{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_16415/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_16415","id":"gutenberg_16415","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16415","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Graeme Mackreth and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTales\n\nFrom Many Sources\n\nVol. V.\n\n\nNew York\n\nDodd Mead & Company\n\n1886\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n                                                         PAGE.\n\n   LOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE. BY JULIANA H. EWING.                 1\n\n   WILD JACK. FROM TEMPLE BAR.                              87\n\n   VIRGINIA. BY MRS. FORRESTER.                            145\n\n   MR. JOSIAH SMITH'S BALLOON VOYAGE. FROM BELGRAVIA.      172\n\n   NUMBER 7639. BY MARY FRANCES PEARD.                     137\n\n   GONERIL. BY A. MARY F. ROBINSON.                        239\n\n   OUT OF SEASON. FROM TEMPLE BAR.                         266\n\n\n\n\nLOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE\n\nINTRODUCTORY.\n\n\nLob Lie-By-The-Fire--the Lubber-fiend, as Milton calls him--is a rough\nkind of Brownie or House Elf, supposed to haunt some north-country\nhomesteads, where he does the work of the farm labourers, for no grander\nwages than\n\n   \"--to earn his cream bowl duly set.\"\n\nNot that he is insensible of the pleasures of rest, for\n\n   \"--When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,\n   His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn\n   That ten day-labourers could not end,\n   Then lies him down the Lubber-fiend,\n   And, stretched out all the chimney's length,\n   Basks at the fire his hairy strength.\"\n\nIt was said that a Lob Lie-by-the-fire once haunted the little old Hall\nat Lingborough. It was an old stone house on the Borders, and seemed to\nhave got its tints from the grey skies that hung above it. It was\ncold-looking without, but cosy within, \"like a north-country heart,\"\nsaid Miss Kitty, who was a woman of sentiment, and kept a commonplace\nbook.\n\nIt was long before Miss Kitty's time that Lob Lie-by-the-fire first came\nto Lingborough. Why and whence he came is not recorded, nor when and\nwherefore he withdrew his valuable help, which, as wages rose, and\nprices rose also, would have been more welcome than ever.\n\nThis tale professes not to record more of him than comes within the\nmemory of man.\n\nWhether (as Fletcher says) he were the son of a witch, if curds and\ncream won his heart, and new clothes put an end to his labours, it does\nnot pretend to tell. His history is less known than that of any other\nsprite. It may be embodied in some oral tradition that shall one day be\nfound; but as yet the mists of forgetfulness hide it from the\nstoryteller of to-day as deeply as the sea fogs are wont to lie between\nLingborough and the adjacent coast.\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE OLD LADIES.--ALMS DONE IN SECRET.\n\n\nThe little old ladies of Lingborough were heiresses.\n\nNot, mind you, in the sense of being the children of some mushroom\nmillionnaire, with more money than manners, and (as Miss Betty had seen\nwith her own eyes, on the daughter of a manufacturer who shall be\nnameless) dresses so fine in quality and be-furbelowed in construction\nas to cost a good quarter's income (of the little old ladies), but\ntrailed in the dirt from \"beggarly extravagance,\" or kicked out behind\nat every step by feet which fortune (and a very large fortune, too) had\nnever taught to walk properly.\n\n\"And how should she know how to walk?\" said Miss Betty. \"Her mother\ncan't have taught her, poor body! that ran through the streets of Leith,\nwith a creel on her back, as a lassie; and got out of her coach (lined\nwith satin, you mind, sister Kitty?) to her dying day, with a bounce,\nall in a heap, her dress caught, and her stockings exposed (among\nourselves, ladies!) like some good wife that's afraid to be late for the\nmarket. Aye, aye! Malcolm Midden--good man!--made a fine pocket of\nsilver in a dirty trade, but his women'll jerk, and toss, and bounce,\nand fuss, and fluster for a generation or two yet, for all the silks and\nsatins he can buy 'em.\"\n\nFrom this it will be seen that the little old ladies inherited some\nprejudices of their class, and were also endowed with a shrewdness of\nobservation common among all classes of north-country women.\n\nBut to return to what else they inherited. They were heiresses, as the\nlast representatives of a family as old in that Border country as the\nbold blue hills which broke its horizon. They were heiresses also in\ndefault of heirs male to their father who got the land from his uncle's\ndying childless, sons being scarce in the family. They were heiresses,\nfinally, to the place and the farm, to the furniture that was made when\nfolk seasoned their wood before they worked it, to a diamond brooch\nwhich they wore by turns, besides two diamond rings, and two black lace\nshawls, that had belonged to their mother and their Auntie Jean, long\nsince departed thither where neither moth nor rust corrupt the true\nriches.\n\nAs to the incomings of Lingborough, \"It was nobody's business but their\nown,\" as Miss Betty said to the lawyer who was their man of business,\nand whom they consulted on little matters of rent and repairs at as much\nlength, and with as much formal solemnity, as would have gone elsewhere\nto the changing hands of half a million of money. Without violating\ntheir confidence, however, we may say that the estate paid its way, kept\nthem in silk stockings, and gave them new tabbinet dresses once in three\nyears. It supplied their wants the better that they had inherited house\nplenishing from their parents, \"Which they thanked their stars was not\nmade of tag-rag, and would last their time,\" and that they were quite\ncontent with an old home and old neighbours, and never desired to change\nthe grand air that blew about their native hills for worse, in order to\nbe poisoned with bad butter, and make the fortunes of extortionate\nlodging-house keepers.\n\nThe rental of Lingborough did more. How much more the little old ladies\ndid not know themselves, and no one else shall know, till that which was\ndone in secret is proclaimed from the housetops.\n\nFor they had had a religious scruple, founded upon a literal reading of\nthe scriptural command that a man's left hand should not know what has\nright hand gives in alms, and this scruple had been ingeniously set at\nrest by the parson, who, failing in an attempt to explain the force of\nEastern hyperbole to the little ladies' satisfaction, had said that Miss\nBetty, being the elder, and the head of the house, might be likened to\nthe right hand, and Miss Kitty, as the younger, to the left, and that if\nthey pursued their good works without ostentation, or desiring the\napplause even of each other, the spirit of the injunction would be\nfulfilled.\n\nThe parson was a good man and a clever. He had (as Miss Betty justly\nsaid) a very spiritual piety. But he was also gifted with much\nshrewdness in dealing with the various members of his flock. And his\nword was law to the sisters.\n\nThus it came about that the little ladies' charities were not known even\nto each other--that Miss Betty turned her morning camlet twice instead\nof once, and Miss Kitty denied herself in sugar, to carry out benevolent\nlittle projects which were accomplished in secret, and of which no\nrecord appears in the Lingborough Ledger.\n\n\n\nAT TEA WITH MRS. DUNMAW.\n\n\nThe little ladies of Lingborough were very sociable, and there was, as\nthey said, \"as much gaiety as was good for anyone\" within their reach.\nThere were at least six houses at which they drank tea from time to\ntime, all within a walk. As hosts or guests, you always met the same\npeople, which was a friendly arrangement, and the programmes of the\nentertainments were so uniform, that no one could possibly feel awkward.\nThe best of manners and home-made wines distinguished these tea parties,\nwhere the company was strictly genteel, if a little faded. Supper was\nserved at nine, and the parson and the lawyer played whist for love with\ndifferent partners on different evenings with strict impartiality.\n\nSmall jealousies are apt to be weak points in small societies, but there\nwas a general acquiescence in the belief that the parson had a friendly\npreference for the little ladies of Lingborough.\n\nHe lived just beyond them, too, which led to his invariably escorting\nthem home. Miss Betty and Miss Kitty would not for worlds have been so\nindelicate as to take this attention for granted, though it was a custom\nof many years' standing. The older sister always went through the form\nof asking the younger to \"see if the servant had come,\" and at this\nsignal the parson always bade the lady of the house good night, and\nrespectfully proffered his services as an escort to Lingborough.\n\nIt was a lovely evening in June, when the little ladies took tea with\nthe widow of General Dunmaw at her cottage, not quite two miles from\ntheir own home.\n\nIt was a memorable evening. The tea party was an agreeable one. The\nlittle ladies had new tabbinets on, and Miss Kitty wore the diamond\nbrooch. Miss Betty had played whist with the parson, and the younger\nsister (perhaps because of the brooch) had been favoured with a good\ndeal of conversation with the lawyer. It was an honour, because the\nlawyer bore the reputation of an _esprit fort_, and was supposed to\nhave, as a rule, a contempt for feminine intellects, which good manners\nled him to veil under an almost officious politeness in society. But\nhonours are apt to be uneasy blessings, and this one was at least as\nharassing as gratifying. For a somewhat monotonous vein of sarcasm, a\npainful power of producing puns, and a dexterity in suggesting doubts of\neverything, were the main foundation of his intellectual reputation, and\nMiss Kitty found them hard to cope with. And it was a warm evening.\n\nBut women have much courage, especially to defend a friend or a faith,\nand the less Miss Kitty found herself prepared for the conflict the\nharder she esteemed it her duty to fight. She fought for Church and\nState, for parsons and poor people, for the sincerity of her friends,\nthe virtues of the Royal Family, the merit of Dr. Drugson's\nprescriptions, and for her favourite theory that there is some good in\neveryone and some happiness to be found every where.\n\nShe rubbed nervously at the diamond brooch with her thin little mittened\nhands. She talked very fast; and if the lawyer were guilty of feeling\nany ungallant indifference to her observations, she did not so much as\nhear his, and her cheeks became so flushed that Mrs. Dunmaw crossed the\nroom in her China crape shawl and said, \"My dear Miss Kitty, I'm sure\nyou feel the heat very much. Do take my fan, which is larger than\nyours.\"\n\nBut Miss Kitty was saved a reply, for at this moment Miss Betty turned\non the sofa, and said, \"Dear Kitty, will you kindly see if the\nservant--\"\n\nAnd the parson closed the volume of \"Friendship's Offering\" which lay\nbefore him, and advanced towards Mrs. Dunmaw and took leave in his own\ndignified way.\n\nMiss Kitty was so much flustered that she had not even presence of mind\nto look for the servant, who had never been ordered to come, but the\nparson relieved her by saying in his round, deep voice, \"I hope you will\nnot refuse me the honour of seeing you home, since our roads happen to\nlie together,\" And she was glad to get into the fresh air, and beyond\nthe doubtful compliments of the lawyer's nasal suavity--\"You have been\nvery severe upon me to-night, Miss Kitty. I'm sure I had no notion I\nshould find so powerful an antagonist,\" etc.\n\n\n\nMIDSUMMER EVE.--A LOST DIAMOND.\n\n\nIt was Midsummer Eve. The long light of the North was pale and clear,\nand the western sky shone luminous through the fir-wood that bordered\nthe road. Under such dim lights colours deepen, and the great bushes of\nbroom, that were each one mass of golden blossom, blazed like fairy\nwatch-fires up the lane.\n\nMiss Kitty leaned on the left arm of the parson and Miss Betty on his\nright. She chatted gaily, which left her younger sister at leisure to\nthink of all the convincing things she had not remembered to say to the\nlawyer, as the evening breeze cooled her cheeks.\n\n\"A grand prospect for the crops, sir,\" said Miss petty; \"I never saw the\nbroom so beautiful.\" But as he leaned forward to look at the yellow\nblaze which foretells good luck to farmers, as it shone in the hedge on\nthe left-hand side of the road, she caught sight of the brooch in Miss\nKitty's lace shawl. Through a gap in the wood the light from the western\nsky danced among the diamonds. But where one of the precious stones\nshould have been there was a little black hole.\n\n\"Sister, you've lost a stone out of your brooch!\" screamed Miss Betty.\nThe little ladies were well-trained, and even in that moment of despair\nMiss Betty would not hint that her sister's ornaments were not her sole\nproperty.\n\nWhen Miss Kitty burst into tears the parson was a little astonished as\nwell as distressed. Men are apt to be so, not perhaps because women cry\non such very small accounts, as because the full reason does not always\ntranspire. Tears are often the climax of nervous exhaustion and this is\ncommonly the result of more causes than one. Ostensibly Miss Kitty was\n\"upset\" by the loss of the diamond, but she also wept away a good deal\nof the vexation of her unequal conflict with the sarcastic lawyer, and\nof all this the parson knew nothing.\n\nMiss Betty knew nothing of that, but she knew enough of things in\ngeneral to feel sure that the diamond was not all the matter.\n\n\"What is amiss, sister Kitty?\" said she. \"Have you hurt yourself? Do you\nfeel ill? Did you know the stone was out?\"--\"I hope you're not going to\nbe hysterical, sister Kitty,\" added Miss Betty anxiously; \"there never\nwas a hysterical woman in our family yet.\"\n\n\"Oh dear no, sister Betty,\" sobbed Miss Kitty; \"but it's all my fault. I\nknow I was fidgeting with it whilst I was talking; and it's a punishment\non my fidgety ways, and for ever presuming to wear it at all, when\nyou're the head of the family, and solely entitled to it. And I shall\nnever forgive myself if it's lost, and if it's found I'll never, never\nwear it any more.\" And as she deluged her best company pocket-handkerchief\n(for the useful one was in a big pocket under her dress, and could not be\ngot at, the parson being present), Church, State, the royal family, the\nfamily Bible, her highest principles, her dearest affections, and the\ndiamond brooch, all seemed to swim before her disturbed mind in one sea\nof desolation.\n\nThere was not a kinder heart than the parson's toward women and children\nin distress. He tucked the little ladies again under his arms, and\ninsisted upon going back to Mrs. Dunmaw's searching the lane as they\nwent. In the pulpit or the drawing room a ready anecdote never failed\nhim, and on this occasion he had several. Tales of lost rings, and even\nsingle gems, recovered in the most marvellous manner and the most\nunexpected places--dug up in gardens, served up to dinner in fishes, and\nso forth. \"Never,\" said Miss Kitty, afterward, \"never, to her dying day,\ncould she forget his kindness.\"\n\nShe clung to the parson as a support under both her sources of trouble,\nbut Miss Betty ran on and back, and hither and thither, looking for the\ndiamond. Miss Kitty and the parson looked too, and how many aggravating\nlittle bits of glass and silica, and shining nothings and\ngood-for-nothings there are in the world, no one would believe who has\nnot looked for a lost diamond on a high road.\n\nBut another story of found jewels was to be added to the parson's stock.\nHe had bent his long back for about the eighteenth time, when such a\nshimmer as no glass or silica can give flashed into his eyes, and he\ncaught up the diamond out of the dust, and it fitted exactly into the\nlittle black hole.\n\nMiss Kitty uttered a cry, and at the same moment Miss Betty, who was\nfarther down the road, did the same, and these were followed by a third,\nwhich sounded like a mocking echo of both. And then the sisters rushed\ntogether.\n\n\"A most miraculous discovery!\" gasped Miss Betty.\n\n\"You must have passed the very spot before,\" cried Miss Kitty.\n\n\"Though I'm sure, sister, what to do with it now we have found it I\ndon't know,\" said Miss Betty, rubbing her nose, as she was wont to do\nwhen puzzled.\n\n\"It shall be taken better care of for the future, sister Betty,\" said\nMiss Kitty penitently. \"Though how it got out I can't think now.\"\n\n\"Why, bless my soul! you don't suppose it got there of itself, sister?\"\nsnapped Miss Betty. \"How it did get there is another matter.\"\n\n\"I felt pretty confident about it, for my own part,\" smiled the parson\nas he joined them.\n\n\"Do you mean to say, sir, that you knew it was there?\" asked Miss Betty,\nsolemnly.\n\n\"I didn't know the precise spot, my dear madam, but----\"\n\n\"You didn't see it, sir, I hope?\" said Miss Betty.\n\n\"Bless me, my dear madam, I found it!\" cried the parson.\n\nMiss Betty bridled and bit her lip.\n\n\"I never contradict a clergyman, sir,\" said she, \"but I can only say\nthat if you did see it, it was not like your usual humanity to leave it\nlying there.\"\n\n         I've got it in my hand, ma'am!\"\n   \"Why\n         He's got it in his hand, sister!\"\n\ncried the parson and Miss Kitty in one breath. Miss Betty was too much\npuzzled to be polite.\n\n\"What are you talking about?\" she asked.\n\n\"The diamond, oh dear, oh dear! _The diamond!_\" cried Miss Kitty. \"But\nwhat are you talking about, sister?\"\n\n\"_The baby_\" said Miss Betty.\n\n\n\nWHAT MISS BETTY FOUND.\n\n\nIt was found under a broom-bush. Miss Betty was poking her nose near the\nbank that bordered the wood, in her hunt for the diamond, when she\ncaught sight of a mass of yellow of a deeper tint than the mass of\nbroom-blossom above it, and this was the baby.\n\nThis vivid color, less opaque than \"deep chrome\" and a shade more\norange, seems to have a peculiar attraction for wandering tribes.\nGipsies use it, and it is a favorite color with Indian squaws. To the\nlast dirty rag it is effective, whether it flutters near a tent on\nBagshot Heath, or in some wigwam doorway makes a point of brightness\nagainst the grey shadows of the pine forest.\n\nA large kerchief of this, wound about its body, was the baby's only\nrobe, but he seemed quite comfortable in it when Miss Betty found him,\nsleeping on a pillow of deep hair moss, his little brown fists closed as\nfast as his eyes, and a crimson toadstool grasped in one of them.\n\nWhen Miss Betty screamed the baby awoke, and his long black lashes\ntickled his cheeks and made him wink and cry. But by the time she\nreturned with her sister and the parson, he was quite happy again,\ngazing up with dark eyes full of delight into the glowing broom-brush,\nand fighting the evening breeze with his feet, which were entangled in\nthe folds of the yellow cloth, and with the battered toadstool which was\nstill in his hand.\n\n\"And, indeed, sir,\" said Miss Betty, who had rubbed her nose till it\nlooked like the twin toadstool to that which the baby was flourishing in\nher face, \"you won't suppose I would have left the poor little thing\nanother moment, to catch its death of cold on a warm evening like this;\nbut having no experience of such cases, and remembering that murder at\nthe inn in the Black Valley, and that the body was not allowed to be\nmoved till the constables had seen it, I didn't feel to know how it\nmight be with foundlings, and--\"\n\nBut still Miss Betty did not touch the bairn. She was not accustomed to\nchildren. But the parson had christened too many babies to be afraid of\nthem, and he picked up the little fellow in a moment, and tucked the\nyellow rag round him, and then addressing the little ladies precisely as\nif they were sponsors, he asked in his deep round voice, \"Now where on\nthe face of the earth are the vagabonds who have deserted this child?\"\n\nThe little ladies did not know, the broom bushes were silent, and the\nquestion has remained unanswered from that day to this.\n\nThere were no railways near Lingborough at this time. The coach ran\nthree times a week, and a walking postman brought the letters from the\ntown to the small hamlets. Telegraph wires were unknown, and yet news\ntravelled quite as fast then as it does now, and in the course of the\nfollowing morning all the neighbourhood knew that Miss Betty had found a\nbaby under a broom bush, and the lawyer called in the afternoon to\ninquire how the ladies found themselves after the tea party at Mrs.\nGeneral Dunmaw's.\n\nMiss Kitty was glad on the whole. She felt nervous, but ready for a\nrenewal of hostilities. Several clinching arguments had occurred to her\nin bed last night, and after hastily looking up a few lines from her\ncommon-place book, which always made her cry when she read them, but\nwhich she hoped to be able to hurl at the lawyer with a steady voice,\nshe followed Miss Betty to the drawing-room.\n\nIt was half a relief and half a disappointment to find that the lawyer\nwas quite indifferent to the subject of their late contest. He\noverflowed with compliments; was quite sure he must have had the worst\nof the argument, and positively dying of curiosity to hear about the\nbaby.\n\nThe little ladies were very full of the subject themselves. An active\nsearch for the baby's relations, conducted by the parson, the clerk,\nthe farm-bailiff, the constable, the cowherd, and several\nsupernumeraries, had so far proved quite vain. The country folk were\nmost anxious to assist, especially by word of mouth. Except a small but\nsturdy number who had seen nothing, they had all seen \"tramps,\" but\nunluckily no two could be got together whose accounts of the tramps\nthemselves, of the hour at which they were seen, or of the direction in\nwhich they went, would tally with each other.\n\nThe little ladies were quite alive to the possibility that the child's\nparents might never be traced, indeed the matter had been constantly\nbefore their minds ever since the parson had carried the baby to\nLingborough, and laid it in the arms of Thomasina, the servant.\n\nMiss Betty had sat long before her toilette-table that evening, gazing\nvacantly at the looking-glass. Not that the reflection of the eight\ncurl-papers she had neatly twisted up was conveyed to her brain. She was\nin a brown study, during which the following thoughts passed through her\nmind, and they all pointed one way:\n\nThat that fine little fellow was not to blame for his people's\nmisconduct.\n\nThat they would never be found.\n\nThat it would probably be the means of the poor child's ruin, body and\nsoul, if they were.\n\nThat the master of the neighbouring workhouse bore a bad character.\n\nThat a child costs nothing to keep--where cows are kept too--for years.\n\nThat just at the age when a boy begins to eat dreadfully and wear out\nhis clothes, he is very useful on a farm (though not for these reasons).\n\nThat Thomasina had taken to him.\n\nThat there need be no nonsense about it, as he could be brought up in\nhis proper station in life in the kitchen and the farm yard.\n\nThat tramps have souls.\n\nThat he would be taught to say his prayers.\n\nMiss Betty said hers, and went to bed; but all through that midsummer\nnight the baby kept her awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson\ntoadstool through her dreams.\n\nThe morning brought no change in Miss Betty's views, but she felt\ndoubtful as to how her sister would receive them. Would she regard them\nas foolish and unpractical, and her respect for Miss Betty's opinion be\nlessened thenceforward?\n\nThe fear was needless. Miss Kitty was romantic and imaginative. She had\ncarried the baby through his boyhood about the Lingborough fields whilst\nshe was dressing; and he was attending her own funeral in the capacity\nof an attached and faithful servant, in black livery with worsted frogs,\nas she sprinkled salt on her buttered toast at breakfast, when she was\nstartled from this affecting daydream by Miss Betty's voice.\n\n\"Dear sister Kitty, I wish to consult you as to our plans in the event\nof those wicked people who deserted the baby not being found.\"\n\nThe little ladies resolved that not an inkling of their benevolent\nscheme must be betrayed to the lawyer. But they dissembled awkwardly,\nand the tone in which they spoke of the tramp-baby roused the lawyer's\nquick suspicions. He had a real respect for the little ladies, and was\nkindly anxious to save them from their own indiscretion.\n\n\"My dear ladies,\" said he, \"I do hope your benevolence--may I say your\nromantic benevolence?--of disposition is not tempting you to adopt this\ngipsy waif?\"\n\n\"I hope we know what is due to ourselves, and to the estate--small, as\nit is--sir,\" said Miss Betty, \"as well as to Providence, too well to\nattempt to raise any child, however handsome, from that station of life\nin which he was born.\"\n\n\"Bless me, madam! I never dreamed you would adopt a beggar child as your\nheir; but I hope you mean to send it to the workhouse, if the gipsy\ntramps it belongs to are not to be found?\"\n\n\"We have not made up our minds, sir, as to the course we propose to\npursue,\" said Miss Betty, with outward dignity proportioned to her\ninward doubts.\n\n\"My dear ladies,\" said the lawyer anxiously, \"let me implore you not to\nbe rash. To adopt a child in the most favorable circumstances is the\ngreatest of risks. But if your benevolence _will_ take that line, pray\nadopt some little boy out of one of your tenants' families. Even your\nteaching will not make him brilliant, as he is likely to inherit the\nminimum of intellectual capacity; but he will learn his catechism,\nprobably grow up respectable, and possibly grateful, since his\nforefathers have (so Miss Kitty assures me) had all these virtues for\ngenerations. But this baby is the child of a heathen, barbarous, and\nwandering race. The propensities of the vagabonds who have deserted him\nare in every drop of his blood. All the parsons in the diocese won't\nmake a Christian of him, and when (after anxieties I shudder to foresee)\nyou flatter yourself that he is civilized, he will run away and leave\nhis shoes and stockings behind him.\"\n\n\"He has a soul to be saved, if he is a gipsy,\" said Miss Kitty,\nhysterically.\n\n\"The soul, my dear Miss Kitty \"--began the lawyer, facing round upon\nher.\n\n\"Don't say anything dreadful about the soul, sir, I beg,\" said Miss\nBetty, firmly. And then she added in a conciliatory tone, \"Won't you\nlook at the little fellow, sir? I have no doubt his relations are\nshocking people; but when you see his innocent little face and his\nbeautiful eyes, I think you'll say yourself that if he were a duke's son\nhe couldn't be a finer child.\"\n\n\"My experience of babies is so limited, Miss Betty,\" said the lawyer,\n\"that really--if you'll excuse me--but I can quite imagine him. I have\nbefore now been tempted myself to adopt stray--puppies, when I have seen\nthem in the round, soft, innocent, bright-eyed stage. And when they have\ngrown up in the hands of more credulous friends into lanky,\nill-conditioned, misconducted curs, I have congratulated myself that I\nwas not misled by the graces of an age at which ill-breeding is less\napparent than later in life.\"\n\nThe little ladies both rose. \"If you see no difference, sir,\" said Miss\nBetty in her stateliest manner, \"between a babe with an immortal soul\nand the beasts that perish, it is quite useless to prolong the\nconversation.\"\n\n\"Reason is apt to be useless when opposed to the generous impulses of a\nsex so full of sentiment as yours, madam,\" said the lawyer, rising also.\n\"Permit me to take a long farewell, since it is improbable that our\nfriendship will resume its old position until your _protege_ has--run\naway.\"\n\nThe words \"long farewell\" and \"old friendship\" were quite sufficient to\nsoften wrath in the tender hearts of the little ladies. But the lawyer\nhad really lost his temper, and, before Miss Betty had decided how to\noffer the olive branch without conceding her principles he was gone.\n\nThe weather was warm. The little ladies were heated by discussion and\nthe parson by vain scouring of the country on foot, when they asked his\nadvice upon their project, and related their conversation with the\nlawyer. The two gentlemen had so little in common that the parson felt\nit his duty not to let his advice be prejudiced by this fact. For some\nmoments he sat silent, then he began to walk about as if he were\ncomposing a sermon; then he stopped before the little ladies (who were\nsitting as stiffly on the sofa as if it were a pew) and spoke as if he\nwere delivering one.\n\n\"If you ask me, dear ladies, whether it is your duty to provide for this\nchild because you found him, I say that there is no such obligation. If\nyou ask if I think it wise in your own interests, and hopeful as to the\nboy's career, I am obliged to agree with your legal adviser. Vagabond\nways are seldom cured in one generation, and I think it is quite\nprobable that, after much trouble and anxiety spent upon him, he may go\nback to a wandering life. But, Miss Betty,\" continued the parson in\ndeepening tones, as he pounded his left palm with his right fist for\nwant of a pulpit, \"If you ask me whether I believe any child of any race\nis born incapable of improvement, and beyond benefit from the charities\nwe owe to each other, I should deny my faith if I could say yes. I shall\nnot, madam, confuse the end of your connection with him with the end of\nyour training in him, even if he runs away, or fancy that I see the one\nbecause I see the other. I do not pretend to know how much evil he\ninherits from his forefathers as accurately as our graphic friend; but I\ndo know that he has a Father whose image is also to be found in His\nchildren--not quite effaced in any of them--and whose care of this one\nwill last when yours, madam, may seem to have been in vain.\"\n\nAs the little ladies rushed forward and each shook a hand of the parson,\nhe felt some compunction for his speech.\n\n\"I fear I am encouraging you in grave indiscretion,\" said he. \"But,\nindeed, my dear ladies, I am quite against your project, for you do not\nrealize the anxieties and disappointments that are before you, I am\nsure. The child will give you infinite trouble. I think he will run\naway. And yet I cannot in good conscience say that I believe love's\nlabour must be lost. He may return to the woods and wilds; but I hope he\nwill carry something with him.\"\n\n\"Did the reverend gentleman mean Miss Betty's teaspoons?\" asked the\nlawyer, stroking his long chin, when he was told what the parson had\nsaid.\n\n\n\nBABYHOOD.--PRETTY FLOWERS.--THE ROSE-COLOURED TULIPS.\n\n\nThe matter of the baby's cap disturbed the little ladies. It seemed so\nlike the beginning of a fulfilment of the lawyer's croakings.\n\nMiss Kitty had made it. She had never seen a baby without a cap before,\nand the sight was unusual if not indecent. But Miss Kitty was a quick\nneedlewoman, and when the new cap was fairly tied over the thick crop of\nsilky black hair, the baby looked so much less like Puck, and so much\nmore like the rest of the baby world, that it was quite a relief.\n\nMiss Kitty's feelings may therefore be imagined when, going to the baby\njust after the parson's departure, she found him in open rebellion\nagainst his cap. It had been tied on whilst he was asleep, and his eyes\nwere no sooner open than he commenced the attack. He pulled with one\nlittle brown hand and tugged with the other; he dragged a rosette over\nhis nose and got the frills into his eyes; he worried it as a puppy\nworries your handkerchief if you tie it around its face and tell it to\n\"look like a grandmother.\" At last the strings gave way, and he cast it\ntriumphantly out of the clothes-basket which served him for cradle.\n\nSuccessive efforts to induce him to wear it proved vain, so Thomasina\nsaid the weather was warm and his hair was very thick, and she parted\nthis and brushed it, and Miss Kitty gave the cap to the farm-bailiff's\nbaby, who took to it as kindly as a dumpling to a pudding-cloth.\n\nHow the boy was ever kept inside his christening clothes, Thomasina said\nshe did not know. But when he got into the parson's arms he lay quite\nquiet, which was a good omen. That he might lack no advantage, Miss\nBetty stood godmother for him, and the parish clerk and the sexton were\nhis godfathers.\n\nHe was named John.\n\n\"A plain, sensible name,\" said Miss Betty. \"And while we are about it,\"\nshe added, \"we may as well choose his surname. For a surname he must\nhave, and the sooner it is decided upon the better.\"\n\nMiss Kitty had made a list of twenty-seven of her favourite Christian\nnames, which Miss Betty had sternly rejected, that everything might be\nplain, practical, and respectable at the outset of the tramp-child's\ncareer. For the same reason she refused to adopt Miss Kitty's\nsuggestions for a surname.\n\n\"It's so seldom there's a chance of _choosing_ a surname for anybody,\nsister,\" said Miss Kitty, \"it seems a pity not to choose a pretty one.\"\n\n\"Sister Kitty,\" said Miss Betty, \"don't be romantic. The boy is to be\nbrought up in that station of life for which one syllable is ample. I\nshould have called him Smith if that had not been Thomasina's name. As\nit is, I propose to call him Broom. He was found under a bush of broom,\nand it goes very well with John, and sounds plain and respectable.\"\n\nSo Miss Betty bought a Bible, and on the flyleaf of it she wrote in her\nfine, round, gentlewoman's writing--_\"John Broom. With good wishes for\nhis welfare, temporal and eternal. From a sincere friend!\"_ And when the\ninscription was dry the Bible was wrapped in brown paper, and put by in\nThomasina's trunk till John Broom should come to years of discretion.\n\nHe was slow to reach them, though in other respects he grew fast.\n\nWhen he began to walk he would walk barefoot. To be out of doors was his\ndelight, but on the threshold of the house he always sat down and\ndiscarded his shoes and stockings. Thomasina bastinadoed the soles of\nhis feet with the soles of his shoes \"to teach him the use of them,\" so\nshe said. But Miss Kitty sighed, and thought of the lawyer's prediction.\n\nThere was no blinking the fact that the child was as troublesome as he\nwas pretty. The very demon of mischief danced in his black eyes, and\nseemed to possess his feet and fingers as if with quicksilver. And if,\nas Thomasina said, you \"never knew what he would be at next,\" you might\nalso be pretty sure that it would be something he ought to have left\nundone.\n\nJohn Broom early developed a taste for glass and crockery, and as the\nchina cupboard was in that part of the house to which he by social\nstanding also belonged, he had many chances to seize upon cups, jugs,\nand dishes. If detected with any thing that he ought not to have had, it\nwas his custom to drop the forbidden toy and toddle off as fast as his\nunpractised feet would carry him. The havoc which this caused amongst\nthe glass and china was bewildering in a household where tea-sets and\ndinner-sets had passed from generation to generation, where slapdash,\ngiddy-pated kitchenmaids never came, where Miss Betty washed the best\nteacups in the parlor, where Thomasina was more careful than her\nmistress, and the breaking of a single plate was a serious matter, and,\nif beyond rivetting, a misfortune.\n\nThomasina soon found that her charge was safest, as he was happiest, out\nof doors. A very successful device was to shut him up in the drying\nground, and tell him to \"pick the pretty flowers.\" John Broom preferred\nflowers even to china cups with gilding on them. He gathered nosegays of\ndaisies and buttercups, and the winning way in which he would present\nthese to the little ladies atoned, in their benevolent eyes, for many a\nsmashed teacup.\n\nBut the tramp-baby's restless spirit was soon weary of the\ndrying-ground, and he set forth one morning in search of \"fresh woods\nand pastures new.\" He had seated himself on the threshold to take off\nhis shoes, when he heard the sound of Thomasina's footsteps, and,\nhastily staggering to his feet, toddled forth without farther delay. The\nsky was blue above him, the sun was shining, and the air was very sweet.\nHe ran for a bit and then tumbled, and picked himself up again, and got\na fresh impetus, and so on till he reached the door of the kitchen\ngarden, which was open. It was an old-fashioned kitchen garden with\nflowers in the borders. There were single rose-colored tulips which had\nbeen in the garden as long as Miss Betty could remember, and they had\nbeen so increased by dividing the clumps that they now stretched in two\nrich lines of colour down both sides of the long walk. And John Broom\nsaw them.\n\n\"Pick the pretty flowers, love,\" said he, in imitation of Thomasina's\npatronising tone, and forthwith beginning at the end, he went steadily\nto the top of the right-hand border, mowing the rose-coloured tulips as\nhe went.\n\nMeanwhile, when Thomasina came to look for him he could not be found,\nand when all the back premises and the drying-ground had been searched\nin vain, she gave the alarm to the little ladies.\n\nMiss Kitty's vivid imagination leaped at once to the conclusion that\nthe child's vagabond relations had fetched him away, and she became\nrigid with alarm. But Miss Betty rushed out into the shrubbery, and Miss\nKitty took a whiff of her vinaigrette and followed her.\n\nWhen they came at last to the kitchen-garden, Miss Betty's grief for the\nloss of John Broom did not prevent her observing that there was\nsomething odd about the borders, and when she got to the top, and found\nthat all the tulips had been picked from one side, she sank down on the\nroller which happened to be lying beside her.\n\nAnd John Broom staggered up to her, and crying, \"For 'oo, Miss Betty,\"\nfell headlong with a sheaf of rose-coloured tulips into her lap.\n\nAs he did not offer any to Miss Kitty, her better judgment was not\nwarped, and she said, \"You must slap him, sister Betty.\"\n\n\"Put out your hand, John Broom,\" said Miss Betty much agitated.\n\nAnd John Broom, who was quite composed, put out both his little grubby\npaws so trustfully that Miss Betty had not the heart to strike him. But\nshe scolded him, \"Naughty boy!\" and she pointed to the tulips and shook\nher head. John Broom looked thoughtfully at them, and shook his.\n\n\"Naughty boy!\" repeated Miss Betty, and she added in very impressive\ntones, \"John Broom's a very naughty boy!\"\n\nAfter which she took him to Thomasina, and Miss Kitty collected the\nrose-colored tulips and put them into water in the best old china\npunch-bowl.\n\nIn the course of the afternoon she peeped into the kitchen, where John\nBroom sat on the floor under the window, gazing thoughtfully up into the\nsky.\n\n\"As good as gold, bless his little heart!\" murmured Miss Kitty. For as\nhis feet were tucked under him, she did not know that he had just put\nhis shoes and stockings into the pig-tub, into which he all but fell\nhimself from the exertion. He did not hear Miss Kitty, and thought on.\nHe wanted to be out again, and he had a tantalizing remembrance of the\nease with which the tender juicy stalks of the tulips went snap, snap,\nin that new place of amusement he had discovered. Thomasina looked into\nthe kitchen and went away again. When she had gone, John Broom went away\nalso.\n\nHe went both faster and steadier on his bare feet. And when he got into\nthe kitchen garden, it recalled Miss Betty to his mind. And he shook his\nhead, and said, \"Naughty boy!\" And then he went up the left-hand border,\nmowing the tulips as he went; after which he trotted home, and met\nThomasina at the back door. And he hugged the sheaf of rose-coloured\ntulips in his arms, and said, \"John Broom a very naughty boy!\"\n\nThomasina was not sentimental, and she slapped him well--his hands for\npicking the tulips, and his feet for going barefoot.\n\nBut his feet had to be slapped with Thomasina's slipper, for his own\nshoes could not be found.\n\nIn spite of all his pranks, John Broom did not lose the favor of his\nfriends. Thomasina spoiled him, and Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried not\nto do so.\n\nThe parson had said, \"Treat the child fairly. Bring him up as he will\nhave to live hereafter. Don't make him half pet and half servant.\" And\nfollowing this advice, and her own resolve that there should be \"no\nnonsense\" in the matter, Miss Betty had made it a rule that he should\nnot be admitted to the parlor. It bore more heavily on the tender hearts\nof the little ladies than on the light heart of John Broom, and led to\ntheir waylaying him in the passages and gardens with little gifts,\nunknown to each other. And when Miss Kitty kissed his newly-washed\ncheeks, and pronounced them \"like ripe russets,\" Miss Betty murmured,\n\"Be judicious, sister Kitty;\" and Miss Kitty would correct any possible\nill effects by saying, \"_Now_ make your betters, John Broom, and say,\n'Thank you, ma'am!'\" which was accomplished by the child's giving a tug\nto the forelock of his thick black hair, with a world of mischief in his\neyes.\n\nWhen he was old enough, the little ladies sent him to the village\nschool.\n\nThe total failure of their hopes for his education was not the smallest\nof the disappointments Miss Betty and Miss Kitty endured on his behalf.\nThe quarrel with the lawyer had been made up long ago, and though there\nwas always a touch of raillery in his inquiries after \"the young gipsy,\"\nhe had once said, \"If he turns out anything of a genius at school, I\nmight find a place for him in the office, by-and-by.\" The lawyer was\nkind-hearted in his own fashion, and on this hint Miss Kitty built up\nhopes, which unhappily were met by no responsive ambition in John Broom.\n\nAs to his fitness to be an errand boy, he could not carry a message from\nthe kitchen to the cowhouse without stopping by the way to play with the\nyard-dog, and a hedgehog in the path would probably have led him astray,\nif Thomasina had had a fit and he had been despatched for the doctor.\n\nDuring school hours he spent most of his time under the fool's cap when\nhe was not playing truant. With his schoolmates he was good friends. If\nhe was seldom out of mischief, he was seldom out of temper. He could\nbeat any boy at a foot race (without shoes); he knew the notes and nests\nof every bird that sang, and whatever an old pocket-knife is capable of,\nthat John Broom could and would do with it for his fellows.\n\nMiss Betty had herself tried to teach him to read, and she continued to\nbe responsible for his religious instruction. She had hoped to stir up\nhis industry by showing him the Bible, and promising that when he could\nread it he should have it for his \"very own.\" But he either could not or\nwould not apply himself, so the prize lay unearned in Thomasina's trunk.\nBut he would listen for any length of time to Scripture stories, if\nthey were read or told him, especially to the history of Elisha, and the\nadventures of the judges.\n\nIndeed, since he could no longer be shut up in the drying-ground,\nThomasina had found that he was never so happy and so safe as when he\nwas listening to tales, and many a long winter evening he lay idle on\nthe kitchen hearth, with his head on the sheep dog, whilst the more\nindustrious Thomasina plied her knitting-needles, as she sat in the\ninglenook, with the flickering firelight playing among the plaits of her\nlarge cap, and told tales of the country side.