■ 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 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 yy 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- — 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 diu;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 anped 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, accicturi'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 alreaabel 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 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 aiiow. 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 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 yrovidiil 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 ; 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 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 {'5 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. •ttmmaimmmammam ^otoMMaiMlM Series 0482 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 001 405 841 6 3 1205 00384 5946 My 4W' ^;f&fmm);^^<: