, she hadn't been Mrs. Briggs long enough to have 
 any, for she told me that she was well to do in the world 
 till she met him, a year or two ago, at a ball, or a play, 
 or something, and how he pretended to be a gentleman, 
 and got her into a string, like many more foolish women, 
 and now he'd spent all her money he cored no more for 
 
OF woman's life. 395 
 
 her than a dog or a cat, specially since he'd got a haunt 
 at the 'Harlequin.'" 
 
 Milly's doubts and suspicions of Mr. Briggs's utter 
 worthlessness, and the imposition he had practised upon 
 her, were completely confirmed, and her anxiety to ter- 
 minate all connexion with him and the Perkinses pro- 
 portionately increased. There was one subject, how- 
 ever, on which she still wished to gain the information 
 which she supposed her communicative companion could 
 give her, and then she cared not how soon she should be 
 rid of her. 
 
 " You mentioned that I was the cause of a quarrel or 
 dispute between your mistress and her husband, last 
 night," she observed. " I cannot imagine how this could 
 be possible, but perhaps you can explain it." 
 
 The girl laughed cunningly, but shook her head. 
 
 " If I was quite sure that, let what will happen, you 
 won't give 'em no hint that I've said anything about it," 
 she replied, " I'd tell you what I think is at the bottom 
 of it all." 
 
 " Rely upon it," returned Milly with earnestness, 
 " that I will never disclose one word that you have 
 uttered, and that I shall feel greatly indebted to you. I 
 have not the power at present," she added, colouring, 
 and withdrawing her hand from her pocket, which it had 
 involuntarily sought, " I am, in fact, so poor, that I 
 cannet offer you anything worthy of your acceptance ; 
 but, depend upon it, I will not forget you when — " 
 
 " Lor' bless you, I don't look for no such thing," ex- 
 claimed the girl with a look of surprise ; "not but what 
 I'm glad to pick up a shilling or two in any honest way 
 in this beggarly place, for my wages is so low that they'd 
 hardly keep me in shoes and stockings ; but lors I never 
 
396 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 thought of getting no money from you, because that was 
 one of the things Missus was a grumblm about. She 
 said that she wasn't goin' to put up with your airs, when' 
 you hadn't got a shilling in your pocket to bless yourself, 
 and she should like to know who was to pay for what 
 you had : and Briggs tried to turn it all off with a laugh, 
 and said — ' Why, I am,^to be sure. Ain't I goin' to make 
 her fortin, and my own too?' That made her more mad 
 than ever, and she called him everything but a gentle- 
 man, and said she wouldn't trust him any more than she 
 would you ; and then Master said something about Mr. 
 Chester — that gentleman, you know, that was up-stairs 
 last night — payin your bill ; and Missus said, that if 
 he'd give it under black and white that he would be 
 answerable, she would let you run what you like. But 
 goodness gracious ! how pale you've gone all in a minute. 
 Sure you ain't frightened, because, though she said all 
 this when she'd been drinkin' till she didn't know what 
 or who to quarrel and find fault with, she'll maybe tell 
 quite another guess sort of a story this mornin'." 
 
 Milly did turn pale, and she was frightened, but it was 
 from quite different feelings to those the girl imagined. 
 It had been, that, from the moment Mr. Chester was first 
 introduced to her notice, she had felt a dislike, an anti- 
 pathy towards, a sort of fear of him, which she could not 
 account for, but which had increased with every look he 
 bestowed on, every word he addressed to her ; and now 
 to hear his name thus suddenly allied to hers — her inte- 
 rest, even her civil treatment from the landlady made to 
 depend upon him ; to be in any way, even in thought, 
 associated with this man, whom she shrank from, shud- 
 dered at, as she would from any noxious or dangerous 
 production of nature, some wild beast of prey, or veno- 
 
of woman's life. 397 
 
 nious reptile — made her thrill, and shudder, and tremble 
 in every limb. 
 
 What could have made Perkins utter the assertion he 
 had respecting his (Mr. Chester's) readiness to discharge 
 her obligations ? Why should he have mentioned — 
 have thought of him at all? It was evident that his 
 being there in a house of such a description as the 
 " Harlequin," was merely the result of accident; at least, 
 so thought Milly. His manners, looks, the deference 
 which was shown to him by Perkins's regular customers, 
 the frequenters of the house, by the landlord himself, 
 and his friend Mr. Briggs, by all indeed but the woman 
 who was called Matilda, and whose own expressions and 
 assumption towards him betrayed the disgraceful nature 
 of the connexion betweeen them : everything, in short, 
 proved that he was totally out of his proper sphere there, 
 and that unless drawn there by some particular attrac- 
 tion, or from some peculiar motive, there could be little 
 probability of his repeating his visit, or degrading him- 
 self by a repetition of what he would undoubtedly regret 
 when perfectly restored to his senses, for that he was 
 now led into this unseemly condescension under the in- 
 fluence of intoxication, there could be no doubt. Yet 
 Mr. Perkins's remark respecting his (Mr. Chester's) 
 willingness to pay for Milly, was undoubtedly grounded, 
 if there was any foundation for it, on the certainty of his 
 return tlnther. But that was not all it inferred, and 
 Milly trembled between indignation and terror from the 
 conviction that forced itself upon her mind, that Mr. 
 Chester had made the landlord the confidant of his inten- 
 tions in returning thither. Suddenly, however, a new, a 
 consolatory view of the matter suggested itself to her 
 mind — one that flattered her vanity too — and although it 
 did not remove her dislike of Mr. Chester, or abate her 
 
398 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 disgust of his profligacy, occasioned her to blush for the 
 suspicion she had too readily conceived of his motives. 
 Had he not expressed his high admiration of her voice 
 and musical talents, and avowed not merely his belief, 
 but certainty, that, with proper introduction and under 
 proper patronage, she would speedily attain to the height 
 of her profession — that fame and fortune inevitably must 
 attend such splendid talents. Had he not, in fact, merely 
 repeated what she had previously heard from the lips of 
 St. Orme ? Oh yes ! she would believe that it was merely 
 on this account he had entered into conversation with 
 Perkins ; and that if there was any impropriety, any 
 sinister meaning in Perkins's assertion, as to his readi- 
 ness to defray her expenses, it originated in the vulgar 
 mind of the landlord. She recalled, too, the observations 
 Mrs. Perkins had made, as to the value of such high 
 patronage as Mr. Chester's, and wondered, and blamed 
 herself for her folly in having so misinterpreted what was 
 now so clear and comprehensible. But while thus re- 
 conciled to what had at first enraged and alarmed her, as 
 ar as Mr. Chester was concerned, Milly did not feel less 
 indignant towards Mrs. Perkins, who, after all her pro- 
 fessions of friendship and pretended liberality, had 
 spoken, it appeared, in such contemptuous terms of her 
 poverty, and had even, as it appeared to Milly, dared to 
 doubt her honesty. 
 
 " No ! I will submit to have no more obligations from 
 Mrs. Perkins," she observed aloud, forgetting that the 
 servant girl, who was busily engaged — or pretended to 
 be so — in polishing the brasses of the bar counter, was 
 still present and observing her. "Yet what motive can 
 she have ? — What can I have done to deserve in her 
 eyes — " 
 
 A tittering laugh called her to recollection. 
 
OF woman's liff. 399 
 
 " What you can have done !" observed the girl. " Lor' 
 bless you, onney look in the glass there, and you'll 
 know what you've done. Missus hates everybody as is 
 voung and pretty. She knows what a painted, made-up 
 old thing she is, with her false teeth and false curls, 
 and her pads, and make-ups of all sorts ; but that ain't 
 every thing ; she knows that Briggs knows the dif- 
 ference too, and she can't a-bear that he should look 
 at anybody but herself. He got cracking you off last 
 night, when he'd got his little hat on — that's what he 
 calls getting drunk, you know — and so then, as she can't 
 show off to him and blow him up, she sets upon master 
 and pur tends to be jealous of him. Ah ! you shakes 
 your head as if you can't b'lieve me, and think its im- 
 possible, but it's as true as I'm here alive, that, whenever 
 she gets jealous of Briggs, master ketches it — she purtends 
 to be jealous of him di-ieetly. Why, even Briggs, his 
 ownself, knows it, and if you was to be here long, you'd 
 see how he laughs in his sleeve at 'em both." 
 
 " Dreadful, dreadful !" exclaimed Milly, with unfeigned 
 disgust depicted in her expressive countenance. 
 
 The girl regarded her at first with surprise, and then 
 for some minutes in thoughtful silence, slowly rubbing 
 away at her work, but evidently reflecting on some sub- 
 ject that wholly abstracted her from what she was doing. 
 
 " You come out of the country, don't you ?" she at 
 length observed. 
 
 Milly replied that she did. 
 
 "Ah!" returned the girl with a sigh, "They don't 
 know nothing, I 'spect, of the wickedness that goes on 
 here in Lunnon. I was born in the country, myself, and 
 brought up till I was eight years old, and I shouldn't 
 have left it, onney my mother died and my father was a 
 
100 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 drinkin' man, that never cared nothin' about bis children 
 arter she was gone, so he brought us, me and my little 
 brother up here to Lunnon, and here he used to leave us 
 starving about the streets, and pickin' up a bit o' bread 
 how we could, thieving for it when we couldn't get it any 
 other way. How could we do otherwise ? Hunger 11 break 
 through stone walls, they say, and hungry we was, 
 enough, I know, to eat our own fingers, while he was 
 spendin' all he got in the public house. I hates public 
 houses if its onney for that, for tl^ey made a brute of him, 
 and we got nothin' but kicks and thumps if we went 
 arter him there. Sometimes his mates would give us a 
 bit when we stood shiv'ring about and waitin' for him to 
 come home, for he kept some sort of a home over our 
 heads for his own sake, but that was all a'most, for days 
 together he didn't so much as get us a bit o'bread. How 
 could he, all his money went to pay the public house 
 score, a Saturday night. They ought to make a law, that 
 public houses shouldn't trust them as have got children. 
 Well, I never stole nothin' but a turmut, or a 'tatoe, or 
 summut o'that kind to eat ; but Bill, that's my brother, 
 poor fellow, he got with other boys that was reg'lar ones, 
 and they soon larnt him to be as bad as themselves. I used 
 to wonder how he got it, when he'd bring me a lump 
 o'bread and cheese, or sometimes a polony, or a cold 
 fagit, but he'd never tell me — he didn't want, he said, to 
 make me no worser than I was. At last, howsomedever, 
 he was ketched pickin' a pocket. That was the way his 
 good things had come that he used to bring me. They 
 seemed like pison to me when I know'd he was in jail for 
 it. They sent for father to come to Bow-street, but 
 instead of goin' to speak a good word for him, he set off, 
 and I have never seen him from that time to this. The 
 
of woman's life. 401 
 
 landlady took the bits o' sticks for the rent that was 
 owin', and then I'd the streets for a home. I used to 
 wish that I was in jail with Bill, for then I should have 
 had somebody to care for me, and somebody to care for 
 too ; and I do think I should have done somethin' to get 
 myself into jail, onney some girls that I used to meet 
 about the gates, that had got brothers or friends in there 
 too, told me they wouldn't even so much as let me see 
 him, but would shut me up in a different place from 
 where he was, so that I would have been worser still than 
 bein' out. I was ten year and a-half old then, and Bill 
 was a little more than nine. They told me I should see 
 him when he was brought up to be tried, and I really 
 blieve that kept me alive through all the cold and star- 
 vation till the time came ; well, I did see him, to be sure ; 
 they drove me out of the court, as they calls it, two or 
 three times, and when I cried and told 'em who I was, 
 and that I wanted to see my brother, they swore I was a 
 young thief like him, and onney wanted to get in to pick 
 pockets. At last, one of 'em took pity on me, and put 
 me in a corner where I could stand on a bench and see 
 the prisoners, and he swore if he caught me at any dirty 
 tricks, that is to say, thieving, for he'd had his handker- 
 chief took out of his pocket the day afore — so you see, 
 law don't frighten 'em from stealin' allays — he said he'd 
 flog me himself till I hadn't a bit of skin left. I was n't 
 frightened at that, you may be sure — because I knew I 
 was no thief — so there I stood, where he put me, shaking 
 and trembling with cold and weakness, but, still glad in 
 my heart that I should see poor- Bill once more, fori 
 didn't know what they would do with him, for some had 
 told me he would be sent to Bridewell, and others that 
 
 he'd be sent to Botany Bav, and never come back at all. 
 
 3 F 
 
402 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Lor bless you, don't cry, Miss What's-your-name. I've 
 a most left off crying myself, I've had so much to harden 
 me since that, and after all the poor boy was better off 
 than me, though the cross, hard-hearted old judge did 
 shake his great wig, and talk about his bein' a depraved, 
 'corrigible young willain, and said as how he'd bring his 
 parents grey hairs down with sorror to the grave. Lor' 
 help you, he little thought what nonsense he was sayin' of. 
 I hadn't strength, or else I should have called out that it 
 was quite the contrary — that it was his parent that had 
 brought all the sorror upon him, poor boy, like a many 
 more. But, poor Bill hadn't no courage to speak up and 
 tell the judge how he'd been starved and kicked, and beat 
 and druv' into bein' what he was. It seemed he'd been 
 took up before, and had had a month on it and a 
 Hoggin', though I never know'd it, for he was too proud 
 to tell me, but said he'd been in the country. I know'd 
 how he'd allays been a wishing we was back there, and 
 so I b'lieved him ; and I said, ' Oh, Bill ! why didn't you 
 take me with you? I 'd have begged my way down to see 
 the dear country again.' Poor feller ! I little thought 
 what sort of a country he'd been to. Howsomedever, to 
 make an end of a long story, the great big red-faced 
 gaoler — that looked as if he was ready to bust with good 
 eating and drinking — came and told the judge that poor 
 Bill had been there afore, and, little as he was, was as big 
 a thief as any in Lunnon. I could have killed him for 
 tellin' suoh lies, and so the judge knocked him down for 
 seven years across the herring pond. I see you don't 
 understand that — it means transportation. I had felt 
 very comical all the time the judge was a talkin' and 
 lay in' down the law what Bill had got to expect at 
 Botany Bay; and the minute it was over and I see the 
 
of woman's LIFE. 403 
 
 gaoler lay hold on him by the shoulder with his great 
 big hand, that looked as if it could have crushed the 
 little feller into atomies, I think I sees his pale thin face 
 and his little delicate limbs now, for he'd been stinted so 
 in his growth, he was n't half as big as other boys of his 
 age. Howsomedever, I tried to shout out ' I am here, 
 Bill,' for I thought it would be a comfort to him to 
 know there was somebody as cared for him in the world, 
 when they was all against him ; but my mouth was so 
 dry, and I seemed choking like in my throat, so that 
 I couldn't get a word out, and just as I caught the last 
 sight on him as they dragged him out of the box — for he 
 couldn't walk, he was shaking so— just at that minute 
 down I came right plump on my face, as dead as if they'd 
 knocked me on the head. I never came-to till they'd 
 carried me into the street, and so I never see poor Bill 
 any more." 
 
 There was a loug pause after Sally — as she was called 
 — had concluded. Milly's tears had spoken far more 
 powerfully than her pity and sympathy in the artless 
 detail, which proved the poor girl was possessed of 
 feelings and principles which more than compensated 
 for her extreme ignorance, and completely obliterated the 
 dislike and suspicion which she had felt towards her 
 during her former garrulous details and observations 
 respecting her mistress, Mr. Briggs, &c. It was easy to 
 see that whatever were now Sally's faults, they had their 
 origin not in her heart, but were the result of the unfor- 
 tunate association into which she had fallen. That she 
 was deeply grateful for the feeling with which Milly had 
 listened, was evident in her looks and the tone in winch 
 she said — squeezing the hand of the former in her own 
 
•104 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 coarse, horny, and, it must be confessed, particularly 
 dirty one — 
 
 " God bless you, Miss What's-your-narne ; your a'most 
 the onney one as ever I told about poor Bill, because I 
 know they'd all say it served him right — he'd no business 
 to be a thief. Ah ! it's easy for them as has got full sto- 
 machs to shake their heads, and say what them ough'nt 
 to do that's starving; just let them try for a little time 
 what I was bearing for years, and then where will their 
 goodness be. Though it did'nt make a thief of me. 
 No, thank goodness ! I did keep clear of that. Though 
 maybe people would say," and she laughed with tears 
 in her eyes, " it was more by luck than cunning. But 
 it was'nt though. I'd plenty of temptations, but some- 
 how I could'nt a-bear the thought of being called a thief, 
 though I should often have been better off in jail than 
 out, for I should have had vittles and a home over my 
 head, and them I've knowed the want of many and 
 many's the time." 
 
 " I hope you never will know such wants again, my 
 poor girl," observed Milly, compassionately. "If I 
 were rich, instead of what I am, in reality poorer than 
 yourself, you never should — " 
 
 " Ah ! that just puts me in mind of what I was going 
 to say to you at first," replied Sally, " only I was put 
 out of it by thinking of my brother. Til tell you now 
 though ; I wanted to put you on your guard about 
 what sort of a house this is, and what kind of people 
 you've got among, for I thought from the first you 
 wasn't up to them ; and as to that, I can tell you, that I'd 
 never stay here and put up with what I do, if it was n't 
 that I know no decent people would take me with a 
 character from the ' Harlequin.' Ah ! you look frightened, 
 
OF woman's life. 405 
 
 but it's true you may depend on it, and many a unhappy 
 moment I has, when she's been bullyin' and abusin'. and 
 threatenin* to turn me out without any warnin', because 
 she took me without a character, out o'charity, she says, 
 though it was to serve herself, as I well know, because 
 she couldn't get no decent gal to come and live with her. 
 Lor' bless you, every body knows what Mrs. Perkins is, 
 for the matter o'that. Master ain't thought much better ; 
 he'd stick at nothin', I fancy, if the money come in his 
 way, and nobody as vallys their character like to own 
 they'd anything to do with the ' Harlequin.' As to me, 
 it's no such great matter, 'cept, as I said afore, I should 
 stand a poor chance of gettin' a decent place if I was to 
 lose this ; but it's a different thing to you ; and if you'll 
 take a fool's advice, I'd have you get out on it as soon 
 as ever you can. There's summut a goin' on about you 
 with them and that Briggs — who's as big a rogue as 
 ever stept in shoe-leather — summut as I don't like. They 
 think I ain't up to their winks and blinks, and half 
 words ; but, though I'm no scholard, for I don't know 
 great A from a bull's foot, as the saying is, yet I can 
 see as fur into a mill-stone as them that's got ever so 
 much laming." 
 
 "What then do you think is their purpose?'' de- 
 manded Milly iu alarm. " Do not conceal anything 
 from me, my dear, good girl. Tell me what you suspect, 
 and I shall perhaps be able — " 
 
 "Why, that's just what I want to find out, myself,'' 
 returned Sally, sagaciously nodding her head; "but, 
 though I could give a guess that they wants to draw you 
 in somehow, whether it is that they think to make 
 money out of that old Chester, as they calls him — though 
 that's not his name, because he's a raal lord, they say — or 
 
406 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 whether it's about your singing and playing the music — 
 it may be both ways, to be sure, when I comes to think 
 on it, for they're bad enough for that or anything else — 
 if I'd time, I could tell you what would make your hair 
 stand on end, about a poor young girl that they got here 
 to be bar-maid, and was, like you, quite innocent of what 
 sort she'd got among, till it was too late. But I musn't 
 tell that story now, for she'll be popping down upon us 
 in a minnit, maybe." 
 
 " Who ? — the young girl ? " exclaimed Milly, who 
 mistook her meaning, and whose fears were now doubly 
 excited by Sally's allusions to this story. 
 
 " She ! Oh, no, Lor' bless you ! there's no likeliwoods 
 of her ever coming here, poor thing, she had enough of 
 the 'Harlequin,' " replied Sally. " I mean Missus, who I 
 ought to go and call, for she's ever so much after her 
 time, oney I wants to give you time to get over what I've 
 told you, and not look so pale and scared like, for fear 
 she should 'spect as I've been a saying anything to you. 
 It wouldn't be a bad move if you was jest to tie your 
 bonnet and pin your shawl, and take a turn down as far 
 as the New Road. You'd get the colour back into your 
 cheeks a bit, and I wouldn't mind her blowing up. I 
 could say you went while I was up-stairs a calling her, 
 and lacing her stays, as I do every morning ; and maybe 
 she'd let out summut if she thought you'd given her the 
 slip, as I'm bound she would." 
 
 Milly readily agreed to this proposal. She longed 
 indeed to escape from the house, if it were but for a few 
 minutes, and she immediately commenced the prepara- 
 tions that Sally had suggested. 
 
 " Oh ! but stop a bit, you must wait till I'm gone up- 
 stairs, or else Tom '11 tell Missus that I know'd you was 
 
OF woman's life. 407 
 
 gone, and then all the fat '11 be in the fire," observed 
 Sally. " I daresay he wonders now what we've been a 
 talkin' about so long, but I can easy say you was askin' 
 me about Lunnon, and so on. Oh ! let me alone for an 
 answer. You don't ketch a weasel asleep, I'm bound." 
 
 Milly understood that the Torn alluded to was the 
 potman, or waiter, for he occasionally took either cha- 
 racter, and having waited what she thought a sufficient 
 time to answer the purpose, she walked leisurely out of 
 the house, followed by the inquiring and somewhat 
 surprised look of Tom, who was cleaning pots in a 
 situation which enabled him to see all who either entered 
 or left the house, and now came to the door to look 
 after her. 
 
 It would not have been very gratifying to Milly's pride 
 could she have seen the sharp cunning eye of the pot- 
 man, scrutinising glasses, bar-pots, all in fact that was 
 removable in the bar, before she was out of sight, or to 
 have heard the satisfied tone in which he observed — 
 
 '■ Well, all's right there, so I 'spose she'll come back 
 again; but I suspect, if she don't, there'll be a precious 
 row about it, though they can't blame me. They should'nt 
 be quite so close, and then I should know how to act." 
 
408 shadp: and sunshine 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Yet no delight the minstrel's bosom knew, 
 None save the tones that from her harp she drew, 
 And the warm visions of a wayward mind, 
 Whose transient splendour left a gloom behind, 
 Frail as the clouds of sunset, and as fair, 
 Pageants of light, resolving into air. 
 Remorse impelled her, iinremitting care 
 Harassed her path, and stung her to despair. 
 Still was the secret of her griefs unknown ; 
 Amidst the universe she sighed alone ; 
 The fame she followed and the fame she found, 
 Healed not her heart's immedicable wound; . 
 Admired, applauded, crowned, where'er she roved, 
 Still she was homeless, friendless, unbeloved. 
 All else that breathed below the circling sky, 
 Was linked to earth by some endearing tie ; 
 She only, like the ocean-weed uptorn, 
 And loose along the world of waters borne, 
 Was cast, companionless, from wave to wave, 
 On life's rough sea — and there was none to save. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 " Oh ! that I were leaving this wretched place behind 
 me for ever," thought Milly, as she passed through the 
 door of the " Harlequin " and found herself in the street. 
 Every step, however, that she took, brought but more 
 forcibly to her mind the conviction, how entirely she was 
 — for the present at least — dependent on the unworthy 
 people among whom she had been so unfortunately 
 thrown ; for if she had not them to go back to what would 
 become of her ? She trembled as she looked around and 
 fancied herself standing there without knowing which 
 way to take ; without being able to name one spot in all 
 that great Metropolis, on the borders of which, as it were, 
 she knew she was now standing, that she could name as 
 her home. And among all those who passed her, and 
 
OF woman's life. 409 
 
 who increased almost to what — to her inexperience — ap- 
 peared a crowd, as she came out from the comparatively 
 bve- street into the more frequented thoroughfare, the 
 New Road, there was not one in whom she could claim 
 any interest, in whose face she could recognise any 
 familiar trait. Many — most — indeed, were too absorbed 
 in their own pursuits to bestow even a passing glance on 
 the stranger ; while from others Milly shrank with in- 
 stinctive aversion, from the bold stare, or the insidious 
 expression, which was no doubt intended to characterise 
 their admiration of beauty — beauty such as is seldom 
 beheld even where many are beautiful, in the different 
 resorts of London. It was too early in the day for many 
 of the gay or fashionable loungers, who then, much more 
 than now, were to be met with in this neighbourhood, 
 or Milly would not, perhaps, have escaped with so little 
 notice as she did, for hers was a face and form that 
 could not have been beheld without exciting the attention 
 of that class, to whom, indeed, her shrinking and modesty, 
 and the timidity which made her blush and avert her eyes 
 from every glance, would have been her most powerful 
 attraction ; but, even as it was, Milly found herself more 
 than once annoyed by the notice her appearance excited, 
 and was at length — by the perseverance of a well-dressed 
 middle-aged man, who contrived to pass and repass her 
 several times, seeking, as it appeared, some opportunity 
 of addressing her — induced to shorten her intended walk 
 and return, almost congratulating herself — as she turned 
 
 up Street — that she had a refuge, bad as it was, in 
 
 the " Harlequin," from attentions, which she could not 
 but feel were an insult. Almost had she reached the 
 door, the only door, as she felt at that moment with a 
 
 pang, that was open to her, or where she could claim 
 
 3 G 
 
410 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 protection, when a hand was placed upon her shoulder, 
 and a voice said in a familiar tone — 
 
 " Why are you hurrying so fast ? I hope you do not 
 wish to avoid giving me the opportunity of telling you 
 that you are the loveliest creature I ever beheld, and that 
 I should he very happy to prove to you — " 
 
 Milly threw the hand from her shoulder as if it had 
 been the touch of some noxious reptile, and without 
 attempting to utter any reply, rushed breathlessly into 
 the house — her temporary home, a few paces from which 
 only this rencontre had taken place. She had never 
 turned her head from the moment the man's persecuting 
 attention had induced her to return, but from the time 
 she re-entered the street, the measured sound of footsteps 
 behind her had raised the suspicion that she was followed, 
 and induced her to quicken her pace, so that she was 
 scarcely able to speak when she entered the bar, where 
 Mrs. Perkins was violently declaiming on some subject to 
 her husband and Mr. Briggs, who from their appearance 
 had both been hastily summoned from their beds. 
 
 The exclamation " Oh, here she is ! " and in a lower 
 tone "What a cursed fool you've made of yourself," from 
 the husband to the wife, betrayed at once to Milly that 
 her absence had given occasion to Mrs. Perkins's loud 
 declamation ; but the former's attention was too much 
 engrossed at that moment by another subject ; for through 
 the blind of the bar window, she could see that the man 
 who had followed her had not been discouraged, either by 
 her manner or her having found refuge there, into re- 
 linquishing his pursuit, but had crossed to the other 
 side of the narrow street and was looking up as if 
 scrutinising the appearance of the house, or expecting to 
 see some one at the upper windows. 
 
of woman's life. 411 
 
 Mrs. Perkins's furious looks had calmed down into the 
 most complacent smiles, and in a tone of affected tender- 
 ness she reproached Milly with having almost frightened 
 her to death, in going out without knowing her way, or 
 the ways of London, adding, that she didn't know which 
 was the most dangerous to a stranger, especially a young- 
 female. Mr. Perkins was looking as if he was hardly yet 
 fully awake and unable to comprehend what was the 
 cause of all the noise and bustle, or why he had been 
 called down before it was his sovereign pleasure to get 
 up ; whilst Mr. Briggs alone seemed to be quite collected, 
 and — to use an expression he was fond of applying to 
 himself — " to have all his wits about him." There was 
 a mystery in Milly's going out that he did not under- 
 stand, for as to the motive she alleged in answer to Mrs. 
 Perkins's inquiries, namely — that she wished to breathe 
 the fresh air and look about her a little, he did not 
 believe it. The breathless and perturbed look with which 
 she entered, confimied him in the belief that something 
 extraordinary had occurred, and already in imagination 
 he beheld the golden harvest which he expected to reap, 
 by keeping Milly entirely in his own power, snatched 
 from him by some one more cunning even than himself, 
 though who this was, or how he had become known to 
 her, he could form no idea. 
 
 Milly, however, read suspicion and distrust in the keen 
 and underhand look with which he watched her, and the 
 silence he preserved, so unlike the gay levity of his 
 manner on the night preceding. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins was now busily occupied in preparing 
 breakfast, and her husband, after a slight apology to 
 Milly, had lighted his pipe, and observing that he was 
 
412 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 never half himself till he'd had a dozen whiffs, began 
 smoking away. 
 
 " I think you had better take your whiffs at the door, 
 Perkins," observed Mr. Briggs, who had been attentively 
 watching Milly's countenance, and saw that she changed 
 colour. " Miss Shelburne is not used to tobacco at this 
 time of day." 
 
 Milly however eagerly protested that he was mistaken. 
 Her grandfather always smoked in the morning, she said, 
 and she begged Mr. Perkins would not disturb himself 
 on her account. 
 
 The fact was, she had again caught sight of her per- 
 secutor, and though she knew not why, she wished to 
 prevent his being discovered by her present companions, 
 which she feared would be the result, if the landlord 
 went to the door as his friend proposed. 
 
 Both Mr. Briggs and the landlord were, however, too 
 cunning for her to cope with. The keen eyes of the 
 former had detected her look through the blinds, and at 
 the same moment discovered what had caused her change 
 of countenance, although his view of the person had 
 been too transitory for him to have any idea as to 
 who it was that had occasioned her emotion. It is pro- 
 bable that some secret motive prevented his showing 
 himself at the door of the " Harlequin," and thus him- 
 self discovering whether he had any knowledge of 'this 
 formidable person ; but the manner in which he again 
 urged the landlord to smoke out the rest of his pipe at 
 the door, and especially the look he contrived to give 
 him unseen by Milly, at once awakened the former's 
 suspicions that there was something to be discovered, 
 and without making any reply he sauntered out of the 
 bar and took his post, as recommended, at the , door, 
 
 *' «*- 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 41o 
 
 while Mr. Briggs, satisfied of course that lie could de- 
 pend upon his sagacity, seated himself at the breakfast 
 table, from which Milly had hitherto kept back, anxious 
 to say what had been on her mind ever since Sally had 
 repeated to her Mrs. Perkins's observations,^and yet not 
 knowing how to introduce it so as to avoid giving rise to 
 suspicion. 
 
 ,l Come, Miss Sherburne, I'm sure you must be dying 
 for your breakfast after your early walk," observed the 
 landlady, as she proceeded to pour out the coffee. 
 
 " No, I do not feel any particular want of it, Ma'am,'' 
 returned Milly hesitatingly. " If, however, I shall not 
 be intruding on you, I may as well, I suppose, take it 
 with you, as give the trouble of making it separately.'' 
 
 Mrs. Perkins looked up at her with surprise, and from 
 her to Briggs, whose cup was arrested on its way to his 
 lips, evidently from the same cause. 
 
 " Well, I never ! — I really can't understand — what can 
 you mean, Miss Shelburne ? Is it that you do not think 
 us good enough company for you to sit down with?" de- 
 manded the landlady, her colour rising with her voice. 
 
 Milly hastened to assure her that she had totally mis- 
 taken her meaning. 
 
 " On the contrary, Mrs. Perkins," she observed, " it 
 is the consciousness that I have so little in my power to 
 recompense you for the trouble and expense I have been 
 to you, that renders me uncomfortable. If you will 
 allow me to pay for what I have had, the bed, &c. 3 the 
 same as you would charge any one else, it will be more 
 satisfactory, as I shall then know how my resources — " 
 
 " My good gracious ! whatever can have put such 
 thoughts into your head, my dear Miss Shelburne ?" 
 interrupted Mrs. Perkins, resuming all her good-humour, 
 
414 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 although Mr. Briggs's scrutinising looks at Milly betrayed 
 that he was far from satisfied with her explanation. 
 "Well," continued the landlady, "you don't know me 
 yet as well as I hope you will do in a little while, or else 
 you'd know that money's the last thing that I should 
 think of in such a case. No, no, Miss Shelburne ; don't 
 say another word about the trifling accommodation you 
 have had here, without you really wish to affront me 
 downright, and tell me that either you consider me a 
 mean creature, that thinks of nothing but making as 
 much as I can out of the chance that brought you here, 
 or that you fancy we're such a set of poor devils that 
 we can't afford to entertain a friend without being paid 
 for it." 
 
 " It is not likely that I should have come to either 
 conclusion," returned Milly with as much calmness as 
 she could assume ; " but, conscious as I must be that I 
 have no claim to such kindness from a stranger, it is 
 natural that I should be anxious to confine my expenses 
 within — " 
 
 " Well, but you seem to forget, Miss Shelburne, that 
 I, if not Mrs. Perkins, have a claim to be considered as 
 something more than a stranger ! " interrupted Mr. 
 Briggs, who read in Milly's tremulous voice and con- 
 fused manner from the very first, that there was some- 
 thing more than met the ear, some powerful motives that 
 influenced the latter, and those by no means to the advan- 
 tage of Mrs. Perkins, probably indeed the whole of them ; 
 though how she could have acquired, in so short a space 
 of time, any information on the subject he could form no 
 idea. Was it connected with the person whose appear- 
 ance in the street had evidently agitated and embarrassed 
 her ? It was the most rational conclusion he could come 
 
OF woman's LIFE. I 1"' 
 
 to at that moment, and he now awaited with increased 
 impatience the return of Perkins, who he could see still 
 retained his position, leaning against the door-post, the 
 opened glazed door intervening between them, but still 
 not preventing his (Briggs) observing his movements. 
 • The agreement between us," he continued, still address- 
 ing Millv, " of course renders our interest one and the 
 same ; and without saying a word against my friend, Mrs. 
 Perkins, who is one of the kindest, most free-hearted 
 women in the world, and will treat you, I'm sure, just 
 the same, even if there was no chance of her ever getting 
 a farthing by you, you must allow me to say, that I con- 
 sider myself as answerable for all your expenses, either 
 here or anywhere else." 
 
 Milly's face became crimson. 
 
 " I thank you, Sir, for your intentions," she replied in 
 a tone which, though she tried to suppress it, betrayed 
 how deeply her pride was wounded-—" I thank you, but 
 I have sufficient, I hope, to defray all my expenses until 
 I meet with my mother, which I trust will not be many 
 hours ; and until which, of course, I must decline enter- 
 ing into any definitive arrangements." 
 
 Mr. Briggs played with his spoon on the edge of his 
 tea-cup, changed his position once or twice, and then 
 commenced deliberately breaking an egg, without utter- « 
 ing a word in reply, while Mrs. Perkins evidently sought 
 to meet his eyes, as if waiting from his looks to receive 
 some hint as to how she should act. She had appa- 
 rently felt a strong impulse to disclaim any reliance on 
 Mr. Bviggs's security at first, but a second thought had 
 kept her silent; at the present moment she knew not 
 whether it was her cue to be offended, or continw 
 neuter. 
 
ilG SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Mr. Briggs, however, did not raise his head. Either 
 he was entirely occupied with his breakfast, or Milly's 
 reply had given him food for meditation that rendered 
 him unconscious of Mrs. Perkins's dilemma. 
 
 " Come, Perkins, ain't you coming to your breakfast?" 
 she at length called out in a peevish tone. " We're all 
 waiting for you — at least, me and Miss Whats-her- 
 narae." 
 
 " The last words were uttered hesitatingly, and they 
 seemed to have the effect of instantly recalling Mr. 
 Briggs to recollection. 
 
 " I beg you ten thousand pardons, I'm sure," he ob- 
 served, starting up. "I have been behaving with great 
 remissness, but I was so confounded hungry that I for- 
 got I wasn't at home. Do pray be seated, Miss Shel- 
 burne," and he almost forced Milly into the chair he had 
 vacated. " Mrs. Perkins, my dear Madam, can I assist 
 you ? Let me pour out the coffee ; or, shall I go and 
 fetch our friend in from the door, while you help your- 
 self and Miss Shelburne ? He's such a devotee to le 
 tabac, as the French people say, that when he once gets 
 it in his mouth he forgets everything else, even his 
 breakfast aud the ladies." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins uttered a rather sulky assent to the latter 
 proposal, and Mr. Briggs having seated Milly, who could 
 no longer evade the invitation, left Mrs. Perkins and her 
 together. 
 
 Although he had framed the pretext of summoning the 
 landlord to breakfast, Mr. Briggs had some minutes be- 
 fore discovered that the former had quitted his post at 
 the door, and now, as he cautiously looked out, he dis- 
 covered him in earnest conversation with, as he guessed, 
 the same person whose appearance in the street had 
 
OF woman's life. 417 
 
 discomfited Milly, and at the same time ascertained that 
 he was not any one -whom he had any reason to avoid, 
 or be afraid of recognising on the score he had at first 
 apprehended: though, on another account, his appear- 
 ance there was as unwelcome as it was surprising to him, 
 the person in question being what he (Briggs) would, in 
 his favourite slang, have called a " brother chip," that is 
 to sav a musician, though of a somewhat superior and 
 more respectable class than the hero of the " Harlequin." 
 That Mr. Palmer Fitzroy — as this gentleman was called 
 — could have come there, and at that time of day, with 
 any other purpose than that of supplanting him in his 
 proposed engagement with Miss Shelburne, and that it 
 was from him she had acquired information derogatory to 
 his character, and that of his associates, as also that her 
 going out that morning was to meet Mr. Fitzroy, in 
 pursuance of some pre-arrangement, seemed too palpable 
 to admit of doubt; and yet, if it were so, how completely 
 must he have been deceived altogether as to the situation, 
 character, and circumstances of his intended victim. In 
 a moment he saw all his plans blasted, all the advantages 
 he had hoped to derive from her being so utterly unpro- 
 tected, and, as it were, isolated — for, so far from assisting 
 her efforts to find her mother, Mr. Briggs had determined 
 to oppose every possible obstacle at least until he 
 had got her completely in his power, until it would be 
 impossible for her to retreat — all the web that he had 
 spun with so much diligence, industry, aud foresight, in 
 the few hours that hud intervened since the unfortunate 
 girl's ill fortune had thrown her. as he believed, inextri- 
 cably within his clutches — all were now blown up, scat- 
 tered to the winds, by the appearance of Mr. Palmer 
 
 Fitzroy. Scarcelv could he refrain from rushing into the 
 
 :* h 
 
418 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 room and accusing her at once of falsehood and duplicity 
 — of having imposed upon himself and his friends with 
 a feigned tale of her misfortunes and distress ; for such 
 it undoubtedly must be— of exposing her assumed mo- 
 desty and reserve, her airs of haughtiness, and pretended 
 spirit of pride and independence. 
 
 " Ha-ha-ha !" he laughed with bitterness, as these 
 ideas rapidly chased each other through his scheming 
 and inventive brain. " And I to be done — done brown — 
 by a mere country wench, a bit of a girl like that — one 
 that I fancied I could twist round my finger. It cannot 
 be so ; that face, that look of innocence, cannot be put 
 on. There must have been some accidental meeting — 
 some chance — that put Mr. Fitz on the scent, and he has 
 taken advantage of the opportunity to warn her that she 
 has got into bad hands. Yes, that must be it. I am 
 eure it is so. Perhaps he is not even now aware of the 
 treasure she might be made in skilful hands. She could 
 not — it is not in her line to boast of her talents. Even 
 me she left to find out what she could do, instead of 
 bragging of more than she knew anything about, as most 
 of them do. It must be that her beautiful face has 
 caught him. He is a fool, I know, who has spent a for- 
 tune upon beauties and — Yes, I should be a greater 
 fool than him to risk losing her by breaking out without 
 being sure, and before I know either what he has been 
 saying to Perkins. Surely he won't be such a stupid ass 
 as to blab, if Fitzroy don't know that she is one of us, or 
 that she has come to London to make her first appearance 
 at the ' Harlequin.' Ha-ha-ha !" and again Mr. Briggs 
 laughed, but this time with very different feelings to the first 
 laugh, for it was now in chuckling derision, as he added — 
 " I wonder what Mr. Palmer Fitzroy would think of 
 
of woman's life. 419 
 
 such a first appearance, such a face and figure, such a 
 piano player, and such a splendid voice, at the ' Harle- 
 quin,' under engagement to Frederick Augustus Briggs, 
 Esquire ? Wouldn't Mister Palmer Fitzroy open his 
 ugly eyes a hit, and wonder where the devil I'd picked up 
 such a chance, and curse me and his own luck ? I 
 helieve you, my hoy !" 
 
 During these contradictory reflections, Mr. Briggs's 
 eyes had heen fixed on the beautiful face that had been 
 the principal subject of them, but he saw nothing there 
 but what tended to confirm him in the hopes and views 
 which were founded on the conviction of the sincerity 
 and truth of its possessor. Once, indeed, he caught a 
 momentary expression of contempt on Milly's counte- 
 nance, as she replied to some observation of her com- 
 panion, Mrs. Perkins ; but he was well aware that the 
 landlady's remarks were often such as could not fail to 
 awaken such sentiments in the heart of so superior and 
 refined a being, and he felt that expression, however she 
 might under present circumstances endeavour to conceal 
 it, was rather in favour of Milly's character than other- 
 wise ; and he returned into the bar, with a determination 
 not to betray by word or action that he had met with 
 anything to disturb the suavity, good-humour, and 
 light-heartedness under which he concealed the workings 
 of his busy brain — the plots dark and dangerous which 
 had for their view solely his own advancement, and were 
 neither restrained nor affected in the slightest degree by 
 any consideration for the welfare or ruin of any human 
 being who might chance to be concerned or interested in 
 them. 
 
 " It is no use to wait for Perky, my dear Mrs. P — ," 
 he observed in a tone of nonchalance ; " he's got into a 
 
420 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 gossip with one of his cronies, and you might as well 
 try to move St. Paul's, or the Monument, as to get him 
 to come in till they have it out." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins made some pettish remark, which con- 
 cluded with her determination not to keep the breakfast 
 things standing about all day, if he didn't choose to come 
 when other people had theirs ; but she had scarcely con- 
 cluded the sentence, when the landlord himself entered, 
 and in apparent haste demanded his coat and necker- 
 chief, both of which articles he was without. 
 
 " Fetch 'em, then, if you want 'em," replied the lady, 
 angrily ; " you don't expect I am going to leave my 
 breakfast to wait upon you. Besides, if you've stay'd so 
 long out of doors without, you can manage to eat your 
 breakfast without them, I should think." 
 
 Mr. Perkins seemed about to answer in the same 
 strain, but he recollected himself, and calmly replied — 
 " I shan't want any — at least, none of your slops. Draw 
 me a pint of best ale, Betsey, and I'll go up-stairs and 
 put my coat on the while. Come, no grumbling," he 
 added, "my woman, I am going a little way on business." 
 
 "Yes, your business is to go and get drunk, and leave 
 everything for me to do, I suppose," she replied; "but 
 recollect, if you do — " 
 
 A look of peculiar significance, followed by the polite 
 reply — " You're a fool, and don't know what you're talking 
 about," silenced the lady, however, and Mr. Perkins left 
 the bar, observing — 
 
 " You'd better come up-stairs and put yourself to 
 rights a bit, hadn't you, Briggs ?" an intimation which that 
 gentleman obeyed without any remark, though not without 
 exciting a look of surprise from Mrs. Perkins, who evi- 
 dently comprehended there was something which she did 
 
of woman's life. 421 
 
 not understand, though she was too prudent, and too 
 much accustomed to affairs of mysterious import, to 
 make any remarks. 
 
 Not one of these looks, or signals as they might have 
 heen called — common-place as their words and suhjects 
 were — had escaped Milly Shelhurne's notice. Her sus- 
 picions had heen thoroughly aroused by the communica- 
 tions of the girl Sally, and she was disposed to substitute 
 for her naturally open, unsuspecting disposition, which 
 saw no guile in aught that appeared fair, cause for fear 
 and alarm, and reason to apprehend evil meaning in all 
 that passed among her present associates, against whom 
 she had received such serious, and apparently kind and 
 disinterested warnings. 
 
 A few minutes passed in silence after the departure of 
 the two men. Mrs. Perkins obeyed her husband's order, 
 and placed his ale and glass in readiness for him, and 
 then returned to the breakfast table ; while Milly, her 
 eyes fixed on the window, tried in vain to assign some 
 reason for the looks she had observed, and which she had 
 some vague idea were connected with the person whose 
 perseverance had so annoyed her. 
 
 And yet it was certain Mrs. Perkins could not have 
 seen or known anything of that occurrence, though she 
 had acted as if she perfectly understood her husband's 
 significant look, and obeyed it by refraining from any 
 further observation. Too little experienced in the ways 
 of London to be aware that it was a common event that 
 had occurred to her, to he followed by an idle profligate 
 man. attracted by her beautiful face and form, and who 
 wa3 further emboldened in addressing her by the charac- 
 ter of the street into which she had turned, and the sort 
 of house which she had entered— as he probably sup- 
 
422 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 posed, merely for some temporary purpose. Believing — 
 as such a man would believe — that her apparent modesty, 
 and the alarm with which she had retreated from his 
 familiar address, were assumed as one of the modes of 
 attraction of that unhappy class, who pay an unconscious 
 tribute to virtue even in the midst of vice, by assuming 
 its appearance — Milly attached an importance to this 
 man's attention and perseverance which any one more 
 experienced, or better acquainted with all the attendant 
 circumstances, would not have thought of doing ; and 
 thus it was, that he still remained and became mixed up 
 in her mind with what she had observed strange and 
 mysterious in the looks and manners of Mr. Perkius and 
 his friend. She saw no more of him, however ; but her 
 evident abstraction and uneasiness had not escaped the 
 observation of her wily though excessively ignorant com- 
 panion, who suddenly observed — 
 
 " You don't seem to have bettered yourself much by 
 your walk this morning, Miss Shelburne. I declare, 
 you look paler and more sorrowful-like now, than when 
 you first came, and you've eat nothing hardly. I wish I 
 could persuade you to do as I do. I shouldn't be able 
 to eat a morsel, or be fit for anything all day, if I didn't 
 take a spoonful or two of brandy in my coffee ; indeed, 
 the doctor prescribed it for me, so that I'm sure it 
 couldn't harm you." 
 
 Milly, however, decidedly though firmly rejected this 
 friendly offer, and Mrs. Perkins observed, that she wished 
 she knew what would do her guest good and raise her 
 spirits, adding in a friendly tone, that would have had 
 the effect of rendering Milly very grateful, if she had not 
 been prejudiced against her companion, that " it really 
 made her quite unhappy to see her so cast down." 
 

 of woman's life. 423 
 
 " I shall never feel otherwise," observed Milly, some- 
 what abruptly, " while I am still in uncertainty about my 
 mother. Do not be angry with me, Mrs. Perkins, or 
 think me ungrateful ; I am, indeed, truly grateful for any 
 kiudness, and I shall feel indebted to you for ever, if 
 you will urge Mr. Briggs and your husband, who both 
 promised me to lose no time to-day in searching for Mr. 
 Morison, my mother's husband; and now I am afraid" — 
 she burst into tears — " I am afraid that Mr. Perkins is 
 going out, and from your observation he may not return 
 for some hours ; and — and I will not disguise from you 
 the truth, I depended more on him than Mr. Briggs, who 
 is — I do not wish to offend you as his friend ; but he 
 appears to be less in earnest, too — too — " 
 
 " Too full of his joke and fun. I know what you 
 mean to say, my dear," returned Mrs. Perkins, smiling. 
 " Well, I believe you are in the right, for it's a hard 
 matter to get him to be serious. However, I'll go and give 
 'em both a good talking to about it, and if I find that 
 Perkins is going off on the spree, as I did suppose he 
 was, I'll make him give it up, and go at once about 
 your business." 
 
 Before the landlady had reached the top of the stairs 
 the two men were coming down, and Mrs. Perkins com- 
 menced pleading Milly's cause with so much earnestness 
 and apparent sincerity, that it was scarcely possible for 
 the latter to mistrust her, or believe that she was other- 
 wise than in earnest. Mr. Perkins, who appeared very 
 anxious to get away, assured Milly that his absence 
 would not exceed an hour, but it was business that could 
 not be put off. 
 
 " But I will come back then," he concluded, " and 
 Freddy (Briggs) and I will have a snack and go off at 
 
424 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 once. So keep up your sperrits, Miss, for Ave shall be 
 sure to bring you good news. Perhaps, bring your 
 mother back with us." 
 
 With this promise Milly was of course compelled to 
 appear content; but it did not escape her now keen 
 observation, that Mr. Briggs said not a word in confir- 
 mation of his friend's prediction, but kept his eyes stu- 
 diously turned away from Perkins, as if he knew that 
 Milly was watching him, and sought to read in his coun- 
 tenance that which he avoided uttering. 
 
 "I wonder who it is he's gone with?" observed Mrs. 
 Perkins to the latter, some minutes after her husband 
 had hurried away. 
 
 Mr. Briggs glanced hastily at Milly. That glance re- 
 vealed volumes to her, for it confirmed all her previous 
 suspicions, that she was in some way concerned in his 
 (Perkins's) " important business," and she scarcely sup- 
 pressed an expression of contemptuous disbelief, as he 
 replied carelessly — 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure. In fact, I did not ask 
 him, for I saw he wasn't in the best of humours, and 
 should, maybe, have got my head in my hand if I had 
 bothered him with any questions." 
 
 " Ah ! you're a proper sly old fox, Mr. Freddy," ob- 
 served Mrs. Perkins, looking after him as he sauntered 
 out of the room, and speaking rather to herself than to 
 Milly, whose dislike of Mr. Briggs, and suspicions of his 
 utter worthlessness, increased with all she saw or heard 
 of him. "Now, do you know," continued the landlady, 
 " I'd bet a crown to a shilling that he knows all about it 
 as well as Perkins his own self; but the men are all 
 alike — all stick to one another to deceive the poor 
 women. Not but what Briggs isn't about the best of 
 
OF woman's LIFE. 425 
 
 'em — he's a proper woman's friend when he has the op- 
 portunity; though, like all the rest on 'em, there's no 
 getting a secret out on him. It's the only thing him and 
 I quarrels about, that he'll never tell me nothing about 
 Perkins's secrets ; where he goes, or what he does, when 
 he's away from home. I do believe, if I were to go down 
 on mv knees, and beg of him till I was black in the 
 face, I shouldn't get a word out on him." 
 
 It was very evident that Mrs. Perkins imagined that 
 she was exalting Freddy, as she called him, in her com- 
 panion's estimation, by relating these traits of character : 
 but she looked rather puzzled when Milly, who saw she 
 was expected to say something in the way of reply, 
 remarked, that she should not have imagined that hus- 
 bands could have so little confidence in their wives, or, 
 in fact, could have secrets that they entrusted to others, 
 or that required such confidants. 
 
 ' c Mr. Briggs is, however, I believe, a married man 
 himself ?" she added, as if not quite certain of the fact. 
 The landlady looked for a moment doubtful how to 
 replv to this. She was not aware what the gentleman 
 in question might have thought it necessary or proper 
 to assert on the subject ; and therefore answered with 
 what she undoubtedly thought a prudent and cautious 
 reserve — 
 
 " Why, I'll tell you candidly, Miss Shelbume, I can 
 neither say yes, or no, to that question. There is a 
 Mistress Briggs, certainly, for I've seen the woman that 
 goes by that name, though I never had any acquaintance 
 with her. Indeed, I should be very sorry to have any- 
 thing to do with such a person ; and, I can only say, I'm 
 very sorry for poor Briggs, if she really is his wife, for 
 
 she's very unworthv of such a station. But, we know 
 
 3 i 
 
426 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 men are foolish, imprudent creatures, and often get taken 
 in by low artful women, 'specially such thoughtless 
 giddy fellows as Briggs. I hope, however," she added, 
 after a few moments' pause, as if fearful she had said too 
 much, or had, perhaps, been making a representation 
 that might be at variance with what he had himself said 
 on the same subject ; " I do hope that you won't say 
 anything about what I've told you, for Briggs never says 
 nothing about it himself, and I wouldn't hurt his feelings 
 for the world, 'specially as I may be wrong altogether, 
 and it may be quite different from what I've been told." 
 
 Milly coolly observed, that it was very improbable she 
 should have any communication on such a subject with 
 Mr. Briggs ; at all events, she would take care that Mrs. 
 Perkins should not suffer for her confidence in her, 
 adding, with apparent carelessness — 
 
 " I hope he has no children to increase the misery of 
 such a union as this appears to be?" 
 
 " Oh dear, no !" replied Mrs. Perkins, quite thrown off 
 her guard; while Milly blushed almost with shame, at the 
 consciousness that she was imitating the deceptions that 
 had been practised towards herself. " Oh, no ! he has 
 no children. I 've often heard him say, in a joc'lar style, 
 how lucky it was that he 'd never been troubled with no 
 brats ; though, if he had, he should have got rid of 'em 
 in the same manner people get rid of kittens, put 'em in 
 a pail of water and hold 'em down with a mop till they 
 were done squeaking. You know that was fun, of course, 
 but, I really believe he was serious in saying that he was 
 very glad he had no children ; for in the first place he 
 hated their noise and the fuss that is made about them, 
 and in the second he would have hated still more the 
 expense they would have been; and the only thing he 
 
of woman's life. 427 
 
 could have done with a family would have been to have 
 put them in the workhouse, and have set off to America." 
 
 Milly did not animadvert on this very feeling, or very 
 honourable proposition for getting rid of a family ; she 
 was contrasting it in her mind with the pathetic tone in 
 which he had pleaded with her, and excited her compas- 
 sion for his " dear and suffering wife," his " poor innocent 
 children, dependent entirely on their father's exertions 
 for support," the night before, when he had almost 
 thrown himself on his knees to prevail on her not to 
 bring ruin upon them, by persisting in her resolution not 
 to sing for the gratification of his patrons ; and again 
 his animated, almost oppressive expressions of gratitude, 
 in which he had wished that the poor creatures — his wife 
 and children — were there, and could know the value of 
 the obligation she had conferred, that they might join 
 with him in gratitude for it. She recalled the tremulous 
 tone, and saw him, while apparently seeking to hide the 
 tears which he dashed from his eyes, as he murmured, 
 pressing her hand as he led her back to the piano-forte, 
 "Heaven bless you, for you have saved me and mine from 
 ruiu, and I will teach them to blend your name in 
 their innocent nightly prayers with those of their sick 
 and suffering mother, and their unworthy but grateful 
 father." 
 
 " And all this was false, invented at the moment to 
 answer his mean dirty purposes — to add a few pounds, 
 perhaps a few shillings only to what he expected to gain 
 by her exertions — to secure the patronage, as he called 
 it, of people with whom she felt it a disgrace to be asso- 
 ciated even in name." 
 
 Milly could no longer admit a doubt, or rather, she 
 could not indulge a hope, that the representations of the 
 
•128 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 poor girl — the servant-maid — were true, that she (Sally) 
 was right in cautioning her to he on her guard, to get 
 away, in fact, from those who were alike despicahle and 
 dangerous, who now, only for their own purposes, affected a 
 kindness that was foreign to their hearts — their natures ; 
 and she shuddered at the thought how soon she should 
 he utterly hopeless — dependent upon them — should she 
 not speedily succeed in discovering her mother. Were 
 they (Briggs and his associates), sincere in their pro- 
 fessed wishes to do so? Milly unconsciously clasped her 
 hands with an expression of utter despair as this thought 
 suggested itself to her mind, and at the same moment 
 discovered that Briggs was watching her intently through 
 the moveable glass window of the bar, outside of which 
 he had, unseen by her, stationed himself to smoke his pipe. 
 
 '•' I hope this don't annoy you here, Miss Shelburne ?" 
 he observed, raising the sash for a moment, and without 
 appearing to have seen or noticed the vehement gestures 
 that had been excited by her despairing feelings. 
 
 But a few minutes before Milly had thought how diffi- 
 cult it would be for her to conceal the contempt, the utter 
 disgust she felt towards him, in consequence of Mrs. 
 Perkins's unconscious confirmation of the falsehood and 
 deception he had practised towards her. Now, on the 
 contrary, Milly was only disturbed by the belief that he 
 must have seen and in some measure comprehended her 
 involuntary betrayal of her feelings. She felt she hardly 
 knew how to explain her motives, for allowing those 
 whom she now considered as dangerous enemies to 
 remain under the delusion that she still considered them 
 as friends; and, averse as her natural disposition was to 
 everything like deceit or even temporising with those she 
 despised, she determined, that so long as it continued 
 
of woman's life. 129 
 
 possible, or depended on her, she would not betray to 
 them that she even suspected them to be other than they 
 appeared to be. 
 
 Fortunately, she had from the first treated Mr. Briggs 
 with much more coldness and reserve than she had either 
 of his friends ; and there was nothing, therefore, new in 
 the manner in which she replied, " That she was accus- 
 tomed to her grandfather's smoking, and therefore felt no 
 annoyance from it" — nothing that betrayed her present 
 feelings towards him, the change from dislike and con- 
 tempt — which he had from the first excited — to utter 
 abhorrence, fear, and disgust. 
 
 " Well then," he replied, with that familiarity that he 
 assumed to all Avhom he addressed, " if you don't mind 
 the pipe, I 11 come and have a bit of chat, while the 
 Missus is gone to get some luncheon ready ; for I sup- 
 pose Perky wont be long before he's back." 
 
 "Ah ! let you alone for looking out after the vittling 
 department, as Perkins calls it," observed the landlady, 
 who, seated in an easy chair, seemed by no means to 
 approve of being roused from her indulgence, and, 
 perhaps, felt inclined to resent this virtual exclusion 
 from " the bit of chat." 
 
 "Well, now, if that isn't the height of ingratitude, 
 Mrs. P.," he returned laughing. " I just ventured to 
 give you a gentle hint, because I know what a deuce of a 
 bobbery Perky would kick up if he came home and 
 didn't see the tray ready ; and because I know, like a 
 tender, indulgent little wife as you are, you always prefer 
 that your own fair hands should prepare the banquet — as 
 they sav in Macbeth — and then you accuse me of looking 
 to the indulgence of my own appetite, even though I 
 give up the supreme felicity of your company, and — " 
 
430 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Oh ! hold your bother, do," replied the elegant land- 
 lady, who was, however, evidently gratified by the com- 
 pliments, which to Milly bore much more the appearance 
 of irony than truth, and flirting her pocket handkerchief 
 in his face, she ran rompingly out of the room, and then 
 lifting the sash for an instant, exclaimed — 
 
 " I say, Mr. Fred ! mind what you're after ; don't go 
 to be making love to Miss Shelburne, or else you know, 
 I shall tell tales, you know where." 
 
 Milly's pale face became crimsoned with indignation, 
 but Briggs's manner immediately restored her equanimity. 
 
 " Kidiculous !" he exclaimed in an under tone ; " that 
 woman hasn't common sense enough to make proper 
 distinctions with her paltry thread-bare jokes. I wanted, 
 Miss Shelburne," he continued, " to have a few minutes 
 talk with you upon business, as Perkins and I shall lose 
 no time, but start directly he comes home upon your 
 affairs." 
 
 Milly bowed. She was too suspicious — too much 
 afraid now of deception — to utter a word more than was 
 necessary, or to give credit for anything until she saw it 
 realised. She did not, therefore, even thank him for the 
 intention he expressed, though he paused as if he ex- 
 pected it. 
 
 " I tell you what it is, Miss Shelburne," he resumed, 
 " the truth is always the best and goes farthest, and so 
 I '11 tell you the truth how we stand, Perkins and I, with 
 regard to our Concert Room. We've laid out a deal of 
 money upon it, as you must see, as well as that there's 
 a good deal yet to be done. We wanted, you see, if we 
 could, to open it with you next Monday (Whitsun 
 Monday) ; but — please to hear me out" — for Milly was 
 about to interrupt him with a protest against forming 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 431 
 
 any engagement till she had seen her mother, hut she 
 let him proceed. "You see, we are just now at a stand 
 still, as I may say, for a few pounds, though three days' 
 work would finish it. Well, the truth is, Perkins has 
 got a friend — that's where he's gone now, though I 
 wouldn't tell Mrs. P. — one in my own line, though I don't 
 say much for his talents, but that's neither here nor 
 there ; he's got the needful, that is to say the money, and 
 he proposes to help us through — though it can't he done 
 by Monday — upon this condition. He — Fitzroy, his name 
 is Palmer Fitzroy ; you must have seen his name in the 
 papers. He's a very popular dinner singer, as we call it. 
 Sings at the Crown and Anchor, London Tavern, Free- 
 mason's Tavern, &e., &c. ; all among the nobs, you see ; 
 I don't do much in that way myself, though I sometimes 
 oblige a friend. It lets a man down to make his name 
 too common, and I'm so well known among the nobs, I 
 can't go under another name, as many do. Heaven bless 
 you " — he continued, misinterpreting Milly's involuntary 
 look of surprise at this assumption, from a man whose 
 coat and hat would have barred him from admission 
 even among the waiters, and supposing it to have been 
 occasioned by disbelief of his assertion — " Heaven bless 
 you, I've known a medical man in good practice in his 
 profession — an ammerture, as they say in the French- — 
 a capital voice, poor fellow ; he's dead now — I've known 
 him, I say, go night after night, under another name, to 
 them places to sing ' Noti Nobis' (grace, you know,) a 
 couple of songs, get a capital dinner, plenty of wine, and 
 pocket his two guineas as if he was one of us. 'Pleasanter 
 work, Freddy, my boy,' he used to say to me, ' than being 
 rung out of bed in the night to bring squalling brats into 
 the world, or listen to old women's stories of their aches 
 
432 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and pains.' Beg your pardon, Miss Shelburne, but those 
 were his very words, when he and I sang together at the 
 Freemason's Tavern. I forget the occasion, but a devilish 
 good dinner we had. The poor doctor, as we used to call 
 him — he was a regular surgeon, as I told you before — 
 had a what-dye-call-it, a diplomer, from the college; he 
 was devilishly jealous of me, because I had a double 
 encore. It was his only fault, poor fellow. Let me see, 
 I forget what I sung that night, but I beat him out and 
 out in the ' Non Nobis ;' my voice told there. I could 
 beat him into fits at it. But let me see, I forgot, I de- 
 clare, what I was telling you. Oh ! well, Fitzroy — Palmer 
 Fitzroy — has offered to help us out with the tin for the 
 room, on condition we give him a friendly turn. I don't 
 suppose you know much about the Eastern part of 
 London — Eotherhithe, Deptford, and thereabouts?" 
 
 Milly briefly replied that she had never heard of the 
 places he named. 
 
 " No, I thought not," he replied. " Well, you see, Miss 
 Shelburne, there are, on the other side of the river, over 
 London Bridge, in fact in Surrey, very respectable 
 places, I assure you, and so quiet. Eotherhithe — Kedriff 
 some call it, but that's vulgar, I never call it so myself 
 — Eotherhithe is remarkably quiet, a capital place for a 
 duddle." And Mr. Briggs paused as if connecting some 
 peculiarly pleasant recollections connected with the last 
 expression, which was quite unintelligible to Milly ; 
 though it was afterwards explained as being the slang 
 term for itinerant, or street singing, " Well, I shall get 
 to the end of my story presently. There is a most de- 
 lightful place of amusement, you see, at Eotherhithe, or 
 rather on the lower road to Deptford — the Lower Eoad, 
 as it is called, for there are two roads — called the St. 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 4^o 
 
 Helena Tea Gardens. You have heard of Vauxhall, of 
 course, Miss Shelburne ?" 
 
 "Yes, one of the most perfect recollections I retain 
 of my father, is his taking me to Vauxhall and seating 
 me on his shoulder, that I might see as well as hear the 
 singers," replied Milly. " I have heard my mother say 
 too, that his great ambition was to see me at no very 
 distant time eclipsing all the vocalists there, though 
 there were some then who bore a high name in the 
 profession." 
 
 '• Ah, indeed ! Well, that's sing'lar, and so you'll say, 
 
 when I've told you all our plans," returned Briggs, 
 
 looking highly delighted. "Well, you see, the place I'm 
 
 talking of — the St. Helena — is a second Vauxhall. The 
 
 Eastern Vauxhall, we call it. One of the loveliest places 
 
 vour eyes ever beheld. More romantic and much more 
 
 select than any of the other places in London. There's a 
 
 Bali-room and a Orchester, and such a Organ, it's worth 
 
 going, if it's only to hear that. They get up dramatic 
 
 pieces too in style, but the crack thing is their concerts. 
 
 Bless you, all the Dons from the Opera and Covent 
 
 Garden, and Drury Lane, sing there at times. I've seen 
 
 Mrs. Billington and Incledon, and Mrs. Crouch, and 
 
 Miss De Camp, and Madam Storace, and Dicky Suett, 
 
 and a dozen others that I can't think of now, but you 
 
 may guess what a tip-top place it is. The Prince of 
 
 Wales, before he was Prince Regent, and the Duke of 
 
 Clarence, and their lords and ladies in waiting, used to 
 
 be there night after night, supping in the boxes Ah ! 
 
 manv a spree I've seen there with George, as they used 
 
 to call the Prince, and that Colonel Hanger, and their 
 
 set. He's got steadier, you know; but, as I often say, he's 
 
 no chicken, and a man can't keep it up for ever, you know. 
 
 3 k 
 
434 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 However, to come to the pint, as Perkins says — I often 
 bother him by telling him he'd rather make it a quart, if 
 anybody else pays for it — but Perky can't smoke the 
 Joke. He ain't very bright you know in the upper story," 
 — Mr. Briggs tapped his forehead with his fingers. " I 
 could tell you some capital stories how I've roasted him, 
 but I havn't time now, or I should make you die o' laugh- 
 ing. After all, though, he's a thorough good fellow, and 
 it's a man's misfortune, not his fault, to be born ignorant. 
 However, to go on with my story, Fitzroy — Palmer 
 Fitzroy — you know, is our friend, but he's one that 
 always looks to the main chance. Nothing for nothing, 
 is Fitzie's motto. You see he has engaged the Garden 
 and Ball-room, and all the etceteras, at the St. Helena, 
 and opens on Monday next, Whitsun Monday, with a 
 Concert, Ball, and miscellaneous entertainments. I ain't 
 got a bill " — feeling in his pockets as if he expected to 
 find one — tc or else you'd see directly what a prime, bang- 
 up affair it is. He wauted all along for me to join the 
 scheme, but you see, I thought we should be able to 
 open ourselves, and so I said 'No' to all he offered. Well, 
 now, you see, the case is altered, and so, when he offered to 
 stand the tin for us, \ Avas, in course, obliged to agree to 
 have my name put into his bills, to play a solo on the 
 violin, sing one or two of my favourites, and, in short, to 
 make myself generally useful. It would have been like the 
 dog in the manger, you know, to refuse, though I shan't 
 get much by it, nothing like what I ought to have. But 
 you see, I've got another object in view. I needn't tell 
 you, with your good sense, Miss Shelburne, what a 
 wonderful advantage it will be to you to make your first 
 appearance, your deboo — as the French say — at the 
 Eastern Vauxhall, instead of the * Harlequin.' In fact" 
 
of woman's life. 435 
 
 — dwelling emphatically on the two words, and repeating 
 them — "In fact, it's such a chance as mightn't happen 
 again in your whole life. Next to the Operar, in the 
 Haymarket you know — that in course we'll leaye out of 
 the question — but next to that, if I'd picked all London 
 to set you forrard in the road to fortune, as Shakespeare 
 says, I should have chosen the St. Helena. I saw in a 
 minute, when my own engagement was settled, what 
 might be done by cleyer management. But it wouldn t 
 do for me to put myself too forrard ; and then I knew 
 Fitzroy had engaged most of his ladies, and that they 
 was sure to be tip-top ones. He never has none of your 
 muffs ; none of your squalling ammertures. or half-and- 
 half Misses, that hardly know the gammut. But then, 
 he hadn't yet got a Primer Donnar. He hadn't quite 
 settled in his mind who he would have. As good luck 
 would have it, one or two that he'd thought of having 
 was out of town. Mrs. Dickons, you know, was ill ; and 
 Miss Duncan and Fitzroy had a row. It was just as if 
 it had been a purpose. Fitzroy was quite up in the 
 stdraps at first. He wouldn't hear of it — Xo, he must 
 have a first rater. I hinted how very moderate your 
 terms would be. Swore the Dickonses and Duncans, and 
 the rest of em, was n't to be spoke of in the same day 
 with you. This, in course, was before I'd seen you ; but 
 I knew Morison was to be depended on, and he had told 
 what indeed. I find, falls far short of the truth, as to Miss 
 Sheiburne's talents and beauty." 
 
 Mr. Briggs seemed to think that this compliment, and 
 especially the dancing-master's bow which accompanied 
 it, must inevitably call forth some acknowledgment 
 from Milly. but she still retained the same calm, frigid, 
 though attentive manner, with which she had listened to 
 him from the first, and he zesumed — 
 
486 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " I knew, the minute I saw you, your success was 
 certain ; I may say, your fortune made, Miss Shelburne, 
 for, I believe I've told you before, Mr. Palmer Fitzroy 
 worships beauty. However, I had my reasons for not 
 finally settling the business. By keeping them off you 
 draw them on, as the song says, and so its only this 
 very morning that Perkins is gone to conclude the matter. 
 I needn't hardly tell you that you won't put much in 
 your pocket by it, but still, half a loaf's better than no 
 bread at all ; and, I hope you won't be vexed at my agree- 
 ing for you to take a guinea for your services for the 
 three days — Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. In 
 course, you know you can't expect to be paid like the 
 old established favourites — and Fitzroy 's a regular screw 
 in money matters, though he won't behave shabby to you 
 in the way of refreshments, &c, I know. I told Perkins, 
 if he could, to get the guinea down on the nail, because, 
 in course you'll want a dress, shoes, and so on ; but, 
 howsomever, if Fitzroy won't knuckle down, as the 
 saying is, he or I must manage to lend it you, till he pays 
 you. You see, I shouldn't hesitate if it was ten times as 
 much, only, as I said before, we have laid out so much 
 on the concert-room, and one thing or another, that we 
 are completely stumped till we open ; and then the tin 
 will begin to roll in like nothing at all, and every thing 
 else beside, as the saying is." 
 
 Eapidly as Mr. Briggs had poured forth this artfully 
 constructed detail, and plausibly as he had contrived to 
 make the inducements appear, to induce Milly to accede 
 without hesitation to the engagement with Mr. Fitzroy, 
 the latter was by no means disposed to become a passive 
 instrument in his hands. Suspicion had been too firmly 
 engrafted on her mind by what she had already discovered. 
 
of woman's life. 437 
 
 There were several palpable inconsistencies and incon- 
 gruities, that did not escape her naturally clear and acute 
 understanding, in spite of his volubility, and seemingly 
 careless, unpremeditated manner of telling the tale. 
 There were some things, too, that her feelings and her 
 pride greatly revolted against, the last especially — the 
 requiring the paltry payment in advance — sent the blood 
 into her cheeks, and rendered it difficult for her to restrain 
 from an angry denunciation of the whole scheme with all 
 its advantages. But alas ! Milly was already beginning 
 to anticipate with terror the consequences of poverty, 
 should she fail in immediately meeting with her mother; 
 and even if she should — if Briggs and Perkins proved 
 successful— would it not render that meeting far more 
 satisfactory, could she announce that she had something 
 like a dependence for the present, a prospect for the 
 future ? If Briggs's representation of the Eastern Y^aux- 
 hall was true, even Milly's inexperience did not prevent 
 her seeing that it promised advantages infinitely superior 
 to the engagement with the " Harlequinites." It might 
 open some path by which she could escape altogether 
 from the latter. At all events, she would not rashly 
 reject it; neither would she hastily enter upon an en- 
 gagement that she might have reason to repent. 
 
 " Well Miss Shelburne," observed Briggs, who tried 
 to comprehend the cause of her utter silence and deep 
 reflection — " Well, I hope you feel satisfied with the re- 
 sult of our negotiation (Perkins and me) so far as it has 
 gone, for till he comes back we are not sure that — " 
 
 " Certainly not, Sir," returned Milly, hastily. " Neither 
 do I feel myself bound by it until I have seen my 
 mother. From the first, I told you I declined entering 
 into any engagement without her advice and sanction." 
 
438 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Briggs's conceited smirk vanished from his counte- 
 nance. 
 
 "Yes! but in such a temporary concern as this,"' he 
 observed — " but here's Mrs. P. coming. Oblige me, if 
 you please, by not saying a word about St. Helena. 
 Perkins wants to keep it dark from her; and if she once 
 gets a hint she'll blare it to the women that come here — 
 her friend Matilda and the rest of them — and they'll be 
 ready to tear us all to pieces." 
 
 The request seemed too reasonable to be refused, 
 when such motives were alleged. Milly bowed assent- 
 ingly, and Mr. Briggs had dexterously turned the subject 
 of his remarks to the races at Epsom, which he regularly 
 attended every year ; but this year — " he said, as Mrs. 
 Perkins entered with the tray and its contents. 
 
 "Yes i and why didn't you go this year ?" demanded 
 Mrs. Perkins. " Eh, Freddy ! Shall I tell you, Freddy V 
 
 Mr. Briggs uttered a deep sigh. 
 
 " You need not remind me of my misfortunes, 
 Mrs. P.," he replied with great signification. " I havn't 
 forgot that unhappy day, any more than you have." 
 
 Much more to the same import passed between the lady 
 and gentleman, but Milly paid little attention to it. It 
 had answered Mr. Briggs's purpose iu diverting Mrs. 
 Perkins's attention from a too curious inquiry into the 
 subject of the conversation between her and the former, 
 and the entrance of the landlord soon after terminated it, 
 the luncheon now occupying all parties except Milly, 
 who persisted in refusing to partake of it, She was cal- 
 culating the expense of what she had already had, and 
 was determined, in spite of all Mrs. Perkins's friendly 
 pretensions and affected disinterestedness, to keep within 
 the bounds that the few shillings in her pocket would 
 
of woman's life. 43U 
 
 enable her to pay. It was very evident, from Mr. Per- 
 kins's silence as to the business that had taken him so 
 suddenly from home, that he, as well as Mr. Briggs, in- 
 tended Mrs. Perkins to remain in ignorance of the whole 
 affair. Milly, however, fully comprehended that the sig- 
 nificant look of the landlord to Mr. Briggs, when his 
 wife was occupied in attending to a customer at the bar, 
 was intended to convey to him (Briggs) the success of 
 his negotiation with Mr. Fitzroy. What would have 
 been the reply, however, she was left to conjecture, for 
 Briggs evidently suspected that she not only watched 
 him, but that her suspicions generally were raised as to 
 the perfect fairness of his proceedings ; and he therefore 
 pretended to be wholly engrossed in discussing the way 
 thev should take, and the most advantageous method to 
 pursue, in making the desired discovery of the residence 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Morison. It was impossible for Milly, 
 stranger as she was to the places they named, to judge 
 of the probability of their success in that which every 
 moment became of more and more importance to her. 
 She could not even be sure that they were in earnest in 
 their professions, or the hopes they endeavoured to raise 
 in her bosom, that tiny were certain to succeed, and that 
 she would see them return with her mother ; whilst they. 
 on their part, were puzzled to account for the coldness 
 and suspicion her manners betrayed towards them, which 
 she in vain strove to conceal, and which was more pro- 
 minent than ever when Mrs. Perkins thought proper to 
 overload her with professions of kindness, sympathy, and 
 friendship. Milly, indeed, looked forward with absolute 
 dread to being left for some hours alone with the land- 
 lady, and she felt quite grateful to Perkins, when he 
 suggested that the piano-forte up-stairs was quite at her 
 
■11 <> SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 service, and would beguile the time till he and Briggs re- 
 turned; observing, with a smile, that there was a bolt in- 
 side the door, so that she could secure herself from being 
 intruded upon, as she had been the night before. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins tossed her head disdainfully, as she re- 
 marked, that there was no fear of that, she dared to say ; 
 for her part, she could not understand what pleasure 
 anybody could find in playing and singing by themselves ; 
 but of course everybody knew their own affairs best, and 
 she didn't wish to interfere with Miss Shelburne's plea- 
 sure, if it was a pleasure. 
 
 " You forget, my dear Mrs. P., that it is Miss Shel- 
 burne's profession," observed Mr. Briggs, " and, like 
 every other profession, it requires practice." 
 
 This remark seemed at once to reconcile the landlady. 
 It was placing, as she thought, Milly in an inferior light, 
 and as such was a peace-offering to her own pride. She 
 suffered the latter, therefore, to retire to the concert- 
 room without any further molestation, remarking only, 
 that she had much better have something to eat before 
 she went to work, as it might be very long before the men 
 came home to dinner. 
 
 " They won't come home, I know," she continued, ob- 
 serving that Milly looked uneasy at this prospect — " I 
 am sure they won't return without doing all that can 
 possibly be done to find your father-in-law out ; as to 
 your mother, of course they don't know nothing about 
 her, but finding one is finding the other : and for that they 
 may have a good many places to go to, and a good while 
 to wait, as it's all a chance where he spends his leisure 
 time." 
 
 This, Milly could not but acknowledge to be a reason- 
 able view of the matter ; and on being again pressed, 
 
OF woman's life. 441 
 
 and Mrs. Perkins observing that Perkins had told her not 
 to get dinner ready before six, she consented to take 
 some bread and butter before she went up-stairs. 
 
 Hour after hour passed away, and Milly remained un- 
 disturbed. The instrument appeared even more delight- 
 ful than on the preceding evening. Milly was an enthu- 
 siast, and for a long time her fears and troubles were 
 nearly forgotten, as far as they related to the present. 
 Sometimes, indeed, her thoughts reverted to the past — to 
 him who had listened with such rapture to the music she 
 was now playing; and then her voice faltered, tears 
 almost choked the words, and, leaning on the piano, she 
 forgot evervthing else in recalling the looks — the words 
 — that had made so indelible an impression on her heart. 
 Suddenly the darkness, which was increasing around, 
 reminded her of the present and its importance to her 
 future fate. She could not hope that Briggs and his 
 friend had returned ; but if she stayed longer she would 
 have some difficulty in finding her way down-stairs, be- 
 sides, perhaps, giving offence to Mrs. Perkins by remain- 
 ing so long absent. She therefore reluctantly closed the 
 instrument and returned to the bar; but she bitterly 
 repented that she had done so, when she beheld, in the 
 same place where she had first seen her, Matilda (as she 
 was called) and her female companions, with two men 
 of dissipated appearance. The former was, however, 
 apparently sober now ; and, although she addressed 
 Milly with a familiarity that was most offensive to her, 
 she seemed much more inclined to be civil than at their 
 former meeting. 
 
 "I declare, I thought you was gone to sleep," observed 
 the landlady, " for I havn't heard you playing for this 
 
442 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 hour. I was just saying to these ladies that I must go 
 up and call you, for I suppose you wouldn't have opened 
 the door to anybody else." 
 
 Milly did not take any notice of this observation, 
 though she felt vexed at the tone in which it was uttered, 
 for it was evidently intended to excite the ridicule of the 
 ladies, as Mrs. Perkins called them, for her fastidious- 
 ness ; and she saw from the look that passed between 
 them and their male companions, that it had answered 
 the purpose, though Milly could not then understand the 
 landlady's motive for what she could not but consider an 
 insult totally unprovoked on her part. Fortunately, as 
 she thought, the ladies only remained long enough to 
 finish the liquor which they were drinking with their 
 companions, but she was sorry to hear Miss Matilda, in 
 a loud whisper, inform the landlady that she should see 
 her again by-and-by ; adding — 
 
 " If that party should come — you know who I mean — 
 don't say I've been here, but try and keep them, if you 
 can. It won't be till pretty late, I know, if they do 
 come, so that it won't be very long after that I shall be 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins nodded significantly, as if she perfectly 
 understood her meaning, and when she had departed came 
 and seated herself opposite to Milly, fixing her eyes upon 
 her in silence for some minutes. 
 
 " You was mad, I know, with me just now, for saying 
 what I did about not letting anybody in but me." 
 
 " I certainly was not pleased," returned Milly, " be- 
 cause I thought it unnecessary." 
 
 "Ah ! that shows you oughtn't to judge of what you 
 know nothing about," she replied pertly. " If you had 
 known that I'd had the greatest difficulty to keep the 
 
or woman's life. 448 
 
 whole party from coming up-stairs, you'd have seen I 
 only did it to prevent their being affronted." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, then," observed Milly. "I could 
 not suppose that they would again have presumed to take 
 such a liberty." 
 
 "Ah! you don't know yet what liberties we're obliged 
 to put up with in our way of business," she replied ; 
 " but it ain't altogether that as made me speak, but 
 there's many things you might see here that would puzzle 
 you, and yet be no more harm than this, if they was 
 explained." 
 
 Milly remained silent. It could not but strike her 
 that Mrs. Perkins spoke as if she expected her to remain 
 in her present position for some time to come, while 
 she was herself indulging the hope that her residence 
 there would be speedily terminated, and at every step 
 that entered was looking up eagerly, in hopes of seeing 
 her mother. 
 
 "Just touch the bell, will you," observed Mrs. Perkins, 
 after a long silence, during which Milly had been rumi- 
 nating, with no very pleasant feelings, on what had 
 passed. 
 
 Sally entered, and received her mistress's orders to 
 bring in the tea-things. An order which certainly excited 
 some surprise, though Milly suppressed the appearance 
 of it. 
 
 " Don't you wonder at my having tea instead of din- 
 ner, my dear Miss Shelburne ?" at length demanded the 
 landlady : " though I suppose you know it's long past 
 dinner time; leastways, your appetite must have put you 
 in mind of it long ago." 
 
 Milly replied with truth, that she had not thought of 
 the time on that account, but she had discovered by the 
 
444 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 dial on the mantel-piece that it was much later than the 
 time Mr. Perkins had fixed. 
 
 " Yes ! it's past seven," returned the landlady, " but I 
 am sorry for your sake to tell you, that you must put off 
 all hopes of seeing your mother to-night. Briggs was 
 here an hour ago (true to his time, you see), and he told 
 me to tell you that they had learnt nothing satisfactory 
 as yet, but that they'd got a clue — they thought that 
 they should see your father-in-law after play-time, which 
 isn't till twelve, or maybe one o'clock in the morning, 
 and so Perkins didn't think it worth his while to come 
 home. Let him alone for staying out, if he can get an 
 excuse ; not that I mean to grumble ; because I'm sure 
 I'd put up with worse than that, if it would do you any 
 good. However, Briggs is a kind soul, that I will say 
 for him, and is a real woman's friend. He said he knew 
 I should be uneasy as well as you, and he came all the 
 way from — " she hesitated as to where he had left Per- 
 kins, " to tell me, though he's got an engagement for the 
 evening, and so he couldn't stay for me to call you 
 down." 
 
 Sally's entrance with the tea-things, and Mrs. Perkins's 
 directions to her to bring a slice or two of the cold beef, 
 interrupted her observations, and she showed no dispo- 
 sition to renew the subject when they sat down to tea 
 together ; while Milly, on her part, endeavoured to con- 
 ceal her disappointment and uneasiness as much as pos- 
 sible, conscious that if the representations of the land- 
 lady were correct, she ought to feel deeply grateful for 
 Mr. Perkins's avowed determination to persevere, at so 
 much inconvenience and loss of time from his business, 
 in the attempt to meet with Mr. Morison. 
 
 More than once indeed, in the course of the ensuing 
 
OF woman's life. 1 J 5 
 
 hours, the landlady contrived to make her feel the full 
 extent of her obligations on that score. At one time, by 
 the excuses which she (Mrs. Perkins) thought it neces- 
 sary to make to different customers for her husband's 
 absence, observing that he had gone on very particular 
 business for a friend of his'n ; and more than once la- 
 menting, at the departure of persons who remained but a 
 short time in the parlour, that they had gone away so 
 soon because they had found that "'Perkins wasn't at 
 home." Milly, indeed, found that somehow — for it seemed 
 undesigned, but so it was — she was made to feel, to their 
 fullest extent, the weight of the obligations she had 
 already contracted to the proprietors of the "Harlequin," 
 and to tremble at the prospect of increasing them, should 
 Mr. Perkins fail in finding her mother. Once, too, the 
 landlady dexterously succeeded in adding an indefinite 
 weight to those obligations, by a seemingly unstudied, 
 and, indeed, confidential communication. A message 
 from a gentleman in the parlour, who had ordered a glass 
 of brandy and water, was delivered to her (Mrs. Perkins) 
 by the potman, that required an answer in person, and 
 she accordingly carried the refreshment into the room her- 
 self. For some minutes after her return, she sat silent 
 and apparently thoughtful, and then addressing herself 
 to Hilly observed — 
 
 " You can't think how mortified I've, been just now, 
 my dear." 
 
 "Have you, Ma'am?" returned Milly, whose thoughts 
 were so abstracted as to feel little interest in her com- 
 panion's mortification, and little suspected how nearly it 
 would concern herself. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " I'll tell you how it was. You 
 must know that Perkins has got a ridiculous fashion, 
 
446 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 whenever he goes out for any length of time, of taking 
 with him pretty nearly all the money that we've got in 
 the house, that is to say, all that's put by to pay the 
 brewers, or the like of that, let there be little or much. 
 It's a shameful trick of his, and one he's paid dearly for 
 more than once ; for when he gets drunk he'll throw it 
 away like dirt, treating anybody that's got cunning 
 enough to make a fool of him. Well, the last time he 
 did so we had, you may be sure, a terrible row about it, 
 and then he swore he'd never make such a fool of him- 
 self again, and he hasn't for a good while; but men are 
 such braggadocios — so fond of looking big and making 
 a show-off among their fellows. Well ; when he went 
 out to-day, I never thought of saying anything about it. 
 You see, we've both got keys to the box, but I never 
 went to see what he'd taken out, though in course I 
 knew he couldn't go upon such a piece of business with- 
 out taking some money. However, as I said before, it 
 never came into my head till just now; when I went 
 into the parlour, I found it was a gent that owes a score, 
 and has owed it for a long time, and to tell you the truth 
 I'd almost give it up for a bad job, and pleased enough I 
 was when he told me he was come to pay me, and wanted 
 change for a ten pun' note. Up I runs in a minute to 
 fetch the change out o' the box ; and I declare you might 
 have knocked me down with a feather when I unlocked 
 it and found it was all gone. Perkins has been at his old 
 tricks again, and now there's no knowing how much he'll 
 get rid of before he comes home again.'' 
 
 Milly expressed what she truly felt, her extreme sor- 
 row that she should have been the cause of so provoking 
 an occurrence. 
 
 " Yes ! " exclaimed Mrs. Perkins. " and that ain't all 
 
of woman's life. 447 
 
 neither, for I shouldn't wonder if I never get that drunken 
 fellow's score that was going to pay me ; for as soon as 
 ever he found that I hadn't got the change in the house, 
 he put the note in his pocket again, and said he was 
 going a little way, and would get change and call and 
 pay as he came hack : so now there's another shilling 
 stuck up for the brandy and water, and perhaps I shan't 
 see the fellow for months again, and then, likely enough, 
 without a farthing in his pocket, for he's a regular scamp, 
 that'll never pay without he happens to be flush of 
 money, as he is just now; and maybe he will tell me, 
 with all the impudence in the world, that I ought to have 
 taken the money when it was offered me." 
 
 Milly could not but acknowledge that this was an 
 additional provocation, though the first was quite suffi- 
 cient to render her very unhappy, since she felt in the 
 eyes of such a woman as Mrs. Perkins, that she would 
 appear blamable for any excess that Mr. Perkins might 
 be guilty of; and she now trembled as much for the con- 
 sequences that might result from his return, as she had 
 before hoped from it. The hours that succeeded were 
 long indeed, and wearisome. Mrs. Perkins had an addi- 
 tional motive for discontent to that which naturally in- 
 creased with every hour of her husband's absence, in 
 what she called the slackness of business. " Since she 
 had been mistress of the ' Harlequin,' she had never, 
 she said, seen the house so empty on any one evening 
 as that. She had absolutely taken no money — there 
 were not a dozen shillings in the till, for all that had 
 come were those who had credit. It would drive her mad, 
 if this was the way she was to go on. Everything seemed 
 to go against her at once, as if a spell had been set upon 
 her." 
 
44* SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Milly saw that the landlady was gradually working 
 herself into a fit of ill-hurnour, which was not likely to 
 be diminished by her frequent recourse to the bottle, 
 which she declared was absolutely necessary to keep up 
 her spirits, and which occasioned her to show consider- 
 able petulance towards the former, on account of her reso- 
 lutely declining to partake of it with her. 
 
 " It's well for you," she observed, when Milly, as one 
 motive for refusing it, alleged, that she had never been 
 accustomed to drink anything, even at dinner or supper, 
 but water ; and that even her grandmother never took 
 anything else, though they occasionally brewed, and 
 made elder wine, as an indulgence on cold winter nights 
 or especial holidays; — "It is well for you that havn't 
 known sufferings and troubles to make you want support, 
 but if you can get through the world so you'll be luckier 
 than most people, I can tell you, 'specially if you're to 
 get your livelihood in a public line — 'professional,' as 
 Briggs calls it. When you come to have to sing and 
 play for bread, and look all smiles and good-humour 
 when you're perhaps ready to sink, and as miserable and 
 wretched as you well can be, and would give the world to 
 be let alone and out of the noise and riot that you're 
 obliged to seem pleased with, and bow and curtsey for 
 their e?icores when you hate the very sound of music, 
 and wish you'd never heard it, or could get your living 
 any other way, so that you could but have quiet : — ay, 
 it's then you'll find that you must have something a good 
 deal stronger than water, to keep up your sperrits and 
 help you through your work, I can tell you. Ah ! you 
 smile, Miss Shelburne, as if you thought you knew better, 
 but you'll find it out, and think of my words, and that 
 before you have been many months a singer, however 
 
of woman's life. 449 
 
 you may set yourself up now to be better than others in 
 your way of life." 
 
 " It may be so," returned Milly in a gentle tone. " I 
 do not mean to claim any merit, I assure you, for absti- 
 nence," she added hastily, alarmed at her companion's 
 threatening looks. "Nor do I intend to condemn those 
 who feel the necessity you speak of; but — " 
 
 " I should think not, indeed," interrupted Mrs. Per- 
 kins, tossing her head, "for it would only show that you 
 are apt to talk of what you know nothing about ; and 
 here comes a young lady," she continued, changing her 
 tone of voice, and " dressing her face in smiles," that 
 were even more revolting in Milly's sight than her previous 
 frowns — "Here comes a young lady," she repeated, "that 
 I am sure won't agree with you, Miss Shelburne : will 
 you, my dear?" 
 
 The young female who was thus addressed in Mrs. 
 Perkins's most insinuating manner, was one of those 
 whom Milly had previously seen with Matilda, and sho 
 looked now from one to the other, astonished at this 
 appeal to her, while Milly's looks betrayed at once con- 
 fusion and alarm. She felt, indeed, secretly indignant 
 at being thus placed on a level with one whom she had 
 beheld under such circumstances, and in such disgraceful 
 company as the past night had introduced her to ; but 
 this was a feeling she was too fearful of Mrs. Perkins to 
 betray, and she therefore cast down her eyes and remained 
 silent, while the girl, who was very young, and appa- 
 rently much less assuming than her usual companions, 
 replied — 
 
 "What is it, Mrs. Perkins, that you think I wouldn't 
 agree to ?" 
 
 " Why, that a glass of good brandy, or even vulgar 
 3 M 
 
450 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 common gin, can do anybody harm ?" returned the land- 
 lady, with a laugh. 
 
 " It is but a little while ago since I thought as that 
 young lady thinks," replied the girl with a deep sigh. 
 
 " Ah! but you know better now, don't you, my dear?" 
 observed Mrs. Perkins again, laughing, and evidently in- 
 sensible to the meaning the speaker's words, and above 
 all that deep sigh, had conveyed. 
 
 " Yes !" she returned, "I do know better now, for I 
 know that I could not exist without liquor, and that has 
 made me come now to ask you to trust me for a glass of 
 gin. I will pay you to-night if I see you again, that is, 
 if you have not shut up before I come home." 
 
 Never was there so sudden a change as took place in 
 Mrs. Perkins's face at this moment. Her smiles all 
 vanished in an instant, and she drew back from the 
 counter with a contemptuous fling, observing — 
 
 " I wonder, Miss Whats-your-name, you should ask 
 such a thing, when you know it's what I never do for 
 nobody in your circumstances. If I did, I might soon 
 be out of house and home." 
 
 The girl turned deadly pale ; she seemed at first about 
 to utter some stinging reply, but suddenly recollected 
 herself. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mrs. Perkins," she observed, 
 " if I hadn't known you did so occasionally, I shouldn't 
 have asked you ; or if you had not made such great pro- 
 fessions of kindness and friendship, I — " 
 
 " Pshaw !" returned the landlady, laughing contemp- 
 tuously, "friendship and kindness ! I didn't think you 
 was so green as to talk in that manner. No, no ! my 
 dear, take my word for it, you '11 never find any friend 
 but the one you keep in your pocket. As to trusting 
 
 % 
 *, 
 
of woman's life. 451 
 
 others, I know you mean your companion Matilda, but 
 you know very well there was good security there then 
 I don't think she'd be such a fool as to ask me without.'' 
 
 " I will take care, at least, that she shan't be mortified 
 by a refusal/' returned the girl quickly, as she turned to 
 go. "Poor girl ! she wouldn't take it as quietly as I do." 
 
 " Oh, come ! there's no occasion to threaten, Ma'am. 
 I shan't be quite ruined if Matilda, nor you, nor none of 
 your set, ever comes into the house again. I shan't, I 
 dare say, be obliged to put up my shutters," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Perkins, in a violent passion. But the young 
 woman had not waited to reply to her, and the entrance 
 of two or three customers soon restored the smiles to the 
 landlady's face, and the " honeyed flatteries" to her 
 tongue, of which she was so liberal when it suited her 
 purpose. But what a scene was this to Milly Shelburne ! 
 In what a light did it place the woman into whose power 
 she had so unfortunately fallen ! And then that un- 
 happpy creature, whose craving desire for gin had com- 
 pelled her to submit to the paltriness of asking such 
 a woman to trust to her for payment, and brought upon 
 herself such bitter sneers and humiliation. What misery 
 and wretchedness were revealed in that single circum- 
 stance ! — the abject poverty it betrayed contrasted with 
 the showy fashionable dress. But, above all, what a 
 world of suffering and sorrow, and hopeless repentance, 
 was conveyed in the acknowledgment, that the time had 
 arrived when liquor was necessary to enable her to bear 
 existence ; and how more forcibly than any words had that 
 deep sigh confirmed her utter wretchedness. Yet how many 
 thoughtless beings would perhaps look upon her as an 
 object of envy ! How few, even of those who could pene- 
 trate beyond the outward appearance, would dream of the 
 
452 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 utter misery and hopelessness concealed beneath the 
 glittering surface ; and oh ! how still more few of those 
 who would feel pity or compassion, would stretch forth a 
 hand to rescue the victim from the abyss of guilt and 
 despair in which she was sinking. And if already — if 
 now, with the bloom of youth and beauty (for she pos- 
 sessed both,) still on her cheeks, this unhappy girl was 
 already driven to such straits — such abject necessity as 
 to be destitute of even a few pence — what would be her 
 fate hereafter ? — what would it be, if sickness overtook 
 and deprived her of that beauty ? 
 
 Milly shuddered. She had gained years of experience 
 in the last few hours. The brilliant hues, the gloss with 
 which her own innocence and hopeful spirit had invested 
 the world, while still at a distance from its busy scenes, in 
 her own calm, peaceful home, seemed suddenly to have 
 vanished, and all was now gloomy and miserable in her 
 eyes. Even the hoped for interview with her mother 
 was contemplated with doubt and fear, and she trembled 
 at the conviction that in that lay her only hope of being 
 released from all communication with Mrs. Perkins, 
 whose very look and voice now inspired her with horror 
 and disgust. It was, perhaps, fortunate for Milly, that 
 the landlady was prevented, by a succession of customers, 
 from observing the effect which her mercenary, unfeeling 
 conduct had produced. The spell, as she called it — her 
 want of occupation — seemed suddenly to have vanished, 
 and she was incessantly employed at the counter for 
 nearly two hours, thus leaving Milly sufficient time to 
 recover, in appearance, her usual calmness. All this 
 time, too, she was saved from any unpleasant remarks 
 upon Mr. Perkins's protracted absence, which would un- 
 doubtedly have afforded a subject for much unpleasant 
 
OF woman's life. -153 
 
 animadversion, in the humour his wife was then in, hut 
 her temper now seemed to have changed with her success, 
 and when at length she returned to the chair she usually 
 occupied, she smilingly observed — 
 
 " Well, Miss Shelburne, what do you think of our 
 beaux ? Now aint they a pretty pair to stay out till this 
 time of night ? — and, when they do come home, I'll he 
 hound it will be with some cock-and-bull story that we 
 shan't be able to make head or tail of." 
 
 " I am truly sorry that I should be the cause," observed 
 Milly, whose last hope faded away at this anticipation. 
 
 " Oh ! don't worry yourself about it," interrupted the 
 now complacent landlady. " It couldn't be helped, you 
 know. All that's in it is, that you must make up your 
 mind to be as comfortable as you can here for a day or 
 two, till something turns up. You see, this is the way it 
 is, my dear," she continued, as Milly turned upon her a 
 look of surprise and alarm. "You see, to-morrow is Satur- 
 day, and that's a busy day with us as well as with most 
 tradespeople. We have a Women's Money Club meets at 
 eight, and to-morrow is their monthly night ; and before 
 that we've a pay table for the carpenters belonging to the 
 yard over the way, so that the house will be crammed 
 so full, that Perkins cant be spared from his business. 
 And Briggs, he's secretary to the ladies — the club, I 
 mean — and so he's tied by the leg, for he's the very life 
 and soul of them ; and I question if there' d be half a 
 dozen after business hours, if he was to leave, so that 
 you see he's tied, as I said, by the leg for the night." 
 
 Milly silently assented, though she comprehended 
 scarcely anything her companion had uttered. 
 
 " Well," she proceeded, " I needn't put you in mind 
 that the next day is Sunday, and, therefore, nothing can 
 
45-4 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 be clone then ; and then comes Whitsun Monday ; but that 
 I won't say anything about, because, whether the room 
 can be opened or not, I'm by no means sure. However, 
 it's always best to know the worst at once, and so I tell 
 you that you may not be disappointed, but make up 
 your mind — " 
 
 Again company entered ; but Milly could not now feel 
 any relief in the circumstance, for she immediately re- 
 cognised in the new comers, Mr. Chester and his friend 
 Fitzgerald; and, not even the astounding intelligence 
 she had just received from Mrs. Perkins could be more 
 unwelcome to her than the sight of these persons. At 
 any other time, or at least under other circumstances, 
 Milly, with her quick sense of the ridiculous, would have 
 been diverted at the mutual assumption of extreme 
 respect on the part of both the gentlemen and the lady 
 at this meeting. With Mrs. Perkins, indeed, there might 
 have been something like sincerity, as she was quite 
 aware that Mr. Chester possessed claims to respect that 
 were in her eyes indisputable, but Milly's respect for her 
 was not at all increased by the extreme servility with 
 which she assented to every observation, or replied to 
 any question on the part of her guest. 
 
 " Mr. Perkins, she was quite sure, would never have 
 gone out if he could have had the leastest expectation of 
 the gentlemen's calling to night, though he (Perkins) 
 was gone on the most seriousest business, as Miss Shel- 
 burne well knew." And she glanced at Milly, as if ex- 
 pecting that she would of course confirm the assertion ; 
 but, as the latter could not conceive that it could be of 
 any importance to Mr. Chester what had occasioned the 
 absence of the landlord of the " Harlequin," and espe- 
 cially wished herself to avoid appearing in any way 
 
OF woman's LIFE. 4 00 
 
 mixed up in Mr. and Mrs. Perkins's affairs ; and, above 
 all, as she was most solicitous to avoid any conversation 
 with either Mr. Chester or any of his associates, she did 
 not utter the desired information, but affected to be 
 deeply engaged with an odd volume of a novel, which 
 Mrs. Perkins had produced in reply to Milly's inquiry 
 whether she had any books, observing, "that she did not 
 know who it belonged to. It had been left by some- 
 body at the bar, but for her part she had no time for 
 reading, and she didn't know they could do much good 
 to anybody, for, after all, they were only a parcel of lies, 
 she had been told." 
 
 Milly, however, had only smiled in reply to this 
 sweeping condemnation of all works of imagination, and 
 had become considerably interested in the fate of the un- 
 fortunate heroine, in spite of her own fears and uneasiness, 
 when the entrance of the gentlemen effectually dissipated 
 all temporary source of relief, though Milly still kept the 
 book in her hand, and affected to be absorbed in its 
 contents. 
 
456 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The serpent of the field, by art 
 
 And spells, is won from harming ; 
 But that which coils around the heart, 
 
 Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Fain would I fly the haunts of men : 
 
 I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
 My breast requires the sullen glen 
 
 Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind. 
 
 Oh ! that to me the wings were given 
 
 Which bear the turtle to its nest ! 
 Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, 
 
 To flee away, and be at rest. Byron. 
 
 That, however, which she had adopted as a means of 
 relief from being obtruded upon, brought an inquiry from 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, whether she was fond of reading ? which 
 could not of course remain unanswered, and although 
 Milly briefly replied — " Yes, Sir !" in the most reserved 
 tone possible, it was succeeded by other remarks and 
 questions, which Milly in vain endeavoured to evade, 
 but the gentleman was one whom nothing could daunt 
 or turn from his purpose, while, on this occasion it was 
 very evident he had another motive than the mere deter- 
 mination to discover the extent of his companion's 
 reading, which was, to leave Mr. Chester at liberty to 
 hold a long private conversation with Mrs. Perkins, unin- 
 terrupted, except by the casual entrance of two or three 
 customers, when he took part in the conversation for a 
 few minutes which Fitzgerald — in spite of Milly's de- 
 termined reserve — had contrived to engage her in. 
 
of woman's life. io7 
 
 Under any other circumstances, and had she not been 
 prejudiced by the scene of the preceding evening, Milly 
 would have been greatly pleased and interested with the 
 acute, judicious, and very often strikingly original re- 
 marks of her companion. Never, indeed, could there 
 have been a greater contrast than his manners presented 
 from what they had been on the former occasion, when ho 
 appeared to her a reckless, ridiculous, heartless buffoon, 
 who cared not what folly he committed, or how he 
 degraded himself, to receive the applause and excite the 
 laughter of the low, disgraceful set, who seemed to con- 
 sider themselves perfectly on a level with him, though 
 in reality he must have despised and abhorred them. So 
 at least it appeared now to Milly, who, in spite of all 
 her previous experience and prejudice against him, felt 
 her dislike and determined reserve gradually melting 
 away as she listened to him. More than once a sly 
 allusion to the elegant, fascinating manners of the land- 
 lady of the " Harlequin" — which he affected to believe 
 were acquiring a dangerous ascendancy over his un- 
 fortunate friend, Mr. Chester, and would, he feared, 
 render it necessary for him to exert his influence to 
 recall to the recollection of the former that his case was 
 hopeless — would, in spite of her utmost efforts to dis- 
 courage any attempts at levity, force from her a smile ; 
 so utterlv ridiculous were Mrs. Perkins's assumptions of 
 gentility, and her affectation of importance and dignity, 
 interrupted as it was every now and then with the affairs 
 of business — the necessity of serving out quarterns and 
 half-quarterns, the "Did you say gin, or rum, my dear?" 
 " Oh ! I beg you ten thousand pardons, I really thought 
 it was gin, and I know you generally take gin," which 
 
 3n 
 
458 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 more than once interrupted the confidential communica- 
 tion between the landlady and her more honoured guest. 
 
 " Marked you her eye of heavenly blue ?" said Mr. 
 Fitzgerald, pretending to read from the volume he had 
 taken from Milly's hand, and slily directing his glance 
 towards Mrs. Perkins, who, having just resumed her seat 
 after one of those episodes, was bestowing on Mr. Chester 
 one of her softest, sweetest looks ; in plain truth, rolling 
 a pair of the most unmeaning vacant eyes, and at the 
 present moment rendered more than naturally inex- 
 pressive, from the effect of the various potations she 
 had swallowed during the evening for the purpose of 
 keeping up her spirits. For a moment Milly's natural 
 disposition to enjoy anything tending to satire or ridi- 
 cule got the better of the prudent reserve she had 
 hitherto preserved, and she returned Mr. Fitzgerald's 
 sly look by a smile, that showed she fully understood 
 and could enjoy the mischief of his quotation ; but she 
 was instantly recalled to recollection, and it may be said 
 to repentance, when she beheld, contemplating her with a 
 look of surprise and exultation, the face of Mr. Briggs, 
 while behind him was his friend Perkins, looking very 
 pale and dubious as to whether he should come into the 
 bar through the door or the window, but whose eyes 
 were dubitating with an owl-like expression of wisdom 
 between his wife and her gentlemanly companion (Mr. 
 Chester,) whose back being turned to him he probably 
 did not at that moment recognise. Mrs. Perkins's look, 
 however, induced the latter to turn a look at the new 
 comers, whose steps had announced them, and the land- 
 lord's countenance, intoxicated as he was, instantly 
 changed to an expression of satisfaction. 
 
 " Happy to see you so comfortable, Sir," he observed, 
 
of woman's life. 459 
 
 staggering into the bar and throwing himself into his 
 usual seat, or, rather falling into it with a force that 
 made the pots and glasses jingle ; while the person on 
 whose arm he had been supported, followed and stood by 
 his side, surveying the two gentlemen — after a glance at 
 Millv. who had retreated to the other side of the room, 
 followed by Mr. Fitzgerald, who sauntered after her with 
 an air of nonchalance, yet evidently with a view of inter- 
 posing himself between her and the fresh arrivals — The 
 slight confusion thus occasioned added to Milly's anxiety 
 to know the result of Perkins's inquiries, and her fear 
 from appearances that they had not succeeded, and that 
 she was still doomed to suspense and disappointment as 
 to the discovery of her mother, prevented her for some 
 moments discovering who the person was who had 
 entered with Briggs and the master of the house, and 
 it was probable that it would have been some time 
 longer before she would have thought of even looking 
 at him, had she not accidently glanced at Mr. Chester, 
 who had risen from his chair and stood drawn up to his 
 full height, and was regarding with a haughty frown the 
 stranger, who, on his part, seemed with equal dissatisfac- 
 tion scrutinising both the former and his friend, Fitz- 
 gerald ; and then, to her great surprise, almost indeed, 
 alarm, she recognised in him the man whose pertina- 
 city in following her, and rude, abrupt address, had so 
 discomposed her in the morning. 
 
 "Do you know that man?" whispered Fitzgerald, 
 bending over her so as to conceal her countenance from 
 the person of whom he spoke. 
 
 At that moment she felt almost inclined to regard 
 Fitzgerald as a friend, compared to the other persons 
 by whom she was surrounded. Had it not been for the 
 
1G0 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 presence of Chester and the connexion between the two, 
 Milly would certainly have been inclined to regard the 
 former as much more deserving of her confidence than 
 any one she had yet met with, and at the present 
 moment she forgot even this motive for reserve to- 
 wards him. In the same confidential tone in which 
 he had spoken therefore, she replied — " No, I do not, 
 nor do I wish to know him." 
 
 "You have seen him?" he replied quickly. "I am 
 sure you have, or you would not speak so decidedly." 
 
 " Yes," returned Milly, " I saw him this morning, 
 but—" 
 
 " He did not dare to insult you ?" interrupted Yitz- 
 gerald, with an expression so fierce that it instantly 
 recalled to Milly the necessity of being more guarded in 
 her communications. 
 
 " You are quite mistaken, Sir," she observed coolly. 
 " I know nothing of the man — never spoke to him." 
 
 Fitzgerald looked doubtfully at her. It was evident 
 he suspected that there was something more than met 
 the ear — that Milly equivocated — and that she had some 
 reason for the look, the start with which she had re- 
 cognised the stranger, for that she did recognise him 
 he was certain, though she had confidently asserted the 
 contrary. And he, too, what was the meaning of the 
 insolent scrutiny with which he was regarding his friend 
 (Chester) and himself ? What right had he, the com- 
 panion of Briggs and Perkins, to assume that look of 
 authority ? or why should Milly shrink from him as if he 
 had a right to dictate to her as to the company she was 
 in ? On this point he was wrong. Milly acknowledged 
 no such power or authority on his part, but she did feel 
 uneasy at being seen in such society by any one, and 
 
of woman's life. 401 
 
 most of nil by the man who hud addressed her with such 
 insolent familiarity in the morning, and from whom she 
 feared, from the manner he assumed now, she had cause 
 to fear even still greater impertinence. How came he 
 there, and established, as it would seem, on such free 
 and easy terms, not only with Perkins and Briggs, to 
 whom he had in a low voice addressed several observa- 
 tions — questions, it would appear from his looks, re- 
 specting Chester and his friend — but, had introduced 
 himself to the landlady, who, though she appeared rather 
 puzzled and surprised at his communication, and had 
 looked at Briggs as if for explanation, seemed disposed 
 to treat him with particular deference, and had hastened 
 with the greatest alacrity to obey the order he had given 
 for hot brandy and water and cigars ? Altogether there 
 was a mystery connected with this man's appearance, for 
 the landlady seemed suddenly to have forgotten her 
 devotion to the gentlemen who had previously been of 
 such ultra-importance in her eyes, and suffered them to 
 remain unnoticed. Perkins hung down his head, and 
 seemed disposed to avoid all interference by going to 
 sleep, and Mr. Briggs, after his first deferential bow, 
 remained silently looking on. It was plain that no 
 explanation would take place while Mr. Chester and his 
 friend remained. It was equally plain that the absence 
 of the latter was earnestly desired by the others, while 
 the former gentlemen, after the interchange of a signal 
 between them, evinced their determination to maintain 
 their ground, by giving orders for a bottle of sherry and 
 biscuits, which evidently was received with no satisfaction 
 by any one but the landlady. 
 
 Anxious as Milly was to learn the result of the sup- 
 posed search for her mother, she saw plainly that it was 
 
4G2 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 vain to hope that she should receive any information 
 from Mr. Briggs while the present company remained 
 assembled in the bar. He had even gone so far, indeed, 
 as to frown at her a denial of her earnestly inquiring 
 look. To escape, therefore, from the room, became now 
 the sole object of her thoughts, for, though she knew not 
 why, she anticipated some unpleasant conclusion to the 
 present scene. Conscious, that, for some reason, she was 
 watched by both parties, she resolutely evaded the re- 
 newed attempts of Mr. Fitzgerald to engage her in con- 
 versation, though she could not avoid hearing more than 
 once the remarks he addressed to her on the subject of 
 her very evident uneasiness, remarks which he appeared 
 to wish rather than to avoid being overheard by the 
 person to whose presence he persisted in referring the 
 disturbance she felt. 
 
 " If you would honour me with your confidence suffi- 
 ciently to enlighten me as to the foundation of the very 
 evident uneasiness you have felt ever since we were so 
 unpleasantly intruded upon," he observed — looking with 
 a fixed and stern look at the person whom he designated 
 as an intruder — " I would very soon adopt means to re- 
 move it. I know I have no right to claim this con- 
 fidence, Miss Shelburne, but he must be less than a man 
 who can remain insensible to the sufferings of an un- 
 protected female — one whom some strange chance has 
 thrown into a situation so unworthy of her. My friend," 
 and he glanced at Chester, " I know, fully sympathises 
 with me on this subject. He is as anxious as I am to be 
 enabled to serve you. If you would point out, therefore, 
 anything we could do, any means we could adopt, not 
 only to relieve you from your present suffering, whatever 
 it may arise from, but more effectually to benefit you — 
 
of woman's life. 4G3 
 
 pardon me, I speak it with the utmost sincerity and 
 respect — I would hazard my life to rescue you from 
 those who seem to he establishing a sort of power over 
 you, that I am convinced they have no right to. I do 
 not believe you are aware even of your real situation ; 
 you do not know the perilous situation in which you 
 stand. Even last night, we looked upon you merely as a 
 lady possessing superior talents and the ambition to rise 
 by their means : we agreed, that your inexperience of the 
 world had betrayed you into a false position, and that 
 means ought to be adopted to enlighten you on the sub- 
 ject, and prevent you becoming a victim to those who 
 have so unfortunately trepanned you into a situation so 
 unworthy of you. I am a wild harum-scarum fellow, Miss 
 Shelburne, and, unfortunately, often in that character am 
 guilty of follies that render me apparently unworthy 
 of confidence. If it were not so, you would not have 
 seen me here last night ; and I must, though most un- 
 willingly, make the same acknowledgment on behalf of 
 my friend Chester ; still, we both of us — " 
 
 Had Mr. Fitzgerald confined himself to an apology 
 for his own conduct — had entered thus warmly, fear- 
 lessly, and with apparent sincerity and true feeling, into 
 this exposition of the perils which Milly had involved 
 herself in by her rash engagement with Mr. Briggs and 
 his associates, it would have been impossible for the 
 single-hearted, frank, confiding, inexperienced girl, to 
 have doubted or distrusted his motives, and she would in 
 all probability have yielded at once to him the confidence 
 he so earnestly solicited — have confessed to him her 
 friendless state — have acknowledged the all but desti- 
 tution which had thrown her into the power of those 
 whom she despised, yet dreaded and feared. She would 
 
464 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 in fact, have confessed to him her whole history, and 
 have consented to be guided and directed and aided by 
 him, for she felt that without aid it would be impossible 
 for her even to attempt to escape ; and from whom could 
 she stoop to receive assistance, if not from one so disin- 
 terested, so noble-minded, as this her new friend would 
 have appeared to be; but in the midst of all this the 
 name of Chester seemed to operate as a sudden spell — 
 to dissolve the enchantment. She raised the downcast 
 eyes with which she had listened in silence, and encoun- 
 tered the sinister look with which he, the soi-disa?il Mr. 
 Chester, was regarding her. There was an expression of 
 triumph in his look, as he watched that of her ingenuous 
 countenance, which she could not comprehend. Could 
 it be that he was exulting in the success of Mr. Fitz- 
 gerald's confidential communication — his perfect esta- 
 blishment in the good opinion of one who in her deso- 
 lation so eagerly grasped at the appearance of friendship 
 and disinterested kindness. We will not pretend to say 
 that Milly had sufficient penetration thus to interpret 
 Mr. Chester's look ; but, whatever was its meaning, it 
 revived in full force all her former distrust of both gen- 
 tlemen; it confirmed, in its fullest extent, the fear and 
 dislike which Fitzgerald's apology for his friend's foibles 
 — his eulogy of his good feelings — had excited in her 
 mind; and she felt intuitively, that there was in reality 
 more to be feared from the friendship of the elegant and 
 refined gentleman, whose artful eloquence had so deeply 
 interested her, than from the coarse, vulgar, common- 
 place people from whom he (Mr. Fitzgerald) expressed 
 such anxiety to rescue her. 
 
 'Tis better " bear those ills we have, than fly to others 
 that we know not of," were the words that would, at that 
 
of woman's life. 4G5 
 
 moment, have clearly and briefly expressed Milly Shel- 
 barne's thoughts; and, under that conviction, her look 
 and manner towards her self-constituted friend and pro- 
 tector, underwent so complete a revolution, as, with all 
 his self-command, for a short time startled and discom- 
 posed him. But Mr. Fitzgerald was not one of the sort 
 to be foiled, or even seriously disconcerted, by a simple 
 girl, and after a few moments' pause he observed : — 
 
 " You are silent, Miss Shelburne. May I flatter my- 
 self that you consider what I have said worthy your 
 serious reflection ? Do not make a hasty decision," he 
 added, preventing a reply, which he read in her expressive 
 countenance would have been by no means favourable to 
 his designs. " There is not, indeed, much time to deli- 
 berate, should you honour me by authorising me to ex- 
 tricate you from the perilous situation in which ycu are 
 placed. Every hour, indeed, is of importance ; and I 
 will candidly tell you, that it would be with extreme 
 alarm that I should leave you here, even for another 
 night, in the power of these unprincipled people. That 
 man, I am convinced — and he glanced at the stranger 
 who was quietly sipping his brandy- and- water, and 
 smoking his cigar, keeping, however, his eyes earnestly 
 fixed on Milly and her companions, for Mr. Chester had 
 now approached close to his friend, as if to enforce his 
 arguments — that man has been introduced here to-night 
 for no good purpose. Do you not observe how anxious 
 they are to get rid of me and my friend — that even Mrs. 
 Perkins can scarcely maintain the appearance of civility ; 
 and that sneaking, mean-spirited rascal, Briggs, has not 
 a word to say for himself, and scarcely dares look my 
 friend and myself in the face, from the consciousness 
 
 So 
 
4 GO SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 that we suspect his villany, and are determined, if pos- 
 sible, to defeat it ?" 
 