\n\nNot that John Broom was her only hearer. Annie \"the lass\" sat by the\nhearth also, and Thomasina took care that she did not \"sit with her\nhands before her.\" And a little farther away sat the cowherd.\n\nHe had a sleeping-room above the barn, and took his meals in the house.\nBy Miss Betty's desire he always went in to family prayers after supper,\nwhen he sat as close as possible to the door, under an uncomfortable\nconsciousness that Thomasina did not think his boots clean enough for\nthe occasion and would find something to pick off the carpet as she\nfollowed him out, however hardly he might have used the door-scraper\nbeforehand.\n\nIt might be a difficult matter to decide which he liked best, beer or\nJohn Broom. But next to these he liked Thomasina's stories.\n\nThomasina was kind to him. With all his failings and the dirt on his\nboots, she liked him better than the farm-bailiff. The farm-bailiff was\nthrifty, and sensible and faithful, and Thomasina was faithful and\nsensible and thrifty, and they each had a tendency to claim the monopoly\nof those virtues. Notable people complain, very properly, of thriftless\nand untidy ones, but they sometimes agree better with them than with\nrival notabilities. And so Thomasina's broad face beamed benevolently as\nshe bid the cowherd \"draw up\" to the fire, and he who (like Thomasina)\nwas a native of the country, would confirm the marvels she related, with\na proper pride in the wonderful district to which they both belonged.\n\nHe would help her out sometimes with names and dates in a local\nbiography. By his own account he knew the man who was murdered at the\ninn in the Black Valley so intimately that it turned Annie the lass as\nwhite as a dish-cloth to sit beside him. If Thomasina said that folk\nwere yet alive who had seen the little green men dance in Dawborough\nCroft the cowherd would smack his knees and cry, \"Scores on 'em!\" And\nwhen she whispered of the white figure which stood at the cross roads\nafter midnight, he testified to having seen it himself--tall beyond\nmortal height, and pointing four ways at once. He had a legend of his\nown too, which Thomasina sometimes gave him the chance of telling, of\nhow he was followed home one moonlight night by a black Something as big\nas a young calf, which \"wimmled and wammled,\" around him till he fell\nsenseless into the ditch, and being found there by the farm-bailiff on\nhis return from market was unjustly accused of the vice of intoxication.\n\n\"Fault-finders should be free of flaws,\" Thomasina would say with a prim\nchin. She _had_ seen the farm-bailiff himself \"the worse\" for more than\nhis supper beer.\n\nBut there was one history which Thomasina was always loth to relate, and\nit was that which both John Broom and the cowherd especially\npreferred--the history of the Lob Lie-by-the-fire.\n\nThomasina had a feeling (which was shared by Annie the lass) that it was\nbetter not to talk of \"anything\" peculiar to the house in which you were\nliving. One's neighbours' ghosts and bogles are another matter.\n\nBut to John Broom and the cowherd no subject was so interesting as that\nof the Lubber-fiend. The cowherd sighed to think of the good old times\nwhen a man might sleep on in spite of cocks, and the stables be cleaner,\nand the beasts better tended than if he had been up with the lark. And\nJohn Broom's curiosity was never quenched about the rough, hairy\nGood-fellow who worked at night that others might be idle by day, and\nwho was sometimes caught at his hard earned nap, lying \"like a great\nhurgin bear,\" where the boy loved to lie himself, before the fire, on\nthis very hearth.\n\nWhy and where he had gone, Thomasina could not tell. She had heard that\nhe had originally come from some other household, where he had been\noffended. But whether he had gone elsewhere when he forsook\nLingborough, or whether \"such things had left the country\" for good, she\ndid not pretend to say.\n\nAnd when she had told, for the third or fourth time, how his porridge\nwas put into a corner of the cowhouse for him over night, and how he had\nbeen often overheard at his work, but rarely seen, and then only lying\nbefore the fire, Miss Betty would ring for prayers, and Thomasina would\nfold up her knitting and lead the way, followed by Annie the lass, whose\nnerves John Broom would startle by treading on her heels, the rear being\nbrought up by the cowherd, looking hopelessly at his boots.\n\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty did really deny themselves the indulgence of\nbeing indulgent, and treated John Broom on principles, and for his good.\nBut they did so in their own tremulous and spasmodic way, and got little\ncredit for it. Thomasina, on the other hand, spoiled him with such a\nmasterful managing air, and so much sensible talk, that no one would\nhave thought that the only system she followed was to conceal his\nmisdemeanours, and to stand between him and the just wrath of the\nfarm-bailiff.\n\nThe farm-bailiff, or grieve, as he liked to call himself, was a\nScotchman, with a hard-featured face (which he washed on the Sabbath), a\nharsh voice, a good heart rather deeper down in his body than is usual,\nand a shrewd, money-getting head, with a speckled straw hat on the top\nof it. No one could venture to imagine when that hat was new, or how\nlong ago it was that the farm-bailiff went to the expense of purchasing\nthose work-day clothes. But the dirt on his face and neck was an orderly\naccumulation, such as gathers on walls, oil-paintings, and other places\nto which soap is not habitually applied; it was not a matter of spills\nand splashes, like the dirt John Broom disgraced himself with. And his\nclothes, if old, fitted neatly about him; they never suggested\nraggedness, which was the normal condition of the tramp-boy's jacket.\nThey only looked as if he had been born (and occasionally buried) in\nthem. It is needful to make this distinction, that the good man may not\nbe accused of inconsistency in the peculiar vexation which John Broom's\ndisorderly appearance caused him.\n\nIn truth, Miss Betty's _protege_ had reached the age at which he was to\n\"eat dreadfully, wear out his clothes, and be useful on the farm;\" and\nthe last condition was quite unfulfilled. At eleven years old he could\nnot be trusted to scare birds, and at half that age the farm-bailiff's\neldest child could drive cattle.\n\n\"And no' just ruin the leedies in new coats and compliments, either,\nlike some ne'er-do-weels,\" added the farm-bailiff, who had heard with a\njealous ear of sixpences given by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty to their\nwasteful favourite.\n\nWhen the eleventh anniversary of John Broom's discovery was passed, and\nhis character at school gave no hopes of his ever qualifying himself to\nserve the lawyer, it was resolved that--\"idleness being the mother of\nmischief,\" he should be put under the care of the farm-bailiff, to do\nsuch odd jobs about the place as might be suited to his capacity and\nlove of out-door life. And now John Broom's troubles began. By fair\nmeans or foul, with here an hour's weeding and there a day's bird\nscaring, and with errands perpetual, the farm-bailiff contrived to \"get\nsome work out of\" the idle little urchin. His speckled hat and grim face\nseemed to be everywhere, and always to pop up when John Broom began to\nplay.\n\nThey lived \"at daggers drawn.\" I am sorry to say that John Broom's\nfitful industry was still kept for his own fancies. To climb trees, to\nrun races with the sheep dog, to cut grotesque sticks, gather hedge\nfruits, explore a bog, or make new friends among beasts and birds--at\nsuch matters he would labor with feverish zeal. But so far from trying\nto cure himself of his indolence about daily drudgery, he found a new\nand pleasant excitement in thwarting the farm-bailiff at every turn.\n\nIt would not sound dignified to say that the farm-bailiff took pleasure\nin thwarting John Broom. But he certainly did not show his satisfaction\nwhen the boy did do his work properly. Perhaps he thought that praise is\nnot good for young people; and the child did not often give him the\nchance of trying. Of blame he was free enough. Not a good scolding to\nclear the air, such as Thomasina would give to Annie the lass, but his\nslow, caustic tongue was always growling, like muttered thunder, over\nJohn Broom's incorrigible head.\n\nHe had never approved of the tramp-child, who had the overwhelming\ndrawbacks of having no pedigree and of being a bad bargain as to\nexpense. This was not altogether John Broom's fault, but with his\npersonal failings the farm bailiff had even less sympathy. It had been\nhinted that he was born in the speckled hat, and whether this were so or\nnot, he certainly had worn an old head whilst his shoulders were still\nyoung, and could not remember the time when he wished to waste his\nenergies on any thing that did not earn or at least save something.\n\nOnce only did any thing like approval of the lad escape his lips.\n\nMiss Betty's uncle's second cousin had returned from foreign lands with\na good fortune and several white cockatoos. He kept the fortune himself,\nbut he gave the cockatoos to his friends, and he sent one of them to the\nlittle ladies of Lingborough.\n\nHe was a lovely creature (the cockatoo, not the cousin, who was plain),\nand John Broom's admiration of him was boundless. He gazed at the\nsulphur-colored crest, the pure white wings with their deeper-tinted\nlining, and even the beak and the fierce round eyes, as he had gazed at\nthe broom bush in his babyhood, with insatiable delight.\n\nThe cousin did things handsomely. He had had a ring put round one of the\ncockatoo's ankles, with a bright steel chain attached and a fastener to\nsecure it to the perch. The cockatoo was sent in the cage by coach, and\na perch, made of foreign wood, followed by the carrier.\n\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty were delighted both with the cockatoo and the\nperch, but they were a good deal troubled as to how to fasten the two\ntogether. There was a neat little ring on the perch, and the cockatoo's\nchain was quite complete, and he evidently wanted to get out, for he\nshook the walls of his cage in his gambols. But he put up his crest and\nsnapped when any one approached, in a manner so alarming that Annie the\nlass shut herself up in the dairy, and the farm-bailiff turned his\nspeckled hat in his hands, and gave cautious counsel from a safe\ndistance.\n\n\"How he flaps!\" cried Miss Betty. \"I'm afraid he has a very vicious\ntemper.\"\n\n\"He only wants to get out, Miss Betty,\" said John Broom. \"He'd be all\nright with his perch, and I think I can get him on it.\"\n\n\"Now Heaven save us from the sin o' presumption!\" cried the\nfarm-bailiff, and putting on the speckled hat, he added, slowly: \"I'm\nthinking, John Broom, that if ye're engaged wi' the leddies this morning\nit'll be time I turned my hand to singling these few turnips ye've been\nthinking about the week past.\"\n\nOn which he departed, and John Broom pressed the little ladies to leave\nhim alone with the bird.\n\n\"We shouldn't like to leave you alone with a wild creature like that,\"\nsaid Miss Betty.\n\n\"He's just frightened on ye, Miss Betty. He'll be like a lamb when\nyou're gone,\" urged John Broom.\n\n\"Besides, we should like to see you do it,\" said Miss Kitty.\n\n\"You can look in through the window, miss. I must fasten the door, or\nhe'll be out.\"\n\n\"I should never forgive myself if he hurt you, John,\" said Miss Betty,\nirresolutely, for she was very anxious to have the cockatoo and perch in\nfull glory in the parlour.\n\n\"He'll none hurt me, miss,\" said John, with a cheerful smile on his rosy\nface. \"I likes him, and he'll like me.\"\n\nThis settled the matter. John was left with the cockatoo. He locked the\ndoor, and the little ladies went into the garden and peeped through the\nwindow.\n\nThey saw John Broom approach the cage, on which the cockatoo put up his\ncrest, opened his beak slowly, and snarled, and Miss Betty tapped on the\nwindow and shook her black satin workbag.\n\n\"Don't go near him!\" she cried. But John Broom paid no attention.\n\n\"What are you putting up that top-knot of yours at me for?\" said he to\nthe cockatoo. \"Don't ye know your own friends? I'm going to let ye out,\nI am. You're going on to your perch, you are.\"\n\n\"Eh, but you're a bonny creature!\" he added, as the cockatoo filled the\ncage with snow and sulphur flutterings.\n\n\"Keep away, keep away!\" screamed the little ladies, playing a duet on\nthe window panes.\n\n\"Out with you!\" said John Broom, as he unfastened the cage door.\n\nAnd just when Miss Betty had run round, and as she shouted through the\nkeyhole, \"Open the door, John Broom. We've changed our minds. We've\ndecided to keep it in its cage,\" the cockatoo strode solemnly forth on\nhis eight long toes.\n\n\"Pretty Cocky!\" said he.\n\nWhen Miss Betty got back to the window, John Broom had just made an\ninjudicious grab at the steel chain, on which Pretty Cocky flew fiercely\nat him, and John, burying his face in his arms, received the attack on\nhis thick poll, laughing into his sleeves and holding fast to the chain,\nwhilst the cockatoo and the little ladies screamed against each other.\n\n\"It'll break your leg--you'll tear its eyes out!\" cried Miss Kitty.\n\n\"Miss Kitty means that you'll break its leg, and it will tear your eyes\nout,\" Miss Betty explained through the glass. \"John Broom! Come away!\nLock it in! Let it go!\"\n\nBut Cocky was now waddling solemnly round the room, and John Broom was\ncreeping after him, with the end of the chain in one hand, and the perch\nin the other, and in a moment more he had joined the chain and the ring,\nand just as Miss Betty was about to send for the constable and have the\ndoor broken open, Cocky--driven into a corner--clutched his perch and\nwas raised triumphantly to his place in the bow-window.\n\nHe was now a parlour pet, and John Broom saw little of him. This vexed\nhim, for he had taken a passionate liking for the bird. The little\nladies rewarded him well for his skill, but this brought him no favour\nfrom the farm-bailiff, and matters went on as ill as before.\n\nOne day the cockatoo got his chain entangled, and Miss Kitty promptly\nadvanced to put it right. She had unfastened that end which secured it\nto the perch, when Cocky, who had been watching the proceeding with much\ninterest, dabbed at her with his beak. Miss Kitty fled, but with great\npresence of mind shut the door after her. She forgot, however, that the\nwindow was open, in front of which stood the cockatoo scanning the\nsummer sky with his fierce eyes, and flapping himself in the breeze.\n\nAnd just as the little ladies ran into the garden, and Miss Kitty was\nsaying, \"One comfort is, sister Betty, that it's quite safe in the room,\ntill we can think what to do next,\" he bowed his yellow crest, spread\nhis noble wings, and sailed out into the aether.\n\nIn ten minutes the whole able-bodied population of the place was in the\ngrounds of Lingborough, including the farm-bailiff.\n\nThe cockatoo was on the top of a fir-tree, and a fragment of the chain\nwas with him, for he had broken it, and below on the lawn stood the\nlittle ladies, who, with the unfailing courage of women in a hopeless\ncause, were trying to dislodge him by waving their pocket-handkerchiefs\nand crying \"sh!\"\n\nHe looked composedly down out of one eye for some time, and then he\nbegan to move.\n\n\"I think it's coming down now,\" said Miss Kitty.\n\nBut in a quarter of a minute, Cocky had sailed a quarter of a mile, and\nwas rocking himself on the top of an old willow-tree. And at this moment\nJohn Broom joined the crowd which followed him.\n\n\"I'm thinking he's got his chain fast,\" said the farm-bailiff; \"if\nonybody that understood the beastie daured to get near him----\"\n\n\"I'll get him,\" said John Broom, casting down his hat.\n\n\"Ye'll get yer neck thrawed,\" said the farm-bailiff.\n\n\"We won't hear of it,\" said the little ladies.\n\nBut to their horror, John Broom kicked off his shoes, after which he\nspat upon his hands (a shock which Miss Kitty thought she never could\nhave survived), and away he went up the willow.\n\nIt was not an easy tree to climb, and he had one or two narrow escapes,\nwhich kept the crowd breathless, but he shook the hair from his eyes,\nmoistened his hands afresh, and went on. The farm-bailiff's far-away\nheart was stirred. No Scotchman is insensible to gallantry. And courage\nis the only thing a \"canny\" Scot can bear to see expended without\nreturn.\n\n\"John Broom,\" screamed Miss Betty, \"come down! I order, I command you to\ncome down.\"\n\nThe farm-bailiff drew his speckled hat forward to shade his upward gaze,\nand folded his arms.\n\n\"Dinna call on him, leddies,\" he said, speaking more quickly than usual.\n\"Dinna mak him turn his head. Steady, lad! Grip wi' your feet. Spit on\nyour pawms, man.\"\n\nOnce the boy trod on a rotten branch, and as he drew back his foot, and\nit came crashing down, the farm-bailiff set his teeth, and Miss Kitty\nfainted in Thomasina's arms.\n\n\"I'll reward anyone who'll fetch him down,\" sobbed Miss Betty. But John\nBroom seated himself on the same branch as the cockatoo, and undid the\nchain and prepared his hands for the downward journey.\n\n\"You've got a rare perch, this time,\" said he. And Pretty Cocky crept\ntowards him, and rubbed its head against him and chuckled with joy.\n\nWhat dreams of liberty in the tree tops, with John Broom for a\nplayfellow, passed through his crested head, who shall say? But when he\nfound that his friend meant to take him prisoner, he became very angry\nand much alarmed. And when John Broom grasped him by both legs and began\nto descend, Cocky pecked him vigorously. But the boy held the back of\nhis head towards him, and went steadily down.\n\n\"Weel done!\" roared the farm-bailiff. \"Gently, lad! Gude save us! ha'e\na care o' yoursen. That's weel. Keep your pow at him. Dinna let the\nbeast get to your een.\"\n\nBut when John Broom was so near the ground as to be safe, the\nfarm-bailiff turned wrathfully upon his son, who had been gazing\nopen-mouthed at the sight which had so interested his father.\n\n\"Ye look weel standing gawping here, before the leddies,\" said he,\n\"wasting the precious hours, and bringing your father's grey hairs wi'\nsorrow to the grave; and John Broom yonder shaming ye, and you not so\nmuch as thinking to fetch the perch for him, ye lazy loon. Away wi' ye\nand get it, before I lay a stick about your shoulders.\"\n\nAnd when his son had gone for the perch, and John Broom was safely on\nthe ground, laughing, bleeding, and triumphant, the farm-bailiff said,--\n\n\"Ye're a bauld chiel, John Broom, I'll say that for ye.\"\n\n\n\nINTO THE MIST.\n\n\nUnfortunately the favourable impression produced by \"the gipsy lad's\"\ndaring soon passed from the farm-bailiff's mind. It was partly effaced\nby the old jealousy of the little ladies favour. Miss Betty gave the boy\nno less than four silver shillings, and he ungraciously refused to let\nthe farm-bailiff place them in a savings bank for him.\n\nMatters got from bad to worse. The farming man was not the only one who\nwas jealous, and John Broom himself was as idle and restless as ever.\nThough, if he had listened respectfully to the Scotchman's counsel, or\nshown any disposition to look up to and be guided by him, much might\nhave been overlooked. But he made fun of him and made a friend of the\ncowherd. And this latter most manifest token of low breeding vexed the\nrespectable taste of the farm-bailiff.\n\nJohn Broom had his own grievances too, and he brooded over them. He\nthought the little ladies had given him over to the farm-bailiff,\nbecause they had ceased to care for him, and that the farm-bailiff was\nprejudiced against him beyond any hope of propitiation. The village folk\ntaunted him, too, with being an outcast, and called him Gipsy John, and\nthis maddened him. Then he would creep into the cowhouse and lie in the\nstraw against the white cow's warm back, and for a few of Miss Betty's\ncoppers, to spend in beer or tobacco, the cowherd would hide him from\nthe farm-bailiff and tell him countryside tales. To Thomasina's stories\nof ghosts and gossip, he would add strange tales of smugglers on the\nnear-lying coast, and as John Broom listened, his restless blood\nrebelled more and more against the sour sneers and dry drudgery that he\ngot from the farm-bailiff.\n\nNor were sneers the sharpest punishment his misdemeanours earned. The\nfarm-bailiff's stick was thick and his arm was strong, and he had a\ntendency to believe that if a flogging was good for a boy, the more he\nhad of it the better it would be for him.\n\nAnd John Broom, who never let a cry escape him at the time, would steal\naway afterwards and sob out his grief into the long soft coat of the\nsympathising sheep dog.\n\nUnfortunately he never tried the effect of deserving better treatment as\na remedy for his woes. The parson's good advice and Miss Betty's\nentreaties were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The\nlittle ladies sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached\npatience.\n\n\"Cocky has been tamed,\" said Miss Kitty thoughtfully, \"perhaps John\nBroom will get steadier by-and-by.\"\n\n\"It seems a pity we can't chain him to a perch, Miss Kitty,\" laughed the\nparson; \"he would be safe then, at any rate.\"\n\nMiss Betty said afterwards that it did seem so remarkable that the\nparson should have made this particular joke on this particular\nnight--the night when John Broom did not come home.\n\nHe had played truant all day. The farm-bailiff had wanted him, and he\nhad kept out of the way.\n\nThe wind was from the east, and a white mist rolled in from the sea,\nbringing a strange invigorating smell, and making your lips clammy with\nsalt. It made John Broom's heart beat faster, and filled his head with\ndreams of ships and smugglers, and rocking masts higher than the\nwillow-tree, and winds wilder than this wind, and dancing waves.\n\nThen something loomed through the fog. It was the farm-bailiff's\nspeckled hat. John Broom hesitated--the thick stick became visible.\n\nThen a cloud rolled between them, and the child turned, and ran, and\nran, and ran coastwards, into the sea mist.\n\n\n\nTHE SEA.--THE ONE-EYED SAILOR.--THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.\n\n\nJohn Broom was footsore when he reached the coast, but that keen,\nlife-giving smell had drawn him on and held him up. The fog had cleared\noff, and he strained his black eyes through the darkness to see the sea.\n\nHe had never seen it--that other world within this, on which one lived\nout of doors, and climbed about all day, and no one blamed him.\n\nWhen he did see it, he thought he had got to the end of the world. If\nthe edge of the cliff were not the end, he could not make out where the\nsky began; and if that darkness were the sea, the sea was full of stars.\n\nBut this was because the sea was quiet and reflected the colour of the\nnight sky, and the stars were the lights of the herring-boats twinkling\nin the bay.\n\nWhen he got down by the water he saw the vessels lying alongside, and\nthey were dirtier than he had supposed. But he did not lose heart, and\nremembering, from the cowherd's tales, that people who cannot pay for\ntheir passage must either work it out or hide themselves on board ship,\nhe took the easier alternative, and got on to the first vessel which had\na plank to the quay, and hid himself under some tarpaulin on the deck.\n\nThe vessel was a collier bound for London, and she sailed with the\nmorning tide.\n\nWhen he was found out he was not ill-treated. Indeed, the rough skipper\noffered to take him home again on his return voyage. He would have liked\nto go, but pride withheld him, and homesickness had not yet eaten into\nhis very soul. Then an old sailor with one eye (but that a sly one) met\nhim, and told him tales more wonderful than the cowherd's. And with him\nhe shipped as cabin-boy, on a vessel bound for the other side of the\nworld.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA great many sins bring their own punishment in this life pretty\nclearly, and sometimes pretty closely; but few more directly or more\nbitterly than rebellion against the duties, and ingratitude for the\nblessings, of home.\n\nThere was no playing truant on board ship; and as to the master poor\nJohn Broom served now, his cruelty made the memory of the farm-bailiff a\nmemory of tenderness and gentleness and indulgence. Till he was\nhalf-naked and half-starved, and had only short snatches of sleep in\nhard corners, it had never struck him that when one has got good food\nand clothes, and sound sleep in a kindly home, he has got more than\nmany people, and enough to be thankful for.\n\nHe did everything he was told now as fast as he could do it, in fear for\nhis life. The one-eyed sailor had told him that the captain always took\norphans and poor friendless lads to be his cabin-boys, and John Broom\nthought what a nice kind man he must be, and how different from the\nfarm-bailiff, who thought nobody could be trustworthy unless he could\nshow parents and grand-parents, and cousins to the sixth degree. But\nafter they had sailed, when John Broom felt very ill, and asked the\none-eyed sailor where he was to sleep, the one-eyed sailor pleasantly\nreplied that if he hadn't brought a four-post bed in his pocket he must\nsleep where he could, for that all the other cabin-boys were sleeping in\nDavy's Locker, and couldn't be disturbed. And it was not till John Broom\nhad learned ship's language that he found out that Davy's Locker meant\nthe deep, and that the other cabin-boys were dead. \"And as they'd nobody\nbelonging to 'em, no hearts was broke,\" added the sailor, winking with\nhis one eye.\n\nJohn Broom slept standing sometimes for weariness, but he did not sleep\nin Davy's Locker. Young as he was he had dauntless courage, a careless\nhopeful heart, and a tough little body; and that strong, life-giving sea\nsmell bore him up instead of food, and he got to the other side of the\nworld.\n\nWhy he did not stay there, why he did not run away into the wilderness\nto find at least some easier death than to have his bones broken by the\ncruel captain, he often wondered afterwards. He was so much quicker and\nbraver than the boys they commonly got, that the old sailor kept a sharp\nwatch over him with his one eye whilst they were ashore; but one day he\nwas too drunk to see out of it, and John Broom ran away.\n\nIt was Christmas Day, and so hot that he could not run far, for he was\nat the other side of the world, where things are upside down, and he sat\ndown by the roadside on the outskirts of the city; and as he sat, with\nhis thin, brown face resting on his hands, a familiar voice beside him\nsaid, \"Pretty Cocky!\" and looking up he saw a man with several cages of\nbirds. The speaker was a cockatoo of the most exquisite shades of cream\ncolour, salmon and rose, and he had a rose-coloured crest. But lovely as\nhe was, John Broom's eyes were on another cage, where, silent, solemn,\nand sulky, sat a big white one with sulphur-coloured trimmings and\nfierce black eyes; and he was so like Miss Betty's pet, that the poor\nchild's heart bounded as if a hand had been held out to him from home.\n\n\"If you let him get at you, you'll not do it a second time, mate,\" said\nthe man. \"He's the nastiest tempered beast I ever saw. I'd have wrung\nhis neck long ago if he hadn't such a fine coat.\"\n\nBut John Broom said, as he had said before, \"I like him and he'll like\nme.\"\n\nWhen the cockatoo bit his finger to the bone, the man roared with\nlaughter, but John Broom did not draw his hand away. He kept it still\nat the bird's beak, and with the other he gently scratched him under the\ncrest and wings. And when the white cockatoo began to stretch out his\neight long toes, as cats clutch with their claws from pleasure, and\nchuckled, and sighed, and bit softly without hurting, and laid his head\nagainst the bars till his snow and sulphur feathers touched John Broom's\nblack locks, the man was amazed.\n\n\"Look here, mate,\" said he, \"you've the trick with birds, and no\nmistake. I'll sell you this one cheap, and you'll be able to sell him\ndear.\"\n\n\"I've not a penny in the world,\" said John Broom.\n\n\"You do look cleaned out too,\" said the man, scanning him from head to\nfoot. \"I tell you what, you shall come with me a bit and tame the birds,\nand I'll find you something to eat.\"\n\nTen minutes before, John Broom would have jumped at this offer, but now\nhe refused it. The sight of the cockatoo had brought back the fever of\nhome-sickness in all its fierceness. He couldn't stay out here. He would\ndare anything, do anything, to see the hills about Lingborough once more\nbefore him died; and even if he did not live to see them, he might live\nto sleep in that part of Davy's Locker which should rock him on the\nshores of home.\n\nThe man gave him a shilling for fastening a ring and chain on to the\nCocky's ankle, and with this he got the best dinner he had eaten since\nhe lost sight of the farm-bailiff's speckled hat in the mist.\n\nAnd then he went back to the one-eyed sailor, and shipped as cabin-boy\nagain for the homeward voyage.\n\n\n\nTHE HIGHLANDER.--BARRACK LIFE.--THE GREAT CURSE.--JOHN BROOM'S\nMONEY-BOX.\n\n\nWhen John Broom did get home he did not go to sea again. He lived from\nhand to mouth in the seaport town, and slept, as he was well accustomed\nto sleep, in holes and corners.\n\nEvery day and every night, through the long months of the voyage, he had\ndreamed of begging his way barefoot to Miss Betty's door. But now he did\nnot go. His life was hard, but it was not cruel. He was very idle, and\nthere was plenty to see. He wandered about the country as of old. The\nships and shipping too had a fascination for him now that the past was\npast, and here he could watch them from the shore; and, partly for shame\nand partly for pride, he could not face the idea of going back. If he\nhad been taunted with being a vagrant boy before, what would be said now\nif he presented himself, a true tramp, to the farm-bailiff? Besides,\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty could not forgive him. It was impossible!\n\nHe was wandering about one day when he came to some fine high walls with\nbuildings inside. There was an open gateway, at which stood a soldier\nwith a musket. But a woman and some children went in, and he did not\nshoot them; so when his back was turned, and he was walking stiffly to\nwhere he came from, John Broom ran in through the gateway.\n\nThe first man he saw was the grandest-looking man he had ever seen.\nIndeed, he looked more like a bird than a man--a big bird with a big\nblack crest. He was very tall. His feet were broad and white, like the\nfeathered feet of some plumy bird, his legs were bare and brown and\nhairy. He was clothed in many colours. He had fur in front, which swung\nas he walked, and silver and shining stones about him. He held his head\nvery high and from it drooped great black plumes. His face looked as if\nit had been cut--roughly but artistically--out of a block of old wood,\nand his eyes were the colour of a summer sky. And John Broom felt as he\nhad felt when he first saw Miss Betty's cockatoo.\n\nIn repose the Highlander's eye was as clear as a cairngorm and as cold,\nbut when it fell upon John Broom it took a twinkle not quite unlike the\ntwinkle in the one eye of the sailor; and then, to his amazement, this\ngrand creature beckoned to John Broom with a rather dirty hand.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said John Broom, staring up at the splendid giant, with eyes\nof wonder.\n\n\"I'm saying,\" said the Highlander, confidentially (and it had a pleasant\nhomely sound to hear him speak like the farm-bailiff)--\"I'm saying, I'm\nconfined to barracks, ye ken; and I'll gi'e ye a hawpenny if ye'll get\nthe bottle filled wi' whusky. Roun' yon corner ye'll see the 'Britain's\nDefenders.'\"\n\nBut at this moment he erected himself, his turquoise eyes looked\nstraight before them, and he put his hand to his head and moved it\nslowly away again, as a young man with more swinging grandeur of colors\nand fur and plumes, and with greater glittering of gems and silver,\npassed by, a sword clattering after him.\n\nMeanwhile John Broom had been round the corner and was back again.\n\n\"What for are ye stan'in' there, ye fule?\" asked his new friend. \"What\nfor didna ye gang for the whusky?\"\n\n\"It's here, sir.\"\n\n\"My certy, ye dinna let the grass grow under your feet,\" said the\nHighlander; and he added, \"If ye want to run errands, laddie, ye can\ncome back again.\"\n\nIt was the beginning of a fresh life for John Broom. With many other\nidle or homeless boys he now haunted the barracks, and ran errands for\nthe soldiers. His fleetness of foot and ready wit made him the\nfavourite. Perhaps, too, his youth and his bright face and eyes pleaded\nfor him, for British soldiers are a tender-hearted race.\n\nHe was knocked about, but never cruelly, and he got plenty of coppers\nand broken victuals, and now and then an old cap or pair of boots, a\nworld too large for him. His principal errands were to fetch liquor for\nthe soldiers. In arms and pockets he would sometimes carry a dozen\nbottles at once, and fly back from the canteen or public-house without\nbreaking one.\n\nBefore the summer was over he was familiar with every barrack-room and\nguard-room in the place; he had food to eat and coppers to spare, and he\nshared his bits with the mongrel dogs who lived, as he did, on the\ngood-nature of the garrison.\n\nIt must be confessed that neatness was not among John Broom's virtues.\nHe looped his rags together with bits of string, and wasted his pence or\nlost them. The soldiers standing at the bar would often give him a drink\nout of their pewter-pots. It choked him at first, and then he got used\nto it, and liked it. Some relics of Miss Betty's teachings kept him\nhonest. He would not condescend to sip by the way out of the soldiers'\njugs and bottles, as other errand-boys did, but he came to feel rather\nproud of laying his twopence on the counter, and emptying his own pot of\nbeer with a grimace to the bystanders through the glass at the bottom.\n\nOne day he was winking through the froth of a pint of porter at the\ncanteen sergeant's daughter, who was in fits of laughing, when the\npewter was knocked out of his grasp, and the big Highlander's hand was\nlaid on his shoulder and bore him twenty or thirty yards from the place\nin one swoop.\n\n\"I'll trouble ye to give me your attention,\" said the Highlander, when\nthey came to a standstill, \"and to speak the truth. Did ye ever see me\nthe worse of liquor?\"\n\nJohn Broom had several remembrances of the clearest kind to that effect,\nso he put up his arms to shield his head from the probable blow, and\nsaid, \"Yes, M'Alister.\"\n\n\"How often?\" asked the Scotchman.\n\n\"I never counted,\" said John Broom; \"pretty often.\"\n\n\"How many good-conduct stripes do you ken me to have lost of your ain\nknowledge?\"\n\n\"Three, M'Alister.\"\n\n\"Is there a finer man than me in the regiment?\" asked the Highlander,\ndrawing up his head.\n\n\"That there's not,\" said John Broom, warmly.\n\n\"Our sairgent, now,\" drawled the Scotchman, \"wad ye say he was a better\nman than me?\"\n\n\"Nothing like so good,\" said John Broom, sincerely.\n\n\"And what d'ye suppose, man,\" said the Highlander, firing with sudden\npassion, till the light of his clear blue eyes seemed to pierce John\nBroom's very soul--\"what d'ye suppose has hindered me that I'm not\nsairgent, when yon man is? What has keepit me from being an officer,\nthat had served my country in twa battles when oor quartermaster hadna\nenlisted? Wha gets my money? What lost me my stripes? What loses me\ndecent folks' respect and, waur than that, my ain? What gars a hand that\ncan grip a broadsword tremble like a woman's? What fills the canteen and\nthe kirkyard? What robs a man of health and wealth and peace? What\nruins weans and women, and makes mair homes desolate than war? Drink,\nman, drink! The deevil of drink!\"\n\nIt was not till the glare in his eyes had paled that John Broom ventured\nto speak. Then he said,--\n\n\"Why don't ye give it up, M'Alister?\"\n\nThe man rose to his full height, and laid his hand heavily on the boy's\nshoulder, and his eyes seemed to fade with that pitiful, weary look,\nwhich only such blue eyes show so well, \"Because I _canna_\" said he;\n\"because, for as big as I am, I canna. But for as little as you are,\nladdie, ye can, and, Heaven help me, ye shall.\"\n\nThat evening he called John Broom into the barrack-room where he slept.\nHe was sitting on the edge of his bed, and had a little wooden money-box\nin his hands.\n\n\"What money have ye, laddie?\" he asked.\n\nJohn Broom pulled out three halfpence lately earned, and the Scotchman\ndropped them slowly into the box. Then he turned the key, and put it\ninto his pocket, and gave the box to the boy.\n\n\"Ye'll put what ye earn in there,\" said he, \"I'll keep the key, and\nye'll keep the box yoursel; and when it's opened we'll open it together,\nand lay out your savings in decent clothes for ye against the winter.\"\n\nAt this moment some men passing to the canteen shouted, \"M'Alister?\" The\nHighlander did not answer, but he started to the door. Then he stood\nirresolute, and then turned and reseated himself.\n\n\"Gang and bring me a bit o' tobacco,\" he said, giving John Broom a\npenny. And when the boy had gone he emptied his pocket of the few pence\nleft, and dropped them into the box, muttering, \"If he manna, I wunna.\"\n\nAnd when the tobacco came, he lit his pipe, and sat on the bench\noutside, and snarled at every one who spoke to him.\n\n\n\nOUTPOST DUTY.--THE SERGEANT'S STORY.--GRAND ROUNDS.\n\n\nIt was a bitterly cold winter. The soldiers drank a great deal, and John\nBroom was constantly trotting up and down, and the box grew very heavy.\n\nBottles were filled and refilled, in spite of greatly increased\nstrictness in the discipline of the garrison, for there were rumours of\ninvasion, and penalties were heavy, and sentry posts were increased, and\nthe regiments were kept in readiness for action.\n\nThe Highlander had not cured himself of drinking, though he had cured\nJohn Broom. But, like others, he was more wary just now, and had\nhitherto escaped the heavy punishments inflicted in a time of probable\nwar; and John Broom watched over him with the fidelity of a sheep dog,\nand more than once had roused him with a can of cold water when he was\nall but caught by his superiors in a state of stupor, which would not\nhave been credited to the frost alone.\n\nThe talk of invasion had become grave, when one day a body of men were\nordered for outpost duty, and M'Alister was among them. The officer had\ngot a room for them in a farmhouse, where they sat round the fire, and\nwent out by turns to act as sentries at various posts for an hour or two\nat a time.\n\nThe novelty was delightful to John Broom. He hung about the farmhouse,\nand warmed himself at the soldiers' fire.\n\nIn the course of the day M'Alister got him apart and whispered, \"I'm\ngoing on duty the night at ten, laddie. It's fearsome cold, and I hav'na\nhad a drop to warm me the day. If ye could ha' brought me a wee drappie\nto the corner of the three roads--it's twa miles from here I'm\nthinking--\"\n\n\"It's not the miles, M'Alister,\" said John Broom, \"but you're on outpost\nduty, and--\"\n\n\"And you're misdoubting what may be done to ye for bringing liquor to a\nsentry on duty? Aye, aye, lad, ye do weel to be cautious,\" said the\nHighlander, and he turned away.\n\nBut it was not the fear of consequences to himself which had made John\nBroom hesitate, and he was stung by the implication.\n\nThe night was dark and very cold, and the Highlander had been pacing up\nand down his post for about half-an-hour, when his quick ear caught a\nfaint sound of footsteps.\n\n\"Wha goes there?\" said he.\n\n\"It's I, M'Alister,\" whispered John Broom.\n\n\"Whisht, laddie,\" said the sentry; \"are ye there after all? Did no one\nsee ye?\"\n\n\"Not a soul; I crept by the hedges. Here's your whiskey, M'Alister; but\noh be careful!\" said the lad.\n\nThe Scotchman's eyes glittered greedily at the bottle.\n\n\"Never fear,\" said he, \"I'll just rub a wee drappie on the pawms of my\nhands to keep away the frost-bite, for its awsome cold, man. Now away\nwi' ye, and take tent, laddie, keep off the other sentries.\"\n\nJohn Broom went back as carefully as he had come, and slipped in to warm\nhimself by the guardroom fire.\n\nIt was a good one, and the soldiers sat close round it. The officer was\nwriting a letter in another room, and in a low, impressive voice, the\nsergeant was telling a story which was listened to with breathless\nattention. John Broom was fond of stories, and he listened also.\n\nIt was of a friend of the sergeant's, who had been a boy with him in the\nsame village at home, who had seen active service with him abroad, and\nwho had slept at his post on such a night as this, from the joint\neffects of cold and drink. It was war time, and he had been tried by\ncourt-martial, and shot for the offence. The sergeant had been one of\nthe firing party to execute his friend, and they had taken leave of each\nother as brothers, before the final parting face to face in this last\nawful scene.\n\nThe man's voice was faltering, when the tale was cut short by the\njingling of the field officer's accoutrements as he rode by to visit the\noutposts. In an instant the officer and men turned out to receive him;\nand, after the usual formalities, he rode on. The officer went back to\nhis letter, and the sergeant and his men to their fireside.\n\nThe opening of the doors had let in a fresh volume of cold, and one of\nthe men called to John Broom to mend the fire. But he was gone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJohn Broom was fleet of foot, and there are certain moments which lift\nmen beyond their natural powers, but he had set himself a hard task.\n\nAs he listened to the sergeant's tale, an agonising fear smote him for\nhis friend M'Alister. Was there any hope that the Highlander could keep\nhimself from the whiskey? Officers were making their rounds at very\nshort intervals just now, and if drink and cold overcame him at his\npost!\n\nClose upon these thoughts came the jingling of the field officer's\nsword, and the turn out of the guard. \"Who goes there?\"--\"Rounds.\"--\"What\nrounds?\"--\"Grand rounds.\"--\"Halt, grand rounds, advance one, and give the\ncounter-sign!\" The familiar words struck coldly on John Broom's heart, as\nif they had been orders to a firing party, and the bandage was already\nacross the Highlander's blue eyes. Would the grand rounds be challenged at\nthe three roads to-night? He darted out into the snow.\n\nHe flew, as the crow flies, across the fields, to where M'Alister was\non duty. It was a much shorter distance than by the road, which was\nwinding; but whether this would balance the difference between a horse's\npace and his own was the question, and there being no time to question,\nhe ran on.\n\nHe kept his black head down, and ran from his shoulders. The clatter,\nclatter, jingle, jingle, on the hard road came to him through the still\nfrost on a level with his left ear. It was terrible, but he held on,\ndodging under the hedges to be out of sight, and the sound lessened, and\nby-and-by, the road having wound about, he could hear it faintly, _but\nbehind him_.