MtMM SMS UC-NRLF, B 3 321 ^Ib mssasammmm ^i^ ■ AUTHORS OF 'toDIMOMYMOmBO m iKILEY RARY EtSJTY Of ^ .^NW»v l^^'^ ^1^^^ ^•^ ^ Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2008 witin funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.arcliive.org/details/byceliasarbourtaOObesaricli OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. " The story is a charming one, charmi'igly told, and combines most of those qualitie* ■-the blending of the pathetic and grotesque, poetic sentiment and epigrammaiic ex- pression, wonderfully fresh description and shrewd common-sense — which have enabled the authors to take a front place among the novelists of the day." — The World. " The merit of the hero of ' By Celia': Arbour ' proves that the authors of this ex- cellent novel are as determined as the rest of their colleagues to put down the notion ;hat the mens sana must needs dwell in corpore satta." — Truth. " The characters form a gallery of portraits such as few persons except the authors of ' Ready-Money Mortiboy ' could paint so well. We will only say, therefore, that oi all the joint authors' pleasant books we hold this to be the pleasantcst and the best." — Standard. " The story in itself is charming." — Morning Post. " The authors of 'Ready-Money Mortiboy' have produced in this theii latest work a novel which will suffice to place them in the front rank of writers of English fiction. ' By Celia's Arbour ' is in truth a work of a very remarkable character. It is one of those works which it is a grateful relief to come upon, standing, as it does, so con- spicuously above the dead-level of modern fiction." — Morning Advertiser. " Others of which we have spoken before are equally happy ; and even where the novel is not strong, it is fresh, while, wherever it is not weak, it is extremely vigorous." — Saturday Review. " The novel is a good and wholesome one. Leonard, the hero, is a fine fellow, and Ladislas Pulaski, who tells the story, plays his difficult part very well. Celia is sweet uid womanly. The Captain is another noble picture, which it does a reader's heart good to see." — Spectator. "'By Celia's Arbour' is a stirring and well-told story, worthy of the authors ol * Ready-Money Mortiboy.' " — Figaro. *' The characters have passed away ; but their fame will live in the bright and genial story which has been called after ' Celia's Arbour.' " — Daily Chronicle. "The reader, interested as the play goes on, is pleased with the disposition of the dramatis per sonce when the curtain falls." — News of the World. " It is a capital book, and thoroughly interesting." — Judy. *' We can scarcely pay a higher compliment to the sharers of this literary partner- ship than by saying that their work reminds us of that of MM. Erckmann-Chatrian." —Literary World. " Much more than the ephemeral interest of too many modem novels will be found IB the works of the authors of the celebrated ' Ready-Money Mortiboy.' The interest • of * By Celia's Arbour ' is admirably sustained." — Lloyd's Weekly Paper. "The story is remarkably entertaining, and its originality will leave a lasting im- pression on the memory." — Court Journal. "There are some amusing characters in the book, such as Mrs. Pontifex, the terma- gant Evangelical lady, and her husband, the Rev. John, who is unable to resist her imperious will. A fine character, too, is Mr. Broughton, a clergyman of the old school, and so, in spite of faults, the novel proves that ' all is well that ends well.' " — Echo. " It is a charming idyll, replete with picturesque sketches of manners and customs, characters, and quaint out-of-the-way nooks in the Portsmouth of thirty years ago." — —Man of the World. "Equally excellent are the comic characters. The Eramblers are Dickens-like ij their hopefulness amidst their calamities, while the two clergymen, Pontifex and Broughton, arc exact reproductions of the parsons of the ' good old times.| It is difficult to repress enthusiasm in speaking of this novel, so great is the charm it exer- cises. ' By Celia's Arbour ' is one of the most ingenious, most stimulating, and most imaginative works that its authors have yet supplied." — Sunday Tivies. " This novel will increase the reputation of its authors, and be welcomed by iJl who can recognize first-class literary work when they see 't," — Sheffield IneUptndtnU By Celia's Arbour ^ ®alt of |9ortsmout1^ ©otou BY WALTER BESANT and JAMES RICE AUTHORS OF READY-MONEY MORTIBOY," "THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY," " MY LITTLE GIRL, "WITH HARP AND CROWN," "THIS SON OF VULCAN," "THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT," "THE MONKS OF THELEMA," ETC. A NEW EDITION ILonUon CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1892. CONTEXTS eHAPTEB PARK I. On the Queen's Bastion . 7 II. The Captain . B5 III. Victory Row i2 IV. Thirty Years Ago , 29 V. The Young Prince Z7 VI. Celia. 45 VII. Augustus in the Legal . • S3 VIII. The Unfortunate Young Nobleitan 60 IX. Hopes and Fears . 67 X. War .... 72 XI. The War, and After . . 8c XII. The Brambler Family 87 XIII. A Flower of Love . 94 XIV. On the Sea-shore . ICI XV. La Vie de Province . L08 XVI. A Dinner Party 115 XVII. An Old Promise . • 125 XVIIL From the Organ-Loft 13c XIX. The Pontifex Collection . . 138 XX. The Right of Revolt 145 XXL The World and the Word ' 152 XXII. A Night up the Harbour :S7 XXIII. Mrs. Ponafex asks What it Means > 171 XXIV. The Conspirator i79 XXV. Wassielowski'^s Secret . . i&5 XXVI. The Massacre of the Innocents 193 XXVII. The Day Before . . J99 XXVIII. The Twenty-first of June . 206 XXIX. "A Surprise" . . 2i4 XXX. Leonard Tells his Story , 219 XXXI. Leonard Continues his Story . 226 XXXII A Friendly Chat . 233 806 CONTENTS CRA?TBR rxai XXXIII. A Triumphal Procession . . 241 XXXIV. An Appeal to Common Sense > 9 25a XXXV. A Diplomatist .255 XXXVI. The Fourth Estate . - . . 259 XXXVII. Love's Victory .267 XXXVIII. The Key of the Safe e 277 XXXIX, Borrowed Plumes , . . . , 284 XL. More Unpleasantness for Perkin Warbeck . 292 XLI. Miss Rutherford . . , . , . 298 XLII. A Family Council . . , . 304 XLIII. Celia gives her Answer . • • . 309 XLIV. The Deputation . , . , iS XLV. Herr Raumer's Intentions . 329 XLVI. A Family Gathering . . * ♦ 332 XLVII. The Pole's Vengeance , . 337 XLV III. An Unexpected Friend , 344 XLIX. A Coroner's Inquest . ^ . 351 L. •' Leonard and CIs " . . 358 LI. ** Ring, Wedding BeDs !" .• 3^4 LTL Conclusi.'w . . . r . 370 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. CHAPTER I. ON THE queen's BASTION. I'wo boys and a girl, standing together in the north-west comei pf the Queen's Bastion on the old town wall. Leonard, the elder boy, leans on an old-fashioned 32 -pounder which points through an embrasiu-e, narrow at the mouth and wide at the end, straight up the harbour. Should any enemy attempt to cross the lagoon of mud which forms the upper harbour at low tide, that enemy would, as Leonard often explained, be " raked " by the gun. Leonai-d is a lad between seventeen and eighteen, tall and well-grown. As yet his figui'e is too slight, but that will fill out; his shoulders are broad enough for the strength a year or two more will give him ; he has short brown hair of quite a common colour, but lustrous, and with a natm-al cm-l in it; his eyes are hazel, and they are steadfast; when he fought battles at school those eyes looked like winning ; his chin is strong and square ; his lips are finn. Only to look upon him as he passed, you would say that you had seen ft strong man in his youth. People turned their heads after he had gone by to have another look at such a handsome boy. He leans his back, now, against the gun, his hands resting lightly upon the carriage on either side, as if to be ready for immediate action; his straw hat lies on the gi'ass beside him. And he is looking in the face of the girl. She is a mere child of thirteen or fourteen, standing before him and gazing into his face with sad and solemn eyes. She, too, is bareheaded, carrying her summer hat by the ribbons. I suppose QO gii'l of fom-teen, when gu-ls are bony, angular, and bigfooted, C9,n properly be described as beautiful ; but Celia was always beautiful to me. Her face remains the sam« to me through the changes of many years — always lovely, always sweet and winsome. Her eyes were light blue, and yet not shallow ; she had a pair of mutinous little lips which were generally, but not to-night, Uughing ; hei hair hung over her shoulders in the long ami 8 BY CELIACS ARBOUB, cmfetterec! tresses whicli so well become young maidens ., and in her cheek was the prettiest little dimple ever seen. Bu". uow she looked sad, and tears were gathered in her eyes. As for me, I was Inng on the parapet of the wall, looking at the other two. Perhaps it will save trouble if I state at once who I was, and what to look upon. In the year 1853 I was sixteen years of age, about two years older than Celia, nearly two years younger than Leonard. I believe I had already arrived at my present tall statui'e, which is exactly five feet one inch. I am a hunchback. An accident in infancy rounded my shoulders and ai'ched my back, giving me a projection which causes my coats to hang loosely where other men's fit tight, forcing my neck forward so that my head bends back where other people's heads are held straight upon their necks. It was an unfortunate accident, because I should, but for it, have grown into a strong man ; my limbs are stout and my arms are muscular. It cost me nothing as a boy to climb up ropes and posts, to clamber hand over hand along a rail, to get up into trees, to do amihing where I could get hold for a single hand or for a single foot. I was not — through my unlucky back, the distortion of my neck, and the length of my aim — comely to look upon. All the years of my childhood, and some a good deal later, were spent in the miserable efi'ort to bring home to myself the plain fact that I was disgraai. The comeliness of youth and manhood could be no more mine than my father's broad lands ; fur, besides being a hunchback, I was an exile, a Pole, the son of a Polish rebel, and therefore penniless. My name is Ladislas Pulaski. We were standing, as I said, in the north-west comer of the Queen's Bastion, the spot where the gi-ass was longest and greenest, the wild convolvulus most abundant, and where the noblest of the gi'eat elms which stood upon the ramparts — '* to catch the enemy's shells," said Leonard — threw out a gracious arm laden with leafy foliage to give a shade. We called the place Celia's A^boui-. If you looked out over the parapet, you saw before you the whole of the most magniLeent harboui' in the world ; and if you looked thi'ough the embrasui-e of the wall, you had a splendid fi'amed picture — water for foregi'ound, old ruined castle in middle distance, blae hill beyond, and above blue sky. We were all three silent, because it was Leonard's last evening \vith us. He was going away, our companion and brother, and we were there to bid him God speed. It was after eight ; suddenly the sun, which a moment befort ON THE QUEEN* S BASTION. 9 was a great disc of burnished gold, sank below the thin line of land between sky and sea. Then the evening gun from the Duke of York's bastion pro- claimed the death of another day with a loud report, which made the branches in the trees above us to shake and tremble. And from the barracks in the town ; from the Harbour Admiral's flagship ; from the Port Admiral's flagship ; from the flagship oi the Admiral in command of the Mediterranean Fleet, then in harbour ; from the tower of the old church, there came such a firing of muskets, such a beating of drums, playing of fifes, ringing of bells, and sounding of trumpets, that you would have thought the sun was setting once for all, and receiving his farewell salute fr'om a world he was leaving for ever to roll about in darkness. The evening gun and the tintamarre that followed roused us aD three, and we involuntarily turned to look across the parapet. Beyond that was the moat, and beyond the moat was a ravelin, and beyond the ravelin the sea-wall ; beyond the wall a smooth and placid lake, for it was high tide, four miles long and a couple of miles wide, in which the splendour of the west was reflected so that it looked like a fui-nace of molten metal. At low tide it would have been a great flat level of black mud, unlovely even with an evening sky upon it, intersected with creeks and streams which, I suppose, were kept full of water by the di'ainage of the mud-banks. At the end of the harbour stood the old ruined castle, on the very margin and verge of the water. The walls were reflected in the calm bosom of the lagoon ; the water-gate opened out upon wavelets of the lapping tide; behind rose the great donjou, square, grey, and massive ; in the toumey-yard stood the old church, and we needed no telling to make us think of the walls behind, four feet broad, rugged and worn by the tooth of Time, thickly blossoming with gilly- flowers, clutched and held on all sides by the tight embrace of the ivy. There had been rain in the afternoon, so that the air was clear and transparent, and you could see every stone in the grand old keep, eveiy dentation of the wall. Behind the castle lay the low cuiwed line of a long hill, green and grassy, which made a background to the harbour and the old fortress. It stretched for six miles, this hill, and might have been monotonous but for the chalk quarries which studded its side with frequent intervals of white. Farther on, to the west, there lay a village, buried in a great clump of trees, so that you couldl lo BV CELIA 'S ARBOUR. see nothing but tlie tower of a church and the occasional smoke (.1 a chimney. The -callage was so far off, that it seemed like soma outlying foi-t, an advance work of civihsation, an outpost such as those which the Roman conquerors have left in the desert. WTien your eye left the village among the trees and travelled south -yards, you could see very little of land on the other side by reason of the ships which inteiToned — ships of every age, of every class, of every colour, of evei7 build ; frigates, three-deckers, brigs, schooners, cutters, launches, gunboats, paddle-wheel steamers, screw steamers, hulks so old as to be almost shapeless — they were ijdng ranged in line, or they were moored separately ; some in the fiill flood of the waning sunset, some in shadow, one behind the other, making deep blacknesses in the golden water. There was not much Hfe at this late hour in the harbour. Here and there a boat pulled by two or thi-ee lads fi'om the to-^n ; here and there a great ship's gig, moving heavily through the water, pulled by a crew of sailors, rowing -^ith their slow and measured stroke, and the little middy sitting in the stem ; or perhaps a wheriy coming down from Fareham Creek. But mostly the harbour was silent, the bustle even at the low end having ceased -^ith the sunset. " What do you see up the harbour, Leonard ?" asked the girl, for all of us were gazing silently at the glorious sight. *• I am looking for my future, Cis, and I cannot make it out." "" Tell us what you think, Leonard." ♦* Five minutes ago it looked sjiendid. But the glory is going off the water. See, Cis, the castle has disappeared — there is nothing to be made out there but a low black mass of shade ; and the ships are so many black logs Mng on grey water that in ten minutes "uill be black too. Nothing but blackness. Is that my future?" ** I can read you a better fortune out of the sunset than that," I inteqiosed. " Do, Laddy," said Celia. ** Don't let poor Leonard go away with a bad omen." •' If you look above you, Leonard," I went on, *' yon will see that all the splendours of the earth ha^e gone up into the heavens. Look at the brightness there. "Was there ever a more glorious sunset ? There is a streak of colour for you ! — the one above the belt of salmon — blue, with just a suspicion on the far edge of green. Leonard, if you believed in visions, and 'Rished for the best possible, you could have nothing better than that before you. If your dreams were to get money and rubbish like that" — it will be remembered that I who enunciated this sentiment, and Colia ON THE QUEEN'S BASTION il who clapped her hands, and Leonard who nodded gravely, were all three very young — " such rubbish, it would lead you to disap- pointment, just as the golden water is turning black. But up above the colours are brighter, and they are lasting ; thej aever fade." " They are fading now, Laddy." ** Nonsense. Sunsets never fade. They are for ever moving westwards round the world. Don't you know that there is always sunset going on somewhere ? Gold in evening clouds for us to Bee, and a golden sunrise for some others. So, Leonard, when your dreams of the future were finished you looked up, and you saw the sky brighter than the harbour. That means that the future will be brighter than you ever dreamed." Leonard laughed. " You agree with Laddy, Cis ? Of course you do. As if you two ever disagreed yet ! " "I must go home, Leonard; it is nearly nine. And, oh I you are going away to-night, and when — when shall we see you again ?" " I am going away to-night, Cis. I have said good-bye to the Captain, God bless him, and I am going to London by the ten o'clock train to seek my fortune." ♦' But you will write to us, Leonard, won't you? You vr^ tell us what you are doing, and where you are, and all about yourself.'* He shook his head. "No, Cis, not even that. Listen. I have talked it all over with the Captain. I am going to make my fortune — somehow. I don't know how, nor does he, the dear old man. But I am going to try. Perhaps I shall fail, perhaps I shall succeed. I mi nine or ten years before my story begins, he repaired thither on a certain sultry day in August at half-past two in the afternoon. He had with him a long pipe and a newspaper. He placed his arm-chair under the shade of the mulberry-tree, then rich wdth ripe purple fruit, and sat doT\-n to read at ease. Whether it was the languor of the day, or the mild influence of the mill hard by, or the effects of the pipe, is not to be rashly decided, but the Captain presently exchanged the wooden chair for the grass under the mulberry-tree, upon which, mindful of his white ducks and the fallen fruit, he spread a rug, and then leaning back against the trunk, which was sloped by Nature for this very pui-pose, he gazed for a few moments upon the dazzling surface of the Mill- dam, and then fell fast asleep. Now, at verj' low tides the water in the Mill-dam would run out so far as to leave a narrow belt of dry shingle under the stone wall, and that happened on this ver}' afternoon. Presently there came creeping along this little beach, all alone, with curious and wondering eyes, which found something to admire in every pebble, a little boy of eight. He was bare-footed and bare-headed, a veritable little gutter-boy, clad almost in rags. It was a long way round the lake fi"om the only place where he could have got down, a good quarter of a mile at least, and he stopped at the bottom of the Captain's garden for two excellent reasons : one that he felt tired and thirsty, and the other that the tide was already racing in through the mill like the rapids at Niagara, that it akeady covered the beach in front and behind, and w^as advancing ^-ith mighty strides over the little strip on which he stood. And it occurred to that lonely little traveller that unless he could get out of the mess, something dreadful in the shape of wet feet and subsequent drowning would happen to him. He was a little frightened at the prospect, and began to cry gently. But he was not a foolish child, and he reflected immediately that ciying was no good. So he looked at the wall behind him. It was a sea wall with a little slope, only about five feet high, and built with rough stones irregularly dressed, so as to afford foot and hand hold for anybody who wished to climb up or down. In two minutes the young mountaineer had climbed the dizzy height and stood upon the stone coping, looking back to the place he had cQjne from. Below him the water was flowing where he hai TFIE CAPTAIN. 19 fllvwd jnst no^T ; and timing round he found himself In ft garden with someone, a gentleman in white trousers, white waistcoat^ and white hair, with a blue coat, sitting in the shade. His jollj' red face was l}ing sideways, lovingly against the tree, his cap on the gi'ass beside him ; his mouth was half open ; his eyes were closed ; while a soft melodious snore, like the contented hymn 0^ some aesthetic pigling, proclaimed aloud to the young obser\ir that the Captain was asleep. The boy advanced towards the sleeping stranger in a manner common to one of tender age, that is, on all-foui's, giving action to his hands and arms in imitation of an imaginaiy wild beast. He crept thus, first to the right side, then to the left, and then between the wide-spread legs of the Captain, peering into his un- conscious face. Then he suddenly became conscious that he was under a mulberiy-tree, that the fruit was ripe, that a chair was standing convenient for one who might wish to help himself, and that one branch lower than the rest hung immediately over the chair, so that even a child might reach out his hand and gather the fruit. This was the Wrong Thing lamented by the Rev. Mr. Pontifex. The unprincipled young robber, after quite realising the position of things — strange garden — gentleman of marine calling sound asleep — ripe fi-uit — present thirst — overwhelming curiosity to ascertain if this kind of fruit resembled apples — yielded without resistance to temptation, and mounted the chair. Five minutes later, the Captain lazily opened his eyes. Boom — boom — boom — the mill was going with redoubled vigour, for the tide had turned since he fell asleep, and was now rushing through the dark subterranean avenues with a mighty roar. But except for the tide and the mill everything was very quiet. Accustomed noises do not keep people awake. Thus in the next garden but one two brothers were fighting, but as this happened every day, and all day, it did not disturb the Captain. One was worsted in the encounter. He ran away and got into some upper chamber, from the window of which he yelled in a hoarse stammer to his victorious brother, who was red-haired, •' J — J — Jack — you're a c — c — c — carrotty thief." But invective of this kind, not addressed to himself, only gently tickled the the Captain's t}'mpanum. The sun was still very bright, the air was balmy, and I think he would have fallen asleep again but for one tiling. A strange sound smote his ears. It was a sound like nnto the smacking of tongues and the sucking of lips ; or like the Dlo.ased champing of gratified teeth; a soft and gurgling sound; eo BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. with, unless the Captain's ears greatly deceived him, a low l/eatb' ing of gi'eat contentment. He listened lazily, wondering wha4 this sound might mean. "WTiile he listened, a mulberry fell upon his nose and bounded off, making four distinct leaps fi'om nose to ehirt-front, fi'om shii"t-fi'ont to white waistcoat, fi'om waistcoat to ducks, and fi'om ducks to the rug. That was nothing remarkable. Mulberries "«ill fall when over- ripe, and the Captain had swept away a basketfid that day before dinner. So he did not move, but listened still. The noises were accompanied by a little frou-frou, which seemed to betoken something human. But the Captain was still far from being broad awake, and so he continued to wonder lazily. Then another mulberry fell ; then half a dozen, full on his waistcoat, cannoning m all directions to the utter min of his white garments ; and a low childish laugh burst forth close to him, and the Captain sprang to his feet. To his amazement there stood on the chair before him a ragged little boy, barefoot and bare-headed, his face pui-ple '\\-ith mulberry iuice, his mouth crammed ^^ith frait, his fingers stained, his ragged clothes smirched ; even his little feet, so dusty and diiiy, standing in a pool of mulbeny juice. The Captain was a bachelor and a sailor, and on both gi'ounds fond of children. Now, the face of the child before him, so bonny, 50 saucy, so fall of glee and confidence, went straight to his heart, and he laughed a welcome and patted the boy's cheek. But the fact itself was remarkable. ^Miere had the child come from ? Not through the front door, which was closed ; nor over the wall, which was impossible. ** How the dickens " the Captain began. " I beg your pardon, my lad, for sweaiing, which is a bad habit ; but how did you get here ?" The boy pointed to the wall and the water. "Oh!" said the Captain, doubtftilly. "Swam, did yon? Now, that's odd. I've seen them half your size in the Pacific swim like fishes, but I never heard of an English boy doing it before. Where do you live, boy ?" The child looked interrogative. ** "^Tiere's daddy ? Gone to sea, belike, as a good sailo* should ?" But the boy shook his head. '* Daddy's dead, I suppose. Dro\Mied, likely, a* many a goo4 «&i]or is. "Where s your mammy ? " The boy looked a little frightened at these questions, to wKie^ be colli d evidently give no satisfactory reply. VICTORY ROW. 21 " The line's pretty nigh paid out," said the Captain ; * but we'll tiy once more. Who takes care of you, boy — finds ^oa m rations, and seizes out the rope's end ?" This time the boy began to understand a little. Then the Captain put on his hat and led him by the hand to the quartier where the sailors' wives did mostly congregate. In thia he was guided by the fine instinct of experience, because he felU in spite of the rags, that the boy had been dressed by a sailor'n wif«5. None but such a woman could give a sea-going air to two garments so simple as those which kept the weather from the boy. He led the child by the hand till presently the cnild led him, and piloted the Captain safely to a house where a woman — it was Mrs. Jeram — came running out, cmng shiilly : " Lenny ! why, wherever have you bin and got to ? " There was another ragged Httle boy with a round back, five or six years old, sitting on the door- step. When the Captain had finished his talk with Mrs. Jeram, he came out and noticed that other boy, and then he returned and had more talk. CHAPTER III. \1CT0RY ROW. Mrs. Jeram was a weekly tenant in one of a row of small four- roomed houses kno^Mi as Victoiy Row, which led out of Nelson Street, and was a broad blind court, bounded on one side and at the end by the Dockyard wall. It was not a dirty and confined court, but quite the reverse, being large, clean, and a veiy Cathe- dral close for quietness. The wall, built of a wann red brick, had a broad and sloping top, on which grew wallliowers, long grasses, and stonecrop ; overhanging the wall was a row of great elms, ia the branches of which there was a rookery, so that all day long you could listen, if you wished, to the talk of the rooks. Now, this is never quenilous, angry, or argumentative. The rook does not combat an adversaiy's opinion : he merely states his o^vn. ; if the other one does not agree -with him he states it again, but without temper. If you watch them and listen, you will come to the con- clusion that they are not theorists, like poor humans, but simply investigators of fact. It has a restful sound, the talk of rooks ; you listen in the early morning, and they assist your sleeping half- dream without waking you ; or in the evening they cany your amagination away to woods and sweet countr}' gladrs. They hsTi 22 £y CELIA 'S ARBOUR, cut down the elms now, and driven the rooks to llnd another shelter. Yei-y lihely, in their desire to sweep away eveiything that is pretty, they have torn the wallflowers and gi'asses off the wall as well. And if these are gone, no doubt Victory Kow has lost its only chaim. If I were to visit it now, I should proba^)ly find it squalid and moan. The eating of the tree of knowledge so often makes things that once we loved look squalid. But to childhood nothing is unlovely in which the imagination can light upon something to feed it. It is the blessed province of all children, high and low, to find themselves at the gates of Paradise ; and quite cei-tainly Tom the Piper's son, sitting under a hedge ^nth a raw potato for pla}i;hing, is eveiy bit as hippy as a little Prince of Wales. The possibilities of the world which opens out before us are infinite ; while the glories of the world we have left behind are still clinging to the brain, and shed a supernatural colom-ing on ever^-thiug. At six, it is enough to live ; to awake in the morning to the joy of another day ; tc eat, sleep, play, and -yonder ; to revel in the vanities of child- hood ; to wanton in make-belief superiority ; to admire the deeds of bigger childi'en ; vo emulate them, like Icarus : and too often, like that greatly daring youth, to fall. Tr}' to remember, if you can, something of the mental attitude of cluldhood ; recall, if j-ou may, some of the long thoughts oi early days. To begin ^nth — God was quite close to you, up among the stars ; He was seated somewhere, ready to give you whatever you wanted ; eveiybody was a friend, and everybody was occupied all day long about j-our personal concerns ; you had not yet an'ived at the bopshness of forming plans for the future. You were still engaged in imitating, exercising, wonder- ing. Eveiy man was a demi-god— you had not yet arrived at the consciousness that you might become yourself a man ; the resources of a woman — to whom belong bread, butter, sugar, cake, and jam — were unbounded ; evei-^-thing that you saw was full of strange and mysterious interest. You had not yet learned to sneer, to criticise, to compare, and to do^^'n-clT. Mrs. Jeiam's house, therefore, in my eyes, contained eveiy- Aing that heart of man could crave for. The green-painted door opened into a room which was at once reception-room, dining- room, and kitchen ; furnished, too, though that I did not know, in anticipation of the present fashion, having plates of blue and white china stuck round the walls. The walls were built of that warm red brick which time covers '^ith a coating of grey-like moss. You find it ever^-where among the o^d houses of th® VICTORY ROW. 23 sorih of England but I suppose the clay is all used np, because I see none of it in the new houses. We were quite respectable people in Victory Row ; of that I am quite sure, because Mrs. Jeram would have made the place much too lively, by the power and persistence of hej tongue, for other than respectable people. We were seafaring folk, of course ; and in every house was something sh'ange from foreign parts. To this day I never see anything new in London shops or in museums without a backvrard rush of associations which lands me once more in Victory Row ; for the sailors' -waves had all these things long ago, before inland people ever heard of them. There were Japanese cabinets, picked up in Chinese poris long before Japan was open ; there was curious carved wood and ivory work from Canton. Thes;^ things were got during the Chinese war. And there was a public-house in a street hard by which was decorated, instead of with a red window-blind, like other such establishments, with a splendid picture representing some of the episodes in that struggle : all the Chinese were running away in a disgraceful stampede, while Jack Tar, running after them, caught hold of their pig-tails with the left hand, and deftly cut off their heads with the right, administering at the same time a frolicsome kick. John China- man's legs were generally both off the ground together, such was his fear. Then there were carved ostrich eggs ; wonderful things fi'om the Brazils in feathers ; fi'ail delicacies in coral from the Philippines, kno'\Mi as Venus' s flower-baskets ; grew- Bome-looking cases fi'om the West Indies, containing centipedes, acorpions, beetles, and tarantulas ; small turtle shells, dried flying-fish, which came out in moist exudations during wel weather, and smelt like haddock ; shells of all kinds, big and Httle ; clubs, tomahawks, and other queer weapons, carved in wood, fi'om the Pacific ; stufi'ed humming-birds, and birds of Paradise. There were live birds, too — awadavats, Java sparrows, love-bii'ds, parroquets, and parrots in plenty. There was one parrot, at the comer house, who aflected the ways of one suffering from incurable consumption — he was considered intensely comic by children and persons of strong stomach and small imagination. There were parrots who came, stayed a little while, and then were taken away and sold, who spoke foreign tongues with amazing volubility, who swore worse than Gresset's Vert Vert, and who whistled as beautifully as a boatswain — the same airs, too. The specimens which belonged to Art or inanimate Nature were rangbd upon a table at the window. They generally stood ol «4 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR, were grouped around a large Bible, wliicli it was & p'int ol ceremonial to have in the house. The liye bii'ds *rere hun^ outside in sunny weather, all except the parrot y\-ith the perpetual cold, who walked up and do^n the coui*t by himself and coughed. The streets suiTOunding us were, like our o^ii, principally in- habited by mariners and their famihes, and presented similar characteristics ; so that one moved about in a gi'eat museum ©pen for general inspection dui'ing daylight, and free for all tha world. Certain I am that if all the rare and cur.ous things dis- played in these windows had been collected and preseiwed, the town would have had a most characteristic and remarkable museum of its o^mi. VictoiT Row is the veiy earliest place that I remember. How I got there, the dangers to which I was exposed in infancy, the wild tragedy which robbed me of both parents — these things I was to learn later on, because I remembered nothing of them. I was in Mrs. Jeram's house, with thi-ee other boys. There was Jem, the oldest. His surname was Hex, and as it was always pronounced -without the asph-ate, I thought, when I had learned the alphabet, that to be named after one of the letters was a singular distinction, and most enviable. Jem was a big boy, a good-natured, silent lad, who spent his whole time on the beach among the sailors. Moses came next. I never knew Moses' surname. He was a sui'ly and ill-conditioned boy. Leonard Copleston, the thii'd, was my protector and my friend. The day, so far as I can recollect, always began Anth a fight between Leonard and Moses ; later on, towards dinner-time, there would be another fight ; and the evening never ended without on« or two more fights. From my indistinct recollection of this period, I fancy that whenever Leonard and Moses came \4ithin a few yards of each other they as natui'ally rushed into battle as a Russian and a Tui'k. And the only good point about Moses was that he was always ready to renew the battle. For he hated Leonard ; I suppose because Leonard was as handsome, bright, and clever, as he was ugly, lo\^ering, and stupid. Naturally, at the age of five one does not inqufre into ante- cedents of people. So that it was much later when I learned the circumstances under which we four boys were collected beneath one roof. They were chai'acteristic of the place. The paternal Moses, retm-ning from a thi'ee years' cruise in the Mediterranean, discovered that his \\ife, a lady of fickle disposition, had deserted. In other words, she was gone away, leaving a message for her husband to the efiect that little Moses, the pledge of ^ct afie»- VICTORY ROW. 25 lions ind his cui'ious collection of china brought from foreifTi parts would between them console him for her losi So he put the bo J under the charge of Mrs. Jeram, gave her a sum cA money for the child's maintenance until he came hack again ; smashed the crockery in a rage ; wept but little, if at all, for his ruined household gods ; went away, apd never came back any more. Jem Hex, on the other hand, was the son of a real widower, also a Royal Navy man, and he was left ^ith IMi's. Jeram to be taken care of under much the same circumstances, except that he was regularly paid for. As for Leonard, you will hear about him presently. In one respect he was worse off than any of us, because we had friends and he had none. There was, for instance, an aunt belonging to Moses who came to see him about once a month. In the com-se of the inteiwiew she always caned him, I do not know why ; perhaps because she felt sure he deserved it, as he certainly did, perhaps because she thought it a thing due to her o^mi dignity as the boy's only relative. She wore a di'ess, the splendour of wliose original black colour was marred by patches of brown stuff lymg in the creases. She was a stiff and stately dame of forbidding appearance, and manners which were comentional. Thus, she always began the conversation, before she caned Moses, by remarking, even in August, that the weather was "raw." The monthly caning was the only thing, I know now, that she ever contributed towards the maintenance and education of her nephew. Jem Hex had plenty of uncles and other relations. One was a harbour boatman, a jolly old man, who had been in the wars ; one was a dockyard foreman, and one was a ship's carpenter. They used to di'op into Victory Row for a talk on Sunday afternoons when the weather was warm. I used to envy Jem his superior position in the world and his family connections. I had fr'iends, too, in plenty, but they were of a different kind. Not rich to begin with — not holders of official rank, and un- connected in any way vAih. the Royal Navy, and, which stamped them at once as objects of pity and contempt, they were unable to speak the English tongue except with difficulty. They were big and bearded men ; they had scars on their faces, and went some- times maim and halt ; they were truculent of aspect, but kindly of eye. When they came into om' com-t they took me up gently, carried me about, kissed me, and generally brought me some Httle simple gift, such as an orange or an apple. Somehow or other I leai'ned that these fr-iends of mine were Poles, and tJiat they had a great barrack all to thempelves, clos« t:9 B Y CELIA 'S ARBOUR. to the ^alis, whither I used to he sometimes carried. It was a narrow huilding, built ol black-tarred wood, -Rith windows at both sides, so that you saw the light quite thi'ough the house. It stood just under the walls, almost in the shade of the great elms. Within it were upwards of a hundred Poles, living chiefl_y on the tenpence a day which the English Government allowed them for their support, with this barn-like structm'e to house them. They were desperately poor, all of them living mostly on bread and frugal cabbage- soup. Out of their poveH;y out of their tenpence a day, some of these poor fellows found means by clubbiug together to pay Mrs. Jeram, week by week, for my sup- port. They went hungry that I might eat and thiive ; they came every day, some of them, to see that I was well cared for. They took me to their barrack, and made me their pet and pla^ihing , there was nothing they were not ready to do for me, because I was the child of Roman Pulaski and Claudia his wife. The one who came oftenest, stayed the longest, and seemed in an especial manner to be my guardian was a man who was grey when I first remember him. He had long hair and a full grey beard. There was a gi'eat red gash in his cheek which turned white when he grew excited or was moved. He limped with one foot because some Ptussian musket-ball had struck him in the heel ; and he had singularly deep-set eyes, with heaw^^ eyebrows. I have never seen an}'thing like the sorrowfulness of Wassielewski's eyes. Other Poles had reason for sorrow. They were all exiles together ; they were separated from their families without a hope that the tenible Nicolas, who hated a rebel Pole with all the strength of his autocratic hatred, would ever let them retm-n ; they were all in poverty ; but these men looked happy. Wassielewski alone never smiled, and carried always that low light of melancholy in his eyes, as if not only the past was sad, but the future was charged with more sorrow. On one day in the year he brought me im- mortelles, tied with a black ribbon. He told me they were in memoiy of my father, Pioman Pulaski, now dead and in heaven, and of my mother, also dead, and now sitting among the saints and mart}Ts. I used to wonder at those times to see the eyes which rested on me so tenderly melt and fill with tears. Three or fom* days in the week, sometimes every day, Mrs. Jeram went out charing. As she fr-equently came home bearing with her a scent of soapsuds, and having her hands creased and fingers eupematm-ally white, it is fair to suppose that she went out washing at eighteenpence a day. Something, indeed, it was Beces^ikry to do, with four hungiy boys to keep, only two oi VICTORY 110 VA 27 pr!i:!:2 paid an}iliuig for their daily bread, and jMrs. Jeram — ■ibo T^as a hard-featm-ed woman, with a resolute face — must have been possessed of more than the usual share of Christian charity to keep Moses in her house at all, even as a pajing boarder, much less as one who ate and di*ank largely, and brought to the house nothing at all but discord and ill-temper. And besides the food to provide, with some kind of clothing, there was always " Tenderart," who called every Monday morning. He was the o\Mier of the houses in the Bow, and he came for ^s rent. His name was Barnfather, and the appellation of Tenderart, a compound illustrating the law of phonetic (?£cay, derived fi'om the two words tender heart, was bestowed upon him by reason of the uncompromising hardness of heart, worse than that of any Pharaoh, with which he encountered, as sometimes happened, any deficiency in the weekly rent. Behind him — the tool of his uncompromising rigour — walked a man with a blanket, a man whose face was wooden. If the rent was not paid that man opened his blanket, and wrapped it round some article of household fiu'niture silently pointed out by Tenderaii as an equivalent. My early childhood, spent among these kindly people, was thus very rich in the things which stimulate the imagination. Strange and rare objects in every house, in every street, something from far-oflf lands, talk to be heard of foreign ports and bygone battles^ the poor Poles in their bare and gaunt barracks, and then the place itself. I have spoken of the rookery beyond the flower- grown Dockyard wall. But beyond the rookery was the Dockyard itself, quiet and orderly, which I could see from the upper window of the house. There was the Long Row, where resided the Heads of Departments ; the Short PiOW, in which lived func- tionaries of lower rank — I believe the two Rows do not know each other in society ; there was the great Reservoir, supported on tal! and spidery legs, beneath which stood piles of wood cut and dressed, and stacked for use ; there was the Rope Walk, a quarter of a mile long, in which I knew walked incessantly up and do^xi the workmen who turned hanks of yarn into strong cables smelling of fi*esh tar ; there were the buildings where other work- men made blocks, bent beams, shaped all the parts of ships ; there were the great places where they made and repaired machinery' ; there were the sheds themselves where the mighty ships gi'ew slowly day by day, miracles of man's constructive skill, in the dins twilight of their wooden cradles ; there was a pool of sea wator^ in which lay timber to be seasoned, and sometimes I saw bcyi a8 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR, paddling ujd and down in it ; there was always the busy crowd of officers and sailors going up and do\\Ti, some of them god-like, with cocked hats, epaulettes, and swords. And, all day long, never ceasing, the busy sound of the "iard. To sti^angers and visitors it was just a confused and deafening noise "When you got to know it you distinguished half a dozen distinct sounds which made up that inhannonious and yet not un- pleasing whole. There was the chatter of the caulkers' mallets, which never ceased their tap, tap, tap, until you got used to the regular beat, and felt it no more than you feel the beating of your pulse. But it was a main part of the noise w^hich made the life of the Yard. Next to the multitudinous mallets of the caulkers, which were like the never-ceasing hum and whisper of insects en a hot day, came the loud clanging of the hammer fi'om the boiler- makers' shop. That might be likened, by a stretch of fancy, to the crowing of cocks in a faimyard. Then, all by itself, came a heav}' thud which made the earth tremble, echoed all round, and eilenced for a moment evei'j'thing else. It came fi'omthe Nasm}'th Bteam hammer ; and always, running thi'ough all, and yet distinct the r — r — r — r of the machineiy, like the rustling of the leaves in the wind. Of coui'se I say nothing about salutes, because eveiy day a salute of some kind was thundering and rolling about the air as the ships came and went, each as tenacious of her number of guns as an Indian Rajah. Beyond the Dockyard — you could not see it, but you felt it, and knew that it was there — was tlie broad blue lake of the harbour, crowded with old ships sacred to the memoiy of a hundi-ed fights, l}ing in stately idleness, waiting for the fiat of some ignorant and meddling First Lord ordering them to be broken up. As if it were anjihing short of wickedness to break up any single ship which has fought the counti-y's battles and won her victories, Qntil the tooth of time, aided by barnacles, shall have rendered it impossible for her to keep afloat any longer. AATien the last beU rang at six o'clock, and the workmen went away, all became quiet in the Dockyard. A great stillness began suddenly, and reigned there till the morning, unbroken save by the rooks which cawed in the elms, and the clock which struck the hours. And then one had to fall back on the less imaginative noises of Victory Row, where the parrot coughed, and the grass 'i^ddows gathered together, talking and disputing in shrill concert, and Leonard fought Moses before going to bed, not without some din of battle. THIRTY YEARS AGO, 69 CHAPTER IV, THIRTY YEARS AGO. Recollections of cMldhood are vague as a whole, but vivid in episodes. The days pass away, and leave uo footprints on the Bands, one being like another. And then one comes, bringing with it a tri^dal incident, which somehow catche? hold of the childish imagination, and so lives for ever. There are t^'o of three of these in my memoiy. It is a sunshiny day, and, as the rooks are ca^\ing all day in the elms, it must be spring. Sitting on the doorstep of IVIrs. Jeram's, I am only conscious of the harmonious blending of sounds fi'om the Dockyard. Victory Row is quiet, save for the consumptive parrot who walks in the shade of the wall coughing heavily, as if it were one of his worst days, and he had got a bronchial asthma on the top of his other complaints. With me is Leonard, dancing on the pavement to no music at all but the beating of his pulse, enough for him. Jem and Moses are always on the beach. I suppose, but I am not certain, that it is after- noon. And the reason why I suppose so is that the Row is quiet. The morning was more noisy on account of the multifarious house duties which have to be got through. We hear a step which we know well, a heavy and limping step, which comes slowly along the pavement, and presently bears round the comer its o-^ner, Wassielewski. Leonard stops dancing. Wassielewski pats his curly head. I hold up my arms : he catches me up and kisses me, while I bury my face in his big beard. Then he puts me down again, lays asid-o the violin which he carries in one hand (it is by this instmment that Wassielewski earns a handsome addition to the daily tenpence, and, in fact, pays half my weekly allowance), and seeks in his coat-pocket for an orange. He does all this very gravely, without smiling, only looking depths of care and love almost paternal out of his deep -set eyes. While Leonard holds the orange he places the violin in my hands. Ah ! what joy even to di'aw the bow across the strings, though my aiTus are not long enough yet to hold the instrument properly. Somehow this rugged old soldier taught me to feel music, and the rapture oi producing music, before my fingers could handle notes or my hands could hold a bow. He leaves the orange for Leonard and myself, and disappears. Moses returns unexpectedly, and demands & share. There is a fight. Or it is another visitor, the Captain. He wears his Wue froek' 30 BY CELIA 'S ARBO UR. coat with brass buttons and white ducks ; he carries his hands behind him, and a stick in them, which drags at his heels as hi? walks. We do not see him till he is with us. We look up, %nd he beams upon us, smiling all over his rosy face. ** How is the little Pole ? " asks the kindly Captain, shaking bands with us. ** How is the other young rascal ? " I have a distinct recollection of his eyes wandering in the direc- tion of our boots, which were certainly going, if not altogethei gone, both soles and heels. And I remember that he shook his head. Also that in the evening new boots came for both of us. And that Mrs. Jeram said, nodding her head, that lie — meaning perhaps the Captain — was a good man. Another recollection. I am, somehow or other, in the street by myself. How I goX there, what I proposed to myself when I set out on my journey, I cannot tell. But I was lost in the streets of the old seaport to'ssii. I was walking along the pavement feeling a good deal frightened, and wondering how I was to get back to Victory Row, or even to the Poles' Barrack, when I became aware of a procession. It was a long procession, consisting of sailors marching, every man with a lady on his arm, two and two, along the middle of the street, einging as they went. They wore long curls, these jolly tars, shining with grease, hanging down on either side below, or rather in front of their hats. Curls were the fashion in those days. There were about thu^y men in this rollicking train. At their head, limping along very fast, marched my poor old friend Wassielewski, his gi'ave face and melancholy eyes a contrast to the careless and jovial crew who followed him. He was fiddling as he went one of those lively tunes that sailors love, a tune which puts their legs a dancing and pours quicksilver into their feet. Some of them, indeed, were capering along the line, unable to wait till the "crib" was reached. Also down the street I saw another exactly similar procession. How was I to know that the Boijal Frederick had be^n paid oflf that morning, and that a thousand Jack Tars were £.11 together chucking away the money in a few days which it had taken them three years to earn ? The old Pole would get some share of it, however, for that was the way in which he earned the money which mostly came to me. He spied me presently standing alone on the kerbstone, and handing the fiddle to one of the men, hurried across the road, and took me in his arms. " Ladislas !" he said, mth his quaint foreign accent. •' Wh.-^ are jou doing here ? Why are you not at home ? " THIRTY YEARS AGO. 31 •* Bring him over, Fiddler Ben," cried one of the men. ** I'l] earry the little chap. Lord ! what's one boy ? I've had a dozen of 'em at home, somewheres. Now then, messmate.-^ Strike np, Fiddler Ben. With a ^-ill, my lad." *' It is the son of my old master and lord," began Wassielewskij holding me in his arms helplessly. " Bring along his lordship, then," said the man. *' I'll carry the noble hearl." The Pole resumed the fiddle with a sigh, and took up his place as band and bandmaster in one. "Uncommon light in the arms is the nobl ■ duke. Many a fo'k'sls kid 'ud weigh more. Poll, our'n 'ud weigh twice as much. Come up, yer Kyal Highness." I suppose I must have been a very small boy, even for a five years' old child. But the man canied me tenderly, as sailors always do. "VVe came to a public-house ; that one with the picture outside it of the Chinese "War. There was a long, low sort of hall within it, at the end of which Wassielewski took his place, and began to fiddle again. Dancing then set in, though it was still early in the morning, with great severity. With dancing, drink ; with both, songs ; with all three, Wassielewski's fiddle. I suppose it w^as the commencement of a drunken orgie, and the whole thing was disgraceful. Remember, however, that it was more than thii-ty years ago, when the Navy still retained its old traditions. Foremost among these was the tradition that being ashore meant diink as long as the money lasted. It sometimes lasted a week, or even a foiinight, and was sometimes got through in a day or two. There were harpies and pirates in every house which was open to Jack. Jack, indeed, was cheated wherever he went. Afloat he was robbed by the purser ; he was ill- fed and found, the Government paying for good food and good stores ; contractors and puiweyors combined with the purser to defi-aud him. Ashore, he was horribly, shamefully cheated and robbed, when he was paid off by a N^v^-y bill, and fell into the hands of the pay agents. He was a rough-hided rufiian who could fight, had seen plenty of fighting, was tolerably inured to every kind of climate, and ready to laugh at any kind of danger, except, perhaps. Yellow Jack. He was also tender-hearted and sentimental.' Sometimes he was away for iive yeara at a stretch, and, if his captain chose to make it so, his life was a dog's life. Floggings were frequent ; rum waa the reward of good conduct ; there were no Sailors' Homes, none of the many humanising influences which have made the British waiior the quiet, decorous creature, generally a teetotaler, and often $3 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. inclined to a Methodist way of thinking in religion, half fold'er half sailor, that he is at present. It was an orgie, I suppose, at which no child should have been present. Fortunately, at half-past twelve, the landlord piped all hands for dinner, and Wassielewski carried me away. He wouid return after dinner, to play on and on till night fell, and there was no one left to stand upon his legs. Then Wassielewski vould put the fiddle away in its case, and go back to the Ban^ack, where he sat in silence, and brooded. The other Poles smoked and talked, but this one held himself apart. He was an irreconcilable, and he refused to accept defeat. One more scene. The Common Hard, which is still, after all the modem changes, a street \nth a distinct character of its o^mj. The houses still look out upon the bright and busy harbour, though there is now a railway terminus and an ugly pier ; though steam launches run across the water ; and though there are telegraph posts, cabs, and omni- buses, all the outward signs of advanced civilization. But thirty years ago it was a place which seemed to belong to the previous centuiy. There were no great houses and handsome shops, but in their place, a picturesque row of ii'regular cottages, no two of which were exactly alike, but which resembled each other in certaiL particulars. They were two-storied houses ; the upper story was very low, the gi'ound-floor was below the level of the street. I do net know why, but the fact remains that in my town the ground- floors of all the old houses were below the level of the pavement. You had to stoop, if you were tall, to get into the doorway, and then, unless you were experienced, you generally fell headlong down a step of a foot or so. Unless the houses were shops, they had only one ■s\indow below and one above, because the tax on windows obliged people to economise their light. The roofs were of red tiles, high-pitched, and generally broken-backed ; stonecrop and house-leek gi-ew upon them. The Hard existed then only for the sailors. There were one or two jewellers, who bought as well as sold ; many public-houses ; and a plentiful supply of rascally pay-agents. That side had little interest for boys. In old times the high tide had washed right up to the foot of these houses which then stood upon the beach itself. But they built a stone wall, ^ hich kept back the water, and allowed a road to be made, protected by an iron railing. An open space gave access to what was called the ' beach," boing a narrow spit of land, along which were ranged on either side the wherries of the boatmen. A wooden bench was placed aloucr the iron railing near the beach, on whicb TIIIRTY YEARS AGO. 33 gat evcrr day, and all day long old sailors, in a row. I* vras their club, theii' daily rendezvous, the place where they discussed old battles, smoked pipes, and lamented bygone days. They never eeemed to walk about or to care much where they sat. They sat still, and sat steadily, in hot weather and in cold. The oddest thing about this line of veterans was that they all seemed to have wooden legs. There was, or there exists in my memory, which is the same thing, a row of wooden pegs which did duty for the lost legs, sticking out straight in front of the bench when they were on it. The effect of this was veiy remarkable. Some, of com-se, had lost other outlying bits of the human fi-ame ; a hand, the place eupplied by a hook, like that of Cap'en Cuttle, whose acquaintance I formed later on ; a whole arm, its absence marked by the empty eleeve se^Mi to the fi-ont of the jersey ; and there were scars in plenty. Like my friends, the Poles, these heroes had gained their scars and lost their limbs in action. Thii'ty years ago we were only a quarter of a centm-y or so fr'om the long and mighty struggle which lasted for a whole generation, and filled this seapoi-t town \\ith prosperity, self-satisfaction, and happiness. Oh, for the brave old da3-s when week after week French, American, Spanish, and Dutch prizes were towed into harbour by their \ictors, or sailed in, the Union Jack flying at tho peak, the original crew safe under hatches, in command of a middy and half a dozen British sailors told off to take her home. They talked, these old giizzle heads, of fights and convoys, and perilous times afloat. I sat among them, or stood in fi'ont of ^ihem, and listened. Child as I was, my little heart glowed to hear how, yardami to yardann, they lay alongside the Frenchman ; how a dozen times over the plucky little French beggars tried to board them ; how she sheered off" at last, and they followed, raking her fore and aft ; how she suddenly broke out into flame, and before you could say '* Jack Robinson," blew up with all that was left of a thousand men aboard ; v.ith meriy yarns of Chinese pig- tails, made to be pulled by the British sailor, and niggers of Jamaica, and Dutchmen at the Cape. Also, what stories of slavers, of catching American skippers in the very act of chucking the niggers overboard ; of cutting out Ai'ab dhows ; of sailing in picturesque waters where the natives s\\im about in the deep like porpoises ; of boat expeditions up silent rivers in search cf pii-atical Malays ; of iying fr'ozen for months in Ai'ctic regions, lon^ before they thought of calling men heroes for passing a single wmter on the ice with every modem appliance for makirg things com- fortable. 34 B\ CELIACS ARBO^JK. Among tliese old salts was one — of course be had e wooden If»^ — v>ith a queer twisted up sort of face. One eye "uas un inae« pendent revolving liglit, but the other obeyed his will, and once you knew which eye that was you were pretty safe with him. He had a very profound and melodious bass voice. "When I passed he used to gi'owl a gi-eeting which was like the thunder of a distant- salute. He never went farther than the greeting, on account of certain family differences, which made us shy of becoming too intimate. I learned the fact from a curious ceremonial which happened regularly eveiy Saturday night. At eight o'clock, or in summer at nine, Mrs. Jeram di'ew down her white blind, if it v.as not already drawn, placed one. candle on the table, and herself between the candle and the window. The natural effect of this was to exhibit to the world a portrait in profile of herself. Sho Bat bolt upright, and being a thin woman with plenty of bone — though the most kind-hearted of all creatures — the portrait thus presented was angular, stiff, and uncompromising. Meanwhile in the street outside sat my friend, ** timber- toed" Jack — the ancient mariner '^vith the deep voice and the revolving oye. He was perched comfortably on a three-legged stool lent by a friend, his remaining limb tucked away snug and ship- shape among the legs of the tripod, and the peg sticking out as usual at right angles to his body. There he sat and smoked a pipe. From time to time he raised his voice, and in an utterance which shook the windows of every house in the Row, he growled : " Piachel ! Come out and make it up." There was no answer. Then the neighbours, who always con- gregated on this occasion, and took an intense interest in the progi'ess of the family jar, murmured a soft chonis of persuasive and honeyed words, meant for Piachel too — who was Mrs. Jeram. But she never moved. " Eachel ! 'Twarn't my fault. 'Twas her as di'agged me alor.g ia tow. Took prisoner I was," "Ah! the artful thing" — this was the chorus — "which well we know them ; and they'll take in tow the best, at times ; and a little in drink as well." No answer again this time, but an angry toss of the head which conveyed to the silJwuette on the blind an expression of in- credulity. After half an hour's enjoyment of the pipe, the old sailor would noisily beat out the ashes. Then we inside the house would h^ar him once more : *' TLen, Pvachel, God bless you and good-night ; and bless the THIRTY YEARS AGO. 55 boys. And, please tlie Lord, I'll be here again next Satuidav. And hoping to find you in a forgi\in' mood." When he was gone Mrs. Jeram would leave her seat and come to her o^Ti chair by the fireplace. But her hands always trembled, and sometimes her eyes were wet. For it was her husband, and ehe could not make up her mind to forgive him the old offer^>e. That was why, on the Hard, the wooden-legged sailor and I had little or no conversation together. One day — I was between eight and nine at the time — we were all four on the Logs. The Logs were, to begin T\ith, a forbidden place, and, if only on that account, delightful. But also on other accounts. There was a floating pier there, consisting of two or three square-he^n timbers laid alongside of each other, between posts stuck at inteiwals in the mud. They had a tendency to turn round beneath the tread of a heav}^ man, and when that happened, and the heavy man's leet fell in between two logs, it was apt to be bad for those feet. Men-of-v/ar's boats used to land their officers and crew at the end of the Logs ; there was a constant running to and fi'o of sailors, oflicers, and harbour boatmen. Also, on the left-hand side as you went do^^ii this rough pile, there was a space of water some acres in extent, in which lay in orderly rows, one beside the other, a whole forest of timbers, waiting for time, the sun, and salt water together to season them. And if the logs were apt to turn under the tread of a heavy man, these timbers wouM turn under the foot of a light boy. Judge, therefore, of the joy of running backwards and forwai'ds over their yielding and uncertain ground. Leonard, who rejoiced beyond measure to run over the Logg himself, would seldom let me come with him even down the pier, and never over the timbers. On this day, however, we had all four gone dovin to the veiy end of the Logs ; half a dozen ships boats had touched, landed their men, and gone back again. Jem, the simple and foolish Jem, was gazing in admiration at the sailors, who looked picturesque in their blue shirts, straw hats, and shiny cui'ls. I even caught Jem in the act of feeling whether his o^Ti hair behind the ear would not curl if twisted between finger and thumb. Moses was sitting straddle-legged on a projecting log, his boots in his hands, and his bare feet and legs lapped by the vv-ater. Leonai'd and I stood on the pier, watching. Presently there came along a man-o'-war's gig, manned by twelve sailors sitting side by side, ro\\ing their short, deep stroke, without any feathering, but in perfect time. Li the stem sat a middy, the very smallest mliSdy I ever saw. no bigger than Leonard, clrp,ssed 36 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. in the most becoming nuifomi in the world, and calmly conscions of his importance. He landed, gave a brief order, and strode aa manfully as his years would allow down the Logs. As he passed on his eye rested on Leonard, and I saw the latter flush. Y»Tien the middy vras gone I tui'ned to Leonard, and said with the enthusiasm of admiration : " Lenny, when I grow up I shall be a middy like that." A small thing to say, and, indeed, the grandeur of the boy and his power overwhelmed me for a moment, else I ought to have known, at eight years of age, that children living with charwomen on charity are not the stuff out of which officers of the Eoyal Nav}' are generally manufactured. ** Ah ! yah ! " roared Moses, tossing up his legs. ** "WTiat are you laughing at ? " cried Leonard, in a rage. " Ah ! yah ! " he repeated. '* Hunchback ! Hunchey in a uniform, with a sword at his side." I declare that up to that moment I had no more consciousness of being deformed than I had of Hebrew. I suppose that in some dim way I knew that I was differently shaped — smaller than Leonard, that my clothes were not such as he could wear, but not a thought, not a rough suspicion that I was, by reason of this peculiarity, separated from my fellows. Then all of a sudden it burst upon me. Not in its fall misery. A hunchback has to grow to manhood before he has di'unk the whole of the bitter cup ; he has to pass thi'ough the years of school life, when he cannot play like other boys, nor run, nor jump, nor fight like them ; when he is either tolerated or pitied. He has to become a j^oung man among young men, to realise that he is re?t as they are ; to look on env}ing while they rejoice in the strength and beauty of their youth ; to hear their talk of girls and sweet looks and love, while all girls look do^^•n upon him, he foolishly thinks, viith contempt. I did not feel the whole misei-y at once. I only realised, all of a Rudden, that I was disgracie, that the grandeurs which I envied wert not for me, that I was to be despised for my misfortune — and I sat do\Mi in this sudden miseiy and cried aloud. A moment aftenvards there was a fight. Leonard and Moses, They fought on the narrow log. Leonard was the pluckier, but Moses was the stronger. The sailors in the gig looked on and laughed, and clapped their hands. Through my shameful tears I onl}' saw half the duel. It was terminated by the fall of both into the water, one on either side the Logs. The water was only two or three feet deep, and they came up, face to face, and driving fists at each other across the eighteen-inch plank. It was Jem ^'bc THE YOUNG PRINCE. 37 stopped the battle, stepping in betvi-een the combatants, and ordering in his rough way that both should get out of the wator and fight it out on diy land. " He called me Hunchback, Leonard," I gasped, holding hi? hand as he ran, wet and dripping, thi'ough the streets. " Yes, Laddy," he replied. " Yes, Laddy, he's a cub and a cur, and a thick-headed fool. But I'll let him know to-morrow.*' " And you won't let him call me Hunchey, Leorard ? " "Not if I have to fight him all day long, Laddy. So there." But next day's fight, if it was begun, was never fimished, be- cause in the afternoon we both, Leoni- I'd and I, walked away with the Captain, each holding one hand ol his, Leonard canwing his stick. And when we got to the Capta a's it was explained to us that we were to stay there. CHAPTER V. THE YOUNG PRINCE. Ten years of boyhood followed. In taking us both away from Mrs. Jeram the Captain promised her on behalf of Leonard, aud Was- sielewski on behalf of myself, that we should be brought up, in his old-fashioned way of putting it, in the fear of God and the de- eire to do our duty. It was an uneventful time, which has left few recollections. I suppose that kind of time — it has been always mine — is the happiest which leaves the fewest memories. Yet its happiness for the want of contrast is not felt. Perhaps it is better not to be happy, and to lead the Hfe of action and peril such as has been granted to Leonard and denied to me. When the time arrives to lie down and go to sleep it must be good to leave behind the memoiy of bygone great days big Vvith issues dependent on your coui'age and self-possession. My Hfe has but one episode, and because it is not likely to have another I have sat do-^ii to tell it. In the end I am like any rustic on a farm, any secluded dweller on a remote island, inasmuch as one day has followed and will follow another, marked \\ith no other change than fi'om sun- shine to rain, from summer to winter. Of course we were soon sent to school. The fact that I was a Pole, coupled with my deformity, produced in my favour the mingled feeling of respect and curiosity with hardly disguised con- tempt which boys always feel for a foreigner or a cripple. Of course, too, it immediately became known that we had been living in Victory Row, under the care of a charwoman. Contumely waa |8 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. the first result of the knowledge. Leonard, however, then alout eleven, showed himself so handy with his fists — one consequence of his many combats with Moses — -oith a disregard of superior weightand strengthas complete as anyone of Nelson's captains might have shown — that any fui-ther reference to chai-women or iccideita of birth had to be made ^vith bated breath and went out of fashion in the school. New boys, it is true, were instigated, as if it n'aj? a joke, to ask Leonard for infonnation as to the price of soap and the interests of washing. The miserable victim introduced the subject generally with a grin of superiority as became a boy who had a father living in the flesh. It was vei-y beautiful, then, to observe how that new boy, ?. ^er the short fight that followed, be- came anxious ever after to r roid the subject of charing and char- women ; for however big th i boy was Leonard went for him, and however often Leonard was knocked down he arose from Moth^j: Earth bruised and bleeding, but fresh. The bigger the new boy the more prolonged was the fight. The more resolute the new boy the more delightful to spectators was Leonard's bull-dog tenacity. Once or twice the battle was di'a^Mi by foreign inteiwention. Never once was Leonard defeated. After each battle we walked home proudly ceriain of receiving the Captain's approbation when he learned the casus helli; for he always insisted on hearing the full details, and gloried in the prowess and pluck of the boy. We led a frugal life, because the Captain had little besides his half-pay and the house we lived in, which was his own, and had been his father's before him. Sunday was the day of the weekly feast. On that day the Captain wore his undi'ess uniform, and we went to church in the morning. After chui'ch we walked round the walls, and at half-past one we came home to dinner. It was Leonard's privilege to pipe hands for the meal, which always consisted of roast beef and plum-dufF, brought in by the Captain's one seiwant, while Leonard played on the fife the " Roast Beef of Old Eng- land." After dinner there was a glass ox port all round, ^s-ith a double ration for the chief, and fruit for the boys. In the evening we read aloud, the Captain acting as expositor and commenting as we went ; we did not go to church, because the Cap+ain said it was ridiculous to suppose there was any necessity for church cftener ashore than afloat. But after I got a piano I used to play and sing hymns till supper, when the Captain told us yams. Whe I Leonard was fourteen another change was made. We left the school, and went, he and I together, to the Rev. IVEr. Ternej Broughton, as his private pupils. ]^Ir. Brccghton, lbs THE F. Um\G FRINCE, 39 porpetual enrate of St. Failii's, gave ns, as I have sicAe learned, tiiei^e lessons at Lis o^mi request, and gratuitously, though ho v/a? far fi'om heing a rich man. Our tutor was a scholar of the old-fashioned school ; he was ast ex- fellow of Oriel, and openl}^ held the opinion that nothing new had heen written for about eighteen hundred years : he considered science, especially mechanical science, as umvoi-thy the study of a scholar : he looked on Latin and Greek verse ^^ the only safe means of educating the higher faculties : and heiegardedthc great NATiters of Rome and Athens as the only safe models of style, lhouo;ht, and taste. Ke was a stout, short man, with a red face, due perhaps, to his fondness for port, his repugnance to physical exercise, and his habii of spending all the money he could spare on his dinners. A kind- hearted man, and a Christian up to his lights. His method of " working" his parish would hardly find favour in these days of activity, consisting, as it did, in nothing whatever except three services on Sunday and one on Wednesday and Friday evenings. No mothers' meetings, no prayer meetings, no societies, no early celebrations, no guilds. His sermons were learned and scholarly, with a leaning towards morality, and they inculcated the import- ance of holding Church doctrines. He was a Churchman high and dry, of a kind now nearly extinct. Those who wanted emotional religion went to other places of worship ; those who vrere content with the old paths sat in their square pews every Sunday, and " assisted " in silence at a service which was a comfortable duet between parson and clerk. We were put through the classical mill by Mr. Broughton. The course made me, in a way, a scholar. It made Leonard a man oi action. He read the Homeric battles, and rejoiced to follow the conquering Diomede in the "way of war." He read the tragedies of Euripides, and, like all boys, espoused the cause of Troy the conq^iered. He had, however, no inclination in the direction of scholar- ehip, and persisted in looking on books as, on the whole, a rather disagreeable necessity in the training for after-life. For, with the knowledge of his fii'st beginnings ever present in his mind there grew up in him more and more strongly a resolution that l.e would make himself a gentleman. Somehow — he did not at all know how — but by some path or other open to lads who are penniless, alone in the world, and almost fiiondless, he would become a gentleman. Thus, w^hen the Captain proposed that ho should enter the na-\7 as & master's assistant, Leonard sconifdl/ 40 BY CELIA 'S AR OUR. refiissd on the ground that he could be nothing under the :Z7,\ of combatant officer. Mr. Broughton suggested that tne two Universities are rich with endowments, and that fellowfrhips await those who are strong enough to win them ; but Leonard would not hear of the years of study before the prize was reached. *'In the old days, Laddy," he said, " I should have been put into a monastery, I suppose, and made my way by clinging t^ the skirts of a great ecclesiastical minister, like Kichelieu and Mazarin. But I cannot go in for the modem substitute of university and fellowship. Fancy me in a black gown, when I should like to be in a unifoim ! " " In the old days," I said, " men sometimes forced their way by joining the Free Companies." "Ay," he replied, "that was a life worth having. Fancy riding through the country at the head of a thousand lances, gentlemen adventm-ers every one ; a battle every other day, and an adventure the day between. What a pity the time is past for Free Companies. Let us go on the Common and see the Boldiers." That was his favourite resort. The march and movement of troops, the splendour of the array, the regimental bands, the di'ill of the awkward squad, delighted his soul. And here he would stand contentedly for half a day, w'atching the soldiers at theu' exercises. " If one could only be a soldier, Laddy," he w'ould say; " if there was any eliance of rising, as there used to be in the French army ! Every drummer boy with a marshal's baton in his pocket." " And how many were able to take it out of their pocket ?" " One here and there. I should have tried to be that oxe." One day, as he was talking in this strain, a soldier's funeral passed us — his comrades carried the coffin. Before it marched the fifes and muffled drums, playing the Dead March ; behind it a file of men with arms reversed. We followed. After the Bhort service the men fired a round over the nameless grave, and all marched off at quick step. " That one has failed, Leonard," I said. " Ay, he has failed. Poor common soldier ! He had but a Blender chance. None of them have any real chance." He was dejected for a few minutes. Then a thought struck him, and he brightened up. ** Perhap-s he was only an ignorant, beer-drinking clod. N» THE YOUNG PRINCE. 41 ^.oabt that was all. Pah! What chance could he have? Si.*fb ft soldier was not a failure, Laddy. He rose in the world. He became di'illed, ci^-ilised, and useful. And when he died he was bui'ied with military honours." At sixteen he gave up his classical work altogether, arri-ving at the conclusion that it was not by Latin and Greek he would reach his aim. Other things, he discoyered, would be of more use to him. Among them was French. He found in the Polish Barrack two or three men who knew French as well as theii' own language, one of whom undertook, for a yery small fee, to teach him. He worked at the new study almost feyerishly, learning the language after his own way, by reading French books all day, by talking with his tutor as much as possible, and by learning whole pages of the dictionaiy. As we had no French books in om' little library, we picked up for nothing at a bookstall a packet of old French newspapers and pamphlets dated about the year 1809, which probably once belonged to some French prisoner in the long wars, and these formed Leonard's introduction to the French language. His spare time he deyoted to mathematics and to di'awing. Here the Poles helped him again, many of the poor fellows being full of accomplishments and knowledge ; so that, for the last year of his home life, Leonard was almost wholly in the Polish Barracks. The exiles, to whom this bright and aandsome lad was a godsend of sunshine, rejoiced to teach him what they could, if only as a break in the monotony of theu' idle liyes. And while I was welcome among them for my name's sake, Leonard was welcome for his o^n sake. They taught him, besides French, mathematics and drawing, how to speak Eus:sian, how to ride, with the aid of borrowed steeds, how to fence, and what was the meaning of foi-tification. As Leonai'd approached manhood he assumed a prouder carriage, due panly to the resolution -oithin his heart, and pai-tly to the defiance natural to his position. Mrs. Jeiam said he was a prince bom. Certainly no one acted the character better. Eyerjihing that he did was princely : he spoke as one horn to command : '^nth his quick, keen eye, his curly locks, his iiead flang back, his tall and slender figure, full of gi'ace and acti\dty, he was my hero as well as my leader and protector. He would not associate with any boys in the to^\-n — those boys whose society was open to him — nor would he sufler me to know them. " You are a gentleman of Poland," he said grandly. " You may call yourself a count if that would help you." I HA going to make myself a gentleman, whateyer my father wa^i 43 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. We mnst not hamper ourselves by early Mendsbips wnicb Eugbt afterwards prove annoying." It was not altogether boyish bounce, nor altogether self-conceit, because, full of sj-mpathy in other things, in this he was inex- orable, that nothing whatever should interfere -^-ith his dettraii- nation to lift himself out of the ranks. And ahnost the only reading he permitted himself lay in any books he could find which showed how men have risen fi'om small beginnings to great things. Not gi-eatness in the way of authorship. He had no feeling for literaiy success. "I would hke," he said, *' to have my share in making history, let who will write it. Who would not rather be Hannibal than Livy, or Hector than Homer ? If you were to offer me the choice between Sir Philip Sidney and Shakespeare, I would rather be Sidney. All the giTatest men have been soldiers and sailors — fighting men." Then he would dilate on the lives of the French generals, and tell how Murat, Lannes, Kleber, Hoche, Augereau, and Maimont, fought their way valiantly up the ladder fi-om the veiy lowest round. How his pm'pose was to be accomplished, by what means he was to rise, he never explained. Nor did he, I think, ever Beriously consider. But we all believed in him. The Captain, CeHa, Mrs. Jeram, and I looked foi-vi-ard confidently to the time when Leonard should rise, superior to all disadvantages, a leader of men. If he had told us that he was going to become Ai'ch- bishop of Canterbuiy, Lord Chancellor, or even H.E.H. the Field-Marshal Commanding- in- Chief, we should have believed that with the same confidence. One day — it was Satui'day, about Chi'istmas-time — Leonard did not come home to dinner. The Captain waited for no one, and we sat down without him. It was three o'clock when he returned, and it was evident that something had happened, for his face was flushed, and his hands trembled. " I have been with Mrs. Jeram, sir," he said, in reply to the Captain's look of inquiiy. " She has told me about my mother,"' his voice breaking into a sob — *' about my poor mother." He bmied his face in his hands. "Ay, ay. Poor boy. Natural to ask." The Captain put out his hand and stroked Leonard's curls. "Mrs. Jeram," Leonard lifted his head and went on, "gave me aU she left. Only a wedding-ring. Nothing but a wedding- ring. See ; and a message. A strange message. ' Tell my boy/ she said^ when she died, ' that if ever he finds Lis fathrti THE YOUNG PRINCE 4j ho mast forgive liim ; but he had better not seek for him. And tell him — but not till he grovrs up — that his father is a gentkmaD and his mother was a lady.' That was the message, sir." " Ay !" said the Captain, clearing his throat. " I knew it long ago, Leonard. Mrs. Jeram told me, when you came heie, you and Laddy — you were both alike — gentlemen bom " " How shall I forgive him ?" asked Leonard, springing to his feet, panting and trembling. " How shall I forgive the man who let my mother — his wife — die deserted and alone ?'* ^^ The Eules are laid down," said the Captain gravely, " clear and distinct : ' Forgive us as we forgive.' Likewise ' Honour thy father.' " Leonard was silent. ** And as for this wedding-ring," said the Captain, taking it from the boy's hand, " I think if I were j^ou, I would wear it alwa^'s." He oj)ened a drawer and found a piece of black ribbon. " Uniforms," he went on, without my seeing the connection, at Srst, " uniforms and badges are useful things. You cant do an}'thing disgraceful in the Queen's uniform. Clerg}Tiien wea? black to show they are in mourning for the world's sins. Do you wear this ring as a badge only known to yourself, my boy. A wedding-ring — it's a pretty thing," looking at the s}Tiibol lying in his hand — " it means purity and faith. If you wear it, boy, in that sense, your mother's memory will be honoui-ed. Purity and faith. Perhaps we've given the ring to the wrong sex." The Captain tui-ned in his chau', and took up a book. It was his sign that he had no more to say on the subject. Leonard touched my arm, and we stole out together. Then we took our hats, and went into the street. " I cannot bear myself, Laddy," he burst out. *' I am half mad to think of it. She was deserted ; she wandered about, and came here. Mrs. Jeram picked her up, houseless and ci-}ing in the street. She had a little money then, but the doctor took it all, because next day, before she could say who she was, or where ghe came fi'om, I was born, and my mother died. Not a line, not a letter, to say who she was ; Mrs. Jeram took me, and promised her whose life — Oh ! my mother — was passing swiftly fi'om her — that she would bring me up," — he stopped here for a moment- — " And then she died, and they buried her. ... Do you know where the pjtupers are buried, Laddy ? They buried my mother there." Yes, I knew. Some of the Poles were buried there. The old parish church, with its broad churchyard stood a mile and a hall 44 BY CELiA'S ARBOUR. from the town. The God's Acre was so crowJod with gi-aves that its surface Vv^as raised six feet above the level of the road, and the tombstones stood side by side, almost touching each other. But in one comer there was a large o^Den space on which there Tere no stones, where the grass grew thinly, and where the newly-turned clay, if you looked closely, was full of bits of wood, remains of old coffins. There was no shape to the gi'aves in this comer ; only rows of shapeless mounds and irregular unevenness in the gi'ound. This was the paupers' corner, the place t. here they bestowed those for whose funeral the parish had to par, so that the contempt of poverty followed after them, and rested on their very graves. I knew the place well, and shuddered when Leonard turned his steps to the road which lead to the church. It was nearly four, and the early winter's day was dravving to a closo. From a sky almost black poured doT^ii great flakes of snow, silently falling and giving an appearance of light after the hidden sun had gone do^Mi. As our heels echoed on the iron bridges beyond the Gate, I looked round and saw the ramparts standing up white and smooth, like a great wedding-cake against the gloomy heavens. Do^mi in the moat, the sluggish water lay between two banks of dazzling white, flanked with scai^} and counterscarp. Leonard hurried on, and we passed in silence along the streets of the suburb, and so into the fields beyond, till we came to the church standing with its old tower among tits dead. It was growing dark now, in spite of the snow\ The iron gates of the churchyard were open, and the church where the choir were practising for next day's sernce, was partially lighted up. Leonard led the way to the far-off paupers' quarter. It lay, a quarter of an acre in extent, quiet and peaceful, wrapped in the pall of the soft white snow. About the rest ol the crowded churchyard there were paths among the graves, up and down which w^ere the footsteps in the snow of those who came to visit the dead. Here there were no paths and no footsteps. In the rest of the churchyard there was always someone to bo seen — a widow leading her child to see the father's grave, an old man wandering among the monuments of those he had known in their youth, a sister weeping over a brother's grave, a mother over her son — always someone to connect the world of the dead with the world of the living. Here no one came to break the lonely silence of the forgotten graves. Elsewhere there were fiowers in spring, c)"presses and evergreens in and among the graves. Here there was nothing, not even a straggling briar, and evea the grass was so often distui-bed that it had not time to gmw. CEUA. M For those were tlie graves, not of the poor, but of the Tery poor, of those hapless mortals who die in the misery of desHtution, and have not even money enough left to buy them a sepa^'ate resting- place They lay there, thickly crowded, and eveiy one forgotten. For among their o-^n class Death speedily brings oblivion. Who can remember those that are gone before when fi'om hour to hour one has to think about the next meal ? "Whether they were buried ten years before or only yesterday, the hundreds who lay before us in that comer, covered over with a thin layer of mould and the sheet of snow, were eveiwhere as absolutely forgotten as if they had never even lived. Was it to rescue the dead from this ignoble oblivion that people once worshipped their ancestors ? And amongst them, somewhere, was Leonard's mother. " "Where is she ?'' he whispered. " Oh ! in what spot did they lay her ? A lady, born of gentle parents, the wife of a gentleman, to die neglected and be bmied like a pauper ! And not to know even where she is laid ! ' ' " That does not matter, Leonard," I said weakly. *' Her spirit is not in her grave." He made no answer, but flung his aiTus above his head. "My poor dead mother," he prayed, "my poor lost mother! I beheve that you can see and hear me, though you cannot come to me. If you can help me where you are, help me. If you can pray for your son, pray for me. If you can hft me upwards, lift me. But how can I forgive my father ?" Within the church, close by, they were practising the responses to the Commandments. And as Leonard concluded they sang . " Incline our hearts to keep this law ?" He heard the words and appHed them, for he turned to me in that quick way of his : ' ' How can I honour my father, Laddy, when I don't know where he is, or what he is, and when my mother's last words were that I should forgive him ?" But his passion was over, and we walked away fi-om 'iki^ old churchyard. CHAPTEB YI. CELIA. I CAH hardly remember a time when I did not know Celia, but, ag my memoiT of the life with Mrs. Jeram does not include her, our acquaintance must have sprung up some time after we went to the Captain. It was formed, I suspect, upon the walls wkere w« 46 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR, xere sanu to plaj, and was allowed, or encouraged b;y Mrs. TyrreDi Celia's mother, one of the Captain's fiiends. Our pla\ ground wbs a quiet place, especially at our end, where the town children, to whom the ramparts elsewhere were the chief place of recreation, seldom resorted. There w^re earthworks planted with trees and grass, and the meadows beneath were bright with buttercups and daisies. We were privileged children ; we might run up and doT\Ti the slopes or on the ramparts, or through the embrasures, or even clamber about the outer scarp do"wn to the veiy edge of the moat, without rebuke fi'om the " Johnnies," the official guar- dians of the walls, who went about all day armed with canes to keep boys from tearing down the earthworks. It was this privilege, as well as the general convenience of the place for childi'en to play in, which took us nearly eveiy day to the Queen's Bastion. There never was & more delightfal retreat. In summer the trees afforded shade, and in winter the rampaii; gave shelter. You were in a solitude almost unbroken, close to a gi'eat centre of life and busy work ; you looked out upon the world beyond, where there were fields, gardens, and trees ; there was our own round comer, with the stately elms above us ; the banks of grass, all sorts of grass, as one finds where there is no cultivation, trembliug gi'ass, foxtail grass, and that soft, bushy gi'ass for which we had no name ; there was the gun mounted on its high carriage, gazing out upon the harbom', a one-eyed Polvphemus longing for human food. We walked and ran about the walls, we sat, read, and talked in Celia's Ai'bour. I was the principal reader, because Leonard used to act what I read, and Cis always wanted to do what Leonard did. My usual seat was on the wheel of the gun- carnage, or in warm weather I would lie extended full length on the grass, while I read, in the high-pitched voice which Natm-e or my rounded back had given me, the narrative which stole us fi'om ourselves. A^Tiy does no one write such books now ? We were Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; we were Kobinson Crusoe and Man Friday, that is, Leonard was Don Quixote or Eobinson, while Ceha was Sancho or Man Friday. Up the harbour was a fiat little island, a peninsula at low tide, on which was a farmliouse. I daresay it must have been a dismal place to live upon, and by no means free fi'om rats. But CO us it was chaiining, for it was Piobinson's Island. To this day I cannot look &t the book without seeing the island again, and peopling it once more with the Solitary and his faithful Indian. When we read the ** Pilgiim's Progi-ess " Leonard with a stick personated Christian's tenific combat with Apollyon. Or, if w« CELIA. 