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K I L M E N Y.
QV NoueL
By WILLIAM BLACK,
AUTHOR OF " '~
'GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY," '-ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON,"
"A PRINCESS OF THULE," "A DAUGHTER OF HETH," &c.
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
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Novels by
WILLIAM BLACK
A Daughter of Heth
A Princess of Thule
Donald Ross
GREE^f Pastures and Piccadilly.
In Far Lochaber.
In Silk Attire.
Judith Shakespeare Illustrated
Kilmeny.
Macleod of Dare Illustrated.
Madcap Violet.
Prince Fortunatus.
Sabina Zembra.
Shandon Bells Illustrated.
Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! Illustrated
Sunrise.
Strange Adventures of a House-boat. Ill'd.
That Beautiful Wretch. Illustrated.
The Magic Ink. Illustrated.
The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton.
Three Feathers.
White Heather.
White Wings. Illustrated.
Yolande Illustrated.
Each, i2mo, $7.25.
Wolfenberg Si. So
The Handso.me Humes 1.50
Briseis Illustrated 1.75
Wild Eelin. Illustrated 1.75
Highland Cousins . , . 1.75
Complete Sets, 28 vols , $33.50
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. N. Y.
3n eincm Zi)cd, bet nrmcii .^-lirtcn,
©rfc^ien mit jebem iunflcn 3a()r,
®cbalb bte erften Serc^en fc^wirrten,
^gt^ 3[Rab^en jc^Bn unb iruubetbat.
CONTENTS.
I. Mt Mastek 9
II. My Home 16
III. My Uncle Job 22
IV. My Friend 32
V. In Regent's- Park 43
VI. The -S^sthetic Grotto 54
VII. Some Old Fkiends 68
VIII. Polly's Mother 77
IX. Lewes Castle 86
X. Polly and He 98
XI. Mr. Alfred Buunh am 104
XII. At Shoeeham 1 10
XIII. BuRNHAM Park 114
XIV. The Ladies' Garden 1 26
XV. The Last of Uncle Job 130
XVI. In London Again 137
XVII. Kilmeny 144
XVIII. The White Doves ... 151
XIX. The Haunted House 165
VIU CONTENTS.
Chapter Fasb
XX. Some Revklations 172
XXI. Qdits 186
XXII. A Wild Guess 191
XXIII. Mv Patuon 205
XXIV. The Royal Academy 214
XXV. Leu'Woul! 21!)
XXV I. The Villa Lokenz 221
XXVII. Da.s Wandekleben 232
XXVIII. Father and Son 210
XXIX. The Song of Woldnduh 250
XXX. News from England 2G2
XXXI. Bonnie Lesley's Metaphor 270
XXXII. Innsbruck 282
XXXIII. IIkathehleigh's Feat 290
XXXIV. At Bdknham Gates 297
XXXV. The Dropi-ed Glove 306
XXXVI. On: Trusty Cousin 316
XXXVII. Is Munich Again 324
XXXVllI. KiLMENY CoME.^ UoME 328
K I L M E N Y.
CHAPTER I.
MY MASTER.
I WAS not born to command men. The keen, audacious spirit
which plans the building of bridges, lays down great lines of rail-
way, and gets up prodigious companies was always a mystery to
me — a mystery as depressing as the things themselves. I used
to be afraid of large mechanical works — used to wonder what
sort of men first undertook to raise immense viaducts, drive tun-
nels through mountains, and plan huge ships. The mere size of
a church made me sad. And when I met men who seemed to
have splendid, matter-of-fact strength in their faces — men who
had hard, clear, literal views of things — who were on equal terms
with the newest enterprises, and were capable of imagining even
newer and bigger things, I almost feared them. A tall man over-
awed me as a big building did. Then the great, rich people, who
had such a royal way with them — the men who could stare a beg-
gar out of countenance, who could quite honestly look at a trades-
man or a waiter as a sort of divinely appointed slave, who could
do cruel things when the law allowed them, and laugh over the
misfortune of their weaker opponent — they, too, were among my
mysteries. The world was too big and strong and rich and
hard-hearted ; and I feared it.
I used to make a world of my own, in wliich there were no gi-
gantic walls, or gaunt buildings, or lonely squares with cold iron
railings and melancholy trees. It was a world which I must, have
borrowed from some theatrical scene ; for it only consisted of an
Irish lake, surrounded by hills, under moonlight. I used to im-
agine myself living always by this lake, and listening to the old
A2
10 KILMENT.
Irish airs, which seemed somehow to hover round about it, and be
its very atmosphere. At night I would he in a boat on the still
surface, with the moonlight on the sedges and trees ; and the mel-
ody that always came then — like the lake itself speaking — was,
"Silent, O Moyle, be the sound of thy waters!" Fancy falling
asleep to that pathetic wail ! Then for the brisk morning breeze
and the sunshine — the joyous " Garryowen " falling into the plain-
tive minor of " Shule Aroon." And somehow that always led on
to " Love's Young Dream " — the old air which no repetition can
rob of its exceeding sadness — sad as love's young dream itself —
which is the saddest thing a man meets with on this side of
death.
I suppose it all arose from my being physically not the equal
of my neighbors. I saw big, strong, handsome men, and they
were to me as demigods. Was it not their right that they should
have plenty of money and beautiful wives, and a fine, domineer-
ing manner, and a splendid carriage to whirl them homeward to
their grand dinners ? Notwithstanding my having been born and
bred in the heart of an English county, I was small and slight ;
I was sallow of face ; I was hungry-looking ; and they used to say
that my eyes stared like those of a young crow. Once Big Dick
— of whom you will hear more by and by — in a kindly mood, be-
gotten of too much beer, said to me —
" Look here, Ted, I'll tell you what you arc like. Did yon
ever snare a rabbit, and take it up before it was dead ? Did you
ever catch it by the back of the neck, and look at its wild, fright-
ened, big eyes, that were full of fear and trouble? You always
look to me like a caught rabbit, half dead with fright, and like to
cry, if you only could. My sister had eyes like you. I wonder
if you would cry, like her, if you heard pretty tunes? Ted, I
think you were meant for a girl."
I did not tell ; but that I used to cry bitterly, in secret, over
certain kinds of music — especially some of these Irish airs I have
named — was too well known to myself. You must not suppose,
however, that this altogether arose from physical weakness. So
far as muscular force went, I was strong. I had a broad chest.
My arms, rather long, were tough and sinewy. When the fit
came across me, I used to torture myself with physical exercise,
to get rid of my plethora of nervous strength. I will say nothing
of my having seen a boy, twice as big as myself, beating a little
MY MASTER. 11
girl one day in High Holborn. I so nearly strangled him that
the sight of his face has never been erased from my memory.
I used to have my dreams, of course. I used to imagine my-
self one of those big, handsome, florid-faced men, with lots of
money, witli beautiful women my friends, with the power of go-
ing whither I pleased, with the delight of having no master. Oh
the luxury of lying in bed as long as you might wish ! Oh the
happiness of walking out in the sunny forenoons — with no fear
of coming work — to saunter idly by the gray Serpentine, and
watch the blowing of the leaves of the trees ! To have no mas-
ter and lots of money ! But it was not for me — I was too small
and insignificant. These things were for the big and proud.
You may ask how such a one should have a story to tell ; and I
reply at once that there is nothing heroic of my doing which I shall
have to record in these pages. But I have a tenacious memory :
life has seemed very various, and, on the whole, very beautiful to
me ; and I venture to set down some sketch of what I have seen
and known, that others may judge whether they see the world
with the same eyes. Hence I must beg the reader to regard the
following narrative as wholly impersonal; the word "I" will oc-
cur frequently, too frequently ; but it will merely represent a lens,
and the reader is asked to look at the picture only. There are
some, curious in such matters, who may be inclined to analyze the
peculiarities of the lens by watching the distortions they will find
in the pictures ; they too, I hope, will not be disappointed, if
frankness will help.
Now if there was anybody likely to cure one of mooning and
day-dreaming, it was my master. His name was Weavle, but we
generally called him Weasel. He was a carver and gilder in High
Holborn ; and he employed three men and myself. He was in a
fair way of business, dealing more with artists than with the gen-
eral public, and hence it was that I came to know so many artists.
His shop adjoined the Royal Oak Yard, and the work-room win-
dows looked into the stone square of the old Royal Oak Inn, into
which, every forenoon, the Buckinghamshire omnibus is still
driven. How I used to look out of the dingy gray panes, and
envy the rosy and happy faces of the people who came in, with
the light of the country in their eyes, and the keen breeze painted
on their cheeks ! How I used to envy the people who got up on
that coach, and were taken away out of the great close town !
But to my master.
12 KILMENV.
Weavle was a short, thin man, round-shouldered, with a pale
face, a bald head, and small reddish-gray eyes. He was queru-
lous and captious as an ill-bred and angry woman ; he had a
shrewish tongue, a diabolical temper, and a nature so indescriba-
bly petty and mean that I despair of conveying any notion of it.
He walked about in thick, soft slippers, for the express purpose
of catching his men in some small delin(iuency ; and then he
would stand and scold with a spite and ingenuity of epithet that
were wonderful. It was, I believe, the thing dearest to his heart,
this angry declamation, in which he exhibited a marvellous power
of saying everything that could wound a man's feelings to the
quick, and humiliate him before his fellows. He laid traps for
the men. He slid about like a sj)ectre, and watched them with
the eyes of a detective. And he never went out of the workshop
without turning sharply round to see if any one were grinning
over his washerwoman speeches.
The very keenest pleasure I have in life is this. Sometimes,
even at this remote period, in this remote and foreign town, 1
dream for a whole night that I am again iindcr Wcavle's domina-
tion. I have to submit to the insult of his stealthy footsteps, to
the virulence and meanness of his scolding ; the old pain and
heart-sickening return, the bitterly cold mornings, the dull days,
the hopeless labor, the weary struggle against })overty. The day-
light breaks, and I fancy that I have to go and submit to that
cruel, mean old man. And then, slowly, as if sunshine were fill-
ing the room, I begin to have the consciousness that there is no
Weavle, that all the bad time is past, that T am my own master,
with my own plenteous time, and my own plenteous money —
that I am free 1 It is almost worth while to have had one's
heart-blood sucked for years by a Weasel to know the intense,
strong joy which accompanies that conviction.
The man was not always mean and offensive; at night he slept.
And if in his dreams lie ever saw a company of angels, I know
that his first instinctive impulse was to watch them, lest they
should be stealing their master's time.
It was this poor little tyrant who first tauglit me to love the
great, generous forces of nature. It was when 1 thought of him,
and of his unutterable pettiness and suspicion, that I grew to
know and love the sea, the long swathes of light across the blue,
the far-off coast- line, and the moving splendors of the clouds.
MY MASTER. 13
Even at tliis moment I cannot bear to look on a river or an estu-
ary. There must be no land on tbe other side, nothing but the
great plain on which the winds came down darkling, or on which
the sunlight sleeps still and warm, blurring the horizon-line with
a mist of heat. Indeed, the whole bent of my life, physical and
mental, has been escape from Weavle. That I am now free I
have already hinted, and I propose to tell the story of my re-
lease.
Perhaps you ask if my companions regarded Weavle as I did.
First let me say a word about them. Big Dick was a man who
stood six feet one in his stocking-soles; he had a massive and
strong frame, a fine chest, tangled black hair, and a handsome
face, flushed by much drinking. Ilis wife was dead. He had a
little boy, whom he had handed over to his sister, thus leaving him
free to follow his own courses. And regularly as Saturday came
round, so regularly did Dick get drunk ; and drunk he continued
until the following Wednesday. Then he would come in to his
work, his big scarred hand, with its protuberant knuckles, swollen
veins, and horny finger-tips, trembling and uncertain, his eyes
bleared and lustreless. He was gruff, and would not speak to us
then. By Thursday the black-sheep feeling wore off, and he set
to wo'-k to make up for lost time. He w^as a splendid workman,
and by the Saturday had always amassed as much wages as he
wanted for his needs. He was remarkably good-natured, and be-
ing " a rare handy man," was in much request among the neigh-
bors. He could glaze and paint, and hang wall-papers, and work
in stucco — in short, he could do everything, and he was always
ready to do it as a neighborly turn, if you allowed him his neces-
sary liquor. Dick good-humoredly said of his master that Weasel
could not hold his tongue if he tried, and that he did not mean
half of what he said. When Dick got into trouble, he bore the
rancorous and scurrilous speechifying with resignation, and only
gave a sigh of relief when Weasel slipped out.
But you should have heard what Joe Risley had to say about
my master. Throughout the trade Joe was known as " The Roy-
al" — because, on Coronation-day, Joe had dressed himself in a
Coronation-coat, and, having got a little tipsy, made a rush foi-
ward to the Queen's carriage, in order to shake Her Majesty by
the hand. Joe very nearly lost his ear by a dragoon's sword, and
was picked up from among the horses' feet with his coat rent in
14 KILMENY.
twain. Perhaps it was this circumstance that had made "The
Royal" a furious, bitter Radical. He was a dark -whiskered ca-
daverous man, with big, lambent black eyes, a weak cliest, and a
shaky frame. He had read extensively — especially in history ;
and when woke up by some argument into fierce fight, the eyes
used to glow, and the frail figure quiver with excitement. But
he rarely spoke of these things except when he was drunk ; and
then he would describe to you the scattering of the Allies at Aus-
terlitz with sweeps of the arm that threatened all the glasses near
bim, or he would pronounce a panegyric on Napoleon which
might have done Hazlitt credit. Napoleon was his great hero.
He forgave the conqueror his despotism in view of the terror he
had struck into the hearts of " the leagued band of kings." It
was as well that Joe seldom became excited about politics in the
shop ; for then he used, in his entliusiasm, to destroy the gold-
leaf,* sending fragments flying into the air as if he were Napoleon
blowing into chaos a whole vvorldful of diplomats. " The Royal"
looked upon Weasel as the personification of the tyranny of mon-
ey, and used to curse him between his teeth as a usurper and an
aristocrat.
" Kent" is hardly worth speaking about. He was a pale, flax-
en-haired young man, who got into a terrible fright when Weasel
caught him doing anything and began to rage. I scarcely think
he had any particular desire or aim in the world. He was con-
tent if he got his work done in good time ; and sometimes, but
rarely, he took a holiday, which he spent in lying upon Hampstead
Heath. He seemed to have no friends ; and never wont down to
Dartford, his native place. His real name was, I think, Taplin or
Toplin.
Such were my companions in Weasel's shop ; but they were
very differently situated from myself. They were men, and in-
dependent of other men. They could spend a half-crown with-
out thinking much of it. Above all, they were free to work when
* I need hardly say that Weavle cheated. He never allowed a leaf of
"deep red" to he used where "Dutch metal" could be used in its place;
and, instead of the ordinary varieties of "lenaon," he had all nrianner of for-
eign abominations, whicii invariably turned green or bhick in course of lime.
Big Dick rebelled against tliis more than against the scolding; for he was
I)roud of his work, and he did not like to let a frame leave his hands which
he knew would change its color after being hung up in some gentleman'*
room, and subjected to London gas for ten or twelve months.
MT MASTER. 15
they pleased, to be idle when they pleased. If the whim came
into their head (that it never did was always a puzzle to me),
they could have snapped their fingers in Weasel's face, and gone
off to spend a whole day on the banks of the Serpentine, assured
that next morning they could get work elsewhere. At least they
could take a holiday ; and my notion of a holiday was always
associated with the Serpentine. I loved that little bit of water as
if it had been the sea. I used to make it a sea by sitting down
on one of the benches and shading my eyes so as to hide the op-
posite bank — so that I could see nothing but the gray rippling
water, hear nothing but the wind in the trees overhead ; and
then I grew almost faint with the dull dumb joy of being alone
by the sea. I forgot the rich people who were riding up and
down the Row behind me ; I saw none of the poor idling loun-
gers who stood at the end of the lake, and threw crumbs or
stones at the ducks. There was nothing before me but the wind-
stirred water, and where I could see no more water, I imagined
water until it touched the sky. Sometimes I fancied I could
hear the sound of waves on the far-oflf coast ; sometimes I fancied
I could see, just on the line of the horizon, a faint white speck of
a ship appear, catching a touch of gold from the sunset. The
Serpentine is small and insignificant, doubtless ; but so is a sea-
shell, and the sea-shell, if you are alone, and if you listen closely,
will tell you stories of the sea.
As I dreamed there, on certain rare occasions, I grew to think
that life, for me, was scarcely worth the having. My existence
was a blunder. I was not fitted to cope with the forces around
me, and wrest from them that alone which would have made life
endurable. I had no clear idea of what that was : I only knew
that it was unattainable. What lay before me ? A life similar to
that pursued by my companions in Weasel's shop woiild have been
sufficiently distasteful, even had I had the fine physique and good-
humor of Big Dick, the keen interest in political affairs of Risley,
or even Kent's imperturbable temperament. What was the use
of me to anybody — to myself even ? The mere object of keeping
one's self alive with nothing to look forward to but the endless
round of work, in which one could take no interest, was disheart-
ening in the extreme. Many and many a time I wished that I
could compress my whole life into a few moments, and make it
useful to some one who would kindly thank me for it. One of
1 6 KILMENY.
those beautiful women, for example, who rode by ! Could I not
throw away my life at her feet, doing her some slight service, and
earn from her the gratitude of a smile ? My life was a weariness
to. myself : could I make it heroic and worthy even for a second,
by yielding it to the service of one of those peerless women,
who were so far away from me — so cold and beautiful and dis-
tant?
As I sit here, under a blue and Southern sky, thinking of that
old, sad, ridiculous time, some one looks over my shoulder, and
reads these words, and laughs.
CHAPTER IL
MY HOME.
It was the month of primroses ; and the wind blew fresh and
mellow with the promise of the summer. Even in the London
streets there was a strange sweetness in the air, and a new, keen
light in the sky. And on that morning, when I was free to go
home for a whole couple of days, the spring seemed to have taken
a clear leap ahead, and got into a fine breezy summer warmth.
As I made my way to the Great Western Railway Station, the gray
dawn broke into a pale saffron, and the light lay aK)ng the tall,
silent houses and their rows of windows. Beautiful houses they
were — up by Park Lane and Coimaught Place and Eastbourne
Terrace — but I was no longer oppressed by them, or by the grand
people who lived in them. I snai)ped my fingers at the closed
white shutters and the lowered green blinds. I laughed aloud in
the empty streets, to the amazement of solitary policemen. I
skipped and hopped, and tried to jump impossible jumps; so
that I reached the station half an hour too soon, and speedily got
sobered down by the melancholy gloom of tli(» place and the of-
ficial gravity of the porters.
But then again, as the train got out and away from liondon —
leaving Holland Park :nid its tall houses pal(> and silvery in the
east — and we were among the warm bright meadows and lidds —
with the sunlight shimmering over tlic young green of the trees —
with the sweet, pure, sj)ring wind rushing through the open win-
MY HOME. 17
dows of the carriage — with the joyous motion of the train, and
the thought of utter, unrestrained freedom and pleasure for two
entire long days — was it possible that I should feel unkindly to
any man or place ? I blessed London — after Notting Hill was
long out of sight. I began to think "Kent" almost an enliven-
ing sort of person, and very nearly forgave Weasel.
There were to be grand doings at Burnham House, and at
Burnham, the little village down in the heart of Bucks, where my
father and mother lived. Miss Hester Burnham, the last of that"
long line which had given several prominent names to English
history — particularly during the great King-and-Parliament strug-
gle — had just come home from France to live in England. My
father was head-keeper at Burnham — a man who ought to have
been born in feudal times; and it was somehow his notion of
what was right and proper that I, though having nothing to do
with Burnham, ought to be there when this important event came
off. Fain would I have gone down on the top of the coach that
daily leaves Holborn for these quiet Buckingliamshire parts, and
done the journey in the old picturesque fashion ; but I should have
reached Burnham too late in the evening ; and so I had to take
rail to Wycombe, and walk across to that little village which has
been for centuries a sort of appanage to Burnham House.
I had very little interest either in Miss Hester Burnham or in
the doings that were to celebrate her return. I remembered her
only as a little girl, with dark hair and staring eyes, who used to
ride about on a white pony, and was greatly petted by the farm-
ers and their wives — indeed, by everybody. Doubtless Miss Hes-
ter was now a fine lady, come home from France to set up her
state in the great old house, where her people had lived for centu-
ries. Indeed, so little did I think of the whole matter that I foi--
got that Miss Hester could scarcely be sixteen years of age.
So it was that, when I reached Wycombe, instead of walking
straight over to Burnham, I set forth on a ramble across the long
chalk hills and through the dense beech-woods which were once
so familiar to me.
How well I knew every house and orchard and field, as the
road gradually rose and brought into view the deep and pleasant
valleys that were now so deep and warm ! Night after night, ip
my poor London lodgings, I had laid with open eyes and dream^
ed of these woods and hills and hollows: and lo ! here they were
— not as I had iniai^'med them — but niuler the bewildering glare
of the spring light.
Yet the day was not one of strong sunshine. There was a thin,
transparent yellow mist, that did not so much obscure the sunlight
as conceal the directness of its rays ; and while you could not turn
to any point of the sky and say the sun was there, you felt that
it was all around you, shining in the intense pellucid green of the
young hawthorn leaves, and causing the breaks in the distant
chalk-hills to gleam like silver. Then all the wonders of the
spring were out — the rich-colored japonica in front of the labor-
ers' cottages, the white masses of petals on the great pear-trees,
the big flowers of the cherries, and the rose-tinted scarcely unfold-
ed apple-blossom, sprinkled here and there with little bunches of
woolly leaves. Here, too, were all the spring flowers about the
hedges and banks ; and the spring freshness and brilliancy upon
the young leaves of the chestnuts and the elms and the ash. The
limes were black yet ; the tall and graceful birch had only a tinge
of green on its drooping branches; and the interminable beech-
woods — the glorv of Buckinghamshire in the time when thoy grow
red and orange and crimson — showed as yet only a dull purple,
caught from the ruddy and twisted buds. And over all these
things brooded the warmth of that pale yellow light — so calm
and still and silent, but for the pearly music of a lark that was lost
in it ; and the woods, also, and the long low valleys, seemed to be
hushed into a drowsy silence, broken now and again by the clear,
strong piping of a thrush in one of the blossom-laden orchards.
It was all so different from London.
Through these beech-woods, strewn with dead leaves, and mat
ted with brier and breckan, 1 joyously went until I issued upon
the summit of the hill, upon the steep side of which is cut the
great white cross that can be seen all the way from Oxford. The
old grand picture of that immense intervening plain was once
more before me. Princes Risborough, with its red-tiled houses
and its church, lying down there under the faint blue smoke of
the \illage; the long white rt)ad leading on to IMcdlow; the com-
fortable farmsteads smothered among orchards; then the great
patchwork of fields with their various colors — the red and brown
fallow, the dark green of the young clover, the fine tint of the
wheat, hero and then; already yellowed with chariock ; the sharp,
black lines of the hedges gradually getting closer and fainter as
MY HOME. 19
the eye rose to the horizon, and there becoming a confused mass
of misty streaks ; on the right the remote uplands, with their
larch-plantations, and here and there a white house shining in the
sun ; down on the left the contini Ing line of the chalk hills,
rounded and smooth, where they I ecame visible from among the
dusky stretches of the beech-woods ; und lar on in front, half lost
in the shimmer of light along tho edge of the sky, the pale blue
plain of Oxfordshire, indeterminate rnd v;.gue.
How long I lay on the shoulder of White-cross Hill, with the
dazzling glare of the concealed sun lying warm and crimson on
my shut eyelids, I cannot say. I was outside of all distressing
conditions — absolutt;ly free, and without a thought for anything
or anybody, including myself. It was enougli to be in the fresh
and beautiful air, to be alone, to be able to dream. And it seemed
to me, as I lay there, that there were fairies hovering over me,
and that the warm spring air, blowing over my face, was only
their tickling my forehead with their small handkerchiefs. Or
was it with spikes of feather-grass ? I lay and pictured their
walking around me in all sorts of picturesque and shining cos-
tumes — the small gentlemen with helmets of acorn-cups, and
shields made out of the shell of the green beetle ; the small ladies
with parasoh formed out of a curved rose-leaf, and bonnets of
white larkspur. Then, somehow, a thought of \N' easel intervened ;
I got up impatiently, and made to go down the hill and get back
to Burnham.
I then found that a pair of new boots I had put on that morn-
ing — assisted, doubtless, by the mad jumping and hopping of my
progress to the station — had severely hurt my feet. Indeed, when
I reached the foot of White-cross Hill, I found it impossible to
put one foot to the ground, so intense was the pain which the
pressure caused. Under the circumstances, I took the only course
open to me — sat down, pulled off my boots and stockings, put
the latter in the former, and, slinging the whole over my shoul-
der, prepared to walk barefooted until I should near Burnham.
Perhaps by that time I might be able to pull my boots on again ;
if not — and the chances were against it — I should have to put a
bold face on the matter, and walk with absurdly white feet up to
my mother's door.
But, as I yet rested, I heard a pattering of horses' hoofs, and,
looking around, saw a couple of riders coming along the white
20 KILMENY.
road. The glare of tlie light was in niv oves ; but I could make
out that the one was a young girl, the other a youngish gentle-
man, though considerably older than she. It struck me at the
moment that very likely this would be Miss Burnham ; and so I
sat still, that I might see her well as she passed. Besides there
has always seemed to me something very fine and stately and
beautiful in the position of a woman (who can ride at all decent-
ly) on horseback, and in these days lady-riders wore long skirts,
which greatly added to the effect of the! uj pearance. So they
came cantering along the dusty road ; and just before they reached
me, the light was so altered that I could dist^inctly see them.
My first thought was, " How quickly girls grow in France !"
My second, " What a sweet face !"
Pale it was, and dark (at least it seemed dark in shadow), scarce-
ly surrounded by loose masses of brown hair that the wind had
blown back from her hat. You could not tell what the features
were, for the wonderful eyes of the face caught you and kept you
there. As she swept past, she drove a single glance right through
me ; and I thought that I had seen a vision of all the sweetness
and gracious kindliness of womanhood revealed by this one swift
look. Here, at least, was a gentlewoman in nature, one who was
not supercilious, or cursed by conventional pride. I looked after
her, and I said to myself, "There, now, if you could do any ser-
vice to one such as she is, life would not be quite worthless."
Then I saw her, before she had gone twenty yards, pull up her
horse. Her companion, a young man of about twenty-two, fair-
haired, apparently tall, and with cold gray eyes, followed her
example.
She said something to liim — he shrugged his shoulders — and,
as well as I e<juld hear, said he had no coppers.
"Give me silver, then !" she said, with a sort of girlish petu-
lance; and then he handed something to her.
She wheeled round her horse and rode up to where I sat. 1
could not understand all this. Slu; held out her hand. I rose,
expecting lier to say something. She still held out her hand, and
I, reaching uj) mine, received into it a half-crown. Still I stood,
stupefied, wondering what the beautiful blue-gray eyes, under those
long black eyelashes, meant; and tlirn, before I had recovered
myself, and without a word, she turned her horse again and rode
away.
MY HOME. 21
It was all the work of a second ; and for some little time I wa?
too bewildered to know wliat had occurred. At last, when I saw
the white half-crown lie in my hand, a sensation which I shall
never forp"et came over me — a sensation of consuming, intolerable
shame. This was what the kindliness of her eyes meant, that I
was a begfar r.nd she pitied me. I felt my face grow white and
cold, and then burn red with confusion and anger. To have alms
thrown to me by the wayside, to be treated as a common beggar
— the very thought of it seemed to crush me with a deadening,
burning weight, that was scarcely relieved by wild anticipations
of revenge. Was not my mother a gentlewoman, too ; although
only the daughter of a poor clergyman, when my father, then a
young gardener, got so madly in love with her that even his no-
tions of duty were unable to prevent his running away with her ?
And was not his careful and respectful behavior to her — now that
they had been niarned something like eighteen years — a wonder
to the neighbors, and a greater wonder to my mother's old friends,
who had prophesied the usual consequences of her folly ? Nay,
had not the Burnhams been always tenderly considerate to my
mother, though she was only the wife of their head keeper ; and
who was it that taught this very Miss Hester the little accom-
plishments of a gentlewoman before she went to her Parisian
schools ? These things, and otliers, I thouglit over ; but the ac-
cursed white half-crown lay out in the middle of the road, whither
it had rolled after I flung it violently to the ground ; and the
mere sight of it seemed to make my eyes burn.
And yet she had a kindly face. I could recall the very look
with which she had regarded me ; and somehow it took me back
to old times. But to receive alms from her! I sat down by the
wayside once more, and buried my face in my hands, and burst
into bitter tears, the bitterest I have ever shed.
22 KILMBNV.
CHAPTER III.
MY UNCLE JOB.
The broad gray front of Burnham House has stood tljcse
couple of hundred years and more at the head of one of the finest
avenues in England — an avenue about a mile and a half in length,
and at least three hundred yards broad, leading up from the val-
ley in a straight line to the building on the top of the hill. Many
a goodly company has cantered up and down that splendid ride,
with its dense, mossy, close green turf, its patches of furze and
broom and brcckan. On either side stands a row of magnificent
Spanish chestnuts ; on the one hand skirting the woods that slope
down to the Amersham road, on the other forming the boundary-
line of Burnham Park. The House itself, fronting this spacious
avenue, commands the broad valley that stretches for miles east-
ward ; and from almost any point around you can see from afar
the gray frontage of the old building, gleaming like gold in the
sunsliine, high up there among the trees. Just outside what is
called the "ladies' garden" stands the little old church, whose
walls are covered with marble memorials of the Burnhams ; and
from thence a narrow road, dividing the park, loads across the
summit of the hill to Burnham village and Burnham Common.
The place, with all its historical associations of the times of the
Civil War, is little known by Englishmen ; but it is familiar to
Americans, and Frenchmen visit it, and Germans write about it ;
and in St. Petersburg you can buy photographs of Burnham and
Burnham Church, and of the monumental stone erected to John
Burnham, the friend and colleague of Cromwell.
Before coming near Burnham, I cooled my feet in a small
stream that runs along the valley, and managed to pull on my
boots again. The pain of walking was intense ; but I did not
mind it so much now. When I got to the lodge, I went in and
borrowed a spade from the lodge-keeper.
" Why, I hain't a wolf, Mahster Tves," said he; "you needn't
speak to a mahn as if he wur a wolf,"
MY UNCLE JOB. 23
" I didn't mean to be uncivil," I said.
" It war only my fun," he said, bringing the spade ; " but you
do look a bit vexed and hout j sorts."
That I might not be seen by any of the people who were now
at the House, I passed into the wood by the side of the avenue,
and made my way through tlie thick undergrowth to r. deep cleft
or dell in which we children, who had the entree to the woods of
Burnham, used to play. We had had a notion of getting up
some kind of grotto there, and a large number of big stones were
still strewn about the edge of the wooded pit. The biggest of
these I placed on my shoulder ; and then made my way down
through the tangled brier and bushes to the bottom of the dell.
There I dug a hole about a foot square and a foot deep, T flung
the half-crown into the hole — I think I struck at it with the spade
in impotent rage — and, covering it up, put the big stone over the
place.
" That is the first alms I ever had offered me," I said aloud —
and my voice had a strange sound in the dell — " and that is what
I did with it."
I took the spade back to the lodge-keeper.
" Why, Master Ted," said he, " you look as if you'd gone and
buried your sour looks. You be younger and brighter by a dozen
years than you wur when you axed me for the spaad. And it's
a good spaad, too."
" It's a capital spade," I said. " Did Miss Burnham pass up to
the House lately ?"
" Yaas, she did."
" On horseback, with some one with her 3"
"Yaas."
"Who was he?"
"That be a son o' Colonel Burnham's — Mr. Alfred — and he be
a divvle to curse and swear, he be."
" I suppose he means to marry Miss Burnham ?"
" Lor' bless ye, there wun't be thoughts o' marryin' in her 'ed
for yurs yet. And when she do marry she'll marry a properer
mahn than Hm. I bain't much of a weatherwise mysel', but I
doant think much o' that ere 'errin'-gutted young feller. He's
bin to college, I reckon, and learnt to play cahrds, and swear at ye
as if ye wur a dead stoat."
I saw that old Joshua Tubb knew very little about Mr. Alfred
24 KILMENY.
Biirnham, hut that he was. inclined to guess the worst, probably
by reason of his having suffered a little of the young gentleman's
strong language.
" He's living up at the House, I suppose ?"
*' Yaas, and his father, and lots mower on 'em. The old
plaace begins to look live-like now."
I went up by the side of the avenue to cross over to Burnham,
keeping out of the way of the House. It seemed to me just then
that all the hateful influences I feared and loathed were within
that gaunt gray building ; and that it also held the first human
being who had ever thought so meanly of me as to make me a
beggar. If you consider that it was at the very moment when I
was rejoicing in my freedom from that sense of constraint and
inferiority which the town pressed down upon me that she ap-
peared, and again brought home to me the immeasurable distance
that lay between my insignificance and helplessness and the beau-
tiful independence and strength and power of the rich and love-
ly, you will understand how I felt towards her. I had begun to
forget what I was : she came, and seemed to say —
" You have no right to rejoice in the free air and the light.
You must not imagine yourself equal with other people, even by
forgetting their existence."
When I reached the smal\ cottage, fronting Burnham Com-
mon, in which I was born, I found my mother training some
creeper up the outside wall around the window ; while my father
stood by, waiting upon her and assisting her as he could. They
were very unlike — he a tall, brown, sun-tanned keeper, with a hook
nose, gray eyes, scant whiskers, and ruddy hair; she a small, ten-
der, black-eyed woman, who had at one time been very good-
looking, and who even now was pretty and neat and engaging.
This little, sensitive woman, who never spoke a harsh word to
anybody, who could not even scold an unruly dog, had this big
man her absolute slave. I think he was fonder of her then than
when he persuaded her to run away from her father's liome with
him. Naturally, he was rather overbearing in his manner — at least
he was extremely practical in his aims, very plain-spoken, and in-
clined to regard everybody who did not agree with him as more
or less of a fool ; and yet with her you could see that he was al-
most studiously courteous and gentle and tender. Even his man-
ner towards myself I attributed in part to the notion he had some-
MY UNCLE JOB. 25
how got of my mother and myself being of a different race from
his own — or being somehow superior to the people round about.
It was this feeling, I imagine, that induced him to send me to
London, when the situation in Weasel's place was offered, rather
than allow me to grow up to the ordinary routine of farm work.
After the customary greetings and inquiries, I went inside to
get a pair of slippers, and sat down in our little front room, which
looked out on a bit of garden and on the common. By this time
the sunlight had so far dispersed the faint swathes of mist as to
show along the sky a strong glow of pale gold, streaked across
with bands of cirrus clouds, which gleamed white and silvery in
the warm yellow light. Buridiam village is very pretty and pict-
uresque in its high-lying position ; its few scattered cottages and
gardens fronting the undulations of the furze-covered common,
and looking towards a long stretch of woodland beyond, which
encloses the small colony and shelters it from the wind. I was
gazing out from the shadow of the room upon this secluded little
place — so warm and silent under the heat and light — and was re-
lapsing into the old feeling of dreamy contentment, when a sud-
den apparition awoke the bitterness and shame I had experienced
in the morning. Miss Hester Burnham walked up to the little
green gate, and entered our front garden. She came forward,
with the sunlight and a smile on her face, to shake hands with
my mother ; and, but for the difference in dress, I think you could
have taken them for mother and daughter. I was too exasperated
and ashamed to pay attention to such things ; but I can look
back and see that at this moment, standing in the sunlight of the
garden, she must have been exceedingly pretty. The slight and
girlish figure was small and delicate, exquisitely proportioned, and
gracious and graceful in every motion. Her eyes seemed to be
darker than my mother's eyes ; but they were not. They were
of a soft grayish blue, quiet and tender in expression ; but what
made them dark in appearance was the long and almost black
eyelashes which deepened their meaning, and added singularly to
the beauty of her profile. Then her eyebrows were high, finely
curved, and black ; and a profusion of dark hair fell about the
rather pale face, and down on the white small neck and the deli-
cate small shoulders. As for her features — you could not see
them for looking at her eyes. They may have been regular, ir-
regular — anything : all you could distinctly say was that there
26 KILMENY.
appeared a singular light and life about them, with an occa-
sional touch of gravity which was beyond the girl's years. The
eyes seemed to have too much sympathy in them for one so
young ; and yet in their wise truthfulness you could see that there
was no trace of aflEected interest. I can remember how she looked
into my mother's face, with those tender, thoughtful, and beauti-
ful eyes. I can remember, too, that she was dressed very neatly
— in a tight-fitting, slate-gray costume, that had lines of white
about it, and just a touch of scarlet ribbon near the neck. She
wore a small gray hat with a single gleaming red feather in it; I
think she had a riding-whip in her hand ; and she had a sprig of
crimson heath in her bosom.
" Mrs. Ives," she said — and her voice had the soft, contralto
mellowness that made my mother's voice so tender and pleasant
— " I must trouble you again ; I really think you must let mc
coax you to live at the House altogether. I very, very much
want you to come now and help me among all those tiresome
people. Can you come at once ?"
" Certainly, Miss Hester."
" Then I suppose I must go in and wait until you're ready ?"
she said, with a sort of girlish impatience that made my mother
smile.
" No, Miss Hester, you need not wait ; I will be over at the
House in a few minutes."
" Then I ivill wait. You sec how you Lave spoiled mc with
your kindness ; and so — and so — "
I heard her come into the passage ; and I rose.
" My son is within," said my mother.
" Oh, that's Ted," I heard her say, " who used to be my great
friend, and my champion when I got into trouble with old Joshua.
Is he in here?"
The door was opened, and she advanced a single step. I .saw
the peculiar, frightened glance she directed towards me : then
her face grew scarlet, and for a moment she stood in direful con-
fusion. For myself, I said nothing and did nothing ; but my
blood was up in rebellion, I knew.
Then, with a wonderful graciousncss and the frankest of smiles
— I could not help admiring the ease with which her fashionable
education enabled her to extricate herself from this embarras.s-
ment — she came forward, and held out her hand, and said —
MY UNCLE JOB. 27
" May I beg you to forgive me ?"
I said, coldly enough perhaps —
" I have nothing to forgive."
Her eyes met mine for a moment ; and I knew that her wom-
an's wit — wonderfully ingenious even in a girl like that — was
wrestling with all the circumstances of the case. Then (all this had
happened in a moment, and her hand was still extended) she said
in a low voice that was intended not to let my mother hear —
" I will take it back, and then I will ask you to forgive me. It
was a mistake — I am very, very sorry."
Then it flashed upon me that I could not give her back that
accursed piece of money which was lying buried down in the dell ;
and I knew she would fancy that I had accepted the alms — that
I had already spent the money. The horror and agony of that
one moment was worse than all that had gone before. If there
was one thing I was proud of it was my pride. It was my only
possession : I had need to preserve it. And now the only crea-
ture belonging to those gifted people who held the world in their
hand who had ever descended so far as to speak to me (and in
the old days to be a sort of patronizing little friend to me) had
ojffered me alms, and she would imagine that I had sold my birth-
right of independence for this wretched bit of money,
" I — I have not got it — I cannot give it to you," I stammered ;
and then, half conscious of the wonder and astonishment of her
eyes, I went past her, and out of the room, and out of the house.
I went out into the cool air of the afternoon, feeling that I had
the brand of Cain on my forehea'd. Was I not a convicted pau-
per ? I walked away from Burnham, over the park, into the strip
of wood by the avenue, and down into that dell. The stone was
still there. My first impulse was to dig up the half-crown again,
and take it to her, and throw it at her feet ; but how could I
make the explanation ? No ; it should remain there, and she
might think of it all just as she liked.
At that moment I heard voices above — of two men who were
walking along the avenue. I heard some snatch of conversation
like this :
— " Not much, certainly. But there is the House and grounds
— a fortune in themselves."
" You would not sell them ?"
-' I would, if I had the chance."
28 KILMENY.
" Then, I suppose, you'd send that poor little girl adrift, and
spend her money on Chira Bcauchanip. AVcll, Alfred, you have
got a wonderful decision about you, to -/ut it mildly."
"Clara is a devilish tine girl ; though she ought to have taken
some other name than Beauehamp when she started on her career.
As for my cousin Hester, you know I shall be compelled to get
money somewhere, and she has got such a d — d smooth temper,
she would stand anything — "
That was all I heard ; but it was enough to suggest many
things. And the most probable theory of the aim of this con
versation which I was forced to hear was so mean and repulsive
and depraved that, at the time, it delighted me. These grand
people, then, were occasionally in straits like others. They were
not immaculate, either. They had their meannesses — perhaps
more absolutely gross and mean than was possible with lesser peo-
ple ill lesser circumstances. To be looked upon as a beggar was
bad enough ; but there were more des[)icable beings in the world
than beggars.
When I got out of the dell, and looked u|) the avenue, I saw
that one of tlie two men who had been speaking was the gentle-
man w ho had been riding with Miss Hester in the morning. Then
I turned my back upon Huridiam House, and hoped that I might
never see it again.
1 walked over to my Uncle Job's farm — some two miles off;
and there I spent the evening and the whole of the next day.
This Uncle Job was my father's elder brother — an old bachelor
who had, l»y rigid parsimojiy, worked his way up to the tenanting
of a farm of over two hundred acres. Many things contriltutcd
to make him a sort of outcast from among his neighbors. To
begin with, he went about in a frightfully unshaven and ragged
condition, with an old, smashed, and sun-tanned hat, a wisp of
dirty black silk tied around his neck, no collar, an old and shabby
coat, and a pair of tight and dirty corduroy breeches; while his
unwashed and unshaven face was ornamented with a curiously
large gray moustache, which was ordinarily besprinkled with snuff.
He smoked a short clay pipe, and puffed cut all manner of so-
cialist and revolutionary speeches along with the smoke. Jle
never went to church. Hi' had l)een the friend of a (iod-forgot-
ten Major who used to dwell in a lonely house near Crutchett's
(^o|)piee, ;ind wlio was sup|ioscd to be a monster of wickedness,
MY UNCLE JOB. 2.9
and to have murdered his wife. It was found at his death that
the Major had provided that he should be buried iu the neighbor-
ing wood, instead of in consecrated ground : was not this suffi-
cient proof that the devil was sure of his prey ? My Uncle Job
was left as perpetual guardian of the Major's house ; and that had
now fallen pretty much into ruin, because, as everybody knew it
was haunted, nobody would live in it. The experiment was tried
once, and the people were glad to get away. In the dark of an
evening the noise of carriage-wheels was often heard without —
on the carriage-drive and at the hall-door : when the occupants of
the house went to the window nothing was visible. Loud laugh-
ter, coming fronj the neighboring wood, used to startle the peo-
ple at dead of night ; when they opened a door suddenly, a sort
of scuffle was heard, and sometimes the faint echo of a laugh a
minute afterwards. But the climax of these visitations was that
the owner of the house, going home one night, distinctly saw a
gray dog-cart, with a white horse, standing opposite his door-
steps. He went forward : as he approached it faded away, and
he walked right through it. That same night no one in the house
could sleep for the shrieks of laughter heard all around the place.
Next morning the man left, with all his family, and nobody had
ventured to sleep in the liouse since.
Uncle Job w5s very unwilling to speak of these matters. He
growled in his bitter way at the superstition and folly of the peo-
ple around ; but he would never say distinctly what the occupant
of the Major's house had told him when he left.
" Darn the fools," he used to say, sitting at his fire of a night,
with the small black pipe in his mouth, " they'd believe anything
if the pahrson 'ud only tell it them. Eut the pahrsons are too lazy
nowadays to invent new stories — they stick to the hold ones, Ted.
They keep to the hold stories, and they've shot the dower agin
the new ones. They be rare fond o' tellin' ye o' the plagues o'
Egypt; but what I says is, Why didn't Moses try the Egyptians
wi' a plague of pahrsons ? — that's w hat I say. And that's a rare
good un' too, about the sun standin' still. Bah ! It's my opin-
ion that if the sun stood still, it was because it was so darned
astonished at Joshua's cheek in askin' it."
I think there can be no doubt about my Uncle Job having been
a frightful old ruffian. But the cool way in which he disposed
of his respectable neighbors, and maintained the independence of
30 KILMENY.
bis position, was fine in its way. I walked over his farm the next
morning with him. Job had his small pipe in his mouth, and
his hat drawn over his furehead to shelter his eyes from the sun-
light.
" The pahrson doan't come to my shop," he said ; " I doan't
go to his. I be as good a mahn as he — I be. No, I doan't say
as goin' to church is a bahd thing, but there's a rare lot o' hypo-
crites as goes, and what I say is as it's better not to go unless you
can hact up to it — that's what I saay. They go to church, and talk
o' the blessin' o' bein' poor, and try to make one another believe
as they believes it ; but it's my opinion as bein' rich isn't so much
of a curse arter all ; and I doan't see as they throw any o' their
money into the sea, or much of it into the poor-box, for the mat-
ter o' that. Yes, they talk o' being poor, and yet they want to
farm their two thousand and their three thousand acres, and keep
a lot o' families starvin' as ain't got a bit o' land to work on. It's
one mahn eatin' up the livin's o' eight or ten — that's what it is,
Mahster Ted. What I say is, every mahn should ha' an acre — a
mahn an acre — then there 'ud be no starvation or Unions."
" Why do you farm two hundred acres yourself, Uncle Job ?"
said I.
" W^hat 'ud be the use o' me givin' up my patch o' ground ?
what could a mahn get wi' his spade out o' an acre o' this darned
stuff ? Now, lookee there, Mahster Ted — look at that divvelish
little dell as I ploughed for the first time last spring."
We were now on the brow of a hill, above the long valley in
which the straggling village of Misseiiden, with its red brick
houses and its pale blue smoke, lay under the early morning sun-
shine. And right in front of us, at the other end of the valley,
rose the great avenue that led up to Burnham, and the House
stood soft and shadowy there among the blue mist of the trees,
with a flush of pale yellow across its frontage, caught from the
glow of the east. Job j)aused on the edge of a deep hollow at
one end of this field, and blinked at the sunshine, and puffed his
pipe, and said —
" As I was a plougliin' thear, I turned over cannon-bullets as
was fired all across that valley from Burnliam House by Holiver
Cromwell."
I asked Job how he knew that the cannon-balls had belonged to
Cromwell, but I was aware that the people living in this district
MY UNCLE JOB. 31
attribute all historical relics to the time of the Civil War. There
seems to have been in history an absolute blank, so far as the
Missenden valley is concerned, between that time and this ; the
people speak of 1640-50 as of yesterday, and there is scarcely a
stone or tree in the parish that has not somehow been mixed up
in the great struggle between the King and the Commons.
" How do I know ?" said my uncle. " Who ever came into this
part of the world to fire bullets except him ? Ah ! those wur
grand times, when gentlemen knew what wur expected of gentle-
men, and went out and fought for the poor people as was being
taxed. They're talkin' in the newspapers, as I hear, o' spirit-
rappin', and all that darned stufiE, and it's my opinion that the
pahrsons are only hiimbuggin' us about the joy o' goin' to 'eaven,
if we're to be sent to attend on a lot o' darned old women, and
play accordions for them. But what I say is, if it wur possible
for ghosts to come back, what d'ye think, Mahster Ted, 'ud Ire-
ton and Cromwell and Blake and Burnham — to say nothing o'
them as wur on the other side — think of our fine gentlemen now,
ruinin' themselves and their families wi' horse-racin', fightin' in
theatres, gamblin' wi' blasted furreigners in Germany, and the
like ? Look at the House there — isn't it as fine a house as any in
England? And them as has had it — bah! — and him as is goin'
to have it — "
"Who is that?" I asked.
" Why, I hain't a prophet, be I, when I say as I know Mahster
Alfred Burnham ain't got a darned farthin', and that his father
has plenty to get beaver* for, let alone him ; and when I sees him
ridin' about day arter day with Miss Hester, and looking so par-
ticlar attentive, I don't need to be Eliza — Elijah I mean — to say
as there's somethin' hup. Well, she ain't got much money either,
as I can hear on ; but he'll get a rare good sum for the old 'Ouse.
I dunnow if he can sell the church, too. It wur a pity if he
couldn't make some use o' them vallyble bits o' marble as have all
the Burnhams' names on 'em."
" You don't think he would sell these, do you ?" I asked.
But at this moment the bell of Missenden church — high up on
the hill there, above the gray old abbey and the small river and
the broad meadows — began to toll.
*' Darn them bells !" said Uncle Job, turning away testily, ** let's
* Beaver — food.
32 KILMENV.
go around to the other side of the hill, and get out of the way
o' their noise. I hate 'em. They 'mind me of a funeral ; and
they say to me as the people Avho go to church are so darned re-
siK'ctable and solemn and proper ; and they tell me what yur re-
spectable people think of me — and that is that I am a tlamin' old
cuss, who ought to go and bury myself, because 1 doan't shine my
boots, and go and snivvle in a church pew, and promise to obey
all the ten commahndments, and ten mower, if Providence '11 only
make me better off than my neighbors."
I don't think old Job Ives was a very profitable companion, as
lie went about on a quiet Sunday morning, down in this Bucking-
hamshire vale, railing and cursing against his kind. However, I
hated Burnham, and I remained at my uncle's farm all day, creep-
ing over to bid good-bye to my father and mother after dusk,
when no one from Burnham House could see.
CHAPTER IV.
MY FKIEND.
I RETURNED t<i London, and to Weasel's shoji, with a great
purpose in my heart. I was determined to be Correggio, or Isaac
Newton, or Edmund Kean — anybody of such transcendent genius
as should make the world pause and wonder. It was not alone
the small world of Burnham that I wished to coiKpier, but that
greater world which had cast me down and made a beggar of me.
I should be even with it ; and, if I spent my life in the struggle,
would in the end force it to recognize in me its equal. What
were the means? An astounding audacity, assumed for tlie pur-
pose; backed by a resolution to explore all the various branches
of human knowledge. There was nothing I did not attempt.
Greek was my first eifort ; though I begin to perceive now that
life is not long enough to let a man learn Greek. French, and a
little (Tcrman, my mother had taught me ; and, while I still coached
myself up in these languages, I took to the indiscriminate study
of everything. I had no master or instriK'tor or guide. I gath-
ered up pi-nce, and Ixjught second-hand books in Holborn. I
began t'> faney niyseif learned in hydraulics, ami could turn yoli
MY FRIEND. 33
off at a moment's notice the proper angle for a sluice-gate. I
regarded myself as profound in chemistry ; and only wanted some
apparatus to increase considerably the list of non-metallic ele-
ments. I studied astronomy ; and knew that, with the requisite
time and instruments, I should have discovered Neptune. I stud-
ied botany (theoretically, alas !), and had my own notions about
the protoplasmic movement and origin of life. For amusement,
I drew, and dabbled in water-colors. I made the absurdest efforts
to excel in all these things, that I might wipe out, some day or
other, the cruel stain that Hester Burnham's silver coin had left
upon my hand.
I pass over all this foolish time, and arrive at a period when a
little further knowledge had cooled my hopes, if not my impa-
tience and desire. My great and faithful friend, now as then, was
an artist to whom I had occasionally to carry home picture-frames.
He and I somehow became acquainted : he took a sort of fancy
to me ; and I used to spend all my brief snatches of leisure in his
studio in Granby Street, Hampstead Road. His name was Owen
Heatherleigh ; and I thought at first that he had no friends or
relations. I discovered afterwards that he had plenty of both ;
but he went near them rarely. He was a man getting on towards
thirty, with rough unkempt hair and beard, a broad, honest,
powerful face, with a gash upon one cheek which he had received
while studying in Germany ; large, brown eyes, a good, handsome
figure, and slovenly dress. His history, as I heard it from him-
self, bit by bit, was a peculiar and sad one. He was of very good
family : his father was a squire in some remote district in West-
moreland ; and, some ten years before I knew him, Owen had the
misfortune to fall in love with a young girl, the daughter of the
village schoolmaster. His parents would hear nothing of the
match. But the girl loved him ; and he had just come home from
a German university, full of ambition and independence and the
fine feeling of youth. He left his father's house, and never set
foot in it again.
" I used to go and see her every morning, from my lodgings,"
he said one night to me, as he sat before the fire ; " and they had
a little room prepared for me, in which I used to work at my
water-color sketches, that were, of course, to make a fortune for
us both. You know what I am, Ted : what I think about many
things. One day I went up to the window of the cottage : it was
B2
34 KILMENY.
open — summer-time, you know. She was singing — it was an old,
poor piano — but my little girl had the tenderest voice. She was
singing some religious hymn or other ; and I caught the words,
' Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee,' uttered with such a
pathetic abandonment that I dared not to enter the house. I felt
like a murderer who had wandered near a village church, and
heard the peo})le singing. I stood outside and asked myself if I
could destroy that beautiful, simple faith of hers. If she were to
marry me, would she not either break her heart over my condi-
tion, or could I, on the other hajid, crush out all the tenderest
and holiest aspirations of her sweet young life, and leave her the
prey of doubt and despair? Still she sang, and you might liave
imagined that the angels themselves were listening to her. I hur-
ried away from the place as if I had been an evil spirit ; and —
God forgive me! but — 1 tied here to London. 1 think it was not
more than three months after then that my darling died; and
when I went down there, I went into the churchyard and saw the
flowers on her grave. She died without ever knowing how wholly
and perfectly I loved her, or what it was that had caused me to
leave her. Some half-hour before her death she asked for her
prayer-book — there was a primrose in it, you know : that was all
... I never kissed her."
Such was his story.
At another time he told me why he was so lazy — he who could
gain reputation and money by every half-hour of work he cliose
to expend.
" I came up to London again, resolved to nuike my own way,
and be equal with the jjcople who had cut me on poor Hettie's
account — "
" Was her name Hester ?" I asked, with a sudden accession of
interest.
" Yes. JJnt I found it was no use. What was the good of
working yourself to death to amass money, when you found your-
self baffled even in the poor competition for the honor that money
can give you by people who never worked a stroke in their life?
They had all the chances on their side; I had none. Had I made
a lot of money, T should still have been looked on in society as a
poor devil of an artist — a man who had to earn his bread — whom
one might patronize — who was your servant when you paid him.
I gave up the fight," he continued, recovering his gayety of tone.
MY FRIEND. 35
" I take my ease. I have educated myself into tastes tliat are
easily gratified. I like beer better than all other drinks. I prefer
a pipe to any cigar you can give me. I work as little as I can,
I have a fine constitution, and am content to enjoy laziness. I
lead, on the whole, a remarkably jolly life. As we used to say
over in Heidelberg —
*Ein starkes Bier, ein beizeiiuer Tobak,
Uud eine Magd im Fiitz, das ist ntin mein Geschmack.' "
" You have the beer and the tobacco ; but I don't see the well-
dressed girl," I remarked.
" Not when Polly Whistler comes to look us up ?" he said.
But if there were any girl in the world whom it was unlikely
Owen Heatherleigh would care about, it was Polly Whistler —
the strapping, frank, good-natured model, who had a tongue as
keen as her wit, and a heart as soft as her big black eyes. Polly
was a very respectable girl, be it understood. She only sat to
two or three artists whom she knew, and who were known to each
other; and she was a good deal more scrupulous about her cos-
tume than many ladies who would have regarded her with anger
and disdain. Sometimes I used to think that Polly cared more
about Owen Heatherleigh than he suspected, or than she chose to
show ; but then again the suspicion was dispelled by the open
manner iu which she " chaffed " him about his misogynist habits,
and suggested that if she were his wife she would improve both
his chambers and himself.
I remember walking up with him one evening to his studio ; he
had been insisting on my going to live with him, help him in his
work, and share the profits. The mere suggestion of such a thing
set my head spinning with wild anticipations ; and I eagerly went
to his lodgings to talk the project over.
When we entered the large room we found the lamp already
lit — throwing a dull light on a great, gloomy screen, on the vari-
ous sketches and pictures hung around the walls, on the littered
and dirty apartment, and on a row of dusty and sepulchral plas-
ter busts set along a high shelf. Polly was seated by the fire.
" Well, Polly, are you here ?" he said unconcernedly, taking
another seat.
" Yes," she said, turning her bright, frank face to us with a
smile ; " my old woman went out to a concert with one of her
neighbors, and I didn't care about sitting in the house alone."
36 KILMENV.
" Quite right too. Sitting alone begets gloomy fancies."
" That's why you are so particularly dull at times. I came
down here thinking to put your place a bit to rights for you ;
but I was too lazy, or tired. I was to tell you from your land-
lady, though, that two gentlemen, who would not leave their names,
called to-day and will be back again to-morrow."
"Good!" said Ileatherleigh to me. " I swear they want to of-
fer me a commission to paint a picture for the Prince of Wales."
*' No," said Polly, with her black eyes twinkling maliciously,
" I believe they are like the unbelieving Jews — they seek a sign."
" You are very wicked, Polly, do yuu know ?" he said careless-
ly, filling a pipe. " You will never be tamed and made respect-
able until yuu marry. I wish I were the happy man."
" I wish you were," she said, with a laugh. " But no. Yuu
w ill never be such a fool as to offer to marry me ; and I shouldn't
be such a fool as to accept you, if you did."
" I hope I shall never get fond of you, Polly," he said.
" Why ?"
By this time the smile that her chaffing had brought to his
face had quite died away, and he was staring pensively into the
fire. When he spoke it was as if he were speaking to himself.
" Because the (;liances are you would die."
"Good gracious me!" said Polly.
" I sometimes have a notion," he continued, rather absently,
" that the unknown presence of some fatal malady — some predis-
position to death — may lend to women's faces a sort of expres-
sion, or tenderness, or sadness, that is peculiarly attractive to some
men. The man does not know why he is jitlracted by this ex-
pression — he only knows that all the women ln' has loved have
died off one by one, while they were still young. It is only a
theory, you know, but there are some men who are unlucky like
that."
"Well," said Polly, "of all the agreeable topics that were ever
started, this is about the most lively. It all comes of yi)ur sitting
indoors, and taking no interest in anything — not even in your
j)aiiiting. An artist has no business with philosophy — has he,
Ted ?" '
F(jr she called me Ted, too.
" Why, no," I said; "but Ilcathci'li'i^h dabbles in philosophy
in onlcr to excuse his idleness."
MY FRIEND. 37
" Well, Polly, suppose we start anotlier topic. Suppose wo
take you into our confidence, and consult you about this young
gentleman's prospects. I propose to assume the garb of an old
master, and have him for a pupil — a student — a disciple. In time
he will be able to paint all my pictures for me ; and I shall have
all the money, while he reaps all the praise. I propose taking a
junior partner into the business ; he is to do the work, while I
get the profits. What do you think of it, Polly ? Did I ever
show you the things he has done? They're not very good, you
know, my lad ; they're chiefly remarkable for cheek. But in
a short time, you would, I think, be able to paint a good many
bits of my interiors for me, and so forth. What do you say,
Ted ?"
What could I say ? Here were two of the very kindest beings
I have ever met in this world laying their heads together to help
me ; and the astonishment and gratitude with which such a cir-
cumstance filled me almost blinded me to the obvious fact that
Heatherleigh was trying to disguise the nature of his offer. To
be plain, he, too, was conferring charity upon me. I knew that
for a long time I could not be of the slightest use to him. Be-
sides, he did not want to make money either by my efforts or
his own. He worked by fits and starts — and after he had got a
check from a dealer, he relapsed into his dawdling ways and in-
dolent, abstemious luxury. He had an amazing gift or trick of
manipulation — painting cost him neither study nor pains. He
could turn off, when pressed for money, a picture in an inconceiv-
ably short space of time ; and, if it was not a striking or original
work, it was still out of the common run of picture-dealers' pict-
ures. There was not a particle or trace of genius in his work —
no bold conception or lofty aim, or sharp and luminous interpre-
tation ; but there was an easy and bright cleverness which had a
certain individualism of its own, and which procured a too ready
market for all that he produced. I think he was quite conscious
of all this, and that the knowledge helped to confirm him in his
indolent ways. He was not even gifted with the vague hope that
he might become a great painter. He painted when his funds be-
came low, or when he took a sudden fancy to dress himself re-
markably well and give a few companions a dinner at Richmond.
He was a handsome man, as I have said ; and, when he chose, he
could throw off the roughness of his present mode of life, and as-
38 KILMENT.
tnnisli one with the extreme elegance and finish of his toilet and
general appearance. His hands were fine and delicate ; he had
small feet, and a certain air of refinement and ease which became
his intelligent face and well-set neck. When lie thus dressed him-
self, he completed the metamorphosis by becoming absurdly crit-
ical in all such matters as wines, cigars, dishes, dress, and man-
ners. He was only acting a part, and imagining what he might
have been had he not quarrelled with his family ; and yet he act-
ed the part so naturally that his companions, chiefly artists, n?ed
to be greatly impressed by such evidences of culture and high-
breeding. Next day you would find him laughing at his own fol-
ly — dressed in an old velveteen jacket, with his hair uncombed,
his waistcoat open and showing a shirt liberally stained with me-
gilp and color, his delicate fingers sticky and dirty with varnishes
and oils, and on the table beside liis easel a short clay pipe and a
battered pewter pot filled with half-and-lialf.
"I say that you arc too kind," I replied — "that I should not
be worth my keep for a very long time, if ever."
" You don't understand. Master Ted," said he ; " I am entering
upon a business speculation. I am buying up rough land, out of
which I mean to get great harvests yet. I mean to make an
artist of yon, Ted."
" Make an artist of yourself !" said Polly.
" I mean to buy you out of the hands of that charming person,
Weavle. I shall hold you as my slave and bondman ; and then,
when I am an old man, grown white and lean and shaky, yon
shall work for me and pay my little bills, and I shall bless yon.
^'ou are not bound by any engagement to Weavle ?"
" No."
" Nor by any promise to your parents 2"
" No."
" What do you say, then ?"
" I say that if you give me this chance I will do my very best
in whatever way you want ; and whether I succeed or not, I shall
never forget your kindness to me — about the greatest I have ever
received."
" Bravo !" cried l*<>lly, with a sort of sob — indeed, nothing
could equal this kind creature's intense sympathy witli everybody
and everything around her. " But do you know, Ted, what yoii
have to go through before you become an artist?"
MY FRIEND. 39
I professed ignorance ; and inwardly lioped that Polly did not
mean that I must grace the occasion by kissing her.
" There never yet," said she, " was an artist, or an author, or a
poet, or anybody who had to live by his wits, that was of any good
until he had met with a terrible disappointment in love. You
must have your heart half-broken, Ted, before you can do any-
thing. You know, they say that a reaper never does any good
until he has cut himself with the sickle ; so an artist must get
wounded and hurt in the same way before he discovers the way
to touch people. We must get your heart broken, Ted."
" Isn't it a lucky thing that there are so many women," said
Heatherleigh, " whom Providence seems to have appointed for the
purpose. I can easily supply him with any number of young per-
sons whose profession is to break your heart with the most charm-
ing air in the world. Let's see : I wonder whose house I ought
to take him to — to get him broken in, as it were. The air of
Lewison's drawing-room — I call his place the Esthetic Grotto —
is too fine and clear for a vigorous, strong flirtation ; and yet there
are some promising young executioners to be met with there.
You remember what Alfred de Musset says :
'J'aime encore mieiix notre torture,
Que votre me'tier de bourreau.'
There is Bonnie Lesley, as they call her, for example — "
"What?" I said, "the girl whose face you are constantly
sketching ?"
" Even so, young sir."
" If she is like your copies of her, she must be something bet-
ter than what you say."
" Oh, she is pretty enough, and sweet enough, doubtless," said
he. "At least, I presume she is good-looking. In my young
days, you could be sure of a woman's being beautiful, because you
had a chance of seeing her face."
" I am certain," said Polly, " you have painted her face oftener
than she has done. I saw lier once in Regent's Park — recognized
her directly. I should fall in love with her if I were a man."
" Very likely," said Heatherleigh, " and, if you were a man,
you would probably regret it. However, I am glad to hear you
say a kind word for her, Polly. You women are so very dis-
trustful of each other."
40 KILMENY.
" I suppose it's because we know ourselves so well," said Polly,
with a sigh.
Heatherleigh now rang the bell, and begged his landlady to
send up supper. It was soon on the table — cold mutton, pickled
onions, water-cresses, cheese, and half-and-half, with a small bot-
tle of stout for Polly's exclusive use.
Polly Whistler and I frequently supped there ; and at these
modest entertainments the girl really made a most charming com-
panion. She had an inexhaustible fund of good spirits ; and she
had a playful, ingenious wit that I have never seen approached by
any other woman. Of course, the brilliant and sharp and odd
things she was constantly uttering lost none of their effect by the
freedom of her manners, or by a half-dramatic trick she had of
giving them point and expression ; and yet there was never a trace
of rudeness or bad taste in anything she said or did. Heather-
leigh used to lie back in his big wooden chair, and listen with a
sort of lazy enjoyment and paternal forbearance to her rapid talk,
her bright laughter, and her shrewd and humorous hits. He, too,
in his indolent fashion, would often meet her half-way in these
sarcastic comments on men, women, and the accidents of life.
She used to laugh and talk and jibe for the mere pleasure of
amusing her companions and herself ; but you could see that in
his lazy epigrams upon human nature there was just a touch of
bitterness — as if, unconsciously to himself, he was exhibiting
marks of that old and useless struggle against the hard, resisting
mass of the world. There was a half-concealed pungency about
his wit that made you think he was scarcely himself aware of its
acrid flavor; and to one who was accustomed to his ways, his say-
ings had the unusual merit of appearing to be dragged from him.
I never saw him talk for effect — even in trying to amuse a girl,
when a man is scarcely expected to be accurate, honest, or sensible.
He and Polly used to relish these quiet little meetings keenly ;
and 1 — why 1 thought there never were iti the world two people
who enjoyed themselves so thoroughly and in so innocent a fash-
ion, who were so good-natured and disinterested and frank and
kind to everybody, high and low, whom they met. Rut I knew
they were exceptions; for the average of human nature was as
yet represented to me by Wcavle.
Then we went to see Polly home. She lived just round the
corner, in Albany Street, l)ehind Regent's Park ; and when she
MY FRIEND. 41
bade us good-bye, slie said she sliould some day go to see my
picture in the Academy. The words thrilled through me, and for
a moment I could see nothing of the dark houses and the pave-
ment, and of my two companions — but instead a great room fill-
ed with fashionable folks in splendid attire, all come to look at
the rows of brilliant pictures. If I could but get a modest corner
there ! I said to myself, with a strange throb — and if, by chance,
my obscure and little effort were to be glanced at, even for a mo-
ment, by —
" Thank you, Polly," said I, with the old consciousness falling
down on me again ; " my work has already been seen on the
Academy walls, and I suppose it will be again — on the frames."
So we turned away, Heatherleigh and I, and walked carelessly
onward. It was a beautiful night, still and mild, with a full moon
shining on the pale fronts of the tall houses that lie along the north
side of Regent's Park, and glittering here and there on the glossy
leaves of the young birches. There was almost no one to be seen
along the white pavements ; but occasionally we passed a house
the windows of which were lit up, gleaming warm and red into
the pale gray light outside. We walked around Regent's Park
and Primrose Hill, and along the Finchley Road towards the
neighborhood of Ilampstead ; Heatherleigh talking of many things
— of the project he had proposed to me, of Polly Whistler, and,
latterly, of that old dead love of his, and of all the beautiful hopes
and aspirations that lay buried in her grave. He seldom talked
of her ; when he did, there was something to me almost terrible
in witnessing the emotion of this strong man — of the piteous way
in which he used to look back and wonder how the world could
have compassed this cruel and irremediable thing that was to haunt
the rest of his life with its shadow. And yet there was a sweet-
ness in the memory of it, I think, as I think there is in the mem-
ory of all our great sorrows — so long as these have not been the
result of our own wilfulness or folly.
" Come," he said, " let us talk of something else. Do you know
I regard Polly Whistler as the most heroic little woman I know ?
How Polly would laugh if you were to tell her she was a heroine.
Did you hear, just as we walked off, an angry screech of a wom-
an's voice from inside the house ?"
" Yes."
"That note of kindly welcome was sounded by her mother,
42 KILMENY.
who, I suppose, has returned from her concert in a state of intox-
ication. Fred Ward told me this morning of the frightful per-
secution the girl suffers at the hands of this woman, who spends
all her earnings, and threatens her if she does not bring home more
money. When she is in one of her drunken fits, she follows the
girl through the streets, and goes up to the studios after her, and
insists upon getting money."
" Fred Ward," said I, " must have been putting more imagina-
tion into his story than he ever did into one of his pictures. How
is it Polly never hinted anything of the kind, but, on the contra-
ry, has always spoken very generously and nicely about her ' old
woman?' How is it that the old woman never pestered you for
money ?"
"There's the odd thing," said he. "You know Polly only sits
to three or four fellows, all of whom I know. Every one of them,
it seems, is familiarly acquainted with the mother, except myself;
and Ward told me that Polly had made very great sacrifices that
I might not know, and begged them all not to tell me. Indeed,
the old woman, it seems, holds up a visitation to my studio as the
highest threat she can use, and Polly will do anything rather than
that I should learn what sort of a mother she has got. Ward
says it is time that this terrorism should cease, and that I ought
to explain to Mother Whistler that she had better drop it. He
says, too, that the girl's conduct towards her mother is simply ad-
mirable — in kindness and forbearance and good-nature. But now
I can look back and explain a good many things about Polly that
used to puzzle me sometimes."
" Well," I said, " if I were you, I should not tell her that I knew.
The girl doesn't want you to think ill of her mother; give her her
own way."
" I'll consider about it," he replied ; " but if I could get a pri-
vate word with Mrs. Whistler, at some sober moment, I should
like to tell her what might be the result of her conduct upon a
girl less determined in character than poor Polly."
It was nearly one o'clock when wc drew near Primrose Hill
again. The streets were now quite deserted, and there was scarcely
a light to be seen in any of the windows of the tall, pale houses.
As we came around by Albert lload, however, we observed one
house in which the lower rooms were yet lit up. Heathcrlcigh
crossed over, and we paused in front of the railings.
IN regent's park. 43
" That is the Esthetic Grotto," he whispered ; " I wonder who
are inside at present ?"
The windows were open and the Venetian blinds were down ;
the latter, from their sloping position, showing only gleaming lines
of the roof and chandeliers inside. Presently a girl's voice was
heard — a pure and high soprano, that rose clearly and fully above
the delicate rippling accompaniment of the piano. In the stillness
of the night we heard every tone and modulation of the exquisite
voice, and I, for one, stood entranced there, drinking in the beau-
tiful, touching melody. .
" I think it is Schubert's," said Heatherleigh ; " the Lewisons
are mad about Schubert."
At length the song was finished, and the blank stillness that
followed struck painfully on the ear.
" They are unusually late to-night," said Heatherleigh. " They
keep open house every evening, for everybody who has musical or
literary or artistic tastes. The place is a perfect den of big and
small celebrities, and sometimes they have the most brilliant little
gatherings."
After a moment, he said, with a smile —
"Do you know who was singing that German song, just now?"
" How should I ?"
" It was Bonnie Lesley, as they call her."
CHAPTER V.
IN regent's park.
On the first morning that I walked up Tottenham Court Road
towards Heatherleigh's studio, with the old shadow of Weavle re-
moved from over me, I felt that the world had grown immeasura-
bly wider. It was the morning of the first of May, and all the
sweet influences of the season were added to this one supreme sen-
sation of breadth and life, and a joyous and active future. I im-
agined myself then going to conquer the world. I felt the delight
of anticipation tingling through me. I straightened up my shoul-
ders and sniffed the fresh morning air, which was sweet and grate-
ful even in this dingy district, I clenched my fists, brought them
44 KILMENY.
up to my chest, and sliot tliein out again as if I were knockin"
down a Wcavle on each side. To my honor and surprise, I found
tliat, as a matter of fact, I had in my blind exultation dealt a severe
blow to an elderly gentleman, who had been crossing the street,
and was just about to step on the pavement.
" You great, lumbering idiot !" he said.
I turned and made the most ample and profuse apologies, which
he cut short with —
" Go to the—"
I did not hear him complete the sentence as he angrily turned
away, but I can imagine how it ended. Yet I would have braved
any amount of anger to hear those words "great, lumbering," ap-
plied to me. Was it, then, that I might not be so deficient in bod-
ily presence as I had imagined? I regarded myself in the window
of a shoe-shop. I did not cut a distinguished figure — that was
clear. I was obviously taller than the old gentleman whom I had
hurt in a sensitive place, but then he was of the l>arrel order of
human architecture. For the rest, I had not much in my appear-
ance on which to pride myself. There was a certain lean and
hungry look on my pale face, which the staring dark eyes and
rather beak-like nose did not diminish. By accident, my hair had
been allowed to grow long, and, as I looked at myself in this ex-
temporized mirror, I could compare myself to nothing so much as
a hungry Italian refugee, who had lost some notion or idea when
he was young, and spent the rest of his life in wistfully trying to
recall it. TMctured against the rows of shining boots, my face
must have seemed that of one unsatisfied, meditative, melanclK)ly,
and perhaps a trifie older-looking than I ought to have been at my
years.
"Good-morrow to the youthful Apelles," said Ileatherleigh,
when I entered. " You have come betimes. 1 presume you
mean to set to work immediately."
lie was lying in his big easy-chair, his leg over the one arm of
it, a clay pipe in his mouth, a volume of Bain in his hand, the break-
fast things still on the table. lie certainly had not washed, and
you could only say by way of courtesy that he had dressed.
" If you j)lease," I said.
I felt very nervous all the same, and looked timidly around to
sec if there was anything I fancied I might be able to do for him.
I glanced at the picture which was on his principal easel. It was
IN regent's park. 45
a remarkably clever study of a lady of Charles ll.'s time, seated
in a high-backed chair, with a couple of spaniels playing at her
feet. There was absolutely no idea or aim whatever in the picture ;
he had merely taken this pretty and cleverly painted face, and sur-
rounded it with a few appropriate accessories.
" What do you think of that ?" he said.
" I don't see what you mean by it," I answered, frankly.
" I will tell you, then. I mean money by it. It is a sketch
I made for the market some eight months ago. I had the good
sense to be ashamed of it, and turned its face to the wall. I took
it down this morning, and mean to finish it — why ? do you think?"
Of course, I had no idea.
" Because Professor Eain has just been pointing out to me that
I have a natural genius for being happy. In the country, I have
the keen pleasure of Self-conservation — the storing up of physical
health ^nd nervous energy ; in the town, I have the indolent pleas-
ure of Stimulation — drawing upon that store of superfluous vital-
ity. If Stimulation were out of the question, and all our pleasures
only increased our health ! As it is, however, it seems to me, my
Pupil, that I have not been balancing the two — that I must have
more of Self-conservation ; and as I propose, consequently, to go
into the country, I took down that picture to find the means."
" I shall be very glad, Master, if you will instruct me in Philos-
ophy as well as in Art," I said.
" That notion has just occurred to me. But then, you see, the
old teachers of philosophy were accustomed to talk to their dis-
ciples under the trees and in the leafy alleys of Academus; and,
accordingly, the best thing I think we can do this fine morning is
to take a walk in Regent's Park. What do you say ?"
" It is for you to decide, of course," I answered ; but the notion
of thus being able to walk out anywhere in the hours which ought
to be devoted to work was thoroughly bewildering to me. Nor
could I throw off an impression that there was something wrong
in the proposal ; and that, if we did go out, we should be
" caught."
" I must dress," he said, getting up out of the chair ; " and,
meanwhile, I will put you on your trial. You see I have sketched
in behind the lady that screen over there. If you like, you can
try your hand at finishing it — keeping it very quiet. Use my
palette until I get you one for yourself. There, sit you down."
46 KILMENV.
He left, and I sat down before the picture with fear and trem-
bling. My hand shook so that I could scarce squeeze the color
out of the tubes ; and my eyes seemed to throb and burn. The
screen was an old, tattered thing, which had at one time been cov-
ered with colored maps. Now all these had subsided, until the
surface was a mass of cool grays, with here and there just a touch
of warmer tint, where Africa or England was vaguely visible. It
was an admirable bit of background ; but how was I to at-
tempt it ?
I wonder if Heatherleigh purposely delayed his return. At first,
it seemed to me that every moment the door leading into his small
bedroom would open, and that he would walk over to the picture
to see that I had been too nervous to begin it at all. Then the
brush began to work a little better ; and although my eyes still
throbbed and burned so that at times the whole screen and room
faded away and left only a spotted mist there, I felt, rather than
saw, that the screen in the picture was beginning to look somewhat
like the actual screen beyond.
This was not by any means the first time I had attempted paint-
ing in oil. Many a chance effort I had made to wrestle with the
stronger medium; although I always returned to water-color as
that which I could use most easily. It is well known that tyros
paint more presentably in oil than in water — their experience of
both being equal ; but I had dabbled in water-color for two or
three years, while my acquaintance with oil was exceedingly lim-
ited. From the moment, however, in which I had accepted
Heatherleigh's ofifer, I had industriously experimented with a few
of the cheapest tubes and some bits of board, until I could fairly
copy the different colors and hues of the objects around me. Yet
to have my clumsy manipulation placed exactly side by side with
Heatherleigh's dexterous and clean touch was a crue! test.
At length the door opened, and he walked across the room.
The brush fell from my hand, and I had nearly dropped niyself,
for mv head was swimming with the superlative concentration of
the last half-hour. Very probably, too, my face was a trifle paler
than usual ; for I noticed that he regarded me curiously before he
looked at the picture at all, and that he kindly placed his hand on
my shoulder as he proceeded to scan the wild effcjrt I had made.
I felt myself grow hot and cold alternately in that moment of
dire suspense; and when lie saiil, with a tone of surprise, ^' ]iy
IN regent's park. 4Y
Jove !" it was as if a blow of some sort had struck me. I dared
scarcely say to myself what that exclamation might mean.
Then he said, quietly and cheerfully —
" Whatever made you try to paint in all that accurately in five
minutes ? Of course, it won't do, you know ; but the effort you
have made, and the result you have gained, in a few minutes, is
astounding."
I rose up, keeping firm hold — I know not why — of the brushes
and the palette.
" Do you think," I said — " do you consider — "
Then I felt that I was reeling, and knew vaguely that he put
out his arm quickly to catch me. After that a blank. When I
came to, I found that I had fallen backward, striking my head
against the table. Heatherleigh led me into his bedroom, and
made me bathe my head in cold water. After a few minutes I
was all right.