 Milly changed from red to white, and again to the 
 deepest crimson, as she replied — 
 
 "And how, then, Sir, do you propose that I should 
 escape from these threatened dangers ?" 
 
 Whether it was that Mr. Fitzgerald misdoubted the 
 sincerity of her question, or that he was scarcely prepared 
 with an answer, when put in such a plain direct way as 
 she had put it, certain it is that he hesitated for some 
 minutes before he replied. 
 
 " There is but one course that can be adopted, Miss 
 Shelbnrne, and that depends entirely upon yourself. You 
 are here a guest merely, not a prisoner, and they cannot, 
 dare not, oppose your instantly quitting the house, so 
 long as you have a friend present to enforce your wish. 
 Avow then, boldly, that you do not intend to remain here 
 to-night ; never mind the reason, you are not bound to 
 give them any. I will take care that they shall not im- 
 pose upon yon, by undertaking to discharge any demand 
 they may bring against you, and then, Mr. Chester and 
 I will conduct you to any friend, or place of security you 
 may please to name. It is late, I know," he quickly 
 added, as Milly 's eyes rested on the time-piece on the 
 mantle-shelf, "but times and seasons must yield to 
 emergencies ; and in London, my dear Miss Shelburne, 
 there is so much difference in the reckoning of time 
 to what you have been accustomed to in the country, 
 that what appears to you an improper hour, is thought 
 nothing of here. Say then, that you have made up your 
 mind to take advantage of the present opportunity, and 
 I will immediately procure a hackney coach — it will then 
 only be necessary for you resolutely to declare your deter- 
 
of woman's life. 467 
 
 ruination to go, and I will undertake to settle any 
 objections that may be made by these people. You 
 will have nothing to do but be firm in refusing to listen 
 to them, or to give any explanation of your motives or 
 intentions." 
 
 Milly remained for a few moments silent, with her eyes 
 calmly and earnestly fixed on his face. There was no- 
 thing like doubt or hesitation in her looks. Her mind was 
 evidently made up to do as he had recommended — but whe- 
 ther it was favourably to his views, or that she penetrated 
 the falsehood of his plausible professions, he could not 
 judge, and in spite of all his self-possession and practised 
 command of countenance, for a moment his eyes sunk 
 under the calm, penetrating investigation of her looks. 
 Again, however, Mr. Fitzgerald recovered from the mo- 
 mentary confusion. The landlady, who had been absent 
 during this hurried conference, now entered with the 
 wine that the gentlemen had ordered, apologising for 
 having been so long, that her man — the waiter, or pot- 
 man — had gone out, and she had been obliged to go 
 down for it herself. Mr. Fitzgerald replied by some 
 badinage respecting her husband's usefulness and cour- 
 teousness, in suffering a lady of such superior manners 
 and qualifications as herself to descend so low, and then 
 taking her hand with much gallantry, insisted that she 
 should honour him by drinking the glass of wine which 
 Mr. Chester had by this time poured out. 
 
 "Sir, you are a gentleman!" returned Mrs. Perkins, 
 curtseying with what she evidently considered graceful 
 dignity. 
 
 " And Miss Shelburne will also honour my friend and 
 me," resumed Mr. Fitzgerald, turning to Milly, and at 
 the same time making a grimace in ridicule of the land- 
 lady's assumption. 
 
it>y SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Milly's every doubt and hesitation as to his sincerity 
 were now at an end. No ! there could be no reality in 
 all his pretended anxiety for her, his assumed delicacy 
 and fine sentiment, or he would not have chosen that 
 moment to exhibit his talent of ridicule and buffoonery 
 at the expense of a woman, who, if his representations 
 were to be believed of her and her associates, could only 
 inspire a man of real feeling — such as he pretended to 
 be — with horror and disgust. There was no necessity, 
 no end to be gained by the hypocrisy of inviting her 
 to take wine with him, nor would he have attempted to 
 degrade her (Milly) by trying to make her a partner to 
 it; or, even for any purpose, placing her on a level with 
 the woman whom he had so recently represented as 
 capable of any atrocity against her. 
 
 There was no deception in the indignant sparkle of 
 Milly's eyes, or the tone in which she replied — 
 
 " No, Sir ! I will not take any." 
 
 Fitzgerald looked at once astonished and disconcerted. 
 Milly's eyes at the same moment accidentally encountered 
 those of the stranger, who had entered with the landlord 
 and Briggs, and her colour rose with surprise at the 
 encouraging and familiar nod by which he evidently in- 
 tended to convey his approval of her refusal. 
 
 What interest could he have in her affairs, or how 
 could he be at all interested in her discouragement of 
 one who was apparently a stranger to him? 
 
 There was another person, however, who had seen 
 this expressive look as well as herself, and Milly shrank 
 with alarm at the fierce air of defiance Mr. Chester had 
 assumed towards the former. From the very first entrance 
 of the stranger there had appeared a mutual disposition 
 to take offence ; but that she could, or might be made 
 
of woman's life. 461) 
 
 the cause of this hitherto silent war breaking out into 
 actual violence, seemed so improbable, that she had 
 driven it from her mind, and indeed, had soon found 
 a subject of so much importance to occupy it in the 
 strange address and proposal of Mr. Fitzgerald, that, 
 until reminded by the insinuation of the latter, that he — 
 the stranger — had been introduced there for no good 
 purpose, she had scarcely bestowed a look or a thought 
 upon him. Mr. Chester's silent intelligencers — his eyes 
 — had conveved, it seemed, to more than Milly, his re- 
 sentment at the stranger's interference, for Fitzgerald 
 turned round upon the latter with a look more fiercely 
 defiant than his friend had previously directed in the 
 same quarter. It seemed scarcely possible that the scene 
 of violence that Milly anticipated, could be much longer 
 delayed, especially as his antagonist replied to Fitzgerald 
 by an undisguised sneering laugh. But Milly was by 
 no means disposed to encourage the interference of Mr. 
 Briggs' friend, against whom she was quite as much 
 prejudiced as against his enemies. Ever guided by im- 
 pulse, she averted her eyes from him with a frown, and 
 Fitzgerald seeming to draw from this circumstance 
 encouragement, renewed his importunity to her to taste 
 the wine. 
 
 " Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 " And I will pledge with mine — " 
 
 sang Mr. Briggs, tired as it seemed of the unimportant 
 part he had hitherto played in this pantomime, as it may 
 be called. 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Shelburne won't drink with nobody," 
 inteiTupted Mrs. Perkins, who if she ever could, was 
 now incapable of comprehending the meaning of the 
 
470 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 words of the song. " For my part, I can't think how 
 any lady can he so unsociable. It's being what I call no 
 company for anybody, to set one-self up never to take 
 nothing like nobody else." 
 
 Milly was evidently alarmed at this direct attack. She 
 looked round as if she would willingly have made a 
 sudden retreat from the room, but she was seated so far 
 from the door that this could not be effected without 
 creating a general movement, and she feared that this 
 might add to her offence in the landlady's eyes. 
 
 "Never mind, Mrs. P.," observed Briggs, to whom 
 Mr. Chester had now handed a glass of wine. " Never 
 mind, you and I can drink Miss Shelburne's share ; we can 
 always make ourselves agreeable — ' Open to all parties 
 and influenced by none,' that's our motto, isn't it ?" 
 
 There was evidently some meaning conveyed in this 
 observation from the manner in which it was uttered, and 
 it was equally evident that it was not addressed to Mrs. 
 Perkins, though she enforced the former part of it by 
 taking up — seemingly unconsciously — and swallowing 
 the glass of wine which had been placed before Milly, 
 but which she still silently rejected. 
 
 "Never mind, there's more where that comes from," 
 observed Fitzgerald, reaching a clean glass from the 
 shelf. "I cannot still renounce the hope that Miss Shel- 
 burne will — " 
 
 " Miss Shelburne shall neither be frightened nor tor- 
 mented into what is contrary to her inclinations !" inter- 
 rupted the stranger, laying down his cigar and fixing his 
 eyes sternly on Fitzgerald, who started from his chair 
 with fury in his looks. 
 
 There was a moment's pause ; every one but the belli- 
 gerent parties appeared paralysed with astonishment. 
 
of woman's life. 471 
 
 Briggs uttered something in a low voice that sounded 
 like a remonstrance to his friend ; and Mrs. Perkins, 
 turning full upon the former with an angry look, ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 •• Well, I'm sure, was ever the like heard of that. I 
 should have thought you know'd yourself better than 
 that, Mr. What's-your-name, than to go to interrupt 
 harmonv in that sort of a manner. Perkins won't he 
 much obliged for your company, I think, if you're to 
 come in and affront gentlemen that U gentlemen, and 
 always behaves as sich, jest because a bit of a upstart 
 singer — " 
 
 " Gentlemen !" repeated the person addressed with a 
 bitter sneer. " Persons assuming the character of gentle- 
 men should take care to — " 
 
 Before he could finish the sentence, the glass of wine 
 which Fitzgerald was again in the act of pressing upon 
 Milly's acceptance was dashed in the face of the speaker, 
 and in an instant the room was a scene of the utmost 
 violence and confusion. Decanter, wine glasses, tumblers, 
 evervthing in short moveable, were hurled at each other 
 by Fitzgerald and his opponent ; while the landlady, 
 roused to a state of mad fury, joined at one moment in 
 the destruction of her own property, and the next uttered 
 the most violent screams, lamentations, and denunciations 
 against the wretches who were ruining her. The men 
 too, Briggs and Perkins — the latter roused from his 
 sleep by the uproar — appeared equally undecided as to 
 whose cause to espouse, at one moment endeavouring to 
 eject from the bar their friend, whom they now addressed 
 as Fitzroy and Palmer, and the next forcibly dragging 
 the infuriated Irishman from his opponent and driving 
 him into the opposite corner of the room, where Perkins, 
 
4.72 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 tliough nearly twice his size, with difficulty succeeded in 
 forcing him down into the large arm chair and holding 
 him there for some minutes, only in fact till Fitzgerald 
 had regained breath and strength to renew the attack 
 upon his enemy, who on his part appeared equally in- 
 veterate, tliough far more cool and determined, and who, 
 in two or three blows, contrived to inflict more punish- 
 ment on his adversary than did the latter in more than 
 double the number, struck in wild, mad, aimless fury. 
 
 And what had become of Milly Shelburne in this 
 disgraceful violence ? Motionless with terror, it was by 
 good fortune rather than caution, or indeed, any exertion 
 to avoid the missiles that were flying in every direction, 
 that she escaped receiving any serious injury from them ; 
 once or twice, indeed, she was struck by some of the 
 glittering fragments of glass, and from one pointed piece 
 she did receive a wound in the forehead that sent the 
 blood trickling down the side of her face and increased 
 the ghastliness of her appearance. 
 
 " Curse you ! it serves you right !" exclaimed the 
 furious landlady, who happened to see the accident; " if 
 you'd got twenty times worse it would have been no 
 more than you deserved, for it was all your doings." 
 But Mrs. Perkins's attention was drawn from the 
 affrighted girl at this moment by a fresh outbreak 
 from the maddened Fitzgerald, while, at the same 
 moment her words called the attention of Mr. Palmer 
 to what had happened, and leaving his enemy to struggle 
 with Briggs, Perkins, and " first in the fray " Mrs. 
 Perkins, who — indiscriminating in her attack, giving, 
 it seemed, her assistance to whoever for the moment 
 seemed to be the most likely to do mischief — had fixed 
 her hands in his (Fitzgerald's) hair, and was dragging 
 
OF woman's life. 473 
 
 hint backwards, he (Fitzroy Palmer) caught Milly up in 
 his arms and carried her outside the room door, exclaim- 
 ing breathlessly — 
 
 "Keep away and get assistance for the wound," and 
 then rushed back again and closed the door, as if to 
 prevent any one following her. 
 
 CHAPTEPt XV. 
 
 The surprise 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
 Seemed now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 
 And drawing nigh, exclaimed, with haughty sneer, 
 " ' Tis he !— how came he thence ? — what doth he here ? 
 
 Nay, frown not, lord, 
 If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
 But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
 Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Milly's first impulse was to rush out of the house 
 
 without any reflection as to where she should go, but, 
 
 besides that the house door was closed, and the potman — 
 
 probably used to such affrays, and aware of what he was 
 
 to do in such cases— was standing with his back to it 
 
 to answer with a positive denial some persons who were 
 
 knocking aud demanding assistance, there was another 
 
 person there to recall her (Milly) to recollection in the 
 
 person of the servant girl Sally, who, seizing hold of 
 
 her and uttering a whole string of " Oh Lor' a mercies — 
 
 Goodness Gracious me's, they 've a' most killed you — 
 
 3 p 
 
474 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 they 'v© pretty nigh killed you, the wretches. And, I 
 couldn't get nigh to get you out, though I've been a 
 watching and a trying ever so long ; and I tried to make 
 you see me, and to beckon you to run out when I seed a 
 opportunity, but, thank Goodness, you have got out at 
 last, and now they may fight one another to death like a 
 parcel of torn cats, for what I care ; onney him as 
 brought you out, just like a babby in his arms, and 
 looked so fond and so loving in your face — for all he 
 was in such a passion — as if he could a eat you up. I 
 don't know who he is, for I never saw him a'for, but I 
 don't think he's a bad sort, and I wish he may give 
 'em all a precious good hiding, that I do." 
 
 All the time that Sally had been thus garrulously ex- 
 pressing her wishes and opinions respecting the contest 
 in the bar, she had been hurrying the terrified, almost 
 fainting Milly, to a part of .the house she had not before 
 seen, through the kitchen into a washhouse, and from 
 thence up a staircase, or rather wooden ladder, and into 
 a wretched desolate room, the principal furniture of 
 which was a stump bedstead with its accompaniments, 
 looking very uninviting, especially the worsted rug, 
 which bore a strong similitude to those usually seen in 
 stables ; a couple of broken wooden chairs ; a triangular 
 piece of a mirror fixed on the wall, with some blue paper 
 pasted round its edges to form a frame ; a deal box, and 
 one or two band-boxes completed the inventory which 
 Milly unconsciously took of this uninviting apartment, 
 except that on the ground, scattered in all directions 
 and thrown into all corners, were numerous articles 
 of feminine wearing apparel— old gowns, petticoats, shoes, 
 and especially two straw bonnets, with once flaring 
 coloured ribbons and artificial flowers, that, lying directly 
 
of woman's life. 475 
 
 in the path from the bed to the looking-glass, seemed to 
 have been walked over until they were trodden and 
 broken out of all resemblance to their original shape. 
 
 "Missus's rubbage," observed Sally, who, watching 
 Milly's eyes as she led her to the side of the bed, fancied 
 probably that the former regarded this incongruous 
 finery with surprise. " Missus's rubbage," and she. 
 tossed them contemptuously out of the way into a 
 corner. " I never wears none o' them, though she 
 thinks she's mighty gen'rous to give 'em me. Brazen, 
 staring things, I'd be ashamed to put 'em on my head ; 
 but they 're just fit for sich as she. Come, cheer up, and 
 let me wash the blood off your face. It was lucky I 'd 
 brought this basin o' water up to have a good wash 
 myself, but before I could begin I was bawled down by 
 Missus. Lor' bless you, I hav' n't time to do nothin' 
 for myself in this slaving place, or else I should be 
 ashamed you should see my room in sich a pickle. 
 Howsomever, you are safe here, for they '11 ne.ver think 
 of coming here to look after you. I took care to keep 
 out of Missus's sight when she was pitching into them, 
 and she thinks I have been a-bed long ago, because I 've 
 beeD a washing ever since two o'clock this morning, and 
 got to get up to finish to-morrow, for I told her plump 
 and plain I could n't do no more to night, so that they're 
 sure not to come here after you." Milly's courage began 
 to revive at these assurances, though she was still scarcely 
 able to thank the girl as much as she wished to do for 
 her opportune assistance. 
 
 "Lor bless you," she replied to her imperfect expres- 
 sions of gratitude, " I onney wish I could do auy good 
 for you. It was because I was afear'd they 'd be doing 
 you some mischief, made me come to the bar to see, 
 
476 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 when I heard 'em squallin' and knockin' one another 
 about and breaking the things. I 'm too used to sich 
 rows to trouble my head about 'em, and I should have 
 gone to bed and let 'em fight it out, as I 've done many's 
 the time afore. Thank Goodness, howsomever, it is but 
 a bit of a cut you've got, though the blood frightened 
 me ; but I'll get a bit o'black sticking plaister out of her 
 glass drawer, and you won't feel it to-morrow." 
 
 Milly, however, would not hear of Sally's leaving her 
 for this remedy, although she could not persuade herself 
 that she was in such actual security as her companion 
 tried to convince her she was, and Sally herself looked 
 doubtful when reminded that the potman — Bill, as she 
 called him — had seen them retreat to the kitchen to- 
 gether, and would certainly say so, if questioned whether 
 she (Milly) had passed him. 
 
 " I never thought of that, to be sure, or I should have 
 told Bill to have kept it dark," replied the girl ; " but, 
 bless you, he'd go through fire and water for me, Bill 
 would. They're at it still, I can hear, and ain't had 
 time yet, you may depend on it, to look after you. If 
 you '11 onney take courage to stay here by yourself in the 
 dark for two or three minutes, I '11 slip down and give 
 Bill the office to say as he never saw you, and 'sposes 
 you must have slipped out afore he shut up the door. 
 He's sure to do it, if I tell him 1 11 never speak to him 
 again as long as I live if he don't, for, to tell you the 
 truth, Bill told me onney to night, as he thinks an un- 
 common deal of me, and is sure as I should make a good 
 wife. I never thought nothing of him till he told me 
 what he did this blessed night, and how he's saving 
 money to get into a little shop, and — " 
 
 " But, if you think it can be done without getting him 
 
OF woman's LIFE. 477 
 
 and you into trouble," observed Milly, who was afraid 
 that Sally, in the new interest that had been excited by 
 Bill's explanation, would lose the opportunity of enforcing 
 his silence. 
 
 " I'll go and be back before you can say ' Jack Eobin- 
 son,' " exclaimed Sally, " and then we shall have all the 
 night to ourselves for you to make up your mind what 
 to do." 
 
 Sally's absence, however, was, or appeared to Milly, 
 much longer then she expected it to have been, and the 
 latter trembled at every sound, in the expectation that 
 the poor girl had been intercepted in her errand, or that 
 her lover, more prudent and less disinterested than her- 
 self, had perhaps refused to comply with her wishes. 
 
 That any essential benefit could arise from her con- 
 cealing herself for the night Milly could not hope ; 
 she saw no prospect of ultimately escaping from the 
 Perkinses, but that winch now appeared more hopeless 
 than ever, was the discovery of her mother's residence. 
 She had began, indeed, to doubt whether they had any 
 real intention of assisting her in that discovery ; but the 
 real and most pressing motive for her wish to remain 
 concealed for the night, was her horror and dread of the 
 landlady in her present half-mad, infuriated state, and 
 with the disposition the latter had shown to accuse her 
 (Milly) of being the cause of all that had taken place. 
 Mrs. Perkins's furious look — as she thrust her clenched 
 hand in Milly 's face — as she made that accusation, was 
 still present to her. Every word that Sally had uttered 
 concerning her mistress had increased the former's aver- 
 sion and terror of the woman and the desire of avoiding 
 her, at least until the latter became more sober and 
 
478 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 capable of listening to reason, was at the present moment 
 paramount to all other considerations. 
 
 " Oh ! that I had never — never entered this hateful 
 city ; that I could wake and find that it was hut a 
 miserable dream ; that I was safe in my own dear little 
 chamber, under the protection of my kind friends, who 
 little suspect the misery their poor child is suffering from 
 her folly and rashness." 
 
 Poor Milly was roused from the passionate flood of 
 tears excited by these reflections by approaching foot- 
 steps and the flash of a candle ascending the wooden 
 ladder. That it was not Sally, she was certain, from the 
 slowness and the weight, which she was sure was that of 
 a man in heavy boots ; but before she could even think 
 of escaping or even moving from where she sat to conceal 
 herself, a face wearing a broad grin looked into the room, 
 and she recognised the not bad, but unmeaning features 
 of Sally's lover, (Bill) the potman. 
 
 " It's all right, Miss," he observed, " there's none of 
 'em knows you're here, and I 'm blowed if they shall 
 find it out if we can help it. They deserves to be well 
 frightened, if it's only for making such a set o' fools of 
 themselves and kicking up such a bobbery. The great 
 gentlemen are gone, and they swears wengeance upon 
 everybody to- morrer, for letting them be 'saulted ; and 
 that little Irishman purtends to say as how he's been 
 robbed of, I don't know how many guineas out of his 
 pocket, and that he '11 make master pay it, because he 's 
 answerable for what's lost in the house. That gentleman 
 what was fighting — my eye did n't he sarve him out — 
 however, he says t'other s only made up the story, for 
 everybody knows he 's got no money to lose, for he's 
 only a sort of a hanger-on to the tall one. Oh, crikey ! 
 
of woman's life. 479 
 
 was n't it fun to see him — the old one — for bless you, 
 with all his fine toggery, that sets him off, he's quite 
 old, and so you 'd have said, if you 'd seen him come 
 creeping out without his fine curly wig, that he 'd lost 
 under the big dining table, where he'd sneaked out of 
 the way of the battle. Nobody saw him, I do believe, 
 but me, till he popped up his head, and then, for all he 
 purtends to be so young and active, he could n't get on 
 his feet till master and Briggs helped him." 
 
 " But where is Sally ? " interrupted Milly, who began 
 to feel impatient of her companion's narrative, though 
 she certainly had felt anxious to know how the affair had 
 terminated. 
 
 "Oh ! — Ah ! I was just a-going to tell you, Miss," he 
 replied. " You see, when the. fight was over, master, 
 who 'd got a great deal soberer than he was at fust, 
 begun to search into how it all begun. The two gentle- 
 men was gone away in the hackney coach I 'd fetched 
 for 'em. And so one said one thing, and another said 
 another. Mr. Palmer — that gentleman that came home 
 with master — he said, it was all that blackguard Irish- 
 man's doing, and that he saw he wanted to kick up 
 a row from the first, because there's an old grudge 
 between 'em, and sich a character as he did give him to 
 be sure; and then, all at once Mrs. Perkins broke out and 
 swore it was all your doings, Miss, from beginning to 
 end, and that you 'd insulted the gentleman, and showed 
 sich pride and airs as was onbearable ; and she wanted 
 Briggs to say so too, only he would n't ; and he and Mr. 
 Palmer said quite contrary, for that you'd treated them — 
 the two gentlemen, you know, Miss — with great propriety, 
 for that they 'd heard the Irisbman trying to set you 
 against us— that's Master and Missus and the others — 
 
480 . SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and persuading you to leave the "Harlequin" this very 
 night, and let him and the 'tother — Chester you know — 
 'scort you to your friends, or anywhere you pleased ; and 
 Mr. Palmer said, he 'd have interfered afore, but that he 
 saw you 'd too much good sense and proper feeling to be 
 took in by such a fellow as that Fitzgerald, and he 
 wanted to see how far his imperdence would carry him. 
 And he said how he gloried in you that you would n't let 
 yourself be neither persuaded nor frightened into drinking 
 their wine ; and, he gave Missus a broad hint that it 
 would have better become her not to join them against 
 you, for it only made you think that all the Irishman 
 had said about her — Missus that is — was true ; and even 
 Briggs, though he didn't seem to like taking neither 
 part, one more than another, owned that he saw Fitz- 
 gerald sneering and ridiculing Missus at the same time 
 he was handing her wine, and purtending to be so 
 friendly and perlite. Master gave her sich a look at that, 
 for he guessed, I 'spose, she 'd been making a fool of 
 herself, and that it was a good deal her fault from be- 
 ginning to end. I was clown upon my knees picking up 
 the broken glass and things that was all over the floor, 
 and I kept watching him, for I guessed how it would 
 end. Well, jist then I caught sight of Sally, peeping to 
 get to speak to me, I knew. So I went out to purtend 
 to empty the basket, and she told me I was to stand to it 
 that I did 'nt know where you went when you came out 
 of the bar. But, before she could get away, to run back 
 here, out bounced Master and Missus and Briggs, all 
 one a' top o' tother, as one may say, and all with the 
 same story—' Where was Miss Shelburne ? had we seen 
 Miss Shelburne ?' 
 
 ' In course, we both said No ! and then Sally, as cool 
 
of woman's life. 481 
 
 as a cowcumber, though I knew she was shaking in her 
 shoes, says — ' She's gone up to bed, Ma'am, to be sure. 
 It's natral she'd run up there out o'the way of the uproar.' 
 'To he sure, she has !' says Missus. 'What a fool you 
 make of yourself, Perkins, with sich fagaries ' — But, I 
 saw she hardly believed it herself, though she said so. 
 
 '" ' Go up and see if she's there, Sally, there's a good 
 gal,' says master. So they all went back into the bar, 
 and I .went to my work again. I thought at first that 
 Sallv would have come down and said ' Yes ! you was 
 there,' because, begging your pardon Miss, it would have 
 been the best place, because, I'm sure they wouldn't 
 have disturbed you to-night ; howsomever, when she 
 came. down and said 'No,' you was n't there nor no signs 
 of you,' there was the very devil to pay in a minute. 
 Master pitched into Missus, and she abused Briggs ; and 
 he said she'd ruined him and themselves too, for he'd be 
 bound they should never set sight on you again ; and 
 then Mr. Palmer put in his oar, and said they ought 
 to give him back the money they got out of him, and 
 then Missus flew like a tiger at 'em all, and said they 
 was carrying on games unbeknown to her, and she 
 was glad they were all took in ; and she hoped you was 
 gone for good ; and, at last, she said she shouldn't wonder 
 that you had cheated 'em all, clever as they fancied 
 themselves, and was gone off with Chester and the Irish- 
 man. I thought Master would have gone mad with 
 passion at that; and before Briggs or the other was 
 aware of it, he rushed at her and knocked her right off 
 the chair ; and then they went at it hard and fast, till at 
 last Briggs and the other dragged Master away, and I 
 and Sally got Missus out and up to her room, where she 
 went into 'stericks; and there I've left Sally with her now, 
 
 3 Q 
 
482 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 for what with the first fight, and then the other, she 
 is reg'larly done over at last. 
 
 " Sally told me to come here and tell you all about 
 it," he concluded, " and she says you 'd better keep 
 quiet here till she comes to you ; but, there's one thing I 
 havn't told you, that I do believe that Mr. Palmer 
 knows very well that you 're in the house, and is only 
 laughing at 'em all, purtendiug to think you're gone, 
 for he winked and laughed at Sally behind their backs, 
 when she came down and said you was n't in your bed- 
 room, and, I know I saw him look after you, when she 
 ketched you under the arm and led you off into the 
 kitchen." 
 
 Milly's uneasiness and disquietude was by no means 
 diminished by this last information. The name of Fitz- 
 roy Palmer had indeed explained the mystery of this 
 man's appearance at the " Harlequin," and she had began 
 to see more clearly into the motives that actuated Per- 
 kins and Briggs. She saw that the hope of making 
 money by her talents was their leading motive, and while 
 it relieved her of the fears and suspicions which all she 
 had heard and seen of them had excited, she became more 
 anxious than ever to escape from them, and more than 
 ever determined not to be drawn into any engagement 
 with them from which she could not at once break away. 
 Eegarding Mr. Fitzroy Palmer as one of the same de- 
 scription, she reflected with considerable uneasiness on 
 the arrangement which had been made, and to which she 
 had tacitly assented, of making her first appearance under 
 his auspices ; and this unpleasant feeling was conside- 
 rably augmented by what she had learned from Sally's 
 lover (the potman) as to Mr. Palmer's expressed dissatis- 
 faction on the score of the money, which Briggs had, it 
 
OF woman's life. 483 
 
 seemed, extracted from him on her (Milly's) account. 
 To submit thus to be defrauded would have given her 
 perhaps little uneasiness under different circumstances, 
 but now, when she had looked forward to the possession 
 of even the insignificant sum Briggs had specified, as a 
 certain relief from any demand that might be brought 
 against her by the mercenary, grasping landlady, was 
 particularly distressing, for, from all she had seen of 
 Mr. Briggs, she could scarcely entertain a hope that he 
 would part with any money that he had got once into 
 his possession. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Beauteous thy blue uprising, mist-robed Morn : 
 All the bright glittering of fantastic dews, 
 With their thin tissue silkening the green meads, 
 And all thy music of blithe leaves that dance 
 In the caressing breeze, and matins gay 
 From all the living woodland; sleep is pleased 
 To be so sweetly banish'd her soft reign. 
 But dreary are thy sounds, and sad thy light 
 On the lewd wassail, riot orgies rude, 
 Polluting day with sights that shame dark night. 
 
 MlLLMAN. 
 
 Several long hours had dragged heavily along, and 
 the daylight was beginning to break through the dusty 
 window, displaying more strikingly the uncomfortable 
 appearance of her temporary residence, before Sally's 
 entrance roused Milly Shelburne from the half-sleeping, 
 half-waking state into which she had fallen. A mixture 
 of fear, and repugnance to the state of the bed clothes. 
 
481 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 had prevented her taking the potman's advice when he 
 left her — " to go to hed and get a good sleep, as she 
 might he sure of not heing disturbed till pretty late in 
 the morning, as all of 'em was knocked up, and would n't 
 he able to do nothing till they 'd had some hours rest." 
 But worn out with fatigue and tired of the darkness — for 
 the man could not, it seemed, supply her with a candle 
 — Milly had at length wrapped her shawl around her 
 head and ventured to lie down on the pillow. 
 
 Sally's first exclamations were of regret that the young 
 lady should not have undressed and gone comfortably to 
 hed, and then she proceeded to excuse herself, and 
 account for her long absence — 
 
 " Mrs. Perkins had been really very bad," sbe said, 
 '"' and no mistake. I don't mean to say," she continued, 
 " that she doesn't desarve all she's got, but still, after all 
 you know, she's a woman, and men's blows is no joke, 
 'specially Master's, that could knock down an ox. He 
 was a butcher, you know, before he riz to be a publican. 
 And she came off onney second best, neither, in the first 
 fight, though he fought like a tiger. What with one 
 thing and t'other, howsomever, she's downright done 
 over, and went out o' one fit into another till I began to 
 get frightened that she was really going to make a die of 
 it, and that we must send for the doctor." 
 
 Milly shuddered as much at the description as at the 
 want of feminine tenderness and sympathy, as she thought, 
 on the part of the speaker. She was mistaken, however. 
 Sally probably felt as much, or even more compassion 
 for her worthless mistress than most would have done in 
 such circumstances ; but the quaintness, and to Milly's 
 ears, strangeness of her language, gave an air of levity 
 and indifference that appeared to the latter a want of 
 
of woman's life. 485 
 
 common feeling. This was soon however proved to be 
 unjust by her further remarks. 
 
 "I've been all these hours," she observed, "bathing 
 her temples, and. fermenting her eyes to take the black 
 out of 'em, for they was swelled so I was afeard she 
 wouldn't be able to see out of 'em. Master 11 be pro- 
 perly ashamed to see 'em I expect, when he comes to be 
 in his right-down sober senses, and she'll wish, I fancy, 
 that she hadn't give way so much to her aggrawative 
 tongue. But lor ! it's no use ; ' whatVbred in the bone 
 will come out of the flesh, ' and they'll soon forget it all 
 and be just as bad as ever the first time anything happens 
 to kick up a row between them." 
 
 " Then this is not the first time you have witnessed 
 such dreadful scenes ?" observed Milly, who had been in- 
 clined to reproach herself as having been the primary 
 cause, and was almost glad to hear, as a species of relief 
 to herself, that this was not the first scene of the kind the 
 girl had witnessed. 
 
 " Fust !" repeated the girl with vehemence, " Lor' 
 bless you, no, nor the second — more like I might say 
 the twenty-first. "Why they're everlasting at it, like cat 
 and dos as one mav sav, and that's the reason nobodv 
 hardly ever comes to interfere betwixt 'em. The neigh- 
 bours would let 'em fight I do believe till they killed one 
 another, before they'd come to meddle or make with 'em. 
 No, no, them that makes up their minds to live at the 
 'Harlequin' must make up their minds to hear and see too, 
 and say nothing, between the Master and Missus, or else 
 they must be always either in hot water, or as great devils 
 as themselves ; and that's the reason as I saw from the 
 very first I set eyes on you, that it would never suit 
 you, and that you'd be frightened pretty well out of 
 
486 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 your life the first time they kicked up one of their 
 bobberies." 
 
 Milly sighed deeply ; how was she to extricate her- 
 self ? The time was fast approaching when she could no 
 longer conceal herself, and her heart revolted from again 
 returning unresistingly to their association, and yet how 
 was it to be avoided ? It was a consolation to feel as 
 she now did, that she might trust implicitly in the good 
 disposition of Sally, ignorant and helpless as the latter 
 was as to rendering her any material assistance, and she 
 related therefore to her as she (Sally) lay on the bed to 
 rest, as she said, her weary bones a bit, exactly how she 
 was situated, the expectations with which she had come 
 to London, and the suspicions she had formed as to 
 Briggs' intentions to make her subservient solely to 
 his and his associates' interest, and that for that purpose 
 they meant to prevent her meeting with her mother. 
 
 " Well," observed Sally with an air of sagacity, "that 
 makes it all out, and they ain't perhaps quite so bad as 
 I thought they was. I've ketch'd up a word here and 
 there about the money they expected to make out of 
 you, and knowing they're an out and out bad set — 
 'specially that Briggs — I thought it was worse than it is ; 
 still I don't say they'd stop short of anything that would 
 bring in the tin, and my advice is to get away from 'em 
 if you can, and as soon as you can. But how's it to be 
 done without money, you say ? If I had it to lend 
 you, you should see none of their faces no more. And a 
 little would do too, just to take a tidy lodgin' till you 
 could either find your mother, or get into something — an 
 engagement as you call it. There's plenty of Briggs's 
 trade, only honester in London, that would be glad, I 
 should think, to havevou." 
 
of woman's life. 487 
 
 Milly assented to this ; of course she thought, and said, 
 if her services were so valuable to Briggs, they would be 
 equally so to some more respectable member of the pro- 
 fession. 
 
 " Well, I'll talk to Bill about it," observed the girl, 
 " and see what he says. Men, in course, knows more 
 about business than us women, and p'raps he can put us 
 in a way. He's got money, I know," she muttered to 
 herself, " and though he is close, yet for me — howsom- 
 ever I'll try now and get an hour or two's sleep, or else I 
 shan't be fit for nothing all day." 
 
 Milly could not be so selfish as to object to this ; the 
 blood had rushed into her cheeks at the idea of consult- 
 ing the potman, and the hint which the simple girl had 
 only half uttered as to his possession of money, was so 
 humiliating, so utterly revolting to her spirit, that she 
 could scarcely restrain herself from laying her express 
 commands on Sally not to mention such a thing, and if 
 she could do it without affronting her, to beg that she 
 would not consult him at all on her affairs. 
 
 The potman a negotiator for an engagement ! — the 
 arbitrator of her fate ! Poor Milly ! at one moment she 
 was disposed to laugh at the ignorance of the poor simple 
 girl, in whose eyes Bill with his hoard of pence and two- 
 pences, accumulated from the frequenters of the parlour 
 and taproom of the Harlequin, was of course a person of 
 importance, and the next her face crimsoned with mortified 
 pride, and she repented that she had by her indiscreet 
 confidence placed herself in the power of, and on a level 
 as it seemed with, persons so utterly ignorant, so incom- 
 petent to advise or direct her as Sally and her lover. 
 
 It was past the usual hour of breakfast when Sally 
 was startled from a sound sleep by a loud knock at the 
 
488 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 door of the room, and before she could reach it — for she 
 had only lain down outside the bed — Bill's well-known 
 voice summoned her to come down. 
 
 "Briggs is up, and the other gentleman," he an- 
 nounced, " and master is moving. I've done all I could do 
 for you, hut they'll he asking for you in course," he added. 
 
 Before Milly could collect herself, for she too — in 
 spite of trouble and uneasiness, had fallen into a sound 
 sleep, and with her head wrapped up had not heard the 
 summons until Sally had reached and opened the door — 
 before she had time to think, Sally was gone and the for- 
 mer left undecided how to act in any respect, and for two 
 long hours did she remain in the most painful suspense, 
 afraid to remove from the place, and equally afraid to 
 remain, without knowing how Sally meant to act. 
 
 The latter at length entered, her face wearing an ex- 
 pression of self-satisfaction. 
 
 " Well, I don't know whether you'll be satisfied with 
 what I've done," she observed, " but it was what Bill 
 thought the best, and I told him all just as you told me.'' 
 
 Milly shrunk as if a knife had pierced her, but her 
 companion did not see it, and she proceeded — 
 
 "First and foremost, we knew that Mr. What's-his- 
 name, (Palmer) know'd very well as you was hid some- 
 where about the house, but he never said a word when 
 Briggs — for they was both in the bar parlour when I 
 went in to get breakfast read}' — kept wondering and 
 grumbling about what could have become of you, only 
 I see him (that's Palmer) laugh to himself like, when 
 Briggs swore he'd make my lord — I 'spose he meant 
 Chester, 'cause I 've heard he 's a lord — that he'd make 
 him sweat for it, if he could find out that he 'd took you 
 away from the ' Harlequin.' " 
 
of woman's life. i 39 
 
 '• " What can you do.' says Palmer, 'if she went of her 
 own accord ? Besides, she ain't bound to you.' 
 
 Ci ' Oh ! ain't she ?' says Briggs, nodding his head with 
 one of his cunning looks, ' we shall see about that.' 
 
 " ' I think it's rue, if anybody, that's got the most right 
 to look out,' says Palmer; 'however,' says he, ' at any rate, 
 if she don't come forward, I shall look to your paying 
 the money back, for I know she's had none of it.' 
 
 "' In course not,' says Briggs, c I paid it, leastways 
 best part of it to Perkins, for her keep here' — and then 
 he marched out with his pipe in his mouth as if he didn't 
 want to have no more talk about it. 
 
 " ' infernal rascal,' says Palmer, looking after 
 
 him with such a look, and then turning round to me, he 
 said as cool as a cowcumber — ' Well, my dear, how is 
 Miss Shelburne, this morning. I hope she didn't get 
 hurt in that scrummage last night. I'm a'feard she 
 thought I was very rough to her, but it was the only way 
 I could get her out of it.' 
 
 " In course, what could I do? You know, Miss, I could 
 not go to deny as I knew about you, and so I said you 
 was better than I expected, but very molloncholly and 
 low sperritted, and then I said, as I hoped he was too 
 much of the gentleman to tell Master or Missus as I 
 know'd where you was. 
 
 " ' Sartainly not.' says he. 'I give you great credit for 
 
 getting her out of the way so cleverly ; but, now tell me 
 
 my gal,' says he, 'is she still in the house? and what 
 
 does she mean to do ? Not stop here, in course. Briggs 
 
 is such a liar, that I can't depend on a word he 
 
 says, and, therefore, I don't know how she's sitivated, or 
 
 how she comes to be here, where I 'm sure she ought n't 
 
 to be — no, not for an hour; and if I could be of any 
 
 3 R 
 
490 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 service to her, I would directly, for she's got into bad 
 hands, and that you know, my dear.' Well, when I heard 
 hirn say this, Miss Shelburne, I know'd Bill was right 
 when he said he was sure he was n't a bad sort, and so I 
 up and told hirn the whole truth, just as you 'd told it to 
 me, though in course I could n't tell it so well as you 
 did ; but, howsomever, he was quite struck, and seemed 
 almost ready to cry, when I told him you hadn't a friend 
 in the world, only your mother that you could not find 
 out, and no money, nor nowhere tb go to, and, that there 
 you was sitting up in my room broken-hearted a' most, 
 and nobody to help or give you any advice, only me and 
 Bill, and — there now, don't give away, I declare you 
 frighten me, you look so bad, and, I declare, I couldn't 
 keep from crying myself when I told him — Oh ! such 
 names as he called Briggs, and Master and Missus, and 
 the whole set of 'em, all joining — as he said — to bring an 
 innercent gal like you to ruin ; and then he cussed him- 
 self for a stupid fool in letting them get all the money he 
 had about hirn last night, except two or three shillings, 
 and that he said he couldn't think of offering you. 
 Briggs, it seems, got three pounds. 
 
 "At last, howsomever, he bethought himself of the 
 ring on his finger — sich a beauty — and the diamond pin 
 in his stock, and he asked me to run with 'em to the 
 nearest pawnbrokers and get five pounds on 'em ; they're 
 worth double that, he says, but that '11 do for the present. 
 I could n't go myself, you know, for fear of Missus 
 wanting me, but told him Bill would, and so he's gone. 
 But, I was n't to tell you this. In course, he doesn't 
 want you to know how he was drove for the money, and 
 now I have left him writing a letter to you, telling you 
 his advice how to act. He wanted at first to come 
 
of woman's life. 491 
 
 up here and see you, but then he thought you would he 
 alarmed, as he said, and besides, it's best to keep it dark, 
 that he knowed anything about you. 
 
 "You can easily get out of the house afore Missus 
 come's down, that's to say, if she's able to come down at 
 all, and he '11 put down on a bit o' paper where you are 
 to go to and take a lodging. And you must tell 'em 
 you've just come up from the country, and have got an 
 engagement — don't you call it ? — to be a singer, and you 
 can mention his name for a recommendation, and pay- 
 down a week's board and lodging ; so now you see every- 
 thing is as plain as a pike-staff. You can't make no mis- 
 take ; and you know, you can pay him his money back 
 when you can spare it. He won't be hard upon you, I'll 
 be bound, if it's for a twelvemonth." 
 
 Sally had settled the whole affair so much to her own 
 satisfaction, that it seemed never to have occurred to her 
 that there was a possibility of Miss Shelburne's objecting 
 to it. More than once the latter had tried to interrupt 
 her, but Sally's positive — 
 
 " Stop a bit. Let me tell you all out," and her im- 
 patient wave of the hand, had compelled her (Milly's) 
 silence until now. Having run herself out of breath and 
 exhausted her subject, the garrulous maiden sat down, 
 looking in Milly's face with a self-satisfied expression, as 
 if expecting to receive the thanks of her protegee for her 
 excellent management. 
 
 To sav that Milly had experienced every extremity of 
 shame, vexation, wounded pride, and mortification, at 
 the light in which the ignorant girl's detail had placed 
 her, in respect to Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, would be a faint 
 exposition of her feelings. She changed colour half-a 
 dozen times, as she heard herself represented as taking 
 
492 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 counsel of Bill the potman ; her friendless, destitute state 
 enlarged upon, as if seeking relief from any one who 
 would bestow their charity upon her, and only saved from 
 the humiliation of two or three shillings being sent to 
 her by Mr. Palmer's generosity and delicacy, for she 
 could not doubt that Sally would have thankfully ac- 
 cepted it on her part, if he had no more in his power. 
 That she could think of submitting to such an obli- 
 gation, that she could suffer Mr. Palmer to submit 
 to such a degrading humiliation — so to her inexperience 
 appeared the resort to the pawnbroker — to supply her 
 necessities, was not to be thought of for a moment. It 
 was plain what he himself thought of it, for had he 
 not charged Sally to keep it secret ? but even could all 
 this be set aside, even if she had known none of these 
 objections, Milly would have shrunk from — would have 
 rejected any obligation to — Mr. Fitzroy Palmer. Milly's 
 experience, short as it had been, since she entered the 
 doors of the " Harlequin," her conviction of the utter 
 worthlessness and want of principle of those whom she 
 had there encountered, had produced a complete re- 
 action in her naturally unsuspicious, in fact, credulous, 
 confiding mind, and she was already beginning to be in 
 danger of going to the opposite extreme, of distrusting 
 the most simple actions, and attributing to every one the 
 worst motives. Certainly, her first interview with Mr. 
 Palmer was not likely to produce an impression in his 
 favour. She had in fact conceived a prejudice against 
 him, which had not been lessened by his manner and 
 looks on his entrance with the landlord and Briggs, and 
 now, with all his apparent claims upon her gratitude, she 
 shrank with the utmost repugnance from incurring the 
 slightest obligation to him. Before, however, she could 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 103 
 
 give utterance to her feelings on the subject, Sally started 
 up and exclaimed— 
 
 " Lor', Good Gracious ! there's Bill come back and a 
 calling me,'' and she flew out of the room, paying not 
 the slightest attention to Milly's hurried exclamation — 
 
 " I cannot — will not — accept Mr. Palmer's money, 
 Sally ! Do not, I beg of you, take it from him." 
 
 Whether the girl was detained by her household 
 occupations, or that she thought it best to give Miss 
 Shelburne time to think better as to the liberal offer of 
 which she had been the bearer, is uncertain ; but if the 
 latter was the motive of her protracted absence, which 
 lasted more than two hours, she found herself mistaken, 
 when she at length came back the bearer of a letter 
 addressed to Miss Shelburne, and enclosing, as she her- 
 self announced, two pun notes. 
 
 " He's a proper gin'rous gentleman," she observed, 
 " for though Bill got only three pun ten on the things, 
 he gave him half-a-crown for going and me the same. 
 But come, open his letter, Miss Shelburne, for he's 
 waiting for a answer, and I 've brought pen and ink and 
 paper that you may write." 
 
 " There's no occasion for my writing, Sally," returned 
 Milly coolly. " I shall not open the letter ; and you can 
 say to him that, greatly as I feel indebted for his kind- 
 ness, I decline taking advantage of it." 
 
 To describe the girl's apparent surprise and real vexa- 
 tion at this reply would be impossible. She tried first 
 the effects of persuasion, then she became angry, declared 
 that Miss Shelburne must be mad and worse than mad; 
 and then, bursting into tears, accused her of ingratitude 
 in having got her and Bill into a hobble by concealing 
 her in the house, and now refusing to take the means of 
 
-1U4 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 getting herself and them out of it, by leaving before 
 Master and Missus came down stairs. 
 
 This was an argument that was calculated to have 
 more weight with Milly than any Sally could have 
 brought to her aid; already she wavered, and Sally's 
 tears would most likely have prevailed, but at that 
 moment a step was heard outside the door, which the 
 latter evidently recognised, as whispering with a look of 
 affright — " It's all up ! Here's Missus," she thrust the 
 rejected letter into her pocket, and prepared herself for 
 the storm she undoubtedly expected. 
 
 Milly s first thoughts when the landlady entered the 
 room, were less of concern for herself than pity for the 
 altered, miserable looking Mrs. Perkins, who, deprived 
 of all the advantages of dress, her head buried in a large 
 night cap, her face bruised and swollen from the effects 
 of liquor, and a dreadful discolouration surrounding one 
 eye, and looking wretchedly dejected and ashamed, she 
 could scarcely recognise as the smart, assuming, bustling 
 and comparatively youthful landlady of the "Harlequin." 
 
 "Lor bless me, Miss Shelburne !" she exclaimed after 
 a moment's silent surprise, " and you are here after all 
 the fright we 've all been in about you." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, Ma'am!" interposed Sally, drawing 
 back so as to give Milly a significant wink. "Yes, 
 indeed, I was never so struck in all my life, as when 
 I come up quite promiscus just now, for I 've never been 
 to bed at all, it was n't worth while, you know, because 
 it was so late afore I 'd done fermenting your eye, and 
 that — " 
 
 " Well, never mind that," interrupted Mrs. Perkins, 
 impatiently — she did not like attention being called to 
 the injuries she had received — " but how in the name of 
 
of woman's LI I 495 
 
 goodness did you find your way up here, Miss Shelburne, 
 such an out-o' the-way place ?" 
 
 Milly could not of course betray the part Sally had 
 taken in introducing her to her temporary refuge, and 
 she therefore faintly replied that — " She had been so 
 frightened, that she had fled without caring where she 
 went so that she could get away from a scene of such 
 violence/' and concluded by expressing her sorrow that 
 she (Mrs. Perkins) should have suffered so severely 
 from it. 
 
 The landlady looked half-doubtful, half- gratified, at 
 this expression of sympathy. 
 
 "Well, I wonder you didn't come down when them 
 fellers were gone," she observed, " for you must have 
 natrally thought we should have been uneasy about what 
 had become of you."' 
 
 Milly replied and with truth, that, could she have 
 conquered her fears, being in the dark she would have 
 been unable to find her way back, and after daylight 
 she had been unwilling to disturb the house. 
 
 " And I suppose you fell asleep too. then, Miss," ob- 
 served the cunning Sally, " for I'm sure I startled you 
 out of a nap, when I opened the door. I declare, I 
 thought it was the young lady's ghost, Ma'am, when 
 I see her sitting on the side of the bed with her head on 
 the piller." 
 
 Whether Mrs. Perkins was or was not entirely satisfied 
 with this explanation, it was impossible to say from her 
 looks, but she made no farther observation on that point. 
 "Well," she said, after a few minutes' reflection, "I sup- 
 pose you won't be sorry to go back to your own room, 
 now. That Fitzroy Palmer and Briggs are both down 
 stairs it seems, so you'd better let Sally bring you some 
 
I in; shade and sunshine 
 
 breakfast there when she brings mine. If you '11 come 
 with me I 'II show you the way without any of them 
 seeing you ; and Sally, don't you say a word about Miss 
 Shelburne being up stairs, or that you know anything 
 about her." 
 
 Sally of course assented with apparent readiness, but 
 she added — what Milly fully understood was intended for 
 her information, though addressed to Mrs. Perkins — 
 
 " The gentleman — Mr. Palmer, I think you calls him 
 — will soon be gone, for I heard him tell Bill to brush 
 his boots and look sharp, as he must be off on business 
 to the t'other end of the town." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins muttered something that sounded very 
 like an execration against Mr. Palmer, and then re- 
 collecting herself, bade the girl send Bill to his master 
 to tell him the former was going, and inquire whether 
 he 'd paid up his score. " In course we can't charge for 
 a bed, as I suppose they sat up all night," she added, 
 " but do you give him a hint that he ought to pay for the 
 trouble he's given. As to the mischief he and that Fitz- 
 gerald did between them, your master must settle that : 
 but if he don't make them both smart for it, he's a fool, 
 that's all." 
 
 Sally lingered a moment or two, pretending to pick up 
 the clothes that were scattered on the floor, while her 
 mistress grumbled at the state the room w ? as in, but the 
 girl did not reply ; she did not seem even to hear her, 
 and Milly saw her thoughts were occupied in devising 
 some means of communicating with her respecting the 
 money she was so unwilling to return to its owner, while 
 Milly herself was equally anxious to avoid adding any- 
 thing on the subject. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins's petulant " Come, why don't you move, 
 
of woman's life. -497 
 
 Sally; the feller (Mr. Palmer) will be off before your 
 master knows he's going/' at length compelled the girl 
 to give up her attempt, and muttering that she " never 
 had time to do nothing she wanted to do," she ran down 
 the stairs or rather ladder, leaving her mistress apparently 
 not a little surprised, at what she afterwards commented 
 upon as the " gal's sarciness." 
 
 It had not escaped the landlady's eyes either, that 
 Sally had bestowed upon Miss Shelbume a look of 
 peculiar significance as she quitted the room, and al- 
 though she had not detected any answering look to it 
 from Milly, it had awakened a suspicion in her mind 
 that there had been more communication between her 
 maid and her guest than she knew of, or approved ; and 
 therefore, instead of leaving the latter at the door of the 
 room, to which she had conducted her by a door opening 
 on the staircase which led to all the bed rooms, she 
 entered with her, and sitting down on the side of the 
 bed began a long series of lamentations on her parti- 
 cularly hard fate in not having a friend in the world that 
 she could trust, and even her own husband being the 
 worst enemy she had. 
 
 "And there's that impudent hussy, that you heard speak 
 to me just now," she continued, " as if I w ? as nobody or 
 nothing. Even she takes his part against me, though I've 
 been an unknown friend to her. I took her in when she 
 was starving, and had got such a bad character that no- 
 body would n't let her into their house, and now she 
 pavs me off for my kindness by joining with everybody 
 against me, and the best word in her mouth about me is 
 always the worst. I should n't wonder now that she had 
 been telling you a parcel of lies about me, before I came 
 
 in just now.'' 
 
 3 s 
 
SHADE AND SDNSHINE 
 
 Milly, however, assured Mrs. Perkins, as she could 
 with perfect truth, that the girl had not spoken of her 
 mistress, except to regret that she had heen so much 
 hurt the preceding night, and that she was much afraid 
 she would not he ahle to leave her hed that morning. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins, however, did not appear to he perfectly 
 satisfied with this assurance. 
 
 " Ah ! well," she replied, " she might, perhaps, pre- 
 tend to he sorry to you, hut this I'm sure of, she looked 
 as if she was a great deal more disappointed at seeing 
 me out of it, and if I hadn't have thought hetter of you 
 than to helieve that you'd go to hemean yourself to 
 have any colloguing with a low, ignorant servant gal, I 
 should have thought there was something up hetwixt 
 you, and especially from the look she gave you as she 
 went out of the room; and to tell you the frantic truth" 
 — Mrs. Perkins regularly suhstituted frantic for candid, 
 and Milly had with some difficulty discovered the mean- 
 ing of what appeared to he a very favourite form of speech 
 with her — " to tell you the frantic truth, I made her go 
 down afore I left the room, hecause I saw she wanted to 
 say something to you." 
 
 Milly's change of countenance, the shame she could 
 not help feeling, and in some measure hetraying, at the 
 consciousness that Mrs. Perkins's susjticions were in part 
 founded in truth, her downcast eyes and vain struggle 
 to appear calm and composed, were much more calculated 
 to confirm the landlady's impressions that there was a 
 secret hetween her maid and Miss Shelhurne, than the 
 assurance of the latter that she was mistaken, Avere to 
 remove them. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins still continued to dilate upon Sally's 
 faults, and especially her ingratitude, and to relate proofs 
 
OP woman's life. 199 
 
 of her own indulgence, generosity, and good feeling to- 
 wards her unworthy maid- servant, until Milly, wearied of 
 the subject, and vexed and ashamed at the manner in 
 which she was mixed up in the mistress's accusations 
 and suspicions of treachery, at last observed, with some 
 degree of petulance — 
 
 "Really, Mrs. Perkins, if your representations are 
 correct, and this young woman is capable of acting as 
 you describe, I am surprised that you should have so 
 long borne with her, or have put it in her power to do 
 you so much mischief. For my own part, I can assure 
 you that I neither am imposed upon, or shall be imposed 
 upon, by any misrepresentations, either by your servant 
 or any one else, as I consider myself quite capable of 
 judging—" 
 
 " Hush !" ejaculated Mrs. Perkins, putting her finger 
 to her lips to enjoin silence, and Milly, without divining 
 her motive, instantly ceased speaking. 
 
 The landlady's sense of hearing was evidently quicker 
 than her companion's, for a moment or two afterwards, 
 her face flushed and her eyes sparkling with anger, 
 Sally entered with the cup of coffee, &c, on a waiter. 
 
 " Here's your breakfast, Miss Shelburne," she observed, 
 sharply putting it down on the dressing-table with such 
 violence as nearly to upset the whole into the saucer and 
 plate of bread and butter. " I've took yours into your 
 room, Ma'am," she added, turning to her mistress, "for 
 I didn't think of your stopping here all this time, so bad 
 as you be. It's enough to kill you, I'm sure, settin' here 
 in the cold.'' 
 
 There was an evident intention on the girl's part to 
 conciliate her mistress, and equally to testify her resent- 
 ment towards Miss Shelburne, although the latter was 
 
500 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 far from suspecting the cause of the change in her ci- 
 devant friend, supposing it to arise from Sally's resent- 
 ment at her having refused the money from Mr. Palmer, 
 and attributing it to her ignorance of the evils that might 
 attend her acceptance of it. She considered her anger 
 only as an additional proof of the girl's kind feelings 
 towards her, and therefore set herself with a smile, to re- 
 medy the disorders she had occasioned at the breakfast 
 table, while Mrs. Perkins, who appeared at first to have 
 taken no notice of what Sally had said to her, now ob- 
 served — " You may as well fetch my breakfast here, I 
 think, for I don't care to have it by myself." 
 
 The girl hesitated for a minute. " You'd better go 
 there, Ma'am," she said, winking at her mistress, "' the 
 room's warmer, you know, than this, that's been empty all 
 night ; besides, I want to tell you summat," she added, 
 seeing that the former was not inclined to take the hint 
 she had given by her peculiarly sly look. 
 
 Mrs Perkins's objection to go was immediately re- 
 moved when she found that Sally meant to go with her, 
 for she had only hesitated because she would not give 
 her maid the opportunity, she thought she sought, of com- 
 municating with Miss Shelburne, and they departed 
 together. At the moment they were quitting the room, 
 however, Sally contrived to slip behind her mistress, and 
 Milly, raising her eyes accidentally, received from her a 
 look so threatening and furious, as completely to startle 
 her and keep her sitting motionless and forgetful of the 
 breakfast, which, though not very tempting in appearance, 
 had a few minutes before been received with welcome as 
 necessary. 
 
 All Milly's reflection, however, failed to enlighten her 
 as to the cause of this sudden change in one who had 
 
of woman's life. 501 
 
 seemed so warmly her friend, but it aided her in calling 
 up her natural pride, and she smiled contemptuously at 
 the consequence she was attaching to the good or ill-will 
 of one so utterly beneath her in every respect. Milly, 
 however, had yet to learn what experience of the world too 
 often teaches — that there is no being so utterly contemp- 
 tible or despicable, but that they may possess the power 
 of inflicting injuries even on those apparently removed 
 far above their reach or power. 
 
 Milly dreamt not of the offence by which she had con- 
 verted her former friend Sally into her enemy, nor that the 
 latter was now employed, by a cunning perversion of facts, 
 at once in securing her own favour with Mrs. Perkins, and 
 increasing the enmity the latter was already disposed to 
 feel against her guest. The simple fact was, Sally, who 
 like most of her description, was addicted to listening to 
 conversations in which she had, or fancied she had, some 
 interest, had unfortunately arrived at the bed-room door 
 just as Milly gave utterance to her surprise, that if Sally 
 was the worthless character Mrs. Perkins had described, 
 the latter should still encourage her, or suffer her to remain 
 in the house. Without for a moment reflecting what 
 must have been said to have called for such an answer, 
 too ignorant and hasty indeed to draw any proper 
 conclusions from what she had heard, or to dis- 
 cover, as she might, that the very manner in which Milly 
 uttered this expressed her disbelief of what she had 
 heard from the landlady, and her desire to put an end to 
 the subject — Sally instantly decided, that the former was, 
 for some unknown reason, become her enemy, and to use 
 her own expression, " trying to get her out of her place ;" 
 and in a fit of rage, to which her natural temper was but 
 too prone, she was about to rush into the room, and at 
 
•M)'2 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 once accuse her of her falsehood and ingratitude. But this 
 would have involved a discovery of the part she had her- 
 self acted ; and she well knew the consequences of that 
 would have been what she most dreaded — the loss of her 
 situation. 
 
 " But I'll be even with her,'' she muttered, " a nasty, 
 treacherous, false cretur, with her soft-spoken ways, that 
 made me think her almost an angel ; she shan't get the 
 better of me altogether." 
 
 The result of which was the invention of a story, by 
 which, under a solemn promise of secrecy by her mistress, 
 she communicated to the latter her conviction that Miss 
 Shelburne, in spite of all her pretended modesty and re- 
 serve, was, to use her own words, "no better than she 
 should be ;" for that she, Sally, had found out that Mr. 
 Palmer — who was just gone — had known very well where 
 she (Milly) was all night, and she verily believed had 
 seen her while they were all otherwise employed, and as a 
 confirmation she owned, begging her mistress's forgiveness 
 for what she had done — that he (Palmer) had sent her 
 up to Miss Shelburne — whose retreat till then she pre- 
 tended to have been ignorant of — and that she had car- 
 ried up a letter from him to her — that she (Sally) was 
 sure had money in it ; but, for some reason, she sent itback 
 to him again, but that she knew that she expected to see 
 him again soon, for he had said as much when he took 
 the letter back that it would be only delaying a day 
 or two. 
 
 " The artful wretch !" exclaimed Mrs. Perkins. "No; 
 she wouldn't have the money because she means to leave 
 us without paying a farthing for all the trouble and 
 expense she's put us to, but she'll find herself out in her 
 reckoning. She shall pay, and handsomely too, before 
 
OF woman's life. 503 
 
 she leaves this house. Go and tell your master I want to 
 speak to bim." 
 
 Sally had effected her purpose, hut she now began to 
 reap the reward of her treachery, in the fear that Miss 
 Shelburne would reveal the whole truth, if directly taxed 
 with the offence the former had charged her with. She 
 tried to persuade Mrs. Perkins to be silent, and watch her 
 guest until some circumstance should betray Miss Shel- 
 burne's intentions, and give her (the landlady) an 
 opportunity of speaking ; but the latter, besides 
 she had in reality a high opinion of her husband's 
 superiority in mauagement, wanted an opportunity at the 
 present moment of making up the breach between them, 
 notwithstanding she had suffered so severely, partly be- 
 cause she knew it was for her interest to be on good terms 
 with him, and partly in all probability from the secret 
 eonseiousness that her own folly and intemperance had 
 been the original cause of the fray. There was another 
 motive too that operated not less forcibly on her deter- 
 mination to communicate her supposed discovery to her 
 husband, and that was her jealousy of the high opinion 
 he entertained of Miss Shelburne. 
 
 " Yes, " she observed to her new eonfidante Sally, 
 towards whom she had now thrown off all reserve, " yes, 
 such lectures as he's given me about my behaviour before 
 her, as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and cheese 
 would choke her, but he shall know now what she really 
 is ; and that with all her blushes and her silence, and the 
 airs she's played off ever since she's been here, she's no 
 better than her neighbours, nor maybe half so good, if 
 we knew all." 
 
 Sally's conscience was already beginning to reproach 
 her. Her natural acuteness told her that her master's 
 
501 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 estimation of Miss Shelburne was the true one, while Mrs. 
 Perkins's suspicions were derived only from her own de- 
 pravity and that of the persons with whom she associated. 
 What could have induced her (Miss Shelburne) to have 
 acted so cruelly and treacherously towards her, and with- 
 out any cause that she could see ? Sally began to be 
 afraid she had been too hasty ; she wished now that she 
 had waited and charged tbe young lady with her crime 
 towards her — her best friend, and heard what she had 
 to say in her defence — but it was too late. Mrs. Perkins 
 was not to be persuaded out of her own mode of proceed- 
 ings, and the maid was compelled most reluctantly to go 
 in search of her master, to hear the story of Miss Shel- 
 burne's crimes and misdemeanours. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Few are my years, and yet I feel 
 The 'world was ne'er designed for me ; 
 
 All ! why do darkening shades conceal 
 The hour when man must cease to be ? 
 
 Once I beheld a splendid dream, 
 
 A visionary scene of bliss ; 
 Truth ! wherefore did thy hated beam, 
 
 Awake me to a world like this ? 
 
 I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 
 
 Had friends — my early friends are fled ; 
 How cheerless feels the heart alone, 
 
 When all its former hopes are dead ! 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The result of Sally's communication, and Mr. Perkins's 
 and Mr. Briggs's consultation on the subject, he being 
 called into the family council, soon appeared. A polite 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. oOo 
 
 message, delivered by tin.' former, invited Miss Shelburne 
 down to dinner, an invitation which tbe latter did not 
 decline; for she was beginning to feel the effects of the 
 abstemious life she bad led since she bad quitted borne. 
 Anxious to avoid any discussion of her conduct, in refus- 
 ing Mr. Fitzroy Palmer's assistance, to which only she 
 could attribute the sulky look and manner which her 
 ci-devant friend Sally still retained in her delivery of 
 Mrs. Perkins's message, Milly merely thanked her, and 
 followed her down stairs, thus preventing any attempt at 
 the explanation which the foolish girl — more than half 
 repentant at tbe mischief she had done — was now anxious 
 to bring about, resolving, that, should she discover that she 
 had been wrong in her hasty conclusion as to Miss Shel- 
 burne's treachery towards her, she would at once own 
 what she had done, and thus enable the latter, as far as 
 possible, to defeat the intended mischief. Contrary, how- 
 ever, to Sally's expectations, Miss Shelburne was received 
 by the dinner party with the utmost apparent friendliness. 
 Scarcely any allusion was made to the events of the pre- 
 ceding night, and except that the trio seemed less dis- 
 posed to talk than usual, and that Mr. Perkins's manner 
 towards his wife was much less arbitrary and overbearing 
 than was ' his wont,' probably from shame and penitence 
 for his last night's violence, of which the ' outward and 
 visible sign ' was but too prominnnt in her swollen face 
 and bandaged eye — except these remnants, there was little 
 to remind Milly of the scene of which she had been the 
 alarmed and reluctant witness, and even Sally, who, as 
 usual on state occasions, as it seemed, waited at table, felt 
 her spirits rise when the dinner passed off in (to use her 
 own words) "sich peace and comfits, that they was list 
 like turtle doves." 
 
 II T 
 
50G SHADE AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 The cloth was removed, the gents were supplied with 
 their grog and pipes hy the fair hands of the landlady her- 
 self, who seemed hent on making herself peculiarly 
 amiable ; and Milly, as if determined that nothing on 
 her part should interrupt the harmony that prevailed, 
 assented to the proposition of Mrs. Perkins, that as she 
 " couldn't drink grog nor sperrits, they should treat them- 
 selves with a glass of port wine negus, just hy way of 
 making themselves social and comfortable with the 
 gentlemen ;" a proposition which was received hy Mr. 
 Briggs and the landlord with extreme satisfaction, evinced 
 by loud rapping with their knuckles on the mahogany 
 table. 
 
 " Well, now," observed the former gentleman, after an 
 interchange of healths, &c, had been drunk, in which 
 Milly imitated the example of her companions, not it 
 must be confessed without some mental hesitation as to 
 the wishes so warmly expressed by the rest of the party 
 as to their future friendship and lasting good will, 
 " Well, now, this is what I call real comfort and happi- 
 ness, and I 'm sure Miss Shelburne must see how very 
 different our feelings is towards her than them that 
 with all their flattery and fine pretensioris, is only looking 
 out to take advantage of her inexperience. That Fitz- 
 gerald, now, with all his fine sentiment, and — " 
 
 "Blarney!" interposed Mrs. Perkins. " I never was 
 deceived" — but a look from her husband prevented her 
 proceeding with her opinion of Mr. Fitzgerald ; and 
 Briggs, who seemed equally desirous to dispense with 
 the landlady's interference, and to be somewhat discon- 
 certed by her coarse explanation, after sipping once or 
 twice from his glass, went on to say that " greatly as he 
 knew it to be to his interest, as a perfessional man, to 
 
of woman's life. 507 
 
 secure the putter nage of a great man like the gentleman 
 who called himself Chester, but who was r a ally a noble- 
 man — Marquis of Newington, he believed, was his proper 
 name — yet he saw, as he did last night, what was up be- 
 tween him and that fellow Fitzgerald, who was nothing 
 more or less than what might be called his lordship's 
 decoy, one that — though it was a vulgar expression — 
 had got the gift of the gab so, that he could talk a bird 
 off its perch, till it would fall slap into the net he and 
 his master — as he might call Lord Newington — had 
 spread for it. Yes, Miss Shelburne, I declare solemnly," 
 he continued, " I was so hurt, when I see you listening 
 to the feller last night, and — excuse me — swallowing all 
 he said as if it was gospel, I could hardly help breaking- 
 out at once upon them, even if it had been my ruin. I 
 look upon you, Miss Shelburne," and he threw himself 
 back in a theatrical posture, placing one hand upon his 
 heart and flourishing his pipe in the other — '' I look 
 upon you as a solemn trust placed under my protection, 
 and that it's my duty to stand in the shoes, as I may 
 say, of the friends you have lost, or leastways separated 
 from, in order to promote yourself in the world. Aye, 
 and I will do it too. I consider myself, Miss Shelburne, 
 not only as your perfessional instructor and bound to 
 permote your interest and to put you forrard in science, 
 and all that, but to be your guardian and defender, and 
 to stand up for your welfare, even to the last drop of my 
 blood : as I said before, Miss Shelburne, if it was to be 
 my ruin, as it's certain to do me a deal of harm, if this 
 Lord Newington was to go from his word, which you 
 heard him give me of paternising our concerts when the 
 room is opened, which he certainly will do. if he suspects 
 that I have stood in his way, by guarding you against 
 his vile snares." 
 
508 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Milly listened in silence and with mingled feelings of 
 vexation, surprise, and derision, to this farrago of bom- 
 bast, assumption and deception. Scarcely, Indeed, could 
 she suppress a laugh, at the impudence of his assuming 
 the office of her instructor and patron: but there was, 
 she suspected, some hidden motives for the part he was 
 playing that she could not comprehend, but which 
 tended to increase her fear and dislike of the man of 
 whose duplicity she had already had such undeniable 
 proofs, and who, even now, with all his pretences to 
 the character of her defender and protector, against the 
 men whose character and designs he represented in such 
 an infamous light, still betrayed his desire to remain on 
 good terms, and to conceal his knowledge of their vile 
 intentions, lest he should lose their patternage — as he 
 called it — of the shilling concerts. 
 
 Scarcely knowing in what manner to reply, Milly re- 
 mained for some moments silent, and Mrs. Perkins 
 observed — that she did not wonder Miss Shelburne was 
 startled at hearing what she had heard ; but, for her part, 
 she had all along suspected, that, though they were gentle- 
 men, they were bad ones. 
 
 " Howsomever," she continued, " to speak the frantic 
 truth, I must confess, there's another person that I think 
 Miss Shelburne has more reason to be afeared on, than 
 either the lord or his man, and that's your friend, Mr. 
 Fitzroy Palmer, as you call him." 
 
 "My friend!" repeated Briggs, with emphasis. " My 
 friend I Nay, Mrs. P., I beg you wont give such a 
 title to a man whom I utterly despise. The biggest rake, 
 the most despicable fellow in London. A man who is 
 hated and despised among all his fellow perfessionals for 
 his bad principles. The meanest wretch that ever dis- 
 
of woman's i.i i e. 509 
 
 1 us, who you kuow pride ourselves upon our 
 liberality, Miss Shelburne. Why, the poorest creature 
 among us, a mere common fidler — not that Mr. Palmer's 
 much better as regards his knowledge of the science, my 
 dear young lady — but the poorest among us would be 
 ashamed of the dirty actions that Fitzroy Palmer would 
 be guilty of to put a shilling in his pocket. I '11 tell 
 vou some day when we've time, a few anecdotes of his 
 love of money, and how he 's been found out even 
 flashing Bank of Elegance Notes to deceive poor gals ; 
 but I beg your pardon, it would n't be proper to tell you 
 such stories, only, when Mrs. P. called him my friend, I 
 was throw'd off my guard and could n't help speaking." 
 
 Milly was surprised, and not with any intention of 
 confusing him, but in pure simplicity she replied — 
 
 " But is not this Mr. Fitzroy Palmer the same person, 
 Mr. Briggs, that you spoke of to me ?" 
 
 Briggs' usual confidence seemed for a moment to 
 desert him, though he made a signal to her to be silent, 
 that arrested her remark. He quickly, however, recovered 
 his self-possession. 
 
 "What I said before was perfessional — strictly per- 
 f'essional. You know there's mysteries in all business, 
 and man's character as an hartiste — as the French calls 
 it — and his private character as a man and a gentleman, 
 is quite another guess sort of a thing. But I '11 explain 
 all this another time, Miss Shelburne ; at present we have 
 other things of more -importance to think of — other fish 
 to fry, or, as my Frenchman says, in one of my comic 
 pieces that I got up myself, and was received with great 
 applause by numerous and crowded audiences — ' I have 
 got to go and fry some fish.' " 
 
 '• This is what Briggs calls botheration and blarney, 
 
510 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Miss Shelburne," observed Mrs. Perkins angrily. " What 
 he's been telling you about Mr. Fitzroy Palmer before on 
 the sly, I don't understand ; though I saw his look at 
 you to hold your tongue ; but this I do know, that if 
 either he or you, or Mr. Palmer, thinks to play the 
 double with us — " 
 
 "My dear Mrs. P., what could possibly put such an 
 idea into your head?" interrupted Briggs. "Perkins 
 knows very well about it, don't you, Perky ?" 
 
 "I know one thing," returned the landlord sulkily, 
 " that my wife's a cursed fool, always putting her oar in 
 when she's no business, and that you 're no better for 
 taking any notice of her. Do go on with your story, 
 and let Miss Shelburne know what she's got to expect, 
 if she suffers herself to be drawn in by Palmer." 
 
 Thoroughly astonished, but convinced by this obser- 
 vation that the party had by some means become ac- 
 quainted with a part, if not the whole, of what had passed 
 between Mr. Palmer and herself, but unable to form any 
 idea of their motives for attempting to prejudice her 
 against one whom they had so recently acknowledged as 
 their friend, Milly could only listen and wonder in 
 silence, while Mr. Briggs proceeded in his vituperation 
 against the former, until, in the course of his anecdotes 
 and declamation, he made some allusions and used 
 some expressions, which she could not but feel were 
 personally insulting, and which, with all her natural 
 pride and spirit, now completely roused her into open 
 resentment, and forgetting all fear and timidity, she 
 declared her determination to be guided only by the 
 dictates of her own understanding and judgment as 
 regarded Mr. Palmer, who she declared she believed 
 incapable of acting in the manner Mr. Briggs described ; 
 
of woman's life. -~>1 I 
 
 ami broadly hinted her belief that the latter had some 
 hidden motive for the incredible assertions he had made 
 respecting that person, which she herself could vouch 
 for being as false and infamous as the aspersions he had 
 uttered against herself. She even, in the excitement of 
 the moment, went so far as to reject Mr. Briggs's assumed 
 fatherly protection, and declare that she felt quite com- 
 petent to take care of herself, and that, if she were 
 not, certainly Mr. Briggs, from what she had seen of 
 him — what he had himself betrayed of his principles — 
 would not be the person she should choose to place in 
 authority over her. 
 
 "Well, there's gratitude for you," broke out Mrs, 
 Perkins, as Milly, her cheeks glowing and her eyes 
 sparkling with indignation, at what she considered the 
 insulting and degrading insinuations of Briggs as to an 
 implied future connexion with Mi'. Fitzroy Palmer, for 
 which, he insinuated, she intended to desert her present 
 friends. 
 
 We must here do Briggs the justice to acknowledge 
 that Milly had mistaken his meaning, he having alluded 
 only to a professional engagement in which he believed 
 Palmer had cunningly endeavoured to anticipate him, 
 and thus secure Miss Shelburne's services to himself. 
 The manner, however, in which he had expressed himself, 
 mixed up as it was with slang terms and coarse vulgar 
 expressions, nearly if not altogether unintelligible to 
 Milly, together with the impressions she had received, 
 both of his character and that of his companions, and 
 confirmed as they were by what she had witnessed, suffi- 
 ciently excused the error into which she had fallen and 
 the resentment she had testified at such an undeserved 
 imputation, as she imagined, as that she intended shame- 
 
012 SHADE AM) SUNSHINE 
 
 lessly to accept the overtures of a man with whom she 
 had not even exchanged a sentence. 
 
 "There's gratitude for you — there's the mild, meek, 
 modest young lady, that you was so afeard of shocking 
 and frightening, and that seemed as if she could n't open 
 her mouth to say Bo to a goose, hut I knew it was all 
 affectation and put on from the fust. I told you, cunning 
 as you thought yourselves, that she 'd diddle you ; and 
 when you thought you had her under your thumh, she 'd 
 slip like an eel through your fingers." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Betsey," exclaimed her husband, 
 who, as well as Briggs, had appeared so astonished at 
 Milly's unexpected display of spirit and determination, 
 as to be unable before to interrupt the landlady's demon- 
 stration of her opinions. "Hold your tongue," he 
 repeated. " I'm sure there's some mistake ; Miss Shel- 
 burne never can mean that she's got such a bad opinion 
 of us that she intends to break with us in such an un- 
 handsome manner. After the pains too, that Briggs and 
 I have took to find her friends, and — " 
 
 " Have you really taken any trouble on the subject, 
 Mr . Perkins '?" interrupted Milly, trying to keep up her 
 spirits and appear calm and composed, though in reality 
 trembling at the virago violence which she saw ready to 
 break through all restraint on the part of Mrs. Perkins. 
 " Can you conscientiously deny," she continued, "that, 
 for some reasons best known to yourself, you have de- 
 ceived me, and intend to keep me from meeting with 
 my mother until you have effected your purpose, what- 
 ever that may be ?" 
 
 " Well-to-be-sure !" exclaimed Mrs. P — , laying an 
 emphasis on every word which she intended to express 
 as the very height of astonishment, and turning a look 
 
of woman's life. 513 
 
 of the same on her husband and Briggs, " Did you ever ? 
 — well, in my whole life I never did hear the like of that. 
 And pray, Mann," she continued, " what may you please 
 to say is the meaning that these gents and me in course — 
 for I 'spose I'm in it — wants to keep you here, eating and 
 drinkin' and takin' up a chamber to yourself, and bein' 
 waited upon like a lady, which I'm sure you've no right 
 or title too, seein', by your own account, you're nothin' 
 more nor less than a poor gal, the daughter of poor peo- 
 ple, and all too without having seen the colour of your 
 money since you come into the house. Oh ! I don't 
 care for yourwinks or blinks, Briggs, I'll speak my mind 
 — 'upright and downright' is my motter. She's had her 
 say, and I'll have mine. Let her pay her score before 
 she takes airs upon herself, and insults them that 's as 
 good, if not her betters." 
 
 " I am quite willing, Madam, to pay your demand 
 against me, if you will let me know the amount," replied 
 Milly calmly, though in heart trembling, lest in her 
 present disposition towards her the landlady might be 
 unconscionable enough to swell the amount beyond her 
 means of payment. 
 
 " Oh ! 1 11 soon do that, Marin, 1 ' replied the landlady, 
 rising and taking from a nail on which hung what she 
 called her account book, in reality a slate covered with a 
 species of hieroglyphics, crosses, perpendicular and hori- 
 zontal marks and scratches in columns, at the head of 
 which a large S., evidently copied from print, was placed 
 to denote that the account was intended for Miss Shcl- 
 burne's. 
 
 Milly glanced at the long list of marks, and her alarm 
 increased, though she could form no idea what they 
 amounted to, for there was nothing resembling figures 
 
 3 u 
 
514 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 appended. Mrs. Perkins with the pencil in her hand, 
 seemed, however, perfectly au fait to this mysterious 
 system of hook-keeping, and commenced " Two and 
 four's six," &c, with great apparent readiness, when she 
 was interrupted hy some remark which Mr. Briggs, 
 stooping over her, whispered in her ear — 
 
 " Oh ! no, indeed," she replied aloud. " A bird in the 
 hand's worth two in the bush. You may settle what you 
 like with Miss Shelburne afterwards, but I arn't such a 
 fool as not to take ready money when it's offered;" and 
 again she returned to her pretended counting — pretended, 
 for it would have been very evident to any one more 
 experienced and less confused and alarmed than Milly 
 Shelburne was at that minute, in contemplation of the 
 dreaded sum total exceeding the few shillings in her 
 possession, though conscious that in reality it ought to 
 be much less for the very limited accommodation she had 
 received at the "Harlequin" — that her (Mrs. Perkins) 
 reckoning was entirely fictitious. Before the landlady 
 had come to the sum total, Mr. Perkins, who had 
 affected to take no part in all that had passed, Quitted the 
 room, and Mr. Briggs, seemingly disappointed at the 
 landlady's rejection of his interference, whatever it was, 
 sauntered to the door with his pipe, taking care not to 
 go out of hearing, though thus appearing to take no 
 farther interest in the affair. 
 
 " Yes, that's what it comes to^" observed Mrs. Per- 
 kins, making some more unintelligible hieroglyphics 
 at the bottom of the slate, and then by one wipe of a 
 glass cloth which lay near, effacing the whole of the 
 column of items, as she pretended to call them. "Just 
 one pound twelve and ninepence, I have to take of yon, 
 Marm, if you please," and she extended her open hand 
 
OF woman's life. 515 
 
 across the table as if expecting that her guest was pre- 
 pared to pay immediately this abominably extortionate 
 demand. 
 
 For a minute Milly was breathless with surprise, and 
 it must be acknowledged something like alarm, at what 
 she feared might be the consequence of her inability to 
 pay even a third part of the landlady's demand ; but that 
 minute's reflection suggested the thought that the woman 
 could never be serious in making such a demand, or that 
 even if she did intend so to impose on her, she could 
 never substantiate such a charge, and that her best way 
 of treating it was, as it deserved, with firm determination 
 to resist it. Summoning therefore all her courage to her 
 aid, she coolly observed — 
 
 " You cannot suppose, Mrs. Perkins, that I am either 
 so ignorant, or so foolish, as to submit to such an extra- 
 vagant charge as this. I am at a loss indeed to imagine 
 how you can make it out — " 
 
 " Oh, that's your game, is it, Mann," interrupted the 
 landlady with vehemence ; " you think because I 've 
 wiped out the items I can't make out the bill against 
 you, but I'll soon let you know what I can do as well as I 
 cam't do ; and so I tell you at once, if you don't pay me 
 one pound twelve shillings and ninepence, I'll just send 
 for an officer and give you in custody for coming here 
 and quartering yourself upon me without having the 
 means of paying your score. You don't know, I suppose, 
 that ' Licensed Wittlers' have the power o' doing that, to 
 purtect themselves from the imposition of swindlers, and 
 that a magistrate won't listen to your objections to my 
 charges, but just send you to three or six months', if he 
 pleases, hard labour in the House of Correction, when he 
 finds — what I '11 take my oath to — that you've come into 
 
51 G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 my house without even a rag hut what you've got on your 
 hack, and that you've heen living here three clays, having 
 •whatever you choose, and taking all the airs of a fust-rate 
 lady, and that, when you're asked for your score — " 
 
 "What is all this about, Betsey?" demanded Mr. 
 Perkins, who re-entered the room at this minute, when 
 Milly, becoming every moment more and more terrified, 
 pale, and nearly fainting, sank into a chair. " What's up, 
 I say ?" he added, frowning at his wife in a manner that 
 was intended to re-assure his trembling guest, by im- 
 pressing her with the belief that she would find a friend 
 in him, or, at least, that he would interpose his authority 
 to check the violence of his wife. 
 
 " Never you mind what's up, Mr. P.," replied the lady. 
 " If you choose to neglect your business, and run about 
 the town upon a wild-goose chase, to curry favour with 
 ladies, or them aspurtends to be ladies, I must look arter 
 it, that's all, and will too, and that's the long and short 
 of the matter ; I ain't a going to be druv out of house 
 and home by a parcel of swindlers, if they are handsome 
 and 'complished, coming and setting themselves down to 
 eat and drink, and occupy my time aud my servants, 
 without a shilling in their pockets. Pretty faces and fine 
 woices may be very fine things to you, and suit you and 
 your fellers," tossing her head at Briggs, who just then 
 entered, with a look of surprise and inquiry, " but they 
 won't pay my rent, nor my brewer, nor my wine mer- 
 chant, nor my servants' wages, neither, and so I've just 
 took the liberty to ask Miss Shelburne, as she calls her- 
 self, to pay up her score, and if she don't she knows the 
 consequence, that's all. Now its no use, Briggs," she 
 continued, raising her voice, to drown the remonstrance 
 which the latter was beginning to utter, " you're mighty 
 
OF woman's life. 517 
 
 geu'rous I know, and would be fool enough, if you'd got 
 the ready, to pay the lady's little bill ; but, besides that 
 I know you hav'nt got it, and so can't pay for yourself, 
 much more for her. I hope I know myself better than to 
 take the money from a married man in such circum- 
 stances. I should never have the cheek to look in your 
 wife's face if I was to do such a thing. But there, it's no 
 use to talk of unpossabilities ; I don't want to affront 
 you, Mr. B., but I should be very glad indeed, if you have 
 got any money to spare, if you'd let me have it on your 
 own account, for it's a long while, you know, since I've 
 seen the colour of a shilling of your'n." 
 
 Mr. Briggs appeared quite silenced by this, and poor 
 Milly, who had at first derived some hope from the recol- 
 lection that he had received from Fitzroy Palmer the sum 
 which the latter had agreed to pay her for her services at 
 the intended concert at the St. Helena, felt it impossible 
 even to remind him that he was her debtor, and, there- 
 fore, ought to extricate her from her present unpleasant, 
 and, as Mrs. Perkins chose to represent it, alarming situa- 
 tion. Too inexperienced, or, rather, ignorant of such 
 affairs, to know what credit was due to Mrs. Perkins's repre- 
 sentation of the power the law gave to those whom she 
 denominated " Licensed Wittlers," of charging their debtors 
 with fraud, and giving them immediately into custody as 
 swindlers, because they could not, on demand, pay the 
 sum, however unconscionable it might be, with which they 
 were charged, Milly lost all courage and presence of 
 mind, as she saw no probability of rescuing herself from 
 the fangs of the harpy, for in such a light did she now 
 regard the landlady, that she believed no feeling of pity, 
 mercy, — no conviction of the injustice of her demand, 
 would prevent her making lull use of her power. Already 
 
518 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the terrified girl trembled at every movement of the tri- 
 umphant landlady — for triumph was visible in Mrs. 
 Perkins's every look — lest she should be about to put in 
 practice her threat of sending for an officer, and her de- 
 spair rose to its utmost height, when, after a whisper 
 from the landlord to Briggs, she saw them both take 
 their hats to go out, and heard the former observe to his 
 wife that he should be home in an hour or two. 
 
 With them she felt would depart her only hope of 
 escaping the dreaded catastrophe ; for, although neither 
 had uttered a word in her behalf, and Mr. Perkins seemed 
 for the occasion to have relinquished all his usual autho- 
 rity over his wife ; and, if not quite convinced by her 
 arguments, at least not able to confute the propriety of 
 her taking any measures she thought proper, either to re- 
 cover the money due to her, or to punish those whom she 
 chose to consider had dishonestly taken advantage of her 
 credulity and unsuspicious disposition ; yet, they had 
 both, by their looks, testified their dissatisfaction with 
 Mrs. Perkins's extreme measures, and their compassion 
 for the unfortunate victim of them. If they went, 
 Hilly s last hope went with them, and she should be 
 left at the mercy of one who "knew no touch of 
 mercy ;" and, almost frantic with fear, she exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh ! do not go, — do not leave me. Advise me — 
 tell me what I shall do. I have not half the sum Mrs. 
 Perkins says I owe her, but I will give her every shilling 
 I have, and, if I live to get it, I will pay the remainder. 
 I will give her my promise in writing that I will do so 
 the moment I have it in my power, if she does not believe 
 my word. And you can promise her, Mr. Briggs, that 
 she shall receive what will be due to me, you know, on 
 Monday," she added diffidently, seeing that the landlady 
 had left the room. 
 
OF woman's life. 519 
 
 " Certainly — yes, to be sure, Miss Shelburne, I will do 
 so ; but you see how little influence, unfortunately, I 
 have with Mrs. P.," returned Briggs. ' : I wish this sub- 
 ject had been brought on the tap-iss before Fitzroy went, 
 for though I've reason to believe that he had no money 
 about him, yet, perhaps — " 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is, Miss Shelburne," interrupted 
 Perkins, with that peculiar blunt tone that gave to his 
 manners an air of honesty of meaning and purpose, which 
 — in spite of all the reasons she had to mistrust him, and 
 consider him as no better than his associates — as was 
 really the case — had, from the first, involuntarily induced 
 Milly to consider him more to be relied on, and deserving 
 of credit than they; ''I'll tell you what it is, honesty's the 
 best policy ; and so I'll let you know the bottom of all 
 this, and what makes my wife seem so unmerciful to you, 
 and indeed would make her do what, perhaps, she'd be 
 arterwards sorry for, is, that she's jealous of you and 
 this very man Briggs speaks of — this Palmer — " 
 
 Milly looked at him with surprise. She knew not 
 what meaning to affix to the expressions he had used; 
 but Briggs, whose cue it was not to know anything on 
 the subject, now prevented her requiring an explanation, 
 by exclaiming — 
 
 " What nonsense ! Why I don't believe Miss Shelburne 
 has ever spoke to the feller. But Mrs. P. ought to 
 speak up plainly, and tell us what she means." 
 
 " Oh, I can tell you all the ins and the outs of tbe 
 matter," returned Perkins, " if you wish to know it ; 
 mind, I don't say that it is so or it isn't, Miss Shelburne 
 knows best about that ; but my missus has took it in her 
 head that there's been a secret plot a going on for Miss 
 Shelburne to leave us, and engage herself to Palmer, and 
 
520 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 as she knows that we've reckoned upon you" (addressing 
 Milly) "not only opening our rooms, but signing articles 
 with us for the season, why, in course, it's made her very 
 mad, to see you deserting us that has been your friends, 
 as she says, and going over to what she calls the enemy, 
 'specially a man that you knows nothing about." 
 
 " I have never entertained a thought of the kind," ob- 
 served Milly, with earnestness. 
 
 " No, I'm sure of it — I'm sure Miss Shelburne ain't 
 capable of such conduct," interposed Briggs. 
 
 " I don't believe it myself," observed Mr. Perkins, " but 
 unfortunately women are so obstinate when they takes a 
 thing in their head ; and my missus has somehow found 
 out, she says, as there's been letters passing between you 
 and Fitzroy Palmer this morning. You know best whe- 
 ther there's any truth in the story, but she believes it, and 
 in course there's no driving it out of her head, that you 
 mean to give us the go by." 
 
 "But will she not believe me if I assure her that — " 
 
 " Do you mean to say, then, that it's all a lie," inter- 
 rupted Perkins quickly, and forgetting, for a moment, the 
 conciliatory tone he had hitherto assumed. 
 
 Milly's cheeks crimsoned. She felt the greatest reluc- 
 tance to make any disclosure as to Mr. Palmer's commu- 
 nication with her, but, on the other hand, she could not 
 doubt that her ci-devant friend Sally had betrayed all 
 she knew on the subject, and she therefore hesitated how 
 to reply to this apparently straightforward question. 
 
 The two friends interchanged looks, which she could 
 not but see conveyed their conviction that Mrs. Perkins 
 had been right in her conjecture, and Milly, but too con- 
 scious of her wish to shake off all connexion with her 
 present associates, and avoid identifying herself with them, 
 
of woman's life. 521 
 
 or the " Harlequin " and its concerts, although innocent 
 of the implied plots with Mr. Fitzroy, remained silent 
 and painfully confused. 
 
 f* I don't see what use it is our interfering any further 
 in this matter, Briggs," at length observed the landlord, 
 taking up his hat again to leave the room. " It's very 
 plain that Mrs. P. has had good reasons for her suspi- 
 cions, and though I don't blame Miss Shelburne so much 
 as I do that undermining villain, Palmer, I can't won- 
 der my Missus should be aggravated, and should take 
 vantage of them that is in her power.'' 
 
 " I am sorry — very sorry indeed, that I can't help 
 you out of this dilemma," rejoined Briggs, preparing to 
 accompany his friend, " but you see how I'm sitivated. 
 Perhaps, however, Mrs. P. may have got over her passion 
 by this time, and you may manage to make it up with 
 her when you're left alone together ; I hope so, I am 
 sure, with all my heart, for I shall be dev'lishly sorry 
 when I come back to find that — " 
 
 The pause he made, and the look with which this 
 observation was accompanied, revived Milly's terrors, or 
 rather increased them tenfold. She felt convinced that 
 she had no hope from the landlady's merciful feelings, 
 and in the most piteous accents she entreated Briggs not 
 to leave her. Perkins had already quitted the room, and 
 was standing at the front door, apparently waiting for the 
 former, and the voice of Mrs. Perkins, raving furiously at 
 somebody in the kitchen, who had given her offence, added 
 to the fear which Milly entertained towards the virago. 
 
 ** What can I do, Miss Shelburne ?" replied Briggs in 
 
 a compassionate tone. "Mrs. P., between you and me, is 
 
 such a violent devil, that she don't care what lengths she 
 
 goes to have her revenge, when once she's thoroughly 
 
 3 x 
 
522 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 up, and you see plain enough that she wouldn't mind 
 turning upon me in a minute, if I was to take your part ; 
 I've been fool enough, you see, to get into her debt, and 
 she might put me to great trouble, if she was to insist on 
 my paying her just now; if, indeed, you could convince 
 her that you have no intention of breaking off with her 
 husband — " he paused, and looked thoughtfully at Milly 
 for some moments. 
 
 " There is a way, certainly," he observed, " that would 
 settle the business at once, and prevent Mrs. P. from 
 making any more bother about it ; but I don't suppose 
 you'd agree to it ; and indeed I don't like to propose it 
 myself, because you'll maybe think I want to take advan- 
 tage of you for myself, but — " 
 
 "Oh, no, I shall not; pray tell me, I will do any- 
 thing you suggest," interrupted Milly, anxiously. Yet, 
 it must be owned, not without a suspicion that Mr. 
 Briggs's advantage was implicated in the proposed mea- 
 sure which was to put an end to the bother. A strange 
 term to be applied to the threatened disgrace and 
 punishment which she had been threatened with, and 
 made to believe depended entirely on the landlady to 
 withhold or inflict. 
 
 "Well, then," returned Briggs ; "just propose to 
 Perkins to sign an undertaking, not an agreement, for 
 that'll want stamps, and cost money, and that we've 
 none of us got to throw away, you know, but just a 
 simple bit o' paper, undertaking that you'll sing at our 
 concerts, when you're wanted, and wont sing for any- 
 body else without our permission. It will be a mere 
 matter of form, you know, and I can put you up 
 to how you may get out of it all hereafter ; for, to tell 
 you a bit of a secret, I hope to do much better both 
 
of woman's life. 523 
 
 for me and yourself than sticking to the 'Harlequin' con- 
 cert-room, though that's a secret between you and I, and 
 I only mention it just to show you that I ain't likely to 
 draw you into any binding with the Perkinses. No, no, 
 Miss Shelburne, depend upon it, I've got your interest, 
 and my own too — I won't deny that, — too much at heart 
 for that. .There's not time to explain myself farther at 
 present, but just take my advice, and sign what I'll 
 draw out. She's so ignorant, that she'll think she's got 
 you under her thumb completely, if it's only under 
 black and white that you're to do nothing for anybody 
 but us and our concerts ; and as to him, he'll take any- 
 thing for gospel that I say is right ; besides, he can 
 neither read nor write — hardly knows a great A from 
 a bull's foot, as the saying is, and therefore must depend 
 on what I choose to say is the thing." 
 
 Frightened and confused as Milly was, and willing as 
 she was to adopt any means to escape from the dreaded 
 power of the landlady, she could not be blinded to the 
 double villany this speech betrayed, or the risk she ran 
 of thus identifying herself with those from whom her 
 most earnest wish was to escape for ever. Desperate, 
 however, at the prospect of being left to settle the affair 
 with the landlady, and seeing no other chance of avoid- 
 ing it, she signified her willingness to sign anything that 
 would satisfy the former ; and Mr. Briggs, making some 
 slight show of reluctance to being the means of pro- 
 posing the alternative, at length agreed to undertake to 
 convince the landlord and his lady that the bit o' paper, 
 as he called it, to denote its real insignificance, would 
 leave no doubt of Miss Shelburne's sincerity, and, as he 
 said, meaning to do the right thing by them, both as re- 
 garded the future prosperity of the "Harlequin" con- 
 
524 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 certs, and also to pay what the landlady considered due 
 to her for the accommodation afforded the former. Mr. 
 Perkins, therefore, was recalled to the bar parlour, though 
 declaring he'd much rather have nothing to do with it, hut 
 leave it all to his Missus, who knew much more about 
 business than he did. Mrs. Perkins, after, as it seemed, 
 much difficulty and great persuasion on the part of Mr. 
 Briggs, was at length led into the room, affecting at once 
 great dignity, with a disposition to affability and suavity 
 of manners towards Milly, that were evidently in- 
 tended to denote a willingness to overlook, or rather to 
 forgive the offences the latter had been accused of com- 
 mitting against the interest and authority of the pro- 
 prietors of the "Harlequin" concerts, including, of 
 course, Mr. Briggs. 
 
 Poor Milly ! sadly did her heart rebel against the con- 
 cession she was required to make in accepting the offered 
 hand of the landlady, and replying to her assurance that 
 she (Mrs. Perkins) "bore no malice againstMissShelburne, 
 neither did she want to press upon her, nor yet to go to 
 the extremity of the lor against her. All she wanted 
 was her rights, and that she certainly looked to have. 
 Howsomever, if Miss Shelbume chose to give proper 
 security to Mr. Perkins to do the straightforward thing 
 by him and Mr. Briggs — " 
 
 " Oh, as to that, Mrs. P.," interrupted Briggs, who, 
 during the landlady's oration had, aided as it appeared 
 by some whispered suggestions from his friend Perky, as 
 he called him, been committing to paper the form of the 
 security they required from Miss Shelburne — " As to 
 that, I want no security beyond the young lady's word 
 of honour, which — " 
 
 " Words of honour isn't nothing in law, Mr. Briggs," 
 
of woman's life. 525 
 
 observed the landlady, in her turn, interrupting him. 
 "A judge nor a jury wouldn't vally a dozen words of 
 honour, not that," snapping her fingers, and enforcing her 
 decision on the subject still farther by a loud rap with 
 her knuckles on the table before her. " No, if Miss Shel- 
 burne don't choose to give me no better security than a 
 word of honour, which is no more than wind, and which 
 I won't take — " 
 
 " I am willing to give anything that is in my power," ob- 
 served the trembling girl, alarmed at the indication of 
 rising passion in the looks and tones of the landlady. 
 
 " Psha ! its all nonsense, a mere matter of form," ob- 
 served Briggs, in a confidential whisper to Milly . " How- 
 ever, as it will satisfy her," contemptuously glancing at 
 Mrs. Perkins, "I've just drawn up this bit of a memo- 
 raudum, which perhaps you had better sign, as it will 
 satisfy her, and put an end to all her bother and non- 
 sense. There Mrs. P.," he added, handing the paper 
 to her, " I suppose that will be sufficiently binding to 
 prove that Miss Shelburne means to do the thing that's 
 right by you?" 
 
 " By us, I s'pose you mean," returned the lady, smartly ; 
 " for you know, in spite of all your blarney, it's as much 
 to you as it is to me and Perkins." 
 
 Mr. Briggs drew up with an attempt to look very dig- 
 nified. He evidently wished to disclaim in Milly's sight 
 taking any part in this affair, except what arose from his 
 wish to rescue her from the inexorable Mrs. Perkins ; and 
 the latter, taking the paper he had filled up in a hand- 
 writing that it would have required considerable skill to 
 read, even by those in the habit of interpreting illegible 
 writing, and certainly must have defied Mrs. Perkins's 
 power to comprehend a single word, retired with it to 
 
526 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the window, where she stood for some minutes poring 
 over it, as if deliberately weighing the meaning of every 
 sentence. At any other time, and under any other cir- 
 cumstances, it would have afforded Milly considerable 
 amusement to discover, as she did, as she anxiously 
 glanced at this important deed, that in spite of the land- 
 lady's affected meditation over it, and apparent con- 
 sideration whether it was sufficiently expressive of her 
 purpose — namely, to secure the future services of Miss 
 Shelburne to the proprietors of the "Harlequin," as well 
 as to engage for the payment of the debt already con- 
 tracted to the landlady out of the first receipts of the 
 salary the said Miss Shelburne might or would receive, 
 two points which Mrs. Perkins had herself expressly 
 enjoined Mr. Briggs to put down so clear that there 
 couldn't be no mistake about it hereafter — in spite of 
 her important look, and pretended scrutiny, the learned 
 lady could not have understood a word of Mr. Briggs's 
 dockerment, as she named it, for the simple reason that 
 in taking it from his hand she had reversed the paper, 
 and was literally reading or pretending to read it upside 
 down. As, however, Mr. Briggs did not attempt to correct 
 the error, probably knowing that it was equally intelli- 
 gible to Mrs. P. in any position, Milly did not think it 
 necessary for her to interfere ; though vexed and unhappy 
 as she was, she could not refrain from a contemptuous 
 smile, at the air of satisfaction and importance with which 
 Mrs. Perkins placed the paper before her, and dipping 
 the pen in the ink handed it to her, observing — 
 
 "{There now, Miss Shelburne, you've got nothing to do 
 but just sign your name to the dockerment, and all's 
 right; we can't have no more mistakes nor blunders, and 
 Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, cunning as he is, will find there's 
 others as cunning as he is." 
 
of woman's life. 527 
 
 Without attempting any reply to this, though feeling 
 how completely it confirmed the view she had now learned 
 to take of her situation, and the trap into which she had 
 heen drawn by the unprincipled people into whose power 
 her own rash proceedings in quitting her home had 
 thrown her, Milly affixed her signature to the all-im- 
 portant paper which she considered decided her fate for 
 ever; for as to Mr. Briggs's insinuation that it was a mere 
 matter of form, and his hints that she might hereafter set 
 it aside, she gave no credit to them, convinced that 
 there was not the slightest dependence to be placed on 
 anything he said where his interest was concerned ; and 
 perhaps she had learned from the late proceedings to 
 place more importance than they deserved on her services, 
 which they had taken so much pains to secure to 
 themselves. 
 
 All traces of the late tempestuous proceedings at 
 the " Harlequin " had now vanished, except the many- 
 coloured bruises from Mrs. Perkins's face, which not even 
 the pearl powder rouge, or other appliances of her 
 toilette, could entirely disguise, or the abundance of lace 
 and riband of a new cap, for which her husband paid as 
 a peace offering, could entirely conceal ; though with the 
 assistance of an additional bunch of ringlets, and a clever 
 arrangement of the lace and artificial flowers, she suc- 
 ceeded so far as to be enabled to resume her place in the 
 bar, and if not in reality, at least in appearance, all her 
 liveliness, smiles, and good humour. To Milly, indeed, 
 she occasionally showed a very different face, and although 
 on the part of the gents, as she (the landlady) called 
 Briggs, Perkins, and their companions, the former ex- 
 perienced no change, and had no reason to complain of 
 incivility or want of attention, sho could not help feeling 
 
528 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 that there was an assumption in Mrs. Perkins's mariner 
 towards her, that she (Milly) saw plainly was intended 
 to remind her that she was no longer an independent 
 visitor to the " Harlequin," whom it was necessary to 
 conciliate or treat with respect, but one of the establish- 
 ment, who was expected to do her part in forwarding 
 its interest. This, indeed, became too decided before 
 the day had passed away to admit of a doubt, when, in 
 the most decided manner, without the slightest apology 
 or reference to her (Milly's) former objections, she was 
 required to " go up stairs and play a few toones on the 
 peanner to some gents who were in the parlour, and who 
 wanted at once to see the new concert-room, and hear how 
 the peanner sounded in it." 
 
 "Now do your best, Miss Shelburne," added the 
 landlady, with a significant nod that said plainly she 
 should listen to no objections ; " they're all respect- 
 able people, two or three master tradesmen. One's 
 our baker, that you see come to the bar this morning, 
 and looked so hard at you. He's a single man — that's 
 to say, a widower without any childern. It would be a 
 good ketch, I can tell you, for anybody that he might 
 fancy, though he is a Scotchman, and they're generally a 
 stingy set ; but he isn't, and you wouldn't think he was 
 Scotch, only he's always singing Scotch songs. There's 
 the foreman at the factory over the way, too, and ever so 
 many more, all well-to-do people, so you needn't look as 
 if you was asked to do anything that's unproper, because 
 they're none of your rackety set, like the Irishman and his 
 crew. These are all neighbours and substantial people, 
 and it won't do to refuse them." 
 
 Milly felt that it would not do for her to refuse a re- 
 quest which was uttered in the tone of a command. She 
 
of woman's life. 529 
 
 ventured to hint, however, that the hour was rather an im- 
 proper one to commence playing, as it would soon be 
 Sunday morning. 
 
 " Well, and what's Sunday more than any other day ?" in- 
 terrupted Mrs. Perkins. " People that's got their own living 
 to get, Miss Shelburne, mustn't stand upon such nicer- 
 ties; but you needn't fret yourself, these that you're going 
 up-stairs to oblige ain't the sort that'll want to keep you 
 onreasonably ; they're solid men, I tell you, that likes 
 their own homes too well to stay till improper hours ; so 
 don't look so distressed, as if you was asked to do some- 
 thing dreadful. If Briggs was here " — Mr. Briggs had at 
 last gone home, Mrs. Perkins having, in Milly's hearing, 
 reminded him that it being Saturday night, if he did not 
 go they must expect his wife would be coming after him 
 and kicking up a row. " If Briggs was here to play to 
 them you wouldn't be asked, for they only want to hear 
 if it sounds well in the room, so pray go without any 
 words." 
 
 Poor Milly ! with all her pride, her fancied distinction, 
 the fame which was to attend her in London, and spread 
 even beyond it — were they all, all come to this, that at the 
 command of this low, ignorant woman, she was to attend 
 the pleasure of the baker and the butcher, and the rest 
 of Mrs. Perkins's friends, or rather customers and asso- 
 ciates ? She was not to merely give them a specimen of 
 her abilities, but to satisfy them of what she was convinced 
 they knew nothing about — the value and effect of the new 
 instrument — the very name of which she did not believe 
 they could pronounce. But it was not the mere degrada- 
 tion of being looked upon by these men as a person hired 
 for their amusement, and compelled to submit at any time 
 they chose to exact it to attend the call, that made the 
 
 a y 
 
530 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 blood mount to Milly's cheeks— it was the insolent tone 
 in which Mrs. Perkins announced the requisition, and 
 which but too plainly reminded her, that henceforth 
 she had no will of her own, but had bound herself to sub- 
 mit to the landlady's commands, however unreasonable 
 and repugnant they might be. Had the men, Briggs 
 and Perkins, been present, Milly would have had courage 
 to remonstrate, and would, she had no doubt, have suc- 
 ceeded in at least deferring to a more suitable time this 
 exhibition of the powers and merits of the peeanner, as 
 Mrs. Perkins called it. But there was an expression of 
 malicious triumph in the landlady's eyes that prevented 
 the poor girl's uttering a word, lest she might afford her 
 an opportunity of more decisively reminding her of the 
 obligation she had contracted; and in silence she 
 walked up stairs, carrying with her the candle which 
 Mrs. Perkins had lighted and placed in her hand, 
 observing— 
 
 " If you want any more light, you can light one or 
 two in the charndelier ; but don't do it without the gents 
 grumble, for I don't suppose they'll like to pay for 'em ; 
 and if you're such a great player as they says you are, 
 I should think you can play well enough for them 
 without wasting the candles." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins's supposition proved, however, incorrect ; 
 for when the gents, as she called them, entered the room, 
 to the number of eight or ten, and found Milly seated at 
 the piano, having already commenced the first piece of 
 music that presented itself by the light of the single 
 miserable tallow candle, to which there was, indeed, added 
 another, which they had brought to light themselves up- 
 stairs, there was a general outcry against the landlady's 
 stinginess and want of proper respect to her customers, in 
 
of woman's life. 53 I 
 
 '• sending them up to a dark hole, where they could not 
 see an inch beyond their noses." 
 
 " It's an insult to the young lady, too," observed one, 
 who had advanced so close as to be prying into Milly's 
 face. " Though may be she thought it was best to keep us 
 in the dark, for fear we might be falling in love, if we was 
 to see as well as hear." 
 
 " Come, come, mind what you are at, Wilson," ex- 
 claimed another. " Don't you listen to him, Miss ; he's 
 an old married man, with half a dozen children. He'd 
 soon get his head combed with a three-legged stool,, if his 
 wife was to hear him talking about falling in love." 
 
 A number of similar coarse jests followed, but Milly 
 contrived to play so loudly as in a great measure to prevent 
 their reaching her ears. The means, however, of lighting 
 up the room were discovered, much to her regret, just as 
 the gents had come to the unanimous resolution to sum- 
 mon the landlady by the aid of the bell, and insist upon 
 her supplying lights more suitable to the consequence of 
 her customers ; and in a few minutes not only one but the 
 whole of the chandeliers which were furnished with can- 
 dles, were lighted up, and Milly was compelled to struggle 
 against the tears which, while in comparative darkness, 
 had stolen silently down her cheeks, for she could no 
 longer conceal them from the three or four of the boldest 
 of the men who, not content with listening, pressed 
 closelv around the instrument to stare at the musician. 
 An application to the bell brought up the waiter, as upon 
 such occasions the potman was called, and orders were 
 given for various refreshments, from humble porter to the 
 more expensive, and, we suppose, refined, brandy and 
 water ; not forgetting, as one of them observed, clean 
 pipes and plenty of 'bacca. Milly's uneasiness and 
 
532 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 distress became greatly aggravated, almost indeed uncon- 
 cealable, at these indications of the men's intentions to 
 prolong their entertainment, or, as she felt it, their claim 
 upon her services, to an indefinite period ; far beyond, 
 indeed, what she under any circumstances could think 
 proper or right ; and which, situated as she was, the only 
 female present — the only object of attention to so many 
 men, those men of a description such as she had never 
 been accustomed to associate with, and who, in addition, 
 had been drinking for several hours in the parlour, and 
 were evidently considerably elevated by their potations — 
 aroused fears in her mind of being subjected to personal 
 insult. 
 
 Trembling and sinking under these reflections, Milly 
 bent her face over the keys of the instrument, her faltering 
 fingers mechanically producing the notes, but without 
 any corresponding impulse from her mind. She was de- 
 sirous only of avoiding the scrutinising eyes that were 
 fixed on her, without the power of comprehending the 
 expression of those lovely and expressive features. Milly, 
 however, wronged them in believing that they were ca- 
 pable of deliberately wounding her feelings, — they only 
 did not understand them, and therefore wondered what 
 could have produced her very evident desire to shrink 
 from their observation. 
 
 " I think it would only be polite of you," observed a 
 voice behind her, that sounded much softer, or, at any 
 rate, much less coarse than any that she had yet heard 
 distinct from the rest — " I think it would only be common 
 politeness," repeated the speaker, "if you were to inquire, 
 first of all, whether the young lady objected to the intro- 
 duction of your pipes and tobacco ; and, secondly, what 
 she would like to take in the way of refreshment, because 
 
of woman's life. 533 
 
 it is very possible she may have some preference, and 
 that neither beer nor brandy and water may be agreeable 
 to her taste." 
 
 " Hurrah ! — Well done, orator Dick. Let Diek alone 
 for getting on the right side of the ladies," exclaimed 
 half a dozen voices at once. " Call the waiter back," 
 added another, " and let the young lady speak for her- 
 self, if she pleases. There's none of us here, I'll pound 
 it, that ain't as ready to pay our compliments to her as 
 Mr. Manson, though he is a ladies' man, and always ma- 
 nages to put himself forward." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! what, you're jealous, are you, Charley, 
 my boy ?" exclaimed another. " Mind what you're about, 
 my lad ; for, though you ain't linked yet, if Miss — , you 
 know who, was to hear you was setting yourself up — " 
 
 " I don't care a — what she or any body else hears," 
 returned the one addressed as Charley, and who was evi- 
 dently just sufficiently intoxicated to render him captious 
 and inclined to quarrel with any one. " I only spoke 
 because Manson always wants to set himself up for more 
 of the gentleman than any one else in the room." 
 
 " Gentleman !" repeated a gruff voice, and at the same 
 time a corpulent, ruddy-faced man, whose blue apron with 
 a steel hanging outside, proclaimed his occupation to be 
 one he was not at all ashamed of, came to the side of 
 Milly, and, laying his heavy hand on her shoulder, ex- 
 claimed — "We are all ladies and gentlemen at the 'Har- 
 lequin,' ain't we, my dear, as long as we can pay for what 
 we call for ? So now just say what you'll have, and, if no- 
 body else is willing to post the pony, why I will — 
 whether it's wine, rum, or brandy, or even champagne, or 
 a bottle of burgundy, though what that is I s'pose you 
 don't know any more than I do." 
 
034 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 In a few words, and with as much reserve as she could 
 possibly throw into her manner, Milly declined to take 
 anything, but the man seemed to consider it impossible 
 that she was serious. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh, don't be shy," he observed, " you put 
 me in mind of my missus afore we was married ; she 
 wouldn't look at a glass of gin; I do believe she'd sooner 
 have throwed it over her shoulder, than put her lips to 
 it ; but we hadn't been married a week, afore I ketcht her 
 tossing off a bumper, with her head inside the cupboard- 
 door, like a reg'lar good un. ' Hallo, Polly,' says I, ' is 
 this you? why I couldn't believe my eyes; I should have 
 thought it would have choked you.' " 
 
 " ' More fool you,' says she, laughing, ' Do you think 
 we don't know what's good fur us, as well as you? — to be 
 sure we do, and we will have it by hook or by crook.' 
 
 'Well/ says I, 'as long as you don't take no more 
 than'll do you good, Polly, it's all right ; so you needn't 
 drink it behind the cupboard-door for the future.' She 
 said she wouldn't, nor she didn't. She's dead and gone 
 now, poor soul, and I never saw her the worse for liquor 
 in my life. But I've never heard a woman so squeamish 
 as to pretend she couldn't touch a drop of anything 
 strong for the world, but I've often thought of my poor 
 Polly, and what she said about 'em — that they'd have it 
 by hook or by crook; and them that wouldn't take a 
 moderate allowance outside the cupboard-door, often 
 took a double one behind it." 
 
 There was a general laugh, as the butcher concluded 
 this delicate narrative, which he had enforced Milly's 
 listening to, by laying his coarse hand on the keys of the 
 piano, to prevent her playing. 
 
 " Well, now, you will tell us what you'll drink/' he 
 
of woman's life. . r )35 
 
 added, forcing himself round so as to stare her full in the 
 face, with a broad grin on his jolly face. "You see/' he 
 continued, " we're all up to your pretty tricks and ma- 
 noeuvres, and if you won't have it with us, w r e shall know 
 that you'll have it behind the cupboard-door. Stay, 
 Bill," he exclaimed to the potman, who was just leaving 
 the room, " you can tell us what it is our pretty singing 
 bird here takes to whet her whistle with — your missus, 
 Mrs. P., isn't one that purtends to throw it over her shoul- 
 der I know, and she'll soon tell us what's the fav'rite with 
 her friend here ; or perhaps you can?" 
 
 " Can't say, indeed, sir," returned the potman, who, 
 though he had at first joined in the laugh at the persecu- 
 tion Milly was undergoing, seemed now struck with com- 
 passion at the distress which was evident in her pale face. 
 "I never did see the young lady take anything," he 
 added; " she's only just come up from the country, sir, 
 and ain't used to London fashions and London ways. 
 Don't be frightened, Miss," he added, addressing Milly, 
 " the gentleman don't mean any harm. Mr. Martin (the 
 butcher) has got daughters of his own — very nice 
 young ladies they are, and plays music too — '' 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" exclaimed the butcher, 
 who having drank deeply of the brandy and water he had 
 ordered, was evidently becoming considerably, to use his 
 own expression, 'much the worse for it.' " What do you 
 mean by that, you son of a gun ? You're not agoing to 
 compare my (laughters with a hired musicianer gal at the 
 ' Harlequin?' " 
 
 There was a general expression of anger from his com- 
 panions at this ; one or two loudly cried " Shame, 
 shame!" and the young man who had been addressed by 
 the name of Manson, starting up, exclaimed — 
 
530 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " This is infamous, Mr. Martin, to insult an unpro- 
 tected female in this manner. Your daughters, I am 
 sure, would be ashamed of you, or they are not the good 
 girls I believe them to be." 
 
 " And who the devil cares what you believe them to 
 be ?" interrupted the butcher fiercely. "What matters 
 your good or your bad opinion of 'em ? They' ve got 
 enough to make 'em matches for your betters, so you 
 needn't hold your head so mighty high, Mr. Manson." 
 
 "We won't dispute on that point, Martin," returned 
 the other. " They are fortunate enough to be protected 
 from any danger of being placed in such a situa- 
 tion as this poor young lady is ; and all I would 
 say is — " 
 
 " I should think so, I should think so," interrupted 
 Martin, slapping his pocket with a look of purse-proud 
 defiance. " Their father hasn't worked for so many years 
 without having made enough to — But I'll tell you what it 
 is — though I've had 'em learnt music and what not, if 
 they hadn't a shilling in the world, I'd cut their hands off 
 afore I'd see them getting a living by it in such a place as 
 the 'Harlequin.' " 
 
 " Ay, that's right enough ;" echoed one or two voices. 
 
 "No father that 's got a father's feelings would say 
 otherwise," added another. "For my part, if I had girls 
 of my own, I'd sooner see them in their coffins." 
 