47 diasscd npou the second part, Celia was Mercy, and knocked verv prettily at the gate, while Leonard multiplied himself, and hecame in turns, or at the same time, the Dog, Beelzebub, and the Interpreter. It was Leonard who called this place Celia's Arbour, after © glee which I found among Mrs. Tyrrell's music. The haimonies of the old four-part song lie in my heart associated with those 3arly days, and with our own retreat. It is a tender glee, whose notes are yearnings and sighs, whose cadences are love's hypo* crisies, breathing an almost arrogant confidence, while veiled behin(5 a mask of pretended fear, assumed out of good manners, and certain to deceive no Celia that ever lived. "We breathed no sighs, v.'e hung no wTcath by our Celia's Arbour, but it was a place where two boys learned to love one girl. She was at first a -uilfiil and uncei-taln little maid, her moods like the April sky for fitfulness ; her way for the moment the one right way ; her \d\\ law. She would have been a despot of the fiercest kind, but for one thing which saved her. It was her gift of reading the hearts of those she knew. If by that power of hers she read mine, and so could say with unerring instinct the thing she had to say, always in the way it should be said, then, I suppose, she could read others. That wilfulness wore off as she gi'ewup, but the mysterious power remained. She felt, or seemed io feel, what others thought. It is quite certain that this power can belong to those who think little about themselves, and comeB from long watchfulness in obseiwing the connection between thought and expression, and learning how to read the lightest flasb of the eye. She was an only child, and her father was the very greatest man in all the to^n. Not that he was gi-eater than the Governor Commandant of the Forces, or than the Port Admiral, but he was the gi'eatest man of the municipality. He held, or had held, all the offices. He was a borough magistrate, ex- Mayor, chairman of everj-thing, churchwarden, Past Master of the Masons' Lodge, and leader in ever3'thing. In person he was tall and portly, bearing himself with an upright and solid carriage. When he passed do^vn the street the shopkeepers came to their doors and bowed ; mothers pointed him out to their boys as an object o^ emulation ; all the town respected him. He deseiTed their respect' for shoeing them what Leonard was so anxious to find out for himself, how a man may rise in the world. He had been errand- boy in a laT^yer's office ; he worked every evening, and so got learning, and he finally found himself at forty the leading solicitor Rud the a'ost *' prominent citizen " of the town. 48 B\ CELIACS ARBOUR. Ho lived, after the fashion of the time, in the same hor^e v,'here he had his offices. It was a large red brick house the very last in Castle Street before you came to the town wall. It had the door in the middle opening into a broad hall, with a large room on either side. These were the offices, and in addition to them Tra^s a certain structure built out at the side devoted to the clerks. The dining-rooms and Mrs. TjTrell's habitual sitting-room, cielled tbs parlour, were at the back, overlooking a garden, large for a to-^^n house, planted with standard apples and pears, and standing behind borders in which flourished the common old-fashioned flowers, Virginia stocks, candy-tuft, mouse-ear, London pride, double stocks, wallflowers, gillyflowers, and the rest, including big hollyhocks, round which bees swanned all the summer, planted in the comers. A gate at the end of the wall was unlocked all day, so that Celia and I could pass in and out without seeing or disturbing the clients. On the first floor was Mrs. T^Trell's draT^ing-room, a salon which impressed the visitor -uith a sense oi really aristocratic magnificence, so cold, so prim, and so very comfoiiless was it. It was never used, except for a dinner-party, that is, once or twice in the year. For lighter entertainments, such as " a few friends to tea," the parlour was thought quite good enough. Celia's piano was in the parlour ; there was a grand in the di'a^rlng-room ; do^^iistaii's you found comfort and ease ; upstairs splendour and cold. The daily life of a professional man, thuiy years ago, was a good deal simpler, though in many vrays more conventional, than at present. He lived almost always, like Mr. Tyrrell, in the house where he had his office ; he dined at one o'clock, and his dinners were extremely plain. At five he took tea, \\ith bread and butter ; at eight he finished work for the day, dismissed his clerks, and sat down at nine with his fnmily to supper, the most cheerful meal of the day, going to bed at half-past ten. There was no talk in those days oi a month on the Continent, of the necessity for change, or an autumnal holiday ; a dance for the young people might be looked for, in some quai'ter or other, thi'ee or four times in the year ; to dance in the summer was un- heai'd of ; garden-parties were never dreamed of ; la^Ti-tennis — even croquet — not yet invented ; picnics things to imagine. There was a large garrison in the to-^^n, but the officers rarely appeared at the houses of the lawyers, and kept in their own sets ; the best available society consisted of the numerous half-pay and retired naval officers, ^ith the clergj^ and the professional men, and the maidens, who were far more " proper " than ar3 their daughters ol CELIA. 45 rinks and Badminton, looked on a friendly gathering to tea, with a little music afterwards, or a round game, as the highest dissipa- tion consistent with properly brought up young ladyhood. Yet they were perfectly happy. They did not read so much ; they did not know so much as their successors ; their taste in Ai-t, Dress, Furniture, and Decoration had not been developed ; they had not, like Ulysses, seen many men and many manners ; they had no doubts on religion ; they had not become strong-minded ; they did not sit on School Boards, nor sigh for Female Suffi-age ; they had never heard of the Subjection of the Sex ; they did not envy the wild delights open to rich young persons of their own sex in London, because they did not know them, except in terms too vague to be harmful. Yet they were, I should think, happier than the girl of the present day, because their hearts were set on simpler things. Theydi^essed themselves as prettily as they knew how and could afford. I looked the other day in an old illustrated paper, and saw with a shudder the dresses of the girls whom I knew as a boy ; the picture of female beauty adorned in the fashion of the day seemed a horrid caricature ; but then the artist had not caught the sweetlookof faces which not even a hairdresser can disfigure ; and lailed in sho\\ing the graceful lines which no foolish fashion- copyist can wholly conceal. Pass over the dress. They fliiied a little, in their quiet way, after chui'ch on Sunday morning, and over the tea-things in the evening. They read novels, of a decorous order, and not in the least like cei-tain romances now in vogue, written " by ladies for ladies." In the course of time, one by one, they got married, and became good wives and good mothers with old- fashioned notions. It was peaceful, this vie de 'province, and would have been vii-tuous, but for the sin of gossip ; it was calm, and might have been happy, but for the misfortune of monotony. A certiiin conventionality hung about every act of family life which waff, or might be, public. People pretended a great deal. K a visitor called — I speak fr'om information received, and not from my own experience — the work which the young ladies were engaged upon was put aside hastily, and they were presented, on the rising of the curtain, so to speak, reading in graceful attitudes. There was a fiction that callers required refreshment, and the decanters were placed upon the table, with the choice of " red or white." I obseiwed, at an early age, that Mr. Tyrrell, when he took wine, which was not every day, abstained from the decanters reserved for the use of visitors, and opened a fresh bottle for him- self. I thought, in those days, that it was dismterested generosity on his part, so as to give his visitors the best, but I know better 50 BY CELIACS ARBOL'R, now. The duration of a visit was inversely propoi-lioiiate to the rank of the caller. In the case of " carriage company," a ijuarter of an hour at the outside Vv-as g]*anted, so much at least bein^ needed to im^press the street. Humbler fiiends, in whose case tha decanters might be speedily put away, and the needlewcrk resumed, could stay a whole afternoon, if they pleased. On AY jdnesday and Friday evenings, those ladies who could boast of ha^'ing "ex- perienced " religion, went to church, and ga^e themselves little airs on account of superior spirituality. No one ever di'eamed of inviting himself to any meal whatever, and if anybody was imdted, he was made to feel that he was the guest, being pressed to eat of things provided in his honom-, and becoming, whether he liked it or not, the centre of conversation. There was, therefore, a good deal of ceremony in our social festivities. The handing of the mufiins, the dexterous use of the kettle, the division of the cake at tea, the invitation to hot spirits and water after supper, the request to sing, the management of the album : all these things requii'ed grace and deportment ; quite young men went through the prescribed duties with manifest anxiety ; young ladies were careful not to allow their natural happiness over a little social ex- citement to interfere -^ith the exigencies of propriety ; middle-aged men took a pride in saying and doing exactly the right thing in the right way. Evei'}'thing in hrmrgeois society of that time had a right way. It is true that this anxiety to keep in the groove prevented originality of conversation ; but then we all knew what to expect, were able to criticise the performances, aftei'^«ards, of a well-knovm role, and to congi-atulate oui'selves on the very propei; way in which everybody had behaved. Pretence is VTilgar, but when it is custom it somehow ceases to vulgarise. "We have our customs still, but they are not quite so binding on us. There were plenty of vulgar people among us, but we were not necessarily vulgar because we dined at one, supped at nine, gave few parties, never went abroad, and observed little fashions, with little pretences which deceived nobody. So far we were only simple. Celia, at least, who was brought up in the lap of this conventionality, could not be, could never hay® been vailgar. On Sunday v/e went to St. Faith's Church, which stands in St. Faith's Square. The building belonged to the reign of the Third George, and was, externally, a great barn of red brick, set in a courtyard, surrounded by a red brick wall, and vith a roof of red tiles. Inside it was a large white-painted edifice, resting on four pillars. There was a great galleij running all rou:id, and, because CEL/A, 51 the church was crowded, a second gallery higher up at the west end contained the organ and choir. The pulpit, reading-desk, and clerk's desk, forming between them a giant staircase, stood in the middle of the church ; all three were broad and roomy ; round the altar-rails sat a school of charity childi-en, who pinched each other dm'ing the semce. In the aisles were placed, between the pew- doors, Httle triangular brackets, on each of which sat, in e\ideEt discomfort, an aged lady, clad in black. They used to rise, curtsey, and open the doors for the gentlefolk when they came and when they went away. I used to wonder why these ancient dames came to church at all, considering the profound misery of those three- cornered brackets. But I believe there was a dole of some kind for them, and once a month they had the satisfaction of finishing the sacramental wine. The arrangement of the pews was ii'regular, the better soi-t among them being square. In those you sat upon high narrow seats of rough baize, \\ithyour feet enlarge hassocks, which made youi' flesh creep to touch. The square pews were a gi'eat stumbling-block to children, because they were convenient for making faces at each other, and this often led to subsequent tears. The TyrreUs had a square pew, in which little Celia sat always as demui^e as a nun. During the Communion Semce, while the Epistle and Gospel were read, we all faced to the east out of politeness to the clerg}'man. Social distinctions were ob- seiwed in getting up and sitting down. Poor people obeyed the summons of the organ promptly ; those who had a position io illustrate, got up in the Grand style, that is, slowly, and with deliberation. They were well on theii' feet at about the middle of the second line in the hjinn, and they held their h^nm-books ^ith an air of condescending criticism, as if there might, after all, be something in the words of the poet. At the close of the h}Tnn they sat doy,Ti as slowly as they had got up, long after the organ had finished, even some moments after the last of the old ladies in the triangular seats had ended her final squawk. And as they sat down they looked about the church as if to see that everybody was behaving properly. The Captain's pew, a lo-:ig one, vras behind Mr. T3Treirs. Leonard often tried, but never succeeded in making Celia laugh. Not a single glance of her eye did she pennit towards the pew where her two fiiends sat. Not a single emile when, Sunday after Sunday, the Captain lugged a key ou* of lis pocket vrhen the h}Tnn was given out, and audibly instructed Leonard to " get out the tools," meaning the h}TiLn-books. During the sennon, the seats were so high that there was no one to be seen except the preacher and the clerk ; the la ter was alway*' / 52 BY CELIA 'S ARBO OR. asleep. And when we came out, we walked away with mneh solemnity, the elders discussing the sermon. Time that is long past appears to have been so much longer than any period of the present. In twenty years or so, I suppose, I, for one, shall have finished my earthly career — perhaps, before then. But it does not seem so long to me now, looking forward to the end, as it does looking back on those years of school and early life, on which I have dwelt, perhaps, at too great length. Being a lonely man, without wife, kith, or kin, I like to think of the days when I had a brother and a sister. To be sure, I have them still, unaltered in affection, but they a^-a not here. In the long v/inter evenings, when I am tired of pupils and melancholy, so tired sometimes that even Mendelssohn cannot bring me comfort, I sit by the fire and see little Celia once more, as she was, wajn^ard and fitful, restless as a sprite, bright as a sunbeam, rosy-fingered as Aurora, dancing in and out among our hours, making them gay as a bright June morning ; or standing as Minerva might have done, had that most unfortunate goddess ever known childhood, pensively looking out on the sunlit harbour; or, when she grew older, declaiming with passion against the wi'ongs she read of and the miseries she saw. For, as in every town where soldiers and sailors congregate, and drink IS provided, there were many wrongs and much misery ; wicked things which obtruded themselves upon even childish eyes. All evil seems to the young so easy to prevent and cure. Sitting now by the winter fire, and gazing into the coals, it is always Celia that I see. She runs through my life like a scarlet thread in silk. And for five years — the five years of Leonard's ** Wander Time " — we were always together, for I was her tutor, I forgot to mention that I was a musician. Music is my profession. I am a music-master — "Mr. L. Pulaski" is on the brass door-plate, with underneath, " Lessons in Music and Singing." Music has been my joy and solace, as well as my orofession. I believe I could play as soon as I was born ; at all events I had no difficulty in learning ; and when Mr. Tyrrell heard of my great gift, and generously presented me with a piano, I made myself, almost unassisted, a musician of skill as weW as of feeling. For I played at every spare moment, and therefore I learned to play well. It was natural that I should help Cis in her music, and when I left school it was natural also that I should become not only her music-master, but her tutor in other things, and her companion. It was good of Mrs. Tyrrell ^^ trust her to me; it was an education for me to have the AUGUSTUS IN THE LEGAL. 5i charge. No brother and sister could have been drawn more closely together than we two. And I am quite sure that nc rng-n could love a gu'l more than I at all times loved Celia. CHAPTER Vn. AUGUSTUS IN THE LEGAIi. I HAD one short experience of the way in whch other people work for money. It lasted three months, and happened when Mr. Tyrrell, out of pm^e kindness, proposed that I should enter his office. He said many handsome things about me, in making this offer, especially in reference to his daughter, and pledged himself to give me my articles if I took to the work. I accepted, on the condition that I kept my afternoons free for CeHa, and began the study of the law. Well, suffice it to say that after thi-ee months the Captain became my ambassador to convey my resignation. And the only good thing I got out of my legal experience was the friend- ehip of the Bramblers. Augustus Brambler, the head 9f the family, was one of Mr. jTyrrell's clerks. Not the head clerk, who was a man of con- sideration, and had an office to himself, but one of half-a-dozen who sat in the room built for them at the side of the house, and di'ove the quill for very slender wage fi'om nine in the morning to eight at night. Augustus was no longer young when I first met him, being then past forty years of age. And although the other clerks were httle more than boys, Augustus sat among them with cheerful countenance and contented heart. He was short of statui-e, and his face was innocent cf whisker and as smooth as any woman's ; his featui-es were sketchy, his eyes were large and bright, but his expression, in office hours, was maintained at a high pressui'e of unrelenting zeal. Nature intended him to be stout, but with that curious disregard for her colleague which Fate often shows, his income prevented the caiTying out of Natui'e's intention. So that he remained thin, and, perhaps, in consequence, preserved his physical activity, wnich was that of a schoolboy. I was placed under his charge, and received papers to copy, while the chief clerk gave me books to read. I did copy the papers, to my infinite disgust, 2krA I tried to read the books, but here I failed. Augustus Bmmbler, I soon discovered, did the lea^f recpon- einjia vsork in the office, enjoyinor a certain ^onsideraticu Ly aah-^^im 54 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. of the enormous entliusiasm vrliicli lie brought into the service. He ma,guified his humble office ; saw in it something gi-eat and BiDlendid ; beheld in himself the spring of the whole machine ; and identified himself with the success of the House. You would think, to listen to him, that he had achieved the high( st ambition of his life in becoming a clerk to I\Ir. Tyrrell, that his weekly stipend of thirty shillings was a large and magnificent income, and that the Firm was maintained by his own personal exertions. Cei-tainly these were not wanting. He was in the office firsfc in the morning, and left it the last in the evening. He kept the other clerks to theii* work, not only by example but by precept, admonishing them by scraps of proverbial philosophy, such as — in the case of one who longed to finish and be gone — " Huny and haste are worsen than waste ;'' or of one who was prone to scamp the work in order to talk, " Sure and slow is the way to go ;" while in the case— too common among law^-ers' clerks — of cne who came too late to office, he had a verse as apt as if it had been a Shakesperian quotation, though I have never seen it iB Shakespeai-e. " What," he would say, " do we learn from the poet ? ** * Get up betimes, and at the dawn of day, For health and strength to serve your JSIaster pray. Sharp at clock striking at the point of eight, Present yourself before the office gate. ' **It should have been nine," he would add, "but for the sake of the rh}Tne." His eagerness to work was partly counterbalanced by his inability to do anjihing. He knew nothing whatever, after years of law work, of the most ordinaiw legal procedure ; he could not even be trusted to copy a document correctly. And yet he was never idle, never wasting his employer's time. Mostly he seemed to be iTiling lines laboriously in red ink, and I often wondered what became of the many reams beautified by Augustus -^uth such painful assiduity. At other times he would take down old office books, ledgers and so forth, and, after dusting them tenderly, would tm-n over the leaves, brows bent, pencil in hand, as if ho were engaged in a research of the most vital impoiiance. At ali events, he did not allow the juniors to waste their time, and, as I ftfter^-ards found out, was only continued in the service of 'Six, Tyn-'3r voices, like " Good-bye, Sweetheart," or "Ever of Thee," wi-eaking a -^ncked will upon time and tune, they never lang at all. Musical yotmg men, as they were called, were looked upon -ttith a little disfavour as likely to turn out badly. Therefore It was a novelty in our small circle when Celia and I eang duets. ■ THE UNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 63 Bhe learned to play, not brilliantly— perhaps from some defect Iri mv teaching power — but softly and delicately, as if she loved what she played. She had the power of bringing out fresh sweet- nesses, such as I had never felt in my o^-n playing of the same piece. It is so always in the highest music. Play it a hundred times, exhaust, as you think, every chord of passion, yearning, faith, prayer, and hope, teach yoiu'self to believe that it is a landscape which you have studied under a thousand effects of light and shade until you know its every possible aspect. Another plavs it. Lo ! on eveiy side you discern hitherto undiscovered glades of sweet greenery arched by gi'eat cathedral aisles in which birds sing endless songs of praise ; and clear before you, erewhile so dark and doubtful, lies the path which leads to the higher world, a sunny lane planted by loving hands T\ith flowers, bordered with honeysuckle and meadowsweet, stretching broad and bright to the Gates of Emerald. The best thing about being a musician is that you can understand the music of others. I encouraged Celia to play only from the best composers, be- cause, while we have the best music to teach us, and the best poetiy to speak our thoughts for us, it seems so great a sin to waste ourselves upon lower and ignoble things. In course of time I began to essay little things of my own : feeble flights, imitations, echoes of the masters. Celia played them, praised them, and then went back to the masters. This showed me what a mere apprentice I was. For that matter I am not yet out of my aiiicles. Sometimes, after placing one of my o^-n studies, it would please us to see Mrs. Tyn-eli waking up out of the doze in which she gpent most of her afternoons, and nod her head placidly. " That is a very pretty piece of Mozart, Celia. I always liked that movement." Or : " That has always been my favourite in Mendelssohn." ^ATiy is it that people should take shame to themselves for not anderstanding music, and cover themselves with ignominy by the pretence? No one is ashamed to say that he does not know Hebrew or mathematics. And yet, unless one goes through the regular mill, how can music be kno^Mi any more than mathe- matics ? Mrs. TpTell reminded me of those fakeers, or yogU^ who attain to Heaven by pei*petually gazing upon a particular toe. She spent her afternoons in a motionless contemplation of the work which she held in her hands. From time to time her 3yes closed, but only foi ft few momsnts when the lazy ejclid lifted, and her limpid eyes, 64 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. wliic'h were like tlie eyes of fallow-deer for absence of care, reste* again upon the work. A gentle, easy, motionless woman, wb. could not understand her bright and eager daughter. A goo» woman, too, and a kind mother, always careful that her Celia ha the best. We were at that age when the scul is charged with nncei-taii: longings. Youth is the time when poetry has the gi-eatest power over us. There are so many things we have to say ; our thought fly here and there like a young bii-d in early summer, not ain- lessly, but without control ; the brain has not been forced into . single groove, and hardened by long continuance in that groove the ways of the world are all open. There is no relief in speech because, for such thoughts, the tongue is powerless. Therefor* one falls back upon poetry. It makes me sad now to think of th< days when our minds, saturated Tsith the ^\-inged words of Keats Byron, or Wordsworth, were as fall of clouded visions, sunlit, mist- coloured, crossed with gleams of gloiy, as any picture bj Turner. Where are they gone, the dreams of youth? " Ou es- la neige d'autan ? " For if, in the after j-ears, one such visior comes, evoked for a few moments by the breath of some mighty music, it is but a passing gleam. The fierce noontide light oi midday soon disperses the clouds, and gathers up the mists. Perhaps, when evening falls upon us, they -^iQ come again, tho^ glimpses of the better world. We wandered hand-in-hand, a pair of dreaming children, or sat in Celia's Arbour, gazing out upon the broad bosom of the harbour. From the moat below us, \7hich was the practice-gi'ound of young buglers, trumpeters, and dinimmers, there came blown about by the breeze, the reveille^ the call to retreat, the charge, and the eager rub-dub of the drum, which somehow acts so strongly upon tiie fighting neiwes of the soldier. And eveiy day in that busy port there was the firing of salutes, the solemn Dead March for a regi- mental funeral, with the quick rattle of muskets over his gi-ave the band of a regiment marching thi'ough the streets, and the booming of artillery practice, sounds to remind us of the world outside, to which we did not belong, but which fired our im- agination. And many kinds of life. At the end of the grass;y meadov before our feet was a gate leading into the upper end of the Dock- yard. Through the gate streamed the Liberty men, like schoolboys at play. And after them, going along as slowly as they possibly could would be sometimes diiven a file of wTetched convicts, spade in hand, to dig and entrench in some of the Government works. There was ^ THE UNFORTUNATE YOUNG NOBLEMAN. 65 horrible fascination in looking at the convicts. Vfliat crimes had they committed ? Why were they unhappy above other nen who had sinned and not been found out ? '\^^lat miserable mothers and sisters mourned somewhere their degradation ? How cc'uld they bear the grey uniform of disgrace, the horrible companionship of criminals, the wretched life on the hulks ? "WTiich were the men whose time was almost up, and how would they meet their release, and the return to a world which for ever afterwards would Bcom them ? Sentiment all this, perhaps ; it is the unhappy thing about us all when we pass into the work time, and youth's brief holiday is over, that we have no more sentiment, which is often but another name for sjmpathy. Men try to ciystallise themselves into critics, and therefore put themselves as much as they can outside the emotions. That is what makes poets, novelists, and painters hate and detest the metier of critic. Meantime, no news of Leonard. "We knew that there could he none, and yet we hoped. Leonard, of course, would keep his' word. He would not WTite for five years ; but yet, perhaps, in' some indii-ect way, there might come news about him. " I wonder in what way, Laddy ? Of course he Tvill be success- ful. Sometimes I think he is in London, v,Titing poetry. Suppose he is already a great poet, ever^-body buying his wonderful verses ?" This was an extreme view to take, but then we were quite ignorant of publishing, and thought, perhaps, that a poet sprang ready-made into existence and popularity. However, on cooler thoughts, the idea of Leonard taking to poetiy did not commend itself to me. *' He may have gone to the Bar, Laddy, and be a great advocate." It certainly did occur to me that advocates are seldom gi'eat at one or two and twenty. ** Or perhaps he may have becom*^ a merchant prince. Not a small trader, you know, but a great man, v^ith fleets of ships and aimies of clerks." We breathed faster, and looked at each other with flushed cheeks. "\Miat success was too great for our hero ? " Laddy," Celia went on, sagely, " we must not choose, because we might be disappointed. Then Leonard would see the dis- appointment in our faces, and that would hui-t him. We must wait — and hope. Patience, Laddy." *' Patience, Cis." It was some proof of the strength of Leonard's character thai 66 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. cyeryLody belleYed in his success. Tliis young hero had grne forth to conquer tha world. There would he no difficulties foi him. Celia and I naturally looked upon him, our elder playfellow, with the respect of those who had been children -^ith him, and younger than himself. This kind of feeling never dies out. The opinions of childhood throw out roots which spread all through the afier years, and cling round the heaii of eighty as much as round the heart of ten. And to this day I regard Leonard, just as I used to, as a being quite superior to myself. The Captain openly spoke of him as one who had gone into the- world to show what a man might do in it. Mr. Tp'rell, who was not natui'ally an enthusiastic man, would congi'atulate the Captain on the success of the boy. And Mrs. Tyrrell — how that good lady managed to be infected by the general enthusiasm I do not know — quoted Leonard as an example, when she felt inclined to moralise, of what religion and industry will effect for young people. "WTiat she thought they had done for Leonard I do not know. Perhaps she pictured him in a Bishop's apron. As for Mrs. Jeram, who also fell into the popular delusion, she openly thanked Providence for bringing such a boy into the world. She always knew, ehe said, by those infallible signs which only ex^ perienced persons can detect, that the baby — meaning Leonard- was going to be a gi'eat man. There were others, too. The Rev. Mr. Broughton, when he met the Captain or myself, would invite us to go home with him and di'ink Leonard's health in a glass of cmious brown sherry, adding that he always knew that boy would get on. And Mrs. Pontifex onco warned us solemnly against the pride that comes of worldly success. All this was very delightfal, and helped to keep us in a glow of pride and pleasm-e which made the long five years pass away quickly. There was only one discordant voice. It came from Herr Raumer, who lodged with the Bramblers, whose acquaintance I had now made. " You think," he said, in his German accent, '* that this — what do you call him ? — this boy has become a gi-eat man. "What do you know about it? Nothing. What can a boy do without money and mthout fiiends ? Nothing. He is some poor clerk in a merchant's office ; he is a shopman behind a counter ; he is air usher in a school ; he has gone to Australia, and is a wi-etched Bhepherd. What else can a poor boy become ? Great man f B&hl you are all fools together, Ladislas Pulaski. But go on. go on, if it will make you hap};y ; go on tiU you find out the truth." HOPES AND FEARS, 67 CHAPTER IX. HOPES AND FEARS. In the year ] 854 began the Paissian war. To me, be<»an«6 in those days I read few papers and took small interest in politics, Ine first signs of the impending struggle came from the Polish Bana/ik. Here, from the autumn of 1853, there reigned an unwonted animation. Letters and foreign newspapers were received daily ; secret infoimation was whispered about; strangers came doA\Ti fi'om London ; the men gathered themselves into Httle knots and whispered. The most eager of them all was Wassielewski. He was transfoimed ; he bore himself erect, "^ith head thi^own back ; those deep-set eyes of his lost their look of expectant melancholy, and were blight -^-ith hope ; he even seemed to have lost his limp. It was easy for me to understand that all this preliminaiy joy meant another rising in Poland. The weakness of Piussia was to be the oppoi-tunity of my compatriots. In this quiet retreat they were plotting and conspii-ing. I came and went among them as I pleased, kno^^ii to eveiy one. They did not tell me their plans, but I observed that as they talked their eyes fi'om time to time tui'ned to me, and I discerned that they were discussing whether I should be made a conspirator with the rest and a sharer in their visions. I understood — it was only paii; of the general humiHation of a hunchback — that they were undecided whether one so useless physically could not be of use in the way of his name ; whether, in fact, it was woi-th while to sacrifice my life, as well as their own, because I was Ladislas Pulaski. For the first time I felt a Pole indeed, in the strange thought that perhaps, after all, I, too, might be called upon to strike my blow, such as it was, for PoHsh freedom. I had been kept strangely ignorant up to this time, and even later, of my own family histoiy and of the circumstances under ^hich I was brought to England. I knew that I was the son of a PoHsh noble ; that my father perished in one of the obscure and hopeless village risings which took place some years after the great insurrection of 1831, and were too local to be recorded in contem- porary histoiy ; also, that it was old Wassielewski who brought me, a mere infant, in his own arms, safely to England. When I asked the Captain for foi-ther inforaiation, he put ofi" the question. When, as a feoy, I asked Wassielewski, he patted my head kindly, and bade me wait. I understood, therefore, very early, that there was more to be told in somebody's good time. 68 bY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. 1 believe that it was by the Captain's wish that I was kept frcsi the kno^Yledge of things which might have maddened my bopsh brain ; because I can hardly give Wassielewski credit for an act q\ forbearance towards the Romanoff name which lasted twenty years. In the spring of 1854, when it became quite certain that Russia would have to face the strongest combination of allies ever fonned, the day of deliverance seemed to be daTsiiing for Poland. It was a delusive hope, as we know, because Pmssia and Austiia, farti- cipes crlminis, could not look on in silence while the Russian part of the divided land fi'eed itself and set a bad example to their o-^ii Poles. I have sometimes dreamed an impossible thing — that Germany, \shich pretends to be the most advanced outpost of civilisation, and Austria, which boasts of her easy rule, might some day join together and restore their share in the unholy partition to Liberty. "WTiat madness possessed them evai' to dis- member that ancient kingdom of independent Slavs, which could never threaten Germany and stood as a bulwark against the barbaric Muscovite ? But it was a foolish di'eam. Nations never voluntarily make reparation. Unto the fourth and even the fifth generation they pay for crimes in their childi'en's blood ; but they do not make atonement for the sin. AMiile the hopes of the exiles were highest, IVassielewski began to tell me tales of Polish daring and Russian cnielty. " You are a Pole," he used to finish his narrative, " remember always that you are a Pole. You owe yourself to your country. It may be youi- duty, as well as mine, to die in her cause. The day is coiiiing when you will have to act. Bat as yet, nothing of my father. In those days, too, Herr Riiumer first began to talk to me. I met him at Mr. Tyrrell's office, and he invited me to visit him at his lodgings, which were, as I have explained, the first floor of Augustus Brambler's house. Here he received me -with great cordiality. Indoors he removed the blue spectacles, which he habitually wore in the streets, and showed a pair of keen bright eyes whicn certainly did not look as if they required any shelter fi'om the light. His room was furnished '^ith great smiplicity, like the quarters of an officer on activa semce — a table, a sideboard, one or two chaii's — his own being a wooden armchair — a slip of caqDet before the fire — a pianoforte — constituted all that his simple wants requii-ed. On the wall hung one or two v\-eapons, a pair of rapiers crossed, a rifie, and a brace of pistols. On the mantelshelf were two or three pipes, and a cigar-case. In the open sideboard I observed a HOPES AND FEARS. 69 goodly row of bottles, -^-liicli I riglitly judged from thefr shape and colour of the glass to contain German \\-ine. Herr Raumer drank every day a bottle of this for dinner and another bottle before going to bed. He had one of those heads which are never the worse for wie, however much they swallow, I felt very small sitting opposite this big man with the keen eyes which looked straight through me, his gi'eat head crowned ^ith a mass of grey hair, his face, which looked like the face of one who commanded men habitually, adorned with the heavy white moustache and the long white eyebrows ; the strong and resolute chin, the upright pose, the veiy strength in the man's figure — all this impressed me. He saw that I was impressed, and I think it pleased him. He began to talk at once about Poland. He had long, he said, felt deeply for the sorrows and sufferings of my unfortunate country. Unhappily, as I knew, he was a German, and in Germany there were some s^nnpathies which w^ere not to be openly expressed. If a German gentleman, he said, desired libei-ty of the Press, freedom of discussion, elevation of the masses, liberal institutions, the restoration of Poland, or any kindred thing, it behoved him to be silent and possess his soul in patience. Here in England, and the doors closed, alone with a Polish gentleman, he could speak his mind. The fact was, the condition of things not only in Eussia, but also in Austria iind Prussia, was deplorable. He saw before him one who had suffered in the cause — I thought afterwards that my own exertions in the cause as a year- old baby hardly entitled me to speak as a mai-t}T — he could tell me cases of Russian cruelty which would m!ake my blood boil. "There is," he said, "thank Heaven! left to mankind the sacred duty of rebellion. The Czar knows of this, and trembles on his throne. From generation to generation the duty is handed down. Even now," his voice sank to a whisper, " even at this very moment, it is whispered that the Poles are meditating another insurrection. Russia's weakness is Poland's opportunity. AMiile her energies are all bent upon the war, the Poles will rise again, and proclaim the Republic of Warsaw. But of course your friends in the Polish Barrack tell you all that is going on." ^ " Indeed they do not," I replied, with a jealous feeling that if they did I should hardly be justified in retailing their information to one who, however much he might sympathise with the cause, was certainly not a Pole. *« I imagine," he said, " but of course I know nothing, that an 70 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR, attempt will te made this very year. It seems a favonral)l« moment. The Polish exiles will return to join in the mr)vement. It is devoutly to be hoped that they might succeed. And bo Wassielewski tells you nothing. It seems hardly fair." " Nothing." It did not strike me till aftei*wards that it t^'' Nor could any argument of mine alter her opinion on this point; fl heresy which strikes at the veiy root of all wars. To he sure, if we read history all through— say the history of Cribbon, the most bloodthirsty historian I know — it would be diffi- ■cult to find a single one out of his wars that was chosen by the ■people. " Now then, you drilled men," says Iving or Kaiser, ** get up and kill each other." The Official Gazette proclaims the popular enthusiasm, shouting of war-cries, and tossing of caps — the value of which we know in this critical age. But the people do not get up of their o^ii accord. There is a good deal of fight- ing again in the Chronicles of old Froissart, but I remember no mention anj-^here of popular joy over it. The historian is toe honest to pretend such nonsense. In fact it never occurred t^ him that people could like it. They were told to put on their ii'on hats, grasp their pikes, and make the best of things. They obeyed ^ith resignation ; their fathers had done the same thing , they had been taught that war was one of the sad necessities of life — that, and pestilence, and the tyi'anny of priests, and the unceriainty of justice ; you had to fight just as you had to work, or to be bom, or to die ; the pike was an emblem of fate. For s^ise and mysterious pui-poses it was ordained by Providence that you were to be cuffed and beaten by your officers before being poked thi'ough the body by the iron point of the enemy's pike. It has been, hitherto, impossible for mankind to get out of this mediaeval way of thinking ; some Continental nations, who believe they are quite the advance-guard of ci-\-ilisation, even go so far as to preseiwe the cuffing to this day as part of their Heaven-sent institutions. It is taught in the schools as belonging to the Divine Order, and therefore to be taken v.ith resignation. At the same time, we need not go so far as to expect actual love fsr cuffing — with desii'e for more cuffing — fi'om modem Pmssians, any more than from medieval French or English. Not one single common soldier, among all the millions wlio make up the rank and file of modern armies, wants to go fighting. And yet what a lot of fighting there is ! Suppose, some day, when the glorious army on either side was ordered to advance, the brave fellows were to sit down instead WAR, 75 with a cheerful gnn, leaving the kings to fight out the quarrel ir a duel. Now and then, things getting really intolerable, the pc-oplewate up and have a Jacquerie, a Revolution, or a RefonnaUcn. But that is civil war, the only kind of war which the unpatriotic mob really cares about. " All the world," said foolish Cis, " prapng daily for peace. And praying for peace since ever they began to pray at all. And what has come of it ? " '' I do not see much good," said the Captain, who took the mediaeval view about war, " in praying for what you must help yourself to. If all the world agreed on peace, there would bo peace. And then it would be no good having a bigger fleet than your neighbour." I try to put my obvious point in a new and striking light : that nations who will not sit still, but get up quarrels ^^ith other nations, ought to have all theii' arms taken from them. Fancy Russia without an army or a fleet, obliged to live peacefully and develop herself! "Why, in ten years she would be civilised ; and then we should see strange things. But my point, however cleverly put, will not con- vince the Captain, whose opinions on the necessity of war are based upon the advantages of a superior fleet. After all, it is a great thing to be the adopted son of a land like this isle of England, wbich can never again, we hope, be made to seiwe the ambition of kings and priests ; never more drive her sons by the thousand to the slaughter-house, or her daughters to lamen- tations and tears, for aggrandisement. The only countiy in Europe of which such a boast may be made. When \ai\ it cease ? AMien will men be strong enough to say, *' Enough ; we will have no more of your military caste ; we will have no more of your great armies ; we will never fight again, ex- cept to defend ourselves ? " And Russia to set herself up as the protector of Christians ! Russia to be the advocate of humanity ! Russia the champion of civilisation ! Ask the opinions of Poland on these points ; go seek those of Turkestan ; of Circassia ; of Khiva ; of Siberia. Call on the Czar and the Court to tell their secret histoiy which eveiybody knows ; on the nobles to lay bare the stoiy of their lives ; on the officers to confess theii' barbaric licence ; on the judges and officials to confess their corruption ; on the priests to explain how they set the ex- ample of a Christian life. Call on police, secret agents, spies, ministers, governors, and soldiers to speak of Russia's Christian virtues in brutal beatings, torture of mind as well as body, infamous 76 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. delations, nniversal bribery, filthy prisons, and inhuman punish* ments. That done, ^\ish the ai-ms of Russia success, and pray that all the world may become Cossack, and the kings of the world imitators of the Czar. But I am a Pole, and may be supposed consequently to hate Russia. That is a popular error. The Poles do not hate Rus- Bians. Their qualities, their characteristics, are ours, because we are all of one common stock ; as for their vices, they are encour- aged by the governing class, because without the degi-adation oi ignorance and diink they could not be depended on, these poor mujiks, to obey orders. We only hate the Romanoffs, who are Gennans. But we like the Russians. And the English people will find out, on that day when the great unwieldy empire drops to pieces, and the spectre of the Romanoff terror is laid for ever, what good qualities there are in Russian, Muscovite, or Pole, and how by the aid of the Devil, who invented autocratic rule, the good has been peiwei-ted into evil. But T^That had the English and the Russian soldier done to each other, that they should be made to fight ? A most foolish and jealous girl's question. And yet — and y^^^ — And yet — it was pitifal to see our brave fellows, full of fire and enthusiasm, go down the nan-ow streets of the town to the Dock- yard Gates on theii' way to the East. They marched in loose order, headed by the Colonel, the bands plajdng " The Gii^l I left behind me." The streets were lined with the townspeople ; the women cr}-ing, some of them even kissing the soldiers ; the men waving hats and shouting ; the children laughing and running for joy at so splendid a spectacle. Among the honest faces of tho rough and rude soldiers — far rougher, far ruder then than now — you could see none that were not lifted proudly, flushed with hope. Drill the Muscovite and send him out to fight ; he '^ill go, and he will fight as he has been taught, a dogged, obedient creature. Ho asks for no reason, he neither questions nor ciiticises. When he begins to question, the end of the Romanoffs will not be far distant. Drill a Frenchman and order him into the field. He goes -^ith a yell and a rush like a tiger. And he is as dangerous as a man- eater. The German, who, more than all men, hates soldiering, goes unwilling, patient, sad. He is among other men the least pleased to fight. But the Englishman goes willingly, quietly, and without shouting. He likes fighting. And if he begins he means to go on. WTien the Dockyard Gates closed upon the Adjutant and th« Doctor, who rode last, men and women alike turned away ^ith clioking throats and swelhng h&erts, ashamed to shed the tears that stood in their eves. The men were going to fight for their country. Could there be a nobler thing than to fight, and for that sacred cause to die ? And yet Celia asked, what had Russians and Engli-dimen dono to each other that they should fight ? Some day perhaps even in my own time, the pale figure of Ee vo- lution, red-capped, gaunt, and strong, will stalL into the Summer Palace, and bring out the Romanofi's, disturbers of the v/orld's peace, one by one. " See," she Tvill say to the onlookers, " they are but men, these Czars, two-forked radishes, like yourselves. They are not stronger, bigger-brained, or longer-lived than you. They are troubled by exactly the same passions ; they have no better education than the best of you. But they must have war to delude ignorant people, and keep them from asking questions. As for yoa eighty millions, you want peace, with the chance of grow- ing crops, and enjoying sweet love of -^ife and children. Once get this family with all their friends across the frontier, with strict orders that they are not to come back any more, and you shall have all that you reasonably want." That is what the eager- faced woman with the PhiTgian cap said, eighty years ago, to the French, who believed her, and proceeded to act in the courage of their convictions. They made a mess of it because they expected too much. But they set an example, and we have not yet seen the end of that example. Day after day the tramp of soldiers down the streets, infantrj-, cavalry, ai-tilleiy, all alike light-hearted, all startmg on the journey of death as if it were a picnic. When the news came of the first fighting we grew less tender- hearted, and sent out fi-esh squadrons with the same enthusiasm but fewer tears. The war fever was upon us, pulses beat fiercely, we had less thought for the individual men and more for the anny. "We were bound to vdn somehow, and the soldiers went out to \nii for us. If they fell — but we did not think too much, then, about falling. Individual life is only valuable in time of peace. In times of war it has a commercial value of its own. — life for life, and perhaps one life for ten if we are lucky. ♦' I daresay," said the Captain one day, " that there is a Russian way of looking at things, though hang me if I can seo it. But, mark me, Laddy, unless a man sticks tight as wax to his own side, shuts his ears to the other side, won't hear of an argu- la^nt, that man can't fight happy. There's no comfort in a battle 78 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. unless jou feel you're on the Lord's side. Wheref )re hang all 69a la^^Ters, and let eveiy man, now, hate a Russian as if he weje the DeTil." To do our red-jackets justice, that is about what they did. Besides the long lines of soldiers embarking eveiy week in the huge transports, there were the preparation and the despatch of the great and splendid Black Sea and Baltic Fleets. It is something to have lived in a time when such sh.ps were to he seen. It is a memoiy which binds one to the past to think of that day, in March, 1854, when the Baltic Fleet set sail amid the prayers of the nation. Never was so gallant a fleet sent forth fi'om any shore, never were shores more crowded ^^ith those who came to criticise and stayed to cheer. We had already — Cis and I among the number — cheered old Charley Napier when he walked dov.-n the pier to embark on his ship, pounding the timbers with his sturdy little legs as if they had been so many Russians. To-day he was on board the Dnlze of Wellington, the biggest ship in the world, a gi'eat floating fortress mounting a hundi-ed and thiiiy-one guns, built to sail when uind was fair, with a crew of a thousand men, and an admiral who meant fighting. No one who ever saw that day will forget the departure of the Fleet. It was a fi'esh and breezy day in March ; the sun came out in occasional gleams, and shot long aiTows of light athwart the clouds. The sea was dark "^-ith multitudes of boats, yachts, steamers, and craft of all kinds ; the shore was black with the thousands who sat there watching for the signal to be given. And riding at anchor lay the ships on which the fortimes of England depended. There was the St. Jean cVAcre, of a hundred guns; the Royal George, of a hundred and twenty — she floated over the place where lay the bones of her namesake, the flag-ship of Admiral Kempenfeldt, when he went do^ii with " t-^icc four hundi'ed men," and almost as many women ; the Princess Royal, of ninety-one guns ; the Irtiperieuse and the Arrogant — I was launched on board the Arrogant, and remembered her well — there were, all told, in that Baltic Fleet, though all were not gathered together, between fifty and sixty ships. Presently we saw the Queen's steamer, the Fairy — the pretty little yacht, with her three sloping masts — threading her graceful way s^^iftly in and out of the ships, while the Jack Tars manned the yardarm, and cheered till the shore took it up 'uith echoes and the counter- cheering of the epectators. When the old men with Nehemiah saw the diminished glories of the Second Temple, they lifted up their voices and wept. When the old men on cur shore saw the magnified glories of the Victorian fleet, they lifted up their voicos and wept, thinking of the days that were no more, the breezy battle -^ith a foe who dared to fight, the long chase of a flying enemy, the cutting-out, the harvest of a score of prizes. This time, with better ships, better crews, we were going on a fool's quest, because all the good we did was to keep the Russians T\'ithin their port. Well, our trade was safe. That was a great thing. The ships would go up and do-^ii the broad ocean without fear of the Russians, because these were all skulking behind Cronstadt towers. I am not a Muscov, but a Pole, yet I was ashamed for the Russian sailors, who were not allowed to strike a blow for their countiy, while the soldiers were dpng in thousands, dogged, silent, long-suffering, in obedience to the Czar whom they igno- rantly worship. They sailed, the Queen leailing the way. Out flew the white canvas, fluttering for a moment in the windy sunshine, and then, with set pui-pose, bellying full before the breeze, and marshalling each brave ship to her place in the grand procession. The Annada passed out of sight, and we all went home. The Captain was moved to the extent of a double ration that night ; also, he sang a song. And at prayers, he invented a new petition of his o-^Ti for the honour and safety of the Fleet. There were occasions, he said, when if a man did not feel religious he didn't deseiTO to be kept on the ship's books any longer. And he told »is — Cis was staying with us that day — for a thousandth time the story of Navarino. When the fleets were gone, and the soldiers nearly all sent off, we began to look for news. For a long time there came little, Charley Napier told his men to sharpen their cutlasses ; that was just what the old fellow would do, because, if he got a chance of fightmg, he meant fighting. But he did not get that chance. Within the fortress of Cronstadt, in ignoble safety, lay the Russian fleet, afi'aid to come out. There was a little bombard- ment of Sweaborg, Helsingfors, and Bomarsund ; we made as much as we could of it at the time, but it was not like the fighting which the old men remembered. And only a few prizes here and there. One was brought in, I remember, by the Argus, at sight of which we all turned out to cheer. The Captain sorrowfully said that in the good old days when he entered the Navy, about the year 1805, he might have been in command of a dozen such l^rizes every year. So BY CELIA 'S A RBOUK. CHAPTER XI. THE WAK, AND AFTER. That summer of 1854 was a long and dreaiy time. We were waYiLg for something to be done, and nothing was done. Good Heayens ! Were our generals stupid or incajiable, or were they dreaming away the time ? Who does not remember the cholera at Vama, after the long and unnecessary delay, the sickness of the troops before a blow had been struck, and at last the embarkation for the Crimea ? So great and terrible was the spectre of Russian greatness, that eyen the three great Powers of France, Turkey, and England hesitated before attacking this monstrous Frankenstein in his den. They went at last, greatly daring, and their reward was — Alma. And then followed the splendid months of barren victory — Inkermann, the soldier's battle, the foolish braggadocio of the Light Cavalr}' charge, followed by the cruel winter and the un* merited sufferings of the troops, for which a dozen commissariat officers ought to have been shot. About this time I saw my compatriots, the Russians, for the first time. Some prisoners were brought to us ; they wore flat caps and long coats ; they had good-natured faces, not at all foolish ; they had wide noses, like Tartars, and they made them- selves quite happy and comfortable with us, caiwing all soris of toys, and showing a power of laughter and humour quite incom- patible with the devilry which we had been accustomed to attach to the Muscovite character. They were only devils, I suppose, by the order of the Czar, and in the ranks. Outside the ranks as peaceable, docile, and quiet a set of fellows as ever wanted to gi'ew an honest crop in peace. But how we received the news in those days ! With cheers, ^ith illuminations, with feastings, with receptions of captains, generals, and admii'als. Still the exodus of our juvenhis went on. The juvenes were younger, smaller, and more rustic in appearance. They all, however, had the same gallant bearing, these brave countiy lads, fi-esh fi'om the plough and the stable, redolent of Mother Eaiih. A few weeks before, and they were leaning against posts in the village street, feeding pigs, driving calves, striding with a sideward lui'ch after cows, sitting almost mute on a bench in the village alehouse. Now they were well set up, drilled, in- spired vdih. warlike ardour, filled ^rith new ideas of duty, responsi- bility, and a career; ready to do — and to die. Let us confess that t]"io readiness to die is always qualified by that belief which every THE WAR, AND AFTER. 8l Bolilier has, that he, if no one else, "\Aill be the one por?'m to escape. If it were not for that saving clause, I fear that even in the times of gi^eatest danger to the country serA^ce in the ra.nks would not he popular. Men did not volunteer for those chamiing fights in the arena before Nero, when all had to die on the ground. Quite the contrary ; thoy disliked that kind of fight, and I have often thought how gi'eatly the vivacity and ardour of the combat vinuld have been increased if the combatants had been told before- hand that one — say the bravest — would have his life spared, w /th a pension of a shilling a day ever afterwards. Yos morUun salutant might have been said by those fi-esh-cheeked young Eng- lish lads on their way to club muskets at jTikermann, and to fall in the storming of the Redan. And after a while they began to send the wounded home. To receive them, a hospital was built in one of the meadows under the Rampai-ts, and a portion of the wall was railed oft' for the convalescents to walk upon. This made our own end at the Queen's Bastion still more quiet and secluded. In 1856, the sick and wounded were brought home by every ship that anived from the East, and week by week, sometimes daily, might be seen filing up the long and narrow street, a lo*:g and dismal procession. It consisted of sailors carrying stretchers, four to eveiy stretcher. There was no band now, nor would be any more for most of the poor men upon the stretchers, till the muffled dnims and the fifes went before the coffin and played the " Dead March." The to^masfolk who had turned out to wave their handkerchiefs when the soldiers left came out now to gi-eet them back. But what a greeting ! and what a return ! Some, sitting half upright, waved feeble hands in response to those who lined the way and cheered their return. Then- faces were pale and worn with suflfeiing ; sometimes a sheet covered the lower limbs, which were mutilated and crushed ; some, a little stronger than their comrades, sat up, laughed, and nodded. Some, worn out by the rolling of the ship, the pain of their woimds, and the long suffer- ings of the campaign, lay back with closed eyes, patient, and sad to see, and made no sign. And here and there one was borne along ghastly, the pallor of death upon his cheeks, life done foi him ; not even vitality enough left to think about the future world ; hig eyes half open, with a fixed glare which observed nothing. This, with the row of tombs in the Crimea and at Scutari, was the end of all that pride and pomp of war. What was it Tennysoo said : Ine lon^, long canker of Peace is over and done.' o 82 BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. We were to vrake to nobler aims, leave the sordid and base, give up cheating and strike home, were it but with the cheating yard- measure. Well. The war came, ran its course, and ended. TMiat nobler f nds followed ? How much was abolished of the old cheating, the sordid aims, and the general baseness of a world at peace ? How much less wicked and selfish were we, when all the fighting was finished, and the soldiers come back to us ? And after all, we return to Celia's question, *' T\Tiat had they done to each other, the Eussians and the English, that they should stand face to face and fight ?" " Take me away, Laddy," Celia said one day, after seeing one of the gloomy processions of the wounded partly file past. *' Take me away. I cannot bear to see any more. Oh ! the poor soldiers — the poor soldiers . "^Aliat punishment can be gq-eat enough for the men who have brought all this, misery upon the eaiih ?" "Uliat, indeed? But Nicolas was dead. General Feviier killed him. Perhaps, after all, he was not the guiltiest. But he gave the word. It is to be hoped, for their* own sakes, that autocrats do not know what war means, else sui-elythe word never would be, given even to save the throne, and every nation would manage its own afiairs in quietness. And yet England had to fight. It seems most true that the war could not be avoided. All that blood, all that sufiering, the moans of so many thousands of wounded, the tears of so many thousands of women and chikken, the awakening of so many evil passions, the letting loose of so many devils, must fall upon the head o'f Russia. First to excite revolt among the Christian subjects of the Tm'k : then to make difficulties for the Turks in putting down the miserable victims of the Piussian plot ; then to call on Europe to mark how Turkey treated her subjects ; then to proclaim herself the protector of Chi'istians ; this was Russia's game in 1828, in 1853, and lastly, in 1876. And the gloiy of the poor soldiers ? They died for their country, and have such glory as belongs to one of a nameless fifty thousand fallen on the field. The fight was just and the victoiw righteous. We pay the penalty now of not having carried the war to its legitimate end, \Ye should have restored Poland, di-iven Russia back to the Cau- casus and the Caspian, given Finland again to Sweden, and taken away her southern ports. All this we could have done ; it was possible to England and France twenty years ago. Will the chance ever come again '? Through the whole of the war there was no man in the to-srn 7HE iVAR, AND AFTER, ^Z ^ho took a keener interest in it, who was ottener in the streets, sYho hung more ahout the harbour, or talked more with soldiers and sailors, than Herr Piaumer. The war, in any case, did good to our own people at the Dock- yard to^n. There had never been such times since the good old long war, when a man who had a shop near the Hard had but to open it and stand all day taking the sailors' money as fast as they poured it out over the counter. Every ship that came home brought her sailors to be paid off, the money to be all spent in the toT\-n ; eveiy ship that sailed for the East carried away stores for the soldiers, chiefly bought in the to^^•n. Those who were in the way of all this money-making, made fortunes out of it, and retii'ed to subui'ban villas, with gardens, for the rest of their lives. I do not think that the gi-een coffee berries, the putrid preseiwed meat, the mouldy compressed hay, or the biscuits that walked about ani- mated by a multitudinous hive of lively creatures, were supplied by any of oui' people, ^ye were too patriotic ; we had fiiends on board the ships if not in the regiments — could we send them out rotten piovisions or brown paper boots ? Then there was the revehy. Out of all the millions spent in the Crimean War, think ho^ many went in the diink- shops and the dancing kens. The fiddle of old Wassielewski, I know was in constant request ; often and often I heard the well-known sound — I knew his style, which was distinct from that of any other of the sailors' musicians — from behind the red curtains of a sailors' public-house, behind which Jack and Jill were dancing, drinking, and singing. The China War, by the way, was long since played out, and the picture had given way to another, in which Russians were pla}ing an igno- minious but dramatic pari. A side picture represented French sailors and soldiers, very tight of waist, mustachioed, and black of hair, fraternising merrily with our own men — Ysith drink, hand- shaking, and song, they were celebrating the entente cordiale. Listen ! It is the sailors' hornpipe, within is one who, grave of face and agile of foot, treads that mazy measure alone, while around are grouped the crowd of S3'mpathetic rivals, who drink, applaud, and presently emulate. The dancer is facing old Was- sielewski, who sits with outstretched left leg, his deep-set eyes fixed on the opposite wall, his thoughts far away in the di'ead- ful past or the revengeful future, while the fingers, obedient to his will, play the tune that he orders but does not listen to. It is, I know — because I do not look in, but feel all this — a low room, and it is redolent of a thousand compound smells, ancient, fish- like, capable of knocking a stranger down and stunning him with 84 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. a single blow. The windows have never been open for twenty oa khii-ty years ; ol coui'se, once in a way, a pane was broken ; and there were occasions when some young maiiner, ashore after three years' cmise, was fain, out of the plethora of his joy, to find relief in smashing them all. But the smell of that room was venerable by age and respectable by association, though more a^vful than it is pennitted to me to describe. Jack and Jill did not mind it ; they liked it. There was nmi in. it, plenty of beer, a veiy large quantity of tobacco, onions, beef steaks, mutton-chops, boiled pork and cabbage, pea-soup, more tobacco, more nim, more beer. That smell, my friends, is gone ; the public-house is gone, Jill is clmost gone. Jack is an earnest Methodist by religion, and he spends his time ashore at the Sailors' Home. And there then was the Dockyard, with all its extra hands, and the work going on day and night, so that the solemn silence of the darkness was unknown. Victory Row must have lost one of its chief charms. For the whole twenty-four hours there was the incessant tap-tap of the caulkers, the heav}' thud of the steam- hammer, the melodious banging of the rivets, followed by counties* echoes fi'om the many- cornered yard, and the r — r — r — r of the machineiy. No rest at all, except on Sunday. That emergency must be great indeed when the British Goveniment would ask its workmen to give up their Sabbath rest. As for the sailors, there seemed no diminution in their numbers, or in the number of the ships which crowded the harbour, and were perpetually coming and going with their thunder of salutes. Jack only had two stages : he was either just paid ofif, and there- fore ostentatiously happy with his fiiends around him, his fiddiers, and his public-house, or he was just embarking again on a newly- commissioned ship, going ofi" for another cmise with empty pockets, coppers terribly hot, and perhaps, if he was Jack in his youth, with his faint and dimly seen ghost of a possible repentance somewhere lurking about his brain, a spectral umbra pointing heavenward which faded as the shore receded, and vanished about six bells in the morning. For soldiers, we fell back upon the militia. We have never yet grasped the truth that England may have to defend what she has got ; that she is not only the admiration, but also the envy, of all other nations ; that Russia would like Constantinople and India ; Germany, Australia — good Heavens, think of the shame and ignominy of letting any un-English- speaking country have Aus» tralia ; the States, Canada ; France, Egypt and Syria ; Italy, Cyprus; Greece, Crete, and so on. When these facts have THE WAR, AND AFTER. 85 become convictions, when we fairly understand how great is our position in the world ; what a tremendous stake we have in it ; how much of unselfish humanity depends on the maintenance of English hegemony; then will England arm every man between fifteen and fifty, and make all fi:om twenty to thirty liable to foreign service. Patriotism sleeps, but it may be awakened. If it continues to sleep, farewell to England's greatness. A century of ignoble wealth, a generation or two of commerce diverted, trade ruined, industries forgotten, and the brave old country would become worse than Holland, because the English are more sensitive than the Dutch, and the memories of old glory combined wdth present degradation would madden the people and drive them to — the usual British remedy, drink. In 1855 we — I do not speak as a Pole — were rather better ofi" in the matter of regiments and recruits than we should be in 1877, were the occasion to arise. In all these years, we have learned nothing, taken to heart nothing, done nothing, prepared for nothing. We have no larger army, we have no better organisation we have no more intelligent system, we have not made our officers more responsible. Twenty years ago, we threw away twenty thousand men — with a light heart sent out twenty thousand men to die because we had no system of control, transport, and commissariat. All these poor lads died of preventible disease. What have we done since to make that impossible again ? Nothing. Talk. At the very Autumn Manoeuvi-es, when we have weeks to prepare and a paltry ten thousand men to provide for, we break down. Continental nations see it, and laugh at us. What have we done to make our children learn that they must fight fro patrid, if occasion arise ? Nothing. Board schools teach the Kings of Israel ; the very atmosphere of the country teaches desire of success and the good things which success brings with it ; no school teaches, as the Germans teach, that every man is owed to his country: That may come : if it docs not come soon, farewell to England's greatness. Again : that the Empire was created and grew great, not by truckling to the pre- tensions of modem diplomatists, but by saying : " Thus far, and no farther." " Do this wrong or that, and you will have to fight England." That the most glorious country that the world has over Been, the finest, the richest, the most splendid, the most rehgious, the least priest-ridden and king-ridden, was made what it is by its children being willing and able to fight — all these things were not taught in 1855, and are not yet taught in 1877. Good heavens ! I am a Pole, and yet more than half an Englishman : and it makes 86 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. me sick and sorry to feel liow great is the parsimony of au Englishman ; how noble are his annals ; how profound a gap would be made in the world by the collapse of England ; and how little English people seem to understand their greatness. I have been waiting for twenty years to see the fruits of the Crimean War — and, behold, they are dust and ishes in the mouth, Revenons a nos moutons. Our garrison then consisted of a couple of militia regiments. They came to us, raw country lads, like the recruits whom we sent to the East ; but, being without the presence of the veterans to control and influence them, they took longer to improve. And yet it is wonderful to notice how an; English lad takes to his drill and tackles his gun from the very first, with an intelligence that is almost instinct. He is, k) be sure, almost too fond of fighting. There is no other country besides England, except France, where the recruits can be taught to march, to skirmish, and the rest of it, without the aid of Ser- geant Stick, so largely employed in the Russian, German and Austrian services. These young fellows come up to barracks, with their country lurch upon them, their good-natured country grin,, and their insatiable thirst for beer. They retained the last, but iri a very short time got rid of the first. One whole regiment volunteered for foreign seiwice — I forget what it was — and went to Corfu, the island which a late Prime Minister, more careful of a theoiy than of a country's prestige, tossed contemptuously te Greece, so that all the world sneered and even the gods wondered. "Well, these rustics of militiamen, I declare, after a few weeki^ were as well set up, pipe-clayed and drilled as any regiment of the line, and as trustworthy in case their services should be required. In one thing, one must needs confess, they were inferior to the regulars. It was not in peqDendicularity, which they easily acquired. We were still in the pipe-clay days, when the white belt and the cross shoulder-straps were daily stiffened by that abominable stuff ; the white trousers of summer had also to be kept in a whited sepulchre semblance of purity by the same means ; a man who is pipe-clayed cannot stoop ; the black leather collar kept the head at an unbending line with the body ; and the yellow tufts on the shoulder, with the swallow- tails of the absurd regimental coat and the tiny ball of red stuff on the regimental hat all combined to necessitate a carriage ten tiroes stiffer and more rigidly upright than in these degenerate days. The most lopsided and lurcher-like of rustics was bound to become perpendicular. But their failing was in the way they took their beer. The old regular got drunk as often as the militiaman, THE BRAMBLER FAMILY. 87 but tne drunker lie got the stiffer lie gre\y, so that when he ^^as quite helpless he fell like a lamp-post, with uncompromising legs. And we, who knew by experience how a soldier should fall, re- marked with sorrow rather than anger that the militiaman fell in a heap like a plonghboy, and so betrayed his customary pursuits. CHAPTER XII. THE bea:mbler family. This was an especially good time for Ferdinand Brambler, the journalist, and consequently for the children. Such years of fat- ness had never before been known to them. Not, it is true, that Fortune befriended Augustus. Quite the contrary. War might be made and peace signed without affecting his position in the slightest. Nothing ever happened to better his position. On one occasion even — I think it was in 1856 — he received an intimation from Mr. Tyrrell's head clerk, who had vainly trusted him with «ome real work, that his resignation would be accepted if he sent it in. Therefore, with enthusiasm ever equal to the occasion, he hastened to desert the Legal, and once more returned to the Scholastic, taking the post of wTiting and arithmetic master in a Select Commercial Academy. " After all," he said to me, " the Scholastic is my real vocation. I feel it most when I go back to it. To teach the rising genera- tion — what can be nobler ? I influence one mind, we will say. Through him I influence his six children; through them their thirty-six children ; through them again their two hundred and sixteen — there is no end to the influence of the schoolmaster. I shall be remembered, Mr. Pulaski, I shall be remembered by a grateful posterity. Perhaps he will be remembered, but his chances of exercis- ing permanent influence were scanty on this occasion, because, although he taught with extraordinary zeal and activity, the Prin- cipal actually complained, after three months, that his boys were learning nothing, and gave him notice in the friendliest and kindest manner. Some secret influence was probably brought to bear upon Mr. Tyrrell at this juncture, when the Brambler household threatened to lose the income derived from the labour of its chief, because Augustus went back to his old office and his old pay, sitting once more cheerfully among the boys, mending the pens with enthusiastic alacrity, serving writs mth zeal, copying out bills of cost with 88 B y CELIA 'S ARBGVR, ardour and acdvely inspecting old books in an eager starch fox notliing. '* I do think," he said in a burst of enthusiasm, " that there is nothing after all like the Legal. AVhen you have deserted it for a time, and go back to it, you feel it most. Law brings out the argumentative side — the intellectual side — of a man. It makes him criticaL Law keejDS his brain on the stretch. Often tii Saturday night I wonder how I have managed to worry thjfough the work of the week. But you see they could not get on -without me." Perhaps not, but yet if Augustus had kno^ii by whose fair pleading he was received back to become a pei-manent mcubus on the weekly expenses of that office Li the Scholastic, in the Clerical, or in the Legal, Augustus Brambler never changed, never lost heart, never failed in zeal, never ceased to take the same lively and personal interest in the well-being of the House. He had his punctual habits and his maxims. He was a model among employes. Fortune, when she gave Augustus a sanguine temperament and a lively imagination, thought she had done enough for the man, and handed liiTn over to the Thi-ee Sisters as sufficiently endowed to meet any fate. And they condemned him to the unceasing and contented exercise of illusion and imagination, so that he never saw things as they really were, or understood their proportion. But during the years of war the children, in spite of their help- less father, waxed fat and strong, and even little Forty-six looked satisfied and well-fed. It was through the exertions of their Uncle Ferdinand. I had long obseiwed that whenever anything was going on — and something in these days was constantly going on — Ferdinand, besides Herr Raumer, was always on the spot. "WTiatever the nature of the ceremony, whether it was the embarkation of a regi- ment or the arrival of the invalided, or a militaiy funeral, or an inspection of troops upon the Common, or a launch, Ferdinand was in attendance, and to the front, wearing a face of indescribable bnportance, and carrying a notebook. This in hand, he surveyed the crowd on arrival, and made a note ; cast a weather eye upwards to the sky, and made a note ; drew out his watch, and made a note ; then as soon as the Function began he continued steadily making notes until the end. I did not at first, being innocent of literaiy matters, connect these notes with certain descriptions of events whi/;h regularly appeared on the following Satui'day in the local MenMvy. They were ^litten ^ith fidelity and vigour ; they did justice to the subject; they were poetical in feeling and THE B RAMBLER FAMILY. 89 flower} in expression. A fine day was rendered as ** a bright and balmy atmosphere warmed by the beams of benevolent Sol ; " a crowded gathering gave an oppoi-tmiity for the admirer of boanty to congi'atulate his fellow-tow-nsmen on the comeliness and tasteftil di'ess of their daughters ; when a ship w^as launched she was made by a bold and strikingly original figure to float swan-J'ke on the bosom of the ocean ; when a public dinner was held, the tables groaned under the \dands provided by mine eminent host of the George ; the choicest wines sparkled in the goblet ; animation and enthusiasm reigned in eveiy heart ; and each successive flow of ora- tory was an occasion for a greater and more enthusiastic outburst of cheering. The wiiter was not critical, he was descriptive. That is the more popular fonn of journalism. Froissaii; was the inven- tor of the uncritical historian. And Ferdinand was bom either too early or too late. For all these beautiful and gushing columns, invaluable to Bome antiquary of the future, were due to the pen of Ferdinand Brambler, and it was by the frequency of the occasions on which hig powers were called for that the prosperity of the Bramblers depended. And Ferdinand, an excellent brothei, and the most eelf-denying creature in the world, worked cheerfully for his nephews and nieces. Beneath that solemn exterior, and behind those pretensions to genius, there beat the most simple and unselfish of hearts. Ferdinand did not report ; first because he could not wi'ite snorthand, and secondly, because he thought it — and said so — beneath the dignity of genius to become the "mere copying clerk of Yestry twaddle." He lived on his communiques^ for which, as he was the only man in the place who wrote them, and there- fore had the field all to himself, he received fairly good pay. During the Crimean War he had a never-ending succession of subjects for his pen, which was as facile as it was commonplace. It was the history of the regiment ; it was a note on the next roster ; it was the service roll of a ship ; it was the biography of a general ; nothing came amiss to the encyclopedic Ferdinand ; and wbaiover he treated, it must be owned, was treated with the same hackneyed similes, the same well-wom metaphors, and the same peasantries ; for, while Augustus looked on life through the rosy glasses of a sanguine imagination, Ferdmand regarded things from the standpoint of genius. He wrote for a provincial weekly paper ; nothing higher would take his papers ; he was not tne editor ; he was not even on the regular salaried staflf ; he was a mere outsider, sending in articles on such topics M go BY CELIA 'J ARBOL'R. occnrred to him ; but in his ot\ti imagination ht wrote for posterity. Like Augustas, he believed in himself. And just ag Augustus assumed in the family circle the air of one who unbends after hard intellectual labour, so Ferdinand when he emerged fi'om the ground-floor fi-ont, which was his study, and contained his libraiy, moved and spoke with the solemnity of on© v»i^b whom his genius was always present. From 1853 to 1857 the family flourished and grew fat. For after the Russian "War was finished, and the Treaty signed — to be broken as soon as the semi-barbaric Muscovite thought himself strong enough — there arose in the far East another cloud. I have often wondered whether the Indian Mutiny, like the late Bulgarian insurrections, was got up by Russian agents, and, il so, I have reflected -^ith joy upon the maddening disappointment to the Tartar that it did not happen just two years before. We had achieved peace, not a veiy glorious peace, because we ought to have driven Russia back to the Caucasus as a fi-ontiei before any peace was thought of, but still peace, and with the memoiy of those three years upon us, the sufferings of our troops, the unpreparedness of England, the rascality of con- tractors, and the inefficiency of our officers, we were glad to sit doA^-n and rest. How have we profited by the lesson o) twenty yeare ago? \Yhat security have we that on the next occasion, when oui' men are ordered out again, the same things •uill not happen again — the green coffee, the putrid preserved meat, the shoddy coats, the brown-paper boots, the very powder adulterated ? Peace ! Well we had fought two or three gallant battles, been jealous of our gallant allies, killed an immense number^ say, altogether, -^ith those who died on the march, and those who died of disease, and those who died in the field, about half a million of Russians, fifty thousand Englishmen, double the number of French, and the same number of Turks ; we had put a sudden end to Tennyson's "long canker of peace," and made it war— first for righteous reasons, and then for the lust of blood and battle, the red- sheeted spectre which rises when the trumpet sounds and fires the blood of peaceful men. As for the morality at home, as I asked in the last chapter, were we the better ? Then came the Indian Mutiny. For a while it seemed as if the very foundations of the Indian Empire were shaken. ^ And at no time were the hearts of Englishmen more stirred in the whole of England's history than by the tales of massacre and THE B RAMBLER FAMILY. 