" Come," said he, with a quiet smile on his face, " take my arm,
and let's go for a walk in Regent's Park."
We went out into the cool, fresh air ; and I was proud of the
exhaustion I felt, for I knew it had been incurred in that one ter-
rible effort to cut forever the chain that bound me to Weavle and
the old hard times. But was it of any avail ? He had never an-
swered my question ; and I dared not ask it again, lest he might
tell me, in tone if not in words, that I could never be useful to
him — that the dreams I had already begun to dream were vision-
ary, impossible, hopeless.
After a few minutes' silence he said to me, gravely and kind-
" If you don't find some means of curbing that impulsive and
impetuous will of yours, I fear your life will be neither a long one
nor a happy one. If you suffer your temperament to lead you
into the habit of desiring successive things so earnestly that you
lose all consciousness and judgment in striving for them, you will
find yourself subjected in life to a series of the bitterest disappoint-
ments, and these revulsions might have a disastrous effect on one
so sensitive as you are. There is nothing of an intensely dramatic
or tragic kind that I can imagine as being unlikely to fall in your
way. You are the sort of man, for example, who, if I mistake
not, would coolly and deliberately blow out your brains if some
woman you had set your heart on proved unfaithful to you."
48 KILMENV.
" You iinao;ine all that," I said, " because T tried liard to paint
the screen. But 1 didn't know that 1 had been trying hard until
it was all over."
" Precisely," he said ; " you entirely abandon yourself to a pass-
ing mood or fancy. I liave remarked it several times. Now
what would be the result if you happened to set before you one
supreme aim — if you staked all your chances upon one throw ?"
" In what direction do you mean ?" I asked.
" In any. You say to yourself, / will never cease striving until
I have painted a Madonna to eclipse RaphaeVs, or / will win such
and such a ivoman, or die. You are just as likely as not, in eitlier
case, to aim at something quite impossible. The result? — wlien
you find yourself cheated in your notions of your own power,
when you find the chief object of your life removed from you,
what is more likely than that you will suddenly put an end to a
wretched failure — by a pennyworth of poison."
"You want me to confine myself to easy possibilities?"
"To possibilities."
" Who is to tell me what is possible to me ? Suppose I liave
an unconscionable craving, tliat might make me hope to win this
or that prize? Or don't you think that one may feel the delight
of striving for anything — however impossible — a greater happiness
tiian the achieving of some small immediate success? You your-
self — don't you constantly aim at something ni-w and unknown in
a picture, and chance the failure ?"
" No, I don't," he said, with a laugli. " I know very accurately
what 1 can do ; but I am out of court in the matter. I know that
1 am myself a failure ; and the knowledge doesn't bother me. All
I say to you is this — take heed not to set your desires too high ;
for to y<ju a disap[)()intment miglit be a catastrophe of a sudden
and final kind."
For me to set my Icsires too high ! I inwardly laughed at the
notion. Was it not enough that 1 was permitted at times to break
through the hard conditions of life by dreaming? — by dreaming
of tilings wliich were possible to others, but which were to me
f<jrever impossible.
So we went around and entered Regent's l*ark. llcatherlcigli
kept talking of all sorts of tilings — following, as usual, the most
diverse moods of morbid introspection, of gay raillery, of bitter
sarcasm. Yet all this was colored by a bit)ad, warm light oi
IN regent's park. 49
kindliness which, I suppose, partly owed its orig-in to the evident
enjoyment he had in exercising- himself in any way. Life was
really a happiness to him ; and his sharp speeches, and brooding
analj'ses, and light-hearted jocularity were as great a delight to
him as the physical acts of breathing and seeing and walking — all
of which he enjoyed with an enjoyment that was at times just a
trifle too conscious. I do not believe that he had a single care to
cloud his mind. lie had long ago cut all connection with what-
ever relatives he may have had ; and was free from necessary
friendships and forced duties. His few acquaintances were of his
own manner of living ; and he could obtain their society just in
such proportion as he chose. lie could make more money than
he needed ; and the labor was neither painful nor irksome to him.
He had no particular aim or desire to torment him ; he rejoiced
in his physical strength, in his mental clearness, as he rejoiced in
the flavors of food and beer and tobacco. How a man, living un-
der such circumstances, failed to become a selfish misanthrope, I
never could understand.
"Don't you ever mean to marry ?" I said to him, this morning,
as we were passing the Zoological Gardens, and were coming in
view of the broad park, that lay green and beautiful in the May
sunlight.
" Sometimes I wish somebody would take the trouble to marry
me," he said. " I think I am in the position of a good many un-
married men. They know they could be very affectionate and
contented if they married ; but they know the bother and peril
of looking out for a wife, and don't care to run the risk. You
glance around the circle of your acquaintance, and see a number of
more or less sensible, pretty, and well-meaning girls. You can't
marry one of them without spending ever so much time and anxi-
ety in finding out her disposition, and also without encountering
the nuisance of rivalship. Then yuu may either find yourself mis-
taken and be disgusted with your waste of trouble, or you may
really fall in love with her, and find her perverse or inclined to
marry somebody else — and so on ; while all the time you are los-
ing the best years of your life in this perplexing and irritating,
and often profitless search. Of course, I am talking of men who
are a little anxious about the sort of woman they mean to marry.
At your age I fell in love with everything that wore ear-rings, and
would have married anybody capable of saying ' I will.' "
C
50 KILMENV,
" y et men do marfv," I said, " in spite of all the current talk."
" Oh, yes," he said, " in the mean time they do. But if our
young men cultivate their present notions and habits, we shall
soon have this world getting so far to be like heaven that there
shall be in it neither marrying nor giving in marriage. At pres-
ent—"
Either he paused or I forgot to listen. For some minutes I
had been gazing vaguely at two figures which were walking slowly
towards us under the trees. While they were yet a long way off,
the lines of sunshine falling across the path from between the
branches gleamed upon them from time to time ; and it seemed
to me that the materials fur a very pretty French picture were
there before us — in the straight road, the long and narrowing av-
enue of trees, the bars of sunlight, and the fashionably dressed
ladies who were walking together. Without thinking of them, I
was admiring the contrast in their costume. One of them wore a
tight-fitting dress of black silk and crape, with a rather lengthy
train that added height and dignity to her somewhat short and
slight figure. Even at that distance I could see that she walked
with a wonderful ease and grace, that made the girlish little person
look ahnost majestic. Incedit reglnd. Her companion, on the
other hand, actually shone in the sunlight; for she wore a gauzy
white dress, the upper and tight portion of which was touched
liere and there with bright blue, while the under part revealed a
bold dash of color in the gleam of a blue silk petticoat. Then
she wore a small white hat, with a blue feather in it ; and she had
a bit of blue near her neck ; while she carried in her arms a white
Pomeranian dog, which, like herself, wore a collar of blue satin
ribbon, with absurdly big bows. She had profuse golden hair, and
a bright complexion that the twilight of her white parasol scarcely
dimmed. Indeed, so very brilliant and beiiUtiful was this appari-
tion, that as the belts of sunlight through which slic passed broad-
ened, and as she came nearer, I could not keep from regarding the
harmonioiis taste of the dress and the singular effect the wliole
fio-ure produced in the alternate green shadow and yellow sunlight
— insomuch that I paid no attention to the other lady by her side.
I suppose we all of us often look at })eople without seeing them
— stare in their faces, while thinking of something else, and are
yet quite guiltless of intentit)nal rudeness. I know that I had
fallen into a sort of trance, and heard nothing more of Heather-
IN REGENT S PARK. 51
/eigli's voice, when I suddenly observed a smile of surprise appear
on the face of the girl in white and blue. I knew, rather than
saw, that Heatherleigh lifted his hat, and went forward to speak
to her. At the same time, as I was naturally passing on, I caught
a glimpse of a pair of eyes that had been looking at me. I only
remembered, a minute afterwards, when the cold shiver had gone
out of me, that these dark, luminous, gray-blue eyes had also a
certain surprise in them — perhaps a kindly surprise, and inquiry.
Heatherleigh stopped and talked to the two girls for several
minutes, and I was glad. I never could understand the easy dex-
terity with which the matter-of-fact people in the Scriptures en-
countered the most startling and unexpected things — hovy this
man answered directly and frankly the questions of an angel ;
how the other accepted some great miracle as a thing of course,
and only to be considered as getting him food or water. Why
were they not wholly paralyzed and overwhelmed with wonder?
why did they not instinctively beg for time to comprehend and
realize the mystery before them ?
" What a singular coincidence !" said Heatherleigh, laughing,
when he came up. " I was just going to speak of her in connec-
tion with your marriage topic. Do you know who that was?"
" The lady in blue and white ?"
" Yes."
" No, I don't."
" That, Master Apelles, is the young person to whom Polly and
I mean to hand you over in order that your artistic education may
be completed. That is she whom her numerous admirers and
victims call ' Bonnie Lesley.' "
" You have warned me effectively," I replied.
*' That may have been a mistake of mine, from an artistit; point
of view," he said, laughing. " But perhaps if I were to tell you
why I like to run down that young creature, you might be in-
clined to take up the cudgels for her, and impound me. After
all, she is a very nice sort of girl. She is staying at the Lewisons'
at present, as I imagined when I heard her sing there. I fancy
she lives there chiefly now. I told her the service I wanted of
her as regards you. She was very willing ; and hopes you will
go with me to the Lewisons' house on Thursday evening. It is
only one of their ordinary evenings — a?sthetics and mild refresh-
ments. I promised you would come with me."
52 KILMENY.
I looked at lilin : I thought he was joking; but he was not.
" One or two young men about town come in evening dress,"
he continued ; " but Lewison doesn't care about that element, and
discourages it. His wife likes it, for the sake of her young-lady
friends, and of course where Bonnie Lesley is, there young fools
are sure to be."
" What did she do to you," I said to him, " that you should
be so bitter about her ?"
" She once made me believe that she had a heart ; but I dis-
covered afterwards that it was only an organ with two openings,
situated in a cavity of the chest, for the convenience of the
lungs."
" I fancy I can understand."
" No ; don't mistake me ; Bonnie Lesley and I were never
lovers. But of that anon. What I want to say to you is this:
mind, in speaking to her, not to ask her too particularly where
she has lived — I mean, in what particular place she was brought
up."
" Where do her parents live ?"
" She hasn't any."
" 11 er relations, then ?"
" She hasn't any. I don't think she ever had either the one or
the other. 1 imagine that on some hushed, warm afternoon in
summer, when everything was lazy and quiet and solemn, some-
body down in some still valley saw a small angel, dressed in blue
and white, with a tiny white hat and a blue featlur, drop quietly
down from the clouds. And she has grown np to be Bonnie
Lesley, and the hat has grown with her. Really there seems to
be a good deal of vagueness about her antecedents. For myself,
I only know that she is acciiiainted with some parts of France
and Germany. Whoever called her Bonnie Lesley must have sup-
posed she was Scotch ; but, if she is, she must take uncommon
pains to conceal the fact. She has lier notions of form and color,
too, has that young woman. Do you know what she said of
you ?"
" No."
"Tliat you might, with proper dressing, resemble either Dante,
Schiller, or Vandyke. She preferred Vatidyke herself; and I
promised to get you to buy a big brown beaver, with abroad and
dashintr rim."
IN regent's park. 53
*' Tell me honestly — did you or she speak of me at all ?" I said.
*' I give you my word of honor that she expects to see you at
the Lewisons' on Thursday next."
" What did the lady who was with her say ?"
" The girl in black ? Nothing particular. By the way, I did
not catch her name when I was introduced to her."
" I can tell you that," I said : " it is Miss Hester Burnham."
" What? — the girl who has got the big house down in that val-
ley you are constantly talking about ?"
" Yes. My father is her gamekeeper. I suppose she, too, is
staying at the Lewisons', and I dare say you would consider it rath-
er a good joke if I were to go there and meet her on equal terms !"
" Monsieur, you mistake. When you enter the Esthetic Grot-
to you leave all such considerations behind. Besides, what does
it matter to you whether your father is Miss Burnham's keeper,
or the devil, or a bishop ? You are an artist. I have given you
the royal accolade. You are the equal of all men upon the earth,
even if your purse be rather short, and your reputation nothing
to speak of. But if I had known that the quiet little girl was
Miss Burnham, I should have looked at her attentively. I only
know that she had singularly fine eyes, and a soft and pretty voice."
I was unwilling to let him imagine that because my father was
a gamekeeper (though even that suggested the propi-iety of my
not meeting Miss Burnham) I did not wish to go to the Lewisons'
house. So I told him the whole story of that visit to Burnham,
which was yet fresh and keen in my memory. When I had
finished, he looked at me curiously, and said —
" You are a strange creature. I can't make you out."
" If you had been in my place," I asked, " wouldn't you have
felt as I felt ?"
" I should have laughed at the whole affair. I should not be
glowing with indignation and anger and wrath as you are now.
Come, suppose we go to Lewisons' on Thursday. Suppose we
beg Miss Burnham to rebel against her womanly instincts, and
speak the truth for once. Suppose we ask her — "
" If I go," I said to him (while I felt my face flush), " it will
be to meet her as an equal."
" Bravely spoken," said he, '* but you forget one thing : it is
very unlikely she will be there. The Lewisons' house is not a
hotel,"
54
CHAPTER VI.
THE .ESTHETIC GROTTO.
But long before Thursday evening my courage failed me. 1
had had wild ideas of revenge and self-assertion, and all the rest
of it ; but not even these would permit me to be guilty of an im-
pertinence ; and an impertinence I certainly considered the notion
of my being present as a guest in any house where Miss Burnham
was also a guest. I told Heatherlcigh I would not go.
In the mean time I applied myself earnestly to whatever snatch-
es of work he allowed me to undertake. Looking back at that
strange probationary period, I can scarcely say whether I had
grown bold enough to consider certain dreams of mine possible
of realization, or whether it was only the fever of impatience and
desire, begotten of a certain extravagant purpose that had nothing
to do with art, which drove me into constant and painful effort
to leap over necessary study and achieve definite results. Heath-
erleigh looked at the matter from a practical point of view.
" You are still laboring under the habit you aocpiired in Weavle's
place," he said, "of thinking that you must constantly be work-
ing. Why, absolute idleness is the very commissariat of art — that
fine, receptive calm in which you are storing up, unconsciously,
experiences and reflections for future use. You work as if Weavle
were constantly at your elbow."
Polly Whistler took great interest in my progress, and used
to tell the most audacious lies in tlie form of criticism upon my
labors. I was so very grateful for her encouragement and kind-
ness, that I was nearly falling in love with her. But Polly liad
a fine, practical way with her, which not only instantly detected
any such tentative lapse from the explicit relations existing be-
tween her and the people around her, but also set the matter
straight again with a surprising and business-like swiftness. Early
love, of this nebulous and uncertain kind, thrives upon secrecy,
but is killed by frankness; and Polly was uncommonly frank.
"I'll be a mother to you, if you like," she said to me, in her
THE .ESTHETIC GROTTO. 55
merry way, " but you mustn't fall in love with me, because then
you would get angry because I didn't fall in love with you. It
seems to me a pity that men and women can't be friends with
each other without falling in love and spoiling it all, becoming
jealous and cantankerous and exacting. Everybody should take
a lesson from Mr. Heatherleigh and me."
I looked up at her as she uttered the last words, and she inad-
vertently dropped her eyes.
To return, however, to the proposed meeting at Lewison's
house. On the Wednesday, Heatherleigh brought me a positive
assurance that Miss Burnham could not be present on the follow-
ing evening, and also Mr. and Mrs. Lewison's cards, with their
compliments. In the end I went.
This was my first introduction into anything like society ; and
for a time I could scarcely tell, myself, what my first impressions
were. The chief thing that struck me, I think, was the extreme
quiet and repose of the people. They seemed to live in a deli-
cate atmosphere, which caused small sensations to appear large to
them. They never had to emphasize what they had to say ; and
there was a general apprehension of minute points and appear-
ances which made me a little nervous. The very air of the room
seemed to be fine and watchful and critical.
Mr Lcwison was a tall, fair man, with a partially bald head,
dark blue eyes, and a red moustache. He had a peculiarly bland,
easy manner about him which puzzled me ; because it seemed to
lift him so entirely above that sphere of struggle and competi-
tion and passionate impulses with which I was familiar. I think
he had been in business ; at any rate, he was now living as a
private gentleman, his chief amusement being the making of his
house an open resort for all sorts of artistic and literary persons.
When Heatherleigh and I entered the large and brilliant room
there were not more than a dozen people there. Miss Lesley was
at the piano, singing a rather commonplace ballad in her splendid
style. She had an excellent soprano voice, tenderly expressive,
and perfectly cultivated. There was a gentleman by her side, in
evening dress, who was turning over the leaves of music for her.
I was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Lewison, and found myself
surprisingly at ease with both. Indeed, I found at this time that,
however apprehensive I miglit be about meeting any stranger, I
had no sooner begun to enter into conversation than my embar-
66 KILMENV.
rassment vanished. Besides, all tlie responsibilities and formal-
ities lay upon Heatherleigh.
AVhen Miss Lesley had finished sinoino; she took the arm of
the gentleman who had been waiting upon her, and crossed the
room towards us. I saw with dismay that her companion was
Mr. Alfred Burnham. Instinctively I glanced around the room
again to see that she whom I had feared to meet was not there.
No ; there was no one even resembling her.
The young man with the hook nose, the cold gray eyes, and
closely cropped yellowish hair moved off to another part of the
room, and Miss Lesley was left talking to Heatherleigh. Then
Heatherleigh introduced me to her ; and, somehow or other, I
found myself seated beside her on a couch, turning over a collec-
tion of proof-engravings.
I had listened to her voice but for a few moments, when I be-
gan to wonder how Heatherleigh could have spoken so unfairly
of the girl. Was it to surprise me with the contrast? She had
a face that, in spite of its full-grown and developed beauty — its
broad, fine tints, and dazzling complexion — was almost childlike
in its simplicity of expression : large, blue eyes of great tender-
ness of color and depth ; a full little mouth, rosy and plump ; a
somewhat low, smooth, Grecian brow ; and great masses of yellow
hair, that were artistically arranged and decorated with a broad
band of violet velvet. She wore a low white dress, with a train
of heavy violet satin, and there was around her white neck a thick
gold serpent, whose diamond head and ruby eyes, lying upon her
bosom, scarcely rose and fell as she breathed or laughed. That this
glorious creature should waste upon me — upon me alone — a sin-
gle thought or word would at another time have seemed incred-
ibly absurd to me ; but under the spell of her voice — which had
a scarcely perceptible lisp that was singularly quaint and attractive
— 1 forgot all considerations of whatever kind, and went on talk-
ing to her as if I were in a dream, only to hear the sound of her
voice in reply.
She asked me if I liked the song she had sung. Tiiere was
but one answer to the question : perhaps I did not limit my ex-
j)ressions as I ought to have done.
" I am so glad," she; said, with a pretty smile in her eyes, as
she played with an ivory paper-knife that she held in her tiny
white fingers, "because here, you know, th<y don't care for any-
THE .ESTHETIC GROTTO. 57
tiling but classical music. I feci very guilty when I sing any-
thing that is simple and commonplace, and I am so pleased to
discover that some particular one here or there has been enjoying
it. You like ballad-music, then ?"
" I never heard any kind of music, played on any kind of in-
strument, that I did not like," I said, enthusiastically, but with
absolute truth — " so long as it was in tune. 1 am like a con-
firmed drunkard, who will drink anything that will intoxicate
him ; and the effect that music has upon me is more intoxication
than anything else."
" But Mr. Heatherleigh says you are an artist. Why, with such
a passion for music, did you not become a musician V
" I am neither an artist nor a musician, nor anything else that
produces," I said ; " but there is no sort of art that I do not en-
joy. As for being a musician, I dare say I should keep in tune
if I played on the drum."
" But if you enjoy every kind of music," she said, with a kind
of childish wonder, " what is the value of a compliment from
you ? Perhaps you thought the song I sung rather stupid, al-
though you like the jingle of the music."
" Well, I did," I said.
"But you must prefer some kind of music to other kinds."
" I should have preferred hearing you sing a German song that
you once sung when I was listening outside at the railings."
" Ah, do you like German music ?" she said, turning her large
and beautiful eyes upon my face, and blinding me. " I love it.
I think it is charming."
Now "charming" is not exactly the adjective which I should
have applied to German music. I never could see prettiness in
the sea. But then Miss Lesley was a very young girl ; and very
young girls are not always apt at choosing the proper word to
describe their emotion or opinion. If you had looked at the per-
fect flower of her face, at its changing lights and tenderness, you
would have seen that the pathos and utter misery of the old Ger-
man ballads, and the mystic grandeur of the German classical
music, were somehow themselves expressed there.
We talked of all manner of things — of the pictures before us,
of artistic subjects generally, of the people in the room. On the
last point, she was very confidential ; describing not only the one
or two celebrities present, but also her own impressions of them.
eg
58 KILMENY.
What chiefly struck me about her was her childlike desire to ob-
tain information. Once or twice I turned and regarded her, to
see if she were making fun ; but no — the large, infantine blue
eyes still begged for the knowledge she had demanded. She was
so anxious to acquire a correct taste in artistic matters, she said.
She did not wish to appear stupid ; and she would be very grate-
ful if I would privately give her some little assistance.
" You see how I am situated," she said, as slie pretended to
turn over the engravings which neither of us heeded. " I meet
here men and women who arc profoundly learned in subjects of
which I know nothing. I dare not speak of these things and
confess my ignorance, or they would look upon me as a barba-
rian. Now, with regard to old pictures, the only rule I have been
able to make out for myself is to admire whatever is very dirty,
very ugly, and indistinguishable. In crockery — er\ame\\ed faience,
don't they call it ? — in china and glass, and such things, I find my
only chance is to seize upon what is more than usually absurd and
extravagant. If the lizards, frogs, and eels on the plate are very
ugly and ridiculous, then one is safe in praising it; and if the
drinking-glass be dirty, of a bad shape, and useless, it is certain to
be some rare specimen of Venetian or some such ware. I find it
the same in other things. If one is turning over a collection
of ferns, for instance, one may be certain that tlie ugliest and
most insignificant are the rarest. Of course, it is only my igno-
rance that makes me think so, and I should be so grateful to any
one who would kindly explain to me the real beauty of artistic
marvels. But then, it would have to be quite secret — this in-
struction. Wlien grown-up people learn to dance, you know,
they are very much ashamed of the process, and make it quite
private. Suppose you were to go and bring me the black thing
that Mr. Lewison has just put down — on the top shelf of that
Chinese whatnot."
It was a Japanese jug in bronze, with a curious handle, and a
long, slender spout. The design of the jug was very graceful,
and the workmanship renuirkably delicate. I fetclied it, and
showed it to Miss Lesley, who regarded it with that air of j)retty
wonder which was almost the typical expression of her face.
" Shall we go into the room opposite ?" she said. " They use
it a.s a sort of picture-gallery, and I suppose you have not seen
the picturi's,"
THE .f:STHETIC GROTTO. 59
She took my arm, and we left. The large room Ave found to
be lit up, although there was no one in it. There was an im-
posing array of pictures all around, and one of them especially
having caught my eye as I entered, we went towards it. I can
remember only that it was the figure of a young man, who sat
dejected and alone amid a curious flood of golden light. The
whole character of the painting was Greek ; and it was apparent-
ly decorative in treatment. Despite the obvious mannerism of it,
it was a work of singular power.
" Isn't it very pretty ?" she said, with the same expression of
gentle wonder on her face. " It was done by , who is a
great friend of 's, the poet, whom you will see here to-night,
most likely. It represents some story, Mr. Heatherleigh told me ;
but he did not say what it was."
" I know the story," I said, as soon as I heard the name of the
young poet, who had then just made his appearance, and who was
puzzling the sober-minded critics with the reckless impertinences
and wilfulnesses of his unmistakable genius.
" Will you tell it to me ?" she said, sitting down upon a couch.
" How can I translate it into prose ?" I answered. " However,
the story is of a young Scandinavian poet who dies. You find
him in the world of spirits, wandering about moody and discon-
tented. Odin comes to him, and asks him why he complains.
He says it is because the maiden whom he loved on earth must
now have grown old and gray and wrinkled, and when she, too,
comes into heaven, he will not be able to recognize her.
" ' Does she love you still ?' asks the god.
" ' Her love is like mine,' says the poet ; ' it is the same always.'
" So Odin sends him down to earth, and bids him seek out his
old love. He wanders about, and cannot find her. At last he
enters a chamber, and finds there the dead body of an old and
wrinkled woman, and they tell him that the dead woman is the
woman he loved. At first he is sorrowful, and then he is glad ;
for he says, ' I still love her ; and now I shall know her when I
get back to heaven.' So he bids farewell to earth again, and pre-
pares to meet his love grown old and careworn. But he is just
entering heaven when he sees before him, with a smile on her
face, the very maiden whom he knew in his youth. She comes
forward, and takes him by the hand ; but he is half-afraid, for he
thinks that Odin has played him a trick.
60 KILMENY.
" 'Are yon really my little Frida, whom I loved long ago?'
" ' T am your little Frida ; don't you know me V she asks.
" 'But I saw you lying dead; and you were old and gray,'
'' 'And don't you know,' she says, ' that the gods have decreed
that whoever loves truly shall always be young? I shall be al-
ways to you your little Frida, whom you loved long ago.' "
When I had finished my poor effort at conveying a notion of
the story, she sighed gently, and said —
" How very pretty ! l)o you know many of these stories?"
" No," I said, " for that is the story of a modern poem ; but
old Scandinavian and German poetry is full of such legends."
" I should like to listen to them forever," she said, with a sort
of pleased curiosity in her eyes.
Then we rose, and made a tour of the pictures. Her remarks
puzzled and perplexed mc. It was not that she made any great
mistakes, or talked nonsense; but that she seemed to have the
same appreciation of every quality of excellence. Nothing seemed
to affect her beyond a certain point ; and everything seemed to
reach that point. We crossed a very pretty hearth-rug, and I
drew her attention to the quiet and artistic pattern of it — so dif-
ferent from the staring bunches of red roses and wliite ribbon
which I had seen in upholsterers' windows. Well, she appeared -
to be as much struck l>y that as by a small moonlight scene of
Turner's, which was a wonder of idealized and yet literal faithful-
ness. Sometimes, when a particular picture seemed very striking
or powerful to me, I almost begged her to be a little more enthu-
siastic in her admiration, and then she always was — in words.
]]y this time we had grown quite familiar with each other. She
confessed afterwards that she was astonished by my easy frank-
ness ; but then I knew nothing of tlie reserve that society de-
mands, and she undoubtedly failed to impress it upon mc. She
so little overawed me tliat I began to wonder what most affected
her — on what side of her character she was most receptive and
impressionable. For pictures, it was clear, she cared little; or,
rather, she had a general liking, w liicli may have been indiscrim-
inate through imperfect education. But slic was never moved by
a picture ; and 1 gathered from her admissions that she had no
great preference for any kind of music. I wondered whether, on
hearing Mozart's Sonata in A sharp, or one of Mendelssolm's
splendifl choruses, she wouM only express a faint surj)rise, as she
THE .ESTHETIC GROTTO. &1
did on meeting a mastei-piece in painting. Or was it tliat all the
artistic side of her nature was cold and shallow, while in matters
of personal feeling she was receptive and warm and deep ?
Perhaps some temporary indisposition might have blunted her
artistic perceptions. I have noticed that people who were ready
to overpraise mediocre work, and be quite enthusiastic about
good work, when they entered a picture-exhibition, passed over
with indifference or cold distaste the very best pictures when they
drew near the end of their visit — so powerful an agent is phys-
ical fatigue in destroying the keenness of the' aesthetic sense.
Perhaps Miss Lesley had a headache, or was annoyed by the non-
receipt of a letter; and only out of courtesy expressed a vague
acquiescence when I ventured to praise a picture.
At all events, on the emotional side, no one could question the
generous width and tenderness of her nature. To look into her
eyes was to kill doubt. The warm love-light of them seemed to
thaw reserve, and draw you closer to her. You could not help
speaking in a low voice to her ; you could not help, if you looked
at her eyes, unbosoming your most secret confidences and beg-
ging for a return of this friendly frankness. She seemed to have
around her an atmosphere of warmth and kindliness — an atmos-
phere silent and delicious, that predisposed you to waking dreams.
To be near her was to breathe poetry ; and yet, when you re-
garded the statuesque beauty of her bust and neck and head, the
fine play of color and light in her complexion, the warm, supple
contour of her face, and the life and tenderness of her eyes, you
were puzzled to understand why this glorious woman should, even
in one direction, exhibit a hardness or thinness of character that
seemed so inconsistent with her soft and stately and yielding
beauty.
I was recalled to myself by hearing some voices, and when I
looked up (we had again sat down, and I was listening intently
to what she was saying) I found Heatherleigh's eyes fixed on me,
with a peculiar, mocking expression in them. He had been led
into the room by Mr. Lewison, who was talking to him ; but when
I looked up he was quietly regarding us both, with a sardonic
smile on his face. It was a smile that seemed to me to have
something demoniacal in it. Did he imagine, then, that I was in-
clined to play Faust to his Mepbistopheles ? No sooner had Miss
Lesley perceived their pi-esence than she asked me to take her
62 kiliSeny.
iuto the other apartment ; I gladly consented, and so we walked
across the room.
A little incident occurred as we were going out.
"Miss Lesley," said Mr. Lewison, "do you know why, accord-
ing to Mr. Heatherleigh, we ought to be thankful that we are
Christians ?"
" No," she said, simply.
" Because, if we were not, some other nation would probably
try to make us Christians."
She uttered a musical little laugh and passed on. But when we
had got outside into the hall she said —
" I do dislike conundrums. I never discovered the fun of a
conundrum even after it was explained to me."
" But that isn't quite a conundrum," I said, with some surprise ;
"he means that the process of being made a Christian against
your will is rather — "
" I beg you not to waste your time in trying to ex})lain a joke
to me," she said, laughing, but still with the most obvious candor
and honesty. " I assure you I never could understand the sim-
plest of them. People will not believe me; but I cannot even
understand the meaning or enjoyment of a pun. They show me
that they say two things, using the same word in each ; but I
don't see the fun of it — I don't see why they shouldn't use an-
other word. Don't you think me very stupid? Of course, I
know it is clever to make a pun; but, if I laugh at one, it is
merely as a compliment, as you are expected to admire a painting
you don't care for."
Then she seemed to recall herself, shrugged her shoulders slight-
ly, and laughed the pretty little laugh again.
" There are some people one cannot lielj) talking freely to ; and
perhaps I have been creating in your mind a notion that 1 am a
monster of ignorance and dulness. Is it so?"
Now I never could pay a compliment to a woman. If 1 liked
her, and admired this or that in her character, I could and always
did become enthusiastic, and was in nowise loth to let her know
my exaggerated oj)inion of her excellences. But absolutely to
pay a compliment, in the form of a compliment, to a woman who
drove me into it — no. I remained silent — perhaps a trifle vexed
that I could not easily fence off the question as any one accus-
tomed to the small word-warfare of society iniifjit easily have done.
THE ^ESTHETIC GROTTO. 63
Fortunately we were just entering the other room ; and so my
embarrassment was partly concealed.
" Why she has come after all !" exclaimed my companion.
The next moment 1 caught a glimpse of a small darkly dressed
figure ; and I knew that it must be Miss Burnham. I dared not look
her in the face — indeed, I scarcely knew what I did, as Bonnie Lesley
relinquished my arm and went forward to greet her friend. Was
it she or I who effected the separation ? I only know that I walk-
ed away, without once turning my head ; but I heard Hester Burn-
ham's voice, and I fancied a tall gentleman who was by her side
must be Colonel Burnham. I went to the other end of the room,
to a small table which .stood in a corner and was covered with
works in terra cotta, and there I busied myself partly with them
and partly with devising some means of escape. I had no time
to think of how I had been led into the trap ; my only desire was
to get out of it. It was clear that Miss Burnham had arrived un-
expectedly ; and I knew that in any case Heatherleigh would not
have intentionally deceived me ; so there was nothing for it but
to get quickly away from the possible inconveniences and annoy-
ances of this ill chance.
I could not walk out of the house and go home, without offer-
ing some apology or explanation to Mr. or Mrs. Lewison. But to
get out of the room was my first consideration ; afterwards I
could seek Heatherleigh and Mr. Lewison, and make some sort of
excuse.
I turned ; and there they were — those eyes ! She came forward
to me — she was alone — and held out her hand. Did not I remem-
ber the exact counterpart of this little scene, happening in my
mother's room long ago? There was the same friendly light in
the wonderful, wise eyes ; there was the same queenly ease and
grace in the position of the small figure — the same tender entreaty
in her voice, as she said —
" Have you not forgiven me yet ?"
And I was possessed by the same insufferable sense of clumsi-
ness and boorishness, as I stood there perplexed and embarrassed,
wishing the floor might open under me. Of course, I knew that
she wanted no forgiveness — that she did not imagine she had
done me any wrong. I knew that the solicitude of her voice and
the look in her eyes were but part of that polite training which
people in her position necessarily acquire by good example and
64 KILMENY.
tuition. It was lior sense of courtesy that made her come as a
beggar to me, and endeavor to put me at my ease by assuming an
attitude which was absurd. If she had accidentally hurt the feel-
ings of her coachman or cook, would she not have been equally
desirous to rectify the wrong ? And here was I, not able to meet
her on equal terms — not knowing in what fashion to put aside
this inversion of our natural and real relations. If I had been
educated to the fine sensitiveness and delicacy with which well-
bred persons treat such matters, I should have been able to let her
know that I understood an effort of courtesy which was prompted
by her sense of duty to herself — that I accepted it for what it was
worth, and held my position in the affair as nothing so long as
she was satisfied — that I did not mistake her humility, but rather
looked upon it as a species of proper pride.
All this passed hurriedly and confusedly through my mind, with
the painful conviction that she must be imagining that I took her
words literally. Imagine a man so unacquainted with the sym-
bolic usages of society as to take the phrase " your obedient ser-
vant," coming from a stranger, as literal, and presume upon it !
In lesser degree, such was the position I saw that I should assume
in Hester Burnham's eyes. Finally, I blurted out —
" You are very kind. Miss Burnham. But you know that you
have nothing to forgive. Why should you take the trouble to
recall that — that mistake?"
She looked at me for a second ; and I thanked God I had noth-
ing to conceal from those calm and searching strange eyes.
" You won't shake hands with me ?" she said.
It seemed to me that she sighed as she spoke. I could have
flung myself at her feet, had I not been vexed at the same moment
with the thought that this look of hers was another bit of that
delicate by-j»lay which an extreme .social courtesy demanded.
And it seemed to me monstrous that, merely to preserve her per-
sonal pride in being just and courteous to all persons, she should
go the length of talking to me, who must be an insignificant noth-
ing in her eyes, in a way that otherwise might have driven a man
mad. Had she but meant what her look and speech and tone
conveyed, I would have said to her, " You are too kind to one
such as I am. What can I give you in return for your kindness?
I have nothing of any value, except it be my life : if it will but
give you five minutes' pleasure, I will lay it with joy at your feet."
THE ESTHETIC GROTTO. 65
Wliat I did say was this —
" I hope you won't speak of it any more, Miss Burnham. It is
too small a matter for you to think twice about."
And as I did not consider it was for her and me to shake liands,
I did not offer her my hand.
She turned away then, a little proudly perhaps, and took tlie
arm of Mr. Alfred Burnham, who was coming towards her. Mrs.
Lewison came and sat down beside me. I don't know wliat she
talked about, for Hester Burnham was now singing.
Then I left the room, and found that Heatherleigh, with one or
two other men, were in the smoking-room up-stairs. Heather-
leigh was in an excellent humor ; and as he lay in a chair, with
his great frame stretched out, he poured forth a continual stream
of quaint and odd suggestions, happy repartees, and occasional
sharp sayings, that sometimes hit one or other of his companions
a little severely. For instance, when I entered, a young man, elab-
orately dressed and scented, was railing against women, quoting
ancient authorities to prove that women were regarded as of the
brute creation, and finally declaring that he believed them to be a
superior species of monkey. Heatherleigh was irritated, I could
see ; and no sooner had the philosopher advanced this opinion of
his, than Heatherleigh, with a sharp glance, said —
" That is why you don't marry, I suppose — fearing the ties of
consanguinity.''
Now there was a good deal more brutality than wit about this
remark ; but I constantly observed that, on this one subject of
woman, Heatherleigh never would suffer in his presence the little
affectations of cynicism which are common in ordinary talk. On
any other topic it was absolutely impossible to stir him into any-
thing like a temper. If you flatly contradicted every position he
took up, and went dead against his most favorite opinions, he
would lie with his head up in the air, and a quiet smile on his
face, as if be were balancing your theory alongside his own on
the point of his nose. He would play with your opinion as he
played with his own, and would put it into comical lights with an
easy grace and wit which were irresistible, because they were the
offspring of a fine fancy and a tender disposition. You might
tickle him all over, and he would only smile ; but when you spoke
sneeringly of women (as many of his bachelor artist acquaintances
were inclined to du) you pricked his eye, and then he would
66 KILMENV.
spring up and deal you a blow witli the utmost savageiy of wliicli
he was capable.
I wanted him to go home; but a message came at this moment
to the effect that sup])er was ready. Heatherleigli insisted on my
staying ; because, he said, Bonnie Lesley had complained to him
that I had run away from her, and because she expected me to
take her in to supper.
" Is there anything particularly laughable in that ?" I asked,
seeing that there was a curious smile on his face.
He looked at me for a moment.
" Well," he said, " men like to see other men innocent and
gullible, for it flatters their own astuteness. Of course, too, it
multiplies their cliances of existence. But you are so very, very
believing and simple, Ted, that you are a positive wonder. The
Midianitish woman has already captured you, merely by staring
at you."
I was very vexed to find myself incapable of replying to his
raillery ; but it was on Miss Lesley's account that I was vexed. It
seemed to me unfair that lleatherleigh should, even in joke, talk
of Bonnie Lesley as of some interested and deceitful woman, and
I could not help recalling my suspicion that something underlay
this fun — that Heatherleigli had some cause to feel spiteful against
her, and was thus revenging himself in a petty and unworthy way.
Nor was this impression lessened by some chance remarks made
by Miss Lesley herself, as I sat next her at supper.
" I don't believe," she said, " that artists have souls. I believe
that artists and actors and authors — all the people who liave to
live by art of any kind — sell their soul to the pul)lic, and leave
none of it for home use. They can assume various characters,
and pretend to have a regard for this or that, but it is only a
pretence. They are empty inside. They have neither a soul nor
a heart — they have sold both to the public, and live upon the re-
sult. Oh ! I know it."
" Do you mean — ?"
" Look at Mr. Heatherleigh," she continued. " He could act
being in love with any woman, and she might believe him, and
yet I am certain that his profession has taken it out of his power
to b(! seriously and honestly afFectionate towards anvbody in the
world."
"You arc (jiiite mistaken, then," I <:i]t\. " You will meet witli
THE ESTHETIC GROTTO. 67
very few men who are as generous and disinterested and affection-
ate as Heatlierleigli."
" Oh ! I am so glad to hear you say that," she replied, with
that air of pretty wonder which was so irritating, for it left you
in doubt as to whether she understood or believed or cared for
what you had been saying.
But it seemed to me that she knew, or fancied she knew, some-
thing more of Heatherleigh than she chose to express, and I hoped
that my true and honest friend had not suffered by some mis-
chance in her estimation. Indeed, I ventured to press my opinion
on the point, for it seemed to me almost painful that these two,
who had so much that was beautiful and lovable about them,
should be separated by some misunderstanding. She listened to
all I had to say, and appeared deeply interested. Nor had I any
desire to cut short my speech, for it was an indescribable pleasure
to me to watch everything I said reflected sympathetically in the
large and expressive eyes. The various phases of attention and
deprecation and astonishment that passed over them were so sin-
gularly beautiful. But a quiet astonishment was their normal ex-
pression, and it was so far normal that it seemed to answer what
you were saying, when she herself was thinking of something else.
She appeared to have some curiosity to hear what you said, and
every new sentence seemed to convey another pretty little surprise
to her, but in time you began to see that all your efforts to inter-
est her only awoke the same result. It was not that she was pre-
occupied or absent. But she seemed so contented with herself (as
surely she had a right to be), that she cared only for the pleasure
of sitting still, and being tickled by small novelties of informa-
tion. I grew to wonder whether, if a lightning-bolt shot past her,
and split the mantel-piece beyond, she would do more than turn
the big, child-like eyes upon the place, and regard it with a bright
and pleased curiosity.
On our way home Heatherleigh did not choose to speak about
Miss Lesley, and I was rather glad of it. But he questioned me
about Hester Burnham, and I told him minutely and accurately
everything that had occurred.
" You are a perpetual conundrum to me," he said ; " I can't
make you out. I never saw such exaggerated self-depreciation
joined to such insufferable pride."
68
CHAPTER Vir.
SOME OLD FRIENDS.
I FEAR it will be impossible for nie to convey to the reailei" any
sense of my great enjoyment when it first began to dawn upon
me that I was really of use to Heatherleigh. Those who have
been delicately brought up, with wide possibilities around them,
with ease in money matters, and innumerable avenues of pleasur-
able activity lying in front of them, cannot understand how hard
and gloomy and dismal was the pall which had hung over my
life, and tlie presence of which had always seemed to be inevita-
ble. And now there was a rent overhead, and a stirring of free
wind ; and a ray of Heaven's own sunlight fell upon me, and
found me without words to express my gratitude.
Heatherleigh, in his lazy way, used to make fun of me (in or-
der to protect himself) whenever I ventured to hint of the debt I
owed him. Generous to a fault, he shrank with an exceeding
sensitiveness from being considered generous, and you could not
have made him more uncomfortable tlian by sliowing him what
you thought of his goodness. So I nursed my great debt to-
wards him in my heart ; and wondered if ever 1 should have the
chance of revealing my respect and admiration and affection for
this good man. I used to tliink that if he and J were to love
the same woman, and she loved me, I shtiuld leave her, for his
sake.
" What an irritating fellow you are!" he said to me, one day,
wlien I was beseeching him to go on with some work, that 1
might get something to do. " Why can't you take life easily ?
Nobody will thank you — certainly not I — f(U- worrying yourself
to death."
"But I cannot lielp it," I said. " Weasel put tlie notion into
my blood — and it will always remain in it — that I ought never to
be a moment idle in working-hours. I can't help it. I fee/
wretched unless when 1 am working; and if I sit talking to you
I have an uneasy feeling that some one may open the door, glide
SOME OLD FRIENDS. 69
in on slippers, and scowl and scold. I never enjoy taking a
walk in the daytime — T expect to see some one somewhere
who will ask me why I am doing nothing while all men are
working."
" You are like some unfortunate wretch who has been all
his life in prison, and who sickens and dies in free air for want
of his ordinary employment of scraping the wall with his finger-
nail."
" This morning, coming down here at half-past ten, I saw Wea-
sel in the street, and I half expected him to come up and ask why
the devil I was so late, and if I wasn't ashamed to be cheating
mv master. Just now, I'd much rather work than sit talking
like this."
" Confound you, do you think I am going to pander to your
diseased appetite ? If you must work, work at home, and don't
bother me."
" I have been working at home."
Then I told him all about it. I had been trying a picture on
my own account for some months. I began it in the early part
of the year, and, as the daylight widened, I rose earlier and ear-
lier, until now I got between five and six hours at it every morn-
ing before I hurriedly swallowed my breakfast. I used to get up
at four, paint until ten, and then eat something or other and be
down at Heatherleigh's studio by half-past. There were many
reasons why I did not wish Heatherleigh to know about my la-
boring with this picture, chief of them being that I did not wish
him to see it until it was in some sort presentable ; although, had
I shown it to him, I might have spared myself an immense deal
of toil and vexation. I was working without tools, to begin with.
I had to place one chair on the top of another to form an easel ;
then the canvas was tied to the back of the upper chair by a bit
of string, while I sat on a stool. The colors I had bought were
of the cheapest kind ; but I had acquired under Heatherleigh
considerable experience in heightening and tempering dull or
crude pigments. Of course, I had no models ; but the recollec-
tion of form was always easy to me. And yet the amount of
pain, physical and mental, that the incessant struggle with my
own ignorance and inexperience gave me, was indescribable.
Again and again I painted portions over — here rubbing out the
damp work of the previous day, there coating over what was too
70 KILMENY.
dry for that operation. It is conceivable that the canvas g;ot into
a deplorable state ; and at last I drove a knife straight through
it. It was my second effort at the same picture which was on
the stocks when Heatherleigh spoke ; and of it, such as it was,
more may be said hereafter.
In the mean time Heatherleigh besought me to moderate the
vehemence of my labor. He professed himself unable even to
supply sketches for me to fill up. He was growing too rich, he
said — he should have to die and leave his wealth to the hospitals.
More than one dealer owed him money — an unprecedented thing
— which he had never asked for. And with that he suddenly
slapped his knee.
" Ted," he said, " I have a grand idea. Let's both put on a
spurt for the next month or five weeks. The Lewisons are going
down to Brighton in June ; and you and I will go too — for a
grand long holiday of magnificent laziness. We can make up by
that time £200, I know ; and we will go fair halves in it. Now
don't blush like a school-girl, whether you are vexed or pleased
— you do three fourths of the work, and you ought at least to
have half the money. Or we will have a common stock, if you
like it better. Is it a bargain — five weeks' hard work, and then
a month at the sea ?"
The sea ! I heard the sound of waves then, as clearly as I can
hear them now, down on the beach there. As clearly as I behold
it now, from this window, I looked through tlic mist that was be-
fore my eyes, and I saw the great, breezy, green plain in the sun-
light, with the joyous white laugh of its running waves.
Then I told Heatherleigh how there was not even a river down
in the Missenden valley in which I had been brought up ; how
the farthest views you could get from the chalk hills only reveal-
ed extensions of a great cultivated plain ; how the sea and all its
strange associations — so difTcrent from those of the land, so beau-
tiful and wild and terrible — [troduced a sort of delirium in me;
and how even the remembrance of it was to me full of the sad-
ness which is somehow interwoven with tlie beauty of all beauti-
ful things.
We talked of Brighton then, and of the sea, and of what was
to be done there. Miss Lesley was certain to be with the Lewi-
sons. Perhaps the Burnhams would \>r down.
"I know several other people," said lleatlurleigh ; "they are
SOME OLD FRIENDS. 71
all nice sort of people, who have the courage to leave the London
season at its height, and catch the flush of the year at the sea-
side."
The very next day I had to go down Holborn ; and I met Big
Dick and the sleepy-headed Kent, who were on their way to their
dinner. I went up and spoke to them, and I felt like an impos-
tor with them. Kent was very respectful, and I hated him for it.
Big Dick was more natural, and talked pretty much in his usual
fashion; but of course I had grown a good deal older since I was
his apprentice, and there was a difference in his manner too.
"Let's go into this doorway," said Kent, glancing at my fine
suit of gray clothes and my hat. (I was on a diplomatic errand
for Ileatherleigh, and had got out of the ordinary slouching stu-
dio-costume.) " You won't care to be seen with the likes of us."
" Don't be a fool," I said, rather angrily, and kept standing in
the middle of the pavement.
I was debating in my own mind how I could offer them some-
thing to drink without appearing to be ostentatious (for I knew
th(^ were rather sensitive on that matter of treating, which is a
point of honor among working-men), when Big Dick, having
more moral courage than I, proposed (and I was heartily glad)
that he should stand something. The doorway whicli Kent
wished to shelter him led into a chop-house, in which there was
also a bar; so as we were going in, I said —
" What do you say to our all dining here, instead of your go-
ing home ?"
" All right," said both of them ; and so we went in and sat
down.
They asked me to order the dinner, and I did: a very good
dinner — mutton-chops, vegetables, gooseberry pie, and bottled
stout.
" Well, I'm d — d glad to see you, Ted," said Big Dick, shaking
my hand again with his great horny fist, "only I suppose we must
call you Mr. Ives, eh ?"
" You may if you like, Mr. Richard Primer," said I — at which
profound joke Kent laughed consumedly.
" And what a change there is in you !" said Dick. " ^Vliy, you
were a poor little devil when I knew you — all eyes, you know,
and looking as if you was afraid everybody wanted to eat you.
And now you've grown tall and straight, and the worst of you 1
72 KILMEXY.
can say is as you look too like a b Frenchman or Italian.
But that comes through your way of life now, 1 dare say."
Kent had been looking at me steadily for some time with a
sort of wonder in his sleepy eyes. At la.st he said, cautiously and
with nervous politeness —
" I hope we're not detaining of you."
" I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Kent," I said, nettled be-
yond endurance ; and this woke him up somewhat, for by and by
he said, when the stout had warmed him a little —
" You'll be marrying presently, and then there'll be Mrs. Ives,
as well as Mr. Ives, and lots of little Iveses."
With that Kent stretched his gray eyes to their uttermost, en-
deavoring to control his merriment ; and then half shut them
again, and abandoned himself to a roar of laughter over his
wit.
" But I've good news for you, Ted," said Dick, laying down his
tumbler. " There's an awful revolution round there at Weasel's.
Weasel used to be a great man to you — I know you was fright-
ened of him. lla ! you should sec Weasel now. He's married
— married a big, strapping woman as warms him, I can tell ye,
when he gets into a bad temper. There's no cantankerousness '11
do for her. She can give him a hot un when she likes ; and the
scoldin's all the other way now. Of course he's the same to us
— mayhap he revenges hisself on us for what he gets from her;
but doesn't he get it ! She comes down to tlu^ shop and lays
about her like a good un ; and Weasel, with his whitey-brown
face, stands and bites his lips, and then drives the things about
when she's gone. Lord bless ye ! he can't call his soul liis
()\\ n."
" lie never could," I said. " If he has one, he must have bor-
rowed or stolen it."
Well, I don't sec anything ])articularly brilliant in that remark;
but its effect upon Kent was alarming. He had been drinking a
good deal of bottled stout; and what I said about Weasel's soul
sent him into a prodigious fit of laughter, with which doubtless
the beer had something to do. He laughed till tiic tears ran
down his face; and then something stuck in his throat, and he
gasped and laughed and coiiglu'd until he was blood-retl. See-
ing that he was in the same good-humor when he recovered, I
jtroposed that we should have a pint bottle of old port with our
SOME OLD FRIENDS. 73
cheese, to which they anreod ; and before tlio dinner was over we
had entirely established our ancient relation.-.
" I'm proud of ye, Ted," said Kent, whose lazy gray eyes had
never been so excited for years, " and I say as you are a credit to
the shop that brought you up. And we'll dance at your wedding."
Then came the question of paying. I said, carelessly, that I
should much prefer to pay for the whole ; but I saw by Dick's
face tliat he was a little hurt by the proposal, and he dissented
from it in rather a stiff and formal way.
" Come, then," I said, " let's toss for it."
Now there is a favorite trick among the Missenden boys (and
probably among boys elsewhere) by which you can toss up a pen-
ny, put it between your hands, feel with your thumb whether tail
or head is uppermost, and change the coin according to what your
opponent calls. I was never very dexterous at this piece of ju-
venile legerdemain ; but I succeeded in convincing both Big
Dick and Kent that I had lost both times, and so they let me pay
the small bill. It was a very pleasant dinner, that in the Hol-
bom chop-house ; I have since then risen from many a grander
banquet having enjoyed myself considerably less. When we
parted, I believe Kent was in such good spirits that, at my re-
quest, he would have gone straight into the shop and challenged
Weasel to a hand-to-hand fight.
However, to return to this projected trip to the sea. As I was
going home that evening I met Polly Whistler ; she turned and
walked up Hampstead Road with me, and I told her what Ileath-
erleigh and I proposed to do. Polly's face grew a trifle thought-
ful for a moment ; and then she said, with what seemed to me a
rather affected carelessness —
" I suppose Mr. Hcatherleigh expects to meet people he knows
down there — the Lewisons, perhaps ?"
" Yes, he does."
" And that girl, Miss Lesley ?"
Polly was looking hard at the ground.
"Yes, I think she will be there also."
"I suppose Mr. Heatherleigh means to marry her?"
" Marry her !" I said, in astonishment, and — shall I confess it ?
—with a sharp touch of pain.
" Why not ?" she said, with a smile that was peculiarly unlike
her ordinary frank smile.
D
74 KILMENY.
" Don't you know the manner in which he always talks of
her?" I asked — "quite unfairly, I know; but still he does it."
"That is only his way," she said. "He never likes you to
know that he is fond of anything or anybody, and makes fun
over it in order to hide himself. If he were dreadfully in love,
and going to be married to-morrow morning, he would spend to-
night in satirizing us poor women-folks as hard as he could."
"Then he is not dreadfully in love, for he never attempts any-
thing of the kind."
" But you say he talks in that way about Miss Lesley. Now,
what sort of a girl is she ?"
So, as we went on, I told her all I knew of Bonnie Lesley, and
of her fine and handsome appearance, her childlike and winning
ways, and her kindness to myself. Polly listened very attentive-
ly, and put two or three questions the drift of which I could not
quite catch. Then she grew a little more cheerful.
" You are likely to be dreadfully spoiled by women, Ted," she
remarked.
" Why ?"
" I don't know. There's something about your manner — some-
thing desperately direct and honest — that provokes one's confidence.
Don't you remember I talked to you immediately after I saw you
just as I would talk to you now ? And so this Miss Lesley has
been making great friends with you. What docs she say about
Mr. Heatherleigh ?"
"Nothing. I think tlierc is some misunderstanding between
them. He is coiistantly gibing at her, and making epigrams
about her; and she is very cautious in mentioning him at all."
"I'm glad you and he get so pleasant a snbject to talk about
all day. It must be such a variety from the constant talking shop
that you men are so fond of. We women never get a chance of
talking shop — unless when we talk about babies."
I 'oily said this in the most artless manner, but in a second she
had caught herself up, crimsoned deeply, and then burst out
laughing. To hide her confusion, she stooped and picked up a
pin that happened to be lying on the pavement.
"There," she said, showing me the pin (though there was still
a laugh lurking about the corners of her mouth), "how many
times have I laid the foumhitiou for a fortune? ^'ou know tln^
stories of the industrious young men who picked up a pin, and
SOME OLD FRIENDS. ^5
then heaps of money came to them through it. But here have I
been picking up pins for years in the expectation of getting only
a small competency, and it never comes. What are you laughing
at?"
" At your ill-luck in never getting a fortune," I said, boldly ;
wherewith she laughed too.
Having once got into these good spirits, she rattled on like a
mad thing. vShe took my arm, and we strolled along carelessly
towards Hampstead, she all the while telling stories, and making
the oddest remarks about the people passing, and laughing in her
quiet and discreet fashion. First she began about a lady in her
neighborhood, a widow, who was famous for the number of her
suitors, and the rapidity with which they were changed. She de-
scribed the various lovers, and their mode of making love ; al-
though I am positive she never was inside the house, nor heard
one of them speak.
" The one she has got just now," continued Polly, " is the
smallest man, I believe, in the world — so small and thin and pale.
I used to call him the widow's mite ; and she heard of it, and said
she would teach me better manners if she laid her hands on me."
This led up to another experience of Polly's. She had been
going on a bitterly cold winter night to visit some one at Stam-
ford Hill ; and after the omnibus was packed, a rather good-look-
ing young girl appeared at the door and looked in.
" Come in," said an elderly gentleman, — "come in, my girl, and
you can sit on my knee till you get out."
Rather than wait half an hour in the cold, the girl, blushing a
little, did as she was bid, and was subjected to a good deal of
quiet and harmless joking by the passengers, who were going
home to their suburban houses, and all of whom knew the old
gentleman who was so complaisant to the new-comer. He him-
self was very good-natured and jocular, and made some remote
hints about his wishing that he was not married.
" Then," said Polly, " the old gentleman asked her where she
meant to get out. ' Clarence Lodge,' she says. ' Why,' he
says, 'that's my house!' 'Are you Mr. Sandemann ?' she asks.
' Yes,' he says, beginning to look uncomfortable. ' Then Fm
your new servant, sir,' she says, and you may imagine how all
the gentlemen roared. But did you ever notice, Ted, that in get-
ting into a 'bus, or anywhere, women are far less courteous to
76 KILMENY.
each other than men are to each other ? Men seem to have some
idea of fairness, and let the first-comers go in ; but women will
squeeze and elbow and push themselves foremost in defiance of
justice. Of course one of the fine ladies you visit wouldn't do
that. She would let anybody who had the vulgarity to take pre-
cedence take it, and would only show her contempt with the tip
of her nose. I am beginning to think that all fine ladies are my
natural enemies."
With this sort of nonsense (which gained not a little from
Polly's bright eyes and her low, delightful laugh) an hour or two
passed very pleasantly, and it was getting towards dusk when we
came down Hampstead Road again. I thought there was some-
thing more in that vague dislike to fine ladies than lay on the sur-
face of her foolish talk, and I noticed that Polly more than once
turned the conversation towards Bonnie Lesley. She was careful
about what she said, but indirectly she uttered some rather cut-
ting speeches about this poor girl, wlio seemed to be more sus-
pected the less she was known. I'olly had not even seen her.
And, having cogitated over the matter, I, in my wisdom, evolved
these propositions, to account for the mystery.
1. Heatherleigh has been, and perhaps is, in love with Miss
Lesley.
2. She has refused him, and promised to keej) the secret.
3. He is vexed, and makes epigrams about her fickleness, sim-
ply because he happened to be in love, and she wasn't.
4. Polly is in love with Heatherleigh, and, without having seen
her, is jealous of Bonnie Lesley, and consofjuently spiteful.
There were some few points whicli did not seem to me to square
with this theory, but it was the best guess I could make at the
position.
Polly's mutheu. Y?
CHAPTER VIII.
folly's mother.
I THREW myself into tliat five weeks' work with all the energy
of which I was capable. Look at the splendid prize that was to
recompense our labor. To Heatherleigh a month at the sea-side
was nothing ; to me it was a treasure perpetual, inexhaustible.
While I worked I dreamed of it. That gaunt and dusty chamber
in Granby Street seemed to smell of sea-weed, and the stillness of
it was like the murmur of a shell. People who have repeatedly
spent a month at the sea-side know how short a period it is, but I
looked forward with a kind of wonder to the idea of rising morning
after morning, and still finding one's self confronted by the great
width of water. I liked the labor, and I liked what was coming
after it. At present, the excitement and the interest of hard
work ; in the future a blaze of sunlight, and tingling breezes, and
the glories of the sea.
And it was during this period, too, that I first definitely saw
that my work was of some value to my benefactor and friend.
Not only did I do the greater portion of most of the pictures, but
I goaded him into what work he did undertake. But for me, I
think the scheme would have been abandoned. Many a time I
went up in the morning, and found him lounging in his easy-chair,
absorbed in one of his favorite treatises.
" I don't think I shall go on with that picture to-day," he would
say; "what is the use of bothering? Let us go down to Rotten
Row, and stare at the people."
Then I would remonstrate, and remind him of our compact.
" You are the most uncompromising, persistent, stiff-necked
brute I ever met. What is the use of life, if you must subject
yourself to all sorts of needless martyrdoms ? You will worry your-
self now, and, when you find yourself at Brighton with nothing
to do, idleness will drive you mad."
" Idleness hasn't driven somebody else mad whom I know," 1
said.
V8 KILMENY.
" You haven't enough of reflection in yon to know that tlie in-
tentional idleness you propose to have at Brighton would be a
nuisance, while the chance idleness you take at the suggestion of
a whim is always charming. So soon as a man is over-conscious
that he is doing something, the enjoyment of it flies, I have a
notion that you could make one of those mad harlequin-dancers
miserable by getting him to read a treatise on anatomy. Indeed
you would destroy his chances of living. Show him all the del-
icate mechanism of the bones and sinews, and he could never
afterwards fling his limbs into contorted forms without a vague
fear, which would render the performance a failure."
Now, if I had let him go on, there would have been no more
work that day. lie would start some such subject, and pursue it
through all its phases, comic and serious and practical, with his
hands crossed on the crown of his head, and his legs stretched out
and crossed in front of him. As I have said, he had no sort of
interest in painting as painting. To him it was merely a profes-
sion which yielded him an easy life, plenty of leisure in which to
indulge his habit of indolent day-dreaming and listless speculation,
and as much money as kept him comfortably, or allowed him to
be generous when he wished.
Something else in his book had struck him; and he was anx-
ious to explain to me how the writer was wrong in assuming that
civilization would in time work frightful mischief by developing
the cerebrum at the expense of the cerebellum.
" That's all very well," I said, " but—"
" It is absurd," he persisted. " The j)hysical conditions of life
will prevent it. So long as men have got to contend with cold
and rain, and the toil and exposure of agricultural work, the race
will never so exclusively cultivate its intellectual powers as to im-
prove itself off the earth. It seems to me — "
With that I sat down at liis easel (not mine) and began working
at tlu! ])icture. But I had been merely a dummy listener; he con-
tinued his meditations all the same, and it was only when I began
to meddle with the face of his heroine (a very good likeness of
Polly) that he started up, and took his palette and brushes in hand.
"After we get down to the sea-side," I said, " I will lie on the
beach if you like for hours, and listen to everything you have to
soy about harlequins or priests or philosophers."
" You have the detenniiiation of ," he said, nainin!^ an liis-
POLLV'S MOTHER. 79
toiical personage wlio may have been determined, but who was
notoriously unsuccessful.
At length the time drew near ; and, altliough we had not got
in all the money, it was worked for and available. Heatherleigh,
having taken down some checks to be cashed, came back with a
pocketful of bank-notes. He counted them out — one hundred
and sixty pounds odd — and then he quietly told off eighty of
tliese and placed the money before me on the table.
I was tlie possessor of eighty pounds in hard cash — it was my
own, my very own.
" Heatherleigh," I said, " let us have a walk through Kensing-
ton Gardens and around the Serpentine."
" Why, you positively love the Serpentine, I believe, you abom-
inable Cockney. And you going to the sea to-morrow !"
Nevertheless we went ; and as we drew near the small lake, the
sun had set in the northwest, and after the red light had quite
faded down, there was a strange pale " after-glow " in the sky,
while a gathering mist fell over the water, causing the opposite
shore and its trees to recede into a vague, ethereal distance. I had
grown to love the Serpentine in the old days of my bondage, when
I used to steal out alone in the evening, and sit on the cold wooden
seats, as the stillness of the night fell. And now, as we walked
across the damp grass, the various soundfs of the day ceased, and
the place was solitary and quiet ; while the wandering white of
the fog settled thicker over the farther side of the lake, and
through it we saw the far gas-lamps burning sharp and red. Then,
as we lingered a while, a strange golden moonlight crept up the
skies and made the faint streaks of the clouds visible ; while it
touched the trees also, and glimmered, a trembling line of yellow
light, along the shore. You forgot that you were near a great
city, and the poor Serpentine became lonely, mystic, magical.
Did Heatherleigh guess why I wished to come hither? Many
a time, in the old days, I had wandered around the small lake,
empty-hearted and empty-pocketed. In all my dreams, did I ever
anticipate that within a year or two I should walk over that damp
grass, and around that mystical shore, my own master, with the art
that I had loved as an amusement now become the sole occupa-
tion of my life, with a future full of freedom and beautiful possi-
bilities before me, with eighty pounds of savings clasped tightly
vn my pocket?
80 KILMENY.
" \\Tiat are you thinking of ?" said Heatherleigh.
" Of the power that this money gives me. Couldn't I live foi
a whole year, doing anything or nothing, just as I liked, upon it ?
I could set eighty wretched creatures wild with delight by giving
them a sovereign apiece. I could take fifty pounds of it, and
buy a small, little brooch, with curious stones in it, and I could
send it, without being known — "
" To whom ?" said Heatherleigh.
Then I burst out laughing ; for I knew it was time the farce
should end.
" Here," I said, " take the money. I have no right to it. I
wanted to have the sensation of having it, and of coming down
here to crow over the notions that Weavle used to give me."
He refused to take it.
" I won't liave it," I said, simply enough, " because you know
as well as I do that I have no right whatever to it."
" Well," he said, " you are still to me that perpetual conundrum
that I can't make out. Where were you born, Ted ? Had you a
father and mother? I believe you are a sort of will-o'-the-wisp —
there's no catching you. You have the courage and determina-
tion and self-reliance of half-a-dozen men, and you have the sensi-
tiveness, and finical, particular, humbugging nonsense of a thou-
sand girls ; and all this confusion of character you exhibit with a
simplicity which astounds me. Brought up as you have been,
you should be as hard as steel, cautious, keen, avaricious — "
But I need not follow liim into his theory about the manner in
which I had come to develop those wonderful qualities he had
discovered. When he finished, wo were still walking around the
Serpentine; and the moonlight was now full and clear in the
skies.
" That bodes well for to-morrow," said he.
"But," said I, "you haven't taken the money. If you like, I
will accept ten pounds of it; and let the rest go into our general
fund for lioiisekeepiiig at Brighton."
■^I'o this he agreed ; and next day we proceeded to get our things
in readiness for starting. Folly Whistler called around in the fore-
noon ; and then I persuaded her to go out witli me, and help me
to purchase with the ten pounds a dress for my mother. We
went to a big place in Tottenham (-ourt Road, a)id I'olly was quite
grand in her manner as siie insisted upon seeing pretty nearly
Polly's mother. 81
everything in the shop. At hist she confessed herself pleased ;
and the parcel was ordered to be sent on by the Burnham coach
to its destination.
Further, I persuaded Polly to dine with us, and, finally, to come
and see us off.
" It is a heart-breaking thing to part with you, Ted," she re-
marked ; " but we must teach ourselves to suffer. Besides, my
old woman is a little wild to-day ; and then I like to give her the
house to herself."
" She has been trying to keep you in order, Polly," said Heath-
erleigh, strapping down his portmanteau.
"And she can keep people in order," said Polly. " If she had
been Nebuchadnezzar's wife, she'd have made him pare his nails
precious smart !"
I could not help admiring the good-natured way in which the
girl joked about this affair, which was certainly no laughing mat-
ter to her. To listen to her, you would have imagined that her
mother's only fault was a certain impatience of people who did
wrong, and a desire to have her own way in ordering her house.
Polly said nothing of the persecution and insults, and often bodily
pain, she suflfered at the hands of that bad old woman, whose
drunken madness had long ago made her forget that she was a
mother.
There was some commission which Heatherleigh had undertaken
that prevented our catcliing the afternoon express. There was
nothing for it but to sit in patience, with our portmanteaus at our
feet, waiting for the recusant messenger, the while Polly chatted
and laughed, and pretended to make love to me.
Our fooling was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a loud
voice on the stairs — a woman's voice, shrill, angry, intoxicated.
How it flashed across me that this must be Polly's mother I don't
know ; but I shall never forget the quick gesture and look of the
girl when she heard the noise. She instinctively caught my arm,
as if for protection, while she darted a terrified, anxious glance
towards Heatherleigh. It was as though she had cried to me, " Ted,
save me, and don't let him know !" In that brief second the
whole nature of the girl was revealed; and I said to myself, "She
loves him with her whole heart."
Instantaneous as was the warning given, and dumb as were her
directions, I had sufficient presence of mind to go quickly to the
I) 2
82 KILMENY.
door. I went outside, and sliut the door behind us. The woman
was on the stairs, directing the fury of her speech, along with
much gesticulation, upon a maid-servant, who, from underneath,
was protesting against the strange visitor going up-stairs unan-
nounced. My appearance on the scene turned the flood of her
wrath upon me.
" I've got you, have I ? I thought it was here youM be found ;
and it's time 1 had a chance of speakin' hout. You're Mr. Heath-
erleigh's friend, are you ; and what have you done with my daugh-
ter ? I say, what have you done with my poor girl, that's bein'
made a byword of among a pack of wolves ? Oh, don't pretend
to pacify me — I heard o' your goin's on this morning, and buyln'
a dress for a respectable girl as belongs to a family as 'zpectable
as yours. And are you not ashamed of yourself, sir — my poor
lamb among them wolves? But I'll have the law on you, I will,
I will, I will !"
" Don't be a fool," I said ; " hold your tongue, and come down-
stairs and tell me what you want."
" Is my daughter in that room ?" she screamed, at the pitch of
her shrilly voice.
" If you don't be quiet, I'll have you turned out of the house,"
I said, and then added — determined to avert the shame of an ex-
posure from poor Polly — " Is it money you want? I will give it
to you, only don't make such a hideous noise."
" Merciful 'eavens !" she yelled ; " he wants to buy me as he
has bought my daughter. Oh, the wretch ! Oh, the vile, wicked,
traitorous — "
I caught her by the arm, as I thought she was going to tumble
down the stairs.
"Would you lay hands on me? You think you'll buy me — "
" Wliy, you old humbug, I wouldn't give twopence for a dozen
of you," I said, when I saw it was impossible to restrain her vio-
lence by persuasion.
With that she caught me by the coat, dashed past me like a
wild-cat, and entered the room. I followed ; and whatever there
may have been of absurdity or comicality in the old woman's rav-
ings on the stair, was forgotten now in what I saw before me.
Polly stood motionless, her face bent down and quite j)ale. Her
lij)s were tn'iiibling ; but that ex|)ressed only a tithe of the hiiniil-
iation and shame that scfm<'(l to cover her whole figure. She had
POLLY S MOTHER. 83
heard what had been going on outside, and she stood there abso-
lutely stupefied and speechless by the cruel shame and mortifica-
tion that she must have long dreaded. Heatherleigh stood at the
other end of the room, with a look of wonder on his face that
soon gave way to indignation and anger. For the old woman at
first confronted her daughter, and made such speeches as I need
not write down here. It is not a pleasant thing to hear a mother
mouthing out lies against the character of her daughter, wounding
her at her most sensitive points, and outraging even the bystand-
ers' sense of decency. She spoke so rapidly, too, that the mis-
chief was done before either of us could interfere ; but Heather-
leigh, with a quick flush on his face, went forward and caught her
by the shoulder.
" You shameless creature,'' lie said, " do you know what you
are doing?"
Here Polly, still looking down, came forward and interposed
between them.
" Mr. Heatherleigh, she is my mother," said the girl, now cry-
ing very bitterly. " Mother, come away."
But the infuriated woman drove her aside, and held her ground,
while she confronted us with an intoxicated stare.
" Good-bye, Ted," said Polly to me, holding out her hand.
Then, I think, she directed one furtive glance towards Heather-
leigh, and went away. The mother remained behind.
" Good-bye," I had said to her, knowing that it was the last time
she would ever enter that room, in which we had spent so many
innocent and happy evenings.
"Do you know what you have done, you foolish old idiot?
Do you know what you have done?" said Heatherleigh, with his
face full of mortification and anger. " Do you know that you
have tried to destroy the character of an honest and industrious
girl, who has hitherto kept you and indulged your beastly habits ?
Do you know that you may have sickened her of her honest life ?
Do you know what has happened within the last few minutes —
that you have outraged the feelings of a sensitive girl, whom you
ought to have protected, and may God forgive you if anything
comes of your drunken insanity !"
He snatched his hat, and hastily went out. It was half an hour
afterwards when he returned. By that time the old woman had
gone. Heatherleigh's words had partly sobered her ; she had
84 KILMENY.
be^2:ed my forgiveness, and burst into a flood of alcoholic tears.
When Heathcrleigh came back, I noticed that he was rather pale,
and there was a thoughtful, fixed look in his face.
All the way down in the train he scarcely spoke. Neither of
us cared to read by the light of the dingy carriage-lamp, and so
we lay and stared out into the dusk. There was a faint light ou' •
side, owing to the moon, but the moon herself remained hidden.
Presently he said to me, looking up from his reverie —
"Did you ever hear or see anything like that?"
I knew what he meant, and I said —
" It is the last time Polly will ever be in that room."
" I followed her," he said. " I overtook her, and, do you
know, she would scarcely speak to me. The poor girl seemed
quite dazed and bewildered — no wonder. I could have strangled
tiiat incoherent old idiot who went raving on and seeing nothing
of what she was doing. And yet Polly should not have been
so much put out. When I told her we all understood that her
mother was talking nonsense, she said nothing but that I was to
go back again, and leave her to go home alone. I don't under-
stand it."
" I shouldn't wonder if Polly never spoke to you any more,"
I said.
" Why ?" he asked, with a quick glance of surprise.
" I don't know. I don't think she ever will."
The apartments which Ileatherlcigh'had secured for us were in
King's Koad, and therefore fronting the sea. But as we drove
down from the station and around to the house, I could see noth-
ing but a dusky gray where the sea ought to have been. I heard
the murmur of it, however, far away, like iiiuumcrablt" strange
voices.
Supper was prepared for us. Afterwards lleatherleigh smoked
a solitary pipe in silence; and then we retired to our respective
rooms. Mine was a small clnunber, near the top of the house,
fronting the sea. I could not slei'p ft)r that strange noise, that
seemed so wild and distant and yet so sadly familiar. 1 must
have lain and tossed about for a couple of hours or so, I think, and
then I began to perceive that the room was full of light, and on
the wall, near the window, the moon was gleaming in slanting
sfjuart's
I got up and went to the wimlow, and involuntarily I uttered
POLLY S MOTHER. 85
a cry of astonishment and joy. The world outside was all aglow
with moonlight of a soft and greenish-yellowish hue, the large,
full moon hei'self hanging up there over the sea and throwing a
great, broad lane of glittering light on the water. Every object
was sharply and clearly defined ; from the })alings along the Pa-
rade and the boats on the gray beach to the fleet of fishing-smacks
whose black hulls lay and rolled in the flood of moonlight. And
I could see the waves now — tiny waves that came gently in, and
broke over with a murmur which was repeated and echoed in the
stillness of the night. The picture was magical, wonderful. I
listened to the sound of the waves, and gazed upon the splendid
pathway of silver that lay and quivered on the great gray plain
of the sea, until I was numbed with cold. Then I hastily dressed
myself, sneaked down-.stairs, opened the door of the house stealth-
ily, and was outside.
There was not a human being abroad at that hour ; this whole,
beautiful world was mine. I walked away from the houses — east-
ward, past the chain-pier, the dark masses of which were touched
with the moonlight, and past those long terraces of tall buildings
that gleamed gray and ghost-like in the silence of the night. I
wandered on, along the smooth turf of the cliffs, meeting no one
but some solitary coast-guardsman — a black figure seen vaguely
against the gray-green of the sea. The moon was at my back
now, but all around was the wonderful, calm, clear light; and so
I walked on until I stood over Rottingdean, the small hamlet that
lay dark and silent under the throbbing eastern stars.
Here I went down on the beach. The tide was some distance
out ; and there came a breezy odor of sea-weed from those patches
of rock out there, among which the pools of water glimmered
white. I lay down on the shingle, under the great cliffs, that
echoed back the long rush of the waves on the shore. I could
now see the distant lamps of Brighton, the black line of the pier,
the specks of fishing-boats, and the moon that seemed to belong
to that side of the picture ; while before me stretched the vague
and mystical sea, and overhead dw elt the silence of those splendid
constellations that were now growing faint and wan. Was that
the famous jewel of the Harp that gleamed so palely there ? The
twisted snakes of Cerberus were cold and dead, and the flaming
points that used to stud the aerial harness of Pegasus were scarce-
V visible. Hercules himself seemed sick and pale in the moon-
86 KILMENT.
light ; or was it another strange light that now began to show in
the east, bringing with it a stirring of cold wind ? I know that
when I returned to Brighton, and got into the house again and
tumbled into bed, a glow of pale saffron was shining along the
level coast by Shoreham and Worthing ; while high up in the east
there were flakes of rod in the sky, and all the new motion of
the dawn.
CHAPTER IX.
LEWES CASTLE.
I AWOKE in a torrent of adjectives. Ileatherleigh was stand-
ing by my bedside, heaping reproaches on me for lying so long
on such a morning, when, as was evident from the great splatches
of sunlight on the wall of the room, the weather was lovely. He
was dressed remarkably well — in a fashion which set off his hand-
some figure ; and you would have failed entirely to recognize in
this tall and gentlemanly looking man, with his accurate gloves,
the easily negligent tie, and the large brown beard which was ex-
actly that of the " swell" of tliat time, the indolent student-painter
who a few days before was lounging about a dirty room in Granby
Street in shabl)y clothes, with unkempt hair, no collar, and an old
wooden pipe. The odd thing was that in either case there was
not the least self-conscious assumption. lie was as natural in the
one condition as the other; although I think he greatly enjoyed
the sudden contrast of these twin modes of living, and went to
extremes in both to increase his pleasure.
" Wliy, it is past twelve," he said; "T have been riding with
Bonnie Lesley since half-past ten. Ah ! I thought I'd wake you
up with that bit of news. Fancy our having been at Ilottingdean
while you were lying asleep, like a pig, in broad daylight."
"I was at Rottiiigdean this morning before either of yon," 1
said; and then I told him how I had wandered about all night.
"Madness! my boy, madness!" he said. "But come, dress
yourself smartly ; you are due at the Lewisons' at one, for lunch ;
and Miss Lesley sen<ls you her kind regards, and hopes you will
spend the afternoon with her. This is a coMiplinicnt, mind you;
for she is holding (juite a court down liere."
LEWES CASTLE. 87
" I hope you have made friends with her again," I said.
"Oh, Bonnie Lesley and I have always been friends — of a
kind," he said.
When I went down-stairs, and went to the front window, the
woild of Brighton was out driving and riding and walking in the
glowing sunlight, while a gentle sea-breeze came over the far blue
plain, and brought with it coolness, and the odor of sea-weed, and
the plash of the waves on the beach. What a gay and brilliant
company it was, to be sure — the twos and threes of ladies who
lay lazily and proudly in their phaetons and landaus; the packs
of rosy-cheeked girls who cantered past on horseback, accompa-
nied by a riding-master or their papa; the incessant strolling
backwards and forwards of men and women dressed in the ex-
treme of fashion, and having the air about them of the superiority
of conscious wealth and beauty ! This was the world which I
was asked to enter — I, a waif and stray, a nobody, an insignifi-
cant fraction of that other world of hard work and narrow means,
of small hopes and few enjoyments. I did enter it, almost against
my inclination ; and I saw for the first time how these rich and
beautiful people passed day after day, week after week — the round
of brilliant pleasures they enjoyed, the gay scenes and pleasant
excitements which were always pressing upon them, their courte-
ous ways and manners, their kindness, amiability, frivolity. Any-
body acquainted with the ordinary life of fashionable people could
describe it in a few words ; but to me it was all new and won-
derful.