 Milly's head dropped upon her crossed arms as she 
 leant upon the piano-forte. 
 
 "And I — I have bound myself to this wretched, this 
 disgraceful life," she whispered to herself with a groan 
 of despair. Even her warm defender, Manson, seemed 
 silenced. It seemed he could say nothing in her favour. 
 Oh ! how she wished that she could but have courage to 
 
of woman's life. 537 
 
 speak for herself— that she could tell them how little she 
 deserved their evident condemnation of her ; how she 
 had been trepanned into an association she abhorred ! 
 
 " Well, come, are we to have these songs the landlady- 
 promised us ?" demanded one of the men who had taken 
 no part in the previous conversation, and now sat in a 
 cloud of tobacco smoke, that probably prevented his 
 observing Milly's despondent attitude. 
 
 "Why, maybe the young lady will think herself in- 
 sulted, if wc ask her,'' observed the butcher sneeringly. 
 
 "Insulted!" replied the other, a coarse, hard-featured 
 man ; " perhaps she don't know that we paid before-hand 
 for her music. We thought, I believe, all of us, we was 
 doing her good by putting our shillings together, but if 
 she don't want the money, why she'd better — " 
 
 " Why, yes, I thought from Mrs. P — *s story it was 
 'No song, no supper!'" interrupted the butcher, laughing 
 heartily at his imaginary wit. 
 
 Milly started to her feet in an agony of shame and 
 indignation, at the humiliating light in which she had 
 been made to appear by the treacherous, mean-spirited 
 landlady. 
 
 " I knew not — believe me, I was totally unacquainted 
 with — I have not the money, or I would instantly return 
 it," she exclaimed. " Oh ! my God, have I fallen to this." 
 
 There was a choking in her throat that prevented her 
 utterance, but a burst of tears came to her relief, and she 
 sank down again into the chair from which she had risen, 
 while the young man Manson brought her a glass of 
 water, and kindly attempted to soothe her. Coarse, 
 unfeeling, and incapable as they were even now of com- 
 prehending the feelings that agitated the poor girl, they 
 
 were not insensible to her tears, and even her first and 
 
 3 z 
 
538 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 worst persecutor, the butcher, uttered a sort of rough 
 apology in bis way for what had passed, although it was 
 in reality adding to her humiliation. 
 
 "There, never mind about the money, young woman,'' 
 he observed, "it's no object if it is throw'd away; at 
 least I speak for myself, and I dare say the other gentle- 
 men will be agreeable to the same. As to music," he 
 added pompously, " why I can have as much as I like 
 every day, and of the best sort, — leastways it ought to be, 
 for it's cost a precious lot of money from fust to last. I 
 giv' eighty guineas, do you know, for Georgianner's pianner, 
 and then nothing would do but Lorrer Mariar must have 
 a harp, and I'll be hanged if that didn't cost more than 
 t'other." 
 
 "Indeed; — yes, I remember," returned Mr. Manson 
 absently. 
 
 "Yes; I should think so," replied the butcher, evi- 
 dently half offended at his companion's seeming indiffe- 
 rence, " for you went with 'em to buy it, and you know 
 precious little came back out of a hundred-pound 
 note. " 
 
 Hanson nodded assent, and the vulgar, purse-proud 
 butcher proceeded to enlarge upon the sums that it had 
 from time to time cost him for his daughters' various 
 accomplishments. 
 
 " And I don't care who knows it," he continued, " all 
 made out of these two fistes," spreading out his immense 
 coarse red hands, not over clean, on the table. "I 
 never was at school in my life, nor learnt to make a letter, 
 but I'll lay any bet you like, that Jack Martin's mark 
 is as well known, and will stand good for as much at 
 Smi'field, as the finest scholar's in England." 
 
 " Nobody gainsays it," observed one of his companions. 
 
OF WOMAN'S L1FK. 5BQ 
 
 " Scholarship don't go far towards making money in these 
 days, we all know." 
 
 " No, hut I made up my mind for all that, that if I 'd 
 a hoy, he should have the hest eddieation that could be got 
 for money," returned Mr. Martin, " and so as I hadn't, 
 leastways as none of 'em lived, why the gals have got it 
 instead, that's all." 
 
 " Well, every one to their liking," observed another of 
 the company, " but I've taken care that my gals should learn 
 nothing but what's necessary to make 'em good wives and 
 help their husbands in their business, if they're wanted. 
 All the rest I look upon as fal lal nonsense, that only leads 
 into mischief and often to ruin. Now, for instance, here's 
 this young woman," pointing with his pipe to Milly, 
 whose face was still concealed from them, and speaking 
 in a tone which was not intended to reach her ear, 
 although she heard every word distinctly. " There's 
 she," he repeated ; "I do believe she would nat'rally 
 been a decent, modest, well-behaved gal, and is hand- 
 some-looking enough to ketch any young fellow's fancy, 
 and if she hadn't been taught music and singing, and 
 that stuff, would most likely have got decently married, 
 and lived a respectable life. And now what is she, what 
 will she come to in such a house as this, among such as 
 we know they are that come here ? Why if she was an 
 angel from Heaven, we all know what she will come to — 
 what must be the end of it ; and don't you think then 
 her foolish friends, whoever they are. will bitterly repent 
 the folly of throwing temptation in her way ?" 
 
 Deep, bitter, choking sobs rose from Milly's bosom, 
 as she listened to these observations. Could she dare 
 avow to these men that her own rashness had thrown her 
 into the situation which the speaker so condemned ? 
 
540 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Would they consider her totally unworthy of even the 
 slight compassion with which they now regarded her, if 
 she acknowledged she had left her home clandestinely — 
 that her grandfather, of whose voice and sententious 
 manner the last speaker had strongly reminded her, had 
 predicted the ruin that had overtaken her — that the friends 
 she had deserted were even now in ignorauce of her situa- 
 tion ? Oh yes ; they would despise — insult her, even if 
 they believed that she told the truth — that she was in 
 reality innocent of all but rashness and imprudence. 
 None but so inexperienced, so single-hearted a being as 
 Milly Shelburne, would have for a moment have thought 
 of appealing to such persons as those by whom she was 
 then surrounded, or could have hoped that any good 
 could arise to her from such an appeal, even if they were 
 to give full credit to the story she could have told them. 
 Was it indeed reasonable to expect that among a set of 
 half-muddled, common-place, coarse -minded, and, for 
 the greater part, uneducated men, whose lives had been 
 passed in one unvaried routine of getting money, and en- 
 joying the coarse, selfish pleasures which it enabled them 
 to command, there would be found even one who 
 would step so out of their usual worldly course as to 
 encounter the difficulties which she believed existed to 
 prevent her release from the Perkinses, even though he 
 spoke without hesitation of her ruin as certain if she 
 remained with them ? Oh no, she dared not hope it. 
 
 Gradually the unconnected, desultory chat that had 
 prevailed among these men lapsed into comparative 
 silence, and Milly's transient hopes — if they could be 
 called hopes — faded, as she heard one of them ob- 
 serve — 
 
 "Well, I think we may as well be getting home; 
 
OF woman's life. 541 
 
 Martin, 's fast asleep, and I 'spose we shall have no more 
 music to-night ?" 
 
 There was a reply to this in the low voice which 
 Milly recognised as that of Mr. Man son, and which, 
 though only in part intelligible, she understood to he 
 apologetic for her having failed in gratifying them. 
 
 " Oh, I don't care a farthing about it for myself," was 
 the reply, " though I'm as fond of a little harmony as 
 anybody, but I look upon it as a complete do on the part 
 of Mrs. Perkins, especially if the young woman don't get 
 the money. But, however, that's her look out, not mine. 
 Of course I shan't trouble my head about it." 
 
 The last observation seemed, however, to have excited 
 two or three into consideration of the subject, and Milly 
 Avas roused from the seeming apathy into which she had 
 sunk by hearing one remark, that for his part he couldn't 
 make out at all what it meant ; that he cared as little as 
 any of them for the trifle he had given, but he did n't see 
 why they were quietly to put up with, what he called, a 
 barefaced take in. Which of the ladies' doings it was, 
 he couldn't say, but he thought the properest way was to 
 send for the landlady up- stairs, and make her give an 
 explanation, who or what the money was for that she'd 
 took from them." 
 
 " Yes, certainly ! — to be sure, that's the right way !" 
 was echoed from both sides of the table at which the 
 party was seated; and the bell which hung over it with a 
 ring handle, was already in one of their hands, when 
 Milly, her pale face expressing extreme terror, started up, 
 exclaiming — 
 
 " Oh no ! no ! pray do not — do not ask her. Let 
 her keep the money. I will pay it all back, if you 
 will tell me how much it is, the very first I get — I 
 will, indeed ! " 
 
542 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 The expression of Milly's countenance as she stood 
 before them with clasped hands, trembling in every limb, 
 and with a look of earnest supplication, as if her very life 
 depended on their granting her petition, produced very 
 different effects on the minds of her different auditors — 
 probably the result of their individual dispositions in- 
 fluencing them to behold her in completely opposite 
 lights. A loud burst of laughter from two or three, though 
 totally incomprehensible to the poor girl herself, was un- 
 doubtedly intended to prove that the laughers were too 
 wise — too experienced in the ways of the world, too " up 
 to snuff" — as one of them whispered to his neighbour 
 with a significant wink — to be taken in, by what they 
 considered a cunning artifice assumed by Milly to stifle 
 all inquiry on the subject, and prevent a betrayal of the 
 part she had taken in tricking them out of their contri- 
 butions ; while their mirth was considerably increased at 
 the apparent earnestness and artlessness of her assurance, 
 that she would repay the money as soon as she got it, al- 
 though she had previously declared, with equally apparent 
 sincerity and earnestness, that she had not benefited by 
 — had not, in fact, received a farthing — did not, in reality, 
 know a word of Mrs. Perkins's appeal to their humanity, 
 or as it might have been said, the contract she had made 
 with them which Milly was expected to fulfil. 
 
 There were indeed, perhaps, not half a dozen among 
 them who cared anything about the return Milly was 
 expected to make for their liberality, or knew anything 
 of music, but these were just the very persons that were 
 most dissatisfied at her failure in not fulfilling her sup- 
 posed engagement. They were as ready, they said, to 
 give as anybody, if it was asked for as charity, but they'd 
 no notion of being tricked out of their money. By these, 
 
of woman's life. 543 
 
 in fact, by the greater number, poor Milly was regarded 
 with no favour; in fact, considered as an accomplice with 
 the landlady in taking advantage of their generosity. 
 But there were others who beheld her in a different light; 
 and among them was Mr. Manson, on whom her per- 
 sonal beauty had made a great impression, and disposed 
 him to judge very favourably of her from the first, and 
 who was now so struck with her agitation and evident 
 fear of Mrs. Perkins, as to determine not to leave the 
 house until he learned something more of her (Milly's) 
 history, and especially the cause of the extraordinary 
 terror she betrayed towards the landlady, of whom he 
 knew little beyond her general character, having never 
 until that evening visited the house, and then only to 
 oblige Martin, the butcher, the father of his intended 
 wife — the former, as an amateur musician, being in the 
 constant habit of visiting the " Harlequin," where his 
 money secured his being always received as a great man, 
 and receiving abundant doses of the most nauseous 
 flattery, from not only the landlord and landlady and 
 their coadjutor, Briggs, but from the regular frequenters 
 of the parlour. 
 
 It cost Mr. Manson little trouble to persuade those of 
 his present companions in whom Milly had by her 
 singular agitation and naive appeal to them excited 
 some interest, to alter their intention of going home at 
 once — seats were resumed, and the waiter was again 
 summoned to receive fresh orders ; while Milly, who had 
 stood hesitating, in the hope that the company were 
 satisfied with her declaration, that she was ignorant of 
 the appeal made to their charity by the landlady, became 
 now embarrassed from the doubt, whether she would be 
 allowed to retire without aDy farther explanation. The 
 
541 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 rather noisy discussion that took place on the entrance 
 of the waiter, whether it was too late to attempt the dis- 
 cussion of a bowl of punch, or should be content with 
 " something short " separately, together with sundry 
 declarations from individuals that they must have another 
 pipe of tobacco, and corresponding demands upon the 
 waiter for the said pipes, left her (Milly) so apparently 
 unnoticed and forgotten, that yielding to the longing 
 desire to escape and get to her own room, where only 
 she could hope to find temporary peace and quietness, 
 she stole silently towards the door, and had almost 
 succeeded, when she was arrested by the waiter, who, 
 seizing her arm, whispered — 
 
 " Don't you go, Miss, till the gentlemen goes, or 
 there'll be such a row with Missus as never was. She 
 says she smells a rat already, because she don't hear you 
 playing nor singing, and she vows vengeance on you, if 
 she finds you 've been playing any of your underhanded 
 tricks, as she says." 
 
 Becoming still more deadly pale than ever, Milly re- 
 turned to her seat at the pianoforte ; but the conference 
 between the waiter and her, and the effect it had pro- 
 duced, had not escaped the observation of Mr. Manson, 
 who, as she almost mechanically struck a chord that 
 immediately arrested the noisy contention of his asso- 
 ciates, and transferred their attention to her, gently laid 
 his hand upon hers, observing — 
 
 " There is no one here, I am sure, who wishes to 
 extort from you what it is evident you are quite unequal 
 to ; and still more, there are those present — myself among 
 the number — who would protect you against oppression, 
 if they understood how you were situated, and in what 
 manner they could assist you." 
 
of woman's life. 545 
 
 All Milly's attempted fortitude aud calmness vanished. 
 The voice of kindness — the offer of assistance — which 
 9he feared her own act had rendered unavoidable, com- 
 pletely overcame her, and it was in vain she tried, amid a 
 burst of tears, to render her thanks intelligible, at the 
 same time avowing, that she feared she could not derive 
 any advantage from their friendly offers, having by her 
 unfortunate circumstances been compelled to enter into 
 an engagement with Mr. and Mrs. Perkins that left her 
 completely at their mercy. 
 
 "Well, but what have you bound yourself to?" in- 
 quired the elderly man, who, though rough and rude in 
 his manners, had evinced all along favourable feelings 
 towards poor Milly. "There's no slaves in England, 
 and why should you be so frightened? By the by, 
 here's one can explain this matter without troubling the 
 poor girl to answer questions," interrupted Mr. Manson. 
 " Come here, Mr. Bill," and he seized hold of the waiter, 
 who was trying to creep out of the room, but who was 
 now led back to the table by his captor. " Let us hear 
 what you know about this affair ; and firstly, what was 
 the message you brought just now which produced such 
 an alarming effect ?" 
 
 Bill in vain protested that he had not brought any 
 message — that he had merely given " adwise out of his 
 own head for Miss Shelburne's good ;" the curiosity and 
 interest of his interrogators were now raised by his 
 attempt to evade their questions, and to deny that he 
 knew anything of Master's and Missus's affairs. A 
 glass of brandy was administered to clear his memory, as 
 the elderly man remarked; and a promise that they 
 would protect him from any consequences that might 
 ensue from his betraval of all that he knew from Miss 
 
 4 a 
 
546 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Shelburne's first reception at the " Harlequin," and 
 much more than he did know, but perhaps pretty truly- 
 guessed at, as to the future intentions of the worthless 
 proprietors of the " Harlequin Concert Rooms," with 
 occasional elucidations from the sobbing, trembling 
 Milly, as to the means by which they had, as she con- 
 ceived, bound herself irrevocably to their service, and 
 the terror which Mrs. Perkins's threats and violence had 
 inspired her with and completely subdued her to the 
 purpose of the latter — all became perfectly and clearly 
 explained to her new friends, who, while they sincerely 
 pitied, could (with the exception of Mr. Manson,) 
 scarcely forbear laughing at her simplicity, and, as they 
 called it, childish fear of the landlady. 
 
 " She mustn't be left here to-night, Manson," observed 
 his friend, the elderly man, whose name was Allen. 
 " My Missus, you know, is such a particular woman, that 
 I can't venture at this time of night — not that she 
 wouldn't be as willing as any body, if there was time 
 to—" 
 
 "I understand," interrupted Manson, who was anxious 
 to prevent any remark that could hurt Milly's feelings. 
 " I, as a single man," he added, " am of course ineligible, 
 but—" 
 
 " Yes, and besides, I doubt if Georgina would be 
 quite satisfied of your disinterested kindness, where 
 there are such attractions and — " 
 
 Manson again interrupted the explanation. 
 
 " I wish Martin had been awake, to hear what we 
 have said," he observed ; " he is just the one that could 
 without any difficulty, and would too, have offered an 
 asylum till something definite could be resolved upon for 
 the future." 
 
of woman's life. 547 
 
 Milly's heart throbbed with gratitude on the one part 
 and fear on the other, lest the difficulties of which they 
 spoke should prove insurmountable, and she should after 
 all be left to the mercy of the landlady. 
 
 Manson saw and understood the meaning of her 
 anxious look. He was already beginning to feel a much 
 deeper interest than that which arose from her unfor- 
 tunate situation, and he determined, let the result be 
 what it might to himself, that he would rescue her, and 
 secure to himself the gratitude which would naturally 
 arise from such a service. 
 
 In pursuance of this resolution, he exacted from Allen 
 and one or two more, a promise that they would not 
 leave till his return, which he said should be within 
 an hour at the farthest, enjoining Milly at the same time 
 to remain with his friends, notwithstanding any orders 
 from Mrs. Perkins to the contrary, and should the latter 
 attempt to enforce upon her any orders to leave the room, 
 to throw herself unhesitatingly on Mr. Allen and his 
 friends' protection. 
 
 " I do not ask you to do anything that is painful or 
 disagreeable to yourself, Miss Shelburne," he added, 
 "but if you can from time to time give my friends a 
 little music, it will have a doubly good effect in pre- 
 venting their becoming impatient, and Mrs. Perkins 
 having any suspicion of their peculiar motive for re- 
 maining so long here." 
 
 Milly readily promised ; her spirits were greatly ex- 
 hilirated by the prospect of having made friends, though 
 she knew not how she was to be benefited by their good- 
 will, and Manson could with difficulty tear himself away 
 from the delightful sounds as she commenced a spirited 
 concerto. 
 
548 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 The harmonious sounds of the piano, and the enthu- 
 siastic bravos and applauses that followed, soon roused 
 the remainder of the company, and among them Mr. 
 Martin the butcher, who had gone to sleep under such 
 adverse impressions towards the then poor spiritless girl, 
 who had appeared to him so totally unworthy of patron- 
 age, but was now the loudest and most energetic in his 
 applauses. A song or two in which Milly exerted all 
 her powers, completed her conquest. The butcher was 
 in raptures. 
 
 " Where's Manson ? What a fool he must have been 
 to sneak off in this manner !" he repeatedly exclaimed. 
 " He'll never forgive himself, if he should know the treat 
 he's lost. But its perhaps all the better'for my Georgina 
 that he hasn't heard this young woman. How I do wish 
 my gals could hear her. It '11 never do to bring 'em 
 here. No ! no ! the very name of the ' Harlequin ' 
 would be enough to — " 
 
 " What a noble action, then, it would be for them to 
 rescue this young lady from a situation so unworthy of 
 her talent," observed Manson, who had entered unob- 
 served, " and you, my friend, who knows how celebrated 
 you may become hereafter as the patron of a first-rate 
 singer and musician, for such, you may depend on it, this 
 Miss Shelburne will become, when once she's brought 
 forward ? 1 only wish I had the same chance of distin- 
 guishing myself, and get myself into notice in the world. 
 If I were a family man, I should not hesitate a moment 
 what to do; and I'm sure Georgina would be as anxious 
 as myself to seize such an opportunity, for she's too 
 much like her father, not to seize such an opportunity 
 of, as I may say, immortalising her own name. Unfor- 
 tunatelv, as a bachelor, I am shut out from the chance, 
 
of woman's life. o49 
 
 because the world is so unjust, that they would attribute 
 wrong motives to my interference ; and even the young 
 lady herself, would perhaps, be unwilling to believe that 
 my motives are pure, or, that I possess sufficient musical 
 knowledge to estimate her talents, and be convinced, as I 
 am, that she will, with proper introduction and patronage, 
 make as great a noise in the world, if not greater, than 
 Billington, Catalani, or any of the prima donnas. Not if 
 she's left to the ruin and disgrace that must attend her 
 coming out at the ' Harlequin' concerts though, for that will 
 condemn her at once, if she be an angel from Heaven." 
 
 Manson in uttering this rhodomontade, was well aware 
 of the character of the man to whom it was addressed, 
 and that it would be impossible for Martin to resist the 
 idea of distinguishing himself in the way the former 
 pointed out, He as yet, however, had no suspicion of 
 that to which Manson pointed, namely — the immediate 
 rescue of Miss Shelburne from the power of the landlady 
 of the 'Harlequin,' and he (Martin) was somewhat startled, 
 when the young man acknowledged that he had been dis- 
 appointed in an effort he had made to induce a relative 
 of his own, a maiden aunt, to receive Miss Shelburne at 
 once into her house. 
 
 *' The stupid old fool,'' he observed, " stands so much 
 on etiquette, that though she was quite willing to believe 
 my representation, and take the young lady on my recom- 
 mendation, she would not hear of receiving her before a 
 proper hour on Monday morning, when she would have 
 an apartment ready in due style, and treat her with all 
 proper consideration ; and as I did not dare shock her 
 prudish ears by explaining the necessity there is for 
 removing the young lady this very night from this 
 abominable house, I came away in a rage, repenting 
 
550 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 move than ever that I have not the right to appeal 
 to Georgina for her assistance, as I am sure, upon a 
 proper explanation, she would be as anxious as myself to 
 afford her generous assistance in such an emergency." 
 
 " And if she refuses," returned the butcher, in a tone 
 of decision, " I shall let her know that I am master of 
 my own house; and as I am quite compertent to judge 
 what 's proper and right, I shall insist on her receiving 
 the young lady I have took under my patternage with all 
 doo respect. So now there's nothing to be done but for 
 me to announce to her that I have took her under my 
 pertection." 
 
 Manson would fain have taken upon himself this 
 task, aware that the butcher would have little regard to 
 delicacy or propriety in making known his intention, and 
 naturally fearing that Milly would not make exactly the 
 return Martin would feel to be due to him for so disin- 
 terested, and in reality kind a proposition ; but this the 
 butcher would not agree to, and the utmost concession 
 Manson could extract from him was, that he (Martin) 
 should wait until Miss Shelburne had finished the 
 " Battle of Prague," which, in compliance with a general 
 request, she was then playing. The storm of applause 
 which it elicited at length died into silence, and then 
 Mr. Martin, rising majestically from his chair, observed, 
 that " he would prove more than mere words and shouts, 
 which were but empty wind — that he placed a proper 
 vally on the young woman's talons for music, and was 
 determined to give her a helping hand to put her forrard 
 in the world, and take her out of a sitivation that was by 
 no manner of means fit for her, but, on the contrary, 
 was likely to bring her to ruin. 
 
 " Most people," he continued, " would think he was 
 
OF woman's life. 551 
 
 running a great risk in taking into a house like his a 
 person whom he knew nothin' about, without any cha- 
 racter or recommendation, but he prided himself a good 
 deal upon being able to judge of people by their looks. 
 He had never been deceived in his life, and all he could 
 say was, if she was an impostor she was a very clever 
 one. Howsomever, he was willing to run the risk of 
 that ; and therefore, as he was a man of few words, and 
 one that never went beatin' about the bush, he had to in- 
 form her that he had resolved upon taking her under his 
 perfection, and should without any ceremony take her 
 home with him and introduce her to his daughters, who, 
 upon his recommendation, would make her welcome, 
 and she might look upon his house as her home so long 
 as it suited her so to do. She need not make any 
 scruples about it, as his neighbours here could tell her 
 he had plenty of accommodation for half a dozen at a 
 minute's notice ; and as to her keep, it wouldn't make a 
 farden's difference at such a table as he kept. She had 
 nothing therefore- to do but just put on her bonnet and 
 cloak, and he and Manson would be ready to accompany 
 her at a minute's notice, as it was getting late ; and 
 though it wouldn't make any difference whether his gals 
 were up or had gone to bed, so far as her accommodation 
 was concerned, as he had always spare bedrooms ready, 
 yet she would may be like to see them before she went 
 to bed." 
 
 It is impossible to express the surprise and confusion 
 with which Milly listened to this address — which was 
 delivered in a tone of promptness and decision that 
 proved the speaker admitted not the possibility of a 
 doubt that she would gratefully accept it — scarcely 
 knowing whether she ought to look upon it as a serious 
 
552 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 proposal, or that Mr. Martin was exactly in a situation 
 to be aware of what he was saying, and whether she 
 should seriously reply to it. She was saved, however, 
 from all necessity of replying, or rather she was pre- 
 vented from so doing, by the entrance of Mrs. Perkins, 
 who, evidently struggling to restrain the passion that 
 flushed her face and gave fire to her eyes, exclaimed — 
 
 " Come, Miss Shelburne, I think it's high time you 
 gave in for to-night. I wonder such a religious lady as 
 you purtend to be should stay till this time o'night, or 
 rayther mornin', singing songs and ballets. The gentle- 
 men, indeed, may be excused, because in course they 
 don't think about its being all but Sunday mornin' ; but 
 you ought to have a little more decency, so I beg you 11 
 bid 'em ' good night' ; there '11 be pleuty o' time next 
 week to sing and play to them, without running the risk 
 of getting me into trouble by kicking up this noise at 
 this time o'night." 
 
 All Milly's courage and new-born spirit deserted her 
 the moment she beheld the landlady's countenance, and 
 without a word of remonstrance she would have retreated 
 from the room, had she not been prevented by Mr. 
 Martin, who, seizing her arm, exclaimed — 
 
 " No, no, young woman ! you 're not a-goin' off in this 
 manner till we know a little more about it — whether it's 
 your own wish to stay here and refuse my offer, in which 
 case I must look upon you as a downright impostor, and 
 all mere purtence and deception." 
 
 "Oh no ! I have not deceived you — indeed I have 
 not," exclaimed Milly, with earnestness. " I am indeed 
 most truly grateful to you for your kind and generous 
 offer, but — " 
 
 She hesitated, and looked with an expression of fear 
 
of woman's life. 553 
 
 at Mrs. Perkins, whose tremendous frown was evidently 
 intended to enforce silence on her. 
 
 ''But what?" rejoined the butcher. "Speak out, 
 and tell us what this is all about. What right can this 
 woman have to order and command you, as if you was 
 her slave, or her 'prentice gal, or — " 
 
 "Miss Shelburne knows very well what right, Mr. 
 Martin," interrupted the landlady, evidently striving to 
 restrain the passion that glittered in her eyes, and made 
 her white lips quiver. " Miss Shelburne knows very 
 well she 's bound to obey my orders, and I'm sure you're 
 too much of the gentleman, and know too well what's 
 right and proper, to encourage her in disobedience. 
 Come, come, gentlemen all," she continued, forcing a 
 laugh that resembled the fierce, treacherous grin of a 
 hyena, " this isn't a proper time o'night, and you ain't 
 quite in a proper state to argufy the outs and the ins of 
 the matter to-night ; so, if you please, Miss Shelburne 
 and I will bid you ' good night,' and any questions you 
 think proper to ask, Mr. P. will be happy to answer you 
 on Monday — I would say to-morrow, only I know you 
 are church-going gentlemen, and wouldn't be seen at the 
 ' Harlequin' on Sundays." 
 
 Milly gave herself up for lost ; the landlady's assumed 
 gentleness and candour seemed to have made its intended 
 impression on those to whom it was addressed, and the 
 old man, who had more than once expressed himself in 
 terms by no means favourable to the persecuted girl, 
 observed — 
 
 " Well, Martin, I hope you are satisfied now to post- 
 pone your charitable intentions till you hear what 
 Perkins has got to say in the business. ' Hear both 
 
 sides' is mv motto; 'Audi alteram partem,' as the 
 
 4 i* 
 
554 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 newspapers say. If you stick to that you can't be far 
 out, and what our landlady says is very true. You 
 ain't quite compos mentis enough to-night to judge — " 
 
 " Just keep your adwice for them as wants it, Mr. 
 Wilson," interrupted the butcher violently, offended at 
 this ambitious display of learning on the part of his 
 companion. " Though I can't patter gibberish with 
 you, I'm quite compos enough to understand the plain 
 English of the matter, and that is, that the young 
 woman shall speak for herself, and say whether she'll go 
 home with me to my daughters, or whether she prefers 
 stopping at the ' Harlequin,' and taking — " 
 
 " If your daughters are the sensible girls I take them 
 to be," exclaimed Wilson, "they'll just — " 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Wilson, do not interfere with Mr. Martin's 
 decision," interrupted Manson, "it is very evident Miss 
 Shelburne gratefully accepts his benevolent offer. Is it 
 not so ?" he continued, appealing to Milly, who had in- 
 voluntarily shrunk almost behind the butcher's portly 
 form to avoid the grasp of Mrs. Perkins, who showed a 
 palpable intention to seize and force her away from her 
 chivalrous protector. 
 
 " Do you say so, my gal ?" exclaimed Martin, inter- 
 posing his arm to keep the landlady away. 
 
 " Oh yes, yes !" returned Milly, " I do, indeed, and 
 my everlasting gratitude — " 
 
 " Well, then, let's see who'll dare say ' No' to it, when 
 Jack Martin says 'Yes,'" rejoined the butcher. "Just 
 ketch hold of my arm, and don't tremble so. You'll be 
 home in two minutes, and let Mrs. Perkins do her best 
 or her worst. What I say I'll stick to. Stay, where's 
 your bonnet and shawl, or cloak, or whatever it is ?" 
 
 Mrs. Perkins had evidently foreseen this difficulty and 
 
of woman's life. 6£5 
 
 waited for this moment ; for though she uttered a re- 
 monstrance at their encouragement of Miss Shelburne to 
 break her engagement, and commit such an impropriety 
 as to leave her home at that time of night, she still 
 retained her comparative calmness and moderation. 
 
 Milly knew, however, that if once she quitted the 
 room she would not be allowed to return ; and her look 
 of distress and hesitation, in answer to Martin's inquiries, 
 was quickly understood by the calm, observant Manson, 
 who whispered to Martin the dilemma in which his pro- 
 tegee found herself. 
 
 " Would she, though ?" said Martin aloud. " Why 
 I'd pull the house down about her ears, if she tried to 
 play off any of her tricks upon me. However, never 
 mind, my gal, you ain't sugar nor salt to be melted, 
 even if it rains, which I don't think it does ; so just tie 
 this over your head — giving her a large shawl-handker- 
 chief from his pocket, which was intended for his own 
 capacious neck — and then we're all ready." 
 
 The various comments which had been half-whispered 
 among his companions here broke into loud, though, 
 with some, rather ironical applause ; while Milly, to 
 whom every moment now seemed an hour till she got 
 out of the house, hastened to obey him. 
 
 " Never mind, gentlemen," commenced Martin, turn- 
 ing round to address them. " Let them laugh as wins. 
 The time may come as you'll be sorry that some one 
 among you hadn't the heart to do what I've done, and 
 all I've got to say is this, that if Mrs. Perkins has got 
 any complaint against me, why I'm ready to defend 
 myself, and she knows where to look for me. I hav'n't 
 lived forty-five years in the parish without the name of 
 Jack Martin—' Honest Jack/ some of you calls me — " 
 
056 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "Come, you're keeping a lady waiting, you know,"' 
 interrupted Manson, who saw that Milly was in agony at 
 every moment's delay, and knew this was the best way to 
 induce his friend to shorten his harangue. Had he told 
 the truth, Milly's impatience was heightened by her 
 fear that the appearance of the landlord and Briggs 
 might even now throw an impediment in the way of her 
 departure, although Mrs. Perkins's hysterics and accla- 
 mations remained totally disregarded, Manson having 
 whispered to the butcher that she would come- to much 
 better by not appearing to notice her. At the moment 
 they reached the head of the stairs, Milly supported on 
 each side by her protectors, the landlady suddenly re- 
 covered her powers of speech, and rushing after them, 
 showered a string of abusive epithets, scandalous accusa- 
 tions, and denunciations of vengeance, that pursued them 
 till they reached the street, and effectually obliterated the 
 slight feeling of pity and regret that had softened Milly's 
 feelings towards her, and she hurried on at a pace that 
 her companions could scarcely keep up with, to escape 
 hearing expressions that dyed her cheeks scarlet, and 
 made her feel thankful that the darkness of the night 
 veiled her from the sight of her conductors. 
 

 OF WOMAN S Ul'E. 557 
 
 CHAPTER XVIU. 
 
 Unto the loud acclaim that rose 
 
 To greet her as she came, 
 She bent •with lowly grace that seemed 
 
 Such tribute to disclaim ; 
 With arms meek folded on her breast 
 
 And drooping head, she stood ; 
 Then raised a glance that seemed to ple&d 
 
 For youth and womanhood ; 
 A soft, beseeching smile, a look, 
 
 As if all silently 
 The kindness to her heart she took, 
 
 And put the homage by. 
 
 She ceased, yet on her parted lips 
 
 A happy smile abode, 
 As if the sweetness of her song 
 
 Yet lingered whence it flowed ; 
 But, for a while, her bosom heaved, 
 
 She was the same no more, 
 The light and spirit fled ; she stood 
 
 As she had stood before ; 
 Unheard, unheeded to her ear 
 
 The shouts of rapture came, 
 A voice had once more power to thrill, 
 
 That only spoke her name. Anon. 
 
 Milly Shelburne's first sensations when she found 
 herself in the street and rapidly leaving behind her the 
 hateful abode to which she had so recently considered 
 herself irrevocably bound, were those of heartfelt grati- 
 tude and delight ; but as they approached nearer and 
 nearer to the home which had been so generously 
 tendered to her acceptance by its rough, uncultivated, 
 but kind-hearted owner, certain painful doubts began to 
 intrude, not only as to the reception that might await 
 her there, but as to whether she could reasonably expect 
 that the daughters of Mr. Martin would approve of the 
 
558 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 part their father had acted, and whether in reality her 
 situation had been so desperate as to warrant her accep- 
 tance of his offer of protection under such circumstances. 
 When no longer in Mrs. Perkins's sight, it seemed indeed 
 even to herself, that she had given way to unreasonable 
 terrors of the woman, and certainly she knew not what to 
 allege against the landlady, that now appeared even to 
 herself a sufficient excuse for having fled from her at 
 such an hour, for it was now past midnight ; and if she 
 herself looked upon her conduct in such a light, how 
 could she hope to satisfy those, who would, perhaps, 
 think that she had taken advantage of their father's 
 generosity and kind-heartedness — perhaps even more, of 
 his weakness and temporary exhiliration ? The sarcastic 
 prediction of old Wilson, which only Mr. Manson's kind 
 interference had prevented going much farther than it 
 did, returned again and again to heriTecollection, and 
 made her tremble at the thought of encountering the 
 prudent, sensible girls he had called them. Prudence 
 and sense with him might be synonymous with cold- 
 heartedness and selfishness. Milly had learned from 
 her studies, that they were too often so in that world of 
 which she knew so little by experience ; but even if they 
 were not so in this case, would the history she had to 
 give of herself, the motives she had to allege in excuse, 
 be sufficient to induce them to view with indulgence her 
 seeming departure from all rules of propriety ? 
 
 There was something, too, both in Mr. Martin and his 
 comparatively young friend's manners, their growing 
 silence as they drew nearer their destination, which was 
 situated in a street on the other side of the New Road, 
 — as Milly had learned in her short morning excursion 
 it was called — that made her fear that they were not 
 
of woman's life. 559 
 
 quite so satisfied as to the daughters' reception of the 
 stranger protegee he brought with him, as both he and 
 Manson had professed themselves to be in the first in- 
 stance; and this was confirmed almost to certainty, when 
 having reached the private door of a large house, of 
 which the lower part was, with the exception of this 
 private entrance, occupied as a shop, Martin paused 
 before he rang the bell, and observed— 
 
 " You'll go up first, Manson, if the gals ain't gone to 
 bed, which I don't suppose they are, as I promised 
 Georgy I would bring you home to supper." 
 
 " Certainly, Sir, if you wish it," was the reply, " though 
 I can hardly hope Georgina would remain up so late. 
 She could scarcely think that — " 
 
 "Pooh, nonsense !" was Mr. Martin's answer. " Gals 
 think nothing about time when they're courting, and she 
 knows you wouldn't go home without me, so that she 
 won't blame you. I'll pound it she's keeping supper hot 
 now; so just run up first and tell her I'm bringing 
 another visitor." 
 
 Mr. Manson no longer hesitated ; yet Milly thought 
 there was an expression not altogether of satisfaction on 
 his face, which she could see plainly by the light of a 
 bright hall-lamp, as the door was opened by a respectable 
 but very sleepy-looking servant maid, whose eyes, how- 
 ever, were soon opened to their full extent as — having 
 answered the inquiry, "Is the gals gone to bed, Sukey?" 
 with " No, Sir, they 've been so uneasy that you didn't 
 come" — she was about to close the door, when her master 
 drew his companion Milly, who had hung back, forward 
 into the passage. 
 
 "Mercy! Good gracious, Master !" exclaimed Sukey, 
 looking from one to the other as if she could not believe 
 
')KQ SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the evidence of her eyes, and then looking round for Mr. 
 Manson, who, however, was already out of sight, having 
 darted up the stairs two or three at a time. 
 
 " Well, what's the matter, wench ? do you think you 
 see a ghost?" her master observed, with a laugh that 
 sounded rather forced. " Come, you're not half awake, 
 I see," he continued, giving her a hearty slap on the 
 shoulders. " I hope you hav'nt been to sleep and let the 
 fire out down-stairs, for I'm plaguey hungry, so go down 
 and bring up supper, old gal." 
 
 " It's all up-stairs, Sir, already,'' she replied, still 
 keeping her eyes fixed on Milly's face. " Miss Georgina 
 has been a coddling it up there ever since ten o'clock, for 
 fear we should fall asleep and forget it." 
 
 " Bless her dear heart, it's just like her, she never for- 
 gets her old dad," exclaimed the old man. " Bring me 
 my slippers, Suke, these shoes feel dampish." 
 
 " Lor a mercy ! going to put on your slippers here," 
 returned the woman. " Well ! I never — but they're up- 
 stairs, inside the fender, to keep warm. The young 
 ladies, you know, always has 'em there, and I'm sure 
 they won't let me bring 'em down to this cold place." 
 
 Martin's motive was evidently to prolong as much as 
 possible his stay, and give Manson time for explanation 
 up-stairs. 
 
 Susan seemed, however, very unwilling to comply 
 with her master's order. She saw that there was 
 something hidden under this extraordinary proceeding, 
 and that, connected with Milly's mysterious and unex- 
 pected appearance there, seemed quite sufficient to her to 
 excuse her, perhaps for the first time in her life, refusing 
 to obey her master's commands — at least until she re- 
 ceived some explanation of his motives. 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 5G1 
 
 " Stop a bit," she observed to him in a low tone, and 
 giving a significant look towards Milly, who still stood 
 trembling for the result of the step she had been per- 
 suaded to adopt, her natural pride urging her at the same 
 time to assume a dignity of look and attitude that little 
 corresponded with her destitute situation, or the outward 
 signs of it — namely, her being without bonnet, or any of 
 the usual outer covering, especially at that unseasonable 
 hour. 
 
 Mr. Martin looked at his domestic with evident sur- 
 prise and strong indication of rising passion. 
 
 " What the devil do you mean, Suke ? " he exclaimed. 
 " Why do you stand there winking and blinking, instead 
 of going and doing as I bid you ?" 
 
 '* Well ! if I must speak," returned the servant, 
 pertly, I'm waiting till the young woman goes, to shut 
 the door after her. It won't be you, but me, that the 
 young ladies will blame, if — " 
 
 Mr. Martin did not suffer her to conclude the expla- 
 nation she was about to give ; for uttering a vehement 
 execration, he seized the poor woman by the shoulders, 
 and forcing her across the hall, so as to make her run 
 before him to the head of the kitchen stairs, he would 
 certainly have driven her down at a pace that would 
 have endangered her personal safety, had not Milly, 
 totally disregarding her own, with outstretched arms, 
 darted before them at a single leap, and thus threw the 
 poor frightened woman back upon her master with such 
 force that he staggered, and could scarcely maintain his 
 equilibrium. 
 
 A succession of screams, and loud exclamations of 
 
 " Oh Papa ! Papa ! What is the matter — what are you 
 
 doing ?" followed, and in a moment two rosy-faced, 
 
 4 c 
 
5G2 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 bouncing, and showily- dressed girls, who had jumped 
 rather than run down the stairs up which Mr. Manson 
 had previously disappeared, flew to the butcher and 
 entwined their arms around his neck, while their eyes 
 were turned alternately on Milly's pale and Susan's now 
 fiery and angry face, as if expecting from them the ex- 
 planation which their words demanded of their father ; 
 who still angry, but more ashamed of his own violence, 
 showed no disposition to give it them, but in a sulky 
 tone exclaimed, while he tried to free himself from their 
 encircling arms : — 
 
 " There, there, that's enough of this nonsense. Do 
 you want to choke me, gals ? Let me have some supper 
 first, at any rate." 
 
 This attempt to turn off the affair in a joke, as he 
 would have called it, which was addressed rather to 
 Susan, by his look at her, than to any one else, totally 
 failed of its purpose ; for Susan turned away, with an 
 indignant toss of her head, to reply to Mr. Manson, who 
 had followed the two young ladies down-stairs, and with 
 extreme solicitude was inquiring of Milly what had hap- 
 pened to alarm her. 
 
 " Why, Sir,'' exclaimed the offended domestic, whose 
 anger and mortified pride had apparently banished her 
 own fright — " I don't wonder that the poor young 
 woman looks so pale, running the risk she did of being 
 dashed from the top to the bottom of the kitchen- stairs, 
 as well as me. I know I shall have to thank her to the 
 last moment of my life that I didn't get my neck broke, 
 or at least some of my limbs, but in course that's 
 nothing. A poor servant's life and limbs is nothing; 
 after toiling and moiling for more than twenty years, 
 they have no right to expect anything better than a 
 
of woman's life. 563 
 
 dog's death — kicked out of the way and thrown upon a 
 dunghill, as soon as they're no more use, or happen to be 
 no more use to their masters." 
 
 " Obstinate old fool !" muttered Martin, in a tone 
 which had much more of kindness for the woman, and 
 repentance of his own violence, than his words conveyed. 
 Susan, however, went on without taking any notice of 
 him, but evidently determined to inflict all the mortifi- 
 cation possible on her master ; and looking at Milly she 
 whispered to Manson — 
 
 " Poor thing ! I'm sure my heart aches to see how bad 
 she looks. I wish I'd got the power to take her down- 
 stairs and give her something to bring her round, for I 
 know she got a dreadful shake ; but I'm only a poor 
 servant, you know, Mr. Manson, and after Master's 
 treatment to-night — " 
 
 Manson, however, did not wait to hear any more on 
 this subject. He saw plainly that Susan thought much 
 more of the injury, whatever it was, she had received, 
 than the obligation on her part to Milly; and taking the 
 hand of the latter, he drew her arm through his, and 
 whispering to her to cheer up, for there were none there 
 but were disposed to be her friends, led her up to the 
 two girls, who were regarding her with great curiosity, 
 but evidently restrained more by bashful awkwardness 
 than by any other feeling from addressing her. 
 
 " Come, Georgina," he observed, addressing the 
 eldest and prettiest of the two — " this is the young 
 lady I was speaking to you about, and though things 
 have fallen out so awkwardly between your father and 
 her as to alter his kind intentions of introducing her to 
 you, and securing your patronage for her, I'm sure — " 
 
 " And who the d 1 told you that ?" interrupted 
 
564 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Martin, roughly. " Clever as you are, Mr. Manson, it 
 happens that you're quite out in your reckoning. I 
 aren't ashamed to say, that if it had'nt been for her 
 quickness and courage, and having her wits all about her 
 ■when I had lost mine, I should have done what I should 
 have been sorry for as long as I live, though I aren't 
 quite such a wretch neither as Suke wants to make me 
 out ; and now I come to think about it, after all it was 
 just her (Susan, I mean) impudence and wanting to 
 make out MissWhat's-her-name to be no better than she 
 should be, and her eagerness to get her out and shut 
 the door upon her, that first put me in a passion ; so, 
 after all, I ain't quite such a wretch as she wants to 
 make me out. There's six of one and half a dozen of 
 t'other; and though I'm ready to beg the young woman's 
 pardon for putting her in danger — for after all it was 
 only she that was in danger — for as to Suke, she'd got 
 so fast hold on me, that she couldn't have gone down the 
 stairs without I'd have gone with her; but the poor 
 young woman, I own, was in danger, and I heartily beg 
 her pardon, and — " 
 
 " Oh no, no !" exclaimed Milly, "not for the world. 
 You have behaved most kindly — nobly — to me, Sir. 
 Nothing that I can ever do or say can repay my obliga- 
 tions to you." 
 
 " Well, then, that's all right/' exclaimed Martin, rub- 
 bing his hands with exultation. " As for Old Sukey, I 
 shall soon make it all right with her, the old gal knows 
 I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head. So now, girls, show 
 Miss What's-her-name — I shall learn to know it in time 
 — up-stairs, and let's have supper." 
 
 Kindly but bashfully the two girls proffered their 
 hands to the stranger, and she was ushered into a room 
 
OF woman's life. 565 
 
 furnished in the most profuse and expensive style, 
 though it must be confessed there was much more of 
 extravagance than taste displayed in the crowded and 
 gaudy style of the ornaments. 
 
 "Now, not a word more about the row, till after we've 
 had our supper," observed the master of the house, 
 seating himself at the table, which was already spread, 
 and desiring Milly to take her place beside him. " As 
 to you gals, Manson will take care of you," he added, 
 " but as Miss, here, has got nobody else to look after 
 her, I'll see to her." 
 
 Milly's heart swelled with gratitude for the kindness 
 of his intentions ; yet there was an evident desire to im- 
 press her with the grandeur and liberality of his esta- 
 blishment, that destroyed all comfort, and Milly felt 
 that she would gladly have relinquished all the luxuries 
 and delicacies that were pressed upon her acceptance, to 
 have avoided the ostentatious apologies of her enter- 
 tainer for not being able to afford her any better fare ; or 
 sometimes the remarks, that seemed almost to amount to 
 insult, that he daresay she had been used to much better- 
 living than a common tradesman like him could afford 
 to set before her. Too sincere and single-hearted to see 
 that all this was intended only to extort from her the 
 compliments which he really thought were due to his 
 recherche entertainments, and at times half inclined 
 to suspect that she was being made the sport, not only 
 of her host, but of his two giggling daughters, who, 
 seated at the other end of the table, with Mr. Manson 
 between them, carried on a conversation wholly confined 
 to themselves, although they did not fail to do ample 
 justice to the good things placed before them, Milly felt 
 heartily rejoiced when the supper was over, and she was 
 
566 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 released from the irksome attentions of her host, arid his 
 entreaties to her to eat, and convince him that she could 
 manage to make a supper out of his humble fare. 
 
 Fortunately, the late hour and the exertions of the 
 evening prevented any further display on Mr. Martin's 
 part for that night, and Milly felt heartily rejoiced when, 
 having smoked one pipe and drank its regular accompa- 
 niment, or what he called his jorum of punch, he com- 
 mitted her to his youngest daughter's care, to show her 
 to her bedroom, observing, that " she must excuse 
 Georgina going with her, as it always took the latter 
 the best part of an hour to say ' good night' to Manson 
 between the drorring-room door and the bottom of the 
 stairs." 
 
 " But you know all about them 'ere affairs, I dessay," 
 he chuckled, after a loud laugh at his daughter's excla- 
 mations of — 
 
 "For shame, Papa, I wonder you ain't ashamed of 
 yourself. What can Miss Shelburne think of such 
 talk ?" &c. 
 
 " Well, well," he added, " she maybe won't tell you 
 her secrets just yet, but you'll find her out some day, I'll 
 be bound. She's pretty enough to have ketch'd — " 
 
 Milly took the opportunity, which Mr. Manson, who 
 did not seem inclined to encourage this coarse raillery, 
 and had watched Milly's countenance very earnestly, 
 now afforded her by throwing open the door, and she 
 escaped the continuation of it, though not the repetition 
 of Mr. Manson's very impressive " good night," which 
 almost any other than Milly would have thought argued 
 poorly for the sincerity of the long adieux Mr. Martin 
 spoke of — at least on his side — between him and 
 Georgina. 
 
OF woman's life. 5G7 
 
 Though evidently tainted with the same disease, as it 
 might be called, that made Mr. Martin at times so dis- 
 agreeable, and clouded all his good qualities — the pride 
 of wealth, and an inordinate love of displaying the acqui- 
 sitions it enabled them to make — the youngest daughter 
 appeared, when alone with Milly in the handsome bed- 
 room to which she conducted her, a much more pleasant, 
 unaffected girl than the latter was prepared to find her. 
 She possessed, too, good and kind feelings, for she spoke 
 of Milly's escape from Mrs. Perkins with proper repro- 
 bation of that unprincipled woman, and expressed her 
 hopes that now all that the former had suffered was at 
 an end, with warmth and sympathy. Towards her father, 
 too, her affection was unbounded, and she pleaded, in 
 excuse of those foibles which he had betrayed before 
 Milly, with a tenderness that would have reconciled 
 Milly to much greater ones than either he or she be- 
 trayed, observing that " it was impossible to have a 
 better heart, or greater kindness to his fellow-creatures, 
 than he had," and prophesying that she (Miss Shel- 
 burne) " would learn to like him better the more she 
 knew of him." Her sister, too, she spoke of with ten- 
 derness and affection ; even the servants — who had lived 
 with them ever since her childhood — came in for their 
 share of commendation, as she spoke of the unfortunate 
 contrc-iemps of the evening, and said she " knew her 
 father would not go to bed till he had remedied it." 
 
 " But I hear Mr. Manson is gone," she said, in con- 
 clusion, "so I must run away, to prevent Georgina 
 coming to keep you awake any longer, for she is as 
 anxious to make a friend of you as I was. But it will 
 be time enough to-inorrow, and for your sake I shall tell 
 her you are fast asleep. " 
 
568 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Oh what a pity that such good people should ever 
 make themselves so disagreeahle !" thought Milly, as she 
 pondered over all the occurrences of this eventful evening, 
 until, worn out with fatigue, she fell asleep ; and many 
 times next day had she occasion to repeat the same, 
 until having at last, as it appeared, exhausted the dis- 
 play, and listened to the tiresome details of the various 
 sums that the articles had cost that were pointed out for 
 her admiration, Mr. Martin and his daughters found 
 time to enter into the subject which, it might have been 
 supposed, would have had the first claims on their atten- 
 tion — namely, the history of the stranger who had been 
 so singularly introduced to their notice, and, as it ap- 
 peared, completely domiciliated with them, without their 
 knowing anything of her recommendations to their 
 favour. 
 
 Mr. Manson had, indeed, suggested motives to his 
 friend Martin, that in some measure deprived the latter 
 of the entire merit of disinterestedness which Milly had 
 attributed to him ; and it might have occurred to some 
 persons, that the pleasure which he and his daughters 
 derived from the display of their house and its appen- 
 dages, was a fall compensation for all they had done. 
 But Milly felt too deeply the extent of the obligation 
 conferred on her to suffer such a thought to intrude, and 
 she endeavoured to show her sense of that obligation by 
 relating, the moment they gave her the opportunity, 
 without the slightest reserve, not only her history up to 
 the hour that she had, by Mr. Martin's kindness and 
 generosity, been rescued from the object of her dread — 
 Mrs. Perkins — but also the encouragement she had re- 
 ceived, to believe that she possessed talents and know- 
 ledge of music that would secure her an independent 
 
OF woman's life. 569 
 
 living, if no more; the only drawback being, she acknow- 
 ledged, her fear that she had involved herself in an en- 
 gagement with Mr. Briggs and his associates, that, if she 
 were compelled to fulfil it, would ruin her hopes, and 
 condemn her to society from which her heart and her 
 principles alike revolted. 
 
 Mr. Martin's lower lip dropped in a peculiar manner, 
 which seemed understood as an expression of vexation or 
 discontent, for both his daughters exclaimed together — 
 " What's the matter, Papa ?" and Georgina added — 
 " They can't take Milly" — they had already adopted 
 the christened name of their friend — " they can't take 
 her away from us by force ?" 
 
 " I don't know whether they can or no," he replied; 
 " but I dessay they'll try it on. It's a dangerous thing 
 to put your hand to paper, and I've often thought that, 
 perhaps, I've been saved losing many a pound by not 
 being able to sign my name ; though, for the matter of 
 that — But never mind, my lass," he continued, patting 
 Milly on the back, as he saw the desponding look which 
 she exchanged with the two girls — " Never mind, they 
 shan't have you without a fair fight for it. We must 
 speak to Manson about it, after dinner. He knows more 
 about law than I do, and if it can't be done without we 
 must employ a lawyer, though I hate the varmint. At 
 any rate, I know whose purse is the longest, and that, I 
 take it, is the best part of the way to get the upper 
 hand, whether right or wrong. As to that Briggs, I 
 don't think he's got as much as would jingle on a tomb- 
 stone ; and his friends at the ' Harlequin' ain't, I sus- 
 pect, got much to throw in the kennel, which money 
 mostly is that's spent upon the black sheep, as I call the 
 
 lawyers ; though I won't spare a few pounds, if they go 
 
 4 D 
 
570 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to try it on with me, besides showing them off as I would 
 do then. Yes! yes! I'd soon spile their 'Harlequin' 
 tricks for 'em, I'd pound it." 
 
 The hearty laugh with which he applauded himself for 
 this witticism, prevented his hearing Milly's expression 
 of gratitude ; but he saw the tears that trembled in her 
 eyes, and again attempted to cheer her by declaring 
 his determination " to stick to her to the last against 
 her enemies ;" and then reminded his daughters, that 
 " if they meant to take Milly to church with them, it 
 was time they went to get themselves ready." 
 
 " The gals will tog you out, my dear," he added, as 
 Milly was about, with a blush, to confess her inability to 
 accompany her young friends; "they've got plenty of 
 fal-de-rals," he added, " or ought to have, to furnish half 
 the parish, from the money they cost me for dresses ; so 
 don't be too modest, but make yourself as smart as you 
 can ; and don't you go to be shabby, gals, for I'll make 
 it up to you what you give her out of your wardrobes." 
 
 "Lor, Pa ! do you think nobody can be generous but 
 you ?" exclaimed Georgina ; while her sister warmly pro- 
 tested, that " Milly should be welcome to take her 
 choice of everything she had; though as to being in 
 possession of such a profusion as Papa talked of, she 
 must tell the truth — if there was anything that he was 
 stingy about, it was what he called ' fal-de-rals,' because 
 he had no idea what a deal of money it took to dress 
 genteelly and like other people." 
 
 This was an attack upon Mr. Martin's dignity and 
 generosity that produced an explosion of wrath that 
 quite frightened Milly, and made her glad to escape from 
 the room with the other sister, who had added fuel to the 
 fire by refusing to say, when appealed to by the old man, 
 
of woman's life. 571 
 
 that the allowance he made them for dress was sufficient. 
 But the former was surprised when, a few minutes after, 
 the elder young lady rushed into the room, where her 
 sister was employed in placing before her (Milly) at 
 least a dozen handsome dresses, and bursting into a 
 violent fit of laughter, exclaimed — 
 
 "Hav'n't I managed it capitally? I've got enough 
 not only for the satin dresses," showing several bank- 
 notes, " but a promise, that if we want more I need only 
 ask him for it, and we shall have it without grumbling ; 
 only," and she laughed at Milly, " I'm to contradict to 
 you, my dear, that he's ever stingy or mean to us, or 
 denies us anything that's reasonable." 
 
 "You need not, I am sure, take any pains to convince 
 me of the truth of that," returned Milly, gravely, and 
 pointing to the variety that was thrown before her for 
 selection. She was, indeed, really grieved to see these 
 petted and indulged daughters thus taking advantage of, 
 and laughing at, their father's foibles, even to a stranger, 
 and, as she contrasted their situation with her own, she 
 could scarcely restrain the tears that stood in her eyes. 
 
 Too timid, however, to express her feelings, or attempt 
 to convince her companions of their error, Milly re- 
 mained grave and silent, while they continued eagerly to 
 debate as to which dresses, bonnets, shawls, &c., were 
 prettiest, and likely to be most becoming to her, among 
 the variety they produced for her inspection, wondering 
 at the same time at the little interest — or rather total 
 indifference — she betrayed on a subject that to them 
 appeared so all-important. 
 
 " Poor girl !" at last whispered the good-natured 
 Georgina, believing she had penetrated the mystery of 
 Milly's silence and grave looks — " Poor girl! I dare say, 
 
572 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 in her heart, she feels mortified at the thought of wear- 
 ing things that are not her own — I know I should, if I 
 were in her place. Let us make her a present of what 
 she wears to-day, to-morrow we'll get money from 
 Papa for her to buy what she likes ; that will be much 
 more handsome than giving her all we've got ; because 
 if they're ever so good and handsome, you know, they'll 
 only be second-hand ; and I know I could never bring 
 myself to wear anybody's cast-offs, as she may term 
 them.'' 
 
 " Yes ; but after all that '11 be no merit to us," re- 
 turned her sister. " It will be Papa does all, and I 
 should like her to think that we can be generous as well 
 as him. Besides, I know he won't let us be the losers in 
 the end. It will only be waiting a little longer for our 
 dresses, if we give her this money ourselves." 
 
 Georgina was at first rather unwilling to defer the 
 anticipated delight of the satin dresses, but her sister's 
 arguments prevailed; and Milly, who had beheld their 
 secret conference with some uneasiness, was completely 
 overwhelmed by the apparent generosity and disin- 
 terestedness of the sisters, who refused to listen for a 
 moment to her entreaties that she might decline their 
 present. 
 
 " Almost, indeed, did they appear offended at her ven- 
 turing to hint that Mr. Martin might be displeased 
 at their thus disposing of what seemed to her such an 
 enormous sum of money ; but it was some compensation 
 to the young ladies to assure her, as they did, that what 
 she thought so much of was a mere trifle to Pa ; and, 
 indeed, that they should never think of consulting him 
 as to how they disposed of even a much larger sum. 
 Milly was in fact compelled to yield and submit to the 
 
of woman's life. 573 
 
 obligation, which in reality gave her much more pain 
 than pleasure. 
 
 Fortunately, the necessity of preparing for church put 
 a stop to the discussion, which threatened to he inter- 
 minable, as to the manner in which their splendid gift 
 was to be expended ; for it never seemed to occur to the 
 young ladies that there was any want of delicacy in 
 taking upon themselves to dictate on the subject, or that 
 it would have considerably enhanced the value of the 
 present to have said as little as possible about it. 
 
 Alas ! vainly did Milly Shelburne hope in the offices 
 of religion to abstract her thoughts from the world, and 
 give up her whole heart to her Creator in his temple. 
 The vanity and ostentation which, like deadly weeds 
 springing up among fair flowers, choking their growth 
 and poisoning their bloom, had gained such predomi- 
 nance in the hearts of her companions, intruded even 
 here; and with pain and sorrow she shrunk from the 
 numerous indications the sisters betrayed, not only of 
 total inattention to the sacred and beautiful service of 
 the Church, but that their whole thoughts were occupied 
 either in displaying their handsome, but showy and in- 
 appropriate dresses, or in observing and remarking those 
 around them. 
 
 Unfortunately, the girls had placed her between them, 
 and it was impossible for her to avoid the whispers, sig- 
 nals, and gestures — nay, even but half-suppressed titters 
 and giggles — by which the sisters conveyed to each 
 other their remarks upon the dresses and general ap- 
 pearance of their neighbours. Even she herself, more 
 than once, became an object of attention to them the 
 most annoying to her feelings. At one time Georgina 
 whispered that she had bent her bonnet by stooping her 
 
574 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 head so low, though she had done so to avoid seeing the 
 satirical looks that the sisters were exchanging in ridi- 
 cule of some youBg women who had entered the pew 
 before them ; and scarcely had she (Milly) recovered from 
 the disturbance this had given her, when the other 
 sister, with a significant twitch of her gown, assured her 
 that she was " crumpling it all up" by kneeling on the 
 hassock. 
 
 Milly's thoughts wandered to the humble little village 
 church where she had last knelt by the side of her 
 simple-minded and truly devout grandfather and grand- 
 mother, and joined in the responses which came from 
 their hearts, without a thought but of peace and good- 
 will towards those by whom they were surrounded, all 
 equally intent upon fulfilling their duty, or with equal 
 humility listening to the instructions of their humble- 
 minded pastor, and joining in his prayers that they 
 might be kept in the right path here, and receive 
 together their reward hereafter. Few, indeed, were 
 there among that simple congregation who could be in- 
 attentive, or suffer themselves to be drawn into a tem- 
 porary forgetfulness of the solemn duty in which they 
 were engaged ; and speedily would they have been re- 
 called, and shamed into repentance, by a single look 
 from the mild yet firm countenance of him who was 
 regarded by all, both young and old, as their director 
 and guide — 
 
 " Who taught them how to live, and how to die." 
 Or if it escaped his fatherly glance, there was ever some 
 respected elder to awe and repress, and bring the blush of 
 shame upon the cheek of the thoughtless offender, who 
 seldom escaped a lecture that ended in tears of penitence, 
 and a firm determination never again to offend. She 
 
of woman's life. 575 
 
 recalled the time when she herself, in the thoughtless 
 gaiety and vanity of girlhood, had given occasion for 
 such a lecture, and the solemn conviction the parson, as 
 he was called in reverence hy his flock, had produced in 
 her young mind by his gentle arguments. But what 
 a different scene was this ; and how vainly did she 
 try to lift her mind beyond the flaunting evidences of 
 folly, vanity, pride, and ostentation by which she was 
 surrounded. There was a careless tone even in the 
 performance of the service, that, although she blamed 
 herself for the feeling, prevented her entering into it with 
 her whole heart, as she had been used to do, and she 
 caught herself involuntarily blushing, with a species of 
 shame, as she saw her companions look at each other 
 with an expression half of surprise and half derision, as 
 she raised her voice in the responses ; and she learned 
 from their silence that it was unusual — or, rather, 
 ungenteel, for she knew that was the sole test with them 
 — to suffer their voices to be heard. " It was only vulgar 
 people," as was afterwards explained to her, in criticism 
 by the sisters on all that had passed at church — "only 
 vulgar poor people who did so, and still more unfashion- 
 able it was to join in the singing, though, to be sure, her 
 voice did sound so soft and beautiful, that they could 
 hardly wonder she should let it be heard. They almost 
 thought they should do so, too, if they could sing like 
 her, and not mind people staring as they did." 
 
 " I was not conscious I was stared at," returned Milly, 
 gently. " In the country, we think it a duty to raise our 
 voices in prayer or thanksgiving, and I was not aware 
 that it was in London an impropriety." 
 
 Milly, however, saw that her explanation entirely 
 fuiled in convincing her young companions, who acknow- 
 
570 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 ledged that they had been greatly mortified at her depar- 
 ture from propriety, especially as they had seen the Miss 
 Somebodys — with whom there seemed a regular rivalslnp 
 or war, on the score of beauty, dress, and gentility, with 
 the Miss Martins, and who sat in the next pew to them, 
 — not only staring at Milly, but actually stuffing their 
 cambric handkerchiefs in their mouths, as if they were 
 ready to die with laughter. 
 
 " Well, come, let's have no more of this !" observed 
 Mr. Martin, who, while listening, appeared by his looks 
 to have shared in the humiliation his daughters had 
 suffered in being convicted of ungentility by their rivals, 
 through the means of their companion. "It can't be 
 helped, if Miss here didn't know no better, and in 
 course she won't do it again ; and maybe she may have 
 summut else to employ her than going to church with 
 you, because, I take it, people in her line of life don't 
 trouble church much with their company." 
 
 The colour that rushed into Milly's cheeks betrayed 
 how deeply she felt this remark ; and the girls, really in 
 kind and good nature, simultaneously expressed their 
 hopes that " no such thing would happen as Pa pre- 
 dicted. They should be very sorry indeed if they thought 
 that anything would happen — at least for a long time to 
 come — to separate Miss Shelburne and them ; and they 
 hoped that they and her should go to many other places, 
 as well as church, together." 
 
 " Oh well ! settle that as you like," returned the indul- 
 gent father. In course, it's no object to me whether the 
 young lady goes, or stays for a twelvemonth ; the ex- 
 pense of another mouth at my table isn't nothing, and 
 she's heartily welcome to stop as long as she wants it; 
 only I like everything to be comfortable to you and — " 
 

 of woman's LIFE. 5/7 
 
 With a haste that showed they were quite aware how 
 intensely Milly felt these coarse remarks, the sisters 
 hastened to declare that " there was nothing would make 
 them so happy as to retain her with them ;" and with a 
 view of reconciling the humiliated girl to a continuation 
 of favours from which her independent spirit recoiled, 
 Georgina added — 
 
 " Besides, papa, I look to learn a great deal in the way 
 of music from Miss Shelburne, from what Manson told 
 me last night ; so that you see there won't he any obliga- 
 tion on either side." 
 
 Mr. Martin, however, was not in a humour to be pleased 
 or satisfied ; and he now declared that "it was a very great 
 shame if, after all the scores and scores of pounds that 
 had been spent on their eddication, his daughters wanted 
 any further instruction." 
 
 Milly's unhappiness, indeed, increased with every word 
 that was uttered on the subject of her present situation, 
 for she could not help thinking that Mr. Martin already 
 repented of the part he had acted towards her, and she 
 became most anxious to convince him that she had no 
 intention of becoming a permanent burthen on his 
 bounty. The opportunity of expressing this soon 
 occurred. Mr. Martin's dinner restored all his good 
 humour, and he commenced a familiar chat with Milly 
 as to her life in the country, her thoughts of 
 London, &c. 
 
 " Ah ! but you havn't seen nothing of Lunnon yet," 
 
 he replied, when she candidly acknowledged her preference 
 
 of the country. "The gals must take you and show you 
 
 what there is worth seeing. You must go to Doory Lane 
 
 and Common Garden — that is if you can get Manson to 
 
 go and take care of you. What do you' say to it, gals ? 
 
 4 E 
 
57ft SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 I'll stand treat for Lorry and her, for 1 s'pose Manson 
 won't let me pay for you, Georgy ?" 
 
 The girls were delighted at the proposal, and would 
 have fixed on the next evening for Milly's introduction 
 to the pleasures of London, but the old man reminded 
 them that Manson must be first consulted, as it might 
 " be ill-conwenient, and business must be looked to afore 
 pleasure." 
 
 A number of other treats for Milly were now proposed 
 by the sisters, and to her surprise assented to by Mr. 
 Martin, who said not a word as to the expense, merely 
 remarking once or twice — " Ah ! it's one word for Milly 
 and two for yourselves, I 'spect ;" and once observing — ' 
 " Oh ! yes ; do you think MaDson will stand being 
 dragged about to sich a lot of places that I never heard 
 even the names of? — for you know I shan't go without it's 
 to Astley's or Woxhall. I don't mind going to them 
 places, because I likes to see the hosses, they're worth 
 looking at ; and I don't mind Woxhall once in the way, 
 'cause I can walk about or sit down just as I like ; but as 
 to your plays or your consorts, you don't ketch me setting 
 screwed up hour arter hour to look at people making fools 
 of themselves, or talking a lot of stuff I can't make head 
 nor tail of. As to your consorts, as you call 'em, blow 
 me if that you took me to didn't give me the headache 
 for a week, with their drumming and trumpeting and 
 fiddling all together, and squalling a lot of gibberish that 
 I couldn't make no sense of; no, no, you'll never ketch 
 me there again." 
 
 From the moment Mr. Martin mentioned concerts as 
 one of the sources of amusement to his daughters, Milly 
 had resolved to tell them of the engagement she had 
 entered into with Mr. Fitrzoy Palmer, and accordingly, 
 
OF woman's llfe. 570 
 
 after the girls' laughter at their father's contemptuous 
 description of what they declared was a most fashionable 
 and delightful concert at the Italian Opera House, which 
 they had been induced to attend by their music master, 
 she inquired if they had ever been to or knew the St, 
 Helena Gardens ?" 
 
 " St. Helena ! they had never even heard of the 
 place," was the reply from the young ladies. 
 
 Milly's hopes sank. She had formed a plan that she 
 had hoped might prove serviceable had the answer been 
 favourable, and her looks betrayed her disappointment so 
 palpably that her young companions immediately 
 perceived it. 
 
 "What do you know about ' St. Helena,' Milly, dear ? 
 Where did you hear of it ? Whereabouts is it ?" inquired 
 Laura. « 
 
 Milly referred to the pocket-book in which she had 
 noted down the particulars of this engagement, as well as 
 of that with the proprietors of the '*' Harlequin." 
 
 " It is at Rotherhithe," she replied. 
 
 " Rotherhithe !" repeated Mr. Martin, "Why that's 
 where I went to dinner with my old friend Bob 
 Barnsley, and they must be the gardens we went to in the 
 evening. A sweet pretty place it is, too, and capital sing- 
 ing and fireworks, and just another Woxball, only not 
 quite so big ; but it's all the better to my fancy, 'cause if 
 you part company with your friends you don't have to 
 wander about like a lost sheep for an hour or two afore 
 you find 'em again. I never spent a pleasanter evening 
 in my life than I did that evening, and I've often thought 
 of takiug you there, only since poor Barnsley died and 
 his wife went away to her friends, I havn't had the heart 
 like." 
 
,")80 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Well, but Pa, it's a vulgar place, isn't it?" demanded 
 Georgina. " There were not any genteel people at such 
 an out-of-the-way place, I should think." 
 
 " Then you just think wrong, Miss," replied her father, 
 evidently not pleased with her observation. " I'd lay a 
 guinea to sixpence, that there was more respectable com- 
 pany there that night than you'd meet in nine out of ten 
 of your fine West-end places, where you can't be sure as 
 the very next to you is'nt a pickpocket dressed up like a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know, " observed Georgina impatiently, 
 " but what I mean is, were the company smart, well- 
 dressed people, or only plain — what you call decent 
 folks ? I can hardly fancy they were.'' 
 
 " Then you'd better not fancy at all," interrupted Mr. 
 Martin peevishly. "You ought to know that I should 
 never have thought of taking you there if the company 
 hadn't been dressed well enough to please you. I didn't 
 take a fashion book with me, to be sure, to see whether, 
 like you, they was dressed by them figures that you call 
 so sweet, and lovely, and beautiful, but I will next time I 
 go, and then there can be no mistake about it." 
 
 "Ah! you're laughing at me," replied Georgina, "but 
 I know now all I wanted to know ; for though you pre- 
 tend not to understand such affairs, there isn't a better 
 judge than my own dear Papa, whether people are well 
 dressed or only dowdies, and I am sure he was satisfied 
 with the St. Helena company." 
 
 " Ah ! you're a coaxing young slut," returned the old 
 man, smiling ; " but now that you've settled that matter, 
 let's hear what Milly, as you call her, has got to say 
 about the ■ St. Helena.' Perhaps she would rather go 
 there than to the play to-morrow night, and I should say 
 
of woman's life. 581 
 
 that shows her good sense, for it's worth all your "Doory 
 Lanes and Common Gardens in the kingdom." 
 
 An exclamation of " Oh ! Pa,'* from the two girls, 
 was speedily suppressed by their anxiety to hear what 
 their guest had to tell them, andMilly proceeded to relate 
 the particulars of her engagement with Mr. Palmer, 
 acknowledging that " she should have considered it an eli- 
 gible introduction if she were convinced, as indeed she 
 now was from Mr. Martin's observations, that the place 
 was respectable. She had," she observed, " not mentioned 
 the circumstance before, because, having discovered how 
 disreputable the ' Harlequin' w r as, had led her to the con- 
 clusion that it would be in all probability equally inju- 
 rious to her character and future prospects to make her 
 debut at the 'St. Helena.' Now, indeed," she confessed, 
 " if Mr. Martin thought it advisable — she would be wholly 
 guided by him, though she was certainly anxious to con- 
 vince her kind friends that she was prepared to make 
 every exertion, " — 
 
 Milly judiciously paused here. She felt that it wouldn't 
 do to dwell too strongly on her desire to render herself 
 independent of her friends, and that the wisest course she 
 could pursue was to refer the affair entirely to Mr. Mar- 
 tin's decision. That which with many would have been 
 mere cunning, was with Milly the pure dictates of her 
 heart. She felt that however mortifying and disagreeable 
 to her were the foibles, the ostentation and pride of 
 pocket of Mr. Martin and his daughters ; however 
 difficult to bear the reflection of these weaknesses in all 
 they said or did, it was her duty to bear with them in 
 silence, and not suffer them for a moment to obscure the 
 real benefits she had received at their hands. 
 
 " And you really would make your first appearance at 
 
582 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 this place to-morrow night, dear Milly," observed 
 Georgina, "if — ? Oh! how I should like to hear you. 
 Shouldn't you Laura? Wouldn't it be delightful ? 
 Ain't you longing to hear her play and sing ? Papa 's 
 so particular, he won't let us touch the instrument on 
 Sunday," she whispered. 
 
 " I never play myself, except sacred music," returned 
 Milly, scarcely knowing what she said. She was 
 anxiously watching Mr. Martin's countenance as he sat in 
 apparently deep reflection. 
 
 '•' Oh ! Pa, Milly can play and sing hymns and psalms, 
 and allthem sort of things," exclaimed the thoughtless 
 girl, flying to the piano-forte and opening it. 
 
 "Stop a bit, Miss Martin, if you please," observed the 
 old man with an air of consequence. " You heard Miss 
 — What's your name, my dear, I always forget, and these 
 gals taking the liberty of calling you Milly, helps to 
 put it out of my head — your other name ?" 
 
 "Call me Milly, Sir, if you please," she replied. 
 
 " Ah ! well, we shall know it well enough by and by I 
 s'pose, when it gets famous,' returned the old man, 'with 
 the air of having said a clever thing. " There 's plenty 
 will be glad to know it then, my dear, that would, maybe, 
 turn up their nose at it now." 
 
 Milly bowed in return for this awkward attempt at com- 
 pliment. She did not suspect how great an impression 
 had been made on Mr. Martin by what his friend Manson 
 had said the night before, as to the honour he might 
 derive from their patronage of Milly, should she succeed 
 in distinguishing herself, as he prophesied she would. 
 
 "Well, what I was going to say," he continued, " is 
 this : — As you wish me to give you my advice, I certainly 
 think you can't do better than to keep your engagement. 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 583 
 
 I cnn answer so far as this here, that the place is werry 
 respectable, and them that wisits it — [ don't say as they are 
 nobs, mind, because it's an out-of-the-way-place for them 
 sort, but as far as I'm a judge, they're the sort that can 
 hold up their heads and no need to be ashamed among 
 the best going ; and so you needn't have no fear on that 
 score. As to this Mr. What's-his-name that engaged 
 you, you tell me that you found out he paid that scamp 
 Briggs your wages for the night ; but I don't see that you 
 ought to lose your money because he chose to be a fool, 
 which he must be to go and pay anybody but you. Put 
 the case in this here light : — Suppose you'd bought a leg 
 of mutton of me, and you went and paid it to a man that 
 you see come out of my shop, without knowing whether 
 he'd a right to take it, don't you suppose I should look 
 to you for the money ? To be sure, I should, and any 
 court in England would judge me the money too, if I was 
 to go to law for it." 
 
 Milly could not venture to controvert this adjudication 
 on the part of Mr. Martin, who had delivered the whole 
 speech — probably the longest he had ever made, being 
 usually rather curt and brief in his observations — with 
 an air of most oracular wisdom. He guessed, however, 
 from the expression of her countenance, that she did not 
 feel altogether satisfied at the thought of claiming the 
 money which had been already paid. 
 
 "Well, well, we'll set that aside for the present," ob- 
 served the old man, ' ' but we must settle now what's to 
 be done. You've got the direction to this Mr. Palmer, 
 havn'tyou ?" 
 
 Milly replied that she had. 
 
 " Then you must send a letter to him the first thing in 
 the morning, to tell him as how your friend as you're 
 
584 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 now with — having left that blackguard ' Harlequin' — ad- 
 vises you to keep your word to him. Don't be afeard to 
 mention my name and who I am — ' Mr. John Martin, 
 No. — , Weymouth Street, New Road.' He'll know it, 
 I'll be bound, if he knows anything about this neighbour- 
 hood, and if be don't there's plenty can toll him, if he takes 
 the trouble to ask ; and you may tell him that me and my 
 daughters shall go with you to the ' St. Helena' to purtect 
 you, and see that you are treated with proper respect 
 and" — 
 
 " Oh ! Papa, that will be delightful," exclaimed his 
 daughters, clapping their hands, and skipping about him 
 with excessive pleasure, while Milly's sweet face looked 
 like an April day, smiles beaming through tears, evincing 
 her gratitude for this well-intentioned, though oddly 
 expressed kindness. 
 
 " Hold your tongues, can't you, till I've done," ex- 
 claimed their father. " You'll put it all out of my head, 
 what I want Milly to put down in her letter beside. Oh ! 
 I know now ; you may tell him as how, if it's worth 
 his while, he may send me a dozen tickets for his 
 concert, or whatever he calls it, and I'll pay for them; 
 stay, though, what does he charge a head ? — not that the 
 money's any object to me, only that if it comes in the 
 compass of a one or a two-pun note, we can put it in the 
 inside of the letter, you know. It would look more 
 handsomer to pay the ready money ; and what I want, 
 is, to show him that he's got those to deal with as won't 
 spare money to put you forrard in the world, and that he 
 ain't no longer to look upon you as a poor creater at the 
 beck and call of that set of blackguards at the ' Har- 
 lequin,' who wouldn't have minded selling you like a 
 sheep in the market, if they'd had the chance. There, 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 585 
 
 don't cry, my dear," he concluded, patting her kindly 
 on the back, " you're out of their power now, and it'll be 
 your own fault if you ever get into such a scrape 
 again. While John Martin has got a roof to shelter you, or 
 can put a crust of bread and cheese upon the table, you 
 shall share it with his gals, even if this music affair don't 
 turn out to your adwantage." 
 
 Every sensation of wounded pride that crimsoned Milly 
 Shelburne's cheeks, vanished before the unfeigned kind- 
 ness of this declaration, and she felt that she need not 
 blush that her reply was such as to gratify in its fullest 
 extent the reigning passion — the pride of wealth arid 
 ostentation of patronage; which she determined hence- 
 forward to regard only as a harmless foible — a weak- 
 ness which it was her duty to submit to with patience, 
 instead of, as heretofore, recoiling from it as too high a 
 price to pay for the favours and obligations bestowed 
 by Mr. Martin and his daughters. 
 
 Milly's recollection of the particulars communicated 
 to her by Mr. Briggs respecting the "St. Helena" en- 
 gagement, did not include the price of admission to 
 the entertainment, which she did not think had been 
 mentioned at all. 
 
 "Well, we won't spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar," 
 observed Mr. Martin, after some consultation and sur- 
 mises on the subject. " A pound extraw won't neither 
 make me or break me ; and it'll look more handsomer, 
 and like a gentleman, to send too much than too little ; 
 so we'll put a two-pun note in the letter, and you can put 
 in it, that Mr. Martin, not knowing nothing about the 
 price of the tickets, had sent that ; but if it comes to 
 more, he would pay the overplush when he came down." 
 
 Who were to form the partv, to whom the tickets were 
 4 v 
 
58G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to be given, with an invitation to accompany them (Mr. 
 Martin and family) gave rise to some discussion, but was 
 at length decided by a suggestion from Mr. Manson, who 
 came in, and was soon made acquainted with the whole 
 affair — that it would be politic to select the party from 
 those who had expressed the most enthusiastic admi- 
 ration of Miss Shelburne's talents at the meeting at the 
 " Harlequin," which had introduced her to the notice of 
 Mr. Martin ; and Mr. Manson, who seemed quite an fait 
 in such matters, convinced them that it was a regular 
 thing at all debuts, to make up a party for the purpose 
 of applauding the debutante, and he (Manson) under- 
 took to see and secure the services of their companions 
 in time in the morning. The mode of conveyance was 
 the only remaining point to be settled. Mr. Manson 
 here subjected himself to a severe frown and a whispered 
 reprimand from Miss Georgina, and a pouting declara- 
 tion from her sister, in the same suppressed tone, " that 
 she wondered he wasn't ashamed of such meanness and 
 vulgarity, when he suggested that there was a stage- 
 coach to Deptford that would set them down within 
 twenty yards of the Gardens — that the ladies could go 
 inside, and the gentlemen take outside places ; and he 
 dare say an arrangement could be made to take up such 
 a large party an hour or two later than the usual time 
 for the coach to return to London." 
 
 " You won't ketch me running the risk of breaking 
 my neck by climbing up a-top," grumbled Mr. Martin, 
 after some minutes' silent thought. 
 
 " No, indeed ! I should think not, Pa," exclaimed the 
 young ladies, simultaneously. 
 
 " I should be frightened out of my life to see you do 
 such a thing," observed Georgina. 
 
of woman's life. 587 
 
 "I wonder how you could be so thoughtless to men- 
 tion it, Mr. Manson," added Laura, tossing her head 
 significantly at him. 
 
 Manson could have suggested that there would be 
 plenty of room for Papa inside with the three young 
 ladies, as the coach accommodated six, but he dared not 
 add to the offence he had already given, and therefore re- 
 mained silent ; while the young ladies, aware that Papa 
 was apt to be obstinate and contradictory to any plan 
 that he did not originate, prudently imitated the silence 
 of the former, and apparently sat resigned to anything 
 the said Papa might propose. 
 
 " I don't like the thought of being put down in the 
 road, and all going trudging in, like a flock of geese 
 with a driver behind em," observed the old man, drop- 
 ping his uQder lip in a manner that peculiarly denoted 
 his dissatisfaction. 
 
 The young ladies eagerly responded to this. 
 
 " It was just what we were saying, Pa," observed Miss 
 Georgina ; " and I'm surprised that Mr. Manson should 
 think of such a thing." 
 
 '" Yes ! and we should be taken for a parcel of sailors 
 and their lasses, on the road," added Laura; "for I re- 
 member once seeing a whole lot going outside and in of 
 a Deptford stage-coach from Charing Cross. We should 
 only want blue cockades, as they had, to look just like 
 them." 
 
 " Perhaps Manson will treat you with ribbons, gals," 
 added Mr. Martin, by way of clenching his daughter's 
 witticism ; a supposed propensity to utter smart things 
 in his " gals " being, as he often hinted, with no small 
 pride, undoubtedly derived from their Dad, who was 
 always noted for it. 
 
588 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " I am quite willing to do anything that will be 
 pleasant to the ladies," observed Manson, smiling, and 
 striving to recover their good graces ; " but, I confess, 
 it never occurred to me that there could be any possibi- 
 lity of such a mistake being made ; Miss Georgina has, 
 however, only to speak her pleasure, and it will be mine." 
 
 The girls, however, insisted on referring it to Pa. 
 Whatever pleased him was sure to be best and propcrest, 
 for they knew he never spared anything to make them 
 appear genteel. 
 
 This had, of course, the desired effect ; and the two 
 young ladies were in raptures at the old man's decision, 
 that a coach should be hired for the excursion from a 
 livery stables — Mr. Manson being entrusted with the 
 task of seeing that it should be properly appointed in 
 every respect; and especially that they should have a 
 smart, well-dressed driver, and not be put off, as they had 
 been on some former occasion, with a shabby old fellow 
 that did not look a bit like a gentleman's servant. Of 
 course, only their own party were thus to be conveyed, 
 for nothing, the girls agreed, could be more shabby and 
 ungenteel than to be crowded in a carriage; the re- 
 mainder of the gentlemen invited, therefore, were to be 
 left to choose their own mode of conveyance, Mr. Martin 
 observing that — " As there were two or three stingy old 
 codgers among them, who would, perhaps, rather stay at 
 home and save their money, he (Manson) might tell them 
 all that Jack Martin would stand the damage ;" which 
 Milly, who listened in surprise and silence to these ar- 
 rangements, had some difficulty in comprehending, meant 
 that Mr. Martin would pay their carriage. 
 
 It was not, indeed, without some uneasiness that Milly 
 heard what appeared to her such an unnecessarily extrava- 
 
of woman's life. 580 
 
 gant plan acceded to, since she could uot but feci that 
 it added to the weight of obligation she had already in- 
 curred to Mr. Martin : and she heard, with additional 
 vexation, the young ladies entering into a plot together 
 to induce their father to go through with the affair, as 
 they said, handsomely, by providing carriages similar to 
 their own for his friends. 
 
 " Oh ! but only think the dash we should cut — three 
 carriages driving up, for there must be three, you know, 
 to carry it through genteelly," observed one of the sisters. 
 
 "Yes! and it will be all for your advantage, Milly," 
 added the other. " I can't think why you should object 
 to it." 
 
 "It is for that very reason," returned Milly, gently : 
 " that it is for me all this expense is incurred." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Why should you mind it, if Pa don't ?" 
 was the answer; " besides, we shall have all the pleasure 
 of it, and Pa never grudges anything in moderation to 
 please us." 
 
 Fortunately, however, as Milly thought, Mr. Martin 
 turned a deaf ear to all their sly hints and inuendos re- 
 specting his friends choosing a mode of conveyance that 
 would not disgrace their own gentility : and an accidental 
 observation from Mr. Manson recalling to the girls the 
 discovery they had made, that Miss Shelburne could play 
 what they called hymns and psalms, the piano-forte was 
 opened, and all other subjects were forgotten in the sur- 
 prise and delight with which they listened to a voice and 
 music of which they had been unable to form any pre- 
 conception. Even Mr. Martin's ears were taken captive 
 by the sweet sounds ; and Milly evidently rose greatly 
 in his estimation, though he could not help betraying 
 now and then considerable dissatisfaction at the discovery 
 
590 SHADE AND SUNSH1N1 
 
 ho had made — how really little his daughters had pro- 
 fited from their musical studies, siuce it would not enable 
 them to take any part with Milly, although she unosten- 
 tatiously tried, by every means, to assist and encourage 
 them. 
 
 Thoroughly good-natured, the sisters seemed more de- 
 lighted than vexed at her infinite superiority, and a 
 whispered suggestion to the old man by Mr. Manson, 
 who cunningly penetrated the source of his silence and 
 growing dissatisfaction, happily had the effect of recon- 
 ciling the former to his daughters' evident inferiority. 
 
 " Kecollect, my dear Sir," he observed, " that Miss 
 Shelburne has been brought up to make a living by music, 
 while to your daughters it is nothing more than a mere 
 amusement. If they play and sing well enough to please 
 their friends, as they always have done, what can you want 
 more ? You might as well be vexed that Georgina and 
 Laura don't dance like the girls at the theatre, whose 
 twists and twirls and leaps into the air, I remember, you 
 said was the only thing worth going to see. What would 
 be the use if they could play or sing like this young 
 lady ? I shouldn't think Georgina would make a better 
 wife ; nor would Laura, I dare say, be likely to get a 
 husband more suitable than she will without such a re- 
 commendation as your daughter — " 
 
 " No, no ! you are quite right, my boy," interrupted 
 the old man, whose pride in his daughters was now 
 conciliated by these remarks from his intended son-in 
 law. "To be sure, it'sjust as reasonable as if I or you was 
 to be vexed with a man that didn't understand our trades, 
 that we served seven years' 'prenticeship to, when we 
 ought to think him a clever fellow if he could cut a 
 decent beef-steak, or make a loaf that was eatable." 
 
OF woman's life. 591 
 
 Mr. Manson's trade was that of a baker, from which, 
 however, thanks to a provident father, he intended to re- 
 tire previous to his marriage with Georgina Martin. 
 
 Manson could not help laughing at this elucidation of 
 Mr. Martin, which the latter evidently considered per- 
 fectly satisfactory, and not a little pertinent and clever. 
 The purpose, however, was answered, the old man's good 
 humour restored, and for the rest of the evening he 
 listened with undiminished satisfaction to Milly's music. 
 Everything went smoothly with the arrangements on the 
 following day. The messenger Mr. Martin employed 
 had no difficulty in finding Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, accor- 
 ding to the address he had given to Milly, and she re- 
 ceived a note in return, apologising for not being able to 
 wait on her, in consequence of his presence being neces- 
 sary at the " Gardens," where he should be most happy to 
 receive her at the appointed time — seven in the evening. 
 A very polite acknowledgment was made for her friend's 
 (Mr. Martin) liberal present of the note, and the required 
 number of tickets enclosed ; the old man seeming to 
 think he had made a very cheap purchase in the return 
 of so much respect and such an accession of importance 
 as were conveyed in Mr. Palmer's expressions, which Milly 
 was required to read over twice to him, and with which 
 he was further gratified by being allowed to retain the 
 note, which he folded up in a clean half-sheet of paper, 
 and consigned to his pocket-book — his daughters having 
 first shared in the pleasure of reading what they agreed 
 was a very "genteel note," and which evidently greatly 
 raised their estimation of the expected entertainment, as 
 they were convinced, they said, none but a gentleman 
 could have expressed himself so handsomely; and, there- 
 fore., their fears of encountering any vulgarity — which 
 
f)92 SHADE AND BUNSHINE 
 
 had been founded on his supposed connexion with that 
 dreadfully " ungenteel Harlequin," which they hoped Pa 
 would never enter again — were quite removed. As to 
 Manson, Georgina declared, if ever she knew him to go 
 within the doors of the wretched low place, he need never 
 expect to meet with her countenance again ; a decision 
 to which that gentleman bowed with all humility, though 
 with an expression of countenance that Milly thought 
 said little for his sincerity, or, at least, his intention to 
 be guided by her imperative commands. It was, indeed, 
 only by Milly's determined, though gentle, discourage- 
 ment towards him, that Mr. Manson was prevented from 
 betraying feelings towards the Martins, including even 
 Georgina, that she (Milly) considered by no means 
 creditable to him, in the relation in which he stood to 
 them ; while she was as little pleased with the manner in 
 which he seized upon every possible opportunity of dis- 
 playing his conviction of her superiority, .and covertly 
 complimenting her at the expense of the two simple girls, 
 who — wrapped up in their own self-conceit, and flattered 
 into imaginary importance by their imperfect education, 
 and the value they had been taught to attach to the for- 
 tune their father boasted of being able to give them — 
 never dreamed even of its being possible that Milly, with 
 all her accomplishments, could be looked upon as on a 
 level, much less as superior to themselves. 
 
 Mr. Manson's commission proved eminently successful. 
 Of all those who had witnessed the young musician's first 
 essav, and the consequent introduction to Mr. Martin's 
 patronage, there were only two who declined the proposed 
 party to witness her public debut ; and though they 
 accepted, as a matter of course, of the tickets of admis- 
 sion, Martin's offer of paying their carriage was declined 
 
of woman's life. 593 
 
 by all ; while finding the manner in which he (Manson) 
 and the ladies were to be conveyed, it was agreed between 
 them to adopt the same, it being observed that it would 
 come as cheap between them, eight in number, as to pay 
 separately by the stage, with a chance of being left in the 
 lurch at night. 
 
 Though not coming up to the two Miss Martins' ideas 
 of gentility, which would have dictated dividing the party 
 into two carriages, it was far more satisfactory than any 
 other method that could be proposed. The rendezvous 
 was therefore fixed at Mr. Martin's, and at the hour 
 appointed the two carriages were at the door, the party 
 having all previously assembled, and the two girls, half 
 wild with excitement, which they tried to disguise under 
 an assumption of fashionable ease and nonchalance, were 
 handed in by Mr. Manson, their dress being the most 
 splendid that the short time allowed them enabled them to 
 command ; exciting numerous, and some not very 
 gratifying remarks from the crowd whom the sight of the 
 carriages had assembled, and who, as usual, gave unre- 
 strained expression to their remarks upon what they 
 beheld. As plainly dressed as she could possibly per- 
 suade the sisters to let her be — in pure white, a single 
 rose of the same colour the only ornament of her luxu- 
 riant hair, and a large handsome blacklace veil thr own 
 over all, concealing as much as possible the beau- 
 tiful features which were paler than usual with anti- 
 cipation of the trial that awaited her — Milly came next, 
 her whole appearance forming a striking contrast with 
 the glowing rosy cheeks, plump figures, richly coloured 
 silk dresses, the flowers of every hue that wreathed their 
 heads, and the dazzling earrings, necklaces, and bracelets 
 that glittered at every movement of the wearers. Whether 
 
 4 G 
 
594 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 it was that Milly's unpretending — almost, it might he 
 said, drooping appearance — disarmed those who pressed 
 up to the carriage, and who had freely commented, in the 
 rudest style of mob wit, on the dashing appearance of the 
 butcher's daughters, whom the yall seemed to recognise — 
 or whether it was wonder and conjecture as to who the 
 companion of the latter could be, certain it is that the 
 trembling girl escaped all comment, as affecting not to see 
 Mr. Manson's outstretched hand, she stepped lightly in 
 and seated herself as unobtrusively as possible in a 
 corner, thankful she had escaped the ordeal which her 
 companions had to pass through, and which she had 
 heard as she stood shrinking back in the passage till her 
 turn came. But it was now Mr. Martin who became the 
 subject of their saucy observations — the butt of every sar- 
 casm that could be levelled at his jolly person, decked 
 out though it was in the most unexceptionable manner 
 by the taste of his tailor. Mr. Manson having seated 
 himself, Milly was heartily rejoiced when the carriage 
 driving rapidly on relieved her from the fear that Mr. 
 Martin's anger at the "imperent waggerbones," which 
 had already risen to the height of shaking his fist at one 
 or two of the most forward, and denouncing vengeance 
 to come, would expose him to still greater insult, the 
 present being evidently more the love of mischief that 
 guided them, and not any ill-will towards " the greasy 
 butcher," which was the worst term they applied to him. 
 Conjectures as to how the rest of their party would 
 come off, occupied the old man for some time ; but the 
 announcement of Mr. Manson, whom he several times 
 requested to look out behind for their friends, that the 
 carriage was coming on, and that they looked all right, 
 at length satisfied him, and he was soon restored to his 
 

 or woman's life. 595 
 
 pristine good humour and a full sense of the importance 
 of his present appearance and position. 
 
 Poor Milly ! totally absorbed in self, not one seemed 
 to remember how greatly she required to be supported 
 and cheered by the voice of friendship. They seemed 
 indeed to have totally forgotten the purpose for which 
 their present excursion was undertaken ; and in watching 
 the notice their appearance excited as the two carriages 
 dashed along the road, and anticipating the reception 
 they should meet with, the two girls appeared scarcely 
 to recollect the presence even of their silent though 
 agitated companion, until reminded of it by a remark 
 from Mr. Manson, who, throwing as much tenderness 
 into his voice as he dared hazard in the presence of his 
 intended lady, hoped that Miss Shelburne did not feel 
 inconvenienced by riding with her back to the horses — a 
 seat she had taken in deference to the two young ladies, 
 who had previous to entering the carriage declared that 
 " their dresses would be so crumpled they would not be fit 
 to be seen, if they did not have room to spread 
 them out." 
 
 "Lor! what is the matter, Milly? how pale you do 
 look," exclaimed Georgina. " You told me it made no 
 difference which way you sat. I'm sure if I'd have 
 thought that" — 
 
 But she was interrupted by her father, who, for the first 
 time, looking into the face of his young companion, ob- 
 served, " that it was very shameful and thoughtless to take 
 advantage of her good nature, and that he insisted she 
 should instantly remove to the opposite seat." 
 
 "Drabbit the gowns, or frocks, as you call 'em," he 
 exclaimed, "they'd better have been spoiled altogether, 
 than to go and squeeze the poor gal up in a corner till 
 
39f> SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 she's as sick as a dog. Make room for her, do, between 
 you, and let the confounded finery go to the devil." 
 
 Milly, however, hastened to protest against this move- 
 ment, declaring that she felt no such inconvenience, and 
 a slight hint from Mr. Manson, who was the only one 
 who comprehended the real cause of Milly's evident dis- 
 composure, now revealed it to her other companions, and 
 both Georgina and her sister, relieved from the paramount 
 fear of spoiling the gloss and freshness of their dresses, 
 exerted all their efforts to cheer and withdraw Milly's 
 attention from the subject, which they agreed it was very 
 natural should have engrossed her thoughts, though 
 they acknowledged it had escaped their memory till 
 they were thus reminded of it. 
 
 A few tears from Millv, with the help of Laura's smell- 
 ing bottle, and Mr. Martin's good-natured, though rough 
 attempts at consolation, relieved the heavy pressure 
 which had seemed to weigh her down as it were to the 
 earth, while striving to suppress the betrayal of her ner- 
 vous agitation; and she was enabled to express the 
 gratitude she really felt, when the old man observed, 
 " that it was foolish of her to give way to any fears about 
 how things might turn out." 
 
 " You know, it ain't as if you depended upon it for your 
 living, my dear," he observed, " for though I should 
 certainly be as pleased as Punch — and so would the gals 
 too — that you should carry the day, as I'm sure you 
 ought ; and so Manson thinks, who's a greater judge 
 than I am, — don't you Manson ?" 
 
 Mr. Manson gave a warm assent, and was commencing 
 a rather studied eulogium on Miss Shelburne's trans- 
 cendent talent, which could not, he said, fail to ensure 
 success, but Martin went on without regarding him. 
 
of woman's life. 507 
 
 " But if you shouldn't succeed, it won't make a bit of 
 difference to us, you'll be just as welcome to my poor 
 home as ever, and I know Georgy and Lorry '11 do their 
 best to make you comfortable — won't you gals? You've 
 seen how we live, and all I've got to say is, if you can 
 put up witli it, and don't meet with anything to better 
 your sitivation, you'll be heartily welcome. So cheer up, 
 keep up your sperrits, and only look upon it as if we was 
 just come out on a party of pleasure — as Georgy said 
 just now — and you're only a-going to give us a few songs 
 and a little music to make us all merry, as you might do 
 at home, you know. If you was without friends, you know, 
 and depending upon your singing for a livelihood, you'd 
 have reason to be anxious and frightened ; but this is quite 
 a different matter, and I shall be wery wexed if I see you 
 give way." 
 
 Milly promised she would not give way, though her 
 heart beat quicker, and her voice became rather tremulous, 
 when a few minutes afterwards the carriage dashed up to 
 the gate of a pretty rural and respectable-looking tavern, 
 overshadowed with trees in full foliage, and with beds of 
 flowers and shrubs in front laid out with great taste, to 
 which a circular board, in all the glories of green and gold 
 letters, directed them, announcing that the St. Helena 
 Tavern had been founded in 1790, thus anticipating, it 
 may be said, the world-wide fame which has since attached 
 itself to that rock in the ocean whose turbulent waves, 
 more powerful than bolts or bars, constituted the prison 
 and encircled the grave of the proudest heart that ever 
 beat in human bosom. Yes, long before the name of 
 Buonaparte had made every nation of the civilised world 
 tremble for its stability, the fame of his last resting-place 
 was foreshadowed in this quiet nook of earth, and 
 
598 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 hundreds revelled amid its rural shades who dreamed not 
 of the future fame of the comparatively ohscure Island 
 of St. Helena; — many, perhaps, enjoying the green 
 arbours, or mingling in the dance on the velvet lawn, 
 tossing the quoit, or impelling the cricket ball, ignorant 
 even of the existence of the distant rocky isle from which 
 this favourite place of amusement derived its name. 
 
 The carriage, as we have said, drew up to the gate, and 
 before the driver could descend to open the door, one 
 sister whispering to the other her regret " that they had 
 not a footman to make their appearance quite complete, 
 it was so ungenteel to be obliged to wait for the heavy, 
 lumbering coachman to get down," a gentleman made 
 his appearance, bowing to the ground to welcome the 
 party. 
 
 " Oh ! this is the gentleman, I s'pose," observed Mr. 
 Martin, assuminghismost consequential deportment; and 
 Milly anticipated any further remark, by mentioning 
 the name of Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, and the ladies were 
 handed out, to the infinite delight of the Miss Martins, 
 greeted by the respectful bows of the proprietor, waiters, 
 &c, a crowd of well-dressed persons behind elbowing 
 each other to get a near view of the new arrival, among 
 whom it had already been whispered was the eminent 
 singer, who, according to Mr. Palmer's bills, had most 
 kindly consented to honour him, &c, &c, for this 
 occasion. It was a farther source of gratification to 
 the young ladies, that there were two or three carriages 
 standing which had preceded them ; nor were they at all 
 displeased at the audible whispers that reached their ears 
 as to which of the young ladies was the distinguished 
 singer, not one seeming to suspect that the modest, deli- 
 cate, unobtrusive form who shrank from their gaze, and 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 599 
 
 shielded heself behind the jolly, portly figure of " honest 
 Jack Martin" — an appellation which, in spite of his 
 daughters' remonstrances on its extreme departure from 
 gentility, he was very fond of appropriating to himself 
 wherever he was unknown or his cognomen doubtful* 
 On the present occasion, however, he had fallen in with 
 the young ladies' assumption too completely to offend 
 them by any such departure from the character of a 
 gentleman ; and Milly's anxiety to escape into the house, 
 to avoid the many observant eyes that were fixed upon 
 them, was not lessened by the pompous air and voice in 
 which the old man announced in reply to Mr. Palmer, 
 " that he was waiting till t'other coach came up, as they 
 all belonged to his party, and he couldn't make out what 
 the dooce they was hanging behind for." 
 
 Mr. Palmer only bowed in reply ; but the faint smile 
 that accompanied tins tribute of respectful acquiescence 
 did not escape Milly's eye, and was shared more broadly by 
 several in attendance, and became more strongly marked 
 when Mr. Martin added — 
 
 " There, you gals needn't wait — you'd better go in at 
 once with this here gentleman, for I s'pose you want to 
 put yourselves to rights ; and I say," he continued, 
 raising his voice as they entered the house, " call for 
 some wine, or what you like, for I dessay you want 
 something after your ride. If you don't, I know I do, 
 for my throat's as dry as if I'd swallowed a peck of dust," 
 he added, looking round with a laugh at those standing- 
 nearest to him, many of whoso looks betrayed their sur- 
 prise and derision of manners so inconsistent with the 
 style of the visitors' appearance, and who were still more 
 entertained at the reception he gave the remainder of the 
 party, as the other carriage now drove up to the gate, 
 
600 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and whom he hailed with a loud huzza that added a 
 deeper colour to and distended his fat cheeks ; and 
 which was seconded almost into a roar hy a crowd of 
 idlers who were observing the proceedings outside the 
 gates, and amusing themselves with forming numerous 
 diverting conjectures respecting the "jolly old chap," as 
 they called him, who evidently took the lead in this 
 imposing looking party, and who to raise still higher, as 
 he imagined, his pretensions in their eyes, having pro- 
 cured through one of the waiters the smallest change he 
 could get for a guinea — that is sixpences and pence — 
 called out loudly — "Now, look out, boys, here goes!" 
 threw it amongst them, setting them all fighting, shout- 
 ing, swearing, and scrambling together, to the infinite 
 amusement of the company, who became more puzzled 
 than ever to comprehend the real situation in life of the 
 old gentleman and his companions, as well as his motives 
 for such a display. 
 
 Milly and her companions had been in the meantime 
 ushered into a parlour by Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, where 
 were already assembled the gentlemen and ladies who 
 were to assist in the concert, that formed, it appeared, 
 only a part of the varied amusements of the evening ; 
 and great indeed appeared the surprise of the former, 
 when the simply-dressed, unassuming, delicate-looking, 
 girlish figure — whom they had almost wholly disre- 
 garded in their observations on her splendidly attired 
 companions — was personally introduced to the principals 
 (male and female,) by Mr. Palmer, not by name, but as 
 the " young lady debutante," whom he would have the 
 honour that evening of bringing forward, for the first 
 time, to an English audience. 
 
 Milly's pale cheeks glowed as she heard this un- 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 001 
 
 founded insinuation applied to her, which Mr. Palmer 
 enforced, as it were, by a pressure of the hand he had 
 taken to lead her forward. She had seen, in the im- 
 posing list of eminent singers who graced the bills which 
 Mr. Palmer had enclosed with the tickets, several 
 Monsieurs and Mademoiselles, Signors and Signoras, 
 attached to names that looked like French and Italian ; 
 and the impossibility of her sustaining the character of a 
 foreign singer to them, which Air. Palmer had thus in- 
 sinuated her claim to, instantly occurred to her, and 
 added greatly to the confusion which it was natural she 
 should experience in such an unexampled situation. 
 With downcast eyes, she received the compliments 
 addressed to her by the gentlemen of the party, somewhat 
 relieved, indeed, by the English, and in one or two in- 
 stances palpably Cockney dialect, in which thev were 
 uttered, thus relieving her from the fear of instant detec- 
 tion of her assumed character by the dreaded foreigners, 
 who it was evident, she thought, were not present. Be- 
 yond a scrutinising look — almost, in fact, approaching 
 to a rude stare — the ladies scarcely accorded any notice, 
 beyond a movement that was neither a bow nor a curtsev, 
 to Milly's respectful and graceful salutation. All but 
 one remained profoundly silent ; and the broad Scotch 
 accent in which she, with a good-humoured smile, ob- 
 served — " Dinna ye be feared for yoursel, my dear lassie, 
 yell soon mak friens amang the guid folk here," was 
 equally decisive of what Milly had at first imagined from 
 the style of her dress — that this lady was one of the 
 Mademoiselles or Signoras whose investigation she 
 dreaded. Gradually, indeed, Milly recovered her self- 
 possession, and with it the natural grace and dignity of 
 manner which had so often, among the rustic society to 
 
 4 H 
 
002 SHADE AND SUNSHTNE 
 
 which her life had till so recently been confined, gained 
 her the epithet of proud, and which old Richard, her 
 grandfather, had so often angrily declared was only 
 becoming a lady, and not at all suitable to her situation. 
 
 In her present one, however, it was of the greatest 
 advantage to her, since it had evidently the effect of 
 repressing the disposition to regard her with scorn, as a 
 mere novice, on the part of the lady singers ; while even 
 her own companions — the Miss Martins — were involun- 
 tarily influenced by it, and the disposition they had felt 
 to play the part of lady-patronesses, completely, they 
 knew not how, repressed. 
 
 A conversation of a few minutes with Mr. Palmer 
 arranged the part Milly was to take in the concert ; and 
 as there was still half-an-hour to spare before the 
 entertainments of the evening commenced, he pro- 
 posed that he should accompany the ladies — Milly and 
 her companions — to show them the concert-room and 
 gardens. With more thoughtfulness, or less selfishness, 
 than the sisters possessed, Milly hinted to them the pro- 
 priety of waiting till Mr. Martin, who was still occupied 
 with his companions out of doors, should join and 
 accompany them ; but this was overruled by Georgina, 
 who was piqued by what she considered neglect on the 
 part of her lover, Mr. Manson, who, in reality, had 
 remained with the old man in the hope that his influence 
 might prevent any ridiculous display on the part of the 
 latter, who he knew had more than once involved himself 
 in even worse than ridicule by his ignorance and osten- 
 tation. 
 
 Georgina had, however, taken quite a false view of 
 Manson's absence, and determined, as she whispered to 
 her sister, " to show him that he was not of so much 
 
of woman's life. 003 
 
 consequence as he thought he was, and that she could do 
 as well without him as he could without her," eagerly 
 accepted Mr. Fitzroy Palmer's proposal. Two or three 
 of the hest dressed of the musical gentlemen politely 
 requested to be of the party, and without any hesitation 
 the sisters accepted their offered arms. Mr. Palmer thus 
 attaining the object for which he had been manoeuvring, 
 of being left to conduct Miss Shelburne, who, however, 
 gently though resolutely declined the favour her com- 
 panions had so readily granted to the other gentlemen ; 
 and Palmer, evidently mortified, was compelled not only 
 to merely walk by her side, but to see that, as far as pos- 
 sible, she avoided giving him any opportunity for more 
 than general conversation, by keeping as near to, and 
 where possible joining, the other parties. 
 
 It soon, however, became very evident that neither of 
 the sisters, nor their companions, were solicitous to keep 
 up this general intercourse, but were equally desirous to 
 break into separate pairs. It was in vain that Milly fell 
 back, and tried to draw the two girls to observe the 
 especial beauties of particular points in the really lovely 
 and attractive gardens — in vain she suggested to them 
 how delightful it would be to rest for a few minutes 
 under the shade of some magnificent tree, or in an arbour 
 scented with honeysuckle and jessamine, where a peep 
 through the sweetbriar hedge commanded a view so rural 
 — including a windmill with revolving sails, cottages, 
 fields with cattle feeding, and a secluded lane green as an 
 emerald ; altogether a scene which might have persuaded 
 you that you were a hundred miles from the Great 
 Metropolis ; while on the other side were to be seen the 
 masts of vessels rising above the green hedges, indi- 
 cating the vicinity of the mighty Thames, and suggesting 
 
004 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 thousand pleasant dreams of sparkling waters, and 
 gliding through their peaceful waves unvexed by the 
 noise and smoke of steam, which had not then extended 
 its triumphs to the crystal and translucent stream that 
 rolled harmlessly and peacefully on, to lose itself in the 
 then distant ocean. To all Milly's admiration, and de- 
 sire quietly to enjoy these delights, the young ladies 
 turned a deaf, or at least an inattentive ear. There was 
 " metal more attractive" to them in the gross — even 
 coarse — flattery that was poured into their ears by their 
 companions, who were cunningly contriving to extract 
 from them, not only their own history and circumstances, 
 but that in which they were even more deeply interested 
 — it unfortunately happening that both were married 
 men, and therefore unable to profit by the Miss Martins' 
 ready confidence in their professions of admiration — 
 namely, the history, as far as they could give it, of the 
 eminent singer, the nameless debutante of the evening, 
 whose introduction to their father, and rescue by him 
 from the dangers and disreputability of the "Harlequin," 
 they unhesitatingly related, without a thought of the 
 mischief they were doing to the poor girl, for whom 
 their father had encountered so much trouble and 
 expense. 
 
 " Yes," observed Georgina, in conclusion, success- 
 fully imitating Mr. Martin's pompous tone — " Papa was 
 determined to spare nothing to put her forward in the 
 world ; and even if she don't succeed, poor girl, he says 
 she shall never want, for he will take her home with us 
 and keep her if she never finds her friends, and as she 
 owns her mother ain't very w T ell off in the world, she 
 won't have much reason to fret, you know, if she never 
 finds her out." 
 
"i woman's life. 60.j 
 
 The gentleman to whom this was addressed was Signor 
 Brioni in the bills — in reality, Mr. O'Brien — a senti- 
 mental singer, with whom it had been arranged that 
 Milly was to sing — 
 
 " Together let us range the fields ;" 
 to take part in the madrigal — 
 
 " There is a lady sweet and kind ; 
 Was never face so pleased my mind ;" 
 and in the concluding glee — 
 
 " We fairy folk delight in sport ;" 
 and who, of course, as he observed, "felt anxious to learn 
 all he could of the lady, whose talents he knew nothing 
 of but from Mr. Palmer's report, and who might, if not 
 ' up to the mark,' do him (Signor Brioni) irreparable 
 injury." 
 
 " Nothing, in fact,'' he said, "but his great respect for 
 Mr. Martin and the young ladies" — why or how contracted 
 he did not explain — " could have induced him to hazard 
 his reputation by singing with a mere novice, without 
 even the necessary preparation of a rehearsal ;" and 
 though he bowed in deference to Miss Martin's positive 
 assurance, that Miss Shelburne could sing anything and 
 everything more beautiful than ever she had heard — and 
 she had heard all the best singers at all the theatres in 
 London — the Signor begged pardon for still having his 
 doubts and fears, and took the first opportunity of es- 
 caping from the young lady, to communicate the dis- 
 coveries he had made of Mr. Fitzroy Palmer's foreign 
 singer's real insignificance to the other ladies and gentle- 
 men, and quiet the fears of those among the former who 
 had anticipated in her a powerful rival, but now consoled 
 themselves with the belief, that her introduction in this 
 unprepared, higgledy-piggledy manner — as one lady 
 
606 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 politely called it — was a mere quacking trick of Palmer's, 
 who would get out of the failure — as it would un- 
 doubtedly prove — by alleging that he had been deceived 
 and taken in by false representations, which he had had 
 no opportunity of bringing to the test. 
 
 " It was plain to be seen," more than one remarked, 
 " which way the wind blew — Palmer had been caught by 
 the girl's pretty face and seeming innocence, which they 
 verily believed was assumed. Everybody knew what a 
 fool he was when women were concerned, and he thought, 
 perhaps, that a St. Helena audience would be as easily 
 taken in, and as indulgent as he was himself to youth 
 and beauty. Not that they saw much to brag of as to 
 beauty. A little rouge and candle-light, to be sure, 
 would enable her to pass well enough, and they dare 
 say, with all her assumption of modesty and innocence, 
 she knew well enough what she was about to set herself 
 off to the best advantage, though she and her patron (the 
 manager) would find the St. Helena visitors not so easily 
 taken in as the former se emedto think." " For their part," 
 more than one lady agreed, " they wouldn't be at all sur- 
 prised if the eminent foreign singer without a name" 
 — and here the ladies tittered and looked very signifi- 
 cantly at each other, conscious that they, however little 
 entitled to the precedents of their names, the Mademoi- 
 selles and Signoras that distinguished them in the bill, 
 could legally establish their claims to the names them- 
 selves, however disguised and transmogrified in the effort 
 to Frenchify or Italianise them, by transposing syllables 
 or adding new terminations. They had names, though 
 it might have been difficult for their nearest friends to 
 recognise them as set down in the bill ; but this name- 
 less young lady — 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 007 
 
 "And, by the by, what has become of her and her 
 party ?" inquired one. " Have they discovered such 
 wonderful attractions in the gardens as to be still wan- 
 dering there ?" 
 
 " Palmer, at least, finds attractions sufficient to detain 
 him there," observed one of the gentlemen, " though it's 
 nearly time he should be reminded that he has a more 
 important duty to perform than that of ciceroni to the 
 lady visitors." 
 
 " It is not very respectful to us," returned one of the 
 ladies. 
 
 " Brioni and Thomasini seem to have forgotten they 
 have anything to attend to but gallanting those bold- 
 looking, over-dressed dolls about," remarked the wife of 
 the first-named gentleman. " It would be as well, I 
 think, to give them a hint that they're wanted else- 
 where." 
 
 " Sound the recall, Tom," said another to a member of 
 the band, who had just drawn his trumpet from the case 
 in which it rested, and who immediately complied with 
 the request in a tone that made the large, and as yet 
 nearly empty concert-room, resound ; the ladies with 
 pretty affectation putting their hands to their ears, and 
 declaring that it was powerful enough to recall the dead 
 from their graves, if there were any sleeping beneath the 
 shadow of that pretty white steeple they had been just 
 admiring as a great addition to the landscape. 
 
 "It has reached the ears of our absentees, at any 
 rate," remarked one of their companions. " I can see 
 Brion's long neck and head above the hedge scudding 
 hitherward, and his mate I dare say is not far behind, 
 though his stumpy legs won't keep pace with his 
 friend's." 
 
f»08 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 The friend was right. The sound of the trumpet no 
 sooner reached the ears of the two musical gentlemen — 
 the companions of Georgina and Laura Martin — than, 
 uttering a slight and somewhat confused apology, they 
 quitted the two young ladies, and set off at their best 
 speed for the concert-room, leaving them to find their 
 way thither, or wherever it pleased them to go, as well 
 as they could. 
 
 But few visitors had as yet entered the gardens, 
 and those who had were as yet loitering in the im- 
 mediate vicinity of the house or the ball and con- 
 cert-room — a handsome, substantial building, detached 
 from, though communicating with, the tavern department, 
 and which none of the Martin party had as yet visited, 
 having merely taken a casual view of the interior through 
 the windows opening to the garden, as they passed on 
 their way to explore the more attractive beauties of the 
 garden and surrounding views, which to the sisters pre- 
 sented all the novelty, as well as delights of the country. 
 Quite unaware that at the time they were deserted by 
 their companions, they had entered into the part of the 
 grounds that was planted as a maze or labyrinth ; they con- 
 tinued to wander about, to their surprise discovering that 
 none of the walks they traversed brought them out, as they 
 expected they would, near the house or within sight of 
 the concert-room, though they heard from time to time 
 the sound of a musical instrument tuning for the 
 approaching performance, and occasionally the merry 
 laughs of some of the party, whom they were becoming 
 anxious to rejoin, appeared very near to them, until at 
 length they began to get angry at the supposition that it 
 was, as they said, " a planned tiling to make game of 
 them :" — an idea highly derogatory to their imaginary 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 609 
 
 consequence, and which they determined "Pa should 
 resent in a proper manner as soon as ever thev found 
 him. But where were they to find him ? What could have 
 become of him that he did not come to look for them ? 
 And M anson, where was he ? Oh ! she never would 
 forgive Manson," Miss Georgina declared. " There never 
 was such infamous, abominable neglect. Nothing could 
 excuse it." 
 