91 ETirder "wliicli came tj eveiy ship fi'om the East. ITie troops? which had enjoyed a brief year of rest were hastily re-embarVed : the flags which bore the names of Alma, InkeiTaama, an(3' Balaclava were carried out again to get the names of Luckno-^ and Delhi ; bnt the men who marched out in '54 with the sturdy look of men who mean to fight because they must, went out now ^vith the face of those who go to take revenge because they can. It was a war of revenge. And, whatever the provocation, it was a full and even a cruel measui'e of revenge that the British soldiers took. We were growing sick of "history," Cis and I. We waited and watched while the red coats went and came ;. wanted to go on "without excitement with our music and our reading, and we longed for peace. " The Lord," said the Captain, " gives us peace, hnsi the Devil gives us war. Until the natm-e of men is changed, there ^^ill be peace and war in alternate slices like a sandT\ich. Id good times the sand^nch is meaty. Meanwhile, let us keep up the Fleet." We came to the spring of 1858. Mr. Tyrrell was Mayor for the second time. It was the year when Leonard should return — five years on June the twenty- first. Celia looked at me sometimes, and I at her. But we said nothing, because we understood what was meant. And one day I sui^nised the Captain in Leonard's room. He was opening di'awers, arranging chairs, and tiying window blinds. "All ship-shape, Laddy, and in good order. Don't let the boy think the vessel has got out of trim after all these years." The Mutiny was over, the punishment had been inflicted, and our toT\Ti was now comparatively quiet. No more hunied pre- parations of annaments and despatch of ships. Things became flat ; the people who had not already made fortunes out of the war saw with sorrow that their opportunity was past; the extra hands at the Dockyard were discharged ; and the town became quiet again. It was bad for all who had to earn their bread- even I felt the change in a falling- off of pupils — and it was especially bad for poor Ferdinand Brambler. I met him one day walking solemnly away fi'om the Yard, notel/.ok in hand. I stopped to shake hands with hun, an(3 noticed that his clothes were shabby, his boots worn at the heel, his hat ancient, and his general get-up indicating either the neglect of outward appearance peculiar ia genius, or a period of financial depression. "WTiile I accosted him, his brother Augustus passed by. He, too, was in like pitiable guise. And 92 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. he looked pinched in the cheeks, alheit smiling and cheerful as ever. " What will it run to, Ferdinand ? " he asked anxiously. *' I should say,'' said Ferdinand with hesitation, " unless 1 am disappointed, mind, which I may he, I should say it vill he a pound of tea, the gi-eengrocer's hill, and something to Forty seven's new shoes." " The wife did say," replied Augustus, *'that the childi-en's breakings out are for want of meat. But if we can't have meat we can't. A-ttfally busy at the office, Ferdinand. Money pouring in. Nothing like the Legal." Poor Ferdinand, who by long stmggling with the family wolf had got to look on evei'}i;hing he wrote as rr^presenting pajTuent in kind, was right in being proud of his profession, because he had nothing else to be proud of. It was not in quiet times a lucrative one, and I should think, taking one year with another, that thir poor genius, who really loved literature for its own sake, and with better education and better chances might have made something of a name, received fi'om his profession about as much as his brother in the Legal, and that was sixty pounds a year. I repeated this conversation to the Captain at dinner. He be- came silent, and after our simple meal proposed that we should go for a walk. By the merest chance we passed the Bramblers' house. " Dear me," said the Captain, " the very people we were speak- ing of. Suppose we pay our respects to Mrs. Brambler." The poor mother was up to her eyes in work, her endless chil- dren rotmd her. But the Httle Bramblers did not look happy. They wore a pinched and staiwed look, and there was no disguising the fact that they were breaking out. Foi-ty-eight scowled at us with rebellious looks ; Forty-six was wolfish in hungry gaze, and even the mild-eyed Forty-four looked sad. Mrs. Brambler read the pity in the Captain's eyes, and sat down, bursting into tears, and throwing her apron over her face. The elder giiis stole to the T\indow and sobbed behind the curtain — the younger children sat do^n eveiy one upon what came handiest, and all cried together. They were a very emotional femily. " So — so," said the Captain, '* we were passing — Laddy and I — and we thought we would drop in — thought — we — would — drop — in. Come here, Foi-ty-six Does this boy, do you think, Mrs. Brambler, have enough nourishment ? " *' ATigrjstus does all he can, Captain, and so does Ferdinand, I'm THE B RAMBLER FAMILY. 93 Bure. But there was the rent, and we behind with everybody — and — and — sometimes it's 'most too much for me." '• We dropped in," repeated the mendacious Captain, "to invite the children to tea and supper to-night " " Hooray ! " cried Forty- six, dancing about, and the faces of all lighted up with a sunshine like their father's. " Its only your kindness, Captain. You don't really want them." " Not want them ? Where is Foi-ty-four ? Come and kiss me, my dear. Where is your colour gone ? Not want them ? Non- sense. Nothing but shrimps and periwinkles, and watercress, per- haps, for tea; but for supper — ah! — eh! Laddy, what can we lo in the way of supper ? What's in the larder ? " " A leg of mutton, a beefsteak, and a pair of chickens," I replied. *' I think that is all." The larder was in fact empty, but this was not a time to parade the vacuum. ' ' You see, Mrs. Brambler ; much more, very much more, than we can possibly eat. Friends in the country. And we did think that the steak for supper " " Ah ! " cried Forty-six, irrepressibly. "With the leg of mutton for yourself, and the pair of chickens " Mrs. Brambler laughed through her tears. "There — go along, Captain," she said. "We know. — But if it wouldn't trouble you, the children shall go and welcome." " Very lucky, Laddy," said the Captain in the street, "that the larder is so full. Let us call at the butcher's as we go home." I ventured to mention to Her Raumer the distressed condition of the family with whom he lodged. " I know it," he said, helping himself to a glass of hock. " I have seen for some time that the children were not properly fed. It is a pity. A good many children about the world are in the sam© plight." " Help them," I said sententiously, "when yon can." He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. " I am past sixty. I have seen so much distress in the world that I have long since resolved to help nobody. The weakest goes to the wall in this best of all possible worlds. If it is not the best it is not my fault, because I did not make it. Every man for him- eelf, as you will say at sixty if you are honest. This is a comfort- 94 ^y CELIA 'S ARBOUR, able chair, this is good Hock, this is excellent tobacco. Wby should I trouble myself because people are stamng in the room fcelow us any more than because they are staiTing in China, which is a good many miles off ? Pity and charity are- excellent things in the abstract. Applied to individuals actually before j'ou, they are disquieting. Allans, cJier Ladislas, soyons yliilosoylissy He T\^as a man of infinite pity in the abstract, wept c ver any amount of woe served up in the yellow paper covers of a French novel, but in the presence of actual suffering he was callous. " Every man for himself." Since I have grown older I havb learned to distrust many a philanthropist whose sympathies gi'ow deeper the farther they reach from home. " And now," he went on, changing the position of his legs, *' let as be cheerful, and talk of Celia. Pretty, delicate, little Celia. Tall and gracieuse Celia. Choice and delicious Ceha. She is a credit to you, Ladislas Pulaski. Her husband will thank you. I drink her health. Ah ! The English guis, . . After all, we must gi-ant these islanders some superiority. They are stupid, ignorant, and prejudiced. They call Continental diplomacy bad names, and are going to ruin themselves because they will not have secret service money. But their girls — their girls are charm- ing. And the most charming of them all is Celia." . CHAPTER Xin. A FLOWER OF LOVE. It was very early in that year, or at the end of 1857, that I made a discovery about myself. Regarded fi'om the point of view which the climbing of so many follo-^ing years have enabled me to reach, the discoveiy seems a thing which might have been expected — quite natural, and belonging to daily experience. At the time, I remember, it was most suqnising. I suppose no one would believe that a young man could come to the age of one-and-twenty, and remain so little of a man, as I did. But I was deformed. I was morbidly sensitive of ridicule. I w^as ex- tremely poor. I had some pride of birth ; I could not possibly associate with the professional men, the drawing, dancing, and music masters of the town, who might have formed my set. Their thoughts were not mine ; their ways were not my ways. Not that I claimed any superiority. Quite the contrary. Men who could ride, hunt, shoot, play billiards, and do all the other things which belong to skill of hand a^id eye, seemed, and still seem to me, yastly A FLOWER OF LOVE. 95 BUperior to a being wlio can do nothing except inceqDret the thcnghta of the great masters. In a countiy town, unless you belong to tha young men of the place, and take part in the things •^hich interest ihem,youfall back upon suchresources asyouhave in yourself. There was nothing for me but my piano and my books for the evening, and Celia in the afternoon. It was pai-tly on account of my defoi-mity that we were so much together. ^\^en Leonard went away I had hardly an acquaintance of my o"\Mi age in the town — certainly not a friend ; and I was at the age when the imagination is strongest, and the need for close companionship is felt the most. In adolescence the heart opens out spontaneously to all who are T^ithin its reach. The fiiends of youth are close and confidential fiiends ; there is no distmst, no re- seiwe. I think it is rare for such a friendship as that between Celia and myself to exist between two persons who are not of the same sex, neither brother and sister, nor lovers. Yet it existed up to a certain time, and then, without a break on her part, but after a struggle on mine, it was resumed, and has been since continued. There was no shadow of restraint between us, but only a perfect and beautifal confidence, when Celia was a giii and I was a boy. Like me, but for different reasons, she lived apart from other girls ; she had no schoolgirl friendships ; she never went to school, and had no masters, except myself. I taught her all I knew, s'hich was not much, in a desultoiy and methodless fashion, and ihe girl poured out to my ear alone — it was a harvest sixty and a hundi'edfold — the thoughts that sprang up as clear and bright as a spring of Lebanon in her pure young heart. The thoughts of youth aro sacred things ; mostly because young people lack power of expre&sion, they are imperfectly conveyed in the words of the poets, who belong especially to the young. Great utterances by the men of old sink deep into the hearts of those who are yet on the thi'eshold of life. They fertilise the soil, and cause it to blos- som in a thousand sweet flowers. • There is nothing to me, a teacher, and always among the young, more beautiful than the enthusiasms and illusions of youth, their contempt of compromise, their impatience of diplomatic evasions, their fancied impartiaHty, and their eager partisanship. And I am sometimes of opinion that the govei-nment of the world— its laws — its justice — itg preaching — its decisions on war and peace — its expenditure — should all be under the control of youth. Before five- and- tv\'enty all but the hardest men are open to higher influences and nobler aims. The lower levels are reached, step by step, through long yaars of stniggle for luxury and cosltinu. Let the world be rule4 96 By CELIA 'S ARBOUR. by the adolescent, and let the wisdom of the scnes^ who have to probably become cynical, disappointed, or selfish, be used for ad« ministration alone. Above all, no man should be Autocrat, King, President, or Prime Minister after his five-and-twentieth year. Aa yet, however, I have made no converts to my opinions, and I feac I shall not live to see this admirable refonn. I have had many pupils, and won some fi'iendship among them, but Celia was my fii'st and best. No one was ever like her in my eyes, so zealous for righteousness, so pitiful for \\Tong-doers, so Bweet in thought. Perhaps we loved her so much — the Captain and I — that we saw in her more virtues than she possessed. It is the w^ay of those who love. WTiat would this world be worth mthout that power of illusion which clothes oui' dear ones, while yet in life, with the white robes of Heaven ? " Has she wings somewhere, do you think, Laddy ?" said the Captain one evening. Tui-ning over the pages of the Bible, he .ighted on a chapter which, he announced to me, bore upon the subject, and he would read it. " Celia's price," he read, com- menting as he w^ent along, " is far above rubies. That is perfertly true. The heart of her husband — she shall have a good one — shall safely trust in her. If he can't trust in her, he won't be fit to be her husband. She shall rejoice — there is prophecy for us- Laddy — in time to come. Many daughters — liaten to this — have done viiiuously, but Celia excels them all. The woman that feareth the Lord she shall be praised. Now, if that does not bear upon the girl, what does ? " It was not possible that our boy-and-girl confidences should re- main permanently unchanged, but the change was gradual. I noticed, first of all, that Celia's talk grew less personal and more general. As I followed her lead, we ceased in a measui'e to refer everything that we read or played to our own thoughts. So that we grew more reserved to each other. An invisible banier was rising between us, that we knew nothing of. It was caused by the passage of the girl into womanhood, imperceptible as the rising of the tide, which you do not notice until you compare your landmarks, and see how the water has gained. It w^as the transformation of the child, open as the day, candid and unreserved, into the woman — the tnie emblem of her is this figure of the Veiled Nymph — who hides, nourishes, and guards her secrets, gathering them up in the rich gamer of her heart till she can show them all to her husband, and then keep them for her son. A woman -wdthout the mystical veil Lb no woman, but a creature andi'ogynous, amorphous, loathsome. So that Celia would never be again — I see it so well now — what A FLO WER OF LOVE, 97 she had been to me. Her face was the same as it had been, set grave at one moment with its fine delicate lines and ethereal look, and at the next bright and laughing like a mountain streair., but always sweet with the same kindness when she looked at me. Only it seemed at times as if I were groping about in the dark for the Boul of Celia, and that I found it not. " Cis," I said, one afternoon — we were in our old place, &nd she was leaning against the gun looking thoughtfully across the harbour. The tide was out, and instead of the broad lagoon was Ri boundless stretch of green and black mud, intersected by a stream of sea water, up and down which boats could make their way at all tides. *' Cis, do you know that we are changed to each other ? " Almost as I said it, I perceived that if Celia was changed to me, I was no less changed towards her. *' What is it, Laddy ? " she asked, turning gently and resting her eyes on mine. They were so soft and clear that I could hardly bear to look into them — a little troubled, too, with wonder, fts if she could not understand what I meant. *' What is it, Laddy ? How are we changed ? " " I don't know. I think, Cis, it is because — because you are growing a woman." She sat doTMi beside me on the gi'ass. She was so much taller than I that it was nothing for her to lay her hand upon my shoulder. We often walked so. Sometimes I took her ai-m. But now the gesture humiliated me. I felt angry and hurt. Was I then of such small account that she should change in thought, and yet retain the old familiar fashion, as if it mattered nothing what she said or did to me ? It was a shameful and an unworthy feeling. " Because I am gi-o-mi a woman ? " she repeated quietly. ** Yes. I beheve I am a woman now.*' She was, indeed, a stately; lovely woman, with the tall and graceful figure of Helen, and the pm-e face of Antigone, elastic in her tread, free in the movements of her shapely limbs, brave in the carriage of her head, fall of strength, youth, and activity. Hei faoe was long and oval ; but her hps, which is not usual in oval faces, were as fall and as mobile as the leaf upon the tree. Her features were etraight and delicate. All about her was delicate alike, fi-om the tiny coral ears to the dainty fingers and little feet, which, like mice, went in and out. A maiden formed for love, altogether and wholly lovable ; sweet as the new-mown hay, inex- haustible in loveliness — like the Shulamite, fair as the moon, clear 9S By CELT A 'S ARBOUR, as the snn, lovely as Tirzah, a spring of living ^alers, but as yd a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. And as [ looked up at he? my heart sank down T\ithin me. " But why should that make a difference between us, Laddy ? " I put her hand from my shoulder roughly, and spring to my feet, because suddenly my heart overflowed, and words came bub- bling to my lips which had to be repressed. I walked to the para- pet, and looked across the arbour, battling with myself for a few moments. Then I turned. The 'rirl wa« lookincr at me uith wonder. " T^Tiy should that make any difference, Laildy ? " she repeated. I was master of myself by this time, and could answer v/ith a smile and lightly. " Because you have put away the thoughts of a child, Celia. You no longer think or speak as you used to. Not any sudden change, Cis. Do not think that I complain. I was thinking of what we were a couple of years ago, and what we are now. 5^ou cannot help it. You show your womanhood in your new aimour of reserve. Yeiy bright and beautifal annour it is." " I meant no rcseiwe, dear Laddy. We always talked together since we were children, have we not ? and told each other eveiy- thing." " Not lately, Cis ; have we ? " She hesitated, and blushed a little. Then she evaded my question. ** "Why, who could be more to me than you, Laddy ? My com- panion, my tutor, my brother. What have I to hide from you ? Nothing, Laddy, nothing." *' Not that you know of, Cis. But there is a change. I think that we do not talk so freely of our thoughts as we did. Do we?" She pondered for a moment. " I thought we did, Laddy. At least I have not thought anything about it. There is no change indeed, dear Laddy. What if I am gi'own up, as you say, into a woman ? " *' AAHiat, indeed, stately Cis ? Only girls are so — they wi'ap themselves up in their own thoughts and become enigmas." She laughed now. " T\Tiat do you know about girls, pray ? We have so fe\» thoughts worthy the name that we can hardly be said to wrap our- selves in them. And whv should girls be enigmas any more thJSJi your own sei, sir." A FLOWER OF LOVE. 99 " I don't know. Perhaps because we want to find out more than they care to tell us about themselves." "Perhaps because men always think and talk of women as a class. Why can't they give us individuality ? You see, Laddy, we are different from men chiefly because we have m> ambition for GUI-selves. I suppose it is in our nature— so far we are a *las£ — that we desu'e peace and obscurity for ourselves, and greatness cnly for those men we care about. I have no hopes for my- self in the future, Laddy. But I want to see Leonard famous, and you a great composer of beautiful music, and the dear old Captain happy in your success, and my father to grow in honour and reputation. That is all my prayer for myself and my friends. And I like to think of good men and women working all over the world to make us all better and happier. Perhaps it may come in my way some day to do something quietly for the love of God." " You do something quietly akeady, Cis," I said, " because yon live as you do live." "Ah, Laddy, I have so many people who love me. Life is vei-y easy when one is surrounded by the affection of so many. Suppose one had been bom in the comis, where the voicos ai'e rough and men swear. Look at that troop of miserable men." She pointed to a gang of com-icts passing through Liberty Gate. " What have been their temptations ? How could they have lived the Christian life ? " " Their standard is lower than yours, Cis. Do you re- member the statue of Chi'ist, which was alvvays higher than the tallest man? The higher one's thoughts carry one, the more wonderful, the more unattainable, seems the Christ-like life. But om- talk has led us into strange paths, Cis. All this because I said you were gi'own a woman." " No, sir, you called me names. You said I was an enigma. See now, Laddy, I must never be an enigma to you. I promise this. If ever you think that I am hiding any thought fi'om you, ask me what it is, and I will confess it unless it is an unworthy thought, and then I should jbe ashamed. " You could not have unworthy thoughts, Cis." She shook her head. ** Foolish and frivolous thoughts. Vain and selfish thoughtg," she said. "Never mind them now. Let us only continue as we always Lave been — my brother, my kind and sweet-^ced brother." IOC £y CELIA S ARBOUR, Mine, indeed ; but that she did not know. She toolr my hands in hers, laid her sweet fair cheek to mine, and kiBS^d me on the lips and forehead. I think I feel her kisses still. I did not dare — I could not — return them. For when that ruby-red rose-blossom of her lips met mine I trembled in all my limbs. Think. I was small, mean of appearance, and deformed, but I was past twenty-one years of age. I was a man. And I lo^ed the girl "yith an unbrotherly love, and with a passion which might even have belonged to a man whose back was straight. If I trembled when she touched me, just as I rejoiced when I saw her, or heard the rustle of her dress, the kisses which she gave me strack my heart with a coldness as of death. Of course I knew it all along, but there is always a reserve power of illusion in youth, and I may have deceived myself. But now it came home to me with clearness as of ciystal that Celia could never, never, by any chance, care for me — in that way. I realized this in a moment, and pulled myself together with an effort, returning the gentle pressui'e of her soft warm hand just as if my heart was as calm as her own. Then I answered in com- monplace and at random. '* Thank you, Cis. Some day, perhaps, I shall take you at yom' word, and make you confess all sorts of hidden things. Tutor and pupil is all very well, so is elder brother and younger sifter. But you are six inches taller than I already." I have always thought that this simple speech was just the wisest I ever made in my life, because I was so very near sapng what I should have repented ever after. Had I &aid what was in my heart, and almost on my lips, I might have destroyed the sweet fiiendship which existed then, as it still exists, pui'e and strong as the current of a great river. I thank God solemnly that I refi'ained my lips. " AATioso," says the wise man, " keepeth his tongue keepeth his soul fi'om trouble." I loved her, that is most true ; in those days when I was yet struggling with the im- pulses of a passionate love, there were moments when the blood ran tingling and coursing through the veins, and when to beat down the words running riot in my brain, was almost beyond my sli'ength. We were so much together, and she was so uncon- scious. She could not understand how her voice fell upon my Boul like the rain upon a thirsty soil. Even when we were apart there was no moment when Celia was not present in my thoughts. All the morning the music of my pupils, even the very scales, san;^, "Celia, Celia, Celia," in accEuts which vaiied with mt ON THE SEA-SHORE. aoi moods, now wild and passionate, now soft and pleading, now hopefd, and now despairing. There was one time — I do not know how long it lasted — a week or a dozen weeks — when I was fain to pretend ilkiess because the misery of crashing this hopeless love was too great for me, and I craved for solitude. CHAPTER XIV. ON THE SEA- SHORE. In those days the new suburb, which is now a large town, had hardly yet begun ; there was no sea-wall along the beach outside the harbour, and half a mile beyond the rampart you might reach a place perfectly lonely and deserted. There was a common, a strip of waste land where the troops diilled and exercised, and beyond the common an old castle, a square and rather ugly pile built by Henry YIH., when he set up the fortresses of Sando^Mi, AValmer, and Deal. It was suiTounded by a star fort, and stood on the vei7 edge of the sea, with a sloping face of stone which ran down to the edge of the water at low tide, and into the waves at high, protecting the moat which surrounded the town. As a boy I regarded this fortress ^ith reverence. There had been a siege there at the time of the Civil War. It was held for the King, but the governor, after a little fighting with his RouncUiead besiegers, surrendered the castle, and then the town itself capitu- lated. One pictiu'ed the townsmen on the wall, looking out to see the fortunes of the battle, the men for Church and King side by side with their sour- faced brethren who were for God and country, the discomfiture of the former when the Eoyal Standard was hauled down, and the joy of the Puritans when their party marched in at the town gates. Of course in my young imagination I sup- posed that the town walls were just the same then as now, with their bastions, curtains, ravelins, and glacis. It was a lonely place in those days, fit for a dreamy boy, or a moody man. Beyond the castle the beach stretched far, far away under a low cliff of red earth, curving round in a graceful Hue ; behind the beach was a narrow strip of ground covered ^vith patches of furze, whose yellow and sickly sweet blossoms seemed to flourish inde- pendently of all seasons ; on its scanty edge grew sea poppies ; and hore, amid the marshy ground which lay about, we used to hunt tis boys for vipers, adders, and the little ewet, the alligator of Great Britain, who is as long as a finger and as venomous as si I02 BY CELIA S ARBOUR. lamb. Sometimes, too, we would find gipsy encampments planted among tlie furze, with their gaudily-painted carts, their biact tents — every real Rommany has a black tent like the modem Bedawi or the ancient dweller in the tents of Kedar. While we lo',ked at the bright-eyed children and the maiwellous old women crouching over the fire of sticks and the great black pot, there would come out of the tents one or two girls with olive skins and almond eyes — not the almond eyes of S\Tia, but bolder, darker, and brighter. They would come smiling in Leonard's face, asking him to cross his hand with silver. "When he said he had no silver they would tell his fortune for nothing, reading the lines of his palm with a glibness which showed their knowledge of the art. But it was al- ways a beautiful fortune, ^nth love, fighting, T\ife, and childi'en in it. Behind this acre or two of furze stood, all by itself, a mill, and there was a storj^ about this mill because its centre pillar, on which the vanes revolved, had once been part of the mainmast of a French fiigate taken in action. And higher up the beach again— because this was a place full of historic associations — stood two old earthwork forts at inteiwals of half a mile. The ramparts were green -uith tui'f, the grass all blown inland, and lying on the days of summer in long swathes upon the slopes, beaten down by the sea breeze ; the moats were dry, and these, too, were gro\Mi over with grass ; there was an open place at the back where once had been a gate and a di-awbridge ; there was a stonework well in the open part of the enclosure, only some inclined to the belief that it was only a sham well and masked, prcetexto suh nomine^ a subterranean passage to the cas1;le ; the fi-onts of those forts were all destroj-ed and dragged down by the advancing tide. No ruined city in Central America, no temple of the Upper Nile, no tell of Kouyounjik could be more desolate, more lonely, more full of imaginative associations than these forts standing upon the un- peopled beach in a solitude broken only by the footstep of tho Coastguard. Before Leonard went away, and when we were boys together, this place was to us as the uttennost part of the world, a retreat accessible on a holiday morning, where one could sit ander the clifi" or on the gi'assy slopes of the fort ; where I, at least, could dream away the hom-s. Before us the waves ran along the shingle with a munniu'ous sh — sh — sh, or, if the day was rough, rolled up their hollow threatening crests like the upper teeth of a hungry monster's jaw, and then dashed in rage upon the etoass, dragging them down ^\-ith a crash and a roar which rolled unceasingly along the beach. In the summer months it was Leonard's delight at such times to strip and plunge to ST^im ovex ON THE SEA-SHORE. EOJ (!iTi.! through the gi-eat waves, riding to meet them, battling and WTestling till he gi-ew tired, and came out red all over, and glow- ing with the exercise. After a storm the hoach was stre^^ii with odds and ends ; there were dead cuttlefish — Victor Hugo'si^/e^^iit-fl — their long and ugly aiTQs powerless for mischief on the shingle; their backbone was good for rubbing out ink, and W8 had stores enough to rub out all the ink of the Alexandiian Libraiy. TheKi^ were ro2:)e3 of sea- weed thicker than the stoutest cable ; if yonm:"* twisted the coils you found in them strange creatures dead and alive — the sea-mouse, with its iridescent tufts of hair ; little crabs with soft shells killed by the rolling of the pebbles ; shells JE- habited by scaly intruders, cuckoos among crabs, which poked out • hard, spiky legs, and were ready to do battle for their stolen house ; starfish, ugly and poisonous, sea-nettlos, and all kinds ot sea-beetles. And lying outside the weed were bits of things fi'om ships ; candles, always plenty of tallow canAles ; broken biscuits, which like so many of Robinson Crusoe's stoies were spoiled by the sea- water ; empty bottles, bits of wood, and once we came upon a dead man rolling up and down. Leonard rushed into the water, and we pulled him up between two waves. He was dressed in sailor's clothing, and wore great sea-boots, his face was bmised by the stones, and his black hair was cut shoi-t. Also he wore a moustache, so that he could not possibly be an English sailor. "Wlien we had got him beyond the reach of the- waves, we ran to tell the Coastguard, who was on the clifi' half a mile away, tele- scope in hand. First he swore at us personally and individually for troubling him at all ^\ith the matter. Then, because Leonard "up and spake " in answer, he changed the object of his svrearing, and began to swear at large, addressing the much-enduring ocean, which made no reply, but went on with its business of rolling along the beach. Then he swore at himself for being a Coast- guardsman. This took altogether some quarter of an hour of good hard swearing, the excellent Solitaiw finding greater fi-ee- dom as he went on. And he would have continued swearing, I beheve, for many weeks if necessar}% only that a thought struck h/jn suddenly, like unto a fist going home in the ^nnd, and he pulled up and gasped : "Did you, did you," ho asked, "look in that dead man's jpockets '? " We said " No." Then he became thoughtful, and swore quite to himself between 4he teeth, as if ho was firing volleys of oaths do^^^l his own throat. I04 BV CELIA 'S ARBO UR, ** Now, lads, ' he said at last, " wliat you've got to do is tMs. You've got to go straight away to the parish," which I suppose he took for a police office, " and tell the parish to come here and look after that man. I am not stationed here to look after dead men. I'm for live smugglers, I am. You tell the parish that. Not but what it's proper for you to tell the Coastguard everything that goes on along the coast. And next time you fish up a drownded man you come straight to me first. No manner o' use to look in their pockets, because they've never got nothing in 'em, Them nasty fishes, you see, they gets into the pockets and pulls out the pui'ses." His belief in the emptiness of drowned men's pockets did not prevent him fi-om testing its correctness. At least we looked back, and obseiTed him searching diligently. But I suppose he was right, because the ".parish" certainly found nothing in the pockets. It was to this place that I came, as to a wilderness, to struggle with myself. Here I was fi'ee to think, to brood, and to bring railing accusations against Providence because I could not many Celia. Sitting on the lonely beach I could find a gloomy satisfac- tion in piling up my giievauces against high Heaven. Who was I that I should be singled out for special and signal misfortune ^ Had I been as other men, tall, straight, and comely, Celia might have loved me. Had I come to her gallant and strong, rich and noble, one bom in high station, the son of a brave and successful father, I might have had a chance. Day after day I wandered here brooding over my own wrongs, with bitter and accusing soul. The voice of the sea echoed the sorrow of my heart ; the long roll from left to right of the ebbing or th« rising wave was the setting of a song whose words were all of despair ; the dancing of the sunlit waves brought no joy ; my heart was dead to the blue sky, flecked with the white wing of sea- gull, and dotted along the distant horizon with the far-ofi" sails ol passing ships. It pleased me to lie there, with my chin upon my hand, thinking of what ought to have been. Dui'ing this time I was ■ft'ith Celia as little as possible, and at home not at all. Both she and the Captain, I remember now, were considerate, and left me alone, to woriy through ^ith the trouble, whatever it was. It was not all hopeless ; it was partly that for the first time in my life I thoroughly understood what I was, what my prospects were, and what I might have been. I said at the beginning that it takes a long time for a hunchback entirely to realise what his ON THE SEA-SHORE. 105 affliction means ; how it cuts him off from other men's pursuits ; and how it isolates him from his youth upwards. I saw before me, as plainly as I see it now, a solitary life ; I thought that the mediocrity of my abilities would never allow me to become a com- poser of eminence, or anything better than the organist of a church and the teacher of music in a countiy town ; I sho-iJd always be poor ; I should never have the love of woman ; I should always be a kind of seiwant ; I should live in obscurity and die in oblivion. Most of us live some such lives ; at least they can be reduced, in hard terms, to some such colouiiess, dreary wastes of weary years ; but we forget the compensa- tions. My dream was true of myself; I have actually lived the life of a mediocre musician ; I have few friends, and yet I have been perfectly happy. I did not marry Celia ; that I may premise at once ; and yet I have been happy without her. For I retained her love, the pure and calm affection of a sister, which is with me still, making much of me, petting and spoiling me almost while I write, as it did twenty years ago. Surely there was never any woman before so good as Celia. The vision of my life was prophetic; it looked intolerable, and it has been more than pleasant. Say to yom-self, you have thu-ty years to live ; you will rise every morning to drudgeiy ; you will live poorly, and will make no money ; you Tvill have no social consideration ; you will make few friends ; you will fail to achieve any reputation in your profession ; you will be a lonely man — is that a prospect to charm any one ? Add to this that your life will be contented, that you will not dislike your work, that you will not live for your- self alone, that your days will be cheered by the steady sunshine of affection ; and the prospect changes. Everything in the world is of magic. To some this old town of ours has seemed dirty, crowded, mean ; to me it is picturesque, full of human interest, rich in association. To some my routine would be maddening ; to me it is graceful and pleasant. To some — to most — a career which has no prizes has no joys. To me it is full of joys. We are what we think ourselves ; we see ever}i:hing through the haze of imagination ; why — I am told that there is no such thing as colour in nature, but that it is an effect of light — so long as the effect is produced I do not care ; let me only thank tho Creator for this bunch of sweet peas in a glass before me, with their soft and dehcate tints more beautiful than ever human pencil drew. We see what we think we see ; people are what we think they are ; events are what they seem to us ; the man who least enjoys the world is the man who has the faculty of stripping ico BY CELIACS ARBOUR. tilings of their •* effects ; " who takes the colour from the flower, or the disinterestedness from love, That is common sense, and I would rather be without it. One evening — it was after dusk and rather cold — I was still sit- ting in the enjoyment of a profound misery, when I became aware of a Voice addi-essing me. The Voice was inside my head, and there was no sound, but I heard it plainly. I do not pretend that there was anything supernatural about the fact, nor do I pretend to understand how it happened. It sprang fi'om the moody and half-distracted condition of my mind : it was the return of the overstretched spring : it was the echo of my accustomed thoughts, for the last fortnight pent up and confined in narrow cells to make room for the unaccustomed thoughts. This is exactly what the Voice said to me : '' You were a poor Polish boy, living in exile, and Heaven sent you the Captain to educate you, give you the means of lining, and make you a Christian gentlemen, when you might have gro^n up among the companions of profligate sailors. You are an orphan, with neither mother, brother, nor sister. You have no relations to care for you at all. Heaven sent you Leonard to be your brother, and Celia to be your sister. From youi' earliest infancy you have been TM'apped in the love of these two. Y"ou are deformed, it is true ; you cannot do the things that come men delight in. Heaven has sent you the gi'eat gift of Music : it is another sense by which you are lifted above the ordinary run of men. Eveiy horn- in the day it is youi' pri^dlege as a musician to soar above the eaiih, and lose youi'self in di\dne hannonies. You have all this — and you complain. " Ungrateful ! With these favom's you sit here cning because you cannot have one thing more. You would have Celia love you, and many you. Are you worthy of such a giii ? " Eouse yourself. Go back to your work. Show a brave and cheerful face to the good old man your benefactor. Let Celia cease to wonder whether she has pained you, and to search her iieart for words she has never spoken ; work for her and "with her again ; let her never know that you have hungered after the im- j-ossible even to sickness. " And one more thing. Eemember Leonard's pai'ting words. Are jou blind or are you stupid ? With what face could you meet him when he comes home, and say, ' Leonard, you left me to take care of Celia ; you trusted to my keeping the secret of your own love. I havo betrayed your confidence, and stolen away her heart,* ThijOiofthai" ON THE SEASHORE. ic> The Voice ceased, and I arose aud ^-alked liome changed. The Captain looked up as I entered the room, in a ^Yistflll, sad way. " Forgive me, sir," I said. "I have been won-ying myself — never mind what about, but it is over now, and I am sony to have given you trouble." " You have fought it down then, Laddy ? " he asked, polling off his spectacles. I stai-ted. Did he, then, read my soul ? "Was my secietkno-^lJ to all the world ? Only to him, I think. *' "\Vhen I was a young fellow," he went on, walking up and do^ Ji the room with his hands behind him, " I fell in love — with a young lady. I beheved that young lady to be an angel, and I daresay Bhe"^ was. But I found that she couldn't be my angel, so I went to sea, which was a very good way of getting tlu'ough that trouble. I had a spell on the West Coast— caught yellow fever — chased the slavers — forgot it." I laughed. *' Do you recommend me to go out slave-chasing, sir?" *^ You might do worse, boy. She is a beautiful creature, Laddy, she is a pearl among maidens. I have always loved her. I have watched her "^"ith you, Laddy, and all the love is on your side. I have seen the passion grow in you ; you have been restless and fidgety. I remembered my own case, and I waited. No, my boy, it can't be : I wish it could ; she does not look on you in that light." After supper he spoke allegorically. *' I've known men — good men, too — grumble at theu' posts in an action. AATiat does it matter, Laddy, when the enemy has struck, where any one man has to do his duty ? The thing is tc do it." This parable had its personal appHcation, like most of the Cap- tain's admonitions. '* You have been unlike yourself, Laddy, lately," said Celia. " Yes, Cis, I have been ill, I think." " Not fretting, Laddy, over things." I shook my head. " It seems hard, poor boy, sometimes, does it not ? But your life will not be wasted, though you spend it all in teaching music " She thought I had been brooding over my deformity and povorty. Well, so I had, in a sense. Io8 BY CELIAS ARBOUR. Enough of my fit. The passion disappeared at length, the love remained. Side by side \^ith such a girl as Ceha, one must hsre been lower than human not to love her. Such a love is an education. I know little of gi'own women, because I spend my time among girls, and have had no opportunity of studying woman's nature, except that of Celia. But I can understand what is meant when I read that the love of woman may raise a man to Heaven or di'ag him down to Hell. Out of this eai^thly love which we share in common with the lowest, there spring for all of us, we know, flowers of rare and wondi'ous beauty. And those who profit most by these blossoms Bometimes express their natui'e to the world in music and in versa. CHAPTER XV, LA -^TE DE PROVINCE. The twenty-fourth of May was not only the Queen's birihday, and therefore kept a holiday in the port, with infinite official I'ejoicings and expenditure of powder, but also Celia's as well. On that account it was set apart for one of the Tprclls' four annual dinner-parties, and was treated as a Church festival or fast day. This was the period of eai'ly Chi'istianity, when any ecclesiastical days, whether of solTO^^■flll or joyful commemoration, were marked by a better dinner than usual, and the presence of wine. On Ash Wednesday and Good Friday we had salt fish, followed, at the T}Trells', by a sumptuous repast, gi'aced by the presence of a few guests, and illustrated, so to speak, by a generous flow of port, of which every respectable Briton then kept a cellar, carefully labelled and laid doTNii years before. The novus homo in a provincial town might parade his plate, his dinner seiwice, his champagne — then reckoned a veiy ostentatious wine. He might afi'ect singulai'ity by preferring claret to port, and he might even invite his guests to diink of strange and unknown wines, such as Sauteme, Bucellas, Lisbon, or even Hock. But one thing he could not do : he could not boast of his old cellar, because every- body would know that he had bought it. Mr. Tprell was con- scious of this, and being himself a noims homo, he evaded the difficulty by referring his wine to the cellar of iMr. Pontifex, the husband of Mrs. TpTell's aunt. Now Mr. Pontifex was a man oi good county family, and his port, laid do^Mi by his father before him, was not to be gainsaid by the most severe critic. Criticism, in cur town, neglecting Literatm-e and the Fine Aiis, confined LA VIE DE PROVINCE. 109 itself to port, in tiie first instance, municipal affairs in the second, and politics in the third. As the two latter subjects ran in well- known grooYes, it is obvious that the only scophen a Goose was placed upon the board " "I wish, Mrs. Tyrrell," interrupted Mr. Broughton — and indeed we had all heard the goose stoiy before — "I wish I could persuade my landlady to give the same thoughtfulness to things as your cook. It is so difficult to make some women understand the vital importance of dinner. I can order the raw materials, but I cannot, unfoiiunately, cook them." Mrs. Pontifex, I saw, sat opposite her husband, who took his dinner under her superintendence. I sat next to that divine, and felt pity for him as a warning or prohibition came across the table, and he had to shake his head in sorrowfal refusal. In his rich, mellow voice, Mr. Broughton, on receiving his fish, remarked ; " The third time this year, and only the 24th of May, that I have partaken of salmon. The Lord is veiy good " " No, John Pontifex," said that clergyman's wife loudly, " ntt salmon for you." Ei8 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. ** My dear," he ventiu'ed to expostulate feebly, because he wa6 particularly fond of salmon. " Ladislas Pulaski, who is young, may make himself ill with Balmon and cucumber if he likes," said Aunt Jane, " but not you^ John Pontifex. Remember the- last time." He sighed, and I took the portion intended for him. " The Lord is very good," resumed Mr. Brorghton, *' to nearhj all His creatui'es," as if Pontifex was an exception. Dr. Eoy began to talk of salmon-fishing in the Saguenay River, and we were all interested except poor Mr. Pontifex, whose face was set in so deep a gloom that I thought he would have rebelled. He picked up a little when an entree of pigeons was allowed to stop at his elbow. But the undisguised enjojTuent 'with which he di'ank his first glass of champagne brought his wife, who was at that moment talking of a new and veiy powerfLil ti'act, dowr upor- him in a moment. " No more champagne, John Pontifex," she ordered promptly, *' Another glass for me," cried Mr. Broughton, nodding his head. *' A glass of A^ine with you, Mrs. Pontifex. I am a bachelor, yo^ know, and can do as I like." It was not manners to refase, and Aunt Jane raised her glass to her lips icily, while Mr. Broughton drained his \\ith an audible smack. In 1858 we had akeady in provincial toT\Tis passed out of the custom of taking wine with each other, but it was still ob- served by elderly people who liked the fiiendly fashion of theis youth. I thought this assertion of independence rather cruel to ISIr. Pontifex, but it was not for me, belonging, wdth Ceha, to the class of "young people," to say an}i;hing at a party unless previously spoken to or questioned. Then Aunt Jane began a talk with HeiT Raumer, chiefly about the sins of people. As you came to know this German well, you discovered that, whenever he did talk about people, he had something bad to say of them ; also when he spoke of any action, h-^wever insignificant, it was to find an unworthy motive for it. Perhaps, however, I am now in that fourth and bad etage mentioned above. Mr. TyiTell was silent dming the dinner, perhaps because he had to caiTO industriously and dexterously ; he drank wine fi'eely ; but he said nothing. Celia noticed her father's taciturnity, and I Baw her watching him with anxiety. No one else obseiwed it, ani when the fij'st stiffness of ceremony wore ofl", there began the genial flow of conversation which ought to rejoice the heart cf & A DINNER-PARTY, 119 hostess, be^iause it shows that eveiyone is feeding in contei^t. Mr. Tyrrell, a florid, high-coloured man, who usually talked fast and rather noisily, was looking pale ; the neiTes of his clv3ek twitchedj and his hand trembled. When the cloth was removed — I am not certttin that the old fashion of wine and dessert on the polished dark mahogany was not better than the present — we all drank Celia's health. " In bumpers," cried Mr. Broughton, filling up Mrs. Tyrrell'3 glass and his own to the brim with port. " In bumpers all. And I wish I was a young man again to toast Celia Tyrrell as she should be toasted. Don't you. Brother Pontifex ? Here is to 3'our heaux yeux, my dear. Some day I will preach a sermon on thank- fulness for beauty." " God bless you, Celia, my child," said her father, with a little emotion in his voice. " Many happy returns of the day, and every one better than the last." "The best thing," continued Mr. Broughton, "for young girls is a young husband — eh, Mrs. Tyrrell? What do you think ? " " Vanity," said Aunt Jane. " Let them wait and look round them. I was thirty-five when I married my fii'st." " When I was at Oxford," Mr. Pontifex began, glancing anxiously at his wife — " "When I was at Brazenose, Oxford (where I was known, I am ashamed to say, as — as — as Co-rin- thian Pon-ti-fex, on account of the extraordinary levity, even in that, assemblage of reckless youths, of my disposition), there were some among us commonly designated as — as — as Three — Bottle — Men ! ! ! " He said this with an air of astonishment, as if it was difficult to credit, and a thing which ought, if printed, to be followed by several notes of admiration. " Tlu'ee — Bottle — Men ! The rule among us was — I regret to say — No — ahem — no Heeltaps." "John Pontifex!" interposed his wife severely. " Eecolleofc yourself. ' No Heeltaps,' indeed ! " " My dear, I was about to conclude this sad Reminiscence by remarking that it was a Traly Shocking State of Things." He spoke in capitals, so to speak, and with impressive slowness. " When young people are present," said Aunt Jane, " it is well to consid'^r the religious tendency of anecdotes before they are related." Mr. Pontifex said no more. ** I will tell you, by-and-bye, Pontifex," said the jolly old par?t»a, I20 £Y CELIA 'S ARBOUR. whoso face was a good deal redder tlian at tlie commencement ol dinner, " I "^ill tell you, when the ladies have left us, some of our experiences in Common Pioom. Don't be afi-aid, Mrs. Pontiles, we shall not emulate the deeds of those giants." " In mij house," said Aunt Jane to her niece reproachfully, * it is one of our Chi'istian privileges not to sit over wine after dinner ; t^e all rise together." " From a lady's point of view," ohserved Herr Kaumer, " doubt- less an adniii'able practice." " Not at all admii'able," cried the Captain, who had been quiet during dinner. " ^^Tiy shouldn't we have half-an-hour to ourselves to talk politics and tell yams, while the ladies talk di^ess ? " "In my house," said Aunt Jane, "the ladies do not talk di-ess. We exchange our experiences. It is a Chiistian privilege." Dr. Pioy uttered a hollow gi'oan, doubtless fi'om sympathy with Mr. Pontifex. Just then ]Mi's. TyiTell sat bolt upiight, which was her signal, and the ladies left us. "Aha!" cried Mr. Broughton, "confess Brother Pontifex, that you do not appreciate all the Chiistian piivileges of your house." He shook his head solemnly, but he did not smile. " Thi'ee bottle men, were you ? " said Dr. Roy. " Gad, sir, I remember at old Tiinity, in Dublin, some of us were six bottle men. Not I, though. Natm-e intended me for a one pint man." " It is only the German student," said Herr Piaumer, " who can hold an indefinite quantity." " I sincerely hope," said ]Mr. Pontifex, as he finished his glass, " that things have greatly changed since that time. I remember that the door was generally locked ; the key was fi'equently throwa out of the window, and the — the — Orgy commenced. As I said before, the word was ' No Heeltaps.' It is awful to reflect upon. Thank you. Dr. Poy, I -oill take another glass of Poi*t. There were times, too, when, in the wantonness of youth, we per- mitted om'selves the most reckless language over our feasts. On one occasion I did so, myself. The most reckless language. I positively swore. My thoughtless companions, I regi-et to say, only laughed. They actually laughed. The cause of this — this Iniquity arose over a Goose. It is a tmly Dreadful Event to look back upon." A DINNER-PARTY. 121 ** We used at Oriel," said Mr. Brougliton, again interrupting the Groose story without Qomp unction, "to diink about a bottle and B balf a head ; and we used to talk about Scholarship, Literature, and Aii;. And some of the men talked well. I wish I could drink a bottle and a half every night now ; and I wish I had the Common Room to di'ink it in. It is a Beautiful Time for me to look back upon." It was as if he tried in evei^thing to be a contrast to his brother in Orders. " The rising generation," said Dr. Roy, " who work harder, ride less, smoke more tobacco, and live faster, will have to give up Port and take Claret. After all, it was the favourite Irish \^ine for a couple of hundi-ed years." " Ugh ! " fi'om Mr. Broughton. " The longer the Englishman drinks Port," said Herr Raumer, ** Poii; and Beer, the longer he will continue to be — ^^what he is." As this was said veiy smoothly and sweetly, with the rasp peculiar to the voice, gi^'ing an unpleasant point at the end, I concluded at once that the German meant more than was im- mediately apparent. " Thaiik you, Herr Raumer," said Mr. Broughton sharply; " I hope we shall continue to remain what we are. The apprecia- tion of your countrjinen is always generous. As for Port, I look on that mne as the most perfect of all Heaven's gifts to us poor creatui'es. This is very fine, Tprell. From Pontifex's cellar? Brother Pontifex, you don't ask me to dinner half often enough, Foi-ty-seven ? I thought so. Agreeable," — he held the glass up to the candles : we had wax candles for the dining-room — " with httle body, but quite enough. Rather diy," he tasted it again. " How superb it will be in twenty years, when some of us shall not be alive to di'ink it ! The taste for Port comes to us by Nature — it is not acquired Hke that for Claret and Rhine wines- — pass me the olives, Roy, my dear fellow. It is bora with some of us, and is a sacred gift. It brightens youth, adorns manhood, and comforts age. May those of us who are blessed by Provi- dence with a palate use it aright, and may we never drink a worse glass of wine than the present. I remember," he went on senti- mentally wagging his head, which was by this time nearly pui'ple all over, " I remember the very first glass of Port I ever tasted. My grandfather, the Bishop of Sheffield, gave it to me when I was three years old. ' Learn to like it, boy,' said his lordship, who had the most cultivated palate in the diocese. I did like ft B22 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. firom that liour, tliongh, unless my memory fails me, the Bishop'p butler had brought up too fruity a wine." The more Port Mr. Broughton consumed the more pui^lo the jolly fat face and bald head became. But no quantity affected hia tongue or clouded his brain, so that when we joined the ladie? he was Cis perfectly sober, although coloured like his fa^ouiite wiaef as Mrs. Pontifex herself, who was making tea. Mrs. Tyrrell was asleep when we came upstairs, but roused herself to talk with Dr. Koy, who had certainly taken more than tn:5 pint for which, as he said, Natui*e intended his caj"iicity, Oeha was placing, and I joined her, and we played a duet. "When we finished I went to ask for a cup of tea. By the table was standing Mr. Pontifex, a cup in his hand and a look of almost ghastly discomposure on his face, while his \s\iQ was forcing an immense slice of muffin upon his imwiUing hands. " Muffin, John Pontifex," she said. *' My dear," he remonstrated with more finnness than one might have expected ; " My dear, I — I do not wish for any muffin — ahem." *' It is helped, John Pontifex," said his mfe, and leaving the unhappy man to eat it, she turned to me, thanked me sweetly for the duet, and gave me a cup of tea. Mr. Pontifex retreated behind his wife's chair. As no one was looking I stole a plate from the table, and Tvith gi-eat swiftness transferred the muffin fr'om his plate to mine. He looked bound- less gratitude, but was afr-aid to speak, and after a due inteiTai returned the empty plate to the table, even descending so far in deception as to brush a-way imaginary crumbs fr-om his coat. His wife looked suspiciously at him, but the muffin was gone, and it was impossible to identify that particular piece vA'On one left in another plate. In the course of the evening he seized the oppor- tunity of being near me, and stooped to whisper sorrowfully : " I do not like muffin, Johnny. I loathe muffin." The party broke up at eleven, and by a quarter past we were all gone. As I put my hat on in the hall I heard the voice oi Herr Baumer in Mr. Tyrrell's office. *' This is the day, T}Trell. After she was eighteen, remem- ber." •' Have pity on me, Biiumer ; I cannot do it. Give me another year." " Pity ? Eubbish. Not another week. I am i ot going i3 kill the girl. Is the man mad ? Is he a fool ? " AN OLD PROMISE, 123 I hajtened away, unwilling to oYerhear things not intended foi E2e, but the words struck a chill to my heart. Who was "she?" Could it be Celia? "After she was eighteen" — and this Celia's eighteenth birthday. It was dis- quieting, and LIr. Tyrrell asking that white-haked man with tho perpetual sneer and the rasp in his voice for pity. Little as I knew of the world, it was clear to me that there would be nmall chance of pity in that quarter. Herr Raumer and CeHa \ Why he was sixty years of age, and more ; older than Mic Tyrrell, who was a good deal under fifty. "WTiat could he want with a girl of nineteen ? It was with a sad heart that I got home that night, and I was sorely tempted to take counsel of the Captain. But I forebore. I would wait and see. I met Mr. Pontifex next morning. He was going '^\-ith a basket to execute a few small commissions at the greengrocer's. He acted, indeed, as footman or errand boy, saving the house large sums in wages. He stopped and shook hands without speaking, as if the memoiy of the muffin was too much for him. Then he looked as if he had a thing to say which ought to be said, but which he was afi'aid to say. Finally, he glanced huiTiedly up and do^n the street to see if there was any one within earshot. As there was no one, he laid two fingers on my shoulder, and said in agitated tones, and with more than his usual impressiveness : " I am pai-ticularly partial to salmon, which is, I suppose, the reason why I was allowed none last night. "When I married, however, I totally — ahem — sun-endered— I regret to say — my independence. Oh ; Johnny, Johnny ! " CHAPTER XYII. AN OLD PEOmSE. After a disquiet and uneasy night, haunted with CassanirSrlike visions of coming trouble, I arose, anxious and neiTOUs. -'Am I going to kill the girl? Wait till she was eighteen?" What could these words mean except one thing? To connect CeHa, even in thought, with this smooth and cjTiical old Gennan was worse than any union of May and December. Innocence and trust : belief in high aims and pure motives on the one hand — on the other that perfect knowledge of evil which casteth out faith. A maiden whose chief charm, next to her beauty, to the adept oi sixty, was her strange and unwonted ignorance of the world and its ^ckedness. And yet — and yet — we were in this nineteeutla B.14 ^y CELT A 'S ARBOUR. century, and we were in England, where men do not give away or sell their daughters, unless in novels : how could it be possible that a man of the world, a successful man, like Mr. Tprell, 'hould contemplate, even for a moment, the sacrideA of his only child od such an altar ? As our misfortunes always fall together, I received, the next morning, on my way home from giving my last lesson, a second blow, fi-om an equally unexpected quarter. This time it was fi'om Wassielewski. The old man, who had been dejected and resigned since the failui'e of his schemes in 1854, was walking along upright, swinging his anus, with an elated aii\ "VMien he saw me he threw up his long arms, and waved them like the sails of a mndmill. " It is coming," he cried. "It is coming once more. This time it will be no failm'e. And you shall take your part. Only wait a week, Ladislas Pulaski, and you shall know all. Silence, until you are admitted into om' plans." He shook my hand with a pressure which meant more than his words, and left me, with his head thrown back, his long white hair streaming in the wind, tossing his arms and gesticulating. I had almost forgotten that I was a Pole, and the reminder came upon me with a disagi'eeable shock. It was like being told of some responsibility you would willingly let sleep — some duty you would devolve upon others. And to take my part ? Strange transformation of a cripple and a music-master into a conspkator and a rebel. For a week nothing was said by Mr. Tyi-rell, and I was forget- ing my anxiety on that score when, one afternoon, I went as usual to see Celia. There were, as I have said, two entrances, that of the front door, which was also the office door, and that at the end of the garden, which was used by Celia and myself. This afternoon, by some accident of choice, I went to the fi'ont door. To the right was Mr. Tyi-rell's private office ; as I passed I saw that the door was open — that he was sitting at his table, his head upon his hand in a dejected position, and that beside him, his back to the empty fii-eplace, stood, tall, commanding, as if the Iplaced belonged to him, Herr Raumer. He saw me, and beckoned me to enter the office. "Here is Celia's private tutor, adviser, and most confidential friend," he said, in his mocking tones. "Here is Ladislas Pulaski. Why not confide the task to him ? Let hii<4 speak to Celia first, if you will not." What task? AN OLD PROMISE, 12$ Mr. Tyrrell raised his face, and looked at me. I tliink I have never seen a more sorrowful face than his at that moment — mor^ Borrowfal or more humiliated. I had always known him bold, confident, self-reHant, of a proud and independent tearing. All that was gone, and in a single night. He looked crushed. Now, it was as if another sphit possessed the well-known features, for they were transfoiTaed. "What had this man done to him — what power over him did he possess that could work this great and Borrowful transfoimation ? HeiT Raumer had taken off his blue spectacles, and his sharp keen eyes were glittering like steel. If the man was cynical, he was also resolute. Years of self-indulgence had not softened the determination -uith which he carried out a pm-pose. " Ladislas Pulaski," he went on, seeing that Mr. T}Trell did not speak, "knows Celia better than 3'ou, even — her father — or than myself, her fature husband." "Your what!" I cried, as he announced the thing in a calm judicial way, like the voice of Fate. "Her fature husband," he repeated. "The words are intelli- gible, are they not ? Celia will become my wife. Why do you look fi'om Mr. TyiTell to me in that extraordinary manner ? Is there, then, something monstrous in the fact ?" "Yes," I replied boldly. " Celia is eighteen, and you are sixty." "I am sixty-two," he said. "I shall Hve, I dare say, another eight or ten years. Ceha will make these ten years happy. She will then be at libei-ty to marry anybody else." "What you hear, Ladislas," said ]Mr. Tyrrell, speaking with an effort, and shading his eyes as if he did not venture to look me in the face; "what you hear fi-om Hen- Raumer is quite true. Ceha does not know yet — we were considering when you arrived how to tell her — does not know — yet. Our friend here insists upon her being told at once. The fact is, my dear Ladislas," he went on, tiying to speak at his ease, and as if it were quite an ordinary transaction, " some years since " "Ten years," said Herr Raumer. "Ten years since, our friend here did me a service of some importance." " Of 8ome importance only, my dear TpTell ?" "Of very gi-eat importance — of vital importance. Never mind of what natui'e." " That does not matter, at jpresent^' said Herr Raumer. " Pro- ceed, my father-in-law." **As an acknowledgment of that favour — a? I then believed — K26 B V CELIA 'S ARBOUR. yes, Eaumer, it is the truth, and you know it — as I then bf^UeYBd, in a sort of joke " *'I never joke," said the German. «* 1 promised that he should marry Celia." " That promise I have never since alluded to until last night,'* Herr Kaumer explained. " It was a verbal promise, but [ knew that it would be kept. There were no papers or agreements between us ; but they were unnecessary. As friends we gave a pledge to each other. ' My dear Tyn-el^' I said, ' you are much younger than I am ; almost young enough to be my son. You have a daughter. If I am still in this town when she is eighteen years of age, you must let me marry her, if I am then of the same mind.' My friend here laughed and acceded." ** But I did not think — I did not understand " ** That is beside the mark. It was a promise. Celia was a pretty child then, and has gi'own into a beautifal woman. I shall be proud of my wife. Because, TyiTell " — his brow contracted — *'I am quite ceiiain that the promise will be kept." "The promise did not, and could not, amount to more than an engagement to use my influence mth Celia." " Much more," said the other. *' Very much more. I find my- self, against my anticipations, still in this quiet town of yom^s. I find the girl gi'own up. I find myself getting old. I say to my- self — * That was a lucky service you rendered Mr. T}aTell.' And it was of a nature which would make the most gi-ateful man vdsh silence to be kept about it. And the promise was most providen- tial. Now will my declining years be rich in comfort." " Pro\ddeutial or not," said Celia's father, plucking up his courage ; *'if Celia will not accept you, the thing is ended." '* Not ended," said HeiT Raumer softly. " Just beginning." " Then God help us," burst out the poor man, with a groan. "Certainly," responded his persecutor. "By all means, for you will want all the help that is to be got. Mr. Pulaski, who is entirely ami de famille, is now in a position to understand the main facts. There are two contracting parties. One breaks his part of the contract — the other, not by way of revenge, but in pui'suance of a just poHcy, breaks his. The consequences fall on the first man's head. Now, Tyrrell, let us have no more foolish scruples. I will make a better husband for your girl than any young fellow. She shall have her own way ; she shall do what she Jikes, and dress — and — all the rest of it, just as fehe chooses. What on earth do women want more." I felt sick and dizzy. Poor Celia. AN OLD PROMISE. UJ Heir Raumer placed his hand upon the bell. *' I am going to send for her," he said. " If 3*0 a do not speaK lo her youi'self I will do so. As Ladislas Pulaski is here fo give us moral support " — the man could not speak without a sneer — ** it TviD he quite a conseil de famille, and we shall not have to trouhle Mrs. Tyrrell at all. You can tell her this evening, if ne- cessary." He rang. Augustus Bramhler, as the junior clerk, answered the hell. I noticed that his eyes looked from one to the other of us, as he took the message from the German, in a mild wonder. Augustus ran messages of all sorts \vith equal alacrity, provided they were connected "with the office. He would have hlacked hoots had he been told to do so, and considered it all part of the majesty of the law. When Celia came, Herr Raumer made her a very profound and polite bow, and placed a chair for her. She looked at her father, who sat still with his head on his hand, and then at me. " "What is it, papa ? What is it, Laddy ?" she asked. " Your father has a communication to make to you of the very gi'eatest importance," said Herr Raumer, softly and gently. " Of 60 gi'eat importance that it concerns the happiness of two lives." I hardly knew the man. He was soft, he was winning, he was even young, as he murmured these words with another Iww of greater profundity than would have become an Englishman. Then Mr. Tprell rose to the occasion. Any man, unless he is an abject coward, can rise to the occasion, if necessary, and act a part becomingly, if not nobly. You never hear of a man having to be carried to the gallows, for instance, though the short walk there must have a thousand pangs for every footfall. IMr. Tyrrell rose, and tried to smile through the black clouds of shame and humiliation. '' Ceiia, my dear child," he said, *' Herr Raumer to-day has asked my consent to his becoming, if you consent, my son-in-law." " Your son-in-law, papa ?" ** My son-in-law, Ceha," he replied firmly ; the plunge once made, the rest of the work appeared easier. " I am quite aware that there are many objections to be advanced at the outset. Herr Raumer, you will permit me, my friend, to allude once and for ail to " " To the disparity of age ? " No wooer of five-and-twenty could have heen more auily bland, as if the matter were not worth men- liocirg seriously. *' The disparity of age ? Certainly, I hav« 128 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. toe grtjat misfortune to be forty years older than Miss Tyrreli Let MM face the fact." " Quite so. Once stated, it is faced," said ]\Ir. Tyrrell, gain.Eg courage eveiy moment. " The objection is met by the fact that our friend is no weak old man to want a nui'se, but strong and vigorous, still in the prime of life." " The prime of life," echoed the suitor, smiling. *' He is, it may also be objected," said Mr. Tyn-ell, as if anxious to get at the worst aspect of the case at once ; " he is a foreigner — a German. What then ? If there is a nation with which we have a national sjTnpathy, it is the Gennan nation. And as regards other things, he has the honour of " '* Say of an Englishman, my Irlend. Say of an English lawyei and gentleman." IVIr. TyiTell winced for a moment. " He is honourable and upright, of an excellent disposition, gentle in his instincts, sjTupathetic and thoughtful for others " "My dear fiiend," the Herr interposed, "is not that too much? Miss TjTrell will not believe that one man can have all thop*' per- fections." " Celia Trill find out for herself," said her father, laughing. " Aiid now, my child, that you know so much, and that we have considered all possible objections, there remains something more to be said. It is ten years since this project was fii'st talked over between us." " Ten years !" cried Celia. " As a project only, because it was impossible to tell where we might be after so long a time. It was first spoken of between us after an afiair, a matter of business, with which I will only so far trouble you as to say that it laid me under the most lively obhgations to Herr Raumer. Remember, my dear, that the gratitude you owe to this gentleman is beyond all that any act of yours can repay. But we do not wish you to accept HeiT Raumer fi-om gi'atitude. I want you to feel that you have here a chance of happiness such as seldom falls to any girl." " In my countiy. Miss Tyrrell," said Herr Raumer gi'avely, "it is considered right for the suitor to seek first the approbation oi the parents. I am aware that in England the young lady is often addressed before the parents know anj-thing of — of — of the attach- irent. If I have behaved after the manner of my people, you will, 1 doubt not, forgive me." I ventured to look at Celia. She sat in the chair which Een Paumerhad given her at the foot of the table, upright and motion- AN OLD PROMISE, ^29 less. Her cheeks had a touch of angij red in them, and htr f j-hh sought her father's, as it tiying to read the truth in them. "You should know, dear Celia, " Mr. Tprell wrat on, " sict only from my friend's 'uish, but also mine, I — I — I think, that ^e can hardly expect an answer yet." '* Not yet," he murmured ; "Miss Tyrrell will gi ;e me another opportunity, alone, of pleading my o^n cause. It is enough to- day that she knows what her father's hopes are, Rnd what arrt mine. I would ask only to say a few wcvds, if Miss Tyrrell win allow me." He bowed again. •' Ten years ago, when this project— call it the fancy of a m.aii for a child as yet unfoimed — came into my brain, I began to watch your progi'ess and your education. I saw with pleasm-e that you were not sent to those schools where giiis' minds are easily imbued with worldly ideas." Good heavens ! was Herr Riiumer about to put on the garb of religion ? ' ' Later on I saw with greater pleasure that your chief companion and principal tutor was ]\Ir. Ladislaa Palaski, a gentleman whose birth alone should insphe with noble thoughts. Under his care I watched you. Miss Tjrrell, growing gradually fi-om infancy into womanhood. I saw that your natural genius was deyeloped ; that you were becoming a musician of high order, and that by the sweetness of your naturrJ disposition you ^vere possessing yourself of a manner which I, who have known courts, must be allowed to pronounce perfect. It is not too much to say that I have asked a gift which any man, of whatever exalted rank, would be proud to have ; that there is no position however lofty which Miss T3Trell would not grace ; and that I am deeply conscious of my o^n demerits. At the same time I yield to no one in the resolution to make that home happy which it is in Miss Tm'ell's power to give me. The slightest "wish shall be gratified ; the most trifling want shall be anticipated. If we may, for once, claim a little superiority over the English, it is in that power of divining beforehand, of guessing from a look or a gesture, the -Rishes of those we love, which belongs to us Germans." It was the first and the last time I had ever heard this myste- rious power spoken of. No doubt, as Herr Raumer claimed it for bis countr}TQen, they do possess it. Most GeiTuans I have ever eeen have struck me as being singularly cold persons, far behind the French in that subtle sj-mpathy which makes a man divino ia the manner spoken of by Herr Raumer. The speech was lengthy and wordy ; it was delivered in the softest voice, and with a certain impressiveness. Somehow- -bo K 1 30 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. far, at least, as I was concerned, it failed to produce a favourable eilect. There was not the true ring about it. Celia made a slight acknowledgment, and looked again at her father. Then Herr Raumer turned eflusively to me. " I have no words," he said, " to express the very great thanks ^hich I — which we — owe to you for the watchful and brothtrly cai'e which you have given to Miss Tyrrell. It is not in tha power of money " 'There has never been any question of money," said Mr. Tyrrell qnickly, " between Ladislas and us." *' I know. There are disinterested people in the world, after all," Herr Raumer said with a smile. " You are one of them, Mr. Pulaski. At the same time," he added aiiily, " you can- not escape our thanks. You will have to go through life laden ivith our gi'atitude." Cclia got up and gave me her hand. *' You do not want me to say anjihing now, papa," she said, " We will go. Come, Laddy." "We closed the door of the office behind us, and escaped into the garden, where the apple blossoms were in their pink and white beauty ; through the gate at the end, to our o^n resort and rest, by Celia's Ai'bour. We leaned against the rampart and looked out, over the broad sloping bank of bright green tm-f, set ^ith buttercups as with golden buttons, across the sunny expanse of the harbour. The grass of the bastion was strewn with the brown casings of the newly-bom leaves, the scabbards which had kept them fi'om the frost. We could not speak. Her hand held mine. Presently she whispered. '* Laddv, is it real ? Does papa mean it ? " *' Yes, Celia." " And yesterday I was so happy." Then we were silent again, for I had no word of comfort. "Laddy," she cried, with a start of hope, "what is to-day? The fii'st of June. Then in three weeks' time Leonard -^ill be ' ome again. I will give no answer for three weeks. Leonard will help us. All will be right for us when Leonard comes home." CHAPTER XVm. FROM THE OEGAN-LOFT. In three weeks. Leonard would be home in three weeks. Wa had been so long looking forward that, now the time was close ftt hand, the realisation of its approach came on us like a shock. FROM THE ORGAN-LOFT, 131 We stared at each other. " Thi'ce weeks, Cis ! How T\ill he come home ? " ** I do not know. He -^ill come home trimnphant. Laddy, a moment ago I was so wTetched — now I am so hopeful. He will come home and help us. We are like shipwTecked sailors in sighi of land." We did not doubt but that he would be another Perseus to the new Andromeda. A^Tiat he was to do, more than we could do ourselves, we did not know. But he would do something. And that comiction, in the three weeks which followed, was our only stay and hope. We could not take counsel with the Captain, and even Mrs. Tyrrell was not infonned of what had happened. She was to be told when Celia gave her answer. Meantime, Celia's lover made for the moment no sign of impati bitter for her, and even too bitter for me. Yet I knew, by the manner of the man, by the words of the German, that he was, in some way, for some conduct unkno\Mi, of which he was now ashamed, under this man's power. I could not tell Celia what I knew. How was she to tell me the dreadfal susxiicion that rose like a spectre in the night, unbidden, awful? We were only more silent, we sat together without speaking; sometimes I caught her 05^0 resting for a moment on her father with a pained wonde?, sometimes she would break off the music, and say with a sigh that she could play no more. One afternoon, thi-ee or four days after the first opening of the business, I found her in the library, a small room on the first floor dignified by that title, where Mr. Tyrrell kept the few books of general literature he o\raed, and Celia kept all hers. She had gathered on the table all the books which we were so fond 0/ reading together — chiefly the poets — and was taking them up one after the other, turning over then- pages with losing regretful looks* She greeted me with her sweet smile. " I am thinking, Laddy, what to do with these books if — if-^ I have to say what papa wants me to say." " Do ^ith them, Cis ? " ** Yes," she replied, *' it would be foolish to keep things whidl an not very ornamental and would no longer be useful." THE PONTIFEX COLLECTIOA\ S39 ** Oar poor poets are a good deal knocked about," I said, taking np the volumes in hope of diverting her thoughts ; *' I always told you that Keats wasn't made for Ijdng in the grass," and indeed that poor bard showed signs of many dews upon his scarlet cloth bound back. "He is best for reading on the grass, Laddy. Think of the many hours of joy we have had wdth H}-]^)erion under the elms. And now, I suppose, we shall never have any more. Life is vei^ short, for some of us." ** But — Cis — why no more hours of pleasure and pn^try I" ** I do not know when that man may desire an answer. And 1 know that if he claims it at once — to-morrow — next day — what answer I am to give. I watch my father, Laddy, and I read the answer in his face. T\'hatever happens, I must do what is best for him." " Put oflf the answer, Cis, till Leonard comes home." ** If we can," she sighed — " if we can. Promise me one thing, Laddy — promise me faithfully. If I have — if I must consent — never let Leonard know the reason : never let any one know ; let all the world think that I have acceptec'i — him — because I loved him. As if any woman could ever love him ! " Then he had not deceived her with his smooth and plausible manner. " I promise you so much at least," I said. *' No one shall know, poor Cis, the reason. It shall be a secret between us. But you have not said, ' Yes,' to him yet ? " " I may very soon have to say it, Laddy, I shall give you all this poetry. We have read it together so much that I should always think of you if I ever try and read it alone. And it would make me too wretched. I shall have nothing more to do with the noble thoughts and divine longings of these great men : they will all be dead in my bosom ; I shall try to forget that they ever existed. Herr Paiumer — my husband," she shuddered — "would not understand them. I shall learn to disbelieve ever^-thing : I shall find a base motive in every action. I shall cease to hope : I shall lose my faith and my charity." " Celia — my poor Celia— do not talk like that." " Here is Keats." She opened him at random, turned OTOf ihe leaves, and read aloud : ** ' Ah ! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy ! But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy ? ' 140 B V CELT A 'S ARBOUR. " Passed joy ! "We shall not be able to go out together, yo:i and I, Laddy, any more, nor to read under the elms, nor to look out over the ramparts up the Harbour at high tide, and you "vsiU ieave off giving me music lessons — and wten Leonard comeg Lome he will not be my Leonard any more. Only let him neve/ know, dear Laddy." " He shall never know, Cis, But the word is not spokt t yet. and I think it never will be." She shook her head. *• There is our Wordsworth. Of course he must be given up too. When the whole life is of the earth earthy, what room could be there for Wordsworth ! Why," she looked among the sonnets, *' this must have been written esi^eciallj for me. Listen ; *' * Friend ! I know not which way I must louk For comfort, being, as I am, opprest To think that now our life is only dressed For show .... The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone : our peace, our fearful innocence And pure religion breathing household laws.' "Fancy the household laws of Herr Riiumer,'' she added, bitterly. She was in sad and despairing mood that morning. I took the book from her hand — what gi'eat things there are ia Wordsworth, and what rubbish ! — and found another passage. ** Those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, "Which be they what they may Are yet the fountain light of all our days, Are yet a masterlight of all our seeing, Uphold us— cherish — and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake To perish never : "Which neither listlessness nor mad endeavour, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy Can utterly abolish or destroy." "Do you think, you silly Celia, if things come to the very worst — if you were — let me say it out for once — if you were tied for life to this man, with whom you have no sympathy, that you ■would forget the beautiful things which you have read and di-eamed ? They can never be forgotten. AMiy, they lie all THE PONTIFEX COLLECTION. 14I about your lieaii, the gi-eat thoughts of God and hcayen, whaf thi? beautiful earth might be and what you yourself would wish to be ; they are your guardian angels, who stand like Ithuriel to ward of! evii dreams and basenesses. They cannot be driven awaybecau?a you have placed them there, sentinels of your life. If— if he — were ten times as cold, ten times as unworthy of you as he seems, he could but touch your inner life. He could only make your outer life unliappy. And then, Celia, I think — I think that Leonard would kill him." "If Leonard will care any more about me," she murmur-^d through her tears. "But he will not. I shall be degraded in his eyes. He will come home v*ith happier recollections of brighter scenes and women far better and more beautiful than I can bo, even in his memor\\" "Celia," I cried hotly, "that is unkind of you. You cannot mean it. Leonard can never forget 3-ou. There will be no scenes 60 happy in his recollection as the scenes of the boyhood ; no one whom he will more long to see than little Celia — little no longer now, and — oh ! Cis — Cis, how beautiful you are !" " Laddy, you are the best brother in all the world. But do not flatter me. You know E like to think myself pretty. I am 60 vain." "I am not flattering you, my dear. Of course, I think you are the most beautiful girl in all the world. Ah ! if I could only draw you and put all your soul into your e^'es as a great painter would. If I were Raphael I would make you St. Catharine — no, St. Cecilia — sitting at the organ, looking up as you do sometimes when we read together, as when I play Beethoven, and your .soul opens like a flower." " Laddy— Laddy." " I would make your lips trembling, and your head a little bent back, ro as to show the sweet outlines, and make all the world fall in love with you. . . . Don't ciy, my o^mi dear sister. See, Leonard will be home again soon triumphant, bringing joy to all Df us. Our brave Leonard — and all ^ill be well. I know all will go well. And this monstrous thing shall not be done," She put her arms round my neck, and laid her cheek against mine. "Thank God," she said simply, " for my brother." By this time I had mastered my vain and selfish passion, Celia was my sister, and could never be an}'thing else. As if in the time when companionship is as necessaiy as light and air, it was not a great thing to have such a companion as Celia ! In youtli we cling to one another, and find 145 £V CELT A 'S ARBO UR. confession and confidence. David was young when he Wed Jonathan. It is when we gi'ow older that we shi'ink into onrselYiS and forget the sweet old friendships. This little talk finished, Celia became more chsfexfal, and we presentl}^ stole out at the garden gate for fear of being intercepted by the suitor, who was as ubiquitous as a Pi*u?sian Uhlan, and went for a ramble along the beach, where a light breeze was crisping the water into tiny i-uffles of wavelets, and diiving about the white-sailed yachts like butterflies. The fresh sea air brightened her cheek, and gave elasticity to her limbs. She forgot her anxieties, laughed, sang little snatches, and was as meny as a child again. *' Let us go and call at Aunt Jane's," she cried, when we lefL the beach, and were striking across the furze-covered common. To call upon jMrs. Pontifex was never an inspiriting thing to do. She had a way of picking out texts to suit your case and hui'ling them at youi' head, which sent you away far more despondent about the fature than her husband's sennons. There is always this diflerence between a woman of Aunt Jane's persuasion and a man of the same school ; that the woman really believes it all, and the man has by birth, by accident, by mental twist, for reasons of self-interest, talked himself into a creed which he does not hold at heai-t, so fa/ as he has power of self-examination. Mr. Pontifex had lost that power, I believe. They Hved in a villa overlooking the common. Mrs. Pontifei liked the situation principally because it enabled her to watch the •' Sabbath-breakers," viz., the people who walked on Sunday afternoon, and the unthinking sinner, who strolled arm in arm upon the breezy common on summer evenings. The villa had formerly possessed a ceriain beauty of its own, being covered over with creepers, but Mrs. Pontifex removed them all, and it now stood in naked ugliness, square and flat-roofed. There was a garden in front, of rigid and austere appearance, planted with the less shoAvy shrubs, and never allowed to put on the hohday garb of rummer flowers. Within, the house was like a place of tombs, so cold; £0 full of monumental mahogany, so bristling with chairs oi little ease. To oui- gi-eat joy, Mrs. Pontifex was out. Her husband, the ECiTant, said; ■^ith a little hesitation, was at home. " Then we -n-iU go in," said Celia. " "Where is he, Anne ?" "Well, Miss " she said, in apology, " at present master's in the front kitchen." In fact, there we found the unhappy Mr. Pontifex, He wa* THE PONTIFEX COLLECTION. 143 rtanding at tlie tal)le, with a most gloomy expression on his se'^eio features. Before him stood a half-eut, cold-boiled leg of mutton. He had a knife in one hand and a piece of bread in another. "This is all," he said sorro"^^•fully, "that I shall get to-day. l.