\n\nAnd he reached the three roads, and M'Alister was asleep in the ditch.\n\nBut when, with jingle and clatter, the field officer of the day reached\nthe spot, the giant Highlander stood like a watch-tower at his post,\nwith a little snow on the black plumes that drooped upon his shoulders.\n\n\n\nHOSPITAL.--\"HAME.\"\n\n\nJohn Broom did not see the Highlander again for two or three days. It\nwas Christmas week, and, in spite of the war panic, there was festivity\nenough in the barracks to keep the errand-boy very busy.\n\nThen came New Year's Eve--\"Hogmenay,\" as the Scotch call it--and it was\nthe Highland regiment's particular festival. Worn-out with\nwhiskey-fetching and with helping to deck barrack-rooms and carrying\npots and trestles, John Broom was having a nap in the evening, in\ncompany with a mongrel deer-hound, when a man shook him, and said, \"I\nheard some one asking for ye an hour or two back; M'Alister wants ye.\"\n\n\"Where is he?\" said John Broom, jumping to his feet.\n\n\"In hospital; he's been there a day or two. He got cold on outpost duty,\nand it's flown to his lungs, they say. Ye see he's been a hard drinker,\nhas M'Alister, and I expect he's breaking up.\"\n\nWith which very just conclusion the speaker went on into the canteen,\nand John Broom ran to the hospital.\n\nStripped of his picturesque trappings, and with no plumes to shadow the\nhollows in his temples, M'Alister looked gaunt and feeble enough, as he\nlay in the little hospital bed, which barely held his long limbs. Such a\nwreck of giant powers of body, and noble qualities of mind as the\ndrink-shops are preparing for the hospitals every day!\n\nSince the quickly-reached medical decision that he was in a rapid\ndecline, and that nothing could be done for him, M'Alister had been left\na good deal alone. His intellect (and it was no fool's intellect,) was\nquite clear, and if the long hours by himself, in which he reckoned with\nhis own soul, had hastened the death-damps on his brow, they had also\nwritten there an expression which was new to John Broom. It was not the\nold sour look, it was a kind of noble gravity.\n\nHis light-blue eyes brightened as the boy came in, and he held out his\nhand, and John Broom took it with both his, saying.\n\n\"I never heard till this minute, M'Alister. Eh, I do hope you'll be\nbetter soon.\"\n\n\"The Lord being merciful to me,\" said the Highlander. \"But this warld's\nnearly past, laddie, and I was fain to see ye again. Dinna greet, man,\nfor I've important business wi' ye, and I should wish your attention.\nFirstly, I'm aboot to hand ower to ye the key of your box. Tak it, and\nput it in a pocket that's no got a hole in it, if you're worth one.\nSecondly, there's a bit bag I made mysel', and it's got a trifle o'\nmoney in it that I'm giving and bequeathing to ye, under certain\nconditions, namely, that ye shall spend the contents of the box\naccording to my last wishes and instructions, with the ultimate end of\nyour ain benefit, ye'll understand.\"\n\nA fit of coughing here broke M'Alister's discourse; but, after drinking\nfrom a cup beside him, he put aside John Broom's remonstrances with a\ndignified movement of his hand, and continued,--\n\n\"When a body comes of decent folks, he won't just care, maybe, to have\ntheir names brought up in a barrack-room. Ye never heard me say ought of\nmy father or my mither?\"\n\n\"Never, M'Alister.\"\n\n\"I'd a good hame,\" said the Highlander, with a decent pride in his tone.\n\"It was a strict hame--I've no cause now, to deceive mysel', and I'm\nthinking it was a wee bit ower strict--but it was a good hame. I left\nit, man--I ran away.\"\n\nThe glittering blue eyes turned sharply on the lad, and he went on:--\n\n\"A body doesna care to turn his byeganes oot for every fool to pick at.\nDid I ever speer about your past life, and whar ye came from?\"\n\n\"Never, M'Alister.\"\n\n\"But that's no to say that, if I knew manners, I didna obsairve. And\nthere's been things now and again, John Broom, that's gar'd me think\nthat ye've had what I had, and done as I did. Did ye rin awa', laddie?\"\n\nJohn Broom nodded his black head, but tears choked his voice.\n\n\"Man!\" said the Highlander, \"ane word's as gude's a thousand. Gang back!\nGang hame! There's the bit siller here that's to tak ye, and the love\nyonder that's waiting ye. Listen to a dying man, laddie, and gang hame!\"\n\n\"I doubt if they'd have me,\" sobbed John Broom, \"I gave 'em a deal of\ntrouble, M'Alister.\"\n\n\"And d'ye think, lad, that that thought has na' cursed _me_, and keepit\nme from them that loved me? Aye, lad, and till this week I never\novercame it.\"\n\n\"Weel may I want to save ye, bairn,\" added the Highlander tenderly, \"for\nit was the thocht of a' ye riskit for the like of me at the three roads\nthat made me consider wi' mysel' that I've aiblins been turning my back\na' my wilfu' life on love that's bigger than a man's deservings. It's\nnear done now, and it'll never lie in my poor power so much as rightly\nto thank ye. It's strange that a man should set store by a good name\nthat he doesna deserve; but if any blessings of mine could bring ye\ngood, they're yours, that saved an old soldier's honour, and let him die\nrespectit in his regiment.\"\n\n\"Oh, M'Alister, let me fetch one of the chaplains to write a letter to\nfetch your father,\" cried John Broom.\n\n\"The minister's been here this morning,\" said the Highlander, \"and I've\ntell't him mair than I've tell't you. And he's jest directed me to put\nmy sinful trust in the Father of us a'. I've sinned heaviest against\n_Him_, laddie, but His love is stronger than the lave.\"\n\nJohn Broom remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and\nof gasping for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor. When\na candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander\nroused himself and asked,--\n\n\"Is there a Bible on yon table? Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?\"\n\nThere is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which John\nBroom confessed,--\n\n\"I can't read big words, M'Alister.\"\n\n\"Did ye never go to school?\" said the Scotchman.\n\n\"I didn't learn,\" said the poor boy; \"I played.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye. Weel, ye'll learn, when ye gang hame,\" said the Highlander,\nin gentle tones.\n\n\"I'll never get home,\" said John Broom, passionately. \"I'll never\nforgive myself. I'll never get over it, that I couldn't read to ye when\nye wanted me, M'Alister.\"\n\n\"Gently, gently,\" said the Scotchman. \"Dinna daunt yoursel' owermuch wi'\nthe past, laddie. And for me--I'm not that presoomtious to think I can\nsquare up a misspent life as a man might compound wi's creditors. 'Gin\nHE forgi'es me, He'll forgi'e; but it's not a prayer up or a chapter\ndoun that'll stan' between me and the Almighty. So dinna fret yoursel',\nbut let me think while I may.\"\n\nAnd so, far into the night, the Highlander lay silent, and John Broom\nwatched by him.\n\nIt was just midnight when he partly raised himself, and cried,--\n\n\"Whisht, laddie! do ye hear the pipes?\"\n\nThe dying ears must have been quick, for John Broom heard nothing; but\nin a few moments he heard the bagpipes from the officers' mess, where\nthey were keeping Hogmenay. They were playing the old year out with\n\"Auld lang syne,\" and the Highlander beat the tune out with his hand,\nand his eyes gleamed out of his rugged face in the dim light, as\ncairngorms glitter in dark tartan.\n\nThere was a pause after the first verse, and he restless, and turning\ndoubtfully to where John Broom sat, as if his sight were failing, he\nsaid, \"Ye'll mind your promise, ye'll gang hame?\" And after awhile he\nrepeated the last word.\n\n_\"Hame!\"_\n\nBut as he spoke there settled over his face a smile so tender and so\nfull of happiness, that John Broom held his breath as he watched him. As\nthe light of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it crept\nfrom chin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone tranquil, like water\nthat reflects heaven.\n\nAnd when it had passed it left them still open, but gems that had lost\ntheir ray.\n\n\n\nLUCK GOES.--AND COMES AGAIN.\n\n\nThe spirit does not always falter in its faith because the flesh is\nweary with hope deferred. When week after week, month after month, and\nyear after year, went by and John Broom was not found, the\ndisappointment seemed to \"age\" the little ladies, as Thomasina phrased\nit. But yet they said to the parson, \"We do not regret it.\"\n\n\"God forbid that you should regret it,\" said he.\n\nAnd even the lawyer (whose heart was kinder than his tongue) abstained\nfrom taunting them with his prophecies, and said, \"The force of habits\nof early education is a power as well as that of inherent tendencies. It\nis only for your sake that I regret a too romantic benevolence.\" And\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty tried to put the matter quite away. But John\nBroom was very closely bound up with the life of many years past.\nThomasina mourned him as if he had been her son, and Thomasina being an\nold and valuable servant, it is needless to say that when she was\nmiserable no one in the house was permitted to be quite at ease.\n\nAs to Pretty Cocky, he lived, but Miss Kitty fancied that he grew less\npretty and drooped upon his polished perch.\n\nThere were times when the parson felt almost conscience-stricken because\nhe had encouraged the adoption of John Broom. Disappointments fall\nheavily upon elderly people. They may submit better than the young, but\nthey do not so easily revive. The little old ladies looked greyer and\nmore nervous, and the little old house looked greyer and gloomier than\nof old.\n\nIndeed there were other causes of anxiety. Times were changing, prices\nwere rising, and the farm did not thrive. The lawyer said that the\nfarm-bailiff neglected his duties, and that the cowherd did nothing but\ndrink; but Miss Betty trembled, and said they could not part with old\nservants.\n\nThe farm-bailiff had his own trouble, but he kept it to himself. No one\nknew how severely he had beaten John Broom the day before he ran away,\nbut he remembered it himself with painful clearness. Harsh men are apt\nto have consciences, and his was far from easy about the lad who had\nbeen entrusted to his care. He could not help thinking of it when the\nday's work was over, and he had to keep filling up his evening\nwhiskey-glass again and again to drown disagreeable thoughts.\n\nThe whiskey answered this purpose, but it made him late in the morning:\nit complicated business on market days, not to the benefit of the farm,\nand it put him at a disadvantage in dealing with the drunken cowherd.\n\nThe cowherd was completely upset by John Broom's mysterious\ndisappearance, and he comforted himself as the farm-bailiff did, but to\na larger extent. And Thomasina winked at many irregularities in\nconsideration of the groans of sympathy with which he responded to her\ntears as they sat round the hearth where John Broom no longer lay.\n\nAt the time that he vanished from Lingborough the gossips of the country\nside said, This comes of making pets of tramps' brats, when honest\nfolk's sons may toil and moil without notice. But when it was proved\nthat the tramp-boy had stolen nothing, when all search for him was vain,\nand when prosperity faded from the place season by season and year by\nyear, there were old folk who whispered that the gaudily-clothed child\nMiss Betty had found under the broom-bush had something more than common\nin him, and that whoever and whatever had offended the eerie creature,\nhe had taken the luck of Lingborough with him when he went away.\n\nIt was early summer. The broom was shining in the hedges with uncommon\nwealth of golden blossoms. \"The lanes looked for all the world as they\ndid the year that poor child was found,\" said Thomasina, wiping her\neyes. Annie the lass sobbed hysterically, and the cowherd found himself\nso low in spirits that after gazing dismally at the cowstalls, which had\nnot been cleaned for days past, he betook himself to the ale-house to\nrefresh his energies for this and other arrears of work.\n\nOn returning to the farm, however, he found his hands still feeble, and\nhe took a drop or two more to steady them, after which it occurred to\nhim that certain new potatoes which he had had orders to dig were yet in\nthe ground. The wood was not chopped for the next day's use, and he\nwondered what had become of a fork he had had in the morning and had\nlaid down somewhere.\n\nSo he seated himself on some straw in the corner to think about it all,\nand whilst he was thinking he fell fast asleep.\n\nBy his own account many remarkable things had befallen him in the course\nof his life, including that meeting with a Black Something to which\nallusion has been made, but nothing so strange as what happened to him\nthat night.\n\nWhen he awoke in the morning and sat up on the straw, and looked around\nhim, the stable was freshly cleaned, the litter in the stalls was shaken\nand turned, and near the door was an old barrel of newly dug potatoes,\nand the fork stood by it. And when he ran to the wood house there lay\nthe wood neatly chopped and piled to take away.\n\nHe kept his own counsel that day and took credit for the work, but when\non the morrow the farm-bailiff was at a loss to know who had thinned the\nturnips that were left to do in the upper field, and Annie the lass\nfound the kitchen cloths she had left overnight to soak, rubbed through\nand rinsed, and laid to dry, the cowherd told his tale to Thomasina, and\nbegged for a bowl of porridge and cream to set in the barn, as one might\nset a mouse-trap baited with cheese.\n\n\"For,\" said he, \"the luck of Lingborough's come back, missis. _It's Lob\nLie-by-the-fire_\"\n\n\n\nLOB LIE-BY-THE-FIRE.\n\n\n\"It's Lob Lie-by-the-fire!\"\n\nSo Thomasina whispered exultingly, and Annie the lass timidly. Thomasina\ncautioned the cowherd to hold his tongue, and she said nothing to the\nlittle ladies on the subject. She felt certain that they would tell the\nparson, and he might not approve. The farm-bailiff knew of a farm on the\nScotch side of the Border where a brownie had been driven away by the\nminister preaching his last Sunday's sermon over again at him, and as\nThomasina said, \"There'd been little enough luck at Lingborough lately,\nthat they should wish to scare it away when it came.\"\n\nAnd yet the news leaked out gently, and was soon known all through the\nneighborhood--as a secret.\n\n\"The luck of Lingborough's come back. Lob's lying by the fire!\"\n\nHe could be heard at his work any night, and several people had seen\nhim, though this vexed Thomasina, who knew well that the good people do\nnot like to be watched at their labours.\n\nThe cowherd had not been able to resist peeping down through chinks in\nthe floor of the loft above the barn, where he slept, and one night he\nhad seen Lob fetching straw for the cowhouse. \"A great rough, black\nfellow,\" said he, and he certainly grew bigger and rougher and blacker\nevery time the cowherd told the tale.\n\nThe Lubber-fiend appeared next to a boy who was loitering at a late hour\nsomewhere near the little ladies' kitchen-garden, and whom he pursued\nand pelted with mud till the lad nearly lost his wits with terror. (It\nwas the same boy who was put in the lock-up in the autumn for stealing\nFarmer Mangel's Siberian crabs.)\n\nFor this trick, however, the rough elf atoned by leaving three pecks of\nnewly-gathered fruit in the kitchen the following morning. Never had\nthere been such a preserving season at Lingborough within the memory of\nThomasina.\n\nThe truth is, hobgoblins, from Puck to Will-o'-the-wisp, are apt to play\npractical jokes and knock people about whom they meet after sunset. A\ndozen tales of such were rife, and folks were more amused than amazed by\nLob Lie-by-the-fire's next prank.\n\nThere was an aged pauper who lived on the charity of the little ladies,\nand whom it was Miss Betty's practice to employ to do light weeding in\nthe fields for heavy wages. This venerable person was toddling to his\nhome in the gloaming with a barrow load of Miss Betty's new potatoes,\ndexterously hidden by an upper sprinkling of groundsel and hemlock, when\nthe Lubber-fiend sprang out from behind an elder-bush, ran at the old\nman with his black head, and knocked him, heels uppermost, into the\nditch. The wheelbarrow was afterwards found in Miss Betty's farmyard,\nquite empty.\n\nAnd when the cowherd (who had his own opinion of the aged pauper, and it\nwas a very poor one) went that evening to drink Lob Lie-by-the-fire's\nhealth from a bottle he kept in the harness room window, he was nearly\nchoked with the contents, which had turned into salt and water, as fairy\njewels turn to withered leaves.\n\nBut luck had come to Lingborough. There had not been such crops for\ntwice seven years past.\n\nThe lay-away hens' eggs were brought regularly to the kitchen.\n\nThe ducklings were not eaten by rats.\n\nNo fowls were stolen.\n\nThe tub of pig-meal lasted three times as long as usual.\n\nThe cart-wheels and gate-hinges were oiled by unseen fingers.\n\nThe mushrooms in the croft gathered themselves and down on a dish in the\nlarder.\n\nIt is by small savings that a farm thrives, and Miss Betty's farm\nthrove.\n\nEverybody worked with more alacrity. Annie the lass said the butter came\nin a way that made it a pleasure to churn.\n\nThe neighbours knew even more than those on the spot. They said--That\nsince Lob came back to Lingborough the hens laid eggs as large as\nturkeys' eggs, and the turkeys' eggs were--oh, you wouldn't believe the\nsize!\n\nThat the cows gave nothing but cream, and that Thomasina skimmed butter\noff it as less lucky folk skim cream from milk.\n\nThat her cheeses were as rich as butter.\n\nThat she sold all she made, for Lob took the fairy butter from the old\ntrees in the avenue, and made it up into pats for Miss Betty's table.\n\nThat if you bought Lingborough turnips, you might feed your cows on them\nall the winter and the milk would be as sweet as new-mown hay.\n\nThat horses foddered on Lingborough hay would have thrice the strength\nof others, and that sheep who cropped Lingborough pastures would grow\nthree times as fat.\n\nThat for as good a watchdog as it was, the sheep dog never barked at\nLob, a plain proof that he was more than human.\n\nThat for all its good luck it was not safe to loiter near the place\nafter dark, if you wished to keep your senses. And if you took so much\nas a fallen apple belonging to Miss Betty, you might look out for palsy\nor St. Vitus' dance, or be carried off bodily to the underground folk.\n\nFinally, that it was well all the cows gave double, for that Lob\nLie-by-the-fire drank two gallons of the best cream every day, with\ncurds, porridge, and other dainties to match. But what did that matter,\nwhen he had been overheard to swear that luck should not leave\nLingborough till Miss Betty owned half the country side?\n\n\n\nMISS BETTY IS SURPRISED.\n\n\nMiss Betty and Miss Kitty having accepted a polite invitation from Mrs.\nGeneral Dunmaw, went down to tea with that lady one fine evening in this\neventful summer.\n\nDeath had made a gap or two in the familiar circle during the last\nfourteen years, but otherwise it was quite the same, except that the\nlawyer was married and not quite so sarcastic, and that Mrs. Brown Jasey\nhad brought a young niece with her dressed in the latest fashion, which\nlooked quite as odd as new fashions are wont to do, and with a\n_coiffure_ \"enough to frighten the French away,\" as her aunt told her.\n\nIt was while this young lady was getting more noise out of Mrs. Dunmaw's\nred silk and rosewood piano than had been shaken out of it during the\nlast thirty years, that the lawyer brought his cup of coffee to Miss\nBetty's side, and said, suavely, \"I here wonderful accounts of\nLingborough, dear Miss Betty.\"\n\n\"I am thankful to say, sir, that the farm is doing well this year. I am\nvery thankful, for the past few years have been unfavourable, and we had\nbegun to face the fact that it might be necessary to sell the old place.\nAnd I will not deny, sir, that it would have gone far to break my heart,\nto say nothing of my sister Kitty's.\"\n\n\"Oh, we shouldn't have let it come to that,\" said the lawyer, \"I could\nhave raised a loan--\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Miss Betty with dignity, \"if we have our own pride, I hope\nit's an honest one. Lingborough will have passed out of our family when\nit's kept up on borrowed money.\"\n\n\"I _could_ live in lodgings,\" added Miss Betty, firmly, \"little as I've\nbeen accustomed to it, but _not in debt_.\"\n\n\"Well, well, my dear madam, we needn't talk about it now. But I'm dying\nof curiosity as to the mainstay of all this good luck.\"\n\n\"The turnips--\" began Miss Betty.\n\n\"Bless my soul, Miss Betty!\" cried the lawyer, \"I'm not talking of\nturnips. I'm talking of Lob Lie-by-the-fire, as all the country side is\nfor that matter.\"\n\n\"The country people have plenty of tales of him,\" said Miss Betty, with\nsome pride in the family goblin. \"He used to haunt the old barns, they\nsay, in my great-grandfather's time.\"\n\n\"And now you've got him back again,\" said the lawyer.\n\n\"Not that I know of,\" said Miss Betty.\n\nOn which the lawyer poured into her astonished ear all the latest news\non the subject, and if it had lost nothing before reaching his house in\nthe town, it rather gained in marvels as he repeated it to Miss Betty.\n\nNo wonder that the little lady was anxious to get home to question\nThomasina, and that somewhat before the usual hour she said,--\n\n\"Sister Kitty, if it's not too soon for the servant--\"\n\nAnd the parson, threading his way to where Mrs. Dunmaw's china crape\nshawl (dyed crimson) shone in the bow window, said, \"The clergy should\nkeep respectable hours, madam; especially when they are as old as I am.\nWill you allow me to thank you for a very pleasant evening, and to say\ngood night?\"\n\n\n\nTHE PARSON AND THE LUBBER-FIEND.\n\n\n\"Do you think there'd be any harm in leaving it alone, sister Betty?\"\nsaid Miss Kitty, tremulously.\n\nThey had reached Lingborough, and the parson had come in with them, by\nMiss Betty's request, and Thomasina had been duly examined.\n\n\"Eh, Miss Betty, why should ye chase away good luck with the minister?\"\ncried she.\n\n\"Sister Kitty! Thomasina!\" said Miss Betty. \"I would not accept good\nluck from a doubtful quarter to save Lingborough. But if It can face\nthis excellent clergyman, the Being who haunted my great-grandfather's\nfarm is still welcome to the old barns, and you, Thomasina, need not\ngrudge It cream or curds.\"\n\n\"You're quite right, sister Betty,\" said Miss Kitty. \"You always are;\nbut oh dear, oh dear!\"--\n\n\"Thomasina tells me,\" said Miss Betty, turning to the parson, \"that on\nchilly evenings It sometimes comes and lies by the kitchen fire after\nthey have gone to bed, and I can distinctly remember my grandmother\nmentioning the same thing. Thomasina has of late left the kitchen door\non the latch for Its convenience, and as they had to sit up late for us,\nshe and Annie have taken their work into the still-room to leave the\nkitchen free for Lob Lie-by-the-fire. They have not looked into the\nkitchen this evening, as such beings do not like to be watched. But they\nfancy that they heard It come in. I trust, sir, that neither in myself\nnor my sister Kitty does timidity exceed a proper feminine sensibility,\nwhere duty is concerned. If you will be good enough to precede us, we\nwill go to meet the old friend of my great-grandfather's fortunes, and\nwe leave it entirely to your valuable discretion to pursue what course\nyou think proper on the occasion.\"\n\n\"Is this the door?\" said the parson, cheerfully, after knocking his head\nagainst black beams and just saving his legs down shallow and unexpected\nsteps on his way to the kitchen--beams so unfelt and steps so familiar\nto the women that it had never struck them that the long passage was not\nthe most straightforward walk a man could take--\"I think you said It\ngenerally lies on the hearth?\"\n\nThe happy thought struck Thomasina that the parson might be frightened\nout of his unlucky interference.\n\n\"Aye, aye, sir,\" said she from behind. \"We've heard him rolling by the\nfire, and growling like thunder to himself. They say he's an awful size,\ntoo, with the strength of four men, and a long tail, and eyes like coals\nof fire.\"\n\nBut Thomasina spoke in vain, for the parson opened the door, and as they\npressed in, the moonlight streaming through the latticed window showed\nLob lying by the fire.\n\n\"There's his tail! Ay--k!\" screeched Annie the lass, and away she went,\nwithout drawing breath to the top garret, where she locked and bolted\nherself in, and sat her bandbox flat, and screamed for help.\n\nBut it was the plumy tail of the sheep dog, who was lying there with the\nLubber-fiend. And Lob was asleep, with his arms around the sheep dog's\nneck, and the sheep dog's head lay on his breast, and his own head\ntouched the dog's.\n\nAnd it was a smaller head than the parson had been led to expect, and it\nhad thick black hair.\n\nAs the parson bent over the hearth, Thomasina took Miss Kitty round the\nwaist, and Miss Betty clutched her black velvet bag till the steel beads\nran into her hands, and they were quite prepared for an explosion, and\nsulphur, and blue lights, and thunder.\n\nAnd then the parson's deep round voice broke the silence, saying,--\n\n\"Is that you, lad? GOD bless you, John Broom. You're welcome home!\"\n\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\nSome things--such as gossip--gain in the telling, but there are others\nbefore which words fail, though each heart knows its own power of\nsympathy. And such was the joy of the little ladies and of Thomasina at\nJohn Broom's return.\n\nThe sheep dog had had his satisfaction out long ago, and had kept it to\nhimself, but how Pretty Cocky crowed, and chuckled, and danced, and\nbowed his crest, and covered his face with his amber wings, and kicked\nhis seed-pot over, and spilled his water-pot on to the Derbyshire marble\nchess-table, and screamed till the room rang again, and went on\nscreaming, with Miss Kitty's pocket-handkerchief over his head to keep\nhim quiet, my poor pen can but imperfectly describe.\n\nThe desire to atone for the past which had led John Broom to act the\npart of one of those Good-Fellows who have, we must fear, finally\ndeserted us, will be easily understood. And to a nature of his type, the\nearning of some self-respect, and of a character before others, was\nperhaps a necessary prelude to future well-doing.\n\nHe did do well. He became a good scholar, as farmers were then. He\nspent as much of his passionate energies on the farm as the farm would\nabsorb, and he restrained the rest. It is not cockatoos only who have\nsometimes to live and be happy in this unfinished life with one wing\nclipped.\n\nIn fine weather, when the perch was put into the garden, Miss Betty was\nsometimes startled by stumbling on John Broom in the dusk, sitting on\nhis heels, the unfastened chain in his hand, with his black head\nlovingly laid against Cock's white and yellow poll, talking in a low\nvoice, and apparently with the sympathy of his companion; and as Miss\nBetty justly feared, of that \"other side of the world,\" which they both\nknew, and which both at times had cravings to revisit.\n\nEven after the sobering influences of middle age had touched him, and a\nwife and children bound him with the quiet ties of home, he had (at long\nintervals) his \"restless times,\" when his good \"misses\" would bring out\na little store laid by in one of the children's socks, and would bid\nhim. \"Be off, and get a breath of the sea-air,\" but on condition that\nthe sock went with him as his purse. John Broom always looked ashamed to\ngo, but he came back the better, and his wife was quite easy in his\nabsence with that confidence in her knowledge of the \"master,\" which is\nso mysterious to the unmarried, and which Miss Betty looked upon as\n\"want of feeling\" to the end. She always dreaded that he would not\nreturn, and a little ruse which she adopted of giving him money to make\nbargains for foreign articles of _vertu_ with sailors, is responsible\nfor many of the choicest ornaments in the Lingborough parlour.\n\n\"The sock'll bring him home,\" said Mrs. Broom, and home he came, and\nnever could say what he had been doing. Nor was the account given by\nThomasina's cousin, who was a tide-waiter down yonder, particularly\nsatisfying to the women's curiosity. He said that John Broom was always\nabout; that he went aboard of all the craft in the bay, and asked whence\nthey came and whither they were bound. That being once taunted to do it,\nhe went up the rigging of a big vessel like a cat, and came down it\nlooking like a fool. That as a rule, he gossipped and shared his tobacco\nwith sailors and fishermen, and brought out the sock much oftener than\nwas prudent for the benefit of the ragged boys who haunt the quay.\n\nHe had two other weaknesses, which a faithful biographer must chronicle.\n\nA regiment on the march would draw him from the plough-tail itself, and\n\"With daddy to see the pretty soldiers\" was held to excuse any of Mrs.\nBroom's children from household duties.\n\nThe other shall be described in the graphic language of that acute\nobserver the farm-bailiff.\n\n\"If there cam' an Irish beggar, wi' a stripy cloot him and a bellows\nunder 's arm, and ca'd himsel' a Hielander, the lad wad gi'e him his\nsilly head off his shoulders.\"\n\nAs to the farm-bailiff, perhaps no one felt more or said less than he\ndid on John Broom's return. But the tones of his voice had tender\nassociations for the boy's ears as he took off his speckled hat, and\nafter contemplating the inside for some moments, put it on again, and\nsaid,--\n\n\"Aweel, lad, sae ye've cam' hame?\"\n\nBut he listened with quivering face when John Broom told the story of\nM'Alister, and when it was ended he rose and went out, and \"took the\npledge\" against drink, and--kept it.\n\nMoved by similar enthusiasm, the cowherd took the pledge also, and if he\ndidn't keep it, he certainly drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant\noversight of the farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural severity\nalmost exclusively in the denunciation of all liquors whatsoever, from\nthe cowherd's whiskey to Thomasina's elder-flower wine.\n\nThe plain cousin left his money to the little old ladies, and\nLingborough continued to flourish.\n\nPartly perhaps because of this, it is doubtful if John Broom was ever\nlooked upon by the rustics as quite \"like other folk.\"\n\nThe favourite version of his history is that he was Lob under the guise\nof a child; that he was driven away by new clothes; that he returned\nfrom unwillingness to see an old family go to ruin \"which he had served\nfor hundreds of years;\" that the parson preached his last Sunday's\nsermon at him; and that, having stood that test, he took his place among\nChristian people.\n\nWhether a name invented off-hand, however plain and sensible, does not\nstick to a man as his father's does, is a question. But John Broom was\nnot often called by his.\n\nWith Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom exceeded the safe title of\n\"Man!\" and the parson was apt to address him as \"My dear boy\" when he\nhad certainly outgrown the designation.\n\nMiss Betty called him John Broom, but the people called him by the name\nhe had earned.\n\nAnd long after his black hair lay white and thick on his head, like snow\non the old barn roof, and when his dark eyes were dim in an honoured old\nage, the village children would point him out to each other, crying,\n\"There goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the Luck of Lingborough!\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n\nWILD JACK.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nA series of accidents had overtaken the Newbury mail from the hour that\nit started in the fine dewy morning, till the sun went down; and as the\ntwilight deepened over the landscape it was still many miles from its\ndestination.\n\nThe troubles began early in the day. One of the leaders cast a shoe, and\nhad to be shod at the first village through which they passed. Farther\non something went wrong with the harness, and later still a much more\nserious impediment to their progress arose--some accident happened to a\nwheel, so that the coach must needs go half-pace, in spite of the oaths\nof old Joe, the driver, whose boast it was that he had never reached\nWancote later than midnight.\n\nBut this evening old Joe's boasts were doomed to fall to the ground, for\nthe coach could only crawl along, and the night was closing in fast.\n\nThe guard was engaged in a somewhat mysterious occupation, an occupation\nwhich, though only partially visible from the interior of the coach,\ncaused a faint shriek to issue therefrom.\n\n\"What is he doing? What is it?\" cried a woman's voice.\n\n\"Nothing, madam; be easy, I entreat,\" was the answer from within. \"There\nis nothing to alarm, but rather to reassure, in his actions--he prepares\nhis pistols and looks to their priming. Zounds! one must be ready for\nall contingencies with ten miles of unfrequented road ahead of us.\"\n\nThe mail continued on its way, becoming slower and slower, as an ominous\ncreaking of the injured wheel gave token that the pace must be reduced\nto a walk.\n\nThe curtain before the window was held back, and a gentleman from within\naddressed the guard.\n\n\"Will the wheel hold out, think you?\" he said.\n\n\"It is impossible to assure your reverence that it will, and the night\nwill be dark.\"\n\nThe gentleman drew in his head with a little \"Tut-tut\" of consternation.\n\nThere were four occupants of the coach--two ladies and two gentlemen. Of\nthe ladies one was young, perhaps nineteen, and one close upon forty.\nThe younger was the parson's daughter Elizabeth, otherwise Betty Ives.\nHer father, Mr. Ives, was bringing her home from Newbury, where she had\nspent the last six months with her aunt, Mrs. Primrose, seeing something\nof the gay world in the county town.\n\nThe father and daughter, who sat opposite to each other, bore a strong\nresemblance to each other. In the girl's face the dark brows were more\narched, the large blue eyes more tender, the firm mouth more sweet, and\nall tinted with the lilies and roses of a fresh country life, so\nbeautifully blended on the peach-like cheeks that, even without her rare\nperfection of feature, the colouring alone would have made Betty\nbeautiful.\n\nParson Ives had been very handsome in his youth, and though worn by\nyears (he was forty years older than his child), and by the grief of\nbereavement, he was yet famous for his good looks.\n\nBetty wore a short dark green riding-habit and a broad felt hat. She was\nas much at home on horseback as on foot, and seldom in the mornings wore\na less business-like costume.\n\nThe other two occupants of the coach were to ordinary eyes less\ninteresting. Mistress Mary Jones was a faded woman, who had once been\npretty, a spinster, a great friend of Betty's, and one of her father's\nparishioners. She was an excellent woman in her way, albeit somewhat\ngiven to terrors both real and fanciful.\n\nHer opposite neighbor was a man past the prime of life, owner and\nbreeder of large herds of cattle near Wancote, a man who, after\nattending the Newbury markets, often returned home by this very coach,\nand was believed to carry large sums of money in the flap-pockets of his\nmany-caped riding-coat.\n\nMr. Barnes had a fixed mask-like countenance, his bushy eyebrows almost\nmet in a wrinkle that told of thought and deep calculation. He was\nclean-shaven, and his chin was swathed in a huge neckcloth of white\nmuslin; he wore his hat low on his brow.\n\n\"I like not to be out so late on the high road,\" said he very suddenly,\nso that both Mr. Ives and Mistress Mary Jones started, and Betty, whom\nnothing ever startled, turned her great blue eyes inquiringly on him.\n\n\"Why, sir?\" she asked.\n\n\"Why, my good young lady, because the Newbury sales are just over, and\nit is well known that the stock reared on Belford home farm has sold\nwell\"\n\n\"Are the roads not safe then, sir?\" asked Mr. Ives rather anxiously.\n\n\"I do not quite say that, for it is many a long day since the coach was\nattacked between Newbury and Wancote; but rumour has been busy.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Betty, sitting upright eagerly.\n\n\"It is said that Wild Jack Barnstaple has been heard of in the\nneighbourhood.\"\n\n\"Heaven help us!\" shrieked Mary Jones.\n\n\"Be calm, I entreat you, my dear madam, and have pity on my unfortunate\ntoes! Zounds! it is torture enough to be subject to periodical gout,\nwithout such an infliction as the stamp of a lady's fashionable heel on\nthe tender place.\"\n\n\"But you say Wild Jack is in the neighbourhood! Oh Heaven! what will\nbecome of us!\"\n\nBetty's blooming cheek had turned just a faint shade paler, but the\nrosy colour came rushing back, her eyes flashed.\n\nSuddenly stooping forward she said in a low voice:\n\n\"Mr. Barnes, you may confide in me. Do you carry much money?\"\n\nHe answered in a tone of assumed ease, \"Paper to the value of nearly a\nthousand pounds.\"\n\n\"Then look you, Mr. Barnes,\" said Betty in her natural voice, \"I have a\nproposal to make to you. Give the valuables you have to us--to Miss Mary\nJones and to myself. Wild Jack, all say, is a gentleman--should he, by\nany unfortunate chance, be on the road to-night, he will not rob women.\nYour money will be safe.\"\n\n\"No, no, no, no!\" cried Mary. \"Betty, how can you propose anything so\nimpossible, so unfeminine! Are not men our natural protectors?\" and she\nthrew a languishing glance at the cattle-breeder. \"Shall we usurp their\nrights?\"\n\n\"It is quite true; it is impossible,\" said Barnes.\n\n\"You are foolish to throw away the chance,\" said Betty calmly.\n\n\"I cannot see why you should not accept her offer,\" said the parson\nrestlessly; he was accustomed to yield to his daughter's judgment in\neverything. \"Betty is a bold girl, and she is generally in the right.\"\n\n\"Come, yield the point, Mr. Barnes,\" said Betty, with a light laugh,\nholding out her hand for the pocket-book.\n\n\"Remember I have no part or parcel in it,\" cried Mary, shrinking farther\nand farther away. \"I would not for the whole world! Why, Betty,\" she\nwhimpered, \"they might even search you.\"\n\n\"Wild Jack is a gentleman,\" answered the girl; then with a sudden flash\nof scorn, \"but even had I not such faith in his honourable dealing, I\nshould know how to take care of myself. Give me the papers, Mr. Barnes.\"\n\nVery unwillingly, as if he despised himself for so doing, Barnes gave\nthem into her hands. The notes were smoothed and laid flat, they\noccupied the smallest space possible.\n\nBetty Ives placed the papers within the bosom of her tight-fitting\nriding-habit, and leant back as if she had done with the subject.\n\nMr. Ives looked with anxious eyes through the window.\n\nThe mail was passing along a wide fair unsheltered road, on each side\nspread away treeless tracts of country, flat and wide, over which the\nfresh cold wind blew listlessly. To the left the horizon was bounded by\nthe wide expanse of the grassy Berkshire downs. They rose and fell, a\nvast undulating plain, covered with short fine herbage.\n\nIt was growing very dark; the parson drew in his head, and thanked\nHeaven that the country was so fine and open, that he could even in the\ngathering gloom see far behind and before, and could perceive no\nsuspicious object.\n\n\"We are all right here,\" said Mr. Barnes, his voice becoming more and\nmore dismal. \"But a mile farther on, and we come to a small wood--the\nroad dips down there suddenly, it is a first-rate place for an ambush.\"\n\n\"Mercy! mercy!\" cried Mary Jones in a voice half-strangled by the\nanguish of her terror.\n\n\"We have yet a mile of safety,\" said Betty kindly \"--a whole mile, Mary;\nand going at this pace, we need not prepare our terrors for another\nhour.\"\n\n\"Heaven grant that the moon may be up,\" cried Barnes.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Betty slowly, \"I imagine that you carry arms?\"\n\n\"I am not unarmed,\" he answered hastily, \"I have pistols and a sword.\"\n\n\"I should have them in readiness, as I myself intend to do,\" said Betty,\nand she drew out a tiny silver-mounted pistol. \"See, it is prepared for\nuse. My father is a clergyman and must eschew firearms; Mary Jones is a\nwoman--\"\n\n\"Aye, a true woman, a frail woman,\" whined the poor lady.\n\n\"But,\" continued Betty, \"the guard is armed, so are we; we have still a\nmile to go. Ha!\" her voice ended abruptly. There was a crashing sound, a\nshot, a shout, a confused sense as if the whole coach were falling to\nthe ground. The door was torn open. Before Betty could even raise the\ndeadly little weapon she carried, it was seized from her hand--the whole\nparty were dragged out of the carriage--they found themselves surrounded\nby armed men. There was a violent struggle, fighting and disorder, loud\noaths from the coachman, appalling shrieks from Mary Jones. Some one\nopened a lantern and allowed its red glare to fall on the scared\nprisoners and on the black masks of their captors.\n\nThe man who was evidently the leader of the party was holding Betty's\ntwo hands in one of his in a grasp which she imagined to be gentle until\nshe attempted to release them, when she discovered that she might as\neasily have broken bands of steel.\n\n\"Here, give me a rope, we must bind our prisoners,\" said this man\nsuddenly. \"This fair lady had all but fired one shot too many for Wild\nJack to-night!\"\n\nThere was a laugh, and with dexterity, evidently gained from experience,\nthe prisoners were rapidly bound.\n\n\"I am grieved to incommode you thus, madam,\" said the leader, bowing low\nto Betty. \"Our business is with that gentleman,\" with a slight motion of\nhis hand towards the hapless Mr. Barnes. Betty bowed slightly. The light\nfell full on her tall figure, on her noble head slightly raised and\nthrown back, the nostrils dilated, the colour glowing richly in the soft\ncheek. Wild Jack, looking at her, felt a glow of enthusiasm which\nbetrayed itself in his voice.\n\n\"You have nothing to fear, madam,\" he said.\n\n\"I? I fear nothing,\" said the girl calmly--\"Wild Jack is a gentleman.\"\n\nThe highwayman made a rapid sign to his comrades, who proceeded to throw\nthemselves on to Samuel Barnes, and begin to search him from head to\nfoot.\n\nA sudden fear flashed into Betty's mind. How if Wild Jack were unable to\nrestrain his companions, infuriated as they would be by their failure in\ndiscovering the expected treasure on the person of their victim?\n\nHer cheeks paled, for one moment she turned her eyes full on the masked\nface of her captor. Masked as he was, her look thrilled him through and\nthrough.\n\n\"You are safe,\" he repeated hurriedly.\n\nSomething in his voice seemed to give her confidence, for she stooped\nforward and said in a low voice, \"Mr. Barnstaple, I trust to your\nhonour,--the money is here.\"\n\nAnd with a grand movement she laid her bound hands on her breast.\n\nWild Jack bowed low, but he said nothing, and in spite of the bold front\nshe bore, Betty's heart beat fast.