At one o'clock we presented ourselves at the Lewisons'. There
were a number of people there ; and they were quite different
from the people I had met at their house before. The aesthetic
element was nearly wholly absent. Instead of sculptors and
authors, and what not, the party consisted of very grand people
who happened to be visiting Brighton — among them a viscount.
I looked at this gentleman with awe. He was a small, thin, gray-
haired man, who paid particular attention to his plate, and mut-
tered to himself his comments on what other people were saying.
His wife was a young and pretty woman, who exhibited all the
little coquetries of a girl, and was especially amiable to Heather-
leigh, beside whom she sat. I sat between her and Miss Lesley;
and when the viscountess happened to say something to me, which
she did with a smile that made you fancy you had known her for
KILMEJsY.
j'ears, I was in great straits to know whether I should, in answer-
ing her, address her by her title. As I was not quite sure, how-
ever, what that was, I forbore, and hoped I was not guilty of some
appalling rudeness.
Jiut ior my being beside Bonnie Lesley, perhaps I should have
been overwhelmed by this assemblage of grand people. No soon-
er, however, had we re-established our old relations with each
other, and these consisted of many little secret understandings,
which were very pleasant to ourselves, than I forgot all about the
other persons present. She and I talked exclusively with each
other, despite the efforts of one or two gentlemen to engage her
in conversation across the table. I noticed that more than one of
them regarded me with a stare of stolid surprise, when she per-
sistently turned and talke<l to me in \wv contidential way.
"You have no other companion, then, down here than Heather-
leigh ?" she asked.
" No."
"Don't you find him dull at times?"
" Never. He is the best companion I could wish for."
" How strange !" she said, with a pretty smile. " But, even if
he is so pleasant a companion, you can't always go about with
him. You will see him captured by somebody when lunch is
over; and he will be taken otf to drive with some of those ladies.
So shall I, probably ; or perhaps some of those gentlemen over
there will thrust themselves upon us. Now, what do you say to
our going off at once, the moment they rise from table? The
mail-phaeton is to be round in a few minutes: what if we slip
down-stairs, and go off without warning?"
" Nothing could be better."
" You won't be afraid if I drive ?"
"Certainly not. But you need not drive, unless you like. I
have had lots of experience with horses in the country."
"Thank you, but I am passionately fond of driving; and as
they never will let nie take out those horses by myself, I mean to
secure tliem to-day by stratagem."
So it was arranged; and 1 was delighted with the arrangement,
not expecting that it would lead to a little scene. The moment
we were free, she and I slipped out of the room, and I went
down-stairs, while she weiil to eliaiige her attire. The carriage was
there, ;in<l I Iia<l had sutlicieuf acijuaiutanee with the horses at
LEWES CASTLE. 89
Burnhara House to see that one of the pair harnessed to this
phaeton was rather a restive animal, which the groom was tr3ing
as well as he could to pacify. Presently Bonnie Lesley appeared,
with a flush of pleasure on her fine face. More than one passer-by
turned to look at her as she got up into the high seat, and took
the reins in her fingers, while the other hand, small and tightly
gloved, held the whip in the most artistic fashion. Suddenly
Heatherleigh came running down.
" Really, Miss Lesley, you must not — "
" I will," she said, rapidly and in a low voice, while she cut at
the neck of the restive horse with her whip. The animal would
have sprung forward ; but Heatherleigh had rushed to its head
(displacing the groom) and tried to hold it. Of course the horse
plunged and reared.
" I tell you. Miss Lesley," said Heatherleigh, " you will kill
yourself and him, too."
The girl's face turned white with a spasm of anger.
"Are you afraid?" she said to me, abruptly.
"No.""
" Will you go with me ?"
" Certainly."
With that she made a cut at the neck of the near horse with
her whip, and then caught the other, which Heatherleigh was
holding, over the ear. Both horses sprang forward, nearly knock-
ing him to the ground ; and the next minute we were dashing
madly along the Parade, while Miss Lesley sat cold and firm, with-
out moving a muscle.
Then she burst into a laugh of downright, unaffected merri-
ment.
" I hope I didn't knock him over ; but I half expected he would
come out, and I was determined to have my own way for once.
I am so very much obliged to you for coming ; and I will take
the greatest care of you. No, you needn't laugh : I fancy you
looked afraid when you got up."
" If I had been afraid," I said, " 1 should have been none the
less delighted to come."
"Why?"
She withdrew her eyes for a moiuent from the horses' heads and
fixed them on my face with her ordinary look of bright wonder.
Under other circumstances I might have felt embarrassed b}- this
90 KILMENY.
awkward question ; but driving through the cool wind, in the brill-
iant sunlight, and perched up beside the handsomest woman in
Brighton, who could have failed to acquire some boldness I
" The pleasure of being beside you might make one risk a much
greater danger than this ; and you knew that when you asked me
to come."
She laughed a charming and unaffected little laugh, and was
evidently greatly pleased — why, I was, long afterwards, to find
out,
" Shall we turn and drive back along the Parade and the King's
Road?"
" As you like."
" People will stare at us^ if I drive."
" Why should you care ?"
" There are such a lot of carriages out at this time."
" Come," I said, " confess that you want me to urge you to do
it — and I do."
She wheeled round the horses very cleverly ; and soon we were
again clattering along the Parade. When we got into the thick
of the carriages in the King's Road, it was astonishing to sec the
number of people, mostly gentlemen, who bowed to her. Every
one looked at her — as well they might; for in all that brilliant
throng there was neither girl nor woman to be compared with her.
" There is Mr. Heatherleigh," she said to me.
He was seated in aji open carriage, with two ladies and another
gentleman. As they approached, I saw that one of the ladies was
the viscountess whom I had seen at lunch, and I supposed that
the gentleman opposite her was her husband. He and Heather-
leigh had their backs towards us, and, of course, could not see us.
" I am getting tired of this. What ilo you say to going for a
short drive into the country ?"
Having made some inquiries about the horses of the man who
was in the small box behind, it was finally arranged that we should
drive to Lewes. I was glad to get away from the crowded thor-
oughfare, and into the sweet-smelling country roads. The sum-
mer was at its brightest and greenest ; and we had no sooner left
the town, and got into the quiet of meadows and cornfields, than
Miss Lesley regained her equanimity, and began to talk in her
usual fhccrful and confidential way. Indeed, I was very much
struck by the rapid fashion in which vexations passed off hei
LEWES CASTLE. 91
mind. While she had been bitterly angry with Heatherleigh at
the moment of starting, three seconds had sufficed to chase away
her resentment and restore her ordinary good-nature. Her temper
was like a delicately balanced pair of scales : a touch of }]our finger
would produce a great disturbance, but the disturbance never last-
ed above a moment.
What a pleasant drive it was, through the cool avenues of trees,
and out again into the glare of the sunlight, with the broad white
road lying like a line of silver between the dark-green meadows
and fields. Here and there they had begun to cut the tall clover,
and from the cleared portions of the fields the piles of gray-green
hay sent us the warm, sweet odor which makes the summer gra-
cious. But for the most part the grass was still standing ; and the
light breeze that went over it stirred the smooth velvet plain into
waves of shimmering gray, while it rustled across the great corn-
fields and swayed the as yet unripe ears of the wheat. The coun-
try was as still and silent as the unfathomable blue that stretched
overhead ; you only heard the far-off call of the cuckoo from some
distant wood.
At length we reached the old-fashioned and picturesque tovvn,
with its quaint and clean streets, its sudden descents, its ancient
churches, and its fine old castle. If a stranger wished to see a
typical English country town, homely, quiet, and bright, with
neither the pestilence of manufactories in the air nor the vices of
fashion visible in the streets, could he do better than visit Lewes ?
I had never been to Lewes ; but I was proud of it, for Miss Les-
ley's sake. She, too, was a stranger to the place ; and, after she
had delivered over the horses to the man to be put up, we started
on an exploring expedition. We went down the hilly streets, and
through quiet thoroughfares, and out to the precipitous chalk
hills which surround the outskirts ; then we returned to the Cas-
tle, and clambered up the wooded old ruin, where the sunlight
was straggling down through the elms and chestnuts. We were
the only visitors ; and when we had got right up to the top of the
tower, we found ourselves alone, for the portly and good-humored
seneschal remained below.
The view from the top of Lewes Castle, as everybody knows, is
one of the finest in England ; and on this particular day the
splendid plain, with its woods and hills and valleys, lay in the
warm sunshine and shone. I think such a view, whether in sun-
92 KILMENY.
light or not, is rather sa(ldcnin<>- — i)LMliap,s it was so to mc because
it so closely resembled that stretch of Biickinghainshire country
which was connected in my mind with so many old memories.
However, Boimie Lesley leaned on the parapet, and gazed long and
wistfully over the great extent of country that lay so peacefully
under the summer sky. Suddenly she spoke, and I saw that she
had not been dreaming dreams of by -gone times.
"Did you think I was very angry when Mr. Heathcrleigh tried
to sto}) the horses ?"
" Yes."
" You saw how soon I got over it ?"
"Yes."
" Would you consider that a fault?"
" What, a' fault to get rid of anger ?"
" Yes."
" I should consider it — and did — a sign of great good-nature."
" Mr. Ileatherleigh would say it was a weakness."
She turned and said this to me with a show of petulance, and
there was a kind of woikUm" in her eyes.
" 1 think you mistake Heathcrleigh altogether," I said, "or else
there is a misunderstanding on both sides."
She laughed.
" Is that a question ? There is no mystery between us. He
says I am incapable of mystery, among other things."
" Heatherleigh couldn't say anything so idiotic. Why should
anybody want to be mysterious?"
" Perhaps it isn't mystery, entirely, that I mean. But, tell me,
you and he arc very much alike in your tastes?"
"Very nuich, indeed."
" You care for the same sort of people ; you have the same no-
tions of things; you have the same sort of nature, in short?"
"Pretty much the same in most things," I said, "but very dif-
ferent in others."
"You like the same sort of people?"
" Yes, I think so."
"And you said it was a pleasure to you to come with me?"
"You know that it is."
She laughed again.
\u\i must remember that this was the first "fine lady" with
ulioni 1 had ever been privileged to be on any terms of intimacy ;
LEWES CASTLE. 93
and that I found nothing singular or abnormal in her peculiarly
frank way of talking. I was not aware that thei-e was a touch of
the Bohemienne in her manner and conduct. I knew nothing of
the extreme restraint that society imjioses on the speech and gen-
eral relations of young and unmarried folks. I saw that, among
other people, Bonnie Lesley was as reserved and ceremonious as
any ; and fancied that there was nothing unusual in her childlike
confidence and her self-disclosures, when it had pleased her to
break the bounds of formality between herself and me. And this
boldness of hers naturally encouraged me to be bold. I did not
know that I was sinning against the laws of society, and offending
the canons of good taste, in showing her what I thought of her
good looks, and in expressing gratitude for her special favor to
myself.
Doubtless she perceived this ; and was provoked in exaggerat-
ing the license of her frankness through some notion of the humor
of the position. If she encouraged me, my simplicity encoui'aged
her. My ignorance of the customs of good society had produced
in me that peculiarity of which Polly Whistler spoke — I was un-
able to see why a man and a woman should not be as intimate in
their confidences as two women, and I never could teach myself
the least embarrassment in speaking honestly to a woman. Tliis
much by way of explanation, or excuse, for much that happened
then, and will have to be recorded afterwards.
" Will you consider me egotistical," she continued, " if I ask
you to tell me what you think of me ?"
" I daren't," I said.
" What !" she replied, turning her eyes upon me, with a look
of amused surprise in them, " are you afraid to tell me the truth ?
And is it because you would have too many cruel things, or too
many pretty things, to say to me ? But do let me hear what you
would say, in any case. I shall not be angry."
" Well," I said, " I think you are very kind."
She shrugged her shoulders.
" I think you are very courageous and independent in your
kindness. For instance, you leave all your friends to come here
with me, who am almost a stranger to you, and you make friends
with me instead of — "
" All that is nothing," she said.
" Then you are very amiable."
94 KILMENY.
" W^ell ?"
" And remarkably good-natured."
" Well ?"
" Very frank."
" Well r
Here I stopped, not knowing how to describe her disposition
further, whereupon she cried out impatiently —
" Don't you see ? That is the very thing. I am amiable and
good-tempered and kind : is that all you say ? Why not say I am
desperately revengeful or cunning or })assionate or morose — any-
thing gloomy and deep and hideous ? He says there is no back-
ground to my disposition — "
"And pray who could have said anything so abominable and
wrong ?" said a new voice, and Heatherleigh appeared at the top
uf the stairs, and stepped out upon the leaden roof of the tower.
Miss Lesley turned with a start to see who was the speaker, and,
when she saw who had overheard her, she stamped her foot with
an involuntary spasm of vexation. Then she crimsoned deeply,
bit her lip, and turned contemptuously away, pretending to look
out upon the plain.
" Pray forgive me for breaking in upon you. Miss Lesley," said
Heatherleigh, who seemed rather amused by the scene, " but I
could not help riding after you to see that no danger befell you.
Come, don't be angry, if I interrupted your tete-a-tete at an awk-
ward moment — upon my honor, 1 had no intention of doing so.
I have been waiting for you at the foot of the tower for a long
time; then I tho\ight I'd be able to point out some objects of in-
terest to you if I came up."
"You are very kind," she said, coldly.
" Come, Ted," he said, " be niy intercessor. Plead for me."
But Miss Lesley turned around, with a smile breaking through
the coldness of her look, and said —
" We will forgive you, if you fulfil your promise. Tell us every-
thing you know about the place."
Which he did — for he had lived in Lewes, and studied its his-
tory and traditions and legends; told us such stories of friars and
kings and knights, of battles and sieges and monkish exploits,
that th<' place appeared to me enchanted. It seemed as though
that old and be;iiitiful and picturesque time was divided from us
by some thin veil of mist; and that, if we went down there,
LEWES CASTLE. 95
might it not return to the still, quiet town ? How long ago was
it that the cold winter days awoke to find the Saxon farm-people
overlorded by the fierce and drunken sea-pirates of the North,
while Alfred the King and his small court lay hiding in the
swamps of Athelney, planning a sudden raid upon them ? How
long ago was it that Canute, sailing through the yellow sea-fog of
the morning, heard the monks of Ely singing, and bade his knights
row near the land ? The time came quite near to us ; English his-
tory seemed to be around us ; and as we leaned upon the old wall
and looked down on those fields and mounds into which genera-
tion after generation of Saxons and Normans and English had
peacefully passed, there came up to us the slow, soft notes of an
organ, which was being played in one of the churches. It was
probably only the work of some amateur player, trying over some
new chants ; but as it reached us — so faintly that we lost it oc-
casionally — it seemed a breath from these old forgotten times, full
of mystery and pathos and sadness.
Miss Lesley uttered a light cry ; she had dropped her glove over
the wall.
"Jump down for it," she said to me ; " or shall we all go down ?
The horses must have rested sufficiently by this time ; and that
young one especially gets fidgety if he is kept long in strange
stables. I hope he won't run away with me."
" If he were a more intelligent animal, he might be excused,"
said Heatherleigh, with a smile.
Bonnie Lesley blushed slightly, and said, rather inappropriate-
ly-
" Oh, you think that men are superior to all the other ani-
mals ?"
" In some things only," he said. " As food, for instance, men
are inferior to sheep."
I could not help reflecting what a rejoinder Polly Whistler would
have made at this moment. Indeed, I sometimes wished that Miss
Lesley, with all her splendid graces and accomplishments, could
possess herself of Polly's wit and gay humor and brightness. But
would not a perfect woman be a monster? Surely Bonnie Lesley
had enough of what was beautiful and desirable in woman !
When we had gone down to the hotel, and ordered the man to
get out the liorses, Heatherleigh came up to me, and said (Miss
Lesley was not within hearing) —
96 KILMENY.
" You can ride, can yon not?"
"No; but I can stick on the back of a horse like a leech."
" Will vou ride my horse home, and let me go in the phaeton?"
" Are you tired ?"
" No—"
" Then why do you want to exchange ?"
"I can't tell you just now — "
"Well, I'd rather go back in the phaeton. You seem not to
like Miss Lesley ; why sliould yon want to go with her ?"
"Very well," he said, turning ;i\\,., .
There was no look of disapjtointment or vexation on his face;
but there was a meaning in the tone of his voice which 1 could
not understand. Then his anxiety that she and I should not go
off together — his sudden appearance at the old castle — this pres-
ent desire to separate us — what could it all mean ?
Was he jealous of the favor which Miss Lesley, in her thought-
less good-nature, was so liberally extending to me ! I was irre-
sistibly driven to this conclusion ; and n)y old friend, if he should
happen to read these confessions, will understand that 1 now re-
'■ord the fact with shame.
That notion took possession of me, and by its false light I read
all the occurrences which happened at this time. On that very
night — after Bonnie Lesley had driven home in tinn' for dinner —
Ileatherleigh and I dined at a big new restaurant in West Street.
lie spoke of what had happened at Lewes Castle.
" 1 only caught the last sentence ; but I knew that she had been
speaking of what I had said about lier, and as I did not wish to
hear more, I broke in upon you."
"Then you di<l say that?"
" I did, and do. Tlu- girl is in manv res])ects a verv good sort
of cri'atiin'; I)Ut she has no iiioi'c pcrmanciice or(lc[)tli of charac-
ter than a sheet of tissue-paper."
" Her good-nature — "
" Her good-nature is negative. It is tlie absence of the power
to be really angry. She has not depth of natiii'e enough even to
feel a j)roper resentment against anybody or an\tliing. She has
no emotional capacity whatever. She admires everything in a
pretty and careless wav, and admires everything to the same ex-
tent. She loves and liates and wonders, all in this slight and
superficial fashion — "
LEWES CASTLE. 97
" For goodness' sake, stop," I said to liim. " Wlien you begin
to talk about Miss Lesley, you lose your reason. What has she
done to you, that you should be so savage ? And if she is so
feeble and frivolous a creature, why were you so anxious to enjoy
her society that you rode all the way to Lewes, and why did you
want to go back with her in the phaeton ?"
He looked at me for a few seconds.
" Yes," he said, " you have your troubles to come ; and it
doesn't matter which woman it is who opens your eyes. Do you
remember when Polly and I were talking nonsense about the ne-
cessity of a young artist's having his heart broken ?"
"Yes."
" And I proposed to make Bonnie Lesley the operator in your
case."
"Yes."
" That was a joke ; and I did not think that Bonnie Lesley
would have taken the whim that she has taken. But if I were to
tell you why the girl is petting you, you — with your sublime faith
in the virtue of everybody — would not believe me."
" Certainly not," I said, " if you proposed to tell me that the
girl was acting unworthily. Why, it is too absurd. Take your
own position — that she is kind to me for some particular purpose
of her own ; and how does that affect me ? I find a warm-heart-
ed and generous girl, whom everybody (except one) admires ; and
she chooses to make friends with me, who am too young to be
of any importance to her or to anybody else — "
"Younger men than you have run away with pretty girls, and
married them. Consequently, younger men than you have been
led into the notion that they might do so, and, finding themselves
mistaken, may have had their faith in human nature destroyed
and their lives ruined. I warn you, Ted, not to continue your
friendship with this girl. I rode out to Lewes to separate you ;
and I would have ridden as far again ; for your sake alone, under-
stand me. Perhaps, as it was, I saved you from a danger that
might have befallen you in a few minutes — "
The thought that these words suggested was so horrible that I
started back from it. I sprang to my feet — my face, I knew, was
as white as death, and my heart seemed choking. I said to him —
" You have been my friend, and I am grateful ; but, as sure as
I live, I will never listen to another word from your lips."
E
98 KILMENY.
I rushed out of tlie place : he followed, but he liad to stop for
a monieut or two to explain to the waiter. This saved me. I
walked about all night ; and took the first train in the morning
for London.
CHAPTER X.
POLLY AND HE.
T WAS hasty enough, I know ; but I was beside myself with in-
dignation. For Heatherleigh to talk of my losing faith in human
nature through some possible underhand dealing on the part of
Miss Lesley seemed absurd when I considered that he, without any
proof or reason or excuse, suggested about an honest and good-
hearted girl what his words dared not state explicitly. Wliat
danger ? — and to me ! Why, so great was my sense of that beau-
tiful creature's bounty in even regarding me and speaking to me,
that I should have been only too willing to suffer anything to give
her a moment's pleasure. And it was out of the question that
any suffering of mine could affect her in any way. Suppose she
was one of those impossible women who are supposed to go about
the world in order to imperil men's soiils by breaking their hearts
— suppose she liked to boast of conquests as a savage points to
the number of his scal{)s, was it likely she would care to make a
conquest of me ? There were a dozen men in Brighton at that
time anxious to have the honor of being her victims. They hov-
ered around her, knowing that all of them could not marry her,
and certain that all, except some particular one, must be disap-
pointed. To catch a smile or a word, or the pleasure of handing
lier a fan, they sought her society at this risk ; and it was not to
be considered that she should turn aside from these suitors, who
had every advantage of age and position and money, to me, as
one likely to flirt with or make love to her. Why she should in
any case have shown nic such favor was sufficient of a mystery ;
and it was explicable only on the ground of her disinterested
good-nature and that independence of kindness which I had ob-
served in her.
As I was g<jing up IIaMi])stcad Road to my lodgings, on the
uiorning of my hurried departure from Brighton, 1 met Polly
POLLY AND HE. 99
Whistler, I sliook liands with her heartily ; for I was glad to
see some face that I knew. It was my first estrangement from
Heatherleigh ; and all the world seemed to have grown cold and
distrustful.
" What are you doing here, Ted ?" she said.
" I should like to tell you, Polly ; but it is a long story.
Where are you going ?"
" I was to sit to Mr. Frances at ten o'clock, in place of that
Italian girl — only for the costume, you know. I don't look like
an Italian peasant girl, do I ? However, come along with me, and
I will tell him I can't sit for him this morning. He must wait
for her until to-morrow. Then we can take a walk in Regent's
Park, and you will tell me all about it."
" But you will lose the sitting," I suggested.
" I don't care now," she said, rather sadly. " I used to like to
gather a few shillings you know, and buy little things for the
house ; but my mother — "
I understood the mother not only took the girl's earnings, but
sold such little ornaments or luxuries as she chose to buy. So
Polly and I went around to Regent's Park ; and I told her the
whole story. She was deeply interested in it.
"And do you think-he is in love with her?" she asked, with
her eyes fixed on the ground.
" No," I said ; " I can't say that. A man would not talk about
a woman in that way if he was in love with her."
Polly was very thoughtful for some time. We sat down on
one of the benches underneath the great lime-trees fronting the
broad stretch of the park that lies south of the Zoological Gar-
dens. It was here that I had first seen Bonnie Lesley. There
were few people in the park at this time ; and an unusual silence
dwelt around, for the leaves of the trees scarcely stirred in the
warm sunlight.
" Yoa think he would not talk like that if he was in love with
her ?" said Polly. " Did you never imagine the position of a man
who is compelled, in spite of himself, to love a girl whom he con-
siders unworthy of his love ? Don't you think he would be bitter
against her, and bitterer against himself? Would he not be like-
ly to laugh at the folly of being in love ; and sneer at those fem-
inine arts by which he had been captivated? Would he not re-
venge himself in that way, and cover his own weakness, of which
he is ashamed V
100 KILMEN'V.
It seemed to me that tliis bright and happy girl must have had
her moments of cruel and sad reflection before she could have hit
upon a notion like that, the truth of which flashed upon me at
once. But was such the position of Heatherleigh ?
" Come," she said, with a laugh, " what have you and I to do
with love - matters, Ted? They are for rich people, who have
nothing to do but choose whom they will marry. We have our
living to look after; and it takes us all our time, doesn't it? I
wonder if, in the next world, we shall be able to get free of all
these things, and speak to each other of what might have been
here below? It would be like a Sunday out for us poor people,
if we were to get such a chance. Tliere — will you look at this
thing, that I copied the other night?"
With a sort of assumed carelessness, she slipped into my hand
a bit of paper, which I unfolded. There wore some verses on it,
written in her own handwriting, which I knew. It was very cor-
rect and precise, but a trifle stiff : she had taught herself.
The verses, so far as I can remember, began with these lines —
" If you and I were only ghosts,
Cut off from human cares and pains.
To walk togetlier, at dead of night,
Along the far sidereal plains — "
and went on to say how they would forget all tlie cruel conditions
that had separated them here on earth, and talk to each other of
all they had been thinking when these things had kept them
asunder. Indeed, the lines, touchingly pathetic here and awk-
wardly constructed tliere, were so obviously a reproduction of
what she had been saying, that I cried out —
"Oh, Polly, you have been writing poetry !"
"Nonsense!" she said, with an embarrassment and blushing I
had never seen her exhibit. " I told you I had copied it."
" And you told me a fib."
She put her arm inside mine (she had slipj)ed the paper into
her pocket meanwhile), and said —
"Come, let us go into the gardens. I have got a shilling, if
you have. And you shall tell me of all you mean to do. I in-
sist first, though, on your making friends with Mr. lleatlu'ilcigh."
We passed into the Zoijiogical (Jardcns, and we strolled about
the walks, sometimes talking about licit lierlcigh and Bonnie Les-
ley, stjmetimes talking ;ib<jnt the .•iiiiniajs in the cages, Polly was
POLLY AND HE. 101
in better spirits now ; and went on chatting in her usual bright
and happy fashion. I wish I could remember a tithe of the re-
marks she made about the animals — mad interpretations of their
feelings and opinions, humorous touches of description, and com-
ical comparisons of every kind. From cage to cage we went,
from enclosure to enclosure, and there was scarcely a bird or a
beast that she did not endow with human feelings, and wonder
what each was thinking of at the time. Some of these anthro-
pomorphic fancies were extraordinarily ingenious, and they flow-
ed out so freely and spontaneously as to charm one with their
constant variety and novelty. She had just described the opinion
probably held by a very mangy-looking hyena about Olfenbach's
music, as played by the band of the Coldstream Guards opposite
its cage, when her arm, which was inside mine, gave a sudden
start. Heatherleigh approached.
The expression of her face changed instantly ; and she seemed
anxious to get away without speaking. However, he came up,
and shook hands with her, and asked, in his old friendly way, how
she was. She answered him very coldly ; and, saying that he
probably wanted to speak to me, was going off by herself.
" Don't go away like that, Polly," said he.
" At least let me go with you," said I.
"There now," he said, with a peculiar smile, " are my two best
friends — about the only people I care for — in league against me,
and going to cut me ! Have I deserved it ? At any rate tell me
what I am accused of."
" I don't accuse you of anything, Mr. Heatherleigh," said Polly,
in a low voice, " but I wish to go home."
He looked at her for a moment with a strange look in his face
— a look of infinite compassion and tenderness. I thought he
would have seized her hand. But he only said, in a graver
voice —
" Don't let any misunderstanding remain between us three.
Life is not long enough that we should waste it in quarrels ; and
friends are not so plentiful that we can afford to throw them off.
Let us sit down on this seat. There now. As for you, Ted, I
will bring you to your senses in a moment. You misunderstood
entirely what I meant about Miss Lesley. But say that you
didn't ; and I p) ofess myself all the same very sorry, and I will
never say anything against her again. It was entirely for your
102 KILMEXY.
sake that I spoke : you will find that out some day, when yoa
know both her and me better. I say that I regret having said
what I did : will that do ?"
I nodded.
" Shall we be friends, then ?"
" Certainly ; I don't see how we could have been anything else
under any circumstances. But your conduct towards her is a
mystery to me. You say that some day I shall think otherwise
about her. You don't suppose I am in love with her ? But, so
far as I do know her, I know you do her a great injustice, and
last night what you said was simply — "
" There, there," he said, " we'll have no more about that. I
regret it; and you will think no more about it. Is it a bar-
gain ?"
" I am onl}' too glad to be friends with you again on any
terms ; but it is you who will think otherwise in time — unless
your present opinion of her is only a pretence."
" And now for you, Polly ; what have I done to you that you
should try to avoid me ?"
" Nothing at all, Mr. Heatherleigh," said Polly, casting down
her eyes; "and you know it."
" Why, you used to be as frank with me as the daylight, Polly,"
he said. " When I came around the park in search of Ted, and
when young Cartwright, who saw you both, told me you had
come in here, I said to myself that I should have an ally in
bringing him to reason. Instead of which I have both of you to
argue with ; and the mischief is that I don't know what it is we
have to argue about. You are not in love with Bonnie Lesley,
Polly ?"
" No."
"Then what is the matter?"
" You forget how we parted last," she said, in a low voice.
" But what lias that to do with me?" he said, taking her liand.
She drew her hand away, and said —
" It has nothing to do with you, Mr. Heatherleigh, of course,
but — but I don't wish you to speak to mc any more — "
SIjc hastily rose from her seat, and left, with her back turned
to us. He would have followed her; but I restrained him.
" Don't shame her any more," I said ; " she is crying."
lie bit his lip, and sat silent for a moment.
POLLY AND HE. 103
" That old idiot !" he muttered ; " why should her nonsense be
regarded by us who are sane ?"
" By and by Polly will have forgotten much of what her
mother said, and may not be ashamed to meet you ; but at pres-
ent—"
" Well, at present ?" he said ; " wasn't she chatting just as usual
to you when I came up ?"
" That is another matter," I said, looking hard at him.
He did not seem to draw any inference from the words : he
was staring at the path, drawing lines on the gravel with his
stick. Eventually I persuaded him to go over to his rooms, say-
ing that I would follow him.
Then I went in search of Polly, and found her.
" Is he gone ?" she said.
" Yes," 1 said.
She pressed my hand ; and we went slowly towards the gate,
without a word.
" Really," I said to her, in crossing over the park on our way
home, "you put too much importance on what passed that night.
Heatherleigh understands that your mother did not know what
she was saying; and he is very sorry that it should have oc-
curred, and is vexed that it should alter in any way our old rela-
tions. Don't you remember the jolly evenings, Polly, when we
three used to sit all by ourselves after supper, and chat until near
midnight ? You know, the autumn nights will be coming on
again ; what shall we do with ourselves if we are never to naeet
as we used to do ?"
" You are very kind, Ted," she said, " but that is all over."
" It isn't all over, Polly. When Heatherleigh finally comes
back from Brighton — "
"Do you think I can ever enter his house again, considering
how I left it?" she said, with just a touch of indignation in her
voice. " Do you think a woman has no sort of self-respect, even
although she is a model ? Oh, I hope I shall never, never see him
again — for it kills me to think of his standing in that room and
listening to all the cruel things she said of me."
I saw her mouth quivering, and her breath came short and
quick. Then she said —
" You told me you had a picture at your lodgings, Ted."
" Yes."
104 KILMENT.
" Could I — could I be of any use to you ? We are both poor,
you know — at least I am ; but I have plent}' of time, and I should
lite to come and sit for you. Will you let me do that in return
for your kindness ?"
" But why should you cry about it, Polly V said I.
The tears were streaming down the poor girl's cheeks. As we
passed along, I knew that Heatherleigh was watching us from
viader the shadow of one of the trees ; but she did not see him.
CHAPTER XI.
MR. ALFRED BURNHAM.
T WENT down to Brighton again with Heatherleigh, and re-en-
tered that strange world of indolent enjoyment, of luxury and
gayety, of day-dreaming by the sea, of listening to Bonnie Les-
ley's pretty voice, and looking at the pretty wonder of her child-
like eyes.
What chiefly astonished me in this new world was the life led
by the young men — the young Olympians of handsome tigiire, of
faultless dress, and unlimited Cv)mmaiid of money, who drove
their mail-phaetons in such splendid style, and had such a fine in-
difference to the presence of waiters. Rather against my will, I
was dragged into their society by Heatherleigh, who knew several
of them who were living at various hotels. So far as I was con-
cerned, I could not help admiring the free and easy manner with
which they used to try to convince me that I was their equal.*
I was too much impressed by their manner of living, however,
ti) tliink of myself in the matter: it was enough for me to watch
tlie actions of those young favorites of fortune, with their irre-
sistible coolness and self-possession, and their unoonscituiabie ex-
penditure in flowers, gloves, and cigars. Ilow litllc tliey thought
of tossing up as to who should pay for a dinner for four or five
of them, which cost, at a moderate computation, eighteen shillings
a head! JIow carelessly they would hand a half-sovereign to the
leader of the band which used to play in front of the hotel at
night ! With wlmt indifference they wrote off to Poole to send
them down a couple of suits of clothes! And with what a royal
MR. ALFRED BURNHAM. 105
magnanimity they dispensed shillings and half-crowns to anybody
who did them the smallest service !
There was one among them who was never guilty of these
thoughtless acts of generosity or extravagance ; and that was Mr.
Alfred Bui'nham. Miss Hester Burnham, I heard, liad come
down, and was living with her aunt — an old lady who had a
large house at the extreme east end of Brighton. This lady I
had never seen ; but I knew she was not very favorably disposed
cither to her nephew, Mr. Alfred Burnham, or to his father and
her brother-in-law, Colonel Burnham. Such, at least, was the
gossip down in Buckinghamshire, and it was so far corroborated
by the fact that Mr. Alfred Burnham, instead of living at her
house, stayed at a hotel.
I detested that man, and everything I saw and heard ()f him at
Brighton increased the bad impression I received from his cold
and calculating eyes, his thin lips, and selfish, hard face. He was
handsome enough, in one way — indeed, he looked like the best
type of young Englishman, with the emotional and moral quali-
ties withdrawn. He had a good physique, good complexion, and
excellent manners, of a somewhat indifferent and blase kind. To
women he could be exceedingly agreeable, when he chose ; and
then he would turn away, with a lialf-concealed look of weariness,
as if he rather pitied their folly in being pleasant to him. In the
company of men, he was chiefly remarkable for his constantly
watchful habit of making the most of current circumstances — of
winning bets, and extricating himself from the necessity of pay-
ing anything. He did not seem to care to shine in any way. H
never boasted of anything — not even of his successes with women.
He acknowledged himself ignorant of politics; was rather inclined
to be a Conservative, as he considered the Radicals " such a pack
of d — d cads ;" he hunted sometimes, but he had no good runs or
exciting escapes to recount ; he shot sometimes, but cared nothing
about it.
Here is a little incident which I used to think revealed his nat-
ure admirably.
He and two or three others, with Heatherleigh and myself, were
going into the Grand Hotel. I may say here, 2)ar jmirnthese, that
I had no scruple about meeting him. I did not care whether he
remembered or not that he had given me half a crown by way of
alms. I disliked him, and had there been any disposition on hi?
E 2
106 KILMENY.
part to recall that incident at the foot of White-cross Hill, I
should not have been ashamed of it in his presence. As it was,
he made no difference between me and the others, except that he
never tried to make bets with me.
As we were going up the steps, I saw him linger behind, and
drop a stone on the ground. I could not understand why a man
should have been carrying a stone in his pocket, but paid no par-
ticular attention to the fact. We went into the billiard -room,
somebody having proposed that there should be a game of pool
before lunch. Some played, others looked on, and bet upon who
should divide. I happened to sit down beside a young barrister,
with whom I had become acquainted.
" I fancy you noticed Burnham drop a stone as we came in,"
said he to me.
" I did."
" Come out with me, and we'll have a lark."
We left the billiard-room together, and when we got outside he
picked up the stone which Alfred Burnham had dropped.
" Now," said he, " he's up to some trick. He means to bet
about that stone — either the distance it lies from the pavement,
or its weight, or something like that. He's always at it; and he's
not above trying any sort of dodge if he thinks he can get a fiver
out of you. Suppose that we get a bit of string and measure how
far the stone lies from the pavement, and then we can have it
weighed ?"
He put the stone down again, and we accurately measured the
distance. Then we went into the tobacconist's shop at the cor-
ner and had the stone weighed — seven ounces thirteen drams was
the result. Finally the stone was put back in its place, and we re-
turned to the billiard-room,
Burnham was in high spirits ; he had won a sovereign, betting
three to one that Heathcrlcigh would divide the last pool. He
offered to toss double or quits ; but the offer was declined.
We went into the room in which luncheon had been prepared
for us; and sat down at the prettily decorated table, with its col-
ored claret-glasses, its vases of flowers, and — not least attractive
— its handsome wine-coolers, out of which the rounded heads and
golden necks of two champagne-bottles peeped. And out there
the gay crowd rolled past in its handsome carriages, and there was
a glow of brilliantly tinted parasols, and bonnets and dresses, along
MR. ALFRED BURNHAM. 107
the pavement ; and then, out beyond that again, lay the great white
sea and the sunUght, and the far-off specks of sails.
Heatherleigh was sitting next to me, and I begged him to tell
me whose guest I was.
" I don't know," he said ; " it doesn't matter."
" Don't you know whose wine you are drinking ?"
" I believe a person of the name of Roderer is the excellent
author of it. Don't distress yourself. We were hustled in here
indiscriminately by two or three men, and if there is any one of
them whose bread and salt you would rather not eat, we shall for-
bid his paying his share. Have an honest care of your stomach,
Ted ; and leave Alfred Burnham alone."
" I wasn't talking of Alfred Burnham," I said.
" No, but you were thinking of him when you asked that ques-
tion. There is old Ebury, at the end of the table, preaching about
the benefits to civilization that the Italian canal, in which he is a
shareholder, is going to produce. He may talk about the Italian
canal till Doomsday ; but it is his own intestinal canal he is think-
ing of."
At this moment I overheard Mr. Alfred Burnham beginning
to talk rather loudly about the fun of making absolutely absurd
bets.
" Why do you treat Alfred Burnham so defiantly — so cavalier-
ly," continued Heatherleigh. " Has he done you any injury ?
Why, you speak to him as if he were a beggar — "
" That is my role," I said, laughing.
" Ah, I remember," said Heatherleigh. " But you don't blame
him for that ?"
" I don't blame him for anything — I dislike him ; and I
shouldn't eat or drink a morsel or drop at this table if I thought
he was going to pay for it."
" Be at rest on that score, Ted ; Alfred Burnham never pays.
It is a point of honor with him ; and I am glad there is one thing
on which he follows a principle."
Burnham was now engaging the attention of the men nearest
aim by describing the various bets he had seen made. The run-
ning of rain-drops on panes, the motions of flies, the chasing of
waves — anything in which no possible calculation could be made
he preferred.
" For instance," he said, getting up and holding his table-nap-
108 KILMENY.
kin in his hand (although hinch was not nearly over), " I shouldn't
mind having a bet about the weight of anything lying out there —
a stone, or a bit of dry stick."
With that he looked out of the window.
" Are you good at guessing right V asked my friend, the bar-
rister, -whose name was Tilley.
" I take my chance, like everybody else," said Burnham. " For
example, I will bet you anything you like that I will go nearer
the weight of that stone lying out there than you will."
" Sit down, you fellows, and drop your betting," said some
one.
Burnham, however, ordered the waiter to go out and fetch in
this particular stone. He brought it, and it was handed to Til-
" I don't mind having a bet with you," said he.
"What shall it be?" returned Burnham, carelessly. "Ten,
twenty, fifty, a hundred ?"
" Anything you like — say fifty."
" All right."
By this time everybody at table was listening.
" Send it off to be weighed," said Tilley, " and make the
waiter bring back the weight on a bit of paper. You and I must
write down our notion of the weight, and hand the two slips to
Hcatherleigh."
"Very well," said Burnham, with a laugh. "I suppose we
must be particular when fifty pounds are in the case. Or, what
do you say, shall we double ?"
" I don't mind."
A minute or two afterwards the waiter returned, and gave
Ilt'athcrleigh the third slip of paper.
" I find," said Heathcrleigh, speaking with official gravity,
" that Bunihani guesses the weight of this interesting piece of
stone at eight ounces, which is a very near guess, as it weighs
seven ounces thirteen drams. But I find that Tilley is even
nearer ; for he ffucsses it at seven ounces thirteen drams. Accord-
ingly, he has won the bet."
Heathcrleigh must have seen through the whole affair when
Till(!y's paper was handed to him ; but he made the announce-
ment quite gravely. Tt was received by the others with an ex-
plosion of laughter. Burnham was beside himself with rage; for
MK. ALFRED BUKNHAM. 109
not only had he lost the money, but lie saw that his neiorhbors
perceived he had been caught in his own trap. He tried to laugh,
and said to Tilley —
" You think that a good joke ?"
" Well, I do," said Tilley, who was laughing heartily.
" I'll tell you what I think," shouted Burnhani, entirely losing
command of himself, " I think you are a d — d swindler."
Tilley was about to drink some claret out of a tumbler. The
next second the wine was thrown into Burnham's face. Then
ensued a pretty scrimmage, two or three men holding Burnham
back by main force, and everybody begging everybody else to be
quiet. Tilley stood calm and collected at the table. At length
Burnham, vowing unheard-of things, was persuaded to go to his
bedroom and change his stained waistcoat ; while Tilley sat down,
and asked if anybody was willing to cash Mr. Alfred Burnham's
note of hand for a hundred pounds.
" I will — when you get it," said his neighbor.
Burnham did not reappear ; and Tilley — who made no secret
of the way in which he had trapped his opponent — finished his
lunch in peace. From that day I noticed that the men rather
fought shy of Mr. Alfred Burnham. When, through habit, he
offered to bet, they declined.
" Lucky for him the Lewisons have not heard of that prank,"
said Heatherleigh to me.
" Wliy ?"
" Because he would not be allowed to visit there, and it is only
there he has a chance of meeting your friend, Miss Hester."
" Then you think—"
*' That he means to become an honest man so soon as he can
marry her and get her money to live upon. They say these two
are engaged."
Heatherleigh was silent for a long time.
" She reminds me so much sometimes of that girl — whom —
whom I told you I used to know. She has the same sort of man-
ner, and her eyes have the same strange expression. Sometimes
I look at her and think that — Bah ! nonsense ! What is sh«
if she is capable of thinking of marrying himj''^
110 KULMENV.
CHAPTER XII.
AT SHOREHAM.
Some local club or society having resolved to hold its annual
fete at the Swiss Gardens, Shorehara, Mr. Lewison, who knew sev-
eral of the members, was asked to form a party to go there. Ha
accordingly did so ; and Hoatherleigh and I were among the num-
ber invited. Some started from Mr. Lewison's house ; others drove
over by themselves, in their own carriages. Among the former
were Heatherleigh and myself, and, as the party was successively
told off, it happened that we were ordered to accompany Misa
Lesley.
It was a very pleasant morning, with a cool breeze blowing in
from the sea that tempered the fierce heat of the sunlight. Miss
Lesley was looking particularly handsome; and she was particu-
larly gracious. Even Ilcatherleigh's coldness seemed to be thawed
by her obvious desire to be pleasant and frioTidly ; and he chat-
ted with her in a better-tempci'cd fashion than I had ever seen
him exhibit towards her. Once or twice, however, when he hap-
pened to say something to me about painting or poetry, or some
similar topic, and when she joined the conversation, he turned to
her with a polite and cold attention, which plainly said, " I don't
choose to have you talk on such subjects."
This was unfair ; because again and again I had noticed in the
girl a desire to apj)reciate and understand these things, which de-
served every encouragcnuMit. I have already said that it seemed
to nic the artistic side of her nature was singularly unimpression-
able — that she seemed incapable of receiving artistic iiiHuences;
but surely it was all the more creditable to her that she should
be anxious to be able to take an interest in such matters. Even
to assume the interest she did not feel was in itself a virtue.
Most women in her position would have used the prerogative
given them by their surpassing loveliness to despise what they
could not comprehend, and banish any mention of it from their
circle. T<j hold in subjection a court of lovers, to look like some
AT SHOREHAM. Ill
glorified Cleopatra, would liave been sufficient for them ; and they
would have laughed at and scouted the intellectual cravings which
they could not understand, even as modern interpretation will
have it that the object of Pygmalion's love outraged and disap'
pointed the passionate longings of her creator.
When we reached Shoreham, we found that a number of peo-
ple had arrived, and had already become familiar with what must
have been to them the very novel amusements of the gardens.
Here some young girls in gauzy white, with red roses in their
hair and pink gloves on their hands, were practising archery in a
reckless fashion, and getting extraordinary compliments from one
or two gentlemen who were their attendants whenever chance
brought a stray arrow near the target. There a party was play-
ing at croquet, and exhibiting to bystanders a much greater skill
in the fine art of fiirtation than in sending a ball through the bell.
Then there were the quiet walks through snatches of copsewood
(with some painted pasteboard figure suddenly staring at you
from among the bushes), the greenhouses, the flower-gardens, the
lake, and what not, to attract straggling couples. I do not mean
here to describe the various amusements that occupied us during
the day — a picnic on the lawn being prominent among them ; nor
yet the performance at the theatre, where Miss Lesley sat in the
front of the gallery, and endeavored to keep her numerous gen-
tlemen friends from talking to her while the actors were on the
stage. As the people were going out, we happened to get to-
gether; and, as chance would have it, we carelessly strolled on-
wards until we found ourselves in that straggling line of wood
which surrounds the lake.
Here we walked up and down in the cool of the beautiful even-
ing, all around us the flutter of green leaves and the stirring of
the sweet pure air ; and then, when we came to a gap in the trees,
we found a pale yellow sky overhead, sharply traced across with
lines of cirrus clouds, gleaming like silver on the faint back-
ground of gold mist. The young moon was there, too ; and
Bonnie Lesley turned over all the money in her pocket, for luck's
sake.
" You artists don't care to be rich," she said. " You have a
world of your own, and you are rich in dreams, and you don't
care about us poor folks out here, or what we think is pleasant to
have."
112 KILMENV.
" I know what is pleasant to have," I said. " I wish I was
rich and beautiful and strong and liajtpy, not for my own sake,
but to have the power of conferiing favor and pleasure. I see
men and women here who have only to smile to confer a favor:
you, yourself — you know what pleasure it must give you to be
beautiful and bountiful and lovable — to be able to gladden tlie
people around you with a look or a word."
"Do you know what you are saying?" she said, with a laugh
of surprise.
It seemed to nie that I did not. I was so anxious to show her
wliat I considered the happy position of rich and beautiful per-
sons that I had taken no care to conceal what I thought of her-
self personally. This 1 told her frankly.
" You think it is a fine thing to be good-looking and all this
that you say ? What if you can't please the very jjcople you
want to please ? Why, if I were to believe the nonsense you
talked, I should be able at once to overwhelm you with kindness."
"You do that now," I said, truthfully enough.
"Is what you say true?" she said, turning lier large eyes, full
of a pretty astonishment, upon me. " Is it really of any concern
to you that I should do everything in my power to please you?
If I told you now that — that there was nothing I wouldn't do — "
With that she laughed lightly.
" Come," she said, " we are drifting into confessions, and there
are sure to be people walking around this way, who would imag-
ine—"
And Iierc she lauglied again, and turned away from me, and
tripped down the bank to the margin of the lake. Before I knew
what she was about, she had jumped into a boat, and, lifting one
of the oars, had pushed out from the bank.
" II(nv far would you jumj) in order to have the pleasure of
coming and talking to me?" she said.
" Let the boat stop where it is, and 1 will jiinij) from the
bridge."
"You silly boy, you would break your neck. See, I will be
merciful, and you shall l)reak your neck for me another time."
" When I can be of service to you."
" Just so."
Slie jtushed tlie stern of tlir l>u;it towards the shore; 1 got in
and took the oars. We paddlid .liioiit a little — passed under the
AT SHOREHAM. 113
bridge and out upon the larger lake, which was now growing
crirason under the evening sky. Out in the middle of the water
we allowed the boat to float idly, and Bonnie Lesley bade me
come and sit beside her that she might talk to me.
" Whatever put that strange notion into your head about wish-
ing to be rich and so forth, in order to be able to please people ?
The only use in riches I see is that they make you independent.
For instance, if I had no money, I should have to marry a man
who could keep up a house in a certain style ; but I shall have a
little money, you know, when I come of age, and I can look all
around my friends and say to myself. Well, there are one or two
who, I think, would like to marry me, but I shall wait until I get
desperately fond of some one, and then, if he is as fond of me, I
can marry him, even although he is a beggar. Now that is for-
tunate."
" It would be, for the beggar."
" Why not for me ? Surely you have a better opinion of me
than to think that I h; ve any sympathy with the common no-
tions about marriage ? Oh, I am more romantic than you imag-
ine, and if you would only try me, I mean if you would not mis-
understand me. I might — But no matter. Do you remember
what Queen Elizabeth wrote in reply to Sir Walter Raleigh's
lines about his feaiing to rise so far lest he might fall ? She was
right, too, was she not? Isn't it the business of men to dare, and
of women to give ?" She uttered these last words in a low voice,
with her head bent down.
Inadvertently I took her hand in mine, and she did not with-
draw it.
The boat, meanwhile, had drifted back almost to the bridge,
and, at this moment, I looked up and saw Hester Burnham stand-
ing there alone. Her eyes met mine.
Did I ever tell you what those eyes were like — the large, dark
pupils, set in the tender-blue gray, and shaded by long eyelashes
— eyes full of a strange, intense life, that was yet tempered by
the calm, wise, kind expression of them ?
I met that earnest look for a moment, and I withdrew my
hand from Bonnie Lesley's fingers. I knew that between me and
her, between me and any possibility of such hope and happiness
as I had dared to think she suggested, there lay something as
wide and as sad as the sea.
114
CHAPTER XIII.
BURNHAM PARK.
I WAS called from Brighton to see my Uncle Job, who was
thought to be dying. It was at his urgent request that I set off
immediately after getting the letter; and on the evening of the
following day I was approaching the well-known valley down in
the heart of Bucks.
How different the place looked now ! The tields and meadows
were laden with the bountiful summer produce; and the great
beech-woods that lay along the successive lulls were smothered in
thick leafage. I entered these woods as the pheasants were get-
ting to roost, and as the wide plain that stretched over to Oxford-
shire was beginning to fade into a blue mist. Just above the
horizon, however, lay a splendid sunset — the sun himself being
down, and the clouds above gathering into a large, luminous fan-
shell of gold. Along the horizon lay a swathe of dark purple,
broken by one gleaming line of blood-red, forming, as it were, the
base of the great shell ; and then above that came the circled
lines of gold, clying into a faint green overhead. By the time I
reached my uncle's up-lying farm these lines had changed into
a dull crimson, and the wooded western country was growing
dark.
When I went inside, my mother and father were with my uncle.
At his desire, they left the room, that I might go in and see old
Job Ives alone. My mother kissed me as usual ; but I noticed
that my father shook hands with me ceremoniously, and strove
to be formal and polite. Could the man's reverence for my moth-
er go further than that? lie looked upon me as a gentleman,
because I was her son, and ho seemed to think it his duty to her
that he should be respectful towards me. I scarcely dared quar-
rel with this feeling (absurd as it was in its demonstrations to-
wards myself), for I recognized the great love and affection from
which it sprang. If my mother's marriage was a menalliance, it
BURNHAM PARK. 115
was the happiest ever made in the world ;' and I know two people
at least, who never regretted it.
My Uncle Job was down with fever, and a very ghastly spectacle
he presented — his grizzly beard, his pale face, and cropped hair.
" Shot the dower, Ted," said he.
I shut it.
" Are we all aloan ?"
" Yes."
*' I suppose I be goin' to die ?"
" I hope not. Uncle Job," I said.
" Now, Ted," he said, rather querulously, but in a low, gasping
voice, " I have always 'ad a great respect for you as boy and
niahn ; you've always bin so fair and honest ; and doan't you be
goin' now to talk that darned nonsense about a man bein' afeard
to die, and thinkin' what's a comin' to 'im. I tell ye, Ted, as you
get so infernal weak and listless that ye doan't care whether ye
die or no ; and if I be agoin' to die, I'm darned if I care. I want
none o' your pahrsons to frighten me wi' ghost-stories, as if I wur
a babby ; and I want no 'umbug on my tombstone, if they gie
me one. The tombstones be nice things, hain't they ? — saayin'
as how folks are grieved 'cause their friends are gone to hever-
lastin' 'appiness ! It makes me think, when I see their grief is
honest, that they are either darned jealous o' their friends gettin'
the 'appiness first, or that they're not so sure about it as they
pretend. And if ye look around, Ted, at the haverage goin's-on
o' people, it's no wonder folks should ha' some doubt about every-
body goin' to 'eaven. What I says is, I've done my duty by
the fahmi and by my relations, and I hain't afeard o' nothin'.
Though I do hope them wuts '11 turn out right."
Here ray mother entered to give Job his periodical dose of
quinine, or some such medicine. He muttered a word or two
about his wishing to be let die in peace ; but he took the medi-
cine, and only cursed once and feebly about the taste of it. So
soon as my mother was gone, he recommenced his chance ob-
servations on his having done his duty, a point he insisted on.
Whence Uncle Job had borrowed his notions of duty was a puz-
zle. He recognized no authority beyond his own idea of what
he ought to have done, and he looked for no recompense. He
had done his duty, and he knew it, and wished to be let alone by
parsons.
116 KILMKNY.
" Sure we be aloan, Ted?" he murmured.
" Yes."
" D'ye know why I sent for ye ?"
" No."
" It was to tell ye somethin' I never told to them. I didn't
want to have the pahrson a-botherin' about me, and all the darned
idiots in the place talkiu' lies about my convarsion ; but I wanted
you to come, for I'd something to tell ye, and I bain't so weak as
not to be able to — "
Here Uncle Job ceased, and lay still for some seconds. His
eyes were half shut, and he seemed to be thinking about some-
thing. What was the confession which this old heathen was about
to make ? The villagers would have believed any evil of Job
Ives ; for they knew that he said bitter things about parsons, and
sneered at their church-going, and walked about on Sunday morn-
ing in his oldest clothes, with a clay pipe in his mouth. Not the
old Major himself, who had refused to be buried in consecrated
ground, would have been so readily accredited with evil doings.
Indeed, more or less vaguely, they suspected Job Ives to be ca-
pable of any crime — except one. Even in Great Missenden I
scarcely believe there was a man who would have dared to say
that my uncle was secretly a Roman Catholic.
" That darned doctor," he said, " makes believe as he knows
what's the iiialitter wi' me ; but he knows no more nor I know.
It's their business to make believe. I remember as there was a
feller — a professor he called hisself — came down to Missenden
to explain things to us poor hidiots in the country, and he gave
a lecture. D'ye know what he wanted us to believe? — why, that
the water as rises in a pump is made to rise by the pressure of
the air. Darn his eyes ! — does the air press on my hand now ?
But you see, Ted, they've to explain it somehow, them professors ;
and one reason's as good's another."
Here the old ])agan's ghastly face grinned, as if to say that Job
Ives, even on his ileath-bed, was a match for any number of learn-
ed impostors.
" But you were going to tell me something,'* I suggested.
I knew I was no great hand at administering spiritual consola-
tion ; but if the old man had something to confess, or had even
some religious dithcidty to propound, I was anxious to make his
last hours as peaceful as possible.
BURNHAM PARK.
IIY
" Ay, ay, I doan't forget," he said, slowly, " Take out your
pencil, and write down the name of Stephen Catlin."
He added a frightful oath as he uttered the name. It was no
doctrinal point, clearly, on which he wished to have his doubts
resolved.
I did as he bade me.
" Ted, that man Stephen Catlin wur my friend, and he ruined
the girl as I wanted to marry."
A complete transformation had suddenly come over the old
man. As he uttered the words, he struggled to raise himself
on the bed, his face became whiter than ever, and his eyes actu-
ally gleamed with passion. His voice, too, that seemed to come
from the grave, was shrill and harsh, and his whole frame trem-
bled.
" I say as he took her awaay from me, when we wur livin' in
Datchet, and she over in Windsor. She wur to have married me,
Ted, and I caught them walkin' together one night, and we had
a fight — and, thank God ! thank God ! I felled him down, Ted —
I felled him down — and he laid at her feet, and never spoke a
word — "
He laughed, and the laugh had a hollow sound as it died down
in his throat.
" I didn't knoaw then," he continued, sinking back on the pil-
low, " as he didn't mean fairly by her, or I should ha' killed him
thear. It wur a bad day for her when she met him. She and I
were very comfortable then — we used to walk along the banks o'
the river in the evenin's, or under the trees in Windsor Park ;
and she wur a sweet, pure thing, Ted, as ever stepped, wi' a fine,
plump cheek, and a pretty, soft eye. But I think she wur afeard
o' me, for I never went to church wi' her on the Sundays ; and he
— that's how he got acquaint wi' her. It's a pretty likin' I've
had for churches, chapels, and pahrsons since then. Howsever,
when the worst came to the worst, and the poor lass had to go
to London for shame o' people talkin' of her, he packs his traps
and cuts for Australia. Would you believe it, Ted ? And every
one on us expectin' him to marry her. But I could go to hell,
Ted, if only to see him thedr^
He rested himself awhile, for the terrible excitement under
which he had been laboring had made him gasp for breath.
" You're younger than us about here, Ted. You'll live to come
118 KILMENY.
across them two — stay, put down her name, Katie Dormer — she's
in London, and the last I heard of her was that she wur in ser-
vice. She's, mayhap, gray-haired now."
I was about to write down her name, when lie said, angrily —
" No, not on the same bit o' paper — on another bit o' paper ;
d— n him !"
This I did.
" Fve made a wOl, Ted, and there's fifty pounds for Katie Dor-
mer. You'll advertise for her ; and you'll tell her, when you find
her, as it's from old Job Ives."
" If she's alive, and in London, I'll find her out," I said.
My uncle stretched out his lean, hmry arm, and feebly shook
my hand.
" As for him," he said, with that fierce light again coming into
his eyes, " if ever he come back to England, and if you meet him,
Ted, kill him, my brave lad, kill him dead ! If you had a sister,
wouldn't you kill the mahn as ruined her? And Katie Dormer
was fit to have been the sister of — of — "
He lay back with a sigh.
" Open the dower, and tell my brother and his wife to come
in," he said, in a little time.
I called them in.
*' I feel wonderful better," he said, with a grin on the haggard,
unshaven face — "I feel wonderful better. I hain't dead yet,
Tom ; and mayhap I'll cheat ye all. Howsever I want to tell ye
as I've made a will, and in case them darned lawyers make believe
as they've found a mare's nest in it, I'll tell ye what I mean by
it, and you'll all three stick to it."
" Never mind about the will, Job," said my mother. " Lie
still, and get better, and then we'll talk about it."
" Do ye wahnt me to come back as a ghost to talk about it,
do ye ? Happen as ghosts doan't talk anythin' so sensible when
they come back — they talk darned nonsense to old women, and
raise pianners ! Fancy old Job Ives playin' on the pianner — what
darned queer tunes my ghost '11 make if they bother me !"
" Oh, Job, don't talk like that !" said my mother, almost fright-
ened.
But there was a ghastly grin on old Job's haggard face, and he
said —
" Ain't it 'ard as I'll have to wear one suit o' clothes forevcf
BURNHAM PARK. 119
in the next world — them old things as is hanging up there — and
in a year or two's time I'll be out o' the fahshion. And the peo-
ple '11 say, when I begin on the accordion, ' Poor old Job Ives, 'e
never could wear good clothes even when he wur alive, and now
he's a reg'lar guy.' "
"Job, have you nothing else to think about?" said my mother,
urgently, who was horrified to see her relative dying in this un-
godly mood.
" Yes, I have," said he. " Brother, I've left you and your wife
all the stock on the fahrm. I hope you'll take the fahrm, and do
your duty by it, as I've done. If them wuts in the ten-acre ud
only get some rain, you'll ha' a good crop this year to start wi' ;
and I hope you and your wife '11 live comfortable. If I'd ha'
married a woman like you, Susan, I'd ha' lived a different life
mayhap ; but I've done my duty, as I say, and no one '11 deny it.
Brother, don't you forget old Betsy Kinch ; she wur a good friend
to our father, and she'll look to you when quarter-day comes
round. And you'll be able to afford her, besides, a trifle o' taters,
or butter, or the like — "
My father took Uncle Job's hand, and pressed it.
" You're a good man. Job, and you've been a kind-hearted man
since you wur a boy."
" As for Ted," said my uncle, " I've a matter o' eighteen 'un-
dred pounds in the bank, and I've left it to 'im. You won't think
that 'ard on you, Tom ? You know, he's no' like us. Look at
him—"
" I know, I know," said my father. " It's him as has to com-
plain o' me ; I should ha' started him in life ; but how could I ?"
" Why, father, you gave me a good education : what more
does any one want than that ?"
" Your mother did," said he.
" Make a good use o' the money, Ted," continued my uncle.
" It isn't much ; but it's a good nest-egg ; and you may make
us all proud o' ye yet. D — n it, I'm a-talkin' as if I wurn't dyin'."
" And neither are you," I said ; " if you would only keep still
and quiet, you'd get all right again."
With that he turned away his face from us, and lay perfectly
silent. My father and I slipped out of the room, leaving my
mother by the bedside.
" What a wonderful energy there is in him !" I said to my
120 KILMENY.
tatlier. " His system is at its very lowest, and yet you lieai how
he talks."
"Ay, there's fire there," said my father, sitting down in a
great wooden chair in the kitchen — " there's fire in him yet ; and
I shouldn't wonder if he'd cheat the doctor. If he does, he has
to thank your mother, Ted. She has watched him and tended
him as if it wur you."
My father seemed to be struck by the notion that my mother
should care so much for one of his family.
"There's a good woman, Ted," he said, thoughtfully; it's but
a hard life she has had of it."
" Why do you say that ?" I remonstrated. " Did you ever see
a woman more contented ?"
" But she was brought up to expect mower," he said, shaking
his head. " She might have been a gentleman's wife, Ted, riding
in her own carriage. What is she — "
" Happy," I said, looking him boldly in the face,
" She deserves to be," he said, rising suddenly, and beginning
to walk up and down the wooden floor.
Then he said by and by —
" Was it about Katie Dormer he wanted to sec you, Ted ?"
" Yes," I answered, with some surprise ; for Job had said it was
a secret.
" I thought so," said my father ; " T thonght so. Your mother
would have it as he was wantin' somebody to talk to him about
religion, and didn't like to ask us about here, lest we should speak
about it to the neighbors. But I thought it was Katie Dormer
he wanted to talk about. So he told you the whole story ?"
" Yes."
" Ah, he was never the same man after that happened. It
turned his life round and round for him, and he got sour and
cantankerous, and bitter in his speech wi' the people about. But
lie wur a good man for all that — I wish there wur more like
him."
" And the man—?"
"Catlin? I heard as lie liad come back a rich man, and had
started as a buildiT in Iliglibury sdiiirw lici'c, with a wagonette
and a pair o' horses, and the like. It wur well for him as he got
olT for Australia afore my brother Job laid bands on him."
Ilcrr one of the servants came in foi a minute or so, and inter
BURNHAM PARK. 121
rupted our conversation. When she had left, Tiiy father con-
tinued —
"So Job is still thinkin' o' that girl. I dunnow if he's done
aught but think of her these twenty -five yurs and more. But
what d'ye say, Ted, to get your mother to go home ? She wun't
go home for me, and she'll make herself bad by sittin' up night
after night. You take her home, and I'll wait here to-night. In
the mornin' she can come over again from Burnham,"
I was going into the room, when he said —
" Mind you don't tell him as you heard me speak o' Catlin —
for he doesn't know as he's back in London."
" All right," I said.
I went into the room gently, that I might not disturb my
uncle. He was not asleep, however ; and so soon as he saw me
he signified that I was to sit down by his side.
" You woan't forget about them two ?" he said, in a faint
whisper.
" No," I said.
" Fifty pounds for her ; death, and hell afterwards, for him !
If I could only see liim drownin', Ted, from the side of a river,
me with a rope, him lookin' at me !"
A wicked laugh came over the gaunt, gray face ; and then my
uncle seemed to recover his spirits, and said aloud —
" I bain't agoin' to die, Ted ; I be goin' to live, so as you may
paint my pictur. Then you'll put a date on it, and people '11
know as I was in the fashion. What your mother wun't believe,
Ted, is this — that folks have to wear in the next world what they
wore in this — or how could you recognize their ghosts ?"
" Job, pray don't talk any more about that !" entreated my
mother, who was evidently being "talked at" by her hardened
brother-in-law.
" What I says is, as it's 'ard they should make me walk about
the next world wi' my old green shootin' - coat and corduroy
breeches, and never gie me a chance o' changin' the cut — "
" You've told me all that before," she said, " and you are only
harming yourself by talking."
" You want me to say as I'm darned sorry for my life, and as
I beg the pahrson to forgive me for not goin' to church," he said,
with a sneer. "I'm none o' your sweet -tongued sort, Susan.
You'll teach old Job Ives to sing hallelujahs when you teach a jay
122 KILMENY.
to talk French. Pabrsons ! bah ! Tell ye what, Ted, if ye kep'
a lot o' pahrsons in a greenhouse, and manured 'cm and let 'em
develop, they'd grow into mealy-mouthed women."
" And what would the women grow into. Uncle Job ?"
" Why, wi' plenty o' heat and damp, you'd see 'em beginnin' to
sprout claws, and meyow, like cats. That's what all women would
do, except one, Ted — Acr."
And he looked at my mother.
But nothing would persuade her to go home this evening, al-
though it seemed clear to all of us, the doctor included, that Uncle
Job was gaining ground. And as the doctor had promised to
sleep at the farm-house that night, after seeing another of his
patients, there was no room for me, and so I set off to walk over
to Burnham, with a promise to return in the morning.
Somehow the reckless talk and manner of my uncle had given
me the impression that he was not so dangerously ill as the}' had
imagined. Could a man die whose whole energy was bent upon
gibing at parsons, thinking over an old love-story, and making
jokes about his prospects in the next world ? When I got out
into the clear night-air, it seemed as if I had come down into
Buckinghamshire on a pleasant excursion, and that I ought to en-
joy the opportunity.
Shall I confess here — since this is a book of confessions — that
the gay life which had for a little while fascinated nic at Brighton
had begun to grow, to me, dull, heartless, and hopeless ? It even
destroyed the keen pleasure I felt in being near the sea. It was
only at times that there wandered into that atmosphere that was
.sickly with the scent of wines and of ladies' finery a reminiscenco
of the far-off waves ; and that vague suggestion stirred pulses that
had grown ai)atlietic. I began to long even for London, and the
delight of labor, and the hopefulness and satisfaction of well-spent
time. If I went down to Brighton again, I resolved to take my
picture thither, and work at it, so that I should have some right
to enjoy a chance hour of rest by the shore, out of sight of peo-
ple, alone by the sea.
As I walked along the dark road, recognizing this wood or
cirmp of trees or house that had been familiar to me in the old
time, I became glad that the fashionable life with which T had no
sort of syjnpatliy wa-< wholly cut off and separated from inc. I
was free t<' dnain and dress and bend my steps just as I pleased.
BUENHAM PARK. 123
Even Bonnie Lesley seemed now something distant ; and when I
tried to call up her features, and paint them on the dark back-
ground of the gloom in front of me, I could only summon up a
vague shape, that scarcely awakened interest. But then I thought
of her low and tender words on that evening at Shoreham ; and
my heart beat rapidly.
It was a lovely night. There was no moon visible, for it lay
down in the south behind a great thin veil of cloud that stretched
up and over the sky in successive cirrus lines. Singularly enough,
these fleecy stretches of cloud were so transparent that you could
see there was moonlight lying on the other side — a sea of light
rippling in upon a breadth of ribbed and gleaming silver sand.
But where the clouds grew still thinner, up in the north, they lay
in long streaks across the deep blue, like the white hair of some
Scandinavian god, blown by the polar winds. The rest of the
sky was dark and still ; and there was not sufficient moonlight
falling through the curdled clouds to lighten up the landscape ;
so that the strangest effect was produced by those auroral-looking
gleams of tremulous white fire that stretched across the dark vault
overhead.
Very dark, too, were the avenues of tall Spanish chestnuts that
led up to Burnham House ; but nearer the House, the open park
grew lighter, and at times the moonlight threw a slight shadow
from the old and rounded oaks. There was a faint mist hovering
about the foot of these trees that made the various objects around
wear a spectral look. It was a long time since I had seen Burn-
ham House ; and now the gray front of it seemed strangely beauti-
ful. In my early days the place had been associated with errands,
and birthday presents, and what not, that gave it a wholly modern
and prosaic character ; but now it looked legendary and old and
picturesque. Fancy this ancient house, in which the leaders of
the Commonwealth, sitting deep into the night, with their leath-
ern doublets and top-boots still on them, had planned their daring
schemes and written out their despatches — the stately and vener-
able building that was full of memorials of great personages who
had lived there — which seemed to belong to another century and
another order of people ; the noble and striking figures whom
history paints — fancy this old place belonginfr to a young English
girl, who was familiar with Brighton, rode in the Row, and read
the Times !
124 KILMENY.
I was startled by a singular noise behind mo, and, lookina
around, found beside me a young horse that had come playfully
cantering up, and now stood within a yard of the iron railing ou
which I sat. I rubbed his nose with a cane I had (all the young
men of that day wore a cane as part of their attire) — he threw up
his head, trotted off, and then came back again. Finally, by dint
of various mananivres, 1 managed to get near enough to seize hold
of his mane and jump on his back.
" Come," I said, " you shall pay for the fright you gave ine."
Such, however, was not his intention. He tossed up his head ;
he shot down his fore -legs, and kicked out his hind ones; he
pranced and swerved, and tried all his tricks, with no avail. This,
at least, I had learned in my boyhood — to cling with my knees to
a horse's bare back, so that he might as well have tried to shake
off a leech ; and at length this particular animal gave in, and start-
ed into a good round gallop along that part of the park in which
he had been turned out to graze.
The excitement of this wild night-ride grew into a sort of mad-
ness. The moonlight had come out more strongly, and it seemed
to me that it was weaving strange shapes and figures of the mist
that lay around the trees. Such a mild and beautiful night, in
this old English park, should have produced English fairies and
.sprites ; Puck should have been peeping from among the branches
of the oaks; the fair Titania and her magic train should have been
coming sedately over the sward, with the jealous Oboron down
there in the brushwood to see her pass. But with the sound of
horses' hoofs throbbing in the stillness, there was something Ger-
man, wild, legendary al)0ut the place. The figures in the mist
seemed to be tall shapes that grinned maliciously, and waved
their shadowy garments as th(!y gathered together and chatter-
ed in the moonlight. But could any one of them catch me on
this .strong young beast, that seemed to be possessed by the mad-
ness of the hour? My hand was twisted in his mane; my cap
had fallen off, and I felt the wind rushing through my lifted hair.
I laughed aloud in defiance as we tore past the grinning figures.
Then, just beside me, 1 heard a sudden shriek, so shrill and sud-
den that it seemed like a death-scream. 1 saw that I had ridden
around the park and back again, almost to the gate of the modern
wing of iiiirnliam House. 1 tried to stop my excited steed; but
the \>\\]\r. pHi(l no attention. So I managed to slide (lown an<l get
BURNHAM PARK. 125
clear of him without a kick ; and then liastily ran back to the
spot at which I had heard the scream.
There was something lying on the ground — it was a white face.
When I got near I was horrified to find that it was Miss Burnhan;
who lay there, quite motionless and pale, the dark shawl she had
been wearing thrown back and revealing the deathlike features.
I knew not what to do. If I ran to the House for water, what
might happen in the interim ? I wished to lift her np, and ask
her if she were hurt ; but I dared not. I took her hand ; and
somehow I was obliged to let it fall again — the mere tonch of it
by my fingers seemed a sort of desecration.
With what intense relief I saw that she was coming round again !
When her dazed eyes caught sight of me, she uttered a slight
cry, and shuddered so that I thought she was like to faint again.
But by and by a strange look came into the eyes, and she was
about to speak when I asked her hurriedly if she had been hurt.
" It is you, really, then ?" she said, and she glanced in a fright-
ened way all around her.
" I hope you are not hurt," I said. "It was a foolish trick of
mine — and I thought when I heard some one scream that — "
She shuddered slightly, and then attempted to rise. I was
forced to oflFer her my hand, and afterwards my arm, as I saw she
was rather unsteady when she rose. For a little time she availed
herself of this assistance ; then she withdrew her hand and said
coldly —
" You need not come any farther."
" But you have not told me if you are hurt, Miss Burnham."
" No, I was only frightened. I should not have been out so
late — I suppose it is past eleven — but the night was so beautiful ;
and then when I saw you galloping up, with your hair stream-
ing—"
She smiled faintly.
*' I am more than sorry," I said. " I did not know you had re-
turned from Brighton ; and I am sure I did not expect to meet
any one in the park, or I should not have done anything so fool-
ish. I hope you will forgive me for the alarm I have caused
you."
By this time we had nearly reached the shrubbery that sur-
rounds the back gate of Burnham House. I heard the sound of
footsteps 00 the gravel ; and then I heard some one crying —
126 KILMENY.
" Hettie, Hettie, where are you ?"
It was Mr. Alfred Buriiham's voice.
My companion murmured some words of tlianlcs, bowed slight-
ly, and walked towards the House. I wandered up and down the
park in the moonlight until I found my cap, and then went home.
There was a note lying on the table from Bonnie Lesley. She
wanted to know the name of the man in Brighton to whom I had
tfiven her fan to be mended.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE ladies' garden.
Old Job Ives appai'ently got much better ; and I prepared to
return to London. On tlie morning of my intended departure I
received a message from Buniliam House, to the effect that Miss
Hester wished to see me for a few minutes. Accordingly I went
over to the House. Since our memorable adventure in Burnham
Park, I had met lier several times when she was out riding. Some-
times she was accompanied by old Stephen, the groom ; sometimes
by Colonel Buruhani ; but more frequently by her cousin, Mr. Al-
fred.
A very handsome pair these two looked now, as they rode along
the leafy lanes that intersect the Burnham valley. They were no
longer boy and girl, but man and woman ; ;nid it was unckM'stood
among the neighbors that they would in time become husband
and wife.
" And a good tiling, too," they added, " for that yaller-faced
young malin as has spent all the years of 'is life a-doin' nothin'
ony waitin' for ur."
When I went into the House, he and she were playing billiards
in the old hall. Burnham House was divided into the ancient
historical building, all the rooms of which were preserved intact,
and a new wing which had been built by Miss Hester's father, for
the better accommodation of visitors. I'hc latter rooms had never
been properly finished ; but they were used by the family, who
preferred them to the old, damp, musty chambers of the House
proper. This vi'iieraMe hall was mIiduI eiuht\' feet by forty-five,
THE ladies' garden. 127
and had a narrow gallery running around the walls, with a front-
age of wondrously carved oak. The balustrades of the staircase
going up to this gallery were also of carved wood, of singular de-
sign and rare execution. In front of the gallery, at the head of
the hall, was a pair of huge antlers, and immediately underneath
the Burnham ai'ms ; on the walls surrounding the gallery hung
a series of large and gloomy family portraits, many of them by
celebrated masters, and one or two of them the originals of well-
known engravings ; while on the walls underneath the gallery —
and especially over the great fireplace — were ranged all manner
of rusty muskets, daggers, swords, pistols, and cross-bows. Down
here in a corner was the chest that contained Oliver Crom weirs
Bible ; there, in a window-recess, were displayed a sword and belt
which Elizabeth had presented to one of the old Burnhams on
visiting the House — everywhere the look of antiquity that the
successive holders and owners of the place had religiously pre-
served. In the midst of all this a modern billiard -table, and a
bright young English lady making flukes.
" Good-morning," said Burnham carelessly, trying to make a
simple carom and missing it — it was clear that his opponent was
not betting. " Wonder you never came over before."
The ease of his manner was, I presume, intended to show that
he had forgotten that little incident about the weight of the
stone.
" I wished to ask your advice, Mr. Ives, about the pillars in the
drawing-room," said Miss Burnham ; " I hope you will forgive my
breaking in upon your time. Will you come this way and look
at them ?"
There was no effort of any kind in her speech ; nothing but a
quiet, self-possessed, matter-of-fact directness, which was neither
forbiddingly cold on the one hand, nor awkwardly familiar on
the other. I professed myself willing to do whatever I could,
and so she led the way through a narrow stone corridor which
opened out on what was called the Ladies' Garden. Her cousin
remained behind.
. She was a little woman, you know ; but she wore a rather long
train, and she walked with a grace that was queenly in its every
motion. And when she got out into the sunlight, and turned her
face towards me, she looked as fresh and bright and sweet as a
wild strawberry — one of those tiny, sweet, wild berries that you
128 KILMENY.
catch in tlie caily morning, with sunlight on its fresh color and
sweetness in its heart, I suppose anyhody looking at her from a
distance would at once have called her dark and small ; but when
you came near, and saw the fresh young life that was in the
charming face, with its handsome features and its pretty forehead,
and the strange, wise kindliness that lit up those eyes of which I
have many a time spoken — when you saw the perfect symmetry
of her form and the perfect grace that seemed to accom{)any her
every movement — even if the small pale fingers were only pulling
a rose-leaf in two — you began to dream dreams about this slight
and young English girl, and wonder whether there lay not under
that calm exterior great and even tragic possibilities of character.
She was fit to have lived in the olden days, you would have deem-
ed — in the days when great deeds of self-sacrifice and heroism
were oftentimes demanded from our gentle English dames and
their gentler daughters. It was so easy to imagine her grown into
a noble and perfect woman, that, as you thought of her fut\ire l)e-
ing linked to that of such a creature as he whom she had just left,
it was impossible not to grow sad at heart.
" I understand you and Mr. Heatherleigh work together when
you are in town ?" she asked.
" Yes," 1 said.
" Then perhaps you could tell me whether ."le and you together
would care to come down here and put a few sketches — or even
some ornamentation merely — in the panelling of those pillars;"
The wing which her father had built (and which he had nearly
ruined hiniself in building) liad been made to front this Ladies'
Garden, so that it might not interfere with the original look of
the house as seen from the great avenue. She walked over to
one of tlie French windows, ojieiied it, and stei>ped into the draw-
ing-room. 1 followed, but I knew the spacious and handsomely
ornamented apartment well, and also the pillars which she wished
Heatherleigh to (h'corate.
" It would be difficult to ornament these pillars in keeping with
the rest of the room," I said; "tliey ought to liave pictures."