^'rs. Pontifex said that there was to be no dinner. She has gone to a Dorcas meeting No, thank you, Anne, I cannot eat any more — ahem — any more boiled mutton. The human palate — alas ! that we poor mortals should think of such things — does not accept boiled mutton with pleasm^e. But what is man that he should tm-n away fi'om his food ? A single glass of beer, if yoa please, Anne." " Do have another slice of mutton, sir," said the servant, in sjTnpathising tones. " No, Anne " — there was an infinite sadness in his Yoics. "No, I thank you." " There's some cold roly-poley in the cupboard, sir, T17 a bit of that." She brought it out. It was a piece of the inner portion, that part which contains most jam. Mr. Pontifex shook his head in deep despondency. " That is not for iiE, Anne," he said ; " I always have to eat the ends." " Then why do yon stand it ? " I said. " You are a man, and ought to be master in yom- own house." " You think so, Johnny ? " he replied. " You are young. I'ou are not again, like St. Peter — ahem — a married man. Let us go up stau's." He led us into his study, which was a large room decorated with an immense quantity of pictures. The house, indeed, was full of pictures, newly arrived, the collection of a brother, lately deceased, of the Bev. John Pontifex. I am not learned in paintings, but I am pretty sure that the collection on the walls were copies as flagrant as anything ever put up at Christy's. But Mr. Pontifcs thought differently. " You have not yet seen my picture galleiy, Johnny," he said. "The collection was once the property of my brother, the Piev. Joseph Pontifex, now, alas ! — in the bosom of Abraham. He waa formerly my coadjutor when I was in sole charge at Dillmington. It was commonly said by the Puse^ites, at the time, that there was a Thief in the Pulpit and a Liar in the Reading-desk. So greaj — ahem ! — was our pulpit power that it drew forth these fearful denunciations. I rejoice to say that I was the — ahem I — the— Liar." 144 ^y CELT A 'S ARBOUR. It was hard to see where tlie rejoicing ought properly *o ccms in. But no doubt he knew. " They are beautiful pictm.:s, some of them '* said Ceja kindly. Mr. Pontifex took a walking-stick, and began to go rourd like a long-necked, very solemn showman at a circus. " These are ' Njmphs about — ahem — to Bathe.' A master piece by Caracci. The laughter of those young persons has probably long since been turned into mourning. " ' The Death of St. Chrysostom,' supposed to be by Leonardo da Yinci. The Puseptes go to Chrj'sostom as to a father. Well ; they may go to the muddy streams if they please. I go to the pure — the pure fountain, Johnny. " ' Pope Leo the Tenth,' by one Dosso Dossi, cf whom, I confess, 1 had never heard. I suppose that there are more Popes than any other class of persons now in miseiy." He shook his head, as he said this, \\ith a smile of peculiar satisfaction, and went on to the next pictui^j. " A soldier, by Wouvermans, on a white horse. Probably tho original of this portrait was in his day an extremely profligate per- son. But he has long since gone to his long — no doubt his vei^ long account. " That is * The Daughter of Herodias Dancing.' I have always considered dancing a most immoral pastime, and in the days of my youth found it so, I regret to say. " ' The Mission of Xavier.' He was, alas ! a Papist, and is now, I believe, what they are pleased to call a saint. Li other respects he was, perhaps, a good man, as goodness shows to the world. That is, a poor gilded exterior, hiding corruption. How different fi'om our good Bishop Heber, the author of that sweet miss — i — — ^na — ly poem which we all know by heart, and can never forget. ** * From Greenland's icy mountains — From Greenland's icy mountains — From Greenland's — ahem ! — icy — ' — but my mcmoi7 fails me. That is, perhaps, the result of an imperfect meal." " Sit down, my dear uncle," said Celia. " You must be fatigued. What was Aunt Jane thinking of to have no dinner ? " "Your great-aunt, Celia," said Mr. Pontifex, with a very iorg ?lgh, " is a woman of veiy remarkable Christian graces and virtues. Sbo excels in what I may call the — the — ahem — the very rare aii 01 conpelling others to go along with her. To-day we tast, and THE RIGHT OF REVOLT. I4i to-moiTOW we maybe called upon to subdue tlie natmal man in Bome other, perhaps — at least I hope — in a less ti-}ing method." We both laughed, but Mr. Pontifex shook his head, ** Let me point out one or two more pictui*es of my collection,' he said. " There are nearly one thousand altogether, collected by my brother Joseph, who resided in Rome, the veiy heart of the Papacy — you never knew Joseph, Celia — during the last ten years of his life. That landscape, the trees of which, I confess, appear to me unlike any trees with which I am personally acquainted — ie by Salvator Rosa ; that Madonna and Child — whom the Papistf, ignorantly w^orship — is by Sasso Ferrato ; that gi'oup" (it was a sprawling mass of intert^^isted limbs) " is by Michael Angelo, the celebrated master ; the waterfall which you are admiring, Celia, is a Ruysdael, and supposed to be priceless ; the pig — alas ! that men should waste their talents in delineating such animals — is by Teniers ; the cow by Berghem ; that — ahem — that infamous female" (it was a wood nymph, and a bad copy) "is a Rubens. The Latin riiheo or ruhcsco is — unless my memory again fails me — to blush. Rightly is that painter so named. No doubt he has long since — but I refi-ain." "Do you think, CeHa," I asked on the way home, " ttat Mr. Pontifex dwells with pleasure in the imagination oi the things which are always on his lips ? " CHAPTER XX. THE EIGHT OF EEVOLT. The Polish Barrack in 1858 had ceased to exist. There were, in fact, veiy few Poles left in the town to occupy it. A good many were dead. Some went away in 1854 to join the Tui'ks. Some, gi'o\vn tii'ed of the quasi-garrison life, left it, and entered into civil occupations in the towTi. Some, but very few, drifted back to Poland and made their peace with the authorities. Some emi- grated. Of all the bearded men I knew as a boy scarcely twenty were left, and these were scattered about the to\Mi, still in the " en- joyment " of the tenpence a day granted them by the British Go- vernment. I seldom met any of them except Wassielewski, who never wearied of his paternal care. The old man still pursued his calling — that of a fiddler to the sailors. The times, however, were changed. Navy agents were things of the past — a subject oi wailing among the Tribes. Sailors' Homes were established ; the oiled curls had given way to another and a manlier fashion of short L 146 BY CELT A S ARBOUR. hair. The British sailor was in course of transfonnation. lie v^-ant papers, you have ^-our fiiends here. Of course they keep you informed? " " I have one or two friends among the few Poles that are left. ^Yassielewski, my father's devoted servant, is one of them." "Your father's devoted servant! iLcally ! Devoted? That is touching. I like the devotion of that servant who leaves bis master to die, and escapes to enjoy an English pension. Oi^e rates th\t kind ^f fidelity at a very high value." The man was nothing unless he could sneer. In that respect be was the incarnation of the age, whose chief characteristic iri Heine's " universal sneer." iSo virtue, no patriotism, no disinter- ested ambition, no self-denial, no toil for others, nothing but self. A creed which threatens to grow, because it is so simple that every one can understand it. And as the largest trees often grow out of the smallest seeds, one cannot guess what may be the end of it. ** You are right, however," he went on, nursing his crossed leg. "At your age, and -ftith yom- imperfect education, it is natural that you should be generous. It is pleasant in youth to think that a man can ever be influenced by other than personal considera- tions. I never did think so. But then my school and yours ars different." " Then what was the patriotism of the Poles ? " ** Vanity and self-interest, Ladislas Pulaski. Desii'e to show off — desire to get something better. Look at the Irish. Look at the Chartists. ^Tio led them ? Demagogues fighting for a Cause, because the Cause gives them money and notoriety." " And no self-denial at all ? " ** Plenty. Eor the satisfaction of vanity. Yanity is the chiel motive and power in life. All men are vain ; all men are ambitious ; but most men in time of danger — and this saves us — aro cowards. I am sixty-two j-ears of age. I have seen " here he hesitated a moment — " I have seen many revolutions and insui'rcctions, especially in 1848. "VVTiat is my experience ? This. THE RIGHT OF REVOLT 151 In every conspiracy, where there are three men, one of them is a traitor and a spy. Remember that, should your friends try to drag yon into a hopeless business. You will have a spy in your midst. The Secret Service knows all that is done. The other two men are heroes, if you please. That is, they pose. Put them up to open trial, and they speechify ; turn them off to be shot, and they fold their arms in an heroic attitude. I believe," he added, with a kind of bitterness, " that they actually enjoy being shot ? " " You have really seen patriots shot ? " '• Hundreds," he replied, with a careless wave of his hand. " The sight lost its interest to me, so much alike were the details of each." " Where was it ? " " In Paris," he replied. " Of course the papers said as little as could be said about the shootings. I am sure, in fact, now I come to remember, that they did enjoy being shot. The Emperor Nicholas, whose genius lay in suppressing insurrections, knew a much better plan. He had his rebels beaten to death ; at least, after a thousand strokes there was not much life left. Now, not even the most sturdy patriot likes to be beaten to death. You cannot pose or make fine speeches while you are walking down a doable file of soldiers each with a stick in his hand." The man's expression was perfectly callous ; he talked lightly and without the slightest indication of a feeling that the punish- ment was diabolical. " Except the theatrical heroes, therefore, the gentlemen who pose and would almost as soon be shot as not, provided it is done publicly, every man has his price. You have only to find it out." " I would as soon believe," I cried, " what you said last week — that every woman has her price, too." '• Of course she has," he replied. "Woman is only imperfect man. Bribe her with dress and jewels ; give her what she most wants — Love — Jealousy — Revenge — most likely she is guided by one of these feelings, and to gratify that one she will be traitor, spy, informer, anything." I suppose I looked v>hat I felt, because he laughed, spoke in softer voice, and touched my arm gently. " Why do I tell you these things, Ladislas Pulaski ? It is to keep you out of conspiracies, and because you will never find them out for yourself. You have to do with the jeunes Sieves, the ingenues, the na'ives, the innocent. You sit among them like a cherubin in a seraglio of uncorrupted houris. Happy boy ! fS3 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. '* Keep tiia't liind of happiness," he went on. "Do not ba persuaded by any PoHsh exile — your father's seiTant or anybody else — to give up Arcadia for Civil War and Treacheiy. I sjoke to you fi-om my o^n experience. Believe me, it is wide. If £ had any illusions left, the year of Forty-eight was enough to dip pel them all. One remembers the crowd of crack-brained theatric cal heroes, eager to pose ; the students mad to make a ne^v world ; the stupid rustics who thought the day of no work, double pay, and treble rations was actually come. One thinks of these creatures massacred like sheep, and one gets angry at being asked to admire the leaders who preached the crusade of reboi- lion." "You speak only of spies, informers, and demagogues. How about those who fought fi-om conviction? " " I know nothing about them," he replied, looking me straight in the faeB. " My knowledge of rebels is chiefly derived fi-oni the informers? " It was a strange thing to say, but I came to understand it later on. He threw his cigar- ash into the fireplace, and poured out a glass of pale yellow wine which he so much loved. *' Never mind my experience," he said, rising and standing over me, looking gigantic with his six feet two compared "vnth my bent and shrunken fonn, crouched beneath him in a chair. '• I am going to rest and be happy. I shall do no more work in the world. Henceforth I devote myself to Celia. Here is the health of my bride. Hoch ! " CHAPTER XXI. THE WOELD AND THE WORD, " Come to us, Cis, for a day or two," I said. *' It will be a little change if it only keeps j^ou out of the way of your persecutor." It was a custom of old standing for Celia to spend a day or two with the Captain— it did us good in brightening up the dingy old house. When Celia was coming we put flowers on the mantel- shelf, the Captain went round rigging up the curtains Anth brighter ribbons, and he called it hoisting the buntingc The asual severity of our daily fare was departed from, and the Cap- tain brought out, with his oldest flask, his oldest stories. *' He follows me about," she replied. " I can go nowhera without meeting him. If I go into a shop he is at the door whes I come out — it is as if I was already his property. ' THE WORLD AND THE WORD. 153 *' But he says nothing — he shows no imi)atience.'* *' On Sunday evening I spoke to him. I asked him to give up his pursuit — I appealed to his honoui' — to his pity." " He has no pity, Cis." ** To his very love for me, if he really loves me. I toll him that it was impossible for me to give my consent. I burst into tears — what a shame to ciy before him ! — and he only ^aughed and called me his little April girl. ' Laugh, my little April girl, it rejoices me to see the cloud followed by the sunshine.' Then he asked me to tell him what I wanted him to do and he would do it. 'To tell my father that you have given up your project — to go away and leave me.' He said that he would do anything but give up the project : that his hope was more ILrmly grounded than ever, and that time would overcome my last objections to making him happy. What kind of love can that be which looks only to a way of making oneself happy ? " That had been my kind of love not very long before. *' I cannot speak to my father, but I see that he is changed. Not in his kindness to me, not that — but he is irritable : he drinks more wine than he should, and he is all the evening in his office now — and sometimes I see his eyes follo^\ing me — poor papa ! " ^Miat is the meaning of it, Laddy ? People do not usually promise their daughters to old men when they are eight years of age. Yet this is what he says papa did. "Why did he do it ? Do you think he lent papa money '? You know we were not always so well off as we are now." "I dare say money has something to do with it," I replied. *' It seems to me that money has to do with evei-j-thing that is disagreeable." " It has," she said. " "\^^ly cannot people do without money altogether ? But, if that is all. Aunt Jane and my Uncle Pontifex kave plenty of money, and they would help me, I am sure." " AVe cannot go to them for help yet. Patience, Cis — patience for a fortnight ; we will tell Leonard when he comes home, and perhaps the Captain too." "Patience," she echoed. "One tries to be patient, but it 13 hard. It is not only that I could never love Herr Pitiumer, Laddy, but the very thought of passing my life with him makes me shake and ti'emble. I am afraid of him, his manner is smooth but his voice is not, and his eyes are too bright and keen. I have seen him when he did not think it necessary to keep up that appearance of gfintienpsa. I know that he despises women, because X once 154 ^y CELT A 'S ARE UR, heard him make a ciiiel little sneer about us. And he pretends — he pretends to be religions, to please mamma. "\Miat sort of a life should I have vdth him ? "What an end, then, ^ould there be to oui' talks and hopes ! " I munnui-ed something Treak about the higher life being possible under all conditions, but I did not believe it. Life with Herr Puiumer — the man who believed religion to be the invention of the priests — that this liie was the beginning and the end; that there was nothing to be looked for from man and womankind but fi'om love of self, no honom*, no vii-tue, What could the future of a girl exposed to daily and hourly influences of such a man be like? Love of self? Would it be, then, for love of self that Celia would accept him ? I suppose for strong natures life might be made to yield the £-uits of the most sublime Chi-istianity anywhere, even in a convict hulk; but most of us requii-e more fitting condition? - It is happy to think that no man is tried beyond his strenglh to bear, although in these latter days we have gone back to the old plan of making new hindi^ances to the maintenance cf the higher spuitual levels, and calHng them helps. There are plenty of daily crosses in our way, which call for all our strength, without adding the new and barbaric inconveniences of hunger and small privations. Fasting, as a Eitualist the other day confessed to me, only makes people cross. I should have pitied any girl, even the most commonplace of good Enghsh giiis, whom Fate might single out to mai'iy this cynical pessi- mist; how much more when the girl was one whose standard was so high and heart so pui'e ! Should the clear cm-rent of a mountain stream be mingled with the tm'bid water of a river in which no fish can live, foul fi'om contact with many a factoi^ by which it has wound its way, and fi'om which it brought nothing but the refuse and the scum? Ai'e there not some men — I am sure Herr Eiiumer was one — who, as they journey thi'ough the world, gather up all its wickedness, out of which they construct their own philosophy of existence ? And this philosophy it was which he proposed to teach Celia. ** I shall instmct that sweet and unformed mind," he said to me one evening in 'lis lordly way, as if all was quite certain to come off that he proposed, " in the realities of the world. She is at present Uke a garden full of pretty delicate flowers — yom- planting, my young friend ; they shall \\b all pulled up, and we shall have instead — well — those flowers which go to make a woman of the world." THE WORLD AND THE WORD. 155 *' I do not want to see Celia made into a woman of the world." ' ' Yon will not be lier husband, Ladislas Pulaski. You onl/ lov hor like a brother, you know. Ha ! ha ! And that is very lucky for me. And you do not know what a woman of the world is." '* Tell me what she is." *' I shall not go on ii^-ing here. I shall live in London, Paris. Vienna, somewhere. My wife shall be a woman who will know fL'om my teaching how to deal with men, and how to find out women. As for the men, she shall play with them like a cat with a mouse. She shall coax their little secrets out of them, especially if they are diplomats ; she shall make them tell her what she pleases." "Why should they not tell her what she pleases? What secrets would Celia wish to hear ? " " Jeime 'premier — Gheruhin — you know nothing. They will bo political secrets, and my wife will learn them for me. It is only France and Russia wiiich really understand the noble game of feminine intrigue. I shall take my bride away, train her carefully, and with her take my proper place." Always in the Grand Style ; always this talk about diplomacy, secret service and intrigue, and sometimes betraying, or perhaps ostentatiously showing, a cmiously intimate acquaintance with Courts and Sovereigns. "\'\Tiat, I wondered, was the previous history of this strange man ? " Celia has eveiything to learn, and a good deal to unlearn," he went on thoughtfully. " I do not blame you in any particular, Ladislas. You have done your best. But she has to forget the old-fashioned provincial — or insular — axioms." " God forbid." He laughed. *' You forget that you are not an Englishman, but a Slav. They are veiy pretty — these insular notions — that people many for love —that people must always answer truthfully, whatever comes of it — that if you want to get a thing you have only to march straight forward — that you must let your friends know all you intend to do — that men care for anything but themselves— that " He stopped for want of breath. ** Pray go on," I said ; "let us have the whole string of vii'tues dismissed as insular." " Marriage for love ! Was there ever greater nonsense ? The best union that the history of the world speaks of wag that of the Sabine maidens carried off by the Romans — cariied oU 156 BY CELIACS ARBOUR, by perfect strangers. Picture to 3-ourself tlie feelings of a propef English young lady under such circumstances. 'Jelia certainly will never love me, but in time, in a short time, you shall see. "When a girl sees that a man is in earnest, that if she appeals to his pity, he laughs ; if to his mercy, he laughs ; if to such trifles as disparity of religion or of age, he laughs—' why, you see that woman ends by giving in. Besides it is a compliment to her. I know that I have not your influence or good wishes. I did not expect them, and can do without them. You are as romaiiesque as your pupil — ga va saiiA dire. But I have her father's. She looks very pretty — very sweet indeed — when she gives me one of those upward looks of hers which mean entreaty. "What will she be when I have trained her to use those eyes for political purposes ? " It reminded me of a boy with a mouse in a trap. You know how pretty the creature is, her eyes bright with terror and despair, looking at you through the bars which she has been frantically gnawing all the night. Shame and pity to kill the pretty thing. One might tame her. So Herr Raumer, like the schoolboy, admired his prisoner. She was caught in his cage : at least he thought so : she amused him : she pleased his fancy : he would keep her for himself, caged and tamed. So Celia came to us. "I am in trouble," she said to the Captain, *' and I came here. Laddy knows what sort of trouble it is, but we ought not to speak of it just yet. Say something, dear Captain, to help us." The Captain in his simple way took her in his arms and kissed her. " Wliat trouble can you have that your friends cannot get you out of ? I won't ask. There are troubles enough of all sorts. All of them come from somebody disobeying orders. Have you fol- io wad instructions, my dear ? " " I have tried to, Captain." *" Then there ^rill be no great harm done, be sure. * Like a tree planted by the rivers of water, his leaf shall not wither.' Now I tell you what we will do. AVe will blow some of the trouble away b} a sail up the harbour. First let us have tea." *^ I remember," the Captain said, when he had finished his tea ; " I remember in the action of Navarino, which you may have heard of, my pretty Laddy, what are yon sniggering at ? Of course Celia has heard of Navarino. Very well, then, you shall not hear that btory, though it might be broi?.ght to bear upon the present A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR, 1 57 trouble. The best of sea actions is the use they can be put to in all sorts of private affaii's. That is not generally known, Celia, my dear : and it makes an action the more interesting to rpad Nelson's example always applies. Lay your guns low — nail joui coloui's to the mast — pipe all hands for action : and then — along- side the enemy, however big she is. As to the rest, that's Bot your concern — and it's in good hands." " I wish I knew what my duty was," said Celia. ** I wish you did, my dear. And you will know, tm-nlng it over in your own mind. I thank God that my life has been a simple one. I never saw any doubt about the line of duty. My orders have always been plain. My children," he added, solemnly^ '* we all start in life with sealed orders. Some men, when they open them, find them difficult to understand. Now tho way to under- stand them — they are all here " — he laid his hand upon a certain book on the small table beside him — "is to remember, first of all, that duty has got to be done, and that we are not always out on a holiday cruise in pleasant waters." "I know," said Celia, *'I know, Captain" — the tears standing m her eyes. " They talk about church-going and sermons," the Captain went on, *' well it's part of the discipline. Must have order ; church belongs to it — and I'm a plain man, not asked for an opinion. But, Cis, my dear, and Laddy, there's one thing borne in upon me every day stronger. It is that we've got a model always before us. As Christ lived, we must live ; those who live most like Him talk the least, because they think the more. I read once, in a book, of a statue of Chi'ist. Now whoever went to see that statue, however tall he was, found it just a little taller than himself. It w^as a parable, Celia, I suppose. And it means that the nearer you get to Christ the more you find that you cannot reach Him. Be good, my childi'en. And now, Celia, if you wHl put on your hat, we will start. It's a fine evening, with a lair breeze, and we need not be back before nine. No more talk about troubles till to-moriow." CHAPTER XXII. A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. The sun was still high, but fast sloping westwards ; there was a strong breeze blowing up the harbour from the south-west, the tide was full, the water was bright, its wavelets touched by the ounshine, each one sparkling like a diamond v>ith fifty facets, tbe 1 5? BY CELT A *S ARBOUR. eld ships, batlied in the soft evening light, loolied as if liicy '^rera resting fi'cm a long day's work, the hammers in the Dock3'ard were quiet, and though the beach was crowded it was v;]th an idle throng who congi-egated together to talk of ships, and they natur- ally tended in the dh-ection of the beach because the ships were in sight as illustrations. We kept our oars and mast with the running- gear in saf ^iy in one of the houses on the Hard behind a shop. It was a strange and pictui'esque shop, where ever^ihing was sold that was useless and interesting — a museum of a shop ; in the vdndow v\-ere Malay creases taken in some deadly encounter 'snth pirates in the narrow seas ; clubs richly caiwed and ornamented tor some South Sea Island chief; beads worked in eveiy kind of fashion ; feathers, bits of costume, ever^-thing that a sailor picks up abroad, brings home in his chest, and sells for nothing to such an omnivorous dealer as the o"RTier of this shop. He, indeed, was as strange as his shop. He had been a purser's clerk, and in that capacity had once as strange an experience as I ever heard. He told it me one evening when, by the light of a single candle, I vras looking at some things in his back parlour. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you that stoiy. Not now. Some day, I ^ill write do^Mi what I can recollect of the stories he told me connected with his collection. There is no reason now for suppressing them any longer ; he is dead, and all those whose mouthpiece he was are dead too. I think that in every man over forty there lies, mostly only known t(> himself, a strange and wondrous tale. Could he tell it as it really happened, it would be the story of how events perfectly commonplace in the eyes of other people acted upon him like strokes of Fate, crushing the higher hope that was in him, and condemning him to penal servitude for life, to remain upon the lower levels. Because it is mostly true that many run, but to one only is given the prize. jVm I — are you — the only one whom fortune has mocked? Isos ni^merus sumits, the name of the Unfortunate is Legion ; no one has the exclusive right to complain. To fifty Fate holds out the golden apples of success, and one only gets them. We took our sculls and sails fi'om the shop, and rigged our craft. She was built something on the lines of a wherry, for sea- worthiness, a strong, serviceable boat, not too heav}' for a pair of sculls, and not too light to sail under good press of canvas. Everybody knew us on the beach — the boatmen, the old sailors, and the sailors' wives who were out ^^ith the children because the weather was so fine, all had a word to say to the Captain, touching their forelocks by way of preface. One carried oui' oars, aaothei launche'l ^i-*" Vk^af-.. another sent a boy for «4 couple of A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. rvj rougb sea-rug?, because the wind was high, and the ycung lady might get wet, and in the midst of the general excitement "Re jumped in and pus]ied off. Celia sat in the stem, one of the rugs serving a? a cushion, and held the rudder- strings. The Captain sat opposite her, 1 took the sculls to row her clear of the beach, until we could hoist oui' sail. *' This is what I like," said the Captain, dragging a little more of the watei-prc-of over Celia's feet in his careful way. *« A bright day, a breeze aft, but not dead aft — Laddy, we shall have some trouble getting back — a tight little boat, and a pretty girl like little Cis in command. Aha ! Catch an old salt insensible to lovely woman. ** * Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear The mainmast by the board ; My heart with thoughts of thee, mv utar, Aud love well stored.' " Celia laughed. Her spirits rose as each dip of the sculls lengthened our distance fi'om the shore, and made her cei-tain of escaping, at least for one evening, from her persecutor. She wore some pretty sort of bro-nii Holland stuff made into a jacket, and braided with a zig-zag Yandyke pattern in red. I do not know how I remember that pattern of the braid, but it seems as if I remember evei-y detail of that evening — her bright and animated face flushed with the pleasure and excitement of the little voyage, rosy in the evening sunshine, the meriy eyes •oith which she turned to greet the Captain's little compliment, the halo of youth and grace which lay about her, the very contour of her figure a^ she leaned aside, holding both the rudder- strings on one side. 1 remember the little picture just as if it was yesterday. Outside the ruck of boats which came and went between the opposite shores of the port we were in free and open water, and could ship the sculls and hoist our sail for a run up the harbour. The sail up, I came aft, and sat down in the bottom of the ship, while the Captain held the rope and Celia the strings. And for a space none of us talked. Our course carried us past the Docks and the shore-line buildings of the Dockyard. There were the white wharves, the cranes, tho derrick*', and all sorts of capstans, chains, and other gear for lift- ing and hoisting ; the steam-tugs vrere lying alongside ; all as deserted and as quiet as if the Yard belonged to some old ci"vih".s'»' tio]i. Bright as the evening was, the effect was rather ghostly, as we glided, silent save for the rippling at the bows, along tha iSd B Y CELIA 'S aubo ur. eilent bank. Presently we came to the building- sheds. S ms of them were open and empty ; some were closed ; within each of the closed sheds lay, we knew, the skeleton, the half-finished frame, of a mighty man-o'-war — some of them but just begun ; some ready to be launched ; some, the deserted and neglected offspring of some bygone First Lord's experimental ignorance, lying as they had lain for thii'ty years, waiting for the order to be finished oft and launched. *' Think of the tT;\'ilight solitude in those great empty sheds, Cis," I whispered. " Think of the ghosts of ^Tecked ships haunting the places where they were built -ohen the moonlight streams in at the windows. Fancy seeing the transparent outline of some old three- decker, say the great Victory, as she went do^^n with a thousand men aboard, lying upon the timber- shores " ** With the ghosts of the old shipbuilders," said Celia, " walking about with theii* hands behind them, criticising the new-fashioned models." " More likely to be swearing at steam," said the Captain. The new-fashioned models ! 'WTiere are they now, the ships which were on the slips twenty years ago ? The DuJce of Marlborough, the Prince of Wales, the Boyal Frederic!:, the Royal Sovereign — Where is last year's snow? They are harbour ships, ships cut do'WTi and altered into ii'onclads, and of a date gone out of fashion. There were many more ships in harbour then than now ; we had not yet learned to put all our trust in iron, and where we have one serviceable fighting vessel now we had twenty then. No hulk in the good old days, that could float and could steer but oould fight ; there were no toi'pedoes, no rams, no iron vessels, no venomous little monitors. To lay youi'self alongside an enemy and give broadside for broadside till one tired of it, was the good old fashion of a naval battle. AMiat is it now ? Again, twenty years ago they did not break up and destroy cveiy vessel that seemed to be past seiwice. She was towed uy harbour and left there moored in her place, to furnish at least house accommodation for a warrant officer, if she could be of no other use. There were hundreds of ships there Ipng idle, their work over ; some of them were coal hulks, some convict hulks, some receiving hulks ; most were old pensioners who did no work any nure, floating at high tide, and at low lying in the soft cushion of the harbour mud. Presently we ran among them all, passing in and out, and through their lines. Then I took the rudder- strings 60 that Celia might look while the Captain talked. He pushed his hat well back, sat upright, and began to look up A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. I$t and down the familiar craft with the eye of an old friend anxious to see them looking their test. It was not iniich they could show in the way of decoration, but the figure-heads were there still, and the balconies and car\dngs of the stem were mostly uninjured. As for the hull, it had generally been painted either black, white, or yellow. There were masts, but they had jurj-masts to seiwe as demcks on occasion. "That is the Queen Charlotte, my dear. She was flagshijD at Algiers when Lord Exmouth showed the Moors we would stand no more nonsense. We've fought a good many naval actions, but I think that business was about the best day's work we ever did. I was chasing Arab dhows and slaversr off Zanzibar, and hadn't the chance of doing my share of the workj In 1816, that was "Look — look — Celia! Look, children. There's the old ^sia. God bless her ! Flagship, Celia, at Navarino. My old ship — my one battle. Ah ! Navarino. They say now it was a mistake, and that we only played the Russians' game. No chance of doing that again. But anyhow it was a glorious victory." The re^ collection of that day was always too much for the Captain, and he might have gone on the whole evening -udth personal reminiscences of the battle, but for the breeze which fi'eshened up and cari'ied us past the Asia. " No confounded steam," he growled, ''no wheels and smoke spoiling the decks ; quiet easy sailing, and no noise allowed aboard until the guns began to speak. Forty people were drowned when she was launched ; and a good many more went below when she made herself heard at Acre. I was not there either, more's the pity. I was cruising about the narrow seas picking up pii'ates off Borneo. " There is the Egmont, She fought the French fleet in 1795, and the Spaniards in 1797. Good old craft. Stout old mano'- war. " That is the IJIustrioics, moored in line with the Ugmont. She was^nth her in '9-5, and I think she helped to take Java in 1811. We used, in those days, you see, Celia, if we wanted a place that belonged to the enemy, just to go and take it. Not that we were so unmannerly as not to give them a civil choice. We used to say, ' Gentlemen, Seiiors Caballeros, Mjuheer Double Dutchmen,* as the case might be, 'we've come to haul down your bunting and run up the Union Jack over your snug quarters. So, as perhaps you would not like to give in -^dthout a bit of a fight, you had better ram in your charge, and we'll give you a lead.' Qhen the action began, and after a respectable quantity of powder was burred i62 B V CELIA 'S ARBOUR. they strucT^ ibeir coloui's, Tve went ashore, the men had a sprea, and the officers made themselves agreeable to the young ladies." " Did not the young ladies object to making fiiends with the enemy ? " " Not at all. my dear. TThy should they ? We did ^hem no wTong, and -ue generally represented the popular side ; Lhey wanted to be taken by the British Fleet, which meant safety as well as flirtation. And we enjoyed our bit of fighting first. Did you ever hear of Captain Willoughby in Mahebourg Bay, Island oi Mauritius ? Well, that's an unlucky stoiy, becau&3 it ended badly, and instead of Willoughby taking the island the island took him. Han his ship ashore. She turned on her side, so that her guns couldn't be brought to bear. They found the captain with one ey« out and a leg shot off. The French captain had a leg shot off too» and so they put them both in the same bed, where they got better, and di^ank each other's health. The worst of it was that what w© sailors got for England the politicians gave away again when they Bigned a peace. We let the Dutch have Java, we let the French have Bourbon and Guadaloupe. I wonder we didn't give New Zealand to the Americans, and I daresay we should if they had thought of asking for it. " That is the Colossus, my dear. Good old ship, too ; she was at Trafalgar. There is the Alfred, who helped to take Guadaloupe in 1810, and the JiJoIas fi'igate. She fired a shot or two at Martinique the year before. Look at them, the row of beauties ; forty-two-pounders, the handiest and most murderous craft that ever went to sea ; and look at the sloops and the little three gun brigantines. I had one under my command once. And thejre is the Columhlne.'" The Captain began to sing : ** * The TrincvJo may do her hest, And the Alert so fleet. Sir, Alert she is, but then she's not Alert enough to beat, Sir. The Acorn and the S<^JeIUte, Their effortp, toe, may tiy, Sir, But if they beat the CohuMiie, Why, dash it !— they must fiy. Sir.' "They will build no more such ships; seamanship means poking the fire. Look at those things now." He pointed with great contempt to the war steamers. Those of 1858 would be thought harmless things enough now. Two ox A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR, \\l three had screws, but most had the old paddles. The Diike oj Wellington of 130 guns canied a screw ; so did the Blenhelni^ the Archer^ and the Encounter, all of which were lying in the harbour. But the Oiling the Basilish, and the Sidon were splendid paddle steamers. Among them lay the Megcera, a troop- ship, afterwards \\Teclied on St. Paul's Island ; the Queen's steam yacht, the Fairijy as pretty a craft as ever floated, in which her Majesty used to run to and fi'o between Osborne and the port ; the Victoria and Albert, the larger Royal yacht ; and the pretty little Bee, smallest steamer afloat, before they invented the noisy little steam launches to kill the fish, to tear dovna. the banks of the rivers, and to take the bread out of the mouths of the old wheiTy- men in our harbour. We were drawing near the last of the big ships. •'There, Celia, look at that craft," cried the Captain. "Do you see anjihing remarkable about her ? " ** No ; only she is yellow." ** That is because she is a receiving hulk," he informed her, with the calmness that comes of a whole reseiwoir of knowledge behind. "It is in her cut that I mean. Don't you remark the cut of her stem, the lines of her bows ?'* She shook her head, and laughed. ** Oh ! the ignorance of womankind," said the Captain. ** My dear, she's French. Now you see ? " Again Celia shook her head. "Well," he sighed, "I suppose it's no use tmng to make a young lady understand such a simple thing. If it had been a bit of lace now, or any other fal-lal and flapdoodle — never mind, my pretty, you're wise enough upon your ovm lines. That is the Blonde, my dear, and she is one of the veiy last of the old prizes left. When she is broken up I don't know where I could go to look for another of the old French prizes. My father, who was a Master in the Navy, navigated her into this very port. She struck her flag ofi" Brest. " It is a page of history, children," he went on, " this old har- bour. They ought to keep all the ships just as they are, aad never break up one till she drops to pieces. The brave old ships ! It seems a shame, too, to turn them into coal hulks and convict hulks. I would paint them every year, and keep them for the boys and girls to see. ' These are the craft of the old fight- ing bulldogs,' I would tell them. ' You've got to fight your own battles in a difi'erent sort of way. But be bulldogs, however jou go into action, and you'll pull through just as vour fathers did-' 1 64 BY CEL TA 'S ARBOUR, *' I sa^f a siglit when I was a boy," the Captain went on, *' that you'll never see again, unless the Lords of the Admiralty take my advice and give over breaking-up ships. I saw the last oi the oldest ship in the service. She was the Hoyal William^ eighty guns. That ship was built for Charles the Second, sailed for James the Second, and fought off and on for a hundred and foi-ty years. Then they broke her up — in 1812 — because, I sup- pose, they were tired of loob'ng at her. She ought to be afloat now, for sounder timber you never saw." " Shall w^e down sail and out sculls ?" I asked. The Captain answered by a gestui'e, and we kept on our coursOc The tide was running out rapidly. " Five minutes more, Laddy," he said. *' We've time to go as far as Jack the Painter's Point, and then we'll come down easy and comfortable with the last of the ebb." We had left the lines of ships and hulks behind us now, and were sailing over the broad surface of the upper harboui', where it is v*ise even at high tide to keep to the creeks, the lines of which are indicated by posts. In these there lay, so old that they had long since been forgotten, some half a dozen black hulls, each tenanted by a single ex-waiTant officer with his family. Even the Captain, who knew most ships, could not teU the histoiy of these mysterious vessels. "What life, I used to think as a boy, could compare with that of being the only man on board one of these old bhips ? Fancy being left in charge of such a vessel, yourself all alone, or perhaps \\ith Leonard moored alongside, also in charge of one. Robinson Crusoe in his most solitaiT moments could not \ave felt happier. Then to wander and explore the great empty ship ; to open the cabin and look in the old lockers ; to roam about in the dim silences of the lower deck, the tT\ilight of the orlop ; the mysterious shades of the cockpit, and to gaze down the impenetrable Erebus of the hold. To this day I can never go on board a great ship \\ithout a feel- ing of mysterious treasures and strange secrets lui'king in the depths below me. And what a place for ghosts I think, if you could con- strain the ghosts on those old ships to speak, what tales they could tell of privateering, of pirating, of peiils on the Spanish Main, of adventure, of pillage, and of gloiy. There may be a ghost or two in old inns, deserted houses, ruined castles, and country churchyards. But they are nothing, they can be nothing, compared with the ghosts on an Cid ship lying forgotten up the harbour. Cis shudders, and thinks she can get on very well without ghosts, and that whon she WAats their society she would rather meet them ashore. A NIGHT UP THE HARBOUR. i6s *• That ships may be haunted," said the Captain, gi-avely, ''is true beyond a doubt. Every sailor will tell you t^vere set hard. I do not know what the Captain was thinking of •, perhaps of Leonard. However that may be, we were a boat's cre-vv without a coxswain for a few minutes. " Laddy I *' cried the Captain, starting up, *' where have we got to ? " I held up and looked round. The tide was running out faster than I had ever kno\Mi it. We were in the middle of one of the great banks of mud, and there was, I felt at once, but a single inch between the keel and the mud. I grasped the sculls again, and pulled as hard as I knew ; bni it was of no use. The next moment we touched ; then a desperate struggle to pull her through the mud ; then we stuck fast, and, liko the water flowing out of a cup, the tide ran away fr'om the mud-bank, leaving us high and dry, fast prisoners for six hours. We looked at each other in dismay. Then the Captain laughed. " Not the first boat's crew that has had to pass the night on the mud," he said cheerfully. "Lucky wcvo got the VkTaps. Celia, my dear, do you think you shall mmd it very much ? We wiU A MGHT LP THE HARBOUR. 167 pal yon to sleep in tlie stem while Laddv and I keep Tat^'li and watch. No supper, though. Poor little maid ! Pooi Celia ! " She only laughed. She liked the adventure. There was no help for it, not the slightest. Like it or not, wa had to pass the night where we were, unless we could wade, waist deep, for a mile through black mud to Jack the Painter's Point. The tide which had left us on the bank had retreated from the «^hole upper part of the harbour. But the surface of the mud wag BtUl wet, and the splendour of the setting sun made it loo^ like a vast expanse of molten gold. One might have been on the broad ocean, ^ith nothing to break the boundless view but a single solitary islet with a tree on it, for so seemed the Point of Painter Jack. The sky was cloudless, save in the west, where the light mists of evening were gathered together, like the courtiers at the couclier du roi, to take farewell of the sun, clad in their gorgeous dresses of pearl-grey, yellow, crimson, and emerald. Athwart the face of the setting sun, a purple cleft in light and cloud, stood up the solitary poplar on the Point. Bathed and surrounded by the western gloiy, it seemed to have lost all restraints of distance, and to form, in the far-off splendour, part and parcel of the sapphire-tinted west. As we looked, the sun sank with a plunge, the evening gun from the Duke of York's bastion over the mouth of the harbour saluted the departure of day. The courtier clouds did not imme- diately disperse, but slowly began putting off their bright apparel. In a quarter of an hour the outside clouds were grey ; in half *n hour all were grey ; and presently we began to see the stars clear and bright in the cloudless sky. *' The day is gone," murmured Celia, " mom is breaking some- where beyond the Atlantic. We ought not to let the thoughts of our own selfish cares spoil the evening, but when the sun sank, my heart sank too." "Faith and Hope, my pretty," said the Captain. •• Come, it is nearly nine o'clock. Let us have evening prayers and turn in." This was our godly custom before supper. The Captain read a chapter — he was not particular what — regarding all chapters as so many Articles or Rules of the ship, containing well-defined duties, on the proper perfonnance of which rested the hope of future promotion. On this occasion we had no chapter, naturally. But we all stood up while the Captain took off his hat and recited one or two prayers. Then Celia and I sang the Evening H}Tnn. Our voices sounded strange in the immensity of the heavens above ns— • etrange and small. l68 B Y CEL I A 'S ARBOUR. And then \ve sat do-wTi, and the Captain began to irrap Celia ronnd in the waterproofs. She refused to have more than one, and we finally persuaded him to take one for himself — they w^ere good-sized serviceable things, fortunately — and to leavt* as the other. We all three sat down in the stern of the boat, the Captain on the boards with his elbow on the seat, and Celia and I, side by Eide, the rug wrapped round us, close together. Ashore the bells of the old church were playing their hymn tune, followed by the curfew. '* The bells sound sweetly across the water;' murmurel Celia, ** Listen, Laddy, what do they say ? " "I know what the big bell says," I reply. *' It has writtec upon it what it says : ** ' "We good people all To prayers do call. We honour to king, And brides joy do bring. Good tidings we tell, And ring the dead's knel'i. ' ** * Good tidings we tell,' " she whispers. ** What good tidings for ns, Laddy ? " " I will tell you presently," I say, " when I have made them out." The bells cease, and silence falls upon us. It has gro-^ia darker, but there is no real darkness during this summer night, only a twilight which makes the shadows black. As we look down the harbour, where the ships lie, it is a scene of enchantment. For the men-o'-war's lights, not regular, but scattered here and there over the dark waters, light up the harbour, and produce an effect stranger than any theatrical scene. Said the Captain, thinking still of the ships: " A ship's life is like a man's life. She is put in commission after years of work to fit her up — that's our education. She ■^ails away on the business of the countiy, she has stojms and calms, so have the landlubbers ashore ; she has good captains and bad captains ; she has times of good behaviour and times of bad ; sometimes she's wi^ecked ; — well, there's many a good fellow thrown away so ; sometimes she goes down in action — nothing finer than that — and sometimes she spends the rest of her life up in harbour. Well for her if she isn't made a convict hulk. Celia, my dear, you are comfortable, and not too cold ? " " Not a bit cold, C-aptain, thank you, only rather hungry." There was no help for that, and the Captain, announciDg his A NIGHT Ul- THE HARBOUR. 169 intention to turn in, enjoined me to wake him at twelve, so that we two could keep watch and watch about, covered his head uitb the rug, and in five minutes was fast asleep. Then Celia and I had the night all to ourselves. We were sitting close together, with the waterproof round oai shoulders. Presently, getting a little cramped, Celia slipped down from the seat, and curled herself up close to the sleeping Captain, resting her head upon my knees, while I laid my arm round hei neck. Was it treacheiy, when I had striven to beat down and conquer a passion which was not by any means fi'atemal, for me to feel as if there had never been a perfect night since the world for me began till this one ? I \sished it would last for ever. When before had I had my queen all to myself in the long sweet silences of a summer night ? And none to hear what we said. There was no word of love, because that was all one side, but there was talk. We did not sleep that night. The air was soft and warm, though sometimes came a cold touch of wind which made us pull the wi'aps tighter, and nestle close to each other. But we talked in low whispers, partly because the night is a sacred time, and partly because we were careful not to wake the Captain. " Tell me now," she -whispered, •' tell me the good tidings of the bells." I thought of Leonard's last secret which he told me when he left me on the platfonn of the station. " Tell Cis ? " he said ; " that would spoil all." Yet I did tell Cis. I told her that night. '* The bells said, Cis, that there only wanted a foiinight to Leonard's return. He vaW come back brave and strong." " And he -nill make all right," she cried eagerly, clasping my hand in hers. "Go on, Laddy dear." " He will make all right. The German shall be sent about his business, and — and " " And we all will go on just as we used to, Laddy." " N — not quite, Cis. "\^Tien Leonard went away, he told me a great secret. I was not to tell anybody. And I should not tell you now, only that I think it '^\-ill do good to both of us, that you should know it. Tell me, my sister, you have not forgotten Leonard ? " " Forgotten Leonard ? Laddy, how could I ? " '* You think of him still. You remember hew bravo and true he was ; how he loved — us both " 170 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. *' I remember all, Lacldv." *' When he left me, Cis — he told me— Hush ! let me ^bi?peJ — low — low — in your ear — that his greatest hope was lo coma back in five years' time, a gentleman — to find you u-ee- and to ask you — to ask you, Cis — to marry him." She did not answer, but as she lay in the boai. her hands holding mine, her face bent down, I felt a tear fall on my finger ; I do not think it was a tear of sorrow. " You are not ofi'ended, Cis dear?" I whispered ; '* I have net done wrong in telling you ? " "Let it be a secret between you and me, Laddy," she said, presently. " Do not let us ever speak of it again." *' Cis, you told me once that you would hide nothing from me. Tell me — if Leonard asked you " She threw her arms round my neck, and hid her face upon my shoulder. " Laddy," she whispered, " there is no day, in all these five years, that I have not prayed, night and morning, for Leonard." Then we were silent. The hours sped too swiftly, marked by the bells of the ships in commission. About two in the morning the tide began to turn, and the day began to break. First, the dull black surface of flats became wet and glittered in the light. Then the water crept up and covered all ; it took time to reach us, because we were on a bank. And all the time we watched, the grey in the east grew tinged with all colours ; and the wild- fowl rose out of their sleep- ing-places by the shore, and flew screaming heavenwards in long lines or arrow-headed angles. And presently the sun arose, splendid. " Laddy," vrhispered Celia, for the Captain still slept, ** this is more glorious thaji the evening." At six bells, which is three in the morning, we floated. I noise- lessly stepped over the sleeping form of the Captain and took the sculls, dipping them in the water as softly as I could. He did not awake until half an hour later, when our bows struck the beach, and at the noise the Captain started up. It was nearly four o'clock ; no boats were on the harbour ; the stillness con- trasted strangely ^ith the light of the summer morning. " Laddy," grumbled the Captain, " you've kept double watch. You call that sailor-like ? — Celia, my dear, you have not caught cold ? " "When we reached homo, the Captain insisted on oui going to bed. MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEANS. ITI •* We have passed a nigM I shall never fcrget, Laddy,' said Celia at the door. •' A saered night, Cis." She stooped do^n, my tall and gracious lady; and ki teed my forehead. *' What should I do without you, Laddy ? To have some on^ ir the world to whom you can tell everi-thing and not be ashamed, not be afraid. To-night has brought us very close together." I think it had. After it we were more as we had been when children. My Celia, the maiden of sweet reserve, came back to Eae a child again, and told me all. No need to speak again of Leonard. It remained only to look forward and hope and long for the weary days to pass away. CHAPTER XXni. MES. PONTIFEX ASKS W^HAT IT MEANS. That was a night consecrated to every kind of sweet memories. It was quite in the nature of things that it should be followed by one of a more worldly kind. In fact, the next day, to put the matter in plain English, we had a great row, a family row. It began with Aunt Jane. She came to tea, accompanied by her husband ; and she came with the evident intention of speaking her mind. This made us uneasy from the beginning, and although Mrs. Tjorell attempted to pour oil on the troubled waters by producing her very best tea service, an honour which Mrs. Pontifex was certain to appreciate, she failed. Even tea services in pink and gold, with the rich silver teapot, accompanied by a lavish expenditure in seedcake, and Sally Lunns, and muffins, failed to bring a smile to that severe visage. Mrs. Pontifiex was dressed for the occasion in a p}Tamidal cap trimmed Tvith lace, beneath which her horizontal curls showed like the modest ^dolot peeping between April leaves of grass. She wore her most rustling of black silk robes, and the most glittering of her stud- clasps in the black velvet ribbon which girt her brow. She sat bolt upright in her chair ; and such was her remarkable strength of character, testimony to which has already been given by her husband, that she struck the key-note to the banquet, and made it joyless. Who could be festive when Mrs. Pontifex icily refiiped sngar with her tea, and proceeded to deny that luxury to her husband ? 17? BY CELT A 'S ARBO UR. *^ No, John Pontifex," she said. " It is high time to set lesa store upon creature comfoi-ts. No sugar, Celia, in my husband's tea." Mr. Pontifex meekly acquiesced. He was already in the most profound depths of depression when he arrived, and a cup of tea mthout sugar was only another addition to his burden of melan- sholy. I conjectured that he had passed the alternoon in the receipt of spiritual nagging. In this art his wife was a proficient ; and although nagging of all kinds must be intolerable, I think the religious kind must be the most intolerable. The unfoi-tunate man made no effoi-t to recover his cheerfulness, and sat silent, as upright as his wife, the cup of unsweetened tea in his hand, staring straight before him. Once, his wife looking the other way, he caught my eye and shook his head solemnly. Under these circumstances we ail ran before the gale close reefed. It was a bad sign that Mrs. Pontifex did not talk. If she had been critically snappish, if she had told her niece that her cap was unbecoming, or Celia that her frock was unmaidenly, or me that an account would be required of me for my idle time — a veiy common way she had of making things pleasant — one would not have minded. But she did not speak at all, and that terrified us. Now and then she opened her lips, which moved silently, and then closed with a snap, as if she had just fi'amed and fired off a thunderbolt of speech. Her husband remarked one of these movements, and immediately replacing his cup upon the table, softly rose and effaced himself behmd the window curtains, where he sat with only a pair of trembling knees visible. Mr. Tyrrell pretended to be at his ease, but was not. His ^ife was not, and did not pretend to be. As soon as we reasonably could we rang the bell for the tea- things to be removed, and began some music. This was part of the regular programme, though no one suspected Mrs, Pontifex or her husband of any love for harmony. And while we were playing came Herr Raumer, at sight of whom Mrs. Pontifex drew herself up more stifily than before, and coughed ominously. He looked very fresh and young, this elderly foreigner. He was dressed neatly in a buttoned fi'ock (no one in our circle woro evening dress for a gathering under the rank of dinner-pariy or dance), and had a rose in a button-hole. A little bit of scarlet ribbon in his breast showed that he was the possessor of some foreign Order. In his greeting of Celia he showed a Eomeo-like elasticity and youthialness, and he planted himself on the heai-th* MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHA T IT MEAA S. 17 J rng with an assured air as if tlie place and all tliat was in it belonged to him. In front of him, upon a small couch, sat Mrs. Pontifex, her Kps moving rapidly, and her brow darker than ever. Either Herr Riiumer was going to interrupt the battle, or he was himself the cause of it. Ceha rose from the piano, and sat beside her great- aunt. Mr. T}Trell was in an easy-chair on one side the fireplace, and his wife on the other, fanning herself, though it was by no means a warm night. As I said before, Mr. Pontifex was in hiding. I sat on the music-stool and looked on. Had there been any way of escape I should have taken advantage of that way. But there was none. The awful silence was broken by Aunt Jane. " *Be ye not yoked unequally with unbelievers,'" she said. Then her lips closed with a snap. No one answered for a while. The curtain alone, behind which was her husband, showed signs of agitation. *' John Pontifex," said his wife, "assist me." He obeyed immediately, and took up a position behind her, standing opposite to the German. He looked very, veiy meek. "John Pontifex and I were talking this afternoon, Clara Tprell and George TyiTell, and we natui-ally discussed the strange — the very strange — mm ours that are afloat with regard to Celia. Her name, George TyiTell, has been coupled with that of this — this foreign gentleman here." Mr. Pontifex shook his head as if more in sorrow than in anger. '* It is — alas ! — the fact that such rumours are prevalent." " You hear, George Tyrrell ?" she went on. " I hear," he replied. *' The rumours are not without foundation." Poor Celia ! '* I announced to John Pontifex, this afternoon, my intention of speaking my mind on this matter, and speaking it in the actuai presence of Herr Raumer himself, if necessary." " I am infinitely obliged to you, madam," said that gentleman, ^vith a bow. " I wish that I was already in a position to ask for your congi'atulations." "Flap doodle and fadge," said Aunt Jane. I do net defend this expiession, but it was her own, reserved for use en those occasions which required the greatest strength of the English language. All trembled except the German. Celia, by the way, except that ^bs looked pale, took no apparent interest in the conversation. 1 74 ^y CELIA 'S ARBOUR. ** Congratulations are useless ornaments of conversation," lie said. *' That, I presume, is what you mean, Mrs. Pontifex ? '• She snorted. " Pray, sir, ^Yill you tell us first, to what religious persuasion you belong ? " The unexpected question staggered him for a moment. I thought he was lost. But he recovered. *' My excellent parents," he said, " who are now no longer living, brought me up in the strictest school — Mrs. Pontifex is, I believe, a member of the Anglican Church — of German Calvinism." *' And what church do you attend in this town ? *' *' Unfortunately, there is no church of my views in this town. The English churches, however, approach my distinctive doctrines near enough for me." He said this meekly, as if conscious of a superiority which he would not press. " No blessing shall come fi'om me on any marriage where both members are not communicants of the English Establishment." She said that wdth an air of detennination, as if the matter was settled. Herr Piaumer laughed softly. ** If that is your only objection, my dear madam, it is easily removed. Mademoiselle vaut hien une 7nesse." " I do not understand French." '* I mean that love, coupled with a short conversation with your learned husband over a few doctrinal difficulties, would permit me to present myself to you in the novel character of a com- municant." He overacted the speech, and no one could fail to see the sneer behind it. '* John Pontifex." " My dear, I am — in point of fact — behind you." "You hear what this gentleman says. You can hold a dis- cussion ^vith him in my presence. If, in my opinion, he proves himself worthy of our communion I shall -withdraw that part oi my objection." " It is true," said John Pontifex, ** that I am not at the present moment — alas ! — deeply versed in the points which — ahem — separate us from German Calvinism. But no doubt Herr Raumer will enlighten me." " Oi " said the suitor, rolling his head, ''let me refer mysdf to ft fairer theologian. Celia herself shall convert me." Celia made no sign. MRS. PONTIFEX ASKS WHAT IT MEAXS. 17; "This is mockery," Mrs. Pontifex ejaculated. ''Bat il l3 what I expected, and indeed said to John Pontifex as we drove here. That a foreigner should value Chiistian privileges is hardly to be looked for." " That is, I believe," said Herr Raumer, with the faintest pos- sible suspicion of contempt in his smooth tones, " the prevalent belief among English people. And yet no Englishman has yet publicly doubted that even a foreigner has a soul to be saved." •' Or lost," said Mrs. Pontifex sternly. Her husband, who was still standing meekly beside her, his long aiTas dangling at either side, looking exactly like a taU Bchoolboy afi-aid of his schoolmaster, groaned audibly. *' Or lost," echoed HeiT Piilumer. ** And pray, sir, if I may ask, what are your means of exist- ence ? No doubt Mr. Tj-rrell knows all about youi' family and the way in which you get your hving, but we have not yet beeo informed, and we also have an interest in Celia Tyrrell." *'I have private property," he replied, looking at Mr. Tvrrel], ** on the nature of which I have satisfied the young lady's father." " Perfectly, perfectly," said Mr. Tyrrell. ** How do we know but what you have a wife somewhere else — • in Germany, or wherever you come from ? " ** Madam's intentions are no doubt praiseworthy, though her questions are not perhaps quite conventional. However, there is uo question I would not answer to secure the friendship of Celia' s great-aunt. I have no wife in Germany. Consider, Mrs. Ponti- fex, I have resided in this io\m for some twelve years. Would my wife, if I had one, be contented to languish in solitude and neglect ? Would you, Mrs. Pontifex, allow your husband to live as a bachelor— perhaps a wild and gay bachelor — at a distance from yourself?" The Rev. IMr. Pontifex smiled and sighed, Did he allow his imagination even for a moment to dwell on the possibility of a TNild and rollicking hfe away from his '^ife ? " My wild oats," he said, very slowly, 'with emphasis on each word, and shaking his head. " My — wild — oats — are long sine© — ahem ! — if I may be allowed the figure of speech — sown." *' John Pontifex," said his wife, " we are not interested in your early sins." " I was about to remark, my dear, that they have produced — alas ! — their usual crop of repentance — that is all. The wages ol youthful levity " ♦• We will allow, Herr Raumer," Mrs. Pontifex interrupted her 176 B V CELIA 'S ARBOUR. husband, "tliat yon are what you represent 3-ourself to be. Yoa have means, you are a bachelor, and you are a Christian. Well — my questions are not, as you say, conventional, but Celia ig my grand-niece, and T\ill have my money when my husband and I are called away. It is no small thing you are seeking." " I am aware of it," he replied. " I am glad £ir your sate that your money is not a small thing." This he should not have said, because it was impolitic. *' I have one question more to ask you," said Mrs. Pontifex, dra'tting herself more upright than ever. " You are, I under- Btand, some sixty years of age." *' I am sixty- two," he replied blandly. ** It is my great misfor- tune to have been bom forty-four years before Miss Celia Tyrrell." " Then in the name of goodness," she cried, " what on earth do you want ^dth a young wife ? You are only three years younger than I. You might just as well ask me to marry you." " My dear ! " cried John Pontifex, in natural alarm. *' I cannot, madam," Herr Raumer replied — "however much cue might desire such a consummation — I cannot ask yon in the very presence of your husband." Ever}'body laughed, including Celia, and Aunt Jane drew her- self up proudly. *' You disgraceful man," she said. " How dare you say such things to me ! If John Pontifex were not in Holy Orders I should expect him to — to " '* I fear I should do so, my dear," John Pontifex interposed. *' I am sure, in fact, that, without the — ahem I — the deterrent in- fluence of my cloth, I should do so." " I am unfortunate this evening," the German went on, still bland and smiling. " I am advanced in years. All the more reason why a young lady — of Christian principles — should assist me m passing those years pleasantly." " Pleasantly ? " she echoed. "Is all you think of — to pass the last years of your life pleasantly ? Would I allow my husband to pass his time in mere pleasantness ? " " You would not, my dear," said John Pontifex, firmly. ** Mere pleasantness : a Fool's Paradise, George and Clara Tyrrell, I am your aunt, and entitled, I believe, to be heard." '* Surely," said Mr. TpTell. " Pray say what you think." Celia laid her hand on her aunt's arm. *' Dear Aunt J;i le," she said, *' Herr Raumer has done me the very great honon ■■ f asking me to be his wife. He has also "ver) kindly consented t to press for an answer, I feel — I am sure MRS. PON TIF EX ASi TS WHAT IT MEANS. 177 he feels himself — the many difficulties in the way. And if those difficulties prove insuperable, I trust to his generosity — his gene- rosity as a gentleman — not to press me any longer." " To be sure," said Aunt Jane, " people can always be put off. We can tell them that Herr Kiiumer felt for you the affection of 2 gi'andfather." The German -uinced for a moment. *' Thank you, dear Mrs. Pontifex," he said. " You -would Bmooth all the difficulties for us, I am sure." He shrugged his shoulders. *' Let us have no more explanations. I have to thank Celia — Miss T\Trell — for putting the position of things clearly. If she cannot see her way to accepting my addresses — there is an end — and things " — looking at Mr. TjTrell — "must take their otati course. If she can, she -will have in me a devoted husband who will be proud to belong to the families of T}Trell and Pontifex." Aunt Jane was not, however, to be mollified. She kissed Celia on the forehead. " You are a sensible girl, my dear, and you will know how to refuse a man old enough to be your gi'andfather," — then she gathered her skii-ts together. " George and Clara Tyr- rell, when you have got over this folly, we shall be glad to see you at our house again. If it comes to an}-thing further I shall alter my will. John Pontifex, I am ready." She swept out of the room followed by her husband. Then Mrs. Tp-rell sat up and began to express her indignation. *' When young people desire to many," she said to her future son-in-law, who was not much more than twenty years older than herself, "they speak to each other, and then to their parents. That is regular, I beheve ? " ** Quite regular," said the Herr. " \Vhen they have asked each other, and then spoken to the parents," she went on, exhausting the subject, " what else remains tD be said ? " " Clearly nothing.'* ** There cei-tainly is a difference in age," said the good lady '-but if Celia does not mind that " *' Quite so," he inten-upted. ** Rehgion, too, the same," she went on, ** Actually a coincidence in religion." *' Then what Aunt Jane meant by going off' in that way, I caoiid conceive. The veiy best tea-things, too ! " '' My dear mamma," said Celia, *'the conversation is usoiees. I era not engaged to Herr Raumer." N 178 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. Nothing more was said, and the lover presently withdrew, Mr. Tyrrell led me downstairs to his own office. There he took the step common among Englishmen who B.^ Bnxions and nervous, especially when they want to deaden re- pentance. He drank a tumbler and a half of brandy- and- water strong. " I wish he was dead, Laddy," he munnured ; '* I wish he \»ag dead." " Can yon do nothing ? " " I can put him off — I can gain time — and perhaps something will happen. If not, she must many him. She mu8t, Elso " He finished his glass of brandy- and- water. " She must not. Face anything rather than bring such a fate upon your daughter." "Face anything," he repeated. *' "Wnat do you know about it ? " " At least I know that there is nothing in common with him and your daughter." " A\Tiat have I in common with my wife ? Stuff and nonsense. Wliat has any man in common with his wife ? The husband and the wife lead different lives. "When they are together in what they call society, they pretend. Rubbish about things in common." *' Then look at the difference of age." *' So much the better, Ladislas," said Mr. Tyrrell, fiercely. I hardly knew him to-night in this unusual mood. " So much the better. He will die soon perhaps ; the sooner the better." " Will he treat her kindly ? " *' They will live in this town. I shall watch thera. If he ill- treats my little girl — my pretty Celia — I will — I will — but that is nonsense. He will make her his plajihing." " Is that what Ceha looks for in marriage." *' Will you have some brandy-and-water "? No. I take it now, ju^t for the present while this business worries me, to steady the iK-rves." He mixed himself another tumbler. " ^Yliy, Ladislas," he resumed his talk, *' how foolishly yon talk. One w^ould think you were a girl. ^Miat Celia looks for in marriage! "What is the use of looking for anything, either from marriage or anything else in this world ? Disappointment we shall get — never doubt it — and punishment for mistakes — neve? doubt that. Probably also bad men, unRcrupulous men, will get a THE CONSPIRATOR. trg feold of you, and make you do things you wjuld rather aflerwaiia cot have done. " If I had the key of that safe," he murmured, sinking into a chair ; " if I only had the key of that safe " — it wa.^ the small fireproof safe, with Herr Riiumer's name upon it — " Celia thou d be free/* I came away sick and sorry. I had heard enough, and more than enough. I knew it all along. My poor Celia ! " If I had the key of that safe ! " Then it occuiTed to me that the German must have it some- where. I went to hed and dreamed that I was prowling round and round his room, looking for a key which I could not find. CHAPTER XXI Y. THE CONSPrRATOR. The Polish question was not forgotten. In truth, it was not easy altogether to forget it. The burning fervour of Wassielewski, his glorious indifference to the probabilities of death, his scorn of failure provided the sacred fire was kept bm-ning, all this could not but impress the imagination. 'WTien I thought of them my heart burned within me, and it seemed for the time a light thing to join my countrjinen, and march with them to certain death, if only to show the world that Poland was living yet. Celia thought this kind of patriotism, this earning on of a vendetta from father to son, was unwoi-thy. But I never could get her to see the beauty of war, even in the balmy days of Crimean victory. I laid my case before her, as much as I knew of it, then but little — the loss of my inheritance, the death of my father, my long line of brave progenitors, the obligations of a name. She could not be persuaded. " You are not a soldier, Laddy," she said. " You are a musi- cian and an artist. It is not for you to go fighting. And think oi tell me ? By some strange irony I always met HeiT Raumer after Was- sielewski had been \^ith me. That same evening, as I came home from a walk with CeUa, I was saluted by him. He looked down upon me T\ith his white shaggy eyebrows and his green sj/^ctacles, as if half in pity, half in contempt. In his presence I felt a very small conspirator indeed. •' I saw 3'ou this morning," he said, *' walking and talking with your old rebel, Wassielewski. Brave old man ! Energetic old man! Useful to his friends. And, oh! how useful to his country!" Nothing could suiimss the intense scorn in his voice. "He is getting up another little rebellion, I gather from ceiiain Cracow papers. At least, there are indications of another rising, and it is not likely that "Wassielewski will be out of it. Such a chance does not come often." " You mean, such a chance for Poland ? " " No — I mean for a conspirator. Y^ou do not understand — how can you ? — the charm of rebellion. Once a rebel — always a rebel. It is like acting. Those who have faced the foothghte once are always wanting to go on again. Wassielewski is seventy years of age, an-d for sixty, or thereabouts, has been conspiring. It would have been a good thing for Poland had some one knocked him on the head when he first began. And a good thing for you." '=^Yhy for me?" ' Because Pioman Pulaski would still be living and still be a great proprietor in Poland ; because you would have been, as he was, a fi-iend and protege of the Imperial Couiii." " How do you know so much about me ? " He laughed. ''I have read current history. I read, and I remember. An5 I know the stoiy of Pioman Pulaski. It was Wassielewski who took your ftither from his quiet chateau, and launched him on the stormy waters of rebellion. Thank him, then, not Ptussia, for all your misfortunes. You ought to be Yery grateful to that old man." lliis was a new view of the case, and, for the moment, a stagger 3r. " That is for the past, Ladislas Pulaski. Now for the future,' *' \Yhat of the fature ? " "It is a Paradise of Fools. In the Future, Poland will be restored ; there wiU be no more wars : nationahties will not he Impressed in the Future " THE CuXSPIRATOR. 1S3 " At all events, it is tetter to believe in the Future than in tho Present." " You think so ? That is because you are young. I believe p the Present because I am old. I love the Present, and work loi it. When I am dead people may say of me what they Hke, and may do what they like. That is their o-mi business. I eat ivell ; I drink good "\nne ; I read French novels ; I smoke excellent tobacco : what more can the Futui'e give me ? Your friend "W'assielewski fought once for the Future. He gets tenp^nce a day for his reward ; he fiddles for sailors ; he conspiies for Poland ; he will die in some obscui-e field leading peasants aimed with sc}-thes against Piussian troops aimed with rifles." *' I would rather be Wassielewski than " "Than I? Cava S'.uis dire. You are young," he laughed, and showed his white teeth. " Meantime, remember what I told you. Where there are thi'ee conspirators there is one traitor. Have no- thing to do with them ; refuse to be mui'dered for Poland ; go on ^vith your music-lessons — anything youlike,butdo not join conspiracies." He seemed to know everjihing, this man. For the first time a strange thought crossed my brain. Could he have received mtelli- gence of the intended rising ? " I mean well by you, Ladislas Pulaski, although you suspect me, and do not love me. That does not matter. I wish to see you kept out of the fatal business which killed your father. ** Crack-brained idiots!" he ejaculated. "There is in the Ki'emlin a box. In the box is a most valuable document, shown to strangers as a curiosity. It is the Constitution of Poland. Reflect upon that fact. Again, there is outside Cracow a mound, erected in immortal memory of Kosciusko. It is a mound so high that it dominates the town. Therefore the Austrians have turned it into a foi-t by which, if necessaiy, to crush the toi;^!. That is another inspiriting fact for a Pole to consider." ** It is like the Austrians." ** Doubtless. Otherwise they would not have built their fort. You would have preferred seeing them sj-mpathise with the fallen hero. England and France have made of Poland a beautiful theme for the most exalted sentiments and speeches. But they do not fight for Poland. Voltaire, who did not share in the general enthusiasm, even wrote a bui'lesque poem on the Poles. Then England put clauses in the Treaty of 1815 to ensure the govern- ment of the country by her Constitution. "WTien Nicholas laughed at the clauses and tore up the treaty, England and France did not fight. Who keeps treaties when he is strong enough to breaV i84 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. them ? "Who goes to war for a broken treaty when he Is not Btrong enough ? ^yhat does the new Czar say to the Poles ? • No dreams, gentlemen.' It is a di-eam to believe that Poland is not abandoned. It is a dream that a few madmen can get up a successful rebellion. Finis Polonice!'* He inhaled a tremendous volume of smoke, and sent it up in the air in a thick cloud. **Look There goes the liberty of Poland. Sa-^ I well, Ladislas Pulaski?" *' No," I replied, bluntly. *' Did you ever hear what a great Pole said when they wanted him to conspire? ^ Mourir i:)Oiir la patrie ? Otii, je comp-end cela ; mais y vivre ? Jamais' And he did neither." I was filled with strange forebodings ; with that feeling of expectancy which sometimes comes over one at moments when there seems impending the stroke of Fate ; I could not rest ; \\ild dreams crossed by brain. Nor was Celia happier. We wandered backwards and forwards in the leafy and shady retreat, restless and unhappy. The great elms about us were bright wdtb theii' early foliage of sweet young June ; the birds were flying about among the branches where they were never disturbed ; the thrush with his low and cheerful note, surely the most contented among bu'ds ; the blackbird with his carol, a bird of sanguine temperament ; the blue tit, the robin, the chaffinch — we knew every one of them by sight because we saw them every day. And the meadows at the foot of the walls were bright mth golden cups. " How can I give it up, Cis ? " I asked. She answered with her sweet sad smile. We had both been brooding in silence. " I am selfish," she said. " I think of nothing but my own troubles. You must not give it up, Laddy. You belong here, to the Captain, and to me. You must not go out among strangers.** I shook my head. " Wassielewski says I must. It would be hard to tear myself away, Cis — not to talk to you ever again, to see you no more." '' ^^^ly no more, Laddy ? " *' I am to give more than my presence to the revolt, Cis. I am to give what Wassielewski gives — my life." Just then we saw him marching along the ramparts towards us. His e^-es were upon us, but he saw nothing. He came nearer and nearer, but he took no notice ; he swung his anns violently to and fro ; his long white hair streamed behind him in the wind ; he carried his black felt hat in one hand ; he halted when he came to WASSIELE WSKI 'S SE CRE T, 1 85 the wall of the bastion, leaned for a moment upon the rampart, gazing fixedly out upon the bright waters of the haitour. What did he see there ? Then he tui'ned and faced us, but spoke as ii he saw us not. " The time is at hand," he murmured, in the low tones of a prophet. " The wolves and the ravens may gather in the woods and wait for the dead. The mothers shall array their sons -thf- wives shall buckle the sword for their husbands, the daughters for their lovers ; once in every generation the sacrifice of the bravest and noblest, till the time comes ; till then the best must die." ** Not Ladislas," cried Celia, throwing herself in fi'ont of me. ** Take anyone else, take whom you please to be murder«^d. But you shall not take my brother Ladislas." He made no answer ; I suppose he did not hear. Presently ho stepped lightly fi'om the breastwork, and walked slowly away, still waving his arms in a soii of triumph. ** He is mad, Laddy," Celia whispered. " You must not tnist your fate to a madman." "He is only mad sometimes, Cis. It is when he thinks too much about the past." *' Laddy, if you go away and leave me ; if Leonard — but that is impossible. God will be good to us — yet. I could not bear my lii'e ■without you." *' Tell me, Cis dear, has he pressed for an answer ? " She shook her head. "It is not that," she said. "He is patient. But it li my father. Do not put my thoughts into words, Laddy. They are too dreadful. And my mother sees nothing." CHAPTER XXV. WASSIELE WSKl's SECRET. The Polish newspapers at one time, and until they were ordered to desist, used to print the words Past and Future in veiy big capitals, while they spoke of the present in the smallest possible type. That was AVassielewski's method. The Past was radiant with Polish glory and Polish struggles set in a black background of Russian atrocities. Like one of the new-fashioned "Arrange- ments in Bro^n," the details were smudged. The Future, after a good deal mere of fighting and bloodshed, was also to be a chi'onicle of great glory. As for the present, it did not exist^ it was a dream. For himself, he was almost the last of the Poles whom I remem' 186 BY CELIA 'S ARDOUR, bered ad a cliild in the old black barrack. The barrack it^lf Aras gone, and the Poles dispersed. Those who were left lived about the town singly. Wassielewski alone among them still nomished thoughts of revenge and patriotism. He was certainly the only man of all the exiled Poles capable of giving life to the cause in a hopeless effort, where the only object was to keep alive the spark of rebellion. He also never flagged or lost heart, because he knew what he had to give, and he knew what he was going to get. I was accustomed to his fanaticism. If he met me when I was a child, he was wont to say, parenthetically, " Ladislas, Poland is not dead, but sleeping," and then pass on without waiting for an answer. He was like a bird which has but one tune ; his one idea was the resuscitation of his country. Sometimes he would stop me in the street, and take off his hat, standing like a prophet of Israel with his deep-set eyes, his long white locks, and his pas- sionate look, keeping me beside him while he whispe^'ed in earnest tones, " Listen, Ladislas Pulaski, there is a stir in her limbs. She ^-ill spring to her feet again, and call upon her childi'en to arise and fight. Then let all the Poles scattered over the broad face of the earth, the Poles of Gallicia, the Poles of the Kingdom- join together. We are the children of those who fought with Kosciusko, and we are the grandchildren of those who follov;ed iSobieski. If we dfe, the tradition of hate will be preserved. Let us die, if Heaven so will it." I was therefore trained in the traditional hatred of Kussia, almost as much as if I had been brought up in Warsaw among those Polish ladies who go in mourning all their days, and refuse to dance or have any joy. But my own feeling was of the passive kind, which is not fertile in action. By temperament as well as pliysique I was inclined to the contemplative life ; if I regarded the Muscovite with patriotic hatred, I was by no means prepared to leave my own ease, and put on the armour of a soldier. Be- sides, to all intents I was an Englishman, ^ith English ideas, English prejudices ; and the Poles were foreigners to me, although 1 was of Polish blood, and — I was a cripple. Wassielewski saw with pity that his most fiery denunciations, his most highl3'-coloured narratives of blood failed to rouse me to the level of his own enthusiasm, and therefore the old conspirator had recourse to his last and most desperate measure. If that failed I wa? hopeless. He told me the secret that had been re- ligiously kept from me by the Captain, Mr. Broughton, and the few who knew it — the tragedy of my birth. I wish he had rot told me ; I ought to have been ppared the WASSIELEIVSKI'S SECRET. 