\n\nThe noise increased. Samuel Barnes, maddened with fright, struggled\nagainst his assailants furiously, but he was overmatched, a violent blow\nwith the butt end of a pistol stunned him completely, and all\nresistance was over. Undaunted by their want of success the coach was\nthen rifled, the mails ruthlessly thrown out into the road.\n\nOne or two of the men, of whom there appeared to be five at least, now\nproposed to search the women.\n\nThere was a moment's pause, during which Wild Jack tightened his grasp\non Betty's arm. Had she shown one symptom of fear, it is possible that\nhis fierce profession would have triumphed over the infatuation of her\nbeauty, but the look she turned upon him was so full of confidence, such\nabsolute trust in his honour, that it prevailed.\n\nHe swore that he made no war upon women, and ordered back his\ndisappointed followers, allowing them to divide the trumpery booty they\nhad secured, of watches, trinkets, and the parson's purse, which was not\nempty.\n\nThey stood back. Wild Jack spoke to them in a low tone, looking, as he\ndid so, several times up at the sky as if to see how the time went; then\nadvancing he opened the door of the coach, and unbinding the hands of\nthe two ladies, offered to hand them in.\n\nBetty demurred. \"We have duties here first,\" she said, pointing to the\ninanimate form of poor Samuel Barnes.\n\n\"It is well then,\" said Wild Jack, just touching the prostrate man with\nthe toe of his boot. \"We will leave you now, with many apologies, madam,\nfor our intrusion.\"\n\nThe others were already in the saddle and almost out of sight.\n\nWild Jack, who was about to mount, withdrew his foot from the stirrup\nand approached Betty once more.\n\n\"Go, go!\" she said. \"This poor man bleeds; ah, why do you not go?\"\n\n\"I am gone,\" he answered. \"But first, fair lady, in consideration of the\nbooty I have resigned I demand a reward.\"\n\n\"What can I give you?\"\n\nHe pointed to her hand, on one finger of which was a small gold ring in\nthe form of a serpent with tiny ruby eyes.\n\n\"Give me that,\" he said somewhat imperiously.\n\n\"You are welcome,\" she said haughtily, and she drew the ring from her\nfinger. \"I would give a trinket of more value,\" she cried, stamping her\nlittle foot, \"to be freed from your company now!\"\n\nThe words stung him.\n\n\"You will remember those words, madam,\" he said, \"some day--when this\nring returns to your keeping.\"\n\nHe shut the lantern, which during all this time had thrown its yellow\nlight on the strange scene, mounted his horse and disappeared. The horse\nwas snow white, and it passed by like a white gleam in the darkness.\n\nIt was pitch dark now, and the horror of their situation was increased\nby the moans which Mr. Barnes began to utter as consciousness slowly\nreturned.\n\nIt was a relief to all when the familiar sound of flint and steel smote\nthe ear, and the coachman awkwardly, with his bound hands, attempted to\nlight the lamps of the coach. Betty's first business was to unfasten the\nropes which bound the men hand and foot, and by degrees they were able\nto take in their exact position.\n\nOne of the leaders had been shot dead, the traces had been cut, but the\nfrightened horses had not strayed out of reach.\n\nMary Jones was in a dead faint, and, in the absence of all restoratives,\nseemed likely to remain so.\n\nMr. Barnes, his head carefully bound up by Betty and her father, was at\nlast able to rise to his feet and take his place in the carriage.\n\nThe dawn was already breaking, and a white light stealing over the murky\nsky, before the mail could once more get under weigh and move heavily\nforwards.\n\nFar and wide the downs stretched, silent and deserted; a bitter wind\nswept over them and stirred the mane of the dead horse, who lay a\nghastly spectacle, his head thrown back, in a pool of his own blood.\nFrom afar, from whence nor eye nor tongue could tell, came a foul raven\ncroaking.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nThe village of Hendred, of which Mr. Ives was the parson, lay about two\nmiles beyond Wancote, in a low valley nestling under a great wave of the\ndowns. Behind the village a chalk cliff rose white and dazzling, and the\nwarm red brick of the houses, the gleaming chalk, the bright tender\ngreen of the herbage, formed one of those sunny pictures of which\nBerkshire is full.\n\nIn the centre of the village rose the little church, with its square\ngrey tower, over which grew a magnificent creeper with crimson leaves\nglowing with a wondrous richness of colour.\n\nA stone's throw back from the road, in a high-walled garden, stood the\nparsonage. The garden was rich with orchard trees and wall fruit, and\nboasted in particular one golden plum that was the parson's boast and\npride. He had imported rich soil from the valleys, and in each corner of\nthe garden gathered little hills of leaf-mould. Mr. Ives was a notable\ngardener.\n\nThose who would see Betty Ives at her best should see her at home--at\nleast, so said young Mr. Robins, the rich yeoman's son, who sighed in\nvain for her good graces. He was a domestic man, much given to\nsuperintending himself, duties which were looked upon as women's\ngear--\"A womanish man,\" said the women.\n\nOn the other hand young Thornton, eldest son of Squire Thornton of\nThornton Beeches, in the neighbourhood of Wancote, gave out that to see\nMistress Betty at her best, was to see her in the hunting-field, for she\nrode like a bird, and was bright and ready as a pike-staff! There was a\nconfusion of metaphor, but words always failed the young fellow when he\nspoke of the lady who had already three times refused to be his wife.\n\nThen Dr. Glebe, the good doctor of Wancote, in a grey bag-wig and\nhunting-boots, would take a whole handful of snuff, while he swore that\nMistress Betty was only at her best by a sick-bed.\n\nThe parson laughed, and exclaimed with a tear in his eye that such a\nwoman as his daughter was always at her best in whatever she put her\nhand to do; and the old groom Isaac assented with a chuckle, vowing that\nhis young lady was good all round.\n\nThe autumn was beginning, and the crimson creepers on church and wall\nwere at the height of their glow. Betty Ives was strolling in the\nparsonage garden gathering plums from the wall.\n\nThe garden-door was on the latch, it needed but to raise it, and\nMistress Mary Jones walked in. Betty went eagerly forward to meet her\nwith out-stretched hands. No welcome could be more cordial than that\nwhich Betty Ives gave to her friends.\n\n\"I am so glad to see you, Mary? and are you well? Have you lost your\nheadache?\"\n\nMiss Mary sank into a garden-seat and sighed, still retaining the hand\nof her friend.\n\n\"I am better, sweet Bet,\" she said; \"but my nerves will not recover the\nshock for years! No, no! do not shake your head and smile; if you had\nthe crawlings up the back that I experience, and the creepings down the\nspine, and the shaking of knees, the twittering of the lips, and\nquivering of the eyelids--\"\n\n\"Enough, enough!\" cried Betty. \"Thank Heaven, I am not tormented thus!\nMy dear Mary, how can you survive such a multitude of ailments?\"\n\n\"I have survived worse!\" she answered, shuddering. \"I survived the shock\nitself.\"\n\n\"Were you very much frightened?\" asked Betty in a tone of interest.\n\n\"Frightened! I was terrified. I have not nerve like yours. The dark, the\nshot! the dark faces, the loud voices, the ... ah!\"\n\nSeeing Mary's chest beginning to heave, Betty thought it high time to\nchange the subject. \"We will not recall it,\" she said hastily. \"Let us\nthink on more agreeable topics. My father rode into Wancote this\nmorning, to stroll about the marketplace and hear the news.\"\n\n\"And why did you not go?\"\n\n\"Because,\" answered Betty, \"I have been making preserves the livelong\nday. Up at six this morning, for Dame Martha told me that, owing to my\nputting it off so long, the fruit was beginning to rot, so there was no\ntime to lose.\"\n\n\"I leave preserving to my woman,\" said Mary. \"The hanging over the fire\nis ruin to the finest skin.\"\n\n\"Yes, my face is scorched and heated,\" answered Betty, turning a cheek\nlike a peach to her friend. \"But after all, to so weather-beaten a maid\nas myself, up and out in all seasons, a scorched cheek, more or less,\nsignifies not; and Dame Martha works hard.\"\n\n\"And had your father any news from Wancote?\"\n\n\"Yes, news indeed--Belton has been taken!\"\n\n\"Taken?\"\n\n\"Hired or purchased by a gentleman of the name of Johnstone, whose\narrival is expected hourly.\"\n\n\"This is news indeed! None but a rich man could have paid the price\nasked.\"\n\n\"His horses have arrived,\" went on Betty. \"Only four of them as yet, but\neach one of the four of surpassing beauty. One of them, Mr. Barnes told\nmy father, looked worth a king's ransom.\"\n\n\"May the owner be worthy of his cattle,\" said Mary Jones. \"And were\nthere no coach-horses, no carriages? No symptoms of a lady to dispense\nthe hospitalities of Belton?\"\n\n\"Mr. Johnstone is said to be unmarried,\" answered Betty gravely. \"I am\nsorry for it, a new neighbour would have been an agreeable addition to\nour society.\"\n\nThere was a click of the garden-gate, then a smart rap, as if by the\nknob of a hunting-whip.\n\n\"Someone is at the gate,\" said Miss Mary with curiosity.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Betty, \"and I must needs answer it myself, for the bell\nis broken, as doubtless our visitor has discovered, and he may knock\ntill doomsday ere the sound reach the ears of Dame Martha or Isaac, both\nof whom are engaged in quarrelling in the kitchen. So so! how impatient\nit is!\"\n\nFor another succession of knocks fell on the panel.\n\n\"I entreat you, do not open the door yourself, Betty,\" cried Mary in a\ntone of alarm. \"Who knows who may be there?\"\n\n\"Certainly not Wild Jack,\" answered Betty smiling, and disengaging\nherself from her friend's arm she went forward and opened the gate.\n\n\"Does Mr. Ives live here?\" asked a loud, clear voice, which, however,\nsuddenly changed in tone when the opening door disclosed the radiant\nvision of the parson's lovely daughter.\n\nA feathered hat was doffed, a gentleman sprang from his horse and,\nbowing low, asked if he had the honour of addressing one of the family\nof Mr. Ives.\n\n\"His only daughter, sir,\" answered Betty courteously. \"If you wish to\nsee my father, I will beg you to come in and wait, as he will be in\nshortly,\" Mary Jones advanced, her eyes took in at a glance the whole\ndistinguished appearance of the visitor, from the fine cut of his suit\nof claret-coloured cloth, to the well-shaped boot with shining spurs,\nand she gave a little sign of approval.\n\nBetty summoned old Isaac and bade him take charge of the horse, and\nthen led the way into the garden.\n\n\"We are primitive folk here,\" she said. \"But I find most people prefer\nour garden-seats to entering the house.\"\n\nMary was somewhat scandalised, she thought these easy out-door seats a\nbreach of etiquette in themselves, but she could make no remonstrance\nbeyond a little tweak at her friend's sleeve.\n\nBetty sat down and, inviting her visitor to do likewise, she said:\n\n\"In my character as mistress of the house, I would wish to introduce\nyou, sir, to my friend Mistress Mary Jones, of Elm Cottage close by, but\nhave not the honour of being acquainted actually with your name, albeit\nI have conjectured.\"\n\n\"My name is John Johnstone, madam,\" he replied. \"I have but now become\nthe possessor of Belton, near Wancote.\"\n\n\"Our new neighbour,\" cried Mary.\n\n\"Yes, I claim that honour,\" continued Mr. Johnstone.\n\n\"We are vastly pleased to make your acquaintance,\" said Mary, thinking\nwith some pride that she could boast to her friends of already knowing\nthe newcomer.\n\nMr. Johnstone acknowledged the compliment courteously, but he never took\nhis eyes off his young hostess, who appeared in them a miracle of grace\nand beauty.\n\nWith the skill of a man of the world, he drew her into animated\nconversation, gathering from her information respecting the country\nround, the different meets of the hounds, the neighbours, the\ntradespeople, the horses. Time slipped away almost unperceived, and\nneither lady knew how it had sped, when Mr. Ives, mounted on his\nhandsome bay cob, rode up to the door.\n\nMr. Ives beheld with some surprise his daughter and her friend in full\nconverse with a stranger.\n\nThe scene was worthy of a Watteau's brush--the sun just sinking behind\nthe orchard trees gilding the edge of each leaf, shone on the dark red\nof John Johnstone's dress, warmed the sombre hue of fair Betty's lincoln\ngreen, and played on the blue and primrose of Mistress Mary's\nflower-like costume. It was a fair picture, and no eye could rest on a\ngoodlier couple than the tall lithe young man, and the noble maiden.\n\n\"It was courteous of him to pay us one of the first, nay, _the_ first of\nhis neighbourly visits,\" said the good parson, exchanging his tie-wig\nfor a comfortable flannel night-cap, when he was once more alone with\nhis daughter.\n\n\"Next time he comes I will reward him with some of our golden plums,\"\nsaid Betty gaily as she fixed her white teeth in the tender skin of one\nthat was lusciously ripe.\n\nMistress Mary to her maid described the newcomer thus:\n\n\"He is tall, Deborah, very tall; slight, but with shoulders of great\nbreadth, and a square neck--one would say that his strength was\nherculean. His eyes are dark blue, his nose a trifle arched, brows thick\nand square, a sweet mouth--a very sweet mouth--but wondrous stern all\nthe same. But his manners, Deborah, and his curling dark hair, just\nslightly dashed with powder--his manners are perfect! his hair is\ndivine! Heigh-ho, Deborah!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nUp from the plains a steep road rose on the downs, a road so steep, so\ndazzling white that it looked like a white thread hanging on a green\nsurface.\n\nBetty Ives rode slowly up the hill, leaning slightly forward to ease her\nhorse as she did so. Though November had set in, the sun was still\npowerful, and both horse and rider were a little oppressed by its heat.\n\nSome very close observer might have seen a change in the girl's face--a\nvery slight change, something that deepened the expression of the lovely\neyes, something that played softly like the shadow of a great happiness\non the mobile lips. She was thinking, thinking deeply as she rode.\n\nFolks said that Betty Ives was very hard to win. Ruth Thornton, the\nsquire's buxom daughter, would have given years of her life for one of\nthe passionate appeals young Robins had made so often to Betty in vain.\nLady Rachel Tremame had almost broken her heart when Betty, at the\nNewbury ball, had so attracted Sir Harry Clare that he had no eyes for\nother than her. Yet amid her many adorers, fair Betty, with the\ncarelessness of inexperience, passed unpitying and fancy free.\n\nBut now times were changed: fair Betty's heart was given away.\n\nYet John Johnstone had not found his courtship easy, it was long before\nhe made any way. He wooed proudly, and she took his subjection as due to\nherself, and was not grateful for that which she deemed her right. But\nthe young man loved her the better for this, for he was one of those who\nvalue most that which is hardest to gain.\n\nBetty with her rein on her horse's neck was thinking, wondering how it\nwas that John Johnstone was always present to her mind, that her eyes\nsought him in the hunting-field, that those evenings were dull and\nlonely on which he did not come in for a chat with her father before\nsupper-time, and all the world fell flat, stale and unprofitable, during\nvarious short absences of his, when he would disappear for three days\ntogether and none knew whither he went.\n\nBetty's horse had mounted the white hill at last, and now scoured\nswiftly away over the springy turf on the wide downs.\n\nFor miles she passed no human habitation, then Betty reached her\ndestination.\n\nLow in a hollow dip of the green grass sea nestled a small cottage. No\ntree or bush within miles, the unbroken winds tore round it, the snow\noften banked up against it; but the owner, one of Mr. Ives' pensioners,\nappeared to care little for wind or weather.\n\nAs Betty rode up, she sent her clear ringing voice before her:\n\n\"Rachel! Rachel Ray!\"\n\nThen paused suddenly, for fastened by the bridle to a low post close to\nthe cottage door, she perceived a fine bay horse that she knew well. She\ndrew rein, swiftly debating within herself whether she should go on, or\ndraw back, then shaking back her proud little head she rode forward.\n\nBetty feared nothing on earth; should she be scared by the odd feeling\nin her heart that made it beat so fast and loud? A thousand times no.\n\nBefore she had reached the cottage, the door opened, and a small troop\nof ragged children tumbled out to meet her, children with black elfin\nlocks, and eyes gleaming like live coals, showing wild gipsy blood.\n\nBetty leapt from her horse, and called the eldest boy to her side.\n\n\"Here, Reuben,\" she said, \"I will give you a silver penny if you hold\nConrad steadily, and like a good boy, while I visit your grandmother.\"\nShe opened the door with a slight knock and went in. An odd sight met\nher eyes.\n\nBy the table stood the vigorous figure of old Rachel Ray, handsome yet,\nwith the dark gipsy characteristics of her grandchildren--before her\nthe tall fine figure of John Johnstone in full hunting scarlet, just\nstooping in the act of giving her a kiss.\n\nThe old woman started, and pushed him aside when she saw Betty come in.\nShe advanced to meet her visitor, who stood during the space of a minute\nwithout advancing, so great was her astonishment.\n\n\"You are surprised to see an old woman kiss her nursling,\" cried old\nRachel. \"But it would be odd if he did not, bless his brave heart!\"\n\n\"Not surprised at his kissing you, Dame Rachel,\" said Betty, a little\nless steadily than usual. \"But I did not know that you were acquainted,\nI thought Mr. Johnstone was a stranger to this part of the world.\"\n\nThe old woman turned her eyes on the young man, eyes brimming with\nburning tears, and with a look of entreaty in them.\n\nJohn Johnstone gave a little impatient stamp of the foot.\n\nIt seemed to Betty watching them, that thus he gave a mute answer to\nsome mute question or entreaty made.\n\n\"Sit down, sit down, my pretty lady,\" said Rachel drawing forward and\ndusting a chair. \"You are welcome as flowers in May, or as the first\nswallow that heralds the spring. Are you well, my bonnie dear? and the\ngood gentleman your father?\"\n\n\"We are all well, dame. I am ashamed not to have been to see you for so\nlong, but I am glad that you have had other visitors,\" and she glanced\nat Mr. Johnstone.\n\n\"We are old friends,\" he said with a smile of rare sweetness. \"One of my\nmost faithful servants and friends was my foster-brother Harry Ray,\nRachel's eldest son.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, was!\" cried the woman, her voice rising to a kind of wail.\"\nWe speak of Hal Ray in the past now.\"\n\nJohnstone bit his lip, and a bitter frown contracted his brow.\n\n\"Alas, is he dead, dame?\" asked Betty tenderly.\n\n\"Aye, dear heart, dead, and his bones have no grave, and happen his\nspirit no rest.\"\n\n\"This is terrible,\" said Betty with a shiver.\n\nMr. Johnstone moved restlessly to the window, and busied himself with\nhis sword-knot.\n\n\"I have often told you, good mother,\" he said, and his voice had in it\nan odd mixture of grief and irritation, \"that the less we dwell on these\nthings the better. Mistress Betty,\" he went on hurriedly, \"Harry Ray\nwhen he left my service, joined his fortunes with Wild Jack Barnstaple.\nHe had ill-luck, poor lad, he was taken and ... and hanged.\"\n\nHis mother uttered a shuddering cry.\n\n\"And by the road he must hang,\" she cried, \"till the earth and the wild\nwinds have done their worst, and never a one to scare the wild birds\nfrom the flesh of my boy!\"\n\n\"Dear dame,\" said Betty earnestly, \"the soul recks little of its earthly\ntenement.\"\n\n\"God rest his soul, he was a good fellow and brave,\" said Johnstone\nearnestly.\n\n\"I also have seen Wild Jack,\" said Betty, willing to turn the poor woman\nfrom her troubles.\n\n\"Seen him! seen Wild Jack?\" cried she.\n\n\"Aye, seen him and been his prisoner; and say who will to the contrary,\nI have reason to maintain that he is a true gentleman.\"\n\n\"Is it so?\" said Mr. Johnstone, smiling. \"A cut-throat, a robber, a\nhighwayman, a true gentleman?\"\n\nBetty gave him an indignant glance. \"I speak of him as I found him,\" she\nsaid. \"And we of the country have always known how to distinguish\nbetween common malefactors and the gentlemen of the road.\"\n\n\"So, so!\" answered Johnstone, still smiling. \"And yet both end too often\non Tyburn Hill.\"\n\nBetty turned pale and shivered. It seemed as if she gasped for breath;\nshe turned her large eyes on her lover and said, \"Ah, these matters are\nfar too serious for so grim a jest.\"\n\nBut her eyes were caught and arrested by the look which met them; so\nlong, so burning with passionate admiration and love, with a strange\nexpression of exaltation, almost gratitude. Betty's heart beat fast. He\nhad forced her to love him, and such maidens as Betty Ives when they\ngive love at last, give life itself. Dame Rachel glanced from one to\nanother, then she rose quickly, and from a dark corner of the room\nproduced a pack of cards. \"Come, fair lady and noble gentleman,\" she\nsaid, with a touch of the professional whine in her voice. \"Will you\nhear your fortunes? Cross the old gipsy's hand with silver, my pretty\ndears, and you shall hear all the good things past, present, and future,\nthat may fall to your lot.\"\n\n\"Will you try?\" said John Johnstone, bending forward.\n\nThe rosy colour rushed into Betty's cheek, the light shone in her eyes.\n\n\"I will try,\" she said, half laughing.\n\n\"Then all that is good we will believe, and all that is bad will cast to\nthe winds as false and untrue.\"\n\n\"Nothing can be bad in the future of faces like yours, dear hearts,\"\nsaid Rachel, rapidly shuffling the cards.\n\nSome minutes passed, the gipsy busily and with growing discomfiture\nturning the cards, trying them in every way--the two were silent.\n\nBetty leant her head on her hand, shading her eyes from view, full of\nshyness for the first time in her bold young life. John Johnstone gazed\non her with his soul in his eyes, and yet with a strange impatient\ninterest in the business that was going on.\n\nPresently Rachel flung all the cards down with violence.\n\n\"I am losing the trick of the trade,\" she said, in a harsh, frightened\nvoice. \"I am getting afraid of the cards, and when you are afraid of\nthem, they master you.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" said John kindly. \"Do not blame yourself, good mother, if\nthey show not all the gilded coaches and six, and the lovely bride and\ngay bridegroom you would fain have promised us.\"\n\n\"The combinations turn to evil--all evil. Pah! it is the old story. I\nwas afraid of the cards, and they have mastered me.\"\n\n\"Was there no warning conveyed in these strange combinations, Dame?\"\nasked Johnstone eagerly.\n\n\"I deal not in warnings,\" said Rachel hastily.\n\n\"Did I deal in warnings, the reading of the cards might prove useful to\nyou both.\"\n\n\"Come, come!\" he said, \"you speak in riddles. The warning. Is it the\nsame for this gentle lady as for my rough self?\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, for both--both.\" She bent down, and laid a dark hand on the\nshoulder of each, and peering into one face after another, she muttered:\n\n\"Beware of Wild Jack Barnstaple!\"\n\nBoth started. John Johnstone flushed angrily: he rose to his feet.\n\n\"We have had enough of this fooling,\" he said. \"The day is advancing,\nmadam,\" turning to Betty. \"Will you vouchsafe me the extreme pleasure of\nbeing your escort home?\"\n\nAs Betty was about to answer, she was arrested by the sound of singing\noutside, in a voice so wild, loud, and sweet, it seemed the very\nembodiment of the music of Nature.\n\n\"Who is singing like that?\" asked Betty. \"How beautiful! and how\nmarvellously sad.\"\n\n\"It is Nora Ray, only our Nora, dear heart. Her voice is sweet as the\nlark, and she sings old songs she gathers in the villages round.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, listen!\" cried Betty, and she stood with upraised hand\nlistening.\n\nThe air was in the minor key, the voice of the singer thrilled to the\nvery nerves, every word came distinctly to their ears.\n\n   \"Aye, Margaret loved the fair gentleman,\n      Aye, well and well-a-day,\n    And the winter clouds gather wild and fast;\n      He loved, and he galloped away.\n\n    Aye, call him! call him over the lea,\n      Thou sad forsaken lass,\n    Never more he'll come back to thee\n      Over the wild green grass.\n\n    The swallows return from over the sea,\n      Aye, well and well-a-day;\n    But lover will never come back to thee\n      Who loves and gallops away.\n\n    Aye, call him! call him over the sea,\n      The winter is coming fast;\n    He waved his hat, he bowed full low\n      And smiled as he galloped past.\n\n    Aye, call him! call him over the lea,\n      Aye, well and well-a-day;\n    Lover will never come back to thee\n      Who loves and gallops away.\"\n\nA strange shiver came over Betty Ives, a thrill such as she had never\nexperienced before. She glanced at Dame Rachel. The old woman was\nnervously fingering the cards, and muttering to herself. Then her\nfrightened eyes turned to her lover; he read some appeal in them.\n\nHe held out his hand, and caught hers and pressed it for one short\nsecond to his lips.\n\nThe door burst open, and the girl who had been singing came in; her\nblack hair was all blown back, the great black eyes staring out of the\nsmall dark face. She drew her scanty cloak round her and laughed a\nshrill laugh.\n\n\"Will you have your fortunes told, my good gentleman? my pretty lady?\"\nshe cried. \"Cross little Nora's palm with a silver sixpence then.\"\n\n\"No, no, we have had enough of that. Come, dear madam, we must be\ngoing,\" said Johnstone, and he conducted Betty to the place where\nReuben, faithful to his trust, held the rein of her horse.\n\n\"Do not be so long without coming to see me again, dear heart,\" cried\nRachel Ray, standing outside her door.\n\n\"No, no, I will come soon,\" answered Betty. Johnstone placed her in the\nsaddle.\n\n\"A good gallop over the downs will bring back the colour to your cheek,\"\nhe said softly. \"You are so white and cold.\"\n\n\"There is something ill-omened in all here,\" said Betty with a slight\nshiver.\n\n\"Here, Nora,\" cried Johnstone, flinging her a piece of gold. \"This is to\nmake up for the loss of that silver sixpence.\"\n\nThe girl laughed loud and shrilly. \"Ah! ah!\" she cried after them. \"The\ngood gentleman! the brave fellow! For this I would follow you! aye!\nfollow you, my lad, from Belton to Tyburn Hill!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\n\"It is then true, my Betty? And I am to wish you joy?\" cried Mary Jones,\nwith both hands outstretched.\n\n\"It is true,\" answered Betty, her lips parted in a smile of sunshiny\nhappiness. \"Congratulate me, Mary; yes, wish me joy, for there is no\nhappier woman to-day between the Northern and Southern seas.\"\n\n\"I am glad to see you so happy, dear child!\" cried Mary affectionately,\nbut there was something pinched and starved in her voice. Ah, pity for\nthose who possess the capacity for love and yet must go hungry to their\ndying day!\n\nThis odd want is none the less bitter that it meets with scant sympathy\nin this hard world. In the breast of many an unsought woman lies a\nwealth of wasted treasure, treasure which no one has cared to seek, and\nyet what a treasure it might have been!\n\nMary Jones's heart had grown somewhat starved, but it was the heart of a\nloving woman still, and when the bright sunshine of her young friend's\nhappiness shed its light on her soul, it awakened an echo of old dead\ndays, and swelled it with sympathy.\n\n\"Sit down, sweet one,\" she said, drawing Betty down on the sofa beside\nher. \"Tell me all about it. When did he ask you to be his wife?\"\n\n\"This morning, Mary, only this morning; but it seems as if years had\npassed since then.\"\n\n\"And what says Mr. Ives? Does he welcome the stranger who takes from him\nhis only child?\"\n\n\"Not far, Mary--but two miles away--and my father is always to live with\nme, if he so will it, so says Mr. Johnstone.\"\n\n\"But is he pleased?\" asked Mary, with a little persistence.\n\n\"Yes, he is well pleased; he already loves him as a son. Mary, perhaps\nthe thing that most readily won my heart was his reverence and tender\ncourtesy to my father.\"\n\n\"I can believe it, Betty. His manners are perfect. I was only making\nthat same remark to Deborah this morning. Yes, I knew only one other\nwhose manners could compare with your John Johnstone's, Betty--only\none.\"\n\nMary Jones sighed deeply and looked down. Betty gently pressed her hand.\n\nHitherto she had always laughed at her friend's tender recollections;\nnow, it seemed to her that her eyes were opened to her former cruelty.\n\nBut Mistress Mary was too much interested to waste too much time even on\nsuch reflections.\n\n\"You must tell me all, dear,\" she said. \"What is his family? Has he\nparents living, brothers and sisters? Is his fortune assured?\"\n\n\"Ah, there is some little difficulty there,\" answered Betty, her face\nfalling a little. \"He has no parents, no friends, no kindred; he is all\nalone in the wide world. And as for his fortune, that is assured, but it\nis somehow mysteriously bound up in trusts--I know not what--he has no\npapers to show my father, he asks for perfect confidence.\"\n\nMistress Mary was a prudent woman. She pursed up her lips and uttered a\nlittle sound expressive of discontent.\n\n\"Dear Betty,\" she said, \"it is doubtless a very good thing to be in love\nwith a stranger romantically, but still--\"\n\n\"He is no stranger,\" said Betty quickly.\n\n\"No, no, not to be called a stranger,\" cried Mary, laughing--\"an old and\nvalued friend of two months' standing.\"\n\n\"The time is short,\" said Betty thoughtfully. \"But a whole lifetime\nseems to have passed in that space! My father,\" she cried, as Mr. Ives\nentered the room, \"here is Mistress Mary Jones.\"\n\n\"Come to offer my warmest good wishes,\" said the lady, \"and also all the\nassistance in my power when the important day approaches.\"\n\n\"I shall indeed be glad and grateful for your help,\" said Betty\naffectionately.\n\nMr. Ives persuaded Mary to remain for supper. The candles were brought\nin, and the room looked bright and cheery.\n\n\"Stay with me and cheer my loneliness,\" said the parson cheerily. \"The\nyoung folk will stroll in the garden till supper be ready. I am too old\nfor dewy twilight walks, egad.\"\n\nWas it a new idea that flashed into Mary's mind that caused her to\nstart? She glanced at Mr. Ives' comely person, at his glossy cassock,\nhis smartly-buckled shoes, at the neat tie-wig which surmounted a face\nwhich she hastily pronounced as handsome as it ever had been.\n\nWith a sweep of her fan Mistress Mary renounced her waning youth.\n\n\"Stay with you!\" she cried, \"that will I! and you and I from the window\nwill superintend our dear young ones. Alas!\" she said, with a\nlanguishing look, \"how lonely the house will seem when you are bereft of\nyour daughter.\"\n\nMr. Ives sighed deeply.\n\nOutside in the gloaming, Betty Ives and her young lover walked slowly\nbackwards and forwards under the orchard trees.\n\n\"No father, no mother, no sisters!\" she said, looking up into his face.\n\"No one to love, no one to love you!\"\n\n\"I do not know whether I am to be pitied,\" he answered with a light\nlaugh. \"My life has been one of strange vicissitudes. No, no, sweet Bet;\nI have often thanked God that no one shared my life.\"\n\n\"But you will never do so again,\" she said earnestly.\n\n\"Sweetheart!\" he answered. \"Until you have once drunk of the cup of\nhappiness you know not what it is; but once tasted, you can ill spare it\nthenceforth.\"\n\n\"Ah, some day you will tell me about this life of yours--will you not?\"\n\n\"Some day, my heart, when you and I are alone together in the fair woods\nof Belton--when you are my precious wife, and when days have passed on,\nand our full trust and confidence each in the other is proved and\nstrengthened by time. But not now, beloved, not now.\"\n\n\"Have you known griefs, sorrows?\"\n\n\"A few.\"\n\n\"Happiness?\"\n\n\"Yes, and triumphs often.\"\n\nBetty bent down her head thoughtfully; fain would she have swept away\nthe veil of mystery which surrounded her betrothed, but she would take\nno step to do so--no confidence was precious save that which was given\nunasked.\n\nThe twilight gathered softly. Presently Betty turned round, and placed\nher two clasped hands on his arm, her noble head proudly raised, her\nlarge eyes seeking his.\n\n\"Look you,\" she said, \"there is something I would wish to say to you.\nYou and I are to be man and wife--and I have accepted you--I know\nnothing of you, John--I know not whence you come, or from among what\nkinsfolk; I have taken all on trust. I love you, John, so I fear not.\nThey say that perfect love casteth out fear. There can be no dark\nsecret in your life, no deed or deeds that you shame to disclose to me.\nI take you with infinite faith. So tell me what you will, dear, or as\nmuch as you will. My heart will give you gratitude for the confidence\nyou give to me, and, John, my love shall cover your silence.\"\n\nWith a sudden impulse John Johnstone was down on his knees, he pressed\nher hands to his lips with a passion akin to worship.\n\n\"My life, my love!\" he cried--\"my whole life shall be devoted to\nrewarding your trust in me. Oh, would to God I were more worthy of you!\"\n\nWithin the house Mistress Mary and Mr. Ives were very comfortable: they\nplayed a game of patience together (in which the former was a great\nproficient), they chatted, they waxed confidential, and not till Dame\nMartha summoned them to sup, did they perceive the lapse of time. Mr.\nIves called from the window, and the betrothed pair came in, their eyes\nshining and dazzled by the bright light.\n\nMatters went on happily thus for many days--it seemed that the course of\ntrue love was to run very smooth--when one evening a little incident\noccurred that startled all.\n\nThe little party of four were dining together, as they generally did.\n\nMr. Ives was in a merry mood: he poured out a glass of good red wine,\nwine that was not often brought forth from the depth of his cellar; he\nbade John Johnstone fill up his glass, and as each gentleman raised it\nbrimming to his lips, pledged \"His sacred Majesty, good King George.\"\n\nWith a sharp rattle John Johnstone's glass crashed untasted on the\ntable, and the red wine splashed like blood on the white napery.\n\nThe parson looked at him, and the colour forsook his cheek.\n\nMistress Mary glanced tremulously from one to another, and half rose in\nconsternation.\n\nThe colour flushed high in Betty Ives' cheek. \"Was this then the\nmystery?\"\n\nThe absent king held all her sympathies.\n\nMr. Ives moved back his chair from the table, and said somewhat\nunsteadily:\n\n\"Good sir, I am a man of peace. I love order and a strong government.\nCan I hazard my daughter by--\"\n\nNow, strangely enough, Mary Jones came to the rescue.\n\n\"Sirs,\" she said, \"allow me to make a proposition; it is this, that not\none of us breathe a word elsewhere of what has happened tonight. For\nheaven's sake say nothing, keep all dark, and on this understanding,\"\nshe stooped forward and daintily raised her own glass, \"I also pledge\nhis Majesty over the sea.\"\n\nBut Mr. Ives did not recover his spirits that night: presentiments of\nevil haunted him, misgivings that he had not done wisely by his darling.\nWhen the small hours of the morning struck he still lay awake, tossing\nrestlessly to and fro.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nThe days passed on, and now all the world lay under a pall of white\nsnow. Under their dazzling mantle gleamed the dark prickly leaves of the\nholly-trees with abundance of scarlet berries. Here and there a little\nrobin-redbreast hopped to and fro, chiefly gathering round the latticed\nwindows of the parsonage, where morning and evening Betty fed hundreds\nof feathered pensioners.\n\nSportsmen cursed the hard weather, the idle horses restlessly moved in\ntheir stalls, and the hounds dreamed dreams to pass away the long hours.\n\nBetty was never idle. She made it her pride that when she left home as a\nbride all should be found in order in her father's home. Mistress Mary\ntook much interest in it herself, and joined her in mending and marking\nand sorting fine household linen that had need of much care.\n\nBetty's own clothes were in course of manufacture, not many but rich, as\nshould become the Lady of Belton; above all, her wedding-gown of\ndove-coloured and silver brocade, all trimmed with strings and strings\nof orient pearls which John Johnstone had brought her one day.\n\nHe gave her many jewels but she loved the pearls best, for they were his\nfirst gift, and destined, he said, for that day of days that was to make\nher his own forever.\n\nAlmost every day as the time passed on, he brought her a new gift. Once\nit was a pretty little dog, another day a ring of large rubies.\n\n\"My Betty herself is a ruby,\" he said, when he placed this on her hand.\n\"A brave stone rich in colour, strong, unchanging, and the most precious\nof gems.\"\n\nThen there was nothing for it, but that she and her father should come\nto Belton to look over Betty's future home, suggest improvements, and\nchoose among Mr. Johnstone's many fine horses one to be trained for his\nbride's special use. She was a bold fearless rider, looking beautiful on\nhorseback, and she had scorned his proposal to buy her a gentle lady's\nhorse, expressing her wish to be allowed to ride his hunters. With one\nor two exceptions John offered her the choice.\n\nIt was a brilliant frosty day on which the invitation was accepted. Mr.\nIves laughingly included Mary Jones in the little party, asserting that\ntwo and two would be a fairer division of company.\n\nMary bridled and blushed and threw a tender glance at him from behind\nher fan, and the parson thought to himself that after all he was not old\nyet.\n\nIn every life there is perhaps one day that stands out from the others\nas the happiest day--one day in which the cup of joy seems full to the\nbrim; it is not generally a day of powerful emotions, but of unbroken\npeace, sunshine, love, sweetness and the glory of life.\n\nSuch a day had dawned for fair Betty Ives. It was not so unbroken for\nher betrothed: now and then a look of care overcast his brow, and now\nand then his hands clenched themselves with a slight nervous movement.\nAll through the day he paid her a courtship so tender, so deferential,\nso loving, it might have been a votary addressing his saint, a courtier\nwaiting on his queen; and as the hour advanced, and the time of\ndeparture drew near, his attentions became yet more tender, more\nwistful.\n\nThey visited the horses and the dogs, gave bread to the shy young\ngazelle that John was endeavouring to tame, to offer to his bride. Then\nhe suddenly drew her aside, and while Mr. Ives and Mary Jones strolled\nonwards to the garden, he took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the\ndoor of a loose box which he had passed by hitherto.\n\n\"Here lives my best treasure, sweetheart,\" he said. \"You must travel\nfar, and look wide, ere you meet with his match.\"\n\nBetty looked in, and her eyes fell on a magnificent white horse. It\nwould have needed an experienced eye fully to appreciate the strength\nand symmetry of its proportions; to Betty he looked beautiful, and words\nfailed to describe her admiration.\n\n\"Strange that I have never chanced to see you ride him,\" she said. \"I\nrecognised at once the brown mare and the two chestnuts, and the bay\nwith a white star, but this one I have never seen.\"\n\n\"No, I never hunt Seagull,\" he answered thoughtfully. \"I owe him my life\nnot once, but over and over again.\"\n\n\"Seagull!\" exclaimed Betty. \"Is not that the name of Wild Jack's famous\nwhite horse?\"\n\n\"Yes, he was named after him. I bethought myself that my Seagull was as\nnoble an animal as Wild Jack's.\"\n\n\"I am sure that he has not his equal in the wide world!\" cried Betty.\n\nJohn Johnstone turned suddenly to her and said: \"Do you still keep up\nyour interest in that poor sinner Wild Jack, sweet Bet? or has it died\naway in your gentle breast?\"\n\n\"I shall never forget our first, and (heaven grant) our last interview,\"\nshe answered with a smile. \"How he justified my trust in him!\"\n\n\"Poor Jack,\" said John Johnstone thoughtfully. \"I knew Jack well once;\nyou were right to have faith in him. He has done good service to the\nCause. Look you, dear, he never took purse or papers on the king's\nhighway, but in the king's name who is over the seas; he never injured\nwoman or shot an unnecessary shot--keep your sympathy with Jack. And\nnow,\" he said, throwing back his head with an odd look of defiance and\npride--\"now there is a reward of five hundred pounds offered for Wild\nJack's body living or dead. They place a high price on the head of one,\nwhom, to his honour, they dub traitor as well as highwayman!\"\n\n\"Five hundred pounds,\" said Betty. \"Alas! the reward is tempting.\"\n\n\"He has escaped so often from their very midst, has more than once been\nprisoner, has often baffled his swiftest pursuers. Next time Wild Jack\nis taken, his shrift will be short, I warrant.\"\n\nThe tears rose to Betty's eyes.\n\n\"God grant him a safe escape to France,\" she said earnestly.\n\n\"It is a good and a charitable wish, sweetheart,\" said John somewhat\ngloomily. \"But men who have lived as Wild Jack has lived, dread, exile\nas much as death.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Betty, \"that depends upon whether he is utterly\nfriendless, or has any who love him.\"\n\n\"Wild Jack is not utterly friendless,\" he answered with a grave sweet\nsmile.\n\n\"And this also is one of the mysteries,\" said Betty gaily. \"Do not\nforget your promise, that some day you will tell me all the past history\nof your life, and also, above all, the story of your acquaintance with\nthe most famous gentleman of the road.\"\n\n\"Aye, some day,\" he said, closing the door of Seagull's home, and\nplacing the key in his pocket.\n\nAs they turned away he said suddenly: \"Say nothing about my treasure in\nthere, dear Bet, I beg of you, neither to your father nor to Mistress\nMary.\"\n\nBetty looked up at him somewhat surprised.\n\n\"Oh, it is for a trifling reason,\" he said--\"a mere wager.\"\n\nSo the matter faded from her mind.\n\nThe elders of the little party now summoned them--the evening was\nclosing, it was time to be going home.\n\nThey were all to ride, Mary on a pillion behind Mr. Ives.\n\nWhile the horses were being saddled, Mr. Johnstone prayed them to come\nin, and they entered once more the large drawing-room, and gathered\nround a cheerfully blazing fire.\n\nIt was a stately room, with handsome furniture, all arranged with stiff\npropriety, needing the trifling signs of a woman's presence to give\ngrace and life to its appearance.\n\n\"How different it will look when my lady reigns here,\" said John\nJohnstone softly. He led her away to one of the windows, and pointed out\nto her the beauties of the fair English landscape, and there unseen he\nheld her hand in both his, and once pressed it to his lips. Tea came in,\nin cups of delicate old china, and home-made cakes and fresh butter.