 "Yes, and MHly too, where was she? and Mr. 
 Palmer? " Laura observed. " It seemed as if they were 
 all in a plot together against them. They'd a great mind, 
 that they had, if they could only find their way to where 
 the carriage was, to order the man to put the horses in 
 and drive them home, without seeing or speaking to any 
 of them." Laura declared "she could cry with vexation ;" 
 while Georgina more spiritedly resolved to show them all 
 that " she was above being mortified by their imperti- 
 nence; a low set that she had honoured too much by 
 coming among them." 
 
 Who it was that the young lady thus designated, she 
 would probably have been puzzled herself to explain, 
 especially as she arid her sister had previously agreed 
 that the whole party were greatly superior to any they 
 
 had expected to see, and that in fact they were 
 
 especially the male sex — " very genteel people." 
 
 At last, however, there was a prospect of being relieved 
 
 from their uncertainty and trouble, and by their own 
 
 exertions too, without the anticipated mortification of 
 
 being laughed at by those who they expected would, 
 
 when they had sufficiently enjoyed themselves at their 
 
 expense, pretend to come in search of them. Hitherto 
 
 they had wandered up and down what seemed to them 
 
 interminable narrow paths, enclosed within parallel 
 
 4 i 
 
(llO SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 hedges, and without, to use their own term, " seeing a 
 single human face ;" hut now they struck into an avenue of 
 lofty chesnuts in full hlossom, which must, as they said, 
 lead somewhere ; and as they emerged from the trees they 
 beheld a young man lying on the ground, a noble New- 
 foundland dog his only companion, attentively watching 
 Ins eyes, which were fixed on a sketch that he had evi- 
 dently been taking of the pretty scene, the mill, &c, 
 through a gap in the hedge before him. For a few 
 minutes they stood hesitating how to address him ; un- 
 willing to lose the opportunity of inquiring whether they 
 were going in the right direction for the house, yet in a 
 measure awed by Ins very superior appearance to any of 
 the persons they had hitherto seen, while it was evident 
 that he was so absorbed in thought as not to have 
 observed their approach. The dog, however, had seen 
 them, and now came bounding towards them, while the 
 master immediately arose from his reclining position, and 
 with a slight distant bow, proceeded to gather up his 
 drawing materials. 
 
 Among numerous other foolish affectations which the 
 Miss Martins had learned to consider delicate and lady- 
 like, was that of professing extreme terror of animals, 
 insects, &c. A bee, or a wasp, a spider, or a beetle near 
 them, was at any time sufficient to bring on a fit of 
 screaming. A cow, however peaceful on the road, would 
 drive them to seek shelter, if it did not terrify them 
 almost into hysterics ; and a strange dog's playfulness 
 immediately excited the most horrible anticipations of 
 hydrophobia, &c. When, therefore, the animal above 
 mentioned — probably by way of encouragement of the 
 timidity visible in their hesitating manners — regardless 
 of their splendid silks, leaped upon Gcorgina, wagging his 
 

 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. Gil 
 
 bushy tail, and demonstrating, as well as he knew how, 
 that he should very much like a game of play, having sat 
 a long time previously motionless watching his master, and 
 probably wondering that he could not entice him to join 
 his gambols, the young ladies received him with a succes- 
 sion of piercing shrieks, and turning round made an effort 
 to run, while Carlo possibly mistaking this for encourage- 
 ment, commenced barking and running round them, until 
 recalled and silenced by his master's positive commands 
 to " Lie down and be quiet." 
 
 " He is quite harmless, I assure you, ladies," observed 
 the stranger, when he had succeeded in silencing Carlo as 
 he called him and forced him to lie down on the grass, to 
 • show how obedient he was to command. " I am very sorry 
 indeed that he should have alarmed you by what he only 
 meant as an indication of his good will. Poor fellow," 
 he continued, patting the dog's neck, "it is only play 
 you see, though perhaps rather too rough for ladies, for 
 he is not much used to the society of the fair sex. I 
 hope, however, that you will not suffer from this little 
 alarm, which I assure you is quite groundless." The 
 smile, which, in spite of the courtesy of his manner, 
 played on the stranger's lips, showed that he had little 
 fear of the consequences he thus deprecated ; but the 
 sisters considered it too soon yet to recover from the terror 
 they thought so pretty and interesting. Georgina, who 
 was generally leader on all occasions, found it necessary 
 to feel very faint, and Laura, who still continued to shrink 
 from the dog, and start at his slightest movement, even 
 at the wagging of his tail — though he did not offer to 
 rise from the spot to which his master had pointed when 
 he had ordered him to lie down — being quite unequal to 
 support her sister and keep watch at the same time ; ' that 
 
()12 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the horrid creature," as she called him, " did not come 
 near her, as she should certainly die; she was sure she 
 should if he were to jump on her as lie did on Georgina ;" 
 the gentleman was of course compelled to offer his 
 services to conduct her to her friends. "He supposed, 
 of course, the ladies had friends near," he said. Probably 
 he hoped, they were near to relieve him of his charge, 
 for from the sudden gravity of his manner, it might be 
 suspected he was not altogether pleased at their persist- 
 ing in their unreasonable fear of his harmless companion, 
 or the epithets of " horrid, dreadful, and shocking crea- 
 ture," which they continued to bestow upon him ; 
 Georgina in a faint voice declaring " that she should 
 never get rid of the terror of feeling the terrible animal's 
 paws upon her shoulders ;" and Laura, still shuddering and 
 looking back at Carlo as he quietly followed, as if she 
 feared he might be tempted to bestow a similar mark of 
 regard on her. 
 
 "Oh! dear me, we have met with nothing but mis- 
 fortunes since we entered the gardens," observed 
 Georgina, who was now leaning on the arm the stranger 
 had proffered for her support, and began to get a little 
 better as she proceeded, " I am sure I shall get Papa to 
 order the carnage to take us home as soon as ever we find 
 him, for I shall not be able to enjoy any pleasure to-night." 
 
 It was of course but natural that the gentleman should 
 inquire what were the misfortunes to which she alluded as 
 having happened previous to poor Carlo's unintentional 
 offence against her ; and all traces of the faintness and 
 terror gradually vanished with both sisters, as they 
 eagerly entered into a most exaggerated detail of the 
 alarm and anxiety they had suffered from having been 
 entirely separated, by some untoward and incompre- 
 
OF woman's life. 013 
 
 hensible means, from Papa and their Mends in this strange 
 place, where they had since been wandering they knew 
 not how long, but certainly a dreadful time it seemed to 
 them, till indeed they were ready to sink down upon the 
 earth in despair of ever rejoining them ; and even now. 
 if they had not met with the gentleman, Carlo's master, 
 it seemed doubtful if they should ever have found the way 
 to the house. This time the stranger's smile was unmis- 
 takable. He could not, in fact, suppress a laugh, as he 
 explained to them that the interminable walks they had 
 traversed were in fact all contained within a comparatively 
 small space of ground ; and they had been all the time so 
 near the house and their friends, that there was not the 
 slightest reason for alarm. " It was not, he confessed, 
 very kind or courteous of the friends they spoke of to 
 leave them so long in their bewilderment ; but it was, he 
 believed, a common joke, in order to have a laugh at the 
 expense of those who were trepanned into the maze ;" and 
 then he explained how easy it was to surmount the diffi- 
 culties that appeared to them so terrible. 
 
 That they, the Miss Martins, "carriage ladies," who 
 had expected to create such a sensation at " St. Helena," 
 and to be the object of general envy and admiration, 
 should be treated with such disrespect, made the subject 
 of sport and laughter — was a mortification they were 
 totally unprepared for. Even their courteous, obliging 
 companion, could not suppress a smile — though it har- 
 monised little with the natural expression of his counten- 
 ance, which appeared extremely grave, melancholy indeed 
 it might have been said, when first the sisters saw him. 
 They were mistaken, however, in imagining that he con- 
 sidered their being deserted by their friends and left to 
 encounter the difficulties of the maze, a subject for 
 
fill SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 laughter ; but a natural propensity to discover the weak or 
 the humourous points in the characters of those he met 
 with had already revealed the leading foibles of his fair 
 companions; and the smiles, which were scarcely balanced 
 with them by his extreme politeness and attention to 
 their wishes, were unavoidably excited by their affecta- 
 tion of excessive gentility, and the pains they took to 
 convince him of their immeasurable superiority over the 
 regular frequenters of the place in which he had en- 
 countered them. Their romantic exaggeration too of 
 the difficulties they had met with, and their expressed 
 determination never again to expose themselves to the 
 possibility of meeting with the like, by condescending to 
 enter a place so beneath their station in life. Another 
 source might have been alleged by the stranger for the 
 equivocal smile to which they gave so wrong an interpre- 
 tation ; and that was, the young ladies sudden and total 
 forgetfulness of their former dreadful fears of "the 
 tremendous, horrid dog," who now walked quietly at 
 their heels, apparently totally forgotten in the more 
 important annoyances that occupied their thoughts; thus 
 convincing their companion of what he had more than 
 half suspected before — that their alarm had been all 
 affected, to render them delicate and interesting. 
 
 The sounds of different musical instruments, which 
 had from their first joining their present conductor con- 
 vinced the young ladies that they were proceeding in the 
 right direction to rejoin the company, was now assuming 
 a more decided form. It was no longer the grating, discor- 
 dant tones arising from what is called tuning; and presently 
 a burst of voices in accompaniment, announced to them 
 that the first concerted piece, according to the bills, had 
 commenced ; this increased their impatience to reach the 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 015 
 
 room, and not much to the credit of their companion's 
 gallantry, his very evident desire to be dismissed from 
 his attendance on them. He was in the act of pointing 
 out to them a side path which would lead them to one 
 of the various entrances to the concert- room, though the 
 building itself was as yet concealed from them by the tall 
 trees that overshadowed it, when his attention was 
 arrested by the pronunciation of a name on the part of 
 one of the sisters, and with every sense absorbed, he 
 suddenly stood still, gazing upon them, and listening to 
 a single voice, whose clear melodious tones rose upon 
 the air like those of an angel, succeeding to the first 
 common-place, noisy, ear-grating tumult of voices. 
 
 " It is Milly, I tell you," observed Miss Georgina, 
 positively. " Good gracious ! I should have thought 
 you'd have known her voice in a minute ; but what a 
 shame that she shouldn't wait till'' — 
 
 " Milly !" almost shrieked the gentleman. " Speak — 
 tell me !" and he seized her arm with a grasp that made 
 her shrink from him with pain. " How came she here ? 
 Yet it cannot be, though that voice — Forgive me," he 
 added, observing the look of real alarm which his sudden 
 incoherent exclamations had depicted on their counte- 
 nances. " Who is it who is now singing ? Did you not 
 call her by the name of Milly ?" 
 
 " Yes ; Milly Shelburne, Sir," returned Georgina. 
 " She is engaged to sing here by Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, 
 who is the manager, and we brought her down with 
 us in the carriage. Papa took twelve tickets for her 
 benefit, but she has behaved very ungratefully to Laura 
 and me, for she walked off with Mr. Palmer, after they'd 
 enticed us into that nasty maze, as you call it, and left 
 us ; but I shall certainly tell Papa of her behaviour, 
 
C1C SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 which was very ungrateful ; besides, as Laura said, when 
 she found out how she'd served us, she might have 
 chosen a more proper time to go strolling about with 
 Mr. Palmer, and she ought not to have deceived us, who 
 have done so much for her, by pretending the gentle- 
 man was almost a stranger to her, when it was plain to 
 be seen, the minute they met, that he was her lover. 
 I'm sure when he came to hand us out of the carriage he 
 had no eyes for anybody but her, though Papa has gone 
 to such expense to put her forward, and get her away 
 from the dreadful low set she had got among." 
 
 " Yes, and this is all the thanks we've got," added 
 Laura, when her sister paused for want of breath ; " but 
 it serves us right, for letting ourselves down to associate 
 with such people. I must say, when Papa first brought 
 her home with him from that horrid place the ' Harle- 
 quin,' without anything but what she had on her back, 
 and with such a dismal story of the usage she had been 
 obliged to put up with from the people she'd been living 
 with, I suspected Papa's good-nature had been imposed 
 upon, as it has been more than once before, you know. 
 And now it is plain I was right — for as soon as ever 
 she's fitted out, and made all the use she could of our 
 patronage, and got among her own set, she turns round 
 upon us and makes us the subject of ridicule, while she 
 walks off with Mr. Fitzroy, or Palmer, or whatever his 
 name is, who, I shouldn't wonder, has been at the bottom 
 of all the plan, to impose upon Papa, who every body 
 knows is so free with his money that he never thinks 
 about the expense of anything he has set his mind upon. 
 I shall take care, however, that Miss Shelburne shan't 
 impose upon him any longer, and if he'll listen to me 
 he'll order the carriage the minute I find him, and leave 
 
of woman's life. 617 
 
 Miss Shelburne with them that's its plain are much 
 better suited to her than we are." During these details, 
 expositions, and misrepresentations, at the expense of 
 Milly Shelburne, the attention of the gentlemanly com- 
 panion of the Miss Martins had been most strangely 
 divided between them and the sweet and powerful voice 
 that vibrated on his ear and thrilled through his heart. 
 But the latter ceased, and thunders of applause followed; 
 the sounds seemed to rouse the stranger from the state 
 of bewilderment into which he had fallen, and during 
 which he and his lady-companions had stood still, as if 
 rivetted to the spot ; the latter ben ton engaging his sym- 
 pathy with them in the injuries they believed they had 
 endured from the singer, whose voice they imagined had 
 been the sole cause of the emotion he had displayed, and 
 his anxiety to learn the name by whieh she was distin- 
 guished ; while their detail of the circumstances which 
 had introduced her to their notice, afforded them an 
 opportunity of, as they supposed, impressing him with a 
 proper knowledge and respect for their and their Papa's 
 wealth and dignity, as well as the importance they 
 affixed to the patronage these enabled him to bestow, and 
 for which, as they represented, Milly Shelburne had 
 made so ungrateful a return. 
 
 It is impossible to say how much he believed of these 
 representations, or how his previous experience acted in 
 enabling the stranger to appreciate their motives in thus 
 making him the confidant of Miss Sholburne's misde- 
 meanors, and their own and their Papa's noble and gene- 
 rous conduct towards her, for by various side speeches 
 and mutual hints, they contrived to add to what has 
 already been related, the information that the very 
 
 clothes in which the successful songstress — for successful 
 
 4k 
 
018 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 there was no doubt she was, not only from the enthu- 
 siastic applause that reached them where they stood, but 
 from her being now engaged in the repetition of the song 
 — were taken from the wardrobe of the Miss Martins, 
 and that Mr. Martin's liberality had supplied her witli 
 more money than she had probably ever possessed in her 
 life before, and had also extended to the manager (Mr. 
 Fitzroy Palmer), who had acknowledged his gratitude by 
 a letter of thanks, though certainly his conduct that 
 evening did not say much for his sincerity. Strange to 
 say, however, though the stranger listened with seeming 
 earnestness to these additional particulars to what he 
 had already learned of the parties, they did not appear to 
 have made the expected impression on him. His respect 
 or deference towards the young ladies did not appear to 
 have been at all increased by these evidences of their 
 wealth or dignity ; on the contrary, all traces of his 
 former smiles vanished from his face, his brow became 
 more gloomy than it had been when they first beheld 
 him, and there was an unaccountable degree of sternness 
 and hauteur in his manner ; when suddenly, as if by a 
 painful effort, withdrawing his attention from the sweet 
 sounds that seemed to have taken his " senses captive," 
 he observed — 
 
 " I trust, ladies, that you can dispense with any 
 further services from me. You cannot mistake the path 
 that leads to the concert-room, and you will more readily 
 discover there what has become of your father and his 
 friends, if they are not there — " 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure he is not," broke in both ladies. " Pa 
 would not, I'm sure, be there without we were" — But 
 before they could finish the sentence, the stranger, with 
 a slight bow that seemed to disclaim anv further interest 
 
of woman's life. 619 
 
 in the matter, had turned upon his heel, and in a few 
 moments had vanished behind the trees, taking the 
 most unfrequented paths towards the spot where they 
 had first encountered him, and from whence they after- 
 wards discovered he could leave the gardens without 
 meeting any of the gay evening company, who found no 
 pleasure in visiting this comparatively secluded place, 
 which was consequently left to the dominion of nature, 
 the manner in which he bounded along evincing a desire 
 rather to escape from, than protract his stay within the 
 reach of that sweet voice, to which so many were at that 
 moment listening with the utmost astonishment and 
 delight. Higher and higher, more intensely dwelling on 
 every well-remembered note, to which her heart — now, 
 as formerly, by the instructions of her teacher — gave 
 expression, rose those accents on the air, pursuing, as it 
 were, the footsteps of him who fled from their enchant- 
 ment. Milly had lost all timidity — all fear of not suc- 
 ceeding, and she gave free scope to all her power of 
 voice. But she thought little of the applause, which 
 had at first been her only excitement to exertion. Her 
 thoughts at that moment were all of the past ; and her 
 downcast eyes beheld not those that were fixed upon 
 her beautiful expressive features, many wondering — 
 almost doubting — if it were indeed the same quiet, ina- 
 nimate, though even then pretty, modest girl, whose first 
 low accents, sweet as they were, promised so little as to 
 excite a smile even from the best disposed among her 
 hearers, at the ambitious style in which she had been 
 brought forward. Out of all the party who had been so 
 ostentatiously brought down by Mr. Martin to support 
 her, only two or three were present to witness Milk's 
 first appearance in the orchestra ; and they, disappointed 
 
020 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 ut -what they considered a failure, and further discouraged 
 by the sarcastic smiles of the professionals, ventured to 
 add but a few faint efforts to the good natured attempts 
 to encourage her which were made by a few individuals, 
 whom her pale beauty and tremulous timidity had inte- 
 rested in her favour. Even Mr. Fitzroy Palmer was 
 disappointed — bitterly disappointed. Desdemona saw 
 Othello's visage in his mind; Mr. Palmer had seen 
 Milly's voice in her face. In his intense admiration of 
 her beauty, he never allowed himself to doubt that her 
 musical talents were all that had been represented 
 to him ; and now the whole weight of his anger and 
 vexation at her anticipated failure would have fallen on 
 Briggs, had the latter shown himself. It was what he 
 (Mr. Palmer) called 'a dead take-in,' got up, as he 
 believed, between Briggs and the landlord of the " Har- 
 lequin," for he attributed no part of the blame to Miss 
 Shelburne, who, as he whispered to a confidant, was 
 undoubtedly a sweet room-singer, though falling far, 
 very far, short of what she had been represented to him. 
 But the tide soon turned as Milly gained courage ; and 
 in the remembrance of him who had last sung with her 
 in the beautiful duet in which she was now united with 
 one of the Italianised musical gentlemen — a really good 
 singer, and in all but expression scarcely inferior to him 
 whose image was thus recalled to her mind — she forgot 
 all but him, and seemed again to hear his voice and be 
 restored to the scenes so bitterly regretted — every trace of 
 timidity vanished, and she rose at once to the full pos- 
 session of the splendid voice which St. Orme had taken 
 such pains to guide and cultivate. The effect was per- 
 fectly electrical. The room re-echoed with thunders of 
 applause, which were again and again repeated ; and 
 
of woman's life. 621 
 
 having with difficulty escaped the unreasonable demand 
 for a third repetition, on Mr. Palmer's representation 
 that they would have the pleasure of hearing Miss Shel- 
 bume — Milly was no longer nameless — several times in 
 the course of the evening, he was allowed to lead her off, 
 many of her enthusiastic admirers crushing and elbowing 
 each other, in the eager desire to have a nearer view of 
 one who had achieved such an unexpected triumph. 
 
 But Milly's enthusiasm had faded. The only one 
 whose applauding voice she wished to hear — who would, 
 she believed, have gloried in the success he had predicted 
 — was not there to share her feelings ; and with an appa- 
 rent indifference, that surprised her delighted and asto- 
 nished conductor and admirer (the manager), she de- 
 clined his compliments, and declared she had no wish to 
 express but to be allowed to retire to some place where 
 she might be free from the oppressive gaze of the 
 crowd. 
 
 " And your friends, the young ladies who came with 
 you, my dear Miss Shelburne ?" he inquired. 
 
 Milly started. She had absolutely forgotten that 
 among those who had crowded to congratulate her upon 
 her success she had not seen those whom she believed 
 would have been most sincere — Georgina and Laura 
 Martin. The old man and his friends, too. For the 
 first time she remembered their absence. It was not 
 likely, she was convinced, that they would not have 
 come forward to claim their share in her success, if they 
 had been present in the concert-room. Quiet, silent 
 sympathy, she knew, would have been impossible to 
 them in such circumstances. One of her principal fears 
 previous to her appearance, had been, that they would 
 render themselves too conspicuous, and expose tnem- 
 
622 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 selves and her to ridicule, by openly espousing her 
 cause ; and this conviction rendered their present appa- 
 rent desertion the more unaccountable. She mentioned 
 to Mr. Fitzroy Palmer her surprise and anxiety at not 
 seeing them, and then for the first time recollected that 
 she had not seen Mr. Martin himself since she and his 
 daughters left him outside the tavern, awaiting the 
 arrival of the coach with his friends. 
 
 Palmer laughed. " It is not very complimentary, I 
 must confess, to you," he observed, " or to the amuse- 
 ments of which I have had the direction ; but I am 
 compelled to own the truth, that Mr. Martin and his 
 friends have found ' metal more attractive' in the grounds 
 devoted to separate amusements, with which I have 
 nothing to do. To speak plainly, the old gentleman 
 and his friends have deserted music for skittles and 
 quoits, which have succeeded to a match at cricket, of 
 which he was persuaded to become, I understand, the 
 umpire, although it was nearly played out before he 
 arrived ; but he was recognised, it seems, as an old 
 acquaintance by some of the party, and all attempts to 
 allure him to leave them and join us have been useless. 
 I contrived to see the gentleman who attended you and 
 the young ladies hither, and let him know when you 
 were going to sing, but he declared, with evident reluc- 
 tance, that he could not leave Mr. Martin ; and as I 
 suspected that he had a particular motive for this, I did 
 not attempt to offer any further persuasions, though I 
 could see he was putting a great restraint on his incli- 
 nations in not participating in your triumph. I hope, 
 indeed," he added, looking in Milly's face with particular 
 significance, "that I was wrong in suspecting that the 
 gentleman I allude to felt more than the interest of a 
 
of woman's life. 628 
 
 mere friend in your success, though compelled to decline 
 witnessing it from motives I can well understand." 
 
 " That gentleman — Mr. Manson, Sir — is the intended 
 son-in-law of Mr. Martin," returned Milly, with cool- 
 ness, " heing engaged to his eldest daughter, whose ab- 
 sence, as well as her sister's, I am now more than ever 
 surprised at, as it is evident they are not, as I thought 
 they were, with their father and Mr. Manson." 
 
 Mr. Palmer professed his readiness to execute her 
 orders : " He would go immediately in search of the young 
 ladies, and, she might depend upon it, not return without 
 them ;" and Milly would he thus left alone to her joy — if 
 such a word could be applied to the feelings with which 
 she recalled the circumstances of this her first public 
 triumph. That the result could not but be favourable 
 to her desired independence, she could not doubt. Mr. 
 Fitzroy Palmer himself had already intimated to her his 
 hope that this night's events were but the introduction 
 to a long series of professional triumphs. He had even 
 ventured to insinuate, amid his florid compliments and 
 expressions of personal admiration, a hope that she 
 might be induced to listen to a proposal which would 
 henceforth honourably unite their mutual interests. He 
 knew that he was presumptuous — perhaps premature — 
 in venturing to hint these hopes, but he could not look 
 upon her without fearfully anticipating the crowds of 
 admirers her beauty and talents would bring around her ; 
 and then he insinuated what intense happiness it would 
 confer on him, could he but gain her permission to in- 
 troduce himself in the character of an honourable suitor 
 to her friend and guardian — in that light he chose, it 
 seemed, to consider Mr. Martin — and explain to him 
 what was his present situation in life, his future pros- 
 
(J24 SHADE AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 pects ; which, though lie acknowledged them to be far 
 inferior to what she might have a right to expect, would, 
 with his unwearied exertions and entire devotion to her, 
 be sufficient to ensure her every moderate eujoyment of 
 life. Of his family connexions, too, he hinted he could 
 give a most satisfactory account, such as he trusted could 
 not be objected to by the most ambitious, which he 
 acknowledged the guardian of Miss Shelburne had a 
 right to be on her account, but which he earnestly hoped, 
 could he but flatter himself with having attained the 
 climax of his wishes — a slight interest in her heart. 
 
 The silence and coldness with which Milly had lis- 
 tened to this — which certainly appeared to her more like 
 a preconcerted speech than the effect of any sudden im- 
 pulse, at this well-timed period, gave place to a look of 
 proud indignation. 
 
 " I can scarcely believe, Sir," she observed, " that you 
 can think so poorly of my understanding as to imagine 
 that I should believe you in earnest, or after the acquain- 
 tance of a few hours, as I may say, should presume to 
 expect such an avowal as your last observation seems to 
 ask. I must be vain, and simple indeed to the last 
 degree, if I were to place any confidence in your pre- 
 tended serious intentions, and — " 
 
 " Say only that they are not disagreeable to you, dear 
 Miss Shelburne, — that you will allow me, with the sanc- 
 tion of your friends, time and opportunity to plead my 
 cause with you," he impetuously replied. " Tell me but 
 that your heart is free from all prepossession in favour of 
 any other, and that I am at liberty to — " 
 
 He paused suddenly. The crimson blush that dyed 
 Milly's fair cheek, the downcast eye, which evidently 
 sought to evade his anxious penetrating glance, spoke 
 
OF WOMAN'S LI] 625 
 
 volumes to the man of the world, but too well versed m 
 feminine language that betrays the heart, even wheu 
 most seeking concealment. Scarcely would Milly Shel- 
 burne have confessed to herself that that innocent heart 
 had been long irrevocably bestowed upon one who 
 valued it so little as St. Orme appeared to do. Of whose 
 very existence, much more of his "whereabouts," she was 
 at that moment ignorant ; but whose image still retained 
 the full power its original had established in her bosom, 
 closing it, as a sealed book, against all other impres- 
 sions. To Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, as has been already said, 
 that blush and look told him what her words would pro- 
 bably have denied, could Milly have spoken ; but her 
 silence was more expressive than words, and for some 
 moments the silence was mutual, as the before sanguine 
 lover reflected in what manner he should receive this un- 
 expected check to his hopes. 
 
 It would be too much to affirm that Mr. Fitzroy 
 Palmer was wholly swayed by interest in the proposal he 
 had made to the unsuspecting girl, whom his personal 
 vanity, and his experience of feminine weakness in 
 general, as well as the peculiar position in which they 
 stood to each other — Milly, as he believed from the 
 advances made to him through her friend, Mr. Martin, 
 depending entirely upon him to bring her forward in her 
 professional career — had induced him to flatter himself 
 he should easily succeed in persuading her to listen to 
 his addresses. 
 
 It must be confessed, however, that much as he had 
 
 been from the first moment struck with admiration of her 
 
 beauty, and greatly as that admiration had been increased, 
 
 not only by his subsequent discovery of her musical 
 
 talents through the representation of Briggs and his co- 
 
 4 L 
 
686 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 adjutor, and still more heightened, and, as it maybe said, 
 purified by all he had seen and learned respecting her natural 
 character and principles during his short experience at the 
 " Harlequin," Mr. Fitzroy Palmer was too much a complete 
 man of the world to have admitted any definite idea of 
 making her — beautiful and innocent as he admitted her to 
 be — his wife. He had visited the " Harlequin" on the Sun- 
 day morning after her (Milly's) sudden departure with 
 Mr. Martin to arrange for her intended appearance at 
 " St. Helena," and had received from the enraged land- 
 lady an utterly false and distorted account of Avhat she 
 called " the shameless hussey's elopement with," as she 
 represented, " an old feller who she, Milly, had never 
 set eyes on afore;" thus putting, Palmer then believed, 
 an end to any hope of her fulfilling her engagement with 
 him. But he was too penetrating, too well aware of 
 Mrs. Perkins' real character, and had too much faith in 
 Milly's innocence and disposition to avoid even the 
 appearance of evil from her conduct towards him, not to 
 be convinced that, in spite of the mystery of her sudden 
 disappearance, Miss Shelburne had done nothing incon- 
 sistent with what she believed to be right, and that Mrs. 
 Perkins's bad conduct had, somehow or other, compelled 
 the poor girl to take the decisive step she had done, in 
 quitting the house under the protection of an apparent 
 stranger. Neither the landlord nor his friend Briggs 
 were visible ; Palmer no doubt guessed rightly that they 
 avoided seeing him, lest he should demand the restoration 
 of the money he had advanced on Miss Shelburne's 
 account : but he contrived by calmness, and seeming to 
 give implicit credit to Mrs. Perkins's representations, to 
 elicit many little particulars respecting the events of the 
 preceding night that confirmed him in his trust in Milly, 
 
"of woman's life 027 
 
 while they increased his selfish regret that he hud thus, 
 in all probability, lost sight of one whom he was com- 
 pelled to admit to himself had made a deeper impression 
 on him than any one he had ever beheld. Often 
 indeed he had professed and believed himself to have 
 felt the tender passion, but he now, while he lamented the 
 loss of its object, confessed he had never loved before. 
 But in vain he put in practice all his art to elicit from the 
 cunning landlady who the old man was with whom she 
 pretended Milly had voluntarily eloped. She persisted 
 " that he was as utter a stranger to her as he was to Miss 
 Shelburne till the good-for-nothing creater took his arm 
 and walked out of the house, daring her (Mrs. Perkins) to 
 stop her, and as she had no does, nor nothing but the rags 
 on her back, why there was no help for it, you know. I 
 put her in mind," continued the cunning landlady, " of 
 her engagement to you, but she snapped her fingers at 
 me, and said ' she cared no more for you than she did 
 for me/ Briggs was gone, and Perkins was drunk 
 a-bed, so I was obliged to let her go. Indeed, I was 
 afeard to say much, for there was no knowing what sich 
 creaters might do when there was nobody to take my 
 part." 
 
 With difficulty Mr. Palmer constrained himself to 
 appear to believe this representation ; but he was still in 
 hopes, that either from Sally the maid, and as he 
 believed still Miss Shelburne's friend, or Sally's lover, 
 the potman, he might find an opportunity of learning 
 something like the truth, perhaps of ascertaining who 
 Milly's present protector was, for that he was the 
 stranger Mrs. Perkins pretended him to be, he did not 
 for a moment believe. 
 
 This hope proved fruitless. In answer to the question 
 
028 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 he put, as he thought, too adroitly for her to suspect his 
 motives, the landlady replied that " Sally was out for 
 her Sunday," adding with a smile, "that, as she'd found 
 out only that morning that Bill and Sally were sweet- 
 hearts, she, in her foolish good nature, and calling to 
 mind when she and Perkins was keeping company what 
 a treat it would have heen for 'em to have had a holiday 
 together, had let Bill have his day out instead of next 
 Sunday ; and so they were gone to Grinnidge Park 
 together, though she s'posed she should ketch it from 
 Perkins, for being sitch a soft-hearted fool, if they did'nt 
 get home before him, and that she could hardly expect, 
 for liberty was sweet to them that didn't have it often, and 
 time passed quick when people were happy together." 
 
 Mr. Fitzroy Palmer's patience was near giving way 
 during this explanation, which destroyed his last hope of 
 fathoming the mystery of Miss Shelburne's disappear- 
 ance at least for that day and the next, but he considered 
 that to quarrel with, and accuse the landlady of decep- 
 tion, would be to shut himself out of the opportunity of 
 hereafter questioning the servants, whose good-will he 
 knew he had secured by his previous liberality. The 
 pressure of business connected with his Monday evening 
 concert, increased by Miss Shelburne's supposed defalca- 
 tion, would not allow him to linger any longer at the 
 " Harlequin," and leaving a message expressive of his 
 disappointment, and his expectation that the money ad- 
 vanced on account of the missing lady would be returned 
 by Mr. Briggs ; an intimation which was received by the 
 landlady with a saucy smile and a significant " I wish 
 you may get it," he returned home more seriously vexed 
 and disappointed than he had ever suffered himself to be 
 by the defeat of his hopes and expectations. It need not 
 
of woman's life. 629 
 
 be said, therefore, with what delight and exultation Milly's 
 announcement of her intention to fulfil her engagement 
 was received by him on the following morning, nor need 
 we follow him in the means he took to ascertain the par- 
 ticulars of her present situation, or the character of her 
 protectors ; in neither of which did he forsesee any very 
 striking obstacles to the fulfilment of his designs, at least 
 so far as securing Miss Shelburne's professional services, 
 and for the rest time and circumstances must decide. 
 Milly's extraordinary success, however, and the attrac- 
 tions which every moment that he passed with her 
 heightened in his eyes, together with the advantages 
 which he foresaw might be secured from the warmth with 
 which her interest had been espoused by the wealthy 
 tradesman and his daughters, all combined to give a new 
 direction to Mr. Palmer's thoughts and intentions ; and he 
 who had so long scoffed at the chains of matrimony, 
 and defied the most superlative charms of womankind to 
 entrap him into forfeiting his vaunted liberty, at once 
 confessed himself subdued, and dependent on her favour- 
 able reception of his proposals for happiness ! — happiness 
 such as he had never before dreamed of, or believed in its 
 existence. Yes, Fitzroy Palmer, the handsome, gay, 
 defiant libertine, who had hitherto worn the chains of 
 beauty so lightly as to cast them off as pleasure or even 
 interest prompted, was now seriously in love, and at the 
 moment, when as we have related, Milly's blush revealed 
 that her heart was already given to another, he felt that 
 he would have relinquished the whole world to call 
 her his own, and his alone ; would have given up all which 
 his intercourse with that world had taught him hitherto 
 to consider liberty indispensable to happiness, and in 
 the word: of the poet he would have exclaimed — 
 " Fame, Wealth, and Honour, what aer ye to Love?' 
 
030 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 A few moments of silence restored Milly from the con- 
 fusion into which she had fallen from the consciousness 
 that she had betrayed feelings that she had been most 
 anxious to conceal even from herself, and which now, 
 sincere and single-hearted as she was, she would certainly 
 have denied, had she felt there existed any necessity for 
 her entering into the subject. When, however, Mr. 
 Palmer would have resumed his pleadings to be allowed to 
 apply to her friends, and with their sanction endeavour to 
 recommend himself to her favour, Milly uttered a 
 decided negative, at the same time hinting, that, kindly 
 and liberally as Mr. Martin and his daughters had 
 behaved to her, she by no means laid claim to being 
 considered by them in the light Mr. Palmer spoke of. 
 That although she was sure they would do anything to 
 further her interest, it was well understood, both by her 
 and them, that her future living would of course depend 
 upon her professional exertions. As briefly as possible 
 Milly proceeded to state that she had, in fact, no other 
 dependence ; as, even could she discover her mother, the 
 latter was not, she feared, in a situation either to afford her 
 any permanent assistance or to forward her views," add- 
 ing with considerable empressement, "that for him, Mr. 
 Palmer to persevere in addressing her on a subject she 
 never could listen to, would be to disappoint all the 
 hopes she had fixed upon him of assisting her in procur- 
 ing an engagement that would relieve her from her pre- 
 sent dependence which she had been led by Mr. Briggs 
 to believe was in his (Mr. Palmer's) power, if — which he 
 had led her to believe she had — she fulfilled his 
 expectations." 
 
 Every word the ingenuous and single-hearted girl 
 
of woman's life. 031 
 
 uttered, while they increased Mr. Palmer's admiration of 
 her character, and heightened her beauty in his eyes by 
 the blushes of unaffected modesty which overspread her fair 
 face — all that he had now learned of her situation, and the 
 feelings which he saw revolted against submitting to be 
 dependent on those to whom she nevertheless expressed 
 the deepest gratitude — all tended to increase his hopes of 
 eventually succeeding in banishing from her heart the 
 attachment which he could not doubt existed there, and 
 the object of which, and all circumstances connected with 
 it, he trusted by his art, so superior to her unsuspecting 
 innocence, eventually to discover. We will do Mr. 
 Palmer the justice to own that the knowledge he had 
 gained of her precarious dependence on Mr. Martin and 
 his daughters had made no alteration in his intentions 
 towards Milly. She was, he felt, too pure, too innocent, 
 to be the object of a dishonourable passion, but though 
 he would not have sullied that purity by a breath, and 
 still felt his happiness depended upon her becoming 
 his wife, he felt himself also justified in adopting any 
 artifice that would lull her into security and prevent her 
 suspecting that he still retained in all their fervour the 
 hopes which she trusted — if they were indeed sincere — 
 which she almost doubted could be on so slight an 
 acquaintance — she had entirely crushed. 
 
 No longer breathing a word of love, but professing his 
 wish and earnest prayer to her to consider him as a 
 friend, a warm and disinterested friend, he endeavoured 
 to set her heart at rest as to her future prospeets, which 
 he assured her were of the most flattering nature. " There 
 was at present neither time nor opportunity," he ob- 
 served, "to enter into any details or suggest any arrange- 
 ments as to future appearances or engagements ; all 
 
632 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 these must of course be postponed ; but he trusted his 
 proposals would prove satisfactory to her friends as well 
 as herself, and solicited, for the purpose of making 
 these proposals, she would allow him to wait 
 upon her at the very earliest opportunity at her present 
 residence." 
 
 Milly was about to assent without hesitation to this, 
 and had, in fact, already given him Mr. Martin's address, 
 when she suddenly recollected, that, anxious as the latter 
 had undoubtedly proved himself to be to forward her views, 
 he might, with his peculiar notions on the subject of the 
 respect he considered due to him, be inclined to think 
 that she had taken an unwarranted liberty, in encouraging 
 Mr. Fitzroy Palmer to visit her without having first ob- 
 tained either his or his daughters' permission. Recalled 
 thus again to the circumstance of the Miss Martins' un- 
 accountably prolonged absence, she frankly mentioned to 
 Mr. Palmer the difficulty that had occurred to her as to 
 his intended visit, observing, however, " that she had no 
 doubt of their ready acquiescence ; and entreating that 
 he would no longer delay searching for and entreating 
 them to join her." 
 
 Left thus to a few minutes' uninterrupted reflection, it 
 might have been supposed that they would have been of 
 the most gratifying description, not only from her recent 
 success, but the prospect Mr. Palmer had held out for 
 the future — which should certainly have relieved her from 
 all apprehension, even if it should not lead to the height 
 of her former ambition ; and yet Milly was not happy. A 
 heavy weight seemed to press upon her heart, and she 
 felt as if the applause with which she had been received, 
 and to which she had once looked forward as the full and 
 only reward to be coveted for her exertions, was no longer 
 
of woman's life. G33 
 
 of any value in her eyes. She tried to think that it was 
 the absence of her mother, and the uncertainty attending 
 the situation of the latter that depressed her. She sorrowed 
 to think that her dear mother had not been present to share 
 the triumph she had so often in childhood predicted would 
 at a future day reward them both, and which both she 
 and her unfortunate father had made such heavy sacrifices 
 to ensure. And while she felt that certainly the presence 
 and sympathy of her mother would have removed one 
 great source of anxiety — removed that sense of utter 
 loneliness of heart which oppressed her even in the 
 midst of the enthusiastic crowd all hanging on her 
 accents with such delight — even then that heart would 
 still have been unsatisfied ; there would still have been 
 wanting to her happiness one that was, she feared, lost to 
 her for ever — one from whom a single glance, a breath of 
 approbation, would have been dearer, more valuable than 
 the plaudits of assembled thousands ; and yet, strange as 
 it was, she felt that even at this moment, when con- 
 vinced that she should never again behold St. Orme, that 
 he had long ago relinquished all interest in the humble, 
 obscure girl in whose bosom he had first implanted the 
 seeds of ambition, and with them fanned those of a 
 deeper, less selfish passion ; even while she felt most 
 keenly how hopeless was the delusion that had secretly 
 excited allher efforts and exertions — the hope of rendering 
 herself worthy of him — even at that moment she had 
 been inspired by the recollection of his image, his 
 fancied accents had encouraged and roused her to those 
 almost superhuman exertions that had been rewarded 
 with such tumults of applause, and secured her future 
 success. And yet a fear came over her. Should that 
 excitement fail, and her next attempt disappoint those 
 
 4 \i 
 
HADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 who were now waiting witli an impatience that scarcely 
 allowed them to listen to the regular routine that had 
 heen specified in the bills, Milly felt how much even 
 then depended on herself, and she tried to dismiss from her 
 thoughts the subject thathad so completely engrossed them. 
 The room to which she had been conducted com- 
 manded a view of the public road, and anxious to distract 
 her thoughts and occupy them with the passing scene, 
 she arose and approached the window which was open. 
 There was a single figure slowly traversing the road. 
 His back was turned to the house, the only one who was 
 quitting it, and walking too, as if desirous of avoiding 
 several groups who were coming towards the gardens, 
 their gay, animated manners forming a striking contrast 
 to his slow, pensive, apparently almost reluctant step, as 
 he paced along keeping close to the edge on the opposite 
 side. Even at that distance Milly was forcibly struck 
 with the striking resemblance that tall, elegant form bore 
 to one which was so deeply impressed upon her memory. 
 Her heart beat violently, and scarcely conscious what she 
 was doing, she leaned from the window to observe more 
 clearly the figure thathad attracted her attention. Could 
 it be possible ? Did not her eyes deceive her ? She 
 passed her hand across those eyes, as if to assure 
 herself that it was a reality that those eyes beheld St. 
 Orme, and that it was not a vision conjured up to her 
 imagination by the intensity of those thoughts which had 
 been occupied by him. But at this moment all doubts 
 were dissipated, and she was convinced it was indeed him, 
 for, as if influenced by some sudden recollection, he 
 stopped, and the well-known sounds of that deep, manly 
 voice uttering the familiar name " Carlo, Carlo, Carlo," 
 reached her ear, and the dog, the constant companion 
 
of woman's i. iff.. 635 
 
 of the walks she had so often shared with him in the 
 neighbourhood of the dear old Abbey, bounded across to 
 his master, who having first as it appeared reproached 
 him for his temporary desertion, then stooped down and 
 patted his head, thus revealing to the agitated girl the 
 full contour of those well-known expressive features. To 
 withdraw from her present position was impossible ; Milly 
 felt as if she were chained to the window, and her eyes 
 rivetted to the person of St. Orme, who, for his part, 
 seemed totally unconscious of her vicinity. A scream, 
 however, at this moment withdrew her attention from its 
 object while it attracted his, and induced him to stop at 
 the very instant he was finally turning away to proceed 
 on his route in the opposite direction from the house. 
 It was Laura Martin who uttered the sound of distress, 
 and it was re-echoed by her sister, who, as if appealing 
 to her for protection or assistance, exclaimed at the very 
 top of her voice — 
 
 "Oh! Milly, Milly Shelburne, where is Papa ?— why 
 have you deserted us ? — send Papa to us directly. We 
 have been so insulted by that fellow ;" and she pointed to 
 a tall, robust, vulgar-looking man considerably past the 
 middle age, whose black clothes, covered with dust, and 
 hat bent into the most grotesque shapes, or rather shape- 
 lessness, increased the general repulsiveness of his 
 appearance, which was further heightened by his being 
 evidently intoxicated. From the moment this man 
 beheld Milly, he had transferred to her his obtrusive and 
 ridiculous admiration from Laura Martin, whose hand he 
 had before forcibly seized and held, while he poured forth 
 a profusion of the most misplaced and ignorant expres- 
 sions, which were meant to be indicative of the sudden 
 impression made upon him by her beauty, but which were 
 
630 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 so unintelligible to Laura, that she had attempted to fly 
 from him, uttering at the same time the scream which had 
 aroused the attention of Milly 
 
 " Beautiful creature, angel of my soul !" exclaimed the 
 man, extending his arms to Milly, as she shrank hack from 
 the window in disgust and alarm. " Deign to bestow a 
 smile on your adoring Georgy !" and he bent his knee to 
 the ground in an attitude so grotesque, and distorting his 
 face into an expression so ridiculous, though meant to 
 express admiration, that it was received with a shout of 
 laughter from the straggling groups whose attention had 
 been arrested by his odd looks and gestures, as they were 
 going on their way to the Gardens, and who not having 
 witnessed his rude attack on Laura, saw nothing but a 
 subject for fun in his exaggerated expressions and 
 grotesque attitudes. Far from being discouraged or 
 offended by their laughter and ridicule, he continued to 
 address Milly through the window from which the latter 
 had retired, though still not beyond the hearing of the 
 unmeaning nonsense he continued to utter. The two 
 girls — the Martins — had by this time found their 
 way into the room to Milly, but so incoherent and in- 
 comprehensible to her were their mingled reproaches, 
 regrets, and accusations, tears of partly vexation and partly 
 sorrow, together with the confusion created by the man's 
 obtrusive addresses through the window, and their half 
 fear, half anger at him, while they declared that it was 
 only a part of the system by which they had been made 
 the subject of laughter, ridicule, and insult ever since they 
 had first entered the place, and for the whole of which 
 they seemed determined to make Milly responsible, 
 accusing her in indirect terms of the most heartless in- 
 gratitude both to their father and themselves; hinting at 
 
of woman's i.iee. 687 
 
 the useless expense and trouble they had incurred to serve 
 her, and lamenting that they should have ever con- 
 sented to degrade themselves by visiting a place so utterly 
 beneath them, and where it was evident the people were 
 so ignorant as to be unconscious of the honour they had 
 done them." 
 
 "I declare," observed Laura, "that except the 
 gentleman we met out in the dark walk, or whatever they 
 call it, we hav'nt met a single person who knew how to 
 treat us with proper respect, and even he, though more of 
 the real gentleman than any of the rest, seemed half in- 
 clined to be angry and rude, because we could not help 
 being frightened at his nasty great dog ; though he was 
 polite enough afterwards to show us proper attention, and 
 accompany us out of that horrid, dismal place, where I 
 really believe we might have been wandering about all 
 night before any body else had come to look for us." 
 
 " Oh ! don't say anything about his politeness or 
 gentility," returned her sister scornfully, " for I don't 
 believe there's a pin to choose between him and the rest 
 of Miss Shelburne's friends, for I saw him with his 
 dog standing in the road looking over here just as that 
 wretch let go your hand and began his foolery to Milly ; 
 and if he'd been so much of the gentleman as he 
 pretended to.be, he wouldn't have stood there quietly and 
 suffered us to be insulted." 
 
 Laura looked vexed and disappointed. 
 "Are you sure he saw us, my dear ?" she demanded. 
 " Perhaps he didn't recognise us as the same ladies he had 
 so politely escorted through the grounds. I was wishing 
 Pa could could see him and thank him for his 
 attention to us, for, though we did meet with 
 him here. I'm convinced he's a perfect gentleman' 
 
lio8 SHADE AND SDNSHINl 
 
 and quite above what one might expect to meet with 
 here. Do you think he's gone? Wherahouts did 
 you see him ?" 
 
 She rose from the sofa on which she had thrown her- 
 self, and was hastily appproaching the window, when 
 Milly, who had been breathlessly listening to this detail 
 of which she could not doubt St. Orme was the hero, 
 scarcely conscious what she was doing, caught hold of 
 her, exclaiming — 
 
 " Oh ! no, no, dear Laura ; do not let him see you 
 looking after him, he will think that — that — " 
 
 She trembled, hesitated, and not knowing what reason 
 to assign, burst into tears, and hid her face with her hands. 
 " Well to be sure !" exclaimed Laura, looking with 
 surprise and suspicion at her sister. " This is strange 
 indeed that you should object to our being seen again by 
 a gentleman who is the only one that has behaved with 
 proper respect to us since we were foolish enough to be 
 trepanned into a place he himself gave us to understand 
 was a most improper place for ladies like us to visit, 
 though we took care to let him know the motive that 
 had brought us here, and that it was only to befriend you 
 we had consented to come here." 
 
 It need scarcely be said that this was an entire misre- 
 presentation of the conversation that had passed between 
 them and St. Orme, who, far from undervaluing the place 
 or its company, had praised the former as possessing more 
 real, unobtrusive beauty, and displaying more refined 
 taste than many much more celebrated places of amuse- 
 ment; while of the company he remarked, "that as far 
 as he had observed, they appeared to be of the most 
 respectable class, and unlike those at most public places 
 such as might be temporarily associated with without 
 
of woman's life. 039 
 
 suspicion or fear. Of course," he said, " there might be 
 occasional exceptions ; the serpent, you know, " he 
 observed smiling, " crept into Paradise, and it may be 
 that even among these rural, unsophisticated scenes, some 
 of his venomous species may intrude. Young ladies, in- 
 deed, can scarcely be too cautious with respect to 
 strangers, but I must say that I think there is less fear here 
 of encountering any of the dangerous tribe than at any 
 place of entertainment I have visited near London." 
 
 This, which had been said in reply to some fastidious 
 alarms the Miss Martins had expressed respecting the 
 persons they might meet with in the Gardens, it will be 
 seen was very different to the representations the sisters 
 now chose to make, and to which Milly listened with still 
 increasing uneasiness. 
 
 Unable herself to form any judgment as to the justice 
 of St. Orme's supposed condemnation of the place, it re- 
 vived all her fears and uneasiness as to her proposed 
 engagement with Mr. Palmer. But there was a still 
 deeper source of painful reflection arising from the 
 character St. Orme was represented to have given of the 
 ' St. Helena." It was scarcely possible she thought that 
 he did not know she was there ; scarcely possible that he 
 had not witnessed her appearance in the concert-room. 
 But alas ! how changed must be his feelings towards her 
 when he could thus leave the place ? — he was evidently 
 leaving it when she beheld him in the road — without 
 even speaking to her. without making an effort to warn 
 her of the danger and impropriety of her situation, in thus 
 publicly appearing in a place, the character of which, 
 according to Laura Martin, he unequivocally condemned. 
 Yes, it was but too plain he believed her already fallen 
 beneath his notice or compassion; that she had voluntarily 
 
C-1U SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 appeared in a situation which excluded her from even his 
 pity. He could not of course suppose that she was 
 ignorant of the character of the place in which he heheld 
 her, and he was in all probability leaving it, that he might 
 not have the pain of again witnessing her degradation. 
 
 " And the very song too that he had so often sang with 
 me. Oh! how little did I think he was listening. "What 
 must he have thought of me ? And if he could have read 
 my heart — could have known that it was of him aloue I 
 thought while I sang " — 
 
 "What in the world are you talking about Milly ?" 
 exclaimed the two sisters simultaneously, as starting 
 from her seat and clasping her hands with a look 
 and accent of despair, she wildly uttered these expres- 
 sions, forgetting their presence or the surprise and 
 curiosity they would give rise to. 
 
 From the explanation, however, which she found it 
 impossible to give, Milly was saved, though most 
 unpleasantly, by the sudden intrusion into the room of 
 the man whose impertinence and folly had already so 
 discomposed both her and her young companions outside 
 the window. Occupied by more serious and important 
 considerations, Milly had forgotten all about the creature 
 after she had retreated from the window, and was not 
 aware that the shouts of laughter that had arisen from 
 time to time were at all connected with her or the Miss 
 Martins, though in reality they were occasioned by the 
 grotesque exhibition the man was making, breaking out 
 into scraps of songs, without either time or tune, but 
 burlesquing all the attitudes of a theatrical singer, and 
 affecting to address the inhabitants of the room with all 
 the ridiculous rhodomontade his memory could supply 
 or folly suggest, occasionally finishing by exhibiting his 
 
of woman's life. 641 
 
 elephantine figure in a dance in imitation of some of the 
 fashionable Opera dancers, amidst the roars of laughter of 
 the spectators, and cries of " Go it, Georgy," " Well done, 
 Georgy," from those to whom he was known. 
 
 All this, however, had passed unknown to Milly and 
 her companions — who started from their seats in alarm, 
 when, encouraged by some of the mischievous beholders 
 of his antics, he made his way into the room, and 
 attempted to throw himself on his knees at the feet of 
 the former, uttering some incoherent trash, which he 
 intended, as far as he was capable of any meaning, to 
 express his admiration of her. But he had scarcely given 
 utterance to a sentence before he was seized by the collar 
 behind by an athletic arm, and amidst the pretty affected 
 screams of the Miss Martins, and the silent, pallid, half- 
 fainting surprise of Milly Shelburne, dragged from his 
 recumbent position towards the door, his assailant, in a 
 commanding tone, exclaiming — 
 
 " Stand up on your feet, rascal, and take yourself off, 
 or I will break every bone in your skin." 
 
 It was easier, however, it appeared, to give this com- 
 mand than for the object of it to obey it ; and a peal of 
 derisive laughter broke from those who, having seen the 
 stranger bound from the spot where he had been watch- 
 ing the man's ridiculous antics and follow him into the 
 parlour, had rushed after him in anticipation of what they 
 called " a precious row." In vain the intruder scrambled 
 and stumbled in the endeavour to get upon his feet, so 
 great was his terror at the unexpected assault, which was 
 increased by the tremendous bark of Carlo, who had 
 rushed to his master's assistance, and impeded rather 
 than aided the culprit's efforts to regain his feet, by 
 
 seizing him aa dcrriere by the unmentionable portion of 
 
 4 N 
 
612 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 his drapery, and shaking him as ho would have done 
 some noxious vermin, or a cur of his own species, whom 
 he despised too much to bestow on him any more severe 
 punishment. Added to his other sources of terror, too. 
 he had now. in the course of Ins shuffling and scrambling 
 to obey the imperious mandate of his assailant, struck 
 his prominent nose against the foot of a sofa ; and the 
 " sanguine stream," or " the effusion of blood" — to use 
 the conventional terms in which accidents or offences 
 that produce such consequences are described in the 
 newspaper reports — flowing down his light-flowered 
 waistcoat, and mingling with the grime that seemed the 
 natural complexion of his face and hands, or had at least 
 become so incorporated with the natural hue of the 
 animal as to render it difficult to distinguish them, or 
 tell which was which, terrified not only himself but some 
 of the beholders with the supposition that he had received 
 some mortal injury. 
 
 " Murder ! murder ! Have mercy upon me ! I am a 
 dead man ! Let me go, and I will never do anything of 
 the sort again !" he screamed, grovelling on the floor, 
 and hiding his face in his hands from the imagined 
 fury of the dog ; while Carlo, evidently supposing himself 
 engaged in a prime game of romps, from the noise 
 that prevailed and the uncouth contortions of the pros- 
 trate offender, redoubled his tremendous barkings, leaping, 
 bounding, and shaking his supposed associate in the fun, 
 and finally jumping on his back as he lay, stood wagging 
 his tremendous tail as if proclaiming his triumph, and 
 expecting his master's commendation for the part he had 
 taken in the game. 
 
 Satisfied that the dog would do him no injury, St. 
 Orme had not interfered with him, except to assure the Miss 
 
of woman's life. 643 
 
 Martins — who had hoth jumped up on the sofa, where 
 they continued to utter a series of affected exclamations 
 of terror and prayers for protection — that there was not 
 the slightest necessity for either, for that they were per- 
 fectly safe in their own persons, and as to the man who 
 had been the cause of the disturbance if it was on his 
 account they were alarmed, he could assure them " — 
 
 " Oh, no ! the wretch ! — such a villain deserved the 
 utmost punishment that could be inflicted,'' exclaimed the 
 sisters. "They did not care what he suffered, and 
 hoped " — 
 
 But here they were interrupted by an exclamation 
 from the hitherto silent but pale trembling lips of Milly 
 Shelburne, who had retreated to a corner of the room, as 
 far distant as she could from St. Orme, and now only 
 ventured to speak in reply to the look from the latter, 
 which seemed to demand whether she shared in the 
 vindictive feeling of her companions. 
 
 It need scarcely be said that Milly was perfectly aware 
 from the first, that there was no real danger to be appre- 
 hended from her old play-fellow Carlo, but besides that the 
 sight of the blood sickened her, she considered that the 
 man had been sufficiently punished not only by his terror 
 — which was evidently real, and heightened by his uncon- 
 sciousness how he had received the hurt of»- which he 
 displayed such flagrant proofs — but also the mortification 
 which must attend his being thus humiliated in the sight 
 of his acquaintances and companions. Construing, there- 
 fore, St. Orme's appealing look to her as it was un- 
 doubtedly meant, she ventured to interrupt Georgina 
 Martin, who was by much the most unrelenting towards 
 the offender, by observing — 
 
 " Oh ! no, my dear Miss Martin ; you cannot, do not, 
 
G44 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 i am sure, mean what you say. You have not reflected 
 that the man is more contemptible than" — 
 
 But here a new source of confusion, dissatisfaction, and 
 surprise arose, at least on the part of the two young ladies — 
 for Carlo, who had hitherto not noticed any one in the 
 room but the man he had attacked, suddenly recognised 
 the voice of his former friend and favourite, Milly, and 
 forgetting everything else, deserting even his prostrate 
 foe, he bounced to her, upsetting her in his boisterous 
 joy, so tbat she fell back on the chair from which she had 
 risen, and then whining and uttering all the expressions 
 of animal joy, continued to lick her hands, and by every 
 means that instinct has taught, to express his inordinate 
 pleasure at the meeting. 
 
 " Carlo, poor Carlo," whispered Milly, bending over the 
 faithful animal to conceal tbe pearly drops that in spite 
 oi her utmost efforts would force their way, as the thought 
 involuntarily rushed into her mind that this poor crea- 
 ture alone remained unaltered towards her — that not from 
 one human creature could she expect to receive the like 
 tokens of affection. She dared not raise her eyes, lest 
 they should encounter those of Carlo's master, which she 
 felt, though she could not see, were fixed upon her. But 
 there were others, too, watchiug every turn of her expres- 
 sive countenance, and whispering their conjectures on 
 what they saw, but could not comprehend. 
 
 The first impulse of Georgina and Laura Martin, at 
 beholding the transference of Carlo's attention to their 
 young friend and companion, was to transfer also their 
 apprehensions of danger to her, and for several moments 
 they endeavoured to make their voices heard above the 
 dog's, exclaiming — 
 
 " Oh ! Milly, dear Milly. Oh ! he will kill her ; the 
 
of woman's life. C45 
 
 nasty, horrid animal will kill her. Oh! dear Sir, pray 
 take him away — call him off," &c., &c. 
 
 The satisfied smile, and, to them, inexplicahle expres- 
 sion with which the stranger regarded not only Milly but 
 her four-footed friend, as well as the latter's evidently 
 favourable reception of Carlo's affectionate greeting, gave 
 a totally different turn to the affair, and in spite of their 
 former terror of the horrid animal, they had both 
 approached Milly, and Georgina had already slid her 
 hand into that of the latter, anxious, it appeared, to con- 
 ciliate her, who, they began to suspect, was regarded with 
 more than ordinary interest by the gentleman of whose 
 superior station in life they had from the first of their 
 meeting with him formed the most exalted opinion. 
 Georgina, especially, had declared her conviction to her 
 sister, " that nothing less than his being a nobleman 
 could account for the dignified hauteur winch had 
 marked his manners at the moment that he quitted 
 them ;" having conducted them to the vicinity of the con- 
 cert-room, from entering which they had been prevented by 
 the impertinent and obtrusive address of the man who bad 
 persisted in following them into the presence of Milly, and 
 thus brought upon himself the chastisement administered 
 by the gentleman whom the sisters had previously regretted 
 they were not likely ever to meet with again ; as, though 
 he had not absolutely told them so, they agreed he must 
 have been only an accidental visitor to " St. Helena," 
 and by his abrupt retreat, instead of accompanying them 
 into the concert-room, as they had expected he would, 
 had proved that he held himself quite above such com- 
 pany and amusements as were there to be met with. The 
 gratifying supposition that it was in their defence he had 
 thus suddenly made his appcaranco, vanished almost as 
 
640 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 soon as it was formed. Women's eyes are seldom long 
 blinded even by vanity to the truth, when love is the sub- 
 ject of their investigation, and the Miss Martins were 
 no exception to this general rule. They quickly dis- 
 covered that they were entirely overlooked, and that the 
 strange gentleman's thoughts and attentions were entirely 
 engrossed by the hitherto humble, insignificant Milly Shel- 
 burne, whose value rose immediately in their estimation. 
 However mysterious appeared the silence and reserve which 
 each showed towards the other, it could not be doubted that 
 the parties had met before, and Georgina and Laura began 
 already to calculate the advantage and pleasure likely to 
 arise from a proper introduction to a person of such rank 
 and importance as they were convinced this young 
 gentleman was. There was no thought of rivalship with 
 Milly. Oh ! no, with all their vanity and their imaginary 
 importance, and their knowledge of what money could 
 effect, and they had been taught by their father from 
 childhood to believe, as he believed, that money alone 
 could purchase all that was valuable in the world, still 
 Georgina and Laura had imbibed some romantic opinions 
 on the subject of love from the novels that had been tbeir 
 only studies, that were in opposition to the old man's 
 creed of the universal power of money, and especially as 
 they were fond of believing in the power of the tender 
 passion. Their memories were stored with not only 
 true stories, but actual personal experience of the all- 
 subduing power — poor girls, whose beauty had raised 
 them to rank and influence — ladies who had married 
 what the world condemned as quite beneath them, and 
 yet happiness, according to the sisters, had invariably 
 resulted from these unequal matches. They dared not, 
 indeed, avow their belief in this possibility in the presence 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE Gi7 
 
 nf tlieir father, but they were not the less convinced of 
 the fact, although he violently opposed it. No sooner 
 did they make the discovery that the stranger had been, 
 previously to his present meeting, acquainted with Milly 
 Shelbume — a fact which Carlo confirmed by his wild 
 caresses — than they anticipated all that was to arise from 
 this fortunate renewal of the acquaintance. That he was 
 Milly's lover, not a doubt entered their minds, and that 
 all would end happily — as all such love stories do — they 
 were equally certain, whatever might have been the cause 
 of the lovers' temporary separation. Viewed in this new 
 light, all Milly's offences against them were forgotten. 
 They were longing to hear from her own lips the whole his- 
 tory, and had already resolved to do everything in their power 
 to assist the lovers. Already, as we have said, Georgina 
 had taken Milly's hand in hers, and was whispering in 
 her ear the request that " she would introduce Laura 
 and her to the gentleman who had behaved so politely to 
 them," when her hopes were defeated by the object of 
 her admiration suddenly recollecting that the intruder 
 who had excited his anger was still in the room, having 
 erawled round the sofa, apparently with an intention of 
 concealing himself, though probably only influenced by 
 extreme cowardice to elude his antagonist. With a 
 sudden accession of rage, the latter again seized him by 
 the collar, and was dragging him towards the door, when 
 Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, with alarm and surprise depicted in 
 his countenance, at the sight of the persons who were still 
 collected at the window and in the passage of the room in 
 which he had left Milly alone, rushed into the room, and 
 in a somewhat authoritative tone, demanded " What was 
 the matter ?" 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Palmer, that man has so insulted and 
 
648 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 alarmed me and my sister and Miss Shelburne," exclaimed 
 Laura Martin. ' 
 
 " Yes, and this gentleman has politely come to our 
 assistance," added her sister. " If he hadn't, I don't know 
 what we should have done." 
 
 "Come out, 'thou ton of blubber,' " exclaimed the 
 manager, appropriately applying the epithet bestowed by 
 the Prince upon Falstaff. " Taste your legs, Sir, put 
 them in motion," he continued in the same humour for 
 quotation, while the culprit stared up in his face with his 
 dead fish-like eyes, evidently completely bewildered, but 
 again scrambling awkwardly to get on his feet and trying 
 to retreat from St. Orme, whom he appeared to be much 
 more afraid of than the last comer — Mr. Fitzroy Palmer — 
 who was probably better known to him than the 
 former. 
 
 " What has the fellow done ?" demanded Palmer, 
 addressing St. Orme, whom he appeared for the first 
 time to observe, and to regard with a look of curiosity. 
 
 St. Orme drew himself up with an air of extreme 
 haughtiness. 
 
 "You had better inquire of the ladies," he replied, 
 glancing at the Miss Martins, and then slightly bowing 
 to them he added — 
 
 " As you have now, T presume, sufficient protection, I 
 will wish you once more ' Good evening,' " and without 
 bestowing a look upon Milly, who was still bending over 
 the dog to conceal the expression of her countenance, he 
 quitted the room. 
 
 The look of disappointment and surprise which was 
 exchanged between the sisters, and then that of inquiry 
 bestowed by both on Milly, who struggled to maintain 
 the appearance of indifference and nonchalance, added to 
 
OF WOMAN R LIFE. G49 
 
 the evident good understanding between her and the 
 splendid animal, who, with his paws on her knees and his 
 eyes fixed on hers, continued to express almost as intelli- 
 gibly as if he had been gifted with speech his affection 
 and joy at their re-union, excited at once Mr. Palmer's 
 suspicion of the truth that in the proud stranger, the 
 owner of the dog, he beheld not only a former acquaint- 
 ance, but a rival in Milly Shelburne's heart. With all 
 the jealous quickness of an unsuccessful lover, he recalled 
 the tacit avowal her blushes and confusion had made in 
 their recent conversation, when he had pressed for a con- 
 fession that her heart was disengaged. But why had this 
 hated, envied rival — for both hatred and envy had 
 already sprung up in Mr. Palmer's bosom — why 
 had he thus suddenly quitted, without bestowing on Miss 
 Shelburne even the formal ceremonious farewell he had 
 considered the due of the other females ? That there was 
 a disunion between the lovers he could not doubt; and 
 again his hopes revived, though as he scrutinisingly 
 watched every turn of Milly's countenance his jealousy 
 swelled into agony, from the conviction that she wag 
 deeply suffering from the apparent neglect and desertion 
 of her unworthy lover. 
 
 Unworthy he must be. Yes, of that Palmer was con- 
 vinced; for his own heart assured him that Milly 
 Shelburne had not deserved this contemptuous treatment, 
 much as it was to his interest to believe that she was 
 really deserted— that the haughty, the almost insolent 
 stranger, the tone of whose reply had struck so harshly 
 and unpleasantly on his ear, was in reality indifferent to 
 her who had once been the object of his love. No, it 
 could not be. It was impossible, totally impossible. No 
 
 man who had once loved Milly Shelburne could forget 
 
 •1 
 
Gf)0 6HADB AND SUNSHINE 
 
 that love. He might be jealous, indignant, some mis- 
 apprehension might have arisen to cause a temporary 
 separation, but that she was still beloved he was certain. 
 
 Palmer was still absorbed in these reflections, which 
 had driven all other thoughts or considerations from his 
 mind, when he was suddenly recalled to the present by an 
 exclamation from the Miss Martins, which was followed 
 by an irrepressible burst of laughter, that scarcely left 
 the power of speech, as seizing an arm on each side, with 
 an affectation of childish gaiety and confidence, they 
 dragged him between them to the window to point to the 
 late prostrate offender, who, having managed to crawl un- 
 observed to the door, had made his escape from the room, 
 and having been assisted to his feet by some who still 
 loitered in the passage, was now running, staggering, and 
 shuffling along the road in the front of the house, pursued 
 by shouts of laughter, and cries from some of the more 
 mischievous of — 
 
 " Eun it, old boy, run it." " Cut along, Georgy — they're 
 after you, old fellow — they'll have you," &c., &c. 
 
 An explanation from the sisters of all that had pre- 
 viously occurred followed ; the young ladies, as usual, 
 describing in the most heightened colours their own terror, 
 and the conduct of the wretch — as they designated the 
 man in his half-mad, half- intoxicated folly — until it was 
 suddenly arrested by the interference of the gentleman to 
 whom they gave the titie of Miss Shelburne's friend, look- 
 ing at Milly at each repetition, as if they expected from 
 her either confirmation or contradiction of what they 
 assumed, certainly without any direct authority from 
 either. But Milly remained silent. She heard Mr. 
 Palmer in no measured terms condemn the <jentlcman for 
 not having taken proper means to punish the fellow — 
 
of woman's life. G51 
 
 heard him accused of not having shown proper respect 
 to females, much less ladies, as he expressively observed 
 — "ladies of their station, of course totally unaccustomed 
 to be treated with so little consideration." And then she 
 heard him regret that he (Mr. Palmer) " had not pre- 
 viously been made acquainted with these circumstances ; 
 he should certainly have taken the liberty of letting the 
 gentleman know what he thought of him, and have con- 
 vinced him that his airs and haughtiness were quite mis- 
 placed in such society, whatever his station in life might 
 be. Certainly, as a friend of Miss Shelburne's, he should 
 have been very sorry to have any serious difference with 
 the '-gentleman, — " And then again he paused, and fixed 
 his penetrating look on Milly's expressive countenance, 
 but to him it conveyed now no intelligible meaning ; and 
 except that once or twice she compressed her lips, to 
 conceal their tremulous quivering, and threw back hastily 
 the long ringlets that seemed to annoy her as they fell 
 over her face, with an expression of irritability that was 
 totally foreign to her usual manner or disposition ; 
 except these involuntary betrayals of wounded feelings, 
 there was nothing he could interpret as inconsistent with 
 the most perfect indifference to his strictures on the con- 
 duct of the gentleman — Miss Shelburne's/ri<?»«? — as he 
 so significantly repeated, evidently in the hope that she 
 would disclaim the stranger's right to the title. 
 
 Flattered as the Miss Martins undoubtedly were at 
 his complimentary assertions that they hud not been 
 treated with all the delicacy and respect that was due to 
 them by Miss Shelburne's friend, they were still too 
 deeply impressed in favour of his gentlemanly manners, 
 his elegant person, and their belief in Ms superior rank, 
 not after some time to enter into a warm defence of his 
 
G52 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 conduct, in which they included the whole history of 
 th^ir first meeting with him in the solitary part of the 
 garden — in which they represented themselves as having 
 been lost and rescued by him, enlarging upon his exces- 
 sively polite and genteel behaviour, and involuntarily 
 betraying that he had continued to be their companion on 
 their way to the concert-room, until the sound of Milly's 
 voice, and their unintentionally mentioning her name, 
 had so agitated him, as Georgina said, " that he quite 
 frightened her. She never, in all her life, saw a person so 
 excited and agitated. She really thought he had 
 suddenly gone out of his mind." 
 
 " And he questioned you, and you told him how I 
 came to be here, and all that you knew about me?" 
 said Milly, for the first time betraying any interest in the 
 subject. She was breathless almost with emotion as she 
 awaited Georgina's answer. 
 
 "We could not tell him much, my dear," replied the 
 young lady in a hesitating tone, conscious she had not 
 only told all she knew, but more than she knew. " There 
 wasn't time for much conversation after he made the dis- 
 covery that it was you that was singing, for he started 
 away from us in that wild way I told you of, just as we 
 were coming up to the concert-room, and the minute 
 after that wretch came out from another walk, and we 
 were obliged to run to get away from him, so that we've 
 never been into the room yet." 
 
 " You will have the pleasure, then, of accompanying 
 Miss Shelburne there, I trust, in a few minutes," observed 
 Mr. Palmer, who had been watching the expression of 
 Milly's countenance, and was no doubt desirous at once 
 to give a different turn to the conversation, as well as 
 to remind Miss Shelburne that she had not yet fulfilled 
 the terms of her engagement. 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 663 
 
 '•'I have been compelled already," he observed, ad- 
 dressing the latter, " to make an apology for your ab- 
 sence, and Miss Macalander, our Scotch lady, who is a 
 great favourite, has kindly treated the company with the 
 •' Flower of Dumblain, ' one of her best songs, to recon- 
 cile them to your temporary absence ; but they were, I 
 assure you, disposed to be very dissatisfied and impatient, 
 and notbing but my positive assurance that you will fulfil 
 your engagement according to the programme, pacified 
 them into letting the other ladies and gentlemen proceed 
 until your re- appearance, which they are now anxiously 
 awaiting." 
 
 Milly could have pleaded that she had not been 
 consulted upon or sanctioned Mr. Fitzroy Palmer's 
 announcement, or programme, as he called it, and she did 
 feel inclined to say that she was convinced that her 
 nerves had been so shaken by the recent occurrences, 
 that she should disappoint the expectations of those by 
 whom she had been before received with such extraor- 
 dinary favour ; but besides that Georgina and Laura 
 Martin were already anticipating their imaginary share in 
 her triumph, and fully restored to their usual good hu- 
 mour, and forgetting all their supposed causes of anger 
 or blame towards her, were now eagerly vying with each 
 otber in re-arranging her hair and dress as well as their 
 own, that they might all appear, as they said, " to the 
 greatest advantage wben they entered the concert-room 
 together." — Besides that she could not bear to disappoint 
 these expectations on their part, she was painfully re- 
 minded by several inadvertent expressions from the 
 sisters how necessary it was, for her own sake, to conciliate 
 those feelings towards her which had been so recently 
 threatened to be broken up by their misapprehension and 
 
054 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 V 
 
 the imaginary affronts that had been given to their pride 
 and consequence. In addition to these motives for her 
 re- appearance, Mr. Palmer also contrived to suggest one 
 that was not less powerful to Milly's generous disposi- 
 tion, although he affected to speak with assumed indiffe- 
 rence of the serious consequences that would result to 
 himself, were the company to be disappointed in their 
 expectations of nearing Miss Shelburne in the songs 
 that were set down for her. " He should never dare," he 
 said, " to show himself at ' St. Helena' again. They would 
 believe it a deliberate scheme, not only to defraud them 
 by depriving them of the principal feature of the entertain- 
 ment, but also that they would consider it as an insult 
 to them, as if anything was good enough for a ' St. 
 Helena ' audience. He had known," he hinted, " such 
 things happen before ; but though," he went on to insinuate, 
 "it would injure him seriously, especially as he had nearly 
 arranged for a series of concerts there for the season that 
 was just commencing, yet sooner than Miss Shelburne 
 should be compelled to do anything that was unpleasant 
 to her, or contrary to her feelings — " 
 
 " But how can it be contrary to her feelings ? What 
 reason could she have for not singing now, after she had 
 been received with such applause ?" demanded both the 
 Miss Martins impatiently. " Surely you don't mean to 
 act so ridiculously Milly ? And what would Papa say, 
 when he has put himself — " 
 
 Milly hastily put an end to the exposition of what Papa 
 and themselves, which she knew would follow, had done, 
 by declaring " that she had no intention of acting as they 
 apprehended. She was ready to go immediately to the 
 room ;" and, with cheeks glowing with vexation, and the 
 consciousness that all her fancied dreams of independence 
 
of woman's life. Goo 
 
 had already vanished, she was hurrying off without even 
 waiting for her companions, when her progress was 
 stopped, and she rushed hack into the room, her bright 
 colour faded again into deadly paleness at the sound of a 
 voice she knew but too well. It was St. Orme, who had 
 come back in search of his dog, "who had shown no dis- 
 position to quit the side of his former friend, but had in 
 fact lain down by her, as if determined to resume his 
 former place of guardian to her. Occupied as her mind 
 had been by the preceding conversation, Milly had totally 
 forgotten the presence of the animal, which, from the 
 position he had taken, crouching by her side between her 
 and the sofa, had been also overlooked by her companions, 
 until the momeut she arose to leave the room, when he 
 sprang up to follow her, and was at the same moment 
 arrested by the voice of Ins master calling upon him. 
 
 " Is he to go, Miss Shelburne ?" demanded Mr. Palmer, 
 as poor Carlo, evidently unwilling to leave her, and 
 equally anxious to obey his master, ran whining back- 
 wards and forwards from the door — which, in her confu- 
 sion, she had inadvertently closed — to her side, as if im- 
 ploring her to come with him. 
 
 " Oh ! no, don't let him out," exclaimed Georgina, who 
 had quite forgotten her pretended terror of the dog. 
 " Don't let him out, Mr. Fitzroy, and then his master 
 must come for him. I do so want to know what has 
 made liim act so strangely, and set off as soon as ever he 
 saw you, forgetting, it's plain, even his dog." 
 
 "Yes, and I do believe he'll be glad of an excuse to 
 come back," added Laura. " If we can only get him to 
 come in, I'll tell him plainly we're not going to let him 
 get off in this manner. He must stay and hear Milly 
 sing, and I must introduce him to Papa and — " 
 
05G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Oh ! no, pvay, pray, do not," exclaimed Milly, 
 breathless with emotion. "Open the door, Mr. Palmer, 
 I heg of you, and let the poor creature go. Go, Carlo, 
 go, sir, to your master," stamping her little foot at the 
 dog, which still continued its winnings and solicitations 
 to her. 
 
 " If it is really your wish, Miss Shelburne," observed 
 Palmer, gravely rising and approaching the door. "But 
 oh ! Milly," he whispered, stooping over her as he passed 
 the chair where she had sank, rather than seated herself, 
 " what am I to think of this emotion ? how painful, how 
 despairing to my hopes it is to see you thus agitated by 
 an ingrate who — " 
 
 It was at this moment while leaning over, his hand 
 upon the chair, and his lips almost touching her delicate 
 little ear, into which he was breathing his feelings, that 
 the door was opened. Georgina Martin was standing at 
 the mirror, her back turned to them, and occupied in 
 arranging her ringlets ; while Laura, with one knee on the 
 ground, was trying to coax the dog away from the door, 
 and to silence his whinings, in hope his master might 
 come in search of him. Neither of the sisters, therefore, 
 saw the face that for an instant appeared at the opened 
 door, but Milly saw it, and saw too the death -frk« pale- 
 ness vying with her own, that in an instant succeeded to 
 the first look of anger and surprise. Carlo also re- 
 cognised his master, and tearing himself from Laura's 
 hold with a force that fairly upset her on the carpet, he 
 vanished through the partially opened door, and a 
 moment after his deep-mouthed bark was heard in the 
 passage, uttering his joy at being restored to his 
 master. 
 
 " Nasty, ungrateful beast !" exclaimed Laura, as Mr 
 
of woman's life. 657 
 
 Palmer assisted her to rise. " I don't know which is tho 
 worst behaved, him or his master ; see what a mess he's 
 made of my curls, that I had done so nicely. But oh 1 
 dear Milly, how dreadful pale you look, and only a few 
 minutes ago you had such a beautiful colour ; I was 
 thinking you wanted no rouge, though they say all siugers 
 and players do wear it. But what is the matter, dear? 
 Did the dog frighten you, rushing out ? if so, I shouldn't 
 have ventured to touch him, only I saw he was 
 affectionate to you, but I suppose he's been long used 
 to you ?" 
 
 Milly faintly replied, " Yes. " She was glad that the 
 young lady had taken this view of the subject, but Mr. 
 Palmer's significant, despondent look at Milly, as she 
 uttered the brief affirmative, did not escape Miss Laura, 
 and with a laugh she observed — 
 
 " Why, Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, one might fancy you wera 
 jealous of Milly's long acquaintance with Carlo — or his 
 master," she added in a lower voice, though sufficiently 
 audible to be understood by both. 
 
 Palmer bowed. 
 
 " I will not venture to dispute Miss Laura's penetra- 
 tion, " he observed. 
 
 " Well now, that's candid," returned the young lady, 
 laughing, "and I hope Milly will be grateful for the 
 declaration. I must say, however, I don't think you 
 have much reason to care about the master, Mr. Palmer," 
 she whispered in a tone of encouragement, " for it's 
 very plain he doesn't mean to renew the acquaintance- 
 ship, and I know if I was in Milly's place I'd soon let him 
 know — " 
 
 The entrance of one of the gentlemen of the orches- 
 tra, to announce that the appearance of Miss Shclburnc 
 
 4 p 
 
658 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 was waited for with great impatience, prevented the re 
 maming exposition of Miss Laura's tactics. Milly de- 
 clared her readiness to go immediately ; and the two 
 young ladies, hastily completing their toilette, were con • 
 ducted by the manager and the other gentleman to the 
 concert-room. 
 
 Milly' s first impulse had been to reject the offer of Mr. 
 Fitzroy Palmer's offered arm on her way ; hut besides 
 that she really felt the necessity of support to her 
 trembling frame, she feared the remonstrance of Laura 
 Martin, who was evidently watching her, and who, as it 
 seemed, had purposely left Mr. Palmer free, having taken 
 the other arm of the musical gentleman who had offered 
 to escort her sister. 
 
 Palmer, however, was too politic to increase Milly 's 
 agitation by addressing her on any but the most common- 
 place subjects, nor would he even let her see that he ob- 
 served the furtive glances she cast around the garden, from 
 time to time, on their way. The plaudits with which her 
 appearance was received, however, did not fail of their 
 due effect. Milly's cheeks gradually lost their paleness, 
 and though, as on her first appearance, for some moments 
 her voice was low and tremulous, the audience had 
 learned to attribute it to the natural nervous tremors of 
 a debutante, and sought to encourage her by redoubling 
 their applause ; and it succeeded. Milly was naturally 
 ambitious. She felt, too, that on her success now, de- 
 pended her being freed from the constant mortifications 
 she was enduring from her dependence on the Martins. 
 Anger and vexation at his contemptuous treatment were 
 gradually succeeding to the softer emotions with 
 which she had at first beheld St. Orme. She knew that 
 she had not deserved such treatment from him. It was 
 
of woman's life 659 
 
 the praises and encouragement that had first suggested 
 the course she had adopted, and it was his subsequent 
 silence and neglect that had compelled her to adopt the 
 rash step of leaving her home, and thus thrown her into 
 the course for which he now contemned her. No ; she 
 would think of him no more — she would return scorn 
 for scorn. He had chosen to renounce even the show of 
 taking an interest in her fate ; and, henceforth, she would 
 dismiss the feeling of deference to his opinion she had 
 hitherto in her heart encouraged, and proceed despe- 
 rately in the course she had commenced, even with the 
 certainty of being despised and renounced by him for 
 ever. Under the influence of these feelings, Milly again 
 became animated. Her eyes resumed their brilliancy, 
 her cheeks their glow, and her voice again soared into 
 " the heaven of sound." She excelled even her former 
 attempt; and the room resounded with thunders of ap- 
 plause. It was a matter of course, that a repetition of 
 her song should be demanded, and the fascinating smile 
 with which Milly came forward to comply, so unlike her 
 former shrinking downcast look, though it gave a less 
 intellectual expression to her beauty, increased the admi- 
 ration of the beholders, and the enthusiasm with which 
 she was received, was what would be called at the Opera, 
 a furore. Some minutes elapsed before silence could be 
 obtained ; but when once those sweet and powerful 
 sounds were heard, the most breathless and intense at- 
 tention succeeded, and Milly, roused into enthusiasm, 
 soared on the wings of harmony, even beyond her former 
 efforts. 
 
 " She sang 
 
 With notes angelical — and took with ravishment 
 
 The thronging audience." 
 
GGO SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Suddenly from a corner of the room which was thronged 
 even to suffocation, arose a perfect storm of dissonant 
 sounds. It was evident a party had there congregated 
 to oppose the singer, and loud hisses, cat-calls, and all 
 the various noises used on such occasions, burst upon 
 the astonished cars of those who had been but a moment 
 before 
 
 " lapp'd in Elysium 
 
 By the concord of sweet sounds." 
 Milly turned pale, and stood silent and doubtful how 
 to act ; but her friends had now recollected themselves, 
 and endeavoured, by loud applause and encouraging cries 
 of " Go on, go on," to stifle those of her enemies. But 
 in vain ; the moment her lips unclosed, the sounds they 
 would have breathed were again drowned by the most 
 determined sibilations ; and, terrified and astounded, the 
 poor girl turned to retreat behind the members of the 
 orchestra, who, with Mr. Fitzroy Palmer at their head, 
 had rushed forward to support her. Georgina and Laura 
 Martin, too, were instantly by her side, entreating her 
 not to be frightened, and insisting that she should not 
 be driven off by such a set of wretches, though far from 
 suspecting what Mr. Palmer's keen eye had already dis- 
 covered, that the opposing party were organized by Mr. 
 Briggs and the landlord of the "Harlequin," w T ho had 
 brought with them a troop of the lowest and most reck- 
 less of the frequenters of the latter establishment, 
 including the lady whom Milly had seen there, bearing 
 the appellation of Matilda, her female companions, and 
 last, but not the least, in importance both in his own 
 estimation and that of his party, Mr. Fitzgerald, who had 
 adopted this method not only of avenging himself upon 
 Miss Shelburnc for the disdainful manner in which she 
 
of woman's life. 601 
 
 hail rejected his plausible addresses, hut also of glutting his 
 vengeance upon Fitzroy Palmer for the hitter's contemp- 
 tuous exposure of him in the presence of his (Fitzgerald's) 
 friend and patron, the soi-disant Mr. Chester, on the 
 memorable night of their meeting in the bar-parlour of 
 the " Harlequin." A short whisper from Palmer ex- 
 plained to Milly who were the persons, as well as the cause 
 of the unexpected and disgraceful onslaught, and in thus 
 removing a suspicion — a most unworthy one, certainly — 
 that the opposition arose from a very different quarter, 
 restored in a great measure her courage and equani- 
 mity. She no longer attempted to retreat, though she 
 could not help trembling at the fierce contest that ensued 
 between her numerous supporters and the belligerent 
 party, who, in spite of the threatening cries of " Turn 
 them out," &c, and even the evident determination to 
 enforce the threat, persisted in their endeavours to over- 
 power Miss Sheiburne's friends by their deafening dis- 
 cordant noise, the females taking a conspicuous part by 
 standing up on a bench and shrieking ttt the top of their 
 voices ; while in front of the party, who had taken a de- 
 fensive position by closely congregating in a corner of 
 the room, appeared a new ally whom they themselves re- 
 garded with surprise as totally unknown to them, and 
 whose motives they could not even guess at, but whom 
 Milly and her friends (the Martins) recognised as the 
 man who had previously given them such annoyance by 
 following the sisters into the private room, and who now 
 revenged himself by bellowing, dancing, shouting, and 
 uttering such unnaturally hoarse and discordant sounds as 
 to excite a suspicion even among his temporary associates 
 that he was an absolute raving maniac, although they were 
 quite willing to avail themselves of his physical capabi- 
 
SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 lities to swell the riot by his noise, and interpose his 
 huge elephantine bulk as a barrier between them and 
 their opponents, in which latter class were comprehended 
 all the more intelligent and respectable in outward 
 appearance of the company. Mr. Briggs's adherents — 
 with the exception of his friend and coadjutor, the land- 
 lord of the "Harlequin," and their aristocratic patron, 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, who was as usual conspicuous by the 
 fashionable cut of his apparel and the variety and glitter 
 of his ornaments — being equally discreditable in their 
 dress and general appearance, which was of a totally 
 different character to that of the substantial and unpre- 
 tending persons who, for the most part friends, neigh- 
 bours, and inhabitants of the respectable, quiet, and 
 unsophisticated suburb, in which the St. Helena Tavern 
 and Gardens are situated, formed the majority of its 
 frequenters and supporters. 
 
 Totally unused to, and incapable of finding any en- 
 joyment in, the scene of riot and disturbance which Mr. 
 Briggs and his companions would, even if they had no 
 definite object in view, have delighted in foment- 
 ing and assisting to the utmost extent of their power, 
 under the denomination of " a precious lark " and 
 " glorious fun," phrases which were frequently bandied 
 from one to the other during their momentary cessation 
 from noise, occasioned by absolute exhaustion — sur- 
 prised, indeed, and scarcely able to believe in the possi- 
 bility of Such an unwarrantable and unprovoked attack 
 upon not only a gentle, modest, and unassuming female, 
 but one possessing also such undeniable and uncom- 
 mon recommendations to public favour as were now 
 presented to them in the personal beauty of face and 
 form, and the celestial voice and musical talents of Milly 
 
OF woman's life. G63 
 
 Phelburne, who had but just before put forth an addi- 
 tional claim to their favour and patronage by accompany- 
 ing herself in her lust song on the pianoforte, in a style 
 which many of her hearers could appreciate, though few 
 had ever before had an opportunity of hearing in a place 
 which had not then attained to such a degree of skill 
 and refinement in its musical entertainments, as at the 
 present day may be commonly met with at the St. 
 Helena concerts — the peaceable and respectable part of 
 the audience were for a considerable time completely 
 overwhelmed, and, to use a favourite expression of their 
 antagonists, over-crowed by the latter. In personal 
 courage, none of the former were inferior — perhaps much 
 superior — to Milly's enemies, though among Mr. Briggs's 
 particular friends, or, as he called them, his backers, were 
 two or three who claimed the honourable appellation of 
 pugilists or members of the sporting ring, then claiming 
 and supporting a much more important station in society 
 than is awarded them in these days of comparative en- 
 lightenment and refinement ; but though the supporters 
 of the injured and oppressed singer would not have 
 shrunk from using their prowess in her defence, if called 
 upon, they were, for the reasons before assigned — the 
 novelty, unpreparedness, and doubt as to the meaning of 
 such an attack, which with the other party were matters 
 of familiar occurrence — withheld from taking the obvious 
 course of expelling by force the unprincipled and worth- 
 less set of ruffians, who had come to the Gardens disposed 
 and determined to " go the whole hog," in their own 
 refined vocabulary, in aid of Perkins and Briggs, their 
 equally worthless, unprincipled, and far more designing 
 and deep-plotting leaders, who calculated on at once in- 
 flicting a mortal injury on the interests ul Titzrov 1'almer, 
 
664 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and totally ruining the future prospects of the innocent 
 and unoffending Milly Shelburue. 
 
 Aided by the almost supernatural power of the creature, 
 who hoped thus to revenge his recent exposure, in uttering 
 such diabolical bowlings, bellowings, and screechings as 
 might have been supposed to have emanated from the 
 throat of some extraordinary and hitherto unknown 
 wild animal, the riot proceeded, and Milly's temporary 
 courage gradually yielded before what appeared to be 
 actual personal danger to herself and her friends, and 
 most of all to Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, whose attempts to 
 address the rioters were defeated by their frenzied hoot- 
 ings and hissings especially directed against him by Mr. 
 Fitzgerald, who — unlike Briggs, who shielded himself as 
 much as he possibly could — either behind the superior 
 bulk of many of his assistants, or by keeping in the midst 
 of the crowd — pressed forward, using the most threatening 
 gestures and uttering insulting expressions — expres- 
 sions which though only partly intelligible, owing to the 
 senseless fury of his companions, evidently related to 
 some former transaction between them, in which he 
 (Fitzgerald) considered himself, or pretended to have 
 been, aggrieved, and which seemed almost to frenzy 
 Palmer from the impossibility of his procuring a hearing, 
 and thus probably vindicating himself from the accusa- 
 tions, whatever they were, that the former brought 
 against him. Unable to comprehend the cause of the 
 extraordinary change she beheld in the countenance of 
 her principal champion or defender, Milly became 
 every moment more and' more terrified, from the convic- 
 tion that it was the apprehension of an assault by this 
 band of ruffians that produced the manager's unnatural 
 paleness. She had already, at intervals, caught several 
 
op woman's life. GG5 
 
 most insulting expressions addressed to the Martins, who 
 liud evidently attracted particular observation by the 
 extreme splendour, or rather showiness of their dresses, 
 as well as the undisguised scorn and defiance of their 
 looks as they came boldly forward on the stage or 
 orchestra, trusting in their imaginary consequence and 
 superiority over the rest of the company to awe the " low 
 wretches/' as they loudly styled them, and thus to pro- 
 tect Milly, who they insisted " should not be driven off, 
 but should show them, by keeping her station, that she 
 was not to be put down by such creatures." Their re- 
 peated exclamations for " Papa," whose authority 
 they from habit considered invincible, and whom they 
 kept entreating those around them might be sent for, had 
 been overheard by the assailing party, and " Send for 
 Pa," " Where's Pa," " Eun and fetch Pa," and, no doubt 
 suggested by Briggs and Perkins, the only ones who 
 knew Mr. Martin's occupation, " Tell Pa to bring his 
 pole-axe, and his knife and steel, to knock the black- 
 guards down and cut their throats," were shouted out in 
 all imaginable tones of mockery and ridicule at the 
 simple girls, who, determined to show they were not to 
 be daunted, retorted by frowning defiance upon the 
 crowd, which, though in reality laughing at their petty 
 airs and consequence, more than resenting it, appeared 
 in such a formidable light to Milly, for their sakes more 
 than her own, that in an agony of terror, and clasping 
 her hands, an attitude that was habitual to her when 
 suffering from alarm, she implored Mr. Palmer to per- 
 suade her young friends to leave the place with her im- 
 mediately. The manager, however, did not enter into her 
 feelings ; probably because he knew that her feelings, and 
 her ignorance of the real character and motives of their as- 
 
6'6G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 sailants, exaggerated the danger, or rather that there 
 existed no real danger of any personal violence, 
 especially towards the females. He knew, indeed, 
 that women have seldom any reason to fear for 
 themselves among the most riotous assemhly of 
 Englishmen. Be it as it may, he turned a deaf car to 
 Milly's impassioned entreaties, and even tried to laugh 
 her out of her terror, and recommended her to emulate the 
 courage of the Miss Martins, who seemed hent 
 rather on adding to the irritation of their enemies hy 
 their scornful and contemptuous looks and their attitude 
 of bold defiance, than of making any attempt to conciliate 
 them. But there was an eye that beheld, a heart that com- 
 passionated, Milly Shelburne's evident suffering, and saw 
 also with more indignation than it deserved, the air of levity 
 and assumed nonchalance with which Mr. Fitzroy Pal- 
 mer turned away from her imploring looks and entreaties. 
 " Unfeeling wretch!" muttered St. Orme through his 
 clenched teeth, for he it was, who, having secured his dog 
 from betraying his presence there, had returned to listen 
 to that voice which still retained its power over him, and 
 bad, contrary to his intention, been induced to enter the 
 room, though still avoiding Milly's sight, at the first sound 
 of the opposition raised against her, though totally 
 ignorant of its source, and, in fact, attributing it to some 
 professional jealousy — ihe friends of some established 
 favourites attempting to put her down, as he knew wa3 
 not uncommon at public places of much greater emi- 
 nence than the "St. Helena." Concealing himself from 
 Milly's sight as much as possible in the crowd, St. 
 Orme had hitherto contented himself by seconding with all 
 liirf power the efforts of her friends in opposing the low un- 
 manly intruders with whom he felt completely disgusted, 
 and whom he began to suspect were actuated by some 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 667 
 
 deeper motive than he could comprehend ; and especially 
 did that suspicion apply to Fitzgerald, Briggs, and Per- 
 kins, -who he soon discovered were the organisers — or 
 rather ringleaders — of the plot against Milly, and who he 
 learned likewise were total strangers to all the respect- 
 able and regular visitors, who were unanimously the 
 friends of the new singer, though totally unaccustomed to 
 such scenes, and unable to comprehend the motives or 
 final purposes of the rioters, they suffered themselves for 
 a time to be almost overpowered by them. St. Orme's 
 attention, however, was so entirely engrossed by Milly's 
 changing and terrified countenance that he longed to fly 
 to her relief, and when at length he beheld her unsuccess- 
 ful appeal to Mr. Palmer, and beheld the latter turn away 
 from her with what he interpreted to be a heartless, un- 
 feeling denial of her prayer, his indignation produced the 
 exclamation we have already recorded. It was at this 
 moment that the uproar, which had for a short time sub- 
 sided, evidently from anxiety on the part of the leaders to 
 comprehend the purport of Miss Sbelburne's address to the 
 manager, received a fresh impulse from the man who had 
 voluntarily joined their party, discovering anewmeans of 
 annoyance by commencing Milly's last song in what he in- 
 tended to be an imitation of her style, shrieking, growl- 
 ing, and quavering, extending his arms and standing on 
 one leg while he flourished the other in the air, and 
 shaking it in unison with the notes he uttered, keeping 
 at the same time his blood-shot, protuberant eyes 
 fixed on the object of his ridicule with the most in- 
 sulting and disgusting exj)ression, and then appealing to 
 those around him whether " he didn't come it capitally, 
 and beat out-and-out the new singer?" an appeal which 
 was received with shouts of laughter, applause, and erica 
 
008 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 of " Go it old fellow ; " Tip us another stave," &c, &c. ; 
 until St. Orme, irritated beyond further endurance, and 
 totally forgetful of all personal risk, and especially 
 enraged at the encouragement he saw Mr. Fitzgerald was 
 giving to this unmanly attack, rushed through the crowd, 
 who unwillingly made way for him, and seizing both of 
 them by their respective collars, exerted his whole 
 strength to drag them both out of the room, shaking 
 them both with such violence as to deprive them of 
 all recollection or power of resistance. Surprise, it ap- 
 peared, at this bold attack, kept every one in breathless 
 silence for some moments, but Milly's friends discovering 
 the motive, fell back to allow the stranger to achieve it, 
 and then closed behind so as to prevent any of the 
 rioters coming forward to the assistance of their friends 
 if they were so inclined, which, however, it must be con- 
 fessed, they showed no inclination to do. St. Orme, 
 therefore, succeeded in his purpose of getting them to 
 the door, and there stretching his arms apart so as to 
 separate the two friends to the very widest extent, he 
 brought them together again with a sudden crash, so that 
 as he loosed his hold at the same instant they went 
 tumbling one over the other, finishing by both 
 rolling down the two or three broad stone steps on to the 
 gravel walk in front, where they lay uttering cries of 
 " murder, " amidst peals of laughter and huzzas 
 from the party they had so long annoyed, and who, as if 
 they, had only waited for some one to guide and give 
 them the impulse, now commenced a regular attack 
 upon Briggs, Perkins, and the rest, uttering loud cries of 
 " Out with them," " Turn them out, the vagabonds," 
 " They are a set of pickpockets," and other opprobrious 
 epithets, which were loudly enforced by Mr. Palmer, and 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 
 
 the members of his company from the orchestra. St. 
 Orme, however, satisfied with the part he had performed, 
 thought no longer of anything hut of rescuing Milly from 
 this scene of violence and confusion, and without notic- 
 ing Palmer, who was indeed entirely engrossed in shout- 
 ing out accusations against, and trying to inflame the 
 crowd and encourage the attack upon Briggs and hi 3 
 associates, whom he represented in the blackest colours, 
 and whose disappointed malice against the young lady, 
 the debutante of the evening, " whose patronage," he said, 
 conferred such honour while it proved the taste and dis- 
 crimination of her friends, all arose from her having been 
 rescued from an infamous plot laid by the former 
 (Briggs), which, without any fault on her part, but 
 from her innocence and inexperience, would have 
 plunged her into irretrievable ruin and misery." 
 
 What was the construction put upon this story — ■ 
 certainly not altogether without foundation — by those 
 who were near enough to hear it amidst the noise and 
 confusion that prevailed, could only be judged by its 
 effects ; but certainly they were such as must have highly 
 gratified Mr. Palmer, since it enlisted in the cause of 
 Miss Shelburne even the few who had hitherto remained 
 neutral, but who now joined with all their heart and 
 strength in the determination to expel the offending 
 party. It was in vain that Briggs — who was conscious 
 he had lost his chief and most plausible orator in the per- 
 son of Fitzgerald — tried to gain an opportunity of 
 replying to the accusations of the rival manager — only a 
 part of which, by the bye, had reached his ear. The 
 cause of injured innocence — the artful insinuations of 
 Palmer, that Briggs and his companions were the vile 
 instruments employed by one of much higher station, 
 
070 STTADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 who hnd paid them to effect the ruin of the artless, 
 inexperienced girl, who had been, so fortunately for her 
 self, rescued from their hands — and which he (Palmer) 
 probably in part believed to be true — steeled every heart 
 against the former, and amid deafening shouts and ex- 
 pressions of contempt at their conduct — "such," as Mr. 
 Palmer cleverly observed, " such utterly un-English, as well 
 as unmanly conduct, which must unite against them every 
 father, husband, and lover, as well as every delicate and 
 generous female, who had beheld that night the intended 
 victim." In the midst of this, Briggs and his party were 
 compelled to give way and retreat through the nearest 
 doors and windows, glad to escape the fate of their com- 
 panions, Fitzgerald and " the ton of blubber" — an 
 epithet which had already attached itself to the creature 
 who had voluntarily espoused the cause of Milly's 
 enemies — both of whom had been completely disabled 
 from taking any share in this closing scene by St. 
 Orme's punishment of them. Fitzgerald, indeed, had 
 suffered more severely than his companion, though the 
 latter had distinguished himself by his outcries; but 
 the impetus St. Orme gave to the heavy weight of " the 
 ton,'' had, as was afterwards laughingly remarked, gone 
 nigh to crush every bone in the skin of the fragile, dapper 
 little gentleman, who, fortunately for himself, had just 
 contrived, with the assistance of one or two waiters, to 
 hobble away in time to avoid collision with Briggs, 
 Perkins, and the others, who in their disorderly rush out of 
 the concert-room would in all probability have come 
 tumbling over him and completed his annihilation, a fate 
 which his big companion likewise escaped by literally 
 rolling himself out of the path for some twenty or thirty 
 yards, and taking shelter under a tabic, where he lay 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. G7I 
 
 groaning and crying " that he was beat and bruised to 
 a jelly, and must lie there and die, if they didn't take 
 some means of getting him home ;" a request which was 
 at once complied with, when the noise and confusion had 
 subsided by the utter retreat of Briggs and his discomfited 
 party, by placing him on a large barrow borrowed for the 
 occasion, in which he was wheeled away, accompanied by 
 a crowd of boys and idlers, who, from the moment he 
 passed the gates, continued to deride his groans and exe- 
 crations, which they supposed to arise from intoxication, 
 by loud peals of laughter and huzzas. 
 
 And where was Milly during this closing scene of her 
 persecutors ? We have already said that St. Orme, for- 
 getful of everything but the suffering betrayed in her 
 countenance, and disregarding all around, approached 
 her as she stood trembling on the stage. 
 
 " Is it your wish to remain in this disgraceful scene, 
 Miss Shelburne," he demanded, but in a tone so cold — so 
 unlike the accents in which he had been used to address 
 her — that Milly almost started. She tried, however, to 
 repress all sign of the emotion with which she was about 
 to receive him, as she replied — 
 
 " Oh ! no, indeed it is not, but my friends ;" and she 
 looked around to the Martins, who were pressing close 
 to Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, to hear, and, if opportunity 
 offered, to enforce his harangue. 
 
 "Friends!" he repeated contemptuously, as Milly 
 hesitated. " Pardon me, those who detain you here are 
 little deserving such a title. Will you allow me to 
 conduct you from it to some place," he hastily added, 
 as if fearful she might mistake his meaning and reject 
 his offer, " where I can leave you protected from further 
 annoyance, until those you call your friends think proper 
 to rejoin you ?" 
 
672 BHAWB AND SUNSniNE 
 
 Gladly as Milly would a few minutes before havo 
 accepted any proposal to escape from her present position, 
 her pride, her feelings, now overpowered even her alarm, 
 and half withdrawing the trembling arm which he was in 
 the act of placing within his, her tremulous lips unclosed 
 to decline his offer, and declare her intention to remain 
 with the persons he so greatly contemned, when a sudden 
 increase of the noise, and a rush from the opposing 
 parties towards the stage, that made even the bold sisters 
 — the Miss Martins — for a moment fall back, as if in fear 
 of personal violence, recalled all Milly's terror, and she 
 loudly besought them to leave the place with her. 
 
 " Nonsense ; you are quite ridiculous with your 
 foolish fright," replied Georgina, who evidently did not 
 observe St. Orme. "Papa will be here in a minute for 
 one ol the gentlemen *s gone to fetch him." 
 
 "Yes, " added her sister eagerly, " we shall beat the 
 wretches, so keep your place, Milly. Pa '11 never forgive 
 you if you give up now, after all we've done for you, 
 and — " 
 
 Milly did not hear the conclusion of this speech, for the 
 youug ladies again pressed forward — Laura taking the 
 arm of Mr. Palmer, which she had momentarily relin- 
 quished. The poor girl felt a momentary blush suffuse 
 her cheek, as her eye encountered that of St. Orme. 
 The blush was occasioned by the tone in winch Miss 
 Martin had uttered her command, rather than remon- 
 strance, but St. Orme attributed it to a very different cause, 
 namely — the familiar action of the young lady towards 
 Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, who, it will be remembered, had been 
 represented by the same young lady as Miss Shelburne's 
 accepted lover. 
 
 Whatever were their respective feelings, Milly no 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. I'»7.'3 
 
 Milly no longer opposed St. Orrne's attempt to withdraw 
 her from the spot. She suffered him, indeed, to draw 
 her arm more within his, and to lead her away in silence. 
 But Milly's was not a disposition to remain silent- — thus 
 bound by what would be considered the rules of propriety. 
 She knew that she did not deserve to be treated with this 
 unnatural coldness by Mr. St. Orme. She had perhaps 
 acted imprudently in the outset, but in her heart she felt 
 that it was he (St. Orme) who had first suggested the 
 ideas on which she had acted. She recalled at that mo- 
 ment the strong opposition — the indignation — with which 
 he had heard her grandfather's plan of engaging her as a 
 common servant — and if, after what he had said on that 
 occasion, after his declaration " that it would be an abso- 
 lute sin thus to bury such talents as she possessed, after 
 the pains he had taken to improve those talents, the 
 hopes he had suggested of their proving the basis of not 
 only independence, but of fame and fortune," she had 
 tamely submitted to the old man's revived proposal, and 
 had become the still-room maid at Lady Basford's — then, 
 indeed, he might have been excused for treating he~ 
 with contempt. As it was, he had no right to do so ; an^ 
 Milly determined to tell him so. She would hear from 
 his own lips the arguments by which he could prove her 
 no longer deserving of the kindness and confidence with 
 which he had formerly treated her. Ever prompt to act 
 upon the immediate impulse, Milly suddenly stopped, 
 before they had reached the more retired part of the 
 house to which he was proceeding. 
 
 " You are greatly altered, Mr. St. Orme," she ob- 
 served — looking up in his face with that clear, truthfu 
 look that was a distinguishing trait in her beautili 
 
 countenance — " I do not mean so much in person, ' sh 
 
 4 R 
 
074 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 continued, " that is an improvement, but in manner. I wish 
 I could say so in other respects, but, as we may not have an 
 opportunity again of conversing, I would wish to take ad- 
 vantage of this, to inquire what reason you have for treat- 
 ing me so differently to what you were used, when — " 
 
 " Do not speak of that time, Milly," he replied, pas- 
 sionately. "Do not recall what you were then, to madden 
 me by the comparison with the present." 
 
 "And why the present, Mr. St. Orme? Why am I 
 less entitled to your respect and kindness now than then ? 
 Because I have acted upon what you yourself sug- 
 gested, and was in the first instance deceived by those 
 who took advantage of my inexperience. No, Sir, my . 
 conscience tells me that it is not I that am to blame, but 
 those who, having first encouraged me with the prospect of 
 fortune and independence, left me unguided and un- 
 protected, to fall a victim to the first specious villain that — " 
 St. Orme seemed struck with astonishment at the 
 courage with which she pleaded her own cause. 
 
 " What am I to think of this, Milly ?" he observed,' 
 " I know nothing of the circumstances to which you 
 allude ; nothing of your proceedings, but that having 
 clandestinely quitted your home — the peaceful home 
 of your grandfather and grandmother — and having 
 pretended, by the letter you left, to mislead them with 
 the pretence that you were going to London to put your- 
 self under the protection of your mother. I find on my 
 arrival here that your mother knows nothing of your 
 proceedings — has never seen you ?" 
 
 * Have you then seen my mother ?" demanded Milly, 
 in extreme surprise. " Oh ! how fortunate this is. You 
 can tell me where she is. My dear mother, I shall see 
 her once more !" and she burst into tears of joy. 
 
of woman's life. 675 
 
 "What am I to think of this?" observed St. Orme. 
 " Why, if you were so anxious to see her, do I find 
 you here, acting in total independence of her, and having, 
 it appears, formed a connexion that ? — but pardon me, I 
 have no right to interfere ; I — " 
 
 " You have every right," interrupted Milly, who, 
 however, knew not to what he particularly alluded, which 
 was, in fact, to the misrepresentation of the Miss Martins 
 — that Mr. Fitzroy Palmer was the accepted lover of 
 Miss Shelbume, whose conduct altogether — and more 
 especially towards them, her only respectable friends, 
 and to whom she was deeply indebted — they had repre- 
 sented in a most unfavourable light. 
 
 " You have every right, Mr. St. Orme," repeated 
 Milly, "if there was any meaning in your former pro- 
 fessions of friendship and interest in my welfare. But 
 forgive me. Tell me of my mother : you have seen her, 
 and you can tell me where to find her. Oh, how I long 
 to fly to her, for only from her can I hope to find a re- 
 fuge from . Why do you look so concerned, Mr. 
 
 St Orme ? Surely my mother does not condemn me 
 unheard, for my seeming neglect and falsehood ? But 
 no matter ; I can easily prove to her that I have not 
 voluntarily kept away from her — that I have been bitterly 
 punished for an act of simple folly and forgetfulness." . 
 
 St. Orme's looks had gradually cleared. He could 
 not doubt the tone of candour and truth, nor its corres- 
 ponding expression in the beautiful countenance that 
 seemed to invite rather than shrink from his investigation. 
 They had re-entered the parlour which had been appro- 
 priated for the private accommodation of the ladies and 
 of the ladies of Mr. Fitzroy Palmers party. Milly's 
 first care was to procure from her companion her mother's 
 address in Stanhope Street, near Drury Lane. 
 
G7G SHADE AND SDNSHINE 
 
 " Strange that I should have so entirely forgotten 
 what was so much my interest to remember," she observed, 
 looking up at St. Orme as she finished writing it. " Yet 
 I did remember that it was in the neighbourhood of the 
 Theatre, and I cannot but believe they purposely con- 
 cealed it; but there is something you have to tell me, Mr. 
 St. Orme," she added, struck by the look of pity with 
 which he regarded her, " My poor mother, tell me, I beg 
 ot you — " 
 
 " Your mother, I am sorry to tell you, is in a bad state 
 of health, Milly," he replied, in a tone much more tender 
 than he had before used towards her. " It will indeed be 
 a source of great consolation to her to see you, and 
 especially to find, as your words lead me to hope, and 
 indeed believe," he added, after a moment's hesitation, 
 " that you have not voluntarily neglected her." 
 
 " Oh ! could she think it?" murmured Milly through 
 her tears. " But I will go to her, I will hasten to un- 
 deceive her as soon as possible. To-night," she added, 
 doubtfully looking at him, as if to ask Iris advice. 
 
 " To-night — it will be too late ; but let me advise you 
 not to delay a moment longer than is absolutely neces- 
 sary," replied St. Orme, gravely. " I must not conceal 
 from you that Mrs. Morison is fast declining, and that 
 she needs every consolation, both mentally and bodily, it 
 is in your power to bestow. You know, I suppose," he 
 continued, " something of the character of the man whom 
 she has the misfortune to call her husband." 
 
 Milly tried to reply — " That the little she knew of Mr. 
 Morison was not to his advantage," but her voice was 
 choked with tears, and St. Orme proceeded to say — " That 
 what he had seen or heard of the man, convinced him his 
 poor wife received little attention or consolation from her 
 
OF WOMAN S I.1FK. G77 
 
 unworthy hushand. What this man could or did know 
 of your situation since you left home, Milly," continued 
 Mr. St. Orme, regarding her with a searching look, " I 
 cannot pretend to tell. I trust, however, whatever might 
 begins motives for misrepresenting it to his unfortunate 
 wife, that it was a misrepresentation, and that you will be 
 able to relieve her heart from the load of misery and re- 
 morse she is suffering on your account." 
 
 " Would to Heaven I could as easily relieve her from 
 every sorrow, as I can from any on my account," returned 
 Milly with energy. " At least I can prove to her that I 
 am, as I said before, innocent of all but rashness, and a 
 too trusting confidence in the good intentions of others. 
 I have been unfortunate, Mr. St. Orme, it is true, but 
 my heart acquits me of a single act or intention for 
 which I need blush." 
 
 8t. Orme's fine eyes were bent upon her with a look 
 of admiration and delight that made hers seek the 
 ground, but at the same time sent a thrill of pleasure 
 through her heart. 
 
 "If it will not trespass too much on your time," she 
 gently observed, " I will relate to you the circumstances 
 that have occurred from the time of leaving Beauvale." 
 
 "Tell me first, dear Milly"— Oh ! how those words 
 increased the throbbing of her heart. St. Orme was 
 once again himself ; once more the reality of that trea- 
 sured image she had in secret worshipped. All coldness, 
 suspicion, and distrust had vanished before the all-pre- 
 vailing accents of truth, and she was again his " dear 
 Milly," though as yet he had not heard a single sentence 
 of her promised vindication. 
 
 "Tell me first, dear Milly," he repeated, drawing duse 
 to her, and taking her hand in his, "what were the 
 
678 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 circumstances of your leaving the Abbey ? Your grand- 
 mother, when I visited it the very day after you left it, was 
 confined to her room in consequence of having sprained her 
 ancle, and the old man, who had just returned from Lady 
 Basford's, I understood, in addition to his usual obstinacy 
 and slowness of comprehension, had been drinking too 
 much ale with her ladyship's steward to be in a state to 
 give me any clear explanation on the subject." 
 
 " Nothing, indeed, but my previous knowledge of his 
 character, and sympathy in the cause of his suffering from 
 your absence, Milly ; for he was suffering, I saw, though 
 he tried to conceal it, by, I may say, abusing you, and 
 prognosticating all sorts of ruin as the consequences of 
 the step you had taken. Nothing, I say, but this enabled 
 me to hear without resentment, the incoherent reproaches 
 and unjust accusations with which he loaded me, accusing 
 me, indeed, at one minute of having driven you from homo 
 by my cruel desertion of you, and the next declaring his 
 conviction that I was privy to your intention — had planned 
 the whole and knew very well where you were at that very 
 minute. It was only by bearing with all this quietly, and 
 soothing and manoeuvring alternately, that I at last con- 
 trived to learn that you had expressed your intention of 
 going direct to your mother, and to get her address, which 
 was, in fact, all that I wanted, to enable me to follow you 
 without delay ; and I therefore quitted Beauvale the next 
 morning, without seeing him again, but not without a, 
 message from the poor old woman, brought by a neigh- 
 bour, who was attending her, very unnecessarily implor- 
 ing me to forgive her poor old man, who was quite beside 
 himself at the loss of his grand child, and begging my 
 protection for poor Milly, if I should meet her in 
 London, where the old woman had heard I was going." 
 
of woman's life. G79 
 
 "I contrived," added St. Orrne, smiling, "to set the 
 poor old dame's heart at rest on both points, but did not 
 succeed in getting any further information about you, for 
 before the man returned with an answer to my questions, 
 the stage coach arrived at the Abbey Amis Inn, where I had 
 slept to avoid inconveniencing the old people at the 
 Abbey, and of course I departed by it immediately. 
 And now I am ready, dear Milly, to hear your version 
 of the story, which, I doubt not, will prove very different 
 to old Richard's." 
 
 Milly, for the first time since they had met, felt em- 
 barrassed. She felt that to give a full and clear explana- 
 tion of the feelings that, even more than circumstances, 
 had operated to produce her resolution of quitting the 
 Abbey, would be to betray to him that of which femi- 
 nine delicacy prompts the concealment ; and though, in 
 her explanation, she avoided as much as possible, hint- 
 ing that his silence and apparent total forgetfulness had 
 assisted to produce her determination of embarking at 
 once in pursuit of the means of living without submit- 
 ting to the galling fetters of servitude, which her grand- 
 father became but the more determined in favour of, the 
 more he found it opposed by her and her grandmother, 
 a result which is sure to follow wherever women were 
 concerned, as Milly, with some approach to her natural 
 archness, observed, Richard holding the understanding 
 o£ women in supreme contempt, and more especially 
 those belonging to his own family. But, although she 
 fancied her secret motives thus effectually concealed from 
 her attentive auditor, the deep blush that, from time to 
 time, suffused her cheek — the suddenly downcast eye 
 and hesitating accent, when speaking of the different 
 motives that, even more than her grandfather's obstiuate 
 
<'' s " SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 adherence to his plan of making a servant of her, had 
 induced her to form the perhaps rash resolution of leav- 
 ing Beauvale, all tended to awaken the suspicion in St. 
 Orme's mind, that there was still something hidden from 
 him. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered that she had made no allu- 
 sion to himself or the promises that had been made be- 
 tween them on the the eve of their parting at the Abbey, 
 and gently he hinted his surprise that she had not kept 
 her part of the engagement by, at least, informing him 
 of her intention. 
 