18^ bitter knowledge ; it was witli kindness that it liad been kept from me. For the story fired my blood, and maddened me for awhile with the thirst of vengeance. It was about four o'clock one afternoon — a week before Leonard's return, that I went to Wassielewski's lodgings — at his own request. I went unwillingly, because it pained me to see him 60 eager, and to feel myself so lukewann over the wrongs of my country ; but I went. His one room was furnished with a naiTow bed, a chaii a t;iblo, and a music-stand. A crucifix was hanging on the wall — Was- sielew^ski was a Catholic — a sword hung below it ; at the head of the bed was a portrait in water-colours, which I had never seen before, of a young lady, dressed in the fashion of the Thirties. She had a sweet, calm face, and her eyes, which fell upon me when I entered the room, seemed to follow me about. They w^ere large eyes full of thought and love. " That is your mother, Ladislas Pulaski," said the old man, slowly. "Your sainted mother, one of the martyrs of Poland. Claudia, wife of Ptoman Pulaski." My mother ! I, who never knew a mother, and hardly eve? ga^e her memory one filial thought. A strange yearning came over me as I gazed at the face, and saw it blurred through the tears that crowded in my eye. " !My mother ! Wassielewski, why have you never sho-wn this to me before ? " " Because I waited for the moment to come when I could give you her portrait, tell you her story, and send you forth to kiB Piussians in revenge. Sit down, poor boy. I have much to say, and nothing that is not sad." I sat down with strange forebodings. Put I took the portrait of my mother fi'om the wall. ** You will give this to me, Wassielewski ? '' *' "When I die, or when we go together to Poland." Ah ! The tender sweetness of the face ; the kind face ; the noble face. Ah ! the good and true eyes that saw her son after go many years ; so bright, and yet so sad. For they had the sadness which seems to lie in the eyes of all w^hom death takes young. Death ! How did my mother die ? And while I looked I felt that the poor old man who loved her so much — else he could not have been so careful for me — was looking with me in her face, and dropping tears upon my head. "Do not tell me, Wassielewski — not now — if it pains yoii go much." e88 by CEI.IA '^ AkBOUR. ** That will pain you more," he groaned. ** Day and night foi twenty years it has been ever before my eyes. I was only her humble friend and serrant. You are her son. How shall I tell you the shameful story. " Sit so, Ladislas Pulaski, with your eyes upon the face cf your dead mother — perhaps she \^ill smile upon you as she does upon me sometimes in moonlit nights when I lie awake and listen for the call from Poland. So — so — while I try to tell you how she died, and how your father died." His voice was calm and steady, but his eyes were wild. 1 looked at him no more, but kept my eyes upon the pictui-e, awed and expectant. He took his violin fi'om the case, and played a few bars walking up and down the room. " That is a Polish waltz. We used to dance a great deal in Poland before 1830. We were Russian subjects, it is true, but we were happier than our brothers who were under Prussia. Some of us were young, too — not I. I am seventy- five now, and T am talking of events which took place only five- and- twenty year?; ago. But I was not too old to join in the dances of the people. kcA I was happy in my stewardship of the Lady Claudia. She was an only child, like your father, Pioman Pulaski, and I was the steward of her father, and had special charge of the young lady. There is a girl in this place ; I often see you with her." " Celia T3Trell ? " ** Yes — perhaps. She has the eyes of your mother and her sweet face. I think she must be good, like her. " Lady Claudia was not proud. We went about together, her father and she and I, to all the peasants' festivals. I was but a peasant bom, but she, it is true — oh ! she was a gi-eat lady. When we had a wedding it lasted a week, and we danced all night; we wore our national dress ; we sang our national songs — this was one of them." He played a quaint delightful air, full of sweetness and cha- racter. "We ate our licios and clwlodiec; we laughed and joked. And with the Muscovites we were friends. You would have been a happy child, Ladislas Pulaski, could you have been brought up among your otmi people, and learned their customs — such as they were. Now, it is all changed. The national costume is forbid- den ; we may not sing the Polish hynms — Listen to one. Ah ! you cannot understand the words." He played a hj-nm with soft and melancholy cadences^ crooning WASSIELEIVSKI'S SECRET, 189 rather than singing the words which I could not, as he said, under* stand. " We dance no longer ; even the yonng Polish girls, who loved dancing more than any giiis in the world, dance no more ; we go in moui-ning all our days ; even the young Polish girls, whose dress was so gay and bright, wear black all their lives ; we laugh no more, but sit with weeping eyes ; we go to church, not to pray for good harvests and joy, but for the hour of revenge.'' He paused a moment. " That is what you know already. Up to the age of nineteen, my young lady was as happy as the day is long. She was as happy as God ever allowed any human being to be. For when she was eighteen she was manied — to your father. " Romao Pulaski was worthy of her — he, alone among men. He was of a good descent ; he was as rich, he was as handsome, he was as strong and brave as she was true and good. They were married, and you were bom — a strong and straight-backed boy — a true Pulaski, with cuiiy brown hair, and plenty of it, when you were but a Httle baby. And who so happy as your mother ? All day long she held you in her aims ; all day and all night ; it made the tears come into my eyes only to see how pleased and happy she was with her child. " That lasted two years. Then came the insurrection. Of course your father joined it. How could he keep out of it ? A«id the Lady Claudia wove silk banners, and brought her jewels to buy arms, and gave all she had to the brave rebels. " One day, after three months of fighting, I came back — alone. Your father had disappeared ; our men were all killed ; and the Russians were marching upon the castle to destroy it. I remembered how, once, they set fire to a house full of Poles, and killed all who tried to escape. So I hurried your mother away ; we carried tho child between us, and escaped into the woods, where we wandered backwards and forwards through the bitter cold night, and watched at nightfall the red glow in the sky, which marked our burning castle. So you no longer had a house, you and the Lady Claudia. " Li the morning, finding that the Cossacks were gone, I took her home to our village. It was a place full of women and childi'en ; not a man left in it ; only a few boys of ten and old men of seventy ; but because there were no men, I thought she would be safe. She was brave — always brave — and in her pale face there was no thought of repentance. They weighed the cost, and joined the losing side. Her husband gone — perhaps dead ; her house destroyed ; nothing left in the world but her year-old I90 BY CELIA 'S ARB UR. child. Yet she never lamented. Only the second day, she sent me away. * Old friend,' she said, ' go — and, if you can, bring me news of Roman Pulaski. If he is dead we will mourn for ii.im as those who mourn for the dead in Christ.' *' I left her — in safety, as I thought — I crept cautiously through the «'oods, from village to village, and asked of the women and old men in each place for news. For a time I could leani nothing, but one day I found a newspaper, and read that Roman Pulaski was not dead but a prisoner. ** It would have been bettor for him had he died in battle. You have heard — I have told you over and over again — how the C;^ar Nicholas hated the very name of Pole ; how there was no cruelty practised by his officers, no severity so great towards the Poles that it should displease him. But the case of one who stood so high as your father was too important to be decided upon even by the Archduke Constantino's favourite. General Kuruta. *' Roman Pulaski had been a favourite in the St. Petersburg Court ; he had attracted the notice of the Empress, who hoped to attach him to the Russian cause ; his rebellion incensed tho Czar more than the defection of all the other Poles put together. Imagine, therefore, his satisfaction at having his enemy in his own power. At first he ordered that the prisoner should be shot. This order was immediately afterwards commuted, as he called it, to hard labour in the mines of Siberia for life, which was called the Czar's clemency. " Even the Russians were appalled at such a sentence, which condemned a gentleman to the lowest degradation of companion- ship with criminals. They drew up a petition ; it was represented that the Count Roman Pulaski was young and hotheaded ; they said he had been drawn into the rebellion by disaffected advisers and by misrepresentations. The Czar refused to receive the petition. Then the Empress herself, his o\\ti wife, threw herself on her knees at his feet and implored mercy. " ' You ask mercy for a Pole,' he cried. ' Then this is what you «ihali get for him.' He took the paper containing the sentence, and added to it in his own liundwrituLg, ' And the prisoner shall walk the whole way.'" " Walk ? — walk the whole w^ay from Warsaw to Siberia ? " *' Walk. Think of it quietly if you can, for a while. Try to understand something of what it means. To be one of a gang of murderers and common thieves, because they did not allow him to perform his journey with brother Poles ; to step side by side, manacle to.fiotlier at the wiist, with one of the worst of those WASSlELEWSKfS SECRET. 19V criminals ; to sleep with him at night on a sloping bench ; to ejit and drink with him ; never to be separated from him ; to be driven along the never-ending road by Cossacks armed with whips ; t(» endure every indignity of blows and curses ; to have no rest by day, no repose by night ; to eat the vilest and commonest food ; to spend the winter — it was in the winter that he started— pacing for ever along the white and frozen snow ; to be on the road when spring returned ; to be still walking always with the thieves and murderers, in the glaiing summer. " Take a map, measure the distance fi'om Warsaw to Moscow, from Moscow to Astrakhan, from Astrakhan to Tobolski, and thence to the mines. You will say to yom-self, fifteen miles a day ; that makes — how many months of walking ? Left behind him a wife, young and beautiful as the day ; a boy not old enough yet to do more than look in his father's face, and cry, ' Papa — Wassielewski ! ' " Wife and boy gone — happiness ^one for ever — no hope — before him the long road with the horrible daily and nightly com- panions, and after the road ? Perhaps after the road the worst part of the sentence ; for in the road there is change, in the mines none ; day after day the same work ; day after day the same hopeless toil ; day after day the same gloom ; day after day the same wTetched fellow-prisoners ; the same faces ; the death in life. " They used to go mad, some of them ; they used to commit suicide ; some would murder a soldier or a gaoler for the mere excitement of being flogged to death. Some tried to run away. It was fortunate for those who made their escape in winter, because when night fell they lay down in the snow — out on the fi-ee white snow, w^hich covered them up and hid them after the cold winter wind had fanned them to sleep, and when they were found in the spring they were dead corpses covered over with tall gi-asses and pitiful flowers. Those who neither WTut mad, nor were knouted, nor wern fi'ozen to death, nor committed suicide, dropped away and died day by day, like your father, and for the last few months of their lives, God, more merciful than the Czar, made them stupid." Wassielew^ski stopped. I looked up at him \vith beating heart and flashing eyes. His owti eyes, deep-set and stem, were glow- ing with the intensity of his wi-ath, and the red gash on his cheek was a long white line. ** Go on, Wassielewski," I cried, " tell me more." " I haye thought upon that journey," he continued in a "wlm f ^2 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. voice, •* till I seem to know it every step. And he was so tall, so brave, so handsome. ** News came, later on — not for a long time — about him. More than half the convicts died upon the road ; the man to wl om he was manacled thi-ew himself down upon the road one da}', aid re- fused to move another step ; they flogged him till he coald not have walked if he had tried ; but he still refused, and then they flogged him again until he died. That was part of the Czar's clemency. Your father was one of the few who survived the loumey, and reached Siberia in safety. He sent home by a sure hand a little wooden cross, on which he had carved — the names of Claudia his wife, and Ladislas his boy." " Stop — stop ! Wassielewski, I cannot bear it." ** I shall not stop," he replied, *' you must bear this, and more. There is worse to hear. Do you think it is for nothing that I tell you all these things ? The cross was to show his ^ife that he wa3 alive, and that he still thought of them. But when it ariived his wife was dead, and the child was in exile. The cross," — he opened a little cabinet which stood upon a chest of di-awers — " the cross is here. I have kept it for you." It was a roughly- carved cross, eighteen inches long, of a dark- grained wood, a Latin cross. On the longer limb was canned in letters rude, but deeply cut in the wood, " Roman to Claudia,'* and on the transverse limb the single word, " Ladislas." ** See, from his grave your father calls you." ** From his grave ? " " He died, like all the prisoners in the mines, of hard work, ol despair, of misery, and neglect. He could write no letters, he could receive none ; he had no longer anything to hope for in this world. Roman Pulaski died. Grey, deaf, and blind, my poor old master died. He was not thirty years of age. " When he was dead, lying news was published in the papers by the command of Nicholas. They said that he had been released from the mines, that he had voluntarily entered as a private soldier in a Caucasian regiment, that he had fallen in action. Lies ! Lies ! No one believed them. As if Roman Pulaski would not have wi'itten to Poland for news of his wife and son ; as if he would not have flown along the road as soon as he obtained his libert]', to learn if they were dead or li^-ing. No ! In the darkest and deepest mine, with the foulest thieves of a Muscovite crowd, Roman Pulaski lived out his wretched years, and died his wretched death. And you are his son. "Before you go home, remember this: he died for Poland 5 THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS. 193 ^is death is not forgotten ; for fifty generations, if need be, thd etory shall be told of the Czar's revenge." He paused for a moment. CHAPTER XXYT. THE MASSACEE OF THE INNOCENTS. " I HAVE more to tell you," he went on, -wijoing the beads from his brow wearily. "More to tell you, more that I cannot tell without the bitterest pain, and that will sadden all your after years. But you must learn it, you must leam it, before you become a true child of Poland." He leant over me and kissed my head. " Poor boy ! I thought at one time that you might be spared. The good Captain said to me when you went away to live with Aim, ' Let him not know, Wassielewski ; let him never know.' I said, * He shall never know, Captain ; no one shall tell him : — unless his country ask for him. Then he shall know, because the knowledge will fire the blood, and make him fight like ten men. We are all like ten men when we rise to fight the Muscovite.' So I promised and I prayed of a night to the Lady Claudia, who is sow a saint in Heaven, and hears what sinners ask, that she would guard her son fi'om harm. ' Because,' I said on my knees, * he is not a strong man like your husband or your servant ; ho is afflicted, he is feeble, he is a boy of peace and fond of music, and he has made good friends.' I knelt by the bed, and I looked on that face. "The face changed as I prayed, and sometimes, by candle- light, or by moonlight, I could see the eyes of my mistress shin- ing upon me, or see her lips move as if to speak or to smile. And always happy. Ladislas, happy are those who forgive." " But we cannot forgive," I said. " Never, boy, never. We are God's instruments of wrath. And now the time has come, and Poland asks for you. So I m%isi tell you, Ladislas," he added, pitifully, " I must tell you, in addi- tion, how your mother died. You will think over the story every day for the rest of your life. And you will understand, hence- forth, how Russia may become the Protector of Christians — out of her own country. " It happened while I was away, looking for certain news of your father. I left her in safety, as I thought, among the women and children. Even I did not know how far the Czar could carry bia ravenge. Not even the little children were safe. An order o 194 ^y CELIA 'S ARBOCR. camo from St. Petersburg that all oi-plian Polish childreL—al) those whose fathers had fallen in the insurrection — all who were a burden to the State — should be carried away and brought up in Diilitaiy schools. That was a master-stroke. The littk Poles were to become Russians, to fight their brothers. *• You were not an oq)han, nor a bui'den on the i^tate ; v:'--! did not fall within that law. It was by the great, by the divine cxeuency cf the Czar that that ukase was issued, to save the children whom cveiT Polish household would have welcomed, to relieve the State of a burden which did not exist. Put the order did not affect you, and if I had kno^Mi of it I should not have been distui'bed. Yon were safe, safe with your mother, and she was safe among her owe people, the women who knew her and loved her. *' As the order was issued it had to be carried out, and the sol- diers were sent to find orphan chikben, begging their bread, and a bui-den on the State. But there were none : yet the order must be obeyed. So they began to cany off all the childi'en they could find, whether they were orphans or not, whether their mothers vrept and shrieked, or whether they sat silent, struck with the mad f tupor of a misfortune gi'eater than they could bear. '* AATien Herod slew the infants in Bethlehem, there were some thirty killed. Wlien Nicholas murdered the innocents in Poiand, there were thousands. Perhaps, when one crime becomes as well known as the other, that of the Czar will take its proper rank. " In the afternoon, when the day was sinking, there came clat- tering up to the village where youi^ mother had taken refuge a long calvacade of carts, horses, and cavaliy. In the carts were in- fants ; it was a day of winter, and the snow was hing over the fields and in the branches of the pines. The carts were covered, it is true, and \\ithin them the children cried and moaned, huddled together against each other for warmth ; some mere infants in arms ; some five or six years of age, who carried the smaller ones ; some little toddling things of two. They had spread rough blanketa en the floors of the carts, but still the helpless babes were cold. And their only nurses were the soldiers, who had small pity. " The women of the village came out crying over the poor chil- dren, bringing them bread and milk. With them they carried their ov.'n. They had better have stayed indoors ; better still have fled into the woods, and hidden there till the Cossacks went away. For presently, the soldiers began picking up the children of the village and tossing them, too, into their carts. Among them, led by an older child, wi'apped in furs, was a iitUe boj cf fewo years old ^you, Ladislas Pulaski. THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS. 195 •* You were straight-backed then, poor boy ; straight luiJ comely, like your father " When they rode away, the carts lumbering along the roais, the children crying, the soldiers swearing, they were followed by a stream of women, who shrieked and cried, and first among them all ran and cried your mother — the Lady Claudia. Yes — she was brave when her beautiful home was burned \dih. all the sweeit things she had gro^\Tl up amongst ; but when she saw the boy torn from her, she became, they told me, like a mad woman. They were all mad women. ** It was twenty-four hours later when T returned and heard what had happened. The carts had all that much staii of me ; also I had to be careful, because near the villages I might be recognised and arrested. I followed on the high-road when I could — through forests when I could find a faithful guide — any- how so that I followed. After two days of pui'suit, I found — coui'age, Ladislas — courage, boy — so — drink this water — lie down for a moment — sob and ciy — it mil do you good as it did me, when I found her — the tale is almost told. •' I found her Ipng cold and dead in the road. She was bare- headed, and her long hair lay blo\Mi about her beautiful head ; her face w^as looking with, its pale cold cheeks and closed eyes — looking still along the road in the direction of the carts — one arm was bent under her, one hand upon her heart ; one lay extended, the fingers clutched in the snow, as if she would drag herself along the way by w^hich she could no longer creep ; her shoes had fallen fi'om her feet, she was frozen ; — in the night she had fallen, and, too weak to rise, must have died in the painless sleep that swiftly closes the eyes of those who lie ^ovm in our winter snow. I lifted her and bore her to the edge of the forest, where, because I could not dig her a grave, I made a hole in the snow, and covered her over with branches to keep off the wolves. I knelt by her dead form and called Heaven to witness that such revenge as I could work upon the people who had killed her I would work — it is a vow which I have renewed from day 'to day ; and, after many years, the time has come at last. It always comes to those who have faith and patience. " When I had buried your mother, I hunied along the toad Rtill in pursuit of the train of children. These trains do not move quickly, and I knew that I should come up ^ith it — sooner or later. The roads were veiy still and quiet ; it was not only the pnow that lay on the earth, but the dread and terror of the Cos- eaeks. Death was in the air ; in the woods lay the bodies of tb? 100 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. men : in the villages lay the women weeping ; on the cold roads lumbered the long lines of kibitkas that carried away the children. Somewhere on that road marched the train of convicts manacled wrist to wrist, your father among them. ''Presently — it may have been a day, it ir ay have been an hour, after I left your dead mother, I heard far off the dull dead sound of the carts, the cracking of whips, and the curses of the drivers. Then I stopped to think. K they saw me I should b^ shot, and that would be of no use to any one. Now, if I lo^t sight altogether of the train how could I help you, who were in it? *' Walking and iimning, I kept up close behind the train ; as the night fell again, I could get so close as to hear the wailing of the childi'en, who cried for hunger and for cold. And Providenoe befriended us ; for while I went along the road, I saw something move in the moonlight, and heard a faint C17. Ladislas, it was you. You had fallen from the cart, and they left you there to die. Perhaps they did not see you. Five minutes more, and you would have died, like your mother, of that fatal sleep of frost. "There is nothing more to tell 1 had a long and weai7 journey from village to village before I reached the Austrian fi'ontier, and found a friend who would help us over mountains and by forests to Switzerland. All Em-ope was full of our suffer- ings, and we made friends wherever we went ; there were societies called 'Friends of Poland,' who helped us with money and work; had they given us soldiers and aims we should have asked no other help — we passed from Switzerland to France, and from France we came to England. Always the same kindness fr'om the people; the same indignation; and the same help. I wonder, now, if they have forgotten the cause of Poland ; perhaps, because it is twenty years ago. "Well, as the days passed on, I noticed something. At first it was not much, but as the time went on, I found that your bact ■was round, and that you were — poor boy — deformed. It wae done by the fall fr'om the cai-t. Remember, Ladislas, that you ewe that, as well as evei-jihing else — to the Czar. "WTien you look in the gla..s, say to yom-self, ' But for them I should b( well and straight like my father : ' when you pass a rich m.an'f- house you may say, ' My house stood among woods fairer thau these, with more splendid gardens ; the Czar burnt it, and took my broad lands.' "\\Tien you stand upon the ramparts and see tht lines of convicts, working, silent, in single file, think of youi fiftther dying slowly in the Siberian mines — and every evening and •Tery morning, look at the face of your mother and think of he? THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS. lejy rnslimg along tlie frozen roads, catching at the hands of iiio soldiers, crying and imiDloring — to fall at last for very weakness on the gi'ound and die in misery. ** Hush, boy — hush — strengthen your heart — rouse jcurself — think that your aiTas are strong though your back is round ; yon can fire a gun ; you can kill a Russian ; you can fight, as men fight now ; and you are a Pulaski. "I thought, when I saw what you were, that Heaven had resolved to spare you the common lot of Poles. But that is not go — we must all go now." " Yes, Wassielewski — all must go. I among the rest." " I knew you would say that, when you had been told all. Look me in the face, boy, and swear it." ** I swear it," I murmured, in a broken voice. " By the portrait of my mother, Wassielewski, I will go mth you to Poland, when you claim my promise. You shall take me back to my own people : you shall say to them that I am poor and deformed ; that I can neither march wdth them, nor ride, nor stand upright among their ranks ; that I cannot even speak my owti language ; but that I have gi'eater wTongs to avenge than any of them ; and that T ask leave just to cra\vl among them and load my rifle \\ith fche rest." "Good — boy — good." The old man's eyes had an infinite tenderness in their depths while he took my hand. "I am taking you to Death. That is almost certain. I pray God that we may die together, and that we may die upon a heap of Kussians while the enemy is fl}ing before our faces scattered like the chaff before the wind. Then I can take you by the hand and lead you to Heaven, where we shall find them both, waiting for us — Count Roman and Lady Claudia — and I shall say, ' My master and my mistress, I have brought your boy home to you. And he died for Poland.' " It is not that I have done this of myself," he went on. "For y?ars a voice has been ringing in my ears which at fii'st I could n)t understand, — it was only a voice, and indistinct. Gradually I began to hear and make out what it said. * The time is coming,' it said, ' the time is coming. Prepare to end thy work. The time is coming.' That lasted for a long while, but I was patient, because I knew that 'it was the Lady Claudia who spoke to me at night, and she would have good reason for what she said. And now the voice says more. It says, ' Ladislas must be told ; Ladislas must go \vith you ; let Ladislas, too, fight for Poland.' We must obey a voice from Heaven, and so I have told you. i ^ BY CELT A 'S ARBO UR. ** Piemcrilier, I can promise von notliing, — not even glory, not '^en a name. You may be killed in a nameless figlit apon a Tillage green ; you may follow your father to Siberia ; I know not. I partly read the futui-e, but not all. I see fighting. I hear the Polish h}Tan ; there are the accursed gi-ey coats, there is the firing of guns, and all is finished. Among the patriots I do not see you, Ladislas, and I do not see myself. "You have sworn, and I -ftill give you besides your father's cross, your mother's portrait. Take them with you to-night, put them in some safe place, pray mth them in yoiu' hand, night and day. Remember, you are no longer a music-master in an English toTVTi; you are a child of Poland, and you teach music till you hear your country's call. And now, farewell ; wait and expect." "Play something, Celia, my dear," said the Captain. " Soothe his spirit with music. Poor boy, poor boy 1 He should not have told you." I went home m a dream, bearing with me the precious relies which Wassielewski gave me. I think I was mad that evening. It was nine o clock when I reached home, and Celia had waited for me all the evening. But I had no eyes for Celia, and no thought for anything but what I had heard. And then, in such language as came to me, with such passion and tears as the talo called up within me, I told my story and once more renewed my vow. There vras no sleep for me that night, but in the morning I fell into a slumber broken by unquiet dreams. There was the lumbering, grinding roll upon the fi-ozen snow of the children's train escorted by the mounted soldiers ; there was the figure of my mother, lying stone dead on a road of ice ; there was the gang of convicts limping along a road which seemed to have no begin- ning and no end. * * * ♦ * ♦ * They would not let me go to my pupils ; my hands were hot, my brow was burning. Celia came to sit ^\-ith me, and we talked and wept together. I was fain to tell my story all over again. Sho held my hand while I told it, and when it was finished I saw in her face no wrath, none of the madness "uith which Wassielewski filled my soul the day before, but only a great sadness. I was still mad for revenge, but somehow I felt instinctively as if Celia's soitow was not a higher thing then the old Pole's thirst for revenge. Aui THE DA V BEFORE. igt I was ashamed in presence of her sad and s^mpatliismg eve*? to r*^ new my oath of vengeance. *' Poor Laddy ! " she said, *' T\Tiat a tale of misery and viTong Let us pity the soldiers who had to carry out such an order. Let as believe that the Czar did not know — could not know — how hi a order was obeyed. Do not dwell upon it, dear. Do not let cmel and revengeful thoughts grow out of the recollection. ' Yengeanco is mine,' you know. Your mother's face — how beautiful it is ! — does not make you think of revenge? See how calmly the sweet eyes look at you ! And oh ! dear, dear, Laddy, make no more rash vows, at least till Leonard comes home. And it wants but thi^ea days— three short, short days, and we shall see him again, and all ^ill go well -^ith us once more." The Captain said nothing, but in his sad face I saw that he sor- rowed for me, and in his grave eyes I read the warning which did Qot leave his lips. CHAPTER XXYIL THE DAY BEFORE. They were veiy patient ^ith me, the Captain and Celia, while tbo madness was in my blood. They let me talk as mldly as I pleased, Hnd did not argue. But on the third day Ceha put her fool down. " I will hear nothing more, Laddy," she said. " You have spent three days in dreams of bloodshed and battle. Talk to me about your mother, if you please. I shall never tii-e of looking at her eyes. They are like youi'S — when you do not madden yourself with the recollection of that story. Let us picture the sweet lifa in the Polish village with the chateau beside it, and the girls danc/ing. Let us play their waltz, or let its go up to the vrall and talk of Leonard. But no more battles." It was a wise prohibition, and I had to obey. My thoughts were directed into a new channel, and the furies which had taken pos- session of me were, for the moment at least, expelled. Four days, then, to the twenty- fir. t. Four long, tedious days. Then three. Then the days became hours, and at last we were only a single ^ay — only four- and- twenty hom-s from the fixed time when Leonard ■should come back to us. "In riches or in poverty" — somehow, in spite of all obs-tacles — he was to return to Celia's Arbour on the €7ening of the twenty-first of June, 1858. How would he «om« back, aad what would be his histoiy ? too BY CKLIA 'S ARBOUR, "If he is changed, Laddy," said Celia, "he 'ftill find us changel tco. You, poor boy, under a promise to go out ai>4 get killed for Poland. Not that you shall go, in spite of the old patriot. And 1 — what am I, Laddy ?" ** You ai'e like Andromeda chained to the rock, waiting for the monster to come and devour her. Or you are like an Athenian maiden going out to the youth- devouring Minotaur. But patience; Perseus came to Andi'omeda, and Theseus killed tht Minotaur. I fancy the Minotaur must have been a tall and rather imposing animal to look at, six feet high at least, with a heavy white mous- tache, and a militaiy carriage. And very likely he wore blue spectacles out of doors." *• And what was Theseus like ? " *' I think we T\ill call him Perseus, and our monster shall be Andi'omeda's terror. There is an ugly story, you know, about Theseus and Ariadne." Cis flushed a sweet rosy red. ** Then tell me what Perseus was like." ** He was about as tall as the monster, perhaps not quite. H^ was very handsome, had curly broTMi hair, perhaps he had a moustache, he was about foui'-and-twenty years of age ; he was greatly esteemed by everj^body because he was so brave and strong ; there was a mystery about his birth which only made him more romantic; there was, you know, about a good many of the ancients, Theseus, for instance, Achilles, (Edipus — the damsels all fell in love with him because there was no one in all Greece or the Isles half so handsome ; but he kept himself away from all of them. I believe there is a story about some Queen ofl*ering him half her tiirone if he would marry her, but he would not — declined in the most respectfal, but unmistakable terms. ^ATien she received his answer, and sent half-a-dozen men to murder him — because terrible is the ^\Tath of a woman whose beauty has been despised — he stood with his back against a wall, with his shoi-t sword held so, and with his shield held in the other hand, he made mincemeat of all those six murderers together, and went on his way without further molestation. There was a Drj^ad once, too, who met him in an Ai'cadian forest, and profi'ered him, in return for his love, half the balance of her life. She said she didn't know how much there was left to run, but she thought about fifteen hundred years or so, when she and her sister, and the great God Pan, would all be snufi'ed out together. Perseus told her that Love was immortal and not a slave to be bought or sold. So he passed away, and the Drj-ad, sitting under a tree, slowly pined and pined till Oi'phacs THE DA Y BEFORE. 20i foTtnd her at last changed into the strings of an ^Eolian haijr, and sighing most melodiously when the western hreeze blew upon it Perseus " " Laddy, talk sense." " I can't, Cis. I feel as if Leonard was coming home to lift a great weight fi'om both our hearts. I do not know how. I fee) it. Perseus, however, was not callous to female loveliness, only he had given his heart away five years before, Cis, five years before." " Laddy, I forbid you to go on." " It is not a made-up stor}', Cis. I am certain it is all tme. Arthur and Barbarossa are coming some day, to remove th^ miseries of the people. 'V\Tiy not Leonard to take away our troubles ? We had no troubles when he went away. Now we are hampered and fettered, by no fault of our o\nti, and I see no wav out of it." ** Does the Captain know that it is so near ? " ** Yes, he has not spoken of it to me, and he Tvill not, I an? sure. But Uv"* knows, and is looking forward. Last night I heard his step for an hour in his room, after he had gone to bed. He was thinking oi Lieonard, and could not sleep. And this morning he told Mrs. Jeram that you were going to stay all night to morrow." " Did he ? The kind old Captain ! " ** And that there would be another guest, and she was to get supper, a magnificent supper. The other guest, he explained, was to have his own room, and you were to have the spare room. Then I intei'posed, and said that a better arrangement would be to put the stranger into the spare bed in my room, so that he would not have to turn out. He grumbled and laughed, but ho gave way." " So he knows — but no one else." *' No one else ; not even poor old Mrs. Jeram." ** We have gained a little time," said Celia ; " Herr Raumer has not asked yet for my decision ; but he has not given me up ; and I am sure he will not. My father says nothing ; but he starts if I eome upon him suddenly. How ^^11 Leonard be able to help us ^ith him ? " How indeed ? And yet, somehow he was going to help. I ^^ B Y CELT A 'S ARBO UK . " He will help you, somehow, Cis. Of that he verr sure. But he cannot help me." ** He shall help you, T.adcly. Do you think we arf> going to hit you go off to be killed "? " "I must," I said. "I have partly got over the reicigefii] madness which filled my soul when Wassielewski told me r.iy story, I can think of a Russian, now, without wanting to tear his lieart out. But the old man is right ; I owe my life to the same cause in which my father and my mother lost theii'S. If I can do anything for Poland, I must. And if Wassielewski tells me that it -vsill be good for my countiw if I go out to get shot in his name, why I must do that. And I have sworn to do it on the cross that my father carved." " Sworn ! Laddy, of what power is an oath made under those conditions ? You were maddened vrhen you swore that oath. That old enthusiast ought never to have told you the stoiy." " Cis, dear. If I were to break that oath, it would break his heart. There is no way out of it at all. I must go." That was the real reason. Heaven knows that during the first transport of rage, while before my eyes moved, visible in all the details, the long line of carts full of children, escorted by cavalry, and followed by shrieking women, running blindly along in the snow, and among them my poor mother, there was no scheme of vengeance, however mad, into which I wouldn't have plunged with joy. With calmer thoughts came better judgment, and I hope I shall not be accused of insensibility because I listened to Celia when she said that the perils of hopeless insurrection were not what my mother's death called for. There is no blacker stoiy in all the black record of Russia than that robbeiy and murder of those helpless childi'en ; no wail yet resounding within the vaults of space than my poor mother's last ciy for her stolen child. And yet, sweet pure eyes ; tender face ; lips of soft and com- passionate mould — would you -^ish in retui'n for youi* death another tale of misery and retribution ? And if I did not go when the old man should think it the time fco summon me, I should break his heart. It was the dream of his old age to caiTy back vAih. him the son of his murdered mis- tref<5. He thought that because his own life had been spent in brooding over that cniel crime, all good Poles at home had done the same thing, and he di-eamed that he had but to show himself with me beside him to say, "This is the child of Roman Pulaski, tortured to death in the mines, and Claudia, who died of cold and lAtigue b-ying to save the child," and that thousands would ris« THE DA Y BEFORE, 203 from all quarters to die for Poland. For at least he entcrtali^ed no illusions of possible success. Poland could not free herself in his lifetime ; of that he was quite certain. All the morehono"!* to those who, knowing the worst, were ready to brave the ineyitibl^. "V\Tien a man fixes his thoughts incessantly upon one thing, when day and night he is always dwelling upon a great aim, there comes or seems to come unto him, when his mind is charged with fignres of the present and the future, the gift of prophecy. The mist which falls upon the spirit of the Highland seer is gloomy always, and full of woe. The prophet is always like him who would prophecy no good concerning Ahab, but only evil. As for me, I think : " Too dearly would be won The prescience of another's pa^n. If purchased by mine own." Six years ago, when the maddest of all modem revolts, that of the Commune of Paris, was staggering to its doom in blood and flame, there was one man among the leaders, Delescluze by name, who oat of a Hfe of over sixty years had spent between thirty and forty in prison, for the sacred cause of the people. T^sice had he travelled backwards and forwards on that cruel and stifling voyage between Brest and Cayenne. Many times had he been arrested on suspicion ; he had been hauled before judges, brow- beaten, scofi'ed and punished ; had he been in Prussia he would nave had the administration of stick, with those cufi's, boxes of the ear, kicks, and addresses in the third person, which illustrate the superior sweetness and light of the land of Geist. Had he been in Russia he would have had the knout. As he was in France he only got prison, with insuflicient food, and wretched lodging. There came the time of the Commune, prophesied by Heine, after the siege, when Delescluze for the first time in his life got his chance. It was really only the ghost of a chance, but he did his best with it. Of course he failed, as we know, and became, together with his party, a bword of execration, by him quite undeseiwed. WTien it was apparent, even to him, the most fervent believer in the Commune, that there really was no longer any hope left, the poor old man was sent forth to meet Death. He would not wait to be brought before a Court-mai-tial, to have more questions to answer, more -fitnesses to hear examined, to listen to more speeches, to wait in suspense for the sentence which would do him to death, to go back to a miserabla prison, and sit there till the hour struck, when in the cold grey of the spring dawn he was to be placed with his back agaiiist IL0 waD of La t04 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUk, Roquette and receive the bullets of the soldiers. All this ^as too wearisome. But he had to die. His work in the world was over. He had striven for the best ; he had maintained his own ideal oi pui'ity and singleness of purpose ; as he had lived for the Cause, BO he would die amid its djdng struggles. He descendoi into the street, took off his hat, as one should in the presence of Death, of God, and of the Judgment, and walked without a word along the way till he came to the first ban-icade. Up to this he climbed, and then standing, his long white hair streaming in the wind, his sorrowful eyes looking upwards, his face full of that great love for humanity which made him half divine, he awaited the bullet which was not long in coming. "When I read the story of the death of Delescluze, when 1 conversed with a man who actually saw it, I thought of poor old Wassielewski, for such was he, as unselfish, as simple, as strong in his comdction, and careless of himself, if, by spending and being spent, he could advance the Cause. With brave words and a great pretence at cheerfulness 1 comforted poor Celia, and prophesied her release ; but I could not feel the assurance I pretended. How could Leonard, if he were ever so successful, fi-ee her so as to leave her father safe from the German's revenge ? How could he release me fi-om the oath which bound me to the old Pole, and yet not darken the last years of his life T^dth the thought that the child of the Lady Claudia was a traitor to his mother's cause ? We had been living in a fool's paradise, expecting such great things ; and now at the very time when they ought to be coming off, we were face to face with the cold tmth. '* We must not think of ourselves any more, Laddy." said Cis, as if reading my heai-t. "If Leonard can help us, he will. At all events, he will be on our side. I shall wait patiently until I am called upon to give my answer, and then, Laddy — and then if for my father's sake " — she broke off and left the sentence unfinished. "You must both of you try not to think badly of me." "We shall nerer think badly of you, whatever you do, Cis," I said, a little huskily. "Come home with me, Laddy," she said, rising fi-om the grass. "It is nearly eight o'clock. See, the tide is high ; we shall have even-thing to-morrow evening just as it was five years ago ; a splendid evening ; a flowing tide ; the light of a midsummer sun- set on the water ; the buttercups and daisies out upon the meadow ; the long green grass wa\-ing on the ramparts and gi'owB up befora THE DA Y BEFORE. 205 Oie montli of the cavern ; you and I, dear Laddy, standing by the old gun, waiting for him. ^Vhat was it he promised ? ' In velvet or in rags — in riches or poverty, I will come to see you on the 21st of June, 1858.' And now it is the 20th. Laddy— tell me how he wiU come." "We shall see him fii'st," I said, "crossing the meadow, just doTVTi there. We shall know him hy the backward toss of hig head. Presently we shall see his broT^ii curls, and then his eyes and his mouth. He Tsill see us then, and his lips and eyes -vsill laugh a welcome before he runs up the slope. Then he will spring upon us in his old way, and — and — where he sa^d good-bye, Cis, he kissed you." "We are older now," said Cis. "And do not be silly, sir. *• As if men want to kiss like children !" "It depends, my dear," I replied wisely, " on the object. How- ever, that will be the manner of his return. And then we shall all three march off to the Captiin's, Leonard between us ; and should be singing as we went, but for the look of the thing ; Leonard will be asking us questions about the dear old Captain and everybody — wait — Cis — wait for four- and- twenty hours." I went home with her. Herr Raumer was talking to Mrs. Tyrrell in the drawing-room. We had a little music. The German played and sang one or two of his Yolkslieder in his most sentimental manner, but we listened veiy little. Mr. Tyrrell was in his office, and I crept down to see him. He was sitting in an attitude of profound melancholy before a pile of papers. " Shut the door, Laddy, boy," he said weai'ily. " VvTio is upstairs ? " " Herr Eaumer, Mrs. Tyrrell, and Cis." He sighed. " He is beginning to worry about an answer. What would Celiasay?" " Celia would be made wretched for life. It cannot be. Is it quite, quite necessary? " " Thore is one way out of it," he murmured. I stood still and looked at him. " What is the one way out of it ? " " There are two ways — Death and Dishonour. Let no one know, Laddy. Think of me as you must, only think that for no other cause would I ask this thing of my child. Poor Celi* I Poor CeUa ! " He drew his hand across his forehead. i^ BY CELIACS ARBOUR. *' I cannot sleep — I cannot work — I can think of ncibing el&«. Do you believe I like to have that man here — that cold and selfish zyiiiQ, — that I willingly tolerate him in my house, to say nothing of seeing him hang about my daughter ? But I am a lost man, Ladislas. I am a lost and guilty man, and I must abide my lot." A lost and guilty man ! And this the most successful man in the to^^-n 1 lie pointed to the safe painted outsi^le " Hen- Raumer." *' The papers are there — locked up. If I only had the key fci one minute Ceha would be fi'ee." CHAPTER XXVm. THE TWENTY- FIRST OF JUNE. Tna day fulfilled its promise of the evening : it was one of those most perfect and glorious days which sometimes fall in June, and make that month, in full summer and yet with all the hope and promise of the year before it, the most dehghtful of any. I rose early, because I could not sleep ; but I found the Captain up be- fore me, at work in the garden. But he prodded the ground neiTOusly, and made little progress. At prayers he opened the Bible at random, and read what fell first before his eyes. It was a chapter of the Song of Solomon, and as he read his voice faltered. " ' The watchmen that go about the city found me : to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth ? " ' It was but a little that I passed fi'om them, but I found him whom my soul loveth ? ' " Then he stopped, having read only the first four verses of the chapter ; and to him, as to me, they seemed to be of good omen. He did not mention Leonard's name, but he present!}' went up- ^tairs, and I knew he was gone to see that the room was in order for him. He brought out ceiiain articles of family plate whieb only saw the light on grand occasions : and I caught him making extensive and cos+ly preparations with a couple of bottles of cham- pagne. All day he was very serious. Nor did he, as usual, go out upon those mysterious rounds of his, of which I have spoken. " Celia will come here to dinner, sir." " Ay— ay . The earlier the better. Celia cannot come too early or too often." He sat dowTi in his wooden arm-chair aq<^ began to nurse his leg in a meditative fashion. < Laddy Celia Tyrrell is a very beautiful girl." THE TIVENTY-FIRST OF JUXE. 207 •* Hare yon only found that out to-day, sir ? " I asked. " Why, gfto is the most beautiful girl in all the world, I believe." " I was thinking — Laddy — if things are all right — and they must be all right, or else he would have written — when he comes home — he might — I know I should have done so at his age — be might — fall in love with her. She must have a good husband, the best husband that we can find for her. Look high or low, Laddy, I can see no one but Leonard that will do for her." " But you have not seen him yet. And he may have fallen ia love "^-ith someone else." " Nonsense, boy. As if I did not Iznov: what he is like. Curs don't gi*ov\^ out of lion's cubs ; you can't tura a white boy into a nigger j and a Portugce, as every sailor knows, is a Portugee by birth." Then V\'e began, as we had done the night before, speculating how the wanderer would return. He was above all things, accord- ing to the Captain, to be strong, handsome, and successful. Celia came to our midday dinner, and when it was over we moved into the garden, and sat under the old mulbenw-tree. The sun was streaming fall upon the sheet of water before us, and a light breeze crisped the surface. We spread the rugs on the grass, and all three sat dov-n npon them, Celia hing with her head on the Captain's knees, v.hile he sat with his back against the tree. It was peaceful and quiet, save for the boom of the mill hard by, and to that we were accustomed. The excitement of the day touched Celia's cheek with a light flush, and heightened the brightness of her eyes. I had never before seen her more perfectly beautiful than on that afternoon. The Captain's eyes rested en her face, and his hand vras in he? hair with a gentle caress. *' This was where you were sleeping," she said in a low voice, ** when he fii'st came." We did not say "Leonard" on this day, because our minds were fall of him, and a pronoun was quite as useful as the noun. The Captain nodded his head. ** Just here, my dear," he replied, " and just such an afternoon as this, without the breeze, and maybe a thought warmer. It was in August, when the mulberries are ripe. I came out after dinner. My dinners were solitary enough then, before I had the boys to mess with me, and I sat under the tree and smoked my pipe. Then ] fell fast asleep. ^Tiat woke me was the mulberries dropping on my face, and then I looked up and saw the pretty rocriie laughing at me, with his mouth fall of mulberries, and his U^^e iind hands stained black with mulberry juice. Ho ! bo f Rrd 2oS BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. he began to laugli at once. "WTiat a boy he was ! "What a boy \ Never any boy like him for spirit. A thousand pities he wasn't a Eailor." *' And you never lost sight of him after that ?' said Celia. "No, my pretty — never after that. It was a matter of a year or two though before I found out that I was a lonely old bachelor, and wanted the boys with me. Wanted them badly, you may be sure. We had a good spell of fine weather, those years you were both of you at school, Laddy, hadn't we ?" " Indeed we had, sir." " I was at sea when I was thirteen, and I hadn't much exper- ience of shore-going boys till then. To be sui*e, I was always fond of watching boys at play, and talking to them — perhaps thi'owing in a word on the gi'eat subject of duty. But Lord ! the things I learned from those two ! The pretty ways of them when they were next door to babies ! and their growing up to be boys together bit by bit. Then how they g^-ew to be self-reliant, and how we all grew to understand each other! My dear," the good old man continued simply, " if I were to give you what is best for all of us, man or woman, I would give you children. You can't distrust the Lord when you have felt what it is for the little children to trust and love you. I never had a wife, but I have had two boys all the same. Both good sons to me — Laddy, there, will not be jealous — and to each his gifts ; but Leonard was bom, like Nelson, without fear." " Always a brave boy, was he not. Captain ? " Celia murmured. *' It's a rare gift. Most of us leani by experience how to go into action -uithout fear, and a fight is a red-letter day for soldiers as well as sailors. But Leonard would have gone in laughing as a middy. It's a beautiful thing to see a plucky boy ! You re- member how he used to come home after a fight, Laddy ? The other boy always struck his colours, eh ? — and generous and thoughtful wdth it, too. \Miy did I ever consent to his going away for five years?" " Patience!" said Cis. ** Tell me more about him." We kept the Captain amused all the afternoon with yarns of Leonard's school life, while in the quiet garden the big bumble bees droned, and the hollyhocks turned their great foolish faces to the smi, while the mill went grinding as the water ran out with the tide to the deep-toned music of its heavily-turning wheels, and the golden sunshine of June lay upon the rippled waters of the mill-dam, and lit \\dth fiashes of dazzling light the leaves of the irees upon the little island redoubt. THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 209 At six I brought out a table and chaii'; and we ba,il toa in the garden, also under the mulberry tree. Cis made it for us ; sh^ always made it so much better than we did. And then the time began to drag, and the Captain to look at his watch fui-tively. Presently the mill stopped, and everything becams quite still. That meant that it was seven o'clock. Then Celia and I rose from the table. " We are going for a walk, Captain," said Cis, ** Mayn't I go too ? " he asked ^dstfully. She shook her head with decision. '• Certainly not. You have got to stay at hon.^. "We have got to go to the wails and — and walk about there — and talk. And we shall not be back till a quarter to nine, or perhaps later. Per- haps, Captain, we shall bring you some news — Oh ! What news will it be ? " she cried eagerly. No one on the Queen's Bastion, when we got there ; Celia's Arbour as deserted as any outwork of Palmp-a ; no one on the long straight stretch of wall between the gate and the Bastion — not even a nurse ^ith childi-en ; and our o^n corner as gi-een and grassy, as shaded by the gi-eat elm, as when, five years ago, Leonard bade us farewell there. Nothing changed here, at any rate. '* Laddy," whispered Celia, in awe-struck tones, •' suppose aftei all. he should not come." *' He ^^ill come, Celia ; but we are an hour before our tim@." " Oh ! what a long day it has been ! I am selfish. I have been able to think of nothing but my own troubles until to-day. And Qow they seem to be all forgotten in this great anxiety," We walk up and do^\-n the quiet wall, talking idly of things un- important, talking to pass the time. Eight strack from half-a-dozen clocks, fi'om the clock in the Dockyard, the clock on the Ordnance Wharf, the clock of St, Faith's, the clock of St. John's, from all of them. The splendid sun was sloping fast towards Jack the Painter's Point ; the gi'eat harbour, for it was high tide, just as on that night when Leonard went away, was a vast lake of molten fire, v^ith sapphii-e edging below our feet. We leaned against the rampart and looked out but we were no longer thinking of the Harbour or the light upon it. Five years since he left us, a tall stripling of seventeen, to seek his fortune in the T\ide and friendless world. Five years. Celia was a little girl who was now so tall and fair. In her, at least Leonard would not be disappointed. And I ? Well, I suppose I was much '■-he same to look at. And for my fortunes, there wa« *ittle to teU and nothing to be proud of. Only a music- masier u 210 BY CELIA 'S ARBO UR. A provincial town , only an organist to a chuicii ; a composer oi simple songs to please myself and Celia. But what would he be like ? What tale would he have to tell us ? ^Vhat adventures to relate ? In what part of the world had his fortunes drifted him ? Five years. They make a girl into a woman ; a boy into a man ; five links in the chain of time ; time to make new friends, to form and lose new loves ; to strengthen a pui-pose ; to make or mar a ''.fe. Had they made or had they marred the life of Leonard ? " What will he say when he sees us ? " murmui'ed Celia. " He will remember, Cis, the words of Spencer — ** * Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before ? So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adorned with beauty's grace and virtue's store."* ** Don't, Laddy, please. Let us talk only of him until ha eomes," *' ^^Qiere is he now?'* she whispered, looking round. "On the road walking quickly, so as to keep his promise to the minute ? Is he in the train ? Do you think he came last night, and has been hiding away in an hotel all day for fear of meeting us before the time? Oh, Laddy, let us move about at least. I cannot stand here doing nothing." The minutes passed slowly on. I looked at my watch. *' Twenty minutes more. Courage, Cis! Only twenty minutes. Where are yom- thoughts now ? " *' I was thinking of the dear old time. Listening to his talk about the great world — it lay over there, you remember, behind the harbour and the hill. Wishing I had been a man, to go with him and fight the world beside him." '* Five years ago, Cis ! Why, Leonard may have lost his faith in his o^Ti power, and " " Don't Laddy. Not now. It is all we have to believe in. i^nd — and — Laddy — please— do not tell him what you told me. " • I understand, dear Cis. I have forgotten that I ever told ** Not but that you made me happ}^— happy and proud ; any girl would be proud to think of having had, if only for a day, such a hope and such a love. But he must never know. Aiid yet I should 1)6 ashamed to hide things fi-om him. *' ** Until you tell him yourself then, Cis." I looked at my watch again. Heavens ! had Time tumbled down and hurt himself, so that he could only crawl ? Oidy R (^aai-ter-past eight. Fifteen minutes more. THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 211 •* WTiere are you now, Cis ? " •*I am thinking what a difference he will see in us, and we in him. Why, I was only a child, a girl of foui'teen, then, and you were only fifteen," *' At least," I said, " ho will see no difference in me. I am no taller and no straighter. But you — oh ! Celia, if you o^ly kne^ how beautiful he will think you ! " '* That is only what you think, dear Laddy. Beautiful ? Oh ! if I ever had any thoughts that are not common or mean, it is because you have put them into my heart. AATiat should I be now, if I had not had you, all these five long years ? " She stooped, and kissed my cheek. I could endure that now — I could kiss her in return — without that old passionate yearning which, a veiw little while before, had been wont to set the blood tingling in every pulse at veiy sight of her. The monks of old were quite right in one thing, though, as a Protestant, I am bound to think that they had a very coufased and imperfect sort of perception. I mean that you may, by dint of resolution and patience — they would call it prayer and penance — quite beat down and entii'ely subdue any inclination of the heart or intellect. They started with the supposition that every man was bound to fall in love with evei-y woman. That is absurd, but an intelligible position on the score of monkish ignorance. I, for my part, vras only in danger once of falling in love. Having seen, known, and learned the sweet nature of one woman, it was not possible that I should ever fall in love ^\ith another. We kissed each other on the lips, and then we sat with clasped hands upon the sloping bank, waiting. At last the clock stnick the half-horn", and we turned together and looked across the gi-een. Suddenl}- came a figui'e, a ragged figure, walking swiftly across the grass. Yes, as I had prophesied, by the backward fling of his head, by the proud carriage, by the firm and elastic walk, we knew him. Celia clasped my hands com-ulsively, and I hers ; and before she sprang to her feet she whispered : *' See, he is ragged — he is poor — he has failed. Not a word, not a look, Laddy, to let him see what we feel. Oh, my poor Leonard ! my poor Leonard ! " She made a little moan, and then ran forward to meet him. For it was Leonard himself and no other, who, at sight of us, cama bounding up the grass slope TNith quick and eager step, and in a moment was with us, holding Celia by both his hands, and gazing in her face with eyes that spoke of love — of love — of love. Wlio SI3 BY CELIACS ARBOUR, could Diistalie tliat look ! Not Celia, who met the look once, and theD di'opped her eyes shamefaced. Not I, who knew by sad experience what love might be, how strong a king, how great a conqueror. In one glance we caught the melancholy truth. He was in rags ; there was no petty pretence of genteel shabbiness ; there was no half-failure, he was in rags absolute. He wore a battered old felt hat, the brim of which, partly torn, hung over his right eye ; he had on a coat which was a miracle for shabbiness ; it was gi-een where it ought to have been black ; shiny where it had once exhibited a youthful gloss ; and it had a gi'eat hole on the left shoulder, such a hole as would be caused by canylng a bundlf on a stick. The coat, an old frock, was fastened by the two sur- viving buttons across his chest. One could see that he had no waistcoat, and his trousers were in the last stage of dilapidation and decay. He wore neither collar nor neck-tie. But it was Leonard. There was no mistake about him. Leonard come back to us on the day that he promised. Leonard, di'essed as a beggar and stepping like a prince. " Celia !— Laddy ! " '* Leonard ! " Both hands ; not one. And as he clasped her tight she drew nearer to him, and like a child who holds up his face to be kissed, she looked up at him. But there was no kiss. Men, as Celia said, are not like children, always wanting to kiss. Oho ! Cis, as if you knew i Man's love is like the morning sun, which, falling on his bride, the earth, draws up sweet mists which rise to hide her blushes. Leonard was come back, and now I understood how in her mind Leonard was to make all straight, because Leonard loved her, and she loved Leonard. And he a beggar. He got one hand free, and gave it to me. "Laddy! Well? You at least are not changed. But look at Celia ! " *' Take off your hat, Leonard, "she said. "Let us look at your face. Laddy ! He is just the same, except for that." She laughed, and patted her own upper lip with her fingers. Leonard had grown a great moustache. "And his face is bronzed. Where have you been, sir, to get your face so bro\Mi ? Fie ! what a bad hat ! A great hole in the side of it, and look what a coat to come home in ! I)ear, dear, before we take him home to the Captain we must dress tiim up. What a pity he is too tall to wear your things, Laddy. Now we have found him again we "v^ill never let him go. Will we ? He is our prodigal son, Laddy, who has come back to us — back to us," and here she broke do^ra, and burst into tears. " We have THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE. 213 SO longed for you, have -^e not, Laddy ? And the time has been so weaiy, waiting for you." ** But I am come at last, Celia," he said, with eyes that filled- • I had never before seen a tear in Leonard's eyes — " I have kept my promise. See — in rags and tatters, "uith empty pockets." He turned them out. "What does it matter," she cried, "so long as re have you, how you come ? " ♦' And the Captain ? " " He id well," I told him, " and waiting at home for us all. Come, Leonard." He hesitated, and looked -vNith a humorous smile at his Jagged habiliments. " AMiat will the Captain say to these rags ? Dear old boy, it is Qot as he expects, is it ? Kor as you expected, Celia." " No, Leonard, I am sony for your ill-success. But it wasn't your own fault ?" "No, certainly not my own fault," he replied, with a queer look. "Not my o\xn fault. I have done my best. Celia and Laddy ! How jolly it is to say the two names over again with their o^vners in the old place ! And how often have I said them to myself, thousands of miles away," — he had been a traveller, then. " Suppose you two go first to the Captain, and prepai'e him. Will not that be best ? Say that he must not be surprised to find me coming home in a sad pHght — all in rags, you know — tell him about the hat, Laddy, and then — I will only be a quarter of an hour- after you — he won't be so very much shocked. Will you do this ? Good. Then, in a quarter of an hour, I will be there." He caught Celia's hand and kissed it, looking her in the eyes half lovingly, half amused, and ran do^^^m the slope as lightly as if ho was come back a conquering prince. We looked at each other in stupefaction. "Was it really Leonard ? Was it a strange dream ? " Can you understand it, Celia? " "Not yet, Laddy, dear. Do not speak to me just now.'* " Hig hands were white," I went on, unheeding, " like the hands of a gentleman ; his boots were good and new, the boots of a gentleman ; and his face — did that look like the face of a beggar. Celia ? " " Always the same face, Laddy. The dearest face in all the world to you and to me, isn't it ? Poor and in rags. Pcor — poor C^eonard ! " 214 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. *■" I dou't know," I replied, '' whether your face isn't dearer to me than Leonard's. That is because I have seen more of it, perhajiiS. But why is he in such a dreadful plight ? He said he had been thousands of miles away. He must have been an emigi-ant in America, and failed." Of coiu'se that was it. He must have gone to America as an emigrant and failed. We crept slowly and sadly back, like a pair of guilty children. TMiat were we to say to the Captain ? Who should break the news? CHAPTER XXIX. "a surprise." The Captain, dressed in his Sunday blue unifonn coat and white ducks, was sitting at his table, pretending to read. At least he had a book open before him, but I observed that it was upside do^-n, and it was not usual with the Captain to read with the book in that position. But it was getting dark ; the sunset gun had gone half an hour before ; and the t^\ilight of the longest day was lying over the garden and the smooth waters of the Mill Dam. Perhaps, therefore, the Captain could see to read no more, and, indeed, his eyes were not so good as they had been. The candles were on the table, but they were not lit ; and the cloth was laid for supper. He had been listening to oui- footsteps, and when we came in looked up ^uth a quick air oi expectation which changed to disappointment. " You two?" he cried. "Back again? — And alone — alone?" "We had pretended, all day long, not to know who was comiug in the evening, but the pretence broke down now. Celia threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. " Dear old Captain," she whispered ; " yes, he has come back — our Leonard has come home again to us." He stai-ted to his feet trembling. *' "WTiere is he, then ? Why do you look at me like that ? Why does he not come to me ? What is it, Laddy ? " *' Perhaps, sir, he is ashamed to come." " Ashamed ? Leonard ashamed ? "\Miy ? " *• Suppose," said Celia, lapng her hand on the Captain's shoulder, " suppose. Captain dear, that our boy, after he ha(3 promised his fiiends to come back triumphant, found the world I'-.m:) strong for him, and had to come back — in povei-ty, and nc^ t/iumphant at all ? " ♦*yi surprise:* 215 •* Is tnat all ? " cncd the stout old Captain. " Leonard has failed, has he ? That is nothing. Many a lad fails at first. Give him rope enough and no favoui-, and he'll do in the long-run. It's the confounded favour plays the mischief, ashore as well as afloat. Leonard has not had fair playi "\^^lere is the hoy ? " And at this moment a step in the hall, and a screan, and a shuffle, showed that the '* hoy" was arrived, and in the arms oi the faithful Jeram. "Oh, my beautiful boy — oh! my bonnie boy. Let your olJ nurse kiss you once again — and you so tall and ferave." The Captain could restrain himself no longer. ** Leonard," he shouted, breaking through Celia's arms, *' Leonard, ahoy ! Welcome home, my lad." We caught each other's hands and trembled, waiting for the moment when the Captain should discover the rags; and tatters. *' Shall I light the candles, Laddy ? " " Not yet, Celia. Yes—do — it will be best so. The Captain must know all in a few minutes." They were in the hall, laughing, shaking hands, and asking each other all round, and all at once, how they were, and how they had been. " Supper at once, Mrs. Jeram," cried the jolly old Captain. '* Supper at once. Such a feast we vdW make. And none of your fanteegs about not sitting down with Miss Celia, Mrs. Jeram, if you please. Now then, Leonard, my boy, come and talk to Laddy and Celia. Lord ! how glad I am, how glad I am ! " We looked at each other. One moment, and the rags would be visible to the naked eye. " Poor Leonard — Oh, poor Leonard ! " Celia whispered. Then we started and cried out together, for the Captain and he came in together, the Captain with his hand upon Leonard's stal- wart shoulder, and a face which was like the ocean for its multitu- dinous smile. But where were the rags ? They were gone. Before us stood the handsomest man. I be- lieve, in all the world. He was nearly six feet high, his light bro^\^l hair lay in short crisp curls upon his head, his eyes had the n-ankest, loyalest look in them that I have ever seen in any man, and at that moment the happiest look as well. I declare that I have never seen in all my forty years of life so splendid a man as Leonard was at five-and-twenty. As he did not look one-half so splendid in rags one is bound to admit that clothes do improve even the finest figure. And as he stood in the doorway with the «i6 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. Captain I was dazzled by the beauty and vigour of the man. As fof his dress, it was nothing but a plain black coat, with liglit summer trousers, just as any gentleman might wear. That was it : any geutlemaiu He had succeeded, then. "I beg your pardon, Celia, and yours, Laddy," said Teonard. " The fooUsh thought came into my head to see how you would receive me if I were to retmn in poverty and rags. So I mas- queraded. I meant to come on here and see the Captain too, just as I was. But I had not the heart when I saw the jain it gave you. So I made an excuse and gave up the silly trick- Forgive me, Celia." Her eyes, which had been fi'ank with pity, looked more shyly into Leonard's as she listened. " What is there to forgive Leonard ? If we were glad to have you back again any way, how much more glad ought we to be that you have come back — as you are ? " *' But you do not know me — as I am." " Come, come, no explanations now," cried the Captain. " Supper first, talk afterwards. I am so glad. Here's something I found to-day in your room, Master Leonard. See if you have forgotten the old tune." Of coui'se he had not forgotten it. It was the old fife en which he used to play the " Roast Beef of Old England " eveiy Sunday before dinner. Leonard laughed, took up his position at the door, iind piped lustily while the maid brought in the supper. We all sat down, I at the end, and Celia on the Captain's right, Leonard at his left, and Mrs. Jeram next him. I don't think we ate much at that suj^per, though it consisted of cold fowls and ham, the Captain's fixed idea of what a supper ought to be, but we had a bottle of champagne, a drink looked upon in those days as a costly luxuiy, to be reserved for weddings, Christmas dinners, and such great occasions. What gi'eater occasion than the wel- come home of the exile ! " No explanations till after supper," repeated the Captain. " Celia, my pretty not a question. Take another wing, my dear. No ? Then Leonard shall have it. Leonard, my boy, here's to you again. Youi' health, my lad. After supper you shall tell us all. I am so glad." Sapper finished, I began. " Now Leonard." "Not yet," said the Captain. "The Bible and Pravr bo»>k^ '' addy, m} boy." *'A surprise:* a 17 Putting on his glasses, the old man turned over the pages till he found what he wanted. Then he laid his hand upon the place and looked up, "Before I read the chapter," he said, " I wish to say that I thank God for my two boys, and for the trust that has always been with mo, firm and strong, that the one who was away .oi the world would tm-n out as good in the matter of duty as the one who stayed with me." And then, to our extreme discomforture, he proceeded to read the story of the Prodigal Son. ^Yhat on e<\rth had the Prodigal Son to do vaih. us at this juncture ? Prayers despatched — he was always brief, after the manner of sailors, over prayers — he made another little speech. " Since Leonard went away," he said, ** which is five years to- day, as long a cruise as ever I made in the old days, I've been drawn towards this parable till I know it by heart. I've thought at times — What if Leonard were to come back like that young man with five years' neglect of duty upon his mind ? How should we have to receive him ? And here I find the directions laid down plain. Lord ! Lord ! how plain a man's course is marked out for him, vdih lighthouses along the coast, and the mariner's compass, and the stars to steer by at night — if only he would use his eyes. Well, Mrs. Jeram, ma'am, and Celia, and Laddy, it vras clear what we all had to do. And though a dreadful thought crossed my mind when you came home without him, and beat about the bush, talking of failure and such things, which I now perceive to have been only the remains of the devilment that always hung about the lad, I went out into the passage bold, and prepared, I hope, to act according to open orders. Somehow, we generally think, when we read this Di\Tue parable, of the young man. To- night, all through supper, I've been thinking about his father, and I have been pitying that father. What if his boy, who had been away fr>m home for five years or thereabouts, came home to him, not as he did, in rags and disgrace, but proud and tall, bringing his sheaves \di]i him, my dear — bringing his sheaves with him I Th.nk of that; for I am so glad, Leonard, I am so glad and happy," We were all silent while the good old man cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. Celia leaned her head upon his shoulder and wept imrestrainedly. *' Therefore I say, continued the Captain, ** the Lord be thanked for all His mercies, and if Laddy "^ill play the Hundredth Psalm, and Celia vAW sing it with him, I think it would do good both k Mrs Jeram and to mo." .' . S BY CELT A 'S AREO UR. " Thank voii, my cliildren," lie said, wlien Tve had finished. " That h^-inn expresses my feelings exactly. And now, Leonard, that we've got the decks clear of all superfluous gear, and are shipshape, and have had supper, and drunk the champagne, and thanked God, I will light my pipe, and Celia shall mix mo the customaiy — double ration to-night, my pretty— and you shall give US the log." *' Shall I begin tt the end, sir, or kt the begj'ining,"* asked Leonard. '* The end," said Celia. " The beginning," said the Captain, both in a breath. " What do you say, I\Ii-s. Jeram ? " Leonard asked the v!i3 lady. She said, crossing her hands before her, that, beginning or end, it would be all the same to her ; that she was quite satisfied to see him back again, and the beautifullest boy he was that God ever made — flash o' lighting about the place just as he always had a done ; and she was contented, so long as he was well and happy, tt wait for that stoiy for ever, so as she could only look at hiiu . " What do you say, Laddy ? " *' Ask the Captain," I said. '* He commands this ship, but Celia is our passenger." " Good," said the Captain. " My dear, the ship's in luck to get such a lovely passenger as you. And you shall command the ship instead of me, so long as you don't run her ashore. Now then, Leonard, the end of the log fii'st." " First," said Leonard, " by way of preface to my log— you re- member this ? '* He drew a black ribbon from his neck with a gold ring upon it. '* A good beginning, my lad — your mother's ring." *• You remember what you said to me when you gave it to me ? Tliat it was an emblem of honour and purity among women, and that I was to wear it only so long as I could deseiwe it ? " '^ Ay — ay. This is a veiy good beginning of the end, Celia, my love. Go on, Leonard." " I believe I have not forfeited the right to wear it still, sir " " I never thought you would," said the Captain, with decision * Go on, my lad — keep on pacing out the line." "Then the end is," he said, modestly, "that I bear Her Alajesty's Commission, and am a Captain in the Hundred and Twentieth. We disembarked from India a week ago, and are now Mns in the Old Kent BaiTacks in this town. Here sir, are my medals — Alma, Inkermann, Sebastopol, and India. I bavs LEOXARD TELLS HIS SIORY. J 19 Been service since I left you, and I have gone tliro«gli ^1 tLe Bghting without a wound or a day's illness." " You are a combatant officer in Her Majesty's service like my* self?" cried the Captain, springing to his feet. " I am Captain Copieston, raised from the ranks by singular good foi-tune ; and five years ago a raw recruit sitting on a wooden bench at Westminster, with all my work ahead." " Like me, he has seen sendee; like me, he holds Her Majesty's Commission ; like me, he can show his medals." He spread out his hands solemnly. "Children, children" — he spoke to Celia and to me — *' did we ever dare to think of this ?" CHAPTER XXX. LEONARD TELLS HIS STOllY. Then Leonard began his story. The room was lit by the single pair of candles standing one each side of the model of the Asia on the mantleshelf. The Captain sat with his pipe in his wooden chair, his honest red face gloTN-ing with satisfaction, and beside him Celia leaning on his shoulder and listening with rapt eyes. It was Dido listening to .Eneas. " With varied talk did Dido prolong the night, deep were the di'aughts of love she drank. * Come,' said she, ' my guest, and tell us fi'om the first beginning the stratagems of the enemy and the hap of our countiy then, and your omt) wanderings, for this is now the jijtli summer that carries you a wanderer o'er every land and sea.' " As Dido wept to hear, so did Celia sigh and sob and catch her breath as Leonard told his stors'. No Gascon, he ; but there are stories in which the hero be he as modest as a wood-nymph, needs must proclaim his heroism. And a hero at four- and- twenty is ten times as interesting as a hero oi eiity. ' ' Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story, The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; And the mjTtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.** And what is it when the myrtle and ivy of two- and- twenty havo real laurels mixed up with them ? A philosopher so great that people grovel before his name, in a work on the Subjection of Women, makes the astounding statement that the influence of woman has always been in the direction of peace and the avoidance of war. Pity he had not read history by the light of poeti'y. Was there ever, one asks in astonishment, a 220 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. time when womGn did not love eom*age and strength ? It was nof only in the days of chivaliy that young knights fought before th-! ©yes of their mistresses — "Since doughty deeds my lady please, Plight soon I'll mount my steed ; And strong his aiTa and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed- " How could it he otherwise ? We love the qualities which most we lack. If women ceased to he gentle, tender, soft — what we cull womanly — we should leave off falling in love. That is most ceiiain. Who ever fell in love ^nth one of the unsexed women ? And I suppose if men ceased to be strong and courageous, women would leave off accepting and rejoicing in their love. Dido drank deep draughts of love listening to the tale of ^neas which was, as Scarron many years afterwards remarked, extremely long and rather dull. So sat Celia listening to a much more wonderful story of battle and endurance. 0,r, I thought, she was more likA the gentle maid of Venice than the proud Phoenician queen. With such sweetness did Desdemona listen when the valiant Moor told of the dangers he had passed. Did she, as John Stuart Mill would have us believe, incline to ways of peace ? Quite the contraiy ; this sweet and gentle Desdemona wished " that Heaven had made her such a man," and when her lord must go to slay the Turk she would fain go with him. My gentle Celia wept over the brave soldiers who went forth to fight, and again over those who were brought home to die; but her heart, womanlike, was ready to open out to the most valiant. *' I went up to town," he began, "with my ten pounds, as you all know. When I arrived at Waterloo Station I discovered for the fii'st time that I had fonned no plans how to begin. The problem before me was the old difficulty, how a man \Nith a reasonable good education and no friends had best start so as to become a gentleman. I faced that problem for a fortnight, trying to find a practical solution. I might become a clerk— and end there ; a mechanical coj)}-ing clerk in a City ofiice 1 " *' Faugh ! " said the Captain. ** Or an usher in a school — and end there." ** Fudge ! " said the Caj^tain. ** Or a strolling actor, and trust to chance to make a name for myself." " Pshav !" said the Captain. *' There were men, I knew, who made money by wiiting fcr thg LEONARD TELLS HIS STORY, ISl papers. I thjuglit I might write too, and I found out wlieia tbey mostly resorted, and tried to talk to them. But that profession, I very soon discovered, wanted other qualities than I possessed. Laddy might have taken to writing ; hut it was not my gift." "Right," said the Captain. "Laddy, you remember the story of my old messmate who once T\Tote a novel. 'Twas his ruin, poor fellow. Never lifted his head afterwards. Go on, Leonard." "All the time I was looking about me the money, of course, was melting fast, I might have made it last longer, I dare say ; but I was ignorant, and got cheated. One morning I awoke to the consciousness that there was nothing left at all except the purse. Well, sir, I declare that I was relieved. The problem was solved, because 1 knew then that the only line possible for me was tc enlist. I went down to Westminister and took the shilling. 01 course I was too proud to enlist under any but my own name. Going a soldiering is no disgrace." "Right," said the Captain. "Well," he went on, "it is no use pretending I was happy at first, because the life was hard, and the companionship was rough. But the drill came easy to me who had seen so many diills upon the Common, and, after a bit, I found myself as good a soldier as any of them. One fi'etted a little under the rules and the dis- cipline ; that was natural at first. There seemed too much pipeclay and too little personal ease. One or two of the sergeants were unfair on the men too, and bore little spites. Some of the officers were martinets ; I offended one because I refused to become a servant." "You a servant, Leonard!" cried Celia. He laughed. " The officers like a smart lad ; but it was not to be a valet that I enlisted, and I refused, as a good many others refused. Our lads were mostly sturdy Lancashire boys, proud of being soldiers, but had not enlisted to black other men's boots. It makes me angiy now — which is absurd — to think that I should have been asked to become a lackey. Well, it was a hard life, that in the ranks. Not the discipline, nor the work, nor the drill — though these were hard enough. It was the roughness of the men. There were one or two gentlemen among us — one fellow who had been an officer in the Rifles — but they were a bad and hopeless lot, who kept up as best they could the vices which had ruined them. They were worse than any of the rough rollicking countryside lads. I can't say I had much room for hop* in those days Celia." &Z2 B V CELIA 'S ARBO UR. She reddened, but said nothing. I remembered, snddeniT, what he might mean. "Things looked about as black for a few months as they well could. Rough work, rough food, rough campaigning. I thought of Coleridge and his adventures as a private, but lie turned back, while I — for there was nothing else to do — resolved to k'jep on. And then, bit by bit, one got to like it. For one thing, I eould do all sorts of things better than most men — my training with the Poles came in there — it was found that I could fence : it got about that I played cricket, and I was put in the eleven- -to play in the matches of the regiment, officers and men together ; once, when we had a little row with each other, it was found that I 3ould handle my fists, which always gains a man respect. An^ then they came to call me Gentleman Jack ; and, as I heard aflen\-ards, the officers got to know it, and the Colonel kept his eye upon me. Of course one may wear the soldier's jacket veiy vrell without falling into any of the pits which are temptations to these poor fellows, so that it was easy enough getting the good conduct stripe, and to be even made coi^poral. The first proud day, however, was that when I was made a sergeant, with as good u knowledge of my work, I believe, as any sergeant in the Line." Mrs. Jeram shook her head. *'More," she said, "much more." *'A sergeant," said Leonard. "It sounds so httle now, but to me, then, it seemed so much. The first real step upwards out of the nick. The old di'eam that I should return triumphant somehow was gone long since, or it was a di'eam that had no longer any faith belonging to it. And I began to say to myself that to win my way after two years to a sergeant's stripes was perhaps as much honour as Pro^ddence intended for me." The Captain mumiured something about mysterious ways. Then he patted Celia's head tenderly, and begged Leonard to keep on his com'se. "Well," said Leonard, "you have heard how the great luck began. It was just before the Crimean "War that I got the stripes. "We were among the first regiments ordered. Ho^ well I remember embarking at this very place, half afi-aid, and half hoping, to see you all, but I did not." "We rrere there, Leonard," said Celia, "when the first troops embarked. I think I remember them all going." "It IS a solemn thing,'' Leonard went on, " going off to war. it is not only that your life is to be hazarded — ever}- man hazards bis life in alJ sorts of wavs as much as on a battlefield— but voa LEONARD TELLS II LS STORY. 223 feel that you are going to lielj) in adding another chapter to the histoiy of the world." *' Ay," said the Captain. ** History means war." "Let us pass over the first two or three months. "We went to Varna, where we lost many men needlessly by cholera, waiting till the Generals could make up their minds. I suppose they could not avoid the delay, but it was a bad thing for the rank and file, and we were all right glad when the orders came to embark for the Crimea. AVe were amongst the earliest to land, and my first experience of fighting was at Alma. One gets used to the bullets after a bit; but the first time — you know, Ca])tain " The Captain nodded. *♦ After Alma we might, as we know very well, have pushed straight on to Sebastopol. I doubt whether that would have finished the war, which had to be fought out somewhere. Russia had to leam that an immense army is not by itself proof of im- mense power. And so it was just as well, I believe, that we moved as we did. •* You know all about the battles — the Alma, Inkermann, Bala- clava, and the rest. Our fellows went through most (»f the fight- ing, and of course, I with the rest. The hardest day was Inker- mann. We had just come in at daybreak fi'om the trenches, where we had been on duty f^r four-and-twenty hours, when we were turned out to fight in the fog and rain. We fought in onr greatcoats — well — all that is history. But the days of battle were red letter day sfor all of us, and what tried us most was the inaction, and the dreary waiting work in the trenches. And yet it was that work which got me my commission. " You know what it was we had to do. Before the Piedan and the Malakoff were our batteries, the French attack on the Mamelon and the Malakoff was on om- right. Separating our right fi-om our /eft attacl? was the valley which they called the Valley of the Shadow of Death, along which they carried the wounded, and where ^he Piussiau shells, which went over the Twenty-one Gun Battery, fell and rolled till the place was literally paved with shells. It was a dangerous way by which to carry wounded men, and at night the troops went diovm by the W^oronzow Ptoad. It was easy work com- paratively in the battery ; you could see the shells fl}ing over, and long before they fell you had plenty of time to dodge behind Mio next traverse ; after a while, too, a man got to know exactly if a cannot- shot was making in his direction ; sometimes the bombard- ment went on for days on both sides without any apparent result, Tii/3re was the Naval Brigade — :3'ou would have liked to gee them. «24 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. Japtaln, in the Twenty-one Gun Battery under Ca]itain Peel, Iba coolest officer in the whole nav}' — they were handier with the guns and a great deal readier than our men. "In front of the battery were the trenches, and in advance ol the trenches were the rifle-pits. You could see before you the venomous little Russian pits out of w^hich so many brave fellows were killed, dotted about with sandbags, and where tht Kussians lay watching our men working from parallel to parallel, and in the zig- zags. There w^as one rifle-pit in particular — I shall come lo it directly — which gave us more annoyance than any other, on account of its position. It was close to the Quarries. The fire from it interfered mth the approach of our trenches, and we had lost our men in numbers in the advanced sap at this point. It was for the moment the Ijete noir of our engineer officers. Of course, you have read in the papers what sort of work we have had in tlie trenches. On a quiet night, when the batteries were silent and the weather fair, it was pleasant enough. We sat round a fire smok- ing, telling yams, or even sleeping, but always -uith the gun in readiness. In wet and bad weather it was a different thing, how- ever. Remember that we only had ammunition boots, made by contract, which gave out after a week. The mud got trodden about deeper and deeper, till it was pretty well up to the knees : and when snow fell on top of it, and rain on top of that, and aU became a wet pool of thick brown mud, it was about as lively work as wading up and down the harbour at low tide, even if you did happen to have a " rabbit," that is, one of the coats lined with white fur. And if it was a hot night you had the pleasui'e of listening to the cannonade, and could see nothing on the Russian side but the continuous flash of the guns. And there was always the excitement of a possible sortie. " We went out for night work in the trenches with hea^^' hearts, I can tell you, and many a man Tfished it were day again, and he was back in safety. We grew every day more badly off, too. Not only did the boots give out, but the greatcoats dropped to pieces, and the commissariat fell short. You have heard aD that stor}'. Jack of the Naval Brigade did not mind so much as regards the great- coats, because he could patch and mend. He used to sell his slops for brandy, and cobble his old garments with the bro^^Ti canvas of the sandbags. But the redcoats were not so handy — I have often thought it a great pity that our fellows don't imitate the sailors, and leam how to do things for themselves — we suffered terribly. That you know, too ; and any national conceitedness about the ©iuck of our fellows in fighting so well under such conditions hai LEONARD TELLS HIS STORY. 