\n\n\"We must have a dairy fit for your superintendence, sweet Bet,\" said\nJohn Johnstone. \"See how pale is this butter, how thin this cream\ncompared to what you offer me at the parsonage.\"\n\nThe horses came round at last, Mr. Johnstone's bay mare with them; he\nwould certainly accompany them home.\n\nIndeed it seemed as if this evening he could not tear himself away, he\nlingered on and on, and it grew quite dark, and the moon rose over the\nsnow, and the stars shone out one by one.\n\nSupper was over, Mistress Mary long since gone home. It was nine\no'clock--Mr. Johnstone must go. Mr. Ives sat quiet in his deep chair,\nthe warmth and the comfort entered into his soul, and he slept.\n\n\"Come with me to the door, sweet Bet,\" said John lingeringly.\n\n\"Yes, even farther than that,\" she said, and she caught up her fur\ncloak, threw it round her, and followed him out to the garden gate. The\ncrisp snow crackled pleasantly under foot.\n\nOld Isaac, who held the bay mare, left them when he had given the bridle\ninto her master's hand.\n\n\"They will be wishing to kiss, mayhap,\" he muttered to himself, \"and\nI'll not stand in their way, God bless them!\"\n\nJohn Johnstone mounted. He looked up to the sky and said, \"It is later\nthan I thought. I have a long ride before me to-night, sweetheart. I\nhave business near Newbury. I had meant to go home and change the bay\nmare for my faithful Seagull, but it is too late.\"\n\n\"When shall you be back?\" asked Betty, who was used now to his sudden\ndepartures.\n\n\"To-morrow--to-morrow at latest, and my first halt shall be here.\"\n\n\"Are you armed?\"\n\nHe gave a laugh, and pointed to his saddle, well garnished with pistols.\n\n\"They are loaded,\" he said. \"For it might fall out that I should meet\nwith Wild Jack.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid!\" said Betty with a shiver.\n\n\"You are cold, sweetheart, you must go in. We must part. Oh! it is\nbitter to say farewell.\"\n\n\"Only till to-morrow, John! Only till to-morrow!\"\n\n\"Only till to-morrow!\" he echoed.\n\nThen he bent down, put his hand under her chin and raised her sweet\nface--the moon shone on it, on the large eyes lovingly turned to his, on\nthe wondering tender look, in which joy and pain seemed strangely\nmingled.\n\nTheir lips met, one long wild kiss--for the first time she heard his\npassionate words, \"My own, my beloved!\" Then he drew up his reins. John\ngave one glance at the moon, and noted how she mounted heaven's\narch--then he looked back no more, but set spurs to the bay mare's\nflanks, and galloped away.\n\nBetty went home; she lay down to rest with a smile on her beautiful\nface. The happiest day must end when night falls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nWhen evening fell the next day, Betty lingered long at the gate.\n\n\"He could not get his business done in time,\" she said to herself. \"He\nwill not come to-day.\"\n\nBut the next day passed also, and the next, and still John Johnstone had\nnot come home.\n\nOn the fourth day Mr. Ives rode into Wancote to hear the news, and\npromised his daughter that he would go over to Belton, and find out from\nthe servants whether they had had any news of their master, and when\nthey expected him to return.\n\nMary Jones came over to the parsonage--it was an important day, for\nBetty was to try on her wedding-gown, finished the night before.\n\nShe looked very beautiful in it, the soft colour flushing on her cheek,\nher sweet eyes shining. When the little ceremony was over, Betty put her\narm round the waist of her friend, and led her away out of earshot of\nbusy Dame Martha, and the smart dressmakers.\n\n\"Dear Mary!\" she said, \"my great wish now is to see you don just such a\ndress as this wedding-gown of mine.\"\n\n\"Oh la! Betty, bethink you of my age,\" cried Mary, but tears of genuine\nemotion rose to her eyes.\n\n\"Yet would I fain see you my father's wife,\" said Betty. She put her\nhands on her shoulders, and looked down from her greater height into her\nface.\n\n\"Say yes, Mary, say yes,\" she said.\n\n\"I must wait till the right person asks me that question,\" answered\nMary, half sobbing, half laughing; but Betty persisted:\n\n\"Say yes, Mary dear!\"\n\n\"Well then yes, if so it must be,\" answered Mary. \"You are a good girl,\nBetty,\" and she kissed her warmly, and hurried away to the glass to\nrearrange her elaborate curls of hair.\n\nMr. Ives came home full of excitement: he had heard great news in\nWancote, the whole town was ringing with it.\n\n\"What do you think has happened?\" he cried as he came into the room.\n\n\"Has John come home?\" asked Betty eagerly.\n\n\"No, child, and the servants say that they never expect him until he\nappears, he is often away like this for a few days. The news is quite\notherwise--Wild Jack has been taken.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried the women in a breath, and Betty turned white as a sheet.\n\n\"What will they do with him!\" asked Mary.\n\n\"He was taken on the king's highway, some twenty miles from here on the\nNewbury Road, on the cross roads where the steep way comes down from the\ndowns. It seems that an important paper had fallen into the possession\nof some individual here, convicting many well-known gentlemen about\nWancote of loyalty to him that is over the sea, and Sir Harry Clare was\nto carry the paper to Newbury to-night. I warrant some not very distant\nfriends of ours were shaking in their shoes.\"\n\n\"They rode four together and all well-armed; but Wild Jack was too much\nfor them--he and two others attacked the party; he seized the paper\nhimself, after a short encounter with young Clare, whose horse he shot\ndead. That accomplished, all made off. The paper was lost. Some say Wild\nJack burnt it as he rode, some that he swallowed it, some that he tore\nand scattered it to the four winds of heaven. Then, when in full flight,\nhis horse stumbled and fell, and the four gentlemen came up with him.\nEntangled as he was by the fallen horse, he fought and kept all at bay\nwith his marvellous fencing powers till his men were far out of sight.\nThen he broke his sword across his knee, saying that never should his\ntrusty weapon fall into the hands of the king's enemies. He was badly\nwounded.\"\n\n\"Well?\" cried Mary breathlessly. Betty sat down, she felt cold and\nfaint.\n\n\"Well, they took him that night to the nearest village, bound hand and\nfoot. At first they hardly knew the value of their captive, for he was\nnot riding his famous horse Seagull; had he been mounted as usual, small\nchance would they have had of capturing Wild Jack. There was a hasty\nassembly of magistrates, such as could be induced to come. I warrant\nsome would have died sooner than join in what followed. They caused a\ngallows to be erected forty feet high on the king's high road, and there\nthey hanged Wild Jack.\"\n\n\"God rest his soul,\" said Betty. \"John will be sorry indeed, as sorry as\nI am.\"\n\n\"Yes, John always has a certain sympathy with the gentlemen of the\nroad,\" said Mr. Ives. \"But after all, order must be kept, the roads must\nbe made safe. I know the government will be sorely displeased that the\nlist of suspected gentlemen has been saved, I mean lost.\"\n\nIt was too late, and all were too much excited by what had passed for\nBetty to broach the subject of marriage to her father that night, but\nshe promised herself to do so early on the following morning.\n\nIt was very cold, and Betty could not sleep; in vain she turned from\nside to side, in vain she drank water and paced her room, and tried all\nthe devices known to the sleepless--all was fruitless; her pillow seemed\nto her on fire, and incessantly in her imagination she heard the\ngalloping of horses so vividly, that she rose several times and went to\nthe window; but the night was clear, and the moon bright, and all over\nthe country lay one sheet of untrodden snow.\n\nShe lay down once more, and about three o'clock was roused suddenly by a\nlight tap, as of something which hit her window.\n\nShe went to it hastily, and as she did so, another light pebble hit the\npanes. She opened the casement and looked out. Below in the garden in\nthe moonlight, which was almost as light as day, she saw standing a\nslight woman's figure.\n\nThe figure held up a warning hand to be silent and come down.\n\nBetty was bold and fearless, she put on her clothes hastily, and went\ndown. She went into the garden at once, and looked cautiously round.\nThere was no one to be seen at first.\n\nShe waited in some amazement, when suddenly she felt a light touch on\nher shoulder, and looking round, saw standing beside her Nora Ray, the\nyoung gipsy girl, looking more wild and elf-like than usual.\n\n\"Hist!\" said the strange child. \"I have brought you a token from one\nwhom you know so well. His day is over,\" she cried with a wild grin,\nshowing all her white teeth. \"The ravens are feasting on Wild Jack's\ntender flesh to-night. See here is the token; he gave it to me at the\nfoot of the gallows with his own hand.\"\n\nWith a sob Betty took it from the girl's brown hand--her own little\nserpent-ring that he had taken from her that night that seemed so long\nago.\n\n\"It shall never again leave my finger,\" she said. \"God rest his soul.\"\n\n\"You will cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver, pretty lady,\" cried\nNora. \"He never failed to do so to poor Nora Ray, not he!\"\n\nBetty quickly went into the house, gave her money, and let her out of\nthe gate--the wild creature had come in over the wall--then she went\nslowly up to her room.\n\nShe leant out of the open window, her brow burning in spite of the cold.\n\nSuddenly came on her ear the wild sound of Nora's singing, with its\nstrange pathos like the sighing of the wind, or the cry of storm-tossed\nsea-birds.\n\nBetty clasped her hands, and sank on her knees, the sound made her\nshudder from head to foot. She stopped her ears with trembling fingers,\nbut yet every word fell on them distinctly and would not be shut out.\n\n   \"Aye, call him, call him over the lea,\n     Aye, well and well-a-day;\n    Lover will never come back to thee\n     Who loves and gallops away.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\n\"How pale you are this morning, my child,\" said Mr. Ives to his\ndaughter.\n\n\"It is nothing. I have had a feverish night; the story of the fate of my\npoor friend haunted me,\" she answered. She could not eat, the cold had\nchilled her blood, and now and then she shivered painfully.\n\nBetty sought her opportunity in spite of her bodily discomforts, and\nfondly caressing her father's hands she knelt down by his chair.\n\n\"Father,\" she said. \"Dear father, you know that very soon I am going to\nleave you, to be married to my own true love. Our wedding-day is fixed,\nbut I dare say he will not be back much before then. Do you think he\nwill? Oh no, probably not.\"\n\n\"Why, child, to be sure he will! He will be back in a few days at the\noutside. Why, silly child, you will make a poor wife if you fret always\nwhen your husband is from home.\"\n\n\"But I do not fret. I am perfectly satisfied. Listen, dear father: when\nI am married and gone away with my dear love, you will look round you\nand see only my empty place, no hand to hold yours, no voice to welcome\nyou, no music to cheer you, no child to love you.\"\n\n\"Betty,\" cried Mr. Ives with a sob, \"why do you show me so dismal a\npicture? It is bad enough already.\"\n\n\"I have a good reason, dear father,\" she said. \"You see I am going so\nsoon. I should leave you with so much lighter a heart were Mary here to\ntake my place. She is kind and good, and true, and would love you\ndearly.\"\n\nMr. Ives laughed a little.\n\n\"Mistress Mary is somewhat old to replace my daughter,\" he said.\n\n\"Then the more suited to be your wife.\"\n\nMr. Ives rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room. Suddenly he\nstopped, and catching his daughter's hands, looked her full in the face.\n\n\"Would she have me, my Bet?\" he said. \"I may not be too old to wed, but\nI am vastly too old to woo.\"\n\n\"She will have you, father,\" answered Betty. \"And you will be quite\nhappy when I am gone.\"\n\nSo all was settled, and the elderly pair pledged to each other. The\nbanns were asked in church that their marriage might take place at once\nwhen John Johnstone should take his bride away.\n\nDays passed on, days lengthened into weeks, the wedding-day drew near,\nand the bridegroom came not.\n\nAll Betty's high courage came back, the frost melted away, and the\ncountry was open again, and once more she rode to hounds. Her colour was\nhigh, her lips feverishly scarlet, her eyes large and brilliant. She\nrode with the best, and came home with the brush at her pommel.\n\n\"Why do they look at me so strangely, father?\" she asked. \"Old Squire\nThornton, when he welcomed my return to the hunt, held my hand a whole\nminute in his, and it was as if he were about to speak, for he swallowed\nonce or twice and then turned away. And Doctor Glebe would not speak to\nme at all, and his face was set as a mask, though I saw that he was\nwatching me strangely all the time. Have I changed? Am I not the same\nBetty I used to be?\"\n\n\"The same, only a little thinner, my darling,\" her father answered, and\nhis eyes filled with tears.\n\nHe too had grown curiously sad of late, and followed his daughter with\nwistful eyes.\n\n\"Father,\" she said one day, \"to-morrow you know is our wedding-day. John\nwill come home, he must return to-night. I know that he will. I shall\nwait up till the clock strikes twelve, but if he does not come (and of\ncourse no one can tell how long business may detain him, can they?), one\nthing, dear father: will you take Mary to church, even though I should\nnot be there, and marry her? She might wear my wedding-gown. To please\nme, father, to please me?\"\n\n\"Anything, anything to please you, my own child,\" said Mr. Ives in a\nchoked voice.\n\nAll day Betty wandered in the garden; they watched her wistfully, her\nhead was raised, always listening--listening to every sound.\n\nThe hours passed, evening came, the night fell. Betty had thrown wide\nthe casement. Her father and Mary Jones, crouching over the fire, had no\nheart to speak to her, or warn her that the night was cold.\n\nA wild stormy wind swayed the branches of the apple-trees, surging and\nroaring as it rushed over the downs; the candles flickered and burned\nlow, and from them dropped those strange waxen off-shoots that old women\ncall winding-sheets.\n\nAt last the church-bell struck twelve, slowly, awfully.\n\nBetty was listening still, her head raised, her finger on her lip.\n\n\"Hush!\" she said, with a strange smile. \"Do you hear the white horse's\nhoofs?\"\n\nThey listened. Distinctly on the ear came the sound of a horse\ngalloping, coming nearer and nearer, passing the door, on and on without\npause, the sound of the hoofs growing faint and fainter till lost in the\nfar distance.\n\nBetty held out her arms. \"Mary!\" she said. \"Mary!\" Her voice was a\nstrange harsh whisper, out of which all tone had passed. \"Mary, he\ngallops away.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nAfter the lapse of another three days, it was determined that there\nshould be no further delay of the marriage, and one morning without pomp\nor parade of any kind, Mr. Ives took his bride into Wancote, and they\nreturned home man and wife.\n\nThe only wedding-guest was the parson's old friend Dr. Glebe, and he\nreturned with them to the parsonage because he had a few serious words\nthat he wished to say there.\n\nHe took Mr. Ives aside, and said abruptly, \"Are you mad, Ives? Do you\nwish to lose that peerless daughter of yours? I warn you that you will\ndo so, if you are not more watchful.\"\n\n\"I would give my life for hers,\" answered her father sorrowfully. \"And\nso would Mary, who loves her dearly, but alas! what can we do? We cannot\nbring back John Johnstone.\"\n\n\"You must send her away at once. She must have change of air and scene.\nAt once, mark you, without an hour's unnecessary delay.\"\n\n\"You think it will do her good?\"\n\n\"I think it the one chance of escaping fatal mischief. See, I have a\nplan to propose. Why not send her to Newbury to her aunt? She is a\nsensible woman, and the house is full of children--they will rouse her.\"\n\n\"I will take her myself,\" cried Mr. Ives.\n\n\"Nay, nay, that would defeat my object. I want absolute change for her,\nchange of thought, scene, companions.\"\n\n\"But how manage it, if I may not go myself?\"\n\n\"Squire Thornton rides to Newbury tomorrow with Sir Harry Clare, and he\nwill willingly be her protector.\"\n\n\"They ride?\"\n\n\"Yes, it will do Betty good to ride, and old Isaac can follow with a\nvalise full of clothes.\"\n\n\"Tomorrow did you say?\"\n\n\"Tomorrow at daybreak.\"\n\n\"It shall be done. God grant that it may do her good.\"\n\nThe following morning, with many a tear and many a blessing Mr. Ives and\nhis wife started Betty on her way.\n\nShe made no resistance, passively assented to all they wished. When she\nwas once more in the saddle, her spirits rose feverishly again.\n\nSir Harry Clare, riding by her side, felt the old fascination stealing\nover him again, the fascination that had well nigh broken Lady Rachel's\nheart at Newbury last year. Squire Thornton saw her bright color, and\nheard the old lively talk as of old, and thought how that time cures all\nthings, and that perhaps in the days to come, his son might have a\nchance at last.\n\nAbout half way on their journey the little party was joined by two\ngentlemen who reached the highway by a cross-road; they lived far from\nthe Wancote neighbourhood. The one Sir James Templemore, the other Mr.\nMat Harding.\n\nSquire Thornton was glad to meet with friends so rarely encountered;\nthey had secrets together mayhap. They saluted each other cordially,\ntheir greeting of Sir Harry Clare was more cold.\n\nIt was a gloomy windy day, and after the midday halt to bait their\nhorses, the weather grew worse, a cold violent wind blew in their faces,\nnow and then a driving shower of rain.\n\n\"Are you tired, Mistress Betty?\" asked the squire.\n\n\"No, no, I enjoy the free fresh air, it gives me new life.\"\n\n\"That is well,\" he said, riding on well pleased.\n\nThe two cavaliers who attended Betty on each side were the new arrivals,\nboth of whom appeared much struck by her exceeding beauty.\n\nNow it seemed almost as if they entered into a cloud, so dark it became,\nso blinded were they by wind and a fresh storm of cold fine rain. The\nhorses grew subdued, they whinnied and held down their tails tightly. It\nwas very cold.\n\nThey moved into a short trot, but pulled up soon, breathless.\n\nThe rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and now Betty became aware\nof some tall dark object looming in front of her, only as yet half\nvisible. The wind howled past, and distinctly she heard a sort of\nclanking noise, as of chains or the rattling of something hard clanking\ntogether.\n\n\"Let us ride on, let us ride fast.\" cried Squire Thornton in his loud\nhearty voice. As he spoke there was a whirr of loud wings, and a dark\ncloud of foul birds rose into the air from off that dark thing.\n\nBetty put out her hand and laid it on Sir James Templemore's arm.\n\n\"What is it?\" she said in a ghastly whisper.\n\n\"Ah, a sad sight indeed,\" said he sadly. \"There hangs as noble a\ngentleman as ever drew sword for the king, God bless him.\"\n\n\"Who is it?\" she asked again; the whisper came hissing forth.\n\n\"Who? God rest his soul, he had many names. He was Wild Jack Barnstaple,\nalias John Johnstone of Belton, alias Daredevil Jack of the North.\"\n\n\"For the sake of all that is sacred, hold your tongue!\" shouted the\nsquire, who had caught the last words.\n\nHe was too late. With a wild hoarse cry that none who heard it ever\nforgot, Betty flung wide her arms, and fell back on her saddle. The\nterrified horse galloped furiously forward, throwing her from side to\nside, then violently to the ground at the foot of the gallows.\n\nIn horror the gentlemen surrounded her, and raised her inanimate form\nbetween them.\n\nBut it was long and very late before they could get her home.\n\nAfter long hours her body awoke to life, but her brain was gone.\nHeartbroken, mind gone, in very sooth mad, what remained for sweet Betty\nnow.\n\nTravellers passing by would point to the parsonage wall, and\nsorrowfully tell her story. Some more curious than the rest would\nperhaps stop to look through the gate.\n\nA strange sight met their eyes.\n\nAs beautiful as ever, with a strange fearful beauty, stood Betty, her\nhands hanging clasped before her, and she sang to herself softly,\ndreamily:\n\n   \"Call him, call him over the lea,\n      Aye, well and well-a-day;\n    Lover will never come back to thee\n      Who loves and gallops away.\"\n\nThen she put her hands to her mouth as men do who wish that their voices\nshould carry far, and called over and over again slowly, \"John\nJohnstone! John Johnstone!\"--the last syllable rising loud on a long\nhigh note.\n\nThen she would hold up her finger, and bend her head listening,\nlistening, listening, till she heard the sound of the galloping hoofs\ncome nearer and nearer, passing and fading away.\n\nThose who watched with her in the dark evenings in the walled garden\nswore that they also heard the sound, and their hair bristled with cold\nfear.\n\n\n\n\n\nVIRGINIA.\n\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\n\n\"He is a very strange mixture.\"\n\n\"I really do not think you ought to ask him to the house. An atheist, a\nman of disreputable life, a----.\"\n\n\"Come, come, my dear, don't give him such a character, before Virginia.\"\n\nThis fragment of dialogue takes place over a cheery breakfast table in a\nhouse not very far from Park Lane.\n\nThe first speaker is a pleasant-looking man of between fifty and sixty,\nand his interlocutor is a rather prim lady, who appears older, but is,\nin reality, his junior by two years. They are Mr. Hamilton Hayward and\nhis sister, Miss Susan.\n\nThe party has a third member--the Virginia alluded to by Mr. Hayward.\nShe is tall, handsome, bright-looking; evidently she possesses\ncharacter, but with it the grace and charm of manner which prevent a\nwoman of character from falling into that disagreeable being, a\nstrong-minded woman.\n\n\"What are Mr. Vansittart's good points?\" she says, smiling at her\nuncle.\n\n\"He has the kindest heart in the world,\" Mr. Hayward replies, warmly,\n\"and he would never do a shabby thing. One of the few men who really\npractice not letting their left hand know the good their right does. He\ncertainly is a looseish fish; but he does not parade his irregularities\nbefore the world--the world need not know anything about them if it does\nnot insist on prying into his affairs. The greatest grudge women have\nagainst him is that he is mortally opposed to marriage, and carries on a\ncrusade against it as though he were St. George, and matrimony the\nDragon. He says if you want to make two people hate each other who would\notherwise be disposed to love--\"\n\n\"Hush! my dear Hamilton,\" cries Miss Susan, horrified. \"Pray spare us a\nrepetition of Mr. Vansittart's iniquitous opinions.\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" laughs Virginia, \"that women don't insist on marrying him\nby force, do they?\"\n\n\"A great many would be very glad to have him,\" rejoins Mr. Hamilton, \"he\nis a tremendously taking fellow.\"\n\n\"And have you _really_ asked him to dinner?\" interposes Miss Susan.\n\n\"I have, indeed, my dear, and I had a good deal of difficulty in\npersuading him to come. He persisted that he went so little into\nsociety--into _ladies_' society.\"\n\nMiss Susan gave a little snort.\n\n\"He has no right to go into it at all with the views he holds; and,\npray, whom is he to take in to dinner?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Ashton, I thought,\" answers Mr. Hamilton. \"I am afraid he would be\nbored with an unmarried lady.\"\n\n\"When I was young,\" says Miss Susan, bridling, \"married women were as\nmodest and particular in their conversation as unmarried ones.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" observes her brother dryly.\n\n\"Uncle,\" cries Virginia, \"let him take me. If he is original, I shall be\nsure to like him; and as I don't intend to marry, he need not be afraid\nof my having designs on him. I shall give him a hint whilst he is eating\nhis soup that I have made a vow to _coiffer Ste. Catherine_.\"\n\n\"Virginia!\" remonstrates Miss Susan; \"and you know Sir Harry Hotspur is\nto take you.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" cries Virginia, \"he bores me to distraction. Besides,\"\nlaughing, \"he 'goes for married women.' Let him have Mrs. Ashton, and\ngive me Mr. Vansittart.\"\n\nMiss Susan has one virtue, which is, that she is never quite so shocked\nas she pretends to be. Moreover, Virginia always gets her way with both\nuncle and aunt. So when the evening of the dinner party arrives, Mr.\nHayward brings Mr. Vansittart up to his niece and introduces him. Whilst\nhe is uttering a few of those _banalites_ which must inevitably be the\nprecursors of even the most interesting conversation between two\nstrangers, Virginia is taking an inventory of him. He is tall, rather\ndark than fair; his features are well cut, and he has particularly\nexpressive eyes, the color of which it takes her some time to decide\nabout. At the same moment he is saying to himself: \"What sort of woman\nis this, and what on earth shall I talk to her about? I hope to heaven\nshe isn't a girl of the period. She doesn't look like it--still less\nlike a prude. How I hate a society dinner! I suppose I shall be bored to\ndeath, as usual.\"\n\nTrue to her promise, Virginia apprises him, whilst he yet is\nassimilating his soup, of her vow of celibacy. He turns to look at her,\nbeing just a shade surprised at receiving such a confidence so early in\ntheir acquaintance, and then he sees the archest smile curving the\ncorners of her mouth, and meets a glance from a pair of brown eyes that\nhe now perceives to be beautiful.\n\nMr. Vansittart has a quick intelligence--he understands in an instant\nthe object of her remark. His eyes light up with a sudden gleam, and he\nmurmurs quietly, \"Thanks so much for putting me at my ease.\"\n\nFrom that moment they are perfectly at home with each other, and fall to\nanimated talk. He does not air his theories about marriage, nor is\nreligion discussed between them, but there are plenty of other topics,\nand they become aware of a dozen feelings and sympathies in common.\nVirginia is as bright and witty as she is modest and pure-minded; there\nis nothing in the world that Mr. Vansittart detests so much as a coarse\nor immodest _lady_. So charmed is he with Virginia, that he remains\nclose to her side the whole evening, to the surprise of every one else.\nNo one ever saw him devote himself to a girl before. He stays until the\nvery last. As he walks away from the door, after lighting his cigar, he\nreflects to himself: \"If any earthly power could induce me to marry, it\nwould be a girl like that. But,\" resolutely, \"nothing could.\" As\nVirginia wends her way upstairs to bed, she says to herself with a heavy\nsigh, \"Why should he abuse marriage? How happy he might make some\nwoman!\"\n\nVirginia is the daughter of a clergyman. Father and mother are both\ndead. She has a brother in the army, and a sister married to a country\nrector. Her uncle, Mr. Hayward, has adopted her. She is clever and\naccomplished. She has both passion and imagination. Some of her ideas\nare original; she hates common-placeness, but she is also imbued with\nthe attribute possessed by every charming woman, the love of\napprobation. This prevents her doing or saying anything _outre_ or\nunconventional; this makes her careful of her appearance and fond of\nfair apparel; this makes the evidence of admiration from the other sex\nexceedingly agreeable to her; this causes her to adopt a manner towards\nthem that induces jealous women to call her a coquette. She has had\nseveral offers of marriage, but she entertains peculiar ideas about the\nstrength of passion and the sympathy of thought a man and woman ought\nto feel for each other before they decide to spend a life-time together.\nShe does not think a man who has a good income, and who is simply not\nrepulsive or abhorrent to her, a sufficient inducement.\n\nThe days wear on. Virginia does not forget Mr. Vansittart any more than\nhe forgets her, but he weighs more on her heart than she does on his,\nfor, happy man! he is perpetually occupied, being a barrister with a\nconsiderable practice, whilst she is an idle woman as the well-to-do of\nher sex mostly are. If she goes to balls or dances, she is always\ncontrasting every man, with whom she talks or dances, with him; if she\nworks at her embroidery, her thoughts are intent on him; if she reads, a\nhero of her own ousts the hero of the novel from her brain; if she\nsings, her voice is moved to strong pathos; her eyes become drowned by\nthat strange passion which consumes her. Days and weeks pass by; and she\ndoes not catch a glimpse of him; does not even hear his name. She sees\nit frequently in the _Times_. One Sunday afternoon, she and her uncle\nstrolling in the Park meet him. He lifts his hat, and is about to pass,\nwhen something that her eyes have communicated to his heart, stops him\nsuddenly. He turns and joins them. It is a delicious summer afternoon:\nthey take chairs under the big trees which shade this cool green spot.\nPresently a crony joins Mr. Hayward--soon the elder pair are deep in the\n_cause celebre_ of the day. Virginia and Mr. Vansittart have forgotten\nthat other people exist in the world--the topics of their conversation\nare ordinary enough, but it is not from them that a subtle delight\nsteals through their veins. What they heed is the language of each\nother's eyes. His say--\"You fulfil my idea of perfect womanhood. I could\nlove you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength. I\nrespect you with my purest feelings; I love you with my strongest\npassions; I would to God I could shake off my doubts about marriage. But\nI _know_ that if I married you, inexorable Destiny would no longer let\nus love one another.\"\n\nAnd her eyes reiterate one little sentence, \"You are my lord, my master,\nand I am your slave.\"\n\nIt was one of the very strongest cases of love at first sight. Such\ncases are more common, however, than people affect to think.\n\n\"Come home and dine with us,\" says Mr. Hayward, as a distant clock\nstrikes seven.\n\n\"I'm afraid I have not time to dress,\" replies Philip Vansittart; \"that\nis if you dine at half past seven, as I have heard you say you do.\"\n\n\"Never mind about dress,\" answers Mr. Hayward. \"I won't dress either.\"\n\nHe has no designs on his guest, but he is a good-natured gentleman, and\nhe sees that these two are attracted toward each other.\n\nMiss Susan is at church. If her brother will dine at his usual hour on\nSunday, she cannot help it, but she will not countenance him by her\npresence.\n\nPhilip Vansittart thinks he has never spent such a divinely happy\nevening as this. Virginia sings to him; her voice thrills to his very\nsoul. Mr. Hamilton is asleep in the next room. As for Virginia, when she\nis alone, she first smiles a happy, triumphant smile, because she knows\nhe loves her, and then she bursts into a passion of tears and sobs until\nher whole frame is convulsed. If his mind is really set against\nmarriage, what will become of her! She feels as though life without him\nmust be one long night of despair.\n\nPhilip Vansittart paces his room until the small hours, thinking of this\ncharming, lovable creature, who inspires stronger, deeper sensations in\nhim than he has ever felt before. He tells himself, without vanity or\nself-deception, that what he feels for her, with that difference which\ngoverns the loves of men and women, she feels for him--heart has gone\nout to heart, nay, they are twain halves of a perfect heart. It is but\nfor him to stretch out his hand to her, and she will come. Aye! but how\ncan he stretch out his hand? In the society in which they both move\nthere is but one way in which she can be his--the way sanctioned by\nsociety, blessed by the church. Society and the church will bless and\nsmile upon any union: the decrepit old man with the blooming child; the\ndrunkard and adulterer with the pure young girl; the avaricious youth\nwith the doting old woman. Marriage purifies, sanctifies, hallows\nsensuality, greed, any, every base motive. To love as God made you free\nto love, unfettered, and with a true heart, is a crime; to live\ntogether full of hatred, loathing, and revolt, is to perform a sacred\nduty once you have tied yourself up in church. This was Vansittart's\ntheory. Marriage to him was only another word for satiety, weariness,\nrestraint, tyranny. He had never seen what he called a happy marriage,\nthough he had observed many which the world crowned with that adjective,\nand he had sworn a thousand oaths that he would never subject himself to\nthat miserable awakening which inevitably follows the temporary sleep of\nmind and reason, and the short dream of passion which makes a man bind\nhimself with shackles.\n\nPhilip paced his room for hours, fighting the hardest battle he had ever\nfought. It was the first time he had ever been tempted to marry--tempted\nbeyond endurance. And, at last, ashen pale, in the wan morning light,\nand with set teeth, he took his final oath and resolve. He would save\nhimself years of wretchedness by a month's anguish; he would not go near\nher, nor see her again. He was not entirely selfish; he did not forget\nthat she might, nay, would suffer, but he said, with a sigh, \"It will be\nbest for her as for me.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA month passed by: two months. Virginia grew pale, listless,\n_distraite_; her step was languid, her eye haggard. She did not know how\nto endure her life; she suffered torments day and night from an\nagonising desire to hear the voice, to meet the eyes again which had\ngiven light to her soul and in whose absence she felt it must needs\nperish of want. It was plain enough to her why he avoided her. He had\nseen that she loved him; he would not encourage false hopes in her\nbreast. Had she not been warned, ere ever she met him, that he abjured\nmarriage? She remembered, with a breaking heart, her own first playful\nwords to him.\n\nMr. Hayward saw the change in Virginia, but he put it down entirely to\nthe effects of a London season--to late hours and the want of fresh air.\nNever mind! the end was near at hand, and then they would go and fill\ntheir lungs with mountain air and their eyes with fair scenes, and the\nroses would come back to her cheeks and lips, and the light to her eyes.\nHe never for an instant connected his niece's pallor with Philip\nVansittart. He would have ridiculed the idea of people being twice in\neach other's company, and breaking their hearts with longing afterwards.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Hayward, his sister, and Virginia, were dining at a Swiss _table\nd'hote_. Exactly opposite were two empty places. The fish had been\nserved, and two gentlemen came in and took them. One was Mr. Philip\nVansittart. At sight of him the crimson blood rushed to Virginia's\ncheeks, then ebbed away, leaving her deathly pale. For a moment she\nthought she must swoon or die from the intensity of her feelings. Philip\nwas scarcely less moved, though, being a man, he was better able to\ncontrol his agitation. When he had time to look more narrowly at\nVirginia, he saw a mighty change in her. His heart smote him; and\nyet--had he not suffered? Great heaven! had his been a bed of roses? Had\nhe not agonised after her?\n\nDinner over, the party went off into the garden. A mutual unspoken\ndesire made Vansittart and Virginia steal off together to a secluded\nspot. Twilight was creeping on--the last glow of a rosy sunset was\nfading away; the strains of a delicious waltz were borne towards them.\nVansittart felt his passion mastering him. He made a herculean effort\nover himself. He would speak. He would tell her the truth. After that\nshe would forget him. They were sitting under a tree that screened them\noff from the rest of the garden. He could see well enough that she was\ntrembling with nervousness; that delight, fear, expectation were blended\nin the beautiful eyes she turned towards him; and, lest suddenly he\nshould yield to that mad longing to catch her to his heart, he began to\nspeak hurriedly--abruptly.\n\nBut Virginia scarcely hears him. Her lips are burning to ask him that\none question, and, not heeding what he is saying, she turns and in a\ntremulous voice that vibrates to his very soul, she says:\n\n\"Why have you kept away from us all this time?\"\n\nWhy? And Vansittart catches his breath. Then the gyves of his strong\nwill give way as the withes fell from Samson.\n\n\"I will tell you,\" he says. \"I love you so horribly, that it is pain\nand anguish to me to be with you, for then I feel that when I leave you\nI am ready to die of longing and misery.\"\n\n\"Well?\" she utters in a very low voice, bending her eyes on the ground.\nIt is only one little word, but it speaks such volumes! \"Why should you\nleave me?\" it says. \"Is it not my case, too? What need you more than\nspeak!\"\n\n\"You have heard,\" he goes on, not daring to look at her, \"that I have\nforsworn marriage. Marriage,\" passionately, \"kills love, and I would\nrather, ten times over, suffer what I have suffered--and God knows that\nis not a little!--than a day should come when, having known such divine\nhappiness as I _should_ know were you mine, we should grow cold and\nweary; when our passions should turn to indifference, to disappointment\nand heart-burnings, and end, perhaps, in our cherishing feelings of\nvindictive spite and bitterness against each other, and in my thinking\nevery woman pleasanter and fairer than you, end in your believing me to\nbe the greatest brute under heaven!\"\n\n\"Oh!\" utters Virginia, as she raises her eyes to his face with a look of\npained wonder.\n\n\"I have seen it a thousand times,\" he continues vehemently. \"I have\nknown men passionately, madly in love with women, ready to count 'the\nworld well lost,' to sacrifice all the future only to call that idol of\nthe moment theirs. I have seen them marry. I have watched the weariness\nthat comes from security even more than from satiety. I have seen the\nlinks that were forged in roses become gyves of iron--tenderness and\ncourtesy give place to rudeness and contempt. I never saw but two people\nperfectly happy, and they,\" lowering his voice, \"were not married. I\nhave sworn a thousand times never to court wretchedness for myself and a\nwoman I loved by loading her and myself with chains. My idea has been\nthis. Some day I may meet with a being who, under natural circumstances,\nshe keeping her freedom and leaving me mine, I might love with all my\nheart and be faithful to until the day of my death. I would give her all\nI possessed. I would devote myself to making her happy; if she had to\nsacrifice anything for my sake, I would atone to her for it by my\nunwearying love. But,\" his voice mastered by emotion, \"how dare I say\nsuch words to you? In the sphere in which you live they would be\nconsidered a dastardly insult--one must not dare to move one step from\nthe beaten track of custom. The world would scoff at the idea that my\nlove for you is more sacred and reverent than that of a man who,\ninspired by a momentary passion for a woman and desiring her, obtains\nhis end by a simple and speedy means, without reflection as to the\npossible misery of both in the future. And yet,\" his lips quivering, his\nface growing deathly white, \"I believe I could love you more dearly,\nlove you longer than husband ever loved wife.\"\n\nVirginia sits rooted to the spot, a deadly anguish strangling her\nheart. Then, whilst the divine strains of music still flow on, she feels\nherself drawn to his heart; his lips meet hers in one long kiss that\nsteals her very soul away from her. He is gone--the music has\nceased--the night grows chill--she shivers. \"The world well lost,\" she\nmutters to herself, and then, with listless steps, and strange,\naffrighted eyes, she drags herself up stairs to her room.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\n\nIn a charming house, surrounded by an acre of ground, turned into a\nsmall paradise, a house not more than two miles from Hyde Park Corner,\nlive Philip Vansittart and Virginia Hayward. The neighbourhood knows\nthem as Mr. and Mrs. Vansittart, and has not the very remotest\nconception that in so perfectly ordered an establishment, there is\nanything which they would designate as \"odd.\" If anything could arouse\nsuspicion in the breasts of the servants who wait upon them, and the\ntradespeople who serve them it would be the extraordinary tenderness\nsubsisting between them; the excessive courtesy and consideration of Mr.\nVansittart for Mrs. Vansittart, and the entire absence of that\nfamiliarity commonly seen between affectionate husbands and wives, which\nalmost invariably engenders subsequent contempt.\n\nThe house is furnished with exquisite taste. Mr. Vansittart is\ncontinually bringing home artistic treasures to add to its\nembellishment. Mrs. Vansittart has a carriage and a fine pair of horses.\nShe seldom, however, drives into town except to the play, or to dine. A\ngreat many gentlemen of distinction and rank come to the house, who\ntreat Mrs. Vansittart like a queen, and a few ladies; clever, literary\nladies, ladies holding peculiar views--very rarely the consorts of\ndistinguished and well-born men.\n\nIs Philip happy? Is Virginia happy? To this I can only reply by another\nquestion. Is any one Happy? They love each other with unfailing\ntenderness--they are all the world to each other--the thought of\nseparation would be death to them. And yet the heart of either is gnawed\nby a secret worm. In the midst of his busy life, Philip can never forget\nthat he has sacrificed the woman whom he adores from the very bottom of\nhis soul, and the horrible suspicion will stab him, that he has\nsacrificed her needlessly. They are living as husband and wife, and yet\nno feeling of weariness, of satiety, comes near them--each day draws\nthem nearer together; makes them find fresh points in each other to love\nand admire. Were she his wife, occupying her proper sphere in society,\nsought after, courted, admired, he with no feeling of self-reproach, she\nwith no consciousness (which she must feel though she never betrays) of\ncruelty and selfishness on his part; might they not be even happier? He\nforgets to tell himself that they are happy because no tie binds\nthem--nay, he says secretly in his heart that that tie is the only thing\nwanting to make their felicity perfect. Now, it is too late. The world\nknows the truth--marriage can never whitewash Virginia in society's\neyes--no future can condone the crime of the past. He has settled every\nfarthing he has in the world upon her--no mean fortune--he loads her\nwith gifts--he is perpetually thinking of her pleasure and amusement,\nand yet, for ever, the load of his debt to her weighs down his soul.