 " How could I possibly do so ? " observed Milly, 
 " when I knew not where to address you." 
 
 " But my letter pointed out the mode by which you 
 could communicate with me, in case of necessity, though 
 it might be some time before it might reach me, from the 
 uncertainty of my uncle's residence ; and — " 
 
 " Your letter ?" repeated Milly, starting, and her eyes 
 beaming with expectation. 
 
 "Yes; the letter I enclosed in one to your grand- 
 father, which contained some directions from my uncle 
 to his old and valued domestic. I took the opportunity 
 to enter into a full explanation of my situation ; my 
 dependance on Sir Orlando, and other circumstances, 
 that — " 
 
 Milly held out her hand to him, with an expression of 
 the utmost cordiality and esteem. She could scarcely 
 restrain the tears that trembled beneath her long eye- 
 lashes, betraying the warmth of her feelings at the dis- 
 covery she had made. 
 
 " Forgive me, my dear friend," she exclaimed, "for- 
 give me for the involuntary wrong I have done you. 
 That letter never reached me. What my grandfather's 
 
of woman's life. GSl 
 
 motives were for suppressing it, I cannot even guess. 
 Undoubtedly they were such as, he thought, excused him 
 for his breach of faith in suppressing it ; but, oh ! from 
 what trouble and suffering should I have been saved had 
 I known that you still interested yourself in my welfare. 
 Well do I remember the old man coming home with the 
 news that he had heard of, and from, Sir Orlando, and 
 some additional men being set to work in the gardens in 
 consequence, but he carefully guarded the secret that he 
 had received any letter, and pretended to have had from 
 the steward the instructions on which he acted, though 
 he saw and knew how bitterly I was suffering under the 
 
 conviction that you had ." Milly suppressed the 
 
 word deserted, which she was about to use, and, blushing 
 still more deeply, continued — " that you had ceased to 
 care about what became of me — that you had repented 
 having encouraged me to entertain more ambitious views 
 than those of my other friends, and had left me without 
 any attempt to save me from the mean grovelling fate 
 which the old man thought so desirable, and from which 
 it seemed I had scarcely now a hope of escaping. Oh ! 
 if I had but known — if I had had but a word of yours 
 to direct and guide me — " 
 
 " And it is now too late ! Is it so, Milly ?" returned 
 St. Orme, who had listened to her frank, unaffected 
 confession with undisguised admiration, but whose look 
 and manner suddenly changed, from, as it appeared, a re- 
 collection that entirely clouded the happiness he would 
 have otherwise felt. 
 
 " Why should it be too late ? " was the question Milly V 
 heart suggested, though her truly feminine delicacy re- 
 pressed the utterance of it. Was, then, St. Onne so 
 
 fastidious ? Was his deference to appcarauce so power- 
 
 4 S 
 
C82 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 fill that the mere circumstance of her being, by necessity, 
 or rather an unfortunate concatenation of circumstances, 
 which had placed her in n situation that he thought de- 
 grading—so she had been led to believe by the misrepre- 
 sentation of Georgina and Laura — was this, for which she 
 was in reality rather to be applauded than blamed, to 
 render their present meeting of no avail, and at once 
 obliterate all ties between them ? How else could she 
 understand his expression of " too late ?" uttered, too, 
 as it was, with a look and accent of intense regret, almost, 
 it might have been said, of despair. 
 
 Milly remained for some moments silent, unable to 
 frame an answer to his question that was satisfactory to 
 her own feelings ; and St. Orme, with a deep sigh, re- 
 linquished tbe trembling hand he had till then held, as 
 if he were unwilling to press her further on so, at least 
 to him, painful a theme. 
 
 In this state of mutual misunderstanding they re 
 mained for some minutes, each avoiding the looks of the 
 other; but Milly felt the necessity oi breaking the (to 
 her) embarrassing silence. 
 
 "I had forgotten for a moment that I was relating to 
 you the circumstances that have occurred since — " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, proceed — pray, proceed," returned St. 
 Orme, resuming the cold tone and manner which had so 
 annoyed and excited her at the first of their meeting. 
 
 Milly gazed at him as then with surprise, but her pride 
 was now more tban ever wounded. She had now no 
 longer a hope or expectation that he could, as before, 
 vindicate himself from the charge her heart had suggested, 
 that his was changed, and she determined, if possible, to 
 imitate him in the assumption of no?ichalance and in- 
 difference. In the detail, therefore, which she made as 
 
of woman's life. G83 
 
 brief as possible, of all that had occurred since her 
 arrival in London, she avoided the slightest reference to 
 her own feelings, telling only the plain facts, and leaving 
 to him to comment both on the conduct and characters 
 of the persons she had met -with. 
 
 St. Orme, however, soon proved he did not deserve the 
 charge of indifference to her welfare, as Ins fine face 
 glowed with indignation, and correspondent expressions 
 of rage and contempt broke from his lips, at the conduct 
 of Briggs and his associates towards her. 
 
 Motives of delicacy induced Molly to pass as slightly 
 as possible over the scenes in which the soi-disant Mr. 
 Chester, and his friend Fitzgerald had been the principal 
 actors, but her — no longer even in appearance uninterested 
 auditor — easily penetrated the veil she cast over these 
 proceedings, and deep, if not loud, were the execrations 
 he bestowed on the titled libertine and his mean-spirited 
 instrument, while he trembled at the dangers that had 
 surrounded the innocent and inexperienced girl, thus 
 helpless and unprotected, exposed to the machinations of 
 such wretches, as he designated the landlord of the 
 ** Harlequin " and his unprincipled wife, on whom espe- 
 cially he vented such maledictions, thatMilly, forgetting 
 her assumed reserve, endeavoured to check him by placing 
 her little white hand on his lips. 
 
 Suddenly that hand was seized and covered with 
 kisses, that were scarcely repulsed by the confused, but 
 secretly delighted girl, who recognised in his impulse 
 a certain proof that, whatever might have been the motive 
 for its assumption, there was no reality in the coldness 
 that had so surprised and offended her. In the midst of 
 the confusion this had occasioned, Milly resumed her 
 btory, but the moment she mentioned the name of Fitzroy 
 
C84 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Palmer, St. Orrae's manner attain changed, and his atten- 
 tion hecame rivetted to her face, while his keen penetra- 
 ting eye seemed as if it would read her very heart. Totally 
 unconscious of his helief that Palmer was regarded by 
 her as an accepted, privileged lover, Milly proceeded, 
 without any embarrassment, to speak of him exactly as he 
 appeared to her, avowing, without any reserve, her obliga- 
 tion for his generous offers of assistance, and, in fact, 
 concealing nothing but his recent tender of his hand and 
 her decided refusal, which she would have considered it 
 ungrateful on her part to expose. 
 
 " And is this all. Milly ?" demanded St. Orme, with 
 that piercing look which had before surprised, without 
 however confusing her, conscious as she was that there 
 was not a single point regarding her own conduct that 
 she was desirous, or need wish to conceal from him. 
 
 "Is this all that you think it necessary to reveal to 
 me respecting this man ? Do you think my opinion of 
 him of so little consequence, or are you so perfectly 
 satisfied with your own, of a man of whom it is plain you 
 know nothing but from his own representations and the 
 conversation of a few hours ? Pardon me, if I say that I 
 fear you are acting with precipitancy — that you ought 
 not to suffer yourself to be led away by certainly plausi- 
 ble appearances, that it is unlike your usual delicacy of 
 feeling to admit the pretensions of a man whose situation 
 in life, if it were nothing else — should induce you to be 
 cautious — more cautious, indeed, than if he were 
 anything but belonging to a profession that — " 
 
 "But what can I do, Mr. St. Orme?" returned Milly, 
 seeing him hesitate, and looking up in his face with her 
 usual frank, ingenuous look. "Situated as I am," she 
 continued, I can scarcely venture to hope that I can 
 
Of WOMAN S LIFE. G85 
 
 act independently of my friends. The Miss Martins 
 think an engagement with Mr. Palmer ought fully to 
 satisfy my ambition, and if I were to oppose them without 
 being able to give any substantial reason for so doing, 
 they would — " 
 
 '* Merciful Heaven, Milly ! can you thus coolly speak 
 of sacrificing yourself to a man who it is evident you re- 
 gard with indifference, or at least — No, it is impossible, I 
 will not believe you so disingenuous. You cannot, I am 
 sure you cannot, deceive yourself into the belief that you 
 love this man — this acquaintance of a few short hours ?" 
 "Love!" repeated Milly, her face expressing the 
 excess of her astonishment, " love, Mr. St. Orme ! What 
 strange misunderstanding is this ? Could you for a 
 moment suppose that love had any share in the engage- 
 ment I spoke of with Mr. Palmer ? You must indeed 
 strangely misconstrue my character to suppose me 
 capable of — No, Sir, I spoke only of a professional 
 engagement ; I have not, never shall, contemplate 
 any other — and least of all with Mr. Palmer ; nor does 
 he, I am very certain, believe that I shall ever look upon 
 him in any other light." 
 
 " Oh ! what a load have you taken from my heart, dear 
 girl ! " exclaimed St. Orme, joy sparkling in his eyes and 
 animating his voice. Milly, however, affected not to un- 
 derstand the source of this sudden alteration. To pretend 
 ignorance, is one of those conventional artifices which 
 even the frankest and most sincere among youthful fe- 
 males — and such was Milly Shelburne — consider them- 
 selves bound to practice on such an occasion; and although 
 her heart throbbed with pleasure at his unequivocal de- 
 claration, and her eyes sought the ground beneath St. 
 Orme's ardent, passionate gaze, she tried to maintain the 
 
C8G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 appearance of tranquillity, and to make it appear that sho 
 believed his elation arose from the discovery that she waa 
 not bound by any agreement to Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, 
 but was free to accept any more advantageous offer. 
 
 St. Orme, however, suffered her not long to retain this 
 appearance of ignorance of his motives ; in the plainest 
 and most unmistakable terms he avowed his love for her, 
 and described the misery he had suffered from the belief 
 that she had bestowed her heart upon Fitzroy Palmer — 
 a belief which had been fostered, he told her, by the mis- 
 representations of her friends the Martins. 
 
 " Thank heaven !" he continued, " I did not follow my 
 first impulse, which was to quit this spot immediately, and 
 return without delay to my uncle. in France — hoping tha£ 
 thus I might avoid ever hearing of you again, and in 
 time forget that you ever existed. But it was not to be; 
 and my good genius prevailed. The sound of your name, 
 pronounced by one of a party of men who had just entered 
 the gardens as I was on the point of quitting them, caugbt 
 my ear. Involuntarily I listened to a conversation of 
 which you were the subject, but which I had no idea was 
 intended to be private, for some minutes ; but at length I 
 discovered that an infamous plot was being concerted 
 of which you were the intended victim — though revenge 
 against Fitzroy Palmer, it seemed, was the leading mo- 
 tive. Can you wonder, dearest, that this confirmed in 
 my mind the belief that he was your accepted lover ? 
 They spoke indeed of 'him in that light, and loaded him 
 with curses as having been the means of defeating them 
 in some plan, which I now understand related to the 
 fellow who calls himself Chester. The wretch whom I at- 
 tacked — Fitzgerald — and whom the party seemed to look 
 up to for directions and counsel, was most violent 
 
 
of woman's life. C87 
 
 and determined in his denunciations of vengeance against 
 you and Palmer. Oh ! Milly, how my heart recoiled from 
 hearing your name and interests thus identified ; but I 
 learned that there was some person in the hack ground, 
 of whom these fellows were the instruments. This, I have 
 no doubt, was the soi-disant Chester ; but I soon learned 
 that there were only a few among them who were lei into 
 the whole of the secret, or knew there were any other mo- 
 tives than revenge upon Palmer ; but I soon comprehended 
 the deeper villany, when I heard Fitzgerald observe to 
 one man, looking after the females of the party, who 
 had left them to get some liquor by themselves, 
 
 " The ladies would sing to a different tune, I suspect, 
 if they knew all. It was a bold stroke on my part to en- 
 list them in the affair, especially Matilda, who little tbinks 
 she's fighting the battle for the man she calls her 
 seducer." 
 
 " And what has induced her then to join against this 
 Miss Shelburne ? Does she know her ?" demanded the 
 other. 
 
 " She only knows her as her superior in every respect," 
 replied Fitzgerald, carelessly ;" and nothing pleases such as 
 her so much as to insult and injure their own sex, espe- 
 cially where they are beautiful and accomplished, as 
 well as modest." 
 
 " And this Miss Shelburne, then, is both ? I suppose," 
 remarked the other, as indifferently as his companion 
 had spoken. 
 
 "Yes, at present," was the reply, given with a laugh ; 
 " but so was Matilda before he got hold of her, and now 
 see what a devil she has become. She would poison the 
 singer if she knew what I do — that he swears, if it costs 
 him a thousand pounds, he will spoil that fellow, Palmer." 
 
088 
 
 SIIADK AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " I became so irritated at this," continued St. Orme, 
 " that it was with difficulty I refrained from rushing upon, 
 the base, unprincipled wretch, who unblushingly avowed 
 himself the vile instrument of a systematic destroyer of 
 beauty and innocence. Whether in my anger I betrayed 
 myself by some involuntary movement, or whether they 
 at that moment observed the dog, poor Carlo, who was 
 sitting looking anxiously in my face, waiting for 
 me, I know not; but directly after I saw one of them 
 peering round the tree on the other side of which I had 
 been leaning during this conversation. A few words 
 passed between them in a whisper ; a second scrutiny was 
 made ; but as I did not move or betray that I was at all 
 disconcerted, I suppose they were satisfied that I had 
 taken no interest in what had passed, and, having joined 
 the rest of their party, who were talking together at some 
 distance, the whole then walked away to join the females, 
 who were drinking at the bar, as I could see through the 
 glass doors. To leave, after what I heard, was impossible," 
 continued St. Orme, "neither was I sufficiently acquainted 
 with their plan to give you or your friends, dear Milly, 
 any intelligence that might enable you to defeat them ; 
 but I resolved to watch your unmanly enemies, and afford 
 any assistance in my power to your friends, though my 
 heart ached at the thought of Mr. Fitzroy Palmer being 
 the most interested among them. My first step was to 
 secure Carlo from betraying that I was still there, by get- 
 ting one of the hostlers to tie him up, and then I stationed 
 myself in the concert-room as much out of your sight as 
 possible, but where I was enabled to watch every motion 
 of your enemies. Oh ! Milly, what intense agony did I 
 endure when I saw you handed forward by the evidently 
 proud and happy Palmer, and heard your voice in that 
 
of woman's life. G89 
 
 song that we — scarcely could I help rejoicing in its inter- 
 ruption ; but it was but for a moment — I saw the distress 
 that was painted in your looks, and my indignation 
 against your cowardly persecutors could no longer be re- 
 strained. But you know the rest, dearest, though you do 
 not know that, contented with the discomfiture of your 
 enemies, I should have fled from the spot — bade adieu 
 for ever to every hope of happiness, had I not, as I turned 
 to take one last, long, lingering look, beheld your 
 appeal to Mr. Palmer rejected, or, at least, treated with in- 
 difference. I felt that he could not love you — could not 
 deserve your love — if he hesitated for a moment. I saw that 
 he preferred the gratification of his selfish pride, his desire 
 to overwhelm his opponents, and re-establish himself in 
 the good opinion of his auditors; I saw, in fact, that he 
 was unworthy of my beloved Milly, and forgot every- 
 thing but what ought to have been his first consideration." 
 Milly's eyes only replied to this, but they expressed 
 volumes. Her confidence in St. Orme was restored ; her 
 love — no, that had never wavered — but she might now 
 indulge it without fear or restraint. She no longer felt 
 degraded by ihe idea that she had bestowed it unasked, 
 and where she could not hope for a return ; for had he not 
 confessed that in her centred all his hopes of happiness — 
 that she was beloved even as she loved ? Not a thought 
 did Milly bestow as to the difference of their respective 
 stations in life, or of those circumstances which in the 
 eyes of the world would appear to raise an insuperable 
 bar between St. Orme and herself. She gave not a 
 single anxious thought or reflection as to St. Orme's 
 situation — whether he possessed means sufficient to 
 enable him with prudence to make her the partner of his 
 
 life, or to withdraw her from that course of life, which 
 
 4 T 
 
GOO SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 no lougor possessed any charms or attractions for licr. 
 That she was beloved was sufficient; — it included all hap- 
 piness, present or to come ; and she was content to resign 
 into his hands the future disposal of her life, satisfied that 
 whatever he might decide would he "wisest, virtuousest, 
 discreetest, best." Lost in a silence more eloquent than 
 many words can describe, her hands locked in his, they 
 had sat for many minutes after St. Orme had ceased to 
 speak; but though "the world forgetting," they were 
 soon most unpleasantly reminded that they were not 
 " by the world forgot," by the entrance of Georgina 
 Martin and Mr. Manson— the latter having, it appeared, 
 already made his peace with his liege lady, and who were, 
 it appeared, deputed by " the manager, " as the former 
 ostentatiously styled Mr. Palmer, to request Miss Shel- 
 burne's immediate attendance in the concert-room, peace 
 having been completely restored, and Miss Shelburne 
 being loudly called for to resume her place in the pro- 
 gramme of the entertainments. Such were the terms in 
 which Miss Martin delivered the mission with which she 
 was charged, while her eyes eagerly scanned the counte- 
 nance of Miss Shelburne's companion. Was it that she 
 anticipated from him any opposition to the mandate, 
 which, delivered as a matter of course, was not to be 
 questioned ? 
 
 Milly started It was evident she had forgotten the 
 probability of being thus called upon. What Mr. Pal- 
 mer, or Miss Martin, or any one else might think, was of 
 little importance at that moment to her. It was to St. 
 Orme she turned. In his countenance she sought to 
 read whether she should accept or reject the proposition. 
 A painful expression for a moment clouded his face. It 
 was evident he was about to utter a protest against what 
 
OF woman's life. 601 
 
 he considered a most unfeeling and selfish expectation 
 on the part of Mr. Fitzroy Palmer ; but Miss Martin's 
 emphatic repetition of the title of "the manager," as 
 she made some remark to Mr. Manson, seemed to change 
 his first impression. 
 
 " If you are well enough, dear Milly," he observed. 
 " The manager, of course, cannot he expected to sacrifice 
 his interests from any feelings of delicacy ; therefore, if 
 you feel well enough to discharge your obligation to 
 him, you had best endeavour to do so. I hope, how- 
 ever, that he will not be so rigid as to exact its full per- 
 formance," he observed, turning to Miss Martin. " After 
 what Miss Shelburne has suffered, one more exertion of 
 her talents will, I hope, be considered sufficient." 
 
 Georgina tossed her head. 
 
 " Milly seems to forget that Papa hasn't heard her 
 yet," she observed ; " but he's come in now with the rest 
 of the gentlemen, and after what they've all done for her 
 — the expense and trouble they've been put to in coming 
 to this place, and — " 
 
 Milly declared her readiness to go with Miss Martin 
 directly. The deep crimson of her cheek betrayed her 
 anxietv to put an end to any further discussion on the 
 subject of her obligations to Mr. Martin and his friends ; 
 but it quickly vanished, when St. Orme, leading her 
 aside, observed — 
 
 "Forgive me, dear girl, if I now take my leave of you 
 till to-morrow, when I will meet you and conduct you to 
 your mother. I could not stay to witness what is to me 
 a painful humiliation, and which is only to be borne 
 because it is a sacrifice to justice and - the manager. 
 Say, then, dearest, at what time to-morrow will you be 
 ready to go with me. " 
 
()'J2 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Milly for a moment hesitated. She knew that, her 
 appointing him to call on her at all would be an offence, 
 without consulting her patrons ; but she was too anxious 
 to save St. Orme from any display of arrogance if she 
 consulted Georgina now, in her present humour — which 
 was evidently not too favourably disposed towards him — 
 not to take the consequences on herself, and therefore 
 appointed eleven o'clock, the earliest hour she could 
 venture to name, in consideration of the family breakfast- 
 hour. 
 
 A silent pressure of her hand, and a formal bow to Miss 
 Martin and her companion, and St. Orme departed, leav- 
 ing the former gazing after him in surprise and anger. 
 
 " Well, I must say that I never was so much mistaken 
 in my life," she observed, " for I took that man for a 
 gentleman, when he first spoke to me and Laura ; but it's 
 very plain that he's nothing of the kind ; some impudent 
 upstart or another, by the airs he takes. Where in the world 
 did you meet with him, Miss Shelburne, that he took the 
 liberty of treating you with such familiarity ? If he had 
 dared address me by my Christian name, as he did you, 
 I would have called a waiter to turn him out ; and I'm 
 sure if Papa had heard him — But why do you smile, Miss 
 Shelburne ? I assure you, I think your conduct very far 
 from proper, to allow a fellow like that to dictate in the 
 manner he did, as if I was nobody, and wasn't to be con- 
 sulted as to what you ought, or ought not to do. I was 
 very glad to see he had decency enough not to intrude 
 himself upon us, because I am sure Papa would have 
 thought it proper to make him give an account of 
 himself." 
 
 " There would have been little difficulty in that, Miss 
 Mai tin," returned Milly gently. "Perhaps, when I tell 
 
of woman's life. 093 
 
 you the gentleman in question is Mr. St. Orme, the 
 nephew and heir to the title and estates of Sir Orlando 
 St. Orme, the owner of Beauvale Abhey, where, as I 
 have told you, I was brought up, and lived till within these 
 last few weeks, you will alter your opinion as to his 
 undue familiarity with the grandchild of his old 
 domestics." 
 
 Georgina looked thunderstruck at this explanation. 
 That she should have lost such an opportunity of making 
 acquaintance with what she called a real gentleman — of 
 course she supposed a man of fortune — for Milly had 
 rather maliciously laid particular stress on his heirship — 
 was an absolute misfortune. She had not heard the 
 appointment between St. Orme and Milly to meet again, 
 and thus saw no prospect of retrieving the error she had 
 committed. 
 
 " Well, I am sorry," she at length observed, '* but of 
 course I couldn't guess that he had a right to dictate to you, 
 Milly, and at any rate he might have been politer to me 
 tlran he was. He must have known that we were in a 
 very different station of life to you, and that if it was your 
 duty to be guided by his advice, we were independent as 
 well as him. But perhaps you didn't tell him who we 
 were, and what Papa had done for you ?" 
 
 " I understood from Mr. St. Orme, that you had suffi- 
 ciently explained those particulars yourself to him," 
 returned Milly with a significant smile. 
 
 Georgina coloured to the eyes. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't remember any such thing," she 
 replied ; " though, vexed as I was at your walking off with 
 Mr. Palmer, I might have said a good many things I 
 shouldn't at another time, about both him and you. I'm 
 very sure, however," she continued, suddenly recollecting 
 
OiU SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 herself, " that I did not tell him who we were, or where 
 we lived, because I thought it woulti not be prudent, with- 
 out we knew he was a proper person to give encourage- 
 ment to ; because Papa has often said, * There's always 
 plenty of fellows about on the look-out to snap up young 
 ladies of fortune,' and we couldn't, of course, tell by his 
 looks what he might be." 
 
 Laura, however, " protested that she had from the very 
 first been convinced that Mr. St. Orme was a gentleman, 
 and one whose acquaintance it was desirable to cultivate," 
 observing, however, " that though she blamed Georgina 
 for her over-cautiousness, which had induced her to treat 
 Mr. St. Orme with a great deal too much pride arid 
 reserve, Milly was a great deal more to blame, and indeed 
 she considered had acted very ill-naturedly and ungrate- 
 fully, not to have taken the opportunity of introducing 
 them properly to Mr. St. Orme ; as, though it could not be 
 expected a gentleman like him would lower himself so 
 much as to visit his servant's daughter, he might have 
 liked to have had an opportunity of talking with her, which 
 he could have done without any impropriety, as their 
 (the Miss Martins) visitor." 
 
 Scarcely could Milly believe it possible that this was 
 seriously addressed to her ; but ridiculous as it at first 
 sight appeared, Milly could not but feel that there was 
 some foundation for the remarks as to the difference of 
 station between St. Orme and herself. Until that mo- 
 ment it had not occurred to her mind as a subject of un- 
 easiness. She had not indeed suffered it to intrude 
 between her and the happiness which she believed 
 depended solely on his will. But Laura Martin's remark 
 had atoncehumbled her in her own eyes, and had suggested 
 the fear, that independent as St. Orme had appeared to 
 
of woman's life. 095 
 
 her, he might be so situated with regard to his family as 
 to render an union with her an act of imprudence — if not 
 deserving a more serious name. That it would be a de- 
 gradation in the eyes of the world, she could not doubt or 
 deny ; but what was the world to them, who were the whole 
 world to each other? So at least Milly felt and be- 
 lieved. So she felt, and so she hoped and believed St. 
 Orme felt also. Strongly, however, as she tried to per- 
 suade herself that it was not in the power of such beings 
 as the Miss Martins to disturb her mind, or cloud the 
 happiness which had so recently appeared perfect, she 
 could not banish the sense of uneasiness and alarm 
 Laura Martin's speech had raised, and in vain she strove 
 to disguise it, by assuming a greater degree of vivacity, 
 when again called upon to appear before the audience of 
 the concert-room, who were fortunately disposed to receive 
 her with even greater indulgence than before, in consi- 
 deration of the disturbance her spirits had suffered from 
 her enemies — as Briggs and his party were exclusively 
 supposed to be. The applause, however, that was so 
 abundantly bestowed upon her efforts failed in its 
 effects, and heartily was Milly rejoiced when, having 
 twice repeated her last song, in obedience to the call, 
 which was headed by Mr. Martin and his friends, she was 
 allowed to make her final curtsey, in the midst of thunders 
 of applause and bravos, that seemed likely to be inter- 
 minable, lasting long after she had been conducted from 
 the stage by the manager, and followed by Mr. and the 
 Miss Martins, and their friends, who seemed to feel her 
 triumph reflected upon themselves ; Mr. Martin espe- 
 cially acknowledging it by repeatedly bowing to the 
 crowd, with an assumption of grace and dignity that 
 called forth shouts of laughter, and not a few loud 
 
B»B SHADE AND SUNSflFXE 
 
 inquiries as to who the jolly old fellow was, and what 
 he had to do with the singer, whose delicacy of appear- 
 ance and manners, and apparent refinement, seemed to 
 separate her entirely from not only the coarse, red-faced, 
 vulgar-looking old man, but from his gaudy, over-dressed, 
 and bold-looking daughters. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 She knew, 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 
 That he was wretched, hut she saw not all. 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced, and then it faded ; as it came 
 He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way, 
 And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 
 
 Btoon. 
 
 The discovery that had been made of Mr. St. Orme's 
 rank and fortune by the Miss Martins, at first operated 
 very disadvantageously towards Mr. Fitzroy Palmer in 
 their eyes ; and the very evident dislike with which the 
 latter regarded him, whom he instinctively regarded as his 
 rival, and the obstacle which had from the first induced 
 Milly to reject his advances, was considered by the 
 sisters — who only in part comprehended his (Palmer's) 
 motives and feelings— as they whispered to each other, 
 
of woman's life. G97 
 
 an unwarrantable assumption on the part of one so 
 greatly his inferior as the manager, who, they agreed, 
 though certainly a very well-behaved, and, for his situa- 
 tion in life, a genteel man, had certainly no right to set 
 himself up as the equal, or as even having any pretensions 
 to consider himself in any way the companion of the heir 
 of Sir Orlando St. Orme. But Palmer, though he could 
 not be blind to the great alteration in the manners of the 
 young ladies towards him, from the time they learned 
 from Milly Mr. St. Orme's title to their respect and 
 favour, took but little pains to discover the cause of 
 their coolness and sudden hauteur towards him, being 
 satisfied in having ingratiated himself with the old man 
 — their father — who, in spite of his daughters' winks 
 and frowns, declared that " he (Fitzroy Palmer) was a 
 jolly good fellow;" and enforced his opinion, when they 
 left the concert-room, by inviting him " to take a corner 
 in the carriage with him and the gals, and accompany 
 them and the rest of his party home to supper," which he 
 hinted " he had given orders to his cook before he left 
 should be summat better worth eating than they would be 
 likely to get at ' St. Helena, ' which he supposed would 
 be much of a muchness with Woxhall suppers — where 
 their chickens wern't bigger than sparrows, and a dish of 
 ham was cut so thin that he could roll it all up, and gulp 
 it at a mouthful." 
 
 " Mind," continued the old man, who would not see 
 his daughters' discouragement of this hearty invitation, 
 "mind, I don't promise you any kickshaws at my table; 
 but if you'll come and take pot luck with us, you'll be 
 welcome, and you'll find summat better than bread and 
 cheese and inguns, though I once heerd a sarcy French- 
 
 man — that I'd be bound had lived all his life upon frogs 
 
 4 u 
 
008 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and bully till he came to Lunnon — I heard him say, that 
 bread and cheese and inguns was the only hot supper an 
 Englishman could cook, or ever thought of giving his 
 friends." 
 
 Encouraged by the laughter with which this anecdote 
 was greeted, Mr. Martin proceeded to relate that the 
 same wooden-shoed forriner had asserted " that the only 
 fruit the English growed was cowcumbers and 'tatoes;" 
 an aspersion which he (Mr. Martin) had, as he be- 
 lieved, triumphantly refuted, by setting before the French- 
 man — after a raal substantial John Bull dinner of turkey, 
 roast beef, and plum pudding, on Christmas day — a desert, 
 of which the principal articles were a pine-apple and a 
 basket of grapes, that cost more than all the rest of the 
 dinner put together. 
 
 " English fruit, grown, I suppose, in your own hot- 
 house, Sir?" slily remarked one of the ladies who accom- 
 panied Mr. Martin and his party by special invitation. 
 
 " Oh ] I didn't ask where they was grown," returned 
 the old man, staring, as if the question had thrown a nevv 
 light upon the subject. "All I know'd about it is, that I 
 bought 'em myself in Common Garden, and paid for 'em 
 in golden guineas ; and if that did'nt make 'em English 
 fruit, I don't know what the devil would." 
 
 A burst of genera] applause from both his own and 
 Mr. Fitzroy Palmer's party satisfied the jolly butcher that 
 his argument was incontrovertible, and increased his good 
 humour to the extent of including the greater part of the 
 manager's companions, all, in fact, who were then present 
 of the musical ladies and gentlemen, in the invitation to 
 sup with him at his house in Lunnon. 
 
 "It's but a bit of a box," he added, " Street, 
 
 Dorset Square, but I'll pound it we can manage with a 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 699 
 
 little squeezing to find room to eat our suppers off tho 
 table, and them as can't must take their plates on their 
 knees. I'll warrant they shan't want for victuals ; and 
 that's better than plenty of room and nothing to eat, I 
 reckon." 
 
 To this observation there were of course no dissentients. 
 It was very evident, indeed, that Mr. Martin's invitation 
 was by no means unwelcome — and, although Mr. 
 Palmer took occasion to vindicate the " St. Helena" 
 establishment from the charge of imitating Vauxhall in 
 extravagant charges for refreshments, and even hinted a 
 previous intention of treating at least the principal ladies 
 and gentlemen with supper in the gardens after the Jinale 
 of the entertainments, which was to be a grand pyro- 
 technic display — yet even he seemed to consider the 
 promised supper at Mr. Martin's as a good treat not to 
 be rejected by those who could manage to procure their 
 conveyance to the neighbourhood of Dorset Square — his 
 own being, as before said, secured by Martin's offer of a 
 corner in his own carriage "with the gals." 
 
 The difficulty which prevented the ladies and gentle- 
 men — six in number — frankly accepting of his hearty 
 invitation, was soon explained to Mr. Martin. A car- 
 riage, then called a double stage, since superseded by the 
 omnibuses of our time, had been engaged to convey the 
 whole of the musical party to town ; but as their rendez- 
 vous was south of London, of course it could not avail those 
 who were desirous of reaching Mr. Martin's residence, 
 westward. 
 
 Martin, however, was not to be daunted by difficulties. 
 He was bent on displaying his hospitality to his new 
 acquaintances, and in spite of his daughters' dismay and 
 exclamations, he decided that his favourite expedient of 
 
700 SHADE AND STJNSHINS 
 
 " squeezing a little " should be put in practice, to accom- 
 modate his intended guests. Three of the gentlemen, 
 besides Mr. Palmer, were to take their seats in his car- 
 riage ; the gals (his daughters and Miss Shelburne) could 
 sit upon their knees, taking turn about, which was ex- 
 plained to mean changing, when the first three were tirec" 
 of their fair burthens ; while the other three ladies were to 
 be accommodated in the same manner by Mr. Martin's 
 friends in the other carriage, a proposal which was acceded 
 to with hearty good humour by the fair vocalists — though 
 on the part of the Miss Martins it was received with un- 
 disguised ill-humour, pouts, declarations that " their 
 dresses would be ruined," and that they never heard of 
 such ungenteel, vulgar doings in their lives ;" and by 
 Milly Shelburne in silent confusion and discomfiture, her 
 only consolation arising from the hope — the all but cer- 
 tainty that a few hours would behold the scene entirely 
 changed, and she should no longer be compelled to an 
 association so utterly discordant and revolting to her 
 retired, sensitive, and modest manners and feelings. 
 
 "Well, it's all settled," observed Mr. Martin, returning 
 to his daughters and Milly from the conference he had 
 been holding with the rest of the party. "It's all settled ; 
 and so now you may just as well make up your minds to 
 be jolly and comfortable, as to look black, and make your- 
 selves disagreeable. 'What's the odds as long as 
 you're happy ?' as Manson says." 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Manson said so, did he?" returned Miss 
 Georgina, scornfully. " Very well, let him make him- 
 self jolly, as he calls it; but I'll let him know — I only 
 wish," and she burst into a fit of passionate tears — " I 
 only wish the proposal had been made before Mr. St. 
 Orme had left the Gardens I'm sure he'd have taken 
 
OF woman's lifk 701 
 
 care we shouldn't have been degraded in this manner, if 
 he'd even had to pay for another carriage for us; but he's 
 a gentleman, and this set are only — " 
 
 " Whew !" whistled one of Martin's companions, who 
 came up at this moment, " this is rather coming it strong, 
 Martin, isn't it ? I don't wish to affront no lady, but I 
 should like to know who this Mr. What's-his-name is, 
 that we're all despised for." 
 
 " Why that's just the very thing I was going to ask," 
 returned Martin, who, as well as his friend, was evidently 
 the worse for the punch they had imbibed during their 
 engagement in the skittle ground. " I should just like 
 to get hold of the raal gentleman that'll dare to en- 
 courage my daughters to set themselves up against me. 
 I'll soon let him and them both know who's master in my 
 family." 
 
 Terrified at the passion into which he was gradually 
 working himself, Milly now ventured to interpose in 
 favour of the girls, who were evidently frightened at the 
 storm they had excited ; but she had soon reason to re- 
 pent of her kind-hearted interposition in their favour, for 
 Mr. Martin now demanded of her a reply to the question 
 which he had in vain put repeatedly to his daughters, 
 namely—" Who was the Mr. What's-his-name— the great 
 gentleman who had had the imperdence to encourage 
 them sarcy gals to take such airs, and fancy themselves 
 better judges of what was right and proper than their 
 father ?" 
 
 It was a most embarrassing subject for Milly to enter 
 uoon, and tipsy as he undoubtedly was, her confusion 
 and unwillingness to give the desired explanation did not 
 escape the old man, who now angrily demanded if " she, 
 too, had been taking lessons of the feller, as well as his 
 daughters ?" 
 
702 dIIADE and sunshine 
 
 " Milly's vexation at the injustice of his accusation of 
 St. Orme now got the better of her fear of miscon- 
 struction and bashfulness which would have led 
 her to keep silence as to the connexion with the latter, 
 and with glowing cheeks she replied — 
 
 " You are indeed, Sir, entirely mistaken in your esti- 
 mation of Mr. St. Orme, who is not only too much a 
 gentleman, but too correct in his feelings and principles, 
 to act in the manner you suppose. I do not believe that 
 he addressed one word to your daughters" — and she looked 
 reproachfully at Georgina and Laura — "that could 
 warrant them in asserting that — " 
 
 " Mr. What ? — Mr. Who J" interrupted Martin, 
 furiously, not having, it seemed, caught correctly the name 
 she uttered. " So then, after all, this wonderful great 
 gentleman, whose advice is to put me down and make a 
 Mister Nobody of me, is some waggerbone acquaintance 
 of yours, that you've introdoosed to my daughters, 
 though you've all along played the innercent with me, 
 and pretended to know nobody in Lunnun ; but it won't 
 do with me, I can assure you. ' Old birds ain't to be 
 caught with chafF,' so don't try your tricks upon 
 travellers any more upon me or my family, or it'll turn 
 out the worse for you in the end ; I can assure you, Jack 
 Martin 's not the man to be taken in by every feller that 
 wears the dress of a gentleman, though his silly gals may 
 be. And as to you," he continued, shaking his clenched 
 hand at his half- frightened, half-defiant daughters, " let 
 me ketch you again making acquaintance with fellers that 
 may be fortin hunters, or even pickpockets or swindlers, 
 for what you know, and I'll lock you up at home, if it's 
 for a twelvemonth to come, till you learn to take better 
 care of yourselves." 
 
of woman's life. 703 
 
 To describe Milly's feelings during this unprovoked 
 and unjustifiable attack upon her from one who had 
 hitherto treated her with undeviating — though roughly 
 expressed — kindness and liberality, would be useless. 
 Scarcely could she believe it possible that such coarse, 
 uncompromising insults were seriously addressed to her, 
 and his motives for these threats and abuse appeared to 
 her a mystery she could not fathom. Had Milly pos- 
 sessed a little more knowledge of the world, or a longer 
 acquaintance with the character of the wealthy butcher, 
 one term he used would have been the key to unlock that 
 mystery. " Fortune-hunter" would have comprised all, for 
 fortune-hunters were the bugbears that had haunted 
 Martin ever since his daughters had approached the age 
 that was likely to render them objects of pursuit to such 
 as he would have indiscriminately classed under that de- 
 nomination — that is to say, every man who possessed 
 less of the golden idol which he had himself so success- 
 fully worshipped through life. To ward off the possible 
 attacks of this dangerous class, was a subject that occupied 
 no small share of his attention ; and to guard the girls 
 from any such possibility as falling into the snares which 
 he firmly believed would be laid to catch them, wherever 
 they were known to be the intended heiresses of his 
 thousands, formed incessantly the theme of his domestic 
 lectures, until the girls themselves had become imbued 
 with the same idea, and fancied in every stranger whom 
 chance might induce to address them, or whose very 
 looks indeed indicated a disposition to do so, they beheld 
 one of the formidable enemies they had been taught to 
 fear, and who they believed constantly surrounded them. 
 
 Georgina's engagement to Mr. Manson had relieved 
 the father of part of his fear ; but there was still Latour to 
 
701 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 be guarded nnd ; as, to use his own expression " she was 
 more softer — hadn't so much 'nous' as her sister," his 
 care was redoubled to protect Lorry till he could meet 
 with a suitable match for her, to relieve him from the 
 shadow he had raised to torment him. Especially had 
 this imaginary danger appeared to him likely to arise 
 from some of the gang frequenting public places ; and 
 this it was that had given rise to Mr. Martin's unwarrant- 
 able attack upon poor Milly, who, the moment he dis- 
 covered that she had been the medium, as he supposed, 
 of introducing the gentleman his daughters so warmly 
 eulogised, was transformed by his suspicion into an in- 
 strument of the dreaded fortune-hunter, who was likely 
 at last to defeat all his clever and long-practised caution. 
 Scarcely able to breathe from the mingled effects of 
 surprise, indignation, and terror, Milly remained for some 
 time without attempting to utter a word either in vindica- 
 tion of herself or St. Orme. She turned, however, to the 
 sisters, as if expecting from them some attempt to prove 
 to their father the error into which he had fallen ; but 
 whether they were really afraid of increasing his passion, 
 or whatever their motives might be, they appeared not 
 to understand her appealing look. Milly, however, 
 by this movement, made a discovery that added consider- 
 ably to the anger and mortification with which she had 
 listened to Mr. Martin's unjust and insulting accusations. 
 This was that they had been listened to by Mr. Palmer — 
 who had entered the room unobserved, and whose coun- 
 tenance now betrayed a strange contradictory expression, 
 as if pleasure contended with pain at what he heard. 
 Milly could not doubt that his look to her was intended 
 to convey his conviction of her innocence, and sympathy 
 with her feelings : but she received no consolation from 
 
OF woman's LIFK. 705 
 
 this ; for she felt there could be no reliance upon the 
 sincerity of one who, when she first glanced at him, had 
 betrayed so different a feeling, for at that moment Mr. 
 Palmer was unequivocally smiling in triumph. How 
 could she be aware that Mr. Palmer was in imagination 
 triumphing over his hated rival St. Orme, anticipating 
 the difficulties that would be thrown in the way of the 
 latter should he, as of course he would, attempt to visit 
 Miss Shelburne while she remained under the protection 
 of Mr. Martin, and that this unworthy motive had for a 
 time induced him to behold with comparative indifference 
 the cruel and insulting behaviour of the old man to her 
 whose cause he would, under any other circumstances, have 
 unhesitatingly espoused. Milly's indignant, yet alarmed, 
 almost agonised look, as she turned away from her un- 
 successful appeal to the Miss Martins, rendered Mr. 
 Palmer now ashamed that he should by his silence have 
 appeared to countenance Mr. Martin's unfeeling insults, 
 the motives of which were as little known to him as to 
 Milly herself; but all was soon explained, when the old 
 man, having charged his daughters not to move from the 
 place till he returned, and desired Palmer to keep watch 
 over them, that they made no more acquaintances with the 
 fellows they called gentlemen, left with the avowed pur- 
 pose of collecting his friends,, who were scattered about the 
 Gai'dens, that they might all set off together for home. 
 
 A loud laugh from Georginaand her sister, the moment 
 he was out of hearing, startled Milly out of the despon- 
 ding reverie into which she had fallen, and occasioned 
 Mr. Palmer to regard them with surprise, that seemed to 
 demand an explanation from the young ladies. 
 
 "Oh! you mustn't wonder at anything Papa says or 
 
 does when he gets into these tantrums, Mr. Palmer," ob- 
 4 x 
 
70C SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 served the elder sister. " He fancies that every gentle- 
 man that speaks to us is a fortune-hunter, that has laid 
 a trap to get hold of our ten thousand pounds. 1 know 
 IM illy is angry that we didn't speak up for Mr. St. Orrae, 
 and tell what we knew about him ; but, my dear girl, if 
 we had said a word in his favour it would have made 
 matters ten times worse, both for you and us. He would 
 have sworn it was a made-up plan between us all, and 
 p , .haps wouldn't have let you go home with us, though 
 to-morrow morning he'd be ready to hang himself for 
 his foolishness, and would be running all over London 
 in search of you, and would go down on his knees, when 
 he found you, to forgive him. So, just take no notice 
 when he comes back, and let him go on as much as he 
 likes without contradicting him, and you'll find it will be 
 all right in a little while, and he'll be ready to kill you 
 with kindness to make it up with you by breakfast time 
 to-morrow ; but mind, be sure you don't try to argue 
 with him to-night, for it will only make him more ob- 
 stinate, and be all the worse for me and Lorry, as well 
 as yourself." 
 
 Milly replied not by a single word; but Mr. Palmer, 
 who had been narrowly watching her expressive counte- 
 nance without being able to derive any satisfactory con- 
 clusion as to what she intended to do, and who feared 
 her high independent spirit might lead her into what he 
 would have designated some act of imprudence, in the 
 peculiar situation in which she was at that moment 
 placed — observed, " That he was convinced Miss Shel- 
 burne possessed too much prudence and sound sense to 
 enter into any discussion with, or even seriously resent, 
 the random and unfounded assertions of a person in 
 Mr. Martin's state;" adding, "that nothing but his 
 
of woman's life. 707 
 
 (Palmer's) conviction that the gentleman was too far 
 inebriated to be responsible — " 
 
 " Oh, yon are mistaken, Mr. Palmer," interrupted 
 Georgina, hastily ; " Papa is not so far gone as you 
 think for ; but he is, and always was, next door to mad 
 on the subject of fortune-hunting. Not," she added, 
 with a mysterious expression and solemn nod of the 
 head — " not but what he's had some serious reason for 
 his apprehension, in more than one instance ; but that 
 was three or four years ago, when I was but just in my 
 teens, and Lorry hadn't left school. But I'll tell you 
 all about it, Milly, if I am not too tired, when we go to 
 bed to night, and then you won't be surprised at Papa's 
 being suspicious of everybody about us, that knows we 
 shall have ten thousand pounds a-piece when we are mar- 
 ried, besides what Papa may leave at his death." 
 
 Had not Milly Shelburne been too completely absorbed 
 in the contemplation of her own situation, and a half- 
 formed project, by which she hoped to relieve herself 
 from a repetition of the insults and mortification she 
 had so recently endured, she could not have failed- to 
 remark the surprise and interest which this exaggerated 
 statement of the wealth the sisters were entitled to, 
 created in Mr. Fitzroy Palmer's mind ; and which, it 
 must be confessed, as a thousand vague thoughts and 
 reflections rushed into it, as to what might be effected by 
 the possessor of such a sum, withdrew for a short time 
 the strict attention and watchfulness which had been 
 before entirely devoted to Milly Shelburne, whose utter 
 silence, contrasted with the agitated expression of her 
 features, betraying the depth of those feelings which she 
 thus buried in her own bosom, alarmed him much more 
 than would the most violent declarations. Tears, hyste- 
 
708 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 rics, any of the usual feminine expressions of pain, in- 
 dignation and mortification, would not have surprised or 
 alarmed him, hut that silence, and that countenance, 
 filled him with indefinable apprehension ; and again, 
 after a few minutes, given, as has been said, to the con- 
 templation of the ten thousand charms of the Miss 
 Martins, and which he hesitated not to believe in his own 
 power to secure, he again returned to the subject from 
 which he had suffered his thoughts for a few minutes to 
 wander. It was in vain, however, that Mr. Palmer, in 
 his most tender and insinuating tones, endeavoured to 
 soothe Milly Shelburne's wounded feelings, or even to 
 induce her to bestow her confidence upon him. She 
 would not even acknowledge that she was suffering ; and 
 the manner in which she replied to his assurances of 
 sympathy and sorrow— that the only proof of it she re- 
 quested of him was that he would cease to speak of it — 
 compelled him most unwillingly to imitate her silence, 
 though he continued sedulously to observe her every look 
 and motion. 
 
 Mr. Martin returned with Manson, Wilson, the rest 
 of his party, and such of the ladies and gentlemen of Mr. 
 Fitzroy Palmer's company as had completed their engage- 
 ment. Most unwillingly, however, the manager was com- 
 pelled to leave them for a short time, to attend to the 
 finale of his concert. A general invitation had been given 
 by Mr. Martin to all the company, to partake of the re- 
 freshments, which, seeming to have totally forgotten his 
 intention of returning home to supper immediately, he 
 had ordered to be served up in the Garden, and where, 
 from the spot pointed out by the waiters, they would be 
 able to see to the greatest advantage the grand display of 
 fireworks, which he now declared " he wouldn't lose for 
 the world, they being worth more than all the rest." 
 
OF woman's life. 709 
 
 "And you gals," he added to his daughters, seeming 
 to have forgot entirely the disgrace into which they had 
 fallen with him — " You, if you like, can have a dance on 
 the green yonder, if you can get some of these gentlemen 
 here for pardners. As to Hanson, Georgy, I'm afeerd 
 he's done over, so you must get somehody else. Come 
 don't pout. 'It's onney once a year;' as the hoys and 
 gals say with their grottoes — ' onney once a-year, and he 
 won't do it no more.'" 
 
 Georgina did, or affected to pout, but the flattering con- 
 tention for the honour of her hand among the gentlemen 
 soon reconciled her to Mr. Hanson's defection, and in 
 the highest glee the party proceeded to the spot, where 
 seats and tables were in the course of preparation for 
 them. The band was already playing, and Georgina and 
 Laura joined the dancers; while Mr. Martin and his com- 
 panions seated themselves to enjoy the pyroteclmical dis- 
 play, and partake of the handsome cold collation which 
 he had ordered, regardless of all expense, and amply re- 
 paid in his own estimation by the compliments bestowed 
 upon his liberality, hospitality, &c, &c, especially by the 
 ladies of Mr. Palmer's company, who preferred the sub- 
 stantial pleasures of the table to " tripping it on the light 
 fantastic toe." 
 
 "Where is Palmer? — "What the devil has become of 
 our manager? Where is that chap — What's-his-name ?" 
 were the inquiries repeatedly uttered, the last it will be 
 guessed by Mr. Martin, with whom the gentleman in 
 question had greatly ingratiated himself, and who now 
 felt that the absence of Mr. Palmer cast a shade on the 
 jollity of the company assembled around him. 
 
 Nobody, however, could answer the question, and 
 Martin began to express discontent at what he considered 
 
710 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 a slight on the part of the manager. The young ladies, 
 who, as they came to the bottom of the country dance, 
 joined the party at the table to partake of the refresh- 
 ments with them, at the conclusion of the second dance 
 became very anxious to know what had become of Mr. 
 Palmer. 
 
 " And. where is Milly, too ? I havn't seen Milly since — 
 since — " It was Georgina who spoke. 
 
 " Ah ! since when — I'm sure I don't know when I saw 
 her last," added. Laura. "Whether she came on with 
 us from the parlour, or was left behind there, I'm sure 
 I cannot tell." 
 
 " Nor I," rejoined, the elder sister. " I thought, of 
 course, she would come on without being formally invited. 
 But Mr. Fitzroy Palmer had left us before, if you remem- 
 ber," she added, looking at Laura. 
 
 There was a general laugh. It was plain in what 
 quarter the wind blew, as more than one of the party 
 observed. 
 
 It was some time, however, before Mr. Martin com- 
 prehended the suspicion that had arisen; when he did, how- 
 ever, he seemed to have totally forgotten his recent anger 
 and dissatisfaction with Milly, and was loud in his vitu- 
 peration against Palmer, who he declared "was a rogue 
 and a villain, if he had taken advantage of the poor girl 
 to lead her astray ;" adding, "that if nobody else took 
 up the matter he would, and make Mr. Palmer give an 
 account of his conduct, and tell what he had done with 
 her." 
 
 " She's got no father or mother or friends to purtect 
 her," he added, " but he's mistaken if he thinks he's 
 a-going to lead her to ruin without anybody's troubling 
 their heads about her, or what becomes of her, poor thing. 
 
of woman's life. 711 
 
 She's a child to him, and no match for his cunning; but 
 he'll find himself in the wrong box, if he thinks he's to 
 carry it off with a high hand, as if she was nothing and 
 nobody in the world." 
 
 There was a general murmur of approbation of the old 
 man's kindness and generosity from all but his daughters, 
 who united in declaring that "if Miss Shelburne really 
 acted so ungratefully and indelicately as to desert her 
 real friends in such a manner, she wasn't worth Papa's 
 caring about or interfering in her favour. For their part, 
 they did not think Mr. Fitzroy Palmer was half so much 
 to blame as she was, and from that moment they would 
 have nothing to do with her. Papa, of course, must do as 
 he pleases." 
 
 " Yes, and will do as he pleases," interrupted the old 
 man, decidedly; "but, after all, who knows they're gone off 
 together?" 
 
 " Who, indeed ?" observed one of the ladies, who had 
 from the first paid particular attention to Milly, good- 
 naturedly attempting to cheer her, and give her courage 
 on her first appearance. " For my part, I do not believe 
 a word of it," she added, "for the last time I saw Mr. 
 Palmer he was going through the gate with two strange 
 men, and I do not believe he has ever returned since, and 
 I know Miss Shelburne was here long after he left, so 
 that there is no probability that they are together." 
 
 The propriety of making a thorough search, and all 
 possible inriuiries in the house and grounds, was now 
 agreed upon, and the party dispersed to carry this into 
 practice ; but the result, when they again met, was far 
 from satisfactory, though nothing had been learned that 
 at all favoured the supposition that Mr. Palmer and Miss 
 Shelburne had left together. A note from the former to 
 
712 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the leader of the orchestra, excusing the writer's unex- 
 pected departure, on the plea of his being obliged to leave 
 in consequence of having received some intelligence from 
 London that required his immediate presence, and ap- 
 pointing a meeting with him and the rest of the company 
 on the following morning, was discovered to have been 
 left at the bar by a boy who had been paid to bring it, 
 instead of having been delivered to the person to whom 
 it was addressed, and in the hurry of business thrown 
 aside ; while, as regarded Milly, it was ascertained that she 
 had been seen outside the Gardens, walking hastily up 
 the road towards London, and in conversation with a very 
 poor-looking young woman and child, who had been seen 
 before gathering wood in the green lane that ran by the 
 side of the " St. Helena Gardens." 
 
 " It is the very same that she was looking through the 
 hedge at and pitying so much," observed one of the Miss 
 Martins, " She called to the child, and gave him either 
 sixpence or a shilling, though she ran the risk of getting 
 thorns in her fingers, and though I told her she need 
 have a a fortune if she gave her money away at that rate 
 to every body that looked poor and miserable ; but Miss 
 Sheibume, I must say, was very obstinate and conceited 
 as to what she took in her head was right, and I would 
 not wonder that she is gone on some fox-and-goose 
 chase to relieve the people, who, I dare say, had some 
 dismal tale to tell us ; most of these people have when 
 they see persons so easily imposed on." 
 
 If this was the case, it was agreed on all hands that the 
 object of their anxiety would not be long before she re- 
 turned to her friends; but though an effort was made to 
 resume the hilarity that had been so unseasonably inter- 
 rupted — though Georgina and Laura returned to the 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 713 
 
 dance, and continued it with great spirit until they bad 
 wearied out their successive partners — and though Mr. Mar- 
 tin and hisparty redoubled their devotion to the good things 
 before them, and religiously fulfilled their expressed deter- 
 mination of drowning all care and trouble in the bottle and 
 the bowl — or, in other words, in punch and wine — the time 
 at last came when even the most determined devotee of 
 pleasure among them found thatXature would assert her 
 rights, and that it was time to seek repose. The more 
 temperate frequenters of the ' St. Helena' bad long ago 
 quitted the Gardens — the tired musicians, though in- 
 spirited to unusual exertions by unlimited potations from 
 Mr. Martin and his party, had consigned their instru- 
 ments to their cases and green baize — the ladies were 
 bonnetted and shawled, and the gentlemen, with some 
 difficulty, got upon their feet. There was a general 
 bidding adieu and shaking of hands, with the most 
 sentimental assurances of eternal friendship among those 
 who still retained the power of speech ; and even the 
 Miss Martins had condescended to express their satisfac- 
 tion at the very polite manner in which they bad been 
 treated, and to assure the company of their future patron- 
 age. They had even gone so far in their satisfaction as 
 to give a general invitation to those they considered the 
 most distinguished of the company to visit them at Papa's 
 
 residence in , Dorset Square. The street they 
 
 thought proper to drop ; and then Mr. Martin, supported 
 by two of the gentlemen who were tolerably steady on 
 their feet, and followed by the young ladies, who kindly 
 overlooked the devious steps of the other two, in considera- 
 tion of their anxious attempts gallantly to escort them, 
 proceeded to their carriage. 
 
 It was not until aftei the old man, with much pushing 
 4 Y 
 
714 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and pulling about, aided by tbe waiters, was safely 
 deposited on his seat; and Mr. Manson, who, having been 
 some hours asleep, was now looking very stupidly peni- 
 tent, had taken his by his side, that with sudden recollec- 
 tion flashing into his eyes and lighting them into 
 something like intellect, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Stop, stop, Miss Shelburne ! she isn't come. You 
 cannot go without — " and he made a movement as if to 
 leave the carriage, which was prevented by Laura Martin 
 pulling him back into the corner. 
 
 "Oh! let him go, if he likes," exclaimed her sister, 
 angrily. " Perhaps he knows where Miss Shelburne is 
 better than we do. Such creatures as her are more fit 
 companions for him than we are." 
 
 Manson stared stupidly in her face; it was evident he 
 was only half- conscious of any meaning in what she said; 
 but Georgina, leaning from the window, commanded the 
 coachman to " go on immediately," and as no one ven- 
 tured to offer any opposition to her order, the carriage 
 drove on, and Miss Shelburne was left to her fate. 
 
 The clock had struck eleven the following morning, and 
 more than one message from his daughters had been de- 
 livered by the old servant at Mr. Martin's bedside, " that 
 breakfast was waiting for him," before he could persuade 
 himself to lift his aching head from the pillow. The 
 events of the preceding evening, of course, formed the 
 topic of conversation between the family party — which 
 included Mr. Manson — over the breakfast table, but the 
 review appeared to give very little satisfaction to any one. 
 Mr. Manson, pale, bilious-looking, and out of spirits, was 
 compelled to play the part of penitent, to induce Miss 
 Martin to extend her gracious forgiveness for what she 
 styled " his abominable conduct — his neglect of her — and 
 
of woman's life. 715 
 
 his joining, abetting, and encouraging Papa in Lis devo- 
 tion to the horrible, vulgar game of skittles," which he 
 (Mr. Manson) was compelled to forswear " for ever, and 
 ever," before his lady-love would condescend to look at 
 or speak to him, much less to bestow a smile upon him, 
 secretly gratified as she was at the proof he had given 
 of his anxiety to plead for pardon, which he pretended 
 was his sole motive for intruding on their breakfast hour, 
 a liberty he had never before taken. Fortunately, 
 Georgina's vanity induced her to give implicit credence 
 to all he uttered, and prevented her suspecting that any 
 other motive had brought him thither. Once, indeed — 
 or twice, indeed — she could not help observing the anxious 
 look with which he regarded the opening of the parlour 
 door, or the sound of a step in the passage, and the evi- 
 dent disappointment that clouded his brow at the entrance 
 of the servant, or as the step passed without opening the 
 door. But he contrived to banish the slight approach to 
 suspicion, which induced her once to ask, " who it was 
 that he expected to see ?'' by replying, without hesita- 
 tion — 
 
 " Who can it be, dear Georgina, who, but the only person 
 besides yourself that has a right to feel offended with 
 me ? I might, indeed, try to shelter myself by pleading 
 your father's example, or pretend indifference to what he 
 may say or think of my betrayal of the trust he reposed in 
 me, but I cannot do it, my dear girl. I feel that he has 
 every right to be angry with me, because, in proportion as 
 lie forgot himself, I ought to have become more cautious. 
 You cannot wonder, therefore, that though your generous 
 forgiveness has set my heart comparatively at ease, I am 
 still anxious to have Mr. Martin's assurance that my folly 
 is forgiven on his part." 
 
 "Oh! I'm sure Papa has no right to find fault with 
 
710 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 you," returned the dutiful Georgina, perfectly satisfied by 
 this plausible representation on the part of her lover, that 
 it was only Mr. Martin he looked for. " He made him- 
 self ten times more ridiculous than you did," she added ; 
 "but I don't suppose he will remember this morning half 
 that happened ; and as to you, it cant't be expected that 
 you should be answerable for it, as you were asleep for 
 the last two or three hours, and knew nothing about it," 
 
 Manson longed to ask her what did happen in those 
 hours. He had a faint impression, as it were in a dream, 
 that something had taken place with respect to Miss 
 Shelburne which had given him pain, although from re- 
 gard to his own interest — which was more deeply con- 
 cerned than they expected, in bringing to a speedy 
 conclusion the intended marriage between himself and 
 Georgina — he had not dared to interpose. The absence 
 of Milly, and the silence of the young ladies, who had 
 never mentioned her name, confirmed him in the suspicion 
 — the half-consciousness, that the conduct of the Martins 
 to the object of his anxiety — the beautiful girl who had 
 made so deep an impression on his heart — had been cruel 
 and indefensible. It was evident, he thought, that they 
 were afraid and ashamed to introduce the subject. What 
 could have become of her ? He tried in vain to piece 
 together the faint flashes of recollection, that seemed from 
 time to time to break in upon the dark cloud in "which 
 were veiled the transactions of the evening. More than 
 once the words trembled on his lips to inquire for Miss 
 Shelburne, but he was afraid of unwarily disturbing the 
 new-made peace between himself and Georgina, and was 
 compelled, therefore, to await in silence an explanation 
 of the absence of the former, which he saw co'uld not 
 fail to attend Mr. Martin's appearance at the breakfast 
 
OF WOMAN'S LJFE. 717 
 
 table. It was not for a considerable time, however, tbat 
 the old man could be induced to talk at all. He was ill, 
 cross, dissatisfied with himself and all about him. His 
 daughters vainly tried to propitiate him by showing un- 
 usual solicitude and attention to his comfort. He could 
 not eat, found fault with everything on the table, and 
 peevishly desired them, " not to bother themselves about 
 him, but get their own breakfasts and let him alone," when 
 they pressed upon his notice the dainties the old cook had 
 provided to tempt his appetite. 
 
 One thing was satisfactory to Manson at least. He 
 did not seem to have any recollection of the overnight's 
 offences on the part of his intended son-in-law ; and when 
 Laura somewhat maliciously hinted the object of Mr. 
 Manson's visit as being one of penitence, he (her father) 
 crustily replied — 
 
 " There, hold your tongue about last night, we were all 
 a pack of fools together — six of one and half a dozen of 
 t'other — so let bygones be bygones. I'll take care it 
 shall be the last time that I'm drawn into — by the bye," 
 and he looked hastily round the table, as if to discover 
 whether there were any traces of another person at the 
 breakfast table — " by the bye where is— what has become 
 of Miss — the girl, what's her name— Milly ? Where is 
 she? What did you do with her? You surely were 
 not such brutes as to leave the poor girl behind you. If 
 we were all mad, you had your senses about you, and — " 
 
 Loud exclamations from both the young ladies — vindi- 
 cations of themselves — declarations of their innocence 
 and accusations of their father — who, they said, was 
 alone to blame, together with repetitions of all they had 
 clone to discover what had become of the object of their 
 anxiety, mingled with exclamations of anger against them, 
 
718 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 himself, and everybody concerned in the affair. Every- 
 one who was present followed, and in the midst of the con- 
 fusion — at the moment that Manson, whose looks 
 betrayed the consternation he felt at the discovery, was 
 trying to induce the father and daughters to listen to him, 
 and to form some kind of reasonable plan to discover what 
 had become of the cause of their dispute — they became 
 conscious that a stranger had been introduced by Susan, 
 who had in vain tried to make them hear what she had 
 been desired by him to announce, and had therefore been 
 followed by one who was too impatient, after hearing Milly 
 Shelburne's name bandied from mouth to mouth in 
 different tones, to be detained from entering by any 
 regard to ceremony or etiquette. 
 
 The two young ladies started up in confusion. To 
 think that they should be no better prepared to receive 
 a visitor of such importance as Mr. St. Orme ! Their 
 morning wrappers — their hair in papers — the table all 
 in disorder, and loaded with the debris of last night's 
 supper — Papa in his shirt sleeves ! — oh ! it was dreadful. 
 Whatever would he (Mr. St. Orme) think of them. They 
 were, in their own language, so completely nonplushed, 
 that they forgot all that was proper on such an occasion 
 — forgot to introduce their honourable visitor to their 
 father or Manson, neither of whom recollected having 
 seen the gentleman the preceding evening, and sat staring 
 at him in surprise, at such an unexpected intrusion, 
 until Mr. Martin, seeming suddenly to remember his 
 position as master of the house, demanded, in a conse- 
 quential tone — 
 
 " Pray, what may be your business, Sir, if I may make 
 bold to ask?" 
 
 " Oh ! Papa, it"s Mr. St. Orme," remonstrated Georgina, 
 preventing the reply of the latter. "I declare I'm quite 
 
OF woman's life. 7 I 'J 
 
 ashamed that we are not better prepared for the honour 
 of your company, Mr. St. Orrne," she continued. " If wc 
 had but have known — but you will take some breakfast. 
 I will order fresh coffee. Mr. Manson, ring for one of the 
 servants to clear the table. I am sure Mr. St. Orme will 
 excuse our being in such confusion ; it was so very late 
 before we got home ; but if I had known you intended to 
 do me this honour — " 
 
 " Tut, tut, tut ! what is all this about?" interrupted the 
 old man, whose surprise increased with every word his 
 daughter uttered. " Who is this Mr. What-d 4 ye-call- 
 him ? and what brings him here, pray, without my leave or 
 licence ? Things are come t© a pretty pass, indeed, if 
 you're picking up people and asking 'em to breakfast 
 without my knowing who or what they are, or where 
 they spring from." 
 
 Though uttered in an undertone — for there was some- 
 thing in St. Orme's look and manner that forbade the 
 old man's openly giving vent to his usual coarse, blunt 
 observations, when offended — Mr. St. Orme compre- 
 hended the meaning of the looks directed to him. He 
 was anxious at once to put an end to the mistake into 
 which Miss Martin evidently had fallen — that he 
 appeared there as a visitor to her and her family — and 
 still more anxious to know the cause that Milly did not 
 appear to have joined the breakfast party, and addressing 
 Laura Martin, who was the only one at leisure, apparently, 
 to answer to his questions, he said — 
 
 "Did not Miss Shelburne mention that she appointed 
 me to call for her here at eleven o'clock, to conduct 
 her to — " 
 
 "Miss Shelburne is not here, Sir," returned Laura, 
 drawing herself up with an air of offended consequence. 
 
720 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " No : Miss Shelburne chose to renounce our and 
 Fapa's protection, Mr. St. Ornie," exclaimed Georgina, 
 before the latter could give utterance to a word of the 
 consternation and surprise her sister's observation had 
 created. " I 'in very sorry to say it, Sir, but I'm afraid 
 you'll find that Miss Shelburne is very unworthy of the 
 kindness and condescension you, as well as we, have 
 bestoAved on her. This gentleman, Papa, is the owner of 
 the Abbey that Milly talked about, you know, and her 
 grandfather and grandmother are his servants." 
 
 "But where — where is Milly— Miss Shelburne?" 
 demanded St. Orme, his lips trembling and his face pale 
 with surprise and alarm. . 
 
 " Indeed that is more than we can tell, Mr. St. Orme," 
 returned Miss Martin, shaking her head mysteriously. 
 " She took it into her head to be affronted at something 
 Papa said to her, though it was only for her own good 
 he spoke ; for, indeed, Mr. St. Orme, with all her seeming 
 meekness and modesty, she — but I won't say anything 
 against her. It's well if she don't find bitter reason to 
 repent what she has done. However, to make short 
 of the story, she took an opportunity when we were other- 
 wise engaged, and walked off, where, or how, or with 
 whom, we have not the slightest knowledge." 
 
 To describe St. Orme's astonishment and alarm would 
 be impossible. That there was some impenetrable 
 mystery in Milly's sudden disappearance he was con- 
 vinced, more especially by the manner in which Mr. 
 Martin tried to disavow all knowledge or connexion with 
 the affair. The old man was evidently ashamed of the 
 part he had acted in it, although he tried to assume an 
 air of great consequence. He did not, in fact, remember 
 the insulting manner in which he had treated Milly, 
 
oj woman's life, 7^1 
 
 though lie tried to carry it off by adopting his daughters re- 
 presentation — " that he hud merely reproved 'the gal' in a 
 fatherly manner, for what he thought conduct unbecoming 
 her sitivation in life ;" but Martin wasinreality ashamed of 
 what he had done ; and in his attempt to vindicate himself 
 ■ — and at the same time do justice to the poor girl, whom 
 his conscience told him was not deserving the insinuations 
 thrown out against her — he gave utterance to such in- 
 consistencies as led St Orme to judge much more un- 
 favourably of him than he deserved. With Georgina 
 Martin, St. Orme was still more angry and disgusted. 
 An attempt on the part of Manson to soften down her 
 evidence against Milly, and to vindicate the conduct of 
 the latter, had suddenly revived an incipient jealousy in 
 the bosom of Miss Martin, and added bitterness to her 
 accusations against the poor girl, who she declared " was 
 not onlv a monster of ingratitude towards her real friends, 
 but designing, unprincipled, unworthy in every respect of 
 the kindness and patronage that had been lavished upon 
 her;" and, to crown the whole, avowed her belief that Miss 
 Shelburne would be found to have forfeited all pretensions 
 to respect or even commiseration, by having voluntarily 
 quitted her respectable friends, in company with that 
 libertine Mr. Fitzroy Palmer, whose disappearance from 
 the " St. Helena Gardens" she represented to have been 
 simultaneous with that of Miss Shelburne. That she 
 did not believe this was certain. Manson was convinced 
 in his heart that she knew it was false ; but the pretended 
 unwillingness with which she ;it last revealed it, imposed 
 not only on St. Orme but her father, and reconciled the 
 latter completely to the injustice he had before conscien- 
 tiously repented of having committed. 
 
 " I wipe my hands of her, after this," exclaimed the old 
 4 Z 
 
722 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 man, and if Mr. St. Orine will take my advice, he will do 
 the same. 'As she has made her bed, so let her lay in it.' " 
 
 " Oh! of course, Papa, Mr. St. Ormc will not conde- 
 scend to trouble himself any further about her," exclaimed 
 Georgina. " Poor, unfortunate creature ! I'm sure my 
 heart aches for her ; for what can she expect will be her 
 fate, when — " 
 
 But St. Onne shrank from Miss Martin's pity and com- 
 miseration with even more pain and disgust than he had 
 done from her vituperation and misrepresentation of 
 Milly 's conduct, and uttering a hasty adieu, he rushed 
 from the house, turning a deaf ear to Miss Martin's regret 
 for his departure, and solicitations for future visits. 
 
 Throwing himself into a corner of the hackney-coach, 
 which waited at Mr. Martin's door— he having engaged it 
 for the purpose of conveying Milly to her mother's resi- 
 dence — St. Orme gave way unrestrainedly to the feelings 
 excited by this cruel and unexpected termination of all 
 the happiness which he had founded on his interview with 
 Milly Shelburneon the preceding evening. 
 
 " Cruel, deceptions, unfeeling girl !" he exclaimed — 
 " thus then vanish all my dreams of future happiness — 
 thus all belief in woman's truth — all dependence on 
 woman's sincerity and faith — all reliance on their pro- 
 fessions of love — henceforth, I renounce the whole false, 
 deceptive sex. Yes, my uncle is right ; they are all 
 alike — all treacherous, unprincipled, fickle as the wind. 
 I will return to him, acknowledge my folly, and, like 
 him, forswear the whole sex, and try to forget that I have 
 ever been made the dupe of one, who, I believe, wanted 
 but little to make her perfect — perfect in mind as she is 
 in person. Oh ! fool, fool, fool, that I have been, to 
 sutler myself to be thus deceived !" 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 7'2:] 
 
 "Stanhope Street, did you say, Sir?" demanded the 
 coachman, turning round on the box, and looking in 
 through the window upon his fare. 
 
 St. Orme started from the reverie into which he had 
 fallen, and which had prevented his reflecting as to 
 whither he was being conveyed, having told the man when 
 he hired him that he was to drive him to Stanhope Street, 
 Drury Lane, when he returned in a few minutes, expecting 
 he should find Milly ready to accompany him. 
 
 For a moment or two he hesitated whether he should 
 proceed to his original destination — in fact, where he 
 should go, or what he should do. Humanity decided the 
 question. He had promised to see Mrs. Morison — 
 Milly s mother — again ; and though no longer able to 
 afford her the consolation he had hoped to do in the 
 person of her daughter, he would not disappoint the poor 
 woman of that which he knew she set the highest value 
 on — the sight of a sympathising, disinterested friend. 
 
 The coachman was desired to proceed as at first directed, 
 and the intermediate time was spent by St. Orme in re- 
 flecting as to the course he should pursue with respect to 
 his recent meeting with Milly and her subsequent pro- 
 ceedings. The result was a determination to conceal the 
 whole affair from the unfortunate mother. 
 
 Mrs. Morison was, as St. Onne had more than hinted 
 in his recent interview with Milly. in a very precarious 
 state of health. Long suffering, neglect, and an absolute 
 want of the comforts necessary to sustain her naturally 
 delicate, and now fast declining frame, had worked their 
 natural consequences; and to these had been now added 
 the agitating and depressing influence of uneasiness and 
 suspense on account of Milly, whose rash elopement 
 from the peaceful home of her childhood had been com- 
 
724 BHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 mmiicated to her in a letter from old Richard Shelburne, 
 in which he mingled with lamentations for the loss of 
 his grandchild, many reproaches of her (his daughter) 
 who, he said, "had contributed to ruin the poor girl, by 
 her encouragement of her pride and -vanity, as well as of 
 the :nad folly of thinking she (MilJy) would be able to 
 get her living by such rubbish as singing and playing 
 music in London." He concluded his incoherent epistle 
 by praying his daughter, if Milly was with her, to send 
 her home again to him and her almost heart-broken 
 grandmother, promising that she should be received with 
 as much kindness as if she had done nothing to deserve 
 different treatment— and that he would never again try to 
 compel her to do anything that was disagreeable to her, 
 although, through the whole letter, it was plain that the 
 old man obstinately clung to his belief that the plan he 
 had marked out for Milly was the only one that could 
 have saved her from danger or distress. Over this letter 
 poor Mrs. Morison was still mourning ; and while she 
 commiserated Milly for the suffering which it betrayed 
 the poor girl had endured, from her father's pertinacious 
 adherence to the groveling ideas from which she in- 
 stinctively felt her daughter's feelings had revolted, was 
 still lamenting her ignorance of the latter's present 
 situation, prevented her enforcing her return to her only 
 true friends, when Mr. St. Orme was ushered into the 
 room by the landlady's little girl — the only friend and 
 attendant of the poor invalid, whose fast increasing- 
 debility had for some days confined her entirely to her 
 room. 
 
 " You have no consolation to give me, I see, my dear 
 Sir, from your countenance," observed the poor woman, 
 when she had replied to his inquiries respecting her health. 
 
of woman's LITE. 725 
 
 St. Orrne shook his head ; he knew the extent of her 
 meaning was, that he had not succeeded in learning any- 
 thing of Milly, and he thus evaded revealing what he 
 feared, from her looks, would have even a worse effect 
 than her present uncertainty and suspense. How, 
 indeed, could he have borne to tell her that he had seen 
 Milly — that she knew her mother was dangerously ill — 
 that she 'was suffering tortures of suspense and agony 
 from her uncertainty of her child's fate — that she had 
 even promised to accompany him thither that very 
 morning, but had broken that promise, had forfeited his 
 respect and that of every other friend, every right-thinking 
 person that knew her -had violated even the appearance 
 of decency, by openly becoming the companion of a man 
 she had known only a few days — hours he might have said 
 — and that man notoriously an unprincipled libertine — 
 one who openly scoffed at all ties but those of inclination, 
 and from whom she could hope nothing but to be aban- 
 doned to ruin, as his previous victims had been, when- 
 ever his capricious fancy became satiated by possession. 
 Such was the representation that had been impressed 
 upon him by Miss Martin — such was the picture which 
 he shrank from pourtraying to the suffering and fast 
 declining mother of Milly Shelburne. Until the mo- 
 ment he met her desponding look, he had ventured to in- 
 dulge a slight hope that Milly had been misrepresented — 
 that she had sought a refuge with her mother ; but that 
 hope had now vanish i d. 
 
 "I am very foolish," observed Mrs. Morison, after a 
 long pause, during which both had been silently occupied 
 by the same object — "I am very foolish, but it is natural 
 that I should connect everything I cannot exactly 
 understand with the object that engrosses all my thoughts. 
 
720 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Morison came home even Inter than usual this morning, 
 for it was daybreak when he came staggering into the 
 room. Contrary to his general custom, he did not throw 
 himself on the sofa, where he has slept since I have been 
 so much worse, but came to my bedside and tore aside the 
 curtain, with a look that I fancied expressed an expecta- 
 tion that I was not alone. The landlady had been urging 
 him that I ought to have a nurse during the night, but 
 though your bounty would have enabled me to do so, he 
 wouldn't allow it. ( It was unnecessary expense,' he 
 said. ' Nurses were all thieves, and he wouldn't suffer 
 any of the fraternity to rob him.' I thought when I saw 
 his eager look that he imagined I had disobeyed his 
 orders, but I did not speak, for I did not want to give 
 him an opportunity to abuse me for the expense my ill- 
 ness has, he says, brought upon him. Forgive me, Mr. 
 St. Orme, I am wearying you with my domestic troubles ; 
 but — " 
 
 " No, no, proceed, pray," said St. Orme hastily. 
 
 "I was too anxious," continued Mrs. Morison, "to 
 avoid affording him any opportunity of repeating his 
 complaints of the expense of my illness, which he 
 always persisted was more than half-assumed to dis- 
 guise my idleness and love of indulgence, to utter a word 
 of inquiry. In fact, I turned my face away from him, in 
 hopes that it would prevent his saying anything ; but it 
 was soon evident that he had something more than usual 
 on his mind, and would not go to rest till he had 
 unburthencd it. <■ 
 
 "'Have you had any visitors, pray, to-night?' he 
 demanded when he had satisfied himself that I was 
 alone. 
 
 " ' Visitors !' I replied, ' who could you suppose 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 727 
 
 would visit me, when you take care to drive every one away 
 who would be kind and charitable towards me ?' It was 
 very foolish of me, but I could not help saying what I 
 felt to be the truth.' 
 
 " He muttered something that I did not rightly under- 
 stand, and then throwing the curtains aside, as if he 
 thought some one was concealed behind them, observed — 
 ' You had better not try to play any of your tricks 
 upon me. I shan't stand upon no ceremony, let it be 
 who it will. It's bad enough that I should have to keep you 
 in idleness ; but as to your daughter, don't let me catch her 
 come sneaking here, or I'll soon let her and you too 
 know that I won't be imposed upon ; no, not for a single 
 day.' 
 
 "' My daughter !' I exclaimed in astonishment; for 
 what could I think, Mr. St. Orme, but that he mast have 
 heard something of my poor Milly. He refused, how- 
 ever, to give me any explanation, and repeating his cau- 
 tion that I should give no encouragement to anybody 
 that would add to his expenses, and adding a threat that 
 he wouldn't much longer put up with those I had already 
 brought upon him, he threw himself upon the sofa, and 
 soon apparently forgot his discontent in sleep.' " 
 
 " I could not, however," continued the poor woman, 
 "banish from my mind the idea that he must have 
 recently heard something of my poor child, and this was 
 confirmed by several incoherent expressions he uttered in 
 his sleep, and which I was sure related to her, though 
 they were only half intelligible to me. Still, however, 
 the purport was the same — 'that she had nothing to 
 expect from him ;' and once lie exclaimed with vehe- 
 mence, ' You will not make a fool of me, as you have 
 of Briggs and the others." " 
 
728 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 St. Orme started, for he recognised the name of 
 Briggs, and could no longer doubt that there was some 
 secret connexion between Milly's persecutors and her 
 unworthy father-in-law. 
 
 " And is that all, Mrs. Morison ?" he demanded. 
 
 " Yes ; unless," — she hesitated, — " and yet I do not see 
 what connexion there could possibly be." 
 
 " Pray tell me all," said St. Orme. " You do not 
 know — cannot imagine — the importance it may be 
 to — to — " 
 
 " Milly !" she uttered in surprise. " Do you then 
 know anything of her ?" 
 
 " Let me hear first what more you have learned," re- 
 turned St. Orme. 
 
 " I will, I will," she replied, " though after all it is 
 nothing. I had slept I know not how long — perhaps 
 two or three hours — and I suppose he had been equally 
 undisturbed, but I awoke at hearing somebody speaking 
 to him. It was the little girl who showed you up stairs 
 just now. 
 
 " ' No ; she did not say anything about you,' she re- 
 plied to some question of his. ' It was Mrs. Morison 
 she said she wanted and must see ; and when I told her 
 she was ill-a-bed, and could not be seen by any strangers ; 
 she said, * Tell her that I come from — ' Morison, I 
 suspect, heard me move at that minute, for I raised my 
 head from the pillow in my anxiety to hear the name, 
 and I suppose he prevented the girl's uttering it. I could 
 scarcely breathe from anxiety, but I kept silent, and 
 presently I suppose he thought he was mistaken and that 
 I was still asleep, for I heard the girl say, in answer to 
 some question from him — 
 
 " ' She looks wretchedly poor, and mother said I 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 729 
 
 wasn't on any account to let her up-stairs, for she was 
 sure she was no good ; and so she shut the door upon 
 her, and told her to wait outside the door till we'd let 
 Mrs. Morison know the message she'd brought.' 
 
 " ' That's right,' returned Morison ' go down now, 
 there's a good girl, and keep her in talk till I come.' 
 
 " The girl left the room on tiptoe, and I saw her 
 look in through the curtains to ascertain that I was still, 
 as she thought, asleep, while he hastened to put on his 
 coat and shoes, not having taken off the rest of his 
 clothes. You will perhaps blame my cowardice, Mr. 
 St. Orrne, for not having instantly demanded of him who 
 this mysterious visitor to me was, before he left the room," 
 she continued. " Alas ! it is too true that my dread 
 of that man — my fear of exciting his brutality — 
 has long overpowered every right and proper feel- 
 ing. I did make an effort, by rising in the bed and 
 looking earnestly at him, to Jet him know that my curi- 
 osity was awakened ; but he returned my look with one of 
 those tremendous frowns that always terrify me into 
 silence, and left the room without uttering a word, nor has 
 he since returned." 
 
 "And have you made no effort since to learn from the 
 girl ?" demanded St. Orme. 
 
 " Yea," she replied, "but I can make nothing of the 
 story she chooses to tell. It is very evident that he has 
 bribed her to elude my curiosity, for she denies that the 
 young woman inquired for me, and pretends that she 
 heard her say that she was the wife of a man that belongs 
 to the theatre where Morison is employed. That her 
 husband had met with an accident, and she came to beg of 
 Morison to raise a subscription for him. It may be 
 true," she added, " but it is so inconsistent with what I 
 
 5 A 
 
700 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 beard in the first instance — and yet I know not why I 
 should feel any interest in it, or why I should connect it 
 at all with Milly, who is perhaps—" 
 
 St. Ornie, however, was convinced that her first sup- 
 position was correct, and at his request Mrs. Morison 
 summoned the girl by knocking with a stick on the 
 floor, the usual signal for her attendance. It was in vain, 
 however, that he tried to elicit the truth from her, either 
 by threats or bribes, although she prevaricated so, that 
 it was evident Mrs. Morison's first impressions were 
 correct, and that there was not a word of truth in the 
 story by which she attempted to account for the woman's 
 visit. 
 
 Affecting, however, at last, to be satisfied with the 
 girl's explanation, St. Orme observed — 
 
 "Well, my dear, I will not detain you any longer. It 
 is plain I was mistaken in thinking I knew the young 
 woman, and that she came on a different errand to what 
 it appears she did. 
 
 Putting some silver in her hand, he added — 
 
 " I hope you will continue to be kind and attentive 
 to Mrs. Morison, who tells me you are a very good girl, 
 and I will reward you better when I come again." 
 
 The girl's eyes sparkled with pleasure at the sight of 
 probably the largest sum she had ever possessed, and she 
 was hurrying away, when he, with apparent carelessness, 
 observed — 
 
 " I have forgotten where you said the young woman 
 came from— was it Deptford or llotherhithe ?" 
 
 " Yes, Deptford Road," she replied, evidently thrown 
 off her guard. Mrs. Morison's look of utter astonish- 
 ment, however, recalled her recollection, and she added, 
 colouring violently, " I believe so, though 1 ain't at all 
 
OF woman's LITE. 7-31 
 
 sure, but I don't remember telling you so, and I hope 
 you won't tell Mr. Morison that I told you anything 
 about it." 
 
 " Oil ! no, it is not of any consequence," returned 
 St. Orme, whose heart, however, throbbed at this dis- 
 covery, which confirmed the supposition that the mes- 
 senger came from Milly. " However, as you have 
 told so much, it can make little difference if you trust 
 me with the message she brought from Miss Shelburne. 
 You see, I know much more than you suspected ; 
 aud that it will save me from having to demand of 
 Mr. Morison why he has thought proper to impose 
 upon this poor lady, who is of course anxious to hear 
 of her daughter. Come, you are a good, sensible girl, 
 I am sure, and I dare say love your mother. Would 
 you not think it very cruel if you were away from her, 
 and sent a message to her, if any person were to 
 prevent — " 
 
 The girl burst into tears. 
 
 "I didn't know it was Mrs. Morison's daughter that 
 sent the woman," she observed, sobbing, " and I'm sure 
 I didn't mean to do any harm, when I promised him I 
 wouldn't tell ; but indeed I didn't hear anything, except 
 that the young lady had sprained her ankle so badly 
 that she couldn't put her foot to the ground, and so had 
 sent the letter that Mr. Morison took away from the 
 woman. But oh! pray don't tell him that I've told all 
 this — he'll never, never forgive me ; and he persuaded me 
 that the woman was a begging impostor; and indeed she 
 did look so very, very poor, that I believed what he said, 
 because I know Mrs. Morison can't refuse anybody that's 
 in distress if she has got any money." 
 
 " But you know that it is a long lime since 1 have hud 
 
732 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 any, Hester, and therefore could not be imposed on," 
 observed Mrs. Morison, who saw there was something 
 beyond what the girl chose to tell. 
 
 St. Orme, however, had learned enough to revive his 
 hopes with regard to Milly— for that the messenger was 
 from her to her mother he could not doubt, and he was 
 almost equally sure that had she been guilty of the worse 
 than imprudence that Miss Martin had represented, she 
 would have been anxious to avoid all communication 
 with her mother, instead of taking the first opportunity 
 to send to her and explain the cause of her absence. 
 With any one else but Milly, he might have suspected 
 that the excuse for her absence was a feigned one ; but 
 Milly was truth itself, and whatever error she might have 
 committed — and he began to doubt that she had com- 
 mitted any, or at least so serious a one as had been 
 represented by her friends — he would not believe that she 
 had attempted to screen it by a deliberate falsehood. No ! 
 He recalled her anxious look, the unwillingness with 
 which she had yielded to his representation that it was 
 too late to go that night to her mother, and he felt cer- 
 tain that her messenger had told nothing but the truth as 
 to the accident which occasioned her absence. There 
 was one mystery yet unexplained — Mr. Morisons con- 
 duct in intercepting Milly's communication ; but though 
 Mrs. Morison was for the whole truth, she knew enough 
 of the character of her unworthy husband to assign with- 
 out difficulty the motives on which he acted. 
 
 "If my poor girl were rich," Mr. St. Orme — "if he 
 thought she had plenty of money — he would have acted 
 quite differently. He would then have been all anxiety 
 to get her here ; but if— as 1 am afraid from Hester's 
 description of the woman — she is badly off, perhaps in 
 
op woman's life. 733 
 
 actual want, he "will not scruple at any paltry means to 
 keep her away." 
 
 This was a new light thrown on Milly's probable situa- 
 tion. He had indeed suspected from Miss Martin's in- 
 sinuation — her open assertion, indeed — that Milly, pre- 
 vious to their adoption of her, was literally destitute ; but 
 it had not occurred to him that she perhaps still re-' 
 mained so ; and he now became more than ever anxious to 
 ascertain her present situation. 
 
 To go down at once to the place where he had last 
 seen her, and endeavour to trace the woman who 
 had brought the letter, seemed to afford the most probable 
 chance of success. He had satisfied Mrs. Morison, 
 as far as possible, by acknowledging that he had seen 
 Milly, and that she was then under the protection of a 
 respectable — though very far from agreeable family — but 
 he suppressed all that he thought likely to agitate and 
 render her uneasy in her present weak state of health ; and 
 thus unfortunately missed learning what might greatly 
 ha*ve elucidated Mr. Morison's conduct, namely — the 
 connexion of the latter with Mr. Briggs and his party. 
 Promising to return the moment he had gained intelli- 
 gence of Milly, who he was compelled to acknowledge 
 had, he feared, quitted the family of the Martins with 
 whom he had seen her, and having arranged with the 
 landlady that proper medical and other attendance 
 should be afforded to the fast sinking invalid, he pro- 
 ceeded at once to the Gardens where he had so 
 unexpectedly encountered the object of his present 
 anxiety. 
 
 Nothing, however, was of course known there of the 
 proceedings of the party, beyond the single circumstance 
 that the new singer, who had made such a sensation, 
 
731 SHADE AM) SUNSHINE 
 
 Lad left some hours before the rest, having, it was sus- 
 pected, from words dropped by some of them, received 
 some gross offence. " Not to be wondered at," observed 
 the respectable proprietor, " from people who appeared so 
 unsuitable, aud who — the men at least — were intoxicated.'' 
 
 "But Mr. Palmer — the manager," — said St. Orme, 
 " surely he did not so far forget himself as to suffer 
 a female to be insulted. One to whom he owed so much, 
 apparently, as Miss Shelburne — " 
 
 Mr shook his head. 
 
 " Unfortunately, Palmer knew nothing about it," he re- 
 plied. " lie would have been the last to have, as you say, 
 allowed the young lady to be offended by any one. The fact 
 is," continued he, in a confidential tone, "poor Palmer, who 
 is as good a fellow as ever lived, is like many mure, nut 
 overburdened with cash, and a creditor unfortunately 
 learning he was here, and thinking it a good opportunity 
 to lay hold of him while he had some in his possession, 
 sent down two fellows with a writ, and earned him off to 
 a springing house. He was mistaken, however, in think- 
 ing he should get hold of the receipts of the evening, 
 for Palmer, knowing the necessities of the ladies and 
 gentlemen of his company, had paid away nearly all the 
 money he had taken to them, as soon as he got hold 
 of it." 
 
 "And is he still in confinement.?" demanded St. Orme, 
 all animosity or suspicion against the " manager " vanish 
 ing at once, and anxious, if it were in his power, to serve 
 the man, towards whom he felt a species of gratitude for 
 the relief from the load that had weighed so heavily on 
 his spirits. He heard, however, with satisfaction, that 
 Mr. Palmer's friends had speedily released him from 
 " durance vile," and, in fact, that the latter had already 
 
OF woman's life. 735 
 
 paid a visit to the " St. Helena, " — liad heard with great 
 indignation the treatment Miss Shelburne had received 
 at the hands of the Martins, and had left, with the ex- 
 pressed determination to leave no means untried to dis- 
 cover the retreat of " the beautiful songstress, " as Mr. 
 
 called her, declaring, at the same time, his fears and 
 
 suspicions that she had fallen into some trap set to ensnare 
 her by Briggs and his party, against whom he denounced 
 the utmost vengeance, should his suspicions prove 
 correct. 
 
 " Now comes my fit, again," St. Orme might have said 
 with propriety; but he tried to conceal, under an assump- 
 tion of calmness and indifference, the uneasiness excited 
 by this determination on the part of the manager, and 
 his fear that the latter might be successful in his search, 
 although it was evident that the latter possessed even less 
 clue to the desired discovery than he himself. Whither 
 should he now turn his steps in pursuit ? According to 
 Hester — Mrs. Morison's young attendant — the woman 
 who had brought Milly's letter had come from the neigh- 
 bourhood he was now in. The girl had distinctly heard 
 her complain of the long walk she had had. 
 
 "All the way from Deptford, Hester said, were her 
 very words, and when she would have explained where 
 that was, Mr. Morison had interrupted her by saying — 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; I know very well where you mean. It 
 is a long way, and of course you expect to be paid 
 for it." 
 
 What was the reply to this, Hester did not hear; but 
 to use her own expression, " it seemed as if two or 
 three words of a sort passed between them, though 
 at last they wont away together good friends." 
 
 It was therefore almost a certainty. St. Orme thought. 
 
73 G SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 that the ohject of his search was not far removed from 
 the neighbourhood. To have left it, therefore, would 
 have been to diminish the probability of discovering her ; 
 aud he therefore dismissed the coach which had conveyed 
 him thither, and resumed the occupation of sketching, 
 which had been his first attraction to the Gardens, and 
 now afforded a sufficient excuse for remaining, without 
 exciting suspicion of any particular motive for so 
 doing. 
 
 A long and weary day dragged its slow length along. 
 St. Orine wandering about, exploring every lane, and 
 turning and sauntering about every cottage that he 
 thought presented even the most remote possibility of 
 having afforded shelter to the object of his search, or 
 finding an excuse for entering into conversation with 
 every female whose appearance at all corresponded with 
 the young woman Hester had described. He returned to 
 dine at the tavern, devoted a short half hour to the sketch 
 he had began from the garden, and then again sallied 
 forth in a different direction from his morning's wander- 
 ings. Equally unsuccessful, he returned to a late tea; 
 but though he usually lingered over this, his favourite 
 meal, he was now too restless, too fearful that night would 
 come and condemn him to hours of suspense and suffer- 
 ing, while it would afford additional opportunity to those 
 whom he feared would be ready to take advantage of that 
 knowledge which was denied to him. 
 
 Again he contrived to lead the conversation with the 
 proprietor of the Gardens to Miss Shelburne's sudden dis- 
 appearance, and this time he acknowledged what he had 
 before tried to conceal, namely — " that he had a previous 
 acquaintance with, and took a particular interest in the 
 welfare of the former." 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 737 
 
 His companion seemed surprised, but now entered 
 ■with more warmth than he had before clone, into the cir- 
 cumstances of Miss Shelburne's disappearance. Setting 
 on foot the most particular inquiries among the servants 
 and other persons attached to the establishment, as to 
 the woman with whom the former had been seen in con- 
 versation, and who it was suspected — and, indeed, con- 
 firmed by several — was in the habit of loitering about 
 the lanes in the vicinity of the Gardens, to take any op- 
 portunity of exciting the charity of the visitants, who, as 
 it might be supposed, would not be very rigid in inquir- 
 ing into the character of one, whose appearance bespoke 
 so forcibly her claims upon their sympathy. That this 
 woman did not live at any great distance was, however, 
 the only conclusive evidence that resulted from these in- 
 quiries; and that, it seemed, only rested on the circum- 
 stance that she was always accompanied by two little 
 children, who certainly could not walk any great dis- 
 tance, and were also, as well as herself, too scantily 
 clothed to have been long exposed to the vicissitudes of 
 the weather. 
 
 St. Orme trembled, as he listened to the various con- 
 jectures on this subject that reached his ear ; for he felt 
 how dangerous to one so innocent and inexperienced as 
 Milly Shelburne might be any intercourse with one whom 
 all who spoke of her seemed to agree in believing to be an 
 artful, unprincipled beggar — always on the look out to 
 take advantage of those whom her youth and good looks, 
 as far as person, and the beauty of the children, together 
 with their apparently extreme poverty, might interest in 
 their favour. 
 
 The sun was already sinking, and again he sallied out 
 
 to take advantage of the short time that remained for his 
 
 5 B 
 
738 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 search, as yet undetermined whether he should hespeak 
 a bed for the night, and thus secure the visionary con- 
 solation of being still in the neighbourhood that con- 
 cealed the object of his search, or whether he should 
 return to his lodgings in London, and having acquainted 
 Mrs. Morison with his want of success, learn whether she 
 had been more fortunate in her inquiries of her unworthy 
 husband, and then determine on the course he should 
 adopt for the morrow, when he became conscious that he 
 had been for some time followed by an old woman of 
 very unprepossessing appearance, who he suspected came 
 from the gardens, where he believed he had seen her oc- 
 cupied in weeding, &c. 
 
 They were now out of sight of the house or grounds, 
 and he waited for her to come up with him, suspecting 
 that she had something to say to him which she did not 
 wish should be known to her employers or those about 
 them. His suspicions were soon confirmed ; the old 
 woman dropped a low curtsey as she came up to hi in, 
 and slackened her pace, as if she expected him to ques- 
 tion her. 
 
 " Well, my good woman, you are going home, I sup- 
 pose, then, after your day's work ?" 
 
 " Sure, thin, I am, ye're hanner," she replied, in a 
 true Tipperary brogue ; " and its thinking I am, that if 
 ye were to take the same way, ye'd may be larn more of 
 what ye're wanting to know than any of them grand 
 set-up know-nothings yonder could tell ye, though its 
 little good, may be, that I'd be doing myself by that 
 same." 
 
 St. Orme started. The woman's cunning look at him 
 at once revealed that these were not mere words of course, 
 and he doubted not that she was fully acquainted with 
 
of woman's life. 739 
 
 the purport of the inquiries he had been making ; whe- 
 ther she had it in her power to give any satisfactory- 
 answer to those inquiries, remained to be seen ; but he 
 went at once to the point by producing his purse, and 
 putting half-a-crown into her brown withered hand, 
 which was eagerly stretched forth to grasp it. 
 
 " Tell me at once what you have to say to me," he 
 observed ; " and, if your information is worth it, I will 
 give you more." 
 
 " God bless your banner, and grant you may niver be 
 the worse of that same ; but you'll be the best judge, if 
 what I've got to tell is worth more, though it's not more 
 I'm asking you for telling you, that I think I know 
 where the poor crater is living that ye're wanting to see." 
 
 " Ah ! take me there at once," he replied. " Show 
 me the woman, and prove to me that she is — " 
 
 '.' Asy, thin — asy, ye're hanner — and I'll tell ye, I did'nt 
 want to spake before them at the big house yonder," in- 
 dicating the " St. Helena," by a motion of her head over 
 her shoulder, " bekase I know they'd niver forgive the 
 ould Irishwoman — whose no more than a brute baste in 
 their eyes — for knowin' more than themselves, and maybe 
 they'd be castin' it up to me in the eyes of the master, 
 that it was me that encouraged her — Nelly I mane — to 
 be coram about the gardens to pick up a bit of wood or 
 a penny or two, sometimes — sildom enough, God knows, 
 is that same — from the gentry ; and it would be worse 
 still if they found it that the ould woman — that's meself, 
 your hanner — sometimes shares the bit of broken 
 victuals they throw to her at the house with the poor 
 crater and her fatherless children, worse luck it is to her 
 that she's got none better to look to for the morsel to fill 
 their bellies, the craters, than the poor widdy — '' 
 
V-40 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Pray tell me at once," interrupted St. Orme, whose 
 patience was becoming exhausted at her garrulity. 
 "What reason have you for thinking that this young 
 woman, Nelly I think you call her, is the person I am 
 anxious to discover ?" 
 
 " Sure, thin, I don't want to have any call to it one 
 way nor the other," she replied ; " for may he I'd be 
 losing my place up at the big house, if they should know 
 that Nelly and her poor children were in the lane yester- 
 day, and that she tould me through the hedge, when I 
 was sitting down to have my dhrop of coffee that one of 
 the maids warmed for me — my blessing upon her for 
 that same — that a beautiful young lady, that looked and 
 spoke like an angel, had given her a shilling, and the 
 childer some biscuits, and had told her if she'd wait in 
 the lane she'd try to get her some more before she left." 
 
 " Yes, it was her — it could be only her !" exclaimed 
 St. Orme, involuntarily. " Show me at once the way to 
 this young woman, and I will reward you to the full ex- 
 tent of your wishes and her's." 
 The old woman hesitated. 
 
 " Sure, thin, the blessin' of Heaven and the Holy 
 Virgin rest upon you and her both ; but I would rather, 
 if it's the same thing to your banner, that I should have 
 no call to taking you to Nelly, because, as I said afore, 
 if they find it out yonder, I'd lose my poor bit of 
 work — that's all I've got to depind upon. But I can show 
 you the lane where Nelly's bit of a cottage stands by 
 itself, and you can't miss of seeing her, and the childer 
 will be playin' at the door, lookin' out for ould granny — 
 that's the name they give me — poor things; and I'll go 
 on to Deptford to get my bits o' things from the shop the 
 while wid the money you've been pleased to give me ; and 
 
of woman's life. 741 
 
 then there's nobody can make mischief by saying I 
 brought you to the cottage." 
 
 "Answer me only one question," said St. Orine, 
 hastily, as he prepared to go off in the direction she had 
 pointed out as leading to Nelly's residence, " Is the 
 young lady you spoke of still at the cottage ?'' 
 
 The old woman, however, was evidently quite unpre- 
 pared for the question. She had not, she declared, any 
 idea that the young lady had ever visited Nelly's humble 
 home ; and she seemed even now to doubt its probability. 
 St. Orme at last elicited that she had not seen Nelly since 
 the time the latter had boasted of her good fortune, for 
 such Milly's gift of a shilling was evidently considered 
 by these poor creatures. 
 
 " I will tell your hanner, God's trute," she rejoined; 
 "I didn't go home at all last night, for there's a poor boy 
 that died in the hospital two days ago, and he was 
 brought home to Deptford to be waked dacently, all the 
 same as is done in our own dear country ; and it was 
 there I wint, when I came away after my day's work, and 
 it was there I stayed the blessed night through, till I 
 wint back to work this morning." 
 
 " And it is there, I suppose, you are going now ?" ob- 
 served St. Orme, who read the truth in her half abashed 
 — half triumphant — look, as she glanced at the silver he 
 had added to his first gift. 
 
 " Sure, thin, yere hanner has guessed the trute," re- 
 turned the old woman ; " and its many that will dhrink 
 yere banner's health to-night. Don't think though," she 
 added, suddenly, recollecting herself, " that I would have 
 gone away without sharing some of this wid poor Nelly 
 and her childer, only that I know she'll have a better 
 frind in you than I can be ; and it's the last rispect I can 
 
742 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 show to the poor boy Tim Murphy ; and Nelly herself 
 wouldn't grudge it to him, for its many's the kind word 
 and the silver sixpence he's given her, whin he came wid 
 the colleen he should have married, to see the ould 
 woman — that's me, your hanner — that was his own 
 mother's brother's widdy, his aunt that is only by another 
 father." 
 
 " But I thought it was a child, whose funeral ceremo- 
 nies you were attending," observed St. Orme, who felt 
 some interest in one whose kindness of heart she thus 
 designedly praised. 
 
 The old woman, however, explained that the term boy 
 indiscriminately applied to any of her unmarried coun- 
 trymen, though, in this instance, it certainly appeared 
 very unsuitable, poor Tim Murphy, whose loss she 
 lamented, having, she acknowledged, been on the wroug 
 side of thirty ; but they had now reached the end of the 
 lane where they were to separate ; and having accurately 
 described the spot where he might expect to see Nelly 
 Croft, as he learned she was called, and her children, 
 and more than half hoped to meet with Milly Shelburne, 
 he bade the old woman adieu, having first, however, in- 
 creased ten-fold her gratitude by a gift of five shillings 
 more, under a solemn promise, however, that it should 
 not be devoted to the purposes of the wake, for which 
 she had already, she owned, far more than was either 
 necessary or could be expected, but should be reserved 
 for future comfort, when the present excitement should 
 have passed away. 
 
 The propriety of the old woman's caution, so far as 
 avoiding the observations of her neighbours, was soon 
 evident to St. Orme, as he proceeded up the narrow 
 secluded lane she had pointed out as Nelly's residence, 
 
OF woman's life. 748 
 
 for at almost every window and door of the straggling 
 houses he passed a head was projected, to observe what 
 was evidently an unusual sight — a gentleman of St. 
 Orme's distinguished appearance. The inhabitants were 
 indeed evidently of a very low description, and more than 
 one expression that betrayed as low a tone of morality 
 reached his ears. His heart sank at the thought that 
 Milly should even for an hour be exposed to the misery 
 of being among such people ; but he felt considerably 
 relieved, as he progressed, at finding that these habita- 
 tions became less frequent, and the place became more 
 and more solitary and secluded, till at length he reached 
 a spot where they seemed to disappear altogether. Surely 
 he could not have passed the cottage ; but he recalled the 
 old woman's description — two little huts standiDg toge- 
 ther, back from the road, and sheltered by some tall trees. 
 He had seen as yet none that answered this description ; 
 and again he went on, his heart somewhat lightened by 
 the conviction that, if she were there, Milly was at least 
 relieved from the misery of being compelled to see or 
 hear what he had done. 
 
 "This — could this be the place?" was at length the 
 question which St. Orme asked himself, as he at length 
 stood before what scarcely deserved even the title the 
 old Irishwoman had given it, of a hut, so far was it be- 
 neath anything he had ever beheld as a human habitation. 
 All was silent within and without. The shade of the 
 tall dark trees increased the obscurity of the fast coming 
 on night. St. Orme hesitated ; but at length ventured 
 to knock first at one then at the other. A little dog voci- 
 ferously replied at the first, but it was fastened in, and 
 there was no other sign of human habitation. At the 
 second all was silent ; and, after waiting some time, he 
 
744 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 determined to walk on, and ascertain if there were any 
 houses farther up the lane, where he could inquire for 
 the person he wanted, Nelly Croft, who, the old woman 
 had told him, was well known in the neighbourhood. 
 None appeared ; but at last a child's voice reached his 
 ear, and at a bend of the lane he beheld a young woman, 
 who, he felt convinced immediately, was the person he 
 sought. She appeared to have been searching for wood, 
 and, as he beheld her, as if wearied with the day's exer- 
 tion, she stopped to rest by the road side, with the child 
 in her arms, and the boy by her side who had been de- 
 scribed to him by the old Irishwoman. 
 
 There was great confusion and hesitation in the man- 
 ner in which she replied to his first question, whether 
 her name was Nelly Croft; but, at length, she replied in 
 the affirmative, and then pointed towards the dwelling 
 he had passed as her place of abode. 
 
 "I am a particular friend of the young lady whom 
 you met at the ' St. Helena,' " he observed, scarcely know- 
 ing what course to adopt, whether to acknowledge his 
 hope and belief of finding her with this young woman 
 at once, or not. 
 
 The latter changed countenance, and looked suspi- 
 ciously at him, but only said — • 
 
 " Oh, indeed !" as if waiting for him to proceed. 
 
 " She is better, I hope," he added, confidentially. " It 
 was an unfortunate accident, especially just at this time; 
 but it will not, I hope, be attended with any serious con- 
 sequences to her, though it has made her poor mother 
 very unhappy." 
 
 "Her mother! how did she find it out, then?" de- 
 manded the woman, betraying considerable confusion. 
 " But who do you come from, Sir ?" 
 

OF WOMAN S LIFE. 745 
 
 " I will explain that to Miss Shelburne herself," he 
 replied, decidedly. " Bat come, it is getting late, and I 
 have no time to lose. You are weary, I see, and will no 
 doubt be glad to get home. Leave the wood behind you, 
 you can fetch it in the morning, and I will carry the 
 child for you. It is too heavy for one who appears not to 
 be in very good health." And ho took the child from her 
 by gentle force, for she seemed inclined to refuse his 
 offer. Fortunately for his purpose, he had put some bis- 
 cuits inside the portfolio he carried under his arm, more as 
 affording him an excuse for stopping whenever he might 
 think it likely to be of any advantage, than with any view 
 of making use of it; and these divided between the 
 children, immediately attached them to him, while the 
 mother was of course compelled — though with evident 
 reluctance — to follow when he walked on, retracing his 
 steps towards the cottages he had previously passed, and 
 one of which he felt convinced was the place pointed out 
 by the old Irishwoman as Nelly Croft's habitation. 
 
 " Your children seem hungry," he observed, finding 
 she did not speak, and seemed considering how she 
 should act. " Have you been long out with them ?" he 
 added. 
 
 "Not so very long," she replied, "but they hav'nt 
 
 had much to eat to-day, though they got up very early. 
 
 Mr. Morison promised to meet me at the top of the 
 
 lane, and bring tea and sugar and other things, and 
 
 I've been waiting there till the children are quite tired 
 
 out, without his coming. Perhaps, though, he's sent you 
 
 instead," she added quickly, " for I can't think he 
 
 would be worse than his word; besides, he knows the 
 
 young lady 's in want of everything ; and that's what I 
 
 gathered the wood for — that I might get some water 
 
 5 c 
 
740 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 boiled ready, for I'm sure she must be quite faint 
 for want." 
 
 " Vile, unfeeling wretch," murmured St. Orme. "Did 
 not Morison give you any money, then, when you de- 
 livered the letter to him ?" he demanded. 
 
 " No, Sir, only enough to pay for my coach hire to 
 New Cross," she replied ; " and that, indeed, he didn't 
 give me, for he went with me and paid the coachman, 
 after he had given me some bread and cheese and beer 
 at the public house ; but he said he'd be down here as 
 soon, if not before me, and bring everything that was 
 wanted with him. I can't think, though," she added — 
 speaking to herself in a lower tone — " I can't think what 
 he made me go and drag the children Avith me all the way up 
 to the Cross. I'm sure I'd had walking enough before ; and 
 so I should have told him if the stage hadn't drove off 
 before I'd time to think about it." 
 
 St. Orme would have hurried still faster than he now 
 did towards the cottage, had he heard this soliloquy, but 
 he was trying to soothe the children with promises of 
 more cakes when they got home, his stock being now 
 exhausted. Suddenly he paused ; his ignorance of the 
 locality prevented his knowing how far Nelly would have 
 to go before she could procure the necessary supplies, 
 until his attention was called to it by the eldest child — a 
 fine sturdy boy of five or six years — pulling his coat and 
 whispering — 
 
 " Give me a penny, will you, and I'll go and buy some 
 cakes for Jemmy and me ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I'll give you two pennies," ho replied, " but 
 you must wait and go with" — he hesitated what to call the 
 female — for, though prematurely old from the effects 
 apparently of poverty and suffering, Nelly was evidently 
 
OF woman's life. 747 
 
 much too young to be the mother of these 
 children. 
 
 The boy, however, persisted Nelly was his mother. 
 "■ He'd got no other mother," he said, " except one that 
 was buried in the coal-pit with his father and his little 
 sister Ellen." 
 
 St. Orme, however, was too deeply occupied with other 
 thoughts, to seek at present to unravel the mystery ; but 
 he soon learned from the boy that " they did not sell 
 anything but cakes and sweetstuff at Mrs. Mullins's in 
 the lane," where he wanted to go, and then appealing 
 to his mother, she acknowledged that she would have to 
 go up to the Cross, at least a mile," she said, " there and 
 back, before she could procure the former necessaries." 
 
 St. Orme uttered an execration, deep though not loud, 
 agaiust the mean-spirited, unfeeling Morison, as he 
 placed a piece of gold in Nelly's hand, and entreated her 
 to hasten to the nearest shop. For a minute she stood 
 as if she could not believe in the reality of what she saw, 
 and then, uttering some incoherent expressions of thank- 
 fulness, was darting off at a pace that would soon have 
 accomplished the journey she had before spoken of so 
 despondingly, when she suddenly recollected herself, and 
 returned, producing at the same time a key from her 
 pocket. 
 
 " I forgot, Sir," she observed, " that the young lady 
 wouldn't let mc leave her in the house by herself, with- 
 out I locked the door, and took the key away with me. 
 She seems afraid of somebody's finding her, I fancy, but 
 I can't think it's you she meant. I'm sure," she added, 
 hesitating, "if I thought it was you, and you intend any 
 harm to her, I wouldn't take your money nor let you into 
 the house ; no, not for ten times as much." 
 
748 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "No, believe me," he replied with earnestness, "Miss 
 Shelburne has not a more sincere friend in the world than 
 myself, but your scruples do you great honour. Upon 
 consideration," he added, returning the key, " it will be 
 better that you should enter the house first, as my sudden 
 appearance may startle, though it will not alarm her. It 
 will only delay the necessary refreshments a few minutes 
 longer." 
 
 Nelly's sparkling eyes and pleased tone of voice proved 
 how satisfactory was this arrangement to her, and she 
 hastened on at a pace that even St. Ornie could scarcely 
 exceed, till they at length reached the cottage, as she 
 called it." 
 
 "Tell her St. Orme is here," whispered the latter — "I 
 will not enter until you are convinced — " 
 
 Nelly, however, did not wait to hear the rest. 
 
 " It's only me, Miss," she uttered as she entered — " only 
 me and a gentleman that I'm sure you'll be glad to see." 
 
 " Is it Mr. Morison ?'' uttered Milly hastily, though in 
 a tone that betrayed more agitation than pleasure — " I 
 had scarcely ventured to hope, Sir, that — " 
 
 " Morison ! Oh ! no, indeed," observed Nelly in a 
 tone of supreme contempt ; " it would be long enough, 
 I fancy, before Mr. Morison would come here, or do 
 what this kind gentleman has done ; but pray walk in 
 Mr. St. Orme ; it's a poor place to bring a gentleman 
 like you to, or for a lady like Miss Shelburne to be in ; 
 but if it was a palace she'd be welcome to it." 
 
 St. Orme was already by the side of Milly, but some 
 moments had passed before either could speak. Never 
 was beheld a scene of more utter destitution than that 
 which surrounded her. But there was one compensation 
 for the want of not merely comforts, but the most 
 
of woman's life. 749 
 
 common household necessaries, and that was extreme 
 cleanliness. A chair -without a back, and two blocks of 
 wood in lieu of stools, were the only seats, while a tub 
 turned down supplied the place of a table; but they were 
 all scoured clean and white, while the scanty apology for 
 a bed, stretched in a corner on the ground, was equally 
 clean and creditable to its owner's industry, covered as 
 it was by a patchwork counterpane, the pieces of which 
 were many of them scarcely an inch in diameter. 
 Gradually both Milly and St. Orme regained their com- 
 posure, and Nelly, forgetting all her previous weariness, 
 darted off to procure the desired refreshments, and during 
 her absence St. Orme learned the particulars of the events 
 that had occurred to place Milly in her present situation. 
 She had left the " St. Helena" under the influence of 
 resentment against the Martins, determined to seek at 
 once an asylum with her mother; but, as he' knew, she was 
 a stranger to the road, and too timid and inexperienced 
 to seek to learn of strangers the necessary information. 
 Fortunately, as she thought, she met with Nelly, whose 
 gratitude she had secured by her previous kindness to 
 the children, and who now attempted to return it by 
 offering to accompany her to the place from which the 
 stage coach started to London. " Charing Cross," she 
 said, " she knew was on the coach, and from thence it 
 could not be difficult to find the way to where her (Milly 's) 
 mother lived." On arriving, however, at the " Europa," the 
 place from which it started, they found it was too late. 
 Nine o'clock the next morning was the earliest that would 
 leave Eotherhithe. "What was she to do? To walk such 
 a distance, and amidst the dangers that to her seemed so 
 formidable, was not to be thought of; and, to add to her 
 trouble and perplexity, Milly discovered she had lost her 
 
750 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 purse, containing the remainder of the money Mr. Mar- 
 tin had forced upon her. It had been taken from her 
 with a smelliug bottle and several other trifles, during 
 the tumult raised by Mr. Briggs's companions. In this 
 dilemma, Nelly's offer of a night's shelter seemed like an 
 interposition of Heaven in her favour ; and with renewed 
 spirits and hopes for the future, she set off with the 
 former for her habitation in the Deptford Lane, intend- 
 ing to start early for the home she expected to find with 
 her mother, and Nelly promising to accompany her 
 thither, where she hoped to procure the means of reward- 
 ing the poor woman. But an unforeseen misfortune 
 prevented the fulfilment of this plan. To avoid passing 
 the houses at the entrance of the lane, whose inhabitants 
 Nelly represented as not very favourable characters, they 
 took their way through an enclosed piece of ground at 
 the back of them, and Milly, who had cautiously assisted 
 her companion in lifting the children over the paling, 
 was, it seemed, less careful in attending to her own safety, 
 or was alarmed at the sound of an approaching footstep, 
 so as not to see a hole in the ground beneath her. She 
 jumped hastily over some feet deeper than she expected, 
 fell, and on rising discovered that she had twisted her 
 ankle so painfully that she could not walk. Nelly's 
 anxiety to oblige, however, seemed to increase with 
 her companion's difficulty; she ran home with her 
 children, leaving Milly sitting on the ground, and having 
 safely deposited them there, flew back again, and taking 
 Milly in her arms, with almost as much ease as if the 
 latter had been a child too, carried her the whole way to 
 the cottage, and with a hundred apologies and wishes 
 that it was a palace for her sake, placed her on the bed. 
 Milly's charitable gift of a shilling when they first met 
 
of woman's life. 751 
 
 enabled poor Nelly to provide necessaries for that night, 
 and having done all her limited knowledge suggested, by 
 fomenting and bandaging the injured ankle, her visitor 
 passed a tolerable night in spite of all disadvantages, 
 but no entreaties could prevail on Nelly, to, as she said, 
 " discommode the invalid, by taking part of her own 
 bed." 
 
 " Many was the time," she said, " that she would 
 have thought herself lucky to be able to stretch her weary 
 limbs on a dry floor, with a good roof over her head, 
 and it would indeed be strange if she couldn't content 
 herself for this night, that the poor young lady might 
 have all the comfort that she had in her power to bestow." 
 And then Milly, — amid showers of tears on her part from 
 sympathy, and on that of Nelly, caused by regret and 
 remembrance of those who were now removed beyond all 
 sorrow and suffering, — learned a history which made 
 her own troubles shrink by comparison into insig- 
 nificance. 
 
 The children, who were now in happy unconsciousness 
 sleeping by Milly's side, were, it appeared, the orphans 
 of her only sister, who had married very young to one 
 who was unworthy of the love with which she regarded 
 him. "He had been," Nelly said, "much above her 
 sister as to worldly circumstances, for he was clerk to his 
 father, a well-to-do tradesman ; and Fanny — who was 
 Nelly's sister — was servant in the family." Nelly, it 
 appeared, was also in a situation, as she called it " being 
 maid-of- all- work, at five pounds a year, where there were 
 seven children, besides Master and Missus and herself, 
 to work for." Though both were living in London, 
 the two girls seldom saw each other, for Nelly, who 
 was much younger than her sister — she was now only 
 
752 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 nineteen, and looked much younger — could seldom be 
 spared for an hour ; and Fanny, as the former afterwards 
 discovered, was too much taken up with the young man 
 who was afterwards her husband, to think about her 
 sister when she got a holiday. They had no father or 
 mother, nor any relatives who eared anything about two 
 girls in their humble circumstances. 
 
 Nelly, therefore, it seemed, knew scarcely anything 
 about the^young man who became her brother-in-law ; but 
 she thought it a fine thing, and considered Fanny very 
 kicky, when her sister came one day to see her, and 
 announced that she was going to be married on the follow- 
 ing Monday to her master's son, and had come to ask 
 Nelly to be bridesmaid, which with a good deal of diffi- 
 culty was effected, for she had never had such a holiday 
 before since she first went to place. 
 
 w It was my first, and I may say my last," observed 
 Nelly, " and a happy day it was to me, and proud and 
 vain I was, for I believed all my new brother-in-law told 
 me, ' that my turn would come next, for such a pretty 
 girl as I was would be sure to meet with a good hus- 
 band,' and he promised to look out for a better place for 
 me, where I should'nt be such a drudge. This didn't do 
 me much good, you may be sure, for it made me discon- 
 tented and think my work a hardship. I never thought 
 at first of how Edwin, as he was called, was to keep 
 Fanny, though I knew that his parents knew nothing of 
 their marriage ; but they'd got very smart lodgings, and 
 I was so thoughtless that I never asked whether the fine 
 furniture was their own." 
 
 It proved, however, that they were occupying fur- 
 nished lodgings, and much more expensive than suited 
 their circumstances. When Nelly next saw her sister, 
 
of woman's life. 753 
 
 to her shame and surprise, she discovered that Fanny 
 was on the eve of her confinement, though she had been 
 only married three months. Nelly was angry, it seemed, 
 at her sister's imprudence, and Fanny, who was very 
 passionate, resented so much her remarks, and especially 
 that she wouldn't allow that Edwin had done anything 
 more than he ought to do in marrying her, whom he had 
 brought to disgrace, that the sisters parted in anger, and 
 saw nothing of each other for many months. 
 
 When they next met, poverty had made a great revo- 
 lution in Fanny's high spirits. The marriage had been 
 discovered by the parents, and the young man discarded, 
 and literally turned out of his father's house. He was un- 
 able to get a situation such as he thought worthy of him, 
 and they were reduced to great straits. Nelly forgot 
 everything but her sister's sorrow. She had been very 
 saving out of her little wages, and Fanny went home 
 happy in the possession of every farthing the poor girl 
 could command. Then the parting with Nelly's 
 clothes followed, but her mistress found that out, and 
 threatened " to discharge her, if she didn't drop all con- 
 nexion with her sister. She allowed no followers, and 
 especially she wouldn't have poor ones coming about the 
 house ;" and then she hinted " that those who had taken 
 advantage of poor Nelly, to rob her of all her clothes 
 and little savings, wouldn't be very scrupulous of doing 
 worse — in short, of robbing any one." Nelly would have 
 rushed out of the house — have quitted it for ever — but 
 where could she go ? What could she do without a 
 farthing in the world? Her mistress, too, from habit 
 and years of association, was like a mother to her. She 
 was, in short, compelled to submit to the restriction, and 
 
 promise not again to admit her sister, or her sister's 
 
 5 D 
 
754 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 husband, into the house. Fanny was enraged beyond 
 description, when this was made known. She accused 
 her sister of seeking the opportunity of getting rid of her, 
 whose poverty was troublesome to her, and turned from 
 the door with the avowed determination never again to 
 acknowledge or speak to her sister. 
 
 Months passed, and Nelly knew not how it fared with 
 her sister or her family, for Fanny had now two children ; 
 but she never forgot them — never ceased to lament their 
 separation, and, especially, she longed to see the dear 
 children. Accident, as it seemed, though Nelly after- 
 wards discovered that it was design, brought Fanny in the 
 way of her sister, and her heart was almost broken, at 
 the change that had taken place in one who had so short 
 a time before been so bright and beautiful. She scarcely 
 knew the faded, emaciated being, who threw herself into 
 her arms, and entreated her to forgive her. She evaded 
 Nelly's inquiries after her husband as much as possible, 
 but acknowledged that he had no regular employment, 
 though sometimes he made a good deal of money. Nelly, 
 however, saw that there was a deeper source of suffering 
 than even poverty, though Fanny still spoke tenderly of 
 him, who, as she said, had sacrificed all his bright pro- 
 spects for her. Of her children she spoke still more 
 tenderly ; and " Oh ! she did so long wish for Nelly to 
 see them. Sbe must — she would love them; and, oh ! 
 
 she so hoped that Nelly would be their friend, when . 
 
 Yes, it was no use to try to conceal it — she knew she 
 could not live long. The doctors had owned to her that 
 they could do nothing for her, and she felt it here," put- 
 ting her hand on her heart ; " but she should be so 
 much happier and contented to go, if she felt certain 
 that Nelly would be their friend." 
 
OF woman's life. 765 
 
 How could it be wondered at that Nelly yielded, and 
 promised to spend the first hour she got out with her 
 sister, and see the children ; or that, having once broken 
 her promise to her mistress, she continued to carry on a 
 secret intercourse with her unfortunate sister, who was 
 evidently fast hurrying on towards that bourne from 
 whence no traveller returns. Nelly's sympathy and ten- 
 derness towards the children, was, indeed, the only con- 
 solation of the poor mother, who, by degrees, revealed 
 her fears that there was little dependence to be placed 
 on the father, although she still refused to believe him 
 guilty of anything more serious than volatility and 
 thoughtlessness — a natural disposition to gaiety and. 
 pleasure, which arose from the manner in which he had 
 been brought up by his parents. 
 
 All this time Nelly never rightly knew how Edwin, 
 her brother-in-law, contrived to supply the wants of his 
 family— badly enough supplied they were at times ; and 
 Nelly was wretched that she could do so little to assist 
 those for whom she would have given her life. Again, 
 by degrees, her clothes were pawned to procure necessa- 
 ries for them, and she lived in misery, not only on their 
 account, but the fear of her mistress discovering what she 
 had done. How it was, Nelly did not explain, but so it 
 was, that several times Edwin got admission to the 
 house which had been so long her home, during the oc- 
 casional absences of its proprietors. They were saving, 
 thrifty people, and he contrived to elicit from the un- 
 suspecting girl her knowledge that they had saved what 
 was to them a large sum of money— more than a hundred 
 pounds ; but when he proceeded to inquire as to the exact 
 place where it was deposited, she shrank in terror from 
 the vague suspicion that darted into her mind. Edwin 
 
756 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 saw it, his eyes fell beneath her agonised glance, and he 
 said no more. 
 
 A fortnight passed, and she had forgotten it, or, if she 
 remembered it, blamed herself for such an unfounded cruel 
 suspicion. 
 
 " I shall not be able to get out for three or four days," 
 she observed. " Missus is going to take the children to 
 Gravesend for change of air — they had the hooping 
 cough, or some childish disorder. Master will go down 
 on Saturday night to fetch them home. They'll come 
 back on Monday, and, if I can, I -will then run out for a 
 few minutes, but I must not leave the house till they 
 come back." 
 
 This was to her sister ; the husband was present, and 
 heard it, but Nelly did not see the change his counte- 
 nance underwent, or she would have repented her unsus- 
 pecting communication. Saturday night came ; Nelly 
 had not heard from her sister. Her master was gone, 
 and she had fastened up the house, intending to have a 
 long night's rest, an indulgence that seldom fell to her 
 lot. There was a knock at the door, and a strange voice 
 replied, when she demanded who was there, that her 
 sister was dying. " Edwin," the messenger said, " was 
 not to be found ; and if she did not come directly, the 
 poor woman would die alone, without a creature near 
 her, to whom she could utter her dying wishes." Poor 
 Nelly waited not a minute to reflect, she opened the 
 door, admitted the man, and the next moment was 
 held down in a chair by a man's powerful arms, who 
 threatened her with instant death, " if she did not tell 
 him where the money was to be found, which he knew 
 was in the bouse." Nelly at first refused — she would 
 die rather than betray her trust; but she was tied 
 
of woman's life. 757 
 
 down with a cord produced for the purpose, aud then 
 a second person was admitted. That person was Edwin, 
 her sister's husband, and the agony of the poor girl 
 may be conceived — it cannot be described. For a time 
 she remained firm. 
 
 "You will let your sister and her children perish, then ?'-' 
 he said. "Since yesterday they have not tasted food. 
 My death, too, will be on your head, for I will not out- 
 live them. I will not quit this house without the means 
 of saving them. Go! Ashton, — do not expose yourself 
 to farther danger on my account. Tell Fanny that I am 
 no more. It will soon be all over with her, then ; and let 
 this honest, honourable, feeling-hearted woman have 
 the satisfaction of establishing her character, while she 
 explains over my corpse what has happened." 
 
 He had still the razor with which Ashton had threat- 
 ened Nelly's life, and which he, Edwin, had taken from 
 him, in his hand. 
 
 The accomplice affected to remonstrate, and to persuade 
 him to return to his dying wife ; but Edwin sternly bade 
 him to begone. He reminded him of the oath he said 
 Ashton had taken, to go through to the end in his des- 
 perate undertaking. " Do not load that miserable girl 
 with the guilt of your murder, too, my friend — my only 
 friend," he exclaimed ; " for you may escape ; and when 
 no longer burdened, as you have been with me and my 
 wretched family, may be fortunate." 
 
 Nelly knew from Fanny that Ashton, though she had 
 never seen him, had been a most liberal friend to her and 
 her family, and she began to doubt whether she was right 
 in refusing what he countenanced. To doubt was to be 
 lost. 
 
 There was no time to reflect on the folly, the bombast 
 
758 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 of these pretended resolutions. The fatal -words were ut- 
 tered — and she fell fainting on the ground, while the two 
 confederates rushed to secure their prey. All that night, 
 and many hours of the following day, Nelly lay wishing 
 she could die, and totally unahle to form any consistent 
 plan to save herself from suspicion. She could not even 
 recollect what had heen suggested to her hy the infamous 
 associates, as a means of rescuing herself. To get away 
 — never to behold the faces of her wronged master and 
 mistress — was, she at last decided, the only plan she could 
 put in practice ; and on the Sunday evening she fled from 
 the house, and stood in the street friendless, houseless, 
 and penniless, for she had refused the money Edwin tried 
 to force upon her, and she was resolutely determined never 
 again to see her sister, who she accused in her mind of 
 having purposely deceived her as to the character and 
 pursuits of her husband. The consequence of all this 
 may be anticipated. In a few weeks Nelly was in prison, 
 charged with ungratefully robbing her only friends. She 
 had previously been the habitant of Marylebone Infirmary, 
 having been found wandering about the streets in a state 
 of delirious fever. The duplicates of the pawnbrokers' 
 tickets for her clothes, had, however, in part revealed the 
 mystery, and pointed the suspicions of her mistress, 
 knowing what had before happened, in the right direction. 
 But Nelly's lips were sealed — she was deaf to every per- 
 suasion to give a clue to the real offenders, and even if 
 she had told the whole truth, Edwin had no doubt secured 
 his retreat. It was afterwards, indeed, proved that he had 
 deserted his unfortunate wife and children the very night 
 he committed the robbery. It would be useless to 
 attempt to relate the circumstances that, by means that 
 seemed almost miraculous, brought the sisters together 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 759 
 
 a few hours before the death of Fanny, and revealed the 
 true particulars of the robbery. Edwin was already 
 under sentence of transportation for a similar offence, 
 and Nelly was acquitted of the charge that had been 
 brought against her ; but she lost the favour of all who 
 would have befriended her by her adherence to her sister 
 and her sister's children, and what was called her mad, 
 romantic determination, never to desert the latter — " to 
 work, beg, do anything but steal, to support them ;" and 
 that determination she continued to act up to until the 
 present moment when she met with Milly Shelburne. 
 
 The failure of Mr. Morison to keep his promise to 
 Nelly, had, in some measure, prepared Milly for the tale 
 St. Orrne had to tell of the avaricious and unfeeling con- 
 duct of the former towards her mother, and convinced her 
 that should ever the latter recover, she (Milly) could in- 
 dulge no hope of finding a home with her. It was not, 
 however, till some time after she discovered how deeply 
 Morison was implicated in the plot to induce her irre- 
 trievably to bind herself, and, indeed, to plunge herself 
 completely into the power ofBriggs and his associates — 
 a step that must inevitably have terminated in her com- 
 plete ruin. Morison's hopes, however, of securing a 
 share in the advantages they hoped to derive from getting 
 her into their power, had, it seemed, revived, when he 
 discovered the circumstances in which she (Milly) was 
 placed by her rash renunciation of the patronage Of the 
 Martins ; and unacquainted with what had passed so 
 recently between her and St. Orme, and believing that 
 she was now totally friendless and without any resource, 
 he determined to let her taste the full bitterness of poverty 
 before he and his friend stept into her relief, believing it 
 impossible that she could then reject the terms Brings 
 
760 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 and Co. would be prepared to offer her. Accidental cir- 
 cumstances, however, prevented his meeting with the 
 latter until late in the following day, and then his and 
 their vexation and disappointment were at their height, 
 when, having with considerable difficulty found out 
 Nelly's obscure cottage, they discovered that it was shut 
 up, and learnt from the people who inhabited the houses 
 further down the lane, that a hackney-coach, in which 
 was seated a gentleman, had driven past them early in 
 the morning, and having been followed by some of their 
 boys, it was discovered that it had come to take up a young 
 lady who it was supposed was in bad health, as the 
 gentleman had carried her in his arms out of the cottage. 
 What had become of Nelly Croft they could not say. She 
 might be coming back or she might not, but she was sel- 
 dom or ever at home in the day time in fine weather, so 
 thatit wouldbeof little use to wait in hopes of seeing her. 
 It was Fitzroy Palmer, no doubt, who had found Milly out 
 and carried her off, was the conclusion they came to, and 
 blamiDg and abusing each other for mismanagement 
 as well as ill-luck, in having let her thus slip through 
 their fingers, the precious friends returned to London. 
 
 Little did Mr. Morison suspect, that, had he fulfilled 
 the dictates of common humanity and sought the bed- 
 side of his dying wife, he would at once have ascer- 
 tained the falsehood of the conclusions that had been 
 formed regarding Milly; for there — " a ministering angel" 
 to one who had long been a stranger to the voice of 
 tenderness and sympathy, and who now found in the arms 
 of her child, and the certainty of the latter's future safety 
 and happiness, the greatest consolation the world could 
 bestow — he would have beheld her against whom he had so 
 readily entered into a plot that would have ensured her 
 misery and disgrace. 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 761 
 
 He came not, however, near his home until the money, 
 which he had extorted from his suffering wife, and which 
 had heen bestowed upon her by St. Orme at Ins first visit, 
 was all exhausted ; and then it was with a slight hope that 
 the poor woman might again he able to afford him the 
 means of gratifying his passion for drink and dissipation, 
 which was gradually gaining the mastery with hirn over 
 the love even of money, that had been his ruling passion, 
 and rendered his wife's existence for years a scene of 
 misery and suffering. 
 
 But he came too late, fortunately too late for her to 
 disturb her dying moments with the sight of one, who, 
 though with Christian feelings she forgave, she could not 
 have seen without recalling the wrongs she had suffered 
 at his hands — without feeling that but for his brutal 
 neglect, the misery he had brought upon her, years of 
 life — happy years in the society of her daughter — might 
 have yet been hers. 
 
 Milly was on her knees by the bedside of her mother, 
 when Morison, his blood-shot eyes and swollen bloated 
 face betraying the orgies from which he had so lately 
 risen, entered the room, and he stared stupidly from the 
 face that rivalled in whiteness the pillow on which it 
 rested, to that scarcely less pale — but whose striking re- 
 semblance in features to his injured wife, at once betrayed 
 to him who the attendant was. 
 
 There were two other persons in the room. They were 
 St. Orme and the physician, whom the latter had called 
 in, though, as he was now explaining, uselessly, even had 
 it been much sooner, for the vital powers had been long 
 exhausted. 
 
 The guilty man shrank from the stern looks with which 
 
 he was greeted. He tried to murmur some words of in- 
 
 5 E 
 
7G2 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 quiry, but Milly's raised hand enjoined silence ; and, in 
 spite of his naturally insolent, overbearing disposition, 
 which would have prompted resistance, and which did 
 whisper — ,f that he was master there, that none had a right 
 to dictate to him in his own place," he felt cowed, and 
 unable to utter a word, when St. Orme, laying his hand 
 upon his arm, motioned him towards the door, whispering — 
 
 " Tins is no place for you, Mr. Morison. I will but 
 say a word or two to the physician, and follow you." 
 
 St. Orme, however, was detained longer than he 
 expected, for when he returned to the doctor, who had 
 gone again to the side of the bed, a significant look from 
 him told him that all was over. The poor woman had 
 passed so easily from time into eternity, that Milly was 
 unconscious she had no longer a mother, and looked up 
 at him with surprise, when he would have gently raised 
 her from the position in which she had remained for 
 hours, and which he was now compelled to reveal to her, 
 could no longer avail the object of her tender care. 
 
 When the necessary persons had been summoned to 
 the chamber of death, and Milly, persuaded by St. Orme, 
 had quitted it for another room, which he had secured for 
 her in the house, the latter turned his attention to the 
 husband, whom it was of course necessary to acquaint 
 with the death of his wife, but he found that Mr. Morison 
 had withdrawn himself from the house. 
 
 " It was plain," he told the landlady, " that he wasn't 
 wanted there, and therefore he shouldn't trouble them 
 with his presence. They'd taken upon themselves to act 
 without his authority, and so he shouldn't interfere with 
 them ; for he dare say Mrs. Morison was much happier 
 with her daughter than she had ever been with him ;" and 
 so, affecting not to know or to believe that she was 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 7G3 
 
 dying, he left the house, to which he never returned 
 until after she had been committed to her last abode ; and 
 Milly, thus spared the misery of a meeting with him, had, 
 by St. Orme's care, removed to an apartment at Brompton, 
 the airiness and cheerfulness of which contributed, with 
 her relief from all pressing cares, to restore her to health 
 and tranquillity. 
 
 One source of uneasiness only remained to Milly — the 
 fits of depression which, though he asserted his entire 
 happiness, from time to time were but too evident in St. 
 Orme's manner. She knew nothing of his circumstances, 
 nor could she bring herself even to hint as to what were 
 his resources. Her natural disposition, and the manner 
 in which she had been brought up, led her to avoid the 
 slightest approach to extravagance ; yet sometimes the 
 thought would occur, whether the expense of a separate 
 maintenance, which their present mode of living obliged 
 him to incur, were not more than his resources warranted; 
 and it was this feeling that induced her to give her con- 
 sent to a marriage much sooner than would have appeared 
 to her respectful to the memory of her mother. St. 
 Orme seemed fully to comprehend her motives, when 
 she, without any affectation of reluctance, yielded her 
 consent to an immediate marriage ; nor did he offer any 
 opposition to her arrangements — that their marriage should 
 take place without any show or ostentation — in fact, with 
 as much privacy as possible. Convinced that there had 
 been faults on both sides in her intercourse with the 
 Martins, to whose interference in her favour she was in 
 reality indebted for her present happiness, Milly had 
 made the amende honorable to them, by communicating 
 to them on the first opportunity the happy termination, 
 as she believed, of all her troubles and difficulties, and 
 
764 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 conferred on them a favour that raised them tenfold in 
 their own estimation, by inviting them to act as brides- 
 maids, though it was with considerable difficulty she 
 succeeded in restraining their natural love of show and 
 finery on the occasion. To all who had befriended Milly 
 during those eventful scenes which she had so happily 
 surmounted, St. Orme had evinced his gratitude in the 
 way he considered most suitable to their circumstances. 
 Sally — Mrs. Perkins's maid — was enabled to quit her 
 tyrannical mistress, and reward her faithful lover's — Bill, 
 the potboy — devotion, by making him the master of her 
 own fair person, and a beer-shop, which, it was to be 
 hoped, their experience at the "Harlequin" would 
 enable them to conduct more creditably and successfully 
 than their former master and mistress had done their 
 more pretending establishment, which Sally confidentially 
 informed Mr. St. Orme, at their last interview before the 
 latter quitted London, " was gone all to pieces ;" a cir- 
 cumstance she did not hesitate to ascribe to the failure 
 of the concert-room, in consequence of the loss of their 
 great card, Miss Shelburne, and the consequent desertion 
 of their patron, the sot- disan /Mr. Chester. 
 
 Milly, however, somewhat uneasily enjoined her to be 
 silent upon that subject, it having become very evident to 
 her, that Mr. St. Orme's happiness was not increased by any 
 allusions to the efforts his wife had made to establish her- 
 self in the road to fame and fortune by means of those 
 talents which had once appeared so valuable to him, and 
 the exercise of which had certainly — though he once 
 so enthusiastically encouraged them — appeared to have 
 lost considerably in his estimation. Everything, indeed, 
 that revived the remembrance of Miss Shelburne in her 
 public capacity, so evidently added to the weight of that 
 
OF woman's life. 765 
 
 cloud that at times obscured the otherwise calm, clear brow 
 of St. Orme, thatMilly became secretly anxious to suppress, 
 on the part of her friends, all that could remind him of those 
 circumstances, and she looked forward to her separation 
 from all in any way conneoted with those circumstances with 
 impatience, as being all that was wanting to secure happi- 
 ness. Of the extent to which St. Orme carried this 
 fastidious feeling, even Milly was unsuspicious, until it 
 was at length forced upon her, by observing that he 
 not only no longer pressed her to sing, or play, or sat 
 down enraptured to listen to the music which had kept 
 him for hours a willing prisoner to those melodious 
 accents, but that he betrayed symptoms of actual im- 
 patience, when, either in accordance with the solicitations 
 of their few and far-between visitors, or, in his absence, 
 of her still enthusiastic love of music, he found her seated 
 at the piano-forte, which, on her first taking possession 
 of the apartments at Brompton he had hired for her use, 
 and which, after their marriage, Milly of course considered 
 she was authorised to retain so long as they remained in 
 London — a period which, on the plea of business on his 
 part, was protracted much longer than Milly had expected. 
 So conscious became the otherwise happy wife at last of 
 this incongruity of taste between them, that she never 
 touched the instrument in his presence, and would start 
 up from it " like a guilty thing," if suddenly surprised 
 by him in the stolen indulgence of what still remained 
 her ruling passion. Even this passive submission, how- 
 ever, at length failed, it appeared, to satisfy St. Orme, 
 otherwise so kind and indulgent to her certainly modest 
 and moderate wishes. 
 
 "I shall desire the music seller to send for this thing" he 
 abruptly exclaimed one day, when, supposing he had gone 
 
766 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 into town, and would be absent for some hours, Milly had 
 commenced indulging herself by a repetition of, and 
 had looked out for that purpose, what had once been St. 
 Orme's favourite music. 
 
 Milly felt that she turned pale, but she tried to suppress 
 the appearance of emotion, and scarcely knowing what to 
 say, observed — 
 
 " Certainly, it is not a very good one. That at the 
 Abbey, on which I used to play to you this music of — " 
 
 " Curses upon it. Would I had never heard it," ex- 
 claimed St. Orme, in a frenzied tone, " for from that I 
 may date my ruin." 
 
 He had started up, and was traversing the room, as if 
 half-maddened by the recollections her guileless observa- 
 tion had excited, but he suddenly stopped as his eyes rested 
 on her almost livid face. It seemed as if she had been 
 suddenly struck with the bolt of death. 
 
 " Forgive me, Milly," he observed ; "I am wrong to 
 use such harsh expressions, but you do not — cannot know 
 how I am harrassed — But it will soon be over," he added, 
 assuming a lighter tone, " and when we get away from 
 this hateful place, I shall forget all that now makes me 
 so unjust and seemingly cruel." 
 
 Milly, however, felt there was no seeming in his expres- 
 sions. He had spoken from his heart, and she could not 
 doubt its meaning. Yes, St. Orme repented the infatua- 
 tion that had ensnared him into the fatal step of making 
 her his wife, and that talent, which was once her highest 
 recommendation, was now hateful in his sight. 
 
 From that moment all her happiness vanished. He 
 did not put in practice his avowed intention of sending 
 the piano to its owner. He never, in fact, mentioned it 
 again, but to Milly it was henceforth dumb. She never 
 
OF woman's life. 767 
 
 touched it again, nor ever again was a note heard of that 
 voice which had breathed such enchanting melody. For 
 a short time she was compelled to endure the misery of 
 parrying the inquiries and solicitations of the Martins, 
 who tried in vain to penetrate the mystery of her silence. 
 Indisposition was indeed a plea which Mrs. St. Orme's 
 pale face and heavy eyes rendered evident was not 
 not altogether assumed; but then she had often and often 
 declared that music was to her the most powerful restora- 
 tive in the world, and certainly, if she couldn't sing, she 
 could play, if she chose to do so. 
 
 Milly at last escaped from these painful solicitations 
 and suggestions by removing for a week or two to the 
 present residence of Nelly Croft, who, by St. Orme's 
 generosity, had been placed in a comfortable way of sup- 
 porting herself and the children as a little shopkeeper at 
 Charlton ; and where quietness, tender attention, fine air 
 and prospects, and the cheerfulness of the adopted mother 
 and playfulness of the children, succeeded in restoring 
 her in a great measure from the despondency which was 
 fast effecting a most painful change in her appearance 
 and health. 
 
 St. Orme had in the meantime left London, avowedly 
 to visit his uncle, who still remained in France ; and when 
 he returned, it was to make to Milly the welcome 
 announcement that they should return no more to their 
 lodgings at Brompton, he having written to old Richard 
 Shelburne, to make the necessary arrangements to receive 
 them at Beauvale Abbey. Up to this time Milly's mar- 
 riage had remained a profound secret to the old people. 
 Once, St. Orme had made them a short visit; and while 
 acquainting them with the death of their unfortunate 
 daughter, had given them the consolation of assuring 
 
768 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 them that her last hours had been cheered by the presence 
 of Milly, " who having totally renounced," he said, " her 
 foolish romantic hopes of establishing herself as a singer, 
 &c, was now comfortably situated in a situation that 
 would not fail to give satisfaction to her most ardent 
 friends." 
 
 A few confirmatory lines from Milly herself, and a 
 promise of visiting them at no very distant time, 
 together with several acceptable presents to the old man 
 and womau, set their hearts completely at rest as to the 
 situation of their beloved grandchild, though far from 
 preparing them for the extraordinary intelligence that 
 awaited them — of Milly's marriage to Mr. St. Orme — in- 
 telligence which he now again took entirely upon himself 
 to convey and reconcile them to. What were the argu- 
 ments he used to convince them of the necessity of, 
 for the present, concealing that marriage, Milly knew 
 not. On herself it fell with the stunning force of a 
 thunderbolt, when, as they drew near to the beloved 
 scenes of her childhood, St. Orme revealed to her, that 
 though he had given the old people the most satisfactory 
 proofs of their marriage, and though he hoped the time 
 was not far distant when the motives for secrecy would 
 no longer exist, and she would be recognised as the law- 
 ful mistress of the Abbey, she must be content for the 
 present to appear only in the character in which she had 
 quitted it — as the child of the servants of Sir Orlando 
 St. Orme. 
 
 "To avow his marriage at present," he said, "would 
 bring upon him certain ruin; and he trusted to her love 
 for him, and her prudential caution for her own sake, to 
 preserve the secret." 
 
 It was long before Milly recovered from the effects of 
 
OF woman's LIFE. 769 
 
 this blow. Her pride, it must be confessed, had ren- 
 dered her blind to every drawback on her happiness, and 
 in ax)pearing publicly as the acknowledged wife of St.Orme, 
 the legal mistress of the Abbey, she had buried all re- 
 grets, all recollections of the manner in which it had 
 been effected. But there was another, a deeper cause 
 for the misery occasioned by this revelation on the part 
 of St. Orme — one before which her disappointed pride and 
 the wretchedness of appearing an object of suspicion to 
 her former associates, shrank into nothing — and hiding 
 her face in the bosom of her husband, she whispered the 
 secret that her disgrace would involve that of another 
 innocent being — that she would shortly bring into the 
 world one whom she hoped to present to him as the heir 
 of his hereditary honours and estates, or if a female, 
 would receive a welcome from his heart as the reduplica- 
 tion of her mother. 
 
 St. Orme turned pale at this announcement, for which 
 it was plain he was quite unprepared, and which evidently 
 increased the perplexities in which he was involved. 
 Gently — in manner at least — he blamed Milly for having 
 concealed until now a circumstance in which he was so 
 deeply interested. The prospect of becoming a father, 
 on which Milly had dwelt in secret as the almost certain 
 means of reviving his love and tenderness towards 
 her, no longer existed as a support. He knew it, but he 
 received it not as a source of happiness ; on the contrary, 
 it appeared he felt it as another link to the chain with 
 which he had bound himself by his ill-starred nuptials ; 
 and Milly's last hope vanished as she found that this 
 discovery had made no change in his intention of con- 
 cealing his marriage, although it added to the gentleness, 
 the tenderness, and attention to her personal comforts, 
 
 5 F 
 
770 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 which ever distinguished his conduct towards her, and 
 ■would have deceived any but her sensitive heart into 
 the belief that his love for her was undiminished. It 
 was in vain that Milly tried to gain courage to say to 
 hirn all that her reason as well as her heart dictated in 
 opposition to his plan. So utterly subdued, so 
 despondent, had the once proud, high-spirited, and, it 
 must be owned, somewhat self-willed girl become, that 
 St. Orme had but to utter his wishes, to give without 
 even a word of explanation his directions how she was to 
 act, and those wishes and directions were received and 
 acted upon as commands, from which she had neither 
 power nor inclination to deviate. 
 
 How he had succeeded in bringing old Richard Shelburne 
 and his wife to the same subjection to his wishes, Milly knew 
 not. She sought not to know, for she had sunk into a 
 state of apathy that rendered even their reception a 
 matter of indifference to her. There were no tears, either 
 of pain or pleasure, in return for those with which her 
 grandmother strained her to her bosom — at one mo- 
 ment lamenting the sufferings which her dear child had 
 undergone, and at the next congratulating and rejoicing 
 at, as she supposed, the happy termination of them all, 
 and the still greater felicity which awaited her beloved 
 Milly, when the necessity for concealment of her advance- 
 ment should have passed away, and she and the dear 
 baby that was coming should take their proper places 
 among the gentry, and be acknowledged as the lady and 
 heir of Beauvale Abbey. 
 
 " And oh ! how proud will your old grandmother be 
 then, my dear Milly," exclaimed the poor old woman, 
 " though Richard says — obstinate-like, as he always is — 
 ' you know that Mr. St. Orme— Sir Vivian he will be 
 
of woman's life. 771 
 
 then — will never own us, and that he shall still be only 
 plain Richard Shelburne — Sir Orlando's servant, and 
 don't want to be anything else.' But that's nonsense, 
 Milly, dear, for your sake and the dear boy's. It will be 
 a boy, Milly, I'm sure it will — though that's as God 
 pleases — and if it shouldn't be a boy now, I shall love it 
 if it's a girl like my own dear Milly, and then the next 
 will be a boy. Goodness me ! my child, why do you 
 look at me with such a look as that ? Oh, dear ! what 
 can you mean ? Surely, you wouldn't he so wicked as 
 not to be contented with what it pleased God to send 
 you, be it a boy or be it a girl ?" 
 
 Milly did not explain her meaning. Her once expres- 
 sive features had settled down again into the unnatural fixed- 
 ness — it could no t be called calmness — which they had worn 
 from the time she first discovered St. Orme's repentance 
 of his marriage with her. This was the last time that 
 calm was disturbed, the last look that might — to those 
 more penetrating, though not more deeply interested than 
 her simple relatives — have betrayed the misery it veiled. 
 
 Even when St. Orme, who appeared, as he had for- 
 merly done, an occasional visitor and resident at the 
 Abbey, at the end of a few weeks announced that he was 
 recalled by Sir Orlando to France, and spoke of his 
 return as uncertain, depending, as he said it did, on the 
 caprice of the latter, Milly received it, as she did every- 
 thing he uttered, with a submissive smile, that, though 
 he tried to conceal it, wrung his heart. And with 
 those mutual smiles they parted at the gate of the 
 Abbey, to which he never returned. 
 
772 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 True happiness had no localities, 
 
 No tones provincial, no peculiar garb ; 
 
 Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went, 
 
 And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. 
 
 Nor happy only, but the cause of joy, 
 
 Which those who never tasted always mourned ; 
 
 What tongue ? — no tongue shall tell what bliss o'errlowed 
 
 The mother's tender heart, while round her hung 
 
 The offspring of her love, and lisped her name, 
 
 As living jewels dropped unstained from Heaven, 
 
 That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem, 
 
 Than every ornament of costliest hue ! 
 
 And who hath not been ravished, as she passed, 
 
 With all her playful band of little ones, 
 
 Like Luna with her daughters of the sky, 
 
 Walking in matron majesty and grace. 
 
 Robert Pollock. 
 
 The birth of a boy was in due time announced to St. 
 Orme by old Richard, through whom a regular communi- 
 cation was kept up between him and the Abbey. Mrs. 
 St. Orme's wants were liberally supplied — wishes she 
 seemed to have none, or expressed none, unless those 
 that were suggested by the old people : but the strange 
 apathy that had so long clouded her intellects gradually 
 gave way with the new feelings excited in her bosom by 
 the caresses and endearments of her child, to whom she 
 became ardently attached in proportion as he became 
 capable of appreciating and returning that affection. 
 
 Confined entirely to the society of the old people, who 
 doated on him and his mother, the little Vivian grew up, 
 like the flowers among which he passed most of his time, 
 

OF WOMAN S LIFE. 773 
 
 within the walls of the Abbey garden. When, indeed, 
 the weather was unpropitious to his out-door life, seated 
 on a sofa, he would be found repeating his lesson to his 
 favourite cat ; or when he could not succeed in persuading 
 puss to remain his pupil, would creep into the kennel of 
 old Carlo, who, though nearly blind and deaf with age, 
 still retained his attachment to his gentle mistress ; and to 
 him Vivian would relate long stories of the discoveries 
 he had made in his books, of the world that lay beyond 
 the Abbey gates, and which he was some day to explore 
 with his companion. 
 
 All the wonders of this wonderful infancy were duly 
 transmitted by the old grandfather to the absent father, 
 who, probably to propitiate the old man and induce him to 
 submit with patience to his prolonged absence, entered 
 with apparently the deepest interest into the most childish 
 details respecting his son. During the years of the 
 youthful Vivian's infancy, the same utter coldness and 
 distance had been preserved between the father and 
 mother of the boy as that with which they had parted; but 
 Milly was no longer the apathetic, inanimate being she 
 then appeared. To make her boy worthy of his father, 
 who was still, in her eyes, superior to the whole world, 
 became the study of her life ; and to effect this purpose 
 there was no other means within her power than to 
 acquire herself whatever it was desirable he should be 
 taught. Devoting all her revived energies to this one 
 object, the still youthful and more than ever lovely 
 mother was scarcely conscious of her own wonderful 
 improvement, and yet her heart sometimes whispered 
 that she had no longer reason to shrink as she had done, 
 with the consciousness of inferiority, even from St. Orme. 
 She knew now that music and singing, even in perfection, 
 
774 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 could not supply the deficiencies with ■which she had 
 become acquainted, happily not too late; and as she 
 added hourly to thoso acquirements she was so ardently 
 desirous to transmit to her hoy, a glowing blush of 
 pleasure would suffuse her cheek, as she pictured to her- 
 self the surprise with which the father would some day 
 learn who had been his boy's instructor — that she alone 
 had made him what he was. But it was not always 
 with pride and pleasure that the deserted wife reflected 
 on this subject. There were times when the sense of 
 St. Orme's injustice, both to her and her child, pressed 
 heavily on her heart. ' ' It would have been so easy/' she 
 would say, " for him to make me what I was not then — a 
 fit companion for him — and then shared with him — how 
 delightful would it have been to see our dear boy — " 
 
 Floods of tears would break in upon these and similar 
 reflections, embittered by the conviction that whatever 
 might hereafter be the feelings with which the father 
 might receive his child, however delighted he might be 
 at the discovery of the boy's proficiency, so far beyond 
 what could be expected from his age, and the total want 
 of those advantages that his birth and future prospects 
 ought to have secured for him, however surprising and 
 grateful — yes, he must feel grateful for what she had 
 done— she should never hear the expression of those 
 feelings, she should never receive the thanks she felt 
 she deserved from him. 
 
 And then would come a thousand troubled conjectures 
 respecting her eventual fate. There were casual allusions 
 in St. Orme's letters to the old man (Richard,) to the 
 time that must come, when the restraint that kept him a 
 stranger to his child would be removed, but not one 
 expression of regret connected with the name of his 
 
OF WOMAN 6 LIFE. 775 
 
 wife. Once only, when the old man had, it seemed, be- 
 come impatient at the cloud of disgrace which attended 
 his dear Milly's name and kept her secluded from the 
 world, St. Orme had, in reply, reminded him that the 
 time would arrive that all would be cleared up, and Mrs. 
 St. Orme would be rewarded for the patience, with 
 which he acknowledged she had borne her painful situa- 
 tion, by her establishment in the station to which she had 
 a right. 
 
 " You cannot doubt," he concluded, " that these cir- 
 cumstances are as painful to me as to you and her, but 
 after bearing them so long it would be folly now to 
 relinquish the advantages that are sure to repay us all 
 for what we have suffered." 
 
 Ten years from the period of Vivian's birth had passed 
 in total seclusion on the part of Mrs. St. Orme, who had 
 never in that time passed the gates of the Abbey. Vivian, 
 however, was beginning to be weary of this confinement, 
 and to be desirous of comprehending the motives of 
 what he had learned was contrary to the usages of the 
 world, and with pain his mother listened to his remarks and 
 questions. He was a child of unusually reflective habits, 
 and though ardently attached to his mother and happy 
 in her society, he became more and more anxious 
 to penetrate the mystery that made them, as it were, 
 prisoners in that venerable building. Of his father he 
 was never weary of talking, yet he often checked himself 
 in the midst of Ins questions, as he saw the painful 
 expression that father's name called upon his beloved 
 mother's countenance. 
 
 " You will know all about it when you are old enough 
 to be trusted with a secret," was the old woman's constant 
 reply, when he attempted through her to fathom the 
 
776 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 mystery ; while old Richard's answers, with a sternness 
 he never showed to him on any other subject, would 
 enjoin him to ask no questions on a subject that he had 
 no business even to think of. 
 
 But a change was at hand, one that made the sensitive 
 boy bitterly regret his impatient wishes. The old man 
 and his wife died within a few days of each other of an 
 epidemic, which their advanced age rendered fatal, and 
 for the first time Milly was compelled to address her 
 husband, from whom she of course solicited advice and 
 assistance in this unlooked for emergency. 
 
 His answer was more kind and cordial than she had 
 hoped for, but it contained intelligence that at once 
 surprised and pained her. " Sir Orlando," he wrote, " had 
 determined that henceforth the Abbey should be shut up. 
 " At least," he added, " till he returns to England, which 
 at present he resolves shall be in a few weeks. Should he 
 keep in this humour, which is by no means certain, even 
 for a day, I shall be able to see you and settle our future 
 proceedings; but in the meantime, it is indispensably 
 necessary that you leave the Abbey ; and I do not see 
 that you can do better than go up to London, and 
 take apartments there, until I can see you and finally 
 settle matters. You will thus be more within reach than 
 anywhere in the country, and will not be subjected to the 
 remarks and conjectures that are sure to attend a female 
 under any peculiar circumstances in the country. It has 
 just occurred to me, that perhaps you might be accom- 
 modated at Brompton, if the people are still there with 
 
 whom we lived, when we were ," the words were 
 
 obliterated that followed, and others written in, which 
 Milly with difficulty deciphered to mean when we first 
 came to town. A pang struck to her heart, as the 
 
of woman's life. 777 
 
 thought occurred, that St. Orme intended to disavow his 
 marriage altogether. It was the first time that she had 
 ever doubted his honour, hut here was a palpable evidence 
 that he did not mean to acknowledge her as his wife. 
 For herself she cared not. No ; for his sake she could 
 have been content to relinquish every hope, to submit 
 without a murmur, and die as she had lived, a victim to 
 unmerited disgrace. But her child — was he to be made 
 the victim of his father's injustice ? Were his prospects 
 to be sacrificed — his feelings violated — his promising 
 talents buried under the load of disgrace that would 
 result from her tamely submitting to perpetuate the con- 
 cealment of his rights. " Never ! No," she exclaimed, 
 as she caught the boy to her bosom ; " I will force him 
 to do that justice he would deny his child." 
 
 " Is it my father, Mother, who is so cruel as to make 
 you so unhappy ?" demanded the thoughtful child, 
 fondly returning her embrace. " Oh ! how I wish that 
 I could see him. You have always said that he was 
 kind and noble, and generous — " 
 
 " To all but us, Vivian," she replied in an agony of tears 
 — " to all but your unfortunate mother. But he shall see 
 you, and then — . For myself I care not. Oh no ! I 
 could be content to lay down my life for his happiness ; 
 but for you — no I will force him to do that justice to you 
 he denies to me." 
 
 The boy's face became scarlet, his brilliant eyes flashed 
 like fire. 
 
 " No, mother ! No, I will have nothing from him that 
 
 he refuses to you ! I should hate, despise myself, if I 
 
 did! What has my father ever been to me ? What has 
 
 he ever done for me? What should I have ever been 
 
 but for you? No, it is to vou that I owe evervthing ; 
 
 5 G 
 
778 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 for you and you only are everything to me ! I will not 
 own him for a father unless he does what you require ! I 
 know what you ask is right ! I know that — " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! my dear boy, you do not know what 
 you are saying," she replied, regretting that she had said 
 so much. "I have been talking like a foolish woman," and 
 she forced a smile, " and when you are old enough, you 
 will say so. " 
 
 The boy shook his head. He should never think 
 otherwise than he thought, and knew now that every- 
 thing his mother did or said was — 
 
 " Wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best." 
 Much as he had wished to see the world beyond the 
 Abbey gates, Vivian could not without regret quit, pro- 
 bably for ever, the place in which he had passed so many 
 peaceful, happy days, in the society of those whom he 
 never could meet again upon earth. Simple and illiterate 
 as were the relatives he had lost, there were none who 
 could supply what they had been to him, and to leave 
 the scene their love had so long irradiated, appeared like 
 parting with them a second time. With feelings of re- 
 gret and melancholy, far deeper than could have been 
 expected, or seemed natural at his age, he wandered for 
 days through the walks in which he had supported their 
 aged footsteps, and seated on the grass under one of the 
 oaks in the Abbey grounds, he passed hours of that last 
 day of his residence there. 
 
 The necessity of exerting himself, to rouse his mother 
 from the morbid fit of wretchedness, amounting almost to 
 despair, into which she had fallen as the time approached, 
 and which he was able to recollect had formerly been 
 habitual to her, and had at one time excited alarm for 
 her intellects ; to inspire her with hope for the future, and 
 
c ., 
 
 sJ 
 
 ■ - • ' ' 
 
 
 - 
 

OF woman's life. 779 
 
 prevail upon her, for his sake, to exert herself both hodily 
 and mentally, and to make the necessary preparations, was a 
 task that fortunately abstracted Vivian from his own more 
 immediate sorrows, and induced him to counterfeit a 
 satisfaction he was far from feeling. When, at length, the 
 gates of Beauvale Abbey closed behind the mother and 
 her son, throwing her arms around him, she buried 
 her face on his shoulder, and in broken accents 
 whispered — 
 
 "When next you enter these gates, my child, it will 
 be, I trust, as their acknowledged owner ; but your 
 mother will not live to see that day. Before that time 
 she will have found a refuge from all her sorrows. Pro- 
 mise me — it is all I ask, my dear boy — that so soon as 
 you have it in your power, I shall be laid by the side of 
 my departed friends. Humble as they were, Vivian, you 
 will not be ashamed to owd them as your kin." 
 
 Vainly the boy strove to utter the desired promise — 
 his voice was choked with sobs. But other feelings suc- 
 ceeded. Until this moment he knew not, dreamed not, of 
 the station he might hereafter hold in life. Never, in 
 fact, had the child reflected, precocious as were his reflective 
 faculties — never had they suggested to him the inconsis- 
 tencies that at a more advanced period must have required 
 some explanation as to his father's situation in life, and 
 that of his mother and her humble and unpretending re- 
 latives, the only ones that were known to him — old 
 Eichard Shelburne and his wife. Of his father he had 
 been taught to think and speak, especially by his ancient 
 grandame, as elevated infinitely above them in rank 
 and fortune, as holding in fact the station of master to 
 servants — so far as the old people were concerned ; but 
 there was an exception — a mysterious one, certainly, but 
 
780 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 at his age not sufficient to excite any surprise, or call 
 for any explanation — respecting his mother. 
 
 Why his parents were separated; why the hope of 
 seeing his father — the strongest, dearest wish he had ever 
 formed or entertained heyond the walls that comprised 
 his world — was still indefinitely prolonged, and yet assi- 
 duously cultivated by all his relatives, was explained to 
 him by the necessity of his father's remaining in constant 
 attendance upon the aged and afflicted Sir Orlando St. 
 Orme ; and though carefully guarding him from the sin 
 of wishing for the tie to be dissolved, that kept his father 
 a prisoner, as it were, in a foreign land, and prevented the 
 child's enjoyment of the father's affection, it could not 
 be concealed from him that on Sir Orlando's death 
 depended the full fruition of his mother's happiness. So 
 at least believed the old people, and so, involuntarily* 
 had they taught the boy to believe. They knew not, 
 dreamed not, that there existed any other impediment to 
 the full recognition of their beloved Milly, as the wife of 
 St. Orme and the lady ofBeauvale. In obedience to the 
 instructions of the former and the example of his sub- 
 missive wife, they carefully guarded the secret with which 
 they had been entrusted, and avoided as much as possible 
 exciting the boy's curiosity, and up to the present time, 
 that of their departure from the Abbey, scarcely had it 
 occurred to the thoughtful, reflective boy, that there 
 was a mystery respecting his parents, the solution of 
 which was necessary to his happiness. Depending as 
 Vivian did implicitly upon his mother — loving her?ashe did 
 almost to adoration ; and thus fearing the effect which he 
 was quite conscious any undue excitation produced on 
 her sensitive disposition, and which he now trembled the 
 more at that he had lost those whom he believed were 
 
OF woman's life. 781 
 
 possessed of power and knowledge to guide and restrain 
 those intense feelings that at times appeared to lead her 
 to the brink of despair, and tinged every thought and 
 look with the deepest melancholy ; the boy seemed to ac- 
 quire years of experience, and studiously suppressed 
 all reference to the subject which yet fully occupied his 
 mind, and when at length she gradually resumed her usual 
 placidity, and appeared physically to triumph over the 
 enemy, the extreme despondency that had more than once 
 reduced her almost to the brink of the grave of intellect, 
 Vivian became more than ever cautious of alluding, even 
 in the most distant manner, to subjects that could by 
 any possibility recall the feeling that had produced such 
 devastating effects. 
 
 There was little or no difficulty in following the plan 
 suggested by Mr. St. Orme for the guidance of the son 
 and mother when they arrived in London ; but in so 
 doing it became necessary that Vivian should become the 
 medium of correspondence between the husband and 
 wife ; and never, perhaps, was produced so striking an 
 effect as was produced on the mind of the hitherto 
 apathetic and indifferent parent, as was produced by this 
 gradual unfolding of the carefully cultivated mind of 
 his son. And to whom was this owing? Scarcely could 
 St. Orme believe in what appeared little less than mira- 
 culous, when he discovered that to her whose attainments 
 he had so despised, whom he had considered incapable of 
 aught superior to the comparatively frivolous accomplish- 
 ment — music ; that which had long lost its value in his 
 estimation, and his passion for which he had soon 
 learned to look upon as a species of infatuation, had 
 learned almost to hate as having betrayed him into the 
 weakness of marrying a woman who posssessed no other 
 
782 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 recommendation except her beauty, that of all others the 
 most quickly fading — the least likely to endure in the 
 sight of a husband and selfish man. How little did St. 
 Orme know of the heart of a true, a devoted woman ! How 
 little capable of valuing as it deserved that of Milly 
 Shelburne ! 
 
 But the time was to come that would reveal his in- 
 justice towards her, that would teach him bitterly to 
 regret the years of happiness he had thrown away, the 
 pain and injury he had inflicted on the noble-minded 
 girl who had deserved so different a fate at his hands. 
 
 Daily, hourly, St. Orme's impatience increased to see the 
 son, whom his wife had trained to be capable of writing such 
 letters, to ascertain personally the truth of what appeared 
 so incredible; that she whom he had all but despised 
 and considered unworthy of being his companion, had 
 in reality been the sole tutor of her son. If it were so, if 
 he had not been deceived, how must he blush in her 
 presence ; how could he hope that she would ever forgive 
 his long, cruel indifference ? Almost, he doubted, whe- 
 ther it would not be better still to keep up the same 
 reserve, at least till the time came when he could in some 
 measure repay her for her long forbearance by his open 
 acknowledgment of her legal claims, and by placing it 
 in his son's power to gratify all her wishes in their fullest 
 extent, by choosing for the future whatever mode of life 
 might be most conducive toher happiness. But this selfish 
 continuation of his injustice was, fortunately for himself, 
 frustrated. Sir Orlando St. Orme died suddenly, and 
 then, not till then, it was discovered that there was 
 another — an elder son in existence, the true heir of 
 Beauvale Abbey, and he who had for so many years be- 
 lieved his claims indisputable, was left comparatively poor 
 
of woman's life. 783 
 
 and unprovided for. The true successor of Sir Orlando 
 had long by his vices alienated himself from his family, 
 but he acted on this occasion -with a generosity totally 
 unexpected. Vivian St. Orme, by his long devotion to 
 a studious life, had qualified himself for the sacred life of a 
 pastor, and by the unsought interference of the former 
 he was now put in possession of a living belonging to 
 the heir of Beauvale. But it was previous to this that 
 the long-protracted interview between the husband, his 
 wife and child, had taken place. It was only when 
 Milly learned that he was poor, friendless and unhappy, 
 that she had dared sue for that meeting, only then that 
 she had dared herself to write to him to express her 
 hopes that he would be happier with her than alone — 
 that the cares of his wife and son would help to soothe 
 the despondency of which he complained in his letters to 
 the latter. " Had he been rich and prosperous," she said, 
 " she should not have ventured to propose the measure." 
 She did not venture, however, to tell him what was the 
 truth — that she had a considerable sum of money in 
 reserve — her own personal savings from his liberal 
 allowance — for she feared, with his high spirit, this 
 might have been the means of defeating her purpose. 
 And she judged him rightly. Humiliated, indeed, would 
 he have felt, to have been indebted to his wife, even for 
 the means of living ; but this he was fortunately spared 
 by the liberality of the heir to the wealth and honours he 
 had once thought so securely his own ; and when he did 
 join his wife and child, it was with the firm determination 
 to labour, even with his hands, to preserve them from the 
 evils of poverty. 
 
 To paint the happiness that rewarded Milly 's long 
 course of self-denial and perseverance in well-doing, 
 
78 i SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 would be impossible. The quiet, retired, yet not inactive 
 life of a village pastor's wife, was one that comprised 
 within itself, to her, every element of happiness ; nor did 
 she, in the enjoyment of her husband's and her son's love, 
 almost adoration, believe that happiness could admit of 
 increase, until the birth of twin-daughters evinced that 
 there was still a source of affection within her bosom 
 that " grew by that it fed upon." Never was a lovelier 
 family, or a more united one, than that of the Vicar 
 
 of . But it was, alas ! too happy for this world, 
 
 long to enjoy it. Bertha and Agnes, the fair daughters 
 of Mr. and Mrs. St. Orme, were just sixteen, when their 
 parents received intelligence of an accession to their 
 rather limited means, by a legacy to the former Milly 
 Shelburne from a relative of her father's, whose existence 
 she had never heard of until, after long delay and infinite 
 trouble, she had been traced out by the executors of the 
 will. It was but a few hundred pounds, but Mrs. St. 
 Orme received it with gratitude, as a future provision 
 for her girls, otherwise but slenderly endowed, except 
 for their dependance on their father ; whereas this, with 
 what remained of the fruits of her former economy, after 
 furnishing the Parsonage, would, as she joyfully re- 
 flected, secure them from the fear of want, should they be 
 left without their natural protectors. Alas ! how short- 
 sighted are poor fallible mortals. Little did the tender 
 mother suspect that in this subject for rejoicing, she 
 beheld that which was to scatter for ever their apparently 
 well-founded felicity. In consequence of this legacy, it 
 became necessary for Mrs. St. Orme to visit London. 
 Her husband could not be spared from the duties of his 
 station, and it was agreed that her son Vivian should be 
 her companion. But then came the difficulty of leaving 
 
of woman's life. 785 
 
 her two fair girls, while on their part was the natural 
 desire of witnessing for once in their lives the wonders 
 and pleasures of the Great Metropolis, and unfortunately 
 to this the tender, indulgent mother yielded. They 
 parted with the husband and father never again to meet 
 on earth. The business on which Mrs. St. Orme had 
 come to London — that of proving her identity with the 
 Milicent Shelburne name in the will — occupied more 
 weeks than they had imagined they should be detained ; 
 but to the young people this was so much additional plea- 
 sure, for it enabled them to enjoy all the pleasures and 
 amusements that were suitable to their age and station. 
 The time was at length, however, much to Mrs. Orme's 
 satisfaction, fixed for their return; and joyfully she 
 announced to her husband by letter — 
 
 " By the time you- read this my beloved, we shall be on 
 the road to meet you, never, I trust, to part again. Oh ! 
 how happy shall I be to turn my back upon this noisy, 
 dusty, crowded place, which never possessed any charms 
 for me, and now in this bright sunny month, April, seems 
 more than ever unbearable, from its contrast with the 
 green grass and springing flowers of our dear retreat, 
 which I paint you constantly enjoying. One only draw- 
 back is there on my pleasure. It is that one of my 
 darlings appears not to sympathise in it. There is a 
 cloud on Agnes' brow which I can scarcely comprehend, 
 but I trust it will be only temporary. If it should not — if 
 she should still continue to lament her return to our 
 secluded home, how bitterly shall I repent that ever we 
 left it. I try to conceal my uneasiness on this head 
 from Vivian and my gentle, quiet Bertha ; but to you I 
 cannot be silent. But you will try with me, I know, to 
 
 teach my wayward child to think better — to forget the 
 
 5 h 
 
786 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 dazzling, empty, heartless pleasures which she has suffered 
 to take such hold of her young imagination, as to render 
 her discontented and unhappy at the thought of leaving 
 them behind for what she calls to Susan— a servant who 
 had accompanied the family — ' the humdrum life at the 
 Parsonage.' " 
 
 Before that letter reached its destination, St. Orrne was 
 no more. He had ridden out some miles from home on 
 a visit of charity to a secluded farm-house, and returning 
 in the dusk of evening, had missed the right road, and 
 in endeavouring to cross the river — where he believed 
 there was a ford — had been carried down the stream 
 swollen by recent rains. The horse escaped, and was 
 found wandering without a rider, but so far from the spot 
 where the accident had happened, that not until the third 
 day — at the very time the family arrived at the Parsonage 
 — the body was discovered and borne thither by his 
 sorrowing parishioners. The shock of this event was 
 fatal to the bereaved wife, and the grave had scarely 
 closed on his remains before it was opened to receive her's, 
 who had thus set the seal on love that had from the first 
 exceeded even that of woman. 
 
 Vivian St. Orrne was thus at the very outset of life 
 plunged into a sea of sorrow; but he bore them nobly, for 
 the sake of the helpless girls who were left with only him 
 to soothe and support them. Obliged of course to yield 
 the Parsonage to his father's successor, the young man 
 could devise no better plan than to bring his sisters with 
 him to London, where the interest of a friend of the 
 former had already procured him the situation in a 
 mercantile house, where we first beheld him, and there 
 he established Bertha and Agnes in the apartments 
 formerly tenanted by their mother and him at Kensington, 
 
of woman's life. 787 
 
 passing with them every hour that could he subtracted 
 from the duties of his situation. But the measure of his 
 sorrow was not yet full ; Bertha, ever peculiarly delicate 
 and susceptible, pined from the first, silently, but too 
 surely, away; while Agnes, all life and spirits, on the 
 contrary, became impatient at the dull motonous life 
 she led, and the total deprivation of pleasures which 
 appeared constantly within her reach without the possi- 
 bility of enjoying them. Her brother's caution, and her 
 sister's low spirits — for such she believed what was really 
 fatal disease on the part of Bertha — combined to induce 
 her to seek for stolen pleasures whenever she could 
 deceive them, until she at length filled up the measure 
 of her imprudence, by marrying a wild, profligate young 
 man, with whom it appeared she had formed an acquain- 
 tance previously, during her mother's visit to London. 
 The death of Bertha, in a rapid decline, was no doubt 
 facilitated by this event ; and Vivian St. Orme was left 
 alone in the world. 
 
788 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 What though corroding and multiplied sorrows 
 
 Legion like, darken this planet of ours — • 
 Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows, 
 
 Ever when anguish hath palsied its powers. 
 Wherefore, though fate play the part of a traitor, 
 
 Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of hope, 
 Fearlessly certain that sooner or latter 
 
 Over the stars thy desire shall have scope. 
 
 Look round about on the face of Creation ! 
 
 Still is God's earth undistorted and bright ; 
 Comfort the captive's too long tribulation, 
 
 Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect delight. 
 Honor and feeling were given thee to cherish ; 
 
 Cheerish them, then, though all else should decay : 
 Landmarks be these that are never to perish, 
 
 Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day. 
 
 Courage ! — disaster and peril once over, 
 
 Freshen the spirit, as showers the grove : 
 O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover, 
 
 Soon the " Forget-me-not " rises in love. 
 Courage, then, friend ! though the universe crumble, 
 
 Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, 
 Patient and trustful, and joyous and humble 
 
 Smiles through the ruin on darkness and death — J. Marigan. 
 
 Passing over the interval between the loss of his beloved 
 sister, Bertha, and worse than that loss, his separation 
 from Agnes, of whom he totally lost sight after her rash 
 ill-judged marriage, we come now to that period when, 
 in consequence of his unworldly, and it may be, rash, 
 attempt to rescue Katharine Beresford from the wretched 
 situation into which she had been plunged, by her mis- 
 placed confidence in the man to whom she had given her 
 young and innocent heart, and the cruel severity to give 
 her conduct no worse interpretation of her mother, Vivian 
 St. Orme found himself a prisoner in the jail of Clerkenwell. 
 
of woman's life. 789 
 
 It is easy to talk of the consolation of conscious 
 innocence — of the support that must be derived by the 
 prisoner under accusation, from feeling it to be totally 
 undeserved, and the hope that when the truth is at length 
 made manifest, the guiltless sufferer "will be repaid by 
 the sympathy even of those now most unwilling to be- 
 lieve in his innocence, most anxious to prosecute to 
 condemnation. St. Orme indeed, thus felt, wherl he 
 became capable of sustained thought, for at first all was 
 confusion — incredible, more like the fleeting incon- 
 sistencies of a troubled dream, than sober realities — 
 when he could subtract his thoughts and attention from 
 the harsh, revolting scene that was passing around him, 
 and in which he was made an involuntary partaker ; 
 received, not as a stranger it seemed, to whom every 
 thing was new, abhorrent, and in a great measure incom- 
 prehensible, but hailed for the greater part as only 
 taking his right place there, as filling up a niche re- 
 served for him there. With that anxiety, which was 
 natural in his situation, and with his inexperience, to 
 vindicate himself, even in the eyes of those whose 
 opinions, had he been capable of cool judgment, he 
 would easily have discovered were worse than worthless ; 
 he was ready to answer every one's questions — to vindi- 
 cate his innocence to every one, and exclaim against the 
 injustice, the arrogance and prejudice of the magistrate, 
 who had, in sending him thither, in all probability ruined 
 his worldly prospects. But St. Orme soon discovered 
 that there was little satisfaction to be derived from this 
 frankness and openness on his part. By some his protes- 
 tations of innocence were received with derision, that sent 
 the angry blood into his face ; while others, looking upon 
 all he had said on that point as a mere matter of course, 
 
790 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 addressed him in slang-language that showed a disposi- 
 tion to he on the hest terms with him, but only from the 
 conviction on their part, that he was fully versed in all 
 the mysteries of their own lawless pursuits. From one 
 of the latter class, a man hearing the outward appear* 
 ance of a respectable tradesman, he received at first the 
 only words of consolation addressed to him. 
 
 "there's nothing against you, as I see, that you need 
 be afeard on, if that was the only queer flimsy found 
 upon you," he observed ; " and you say you aint known 
 to any of the traps, or the beak." 
 
 "Who do you mean ?" demanded St. Orme, beginning 
 to suspect his own skill in physiognomy which had led 
 him especially to single out this man from among his 
 companions, and place implicit confidence in the truth of 
 his assertion, which he had made unasked, before he 
 sought his (St. Orme's) confidence, that he himself was 
 only a temporary visitor, and for the first time to the 
 prison, having been " put back for bail to keep the 
 peace for three months, " for," as he expressed it, 
 kicking up a row and punching a watchman's head. A 
 thing," he observed, "he should never have done, but 
 that he had been drawn into drinking too much whisky — 
 a tipple he had never tasted afore." 
 
 Implicitly believing this story, and considering the 
 frankness and readiness with which it was told, a confir- 
 mation of the character expressed in the man's bold, 
 open, clear, and assured style of features, and the hearty 
 sonorous tone of his voice and ringing laugh, St. Orme 
 delivered himself up without the slightest reserve to the 
 confidence these appearances excited, and received with 
 the greatest pleasure what ho considered the honest 
 sincere consolations of a respectable man — one of a totally 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 791 
 
 different character to the depraved set who had at first 
 crowded round the new comer, and appeared to glory in 
 humiliating and reducing him to their own level. 
 
 " Never mind them blackguards," he remarked, taking 
 St. Orme's arm with an air of the utmost cordiality and 
 leading him away from a clique, who having surrounded 
 and listened to the excited young man's frank detail of 
 the untoward circumstances that had caused his appear- 
 ance among them, at length betrayed their insincerity, 
 by commencing what they called a series of chaffing 
 questions and remarks, that to his unpractised ear 
 sounded as the grossest insults. 
 
 " It's no use minding what such chaps as them say, 
 without you 're up to their flash, and can tip it them in 
 their own stvle. Now, you, I take it, havn't been Ions: 
 on town. I mean, you 're but a beginner. If you hadn't 
 you'd never have tried to get rid of the flimsey while 
 the girl was with you. You might be sure the sight 
 of her—" 
 
 St. Orrne up to this moment had stood speechless. 
 The man's manner was so natural, so perfectly unaffected, 
 that it was impossible to doubt that he believed what he 
 uttered ; and St. Orrne seemed struck with sudden despair, 
 as he felt how impossible, how hopeless it was, that he 
 could establish his innocence, since even here he had 
 failed in convincing one that he had spoken the truth. 
 
 '"What's the matter?" demanded his companion, in« 
 terrupting himself in the midst of his remarks, as he saw 
 St. Orrne start and turn pale as the latter reflection arose 
 in his mind. 
 
 " Nothing, proceed — pray proceed," replied St. Orrne, 
 determined to hear how far the man would expose his 
 own principle, or rather no principles. 
 
792 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Oh ! well, let's see, what was I saying ?" ho re- 
 sumed. "Ah! I was observing, that I suspect you're 
 but a novice" — such was his pronounciation — " or you'd 
 have known better than to have a gal of tha f sort openly 
 with you. You 're too much of the gentleman in your 
 looks. Capital your face and figure both ; why it ought 
 to be a fortin' to you. There's nothing you mightn't do 
 -with it, only you aint got the cheek yet. I can see that 
 by your changing colour. Why, when you first came in, 
 I watched you, and you changed as many times as a gal 
 fresh upon town could have done, even if she'd tried for 
 it, and they can do that, some of them. But that's 
 neither here nor there. What I was going to say to 
 you is this, you '11 never do no good if you're going on 
 your own hook ; you want somebody that 's experienced, 
 that knows what 's what. D' ye understand ? I don't 
 want you to split where you got the flimsey, but I know 
 that I can put you up to more than they 've done, let 
 them be who they will ; and I can make it answer for 
 both of us, if you'll come into my terms. As I said 
 before, your looks ought to be a fortin' to you. But 
 mind, I'll have no women in the job. It's the women 
 that's the ruin of many a fine young fellow like you ; and 
 if we are to work together, the gal that — " 
 
 " You are talking very confidently," interrupted St. 
 Orme, who had with difficulty restrained the anger and 
 contempt that boiled within his bosom towards the 
 fellow, and who felt that it would be impossible much 
 longer to curb the expression of his feelings, if the man 
 continued to give utterance to his degrading opinion of 
 Katharine. " You talk very confidently of future pro- 
 ceedings, but you seem to have forgotten that there is 
 slight impediment in the way, either as regards yourself 
 
of woman's life. 793 
 
 or me, namely, that we are both prisoners. I do not 
 
 ask what or how much of the story you told me is true, 
 
 as to the cause of your being here ; but you are more 
 
 fortunate than I profess myself to be, if you can depend 
 
 with such certainty on being released as to be already 
 
 forming schemes for exploits that may — I speak only of 
 
 probabilities you know — may, I say, return you hither." 
 
 The man stared at him for a few moments as if totally 
 
 incapable of comprehending him. 
 
 " Oh ! I understand you now," he at length observed ; 
 
 " but what the devil else would you have me think of, 
 
 but how to better our condition, and when can I have a 
 
 better opportunity of forming schemes, as you call them, 
 
 than here, where we've got nothing else to do, and where 
 
 there's so many opportunities of learning what may be 
 
 useful. A man must be a fool that goes out after being 
 
 shut up here for five or six weeks, as I've been, without 
 
 getting hold of something or another that may be useful 
 
 when he gets out again. It's that consideration that 
 
 makes a man keep up his spirits and laugh at the beak 
 
 that sends you to jail to mend your morals and your 
 
 manners. "Why, I learnt more in the first two months I 
 
 spent here ; I was a boy then, a mere boy, as green as 
 
 grass, but I came out a man, short as the time was. 
 
 Yes, yes ! the jail finished my eddication, for I set about 
 
 prac-tising the lessons I learnt there as soon as I came 
 
 out ; and though they did n't leave me much to learn, I 
 
 always take care not to lose my time entirely, if I get 
 
 locked up. Yes, yes! as I said before, they're good 
 
 schools, and I aint too old yet to pick up something 
 
 worth learning." 
 
 St. Orrne sighed deeply. The man appeared to him 
 
 at that moment an object of pity, but the utter per 
 
 5 i 
 
704 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 versity of judgment, feeling and principle, was evidently 
 too confirmed for him to hope to make any impression on 
 such a being. He therefore remained silent. 
 
 " What makes you look so glum ?" demanded his self- 
 constituted friend and proposed partner. " Sure, you're 
 not such a greenhorn as to be down upon your luck, 
 because you 've got the key turned upon you for a week ; 
 why, I 've been here eleven of 'em. My time was three 
 calendar months, yet here I am, you see, alive and 
 lipping, ready to go to work as hearty as ever. Oh, it's 
 only to make up your mind to make the best of it, and 
 the time slips away afore you can think about it." 
 
 " But, if you are by no means certain that that will be 
 the extent of your imprisonment," observed St. Orme, 
 who was anxious to derive consolation from even this 
 man whom he so much despised. 
 
 " What, I don't understand you? You mean, I 'spose, 
 to say, there may be a detainer lodged against me. Oh, 
 I aint afeard of that." 
 
 "I was thinking only of my own situation," returned 
 St. Orme briefly. 
 
 " You ! Oh, set your heart at rest. You'd have been 
 discharged at once if you hadn't nettled the magistrate. 
 He was determined to give you a week of it, just for 
 your sauce." 
 
 ** My God ! is it possible that a man could thus 
 cruelly revenge the natural irritation of being conscious 
 of his innocence, and of course, ready to take fire at 
 being treated as a practised offender." 
 
 " Bah ! wouldn't he do it ? Ah, I believe you, and 
 more than that too, if he could, without being hauled 
 over the coals for it. He has burnt his fingers once or 
 twice at the game. But come now, what's the use of 
 
of woman's life. 795 
 
 your fighting so shy with me; I told you before I've got 
 a plan in my head that may serve us both, for mutual 
 advantage, as they say in the newspaper adver-tisements. 
 But first and foremost, how are you off for tin ? You've 
 got a week to live, you know, and in course jail allow 
 ance wont suit your stomach any more than it would 
 mine. You must keep up the stamninar, as the doctors 
 
 say, or you wont be worth a d when you get out, 
 
 which will be the same day as me." 
 
 " If you mean to inquire what money I am possessed 
 of," returned St. Orme coolly, and believing he had now 
 fathomed the mystery of the man's endeavouring to unite 
 their interests, " your question is easily answered. I 
 have not a single shilling." 
 
 His free companion uttered a low whistle and seemed 
 to reflect. 
 
 " Well, after all," he observed, " I might have guessed 
 as much. In course, it would not have done for you to 
 have other money about you than the flimsey. Yes, 
 that shows foresight." 
 
 St. Orme burst into a contemptuous laugh. 
 
 " I must really disclaim your compliment," he ob- 
 served ; then altering at once his manner, he continued, 
 " I cannot understand what your motive is for persisting 
 in believing that I was really guilty of the offence with 
 which I was charged, but do not repeat it. I tell you, 
 once for all, that I received the note — the flimsey as you 
 call it — without a suspicion that it was a counterfeit, 
 and such, believing it a true one, I offered it. That I 
 am equally sure, as of my own ignorance, that the person 
 from whom it was received, believed it correct ; moreover, 
 that I am a person of good character, whose integrity 
 was never before doubted, that I neither know nor have 
 
790 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 any inclination to know anything of the plans you speak 
 of, or the pursuits in which, by your own account, you 
 have been engaged all your life ; and to conclude, that I 
 desire henceforward that you will not attempt again to 
 address me, either on this or any other subject. Our 
 ways in life are, fortunately for one of us, totally diffe- 
 rent, and in short, I neither have or will have anything 
 more to do with you." 
 
 The man stood silently listening to him with an ex- 
 pression of doubt, incredulity, and insolence strongly 
 marked on his rather handsome, but far from preposses- 
 sing features, and his eyes followed St. Orme, as the 
 latter with even more than his naturally dignified and 
 haughty step, walked down the room and threw himself 
 upon one of the broad benches, which with corresponding 
 tables, constituted the whole of the furniture of the 
 gloomy, desolate looking place. 
 
 " Does he think, now, that all these airs impose upon 
 me," muttered his late companion. " It aint likely that 
 Fred should set me on a wrong lay. No, no ! he's like 
 many more young beginners — he thinks by fighting shy 
 of us old 'uns, to keep the game in his own hands, but 
 he'll find the difference afore long, and be glad to come 
 down from his stilts. And not a farthing in his pockets 
 either ; ha, ha, ha, well let him try it — let him try for 
 two or three days how he relishes pannum and skilly ; if 
 that don't bring him down a bit and make him civil, say 
 my name aint Tom Johnson, that's all. Drabbit, the 
 feller, I don't know why I should consarn myself about 
 him so much, or take such pains to open his eyes to his 
 own benefit, only it's a pity to see such gifts as he's got 
 by nature throw'd away. I wonder who the gal was that 
 was with him when he was trapped — whether shewas one 
 
of woman's life. 797 
 
 Fred know'd afore, or — . I must ask kirn that, because, 
 if she 's one of Fred's old fancies, and he 's been fool 
 enough to trust her, we may soon get out of her who and 
 what he 's been, as well as what lay he's going upon, he 
 does think to keep so snug, and all to himself. Bah, the 
 feller's no fool neither; but if he has trusted one of the 
 precious sex with his secrets, I wouldn't give five 
 shillings for the bargain; five shillings! why there aint 
 one of 'em that I know, that wouldn't sell him for half 
 the money, or, if they couldn't get anything by it, 
 would do it for the love of mischief, as soon as they 
 got tired of him. There now, there's one of the angelic 
 creatures come to see the man she pretends to love. 
 Look at the fool, how his eyes sparkle, as if he could eat 
 her instead of the pigeon pie she's brought him. And 
 she, oh, how tender she is. How she presses him to eat 
 and gently draws her hand away, because, while he holds 
 it he can't manage his knife and fork, and then she 
 whispers to him so tender. I'd lay a pound to a shilling 
 she's trying to raise his spirits by talking about his 
 getting out, and how happy they shall be together again 
 when he get's home, and all the while she knows he's 
 booked for seven years at least, if he aint a lifer. She'd 
 rather that, because then she can take the first that offers 
 in his place ; and she knows she's handsome enough to 
 catch another fool as soon as ever she gets rid of this 
 one, who'll be sent across the herring pond, because she 
 couldn't dress and dash and go to ^Margate or Dover, or 
 some other watering place in the summer ; and to balls 
 and plays and the-atres, and show off her finery, and 
 beat her neighbours in cramming her two drawing rooms 
 full of company in the winter ; and so, as the stupid ass 
 of a husband couldn't bear to check the darling, and 
 
798 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 was proud of seeing her flattered and followed, and 
 worshipped ; and as he couldn't make a salary of two 
 hundred and fifty a year to support her at the rate of a 
 thousand ; and as his creditors wouldn't be put off no 
 longer, and he knew if he made a smash of it and come 
 to he locked up and tried the whitewashing scheme, he 
 should lose his place, the fine lady would he brought to 
 poverty and lose her fine house, and her company, and 
 her excursions, and be obliged to walk on her dainty 
 feet instead of coaching it, and driving her two long- 
 tailed poneys about in a chaise, or showing off a horse- 
 back in the Parks, in the riding habit and hat that was 
 so becoming to her lovely face and figure ; and as the 
 tailor wouldn't wait any longer for his money, and he 
 knew if the tailor came down upon him, it would bring 
 the milliner and the dressmaker, and the butcher and the 
 baker, and the confectioner, and half-a-dozen more that 
 hadn't seen the colour of his money for the last twelve- 
 month, and who suspected the truth that he'd mortgaged 
 his salary for the next twelvemonths, he got up a nice 
 little scheme on his own hook, forged a bill, or a cheque, 
 or a something on his own rich old uncle, who had made 
 his will, leaving him a big part of his fortin' — " 
 
 " And was detected," said St. Orme, who had been 
 listening w T ith great interest to this narrative, Mr. 
 Tom Johnson, as he called himself, having contrived 
 to place himself within hearing of the former, though 
 pretending not to observe him (St. Orme) and addres- 
 sing the story, to another person who appeared equally 
 a stranger. 
 
 "Detected!" he repeated with a sneer, "to be sure, 
 what's the use of a man trying to work at a trade without 
 serving his 'prenticeship, or having somebody to teach 
 
OF woman's life. 799 
 
 him that does understand it, and knows how to use 
 the tools." 
 
 St. Orme understood the allusion, but he replied to it 
 only by an ironical smile, and Mr. Tom Johnson, affect- 
 ing not to see the latter, proceeded, as if thinking only 
 of the person whom he had made the hero of his story, 
 and who, totally unconscious of the interest he excited, 
 was absorbed in the interchange of evidently the tenderest 
 affection with his beautiful, but most disconsolate wife, 
 whom the former thus cruelly aspersed. 
 
 " One of their pretty extravagances," he observed, 
 "was his getting leave of absence for a month, and 
 dancing off to Scotland, where they figured away as great 
 folks, and preciously they paid for it. I happened to be 
 in that part of the country on a little private business, 
 and knew my gentleman as soon as I set eyes on him, 
 though he was rigged out Highland fashion, and used to 
 go out as a regular sportsman with his gun. She had a 
 lady companion too, to keep up her dignity, and there I 
 saw them out on the mountains pretending to be out- 
 lying, as they call it, for the stags, though to me, who 
 knew he was a regular cockney, it was precious fun to 
 see them. They'd got a beautiful dog with them that 
 was worth money, and had cost them more than double 
 its worth. I 'd got a friend with me that had taken 
 a fancy to the dog. To tell the truth, he was in that 
 line, and had come to Scotland on purpose to pick 
 up anything that might be worth his while. He'd got 
 an order from an English sporting peer for a dog of that 
 sort. I dont know much about dogs myself, but it was a 
 noble looking beast, a kind of greyhound, and my lady 
 there, looking towards the beautiful woman on the 
 opposite side of the room, made quite a pet of it. Luath, 
 
800 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 as it was called, went with his missus wherever she 
 went, and my friend tried all the manouvres he was up to 
 in vain to get hold of the animal. It would put fifty 
 pounds in his pocket, he told me, if he could get him 
 safe to London, so you may he sure I was anxious as well 
 as him. Well, one day we saw him and her, and her 
 lady friend, or maid, or whatever she was, all going off 
 towards the hills in prime twig. She was dressed like 
 a queen, and looked one too, and the other in plaid, 
 as the cocknies call it, hut that's wrong, tartan's the 
 proper name, a plaid is the long scarf or shawl thing they 
 twist about them — the Scotchmen I mean — comfortable 
 enough if you know how to use them, but there aint one 
 in a hundred does in England. Howsomever, that's neither 
 here nor there, The dog was as usual with them, and 
 the master was rigged out in full feather, gun, and all 
 the rest of it. Dick Cross, my friend, came in a hurry 
 to call me, and where do you think the party were off to 
 in such style ? Why up in the mountain, deer-stalking 
 as they call it. We didn't know that they'd got two 
 fellows, regular hands at the sport, to assist Mr. Sports- 
 men, and were to meet them at a certain spot among the 
 hills. Well, to make short of a long story, we followed, 
 keeping out of sight as long as we could. We'd made 
 up our minds to make a dash for the dog. There was 
 two of us to one you know, as we thought ; for as to the 
 women, they would have been sure they might have 
 screamed and squalled their hearts out in them solintary 
 places, before they'd have been heard. Howsomever, we 
 agreed if we could do it without a rumpus we would. 
 He'd got a gun to be sure, but that didn't give us much 
 concern, for we didn't believe he'd have courage to use 
 it. Well, my lady got tired, and sat down to rest herself, 
 

OF woman's life. 801 
 
 and he went a little way in front ; we didn't suspect he 
 was looking out for the stalkers, as they call the hunts- 
 men, or the deer they was to chase within his reach for 
 him to fire at. We got nearer and nearer to the women 
 by creeping behind the rocks and bushes. Cross had 
 carried with him something to 'tice the dog, that the fancy 
 all uses." 
 
 " Now's the time, Tom," whispers he ; " and then he 
 calls ' Luath, Luath, Luath,' as bold as brass, just as if 
 the dog was his, for that was the game we meant 
 to play — to swear the dog belonged to me. I was the 
 best dressed, and looked the most 'sponsible, and carry 
 him off with us — pretending to give my place of abode, 
 where he might apply for redress. We hadn't showed our- 
 selves yet, though, and the women couldn't tell where the 
 voice came from, while he was too far off. It wouldn't 
 take ; Luath seemed to prefer the company of his mistress, 
 and came to her side, while she put her arm round his 
 neck, as if to keep him safe. We was just agoing to come 
 forward and claim the dog, who, tempted by the food 
 Cross carried, would have been sure to stick hard and 
 fast to us, when ha ! ha ! ha ! — I can't help laughing when 
 I think of it now, though I was dev'lish mad at the time — 
 off goes the cockney's gun, bang, bang — it was a double 
 barrel — and then there was a loud hurrah, from more than 
 one throat, at no great distance. Another shot — bang — 
 still nearer, and Dick and I rolled one over t'other, down, 
 down, down, till we was brought up — if I may call it so — 
 by going souse into a pretty deep stream of water that 
 ran at the foot of the hill on the opposite side to that we'd 
 gone up by. Never shall I forget what fools we looked 
 like when we scrambled out, and begun to think what 
 
 we'd done, and how completely our fine scheme had been 
 
 5 K 
 
802 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 baffled. But it was no use abusing one another, and 
 swearing each was in fault, for taking fright at nothing. 
 It was all Dick's fault, though he wouldn't own it ; for the 
 moment the first gun was fired, he caught hold of me, and 
 cried out — ' It's all up, Tom, make haste, make haste, 
 these Scotch brutes will murder us ;' and the next minute 
 we'd begun to roll down, and then the devil himself 
 couldn't stop us till we came to the bottom." 
 
 "And did you get the dog, after all ?" inquired one of 
 the listeners, who had appeared greatly interested in the 
 story. 
 
 Mr. Tom Johnson, as he called himself, looked hard at 
 the speaker, and then, with a significant wink at the other 
 auditors, replied — 
 
 " May be you'd like to know ?" 
 
 " If I hadn't, I shouldn't have asked,'' replied the other, 
 sulkily. 
 
 " Well, then, ask Dick Cross next time you see him, 
 for I know he's an old pal of yours," he replied. " Ask 
 him how much he got for the Scotch greyhound that he 
 caught in the mountains when he went deer-stalking, 
 and I'll pound it he'll give you an answer." 
 
 Another significant wink, and a laugh which seemed to 
 exult in the prospect of mischief arising from this inquiry, 
 if it were made, concluded the dog story ; but Mr. Johnson, 
 who seemed to have someprivate motive of enmity against 
 the man whose doating folly, according to his (Johnson's) 
 account, had plunged him into irremediable trouble, 
 continued to engage the attention of the idle group 
 around him, and indulge at once his spleen and his 
 garrulity , by relating instances of the extravagance of 
 the unfortunate pair ; while he omitted no opportunity of 
 slandering the female, in common with her own sex, in- 
 
of woman's life. 803 
 
 deed, professing his utter disbelief in the sincerity of her 
 grief for her husband, and declaring his conviction, " that 
 she, like all women, cared only for her own selfish indul- 
 gence, and was incapable of feeling affection, and that 
 they would ruin any man who was fool enough to trust in 
 their faith , or believed that they could be sincere, con- 
 stant, or disinterested; until St. Orme, utterly disgusted and 
 angry at several personal allusions, which, though he could 
 not comprehend by what means he had attained his in- 
 formation, had for their object his supposed attachment 
 to Katharine Beresford, removed beyond the reach of his 
 (Mr. Tom Johnson's) voice, and endeavoured to beguile 
 his thoughts from dwelling on his own comfortless and 
 painful situation by observation on the various groups 
 and characters bv whom he was surrounded, among which, 
 however, his pity and sympathy were more particularly 
 excited by the unhappy pair who had been the subject 
 of the former's low, insolent, and unprincipled animad- 
 versions, and who, apparently, totally unconscious that 
 they had an enemy so near them, were entirely absorbed in 
 their grief and affection for each other. 
 
 The order for all strangers to leave was announced by 
 the ringing of a bell, and St. Orme's sympathy became 
 acutely painful as he marked its distressful effects on many 
 countenances which had not before excited any particular 
 attention. It seemed as if not till then the full measure 
 of their grief, their misery was felt, and wretched and re- 
 pulsive as most of them were, and conscious as he was 
 that in most of them crimes that deserved and demanded 
 punishment had brought them there, his heart melted 
 with pity, as he saw the different expressions of sorrow 
 or woe — in some almost despair — when, with " lin- 
 gering steps and slow," the unhappy prisoners returned 
 
80-1 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 from the door to which they — anxious to prolong the 
 parting to the last minute— had accompanied their 
 friends. 
 
 " And I, am I not more unhappy still," he repeated, 
 suddenly starting at the recollection which his sympathy 
 for others had for a time hanished from his mind "alone 
 as I am in the world ; not one heart beyond these melan- 
 choly precincts retains a recollection, indulges a regret 
 for my fate." 
 
 The image of Katharine Beresford rose before him at 
 that moment, and seemed to contradict his assertion, and 
 accuse him of ingratitude. 
 
 " And yet what tie can I hope for, what can I wish 
 from any future intercourse with her?" he reflected. " Her 
 only feeling towards me can be gratitude ; mine towards 
 her — no, it cannot be, ought not to be — love. It is not 
 love. No, no, she is very beautiful, and, as far as I can 
 judge, her heart is still uncorrupted, but I cannot, never 
 could, forget the past ; and if I could blot out the memory 
 of the circumstances under which we met — " 
 
 The blood rushed to his face, dying it the deepest 
 crimson, as all the painful, degrading events of that meet- 
 ing occurred to his memory. With them came the image 
 of his friend Marlow, the remembrances of the latter's 
 bitter sarcasm, his warnings and predictions. 
 
 " Yes, already am I suffering," he mentally exclaimed, 
 "for neglect of his friendly admonitions, by my adherence 
 to the romantic system, which, formed in solitude and nur- 
 tured by ignorance and inexperience, I find, too late, can 
 never be acted upon in this wretched, selfish world, with- 
 out bringing with it a thousand miseries. Had I been 
 content," he continued, " to act as he advised — to pass 
 on through the crowd, looking neither to the right nor 
 
of woman's life. 805 
 
 left, beut only on my own enjoyment, and carel e o f all 
 that was passing around me, how different now would be 
 my situation ! And, after all, what good have I done by 
 my interference ?" 
 
 In this last question lay the bitterest sting. He 
 thought of Katharine as he had last beheld her, standing 
 on the pavement of Bow Street, and conversing or 
 listening to the man whose curious and interested looks 
 had previously annoyed him (St. Orme) in the office. 
 
 "And she is without money or friends," he thought to 
 himself, with agony. " Miserable, unfortunate being ! 
 Should Marlow, in his adherence to his usual cautious, 
 selfish system, withhold his assistance, even for a few 
 hours, what will become of her?" 
 
 The thought brought with it a train of painful consi- 
 derations as to the future. Marlow would, he knew, if 
 he so far departed from that strict attention to appear- 
 ances that would most probably prevent his entering a 
 prison, or acknowledging any connexion with one charged 
 with a crime ; if he did suffer friendship for once to out- 
 weigh these selfish considerations, would, he was sure, 
 condemn, unbesitatingly, any future efforts on his (St. 
 Orme's) part, in favour of Katharine. He anticipated 
 already the arguments by which the former would prove 
 the folly, the impossibility, that he — a single young man, 
 with a salary none too great for his own wants, should 
 burthen himself even with the bare support of a young 
 female, and still more difficult to meet — unanswerable, 
 he felt — would be the interpretation the world would put 
 upon, the certain censure that would attach itself to 
 such an act. 
 
 From these and similar painful cogitations, St. Orme 
 became at length in a great measure detached by certain 
 
806 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 unpleasant, and, it must be confessed, most pressing per- 
 sonal sensations, which he in vain tried to shake off or 
 escape from, though he almost blushed to acknowledge 
 them even to himself. Many hours had passed since he had 
 tasted food, and now that the excitement which had ren- 
 dered him indifferent, forgetful, indeed, of the demands 
 of Nature had passed away, he felt them becoming most 
 imperative, though without the slightest idea how they 
 were to be satisfied. Had he possessed the means of pay- 
 ing for them, he would not have hesitated in inquiring of 
 some one around him how he was to procure tea or 
 coffee, the refreshments which he felt would be most desir- 
 able at the present moment ; but it was long before he 
 could bring himself even to ask a question on the sub- 
 ject. "Common sense," he at length argued, " tells me 
 that the laws of the country cannot shut me up here, and 
 deprive me of the means of getting my living, without 
 supplying my necessities ; they cannot, and that too on 
 mere suspicion of crime, condemn me to perish by star- 
 vation. It is only my ignorance of the method of apply- 
 ing for it that has prevented my being supplied with 
 what is necessary. I will ask someone." 
 
 It was some time, however, before he could select that 
 some one, and when at length he did so, it appeared that 
 his selection was not a very wise one ; for his questions, 
 which were put to a rather simple, light-haired boy, of not 
 more than fifteen or sixteen, were received with a shout of 
 laughter that speedily attracted general attention. 
 
 " Oh ! crikey's," exclaimed the youth, in answer to the 
 looks that demanded an explanation from the others ; 
 " Oh ! crikey's, here's a cove wants to know when they're 
 goin' to bring up the tea-board and urn, and the coffee 
 ibiggin ; wouldn't you like heggs, and toast and butter ? 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 807 
 
 or, may bo you'd rather have muffins and crumpets and a 
 bit of cold meat, or a J arm an sassage, to tickle your 
 appetite. Oh! my eye, what a green 'un you must be 
 to be sure. I think I see us a settin' down to the tea 
 table, and you at the head on it. Would 'nt we behave 
 pretty." 
 
 St. Orme turned away with a look of contempt from 
 the saucy, precocious youth, vexed with himself for ha- 
 ving by a mere inquiry — whether the authorities afforded 
 tea or coffee to the prisoners — afforded him the oppor- 
 tunity of making him appear ridiculous. A few moments 
 after, he was accosted by the man who had interested him 
 in his painful story during the time they had been to- 
 gether at the Brown Bear, in Bow Street, but whom 
 he had not before recognised as a fellow-prisoner. 
 
 "I think I know what you've been asking that young 
 wagabond yonder, Sir," he observed, " but I'm sorry for 
 my own sake, as well as yours, to tell you, most likely we 
 shall get nothing to eat till breakfast- time to-morrow. 
 We came in too late, you see, to be put on the list to-day, 
 but we shall get gruel — skilly they call it — and bread in 
 the morning, but it's meat day to-day, so we shan't get 
 any to-morrow, only skilly, as they call it, again." 
 
 St. Orme quietly thanked him for his civility. He 
 did not say to him " that he had an utter aversion to 
 gruel," and he was ashamed to acknowledge to himself 
 that he attached any importance to the prospect of being 
 without food for so many hours longer, and then confined 
 to bread and water; but Nature will assert its rights, and 
 his utmost determination could not prevent his spirits 
 sinking to a very low ebb, and wishing for the time 
 when he might hope to lose in sleep for some hours the 
 remembrance of his comfortless situation. 
 
808 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 The distribution of supper — as it was called — to those 
 entitled to it, did not, however, excite any wish on his part 
 to partake of it. The bread was coarse and heavy, and 
 the gruel, looking dark in dull tin pots, excited only dis- 
 gust in St. Orme, who wondered, as he saw it eagerly 
 swallowed by many, whether they had ever felt as he did, 
 whether, in fact, any time could possibly reconcile those 
 who had been accustomed to more delicate fare to such 
 as that. But he did not see that there were eyes 
 earnestly watching the expression of these thoughts in 
 his speaking countenance. In a few minutes, Mr. Tom 
 Johnson, as he called himself, threw himself on a bench 
 by his side, and appearing totally to have forgotten the re- 
 buff he had previously received, observed — 
 
 "I fancy you wouldn't relish being kept on pannum 
 and skilly much more than I should ; but come, here's 
 something that will suit us better. If we could get a 
 bottle of wine, or even a glass of grog a-piece, it 
 would be better, but that ain't to be done to-night, 
 though I manage it sometimes." 
 
 He produced a small parcel carefully wrapped in 
 writing paper, from which he took a pigeon pie, and 
 dividing it, laid one-half on St. Orme's knee, saying, 
 " We shall have some coffee in a few minutes, I could'nt 
 get anything better to-night." 
 
 Much as St. Orme was tempted, especially by the 
 last, he resolutely rejected the offer, though civilly, 
 disguising his real motive — suspicion of the man who 
 made it — by declaring his disinclination to eat. 
 
 "Well, I won't force you," returned Mr. Johnson, 
 with seeming carelessness; "at any rate, you'll take a 
 cup of coffee?" 
 
 St. Orme did not reject this. It was, he felt, an 
 
of woman's life. 809 
 
 obligation that would be easily repaid, but he deter- 
 mined not to add to it; and this determination was 
 confirmed by a remark he overheard from a man who 
 had been looking with longing eyes at the delicacy his 
 neighbour was enjoying. 
 
 " Well," he observed to a companion, " that's the 
 first time since I've known him, that I ever heard 
 Tom Johnson offer to share with another. I've seen 
 him, many's the time, almost cramming himself, when 
 I knew he didn't want it, rather than give a bit 
 of anything that was brought him to anybody else, 
 and yet he offered that young man that he never saw 
 before, part of what he wanted, for you see he has 
 eaten it all up. I can't make it out at all, not I." 
 
 "Maybe not," returned the other indifferently, "but 
 let Tom alone, he know's, if you don't, what he's after. 
 - Nothing for nothing ' is his motto, and he'd seen that 
 young man or anybody else — ay, his own brother, if 
 he's got one — die of starvation, before he'd have divided 
 his pie with him, if he hadn't been sure of making double 
 or treble its worth." 
 
 " How could this be," thought St. Orme, as the 
 speaker turned away, " since I myself have no certainty 
 that I should be able to repay the obligation, and am 
 quite, convinced this Mr. Johnson knows nothing of my 
 circumstances, and if he did, could found no expecta- 
 tion of reaping any great advantage in return for his 
 civility ?" 
 
 Unaccountable, however, as it all appeared, St. Orme 
 determined to become more than ever on his guard 
 against, and to shun, if possible, all intercourse with his 
 would-be friend, who, he observed, seemed to be regarded 
 with contempt and dislike, with but few exceptions, 
 
 5 L 
 
810 SHADE AND SUNSIIINE 
 
 among the strange, motley groups with whom they were 
 associated. 
 
 The summons to retire to their sleeping places for the 
 night, which followed, soon dismissed all thoughts of Mr. 
 Johnson from St. Orme's mind, and brought in their 
 full force the misery of his situation to his mind. It was 
 no trifling evil to be compelled, even for a few nights, to 
 put up with the wretched substitute for a bed assigned 
 to him, a board scarcely covered by a thin mattress to 
 lie on, and a coarse woollen nfg for a covering ; and St. 
 Orme recoiled with disgust at its appearance, and the 
 thought that it had, perhaps, previously accommodated 
 some such wretched, filthy, repulsive being, as he had 
 beheld mingled among those of more decent appearance 
 in the day-room, as it was called, and from whom, though 
 pitying their wretchedness, he had shrunk from all 
 contact. Little did he suspect, however, that in more 
 than one instance, among tbese unfortunates, these rags, 
 these outward indications of extreme poverty, were the 
 only crime of which they were accused. They were 
 friendless and homeless, and the mild, charitable laws 
 punished them as criminals ; while even the thief, the 
 housebreaker, the deliberate violator of every tie between 
 man and man, shrunk from and despised the honest 
 pauper. 
 
 These reflections, however, did not then disturb St. 
 Orme — he thought only of the physical evils attendant on 
 poverty. The image of his own comfortable chamber, 
 with all its appliances, and especially its inviting clean- 
 liness, its various inexpensive, yet he art- gratifying 
 ornaments, that rendered it so pleasant; his bookshelves, 
 which, with his taper stand, and the means of getting 
 instantaneous light — not then a common indulgence as 
 
OF woman's life. 811 
 
 now, but which he had himself added to his accommo- 
 dations — afforded him a never-failing resort in hours of 
 wakefulness; he contrasted all these with the hare, dirty, 
 broken plaster of the walls and the ceiling — cleanliness 
 was then too great a luxury for prisoners — the filthy 
 looking rug, the pillowless thing called a bed — even the 
 smell of the seldom cleaned cell, that seemed to hang 
 about the walls, that smell so unspeakably repulsive to 
 those unused to the miseries of poverty, and his heart 
 sank to the very lowest ebb. It seemed as if every hope 
 deserted him, and he was consigned to lasting misery. 
 Yet even 
 
 " in that lowest deep 
 
 There was a lower still." 
 And that was when the lantern, which, making " darkness 
 visible," had been placed at the door to enable him to 
 arrange his bed and take off his clothes, a ceremony he 
 would have declined, but was informed, he was not 
 allowed to do so — it was the rule of the prison that he 
 should undress ; when the light was removed, and he 
 heard the heavy key turned in the lock, and a still 
 heavier bar dropped across, to render his isolation from 
 all intercourse more complete, this was, he felt, the 
 climax of misery. 
 
 " And where was Katharine ?" The thought made him 
 start up from his grovelling resting place, as if a knife 
 had wounded him. 
 
 "Wretched, selfish being, as I am," he murmured, 
 "perhaps now she is enduring evils which would make her 
 even envy me this miserable shelter. A thousand unto- 
 ward circumstances might prevent her seeing Marlow 
 and receiving from him the assistance he (St. Orme,) 
 had requested, almost demanded, from the former. And 
 
812 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 even if she did see him, scarcely was it probable that 
 Marlow would depart from his usual cautious system — 
 his habit of believing that every demand upon his purse 
 originated in imposition. He would, perhaps, hesitate, 
 require confirmation of the truth of the poor girl's story, 
 or worse than all, even if he believed her representations, 
 might refuse to involve himself in an affair that to him 
 would appear so disgraceful, or in his prudent considera- 
 tion for his (St. Orme's) interest, might seek to break off 
 all connexion between him and Katharine, by harshly 
 representing to her the unreasonableness of her hopes 
 and dependence on a young man whose means were so 
 limited, who, in fact, had not a shilling to spare from 
 his very insufficient salary. And Katharine, with her 
 proud, independent spirit. Yes ! now those traits of her 
 disposition had broken through the heavy clouds that 
 obscured her fate, Katharine would not, he felt con- 
 vinced, descend to plead her utter necessities, her abso- 
 lute destitution, to one so cold and selfish as Marlow 
 could be in reality, and could, even to a much greater 
 degree, assume to be. How often had he seen Marlow 
 veil his real feelings under that mask of reserve and 
 coldness, even when the object was scarcely worthy of 
 the assumption. St. Orme trembled as he thought of the 
 effect that harsh voice, that rigid countenance, those 
 stern, haughty, unmoved features, would have upon the 
 sensitive, trembling Katharine ; and he fancied he could 
 Bee her flying from him, forgetful of everything but the 
 desire to escape from one so unfeeling and unjust. One 
 only recollection rendered him doubtful as to Katharine's 
 reception from Marlow, and rendered it possible that it 
 might be very different. He was an enthusiastic admirer 
 of beauty. He had avowed to St. Orme, that it was the 
 
of woman's life. 813 
 
 only weak point in his character. The latter had seen 
 that it was the only one on which he became animated, 
 and against which he in vain interposed his usual cold, 
 crafty, selfish system. And Katharine was beautiful ! 
 Would he behold that beauty unmoved ? Could he 
 resolve to make her hate — despise him, to drive her from 
 him in despair, and know to what utter misery he should 
 condemn her, should he break her last hope and de- 
 pendance on him (St. Orme)? 
 
 Strange inconsistency. The thought that Marlow 
 would be fascinated by her superlative beauty, that he 
 would seek to recommend himself to her by conduct the 
 very reverse to that his knowledge of the former's general 
 character had at first suggested, was scarcely less painful 
 to St. Orme, and scarcely could he repress the execration 
 that rose to his lips, as he thought of the advantages his 
 friend possessed to recommend himself to Katharine, 
 while he was there almost helpless, miserable, perhaps 
 forgotten. Oh, yes, he should soon be forgotten. 
 Marlow possessed means of doing all that he would have 
 done. He (Marlow) had all that he (St. Orme) was 
 deficient in. Marlow would secure her gratitude ; Mar- 
 low would conceal from her his real character. Marlow 
 would appear in her eyes generous, liberal, amiable, and 
 he would be forgotten. 
 
814 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us ; 
 Rest from sin — promptings that ever intreat us ; 
 
 Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill. 
 Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee, 
 Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ; 
 Look on yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; 
 
 Rest not content in thy darkness. Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts I've met; 
 
 Seen honest minds by hardened craft beset ; 
 
 Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow ; 
 
 Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show. Dana. 
 
 And where, in reality, was Katharine Beresford? St. 
 Orrne's last glance had shown her in earnest, and as his 
 jealous fears suggested, willing conversation with the 
 Jew who had seemed to take so much interest in what 
 had taken place in the public office. The latter had seen 
 her come out, after being compelled to leave St. Orme 
 in the lock-up room of the Brown Bear, and had read in 
 the expression of her beautiful features and the uncertain 
 wandering look she cast around, the truth that she was 
 unresolved what to do, or whither to go. He watched 
 her, as, after looking first up and then down the street, 
 with a look that betrayed both ways were equally strange 
 and unknown to her, she crossed the road, evidently for 
 the purpose of examining the windows of the Brown 
 Bear, probably hoping that she might there discover the 
 person from whom, he guessed, she had been forcibly 
 compelled to separate, probably before either had time 
 to utter half that was in their hearts to say to each other. 
 There was disappointment in her looks as she withdrew 
 
OF woman's life. 815 
 
 her eyes from the tavern, for in none of those comfort- 
 ably and respectably curtained windows could she recog- 
 nise the miserable, dirty, and iron-barred room in which 
 she had left St. Orme ; and she was slowly walking down 
 the street, when the Jew approached her, and, with a 
 respectful salutation, observed : — 
 
 " Pardon me, de gentleman for whom you so moche 
 have de pity, vill in leetle time be remove. Dey vill take 
 him from here to de prison, to — to — Excusez moi — 
 forgive, I will make question of de name of it — de 
 prison, vere dey sail take him." 
 
 The foreign accent with which he spoke at first 
 rendered it difficult for Katharine to comprehend his 
 meaning, but she felt grateful for the tone of sympathy 
 and respect with which he addressed her, so unlike the 
 rude insolence of some, the knowing jeering tone of 
 others, and the universal doubt of her innocence, which 
 was expressed in the manners of all with whom she had 
 come in contact, from the first moment of the accusation 
 brought against her and St. Orme by the coachman. 
 There were two or three females, indeed, in the office, 
 who had attempted to get into conversation with her ; but 
 Katharine, rendered suspicious, and so far cautious, by 
 her experience of her oAvn sex, shrank from the tone of 
 familiarity they assumed, and replied with such coldness 
 and reserve to their affectation of sympathy and interest, 
 as to discourage their further attempts. It did not, how- 
 ever, escape Katharine's observation, that by one of 
 those women, the Jew — her late companion — was ad- 
 dressed as he came down the steps of the office, whither 
 it appeared he had gone to make the inquiry as to the 
 prison to which St. Orme was to be removed ; but she 
 saw also, that although he at first listened to her with 
 
816 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 that politeness which foreigners are seldom deficient in, 
 especially towards a female, his manner and look 
 changed the moment he comprehended what she ad- 
 dressed to him, and with an unmistakable expression of 
 contempt and disgust he repulsed her and proceeded 
 to rejoin her (Katharine), whose glowing cheeks and 
 downcast eyes betrayed that she understood but too well 
 the purport of the woman's communication to him. For 
 a moment the stranger regarded her with surprise. 
 
 " You do not know that woman ? " he hastily de- 
 manded in a tone of suspicion; but Katharine's hasty 
 reply — 
 
 " Oh, no ! she endeavoured to force her conversation 
 upon me a little while ago, but I refused to — " seemed 
 quite satisfactory to him. 
 
 " Yes, yes, it was quite right," he observed, " Mon 
 Dieu, it is such as her that are to be more feared by 
 innocence than the most wicked of men." 
 
 Katharine sighed, for her own recent experience con- 
 finned the truth of his observation, and again her com- 
 panion regarded her with a look so earnest, that it 
 seemed as if he would have read her heart ; while 
 Katharine, fearing that she had betrayed a knowledge 
 on the subject that lowered her in his estimation, again 
 changed colour and cast down her eyes, seeking to avoid 
 his penetrating glance. 
 
 Suddenly the stranger seemed to remember the pur- 
 pose for which he had left her. 
 
 " The gentleman — your friend," he observed, laying 
 particular stress on the epithet, " -will in a little time go 
 to the prison, dey name the Clerkenwell ; but you will 
 not be let to see him dere; dat is, if he is not de 
 husband, de brother, or — *' he paused again, anxiously 
 observing her. 
 
OF woman's life. 817 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! I have no right to claim either title," 
 she replied, with difficulty suppressing her tears. " He 
 is my friend — a noble, disinterested friend, and bitterly 
 indeed do I regret, that my unhappy fate has brought 
 upon him this unmerited suffering and disgrace." 
 
 "Yet, he is a happy man, to bring tears to eyes so 
 beautiful," returned her companion. 
 
 Katharine darted a look of reproof at him. The con- 
 fidence she was beginning to feel in him, and which 
 his conduct towards the woman who had addressed him, 
 had convinced her was well founded, was now shaken. 
 Th3 compliment he had uttered was ill-timed, and she 
 considered showed a want of feeling, and she became 
 anxious he would leave her. Why, indeed, should he 
 remain ? She had a double motive for staying on that 
 spot ; first, that she wished St. Orme to see that she did 
 not desert him until the last moment ; and, secondly, 
 that she actually knew not whither to go, and still 
 lingered, in the hope that some accidental circumstance 
 might direct her steps. The Jew, meanwhile, remained 
 silent. He did not remove his eyes from her face, but 
 there was nothing offensive in his earnest regard ; it 
 appeared rather the result of deep reflection ; and when 
 he again addressed her, it was in a very different tone to 
 that in which he had uttered the words that she had 
 felt so offensive. 
 
 "Pardon," he said, " I mean only the good and th^ 
 honest to you ; but of your history I am only but little 
 informed, and my bad knowledge of English may make 
 to offend when I have not the meaning so to do. Your 
 friend, he is innocent — he is good ; that my heart tell to 
 me, when i hear him speak before that tyrant judge." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! he is, indeed ! and I have caused it all," 
 
 5 M 
 
818 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 exclaimed Katharine, with warmth. " I, who would give 
 my life, if it were possible, to prove my gratitude." 
 
 " Gratitude !" he repeated with a singular expression. 
 " That is not the word for to mean love. Is he not, then, 
 your lover ?" 
 
 " Oh, no !" returned Katharine, " I am not worthy of 
 his love. I am — I am — " 
 
 She hid her face with her hands, at once to hide her 
 glowing blushes and the tears that forced their way, 
 in spite of all her efforts to suppress them. The next 
 moment she repented that she had suffered herself to be 
 betrayed by her feelings into such a confession. 
 
 " Ah !" observed her companion, with a keen look, 
 " You have had a lover. You are — How do you say the 
 word ? It is an unfortunate, you call yourself?" 
 
 Katharine drew herself up with an expression of pride 
 and haughtiness. She knew the meaning that was 
 attached to the word among the wretched, degraded class 
 of beings she had been condemned temporarily to asso- 
 ciate with. She had heard the most depraved, the most 
 reckless, vicious of them, designate themselves, as if a 
 matter of course, " Unfort'nit gals," and her heart re- 
 volted from the man's look and manner, which seemed, 
 she thought, to include her in that class. 
 
 "I am — I have been unfortunate," she articulated 
 with difficulty, " but not what you think me. Go, Sir ! 
 pray, leave me. You do not, cannot understand me ; I 
 do not wish that you should. Why should I ? Oh, I 
 am very foolish to have suffered myself to say what 
 I have done to you — a stranger — but I thought — I hoped 
 — Oh ! what a misery it is to be thus humbled, mor- 
 tified, by the suspicions of every one who discovers 
 that I am wretched, deceived, deserted by those who 
 
of woman's life. 819 
 
 should have protected me. Oh, mother ! mother ! have I 
 deserved this ? And you, who could even now save me — " 
 
 Her words were choked. She had turned away from 
 the man whose look and manner had roused her naturally 
 proud feelings ; and though she gave no consideration as 
 to whether he comprehended what she had uttered or 
 not, her voice had hecome so thick from emotion, only 
 the most earnest attention could have enabled any one to 
 understand her. 
 
 It is not probable the Jew had done so, though he 
 followed her closely and listened to her with a look of 
 the deepest interest. But there was one word which is 
 seldom misunderstood, in whatever language it is pro- 
 nounced, and her enunciation of which, in that tone 
 of agony, had found its way to his heart. 
 
 " Oh, you shall forgive — you shall tell to me of your 
 mother," he observed, " I shall take you to her arms, 
 and you shall be good and happy." 
 
 It was at this moment that St. Orme, from the coach, 
 had observed Katharine. She had again turned in 
 astonishment to reply to an address that surprised her, 
 for scarcely was she conscious of the words she had 
 uttered, and still less could believe he had heard or com- 
 prehended her. So totally, indeed, was she abstracted 
 from what was passing around her, by the singularity of 
 the Jew's address, and the warmth, the deep interest of the 
 tone in which it was uttered, that she was totally uncon- 
 scious that St. Orme had come out of the house and 
 was at the moment intently observing her, and the man 
 (her companion) was equally unobservant ; and it would 
 have escaped the notice of both that the coach had 
 driven off and was then turning the corner of the street, 
 but that his attention was called to it by a man who had, 
 
820 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 it seemed, been watching the progress of his (the Jew's) 
 conversation with Katharine, and who now, as he lounged 
 past them, observed with a malicious grin : — 
 
 "Well, you've sent the poor cove off quite happy. He 
 won't have no more fears about his young woman getting 
 a friend to take care of her while the key's turned on 
 him. Ah, you may look," he added, nodding his head 
 towards the coach, which at that moment disappeared, 
 " but I heard what he said to you afore he was took out 
 of the office, and I see the look he give you through the 
 coach winder, and I shouldn't like to stand in your 
 new man's shoes, when t'other gets out o 'quod." 
 
 The look of sorrow, vexation, and intense disgust, 
 which contended in Katharine's expressive countenance, 
 in part explained to her companion the fellow's insulting 
 observation, the greater part of which would otherwise 
 have been to him (the Jew) unintelligible, and his dark 
 lustrous eyes flashed fire, as he exclaimed — 
 
 " For why does that villain say to you his insolence ? 
 Tell me if he has dared to — " 
 
 " Willian ?" shouted the fellow, who had heard and 
 comprehended the epithet bestowed upon him, and now 
 advanced towards the speaker with a fierce look and 
 assuming a threatening attitude, with his fists clenched 
 within a short distance of the face of the former — " Wil- 
 lian, who do you call willian, you thieving Jew ?" 
 
 Before he could add another word, or Katharine could 
 utter the remonstrance that rose to her lips, from the 
 sudden conviction that his assailant contemplated some 
 deeper meaning in seeking to involve her defender in 
 a quarrel, than merely revenging the epithet the latter 
 had applied to him, the man lay stretched at her feet on 
 the pavement — a blow from the Jew having prostrated 
 

 of woman's life. 821 
 
 him in what was declared, by one or two of the by- 
 standers, who neither knew nor inquired into the cause of 
 the attack, a very neat, clever and scientific punch of the 
 head, administered, according to their judgment, just in 
 time to prevent a similar intended compliment at the 
 hands of his adversary. But though among the numbers 
 who, as if collected by magic, thronged around the pair, 
 and amidst a tumult of contending exclamations, re- 
 marks, and accusations, hastened to raise the fallen man, 
 to place him on his feet, and by every means in their 
 power to induce a renewal of the combat — if such it could 
 be called — there were some few who seemed inclined 
 to espouse the cause of the Jew, a far greater number, 
 with probably as little knowledge or reason, took the 
 opposite side of the question, loading him with the most 
 opprobrious epithets, for which his religion, or his sup- 
 posed want of religion, furnished the greatest number, 
 and endeavouring to encourage his adversary to — in their 
 slang language — " stand up before him, like a man, and 
 give him a good hiding," assuring him that he could do 
 it ; — " The Jew wouldn't have half a chance," &c, &c. 
 
 Cool and collected, the latter stood. He evidently did 
 not comprehend half that was uttered, but it was plain 
 that he expected the fray would not end there, and that 
 he was prepared for the worst, from the appearance of the 
 threatening faces that crowded around him. 
 
 Katharine, however, driven as she was away from him 
 by these fellows, saw plainly that more was contemplated 
 by them than the mere pleasure of getting up a fight be- 
 tween the Hebrew and the Christian, as undoubtedly the 
 originator of the contest would have called himself. She 
 saw the significant looks that passed from one to the 
 other, as the former still stood with his back against the 
 
822 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 wall of a house, as if to prevent their attacking him 
 from behind ; and the thought struck her that it was 
 robbery, rather than personal violence, they contemplated. 
 
 " Kobbery ! so near to the office of justice. Surely there 
 were plenty there who were authorised, and would inter- 
 fere to prevent such a violation of the laws in their very 
 sight ;'■' and without a moment's hesitation, she flew back 
 to the place where she had so recently stood trembling, 
 herself an object of suspicion. 
 
 " Well, what do you want now ?" was rudely uttered by 
 one who opposed her entrance to the inner room by 
 putting his arm across the door, which increased her trepida- 
 tion, and rendered her entreaty, that somebody would come 
 to the assistance of a gentleman who was in danger of being 
 robbed and ill-treated, scarcely intelligible. 
 
 " Do speak out plain. What is this cock and bull 
 story you are telling ?" was the ungracious retort. 
 
 Katharine did speak out — 
 
 "He will be killed, perhaps, if you do not come 
 directly," she exclaimed. " I know they mean to rob 
 him, for I saw them making signs to one another. Oh ! 
 pray do not stop for anything, or you will be too late," 
 she added, as the man partly opened the door of the office, 
 and looking in, beckoned to some one inside. 
 
 " Hold your tongue. Do you think I'm going to run 
 from my post at a moment's notice ?" was the reply. " I 
 didn't think you was such a dabster at understanding 
 signals, when you made up such an innocent face before 
 his worship a little while ago. Here, Smithers," he added 
 to the man who had answered him by coming out, " Just 
 go and see, will you, what's up out o' doors. There's some 
 row, this gal says, and — 
 
 " Come along, my dear. What's it all about, and 
 
of woman's life. 823 
 
 where are they ?" demanded Sinithers, as he was called 
 in a more good-natured tone than his gruff companion. 
 
 Katharine pretended not to see the attempt he made to 
 take her hand, but flew before him out of the office ; but 
 the assistance came too late, and she beheld the un- 
 fortunate Hebrew, his face streaming with blood from a 
 cut on his forehead, supporting himself against the wall ; 
 while the few who remained of the original mob that had 
 surrounded him, were now watching him at a short dis- 
 tance, apparently fearful to approach nearer, or interfere 
 in any way, lest they should be involved in any charge 
 he might make against his persecutors. 
 
 " What the devil 's the matter with you, Moses ?" de- 
 manded the officer in a tone of nonchalance ; " Have you 
 been fighting and got the worst of it ? Why I shou'Jd 
 have thought you could have thrashed half a dozen." 
 
 "Oh, no! no!" interrupted Katharine, applying her 
 handkerchief to stanch the blood, regardless of the ob- 
 servations of the bystanders. " Oh, no ! He did not 
 fight— did not think of fighting. He was sb.amefully, 
 cruelly insulted and ill-treated. It was to ro'o him they 
 meant, I'm sure," she added, "if they hav'n.t done it." 
 
 " Hullo ! What's all this ? You seem to know all 
 about it," interrupted the officer, fixing on her a look of 
 keen suspicion. "Have you lost any thin «r old feller ?" he 
 continued, addressing the Jew. "Try your pockets, and 
 if you have, see if you can point out anybody that you 
 suspect of having a hand in it, and I. " 
 
 " Oh ! let him have assistance ' jrst," said Katharine, 
 who saw the poor man was too faint to make the desired 
 investigation, and felt at the mo me nt much more anxiety 
 as to the consequence of the ir j ury ne had received, than 
 she did respecting the anticipf ite d loss of his property. 
 
824 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 It was evident, however, that the officer's view of the 
 matter was the most correct, for the supposition that he 
 had been robbed, after a few gasps for breath, seemed to 
 produce a reaction, and enabled the wounded man to 
 struggle against the faintness that had at first subdued 
 him, though he still remained pallid even to ghastliness. 
 Leaning on Katharine, though without giving any- 
 token that he recognised her, he contrived to obey the 
 intimation of theaofficer, diving to the bottom of first one 
 pocket, then the other, till all were searched, the former 
 silently but earnestly watching the result. 
 