92^ to be pulled up by the thought that Tvhat we did the Frecch ancl Russians did, too. After all, there is no such thing as one natioD being braver than another." " Our sailors were stronger than the Fr'?nch," said the Captain. ** WTien it came to pounding with the big guns, they held out longer." "Let me come to my piece of great good fortune," Leonard went on, " or I shall be talking all night. I have told you of the rifle-pit by the Quarries which caused us such a lot of trouble. Now I am going to tell you how I took it. It was an afternoon in April, 1855. We were in the trenches ; there had be/^n joking with a lot of ' griffs,' young recruits just out fi'om England ; the men used to show them the immense wooden spoons with which Ihe Russian soldiers eat their coarse black bread soaked in water, and declare, to Johnny Raw's tensor, that the Russians had mouths to correspond. At that time the fighting between rifle-pits was the great feature of the siege, and to take a rifle-pit was one of the most deadly things possible, as it was also the most important. The ' grifl's ' went down to the most advanced trench ; some ol them had never been under fire before, and they were naturally oervous. Just after gi'og time — their grog had been taken do^n to them — a heavy firing began, and one of those curious panics ahich sometimes seize some veteran soldiers attacked these boys, and they bolted ; left the trench and skulked back along the zig- zag, declaring that the enemy was out in force. That was nonsense, and I was ordered down -oith a dozen men to take their place. My fellows, I remember, chuckled at finding the gi'og still there, and made short work of it. *' We had not been in the trench very long before a sortie in force actually took place. We were in fi-ont of the Redan ; before us, under the Redan, stood the pit of which I have told you ; on the right was the Malakofi". Suddenly a cannonade d'enfer began from the Mamelon and the Malakofif, and we began to suspect that something was going to happen ; and then, between the two forts, we saw the advance of the great Russian sortie. To our great joy, they turned to the left, in the direction of the French. '\Miiie we looked, a thought came into my head — an inspiration. I reflected (liat the holders of the enemy's rifle-pit would very likely be v^atching their own sortie, and that now was the moment to make an attempt. I took half-a-dozen of our men ; we crept out of cover, and then, without a word, rushed across the ground between. It was as I thought : the Russians never saw us coming : they were ?;atnhiiig their own friends, and we were on them — a dozen of tbem 425 BY CEL lA'S A RB UR. — 'before they knew Y,liat had happened. It was band-to hand fighting, hut we were the assailants. You know, Captain, it is always better to be in the attacking force. I cannot give you the details ; but in less time than it takes me to tell the story, the Russians were liors de co?3i6o!^ and the rifle-pit was ours. Then came the turning of the position. You understand, Celia, that the rifle-pit was a little advanced kind of redoubt, consisting of perhaps a dozen gabions filled with earth and topped with sand- bags, enough to shelter two or three dozen men. These were of course all placed in front, towards the enemy. We had to reverse the position, and place them towards the Eedan. By this time we were observed, and shots began to fly about. That was the most dangerous moment of my life. We worked steadily and swiftly ; teaiing up the gabions, lugging the sand-bags round, getting such protection as we could while we worked. I do not know how long it lasted, but by the time we had finished there was only myseli and one other left and he was wounded in the right wrist. But the rifle pit was om^s, and our men in the trench behind were cheering like madmeu." CHAPTER XXXI. LEONABD CONTINUES HIS STOEY, Leonard stopped for a moment. The Captain's eyes were kind- ling with the light of battle, Celia's with the light of admiration. "It did not take long to do. It takes no time to tell. The whole thing was a happy accident ; but it was the one fortunate moment of my life. Our men, watching from the trenches, cheered again ; a rush was made, and that rifle-pit never went back to the Russians." " They ought to have given you the Victoria Cross, Leonard," I cried. *' No, no," he replied, " that was given for braver actions than mine. Captain Bouchier got it for taking the ' Ovens,' a rifle-pit which could hold a couple of hundred ; such gallant fellows as Private Beckle, of the 41st, who stood over the body of his wounded Colonel against a dozen of the enem}' — those are the things that make a man V. C. As for me, I was more than re- warded, as 3'ou shall hear. ** When we came ofl" trench duty, and were marched to our own quarters, I was sent for by the Colonel. You may judge what I foit wher he told me, after speaking of tJie afi'air in the kindest LEONARD CONTINUES HIS STGR Y, 92f maimer, that lie should take care it was properly reported. He was better than his word, because the next day he ordered use to attend in the morning at Lord Eaglan's he ad- quarters. I went up in trembling, but I had no occasion to fear. All the Generals were there, for a Council was to be held that day. General Bur- goyne, when I was called in, very kindly explained tc the Chief the importance of this rifle-pit, and how its occupation by our men would facilitate matters in our advanced approaches towards the Eedan, and then he told Marshal Pelissier and Omar Pasha, iq French and in the handsomest terms, what I had done. Lord Raglan apoke a few words to my Colonel, and then he said, in hia quiet, steady way, what I shall never forget. " ' Sergeant Coplestone, you have done a gallant action, and I hear a good report of you. I shall recommend you to the Field- Marshal Commanding- in- Chief for promotion. I am sui'e you will not disgrace Her Majesty's Commission.' '* I could not speak — indeed, it was not for me to speak, I saluted, and retired. Those words of the gallant old Chief— and that scene — I can never forget." *' Tell us," said Ceha, " what he was like. Lord Raglan?" " He was a gi'and old man," said Leonard, " with a grave face, gquarely cut about the chin, overhanging brows, deep-set eyes, and wavy white hair gone off at the temples ; his nose was aquiline, and the expression of his face was one of gi*eat beauty. Every one trusted him, the French and Turks as much as the English. He had left one arm in the Peninsular War thirty years before, and he was about sixty- nine years of age. He was never so happy, his staff used to say, as when he was under fire, and yet he was carefal of his soldiers' lives. What killed him was disap- pointment at his failure of the 18th June. He wanted to wipe out the memoiy of Waterloo fi-om the minds of French and EngHsh by a victoiy as brilliantly attained by both ai-mies side by side on the anniversary of that battle. It was a muddle and a mess. "What was to be the grand success of the campaign proved the most serious reverse that the allied armies experienced in the Crimea. Out of five general officers commanding columns fom' were killed or mortally wounded, and out of one small force fifteen hundi'ed gallant fellows were killed on that tenible day. Death was veiy busy -^ith us just then. General Estcourt, Adju- tant-General, a splendid man, and worthy companion in arms vdth. Lord Raglan, died a week later. Captain Lyons, the son of Sir Edmund, died about the same day ; on Thursday, the 28th, the Chief himself expired; and Colonel Yico, the French Aide-de-can^p, 22S BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. aUaciied to the English head- quarters, died also after this event, showing the depressing influence of even a temporaiy defeat on the best of men. Even one of the intei-preters sickened and sank. It v\as a sort of mui'rain among those at headquaii^ers. "Well," Leonard went on after a pause, "that is all news- paper news. "Wliat the papers could not tell you was the grief of both aimies and the profound sensation caused by Lord Raglan's death. There may ha>'e been better generals in the histoiy of England's wars, but there never was one more loved and trusted. His life was perfectly simple ; his headquarters contained nothing but camp furniture, a table on trestles, a red table-cloth, camp chaks, and no cai-pets ; he was up at all houi's, and he was without fear. " Of the other generals I think Pelissier was the best. Ho was a little dumpy man, with a thick neck, and he was a little too fond of huiiing his men at the enemy, but he did fight and fought well. They made him Duke of Malakofi; afterwards, which is as if we were to make a man Duke of Jones." "Wliy?" *' Because the Malakoflf was named after a man who had once kept a tavern on the spot. Malakoff was a purser in the Piussian Navy, and being kicked out of the seiwice for drinking, swindling, and smuggling, — this last he did in smuggling ship's stores,— came ashore and started a drink-shop outside Sebastopol, where he could combine profit with the pursuit of his favouiite occupation. And as his drink was cheaper than could be got anpvhere else, for he had the advantage of his old smuggling experiences in the laying in of his stores, the place became a favouiite resort of the Russian sailors when they came ashore to get drank. After a while, the stony hill ^Nith Malakofi"s sheebeen upon it became Malakoff 's Redoubt. Sturdy Pelissier, however, did not look much like a duke, as we picture dukes, ^^^len Soyer the cook 2ame out, he was so like the General that we used to ask which was the cook and which was the General. Only Soyer wore more gold lace, and distinguished himself in that way. *'My commission came out before the death of Lord Raglan Yon may fancy what a trial it was to me, on that day, not to ba able to write home, and tell you all about it. I did ^Tite, however ; I wrote a full histoiy of all I had done, with a note inside that it was to be sent to you. Captain, in case I fell. My brother officers gave me a hearty welcome, and we had a big dinner — as big as ihe materials at our disposal allowed, the day I joined — so to «peak. I have been to many a better feast since , but none ai LEONARD CONTINVES HIS STORY. 22ox during the small hours, be up and out so early ? AYhat good, ia 6uch a case, of being an officer at all? And then we passed the awkward squad on their way to goose- step drill. They saluted, too, as we passed. The salute of those days was a thing of ceremony — extension of right ami, doubling of right elbow, hand square to the forehead, retui^n double, drop of right arm. The Marines did it best, regulating the motions fi'om a slovenly and in-egular movement of the ann for a middy or a mate to a precise and clearly directed six-fold ceremonial, ending with a resonant slap of the right leg, for superior rank. They knew, the Marines, hovr to signify respect to rank. Any popular officer, particularly if he was also an Admiral, was saluted as he went down the street with a regular Kentish fii'e of open-handed slaps of right legs. That also is a thing of the past. *' I was like those honest fellows once," said our young Captain gravely. " One of the awkward squad ; sentiy in the barracks ; one of the rank and file ; standing up to be diilled and ordered. Well ; it's not a bad thing for a man." "And the officers of the regiment, Leonard; — did that make any difference? " "I became at once one of themselves — a brother officer. "WTiat else could their treatment be ? I asked the Colonel as a personal favour, to tell them who I vras. Eveiy regiment has its ' rankers ; ' every ranker his story. I should be a snob if I were ashamed of having risen." We crossed the broad common, where all the old furze had by this time been cut do^n and cleared away to make room for military evolutions ; and we came to the Castle standing upon the edge of the sea. There was not a soul upon the beach, not even our old friend the cursing coastguard ; we sat down under the slope of stone, for it was now low tide, and made ready for a dip. "There go the last fames of last night's long talk. Sitting up all night, even with Ceha, does fog the brain a bit." Thus Leonard, coming out of the water all glorious like Apollo. I suppose it ia because I am so mishapely that 1 think so much of beauty ©f form. 236 B V CELIA 'S ARBO UR. Then we dressed, and Leonard took out a cigar-case, to my aston- ishment, for somehow I had never thought of him in connection with tobacco — heroes of imaginations neither smoke nor diink wipe, as we all know — and then lying back on the shingla, he began ^a talk lazily. *'I am rather tired of telling about myself, Laddy; it is ycui turn now." Of course I knew it was coming, sooner or later. *' You do not expect to hear much about me," I said. ■'' I am organist at St. Faith's ; that is my official position, and it brings me in six- and- twenty pounds a year. For ten shillings a week I hear three seiwices on Sunday and two in the week." "Poor old boy!" said Leonard. "Can't something better begot?" " I rather like the church work. Then I give lessons in music and singing, and out of them I make about two hundred a year more." " I see. But the house does not seem much improved by this enonnous accession of wealth." -' Xo. The fact is, Leonard, that the Captain takes all tht money, and I never ask what he does \\ith it. If I made a thousand a year I am certain that extravagant old man would absorb it all." " Ah ! The crafty old Captain ! Do you think hs invests it in Russian stock or Tui*kish bonds '? " " Xo. I think he gives it away. Where does he go when eveiy morning he disappears for three hours ? Answer me that. Captain Leonard." "He always did it, and he always will. He is an incorrigible old mysteiy." " In the afternoon he stays at home, unless it is half-holiday, when he goes out on the common to see the boys play, and talk to them ^vith his hands behind his back. To be sui-e he knows every boy in the town." Leonard laughed. "I remember an incident or two — years ago — when we were ehildren in the house. There was a woman — she had black hair, I know — and she used to come in the evening and ask for money. I suppose, fi'om my personal experience, that she was di'unk one night when she came, and went on — I forget what about — like another Jezebel . She wanted money, and the Captain was so upset by her inconsiderate conduct that hfi— behaved as the Cap- iain always does." A FRIENDLY CHAT. t^l «• What was that ? " " Went to the Sailing Directions. Rememhered that every sinner had to be forgiven at least seyenty times seven, and so added one or more to her score, which I should say must have already reached a pretty high total. He gives his money all away, Laddy, and if I were you I would not work too hard, because he ^ill only give yours away too. The kind old man ! What else have you to tell us about yourself? " *' I've been taking care of Cis," I said, evading the difficulty. " So I saw last night. Good care, Laddy. There never was a better brother than you." But he did not know all ; and I could not tell him how near I had been, once, to betraying his trust. "Cis — Ceha — Oh! Laddy!" He threw away the cigar and stai-ted to his feet, gazing out to sea. " Did Heaven ever make a sweeter girl ? Did you watch her face last night ? And her eyes, how they softened and brightened ! " *' Am I blind, Leonard ? " *' Did 5'ou see how she lit up with pity and sympathy? Laddy, I must -win the girl, or I shall not care what happens. " I have never ceased thinking of her," he went on; "never lince I left you five years ago. To be sure, when I was a private soldier, or even a non-commissioned officer, it seemed too absurd to think of her, but when my promotion came, then the old thoughts revived. All through the war I thought of her. In those dreadful nights when we sat and slept in the trenches, knee- deep in trampled mud and melting snow, I used to let my thoughts wander back to this old place. Always in CeHa's Ai'bour, lying boneath the elms : play-acting beside the gun : running up and down the slopes with little Cis, wondering what she was like. You with her too, of course, v^ith your great dreamy eyes and trusty face — Laddy and Cis. I suppose it was sentimental, all of it ; but I am different fi-om most men. There is no family life for you and me to look back on except that. In those days — I am not boasting — I had no fear, because it seemed as if every day brought me nearer to her,, and higher up the ladder. In case of death I had a letter wTitten to the Captain, enclosing one for you and one for Celia, telling you all about it. But I did not die. Then I had to come home and be near you, within a hundred miles^ and yet not go to see you ; that was very hard. When India came I lost my old fearlessness, and began to be anxious. It was want of faith, I suppose. At all events I escaped, and came out of the whole racket unwounded. Laddy, I should be worst) tliuii an ESS BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. infidel," he added, solemnly, ** if I did not see in my Sve years tf foi'tune the protection of the Lord." "We pray — we who stay at home — for the safety of those who go abroad ; and perhaps our prayers are sometimes gi'anted. la that sentiment, too ?" I asked. He was silent for a little space ; then he shook himself as one who would change the cuiTent of his thoughts. *' Let us go hack, old boy ; the Captain will be up by this time. And now tell me more about yourself ; there must be more to tell than that you have become a musician. Haven't you fallen in love, Laddy ? " " Fallen in love ! "^Tio is there to fall in love vdth a man like me ? Look at my shadow, Leonard." It was a gi'uesome-looking shadow, 'ttith high back, and head thrust forward. I think that if Peter Schlemihl had been hump- backed he would have made an easier bargain for the rolling up and putting away of his shadow. A small annuity, paid quarterly, would have been considered ample on the part of the purchaser. And as for awkward questions — well — there are secrets in every family, and it would soon be understood that the absence of shadow must not be remarked upon. I only know that my own was a constant shame and humiliation to me. Unless I walked with my face to the sun there was no getting out of the deformity, " Bah ! You and your shadow. Laddy, look in the glass. You have eyes that would steal away the heart of Penelope, and a musical voice, and you are a genius." " Nonsense. I am only a plain musician, and as for falling in love, have I not been eveiy day with Celia ? How could I fall in with any other girl when I had known her? " *' That is true," he said reflectively. " That is quite true. "V^Tio could ? She is altogether sweet and lovely. After dreaming of her every day for five years I am afi'aid of her. And you have been ^vith her, actually with her, for five years." I think he guessed my secret, for he laid his hand affectionately on my shoulder. ** Cis and I are brother and sister," I said ; ** that you know Tory well. But you are right to be afraid of her. Men ought iQ be afraid of such a giii. Only the priest, you know," I added, following up a little train of allegoiy that arose in my mind, '* caa touch the Ai-k of the Lord." ^' You mean " '* I mean that a man ought to be holy before he ventures upoa feoly ground." A FRIEND L Y CHA T. 239 " Yes : you are a Puritan, Laddy, but you are quite right. 1 have been saying to myself ever since she left us, * She is only « vroman after all.' And yet that does not seem to bring her any closer to. me. It would bring all other women closer, but not Celia." *'- She is only a woman to two men, Leonard, and to those t\TO a woman of flesh and blood, with all sorts of hopes and faueie!^. One of these is myself, her brother, and the other — will be the man she loves, But there is a great trouble, and you ought tc leani what it is." " I told him, in as few words as I could manage, part of the story. It seemed a breach of tmst to tell him what I Izneiv — though Celia only feared it — that this German had a hold upon Mr. T}Trell which he threatened to use ; but I was obliged to let him understand that Mr. Tyrrell wished her to accept the man, and I told how Celia suffered from the assiduity with which he followed her about, went to church with her, was everywhere seen with her, and how he hoped gradually to overcome, by quiet per- severance, the dislike which she, as well as her fiiends, would at first show to the marriage. " He has not yet pressed for a reply," I concluded. " But he will very soon now." *' Why now ?" I omit the remarks (which were un- Christian) made by Leonard during my narrative. " Because you have come home. Because he T\ill find out that Celia sat up all night with us talking. Because ho -^-ill see her looking happier and brighter, and will suspect the cause." " The cause, Laddy ? Do you mean " " I mean nothing but that Celia is glad to see you back again, and if you expected anything less you must be veiy forgetful ol little Cis Tyrrell. If you expected anything more, Leonard — why — perhaps you had better speak to her yourself." " I remember Herr Kaumer," Leonard went on. " He was always hanging about the streets with his blue spectacles and his big white moustache. I remember him almost as early as I remem- ber an}i;hing. They used to say he was an exile from Gei-many for Republican opinions. During that year I spent learning French and Russian in the PoHsh Barrack he took an opportunity of speaking to me, was very friendly once or twice, and took a great interesi in the Poles. I remember he wanted to know what they talked about. I wonder if he is a Russian spy ? " *• Nonpense, Leonard. He dislikes the Russians." •*Does he? My dear Laddy, you know nothing about tine 240 BY CELIA *S ARBOUR. cotmtry whose people are so pleasant, and whose government is lo detestable. Eussian spies are everywhere. Tha Russian Seciet Service is like a great net spread over the whole world ; they are the Jesuits of politics. Herr Raumer may not be one of the black gang, but he may be ; and if he isn't, I should like to find out what keeps a German in this place, where we have got a great dockyard, and where improvements and new inventions are always being tried and talked of, where there are several regiments, half our fleet, and a lot of Poles. Do you think it is love of the town?" " I suppose he is used to it," I said. " What kind of man is he ?" *' He is a cynic. He professes to live for his own enjoyment, and nothing else. Says the rest is humbug. I have never heard him say a generous thing, or acknowledge a generous motive. Yet he talks well, and one likes to be with him." "I shall call upon him," said Leonard. "As for his own enjoyment and the selfish theory of philosophy, a good many Germans afi'ect that kind of thing. They think it philosophical and intellectual, and above their fellow-creatures, to be wrapped in a cloak of pure selfishness. Well, Laddy, unless Celia wishes it " *♦ She does not wish it." " She shall not throw herself away upon this man. Great Heavens ! my beautiful Celia," he said, " my beautiful Celia to be thrown to an old " He checked himself. " No use getting angry. But if there is no other way of stopping it, we'll carry her ofl", Laddy, you and I together, and stand the racket afterwards. I can't veiy well call him out and shoot him. I don't mean that I see at present how it is to be prevented, but we will find out." " Perseus," I said, " had to borrow of other people two or three little things to help him when he went on that expedition of his. You had better take the Captain, as well as myself, into your confi- dence. Here we are at home, and there is the jolly old Captain at the door, beaming on us like the morning sun." *' Come in, boys," he shouted, " come in to breakfast. Celia is ready, and so am I. Ho ! ho ! I am so gli'-d, Leonard. * I am so giad;^ TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION, 24 CHAPTER XXXm. A TRIUMPHAIi PROCESSION. TuHSE were tlie days of a grand triumplial procession, in "wnick wc led our hero about to be congi-atulated by his friends. There -were not many of these, it is true. That made it all the better, because the chances of the hateful passion of envy being aroused were lessened. To be sure, there were none who could be envious. Leonard's road to honour is a Royal road, open to all. But it is beset with difficulties. Stout is the heart and strong the will of him who dares to tread that pipe-clayed and uncei-tain way. None of the boys with whom we had been at school knew Leonard as a fiiend, or even as an old acquaintance. The reserved school boy who fought his way to freedom fr-om molestation was not likely now to search out the lads who had once stung his proud soul by references to the price of soap. They were now chiefly engaged in promoting the commercial interests of the town, and would have saluted the young officer, had they known who he was, hat in hand. We went round, therefore, among our little circle of friends. Mr. Broughton promptly invited us to dinner. There were present at the banquet — to faiTiish it foi-th all the resources of the reverend gentleman's cellar were put under con- tribution — the Captain, Mr. Pontifex, Leonard, and myself. The dinner was simple, consisting of salmon, lamb and chicken, cutlets, with early peas and asparagus. A little light Sauteme, which his reverence recommended in preference to sherr}% as leaving the palate clean for the port, a^!companied the meal. There was also champagne, which, he said, was a wine as Catholic as the Atha- nasian Creed, inasmuch as it goes equally well with a simple luncheon of cold chicken, and with the most elaborate Gaudy. After dinner, solely in deference to the uncoriiipted digestion oi youth, he ordered a dish of strawberries. " It is not the right time to eat them," he said, in a voice almost as solemn for the occasion as that of Mr. Pontifex. '* Their proper place is after breakfast. A good dinner biscuit would be better. But young men expect these things. AYhen you and I were undergraduates, Pontifex, we liked them." And then, while we absorbed ihe strawberries, he arose and brought from a side- board, with great care and with his own hands, four decanters of port. They stood all in a vow before him, a label hanging fcom aivcb 242 B V CELIA 'S ARBO UR. He put out his hands over them like a priest proncuncing a blessing. "We ought, Brother Pontifex," he said, "to have a form of thanksgiving for port." " When I was a young man," said Mr. Pontifex, with a sigh, "I was called by some of my reckless companions — ahem I — Two- Bottle Pontifex Two-Bottle Pontifex — such ^as my appe- tite for port-T\ine at that period ! I am now never allowed by Mrs. Pontifex — alas — even to taste the — ahem ! — the beverage ' " This," said Mr. Broughton, affectionately caressing one of the decanters, " is a bottle of 1820. I sincerely wish, Leonard, that I could entei-tain the hope of bequeathing you a few dozens in token of regard to my old pupil. But I have not more than enough for my own use, always supposing that I reach the allotted time of thi-ee score years and ten. It is generous still, this wine." He poured out a glass, and held it to the light. " Mark the eoloui' ; refi-esh j'oui'self "^ith this bouquet ; taste the noble \sine." He suited the action to the recommendation. " "WTiat a combina- tion of delight for all the senses at once ! Nature never raised a sweeter colour — a more divine fragrance— », more Olympian taste than she has united " "Under Pro^-idence, brother Broughton," said Mr. Pontifex, shaking his head. ' — united in this one glass of the finest wine ever gi'own. How my good gi'andfather, the Bishop — whose piety was only equalled by his taste for port — would have enjoyed this moment ! The day before he died, his chaplain, on pom-ing him out his single glass — the Bishop was then too feeble for more — said, ' We shall drink, my lord, in a better world, a more deHcious wine.' He was a learned and sound divine, but young, and with a palate compara- tively untrained. ' We cannot,' said the good old Bishop. ' Better wine than this is not to be had.' " " The next decanter," he went on with a sigh for the good Bishop's memory, " is a bottle of 1834. I do not know arighfc how to sing its praises. After what I have said of 1820 I would only say — •* * matre pulclira, filia pulchrior ! You shall taste it presently. Thiiieen years later, we come to 1847. "WTiat a year for port ; and to think that it should be fol- lowed — that year of generous and glorious vintages — by the year of rebellion and social upheaving ! As if Heaven's choicest bless- ings were altogether thrown away upon ungrateful man ! This last A TRIUMPHAL procession: 243 is & bottio of 1851, now four years in bottle and still a I'ttle too fall. The four bottles do not make altogetber a bottle a head — nothing to }'our old days, Pontifex — but vre three are advanc^id in years, I am sorry to think, and the boys have been trainc d in a different school. Perhaps a better one. "And now," he resumed, looking round -with smiles tVukling in his eyes and playing over his jolly red face, " a Toast. The health of Leonard — our brave lad who has come home fi'om the wars with medals and honours which make us all proud of him. It was in this room, my dear boy, that you first read the wars of antiquity told in heroic verse. It was here that your ear and your heart became attuned to the glorious aspects of heroism, and the din of battle. Remember, when you have some of your o^vn, that nothing succeeds like putting a boy thi'ough the good old mill of Homer and Yirgil. You were educated by me for your work, not by cramming yourself with a bundle of scientific facts, which they vrould persuade us is what soldiers want, but by tho deeds of the great men of Greece and Rome. You have not forgotten Diomede, I hope." ^' No, sir," said Leonard. " Nor Saq^edon, nor the cowardly Paris, nor Tui'nus, nor Nisus and Euryalus — nor any of them. Who can forget the jolly old battles ? " "When I was a schoolboy," Mr. Pontifex said, solemnly. "I once fought a battle with another boy in which, I remember, I T\'as worsted, o^ing to the superior strength of my antagonist. This breach of mles was subsequently discovered by the master of the school, and I was summoned before his presence. As I had nothing to say in — ahem ! — \'indication of the offence, I wag instantly condemned to be — ahem ! — in fact — birched ! The — ' the necessary preliminaiies having been perfonned, they proceeded to search for the rod, an instrument which was kept for that pur- pose under vret straw in the garden. When this had been found, I sustained a most fearfal infliction." We all laughed at this graphic reminiscence of a school battle and its consequences, and Mr. Broughton bade us charge our glasses and begin the '34. Mr. Pontifex gi-ew more solemn as well as paler under the influence of the port as the evening went on, and Mr. Broughton more purple in the face, more jolly, and more animated. I had frequently seen this opposite effect cf wine upon both clerg}-men. After the second bottle, the wine passed chiefly from one to the other, because the Captain had already exceedod a double ration, and I;^cnard was moderate in his iiba- tions. 244 ^y CELIA 'S ARBOUR. In the course of the evening, the Perpetual Curate of St. Faath 9 pronounced a eulogium on the world generally, on those who know how to enjoy life, and on the good things life has to give. It was in the middle of the last bottle, and his face was a deep purjole, while Mr. Pontifex, perfectly white, sat 'uifii his long upper lip gro^n half an inch longer, and the solemnity of Rhadamanthua upon his brow. ""WTiat good things they are," he said, enthusiastically, "to those fsw who know how to cultivate their senses. Wine such as this ; the meats and fruits which come in their season ; music such as Laddy here can play ; the poetry of those divine men who made the language of a little peninsula survive for ever to fill our hearfs with wonder and delight ; the beauty of women to take us out of ourselves when we are young — you have been in love, Captain?" The Captain laughed. **Was there ever a sailor," he asked, "who has not been in love ? And was there ever a lover like a sailor ? "WTiat does the Bong say ?" The Captain lifted up his pipe. •'' 'And the toast — for 'twas Saturday night — Some sweetheart or wife whom he loved as liis life, Each drank and he wished he could hail her. But the standing toast That pleased the most "Was the wind that blows, And the ship that got-s, And the lass that loves a sailor.'** •* And the lass that loves a sailor," echoed Mr. Broughton, to his colleague's astonishment. " I knew you had. Captain. Catch a salt neglecting such a chance of completing his education. It did you good— o-vra that ; and it did me good, too, after the fit was over. Come, Pontilex, your wife is not here. CoLifess," Mr. Pontifex shook his head veiy solemnly, and made answer with many parentheses. "It is a sad — sad reminiscence of an ardent and perhaps (in this and in one or two other particulars which I have abeady at various times, as you may remember, Johnnie, in the course c/ conversation touched upon) ill-regulated youth, that I once imagined myself — actually in Love" — he spoke in a tone of the greatest surprise — "with a — a— in fact — a young person of the opposite sex, who vended perfumes, unless my memory greatly deceives me, at an establishment in the High " *' Aiid I dare say it was a v^ry good thing fcr you," rebirnod A IRIUMPHaL procession. :,iS t^'i joviil brother, interrupting the further particulars of this fi-i.our. "It was for me, and no worse for the girl I lovedf because sh« preferred somebody else, and married him. It was an education for us all. As it is now, Captain, at our tima of Life we may say — * * Old as we are, for ladies* love unfit, The power of beauty we remember yet.' And the sight of a pretty face, like that of Celia Tprc^ll — olesa h-r ! — I drink this glass of the Forty-seven to her — is like the siiadow of a rock in the wilderness. Age has its pleasures ; they are, besides the drinking of good port, the contemplation of i)eautiful women and active youth. We have lived — let us sit vIo'A-n and watch those who are Hving. You, Leonard boy," he re^^umed the familiar tone of our old tutor, " you had the im- pudence to tell me five years ago, that you would rather help to make history than to write it. And that is what you have been doing ever since. And it does us good — us old stagers, to see you doing it." Presently he became more serious, and spoke fi'om the Chris- tian's point of view. A Christian scholar and a gentleman. His race is nearly extinct now. But he had his uses, and many were his viitues. When I read Robert Browning's poem of " I3ishop Blougi-ams Apolog}'," I read for Blougi'am, Broughton. And yet he only touched that Right Reverend Father in a few points. Above all, a scholar ; and with it, a kindly heart, a simple faith, and a robust, full nature which enabled him to enjoy all that could be got from life. He is gone now, ^\•ith his purple face, his ohort fat figure, and his dogmatic sermons. I do not like the present man — who is earnest — so well. Nor do I love the fu!^piness of the new school. The next day we called upon Mrs. Pontifex, who received Leonard as cordially as that lady could make a gi-esting. Nothing was said about her husband's excesses in port ':he prenous evening. She said that news had reached them of Leonard's happy retm'u ; that she rejoiced at his success, which was doubtless, she was good enough to say, deserved, though die wished it had been in more Chi'istian fields ; that the army was a bad school for those who wished to be serious ; and that ho must specially beware of that inflation which prosperity bringa cnon the heart. Then she said hospitably that she proposed, fciter consideration, to name an eaiiy day, for tea. Leonard a^6 B Y CELT A 'S ARBOUR. laughed and accepted, leaving the day open. H£ always laughcilt this favom-ite of Fortune. I do not think that lestiYe gathering ever came oflf, owing to other ciixumstances which interfered. The Rev. John Pontifex, who was present, looking pale, and still preserving last night's solemnity, followed up the theme opened by his wife, giving us by way of illustration a few personal experiences, with copious parentheses. "lobseiwed the same dangerous tendency," he said, ''when I was standing for my degree at Oxford ; on which occasion, I may be permitted to add, though I now hope, having been chastened" — he looked at his wife — " mthout pride, I greatly distinguished myself" — he got a fourth. "I was treated, it is true, by the examiners with gross injustice, being requu'ed to translate passages actu-\lly, though you may not perhaps credit the disgraceful circumstance, fi'om the veiy end of the works both of Lucretius and Yirgil ! ! ! I was confi'onted, in fact, with the hardest portions of those authors." Mr. Pontifex spoke with great bitterness, and in the finn belief that Yirgil, WTiting expressly for Academical candidates, contrived his books so as to form a series of graduated exercises. "And in spite of thia I obtained a place of honom'able distinction. On that occasion, [ confess with repentance, my heart was greatly puff-ed up. It is an event to look back upon -oith profound Repentance. I obseiwed a similar temptation to pride, when I dealt my Blow at the Papacy in fifty-three theses. A copy of this work shall be sent to you, Leonard, before you go again into Popish regions. I heard, indeed, that one so-called Father (I suppose because he has no sons) — a Papistical Priest — had presumed to answer. He said he was an enquirer. So, indeed, am I — but — but — he is a scoundrel, and will most certainly, some day — at least, I fear so — meet with his deserts." This seemed cariying the odium theologicum, as well as literary controversy, a httle too far. Mr. Pontifex had but one weapon, the threat of his one punishment. Li the afternjon of what Celia called "the day after," leaving the rest of the phrase to be filled up, Leonard's Colonel called upon us. There was one thing remarkable about the Captain, He was the simplest of sailors — no retii'ed Bo's'n could be simpler — in his habits of thought, his speech, and his way oi life. But T^ith an officer of his own or the sister service, hia manner changed instinctively. To the quiet simplicity of his habitual air he added the bearing and dignity of his rank. He was, be remembered on these occasions, a Captain in th^ RoysJ A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION-. 247 Navy, and the carpet of liis dining-room became a quarter- deck. The Colonel came to say great things of Leonard, and said them, Leonard not being present. *' He was observed by his officers, sir, from the first. Reported on his joining at his depot as a smart, well-set-up lad. Found to be of superior rank and education to the men. Proved himself excellent at di'ill. Made a corporal first and a sergeant shcrtly after. And, sir, if it were not for his own interests, I should say I wish he was a sergeant still. " You have heard of his gallant action, I suppose," he went on, " Nothing finer ever done. Lord Eaglan sent for him, sir. He has told you that, I dare say. But he did not tell you what the chief said aften\-ards. It was that if he had it in his power he would have knighted him on the field of battle. He has been a credit to the regiment since the first day he joined it. We are proud of him, sir : we are proud of him, and I am happy in being able, this day, to beat up your quarters and tell you so." The Captain answered simply. He said that Leonard was always a brave and trustworthy lad . that for his own part he had endeavoui'ed to make the boy think of duty before all things : that it gave him unspeakable pleasure to hear what the Colonel had said and to know that it was the truth without exaggeration : that the boy was still young, and, as yet, only at the beginning of his career. I felt proud of the Captain as he made his little speech, foil of dignity and good feeling. "At all events, he owes eveiything to you," said the Colonel. " And now, vdW you dine with, us to-morrow, you and Mr. Pulaski ? It is guestnight." The Captain accepted for both of us. '' I should like to ask," said the Colonel, "if it is not an im- pertinent question — do you think there is any chance of Copleston jnding out something of his family ? " *' I have thought of it more than once," the Captain replied. >" His mother died in giving him birth ; 'nith the last breath she said his name was to be Leonard Copleston, 'her husband's name.' It is not a veiy common name. To find him one would have to consult army and navy lists of five-and-twenty years ago. If we found him, what might we not find too ? Thalj his father was a scoundrel is certain to me, from the circumstance of the boy's birth. He may be dead ; he may have dishonoured the name ; ho may be unwilling to recognise his son — why net let things go on ai they have done, without further trouble ? fhe boy bears tb^ 248 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. Queen's Commission ; he is no disgrace, but a credit to hia regiment. Let us remain satisfied." The Colonel shook his head. "I shall look up the lists," he said. '* Andiflfind out anything I will tell you first. If it is anything calculated to do Copleston harm, we will keep it to ourselves." Guest-night at the Hundred- and- Twentieth. The tables covered with the regimental pla.e, and crowded with oflScers. The Colonel v^^as our old Captain on the right, his own guest. I sit beside Leonard. The band is playing. There is a full assemblage. The younger officers are full of life and spirits. ^\Tiat is it like — this world I have never seen till to-night — this world of animal spirits, laughter, and careless fun ? I look about me dreamily. This, then, I think was the kind of life led by my father, Roman Pulaski, of the Imperial Guard, before Nicholas exchanged it for the Siberian mines. It must be pleasant for awhile. These young fellows are neither creating, like artists ; nor criticising, like scholars ; nor working for money, like professional men ; nor selling their mt and spirits, like authors ; nor contriving schemes for making money, like merchants ; they are simply living to enjoy things. They have had a hard time of it in India : a few of them — very few, alas ; — had a hard time in the Crimea ; now they are back to garrison and English life, and they are rejoicing as heartily as they fought. They tell me that the officer of to-day is scientific, and plays Kriegspiel. I am sui^e he is not braver, more genial, kindlier, or more generous than Leonard's brothers in arms of twenty years ago. I dare say, even in those brainless times, even among the jovial faces around that mess table, there were some who cared about their profession, had strategic genius, and studied the art of war. At least one did. Eveiwbody challenges the Captain. He was Copleston's guardian. Eveiwbody knows all about him. Then they challenged me, and had I di'ained all the bumpers they came offering me, my course at that table would have been brief indeed, " Gentlemen, ' The Queen ! ' " It is the President, and then we fall into general talk. 'WTiat sort of mess would that be into which Wassielewski was going to introduce me ? A mess of peasants sitting round a fire of sticks in a forest. Instead of the Queen's health we should di'ink to Poland, instead of claret we should have water, instead of a circle of faces in which the enjo^Tnent of life — the mere fact of living — was the prevailing feature, I should see round me every.vbere the grim and earnest faces of those who were Wking A TRIUMPHAL PROCESSION. 349 for^-aril sadly to defeat and death. I suppose wlien a man is going to bo martjTed he goes to meet his doom with a certain exaltatiuu which enables him to pass through the agony of death with heroic mien. The most disagreeable part about it must be tho steady looking forward to the supreme moment. "Dreamer, whispered Leonard, "where are your thoughts?" " I was thinking what sort of a regimental mess I should fiu^ in Poland," I replied, forgetting that Leonard knew nothing. " ^Tiat mess ? Poland ? " he asked. " AMiat have you tij io with Poland now ? " I told him in a few words. It was not the place or the dme after dinner at a regimental mess to go into any heroics. Besides, I felt none — only a sad despondency at the necessity which was going to drag into the trouble oje who had such small stomach for the fight. Leonard was aghast. " The thing is absurd, Laddy, ridiculous. You must not go." " I have pledged my word," I said, " and I must. You would not have me break old Wassielewski's heart ? " " I don't know. It must be a tough old heart by this time. But I would rather break that than let him break your head. We will talk about it to-morrow, old boy. ^^^lat with Colia's troubles and yours, it seems as if we shall have our hands fall for awhile. Pray, has the Captain, by accident, got any secret sorrow ? " " No," I replied, laughing. It was beautiful to see the calm way in which Leonard faced diflficulties. "He is not engaged to Mrs. Jeram, I hope, or has not con- tracted a secret marriage with his cook ? He's not going to be tiied by court-martial for intoxication, is he ? Really, Laddy, you have given me a shock. Are you siu'e there is no more behind ?" " Quite sure." " Good. There is going to be a move. We will get a^vay early. I will go and see this fire-eater, and appeal to his comraou sense." It > as twelve, however, before we escaped the kindly hos- pitalities of the mess, and the Captain came away amid a storm of invitations to dine with them again. He accepted them all, in great good spiiits, and became a sort of privileged person in the barracks so long as that regiment stayed in the place, dividing his time m the afternoon between the officers and the boys at play. When the regiment was ordered away he returned entirely to the bojs. tp BY CELIA 'S ARBOUh. CHAPTER XXXIV. AN APPEAL TO COISIMOX SENSE, *' Ws v-ill appeal," said Leonard, *' to the man's cominoL eensfi first. The thing is ahsui'd and preposterous." He did make that appeal to Wassielewski, and as it was a com- plete failui'e, I suppose the old conspirator had no common sense. He called in the morning at his lodgings, that one room which 1 have described, where the old man told me my own story in all its hideous details, sparing nothing. The Pole was sitting at the table, the map of Poland in his hand, preparing for the campaign. Long lists and estimates lay beside him, -uith which he was esti- mating the progress and dui-ation of the straggle. • The longer the reyolt, the more lives sacrificed, the greater the exasperation and cruelties of the Muscovs, the better for Poland. Tears of women, he used to say in his grim way, and blood of men together fructify the soil, so that it produces heroes. At sight of a stranger he sprang to his feet, and clutched his papers. " You do not remember me," said Leonard. " I do not," replied the old man, gazing keenly and suspiciously into his face. Spies and police assume so many forms that they might even be looked for beneath the guise of a young English- man. " Who are you, and what do you want with me ? " "My name is Leonard Copleston. I am the old friend oi Ladislas Pulaski. One of his only friends." "He has many," said Wassielewski. "Friends in his o^n] oonritry." " Friends who -ftill make him the tool of their own parposes, and lead him, if they got their OT\-n mil, to death. I am one of the friends who want him to live.'" Wassielewski made no reply for a moment. Then he seemed to recollect. " I know you now," he said. " You went away to seek youi fortune. You used to come to our barrack and learn things. The Poles were good to you then." " Some of your people taught me French and Ptussian, riding, fencing, all sorts of usefal things. I am gi-ateful to them." " And your fortune — it is found ?" "Yes; I am an ofl&cer in the army; I have been in the Crimea." The old man's face brightened. " Aha ! you fought the Muscovite. We wers watching, hoping AN APPEAL TO COMMON SENSE. 2:1 to fight liim too, but our chance never came. Why — why did yoa not make a demonstration in Poland?" *' We did what we could, and we got the best of it. The Pole sighed. Then he resumed his suspicious lcx)k* " ^Tiy do you come to see me ? Can I fiddle for you ? I can march before troops of your men pla}-ing a hornpipe. What else can I do for you ? Ah ! I see— I see," his face assumed a look of cunning. "You are a friend of Ladislas Pulaski, and you come here to persuade me not to take him. That is too late. He has pledged himself, and he must keep his word. Say what yoa have to say, and leave me. I have much to think of." " ^Miat I have to say is short. It is absurd to di-ag into the meshes of your conspiracy a man Hke Ladislas, the most peaceful, the most unpractical, the most di'eamy of men. Even now, when you half-maddened him with some horrible story of death and tor- tui'e, his sympathies are only half -s^ith you. He cannot speak Pohsh ; he is a quiet Enghsh musician, as unfit for a campaign as any girl. "WTiy do you seek to take away his life ? ^\Tiat eai-thly good can his death do to Poland '?" " He is a Pulaski. That is why he must come ^-ith us. His father, Pioman Pulaski, dragged out ten years of miseiT in a Siberian mine, Ladislas must strike a blow to revenge him. *' Eevenge ! revenge I" Leonard cried impatiently. " Yes, young gentleman," Wassielevrski rose to his fall height, looking something like an eagle. " Revenge ! That is the word. For eveiy cruel and treacherous murder there shall be revenge fall and substantial. Did Ladislas tell you the story of hia father?" "No, not yet." " That is not well. His mother, too, was murdered when the llussians stole her boy, and she ran after the carts through the \\-inter snow, bareheaded, cr^'ing and imploiing for her child tiH she could ran no longer, and so fell down and died. Did Ladiilas tell you of his mother ?" "No." "It is not well. Ladislas should tell evei^body these things. He should repeat them to himself twice a day ; he should never let them gi out of his brain." " Why did you distui'b the current of his peaceful life -^"ith the Btory." " To fire his blood ; to quisken his sluggish pulse. The boy is a dreamer. I would spur him into action." " You cannot do that. But you might spur him into iradneBft. 2^2 BV CELIACS ARBOUR. What is the use of filling his thoughts with revenge which can Dnlj be dreamed of?" "Only be dreamed of!" "Wassielewski cried, almost with a shriek. "Why, man, I have dreamed of revenge for twerv+y years and more. Only be dreamed of? Why, we shall put the revengo into action at once. Do j^ou hear ? — at once — next week. Wo start next week — we — but you are an Englishman," he stopped shoi-t, " and you would not betray me." " 1 betray no one. But Ladislas shall not go with you." " I say he shall," Wassielewski replied calmly. " I have per- suaded him. He is expected. Revenge ! Yes ; a long scourge from generation to generation." " An unwoi-thy thing to seek. I thought you Poles were patriots." " It is because we are patriots that we seek revenge. How easy it is for you English, who have no wi'ongs to remember, to talk wifh contempt of revenge. ^Miat do you know of backs scarred and seamed with Russian sticks ? "What murdered sons have you for the women to lament ? What broken promises, ruined homes, outraged hearths, secret wrongs, and brutal im- prisonments ? Go, sir ; leave me alone Tsith my plans ; and talk to no Pole about lining in peace." ** He is defoiTued." " So much the better. All the Pulaskis for centuries have been tall and straight. Who crippled the boy? The Russians. Let the people see his round back and hear his stoiy." " He is weak ; he cannot march ; he cannot even cany a gun." " Yes ; he is strong enough to cany a rifle, and use it, too." " He is a dreamer. Let him di'eam away his life in peace." " He may dream, if he likes — in the next world," said the con- spirator, grimly. "Poland claims all her sons — di-eamers, and [)oets, and all. This is a levee en masse, a universal conscrij> tion, which knows of no exceptions. He must join the rest, and march to meet his fate. Shall a son of Roman Pulaski stay ia incrlorious exile while the Poles are rising aefain ?" Leonard made a gesture of impatience. " It is madness. Man, it is mm-der." Wassielewski sighed and sat down — he had been walking up &nd do-wn the room. Resting one hand upon his papers, he looked up sorrov fully at Leonard, speaking in low tones of comdction and with softened eyes. " It is what I have said to myself a thousand times. Ladislas is not a soldier : let him live. I say it still, in the day-time. But AN APPEAL TO COMMON SENSE. 253 ftt nigbt, when I am quite alone in the moonlight, I sometimes see the form of his mother, the Lady Claudia. She is in white, an Paris, New York, and Stamboul. They are even in Moscow. Let them conspire." " No mischief! " Leonard echoed. *' The Russians prevent thit by their Becret service, I suppose." He looked at his fiiend steadily. ** We know by Crimean experience how well that is con- ducted. Why — they had a Russian spy, disguised as a German ail th-'ough the war, in our ot\ii London War Office. But that ycu have heard, of course." Herr Raumer laughed. ' ' It was very neatly done. Any other but the English would nave foreseen a Russian war, and taken care that some of their officers learned Russian." " At all events, we get on, somehow." '* Yes ; because you have a good geographical position ; because you have money ; and because you have the most wonderful luck. Wait till Russia gets Stamboul." '' When will that be ? " " And commands the Yalley of the Euphrates. It is very clever of you to make of Moklavda and Wallachia an independent Btate ; but who is to guard it ? Suppose a time were to come ;w^hen Austria — she is always Austria the Unready — was fettered with diplomatic chains, when France either would not or could not interfere in the Eastern Question, what is to prevent Russia from marching across the fi'ontier of your Roumania ? Treaties ? Why the whole histoiy of the world is the history of broken treaties. Sooner or later she will try for Asia, from the Levant to Pekin. Of course that -uill include Afghanistan. Then she will try for India, and win it by force of numbers. Where will your greatness be then ? " " We have fought her before, and we will fight her again." " Oh yes ; you can fight, you English. Perhaps you can fight better than any other people. That is to say, you can do -Rith a hundred soldiers what Russia wants a hundred and twenty to accompHsh. But you have only that hundred, and Russia' has oenind her hundi'ed and twenty ten times a hundi^ed and twentv more. You are commercially great because London has taken the place which the Constantinople of the future will hold, the commercial centre of the world. Y^'ou have a great fleet. Yoa will lose your great empire because you will not have a great army. England will become less formidable as armies grow gr-Anter. \1 A DlFLOMAllST. 257 yt5n ?visli to preserve tlie poAver of England, make every Fnglisli maa a soldier." *' That will never be,'* said Leonard. •* Then the days of England's supremacy are done." He knocked out the ashes of his pipe, refilled it slowly, and lit up again. "It is by her secret service which you despise that Russia defends herself, and steadily advances. She throws out her secret agents to watch, report, and, if necessary, make mischief. They are the irregular cavahy of politics. Sometimes they are called mercliants or scientific explorers, sometimes th«y are disguised as missionaries, sometimes they are the ministers and rulers of the coun'ry, corrupted by Russian gold or flattered with Russian skill. Rushia makes no move till she has felt her way. Persia will be hers when the last relic of British influence has been bought out or wheedled out, or when Russian counsels have been able, un- molested, to bring the country into a fit condition for Russian occupation." " I suppose that Russian influences are already at work in Eng- land itself '? " "Not 3'et," said Herr Raumer, laughing. " The conquest of England would cost too much. But Russian influences are al- ready at work against British interests, wherever they can be met and injured. You have no enemy in the world except Russia. Not France, which changes her policy as she changes her Govern- ment, once in every generation. Not America, which is a peaceful countiy, and more afraid of war than England. The enemy ot England, the persistent and ever watchful enemy oi England, is Russia, because it is England alone, at present, that can keep Russia £rom Constantniople." " Well, you have forev^amed us, at all events." "Forewarned is nothing. You may forewarn a consunptijre man that he will sufi"er in the lungs. That will not prevc-nt the disease. You will go on in England, as you always do, learning nothing, preparing for nothing, acting always as if 3-ou had to do with men who tell the truth. Could any countiy be more stupid ? " " "WTiy," asked Leonard, " should not nations be as honest ^s men ? " " So they are,' he replied, " only you Englishmen will persist in supposing that men are not liars. An English gentleman, I will admit, always speaks the truth. At least, he has been taught to do so, and it comes natural to him. But a common English- :iian does not. The man who sells things to you lies habitually, % 258 B V CELT A 'S ARBO UR. in order to make his profit — lies like a Syrian, go^s to cturct cs Sundays, and thinks he is a Christian. An American, I suppo/Se, is pretty nearly the same thing as an Englishman, unless he happens to be an Irish Catholic. I believe that Datchmen, T)anes, Swedes, and Norwegians — small nations without ambition —have a singular preference for the truth. But all other nations lie. I am a German, and I state that unblushingly. Those get on best who lie hardest." " Suppose that one here and there vrere to speak the truth?" "It would do him no gDod, because he would not be believca, tmless he were an Englishman. Diplomacy is a game in which no one believes any one else. The truth lies behind the words — somewhere. It is our business — I mean the business of diplo- matists — to find it out. First, you have the actual assurance ol the Czar, we will say, conveyed by his ambassador. Of course no one, except, perhaps, an Enghsh newspaper, pretends for a moment to believe a pacific assurance. You receive it, and you try to find out what Russia is actually doing, which is a great deal more important. If you find that out, and are able to watch the movements of other Powers, you have a chance of understanding the ti-uth. " Eveiything stated openly is stated ^vlth intention to deceive. That is the first rule in diplomacy. All friendly assui'ances must be received with suspicion. That is the second rule. Tho statement of disinterested action which is always made is, of course, received with derision. No nation is disinterested, except, somt^times, England. There has not been a disinterested action done by any single nation since the world began, save only one c> two done by England. I gi'ant you that. Statesmanship means lying for the good of your countiw, and there is a regular method which is known and adopted eveiywhere. Except to the ignorant peo})le, it means nothing, and imposes on no one." '* Why not start fair again all round, and speak the trath ? " ' ' What ? and spoil the game ? Heaven forbid ! We have our ^{lle fictions in society, why not in diplomacy also ? I do not want, as I once told Ladislas Pulaski, to live in a world gone good. It would be tedious to me, that kind of world. And, at my age, I cannot unlearn things. Let us go on as we have always gone on — one nation trsing to cheat eveiT other — ambassa- dors Inug — secret service reduced to one of the fine arts — and let us watch the splendid spectacle, unequalled in history, of a nation folj'^wing a line of policy fi'om generation to gene^ra'ion, THE FOURTH ESTATE 250 beaten at one point and cai-rying it forward it another — always advancing, always aided evennivliere by a swarm of secret agents.* Afterwards repeating the conversation to me, — " The man," said Leonard, " is a Russian agent himself. I am cei*tain of it. Xo German ever talked English so well : he has the best Eussian manner : he is ruse, polished, and utterly cynic- ally h-ank, nnsci-upulous, like all the people connected with the Russian Government. He has an impoi-tant mission here, no doubt, and must have picked up a good deal of information dmiug all these years. I wonder what his name is, and what his reaJ rank in the poHce." " You are only guessing, Leonard." " Perhaps, but I am sui-e, sll the same. !M\ deai boy, I know them. There were Russian papers on the tabic, too. I saw the Golos, of Moscow, among others. He is no more a German than you or I. ' Served in the Austi'ian calvary.' ' Fudge and flap- doodle ! ' as Mrs. Pontifex says. Cuiious, to see the patronising way in which he talked. I am only a young officer of that stupid nation where diplomatists speak the trath. I should like to checkmate our fiiend on his own gi'ound." "But— CeHa?" "Do you think I am going to let Ceha be handed over to a Russian spy? " he asked, gi-andly. "A Russian officer would be a different thing. There are splendid fellows among them. But a spy? Pah ! The thought makes me ill. Besides, Laddy," he laughed, " I don't think we will let Celia go out of England at aiJ. She is too good for anv but an EngUshman." CHAPTER XXXVL I HE FOURTH ESTATE. I was sitting in Leonard's quaiiers two days afterwards, idling the time with him, when I became aware of a familiar figui'e walking slowly across the burrack yard. It was that of Mr Ferdinand Brambler. I had not seen any of the family for some time, ha.mg been entirely occupied with Ceha, Leonard, and my Pohsh Bchemes. He bore himself with quite his old solemnity, but there was something in his manner which showed change and decay — a kind of mouldiness. As he di'ew nearer it became too evident that his outer garments were much the worse for wear, his boots down at heel, and his whole appearance pinched and himgry. Things must have been going badiy with the children. Mv heart *6o BY CELIACS ARBOUR. smote me for neglecting the Bramblers. "Were all of iliem, including my poor little bright-eyed Forty-four, in the same hungry and dilapidated condition ? He made straight for Leonard's quarters^ and, coming in out of the broad sunlight, did not at first see me. *' Captain Copleston? " he asked timidly. "I am Cai^tain Copleston," said Leonard, *'^^^latcan I do for you ? " ''Sir," said the great Ferdinand, dra\ving himsqJf up, •* 1 introduce myself as representing the Fourth Estate. I am the Printing Press." " You don't look like one," replied Leonard flippantly. " But go on." " Don't you know me, Mr. Ferdinand ? " I asked, jumping up ftnd shaking hands with him. "Leonard, this is my old fi'iend, Mr. Ferdinand Brambler, the brother of Augustus Brambler, whom you recollect, I am sure." "Of course I do," said Leonard. "How do you dc, Mr. Brambler? Your brother was a little man, with a comical face that looked as if he was too jolly for his work. I remember now. Is he in the Legal now, in the Clerical, or m the Scholastic ? And will you take a glass of wine or a brandy and soda ? " " My brother Augustus devotes his whole energies now to the Legal," said Ferdinand, slowly, " I will take a brandy and soda, thank you. With a biscuit or a sandwich, if I may ask for one." " Send for some sand^\iches, Leonard," I said. " And how are you all in Castle Street? " " But poorly, Mr. Pulaski. Very poorly. The children are — not to disguise the truth — ahem — breaking out again, in a way dreadful to look at. Forty- six is nothing but an Object— an Object — fi'om insufficiency of diet. Too much bread and too little meat. Ah ! the good old days are gone when things were going on — things worthy of an historic pen — all around us, and money flowed in — literally flowed in. Captain Copleston. "What with a piize ship here, an embarkation of troops there, the return of the wounded, an inspection of militia, and all the launches, I used to think nothing of svriting up to a leg of mutton in thi'ee or four hours, turning off a pair of boots as if ib was nothing, putting a greatcoat into shape in a single evening, throwing in a gOT\Ti for Mrs. Augustus and a new frock for Forty-four, or going out in the morning, and polishing ofi' a day's run into the country for the whole family cut of a visit from the Commander-in-Chief. I used U) iaugh 9t that as only a good day's work. Happy :ii soldiers and sailors, at which he often appeared, standing drinks all round in a free and afi'able manner. " Quite the Moses we used to love," said Leonard in a gi'eat rage. " We vdll go to the, ' Blue Anchor,' and wring the truth out of him." For that day we had, however, our engagement at the Bram- biers', which we duly kept, and were ushered into the fi'ont room, Ferdinand's " study." He was sitting at the table in expectation of us, with paper and pencil before him. He was hungering and thirsting for information. Beside him stood Augustus, as cheerful and smiling as though the children were not breaking out. Excepi that he was shabbier than usual, there was no mark of poverty or failm-e upon him. *' This, Captain Copleston," he said, " is a real honour. I take it as a recognition of my brother Ferdinand's genius. My brother Ferdinand, sir, is a Gem." " Brother Augustus," mm-mured the author bashfully, ** nay — nay." " A Gem — I repeat it— a Gem. And of the first water. \Miat Bayg the poet ? — " ' Full many a time, this Gem of ray serene. Outside the Journal Otiice may bo st.en.' He will do you justice, sir. Mr. Pulaski," he sank his voice to a whisper, " shall we leave these two alone ? Shall we retii'e to the domestic circle, not to disturb Histon,' and Heroism ? At what time shall we name supper. Captain Copleston? Pray, fix your own time. Think of your convenience first. We are nothing — nothing." "I never take supper, thank you," said Leonard, vrno s\a6 beginning to be a little bored '^ith the whole business. '* Don't speak of supper to me," said Ferdinand. " This is my iupper," he patted the paper aflcctioaately. " This my evening beer." He pointed to the inkstand. " This is my pillow," indii-itir.jj the blotting-pad. "And for me there will be no m'{lit'b rest. Now, THE FO UR TH ES TA TE. 265 fiir, if you .vili sit there — so — with the light upon the face — we can converse. Affluence is about to return, brother Augustus." Augustus and I stole out of the room on tiptoe. In the bach room the table was laid, and the childi'en were crowded in the window, looking at the cloth with longing eyes. Poor little children ! They were gi'own pale and thin dui'ing these hard times, and their clothes were desperately shabby. Foi-ty-four, a tall girl now of fom'teen, angular and bony, as is common at that age, preserved some show of cheerfulness, as became the eldest of the family. It was hers to set an example. But the rest were very •sad in countenance, save for a sort of hungry joy raised by tho prospect of supper. " Always something kind fi'om the Captam," murmured the poor wife. *' It was lucky." I said, " that we had that cold round of beef in the larder. Cannot we have supper immediately '? I am su re the children would like it.'' The poor children gave a cit, and Forty- six bui'st into loud weeping. "Things have not gone veiy well, latterly," said Augustus, looking uncomfoi-table. " Sometimes I even think that we don"t get enough meat. \\"e had some on Sunday, I remember " — and this was Friday — " because Ferdinand said it was the fii'st real meal he had enjoyed for a week. That was while we were sitting over our wine after dinner." Nothing, not even actual starvation, would have prevented the two brothers fi-om enjoying their Sunday pretence of sitting, one each side a little table, at the fi*ont window, with a decanter and two glasses before them. I do not know what the decanter con- tained. Perhaps what had once been Marsala. Ferdinand cherished the custom as a mark of true gentility, and was exceed- ingly angry if the children came in and interrupted. lie said grandly that a gentleman " ought not to be disturbed over his \^ine." I think Augustus cared less about the ceremony. Meantime the mother, assisted by Forty-four and Forty-five, brought in the supper — cold beef and hot potatoes — with real beer — no toast and water. I pass over the details of the meal. Even Augustus was too hungiy to tall, and Foi-ty-six sui-passed himself. I sat next to Forty-four, who squeezed my hand furtively, to show that she was grateful to the Captain. She was always a tender-hearted little ihiog, and devoted to her brothers and sisters. The pangs of huutjw- appca-ed. we talke^d. 2S5 B Y cm. lA'S ARBO UR. **?cii now have an opportunity," said Augustus, leaning back in hk chair after the fatigues of eating ; " you now hive an oppor- tunity of boasting, my childi-en, that a Crimean hero has actually eome to this house, in order to tell the histoiy of the vrar to your imcle Ferdinand, the well-knoT\Ti writer." The boys and gh-ls murmui'ed. This was indeed gnindei r. '• We will drink," said Augustus, filling his glass, and handing me the jug. " We will drink a toast. I give you, chikken, coupled, the names of Captain Copleston, the Hero, and Ferdi- nand Brambler (your uncle, my dears), the Histonan. It is my ni-m belief that this night has commenced what I' may in mili- tary language call an Alliance, or — speaking as a la^^yer, one may say that this night has ^ntnessed the tacit execution of a Deed of Partnership " — he relished his words so much that he was fain to repeat them — " between the Hero and the Historian, which will result in their being kno-^ii together, and indissolubly connected by the generations, yet to come, of posterity. For myself, I have, as you know, little other ambition than to be re- membered, if remembered I am at all, as Augustus Brambler (your father, my dears), foiTaerly an ornament to the Legal." We drank the toast '^ith enthusiasm. There were nowhere to be found children more ready to drink or eat toa?t? than the Brambler s. " By our own family connections, Mr. Pulaski," Augustus con- tinued, " we have more sympathy with the Navy than with the Army. Mrs. Brambler — your mother, my dears — is highly con- nected as regards that service ; and it is, I confess, my favourite. Sometimes I think of putting Forty- six into it, though if they were wrecked on a desert island, and provisions run short, he would come off badly. Forty- eight, of course, is out of the question where discipline and obedience are concerned. It would, however, have been just the service for poor little Fifty-one, my dears, had that interesting child been bora." He looked critically at Forty-six, sadly at Forty-eight, and ehook his head. All hung their heads sorrowfully, as was customaiT at mention of the Great and Gifted Fifty-one — unborn. " Two members of my wife's family — she was a Tollerrtinch — were members of that gallant service, Mr. Pulaski. One of them, her uncle, held the rank of Master's Mate, and if he had not had the misfortune to knock dovvn his superior officer on the quarter- deck, would now, one may be justified in supposing, have been Rear-Admiral Sir Samuel Tollensinch, K.C.B.— of the White. I LOVE'S VICTORY. 267 drink to the health, and memoiy — in solemn silence — cf the lata Admiral." Such was Augustus's enthusiasm, that we all helieved at the moment the deceased officer to have died in that rank. " The Admiral," Augustus sighed. " You must not be proud, my dears, of these accidents— mere accidents — of distinguished family connections. Your mother's first cousin, James Elderberry, entered the service also. He was a purser's clerk. I think I am right, my dear, in stating to Mr. Pulaski that James was a most gallant and deserving officer." "He was, indeed," said Mrs. Brambler. "Poor Jem! And sang a most beautiful song when sober." " Universally esteemed, my children, from the yardarm — to speak nautically — and the maintop mizenmast, wherever that or any other portion of the rigging is lashed taut to the shrouds, do^\Ti to the orlop deck. His service vras not long — only three weeks in all— and it was cut short by a court-martial on a charge of — of— in fact, of inebriation while on duty. He might have done well, perhaps, in some other Walk — or shall we say. Sail of Life ? — if he had not, in fact, continued so. He succumbed — remember this, Fort3'-six — to the effects of thirst. AYell, we must all die. To eveiy brave rover comes his day." Augustus rolled his head and tried to look like a buccaneer. " Your mother's cousin, my children, must be regarded as 3ne who fell — in action." CHAPTER XXXYII. lo^-e's ^^CTORY. I SHALL premise that my story now becomes the journal of three days — every hour of which is graven on my memoiy. And I must tell the events which crowd that brief period as if I was actually present; at all of them. Oui' rejoicings and dinner-pai-ties were all over outwardly, at least, we had all dropped back to our old habits. I had no lessons to give, because we were in holiday time, and divided my day between Celia and Leonard, unless we were all three together. But Celia was anxious ; I was waiting with a sinking at the heaii for Wassielewski's signal ; and every day the face of Mr. TyrreU grew more cloudy and overcast with care. He was mayor for the year, as I think I have said before, and had the municlpaJ work in addition to the business of his o'r-d office. j68 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. The first of these three days was June the 23th — a \^ yek afkf Leonard's return. He had met Celia every day — sometimes twice in the same day ; as yet he had said nothing. '* SujDpose," he said, " suppose, Laddy, that — I only put a case, you know — that I were to meet you and Celia in the Queen s Bastion ; suppose there should be no one else in the place " *' Well?" I asked. " Would it, I say, in such a contingency, occur to you to ha\e ftn appointment elsewhere ? " I forget whether Perseus had fallen in love with Andromeda before the sla3-ing of the dragon ; if so, the agitation in the breast of the warrior must have been greatly intensihed, especially whee he found he had only just arrived in time. I told him that it Avas a clear breach of trust ; that Celia was allowed to come out with me in a tacit understanding that there should be no lovemaking ; that I was a male duenna : that I should be ever after haunted by the knowledge of the crime ; that 1 should be afraid to face her father; that Herr Riiumer — but, after all, it mattered nothing what Herr Riiumer thought ; and — finally, I acceded, promised to efiace myself, and wished hin* success. I do not know how it was that on the morning of that 28th day of June, Celia looked happier and brighter than she had done for weeks. She was dressed, I remember, in some light silver-grey muslin dress, which became her tall and graceful figure, and the sweet calm face above it. I knew eveiy shade of her face ; I had seen it change from childhood to womanhood ; I had watched the clouds gi'ow upon it during the trouble of the last few weeks ; I had seen the sunshine come back to it when Leonard came home again, to bring us new hope. The dreariness was gone out of her eyes, with the strange sad look of fixed speculation and the di'eamy gloom. " Yes, Laddy," she said, catching my look and understanding it. " Yes, Laddy, I am more hopeful now Leonard has come home again. I do not know how, but I am certain that he i\ill help us." On this morning there was a Function of some kind — a Ijaimch —a Reception — a Royal Visit — going on in the Dockyard. From Celia's Arbour we could see the ships gay with bunting ; there were occasional bursts of music ; it must have been a Launch, because the garrison bands were pla;^-ing while the people assem- bled in the shed, the naval and militaiy officers in full uniform ; the civil servants in the uniform of the Dockyard Volunteeri — 2»< LOVE'S VICTORY. 26q those of 1860, but an earlier regiment, not so efScient, and with a much more gorgeous uniform ; hidies in full war-paint, each i« her own uniform, prepared to distract the male eye fi-om contem- plation too prolonged of naval architecture ; the Mayor and Aldermen in go\Mi and gold chain, splendid to look upon, in official seats, ready with an address ; and no doubt, though one could only see him, as well as the Corporation, with the eyes of imagination, there would be among them all Ferdinand Bran bier, note-book in hand, jerking his head up at the sky and making a note ; looking at his watch and making a note ; gazing for a few moments thoughtfully at the crowd and making a note — all in the Grand Historical Style — and not at all as if he was calculating tbfi while what items of domestic consumption this Ceremony would " run to." Presently, turning from the contemplation of the flags and dis- cussion of hidden splendours, we saw, mounting the grass slope, with the most hypocritical face in the world, as if his coming 'was by the merest accident, Leonard himself. " You here, Leonard ?" •' Yes, Celia." Now that I looked again, I saw that his face had a grave and thoughtful expression. It was that of a man, I thought, who has a thing to say. She read that look in his eye, I beheve, because she grew confused, and held me more tightly by the arm. It did not seem to me that there was any occasion here for beating about the bush, and pretending to have appointments. Why should I make up a stoiy about Icfaving something behind? So I put the case openly, "Leonard has asked me to leave you with him, Cis, for half an hour. I shall walk as far as the Hospital and sit down. In half an hour I will come back." She made no reply, and I left them there — alone. There was no one but themselves in the Queen's Bastion, and I thought, as I walked away, that if Heaven had thought fit to make me a lover like the rest of mankind, there was no place in the world where I would sooner declare my love than Celia's Ai'boui' — provided I could whisper the tale into Celia's own ear. Ha]f an houi' to wait. At the end of the long straight curtaiii, in the middle of which was the Lion's Gate, with its little octagonal stone watch-tower, and where the wooden railings fenced off the 2i;ercise-gi'ound of the Convalescent Hospital, I found the little Brambler children playing, and stood watching them. They took up fully ten minutes. Three tall, gaun/" soldiers, thin and pale from recent sickness, were on the other bide of the fenc-: wjit .'king a70 B Y CELT A 'S ARBO UR. them toD. 0E3 of them bore on liis cap tlie nimilicr of Leocard'a regiment. I asked him if he knew Captain Copleston. He laughed. " Gentleman Jack ?" he asked. " A\Tiy, "oho doesn't know Gentleman Jack •? I was in the ranks -^ith h"m. Akays a gentleman, though, and the smartest man in the regini/6nt. It vras him as took the Rifle Pit. That was the making of him. Ani no one grudged him the luck. Some sense, making him an officer." From which I gathered that there were otiier officers in the regi- ment who had not commended themselves to this good fellow's admiration. The Bramhlers, headed by Forty-six, now a stiu-dy lad d twelve, were celebrating an imaginaiy banquet, in imitation of last night's tremendous and unexpected feed. The eldest boy occupied the chair, and ably sustained the outward foims of carving, inviting to titbits, a httle more of the gra^w, the addition of a piece of fat, a slice of the silver side, another helping, pressing at the same time a cordial invitation on all to drink, "^ith a choice of liquors which did infinite credit to his infoimation and his inventive faculty, and sending about invisible plates and imaginaiy goblets \vith an alacrity and hospitality worthy of a One-eyed Calender at the feast of a Barmecide or a super at a theatrical banquet. It was an idyllic scene, and one enjoyed it all the more because the childi'en — their breakings-out were better akeady — entered into the spiiit of the thing with such keen delight, because one knew that at home there was awaiting them the goodly remnant of that noble round of beef; and because the historio-graphically gifted Ferdinand had found fi'esh and woiihy subjects for his pen, which might result, if judiciously handled, in many legs of mutton. By a combination of ch-cumstances needless here to explair;. Forty-six subsequently became, and is still, a shorthand reporter. He does not go into the Gallery of the House, because Jie prefers reporting public dinners, breakfasts, and all those Functions where eating and di'inking come into play. You may recognise his hand, if you remember to think of it, when you read the reports of such meetings in the accuracy, the fulness, and the feehng which are shown in his notice of the viands and the drinks. It is unneces- sary to say that he has never parted with the t\^ist which charac- terised him as a boy, and was due to the year of his birth, and he may be seen at that Paradise of Reporters, the Cheshire Cheese, t&king two steaks to his neighbour's one ; after the steaks, ordering a couple of kidneys on toast, being twice as much as anybody else, md taking cheese on a like liberal scale. He is said- ajso, ia LOVE'S VICTORY. z*i\ have views of gi-eat oreaclth in the matter of stout, and to be al\^ay3 thirsty on the exhibition of Scotch ^vhiskey. When I was tilled of watching the boys and girls, I strolled paii of the way back, and sat down on the grassy bank in the shade, while the thoughts flew across my brain like the swallows flitting backwards and foii\-ards before me, in the shade of the trees apdic the sunshine. Leonard and Celia on the Queen's Bastion together. I, apai-t and alone. Of two, one is taken and the other left. They would go together, hand in hand, along the flowery lane, and I fchouhi be left to make my lonely pilgi'image without them. Who could face this thing without some sadness ? All around were the sights and sounds which would weave themselves for ever in my brain with recollections of Celia and of Leonard and the brave days of old. How many times had she and I leaned over the breastv^'ork watching the little buglers on the gi'assy ravelin beyond the moat practising the calls, all the summer afternoon ? How many times had we laughed to see the little drummer boys marching backwards and fom-ards, each T\-ith his drum and pair of sticks, beating the tattoo for practice with unceasing rub-adub ? Down in the meadows at my feet, where the buttercup stood tall and splendid, we had wandered knee- deep among the flowers, when Celia was a tiny little giii. The great and splendid harbour behind me, across which wo loved to sail in and out among the brave old ships lying motionless and dismasted on the smooth surface, like the aged one-legged tars sitting on their bench in the sunshine, quiet and silent, would for ever bear in its glassy surface a reflection of Celia's sweet face. Listen : there is the booming of guns from the Blockhouse Fort ; a great ship has come home fi.