"That is exactly what I wish," she said. " Most drawing-rooms
look narrow and formal from the absence of pictures. 1 was think-
ing chiefiy of the winter-time; and then it would be so pleasant,
when one is slmt up indoors in tlu; long evenings, to have just be-
bide you a view of some gn-al distance. The pictures should be
THE ladies' garden. 129
faint and thin and light, with long perspectives, which would
make you forget that you were shut up in a room."
" Then you don't want merely decorative pictures ?"
" No. I should like to have pictures as real-looking as stereo
scopic views, but still so light as not to be too prominent in the
room."
" Leave that to Heatlierleigh, then," I said, " and let him follow
his own fancy. You should see the smoking-room he painted for
Lord Westbournecroft — two summers ago. The room juts out
from the house like a conservatory ; and on three sides there are
alternating panels and windows, with pictures on the panels and
transparent flowers on the windows. The flowers you only see
during the day ; the pictures when the place is lit up at night."
" Miss Lesley told me he had done something of the kind, or I
should not have asked," she said. " Now can you tell me what it
would probably cost to have them done ?"
" I can only tell you that he was asked by Lord Westbourne-
croft to fix his own terms, and he said five guineas a-day ; but he
received some considerable present over and above that when he
left."
" And you," she said, with some little embarrassment — " you
will come?"
" On one condition," I said, calmly,
" And that ?"
" Is that you will deign to accept as a gift whatever I may be
able to do."
Her cheek flushed, and she bent her eyes on the ground.
" I cannot do that," she said ; " you have no right to expect
me. Besides, it is absurd. If Mr. Heatlierleigh accepts payment
for what he does, why should not you — "
She did not finish the sentence.
" Why should I not take money from you, you would say.
Well, I'd rather not — it is merely a notion or whim I have."
She looked at me for a moment with those grave, earnest eyes;
and I imagined that she knew why I would sooner have cut my
right' hand off than take money — a second time — from her. 1
dared to think that she would accept my offer, and thanks were
already on my tongue, when she said, coldly —
" I am sorry, then, that I must give up thinking about this pro
posal at present. I am much obliged to you, however."
F2
130 KILMENY.
Here Alfred Burnham came along the corridor, whistling.
She stood for a moment or two in appart-nt indecision, as
though she expected me to rescind my resohition. That was im-
possible.
" Shall I write to Mr. Heatherleigh," I asked, " and say that you
wish to see him when he returns ?"
" Pray don't," she said, in the same courteously distant man-
ner ; " I shall think over the matter first. Perhaps I may find
some less troublesome way of getting the pillars finished."
So we bowed to each other, and said " good-morning," and I
withdrew. Alfred Burnham came through the corridor with me,
and said — apparently because he fancied he ought to say some-
thing —
" Won't you stay, and liave a game at billiards ?"
" No, thank you," I said, tuining my back on Burnhani House,
and wondering when 1 should see it again.
CHAPTER XV.
THE LAST OF UNCLE JOB.
I HASTENED dowu iiito the valley, and up and over the hill
again, towards my uncle's farm, that I might bid the old man
good-bye. Even if Hester Burnham refused to give me my re-
venge by becoming my debtor, there was j)lenty of other jvork
before me. I resolved to go no more to Brighton, and its idle
atmosphere. Polly Whistler had promised to help me, and T was
able now to pay her for her assistance. But tlie story about what
this work was, and what hand she liad in it, will come in its prop-
er time.
I found, on reaching the farm, the whole household in conster-
nation. My uncle had suffered a severe relapse, and was now de-
lirious. The doctor had been sent for, but he had gone to Steeple
Heyford, and might not return until night. My mother was glad
to get me into the house, as my father had had to It-ave early in
the morning to attend to some piirt of his duties.
" Your uncle has done nothing all night l»ut talk about you
ami Catlin, and poor Kntie Dormer," said my mother. "Oh,
THE LAST OF UNCLE JOB. 131
Ted, it's a fearful thing to think of his condition. I think he is*
getting worse ; but he only swears if I talk about getting Mr.
Joyce to see him, and says such dreadful things about religion,
and his soul, and the next world. I hope he doesn't know what
he is saying."
If that was likely to be a saving clause. Job had certainly the
benefit of it, for he was murmuring incoherent nonsense when I
entered the room. He either imagined or pretended to imagine
that I was the devil, addressed me in his grim saturnine fashion,
and asked me if I had prepared sufficient room for the rest of
the Missenden and Burnham people who were likely to follow
him.
" I bain't a bad sort," he said, apologetically, " although my sis-
ter-in-law, a rare good woman, said as I wur sure to corae to you
at last. And 'ere I am ; and I'm darned if I'm a darned bit
afeard o' you, or one of your darned crew."
" Oh ! Job !" cried my mother, ready to burst into tears.
" Why, don't you know me ?" I said. " I'm no more the devil
than you are. Don't you know me. Uncle Job ?"
" Whisper — a secret," he said, softly.
I bent down to him, and he said under his breath —
" No, you're not the devil, but you'll darned soon be one of his
friends."
With that he laughed out shrill and loud, in a way to make one
shudder. Then he lay for a long time, and when he next spoke
he seemed quite sensible, but for a peculiar look that occasionally
appeared in his deep-set eyes.
" Ted, you know the story as I told you about Katie Dormer ?
It's fur away back now — in a mist like — and it seems as if I had
never know'd her. But you'll find her out, and give her the
money, and tell her as how old Job Ives had a kind word for her
to the last."
" Get well, and find her out for yourself," I said.
" None o' your darned lies," he said with a scowl ; " I bain't a
fool, be I ? You say as I'll get well — yeas, very like ! Hillo ! is
it you, Ted ? I thought 'twur one o' them darned neighbors as
are tryin' to save poor old Job Ives's soul — d — n 'em ! But doan't
you go for destroyin' the Churc^i, Ted, all because some precious
clever fellows think as they can do without it. They can't. It's
ony the fear o' the next world as keeps the ignorant, supersti-
132 KILMENY.
tious, darned hidiots straiglit, and if ye don't frighten them wT
hell—"
"Job !" cried my mother to the grinning old heathen, " do you
know what you're saying?"
The anxious little woman was beside herself to know how to
arrest his rambling tongue, and alter the current of his unruly
thoughts.
" You're a good woman, Susan," he growled, turning away from
us both — " a rare good woman, but a darned fool."
My mother begged me to stay with her, and so I loitered about
the house the whole day, sometimes in the room, sometimes out
in the back garden. My father looked in once or twice, but he
had some important business on hand, and could not finally stay
and relieve my mother until the evening.
It was a dull and dreary day for everybody concerned ; my
mother was anxious to hear all about my new ways of life, and it
was to her alone that I ever revealed any of my ambitious dreams.
1 could see that the little woman was pleased to hear of these
projects ; and her tender, thougthf ul eyes grew dim with tears, as
she hoped, whatever befell me, that I might have as happy a life
as she had had. I did not tell her the part of my vague dreams
of the future that referred to herself ; and yet sometimes I fan-
cied that she guessed my secret wish.
I told her of all the various people I had met. Singularly
enough, she seemed to prefer that I should keep among my ar-
tistic friends, instead of prosecuting the chance acquaintanceships
1 had made in that fashionable world into which I had been casu-
ally introduced. With what I said of Bonnie Lesley she seemed
particularly pleased.
" I fancy, from what you say, that she must be a girl of a way-
ward or original character, who does not quite feel herself at home
among these fashionable people. Her kindness to you shows
how iMdej)endeiit she is in her choice of friends, and she must
be very good-hearted. Then what you say about her being so
handsome is all the m>)re f-redit to her, as it is a wonder she bat
not been spoiled. What age is she ?"
" She must be about as old as I am."
" Then she is older than Hester Burnham ?"
"Yes."
"They are friends, you say?"
THE LAST OF UNCLE JOB. 133
" Acquaintances, at least."
" It is singular that Miss Hester has never spoken to me about
her, as she and I have long chats about nearly everybody she
knows. Ah, Ted, your friend Miss Lesley may be all that you
say, but she is no better-hearted a girl, nor prettier, than Hester
Burnhani."
" They are so unlike each other that you cannot compare
them," I said. " Miss Burnham is perhaps bound by her posi-
tion to be more circumspect and reticent than Bonnie Lesley, as
we call her. Besides, I know Bonnie Lesley very well, and I
scarcely know Miss Burnham at all."
" No, you and she are not the friends you used to be when
you were children."
" How could you expect it ? I can tell you I was suflSciently
embarrassed when I was forced to be in the same room with Miss
Burnham in London. If the people who asked us both to their
house knew our relative positions here, wouldn't they laugh."
And my mother laughed, too, and blushed as if she were still
nineteen, and had just been accused of running away from the
parsonage to marry a good-hearted and handsome young keeper.
Night had fallen when the doctor drove up in his dog-cart.
The trap and horse — the latter a rather mettlesome cob — were
left in the charge of a lad, and the doctor walked into the kitchen,
where my father and I stood. My mother came out of the room,
and seemed in a state of great emotion. The doctor went into
the bedroom, which was on the same floor ; but my mother did
not accompany him.
" What's the matter, Sue ?" said my father.
"He's been talking about that girl fit to break any one's heart,"
she said, with tears in her eyes; " I never thought he could be
so fond of any one. And now he imagines that they are going
to be married, and he has been talking to her as if she were there ;
and when the doctor's dog-cart drove up, he said it was the car-
riage come to take him to church, where she was waiting for
him."
At this moment the doctor appeared.
" He is very excited, and we must get him soothed at any
cost," he said. " Nothing will do for him but that I must
go up-stairs to his old bedroom and bring him down a pict-
ure which he says is behind some books. Mrs. Ives, will you
134 KILMENY.
give me a candle ? Mr. Ives, will you go in beside him for a
moment ?"
My mother herself took the candle to show the doctor up the
narrow wooden stairs ; while my father passed through the kitch-
en, and went into my uncle's room. A second afterwards — and
all this had occurred within a minute — I noticed a figure daii
across the yard towards the dog-cart. Something made me rush
out to see what this could mean, and there I saw my Uncle Job
trying to persuade the bewildered lad who had charge of the dog-
cart to go away, and give the horse up to him. I ran forward
and seized him by the arm. He shook me ofE, and swore hor-
ribly. He tried to get up on the dog-cart ; I caught him by the
neck and shoulders and pulled him down by main force.
"Would you make me late for church, you darned hound!"
screamed my uncle, aiming a blow at my face.
I warded off the blow, and closed with him again. But twenty
men could not have held him down. He struggled up into the
dog-cart, caught hold of the reins in the darkness, and the fool of
a boy jumped back from the head of the horse, that was now ex-
cited with the noise. At the same moment my father, in great
consteiTiation, came running across the yard, and shouted out for
God's sake to catch hold of his brother.
I saw in a moment how it had happened. My uncU-, possessed
by the illusion that he was about to be njarried, had cunningly
employed a ruse to get the doctor out of the way, had hurriedly
donned a pair of trousers and a coat, stepped out of the window
and ran across the yard. My father, on entering and finding the
bed empty, had probably been too bewildered to notice the open
window, and very likely wasted some seconds in looking under
the bed or tables.
However, there was not an instant to lose now. I ran forward
to the horse's head, and was knocked down the same moment.
Wlioii I rose (one of the wheels just grazing my elbow) I saw
that my father liad scrambled up behind, and was endeavoring to
catch at the reins. The horse was now wild ; and as he backed
the dog-cart with a terrific crash against the stone-wall of the
farm-yard, the doctor appeared.
"Give him his liead !" lie shouted. "Give him his head for a
bit, or he'll be the death of the whole of you."
But the responsibility no longer rested with mv father. My
THE LAST OF UNCLE JOB. 135
ancle had again wrested the reins from him, and the horse sprang
forward.
" Job, for God's sake, give me the reins !" cried my father, who
still stood up behind.
" Doan't you hear the church bells ringing V shouted my uncle,
hoarsely. " I can hear 'era plain, all the way up the hill ; and
she's waiting — she's waiting — she's waiting."
By this time he had driven the horse into a narrow path that
led from the farm-yard across my uncle's fields, and down the
hill, passing the deep dell of which you have heard him speak.
Tiie path was narrow and rugged, for it was only used for the
farm-carts, and the doctor and I, running after the slight vehicle,
could see it swaying from side to side, as it fell into deep ruts,
and was dragged out again by the half-maddened horse.
" Yes, Job, yes," we heard my father say, imploringly, " we
know she's waiting, but let me drive — there's a good fellow !
Job, old man, give me the reins !"
But again he lashed the horse, and then he waved his whip
triumphantly in the air. There was just enough light for us to
see his spare figure, that looked tall and gaunt in the vague dark-
ness, standing erect in front of the dog-cart, while he waved his
arm and cried —
" No man but me shall drive ! No man but myself ! For
doan't ye hear the church bells down there — I can hear 'em ring-
ing, ringing, ringing — in the air, all around, up in the sky too —
and she's waiting ; I teU you, she's waiting ! she's waiting !"
He laughed out shrilly and clear.
" If we don't stop the horse, they are both dead men !" cried
the doctor ; but it was hard to keep up with the dog-cart in this
dark lane, at the pace the horse was going.
For they had now got on the breast of the hill, where there
was no bank on either side of the rough path. I heard my fa-
ther making more desperate efforts to restrain his brother, while
Job was shouting more wildly and shrilly than ever about the
church bells " ringing, ringing, ringing" — then there was a fearful
crash, prolonged for a couple of seconds, a hoarse groan or two,
then silence and darkness.
That terrible stillness ! I stood on the edge of the deep cleft
in the hill-side alone — for I had outstripped the doctor — and it
seemed to me as if the darkness was throbbing with points of fire.
136 KILMENY.
During that moment of paralyzed licsitation the clouds parted,
and there was a pale gleam of moonlight thrown along the cir-
cular side of the dell. But down in the hollow there was only
crloom, and the dreadful silence that hung over the fate of two
men.
My uncle had formerly plouglied up the bottom and the other
side of the dell ; but the side that I now proceeded to descend
was covered with patches of brier growing among the rough in-
equalities of the chalk. I scrambled down among these weeds,
dreading every moment to touch a living form, and yet possessed
by a vague horror that it might not be alive. I heard the doctor
following me. The first object I stumbled on was the wlieel of
the dog-cart, and then I trod on the leg of the horse. The ani-
mal was quite motionless.
" Father !" I cried, making a wild effort to break this frightful
silence, " where are you?"
There was no answer.
"Stay," said the doctor, "until I see if I have a light with
me."
But the moonlight was now so full and strong above that the
pale reflection of it down here was sufficient to guide our steps.
We had not long to search. My father and my uncle lay within
half-a-dozen yards of eacli other. Neitlicr stirred as we ap-
proached. The doctor knelt down for a moment by the side of
Uncle Job, and took his hand in his ; then he came over to
wlierc I was trying to lift up the helpless body of my father.
"Who is to go back to your mother?" he said — and his voice
seemed to me distant and strange and unrecognizable. "They
are both quite dead."
IN LONDON AGAIN. 137
CHAPTER XVI.
IN LONDON AGAIN.
What a cjood friend Hester Burnham was to my mother dur-
ing that terrible time. The wonderful, wise way in which the
girl crept into her confidence, opened the fountains of her grief
with a tender sympathy, and then wiled her away into thinking
of practical necessities and future plans, w'as beyond comprehen-
sion, as it was beyond all praise. Where had this young creature
been educated into a large and heartfelt sympathy with human
sorrow ? Where had she been taught her kindly, matronly ways,
that were not the ways of an inexperienced girl ? And who had
lent to those eyes which were meant to bewitch and steal the
hearts of men that grave and beautiful compassion which seemed
to transfigure the face of the girl, and make one regard her as
something more than woman ?
My mother and she had always been friends, but during this
time it seemed to me that no two human beings were ever so
closely drawn together as these two were. On the day of the
funeral, my mother and she came to the small old church of
Burnham to hear the service read, and Hester Buniham sat in
the same pew with my mother, and held her hand in hers the
whole time. They stood at a little distance oflf, and watched the
lowering of the two cofiins into the grave ; and then they went
away by themselves — whither, I know not.
My mother could not remain in the place, so I decided upon
taking her with me up to London. Fortunately, the man whose
farm lay adjacent to that of my uncle was not only anxious to
take up the lease, but was willing to purchase the entire stock of
the farm. I had a lawyer sent down from London ; the neces-
sary valuations made, and the transfer of the farm was complete.
The proceeds of the sale — somewhere about £2500, were invested
on mortgage for my mother, along with a few hundred pounds
that my father had saved up, through much economy, for her
138 KILMENY,
whom lie so dearly loved. My own small fortune of £1800 vas
invested in a similar way.
These matters being settled, we left the quiet Buckinghamshire
valley, and came up to London. There being no use in taking a
house for us two solitary creatures, I engaged some furnished
rooms in a house that looked over upon Primrose-hill — a situa-
tion that pleased my mother much. She protested against the
expense of the rooms, however, until I pointed out to her that
our income did not consist exclusively of the interest on these in-
vestments. Still, she begged me to be cautious, and was nearly
out of her senses when Polly Whistler and I, laying our heads
together, invented a new style of decoration for her neck and the
upper part of her dress, and had the same composed of rather
luxurious materials. She positively blushed when she arraye(
herself in these things, and Polly said she looked like Mary Queen
of Scots become respectable.
Polly frequently came to see us. My mother was inclined to
be afraid of her at first. Polly's blunt and ready talk, her rather
masculine wit, and the careless manner in which she snapped her
fingers at a good many social observances, were calculated to im-
press the mind of the simple countrywoman with the notion that
this young lady was rather a dangerous person. The very first
evening she came to see us, our talk had wandered somehow into
reminiscences of old dramas. Incidentally Polly remarked, quite
calmly —
" Ah, in those days actresses wore clothes."
" Don't they now ?" said my mother, simply.
Polly laughed; and, when she had left, my mother asked with
some concern what sort of strange young wouu^u that was, who
»nade very odd remarks, and was so carelessly easv in her manner,
liy and by, when they got to know each other better, my mother
liecame rather fond of the girl and her wild speeches and pranks;
but there was never at this time perfect intercommunion between
tiiem.
Bright and clever as she was, Polly had not a grain of Jtnc.ssc
in her composition. Doubtless the principal reason that she came
to sec us so often was that she found in our house a refuge from
tlie annoyances of her own home; but several times it seemed to
me that she came merely l)ecause she wanted to hear of Owen
Ileatherleiijh. SUc never had the skill to hide her interest in
IN LONDON AGAIN. 139
him, nor the address to conceal the satisfaction slic felt in hear-
ing him spoken of. Many a girl would have assumed a tine air
of carelessness, and made believe to mention his name accident-
ally ; but Polly, in a hesitating way, and generally with her eyes
cast down, used to ask me how Mr. Heatherleigh was, and how
he was going on with his work.
This was one point on which an astonishing change had come
over Heatherleigh. He had returned from Brighton before his
holiday was out ; and he had no sooner come back to his lodgings
in Granby Street than he set to work in quite an unusual way to
get his pictures forward. The transformation surprised me all
the more that I knew he had not spent the whole of the money
he had earned before going down to Brighton. There was even
an expression of purpose on his face that I had never previously
noticed. He gave up his indolent lounging, his wanderings about
Regent's Park, his lazy forenoons in an easy-chair with Ueberweg's
"Logik" or Spencer's "Social Statics" before his eyes. He even
dressed himself with a trifle more care, although he had subsided
into utter Boliemianism of habit.
One evening Heatherleigh was sitting with me, smoking and
chatting. My mother, having a slight headache, had retired early ;
and we two were left by ourselves. She had scarcely gone, when
a maid-servant came to the door and announced Miss Whistler.
Polly walked lightly in, expecting to see my mother; but when
her eyes rested on Heatherleigh she involuntarily retreated a step,
and stood for a moment silent and embarrassed. He had risen
from his chair at the same moment, and was about to advance
when he noticed her confusion, and paused irresolutely, while I
think he looked as confused and vexed as she did.
" Mrs. Ives is not at home ?" she said to me.
With that Heatherleigh had come forward, and she shook
hands with him formally and coldly.
" She has gone up-stairs. Won't you come in and sit down,
Polly ?"
" I only ran up in passing," she said, hurriedly. " I will call
some other evening. Good-bye."
So she went out. Heatherleigh had stood in the middle of the
room, without saying a word. The moment she had left, how-
ever, he instantly opened the door and went after her.
" Polly," I heard him say, almost roughly, " don't be stupid.
140 KILMENY.
Corae back at once, and let us have all this settled — let me under-
stand what you mean by it."
She came back quite submissively, he having his hand on Ik r
arm.
" Come, Ted," he said, " you know more about it than I do.
Get her to tell me what the matter is — why she should fly from
me as if I were an ogre. What is the matter, Polly — have I of-
fended you ?"
" No."
" Have you anything to find fault with me for?"
" No."
" Why, then, are we not friends as we used to be ?" he said,
with some wonder in his eyes.
I saw this was becoming very painful for the girl, and I said —
" Polly can't tell you, Heathcrleigh ; but I will — only you might
know it yourself. You remember the night Mrs. W^histler came
up to your studio ? She talked a lot of nonsense ; and Polly won't
understand that both you and I knew it was nonsense."
" Is that all, Polly ?" he asked.
" No," she said, in a low voice. " I don't care whether you
believe what she said of me or not. But you were good enough
to make me a sort of acquaintance of yours, you know ; and
after you have seen what — what my mother is, I shouldn't like
to continue — "
"What absurdity, Pollv !" he said, going forward and seizing
her hand in spite of lu'r liorself. " Ted hinted something like
that to me, and I scarcely believed him. Why should your moth-
er iiiterfore to break up our very pleasant friendship? Why, the
evenings that we three have spent together, when 1 look back on
them, seem to me about the happiest portion of my life. And nei-
ther of you two ever looked very miserable. I say, what has your
mother to do with it ? She was excited — and — and said some
things — which — "
" My mother was drunk," said the girl, in a hard voice, draw-
ing away her hand from his, " and she insulted me before yon,
and she insulted you. She would insult you again if she saw
you. If she knew that I went up to your studio, to sit to you,
she would haunt the place, and persecute me and aimoy you.
Do you wonder that I do not wish to be beholden to you for for-
bearance shown to her? I liked to meet you both well enough
IN LONDON AGAIN. 141
when I was independent of you ; but now your acquaintance
would be a sort of charity. Is that plain enough ? Oh, you don't
know what my mother would do. Last night she wanted money —
I had none. She said if I did not get her money she would go
down and demand it from Mr. Layton ; and she went and put on
her bonnet. What was I to do ? I took my brooch that old Mr.
Herbert gave me when he left for Italy, and went out, and — and
pawned it."
The girl burst into tears.
" My God, that this should be !" muttered Heatherleigh be-
tween his teeth.
I took Polly by the shoulders, and drew her into a chair, and
untied her bonnet.
" You sha'n't leave this house this night," I said, " until we
come to some better arrangement. We will have a bit of sup-
per, in the old way, you know, and a talk over matters ; and
surely we shall be able to devise some means of giving you your
liberty."
" Well," said Polly, brightening up, " I am safe liere, for she
doesn't know your address. That is why I come to your house
so often. But how are you going to give me my escape ?"
" We'll see about supper first," said I.
The small maid-servant was called up and interrogated about
the contents of the larder. Eventually a very presentable little
supper was placed on the table, and then I produced a bottle of
champagne.
" You are destroying the simple and appropriate character of
our suppers of old," said Heatherleigh.
" But on this occasion it is with a purpose, which you shall
soon learn."
Don't imagine, however, that I had started an expensive wine-
cellar out of our modest income. Including everything, I suppose
our annual receipts amounted to about £250, and at that time,
when there were fewer champagnes sent to the English market, a
man who, on an income of £250 a year, offered you champagne,
might reasonably have been asked to present to your friends the
cost of a post-mortem examination. My champagne came to me
through a picture-dealer, who owed me a small sum for a picture,
and who, having had to seize his customer's goods in paymen*
for this and other pictures, paid me in kind.
142 KILMENY.
So we sat down to the supper-table, and got on very comfort-
ably, although Polly would not drink more than half a glass of
wine. I suppose she wished to show that she had not inherited
the tastes of her mother ; but the poor girl need not have im-
agined that we wanted any proof. However, the tiny quantity
was just sufficient to brighten up her spirits.
" Is your mother a Londoner ?" asked Heatherleigh, of Polly.
" No ; she came from Greenwich to London."
" Has she friends there now ?"
" Yes, of a sort."
" Suppose I offered her a sovereign a week to go and live there,
would she go and leave you unmolested here?"
" And pray," said Polly, proudly, " in what way would you
have me explain to my friends that you were supporting my
mother?"
This was a poser; although I fancy Heatherleigh, under his
breath, expressed a wish about her friends that was very unchar-
itable.
" I don't know," said Heatherleigh, awkwardly. " I didn't
mean that I should pay her directly. If you could make some
such arrangement with her, I should help you, at least, to make
up what you want."
" I don't think you know what you are saying," said Polly,
with her cheeks flushed. " You are offering me money."
" You're as bad as Ted !" said Heatherleigh, impatiently.
" You're worse, for I can't bully you into common-sense, as I can
him. Here are we three people sitting together, professing to be
friends with each other. If I don't mistake, we have precious
few friends elsewhere. We have no rich relations to turn to, even
if we cared to turn to them. We have no great desire, I suppose,
beyond being able to live a comfortable life, and help each other,
if we can. Why should we not help each other? When you are
not in want of anything, you say, ' Oh, how pleasant it is to have
friends you can rely on in time of need!' Then the time of need
comes, and you say, ' No, your help looks too nnich like charity.'
Come, Polly, be reasonable. The money you need for this ])ur-
pose is a mere trifle; it is impossible I could miss it. On the
other hand, look at the happiness the sense of freedom will add
to your life. Look at the many pleasant evenings, like this, which
we might all have togi'thcr."
IN LONDON AGAIN. 143
I did not add my solicitations to liis, because I knew she would
not consent.
" I ouglit not to leave my mother, for one thing," she said.
This was but a poor excuse ; and he saw that it was an excuse.
" You are ruining your mother," he said, impetuously. " You
have yielded to her so that she does what she likes. There
is no control being exercised over her. Now, down among peo-
ple she knew, she might be induced to start well, and continue
well. There must be some pride in her which would make her
keep herself straight before her neighbors. You are doing her
harm, instead of good, at present, besides destroying your own life
for no purpose whatever. Come, won't you accept this trifling
help ?"
" No."
" Why ? There must be some other reason."
" Well, there is," she said, provoked into frankness, and yet
appearing terribly confused. "Don't you see that men can give
money to each other ; but it is different between a woman and a
man — especially when — when they are not in the same position ?"
The girl's cheeks were burning ; and the story that her manner
conveyed was so clear and palpable that I could not understand
his not perceiving it.
He was puzzled, at least ; and he saw that it would be unadvis-
abie to press the subject just then.
" At all events," he said, with a shrug, " if you must be hunted
about, we can still meet here, unless Ted becomes too much of a
gentleman to care about harboring us waifs."
She looked up at him with some surprise. The cool way in
which he had proposed that they two should meet there was in
itself peculiar. Heatherleigh seemed to be in a fog, and was
blundering about at random.
" Yes," said Polly, " Mrs. Ives has been very kind in asking me
to come here. But I must go now — it must be nearly eleven."
" First, though," I said, " you must see what I have got to
show you. Didn't I say that I had a design upon you ? I have
dazed the intellect of my critics with wine ; I have bribed them
with meat and with drink ; and now — I will show them my pict-
144 KILMENY.
CHAPTER XVn.
KILMENY.
Do you know the legend of Freir, the sun-god, who, looking
from the heights of Illidskialf over all the world, let his eyes fall
upon Jotuuheini, the land of the giants, and there saw the maiden
Gerda, near the house of Gymir, her father? She was so fair and
comely that the white beauty of her arms caused the seas to shim-
mer in light ; and Freir went home sick at heart for love of her.
Then he called to him his servant Skiriiir, and told him all his
woes ; and Skirnir, demanding from him his swift horse, that
could bear him through flames, and his magical sword, set out
for Jotunheim, to carry the message of his master's love. Gyjuir's
house he finds guarded by furious bloodhounds, and by a keeper,
who asks Skirnir if he is near death or already dead. But tlie
beautiful Gerda wonders what the strange noises portend, and
sends her maiden to invite the messenger in and give him of the
soft mead. Skirnir tells the story of his master's pain ; offers
her presents, and threatens her with divers troubles if she re-
fuse; whereupon Gymir's godlike daughter inclines a gracious
ear, and promises to wed the son of Niordr after nine nights
have passed.
This was the story I thought of, when I strolled around the
Serpentine one misty evening, wondering what subject I should
take for a picture. You know, tlie German commentators have
got strange meanings out of this mystic story of the Elder Edila ;
and Freir, acc<n'ding to them, being the sun-god, and the maiden
Gerda the auroral light whose beauty caused the seas to shine,
might not the messenger be the pale dawn, come to woo her in
the ghostly regions of Jotunlieim ? But the subject was too big
anil vague ; and I gave it up in despair.
Then 1 bethought me of an old ballad, in which a king's
daughter is claimed by the skipj)er of a vessel as his reward for
steering her fatlier and his knights safely through a storm. Hut
liow t<j paint the mist of sea-foam around the girl and her lover
KILMENY. 145
— liow to fill the picture with tlie blackness of the north wind
und the motion of rain and wave and cloud — with here and there
a fear-stricken face — with the scornful laugh of the skipper, and
the clinging, terrified love of his bride ? That, too, I gave up. I
was too familiar with the moods of the sea to dare the attempt at
painting them.
Yet I instinctively turned to the North for the subject I want-
ed — to the region of wind and mist, of legendary murmurs that
still reach us, full of a passionate and tragic pathos. Should it
be the story of young Aikin and the Lady Margaret ? or of how
Gil Morioe, with the yellow hair, was slain ? or of how young
Hynde Horn stole his bride ? or of how the Earl of Mar's daugh-
ter was carried off by her lover ? One or two of these I did try,
to no purpose. The result was bare and tawdry — wanting that
very glamour and vagueness which fascinate one in the old legends.
Their strong and powerful colors appear to us, as it were, through
a mist of rain ; you know that the Earl of Mar's daughter wears
a glowing scarlet cloak, but the color of it glimmers from the
other side of this veil, and the beauty of her face is almost with-
out outline.
At last, my erratic and ambitious notions had to make a com-
promise with my disproportionate skill ; and I chose as a subject
the simple figure of Kilmeny, when she came home " late, late in
the gloaming."
Need I say how many times I attempted to put upon canvas
some faint reflection of the strange and mystic beauty of the
poem ? After innumerable trials, I found that I was beginning
with too great an effort. In my anxiety to have something wist-
ful and wonderful about Kilmeny's face, I was forgetting that the
very beauty of the conception lay in its wavering, uncertain, shad-
owy character. To have painted her with an aureole of light
around her face would have made Kilmeny a fairy, not a wonder-
stricken girl, who had come home " to see the friends she had
left in her own countrye." The magic of Kilmeny's presence,
that charmed all things around her, was not the magic of a nec-
romancer nor the witchery of a wild spirit. For
. . . "Oh, her beauty was fair to see.
But still and steadfast was her ee ;
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there ;
146 KILMENY.
And the soft desire of maiden's een
In that niikl face could never be seen."
With such a conception before him, how could any mortal man
be satisfied by any possible transference of it into pigments ? Be-
sides, I was struggling with innumerable other difficulties, which
it would be tedious to mention. Only he who has striven to effect
some artistic work with an insufficient acquaintance with techni-
cal means can understand what I suffered then.
However, I resolved to finish a sketch of the picture first ; and
here at once I found some freedom. I was not so afraid of the
result ; and in time I produced a sort of rough draft of what I
hoped the picture would be. It was this sketch which I now
brought in to show Heatherleigli and Polly Whistler. My gay-
ety had been only feigned. I was as frightened to show them
this rude effort as though I had been an apprentice to Michael
Angelo, and had finished my first commission. I brought down
my easel with it, placed the picture, and stepped back to Polly's
side, not daring to utter a word, even of apology.
She looked at it for a moment, and then she placed her hand
on my arm.
" Oh, Ted ! did you do that ?" she said, in a low voice.
I drank in those words ; for what they implied was music to
me. Yet she stood there, looking strangely at the picture ; and 1
could not help, even then, daring to ho|)e that some other one,
whom I had often thought of in painting the [licture, would look
at it with the same expression that was now visible in Polly's
kindly eyes.
" It is like a dream," she said, slowly, " and yet not a dream,
for it makes one feel cold. Where did you see that strange face,
Ted ?"
'* I know," said Heatherleigli, curtly.
He looked at the picture for a long time, and then he said,
rather absently —
" You must not work for me any more, Ted."
" Why ?"
" Because you have beaten me in the race. Or, rather, there
was no race: 1 gave u]» that notion long ago."
There are some compliments you can laugh off; this was not
one of them. There was a cfrtaiii sadness in ilcatlK rleigirs tone
that showed he was thinking of his own career, and of its hope-
KILMENY, 147
less future. I think he knew lie could never be a great artist ;
but it was seldom, indeed, that this conviction seemed to weigh
upon him.
" I did not think you capable of work like that," he said.
" You must waste no more of your time in my manufactory.
You must make way for yourself. I will get this picture sold
for you."
" I don't wish to sell it. I mean to paint from it a larger pict-
ure for — "
" The Academy ? Yes ; I thought so. Well, you will make
an enormous blunder if you try to elaborate a subject like that.
I know you will. Let the picture stand as it is — sell it to some
private gentleman — and get the loan of it again for the Academy.
Don't you think so, Polly ?"
" If he touches it he will spoil it. But where did you get that
face, Ted?"
" I know," said Heatherleigh, again.
*' She doesn't live in Hampstead Road ?" said Polly, with a smile.
" If she does, I may shut up my shop."
" No, she doesn't live in Hampstead Road," he said, " and she
is not likely to become a rival of yours, Polly. Perhaps, if you
saw herself, you would say that a good deal of that strange, dream-
like look is Ted's own creation. And yet she is very pretty — the
Kilmeny I speak of."
"You both know her?" cried Polly, with a sudden inspiration.
" Why, it must be Bonnie Lesley !"
" No," said Heatherleigh, dryly ; and there was nothing further
said upon that point.
Yet I was greatly dismayed and vexed that he should see a like-
ness which I had vainly striven to convince myself did not exist.
I have long ago been forgiven by the original of my Kilmeny for
having travestied her upon canvas ; and the matter is of small im-
portance now ; but this I must say, that I never dreamed of copy-
ing her perfect features when I sketched the picture. I thought
of the most beautiful creature I knew ; and her face and eyes, un-
consciously to myself, began to grow out of the canvas. Heath-
erleigh's recognition was the first token I received that others
were likely to accuse me of attempting what I never consciously
would have dared to attempt.
" I must go," said Polly, at length. " No, neither of you shall
148 KILMENY.
come with me. I do not wish to be prevented from seeing you
again."
So she went off alone. But she had scarcely got out of the
house when Heatherleigh rose and took his hat.
" We must see that she gets home safe, Ted. Let's follow her
at a distance."
This we did ; nor was Polly ever aware of our dogging her
footsteps all the way home. When she had finally disappeared,
Heatherleigh seemed to breathe more freely, and he said, as we
turned away —
" There is a very good girl, if ever one lived."
" True for you," said I.
" We must find some means of getting her out of the clutches
of that wretched woman. It is unbearable that a girl like her
should suffer such martyrdom ; and as for her notions of filial
duty, she must abandon what is romance or folly or madness."
" She has no notions of the kind," said I. " The girl has too
much common-sense to think that she ouyht to waste her life in
living with an irreclaimable old idiot, wlio only behaves the worse
because of her daughter's forbearance and kirdness."
" Then why did she refuse to accept my offer ?"
" How should I know ?"
Of course, I did know ; but I could scarcely persuade myself
that he was not assuming ignorance in order to fish for confirma-
tion of liis suspicions. For some time we walked on in silence,
until we had got near the tall railings of Regent's Park again. It
was a clear starlight night.
" Heatherleigh," said I, " I should be sorry to give up working
with you, as you suggested — perhaps by way of compliment — so
long as I can be of any service to you. You know how I am in-
debted to you. I never liope to repay you ; but I should con-
sider it rather despicable of me to fiy off from our bargain the
moment I saw I might better myself somewhat."
" But there is another reason," said he. " First and foremost,
if you can jiaint |>icturi's liki' that Kilnieny it would be monstrous
that you should waste your time in drudgery. I tell you, Lewi-
son could get you a dozen men to-morrow who would buy the
picture eagerly."
" Do you think any one would recognize the likeness that you
recognized ?"
KILMENY. 149
" Certainly."
" Then I must alter the face before any one else sees it."
" You'll be a fool if you do. However, here is the other rea-
son why you should hive off. I was selfishly glad of your assist-
ance, because it allowed me to have plenty of ease and laziness.
Now, I mean to go in for making some little sum of money to
keep by me, and I shall work as much as I can, and get as much
money as I can for the work. You understand ?"
" I am heartily glad to hear it."
'* Well, you sec," he continued, apologetically, " there is no say-
ing what might happen to a fellow like me, quite unprepared for
any emergency. I might want to assist a friend in distress, or I
might take some whim in my head that needed money; and
where should I be ?"
" Quite true."
" Besides, I have been living a purposeless sort of life — an aim-
less, lotos - eating, hedgehog sort of existence, that is pleasant
enough at the time, but not very satisfactory to look back
upon."
" That is also true."
" So I mean to pull myself together a bit, and see what I can
do. Mind you, I have no intention of satisfying any ambition.
That has been knocked out of me long ago. When I cut my
family, and threw myself upon the world to fight my own way, I
fancied that I had in me that which would make me richer in the
end. I fancied that I could cope with all these crushing condi-
tions that hem in a poor man, who has no parental fortune to
back him, and no rich relations to take him by the arm, and lead
him into good society, and forward his interests and chances in
life. I was going to do for myself what other men get done for
them. I was going to fight the world unaided and single-handed.
Now I made two mistakes. In the first place, it was a blunder
to think I could do so, even if I had had the powers I fancied 1
possessed ; and the notion that I had them was a second blunder.
You see, I wanted to open the big oyster without a knife. I fail-
ed. I did my best ; but when I found my best was ludicrously
inadequate, I did not become misanthropic. I took the matter
quietly ; and in a short time had acquired suflBcient wisdom to
laugh at my own folly. I am not going to engage the world any
more. Society and its conditions are too strong for me. I give
150 KILMENY.
in. Perhaps I have no s;reat ambition now to fionre as an impor-
tant person at swell lionses, in the park, at conversaziones, and so
forth. Perhaps 1 don't care to compete for the favor of elderly
ladies, or young ones either, with this poor lad whose father has
left him a small brain, a title, and an encumbered estate, or that
equally dull lad whose father lias left him £20,000 a year, and the
sentiments and sympathies of a hostler. I am very well satisfied
with my ill-fortune. But this notion of mine, which I mention to
vou, is only a precaution to keep my present position safe for me.
That is all. If you limit your aims sufficiently, you can always
be successful ; and I think I shall be able to get the little nest-
egg I want."
" I know you will," I said.
We had reached the door of my lodgings. As I stood on the
steps, and shook hands with him, I said —
" After all, I think I must tell you a secret which you ought to
have discovered for yourself. Do you know why Polly would
never go near you after that scene with her mother?"
" Well, I couldn't understand the reasons she and you ad-
vanced."
" Do you know why she wanted to go away when she saw you
were here to-night?"
" No."
" Or why she refused to accept the money ?"
" No."
" Because, then, as I believe, the girl is as deeply in love with
you as ever a girl was with a man. There, you may think over that
at your leisure. Good-night !"
His back was turned to the lamplight, so that I could not see
what expression his face bore. But lie did not speak a word :
and so I left him, and went inside.
THE WHITK DOVES. 151
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WHITE DOVES.
" That wur a rare good shot, sir, that wur. You couldn't ha'
gone nearer her without 'itting of her. Look at the turnip-blades
thear, where she wur a sitting, all riddled wi' the shot."
Heatherleigh and I looked over the hedge, and saw before us,
standing in the middle of a field of turnips, a very big and stout
farmer, who was mopping a roseate face with a red pocket-hand-
kerchief, while he grumbled out his wrath over some annoyance.
This was Mr. Stephen Toomer, who had taken my uncle's farm,
and was now engaged in shooting over it. Toomer was a tall
and corpulent man, with a thick neck, a bullet head, a quick tem-
per, and a round, jolly red face, which had two black beads of
eyes, and was surmounted by short-cropped black hair. He was
a stupid, well-meaning, irascible man, who was very fond of shoot-
ing, and could not shoot a bit. My uncle, when angry at Too-
mer's missing some easy shot, used to say to him —
" I'm darned if you ain't the biggest fool I know. Why doan't
ye let the shootin' over your farm to some mahn as '11 hit some-
thing, and you go and fire off your powder and shot at butter-
flies and bees? They'd do ye quite as well, and you might kill
some on 'em sometimes."
Toomer was accompanied on this occasion by his bailiff, who
also acted as his gamekeeper, and told a hundred lies an hour in
order to excuse his master's missing everything in the shape of
partridge, hare, or rabbit that came in his way. The fabulous
flakes of fur he found about the turnip-blades, the imaginary
feathers that came floating down from the tail of a pheasant that
was thirty yards out of shot before Toomer fired, the fictitious
" warmers" that perfectly untouched partridges were supposed to
carry away with them, did credit to old Kinch's imagination and
wit. But when his master, in one of his rare fits of generosity,
offered some neighbor a day's shooting, Kinch made up for his
flattery by discharging himself of all his accumulated sarcasm
152 KILMENY.
upon the new-comer. Then there were no flakes of fur or feathers
found. On the contrary, the new-comer had " never gone a-nigh
'em." " What wur the use o' shooting at hirds i' tlie next parish V
" Why, that hare wur through the 'edge afore ye fired ;" and
so on.
"Ah, how be ye, Mahster Ives?" said Stephen Toomer, coming
over to the hedge to shake hands with me, while he nodded fa-
miHarly to Heatherleigh.
" Pretty well. My friend and I have come down here for a
week or two — "
" For the shootin' ?" he said, quickly, obviously fearing that we
were going to disturb his interesting and bloodless pastime by
demanding permission to accompany him.
'* No, not at all. We want you, though, to let us have the oc-
cupation of the Major's house."
" Law, you doan't mean thaht !" ho said, opening his eyes.
" Yes we do, if you don't mind."
Toomer had inherited the guardiansliip of the haunted house;
and he was not the sort of man to think of interfering with its
ghostly immunity from occupants.
"I mind! Of course I don't mind; but ye cahn't mean to
stay in that 'ouse ? Why not come up 'ere and stay in your own
uncle's 'ouse, as you wur accustomed to? I'll make ye as com-
fortable as may be. Folks say as you are a painter like, and
mayhap — "
" That's it. My friend and I want one or two big empty rooms,
with plenty of light in them — just like those down at the Major's.
We've come up to see if Mrs. Toomer could kindly spare us a
couple of mattresses — 1(» be laid on the floor, you know — and a
chair or two, and a table. If she will oblige us so far, we have
engaged old Mother Ilsley to come and make our breakfast for
us—"
" She woan't stay in that 'ouse !" said Toomer, decisively.
"No; she will go back to Missenden at night. You see, we
want a house that is ne;irer liurnhain tlian tliis is (tliauking you
for the offer), and besides we are curious to know whether these
stories about the place are true."
Toomer looked from one to the other of tis, and then found
rcfiig(! in calling for his bailiff, to whom h(>, explained the propo-
sal, with iiiaiiy an oiniuuiis shake nf tiie h(>ad.
THE WHITE DOVES. 153
" If ye do mean it," said he at last, speaking despondently, as
if we were already the victims of our rashness, " my missus '11 do
what she can to make the plaace comfortable ; but I 'ope as ye'll
both think better on it, and not make light o' things as 'ave puz-
zled older 'eads than yourn."
" It's a temptin' o' Providence," said Kinch, solemnly. " Not
as Mr. Toomer or me ud believe in ghost-stories and all thaht 'ere
nonsense — "
" Certainly not," said the master, with some dignity.
" But there's things around as we doan't see and we doan't un-
derstand, and I be for lettin' 'em alone, I be."
" Quite right, too," said the master, who was glad to have this
wholesome argument urged in his defence.
" Then you'll let us have these things ? Tliank you. And per-
haps you'd kindly send with them some old gun or other, just
that we may have a shot at any stray visitor, you understand ? I
don't know what sort of pointer is best for ghosts — "
" Your poor uncle Avur a very bold mahn in talking about them
things ; but he never ivent nigh that ^ouse after nightfall,^'' said
Toomer, significantly. " He wur afeared o' nothin' — "
"And he's found out 'is mistake," edged in Kinch, spitefully.
" I say, he wur afeared o' nothin', and why didn't he go a-nigh
that 'ouse arter nightfall — that's what I wahnt to know ? How-
sever, you'll get the bits o' things, and I'll send ye down the gun
as Kinch uses for them sparrers that hev been hawful this yur.
They're the mischievousest things, them sparrers. I'm thinkin' it
would puzzle the pahrson, for all he says, to find out what they
were made for."
" Mother Ilsley will come over and see about these things you
have so kindly promised us. Meanwhile, we're going on to Burn-
ham House."
"To visit Miss Hester, belike?"
" No. To do some work at the House."
" Eh ! I be rare glad to 'ear it," said Stephen. '* It's what I've
allays said to my missus, as there wur one thing wrong about
Burnham 'Ouse ; and that's the color of the front, as you see it
from the havenue. It's too yallow, that's what I say — a deal too
yallow ; and I be glad to 'ear as you and your friend 'ave come
down to freshen the plaace up a bit ; and I do hope as you'll alter
that yallow."
G3
154 KILMENY.
" We mean to paint the inside of the House first," said Heather-
leigh, gravely.
" Well and good ; well and good," said Mr. Tooiner. " I doan't
pretend to know any niahn's business but my own ; but what I
says is as the front's too yallow, and I'll hold by thaht — "
" I've no doubt it is," said Heatherleigh.
" And I 'ope as you and Mahster Ives '11 put on another color."
" We'll do our best. Good-morning !"
AVe had come down to paint some portions of Burnham House,
although we did not mean to commence, as Stephen Toomer sug-
gested, by whitewashing the front walls. Miss Burnham had gone
up to town and seen Heatherleigh about the panelling of the pil-
lars, and had arranged with him to have them filled with appro-
priate subjects. Heatherleigh, in his new-born zeal for work, had
gladly accepted the commission, and also undertook to secure my
co-operation. The reader may remember that I had professed
myself willing to do what I could in that way, on certain terms.
I received a brief note from Miss Burnham, saying she hoped I
would accompany Mr. Heatherleigh, and do part of the work, on
any terms I chose to name. The latter words were underlined ;
and I went down into Buckinghamshire rejoicing.
" What a fine country it is about here !" said Heatherleigh, as
we descended the hill, after leaving Toomer pottering among his
turnips, and got into the valley that lies underneath Burnham.
" It was a good notion to take that haunted house, as we ought
to liave an occasional holiday for sketching. But what on earth
did you want with a gun ?"
" Lest some tramps should hear of our being there, and prowl
about the place to steal. I don't suppo.se there is a lock or bolt
or bar in the house ; but when they know we have a gun in the
room, they will be chary of coming near."
" I thought, perhaps, you meant to have a shot at the evil
spirits."
" You never see them ; you only hear them. You will hear the
sound of wheels being driven up to the house in the middle of
the night; and if you open the door suddenly you will hear
bursts of laughter all around, mocking you for your trouble.
Sometimes it is the sound of a horseman galloping past that you
hear, though where the horseman gallops to is a mystery, as the
place is surrounded by trees, Sometimes the people have seen a
THE WHITE DOVES. 155
black dog dashing past, without making any noise. Sometimes
it is a woman singing a song, apparently hushing a baby to sleep ;
and sometimes it is the deep voice of men, cursing at each other.
But whenever you attempt to surprise them there is instant si-
lence, and then the strange laughter all around in the air."
" Comfortable, exceedingly."
" Even the tramps who go about are afraid to use the empty
rooms, into which they could easily get. But here we are at
Burnham ; and what do you think of that for a view ?"
We were in front of the broad and stately avenue that led up
between giant rows of Spanish chestnuts to the front of Burnham
House. As we ascended the avenue the muUioned windows of
the gray old building became plainer, the spire of the small
church was visible through the trees, and behind us lay a long
prospect down the valley and up over the hills, which lay steeped
in the soft, warm glow of autumn sunlight. There was an au-
tumn haze, too, lying over the olive-green of the distant woods,
and round about the great trunks of the trees near at hand — a soft,
thin, gray veil that caused the yellow stubble-fields, the red fallow,
the far-off brown-green beech-woods, and the gray-and-white chalk
hills to become faint and visionary in the heat, rendering their
various hues pale and ethereal, and laying, as it were, a gossamer-
net of frail and fairy-like texture over the still, beautiful landscape.
The glory of Buckinghamshire is its beech-woods, that assume,
later in autumn, an indescribable intensity of color; but it seems
to me that they should be seen with this silvery harvest haze
hanging over them, through which the distant hills, covered with
these forests of beeches, actually shimmer in pale rose-color and
gold.
We went up to Burnham ; and the lady of Burnham — how
slight and small she looked in front of the big house ! — was stand-
ing on the steps, and came forward to meet us.
" How wrong of you," she said to Heatherleigh, with a bright
smile, " not to let me know when you were coming, and I should
have sent over for you."
With that she came over and shook hands with me, saying
simply,
" I am very glad you have come."
Heatherleigh explained to her that we had stopped at Wycombe
on the previous evening in order to enjoy the walk over on that
156 KILMENY,
morning ; and that our traps would be sent over from that an-
cient town some time during the day.
" Your rooms have been prepared for you ; and Madame La-
boureau has done you the honor of gathering some flowers for
you with her own hand. Her husband was an artist."
Madame Laboureau — an elderly small French lady who had ac-
companied Miss Burnham on her retuin from France, and been
licr official companion ever since — now came forward, and begged
to know, with many expressions of dramatic sympathy, how my
mother bore her loss, and how she was reconciling herself to Lon-
don.
" But, with your permission," said Heatherleigh to Miss Burn-
ham, " we mean to stay at some empty house near here, which we
understand is occasionally favored by ghostly visitors. Pray don't
look alarmed — we shall be very comfortable, a worthy farmer
having promised to give us all the furniture we need, and we have
already engaged a housekeeper."
" You mean the Major's house ?"
" Yes."
"That is too absurd. You will die of cold and hunger down
there. Madame Laboureau and 1 have done everything we could
think of to make you comfortable — "
** You are very kind, indeed — "
" And I have asked down several of your friends to lighten
the diilness of your stay — the Lewisons, Mr. Morell, Miss Les-
ley-"
"Really your kindness. Miss Burnham, will make us play the
traitor to our own compact, I fear. But in the mean time you
will allow us to follow out our whim for at least a few nights. I
am really anxious to .say that 1 have .slept in a haunted house;
and then, if we should see something — "
" Well, wliat then ?"
" Look at the honor and glory of being allowed to publish a re-
port of it. We should get Morell to write an article about it ;
and we should be positive heroes for a couple of months,"
"It is an heroic undertaking," she said. "You will have to
brave a good deal, even if you see no ghosts. But at least you
will follow my advice so far as to dine with us this evening ; and
I will meanwliilc send over some people to sec that the ])Iace is
made more comfortable than you are likely to find it. Mr. Ives,
THE WHITE DOVES. 157
you are at the bottom of this — will you urge your friend to ac-
cept the compromise ?"
" We accept with pleasure," I said, " and Madame Laboureau
will be a witness that our appointment with the spirits is only
postponed until night."
The bright, quick little Frenchwoman shook her head gravely,
and there was a solemn look in her gray eyes.
" It is not right you laugh. They say, ' II n'y a que les morts
qui ne reviennent pas.' Hm 1 They do not know. If you live
in my country — la Bretagne, Monsieur — you get to hear of these
things. We know of these stories — we used to gather them —
and we used to speak them to each other in the long evenings —
c'est un passe-temps comme un autre !"
She addressed these latter words to Miss Burnham (to whom
she always spoke in French), and shrugged her small shoulders
as if to let us understand that she did not believe all such legends.
" But you yourself, Madame," said I, " have you ever seen any
ghosts ?"
" No," she replied, simply, " They are not so many now, since
the Revolution. Once we used to have plenty of stories about
them. But the Revolution has altered all that."
"Come, Madame," said Miss Burnham; "perhaps the gentle-
men will go inside and rest themselves after their walk."
" I should like to see whether tlie panels have been properly
prepared," said Heatherleigh.
" I think I can assure you of that. Madame is also an artist,
and she has superintended the work."
" Oui, ma chere," said Madame to Miss Burnham, as they en-
tered the house ; " je consacre mes loisirs a la peinture ; et tu — a
la bienfaisance."
They went with us into the drawing-room, and there we held a
consultation over the adornment of the pillars. I was not aware
that Miss Burnham knew so much about artistic matters, nor that
she took so much interest in them as was evidenced by her bright
and intelligent talk with Heatherleigh. At length our plan of
operations was decided upon, and then the two ladies left us. I
had accidentally learned that Colonel Burnham, and a niece of his,
by his wife's side, were staying in the house.
It was late in the afternoon when our traps arrived from Wy-
combe. Almost at the same time the part}' from London made
158 KILMENY.
their appearance, and there was just time for all of us to dress for
dinner. Goinjf down to a sort of reception-room — the drawing-
room being shut up for the present — 1 asked Heatherleigh if he
thought we should be accommodated with a side-table.
" I don't know," he said. " I believe comic singers, at some
great houses, come in with dessert, having dined in another room.
But then we are not able to amuse the company, even in that way.
However, if we have to sit behind the screen, Morell shall come
with us. Being an author, it is his place."
This Mr. Morell was a gentleman who moved in very good cir-
cles, and was much thought of as a wit. There was a vagueness
about his sources of income. He had chambers in the Albany,
rode a good horse in the Park, belonged to a first-class club, and
was known to contribute smart articles on fashionable subjects
(particularly the demi-monde) to one or two newspapers. He was
a magnitici'nt diner-out; the end of the season found him as fresh
as a lark, with his stock of stories (for dinner and after-dinner)
not half exhausted. His acquaintance with titled persons was
enormous. He got his cigars through a duke ; and never made
a purchase in wine without consulting a marquis. He was a ntid-
dle-aged, stout, bright-looking man, with a resemblance, in the
contour of his face, to Tom Moore ; he sang and played exqui-
sitely ; he conversed and paid compliments, sat a horse, and han-
dled a breech-loader all with the same consummate ease ; and he
borrowed money from every one of his acquaintances with the
most charming air in the world.
When we went down-stairs, we found him alone in the room,]
seated at the piano, and rattling off some light and rapid seleo-
tions from " Dinorah."
He immediately stopped and sprang from the stool.
*' My dear fellow, Ikjw do you do — how do you do ? And you,
Mr. Ives — a little bird has whis])ered to me something about a
certain picture. Ah, well ! perhaps it is a secret — no harm done
— and so you have come to lielp us to scatter destruction among
the liundiani pheasants? I say" (here liis voice dro})ped to a
confidential undertone), "is it any good down here? You know
a woman lets lier preserves run to the devil — somebody might
make a joke out of that, but no matter — and doesn't care if she
gets enough out of tlir-in for her own table, and to send to her
friends."
THE WHITE DOVES. 159
" I don't know how tTie Burnliam woods are," said Heatherleigh ;
" Ives can tell you something about them, but he and I have come
down on business merely."
" The deuce you have !"
" And we are going to tear ourselves away from your society
every evening, in order to sleep in a haunted house."
"A haunted house ! Oh ! damme ! I must join your party. I
never did such a thing in my life — should like above all things to
coquet with a spirit, and draw pentagrams on the floor, you know,
and that sort of thing."
" No, no," said Heatherleigh ; " too many would spoil the game,
and frighten them off. If we can inveigle them into a perform-
ance, depend upon it you shall have the full benefit of it, and be
able to thrill London with a description."
" Ah ! Fm in bad odor, just now, with my literary friends. I
was imprudent enough to write an article on the morality of pay-
ing one's debts, and — would you believe it ? — every editor I sent
it to took it for a personal insult ! Upon my soul, there wasn't an
editor in London would print it. — Oh ! Miss Lesley," he instant-
ly added, as Bonnie Lesley came into the room, radiant in white
silk, that glimmered through gauzy folds, with a bunch of blue
forget-me-nots in her yellow hair, " do you know what awaits you
down here ? These gentlemen have discovered a haunted house,
and mean to engage the spirits to appear for. your amusement.
There is something so much finer in getting ghosts that are pri-
vate property — kept on the premises, as it were — than in paying
a guinea a-head to have your grandmother's name misspelled on a
piece of paper."
I had not seen her since we were together at Brighton, and it
seemed to me as if she had brought away something of the sea
with her, in the blue of her eyes.
The other people now appeared in ones and twos, among them
Mr. Alfred Burnham, who had not made his appearance before.
Dinner was announced, and an orderly procession of couples
passed along the corridor and into the dining-room, which was
brilliantly lit. It was my good-fortune to find myself seated by
the side of Madame Laboureau. Colonel Biu-nham had taken in
his niece, but Heatherleigh, sitting next her, turned from his own
partner, and talked, in his quiet, half-humorous fashion, to Miss
Burnham during the whole time. Mr. Morell had brought in
160 KILMENY.
Bonnie Lesley, and was already un tlie best of terms with her, tell
ing her funny anecdotes about all sorts of celebrities in town, de-
scribing to her the absurdities of the new play, ridiculing the new-
est fashions. She appeared to be very much delighted. She
paid him the most devoted attention, although she received with
the same amount of amused interest his good stories and his dull
ones, his quips and his I'elapses into sober earnest.
" You are a great friend of that young lady," said Madame La-
boureau, with a smile. She had been watching the direction my
eyes had taken.
" Yes, she has been good enough to take me in hand."
" Ah ! you must not speak in that tone. You think she flirts ?
No. It is only her good-nature, that makes her to amuse people.
Or perhaps — eh? — she wants to make you jealous?"
" It would be too great a compliment, Madame Laboureau."
" Ah, well !" said the old hidy, with a sigji. " 'riiere are ladies
— there are gentlemen — who you cannot understand. They do
not wish to annoy others, they do not wish to be inconstant, or to
receive all friends with the like favor, but they cannot help it. It
is their nature. It is dangerous to fall in love with them, for they
never fall quite in love ; if they do, they forget next day, when a
new friend comes. They do not try to act wrong ; they only
cannot lielp liking novelty, liking the excitation of new falling
in love. Perhaps they like better the falling in love rather than
the being in love. Is it not so ?"
*' I think you are quite right," I said ; and, indeed, I have often
thought of Madame's shrewd phrase, " they like the falling in love
better than the being in love,'''' as explaining a good many of the odd
pranks and love miseries which happen in one's circle of friends.
But I added—
" I hope you are not talking of Miss Lesley ?"
" Not at all, not at all. 1 speak of a paiticular kind of nature.
You may meet it, perhaps not. And I know many ladies are
blamed f(jr eixinetting, whi'ii tliey cainidl help it. They cannot
help being pleased with new attentions. 1 should explain so
iiiikIi better if I spoke in French, but I do not like to speak
French, except to Miss Hester."
"Won't you extend the same favor to me? You will speak to
me in French, and I shall answer you in Knglish. Is not that
the l)est arrangement for giving both frcfdom ?"
THE WHITE DOVES. 161
And this she did. She chatted away with great vohibility, and
no one could have failed to be delighted with her pert sayings
and her touches of literary adornment, and the little personal co-
quetries of her manner. Yet I listened to it all as if it were a
dream, and I don't know what sort of answers I made to her.
What I did hear, clear and sharp, was the conversation between
Bonnie Lesley and her companion. Do what I would, I could
not help hearing it, and, although I persistently kept my eyes
away, I fancied I could see her face, and the smile on it, and the
amused wonder of her .big eyes.
" I am the happiest man upon earth," he said to her. " Every
pleasure I enjoy I look upon as a bit of luck. Fancy how happy
a criminal who has been condemned to death, and been reprieved,
must feel all his life after. Every glass of beer he drinks is a
pleasure he had forfeited. So it is in my case — "
" Oh, have you been reprieved ?" said Miss Lesley.
" Well, it is about the same thing. My mother-in-law lived
two years in my house, and I didn't murder her."
I fancy this elaborate witticism had done duty on many an oc-
casion. At all events, it rather failed in this instance ; as Miss
Lesley merely said, " Oh, indeed !" with a half-puzzled look on
her face.
Sometimes, too, I heard Hester Burnham's voice through the
various hum of talk. Occasionally I caught sight of her face and
her eyes ; and it seemed as if Kilmeny were sitting there, pure
and calm and beautiful, scarcely comprehending the Babel of
sounds around her.
To tell the truth — and are not these a series of very unroman-
tic confessions ? — I was very savage during that dinner — with
what I hardly knew. L-ritated, discontented, impatient, I waited
for the close of it ; and I was heartily glad when the ladies rose.
" Que nous allons nous ennuyer, enfant !" said Madame Labou-
reau, with a little laugh, to Hester Burnham, as they passed from
the room.
Mr. Morell shut the door, and returned to the table.
" What a charming old lady that Madame — "
" Laboureau."
" Madame Laboureau is. You never see Englishwomen pre-
serve that sprightliness of manner in their old age. They get
apathetic and corpulent and commonplace — "
162 KILMENY.
" Engjlisliwomen grow fat on the /('s the}' swallow," said Heatli-
erleigh,
" Ami if there ever was a county of A-droppers, Bucks is that
county," said Morel). " The feats of jugglery the people about
here perform with their A's are astounding. Now what do you
say, Colonel Burnham, to our changing our coats and going out-
side for a cigar ? 1 fancy tliere are no deep drinkers among us."
" Or into the billiard-room ?" said Mr. Alfred Burnham, "There
are pool-balls, if you're not particular about the cues."
No one seemed to care about this disinterested proposal on the
part of Mr. Burnham.
" Or what do you say," suggested Hcatherleigli, " to our going
into the drawing-room, and postponing our smoking until the la-
dies have gone up-stairs? In any case, Ives and I are going off
presently."
This latter course was agreed upon; and after a little time we
went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Lewison was singing; the
other ladies were crowded into a corner, on sofas and chairs and
cushions, listening to some ghost-story that Madame Laboureau
was telling them. It seems the conversation had turned upon
the Major's house, and Madame, who had begged to be allowed
to speak in French, had trotted out many of her Breton reminis-
cences. When we entered the room, she was saying that a much
more extraordinary occurrence than that she had just related had
happened to herself. We prayed her to tell tlie story.
" Wdl the gentlemen also permit me to speak my own tongue
— I have too much constraint in English ?"
She crossed her thin, small, brown hands on her knees, and be-
gan the story.
" II y a de cela bien longtemps. J'otais jeune encore, et soit
dit en passant tres-jolie" — with which she looked archly at Bon-
nie Lesley, and smiled. " Nous habitions a cette 6poquc le nord
de la Bretagne, et j'avais alors une demi-sa'ur dangereusciinent ma-
lade — tellement malade que nous craignions a tout moment de la
pcrdre. Pour ma j)art j'avais passe deux jours r't deux units au-
pres d'elle, lorsque, oppressee par I'air malsain de la chambre, je
profitai d'un instant oii nui denii-s(rur sommcillait. Je me rendis
au jardin. Le temps etait magniH(|iK'. llii superhe clair de lune
argentait les dbjets, une brise legere agitait les arbn^s, et un rossig-
nol cache dans un bosquet faisait entendre ses jobs accents. Mais
THE WHITE DOVES. 163
je parle trop vite — me coinpienez-vous bien, messieurs et mes-
dames ?"
The little gesture with which she accompanied the question
was admirable. She was acting the raconteuse. The measured
gravity of her voice, the formal introduction of the moonlight
and the nightingale, the apologetic look with which she urged
the question, were all parts of an excellent and delicately finished
performance.
" Je me promenais," she continued, " respirant le doux parfum
des roses. Voila que soudain je vols apparaitre une nuee de co-
lombes, blanches comme neige. Elles voltigent silencieuses, et me
saisissent d'effroi. Tout d'un coup elles s'abattent sur la fenetre,
et s'envolent de nouveau — "
She lifted her hands, her eyes were fixed on vacancy, as if she
saw there the white doves wheeling around the window of her
foster-sister's room.
" — Les rideaux de la chambre s'agitent. La fenetre s'ouvre, et
se referme. Un long et profond soupir se fait entendre, et tout
disparait. Epouvantee, eperdue, me trainant avec peine, je rentre,
et tremblante je me dirige vers la chambre de la malade. . . . Ma
soeur etait morte !"
The old lady's face was quite pale ; and she had so vividly im-
pressed on her hearers the reality of the details of the story — the
flying of the white doves around the invalid's window — their silent
disappearance — her hurried and trembling rush to the sick-room
— and the discovery of her sister's death — that for a second or
two after she had finished no one spoke.
" Voila, certes, une bien curieuse histoire, madame," said I at
last, " mais la fatigue agissant sur votre imagination explique peut-
fetre I'etrange hallucination dont vous etiez I'objet."
" Was it, then, an hallucination, monsieur ?" she said, looking
up, with reproof in her eyes.
The silence now being broken, it was curious to notice the dif-
ferent ways in which the listeners had received the story.
" What a singular thing !" said Miss Lesley, with a smile, and a
look of wonder on her face. " It would make a pretty picture,
would it not ?"
" Sie kann auch gut auf schneiden," said Morell, in an under-
tone, to Heatherleigh — a remark which I did not understand, my
acquaintance with Continental slang being very limited then.
164 KILMENV.
" Yes," responded Ileatlierloigli, " she is a magnificent actress."
" Capital !" said Alfred Burnhani, when the narrative was end-
ed. From that, and the accompanying laugli, I concluded that
he had not understood the story, and had fancied it was probably
a joke.
Hester Burnham said nothing ; but, long after the otliers had
ceased talking of it, I saw that her eyes were very wistful and
strange in their expression, and that she sat rather apart and
silent.
We remained perhaps about half an hour in the drawing-room.
During that time Miss Lesley did the most she could to make her
extreme condescension to Mr. Morell visible to the rest of the
guests. She played an accompaniment fur a song which he sang
very well indeed. Then he and she sang a duet together. She
even devoted a few minutes to llcatherleigh, and was very gra-
cious to him.
" Now," she said, coming over to him, " you must settle all our
doubts about Madame Laboureau's story. Is it, or is it not, too
improbable to be true?"
" You should never doubt the truth of a good, wild, absurd
story. Miss Lesley," said he. " We want all the improbable, nn-
raculous, supernatural material we can get, if only to vary the
commonplaceness of life. Don't you think so? 1 think the hu-
man race should enter into a compact to believe that all wild
stories (except those of the Levant Herald) are true. However,
won't you sing for me, before I go, my favorite song — you
know ?"
" Oh, I'm tired of it," she said, turning away with an air of
petulance, and not so much as giving a word to me, who sat by
Ileatherleigh, and had not spoken to her since the dispersal of the
Brighton circle.
" Is that a lesson for you V said Ileatherleigh,
"That she should not speak to me?"
" Yes."
"She has a right to please hersi^'lf in liir choice of companions,
surely ?"
"Yes, and to throw them otV wiicii she has done with them.
Hut I confess slie puzzles me in your case. She does not seem
angry witli you, and she ought to bf, if my notion of tlie mattei
is ri-rlit."
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 165
" I don't know what yoti mean," I said, " but I have no doubt
whatever that your notion is entirely wrong. For you, who see
the best side of every one's nature, are invariably unjust to her^
and to her alone."
CHAPTER XIX.
THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
We were a sufficiently gay party as we left Burnham that
night in quest of ghosts. Morell had insisted on at least walking
over with us, in order to have a cigar by the way.
"But how are you to find your road back?" said Heatherleigh,
as we issued into the cool night-air.
" We'll see about that," he replied, carelessly.
He was evidently bent on sharing the adventure.
" You are not ashamed to leave your charming partner," said
Heatherleigh.
" Miss Lesley ?" he said. " Oh, a charming girl. But, I say,
you know, if one were to see her at a distance — if one had not
spoken to her — I think it would occur to one to ask whether she
were cocotte or cocodette. No offence — I only mean her general
appearance, such as a stranger might see it. Problem for a young
man — whether a cocotte or a cocodette will ruin him the faster.
Here he began to sing an abominable parody of Heine's " Du
liast Diamanten und Perlen ;" little snatches of which were con-
tinually crossing the rather wild and desultory current of our talk
during the remainder of the journey.
It was a lovely night, the moonlight throwing long shadows
from the Burnham chestnuts and oaks upon the broad avenue
leading down to the valley. Far up on the hills the woods lay
dusky and silent ; while here and there a chalky field gleamed
white among the darker patches of turnip or potato that covered
the long, rounded slopes. I was glad to get away from the big
house that lay behind us — high up there, among the dark trees,
with a red glimmer in its lower windows, and the moonlight fall-
ing on its pale front. I was more and more getting to believf
that there was something wrong in my manner of life — that 1
166 KILMENY.
ought not to go among these people, who led me into wild dreams
and bitter disappointments. I was glad to be outside — in the
free air — and with only men for my companions. Luckily more
jovial companions could not have been found. We startled the
calm solitudes of Burnhani with some rather imperfectly executed
madrigals ; nor did Morell cease his gay, rapid talk until we had
passed up the long narrow path through the shrubbery and stood
before the Major's house.
" It is a ghostly looking place," said he, looking at the low,
flat house, with its projecting bay-windows, its curious veranda,
and the crumbling white walls which gleamed in the light of the
moon.
"By Jove, I have forgotten the key !" sai;J Heatherleigh.
" But there is no necessity for a key in getting into the Major's
house," said I, throwing up one of the windows, and jumping into
the room.
I was astounded by what I saw there. Instead of a bare, empty
chamber, with bits of plaster about the floor, and cobwebs obscur-
ing the window-panes, I found that the place had been carefully
swept out — there were a table, some chairs, a sofa, a lamp, and
a couple of candles, etc., etc., making the place quite habitable.
When I had struck a match, I found a note addressed to me lying
on the table. It ran as follows :
"Dear Sir, — The things as Miss Burnham have sent over arc in
the cubbard in the all, the key over the door. My compliments, and
hope you will send fur anything you want and be very welcome.
"Sarah Toomer."
We went to the " cubbard in the all," and there a wonderful
display met us of bottles, glasses, knives and forks, a cruet-stand,
plates, a cold pic, a ham, some bread, etc.
" What a thoughtful little woman it is !" cried Heatherleigh.
" Why, I declare, here is a box of cigars !"
" And tills is positively Mutnm — and here is some seltzer!" ex-
claimed Morell. "Does your gentle friend smoke, also, that she
knows the only champagne that should accompany a cigar? Such
kindness overpowers me. It would be the depth of ingratitude
not to pay our respects to these good things: what do you say?"
So we formed a triumphal procession back to the sitting-room,
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 107
carrying with us, like the figures in an Egyptian bass-relief, all
manner of glasses, bottles, and what not, including the cigars.
" Now this is what T enjoy in the country," said Morell. " That
old colonel, I swear, has gone to bed to dream of shooting par-
tridges, and he will get up somewhere in the middle of the night,
and start without breakfast, and bother the birds so that one
sha'n't have a shot all the day after."
" It is a curious thing," said I, " but you never do any good
partridge-shooting if you go out too early."
" It is a blunder," said Morell, " which I never commit. I'm
for having my sport comfortably. I am not a slave to shooting,
and I positively loathe and abhor the weariness of fishing. Motto
for an angler's club: ''The fishing for the day is the evil thereof.''
Do you fish, Heatherleigh ?"
" No," said Heatherleigh, who was cutting the wire of one of
the bottles.
By this time the candles and lamp were lit, and we sat down to
our cigars. But the light of the candles was not strong enough
wholly to overcome the light of the moon, which came in through
the large open bay-window, and painted squares of pale white on
the wooden floor.
" Is that a gun in the corner ?" asked Morell.
"Yes."
" What did you get that for ?"
" Merely to keep about the house so that tramps mayn't be
tempted to break in upon us during the night, there being but few
bars about the place. But I see Toomer has stupidly loaded it
and capped it."
"You didn't get it to shoot at the ghosts?"
" You may have a shot if you like when they come."
" Here's to their coming !" he cried, lifting a glass of seething
wine. " And here's to the good little lady, with the pretty eyes,
who sent us this feast ; and here's to the partridges of the neigh-
borhood, and to the Colonel, and to Miss Lesley —
' Du hast meine Uhr und Kette,
Ruinirt mein Porte-monnaie — '
By the way, has Colonel Burnham any money ?"
" Precious little," said Heatherleigh.
" His son ?"
168 KILMENT.
" Not a rap."
"Oh, then he'll the more easily get into heaven — that must be
his consolation. It must be a comfort to many people not to be
rich."
" I fancy young Burnham would rather take the riches and
chance the rest," said Heatherleigh. " You know if rich men
can't get into heaven, they can get into the House of Commons,
and most of them don't seem disgusted with the compromise."
" Burnham would rather go on the turf than enter cither," said
I, " if you only give him the funds."
Morell nodded his head sagaciously.
" A little cousinly feeling, eh ? That's why he hangs about the
place ; but surely the girl won't have liim ?"
" Why ?" said I ; " he is handsome, and well-mannered towards
women, has as much brains as most idle men of his class, and — "
" And therefore she ought to marry him !" said Morell, gayly.
" Ah, well, perhaps you are right. When my poor wife was alive,
she used to try to get me to believe that women had some sort
of romance in them, but now — I suppose they are what we
have made them ; and that the whole lot of us are a set of selfish,
mean, interested wretches. Here's to the better disposition of the
next age ! —
'Unci liiist inicli in den Riiitisteiii geworfen,
Mein Liebclien, icli sage ade!'"
"Don't sing that song while you are talking of anybody over
at Burnhain," I besought of him.
" My dear sir, there was no reference whatever to anybody at
Burnham or elsewhere. I am just in such a mood at present
that I could go on chatting or singing for hours, without the
faintest notion of cohon-ncy, which is always an oiTcnsivo neces-
sity. I feci myself free from all trammels. I don't need to be
logical or grammatical. T get glimpses of fine fanciers and sug-
gestions — from myself and those around me, and I have not to
stop to weigh their business-value. It is only the next day that
the fine, dear, crystalline thought thaws and resolves itself into
a newspaper article — "
" Where you disguise yourself in |ilirascs," said Ilcatlicrlcigh,
" and hide yourself, like a cuttlc-fisli, in a cloud of ink."
" I tell you," said Morell, his voice increasing in volume, " that
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 169
with a good cigar in my lips, and some cool wine near me, I imag-
ine poems that would startle some of you, if I could only jot
them down. I have not the trick of rhyme — that is the differ-
ence between me and some whom I am delighted to honor, I
sometimes fancy myself writing a poem —
Ah, sweetest, how chill is the morning air !
Is it your last kiss that is on my lips ?
How pale you are and you tiemhle, but your small fingers are warm,
And your eyes are full of love.
The morning mist is full of tlie yellow sunlight, cold and chill,
But there are dreams in your eyes, and stories of all that is over — "
He recited these lines as if he were really in a state of bewil-
dered exaltation ; then he burst out laughing, and fell to singing
his abominable " Du hast meine Uhr und Kette."
Presently, however, he had returned to his normal condition of
indifference ; and Heatherleigh and he were discussing the origin
of conscience, Morell's crude notions on the subject being just the
sort of incentive that was needed to provoke Heatherleigh into
entering upon those humorous, thoughtful monologues which
were to me a constant source of delight. But that I might tire
my reader, I should dearly like to insert here what I could recol-
lect of some one of these inimitable discourses, which were the
very reflex of Heatherleigh's nature.
However, I went outside to breathe the fresh air, and also to
reflect on one or two events of the evening. Was I angry or
jealous that Miss Lesley had so openly disavowed our former in-
timacy ? Surely I had no right to be either. In descending from
her high estate to confer the favor of her speech and friendship
upon me, she had probably obeyed a thoughtless whim, which
was now forgotten. If I had ever been tempted to dream fool-
ish dreams of the future through this intimacy, it was not her
fault — it was the fault of my inexperience of the manners of good
society. I had taken as meaning something what really meant
nothing. Yfet I could not help regarding her with a certain cold
distrust; and I was very loth to think of going over to Burnham
next morning, to undergo the humiliation of her too ostentatious
neglect. I wished that I had not undertaken to assist Heather-
leigh. I was again being thrown among those people with whom
I had no real sympathy. It was not by mixing with them that I
was to work out my redemption from the thraldom of Weavle;
H
170 KILMENY.
and I bej^an to long for my small room overlooking Regent's Park
— for the close, hard work, and the joyous feeling, and the bright
hopes attending thereon.
How lovely the night was ! It seemed too beautiful for the
country. That pure, calm moonlight should have fallen on a green,
breaking sea, and a long, curved bay, with distant rocks jutting
out here and there into the water. It was a night on which
fairies might have been seen hovering over the sand — on which,
listening intently, you might have heard the mermaiden singing
sadly for her lover of Colonsay. Even as it was — a soft moonlit
night in harvest, down in the leafy heart of Bucks — it was very
beautiful, and perhaps a trifle sad, in that it suggested the sea,
I had wandered some little distance from the house, through
the shrubbery, thinking of far other things than ghosts. It was
the ghosts of half -suggested pictures that crowded before my eyes,
and the ghosts of half-forgotten snatches of old madrigals that
hummed about my ears. As I passed on I came to the side of
the road, from which I was separated by a tall hawthorn hedge.
Through this dark mass of stems and leaves it seemed to me that
I could see two or three figures passing along, making, so far as
I could hear, not the least sound. I stood and watched.
Through the shrubbery I saw that they had left the road, and
were proceeding up the patl), under a dark avenue of lime-trees,
towards the house. I could not make out the number of the
black shadows, but there was one figure clothed entirely in white.
They passed along quite noiselessly ; and as noiselessly I followed.