\n\nAnd Virginia? Paul is all in all to her; he is her heart, her soul, her\nconscience, and yet he cannot shield her from the fate which he has\nbrought upon her. What must inevitably be the sufferings of a proud and\npure-minded woman, who knows herself to be an object of scorn to her\nsex? How would a man, naturally honorable and high-minded, feel, if, in\nsome fatal moment, he had been tempted to commit a forgery, or take an\nunfair advantage at cards, and was afterwards shunned by every man\nfriend; thrust out of every club, banned utterly from the society of his\nfellows, except those with whom it would revolt him to associate? This\nis the only case that can parallel that of a woman who has lost the\nworld for a man's sake; and men who have a difficulty in realizing how\ngreat is the sacrifice they compel or accept from a woman, would do well\nto consider this.\n\nVirginia suffered many a bitter pang when she showed herself in public\nwith Philip. She quivered under the open stare, or the look askance of\nmembers of her sex; if she showed a brave front, it was that of the\nSpartan boy! Philip was particularly fond of the opera and the play; he\nwould not have gone without her; so she accompanied him, and made no\ndemur. Of course every relation and friend she had in the world shunned\nher as though she were a leper, which indeed, morally, she was in their\neyes. She loved society; no woman was more calculated to shine in it,\nand from this she was cut off. True, they constantly entertained\nbrilliant and clever men, whose conversation and company were very\nagreeable to her; but, however much a woman may like, may even prefer\nthe society of men, it is a bitter thought to her that she cannot\ncommand that of her own sex. And, though men treated her with even a\ngreater and more delicate courtesy than they would perhaps have shown\ntheir own women, Virginia was none the less keenly conscious of the\nmoral ban under which she lay.\n\nShe was the daughter of a clergyman, she had been religiously brought\nup, and she writhed under the terrible consciousness that her life was a\nsin against her God. At first she went to church, but everything she\nheard there sent the iron deeper into her soul; if there were comforting\npromises to repentant Magdalens, there was nothing but wrath and\nthreatening for those who continued in their sin. By-and-by she left off\ngoing to church. Philip was a sceptic, most of his friends were the\nsame. Virginia listened to their talk, and, in time, her faith began to\nwaver; she liked to think they were right, and that the Bible was a\nstring of fables; it lessened her sense of criminality and remorse, but\nit cut her off forever from the only consolation a woman can know, when\nher hour of trial comes. If man could supply the place of God and\nSaviour now, whither should she fly when he was torn from her or grew\nweary of her?\n\nShe was glad that she had no children--could she live to be shamed by\nthem, scorned by them? And yet--how sweet it would have been to feel\nclinging arms about her neck; to hear little voices lisp the sweetest\nword on earth to a mother's ear, if only she might have been as other\nmothers--as other wives! Never, never once had she breathed or hinted a\nwish that Philip should marry her; she had a superstitious dread that\nonce the chain was forged his love for her would cease--marriage could\nnot now reinstate her in the world's sight--she had ceased to remember\nthat her life was a crime. She had heard it said so often that marriage\nwas simply an institution founded upon expediency; that all systems\nhaving been tried, the one that worked best was the union of a man to\none wife, that she herself began to doubt its being a heaven-ordained\ninstitution, and the only state tolerated by Divine Providence. But if\nshe ceased to feel herself actually a guilty and sinning woman, she was\nnone the less sensitive to the world's scorn; to the bitterness of\nholding a position that society refused to tolerate or to recognize.\n\nBut, after all, she knew happiness which is denied to nine-tenths of\nwomen, nay, to ninety-nine out of a hundred. She enjoyed the passionate,\nunfailing devotion of the man whom she adored--no harsh word ever\ncrossed his lips to her--she was his first care and thought--no party of\npleasure ever tempted him from her side--nothing but the claim of\nbusiness could induce him to spend an evening away from her. And so the\nyears passed on. It is an unalterable law of nature that passion must\nsuccumb before habit, but it may be succeeded by a calm content, a happy\ntrustful confidence, that wears better, and is perhaps in the long run\nmore satisfactory.\n\nTwelve years elapsed, and during that time Virginia enjoyed unbroken\nhealth. Then, one winter, she caught a severe cold, which settled on her\nlungs; her life was despaired of. No woman was ever a more tender, more\ndevoted nurse than Philip. But this illness left her extremely delicate;\nshe could no longer brave all weathers as formerly, nor be Philip's\nconstant companion in his walks and drives. She was forbidden to go out\nat night, and they had been so in the habit of going to the play,\nespecially in the winter months. At first he insisted on remaining at\nhome with her, but she was too unselfish to allow him to sacrifice\nhimself. There was many an evening when she was unable to leave her\nroom, and when talking would bring on severe paroxysms of coughing. She\nsucceeded in prevailing upon him to visit the theatre without her, and\nsometimes even to dine with a friend. After a time he got into the\nhabit of going about alone, and, although he was even more tender and\nconsiderate than before, she felt an agonising consciousness that he\ncould, after all, do without her, which he had sworn ten thousand times\nhe never could. She began to have sleepless nights and passionate fits\nof crying. Nemesis was coming upon her with gigantic strides. Philip did\nnot suspect that she was unhappy; he thought her illness affected her\nspirits. A great change had come over her, which he deplored. She no\nlonger was the bright, amusing companion of yore.\n\nTwo more years went by. Virginia was almost a confirmed invalid--she\ncould only get out in fine summer weather--then her spirits rallied, and\nshe was something of her old self again. Philip often spent his evenings\naway from home now; it become a habit; he did not suspect that Virginia\nsuffered from his absence, but thought that it was really her wish,\ndear, unselfish soul that she was, that he should go out and be amused.\nAnd she, fearful of making him fancy that he felt a chain where none\nexisted, was careful never to show him by word or look that she suffered\nfrom his absence. She tormented herself with the thought that he might\nmeet any day with a young and beautiful woman who would inspire again in\nhis breast the feeling that he had once known for her. And _she_\nremembered that she was free, even if he forgot it. Poor soul! she\nrecognised bitterly enough now, that the only safety for a woman is in\nthat bond which a man may so lightly affect to set at naught: in a\ncontract like hers and Philip's, the man has all to gain, the woman all\nto lose.\n\nIt was growing dusk one November afternoon, when the door of Virginia's\ndrawing-room was thrown open, and Lord Harford announced. A slight blush\nsuffused her cheek as she rose to receive him, and she appeared slightly\nembarrassed. Virginia was still beautiful, though no longer very young;\nshe had an extremely fragile and delicate appearance, which is\nattractive to some men, notably to those who, like Lord Harford, are\nbig, strong and robust.\n\n\"You are not angry with me for coming, are you?\" he asks almost\ndiffidently, as soon as the door has closed on the servant.\n\n\"No,\" she answers gently. Times are changed with her since the last\noccasion in which she and he stood face to face in this very room. Then\nshe _was_ angry, but then she was in the full flush of health and\nbeauty, and he was her would-be lover. There had been nothing to wound\nor humiliate her in his love-making; he had come loyally to offer her\nhis hand and all that belonged to him, which of wealth and honor was no\nmean portion. But she had been deeply stung by a man daring to remember\nthat she was free, and there was only one husband and lover in the world\nfor her. Now that, as it seemed to her, beauty and love were so far\nremoved from her, it was almost a pleasure to remember that she had been\nbeloved.\n\n\"I have passed your door a hundred times,\" he says, \"and never been\nable to summon up courage enough to ask for you.\"\n\n\"But to-day you were braver,\" she utters, looking at him with something\nof the old smile and manner.\n\n\"I thought perhaps you had a good many dull hours now Vansittart is so\nmuch away.\"\n\n\"How do you know that he is much away?\" asks Virginia, feeling vaguely\nhurt at his words and tone.\n\n\"Because I so often meet him out.\"\n\n\"Where do you meet him?\"\n\n\"Oh, at different places. Chiefly at Mrs. Devereux's.\"\n\nLord Harford looks full in Virginia's face, and she, who is so quick,\ncannot fail to see that his eyes and tone are intended to convey some\nmeaning.\n\n\"Mrs. Devereux?\" she says, inquiringly. \"You mean his cousin.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAfter this there is a pause. It is as though he wanted her to question\nhim; as though she were fighting against the desire to know his meaning.\nShe conquers herself by an effort.\n\n\"I have been very ill since you saw me last. You find me much altered,\ndo you not?\"\n\n\"You look delicate,\" he answers, \"but in my eyes,\" lowering his voice,\n\"you are as beautiful as ever.\"\n\nShe half-smiles, half-sighs.\n\n\"It is very kind of you to say that,\" she utters, \"but I cannot deceive\nmyself. I am an old woman now; if ever I had any good looks they are\ngone.\"\n\n\"They are _not_!\" cries Lord Harford staunchly. \"What I say is gospel\ntruth. I think your delicacy becomes you. I hate your great buxom,\ndairymaid women.\"\n\nVirginia smiles at his earnestness.\n\n\"Ah, if you had been mine,\" he goes on, \"I should never have wanted to\nlook at another woman, young or old.\"\n\nStill that strange meaning in his tone. A chill terror creeps to\nVirginia's heart--she can no longer restrain herself.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" she says, fixing her eyes on him. \"You are hinting\nat something--you want to convey something to my mind. If you are a\nman--if you pretend to be my friend, speak out honestly.\"\n\nHe rises, and takes one or two turns in the room, then stops abruptly in\nfront of her.\n\n\"Will you believe me, I wonder?\" he asks, \"or will you think me a mean\nhound who only seeks his own interest?\"\n\n\"Interest?\" echoes Virginia bitterly, \"what interest can it be to you?\"\n\n\"This much,\" he answers, a red flush mounting to his brow, \"that I am as\nanxious this moment to make you my wife as I was four years ago.\"\n\nVirginia makes an impatient movement with her hand.\n\n\"Vansittart is in love with Mrs. Devereux's eldest girl, Connie. She is\na pretty little kitten of a thing, but a mere child--a doll. I go there\nrather often--they are old friends of mine. Whenever I go, he is always\nthere.\"\n\nFor a moment Virginia feels as though she were dying; then, by an\nextraordinary effort, she recovers herself.\n\n\"I would rather have my tongue cut out than tell you,\" Lord Harford\ncontinues, half-ashamed, \"only that I want you to know where your refuge\nis if he breaks your heart. Oh!\" imploringly, \"why will you not care for\nme who am ready to devote my life to you? Marry me, and let us go abroad\nand win health for you and happiness for me!\"\n\nHis voice is broken with emotion--he takes one of her hands in his. She\nis leaning back in her chair, very white--she is hardly conscious of his\naction--all the hot blood in his veins cannot warm her chill white\nfingers.\n\n\"Do you think,\" she says at last, very slowly, \"that if--if he were rid\nof me, he would marry her? Does she care for him?\"\n\n\"I don't think about it. Yes, it is very strange; but, child as she is,\nhe has perfectly infatuated her.\"\n\nThere is another long pause, during which he eagerly scans her face.\nSuddenly her eyes light up, and she returns his glance.\n\n\"Are you _really_ willing to marry me?\" she says.\n\n\"Why do you ask?\" he returns, simply. \"Are my eyes not honest?\"\n\nVirginia smiles. \"If you mean it,\" she says, \"go now, and write me the\nsame words to-night or to-morrow.\"\n\nSo, as she bids him, he goes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLord Harford had set down nothing in malice. What he told Virginia is\nabsolutely true. Philip Vansittart is in love with a gay, pretty child,\nwhose winsome tricks have coiled her round his heart. He has never\nspoken one word of love to her, for he feels and knows himself as much\nbound to Virginia as though the marriage-tie he once so utterly abhorred\nlinked them. He no longer, strange to say, thinks and speaks so evilly\nof marriage. Were he free, would he not joyfully chain himself with all\nthe bonds that church and society can impose to this sweet young life\nwhich would make him young again? He has no thought or desire to blast\nthis girl-life as he had done Virginia's. Perish the thought! When these\nideas come to him, he hates and loathes himself; he makes superhuman\nefforts to drive them away--but the limpid blue eyes come and look at\nhim over his briefs; the childish voice rings in his ears in the night\nwatches! He grows pale and haggard. At last he makes a mighty resolve.\n\n\"Virginia,\" he says, two nights after Lord Harford's visit to her, \"let\nus be married!\"\n\nHe takes her hand kindly, but his eyes do not meet hers, and the tender\ninflection of yore is missing from his voice.\n\nVirginia betrays no surprise. Poor soul! She understands too well.\n\n\"Why?\" she says quietly. \"I think we are very well as we are.\"\n\n\"No,\" he returns hastily, \"we are not! My views have changed on the\nsubject--changed entirely. Marriage is the best thing. It decides your\nfate. To live as we do is neither one thing nor the other.\"\n\n\"You forget,\" she says, in a tone so calm as to be almost unnatural.\n\"This state has great advantages. There is no tie between us. If either\nof us tired of the other, there is nothing to hinder our parting,\nto-morrow--to-night even.\" He looks at her, speechless with amazement.\nHer eyes do not flinch from his. \"If,\" she continues, with that terrible\ncalmness,--\"if you wanted to marry Miss Constance Devereux; if I wished\nto marry--let us say, Lord Harford--there is nothing to prevent it\nexcept,\" slowly, \"the unwritten law of a faithful heart.\"\n\nPhilip Vansittart leans his face between his hands. He cannot find a\nword to say. He is smitten with remorse, for he knows well enough that\nshe is faithful. But why that allusion to Lord Harford?\n\n\"What do you mean about Harford?\" he asks presently.\n\n\"He wants me to marry him,\" replied Virginia quietly. \"He asked me four\nyears ago; he asked me again the day before yesterday.\"\n\nShe draws a letter from her pocket, and scans Philip's face as he reads\nit. When he has finished, he looks at her. She understands his glance\nbut too well. There is an only half-suppressed eagerness--a\nhalf-suppressed hope in it.\n\n\"What shall I do?\" she says, so quietly that it deceives him.\n\n\"There is no better fellow living than Harford,\" he says cordially. \"If\nyou thought you could be happy with him; if--\"\n\nHe stops abruptly. There is a look of such terrible agony in Virginia's\nface that he starts up and takes her hand.\n\n\"No, no,\" he cries. \"Let it be as I said. Let us marry each other. It is\nthe only thing to be done.\"\n\nVirginia's ears, sharpened by suffering, catch the dreary tone of the\nconcluding words.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext morning, when Philip, according to custom, went to Virginia's room,\nhe found her asleep. From that sleep she never woke. One more of those\nunfortunate cases of an overdose of chloral. The deceased lady had\nsuffered much from sleeplessness, and always kept the fatal drug by her\nbedside.\n\nThe church gave its blessing, and society smiled when that heretic and\nsceptic Mr. Vansittart led his charming girl-bride to the altar a few\nmonths later. It was whispered that there had been an--entanglement, but\nthat was all hushed up now, and he had become a respectable member of\nsociety.\n\n\n\n\n\nMR. JOSIAH SMITH'S BALLOON JOURNEY.\n\n\nIt would be an injustice to Josiah to suppose that he limited his quest\nin the field of knowledge to that particular portion indicated by his\nhonoured association with a distinguished society. He was proud in his\nmodest way, if the paradox be permitted, when he produced his card, on\nwhich was engraved \"Josiah Smith, F.R.S.A.\" Also it was known amongst\nhis friends that casual references to his great work on \"Underground\nEngland\" were not displeasing to him. But, as he was wont to say, \"The\nsurest way of finding either mental or bodily recreation is to seek it\nin fresh fields of labour.\"\n\nThus it came to pass one evening in the spring of this year that Josiah,\nhaving shut himself in all day with the determination to make up for\nlost time, found he had, with the aid of cold tea and wet bandages,\nadded as much as half a page to his great work. Feeling the need of a\nlittle change of thought and association, he had availed himself of an\ninvitation kindly sent to him to join the meeting of an aeronautic\nsociety. Josiah had listened with profound attention to the various\nspeeches made, and had thought, really, when he had a little more time\nhe would devote it to the fascinating science of aeronautics.\n\nAmongst the guests of the society, and indeed the hero of the evening,\nwas Captain Mulberry, the famous guardsman who devoted much natural\ntalent and a considerable portion of his life to the endeavour either to\nkill or hopelessly maim himself. Evil fortune had kept his sword\nstainless, as far as regular warfare went, but there was generally a\nlittle fighting going on somewhere, and, the captain's leave of absence\ncoinciding, he from time to time managed to sniff the exhilarating smell\nof powder, and knew the music of bullet and shell. These things were\nsurrounded with difficulties. It obviously would not do for a man\nbearing Her Majesty's commission to lend his sword to one or other\nbelligerents in a conflict between nations at peace with England. In a\ncountry like Spain, for example, things naturally run a little\nirregularly and the captain being on the spot may have occasionally\nlapsed into battle.\n\nBut these were mere episodes. Having tried most things, he had taken to\nballooning, as offering the largest amount of risk in the least possible\nspace of time. He had been up in all kinds of balloons in all possible\ncircumstances, and had come down in various ways. He had just now\nachieved a great feat, making a voyage from the Grampian Hills to the\nOrkney Islands. The society desiring to do him honour had invited him to\nthis meeting, and Josiah had heard him describe his perilous voyage.\n\n\"A mere nothing,\" he said; \"perhaps a little difficult going, but\nnothing at all coming back. The difficulty in going out was to drop on\nthe Orkneys. The place is so small that when you are up in the air it\nlooks as if you might as well try to drop on a pin's point. But after\nall, it was a nothing--a mere nothing, gentlemen, I assure you. Any one\nof you could have done the same.\"\n\nEvery one in the room was delighted, not less with the captain's\ngallantry than with his modesty. Many moving stories of his escapes were\nretailed. Josiah listened with enthralled attention to an adventure\nwhich, it seems, the captain had had in Spain, and which Josiah's\ncompanion (a bald-headed gentleman with spectacles) narrated with great\neffect. Mulberry in one of the marches of the Carlists, to whom he had\nattached himself, was surprised and taken prisoner by the enemy. They\nlocked him in the kitchen of a farmhouse near, mentioning incidentally\nthat in the morning they would shoot him. They took away his sword and\npistols; and would have taken his umbrella, but the captain pleaded hard\nfor its society, declaring that from early boyhood he had never been\nable to sleep without an umbrella under his pillow. The Spaniards had\nheard much of the eccentricity of Englishmen, and not being inclined to\nrefuse the request of a doomed man, they left him the umbrella.\n\nThe next morning, when they came to take him out for shooting purposes,\nlo! the captain and the umbrella were both gone. There was a good deal\nof soot about the place, and regarding this and other signs of hasty\nflight the truth flashed upon the Spaniards. There had been a fire in\nthe grate. The captain had opened the umbrella inside the chimney,\nwaited till it had been inflated with the warm air, and then, hanging on\nthe handle, had been drawn up clear to the top and descending in a\nneighbouring field, had shut up his umbrella and walked off.\n\n\"Dear me!\" said Josiah; \"how very interesting. I suppose the chimneys\nare wide in Spain?\"\n\n\"Very wide indeed,\" said the bald-headed gentleman in spectacles.\n\nJosiah regarded the captain with fresh interest after the recital of\nthis remarkable ascent, and it was not diminished by further tales he\nheard. One related to his reception by an Illustrious Personage. After\nhis journey to Orkney the I.P. had sent for him immediately on his\nreturn to town. The captain had put on his uniform and gone cheerfully.\nHe had heard so much of his feat that he began to think there really was\nsomething creditable in it, and fancied the Illustrious Personage might\nbe going to bestow upon him some recognition of the service he had done\nin blazoning abroad the pluck of the British soldier. On the contrary,\nhe found the Illustrious Person almost speechless with wrath, and\nstuffed with oaths like plums in a Christmas pudding.\n\n\"What--what was the meaning of this flying by night, sir?\" he cried\nturning a flaming visage upon the contrite captain. \"You'll be going\nround with a circus next, riding five horses at a time, or walking round\nto show your muscle. I hope I shall hear no more of this sort of thing.\nSuch goings-on bring disgrace upon the army and discredit upon its\nofficers. Stop at home, sir, and get into what mischief you like. Go and\nidle your time at playing cards or worse; but don't be playing these\npranks any more. Did you ever see _me_ in a balloon, sir? Did you ever\nhear of _me_ skimming around the world in search of adventure?\"\n\nThe Illustrious Personage drew himself up to full height, and swelled\nvisibly before the eyes of the captain, as he angrily put these\nquestions, garnished with many ejaculations. He knew that our army swore\nterribly in Flanders, and was nothing if not a soldier.\n\n\"Your Royal Highness cannot blame us if we sometimes go out of our way\nto get into danger,\" said the captain, saluting. \"Your Royal Highness\nhas much to answer for by inflaming us with the memory of Inkermann. How\ncan we sit still or lounge about in our peaceful homes, when we think of\nyou on that day?\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" said the Illustrious Personage, spluttering down like a\nfire on which a bucket of water had been flung, \"that was a different\nthing. But come and dine with me to-night: only, drive up in a hansom,\ndon't arrive in a balloon.\"\n\nAnd the Illustrious Personage, what with enjoyment of the joke, and what\nwith muscular effort to suppress his laughter, nearly brought about a\nvacancy in the highest rank of the army.\n\nAll this was doubtless as true as the story about the exit from the\nSpanish farmhouse. But it pleased the company, and was only one of a\ndozen stories they told about the captain, who was chiefly longing to be\nout where he could smoke a cigar.\n\nWhen the meeting came to an end, Josiah walked along Pall Mall\nmeditating on things, and on the comparative obscurity of the work he\nhad assigned to himself. Whilst others were soaring in high places, he\nwas burrowing underground. Both were in search of knowledge. Both\ndesired to benefit their fellow-men. But of the two Josiah felt that the\naeronauts had the advantage of the undergrounders. It was too late for\nhim to think of striking out a new path; but he thought that if he had\nto begin life again he would soar.\n\nWhilst pondering on these matters, he was startled by a heavy hand laid\nupon his shoulder, and heard a cheery voice exclaim:\n\n\"Got a match in your pocket, old man?\"\n\nHe looked up, and there, somewhere on a level with the lantern in the\nneighbouring lamp-post, was the genial face of Captain Mulberry.\n\n\"No,\" said Josiah, \"I'm sorry I have not.\"\n\n\"Don't smoke, eh? You don't look the kind of old boy to have any\npleasant vices. I saw you in the Balloon Society's rooms just now, and\nrather took a fancy to you.\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" Josiah said, blushing up to where in earlier and\nhappier days the roots of his hair had been. \"I am sure I feel it a\ngreat honour.\"\n\n\"If you don't mind me saying so, I think you're the innocentest-looking\nold boy I have seen in a day's ride. I like innocence, particularly when\ncombined with middle age. It is the rarest thing in the world. I hope\nyou'll come and dine with me some night at my club.\"\n\n\"I shall like it very much indeed,\" said Josiah, \"We are close at my\nrooms--just here in King Street I live--and if you would step in, you\nmight light your cigar.\"\n\n\"Thanks, I will. You won't mind me making up to you in this way; but\n'pon my honour, I took such a liking to your face, seeing it among that\nmass of humbug where we were just now, that I was going to speak to you\nthen, only I could not get near you.\"\n\nJosiah was in a tremor of delight, which presently subsided into a soft\nglow of contentment, as the captain, stretching himself out over as much\nof the couch as he could find in the little room, not only lit his\ncigar, but praised Josiah's claret and told him a good deal more of his\nballoon adventures than he had communicated to the eminent society in\nwhose rooms they had met.\n\n\"By the way,\" he said, \"I am going to make a balloon excursion\nto-morrow. I didn't mention it to the society because these fellows gab\nso. There'd be a great crowd round, and I'd only have been hampered.\nWhen you mean work, the less you say about it beforehand the better.\nThat is what I have always found. Ever up in a balloon?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Josiah, \"but I should very much like to go.\"\n\nHe had drunk a whole tumbler of claret in honour of his distinguished\ncompany, and, being accustomed to more moderate measure, had begun to\nthink going up in a balloon was after all a mere ordinary performance.\n\n\"What do you ride?\" asked the captain, looking him up and down, as if\neither about to measure him for a suit of clothes, or considering where\nhe could most advantageously plant a blow from his ox-hoof-like fist.\n\n\"A pony--at least, I used to ride a pony when I was at home: but that is\na long time ago, and I have not ridden much since.\"\n\n\"I mean, what do you weigh,\" said the captain, laughing.\n\n\"A little over ten stone.\"\n\n\"Is it possible! why, I pull the scales at seventeen stun. I'd give\nsomething to be your weight. Think of the ballast you might take up with\nyou!\"\n\n\"Is that an important thing?\" Josiah asked, his old instinct of gaining\nknowledge manifesting itself.\n\n\"It's simply everything. That's how I managed to get over to the\nOrkneys. These fellows that go up in balloons which they fit up like\nfirst-floor rooms, and take everything with them except a feather bed,\ndon't know anything about it. They go fumbling around with a few pounds\nof ballast, and when they get into a wrong current there they stick.\nNow, between you and me, Mr. Smith, I don't mind telling you my secret\nof successful ballooning. Take as much ballast as you can carry, and\nwhen you get stuck in a calm or carried off by a wrong current, out goes\nyour ballast, up you shoot, get into another current, and there you are.\nTen stun!\" he murmured, gazing wistfully upon the spare figure of his\nhost. \"There ought to be a good deal done with that. Tell you what, old\nchappie, you shall come with me to-morrow.\"\n\nJosiah had been a few moments ago possessed with a burning desire to go\nup in a balloon, but at these words the fire went out and he felt a cold\nchill steal over his body. Still, he would like to go; but not\nto-morrow. If it were next month or next week it would be different. But\nto-morrow was so sudden.\n\n\"I rather fancy I have an engagement to-morrow,\" he said, producing his\npocket diary and anxiously gazing on it in the month of December.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said the captain, laying his large hand on Josiah's\nshoulder, conveying to him an impression that if he pleased he could\ntake him up, put him in his coat-tail pocket, walk off, and think no\nmore about him till he landed him in a balloon. \"You've no engagement,\nand if you had you couldn't find it by holding your book upside down.\nYou come along with me. There's not the slightest danger, and it's not\nevery man who has crossed the Channel in a balloon.\"\n\n\"The Channel!\" cried Josiah feebly. He had thought of some little\nexcursion. Perhaps in the fields ten or twenty miles off. \"I don't think\nI would like to start with the Channel. Suppose we begin somewhere else,\nand try the Channel later on. It will be better--if anything happened,\nyou know--to have the water warm.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said the captain cheerily; \"we shall never be nearer the\nwater than 2,000 feet. We'll dine in Paris to-morrow night, and I'll\ntake you to the Closerie after dinner. It will do them good to see you\nthere. Now that's settled, and you'd better go to bed straight off.\nWe'll have to be up early in the morning to catch the mail train for\nDover. I've got my balloon there all ready, and we'll start about noon.\"\n\nThis was perfectly horrible. Josiah felt as if it was a hideous\nnightmare, and he had a dim hope that presently he would wake up. But\nthere was the burly form of the captain before him, with his third cigar\nsticking in the side of his mouth, and a pleased smile upon his face in\nanticipation of this new adventure.\n\nThose who have learned something of the character of Josiah by reading\nearlier chapters of his history, will not need to be told how this\nended. If he had been in company of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,\nwhen they started on their progress through the fiery furnace, and if\nthey had insisted upon his accompanying them, he would have smiled\nfeebly, and gone--that is, if he could not by some means or other slink\naway out of sight. Now, if he could have gone out of the door on some\npretence and run off, down King Street, he would have borne the\nsubsequent shame and humiliation. But he knew that the captain would\nhave been up with him in five strides. So he determined to make the best\nof it, drank another tumbler of claret, and became almost hysterically\neager for the morning.\n\n\"I'll see you don't oversleep yourself,\" were the last words of the\ncaptain as he went off. \"I'll look you up and take you down to Victoria\nin my hansom. You needn't bring any luggage, you know. A clean shirt and\na tooth-brush will see you through.\"\n\nThus faded Josiah's last and secret hope, one he had cherished even\nwhilst he drank his claret and talked boldly of aerial navigation. He\nmight, he had thought, peradventure oversleep himself and miss the\ntrain, and all would be well. But the captain would call for him, and\nthere was plainly no escape. However, he had made his will, and\n\"Underground England\" was in such an advanced stage that it might be\npublished as \"a fragment,\" and would be sufficient to carry his name\ndown to remotest posterity. Whether it were sweeter thus to vex public\ndesire, to give so much and no more, or to satiate the public with the\nfull accomplishment, was a nice question. Josiah was inclined to think\nthat, other things being equal, he would just as soon live to finish his\nwork. But he had no choice, and after all, the voyage might end happily.\nCaptain Mulberry was an experienced aeronaut. He had never failed, and\nwhy should failure be probable now?\n\nJosiah made up his mind upon this point, that if they got safely across\nin the balloon he would come back by the ordinary boat express. Having\nonce shown his possession of a daring spirit, he would be at liberty to\ndeclare his preference for a more prosaic mode of locomotion.\n\nHow he got down to Dover he did not know. It all seemed a dream. He had\na dim recollection of the captain thundering at his door at six o'clock\nin the morning. He remembered lighting his Etna, making his cup of\ncoffee, and thinking as he drank it it might be his last. Then they must\nhave caught the train. In fact, he remembered the sound of the rushing\ncarriage, the darkness of the tunnel, the glories of the dawning day,\nand felt around him the bright fresh sunlit air that made all nature\nglad.\n\nThey drove out to the balloon, which was down by the gas-works, and was\nnow in process of inflation. Josiah looked upon the monster, swerving\nfirst to the right, then to the left, and threatening every moment to\nbreak its bonds and go off on its own account. If it only would, what a\nhappy conclusion of this painful adventure! But he could see there was\nno such danger. The captain was as cheerful as a lark, and looked with\nkindling eye upon what Josiah regarded as his coffin.\n\nStill, it was no use complaining. A man must die some time; and though\nthere is much to be said against the process being hurried on by\nunnecessary attempts to cross the Channel in a balloon when there are\nwell-appointed packet-boats, it was no use arguing the matter.\n\nThere settled upon Josiah a certain mood of quiet despair. What must be\nmust, and it was better to avoid a scene and imitate as closely as\npossible the cheerful indifference of the captain.\n\n\"Now, old man, in you tumble,\" said the captain. \"Sit down in the bottom\nof the car, and keep quiet till we get past this stack of chimneys. If\nwe run into them it's all over; but I reckon I'll take you clear.\"\n\nThis was a cheerful thing to start with. Josiah had pictured all kinds\nof horrors, ending with the certainty of dropping into the sea. That\nthey should begin with a stack of chimneys was an unexpected\naggravation. Still, it might be better to get it over at once. At least,\nhe would fall on land, and the fragments picked up would receive\nChristian burial.\n\nHe got in and sat in the bottom of the car. It was, he noticed,\nsomething like one of the coracles of which he had made mention in the\npreface to \"Underground England.\" There was something good in that. The\nRomans made long journeys In the coracle. If the worst came to the\nworst, they might float.\n\nEven in the anguish of his mind, he couldn't help wondering when Captain\nMulberry would finish coming in. He had never before noticed how tall he\nwas, till he found the necessity of getting out of the way of his legs\nas he crept between the ropes into the car.\n\n\"Let go all!\" cried the captain, and Josiah felt his last hour had come.\nHe held his breath and stuck to his hat, being under the impression that\nthe whole affair would shoot up into the air like a rocket. He expected\nto be deafened by the noise of whizzing through the air, and to be half\nsuffocated with the rush of wind. Looking over to get a last look at the\nnature of the soil on which he would presently fall, Josiah beheld a\nstrange sight. As far as he knew, the balloon was motionless, while the\nearth was dropping rapidly from under them as if the laws of gravitation\nwere irrevocably broken and the world was falling through space.\n\n\"Done it!\" he heard the captain cry in a voice that sounded curiously\nremote.\n\n\"Done what?\" said Josiah, anxiously looking up.\n\n\"Why, the chimney-stack. Just cleared it by half a foot. I didn't like\nto say much about it, but it was a pretty near touch-and-go affair.\nThat's the worst of filling a balloon. You must do it near a gasworks,\nand there's sure to be a stack of chimneys at hand.\"\n\nIt seemed but a moment since Josiah had heard the captain call out \"Let\ngo all,\" and there they were in space a thousand feet above the level of\nthe land, sailing calmly along in bright warm sunlight, and with no more\nmotion perceptible than if they were still sitting in the room in King\nStreet--that cherished apartment which Josiah felt his eye would never\nlight on more.\n\n\"This won't do,\" said the captain sternly; \"we've got in the wrong\ncurrent, and instead of going out to sea we are going inland. In half an\nhour we'll be at Canterbury.\"\n\n\"I have heard Canterbury's a very nice old town,\" said Josiah. \"It\nwouldn't be a bad place to stop at; and if the wind's contrary to-day,\nit might be right to-morrow.\"\n\nThe captain said nothing, and Josiah, looking up to see what effect his\nsuggestion might have, noticed for the first time that on a face usually\nsmiling there were possibilities of a fixed hard look which it evidently\ndidn't beseem him to trifle with.\n\nThe balloon slowly rose till the aneroid marked a height of 1,500 feet\nand still the current drove it steadily north-west. Looking southward,\nJosiah beheld a sight which, if it were the last he was ever to look\nupon, was at least a glorious glimpse of earth, and sky, and sea. There\nlay the Channel gleaming in the sun, a broad belt of silver. Beyond it,\nlike a cloud, was France. Dover had vanished even to the crest of the\ncastle on the hill. But Josiah knew where it was by the mist that lay\nover it and shone white in the rays of the sun. Save for this patch of\nmist, which seemed to drift with the voyagers far below the car, there\nwas nothing to obscure the range of vision. Josiah could not at any time\nmake out forms of people. The white highways that ran like threads among\nthe fields, and the tiny openings in the towns and villages which he\nguessed were streets, seemed to belong to a dead world, for nowhere was\nthere trace of living person. The strange stillness that brooded over\nthe earth was made more uncanny by cries that occasionally seemed to\nfloat in the air around them, behind, before, to the right or to the\nleft, but never exactly beneath the car. They could hear people calling,\nand the captain said that they were running after the balloon and\ncheering. But Josiah could distinguish no moving thing. Yes; once he saw\nsome pheasants running across a field below and pointed them out to the\ncaptain. The captain laughed, a strange resonant laugh it seemed in this\nupper stillness, and said they were \"a lot of chestnut horses capering\nabout in the field.\" A flock of sheep in another field huddled together,\nlooked like a heap of limestone chippings. As for the fields, stretched\nout in illimitable extent, far as the eye could reach, they seemed to\nform a gigantic carpet, with patterns chiefly diamond-shaped, and in\ncolour shaded from bright emerald to russet brown.\n\n\"This won't do,\" the captain said again, and seizing a bag of ballast\nhe emptied it. The balloon swiftly rose, and the aneroid marked 2,500\nfeet. The villages seemed mere spots, the pattern of the carpet grew\nblurred. Nothing was distinguishable--nor horse, nor sheep, nor any\nliving thing.\n\n\"Hurrah!\" cried the captain, \"we're off now.\"\n\nNearer and nearer came the belt of silver which seemed to girdle\ncontinent and island. They were close to Dover, and could make out the\ntown. Josiah, knowing well the irregular plan on which the streets are\nlaid out, was struck by the manner in which, as looked down upon from\nthis height, they formed themselves into beautifully defined curves,\nstraight lines, and other highly respectable geometrical shapes. They\nsaw the castle and the pier with what seemed to be ants crawling on it.\nA little patch of colour, that to Josiah looked like a ball of scarlet\nworsted, was, the captain said, a sentry on duty.\n\n\"There's Shakespeare's Cliff,\" said the captain. \"The Earl of Gloucester\nshould be with us now:--\n\n                                How fearful\n   And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!\n   The crows and choughs that wing the midway air\n   Show scarce so gross as beetles; half-way down\n   Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!\n   Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:\n   The fishermen that walk upon the beach\n   Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,\n   Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy\n   Almost too small for sight.\"\n\n\"I'll look no more,\" said Josiah, who also knew his Shakespeare.\n\n   \"Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight\n   Topple down headlong.\"\n\nIt was passing strange and at first dreadful, this intense silence and\nthis strangeness of the familiar earth. But after a while everything\nlike terror passed away from Josiah's mind. He began to feel the\nfascination of the thing. His spirits rose as he breathed the delicious\nair, and when the captain said, \"We are over the water now,\" and Josiah\nlooking down discerned the sea gleaming below, he could have clapped his\nhands for joy.\n\n\"This is splendid,\" said the captain. \"We'll be across in half an hour.\nWe'll catch the train for Paris, and you shall dance at the Closerie\nto-night.\"\n\nJosiah didn't dance, and didn't know what the Closerie might be. But he\nwas not without susceptibility to the allurement of a quiet dinner in\nParis, and began to feel the exhilaration of having accomplished a\nperilous feat, to which he would certainly drag in some reference in his\ngreat work. It would be difficult, as he was as far as possible remote\nfrom Underground England. But it might be worked in some antithetical\nsentence.\n\nAfter they had sailed for the space of ten minutes the captain, who had\nbeen throwing out bits of paper which they left far behind, suddenly\nsaid a bad word.\n\n\"We are becalmed,\" he continued, and truly the bits of paper flung out\nfloated idly round the balloon. \"We must get out of this.\"\n\nHe cast out the ballast, bag after bag, and higher still they soared.\nNevertheless, whenever they flung out the bits of paper, they floated\nhere and there, some dropping back into the car.\n\n\"There goes our last bag of ballast,\" said the captain, \"and may luck go\nwith it. We are lost men unless it takes us into another current, which\nlet us hope won't be coming from the East and carry us out into the\nAtlantic.\"\n\nUp again they mounted, how many feet Josiah didn't know, but he was\nsensible of a sudden iciness in the atmosphere, a tingling of the blood\nat his finger ends, and a strong disposition to bleed at the nose. The\ncaptain threw out some more bits of paper. Still they circled round and\nround, dropping into the car or falling to the distant earth now utterly\nout of sight. They had passed through the cloud, and had above them a\nchilly sun and an intensely blue sky. Below them were the clouds, on one\nof which was clearly caught the shadow of the balloon. Josiah, when he\nmoved his head, could see an answering motion on the cloud, and\nrecognised the reflection of the captain's figure, sitting stern and\nerect, with his teeth set and a look of angry determination on his brow.\n\nThis frightened Josiah a great deal more than the captain's words. He\nfelt that they were lost in space, and that the end must speedily come.\nThis terrible look on the captain's face made him sick at heart.\n\n\"Mr. Smith,\" said the captain, speaking scarcely above a whisper, but\nhis voice sounded as if he were shouting from the housetops, \"you told\nme you were _not_ a married man.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Josiah, \"I have never been married.\"\n\n\"That is so, or I should not have asked you to come with me. And you\nhave not many relations?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Josiah, \"there are not many that would miss me.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said the captain; \"I have; but your life is as valuable as\nmine, and I would hold you at no disadvantage. The fact is, we are\nbecalmed, and there is no prospect of any wind reaching us here till\nnight, when we shan't know which way we are drifting, and may as well\ngive up all hope. There is wind overhead, I know, and it is going\nstraight for France. If we could get up another thousand feet or so, we\nshould catch the current and be over land in ten minutes. But all the\nballast has gone, and there is only one thing to be done.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" asked Josiah faintly.\n\n\"One of us must go overboard,\" said the captain.\n\nJosiah felt his heart sink within him.\n\n\"I am not sure that it would be much use my going over,\" the captain\ncontinued, discussing the matter as quietly as if he were arranging what\nthey should have for dinner. \"I'm such a thundering weight, you'd shoot\nup till you bumped your head against Jupiter; and besides, you would not\nknow what to do with the balloon if I was gone. Still, I think we should\nhave equal chances. Now, I'll give you the first chance. You get hold of\nme and try to push me over. If I go, you will find the balloon shoot up;\nbut don't be frightened: you'll be all right in a bit, and can let out a\nfew feet of gas. If you can't get me over--well, I must try to get _you_\nover. Hold on a bit till I light a cigar.\"\n\nIn the calm still air the captain struck a light, bending low in the car\nto avoid contact of flame and gas, bit the end of a cigar, and lit it.\nJosiah, shaking with terror, could see in the shadow of the balloon on\nthe cloud the smoke curling up from the cigar and lazily spreading\nitself out.\n\n\"Now, old chappie,\" said the captain, \"I'm ready. Heave hard, and over I\ngo.\"\n\nWhat was the use of disputing with a man like this? Josiah never had\nbeen inclined to fight with men of strong will. He was certain he could\nnot move the captain, but he was able to try, and try he did. He got one\nfoot over the car, the captain encouraging him and cheerfully smoking.\n\n\"Very well done, old man. A few more tugs, and over we go. I'll just\nhave time to finish my cigar before I get to the bottom.\"\n\nJosiah tugged and tugged till he felt the warm blood rushing through his\nveins and his breath came short But though he might move one of the\ncaptain's colossal legs, which seemed to his disordered fancy to be the\nsize of the Monument, he could do no more. The captain sat passive,\nencouraging him by every kindly phrase he could think of. But it was of\nno use, and after ten minutes' violent struggling Josiah threw himself\nback in the car.\n\n\"Very sorry, old man,\" said the captain, with a tone of unmistakable\nsincerity. \"Thought once you'd have done it; but I've got a little out\nof training lately and run up half a stun. Now I must see what I can do\nwith you.\"\n\nFirst of all he tore off some slips of paper and threw them out. Josiah\nlooked at them with hungry eyes. Round and round they spun, falling back\ninto the car or dropping to the world beyond the clouds. There was no\nhope of movement for the balloon.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Smith, it's your turn now. I must see what I can do. It's not\nnice for either of us, but it would be no nicer to stay here and be\nstarved to death or blown out to sea. You won't feel anything after the\nfirst rush. Good-bye. I am sorry there will be no opportunity of my\ncommunicating with you as to the result of this interesting experiment.\nI don't suppose,\" the captain added, his love of scientific research\nincreasing his unfeigned regret for the inconvenience Josiah was about\nto suffer, \"that ever before ten stun was dropped out of a car in a\nlump. I reckon I'll get as high as most people have been. Now, if you've\nany message, just hand it over. If I can do anything for you in King\nStreet or anywhere else, you may depend upon me.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Josiah, gulping down a rising sob; \"if you will only say I\nwent off bravely and didn't flinch, that will be all. Perhaps you might\nwrite a few lines by way of preface to 'Underground England,' pointing\nout that I died in the interests of science.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my dear fellow, it shall be done,\" said the captain, with\nquite a glow of honest energy. \"If you'd like a little monument or\nanything of that sort, I'll see it's run up. Now, over you go. Time's\ngetting on, and I don't want to miss the Paris train. Give us a shake of\nyour paw, then shut your eyes, for I fancy I shan't have much difficulty\nwith you. Heave your watch over or take it with you!\"\n\n\"If you wouldn't mind accepting it,\" said Josiah, pulling out his fine\nold turnip-shaped time-piece, \"as a memento of our friendship--which,\nthough brief, has I trust been sincere--it would give me great\npleasure.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the captain, weighing it in his hand critically, and\nthinking to himself that it might serve as ballast in a last emergency.\n\"I'll hang it over my bed, and will think of you whenever it ticks.\nNothing more to say?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Josiah; \"only, please to drop me feet first.\"\n\nThe captain took him in his arms as if he were a child, held him for a\nmoment over the side of the car, and with a cheery farewell dropped him.\n\nJosiah felt his hat go, and could see the balloon shoot up with\ntremendous rapidity, though, as he reckoned, the rate of velocity would\nneed to be divided by about half, as he was simultaneously descending\nrapidly. He felt the rush of air, and shrank from the moment, coming\nnearer and nearer, when he should strike the earth. He seemed an\nunconscionably long time falling. Still, through the clouds he went,\nand, it seemed to him at the end of five minutes, began to get glimpses\nof the earth. Down he went like a shot. The rushing noise in his ears\ngrew more intolerable. There was a swift upgrowth of the hedgerows, a\nsudden vision of cows and horses, and of people running across fields.\nThen a heavy bump, and Josiah, opening his eyes, found himself lying on\nthe floor in the room in King Street.\n\nOn the table were an empty claret bottle and two tumblers. The room was\nfull of the smoke, now growing stale, of cigars. Josiah was shivering\nwith cold, and the room was dark save from what light flickered in from\nthe lamp down the street. He struck a light, and there in its accustomed\nplace on the mantelpiece was his watch, the hands pointing to three\no'clock. Dazed and shivering he crept into bed, where he thought the\nmatter over, and amid much that was bewildering groped his way to the\nconclusion that Captain Mulberry really had come into his room, had\nspent an hour with him, smoked cigars, drunk claret, and then gone off.\nHe remembered standing at the head of the stairs shaking hands with him,\nand promising to dine with him at his club one day in the following\nweek. Then he had gone back and lain on the couch, where, overcome with\nthe unaccustomed tumbler of claret and dazed with the tobacco smoke, he\nhad fallen asleep, dreamed, and rolled off on to the floor.\n\nHENRY W. LUCY.\n\n\n\n\n\nNUMBER 7639.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nA poor garret on the sixth floor of one of the poorest houses in the\npoorest quarters of Paris, does not give much opportunity for a detailed\ndescription. There is little to be said about the furniture, which in\nthis case consisted of a rickety old table, a wooden stool, and a small\ncharcoal stove, all of the commonest kind, but all clean, and the room\nwas not quite without adornment. The window, to be sure, was in the\nroof, but pinned to the wall were a few newspaper prints in strong\nblacks and whites, and--most remarkable of all--there was an alcove for\nthe bed, which was carefully shut off from the room by a gaily\nvariegated chintz. In spite of its poverty and bareness, there was\nnothing squalid or unwholesome about the place.\n\nThe house itself was a tall narrow slip. People of different callings,\nand different degrees of respectability, lived in it; on the whole it\nhad not a bad character. The landlord was an immensely fat man, called\nPlon--a name which, irresistibly converted into Plon-Plon, seemed to\ngive an aristocratic air to the house--and he lived and made shoes in a\nsmall room at the foot of the lowest flight of stairs, so that he acted\nas his own _concierge_, and boasted that no one came in or out without\nhis knowledge. Probably some of his lodgers contrived to elude his\nvigilance, but he was as obstinate in his belief as an old Norman has a\nright to be, and was a kind-hearted old fellow in the main, though with\nthe reputation of a _grognard_, and a ridiculous fear of being\ndiscovered in a good action. Perhaps with this fear, the more credit was\ndue to him for occasionally running the risk, as when he saw young\nMonnier, the artist, coming down the stairs one evening with a look in\nhis eyes, which Plon told himself gave him an immediate shuddering\nback-sensation, as of cold water and marble slabs. Plon did something\nfor him, perhaps knocked off the rent, but he implored Monnier to show\nhis gratitude by saying nothing, and he never gave him more of a\ngreeting than the sidelong twist he vouchsafed to the other lodgers. For\nthe rest, his benevolence depended in a great measure upon his temper,\nand he prided himself upon being very terrible at times.\n\nWith five floors we have nothing to do, and need waste no time over\nthem. The inmates mostly went out early and came in late, but the house\nkept better hours than its neighbours, for the simple reason that those\nwho arrived after a certain time found themselves shut into the street\nfor the night. They might hammer and appeal in the strongest language\nof their vocabulary, but Plon snored unmoved, and nothing short of a\nfire in the house would have turned him out of his bed. Gradually this\nbecame so well understood, that his lodgers accommodated themselves to\nit as to any other of the inexorable laws of fate.\n\nOn the sixth and highest floor the crowded house resolved itself into\ncomparative quiet. Besides the garret of which we have spoken, there\nwere two other rooms, but for some years past these had been used merely\nas store-rooms for furniture. No one knew to whom the furniture\nbelonged, some curious speculators avowing that Plon had a child--a\ngirl--at school in Normandy, and had collected it as part of her dowry;\nothers that some mysterious tie of gratitude bound him to the owner.\nWhoever was right or wrong, the rooms remained closed and unlet.\n\nThe garret itself was inhabited by a young widow, whose story was\nsufficiently sad. She was the daughter of a farmer in the north of\nFrance, and married to a glazier, Jean Didier by name, with whom she had\ncome to Paris in search of work. If there had been no war, and, above\nall, no Commune, things might have gone well with the young couple, but,\nunhappily, one followed the other, and there was an end of peace. Jean\nwas no fool, but he was too certain that he was extremely wise not to\nmake mistakes, and he possessed enough of the French nature to be easily\ninfluenced by the brag and fine promises which filled the air at that\ntime. It is always satisfactory to reflect on changes which assure us\nthe highest step of a ladder, which ordinarily takes a life-time for a\nstep. Jean talked a great deal about it, not only to Marie, who would\nhave been safe, but to others who agreed with him more thoroughly, and\nwere dangerous. Nevertheless, when the Commune, in March, 1871, broke\ninto actual life, and Jean began to see what it all meant, he was\nterrified by the outburst and held back. Things which look seductive in\ntheory, have a way of losing their gloss when they appear as hard\nrealities, with accompaniments which do not belong to the ideals; and\nthe rabble rout of half-drunk citizens who marched, shouting, through\nthe streets of the 19th _arrondissement_, frightened Marie out of her\nsenses. She clung to Jean, and implored him not to join them on pain of\nbreaking her heart. To do him justice, common sense, perhaps aided by a\ndesire to keep out of the way of rifle-balls, was proving stronger than\nbombast; and, to do him justice again, he was desirous to keep others\nthan himself from danger.\n\nIt was this which brought about the catastrophe. May came, and with it\nthe conquering troops from Versailles poured into the city. It was\nsufficiently clear what the end would be; Jean, who never distrusted his\nown reasoning powers, insisted, in spite of his wife's prayers and\nPlon's expostulations, in going out into the streets, and trying to\ndissuade some of his comrades from fighting. He promised to return\nimmediately, but he did not come, Marie became almost frenzied with\nterror. She would have rushed out to seek him, but that she knew not\nwhere to turn, and if he came, wanting help, and she was not there to\ngive it, matters might go hardly with him. The din of battle drew\nnearer, shells were falling, bullets were whizzing, it seemed hardly\npossible that any one could escape, and yet, men went by shouting and\nsinging, mad with either drink or excitement. Plon, after entreating\nMadame Didier to come farther into shelter, shut himself into his little\nroom with a white face, and was seen no more. Everything seemed to grow\nmore horrid as the night drew on.\n\nAt about ten o'clock, Plon, hearing voices in the passage, peeped out.\nThere still stood Madame Didier, wan as a ghost, but with the restless\nexcitement gone. A man was speaking to her, an elderly, grimy,\nfrightened-looking man, with a bald head. He was telling a story in a\ndull, hopeless kind of way, as if at such a time no one story was\nparticularly distinguished from another, and pity had to wait for\nquieter seasons.\n\n\"He was shot in the next street; Jean says he never wished to go with\nthem, but they forced him along. After that he got into a doorway, where\nhe might have hidden himself, but Fort saw him, and denounced him. Fort\nmight have left him alone, as it was he your husband was trying to\npersuade, but at such a time men look after their own skins. They\ndragged him out and set him up with some others against a wall, and\nthat was the end of him, and of a good many others.\"\n\nHis listener flung up her hands with a gesture of wild despair, and\nturned her face to the wall, speechless. The man, who was by trade a\n_trieur_ or chief _chiffonnier_, seeing Plon's head appear,\nturned round and addressed himself to him.\n\n\"Fort is a traitor, he has denounced others. They will be here presently\nsearching for arms. It is short work I can tell you.\"\n\n\"And my--my _locataire_ is shot!\" murmured Plon, panic-struck. But the\nman whose mission was ended, turned round without another word and went\nout into the lurid darkness.\n\nThe landlord made a trembling effort to stagger across the passage, and\nto pluck at Marie's gown. When he spoke, his voice quavered with fright.\n\n\"Come, come, Madame Didier, go upstairs, and--and--cry there like a good\nwoman. Here it isn't safe. Besides, if they know who you are, I might be\ncompromised. Poor Jean! Heavens!--\"\n\nFor a volley of rifle shot poured down the street, a rush of feet\nfollowed; and Plon fled precipitously to his den, double-bolted his\ndoor, and rolled his mattress round him for protection. Marie Didier\nslowly turned her head, and, as if recognising the wisdom of his advice,\nfelt her way along the wall and groped up the dark staircase. No one had\nlit the small oil lamp on the _premier_, but light from burning houses\nflashed in at windows; a child had been killed by the fragment of a\nshell, and the mother was loudly wailing; some were peering out of\ntheir doorways; they stared at Marie, who crept up like a ghost. In this\nrookery the young couple had kept themselves apart, and had no friends.\nBut it was instinctively known that something had happened to Jean, and\nonly one woman was bold enough to question the wife. She answered\nsteadily in a strange strained voice:\n\n\"They are searching the houses. We shall have them soon.\"\n\nIt was, however, an hour before a party of soldiers made a rough\nvisitation. They dragged Plon out of his mattress, and made him climb\nthe stairs, panting and protesting. When they reached the top garret,\nMarie was sitting in the darkness, with her arms on the poor table; she\ndid not move as they entered.\n\n\"Bring in the lantern!\" shouted the sergeant. \"Now, good woman, who have\nyou got hiding here?\"\n\nShe turned a white face upon him, speechless. Plon, who was recovering\nhis pomposity, pressed forward, and laid a hand on the soldier's arm.\n\n\"Don't worry her, sergeant,\" he said, \"her husband has just been shot.\"\n\n\"Serve him right,\" said the man brutally. \"Are there more of the brood\nabout?\"\n\n\"Not a soul. They lived here alone, these two.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll see.\"\n\n\"No cupboards here,\" said a soldier, whose face was bleeding from a\nbayonet scratch.\n\n\"There's a trap door, though,\" said the sergeant, holding the lantern\nup to the ceiling. He glanced sharply at Marie, but she remained\nimmovable. \"Humph,\" he grumbled, \"if he is shot he is out of the way.\nNow, friend Porpoise, the other rooms if you please.\"\n\nThey searched these thoroughly with no better success. But when they had\nsatisfied themselves and were out again, the sergeant, whose suspicions\nseemed to have been aroused, flung open the door of the Didiers' garret,\nand turned the lantern full upon Marie once more. She had not moved hand\nor foot.\n\n\"What is that blood?\" said the sergeant, pointing to a trail of red\ndrops on the floor.\n\nFor answer she silently rolled back her sleeve, and unbandaging her arm,\nshowed a deep cut, from which the blood still oozed.\n\n\"Good. She has no one,\" said the man, withdrawing the light.\n\nThis, as all the world knows, was in 1871. Four years afterwards, at the\ntime my story begins, Marie Didier still occupied that attic. She lived\nby taking in needlework, and it was sometimes a wonder to the few who\nknew her, that working so hard as she did, she should remain so poor.\nThe furniture of her attic I have described, the sole addition she had\nmade to it was the gay chintz which curtained off the alcove with the\nbed. She was always ready to do a kindness, but made no acquaintances,\nand the only persons who ever climbed to her attic were Plon, who made\noccasional weighty visitations, often discoursed upon his prowess at the\ntime of the Commune; and an idiot girl called Perine, whom Marie one day\nfound crying in the street; she had no father or mother, and the old\nrag-picker she lived with beat her. Once or twice Marie gave her food,\nand the poor creature attached herself to her like a dog, followed her\nupstairs and lay across her door. After a while Madame Didier admitted\nher into her room at times, and let her share her poor meals, and sleep\non a heap of sacking outside the door. Perine, in such prosperity, was\nas happy as a queen. It is true that Plon at first objected, but Marie\ncould persuade him into anything, and he only grumbled.\n\nOn one winter day, Marie was stooping over the stove stirring something\nin an earthen pipkin; Perine, seated on the wooden stool, leaned forward\nand watched her operations with excessive interest. Perhaps for want of\nan intelligent companion, Madame Didier was in the habit of\nsoliloquising aloud, and at this moment she was saying cheerfully:\n\n\"Not much, to be sure, but something! I should have liked a carrot or\ntwo, but in these hard times that would have been extravagant. And,\nafter all, there is some credit in making good soup out of nothing at\nall. If one could run here and there in the market--'A pound of your\nbest veal, monsieur'--'A bunch of those fine turnips, and a stick of\ncelery, madame'--well, truth obliges me to admit that it is possible\nthe soup would have a finer flavour, but there would not be the\nsatisfaction of seeing it grow out of a few onions a crust of bread, and\na pinch of salt. And that is a satisfaction which I am favoured with\ntolerably often. Well, Perine, my child, it interests you--this\noccupation--does it not? Do you think you will ever learn to make soup?\"\n\nThe girl nodded many times.\n\n\"Perine eat it,\" she said.\n\n\"Listen to her!\" Marie exclaimed, patting her cheek approvingly. \"And\nthat any one should say she has no sense! She knows as well as any of\nus, that the great thing in soup is to eat it with an appetite, and so\nshe puts together two and two--\"\n\nShe was interrupted by the girl.\n\n\"Four!\" she said abruptly.\n\nMadame Didier, instead of showing astonishment, began to laugh.\n\n\"There she is with her numbers again! How strange it is that she should\nnever forget a number or make a mistake in a sum! In taking away or\nadding together one can't puzzle her. I don't mean that I can't,\" she\ncontinued, apparently addressing no one in particular, \"because I am a\npoor ignorant woman; but wiser people than I. Now, Perine, you shall\nhave your lesson. See here, I shall stand near my bed, and you over\nthere with your face to the wall. Do you understand?\"\n\nThe girl nodded, and stumbling along towards the place indicated,\ncontrived on her way to knock down and break into atoms a white dish.\n\n\"Oh, the unfortunate child!\" cried Marie, darting forward. \"Another! and\nit was my last! How many more things will you destroy!\"\n\nAt this reproach the guilt-stricken Perine covered her face and howled\naloud, and Madame Didier's momentary anger passed.\n\n\"There, don't cry!\" she said, \"crying does no good, and it was an\naccident. You'll be more careful another time, won't you? Try to move\ngently, and look where you go, or some day you will hurt yourself. At\npresent let me see you stand well against the wall, so! I put on the\nsoup--and we are ready.\"\n\nAs she said these words she went back to the alcove. And then a strange\nthing happened. For from behind the gaily-figured chintz, there issued a\nstrange hoarse whisper, which caused so little astonishment to Madame\nDidier, that she merely echoed the words aloud. Apparently this was\nPerine's lesson.\n\n\"Seven six nine, and eight five four,\" repeated Madame Didier.\n\nThe answer from the girl came instantaneously:\n\n\"Sixteen hundred and twenty-three.\"\n\nHer teacher paused for a moment, perhaps to allow the whisperer time for\nobjection, if there were one to make, but as nothing came she said\ncheerfully:\n\n\"Good! Now let me think of another.\"\n\n\"Nine ought three, and fifteen nine seven,\" prompted the hidden voice.\n\n\"Ah, here is a fine one! Nine ought--\" she hesitated, \"fifteen--\"\n\nThe voice corrected her impatiently: \"Nine ought three, and fifteen nine\nseven.\"\n\nIn the same whisper she answered \"Hush!\" warningly, before repeating the\nfigures aloud and correctly. The girl, on her part, returned rapidly and\nindifferently:\n\n\"Twenty-five hundred.\"\n\n\"She seems a different creature when she is doing it!\" Marie exclaimed\nadmiringly. \"Now one more, and then I must run down and see in what sort\nof a temper Monsieur Plon finds himself. If it is good, he will lend me\nhis journal. At any rate, I shall only be gone a moment. _Allons!_\nSomething difficult, something to take away, shall it be?\"\n\nAs before the whisper responded:\n\n\"From thirteen thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine, take eight thousand\nfive hundred and four.\"\n\nMadame Didier began in a puzzled voice, \"From eight thousand five\nhundred and four, take thirteen--\" but, seeing Perine shake her head,\ncaught herself up. \"No, no, not that, of course not that!\"\n\n\"The other way, stupid woman!\" said the whisper.\n\nSlowly she started again, \"From thirteen thousand,\" and, interprompted\nby the mysterious voice, arrived at the end of her sum, \"nine hundred\nand--fifty--nine--take--eight--thousand--five hundred--and--four.\"\n\nQuick as thought came the answer:\n\n\"Five thousand four hundred and fifty-five.\"\n\n\"All those fives! You are really a wonder, Perine!\" said Marie happily.\n\"I never could do anything like that, decidedly I am only fit to make\nsoup. Well, every one to his trade--we can't dine upon figures. If we\ncould you would provide us with plenty, eh, my child? But now I have\nsomething for you to do while I am away. Here is the stool; I am going\nto put it before the fire, so, and you shall sit upon it and watch the\npot for me. Don't move, and don't look behind you, and then, by-and-by,\nyou shall have a basin of the soup. If only I had something to put into\nit, something good, for bread and onions are not too fattening. However,\nthere is plenty to be thankful for. Remember, Perine, you must not take\nyour eyes off the soup.\"\n\nThe girl, who seemed to have the faculty of obedience, sat down where\nshe was directed, and fastened her stolid gaze upon the pot. For a time\nthere was absolute silence in the garret, a ray of cold winter sunshine,\ncold but bright (for this was Paris), streamed in through the little\nwindow in the roof, and fell on Perine's slouching figure and coarse\nhair. Less than five minutes, however, had passed, when the chintz\ncurtains of the alcove shook, parted, and from between them looked out\na pale and haggard man's face.\n\nIt will be guessed that this third inhabitant of the sixth floor attic\nwas no other than Jean Didier, whose name had been entered in the\n_bureau_ of police--when they tried to get some imperfect statistics of\nmissing men--as \"Jean Didier, glazier; fought with the insurgents,\nwounded at the barricade of the Rue Soleil d'Or, May 28th, 1871;\ndenounced as Communist by Andre Fort; executed on the spot.\"\nNevertheless, for once the police were wrong. Jean was not shot, though\nit was true he was shot at. Fear, or loss of blood, or an instinctive\neffort at self-preservation, caused him to reel and fall just a second\nbefore a couple of bullets which should have found a home in his body,\nspent themselves in the blood-stained wall over his head. The tide of\nslaughter ebbed away, leaving ghastly heaps of dead men. From one of\nthese a shadow by-and-by detached itself, and drifted homewards, to the\nspot where Marie was waiting in terrible anguish.\n\nHer courage came back with the need for it; it took very little to add\nto the disguise which fire and a wound had brought upon him; the people\nin the house were at that moment much occupied with dragging down the\npapers they had pasted over their windows. He crawled upstairs, and when\nshe had hastily bound up his wound, and given him some food, he managed\nto get out on the roof through the trap-door. There he spent three days,\ncoming down at night, till she was able to put up her new chintz\ncurtains, and here in the garret he had remained ever since, sometimes\nfairly patient, sometimes finding his lot insupportable, and railing at\nfate, at Marie, and at Providence. He had had a few narrow escapes, but\nhis wife was as cunning as a fox when he was concerned, and fortune had\nfavoured him.\n\nPerine's presence had a double aspect. The loneliness of the position\nwas so difficult for a man of his temperament to support, that he\nwelcomed it at times as a distraction, and these exercises of the\nstrange ingenuity of brain which she possessed, at the cost, as it\nseemed, of all other intelligences, would very often interest and amuse\nhim. On the other hand she was quite as valuable as a grievance. If he\nhad no other fault to find with his wife, he could always blame her for\nsuffering the idiot girl to hang about the place, and the relief of this\nwas enormous. On the present occasion he contemplated her broad back\nwith displeasure.\n\n\"Wretched creature! There she sits, and will sit till Marie comes back;\nI wonder what she thinks would happen to her if she were to look round?\nLucky for me if she pictures some terrible fate. What sort of confused\nnonsense is running through her head now? Soup and Marie take a\nprominent place, I wager. So precious hard up does one become in this\nrat's hole, that I make her my problem as she makes the soup hers, poor\nwretch! Yet, my excellent friend, Jean Didier, I would counsel you to\nkeep your compassion for yourself, for, believe me, you want it at least\nas much. As much? Rather, a hundred times more! For she--she knows\nnothing of the blessings she has missed, while I--Heavens, I know too\nwell! To be cooped up here, to see no one but Marie and this idiot; to\nbe aware that at any moment any thing, the merest trifle, might betray\nme to death, or at least transportation to New California,--was ever man\nso unhappy in this world!\"\n\nJean, who had a turn for the melodramatic, tugged despairingly with both\nhands at his hair, Perine, meanwhile, intent upon the soup, bent forward\nand stirred it.\n\n\"Soup for mother and Perine,\" she muttered.\n\n\"What red hands she has!\" continued Jean with a grimace, \"and I hate to\nhear her call Marie, mother. But it's just Marie all over. She never\ncould see a poor wretch, were it only a hunted rat, but she must take it\nup, and give herself all the trouble in the world, when she might have\nleft it alone. She was just the same as a little girl, I see her now, in\nher little round cap and woollen frock, scattering food for the\nfrozen-out birds in the hard winters. Such a pretty, rosy-faced little\nthing as she was, and they all so fond of her! I recollect taking her to\nschool in my wooden sledge, and she--What's the girl about now?\nWhy--what dog has bitten her! She has taken my tobacco from the\nshelf--she--not--! Yes, by heaven, she has poured it all into the soup!\"\n\n\"Perine heard mother say she wanted something to make the soup good,\"\nlaughed the girl, nodding her head, and quite unconscious that behind\nher the enraged Jean was violently shaking his fist.\n\n\"Horror! To see tobacco, dinner, everything ruined by that creature\nwithout being able to say a word! It is simply atrocious of Marie to go\naway, leave her to do all this mischief, and then expect me to put up\nwith it! My pipe, my one comfort! Ah-h-h-h! if only I could box her ears\nand stop her from grinning away as if she had done a clever thing!\"\n\nIt was at this moment that Marie returned, carrying in her arms a\ncabbage. At the door, seeing the angry and distracted gesture of her\nhusband, she paused in consternation.\n\n\"But what then? Has anything gone wrong? The soup--Perine, you\nunfortunate child, have you touched the soup?\"\n\nThe girl pointed with triumph to where the tobacco had been.\n\n\"Good stuff, mother,\" she said, nodding.\n\n\"The tobacco! You have it put in!--Oh, my poor friend, no wonder you are\nangry!\" said Madame Didier in an undertone.\n\n\"Out with her!\" cried her husband in a fierce whisper.\n\n\"Perine, Perine, and I have warned you so often to touch nothing without\nleave! Now you have spoilt the soup, and we can have no dinner.\"\n\nThere was this inconvenience in the quick remorse which seized the girl\nwhen Marie reproved her, however gently, that she broke at once into\nsobs, which were as clumsy and unmanageable as her hands and feet. Jean\ndisliked them intensely, and he now made frantic signs to his wife that\nshe was to be sent away. \"But she is as hungry as we are,\" pleaded\nMarie, \"and see, M. Plon has given me a cabbage, I can manage\nsomething.\"\n\nHe was, however, inexorable; and his wife, always afraid of his\ncommitting some imprudence, though on the whole Jean might be trusted to\ntake care of himself, said sorrowfully:\n\n\"Perine, my poor child, you must go; there is no dinner for you today.\nDon't cry, don't cry; you meant no harm--you did not know, and Heaven is\nwitness how sorely we sometimes suffer for that!\"\n\nBetween her sobs the girl jerked out piteously:\n\n\"Perine come back?\"\n\nMarie looked imploringly at her husband, but he shook his head.\n\n\"Not tonight, not to-night, my child. As you go out beg for a bit of\nbread from M. Plon, he is in a splendid temper, and will not refuse it.\nThere make haste, go!\"\n\nShe took her by the shoulders and pushed her towards the door, but when\nshe left her outside, kissed her.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\n\nPerine had no sooner gone than Jean came out and flung himself angrily\non a chair.\n\n\"I shall stand this no longer. I give you notice of my determination,\nMarie. You have her here, I believe, solely to torment me. Figure to\nyourself having to stand by helpless, and see the creature put an end to\nboth one's dinner and one's pipe! She is not to come here any more,\nthose are my orders. Do you hear?\"\n\n\"Yes, I hear,\" said Marie quietly, \"but I beg of you to change your\nmind. We are badly off, I allow, yet somehow or other we can always rub\nalong, and this poor child is in worse plight than we are.\"\n\n\"Worse? Nonsense. No one can be worse off than I am. Denounced,\nexecuted, for I assure you I felt that bullet go through my brain, saved\njust by the hair of my head--\"\n\n\"Such a mercy!\" breathed the wife.\n\n\"A mercy, yes--but you who can go and come and amuse yourself, never\nthink what this life must be to me, cooped up like a rat in his hole.\nThere are times when I believe I should do better to give myself up.\"\n\n\"For the sake of Heaven, Jean--!\"\n\n\"At any rate,\" said Jean, descending from his heights, \"I will not have\nthat _imbecile_ here. You understand?\"\n\nMarie looked at him indulgently. \"Yes, my friend, I understand.\"\n\n\"I'll lay a wager you never got that journal from old Plon-Plon?\"\n\n\"He had not finished with it.\"\n\n\"Of course not. Then I shall go to sleep, for there is nothing else for\nme to do.\"\n\nHe flung a handkerchief over his eyes as he spoke, put his feet on\nPerine's stool, and his elbow on the table. Marie moved quietly about,\nset the saucepan again on the stove, and taking some needlework from a\nbox, sat down near her husband, stitching rapidly. Every now and then\nshe glanced at him, and her mind was tenderly busy over his concerns all\nthe while, so that tears would have stood in her eyes if they had not\nhad other work to do.\n\n\"How sad the poor fellow looks!\" she thought. \"I'm glad he's asleep,\nafter that unfortunate affair with the pipe. When I remember how hard it\nis to get tobacco for him, for I am dreadfully afraid that some one will\nsuspect me when I ask for it, I must own that Perine is an unlucky\nchild. But as for her not coming again, he doesn't mean that, no,\nno--he's so kind hearted that he would be the last to keep her away;\nbesides, I know very well that while he grumbles he feels an interest in\nhearing her do those wonderful sums. Anything is better for him than\nseeing no one but stupid me from year's end to year's end--my poor Jean!\nThree years! I declare it quite hurts me to go out and about, though to\nbe sure I must. But it seems so selfish.\"\n\nThere is no knowing to what depths of accusing wickedness Madame\nDidier's meditations would have led her, but that presently she heard a\nheavy creaking step upon the stairs; and flew to awake her husband and\nto hustle him into his refuge. M. Plon's visits were rare, and she\ndiscouraged them with all her might, yet when he arrived panting and\npuffing at the door, she was standing by the stove working, with a\nlittle coquettish air of greeting about her.\n\n\"You don't mean to say that you have brought the journal yourself, M.\nPlon! Now that is kind of you, but it is disarranging yourself too much\nto climb up those steep stairs, when I could have fetched it with\npleasure.\"\n\n\"Ugh, ugh, they are steep, there's no denying it,\" said Plon, sinking\ninto the rickety chair. \"But what would you have? Up here on the sixth,\nyou can't expect all the luxuries of the first or second.\"\n\n\"Heavens, no!\"\n\n\"You should cultivate a contented frame of mind. Madame Didier, and\nbeware of grumbling.\"\n\n\"Was I grumbling?\"\n\n\"You were complaining--complaining of the stairs, and it is a pernicious\nhabit. Don't encourage it.\"\n\n\"But, indeed--\" Marie was beginning with a smile, when he interrupted\nher with a majestic wave of his hand.\n\n\"_Halte la_! Now you are contradicting, and that is another bad habit,\nparticularly for a woman. But nobody knows when they are well off in\nthese days. I often say to my friends: 'There is Madame Didier, she\nlives in that nice airy attic of ours; she has no one to think of but\nherself, no cares, no responsibilities; she ought to be as happy as a\nbird.' Look at me, I entreat you; what a contrast! At everybody's beck\nand call, cooped up in a draughty little den, making shoes with a\nthousand interruptions. I ask you what sort of a life is that for a man\nof my stamp? If you were to try it for a week, you'd find out whether\nyou were not a lucky woman! But, there, as I said before, nobody ever\nknows when they are well off--not even widows. I say all this because I\ntake a real interest in you.\"\n\n\"I know you do, M. Plon, if only for the sake of my poor husband,\" said\nMarie demurely. To say the truth she was often in a state of\nuncomfortable doubt as to whether M. Plon's interest might not be going\nto take a warmer form, in which case it might be more difficult than\never for Jean to forget that he was no longer in the land of the living.\n\n\"But I must say I don't think you are the best of managers,\" said M.\nPlon with a magisterial sweep of his hand which took in all the poor\nsurroundings. \"With your earnings you might do better than you do,\nMadame Didier. One mouth to feed, one person to dress--\"\n\n\"There is Perine,\" faltered poor Marie.\n\n\"Yes, there is Perine, and it is true those imbeciles have appetites\nlike wolves. Still--well, well, you must not suppose that I am blaming\nyou; on the contrary, it might surprise you to hear--\"\n\nM. Plon was edging his chair a little nearer to Madame Didier, and she\nthought it was time to interrupt his explanation, so she said briskly:\n\n\"Ah, by the way, what news is there to-day in _Le Petit Journal?_\"\n\n\"There is the great robbery.\"\n\n\"The great robbery! Where?\"\n\n\"In the Rue Vivienne. The paper is full of it--jewellery, diamonds,\nplate, treasures of all kinds carried off, chest and all, that's the\nwonderful part of it, for a chest is not a thing to hide in your\npocket.\"\n\n\"And have they no clue?\" asked Marie, much interested.\n\n\"Not yet, but there must have been a cart or a cab, or some vehicle in\nthe affair. It is clear enough that this belongs to the _haute pegre_,\nnone of your common burglars would have attempted such a daring stroke;\nand I would lay a wager, too, that they're not so far off from here, if\nthey're in Paris, that is. I shall keep a sharp look-out, for the reward\nis fabulous.\"\n\n\"Really!\" said Madame Didier with a sigh.\n\n\"One would suppose you wanted it yourself,\" said Plon angrily. \"Now what\npossible good could it do to you? It is extraordinary that people--women\nespecially--can't be contented, but must always be wishing for what they\nhaven't got.\"\n\n\"I was only thinking,\" Marie answered apologetically.\n\n\"Then don't think. Women should leave that to others,\" Having delivered\nwhich sententious maxim, M. Plon rose with some difficulty from his\nchair, and gazed round the room. It was a habit of his, but it always\nfrightened Marie, and it frightened her yet more when he turned towards\nthe recess and stood contemplating the curtains. \"You keep those so\ntightly drawn one would--Eh! what's the matter!\"\n\nFor Madame Didier, stooping over the stove, had uttered a sharp feminine\nshriek.\n\n\"I have burnt my finger?\" she exclaimed, wringing her hand.\n\n\"That comes of thinking. Does it hurt?\"\n\n\"Hurt! Of course it does.\"\n\n\"Let me see,\" he said coming over.\n\nBut Marie hastily bound a bit of rag round her hand.\n\n\"The great thing is to exclude the air,\" she said quickly. \"Then you\nmean to be on the lookout for these grand robbers, M. Plon?\"\n\n\"Yes, instead of idling away my time up here,\" he said, rolling towards\nthe door. \"But you women dearly love a little gossip, don't you? And\nthough you are not the best of managers, Madame Didier, no one can say\nyou don't work with industry. So keep a good heart. You shall hear if I\nget the reward.\"\n\nAs the sound of his heavy footsteps creaked down the stairs, Jean came\nout and flung himself on the chair which M. Plon had occupied.\n\n\"Now that that old idiot has taken himself off, let's see what he was\ntalking about.\"\n\n\"Is it true about the robbery?\" asked Marie, leaning over his shoulder.\n\n\"So it seems.\"\n\n\"And the reward?\"\n\n\"Twelve thousand francs.\"\n\n\"Twelve thousand francs!\" repeated his wife in amazement. \"Oh, you must\nbe mistaken!\"\n\n\"There are the figures at any rate, see for yourself.\"\n\n\"Yes, I see. I suppose it must be so, as it is in the paper;\nbut--but--if we could only have a little part of it!\"\n\n\"Ah, if!\" said Jean with a shrug. \"But how will you manage? Stand about\nthe corners of the Streets and ask every _escarpe_ that passes?\"\n\n\"I could almost do that,\" his wife answered stoutly, \"when I reflect\nthat with money we might have an advocate, and you might be free. My\nstore grows so slowly, Jean!\"\n\nJean dashed the paper to the ground, and thrust his hands through his\nhair.\n\n\"Don't talk of it, if you wouldn't madden me!\" he exclaimed.\n\"Might--might--I am sick of mights! Cooped up here I can do nothing, but\nif I had only common luck I might get the end of a clue as well as any\nother poor devil. I tell you, Marie, I have half a mind to give myself\nup, and end everything.\"\n\nShe clung to him, pale as death.\n\n\"No, no!\"\n\n\"You'd get on better without me.\"\n\n\"No, no!\"\n\nJean's tragic air vanished in a rush of real emotion. He put his wife\nfrom him and looked at her sorrowfully.\n\n\"Poor soul!\" he said slowly. \"And you really mean that I haven't tired\nyou out yet with all my moods and cross words? No? Then, decidedly, we\nmust rub on a little longer still.\"\n\nShe embraced him with all the gratitude a woman feels when her good\noffices are accepted.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" she said cheerfully, \"to-morrow will bring you some\ntobacco.\"\n\n\"To-morrow will also, I imagine, bring Perine,\" he replied, with a\nlaugh, and when he laughed it was possible to see what a handsome young\nfellow the haggard man had been. \"Well, I am not sure that Perine isn't\npreferable to old Plon-Plon. When I hear him prosing away to you on the\nduty of being contented, it's all I can do not to knock him down. You a\nbad manager, indeed!\"\n\n\"Do not talk of anything so imprudent.\"\n\n\"He would roll like a ball,\" said Jean longingly.\n\n\"Jean!\"\n\n\"Bah, you need not fear. To do things sometimes in imagination is the\nonly way of keeping my muscles in exercise. Oh, if I could only get a\nlittle fresh air, or drop in at the _brasserie_ and hear what is doing!