*om a long cruise. Is every salute in future to remind me of Celia ? Or again — do you hear it ? The muffled drum ; the fife ; the dull echo of the big drum at intervals. It is the Dead March, and they are burying a soldier,, perhaps one of the men from India, in the churchyard below tho walls. Backwards with a rush goes the memory to that day when Leonard stood with me watching such a sight, and refusing to believe that such a man, poor private that he was, had failed. No doubt 'twas a brave and honest soldier — there is the roll of musketry over his grave — God rest his soul ! Down below, creeping sluggishly along, go the gangs of convicts ai-med with pick and spade. No flmeral march for them when theii' course is ran ; only the chaplain to read the appointed seiwice ; only an ignoble and forgotten gi-ave in the mud of Piat Island ; and perhaps ia Borae far-off place a broken-heai'ted woman to thank God thai J72 BY CELIACS ARBOUR, her unfortunate, weak-willed son has been taken from a world whose temptations were too much for his strength of brain. Why, even the convicts will make me think of Celia, with whom I havo so many times watched them come and go. All the life of the gamson and seaport town is in these things. The great man-o'-war coming home after her three years' cruise ; the launch in the Dockyard ; the boys practising the drum an^ bugle ; the burial of the private soldier ; the gang of prisoners — ever^'thing is there except Wassielewski and the Poles. All our petty provincial life. Only that ? Why, thrre is in it all the comedy of humanity, its splendour, its pride, its hopes, its laisery, its death. I could look at none of these things — nor can I now — without associating them with the days and the companions of my youth. Sad were the thoughts of those few minutes — a veritable mauvais quart dlieure — for I saw that I should speedily lose her who was the sunshine of my life. I did not think of the many visits we should pay each other, the happy greetings, after days of separation, m the future. I thought only of the barren hours di'agging them- selves weanly along, without Celia. The rose of love that had spnmg up unbidden in my heart was plucked indeed, but the prickings of its thorns in my soul made me feel that the plant was still alive. Was, then, Celia anything more to me than a sister ? I never had a sister, and cannot tell. But she was all the world to me, my light, my life— although I knew that she would never marry me. What, I said to myself, for the half-hour was almost ap — what can it matter so long as Celia finds happiness, if I do not ? What selfishness is this that would repine because her road lies along the lilies while mine seems all among the thorns ? After all, to him who goes cheerfully among the appointed thorns, a thousand pretty blossoms spring up presently beneath his foot. And among the briars, to lighten the labours of the march, there climbs And twines the honeysuckle. While I was sitting with these thoughts in my brain, this is what was going on at the Queen's Bastion. Ticonard and Celia face to face, the faces of both downcast, the one because she was a girl, and knew beforehand what would be said ; the other because he reverenced and feared the girl before him, and because this was the fatal moment on which hung the fulfilment of his life. Above them the great leafy branches of the giant elm, prodigal in shade. Leonard broke the silence. •'1 have been looking for this hour," he began, " doubt \il LOVE'S VICTORY, £7^ and uncerlaln, " Lr five long years. I began to hope for it when I first left the town. The hope was well-nigh dead, as a child g cry for the moon ceases when he finds it is too far oil, while I fought my way up from the ranks. But it awoke again the day I received the colours, and it has been a living hope ever sinc^, until, as time went on, I began to think that some day I might have the opportunity of telling you — what I am tiying to teU you now. The time has come, Celia, and I do not know how to frama the words." She did not reply, but she trembled. She trembled the moje when he took her hand, and held it in his own. " My dear," he whispered, " my dear, I have no fitting words. I want to tell you that I love you. Answer me, Celia." *' ^Yhat am I to say, Leonard ? " ** Tell me what is in youi' heart. Oh, my darling, tell me if you can love me a little in return ? " "Leonard — Leonard!" She said no more. And he caught her to his heart, and kissed her, in that open spot, in broad daylight, on the forehead, cheeks, and lips, till she drew herseli away, shamefaced, frightened. " My dear," it was nearly all he could say — and they sat down presently, side by side upon the grass, and he held both her hands together in his. *' My dear, my love, what has become oi all the fiie speeches I would have made about my humble origin, ♦md devotion ? They all went out of my head directly I felt the touch of your hand. I could think of nothing, but — I love you — I love you. I have always loved you since you were a little child ; and now that you are so beautifal — so sweet, so good — my queen of womanhood — I love you ten times as much as I ever thought 1 could, even when I lay awake at night in the trenches, tr}ing to picture such a moment as this. My love, you are too high for me. I am not worthy of you." "Not worthy? Oh! Leonard — do not say that. You have made me proud and happy. "WTiat can you find in me, or think that there is in me, that you could love me so — for five long years ? Are you sure that you are not setting up an ideal that yon will tire of, and be disappointed when ycu find the reality ? " Disappointed ? He — and with Celia ? He released her hands, and laid his aim round her waist. *' Wbat a mistake to make ! To be in love with a woman and to find her an angel. My dear, I am a man of very small inj ig""nation — not like Ijaddy, who peoples his Heaven with argele 2 274 ^y CELIACS ARBOUR. like yourself and lives there in fancy always — and 1 am only certain of what I see for myself. ^\Tiat I see is that you ai*^ a pearl beyond all piice, and that I love you — and, Celia, I 9m humble before you. You shall teach me, and lead me upwards to your o^Ti level, if you can." When I came back, the half- hour expired, they were sitting side by side on that slope of tall grass still. But thej R'ere changed, transformed. Celia's face was globing with a new light of happiness ; it was like the water in the harbour that we had once seen touched by the light of the rising sun ; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were glistening -^ith tears ; one hand lay in Leonard's and round her waist was Leonard's arm. As for her lover, he was triumphant ; it was nothing to him that he was making demonstrative love in this public place, actually a bastion on the ramparts of Her Majesty's most impor- tant naval station and dockyard. To be sure there was no one io see them but the swallows, and these birds, whose pairing timo v/as over for the season, had too much to do fly-catching — tho serious business of life being well set in for swallows in the month of June — to pay much regard to a pair of foolish mortals. " Come, Laddy," he cried, springing to his feet and seizing her by the hand, while Celia rose all as blushing as Venus Ana- dyomene, " be the first to wish that Celia may be happy. She has been so foolish, this dear Celia of om-s, this dainty little Cis, that we love so much, as to say that she will take me just as I am, for better and for worse." He took her hand again with that proud and happy look of triumphant love, as if he could not bear to let her go for a moment, and she nestled close to him as if it was her place, and she loved to be near him. " There is a foolish maiden for you. There is an indiscreet and impmdent angel who comes down fi*om the heavens to live with us on earth. Congratulate me, Laddy, my dear old di'eamer. I am so happy." Celia shyly di'ew her hand away, and came over to me as if for protection. I saw how her proud and queenly manner was in some way humbled, and that she was subdued, as if she had found her master. She laid her hand upon my shoulder, 'C her caressing way, which showed me that she was happy, and then I began to con- gratulate them both. After that I made them sit down on tho gi'ass, while I sat on the wheel of the gun-carriage, and I talked sense and reason to them. I told them that this kind of engage- ment was one greatly to be deprecated, that it was highly irregular not to go fu'st to head- quarters, and to ask premission of parents. LOVE'S VICTORY, 175 That to confess to each other, in this impetuous way, of loTe, and to make promises of marriage, were things which even Mr. Pontifex, when the passions of his youth were so strong as to make him curse the Goose, had not to repent of; that Mrs. Pontifex had always recommended CeHa to follow her o^\ti examplj, and wait till she was of ripe and mature years hefore marrj'ing any- one, and then to maiTy a man some years younger than herself ; that they ought to consider how a soldier's life was a wand:ring one, and a captain's pay not more than enough for the simple necessaries ; that they might have to -o ait till Leonard was a field-marshal hefore consent could be obtained ; that the Captain would be greatly astonished ; that neither he nor I intended to allow Leonard to carry Cis away with him for a long time to come ; nor had we dreamed that such a thing would follow when we welcomed him home. Many more things I added in the same strain, while Leonard laughed, and Cis listened, half laughing and half crying ; and then, because the occasion was really a solemn one, I spoke a little of my mind. They were good, and bore v.ith me, as I leaned over the old gun and talked, looking through the embrasure across the harbour. I reminded Leonard how, five years ago, he had left us, with the resolution to advance himself, and the hope of rdtuming and of finding Celia free. Never any man, I told him, had such great good fortune as had fallen on him, in getting all he hoped and prayed for. And then I tried to tell him how for five years the girl whose hand he had won had been growing in gi'ace as well as beauty, feeding her mind with holy thoughts, and living in forget- fulness of herself; how it had been an education to me to be with her, to watch her, to learn from her, and to love and cherish her — and then Celia sprang up and interrupted me, and fell upon my neck, crying, and kissing me. Oh ! happy day ! oh ! day of tears and sunshine ! Oh ! day fruitful of blessed memories, when for once we could bare our hearts to each other, and show what lay there hid. No need any more to pretend. I loved her, and I always had loved her. She loved me too ; if not in the same way, what matter ? Well, it was all over, Celia was promised to Leonard. And yet it seemed as if it was only all begun. Because, after a little while, Cis turned to me with a cry, as one who remembers some- thing forgotten. " Laddy, what about Herr Piaumer ? " She and I looked at each other in dismay. I^eonard laughed. *' There is Perseus," X said, pointing to him. " He is strong aye B V CELIA 'S ARBO UR. and brave. He is come to rescue Andromeda. "Wliat did I tell yon, Cis, the day before lie kept his promise ? " She had not forgotten one word about the loathly monskr and the distressful maiden. "Now it has all come true," I said. "Meantime, the first thing is to tell the Captain. And that I shall go and do this minute. You two "^ill come on when you i^lease — wheu you are tired of each other." Leaving them behind me hand in hand was like plunging at once into the loneliness which loomed before me when they two should be gone. One had no right to be sad. I had enjoyed the companionship of Celia for five years, all to myself; it could not be expected that I was to have her exclusive society for all my life. Besides, there was Poland — it really was hard to keep one's thought* in that dark groove of revenge ; I constantly forgot my wi'ongs and my responsibilities. Nor did I even, I fear, thoroughly reahze the delights of battle and the field of patriotic gloiy. At the bottom of the slope there came to meet me the very man — old Wassielewski himself. He was radiant. Without a word of preface, he cried out, as he seized me by the hand: " You are in luck. To-morrow they will call upon vou." •'^Mio?" *' The deputies from Basle, Geneva, London, and Paris. Thsy will call upon you at three, with me. Be at home to meet them." " And when "Wassielewski ? " " Allien do we begin? At once; next week we must start. Courage, boy ; you go to avenge the blood of your father. To- morrow — to-moiTOW — at thi'ee." He waved his aiTus like the sails of a -uindmill. Just then the bands in the yard, amid a deafening shout, because the ship was launched, struck up a splendid march. " Listen," he cried. " That is an omen. Hear the music w&ich welcomes the news of another Polish rebellion. A good omen. A good omen." He sped svr'ftly away. But it was a wedding- march, and 1 thought of Leonard Lnd Celia. TliE KEY 01 THE SA2\Q, aj7 CHAPTER XXXVIIL THE KEY OF THE S^F& £ K\s walking along the street afcer leaving this pair of lovers full of thought, with my eyes on the ground, when I was aware ol a voice calling my name. It was Augustus Brambler tearing along the pavement without a hat, a quill — Augustus would never descend to the meanness of a steel pen while in the Legal — still behind one ear, his coat-tails flying behind him, enthusiastically anxious to execute an order for the Chief. It was a simple mes- sage, asking me to step in and see Mr. Tyrrell. I complied, ani turned back. " And the children ?" I asked. " Better, Mr. Pulaski. The Breakings-out have almost dis- appeared, thanks to an increase of Affluence. My brother Fer- dinand is hard at work on his new series of papers. He calls them ' Reminiscences of the Ciimea,' compiled fi'om Captain Copleston's private information combined with the back numbers of the Illustrated London Netcs, and the morning's Launch will be new boots all round. I don't think," he added in a whiopor, ■'that the Chief is veij well. Herr Riiumer was with him tnis morning before he went into the Yard, and when he sent for me just now he was pale, and shivered. No one knows what we laW' vers go through : no one can guess the wear and tear of brain. Dear me I On Saturday night I often tell Mrs. Brambler that I feel as if another day would finish me off. But then Sunday comes, when Ferdinand and I can sit over our ^ine like gentlemen, and rest. Here we are, Mr. Pulaski," sinking his voice to a whisper. "I must return to a most impoi-tant Case. Talk of intricacy! Ah!" Mr. Tyrrell was leaning against the mantle-shelf, looking, as Augnstus said, an}^hing but well. The Mayor's robes lay in his anu-chair, and round his neck still hung the great gold chain of office. Usually a high-coloured, florid man, with a confident car- riage, he waa now pale and trembling. His hands trembled ; his lips trembled ; his shoulders stooped. "\Miat was it that had placed him in another man's power ? " Ladislas," he groaned, " I wish I were dead ! " That seems, certainly, the simplest solution of difliculties. 1 suppose every man, at some crisis in his fortune, has wished the eaiac. At puch times, when it seems as though eveiything wai 278 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. elipping ninler one's feet, and the solid foundation of wealtb, honour, name, all the fabric of years, was tumbling to pieces liho a pack of cards even the uncei-tainty of the dread Future seems easier to face than the changes of the Present. Here was a man who mounted steadily, swiftly, without a single check, up the ladder of Fortune. He had saved money, bought houses, owned landy", possessed the best practice in the town, held municipal distinc- tions, was the envy of younger men and the admiration of his own contemporaries ; and now, from some real or fancied power which this German possessed over him, he was stricken with a mortal teri'or and sickness of brain. *' I wish I were dead !" he repeated. " Tell me what has happened, Mr. Tyrrell." •'He has been here again. That is nothing — ^he always is here. But he came with a special purpose last night. He came to say that he wanted an ansvv'er." ** Wants an answer? " ** Celia must give him her decision.'* " I am veiy — veiy glad, Mr. T^Trcll," I said, " that he did ko^ want it yesterday morning. I ^nll tell you why presently." *' He is jealous of young Copleston. Says Ceha sat up all night ^ith him and you when he came home. Is that true ? " " Quite. We had so much to say that we did not separate five in the morning." " To be sure, you were all then children together. AMiy, yoB used to play in the garden and on the walls " ** And so Herr Eiiumer is jealous ?" I asked, interrupting. " He is mad with jealousy. He accuses me of fostering an attachment — as if I know anything about attachments ! — he declares that he must have an answer to-morrow morning, and if it is not favourable " " My dear friend and benefactor," I said, " suppose it is not favourable. Can he take av>ay your daughter ? Can he rub you of your money ? What can he do to you ? " "I dare not tell — even you, Laddy," he replied. ** Money? No. He cannot touch my possessions. My daughter ? No ; ho cannot cany her off. But he can almost do as bad. He can — he can — lower me in the eyes of the world ; he can proclaim — W he will — a thing that men who do not know the whole truth wiiJ judge harshly. And he will disgrace me in the eyes of my daughter." I was silent, thinking what to say. Presently I ventui'ed to ask him whether it would not disgrace THE KEY OF THE SAFE. £7y him more in the eyes of Celia for liim to lend Ms favour to a suit BO preposterous. He groaned in reply. " You do not know, Laddy," he said, " the trouble T have had to build up a name in this place, were I began as a boy who swept the office, the son of a common labourer. My brothers are labourers still, and content ^ith their position. My sisters ar'^ laboui'ers* wives, and content as well. I am the great man of the family. I had much to contend with, want of education, poverty, cver^'thing but abihty. I am sure I had that because I surmounted all, and became — what I am. Then I married into a good family, and took their level. And the old low levels were forgotten. Why, if all the world were to remind each other aloud that I once sweut out an office, it would not matter." " Of course not, sir. Pray go on." *' It is fifteen years ago, when Herr Riiumer first came to the town. He had a plausible tongue and wheedled himself into the confidence of all whom he cared to know. He wanted to know me. He made me his lawj-er — sent round that gi'eat safe, where it has been ever since, and used to sit with me in the evening talking affairs. There was nothing in the to^^Mi too small for him to in- quii'e into ; he wanted the secret history of everything : and he got it fi'om me ; I violated no confidence of cHents, but told him ail I knew." *' Did he talk much about the Poles ? " " He was, at first, very inquisitive about the Poles. Said he sympathised with them — I did not, so I had little to tell him. Then came the time when they made the railway on our side of the harbour " He paused for a moment. '' that was the fatal time. I pelded to his instigations, and, together, we never mind what it was, Laddy. It was nothing that could bring me -^^ithin the power of the Law, but it was au action which, stated in a certain vvay, would ruin me fn.r ever in the town." Successful men, I think, are apt to over-estimate the opinion which men have formed of them. They know that they are envied for their success, which is real ; and they easily persuade them- selves that they are admired for their virtues, which are imaginaiy. I do not believe that the town at large would hava cared twopence if Herr Raumer had gone to the balcony of the old Town Hall, and after sticking up a glove in the old fashion of the burgesfea when a Town Function was about to begin, such as the opening of 2bo h Y CELIA 'S ARBOUR. the fair, had there in clear and ringing tones denounced the great Mr. Tyrrell of such and such a meanness. They would have lifted their eyebrows, talked to each other for a day, reflected in the morning that he was rich and powerful, and then would have gone on as if nothing had happened. Because I do not think that any man in the place, however unsuccessful, believed in his heart that Mr. Tyrrell was a bit more virtuous than himself. But that the ia\\'yer would not understand. 1 think that one of Rochefoucauld's maxims is omitted in all the editions. It has somehow slipped out. And it is this : " Every' man believes himself more virtuous than any other man. If the other man is found out, that proves the fact." I was thinking out this moral problem, and beginning to test its truth by personal application to my own case, when I was roused by the consciousness that Mr. Tyrrell was talking still. *' Ten'ible and long labour in building a name as a Christian as well as a lawyer good opinion of the clergj- It was very wonderful, but the theoiy did seem to fit maiTel- lously well. I really did believe myself quite as good as any of my neighbours — except Celia and the Captain — and better than most : much better than the Pieverend John Pontifex. " Tell me what you think, Laddy." ** I think, sir," I replied, " that I would lay the case before the Captain, and ask his opinion. I know what it will be." " You think " " I know that he ^^ill say, ' Laugh at him, and tell him to do the worst. Let him tell a miserable old story to all the town, but let Ceha follow her o^ii heart.' And another thing, Mr. Tyrrell — Celia's heart is no longer fi-ee." "What? Was he right?" " Quite right. Herr Raumer is a very clever man, and he seldom makes a mistake. Half an hour ago Celia listened to Leonard Copleston, and they are now engaged." " It only wanted that," he replied with a groan. This looked as if things were going to be made cheerful for the lovers. "Will you see the Captain if he comes to you? Or, better scill, will you go youi-self and talk things over ^ith him ? It is half-past twelve, and he ^\ill be home by this time. And tell him aU." " I must have adnce," he murmured. " I feel like a sinking F.hip. The Captain will stand by me whatever happens. Yes Laddy — ^.v^s I \\ill go at oncQ — at once " Tllh KEY OF THE SAFE. 7^\ He rose, and with trembling hands began to search for his hdt. It was standing on the safe — the closed safe with the name oi " Herr Raumer" upon it in fat white letters. Mr. Tyrrell shook his fist at the door. "You are always here," he cried, "with your silent meaace. If you were open for five minutes — if I had the key in my handy for only half a minute — I should know what answer to give yoiu master." He left me, and went out into the street, I after him. But hr forgot my presence, and went on without me, mumiuiing as he went in the misery and agitation of his heart. I suppose it vvas the pondering over this successful man as ovei ft curious moral problem, and a certain uplifting of heart as I reflected that there was nothing at all for me to be ashamed of, even if I was found out, that laid me more than commonly open to temptation. At all events, it was then that I committed the meanest action in my life — a thing which, whenever I meet my accomplice, even after all these years, makes me blush for shame. My innocent accomplice was no other than little Forty-four. As I was passing the Bramblers' house in Castle Street, Mr. Tyrrell being some twenty yards ahead of me, and going straight away to consult with the Captain, I not being wanted at all, I tauaght 1 would call upon my fiiends. No one was at home except Forty-four, who T.as sitting before the open kitchen window sewing and crooning some simple ditty to herself. Her mother was gone a-marketing — that was good news. Uncle Ferdinand, who had received an advance upon his series of papers called " Personal Recollections of the War '' — everybody remembers what a sensation those articles caused — was gone out with his note-book to attend the Launch. Augustus Brambler w\as at his post, nc doubt engaged on his labyriuthian case. The children w^ere all or the walls where I had left them playing their little game of Feast- ing. And Forty-four was in charge of the family pot, which was cheerfully boiling on the fire. ' She looked up with her bright laugh. " Comi into the kitchen, Mr. Pulaski, if you don't mind. I've something to tell you." " What is it ? " I asked. " Ai'e things looking better ? " " Oh ! yes. Thanks to you know who. We had a dreadfu. time, though. The man the people call Tenderart — do you kno^ liim?" I knew him and his satellite of eld. 2ii2 B Y CELIA 'S ARh UK " iie is our landlord, and he came to take the things to mako Gp the rent. There he stood and began to pick out the things to put in a cart. Uncle Ferdinand asked for time, and the man only laughed. Then Uncle Ferdinand banged his head against the wall and said this was the final Crusher, and we all cried Then papa ran to get an advance from Mr. Tyi-rell." " Did you ask Herr Ptaumer ?" " Yes ; I went up to ask him — and he said, politely, that he neyer helped anybody on principle. Well, papa got the advance, but it was stopped out of his salary, and so — you see — we have had ver}' little to eat ever since. But Tenderart vas paid, and ha went away." " I see ; and now things are better ? " *' Yes. Because Uncle Ferdinand has found something to write about. And papa has got the most beautiful idea for making all our fortunes. See." She opened a paper which lay upon the table, and showed it to rce. It was ^Titten in a clerkly hand, partly couched in legal Knglish, and refeiTed to a scholastic project. So that in thii document the threefold genius of Augustus was manifest. " EoYAL Collegiate Establishment ^^For the Education of both Sexes, " Conducted by the Brothers Bramblee. •' The object of this Institution is to impart to the young an education to fit them for the Learned Professions, for Commerce, for the Legal, the Scholastic, or the Clerical. Pupils will be received fi'om the age of eight to fifteen. The College vdU be divided into two divisions, that for the ladies under the manage- ment of Mrs. Brambler, a lady highly connected with the Royal Naval Service, and Miss Lucretia Brambler.' " That's me," said Forty-four ungi'ammatically, " I thought you had no name," I said. '* Mr. Ferdinand Brambler, the well-known Author, will under- take the courses of History, Geographv, Political Economy, and English Composition. Mr. Augustus Brambler will superintend the classes of Latin, Euclid, Arithmetic, and Caligraphy * " My dear, when is the college to be started ? " " Oh ! not yet," cried Forty-four. " ^Vhen we are a little older, and all able to take a part in the curriculum. Fancy the greatness 1 '* THE KEY OF THE SAFE. 2S3 " Yes. It is almost too mucii, is it not ? Don't set youi heart too much on things, Forty-four." I did not finish the docu- ment, and returned it. The poorer Augustus grew, the more bril- liant were his schemes. So Hogarth's starving poet sits beneath a plan of the mines of Potosi. '* Is Herr Raumer at home? " " I think he is gone out. Shall I run up to see ?" We went up together. I had nothing to say, and no reason for calling, but I was excited and restless. He was not in his rooms. The table was littered and strewn f\ith foreign papers, German, French, and Russian. The piano was littered with his songs — those little sentimentalities of st adent life of which he was never tii-ed. There was the usual strong.] smell of recent tobacco in the place, and — it caught my ei^ as 1 was going away — there lay in an inkstand on the table — a tempta- tion. It was the key of the safe. I turned twice to go, twice I came back, drawn by the irresis- tible force of that temptation. It riveted my eyes, it made my knees tremble beneath me, it seemed to drag my hand fi-om my side, to force the fingers to close over it, to convey itself, by some secret life of its own, to my pocket, and, once there, to urge me on to further action. " Mr. Pulaski,"" ciied Forty-four, " why are you so red in tho face ■? What is the matter ? " •' Hush !" I whispered; " stay here for five minutes, Forty- four — if Herr Raumer comes home, bustle about and prevent his touching the table. And say nothing — promise to say nothing." She promised, understanding no word. I furtively descended the stairs, I crept s^\iftly, in the shade of the wall, though it was of coui-se broad daylight, looking back- wards and forwards, though there were only the usual people in the street, -uith beating heart and flushed face, towards Mr. Tyrrell's office. The outer door was open, that was usual ; I pushed into the hall, and silently tui'ned the handle of the chiefs o^n office. It was not locked — they did not know he was out — there was, of course, no one in the room. Like some burglar m ihe dead of night I crept noiselessly over the carpet to open the safe. It was done. I was back in the street, the key in my hand ; I was back ai the Bramblers' house, I was upstairs again, the key was restored to its place. I seized Forty- four by the hand, and hurried hei downstairg. 2S4 B V CELIA 'S ARBOUR, *' Wliat is it ? " she asked again. *' llemember, Foi-ty-four, you have promised to tell no 01.8. It was the key of Herr Piiiumer's safe. I borrowed it for fi/e minutes — for Celia Tyn-ell's sake." She promised again — nothing, she said, ■\vould make her tell anyone. No one should know that I had been in the room : she entered as zealously into the conspiracy as if she was a gicwu woman married to a St. Petersburg diplomatist, and engaged ia thi-owing dust into the eyes of an English plenipotentiary. CHAPTER XXXIX. BOEROVi'ED PLUMES. MEAXTiiiE, we had not forgotten oui- old fi-iend Moses. The " Blue Anchor " was a musid^hall before that kind of entertainment was supposed to be invented. That is to say, long before the name of music was debased, and song dragged in the dust before London audiences of shop-boys and flashy gents, the thing was akeady flourishing in our seaport to^ns for the benefit of soldiers and sailors. The "Anchor," as it was lovingly called, stood in a crowded street, where eveiT second house was a beershop, and the house between a pa^^'nbroker■s. It had a pai-teiTe, or pit, the entrance to which was free, where Jack the Sailor, Joe the Marine, and the Boiled Lobster could sit in conifoi-t and dignity, each man with his pipe in his mouth and his pot before him. It was a long, high, and narrow room. At the end stood a platform, where the perfomiances took place, and imder the platfoim, just as you may see in the present London houses, was a table where the proprietor, acting as Chau-man, announced the songs and dances, called order, and superintended the comfoii; of his guests. A small and select band of admirers rallied round the Chau-man, and were privileged not only to call for di'inks to assuage the great man's thirst, but also fi'om time to time to take the hammer oi authority. At the other end of the hall was a small galleiy. .vhere young naval oflicers and subalterns sometimes honomed the representations by their appearance. It was to this galleiw that v.e repaii'ed, Leonard and I, accompanied by a second lieutenant of the Nav}-. He was a cheei-fal youth, of smiling demeanour, whose chief merit in my eyes was his unbounded admiration for Leonard. He met us by accident, and volunteered to join 1X3, not knowing the natui'e of our quest ; on being informed BORROWED PLUMES. 283 that tliere might he a row, he became the more eager to come with us. The fervent prayer of every young naval officer, on every pcrssihle occasion, that there may be a row is surely a healthy distinguishing characteristic of the Navy. Certainly the members of no other service or profession with which I am acquainted are desirous of a fight on any possible occasion. We went, therefore, into the gallery, where there were a dozen of noisy middies and young naval fellows, who had been dining not wisely, but too well. There was an interval in the performance, and a buzz of conversation going on. Now and then one of the audience would lift up his voice with a snatch of a chorus, to be taken up by his neighbours, or, if it was a favourite, by the whole audience. We looked about the room. No Moses had arrived yet. That was quite certain, because fi'om our gallery we could see every- body in the hall, and there was no doubt about our recognizing Moses — so old a ^iiend. We sat do^Mi in the front row and looked on. Do"\vn came the hammer, -with some inaudible remarks fi'om the Chair. There was silence for a moment, and then a shout, not of applause, but of derision, as a man dressed in sailor rig, bounded on the stage, and began to dance a hornpipe. ' ' AVhere was you shipped , mate ? " ' ' When was you last paid off? " There was no denying the dance, which was faithfully executed, but in consequence of the absence of some professional detail, probably in the dancer's get-up, the sailors with one consent refused to recognize him as a brother. The row grew tremendous as the performer went on, resolutely refusing to recognize any objection raised to his personal appearance. At last a stalwart young fellow bounded fi-om a table in the auditorium to the platform, coolly hustled the professional with a hitch or two of his shoulder off the stage, and proceeded to execute the hornpipe himself, amid the exclamations of his comrades and brethren of the sistei sei-vices. The band, consisting of two fiddles, a harp, and s comet, went on playing steadily, whatever happened in the house. It was like Wassielewski, fiddling while the sailors sang, diank. and danced — himself unregarding. The dance over, and the applause subsided, the young fellow jnmped back to his place, and down came the Chairman's knocker again. Sam Trolloper, he announced, this time — Vvdthout any prefix or handle to the name, as if one would say Charles Dickens, or Julius Caesar — was about to sing the Song of the Day. The illustrious Sam, wh(r was a popular Cavourite, and received 8S6 BV CELIA 'S ARBOUR. the vociferous applause as something due to real merit, aj pe&red in a suit of shore-going togs. He wore a coat all tails, with a hat all brim, and trousers of which one leg was gone, and the ether going. Boots without socks, a ragged shirt, and a red kerchief tied around his neck, completed a garb which, coupled with the fellow's face of low cunning and inextinguishable drollery, made Mm up into as complete an habitual ciiminal as you are likely tc meet outside of Short's Gardens. He brandished a short stick, with a short preliminary walk across the stage, and then begar the folloTving : — " Tis ! for a gay and a gallant bark, A brisk and a hvely breeze, A bully crew and a captain too, To carry me o'er the seas. To carry me o'er the seas, my boys. To my own true love so gay, For she's taking of a trip In a Government ship. Ten thousand miles away. Then blow, ye winds, heigho I For a roaming we ^ntII go, I'll stay no more on England's shore, Then let the music play, For I'm off by the morning train Across the raging main, I'm on the rove to my own trae loTe Ten thousand miles away. ** My true love she was beautiful. My true love she was fair, Her eyes were blue as the violets true, And crimson was her hair, And crimson was her hair, my boys, But while I sing this lay She's doing of the grand In a distant land, Ten thousand miles away. *'The sun may shine through a London fog The Thames run bright and clear, The ocean brine may turn to wine Ere I forget my dear, !Ere I forget my dear, my boys. The landlord his quarter day. For I never can forget Lly own dear pet, Ten thousand miles away. \ , ^ Oh ! dark and dismal was the day When last I saw my Meg, bbe'd a Government band around each hand Another one round each leg, BORROWED FLUMES. 23/ A jother one round each leg, my bejli Dressed all in a suit of grey, ' My love, ' said she, • Remember me, Ten thousaud miles away.* ^* Oh ! would I were a bo's'n tight; Or e'en a bombardier ; I'd hurry afloat in an open boat. And to my true love steer, And to my true love steer, my boys. Where the dancing dolphins play, And the shrimps and the shaika Are a having of their larks Ten thousand miles away. Then blow, ye winds, heigho J For a roaming we will go, I'll stay no more on England's shore ; Then let the music play. For Fm ofi" by the morning train Across the raging main, I'm on the rove to my own true lore, Ten thousand miles away. " This ditty, wticli the singer gave with a rich rollicking baritone, and in a rolling tune, was accompanied by a chorus £i-om a couple of hundred throats, which made the windows rattle and the glasses Tibratei Such a chorus, all bawling in unison, I never heard before. "WTien the last bars, affectionately clung to by voices loth to let them go, died away, the illustrious Sam had disappeared, only to emerge again in a new disguise and sing another song. But, as the hammer fell to announce his return, Leonard touched my arm, and I saw our old friend Moses walking gi-andly among the chairs in the direction of the President. I had not seen him for more than twelve years, but there was no mistaking his identity. It was the same dear old Moses. There was no real change in him ; only a development of the well-known bo}-ish graces. The blotches upon his fat and bloated face ; the swagger with which he swung along the room ; the hat cocked on one side of his head ; the short stick carried half in the side pocket of his coat ; the flashy rings upon his fingers ; tho gaudy necktie ; and the loud pattern of his trousers — all seemed part and parcel of the original Moses. He was only the infant Moses grown up ; Mrs. Jeram's Moses expanded, according to the immutable laws of Nature, which allow of no sudden break, but only a wavy line of continuity. Selfish, gi-eedy, and unscrupu- lous he had been as a child, just such he appeared now. Was it education alone, I thought, which made the diHerence between 288 B V CELIA 'S ARBOUR. him and Leonard ? It could hardly be that, because there v> \% Jem Hex, himself as good a fellow as ever piped all hands, to set on the other side. Leonard ! For a moment he stood irresolute, his hands clenched, just as he used to look in the days of old before he "went for" Moses. He waited till he saw his enemy seated ly the Chairman. Then he touched my arm, and strode across the benches of the gallery to the door. I followed, and so did our friend the Na\7 man. We got downstairs and followed Leonard closely as he marched, head erect and with flashmg eye? straight up the hall. There was a little commotion among the soldiers at sight of him. " Gentleman Jack," the men whispered to each other. Leon- ard took no notice. One or two of them stood up to salute him. *' Three cheers for Gentleman Jack and the Rifle-pit," shouted an enthusiastic private of his regiment. Ever3'body knew about the Rifle-pit, and the cheering was taken up with a will. Leonard stopped for a moment and looked round. When the cheers ceased he held up his hand and nodded. Three times three. The music, meantime, went on, and the singer made no pause. It way the illustrious Sam again — this time in the disguise of a soldier — supposed to be in liquor, and sufi'ering from the melancholy of a love disappointment, as appealed fi'om the only two lines of the song which I heard : — "There I see the faithless she, A cooking sausages for he." But the attention of the audience was at this point wholly dis- tracted from the singer. The Chairman and the band alone paid attention to him : these were of course professionally engrossed in admiration of the perfo nuance. For two circumstances, besides the cheering for Leonard, and both of an agreeable and pleasing character, happened at this juncture tc call away the thoughts of the men from imagiiiaiy sorrows. The first was that the middies in the galleiy, ha\dng succeeded in hooking up a soldier's cap by means of a string and a pin, w^ere now hauling away at their line, while the o\\Tier vainly imprecated wi'ath below. To join commoii cause ^^'ith a comrade is the first duty of a soldier. A dozen men instantly jumped upon the tables, and a brief parley, in which ptrong words were answered mth gentle chafi", was followed by a fetonn of poA^ier pots, whose battered sides indicated that they had before this hurtled thi'ough the air on a similor occasion. The middies instantly ducked, and the shower of projcctiJes p*Fsed as BORROW EL PLUME 3, iO^ harmlessly over their heads as a cannonade at a modem siege. The storm ha\ing ceased, one middy, cautiously peej^ing oyer the gallery, seized the moment of comparative calm and hmled a pewter hack. Instantly another and a fiercer hail of pint-pots. These having ceased, the middies swiftly creep over tLe seats and skedaddle, heaving over a spare half-dozen ere they reach the portals and fiy dovm. the stairs. "VMien the brave redcoats have swarmed up the eight feet pillars and stoiTaed the gsUeiy, they found it like another Malakoff — empty. Then they shuut. ^Mio can withstand the braveiy of the British soldier ? All this takes time and attracts attention. Meantime, another scene is enacted at our end of the hall. Leonard stalking up the room, the red-jackets shouting for " Gentleman Jack," the curiosity of those who do not know him, draw upon us the eyes of our old enemy, Moses. He knows us instantly, and with a hasty gesture to the Chau-man, whose glass he has just filled, he rises, to effect a retreat by the way of the orchestra and under the stage-door. Not so fast, friend Moses. Leonard makes for him ; there is a cry, and the pretender to the name of Copleston is dragged back to the table by the coat- collar. '* Now — you — whatever you call yourself," cries Leoimi'd. ^ what do you mean by taking my name ? " " Let me go." Moses wriggles under the grasp which held him by the coat-collar like a vice, and drags him backwards upon the table among the glasses, where he lies like a turned turtle, feet up and hands sprawling, a very pitiable spectacle. '* Let me go, I say." ** Presently. Tell me your name." ** Moses Copleston," he replied, with an attempt at defiance. ** Liar ! " " Moses Copleston, oh ! Won't any one help a fellow ? " «* Liar, again ! " ** Let me get up, then." Leonard let him rise, his fi'iend the Lieutenant being the other side of the table, and a few of his o^vn men having gathered round, so that there was httle chance of the man's escape. " ^Tiat have I done to you now?" whined Moses. "'What have I done to you I should like to know ? See here, Mr. Chair- man of this respectable Free-and-Easy Harmonic Meeting, what did I say to him ? "\Miat did I do to him ? Here's a pretty go for a peaceable man to be set upon for nothing." ♦' Why have you dared to take my name," cried Leonard — *' io dra^ into pbUce courts and prisons ? " U 290 B Y CELIA 'S ARBO UR. *• Your name ? Lord ! His name ! What a tiling to take I Which he was bom in Victory Row, and his mother " Here a straight one from the left floored Moses, and he fell supine among the chairs, not daring to arise. The Lieutenant picked him up, and placed him — because he declined to stand: and, indeed, the claret was flowing fi-eely — in the President's arm-chair. " Yar — ^yar ! " he moaned. " Hit a man when he is down. Hit your own brother. Y'ar — Cain — Cain — Cain and Abel ! Hit your own t^in brother." " Liar, again," said Leonard, calmly. " Do j'ou see any like- ness, Grif," — Grif was the sobriquet of the young sailor — " between me and this — this cur and cad ? " ** Can't say I do, old man." *' He has taken my name ; he has traded on it ; by representing himself to be — my mother's son — he has obtained fi'om some one money to spend in drink. I do not know who that person i&. But I mean to know." ' *' Ho ! ho ! " laughed Moses, mopping up the blood. ** Can't hit a man when he's do'v^n. Yaw ! Shan't get up. Wouldn't he Uke to know, then ? Ho ! Ho ! " *' Get a policeman," said Grif. "Follow him up and d0T\Tl." "Beg pardon, sir," said one of the men, saluting Leonard, " best search his pockets." Moses turned pale and buttoned up his coat. '• That seems sound advice, Leonard," I said. ** Sit do^n, and let the men do it for you." Well — it was a strange performance in an Hamionic meeting but it attracted considerable attention, much more than the ditty which it internipted ; as much as the flight of pewters backwards and forwards in the lower end of the galleiT. They told ofl" four, under a coi-poral, and then they seized the unhappy Moses. First the Chairman said he would turn down the lights, but was persuaded by Grif, not without a gentle violence, to sit do^^n comfortably, and see fair play. Then the orchestra left off playing to see this no'^elty in rows, a thing they hadn't done, except in the da^iime and on Sundays, for twenty years. Then the Illustrious Baritone, Sam, himself came down fi'om the stage to witness the scene. And, but for the kicks, the straggles, the many unrighteous words used by the victim, one might have thought that it was the unrolling by a group of savam of ar Egyjitian mummy. BORROWED PLUMES, 291 First they took off his coat. It contained, in his pockets, the following articles : — 1. A " twopenny smoke," as described by the Corporal. 2. A pipe constructed of sham meerschaum. 3. A box of fusees. 4. The portrait of a young lady (daguerreotype) in dtgt ge^ iostume. 5. A penknife. 6. Thi'ee pawnbrokers' tickets. 7. A small instrument which, the Corporal suggested, was probably suggested to pick locks with. 8. Another " twopenny smoke." 0. A sixpenny song book, containing one hundred sprightly ballads. There was nothing else in the coat, but I was certain some- thing else would follow, because I had noticed the man's sudden pallor when the operation was suggested. They next removed his waistcoat. In the pockets were : — 1. A pipe poker. 2. A quantity of loose tobacco. 3. Another ** twopenny smoke," a little broken in the back. 4. Another box of fusees. 5. More pa\N-nbrokers' tickets. 6. The sum of six shillings and twopence. That was all, but on my taking the gaiment I felt something rustle. There was an inside pocket to the waistcoat. And in this — Moses made a fi'antic plunge — I found two letters. One, in a lady's handwi'iting, was addi'essed to Mr. Copleston, Post Office, to be called for ; the other, in what may be best described as not a lady's hand, addressed to " ]\Iiss Rutherford, Fareham." Now, Fareham is a small to^-n at the upper end of the harbour. These letters I handed to Leonard. He read the addi*ess and put them in his pocket. "Miss Rutherford," he repeated, with a strange light in his eyes. Moses had recoui'se to violent language. *' Beg your pardon, sir," said the CoiiDoral. " What to do next ? " ** Let him go," said Leonard. "Or — stay — put him outside the place — but gently." "Ah ! — Yah ! " Moses bellowed, bursting into what seemed a real fit of weeping. " This is the way that a twin brother behaves — this is getting up in the world." 292 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. *' He is no brother of mine," said Leonard. *' Come, Laddy— eome Grif." The soldiers, when the weeping Moses had resumed his coat and waistcoat, ran him down the hall in quick and soldier- jke fashion. As he was being run out, the orchestra played half-a- dozen bars of the Rogue's March, which was, under the circum- stances, really a kindness, as it confii-med the minds of any pos- sible waverers as to the iniquity of the culprit. All was quiet again ; the pe^ier pots were being collected by a barman in the galleiy ; the noisy middies were gone ; the soldiers were sitting down again, and Moses received undiyided attention as he was escorted to the doors. Down went the Chairman's hammer. " Gentlemen ! Sam Trolloper will again oblige." Twang, fiddle ; blow, hom ; strike up, harp. We went away as the orchestra played the opening to the accompaniment, and as the Illustrious Sam began a ballad of which we only heard the first two lines :— ** As I sat by the side of the bubbling water Toasting a herring red for tea. " CHAPTER XL. MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR PEKKIN WARBECK. Grit, greatly maiTeiling, went his own way, and Leonard, seizing my arm, hmTried me home. The Captain was gone to bed ; we lit the lamp in the little parlour, and Leonard tore open the two letters with impatience. That fi'om Moses, ill-spelt, ill-conditioned, in a tone half bully- ing, half crawling, asked, as might be expected, for money. It was evidently not the first of such letters. It referred to his previous communications and interviews, appealed to his corre- spondent's close relationship, and went on to threaten, in case the money was not forthcoming, to do something vague but di'eadfiil, which would bring him within the power of the law, in which case, he hinted, he should, from his commanding position in the dock, let all the world know that he had been diiven to peii3etrate the desperate deed by the obdurate and unrelenting heart of his own mother's sister, who rolled in gold and would give him none of it. " There's a pretty villain for you," said Leonard, reading the last words ^ith a clenched fist. ** I wish to go Strate," wrote Moses, in conclusion, *' as I have ^ways gone Strate. If I am drove to go kruked there shan't b€ MORh UNJrLEASANTNESS FOR PERKIN WAP BECK. 2.^3 no one as shan't know it was Misery and your kruelty as done it. I must have a tenner to-morrow or the Day after il you've got to pawn your best black silk dress. Take and pa^n it. Isn't that your Dooty ? You in silk and me in rags and tatters. \?hy it makes a cove sick to think of it. There. And specially a cove as is innercent, and one as is only got his karakter behind his back to depend upon — which the Lord He knows is a good one. So no more for the present from your aflfeckshunate neveT\^, Moses. P.S. Mind I want the money right do\\Ti. P.S. I know a most respectible pawnbroker and will call for the go\\Tid myself. P.S. I am thinkin if it would be pleasant for you to have me at home always with you. Aunts and nevews oughter not to be seppe- ratecl" *' There's a precious villain for you," repeated Leonard, bang- ing the table with his fist. The other letter, to which this delightful epistle was apparently in reply, was wTitten in expostulation of the man's extravagance and profligate habits. Evidently the wi'iter was a lady. She spoke of her own small income : of the poverty in which she had to live in order to meet the demands which this fellow was per- petually making upon her ; she had reminded him that he had di'awn a hundi'ed and fifty pounds out of her aheady ; fi'oni which we infeiTed that the claims were comparatively recent ; that she lived in daily terror of great demands ; that she implored him to endeavour in some honom'able way to get his own livelihood ; and that his conduct and extravagance were causing her daily wretched- ness — a letter which ought to have melted the heart even of a Moses. One thought, however, of the way in which that boy used to walk up all the jam, and felt sure that nothing would melt his granite heart. '' Laddy," cried Leonard. *' Think ! That fellow may be even now on his way to make a final attempt upon this poor lady — my mother's sister — my poor mother's sister." His eyes filled with tears for a moment and his voice choked. " On the very day," he went on, "that Celia has promised to be my wife, I am restored to my own people. I cannot wait till to-morrow. Come with me, Laddy, if you will — or I will go alone — I cannot rest. I shall go over to Fareham now, to-night — if only to protect her from that fellow. Good heavens 1 And he has got half- an, hour's start." "He will walk," I said. "We will go into the town. It is only half-past nine. Get a dog-cart, and drive over. "We can easily get there before him." «94 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. " He liad a few shillings," Leonard reflected. ' It is not likolj that he will spend them in driving. And yet he knows it is his only chance to see her to-night. If you cross the harbour first it is only six miles to walk. Of coui'se he will walk. By road it is eleven miles. We can do it in an hour and a half. Come, Laddy. Quick ! " It was easy enough to get a dog-caii, and in ten minutes we were bowling along the road, Leonard dii^ing something hke Jehu. He did not speak one word all the joui-ney until we sa.v the lights of the little tov,Ti in the distance. Then he turned his head to me and said quietly, " I wonder what she will be like ? " We clattered over the rough stones of the street, and stopped at the inn, where we had the horse taken out. The ostler under- took to guide us to Miss Rutherford's cottage. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and most of the lights in the town were put out. For economy's sake the gas in the streets was not lit at all during this time of the year. We followed our guide down the street and beyond the houses, where began that fringe of small villa residences which is common to our English countiy towns, and distinguishes them especially fi.'om all Continental towns. Stopping in front of one of these, our fiiendly ostler pointed to the garden gate. " That's Miss Paitherford's, gentlemen. But you'll have to ring her up if you want to see the lady veiw paiiicular, and to- night, because they're all gone to bed." It was true. The house was dark, and its occupants probably ftsleep. The ostler retraced his steps. We looked at each other in dismay. " I feel rather foolish," said Leonard. ** We can't very well knock at the door and wake up the poor lady." *' Moses will probably have fewer scruples if he arrives to-night on his private and veiy ui'gent business." "Yes ; that is true. Look here, Laddy, yon go back to the inn, and get a bed there. I will stay outside, and watch here all night till the fellow comes." I would not consent to that. It seemed to me fair that we should each do our turn of watching. All this time we were standing outside the garden gate. Within — one could see ever^ihing perfectly in the midsummer tT\ilight — was a trim and neat la^^-n, set with standard roses and dainty flower-beds. Behind, a small house with a gable, round MORE UNPLEASANTNESti FOR PERKIN WARBt^CK. 295 whose fiont there climbed Westeria and passion-flower. The air was heavy with the scent of the former. A lilac was in fall blossoia among the shnibs, and added its fresh spring-like perfume to the heavy odour of the creeper. *' It is all very peaceful," whispered Leonard. ** Let as go inside and sit do^^n." We opened the gate, and stepped in as softly as a pair of burglars. On the right was a garden seat, over which droopea the branches of a laburnum. There we sat, expectant of Moses. "I wonder what she is like," Leonard said again. "How ehall wo tell her ? You must tell her, Laddy. And what -ftill she tell me ? " It will be something more for Celia," he went on, " that her husband ^ill have relations and belongings. It is too absurd to marry a man without even a cousin to his back. I have been ashamed all my life, not so much that I was bom — as I was — as that I had no belongings at all. I used to env}', when I was a boy, the family life that we saw so little of — the mothers and sisters, the home-comings and the rejoicings — all the things one reads of in novels. We had none of these — except at second-hand^ through Cis. You were better off than I, Laddy, because no one could take away your ancestiy, though the compassionate Czar relieved you of the burden of your wealth. But I had nothing. And now — what am I going to have ? " She was good, my poor mother. So much Mrs. Jeram knows of her. But her mind wandered, and she could not, if she wished, have told her who or what she was. She was good, of that I am quite certain. But what about my father ? " I made no reply. Within the sleeping house lay the secret. We had to pass the night before we could get at it. Perhaps, when it was found, poor Leonard would be no happier. Twelve o'clock stiTick fi'om some church tower near at hand. I thought of the night but a few weeks ago, when Celia and I sat w^hispering through the twilight hours in the stern of the boat. Well, he had come, of whom we talked that night ; he was with as ; he had told Celia that he loved her. It was quite certain what answer she would give her elderly suitor. CeHa's father, besides, had got the key of the safe, the thing by which he declared he would rid himself at once of his persecutor. I had done that with Forty-four. Oh ! guilty pair. Was little Foiiy- four lying sleepless and remorseful on a conscience-stricken pillow? I, for my o-^-n part, felt small and rather mean thinking over what I lad done — and how I had done it — but perhaps the 296 BY CkLIA 'S arbour. '* small " feeling was due rather to the knowledge how piti'abJy email we should look if we were found out. I believe that repen- tance generally does mean fear of being found out, when it does not mean the keener pang of intense disgust at having beeu actually exposed, in which case we call it Remorse. Borrowing that key for those few minutes, and setting the door of the safe open, was, as Mr. John Pontifex would have said, shaking his head and forefinger, a Wrong Thing, a thing to lament, as awful an event as his own profane language over the tough goose when in the full vigour and animal passion of his youth. And yet — and yet — one could not but chuckle over the thought of Herr Raumer'« astonishment when he found the safe open and his victim fi-ee. There was too much to think about as we sat beneath the laburnum in that quiet garden. Behind the fonns of Celia and Leonard, behind the orange blossoms and flowers, rose a gaunt and weu'd figure, with a look of hungry longing in its eyes, which were yet like the eyes of Wassielewski. It reached out long arms and gi-eat bony hands iiipping with blood to seize me. And a mocking voice cried, "Eevenge thy father! revenge thy father ! " My brain reeled as thin shadows of things, real and um'eal, flitied across my closed eyes. I awoke with a start. One o'clock. And just then we heard in the distance the ciTinch of slow steps over the gi-avel of the road. " Moses," Leonard whispered, springing into attention. The steps came nearer ; they were a hundred yards off ; they were on the other side of the hedge ; they stopped at the garden- wall. " Moses," whispered Leonard, again. It was Moses. And Moses in veiy bad temper. He swore aloud at the garden-gate because he could not at first find the handle. Then he swore aloud in general teinns, then he swore at the people of the house because he would have to ring them up, and then he came in banging the door after him, and tramped heavily upon the grass — the brute — cninching straight through the flower-bed, setting his gi'eat heavy feet as if by deliberate choice on the delicate flowers. We were invisible beneath the laburnum tree. Leonard rose noiselessly, and stepped after him. See, another step, and he will be at the door, ringing the bell, terriMng out o! their wits the women sleeping within. Already, as his scowling face shows in the twilight, he has formulated his requisition in his own mind, and is going to back it with tlireato MORE UNPLEASANTNESS FOR FERKIN WARBECK. 207 of violence. The demands will never be made. The threats wiU never he uttered. Leonard's hand falls upon his shoulder, and Moses, turning with a staii; and a cry, finds himself face to faca again with his old enemy. " Come out of this garden," said Leonail. " Dare to pay one word above your breath, and " Moses trembled, but obeyed. It was like Neptune's " Quos Ijeonard dragged him, unresisting, into the road, and led him- along the silent way, beyond earshot of the house, saying nothing. *' What shall we do to him ? " he asked me. "Oh! Mr. Ladislas," whimpered Moses, "don't let him murder me. You're witness that I never done nothink to him. Always hard on a poor innocent cove, he was, when we were all boys to- gether." "You came out to-night," said Leonard, "thinking you were going to find an unprotected woman asleep in the dead of the night ; you were persuading yourself that you would frighten her into giving you more money, knowing that it was your last chance." "No, sir," whined Moses abjectly. " No, Captain Copleston, sir. Not that. What I said to myself, as I came along, was this : •Moses,' I says, says I, 'the plant's found out. All is up. That's where it is.' So I says to myself — if you don't mind, sir, takin* your fingers from off 0' my coat-collar, which they have a throttlesome feel" — Leonard released him. " Thank you, sii'. I says to my- self, then, ' I'll up and go to Miss Rutherford — which she is a generous- 'earted lady, and tell her — teU her — Hall.' That's wot I meant to do, Cap'en Copleston, sir. Hall I was a-goin' to tel) her." " A likely story, indeed," said Leonard. "Very likelv, sir," Moses echoed. " Y'es, and I should have gaid " "Now — you — drunken blackguard and liar," said Leonard, ** You have come here to make a final attempt. You have failed. Hencefoi-th you will be watched. I give you fair warning that ii you are ever seen by me about this place, or in any other place, I will instantly give you into custody on a charge of obtaining money on false pretences. You understand so much. Then go — get out of my sight." He accompanied his words with a gesture so threatening that our prisoner instantly set off running as hard as he could down the road. If fear ever lent wings to a fugitive, those wings were pro- duced for Moses on this occasion. 298 ^ y CELIA 'S ARBOUR. ** I was in such a rage," said Leonard, as the steps died away in the distance, "such a boihng rage '\,\ith th* creature that I think I should have killed him had I not let him go. It is too bad, be- cause he richly deseiTed the best cowhiding one could give him. Odd ! All the old feeling came back upon me, too. I used to hate him in the old days when we fought night and morning. And I hate him now." '' ^Miat is to be done next ?" I asked. *' Are we to go back to the friendly laburnum? There is no fear about Moses any more." " No ; I don't care what we do. I am restless and excited. I cannot sleep. Perhaps she gets up early. Let us go for a walk." Half-past one in the morning was rather lat©' for an evening walk, but I complied, and we went along the deserted road. Pre- sently I began to feel tired, and was fain to rest in the hedge under a tree. And there I fell fast asleep. When I awoke it was broad daylight. Leonard was walking backwards and forwards along the road. AVhat a handsome man he was as he came swiftly towards me, bathed in the early sunshine which played in his curly hair, and lay in his eyes ! ** Awake akeacly, Laddy ?" he cried. " It is only four o'clock. I am less sleepy than ever. And there are two long hours to wait. She can't get up before six. Perhaps she will not be up before nine." I confess that those two hours were long ones. Leonard's restless excitement increased. I made him walk. I made him bathe. I tried to make him talk, and yet the minutes crawled. At last, however, it was half-past six, and we retraced our steps to the cottage. CHAPTER XLL MISS EUTHERFORD. Miss Rutherford was already up. At least a lady about five- and-forty, small, fragile, and dainty, with delicate features and an air of perfect ladyhood ; she wore a morning dress of muslin, with garden-gloves and a straw hat. And she was gazing with dismay at the footprints — that brute Moses ! — on her flower-beds. We looked at her for a few moments, and then Leonard opened the garden-gate, and we presented oui'selves. At least I presented both of us. '* Miss Rutherford," — she looked surprised. " I am speaking to Miss Rutherford, am I not ? " ♦* Yes. I am Miss Rutherford." MISS RUTHERFORD. ^99 ** We have somethmg to tell you of importance. Will ycu take as into your house? " She looked from one to the other, " It is yeiy early," she said. " My ser^'ants are not down yet — but come — you appear to be gentlemen." She led the way to a little di-a^ing-room, -which was a mere bower .of daintiness, the pleasant and pretty room of a refined and cultivated lady, with books and pictiu-es, and all sorts of pretty ihings — fancy the hulking Moses in such an apartment! — anl offered us chairs. There was nothing in the room which pointed to the presence of the sterner and heavier sex. Even the chaii-s seemed only calculated for ladies of her own slender dimensions, Leonard's creaked ominously when he sat do\Mi. '* Let me go back twenty- three years," I began. " But first I must tell you that my name is Ladislas Pulaski — here is my card — and that we do not come here from any idle motives. This gentleman — but you will see presently who he is.'* '* Three-and-twenty years ago ? " Miss Rutherford began to tremble. "That was when I lost my sister — and my nephew was born. You come about him, I am sure, He has done some- thing terrible at last, that boy, I am afraid. Gentlemen, remem- ber under what bad influences my nephew'% early life was spent. If you have to accuse him of anything -^Tong — remember that." " Pray do not be alarmed," I went on. " Your nephew's early influences were not so bad as you think, and you will very likely gee reason to be proud of him." She shook her head, as if that was a thing quite beyond the reach of hope. Leonard was looking at her with curious eyes that grew softer as they rested on this gentlewoman's sweet face. *' Twenty-three years ago, your sister died. Would it pain ycu too much, Miss Ptutherford, if you would tell us something about her ? ^' ' The pain is in the recollection, rather than the telling," she replied, " My poor sister married an ofiicer." * His name was Leonard Copleston," I said. ** Yes — you knew him perhaps ? She was only eighteen — three years younger than myself — and she knew nothing of the world — how should she, living as she had done all her short life in our quiet country -v-icarage ? She thought the man she married was as good as he was handsome. She admired him for hia bravery, for the stories he could tell, for the skill -^ith which he rode, shot, and did evei-}'thing, and for the winning way he had. 500 BY CELIA 'S ARBO UR. My father lilied him for his manly character, and because he was clever, and had read as well as travelled and fought. And I believe I liked him as much as my father did. There was never any opiDosition made, and my poor dear was mamed to hire in our own chui'ch, and went away with him on her eighteenth bii'th-day." She paused for a moment. " He was not a good man," she went on; "he was a very, Tery bad man. I hope God has forgiven him all the trouble and miseiy he brought upon us, but I find it veiy hard to forgive. My sister's letters were happy and bright at first ; gradually — .1 thought it was my own fancy — they seemed to lose the old joyous ring ; and then they grew quite sad. In those days we did not travel about as we can now, and all we could do was to wait at home and hope. Six months after her mamage she came back to us. Oh! my poor dear, so changed, so altered. She who had been the happiest of girls and the blithest of creatures was wan and pale, \\ith a scared and fiightened look" — Leonard rose, and went to the window, where he remained, half hidden by the curtain — ' ' such a look as an animal might have who had been ill-treated. She came unexpectedly and suddenly, without any letter or warning — on a cold and sno^\7 December afternoon : she burst into passionate weeping when she fell upon my neck ; and she would never tell me why she left her husband. Nor would ehe tell my father. " He becran to -^Tite to her. She ^rew faint and sick when the o o first letter came ; she even refused at fii'st to read it ; but she yielded, and he kept on writing ; and one day, she told me that she had forgiven her husband, and was going back to him. ** She went. She went away fi'om us "uith sad forebodings, I knew \ she wi'ote one or two letters to us ; and then — then we heard no more." " Heai'd no more ? " " Xo ; we heard nothing more of her from that day. I\Iy father made inquiries, and learned that Captain Copieston had left the srmy, sold out, and was gone away from the country — no one knew whither. His own family, we learned for the first time, had entirely given him up as irreclaimable, and could tell us no more. We heard nothing fui'ther, and could only conjecture that the ship in which they sailed had gone down with all on board. But why did she not viTite to tell us that she was going ? " We waited and waited, hoping against hope. And then we resided ourselves to the conviction that she was dead. The MISS RUTHERFORD. 301 years passed on ; my father died, full of years, and I was left alone in the world. And then, one day last year, a letter came to me from America. It was a letter dictated by my sister's husband on his deathbed " "He is dead then? Thank God!" Was that the voice 0^ Leonard, so hoarse, so thick with trouble ? " He implored my forgiveness, and that of his wife if she Rtill lived. He confessed that he had let her go away — driven her away by his conduct, he said — when she was actually expecting to be confined, and that in order to begin life again without any ties he had emigrated. The letter was unfinished, because Death took him while he was still dictating it. Yet it brought me the comfort of knowing that he had repented." " And then ," I asked, because she stojDped. *' Then I began again to think of my poor sister, and I advertised in our two papers, asking if any one could give me tidings of her. For a long time I received no reply, but an answer came at last ; it was firom my nephew, that unhappy boy, who seems to have inherited all his father's vices and none of his graces." Poor Leonard ! What a heritage ! *' It was from him that I learned how his mother — poor thing, poor thing ! — died in giving bii'th to him : he told me that he had been brought up in a rough way, among soldiers and sailors ; that he knew nothing about any of his relations, that, as his letter would show me, he had little education, that he was a plumber and joiner by trade ; and that by my help, if I would help him, he hoped to do well. In answer to his letter I made an appointment, and came down to meet him. I can hardly tell you what a dis- appointment it was to find my poor dear sister's son so rough and coarse. However, it was my duty to do what I could, and I moved down here in order to be near him, and help him to the best pui-pose." She stopped and wiped away a tear. " I have not been able to help him much as yet," she went on. " He is, indeed, the great trouble of my life. He has deceived me in everything ; I find that he has no trade, or, at least, that he will not w^ork at it ; he said he had a wife and young family, and I have found that he is unmarried ; he said he was a total abstainer — and — oh ! dear me, he has been fi-equently here in a dreadful state of intoxication : he said he was a church-goer and a communi- cant. — But these things cannot interest you." She said this a little wistfully, as if she hoped they might. ** They do interest us very much," I paid. 3oa BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. '* After all, tie is my nephew," as if she could say much more, biit refrained from the respect due to kinship. '' You have been deceived/' I told her. '* You have been 7€iry grossly deceived." " I have," she said. " But I must bear with it.'* " Y'ou have been deceived, madam, in a much more impcrtant v>-ay than you think. Listen to a little stoiy that I have to teii you. " There were once four boys living together in the house he showed you, all under the charge of an excellent rnd charitable woman named Mrs. Jeram, to whom we shall take you. One of these boys, the best of them all, was your nephew." " The^best of them all ? " she repeated, bitterly. " Then what were the others like ! " " One of them, to whom I can also take you, was named James Hex. He is now a boatswain in the Eoyal Navy, a veiy good boat- swain, too, I believe, and a credit to the service. Another was — myself." *''You?" " I, Miss Rutherford. I was placed there by my countiymen, the Poles, with this Mrs. Jeram, and maintained by them out of their poverty. ^Mien one of these boys, your nephew, was eight or nine, and I a year or two younger, we were taken away from the good woman ^ith whom we lived by a gentleman whom you shall yeiy soon know. He adopted us, and had us properly educated." " Properly educated ? But my nephew can hardly write." " Y^'oiu' nephew writes as well as any other gentleman in England." •' Gentleman in England ? *' " My dear lady, the man who calls himself Moses Copleston i8 not your nephew at all. He was the fourih of those boys of whom I told you. He is the one among them who has turned out badly. He knew, no doubt from Mrs. Jeram, all about your nephew's birth. 'WTiat he told you, so far, was true. All the rest was pure invention. Did you ever, for instance, see any resemblance in him to your late sister ? " " To Lucy ? Most ceriainly not." "To his father?" "Not in face. But he has his father's vices. '* ** So have, unfortunately, a good many men. " " But I cannot understand. He is not my nephew at all? Not my nephew ? Can any man dare to be so wicked ? " MISS RUTHERFORD. 303 II really ^a?, as we reflected afterwards, a claim of great darinp, quite worthy to be admitted among those of historical pretenders. Moses was another Perkin Warbeck. *' Most certainly not your nephew. He is an impudent pre- tender. I do not ask you to accept my word only. I -^soLl give you proof that wdll satisfy any la'njer, if you please. He must have seen your advertisement, and knoTving that the real nepHew was gone away, devised the excellent scheme of lies and robbeij of which you have been the victim. Last night we wiiing the truth fi'om him ; last night he came here, to this house, intending to make a last attempt at extortion, but we were here before him. Your house was guarded for you all night — by your real nephew." She was trembling violently. She had forgotten the presence of Leonard, who stood in the window, silent. " My nephew ? My nephew ? But where is he ? And oh I is he like that other ? Is there more shame and \\ickedness ? " " No ! No shame at all. Only pride and joy. He is here, Miss Piutherford. See ! This is Leonard Copleston, you? sister's son." Leonard stepped before her. *' I am, indeed," he said. " I am your sister's son.** "What was it, in his voice, in his manner, in his attitude, that carried my thoughts backward with a rush to the day when he stood amid the snow in the old churchyard, and cried aloud to the spirit of his dead mother Ipng in the pauper's comer? And was she like her dead sister, this delicate and fragile lady who must once have been beautiful, and who now stood with hands tightly clasped, gazing with trembling wonder on the gallant young fellow before her ? "My nephew?" she cried. "Leonard — it was your father's name — you have his hair and his eyes, but you have your mother's voice. Leonard, shall you love me ? " He took her two hands in his, and drew her towai'ds him like a lover. I thought they would be best left alone, and disappeared. After meditation for a space among the flowers I went back again. They were still standing by the table, her hands in his. He held a miniature — I guessed of whom — and was looking on i\ with tearful eyes. •'Leonard," I said, " I shall take the dog-cart into town, an^ leavfc you with your aunt to tell your own stoiy. Bring her with you this veij afternoon, and introduce her to the Captain. Mibs ciathertord, you are pleased with this new nephew of yours '?' 3C4 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. •* Pleased ? " slie cried with a sob of happiness. *' Pleased f * ** He is an improvement upon the old one. Moses, indeed I As if you could have a nephew named Moses, with a drink- soddeD face and a passion for pipes and beer ! " She laughed. The situation had all the elements of tears, and I wanted to stave them off. " And then there is Celia," I added. " Celia ? WTio is CeHa ? " she asked, with a little apprehension in her voice. " Ai-e you married, my nephew, Leonard ? " *• No," he said, " But I am in love." *»0h!" ** And you will like her, Aunt.^ They were strange to each other, and Leonard handled the title of relationship with awkwardness at first. It was actually the Tery first of those titles — there are a good many of them when you come to think of them — that he had ever been able to use. " Miss Rutherford must be prepared to fall in love \\dth her," I said, to reassure her ; " everybody is in love with Celia." Then I left them, and went back to the tavern, where I had breakfast — nothing gives a man such an appetite as these domestic emotions — and drove back to town. CHAPTER XLII. A FAIIILY COUNCIL. Leonabd's promotion to family connections was a thing so start- ling that it almost drove away from my mind the recollection of the crisis through which all our fortunes were to pass that very day — Celia's refusal of HeiT Raumer and my Polish deputation. Li the breathless rush of those two days, in which were concen- trated the destinies of three lives at least, one had to think of ona thing at a time. Fortunately, I could give the morning to CeHa. She was agitated, but not on her own account. Her father, she said, had given her his unqualified approval of what she wag going to do. " He has behaved," she said, " in the kindest way possible* He knows all about — about Leonard." *' I told him." " And he says he is veiy glad. I am to meet Herr Raumer at 4welve in his office and give him my answer. But there is some- tniug behind all this which troubles me. Why is my fathor SQ sad? A FA MIL ] " CO UNCIL, 305 " It is nothing at all, I believe. He fancies that the German can injnro his reputation in some way. Be of gcod heait, Gis. All wiW go right now," And then I fell to telling her how Leonard had at last come hito the patrimony of a family, and was no longer a foundling. This diverted her thoughts, and carried us on until twelve o'clock, when I went to the family conference which was called at that hour in Mr. Tyn-ell's office. Celia remained in her c^vn room antil she was wanted. It was a complete assemblage, gathered together to hear Celiacs answer to her suitor. Nothing but the gravity of the situation warranted this publicity, so to speak, of her decision. It was an acknowledgment, on the part of her father, that more was at stake than the mere refusal of a girl to maiTy a man old enough to be her grandfather. Mr. Pontifex was there also with his wife. He wore the garb which he assumed on occasions of ceremony. It consisted simply of a dress-coat, with perhaps an additional fold to the veiT large white neckcloth which he wore about his long neck. That dress-coat, which he certainly never associated especially with the evening, bore an air of battle about it, although the wearer's face was much meeker than usual, and his upper lip longer, and therefore sadder to look at. They sat each bolt up- right in two chairs side by side against the wall. The lady was present under protest. As I heard aftei-^-ards, she consented to come on the express understanding that her carriage should be kept waiting, so that at any moment, if she were offended, she might go ; also, that the maintenance of her will on its present terms depended on Celia's behaviour. Her husband, the principal sufferer in their family disturbances, had, I suppose, received orders to be on distant terms with evei-ybody, as if we were all on our trial. I gathered this from the way in which he acknowledged my presence, with that sort of dignified movement of the head which the clergy reserve for pew-openers, sextons, national school- masters, and the like. He was present at the meeting, perhaps to represent the virtue of Christian resignation, while his wife i re- ferred that Christian wrath the exhibition of which is not a sin, Mrs. Tyrrell sat on the other side of the room in a state of pi )found be^\'ilderment. Things were beyond her comprehension. But she seemed to feel my arrival as a kind of relief, and imme- diately proposed, as a measure of conciliation, wine and cake. No one took any notice of the offer except Mr. Pontifex, who sighed and shook his head as if he should have liked some undoi happier circumstancea. X 306 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. It was Tcry evident that Aunt Jane tlionght she had been invited to witness the acceptance of the enemy's offei. There was in the carriage of her head, the setting of her lips, tiie rustle of her silks, the horizontality of her curls, a WTathfiil and com- bative look. And if her eyes seemed to wander, as they sometimes did, into space, it was, one instinctively felt, only the absorption of her spirit in the efioii; to find fitting words to express her indig- nation when the time should arrive. I looked at the safe. Yes, the door was slightly open ; I had left it wide open. There could be no doubt that Mr. T}Trell had found it open. Presumably, therefore, he had — what had he done ? Abstracted papers ? The thought was an ugly one ; and yet, for what reason had I committed an ugly act and borrowed the key ? Abstracted papers ; made things safe ; robbed his enemy of his weapons ; that did not ring musically — as every musician knows, evil is discord. And yet Mr. T}Trell did not look like — one shrinks fi-om calling things by their right names. He bore, on the other hand, a quiet look of dignity which con- traste'\ strangely with the restless nervousness of the last few weeks. With him was the Captain, standing with his back to the fire- place, the favourite British position, summer or winter. All these observations were made in a moment, for, as if he had been waiting for me, Mr. Tprell began to address us, fidgeting his fingers among the papers on the table. *' I have asked you to come here this morning," he said. *' I have asked you. Aunt Jane and Mr. Pontifex, as Celia's nearest relations, and you. Captain, as an old fiiend, and you, Ladislas, as her closest fi'iend, to witness her o^^ti decision in a matter which concerns her oiah happiness, whatever we may have thought or said about it — and which must be left entirely to herself. Mrs. Pontifex snorted. " I keep my o^Ti opinion, George Tyn-ell," she said, "and I mean to keep it." ** You all know that this ofi'er took us entii-ely by surprise — none more so than myself— and especially for the reason that its rejection by Celia will most likely result in the enmity of a man who has for many years been my fiiend and my client." Here Mrs. Pontifex mm-mured in an undertone, so that her husband and I were the only persons who heard it ; *' Fudge and flapdoodle." '' There is nothing against Herr Eiiumer. He has lived among us an iiTeproachable life^ so far as we know." A FAAf/iy COUNCIL. 307 " Old enough to be her grandfather ; a foreigner aLd. for all jou know, a Roman Catholic." John Pontifex lifted his head at the last word, and made a remark : ** That we should innocently connive at the marriage of an un- fortunate Papist would be — ahem — in fact — a shocking state of things ! " *' Of course he is not a Catholic," said Mr. Tyrrell, impatiently. " And as for his age, many girls marry elderly men and are per- fectly happy. It so happens that eight or ten years ago I laid myself under an obligation — a very great obligation — to Herr Raumer. I cannot allow myself to forget the debt I owe him. At the time when I expressed my gratitude and asked in what way I ■could best show it, he laughed, and said that I could give him — my little daughter. I acceded, laughing, and thought no more about the matter until he himself reminded me of it. It seems that he had not forgotten it. At the same time, he offered to take his chance ; if I would give him such good offices as I could, in tbe way of paternal influence ; if I would give him opportunities ol frequently seeing my daughter ; if Mrs. TjTrell could also be got to approve '' *' Nothing could be more regular, I must say," sighed Mrs. Tyrrell, " or more becoming." Mrs. Pontifex pulled out her pocket-handkerchief and coughed. I distinctly heard the last syllables, di'owned by the kerchief — ** doodle." Her husband, terrified beyond measure by this repetition of his wife's very strongest expression, shook his head slowly, and ejacu- lated, Heaven knows why, " Alas I " *' I say," Mr. TjTrell went on mildly, disregarding these inter- ruptions, " that he very properly left the decision to Celia herself. At first I considered the situation favourably for my old fiiend. Here was an establishment, a certainty, an assured position. I brought pressure — not cruel or unkind pressure — but still a certain amount of pressui'e — to bear upon Celia in his behalf. I am sori-y now that I did exercise that influence, because it has offended some here-, and because I find it has made my daughter unhappy, and that " — his voice broke do^Ti a little — ^'* is a thing I cannot boar to think of. *' Yesterday, however," he went on, after a pause, during which Mrs. Pontifex did not say "Fudge and flapdoodle," nor did her husband say "Alas!" but looked straight before him — ** Yesterday I saw Hen Raumer again ; he came to l^^^ll me that he 3o8 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. had waited two months, that Celia was now exposed to ths attentiois of a far younger and more attractive man in the shape of Leonard Copleston, and that he would ask Celia himself for her decision. I have this mcming talked with her upon the subject. I ha^re told her that I -withdraw altogether every word that I said before in favour of his pretensions; I have asked her io be guided in the matter entirely by her own heart. And I imdted you here, with her consent, in order that, before you all, she might tell Herr Raumer what answer she has decided to give." " So fai, George Tyrrell," said Mrs. Pontifex, '* you have acted worthily, and like yourself." Then the Captain lifted up his voice. '* Our friend, George Tp-rell," he began, "told me yesterday a thing which has been hitherto known only to himself and to this Mr. — Herr Raumer. It is a matter which may, or may not, do haiTQ if generally known. And it appears that yesterday, probably in the heat of jealousy or disappointment — because we all kno^ Celia Tprell's sentiments on the matter — this gentleman held out a kind of thi-eat against Celia's father of spreading the business abroad. We can afford to laugh at such menaces ; we stick to ouj" guns, and we let the enemy blaze away. He cannot do us any real harm." " Menaces? Threats?" cried Aunt Jane, springing to her feet, and shaking her skii-ts so that they ** went off" in rustlings like a whole box of lucifer matches at once. " Threats against ?/o«, George T}Trell ? Against a member of my family ? Threat-s ? I'll let him know, if he begins that kind of thing. He shall see that I can be resolute on occasion, meek though I may be habit- ually and on Christian principle." " Certainly, my dear," said John Pontifex, sadly. ** You can be resolute on proper occasion." George Tyrrell smiled — rather a wan smile. " It is never pleasant to have one's peace and ease disturbed by tiireats and misrepresentations." " We've got you in convoy," said the Captain, heartily; ** and will see you safe into port. There's eight bells. Now, then." I was still thinking about the open safe. Could a man who had Bpoken as T^Trell spoke, with so much genuine feeling, so much dignity, actually have in his pockets abstracted papers ? Then why the undertone of melancholy ? If he had nothing to fear, why did he speak or allow the Captain to speak of possible attacks ? In any case, I was the real culprit, the cause and origin of ^^ Clime. CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER, 3P9 CHAPTER XLIII. CELL\ GRTES HEE A^•S^•ER. We had not long to wait. Almost as tlie last cl« ck finislifeJ its last stroke of noon we heard outside the firm and heavy st^p of Ccha's suitor, and I am ready to confess that the heart oi one guilty person in the room — if there were more than one — began to beat the faster. Mr. Tprell turned pale, I thought, and Mrs. Pontifex stiffened her back against the chair, and looked her most resolute. I do not know why, but John Pontifex began to tremble at the knees, the most sensitive part apparently of his organisation. HeiT Raumer stood before us in some sui-prise. " I did not expect," he said, " to find a conseil de famille.'" Then, di'awing fi-om the solemn aspect of Mrs. Pontifex, the dejec- tion depicted in Mrs. Tprell's face, and the terror of John Ponti- fex, a conclusion that the meeting was not favourable to his cause. tie assumed an expression which meant fighting. "I hope that Mrs. Pontifex is quite well," he said blandly, ** and the Rev. Mr. Pontifex, whom I have not heard for several 6unda3*s." Then he took a chair, and sat at the table. *' Now," he said to Mr. Tyrrell, with a certain brutality, " let ^s get to business at once." Beside him was the Captain, leaning his hand on his stick, and looking as if he were ready with the loaded artillery of a hundred- gun man-o'-war. Mr. Tyrrell rang the bell. "Ask Miss Celia to be good enough to step down,'' he said. 'V\'hatever was before him he looked ready to face. The German, as if master of the situation, sat easily and quietly, lie looked as if he were a mere spectator, and the business was one which concerned him not at all. And yet he must have known, fi:om the fact of the family gathering, that his chances were small indeed. But he said nothing, only removed his blue epectacles, and gently stroked his heavy moustache with the palm of his left hand. He was dressed, I remember, in a white waist- coat, only the upper part being visible above his tightly- buttoned frock-coat. He wore a flower in one button-hole, which was then not so common as it is now, and a tiny piece of red ribbon in another. Also he wore lavender kid gloves and patent-leathei boots. In fact, he was di'csscd for the occasion. Yuth his hea^j 310 BY CELIA 'S ARDOUR. face, tis large and massive head, Ms fall moustache, and his np» light carriage, he looked far younger, in spite of his white hair, than the man who sat expectant hefore him. Celia entered in her quiet, unobtrusive way, kissed her great-aunt, and, refusing a shair which Herr Raumer offered, took mine, which tvas next Aunt Jane. "Now, Celia," said that lady, ** we are all here, waiting for your decision, and a? that may possibly — mind, child, I do not expect it — but it may possibly be such as John Pontifex and I cannot approve, the sooner we get it the better." " One moment," said Herr Raumer, rising, and pushing back his chair. "I am also deeply concerned in Miss Tyrrell'e answer. May I speak first ? " He considered a moment, and then went on. *' I am now a man advanced in years. I have for twelve years and more watched the gi'o^\lh of a child so carefully that I have at last, perhaps prematurely, come to look upon that child as, in a sense, my own. You would laugh, Mrs. Pontifex, if I were to say that I have fallen in love with that child." "Fudge and flapdoodle! " said the lady for a third time, 8o that her husband's teeth began to chatter. " Quite so. But it is the truth. I hope — I still venture to hope — that my declining years may be cheered by the care of a young lady, who, in becoming my wife, would not cease to be my much-loved and cherished daughter." "Man," said Aunt Jane, "talk Christian sense, not heathen rubbish. You can't many your daughter nor your granddaughter either. Not even in Germany, far less in this Protestant and Evangelical country." " I went to my old fiiend, George Tyrrell," Herr Eaumer pro- ceeded, regardless of the interruption, " I put the case before him. You know the rest. Celia, I have not pressed my attentions upon you. I have said no word of love to you. I know that it might be ridiculous in me to say much of what I feel in this respect. You know me well enough to trust me, I think. It was enough for me that you should know what I hoped, and it was right that you should take time to reflect. Will you be my wife ? " She clasped my hand, and held it tight. And she looked at her father with a little fear and doubt, while she answered, " I cannot, Herr Raumer." His fece clouded over. ** Thmk," he pleaded. " I have watched over you, looking for diis moment, for ten years. You shall have all that a woman cftj3 CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER, y%\ Rsk for. I can give you position — a far higher position than yoa dream of. You shall be rich, you shall be a guest of Courts, you shall lead and command — what can a woman want that I cannot give you ? " She shook her head. ** I am veiy sorrv- ; you have been very kind to me always." ** His attentions have been most marked," said her mother. *' Clara," said Aunt Jane, sharply, " hold your tongue I " '• You have been so kind to me always that I ventuieto ask ono more kindness of you. It is that you forget this passage of youi life altogether, and — and — do not suffer my refusal to alter the friendly relations between my father and youi'self." " Is this scene preconcei-ted ? " he turned to Mr. Tyrrell *' Am I invited here to make one in a dramatic representation ? Are these excellent fiiends gathered together to laugh at the re- fusal of my offer ? " ** No — no," cried Celia. ** There is no dramatic representa- tion. There is no preconcerted scene. Come, i^unt Jane, come, mamma ; let us go ; we have nothing more to do here. Hen Eaumer " — she held out her hand — " will you forgive me ? I — 1 alone am to blame— if anyone is to blame — in this matter. I ought to have told you three weeks ago that it was impossible. I hoped that you would see for yourself that it was impossible. I thought that you would of your own accord withdraw youi- offer. Will you forgive me ? " He did not take the proffered hand. " You refuse my hand," he said, " and you ask me to take yours ! Pardon me, Miss T}Trell. We do not fight mth ladies I have now to do ^vith your father." Mrs. Pontifex — I think I have said that she was not a tall woman, being perhaps about five feet two — stepped to the table, and rapped it smartly with her knuckles. " You have to do mth Jane Pontifex," she said, " as well as with George TjTrell. Take care, John Pontifex ! " "My dear! " *' Remain here. Watch the proceedings, and report them to me, exactly. Now, Clara and Celia, go on upstairs. You are under my protection now, my dear. And as for you, sir" — she shook her finger impressively at Herr Raumer — " if it were not foi your age and infirmities, I would take you by the collar and gi^s you as good a shaking as you ever had. John Pontifex ! " " My — my — my — dear ? " "I charge you — not to shake him by the collar." 