Suddenly I heard a strange laugh — 'low, and yet strange and un-
earthly. At the same moment the white figure — the figure of a
woman — glided rapidly across the lawn and was lost in the trees
opposite. I drew nearer. The laugh was heard again from among
the trees; and again tho white figure darted across the lawn in
front of the house, retreating behind some tall larches that stood
at the end of the shrubbery. While, however, the figure was in-
visible to those inside the house (supposing that they had been
attracted to the window by the noise), it was fully visible to me ;
and, as I drew yet nearer, it seemed that the outline of the head
and shoulders, shown clear in the moonlight, was quite familiar.
In a moment the truth flashed upon me. This was Bonnie Les-
ley, who had dressed herself up as a ghost for the j)urpose of
frightening us, and who had persuaded some of her friends to ac-
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 171
company her. They, I now saw, were secreted behind various
bushes, evidently waiting for the entertainment. I crept up along
the side of the shrubbery, fancying it would be a fair retort to
frighten them ; and then I saw that Hester Burnham stood alone,
and nearest of all to the window, behind two large laurels which
Were not overburdened with leaves. The moonlight being at her
back, she was probably not considering that, from the shadow of
the room, if either Heatherleigh or Morell came to the window,
she would be 'more seen than seeing. Indeed, I felt sure that
the dark outline of her figure must be clearly visible behind the
sparsely covered branches, and that she would assuredly reveal
the trick.
Again the white figure laughed. I now recognized Bonnie
Lesley's voice, as she ran across the lawn.
There was no one as yet at the window. The two men inside
were apparently so deep in metaphysics that they had heard
nothing.
Should I utter a wild shriek and startle the ghost-makers them-
selves ? I .vas not half-a-dozen yards from Miss Burnham's place
of concealment.
I saw that Bonnie Lesley and a gentleman whom I took to be
Mr. Alfred Burnham were at the other side of the lawn, gathering
together small stones from the gravelled walk ; and in a few sec-
onds Bonnie Lesley threw a handful of them at the window. But
the window was open, and so the gravel rattled in upon the wood-
en floor. With that she noiselessly glided across the lawn and into
the bushes.
" Did you see that ?" I heard Morell exclaim, apparently in con-
sternation. " It was a woman. Where is Ives ?"
" Gone up-stairs to bed, I suppose," said Heatherleigh.
Heatherleigh went around the passage and appeared at the door ;
Morell was still standing at the window. Then I saw the latter
disappear for a second, and the next moment I saw in the moon-
light the pale gleam of the gun-barrel. It was pointed at the bush
behind which stood Hester Burnham. I was paralyzed. I tried
to cry, and could not. I staggered forward, caught her arm, and
drove her from the place where she stood. At the same moment
I received a terrible blow, and sank to the earth, with a frightful
noise in my ears, and a sensation as if the sea were breaking over
me.
172
CHAPTER XX.
SOME REVELATIONS.
I AWAKE in a strange room, in a dusky light that scarce reveals
the objects around me. Surely some one came close to the bed-
side, and bent over me for a moment, and touched my forehead
with her lips, and then glided out of the room. But I can see
nothing and hear nothing for the din that is in my ears — resem-
bling the rustling of innumerable leaves — and the mist that is
before my eyes. I feel tired, also, and weak and drowsy.
The doctor comes into the room. I have not seen him since
my father and uncle were buried on the same morning. I con-
nect his face with all that terrible time, and wonder whether I,
too, am dying. It seems as if it would be an easy thing to die —
just the sinking into a quiet sleep, with plenty of sweet, deep
rest.
The doctor appears a little surprised, takes my hand, and says
he is glad I am so much better.
" Where am I ?"
" Why, in the Major's cottage. Tn a day or two we shall have
you removed to Burnham."
" Ihit — but what is the matter? lias anybody been sent to tell
Mr. Weavle that I couldn't come — "
" Mr. Wea\le ?" said the doctor.
Then I begin to recollect myself. I must have been dreaming
about Weavle. I am no longer a slave to Weavle or to anybody.
I can go where I like — do what 1 like. Ihit why this bed and
the doctor? I further recollect; and tluii I beg the doctor to tell
me all that occurred that night when 1 saw the gun pointed at
Ilrsfcr BuniliMiii.
" l)iit lirst tell iiic wlio went out of the room just now, before
you came in ?"
" Why, no one. You have been so- soundly a.sleep for some time
that your mother went down-stairs for a little while to get some-
thing to eat."
SOME REVELATIONS. 173
" There was no one else up here V
" No. I dare say you were a little confused when you awoke,
you know, and may have fancied you saw some one."
" Ah, I dare say."
And yet I thought that some one came and touched my fore-
head with her lips ; and, in my utter prostration and nervous weak-
ness, I wished that she would come and kiss me once more, that I
might fall asleep and die.
" How long have I been ill ?"
" Only a few days. You have been a little feverish, you know ;
but the ball has been extracted — "
" A ball, was it ?"
" Yes. That idiot Toomer put a ball and a sixpence into the
barrel ; and that bigger idiot of a friend of yours must needs go
and fire it. Lucky for you that it caught your watch first, or
you wouldn't have been speaking now."
" I hear wheels — who is that ?"
" Miss Burnham going home, I think. She has been here the
best part of the day with your mother. I suppose you know you
saved that young lady's life by very nearly losing your own ?"
" Doctor, I wish I was able to laugh. Miss Burnham once gave
me half a crown in charity, and for many a year I have been try-
ing to get some way of paying it to her back again. Have I paid
it back now ?"
" You shouldn't talk in that way of her," said the doctor, grave-
ly and kindly ; " she is all gratitude towards you. Indeed, I told
her she was doing her best to kill herself in return — sittin' up
when there was no need for it, and cryin' when there was no need
for it, and generally conducting herself like a precious young fool.
But she has been of great assistance to your mother. She has
sat up when there was need for it — sat on this very chair half
the night through, and, in spite of her wilfulness, showin' an
amount of wise common-sense and helpfulness that fairly aston-
ished me, though I knew her pretty well. So you mustn't say
hard things of her — "
" Did I ?"
" Well, you spoke bitterly, you know — and — and when you
were a little feverish, you know, you said some things of her then
that made her cry as if her heart would break. These are tales
out of school, you know, and if I tell them to you, it is that you
174 KILMENY.
mayn't think she is at all ungrateful to you for what you've done
and suffered for her. She has been here pretty well night and
day ; and the whole lot of 'em have been just about as anxious,
and a pretty to-do I've had to keep them from botherin' up here.
But there's only your mother and herself have the sense for a
sick-room, that's the fact. Now, have I told you everything? I3
your mind perfectly at rest? For it's only rest that is required
now to bring you round, and you must have a good dose of it.
No exciting interviews with young ladies, you know ; no attempts
to soothe Mr. Morell's protestations of remorse — nothing but quiet
and rest. Get well ; and tackle them afterwards."
All this, said in his low, quiet, kind voice, was so gentle and
soothing, that in a few moments thereafter I again fell asleep.
Next morning I found that the doctor had absolutely forbidden
every one, except my mother, to see me for several days. I
thought this a very hard provision, but had to admit the prudence
of it. However, I received all manner of messages from every one
around, and sent them back replies. Indeed, I lay and imagined
the various interviews I should have with each of them ; and
promised to myself the satisfaction of again making friends with
Bonnie Lesley.
As it happened, she was the first who was permitted to see me.
At the end of these few days it was proposed that I should be
removed to Burnliam House ; but this I t)bjected to so strenuously
that the project dropped. There was no urgent reason for such
a removal. Thanks to the kindness of Mrs. Toomer and Miss
Burnham, the cottage we had taken possession of was furnished
with every convenience. My mother slept in the room which
had been intended for Ileatherleigh ; and a bed had also been
fitted up for the maid-servant from Burnham House who attended
her. Heatherleigh had taken up his quarters at Burnham House;
and was, at my recjucst, going on with the whole of the panel-
lings. The accident which had happened was a sad damper upon
both his work and the sports of the other guests ; but so soon as
it became definitely certain that my recovery was only a question
of time, a more cheerful tone got abroad, and things went on as
usual in the quiet valley.
" Ted," said my mother, with a laugh, " I have a visitor for
you."
" Who is it ?"
SOME REVELATIONS. 175
" The most beautiful lady in the world."
" Is it Miss Lesley ?"
" It is a young princess out of a story-book, dressed all in white
and blue and silver, and she wears a white hat and a white feath-
er above her long yellow hair. Shall I bid her come in ?"
My mother's description was correct. When Bonnie Lesley
came into the room, she did look like a princess out of a story-
book. And she came over and took my hand, and was for ac-
cusing herself of all that had happened, when I stopped her.
" It was a mischance," I said, " for which nobody is responsi-
ble. It was my carelessness that was chiefly to blame, in leaving
the gun about after I saw it was loaded."
" But there is more than that for which I must ask your for-
giveness — "
Here she glanced towards my mother. I suppose women un-
derstand these mute appeals better than men : in a minute or two
she made some excuse for leaving the room and went down-
stairs.
" I have to ask your forgiveness for my conduct over at Burn-
ham that evening — you know what I mean. When I ran forward
and saw you lying on the ground, I fancied you were dead, and
the thought that I should never have the chance of explaining —
of begging you to pardon me — "
" That is all over. Don't say anything more about it."
" But I must. You don't know what it meant ; and yet, when
I saw you lying on the ground, I resolved that if ever I had the
chance I would confess everything — "
She seemed very much distressed. The whole affair was a
mystery to me ; yet I had grown so accustomed to see things in
a kind of mental fog that I was not surprised. Perhaps, after
all, she was not there ? Perhaps this beautiful vision was in real-
ity a vision ? But again she began speaking — in a rapid, confused,
painful way.
" I must tell you everything now — then you can judge whether
we shall ever meet on the old terms. Long ago Mr. Heather-
leig-h said something of me that hurt me much. I needn't tell
you what led him to say it ; but he said — not to me, of course,
but to a friend of mine — that I was incapable of sincere affec-
tion, that I was by nature frivolous and light, and unable to
feel deeply ; that any man of a strong and sensitive nature
1*76 KILMENY.
would turn from me as soon as he ' found me out,' and a great
deal like that. I cannot explain it exactly ; but you know what
he meant."
I nodded ; wondering, at the same time, what had led to this
strange conduct on the part of Heatberleigh, and wondering
whether I should ever get to the bottom of the mystery.
" I was deeply mortified, and very angry. Just then you be-
came acquainted with Mr. Ileatherleigh. He took a great liking
to you, and kept praising you to everybody — I suppose because
you were in many things very like himself. It was then — oh!
how can I ever tell you !"
She buried her face in her hands. After a few minutes' silence
she continued, evidently forcing herself to speak.
" I thought it would show him how much he was mistaken if
you and I were to become great friends ; and I — I even determined
to revenge myself upon him by — by flirting with you. . . . You
will despise me ; I deserve it ; I despise myself ; and I don't know
how I am able to tell you all this, but that I made a vow that
night to confess everything to you, and beg your pardon. '\\d\,
we did become great friends, did we not ?"
I nodded again.
" And I — I confess that I was many a time sorry that it was
not in earnest, and many a time ashamed that I was deceiving you.
Sometimes I thought I was not deceiving you, and tliat I meant
it all ; and, then again, it seemed so shameful, for you were al-
ways so honest with me, and kind. Very well : you didn't fall
in love with me, did you ?"
There was a smile and a blush on her face as she spoke ; but
she kept her eyes fixed on the ground.
" I was very near," I said, rather sadly.
It seemed as if the old world was all fading away now, with
the dreams that were its chief inhabitants. I could see it as a
thing apai't, cut off from me, and slowly receding. I think every
man experiences at times flashes and spasms of consciousness,
that suddenly reveal to him his position and his relation with the
circumstances around him. These glimpses uf self -revelation
show him how he has altered in a fiw years — how he lias grown,
without being aware of it almost, so niiich more healthful, or rich,
or po(jr, or famous, or sad. As this girl sat and spoke to me, the
old panorama was unrolled, and I saw all the stages of our ac-
SOME REVELATIONS. 177
quaintanceship as so many pictures. I was regarding myself in
the light of her revelations.
" Are you angry with me ?" she asked.
" Not at all."
" You didn't fall in love with me, and I was vexed. On that
evening at Bnrnham, I thought I should at least provoke you into
being jealous; and so I flirted with Mr. Morell, so that you must
have noticed it. I must have been mad. I can scarcely believe
myself when I look back over all these things, and see how shame-
fully and cruelly I behaved, I was terrified beyond measure at
the result of my proposal to play at ghosts. I thought it was a
judgment — "
" It must have been a judgment," said Heatherleigh, afterwards,
when I told hiui of this conversation, "/o/- it fell on the wrong
person.''''
" When I went back to Burnham — none of us got home till the
gray of the morning — I lay awake for hours, thinking what I
could do to atone for all my folly and cruelty ; and I made up
my mind that, on the very first opportunity, I would confess every-
thing to you. I have done it — I have debased myself in your
eyes — 1 have humiliated myself — "
Suddenly, and to my great surprise, she buried her face in the
end of the pillow next her, and burst into tears. I was amazed
beyond belief ; as I had never seen Bonnie Lesley give way to any
violent emotion whatever. Indeed I had really begun to doubt
her possession of any great sensitiveness ; and then to think that
one so beautiful and graceful should have been moved in this way
on my account ! Yet I looked on the exhibition, I confess, as a
sort of phenomenon. She had herself shattered that old world
of foolish hopes, and severed the frail cord that bound us, so
widely separated from each other, together; and now it was with
more curiosity than sympathy that I saw her so strangely affect-
ed. I can recall that, through the languor produced by my weak-
ness, I lazily contemplated the pictorial effect of her attitude —
the bowed head, the covered face, and masses of yellow hair.
At this moment my mother re-entered the room. The beauti-
ful penitent hastily raised her head and endeavored to conceal her
tears.
" Will you take a biscuit and a little wine, Miss Lesley, before
you go ?" said my mother.
H 2
178 KILMENY,
This was merely an invitation to leave.
" Yes, thank you," she said.
She rose, and, as she bade me good-bye, she stooped down and
said —
" Will you forgive me cj'erything ?"
" Everything.''
" And we shall be better friends than before, I think ?"
" I hope so."
With that she left ; and I spent the rest of the day in dream-
ing over the strange story she had told me, and in recalling all
the old scenes and circumstances. Certainly, many a peculiar
feature in our past relations became clear. I remembered, es-
pecially, the manner in which, on the top of Lewes Castle, she
had questioned me about my possessing the same tastes and dis-
position as Heatherleigh, and also the strange fashion in which
she endeavored to arrive at my impression of her character. I
certainly had not imagined her to possess so much self-conscious-
ness as she had exhihitcd, and sensitiveness to criticism. She was
evidently proud, and capable of some persistence in her notion of
revenging herself.
But the wound that had prompted her to attempt this revenge
was still a mystery. What reason had Heatherleigh to depart
from his usual courtesy of bearing to make an attack upon a girl
who was, if not a friend of his, a friend t)f his friend ? Ordinari-
ly, Heatherleigh was most generous in his interpretation of peo-
ple's conduct ; given to seeing the best side of their nature ; slow
to express an unfavorable opinion ; and ijivariably considerate and
respectful, even chivalric, towards women. Why had he gone t>nt
of his way to sneer at a girl for lack of those qualities which no
effort on her part could have acquircil — that is to say, presuming
that his strictures were true, which I wliully declined to believe?
Young as I was, T had even then obscrvctl that there is no more
common charge brought against a woman than that of emptiness
of heart and fickleness of disposition, and the charge is generally
preferred by a rejected suitor.
Next morning Mr. Morell came up. 1 had to stop his protes-
tations of regret also.
"Look here," I said, "do you regard as a joke the getting a
ball through your left arm and shouhhr, and the slitting of your
ear with a sixpciirr f
SOME REVELATIONS. 179
" Certainly not."
" Well, it is fast becoming a comedy. Everybody insists on
being the only responsible party ; and, instead of fighting it out
among yourselves, you come and appeal to me. Sit down, and
tell me what you have done among the Burnham stubbles."
" Oh, but, damme, you must let me tell you how awfully sorry
I am—"
" I won't."
" There never was such a beastly idiot — "
" All right."
" — without knowing what was in the gun, to think of only
frightening whoever it might be — "
" Very well. I'm tired of hearing about it. How many brace
did you kill next day ?"
" Well, ril tell you. None of us shot next day. We mooned
about the place as if it were Sunday, Next day the same, until
Alfred Burnham proposed billiards ; and the brute won twenty-
five pounds from me, confound him. Then we all played pool :
Heatherleigh, the Colonel, he, and I ; but it was only a shilling the
game and threepenny lives, and Burnham did not play so well. I
was going to remark that all men are honest where their interests
are not concerned ; but it wouldn't be appropriate, would it ? You
can't cheat much at billiards."
" You don't suppose Alfred Burnham would cheat ?"
" I never suppose anything about so remarkably dark a horse.
To continue. Miss Burnham was over here night and day ; tlie
other ladies had buried themselves, and we only saw them in the
evening, at dinner. On the third day the ball was extracted from
your shoulder, and the doctors told us you would get on all right.
Then we resolved to go out shooting."
" Did Heatherleigh go with you ?"
" No, he has been working hard at those pictures. When I
went to open my gun-case, I almost felt sick as I saw the two long
barrels. I declare to you, I trembled when I took the gun in
my hand ; and when we began walking down those turnips be-
yond Burnham Common, I felt certain I should kill somebody
through my nervousness. We had scarcely got inside the gate
when up got a hare — what the devil it was doing out in the path,
I don't know — almost at my feet, I put up the gun, and, damme,
1 couldn't pull the trigger. The Colonel waited for a second, in
180 KILMKNY.
surprise; and then up went his gun and over rolled the hare.
The wind brought a puff of the smoke my way, and I pretty near-
ly got sick again. You know what it is to smell bad tobacco in
the morning, when you have been making a night of it, and smok-
ing four times as many cigars as were good for you. Well, on
we went ; I wishing that I had the moral courage to fling the in-
fernal breech-loader over a hedge and walk home. Every time I
shot, I expected to hear a cry and a heavy tumble on the ground.
I declare to you it was purgatory. I didn't know what I was do-
ing. I fired at the Colonel's birds. I let a whole covey of par-
tridges go past within fifteen yards of me, untouched. I missed
a hare that was caught in the hedge and stuck there for a couple
of seconds — "
" You fired straight enough when you fired at me."
" Yes, idiot that I was. Well, we went into old Toomer's to
have some bread and cheese and beer. Mrs. Toomer kindly pre-
sided at the table. I was so thoroughly upset and dazed that I
considerably astonished that stout person.
" ' How glad you must be to get into the country, now the worry
and confusion of the season is over,' said I.
" Probably she stared ; but I did not notice.
" ' I presume you were a great deal out,' I continued. ' Do
you go much to the opera?'
" You know Mrs. Toomer has rather a rosy face ; but wlien I
turned to look at her she was positively scarlet with rage and in-
dignation. She thought I was chaffing her about her being a rus-
tic. I declare I never thought who she was; but, knowing there
was a woman near whom I ought to talk to, I talked the ordinary
nonsense you would talk to anybody. I made her every apology ;
and told some monstrous lie about having believed that she had
just come down from London. I fancy she did not believe me;
and I wonder she did not complain to her husband about my im-
pertinence."
I could see the germ in this brief sketch of many a fine story
fur Morell's friends ; and, actually, a long time after, being at a
certain club, I lieard a man say —
"Oh, did you hear that devilisli good story young Brooks told
here last night? He had it from some writing-fellow — about a
swell trying to get into conversation with a farmer's wife, and
talking to her about the Row, and the opera, and the new style
SOME REVELATIONS. 181
of bouquet-fans. It was as good as a play : shouldn't wonder if
the fellow who told Brooks put it in a play."
" I was very much amused by old Toomer," continued Morell ;
and just as he spoke, who should appear at the door but Stephen
Toomer himself, accompanied by Heatherleigh.
" How be ye, Mahster Ives, how be ye ? I be rare glad to hear
you are getting all right again ; and as we couldn't find the missus
down-stairs — "
" Of course you came up," said Morell. " But we are too many
for a sick-room, so I'm off ; besides I was to meet the Colonel
and his party at eleven, and it is now half-past."
" Where are you going shooting to-day ?" I asked.
" I was to meet them a little beyond Hare Wood."
" Then you are coming back to drive the wood ?"
" I suppose so."
" Very well. You get as near as you can to the upper side of
the dell that lies in the northeast corner. The place is full of
hares, and they all make for that corner, to get over to Coney-
bank Wood. Get yourself into a good place, and they will run
just in front of you, either up the lane or around the hedge-side
of the dell."
" Come, that is unfair," said Heatherleigh. " If you were to
give those wrinkles to me, who can only sit on a bank in the twi-
light and pot a rabbit when it comes out to sit on its hind-legs,
and wash its face with its fore-paws — "
" And that bain't easy, ayther," said Mr. Toomer. " Lor, 'ow
quick they be in catchin' sight o' the gun ! You come up to my
fahrm, and I'll show ye a dozen rahbbits a runnin' out and in o'
their 'oles, and I'll bet the coot off my back that ye sha'n't 'ave
one o' them. What do you say, Mahster Ives ?"
" Not unless you get into a sheep-trough, with a sheaf of corn
to hide your head, and lie there for half an hour."
"And fall asleep, mayhap, like the mahn as stole the pig. D'ye
know that story, Mahster Heatherleigh ? It wur one o' my grand-
father's."
" No, let us hear it, Mr. Toomer."
"This mahn was took up for stealin' the pig, and it wur found
on him — leastways in the bahg he had over his bahck. ' Please
your worship,' says he, ' I never stole that 'ere pig.' ' 'Ow did
you come to 'ave it in your bahg ?' said his worship. ' Please
182 KILMENY.
your worship, tlio rale truth is I wnr very tired, and I went into
this mahn's pig-sty with my bahg, and I lay down, as it might
be, to rest mysel'. I fell asleep, your worship, and I suppose
when I wur asleep this ere dahmned pig got into the bahg. I
never knowed it wur there till the constable he found it wur
there.' "
Mr. Toomer recited this story with profound solemnity, as if it
were a collect he had been asked to repeat. He looked remark-
ably uncomfortable while telling the tale; and the moment it was
finished he pretended to be vastly taken with a picture of Lon-
don — a sheet out of some illustrated paper — which Heatherlcigh
had nailed up on the wall.
" What uncommon sharp folks they be in Lunnon, to be sure,"
Toomer remarked, meditatively. " When I wur thear five yur
ago, I had just left the yard where the bus stopped, and I went
to buy a pennorth o' happles from an old crectur as was sellin'
them on the side o' the street. 'You're a Buckinghamshire
mahn, ain't ye?' says she. ' 'Ow did you find that out, missus?'
said I. ' Why, doan't I know every one on you Buckingham-
shire folk by your he's .?' says she, with a grin. l>ut I don't hold
by Lunnon."
" No ?" said Heatherlcigh. " Why that, Mr. Toomer ?"
"I doan't know. 1 know as I doan't like tlic i)laace. T reck-
lect well wlien T got on the top o' the coach again, and when we
wur a-coming out 1)y Notting-'ill, and when I began to smell the
fields again by Hacton and Healing, T turns to old Joe — he wur
the driver then, and wur a great man for thinkin' hisself a real
Lunnoner — ' Talk o' your furrin parts, Joe,' says I, ' but gio me
Hold England !' "
" What did he say, Mr. Toomer ?"
" He wur a poor creature, was Joe Barton, and couldn't under-
stand what I meant. He said as Lunnon was in Hengland too;
as if there wur a man alive as didn't know that Lunnon was in
England. He wur a sour-minded mahn, Joe Barton, and 'ud
catch you up literal-like. Yet he wur soinetliin' of a scholar, wur
Joe; and they tell me as he wur able to pint out the way to a
Frcndi gentleman as come down into these parts."
"(}()od-bye, everybody," said Morell. "I'm glad you didn't
put iiic in for manslaughter, Ives. I liope you'll soon be well
again."
SOME REVELATIONS. 183
And we heard him go down the stairs and out past the front
of the house, humming —
"Du hast meine Uhr unci Kette,
Buinirt mein rorte-monnaie."
Toomer seemed anxious to go, too, and yet appeared not to
know how to get out. He began to study London again ; then
he suddenly seemed to remember that his hat was on the table,
and might as well be on the chair. Finally he burst into speech
in a tone so solemn that it startled both Heatherlcigh and myself.
" I allays said it, and say it now, as it's fur too yallow."
He looked hard at Heatherleigh.
" I beg your pardon, Mr. Toomer — "
" If there's one thing as I've said to ray missus again and again,
it's thaht ; and I hold to it — as the front is too yallow — "
" Oh, the front of Burnham House !"
"Exahctly !" said Mr. Toomer, with a broad and happy smile
on his blooming face ; " hain't I right, Mahster Heatherleigh ?"
" Well, yes, I fancy it would do to be a shade grayer."
" Ah, look at that now !" said Mr. Toomer, turning to me with
a triumphant laugh. " Look at that now ! Haven't I allays said
as it wur too yallow ; and when I say a thing, I hold to it. Lor
bless ye, women cahn't understand them things. There's some
things, as I say to my missus, outside of a woman's comprehen-
sion ; and we're not to fight agin the Almighty, and break down
the barrier as he has plaaced between them and hus. What I've
allays said — and I hold to it — is as woman is shallow."
He looked from one to the other of us ; and then fixed his eyes
for a few seconds on the picture of London.
" What do you say, Mahster Heatherleigh ?" he continued, return-
ing suddenly from the picture. " Bain't I right? I say nothin'
agin women — as fur as they go. They be very good — as fur as
they go. But I do say, Mahster Heatherleigh, as they're shal-
low."
The eagerness with which he courted assent displayed itself all
over his fine, broad, bucolic English face.
" They haven't the masculine force of intellect, have they, Mr.
Toomer ?" said Heatherleigh.
" Didn't I say so !" exclaimed Toomer, beaming with delight,
and turning to me. " Didn't I say as they wur poor creeturs, and
184 KILMENY.
most uncommon shallow ! Bless ye, a woman has as little steady
common-sense in her as — as — as a stone steeple !"
I suppose Mr. Toomer borrowed this illustration from the pict-
ure of London, on which his eyes were again fixed. However,
after having sat a little time in profound silence, he thought of a
wonderful joke about turnij)s, tired it oflf, and under cover of the
smoke made his exit.
" Now," said Ileatherleigh, " you must tell me what you have
been doing to Bonnie Lesley ?"
" I ? Nothing."
" She was talking of you last evening in a way that surprised
mc. I grew to fancy that you had conferred a soul upon her —
Undine fashion. I confess 1 began to have remorse of conscience;
for I have had throughout a very ugly theory of her relations
with you — "
" And your theory was quite correct," said L " It is only now
that I can understand all the loose hints you used to throw out —
hints that made mc remarkably angry. Indeed, Hcathcrleigh, T
will tell you the truth — I fancied Miss Lesley had refused you,
or done you some sort of injury, and that you were revenging
yourself by dropping these suggestions."
"That y>as turning the tables!" cried Ileatherleigh, with a
hearty laugh. "Why, do you think I'd have said anything
about the poor girl but to open your eyes and save you from a
possible catastrophe? I don't blame people for their nature.
How can they help it? What is it Burns says of 'Bonnie Les-
ley ?' — ' Nature made her what she is;' and as she is not respon-
sible, she cannot be blamed. Only I ventured to take precautions,
that you, through your ignorance of what she is, might not suf-
fer ; and in return you thought me guilty of a mean revenge,
whereas the truth is — "
Here he stopped abru|itly ; 1 looked hard at him, but he turned
his eyes the other way.
" There is no use in going further into the story of what is
over and gone; but how did you come to know that my theory
was correct ?"
"Because she (aiiic licre ycstcnlay, and confessed everything,
and seemed heartily sorry and ashamed of herself — "
"And what does slie propose to do I)y way of atonement?"
asked Ilcatlierleigh, with a })e.culiar smile.
SOME REVELATIONS. 185
" I don't see that she has anything to atone for. What harm
has she done to me?"
" Yet I shouldn't wonder," he said, musingly, " if, in her new
fit of penitence, she were to coax you to fall in love with her in
earnest. Now don't flare up in that hasty fashion of yours.
Look at the thing calmly. I say nothing against the girl what-
ever : she has a rare notion of doing what is right, only she does
it self-consciously, and with an obvious effort. She forces her-
self to be magnanimous in spite of her nature, which is narrow.
She considers what is good and generous and noble — in short,
what she ought to do in order to please other people and raise
herself in their estimation — then she makes an effort and does
it. This effort to be thought well of is the only thing which
seems to stir her at all. But for that, one would think she had
no more mind or judgment or sensitiveness than a butterfly.
She is as cold as a sheet of glass to all other impressions ; but if
you touch her self-esteem, you wound her to the quick."
" It is the old story," I said. " You interpret every one's dis-
position with kindliness, except hers. I don't ask you what you
have done to her, but what has she done to you, that you should
be so savage with her?"
" I don't think I am dealing savagely with her. I only gave
you my honest impression of her character — which may be quite
wrong. I began to believe myself that it was wrong, when she
spoke to me of you last evening. I could scarcely credit that it
was Bonnie Lesley who spoke to me, and she must have seen
something of this, for she said, ' When once you form your judg-
ment of people, I suppose you never alter it?' "
" And what did you answer?"
" Some ordinary compliment, which rather vexed her. Let us
see what her penitence leads to, Ted, before saying anything
further."
" By the way," I said, " I wish you to do me a great service."
" I will," he said, " if it is not connected with her. But I de-
cline entirely — "
" It has nothing to do with her. You remember my telling
you how I buried a half-crown in a dell many years ago ?"
" Yes."
"I want you to go this afternoon and dig it up. You will
easily find it. Ask one of the keepers to show you Squirrel Dell
186 KILMENY.
Down in the hollow there is a tall ash-tree; and the stone I put
over the half-crown is only a yard or so from the foot of the
trunk. Very likely it is grown over with weeds or hidden by
the bushes, and you may have to scrape about a little. But if
you can't find it, get one of the keepers and tell him I will give
him a sovereign if the half-crown is found, and we shall have it
before the morning."
" What do you want to do with it, Ted?" said he.
" Miss Burnham is coming over here to-morrow morning, and
I mean to give it to her."
CHAPTER XXI.
QUITS.
I HAVE said something of the strange flashes of consciousness
which suddenly reveal to a man his position. They resemble
those glimpses of half-forgotten actions and words which a man
who has been drinking too nuich wine after dinner recalls the
next morning, and by which lie can instantaneously picture cer-
tain events of the evening before which had wholly escaped his
memory. It now occurred to me as passing strange that, after an
interval of onlj a few years, I should be able to lie in bod from
day to day, and do nothing, without running up a fearful amount
of debt and earning the accumulated growls of Weavle. What a
blessed thing was this freedom, this independence, which the pos-
session of a little money gave! It seemed very strange that, in-
stead of having to work wearily and economize painfully, one had
only to renuiin still, and let the mysterious agent out-of-doors go
silently on, multiplying sovereigns, and supplying us with as many
as our small needs required.
Was I n(jt now as independent as the people whom I used to
envy in \\n\ Row? That evening I walked around the Serpentine,
with eighty pounds clasped in my liand, I was proud enough ;
and yet I knew not how long the money, even if I were to claim
it, would la.st. Now I had a machine for coining money ; and it
went on day and night, day and night, turning out that siniill
flow of sovereigns, We li.id to spare. If I saw a poor wretc'h
QUITS. 187
wantinof his dinner, could I not give him five shillincrs and make
him happy? Walking along the London streets, I should have
in my pocket the possibility of rejoicing the heart of any wretch-
ed beggar or starving child or needy seamstress whom I met.
While in London, I had scarcely realized all this to myself.
Here, in the still depths of Bucks, I had time to scan my own
position, the great changes that had so naturally and easily fallen
over my life, the great good-fortune for which I ought to be so
thankful. And I thought that when I returned to London I
should exercise my power, and go about the streets like a special
Providence, armed with half-crowns.
During these fits of reflection I arrived at another resolution.
It became clear to me that I should never emancipate myself whol-
ly from the depressing and constraining influences of my youth
unless I got quite away, at least for a time, from England and all
the old associations. I was free (except in dreams) from the tyr-
anny of W^eavle ; but I was still bound hard and fast by certain
notions which seemed to me peculiarly of English growth. I was
more a gamekeeper's son than an independent human being to
the people around me — a small sort of prodigy, who had so far
raised himself above what ought to have been his lot. Now I
wanted to go into some other country — should it be America,
where the free fight of humanity is at its frankest? — to assert
myself as a man among men. To break asunder the old influ-
ences, to engage in the grand levelling process of competition, and
actually discover for myself my own value — that was the purpose
I now formed in these long days at Burnham, with the breath of
the winter already telling on the autumn air.
Naturally, I began to chafe against the necessity which confined
me to bed, much as Heatherleigh counselled patience, and pointed
out that I ought to wait to see what effect my " Kilmeny " might
have in the Academy.
" Do you think, then," said I, " that it is sure to be admit-
ted?"
" Certain," he said, decisively ; "just as certain as that everybody
will recognize the likeness."
" I hope not," I said.
" Why ?"
There was no particular answer to the question ; although the
notion of this picture being hung on the Academy walls, and
looked at by many people whom I knew, provoked several strange
suggestions.
But before telling the fate of " Kilmeny," I must say a word
about the visit which Hester Burnham and Madame Laboureau
paid me.
Heatherleigh had, without much difficulty, found the old, dis-
colored coin which I had buried in the dell years before. I looked
at it with many peculiar emotions, and with some faint reflex of
the feeling which prompted me to wreak my wrath on an unof-
fending piece of silver. I remembered again the bitter humiliation
I suffered when Miss Hester offered to take back the money, and
when I found myself unable to give it to her. We had become
more intimate since then ; but I dared never revert to this subject.
Indeed, the mere thought of it at any time was sufficient to break
down the frail bridge of acquaintanceship that had been, with
much uncertainty and diffidence, established between us. With
more of years, of judgment, and reflection, I might have treasured
that poor coin as the witness to the existence in the world of at
least one true, kind heart: as it was, I hated it, and wished that I
could bury it in oblivion, even as I had buried it in Squirrel Dell,
with all the bitter recollections of that memorable day.
When Hester Burnham came into the room, she was very pale,
and there was that strange glow in her dark gray -blue eyes that
testified to the presence of some strong emotion. Very pale she
was, and beautiful ; and the look of her face had a tenderness in
it which was obviously febrile, uncertain, ready to break into tears.
Yet the quiet little wonian, with that wonderful grace and carriage
of hers, came over and timidiv took my hand. I think she spoke
a good deal in a low, tremulous voice, but I only vaguely knew its
purport. There was something so extraordinarily sweet in the
voice that you were glad to listen to the music of it without
barkening to the words. You could so easily read the emotions
that the thrilling, low, soft tones expressed, that you forgot to
think of words and sentences. The delight of hearing her speak
seemed to blind one to the sense of what she said ; and yet you
found afterwards that you had followed her all through her pret-
ty entreaties, her j)rotcstations, her tenderly expressed wishes. I
should like to have shut my eyes, and lain and listened to that
strangely sweet voice forever.
Madame; Laboureau speedily broke the spell with lier briglit,
QUITS. 189
quick chatter, and her dramatic expressions of jirofound sympathy.
Of course, I was in her eyes a wonderful creature — a hero. I had
saved Miss Hester's life. I had been severely wounded in doing
so. I might have been killed —
" That would have been more romantic," I said, interrapting
her, " and a more appropriate end to the adventure, wouldn't it ?
As it stands, the play has lasted too long already ; and you can't
expect to have people wait to see a fifth act that extends over sev-
eral months, and is played in a sick-room."
" But it is too serious for a play," she said, shaking her head,
" though I am glad to see you improving yourself much. You
must keep still, and have no excitations — then you may much
sooner be sound again. And when you can Miss Hester hopes
you will come up to Burnham and make perfect your — your
guerison there. The room is all prepared — it is better than this
old house."
" lam sure I am much obliged to Miss Burnham, and to you,
Madame," I said ; " but as soon as I can move, I must go back to
London."
" You will not think of that !" said Miss Burnham, suddenly.
She liad been sitting quite silent, still apparently a little pale
and excited, and with her eyes fixed on the floor. Now she looked
up, with surprise visible in them.
" The winter exhibitions will be open shortly. If I have been
able to do nothing myself, I must see what others have been doing."
" But you have one picture ?" she said, turning her eyes upon me.
I dared not meet that glance, lest there should be a question in
it. I said to her —
" Yes, I have a picture that Heatherleigh thinks might do with-
out further finishing. If I cannot work between this and then, I
may send it as it is, to take its chance of the Academy. But who
told you of it ?"
" Mr. Morell ; and he thinks it will make a great impression."
" He may think so," I said, " for he hasn't seen it."
" Oh, he has not seen it ?" she asked, quickly.
" No."
" Mais c'est un veritable prodige, ce monsieur," said Madame.
" He knows everything, everybody ; he has been everywhere ; he
can do anything, except play the German music. Oh ! he plays
Beethoven as if it was Gung'l. and Mozart as if it was Offenbach.
190 KILMENY.
I cannot bear him then ; but at other times he is charming. And
your Bonnie Lesley thinks so, does she not ?"
Madame appealed to her companion, who did not answer.
" Mr. Morell may be able to speak of the picture without hav-
ing seen it," said I ; " but if he had exercised his miraculous
po'vers of vision before firing through a certain tree — "
" That is a mystery !" exclaimed Madame, decisively. " Did he
think the gun was not loaded? Did he fire only to frighten who-
ever was playing tricks? Or did he believe in the spirits, and fire
at them? I have never been able to comprehend, so raj^d he talks
on that subject. He is so anxious to explain, he is to me unintel-
ligible. And he goes back to town to-morrow."
" He does ?"
"Yes; he says he cannot bear to remain here, after the accident.
And soon we shall have all our party broken away, and be alone
again ; and so it would be quiet for you if you come to Burn-
ham—"
Here my mother, who had been over to Great Missenden, came
up-stairs, and was at once attacked by Madame Laboureau on the
subject of my removal to Burnham House. Sheltered by their
brisk talk, Miss Hester stole over to my side, and said, with her
eyes cast down —
" I hope you will come to Burnham. There is so little that I
can do to show you how grateful I am — how impossible it is for
me to say — "
" You need say nothing," I said to her. " Do you remember,
a good many years ago, your making me your debtor to the extent
of half a crown ?"
She raised her eyes suddenly, and there was reproach tliere,
with a touch of pain aiul even of indignation.
"You bring that up again," she said bitterly. "Is the mistake
of a girl, of a cliild, to last tliioiiiih a lifetime? You know how
that misadventure has made strangers of us all this time; but I
thought you had at last alhnved it to be ft)rgottcii. Vou revive it
Ui)\\ to pain iiu — perhaps to insult nic. It is nut fair — I do not
deserve it — "
"Do you tliiiik it was for that purpose I revived the old story?"
1 said, looking at her. " When, not knowing what I did, 1 took
the n)oiiey you gave me, 1 carried it over to l>uniliani, and buried
it there in the ground. When you (.itTereil to take it back again,
A WILD GUESS. 191
I could not give it to you ; and I was too proud to take it to you
afterwards. It has lain there until yesterday ; but I have it in
my hand now ; and I have it that I may give it back to you, if
you will take it."
"You want to make me altogether your debtor," she said, with
a strange, sad smile, as she took the tarnished silver coin, and looked
at it wistfully. " I am not so proud as you are, I think."
She opened her purse, and took the accursed bit of money, and
laid it — almost tenderly, I fabcied — in the crimson silk. As she
left, she stealthily pressed my hand, and both of us knew from
that moment that henceforth we were nearer to each other.
CHAPTER XXII.
A WILD GUESS.
" I AM not SO proud as you are, I think." The phrase lingered
long with me in these dull days, while I waited and wearied for the
coming time of action. For already I smelt the wintry air — the
cold, misty flavor in the atmosphere that tells of the close, dark
winter, the long nights and hard work. The glorious Bucking-
hamshire autumn slipped by me unnoticed. I saw none of the
glare of color that, as I knew, lay along the far beech-woods, while
the red sunsets burned over the stripped harvest-fields and the
brown ploughed lands. I saw none of the gradual change from
olive green to the glowing gold and crimson that make these hills
a wonder ; for, when I was able to go out, the time of hoar-frost,
and morning mist, and cold coppery sunlight had arrived, and the
day was sluggish and heartless and short. All the more I hungered
for the life and activity of London — for the joyous gas-lamps, and
the quick stir of labor, the comfort of warm rooms, and the in-
tense pleasure of work well done. Every one had gone from
Burnham House now, except Miss Hester and her small, bright
French friend and companion. Morell had speedily left, and had
sent me many a chatty, vivacious letter, and many a journal, for-
eign and domestic ; Bonnie Lesley and the Lewisons were again at
Regent's Park ; Heatherleigh had finished the panels, and had re-
turned to assiduous labor in Granby Street ; Alfred Burnham had
192 KILMENY.
gone I know nut wliore— his father likewise. Only Miss llestei
lingered here, and wandered about tlie still, cold park, or rode
down the rimy lanes in the morning air, when the scarlet hips
and the ruddy haws were frosted with white, and when the strug-
gling sun had just managed to melt the hoar-frost on the spiders'
webs, and change them to strings of incrusted, gleaming jewels.
Red and crisp were the leaves that still hung on the trees, while
those that lay rotting in the damp woods were orange and brown
and black. The tall, broad brackens, too, that had a few weeks
ago turned from a dark green to a pale gold, were getting sombre
and limp ; while everywhere in the woods frosted berries came to
be visible along the bare, leafless stalks of braml)le and dog-rose,
of rowan and elder and white-thorn. It was a cold, cheerless time
out here for any one who was not after the pheasants of Burn-
ham woods, or the hares that lay out on the hill-sides ; and it often
seemed to me, looking down the cold, still valley, witli the yellow,
wintry sunshine glimmering along the dull fields and the voiceless
farmsteads, that I could hear the low, hurried throb of London life,
and the murmur of its innumerable wheels.
At length the time arrived when I was able to undertake tlie
journey. I wished to say good-bye to Hester Burnham, and
while I was still debating whether to venture upon walking across
to Burnliam House, she and Madame Laboureau made their ap-
pearance. They had made several calls of a like nature before,
and were aware that I purposed going to London, but both of
them seemed surprised when I now informed them that I should
leave next day.
"You ought not to go yet," said Miss Hester, quietly, lier eyes
turned the other way.
"You will not allow it, Mrs. Ives, will you?'' saiti Madainc.
By and by, however, when they saw tliat our depart uic had
alrea<ly been settled, they were anxious that they should help a
little towards our comfortable travelling.
"Did you mean to go up by tie eoadi, or by the train from
Wycombe?" asked Miss Hester, of my mother.
" We thought there would be less jolting by the eoa(;h, and
there is a cab ordered to come over from Missenden to-morrow
morning for us."
'' lint the eoaeh goes very early, does it not?" asked Madame.
" Seven."
A WILD GUESS. 193
" And you leave here — "
" About six."
" Men Dieu ! In the dark of a winter morning ! Is that prop-
er travelling for an invalid ?"
" I hope, Mrs. Ives," said Miss Burnhani, " that you will let me
send a carriage for you. It will be so much better that you
should start at any hour you please, and go all the way in one
velucle, without the bother of changing. Besides the jolting, you
will have the draughts and discomfort of both the cab and the
Missenden coach ; while, on the other hand, if you let me send a
carriage for you, you may make a leisurely day's journey of it, and
Cracknell may come down again the next day, or the day after."
" I could not think of such a thing. Miss Hester," said my
motlier, who knew how seldom that luxury had been indulged in
even by the Burnhams themselves since the opening of the rail-
way.
" Then I must appeal to you," said Hester Burnham, turning
to me, with her frank eyes.
Why, her manner had something of a challenge in it. Her
regard seemed to say, " Two months ago you and I buried the
old feud between us, and promised to be friends. Show that it
is so." I accepted "the challenge, and replied to her frank look —
" Sha'n't you want the carriage or the horses for a day or
two ?"
" Certainly not. I never drive now ; I always ride."
" Then, since you are so kind, we shall be very glad to accept
your offer. Only, I hope we are not disturbing your arrange-
ments in any way."
You would have thought, from her bright, quick look of grat-
itude, that I had conferred a favor on her ; but it was only her
pleasure at seeing that I understood the implied challenge she
had thrown down.
Next morning, about ten o'clock, just as the sun was beginning
to thaw the gray and frosty roughness of the morning, the car-
riage was driven up the avenue of bare limes to the Major's door.
I was surprised to see Miss Hester and Madame Laboureau alight.
" You must have got up as early as we intended to do," said I.
" We wished to see you off," said she, simply ; and then she
turned to my mother to say that, as the hostelries between Burn-
ham and London were mainly of a dubious kind, she had sent
I
194 KILMENV.
with the carriage something in the way of hniclieon. Tliis, as wi
afterwards found, was a modest way of representing tlie wonderful
|)reparations slie had eaiised to be made for us. A very good
friend of mine is accustomed to point out tlie curious fact tliat
men who never ride a horse, or expect to ride a liorse, are in tlie
habit of carrying about with them for years an instrument, at-
tached to their pocket-knife, for picking stones out of a horse's
hoof. There was something of the same extravagant forethought
in the arrangements which Hester Burnham liad made about our
day's journey to London, vvhicli might have been meant, so far as
they were concerned, for a week's travelling in Norway ; and yet
who could even make fun over these incongruities of a great
tlioughtfulness and kindness! When I did venture to suggest,
during the journey, that Miss Hester might liave added to our
stores a coffee-grinding machine, a patent ])ercolator, and a spirit-
lamp, my mother seemed much hurt, and remarked that we could
not have been better provided for had we been })rinces. It was,
however, my first essay in ti'avelling a la mode Je prince ; and I
had to learn that even royalty must submit to conditions.
" Au revoir — bon voyage !" said Madame, as the carriage door
was closed.
" We shall see you in London, shall we not?" said Hester Burn-
ham, looking to my mother ; then she said good-bye to me, in
her simple, direct fashion, and we drove off.
As we gained the main road near Misscnden, 1 put my head
out of the carriage window and looked along the spacious valley
towards Burnham. Far up on the opposite heights, near the
margin of Coney-bank Wood, where the morning sun was shim-
mering palely along the hill, I s.iw two figures. 1 tliink they were
standing and looking back. I waved a handkerchief to them;
and one of them — presumably Madame — tiuttered something
white in return. That was the last 1 saw of Hester Jhindiam for
many a day.
There was more of hard study than of anibilious effort for me
during tlie remainder of that winter. 1 attended a certain life-
class, where models, of no very intellectual type of beauty, of both
sexes, and of various degrees of costume, stood on the raised
platform, or sat, on cold nights, upon a warm stove, to be roughly
outlined and colored by the busy young men wlio sat in a semi-
circle before tlieiii. The room was not a larixe one, and the i^lare
A WILD GUESS. 195
of gas, with the stove which was necessary to keep alive the (when
clad) thinly clad models, rendered the atmosphere a not particu-
larly healthy one. Indeed, what with that, and other stiidies which
I could not help myself following, I felt that I was just hovering
on the verge of my slowly accumulating strength, and that some
caution was necessary to prevent a collapse and catastrophe.
Despite the entreaties of Heatherleigh and Polly Whistler, I
sometimes fell to working a little at the " Kilmeny," as it seemed
impossible to me that a picture with so little real labor in it could
be worth much. But at length I resolved to leave it as it stood,
and let it take its chance. Many of my fellow-students, and of
Heatherleigh's maturer artistic friends, had seen it, and were suf-
ficiently hopeful. But artists are singularly devoid of the vice of
meaningless flattery when called upon to judge, ex officio, of the
work of a friend. They talk of your weak points with an incor-
rigible frankness, while pointing out quite as frankly what they
consider the strong points of the work. On the whole, I was
fairly satisfied with its chance of acceptance ; although inwardly
I chafed at not being able, through want of experience in manip-
ulation, to make it what I saw it ought to be.
Under Heatherleigh's auspices I had become a member of the
Sumner Society — a society of artists who held, and still hold, a
little half-private, half-public exhibition of their pictures prior to
their being sent to the Academy. " Kilmeny," having been prop-
erly framed and labelled, was left at the rooms of the society, and
as the evening drew near when the exhibition was to come off, I
waited with a burning anxiety to see how it would look hung up
on a wall, among other pictures painted by men of renown. I
got so to fear this ordeal, that I could scarcely muster up courage
to accompany Heatherleigh on the night of the display.
We went first to a tavern in Oxford Street, near the corner of
Regent Street, which was then much frequented, as a chop-house,
by members of the society. Here we found a goodly company
of artists — always distinguishable by the preponderance of vel-
veteen coats, which seem to hit the artistic fancy as powerfully
as seal-skin waistcoats appeal to the journalistic taste — engaged
in the different phases of dining, drinking, and smoking, A
bronzed, intelligent, manly looking lot of men they were, with
their slovenly dress, their quick jest, their hearty laugh. More
than any other men, I think, artists enjoy the means by which
196 KILMENY.
they make their bread; and tliey bring back from the country
with them, along with good spirits and a capital appetite, a rare
fund of good stories and jokes, and bits of character observation.
The shop, it is true, is a little too much with them ; but when
they get out of that, there are no such nien for boon companions
— their intellect quickened by much seeing, their habit of life
eminently sociable and enjoyable. But they are better company
to others than to themselves ; for the long evenings, devoted
chiefly to talk, at last get to the end of a man's jokes and stories.
It used to be the pride of the Sumuers to defy any outsider to
tell them a new story ; but that proficiency was purchased dearly
by the dearth of novelty among themselves. Now and again a
man did introduce a fresh anecdote ; and then it was accurately
measured, judged, and laid on the shelf. I should like to write
a good deal about the frank fellowship, the unworidliness, the
rough, practical, healthy joyousness of artistic society in general ;
but all that has been described by abler pens than mine — by men
who, being entirely outside of it and unconnected with it, could
better appreciate its peculiarities than I.
Certainly there was no want of talk, for several of the men
now met for the first time after their summer and autumn wan-
derings. There were stories of eccentric farmers' wives in Sussex,
of adventures in the Ross-shire glens, of fishing-nights off the
Devon coast. But the grand current of the talk, of course, set
in towards the forthcoming Academy, and there were plenty of
hazardous prophecies and strenuous opinions about the great
works which were known to be yet on the easel. One or two of
those present had not finished their pictures — were actually fight-
ing against time during these last few days — and were, one could
fancy, less noisy and joyous than their companions who had their
labors consummated and off their minds.
Shortly after eight o'clock, a general movement was made to
the chambers, situated in the neighborhood, in which the tem-
porary exhibition wjis to be held. They were two long, narrow
rooms, which were ordinarily used for drawing-classes, and from
the dusky corners and gloomy shelves which were not covered by
the new pictures there gliinriicrtMl otit fragments of plaster casts
— a bust of Jiij)iter with marked lines <jf spider-webs about it,
the ubiquitous disk-thrower, the broken-armed and reclinmg The-
beus, the wavv-haired and calm browed Venus of Milo, witli here
A WILD GUESS. 19/
and there an arm or a leg finely shaded with dust. Down the
middle of the two long rooms went a double screen, on which
pictures were also hung, the passage between it and the walls be-
ing so narrow that anything like rapid circulation on the part of
those who now entered the place was clearly impossible.
Heatherleigh seemed not to look out for his own pictures at
all. When our eyes had got accustomed to the glare of the gas
and the gilt frames, he carefully glanced around the walls.
"It is not in this room, at all events," he said.
" Do you mean ' Kilmeny V "
" Yes," said he, struggling through the crowd that had already
wedged itself into the narrow apertures.
We had just got to the door dividing the two chambers when
Heatherleigh, looking far over the heads before him, exclaimed —
" By Jove, it ' shines where it stands !' "
A moment after I caught sight of " Kilmeny," and started as
if I had seen a ghost. For now there could be no doubt of the
likeness of which Heatherleigli had spoken. I had tried to blind
myself to the fact; and, in the solitude of my own room, I had
gazed at the face until I had convinced myself that it was not that
other face. But here the picture seemed beyond any thwarted
interpretation. It stood up there, at the head of the room —
scarcely veiled by the mist of yellow light through which I saw
it — as a definite witness, and looked down upon me, as I fancied,
accusingly. I moved nearer. There were some men round it,
and they were criticising the picture freely. Heatherleigh called
out to one of them, and this had the effect of announcing our
approach, so that I fortunately missed hearing what they said.
Now, out of mere modesty, a man may not stare at his own pict-
ure in an exhibition-room ; and I was forced to turn away. Yet
it seemed to me that the eyes of it followed me with a mute re-
proach. It was no longer Kilmeny. It was a beautiful, sweet
face that I was familiar with, and it said, " Why have you put me
up here, among all these people ?" The unconscious wonder of
Kilmeny's eyes was gone. There was no more unearthly lustre in
them ; but the wise, sweet look of the face that I knew ; and I
felt ashamed of the profanation.
" Why," said Heatherleigh, " you don't seem proud of the place
you have got, or of the notice they are taking of the picture. It
holds its own, I can tell you."
198 KILMENY.
" I wish I could whitewash it," said I ; " I never saw that like-
ness until now."
" You must have been blind, then. But here is a man coming
towards us who is competent to speak on the subject. He is
some sort of a half-cousin of hers — Mr. Webb."
" The Webb who is member for Gosworth — who married the
Earl of 's daughter?"
" Yes. He and Lady Louisa used to be great patrons of mine,
until, I think, they were disgusted because I was not anxious to
become famous under their tutelage."
Mr. Webb was a tall, thin man, witli a gray, careworn face,
sunken gray eyes, a black wig, and an eye-glass whicli he kept
nervously twitching about. He spoke in a hasty, confused man-
ner, and had an odd fashion of not looking at you until he had
got out the last word of the sentence, and then he glanced up as
if to drive the sentence home. When I had been introduced to
him, and when he had studied the picture for some considerable
time, he muttered to himself, "Very good — very good — very
good ;" and then he turned sharply to me, with his eyes glancing
towards his boots —
" Did she sit for this likeness ?"
" No."
" Striking likeness — very striking likeness. Have you sold the
picture ?"
" No," said L " Nor do I mean to sell it, if it is as clearly a
likeness as you say."
This time he did look up, and fixed his sunken gray eyes on
me in a curious way, as he said, slowlv —
"May I venture to ask why you have taken that resohition?"
"Why, merely that I have no right to sell a portrait of any-
body without his or her consent. Surely that is a siiflicient rea-
son. I did not know it was so much of a likeness until I was
informed of it — or T should not have sent it here even."
" That is (jiiite right — very right," he said ; " but your objection
to sell it — if otherwise you would sell it — does not apply to me.
You may call it a family picture. But it is not as a likeness that
I wish to have it. What do you say — what do you say? Per-
haps we ought to have a little talk over it, if you don't mind the
trouble. Let me see. Shall you be passing the House any time
to-morrow ?"
A WILD GUESS. 199
" I will keep any appointment you like to make," said I.
" I shall be down to-morrow about two. From that to four or
five I shall be at your service."
With that he passed on to the other pictures.
" I congratulate you," said Heatherleigh. " I suppose you fancy
that eccentric gentleman, who looks like a broken-down banker, is
the victim of a good-natured wliim. If you do, you make a mis-
take. With these few seconds looking over your picture, he could
tell you more about it now than you know yourself. He has
spent his life in studying and buying pictures, all over Europe,
and, though he enjoys extending a little patronage now and again,
like other men, he does not buy bad pictures out of charity.
Take what you can get from him for your picture ; for you may
be sure he won't give you more than its value. Who knows but
that he and Lady Louisa may take you up, and become your pa-
trons, as in the old days? They were good enough to patronize
me a little ; but they found that I had little ambition ; that I was
lazy ; that, vihen I went down to Clarges Castle, in Hants, I used
to disappear for hours when I was most wanted, and be found
smoking a pipe in a conservatory."
" Had they put up a tight rope for you across the lawn, or how
were you expected to amuse your patrons ?"
" Don't you make a mistake," said Heatherleigh ; " the good
graces, well-intentioned, of rich people are not to be despised.
You should value the friendship of a rich man, not because he is
rich, but because his being rich is a proof of the disinterestedness
of his friendship. There ! that sounds like a proverb ; but it is
common-sense."
Heatherleigh was rather in the habit of uttering maxims of this
kind. Once, down at Brighton, Mr. Alfred Burnham got into a
very bad temper with the billiard-marker at his hotel. There
was no doubt about it, the marker had been trying on a bit of
sharp practice, and lied about it ; whereupon Alfred Burnham fell
to cursing and swearing at him. The marker appealed to Heath-
erleigh, who listened attentively, and tried to smooth down the
matter, when Burnham exclaimed —
" By Jove, Heatherleigh, you speak to a billiard-marker as if he
were a gentleman !"
Whereupon Heatherleigh replied, with a sharp look in hig
eye—
200 KILMENY.
" I speak courteously to a billiard-inarlver, not because he is a
gentleman, but because / am."
Mr. Burnliam pretended not to hear that remark, and made a
very pretty losing -hazard, without, however, having previously
touched either of the other balls.
When all the pictures had been gone over again and again,
commented on, criticised, and their future chances canvassed, there
was a general disposition towards pipes and beer. Those who
could extemporize a seat or stool of any kind, did so ; while those
who were too tightly wedged in to move, struggled to open their
coats, and get at their tobacco. Heatherleigh and one or two
more of us got into a safe corner, and mono[)olized a small plat-
form, whither was speedily brought one of the large jugs of ale
that were now being introduced. In a remarkably short space of
time the atmosphere had thickened, so that the blazing gas-lights
were palpably pale. A dense blue atmosphere hung over the
place, and the thicker it grew the louder grew the T>abel of voices
— with hurried jests, and scraps of welcome, and bits of criticism
flying about, attacking the ear from all points, and leaving the
brain somewhat bewildered. In our sechided corner, however, a
choice company liad assembled ; one of them, a burly gentleman,
in a velveteen coat and immense water-proof leggings, declaring
that gallons of beer were useless in slaking his thirst, now that the
Royal Academicians had made a drunkard of him.
"But why the Academicians?" said Heatherleigh.
"That was the very natural question Lady Osborne asked me
last week," said lie, with a laugh ; " and 1 told her simply : * I go
to the Academy exhiiutioiis every year as a duty; and of course
I lixds out for tile Academicians' works first. Well, of late I have
found them so confoundedly bad that I had to go out after look-
ing at each picture for a glass of brandy. 1 have been forced to
become a drunkard in order to keep my stomach steady.' "
" I liopc you didn't tell her ladyship the story in these words?"
said one.
" More's the I>ity," said he, with a shrug. "Women would suf-
fer a good deal less — I mean, they wouldn't so often be the vic-
tims of an idiotic delicacy — if, with them, language didn't slop at
their necks and begin again at their ankles."
But if the Academy had taught him to drink brandy, he seemed
to take very kindly to beer, as they all did, until the jilace got to
A WILD GUESS. 201
be, as one of them said, " like Noah's ark in a thunder-storm, with
all the animals roaring and kicking."
One man proposed to play pitch and toss as a quiet and intel-
lectual amusement; another exclaimed that he was sick of it; a
third retorted that one got sick of playing at pitch and toss only
in crossing the Channel ; a fourth blundered about the initials of
two artists named Brown, and IIeath<;i]eigh consoled him by ask-
ing how the recording angel was likely to distinguish among the
Welsh Joneses ; another was deep in {)hilosophy, maintained that
a man must worship something, and that a man who cut himself
off from all dogmatic religions must take to the worship of wom-
an ; Heatherleigh inquired of him if he meant that irreligious
men went in for the woman of Babylon ; a newspaper man, again,
was describing a tenantry dinner he had been at in Kent, and
swearing it was a capital one, by Gunter ! while here and there
were serious dissertations on the future of the new school, coupled
with the question when England "would gain the least bit of rec-
ognition in Continental galleries.
Heatherleigh had no fewer than four pictures on the walls, and
he had other two in his studio, all of which he purposed sending
into the Academy.
"Why not make it eight," I asked of him, " and be an R. A. in
number, if not in name?"
" I am afraid eight would goad the hangmen into fury, and they
might turn again and rend me. But I might sell one or two of the
pictures that are here before then, and these I shall not send in."
Had they been cheeses he could not have treated the question
in a more matter-of-fact way. Indeed, there was no concealing
the fact that Heatherleigh regarded the Academy as a good sales-
room, and looked forward to any reputation he might gain by
Ins new pictures chiefly so far as that affected their price. He
was far too honest a man to seek to hide these views of his ; and
he explained them with a simplicity which admitted of no argu-
ment. I noticed, also, that of late he had considerably increased
his prices. Formerly he had been accustomed to treat the dealers
who came about him in rather a cavalier fashion, bantering them,
and so on ; but he generally ended by letting the picture go for
whatever they offered, and often, as I saw, mucli beneath its value.
" My getting seventy pounds instead of fifty for a picture won't
better the quality of my bottled ale, will it ?" he asked.
12
202 KILMENY. -
" No," I said ; " but it might secure your being able to get
bottled ale in those times when you may be unable to work."
" You mean that I ought to lay up for a rainy day ?"
" Yes."
" I daren't begin, Ted ; for I know the consequences. A man
wlio has just what money he wants, with the chance of getting a
little more by a little extra work, is in a happy position ; but the
man who saves ever so little pledges himself to a draining system.
He is never satisfied with what he has saved. Its ignominious
smallness haunts him, and drives him to unnecessary work, and
unnecessary economies. God forbid that I sliould become avari-
cious, with my eyes open, Ted !"
" You talk nonsense," I said. " There is no reason why you
should become avaricious. But when you liave an extra ten-
pound or twenty-pound note, why not put it into a drawer or
into a bank, rather than invent some useless extravagance, as you
do now, simply to get rid of it?"
"Then the ten-pound note would look shabby. I should say
to myself, ' I must get a liundred pounds, instead of eighty, for
tills picture from Solomons.' Solomons comes up. We have
talked about eighty pounds; 1 demand a hundred. Solomons
is disgusted, begins to worry and bargain and deprecate and be-
seech. Inwardly I cry to myself, ' Good God ! am I become a
clieesemonger, that I must make my living thus?' Ultimately
Sr)lomons gives mc ninety pounds; and I never sec him after-
wards without grudging him the ten pounds, and I never see my
small savings without tliinking, with a pang, that they ought to
be ten j)ounds more. My dear boy, I don't see why a man should
wilfully make his life a burden to him. When the rainy day does
come, I shall know at least that 1 have enjoyed the sunshine. I
don't envy the men wlio sit indoors all their life, disconsolately
patching an nnilmlla."
Doubtless lie meant all this when he said it ; for, in theory, it
was an exact reflex of his actual life. But my friend was much
too wise a man to hanker afler consistency, the stolid virtue of
the I'hilistcr. Without a word as to what had led him to see the
error of his ways, he changed his whole manner of living. I have
already spoken of his increased activity, which at length developed
into downright hard work. And ni>w he demanded the high-
est y)rice for liis work that he was likely to get. The dealers were
A WILD GUESS. 203
astonished to find the old, easy, profitable method of making a
bargain no longer possible. They did not go off in a rage, as one
might have expected ; for Heatherleigh's pictures sold readily.
He had a happy quickness in the selection of good subjects ; he
had a great power of dramatic and forcible grouping and treat-
ment ; and the workmanship of his pictures, though mannered,
was invariably clever, striking, and much above that of nine tenths
of the pictures the dealers sold.
At this little exhibition Mr. Solomons was present — a stout,
good-looking man, much resembling in appearance and manner a
Frankfort merchant, with a ruddy face, black and curly hair, a
Jewish set of features, a seal-skin waistcoat, and a thick gold chain.
He wore a ring on his forefinger, and spoke with a slightly Ger-
man accent.
He was smoking a cigar when he came along and sat down by
Heatherleigh.
" Have you sold any of these pictures of yours, Mr. Heather-
leigh ?"
" Not one, worshipful sir,"
" I don't think you had any of them begun when I called at
your place last. You must have lost no time over them."
" Do you mean to offer me thirty pounds less than their worth
because you have discovered marks of haste ?"
" I have not made you an offer at all yet — "
" And mayn't, you would say ? Don't. Is this a time for buy-
ing and selling, Mr. Solomons ? We are disposed to be generous
to-night. It is unsafe to make bargains with the fumes of tobacco
in the brain."
" Ah, Mr. Heatherleigh, I can remember when you treated us
poor dealers in a different way — "
" And what return did you ever give me — except that box of
cigars, and I admit they were of the best. But you know, Mr.
Solomons, cigars are of no use to us poor devils ; they disappear
too quickly. Cigars were made for kings and picture-dealei's."
" I don't know how kings are faring," said Mr. Solomons, " but
I know it is a hard time for picture-dealers. People worCt buy
pictures. The state of business in the city is frightful, and it
tells upon us directly. We carCt sell a picture."
" What a merciful arrangement of Providence it is that a man
who can't sell a picture is at least at liberty to buy one ! But
204 KILMENY.
haven't you always been saying the same thing;, any time thest-
thirty years, Mr. Soh)inons ? It is only a hahit you have got into.
You know, you will see a professional lieggar, in the hottest day
in summer, shivering with cold, and drawing his rags about him,
simply out of habit."
"It is an ominous comparison, Mr. Heatherleigh. But there's
no saying w'hat may befall one, if one has to come between the
artists and the public, submitting to the wit of the one and the
indifference of the other — "
" While pocketing the money of both. But I am ashamed of
you, Mr. Solomons, to hear you talk in that way, considering the
harvest that surrounds you on every side. You look like a farmer
standing in the middle of his sheaves, and cursing at Providence.
However, I forgive you — "
" Thank you," said Mr. Solomons, with a sneer, indicative of a
possible change in his temper.
" And, although this is not a time for buying and selling, as
I said, what would you be disposed to give for that ' Kilmeiiy,'
whi(;h is the work of my friend here? Mr. Ives — Mr. Solomon>."
"How do you do, sir? I rather like that picture; there is a
freshness about it which might attract a purchaser. Yet the sub-
ject is not a popular one, you know. Well, let me see, I shouldn't
mind venturing fifty pounds upon it."
Heatherleigh burst into a fit of laughter.
" Why I will give him £100 for it myself, on tlic chance of
making fifty per cent, by the bargain."
" Oh," said Mr. Solomons, coldly, "you think you will get £150
for that picture?"
" Yes."
" Then I wish you may get it," said Mr. Solomons, rising and
walking off, apparently in high dudgeon.
" If impudence could withstand powder and shot," said Heather-
leigh, "the se(!d of Abraham would by this time have changed the
world into a big Judea. But don't imagine that he is much of-
fended. Solomons never (piarrels with his bread and butter;
and that is the position in which we stand to him at present."
"There is something unnatural, it appears to me," I said, "in
having the relations of dealer and artist reverscid in that way.
The dealer ought to be the patron ; you, the artist, ought to be
Inimble and trrateful — "
MV PATRON. 205
" So I was at one time," said Ileatlierleigli. " Nor do I think
that I took any advantage when 1 ^(jt the upper hand. I have
let them off very easily — that is, hitherto. Now I mean to wake
them up — "
" Why ?"
" Because I have grown avaricious."
" Why have you grown avaricious ?"
" Because I am getting old," he said, with a laugh.
On our way home (I had already remained out much longer
than an invalid ought to have done), we talked more of this and
of other matters, as we went up by Regent's Park, in the cold,
clear night.
" I suppose," said Heatherleigh, " that if you had been left to
yourself, without the advantage of my sage counsel and experi-
ence, you would have given the picture to Solomons for fifty
pounds ?"
" No, nor for £500 either," I said.
" But why ?"
" Fancy a Frankfort Jew becoming the owner of — "
" Of a portrait of Hester Burnham."
" Exactly."
We walked on for some time in silence; and I suppose Heath-
erleigh had been running over all sorts of absurd deductions in
his mind, for he said, just as we were nearing home —
" I once was very nearly thinking that Bonnie Lesk-y had fallen
in love with you, but now I begin to think that you have fallen in
love with Hester Burnham. The situation would be very roman-
tic — but, for you, very uncomfortable, just at this particular time
of day."
CHAPTER XXHI.
MY PATRON.
Next morning Polly Whistler came up to see us, and she had
no sooner entered the room, breathless and excited, with a tine
color in her pretty cheeks and gladness in her bright eyes, than
she cried out —
" Dh, Ted, do you know that I have met three different people
206 KILMENY.
this morning whose first talk was about your picture ! Tliey arc
all astonished — you are going to turn the Aeaeleniy uj)side down
— and I declare, when T met the last of the three, and heard what
he had to say, I was near crying for fair happiness. You know
I've a great deal to do with it, Ted — I — I beg your pardon — "
"If you call me Mr. Ives again, Polly, as you did when I came
back from Bucks, I shall order you out for instant execution."
" Because I bes^ored of you not to alter it ; and I knew what
they would say of it — "
" And you helped me with it all through, Polly, It is too true.
I must give up to you three fourths of all the honor and glory — "
" Though I could not understand, even at the time, how you
managed to finish it, painting from me, without putting a trace
of me into it. Mr. Heatherleigh says you will only be able to
j)aint one face all your life — "
" Isn't it worth giving up a lifetime to paint, Polly?"
" Perhaps it is, but that wouldn't pay. But really, Ted, I'm
very, very, very glad, and I hope I'm the very first to wish you
joy, for our old acquaintance' sake, you know."
And the kind-hearted girl grew almost serious with the earnest-
ness of her congratulations.
You would scarcely have known Polly now, so much had she
changed during the past eighteen months. The old frank manner
was still there, with the bright smile, the ready tongue, and fear-
less speech ; but Polly had grown suddenly genteel in her dress.
In the old days, it must be admitted, she had a trick of running
to and from her home, wearing, to save trouble, the shawl in which
she had 'sat' to this or the other artist — that is to say, when the
shawl belonged to her own considerable stock of properties. I
have met her in Granby Street, running home in the dusk, with
the most wonderful articles of attire on her back; and not uufre-
<|uently with her shawl wrapped around lur head in place of a
bonnet. Now all that was over. Under my mother's tutelage
and millinery aid, Polly dressed like a young lad) — very j)lainly,
it is true, but very neatly. Her own mother had at length l)een
prevailed upon to go to Greenwich, on a pension granted her by
her daughter; and Polly's spirits, never nf the lowest, were now
remarkably high in consequence. Nor did her elTorts at self-im-
jirovement stop with her change of attire. My mother had taken
a great fancy tt» the irirl, and was instruct ing her in all manner of
MY PATRON. 207
delicate housewifely arts. There never was a more willing piii>il,
there has seldom been a cleverer one. Quick in the " uptake,"
as the Scotch say, she was nimble with her fingers, and untiring
in her perseverance. My mother was delighted with the duties of
instructress, as most women are ; and, not content with teaching
Polly the secrets of womanly lore, she took to giving her lessons
in French. My mother's pronunciation was not very good — how
many years was it since she, a clergyman's daughter, had acquired
the language ? — but it was good enough for Polly, who soon be-
gan to be able to read French with tolerable ease. In other di-
rections her efforts at self-improvement were equally strenuous
and successful ; and it must be remembered that her acquirements
were immediately tested by the ready conversation she held with
all the people who surrounded her. The information possessed
Ijy artists is, as a rule, remarkably many-sided ; and as Polly did
not hesitate for a moment in revealing the bent of her studies —
especially in literature — she had the benefit of a good deal of ex-
tempore and suggestive criticism from the ready-witted and in-
telligent men with whom she passed most of her forenoons.
Some people would say that a girl of quick and sensitive nat-
ure, aiming at self-culture, should, as a preliminary step, have re-
linquished this calling by which she got her living. That was a
point which never occurred to either her or my mother. These
two simple-minded women were too pure and innocent to see
anything wrong in a girl suffering her portrait to be daily paint-
ed, especially as her patrons were a small number of men who
were well known to her and to each other. Indeed, Polly, with
her bright ways and her clever speech, was the common friend of
that small community, and there was not one of them who would
not have directly and courageously broken the law of his country
in order to administer a conclusive thrashing to any stranger who
should dare to insult her. To every one it seemed a matter of
course that she should remain in her old calling, except to Heath-
erleigh.
" It is a shame that a girl like that should be a model," he said
to me, one evening, after a fit of gloomy meditation.
" Why, what harm does it do her ?"
" No harm, truly. The girl could walk through anything, and
consort with any kind of people, and yet preserve that fine fresh-
ness of character which springs from her fearless honesty."
208 KILMENV.
" If that is so, why should she throw aside an occupation
wliich is not arduous, which is well paid, and which she seems to
enjoy ?"
" Well, it seems a shame that she should be called a model,
when you know what sort of women bear the same name."
" But that principle w ould make every calling in life dishonor-
able. Should a man be ashamed to be called a lawyer because
there are some lawyers who are scoundrels ? Should a woman be
ashamed to be called a woman because there are many women
who are drunken, perverted, and vicious?"
Ileatherk'igh did not answer, but he kicked away his landlady's
cat from the fender (ordinarily, it was granted every liberty in
the room, including the inspection of his breakfast-table), and
sucked his wooden pipe fiercely.
However, Polly knew nothing of this discussion, and remained
as she had been, perfectly satisfied with herself, and her friends,
and her manner of living, I never saw a more contented or hap-
py creature.
Towards the appointed hour I made my way down to West-
minster, and to the House of Commons. When I arrived, the
bell had just rung for a division, and the nondescript loungers
who were hanging about were ignominiously swept into the cor-
ridor, to study the ill-lighted frescos. When the stir was over,
and communication again established, I sent in my card to Mr.
Webb, and in a few minutes lie came out, hastily apologizing, in
a nervous sort of way, for liis having been detained. I accom-
panied him along another corridor and down some steps, until we
arrived at a dingy and melanclioly apartment, with small windows
fronting, but not allowing you to look out on, the river, which ho
said was the smoking-room. In tlio partial dusk of this gloomy
chamber one or two men, far apart and silent, sat and smoked dis-
consolately over a newspaper, there being nothing to disturb the
silence beyond the muffled throbbing of the steamboat-paddles
outside.
" 1 need not ask you if you smoke — let me give yo\i a cigar,"
said Mr. Webb, as we sat down. "You must have consumed
many a pipe over your ' Kilmeny.' "
"There is not much work in the picture," I said; "but it was
painted imder great <lisadvant.igcs. I am mrnly an apprentice
as yet, and, simjdv through my want of teehnieal education, have
MY PATRON. 209
to spend hours over what an experienced man would do in a few
minutes."
" I understand," he said, " and I had some thought of speak-
ing to you upon the point. I should say it was most important
for you to get some such practical education, under a competent
master, just at this period of your career, before you settle down
into a mannerism which may keep you crude and unfinished all
your life. I have been much interested in your picture; and I
should not offer you the advice if I did not think you were im-
provable."
This he said with a slight smile ; but most of his hesitating
speech had been pointed at the corner of the table before us, and
had been given out in sharp, quick, detached phrases.
" Where have you studied ?"
** Nowhere, except under Ilea^ierleigh. Then I have been a
pretty constant attender at our life-class — "
" Ah, I know. May I ask if you have any sort of plans for the
future ?"
" None, except a wish to get wholly out of England for a time,
that I may get away from certain influences I dislike, and — and —
and, generally speaking, find my level."
" That is good, very good," he said, abruptly, " but vague. Don't
think me impertinent if I ask further — do you depend on paint-
ing for a living ?"
"Not wholly, I have a small income; but if I left England, I
should have to leave pretty nearly the whole of it for my mother."
" You will find living abroad very cheap. What do you say
to Munich ? It is the cheapest town in Germany. It is the
richest in point of art-treasures. Every facility is given you for
study ; and I have an excellent friend, Professor Kunzen, whose
name you may liave heard of in connection with the discussion
about the Nibelungen frescos. Kunzen has some students ; and
an introduction from me would give you at once an instructor
and a friend."
To leave England had long been a dream of mine, but now that
it was put bluntly and practically before me, I involuntarily hesi-
tated. To leave England, and live so long in a foreign land that
the old places should grow strange to me — that, coming back, I
should 'ook a* the great chestnuts of the avenue at Burnham, and
scarcely know them again !
210 KILMENY.
" You can turn the project over in your mind," he said ; " it i?
worth your attention, and I shall be glad to give you any little
assistance I can. You may depend on Kunzen. But to our pres-
ent business. You said you had not sold ' Kilmeny f "
" I have not sold it yet."
" You do not mean to keep by your resolution not to sell it ?"
" Well," said I, " I will tell you frankly how the matter stands.
You judge by my being here that I am willing to sell the picture ;
but I have come mainly because you were good enough to ask me.
1 would rather not sell the picture. Don't imagine I say so to
tempt you to offer me a big price. I would rather not sell it, for
the reason that 1 told you. On the other hand, I want the money,
as 1 have been earning nothing for some months, through an ac-
cident I suffered."
" Good heavens !" he exclaimed, suddenly glancing at my arm,
which was in a sling, " was it you who got shot instead of Hes-
ter—"
"Not instead of Miss Burnham," T said, " for the ball might
not have hit her at all ; but there is no mistake about my having
been shot."
" This is extraordinary — very extraordinary," he said.
I saw him finger the card, which he still held in his hand. ITe
had evidently forgotten my name, and was anxious to refresh his
memory, but politeness prevented his doing so, and so T was prob-
ably Mr. Gyves or Mr. Jervis to him for the time being.
" Very extraordinary. My dear sir, we owe very much to you.
1 beg you will forgive my not having noticed the similarity of the
name, which is perfectly familiar to me — "
What a good-natured fib that was !
" — And I hope our ac(|uaintanceship will not cease with this
matter of business. How stupid of Hcathcrleigh not to tell me!
However, 1 must consider the picture mine; and you shall put
your own price upon it — "
*' Pardon me," I said, " we are still discussing business. Hcath-
erleigh told me you knew the value of a picture better than any
man of his actjiiaintance. I know nothing of it, and so — "
"And so I must makt' thr offer? Good, 1 will give you £150
for the picture."
1 looked at him with amazenienl. There was on his f:iee none
of that bland look of patronaLTe with which a man generally ex*
MV PATRON. 211
hibits his generosity. Indeed, the cold gray face was quite busi-
nesslike and calm.
" I am much obliged to you, Mr. Webb," I said, very much in-
clined to laugh, " but I would rather not be paid by you for hav-
ing pushed your cousin out of danger."