 There needed no words to convey that result ; yet he 
 uttered many, as his eyes wandered from one to the other 
 — from the compassionating and inquiring face of 
 Katharine, to the coarse, repulsive, and deeply cunning 
 countenance of the officer, or — as the fraternity were 
 then called, the Bow Street Eunner — to whom, how- 
 ever, his language was alike unintelligible. It seemed, 
 indeed, as if the sudden fright and violence he had ex- 
 perienced had at once obliterated his limited knowledge 
 of the English language, as well as rendered him for- 
 getful that those to whom he addressed his complaints, 
 or to whom he sought to vindicate himself, were alike 
 strangers to the language in which he spoke with such 
 energy. 
 
 " Who can understand his gibberish ?" exclaimed the 
 officer, turning to Katharine. " I can't make head or tail 
 of his long story, if there is any meaning in it. But, 
 perhaps, you know more about it." 
 
 "I understand very plainly," she replied, "that he 
 has been, as I foresaw, robbed, and, I suspect, of a large 
 sum. I know he had a pocket-book, and I think there 
 were notes in it, though I k.uow not to what amount. He 
 
of woman's life. 825 
 
 had a purse, too, a red silk one, with gold and silver, for 
 I saw him take a shilling out to give to a woman who 
 begged of him when he first spoke to me." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! you seem to have kept a sharp look-out 
 after his money," observed the officer with an insolent 
 sneer. " It 's a rum story, I think, that knowing all this 
 you should run away from him, and leave him to be 
 stripped by the fellows you knew to be thieves, you 
 say." 
 
 The blood rushed to Katharine's before pale cheeks, 
 and the Jew turned an anxious and surprised look from 
 one to the other. It was evident that he in part compre- 
 hended the suspicious observations of the officer, but 
 whether he shared them she could not understand. 
 
 " I left him to procure assistance," she falteringly 
 observed. 
 
 " Yes, and brought it when it was all over," said tbe 
 officer, in the same sneering and incredulous tone he had 
 all along used. "Altogether, 'tis the rummest start I ever 
 heard on. You take care to let the fellers get off with the 
 swag, then you cry out ' thieves,' and pretend you wanted 
 to prevent them from robbing him." 
 
 "Pretend!" repeated Katharine, trembling with in- 
 dignation. 
 
 " Ay, pretend, my dear," he replied. " What else can 
 you make of it ? because, if you railly wanted to hinder 
 'em, you sartainly would n't have run away out o' sight 
 and left him to their mercy. Oh, it's no use your show- 
 ing off with these pretty airs and graces, because we 're 
 up to too much to be taken in by them. Howsomever, 
 we shall see how it will all hang, when he comes to tell 
 his story to them that can understand it. The magistrate 
 
 sits again at seven o'clock to night, and I shan't lose 
 
 o N 
 
826 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 sight on you till the Jew, or the furriner, or whatever he 
 is, has made his complaint to him, if he has lost his 
 money." 
 
 Katharine stared at the man in silence for some 
 moments. She scarcely comprehended that he really 
 meant to infer that she was suspected of heing in any 
 way connected with the robbery that had been committed ; 
 but speaking from the mere impulse of the moment, she 
 observed — 
 
 " But, will the magistrate, think you, be able to 
 understand his language ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't frighten yourself, as to that," he ironically 
 observed, " if his worship can't jabber his lingo, we can 
 soon get an interpreter. But what I want to know is, 
 how did you contrive to talk with him afore this hap- 
 pened, for, if I ain't mistaken, you said you were in 
 conversation with him when the first fellow came up and 
 insulted him, evidently for the purpose of picking a 
 quarrel and kicking up a row ? Wasn 't that it ?" 
 
 Katharine replied in the affirmative, and then pro- 
 ceeded to explain that the person was not so entirely 
 ignorant of English as, under the influence of alarm and 
 agitation, he appeared, and that by speaking slowly and 
 distinctly, he (the officer) could communicate with him 
 and receive an answer to any question he might wish 
 to put. 
 
 The officer stared at her with evident surprise and 
 doubt. 
 
 "I'm blowed," he at length observed, "if I know 
 what to make of you ; either you 're a deep devil, or I 'm 
 quite out in reckoning you up." 
 
 Katharine smiled contemptuously. She felt it beneath 
 her to attempt to vindicate herself to such a man, and he 
 
of woman's life. 827 
 
 proceeded to put in practice her instructions respecting 
 the Hebrew, and soon ascertained that his loss amounted 
 to several hundred pounds in cash and notes, inde- 
 pendent of foreign securities to a much larger amount, 
 which, as the officer observed in bis own elegant lan- 
 guage, " might be a loss to the loser, but wouldn't put 
 a blessed mag in the pocket of the thief." 
 
 What, however, was the surprise, indignation, and, 
 it must be confessed, alarm of poor Katharine, when 
 having learned as much as possible respecting his loss, 
 and the men who had attacked, and no doubt robbed 
 him, tbeir appearance, &c, and the way they had re- 
 treated — of the latter he could say nothing, for he 
 acknowledged he had for a few moments lost all con- 
 sciousness, and of the former his description was so 
 confused as to be nearly unintelligible — when he had 
 exhausted these subjects, the officer proceeded to question 
 the Jew as to his acquaintance with her (Katharine), all 
 that had passed between them, and even requiring to 
 know what had been the intentions of the former to- 
 wards her, his motives for prolonging his conversation 
 with her, and, above all, seeking to learn from him the 
 degrees of encouragement she had given to him, and this 
 all expressed in the lowest, most revolting, and offensive 
 language. It was evident, indeed, that the fellow, 
 whether he himself believed it or not, was desirous of 
 representing the unfortunate Katharine, not only as 
 a bad character, but as an object of strong suspicion as 
 connected with the robbery, into the particulars of which 
 he was inquiring. 
 
 For several minutes Katharine was unable to utter 
 a word in defence of herself. She was, in fact, breath- 
 less and speechless ; and when at length she became able 
 
828 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to command her voice, the impudent manner in -which 
 he hade her he quiet, observing that — " she'd only, 
 perhaps, sink herself deeper in the mire, by kicking and 
 struggling," and the looks with which he remarked, 
 that " she'd find the best thing she could do for herself 
 would be to make a friend of him," adding, " that she 
 was too pretty for him not to be induced to do all that 
 he could to get her out of the scrape she had got herself 
 into," again choked her indignant expressions. 
 
 "I am — you know I am innocent !" she at last articu- 
 lated, her beautiful eyes flashing fire. " What are your 
 motives for these false, villanous misrepresentations, I 
 know not, but you have some base intentions, I am 
 certain, but they will not, cannot succeed. The law — 
 justice will protect me against you. Guilt only could put 
 me in your power, and I am guiltless. Yes, I defy you. 
 I am ready to meet your vile, base, unfounded charges." 
 
 "Ha! ha ! ha!" he broke out into a laugh of derision. 
 " Well done, old gal, you 've done that in prime style. 
 You 've been a player, I suspect, a regular tragedy queen. 
 Why, they ought to bring you out at Common Garden, 
 or Drury Lane, you'd do Lady Macbeth to the life. I 
 only wish I was a manager, for your sake, for you 'd 
 make my fortin' and your own too. But come, don't let 
 
 us have any more of this nonsense," he added, 
 
 suddenly altering his tone to one of fierce insolence. 
 " Old birds ain't to be caught with chaff, and nohow that 
 you can fix it, will you come off with flying colours, as 
 you seem to think you will, even if you 're ever so lucky. 
 Recollect," he added with malicious sternness, " this is 
 the second time you 're charged upon suspicion. Ah ! 
 you see already that it won't be good for your health, as 
 the saying is, to make me your enemy." 
 

 of woman's life. 829 
 
 Katharine's expressive face had, indeed, forcibly be- 
 trayed the terror his last remark had created in her bosom. 
 The flush of burning rage that had crimsoned her cheeks 
 had been replaced by deadly pallor. The fellow saw the 
 advantage he had gained, and laughed triumphantly. 
 
 " Come," he said in a low voice, almost whispering in 
 her ear, and at the same time making an attempt, which 
 she eluded, to take her hand. " Come, don't frighten your- 
 self, I '11 take care to make things all right with the 
 Beak. You must just stick to the story the same as 
 you've told it to me, and the worst he can do will be to 
 remand you for two or three days, or at most a week, 
 that your character may be inquired into. It will be me, 
 in course, that will be set to make the inquiries, and it 
 will be your own fault if I don't give you such a 
 character as will get you discharged at once. But you 
 must give me no more of them black looks. No, no ! 
 nothin' for nothin's my maxum. It's the way of the 
 world, my dear, and you 're a gal of too much good 
 sense, I'm sure, not to understand that I don't do these 
 sort of things without looking for a reward. Let 's 
 understand one another plainly, my dear," he continued, 
 his looks and manners becoming every moment more 
 offensive to the unfortunate Katharine. " You 're a 
 devilish pretty girl, and I 've taken a fancy to you, and 
 I 've got it in my power, not only to get you out of this 
 scrape with flying colours, but to make you happy and 
 comfortable, perviso you behave to me as you ought to 
 do, and give up all thoughts of every body else. As to 
 Moses, here, I suspect the poor devil's regularly cleaned 
 out, and you can't have any reliance on his doing any- 
 thing for you — that is to say, anything worth the 
 while of a fine handsome gal like you, that ought to 
 
830 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 lead the life of a lady, and shall too, if you make up your 
 lnind to trust to me. Come, come, don't look at me as 
 if you was frightened. I 'm a rough, plain-spoken feller, 
 but you shall find you've seen the worst of me, and it'll be 
 your own fault if I don't make you as happy as a queen. 
 Only say the word. Make up your mind to be honest and 
 true to me, and trust to me to make every thing square." 
 " Honest !" repeated Katharine, the word only tingling 
 in her ear, without her comprehending the sense in which 
 he used it in the present instance. "Honest!" she re- 
 peated. " Do you then believe that I am a thief — that 
 I am such a wretched, lost creature as to have planned to 
 rob the — " 
 
 " Bah, bah ! taisey wous, ma chere, as the Frenchmen 
 say," he interrupted with a laugh ; " say no more about 
 that concern, my dear. We know our own knows on 
 that subject, and you needn't be afeard that I shall 
 ever — " 
 
 He was prevented proceeding by their hitherto silent 
 companion, the unlucky Hebrew. He had been eagerly 
 listening to — in part only comprehending, but strongly 
 suspecting the villany of the myrmidon of justice — 
 though unable to understand the object the latter had in 
 view ; but his interruption was now prompted by his 
 having caught the few imperfect words in French the 
 man had uttered. It was a language he himself spoke 
 fluently, and in the hope of establishing a more perfect 
 communication between them, and thus learning his 
 motives and final object, he now addressed to him the 
 usual question, " Vous parlez Francois, Monsieur ?" 
 
 " Wee, wee, wee ; parley wous, stick in the mud," re- 
 turned the officer with a shout of laughter, as if he had 
 said something very humorous. " Bothered if I know 
 
OF woman's life. 831 
 
 anything about the gibberish," he added, turning to 
 Katharine, who shrank from hirn with increased disgust, 
 though too much afraid of his imaginary power not to 
 conceal as much as possible the revolting sensations his 
 coarse ignorance and vulgarity inspired. 
 
 She had made a discovery, however, connected with this 
 display of it, from which she hoped eventually to derive 
 some benefit. Among the various branches of her imper- 
 fect education under the tuition of Martha Beresford, the 
 study of the French language had particularly captivated 
 her fancy. Martha could be of little assistance to her in 
 this, as in most other respects, for her own knowledge of it 
 extended little beyond the pronunciation of the alphabet ; 
 but with the feeble help she derived from this source, and 
 the more important ones of her brother Leopold's ragged, 
 dog's eared, and therefore rejected grammar, dictionary, 
 and a few juvenile books of entertainment, Katharine 
 contrived to attain what, under the circumstances, might 
 be considered a surprising acquaintance with the lan- 
 guage — reading and translating with facility, though, 
 from having little or no opportunity of hearing or con- 
 versing, it was impossible for her to acquire either 
 fluency or correct pronunciation. 
 
 With the vague hope, however, of deriving some 
 advantage from her imperfect knowledge, Katharine 
 now tremulously addressed the Hebrew, who at first 
 started at the sound, and regarded her with surprise, as 
 she endeavoured to express her " sorrow for what had 
 happened to him, and her hope that he would not listen 
 to the vile insinuations of the wretch, who, for his own 
 base, villanous purposes," she said, "was desirous of 
 persuading him (the Jew) that she was connected with 
 the men by whom he had been so cruelly treated." 
 
832 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "You do not — Oh ! say you do not believe him," she 
 uttered in a pleading tone. " He has threatened to 
 charge me before the magistrate; but it is only to get me 
 into his power, to take advantage of my being friendless, 
 hopeless — " 
 
 Imperfect as were the sounds and words in which 
 Katharine attempted to convey her meaning and explain 
 to him her situation, the Jew at least in part compre- 
 hended them ; but the look of anger and distrust with 
 which he in consequence regarded the officer, at once 
 awakened the latter to the folly he had committed in 
 suffering this communication, which had at first only 
 excited his surprise, and had induced him to regard 
 Katharine with more respect than he had previously felt 
 towards her. To speak French was an accomplishment 
 at that time by no means so common as at the present 
 day, and to him (the thief-taker) — whose intercourse with 
 society had been pretty well confined to the very lowest 
 and most ignorant of his fellow-men — it appeared some- 
 thing so wonderful to hear Katharine thus, with apparent 
 ease, uttering language so utterly incomprehensible to 
 him, but which he naturally supposed to be the native 
 tongue of the other, that for a few moments he forgot in 
 the gratification of his curiosity, the mischief that might 
 arise from their communication. The Jew's look at him, 
 however, in a moment opened his eyes, and muttering 
 a fierce curse upon himself for his imprudence, he 
 roughly threw himself between them, exclaiming — 
 
 "Come, no more of this gibberish, if you please. 
 You're not a going to impose upon the man, Ma'am, 
 with your artful stories. Recollect, he's charged you as 
 plain as he could speak, with being one of the party that 
 robbed him ; if it wasn't your nimble fingers themselves 
 
of woman's life. 833 
 
 that lightened his pockets. Oh ! you may look, hut you'll 
 please to remeniher you hav'nt heen searched yet; and I 
 ■would n't swear that you hav'nt at this very minute got 
 some of the man's money in your possession." 
 
 Katharine smiled scornfully, in reply to this malicious 
 insinuation. 
 
 "' How little" — thought Katharine — " how little did I 
 foresee but a few minutes since, that I should have reason 
 to rejoice that I am totally without money — literally 
 penniless. That alone will he sufficient to answer this 
 wretch's false, wicked accusation. Yes, I can set him at 
 defiance; and I am sure, that with all his art, he will not 
 persuade the poor man to confirm the story he has 
 invented. No! I will not degrade myself so much as to 
 try to conciliate him. I will not suffer him to believe 
 that, let what will be the consequence, I shall ever stoop 
 to become the degraded, miserable wretch, he would 
 make me. No ! sooner would I perish for want in the 
 streets, than accept from him the means of prolonging a 
 miserable, hateful life ; for hateful, indeed, it would be, 
 to become the companion of such a low unprincipled 
 villain." 
 
 Heroieal as was her resolution at this time, and 
 
 decided as she felt not to tamper with, or compromise 
 
 herself in the slightest degree with the unworthv officer 
 
 of justice, it must be confessed that Katharine could not 
 
 look forward to her threatened re-appearance before the 
 
 magistrate without trembling and dismay. Of her being 
 
 eventually freed, she would not suffer herself to entertain 
 
 a doubt. Oh, no ! truth, innocence, must prevail against 
 
 even the art and malice that were opposed to her. She 
 
 would not for a moment fear that her straightforward, 
 
 unvarnished tale, would be corroborated by that of the 
 
 5 o 
 
834 SHADE AND SUNSIIINE 
 
 Jew; and yet, vainly she strove to acquire that calmness 
 and self-possession which should attend innocence, and 
 the want of which is but too often attributed to the con- 
 sciousness of guilt. Soon, however, Katharine's thoughts 
 were withdrawn from all self-consideration. The Jew, 
 hitherto absorbed in the contemplation of the heavy loss 
 he had sustained, had scarcely given a thought to the 
 personal injuries he had received; but the excitement was 
 now fast fading. His eyes became glazed and vacant ; 
 the transitory flush of feverish interest and expectation 
 yielded to ghastly pallor ; and making a faint effort to 
 catch at Katharine for support, he fell senseless at her 
 feet. 
 
 "There, hold your bother," exclaimed the thief-taker, 
 in reply to her frightened exclamation ; " it's only for 
 want of the"blood being stopped — but that '11 bo all the 
 better for healing the wound. We must get him over the 
 way, and then send for a doctor." The reflection, how- 
 ever, that if ho assisted in removing the poor man in his 
 present situation, " he should," in his own feeling and 
 elegant language, " be made in a precious mess, and 
 have his clothes spiled," induced him to adopt Katharine's 
 suggestion, that he should first bind up the wound with 
 the neckerchief of the poor man, which he removed for 
 that purpose. There was by this time a sufficient num- 
 ber of people gathered together to afford the necessary 
 assistance in carrying him across the road, and up to the 
 room from which St. Orme had been so recently re- 
 moved. Katharine, totally regardless of herself, following, 
 and carrying in her hand his hat, which was battered 
 and shapeless from the blows its unfortunate owner 
 had received. 
 
 It was precisely at this moment that a carriage drove 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. s •'!.") 
 
 into the street from Long Acre, and the coachman 
 slackening the pace of the horses, stooped from the box 
 to make some inquiries, the purport of which might 
 have been guessed, by his drawing slowly along by the 
 edge of the pavement until they finally stopped at the 
 door of the Public Office ; thus passing the crowd at 
 the very moment that — having raised the Jew in the 
 arms of three or four who were willing to assist — they 
 were about to cross the road, and were thus compelled 
 to stop an instant to let it — the carriage — pass on 
 its way. 
 
 Totally absorbed in her anxiety for the injured man, 
 Katharine paid no attention to the nature of this inter- 
 ruption : or, if she glanced at the carriage for an instant, 
 her eyes was as instantly withdrawn to be again fixed 
 on the face of the sufferer, and she saw not the earnest, 
 terrified look of a very young and pretty girl, which, 
 after the first start, was bent upon her and pursued her 
 steps till she entered with the crowd the door of the 
 Brown Bear, and was lost to the anxious observer's view. 
 Nor did she (Katharine) discover that there was another 
 person whose looks expressed very different feelings, 
 though perhaps equally interested in what she saw. 
 
 Need we say that in these ladies Katharine might have 
 recognised her mother and sister. But, from Mrs. 
 Beresford's looks, the poor girl would have derived little 
 encouragement ; for the moment she discovered her 
 daughter thus conspicuous in the vulgar crowd, and 
 establishing her connexion with the man who was 
 being borne along, by carrying in her hand his hat — 
 the moment she (Mrs. Beresford) saw this, she hastily 
 pulled down her thick black veil over her face, and 
 shrank into the comer, to conceal herself from the 
 
S.'Hi SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 inquiring looks that were naturally attracted by the not 
 very common circumstance of a private carriage, appa- 
 rently conveying visitors to the Magistrate's office. 
 
 " My God ! what new disgrace is that unhappy girl 
 bringing upon us and all connected with her !" she ex- 
 claimed, as soon as she could command her voice. " Oh ! 
 how mad, how foolish I was, to listen to your persuasions, 
 Ellen," she continued, addressing her daughter. " Had I 
 obeyed my own reason — had I consulted your interest as 
 well as my own, I should have left her to her fate, instead 
 of coming here to substantiate the truth of the story she 
 told, and acknowledge that I had given her the note 
 which so unfortunately turned out to be forged. But it 
 is the last time I will interfere in her favour — the last 
 time I will suffer myself to be persuaded to act against 
 my own — " 
 
 " Oh, no ! Mamma, do not say so," pleaded Ellen, 
 still gazing, though now out of the opposite window, in 
 hopes of seeing something more of her sister. " She is 
 your daughter, and I cannot believe — indeed I cannot — 
 that she is so bad as circumstances have made her 
 appear, even in this that has brought you here. You 
 know, as well as I do, that she was not to blame— that 
 it was the misfortune of your having given her a false 
 note that brought her into trouble, and might, without 
 your interference, be the means of condemning her for a 
 crime of which we know her to be innocent. Oh ! think, 
 dear Mamma, how bitterly we should have suffered if she 
 should have been found guilty; and that young man, too, 
 who, I really do believe, has, from the kindest, noblest 
 motives — " 
 
 " Ellen, are you mad?" exclaimed Mrs. Beresford, with 
 vehemence. "What do \ou know of the fellow, or how 
 
of woman's life. 837 
 
 can a girl like you presume to judge of his motives? 
 Besides, it has just occurred to me that perhaps, after all, 
 I have judged him too leniently, and I think that 
 that wretched girl might have been innocent altogether 
 of knowing anything about the note ; might, I mean, 
 think that coming from me, it must be a good one. How 
 do I know, I say, that the man is not a bad character— a 
 passer of forged notes I mean — and that he took my good 
 one and substituted another. I declare I never thought 
 of this before — never saw it in this light. No, it would 
 be perfectly ridiculous of me to take upon myself to assert 
 that the note he attempted to pass was the one I gave 
 Katharine. It is very probable that he substituted a bad 
 one for my good one. No, I'll have nothing more to do 
 with the affair. Pull the string, Ellen, and tell the 
 coachman to drive home. Thank Heaven ! I. have stopped 
 in time to prevent our being exposed, by mixing our 
 names up with such a disgraceful transaction." 
 
 Ellen, however, strongly remonstrated against this 
 hasty decision. She reminded her mother of the repre- 
 sentation that had been made to her by an acquaintance — 
 a gentleman whose knowledge of the world Mrs. Beresford 
 greatly relied on — and who, having accidentally recognised 
 Katharine at the moment the latter, with St. Orme, was 
 ushered into the presence of the magistrate, with whom he, 
 Mr. Oreswell, (Mrs. Beresford's friend,) was at the moment 
 conversing, had been urged by curiosity, if no better 
 motive, to remain during the subsequent examination of 
 the supposed criminals, and at its conclusion had hurried 
 to the residence of the former to relate to her all he had 
 seen and heard. 
 
 " No one, my dear Madam," he continued — after de- 
 scribing the various circumstances that he had either 
 
838 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 witnessed or learned from the different authorities con- 
 nected with the affair — " No one who, like me, is in the 
 habit of studying the appearance and manners of those 
 charged with offences against morals or the laws, which 
 are not always synonymous, you know, and I confess that 
 I have a peculiar penchant that way — that it is, in fact, 
 my hobby, as they say, and has made me as well known 
 at the different offices as any of the regular attendants, 
 even the great men — the thief-takers as they are vulgarly 
 called — Nobody, I say, could listen to or examine the 
 traits of the young man Vivian St. Orme — a proper aris- 
 tocratic appellation, by the bye, perhaps sounding a little 
 too much like a feigned one, or that of a hero of romance 
 — but this I am sure of, that you yourself, prejudiced as 
 you would most likely be, you would have been 
 compelled to acknowledge not only that he was innocent 
 of that specific charge, but that his habits, feelings, 
 manners and education, were those of a gentleman. He 
 is very handsome, too — remarkably handsome. Ellen 
 would, I am sure, had she been there, have acknowledged 
 that such a face and form would be quite sufficient to 
 establish his innocence." 
 
 Mrs. Beresford frowned tremendously — 
 
 "I trust, Mr. Creswell, that my daughter would — 
 especially with the example of her sister's folly and de- 
 pravity before her eyes — " 
 
 " Excuse me, my dear Madam," interrupted the 
 gentleman ; " I am sorry my foolish remark has wounded 
 Miss Ellen's feelings. It is very natural, and, at the same 
 time, very creditable to her, that she should still retain a 
 sister's affection towards the poor misguided girl, for 
 whom, I assure you, my heart ached. Although I could 
 not bring myself — known as I orn-yto set public opinion at 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 839 
 
 defiance, by avowing my knowledge of her, and the truth 
 of her statement as to her family connexions — I did, how- 
 ever, all the service I could, by privately communicating 
 that corroboration of her story to my friend the magis- 
 trate, and that I trust had its due effect in procuring her 
 immediate discharge. For the young gentleman— Mr. 
 St. Orme — I am sorry to say I could not effect any good. 
 His independent spirit — the natural indignation which, 
 from the consciousness of innocence led him to revolt 
 against the matter-of-fact, common-place manner in 
 which the Justice treated the case — led him into what was 
 considered a want of personal respect, that was highly 
 resented, and, in fact, injured his cause. In his heart, I 
 am convinced the magistrate believed, with me and every 
 one in court, that Mr. St. Orme was not only an innocent 
 but a deeply injured man, aDd that all he was suffering 
 had arisen from the noblest, most exalted, and dis- 
 interested charity — that he had, in short, devoted himself 
 to the service of your unfortunate daughter, for whom 
 he had, it seemed, risked his life even to snatch her from 
 the horrible snare by which she had nearly fallen a 
 victim. I cannot," he continued — glancing at Ellen, 
 whose sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks betrayed the 
 deep interest he had excited in her bosom by his descrip- 
 tion of, and eulogium upon, her sister's protector and 
 friend — "I cannot in this presence explain myself 
 further, but I do hope that you will — I must not ven- 
 ture to dictate to you as to the course you may think 
 proper to take as regards your daughter, though I trust 
 you will consider it your duty to go immediately to Bow 
 Street, and confirm his account of the manner in which 
 he became possessed of the note." 
 
 Mrs. Bcresford hesitated at this proposition, but Mr. 
 
840 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Creswell knew well the motives that were likely to act 
 upon her. 
 
 " He had a suspicion," he said, " that this young St. 
 Orme was the heir of the baronet of that name — one of 
 the richest and most ancient families in the kingdom. 
 He (Mr. Creswell) was chum at Cambridge with the 
 present possessor of the title and estates, and this young 
 man so strongly resembled him that he could not doubt 
 the near relationship. The baronet was very eccentric, 
 and he believed had estranged himself for some years 
 from his family. But he could not prevent the title 
 and estates devolving upon the right heir; and, if he 
 (]\Ir. Creswell) was right in his supposition, this young 
 man would be in a very enviable situation at his father's 
 death." 
 
 " It would be clever of you to set your cap at him, 
 Ellen," he continued, in his usual jocular style. " What 
 say you — Lady St. Orme ? Splendid, isn't it ? Nay, my 
 dear Madam," addressing Mrs. Beresford, "do not be 
 offended, many more unlikely things have happened. I 
 know what you mean," he added in a lower voice, " you 
 think his situation as regards Katharine would be a bar 
 between him and Ellen; but be assured those scruples 
 have no foundation. Katharine is to him only an object 
 of commiseration — an unfortunate being whom he is 
 anxious to restore to the paths from which she has 
 wandered — to her friends and society. I do not say, 
 mind, but that it was probably her extraordinary beauty 
 that first interested him ; but he looked on her even theu 
 as a faded flower — an object of pity, not of love. No, no ! 
 if there should be no other obstacle in my little Ellen's 
 way—" 
 
 Mrs. Beresford shook her head significantly at him. 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 841 
 
 " Ridiculous !" she mattered. " I cannot think, Mr. 
 Creswell, how you can talk such nonsense to a child of 
 Ellen's age. As to what you say of this Mr. St. Orme, 
 if you really think he is a respectable young man, I have 
 no objection to do what is in my power to relieve him 
 from his unpleasant situation. I suppose, as you say 
 that the wretched girl was discharged by the magistrate, 
 there will be no fear of my being mortified, or Ellen's 
 feelings hurt, by meeting with her at the office." 
 
 Mr. Creswell constrained himself to say that it was 
 not probable, though he could scarcely conceal his dis- 
 gust at her apparent determination to desert altogether 
 her unfortunate daughter, while, at the same time, 
 evidently planning to aggrandise the younger. It was 
 undoubtedly under this influence that she had yielded to 
 Mr. Creswell's persuasion and driven off to Bow Street. 
 The result, however, had not only been complete disap- 
 pointment as regarded St. Orme, who had been already 
 removed to prison, but had added tenfold to her mortifi- 
 cation and supposed degradation from her connexion 
 with Katharine, whose appearance in the street— the style 
 in which she was dressed, and the men with whom she 
 was, in appearance, on familiar terms — confirmed Mrs. 
 Beresford as to her being totally lost and degraded. It was 
 in vain that poor Ellen, whose love for her sister seemed 
 to have gained additional strength from this casual view 
 of her, and who saw in poor Katharine's face that which 
 had totally escaped her mother — the strong impress of grief 
 and distress : — it was in vain that she begged, implored 
 of the stern, unyielding mother— that she would not thus 
 desert her unfortunate child. Mrs. Beresford was impla- 
 cable, and Ellen, finding at length that all intercession 
 was not only useless, but that it seemed to irritate and 
 
 5 p 
 
842 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 confirm her stern unyielding parent in her determination 
 to repudiate all further connexion with her unhappy 
 daughter, was at length compelled to silence ; and Mrs. 
 Beresford drove home again to the enjoyment of not 
 merely every comfort, but the luxuries which her in- 
 creased fortune, by the death of one child and the ruin of 
 another, allowed, with no other regret than the mortifica- 
 tion her pride had suffered from the sight of the latter, aud 
 the disappointment of the scheme she had, from Mr. 
 Creswell's hints, erected upon the opportunity which 
 she believed to be in her power by coming forward in 
 behalf of St. Orme, and by this obligation thus securiug 
 his gratitude and future intimacy with the young man, 
 who it never occurred to her to doubt was, as Mr. 
 Creswell had represented, of a grade far above her usual 
 associates, if not at present in fortune, certainly in rank 
 and family. The heir of a baronet; such her friend 
 Creswell had represented St. Orme, and as such Mrs. 
 Beresford would not have considered any sacrifice too 
 great to ingratiate herself with him. She took care, 
 therefore, unknown to Ellen, to learn every particular 
 connected with his present situation ; and it was with 
 extreme satisfaction she learned that it would be in her 
 power effectually to free him from the disgraceful charge 
 that had been brought against him, when he should 
 be ( r again brought before the magistrate, by appearing 
 and identifying the note which had given rise to that 
 charge, as the same which had passed from her hands to 
 his through her daughter. This she was fortunately, as 
 she considered, enabled to do, her systematic habits of 
 managing her household having induced her to keep a 
 regular list of the numbers of every note she received or 
 paid away; and thus, as it never entered her mind to 
 
of woman's life. 843 
 
 doubt the truth of St. Orrne's story, that this was the 
 identical note she had sent through her maid-servant to 
 Katharine, she could have as little doubt that her pro- 
 duction of that list, which also explained from whom she 
 had received it, namely, an agent whom she employed to 
 collect the rents of her houses, would by its correspon- 
 dence with the numbers, &c. of the note, which was of 
 course still detained for the purposes of justice, at once 
 relieve St. Orme, and secure his gratitude for her appa- 
 rently disinterested exertions in his favour. There was 
 only one drawback to this scheme — one fear, that some- 
 times almost made her hesitate in her purpose. It was 
 the fear that she might be exposed as the mother of the 
 wretched girl who had been involved in the charge 
 brought against St. Orme; but Mrs. Beresford was, or 
 fancied she was, " strong in her own integrity — bold in 
 her self-righteousness." Let the worst come to the worst, 
 she had only to avow herself as the wronged, unhappy 
 mother of a most ungrateful and depraved daughter — one 
 who had rewarded all her cares by quitting her happv, 
 peaceful home, to lead a life of infamy and vice. She 
 bad only to avow, that of this miserable victim of a 
 most depraved inclination she knew nothiug but from 
 her application for money, when from her dissipated 
 habits involved in distress ; and, as a climax, to express 
 her conviction that she (Katharine) bad, by her plausible 
 representations, induced the respectable and unfortunate 
 young man, in whose favour she (Mrs. Beresford) from 
 the most perfect conviction of his innocence and right 
 intentions, now appeared, to espouse her cause and 
 accompany her on the occasion alluded to. Yes ; Mrs. 
 Beresford was satisfied that she had only to make this 
 avowal — these representations, and to point to the pre- 
 
844 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 sent situation of tin's wretched girl, flourishing in vice, 
 as she had recently beheld her, unabashed by shame, 
 and disgracing her family by the most public exhibition 
 of herself, even on the very spot where she had been so 
 lately disgraced, by being compelled to acknowledge her 
 wretched situation and expose her connexion with the 
 family she had disgraced and deserted. Yes; Mrs. 
 Beresford had only to tell all this to secure for herself 
 the pity and commiseration of the respectable part of the 
 community. No one, she was sure, could condemn [her 
 for refusing to abet the profligate being who had brought 
 misery and disgrace on the hitherto unspotted name. 
 The very circumstance of Mrs. Beresford's having replied 
 to Mr. St. Orme's application in behalf of this miserable 
 girl by the gift of the note in question, though it had 
 turned out so unfortunately — but that very gift was 
 a proof that the poor mother still maintained a mother's 
 feeling, and was entitled to the respect and pity of all who 
 could feel — 
 
 " How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
 To have a thankless child — " 
 The self-satisfaction that arose from these anticipations 
 blinded Mrs. Beresford to any possibility that the true 
 state of the case might be exposed, the picture reversed, 
 and Katharine appear as she really was — a victim to the 
 erroneous management — the shameful partiality of her 
 mother for her son — the neglect and ignorance of life in 
 which the poor girl had been brought up, and, above all 
 — for in that lay the true foundation of the mother's un- 
 natural hatred of her hapless daughter — the jealousy and 
 vanity which had received so cruel a mortification in the 
 discovery of her daughter's superior charms, and the 
 effect they had produced in alienating from her the man 
 
OF woman's life. ft-15 
 
 whom she had flattered herself she had secured as her 
 future husband. This was the blow which Mrs. Beres- 
 ford had never recovered. It rankled in her bosom, and 
 steeled a heart never very susceptible of kind or generous 
 emotions, but now rendered more than ever hard, callous, 
 and unforgiving. The disappointment of her views of 
 second matrimony had — in spite of the vanity, which her 
 glass confirmed, that she was a fine looking woman — 
 however unwillingly, opened her eyes to the fact that her 
 time was gone by, and that there could be little or no 
 chance of her meeting with another Fitzharlaud, whose 
 estrangement from her she attributed entirely to Katha- 
 rine's arts, and not in reality to the true cause — the 
 absolute falsehood of his pretensions, and the mercenary 
 views he had entertained of securing her fortune, views 
 which had undoubtedly been only set aside, or rather 
 obliterated, by the passion which Katharine's beauty and 
 innocence had created in his selfish, unprincipled heart. 
 Gradually, however unwillingly, Mrs. Beresford was com- 
 pelled to see the truth, that the time for the aggrandise- 
 ment she had once painted to herself, that was to arise 
 from a second marriage, was past, and that from her 
 daughter Ellen's beauty and fortune only, she could 
 hope for that consequence and distinction in society 
 which her first husband's domestic habits and unpretend- 
 ing disposition had secluded her from. 
 
 The sly hints, and in part mistaken belief, of Mr. 
 Creswell as to Vivian St. Orine's position in life, as the 
 heir of an estate and baronetcy, seemed to point to him 
 as one that would at once secure all that she considered 
 desirable; and wilfully shutting her eyes to all the cir- 
 cumstances that, by one more reasonable, would have 
 been considered as militating against the plans she had 
 
840 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 formed, Mrs. Bcresford resolved to leave nothing undone 
 that could secure a favourable introduction to, and the 
 future good opinion of, St. Orrne. Nothing doubting of 
 the impression that Ellen's fresh and innocent personal 
 beauty would make on the generous, romantic young 
 man, whose admiration of Katharine's — in her opinion — 
 far inferior charms, had, she never for a moment doubted, 
 led him into the imprudent and unworthy conduct that 
 had involved him in such serious trouble and disgrace ; 
 she considered it as rather favourable than otherwise to 
 her views, that he should have first beheld the unfortunate 
 girl, whom, she doubted not, she should be able to con- 
 vince him was utterly unworthy his pity. 
 
 " At any rate," she mentally exclaimed, " it will be 
 easy to secure his good opinion, and rid myself for ever 
 of the disgrace attending the connexion with such a 
 worthless creature, by offering to settle a sufficient sum 
 upon her to secure her from want, on condition that she 
 retires far from London, changes her name, and care- 
 fully conceals her connexion with the family she has so 
 shamefully outraged and disgraced. No one can then 
 accuse me of want of feeling and liberality ; and both he 
 and Ellen, allowing that the plan prospers and they 
 become united, will feel equally with me the propriety of 
 banishing altogether every recollection of the tie between 
 Katharine and themselves. If they should have children, 
 too — But here Mrs. Beresford paused. It was by no 
 means a pleasant reflection, that reminded her how com- 
 pletely her sun was set, and that henceforth she could 
 only shine from' the borrowed light reflected from her 
 daughter. 
 
 Happy would it have been for the unfortunate Katha- 
 rine, had Mrs. Beresford, instead of postponing the plan 
 
OF woman's LIFE. H47 
 
 that was to rescue her discarded daughter from all 
 further temptations to a life of misery aud vice, and 
 making it only an instrument subsidiary to the accom- 
 plishment of her views for the establishment of her 
 youngest daughter — happy would it have been if she 
 had at once, casting aside all selfish and personal con- 
 siderations, and looking only straightforward at the 
 desolate, friendless, and unprotected state of the unhappy 
 Katharine, stretched forth a helping hand to rescue 
 her from the abyss that yawned to swallow her. But 
 self, the ruling demon, stood sentry, forbidding all 
 entrance, and choking the avenues to her heart. If sho 
 succeeded in what now became her cherished object, self 
 would dictate a provision for the girl who had been the 
 cause of such disappointment and mortification to her, 
 and towards whom she therefore still entertained, even 
 while she affected to deplore her fall, the most unnatural 
 feelings of jealousy and hatred. To Katharine and her 
 seducer (Fitz-Harland) only, Mrs. Beresford felt were 
 known in their fullest measure the weakness and folly 
 which had led her to the insane project of becoming the 
 wife of the latter ; and bitter, to an extent that erased 
 every lingering feeling of maternal affection, every trace 
 of feminine pity or commiseration, was the sentiment with 
 which she regarded the then unconscious and hapless girl, 
 whose beauty kindling in the bosom of the profligate 
 Fitz-Harland a passion that had triumphed over even his 
 selfish designs upon the fortune of the mother, had, in 
 accomplishing the ruin of the daughter, inflicted a wound 
 that was incurable, for it destroyed at once all her dreams 
 of future felicity, and left her without a single consola- 
 tion, burning with rage and shame at the exposure of her 
 vanity and folly, and Katharine's supposed triumph, and, 
 she doubted not, ridicule. 
 
848 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 This and similar feelings rendered her therefore deaf 
 to the entreaties and tears of Ellen, whose gentle heart 
 became agonised •with grief when they lost sight of 
 Katharine, who, wholly unconscious that she had been 
 recognised by her mother and sister, was entirely pre- 
 occupied with her attention to the unfortunate and 
 injured Hebrew, of whose sufferings and losses she 
 considered herself undoubtedly, though innocently, the 
 primary cause. The evidently increasing weakness and 
 exhaustion of the man at length effected what Katharine 
 had vainly attempted and implored of the officer. Her 
 entreaties, indeed; that he would have the poor creature 
 removed to some place where he could have proper 
 medical assistance and the necessary attendance, which 
 it appeared he had now no money to command, had at 
 first only produced more determined and obstinate resis- 
 tance on the part of Mr. Smithers, as he was called, with 
 apparent habitual respect, on account of his official 
 situation, by most of the throng, who either remained of 
 those originally gathered together by the contest, which 
 too many enjoyed and encouraged from their cruel and 
 unjust prejudice against the unfortunate man who, as a 
 Jew, seemed to be in their eyes divested of all right 
 to sympathy and compassion; while, as many of them 
 stole away to avoid being involved in any way, either as 
 abettors, or as witnesses of the violence and consequent 
 robbery, their places in the crowd were filled up by 
 others, whose only motives, probably, were the gratifica- 
 tion of curiosity, and their wish, which was frequently 
 repeated to each other, "Just to see how it would all 
 end," and their various speculations, whether the gal 
 would get off, or would be admitted King's evidence 
 against the thieves, whom all seemed agreed would be 
 ^ure upon her information to be taken. 
 
OF woman's life. n49 
 
 Fortunately for poor Katharine's feelings, her attention 
 was too deeply absorbed by the Jew to hear or regard 
 these conjectures : but she was quickly alive to their 
 remarks, and seconded them with all the warmth of 
 her impulsive nature, when three or four of those who 
 had pressed forward nearest the injured man, and who 
 appeared either not to know, or not to stand in awe, 
 of the high and mighty Bow-street Officer, declared 
 loudly that the man was in a bad way and ought to be 
 looked to at once ; more than one adding, with apparently 
 a sudden accession of sympathy and liberality, that 
 it was no reason, because the man was a Jew, that 
 he was to be let die like a dog in the streets ; to which 
 were gratuitously added several advices, all uttered to- 
 gether, as to what ought to be done for him, and where he 
 should be taken to secure the best attention to his case. 
 To all of this Katharine eagerly listened, without, 
 however, power or confidence to add any suggestion, or 
 even observation of her own, but appealing with intense 
 earnestness by looks to the officer, on whom she felt the 
 decision of the case, which seemed to her that of life or 
 death to the unfortunate Hebrew, at that moment de- 
 pended. 
 
 " Mighty fine, but where's the money to come from 
 for all this, I should like to know?" muttered the officer 
 sullenly, as if in reply to the various suggestions that 
 had been poured into his ears ; and then, with an alacrity 
 and decision that showed his mind had been made up 
 while his various advisers had been merely talking, he 
 issued his orders to a man, whom he addressed by the 
 name of " Sam," to " fetch a hack off the stand," adding 
 to it an injunction to "Look alive, and not creep as if 
 he was goin' to a berrying." 
 
 5 Q 
 
8o0 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Like enough to end in one, from the look of the 
 man/' uttered a rough -spoken, workman-like individual, 
 who had been ono of the most forward in his expostula- 
 tions in the cause of humanity. 
 
 " You seem to know all about it," returned the officer, 
 gruffly. " I 'sposc you call yourself a doctor, don't you ?" 
 
 There was a general laugh among the crowd that 
 made Katharine shudder, so brutal did it sound to her 
 at such a moment ; but Katharine had not yet learned 
 how irresistible is the wit or humour, or the pretences to 
 it, from the lips of an administrator of justice, from the 
 judge on the bench down to the lowest official. In this 
 case it had its fullest effect ; the apparently dying man 
 was forgotten, and the advocate of humanity, even 
 though in favour of a Jew, was cowed and silenced, lest 
 he should expose himself to farther sarcasm, " The 
 world's dread laugh." Callous, indeed, must be the 
 heart that is invulnerable to that powerful weapon ; but 
 wielded by the ignorant, of those we feel to bo our 
 inferiors in all but the power of directing it against us, 
 the wound it inflicts upon the sensitive, is worse, more 
 painful to bear, and like the poison that tips the clumsy 
 arrow of a savage, conveys more certain death to its 
 victim than the sharpest weapon in the hand of a skilful 
 adversary. In this case, trivial as it was in comparison, 
 Mr. Smithers' poor and vulgar attempt at ridicule had 
 its full effect, and no one ventured to expose himself to 
 the probability of a similar attack by breaking the 
 silence that prevailed, until the coach that had been sent 
 for drew up to the edge of the pavement, and the now 
 insensible and inanimate Hebrew was, with the readily 
 afforded aid of the bystanders, lifted into it. 
 
 "Jump down, Sam," observed the officer to the man 
 
OF woman's life. 851 
 
 who had fetched it, and was now on the coach-box. 
 " Jump down and get inside. There's no occasion for 
 me to go. They can't refuse to take him in ; tell 'em, as 
 well as you can, how it come about, and if I'm wanted, 
 you understand, you can send for me. If the doctors, there, 
 are like these here,'' — turning a contemptuous look on 
 the man who had excited his ridicule — " If they says too, 
 he's likely to die, all that's in it is, the magistrate must 
 go and take his deposition. I shall be there, in course, 
 but don't you go to leave him till it's settled one way or 
 t'other — whether he'll live or die." 
 
 Sam, a stupid heavy-looking man, listened to his 
 instructions with his eyes fixed on the ground, with the 
 air of one desirous of committing them accurately to 
 memory ; but before he obeyed the command to enter the 
 coach he whispered something in the ear of his instructor, 
 putting up his hand so as to prevent those near from 
 catching his words. 
 
 " You 're a fool," was the polite answer ; at the same 
 time inserting his fingers in his waistcoat-pocket, he drew 
 out a shilling and dropped it in the man's hand. "Mind, 
 don't let him stop to spend it on the way, Coachee," he 
 added to the coachman ; " Time enough after you 've put 
 down your fare. By-the-by, I'd better pay you at once, 
 and then there won't be no difficulty. For me, I've got 
 other fish to fry, or else I should go with you at once." 
 
 A faint shudder, succeeded by a fit of trembling, which 
 scarcely left her power to stand, seized Katharine, as he 
 turned significantly his eyes upon her when he uttered 
 the concluding sentence. She staggered a few paces and 
 leant against a door-post, while he proceeded to give 
 directions to the coachman to convey the wounded man 
 to St. Bartholomew's Hospital and to pay his demand, 
 
852 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 ostentatiously adding a "shilling," with the remark, 
 however, appended, " that he supposed he should never 
 get a farthing back, whether the Jew lived or died ;" 
 adding, with what he intended for a facetious laugh, 
 " that he supposed the poor devil wouldn't feel much 
 obliged to them for bringing him to life again without 
 they could bring back his money too." 
 
 Whether it was the general laugh elicited by this witty 
 sarcasm, or from the motion of the coach — as the driver, 
 with humane attention to the state of his passenger, led 
 the horses into the middle of the road before he mounted, 
 to avoid the sudden jolt which would have arisen from 
 his driving abruptly from the curbstone — it is impossible 
 to say, but the poor Hebrew at this moment shewed 
 symptoms of returning consciousness. He made an 
 attempt to raise his head from the cushion which the 
 coachman had taken from the opposite seat to support 
 it, and there was an expression in his deep lustrous eyes, 
 as they rested for an instant on Katharine's sinking, 
 trembling form, that seemed forcibly to express surprise, 
 and more than regret, that she was to be left behind — 
 that she did not accompany him wherever he was going. 
 That look was not unnoticed by many besides those 
 more immediately interested — Katharine and her perse- 
 cutor — for such was, as with terror she felt, the only 
 light in which she could regard the officer, to whose 
 mercy she now felt herself committed. With how little 
 hope of obtaining it. A low murmur ran through the 
 crowd as she turned her imploring eyes from one face to 
 another of the assemblage. There were few of those 
 whose attention, having now lost sight of their former 
 object, was now turned upon her — few indeed to whom 
 she would not have trusted, on whom she would not 
 
of woman's life. 858 
 
 have relied for assistance and protection, had it been 
 offered, rather than have remained in the power of the 
 officer ; or even setting aside all fear of the trumped-up 
 charge, which he evidently intended to make subservient 
 to his purposes, rather than have been — by her friendless, 
 homeless, unprotected situation — again exposed to a 
 repetition of his coarse, degrading, insulting, though as 
 he seemed to think, liberal, handsome, and confiding 
 offer, of taking her to his home; and as he had observed, 
 according to her all but the ceremony, which he said, 
 with all sensible people, with every body indeed who 
 knew the world, whatever their rank and degree, was a 
 mere ceremony — one which, from the prejudices of the world 
 in certain cases it might be necessary to comply with, 
 though in course, in her situation, it would be a mere 
 farce to expect it. "No," he impudently added, as he 
 observed the varying hues of Katharine's expressive 
 countenance, and totally incapable of comprehending the 
 feelings that produced that change, "Not that I have 
 made any oath against matennony accordin' to the laws 
 of the parsons, if it would be of any adwantage either to 
 me or the woman I liked ; and there's no doubt if so be 
 as I found her faithful and true, what she ought to be 
 arter a few years' experience, if it would be any satisfac 
 tion to her to have a lawful right to the name of wife, 1 
 should 'nt object to spend the few shillings necessary fbi 
 that purpose as well that way as any other. But I won't 
 deceive you nor any woman, by making a downright 
 promise one way or the other." 
 
 Such was the insulting proposal with which he had 
 dared to attempt to contaminate the mind of the unfor- 
 tunate being, whose every sentiment and impulse had, in 
 spite of the corrupting influences, the revolting examples 
 
854 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 of vice and depravity to which she had been exposed, had 
 still in its inmost core remained uncorrupted and true to 
 the principles of virtue — to those feelings which nature 
 had implanted there, which even the artful sophistry of 
 Fitz-Harland, aided as he was by her love and devotion to 
 him, had never been able to efface. How much more 
 revolting to her, then, were the same false, detestable 
 doctrines, if the word could be applied to those which 
 Mr. Smithers uttered as it were like a parrot, who had 
 picked up his lesson and repeated it by rote. How much 
 more did Katharine shudder to her very heart, at being 
 compelled to listen to that from which every feeling, 
 every principle recoiled, from the lips of this ignorant, 
 coarse, insolent, and presuming man. 
 
 " I would die first," she murmured with white, com- 
 pressed lips, but averting her eyes, lest he should read 
 there the scorn, contempt, and disgust, with which she 
 regarded alike him and his proposals. 
 
 Alas ! how easy it is for the wretched to talk of death 
 as a refuge from misery. Katharine found herself, after 
 the departure of the poor man who had suffered so 
 severely from his interference in her favour, again at the 
 mercy of the wretch from whose every word and look she 
 shrunk with abhorrence, but death as a resource was as 
 far from her as ever. They were words, mere words, to 
 which she had given such impassioned utterance, but to 
 which she dare not give a definite shape or meaning. 
 
 There were many sounds of pity among the crowd who 
 still lingered on the pavement, but more of curiosity and 
 speculation as to the course the officer would pursue 
 towards her — whether he would enforce his threat of 
 charging her as an accomplice of the men who had 
 robbed and ill-treated him, or would allow her to give 
 
of woman's life. 855 
 
 evidence as to all she had seen or known of the affair ; 
 but thero were few, if any, who suspected the depth 
 of Mr. Smithers' intentions, or rather motives. His eye 
 followed every movement of the unfortunate Katharine, 
 with the keen and wily look of a serpent who has 
 fascinated a trembling dove, and plays with its terrors 
 while he prolongs the fatal blow. 
 
 Mr. Smithers, however, had a deeper motive for the 
 silence he preserved towards Katharine for some minutes. 
 He wanted to get rid of the curious and observant eyes 
 that were watching his every look and motion, without 
 encountering the risk of some one among them even 
 remonstrating on the injustice of the step he was about 
 to take. There was little likelihood of any one more 
 decidedly espousing her cause ; but guilt is ever fearful, 
 and he knew not among those who were watching his 
 proceedings, whether there might not be some one who 
 had witnessed the affair from the beginning to the last, 
 and though they could not oppose that which he had 
 resolved upon, or, as he would himself have said, "have 
 dared obstruct him in the execution of his duty" — a 
 most extensive and inclusive phrase, which had often in 
 the course of his experience stood him in good stead in 
 the way of intimidation — he was well aware might occa- 
 sion him some trouble, and prevent his carrying on quietly 
 and speedily the plans his fertile brain had sketched for 
 his and Katharine's advantage and future happiness. 
 
 Happiness ! yes, such was the term he not only gave, 
 but believed would be the result to both, could she bo 
 brought to look upon his proposals with favour, and not, 
 " like a fool, obstinately stand in her own light." 
 
 A few moments' silent observation of the countenances 
 around him, however, convinced him that his apprchen- 
 
85G SHADK AND SUNSHiNE 
 
 sions of any serious opposition on their part were 
 groundless. There "was one only whose looks expressed 
 a deeper motive than curiosity, or, at most, the jealousy 
 and dislike which appear natural in that class to which 
 these people appeared to belong — the disposition, on 
 regarding any act of authority out of the usual course in 
 such persons as Mr. Smithers, to brand them with the 
 epithet of " Jacks in office" — and though not daring 
 openly to oppose, to designate their actions as encroach- 
 ments upon the freedom of Englishmen. The man, of 
 whose motives the officer entertained some slight uneasy 
 doubts, was he whom the former had, as he thought, so 
 cleverly put down by his witty sarcasm upon his supposed 
 professional skill, when he had interfered in behalf of the 
 unfortunate Jew. It might be only the natural resent- 
 ment at having exposed him to the ridicule and laughter 
 of the crowd that actuated this man, and made him, 
 though a silent, evidently a deeply interested spectator. 
 " He hoped it was nothing more," but Mr. Smithers felt 
 baffled by the man's silent attention and close inspection of 
 his every look and word. In most cases, he would not have 
 hesitated with one of his (the stranger's) appearance — that 
 of a common working man, and that, though clean andneat, 
 not the most substantial of the class — to have addressed 
 him in a tone of authority, ordered him to " Move on," 
 and if the command were not instantly obeyed would 
 have enforced it, by hinting, he (the stranger) was well 
 known, and " had better make off while his shoes were 
 good, if he did not want to renew his acquaintance with 
 the sitting magistrate, in whose collection his likeness 
 already figured as large as life, as well as his aliases in 
 the black book." 
 
 There were few, Mr. Smithers knew by experience, 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 857 
 
 who would have been proof against these or such like 
 insinuations, though sometimes they have led, in the 
 consciousness of being undeserved, to violent altercation, 
 and more than once to blows; but there were very few who 
 were there who could stand any chance with the officer 
 in bodily strength, or the science necessary to give it due 
 effect, and still fewer were the cases in which his un- 
 scrupulous mode of using the weapons the law put into 
 his hands, did not enable him to achieve a complete 
 victory over his opponent. In the present instance, 
 however, with all his assurance, he dared not attempt 
 thus to get rid of the man whom he regarded as his 
 adversary, and he therefore resolved on a different 
 course. Approaching Katharine at a moment when he 
 saw this man had drawn near to her, and could hear all 
 he said, he addressed her in a tone of pity and com- 
 miseration — 
 
 " Come, come, Kate, my gal, don't be foolish. You have 
 known me well enough, and long enough, not to know 
 that I wish to do you any good in my power. Even my 
 worst enemies own that I'm always a friend to the 
 petticoat, and though I'm a rough feller, I know, in my 
 ways, my bark's always wuss than my bite. Bless your 
 pretty face," and he winked significantly at the man, 
 who regarded him with mingled surprise and incredulity 
 — "Bless your pretty face, cross as you look just now, I 
 don't know how any body can look at it without wishing 
 to bring back its smiles and good-nature. Not me, I am 
 very sure, though it won't do to let all the world know 
 it, and I'm 'bliged to do and say things quite contrary to 
 what I mean. "We are but men, you know," he continued, 
 addressing the stranger in a confidential tone, "only 
 
 men, arter all, and with men's feelings, though wo 
 
 5 R 
 
858 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 daren't often show them, and I don't deny it, we do 
 sometimes, some of us, get very hardened by seeing so 
 much of the world's treachery and deceit." 
 
 " But there is no treachery, no deceit there ?" in- 
 quired rather than answered the person addressed, 
 earnestly and anxiously regarding Katharine, who was 
 scarcely conscious what was passing. 
 
 Mr. Smithers significantly shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I won't do her wrong, neither," he went on to say. 
 " She's naturally a good-hearted creter — one that would 
 have been a pride and ornament to a good husband ; but 
 what can be said when once a woman goes astray and 
 leads the life she's done, young as she looks — what's to 
 be expected ? They get linked in with all sorts of bad. 
 company, and women — worse than the men — that lead 'em 
 on from %ne thing to another, till there's hardly a pin 
 to choose betwixt 'em, for they glory if they get hold of 
 such a one as her," glancing towards Katharine. " One 
 that's out of the common way. She's had the fust of 
 eddication. Bless you, the mother's quite the lady, and 
 is broken-hearted, because she can't get Kate to come 
 home and give up this horrid life ; but they never do till 
 — But, dear me, how bad she looks, I do believe the 
 poor gal's had nothin' to eat or drink all day. Poor gal, 
 I must get her away from among this set, for though 
 she's ready to faint, I know, for want, she's got so much 
 pride left that she'd sooner die than let 'em know it." 
 
 The villain knew well that Katharine for the last ten 
 minutes had so far approached the state he described, 
 that she had been utterly incapable, not only of contra- 
 dicting, but of comprehending the farrago of falsehood 
 and truth, which, thus mingled and blended together, 
 completely imposed upon the single-hearted man, who 
 
of woman's life. 859 
 
 alone at that moment might have rescued her from the 
 power of the low-minded being who thus meditated her 
 farther degradation and ruin. 
 
 " What can I do — how can I assist you ?" exclaimed 
 the kind-hearted dupe of the Bow Street runner's cun- 
 ning. 
 
 " Only contrive to draw off these wagabones," was the 
 reply, " and I'll manage her. If she comes to herself 
 and fancies they're all watching and staring at her, she'd 
 die sooner than let 'em think that she was brought down 
 so low as that. Bless your soul, I know every move on 
 the board, as I may say. She never forgets that she has 
 been a lady, and despises all beneath her, what she calls 
 the common herd, as much as ever she did when she 
 was railly what she now only purtends to be, because, as 
 I say, don't tell me what I was once but what I am now ; 
 and, after all, what is she but — " 
 
 " Oh, no ! no, no ! don't say it," exclaimed the 
 sensitive young man, who shrank from, though he could 
 not disbelieve, the coarse aspersions of the man, whose 
 intimate aecpiaintance with the history of the unfortunate 
 being before him it never entered his mind to dispute. 
 
 How or by what means he contrived to draw off the 
 attention of the indiscriminate crowd that surrounded 
 them, it would be at once tedious and useless to attempt 
 to describe. It is sufficient to say, that he succeeded. 
 Katharine was roused from the death-like apathy into 
 which she appeared to have been sinking, to walk with 
 tho assistance of their arms to the nearest coffee shop in 
 Charles Street, and there, with every appearance of kind 
 commiseration on the part of one of her companions, 
 and real kindness, pity and sympathy on the other, she 
 was supplied with such refreshments as were necessary to 
 
8G0 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 recruit her bodily strength, and a consummation by no 
 means desirable on the part of the other, to restore her to 
 the exercise of her mental faculties, and while thus 
 rendered more capable of contending with, betraying 
 more forcibly the art and cunning of the man into whose 
 power she had fallen. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 You cannot teach the dead, nor bless the heavens, 
 
 Nor bear the earth, nor give the sun more glory, 
 
 Nor clouds more rain ; you cannot nourish bread, 
 
 Nor give the rose its fragrance, nor the vine 
 
 Its sap, nor can you feed the water-springs. 
 
 And now, what were you, if none did for you 
 
 What you ne'er did and ne'er can do for him ? 
 
 For what can you return to God for all ? 
 
 Your very spirit means His spirit — given — 
 
 Then like that spirit, freely, purely, truly, 
 
 Divinely, do for every one your best. 
 
 Thus only can you live in righteousness, 
 
 In heavenly peace, joyful, and free from care ; 
 
 Thus will you live even as His spirit lives ; 
 
 Thus will you in His very kingdom dwell. 
 
 Do all for men that they do not for you. Scheter. 
 
 The day appointed for St. Orme's second appearance 
 before the magistrate at Bow Street arrived. 
 
 How the interval had passed may be conjectured, 
 when it is told that from no living being outside the walls 
 had he received any token that his existence was remem- 
 bered. He believed that the explanatory note he had sent 
 by Katharine to his friend Marlow would of course 
 bring some reply from him. He did not expect to see 
 
of woman's life. 861 
 
 him, for Mai-low's habitual attention to appearance — his 
 caution in avoiding anything that could possibly com- 
 promise his character in the eyes of the world, would, St. 
 Orme concluded from the first, prevent his entering the 
 prison, or in any way running the risk of either being 
 hereafter recognised by such characters as the inhabitants 
 of it, or of appearing as the acknowledged friend of one 
 whose folly, to put the mildest construction on St. Orme's 
 conduct that his code would allow, had degraded him 
 into becoming even a temporary sojourner in this abode 
 of vice and crime. No, St. Orme knew too well the selfish 
 system Harlow had framed for himself, to indulge a hope 
 of seeing him so long as he remained a prisoner, or even 
 until he was satisfactorily cleared from the charge that 
 had been so unjustly brought against him ; but the 
 motives that St. Orme knew Harlow would think quite 
 sufficient to vindicate him from any breach of friendship 
 in not hastening to give him the benefit of his advice 
 and consolation, could not apply to intercourse by letter, 
 and though quite prepared to receive less of sympathy 
 and consolation for his sufferings than blame and con- 
 demnation of what, he had no doubt, Harlow would 
 unhesitatingly denounce as mad, romantic folly — St. 
 Orme's espousal of the cause of Katharine Beresford, 
 and, indeed, the whole of his conduct from the time they 
 (St. Orme and Harlow) had parted — though prepared to 
 receive and bear with patience the triumph which he 
 knew his friend would feel in this practical exposition of 
 the superior wisdom and truth of the lessons of prudence, 
 caution, and universal suspicion he had taken such pains 
 to inculcate. That Harlow would not write, and that 
 immediately, or that he would not be anxious on his 
 account, or willing to assist him as far as it was possible 
 
862 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 to do so, without involving himself or compromising his 
 character, never entered St. Orme's mind. Two days, 
 however, passed, and the silence from the outer world 
 remained unbroken. Letters were brought, it seemed to 
 St. Orme, for every one but him, and the laugh with 
 which his eagerness for " one for him," and the look 
 of disappointment, almost incredulity, with which the 
 announcement that " there was none received," became 
 so painful and mortifying, that on the third day he 
 ceased to inquire, though it was vain to attempt to conceal 
 from those around him the bitter, bitter feelings, that 
 seemed to crush his very heart. 
 
 " Where then was Katharine ? Had she too forgotten 
 him ? She was at liberty, that was certain, and though 
 it might be — if it were possible that Marlow had refused 
 the application St. Orme had made in her behalf, it was 
 but too probable that it was so — that she was in distress 
 herself and unable to afford him any consolation or 
 assistance — still, it was but natural to suppose that she 
 would have come to him. Even for her own sake, it 
 seemed but reasonable to expect it. She could not be 
 aware how totally neglected and deserted he was, and 
 from what she had seen of his disposition, she must 
 know that if he had it in his power to assist her, deeply 
 as he had suffered for and through her, he would still to 
 the last farthing have shared with her the means with 
 which she could have no reason to doubt his friends had 
 long ere this have supplied him. It was in vain as these 
 reflections perpetually recurred to his mind, that St. 
 Orme tried to draw consolation from the belief that she 
 must have been in some way provided with the means of 
 existence. In vain that he repeated to himself that his 
 present sufferings and privations would have been 
 
OF woman's LIFE. 863 
 
 rendered tenfold more painful and difficult to bear, if bo 
 bad bebeld ber distress without tbe means of relieving 
 it ; tbe state of uncertainty and suspense created by ber 
 absence, was, be felt, almost more painful to bear tban 
 would bave been any intelligence sbe could bave im- 
 parted, and be at lengtb resolved upon making any 
 sacrifice, however painful and revolting to bis pride, 
 rather than remain in ignorance of her fate. Without 
 giving any explanation as to his present situation, or 
 giving utterance to a single complaint as to his personal 
 sufferings, he wrote to Marlow, the means of so doing 
 having been supplied by a fellow- prisoner, who being 
 unable to write himself, gladly made this return for St. 
 Orme's services in the shape of several letters addressed 
 to persons with whom he had been connected, and from 
 whom he now required a return in the shape of money 
 for present purposes, as well as for counsel on bis ap- 
 proaching trial, and who considered he had made a 
 capital bargain in getting such "a scholar" as St. Orme 
 to be his " seketary,'' on such terms as finding pen, ink, 
 and paper, and paying the necessary pence for sending 
 his (St. Orme's) own letter to the Post-office. That 
 letter as we have said contained no demand upon friend- 
 sbip — no complaint of neglect, or statement of suffering 
 entailed by that neglect. It was limited only to tho 
 inquiry, though that, it must be confessed, was enforced 
 most energetically as the only favour required by the 
 writer, " What bad become of tbe young girl, Katharine 
 Beresford, in whose behalf he had ventured to ask of 
 him (Marlow) an act of kindness, an exercise of 
 humanity, which he would not have solicited for himself. 
 I am so convinced," he continued, " that you could 
 not, seeing her, have refused her, even without my 
 
864 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 promise — "which you know I shall inviolably fulfil — of 
 repaying you the moment I am set at liberty and can 
 command the means, which you know is more than due 
 to me from Mr. Stratford — the employer of Marlow and 
 himself (St. Orme) — even if I dared not reckon without 
 that security on such an act of friendship. I am so sure, I 
 say, that it would be impossible for you to feel otherwise 
 than interested and anxious to assist the poor girl to the 
 extent of your power, that I have never for a moment 
 doubted your compliance, not only with the terms of my 
 request, but also, as far as is consistent with your well- 
 known prudence, that you have endeavoured to befriend her, 
 and suggest to one who is as innocent and ignorant of 
 the ways of the world as a child, which, indeed, she is 
 little more in age, and from the life she had led pre- 
 viously to her being thrown upon its mercy, only a few 
 months — months, I believe I ought rather to say weeks. 
 But you have undoubtedly heard her story from her own 
 lips, and with it the particulars of the unfortunate cir- 
 cumstance which has — to use the phrase current here, 
 and which is constantly sounding in my ear, from 
 the heterogeneous crew with which I am surrounded 
 brought me into trouble. I am prepared, Marlow, for 
 your condemnation, and can anticipate all you will say 
 on the subject. I know you will prove beyond all con- 
 tradiction that I have deserved, by my total neglect of 
 the rules of common sense, of all, in short, that you 
 have taken so much pains to inculcate, which you even 
 were descanting upon, I verily believe, up to the moment 
 we parted — that I have deserved, I say, all that has 
 befallen me. But, though I give you due credit for the 
 foresight which enabled you to predict what has happened, 
 that what you have called my romantic folly — my habit 
 
of woman's life. 865 
 
 of unreflectingly yielding to every impulse, and " rushing 
 madly on" into action, when common sense and common 
 prudence would bid me not to merely pause, but deliberately, 
 obstinately shut my eyes and pass on, as the Pharisee 
 did, on the other side of the way. Psha ! I am egotisti- 
 cally forgetting what I had previously intended should 
 be the sole object of this rambling letter ; I write, then, 
 only to ask where Katharine is, not what you hrfve done 
 for her, for on that head I have not a doubt that it 
 is the best you could do. But why is it I have not 
 seen her ? She is at liberty, and it could not injure her 
 to give some proof that she has not quite forgotten one 
 whose good intentions towards her were not limited by 
 the unforeseen misfortune that has prevented his putting 
 them in practice. Surely — No, I will not believe that 
 you have advised conduct on her part that you must 
 both be aware would add the tortures of suspense to the 
 other miseries of this worse than Dante's Hell,, in all 
 but its infinity. Yes, the truth is out, Marlow : were it 
 not for the prospect — the certainty — that a few days will 
 release me from it — but I will say no more, only to 
 entreat a speedy reply, either by letter or by the appear- 
 ance of Katharine, to explain her seeming neglect, as 
 either will enable me to bear with patience the remainder 
 of this wretched, tedious imprisonment. 
 
 "Vivian St. Orme." 
 That "wretched, tedious" time did pass over some- 
 how, but uncheered by the anxiously expected reply; and 
 dreadfully, far beyond what could possibly have been 
 anticipated from the effects of that short confinement — 
 short to all but he who had endured it — was the altera- 
 tion it had produced in his appearance. Scarcely could 
 
 have been recognised, in the pallid, haggard, Avorn- 
 
 5 s 
 
866 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 looking and dejected young man, on the morning of his 
 departure from prison, the person who, in the language 
 of the newspaper reporters of the day, had been described 
 as, a fine tall gentleman-like young man, whose manners 
 and language, in accordance with his general appearance, 
 bespoke his acquaintance with the higher classes of 
 society, and who, in the course of the examination that 
 ensued, excited general interest, by the singular circum- 
 stances that were elicited, and the boldness and apparent 
 confidence of innocence with which he replied to the 
 observations of the magistrate," &c., &q. 
 
 After detailing briefly, and in the conventional language 
 that too often usurps the place of plain common sense 
 and good English — even now, when the class of newspaper 
 reporters are unquestionably of a far superior grade to 
 those who were then accustomed to record the " sayings 
 and doings " of magistrates and those who were unfor- 
 tunate enough to be brought before them, sometimes not 
 less painfully as prosecutors than as criminals — the writer 
 
 of the paper proceeded to give a garbled and 
 
 jumbled account of the examination, in which the most 
 prominent points, and those which were calculated to 
 establish the innocence of St. Orme, were all, if not 
 purposely suppressed, overlooked, evidently from a desire 
 to stand well in the opinion of the sitting magistrate, 
 to whose sagacity, penetration, and legal acumen, 
 tho highest compliments were paid. If, however, less 
 than justice was done towards St. Orme and the young 
 lady at first included in the charge, with respect to the 
 accusation against them, certainly much more than was 
 necessary, or even proper, was said of their personal 
 appearance, on which every term of admiration was 
 lavishly bestowed. Katharine was described as surpas- 
 
of woman's life. 867 
 
 sing the fabled charms of the Cytherean Goddess — as 
 fascinating all beholders — as being, in fact, all that 
 youthful poets fancy when they love; and, in conclusion, 
 when she was discharged — being completely exonerated 
 from all criminal intentions — excited not less admira- 
 tion than had been before bestowed upon her beauty, by 
 the inimitable modesty and delicacy with ■which she 
 curtseyed her thanks to his worship ; while the male 
 prisoner, meaning of course St. Orme, after being 
 personally eulogised as possessing the form of a youthful 
 Hercules, the head and features of Antinous, Hyperion's 
 curls shading a noble brow, and two or three classical 
 allusions, that at least displayed the deep learning of the 
 writer, was remanded to prison for a week, that inquiries 
 might be made as to his character, amid the surprise of 
 a crowded office, at the boldness, defiance, and utter 
 want of respect with which he treated the -worthy magis- 
 trate, an-d which almost broke out into absolute violence 
 against the officials, -who, in the discharge of their duty, 
 were compelled to remove him from the bar. 
 
 Who that had read but one short -week before this a 
 description of St. Orme — and there was more than one 
 present at that *' second hearing" who had been incited 
 by the curiosity it raised to attend to behold this daring 
 defier of judicial authority — this living illustration of all 
 the manly beauties of antiquity — could have suspected 
 that they beheld him in the deathly-pale, haggard, de- 
 jected, unshaven, and otherwise personally neglected 
 man, who, when he took his place at the bar, appeared 
 to have had at least ten years added to his age, which 
 had been registered as twenty- two, since he last stood 
 there. 
 
 " It cannot be him ; Crcswell must have been mis- 
 
8G8 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 taken. There is nothing of the gentleman — Besides, it 
 was a very fine-looking young man, and fashionably 
 dressed, that came with her. Oh, no ! there must be 
 some mistake. He looks like one who would be likely 
 enough to substitute a forged note for a good one. I 
 wish I had not told that old officer what I came for. 
 I will e - o home at once, for I shall be ashamed to 
 appear in favour of such a shabby, down-looking — " 
 
 " But, Mamma, you could not do otherwise," inter- 
 rupted a sweet, youthful voice, " since you know that the 
 forged note was the same you gave poor Katharine." 
 
 " Why, yes — certainly — I don't see how I can get out 
 of it," hesitated the elder lady. "But, I wish Mr. 
 Creswell had not made himself so busy. I should have 
 kept out of it altogether, if he had not misled me with his 
 pretended description of the criminal, and his conviction 
 of his innocence." 
 
 " But he is innocent, Mamma. You know he is; and 
 surely any disappointment as to his appearance would not 
 prevent your going forward to establish — " 
 
 "There — there. Do not let me have any more of this 
 fine romantic reasoning," interrupted the mother, in a 
 petulant tone. " I had quite enough of your sister's 
 plausibility and fine argument, and you see what it has 
 brought her to, and the misery she has entailed upon all 
 connected with her. Even now I tremble to look around, 
 lest I should be again disgraced by her claiming us as 
 her relations ; although the old officer assured me that 
 she has never been seen in the neighbourhood of the 
 office, or by any one belonging to it, since the day the 
 young man was sent to prison. ' Oh, no !' the old man 
 said, when I asked him if there was any fear of her 
 coming up to-day — for, not for the world would I have run 
 
of woman's life. 869 
 
 the risk of her claiming me as her mother, or you as her 
 sister, and I know she has quite confidence enough to do 
 it, if it would suit her purpose — 'Oh, no, Ma'am,' he said, 
 ' there's no fear of her showing her face here to-day. 
 She's got somehody else hy this time — that's drove this 
 poor young gentleman out of his mind — and in course 
 she don't want now to keep up any acquaintance with 
 him.' " 
 
 A crimson blush suffused the fair and innocent face of 
 the young girl, to whom this coarse observation of the 
 old door-keeper of the Bow Street Office was repeated 
 by the scarcely less coarse-minded and unreflecting 
 mother. Ellen Beresford's lip quivered, and her eyes 
 wandered anxiously from face to face of a group of 
 females who were gathered together in one corner of the 
 office, and whose equivocal dress and appearance, their 
 whispers and half-suppressed titterings, betrayed but too 
 plainly to all but the inexperienced Ellen, whose tearful 
 eyes were soon withdrawn from them in utter disappoint- 
 ment, that they were of a class among whom it was 
 a misery to think her unfortunate sister might not be 
 sought for in vain. Ellen, however, withdrew her eyes 
 from them in confusion, and drew her thickly-worked 
 lace veil so closely over her face as completely to conceal 
 the expression of her features ; for, as if in reply to her 
 searching, earnest look, she had been saluted with an im- 
 pudent familiar nod and smile from one, whose rouged 
 checks, flaunting attire, and scarcely decently veiled 
 exhibition of her lai'ge obtrusive person, could not fail to 
 reveal even to the most innocent and inexperienced her 
 disgraceful and degraded position in the world. For the 
 first time Ellen Beresford felt the impropriety of her 
 appearance there, even though protected by her mother ; 
 
870 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 but she tried to abstract her thoughts, as she turned her 
 eyes resolutely away from the -woman who had thus 
 suddenly enlightened her on the subject, and in so doing 
 as suddenly encountered the luminous, intelligent eyes 
 that had been, unseen by her, watching and translating 
 her every glance, every expression of her ingenuous 
 features. Scarcely less than miraculous was the change 
 that had taken place in the face and person of Vivian 
 St. Orrne since he first recognised in the two ladies, who, 
 with so much bustle and importance, were ushered 
 into seats at as great a distance as possible from the 
 disreputable females, who, either from their influence 
 with the underlings of the office, or on various pretexts, 
 had contrived to form part of the audience — the real 
 cause of their presence being the knowledge they pos- 
 sessed of St. Orme's chivalrous rescue of the victim, and 
 his consequent sufferings from the revenge and cupidity 
 of Mrs. Jonas and her associates. As various as were 
 their natural dispositions, were the feelings with which 
 the prisoner was regarded by these unhappy outcasts of 
 society ; but however they might differ in their opinions 
 respecting the merits or demerits of the act which had 
 made him known to them, on one point they were all 
 agreed, that he was innocent of the charge against him, 
 and, which in their eyes was still a higher claim to their 
 sympathy, a free-hearted, liberal gentleman. 
 
 St. Orrne, unsuspicious as he was of being the object 
 of this general interest, shrank nevertheless with unequi- 
 vocal disgust from its demonstration ; and though totally 
 unaware of their connexion with what might be called 
 the first act of the tragedy, of which he still remained 
 the hero and victim, resumed all his natural pride and 
 dignity to repel " the nods and becks, and wreathed 
 
OF woman's life. 871 
 
 smiles" with which they strove either to force themselves 
 upon his recognition, or to, as they believed, console 
 him with the knowledge of their sympathy. From the 
 moment, however, that St. Orme recognised the mother 
 and sister of Katharine, his whole being seemed changed. 
 That she was safe — safe according to his interpretation 
 of the word — he never allowed himself to doubt, any more 
 than he did that their appearance there betokened no 
 evil towards himself. But of self he thought compara- 
 tively little. Much as he had suffered from the injustice, 
 the petty tyranny — for no other term could be applied to 
 the conduct of the magistrate by whom he had been con- 
 demned to the week's imprisonment, and, still worse, the 
 doubt that had thus been thrown upon his character — 
 St. Orme had never permitted himself to fear that he 
 should eventually be cleared from all suspicion. Truth — 
 Innocence. Alas, alas ! with all his late dearly-bought 
 experience, he still believed that truth and innocence must 
 prevail. He dreamed not how many were, even perhaps 
 at that moment of time, pining in jails, suffering all the 
 penal inflictions of guilt, with nought to support them, 
 or to render their sufferings more bitter — it is hard to 
 decide which is the more natural feeling — nothing but the 
 inward conviction that their sufferings were undeserved, 
 and that, though the whole world united in their condem- 
 nation, they knew themselves innocent. Fortunately for 
 himself, St. Orme knew not, dreamed not, even in his 
 most despondent moments, that such things were — that 
 they could exist in a country so famed for the purity of 
 its laws and the justice of their administration. On his 
 own account he therefore was at ease, and for Katharine 
 his mind was greatly relieved. How, indeed, could 
 he contemplate the faces of the mother and sister seated 
 
872 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 there at their ease, possessing as they did not only in 
 ap pearance, but, as he well knew, in reality, the mearjs 
 not only to command comfort, but luxury, and to secure 
 the respect of all around them — How could he suspect 
 that they were ignorant of the very existence at that 
 moment of the unfortunate being who had never for 
 one moment, amidst his own bitter sufferings, been 
 absent from his thoughts? — for whom his nightly prayers 
 had ascended to the Great Fount of Mercy, that she 
 might be saved not only from further suffering, but from 
 the sin that is too often its inevitable consequence. Oh, 
 yes, it must be so, the mother's heart had relented ; 
 Katharine had been snatched from the danger that, when 
 lie last beheld her, impended over her, and it was to her 
 influence, no doubt, that he was indebted for the appear- 
 ance there of Mrs. Beresford and her younger daughter. 
 That they had come with friendly intentions towards 
 him admitted not of a doubt ; yet St. Orme could not but 
 feel occasionally surprised, as he beheld the stern, dis- 
 satisfied look with which the elder lady turned from, and 
 appeared desirous to avoid, his look. But if this per- 
 plexed him to assign the reason, he was abundantly 
 compensated by the expression of Ellen's countenance. 
 More than once their (Ellen Beresford's and Vivian St. 
 Orme's) eyes suddenly encountered each other, and 
 though she blushed deep rosy red and hastily withdrew 
 hers, he could not mistake that they were meant to 
 re- assure him, to bid him be of good heart, and fear 
 nothing. The change that this produced in his appear- 
 ance we have already noticed, and it was not lost even 
 on Mrs. Beresford, who, though she still feared that her 
 friend (Mr. Creswell,) had been mistaken as to St. Orme's 
 being the young man of fortune and station he repre- 
 
of woman's life. 873 
 
 sented — namely, the heir of the St. Orme baronetcv and 
 estates, acknowledged that he had certainly the appear- 
 ance of a gentleman, shabby as he looked, and she had 
 no doubt, if properly attired, would look a very fine 
 young man. 
 
 This impression was certainly not lessened, when St. 
 Orme rose and replied to the call upon his name. No 
 one would have suspected that the erect and dignified 
 young man — whose calm, collected mien, and clear voice, 
 declared the absence of all fear or confusion — was the 
 same drooping, dejected being, who had first taken his 
 place there ; nor would they have thought, w T hat was 
 nevertheless the case, that he was actually sinking from 
 physical want. The fact was, that St. Orme had totally 
 rejected every offer from the persons with whom he had 
 been associated, to share the luxuries with which they were 
 for the most part liberally supplied. The experience he 
 had had of Mr. Tom Johnson's views in trying to lay 
 him under obligations to him, had induced him (St. 
 Orme) to suspect everybody who made similar offers; 
 and he had thus been left entirely dependent on the 
 prison allowance, which his pride and his habits alike 
 recoiled from ; so that, except the bread, he had eaten 
 nothing during the seven days he had been confined. 
 All this, however, was now forgotten in the prospect of 
 approaching liberty ; and his belief that all his troubles 
 and mortifications were at an end was doubly confirmed, 
 when, in the place of the austere, overbearing magistrate 
 he had before encountered, he beheld one, whose mild, 
 benevolent features inspired the utmost confidence in the 
 justice and humanity of his decisions. 
 
 " Has there been anything more learnt respecting the 
 5 T 
 
874 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 prisoner ?" he inquired, after listening attentively to the 
 recapitulation of the former evidence. 
 
 " There is a lady here, who has come to identify the 
 note as the same she gave to her daughter, who was with 
 him at her house ; and to explain how it came into her 
 possession," observed the gruff old officer, who had 
 before evinced so much interest in St. Orme's behalf. 
 
 " Let the lady stand forward," observed the magistrate. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford was sworn. She produced the memo- 
 randum book in which she had entered the number 
 of the note and the name of the person from whom she 
 had received it, and on the following day, with the same 
 formal attention to system, a memorandum — " Paid the 
 said note to Katharine Beresford, the last she will ever 
 receive from me." 
 
 " And this Katharine Beresford is — ?" said the magis- 
 trate interrogatively. 
 
 "Most unfortunately, my daughter, Sir," returned Mrs. 
 Beresford, applying her cambric handkerchief to her 
 eyes. " The interference of this gentleman in her favour, 
 his representation that she was in want, induced me 
 to depart from the resolution I had formed — never to 
 listen to any application from one who has brought 
 disgrace and misery upon herself and her family. I heard 
 by accident of the unpleasant dilemma in which Mr. St. 
 Orme's charitable, but mistaken, feelings had involved 
 him, and I therefore conceived it to be my duty to come 
 forward and explain — " 
 
 " You are quite right, Madam," interrupted the magis- 
 trate, brusquely. " Mr. St. Orme, you are discharged, 
 and I beg to add, without the slightest imputation 
 resting on your character. The circumstances, of which 
 I know nothing but from Mrs. Beresford's statements, 
 
of woman's life. 875 
 
 appear to confer great honour on you, and will, I trust, 
 while they teach you the necessity of caution, not impede 
 the exercise of that "benevolence, which is the more 
 creditable to you, as it is unusual in a young man of 
 your age towards a female of — if I understand aright — 
 that unhappy class who are hut too often, and especially 
 hy young men, regarded as beyond the pale of charity. I 
 can only add, that I am sincerely sorry you should have 
 been detained on this unfounded charge, and I rejoice 
 that it has fallen within my province to declare my con- 
 viction of your entire innocence." 
 
 There was a general murmur of satisfaction as St. 
 Orme, with a silent but most respectful bow, stepped 
 from the bar. That he should make some acknowledg- 
 ment to Mrs. Beresford, for what appeared her disin- 
 terested exertion in his favour, seemed indispensable, and 
 it was plain, from the manner in which the lady pro- 
 longed her egress from the court, that she expected he 
 would address her, although she affected rather to avoid 
 looking at him ; and while she busied herself in arranging 
 a shawl on her shoulders which had been lying on the 
 seat behind her, pretended to give her whole attention to 
 the proceedings of the court in a case that had now been 
 brought before the magistrate. St. Orme hesitated. 
 The hopes he had indulged, that the mother's heart had 
 relented towards her unfortunate daughter, and that 
 Katharine was safe under her protection, had all fled 
 before Mrs. Beresford's stern condemnation of the poor 
 girl, as she explained to the magistrate the circumstances 
 which vindicated him from the charge brought against 
 him, and his heart recoiled against addressing the harsh, 
 unbending woman in terms of kindliness. How could he 
 dissemble his feelings, or avoid uttering the reproaches 
 
876 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 his heart suggested against her unnatural desertion of 
 her unhappy child, whose disgrace she had thus, as it 
 were, unnecessarily trumpeted forth to the magistrate as 
 a proof of her own stern morality — her exalted virtue. 
 St. Orme's own heart was at that moment in a tumult of 
 contending emotions. Foremost of all was the desire to 
 ascertain Katharine's present situation, to be convinced 
 that she was safe, that she had been, though how he 
 could frame no thought, rescued from the horrors that 
 impended over her, desolate, homeless, friendless as 
 she had been at the moment they were separated. From 
 Marlow's interference in her favour he could have no 
 hope. The utter silence of the latter to his repeated 
 letters — for he had subdued his pride into writing more 
 than one — forbade him to hope from that quarter. To 
 whom could he look ? — where could he apply for that 
 information, for which at that moment he would have 
 made any, every sacrifice ? Forgetful of everything else, 
 his eyes wandered around from one face to another, 
 as if seeking from them to learn what had become of her 
 who had on that spot shared the trouble and mortifi- 
 cation that had so undeservedly overtaken them. It 
 seemed to him, that if he left that spot he should lose 
 every clue by which he could hope to discover her, and 
 he still lingered, undecided whither to bend his steps, 
 until he was suddenly recalled to mere personal and 
 selfish considerations, by his friend the old officer tap- 
 ping him on the shoulder, and whispering in his ear — 
 
 " The ladies are going — your friends — and the young 
 'un looks quite disappinted at your stoppin' behind. 
 She's a pretty cretur, and you're foolish to lose sich 
 a chance, as I'm sure you've got there. When I was 
 a young man, like you — " 
 
of woman's life. 877 
 
 St. Orme did not hear the conclusion. His eyes had 
 encountered the soft, mild ones of Ellen Beresford, 
 and there seemed a world of intelligence and meaning in 
 their glance. 
 
 " She cannot be indifferent to her sister's fate — per- 
 haps she knows -where Katharine is to he found ;" and 
 without further hesitation he rushed to the side of Mrs. 
 Beresford, who preceded her daughter, and was already 
 on the threshold of the office. 
 
 " Will you allow me, Madam ? Have you a carriage 
 waiting ? Can I be of any service ?" he demanded. 
 
 A bright smile from Ellen rewarded this exertion, and 
 Mrs. Beresford, with a dignified and ceremonious curtsey, 
 accepted his services. 
 
 " Our carriage is or ought to be waiting, Sir ; but I 
 am fearful our coachman mistook my order, to return for 
 us in half an hour. One of the men inside told me that 
 it w r as not come." 
 
 " If you will take a seat for a few moments," observed 
 St. Orme, opening a door which led to a room belonging 
 to the officers, " I will go in search of it." 
 
 The lady bowed again very graciously, and St. Orme 
 felt all his hopes revive, from the gratified look with 
 which Ellen again rewarded him, as she followed her 
 mother to a seat. 
 
 A few inquiries among the idlers who always surround 
 the doors of the offices of justice, soon elicited the infor- 
 mation that the carriage which brought the ladies was 
 standing at a public house in Hart Street, round the 
 corner, where the coachman and footman were drinking. 
 There were half a dozen voices ready to proffer their 
 services to give them intelligence that they were waited 
 for by their mistress ; but St. Orme recollecting that his 
 
878 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 pockets were empty, and they would expect to be paid — 
 there are no free services among such as those who now 
 surrounded him. — therefore declined them, and ran off 
 in the direction they had indicated, pursued, however, 
 by not a few maledictions, as " a shabby feller," &c, which 
 he was compelled to disregard. The carriage was soon 
 discovered, and not much longer did it take St. Orme to 
 ascertain, that the servants were not only drinking, but 
 had been so long occupied in the same pleasant pursuit 
 as to be in a very unfit state to convey two unprotected 
 ladies home, though the distance from Co vent Garden to 
 Street was not very great. It was with some diffi- 
 culty that St. Orme succeeded in convincing them of the 
 necessity of obeying their mistress's orders, and to ensure 
 their coming to the right place, for they were both half 
 stupified, he was compelled to take a seat on the box by 
 the side of the coachman, who seemed scarcely capable 
 of managing his horses, and who tried to excuse his con- 
 duct all the way by the most unlimited abuse of his 
 mistress, who had, it seemed, given him warning to leave 
 her service that morning, and whom he represented as 
 perpetually changing her servants, her temper being so 
 ungovernable, that none would stay with her but such as 
 nobody else could keep. 
 
 " Why the old devil has druv even her own child out 
 of the house, and left her to starve in the streets, or do 
 worse," added the man, "so what can 'any body expect 
 of her !" 
 
 St. Orme started. He should learn, he thought, some- 
 thing relative to Katharine, but the man could tell him 
 nothing of his own knowledge. He had heard that the 
 poor girl he spoke of with so much pity had applied 
 repeatedly to her unnatural mother for assistance, which 
 
of woman's life. 879 
 
 had been refused ; and it was whispered among the 
 servants that Miss Ellen, whom he spoke of in the 
 highest terms, had contrived to help her sister, though 
 she was, he said, " so kept under by the old woman, that 
 she could not do what she would have done if she had the 
 means or the power;" but all this seemed to rest on conjec- 
 ture, and St. Orme could only hope that it was true that 
 Ellen had befriended her sister, and resolve, if the 
 opportunity offered, to learn from the former herself 
 whether she really knew anything of Katharine's present 
 situation. Chance seemed to favour his views. The 
 very evident intoxication of her servants excited not only 
 the scarcely suppressed rage of Mrs. Beresford, but a very 
 natural alarm, both on her own and Ellen's account, of 
 trusting themselves unprotected to those who seemed 
 but too much inclined to set their mistress's authority at 
 defiance, and revenge by impertinence, if not absolute 
 insolence, what they considered the arbitrary display of 
 authority and ill-treatment they had received from her, 
 and which had, as they represented, led to the warning 
 they had received, that she intended to provide herself 
 with other servants. 
 
 St. Orme had in vain remonstrated, before the carriage 
 drove up to the door of the office, against the avowed 
 intention of the coachman, "not to put up with any 
 of the old woman's nonsense, and to give her as good as 
 she sent if she showed any of her airs." The false 
 courage, however, induced by strong liquors, had, with 
 both the hitherto subservient men, produced a deter- 
 mination to take advantage of this opportunity to utter 
 all that was brooding in their hearts ; and the inter- 
 position of one whose appearance gave him no supe- 
 riority, as they fancied, over themselves— for they had no 
 
880 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 suspicion who St. Orme was, and, in fact, looked upon him 
 only as some one who had in the hope of reward come 
 in search of them and the carriage — irritated, rather than 
 convinced them of the imprudence and folly, if not worse, 
 of their intention. 
 
 A very few words from St. Orme to Mrs. Beresford, 
 when he informed her that her equipage awaited her, 
 were sufficient to awaken her suspicions and fears, and it 
 was evident that her daughter fully shared them, prohahly 
 from heing previously aware of the provocation received. 
 A few words of private consultation took place hetween 
 them, and Mrs. Beresford then assuming her most 
 insinuating tone, observed, that she and her daughter 
 would feel greatly obliged to Mr. St. Orme, if he would 
 add to the favour he had already conferred by accom- 
 panying them to their house in Street. 
 
 A look from Ellen enforced this request, for St. Orme, 
 his thoughts still dwelling on Katharine, interpreted it to 
 mean that she had some communication to make to him on 
 that all-absorbing subject. A silent bow, therefore — for 
 he had too much good sense to offer any apology for his 
 appearance — acquiesced in Mrs. Beresford's request, and 
 without further delay he handed the ladies to the carriage 
 and took the seat opposite to them, Mrs. Beresford 
 giving the order " Home," without apparently noticing 
 the situation of her attendants, with whom surprise had 
 apparently operated so as to produce silence and obe- 
 dience, the footman, mechanically as it were, repeating 
 the order, and with evident difficulty taking his 
 place behind. It did not, however, escape St. Orme's 
 notice, that his conduct in accompanying them had 
 excited some unpleasant animadversions among the 
 females, who it has been mentioned had betrayed so 
 
of woman's life. 881 
 
 much interest in what had passed in the office, and had 
 apparently waited their opportunity to claim his attention. 
 Many motives would have comhined to induce him to 
 avoid any communication with these women, had no- 
 thing occurred to abstract his attention from them; but, 
 the fact was, his mind had been so completely occupied 
 by the belief that he had found, through Ellen Beresford, 
 a clue to the discovery of her sister, and the subsequent 
 circumstances, that he had entirely forgotten the signs 
 and nods by which these women had sought to claim 
 acquaintance with him. He was, however, unpleasantly 
 reminded of it, when, at the very moment he seated him- 
 self in the carriage, he beheld three or four of the boldest 
 faces among them obtruded almost through the window — 
 the footman having just closed the door — and at the same 
 instant a volley of abuse levelled at himself, Mrs. Beres- 
 ford, and her daughter, broke from their lips, which, 
 though for the greater part unintelligible to him, he 
 could not but understand as accusing him of deserting 
 Katharine's interest to make common cause with the 
 mother and daughter, to whom they applied the most 
 unmitigated terms of abuse. A loud storm of hisses 
 followed the carriage, but the rapid pace at which the 
 coachman drove off, soon carried them out of hearing of 
 these popular marks of resentment, in which many had 
 joined who in all probability knew nothing of the cir- 
 cumstances that had given rise to it, but joined for the 
 sake of the uproar, and the opportunity of annoying and 
 insulting the fine ladies in the carriage. 
 
 For a few moments St. Orrue scarcely ventured to 
 look in the faces of his companions, though unconscious 
 that he was in any degree to blame; but when he at length 
 
 attained some degree of confidence, he discovered that 
 
 5 u 
 
882 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 although Ellen, pale aud trembling, betrayed by her 
 looks, that seemed to plead for pardon, that she compre- 
 hended the cause of the condemnation with which they 
 had been visited, Mrs. Beresford had so misapprehended 
 it, as to imagine it referred to her not having sooner come 
 forward to rescue St. Orme from the charge that had been 
 brought against him, and having suffered him to go to 
 prison, when she might at once have cleared him 
 from it. 
 
 More than once, as she attempted, not to apologise, 
 but to prove her ignorance of his situation, until in- 
 formed of what had taken place by her friend, Mr. 
 Creswell, of whom she spoke also as his (St. Orme's) 
 friend, the latter was on the point of enlightening her as 
 to the mistake she made, and thus leading the subject to 
 that which lay nearest his heart — Katharine ; but the fear 
 of counteracting what he supposed to be equally im- 
 portant to Ellen, and even, perhaps, leading to the 
 betrayal of the latter, kept him silent, and when the 
 
 carriage stopped in Street, he was still in the 
 
 same state of ignorance and suspense, Mrs. Beresford 
 having cautiously avoided even mentioning the name of 
 her unfortunate daughter. 
 
 " You will not leave us so abruptly, my dear Mr. 
 St. Orme," observed the lady, when, having seen them 
 safely into the hall, St. Orme would have taken his 
 leave. " Oh, never mind your dress. I know it must be 
 very unpleasant to a gentleman of your station in society, 
 to appear so unlike what you are entitled to appear ; but 
 with friends, such as I trust we shall henceforth be to 
 each other, such ceremony may be dispensed with. 
 Come, let me prevail on you to allow one of the servants 
 to show you to a dressing-room. We shall be quite 
 
of woman's life. 883 
 
 alone at dinner, and I am sure Ellen will, be disap- 
 pointed, as well as me, if you refuse to take a quiet, com- 
 fortable meal with us. I shall, afterwards — either to- 
 morrow or the next day, as may be most convenient to 
 you — have the pleasure of introducing you to a few of my 
 most particular friends, who will be proud and happy to 
 form your acquaintance : but to-day. I have made up my 
 mind to have you all to ourselves ; I am sure you have too 
 much gallantry to refuse me. Ellen, my dear," — she 
 continued, as St. Orme, overpowered with these extra- 
 ordinary and unexpected attentions, hesitated — " Ellen, 
 my dear, you must try your influence with Mr. St. Orme. 
 You know I have set my mind, beforehand, on his dining 
 with us to-day." 
 
 There was a significance in the tone and manner 
 in which this was uttered, which rather added to than 
 abated St. Orme's confusion. How she could previously 
 have meditated what appeared so obviously the result of 
 accident, or rather chance, he could not comprehend ; 
 but Ellen, though she blushed deeply, seconded her 
 mother's invitation with seeming cordiality, and without 
 farther hesitation he consented to accept it. 
 
 The improvement which his introduction to a dressing- 
 room — that he rightly guessed had formerly been appro- 
 priated to Leopold Beresford — enabled St. Orme to make 
 in his appearance, restored him to his self-possession, 
 and enabled him to make his entree in the drawing- 
 room, to which he was conducted by a female servant, 
 who informed him that her mistress awaited him there, 
 without a trait of the embarrassment and confusion he 
 had previously felt. Mrs. Beresford, also, was evidently 
 favourably impressed with his appearance, and there was 
 much less of affectation and restraint in her manner 
 
884 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 towards him than before. She was alone, and he had 
 scarcely seated himself before she observed — 
 
 " I am going to take a liberty with you, Mr. St. Orme, 
 though it will convince you of my desire to consider you 
 as an established friend." 
 
 St. Orme bowed. At last he hoped she was about to 
 speak of Katharine, and his heart beat with expectation. 
 But, no ! The service Mrs. Beresford required, was 
 merely that he would witness and appear as her protector 
 in her design of discharging the servants at once, who 
 had so shamefully, as she said, neglected their duty. 
 The matter, however, was soon accomplished without 
 any necessity for St. Orrne's interference, for they were 
 now sufficiently sober to have a regard to the character 
 she might give them; while Mrs. Beresford's desire to 
 appear amiable in his (St. Orme's) eyes, softened her 
 observations to them, and made the former almost doubt 
 whether she could have deserved the character they had 
 previously given her. But again he thought of Katharine, 
 and recollected his first interview with the unrelenting 
 woman before him ; and though he could not penetrate 
 her motives for the assumption, he became convinced 
 that she was but playing a part, and that her character 
 was still unchanged. 
 
 The dinner passed off without any discovery, but an 
 opportunity at length occurred, when they returned to 
 the drawing room, for a few moments' conversation with 
 Ellen, who, at her mother's desire, conducted Mr. St. 
 Orme to look at some scarce plants which she was 
 rearing in a small conservatory adjoining. 
 
 " You have intelligence to give me of your sister ?" 
 abruptly demanded the young man. " You, I am sure, 
 have not deserted her." 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 
 
 885 
 
 Ellen's crimson cheeks answered almost before she 
 spoke. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear the question from you, for I hoped 
 to hear of her from you," she replied. " Do not blame me, 
 Mr. St. Ornie," she added, reading in his face the expres- 
 sion of extreme disappointment, and, it must be admitted, 
 no slight degree of reproach. " Mamma's jealous watch- 
 fulness," she continued, tears starting to her eyes, " has 
 prevented my making even an inquiry as to poor Katha- 
 rine's present situation ; but, I made sure that you would 
 know where she is, and it was that impression that made 
 me so earnestly second Mamma's invitation to you. You 
 must have thought strangely of me," and she drew her- 
 self up proudly, and blushing still deeper, "if you did 
 not comprehend that my only motive was, that I hoped 
 through you to be able to hear of, if not see, my poor 
 sister, who is never for a moment absent from my 
 thoughts." 
 
 She turned from him as she spoke, and glancing to- 
 wards the room in which her mother was seated, as if to 
 ascertain that she was not watched by the latter, drew 
 from her bosom two bank notes folded as small as pos- 
 sible, evidently for the purpose of concealment. 
 
 All this, however, was lost upon St. Orrne, whose 
 whole thoughts were at that moment occupied by Ka- 
 tharine. 
 
 " My God ! my God !" he uttered in a tone of intense 
 agony, " then she is lost." 
 
 Ellen's tears burst forth in spite of her efforts to 
 restrain them. 
 
 " Oh, do not say so, Mr. St. Orrne," she murmured. 
 " You condemn me, I see ; but if you knew the difficulty 
 I have had even to get this means of assisting her, and 
 
886 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 how rejoiced I have been at the belief that you would 
 convey them to her, as a proof of my love and desire 
 to—" 
 
 St. Orme would have rejected the notes. "I shall never, 
 perhaps, see her again," he uttered in a desponding tone; 
 but Ellen's countenance betrayed such unequivocal 
 marks of anguish that he could not but attempt to 
 console her. 
 
 "I will not refuse to take charge of this," he observed, 
 putting the notes in his pocket. " I cannot conceal from 
 you, that at present I know not where to direct my 
 search for your unfortunate sister ; but I will leave no 
 means untried to discover her, and should I be so fortu- 
 nate, this will no doubt be most acceptable. As a proof 
 of your affection, indeed, it would be invaluable ; but 
 I am not ashamed to avow to you, Miss Beresford, that 
 I am poor — too poor to afford your sister the assistance 
 my heart would prompt. Late circumstances connected 
 with my meeting with her have materially lessened the 
 resources which, nevertheless, I would share with her to 
 the last farthing. I mention this only to prove to you 
 how important to her comfort will be that which you 
 have entrusted to me, as well as to convince you how 
 earnest will be my efforts to convey your sisterly gift to 
 her. Should I fail — " 
 
 St. Orme was about to say that he would of course 
 return the money, but Ellen held up her finger to 
 enjoin silence. Mrs. Beresford had risen from her seat, 
 and a moment or two after she joined them, finding 
 them, as she believed, engaged in botanical discussion 
 on the plants which had afforded them the desired oppor- 
 tunity of conversing on a subject so much more interes- 
 ting to both. 
 
of woman's life. 887 
 
 At the very first moment that propriety allowed, St. 
 Orme took his leave, pleading his anxiety to rejoin the 
 friends from whom he had been so unpleasantly separated, 
 as an excuse ; — thus unconsciously escaping questions 
 which Mrs. Beresford had planned to introduce at a 
 proper opportunity, as to Mr. St. Orme's actual situation 
 and prospects, and leaving her with scarcely a doubt on 
 her mind to prevent the full enjoyment of the castle in 
 the air, which she had founded on the belief that the 
 young man — whose person, manners, and sentiments she 
 so highly eulogised after his departure to her daughter, 
 and eventually to her friend Creswell, who dropped in to 
 hear the result of the day's proceedings — possessed the 
 requisites of birth and fortune, without which all his 
 vaunted good qualities would in her eyes have been 
 utterly worthless — " Dust and ashes." 
 
 " And what ?" said Ellen. 
 
 " You are strangely apathetic, my dear," was the 
 remark more than once repeated by Mrs. Beresford, who 
 had in general much more occasion to reprove her 
 daughter for the opposite fault — a disposition to be 
 enthusiastic in admiration, wherever she could discover 
 any excuse for it. 
 
 Ellen, however, still refrained from uttering a word in 
 praise of their departed visitor, nnd when at length, 
 almost angrily, reproved by her mother for not doing 
 justice to Mr. St. Orme's numerous accomplishments, 
 replied, smiling — 
 
 " Surely, Mamma, you cannot blame me for wishing 
 to know something more of the gentleman before I suffer 
 him to steal my heart, which he would be very likely to 
 do should he upon further acquaintance prove to be all 
 he now appears. Do not blame me, then, for being 
 
888 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 willing to be guarded against the possibility of dis- 
 appointment. Suppose, for instance," she added with 
 assumed gaiety, " that we were to discover, that instead 
 of being a man of birth and fortune, he is one indebted 
 to Nature only — I mean a poor man," she added with 
 some confusion, as Mrs. Beresford fixed her sharp, pene- 
 trating eyes upon her daughter's face. " It might then," 
 continued the artless girl, colouring, " be too late to 
 withdraw the gift, for I fear that poverty would be a 
 disqualification you would not overlook." 
 
 " Fear !" repeated Mrs. Beresford with emphasis. 
 "You fear it. Then that is as much as to say you 
 would not look upon it in the same light. Take care that 
 you do not give way to any ridiculous, romantic notions 
 on this subject. I do not quite understand your meaning, 
 what vou are aiming at ; but of this be assured, if this 
 man has deceived me — " 
 
 " Oh, no, Mamma ! do not say Mr. St. Orme has de- 
 ceived you. I am sure that he is quite incapable of 
 deceit," exclaimed Ellen, hastily. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford for a moment could not speak. She 
 could scarcely breathe. 
 
 "There is some mystery here — something I do not 
 understand," she at length observed. " Tell me, I com- 
 mand you, what does it all mean ? Are you joining 
 with this man in imposing upon me ?" 
 
 Alarmed at her mother's violence, Ellen was about to 
 reveal all that St. Orme had avowed as to his poverty, which 
 had suggested to her the probability that Mr. Creswell 
 had been mistaken in his representation of the situa- 
 tion of the young man, but the difficulty of explaining 
 this without betraying what she had done with regard to 
 her sister kept her silent ; she was fortunately relieved 
 
of woman's life. 889 
 
 from the impending storm, which was ready to break out 
 on her defenceless head, by the entrance of Mr. Creswell, 
 as before-mentioned, and to him was now transferred all 
 Mrs. Beresford's angry questions, reproaches, and con- 
 jectures on the subject, during which the lady betrayed 
 so palpably the extent of her designs upon her late 
 visitor, and expressed her anger and disappointment in 
 such vehement terms, as to draw down upon her the 
 almost rude satire and ridicule of her old friend ; while 
 Ellen took the opportunity of escaping to her own 
 room, there to reflect on the best method of eluding her 
 mother's future inquiries, and thus escaping her anger. 
 
 Having suffered Mrs. Beresford to exhaust her anger, 
 however, and learned upon what slight foundation rested 
 her fears that she had been mistaken in her estimation of 
 Mr. St. Orme, Mr. Creswell at last contrived to reconcile 
 her, and to renew her hopes by, in the first place, asser- 
 ting positively his conviction that the young man she 
 had set down as an impostor was a true St. Orme, a 
 member of the family of his friend Sir Orlando ; and in 
 the second, promising her that he (Creswell,) would 
 make it his business to ascertain not only the precise 
 degree of the former's relationship, but, to use the old 
 gentleman's own laughing phrase, he would learn not 
 only his (Vivian St. Orme's) "birth, parentage and 
 education," but also, whether he did or did not possess 
 the necessary qualification in the way of fortune to entitle 
 him to aspire to the honour Mrs. Beresford designed to 
 bestow upon him. 
 
 " And until I am satisfied of that," concluded the 
 selfish, unabashed woman, " you must not blame me if 
 I keep my doors closed against him." 
 
 5 x 
 
890 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 "But is it so certain that lie will seek for re- admis- 
 sion ?" demanded Creswell, with a sly smile. " Take 
 care, my dear Madam, that you are not creating giants 
 where there may be none to stand in the path." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he speaks, 
 
 The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
 
 His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
 
 Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
 
 Recals its functions. 
 
 Whate'er his frenzy dreamed or eye beheld, 
 
 If yet remembered ne'er to be revealed, 
 
 Rests at his heart: the customed morning came, 
 
 And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame : 
 
 And solace sought he none from priest or leech, 
 
 And soon the same in movement and in speech 
 
 As heretofore he filled the passing hours — 
 
 Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers 
 
 Than these were wont. Byron. 
 
 " Still harping on my daughter." — Prudence would 
 have whispered in the ear of Vivian St. Orme the pro- 
 priety that he should, immediately that he was at liberty 
 so to do, have waited on his employers, and related to 
 them the fortunate termination of the unpleasant contre- 
 temps that had led to his absence from their establishment, 
 together with the magistrate's complimentary observations 
 upon his discharge. But Prudence whispered in vain. 
 Katharine Beresford's supposed misery and distress 
 pleaded so loudly to his heart that all other sounds were 
 inaudible, and he felt it impossible to settle down quietly 
 
OF woman's life, 891 
 
 to business, allowing that bis reception at the office 
 admitted him to do so, until be had at least made every 
 effort that at that moment occurred to bis mind to dis- 
 cover her present situation. Of these, the first was, of 
 course, to see Marlow, from whom he supposed it certain 
 he should learn something. Determining therefore to sup- 
 press every feeling of resentment for his personal neglect, 
 and trying to hope that he should have no reason to 
 condemn him (Marlow) for inhumanity towards the un- 
 fortunate being he had commended to bis care, St. Orme 
 proceeded to the apartment of the latter, at the hour 
 when the former, having quitted the office for the night, 
 invariably returned to change his dress before he went 
 out for the evening; but here, not only disappointment, 
 but severe self-reproach awaited him. Marlow was 
 dangerously ill ; he had been seized with fever on the 
 very morning after St. Orme and he had parted, and at 
 the very time the former was accusing him of cold- 
 heartedness and neglect, had been raving, insensible, in 
 paroxysms of delirium. 
 
 "He has mentioned your name many — many times. 
 Sir," observed the mistress of the house, who had often 
 seen St. Orme there, " both when he was delirious and 
 when he was at times sensible, and seemed to think 
 it hard you did not come to see him. 'jHe had no friend,' 
 he said, ' not a friend in the world,' and then he sighed 
 so pitiably, poor young man, as he said ' Well, I must 
 not complain. It is my own doctrine to take care of 
 self, but I little thought it would so soon come home 
 to me.' Indeed, Mr. St. Orme," continued the woman, 
 " if I had known your address, I should have come to 
 you, to tell you how bitterly he seemed to take it to 
 heart, that you stayed away from him." 
 
892 5SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " But he knew the reason, surely ?" replied St. Orme, 
 his thoughts even now reverting to Katharine. " There 
 was a female — a young woman who brought a letter ?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir^but that letter is still unopened," interrupted 
 the landlady. " Poor Mr. Marlow was too bad to attend 
 to letters when she came. He wouldn't have known 
 hardly his own mother or his sister, if he ever had one, 
 when that poor young woman came ; and, indeed, to tell 
 you the truth, Mr. St. Orme" — and the landlady assumed 
 a look of peculiar significance — " the person who brought 
 it was not exactly in appearance such a one as I should 
 have thought of introducing to Mr. Marlow's sick cham- 
 ber. Her dress, I mean," she continued with some con- 
 fusion, " was such as a respectable young woman would 
 scarcely have appeared in; and, you will excuse my 
 saying so, but, altogether, she appeared in a strange state 
 of confusion, and she was as wet as if she had been 
 wandering about the streets all night in the rain. So that 
 I could hardly suppose that — " 
 
 " Poor Katharine ! poor unfortunate girl !" exclaimed 
 St. Orme, with energy. "But thus it is ever with the 
 world, the very circumstances that should plead in their 
 favour — that should iuterest every feeling heart — is made 
 a plea to condemn them — a crime — " 
 
 " I am very sorry, Mr. St. Orme," observed the land- 
 lady, drawing herself up consequentially. " But in 
 London one is obliged to be cautious; and when there is 
 nothing but appearances to go by, why really — " 
 
 " I am not blaming you, particularly. Madam," re- 
 turned Mr. St. Orme, who was scarcely conscious what he 
 had uttered. " It is a misfortune not to be remedied, but 
 I trust it may lead to the exercise of a gentle and feeling, 
 as well as a prudent caution, when I tell you, that in this 
 
of woman's life. 893 
 
 case, it is but too probable, that the consequences of her 
 application not having been made known to Mr. Marlow, 
 may have — earnestly I hope and pray it has not — 
 plunged her into misery and distress so appalling that I 
 shudder to think of them." 
 
 " But, my good Sir, I have told you already that Mr. 
 Marlow was too ill at the time to see anybody," replied 
 the landlady, who was not a bad-hearted woman, and 
 really compassionated St. Orme's evident suffering. 
 
 " Forgive me, I had, indeed, forgotten," he replied. " I 
 hope, however, that you do not think it necessary to 
 exclude me." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no, Sir ! I am only afraid he will not 
 know you," replied the woman, " but I have not seen 
 him to-dav. We were obliged, of course, to have a 
 regular nurse, and therefore — " 
 
 St. Orme did not wait to listen to the woman's fears 
 or explanations. He hastily ascended the stairs, and in 
 another moment stood at the bedside of the invalid. 
 Dreadful, indeed, was the change that had taken place 
 in the person of the formerly strong, stalwart young 
 man; but St. Orme, in the midst of the sorrow and 
 compassion he felt for him, could not help thinking of 
 his former imaginary independence of all the world, his 
 defying circumstances to place him in a situation to 
 require kindness or sympathy, anything in fact that 
 money would not command. Here he was, in a house 
 in which he had paid regularly a handsome sum for 
 apartments, and of which the mistress appeared (and 
 was in reality). a kind-hearted woman; one, too, whose 
 situation in life was by no means inferior to that of 
 Marlow himself, her husband holding a similar situation, 
 yet to these people he had, in pursuance of his cold- 
 
894 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 hearted system, studied to remain as a stranger during 
 those years' as on the day he entered the house. And now, 
 what was the result ? Now, when kindness and sympathy 
 would have been so grateful — from his own expressions 
 so inestimable to him, he was consigned to the care of a 
 hireling nurse, over whom it was evident the landlady 
 did not consider it necessary to maintain any particular 
 supervision, and whose cold, business-like manners, as 
 she replied to his (St. Orme's) earnest questions respec- 
 ting her charge, made him shudder at the thought that 
 on her alone was the sufferer's sole dependence — to her 
 alone could he look for all the thousand nameless, but 
 all- important attentions that can soothe the pains of 
 sickness, and smooth even the pillow of death. The 
 woman's looks were indeed most unprepossessing, and at 
 the moment he entered she was seated with her back 
 to the patient, the curtain that concealed her from his 
 sight carefully closed between them, while the impa- 
 tient frown with which she arose from the comfortably 
 cushioned easy-chair and threw a cloth over the table 
 on which she was enjoying her cosy supper, together 
 with the strong odour of its accompaniment — hot spirits 
 and water, overpowering even the sickly smell of medi- 
 cine, and adding to the unpleasant closeness created by 
 a large fire and the total exclusion of fresh air — all com- 
 bined to convince St. Orme how easily her sense of dutv 
 towards her suffering patient was satisfied, or rather, of 
 how much more importance to her was the gratification 
 of her own sensual comforts. 
 
 There was altogether an appearance of negligence, a 
 want of attention even in the position of the unfortunate 
 invalid, who had slipped from the pillow, and whose 
 strength, prostrated even below the strength of an infant, 
 
of woman's life. 895 
 
 had refused to aid him in the struggle to raise himself 
 again, but had left him in this painful position, with the 
 bed-clothes nearly all upon the floor. And this — this is 
 all that money — the only friend that, according to his 
 (Marlow's) system, was to be relied on. Money that was 
 to protect him from every suffering — to secure for him 
 every indulgence — to supply the place of love, affection, 
 kindness, sympathy. Money — What had it done ? what 
 could it do here ? where there was no other tie ; where 
 the hireling, whose services it had purchased, thought 
 on l Y — cared only— how to make those services as easy of 
 performance to herself as could be done without the out- 
 ward appearance of neglect. In this instance it scarcely 
 escaped that imputation. To the really kind heart — the 
 true feeling of St. Orrne — it was most palpable, and even 
 the landlady experienced a feeling of self-reproach, that 
 she had not been more vigilant in her supervision of the 
 woman to whom she had delegated the care of the lodger 
 who had paid so hansomely and so regularly for the 
 accommodation he had received. As to any other motive, 
 to any feeling than that of common humanity, for the 
 blush that bespoke her consciousness of neglect towards 
 Mr. Marlow, as she assisted St. Orme in raising him on 
 his pillow, and remedying the derangement of the bed- 
 clothes, expressing at the same time surprise that Nurse 
 should not have seen how uncomfortable the poor gentle- 
 man was lying — to any other feeling she was a stranger. 
 For some time Marlow appeared totally unconscious 
 that any more gentle hand than that which he was accus- 
 tomed to, superintended the improvement in his position, 
 and restored him to a degree of comfort not often perhaps 
 experienced ; but, gradually, the sound of St. Orme's 
 voice seemed to awaken him in some measure from the 
 
896 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 apathy in which he had before lain, and his eyes beamed 
 with a ray of renewed memory as lie raised them to the 
 friendly face that bent over him, while with tenderness 
 and delicacy, which few but a woman — that general 
 comforter of man in sorrow or sickness — could feel, St. 
 Orme assisted to raise him up and held to his lips the 
 cooling draught, which had evidently been long withheld, 
 or at least neglected. 
 
 " I think — I hope," he observed, in a low, gentle accent, 
 to Mrs. Leigh, the mistress of the house — " I have great 
 hopes that the violence of the disorder is past ; and that 
 with constant attention and support, exhausted nature 
 may yet rally and restore him — " 
 
 " I don't know, Sir, what attention he wants more 
 than he's had," interrupted the nurse's hoarse voice, 
 sulkily. '"' Mrs. Leigh knows I have never been a-bed 
 since I came here, ten days ago ; nor never took my 
 clothes off ?" 
 