312 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. *' No, my dear, I will not," he promised, firmly. " In moments of indignation," Aunt Jane explained to lier niece, " John Pontifex is like alien." She stood at the door to see Celia safely out of her Fuitor's clutches, find then followed, closing it with a slam. John Pontifex, the Lion-hearted, resumed his seat against the wall, and sat bolt upright with more meekness than might have been expected of one so disposed to Ckristian wTath. " Now, sir," said Herr Raumer to j\Ii\ Tyrrell, " the she- di'agon is gone, and we can talk " " I have promised, Johnny," whispered Mr. Pontifex to me, "not to shake him. By the she-dragon, I presume, he — actually — means — Mrs. Pontifex. This wickedness is, indeed, lament- able ! " *' and we can talk. Is this brayadc, or is it defiance ? " " It is neither," said the Captain. " I know all the particulars of this business. It means that we are doing our duty, and are prepared for the consequences." " Ah ! " said Herr Eaumer. ** It is very noble of you to re- commend this line of action, seeing that the consequences will not fall upon your head. You are one of the people who go about enjoining eveiybody, like Nelson, to do his duty because England expects it. England is a great and fortunate country." "You may sneer, sir," said the Captain, with dignity. *'I have told you what we propose to do." "Are you aware what the consequences may be if I act upon certain infonnation contained in that safe, that you so boldlv recommend the path of duty ? " " I believe the consequences may be unpleasant. But they will be made quite as unpleasant to yourself ; they cannot produce the important efi"ects you anticipate ; and — in any case — we shall abide the consequences." " I give you another chance, Tyrrell. Let the girl give me a favourable answer in a week — a fortnight — even a month. Send young Copleston away — use your paternal pressure, and all may yet be well." He had quite put off the bland politeness of his manner witL Colia, and stood before ns angiy, flushed, and revengeful. It was pretty clear that he would get what revenge he could, and I began to hope that, after all, Mr. T^Ti-ell liad possessed himself of those papers. " Come, Tyrrell," he said, " you know what will follow. Think of your oMTi :n«.erests. I have never yet been beaten, and I nevej CALIA GIVES HER ANSlVEk. 313 will. Tlios3 who stand in my path are trampled on ^^Ilhout mercy." " No," said the Worshipful the Mayor, '* I will not be under any man's power. Do what you like, say what you like ; and as you please. I would rather see Celia dead than married to you." " Then you declare war ? " He took a little key — ah ! how well I remembered that instrument of temptation — fi'om his waistccdt- pocket. "You declare war? This is refreshing. Some people Bay that nothing will induce an Englishman to declare war again. And here we have an example to the contrary. But I must crush you, my friend. I really must crush you." " Gad ! " cried the Captain. " Can't you open fire without so much parley ? We are waiting for your shot." " Tyrrell " — Herr Riiumer turned upon him once more — ** I am almost sorry for you, and I have never been sorry for anyone yet. Such a pity ! The Worshipful the Mayor ! The rich and prosperous lawyer ! The close relative of the gi-eat Pontifex family! With so large a balance at the bank, and so many shares, and such an excellent business ! And all to come to such a sudden and disagreeable end. It does seem a pity." *' Pluck up, Tyrrell ! this is all Lounce." I wondered if it was. At that moment Mr. Tyrrell quietly xrent to the safe. •' I ^ill not trouble you to open the safe. It is already open." Herr Piiiumer sat do^n and looked at him. *' This is a stroke of genius," said he. "I did not think you had it in you. Were you, too, Cajitain, an accomplice? He finds my safe open, or he gets a key, or in some way opens it ; he takes the compromising papers, and then, you see, in full family gathering he defies me. It is an excellent situation, well led up to and well contrived, and executed admirably. T}iTeIl, you are a dramatist lost to your country." He did not appear the least disconcerted ; he took it as quite natui'al that he should be defeated by deceit, craft, and cunning ; they were weapons which he held to be universal and legitimate ; he had, as he might cynically say, used them himself all his life. Now, in an unexpected manner, he was actually met and defeated by his o^n methods. " This is really refr-eshing. "Wlio is the best man in all the toA^-n, Ladislas Pulaski? Is it George TjTrell ? A^Tiy, he is better than the best, because he is the cleverest." " Perhaps not," said Mr. Tyrrell, as he took a bundle of papers tied in red tape out of the safe. " I found this open last night. 314 BY CELIACS ARBOUR. I suppose jou left it open. There are all your papers — im- touched." The German snatched them from his hands, and began to turn them over. *'A11? All?" He untied the tape, and opened paper after paper. "All? Impossible." He looked carefully through the whole bundle. As he got to the end his face changed, and he looked bewildered. " They are all here," he said, lookirg at ns with a sort of dismay. " What is the meaning of this ? " He sat down with the papers in his hands, as if he were facing a great and astonishing problem. " You are a theologian, Mr. Pontifex, and have presumably studied some of the leading cases in what they call sin. Did you ever read of such a case as this ? " " "When I was a young man at Oxford (where — ahem — I greatly distinguished myself), I cei-tainly did — ahem — study a science called Logic, which my reckless companions " "A man," inten-upted Herr Raumer, and addressing his re marks to me, " a man gets possession of a bundle of papers which contain facts the suppression of which is all- important. He may destroy them without fear ; no one knows about them except a single person who has no other proof ; he deliberately adopts a line of conduct towards that person — who is a hard man with no sentimentality about him, and who has never once forgiven anybody any single wrong, however small — which that person is bound to resent. And while he does this he hands back to that hard and revengeful person the very papers which alone give him the power of revenge. That is the most extraordinaiy line of action I have ever seen pursued, or ever read of. 'VNTiat am I to think of it ? Is it part of a deeper plot ? " " Rubbish," said the Captain. *' Can't a man avoid a dishonour- able thing without having a plot ? Do you suppose we are all schemers and conspirators ? " ** The English are, indeed, a wonderful race," said Herr Tljiumer. " Can you not believe in a common act of honesty? Man- man ! " said the Captain, " what sort of life has yours been ? " " I have seen a good deal of the world," Herr Raumer went on, meditatively. " I was in Vienna and in Paris in 1848. You got a considerable amount of treacher}- there. But I never before saw B case of a man who had ruin — yes — ruin staring \\\vc\ in the face — who was too honest to prevent it. Too honest." CELIA GIVES HER ANSWER. 315 lie sat down and resumed his blue spectacles, and then took his hat, still holding the papers in his hands. At last he said with an effort : *' I honour the first piece of genuine honesty that I have erer, in the whole course of my life, actually \^itnesscd. 'AH men,' I said at my leisure, ' are liars.' George Tyrrell, I give you back ^liese papers. Take them and use them as you please. Best bum them. I give you the key of my safe ; you can paint my name out to-morrow, if you please. Gentlemen, you ■uill all three, I am sure, wish to keep this secret of our friend's life, as* far as you know it, locked up and forgotten. Mr. Pontifex, you will say nothing about it to — to the she-dragon." "I promised not to shake him, Johnny," Mr. Pontifex said, as if that engagement was sacred, and the only thing which preyented him fi'om committing an act of violence. ^^Allons,'' said the philosopher gaily, "let us be friends, Tyrrell ; shake hands. I am going to leave this to^vn, where I have spent ten years of my life, and shall return to-morrow or next day — to — to the Continent. I shall see you again, Ladislas, Perhaps this afternoon." He stopped at the door. '* Tell Celia," he said, *' that she is free, and that I shall always regret that I could not take her away with me." He laughed and went away. Then we all looked at each other as if we had been in a dream. There was actually a weak spot in the whole armour oi cynicism with which Herr Pidumer had clad himself, and we had found it. Celia rescued. Andromeda free ; the loathly dragon driven flway ; Andromeda's papa delivered from personal and private terror on his own account ; and by the strangest chance, the whole brought about, though not continued, by me. I, who borrowed the key ; I, who did a mean and treacherous thing, which gave the opportunity of an honourable and fearless action. After all, as Herr Paumer once said, the world would be but a dull place without its wickedness. It was as if Perseus, instead of filing through the air with winged feet and a sword swift to slay, conscious that the eyes of the 01}Tnpians were upon him, had crouched behind the rock when the ^Egean wave lapped the w^hite feet of the damsel, and from that safe retreat astonished the monster with a "SMiitehead torpedo. Nothing at all to be proud of. And yet no dragon assailed with a torpedo 3i6 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR, «ould be more astonished than our foreign friend at the exhibition of an undoubted act of pluck and honesty. No doubt the admonitions of the Captain spurred on the hero, out of which I came, myself, as I felt, rather badly. Let me say, once for all, that I do not know what the papers contained. Whether my old fiiend had committed a crime — whether it was forgery, or burglaiy, or anj-thing else of which his conscience might have reproached him, and the opinion of the world looked askance upon, I do not know. Nothing more was ever said on the subject. The four actors in that little drama, including John Pontifex, maintained total silence. Even the safe disappeared. And neither then, nor at any subsequent period, was the leading law^-er of fhe town, its Mayor, its most eminent Freemason, subjected to the slightest suspicion, attack, or misrepresentation. I asked to see Celia, but she had gone to her otnti room. I wTote a short note to her, sent it up, and went into the drawing-room, where ]\Ii's. Pontifex and IMi's. Tyrrell, newly reconciled, were sitting in great state and friendliness. Cake and wine were on the table, not that the ladies wished to sustain nature, but that their production, like the pomegranate in the mysteries of Ceres, was a symbolical act. It meant reconciliation, and Mrs. Pontifex, who liked that the family eheuld agree in the way she thought fit, contemplated the glass of sherr}' before her with an eye of peculiar satisfaction. I Driefly narrated what had passed, glossing over the part that related to the papers, and dwelling chiefly on Herr Eaumer'a disinterested and generous conduct. " And what were the threats ! " asked Mrs. Pontifex. " There hardly appeared to be any threats," I replied. ** Hen Ilaumer made some allusion to papers in the safe, but as he lefl papers and all \\ith Mr. Tyrrell, I presume they were unimpoi'tantj and referred to private ti-ansactions." "I must say, Clara," said Mrs. Pontifex, "that George'g behaviour was very good throughout. I am much pleased. In a moment of weakness, no doubt, he listened to the proposals of this foreigner, who is, I admit, a clever and plausible person. Both George and Celia said quite the right thing in the right way, and I am greatly pleased. You say the man is gone, Ladislas ? " "Yes ; he is going to leave the town, and return to the Continent." " So much the better. He and his church on Sunday mornings, poser." And then Mr. Pontifex claimed her. " I haTo, I believe," he began, ** to offer my — ahem — my con- ^atulations on so auspicious an event as your — in fact — youf engacjement. Marriagre is an honourable condition, although cot, as the Papists ignorantly make it, one of the Sacraments of the Church. We have kno^n the young man your— your — in fact, your betrothed — for many yeai's, and we rejoice to find that he has not only distinguished himself as greatly in — ahem — ii. action —as others," meaning himself — " sometimes distinguish them- selves at Oxford in examination, but he has also been ekiabled under Providence to recover what some would consider an indis- pensable condition of acceptance with a family of respectabii.ity — ■ I mean respectable connections of his own." Celia laughed. "At all events, we liked Leonard before he had found M:se Rutherford." "That is most trae. You will, however, Celia> be rejoiced to leam that Miss Rutherford herself belongs to a County family, and that Leonard, both on his father's side and his mother's, is oi an excellent stock." '* I am glad if Leonard is glad." ** Your Aunt — in fact, Mrs. Pontifex — thinks that steps should be taken to put Leonard in communication with his father's family, a subject on which she proposes to speak at another occasion. For the present, Celia, my dear, she will probably do no more than invite you to dinner. Mrs. Pontifex has resolved, I may say, upon ha\ung a dinner. I do not myself, I confess, greatly admire our o-^-n, or rather her style — ahem — of entei*tainment. I have, on one or two such occasions, arisen from the meal with an un- satisfied appetite. But we thiuk too much on carnal things." And all the time Leonard was talking with his newly- fouml Aunt. It seems a prosaic ending for one who never had a father. Leonard was a foundling, or next door to it ; he attained to the three- and- twenty without knowing where he came from, and he then, having just occasion to thank Heaven that his father was no more, found — an Aunt. No lordly lineage, no rich and childless father brooding over the ui etrievable past, no accession to wealth and fortune, only a widow A ant, T\ith a small income, only a con- fii-mation of the fact stated by the poor dying mother that he was & gentleman by birth. Yet the confirmation pleased Leonard as much as if he had been proved an earl by birth, and was declared 336 BY uELIA'S ARBOUR. the missing heir to boundless acres and a genealogy going beyond Noah. It was a quiet evening, with no general conversation, but alway? these sub- divisions and sections of two and three. It was not late when we separated, and Leonard, leaving Miss Rutherforc) to the care of Cis, came with the Captain and myself. The Captain had his pipe and glass of grog, and went upstairs, to turn in. We, left alone, sat silent, looking into space, at the open window, -^Tapped in our thoughts. Sm-ely, I considered, Leonard is the spoiled child, whom nothing can spoil, of Fortune. He has fought his way through the briars and brambles of pov-irty and obscmity, the Mendly hand of Fate warding off bulletrf, "bayonets, and the breath of disease. He has come back to us, bearing the Queen's Commis- sion, a successful hero, where so many equally heroic, only less successful, had fallen by the way, and now lay dead on the plains ef India or in the Cemeteries of Scuta .i and the Crimea — he had the gift of Good Luck — la mam heurei, 'e. Whatever he tries to do, he does well. To be sure, he doe^i it with all his might. \Vhat we call Luck, a small and degraded word, the ancients called Fate, because to them success and failure meant much more than they mean now. To lose yom' high estate ; to be a slave who was once Queen of Troy with gallant sons foremost in the fight — that was Fate. To return in triumph, leading the captive Kings at the chariot- wheel — or to be one of the captive kings, shorn of all your former magnificence — Louis Quatorze with the wig ofi" — that was Fate. To sit in obscmity, to go on living upon a small income, to be ankno\\Ti, when you know yourself as good a man as he whoso name is in every paper, whose voice is heard at ever}' gateway, whom the Lord Mayor delighteth to honour — that is Luck. It seems at first to be a thing quite independent of personal virtues, except thai you ought not to be conspicuously vicious ; Luck was with Leonard. And yet he was conspicuously, like all successful men, one who deserved his Luck. " What are you thinking of, Laddy ? " " I am thinking that of all men on earth you are at this moment the happiest." "I think I am, indeed," he said, softly. "I have Celia ; I have my Commission and my medals ; and now I am no longer a waif and stray in the world, comefiom nobody knows where, but I hare my place mth the rest, and can talk of my forefathere like any Howard. ^ ZHE POLE'S VENGEANCE, 337 CHAPTER XLVn. THE pole's vengeance. Ii was past eleven o'clock, but the day had been exciting and \?e could not think of sleep. It was a hot night, too, with a little wind, but a full bright moon shining in the placid waters of the Milldam. The town was very quiet ; in the kitchen, a cricket chirped loudly ; in a neighbouring garden was baying a foolish dc g, diiven nervous by the moonlight, which, as everybod} knows, makes wandering spectres, if there are any about, visible to dogs. Fright- ened at length by the sound of his otmi voice, perhaps awed by a more than commonly dreadful ghost, he left off barking and re- treated to his kennel. Then we were quite quiet, and sat face to face in silence. My neiwes that night were strung to the point at which whatever happens brings relief. I felt as if something was gomg to happen. So did Leonard. ♦' Come," he said, ** we must either talk or go off to bed. I feel as if something oppressive was in the air. Is it thunder ? No ; it is a clear and beautiful night. Let us go into the garden." We went to the end of the garden, and stood on the stone coping, looking over the broad sheet of water. " You are content, Laddy, with the tui-n things took this after- Doon ? " *' Yes," I said, " content and yet humiliated. Why did I ever learn the stoiy of my people ? " "Poland has no claim upon you," said Leonard. " Your education — your disposition — everything makes you a man of peace. Stay at home and make the name of Pulaski glorious in ai-t." ** "WTio is that, Leonard ? Listen." An uneven step in the quiet street. That was nothing, but the itep seemed familiar. And it stopped at our door. And then there was rapping, a low rapping, as if the late caller wanted to come in confidentially. There was a light burning, in the hall, and Leonard, snatching it ap, opened the door. It was Wassielewski. And then I knew, without being toll, that some di*eadful thing had happened. "Let me come in," he said. " I have a thing to say. Are yea two alone ? " ** Alone/' echoed Leonard. ** Come in." z 338 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. '''■ The soldier,'" mumiured the old Pole. "Good; he will nn derstand." As he stood in the light of the candles I was conscious of a curious change that had fallen upon him. His eyes had lost their wild and hungiy brilliancy ; they were soft and gentle ; but his cheeks were flushed, and though he held himself upright, his hands trembled. *' I am here to tell you, Ladislas Pulaski, that you are avenged upon the murderei of your mother." *' Wassielewski ! You have killed him ! " I knew it without another word from him. The spy was dead, and the hand of my poor old friend was red -^ith his blood. "Yes, I have killed him," he said, gently. "Tell us all," said Leonard. "Courage, Laddy, coui'age. And speak low." "It was in fair fight," said "Wassielewski. " I am no mur- derer. Do not think that I murdered him. "\Ye watched him, that good and true man from Paris and I, all day. We knew that he would escape by train if he could, and so we drew lots. One was to go to the station and watch there. He was to take a ticket for the same station as the spy, he was to telegi-aph for friends to meet him in London, he was to get out mth him, he was to follow him, and he was to find out where he went. Because, you see, we meant that this man should do no more mischief to Poland. The other one was to watch the house, and follow the spy whenever he came out. "The lot fell to me to watch the house. The other man went to the railway station. But the spy \\ill send no more intelligence to St. Petersburg. He lies dead in a meadow be- neath the town walls. I killed him there." He spoke quite calmly, and as if he was merely stating a fact which we had every reason to expect. There was, however, no trace of bravado in his tone. " I watched outside, from a window in a house opposite whore they know me, from four o'clock till ten. Six hours. But I was not impatient, because I knew that the Lord had delivered him into my hands. After I thought things over, I perceived clearly that it was I, and not you, Ladislas, who was to avenge your mother. So I waited with patience, and, as one must guard against every accident, I even ate and di-ank. " It is light, now, till nine, and there is light enough to see arsrosa the street till past ten. Soon after sunset I saw that he THE POLE 'S VENGEANCE. 339 flftd lit a lamp, and was destroying papers. 'WTien he had gone through all the papers, he began to pack a trunk. I saw him put up his clothes ; I saw him write an addiess on a card; and then — a quarter before ten was striking from St. John's Church — he took that long cloak of his which you know, and put out the gas. There is a night train at half-past ten. He was going to take it, and to send for his boxes afterwards. So I went out after him. "When he saw me, which he did at once, because he turned at the sound of footsteps, he stopped and waited for me. 'You propose murdering me,' he said. I told him that he was quite mistaken, and that, if he had used his opportunities of kno^ving the Poles better, he would understand that Poles never mur- der people at all — having contracted a horror of murder fi'om the contemplation of such murders as those of Roman and Claudia Pulaski. ** ' What do you want with me, then ? ' he asked. "*I want to fight you,' I said. 'I intend to fight yon.' ** He laughed at first, and asked me if I thought him such a fool as to fight with a mad Polish exile — he, a Russian official. "Then I told him that he should not escape a duel; that if he were to call the police, it would be of no use, because others were waiting for him ; that if he escaped the town, the telegi-aph had sent messages to London, and he would meet the Poles on arriving there ; and if he tried to fly anj-^'here else, he would be watched, ti-aced, and made to fight then. " ' Madman,' he said, ' what are we to fight with ? * " Then I showed him two long knives, which I have had for years, never thinking what a use I should put them to. I^jnives like shoi-t swords, only without the hilt. And I told him he should have his choice. But fight he must. " He hesitated, considering. He saw verj^ well that what I offered him was his best chance. Man for man. If he killed me, 3iG would probably get away somehow. My comi-ade was at tha station, and might be eluded. Then he was younger and stronger than I. " 'You understand,' I said, "the duel is to be a 02ctrance» I shall kill you, unless you kill me first.' " * Where are we to fight, madman ? * he asked. " 1 told him of a place I knew of, a meadow surrounded with trees, beneath the town wall. He knew it, too, and nodded. " ' You are younger,' I said. ' Y^'ou have that advantage ; on the other hand, you have a bad cause, and I a good one. You will fight your best, but you have to fight two, not one- Roman 340 3^ CU.L1A :i ARBOUR. Pulaski as well as "Wassielewski. One is dead, and it is hard toi jra^ stood — good Heavens ! was it Herr Eaumer himself, wrapped in his long cloak which fell to his heels, and was thrown over his left shoulder ? — a figure the same height as the spy, and having a black felt hat pulled foi-ward over his face. *' The spy's cloak," said Wassielewski quietly, and without the least symptom of alarm or discomposure, " and his hat. But J killed him." The figure cautiously removed the hat. That action disclosed a head covered with short, thick, and stubbly red hair, a face whose expression was one of cunning, im- pudence, and anxiety all combined : such a face as you may meet on the tramp along country roads, one that glances upwards at you as you pass the o^iier supine in the shade, or that you may see sitting outside a village beershop, or where the more adven- turous class of tramps, vagrants, and gipsies most resort. Not the thin hatchet face, with receding forehead and protruding lips, which belongs to the lowest class of London habitual criminals, the face of a class whose children will be crWuis, the face which is the result of many generations of neglect, overcrowding, and vice. This was the face of a strong and healthy man, and yet the face of a sturdy rogue. And in removing the hat, the fellow looked round with assurance and nodded cheerfully to Wassielewski. "His cloak," said Wassielewski, pointmg to the gannent, "and his hat. But it was I who killed him." " Right you are, guv'nor," responded our new visitor cheerfully. *'His cloak it is. Likewise, his hat it is. And I see you a-killing of him. But don't you be frightened, mate. All friends here?'' He tmned his impudent face to us, as if we vrere a pair of accomplices. "About the pitting of that chap" — he jerked his finger over his Bhoulder — " out o' the way, I don't want to say nothink disagree- able. There's lots as ought to be put out o' the way, only there's the scraggin' after it — an' I do hope, guv'nor, as you won't be scragged. Bless you, there's a many gets ofi", on'y the papers don't say nothink about it. And don't you frighten yourselves, young gents both. I've got a word to say as'll please all paiiies^ give me time to say it. Lord help you, I feel like a pal a'r^ 356 BY CELT A 'S ARBOIR. paper. At all eyents, he ^Yould never want any of tht book? oi any of the things any more. The Coroner here inteii:)osed, and asked her if she u-as quite Bnre that those were the veiT words the lodger used. The ^^■itness was perfectly certain that those were his exaci words. " He would never want the books or any of the things any more."' The JU17 whispered together. Then the Coroner asked the girl about the knife. She knew nothing about the knife ; she had never seen such a knife in his room ; but could not swear that he had no such knife, because he kept evei'}i;hing locked up. Perhaps the knife had been hing among Herr Kaumer's things in one of the di'awers. Had never tried to look into the drawers, would not be so mean as to P17 into things. Here the suspicious juror remarked plaintively that he should like to see the five-pound note which the deceased had given her. She produced the note, which was handed round among the jury, who examined it as carefully as if it had been an impartant piece de conviction. Then they all shook their heads at one another, and gave it back to the Coroner, who restored it to Forty-four. There being no other evidence to call, the Coroner proceeded to sum up. The JU17 must consider, he said, all the circumstances. The deceased informed an old friend in the morning that he intended to go away shortly ; in the evening he sent a veiy extraordinaiy epistle, stating that he was going away "for ever" — the jui-y Avould make a note of that expression. At the same time he tells the little girl who was accustomed to attend upon him — and he was constrained to express his admiration at the veij straightfoi-ward way in which that little girl's evidence was given — that he wag going away, and was not coming back again. Let the juiy mark, at this point, the suddenness of resolution. He took nothing with him ; he abandoned the piano, his books, evei^y-thing ; and even made the very impoi-tant remark that he should not want any oi them any more. ^\Tiy not ? If a man goes on the Continent he does not give up reading ; if a man changes his residence he does not throw away, so to speak, all his furniture, but carries it Tsith him, or sells it ; but Herr Riiumer was not, as he told the girl, Charlotte Brambler, going on the Continent ; he was going — let the jury mark this very earnestly, he was going — on a long journey. Very good : but /•onsider another point. The doctor was of A CORONER 'S INQUEST, 357 opinion tliat the blow, if that of a suicide, must have lequired gi-eat deteiininatiun. Possibly, perhaps, Herr Kaumer had not the requisite amount of resolution, but the jury all remembered him — a stout, stern, and determined-looking person. As to courage, no man could tell when any other man's courage came to an end. And there were the facts that the knife was found in his hand, covered with blood ; that there was no sign of any struggle on the ground, and that the knife was of foreign manufac- ture. If it was not suicide, what was it ? Could the jury believe that a man of singularly quiet, regular, and reseiwed habits, should go out in the dead of the night, after making those remark- able statements and writing that remarkable letter, for a stroll, without his hat, on the walls ? That he should then, still with the intention of taking a pui-poseless stroll, have climbed over the wooden railings into the field, and then presented his brea?t, offer- ing no resistance, to the murderer? Then it was whispered that a comact escaped that morning fi'om the prison close by might have done the deed. First of all, he must say that it appeared to him disgraceful that any convict should escape, but it was absurd to connect the convict with the death of a man he could not have kno^\Ti and whom he did not rob. Also, how did that convict get hold of a foreign knife ? Let the police catch aud produce the fugitive, and it would then be time to consider the absurd suggestion. There, in fact, was the evidence, all before the jury. They were a body of educated and intelligent men ; they had sat at Coroners' inquests before, and he, the Coroner, was glad to say that a more trustworthy body of men to weigh evidence impartially he did not hope or desire to find. He there- fore dismissed them in the confident hope that they would shortly return with a verdict. In five minutes the jury came back. Their finding was unani- mous. It was that the deceased committed suicide while suffering from temporary insanity. This verdict, never disputed, was the end of the whole business. The deceased was buried at the expense of the Mayor, who acted as chief mourner. Our Polish friends made not the slightest sign of any knowledge of the deed ; no one in the town knew anything, and our only accomplice was Stepney Bob. I never heard that he was recaptured, and I have eveiy reason to believe that he managed to escape altogether and get to America or some other part of the world, where his possible good private qualities had not been obscured by his public reputation as a cracker ol eilbs. Nor did it appear that any inquiry was made into the 3S8 BY CELT A 'S ARBO UR. matter by tlie RLSsIans. They did not acknowledge the mouth Ji-^.l who died fighting for his life with one of the people whom he was paid to watch. If he had friends or relations, none of them ever turned up. No doubt his was an assumed name, under which no one of his own people would he likely to recognise him. When I recovered, and was able to be told everj-thing, I ton- fess to a feeling that fortune for once had found a fitting death for a man. We never told the Captain, Leonard and I. But once, when IMr. Tyrrell had been lamenting in public over his great private loss, while he was perfectly oblivious of the little facts which pre- ceded the death cf his friend, I ventured to tell him privately the whole history. After that we never mentioned him again. The behaviour of Leonard in suppressing the real facts was, like his conduct when first he introduced himself to the Captain — what Mr. John Pontifex called a Wrong Thing. CHAPTER L. "LEONARD AND CIS." I GOT well again and strong, but I was forbidden to do any teaching work for two or three months, and had to give up all engagements for that space. A holiday of three months, with Celia to come every day, till I was strong enough to go out, and read to me ; the Captain to fidget about what was best for me to eat and di'ink ; Leonard to tell stories, and sometimes the Rev. John Pontifex to come and sit with me, making profound remarks on the wickedness of man in general, his o^^n fearful backslidings in his youth, and the incred- ible amount of repentance which they involved, the ignorance of the Papists, and the strength of will possessed by his remarkable ^dfe. Or Mr. Broughton, who would come round, and, by way of giving me a fillip, read a little Greek with me and then send round a few bottles of choice old Port. Mrs. Pontifex sent straw- bcnies and tracts ; she also told me that my fever was no doubt intended to bring me more directly under the influence of her husband's ministrations. Augustus Brambler, would come burst- ing in between the intervals of \\Tit-serving and message-running, to tell me ioyfnlly of the gi-eat business done by the House. And little Forty- four would come as often as she could ; if no one elsa •vas with me she sat do^^■n, beaming with smiles, the tenderest cJ little nurses, and told me how they were all getting on, — Forty-sis •• LEONARD ANi^ CIS/* 359 developing iuto a real genius over his books — lie was tAe son who subsequently became a Reporter and Journalist; Forty-eight, who had been caned at school for insubordination, and so on. I learned, too, from her that the famous five-pound note had been, contrary to the donor's intention, distributed in new clothes, as far as it would go among the whole family. A new lodger had been found who was at least more considerate than the former, did not dine at home, and talked to the children. But, of course, Celia was the most regular visitor, and with her, Leonard. They came together and went away together ; and in my presence he made shameless love till sometimes the light of answering love flashed for a moment in her eyes, and thea she drew herself from him, blushing, and fell to busying about my pil- lows. Miss Rutherford drove over from Fareham, too. She turned out to be exactly what she looked at first sight — for that matter, people always do ; a gentle, quiet, and careful old lady, who ought to belong to some planet where there are no such things as temptations, follies, or worldliness. She was always prettily and daintily dressed, and as became an elderly lady, behind the fashion. She had a sweet and pleasant face, with an expression on it which reminded one of Leonard, and when she spoke it was in a cl<;ar and precise way, like the ripple of a stream over stones. And when she looked at her nephew it was with an ever-growing wonder that there should be in the world such a boy as that to call her Aunt. Imagine all the sentimental and tender things that these two women, Miss Rutherford and Cis, would say to each other and to me as they sat beside my arm-chair while I was recovering. Think, if you can, how they were bound together by their common love for one man, and how they would read, as women always try to do, in each other's soul, dissatisfied until they succeed in finding, as in a miiTor, each her oa\ti image in the heart of the other. Some women can have no half measures ; they must love wholl? and trust altogether ; and they must receive back as much as thcv give. I tried to write down some of these tender scenes, but I have torn them up ; words that are altogether sweet and precious when spoken sometimes look sentimental and meaningless when they are written down. ^Vliat they came to was this, that two women tried to spoil one man by attention and thoughtfulness, and did their best to make another man vain by their exceeding love ioi him. I do not think either was much injured. 36o BY CELIA ' 3 ARBOUR, In September we all four, Miss Rutherford acting cbaperonj went to the Lakes together in order to complete my recovery. I have been in many places since the year 1858, and enjoyed many holidays. I have learned to know this beautiful garden Bet with all manner of delights, ^ith mountain, stream, lakes, and forests, with all kinds of sweet flowers and singing bu'ds to raise the heaii, of man, which we call England. I have di'eamed away the hours in the pleasant land of France, among old castles by the stately Loire, or where the white cliffs of Nonnandy face theii sisters of Albion. I have sat among the students of Germany «,nd wandered among the sweet-scented pines round mountain feet, but I have had no holiday such as that. A di'eamy time, when one was still weak enough to allow the sentiment of the situation io dwell in the mind, with a clinging for the last time to the robe of Celia, while all sorts of sweet phrases and cadences gathered themselves together and took shape in my heart, to be expressed in music when I might find time to set them do^Mi, with a new interest in listening to the talk, so truthful and so old-fashioned, of the lady whom chance had joined to our paiiy, who ought to have been set in a bower full of flowers and fi'uit, -uith pictures about her of angels — not Churchy angels — ladies could be pious twenty years ago without ecclesiastical rubbish — and faces of holy women full of trustful thought. With this, the old admii'a- tion for Leonard, the strong, the brave, the handsome Leonard. One evening, after sunset, we were in a boat on Derwentwater, Leonard, Cis, and I. Leonard was rowing us gently, letting the oars dip slowly in the smooth water, and then resting, while the boat made slow way among the wooded islets. Cis and I sat side by side in the stern, she was steering. The dark foliage was black now, and the lighter leaves were changed into a dark gi'een. The lake was still and quiet, now and then a fish came to the sui'face with an impatient splash as if it really was getting too dull dowu below ; or a wild-fowl flew over our heads with a whirr ; or a noise of voices, mellowed by distance, came across the water fi'om the hotel, and far ofl" somewhere a man was blo'ft'ing a horn, and the echoes flew from hill to hill. " 'Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flpng,'" Celia quoted softly. And then we were all silent again. It was Leonard who spoke next. Deeper darkness had fallei* npon us now, clouds were coming up in the west, and the breeze began to rise. The boat was quite motionless, on either hand ao " LEONARD AND CIS.** 364 islut, before us in tlie distance the lights of the hotel reflected m the water. And again the sweet rolling echoes of the horn. Said Leonard, speaking softly : *' There is a thing I should like to tell you, Cis, if Laddy "\il} let me. It is a thing which he told me in his delirium, a thmg I ought to have suspected before, but did not, so dull and selfish as I was. Can you guess what it is ? " I could guess very well. There was nothing else that I could iiave told unkno-^Ti to Cis already. " I thought I was the only one who knew," Leonard continued. " But I was not ; the Captain knows." " He knew before," I murmui-ed. ** Tell Cis, if you please, Leonard, if you think well. But remember, it is all a thing of *he past — forgotten — torn up by the roots." ** When I went away, Cis, dear," Leonard began, '* I left you in the charge of Ladislas. You were, I told him, in my conceited way, to be his peculiar trust, he was to look after you, to watch you, and to anticipate ever}-thing that you could want." *' And so he has done," said Cis. " Haven't you, Laddy ? " *' The reason I gave him was that I loved you, my Queen, and that if things went well — all looks easy to a boy — I proposed coming back, and telling you myself — in five years' time. Ob- «eiTe, please, the extraordinaiy selfishners of a boy of eighteen. At that age one cannot possibly think of anything but oneself. Well — I went away — I came back. Fortune had been kinder to me — far kinder than I ever deserved. I am loaded ^ith the gifts of Heaven. Don't think me ungrateful, because I talk little about these things. I can only talk of them to you two. But that is nothing. While I was away, Cis, you grew fi"om a child into a woman." *' Yes, Leonard." ** ^Vhat I did not think of was that Laddy was growing too from a boy to a man — what I forgot was that there would be one girl and two men — that both men might love the same girl." •' Laddy ! " Cis cried with surjDrise and pain. *' Forgive me, Cis," I said, " Leonard has told you the truth. For a time — it was early this year, I think — what he hintei at was the case. I fought with it, and I beat it down, because it was hopeless, and because of the promise I gave to Leonard. But it is tme that there was a time when I gave way, and — ventured to love you, otherwise than a brother may. Why did you tell her, Leonard ? " ** Because I want her and myself to feel more what we owe t^ 3fla BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. you, Laddy, to your unselfish labour, your watclifuliiess, and ths sacrifice of your own interests. He loved you, and he gave you up, Cis. I wonder if any words of mine could make you under- stand what that meant to him." " It could never have been, Leonard," I said. *' How cculd it ? Celia was my sister, always." She laid her hand in mine and one arm upon my shoulder. *' Always your sister, Laddy dear. And henceforth more and more. There is now nothing that we have not told each other." Henceforth, more and more. Yes, as the time has goue by, nothing has dimmed the steady trust and afiection which Celia has showered upon me. I can see now, too, how different her life would have been, how wanting in fulness, had things been different, and had she married me. Some women are happiest with a man of action ; how could the life of a dreamer like me satisfy the aspirations of a girl who worthily fills the place of Leonard's wife, and has stepped gracefully into the rank to which his success has raised her ? About that one thing we never spoke any more. Leonard rowed us quietly back to the hotel, the lawn of which ran down to the water's edge. The garden was full of the visitors, for the evening was wann. They looked at us as we passed them, Ceha with her hand on my shoulder in the old familiar fashion^ staring with that half-impudent, fartive way in which Enghsh people at hotels look at each other and at strangers. In the salon was nobody but Miss Rutherford, quietly waiting our retm-n. She asked Leonard to take her into the garden for a walk, and ieffc Celia and me alone. Then I sat do^^•n to the piano, and collected my thoughts — all those musical thoughts of which I have spoken, — and began to |>lay them. It was no improvisation, because the ideas had been long in my head, and many of them had been already noted doT\Ti and tried over, but it was the first time I played the piece as a whole. " What is it, Laddy ? " Celia asked, as she saw me striving to talk to her in the old fashion with my fingers on the keys, a language unknown to the outer world. " What is it ? I cannot understand it yet." " Listen, Cis. It is a love poem of two young people — we will call them ' Leonard and Cis.' It tells how one went away, and how after five years he came back again, not a prodigal son, but covered with honour ; how they fell in love at once, and how after many difficultifs, which were got over in a most surprising aiid ''LEONARD AND C/S." 363 eitraordinary manner, quite as if these two lovers belonge(1 to a novel, which, of course, they did not, they were finally married, and lived happily for ever and ever. Now listen." The symphony came forth from my brain clear and distinct, and, after a few bars of prelude, flowed straight on to the end, I have written plenty of music since, though I am not, as Celia affects to think me, a great composer, but I have \\Titten none that has pleased me so much, that dwells so constantly in my mind, and where I have found such fulness of expression. It is, I am sure, by some such masterful wave of passion that the highest expression and the noblest conceptions are brought together in the brain, and great works are produced. I could see in my ovm music — and Celia could see it as well — first a rippling movement shoeing the peace and sunshine of early maidenhood ; then the yearnings and unconscious reaching out of liands in thought for a fuller and richer life ; then the awakening of Love the glorious, like the awakening of Adam in the garden, to look about with wonder, to walk with uncertainty, to feel his way in broad daylight, to fear lest it should be a dream, and that the vision should pass away, and all be nothingness again. Pre- sently followed the growth of passion till it became a great river for strength. And lastly, the Wedding Hymn of triumph. "Do you understand it, Cis ? " I asked. "It is meant for you, and written for you. I shall copy it all out, and give you a copy, as my wedding present." " I think I understand — some of it," she replied. " How can your pupil understand it all at first ? Oh ! Laddy, you have made me veiy humble to-night. How can men love women as they do ? What are we, and what can we do, compared with them, that they should lavish such affection upon us ? " " Ask Leonard," I replied, laughing. And outside the people were all listening in the garden. "When I finished there was a general applause, as if I had been playing for them. That night, an hour later, I heard below in the garden th-a voices of those who sat up still. " \Vho was it plajdng ? " asked a girl's voice. " Ha has a eweet face ; it is a pity he is deformed." "It is a certain Pulaski — Pole, I suppose. Patiiot most likely. Count, of course, or Baron, or Duke " — this agreeable person was a man, perhaps the young lady's husband — " some fviventiirer, most likely, who goes about trying to pick up a rkh English wife by his tale of misfortunes and his pianoforte-playiL.^. 364 BY CELT A 'S ARBOUR. To-night's performance was an exhibition. No doubt he wants to fascinate that extremely pretty girl, almost as pretty a? '.y)me one else I could name." " Nonsense, sir, a great deal prettier ; and, besides, she's engaged to the tall young man, who is a Captain Copiest/An and a Crimean officer. The old lady with them is a Miss Rutherford. She is his aunt, and plays propriety. I do not know anything about the pianoforte-player." " Well, I'm glad she is not going to marry a hunchback pianoforte-playing Pole." Listeners, as has been frequently observed, n^ver hear anj good of themselves. But I played no more at the Derwentwater hotel, because next day we returned southwards, and began all ol U3 to prepare diligently for Celia's weddinej. CHAPTER LI. ** EING, WEDDING BELLS ! " I HAVE come to the end of my story, the only story I ha\ t to tell from my own experience. How should it end but with a wedding ? There is no romance where there is no love ; there is no pleasure in the contemplation of love unless it ends ha^Dpily, and is crowned with orange blossoms ; love is the chief happiness of life, as eveiy- body knows — except, perhaps, John Pontifex — and has ever been completed by the wedding-bells. Ring, wedding bells, then ; shake out the clashing music of y«ur joy over all the fields, staiile the farmer at his work, rouse the student at his desk, strike on the ear of the sailor out at sea, echo along the shore, mingle with the roar of the saluting guns to greet the ship's crew when they come home, so that they may know that dm'ing their thi'ee years' cruise the world's happiness has not altogether died away. Bring back to the old a memory of a day long gone by. Lift up the heart of the youi;g with hope. Put ambitious thoughts of such a day of victory into the mind of the maidens who would like not-hing better than to hear the bells ring for themselves on such a wedding morning, and walk in such a procession, decked with such white robes and such orange wreaths. May they ring for every one of our girls, so that not one shall miss the love of a man but those who are unworthy. They were married in the old church, the parish church, a milo from the town. It is a day at the end of October, a breezy day of autumn ; the '* RING, WEDDING BELLS f' 365 filonds arc drinng across the sky, light clouds which leave plenty of clear blue sky and sunshine ; the leaves are Ipng all about the old churchyard, drifting in heajDS against the headstones and whirling round and round like unquiet spirits within the Iron railings of the vaults ; at the edge of the pauper's corner is a small new cross, quite simple, which I have not seen before. It is "In memory of Lucy, wife of Captain Kichard Copleston, late of Her Majesty's Tenth Regiment of Dragoons, who died in this to^Mi in childbirth, in her twenty-first year." Poor Lucy ! Poor hapless victim of a selfish and cold-hearted villain ! I knew that Ijeonard would put up some monument to his mother's memory, but he had not told me that it was done already. Doubt- less he wished it to be there before his marriage. The churchj'ard is full of people waiting to see the wedding ; the honest folk from Victory Ptow are there. I shake hands with Jem Hex and his wife and half a dozen more, who knew me in the old days of Mrs. Jeram's guardianship. They care less for the bride than for the bridegi'oom, these denizens of Victory Piow. That a boy, so to speak, who used to run ragged about the logs on the Hard, who played on their o"^!! doorsteps, who was accus- tomed to fight Moses daily, and on small provocation, before the sight of all ; who actually, only the other day, did not disdain to remember the old time, and cowhided Moses again at the Blue Anchor ; that such a boy should have become such a man was not, of course, unexpected, because out of Victory Piow have come plenty of distinguished men — though not do\\Ti in books — Nelson's bulldogs, mind you, and a few of Wellington's veterans. But that he should have developed to that height of greatness as to be a real Captain in the army, and come home to many nothing short of the daughter of the Mayor, and her a lady as beautiful as the day — that was, if you please, something quite out of the common. Here is the Captain, marching up the walk in uniform and epaulettes, as becomes a great occasion. Fall back, good people, don't crowd the Captain. God bless the Captain! Is the Captain looking well to-day ? And a happy day for him, tooj, if all's tine that's said. Which if any credit is due to anybody for that boy turning out so well, it's due to the Captpjn. There was only one Captain for these people. Other persons held equal rank in the Navy, it is true ; there were, for instance, Captain Luff, Captain Hardaport, Captain Bobstay — who was only a retired master with Captain's title — all living not far from Vic- tory Row ; but they had their names assigned to them as well M their titles — ours had not. The old ipia, pleased to eee so 366 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. many people gathered together to do honour to him and bis, >-:tops and has a word to say to everv-one, and then goes oa to the church, where he stands by the altar, and waits. The Rev. John Pontifex and Mrs. Pontifex his wife. The sailor-folk know nothing of them except as residents. So they pass in the silence of respect, John Pontifex with his long- tail •joat on, and a veiT voluminous white muffler round his neck. The Piev. Yemey Broughton. He it is who is going to m&ri^ them. Ah ! quoth John Hex, and a right sort, too, as he }ta» heard, either for a glass of wine, or for a marriage, or for a sermon. From Oxford College, he is, and once taught Master Leonard a moii o' learning, which, no doubt, helped him agin them Rooshans. Among the people, bustling here and there with importance, is the historiographer, Ferdinand Brambler, note-book in hand. He goes into the church ; comes out and dashes down obser^^ations Id his note-book on a tombstone ; listens to the people and jots do\^-n more obser^-ations, and then, absorbed in meditations, is seen stand- ing motionless, as if gi'appling for the mastery of language. This is a great day for Ferdinand. Round the church door are all the younger members of the Brambler family, told off to strew flowers at the feet of the bride. Augustus is with them, bearing in his hands a pair of new white cotton gloves, and an air of immense dignity. These crowds, this ringing of bells, stre^nng of flowers, and general excitement, all attest in his eyes to the greatness and gloiy of the Legal. Nothing in the Scholastic, not even a prize-giving, ever came near it. All the children are dressed in new clothes, presented by the Captain, so that they may do fitting honour to the occasion. Leonard had pressed me to be his best man, which, indeed, was my proper place. But I wanted to play the organ for Ceha's mamage, and I had promised myself to play my o^mi Love Sym- phony, which she alone knew. It was a fancy of mine. Forty- four, my faithful little ally and friend, begged to come with me to the organ loft. It is after eleven, and time to go up the stairs. TMiatare those heavy heels tramping in the aisle ? They are Leonard's company, with, I believe, half the regiment, come to see Gentleman Jack manicd. I remembered the faces of the rogues ; they were at the " Blue Anchor " that night when he thrashed Moses, and made him gi^e up the papers. Jem the organ-blower is in his place ; Forty-four is by me to turn over the leaves. Stay one moment, Foiijr-four, let us look through the curtains ac'ain. There is •* RING, W£ DD.'NG BE1.LS / " 36 j Leonard going up the aisle. He is in uniform, as are his l/est men as officers of the Garrison — the young naval officer whom they call Grif, and a man of his ovm. regiment. A In-ave show of scarlet and gold. His brother officers are mostly in the church, End the Colonel among them. ** There comes Uncle Ferdinand," says Forty- four. '* Oh ! how beautifully he will describe it ! " All are there but the bride. She is coming. Now, Forty- fouij for Celia's Symphony. The music rolls and echoes among the rafters in the roof. As I play I am a prophet, and see before me the happy years urifold their golden wings. All is as it ought to be ; let those who have to sit during their lives outside the halls of hum sin joy take plea- sure in the prospect of others' happiness, and be thankful that they can at least look on. " There is the bride," whispered Forty-four. " Oh ! how lovely — oh ! how sweet she looks ! " My Wedding Hjmn of Prayer and Praise — listen to it, Celia — 1 know that you are listening — as you stand for a moment before the altar beside your lover waiting for the words to be spoken. Listen ! There is no joy, says the music, given to men and women like the holy joy of love ; there can be no praise too full and deep for the gift of love ; there can be no prayer too eloquent for the continuance of love. Listen ! it is the voice of your heart speaking in the music which rings and rolls about the pillars of the old church — I learned it reading in your heari itself — it i:< singing aloud to God in gratitude and praise, singing in the music where I have enshrined it and preserved it for you. I finish my sjinphony, and the sendee begins. The words are faint and low as they mount to the organ-loft. I have pulled the cui-tains aside, and we watch, we three, Forty-four, Jem the organ-blower, and I, from our gallery, while Leonard holds Celia's hand in his, and they take the vow which binds them for ever to each other. You are crjdng, Forty-four ? Foolisli child. All is over, and they have gone into the vestry. Come, we have played Celia's S}Tnphony before the wedding, wdth her Hjinn, Now for the March. Mendelssohn alone has reached the true triumphal rapture. His music is the exultation of the bridegroom ; it is a man's song ; the song of a man who bears his bride away ; the song of the young men who clap their hands ; the jubilant blare of cannons and trumpets which throw their music abroad to the winds that envious men may hear ; and though the women cry, liki 368 B V CELIA 'S ARBOUR. foolish little Forty-four, we dro^vn their tears with song and shcmt^ A bridegroom's song of triumjDh this. But the bride is gone, and the bridal company with her ; the children have strewn their flowers upon the gi'ound ; the carriages have driven off; only the people are left; they, too, ai * leanog the church ; in a few moments we shall Ije alone in the loft. Gov.summatum est. Leonard has come home ; Leonard hag won his bride : Celia has gone fi'om us. Shut up the organ, Forty-four ; let us go do\Mi and join the wedding guests. Some* how I do not feel much like feasting. Mr. Tprell was by no means the kind of man to make a mean show on this auspicious occasion. He had a marquee erected in his garden, where two tables were laid ; he invited to the breakfast his whole staff of clerks "uith their families, including all who bore the name of Brambler — they had the second table • he would have invited all the regiment if Leonard had allowed him. As it was, there appeared a great gathering of his brother officers. No nobler wedding breakfast, Ferdinand Brambler repoi-ted, had ever before been witnessed in the to^-n, and it reflected, he said, the greatest credit on Mr. Honeybun, the eminent local confectioner and pastiwcook, who evinced on this occasion talents of an order inferior to none, not even Fortnum and Mason, the purveyors to princes. It may be mentioned that the occasion was one of which Ferdinand made four columns and a half. The wedding report ran to the butcher's bill for three whole weeks, and included a small outstanding account with the greengi'ocer, as Augustus him- self told me. It was headed, "Wedding of the Mayor's only Daughter," in large t^-pe, and was divided into headed sections. Thus : " The Churchyard," " Decorations of the Church," ♦' The Organist," of whom he spoke with some reticence, for Ferdinand had feeling for my long friendship with bride and bridegroom ; '* The Bridegroom and his Gallant Supporters," the " Arrival of the Brido," " The Wedding," in which he gave the rein to religious feelings, and spoke of the impressive reading of Mr. Broughton, the reverent attention of those war-stained heroes, the officers of the regiment, and the tears of the bridesmaids ; " The Departure," in which my own rendering of the ** Wedding Mirch " was gracefully alluded to ; and, finally, the '* Wedding Break- fast," in the description of which he sui^iassed himself, so that those who read of that magnificent feed felt hungry immediately. I do not know what reward he received of Mr. Honeybun, the Confectioner, but he ought to have had free run among tha taki# *'RING, WEDDING BELLS r' 369 for life. It was not at all a solemn or a tearful meal. Mr. John Pontifex, seated well out of his wife's sight, was between iwo young officers, to whom he communicated recollections of his early life at Oxford, and the reckless profligacy which he had witnessed, and even — "Oh!" I heard him say, "it is a most awful event to look hack upon " — participated in and encouraged. He told them the Goose story, he told how he had once fallen in love with a young person — in fact, of the opposite sex — in Oxfoid, and how, excepting that single experience, "Love," as he said, " has never yet, I regret to say, reached this poor — cold— heart of mine." All this was very delightful to his two hearers, and I observed the rapture with which they plied him with champagne, of which he drank immense quantities, becoming frightfully pale, and Hstened to his reminiscences. No doubt Mrs. Pontifex would have been greatly pleased had she been present that evening in the mess-room, and heard the reproduction of these anecdotes. It was in the ponderous manner peculiar to clergjTuen of his standing and scholarship, that Mr. Broughton proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom. He had known them both, he said, from infancy. There were no words at his command strong enough to express his affection for the bride, or, if he might say so as a Christian man, his envy of the bridegi'oom. On the other hand, for such a bride, there was none fitter than such a bride- groom. This young Achilles, having obtained fi'om the gods a better fate than the hero to whom he likened him, had returned victorious from the wars, and won the fairest prize. They all knew Leonard Copleston's history, how the young gentleman, the son of a long line of gallant gentlemen, met adverse fortune with a resolute front, and conquered her, not with a sword, but with a bayonet ; what they did not know, perhaps, was what he could tell them, as Leonard's tutor, that he had always as a boy looked on the gallant soldier as the noblest type of manhood. " We all," said Mr. Broughton, " envy the man who fights ; even the most popular priest is the priest militant : the glory of a poet or a painter is pale compared with the glory of a general ; let us wish for Leonard Copleston a long career of honour and distinction, and for them both, my friends, for Leonard and Celia Copleston, let us wish that their love may endure beyond the brief moon of passion, and grow in depth as the years run on ; that in fact, like the finest port, age may only develop its colour, bring out its bouquet, and mature its character." The old Captain would not speak, though they drank his health. He had been Bitting opp^^^it^ to Ceb'ft, ^^^^ ^Vpn 'hey said kind 370 BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. things about him— it was Leonard's Colonel who said them — li# only got up, and with a breaking voice said that he thanked God for the happiest day in all his life. CHAPTER LII. CONCLUSION. " Draw the curtains, Mrs. Jeram ; we will shut out the hight I will lighl the candles." It is nearly twenty years later than Celia's wedding. Mrs. Jeram is an old woman now, and blind, but it pleases her to do little things, and to fancy that she is still housekeeper. Everything is changed in the to\\Ti. They have pulled down the old walls and levelled the moats ; the Dockyard has spread itself over the place where from Celia's Arbour we looked across the harbour. All the romance went out of the place when they swept away the walls and filled up the moats ; it was a cruel thing to do, but no one seemed to remonstrate, and it is done now. The Government wanted the ground, they said. There was plenty of other ground lying about, which they might have had. The Milldam is filled up, and a soldier's hospital has been built upon it ; of course, the King's Mill has gone too. All the old guard- houses have been taken down ; the gates are no longer shut at night ; in fact, there are no more gates to shut. The harbour, too, is not what it was ; they have wantonly broken up and destroyed nearly ^^11 the old historic ships, save the one where Nelson died, and she is as naked and as empty as when she first came out of dock ; only a few of the venerable hulks remain, and I dare- say, while I am writing these very lines, some economic Lord of the Admiralty is issuing orders for the destruction of the rest. The veterans with their wooden legs have all left the bench upon the Hard, and gone to the churchyard. The very bench is gone ; steam launches run about the harbour to the detriment and loss of the boatmen ; and a railway runs down to the edge of the water. No doubt the improvements were wanted, but still one regrets the past. Of course, the sailor of the present is not like the sailor of +he past ; that we all know, and there is little room for sorrow on that score. A new subiirb has grown up behind our old wild and desolate sea-shore ; it is a fine place, and we are proud of it. We are all changed together with our surroundings^ and the vie de province is no longer what it was in the days of Mr. Broughton and the Captain. As for me, I have not changed. I am still a music-master. As I said at the beginning, you maj CONCLUSION. 371 read on my brass plate the name of " L. Pulaski, Teacher of Music and Singing." And people have quite left off the little tonfidential whisper, " a Pole of illustrious family — mic^ht enjoy a title if he wished." I have made a little name, not mach, by certain things I have written, especially the Symphony I TVTote for Celia — the best piece I have ever done. Mrs. Jeram, as I havo said, lives \\ith me still, and talks about the old, old days. Sho is sitting before me now as I write. See — I leave the tabic, and open the piano. The tears come into her darkened eyes. " li is the tune the Captain liked," she says. *' To be sure it is. •' * The wind that blows, and the ship that goes, And the lass that loves a sailor.' Almost needless to say that the old actors in the drama of my life are all dead. The first to go was Mrs. Pontifex. She was, in her way, fond of me, and I should have been guilty of ingratitude if, in return, I had not conceived a respect for her. As I think of her, so gaunt, so unbending in principles and shoulders, so upright in morals and in backbone, so unyielding in doctrine and in mufl&ns, I won der if I am already only forty, since she has left no one like her, and her race is extinct. She died of a cold ca tight through her adherence to one of her Christian privileges— never to light a fire in her sitting-rooms till November. It was in 1860, a year about which I remember nothing except that it rained from June to October without stopping, and a wag announced in Fundi that there would be no summer that year because the Zodiac was taken up for repairs. We all laughed at that, and then some of us began to reflect -nith shame, and especi- ally those who had been educated by the Rev. Vemey Broughton, that very likely it was true, and that certainly we had no sort of idea what the Zodiac was. At the end of that continuous rain, then, IMrs. Pontifex died, and was gathered to her forefathers. A foi-tnight after I called on her husband. He was gardening, looking, as he stooped with his kng thja figure over the plants, very much like a letter of the Hebre.v alphabet. He was weeding the strawbeny bed — the strawberries that year, by reason of the long rains, had been like turnips for size and taste. He rose when he heard my footsteps, and shook his head solemnly. In either hand he held an apple. It struck me that this was the first proof of recovered liberty, as in his wife's tim* 373 BV CELIA 'S ARBOUR. ho had never been allowed to eat any fruit at all. The prohibition, based on hj-gienic reasons, always appeared to me to have been issued because John Pontifex was particularly fond of fruit. " I mouni not, Johnnie," he said, taking a bite out of the right- hand apple; "I mourn not for her who is departed. Rather," he added, with emphasis, biting into the left-hand apple, "I rejoice — ahem — with exceeding great joy." Whether he rejoiced because she was gone, or because of an assurance of her future, did not appear on the face of his statement. What he added was more obscure still. **Next year," he said, with a noise which might have been a sob and might iiave been a chuckle,. " next year I shall have all those — ahem — those apples and strawberries to myself, Johnnie." Shortly after this conversation he entertained at dinner the Rev. Mr. Broughton, the Captain, and myself. It is noteworthy that the "beverage" of which his wife would never allow him to partake was on this occasion, and many subsequent occasions, freely pro- duced. In fact, I should say, from recollection only, that he and his brother clergjTiian despatched a bottle and a half each. It was orthodox Port, but indubitably inferior to that possessed by the Per]3etual Curate of St. Faith's. One thing pleased Mr. Pontifex mightily to relate at that dinner. An unfortunate curate, enthusiastic, but young, had the Sunday before preached a discourse in which his rev. senior fancied he saw glimpses of Tractarianism. So he w^aited till the misguided youth came out of the vestiy, and then said to him, before the church- wardens and a small gathering of friends • ** Well, that was — ahem — a most infamous seiTnon of yours." And then he walked away, leaving the poor young man to seek such explanations and apologies as he pleased. " The Tractaiians," he said to-night, after the first bottle had brought up the natural pallor of his cheek to a ghastly whiteness, " the Tractarians may use their arguments as they please, but to me they fall off as water from the back of the — ahem — the pro- verbial duck, though I have never yet, I confess, poured anything but gravy upon the back of that — ahem — toothsome delicacy, and therefore am not in a position to asseit that water actually does run off their backs." ** The Tractarians," said the Perpetual Curate, whose face was quite puriDle, ** are the Actarians. They are up and doing. They will make a clear sweep of pastors like me and idle shepherds hke you. Brother Pontifex." And now they are both gone, and the Perpetual Curate's pro- CONCLUSION, 373 phecy has come true, and the Church has been reformed, with, of course, a small gathering of the foolish who want to go on beyond the bounds of reason. Such a semce as I knew at St. Faith's would be impossible now even in the sleepiest City church. The duet between the Parson and the Clerk has ceased, the choir is trained, the h}Tiins are improved, and the people are attentive. SpeaKing as a musician, I do not find the change altogether for tlie best. I miss the old melancholy hjinns of Wesleyan origin which we used to sing. It seems to me that hfe is sad ; the note of rapture at which we strike so many of the new h}Tiins is strain^jd and unreal. We are still too much like the poor little charity children of my youth, when, after the thi-ee long services of the day, through which they had been cuffed and caned into attention, they had to sing as a concluding or parting hjinn — ** Oh ! may our earthly Sabbaths prove A foretaste of our joys above." I find, but then I am only a humble organist in a country town, and never go about in the world, but for myself I find too much elation, too much joy, to suit the grey tints and sombre colours of the working and sorrowing world. Mr. Pontifex, the type of the old high-and-diy Cahinist, whoso life was as strait-laced as his doctrine, with whom laughter was a sin, and every innocent recreation an occasion for repentance, is gone, and his place knows him no more. Mr. Broughton, the jolly old parson of the high-and-diy Church type, who enjoyed all that can be enjoyed by a scholar and a Christian in the world, strong in his firm and undoubting belief that the doctrines of the Church, faithfully held, avail unto justi- fication, has gone too. We have none like him now. I am not a theologian, and, in Church matters, doubtless a fool. Never- theless, I venture to say that I regret and mourn his loss. He was no* only a gentleman — there are plenty of gentlemen still in the Church — he was not only a man of pm-e life and benevolent conduct, but he was a scholar. And I look in vain for scholars — rari nantes in gurgite vasto — in these later days. Here one, there one ; but, ah ! the old Greek scholar, massive and critical, is no longer to be found even among the sleeves of la\Mi ; suck scholars as we have mostly run to history — a study which Mr. Broughton held to be vain and illusory, except when it was the History of the Chosen People — and as regards all but mcdera history, fruitless, because histoiy, he thought, repeats itself^ aud eyerything new has all been done befor« 374 ^ y CELIA 'S ARBOUR. ** We have Hume," lie used to say ; " we have Gihbon ; we have Eobertson ; and we have the grand histories in Greek and Xatin of the days when men were great. What more can one want ? Let us sit down and read them ; let us teach the boys to read them ; and let us leave to restless witlings the task of labouring in a worn-out field." Restless witlings ! Dear me I Suppose IMr, Broughton had lived to the present day ! Others have passed away who twenty years ago took part in the drama that I have tried, with pen unpractised, to relate. The two brothers Brambler sleep side by side in the new cemetery, cut off in their vigour, Ferdinand from a cold caught while in the excess of his zeal noting the incidents of a review during a hail- storm ; Augustus from a soi-t of giief consumption which seized him at the death of his brother. He " never joyed after ; " and though on Sunday afternoons he still maintained the imaginary state and splendour of a " gentleman sitting over his wine " at the front window, it was a perfonnance which brought him no pleasure but that of mournful reminiscence. And so he drooped and died, trusting that he would be remembered by posterity for his services in the Legal. Friends there were who took charge of the little ones, fi'om Forty- four to Fifty-three. And they all did well. My especial fi'iend. Forty-four, is married, and has a row of children like herself, as apple-faced, as cheery, and as sanguine. I hope they will do better than their grandfather. She is good enough to maintain her old friendship towards myself, undiminished by the love she bears her husband and her offspring, and confides to me all her joys and sorrows. Let me pass to the last scene of my story. After Celia married, and the regiment went away, the good old Captain began to droop. He was nearly seventy years of age, it is true, but I thought he was hale and hearty — good for ten years more. That was not so. Age crept upon him with stealth, but with swiftness . He still went out eveiy morning, but his afternoon walks were gradually shortened, and finally had to be dropped altogether. Then his friends began to call in the evening to talk to, and cheer up, the old man. Mr. Broughton would come with a story and anecdote of bygone days ; one or two old naval men, chnma CONCLUSION, 375 of his youth, would drop in for a glass of grog and a yam ; we became hospitable, and kept open house. And all went well, Id spite of increasing weakness, until one day it became appa-'ent that the old man could not go out to make his morning round. Then, for the first time, I learned fi'om him, though I had long known it, what the morning round had been, for more than twenty years. He sat feebly in his ai*m-chair, patient under the mevitable. Nothing was -WTong with him, but the weakness of extreme old age. His mind was bright and clear, as the last runnings of a cask of some noble vintage ; but on this morning he realized that he must not think of going out any more, as he had been wont, in fair weather and foul. A cold east wind blew down the street, and a bright sun shone without warmth from a steel-blue sky. " The end is growing near, Laddy," he said. ** They will miss me when I am gone." "Who, sir?" I asked. He was silent for a space, thinking. " To all of us," he said, " the Lord giveth His gifts in trust. To me He gave, besides Her Majesty's pension of two hundi'ed pounds a-year, a private fortune. No need to talk about it to you, Laddy, or to Leonard. It was not a great fortune, only this house and a hundred pounds a-year, which my father saved up out of his pay. It was in the old prize days." I began to understand. ** So long as you and Leonard were boys," the Captain went on, " we had the pension to live upon. Plenty for us all. And there was the hundred a-year for which I was a trustee, you know. When you began to make an income the pension became part of the trust " " Of course, sir, I quite see that." " That made three hundred a-year. A good deal ought to be done with such a sum. I doubt whether I have done the best — but I have tried — I have tried. If a man tries to do his duty — he may be stupid — but if he tries, the Chief knows. You wil] find out, when I am gone, how far I have done the best, Laddy. it will be yours, the hundred a-year and the house ; you will use it, my boy, as you think best — not to follow up my lines, unless you think that the best way, but as a trust from the Lord, unless your income fails, when it will keep you from want. No, Laddy, no need to promise. Wo have not lived together for five- and. Iwenty years for me to begin distrusting. But, if yoa can, loo^ 376 Z?K CELIA 'S ARBOVR. after them my boy. They are ignorant ; they have no friends ; they are degi^aded ; you will meet at first with all soiis of insult and disappointment : but go on, never leave them ; and yoti ^ii' end, as I have done, by winning their confidence." I did not ask him who " they " were, partly because I gnessed. The old seapoi-t town had dens of wickedness in it of which I have said nothing. Indeed, as children, though we went daily through the streets which reeked with every abominable thing, wo saw and knew nothing — how should we ? It is the blessed prerogative of innocence that it plays unhui-t in the den of wild beasts, rides upon the lion, and walks scatheless among the rabble rout of Comus. All that morning the Captain sat in disquiet. The current of his daily thoughts was interrupted. After our mid-day dinner, he refused his pipe of tobacco and sat in the window, gazing silently upon the Milldam pool, crisped by the cold east -^ind. BQs work wa:3 over ; nothing more for him to do but to sit in the chair and wait for the end. That must be a solemn moment in a man's life, when he realizes that even-thing is finished. The record complete, the book of work shut up, and after all attempted and achieved, the inevitable feeling of unprofitable ser^dce. Two days passed ; the east wind continued, and grew colder ; there was no hint at any possibility of going out ; and on the third day there came, creeping stealthily, a deputation consisting of two women, to ask after the Captain. They stood shame-faced at the door, and when I asked them to enter and see him, they hesitated and looked at each other. Then they came in, looking strange and abashed. I took them to the Captain, where he sat in his arm-chair, and left them with him. Presently, sitting in the other room, I heard sobs and cries. Afterwards others came, not always outcasts : old greybeards who had been sailors, some of the wooden-legged veterans whom I remembered as a boy, aged women, their T\ives and widows, even YOung fellows, sailors themselves, their sons and grandsons. Among them all, one woman who came oftenest and stayed the longest. I remembered her as the black-haired fuiy who, as Leonard had reminded me, came one evening and made the night air horrible with imprecations. Now she was subdued, now she sat as long as we would let her, silent and gazing vath her black and deep-set eyes in the old man's face. It matters nothing aboii her history, which may be guessed — there is a dreadful similarity about these stories : an emotional, impulsive woman who loved ftnd hated, sinned and repented, with the same ardour and vehem- CONCLUSION, 377 once ; who believed in the Captain, whose patience she had sor«ly tried, as one believes a Gospel. He was her Gospel. The end came more quickly than we expected. One morning J saw a change, and telegraphed for Leonard and Celia to come quickly. The Captain knew, I think, that his last day had dawned, for he asked me when we had dressed him if I would send for " the boy " and Celia. They could not arrive before the afternoon. "We allowed no one to see him except the one who would not be denied, and she sat crouched in a comer of the room, her arms round her knees, looking at the feeble figure in the arm-chair. The Captain spoke little, he suffered no pain, he was perfectly cheerful. "Do you think they will come in time, Laddy?" he asked. '* I should like to see them before I go." Presently he slept, and so passed away the morning uncon- sciously, the black eyes of the woman watching him from the corner. Outside there were gathered knots of twos and threes, the women, the old salts, the outcasts, waiting sadly for news. Leonard and Celia came at last. The old man woke as he heard " the boy's " voice, and eagerly held out his hand. " Don't C17, my pretty. Don't cry, Celia, my dear," he whispered. " To every man his turn, and then we separate for a while — a little while, Celia, and then we shall all be together — you and Leonard and Laddy and I — all together, dear. Never io part again." He was growing weaker every moment. I gave him a littlo wme. As Celia knelt at his feet and laid her head upon his right hand, the other woman, as if jealous, crept stealthily from her comer and seized the left. The Captain looked do-^ii on both, tui'ned from one to the other, and then, disengaging his hands, laid one on either head, as if with a solemn blessing) equal alike for Martha or for Magdalene. " Laddy," he murmured, "put on my uniform, coat, and cap, and give me my sword." It was his fancy that he would die in the uniform of which he was so proud. We dressed him in the coat and epaulettes ; we pinned on his medals, we laid his sword across his knees, and we placed his undi'ess cap upon his head. And then we stood round him 'nil tearful silence. Presently a shiver ran through his limbs. " Leonard" — his voice was very low now — ** take the sworcL It is all I leave yon. God bless you, Leonard— Laddy — Celia — - 378 BY CELIA 'S ARBOUR. and yon " His hand felt out as if for the pooi woman, who threw herself forward with sobs and passionate crying. And then a strange thing happened. His voice, vhich had been sinking to a faint murmur, suddenly grew full aga a and strong. He lifted his figure and sat upright. His eyes flatned with a Budden light as he raised his voice and looked upwards. He lifted his right hand to the peak of his cap — the old familial salute of a sailor — as he reported himself: ** Come aboard, sir ! " Then his hand dropped and his head fell forward. The Cap- tain was dead. # ^ • » » We buried him in the old parish churchyard, a mile from tha toAvn. Leonard's mother lay there, somewhere among the paupers ; VVassielewski slept there in peace, Poland at last forgotten ; Was- sielewski's victim lay there too. The brand-new cemetery, which they opened a year or so later, would have been no fitting place for the remains of one who in death, as well as in life, should be among his fellow men. And in that great heap of bones, coffins- and human dust, piled five feet above the level of the road, we laid the Captain. It was not without a certain fitness that hia grave lay next to the Paupers' Acre. When the great Resur- rection shall take place the Captain shall lift his head with the ignoble and unknoAMi herd for whom he gave his substance, and march along with them to that merciful Judge who knows the secret of every heart. While we were yet half a mile from the church the funeral pro- cession was stopped. There was a crowd of old sailors and people of every degree, but chiefly of the lowest ; some of them stopped the hearse, and others, opening the doors of the carriages, invited the occupants to descend. We complied w^ondering. They quickly formed themselves into procession. First went the old tars, t^vo and two, stumping on wooden legs ; then came a band, then the coffin borne on the shoulders of sailors, sons of those who marched first ; on the pall were the Captain's cocked hat and his sword, and then we, the mourners, fell in. The big drum, mufflod, gives the signal — bourn — bourn ! How many times before had that March from Saul awakened my soul lo the glory and mystciy of death ; the knell of warning, the wail of sorrow, the upward cry of yearning faith — and now I can never bear it without my thoughts flying back to the old man before whose honoured remains a grateful and lamenting folk did thiffl rcYerence. CONCLUSION, 379 Bourn — bourn — bourn ! A man wbo loved his fellow-men is dead. He will bring no more words of counsel, no more exhorta- tions to duty — no more comfort for the afflicted, no mo*e solace for the outcast. Boum — boum — boum ! Wail and weep, clarions, with us whose hearts are sore. Boum — boum — boum ! And yet it is but for a season. Change, oh music inspired of God, the souls of those who mourn till they become the souls of those who trust. We are at the lych-gate. Mr. Broughton — none other — waita to read the sendee. " I am the Resurrection and the Life " From evei-y lane and couii, from every ship in harbour, from every street, the mourners are gathered together : in the presence of Death, in the graveyard, in the hopes of immortality, we are all equal ; all brothers and sisters. The women weep aloud ; there is not one who is unrepentant now ; the tears run down the faces of the grizzled men who are standing by the grave of their brave and single-hearted old officer ; none in all the world to harbour an evil thought, to raise an accusing word, against the man of seventy summers who lies in yon black coffin. Throw flowers upon him ; pile the lid with flowers, with eveiy flower a tear. The flowers ^^ill be crushed and killed by the cold clay, but the memory of the Captain shall be green. And of all the mourners around that grave there were none — there could be none — who mourned the Captain more deeply, who loved him better, who owed him more than the two boys whom he had picked from the veiy gutter, to bring them up in the fear of God and the sense of duty. When Mr. Broughton came to certain words in the service his voice fell, and his speech was choked for a moment. Then he cleaied his throat, and looking round upon the folk, read out in clear and triumphant tones, as if the words should at once bring admonitioD., as well as joy and consolation and hope for us all — • " In sure and certain hope of the liesurrection to Eternal TEE END. OGDEN, SMALE AND CO. LIMITED, PRINTERS. GREAT SAFFRON HILL, E.C J [January, 189a. U itist of Boolts PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & V/INDUS, 214, Piccadilly, London, W. Sold by all Booksellers, or sent post -free for the published price by the Publishers, A BOUT.— THE FELLAH : An Egyptian Novel, By Edmond About. f^ Tr a D slated by Sir Randal Roberts. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2». ADAMS (W. DAVENPORT), WO^KSBY. A DICTIONARY OF THE DRAMA. Being a comprehensive Guide to the Plays, Playwrights, Players, and Playhouses of the United Kingdom and America. Crown 8vo, half-bound, 13s. 6d, \^Preparing, QUIPS AND QUIDDITIES. Selected by W. D. Adams. Post 8vo. doth limp, 2m. ««i. ADAMS (W. H. 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