" Good heavens !" he said, " how can you imagine such a thing !
On my soul and honor, 1 would have bidden that sum for it at a
public sale, partly, of course, because it is so quaint a transfigura-
tion of Hester's face. If you think the price too high, name
your own, but I tell you that you wrong yourself in taking less."
" Suppose it is exhibited at the Royal Academy, will you give
me whatever is offered for it by anybody ?"
" I will give you £20 more than the highest offer. Is it a bar-
gain ?"
"Yes."
"And I hope that our acquaintanceship will not terminate with
this matter of business. Lady Louisa will be delighted, I am sure,
to make your acquaintance."
So we parted, and I got out again into the roar of Westminster.
In all that hurrying crowd of people, there was no one who suf-
fered such pangs of remorse and shame as I did at that moment.
I suppose when we are too well off we exaggerate minor causes of
worry until we reach the common level of discontent ; or it may
be that some people are morbidly sensitive on particular points ;
but, at all events, I had no sooner got out of that dull smoking-
room than I felt wretched and guilty. I had sold my honor for
a mess of pottage. I had gone down to meet Mr. Webb in an ir-
resolute frame of mind, tempted both ways, and yet hoping I
should cling to the right side. I had succumbed to the tempta-
tion, and, througli the dusk of the afternoon, my eyes seemed to
wander up to that exhibition-room where " Kilmeny " stood, and
looked out upon me with reproach in her mystic face.
I envied the jolly policemen who were cracking jokes with each
other at the corner of Parliament Street, and the burly omnibus
drivers with their ready fun, and the honest men and women who
were going home, after a good day's labor, to their comfortable
chimney-corners. Finally, I walked straight up to the exhibition-
rooms.
Most of the pictures had been left there, so that the owners
might send them directly on to the Royal Academy. I had
212 KILMENY.
" Kilmeny " taken down and put into a cab ; then I drove home
and carried the picture up-stairs to my own room.
What should I do? On the one hand £150, or some approx-
imate sum, would be an opportune nest-egg to leave with my
mother, if I were to go to Germany. Then, if this little girl with
the wondering face were to get into the Academy Exhibition,
would not people talk of lier, and might not the critics be kind
to a beginner, and deal charitably with a first effort ? That was
a sore temptation. I sat and imagined all the possible scenes
that might arise with this " Kilmeny " of mine, whom I liad
grown to love, hanging on the Academy walls. Would not Bon-
nie Lesley come, and let her beautiful large eyes light on it, and
would she not say something generous about it ? My mother,
too, would see it and be glad. Perhaps — but 1 dare not think of
Hester Burnliam walking up to this picture, and reading all the
tell-tale meaning of it.
It was a pretty dream — far more fascinating tlian any one can
imagine who has not labored carefully and lovingly over a work
of art, and then sees it ready to be sent abroad for recognition,
with all the halo of possible success about it. And what if it
should be successful — if people should praise it?
I turned and looked at the calm, .strange face ; and now tlie
likeness seemed startling. It was Hester Burnham who stood
there, with the calm, kindly eyes; and she seemed to say, " I
have been with you many a still and silent day, in this very
room, and we had got to know each other. We were friends.
And now you would make money by the results of this inti-
macy ; and you would have people talk of me, and idle crowds
stare at me."
"Never with my will," said I, aloud.
I caught up a penknife that was lying on the table — 1 was in
too great a hurry to answer this mute reproach to think of taking
the picture from the back of the frame — and run the keen edge
through the canvas, uj) both sides, and across both ends, leaving
only a narrow strip adhering to the frame. Then I rolled up thf
picture and put it in a drawer, and sat down in the dusk, cold,
trembling, and contented.
The dusk decjx'Jied and grew dark. But before my eyes there
cann! a series of lambent visions — nil the l>itter suggestions of
what nii'dit have been. 'Bitter euoiii-h it was to look at these
MY PATRON. 213
things; and yet I felt a certain austere sense of satisfaction witli
myself which was indeed a sort of grim happiness.
I was withdrawn from these reveries by the sound of voices.
Polly and Heatherleigh had both chanced to visit us that evening,
within a few minutes of each other. So I went down to meet
them, bold and comfortable.
" What is the matter with you, Ted ?" said my mother ; " you
are ghastly white."
" It is joy, mother ; I have been offered £150 for the picture."
" A hundred and fifty !" said Polly, with her eyes widely open.
" Mayn't I see it now ? — you know it was not quite finished when
I last saw it."
"It is down in the Sumner Exhibition -rooms," said Heather-
leigh.
" No," said my mother, " it is up-stairs. I saw Ted bring it in
this afternoon."
" Then I must see it," cried Polly. " Shall I go up, or will you
bring it down ?"
Determined that Heatherleigh should meanwhile know nothing
of what had happened, I told Polly to come up-stairs with me. I
lit a lamp, and went with her. When we entered the room I went
forward to the table, and lifted the frame, with its margin of can-
vas.
"There, Polly, what do you think of 'Kilmeny' now?"
She looked at it for a moment in blank wonder, and then a sud-
den expression of alarm came into her eyes.
" Oh, Ted, what have you done ?" she cried.
I sat down in the dimly lighted room, before the empty frame,
and told her the whole history of the case. I explained, as well
as I could, the necessity which had driven me to abandon all the
hopes I had formed about " Kilmeny." When I had finished I
looked up, a little surprised that Polly had nothing to say, either
by way of agreement or condemnation. I found that the girl had
buried her face in her hands, and I fancied she was crying.
214 KlLMENTi
CHArTER XXIV.
THE ROYAL ACADEMY.
Once the thing definitely done and disposed of, I was much
more contented. I bore with equanimity the silent reproach of
my mother, and the fiercer indiiination of Heatherleigh.
" You deserve to be hanged," he said. " I never saw such ac
cursed pride in any one. You were not born a duke."
" Don't you know," said I, " that Miss Burnham and I made
up our old misunderstanding, and became almost friends down
there? And what if 1 had gone and publicly exhibited her, and
sold her portrait, and tried to gain a reputation through the sweet-
ness of her face V
"Confound it!" was all he said. Then he added, "I fancied
we were going into the Academy together — that we should cel-
ebrate the varnishing day together — that we should run the
gauntlet of the critics together. 1 expected great things from
the picture. I had told people about it. I expected more from
it than ever 1 told you, because I wanted the reception it was
sure to get to be a surprise to you. But you have always been
like that — morbidly sensitive, wayward, extravagant. Did you
never think of Bonnie Lesley coming to see it?"
"Of course I did. I have enjoyed in imagination all sorts of
visits and all sorts of praises, which T should never have enjoyed
in reality. But that is not the (piestion, lIcatherKigh. You talk
as if I had had any option in the matter. I tell you that, rather
than have sold Miss I>urnliam's portrait to that Jew, as you sug-
gested, I would let him pull my teeth out one by one."
"That would have been reversing the order of nature. It was
tlie (Christians who pulled the Jews' teeth out, in accordance with
the spirit of llic New Testament. \N liy, do you know who pro-
posed to be a purehaser?"
" Who ?"
" Pxtnnie fjcsley herself. She told jne privately that she meant
to otTer you, without your knowing her name, a liandsonie sum,
THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 215
in order to give you confidence in yourself. She says you will
never be an artist until you gain some artificial belief in yourself."
" What did you answer ?"
" Only what I have said to yourself — that there is nothing to
equal your modesty except your pride."
I pointed out to them all, however, that there was no use cry-
ing over spilled milk ; and I looked forward with anxiety to the
opening of the Academy Exhibition merely for the sake of Heath-
erleigh. Before the varnishing day arrived he had already ascer-
tained that four of his pictures were hung — a very tolerable num-
ber for a man who had never cultivated the acquaintance of the
Academicians. On the morning of the varnishing day he called
upon me.
" I want you to come down with me."
" They won't let me in : I am not an exhibitor."
" Worse luck," said he ; " but I think 1 can arrange about it."
So I agreed to accompany him. There would be no mortifica-
tion in being turned away, as there would have been had I been
a rejected contributor.
On our way down, he said —
" Did you cut your picture all to pieces ?"
" No, certainly not."
"What do you mean to do with it?"
" Keep it for myself as a portrait. I am going to Germany
soon : I shall take it with me."
"W^hy should you take a portrait of Hester Burnham with
you?"
" I hope to take portraits of all my friends with me."
" Then I suppose you have asked Bonnie Lesley for her por-
trait?"
" Well, no ; but I mean to do so."
" Why don't you thank me for reminding you ?"
He smiled as he said this, and yet I did not care to inquire
what he meant, for my thoughts were running on this great col-
lection of pictures we were going to see, where my poor " Kil-
meny," I fondly thought, might perhaps have had a place.
The Academy Exhibition was then in the National Gallery. I
ascended the broad stone steps without much hope of being able
to gain admission. Heatherleigh went up to the man who was
passing people in, and I fancied there was a quiet look of intelli-
•216 KILMENY.
gerice on liis face. He nodded to Heatberleigli. There was scarce-
ly a word said, and in a second or two I found myself inside the
entrance-hall.
" Have you brought no colors with you ?" said Heatherleigb.
"No; why?"
" I should have let you touch up one or two of my pictures, to
pass the time."
" I thought you never went through the farce of touching up
or varnishing in the rooms ?"
" Neither do I ; but it might amuse you."
So we went up-stairs. In the first room there were two of
Heatherleigh's pictures ; one had an excellent place ; the other
was " floored," and in a corner.
"That leaves me in an equable frame of mind," he said, "so
far as this room is concerned. Ha! what is this 1 see! They
have given me a good place !"
He was passing through the door as he uttered these words.
I could only look vaguely into the next room. There were sev-
eral artists lounging about, one or two of them pretending to
touch up their pictures; and one gentleman, mounted on very
high steps, was carefully varnishing a remarkably small work
which, it was evident, was never likely to be seen by anybody
after his own eyes were withdrawn.
Heatherleigh turned to me.
"I am going to blindfold you, and lead you up to my 'Lady
Teazle,' that you may be astonished — "
IJut it was too late. There, at the head of the room, from out
of the wilderness of brilliant colors and gold frames, looked the
calm face of " Kilmeny !" The wall seemed to dance before my
eyes; the yellow frames became a misty spider' s-wcb of gold, the
delicate lines crossing and interweaving; and Kilmeny looked
like a phantom amid these bewildering, moving splatches of color.
It was like one of those half-conscious dreams in which you sec
the face of one who is dead, or as good as dead to you, and you
<|uite well know that it is impossible the beautiful face should be
so near you. I walked up to the picture in a kind of stupor;
a!id met the gaze of tlic eyes that I knew. The picture did not
melt into mist. I looked round alxmt it, and the other pictures
were stable.
" You are lucky," said a strange voice at my shouMcr, and,
THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 217
turning, I saw one of my companions of the life-class, a man who
had just returned from Brittany. " Your first picture in the
Academy, isn't it?"
" Yes," I said, with some fear that I was lying ; and that " Kil-
meny" would suddenly vanish, and be replaced by the real pict-
ure which ought to be there.
" Don't look so scared," said Heatherleigh. " It isn't a ghost,
although many people will fancy that Kilmeny, with her wonder-
ful face, has just come out of the land of spirits, with a cloud of
impalpable dreams around her. Don't you think so, Jackson ? It
is the most visionary face that I have ever seen painted. Would
you believe that Ives wanted to keep it at home — nay, had kept
it at home, and that it is here against his will ?"
With that he turned to iwc.
" Ted, your mother and I did it. She found the picture out ;
I carried it off and put it in another frame — I'll trouble you for
£6 10s. when I come to pay Weavle's bill — and here you are.
You won't be such a fool as to carry off the picture now — indeed,
you dare not, for the Academicians would have your life. And
look at the place they have given you — it is as good as a notice
in the Times.''''
Now it seemed to me that the man on the top of the tall steps
was a great friend of mine. I hoped his picture was well-paint-
ed ; I compassionated him in that it had been " skied ;" I trusted
he had pictures elsewhere. The other men, too, about the rooms
— did they not suddenly assume a kindly expression ? I was now
a fellow-laborer of theirs ; whereas, when I entered the place, I
was an outcast and a stranger. I hoped they had all painted
good pictures ; that the public would be kind to them all ; that
they were all " on the line." Yet it was clear from many of their
faces that it was possible to be above or below the line, and still
be happy.
" Wliat do you say, then ?" asked Heatherleigh, a little timidly.
" Now it is done, I am glad you have done it."
" And I promise to tell Hester Burnham all about it, and that
it was my doing."
" Yes, I suppose she will come here," I said, absently, for I fan-
cied I could see her walk up to the picture.
"Undoubtedly. And Bonnie Lesley is coming to buy ' Kil-
meny-' I have told her so much about it that she is jealous ; and
K
218 KILMENY.
I fancy, so soon as she has acquired possession of the picture, she
will cut it to pieces more effectually than you did."
" She will have some difficulty in becoming the owner, as I
promised to give it to Mr. Webb, if it got into the Academy, for
£20 beyond what anybody might offer for it."
" It would be no bad plan, then, to get Bonnie Lesley to offer
£500 for it. Of course you must take off a few pounds in con-
sideration of the picture having been reduced in size by a couple
of inches. Ted, my boy, I consider myself your best friend, and
herel)y invite myself to dine with you at Greenwich, now that the
whitebait have come in."
We had a walk around the rooms ; but I fancied the eyes of
Kilmeny followed me, and they were not quite so reproachful as
they had been.
" Now that I am in for it," said I to Heatherleigh, " I shall make
the best or the worst of it. Could you get to know when Miss
Burnham is likely to visit the exhibition ?"
" I will try. What then ?"
" I should like to come here, and watch her from a little dis-
tance, and see how she takes it."
"Ah, you wish to see the flush of pride and pleasure on her
face r
" No," I said, gravely enough — for it seemed to me that the
temporary triumph of showing off my poor picture was but a
trifle compared with other and life-long considerations — " I want
to see if she understands why the picture is there, or if she mis-
apprehends it altogether, and so is likely to raise another barrier
between us, far more insuperable than the other, never to be re-
moved. What if she were to think, even for a moment, that I
had used her face to further my own ambition — that I had dared
to demean her before all these people — do you think sucli a
tliouglit could ever be effaced from between us? And I should
read it in her eyes in a moment !"
"Ted," said Heatherleigh, kindly, "that girl is more womanly
and wise than you fancy. She will understand it, and she will
understand you, without any interference of mine."
" And I ask of you not to mention tlie matter to her. It wil\
be a test of confidences between us."
"So be it," he .said; "but I fear you set too great store upon
luT intrrprctation of your motives,"
leb' wohl ! 219
CHAPTER XXV.
leb' wohl !
It was some little time before Hester Burnham came into town,
and I waited with some impatience for her visit to the Academy.
In the mean time the gracious eyes of Kilmeny had softened all
the critics' hearts, and they talked of her in a way that tilled me
with gratitude. For somehow I fancied that, in praising her, they
were praising that other Kilmeny, who still lingered among the
Burnham woods, and I treasured up every scrap of ciiticism that
had a word to say about the tenderness of her face or the wonder
of her eyes.
I can remember the first criticism that appeared on the picture.
Heatherleigh and I were seated in that dining-place near the top
of Regent Street in which the members of the Sunmer Society
used to congregate. We were all alert in scanning the newspapers
at this time (a few days after the opening of the exhibition) to
see what our fate was to be. Heatherleigh had been attentively
reading one of the morning-papers for some time, when, without
a word, he handed it over to me.
"Kilmeny" was the first word I saw; and then, as I read on,
it seeuied to me as though there were behind the gray paper and
type a kind and earnest face that I was not familiar with, and
that nevertheless seemed to be filled with a grave and friendly in-
terest. Is there any gratitude like the gratitude of a young artist
to the first critic who speaks well of him, and lends him the wings
of encouragement and hope? To my knowledge I have never
seen this invisible friend who spoke so warmly and confidently
about my first tentative effort; yet I have never forgotten the
desire I experienced to know him and thank him, and how I came
to fancy that, if I saw him anywhere, I should instantly recognize
him.
Other writers, no less generous, spoke in a similar strain, until
" Kilmeny " came to be looked on as one of the features of the
exhibition. Could I wonder at it ? It was a face, seen anywhere,
220 KILMENY.
that all men must worship ; and the glamour of Kilmen} 's eyes
blinded them to the imperfections of my handiwork.
Of course, there was great joy in our small circle ; and it was
no uncommon thing for Polly to appear before we had sat down
to breakfast, flourishing a newspaper in her hand. How she man-
aged to get a look over all the papers published in London, at
such an early hour, I never could make out ; but one thing was
certain, she never missed the least mention of Kilmcny's name.
I met Bonnie Lesley at the Lewisons' several times. Wc were
on very intimate terms now ; our past relations, and her confes-
sion, singularly enough, not having left a trace of restraint in her
manner towards me.
We were very good friends, as I said ; and I may hereafter say
something of a notable excursion we made together to Richmond.
Meanwhile, she had written to Hester Burnham to ask when she
was coming to town.
" AVhat a pity it is that Hester won't take a house in town,
like other people," said Miss Lesley.
"If you got accustomed to living at Burnham, you would un-
derstand why she docs not," I said.
" I suppose she is waiting for Mr. Alfred to take the house for
her."
" I suppose so,"
" It seems a pity," said Bonnie Lesley, musingly ; " but you
often see people who seem to have marriages made for them.
They come in a natural sort of way, and you never think of avoid-
ing them. I don't believe Hester cares much for her cousin, and
yet you will see that she will drift into a nuu'riage with him, (juitc
involuntarily."
" Very likely."
" Indeed, I fancy she would marry him now, if he cared to ask
her."
"Why .locsn't he?"
" Well," she said, with a pretty smile, ** it would be a little too
apparent just now that she would have to support him. I dare
say he is waiting to get some sort of position or commission, by
way of excuse,"
Then she added —
"Did I tell you she was coming to town on Monday? One
advantage of her not having a house in Loiidoji is that T get more
LEB WOHL ! 221
of her when she comes. She will stay here ; and on Tuesday, I
should think, we shall go to the Academy, Will you meet us
there ?"
" I am afraid I can't promise."
" She knows all about the picture, you understand, and how all
London is talking of her portrait."
" Did you tell her it was her portrait ?" I asked, with a sudden
qualm.
" Certainly — her portrait, more or less. But what was it Mr.
Heatherleigh said about its being Hester clad in dreams? It is
more that than a portrait."
Early on the Tuesday morning I went down to the front of the
National Gallery, and walked up and down the east side of Traf-
algar Square, waiting to see Mr. Lewison's brougham arrive. It
was nearly twelve o'clock when I saw the easily recognized pair
of chestnuts and the dark-green carriage coming along from the
west. Still keeping some distance off, I saw the occupants get
out — Bonnie Lesley, Mr. Lewison, Mrs. Lewison, and Hester Burn-
ham. I saw her go up the broad steps — the small, graceful,
queenly figure, and the long, floating, dark-brown hair causing her
to look like the princess of one of the old Danish ballads — with
Bonnie Lesley, in her brilliant costume of blue and white, at her
side. Then they went inside, and were lost from sight.
I slunk into the place. The crowd was dense ; but I made my
way to the corner of the room in which " Kilmeny " was hung,
that I might see how she would walk up to the picture and look
at it. I was barely in time ; for they had gone straight thither.
I could see Bonnie Lesley laughing merrily; and there was on
Hester Burnham's face a confused, timid smile. They approached
the picture. The smile died away from her face. In its stead
there was a strange, wistful look, as one might look at one's por-
trait of many years ago ; and just at that moment I caught the
wonderful likeness between the weirdness of Kilmeny's eyes and
her own. It was imagination, doubtless ; but it seemed to me as
if the living Kilmeny stood there, with the wonders of the other
world upon her, a vision among men.
"Nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;
As still was her look, and as still was her ee,
As the stillness that sleeps on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea."
222 KILMENY.
In the middle of tlie dense, chattering mass of people she stood,
and it seemed as though the breath of heaven still clung about
her, and made an impassable barrier around her, separating her
from the crowd. I could not stand there any more. I went fur-
ward to her suddenly, and took her hand. She looked up, in a
bewildered sort of way, and then a faint blush sprang to her face.
" You are not vexed that this should be here ?" I said.
She glanced into my eyes for a moment — with a look that I
shall never forget — and then she said, slowly, and in i voice so
low that no one around could hear —
" I thank you."
With that Bonnie Lesley came forward and protested blithely
there should be no quarrelling — and so forth, and so forth. I es-
caped from them out into the open air, and walked 1 knew not
whither, with a new life tingling within me. I walked on blindly.
The man who has never been so keenly happy as to be unable to
remain at rest has never known the extreme of happiness. There
was not in London a drunker man than I was at that moment.
Hester Burnham remained in town some three weeks, I never
saw her during this time. I dared not go near the house ; and
by some means or other managed to evade Mrs. Lewison's repeat-
ed invitations. I was engaged in preparing for my going abroad,
and was busy.
Yet the autumn was approacliing before I was ready to start.
Mr. Webb, who had become the owner of " Kilmeny," had crowned
his many friendly acts by arranging that I should not only join
I'rofessor Kunzeu's pupils, but alscj board in the Professor's house.
And when everything was ready, and all my plans of operations
sketched out, I privately slipped away down into liuckinghani-
shire, to bid good-bye to the woods of Burnham.
It is worth while, I think, for a man to become an artist that
he may learn to perceive the pi(turcs(|U('n('ss of a dull ;ind windy
day. Summer as it was, the Itroad plains and far hills oi Bucks
looked strangely forli)rn; ;ind there was a wild picturesqueness
about the masses of Hying gray cloud, and the sombre hedges,
ami the dark oaks that were clearly and gloomily marked against
the pale sky. The Burnham valley, stretehing up from Misseii-
den, looked like one of those intense, low-toned French landscapes,
in which you seem to perceive the blowing of a bleak and blus-
terin" wind. But, alth(»utrh I waiidtTed all about the familiar
leb' wohl ! 223
places during this long and desolate day, I dared not go near
Burnham.
It was night when I went up there — a dark night, with no
stars visible. A cold wind came over the hills, and you could
hear the rustle of innumerable trees in the darkness. Any one
less acquainted with the road would have had a hard fight to avoid
the hedges ; but I knew every step of the way, and at length
found myself in the great avenue leading up to Burnham House.
There was no sight or sound discernible around the solitary
building — only the murmur of the wind through the cedars and
the beeches. Nor was there any light in the windows ; for the
family lived in the more modern part of the house, which was
not visible from the front. But it was on this space in front of
the house that Hester Burnham and I used to play, many a year
ago, when we were children ; and it was here I used to wait for
her until I saw her bright face at the window above.
If the window would but open now ! Here, in the darkness,
might not one speak freely and boldly, and say good-bye as it
ought to be said ? If the window were but open, and Kihneny
there, listening ! I could almost imagine that she was actually
there at this moment, and I looked up in the darkness, and whis-
pered —
" Listen, before I go ! Let me tell you, now, when it won't
matter. I have loved you always ; I shall love you always. You
cannot prevent me loving you. I have loved you since ever I
was able to look into your eyes ; and I must love you to the end.
Now, good-bye, and may God guard you, my very dearest, and
keep you safe from harm."
There was no sound in reply but the rustle of the leaves. The
great front of the house remained still and silent, the windows
cold and dark. So I turned away from Burnham, and from my
love ; and nothing seemed to say good-bye, except it were the tall
and ghostly trees, as the cold wind of the night blew through
them.
224 KILMENV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE VILLA LORENZ.
" GooD-MORNixG, Mr. Sun ! How do you do this mornino^, and
bow have you slept ? I hope you are going to bring us a bright
and pretty day; for the Herr Papaken, and the Frau Maniaken,
and Annele and I are all going out for a walk in the Englischer
Garten. Good-morning, Mr. Linden -tree ! And how have you
slept? You — Itandsorne old man that you are — you must not
think of turning yellow yet. Good -morning, Messieurs et Mes-
dames Sparrows ! I shall have some crumbs for you presently."
I became drowsily aware that the soft and pretty German I
heard came from the lips of little Lena Kuuzen, who had just
thrown her casements open, to let the sunlight into her small
chamber, which was apparently next to mine. I jumped out of
bed, and found the morning well advanced, a golden flood of light
falling over the smooth pastures and stately trees of the English
farden, and on the branch of the Lsar that runs tlirough and
around and about them.
The Konigin Strasse of Munich is, as you may know, a long
and (piiet street that leads down from the llofgarten and skirts
the Englischer Garten, the handsome trees of which it fronts.
Here dwelt the Herr Professor Kunzen, his kindly, commonplace
wife, and his wicked and witchijig little daughter. Anybody who
is familiar with the sort of bouses in the suburbs of Leipslc, or
lierlin, i>r IJaden, will know what the Villa Loreiiz was like — a
large, square, white house, with white casements outside all the
windows, and with white balconies projecting from tlie first story,
these balconies hung witli trailing creepers of various kinds, tum-
Iding in masses of light-green leaves about the white ]»oreh. Then
a small enclosure in front, with a small white statue, and fountain
in the centre, separated from the street by a row of acacias, with
here and tliere a rowan-tree ajid a sumach, just getting crimson.
Peliind, a larger garden, with bowers covered with Virginia creep-
ers, and another dirty-white figure and a roiintain.
THE VILLA LORENZ. 225
The Professor was a tall, well-made man of about fifty, with a
shy, womanisli sensitiveness about his ways and manner which
did not seem to correspond with his athletic frame and his pro-
digious pedestrian powers. But it accorded well with his face
when you came to know it — when you got to see its emotional
softness, and the quick way that a blush would spring to the pale
and rather sunken cheek, whenever the Professor had given way
to a sudden access of enthusiasm. Such occasions were rare ; for
he was a very shy man, who did not like to disclose himself. He
was full of strong and generous sympathies, the fruit of a remark-
ably simple and childlike nature ; but he had got into such a habit
of hiding away his inner feelings, that you would have consid-
ered him merely a thoughtful-looking man, timid in manner, and
with strong tendencies towards idealism in his dark, soft, deeply
intrenched eyes.
His wife was a short, rather dumpy woman, a shrewd and sen-
sible housekeeper, practical in her notions, and very fond of her
husband, over whose negligent habits and odd ways she was con-
tinually complaining. I think she looked upon him as half-mad ;
and was thankful he had had the sense to marry a woman capa-
ble of looking after him and his house. As for his pictures, she
knew nothing of them beyond the price they fetched. She was
proud to see his name in the papers, and she behaved with cir-
cumspection when great people visited the Villa Lorenz ; but she
took care to make it understood that she would not talk about
art.
" He knows enough for both of us," she used to say, sensibly ;
" I busy myself with other matters."
Under the circumstances, there could be no great communion
between man and wife. The Professor never revealed his solitary
enthusiasms to his spouse ; and she was satisfied in doing her
duty as regarded the wonderful freshness and purity of the linen
of the house, and also as regarded the cooking. There were sev-
eral things she always cooked herself; and her honest face beamed
with pleasure if you praised her preserves. The Frau Professor's
coffee I have never found equalled anywhere.
Now, how did this strangely assorted couple ever come to have
such a daughter as little Lena Kunzen ? This small witch, with
her short light-brown curls, and her big gray eyes that were full
of mischief, was a perpetual torment to her surprised and grieved
K2
226 KILMENY.
mother, and a perpetual puzzle to the shy Professor, who used to
sit and watch her as if he wondered if this wild creature were
really a daughter of his. The fun of it was that both of them
loved her to distraction ; for, with a kitten's drollery, she had a
kitten's captivating ways, and could get atonement at any mo-
ment for her mad pranks by a little fondling and coaxing. She
was about fifteen, but a perfect child in most respects; and, doubt-
less, much of her waywardness of manner and habit had arisen
from the fact that she had mixed little with strangers, and had
been allowed to do pretty much as she liked in her own home.
Sometimes, too, the wild, madcap spirit seemed to go right out of
her, and she sat nmte and pensive, with a look of her father's
dreaminess about her eyes. At such times she used to show a
strong resemblance to a portrait of a shoemaker's daughter, which
you will find in the second room of Stieler's " Portraits of the
Most Beautiful Women," in the Festsaalbau. This latter is a face
that is unforgetable. It has all the finer characteristics of the in-
tellectual South German face — the broad forehead, the calm, re-
flective eye, the delicately shaped nose, the short upper lip, and
that peculiar deeply cut under lip which one never finds out of
Germany. Let me add, here, that my greatest trouble in all my
art-studies in Germany was with this type of face. It seems al-
most impossible for an English artist to escape from painting the
self-consciousness which is the obvious characteristic of the finest
English female faces. You will find the type of German face of
which I speak painted by English artists, and while the features
are there, there is superadded that pitiful trick of consciousness
which is only not a smirk because the lips arc thoughtful. The
difliiculty is to give the wonderful self-possession and self-regard-
lessness of such a face, without making it merely commonj)lace
and dull. It is a difliculty ; and an Englishman, 1 fancy, can only
get over it by change of climate — by leaving our cold and fogs
and bustle for the warmer air and tlie mellower life of the South.
If one of the woiiHsn whom Iiaphacl painted had been introduced
to our life-class as a model, what harsh and coarse interpretations
of her would have been the result!
To return to Lena. Her constant companion was a small
white goat, which had been given her as a present. It was vari-
ously called Anna, Annele, and Aennchen ; and its mistress was
fond of expressing her love for her favorite by singing —
THE VILLA LORENZ. 221
" Aennclien von Tliarau ist, die mir frefallt,
Sie ist mein Leben, mein Gut uiid ineiii Geld ;
Aennchen von Tiuirau hat wieder ilir Herz
Auf mich gerielitet in Freud' und in ISchmerz;"
and then, at other times, she would sing, to a tune of her own,
the plaintive old lines —
"Isch 's Anneli nit do?
S' vvird legne, wird schneie,
S' wild 's Anneli g'wiss reue.
Isch 's Anneli nit do ?"
By rights, Aennchen von Tharau should have been a gentle and
timid creature, so that she and her mistress might have looked
like the group of the pretty goatherd and her pet, which is a fa-
vorite subject for lithographs. On the contrary, the small white
Aennchen was a demon of wickedness ; and it was fortunate that
her malice was not equalled by her strength. She loved to run
at children unawares, taking a mean advantage of them from be-
hind, and tumbling them at the feet of their nurses. Indeed, she
had all manner of tricks ; which were rather encouraged than re-
pressed by her mistress, who used to shout with laughter when
Annele had done something especially naughty. The same spirit
appeared to dwell in both ; and Lena used to lament bitterly that
her goat should be prevented by nature from enjoying the fun of
hearing my blunders among the German verbs. Lena was wont
to tell her friends that, on the first day I dined there, I had offer-
ed her some " Pantoffelnsalat" — an audacious figment, which used
to make her laugh till the tears ran down her cheeks.
Lena had a lover. His name was Franz Vogl ; and he was one
of the Professor's half-dozen pupils. Vogl was not a handsome
lover. Nature seemed to have meant him for a comedian — his
face having precisely that odd irregularity which nearly every
comic actor exhibits. But in every other way Franz was a most
desirable sweetheart. He was full of fun ; he was immensely
good-hearted and kind ; he was never out of spirits ; and he play-
ed the zither in a way that won all hearts to him. I have heard
the zither played by many people, but never as Franz Vogl played
it. In his hands it became another instrument. It lost all the
twanginess of the guitar, and gave forth such wails of passionate
feeling — so human-like in the cry — that, when it was all over, the
people used to look at Vogl's humorous, commonplace face, and
wonder whether he were nut a maoician.
228 KILMENY.
" Franz, Franz," Lena would often cry, potulantly, " wliy can't
you teach me to play the zither ?"
" You will never be able to play the zither, Linele."
He was a Waldshnter, and constantly used the rustic dimin-
utives, and frequently the rustic dialect, he had learned when
young.
" But why, why, why, Franz ? I don't understand what you
say about the thrill at the end of your lingers. Is it electricity ?"
" Perhaps it is. At all events, without that, you will never do
more with the zither than what most people do — play a jerky
sort of music, in the ordinary, staccato fashion."
" And I can see your fingers lio\ering over the strings, until
the cry of the music in the air makes me think of a human voice
overhead, and I get almost afraid. Did you see how that dear
little Marie Schleiermann cried last night when you were playing
the Chant hohemien V
" That was because poor Friedrich Kink used to play it. I was
a fool not to remember that."
*' But your playing makes me so wretched sometimes that I am
near crying, too. Franz, you are conceited, and you won't teach
me to play the zither because you will have nobody but yourself
make people cry."
" I will teach you the zither, if you like, Linele."
" Oh, yes ! To go strum, strum — twang, twang — like old Frau
Becher and her guitar. No! I want to be able to make it cry
and sob, and then laugh again ; I want to do everything ; and,
oh, my poor Aennchen, I can't do anything."
With which she would clasp Annele around the neck, and pre-
tend to whimper.
I have never seen any man who enjoyed life better than Franz
Vogl. It was a part of his sim[>lt' and jovous nature to be pKiasL'd
with whatever he happened to be doing, and that in a hearty,
happy way which was remarkably infectious. He was never con-
scious that he was enjoying himself, as lleatherleigh was; nor
did he pause to estimate the value <»f his various enjoyments.
He sang for the pleasure of singing; he painted because he liked
painting; he enjoyed a conversation with a wagon-driver about
the weather and fields, or with a learned doctor about the deluge.
He enjoyed sleeping, eating, drinkini;, walking, and sitting still ;
and yon always fourxl him ready with a joke and a laugh at any
THE VILLA LOREXZ. 229
time. His father was, in his way, an artist. He had a studio
some little distance from Waldshut, and there he got up and
painted crucifixes, and those various pictures and decorations
which adorn the small way-side shrines of the peasantry. He
was also a bit of a sculptor, and had himself, with his own meth-
ods, hewn out one or two very passable figures for the same pur-
pose. Furthermore, he had a moderately sized farm ; and Franz
being the only son, the farm was to fall to him in due course.
So his future was pretty well cared for ; and Franz took good
care to enjoy the present.
He was far more of a musician than a painter. Sitting by him-
self, over his beloved zither, that was his constant companion
morning and evening, he used to improvise in the most wonder-
ful fashion ; harmonizing his melodies as he went along, until
you lost sight of the mechanical effort, and seemed to hear him
speak with this magnificent, many-toned voice. He had a gener-
al liking for all the arts, and a tolerable proficiency in several.
His pictures were clever, and had a certain novelty of manner
about them ; but Franz set little store by them, and it was clear
he was not going to be a great artist.
" If I had an ambition," he often said to me, " it would be to
write a whole series of songs in my native dialect, and set them
to music."
" You can't feel the want of a hobby much," I said, " so long
as you have your zither."
" No," he said, " I shouldn't get on very well without my
zither. ' Obbis muess me ze triebe ha, sust het me langi Will.' *
I always take my zither with me when I go on my pedestrian
excursions. By the way, you will accompany us on our grand
autumn excursion ?"
" I hope so."
" Down through the Gutach-Thal, and around by the Constance
Lake, and then, hey ! for a swing through the clear air and the
cold sunsets of the Tyrol !"
In the mean time we were busy enough with those opportuni-
ties of study which this wonderful city afforded. Every alternate
morning we went with the Professor to the Old or the New Pina-
thothek, and there he, singling out some particular picture, dis-
cussed its various characteristics and those of the school to which
* " Etwas muss man zu treiben haben, sonst hat man lange Weile."
230 KILMENY.
it belonged. Occasionally we paid a visit to the ormd Nibe-
lungen frescos, not then finished, until KrioniliiM ami Siegfried,
the red-bearded and dark-browed Hagen, Briinhild, and all the
other personages of the mighty drama were familiar to us as our
own friends. I confess that, at first, I was a trifle disappointed
with Krienihild, the
. . . " schcene magedin,
Daz in alien Landen niht schoeners mohte sin;"
and looked upon her face as characterless and wanting in emo-
tional expression. But in time the traditions of English facial
painting faded away from me, and I got to understand the stately
repose of the women of the old Flemish and German and Italian
painters. Then we had our exercises in composition, which were
grievous things for exposing one's ignorance of the rough mate-
rial of art. A solecism or anachronism in costume, for example,
was instantly picked out by the somewhat wondering Professor,
whose severest reproof was a hint that you must have been mis-
led by some theatrical scene. Of all our little company, I was
the most backward in this respect. I knew as little how to deal
with such a subject as "Savoyardcnkindcr auf dcr Wanderschaft"
as with such a one as "Cervantes win! von dcm Ariiautcn Manni
als Sklave nach Algier gcbracht." When the Professor announced
that the subject for the following Monday's sketch would be
" Carl I. von England nimmt Abschicd von scinen Kindern," he
added, with a smile —
"This time, Ilerr Edward" — so he invariably named me, find-
ing some difficulty in pronouncing "Ives" — "you will have the
advantage. You must be familiar with the costumes of your own
country,"
I don't know that, Ilerr Professor,'' said I. " With its present
costume, I am."
"The majority of your countrymen are nfins-cu/nttes — nicht
wahr?" said Franz Vogl with a laugh. " However, I suppose
Charles I. of England dressed in the Frenrh fashion of the time.
You English are fond of French importations, arc yctu not?"
"Yes; we could atTonl, however, to do without some of them
— eggs and dramas, for example."
"The chief manufactures of England," said Vogl, "are lords
aii<l beggars. But you can't produce kings. Let mo see, you
haven't had an English king since Edward VI."
THE VILLA LORENZ. 231
" You produce so many here that you can supply the markets
of the world with them," I said ; " and then they have had the
advantage of an economical bringing-up."
" Well, the kings we have sent you, excepting William of
Orange, were rather a stupid lot, certainly ; but they were a good
deal better than the Stuarts."
" They couldn't be worse," I said, " but they tried."
So the days passed peacefully away, in the quiet, white city.
Franz and I became great friends ; and many a merry walk we
had, and many a merry chat in the beer-garden " Zum Tivoli,"
on the wooden benches, under the great limes, fronting the nar-
row strip of the Isar that runs around the Englischer Garten.
I had a letter from England occasionally ; sometimes from Polly
Whistler ; sometimes from Ileatherleigh, who had become a thorn
in the side of the dealers ; and two letters I had received from
Bonnie Lesley, containing abundant gossip about Burnham.
" People have not yet done speaking about ' Kilmeny,' " she
added. " When are you going to send us another picture over ?
And this time, mind, it must be no likeness ; or, if a likeness —
well, I will say no more. I send you, as you wish, a bit of the
great St. John's-wort from the Burnham woods. I wrote for it
to Hester, who desires to be remembered to you. But I dare say
you have forgotten us all, and are walking every evening with
some pretty Fraulein along the long green avenues near the Isar.
Or do you buy her gloves in the Maximilian Strasse ? Or do you
take her to hear Wagner's operas in the Hoftheater ; and does
she call you 'du' yet? Good-bye. If you are not too much en-
gaged to answer this impertinent note, address me at Burnham,
whither I go on Monday next."
When I got such a letter as this, breathing of English life and
associations, I used to go out into the " English garden," and lie
down on the banks of the Isar, near that great open space of
meadow in the middle of the trees. Lying here, with the bulbous
spires of the Domkirche shut out from sight, you might imagine
yourself in an English park; and I used to try to make myself
believe that I was looking over upon the Burnham woods. Very
few people entered the garden during the day, and those who did
kept to the shaded walks under the lindens and elms. Lying
quite alone there, I used to read and re-read those portions of my
letters which spoke of Buckinghamshire, until I should scarcely
232 KILMENY.
have been surprised had I seen Miss Hester herself c\ me walking
over to me from among the trees. For, indeed, my heart was a
sort of carrier-pigeon ; and the moment I let it loose, it flew
straight back to Burnham, and only folded its wings at the feet
of my dear mistress.
CHAPTER XXVII.
DAS WANDERLEBEN.
I THANK God for Germany. It was there that I first began to
throw off the hideous thrall that had weighed upon my life in
England. It was there, properly speaking, that I began to live.
Out of that whirl of anxious struggling, with its petty ambitions,
its envious competitions, its narrow interests, its bitter fears, that
had at one time overawed and, later on, sickened me, I had got
into the more beautiful, simple, joyous life of South Germany.
Here was no agonized fretting and scrambling after wealth, but
a peaceful moderation, and contented enjoyment of small means.
Well do I remember the half-conscious blush of enthusiasm that
passed over the face of the good Professor, as we stood above the
great Gutach-Thal, and looked down upon its green fields, its
rushing stream, and the steep sides of the mountains covered with
a dense green forest. We had come over from Ilausacb, and
walked along the wonderful valley, on either side the precipitous
and wooded hills steeped in a glorious sunlight. From Tryberg
we had followed the winding road that leads up the mountain to
St. Georgen, and now, as we stood some five thousand feet above
the level of the sea, and looked down into the still, vast hollow,
a more charming picture of pastoral life coiiM not have been con-
ceived. Far below us, a long wooden wagon, drawn by a couple
of oxen, was coming slowly up the hill. By its side were two
women, with large white hats and black rosettes, with short petti-
coats, puffy white sleeves, and bronzed arms bare from the ell>ow.
A young girl was with them, whose profuse light -brown hair
hung in two long twisted tails down her back. There were few
people now in the fields, for the afternoon sun had begun to glow
with a lurid brilliani'v on the gle;iming sc'irli't bnin'hos of rowans.
DAS WANDERLEBEN. 23-3
a row of which beautiful trees came up all the way from Tryberg.
One side of the ravine lay in shadow ; along the other the warm
light fell on immense stretches of forest that rose up to the pale
green sky. Underneath our feet, and yet far above the bottom
of the glen, a large hawk sailed in the air, sometimes fluttering
for a few seconds, and then poising himself and remaining motion-
less.
" I will venture to call this the Happy Valley," said the Pro-
fessor, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, " Here you will find
neither rich people nor poor people ; but all have fair labor and
moderate means, and a healthy and virtuous life. In England,
Herr Edward, you are all too rich or too poor ; and your rich are
growing rapidly richer, while your poor are growing rapidly poorer.
What is your general percentage of pauperism ?"
" Twenty-three per cent., I believe."
"Herr Je !" exclaimed the Professor. "Here, I will undertake
to say, you will not find three people out of every hundred who
are unable to work, and who live upon charity. Is it that your
taxes weigh too heavily on the poor; or do you pay too expen-
sively for your kings and their circle ; or is your population in-
creasing more rapidly than your trade ; or are your poor waste-
ful and extravagant when they have work, and mean-spirited when
they have none?"
" Du !" said Franz, maliciously, addressing one of our small
company, by name Silber. " Do you know why the Gutach-Thal
has always been a prosperous, contented place ?"
" No," said Silber, a heavy-looking, fair young man from the
Rhine country, who dressed like a theatrical student, and wore his
flaxen hair down to his shoulders.
" Because the people are Protestants. You have not seen a
road-side crucifix all the way up from Tryberg."
" Do the crucifixes keep the corn from growing ?" growled
the practical Silber, who was a good Catholic and an indifferent
painter.
We had all sat down by this time. Almost instinctively Franz
unslung the case which held his zither, took out the instrument,
laid it across his knees, and let his fingers wander for a second or
two over the strings. And then he sang, in a careless sort of
fashion, the story of Schiller's maiden, who came, like Kilmeny,
no one knew whence, into a valley like the one at our feet —
234 KILMEXV.
" Sie war nicht in dem Thai geboren,
Man wiisste nicht, woher sie kam,
Und schnell war ihre Spur verloren,
Sobald das Madchen Abschied nahm."
And then he sung a tender farewell to the Gutach-Thal, and
greeted it " ein tausend Mai," as we got up and went on our
way.
Franz was not much of a singer ; but you forgot that in listen-
ing to the wonderful tones of the zither. His singing was a sort
of excuse for his playing ; and what was lacking in his voice was
more than made up by the extraordinary, pathetic power of the
instrument that he loved so well. Every spare half-hour of this
memorable excursion was devoted to the zither ; and his stock of
music was literally inexhaustible. Above all, however, he pre-
ferred the old VolksUeder of the Black Forest and the Tyrol ;
and many a glad evening we spent in remote country inns, with
Franz's music as our only speech.
We stayed this night at St. Georgen, on the top of the moun-
tain. There were no other strangers in the solitary inn except
a young girl and her father, who were going on next day to Hau-
sach by the Eilwagen. She was a pretty sort of girl, with dark
hair and eyes, and a mobile, sensitive face. During dinner — we
all happened to dine at the same time — Fianz became very
good friends with the Herr Papa, chiefly by reason of his
miraculous flow of stories, which kept the old gentleman laugh-
ing from one end of the meal to the other. After dinner, said
Franz :
' Does your daughter sing, sir?"
" Oh, yes, she sings a little."
" Will you be so friendly, Frjiulein, as to sing a little song, and
I will give you an accompaniment? Or will yon hear me first?
My companions are tired of me and my zither; and I shall be
glad to have a new audience."
But we all sat down at the table, when it was cleared, and the
randies were lit ; then we took out our cigars and pipes, and Franz
placed his zither before him.
" Perhaps you can play yourself, Friiulein ?" he asked.
" No," she said, with a smile. " We arc from Cologne."
"Then our southern songs may be a novelty to you. Do you
know ' Es ritt ein Jagersmann iiber die Flur?' "
DAS WANDERLEBEN. 235
" Ach, Gott, yes ! But I could hear it a hundred times," she
said, softly.
So he sang the pathetic ballad, and the thrilling joy and ten-
derness and agony that he woke from the strings of the zither
seemed to make the song almost a dramatic impersonation. You
could see the huntsman riding gayly home, blowing his horn to
let his " Herzliebchcn " know he was coming. Then his wonder
that she was not at the threshold to kiss him — his entrance into
the house — no meal ready for him, no wine in his cup ; and then
bis finding his heart's love lying cold and dead among the flowers
in the garden. Then, with sharper and bitterer music, how he un-
bridled his horse for the last time, and set him free ; how he took
down his gun again from the wall and loaded it with " deadly
lead ;" and how, with one final, despairing carol of his hunting-
song, he " went home to his heart's love."
" Drauf stimmt er an den Jagdgesang,
Den lauten und fiohliclien Hoineiklang,
Trarah ! trarah ! trarah !
Und ging ziim Heizliebchen heim."
" Sir, you make that instrument speak," said the girl's father ;
as for her, she sat quite still and silent, but I fancied I could see
a slightly tremulous motion of her under lip.
We had the merriest of evenings in this old Gasthaus. The
Fraulein's Herr Papa and the Professor were soon deep in a con-
versation about the Black Forest people ; and the Papa, who had
been living in Hiifingen, proudly declared that the whole popula-
tion of the town could produce no more than half-a-dozen paupers
— six poor old women, who inhabited the barn-like building be-
queathed by Prince Fiirstenberg. So we younger ones were left
to our singing ; and the Fraulein, with the dark eyes and the pret-
ty smile, sang too, in a timid way. We had Dr. Eisenbart, whose
wondrous skill could make the blind to walk and the lame to see;
we had Herr OloflF, who met with the Erl-king's daughter, and
grew deathly white and died ; Franz gave us that devil-may-care
ditty, "Ich gehe meincn Schlendrian ;" and Silber, being from the
Rhine-country, could not help singing the " Loreley." When they
asked me for an old English ballad, I felt puzzled. Have we any?
Scotland is rich in old songs ; Ireland has plenty ; but England — 1
So I took refuge in the Tyrol ; and sang them the song of the
236 KILMENY.
lover who plaited a garland of flowers, and bound his heart in it,
and laid it at his sweetheart's feet.
It was a merry evening, and it was a merry morning that fol-
lowed ; for as we crossed the top of the mountain, and looked away
down into the south, we saw the sunlight lying on the long, dark-
green hills of the Black Forest, and above them, rising faintly in
the far horizon, the splendid line of the Bernese Alps. The pros-
pect of this magnificent plain, with its undulating masses of forest,
its scattered villages, and its winding river-track, filled us with
joy, for it said, " Henceforth you are cut off from cities. You
shall wander along by river and valley, by farmstead and village,
forgetting the pallid faces and the sluggish ways of the dwellers
in towns. Your hunger will grow sharp, your thirst keen, your
sleep profound and sweet. Then up again and away in the morn-
ing, through the fine cool air !"
Ye gods ! how hungry one became in that rare atmosphere !
Cold veal, brown bread, and red Tischwein became a feast to us;
but when we fell upon a more favored spot, where a good land-
lady could transform the veal into a luxurious and occult " Fal-
scher Vogel ;" and when she produced from her cunning cup-
board a bottle of Affenthaler, then we found no words to ex-
press our delight.
" Soon," said Franz, " we shall leave the land of the ' Falscher
Vogel' for the land of the 'Schnitzel.' We shall see no more of
the dark-green forest; beeches and birches will mix with the firs.
We are going farther, to fare worse."
His heart clung about the Black Forest, his native country. I
think he would fain have darted away from us, and gone down
by Donaueschingen and Lenzkirch and St. lilasien to his beloved
Waldshut. He was just a trifle sad as we turned our back on the
dark -green woods, and entered the valley of the Danube, near
where the great river rises, a small spring, in Prince Fiirstenberg's
garden. But his melancholy did not last long. The day was
lovely. On each side of the valley the great mountains were
covered with beech, now turning red and yellow, and the sunlight
burned along these successive slopes. So wc wandered on ; and
down by Tlialmuhle, in the heart of the hollow, we came upon a
small inn, that had a bowling-alley in the garden.
"Who will challenge me?" said the J'rofessor, with a
laugh.
DAS WANDERLEBEN. 237
" I will," I'eplied Silber, who had lived in Mainz, and fancied he
knew how to hit the front pin at the proper angle.
We called for some beer : the Professor threw off his coat, and
took up one of the large balls. He kept his long legs rather
apart, balancing himself; and then, without moving a foot, he
lowered his right arm, and with a rapid sweep sent the ball spin-
ning up the alley. There was a rumble and a crash, and the
whole nine pins were lying in a confused heap.
" Silber pays for the beer," remarked Franz, with a laugh.
And so it turned out. The Professor had not forgotten his
skill since his student days ; and Silber had but a poor chance
against that powerful arm, the lithe and supple frame, and dark,
sure eye. It is needless to say that Franz accompanied the per-
formance with some music ; and the landlord, who had come with
the beer, hung about and stared at the musician, as the latter " made
the zither speak."
We lingered some little while in this beautiful valley, making
such sketches and studies as were thought desirable. Then on
again, with Franz singing his doggerel verse —
"Ich bin (ler Graf von Freischiitz,
Der so gein hinter 'm Ofen sitzt,
Der Tag und Naclit marschirt,
Hunger leidet und halb veifriert."
We left the course of the young Danube and drew southward
towards the infancy of the mightier Rhine, entering upon that
wide plain which, between Engen and Singen, is studded with
huge volcanic peaks, rising abruptly from the level soil. How
did the old nobles build their spacious strongholds on the sum-
mit of these perpendicular peaks — the splendid Hohenhowen,
Hohentwiel, Hohenstaffeln, Hohenkrahen ? Did the peasantry
fly away from the neighborhood in which such a whim had over-
taken their lord, or did they meekly submit to it, and spend their
toilsome days in dragging huge blocks of masonry up the sharp
and rugged cones ? At all events, the ruins of the castles still
stand there, miracles of human labor and perseverance, far sur-
passing those on the Rhine. And all the country about seemed
still and quiet around these memorials of ancient power. The
fields that stretched for miles around the foot of the isolated peaks
were as silent as the great Raubvogel that spread its wings and
238 KILMENY.
hung motionless in the air, spying for some fluttering bird or
creeping thing in the valley beneath. But here, also, there was
peace and comfort ; and we had a good laugh over the sorrows of
the only man we found in the district who seemed to complain.
This was a stone-breaker — an old man, with bleared, wistful
eyes, that had a strange, innocent look of surprise in them. I can-
not express in words the feeling which this old man's look gave
one ; but it seemed somehow the half-frightened, half-pitiful
glance of a boy that was busy with some appointed task, and
raised his head apprehensi\ely as his master approached. There
was something \ery touching in this queer look, which appeared
to say that the man had been doing his best all his life, and
hoped he was doing right.
Of course, Franz began to talk to him; and we, who could only
gather odd words and sentences, understood enough to see that
the man's whole life and interest were confined to his occupation.
He spoke of the different kinds of stones as if they were sly fel-
lows who had to be cunningly treated ; and, as he spoke about a
very good kind of stone, there was a half-comical grin on his face,
as if he had said —
" We can get on very well with that merry little devil of a
stone. He is easy to break ; he lies well on the roads. Ah ! he
is a good helper to us, that funny little stone."
Then his face fell again, and he turned to his work, and said,
with a sigh —
" D' Welt word alle Tag schleachter — s' ist en bose Zit fur us
arme Liit, dia so alt sind."
And then he murmured something about liis poor pay and his
struggle with the world, lint it turned out that he made a florin
a day ; and Franz was immensely tickled by the affected sorrows
of a stone-breaker who could make only IOa-. a week ; some of my
readers may fancy tliat a poor wage for a working-man ; but con-
sider that, whereas in England the working-man's beer costs him
fivepence a quart, in Germany it costs a penny ; that a penny in
Germany will get a pound of bread, for which in England he
pays twopence ; and that most articles required by the working-
man are to be got in the latter proportion. Why, the people wlio
(;hop wood in the by-streets of Munich can make a florin and a
half per day, or \5s. a week.
It was towards <lnsk mi a htvclv cvciiin"' that we drew near to
DAS WANDERLEBEN. 239
Constance, and the long lake shone a light crimson under the
sunset. Far down in the southeast a cold, blue mist had gathered
along its shores and under the great, purple masses of the Tyrol-
ese Alps, that seemed to encircle the horizon ; but here at hand,
under the white town, the still, clear waters lay with scarcely a
ripple on their surface to break the splendid glow of color. Over-
head the last flush of the sunset struck along the golden bars of
cloud and then died out in the pale green of the east ; while the
distant mountains had a touch of red along their peaks, where
the great shoulders rose out of the pale mist. So still was the
lake ! And as the evening deepened, the keen colors faded out,
and the white mist came up and lay all over the breadth of the
water ; while the orange lights of Constance began to twinkle in
the dusk, and a small steamer in the harbor ran up its colored
lamps.
We had letters awaiting us. A long epistle from Heatherleigh
I shall give presently ; but I may insert here the brief note which
Lena Kunzen sent her lover. Franz was deeply disgusted by it,
as he had been expecting a tender and affectionate letter. He
showed it to me, with a rueful countenance. It ran in this
fashion :
"MiJNCHEN, Tuesday.
" Fraulein Annele von Tharau presents her compliments to
Herr Franz, and hopes he is a good boy. She is quite well, and
in good spirits ; was out for a walk in the Englischer Garten this
morning, and accidentally ran against a little Scotchman, who was
dressed in the peculiar costume of his country. The little Scotch-
man tumbled and cried. The Frau Mlitterlein was for cuffing
Annele ; but she was saved from that indignity. Hopes the Herr
Papa is well. Will be glad to hear from the honorable company
of travellers, and thinks that a hat such as is worn by the young
ladies of Innsbruck might become Fraulein Lena well, and be a
pretty present, if Herr Franz is also of that opinion. Fraulein
Annele commends herself."
*' She is a little devil of a girl," said Franz, disconsolately.
240 KILMENY.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FATHER AND SON.
" My dear Ted, it is to you alone that I can write fully of all
tliat has befallen me during the past few days. If we could only
go out now, in the dusk of the evening, and have one of our old
saunters around the Serpentine, with the yellow lamps burning in
the gray, and courting couples regarding warily our approach !
But then it rains at present, and you — you lucky dog — are down
m the clear South, where night is like day, and the stars, I dare
be sworn, are shining over the Bodensee. Hang you !
" A week ago I got a letter from home. It was tlie first time
that I had seen my father's handwriting or the familiar crest for
many years.
" ' Come,' said I to myself, ' are we all about to become sensi-
ble, and is the world getting to an end ?'
" You remember that I told you how I parted from my familv
when I was young. The cause of that parting I cannot help feel-
ing as bitterly now as then ; and yet, wliat is the use of it? What
is the use of keeping up old grudges? But there are some things
a man cannot forget.
" Pride helped to widen the breacli. It is a fault that runs in
our family, and a good deal of it has run my way. There is only
one person I know who, in tliat direction, is a bigger fool tlian
myself ; and that's you. However, to cut the matter short, my
father told me that he was coming up to town in a day or two,
and would call upon me. I was surprised, but contented.
"Jlc came up one forenoon, looking just as he used to look,
but a tritie grayer. He was stitf and cold in his manner, as though
he would have it known that lie had not come as a suppliant. He
hooked with some contempt around my studio, and then fixed his
eyes on the table, where some beer and tobacco stood.
" ' Will you put that pipe and the ashes away ? The smell is
abominable.'
" I carried them into >iiy bedroom, and put them on the man-
FATHER AND SON. i541
tel-piece. Then I returned. It was an affecting meeting between
a father and son who had not seen each other for something Uke
nine years, was it not? And yet, I declare to you, Ted, there
seemed to hover between me and him an almost invisible shape,
tender and delicate and beautiful ; and I felt all the bitterness of
the old irreparable wrong rising within me. Call me what you
like — unnatural, insensate : there the feeling was, and how could
I make believe to be friendly ? At the very moment, too, I knew
that my darling in heaven, if she could have interposed between
us, would have besought our reconciliation. I felt that also.
But when a man's wife has been insulted, does the husband care
for the pleading of the frightened face that would fain come
between ?
" ' I am sorry to see you in such a place,' he said, looking
around.
" ' I am very comfortable,' said I.
" He sat down.
" ' This unhappy estrangement has lasted long enough between
us.'
" ' I think it has, sir.'
" ' I am glad you think so. You have doubtless seen more of
the world since you took that step which — which — "
" ' Which I don't regret having taken,' said I.
" ' Let us talk sensibly. Let us understand each other,' he con-
tinued. ' There is no use in recalling what is over and gone.
There were — hem ! — faults on both sides, I dare say. You must
see now that it would have been most imprudent of you to have
married — '
" ' I thought we were to forget those things, for form's sake,'
I said, feeling my cheek flush. ' But since you have recalled
them, let me tell you that I shall never forget them — that the
more I see of the world, the more despicable and cowardly seems
the conduct of you and yours to that poor girl. Do you fancy I
did not marry her because of the underhand ways you took to
prevent the marriage ? God knows it was for a far different rea-
son ; but not the less do I remember what you tried to do at that
time, and the memory of it has gone on bearing heavy interest
ever since.'
** I am soiTy I said this, Ted. For what was the use of saying
it ? I should have let the thing go ; and then my father might
L
242 KILMENY.
have had the satisfaction of thinking that he and I were Ukely to
get back to our old terms. But you who know me, know that
that is impossible in this world. I hope I do not bear my father
any ill-will. I should like to do anything in my power to please
him. But there is no man living whom I am so anxious to
avoid.
" ' Confound it,' he said, ' let all that alone. Let us talk sensi-
bly, like two men of the world. You are no longer a boy. You
know the advantages of a good name, of a position, money, and
its comforts. I am willing to make a bargain with you — to let
by-gones be by-gones, and that you should come back home again,
and take up your proper place in the house.'
" For a moment I thought with an involuntary shudder of hav-
ing to meet this man's face every day — recalling another face!
Then I reflected that, after all, I was his son, and owed him a cer-
tain duty.
'"Very well, sir,' I said; 'I have no objection to go and live
in your house. Of course, I have my profession, which I should
like to follow — '
" ' As an amusement,' he interposed, hastily.
" ' Very well,' said I ; ' I am not artist-mad, as I used to be.'
"Even as I gave in this half-adhesion to his proposal, a start-
ling thought suggested itself — What if 1 should only go home to
be again placed in an attitude of antagonism to all my relatives ?
Did my father think of this at the same moment?
" 'There is another subject I want to drop you a hint about,
that may make your return to us more attractive. Of course you
must marry some day or other. Now it has occurred to us that
there is a certain young lady, a neighbor of ours, who would
prove a suitable wife — that is, of course, of course, if you were
to become fond of each other. God forbid there should be any
money-marriage between you, without affection. I am prt)ud to
say that our family does not need that method of increasing its
fortune ; it can stand by itself. But at the same time, the young
lady is y<ning, not bad-looking, and they say she has never even
thought of anybody, while the junction of the Whitby lands with
ours — '
"♦Oh, you mean Miss Whitby?'
" * Exactly. I hope you have nothing to say against the girl V
" ' Nothing. On the contrary, she was a charming creature, in
FATHER AND SON. 243
pinafores, when I last had the pleasure of her acquaintance. And
so you make my marrying Miss Whitby the condition of my
returning home V
" ' How can you dream of such a thing ?" he said, earnestly
enough. ' You do not know that the match would be agreeable
to the young lady. No. I merely suggested it as a very desir-
able thing; and I don't see what is to interfere with such an
arrangement. The girl is a most amiable girl, according to all
accounts ; and the marriage would be a most sensible one. My
dear boy, you are now well up in years — '
" ' Yes, sir ; and I have acquired very fixed notions as to what
it is worth one's while to live for. Oddly enough, these notions,
that have been growing upon me, are rather romantic. I was
much more prosaic at twenty. Then I had a profound admiration
for great wealth, and had a curious sort of belief that if I could
get vast sums of money, I should be able to drink proportionately
large quantities of champagne, and so forth, and so forth. I have
no longer any ambition that way, I should like to have a lot of
money, on account of the security it gives one in accepting cer-
tain responsibilities ; but I have grown sceptical about its supreme
power. The older I get, the more x'omantic I get, and the more
absurd become my notions of what it is that is alone of value in
life. Now, if you were to oflEer me the marquisate of Westmin-
ster on condition of my marrying Miss Whitby, I should iind no
difficulty in saying No.'
" ' What do you mean ? Have you anything to say against the
girl?'
" ' Nothing. But I shall prevent your wasting more time by
telling you how the case stands. A good many years ago you
practically turned me out of your house because I wanted to mar-
ry a girl who was poor. If I went back with you now, I might
very soon find myself in the same position again — '
" ' Be reasonable !' cried my father. ' Or are you saying that
out of revenge ?'
" ' Certainly not,' I answered. ' During these few years I have
grown so accustomed to my independent ways and narrow means
that I had forgotten any wish to find myself in another condition.
I was — I am — quite content, and quite ready to abide as I am.
It may be those books you used to dislike, or it may be my own
stupidity ; but I am quite content. I have also thought of mar-
244 KlLMENY.
rying ; and, if I marry, I shall marry a girl who is even poorei
than myself.'
" ' Good God ! are you mad V exclaimed my father.
" ' I hope not. I have not asked her to marry me — she may
want to marry somebody else, for aught I know. She is an hon-
est woman ; she has a bright, affectionate, amiable nature — just
the sort of nature to sweeten a poor man's life and make it pleasant
to him ; and she is a good deal prettier than Miss Whitby, I dare
say, though that is not of so much consequence to a middle-aged
man. If she will marry me, I shall look forward with confidence
to having a pleasant and intelligent companion — one who has
known poverty, and can brave it — one who is not afraid of the
chances of life — in short, a good, pure, honest, affectionate girl,
with not a taint of fashionable ways or self-regarding notions
about her,'
" ' But who is slie ? — what is she ?'
" ' Well, sir, she is at present a model.'
" I confess to you, Ted, that 1 had been looking forward to the
surprise of this declaration as a good joke (are you surprised, too,
old man ?), and was inclined to be highly anmsed by my father's
consternation. But it suddenly occurred to me that in his resent-
ment he might say something about her that I should have to re-
member forever ; and so I liastily added —
" ' Don't be alarmed, sir. Nothing may come of it. In the
first place, I shall not marry until I have enough money to make
a small provision for my wife. I have already saved up £800 —
I heard that you sunk more than that on the north farm last year
— and I am working hard to increase the amount. It is only, as
yet, a dream of mine — a fancy that I like to speculate upon ; and
it has at least added a good deal of interest to my ivork.'
" ' And so,' continued my father, slowly, ' you actually con-
template marrying a model — a woman — '
" ' Pardon me, sir,' I broke in, ' but if you will reflect that you
are talking about Iht who mai/ be my wife, you will see that it
iiiiglit be as well to say nothing hastily. Like most outsiders,
you may have mistaken notions about models — I don't know ;
but, at all events, it is premature to trouble yourself about the
matter. I supj)ose, too, there won't be much use, in the face of
such a possibility, in our talking further about that arrangement
you proposed?'
FATHER AND SON. 245
" With that he broke forth suddenly —
" ' What ? Do you think, sir, I shall let you bring a shameless
woman into my house — a woman who allows herself to — '
" ' Stop !' I said. ' We are no longer father and son, but two
men. You turned me out of your house : shall I turn you out of
mine ? By heavens ! if you utter another word against that girl,
you shall have to choose between the stair and the window !'
" The old story, Ted — the old story — hasl^y words and angry
passions, to be remembered and regretted for many a day. But
who should appear in the room at this moment but Polly herself.
She did not come in. She stood at the open door, her hand on
the handle, her face white as death. We had been speaking suf-
ficiently loud ; she had heard everything as she came up the
stairs. What her most unexpected errand had been, I cannot tell ;
but the coincidence was terrible.
" Look back over the minute account I have written. You will
see that her name was never mentioned. But in the sharp crisis
neither she nor I remembered that : we both took everything for
granted. I went forward to her, and said, firmly —
" ' Come in, Polly. It is better you should hear this out.'
" There was that wild, pitiful, scared look on her face that she
wore the evening she heard her drunken mother's ravings. I was
overwhelmed with pity for her, and also with that ghastly con-
sciousness of powerlessness to retrieve what is past redemption
that crushes a man sometimes.
" ' I have heard quite enough,' she said, with a strange calm-
ness ; ' and I came in to let you know that I heard it.'
" ' It is the second time you have been insulted in this room,' I
said, ' and, please Heaven, it shall be the last. The first time it
was your mother ; now it is my father. We have got rid of the
one; now let us settle with the other, and put the matter beyond
interference. It is rather odd that people should have to talk
so of their parents, isn't it? But it happens sometimes. And
so—'
" * And so,' said my father, * this is the young lady you mean
to marry. I am sorry, miss, that you heard what was said ; but
—but—'
'"But it was better I should,' said Polly, quite calmly; 'be-
cause, you see, I can remove this misunderstanding between you.
1 do not know what you want your son to do ; but I beg you to
246 KILMENY.
believe that I shall be no hindrance to it, for I will never be his
wife.'
" Then she went to the door, pale and self-possessed. I thought
of stopping her; but what would have been the good? My father
and I were left alone.
" ' Well, sir, are you satisfied V he asked, coldly.
" ' I shall be when you leave the house,' I answered.
" ' Then you still persist in your determination to marry a girl
whose profession must at least put her under the ban of sus-
picion ?'
" But the thought of the poor girl going out, with that burn-
ing sense of shame around her, into the lonely streets, recalled me
to my senses. I snatched a cap, left my father standing there,
and hurried after her.
" The arrangement you made when you left has proved a com-
fortable one ; she has been living ever since with your mother ;
and the two seemed very fond of each other. Of course, I could
not go up there so often as I did when you were at home ; but I
visited the small household occasionally, and each time had an-
other opportunity of noticing Polly's obedient and daughter-like
ways, and your mother's affection for her. I guessed that she
would go straight there on leaving Grajiby Street ; and I hasten-
ed around to your house by the route I fancied she would take.
I saw nothing of her on the way. When I got to the house T
asked for your mother ; and I was shown up to the parlor, which
was empty. In a little while your mother came into the room,
and I could see by the expression of her face that she knew every-
thing, and that she was much vexed and disturbed.
" ' Polly has told you,' I said.
" * Yes,' she answered ; ' you cannot fancy how bitterly your
father's words have wounded her. You know how she has been
schooling herself — learning things — and taking every opportunity
of self-improvement. Whether she had any purpose in all this is
more than I can say ; but now she is cast down utterly, and wound-
ed far more deeply than you can imagine. I have appealed to her
self-respect ; but she has been sd deeply Ininiiliated that she is
quite prostrated. There is another thing, also. She blames her-
self for having opened the door, and she is covere<l with shainc;
to think that she should have taken it for granted that you and
your father were speaking of her.'
FATHER AND SON. 247
" ' But we were speaking of her : and s\ie must have known it.
What is to be done to relieve the poor girl's sufferings ? I know
how sensitive she is ; and how she must feel all this vexing non-
sense. Tell her I wish to see her, only for a minute.'
" * If you were to see her now, in her present mood, you would
make the thing irrevocable,' said your mother. ' It may be so as
it is.'
" * What do you mean V
" ' I know Polly very well — better than you do. Under hef
happy and good-natured ways there lies a firm will ; and if she
were to resolve at this moment that she will never see you again,
she would keep her word. Be advised : leave her to herself. I
will do what I can to help you — that is, if you think you will be
happier in marrying her than in becoming a rich man.'
" Your mother said this with a peculiar smile, Ted, that made
her face look lovely, and yet a trifle sad. Does she know that
you told me her story ?
" ' If you marry her,' she added, gravely and kindly, ' you will
get a true wife, tender-hearted and honest, whom you will be al-
ways able to trust, who will be the same to you in good or in bad
circumstances. And you will get a wife who will look up to you,
and give you her love as the only thing she can offer you. I must
not advise you to do it, Mr. Heatherleigh. There may be great
inducements on the other side ; and there are people who, in your
position, would be ruined by such a marriage. But you are no
longer a very young man. You know what you have to expect
in life. You must make your choice.'
" ' My choice is made — was made long ago ; and I shall rely
upon your aid,' I said, very gratefully.
" When I got out into the open air, Ted, it seemed to have
been all a mistake or a dream. I asked myself if it was possible
that people should permit themselves to be so deeply vexed —
should, perhaps, alter all their plans in life — in consequence of
half-a-dozen words. Why, all the circumstances of the world
were just as they were an hour before. London had got a little
nearer its dinner-time, that was all. Yet these half-dozen impal-
pable words had knocked our lives completely off their ordinary
axes ; and were likely to interfere with the future in a very re-
markable fashion. I fancied if I could have got hold of Polly,
and shown her the absurdity of vexing herself about two or three
248 KILMENY.
insisfnificant worrls, resolvable into their oriirinal letters, she would
have been willing to send them into this alphabetic chaos, and pay
them no further attention. These words had altered neither her
nor me, nor anything: why heed them? They had not even al-
tered to the extent of an apple the stall of that old woman at the
corner to whom you gave the live shillings when you sold your
picture. Yet with women words are powerful.
•' Nor have I been able to see her since. She was to have given
me some sittings for a picture I have just begun, yet she has never
made her appearance. So far as 1 can learn she has sat to nobody
since that unlucky forenoon. I can't get a glimpse of her. 1
have called twice to see your mother ; and, on both occasions,
PoUy, who was in the house, declined coming down,
" You will say this is very absurd, and so it is. But I am get-
ting to be somewhat uneasy, especially as your mother looks
rather grave over the matter. She says Polly's deep hurt is far
from being healed, and that the girl says, quite calmly and fixed-
ly, that, whatever my resolutions may be as regards my father
and myself, nothing will interfere with her determination. Your
mother, 1 suppose, has been pleading my cause, and Tolly only
replies —
" ' I have still some self-respect left. It is not necessary that
I should marry anybody, least of all into a family where I should
be despised.'
" If she would only let me see her for a few minutes, I think I
could reason her out of this deplorable resolution. Where is my
family, I should like to know ? In the mean while the perplexity
of the position harasses me. I cannot work, and I cannot remain
idle ; I cannot even read. I have tried to cut my anxiety to j)ieces
by analysis, but I have no sooner got to the end of some chapter
on the influence of the mental emotions on the vital functions,
than I fling the confounded book aside, and wonder whether 1
sliall ever get to see Polly. Even Marcus Aurelins, whom I used
to look uj)on as a charm against all the evils of life, goads me into
fury. Many a time have 1 lookeil from that calm and lofty ))in-
nacle of pliilosophy, whence all liuiuaii ills become beautiful ob-
jects of contemplation, but then tlicy were the ills of other iieoi)le
that I was cf)nteiii|ilating. 'All that is from the gods is full of
]>rovid<!ncc,' says the emperor, l>iil it may also be full of pain
"One thing 1 have resolvcil npun. if ever 1 get the ehaiiee-, I
FATHER AND SON. 249
shall marry Polly out of hand, ami thereafter there will be no
question of divided interests. Let me know what you think of
the whole matter.
" I have selfishly reserved this long letter for my own affairs,
and I can only add a line to say with what anxiety your friends
here look forward to your next work. Tell we how your studies,
so far, have moulded your intentions. Your sympathies are wholly
Northern, I think ; — I shall never forget your scornful and unfair
contrast between the Nibelungenlied and the writings of poor
Chateaubriand. You are always unjust to France and the French,
while your strong natural bent for Northern simplicity, natural-
ness, and rough, untrained emotions leads you to overrate what is
crude in art. Munich, however, is a city of eclecticism, and you
will probably have your sympathies widened. When you get
back to Munich, I wish you would send me a minute description
of whatever of Wohlgeinuth's work you can find. I am curious,
and a little sceptical, about Diirer's obligations to him.
" Farewell ! I will address a brief note to you at Innsbruck."
So here was the story out at last. I was not much surprised
by Heatherleigh's announcement. It was easy to guess that some-
thing very important must have occurred to effect such a com-
plete change in his notions and habits as he had recently exhib-
ited. The Heatherleigh of this later period was very unlike, in
many things, the easy-going, indolent Heatherleigh of other years,
who used to lounge about in his roughly epicurean fashion ; at
times sharply interrupting his Bohemian life by fits of splendor
and extravagance. It was easy to guess that Heatherleigh meant
to do something with the money which he was now so industrious-
ly hoarding ; for the notion of Heatherleigh hoarding money for
his own use or satisfaction was too preposterous to be entertained
for a moment.
Nor could there be much doubt about the way in which Polly
would otherwise have regarded his proposal. I fancied she had
read his secret, and was as busily, though with far greater shyness
and closeness, preparing for the marriage, as he himself. I saw
in these various efforts at self-improvement she was so laboriously
making, so many honest and praiseworthy efforts to make herself
more worthy of the man whom she loved. My mother took care
never to hint anything of the kind. She praised Polly's industry,
L2
250 KILMENV.
and to us, when Polly was absent, she was never tired of eulogiz-
ing the girl's sweetness of temper, and general brightness and
cleverness.
" She is one in a thousand," she used to say. " Who could
have expected to find a girl brought up all her life in London so
winning in her fearless, simple ways? She has the cleverness of
the town, and the natural frankness and good-nature of the coun-
try, and whoever marries her will marry a good, honest woman."
It did seem hard that these two, so cunningly pro{)aring for a
long, life partnership — laying in stores, as it were, wherewith to
furnish their nest when the happy spring-time came — should thus
be separated. But I knew Polly's extreme sensitiveness, and her
indomitable firmness, and I was a good deal less surprised than
apprehensive in reading Heatherleigh's story of what had hap-
pened.
Her position was by far the more painful of the two. I could
imagine the poor girl brooding over the cruel wound that had
been dealt to her self-respect, and resolving that there was but
one way in which she could clear herself in her own eyes. It
was a cruel method of repelling an unjust accusation, whichever
way she resolved. I knew that she must be suffering with all the
keenness of pain that accompanies a deeply sensitive nature ; and
when I went up-stairs to bed that night, and looked out and saw,
above the misty waters of the Constance lake, the far constella-
tions of the northern heavens, I fancied those cold stars were shin-
ing down upon the huddled darkness of London, and I knew that
they saw few more unhappy faces there than the pleasant one that
Heatherleigh loved.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SONG OF WOLUNDUR.
*' You sec," remarked the Professor, " it is our only German
lake ; and therefore we are very proud of it. And is it not a
noble lake ?"
He might well say so. Wc were standing on a little height
outside th(! town — tin; liudilled white houses, spires, and boats of
THE SONG OF WOLUNDUR. 251
Constance on our right — and there before us lay the long lake, an
intense pale blue, so clear and still that the square-sailed little
boats, which caught the sunlight on their yellow canvas, seemed
to hang in mid-air. Out into this blue ran wooded promontories;
the green bays between, with their occasional villa, being faintly
mirrored in the smooth water. And then, far beyond the jutting
points of Romanshorn and Friedrichshafen, overlooking the lake,
and yet appearing strangely distant in the white haze of the morn-
ing sunlight, the grand range of the Vorarlberg mountains, with
the jagged Kurfirsten and the snow-flecked Sentis down in the
south.
We remained in the neighborhood of Constance for three days,
filling our portfolios with sketches. Certainly there was no lack
of material ; for the autumn was now wearing on, and the mists
that hung about the lake and the mountains in the morning, or
gathered over in the evening, produced a constant series of new
effects. Vogl was a lover of mist. He used to describe the
strange wliit<^ clouds that sometimes hang over the dark firs of
the Black Forest, even when the morning sunlight is lying yellow
on the valleys, and falling here and there into the wet woods. lie
used to describe the wonderful stillness of the forest under this
white canopy, that just touches the tops of the dark trees, leaving
a sort of twilight underneath, where the air is moist and laden
with resinous odors ; how you go in among the moss and brack-
ens that are heavy with dew, expecting at every footfall to startle
a wild-eyed roe; and how the clouds slowly gather themselves
together and draw upwards to the hill -tops, as if they were
covering the stealthy flight of Diana, when she has left Endym-
ion, " pale with her last kiss," to waken in the cold morning
freshness.
" I paid Lena out for her impudence," said Vogl to me pri-
vately, as we sailed down the lake to Bregenz.
" How ?"
" I wrote her a short note in the broadest Black Forest dialect,
and she will puzzle over it for days. It is even worse when writ-
ten than when spoken. What would you make of this, for exr
ample ?"
He put a bit of paper on his zither-case, resting it on the pad-
dle-box, and wrote — " Ech woas es nit, wenn i ka Zagarta kuma,
darno will der's saga, wegem Schoppa biatza, i kinnt ietzt cho
252 KILMENY.
kuma, abcr i ba nit der \yicl, du haschnior au scho en manga
G'falle than."*
" It is a very good conundnini," I said, " but I give it up.
And I don't envy you when you come to read the answer that
Lena will send you."
" Nothing keeps Lena a quiet and good little girl like the zith-
er. So soon as she gets away from the charm of it, she is wild,
impudent, untractable. But she will make a good little wife, will
Lenole, when we grow old enough to marry."