 Mrs. Leigh's up-turned look to St. Orme, seemed to 
 Confirm this statement, and plead it in vindication of 
 herself; but the latter was not to be shaken from his 
 belief or his resolution, and he at once avowed his deter- 
 mination to watch by the bedside of his friend for that 
 night at least, declaring again his conviction that the 
 crisis of Marlow's disorder was passed, and adding, that 
 the nurse could thus procure a night's rest, as her ser- 
 vices would not be required. 
 
 The nurse tossed her head, in evident contempt of his 
 supposed ignorance. 
 
 " If you'd seen as many die as I have, Sir, you'd 
 perhaps think otherwise," she observed. " It's only 
 what's called the lightning afore death; and though I 
 shall be glad enough to go to bed for a few hours., I'm 
 
of woman's i.i i i 897 
 
 out in my reckoning, if you won't be glad enough to get 
 niv help before daylight. They generally goes off about 
 the turn between night and morning." 
 
 St. Orme shuddered. The callousness with which this 
 prediction was uttered, confirmed his resolution not to 
 entrust poor Marlow to such a woman ; and Mrs. Leigh, 
 after a faint offer of her services to remain with him, 
 and requesting he would give orders for any thing he 
 considered proper or necessary, dismissed the nurse for 
 the night, the latter observing that, " she should take 
 the liberty of running home for an hour or two, as she 
 should leave Mr. Marlow" she sneeringly observed, "in 
 such clever hands — she couldn't have no fear about him." 
 
 Having accepted the landlady's offer of providing him 
 with coffee, &c, for the night's refreshment, St. Orme 
 was about to wish her good night, when Mrs. Leigh, 
 with true female foresight, proposed that she should first 
 ascertain how much remained of the stock of wine and 
 other cordials that had been placed at the nurse's dis- 
 posal, and which the landlady was aware had been for 
 the last two or three days liberally administered, or, at 
 least, ordered by the physician who had been called in ; 
 and the landlady's looks, rather than her words, betrayed 
 her extreme dismay, when she discovered that the bottles 
 were all empty. She appeared, Indeed, completely dis- 
 mayed at this additional proof of mis-placed trust on her 
 part, and unworthiness on that of the woman ; while St. 
 Orme uttered no other reproof than was conveyed in an 
 expression of thankfulness that the deficiency was dis- 
 covered in time. " The want of it at the critical moment," 
 as he observed, "might have been fatal to one who was 
 hovering between life and death." 
 
 "Again," he thought, when at length left to his own 
 5 Y 
 
s>)S SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 reflections and the care of his friend, over whom he kepi 
 the most careful watch — '"Again is proved the inefficiency 
 of that in which poor Marlow put his sole trust, while I, 
 thanks be to God, am aide personally to prove the supe- 
 riority of the motive that actuates my conduct towards 
 him." 
 
 The event proved exactly as some knowledge of medi- 
 cine and attentive observation of his friend had enabled 
 St. Orme to predict— Mario w's restoration from the state 
 of utter exhaustion under which he had been gradually 
 sinking. Before the day dawned, returning intelligence 
 lighted up the eyes before so lustreless and vacant. He 
 took readily the nourishment that St. Orme cautiously 
 administered ; and though he sometimes gazed around 
 with an expression that betrayed that he was at a loss to 
 comprehend his situation, or to understand by what 
 means he had been reduced to such infantile weakness, 
 or how it was, that, although lie was in his own bed and 
 room — although he saw distinctly that nothing around 
 him was changed since he had last closed his eyes in 
 that chamber, yet he saw no one in attendance upon him 
 hut St. Orme, and felt as if he was wholly dependant 
 upon the latter — upon one on whom he was conscious he 
 had no claim, and whose motives for his incessant and 
 assiduous attention he in vain attempted to penetrate. 
 The time was not yet arrived for Marlow to do his 
 friend justice, but he felt the blessedness of yielding 
 himself entirely to the direction of St. Orme, who, like 
 a guardian angel, seemed to bring to his bedside healing 
 on his wings. 
 
 The time of the night which the nurse had so didacti- 
 cally assigned as the limit of her patient's existence 
 had long passed by— the 'lightning before death,' that, 
 
of woman's lifk. 899 
 
 according to her, was to be extinguished in utter gloom 
 and darkness, had settled into -a bright and steady ray ; 
 and all St. Orme's doubts and fears of Mario w s eventual 
 recovery had given place to undoubting and well-grounded 
 confidence, that the important crisis of his friend's 
 disorder had passed, and to aid and support nature 
 by the means that were fortunately within his power, was 
 all that was necessary, before St. Orme was relieved 
 from his close and solitary attendance on the invalid 
 by the re-appearance of Mrs. Leigh and the nurse. 
 
 To the former, the improvement in Marlow appeared 
 little short of a miracle, and her congratulations bore 
 the stamp of sincerity as she warmly observed that — 
 " Mr. Marlow would have reason to thank his friend for 
 suing his life." But St. Orme's dislike and distrust 
 of the woman, to whose care his friend had been so 
 confidently committed, was increased by the hesitating 
 and even dissatisfied air with which, when pressed 
 by the landlady, she was compelled to acknowledge the 
 failure of her prediction, of the impossibility of his 
 (Marlow's) recovery. St. Orme felt, indeed, that it would 
 be dangerous to trust to one so ignorant, obstinate, and 
 selfish, in the pursuance of the system on which he was 
 convinced depended Marlow's complete restoration, and 
 anxious as he was both on his own account and that of 
 Katharine to pursue the plan he had previously marked 
 out — in the first place, for his own restoration to the good 
 opinion of his employers, and consequently to the situa- 
 tion he had held in the office, on which, indeed, he felt 
 depended the means necessary for the prosecution of 
 his search after Katharine — lie determined to defer the 
 consideration of these all important projects until he felt 
 that he could leave Marlow with security — until, in fact. 
 
000 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the latter was suilJcieutly restored to be able to enforce 
 proper attention from the woman who had proved how 
 little she was to be depended upon when left to her own 
 guidance. Mrs. Leigh had, indeed, promised more care- 
 ful inspection of the woman's conduct, but the manner 
 in which she replied to St. Orme's hint, that it might be 
 possible to procure some one more trustworthy, dis- 
 couraged him. 
 
 " They are all alike, Mr. St. Orme," she observed in 
 reply. " All anxious only about their pay, and getting 
 it with as little trouble as they can ; and indeed, how 
 can we expect otherwise, where there's no motive but 
 money to bind them ?" 
 
 For two long tedious days, and the greater part of the 
 nights, St. Orme devoted himself to the task he had 
 undertaken, and was rewarded by the progressive im- 
 provement of the invalid, whose gratitude, as he became 
 thoroughly sensible of his disinterested services, seemed 
 totally to have changed Marlow's character, though he 
 was still unacquainted with the full extent of the 
 sacrifice St. Orme had made. Fearful of the effect of 
 excitement in his weak state, St. Orme suppressed all 
 particulars of the events that had happened since he and 
 Marlow last met ; but when the third night of his devo- 
 tion to the sick chamber came, his (St. Orme's) restless- 
 ness and uneasiness became so palpable, that Marlow be- 
 came convinced some motive more forcible than his friend 
 was willing to avow disturbed his mind and demanded 
 his attention beyond the confines of the sick chamber. 
 
 Hitherto Marlow had shrank from the thought of being 
 left alone. He had turned a deaf ear to every hint of St. 
 Orme's — that the presence of the latter was required else- 
 where — and with almost the helplessness and petulance of 
 
OK WOMAN'S LIFE; 901 
 
 childhood had entreated his friend not to leave him until 
 he was stronger — ahle to leave his bed. But on the 
 third night he seemed suddenly to he struck with the 
 selfishness of his conduct, and after for some time 
 earnestly watching St. Orme's disturbed and dejected 
 countenance, became as anxious that the latter should 
 leave him, at least for the night, as he had before stren- 
 uously opposed it. 
 
 He (Marlow) had, greatly to the dissatisfaction of the 
 nurse, sat up for an hour, and he now declared that he 
 was convinced he should sleep soundly while St. Orme 
 was away if he would promise to return to breakfast. 
 The desired promise was given and St. Orme departed. 
 
 Long as he had reflected on the subject, and it had 
 been the constant occupation of his thoughts in " the 
 silent watches of the night" by the bedside of his friend, 
 St. Orme found himself in the street as much at a loss as 
 ever as to the course he should take in search of Katha- 
 rine, and he stood for some time undetermined even which 
 way to turn, for he could not bring himself to go home 
 quietly and lose another night without making at least 
 an effort to discover her. It was not likely, he thought, 
 that she would return to the scenes where she had 
 suffered so severely ; and yet, almost unconsciously, he 
 took the direction towards the neighbourhood of the 
 theatres. All there, as on the night he had before 
 visited it, bore outwardly the appearance of gaiety and 
 mirth, but St. Orme shuddered, and seemed to shrink 
 into himsolf to avoid contact with the gay groups that 
 were passing and repassing. 
 
 " It is madness to linger here !" he at length uttered, 
 as he stood for a few moments at the foot of the steps of 
 the box entrance to Drurv Lane Theatre. It was almost 
 
002 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the very spot where he had first beheld Katharine, and 
 it seemed as if he was drawn thither by a magnet. The 
 spell must be broken, however, and he was just turning 
 away without any definite purpose, when he was accosted 
 by two females, whose faces he instantly recognised 
 as having been of the party who had attended the last 
 examination at Bow-street. His first impulse was to 
 pass on in silence, for Ins heart shrank from all commu- 
 nication with them, but a sudden thought that it was 
 possible they might know something of the fate of 
 Katharine, altered his determination. 
 
 Their first words were congratulations at his having 
 recovered his liberty, not indeed, expressed in those 
 words, but in the low slang of the times. The next was 
 the usual demand — 
 
 "Well, what are you going to stand?" which St. 
 Orme had by this time learned to interpret as a request 
 for liquor. 
 
 Fortunately he had borrowed a few shillings from the 
 purse which Marlow had placed at his disposal, and 
 putting one into the nearest hand was about to pass on, 
 observing — " that he was in a hurry," when the same 
 female who had first spoken, observed — 
 
 " Well, I will say you're a trump, and I only wish I'd 
 such a chance as she had, I'd have stuck to you like 
 bricks, and the richest Jew in England, or anywhere else, 
 should not have tempted me." 
 
 " Nor me, either," said her companion. " Besides, I 
 hate the Jews, rich or poor. They never look clean and 
 fresh, and I wonder such a delicate finiken Miss, as 
 Katharine, as she was, could — " 
 
 " Katharine, who ? — of what are you speaking ?'" in- 
 terrupted St. Orme, eagerly. 
 
of woman's life. 903 
 
 " Who ? why, your Katharine!" replied the girl laugh- 
 ing. " But I won't tell you another word without you '11 
 come over to the Harp and take a drain with us. I hate 
 taking your money if you're above drinking with us." 
 
 St. Orme did not reply, but full of eager expectation 
 he followed the two women to the house they had 
 named, which was directly opposite the pit-door of 
 the theatre. 
 
 " Now tell me — what do you know of Katharine, and 
 who is this Jew you spoke of?" he said. 
 
 "La ! why sure you saw the Jew-gentleman that was 
 talking to her in the office when you w T as before the beak. 
 Everybody was noticing how struck he w r as with her ; 
 and ever so many among us said it was all up with you, 
 for money always carries the day in the end; and as it 
 was plain you had not got much, and he seemed to 
 have a plenty, it was sure to end in her giving you the 
 go by." 
 
 " But all this is nothing but conjecture," exclaimed 
 St. Orme impatiently. " Tell me what you know T , if 
 anything is known." 
 
 " Well, you know in course about the Jew's being 
 robbed and knocked about by a parcel of thieves in Bow- 
 street, and how Katharine stuck to him like bricks and 
 mortar, and was the means of saving him from worse." 
 
 St. Orme did not know anything about it, but he 
 suppressed even a word of exclamation, lest he should 
 prolong the story, and the girl went on to relate, though 
 very imperfectly, what had happened after the poor 
 Hebrew's being sent to the hospital ; Mr. Smithers' 
 liberality being highly vaunted, and at the same time his 
 unaccountable prejudice against Katharine Beresford 
 being spoken of as something quite unaccountable, it 
 
90-1 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 being well known that he was uniformly a friend to 
 every one who bore the shape of woman ; " and had more 
 than once," as she said, " got himself into disgrace with 
 the cross old beaks, for taking the girls' parts that were 
 brought up by other officers." 
 
 " So it was, however," continued St. Orme's present 
 companion, " that Smithers seemed set against Kate. 
 He swore that she was concerned in robbing the Jew ; 
 that it was a put-up between them, and though the poor 
 fellow begged for his life that she would go with him 
 in the coach, the trap wouldn't let her go, but swore 
 he'd keep her in the Stone-jug till the Jew was well 
 enough to come before the beak and tell his story." 
 
 " The Stone-jug !" St. Orme in vain tried to compre- 
 hend her meaning, but her companion, who was much 
 quieter in her manner, and saw his difficulty, explained 
 that it meant the officer insisted on detaining the unfor- 
 tunate Katharine in prison until the Jew could explain 
 what had occurred. 
 
 "And is she there now ?" exclaimed St. Orme starting 
 up from his seat. 
 
 " Why, no ! I can't say she is there, now," she replied, 
 " nor, indeed, exactly where she is, for there's lots of 
 stories telling about her ; but one thing's certain, that 
 she got away from the trap somehow before the time 
 came for her being brought before the beak, though the 
 Jew had got well enough to go up against her — however, to 
 make a long story short, she got away ; but when she 
 went to the hospital, Moses was gone, and nobody knew 
 where ; and whether it was that she was disappointed at 
 that, for they do say he had promised to take her and 
 keep her like a lady ; or, as some say, that she was drove 
 to despair, by her mother's refusing to have anything 
 
OF woman's life. 905 
 
 to do with her; and, by-the-by, I just remember that it 
 was said — but you know best about that — that she 
 — Katharine, I mean — went mad, at hearing her sister 
 was going to be married to you, and you'd come into a 
 great fortune and a title, and would make a lady of 
 her — " 
 
 St. Orme uttered a vehement expletive. 
 
 " Tell me, for God's sake !" he exclaimed, " tell me 
 the real truth ; this is all a ridiculous invention ; tell me 
 where Katharine is. What has happened to her ?" 
 
 " Lord ! why should you be so concerned for her who 
 cares nothing about you !" exclaimed the woman angrily. 
 " However, I believe she's safe enough now ; though 
 I won't deceive you, she has had a narrow escape for her 
 life. Whether it was about you, as some say, or that 
 Smithers was after her, to take her again into custody, 
 and bring the Jew against her, it's certain that she did 
 what many a bright girl has done before— and as I shall 
 do, perhaps, some day or another ; she made a hole in 
 the water — jumped from Waterloo Bridge, and was with 
 the greatest difficulty saved from a watery grave." 
 
 St. Orme turned ghastly pale ; he sank down faint, 
 horror-struck, and for some minutes speechless. Never 
 until that moment had he felt the full extent of that tie 
 which seemed to have bound his fate with the unfortunate 
 girl, to whom, hitherto, he had believed he felt nothing 
 beyond the purest compassion and sympathy. From the 
 supposition of uniting himself with Ellen (her sister,) he 
 shrank with repugnance; while it was equally certain 
 that these recent events — even had there existed no 
 previous bar to their happiness — these recent circum- 
 stances, even if not misrepresented and exaggerated by 
 
 the low-minded, callous-hearted woman, from whom he 
 5 z 
 
906 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 had learned them, had placed an insuperable bar — had 
 dissipated every secret hope that he had, almost uncon- 
 sciously to himself, encouraged. 
 
 " Poor, unhappy girl ! with all thy faults more sinned 
 against than sinning," he murmured ; " can I wonder 
 that with such experience of man's inhumanity you 
 should rather trust yourself to the mercy of your God ?" 
 
 A loud coarse laugh from his companions reminded 
 St. Orme that he was, unconsciously, by speaking aloud, 
 betraying his feelings to those who could scarcely under- 
 stand, much less appreciate them. 
 
 " Why, you're talking as if the gal was really gone to 
 glory," observed the elder and bolder of the two, laughing 
 again at his confusion ; " but don't frighten yourself, 
 Kate's still alive and lipping, though I b'lieve she had 
 a narrow squeak for her life." 
 
 " They do say that she's turned Jewess, and is going 
 to be married to the old Jew, who's worth lots of 
 money," observed the younger woman. 
 
 " Oh, bother ! I don't believe a word of his marrying 
 her," rejoined her companion; "them fellows never do 
 marry Christians, i" heard she's a living with him, and 
 that he keeps her like a queen ; but it won't last, you 
 may be sure; she's too much of the lady — too sentimental, 
 and all that sort o'thing, and he'll soon be tired of her 
 weeping and wailing ways." 
 
 "They're very generous, though, where they take— the 
 Moseses," returned her friend; " and as she hasn't learnt 
 to take her drops, as you and I have, Charlotte, Katha- 
 rine will, maybe, lay up something handsome against 
 a rainy day." 
 
 The other shook her head distrustfully. 
 
 " She's too open-hearted for that," she replied. "I've 
 
OF woman's life. 1)07 
 
 heard that two or three that have found her out by 
 meeting her at the theatre and the Opera, and so on, 
 with her old man — for he's like all the ' Peoples,' doting 
 fond of public places — have got lots of money out of 
 her by their tales of distress. Susan Miller (Black-eyed 
 Susan, as they call her) was one that I heard got a ten- 
 pound note out of Katharine. Sue has got three or four 
 brats to keep, you know — all that was left her as a legacy 
 by a gentleman of large fortune, that she lived with 
 as his wife from the time she was fifteen till his death." 
 
 "Just the story to catch Kate's tender heart," re- 
 turned her companion ; " but I should think old Moses 
 wouldn't like her giving his money away in that manner. 
 His 'peoples' like to have more per cent than they'd get 
 in charity." 
 
 " I should think so," was the reply, " and as to Miss 
 Beresford — as I b'lieve she's called now — she's a fool for 
 her pains, not to make a better use of her ten-pound 
 notes, if she's got them to spare, than to help Sue to 
 keep her family, who'd be much better in the workhouse, 
 where they must go at last, let the mother strive as she 
 will to keep them out of it ; and I b'lieve she does her 
 best, poor wretch." 
 
 It required the exercise of considerable artifice and 
 ingenuity on the part of St. Orme to obtain from the 
 females (his present companions,) any clue to the infor- 
 mation he was so anxious to get. He saw that money 
 could alone procure the information he desired; and 
 making an excuse to leave them for a few minutes, he 
 contrived to change one of the notes he had received 
 from Ellen Beresford, satisfied that he could not apply 
 it to a better purpose, even should he not be able im- 
 mediately to replace it, which he had little fear of doing. 
 
908 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Convinced that no delicacy was necessary towards these 
 mercenary women, he produced a guinea on his return 
 to the room, expressly stating that he should expect in 
 return to receive the address of Susan Miller. 
 
 " I really don't know where she lives," replied the 
 elder, " but if you've made up your mind to throw your 
 money away upon her and her brats, she may be met 
 with every evening at an oyster shop in Brydges Street, 
 Covent Garden." 
 
 It was now, St. Orme thought, too late to profit 
 by the discovery he had made, and he therefore pro- 
 ceeded at once to his lodgings, there to pass a sleepless 
 night in reflection on that which had seemed to rob life 
 of all its charms, and leave on his heart a heavy weight 
 from which he could never hope to be relieved. 
 
of woman's life. 909 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 He who hatli bent him o'er the dead, 
 
 Ere the first day of death is fled— 
 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 
 
 The last of danger and distress- 
 Before decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, 
 
 And marked the mild angelic air, 
 
 The rapture of repose that's there — 
 
 The fixed, yet tender traits, that streak 
 
 The languor of the placid cheek — 
 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 
 That fires not — wins not — weeps not — now— 
 And but for that chill changeless brow, 
 
 "Whose touch thrills with mortality, 
 
 And curdles it to the gazer's heart, 
 
 As if to him it could impart 
 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon — 
 
 Yes — but for these — and these alone — 
 
 Some moments — aye — one treacherous hour, 
 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power, 
 
 So fair — so calm — so softly sealed 
 
 The first — last look — by death revealed ! BmoN. 
 
 It was nearly ten o'clock on the evening following 
 that of the events which we have recorded in the preceding 
 chapter, before St. Orme was released from his atten- 
 dance on Marlow, whose disorder had that day taken a 
 very unfavourable turn, and who for the first time, having 
 become impressed with the belief that he should not 
 recover, had sunk into a state of mental despondency, 
 that required all his (St. Orme's) kind and energetic 
 efforts to combat. 
 
 By every means that kindness, good sense and natural 
 piety could suggest, St. Orme strove to console his un- 
 happy friend, and lead him to that source from which 
 only real and solid consolation could be derived — tho 
 
010 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 niercy of his Creator, that mercy without which the best 
 of human beings must be as guilty sinners in the eyes of 
 the All Perfect ; and his efforts were at length rewarded 
 by seeing his friend attain a state of comparative calmness. 
 It was late, however, in the evening, before Marlow's irrita- 
 bility and restlessness yielded to a deep and undisturbed 
 repose, which the medical attendant prognosticated as 
 likely to prove a favourable crisis, declaring that St. 
 Orme might quit him without fear for some hours, as 
 there was every probability it would last till daybreak, if 
 not longer. 
 
 Marlow's lodgings were not far distant from Brydges 
 Street, to which St. Orme had been directed in search of 
 Susan Miller, and thither the latter immediately pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 The place he entered was in external appearance a 
 common shell-fish shop, with rather a scanty supply of the 
 usual stock of such places, and the fittings up betraying, 
 by their paltriness and tawdriness, the struggle between 
 poverty and pretence. He was ushered into the Saloon, 
 as it was called, a narrow back parlour, fitted up with a few 
 boxes with seats and scanty red stuff curtains, with affected 
 bustle and parade by the master of the shop, who, re- 
 moving, with little show of ceremony, principally by the 
 thrusting of his sharp elbows in their sides, and his 
 exclamations of " Come ladies, ladies ! you mustn't take 
 up all the fireside in this manner," scattered a group of 
 showily attired females, who with two or three whose 
 appearance betrayed the depths of poverty, though set 
 off to the best advantage, were crowding round the 
 miserable dirty bit of fire half-choked with ashes, as if 
 they were seldom acquainted with the comforts of a fire- 
 side. Seated in the boxes, the tables and accommoda- 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 911 
 
 tions of which appeared equally uninviting and wanting 
 necessary cleanliness, were two or three gentlemen, or ra- 
 ther of that class now significantly called ' gents' — a title 
 which cuts off at least the best portion of their claim to 
 the former — who in company of some young girls, whose 
 dress, or undress, being, according to the fashion of the 
 day, on the very verge of indecency, showed they had 
 either just quitted, or were about to visit, one of the 
 theatres in the neighbourhood. These, more fortunate 
 than their companions who had been displaced from the 
 fireside, were partaking of refreshments in the shape of 
 oysters, doubtful-looking lobsters, or lean lanky mutton 
 chops, with roasted potatoes, one of which being, with 
 that absence of care and ceremony which distinguished 
 alike the proprietor (Mr. Black,) and his visitors, tossed 
 across the room by one of the fortunate ladies to a less 
 fortunate friend, with the exclamation — " Here Nelly, 
 old gal, here's something to warm you," was arrested 
 in its career by striking St. Orme on the side of his 
 head, and being thus broken, he received the greater 
 part of it in the collar of his coat. 
 
 There was a general laugh, wdiich at first annoyed St. 
 Orme, from the belief that it was a purposed insult ; but 
 there was a genuine good nature in the apology of the 
 young girl for her awkwardness, and still more of humour 
 in the female, who regretted the loss of her potatoe, 
 observing, though joining in the laugh — " that she was 
 most to be pitied, for she had lost breakfast, dinner, and 
 unless some good soul paid a penny for another, should 
 perhaps go to bed without supper, that he was quite 
 disarmed of his resentment, and interfered effectually to 
 silence Mr. Black, who had vowed, with not a few exple- 
 tives to enforce it, that he would turn anybody out of his 
 
912 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 house, if he thought they dared affront a gentleman in 
 that manner, and producing a brush, proceeded with great 
 alacrity to remove the cause of the annoyance from St. 
 Orme's collar. During this operation the eyes of the 
 latter had been earnestly scanning the various female 
 faces, to discover if there was one who answered to the 
 description that had been given him of Black-eyed Susan, 
 or Susan Miller. There were many beautiful pairs of 
 black eyes, but they were all too young to be the mothers 
 of children. The only one that could possibly answer 
 the description was the female who had been deprived of 
 the potato, and certainly what she had said — the apparent 
 poverty of her dress, and the beauty of a most expressive 
 pair of dark eyes — might have convinced him he had 
 fixed on the right person; but then she had plainly been 
 addressed by her friend as Nelly, which was of course 
 the diminutive of Elinor. He could not, though he 
 knew not why, at once avow for what purpose he came 
 there, he at length having given orders for supper, in 
 which he was guided by the supposed necessities of the 
 female in question (Elinor,) than his own appetite, in- 
 vited her to partake with him, observing — " That as he 
 had been the involuntary cause of destroying her supper, 
 she must allow him to repair her loss." 
 
 Though possessing all the ease and freedom, perhaps 
 boldness, of the class to which she belonged, St. Orrne 
 found his companion a woman of superior education, and 
 with that tact which enabled her to discriminate his 
 motives, and adapt her conversation to one so much 
 superior to the dissipated men with whom she was gene- 
 rally associated. 
 
 " Will you forgive me," she observed, " if I ask you 
 what may appear perhaps an impertinent question ?" 
 
of woman's life. 913 
 
 " I cannot think you mean it to be so/' lie replied, 
 " and therefore it is already forgiven." 
 
 " Well then, tell me what motive brought you here to 
 night ? You did not come to sup, for you have scarcely 
 eaten a mouthful. Your looks are so melancholy, that I 
 am sure you can derive no pleasure from such society as 
 you find here, and — " 
 
 St. Orme seized the opportunity of avowing his real 
 motive. 
 
 " Susan Miller !" she replied, looking surprised. " Is 
 she a friend of yours ?" 
 
 " No ! I never saw her," he replied, " but, I believe 
 she can give me intelligence on a subject that I am 
 interested in." 
 
 She reflected a moment or two. 
 
 " I could tell you where she lives," she replied, " for 
 she will not be here to-night, nor perhaps for some time 
 to come, for Susan is like me, she only comes here when 
 she can go no where else. But, perhaps, she will not 
 thank me for my officiousness." 
 
 St. Orme, however, pressed her so closely, and assured 
 her that he had no motive in wishing to see the female 
 in question, but to acquire intelligence of a mutual 
 friend, that she at length gave him the direction to a 
 third-floor back-room in Clement's Lane, Strand. 
 
 " I'll show you, Sir. I know Mrs. Miller, Sir. I've 
 often been up to play with little Susan," said in answer 
 to his inquiries half a dozen dirty little children, who 
 were at play in tho street, while audible whispers respec- 
 ting the reward of a half-penny or penny for showing the 
 way, were heard, and there seemed a disposition to fight 
 for it even before it was earned. 
 
 It was a new leaf in the book to St. Orme, the in- 
 G A 
 
914 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 fluence of money in such mere infants, but he selected 
 one who was the least clamorous, and followed her up the 
 dark, steep, broken and dirty stairs. 
 
 There was music, melancholy music, in the voice that, 
 when he tapped at the door, replied — 
 
 " Come in." But not even that, nor the description he had 
 previously received of Black-eyed Susan, had prepared 
 him for the sight of the beautiful and elegant woman, 
 -who rose in confusion, with a child in her arms, and 
 another clinging to her gown, while a third stood with 
 her large thoughtful eyes " deep as night,'' fixed on him 
 with a look that denoted she seldom saw a stranger 
 there. 
 
 Scarcely was St. Orme's confusion, as he apologised 
 for his intrusion, less than Mrs. Miller's at seeing them 
 here. Alas ! pride still retained its place in the heart of 
 the fallen woman, and she looked round the poverty- 
 striken apartment with a blush of anger, shame, and 
 vexation, though she forbore to make any apology, but 
 coolly inquired the purport of his visit. 
 
 At the mention of Katharine Beresford, however, her 
 beautiful face assumed a totally different expression, and 
 she became immediately gentle and interested, while St. 
 Orme proceeded to say, as he had planned, that he was a 
 friend of Miss Beresford's, and was charged with a 
 mission from her sister Ellen. That he had been unable 
 to discover her residence, but had accidentally discovered 
 that Mrs. Miller was acquainted with it. 
 
 Tears streamed down her cheeks, as Mrs. Miller replied 
 — " that she should be happy, if she had it in her power, 
 to serve Miss Beresford, or any of her friends." 
 
 " She is the best — the most generous of human beings," 
 she continued, " If I could be sure, that I should not be 
 
of woman's life. 315 
 
 doing wrong — that nothing unpleasant would arise from 
 it, or that Miss Beresford would have reason to he angry 
 with me, I could put you in the way to see her this very 
 evening. All I wish to secure, is, — that there shall he no 
 mischief made between her and her protector. His people 
 are naturally, I have heard, inclined to he jealous, 
 and — " 
 
 St. Orme interrupted her ; he could not bear to hear 
 it spoken of in that light, but he was ready to promise 
 what Susan required, that he would not even speak 
 to Katharine in the presence of De Souza, unless encou- 
 raged by Katharine herself. 
 
 This appeared satisfactory, and his companion then 
 informed him, that she had accidentally learned that 
 the Jew had purchased tickets for a masquerade at the 
 Pantheon, in Oxford Street. 
 
 " You know, I dare say," she continued " how fond his 
 people all are of theatrical amusements; and I have 
 heard that this Mr. De Souza has been the proprietor of 
 a foreign theatre ; that he intends to bring Miss Beres- 
 ford forward on the stage, either in London or Paris, 
 and that she is now taking lessons for the purpose, 
 either as a singer or dancer, for both of which she has 
 great talents." 
 
 " Mercenary wretch !" murmured St. Orme, who already 
 disposed to hate De Souza, now felt the utmost contempt 
 towards him. 
 
 Susan Miller said she could give him no information 
 as to the characters in which Katharine and her com- 
 panion were to appear, and St. Orme, having given the 
 children a present, more suited to . his spirit than his 
 means, bade her adieu, and proceeded, according to her 
 directions, to a masquerade warehouse in Berwick Street, 
 
916 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 near the Pantheon. Every Domino, to his vexation, 
 was already engaged, and he was unwillingly compelled 
 to take a character dress, taking one that would require 
 little exertion on his part, that of an English Cavalier of 
 the reign of Charles the First. The brilliant room was 
 already crowded when St. Orme entered, and dazzled 
 and perplexed at a scene so novel to him, he gazed 
 around him with a feeling almost of despair that he 
 should succeed in attaining his object, so complete to 
 him appeared the various disguises by which he was 
 surrounded. Once only the deception that he had made 
 the desired discovery, was prolonged beyond a few 
 minutes. A group entered whose costume was in strict 
 accordance with such characters as it appeared probable 
 Souza and his friends would assume. They were five 
 persons, in the habits of Isaac the Jew of York, his 
 daughter Rebecca, the Lady Rowena, and the two serfs, 
 Gurth and Wamba, from the novel of Ivanhoe. Regard- 
 less of all around, St. Orme pressed through the crowd 
 who had been attracted by the striking appearance and 
 faultless costume of this party ; but with all his exertions 
 he could not get near enough to the representative of the 
 Jew's daughter, in whose faultless form and graceful 
 movements he believed he recognised Katharine Beres- 
 ford. The antics of the imaginary fool, Wamba, seemed 
 purposely to interpose a barrier between, not only him, 
 but any who would have addressed the two females, and 
 St. Orme trembled with impatience to catch a sound 
 from her lips. At length the attention of the frivolous 
 crowd was suddenly called to the temporary stage a£ 
 the upper end of -the room, and the whole group 
 which had absorbed St. Orme's every thought and look, 
 rushed away with the rest, while St. Orme, determined 
 
OF woman's life. 917 
 
 not to lose sight of them, desperately forced his way 
 through the crowd in the same direction. He had already 
 almost attained his object, and in another second his 
 hand would have been on her arm, and the name Katha- 
 rine breathed in her ear, when she turned her head, and 
 in a voice that was utterly strange, observed to her com- 
 panion, the Eowena — " Yes, the tallest is the Miss 
 Beresford, who — " 
 
 St. Orme heard no more, his head swam, and his eyes 
 were fixed upon the figure before him, to the exclusion 
 of the whole world beside. Was he in a dream ? — could 
 he believe those eyes ? Yes, it was her ! The tallest of 
 whom his imaginary Katharine had spoken, was ac- 
 tually herself before him. 
 
 Quietly as possible he retreated from the place which 
 he had with such difficulty attained. He reached a seat 
 from which he could see all that passed on the stage 
 without being recognised by Katharine. He felt sick, 
 wretched and faint, and beckoning to one of the waiters, 
 desired him to bring him a glass of spirits and water. 
 It was probable the man mistook the order, or seeing 
 his deathlike paleness, fancied that he required something 
 more potent, and St. Orme, scarcely conscious what he 
 was doing, at once swallowed the brandy that had been 
 brought him. Weakened as he was by the eventful 
 scenes of the last few weeks, the liquor, unaccus- 
 tomed as he was to such fiery potions, had a powerful 
 effect upon him— it seemed to have revived all his energies 
 — and he sat in comparative calmness watching the pro- 
 ceedings on the stage. Graceful and elegant in every 
 motion, Katharine excited universal admiration, although 
 it was very evident that she was quite a novice compared 
 to her two companions. In a pas mil, her beauty, and 
 
i)18 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 even timidity, drew unlimited applause ; and equally 
 favourable was the impression Katharine made on the 
 spectators in the pas de trots, or hoop dance, which 
 closed the exhibition as far she was concerned. The 
 curtain fell, and she disappeared amidst the most 
 enthusiastic plaudits. Until that moment, it had never 
 occurred to St. Orme that he might meet with obstacles 
 to the interview he was bent on obtaining, though for 
 what purpose it was impossible to say. He started up, 
 for at that moment Katharine had disappeared, and 
 heedless, in his confusion, he was about to make his 
 way through the Orchestra, when he was forcibly drawn 
 back by several hands, while loud remonstrances were 
 uttered, and demands made as to his purpose. 
 
 " Miss Beresford — the lady — one of the ladies,'' he 
 with difficulty uttered. " I must see her and speak to 
 her — for one moment — it is of importance to me." 
 
 "Very likely," replied one who still held his arm, 
 " but you must ask the lady's consent first ; and perhaps 
 she would like the conversation to be a little more 
 private." 
 
 St. Orme's eyes darted fire, for the speaker's observa- 
 tion was followed by a loud burst of laughter, which 
 sounded in his ears anything but respectful to the object 
 of it. 
 
 " You can't be allowed to stop the stage business to 
 hold conversations," remarked another official, as well as 
 the first in livery. " You'd better sit down and be quiet, 
 or we shall be under the disagreeable necessity of turning 
 you out." 
 
 The cool insolence with which this was uttered aroused 
 St. Orme's passions to fever heat. He was unconscious 
 of the effect the fiery spirit he had swallowed had taken 
 

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 //////// /// //// //////////// / // //>/■ //y/.j ,'f //,/.> /rt/^ 
 
 ///■'V/ //////> / 
 
of woman's life. 919 
 
 upon him. He was unconscious, indeed, that he was 
 in reality ill, that his close attention upon Marlow had 
 brought upon him a similar attack, even if the fever 
 were not contagious, which, the physician's system, who 
 attended the former, would not allow it to be ; but he 
 felt that he was not right — his head swam, his eyes 
 dazzled, and he tried in vain to collect his thoughts so 
 as fully to comprehend what was addressed to him. One 
 impression seemed paramount to all others, that Katha- 
 rine was made the subject of ridicule or insult, and that 
 he could not, would not quietly bear. Again he de- 
 manded to see Miss Beresford immediately, though with 
 a vague consciousness that he must pursue some other 
 means to obtain the interview. The cool laugh of the 
 man whom he first addressed increased his irritability, 
 but he made a strong effort to subdue it, and turned to 
 the other. 
 
 "And who the devil is Miss Beresford ?" replied the 
 man, turning to his companion. 
 
 " How should I know," was the answer. " One of the 
 ballet girls, I suppose, for I don't know the name. If 
 you want to see any of the girls, you must wait till 
 they 've done their night's work. It ain't any part of 
 mine to hunt them out, just to please any of the visitors 
 who are in a hurry to get to their doxies." 
 
 The last words were uttered in a half whisper, but, 
 unfortunately, they were distinctly audible to St. Orme, 
 and in another moment the man measured his length on 
 the ground at his feet. All was now confusion and riot. 
 There were plenty idle and thoughtless enough to try to 
 foment a disturbance that promised the excitement of a 
 fight Tbe ladies screamed, the men shouted and 
 espoused some one side and some the other, with pro- 
 
920 8IIADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 bably little knowledge of the justice of either; but St. 
 Orme was soon exhausted, and was supported to a seat 
 by one or two who had more humanity, if not more 
 knowledge of the provocation given, and more anxious to 
 see justice clone according to their opinion, in other 
 words, to enable him (St. Orme,) to have his revenge 
 upon his assailant. 
 
 Half a dozen remedies were suggested in less than as 
 many seconds for the injuries he had sustained, but they 
 were alike rejected. St. Orme was too stunned and con- 
 fused to be perfectly conscious what those injuries were ; 
 that one of his eyes was contused, and swollen up, and 
 from a cut on his head the blood was copiously flowing. 
 His thirst was intense, and he eagerly accepted more 
 than one draught that was held to his lips by those 
 around him, without knowing what he swallowed, or 
 being aware that these fiery potations were adding ten- 
 fold to the fever and excitement under which he was 
 suffering. But one thought remained clearly present to 
 him — that which had actuated all his previous movements 
 — the desire to see and speak with Katharine ; and now, as 
 he yielded without opposition to what was done for his 
 relief by two or three of the bystanders, who appeared 
 disinterestedly anxious to assist him, his wandering eye 
 and abstracted manner betrayed that self was his least 
 consideration at that moment. There was one gentle- 
 manly young man among those who surrounded him, 
 who appeared to have paid more serious attention, and to 
 have come nearer to an understanding of what had 
 taken place, than any of those who were all talking 
 together, and uttering their various opinions and sug- 
 gestions as to what had been, and what was to be done, 
 either to obtain justice for, or extricate St. Orme from 
 
OF woman's life. 921 
 
 his present painful position. It was the former who now 
 took advantage of a favourable opportunity to address 
 the object of so much curiosity and interest. 
 
 " If I am not mistaken," he observed, " all this arose 
 from your discovery in the person of one of the principal 
 dancers — the one who appeared in public for the first time 
 to night I mean — a female whom you have previously 
 known in different circumstances, and it appears under 
 another name." 
 
 " You are quite right," replied St. Orme, with evident 
 surprise. " Do you know — Can you tell me — " 
 
 "I know nothing," he replied ; "but, I think, by going 
 calmly and quietly about it, and the exercise of a little 
 ingenuity, as well as a trifling sum of money, it would 
 be easy for you to obtain all the information of which 
 you appear so desirous." 
 
 St. Orme fervently grasped his hand. 
 
 " Oh, if you would assist me to do this," he exclaimed, 
 " my obligations to you — I am so ill, so confused," — he 
 added, pressing his hand to his forehead with an expres- 
 sion of intense pain — " that I am scarcely capable of ex- 
 plaining. But you understand it is my most fervent 
 wish — " 
 
 " Stop ; we will first get away from these people, who, 
 though their intentions are, perhaps, good, can be of no 
 service to you. Will you empower me to make up the 
 matter with the man who pretends you have injured him, 
 and who may be very troublesome, and stand in the way 
 of your accomplishing your purpose, unless you make it 
 up with him, which, of course can only be done by 
 money — the grand panacea for all such hurts with 
 his class." 
 
 St. Orme eagerly assented. He owned he scarcely 
 B 
 
922 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 knew what lie had done, or what would be a fair com- 
 pensation, if — " 
 
 "I do not say the fellow deserves anything," replied 
 his self-constituted friend. On the contrary, his insolence 
 richly deserved what he got ; but we must not look at the 
 justice of the matter, but the policy of getting rid of an 
 impediment that may prevent you — " 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! no delay," exclaimed St. Orme, putting 
 one of the bank-notes from his pocket-book into his 
 hand. "Do as you think right, and then — " 
 
 The dreadful injuries were compensated by a few 
 shillings, and St. Orme's late adversary, now converted 
 into a civil attendant, led the way to a private room, 
 where he declared Ins readiness to answer any questions, 
 or to do anything in fact the gentlemen required to 
 further St. Orme's desires. 
 
 " Who, then, was the young lady, or rather, what was 
 known of her there, who had that night made her first 
 appearance as a ballet dancer ?" 
 
 The man evidently knew very little of the matter, 
 nothing indeed, except that she was called Mademoiselle 
 Katerina, and was said to be a Jewess, the illegitimate 
 daughter of a very rich Jewish merchant, either a Spaniard 
 or a Portuguese, and that her appearance here was only 
 by way of practice to accustom her to the stage, as she 
 was going abroad to appear as first dancer, or as the man 
 styled it, 'Prima Danseuse,' at one of the great theatres 
 on the continent. He added, that the Jew who was 
 said to be her father, seemed very proud and careful of 
 her ; he always brought her to the Pantheon to rehearsals 
 — of which there had been several extraordinary ones, for 
 which it was known his money had paid — in his own 
 carriage and stayed with her all the time, for which he 
 
of woman's life. 923 
 
 was laughed at by all the other ladies of the ballet. He 
 occupied a private box that evening, in which she had sat 
 till she went to dress for her appearance on the stage, 
 and had been hurried home by him (the Jew) as soon as 
 the Pas de Trots was over, without changing her dress, in 
 the same carriage. There was an addition to this infor- 
 mation, which the man came back to the room to impart, 
 having afterwards learned it, that the Jew gentleman — 
 this was a spontaneous title that had not before been 
 given to him — had been so pleased at Madlle. Katerina's 
 success, that he had ordered, and, what was more, paid 
 for, a capital supper, wine, &c, to be sent in from 
 Fladong's Hotel, Oxford Street, after the performance, of 
 which every body belonging to the theatre was to 
 partake. 
 
 " And does she — does Katharine" — faltered St. Orme, 
 who had listened in silent agony to these explanations, 
 which had blasted every hope, if indeed he could have 
 madly retained hope till then. 
 
 " Why, no, Sir !" returned the man, comprehending, 
 it seemed, the question St. Orme would have asked, 
 though his quivering lips refused to frame the words — 
 " Why, no, Sir, that's the funniest thing of all. They 
 thought — that is, the ladies and gentlemen of the ballet, 
 and the singers and orchestra, and of course, as you 
 know, they're some of 'em first-rate, quite the Dons of 
 the purfession — that the Jew gentleman and Madlle. 
 Katerina, would of course sit down to supper with them ; 
 but, no, he made a very handsome apology, that it is a 
 feast, or fast, or something of that sort in his religion, 
 aud that, therefore, he couldn't have the pleasure of 
 sitting down to table with them, which else he should 
 have been very happy to do ; so that of course settles the 
 
024 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 matter, as our ladies say that she is a Jewess as well 
 as him, which they'd all doubted before, and indeed, 
 there were some strange whispers going about before- 
 hand, that she was a Christian and an Englishwoman, 
 and no relation to Mr. De Souza, as he's called ; how- 
 ever, that's all settled now, because he calls her his 
 daughter in the note of apology ; and of course, if she 
 can't eat with Christians she can't be a Christian, though 
 she speaks as good English as you or I do." 
 
 St, Orme's friend smiled at this conclusion, and the 
 man was dismissed. 
 
 It scarcely needed the observations of the former to 
 assure his present companion that there was no founda- 
 tion for the conclusion that had been drawn from the 
 note of M. De Souza, any more than for the title he had 
 taken of father to the soi-dimnt Madlle. Katerina. That 
 there was as little reason for the pretended engagement of 
 the latter abroad likewise appeared probable. To St. 
 Orme it seemed clear, that the Hebrew's vanity was 
 gratified by this exhibition of the beauty and talent of 
 the unfortunate being whom his wealth had made his 
 slave — his vilest, most degraded slave. Oh! with what 
 agony did St. Orme reflect upon the misery which, in all 
 probability, awaited her when that man's transient passion 
 should have faded, or perhaps been effaced by some other 
 object, for that such a being a* he believed the Jew 
 to be, would feel towards Katharine more than the 
 transient passion which her beauty had kindled, he could 
 not believe; and then, like so many of her hapless sisters, 
 she would be " whistled down the wind a prey to for- 
 tune." And that fortune — He started frcm his seat at 
 the thought that rushed into his mind. 
 
 " No ! she shall not utterly perish ! I will save her 
 
of woman's liie. i)2 o 
 
 from that last, that utter degradation/' ho exclaimed, 
 unconscious that ho was uttering his thoughts aloud. 
 " Once more I will see her, and then, though I will 
 never behold her again, I will make her feel that there 
 is one heart which not even her guilt can harden against 
 her, to whom she can look with confidence for aid in 
 her necessities, and — " He caught the calm, thoughtful 
 eye of his companion fixed upon him with a look of 
 sorrow. 
 
 " I do not wish to force myself upon your confidence," 
 observed the latter, " but I am afraid you are hazarding 
 — Well, well, I hope from my soul that your generous 
 intentions may not be disappointed. If I could in any 
 way aid you. You are ill, too, and I do not like to leave 
 you until I see you with some friend. You look sur- 
 prised, but I will tell you that I am of the medical 
 profession, and that I see more than mental disease 
 in your face, and the spirits those thoughtless people 
 administered, in their ill-judging kindness, has aggra- 
 vated the fever that has a deeper origin than this night's 
 agitation. I mean, that you were ill before you came 
 here to-night." 
 
 " It is likely," returned St. Orme, who could not bo 
 insensible to so much disinterested kindness ; and he then 
 proceeded to relate his close attendance upon Marlow, 
 &c, to which he attributed the languor and novel sensa- 
 tions he had felt stealing over him. 
 
 The physician, for such it appeared he was, looked 
 serious, as lie enforced upon St. Orme the necessity of 
 his going immediately home, and paying proper attention 
 to himself ; but a new source of uneasiness had arisen in 
 the mind of the latter. If he were really in danger of 
 serious illness, it increased the necessity of that last 
 
026 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 interview with Katharine, last — who could tell that it 
 might not he the last in another point of view. The words 
 he muttered betrayed this feeling to his attentive friend. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he observed, " you take too serious 
 a view of this affair. With proper attention, I hope to 
 see you all right again. But you are impatient, I see ; 
 tell me how I can aid you. It will not be difficult, 
 I should think, to learn from some of the people 
 employed here where the man — this M. De Souza — 
 resides, and then you can probably devise how to see 
 this young female for whom you are so interested." 
 
 "Let me but know where she is," returned St. Orme. 
 " He dare not — shall not refuse me. I mil see her." 
 
 " Yes, but you must promise, for your own sake, to 
 proceed calmly and quietly. Nothing is gained, depend 
 upon it, by violence," replied his companion ; " and, even 
 if I were not convinced how necessary in your case it is 
 to avoid as much as possible all excitement, I should 
 require your promise to abstain from all violence, as the 
 surest method of attaining your object." 
 
 St. Orme was ready to promise any and everything ; 
 but his friend saw plainly that there was little depen- 
 dence to be placed on any resolutions he might make in 
 his present confused state of mind, and he determined to 
 accompany, and, as far as possible, restrain him. During 
 the time the physician was absent endeavouring to gain 
 the required information, St. Orme again sank into that 
 state of languor, and almost of unconsciousness, which 
 had been the first symptom of bis disease, and which 
 seemed now to threaten the failure of his exertions. 
 The Doctor would fain have taken advantage of this to 
 induce him to renounce it, for this night at least. He 
 pointed out too the unsuitableness of the hour — for it was 
 
OF woman's life. 927 
 
 now nearly midnight, — but St. Orme was again roused, 
 when he found that his friend had discovered M. De 
 Souza's residence. 
 
 There was, it appeared, a carriage in waiting at the 
 door of the Pantheon, though St. Orme was not suffi- 
 ciently collected to know that it was the private equipage 
 of his new friend, nor did he see the coachman's look of 
 surprise at the impatient command of the former to drive 
 
 as fast as possible to Terrace, New Road, and 
 
 the promise of reward that accompanied it. His master's 
 look, however, assured him that all was right, and that 
 he was to obey the orders given. The noise and bustle 
 which even at that hour prevailed in the neighbourhood 
 of the theatres of London, was soon left behind. St. 
 Orme seemed again temporarily lulled into quietude, 
 though the Doctor could see by the light of the carriage 
 lamps, that his companion's eyes were blazing, and his 
 cheeks crimsoned with the fever of excitement, when the 
 horses dashed up clattering on the stones of a paved 
 courtyard in front of a handsome substantial house in 
 
 Terrace. Before the coachman could ascend the 
 
 steps to give the necessary signal at the door, it was 
 opened, and an old grey headed man, in a flannel waist- 
 coat, and night-cap of the same material, looked peeringly 
 out into the darkness beyond. 
 
 " Hey, mine cootness ! for what you come when de 
 peoples is all to ped and sleep?'' he exclaimed. '"'De 
 shentilmans is come in de momin', dey is never come to 
 night before to-morrow. Dere now, look you, me shall 
 not let in de door, not for nobody at all." 
 
 " But I must see her to-night, I cannot wait till to- 
 morrow. Heaven knows," he added, his voice tremulous 
 with emotion, and his whole frame quivering as he leant 
 
0.23 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 upon his friend's arm for support. u Tell her I must, 
 and will — " 
 
 " Hush, hush ! remember your promise," whispered 
 the doctor. " My good friend," addressing the servant, 
 " this gentleman has most particular reason to wish to 
 see the young lady who" — A half-crown slipped into the 
 old man's hand seemed to engross the few remaining 
 faculties he possessed. He turned it over and over, and 
 then dropped it quietly into his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! de yonge lady, you shall say. Tis not for 
 de ole shentilmans you give de monies, and come so late 
 in de morning — night, but — Oh, mine cootness ! for 
 what, shall I say to de ole man, you come ?" 
 
 St. Orme's impatience had increased with every passing 
 moment. 
 
 " Let me but see her," he exclaimed, almost forcing 
 his way past the old man into the hall, and towards a 
 door, which he rightly guessed communicated with the 
 wing of the building in which from the outside he had 
 seen a lighted apartment. 
 
 "Ha ! ha ! but it not for dat de yonge lady shall go 
 in her way," almost shrieked the old attendant, trying to 
 prevent St. Orme's progress. He had advanced too far, 
 however, to be stayed, and, heedless of all consequences, 
 he staggered rather than walked forward through a long 
 and half-lighted passage, at the end of which he opened 
 a door, and found himself in the presence of a person 
 attired in a flowered dressing-gown, who was seated at a 
 small table. 
 
 The bald head, which it was easy to see was not so 
 much the consequences of age, but rather that the hair 
 had been purposely removed, or lost by the effect of 
 accident, and the long oriental dressing-gown, had so 
 
of woman's life. 020 
 
 changed his appearance, that it was only upon a Hearer 
 scrutiny that St. Ornie recognised the man in whose 
 company he had seen Katharine Beresford, at the moment 
 when he had heen separated from her at the Police 
 Office in Bow Street. 
 
 I\r. De Souza appeared equally surprised and un- 
 certain as to the identity of the intruder, whose appear- 
 ance at that moment was certainly as unexpected and 
 unaccountable as it was singular. St. Ormehad forgotten 
 until that moment that he was still in the dress that he 
 had worn at the Masquerade, hut that and everything 
 but indignation and contempt for the character of the 
 man were forgotten, as he replied to the question some- 
 what abruptly and haughtily put, though in very broken 
 and bad English. — " To what was he (M. De Souza) to 
 attribute the visit of a stranger at such an unseason- 
 able hour ?" 
 
 St. Orme's reply was equally abrupt and uncom- 
 promising. 
 
 " I am not so entirely a stranger as you would pretend 
 to consider me," he replied, speaking in French, which 
 he justly considered best calculated to convey his mean- 
 ing and sentiments more clearly than the language 
 which De Souza spoke so imperfectly. " We have met 
 before, Sir, but I do not come — I have no wish to claim 
 the honour of your acquaintance. I am here to demand 
 an interview with the unfortunate -being whom you have 
 so basely taken advantage of, from the wretched circum- 
 stances under which you met — " 
 
 " Stop ! hush ! this is rather too much in my own 
 house," interrupted the Hebrew, with a dignity of man- 
 ner that was very different to that strange humility, or 
 
 G c 
 
930 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 rather subserviency, which generally marked both his 
 countenance and gestures. " Let me understand, if it 
 so please you, what it is you require of me, and 
 if I think it proper and necessary, I will comply with 
 your request." 
 
 " If you think," exclaimed St. Orme, his passion 
 beginning to usurp the place of reason, which he had 
 hitherto struggled to maintain. " I have told you before, 
 that I demand to see — " 
 
 De Souza had taken up the candle from the table as if 
 about to quit the room, but at this moment another door, 
 opposite to that by which St. Orme had entered, opened, 
 and a tall and dignified woman, a few years younger than 
 M. De Souza, came forward. There could be little 
 doubt, from the striking likeness between them, that the 
 persons before him were brother and sister, and St. 
 Orme, who had believed that nothing could prevent his 
 insisting on seeing Katharine, now felt confused, hesi- 
 tating, and doubtful even how to name, in the presence 
 of the haughty, stern-looking female, the unhappy 
 girl, whom he could no longer believe, he might almost 
 say hope, was an inhabitant of that house. He dared 
 not even name her ; for would not Madlle. De Souza 
 consider herself outraged, insulted, by such a suppo- 
 sition as that she suffered the contamination of such an 
 one as Katharine Beresford. St. Orme's feelings were 
 wrought to agony. The big drops stood on his forehead, 
 and again the sensation that had before overcome him 
 involved everything around in mist. He tottered towards 
 a chair to save himself from falling on the ground. 
 
 " The man is ill ! " exclaimed the lady, in a tone as 
 cold as were her looks. " What can have brought him 
 here so strangely ?" 
 
OF woman's life. 931 
 
 " I am ill, Madam," he replied, " or I would more 
 fully apologise for the mistake that has occasioned my 
 seeming intrusion. I have a friend waiting outside, 
 who, if you will let your servant call him — " 
 
 He looked wildly around the room as if in search 
 of something. It was evident that his mind was wander- 
 ing. The agony of disappointment, and the effort he 
 had made to conceal and subdue his feelings, had over- 
 whelmed him, and his kind friend (the physician,) when 
 he reached the room, found him alike insensible to past 
 or present. Every kind attention was shown to him by 
 M. De Souza ; but, though he partially recovered, and 
 was enabled with' assistance to walk to his friend's 
 carriage, it was plain that all recollection of the purpose 
 which had brought him thither had fled, and he was 
 conveyed by the Doctor to his lodgings, the direction 
 to which he had thoughtfully elicited from him while 
 on their way to the New Road. 
 
 There was some little difficulty raised as to receiving 
 him in his present condition by the people of the lodging- 
 house, but the Doctor's name carried with it authority ; 
 and having made every possible arrangement for his 
 patient's comfort, and seen him placed in the care of a 
 skilful and trustworthy nurse of his (the physician's) 
 own recommendation, he at length left him, satisfied that 
 he had done all in his power for the benefit of the young 
 man in whom he had become so deeply interested. 
 
 And under what strange circumstances — such as, with 
 the greater part of the world, would have been a sufficient 
 plea to their consciences to pass on the other side 
 and leave him to chance, but Dr. Carrington had studied 
 other sciences besides medicine, and could read as skil- 
 fully the indications of those feelings which are generally 
 
932 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 referred to the heart, as he could the symptoms of disease 
 in the body. Beneath the husk his keen eye pierced to 
 the valuable kernel, and he resolved that, as far as human 
 skill and attention could avail to save him, St. Orrne 
 should not be lost. 
 
 Many, many gloomy, almost hopeless days were passed 
 in that sick chamber, but in that time, and in the revela- 
 tions uttered in the unconscious accents of delirium, Dr. 
 Carrington discovered nothing but additional reasons 
 for his anxiety to restore the sufferer. During that 
 period, he discovered that his patient had been at no 
 distant period of time a prisoner, charged "with a capital 
 offence, had been kept in durance vile, for what seemed 
 now to his inflamed brain an illimitable period, and — 
 what perhaps would with many persons have acted still 
 more powerfully to lower the interest he felt for him — he 
 learned, through the medium of the mistress of the house, 
 who began to tremble, it appeared, for the payment of 
 her rent and etceteras, that the city firm, in whose 
 employ Mr. St. Orme had been, and through whose 
 recommendation she had received him into her highly 
 respectable establishment, had been compelled to supply 
 the place of one who attended so irregularly to the duties 
 of his situation, and consequently the poor young man 
 would, if he recovered, find himself, perhaps, without 
 resources, as well as embarrassed with a heavy debt, 
 for of course she had a high rent and taxes to pay — 
 
 " I have to request," said the Doctor, " that you will 
 keep this pleasant communication to yourself; and in 
 the meantime make out your bill, and I will pay it, both 
 now and as long as Mr. St. Orme requires it, but I 
 charge you not to utter a word on the subject, either 
 now or hereafter." 
 
OK WOMAN'S LIFE. 'Jli'S 
 
 " This is comfortable intelligence for the 'poor fellow, 
 should he recover/' he muttered, turning to enter St. 
 Orme's chamber ; " but at any rate it shall be kept from 
 him as long as possible, and, perhaps, before he requires 
 it, I may be able to find some other firm who will not 
 consider a fever a sufficient motive for a discharge." 
 
 Two days after this occurrence, and after the demand 
 of the landlady had been — on her own terms — settled by 
 the generous physician, she again presented herself to 
 his notice as he passed the door of her parlour. This 
 time it was to present him two letters that had been left 
 for Mr. St. Orme the preceding day. 
 
 " It will be many days before he will be able to attend 
 to these, even if he ever be," uttered the Doctor, as he 
 turned the letters over and over in his hands. One of 
 them, from the handwriting of the address, the high- 
 glazed gold-edged paper — there was then no enamelling, 
 embossing, or any of the other fopperies that now 
 puzzle and perplex the fair letter-writers, and some- 
 times pourtray characteristics of the contents to more 
 persons than those to whom they are addressed — 
 was undoubtedly the composition of some young lady, 
 and the Doctor, after ascertaining the post-mark, and 
 reflecting a few moments, laid it aside, having come 
 to the conclusion that under no circumstances would 
 it be right or advisable to intrude on the secrets it 
 might contain. But there was something in the appear- 
 ance of the other letter that prevented his forming so 
 rapid a conclusion. It was evidently a business letter, 
 most likely, from the formal and peculiar writing, that of 
 an attorney ; but that which most attracted his attention, 
 was, that it had been delivered by hand instead of the 
 post, and he determined to ascertain something more 
 
934 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 concerning it before he consigned it to the writing-desk 
 in which he had placed the other. For this purpose he 
 sought the parlour of the landlady, carrying the letter 
 with him. 
 
 " Yes, Sir," she replied in answer to his first question. 
 " I happened to answer the door myself, though it's 
 what I very seldom do. It was a tall genteel youth, 
 hardly to be called a maD, but looking, I shsuld say, 
 like a lawyer's clerk. He wanted to see Mr. St. Orme, 
 he said, upon very particular business indeed, and what 
 he couldn't communicate to anybody but Mr. St. Orme 
 himself. And then he hinted that it was something 
 greatly to Mr. St. Orme's advantage ; and, when I told 
 him that the poor young gentleman was lying between 
 life and death, as I might say, he laughed, and said — very 
 unfeeling words, as I thought, — ' Well, so much the 
 worse for him, but so much the better for them that 11 
 step into his shoes. If this gentleman dies now, as you 
 say, I suspect it will cut out plenty of work for some of 
 us lawyers ; but — I forget, I mustn't betray secrets.' 
 A pretty fellow, I thought to myself, a boy like you 
 to call yourself a lawyer, and pretend to be trusted with 
 secrets, for all the time he was talking he was arranging 
 his hair, and admiring himself in the mirror. ' Maybe, 
 however/ he said, when he'd put on his hat to please 
 himself, 'Mr. St. Orme may get better soon, and this 
 letter,' taking it out of his pocket-book, ' if you '11 please 
 to give it him, may prove better physic than the doctor's 
 messes. It would with me, I know' — and then, with a 
 saucy whistle, and nodding, as if to say good-bye, he ran 
 off before I could tell him how little likelihood there was 
 that Mr. St. Orme could read his letter, or would ever 
 know anything about what he talked of as of so much 
 consequence to him. And after all, maybe, it's only—" 
 
OF woman's life. 935 
 
 Dr. Carrington did not remain to listen to the land- 
 lady's suggestion as to the probabilities, for or against the 
 importance of the lawyer's letter, nor did he wait even 
 until he had reached the chamber of his patient before 
 he had broken the seal, and the mistress of the house, 
 who was eagerly watching him, saw by the lingering 
 step that kept him on the stairs until he had mastered 
 its whole contents, that its importance had not been 
 exaggerated. The Doctor, however, was not one to be 
 questioned where the interests of another were concerned, 
 and he therefore quitted the house, leaving her without 
 the slightest clue to the mystery. It rendered her, how- 
 ever, infinitely more anxious for Mr. St. Orme's recovery, 
 from the very satisfactory conclusion she had come to, 
 not only that he was still a perfectly safe lodger, but 
 likely to prove a more profitable one, his generosity — she 
 having good reason to know from experience — being 
 only limited by his means, or, more properly, want of 
 means. What measures Dr. Carrington had pursued in 
 consequence of the intelligence he had gained, could 
 only be guessed at, but there could be little doubt they 
 were such as tc satisfy the writer of the mysterious letter, 
 as there was every morning a regular and formal 
 inquiry into the progress of Mr. St. Orme's dis- 
 order delivered by the same young clerk, whose harum- 
 scarum ways had been so severely animadverted upon by 
 the landlady ; but his manners were greatly changed, and 
 all written communications, of which there were several in 
 the course of the week, were at once addressed and 
 delivered to Dr. Carrington. At length the crisis so 
 earnestly looked for and watched over by the doctor, 
 arrived. St. Orme awakening, as from a painful, heavy, 
 but not dreamless sleep, turned his eyes, no longer fierce 
 
930 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 from the imaginary injuries of delirium, or vacant, glazed, 
 and unconscious, bespeaking at once the utter debility 
 of mind and body — those eyes were now turned upon 
 the Doctor with restored expression, as he murmured 
 softly — 
 
 " Where am I ? Have I been ill ? I cannot recollect 
 what has happened to — " 
 
 " Nor must you fatigue yourself with trying to do so, 
 Mr. St. Orme," interrupted the Doctor ; " recollection 
 will return to you with bodily strength, for you have 
 been seriously, dangerously ill ; and I now forbid all. 
 exertion of thought, except that of gratitude to the 
 merciful Creator who has stretched forth his helping 
 hand to raise you once more to life, and, I trust, active 
 devotion to his service." 
 
 St. Orme faintly bowed his head in acquiescence. 
 The voice and sentiment seemed to penetrate to his 
 heart, and he tried to concentrate his every thought in 
 correspondence with the advice of one whom, though 
 still unrecognised, he felt was — must be — a true friend. 
 By degrees, a light at first but glimmering, but gradually 
 becoming more and more distinct, penetrated the mist 
 which seemed to envelope his faculties ; but, like the 
 original forbidden first-fruit, knowledge brought with it 
 its heavy counterpoise of pain and suffering, and every 
 other thought, feeling, or sensation, was swallowed up 
 in his agonising uncertainty regarding Katharine Beres- 
 ford. It would, perhaps, have been a wise policy on the 
 part of Dr. Carrington at once to have entered upon the 
 subject without reserve, and to have explained in what 
 manner the inquiries and intentions of St. Orme had 
 been so suddenly terminated, as well as to have related 
 what he (the Doctor) had since learned on the same 
 
of woman's Life. 037 
 
 subject, but the fact was, the latter even now, when lie 
 hnd learned so much of his interesting patient as he had 
 done in hours of silent watching, when all those conven- 
 tional veils were withdrawn, which even the most frank 
 and candid characters conceive it necessarv to interpose 
 between themselves and their friends — even now Dr. 
 Carrington was unacquainted with the full extent of the 
 infatuation — such he would undoubtedly have called it — 
 which had taken possession of, and absorbed all other 
 considerations in his youthful friend. He had believed, 
 in fact, that the excessive excitement St. Oram had 
 betrayed on the eventful night of their first meeting, 
 was in a great measure to be attributed to physical 
 causes, and that with their removal, he would become 
 capable of calm rational reflection, and would see in their 
 true light the obstacles which must henceforth separate 
 Katharine and himself for ever ; and while, for which he 
 did not blame him, he still retained his determination to 
 save her, if possible, from the evils and temptations of 
 poverty, would dismiss, as a weakness totally unworthy 
 of him, all tenderer feelings, of which, in Dr. Carrington's 
 ' estimation, she was totally undeserving. In coming to 
 this conclusion, the kind-hearted physician had not been 
 hastily influenced, as he believed, by mere outward 
 appearances. He had ascertained, indeed, that St. 
 Orme's impressions as to Katharine's situation, so far as 
 related to M. De Souza, were wrong ; and this he learned 
 from the very best authority, that of the sister, Madlle. 
 De Souza, who, when he (Dr. Carrington,) called some 
 few days after to apologise for the apparently unwarrant- 
 able intrusion of St. Orrne, entered without the slightest 
 reserve upon the subject, which from delicacy he was 
 
 afraid to hint at lest he should offend. " Her brother," she 
 
 G D 
 
938 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 said, "had been greatly interested for the young woman in 
 question, and had secured her an engagement at a theatre 
 at Naples, an agent of which was then in London. Miss 
 Beresford was then residing with the Italian manager 
 and his lady. Her brother, M. De Souza, had provided 
 her with the necessary oufit, and in a few days she would 
 sail with them for the sunny land of song and dance, 
 whither she and her brother would probably follow them." 
 Under these circumstances, Dr. Carrington quite agreed 
 with her, that it would be very unadvisable that Miss 
 Beresford should renew any former acquaintanceships — 
 such was the term she very significantly applied to St. 
 Orrne. Altogether, indeed, there was something in her 
 manner of speaking of her brother's protegee which 
 impressed him with the idea that she did not regard her 
 in quite so favourable a light as he did. 
 
 Dr. Carrington came away with a strong impression 
 that the most fortunate thing that could happen for 
 St. Orme, would be a separation from the beautiful and 
 talented girl, who, he feared, possessed little beyond that 
 beauty and those talents, to entitle her to the enthusiastic 
 love with which it was plain he (St. Orme) regarded her. 
 Under these impressions, the Doctor resolved to delay 
 as long as possible the explanation which he foresaw 
 it would be impossible altogether to evade respecting 
 Katharine. St. Orme having, in the physician's opinion, 
 acquired sufficient bodily strength to bear the excitement, 
 a very few words explained to him, that he had, by more 
 than one unexpected death, become the actual possessor of 
 the title and estates of the St. Orme family, and, as his 
 kind and disinterested friend observed, he was repaid 
 for all his care and the anxiety he had suffered, by being 
 the first to hail him as Sir Vivian St. Orme, the inheritor 
 of the Abbey and the splendid estates belonging to it. 
 
of woman's life. 939 
 
 But, was Sir Vivian St. Orme now happy ? Alas ! 
 there were many drawbacks to that apparently enviable 
 lot which had fallen to his share. Many thoughts 
 preyed on his mind that greatly moderated the enjoy- 
 ments that now opened to him. Mario w, from whose 
 friendship — altered as the latter was by the inflictions 
 he had suffered — he had anticipated much, was no more, 
 and had died lamenting the absence of that friend to 
 whom he was so deeply indebted. But there was a 
 deeper cause for the melancholy which was so visible in 
 the fine expressive features of the young baronet than 
 this loss could explain, and which he tried in vain to 
 conceal from his attached and earnest friend Dr. Car- 
 rington " his guide, philosopher, and friend." From 
 him Sir Vivian had, when it was no longer possible to 
 evade or delay the subject, learned the particulars of his 
 visit to the Signorina De Souza, avoiding, however, the 
 insinuations which had prejudiced the liberal-minded 
 physician so strongly against the unfortunate Katharine, 
 and induced him to regard as a most fortunate event the 
 engagement that had, as he (Dr. Carrington) trusted, 
 removed her beyond the power of exercising her fasci- 
 nations upon his single-minded and unsuspicious friend, 
 whom he considered to have been completely their dupe. 
 
 How surprised was the good Doctor, when, at length, 
 piqued by some unguarded remark on his part, which 
 betrayed the false estimate he had formed of Katharine's 
 character, St. Orme remarked — 
 
 " I will relate to you, my dear Carrington, the singular 
 circumstances under which I became acquainted with 
 Katharine, as I feel that otherwise it is impossible 
 you can do justice to her or myself." 
 
 From the moment that St. Orme commenced, prefacing 
 
010 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Lis story by Lis previous conversation with Marlow, Dr. 
 Carrington's looks and fixed attention betrayed the deep 
 interest with which he listened to a tale so different from 
 anytbing he had expected to hear. When St. Orme 
 arrived at that period of his narrative when he discovered 
 the error of bis conjectures as to the silence of Marlow, 
 wbich had its origin in the dangerous illness of the 
 latter, adding., that this also had prevented the delivery 
 of the letter, in which he bad implored his (Marlow's) 
 assistance to rescue Katharine from the dangers and 
 suffering that threatened her, the Doctor started from his 
 chair in the wildest agitation. 
 
 "My God!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that I too 
 have been assisting in injuring this unfortunate being, 
 by my neglect and forgetfulness !" 
 
 Sir Vivian was astonished, but the explanation was 
 soon given. Dr. Carrington had, as before related, at 
 the time when his young friend was lingering between 
 life and death, received two letters addressed to St. 
 Orme — one, which was evidently from a female, he had 
 deposited in St. Orme's desk, where, totally forgotten till 
 the present time, it still lay unopened under a heap 
 of papers that had since accumulated. 
 
 St. Orme's first glance at the signature convinced the 
 Doctor that it was not Katharine's. The writer was, in 
 fact, Ellen Beresford, and after twice reading it, St. 
 Orme put the letter into his companion's hand, ob- 
 serving — 
 
 " It is strange, that for these last two or three days I 
 have been thinking continually of the writer of this letter, 
 and had even come to the resolution, that the very first 
 day I should feel strung enough, I would devote to 
 visiting Square. It appears, however, from 
 
OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 041 
 
 Ellen's letter, that they must long since have left 
 their residence there. I do not, indeed, half com- 
 prehend the meaning of her letter ; hut read it, per- 
 haps your- clearer head may understand what appears to 
 me a mystery." 
 
 Dr. Carrington did read as follows: "I hope I am 
 not doing wrong., my dear Mr. St. Orme, or that you will 
 think it hold of me, in thus writing to you upon so short 
 an acquaintance, but I think you are too kind and 
 generous, not to make every indulgent allowance for my 
 extreme anxiety to know whether you succeeded in 
 finding my poor dear Katharine, and convincing her 
 that her sister *has never forgotten, never will forget her. 
 Tell her so, dear Mr. St. Orme, if you have found her, 
 and tell her, the moment I have it in my power I will 
 convince her by deeds as well as words, that her happi- 
 ness and comfort is the dearest "wish of my heart. Oh ! 
 how I long to hear from you, dear Mr. St. Orme, wliere 
 she is, how she looks, and what she said to you of her 
 poor sister Ellen ; but I scarcely know how to act in 
 regard to asking you to come here, unless — I am 
 ashamed and afraid of saying a word to hurt your 
 feelings, and not for the world would I be the means of 
 exposing you to insult, but— Oh ! dear, Mr. St. Orme, 
 you know Mamma's prejudices and hasty conclusions, 
 and you know > too, how impossible it is to persuade her 
 out of anything she has taken in her head, or to restrain 
 her from uttering anything, however cruel or unjust, 
 if once her passion is roused. I am sure you would 
 pity me, if you knew the life I have led ever since you 
 were here ; and she has driven her old friend, Mr. Cres- 
 well, completely out of the house, by accusing him 
 of being in a plot with you and me to impose upon 
 
942 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 her; and then at other times she gets so uncertain about 
 you, that she blames herself for having, as she thinks, 
 driven you away ; and one day lately, she heard some- 
 thing in a jeweller's shop in Bond Street, where two 
 gentlemen were talking, that she thought alluded to you, 
 and she came home, and would have written such a letter 
 to you to bring you back here, that I should have died 
 with shame, after what she had said about you ; but, 
 luckily, I had never owned that I knew your address, 
 and so she could not send the letter ; but such a 
 life as I have led since. Several days have passed, 
 my dear Mr. St. Orme, since I wrote the first part 
 of this letter, and I have been so surprised, and 
 am still so unhappy, because I know not what to 
 think, that I have not had courage before to finish it. 
 Sometimes I am doubtful whether you will ever get it; 
 and Mamma seems to glory in my unhappiness. She 
 has even hinted that you were dead. But then I know 
 that is not true, or else she would not be continually 
 exulting in her wisdom, at having discovered, as she 
 says, that you were an impostor, and not the person she 
 fancied you to be, and Mr. Creswell represented ; for as to 
 yourself, as I have repeatedly told her, you never made 
 any pretensions to anything, and I could even see that 
 you were uneasy under Mamma's overwhelming attentions 
 and flattery ; and so, indeed, was I, for I thought you 
 would see through her motives, and I was afraid you 
 would despise me, and think that I — but, I must not say 
 any more of this, for she is still my mother, and I ought 
 not, perhaps, to condemn her for forming such plans, 
 though I felt them at the time to be very, very degrading. 
 But that is all over now, though I am very sorry, in one 
 sense, for your sake, that you are not the person she 
 
of woman's life. 943 
 
 supposed you to be. As for myself, I shall never think 
 otherwise of you than I did then, as deserving of my 
 utmost respect and kindness, I had almost said venera- 
 tion, for your noble conduct to my poor dear sister. And 
 this reminds me how selfishly I have been talking of 
 myself and my own feelings, when, in reality, I com- 
 menced with the intention only of speaking of her. Yet, 
 after all, it is so little I really do know about her, and 
 Mamma, as I said before, seems to rejoice in keeping me 
 in the dark, or rather exciting my feelings by all sorts of 
 hints, without satisfying them. This, then, is what has 
 happened — to you it may be no mystery ; but, oh ! if you 
 knew what I have suffered and do suffer, from all sorts 
 of conjectures, which I have no means of satisfying ! I 
 was writing to you, as I said, three days ago, in that 
 little back room where you and I had that conversation 
 which I shall never forget, for it made me think more 
 intently than I had ever done before ; and, yes, I may 
 say it without impropriety, has rendered me better, less 
 frivolous, selfish, and unreflecting for the future. 
 Mamma was in the front drawing-room, when a servant 
 announced a lady visitor, who sent up a card, and re- 
 quested to see Mrs. Beresford alone on important 
 business. I heard Mamma repeat the name on the card ; 
 it was a foreign one, and I could not catch the sound. I 
 heard her order the servant to show the lady up-stair 
 the same time she called to me, observing that there must 
 be some mistake. What could this foreign lady want to 
 see her for, and alone too ? I was just going to take the 
 card from her hand, when her repetition of the last word 
 seemed to remind her of the impropriety of my remaining 
 there to meet the visitor, and she hastily bade me go, and 
 close the door after me between the rooms. Of course, I 
 was compelled to obey. The interview lasted more than 
 
944 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 fin hour; but of course I learned no more than Mamma 
 chose to announce to me, and that, you must see, I can 
 place little dependence on. That the lady called respecting 
 my dear sister, I have no doubt, as mamma told me that 
 Katharine has gone abroad — is removed, she says, happily, 
 beyond all power of bringing further disgrace on her 
 family. Oh ! Mr. St. Orme, can it be possible that 
 I shall never see my dear sister again ? I have been very 
 ill, but I met with little sympathy from my mother, 
 for she attributed my illness entirely to my obstinate 
 perseverance in fretting for Katharine's loss and your's. 
 Yes, I was mourning, she said, for you ; but that you 
 know to be untrue, for this letter will convince you 
 that I have never believed the story of your death. 
 Dr. Clements, Mamma's physician, has, it seems, 
 alarmed her with the assurance that I am threatened 
 with symptoms of a rapid, decline. It is a disease that 
 has been very fatal in the family on my father's side, 
 and I am now, she says, her only hope. To me the 
 announcement has no terrors, for indeed I am very 
 unhappy. If I could but see Katharine restored to the 
 place she ought to hold. Could I behold my mother 
 reconciled to her, and doing her justice — and there are 
 thoughts in my mind in which you and her are connected. 
 Oh ! Mr. St. Orme, I am but a poor simple, inexperienced 
 girl, and perhaps what I wish is impossible, but I some- 
 times fancy such happiness, that I could willingly lay 
 down my life to accomplish it. Do not be angry with 
 me, if I am wrong, in fancying that you could, perhaps, 
 accomplish all this. My mother is obstinate, and 
 her conduct towards Katharine has been productive 
 of great misery, but I sometimes think that you might 
 yet surmount all the difficulties that lie between your and 
 Katharine's future happiness. The power of a strong 
 
of woman's life. 945 
 
 mind over a weak one is acknowledged to be great. My 
 mother's, with all her violence and seeming energy, is a 
 weak mind, and I think — I think— Oh ! do forgive m<:, 
 I am afraid to go on, for fear I should offend you — but 
 I feel I should die happy, if I could see my visions of . 
 happiness for those I love realised." 
 
 " Poor girl ! poor innocent girl !" murmured Dr. Car- 
 rington, his voice broken with emotion, " how little does 
 she comprehend the real source of these feelings." 
 
 St. Orme regarded his friend with silent surprise. His 
 remarks had excited thoughts in his bosom which had 
 hitherto been a stranger to them ; but his heart did not — 
 he was unwilling to believe it ever could — respond to 
 them, and he would not, by even the utterance of a word, 
 provoke an explanation from Dr. Carrington that he 
 wished to avoid. For some minutes the latter sat 
 silently reflecting, and then he resumed Ellen's letter. 
 
 " Dr. Clements has prescribed change of air and 
 scene. Nothing, I am sure, can be less likely to do me 
 good, for of all things I do not want to leave London, 
 and especially in this uncertainty. If I could see you, but 
 for a few minutes, Mr, St. Orme. — could but hear from 
 your lips where Katharine is, that she is well and happy, 
 I should be at peace, and then I might have a chance to 
 get well ; but I cannot fancy her happy abroad, and you 
 still here. Mamma told mo yesterday, with seeming 
 sincerity, that Katharine has met with much better 
 friends than she deserved — this you and I both know 
 is impossible — and that it depends on her own conduct 
 whether she is ever again reduced to want. I took 
 advantage of the opportunity to say what has long been 
 uppermost in my heart — that it would make me very 
 happv, if Mamma would herself secure my sister from 
 
 (J E 
 
94 C SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 all fear on that account, by settling upon her at least 
 a part of that property which her father undoubtedly 
 intended to be hers. T do not know how I got courage 
 to say half that I did, for I told her boldly, that if that 
 which was only justice had been done long ago, she 
 would now have no reason to regret the disgrace that she 
 said my unfortunate sister had brought upon her ; that 
 Fitzharland would then have married her. The name of 
 Fitharland seemed to drive Mamma quite mad; and then 
 I learned, what I did not know before, that he is dead — 
 died in poverty and misery in a hospital. A just retri- 
 bution, she says, for his villany. So young, is it not 
 piteous, Mr. St. Orme ? How Mamma learned all this, 
 I don't know, except it was from her foreign visitor ; but 
 she says that Katharine discovered him there two days 
 before he died, and he died in her arms, pretending, she 
 says, but I believe sincerely repentant ; he must have 
 been sincere when he saw to what misery he had brought 
 the beautiful "creature who had so sincerely loved him. 
 Poor, poor Katharine, what a shock it must have been to 
 her ! Yet, in one point of view, I look upon it as not 
 altogether a subject for regret, for it is a release from an 
 obstacle which might have stood in the way of that 
 dream of happiness which I so heartily pray I may see 
 realised. While Fitzharland lived, Katharine would of 
 course have considered him as her husband. It was an 
 obstacle that I have thought much of; and now that 
 is removed, I need not explain to you my meaning." 
 
 The remainder of the letter was of little importance, 
 except as it revealed an obstacle which stood directly in 
 the way of the good Doctor's sanguine plans of bringing 
 St. Orme and Ellen together as soon as possible — the 
 letter having fully convinced him of her love for St. 
 Orme. Her illness, he thought little of, he was deter- 
 
of woman's life. 047 
 
 mined to think little of. It was evidently mental, not 
 bodily illness, and happiness was a restorative, the effects 
 of which, he said, are only too little known. 
 
 " We leave London to-morrow," was Ellen's com; 
 eluding paragraph, " but from some reason, inexplicable 
 to me, Mamma keeps it a profound secret where we are 
 going to. Fortunately, my having your address, will 
 enable me to write again when we are settled. I must 
 hear from you, for from whom else can I hope to hear 
 anything on the subject which is nearest my heart ? So 
 soon, therefore, as I can devise the means of receiving 
 your answer, my dear Mr. St. Orme, I shall trouble you 
 with another letter. Till then, farewell, and believe me, 
 " Your sincere friend, 
 
 " Ellen Beresford." 
 Many months, however, passed without the promised 
 letter. St. Orme had regained his former health, and, to 
 his friend's great satisfaction, in a great measure his 
 spirits. He had taken possession, without opposition or 
 difficulty, of his paternal inheritance, the Abbey, and for 
 some time found sufficient occupation and amusement in 
 directing the alterations and improvements which were 
 to make it a residence suitable to his taste and fortune. 
 He had visited many of the neighbouring gentry, and 
 had found many most anxious to cultivate his acquain- 
 tance. He had been favoured too with much — of course 
 disinterested — advice as to certain plans he had formed 
 for the benefit of the poorer classes of the cottagers and 
 other tenantry of the estate, but had listened without 
 giving any indications that he was convinced by their 
 assurances that he would find them impracticable, and 
 that he would soon get heartily sick of Iris Utopian 
 schemes to reform and improve them. From some of 
 
U48 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 the ladies, however, he received advice of a different kind, 
 and encouragement, not exactly to persevere in his own 
 independent schemes, but to join in their's, which pro- 
 fessed to have the same object. 
 
 Glad was St. Orme, when the time came that he could 
 escape from the pertinacious attempts that were made to 
 enlist him in some one or other of these charitable 
 associations, and return to his friend, Doctor Carrington, 
 in London, to mature, without interruption, the plans he 
 had formed for his future guidance. The Doctor laughed, 
 as St. Orme related the annoyances to which he had 
 been subjected, and the opposition ho expected to 
 encounter, especially from the female part of his new 
 acquaintances. 
 
 " There is but one means I can suggest," observed the 
 former, " but that will be effectual. Take down with you, 
 as soon as your new furniture has arrived at the Abbey, 
 and been arranged by your upholsterer — take down, as 
 the crowning piece, a wife who knows nothing of Dorcas 
 societies, or any other charitable societies, under any 
 name, and who has sufficient confidence in her husband 
 to believe his plans the best, and devote herself to their 
 furtherance under his guidance. Do this, and you will 
 meet with no farther annoyance from either ladies or 
 gentlemen, I will answer for it." 
 
 St. Orme looked serious. It was a jest — for such he 
 thought it. It revived many painful feelings, and 
 he felt surprised that his friend should be so forgetful as 
 to give it utterance. But it was no jest with the good 
 Doctor, and he waited only for a fit opportunity to reveal 
 what was uppermost in his mind. He had discovered 
 the residence of Ellen Beresford. Nay, more, for many 
 weeks he had had the opportunity of diligently studying 
 
OF WOMAN S LIFE. 049 
 
 her character, and had become more convinced than ever, 
 that in an union with her, Sir Vivian St. Orme would 
 find that happiness which was yet incomplete. The 
 discovery, as he told St. Orme, so soon as he could 
 introduce the subject, was the simplest thing imaginable. 
 He (Dr. Carrington) had been requested by a medical 
 friend to attend for him certain regular patients, while he 
 (Dr. Carrington's friend) sought necessary recreation 
 and relief from toil in a visit to the sea coast. 
 
 " Almost one of the first names on the list which my 
 friend put into my hand," observed the Doctor, " was that 
 of ' Miss Beresford, Laurel Cottage, Hampstead.' He was, 
 of course, giving me what information was necessary, as 
 to the cases of the patients that I was to attend." 
 
 " ' Ah ! I need not say much about that,' he observed, 
 in reference to Miss Beresford. ' She has literally 
 nothing the matter with her, except lowness of spirits, 
 want of appetite, &c. Young ladies' complaints, you 
 know, as we call them, and arising, I suspect, as they 
 often do, from a mind diseased. Some disappointment 
 in a heart affair, or — but I ought not to be unjust to the 
 poor girl.' 
 
 " The morning after my friend's departure, I visited 
 Miss Beresford at Hampstead, and have seen her twice a 
 week since. I was at first cautious of betraying that 
 I had any previous knowledge of her, or the cause of 
 her illness, but by degrees I succeeded in winning 
 her confidence. Never was a heart so transparent, so 
 Easily read, and so worth the reading. But, I know not 
 that I have anything to communicate that you do not 
 know, except the explanation of her silence towards you. 
 Eemember, she has not the slightest suspicion of the 
 connexion between vou and I, nor has ever mentioned 
 
950 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 your name. Neither does she even seem to acknow- 
 ledge, even to herself, any other feeling than the most 
 enthusiastic admiration of your conduct towards her 
 sister, and her desire to prove to you her gratitude. 
 Chance, however, it seems, discovered to her soon 
 after her arrival at Hampstead, the change that had 
 taken place in your situation. 
 
 " ' And from that time,' she added, ' I have heard 
 nothing more. Fortunately my mother has never heard 
 of it, and I pray she never may, for I know what would 
 be the consequence. She would stop at nothing to renew 
 her acquaintance with him, and I could not live to be 
 degraded in his eyes, as I should then be, and so I bear 
 all in silence, even her abuse of him whom she calls a 
 cheat and an impostor, but beneath whose footsteps she 
 would crouch, did she know the truth, that he is what 
 she at first believed him, a man of fortune, and able, as 
 she then said, to make his wife a lady.' The archness 
 with which this was uttered showed me Ellen Beres- 
 ford in a new and not less attractive point of view. 
 I tried, however, to convince her that it was false 
 delicacy thus to sacrifice her own happiness, by declining 
 to let you know where she was to be found, lest you 
 should confound her intentions with those of her mother; 
 but I could not succeed, though I brought her to acknow- 
 ledge that it would be indeed a happy chance, if it ever 
 happened, that brought you and her again together, so 
 long as her mother still remained ignorant of your 
 claims upon her respect." 
 
 The wished-for meeting, however, took place much 
 sooner than was calculated by either party. By 
 Doctor Carrington's management, the correspondence 
 by letter was renewed between Ellen and St. Orme, 
 
of woman's life. 951 
 
 which was equally satisfactory on both sides, but 
 Ellen still persisted in keeping all knowledge of it 
 from her mother, though quite unaware that he appre- 
 ciated her motives. The young baronet was, however, 
 beginning to be weary of the restraint put upon their 
 meeting. His regard and respect towards the innocent 
 girl increased with every revelation of her character, 
 while his friend's eulogium of her beauty and acquire- 
 ments, rendered him still more desirous of seeing her and 
 judging for himself, when it was most unexpectedly 
 accelerated by Mrs. Beresford being — as the physician 
 had anticipated — suddenly attacked with a dangerous 
 illness. Friendless and unconnected as Ellen found her- 
 self, for her mother had long since been- estranged by her 
 suspicious and violent disposition from those she had 
 called her friends, the poor girl readily yielded to the 
 Doctor's proposition, of introducing to her home the only 
 person on whom, with the exception of the Doctor him- 
 self, she could rely for consolation and advice. For 
 more than three weeks St. Ornie shared with Ellen 
 the cares which, without his assistance, would have 
 overwhelmed her, and he succeeded in persuading her 
 to renounce the overstrained delicacy which induced her 
 to shun acquainting her mother with the truth, which she 
 knew would have secured him a rapturous welcome from 
 the latter. But it was now too late. Mrs. Beresford 
 never recovered her intellects from the period of her 
 seizure, and died at last in ignorance that her most san- 
 guine anticipations — not for her daughter's happiness, 
 for that, with her, was but a secondary consideration, 
 but her advancement in society — were secured ; for, long 
 before her death, St. Orate had obtained Ellen's willing 
 consent to become his bride, so soon as her mother's re- 
 storation to health, which she then both hoped for and 
 
G52 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 believed in, should secure, they doubted not, her willing 
 consent to their marriage. But Mrs. Beresford died, 
 nnd "made no sign." She never even recognised St. 
 Orrne, in whose arms Ellen was supported during this 
 last trying and, to her, unexpected scene ; for she had 
 to the last flattered herself that her mother would recover, 
 nnd the shock of her death was, consequently, greater 
 than it would otherwise have been. Even Dr. Carrington, 
 indeed, was scarcely prepared for this sudden termination 
 of all their cares ; and he could not suppress to St. 
 Orme the observation, that it seemed almost a peculiar 
 judgment, that she should thus be denied the knowledge 
 of that which, if anything could, to such a woman, have 
 smoothed her passage to the grave. There was one 
 subject, however, which to St. Orme and Ellen was of far 
 more importance than anything that personally concerned 
 themselves, and which had afforded them many hours of 
 mournful discussion, for St. Orme could now speak 
 without reserve, on even that subject, to Ellen. Need 
 it be said, that it was of Katharine they spoke. Dr. 
 Carrington set on foot every means of inquiry they could 
 devise to trace out her present situation. But all re- 
 searches were in vain till many months after Mrs. Beres- 
 ford's death ; and then, through the means of a bene- 
 volent and kind-hearted Jewish Babbi, who had been 
 interested by the story given him in explanation of the 
 inquiries for M. De Sousa, the present residence of the 
 latter was discovered in an obscure town of Italy. Be- 
 fore, however, an answer could be received to the pathe- 
 tic letter which Ellen Beresford addressed to him, en- 
 closing one for her sister, and imploring her to hasten to 
 the home and heart that were open to receive her, Ellen 
 had, with St. Orme's cordial concurrence, taken measures 
 
of woman's life. 053 
 
 to secure to Katharine her full share of the fortune, of 
 which, hy Mrs. "Beresford's will, she (Ellen) was con- 
 stituted sole heiress, fortunately, however, not burthenecl 
 with any conditions that prevented her fulfilling what 
 she considered an act of strict justice. But though she 
 had thus rendered Katharine independent and wealthy — 
 though nothing appeared left undone to secure to her 
 sister as great a share of happiness as she could probably 
 enjoy — and though nothing appeared to prevent the 
 realisation of her own and St. Orme's projected mar- 
 riage, Ellen still protracted the happy day ; until at 
 length, pressed and persuaded to acknowledge her 
 motives, she confessed that her sister's presence and 
 perfect consent to their marriage was so essential to her 
 perfect happiness, that it was useless to press her further 
 on the subject. It was easy to see, as Dr. Carrington 
 observed in private to Sir Vivian, what was passing in 
 her mind ; but in spite of all his observations on the 
 subject, when trying to prove to her the utter impossibi- 
 lity that Katharine could ever have entertained a hope 
 of being more to St, Orme than a friend — though com- 
 pelled with her little experience of the world to confess 
 the improbability of a nearer union, Ellen still per- 
 sisted in what the Doctor called her obstinacy ; and St. 
 Orme was compelled to submit to a delay, of which, as 
 he said, it was impossible to foresee the termination. 
 But how often are events, totally unforeseen and unex- 
 pected, working in secret, for either happiness or unhappi- 
 ness, in this world. Ellen Bercsford, after the death of 
 her mother, removed from the house at Hampstead, 
 which had of course become to her a gloomy and solitary 
 residence, and was now living at a beautiful and pic- 
 turesque cottage at Richmond, the owner of which, a 
 
 G F 
 
954= SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 lively, cheerful, single lady, an old acquaintance and 
 patient of Dr. Carringtons, had agreed, at his recom- 
 mendation, to accommodate the bereaved motherless girl, 
 until she should, as the Doctor had told her, exchange 
 her protection for a more lasting and efficient one. 
 
 On a fine summer evening, fifteen months after the 
 death of Mrs. Beresford, Sir Vivian St. Orme and his 
 constant friend, the Doctor, were on their way to Kich- 
 mond. The former had just returned from the Abbey, 
 and was not only impatient to see Ellen, but more than 
 ever impatient for the consummation of his happiness, 
 when he should return to that which was to be hence- 
 forth his earthly paradise, with his Eve by his side — all 
 that was now wanting. The friends were, as they rode 
 side by side, conversing on this, the subject at that 
 moment nearest both their hearts, and St. Orme, in a 
 most desponding mood, was fancying numerous obstacles 
 that might arise, or had arisen, to prevent the receipt of 
 De Sousa's especial information, which ought to have 
 arrived, when their attention was attracted by a group 
 of people standing round the door of a low, mean-looking 
 public-house, by the road side, in which there seemed 
 some altercation going on, while exclamations of pity 
 were uttered by those nearest the door. 
 
 Dr. Carrington inquired from one of the women what 
 was the matter. 
 
 " It's a poor young creter, sir," she replied, " that 
 came to this house last night, foot-sore with walking, and 
 seeming quite knocked up. She asked me, for I was 
 standing at my door, where she could get a bed for the 
 night, and I brought her here, and as I knew the old 
 woman as keeps the house is particular, I thought it no 
 harm to say that I knew the young woman had got 
 
of woman's life. 055 
 
 money to pay for anything she had. She paid for her 
 hed and a cup of tea before she went to bed ; and though 
 I see she looked ill, I thought she was only over-tired, 
 and would be able to go on to London, where she told 
 me she was going in the morning. Howsomever, it 
 seems she was so bad this morning she couldn't get 
 up, and at long and at last she was obliged to own to 
 the old woman that she had no money, and then — oh ! 
 she's a wretched old miser, she is ! — this afternoon she 
 dragged the poor soul out of bed, made her dress herself, 
 and now — 
 
 "Let me pass !" exclaimed St. Orme, who had hastily 
 alighted from his horse. He was followed by the 
 Doctor, equally interested, though, as he afterwards ac- 
 knowledged, far from sharing the presentiment of his 
 friend. 
 
 Sir Vivian St. Orme forced his way through the crowd 
 assembled at the door and in the passage of the " Kose 
 and Rummer," into the dirty tap-room, where — crouching 
 into the corner of a wooden bench, to which she seemed 
 to have crept so as to keep between her and her merciless 
 assailant, as a defence, a heavy beer- stained table, cut 
 and carved all over in numerous rough devices, initials, 
 names encircled with true-lovers' knots, or rude attempts 
 at pourtraying likenesses — here, her thin, emaciated 
 hands, white as Parian marble, and so transparent that 
 every azure blue vein might have been counted meander- 
 ing beneath the polished skin ; here, with those beautiful 
 hands clasped and raised in an attitude of agonised sup- 
 plication, while her once brilliant and now sunken eyes 
 followed in terror every motion of the female fury, who 
 was evidently only withheld from renewing her attack 
 upon her hapless victim by the strong arm of a good- 
 
050 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 humoured looking, roughly- attired countryman; — her 
 
 splendid and extraordinarily abundant hair, loose and 
 dishevelled, hanging below her waist, and forming almost 
 the only veil to her bare neck and shoulders, from which 
 a thin muslin handkerchief, of which some tatters were 
 still hanging, had evidently been torn by force ; here — in 
 this pitiable, heart-melting form, did St. Orme recognise 
 the once brilliant, blooming, aud still superlatively lovely 
 Katharine Beresford. 
 
 All unsuspicious, as Dr. Carrington had at first been, 
 that anything beyond his humanity had awakened the 
 young Baronet's interest for the victim of the stony- 
 hearted landlady, he was astonished at the agony that 
 his countenance revealed, and the tone in which he 
 uttered the inquiry — 
 
 " Oh! Carrington, my dear friend, will she recover ? 
 Is her case hopeless ? Think ! Tell me what you advise. 
 My heart — my head — is so confused, that I am incapable 
 even of thinking what — 
 
 " She has fainted from agitation and exhaustion," 
 replied Dr. Carrington, but there is still, I trust, 
 sufficient vital strength to rally, and as the first 
 measure necessary to secure her from a relapse — the 
 greatest danger that threatens her — we must remove 
 her where neither sight nor sound will recall what 
 has happened, until she is better able to bear it. Is 
 there no one here, he continued, looking round upon the 
 women, who, being well paid for it, which I will answer 
 for, can afford the accommodation of a clean, comfortable 
 bed, and the necessary attendance for this poor wayfarer, 
 at least for the present ?" 
 
 There were more than one eager to surrender even 
 their own beds where they had no other, and the only 
 
of woman's life. 957 
 
 difficulty now seemed to make the selection. The Doctor 
 chose one, who, besides her superior cleanliness and 
 tidiness, possessed the recommendation on which he laid 
 great stress — a good and pleasing physiognomy. 
 
 " Show the way to your place, my good woman," said 
 the Doctor, and then, raising Katharine in his arms with 
 as much ease as if she had been an infant, he enjoined 
 St. Orme to keep back and out of sight, until he con- 
 sidered it safe that the poor girl should be reminded of 
 what had occurred. There was hope, the Doctor thought 
 — hope for the chief object of his anxiety — in the manner 
 in which St. Orme bore this interdiction, and still more 
 in the gradually increasing calmness with which the 
 young Baronet listened to the intelligence communicated 
 by his friend, that Katharine, restored to consciousness, 
 placed in perfect comfort — such comfort, he said, he sus- 
 pected she had long been a stranger to, and having 
 swallowed the bread soaked in wine he had ordered to be 
 administered, till other nourishment could be prepared by 
 the woman, who, it seemed, was a practised nurse, — had 
 then sunk into a quiet sleep. Dr. Carrington's heart 
 beat exultingly, as St. Orme himself first gave utterance 
 to a name which he himself had been hitherto afraid 
 to utter. 
 
 "Poor Ellen, what a shock this will be to her," he 
 observed. " How, my dear friend, shall we contrive to 
 break it to her ? And she is now, too, expecting us, 
 counting, I dare say, every minute, and little anticipating 
 the cause of the delay, which will of course be in- 
 evitable." 
 
 " There is no necessity for any delay,'* interrupted the 
 Doctor, who had laid his plan to defer the recognition 
 between Katharine and St. Orme until the presence of 
 
058 
 
 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 Ellen should sanctify it. " This poor girl will probably 
 sleep for some hours, and there can be no necessity for 
 your staying here to watch for her awaking. From 
 whom can Ellen learn what has happened better than 
 from yourself ? and whatever you and she decide upon 
 together will be ' wisest, virtuousest, discreetest,' best. 
 I shall of course remain here ; and I think you can rely 
 on my acting for the best, be it either as physician or 
 friend, should any unforeseen emergency arise before you 
 return." 
 
 There could be no reasonable objection raised to this 
 proposition, and in a few minutes Sir Vivian St. Orme was 
 again on horseback, and on his road to Laurel Cottage. 
 All that he had previously planned, however, to soften the 
 melancholy intelligence he had to communicate, was ren- 
 dered abortive by the tale his countenance told; and 
 Ellen, to whom no other probable source of misfortune 
 appeared possible than that connected with her sister, 
 by her terrified anticipations of even worse than the 
 truth, soon compelled him to acknowledge all that had 
 happened, suppressing only the barbarous treatment 
 Katharine had endured from the landlady of the " Kose 
 and Eummer," and exaggerating in some slight degree 
 Dr. Carrington's favourable report of Katherine's situa- 
 tion. " Some natural tears she shed, but dried them 
 soon," for Ellen's every thought and care was speedily 
 devoted to the arrangements for receiving the poor out- 
 cast wanderer to her house and home. Never had Ellen 
 appeared so truly noble, so amiable, in the eyes of St. 
 Orme, as now, when, suppressing every selfish feeling, 
 regardless of everything but the fact that her sister had 
 come back, poor, sick, and distressed, she asked not a 
 single question, hazarded not an inquiry, as to what 
 
of woman's life. 959 
 
 could have produced such a mournful result, but taking 
 it as a matter of course that St. Orme shared in all her 
 feelings towards the object of their mutual anxiety, con- 
 sulted him as she would a tender brother, whenever she 
 thought his advice available, and, without a word or look 
 of distrust, at length announced to him that all was con- 
 cluded, and she was ready to accompany him to her 
 sister. 
 
 The sun was sinking, and a last faint straggling beam, 
 stealing through the little latticed window of the humble 
 cottage, just revealed the pale emaciated features of Katha- 
 rine Beresford, when Ellen, stealing across the room as 
 light as foot could fall, sank on her knees by the side of the 
 pillow on which rested the cheek vying with its whiteness. 
 
 She had been awake once since St. Orme's depar- 
 ture, and, contrary to Dr. Carrington's expectations, 
 had awakened with a mind cleared from all confu- 
 sion, with a perfect recollection that she had been rescued 
 from the terrors and difficulties of her situation by the 
 appearance of St. Orme — " that noble, disinterested 
 friend," as she softly whispered to the Doctor, " to whom 
 she had been indebted for more than life, on whose pro- 
 tection she now relied with confidence and security for 
 the short time she should require it." 
 
 " But he will see me ?" she asked, with a look of anxiety ; 
 "I have much that I would wish to say to him, and time 
 is precious. He will not refuse — " 
 
 Dr. Garrington gently interrupted her. He could not 
 allow her to exhaust herself by talking. The friend she 
 spoke of was not at present near, but would soon return ; 
 and then he ventured to inquire whether there was no 
 other friend whom she wished to see, one especially, he 
 said, to whom she was not less dear. 
 
900 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 He paused, and Katharine's pale cheek flushed as she 
 looked with eagerness in his face. 
 
 " Are they married ?" she whispered, " and will he let her 
 — Oh ! she was ever kind and gentle. But — but I am 
 not worthy. She would not spurn me — but — I am not 
 proud now — but his wife." She burst into tears. 
 
 " I must not suffer this," interrupted the Doctor; "this 
 excitement is most injurious to you. Your sister is in- 
 capable of uttering even a word that could hurt your 
 feelings. He is gone now to bring her to you, but I can- 
 not allow you to see her unless you try to control 
 yourself." 
 
 Katharine, however, continued for some time to weep 
 in silence. She was evidently recalling thoughts of 
 mingled bitterness and remorse. 
 
 "Did I understand rightly?" she at last asked. "Is 
 my sister near ? — will it be long before — " 
 
 " No ; within half an hour at farthest," he replied. 
 " They are detained now only by the preparations neces- 
 sary for your removal to their home." 
 
 "Me ! — theirs !" Katharine's sunken eyes lighted up 
 with dazzling brilliancy for a few minutes, and she half 
 rose up from her pillow ; but sudden thoughts seemed a 
 moment after to rush into her mind, and she hid her face 
 with her thin pale hands, and sobbed bitterly. 
 
 Dr. Carrington felt that it was injurious to her to con- 
 tinue this conversation, and he contrived to withdraw her 
 immediate attention by summoning the nurse, and pre- 
 vailing on his patient to partake of the nourishment the 
 latter had prepared ; and then again she sank into a quiet 
 doze ; while the Doctor, impatient to get over what he 
 foresaw would prove most trying and exciting in the 
 weak state of the patient's health, went out to watch for 
 
of woman's life. 96] 
 
 the carriage, which he anticipated would bring with it 
 Ellen Beresford. 
 
 For many minutes Ellen knelt in silence, softly dash- 
 ing away, from time to time, the big tears that partly ob- 
 scured her contemplation of the pale emaciated face, that 
 lay as still and motionless before her as if the faultless 
 features had been chiselled out of marble. The faint, 
 regular heaving of the breast, and now and then a con- 
 vulsive motion of the fingers, that lay outside of the 
 patchwork counterpane, alone indicated that there was 
 life still existing in the statue-like figure. 
 
 Ellen thought that she slept, and she beckoned to 
 St. Orme, who was watching them from the door, to 
 approach. He held his very breath as he obeyed the 
 signal, but though his movements were so noiseless that 
 not a sound was heard in the chamber, it seemed his 
 presence was sufficient to arouse Katharine, who, without 
 moving, opened her eyes, and turned them from the one 
 to the other. 
 
 " My prayers, then, have been heard," she softly 
 ejaculated. 
 
 Ellen threw her arms around her sister's neck. The 
 command over her feelings was for a moment shaken, 
 for she saw that the shadow of death was already cloud- 
 ing Katharine's face, and that all the sanguine hopes she 
 had indulged in were doomed to be extinguished in the 
 grave. 
 
 Many words and expressions of tenderness and endear- 
 ment were exchanged between the sisters, but Doctor 
 Carrington's injunctions to refrain from excitement as 
 much as possible, prevented all questioning on the part 
 of Ellen, while Katharine appeared equally desirous to 
 
 shun anv explanation or reference to the past. So far, 
 
 G G 
 
962 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 however, it was elicited, from incoherent expressions she 
 at times uttered, that her friend De Sousa had died 
 some time before, but that the communication from St. 
 Orme and Ellen had reached the sister, Signora De 
 Sousa, and had been by her transmitted to Katharine. 
 She was therefore aware of her mother's death, and from 
 the same source, though certainly it had not been ex- 
 pressly avowed by either, had concluded that her sister's 
 marriage with St. Orme had taken place, which had led 
 to the question which had so surprised Dr. Carrington, 
 but which he had, for his own private reasons, taken 
 care not to controvert. All Ellen Beresford's sanguine 
 hopes and preparations for her sister's restoration to the 
 home from which she had been so long estranged, were 
 doomed to be delayed, if not eventually to be entirely 
 disappointed. Katharine's strength did not rally ; she 
 appeared, indeed, to be gradually sinking, and the 
 physician, anxious as he was to indulge Ellen's hopes 
 and projects, was compelled to pronounce the unfavour- 
 able decision, that his patient must not be removed ; — the 
 only chance for her restoration depended upon her being- 
 kept undisturbed, both in body and mind. 
 
 For the first three or four hours that Ellen watched 
 beside her sister's pillow, with eyes that were scarcely 
 ever removed from her face, Katharine preserved almost 
 unbroken silence. She answered readily and clearly to 
 Ellens gentle and cautious inquiries, and took from time 
 to time either the medicine or nourishment which the 
 Doctor had ordered. She seemed, too, grateful for his 
 attendance, and conscious of the interest he felt towards 
 her ; but towards both St. Orme, who passed occasionally 
 a few minutes by her bedside, and her sister, there was 
 something in her manner not so satisfactory — something 
 
^0F woman's LIFE. 1)63 
 
 which made both of thein shrink with a feeling of painful 
 surprise, though equally unwilling to communicate this 
 impression to each other. Could it be possible that she 
 doubted the sincerity of the feelings which were expressed 
 in every word, look, and gesture ! They could not believe 
 it — they would not believe it ; and most of all did Ellen 
 shrink from the thought, and pray that Vivian might 
 not suspect it. And yet, as he turned his eyes upon her, 
 (Ellen), after receiving a cold " Yes " or " No," in reply to 
 his earnest hope that she felt better, it seemed as if he 
 looked to her for an explanation of what was in reality 
 inexplicable to both. Midnight came, and with it came 
 a strange alteration in the manner of Katharine ; her 
 bodily strength seemed to be fast decaying; she could no 
 longer raise the spoon to her mouth ; and while her sister, 
 at her own request, was administering some wine and 
 water, which she appeared more than ever anxious to take, 
 she surprised Ellen by whispering, with a strange smile 
 — a smile that seemed to her sister so unlike her usual 
 sweetness as to startle the latter — ; 
 
 " Do not be afraid of making it too strong, Ellen ; I 
 want strength, and water will not give it me." 
 
 A crimson blush rushed into Ellen's cheeks. Could 
 this be meant to reprove her ? Oh ! how unlike was 
 that bitter tone, for even though uttered in a faint 
 whisper, there was a bitterness expressed ; and, oh ! how 
 unlike her sweet sister Katharine ; but Ellen was doomed 
 to even more painful surprise, when Katharine's eyes, 
 following her sister, as the latter with trembling fingers 
 made the desired alteration in the draught, Avere sud- 
 denly averted, and she turned her face on the pillow, 
 bursting into thick heavy sobs, that shook her whole 
 frame. 
 
964 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 " Shall I call the Doctor, Miss," demanded the nurse, 
 ■who saw that Ellen, not less surprised than terrified, 
 knew not how to act. Katharine, however, with what 
 appeared to be almost supernatural strength, ex- 
 claimed, " Oh, no, no. Do not let my folly, my weak- 
 ness, my wickedness, he exposed to him ! They "will 
 know it all too soon — will know the wretch they have — " 
 
 Ellen threw herself on her knees by the side of her 
 sister, and pressed her lips to hers, to prevent her pro- 
 ceeding with the self-condemnation. 
 
 " My own — my beloved Katharine," she with difficulty 
 uttered, "for my sake, calm this agitation; tell me only 
 if there is any thing I can do — anything that, from my 
 ignorance and inexperience, I have left undone." 
 
 " Pray that God may preserve to you your ignorance 
 and inexperience, my sister," replied Katharine, with 
 solemnity — " for it is only in things that are evil that you 
 are ignorant, and to be enlightened would be to deprive 
 you of that innocence. God, in his mercy, grant that 
 you may never know ^nore than you now do of what I 
 have learned too well — what I would give all that the 
 world could bestow to forget ! Oh ! Ellen, Ellen, little 
 do you think what a wretch has your sister become — how 
 totally unworthy she is of the care and kindness you are 
 bestowing upon her !" 
 
 " Forget, dear Katharine," gently whispered Ellen, — 
 " forget all that is past, as I will, and let the future — " 
 
 " There is no future for me, Ellen, but the grave !" in- 
 terrupted her sister, in a voice that sounded strangely 
 hollow. " Hear me, my beloved sister — hear me, while 
 I have strength left to say what is in my heart, and it 
 will serve to reconcile you to my death. Yes, do not 
 start at the word, Ellen, when the reality is so near." 
 
of woman's life. 965 
 
 Ellen rose suddenly from her reclining posture — 
 "I had forgotten," she exclaimed, in an agitated tone. 
 " Dear, dear Katharine, I had forgotten the Doctor's in- 
 junction — to prevent your giving way to emotion. You 
 were not even to be allowed to speak, and you are ex- 
 hausting yourself, and — " 
 
 "All these precautions are useless, dear Ellen," 
 whispered Katharine, with a faint smile. "I know that 
 nothing can save me ; and it would be cruel to deny me 
 this — my last satisfaction." 
 
 Ellen, however, still looked deeply distressed at her 
 persisting, and Katharine, comprehending her feelings, at 
 last yielded, to allow Doctor Carrington to decide whether 
 she could with safety indulge in a further short communi- 
 cation with her sister. In a few moments he entered the 
 room, and Ellen, who watched his looks with painful 
 anxiety, saw with alarm the unfavourable expression of 
 his countenance, as he beheld the change that had taken 
 place in that of his patient. A short whispered con- 
 ference took place between them. Ellen, in obedience 
 to a signal from her sister, had withdrawn from the side 
 of the bed, but she returned to it instantly, when he said, 
 as he left the room — 
 
 " Your sister has something on her mind she wishes to 
 say to you, Miss Beresford. It will, perhaps, do her less 
 harm to make the exertion, than to agitate her by 
 opposition." 
 
 "Bend your ear down to me, dear Ellen," she said, 
 and Ellen resumed her former position. " I wish only 
 to feel, my dear sister, that God's decree is just and merci- 
 ful, and that as such I bow to it in all humility and de- 
 pendence on his mercy. Great as my offences have been, 
 Ellen, I am no longer the sister whom you could esteem 
 
966 SHADE AND SUNSHINE 
 
 as well as love. I am not going to plead any extenuation 
 of my conduct ; but I was placed in circumstances which 
 I had neither strength of mind nor principles to resist. 
 From the time I left England, to become the flattered, 
 pampered object of universal admiration, without one 
 friend, without one heart that could respond to mine, 
 I have led a life of mad extravagance and dissipation ; 
 I became one with whom your innocence could never be 
 assimilated. But the day of retribution was at hand: 
 I lost my health, and with it every attraction. M. De 
 Sousa, from whom alone I could hope to have received 
 assistance, died. He was a good man, though his mistaken 
 reliance on me, and his connexions with public life, led 
 him to place me in the way of temptation. But, as I 
 said, he was no more, and his cold-hearted sister rejected 
 my prayers to furnish me with the means to go to Eng- 
 land. I should have died in utter misery ; but she was 
 just, though stern, and she forwarded the letter which 
 invited me to London, with its enclosure. But I had 
 fallen among those who let me bring little away with me 
 — nothing, indeed, after they had secured my passage to 
 Southampton — that they paid to get rid of me — and I 
 landed without a shilling. But I was in England, and I 
 had prayed all along to die there. It seemed my prayer 
 would be literally answered, for I was many days before 
 I could leave the wretched lodging in which I was re- 
 ceived, and I sold everything there and on the road, 
 till I stopped here. But I had not parted with my pride, 
 and I determined never to appear before you so destitute. 
 St. Orme-'s letter referred me to Dr. Carrington, in 
 London, and gave me authority to draw on him to any 
 amount. Fortunately, my friends in Naples did not 
 discover this before I left them, or they would not have 
 
of woman's life. 967 
 
 parted with rne so easily. To confess the truth, I 
 had overlooked it myself, until the very day that I 
 arrived here. I tried to explain it to the woman, to 
 whose violence I was indebted for the discovery 
 of my situation to St. Orme, but she was so igno- 
 rant and so abusive, she would not listen to my assu- 
 rances that I had money to receive, if she would let me 
 stay to write for it to London. And now, dear Ellen, 
 nothing remains but to explain to you my apparent 
 reserve : — When we first met, I did think then that it was 
 possible I might live : and, forgive me that I so wronged 
 you, I thought you would triumph in rescuing me from 
 such abject poverty, that — that — but no, I will not re- 
 peat what I felt and suffered. Thank Heaven, my eyes are 
 open to the truth, and I can do both of you justice." 
 
 It must not be supposed that Katharine was capable 
 of giving this detail in the connected manner it is here 
 repeated. There were many and long interruptions, 
 during which it seemed scarcely possible that she would 
 have power to resume it; and earnestly Ellen prayed of 
 her to forget it altogether, and seek only the rest that 
 appeared so necessary to her sinking frame ; but it 
 seemed to be relief to her burthened heart, or a duty she 
 considered essential to her repose, for scarcely had she 
 uttered the last sentence before her eyes were closed in 
 sleep, which to Ellen seemed to be the harbinger of 
 hope. The day broke ; and the eyes of the watchful 
 sister, which had never for a moment drooped, still 
 gladly marked the peaceful breathing that had never 
 varied for the last three hours. From time to time a noise- 
 less step had crept to the door of the room from below, 
 but Ellen's upraised finger had kept either St. Orme or 
 his friend from coming further; and the nurse, sleeping 
 
908 SHADE AND SUNSHINE OF WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 
 on a rug by the fireside, had not by even a movement 
 disturbed the utter quietude. Suddenly, however, there 
 was a shriek that brought all within its hearing into the 
 room ; but it was the arms of St. Orme that received the 
 dying Katharine. She had started from her recumbent 
 posture almost to her feet, and, with arms extended, her 
 eyes widely opened and seeming restored to all their 
 natural brilliancy, appeared to be pursuing some object 
 that eluded her grasp. The words "Mother!" "For- 
 give !" were faintly articulated by her pale lips, and then 
 her eyes wandered with a smile of recognition from St. 
 Orme to Ellen, and with that smile lighting her face 
 with angelic beauty, she died. 
 
 Over the faults that had clouded the existence of one 
 so beautiful, but yet so weak, we draw a veil. We are but 
 the children of circumstances, tossed to and fro by the 
 exigencies of the position in which we are placed. 
 
 Katharine's death postponed for a time the nuptials 
 of Ellen and St. Orme ; but, after a decent interval had 
 elapsed, their marriage was solemnized, and they retired 
 to their country seat, where, in the possession of an« 
 ample fortune, and with spirits softened and chastened 
 by the terrible troubles they had witnessed, they passed 
 their days in dispensing their bounty to all who stood 
 in need of it. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 M'OOWAN AND CO., GREAT WINDMILL STREET, HATMARKET, LONDON. 
 
m m