" What does the Herr Professor say about it ?"
" He does not care. I suppose he does not know that we arc
sweethearts. Yet he knows that she writes to me, and I to her ;
and that we go out together always."
"And the Frau Mamma?"
" Oh, she is a good, homely woman. She has friends in Walds-
hut, and they know that my father is pretty well off. The Miit-
terlein will make no objection."
" And the Fraulcin Caroline herself ?"
" I am puzzled," said Franz, with a comic look of bewilder-
ment. "Lena is a Will-o'-the-wisp. I can't catch her. She won't
talk seriously. But being sweethearts with her is very pleasant,
and if she won't marry mc, I can't help it. If she marries any-
body else, I must take to singing all the heart-broken songs; but
I slia'n't break my own heart for all that. I was not made for
it, liebcr Frcund,'''' he added, gayly ; " love affairs will never in-
terfere with my liking for ' Falscher Vogel,' stewed apples, and
red wine."
" Yet you could support the character of the heart-broken lover
so well — you could fly away from the sound of the mill-whcd
and become a minstrel, and wander up and down the world, sing
ing from house to house."
" Ah," said he, " when I hear the song of the broken ring, 1
begin to fancy there is some truth in all that business of love and
despair."
I looked at the zither-case; I knew he could not help turning
his hand to it. Only speak of songs, and Franz mechanically be-
* Whicli, in ordinary German, wcmld ho snnielliiiifj; like tliis : " Ich weiss
es iiiclit, weiiii icli aiif Besnch koinnicn kiinii ; (iaiiii will icli dir's sagcn,
wegcii ilcin Kittcl llicken. Ich konnlc jetxt sclion koinmeii, aher ich haho
koine Zeil ; <hi Inisi mir auch schon niMiichcn (ieCallcii netlian."
THE SONG OF WOLUNDUR. 253
gan to undo the leather strap, and pull out the zither, and touch
the strings. This time he played the pretty Tyrolese waltz that
Donizetti has introduced into " La Figlia del Reggimento," and
then the music somehow led him into the old Tyrolese song that
I have already mentioned —
" Herzig's Schatzerl, lass dich herzen,
Ich vergeh' vor Liebesschmerzen,
Und du weisst es ja zii wohl
Dass ich dich ewig lieben soil!"
He sang it almost to himself; and the simple pathetic melody
was mingled with the sound of the paddle-wheels, as we churned
our way through the blue waters down to Bregenz.
All during this beautiful time I was haunted in a way that is
scarcely expressible in words by the imagined presence of Hester
Burnham. Quite in spite of myself, I kept continually picturing
her as she would appear if some miracle were to bring her into
the same boat or the same hotel. Then would follow lonof imas;-
inary talks with her ; and visions of the wonder of her eyes and
the delight of her face as something especially beautiful came in
our way. I got to look at everything just as if she were by my
side ; and I judged of it as she would be likely to judge of it.
Now, when I look back upon this journey, it seems as if the whole
of it were imbued with her presence. I cannot think of that
steamboat on the lake without seeming to see there a small fig-
ure, dressed in black, with a certain graceful and queenly carriage
about it, with a strange honesty and tenderness in the eyes, and a
calm, wistful beauty in the dark clear face. Indeed, so deep-root-
ed had this habit become, that I should not have been in the least
surprised had I in reality encountered her. So far as the influ-
ence of her presence was concerned, she was actually there, with
me, wherever I went. I began to forget that it could only be by
a sort of miracle that we should meet. I came down-stairs in the
morning, half expecting to liear her voice at the breakfast-table ;
and then I used to feel a kind of accepted disappointment in see-
ing that the room was empty. When I saw at any distance a
girlish figure dressed something like an English lady, it was with
a secret hope that I drew nearer. Why was it so impossible we
should meet ? Why should she not come this way for her autumn
tour ; and then, some morning, as I go down and into the large
bare apartment, with its long table and rows of cups and napkins,
254 KILMENY.
lo ! standing at the window, with her face half-hidden in the light,
the hidy of many dreams ?
AVhat shall I do ? Why, yon know, we are in Germany now !
England and its coldness, its harsh ways and cruel thoughts, are
gone from us. This is the home of the old romances ; and the
breath of this land tells you even now that a woman's love is
something better than money, and better worth striving for. I go
forward to her. I say, " Hester, I dared not tell you in England
that I loved you : here, in Germany, I must tell you. Will you
give me your love in return for mine ? Will you be my wife, and
let us go away together, our backs upon England, into the green
valleys of the Tyrol? W^e are free here; and I think we love
each other very dearly." I can see a look of hea\ en in her eyes.
She puts her hand upon mine, light as the touch of a rose-leaf,
and says, with that strange smile of hers, "We do love each oth-
er: why should we not always be together?"
Ach, Gott ! These were the pictures that hovered before my
eyes during all this journey. Strange, too, that in these day-
dreams she always appeared alone. 1 never granted for a mo-
ment the presence of any one else. And doubtless the small
girlish figure seemed rather st)litary at this time — the only mis-
tress of the great house at I>urnhain, with no lu'iir rt'lations, with
few companions, and leading all by herself a i^|uict country life,
attending to her duties, with apparently no wish to alter the cur-
rent of her existence. That small lady was a striking figure to
me; and the great woods of liurnham, and the loneliness of the
liurnham valley, made her individuality, her solitariness, all the
more vivid and distinct.
My constant thought was, if I could only meet her here, apart
from all the old associations that separated us in England, 1 would
venture everything upon one elfort to win lier. DilTeiences of
social position may be something in the west of London ; but they
are nothing in front of the lonely mountains of the Vorarlberg,
or even at the common breakfast-table of a remote Tyrolese inn.
Nor wiis there any bittcrnt'ss in tli<' thought that these dreams
were delusions. In England they would have been very bitter —
the aspirations after a happiness too cliarly impossible. But here
in Germany 1 had grown bold. It was no longer impossible —
this beautiful, though distant dream, that ringed the vague future
with a band of burnished gold. I )ehisive, d(iul)tl('ss, in the mean
THE SONG OF WOLUNDUR. 255
time ; but who could tell what the coming years might bring
forth ? And as I looked forward to them in this spirit — a spirit
that had grown strong and hopeful with much joyous living — I
was not curious to ask which of the pale years should be singled
out from its fellows to be smitten with the radiance of the dawn.
It would come in good time ; and it always lay ahead.
That evening I heard, but indirectly, from England, the Pro-
fessor having had some letters forwarded from Munich, among
them one from Mr. Webb. We were now in the brisk little town
of Bregenz, which lies at the southern end of the lake, under the
shadow of the rocky and wooded hills above ; and we had caught
our first glimpse of the picturesque costume of the Tyrol. As
we walked along to the inn, we overtook a smart, dark-faced little
woman, who was slowly driving home her cows — those beautiful
little animals, with large mild eyes, and pretty dun-gray hides,
which one meets everywhere among tlie Tyrolese valleys.
" What sort of skin is that hat made of ?" I asked, looking at
a large beehive-looking thing she wore, which had a shining,
deep-brown color, like the skin of a bear.
" Shall I ask her ?" said Franz, gayly.
" Yes."
" Fraulein," he said, going up to her and gallantly taking off
his hat, " a Mr. Englishman wants to know what sort of skin your
pretty hat is made of."
The little woman turned upon him, sharp as a needle.
"Not of an ass's skin, so you've no concern with it," she said,
with a look of courageous anger.
Silber burst into a loud guffaw ; but Franz was not much taken
aback.
" It was a compliment, Fraulein, to your fine wool ; and you
shouldn't be so snappish with strangers."
" You shouldn't be so ready with your jokes, Mr. English-
man."
"Lieber Himmel ! she takes me for an Englishman!" said
Franz. "Why? I haven't offered her money for a cup of wa-
ter ; nor has she seen me laughing at the costume of a priest or
a nun."
But the small Tyrolese woman went away in high dudgeon;
and doubtless treasures a grudge against the English nation until
this day.
256 KILMENY.
In tlie eveninn-, afttT dinner, wlien we liad gathered around the
fire, the Pro'"ess<>r pulled Mr. Webb's letter out of his poeket, and
said slyly —
"Gentlemen, it is always good, when one of our small company
earns praises, that the rest should know it. I propose to translate
into German for you a letter I have received from an English gen-
tleman respecting a picture that has been done by one of us, and
that has made a stir even in so unimpressionable a country as
England."
The letter was about " Kilmeny," and need not be further
noticed here. Neither the Professor nor my fellow-students had
heard of this picture ; and I had to answer many questions about
it. Franz was too curious about the lady of whom Mr. Webb inci-
dentally spoke, as having suggested the face ; and there was noth-
ing for it but to tell Franz to be less curious. So he only nmr-
mured under his breath —
"Die Dame, die icli liebe, iienn' ich nicht,"
and made a wry face at Silber, who was puffing his large student's
pipe, and thoughtfully {)assing his fingers through liis long yellow
hair.
" My friend in England," continued the Professor, " sends you
very good wishes, and hopes you will let him know what you
mean to paint next, when our present trip is over. Have you
thought of a subject?"
" Yes."
" Then tell us about it."
" With [)leasure, if it is of the least interest to you. It is mere-
ly the story of Wolundur — the VblaiidurkriJha.''''
" My remembrance of those old sagas is very faint iu)w," .said
the Professor. " Pray tell us the story."
"Yes," said Silber, "tell us the story ahogether, for I don't
know one of them."
"Very well," said 1 ; " but I cannot vouch for the accuracy of
my memory."
So I told them the story in this wise :
" There were three brothers, sons of the King of Finland, named
Slagfidr, Egil, and Wolundur. They went away over the ice, on
a Iniiiling expedition, and they came to Wolfsthal, and there they
built houses. Near to -Wolfsthal is the Wolfssee, and early one
THE SONG OF WOLUNDUR. 25l
morning they found near the borders of the lake three maidens,
who were spinning flax. Two were the daughters of King Lod-
wer; but the third, who was called Alhwit (All-white), was the
daughter of Kiar von Walland. The three brothers took the
three maidens home with them ; Slagfidr and Egil marrying the
king's daughters, while the maiden Alhwit became the wife of
Wolundur.
" Now Wolundur had more knowledge of all the arts than any
other man ; and he made many beautiful gold bracelets, and hung
them up in his house. But after they had spent seven winters
together, the three sisters fled away ' in search of their fate ;' and,
while Slagfidr and Egil went to seek their wives, Wolundur re-
mained at home, fashioning his cunning bracelets and rings, and
waiting for his young wife to come back to him.
" All this became known to Nidudr, the King of Sweden ; and
when he heard that Wolundur lived alone in the Wolfsthal, he
took some men with him and went there by night, and bound
Wolundur while he was asleep, and stole his sword and a beauti-
ful gold ring. When Wolundur missed the ring, he thought that
Alhwit had taken it with her. The sword King Nidudr kept to
himself, and the ring he gave to his brown-lovely (braunschone)
daughter Bodwild.
" But the queen said, ' When he sees the sword and the ring,
Wolundur's mouth will water, and his eyes will burn.'
" ' Wild gliih'n die Angen
Dem gleissenden Wurm.'
*' And she bade her husband go and cut the sinews of the hero's
knees, and place him in an island, so that he might not wreak
vengeance upon them. And this was done ; and the king put
him into a smithy, where he was kept making jewels and treas-
ures for the royal household. Then Wolundur saw that the king
wore the sword that had belonged to him, and he saw that Bod-
wild wore the red gold ring of his beloved Alhwit ; and he swore
to be revenged, for he fancied they had murdered his young
wife.
" The king's sons, two boys, came playing near the smithy, and
Wolundur seized upon them, and hewed their heads off. Then
the maiden Bodwild came, and she brought the red ring of Wo-
lundur's beloved that he mitrht mend it. Then he said he would
258 KILMENY.
mend it, and the king's daughter sat down in a chair, and he
cunningly gave her mead to drink, so that she slept.
" ' Wolil mir,' spiacli Wulundur,
' War' ich auf den Selmen,
Die mir Nidudurs
Manner nahmen.'
" Bodwild went home, weeping bitterly over the fierce wrong that
had been done to her; but Wolundur went into the open air and
laughed aloud. And the king came to him, and asked where were
his two boys. 'Swear to me first,' says Wolundur, 'that you have
not killed my bride.' Wolundur tells the king that he lias cut
his sons' heads off; that he has rimmed the skulls with silver for
a present to the king ; that he has changed the eyes into jewels
for the false wife of the king; that he has made of the teeth
breast-jewels for the king's daughter. But the heaviest blow of
his vengeance is to come; for the king bids them bring his
brown-lovely, ring-incrusted daughter, and demands of her if she
sat an hour with Wolundur in the island. And Bodwild answers
very sorrowfully —
" ' Wahr ist das, Nidiidur,
Was man dir sa<>;te :
Ich sass mit Wolundur
Zusammen im Holm
Hiitte nie sein sollen!'"
" I remember the story," said the Professor. " It is a terrible
one. And what scene do you propose to take?"
"That of the island smithy, with the maimed hero, dark and
revengeful, looking at his wife's ring, which the king's daughter
brings to him."
" It is a grand position," said Franz ; " and 1 would have the
king's daughter looking young and beautiful, and innocent i)f the
crime."
"Then people will ask why she should suffer for the wickedness
of her father and mother," said Sillier.
" Let them ask !" said Franz. " We don't say who is right
and who is wrong. We tell the story of old and hard times, in
which a man's family was a part of his wealth, ami you robbed
him that way as soon as any other, if you wanted to be re-
venged."
THE SONG OF WOLUNDUR. 259
" That is very well said — very good," remarked the Professor.
" You tell the story, and let the audience sympathize with whom
it pleases. The most prominent figure of a picture or a drama is
not necessarily the hero. I think the subject is a good one, if
treated carefully. But it must be neither sentimental nor melo-
dramatic. What do you say, Franz — shall we make the subject
a class-subject, and give Herr Edward the benefit of all our sug-
gestions ?"
" Capital !" said Franz. *' And then, after we have done what
we can for him in the way of helping the composition, we must
get the proper models for him, 1 have them in my eye just
now."
" Who are they ?"
" Why, our good friend Silber will stand for Wolundur, and
one might hope to gain the kind assistance of Fraulein Rie-
del— "
" I beg ycu will not mention Fraulein Riedel's name," said Sil-
ber, with a sudden and angry flush.
" No offence," said Franz, with a provoking calmness ; " I was
not aware you were so much interested in the lady."
" I am not interested."
" Who is the Fraulein Riedel ?" asked the Professor, apparently
to smooth the matter down.
" Herr Professor," observed Franz, " the Fraulein Riedel is — a
lady. I hope one may be pcnnitted to say so, even in the pres-
ence of my good friend Silber."
The Professor laughed heartily, and the matter dropped. This
fraulein Riedel was a young lady who played and sang in the
burlesques and operettas of the Volkstheater in Munich — a thea-
tre which the Professor was not likely to visit. Silber maintained
hotly that many a worse singer and actress appeared as prima
donna in the Hoftheater ; and that some day the Fraulein would
sing there too.
" She knows the whole of the part of Rezia in ' Oberon,' " he
used to say proudly ; " for I have been permitted to hear her
sing it ; and I doubt not she is equally familiar with the rest of
your grand operas. But I believe you only afifect to despise
Offenbach, because he is new, and French."
There was really some romance in connection witli this affair.
Silber had fallen desperately in love with the Fraulein when he
260 KILMENY.
first saw lior, in some small town near the Rhine, play the heroine
of our English farce " The Rough Diamond," which Alexander
Bergen has translated. " Ein ungeschliffener Diamant " was too
much for the young student, who never forgot " Margaretha von
Immergrun's" black eyes and hair. Three years passed, and he
had almost forgotten Fraulein Riedel, when whom should he see
walking along the Karlsplatz, in Munich, but the same girl who
had struck his fancy as the young Baroness von Immergriin. He
followed her — all the way to the Volkstheater. where he saw her
enter. He looked at the bill — Fraulein Riedel was announced to
appear in an operetta that evening. Silber went, and renewed
his thrall. By and by he managed to get acquainted with her;
and he was beside himself with joy when she allowed him to
present lier with a bracelet. One day he ventured to propose a
walk, and she kindly consented. They crossed the Maximilian
Bridge and passed along the leafy avenues of the " new pleasure
grounds " on the banks of the Isar ; then they went down by
Brunnthal, and again crossed the river by the wooden bridge
which abuts on tlie Tivoli gardens. Now, as it happened, Franz
and I, who had been dragged by Silber many times to the theatre
to look at Fraulein Riedel, happened to be sitting under the Tivoli
trees, with some beer on the small table before us.
" Du Himmel !" exclaimed Franz, " there is Silber, with his
Schiitzchen of the Volkstheater!"
And so it was. Silber saw us, gave us a grave bow, and passed
sedately on. How proud he looked ! It was from this time that
lie cultivated more and more the student appearance — wearing
his fair hair long and smooth, sporting blue caps with prodigious
gold tassels, smoking preposterous pipes, talking metaphysics, of
which he did not even know the terminology, and drinking beer
in (juantities that disagreed with him.
" Silber is a vast and uncommon humbug," Franz used to say ;
" but that little girl with the black eyes believes in him."
I think slie was (piite a r«'spectabK' little woman, and did her
best to keep him from drinking useless (juantities of beer — a feat
he never sought to perform, except that lie might boast of it to
her. She was evidently impressed by his assuming the character
of the careless, happy, brave, and withal lovable student who
figures on the stage. Why could she, familiar with acting,, not
see that this stupendous ass was only acting? 'I'liat was always
THE SONG OF WOLUNDUR. 26]
a mystery to Franz and me ; for we did not believe that the Frau-
lein was actiially in love with him.
" How many glasses of beer have you drunk, Silber ?" Franz
used to ask.
" Five."
- "Is that all?"
" Yes."
" Fraulein Riedel will despise you."
" Himmel sapperment !" Silber would growl ; as much as to
say, "Another word and I challenge you, ohne Miitzen, ohne Se-
cundanteny
" I will make you a proposal."
" Well r
" Pay for three more glasses of beer. I drink them. Then you
go to Fraulein Riedel, and say, ' Admire me : I have drunk eight
glasses of beer !' "
With which Silber used to become furious, and declare that if
we were in Heidelberg Franz would not be so bold.
I could forgive Silber everything except his singing. Of course,
he fancied that he ought to sing the " Burschenlieder," to support
the character; and he used to sing the jovial and jolly student-
songs with an affected swagger which was at once ludicrous and
irritating. One could not help being amused by Silber's peculiar
method of leering at the humorous passages, nor vexed to hear
the fine and manly songs burlesqued by this poor, conceited wind-
bag. Kotzebue's " Bundeslied " was one of his favorites, as was
also the universal " Gaudeamus igitur," which Franz used to alter
in this way —
" Gaudeamus igitur,
Juvenes dum sumus,
Post jncundam juventutem,
Per molestam senectutem,
Nos habebit conjux. "
A sorer trial, however, was Silber at love-songs ; for his voice
had an odd habit of contradicting the theatrical expression of
rapture he endeavored to throw into his face. W^ith great good
humor, Franz used to play accompaniments whenever Silber would
sing ; and it was certainly a queer conjunction to hear the sensi-
tive, thrilling, beautiful music of the zither hovering around and
about poor Silber's quavering voice. Silber had a notion of
262 KILMENY.
learning to play the zither himself ; but seemed not to be quite
sure whether it would betit the character he ordinarily assumed.
Yet, with all his weaknesses and affectations, the lad had some
good points about him, or how could that black-cycd little actress
have smiled upon his uncouthncss ?
CHAPTER XXX.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND.
Was it love, or was it the keen air of the Tyrol, that awoke
all those wild enthusiasms which now, as I look back, I can
see clustering around our happy journey through the mountain
land ?
" Why," I said to myself, " should I return to those old dead
times for a story ? Why not take our modern life, which is as
full of love and tragic misery as any time before it, and seize the
hearts of men with some noble tale of suffering or courage or
heroism? And what is the message which I should take home
to my countrymen from this rarer atmosphere, in which the finer
aspirations of human nature flourish — what but that love is better
than wealth, and that a true heart is of more value than big es-
tates?"
The message was not nearly so stai'tling as I fancied. Many a
man has preached it without being much attended to ; many a
man has found out its truth when, after spending a lifetime in
growing rich, he looks back, and sees in the past a young face full
of love and the pain of |)artitig, and wonders whether less money
and more of the love that he threw away might not have made
his life happier.
"Why are you always so silent in the morning?" asked Franz,
as we left Jiregenz. " You are visited by grand flashes of silence,
in which you seem to sink into your breeches-pockets. You arc
practically dead. You see nothing and hear nothing, unless you
are listening inside your brain to some music that a girl sang to
you in I'^iiglaiid. Is that true?"
"Yes; I can hear her singing sometimes," 1 said.
We had turned our back on the lake, that was half hidden un-
NEWS FROM ENGLAND. 263
der the thick white mist, and were now skirting the base of the
rocky and wooded mountains that encircle the Tyrol, preparatory
to our crossing the giant chain of the Arlberg. The busy Tyrol-
ese were already abroad in their fields and meadows, where the
small, meek, large-eyed cattle browsed. As we ascended, the air
became rarer, the sun broke through the mist, and lit up for us
the immense range of the Appenzeller Alps, that were here and
there dusted with snow.
"What is the color of her eyes?" said Franz, insidiously.
" They are like the sea," I said — " of all colors, in different
moods. But they are generally dark and clear and calm."
Franz unsuccessfully endeavored to push his inquiries further.
"Tell me," he said, " what she is like altogether, and I will write
a song about her in Tyrolese."
" A song has been written about her already."
" By whom ?"
" Schiller. She is the beautiful and wonderful maiden who
came down into the valley, no one knew whence."
" You are, then, in love with a phantom ?"
"Yes, Franz; I am indeed in love with a phantom."
I could almost have believed then that Hester Burnham had
come down the valley before us, even as Schiller's maiden did ;
for by reason of constantly looking at things, and fancying what
she would think of them, I came to regard them as having already
acquired from her some touch of fascination. Would it ever hap-
pen that I should bring her this very route ? Should we hire a
carriage at Bregenz, drive out from the brisk little town, along
the level road through Dornbirn, with its quaint houses, and Ho-
henembs with its Jewish-featured people — on to Feldkirch and
the lovely valley of the 111 — past Bludenz, with the mountains
getting higher, and the valley more rugged — then down the Klos-
terthal, to rest in the evening in the old inn at Dalaas, with a
warm and well-lit room, and casements opening to show us the
moonlight shimmering along the pale white glaciers of the moun-
tains under which the little village lies? Would it ever be my
great joy to wrap up the little figure cosily in her carriage, and
see that she was snug and warm as we drove through the cold
mountain air? Should I be able to look in her eyes as I drew
the shawl tighter under the small chin, to keep the white little
neck comfortable and close and safe ? Fancy going through this
264 KILMENY.
V)eaiitiful country — away from towns and stranp;ers, and the
formal obligations of society ; her only duty being to look
and charm the very air around her, mine but to wait upon my
dainty little queen, and beg the mountain-wind to be gentle with
her hair. Of these sweet dreams the deadliest poison of misery
is made.
The Tyrol was for me henceforth and forever saturated with
memories and thoughts and suggestions of Hester Burnham. Tho
reader, who may have gone through this charming country, and
enjoyed its simple ways, its homely meals, its clear air, and its
splendid lines of snow-hills, will perhaps scarcely understand how
a small lady, secreted among the leaves of Biickingliainshirc,
could have changed the character of a whole country, and per-
meated its gigantic mountains, its green fields, its gray, rushing
rivers, its very sunshine, with the subtle influence of her presence.
Tho sunsiiinc was different there. A month later, dwelling among
the dull white houses of Munich, I used to wondiT if there were
any sunshine like the sunshine of the Tyrol, and whether she and
I might ever see It together.
As ill-luck would have it, there was no sunshine for the Pro-
fessor's party in crossing the Arlberg. On the contrary, we found
our way to the summit of the mountain in dense clouds of mist
and rain, that concealed from us the precipices under our feet,
and prevented our looking either to the riglit hand or to the left.
It had been raining all night, too; and the mountain torrents,
swollen and muddy, dashed down the channels they had cleared
for themselves with a noise that was all the more impressive that
we could only now and again catch glimpses of the masses of
foaming, tumbling gray water. Sometimes the mist became so
thick that we could just see the posts stuck along the edge of the
road, to prevent carriages from going over; while, on the other
hand, there was a faint green hue appearing through the vapor,
which we took to be the wet side of the hill glimmering behind
the fog.
There was only one water-pioof coat among us, and that wc
voted over to the I'rofessor. So we walked on.
" I take it," observed the I'rofessor, drawing up his spare figure,
seemingly in defiance of the rain that dashed about his face and
trickled down his nose — " I tak(> it that all imaginative art has
sprung from the mountain districts of the world — that the human
NEWS FROM ENGLAND. 265
mind has been awakened to the conception of music, poetry, and
painting by the solitude of mountains. Yet you will find that
the men who have caught the imaginative width and power of the
hills into their nature have gone down into the plains — into the
towns and cities, perhaps — to seek the calm of artistic expression.
All the great artists of Italy have been born beneath the spell of
the Apennines ; and then they have gone into Florence, or Rome,
or Milan, as the case may be, and they have put the free inspira-
tion of the hills into their work — "
" But, Ilerr Professor, Michael Angclo was not born among
the mountains, and he had the most powerful imagination of them
all," objected Franz, who was at this moment a wretched spec-
tacle.
" Learn, sir," said the Professor, " never to destroy a theory
with a fact. Yet, tell me, where was Michael Angelo born?"
" At Arezzo," replied Silber, like a good boy.
"And Arezzo," continued the Professor, " if not among the hills,
is only a few miles oflE. It is no farther from the great backbone
of the Apennines than is Urbino, on the other side, where Raphael
grew up under their shadow. Why, you ought to be able to tell,
without knowing where he was born, that Michael Angelo was no
dweller in the plains. Look at his ' Moses' — there is the majesty
of a great mountain in that figure — that is the only thing by
which you can characterize the force and the grandeur of it."
" I know," said Franz, ruefully, as he shook his dripping
sleeves, " that there isn't much in a day like this to stir one's im-
agination — unless it is the prospect of a fire and some cognac at
the end of the journey."
" It is the wild contrast of atmospheric conditions," continued
the Professor, " that impresses one who is brought up among the
hills with the strong life and intensity of nature. There is no
mild sameness always around him. There are great forces at
work, a constant motion, and the vivid, startling presentation of
change. Look around you just now. It is a world of eddying
mist and fog, with pitiless rain, and the sound of hurrying waters
sweeping down below us, unseen. But suppose a great wind
were to arise right ahead, and come blowing along the mountain-
tops, and clear away the fog and the rain — suppose, wher^ we
were in dejection and despair, this great wind were to come, and
all at once we saw before us the valley glittering with rain-drops
M
266 KILMENY.
in the snn, the warm, gleaminti; light all around us, and the won-
derful, intense blue overhead, should we not have the power and
the beauty of the sunlight impressed upon us as it never was be-
fore? Then the simple peasant, reaching up his hands to the
warmth and the sun, and thinking tliat heaven has suddenly come
near, must needs sing aloud, as if he were a bird, to the blue sky ;
and the man who has the heart of a painter in him is amazed by
the intensity of the colors of the world around him, and forgets
the vision never ! He will not try to reproduce this wonder of
light — he may despair of his colors; but all these intense, vivid
impressions of change and majesty and calm and beauty that he
receives among the hills remain a power within him ; and when,
in his studio, down in some great town, he tries to picture to
himself the grandeur of an heroic figure or the purity and sweet-
ness of a woman's face, his memory of the wonders of the moun-
tains will lend him his ideal. Did you ever, any of you, see Por-
denone's ' Santa Giustina,' which is in the Belvedere at Vienna ?
I tell you that to look once at that woman's face — to get a glimpse
of its surpassing and gracious sweetness, its perfect serenity and
repose — it were worth while to walk from here to the Kaiserstadt
with bare feet!"
The I'rofessor was very gruff and silent for some time there-
after. He had been surprised into an enthusiasm, and there was
nothing he more disliked. His singular bashfulness invariably
produced a strong reaction ; and when once he had recovered pos-
session of himself, 1 fancy he used to brood over what he had
been saying, and look upon himself as having played the fool.
He used to blush like a girl, too, after these outbursts; but on
this occjision he was safe from scrutiny by reason of the tall col-
lar of the water-proof coat.
" I know," said Franz, " that all our fine old melodies have
come to us from the hills — from the Tyrol, from the Tliiiringcr
Wald, from the Riesengebirge, and the Saxon Highlands."
"You ought to sing one now, or we shall all be getting down-
hearted," said Siihcr. " We don't know how many miles it is yet
to Landeck, and tlic rain will not cease to-day."
"But it will cea.sc to-morrow, or .some otlier morrow," .said
Franz, gayly. "You ought to look forward to the snug inn at
Landeck — tin" warm stoves, a schnitzel, wine, a pipe, and sleep —
all (tf which luxuries lie. ahead. 1 have the picture before me.
NEWS FROM ENGLAND.
267
A large room, long tables, one of them covered with a white
cloth ; a green stove, very warm, two candles, some matches — "
" A zither," I added,
" And a picture of the patron saint of brewers, the king Gam-
brinus — a jolly person in blue and red robes, holding a foaming jug
of beer in his hand, and honored by these highly ingenious lines—
" ' Gambrinus, in Flandeni imd Brabant,
Ein Konig iiber Lent' iiiid Land,
Aus Malz und Ho])fen hat gelehrt
Zu brauen Bier gar lobenswerth,
Drum ist er in der Brauer Orden
Ihr oberster Patron geworden ;
Wo gibt's ein ander Handwerk mehr.
Das sich kann riihmen solcher Ehr?'"
" It is not in the Tyrol, Mr. Franz," said the Professor, " that
you should be surprised to find a man at once brewer and king.
Remember Andreas Hofer."
Which, of course, set Franz into singing " Zu Mantua in Ban-
den," with its touching words and rather commonplace music.
At Landeck there was more awaiting us than food and warmth,
desirable and welcome as these were. The Professor had had an-
other packet of letters forwarded ; and among them was one for
me. By the handwriting on the envelope, I saw it was from
Bonnie Lesley.
" Will she tell me anything about Hester Burnham ?" I thought.
" Will she at least write the name, that I may carry it about with
me ?"
The first words in the letter (and it was curious to read her
successive statements without seeing her pretty looks of wonder
accompanying them) were these — " Hester was with me the whole
day yesterday ; she is living with some friends at Notting Hill.
I hope I am betraying no confidence in telling you something
about her. I will tell you ; and you shall send me in your next
letter a promise of secrecy. Briefly, then, Hester is a little fool,
and is about to make herself wretched for life. Of course, you
know why. Alfred Burnham, I must tell you, in the first place,
has come to awful grief ; and, as far as I can understand these
matters, has taken advantage of poor Hester's kindliness — weak-
ness, I call it — and has landed her in extreme difficulties. I should
not be surprised if she had to sell Burnham."
268 KILMENY.
To sell Bnrnham ! Was it, then, reserved for this qniet little
girl, so prudent and considerate in all her ways, to let the old
house go away from the family that had owned it for many cen-
turies ? What had she done that the pain and the shame of this
sacrifice should fall upon her? It is recorded in history that one
of the Burnhams was shorn of three parts of the then extensive
family estates (the alternative being that he should lose his right
hand) for striking the Black Prince a blow on the face. That
was the first step to narrow the means of the Burnhams ; and now
the last of the family, a girl, was to give up the final relic of their
ancient power.
" Alfred Burnham," continued the letter, " has become pen-
itent, and vows that the only thing to save him from ruin is for
Hester to marry him. Perhaps he speaks the truth, and hopes
to recover himself by the proceeds of the sale of Burnham ; but
he has persuaded Hester that it is his moral reformation she is
bound to accomplish. Now you know what an unselfish little
puss she is, although you can't see that as we women see it. She
is so far removed from the ordinary jealousies of the drawing-
room, for example, that she will insist on other people singing
her best songs ; and she will go about in her mouse-like way,
making everybody display their best points while keeping herself
in the background. Do you think she could turn a cat out of a
chair she wanted to sit in ? Well, you know, all this is very pret-
ty, and it makes one fond of the sly little woman, but there is a
limit to it. And she has taken it into her small head that it is
her duty to reform her cousin hi/ marrying him! Did you ever
hear of such a thing ?"
Yes, I had heard of it often. And I had seen cases in which
pure and good women allowed themselves to suifer, through some
such theory of duty and self-renunciation, the most cruel and
revolting usage at the hands of men who only grew the more
debased by being accustomed to presume on their great unselfish-
ness.
" I acknowledge," continued my correspondent, " that Hester
has some spirit, and has a quiet, determined, managing way with
hfr that many j)cople don't perceive, although they obey it. But
wliat rfft^ct woul<l that have on a man like Alfred Uiirnliain, who
would, I am sure, leave Burnham and its present mistress to thcm-
Bclvcs (that is, if tlie former should not be sold), and be off to en-
NEWS FROM ENGLAND. 269
joy tlie pecuniary results of the marriage in freedom. Meanwhile,
poor Hester is in a pitiable state of apprehension and indecision.
She fancies she sliould marry him ; and yet she shrinks from it.
You know, she is not given to much crying or hysterical non-
sense ; but yesterday, when she sat in this room, and spoke to me
in her low, frank voice about these things, I saw tears slowly fill
her eyes and stealthily trickle down her cheek. I put my arms
around her neck and hid her face, and let her cry to her heart's
content, and then I gave her a hearty scolding. She was very
much shocked by the way in which I spoke of her precious cous-
in ; but I had the satisfaction of seeing that it had at least awoke
her alarm. She went away without having said anything in par-
ticular. I am to see her in a day or two.
" Tell me what you think of the complication. Is it likely
that Alfred Burnham would be anxious to marry Hester at once,
if it is true that these monetary affairs will necessitate the sale of
Burnham ? Of course the place would fetch a large sum, and
there might be a- handsome balance left, worthy of that gentle-
man's consideration ; but somehow, from what Hester said, I have
a suspicion that this terrible collapse on the pai't of Alfred may
be only a ruse. In any case, he holds her securities for a consid-
erable amount ; for she told me of the altercation she had had
with her trustees, lawyers, and what not, about the matter.
" ' Besides,' said I to Hester, ' suppose you were capable of re-
forming your cousin, don't you reflect that, in sacrificing yourself
(as you assuredly would), you are also sacrificing some other man
whom you might have made happy ?'
" ' I have never given any man the right to think of me in that
way,' she said, a little proudly.
" ' My dear,' said I, with the calmness of superior wisdom, ' that
is a right which men assume without its being given them. Now,
on your honor, is there no man whom you suspect of loving
you?'
" ' The question is too absurd,' she said, hastily, and turned
away under some pretence or other.
" But for the first time I saw in her eyes, that are generally so
honest and clear that they look through you, a sort of troubled
concealment. Can you read me my riddle, Mr. Foreigner, and tell
me who is going to carry off the lady of Burnham ? You see I
have not given in yet to Hester's folly, but I shall have a hard
270 KILMENV.
fight with her, I am afraid, before I can make her change her
mind.'*
There was nothing else of any importance in the letter, except
that, curiously enough, the envelope contained a slip of paper with
a few words, and a " gVuckliche Reise /" from Mr. Morell. How
came this enclosure there ?
CHAPTER XXXI.
BONNIE Lesley's metaphor.
The long journey through cold and rain, and the late dinner
that followed, made our party rather sleepy that evening. The
Professor subsided into a soft slumber, which Franz would not
break by taking out his zither. Indeed the whole of us were in
a comatose state, and had just sufficient energy lo keep our cigars
from going out, so that I had plenty of time to think over the
contents of Bonnie Lesley's long letter. The friendly confidence
therein displayed, and the concluding hint it contained, were chief-
ly, I fancy, the result of an excursion which she and I had made
to Richmond, and which put our relations on a much more inti-
mate footing than they had ever hitherto been. The history of
that excursion was a curious one. When 1 went up to London
after recovering from the accident down in Buckinghamshire, I
expected that Bonnie Lesley would be much embarrassed when
we met. The reader may remember the peculiar confession which
the beautiful penitent inade. For a woman to tell you that she
has been trying to make you fall in love with her, in order to re-
venge herself on somebody else, and in order to prove to this
third person that she was worth falling in love with, is rather a
startling revelation. Under ordinary circumstances, you could
not help despising the woman who could act in this fashion, how-
ever ashamed of herself she professed to l)e. At least, you would
expect that this sense of shame would hang about her for some
little time, and put some constraint on her inaiiiK r.
With Bonnie Lesley nothing of the kind haj)pene(|. When I
met her in London, she comported herself as if nothing had oc-
curred.
BONNIE Lesley's metaphor. 271
" Is it true," I asked myself, thoroughly amazed, " what Heath*
erleigh says — that she has no soul ? Is she incapable of feeling
shame, or any other emotion whatever ?"
I looked back over our long friendship ; and she seemed to
have been always the same. I began to see, however, in many of
her words and actions which I could remember, a sort of self-con-
scious effort to reach sensitiveness, as if she thought it her duty
to be emotionally struck by such and such a picture, or view, or
person. She wanted to be what she could not be. She saw this
emotional faculty in other women, and strove to attain it without
success. Yet she counterfeited it sometimes with an earnest hy-
pocrisy which was less of a vice than a virtue. The only time I
ever saw her genuinely moved was when she made my sick-room
down in Bucks her confessional ; yet now, a month or two after-
wards, she met me as if she had never been there.
I was rejoiced to find her so little embarrassed. It was better
to sink that old time, with its foolish notions. So I, too, met
Bonnie Lesley as if nothing had occurred, and we succeeded so
well in dropping into the ordinary relations of friends that she
confided to me a great secret, and asked my co-operation.
" The day after to-morrow," she said, " I am going down to see
Mr. Lewison's three little nieces — great friends of mine — who are
at school in Richmond. I often go down to see them ; and they
are good enough to call me Auntie Canary, because, I suppose, I
have yellow hair. I don't know any other reason. Well, it is no
great fun for the poor little things to be asked to a formal lunch-
eon with the schoolmistress and me ; and I have determined this
time to go down early, get them a holiday, and take them to dine
at the Star and Garter. Fancy their delight. But nobody here
must know anything about it, until they find it out afterwards;
and so I am going to ask you to write and make the proper ar-
rangements for us at the hotel — do you see ?"
" Yes," said I. " But a far simpler way would be to let me go
with you."
" I am going alone," she said, doubtfully, but with a puzzled
laugh in her eyes.
" I shall go alone, too ; and meet you there."
Even now she looked surprised and pleased, although I know
she had anticipated the offer.
" There is no reason why you shouldn't come up to Mr. Lewi-
2*72 KILMENY.
son's, and drive down with nie in the brougham," she said ; " but
it would add a little mystery and romance, wouldn't it, if you did
meet us down there?"
" Then that is settled," said I. " You go down and get your
nieces out. I accidentally meet you at the gate of Richmond
Park, above the hotel, at one o'clock. I am delighted to see
you—"
" Well, I hope so," she said.
" — And your young charges also. I accompany you on your
walk, and instruct them in the differences between the roe, fallow,
and red deer. Perhaps we have time to walk down by Ham
House and the river. Tlien the sight of Richmond Hill recalls
to me that the children must be getting hungry ; and I invite
you all to dine with me at the hotel, which we can see in the dis-
tance."
" But, at present, it looks as if I were inviting you to dine with
me," she said, with a touch of fun in her eyes.
" No," I said, " that is not proper. Shall it be one o'clock ?"
" Yes, one," she said.
It was in the middle of summer, but a light wind, blowing over
the wooded country through which the Thames slowly winds,
cooled the sun's heat, and sent flakes of white cloud gently across
the intense blue overhead. There was a mid-day haze clinging
about the horizon ; and even here, among the rugged oaks and
undulating slopes of Richmond Park, there was a sleepiness and
silence that seemed to weigh on the large, mild eyes of the deer.
Warm and still, too, lay the woods along the river, showing every
shade of green, until in the remote west they turned into a faint
l)urj)lish-gray. The haze hid Windsor; and so the beautiful
wooded valley seemed to lose itself in the white of the horizon.
Bonnie Lesley was punctual. Shortly before one o'clock I
caught a glimpse of a figure, far down the road, that actually
shone in the sunlight. Even at that distance I could sec that slic
wore her favorite color — a pale blue silk dress, with a white shawl
over it so thin that the blue shone through, and a remarkably
small and glossy white liat, with a pert blue feather in it. I sup-
posed that she had, as usual, either a bunch of IjIuc forget-me-nots
or a white rose in her yellow hair, and that she wore some strings
of large wliite beads arouii<i her neck. She had a white parasol,
also, with a gleam of blue aroimd the edge.
BONNIE Lesley's metaphor. 273
There were three children around her, clearly all talking to her
at once, and coming along in that half-skipping, half-jumping
fashion indicative of juvenile excitement. I could hear their
voices a long way off.
I was very much surprised and delighted to see her, of course ;
and was formally introduced to her young friends. Two of them
were fair and ordinary-looking young misses, but the third one
was a little Brownie, with large, mischievous brown eyes, and soft
brown hair. Anything to approach the impudence, the cleverness,
and the winning, fascinating ways of this little miss I have never
seen. Although the youngest, she was the spokeswoman for her
sisters, and did not a little to shock them by the audacity of her
fun. During the whole day, it was " Oh, Ethel ! how can you ?"
or, " Oh, Ethel, I do wonder what has come over you !" Ethel re-
marked that she preferred the company of gentlemen to that of
ladies ; so she took my arm, and we walked on in advance of the
others.
She began to tell me of her schoolmates, and their friends, and
her friends. She mimicked this one's pompous manner, and that
one's gruff voice, and then gave an admirable imitation of her
music-mistress.
" She never does rap our knuckles, you know, with a pencil,
when we make a mistake ; but she pretends to do it, and then
laughs — so — and thinks it is funny. She always sings, too, when
she counts; and, oh dear! she can't sing a bit, and it is so dread-
ful ! She tries to follow the music with her ' one, two, three, four ;
one, two, three, four ;' and she does it out of time and leads you
wrong. Now how could you help yourself if you had a music-
mistress like that ?"
" I should ask her not to sing."
Ethel burst out laughing.
" That is all you know about school ! My stars ! she would
box your ears, and then send you home. There's the French mis-
tress, too — she's another caution — I beg your pardon — I must say
'fright.' Lottie White's brother — oh, such a wicked boy he is!
— told Lottie to ask Madame if she would translate the name of
a play, ' Love's Last Shift,' into ' La derniere chemise de I'amour ?'
and Madame's rage was awful. She is pale and dark, and has a
moustache, and I think she says very naughty things sometimes,
when she is angry, under her breath. You should hear her when
M 2
274 KILMENY.
she comes into the class-room at eleven. She says to us all,
' Good-morning, my dear children ' (she says it in French, but I
sha'n't let you hear my pronunciation) ; ' I hope you will be good
children to-day, and profit by your lessons.' Lottie White's
brother says that is her grace before meat."
" Do you like French, Ethel ?"
" No ; I am afraid it will broaden my nose if I go on with it.
And Lottie White's brother says the French are a weak sort of
people, for they can't say no without using two words."
" Lottie White's brother seems to say a good many things. Do
you see him often ?"
"That is a secret," said Ethel, with a comic shyness. "I am
not going to tell tales out of school."
" Will you come and dine with me at the hotel over there ?"
" Oh, with pleasure !" she said, with a mock courtesy.
" Do you think you could persuade your sisters and your aunt
to come also ?"
" That isn't material, is it ?" she said, looking up.
" But it would be so nmch better — so nmch jollier to have them
all with us."
" Then 1 will ask them."
She stopped and turned to the others.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, with admirable gravity, "we
invite you to dinner. You needn't change your dress ; there will
be no ceremony ; and no papas and mammas to interfere at dessert."
"You forget me, Ethel," said Bonnie Lesley.
"Oh, we can always coax Auntie Canary into good-humor by
saying she has pretty hair."
" Oh, Ethel !" said her elder sisters, in a breath.
So it was arranged that we should proceed at once to dmner.
There were but few people in the large dining-room; and wlien
the three small ladies and their aunt had left their hats and super-
fluous articles of attire up-stairs, we secured a table at the spacious
bay-window which looked out upon the garden and the far sunlit
landscape beyond.
"Oh, how very jolly !" cried Ethel, as she plumped herself down
in a big, soft chair. " I wish Auiitif (^anary was our iii.imma, and
would take us to live in hotels always. Wouldn't il Ik- jolly to
live always in hotels, and have everything you ask for, and no
schoolmistresses or lessons f
BONNIE Lesley's metaphor. 275
*' When you are grown-up, Ethel," said Bonnie Lesley, " you
will be able to live always in hotels if you please."
" But I mayn't like it then," said Ethel, with precocious philos-
ophy.
The majority of voices cai-ried the day in favor of sparkling
Carlowitz ; Ethel wisely observing, however, that she would rather
drink no wine at dinner, and have a glass of port at dessert.
" It is the proper time for wine, isn't it. Auntie ? And you
know I'm very, very fond of port wine ; it is because I was christ-
ened in it, and so I must always like it."
I was about to ask her the meaning of this remark, which I did
not understand, when a sharp rattle was heard on the window,
which made the children jump. I looked out and saw on the
window-sill a small blue tom-tit, that was bleeding at the bill and
lying quite motionless. We raised the window and brought the
unlucky little bird inside, but it was just dying. Ethel took it
before its heart ceased to beat, and while there was yet a dumb
frightened stare in its small bright eyes ; and she folded her hands
around it and kept it close into her bosom, to see if she could re-
vive it. I saw her big brown eyes fill with tears when it became
clear that the bird was dead ; and it was some little time before
the natural gayety of the children recovered from the shock.
" Birds don't go to heaven when they die," said Ethel, contem-
platively. " The best they can expect is to be stuffed and put in
a glass case."
"Don't you think, Ethel,"T asked, "that the tom-tit saw your
aunt from the outside, and killed itself on purpose that she might
wear it on her hat ?"
" It's Auntie Canary, not Auntie Tom-tit," said Ethel, rather
irrelevantly, but with the effect of making her sisters scream with
laughter.
The young ones were in no hurry with their dinner, and they
lingered quite as long over dessert. Ethel had now become quite
possessed with excitement, and was making small speeches, and
acting, and mimicking all manner of people, to the alarm of her
sisters.
" Oh, Ethel," they cried, " you must be mad."
" So you said when I called Mr. Templeton a parson. But he
is a parson, for a clergyman is a parson, isn't he, Mr. Ives ?"
" Yes ; I think so."
276 KILMENY.
" And he comes into a room like tliis — mincing and treading
on his toes, and he peers — so — through his blue spectacles, and he
bows — so — over the hand of the lady he goes up to ; and he always
holds his cup between his finger and thumb — so — and says, ' I am
so pleased to see yah this evening' — just as he drawls in the pul-
pit ' Ah Fathah which aht in heaven — ' "
" Ethel !" said Miss Lesley, sharply ; and Ethel's sisters looked
inexpressibly shocked.
For a moment or two Ethel's countenance fell ; but she was
presently in her old mood again, and gayly narrating how Lottie
White's brother had thrown some lucifer-matches on the stage
when he was admitted, along with the other relatives of the school-
girls, to see a French comedy performed by the young ladies.
" But do you know what Mrs. Graham is particularly angry
about just now. Auntie ?" she said.
" No," said Auntie, with wondering eyes.
"Well, you must know, ladies and gentlemen, that in the spring
we had a gardener. He was a very nice person, for he used last
autumn to smuggle us all kinds of fruit, and we paid him with
our pocket-money, when we had any. Well, Mrs. Graham told
him he must leave, and gave him a month's notice. So Mr. Gar-
dener dug, and dug, and dug ; and made squares and diamonds and
lozenges ; and filled them all with seed, and put bits of stick in,
with names written on them. Do you know how much money
Mrs. Graham gave him for seed for the kitchen and the flower
garden ?"
" No."
" Nearly £5. W' asn't it a lot ? WeW, after the gardener had
gone, we waited to see the flowers come up in the squares and
diamonds ; and we knew what to expect as the earliest, for he had
written all the names of the flowers on the sticks. But first one
thing didn't come up, and then another thing didn't come up,
until everybody knows now that he never sowed any seed at all.
Wasn't it a capital joke, Auntie ?"
*' It was no joke, Ethel : it was dishonesty," said Bonnie Lesley.
"But it may be a joke as well, mayn't it?"
Then, with the air of a young prim-ess, she asked one of the
waiters to tell her what o'clock it was.
" Five minutes to four, miss," he said.
*' Oh, fancy, fancy !" she cried, with a gesture of delight —
BONNIE Lesley's metaphor. 2*77
" fancy, ladies and gentlemen, our having been three hours at
dinner ! Did ever any one hear of the like ? And I have had —
oh, how many kinds of fruit and sweets !"
" A great deal too many, Ethel," said the elder of her sisters,
severely.
" Then I shall be ill to-morrow morning, I suppose. But you
know, Emmy, that that is all nonsense. We dovHt get ill after
eating heaps of jellies and sweets and fruit ; and it is only the old
people who say so to frighten us. I suppose they don't like them,
and they envy us our liking them."
" Ethel !" said Miss Lesley, reprovingly, "you're becoming rude :
don't you know I am your elder ?"
" Oh, Auntie Canary, you've hair like a fairy !" said Ethel, with
wicked merriment in her brown eyes, and with a burst of laugh-
ter which was sufficiently infectious.
I think they would readily have stayed there all the evening ; and
it was with some evident reluctance that Ethel accompanied her
sisters up-stairs to prepare for going back to school. When we
arrived there, we found Mr. Lewison's brougham already waiting;
and Bonnie Lesley only stayed a few minutes to say good-bye to
the schoolmistress.
Then she came out. As I handed her into the carriage, I said —
" Won't you offer to drive me up to town ?"
For a second there was a puzzled and surprised look in her
eyes ; then I saw an inadvertent glance towards the solemn per-
son, in a green coat, brass buttons, and black cockade, who stood
at the door; and then she said, suddenly —
" Yes, with pleasure. Do come. And you will go on and see
Mr. Lewison, won't you ?"
" That," said I, when the grave person had shut the door,
and received his instructions, " is a matter we can settle after-
wards."
It was a ladies' brougham. No one had ever smoked in it. On
the contrary, the dark -green lining and cushions were saturated
with various scents ; and in one of the leathern pouches there was
placed a flask purporting to have come from one of the fifty Fa-
rinas of Cologne. Now one of Bonnie Lesley's weaknesses was
a love of powerful perfumes ; and on this mild summer evening
she not only insisted on having both the windows up, but she took
down this bottle (how singular it is that all these Farinas write in
278 KILMENY.
the same fashion !) and splashed about the contents until the at-
mosphere "vvas suffocating.
"Do you wish us, then," I asked, "to die of the fumes of spir-
its of wine? Charcoal would be preferable."
" Do you think so ?" she asked, with a wondering little laugh.
" If it were possible to die of cau-de-cologne, I should choose that
death. You, being a man, would of course choose to be drowned
in a butt of claret."
This led us on to talk of a tragic circumstance that was inter-
esting newspaper-readers at the time. A young man, of good
family, happened to fall in love with a governess who lived in his
father's house, a pretty young girl who unfortunately was equally
in love with him. The young man insisted on marrying this girl ;
the father threatened him with the usual penalties if he did ; and
the governess was ordered to leave. On the day before she was
to go the father was sitting in the drawing-room, at the end of
which was a conservatory opening into the garden. His son and
the governess came into this conservatory, and sat down beside a
small table, on which some wine and glasses had been left. The
father, probably wanting to see how the two lovers would behave,
sat still and looked through the glass doons. Standing with his
back to him, the son apparently poured something into two glasses,
giving one of them to the girl. With surprise, he saw thera both
stand up, clasp each other's hand, and with the left hand raise the
glasses to their lips. " It is a lover's parting," he thought. The
next moment the girl sank into the chair behind her, and the
young man fell heavily back on the stone floor. The father
rushed to the conservatory, opened the doors, and was immedi-
ately struck by the powerful odor of almonds that was in the air.
lioth of the lovers were dead.
The circumstance naturally produced a profound sensation, and
most people, while deprecating in a conventional fashion the rash-
ness of the suicide, sympathized with the two unfortunates, and
were inclined to look upon the deed as rather heroic.
" I suppose you, too, think it was very heroic," I said to Bon-
nie Lesley, "this devoted love, and constancy, and resolution ?"
" Well," she said, " I think it is fine in these days to meet
some such story as this, to show you that love is still possible,
and that it is capable of triumphing over tlic worldly and selfish
notions that are common,"
BONNIE Lesley's metaphor. 2V9
" Do you know," I said, " that the story of Edward A and
that young girl produces quite the contrary impression upon me 1
I look upon it as the worst symptom I know of the degraded
sentiment of the present time. Why did he kill himself and her?
Not for the sake of their love, but on account of his father's threat.
His real theory was, ' I love this girl, and wish to marry her. But
if I do I must become poor, and give up society. So, rather than
lose the luxuries to which I have been accustomed, I will kill my-
self and the girl also.' Confess, now, that he was an abject sneak,
instead of a hero !"
" Well," she said, doubtingly, with a smile, " there is something
in what you say. But unless he had loved the girl very much — "
" I say he loved his social position more. Look at the circum-
stances. Here are two young people, with average health, who
have fallen in love. They have youth, hope, a good circulation,
and faith in each other. What more would they like? The
world is before them. People with far less stock-in-trade have
encountered the conditions of life, got to understand them, and
managed to live very comfortably. Poverty is as yet an un-
known experience for them : they have not that excuse for going
to extremes. But the man is so great a coward that he distrusts
his capacity to exist without his father's help. He fears to take
the chance of the future which hundreds of thousands of men and
women, far from heroic, annually take ; and so he says, ' Life
without my horses, cigars, and wine would be worse than death ;
and, therefore, Bessy dear, we must die.' Such is the product of
the sentiment of England in the nineteenth century !"
" You have converted me," she said. " I think he was a con-
temptible coward, and the only pity is that the girl was killed as
well."
" So, Mr. Edward," she continued presently, in a lighter tone,
" you have suddenly taken a strong opinion on the point that
differences of social station should not interfere with love-mar-
riages. Does your theory hold both ways — for instance, when the
woman is rich or well-born, and the man is poor ?"
" No, it does not."
" Oh, you think a woman who is rich should not marry a man
who is poor?"
" What is the use of laying down arbitrary laws, when every
case is dissimilar, when — "
280 KILMENY.
" Don't be angry. Let ns take one case. The lady is well-
born, tender-hearted, tolerably rich, and has a pretty considerable
pride in her ancestry. The lover has no family-tree, and little
money ; but he has all manner of manly and lovable qualities
that win the lady's liking and admiration. Now, ought they to
marry ?"
"Not in England; particularly if she has a lot of friends and
relatives."
" A decisive judgment," she said, smiling ; " still you leave me
a loop-hole of escape. They may marry out of England. Then
you don't see any real obstacle to their union, so far as they
themselves are concerned ?"
" How can there be ?"
" Forgive me for saying it, but you stare at such a notion as if
there were something ghastly in it. Yet it is natural that, wher-
ever she goes, the girl will retain much of the opinions she has
caught in our English atmosphere, and may even at times show
the awkwardness of over-striving to convince the man that he is
her equal."
" Then they ought not to marry, if such is her character. Tt
depends wholly on that. If she is honest and earnest in loving
the man, there will be no question of awkwardness, no embarrass-
ment between them ; and so far from striving to make him her
equal, she will look up to him as her natural superior."
" And do you really think," she asked, slowly, " that there is
one woman in England capable of all this ?"
" Plenty," I answered.
" Why," she said, with a look of pleased astonishment, " your
splendid belief in women is quite catching. Do you know that,
when I hear you talk so, I feel that I could go and be a heroine
such as you imagine ? I do, indeed ; but then I should probably
feel myself badly qualified for the part afterwards, and regret
that I had undertaken it. Still, I like to hear you talk so ; for
wc women cannot be so very bad if one or two men think of us
like that. I suppose," she added, turning her eyes upon me,
" that you don't know of any two people who could try such ai>
cxporiment as that wc described?"
"I? How should 1?"
" I do."
" Indeed."
BONNiK Lesley's metaphor. 281
"Yes; and, strangely enough, I am the friend of both of them.
Yet I don't think they will ever marry."
" Why ?"
" Because," she said, slowly, " the man is proud, and the woman
is sensitive and reserved. The one will not speak, and the other
cannot make advances ; and so they allow the chance to slip by,
and other circumstances will arise. The woman will be led into
marrying some one else ; and the man will break his heart slowly
in work that has lost interest for him."
" You don't give me any suggestion," she said, rather petulant-
ly, after a while. " What have you to say about these two ?"
" Oh, nothing. They are probably unfitted for each other, or
they would have come to an understanding long ago."
" Now that is just the point I meant to arrive at," she said.
" What is it that prevents their coming to an understanding ?
You've seen two drops of water on a table lie perfectly still and
quiet, although they are within an eighth of an inch of each other.
But if you put the least thing between them — if you draw one of
them a little way with the point of a needle, there is a splendid
rush, and you can't tell the one from the other. I am the mutual
friend of these two people — "
" And you would perform the office of the friendly needle ?"
" Precisely. I owe a debt of gratitude to the one, and a debt
of contrition to the other ; what if I paid both off by one grand
stroke of mediation ?"
" Taking it for granted that both of them would thank you —
that, in other words, both of them love each other. It is taking
too much for granted. Miss Lesley."
" But at least there could be no harm in my attempting it, and
seeing how far it would be acceptable to both."
"You mean," said I, calmly, "that you intend to pave the way
for a marriage between Miss Burnhara and myself."
She started visibly when I thus dragged her from the ambush
of metaphor.
" You frighten me," she said, " when you speak in that cold
and bitter way, as if you were suffering greatly, and still laughed
at your sufferings. What is it you see between you and her ?"
Yes, indeed : what was it that kept hovering between me and
Hester Burnham — blotting out the beautiful lines of her features
and the lustre of her eyes, so that I could see them no more —
282 KILMENY.
what but the face of Weavle and the memory of those earW
years ?
*******
The Professor awoke with a snore.
" I have slept," he said.
" We have all been asleep," said Franz, " except Mr. Edward,
who has been sitting and dreaming of England, with an open
letter in his hand. Were the dreams pleasant?"
" Yes," I said. " They were about Richmond, in England, and
a summer-day I spent there."
" Ah, I dined there once," said the Professor, " with several of
your great men. I was surprised to find that they ate much and
spoke little. But that was of no consequence to me, as I could
find nobody who could speak French with ease, and so I was
helpless."
Silber went to the window, and uttered a shout of joy.
" The rain is over ; the night is fine. Herr Professor, wc shall
have a beautiful day to-morrow."
So we departed to our several rooms. Mine was next to that
of Franz; and I could hear him singing of Schiller's wonderful
maiden who came down into the valley in the spring-time.
How did it fare, I thought, with that tender-hearted girl who was
then among the dark trees of Burnham ? At least, the same sky
was over our heads, and, though wc might never see each other
on the voyage, we were still travelling towards the same far
bourne.
CHAPTER XXXH.
INNSBRUCK.
SiLBBR was right in his conjecture. Never was there a lovelier
morning than that on which we started from Landcck to wander
down the picturesque valley of the Inn to Irnst. We had gradu-
ally ascended for a day or two, until even the valleys were high
above the level of the sea ; and the rarity of the mountain-air had
its natural effect upon our spirits. Then the beauty of the coun-
try — the swollen, rushing gray waters of th(( Inn sweeping down
the spacious chasm, the warm sunlight lying on the small farm-
INNSBRUCK. 283
houses, the fronts of which were covered with yellow maize hung
out to dry, the flocks of goats on the hill-sides, the great masses
of berberry-bushes covered with scarlet wax-like berries, and all
around the magnificent hills, with the splendid peaks of the
Tschiirgant and Sonnenspitz hemming in the end of the valley.
Much wilder and more solitary was the great valley which we
entered after leaving Imst. Here the mountains showed a pecul-
iar, soft, olive-green hue up to the very snow-line; and when the
sun fell on these far masses of hills, the olive-green became warm
and dark, like velvet in firelight. Round the base of the mountains
stretched large forests, here and there broken by a patch of gray,
where a mountain-torrent had cleared a passage for itself down
to the Inn, bringing masses of debris with it. It was Sunday, too ;
and in some small village, shining yellow with hung-up maize, you
would hear the crack of the rifle echoing along the hills, Sunday,
after service, being the favorite time for the Tyroler's practis-
ing. Occasionally we met a sturdy peasant marching along with
his huge weapon in its cumbrous water-proof covering, wonder-
ing, probably, how many kreutzer-points he was likely to make.
The women, having come from the small village church, were in
their finest attire, and stared curiously at us as they returned
Franz's " Gruss GottP'' while the young lasses, in their braided
bodices, short petticoats, and peculiar hats, had a sly look at Sil-
ber, whose student-appearance they doubtless admired extremely.
" Do you know that chamois is to be had here for sixpence per
pound ?" said Franz, " so we need not scruple to ask for it in the
inns."
We remained a few days at Silz, exploring the Oetzthal and fill-
ing our portfolios with sketches ; and we soon got accustomed to
eating chamois. Indeed, chamois-flesh much more nearly resembles
in flavor roe-deer venison than the flesh of the goat — a dainty we
occasionally met with, but failed to appreciate. From Silz we pass-
ed along the splendid Oberinnthal, with its masses of gray lime-
stone mountains, flecked with snow, the needle-peaks of the Sel-
rain lying down in the south. Towards sunset we drew near
Innsbruck ; and I shall never forget the strange appearance which
presented itself to us near Zirl. The sun had sunk behind the
Tschiirgant, far in the west ; and all around us the limestone
mountains were darkening in their gray, the sky above having
changed from red and gold to a pale, chilly green. All at once,
284 KILMENY.
as we looked up and over tlic dark mountains on our left, we saw
an immense cone of fire, still and cold. The wonderful gleam of
this snow-peak, which, rising into the pallid and dusky twilight,
caught the last light of the sun, had an extraordinary efiFect ; it
seemed as if the dark ridge of mountains in front alone separated
us from a world on fire on the other side.
" Do not look at that any more," said the Professor, " or it will
turn red, and then gray, and then purple. Come away now ; and
as long as you live you will be able to see in your mind that won-
derful peak of yellow fire standing all by itself in the twilight."
Then we passed underneath the Martinswand, where, as you
may know, the Emperor Maximilian, chasing a chamois, rolled
down a precipice, and clung to a projecting rock. No one
could reach him ; but the priest of the neighborhood got up a
procession, raised the host, gave the Emperor absolution, and im-
plored divine succor ; whereupon an angel, in the guise of a cha-
mois-hunter, appeared and saved the Emperor, to the great glory
of the Church.
*' Now," said the Professor, " the story of the Emperor's peril
and deliverance seems to be well authenticated ; and 1 take it that
ho was rescued by a chamois-hunter — probably one of his attend-
ants, I should like to know how they smuggled this poor man
out of the road in order to persuade the people that it was an
angel who saved the Emperor's life."
" Very likely they murdered him for the good of the Church,"
remarked Franz.
" It is clear," said the Professor, " that he could not have been
ennobled, or presented with a piece of land in his native valley,
for either would have contradicted the story of the angel. lie
could not have remained in the character of an angel at Maxi-
milian's court, or in custody of a farm ; for we don't naturalize
angels, even in legends."
"They may have given him a post in the army, " said Franz;
" and very likely he would live to a good old age, and hear the
story of the miraculous deliverance so often that he would come
to believe it himself. But there is something highly humorous
in the notion of the worthy priest, while the Emperor was hang
ing on to a rock, getting up a religious procession and going
through ceremonies at the foot of the place, instead of sending
people with ropes. I wonder if Maximilian swore at them *, and
INNSBRUCK. 285
whether he felt inclined to hang the lot of them after he came
down ?"
" I admire your efforts at historical criticism," said Silber.
" You are supplementing one legend with half a dozen others ;
and the result is that you miss the points of divergence, and end
in vapor,"
This, I take leave to say, is perhaps the most idiotic remark
ever made ; but Silber delivered it in an impressive and thought-
ful manner, as befitted a man who knew something of Heidel-
berg, metaphysics, and beer. Franz looked at Silber, expecting
him to laugh ; but when he saw that Silber was in earnest, he
took to whistling ; and so we went on.
The dark and narrow streets of the capital of the Tyrol were
glittering with gas-lamps as we crossed the broad bridge and en-
tered the town. We made our way to our appointed resting-
place, and for the first time for some weeks found ourselves sur-
rounded with the luxuries of a hotel. There were still a few
tourists in Innsbruck, chiefly American; but there were one or
two English, and it was with a strange sensation that I heard my
native language spoken again. We dined at the table-d'h6te that
evening; and I can believe that the English family who sat op-
posite us looked with some wonder and a little contempt upon
our peculiar travelling-dress. Indeed, with that airy confidence
which distinguishes our countrymen abroad, the father and eldest
son made some observations which, to put Franz in a good-humor,
I translated to him. He laughed heartily, and looked so pointed-
ly at our opposite neighbors that they spoke less loudly there-
after.
There was no letter from Heatherleigh. What had occurred to
interfere with his writing ? We had a walk, after dinner, through
the low archways and along the narrow thoroughfares of the town,
and then we retired to rest, somewhat tired after our long ramble.
Next morning we went to have a look at the environs of Inns-
bruck, and made our way up to the hill on which the Schloss
Amras is built. From the tower of this castle we had an excel-
lent view of the great and elevated plain through which runs the
Inn, cutting Innsbruck in two on its way. So lofty is this plain
that the mountains which surround it have their snow-line singu-
larly low ; so that the visitor, looking at them on a warm autumn-
day, is struck by the notion that he can easily walk up the side
286 KILMENY.
of one of those liu£i^e masses of limestone and find himself walk-
ing upon snow. The Martinswand now seemed to block up the
entrance to the Oberinnthal, through which we had come on the
previous afternoon ; and lying on this side, just looking down on
the plain, and on the many steeples of Innsbruck, were the gray
and misty bulks of the Solstein, Brandjoch, Seegruben, Rumer
Joch, and Spech-Kor, with here and there a small cluster of houses
near their base, whence rose a pale blue smoke into the morning
sunlight.
" What," said Franz, " if that wonderful fire-peak we saw last
night was the Solstein over there ; and what if the mountain got
its name because it catches the evening light like that ?"
" Nothing more probable," said the Professor. " The great
Solstein lies just behind the Martinswand."
" And is 9300 feet high," said Silber, who had been bothering
the peasantry all the way along with questions.
We went through the quaint old castle, and Franz was permit-
ted to play an air on the chamber-organ that once belonged to
Philippine Welser. The instrument was in fair tune, and the re-
sult sufficiently good. What honest workmen they must have
had in those times ! Fancy how one of our gorgeous piano-fortes
— all carved wood, and satin, and polish — will sound four hur)dred
years hence.
That evening we went to the theatre ; the Professor, however,
remaining at tlie hotel ; and, as luck would have it, the piece to
be played was Benedix's " Mathilde ; oder, ein deutsches Frauen-
herz," the hero of which is a poor artist. We had a box for three
florins; although Silber pointed out that the manager, wishing to
make liis theatre a means of education, had offered all students
tickets at reduced rates. " Fiir die IJerren Stndien-nden sind
Parterre-Billets si 25 Kr. beim llerrn IJniversitats-Pedell Hofer zu
haben." Silber fancied lie ought to have the same privilege as
the university students, and evidently thought he would rather
be in the pit among th<; soldiers and the scholars than in the
boxes with the comfortable and i'hilistini(; hourt/eoisie.
It was a hard ordeal for the piece that it should have been criti
cised by a band of young artists, who, just fresh from a long jour-
ney, were practical in their notions and courageous in their hopes.
Franz was most unmercifully severe nj>on ]>oor Bertliold Arnau,
the artist, who is in love with a rich merchant's daughter; who
INNSBRUCK. 287
has grand dreams, and is tortured by distrust of his own capacity ;
who makes love to Mathilde secretly, and then tamely submits to
be turned out of the house, with shame and contumely, when his
love is discovered.
"What a fool of an artist !" cried Franz, with infinite contempt.
" What is the use of his crying, ' I feel it ; I feel the power with-
in me ; and then it dies away, and I am in despair !' Instead of
vaporing to a girl, why doesn't he sit down and take out his
palette ?"
Further on, when Mathilde has left her father's house and mar-
ried Berthold, who is now grown rich and prosperous, the father
offers to be reconciled, and the offer is repulsed.
" A fool again," cried Franz. " A real artist would look with
indifference upon all these things. He would not remember a by-
gone grudge against a stupid old merchant for all these years.
He would say, ' Here is my hand, old gentleman, if it is of any
use to you ; but go away now, for I have my pictures to look
after.' He ought to be above the opinions or insults of a Philis-
ter — nicht wahr, Silber ?"
Silber started.
" Yes," he said, " it is a very good piece."
" I have it," said Franz in a whisper. " Don't you think that
Mathilde there, with her black eyes and hair, is something like
Fraulein Riedel ?"
There was certainly some resemblance between Fraulein An-
schiitz (to whom I beg to pay a passing compliment), of the
Innsbruck National theater, and Fraulein Riedel, of the Munich
Volkstheater.
" Silber is trying hard to imagine himself in Munich, and that
the little Riedel is before him. Will he cry presently ? No ; he
*has drank no beer this evening."
Silber, however, applauded most boisterously at the end of each
effective scene in which Mathilde appeared — so much so that
Mathilde inadvertently glanced up at our box.
" She thanks you, Silber," said Franz ; " wouldn't you give
your ears now for a bouquet ?"
" She acts remarkably well," said Silber, hotly.
" That is no reason why you should bite my head off," ^aid
Franz. " All I know is that her stage husband is a prig, and
should have been a lackey rather than an artist. Yet Fels is not
288 KILMENY.
a bad actor ; and I have seen many worse tlian Hcrr Strohl. I
will drink their very good health, and yours, Silber, and that of
a young lady who rather resembles Fraulein Anschiitz, when we
go out."
" Ah, you think she does resemble Fraulein Riedel ?" said Sil-
ber, eagerly.
" You do, at least ; for I don't believe you know anything of
the piece. Now what is the name of Mathilde's brother ?"
" Stuif !" said Silber, turning angrily away.
When Mathilde had at length effected a reconciliation between
her husband and her father by means of lier " doutsches Frauen-
herz," we left the theatre, and proceeded on a prowl through the
town, visiting such places of amusement as were still open for
the benefit of the soldiers. Now we entered a gayly-lit beer-
garden, again we heard a little music, and so foi'th, until Franz,
who was beyond the anielioraling and controlling influences of
his zither, and who had drank a little more wine than was neces-
sary, began to wax warm about political matters, and generally
expressed his readiness to fight any man or woman born in tlie
whole of the Tyrolese capital. But the fit did not last long; for
presently he was off into the dark streets again, singing some-
what loudly the mad carnival song —
"Alle Viigele singet so hell,
Bis am Samstig z' Obed ;
Alle Mcideli lialtet mi gern,
O ! wie bill i j)loget.
Niirro !
Hidele, hiidele, hiiiterm Stiidtele
Hilt en Betteimiiim Hotiizit ;
Es giget e Miisle, 's tauzet e Lausle,
Es schlagt en Igcie Trninme;
Alle Tiiieile \v(i VViuKii iiond,* *
SoUet /.ur Iluclizit Ixiimme!
NaiTo!"
When we got home to the hotel we found the Professor and
an American gentleman busily discussing the merits of the vari-
ous Continental galleries; the Amiricaii speaking French fluently,
und with very little intonation.
We did not stay long in Innsbruck ; tlierc being little (beyond
* "Alle Tliicichen, ilie Srliwilnze liaben,
>Solieii zur liochzeii kommen. "
INNSBRUCK. 289
some picturesque street-views) worthy of an artist's attention in
the place. We followed the course of the Inn to Jenbach ; and
there we turned sharply to the left, ascending the main street of
the steep little village, and following the road that leads up and
over the hills to the Achensee. What a strangely solitary lake
this is, lying high among the mountains ; and how beautiful were
its clear blue waters as we first caught a sight of them, with the
sunlight lying over the wooded slopes that descend almost per-
pendicularly to the shore, while a slight wind was causing the
keen blue surface to ripple in lines of light. Our road wound
along the right bank of the lake, under the craggy rocks, with
their thick brushwood and ferns ; but we met no carriages on this
narrow path, for a bridge had broken down some two days before
on this side of Scholastica. The perfect stillness of the lake and
of the solitary mountains was quite unbroken ; and the warm sun-
light seemed to have hushed the animal and insect life of the
woods into peace. Near the other side of the lake we could see
a woman pulling a small boat ; but no sound was heard, as the
prow slowly divided the brilliant plain of blue.
When we got up to this broken bridge we found a carriage
and a pair of horses which had been hired by a party of English
ladies at Jenbach. Not one of the ladies could speak German ;
and they stood on the road, having descended from the carriage,
blankly staring at the broken planks of the bridge, and at the two
or three swarthy men who were driving in new piles. Their
coachman was doing his best (by much shouting) to let them
know that there was no help for it — back they must go to Jen-
bach. When I explained the position of affairs to them, they
poured torrents of sarcasm and abuse upon the stupidity of the
peasants who had not sent on word of the accident to that vil-
lage.
" The workmen," I told them, " say that for three florins they
will patch the bridge together and take your carriage over."
After a good deal of bargaining, they agreed to pay the three
florins ; but the head-workman was seized with a fit of honesty,
and admitted it would be of no use, as there was another bridge
broken just beyond Scholastica.
" This is a pretty country," said one of the ladies, with a sneer.
*' There seems to be nothing left for you to do but to return,"
I said ; " so I shall wish you good-day and a pleasant journey."
N
290 KILMENY.
"Oil no ! pray don't leave us without telling these men that —
that—"
But there was nothing to tell them. Abuse of the Tyrol and
the Tyrolese generally was a communication which it was quite
unnecessary to make to the poor bridge-makers, who had again
betaken themselves to their labors.
" May I ask where you were going to ?"
" To Munich, of course. Here is our contract, written in French,
made with that rascal in Jenbach, who kneio the bridge was broken
down."
The speaker was one of those tall, solitary -looking ladies who
are constantly seen in Continental hotels, and who go wandering
about Europe with a charming belief in the omnipotence of the
English tongue, and a fine contempt for the manners and customs
of the people whom they deign to visit.
" Then you must go back to Jenbach, and proceed from thence
by rail to Rosenheim and Munich ; or you can wait at Jenbach
until the bridge is ready, probably by Monday next."
So saying, we went on our way, and saw them no more. But
I do not envy the innkeeper at Jenbach when they returned to
him — that is, if he could understand either French or English.
CHAPTER XXXni.
HE ATHK RLKI G h's FEAT.
Once more in the quiet and white Kiinigin Strasse, fronting the
yellowing trees of the Englischer Garten. Munich looked quite
liomely when we returned to it. But I went into its formal and
stately streets without much hope of meeting there any welcome
faces, such as I used to look for in leaving Lt)ndon to get down
into the heart of Buridiam. Nevertheless, it was a sort of home ;
and we were glad to see again the familiar features of the Odeon-
platz and the Maxiniilian Strasse.
The good Professor returned with a sigh to his labors and liis
domestic routine. His homely wife kissed him dutifully, in a
quiet, atfeetionate way, and then began to tell him, in an injured
tone, of the interference of the Herren Polizei about something or
heatherleigh's feat. 291
other. The Professor listened meekly, and then suggested that
we should have a little chocolate.
Lena was, for a wonder, gracious, Franz having brought her a
very pretty brooch from Innsbruck. Instead of being impudent
and coquettish, she was shy and demure ; and I think if Franz had
taken advantage of her whim of complaisance to ask her for a tiny
kiss, she would not have minded much.
" You have been working hard, Mr. Frank ?" she asked.
" We have all been working hard, Lena," returned her lover. .
" You will let me see your sketches, won't you ?"
Franz was overjoyed to find Lena caring a pin-point about any-
thing he did ; and he promised not only to show her his sketches,
but to finish up any she liked, and present them to her.
" You have been very wicked in your letters since I went away,
Lena," he said.
" Why, then ?" she asked, elevating her eyebrows with a pretty
look of wonder.
" You know."
" I know I wrote to you ; isn't that enough ? You should be
glad to have my letters, even if there was nothing but nonsense
in them."
" That is just what was in them."
" Oh, indeed !"
This with a pout.
" If I only wrote nonsense, you shall have no more of it."
Franz began to look apprehensive.
" Lena !— "
" Oh, I can only talk nonsense. Very well. But you like my
nonsense, don't you, Herr Papaken?"
With that she went and hung around the Herr Papa's neck, and
toyed with his neckerchief.
" What is it, Lena ?"
" You will be my sweetheart, Papaken, and you won't mind my
talking nonsense, will yon? Travelling doesn't improve one's
temper, does it, Papaken? and people think they have grown
wise when they go abroad, and come back savage and intolerable.
But you are always the same, Papaken, and I don't want anybody
but you."
Franz became angry. He did not like being talked at.
"Herr Professor," said he, "did you ever know a cat that
292 KILMENY.
stroked herself the wrong way in order to liave an excuse for
scratching you ?"
" Oh, I am a cat," said Lena, with a scornful toss of the small
and pretty head. " Mr. Frank, you will beg my pardon before I
see you again."
And so she left the room, leaving Franz the victim of a deadly
remorse. It was all the work of a few careless words ; and yet the
mischief they had caused was sufficiently portentous to a lover.
"On the very day of our return, too!" he said. "She is no
better than a tigress or a Red Indian."
Heatherleigh's letter had been sent to Munich instead of Inns-
bruck. It ran in this way :
" Dear Ted, — Did you ever try to break tlie back of a woman's
opinion, and find yourself thrashing the air? I think the most
vexing thing for a man is to prove triumphantly to a woman that
she ought not to believe so-and-so and so-and-so, and find, after
all, that the impalpable thing he fancied he had destroyed is as
brisk and lively as ever. With a woman you don't care about, it
doesn't matter. You leave her in her ' invincible ignorance.' But
to find yourself baffled and tortured and vexed by this invisible,
insignificant thing called an opinion, when the interests of one
you love are concerned, is a grievous thing, not easily to be
borne.
" At last I met Polly. I knew I should, sooner or later ; for I
watched for her whenever I had the time. It was yesterday fore-
noon, and I was going around by Gloucester Gate. She saw me
at some distance off, and tried to avoid mc ; but that wjis of no use.
When I went up and spoke to her, she was very much excited;
and her excitement took the form of a i)rodigious freezing con-
straint, that made her look like a frightened wild bird, lying still,
but watching how to escai)e from your hand.
" ' Polly,' said I, ' we didn't use to meet like this?'
" ' It is all the greater i)ity we should meet like this now,' she
said hurriedly. ' Jiut it can't be heii>ed, Mr. lleatlierleigh ; and
if you'll be good enough — '
"'To go away and leave you, I'olly^' I said. 'No; I don't
mean to do anything of the kind. And all this ca)i be helped.'
"So I went on to tell her what nonsense her ri'cent condm-t
had been ; and how foolish she was to regard what my father had
heatherleigh's feat. 293
said. This was evidently a sore point witli the poor girl ; for
you may recollect she was driven by her strong pride and indig-
nation to take it for granted, without my mentioning her name,
that it was she I meant to marry. No girl would like to be en-
trapped into such a confession, and with her I could see that the
reflection was excessively painful. But then I urged upon her
the necessity of sinking all these considerations, every considera-
tion except one — that here were we two, almost alone in London,
and that the best thing we could do was to marry, and keep our
own counsel, and let our exceedingly respected relatives, on both
sides, pass such comments as their lively wit might suggest.
"You may fancy this a very matter-of-fact way of putting it.
But then I had to treat the sensitive malady of poor Polly in a
somewhat heroic fashion, and assume a mastery that I did not
feel. What were my sensations? Here was I — a man drawing
on towards middle-life, looking upon myself as a sort of widower,
indeed — with few friends, with a liking for domestic quiet and
comfort, and with a disposition sufficiently amiable, I hope, to
keep on good terms with an affectionate companion ; here was
she, alone in London, unfriended, with nobody to look to for as-
sistance in case of need. Why shouldn't we two outcasts join
our fortunes, and be stronger through mutual help ? There never
was a marriage more reasonable in point of circumstances ; to
say nothing of the affection that leads you to think any marriage
reasonable.
" All this and more I represented to her ; and still found my-
self fighting with my invisible enemy of an opinion, or determina-
tion, or something of the kind that lay behind the unnatural hard-
ness of her look and coldness of her voice. What was I to do ?
We had got around into the Park, by the trees above the canal ;
and there was scarcely anybody there at this hour of the fore-
noon. I preached, I prayed, I begged, all in vain. She was as
obdurate as marble. She admitted all my arguments ; and then
merely said that what I asked was impossible, that she and I never
could marry, that we ought to separate then and forever.
" I made one more vexed endeavor to bring her to reason ; and
then, that not succeeding, I think I was seized with a sort of
madness — a long and happy future for both of us seemed to
dance before my eyes — I caught her unawares, and, with a laugh
that must have sounded like the laugh of a maniac, kissed her.
294 KILMENY.
She turned around, white and angry ; and then, seeing that I wa^^
laughing in desperation, all her resolve seemed gradually to break
away, until at last she laughed too, in her old frank way, and held
out both her hands.
" ' I cannot help myself, I suppose,' she said.
"Was there ever a courtship) like that, Ted, in the open air, in
the forenoon, in Regent's Park ? Now, when I look back upon it,
I ask myself if I was temporarily insane : whether or not, the re-
sult remains, and we arc both happy.
" ' Now,' said I to Polly, ' let me show you that you have not
agreed to marry a boy, who will neither know how to work for
you, nor master you in your sulky fits, nor make you take good
care of your health. I am about to become rich. I have a
grand scheme to make our fortune, Polly.'
" ' What is it ?' she asked.
" ' A company that shall produce something out of nothing, and
alter the whole of our commercial relations with India and China.
This company will contract to buy up on the Monday morning of
each week all the sermons which have been preached on tlie pre-
ceding Sunday. From all parts of the kingdom the various MSS.
must be sent in and collected in the works of the company at
Mill wall. That is the first step.'
" ' Yes,' she said, very much interested, apparently.
" ' These sermons are now taken and put into vast caldrons,
which are in communication with all the ordinary apparatus of a
distillery. In fact, the sermons arc to be distilled ; and the product,
which is to make our fortune, Polly, is — '
" ' What V she asked.
" ' Opium.'
" She looked vexed.
"'You have just done the most serious thing you ever did in
your life, and you fall to joking already.'
" ' My dear,' said I, ' I prf>pose to have our engagement, and
our married life too, a jirolongcMl joke. People make these things
serious, because they grow afraid. We shall not grow afraid, you
and I ; and we will carry on the joke from day to day, until, when
we have grown old and white-haired, we sliall look back and see
that we have spent life pleasantly and enjoyed it rationally. They
will tell you it is very wrong to talk confidently about coming
liajjpiness, and to be so sure that life is going to be pleasant; but
heatherleigh's feat. 295
isn't it better than to be continually foreboding evil and making
yourself wretched by anticipation ? If the evil must come, let it :
we sha'n't whimper like children, Polly. In the mean time you
and I will take such enjoyment and comfort as we can get ; for
we shall never be twice young.'
" You, Ted, know what I think about such things ; but I
preached in this fashion to give my poor, trembling Polly a little
courage. She looked happy and comfortable in a quiet, timorous
way ; and seemed to have grown all at once trustful and docile
and affectionate. Immediately, too, she instituted a sort of right
of property in me, and timidly begged of me to promise never to
go out any more at night with my throat bare — a thing she used
always to protest against. Her remembrance of it just at this
moment made me laugh heartily, and she looked a little self-con-
scious and shy, as if I had taken advantage of her confidence.
There was something so odd in the notion that there was now a
little woman to see that I must not catch cold or otherwise harm
myself, that I felt myself vastly exalted in my own estimation, and
ready to look down with a wonderful compassion on you poor
fellows who are fighting the world all by yourselves.
" Do I rave ? Am I sane ? I scarcely know. Your mother
tries to make the affair wear a serious aspect, and fails wholly.
I cannot get frightened at the notion of taking a house. A par-
ish-clerk is not an awful creature to me, as he ought to be. The
cares of furniture sit lightly upon me ; for I know that Polly and
I won't break our hearts if a saucepan is wanting, or there happen
to be no salt-spoons with the breakfast-service. I have no heavy
sense of responsibility whatever ; and I ask myself whether my
want of anxiety is a proof that I am not fitted to encounter the
solemnities of a married life. Gray hairs will come soon enough,
Ted ; and I don't look out for them every morning in the glass."
The rest of the letter contained lots of gossip about our old
companions in the neighborhood of Fitzroy Square, and their do-
ings. But through all the letter there breathed the same auda-
cious trust and gladness that showed how Heatherleigh's life had
been stirred by these new experiences. Yet even in his joy there
was the same wise and kindly spirit that had drawn me towards
him in his indolent bachelor days.
Two days later came a letter from Polly herself. She hinted
timidly that Mr. Heathcrleigh had told me what had occurred ;
296 KILMENY.
and then began to talk of other things in a practical, constrained
sort of fashion. But again and again she returned inadvertently
to Heatherleigh, and his doings and prospects, and spoke of him
with a pride which she did her best to conceal. Polly used to
have a pretty correct notion of Heatherleigh's capacity as an art-
ist — indeed, he had frankly told her the limits within which he
knew he should always work ; but now all these things were
changed. Mr. Heatherleigh was to wake up from his indolence
and do something great. The public were getting tired of the com-
monplace work of many of the R. A.'s ; it was necessary that the
august body should get some new blood into it. And Polly en-
closed me a cutting from a newspaper, in which a picture of
Heatherleigh's was praised in unequivocal terms.
When was I coming home ? she asked. I was wanted to make
up again the little Bohemian supper-parties that were so comfort-
able and jolly in the old days. I translated these words into a
wish on the part of Polly that I should see her in the full honor
and joy of her new position, and that I might share some of her .
superabundant happiness.
In the mean time there was little chance of my congratulating
in person these two who had, in spite of the world and the devil,
achieved some measure of happiness amid the discordant interests
of life. I feared to go to England. Should I not meet there with
the old hopeless feeling, and know that Hester Burnham was as
far removed from me as a star might be ? Hear she was nearer
to me. In England I should find her about to marry her pale-
faced cousin, with the mean heart and the cold eyes; here I grew
bold, and believed such a thing impossible.
»So I turned with diligent labor to the picture of Wolundur
and the king's daughter in the lonely northern island ; and as I
worked at it, on those days which were not devoted to class-
studies, I knew that she would see it in some far-off time. So
the months passed, and the new year came in, and the spring-
time, and there was a breath of primroses and sweet violets in
the air that seemed to speak of the green hedges and tlic leafy
woods of Burnham.
AT BURNHAM GATES. 297
CHAPTER XXXIV.
AT BURNHAM GATES.
My private studio was my bedroom, and it looked out upon
the Konigin Strasse and the trees of the " English Garden."
While the trees were leafless, and even now when they showed
only the young leaves of the spring, you could look over the park-
like meadows that lie within the garden, and you could see the
few people who occasionally strolled across this open space to the
paths under the chestnuts and limes. It was here, somehow or
other, that I felt convinced that I should see Hester Burnham.
Many and many a time I have looked out of the small window,
with almost a definite anticipation of beholding the figure and
the dress I knew so well coming out from under the trees. Many
a time have I started to observe in the distance some lady who
might be she, and wait, with a strange, joyous wonder, to see
whether the figure would approach with that dainty and queenly
gait which was peculiar to her of all the women in the world.
The successive disappearance of these possibilities was scarcely a
disappointment, and was certainly not a misery ; for I got to con-
nect the English Garden with her so completely that it looked
like a bit of friendly Buckinghamshire that had wandered into
this foreign land.
Spring came upon us suddenly. One morning I awoke to find
a new freshness in the air — a mild, warm gratefulness that seemed
filled with the perfume of opening buds. As it happened, Franz
and I were invited on that day to be introduced to Fraulein Rie-
del, that young lady having graciously signified to her lover that
she should like to see the two friends of whom he frequently
spoke.
We were to meet Silber and her in the Neue Anlagen, just
under Haidhausen ; and here it was, among the leafy labyrinths
of the pleasure-ground, that we encountered the happy pair.
The little actress, with the shining black eyes and hair, received
us without any show of embarrassment, such as sat upon the
N 2
298 KILMENY.
concerned and delighted and stupid face of her companion. She
walked on with us, and immediately began, in a matter-of-fact
way, to ask whether it were difficult to learn English thoroughly,
and whether they paid actresses well in England.
" But you don't need to learn English thoroughly, Fraulein," I
told her, " to appear on an English stage. We like a marked
foreign pronunciation, because it harmonizes with the origin and
character of our plays. As to salary, I don't know much about
that ; but a great many of our actresses wear most expensive jew-
els, on the stage and off."
" Do you always have your operettas translated into English ?"
" Generally."
" What do they pay the principal lady ?"
The tone of this conversation did not seem to please poor Sil-
ber. He endeavored to divert her attention from such mercenary
matters ; but she kept firmly to her point, and showed herself a
thorough little woman of business. Perhaps Silber was the more
annoyed because her talk evidently left him outside of all her plans
of the future. She seemed to say that there could be no ques-
tion of marriage between a not over-rich student and this brisk
young actress, who had an eye to lucrative engagements in Eng-
land.
At length we bade them good-bye, and received, on parting, a
kindly invitation to take tea with the Fraulein and her mamma
some day on the following week. Franz and I went off towards
Brunnthal, and then crossed the Isar and went up by Ludwig's-
Walzmiihle. The air, as I said, had grown suddenly sweet with the
[u-omise of the spring; and there seemed to be a joyous, stirring
life in the trees and in the warm, moist ground. I knew what
Burnhain would be like then ; and I could see the green valley
before my eyes, steeped in the clear spring sunshine.
" Franz," said I, " will you start with me at six o'clock for
F^ngland? We shall travel day and night; then I will show you
an E^nglish valley in spring-time, that is finer than anything you
ever read of in an E;istern story ; and we shall come straight back
again, without anybody in England knowing anything about it."
" You take my breath away — England — six o'clock this even-
ing — and the expense — "
" I invite you to go as my guest. I have bccoine rich to-day.
A gentleman in England has heard of this Wolundur picture from
AT BURNHAM GATES. 299
the Professor, and I liad a letter this morning from him, offering
a handsome sum for it. Shall we go at six o'clock, and be back
in a week ?"
" I have nothing ready for such a journey."
" Why, an old traveller like you should be able to pack up in
ten minutes for a voyage to Lebanon."
We walked back to the town. I got him to have some dinner
at the " Four Seasons," and this gave him courage. We went
over to the Konigin Strasse, and bade good-bye to the Professor
and his family.
" Why do you look afraid, Linele ?" said Franz. " It is only
a bit of fun. We shall be back in two or three days."
" You may be drowned," said Lena, with tender and troubled
eyes.
" Do you know why we are going ? Listen 1" said Franz, and
he whispered something mto Lena's ear.
Lena looked at me, and smiled and nodded.
"Then I will let you go," she said to Franz. " Leb' wohl!
Don't be longer than a week, Franz. Ade !"
We started at six. By eleven next morning we were in Cologne.
Thence a rapid journey brought us over Brussels to Calais ; and
at length I heard a fine round English oath, that told me I was
in my native land.
We went to the Langham Hotel when we arrived in London,
and there Franz speedily became familiar with all the waiters who
could speak German.
" I have brought you here," I said, " that you may study Amer-
ican manners and customs, without going to America. Breakfast
and dine for a day or two in that big room with the pillars, and
you may save yourself the expense of a trip to New York."
" These are not English, then — these pretty girls, with the
French fashions, who talk loudly across the table, and have at
sixteen the manner of a woman of thirty ?"
You will soon see the diflference. Perhaps you will prefer the
American type."
" If they are all as pretty as these girls I shall have no choice.
Surely we have made a mistake, and come to Sachsen, too die
schonen Mddchen ivachsen. But the Leipsic and Dresden girls
are fair."
We spent a day in London, hiring a hansom for the entire
300 KILMENV.
time, and driving about to such places as Franz wished to see.
London, I think, was as new and delightful to me as to him. It
was so pleasant an experience to be able to understand everything
that everybody said, without having to listen" particularly ; and it
was pleasant, also, to feel an easy familiarity with the customs of
the place, even while the very streets, that were once so well-
known, seemed to have assumed an oddly unaccustomed appear-
ance. Then, on the following day, we got on the top of the
Buckinghamshire coach, and drove away from the city bustle and
noise.
I was proud of my native county when we saw it, then in all
its spring greenery. The young hawthorn was out in the hedges,
the chestnut-buds were bursting, the elms were sprinkled over
with leaves ; and the windy clouds that crossed the blue spring
sky gave to the far-off woods and hills a constant motion of shad-
ow and sunlight that created landscapes at every step. We drove
down through the old-fashioned villages — Chalfont, with its
stream crossing the main road ; Amersham, with its broad street
and twin rows of quaint, old, red-brick liouses ; Missenden, with
its ancient abbey, and church high up on the hill ; and then we
found ourselves in the valley that looks up to Burnham.
1 took Franz up and over the chalk-hills, and through the woods
that were now growing rich with flowers. These were a wonder
to him — the wildernesses of wild hyacinth, a lambent blue; tlie
pale, blush-tinted anemone, the pink-veinod wood-sorrel, the tiny
moschatel, the dark dog's-mercury, the golden celandiiu^ ; and
everywhere the perfume of the sweet violet, clustered among its
heart-shaped leaves, along the rabbit-banks and around the roots
of the trees. The constant animal life, also — tlie ruddy squirrel
running up the straight stem of a young 1>eech, the disappearance
of a rabl)it into the brambles of a chalk-doll, the silent flight of a
iiare across the broad fields to some distant place of safety, the
sudden whirr of a cock-pheasant, and the incessant screaming of
jays; while all around were the busy tom-tits and thrushes and
blackbirds, with a glimpse of a golden-crested wren h<)})ping from
bush to bush, or a kestrel hanging high up in the blue, his wings
motionless. Over all these, again, the light and motion of a
breezy English sky, with cumulus masses of white cloud that chased
the sunlight over the Ibiruliam woods, or hid the distant horizon
in dark lines of an intense purple.
AT BURNHAM GATES. 301
" That is the house you have told me about," said Franz, as we
descended into the valley again, and drew near Burnham. " I
recognize it. How fine it looks, with the great avenue and the
trees! You said a young lady owned it — who is she?"
I heard the cantering of two horses on the road behind me,
and turned.
" Franz !" I cried, " jump into the wood here : she must not
see us !"
It was too late. She came along at a good pace on a handsome
small horse, followed by old Pritchett on the black cob I had
ridden many a time. I pulled my slouched hat over my face ;
with our heavy German travelling-cloaks it was not likely she
would suspect either of us of being English. As she passed, I was
aware that she looked at us somewhat curiously ; and then she
went on. I could look at her with safety as she rode up the soft,
elastic turf of the avenue. I saw her once more ! — with the clear,
white spring sunlight on her cheek and on her brown hair, that
the wind lifted and flung about her neck and shoulders. I knew
she was there ; and yet it seemed I was scarcely more aware of
her presence than if it had been a dream. For I had been accus-
tomed to see her in dreams with such a vividness that now, in
actual life, she scarcely seemed more real.
And was not this a dream? Our rapid flight from Germany
had been so sudden that now I almost feared to turn my eyes,
lest I should awake and find myself among the white houses of
Munich. Yet surely this was a thoroughly English scene before
me — the grand old house, silent amid its great trees, and the
young English girl riding up to it, under that windy English sky.
You might have fancied it was in the sixteenth century, all this
picture ; and that presently the gay young lover would appear,
singing —
" Now, Robin, lend to me thy bow,
Sweet Robin, lend to me thy bow,
For I must now a hunting with my lady go,
With my sweet lady go!"
*' I am right," exclaimed Franz, suddenly. " I have seen her
before ; it is the face hanging up in your room, in the Professor's
house."
" There is nothing to wonder at, is there ?" I asked. " I have
seen this lady several times — I have spoken to her — "
302 KILMENV.
" And why don't you now go up to the house, and renew your
acquaintance with her?"
" Because we are in England, Franz."
So we stood at the white gate and looked up towards Burn-
ham ; and I could not go away. When should I ever see it again,
and all the trees that I knew ? As we lingered there, some one
came riding down the avenue. It was Pritchett. I knew the old
man could not possibly recognize me, so I still remained there ;
but when he came down to the gate, he pulled up the cob, and
said —
" Beg your pahrdon, gentlemen, but you be furreigners, hain't
ye?"
" Yes," I said, " we have just come from Germany."
" Ah, that wur what she said," he muttered to himself. " Miss
Buruham's compliments, and if so be as you'd like to go over the
house and look at the pictures, you may."
" Will you say to Miss Burnham that we are very much obliged
to her, but that we could not think of intruding upon her, since
the family is at home ?"
" Lor bless ye, the family is only — "
" Herself," he was nearly saying ; but probably thinking that
such an admission would lessen the grandeur of Burnham in the
eyes of the foreigners, he muttered something about our being
welcome, if we chose to visit the house, and then rode off.
I translated all this to Franz, ^
" Such complaisance to foreigners is quite remarkable," he said.
" You have no right, I think, to speak of English pride, stiffness,
title-worship, and what not, when a grand lady like that goes out
of her way to be civil to two wandering German students, whom
she finds hanging about her gates."
" But one swallow does not make a summer, Franz."
So we turned away.
" Where are we going now ?" said Franz.
" Anywhere you like. If you would ratlier stay a few days
longer in England, and see some of our shipping-towns, I will
go with you with pleasure." '
"That means," said Franz, with deliberation, "that you came
over all the way from Munich to England just to catch one glimpse
of that girl's face. Perhaps you will now deny that you are in
love with her T'
AT BURNHAM GATES. 303
" Deny it ? Oh no. That is the very joke of the position,
that I am in love with her. Don't you see what a merry jest it
is?"
" I see that you don't laugh much over it," said Franz, bluntly.
"Perhaps not; a few days ago, in Germany, I fancied that I
should marry that lady some day. It is a possibility that has
hung before me for a long time. Now I see it is no longer a
possibility. I was dreaming in Germany : a breath of our English
air has woke me out of the trance."
" But why ? but why ?" said Franz.
" You are a German, and you cannot understand it. One of
our statesmen has said that there are two nations in England —
the rich and the poor ! she belongs to the one, I to the other ;
and in England for a lady of her position to forget herself, and
what is due to her friends — Bah ! why speak any more of it ?"
" My dear friend," said Franz, " I don't think you can express
yourself properly in German yet ; for I cannot make any sense
out of what you say. You seem to forget the dignity of love and
of art. If the girl is worth loving, she will know that any woman,
if she had twenty castles, might be proud to marry a true artist.
She will think more of him, as he sits with an old coat and oil-
stained cuflEs before his easel, than of a young dandy smelling like
a civet-cat and incrusted with rings, who comes to pay compli-
ments out of an empty brain to her. Suppose she had twenty
dozen such castles, she ought to feel proud and honored by hav-
ing gained the love of a man who may make the next centuries
inquire curiously about her, and speak kindly of her for his sake."
" German, all German, my dear Franz," I said. " Translate that
into English, and it will become mere bathos."
" To the devil, then, with your beast of a language !" exclaimed
Franz. " I should have thought, when you borrowed your speech
from all the nations in Europe, you might have got as much as
would let you talk common-sense. I was studying your language
while you were looking over the gates up to the big house. I
found the melange almost intelligible. There was '' fourniture,^
which was French ; there was ' mansion,' from the Latin ' mansio,''
I suppose ; there was ' park,' which is merely our German ' Park ;'
there was ' timber,'' which is an old Icelandic and Danish and — "
"What are you talking about? 'Mansion,' 'park,' 'timber'
— where did you see all this?"
304 KILMENY.
" As I tell you, while you were looking up at the house.
There are two large bills on the gates."
" On the Burnham gates ?"
"Yes."
We had not gone far on our return journey ; so we walked
back again to see what these bills were. As I had suspected,
they were the ordinary advertisements of a firm of auctioneers.
" Burnham is for sale," I said to Franz.
" So the lady took us for two probable purchasers," remarked
Franz, ruefully. " That explains her complaisance."
"Do we look like probable purchasers of a house like that?"
Yes, after all these years, Burnham and the old family were
to be separated ; and the girl who was the last of the race was to
be turned out into the world, a wanderer. Here, now, was a
splendid opportunity for the hero and lover to step in, buy up
the place, and lay it as a gift at his mistress's feet. Among all
the young men of England, rich and able to do such a thing, was
there not one who would come forward in this romantic fashion,
and show that love was not quite gone from among us?
I ought to have been selfishly glad that this catastrophe had
brought Hester Burnham so much the nearer to me. But I had
been born and bred under the shadow of the antiquity of Burn-
ham, and it seemed to nie pitiable that the family should lose its
high estate and be cast out among strangers.
We stopped that night at the Red Lion in Missenden, and we
found all the talk was about the sale of Burnham. I succeeded
in preserving my incognito, and listened to all the rum()rs and
stories which were circulated without restraint about the matter.
" I'm not for sayin'," remarked one old gentleman, who sat in
a corner of the parlor, and smoked a long clay — " I'm not for
sayin' as anybody's in the wrong."
" I side with you, Muster Clump," remarked another; "but I
thinks as it wur a pity Miss Hester should ha' been sent to France.
Folks don't stick to the good old English way o' livin' when they
come back from France ; and though 1 wouldn't say as it was Miss
Hester's doin', I hold as it wur a pity she should ha' been sent to
France."
" It wur none o' her doin'," si^id a third, decisively, " I'll stake
my life on't ; and I doan't see as any mahn has the right to blame
thiuifs on France as he doesn't understand."
AT BURNHAM GATES. 305
" Ah, you're a wise inahu. Muster Blaydon," retorted the other,
with a sneer, "and so you wur wlien your good missus axed ye
about them pigs o' Mr. Toomer's."
Here there was a subdued hiugh all around ; and Mr. Blaydon
looked disposed to rise and settle the question summarily with
his opponent.
" I hain't a dog chasin' of his own tail, leastways, and thinkin'
as he's makin' folks laugh. I hold by it as it wur none o' her
doin' ; and them as talks about France had better show as they've
been there by their manners."
" There be more nor Miss' Hester in the family," observed the
first speaker, sagaciously nodding his head.
" Ah, that there be !" repeated Mr. Blaydon, triumphantly.
"There be more nor her. Muster Clump; and it don't seem to
me likely as a young lady like that has been meddlin' wi' them
lawyers, and gettin' the place into debt. I say wi' you, Muster
Clump, there's more o' the name than her; and no mahn will
make me believe as it is her fault. Talk o' France ! Pah !"
" I'm not goin' to reason wi' any mahn as runs his head agin a
stone wall, like a mad bull," remarked the second speaker, with
slow virulence ; " but what I say is as other folks in the country
'ave stayed at 'orae all their lives, and made theirsels comfortabler
and richer than they wur afore, and as it is a suspicious cikm-
stance — 1 say, a suspicious cikmstance — as them as has gone to
France 'ave come back and found they wur obliged to sell out. I
don't reason wi' no mahn ; but I see things as lies afore my nose,
and I'm no blinder than my neighbors."
" And who is to have the old place, gentlemen ?" said the land-
lord.
" Most like a linen-draper fro' Lunnon," remarked Mr. Clump,
contemptuously, " as '11 paint the 'ouse spick-and-span new, and
put up boards agin' trespassers — as '11 go out shootin', and hit the
dogs instead o' the birds, and pay nothin' to the 'unt — "
" And kill the foxes," said one.
" And contract wi' alfthe Lunnon tradesmen for what he wants,
to save twopence off the pound o' tea."
" Yes, Muster Blaydon," said Mr. Clump, " there's a goodish
many o' the gentry as doan't know their dooty — leastways they
doan't do it — to the place where they wur born and bred. They
mun send to Lunnon for heverythink — even if they want pepper-
306 KILMKNY.
mints for church o' Sundays — howiver fur away they be; and all
to be in the fashion, and forgettin' as the people around them 'ave
rents to pay, and don't orumble when their corn's trodden down
by the 'unt. I will say this, as Miss Hester war good in that way
to the folks in this here place ; and it's my belief as there'll be a
difiference when the new howner comes in."
This, indeed, seemed to be the general impression ; and there
was scarcely one of them there who had not some kindly act to
speak of on the part of Hester Burnham.
As I looked along the valley the next morning, it seemed to
me that Burnham was about to undergo a great transformation,
and be henceforth stranofe and unfamiliar.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE DROPPED GLOVE.
On the following afternoon Franz and I were seated at one of
the bow-windows of the Langham smoking-room, looking at the
people who were driving down I'orthuid Place towards Regent
Street, in every description of carriage. Now it was a Cabinet
Minister, looking austerely unconscious of the notice he was at-
tracting ; now it was a young and pretty prima donna, gayly chat-
ting to her husband, and confounding the current rumors about
her conjugal uiihappiness ; now it was a well-known peeress, who
had just been attending a meeting of some charitable society ;
and again it was some pour young girl who had at iirst figured in
a casino, and then been petted and photographed and made much
of, until she had come out as a fine lady, and was now coating the
primal simplicity of her face with violet-powder, and wearing hired
jewels, and looking hard and worn and sad under lu-r new-found
wealth and fame.
" Ah, look !" exclaimed Franz, suddenly, " who is that lady
with the yellow hair?"
I caught sight of a mail phaeton just turning the corner. The
driver, I saw at a glance, was Mr. Mcjrell ; and tl»e lady on his left,
whose yellow hair had attracted Franz's attention, was no other
than Bonnie Lesley.
THE DROPPED GLOVE. 307
" That is a lady I have often spoken to you about," I said.
" They didn't look in here, did they ?"
" Not that I saw," said Franz.
We went to the theatre that evening. When we returned there
was a message awaiting us to say that two gentlemen had called,
and would call some time later.
Towards twelve we were again in the smoking-room, when Mr.
Morell, in full evening-dress, and Heatherleigh, in his ordinary
rougli-and-ready costume, appeared at the door.
"Ha, ha!" said Morell, "if you didn't see us, we saw you.
And now you must explain — "
" We did see you," I said, " and you have more to explain than
we have."
" Don't you know, then ?" he asked, with some surprise.
" What ?"
" You did not get a letter from Miss Lesley, within the past two
or three days ?"
" Not very likely, since we left Munich nearly a week ago.
Let me introduce my friend, and will you be good enough to talk
French ?"
" If I can," said Morell.
When the introduction had taken place, Heatherleigh explained
(allowing Morell to assume a bashfulness which he possessed not)
that Bonnie Lesley had written to tell me of her approaching
marriage.
" And this is the happy man," he said, putting his hand on
Morell's shoulder. " And he has shown his gratitude and good
spirits by writing the wickedest reviews he could think of for
several weeks past. When he is in a good-humor, he revels in
butchery. The other night I went up to his chambers, and found
that he had just reviewed several books which were lying on the
table. So soon as he saw me he rang for his servant to remove
the carcasses, and went into his bedroom to wash his hands."
" You might take a lesson from me, Heatherleigh," he retorted,
" and keep your sarcasm for people whom you don't know."
" I wish you all manner of joy," I said, " and I must write
to Miss Lesley to explain why I did not answer her letter di-
rectly."
" Then you don't know anything it contained ?" Morell said.
" You don't know that Burnham was to be sold V
308 KILMENV.
" Yes, I knew that. I have seen the announcement."
*' Perhaps you know the latest news about it ?"
" No."
" There seems a chance of the sale being indefinitely postponed.
Only, the house must be let; and I suppose Miss Burnham will
live abroad."
" Abroad ?"
" I suppose so. I am sorry Miss Lesley is not a blood-relation
of that young lady, or I might have the right to administer to
Mr. Alfred Burnham a kicking which he much needs. Ah, you
don't know anything about it, do you? Mon brave f/arfon, get
me something to drink, and, in the words of the drama, I will tell
you all."
It was a very pretty story he told me — one with which it is un-
necessary to soil these pages. The results of it have already been
indicated.
" I will confess," said Heatherleigh, " that I did the old Colonel
an injustice. I thought his appearance of simplicity, and his au-
stere and proper conduct, were only a bit of the play, in which he
was acting in concert with his son. 15ut it seems clear that the
Colonel has come worse oti than anybody."
" No, my dear boy," replied Morell, quietly, " the Colonel diil
not come worst off ; for lie had nothing to lose. I tried him, be-
fore his son did."
" You are modest," said Heatlierleigh.
" No, I am repentant. Those days are over. I borrow no
more. I am about to become an exemplary husband and citi-
zen ; give up all my clubs except one ; smoke cigars at thirty
shillings; nurse the baby; and pay water-rates. Nevertheless, I
will ask you for a good cigar, my dear Ives; for the days of re-
nunciation are not yet come."
"And where is Alfred Burnham?" I asked.
"That," remarked Morell, "is a solemn question."
"And the answer is worth money," addc(l IIc;itlicrlcigh. "If
the demand for the gentleman were at all itiilK :iti\ c of his value,
one might say that Alfred Burnham was somebody worth know-
ing. But you have not told us yet what brought you over here,
just now ?"
" Voii must ask my friend."
" 1 think," said Franz, sj)eakitig in very Teutonic l"'reneli, "that
THE DROPPED GLOVE. 309
we came from Munich to England to look over a white gate at a
house, and then go back again."
" Was the house called Burnham House, Monsieur Vogl ?" asked
Heatherleigh.
" I believe it was, sir."
" Then I knew of one man who might have done such a thing;
but I did not fancy that Europe held two."
" Be satisfied with the discovery," I said, " and let us talk of
something else. I suppose my mother is well ; and her young
companion, is she also well ?"
" Yes," said Heatherleigh, hastily, " they are both well, as you
know. But what do you intend doing ? What do you mean by
living at a hotel when you might be at home?"
" Because we did not wish it to be known that we were in
England. We only came over for a day or two, that my friend
might have a look at our English wild-flowers in the spring sun-
shine ; and we intended running back immediately. But now I
suppose we may as well see everybody properly, and in as little
time as possible, and then go back."
This, in effect, was what was forced upon us by our being dis-
covered. We still remained at the Langham for convenience sake ;
but we spent most of our time in hurriedly visiting people between
the hours of Franz's sightseeing. Polly was overjoyed to show
herself off as an expectant bride ; and yet you could not help be-
ing charmed by the odd mixture of humor and frank jollity which
accompanied her evident self-satisfaction. My mother, too, seemed
to look upon the match as greatly the result of her care in edu-
cating Polly ; and took every pains to show oflE the accomplish-
ments which Polly modestly tried to conceal.
Bonnie Lesley I saw twice. On our first meeting, she began the
history of her engagement with Mr. Morell in a deprecatory sort
of way, as if she felt it necessary to excuse herself to me. I fan-
cied I detected a touch of chagrin in her tone when she saw that
I scarcely understood this effort on her part, and was certainly in
no great anxiety to remove scruples which I could not compre-
hend. This odd feeling soon wore off, as she grew confidential
in the old fashion ; and at last she got to state the relations on
which she stood with her intended husband with a candor which
would have surprised any one who did not know her as well as I
did,
310 KILMENY.
" I think Mr. Heatherleigh was right," sho said, carelessly and
with much apparent self-satisfaction ; " I am not capable of a grand
passion — I wish I was ; but you can't make yourself do these
things ; and it is perhaps as well, for it might make one very un-
happy. I like Mr. Morell very well, lie is good-tempered and
clever ; he admires me, I know, and thinks I will preside proper-
ly at his dinner-table; and that I know I shall do. We get on
remarkably well together, and I think we shall be very happy."
" I certainly hope so."
" You may say there is not much romance in all that. But I
scarcely see anybody who is romantic around me ; and I think we
shall be very much like other people. It is not a mercenary mar-
riage, either; for he makes only a moderate income, and what I
have is no great inducement to a man moving in such circles as
he knows. He has expectations, certainly ; and I hope we shall
be able to meet our friends on equal terms, and not have to be
stingy."
Bonnie Lesley had grown much more matter-of-fact in tone
since I had first known her, and there was less of pretty wonder
in her eyes.
She added, after a pause —
" You see, it is not what you would call a love-match, nor is it a
marriage made up for money. It is simply two people who think
they can get on comfortably in each other's society, who like each
other, and hope to continue to like each other. Upon my word, I
think most people marry like that. These wonderful love-affairs
only happen between boys and girls, and they never come to any-
thing ; for the boy can't marry just then, and the girl ages more
rapidly than he, and finds she can't wait for him, and marries
somebody else."
" And he has a broken heart for a few weeks, and then turns
to his business or profession, and gets older and wiser, and marries
a woman much better suited to him in every way, and leads an
ordinarily happy life. Didn't you try to give me the first part of
that experience ?"
" Now, that is unkind," she said, " after T told you 1 was so sor-
ry, and you agreed to forget it."
" I revived it only to tell you li()W near yo\i were succeeding."
"Was I, indeed?" she said, with a j»leased surprise. "Were
y<»u very near falling wildly in love with mc?"
THE DROPPED GLOVE. 311
" Very near, 1 think — until, one day, while I was sitting beside
you, I looked up and saw a face that I knew, in an instant, I had
loved all along, without scarcely knowing it."
" I know what you mean," she said, " and your manner was
changed to me ever after that day."
Presently she added in another tone —
" I suppose Mr. Heatherleigh will rather laugh at our marriage,
and say it is an ordinary social bargain, or something like that."
" I don't think he will do anything of the kind. Won't you
tell me now why you constantly fancy he is saying ill-natured
things of you, and putting the worst possible construction on
everything you do ?"
But she would not tell, nor would Heatherleigh ever breathe a
word upon the subject ; and it was only by haphazard, some
eighteen months thereafter, that I was enabled to unravel the
mystery. A little fit of very uncalled-for jealousy on the part of
Polly was the means of letting me into the secret. From the
moment that Polly saw herself the future wife of the man whom
of all others she most admired and worshipped, I fancy she was
rather given to grudging him his acquaintance with fine folks,
and, above all, with fine young ladies. The weakness was a nat-
ural one, but Polly knew it was a weakness, and labored to get
rid of it ; nevertheless she occasionally exhibited little fits of en-
vious depreciation of those who, she fancied, were attracting too
much of her husband's attention. Among these she placed Bon-
nie Lesley, and seemed to dislike that young lady more, I am cer-
tain, than circumstances warranted.
"Heatherleigh never liked Bonnie Lesley, you may take my
word for it," I said to Polly, after both she and Bonnie Lesley
were married.
" 1 know it," she said, sharply ; " for she proposed to him, and
he refused her, and she hated him ever after, because he told a
mutual friend that she was born without a soul. There !" she
added, breaking into a humorous laugh, " I have told you the se-
cret: but I could not help it. Though I think, after that, he
ought to have stayed away from the Lewisons' and never seen
Bonnie Lesley again, that she might forget it."
" I have no doubt he went there that she might learn to think
it of no consequence, and so forget it."
Franz and I remained for yet a few days in England, in ordej
312 KILMENY.
to pay a flying visit to the Cumberland lakes, with which my
friend was enchanted. It was perhaps a, cruel thing to show that
piece of scenery to a man who was going back to Munich.
On the day preceding our departure we were to go up to the
Lewisons' to bid them and Miss Lesley good-bye. We went, by
appointment, in the morning. Shortly after we arrived, Mr. Lew-
ison, having to go into the city, left ; and Mrs. Lewison taking
Franz to show him her husband's collection of pictures, I was left
alone with Bonnie Lesley.
" What do you think of all that I told you the other day ?" she
asked. " What do you think of my marriage ?"
" I think that you and Mr. Morell will get on very well togeth-
er; fori fancy you will take pretty much the same views of most
things."
" Now that is just it," she said. " Don't you think wc should
be running a great risk if either of us was nursing a grand ro-
mantic passion ? Haven't you seen two people married, the one
of them very practical, sensible, and matter-of-fact ; the other very
romantic, and very miserable because he or she can't get the other
to be responsive to the sentiment,"
" There is no use in saying ' he or she,' " I said. " In such a case,
it ib always the man who is romantically fond of his wife, and the
wife who is matter-of-fact."
" Did you ever see two people married, who were both capable
of a grand romantic passion, you know — of heroic sentiment, and
picturesque resolves? IIow would two such people condescend
to be bothered by ordinary company ? Wouldn't they always be
wanting to be in a boat in the moonlight; even although she had
a house to look after, and he had — "
The door opened, and Mrs. Lewison and Franz appeared. There
was a third figure; and there was something in the look of Bon-
nie Lesley's face that told me who it was. I knew that the figure
was small and dressed in black, and then I turned and looked up,
and found the beautiful eyes of Kilmeny there.
What did they say? There was merely an embarrassed sur-
prise in them ; and I saw that the meeting, which had been
planiiecl by Bonnie Lesley, was as unexpected by Hester Burn-
liam as it had been by me.
She came forward.
" You will forgive me for not recognizing you the other day,"
THE DROPPED GLOVE. 313
she said, in her gentle, honest way. " But why did you not bring
your friend up to the house ?"
It was impossible, looking at those eyes, to make any sham ex-
cuse: she knew why I had avoided seeing her.
" It would have interested him, I dare say ; and I suppose he
has already told you how much he was delighted with the valley,
and all the scenery there, and Burnham ?"
" I never knew how pretty the place was until now," she said ;
and her eyes were wistful and far away.
" Now, young people," said Mrs. Lewison, " I can't let you go
down to this picture-exhibition without taking some lunch first."
" But you are coming, are you not, Mrs. Lewison ?" I asked.
"Hester will take my place, and look after you all, and bring
you back safely. She is already well acquainted with all the
mysterious duties of the chaperone and the housekeeper, and is,
indeed, the oldest young person I know. Are you not, Hester ?"
" A chaperone has only one duty," said Miss Lesley, " and that
is to get out of the way, or fall asleep at times ; and Hester is al-
ways in the way, and never sleeps. She is like a dormouse that
lies curled up and small and warm, and all the time is peeping at
you with two small bright eyes."
" But then, my dear," said Mrs. Lewison, " it can be of no con-
sequence to you, now, whether your chaperone sleeps or not."
" You mean it can be of no consequence to Mr. — "
But Bonnie Lesley stopped, and laughed and blushed, and Mr.
Morell's name was not mentioned.
It was finally arranged that the young ladies should get ready
to go out while luncheon was being prepared ; and so it was that
Franz and I were left alone,
" This is terrible," said he. " I do not know how to take lunch
with your English ladies. I shall commit a thousand gaucheries.''''
" Nonsense ! Only don't cut up your meat in small pieces to
start with, and don't put your knife to your mouth, and don't
praise anything unless you are asked. That is all."
Franz did not enjoy his lunch. In the first place, French was
a tribulation to him. Then he never dared touch anything, or
use any knife, spoon, or fork, until he had seen some one else do
so. But he acquitted himself perfectly ; and in due time we
were in the old, familiar dark-green brougham, and driving rap-
idly down towards Pall Mall.
O
314 KILMENV.
It was an exhibition of water-colors that we had arranged to
visit. But the exhibition had been open for a h^ng time ; and on
this particular morning there was not a human being in the place
except an old and benevolent-looking gentleman, with white hair,
who sat at a table placed in the middle of the room, and calmly
read the morning's news. The long room was warm and hushed ;
the only sound the occasional dr()p})ing of a bit of cinder from
the grate. The thick carpets dulled your footsteps as you walked
across ; and there was something in the close, still atmosphere
which tempted you, for no particular reason, to talk in a whisper.
I wondered that the elderly gentleman who presided over the cat-
alogues had not fallen asleep.
Then we walked straight into dreamland ; and found ourselves
in all manner of wonderful places — now looking down into some
Welsh glen, or fronting the great bridge and the broad stream and
the lofty Hradschin of Prague, the city of all cities that I love
the most. We had only to move a few inches in order to whisk
ourselves across a continent. A slight inclination of the head,
and we changed a gray and windy morning into a calm and yel-
low evening. Here were bits of sea ofT the Essex coast, cold and
pale, and studded with the black hulls of smacks ; and here were
sunny glimpses of the white houses and green vines of Capri ;
and here were stretches of dark Scotch moors, lonely and bleak ;
and warm sunsets down among the Surrey hills; and snow-scenes
in the icy wilds of Russia, All these things I saw reflected in
Kilmeny's eyes ; and I fancied that her face caught a glow from
the sunsets, and that the windy coast-scenes seemed to bring a
tinge of heightened color to her cheek. We two had wandercil
up to the top of the room by ourselves, to look at a picture that
was marked in the catalogue as " Sunset in the Oberinnthal."
This picture was not the grandest jn-rformance one could have
wished. It was melodramatic in conception, and pretentious in
style ; yet it was exceedingly like the great valley that stretches
along to Innsbruck, and it gave an excellent notion of the intense
quiet and solitariness of the place. The sun was down, and while
the peaks of the limestoiK^ mountains stood bare and red in the
pale green sky, down in the valley there lay cold mists, with a few
oraiigi! j»oints gleaming through the dusk, where a village lay in
the valley. There was no otluT sign of life; everytliing was as
motionless and still as the. thin white crescent of the moon that
was faintly visililc in the glow of the sunset.
THE DROPPED GLOVE. 315
" You have just been there," she said.
" Yes. We walked all down the valley, by the road you see
there ; and it was as still and quiet as you see it, for we came
along there in the evening. Don't you think it is a very beau-
tifuf valley?"
We had both sat down, opposite the picture, and behind a
centre-screen which stood in the middle of the floor. So still was
the place, and so completely did this temporary partition cut us
off even from our two companions, that it was almost possible to
imagine that we were really in the Oberinnthal, under the pale
sunset. The eyes of Kilmeny were full of that sunset. They
had the strange, dreamlike, distant look that I had often noticed
in them — when, if you spoke to her, she seemed to have to recall
herself from a trance before she could answer.
" I wish that we two could be there now," I said to her.
I had grown so bold, you see ; for it was as if I were talking in a
dream, and as if she were far away from me and could hardly hear.
" If you and I could be down there, in that valley, away from
England," I said — and I scarcely knew that I was anxious and
supplicating as I watched her face — " I would tell you that I
loved you dearly ; that I have worshipped you from afar off so
long, not daring to speak to you ; that I have always loved you,
ever since I used to watch for you, years ago, coming down from
Burnham. And if we were there by ourselves, you would not be
angry with me, I think, if I said all that. You might tell me to
leave you ; but you would grant something to the love that I have
for you, and let us part as friends."
Then I knew that her eyes had come back from the picture,
and were looking at me earnestly and sadly ; and her face was
pale.
" You would say that if we were in Germany ?" she said, in her
low, tender tones.
"And you would believe what I said," I answered, looking into
her beautiful face.
"But it is too soon to say it here, in England?"
With that she rose and turned away, so that I could not meet
her eyes to learn what she was thinking. But at the same mo-
ment I saw her rapidly take off one of her gloves ; and somehow,
before I knew what had occurred, the pale little token was lying
just beside my hand, where she had dropped it,
316 KILMENY.
Then she went, and I remained for a second or two stupefied,
and scarcely daring to believe that I was in actual, secret posses-
sion of this glove. I rose, stunned with a new, bewildering sense
of joy that could find no outlet or expression ; and I saw that she
had joined Miss Lesley and Franz.
Did they notice how pale she was? Did they notice that one
small hand was bare ? That, at least, I saw, and my joy was un-
speakable ; for the little, white hand of my darling told me that
the glove I held was real, and mine.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
OUR TRUSTY COUSIN.
" What do you think, then, of England as a place to live in ?"
I asked of Franz, as we stood on the deck of the Calais boat, and
saw the wavering lights of Dover grow momentarily more and
more dim in the distance.
" I am not an Englishman," said Franz. " I can't give you a
decided opinion about a country, and its people and its politics,
from having stayed a week in it."
" Well, you can say whether you would like to remain a year
or two in London, for example."
"I could not do it. London seems a nice place for people with
plenty of money and plenty of friends. For me, I should prob-
ably shoot myself after a month of it. How should 1 spend my
evenings? I could not go to the theatres every night, even if
they were better than they seem to be. Your music-halls arc the
natural resort of your young men who wish to amuse themselves
in the evening; and they — "
Franz shrugged his shoulders.
" For my part," he said, " I did not understand the songs. Per-
haps they were clever. But I do not see the reason why men and
women should a[)plaud and laugh merely because a man comes on
the stage in the dress of a dandy. He can sing no more than a
cow — the words of the song may be good — "
" My dear fritiud, the wit of the song lies in the color and size
of the singer's neckerchiefj"
OUR TRUSTY COUSIN. 31 7
" Then the outrageous indecency of the place, with the police
stationed as guardians — "
" But there is one where no such indecency is permitted — "
" Why," said Franz, with another shrug, " if decency only means
conjuring tricks and ventriloquism, and the efforts of a man to
swing chairs with his teeth, indecency is likely to be more popu-
lar. No, your London is not to me a lively place. It is too eager
and busy, too hurried and too ostentatious. I like your old coun-
try towns better ; they look as if the people in them were content
to live reasonably and peaceably. You — will you live in London
or in that valley, when your Lehrjahre and Wanderjahre are all
over ?"
" I ? When a dozen years of hard work have brought me suf-
ficient money to rent Burnham House, I mean to live there."
" The young lady does not mean to sell it, then ?"
" She will never sell it, if she can help it ; and I fancy she will
only let it until she has got as much money as will enable her to
go back there, free from the difficulties in which her cousin entan-
gled her."
" And in the mean time ?"
"In the mean time she is going to live abroad — for the sake
of cheapness, I suppose."
" Shall we see her in Munich ?" said Franz.
" How should I know ?"
" She is interested in Munich, at all events," said Franz. " She
sent that message to us at the gates of Burnham, just on the
chance of our having come from Munich."
" How do you know ?"
" She told me yesterday morning, when she came into the room
where Madame — your friend with the unpronounceable name — and
I were. She recognized me at once. She was very gracious to
me, and we had a walk around the pictures ; and I became so good
friends with her that I wished I could have sat down and played
my zither for her. But I saw that I made a blunder."
" How ?"
" I was telling her stories, prompted by the different pictures,
you know ; and I told her by accident of a poor ignorant devil of
a painter down in Waldshut who was painting a crucifix, and put
' R. S. V. P.' instead of ' I. N. R. I.' over it. What was there in
that ? Nothing. But she did not like it, I could see ; and I
318 KILMENY.
blamed myself for talking freely to one of your English ladies,
without knowing their peculiar sensitiveness. Your English-
women seem very tender about their religion, and a little too
apprehensive, I think, that you may be an enemy, when you m-e
thinking of something quite different."
" But the religion of the country rests with them at present,"
I said, " and they do right to be vigilant sentinels. Whenever
they imagine they see the figure of Irreverence stalking in the
distance — "
" They raise a clamor like that which saved the Capitol," said
Franz.
I suppose Amphitrite must have heard this remark, and stirred
up her husband to revenge her sex ; for, as we neared the French
coast, the motion of the vessel became much more marked, and
Franz, against all persuasion, was fain to take the fatal step of
going below. When he reappeared, as the boat was being made
fast to the stone walls of Calais pier, the glare of a lamp showed
that his face was very white, and there was a general air of help-
lessness about his person.
" I won't go straight on to Cologne," he said, when he got into
the train. " I shall stop the day in Brussels, and go on to-mor-
row."
" Very well," said I, " and you will give me a little dinner at
the Deux Rois."
We spent the day therefore in that most English of all foreign
towns, and, having dined at the hostelry aforesaid, were going
down to the Theatre de la Monnaie. In passing through the
Avenue de la Reine, which was crowded with people, who walked
up and down and stared at each other and the glaring shops, Franz
and I found ourselves behind three men who were clearly Eng-
lish in costume and appearance. At the first glance I fancied 1
recognized the figure of one of them ; ami as we drew nearer, he
turned to look in at a cigar-shop. I saw then that he was a man
of about thirty-five, dressed rather ostentatiously, who was more
than suspected of being a bilhard-sharpcr when we were at Bright-
on. At all events, he was politely rcijiicsted by more than one
hotel-manager not to make his appearance again in their billiard-
rooms; and it was understood that he received the iiitinuition
meekly.
The sec(Ui(l of the group was a handsome and lie;ilthy-looking
OUR TRUSTY COUSIN. 319
boy of about eighteen, who was neatly and fashionably dressed,
and who had an unmistakable look of virgin greenness about his
face. He was a gentlemanly-looking lad, and his face gave you
the impression that his sisters would probably be remarkably
pretty. When he turned, also, to look in at the display of meer-
schaum-pipes in the tobacconist's window, I caught sight of his
other companion. It was Alfred Burnham. He looked twenty
years older than when I had seen him last ; and there was a hard,
hawk-like look about his face that was far from being prepos-
sessing. He was well-dressed, too ; but he had lost the swagger-
ing air he used to assume.
What struck me as being very peculiar was the officious com-
plaisance which both these men paid to the boy between them.
Alfred Burnham had never, as a rule, striven to make himself
very agreeable to the people around him ; but now he was trying
to look particularly amiable, and was doing his best to ingratiate
himself with the young man beside him. So, also, with his friend
from Brighton, whose eagerness to be of service was more that
of a valet than of a companion.
The object of these favors did not seem quite to relish them.
There was a certain coldness in his responses to his amiability ;
but, all the same, he seemed to assent to a proposition that they
made, and the three walked off together.
I told Franz who they were.
"Shall we follow them?" he said. "We may see more with
them than in the theatre."
We did follow them, but we had not far to go. They entered
a restaurant, went up-stairs and ordered some wine. It was rath-
er a fashionable place ; and, as the dining-rooms were down-
stairs, this room, with its red-velvet chairs and couches, and its
small marble tables, was kept as a coffee and smoking room. It
was a large place, and there were two or three people in it, some
talking, others smoking and playing dominoes. Franz and I sat
down at one of the tables out in the middle of the floor, where
there was least light ; while we could easily see the other three,
who were under the glare of the reflection from the white wall.
We could also hear what they said at times, as they seemed to
have every confidence in no one but themselves understanding
English.
They played dominoes, at five francs the game, and fifty centimes
320 KILMENV.
eac'li time a double-six was played. This comparatively harmless
form of amusement was proceeded with for some time, while wine
was liberally drunk. It was noticeable, however, that, out of
mere courtesy, Alfred Burnham kept his young friend's glass con-
stantly filled ; and as the latter was smoking what seemed a
strong and oily cigar, he drank at the same time a good deal of
the sparkling, pale wine that was so generously offered him.
" I have won eight francs," said Burnham, with a laugh. " I
must go home now, and carry off my winnings. How much have
you won, my lord?"
" Twenty-six or twenty-seven," said the young man, with a
louder laugh ; and his eyes were now flushed.
" Then I must be the loser," said the oldest of the three, with
a resigned air. " Such is luck. Shall we go back to the hotel
now, Sir Charles ?"
So Mr. Burnham had become Sir Charles Somebody.
" Yes," said Sir Charles, rising, and concealing a yawn ; " 1 feel
rather tired."
" Let us make a sweepstakes of our winnings, Sir Charles," said
the young man. " I will put my twenty-six francs against yuur
eight, and we will cut for it."
" I could not be guilty of such a piece of robbery," said Burn-
ham, with another laugh. " But if you mean to cut until one of us
shall have h^st his winnings, let us do it with cards. Here, gur^on /"
" Oui, m'sieur !"
"Allez, apportez-moi — achetez pour moi un — un — un jeu de
cartes anglaises ; comprenez-vous ? II faut (ju'elles soient neuves."
" Bien, m'sieur !"
Burnham turned to his companions with a sort of apology for
his hesitating French, and remarked that it was a j»ity all the
world had not been born in Buckinghamshire.
"You know Bucks?" said the young man, with a vinous de-
light. " Why, there is no one in the county I don't know. Are
you acijuaintcd with the Bcckfords?"
"No," replied Alfred Burnham, hastily. "I said Bucks by
cliance. I know little of the eounty beyond having ridden
through it once or twice. I am from the north."
" Vrou\ the fens, or the Ridings, or — "
" Westmorelanil," said Sir Charles ; and then he abniptly
changed the subject.
OUR TRUSTY COUSIN. 321
The cards were brought, and some more wine. They cut for
francs at first, and Sir Cliarles won. Then they cut for five francs,
in order to get it over the sooner ; and fortune kept pretty steady.
" You must let me join," said the person from Brighton. " I
can't let you have all the fun to yourselves. Suppose that I, too,
have won twenty-five francs ; and let us go on cutting until some
one has won the whole."
" Agreed," said Sir Charles ; and they went on shuffling and
cutting the cards.
Now this ingenious game of winning or losing money by cut-
ting for the highest card is a sufficiently fair trial of chances,
under ordinary circumstances ; but the young gentleman who was
thus amusing himself must have been particularly innocent when
he did not perceive that the odds were considerably against his
winning. He did not seem to reflect on the possibility of his two
opponents being in collusion, however ; and so they went on
drinking and smoking and cutting the cat*ds, until, by an easy
transition, sovereigns came to be staked instead of francs, and at
length I saw mysterious pieces of paper being handed across the
table, with a scrawled signature thereon.
It did not occur to him to ask what was the value of the I. O.U.'s
against which he was staking his own signature.
" Hadn't we better stop ?" said the eldest of them.
" No, no," said the young man, who was now half-tipsy. " Let
us have one or two more — good big ones. I have lost t' much.
Luck must turn."
But there was no luck in the matter. There was a dead cer-
tainty of his losing ; and he lost.
" How these things mount up with your confounded ' double
or quits !' " said Burnham to his colleague. " Do you know how
much money I have won from you ?"
" Haven't the faintest idea !" said the other ; and, indeed, there
was little reason why he should care.
"One hundred and thirty-two pounds, as near as I can make
out."
" The devil !"
" And how much do I owe you, my lord ?" said Burnham.
The young man pushed all the bits of paper over to him.
" Look for yourself !" he said, with an indolent, intoxicated
gesture. " I can't make head or tail of them."
02
322 KILMENY.
Alfred Burnliam looked over the papers.
" By Jove !" he said, " I find that I owe you £G0. Shall I
give an I. O. U. for the amount to Mr. Temple, and that will be so
much towards what you owe him ? Then he can arrange with
me, when he pays me what he owes me."
" All right, all right ; it will save trouble. Then I owe you
something still, Mr. — Mr. Temple ?"
" Yes, my lord," said Temple, calmly holding out certain pieces
of paper. "I find here I. O. U.'s for £380. With the £60 de-
ducted, the amount will be £320."
The boy was sobered in an instant.
, "Three hundred and twenty !" he said, as he rose to his feet,
with his face blanched — perhaps more with anger than with dis-
may.
I think ho would have broken into some angry denunciations
but that both of the two men kept their eyes fixed on him, and
Temple said, coldly —
" Yes, my lord, that is the sum. Will you give me a note of
hand for the whole amount, or shall I call upon you at your hotel
with these papers?"
" Come to my hotel to-morrow morning," said the lad ; and
the way in which he said so showed that he now perceived the
character of the men with whom lie was dealing.
At this moment I walked over to the small table at which they
sat, and lit a bit of paper at the gas overhead. While doing so
I looked at Alfred Buniham, and he grew suddenly pale.
"Ah, how do you do, Mr. liuniham ?" I said; "who would
have expected to see you in Brussels ?"
The boy looked on in amazement. To hear Sir Charles ad-
dressed as Mr. Burnliam told him whatever he had not already
divined.
" Who the are you? 1 don't know you !" said Burnliam,
furiously.
"I am sorry for that," T said, light iiig my cigar, "for I have
just seen several of your friends in Kiiglaiid, who would be glad
of your address. They seem to have lost sight of you since you
left— Westmoreland."
i li.id nearly said Burnli.iin, but 1 remembered on the instant
that the young lord had l)()astt«l Of his acquaintance with every
family in Bucks, and I thought that he might connect this man
OUR TRUSTY COUSIN. 323
with the lady who was known to be the mistress of Burnham
House. Had I had less interest in the matter, I should have been
even then loth to have Hester Burnham recognized as a friend or
relative of a common swindler. Meanwhile, the hint about his
address seemed to have maddened him. He swore a furious oath,
and jumped to his feet. Franz came over just then, and also pro-
duced a cigar.
" Was wunscht der Dummkopf ?" he said, coolly.
" For God's sake, let us have no fighting," said Temple.
" As you please," I said ; " but perhaps you will give this young
gentleman your real names and addresses when next you play
with him. And perhaps, before he pays you to-morrow, he will
get somebody to inquire about them. Good-evening, Mr. Burn-
ham."
So Franz and I turned and left.
" Lucky for you," said Franz, " that Burnham hadn't a revolver
in his pocket. I never saw a man so clearly look murder as he
did just now."
The lad who had been playing with them came running down
after us, and overtook us just as we were leaving.
" Wliat am I to do ?" he said — " what am I to do ? I have been
swindled. I have been robbed."
" You might have found that out a little earlier," said I.
" But I won't pay these I. O. U.'s— "
" You will be a considerable ass if you do. Go straight up to
the Commissary of Police ; state your case, and ask his advice.
If either calls for payment in the morning — which is far from
likely — refer him to your friend the Commissary, and recommend
him to leave Brussels."
" How can I ever thank you sufficiently ? It is not the amount,
but the disgrace of being swindled, that I should have dreaded.
How can I repay you ?"
" Well, in this way. When you tell your English friends how
two of your countrymen tried to swindle you, don't say that one
of them was called Burnham. He will achieve fame soon enough.
That is all I ask of you."
" I promise faithfully. But — but won't yoii come and dine
with me ?"
I believe the boy was actually afraid of being left alone, lest his
friends the card-players should follow and threaten him.
324 KILMENY.
" Thank you," I said ; " I fancied you had dined sufficiently
before you sat down to play cards with two strangers. And we
were going to the theatre, when the amusement of watching you
and them enticed us to Avait. We shall be in time for the operet-
ta, however ; and so, good-night !"
"Good-night; and thank you very much."
"Your English families should keep their children in the nurs-
ery until they are able to take care of themselves out-of-doors,"
said Franz.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
IN MUNICH AGAIN.
LiNELE was in a particularly kindly mood when we arrived.
Franz had merely called at his lodgings in passing, to leave his
luggage and top-coat, and bring his zither with him ; then we
drove on in the droschke to the Konigin Strasse, and made our
appearance in the Professor's house.
Lena received us with the dignity of a small empress. She
allowed Franz to kiss her hand ; and answered in a stately man-
ner his inquiries after the health of Annele. But her decorum
quite broke down when Franz took out of a box a remarkably
pretty fan, and presented it to her. She looked at it all round,
and opened it, and shut it, and then kissed it atfectioiiately, and
put it in the box again. I think she would have kissed Franz,
too, if nobody had been by ; for had he not brought a handsome
vtjiume of engravings for ihc Ilcrr Papa, and a wonderful case of
housewifely implements, all real English cutlery, for the Frau
Mamma? No prospective son-in-law could have done more.
The evening was devoted to the questioning of Franz about his
foreign experiences. The Professor would know everything about
the galleries, and the architecture of the principal towns, and so
forth ; Linele's mamma was curious to know how people lived in
a land that was so full of n)oney — what and when they ate, and
whether everything was comfortable in proportion to its expense ;
whilf Lena herself would know how the young ladies of London
looked, and where they walked in the constant rains and fogs,
and what sort of dresses they wore in such a climate. Then she
IN MUNICH AGAIN. 325
took out the fan again, and asked Franz if he had seen the opera-
house filled with the richest ladies in the world, and whether they
were all loaded with diamonds, and gleaming in white satins and
silks.
" Papa," cried Linele, petulantly, " I don't believe he has been
in England at all. He has seen nothing diflEerent, nothing strange ;
and I believe they have been away hiding somewhere, to escape
their painting, and play billiards and go to the theatre. It is
wicked of them to deceive us, isn't it, papa ? And you won't take
the engravings, will you ? — and I will give him back the fan, for
it never came from England, I know !"
The Professor looked up in mute bewilderment. He had been
looking at an engraving of one of Turner's Italian landscapes, and
had got lost there. But the mamma said —
" Now, now, Linele, don't bother Mr. Frank, when he has been
so kind to you. And you have never even thanked Mr. Edward
for the pretty necklace he has given you — "
" But I have put it round my neck : isn't that enough for him ?"
said Linele, proudly.
" And, instead of bothering the gentlemen, you might go and
get up two bottles of the red Rhinewine, since this is a grand oc-
casion — "
" But we have just been drinking beer as we came along," said
Franz.
" That doesn't matter," said the Frau Professor, with a sage nod
of the head. "You know what they say —
' Wein auf Bier, das rath' ich dir ;
Bier auf Wein, das lass du sein!'
There is sense in that. Go along with you, Lena, and make your-
self useful."
Presently Lena appeared, making a great fuss about carrying
the two bottles of Assmanshauser, and pretending to be greatly
fatigued by their weight. Then she placed them jauntily on the
table, and went for glasses, and put them down with a saucy
air.
" In England, young ladies don't wait upon gentlemen," said
Lena, with a toss of her head.
"Move's the pity, then," said her mother, sharply. "What do
they do then, I wonder ?"
326 KILMENY.
" They drive in carriages, and dress in silk, and sit at ta-
ble like queens, and have all the gentlemen serve them," said
Linele.
" And have the gentlemen nothing to do, either ?" said the
mamma, with a touch of scorn.
" They can't do anything better than wait upon ladies," retort-
ed Linele.
" Your head is full of wool, Lena," said the mamma ; and that
stopped the discussion for the moment.
So we settled down to our ordinary work again ; and in process
of time I got my " Wolundur " finished. The Professor had
taken great interest in the progress of the work, and had mate-
rially helped me by plenty of sound suggestion and able criticism.
I was beginning to feel my way more surely now, and to be able
to test in a measure the value of what I was doing. " Kilmeny "
had been more of a surprise to myself than it could have been to
anybody else ; but the technical knowledge I had acquired under
the Professor's care, added to the effect of his lectures upon tlie
various qualities of the Pinathotliek masters, gave me a better no-
tion of what I could do, and what I could not do, myself. 1 knew
that this picture was freer in manner and altogether more mature
than its predecessor; and I was so far convinced of this that I
formed the project of offering "Wolundur" to Mr. Webb in ex-
change for "Kilmeny," which I was desirous, for many reasons,
of getting into my own hands.
When it was finished, I consigned the picture to lleatherleigh's
care. He had undertaken to send it into the Academy. In the
interin), however, I received a long letter from him, expressing his
<^>wn opinions about tlie tiling, and saying that he had shown it,
among others, to the Jew-dealer whom I knew.
"lie offers you," lie wrote, " foiir Imndred guineas for the
work. I hope your brain won't be turned by the announcement,
which means more than you fancy. Old Solomons pays a man
according to the rcimtatioii Ik^ has made; merely because it is
that alone which has any weight with the majority of his custom-
ers; and therefore you may have some idea of what 'Kihneny'
has earned for you. But I wouhl not close with him, if 1 were
you. Send the picture into lln' Academy, and let it take its
chance. If it docs what I expect it will do, you will be iniindiitdd
with commissions, which for yet a year or two you should under-
IN MUNICH AGAIN. 327
take most sparingly. The results of your stay in Munich are ap-
parent in every part of this picture," etc., etc.
He was strongly opposed to ray bartering the picture for " Kil-
meny ;" but seeing that I persisted in the notion, he went to Mr.
Webb and laid the matter before him. Then, as before and since,
that gentleman acted in a manner which any one, regarding his
dry, timid manner and cold look, would scarcely have expected
from him. That is to say, instead of treating me, a stranger to
him, in an ordinary businesslike manner, he showed a frank gen-
erosity and fairness which, I regret to say, surprised me. For I
had not met many English gentlemen ; and there still hung about
me a half-conscious apprehension, begotten of my experience of
Weavle, that every stranger to you must necessarily be on the out-
look to take advantage of you for his own benefit.
As, before, Mr. Webb placed himself, as a purchaser, in open
competition with everybody else. Having seen the picture, he
expressed his willingness to give as much for it as any purchaser
might oflEer after it had been exhibited in the Academy — then to
deduct from this sum the price he had paid for " Kilmeny," and
send me the latter picture, with the difference in money.
The difference, when it came, was nearly two hundred guineas.
The draft was made payable on a Munich banker; and when I
got the slip of paper, I endeavored to fancy myself ten years
younger, and to picture what I should have thought in Weavle's
shop of becoming the owner of such a sum.
" Kilmeny " for the present was to remain with Mr. Webb ; it
was useless to send it over to Munich, when in a few months I
might be returning to England.
On receipt of this money, I kept up a good old English custom
in a foreign land. I invited the Professor, his wife, and Lena,
Franz, Silber, and one or two others, to a dinner at a restaurant.
The little black-eyed actress could not be persuaded to come, not-
withstanding it was represented to her that we should be in a pri-
vate room, and unseen by the vulgar gossips of the city. She
pleaded a late rehearsal, though I fancy her mamma's notions of
propriety had something to do with it.
We were a very merry party ; and even Silber forgot to look
miserable, and was for carrying his complaisance to the extent of
singing a song after dinner — a gratification which we managed to
escape. Instead we all went over to a box which I had secured
328 KILMENY.
at the Hoftheater ; and there Linele, who had dressed her hair in
the English fashion, sat like a little princess at the front of the
box, and displayed the gleaming fan that Franz had given her.
It was " Linda " they sang ; and the good mamma sat and
cried a little, covertly, over the pretty story of Linda's trials and
faithfulness, and ultimate reward.
CHAPTER XXXVIIL
KILMENY COMES HOME.
Was I free at last, only to be tired of my freedom ? I could
go where I liked ; I could spend my time as it pleased me ; I
had money at command, and was my own master; I was afraid
of no man, and knew that I had the power to compel the future
to be serviceable to me, so that I could take up my abode in any
part of Europe, and feel sure of being able to live there in com-
fort and peace.
Or I could travel about from city to city, from village to vil-
lage, stopping here and there as I chose, and seeing men and
manners and things. The world was before me ; and, in so much
as I cared for it, 1 was its master. I could make it yield me the
things that I wanted, for my needs were not groat. The chiefest
of them had been all along this freedom from control, and now I
had achieved it.
I had achieved it only to find that indoj)end('nce meant isola-
tion. There wore no kindly bonds of duty gnvorning my daily
actions, and yielding the pleasures of solf-sacritico. There was
no obligation connected with my art-efforts; on the contrary,
thoy were the keenest delight I experienced, and following thorn
was in no sense a duty. Outside of this pursuit, I had nothing
particular to live for; and I was beginning to weary of too much
content, that poor sort of sunshine that lights up the narrow world
of selfishness.
"Will Hester Burnham ever come to redeem her pledge?" 1
used to think. " Will it over happen that the dream I dreamed
in the Tyrol will rouw true, and we together shall go down through
the wcmderful valley, all by ourselves? \A'ill it ever happen that
KILMENY COMES HOME. 329
eacli day shall be filled with the numberless duties of love ; and
that I shall have to watch over my darling, and tend her, and
keep her safe from the cold winds and the rain ?"
There was no sign or word from her away in England. The
many letters I got from various people mentioned her only by
chance, and then said nothing definite. She was supposed to be
waiting to see how matters should be arranged about the letting
of Burnham, and the clearance of the obligations which her cous-
in's kindness had imposed upon her. Indeed, my correspondents
were too busy to waste much time in speculation. Bonnie Lesley
was preparing for her marriage ; Heatherleigh had married, and
was engaged in decorating with his own handiwork a small house
he had bought up at Harapstead. He and Polly had persuaded
my mother to go and live with them ; for Polly, said Heather-
leigh, would bother him all day in his studio unless she had some-
body else to talk to and make jokes with.
" But you ought not to take a mother-in-law into your house,"
said my mother, with a smile.
" But I shall want all your help," said Polly, wickedly. " For
you don't know what a miser he has grown of late ; and unless
we are two to one, it will be impossible to keep the house in any
comfort. Do you know, my dear, that five minutes after we w^ere
married, he took off his gloves, rolled them up, and put them in
his pocket, saying they would do for the first time we went to
the theatre ? Did miserliness ever go further ; and on his mar-
riage-day, too ?"
I learned, indeed, from my mother that Polly regarded her
housekeeping as an elaborate joke, and that she spent the better
part of the day in laughing over the eccentricities of an Irish
maid-servant who was in the house, and in laying traps to exhibit
the artless blunders of that young woman. Yet Polly, in spite
of her imitations of the butcher-boy, and her fits of laughter over
the courtesies of the milk-man to the Irish maid-servant aforesaid,
looked sharply and actively after her domestic affairs, and made
a capital wife. Heatherleigh, too, I heard, had grown ten years
younger since his marriage ; and he and Polly, when all the day's
work of each was over, and when they sat down to supper, were
in the habit of conducting themselves pretty much like a couple
of children, instead of two grown-up and married persons.
Such was the news that came from England ; and I was glad
330 KILMENY.
that, amid the din and clamor of eager money -getting, there were
some who could find a quiet household for themselves, and peace
therein. As for the houseless one — where was she ?
I forgot now to look with any interest across the trees of the
" English Garden." I had lost all hope of seeing her walk across
that patch of level green ; not that her coming was any less like-
ly than it had ever been, but that I had grown to see that it had
never been likely. The time for such miracles was over, and it
did no good to dream of them.
But one morning, as I was passing through the Promenaden-
platz, on my way to the Nibelungen frescos, I saw two ladies
pass into the courtyard of the Bavarian Hotel. I only caught a
glimpse of them as they turned the corner ; and yet that glimpse
made my heart beat. If it were really she, at last, and the small
Madame Laboureau ?
I walked up to the front of the courtyard, and looked in.
There was no one there but the ordinary troupe of commission-
aires, porters, and droschke- drivers. I begged permission, how-
ever, to look over the large board on which the names of the va-
rious visitors at the hotels are inscribed. I hurriedly went over
the bits of pasteboard — meeting with French countesses, German
barons, Russian princes, and what not ; but there was no mention
of the nartje I looked for, so I turned away. It was not the first
time I had been mistaken in fancying I saw the slight, graceful
figure I knew so well in the streets of Munich.
I went along to the Festsaalbau, met the Professor and one or
two of his students, and remained there for about an hour. Then
we left ; and, as the others were going down to the old Pinatho-
thek, I set out for a saunter up to the Tsar.
I suppose you kncjw the Max-Josephsplatz — the splendid square
which is surrounded by the palace and the theatre and tlie post-
office, which looks like another palace. As I turned into this
square — all bright and clear as it was in the sunlight — I saw,
cro.ssing the corner and coming towards me, the figure I had
seen in the morning. AVas it true, then, that the wjuidering pos-
sibility tli.it had haunted me through all these long months was
at last real and true? Was Hester Burnham really in Munich;
and should I actually luar her speak, away over here, in this strange
land?
I hastened after her, as she went across the square towards the
KILMENY COMES HOME. 331
Maximilian Strasse. She p;lanced up at the statue of the king, and
I saw the outline of her features. Then I overtook her, and she
stopped, and I found her hand in mine. There was a pale, strange
joy in her face.
" You have come to me at last," I said.
" Yes."
"For altogether?"
It was her eyes that spoke the answer ; and there, in the open
streets of Munich, I could have knelt down and kissed her
hand.
She and Madame Laboureau had arrived that morning; the
hotel people had not yet had time to put their names up. Ma-
dame was fatigued; and Hester had come out alone to buy some
gloves — hence the meeting. But when I inquired of her what
had brought her to Munich, she looked up, somewhat reproach-
fully, and asked, in that low and tender voice of hers, if I had
not expected her. We forgot about the gloves. We wandered
away from the city, and past the gates and the suburban houses.
There was a clear blue sky overhead, and occasionally a flock of
pigeons whirring past and gleaming in the white sunlight. She
and I had a whole lifetime to settle, and how fair was that future
that lay before us ! The light of it shone in her wistful eyes,
even while the English modulations of her voice, grown almost
unfamiliar to my car, recalled England and all the by-gone years.
Weavle had at last been cast behind, like Satan. The old days
in that Holborn workshop were like a nightmare that had fled be-
fore the morning sunlight. But do not think that this deliver-
ance was due to the fact that I had now more money than I had
then. God forbid that I should have written this history of my
life if I had so poor a triumph to tell in the end. It needed none
of Ileatherleigh's teaching to show me that money was not the
thing that made life most beautiful and valuable ; and, as Hester
and I spoke of the years that were to come, and as I told her how
I had escaped from the stifling atmosphere that hung over the
bitter struggle for existence in England, into the sweeter and se-
rener air that now surrounded us, it was no hope of riches that
lit up the prospect for us, and no desire of wealth that promised
to be the stimulant of our future. Yet we were bold enough to
think that some measure of good purpose might be done by us,
whether we lived in England or elsewhere, if we could only shed
332 KILMENY.
around 115; the influences of two lives wisely and honestly lived,
and made honorable and noble by the kindly servitude of love.
It was not very long after this time that I told my darlino- a
story. She and I were at Rolandseck, over the Rhine, and we
were all by ourselves there. It was late in the autumn, and all
the herd of tourists had gone home ; I think we were the only
visitors at the Hotel Billau, which overlooks the river. The nights
were drawing in now ; and when dinner was over, and we went
out upon the balcony, it was quite dark, and we could scarcely
see the great stream, though we heard its rippling down in front
of us. But the moon was slowly rising behind the heights of
Rolandseck; and so I wrapped my little friend in comfortable
shawls and furs, and together we waited for the cold night.
How still it was, and how beautiful too, when the calm, won-
derful radiance came over the hills behind, and showed us the
magical picture that lay around us. Far in the distance, touched
here and there with the moonlight, the great Drachenfels rose
from over the river up into the dark, .starlit sky. Down at our
feet the broad, still stream ran softly past, until it smote and
quivered in silver along the shores of the island of Nonnenwerth,
that lay out there, half hid in a pale, mystical haze. And high
over the island rose behind us, sharp and black, the wooded peak
on which the Knight Roland built his tower, that .so ho might
look down on his love, and watch her as she came out with her
.sister-nuns to walk around the cloisters of Nonnenwerth — until,
at last, he saw her funeral procession, and never spoke more.
Keener and clearer grew the light, until it shone on the gray
buildings of the island, and gleamed along the river that encircled
it. Here and there, too, were specks of orange light visible on
the other bank, where some cluster of cottages lay under the
shadf)W of the mighty Drachenfels; and we could hear, far down
the stream, the sound of some boatmen singing, as they moored
their barges clcse in by the .shore.
There was no need of much talking on such a night: it was
enough to sit, one great shawl over both of us, and look on the
wonderful river and the hills and the stars. But my darling,
nestling close and warm under her manifold plaids, bade me lei!
her yet one more tale ; and, as I had exhausted all I knew of
Rhenish legendary lore, I told her a .story of iMigland. And it
was this :
KILMENY COMES HOME. 333
" There was once a boy who used to wander all over the country
by night ; and he fell in love tvith a star. And he said —
'"0/i, you beautiful small creature/ come down ami be my
companion, and we will go through the world together, all these
coming years.^
"■But, as he xmlhed on, he saw a Will-o'-the-wisp shining in
the dark, and he said —
" ' Oh, you wonderful creature ! with your bright eyes and your
streaming hair, I have never seen anything so beautiful as you.
Come, and we will go through the world together, all these coming
years.''
" So they travelled on together. But in a little while the Will-
o'-the-wisp began to flicker up and down, and finally flew over a
hedge and disappeared ; and he ivas left in the dark.
" Then he looked up, and lo I above him there still shone the
star, and it was as gracious and as beautiful as ever. And he
said —
" ' Oh, you dear small creature f will you forgive me for what
I have done ; and will you always look down on me as you do
now, and I shall look up to you and love you .?' "
That was the question I asked of my darling as we sat together
there, under the shadows of Rolandseck. It is some time since
then ; and I who write these words am still looking up to this
beautiful creature, who has never ceased to shed her soft radiance
around me. Perhaps she is a little nearer earth now — but that
has only enlarged her brightness ; and, thinking over all these
things, and of her great affection, forbearance, and sweetness, how
can I help regarding her, my most tender and faithful friend, with
admiration and wonder and love ?
THE END
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