\"\n\n\"See, here,\" said Marie, true to her mission of comforter, \"to-night we\nshall have a luxury, for this work must be finished and carried home\nto-morrow morning, and so I shall allow myself a candle. Sometimes I am\nafraid that I want more light than in old days, but I daresay that is a\nfoolish fancy. The cabbage will be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile,\ntell me what more news you have got there in the paper. M. Plon has a\ngreat respect for my scholarship, but he is afraid I waste my time over\nhis journals--aha, M. Plon, you little know that I have got my reader!\"\n\n\"Plon is an ass,\" said Jean gruffly, for he did not like any one to find\na flaw in the wife whom he often scolded himself.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Marie happily. \"But now, find me something horribly\ndelightful to-night, something to make me shudder.\"\n\n\"Capture of a wolf in Auvergne.\"\n\n\"Of a wolf! Is it possible!\" demanded Madame Didier, much interested.\n\"And how many people did he eat?\"\n\n\"Only one.\"\n\n\"Only one! What a stupid wolf! Go on, my friend.\"\n\n\"Suicide of a husband.\"\n\n\"Not that, I do not like anything so sad,\" she said in a changed voice.\n\"And where was his wife all the time, that she could not prevent it, I\nshould like to know? No, let me hear a little more about this robbery,\nand then we will have our dinner.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\n\nThe hours passed, the light faded in the little garret where Marie's\nbusy fingers toiled day after day to add to the little hoard so slowly\naccumulating, and Marie's cheerful heart brought out greater treasures\nof unselfish devotion, if her husband had only known it. Perhaps he did\nknow it--in a fashion. Through the night, when it came, she thought\noften uneasily of Perine out in the heart of the great wicked city. But\nPerine had a haunt or two of her own, and Marie said prayers for her,\nand slept, hoping the girl would be safe.\n\nShe got up early the next morning while Jean was yet asleep, and cheered\nherself as she looked at her scanty supply of poor coffee with the\nthought that she would be paid for her work in the course of the day.\nMeanwhile the breakfast would not be a very rich affair, and she was\npondering whether she could be so extravagant as to run to a _cremerie_\nnear at hand for two _sous_-worth of milk, when an unexpected sound\nfilled her with dismay. It was Perine's shuffling steps upon the stairs,\nand she was by no means sure how Jean would receive such an early\nvisitor. Moreover, she did not care that he should be disturbed, and she\nwent hastily to the door to moderate the noise of the girl's awkward\nentry. For a wonder no word or look of hers could do this. Perine, who\ngenerally was obedient to her smallest sign, was in a state of\nuncontrollable excitement; she fled to Marie's arms, buried her rough\nhead there, sobbed her loudest, and presently, in the thick of\nincoherent lamentations, pulled down her dress, and showed a heavy\nbruise on her shoulder. Then she sobbed again, and implored Madame\nDidier not to let them beat her.\n\n\"Come, come, come!\" said Marie reassuringly, \"tell me a little more\nabout this, and don't be a baby, Perine. Remember that you are a big\ngirl. No one will come here to beat you; if they did, good M. Plon would\nnot let them come up the stairs. Tell me who did it?\"\n\nShe sat down on the stool as she spoke, and let the poor clumsy creature\nrest on her knee.\n\n\"The man, the bad man!\" howled Perine.\n\n\"That I hear; but what were you doing to make any one so cruel?\"\n\n\"Perine only looking at pretty bright figures, mother; so pretty with\nthe light on them. 7639.\"\n\n\"What is she talking about?\" said Madame Didier, puzzled, \"7639?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said the girl eagerly, and then she broke off again into her\nlamentations, which lasted until Marie had bathed her hurt, and soothed\nher by degrees. But when she proposed to take her to the _cremerie_,\nPerine began to wail again, and it was evident that something had so\nterrified her, that it would be cruelty to force her out into the\nstreets. Every now and then she let drop another word or two on the\nsubject of her fright; her poor disconnected brain seemed unable to\ngrasp anything as a whole; something would float across it and be lost.\nMarie had grown apt at gathering together these cobweb strands, and\ndisentangling them, but now even her ingenuity was at fault, and the\nnumber was the only point which stood out clearly from wavering words\nabout a man and a box. She gathered at last that somewhere or other this\nnumber with the light shining on it had attracted Perine's attention,\nthat she went to look, and that a man pushed her away with a blow, and\nwith threats which had been strong enough to send her terrified from the\nspot. Evidently she scarcely felt secure in her present quarters, and\npiteously implored Marie not to suffer him to come. Marie soothed her,\nand hoped that Jean's compassion might be as strong as her own. Had she\nnot been taken up with Perine, she would have more quickly caught the\nimpatient scratching like a mouse in the wainscot, with which he\nsummoned her.\n\nHe made signs that he must speak, and with some difficulty she got\nPerine into the landing, thrusting into her hands the bread which would\nhave been her own portion. Then she locked her door and went back to\nJean, who was eagerly waiting.\n\n\"Marie, I have a thought,\" he began. \"What do you make out of all she\nsays?\"\n\n\"Next to nothing,\" said his wife, shrugging her shoulders.\n\n\"No?\" said Jean, feverishly and a little contemptuously. \"Suppose I\nsuggested that she saw the figures on the lamp of a cab, what then?\"\n\n\"What then?\" repeated she, puzzled.\n\n\"And a box, and a man angry with her for looking. What then?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't understand!\" said Marie, shaking her head.\n\n\"Heavens, that any one should be so dense! Have you forgotten the\nrobbery?\"\n\n\"In the Rue Vivienne--oh, do you mean--do you think it possible! Jean,\nhow clever you are! I wonder whether--shall I run to the place and see?\"\n\n\"To the place, and even if they were still there, get yourself knocked\non the head!\"\n\n\"I should not mind,\" cried Marie eagerly. \"I should mind nothing with\nsuch a hope before me.\"\n\n\"No, my good Marie,\" Jean returned grandly; \"you have excellent\nintentions, but it is well you have some one to guide you. The first\nthing is to find a _commissaire_ of police.\"\n\nThe name seemed terrible; she turned pale, but he hurried on, losing\nhimself again in his excitement, and with all his haggard features\nworking:\n\n\"Yes, yes, I know what you will say, but do you not understand that if\nthis is what I believe, anything will be forgiven to the man who can put\nthe _sergent de ville_ on the track?\"\n\n\"_If!_ At any rate I will do what you bid me,\" the young wife said,\ntrembling. \"There is a _bureau_ not so far away. Only promise me you\nwill be prudent, for I must leave Perine here, though I will lock the\ndoor. Remember, M. Plon has his own keys.\"\n\nNor would she relax one of her precautions in spite of his heated\nimpatience. But she had spoken truly, for after the daily fear of years,\nthe personal danger of encountering the robbers assuredly seemed nothing\nin comparison with having to do with the police. She told Perine where\nshe was to sit, and tried to extract more coherent details, but only as\nto the figures was Perine clear. These she repeated again and again,\nwhile more than once Jean's sharp whisper reached his wife's ears. \"Make\nhaste, make haste!\" and she signed caution in return.\n\nWhen she had gone there was for some time absolute silence in the\ngarret, Jean having flung himself on his bed, and given himself up to a\nwild delirium of hope. By-and-by this took the form of restlessness. He\ntossed and tumbled on his bed, and, his ear full of sounds which\nexpectation and imagination brought there, sometimes started up, keen to\nlisten, and the next moment pressed his fingers into his ears, to try to\nshut out these delusive sounds. Then he became almost as reckless as to\nPerine; what did her seeing him matter when so soon he would be a free\nman? Once or twice the bed creaked and groaned under his tossings, so\nthat he imagined she would surely look round. But no, the girl was blind\nand deaf to everything but Marie's orders, she sat squarely on the\nwooden stool with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands,\nevery now and then uttering a disjointed sob, until fatigue and tears\nbrought about their natural consequence, and it became evident that she\nwas asleep.\n\nJean got up and shook himself and looked out at her, his head in a\nwhirl. He began to think that Marie was long absent, and to lay the\nblame on the back which was always ready to bear his burdens.\n\n\"She will not know where to go, she will stand gossipping with any fool\nwho asks her a question, and in this time I would wager a piece of\ntwenty _sous_ the police or some other busy-body will have got on the\ntrack. What more likely? And there's an end to our luck. Why did I let\nher waste all these moments? Why didn't I go myself? Women always muddle\nthings. There would have been a scene, beyond doubt. '_Hola!_--thunder\nand lightning, who may this be?'\" Jean planted himself in an attitude,\nand struck his chest violently. \"Then I should have drawn myself up,\nalways with dignity--thus--'This, gentlemen, is none other than Jean\nDidier!'--'Who? What!'--'Jean Didier, at your service, gentlemen,\nfalsely denounced as Communist, executed and reported dead, but, as you\nsee alive, and able to render an important service to an ungrateful\ncountry.'--That sounds sublime! I flatter myself it would have produced\nan impression. Why didn't I go? Women, with all their good intentions,\nhaven't an idea of the value of a stroke like that! It requires genius.\nAnd I foresee my excellent Marie will muddle the whole affair, very\nlikely allow them to pick her brains and cajole the number out of her,\nthen one of these _messieurs_ will slip off and secure the reward.\"\nExcitement got a strong hold upon Jean as this idea presented itself,\nand his castles toppled over. \"That's it, that's how it will go! And I\ndeserve it for having left such a delicate affair in the hands of a\nwoman. I could have managed it to a turn, and here I have let her go\noff, and the whole thing will slip through her fingers. I could beat\nmyself with vexation.\"\n\nIn effect, he stamped his foot with such violence that Perine jumped up\nand, looking round, saw him vanishing behind the curtains. She shrieked\nwith terror, \"The man! Oh, it's the man!\"\n\nWhite as death, Jean rushed out and tried to calm her.\n\n\"Hush, child, hush! it's only me!\"\n\nBut Perine was past all control, she screamed for \"Mother!\" for \"M.\nPlon!\" until it seemed to Jean that not only the house but the whole\nneighbourhood would presently be on him. He tried coaxing, he tried\nmenace, but Perine shrieked the more.\n\n\"Will you hold your tongue!\" he cried, with a wild thought of strangling\nher. \"I'm a friend, I'm not the man; I won't touch you. Perine, Perine,\ndon't cry out so, look at me!\"\n\nAt this appeal she hid her eyes with her hands.\n\n\"The man! the man! Mother! Help!\" Nevertheless, though it seemed to poor\nJean that the very streets must tingle with her cries, it is possible,\nfor the upper-stories of the house had early risers for their dwellers,\nthat the deaf old woman left on the fifth floor might have heard\nnothing; but unfortunately M. Plon had taken it into his head to make a\nvisitation to those uninhabited rooms of his in which some one had\nhoused his furniture, and at this moment was on his way. He knew that\nMadame Didier was out, and Perine's screams seemed to point to fire or\nsomething equally disastrous. The door was locked, but he had all his\nkeys about him, and soon succeeded in opening it, when Perine in a\ntransport of terror rushed at him, and flung herself into his arms with\na force which might have knocked over a less ponderous rescuer, and\neffectually blocked the door at which Jean glanced longingly.\n\n\"_Hola!_\" cried the astonished landlord. \"_Que diable!_ A man in\nMadame Didier's room! What's the meaning of all this? Police!\"\n\nJean advanced with a threatening gesture, and the valiant Plon quickly\nretreated. For one wild moment his lodger contemplated the chances which\nlay in knocking him down, and taking refuge in flight, but he reflected\nthat if the house were alarmed he would not get off, and if not, it\nmight be possible to enlist M. Plon on his side. He therefore went\nquietly back into the room, saying, \"Do not fear, M. Plon.... I give\nyou my word, I am not going to fight.\"\n\n\"You had better not,\" said the other blusteringly. \"You had better not!\"\n\n\"Oh, as to that ...\" said Jean with anger.\n\nM. Plon retreated a second time before this demonstration, and again\nlifted his voice for the police.\n\n\"They'll be here fast enough, no doubt,\" said Jean quietly, though there\nwas a bitter feeling of downfall in his heart. \"Meanwhile, perhaps it\nmight be as well for me to tell you who I am.\"\n\n\"Who you are?\" repeated M. Plon indignantly. \"It's easy enough to see\nthat, my fine fellow, though what you could expect to steal here is not\nso clear. You've got the air of a gallows bird, and it's well this poor\nchild has me--the brave Plon--to protect her.\"\n\n\"Come, come, M. Plon--listen to reason. I'm the husband of Madame\nDidier.\"\n\n\"The husband of Madame Didier? What, when she hasn't got one!\" cried the\nother, now fairly enraged.\n\n\"Nevertheless, you might remember Jean Didier--if only you would,\" said\nJean imploringly, for he began to think there was yet a chance for him\nif he could conciliate his landlord, and he made a few steps towards him\nholding out his hands. But Perine screamed and Plon waved him\nenergetically back. Finding his prisoner cowed he launched some strong\ninvectives at him.\n\n\"You're a thief and a cut-throat, that's what you are!\" he said,\nshivering. \"Keep off, keep off! You could no more stand in Jean Didier's\nshoes than you could in mine, for he was a decent, peaceable young\nfellow, and more than that, he was shot. So you've got hold of the wrong\nstory here, Monsieur Blacklegs, and one that won't serve you much in the\n_violon_.\"\n\n\"It's true, I give you my word,\" said Jean.\n\n\"They did their best to shoot me, but I was only wounded. Marie got me\nup here, and here I have been ever since.\"\n\n\"Was there ever such a cool hand!\" cried Plon wrathfully. \"And you\nabsolutely think to persuade me of this when not a soul comes in and out\nof this house without my knowing. A pretty tale!\"\n\nJean muttered \"Blockhead!\" under his breath. Aloud he said, \"But--M.\nPlon--am I not here now?\"\n\n\"No, you are not!\" Plon retorted,--\"or if you are, you shall soon be out\nof it again. Police! Help, help!\"\n\n\"If only Marie were here!\" groaned Jean. \"M. Plon, I implore you to have\npity! wait until my wife arrives; you will believe her if you can't\nbelieve your own eyes. Lock me into the room, do whatever you like--only\nwait!\"\n\nIf M. Plon had indeed had sufficient calmness to contemplate the figure\nbefore him, it is probable that in spite of alteration he would have\nfound something to recognise. But he was in a state of perturbed\nexcitement which altogether confused his judgment, and only inclined him\nto refuse all his prisoner's suggestions. He therefore set himself more\nvigorously than ever to bawl for help, and Perine seconded him with all\nher might. The next moment Jean went back to the table, seated himself\nupon it and crossed his arms. He had recognised Marie's step.\n\nShe came into the room pale as death, and even as she came, hesitated,\nand held up her hand, as if she would have prevented a man who was with\nher from following. But seeing that she was too late, and that Jean was\nalready discovered, she rushed into his arms, crying out:\n\n\"What has happened?\"\n\nM. Plon took up the parable, quite regardless of her action.\n\n\"What has happened, Madame Didier? There is no saying what might not\nhave happened if I had not been on the spot. Here is a rascally,\nblack-guardly, good-for-nothing!\" and as he uttered these bold\ninvectives, he advanced and shook his fist in Jean's face. \"You see him,\n_M. le Commissaire_, you behold what a villain, what a desperate villain\nhe looks? Listen, then, I hear screams, I meet this poor imbecile flying\nout in terror, I rush--I seize--I overpower--I make him my prisoner--\"\n\nAt this point the police officer interposed a question:\n\n\"You used force, M. Plon?\"\n\n\"I used--but certainly--moral force. He had made his way into this room\nthrough the window, Monsieur--Monsieur--?\"\n\n\"Leblanc, at your service,\" said the commissioner carelessly. \"Did you\nsay through the window? That seems scarcely probable.\"\n\nBut Plon was positive there was no other way by which he could have\nentered unseen by him. And now he would give _M. le Commissaire_ a dozen\nguesses to find out what this rascal had the villainy to pretend. To\nlook at him, would any one suppose now that he could be the husband of\nmadame?\n\n\"Apparently,\" said the other, glancing at them, \"Madame herself is not\naverse from that opinion.\"\n\n\"Her husband--hee, hee!\" said M. Plon, getting red. \"Poor Jean, who was\nshot in _emeute_ three years ago! See there, monsieur, it is ridiculous!\nIf any one should know anything about those times, it is I. I was myself\non the very point of becoming a martyr for my country; and as for Jean\nDidier, whether rightly or wrongly, he was shot, and there was an end of\nhim. To pretend that he turns up three years later....\"\n\nMarie was crying, and M. Plon thought his eloquence had provoked her\ntears, but she put aside his hand, walked to the commissioner, and\ndropped on her knees before him.\n\n\"Monsieur, if you have a wife--\"\n\n\"I have not,\" said the man roughly.\n\n\"But your mother! If her son--\"\n\n\"I have my duty, that is enough,\" he said in the same tone, \"Get up,\nMadame Didier, and let me know the truth of all this matter. This\nexplains your unwillingness that I should return with you. Who's the\nman?\"\n\n\"My husband, monsieur,\" sobbed Marie, springing up and putting her hand\nin Jean's.\n\n\"How came he here?\"\n\n\"Monsieur, he escaped and crawled here.\"\n\n\"And how has he been supported?\"\n\n\"By me,\" said the wife simply.\n\nPlon had recoiled during this explanation, and gazed helplessly from one\nto the other.\n\n\"Go on,\" said Leblanc, taking out a note-book.\n\n\"He has not been out of this room for three years--three years! That is\na long time for a man to be shut up,\" pleaded Marie, with her heart in\nher eyes. \"And, _M. le Commissaire_, you must understand it was all a\nmistake. He tried to stop them, but they dragged him along, the\nCommunists, and then one of them turns round and denounces him. There\nare very wicked people in the world, _M. le Commissaire_.\"\n\n\"His name?\"\n\nJean answered for her:\n\n\"The name of that man was Fort.\"\n\nLeblanc turned the pages of his note-book more quickly.\"\nDumont--Court--ah, here it is, 'Jean Didier, glazier, with insurgents;\npointed out as Communist by one Fort; executed on spot.' Is that\ncorrect?\"\n\n\"He was innocent,\" said Marie, nervously twisting her fingers.\n\n\"But am I to understand that you deny his identity?\" said the officer,\nturning sharply on Plon. \"Speak up, man!\"\n\nM. Plon looked round, bewildered. \"How could he have got into the\nhouse?\"\n\n\"Never mind that. What we want is 'yes' or 'no' Is it Jean Didier? Come\nclose and see for yourself.\"\n\n\"It is like him,\" said the landlord, examining him from head to foot,\n\"certainly it is like him; I could almost believe it was he, only--how\ncould he have got into the house?\"\n\n\"As to that--where there's a woman--\" said Leblanc, turning away. They\nwere all watching him, except Perine, who was sobbing stormily on the\nwooden stool, and he said shortly, \"There is something more in my\nnote-book.\"\n\n\"More!\" repeated Jean with alarm.\n\n\"Would you rather not have it?\"\n\nMarie, who had not taken her eyes from him, advanced with her hands\npressed upon her heart.\n\n\"Courage, my friend,\" she said breathlessly. \"Yes, _M. le\nCommissaire_, we will hear.\"\n\nIt had struck her that he was smiling.\n\nHe began to read in his sing-song voice, \"Fort, convicted of forgery,\ndied last month in the Grande Roquette. Before his death he confessed\nhis denunciation of Jean Didier to have been false.\"\n\nJean Didier's wife turned round, opened her arms and fell upon her\nhusband's neck, speechless.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo this was the end of that affair. As for No. 7639, which had brought\nLeblanc in pursuit of Perine, it did not turn out so romantically as\nmight have been desired, having nothing to do with the great robbery of\nthe Rue Vivienne, which remains a mystery--to most people--to this day.\nBut oddly enough, it set the police on the track of a smaller crime; a\ncertain reward was handed over to the Didiers for the use of the poor\ngirl, and no one will deny that it was her unconscious instrumentality\nwhich brought their change of fortune. Jean is almost always kind to\nher, but Marie treats her with a sort of reverence.\n\nYou may see them sometimes, of a summer evening, walking along the\nquays. The great river sweeps slowly down, the busy lights which flit\nabout the houses or point the span of the bridges with golden dots,\nfling long reflections on its surface. Overhead, more peaceful lights\nare shining. All about us is the rush of tumult and change, men drifting\nhere and there, struggling, weeping, jesting, passing away; but over all\nGod watches, and His world goes on.\n\nFRANCES MARY PEARD\n\n\n\n\n\nGONERIL\n\n\nA STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1.\n\nTHE TWO OLD LADIES.\n\n\nOn one of the pleasant hills round Florence, a little beyond Camerata,\nthere stands a house, so small that an Englishman would probably take it\nfor a lodge of the great villa behind, whose garden trees at sunset cast\ntheir shadow over the cottage and its terrace on to the steep white\nroad. But any of the country people could tell him that this, too, is\nCasa Signorile, spite of its smallness. It stands somewhat high above\nthe road, a square, white house with a projecting roof, and with four\ngreen-shuttered windows overlooking the gay but narrow terrace. The beds\nunder the windows would have fulfilled the fancy of that French poet who\ndesired that in his garden one might, in gathering a nosegay, cull a\nsalad, for they boasted little else than sweet basil, small and white,\nand some tall grey rosemary bushes. Nearer to the door an unusually\nlarge oleander faced a strong and sturdy magnolia-tree, and these, with\ntheir profusion of red and white sweetness, made amends for the dearth\nof garden flowers. At either end of the terrace flourished a thicket of\ngum-cistus, syringa, stephanotis, and geranium bushes, and the wall\nitself, dropping sheer down to the road, was bordered with the customary\nFlorentine hedge of China roses and irises, now out of bloom. Great\nterra-cotta flower-pots, covered with devices, were placed at intervals\nalong the wall; as it was summer, the oranges and lemons, full of\nwonderfully sweet white blossoms and young green fruit, were set there\nin the sun to ripen.\n\nIt was the 17th of June. Although it was after four o'clock, the olives\non the steep hill that went down to Florence looked blindingly white,\nshadeless, and sharp. The air trembled round the bright green cypresses\nbehind the house. The roof steamed. All the windows were shut, all the\njalousies shut, yet it was so hot that no one could stir within. The\nmaid slept in the kitchen; the two elderly mistresses of the house dozed\nupon their beds. Not a movement; not a sound.\n\nGradually, along the steep road from Camerata there came a roll of\ndistant carriage-wheels. The sound came nearer and nearer, till one\ncould see the carriage, and see the driver leading the tired, thin,\ncab-horse, his bones starting under the shaggy hide. Inside the carriage\nreclined a handsome middle-aged lady, with a stern profile turned\ntowards the road; a young girl in pale pink cotton and a broad hat\ntrudged up the hill at the side.\n\n\"Goneril,\" said Miss Hamelyn, \"let me beg you again to come inside the\ncarriage.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Aunt Margaret; I'm not a bit tired.\"\n\n\"But I have asked you; that is reason enough.\"\n\n\"It's so hot!\" cried Goneril.\n\n\"That is why I object to your walking.\"\n\n\"But if it's so hot for me, just think how hot it must be for the\nhorse.\"\n\nGoneril cast a commiserating glance at the poor halting, wheezing nag.\n\n\"The horse, probably,\" rejoined Miss Hamelyn, \"does not suffer from\nmalaria, neither has he kept his aunt in Florence nursing him till the\nmiddle heat of the summer.\"\n\n\"True!\" said Goneril. Then, after a few minutes, \"I'll get in, Aunt\nMargaret, on one condition.\"\n\n\"In my time young people did not make conditions.\"\n\n\"Very well, auntie; I'll get in, and you shall answer all my questions\nwhen you feel inclined.\"\n\nThe carriage stopped. The poor horse panted at his ease, while the girl\nseated herself beside Miss Hamelyn. Then for a few minutes they drove on\nin silence past the orchards, past the olive-yards, yellow underneath\nwith ripening corn; past the sudden wide views of the mountains, faintly\ncrimson in the midst of heat, and, on the other side, of Florence, the\ntowers and domes steaming beside the hazy river.\n\n\"How hot it looks down there!\" cried Goneril.\n\n\"How hot it _feels_!\" echoed Miss Hamelyn rather grimly.\n\n\"Yes, I am so glad you can get away at last, dear, poor old auntie.\"\nThen, a little later. \"Won't you tell me something about the old ladies\nwith whom you are going to leave me?\"\n\nMiss Hamelyn was mollified by Goneril's obedience.\n\n\"They are very nice old ladies, I met them at Mrs. Gorthrup's.\" But this\nwas not at all what the young girl wanted.\n\n\"Only think, Aunt Margaret,\" she cried impatiently, \"I am to stay there\nfor at least six weeks, and I know nothing about them, not what age they\nare, nor if they are tall or short, jolly or prim, pretty or ugly; not\neven if they speak English!\"\n\n\"They speak English,\" said Miss Hamelyn, beginning at the end. \"One of\nthem is English, or at least Irish: Miss Prunty.\"\n\n\"And the other?\"\n\n\"She is an Italian, Signora Petrucci; she used to be very handsome.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Goneril, looking pleased. \"I'm glad she's handsome, and that\nthey speak English. But they are not relations?\"\n\n\"No, they are not connected; they are friends.\"\n\n\"And have they always lived together?\"\n\n\"Ever since Madame Lilli died,\" and Miss Hamelyn named a very celebrated\nsinger.\n\n\"Why?\" cried Goneril, quite excited; \"were they singers too?\"\n\n\"Madame Petrucci; nevertheless a lady of the highest respectability.\nMiss Prunty was Madame Lilli's secretary.\"\n\n\"How nice!\" cried the young girl, \"how interesting! Oh, auntie, I'm so\nglad you found them out.\"\n\n\"So am I, child; but please remember it is not an ordinary pension. They\nonly take you, Goneril, till you are strong enough to travel, as an\nespecial favour to me and to their old friend, Mrs. Gorthrup.\"\n\n\"I'll remember, auntie.\"\n\nBy this time they were driving under the terrace in front of the little\nhouse.\n\n\"Goneril,\" said the elder lady, \"I shall leave you outside; you can play\nin the garden or the orchard.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nMiss Hamelyn left the carriage and ascended the steep little flight of\nsteps that leads from the road to the cottage garden.\n\nIn the porch a singular figure was awaiting her.\n\n\"Good afternoon, Madame Petrucci,\" said Miss Hamelyn.\n\nA slender old lady, over sixty, rather tall, in a brown silk skirt, and\na white burnouse that showed the shrunken slimness of her arms, came\neagerly forward. She was still rather pretty, with small refined\nfeatures, large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow\nringlets down her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago.\n\n\"Oh, _dear_ Miss Hamelyn,\" she cried, \"how _glad_ I am to see you.\nAnd have you brought your _charming_ young relation?\"\n\nShe spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and\nbountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an\nimpression of insincerity. Yet it was said with truth that Giulia\nPetrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy.\n\n\"Goneril is outside\" said Miss Hamelyn. \"How is Miss Prunty?\"\n\n\"Brigida? Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida. She is\nas usual fatiguing herself with our accounts.\" The old lady led the way\ninto the darkened parlour. It was small and rather stiff. As one's eyes\nbecame accustomed to the dim green light one noticed the incongruity of\nthe furniture; the horsehair chairs and sofa, and large accountant's\ndesk with ledgers; the large Pleyel grand piano, a bookcase, in which\nall the books were rare copies or priceless MSS. of old-fashioned\noperas; hanging against the wall an inlaid guitar and some faded laurel\ncrowns; moreover, a fine engraving of a composer, twenty years ago the\nmost popular man in Italy; lastly, an oil-colour portrait, by Winterman,\nof a fascinating blonde, with very bare white shoulders, holding in her\nhands a scroll, on which were inscribed some notes of music, under the\ntitle Giulia Petrucci. In short, the private parlour of an elderly and\nrespectable Diva of the year '40.\n\n\"Brigida!\" cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. \"Brigida! our\ncharming English friend is arrived!\"\n\n\"All right!\" answered a strong hearty voice from upstairs. \"I'm coming.\"\n\n\"You must excuse me, dear Miss Hamelyn,\" went on Madame Petrucci. \"You\nmust excuse me for shouting in your presence, but we have only one\nlittle servant, and during this suffocating weather I find that any\nmovement reminds me of approaching age.\" The old lady smiled, as if that\ntime were still far ahead.\n\n\"I am sure you ought to take care of yourself,\" said Miss Hamelyn. \"I\nhope you will not allow Goneril to fatigue you.\"\n\n\"Gonerilla! What a pretty name! Charming! I suppose it is in your\nfamily?\" asked the old lady.\n\nMiss Hamelyn blushed a little, for her niece's name was a sore point\nwith her.\n\n\"It's an awful name for any Christian woman,\" said a deep voice at the\ndoor. \"And pray who's called Goneril?\"\n\nMiss Prunty came forward; a short, thick-set woman of fifty, with fine\ndark eyes, and, even in a Florentine summer, with something stiff and\nmasculine in the fashion of her dress.\n\n\"And have you brought your niece?\" she said, turning to Miss Hamelyn.\n\n\"Yes, she is in the garden.\"\n\n\"Well; I hope she understands that she'll have to rough it here.\"\n\n\"Goneril is a very simple girl,\" said Miss Hamelyn.\n\n\"So it's she that's called Goneril?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the aunt, making an effort. \"Of course I am aware of the\nstrangeness of the name, but--but in fact my brother was devotedly\nattached to his wife, who died at Goneril's birth.\"\n\n\"Whew!\" whistled Miss Prunty. \"The parson must have been a fool who\nchristened her!\"\n\n\"He did, in fact, refuse; but my brother would have no baptism saving\nwith that name, which, unfortunately, it is impossible to shorten.\"\n\n\"I think it is a charming name!\" said Madame Petrucci, coming to the\nrescue. \"Goneril: it dies on one's lips like music! And if you do not\nlike it, Brigida, what's in a name? as your charming Byron said.\"\n\n\"I hope we shall make her happy,\" said Miss Prunty.\n\n\"Of course we shall!\" cried the elder lady.\n\n\"Goneril is easily made happy,\" asserted Miss Hamelyn.\n\n\"That's a good thing,\" snapped Miss Prunty; \"for there's not much here\nto make her so!\"\n\n\"Oh, Brigida! I am sure there are many attractions. The air! the view!\nthe historic association! and, more than all, you know there is always a\nchance of the Signorino!\"\n\n\"Of whom?\" said Miss Hamelyn, rather anxiously.\n\n\"Of him!\" cried Madame Petrucci, pointing to the engraving opposite.\n\"He lives, of course, in the capital; but he rents the villa behind our\nhouse--the Medici Villa; and when he is tired of Rome he runs down here\nfor a week or so; and so your Gonerilla may have the benefit of _his_\nsociety!\"\n\n\"Very nice, I'm sure!\" said Miss Hamelyn, greatly relieved; for she knew\nthat Signor Graziano must be fifty.\n\n\"We have known him,\" went on the old lady, \"very nearly thirty years. He\nused to largely frequent the _salon_ of our dear, our cherished Madame\nLilli.\"\n\nThe tears came into the old lady's eyes. No doubt those days seemed near\nand dear to her; she did not see the dust on those faded triumphs.\n\n\"That's all stale news!\" cried Miss Prunty, jumping up. \"And Gon'ril\n(since I'll have to call her so) must be tired of waiting in the\ngarden.\"\n\nThey walked out on the terrace. The girl was not there; but by the gate\ninto the olive-yard, where there was a lean-to shed for tools, they\nfound her sitting on a cask, whittling a piece of wood and talking to a\ncurly-headed little contadino.\n\nHearing steps, Goneril turned round. \"He was asleep,\" she said. \"Fancy,\nin such beautiful weather!\"\n\nThen, remembering that two of the ladies were strangers, she made an\nold-fashioned little curtsey.\n\n\"I hope you won't find me a trouble, ladies,\" she said.\n\n\"She is charming!\" said Madame Petrucci, throwing up her hands.\n\nGoneril blushed; her hat had slipped back and showed her short brown\ncurls of hair, strong, regular, features, and flexile scarlet mouth,\nlaughing upwards like a faun's. She had sweet dark eyes, a little too\nsmall and narrow.\n\n\"I mean to be very happy,\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Always mean that, my dear,\" said Miss Prunty.\n\n\"And now, since Gonerilla is no longer a stranger,\" added Madame\nPetrucci, \"we will leave her to the rustic society of Angiolino, while\nwe show Miss Hamelyn our orangery.\"\n\n\"And conclude our business!\" said Bridget Prunty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE SIGNORINO.\n\n\nOne day when Goneril, much browner and rosier for a week among the\nmountains, came in to lunch at noon, she found no signs of that usually\nregular repast. The little maid was on her knees, polishing the floor;\nMiss Prunty was scolding, dusting, ordering dinner, arranging vases, all\nat once; strangest of all, Madame Petrucci had taken the oil-cloth cover\nfrom her grand piano, and, seated before it, was practising her sweet\nand faded notes, unheedful of the surrounding din and business.\n\n\"What's the matter!\" cried Goneril.\n\n\"We expect the signorino,\" said Miss Prunty.\n\n\"And is he going to stay here?\"\n\n\"Don't be a fool!\" snapped that lady; and then she added--\"Go into the\nkitchen and get some of the pastry and some bread and cheese, there's a\ngood girl.\"\n\n\"All right!\" said Goneril.\n\nMadame Petrucci stopped her vocalising. \"You shall have all the better a\ndinner to compensate you, my Gonerilla!\" She smiled sweetly, and then\nagain became Zerlina.\n\nGoneril cut her lunch, and took it out of doors to share with her\ncompanion, Angiolino. He was harvesting the first corn under the olives,\nbut at noon it was too hot to work. Sitting still there was, however, a\ncool breeze that gently stirred the sharp-edged olive-leaves.\n\nAngiolino lay down at full length and munched his bread and cheese in\nperfect happiness. Goneril kept shifting about to get herself into the\nnarrow shadow cast by the split and writhen trunk.\n\n\"How aggravating it is!\" she cried. \"In England, where there's no sun,\nthere's plenty of shade--and here, where the sun is like a\nmustard-plaster on one's back, the leaves are all set edgewise on\npurpose that they shan't cast any shadow!\"\n\nAngiolino made no answer to this intelligent remark.\n\n\"He is going to sleep again!\" cried Goneril, stopping her lunch in\ndespair. \"He is going to sleep, and there are no end of things I want to\nknow. Angiolino!\"\n\n\"Sissignora,\" murmured the boy.\n\n\"Tell me about Signor Graziano.\"\n\n\"He is our padrone; he is never here.\"\n\n\"But he is coming to-day. Wake up, Angiolino. I tell you he is on the\nway!\"\n\n\"Between life and death there are so many combinations,\" drawled the\nboy, with Tuscan incredulity and sententiousness.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried the girl, with a little shiver of impatience. \"Is he young?\"\n\n\"Che!\"\n\n\"Is he old, then?\"\n\n\"Neppure!\"\n\n\"What is he like? He must be _something_.\"\n\n\"He's our padrone,\" repeated Angiolino, in whose imagination Signor\nGraziano could occupy no other place.\n\n\"How stupid you are!\" exclaimed the young English girl.\n\n\"May be,\" said Angiolino stolidly.\n\n\"Is he a good padrone? do you like him?\"\n\n\"Rather!\" The boy smiled, and raised himself on one elbow; his eyes\ntwinkled with good-humored malice.\n\n\"My Babbo has much better wine than _quel signore_,\" he said.\n\n\"But that is wrong!\" cried Goneril, quite shocked.\n\n\"Who knows?\"\n\nAfter this, conversation flagged. Goneril tried to imagine what a great\nmusician could be like: long hair, of course; her imagination did not\nget much beyond the hair. He would, of course, be much older now than\nhis portrait. Then she watched Angiolino cutting the corn, and learned\nhow to tie the swathes together. She was occupied in this useful\nemployment when the noise of wheels made them both stop and look over\nthe wall.\n\n\"Here's the padrone!\" cried the boy.\n\n\"Oh, he is old!\" said Goneril; \"he is old and brown, like a\ncoffee-bean.\"\n\n\"To be old and good is better than youth with malice,\" suggested\nAngiolino, by way of consolation.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" acquiesced Goneril.\n\nNevertheless she went in to dinner a little disappointed.\n\nThe signorino was not in the house; he had gone up to the villa. But he\nhad sent a message that later in the evening he intended to pay his\nrespects to old friends. Madame Petrucci was beautifully dressed in soft\nblack silk, old lace, and a white Indian shawl. Miss Prunty had on her\nstarchiest collar and most formal tie. Goneril saw it was necessary that\nshe, likewise, should deck herself in her best. She was too young and\nimpressionable not to be influenced by the flutter of excitement and\ninterest which filled the whole of the little cottage. Goneril, too, was\nexcited and anxious, although Signor Graziano had seemed so old and\nlike a coffee-bean. She made no progress in the piece of embroidery she\nwas working as a present for the two old ladies; jumping up and down to\nlook out of the window. When, about eight o'clock, the door-bell rang,\nGoneril blushed, Madame Petrucci gave a pretty little shriek, Miss\nPrunty jumped up and rang for the coffee. A moment afterwards the\nsignorino entered. While he was greeting her hostesses, Goneril cast a\nrapid glance at him. He was tall for an Italian; rather bent and rather\ngrey; fifty at least, therefore very old. He certainly was brown, but\nhis features were fine and good, and he had a distinguished and\nbenevolent air that somehow made her think of an abbe, a French abbe of\nthe last century. She could quite imagine him saying \"Enfant de St.\nLouis; montez au ciel!\"\n\nThus far had she got in her meditations, when she felt herself addressed\nin clear, half-mocking tones--\n\n\"And how, this evening, is Madamigella Ruth?\"\n\nSo he had seen her this evening, binding his corn.\n\n\"I am quite well, padrone,\" she said, smiling shyly.\n\nThe two old ladies looked on amazed, for of course they were not in the\nsecret.\n\n\"Signor Graziano, Miss Goneril Hamelyn,\" said Miss Prunty, rather\nseverely.\n\nGoneril felt that the time was come for silence and good manners. She\nsat quite quiet over her embroidery, listening to the talk of Sontag,\nof Clementi, of musicians and singers dead and gone. She noticed that\nthe ladies treated Signor Graziano with the utmost reverence; even the\npositive Miss Prunty furling her opinions in deference to his gayest\nhint. They talked, too, of Madame Lilli; and always as if she were still\nyoung and fair, as if she had died yesterday, leaving the echo of her\ntriumph loud behind her. And yet all this had happened years before\nGoneril had ever seen the light.\n\n\"Mees Goneril is feeling very young!\" said the signorino, suddenly\nturning his sharp kind eyes upon her.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Goneril, all confusion.\n\nMadame Petrucci looked almost annoyed; the gay serene little lady that\nnothing ever annoyed.\n\n\"It is she that is young!\" she cried, in answer to an unspoken thought.\n\"She is a baby!\"\n\n\"Oh, I am seventeen!\" said Goneril.\n\nThey all laughed, and seemed at ease again.\n\n\"Yes, yes; she is very young,\" said the signorino.\n\nBut a little shadow had fallen across their placid entertainment. The\nspirit had left their memories; they seemed to have grown shapeless,\ndusty, as the fresh and comely faces of dead Etruscan kings crumble into\nmould at the touch of the pitiless sunshine.\n\n\"Signorino,\" said Madame Petrucci, presently, \"if you will accompany me,\nwe will perform one of your charming melodies.\"\n\nSignor Graziano rose, a little stiffly, and led the pretty withered\nlittle Diva to the piano.\n\nGoneril looked on, wondering, admiring. The signorino's thin white hands\nmade a delicate fluent melody, reminding her of running water under the\nrippled shade of trees, and, like a high, sweet bird, the thin,\npenetrating notes of the singer rose, swelled, and died away, admirably\ntrue and just, even in this latter weakness. At the end, Signor Graziano\nstopped his playing to give time for an elaborate cadenza. Suddenly\nMadame Petrucci gasped, a sharp, discordant sound cracked the delicate\nfinish of her singing. She put her handkerchief to her mouth.\n\n\"Bah!\" she said, \"this evening I am abominably husky.\"\n\nThe tears rose to Goneril's eyes. Was it so hard to grow old? This doubt\nmade her voice loudest of all in the chorus of mutual praise and thanks\nwhich covered the song's abrupt finale.\n\nAnd then there came a terrible ordeal. Miss Prunty, anxious to divert\nthe current of her friend's ideas, suggested that the girl should sing.\nSignor Graziano and madame insisted; they would take no refusal.\n\n\"Sing, sing, little bird!\" cried the old lady.\n\n\"But, madame, how can one--after you?\"\n\nThe homage in the young girl's voice made the little Diva more\ngood-humouredly insistant than before, and Goneril was too well-bred to\nmake a fuss. She stood by the piano wondering which to choose, the\nHandels that she always drawled, or the Pinsuti that she always\ngalloped. Suddenly she came by an inspiration.\n\n\"Madame,\" she pleaded, \"may I sing one of Angiolino's songs?\"\n\n\"Whatever you like, cara mia.\"\n\nAnd standing by the piano, her arms hanging loose, she began a chant\nsuch as the peasants use working under the olives. Her voice was small\nand deep, with a peculiar thick sweetness that suited the song,\nhalf-humorous, half-pathetic. These were the words she sang:--\n\n   Vorrei morir di morte piccinina,\n   Morta la sera e viva la mattina.\n   Vorrei morire, e non vorrei morire,\n   Vorrei veder, chi mi piange e chi lide;\n   Vorrei morir, e star sulle finestre,\n   Vorrei veder chi mi cuce la veste;\n   Vorrei morir, e stare sulla scala,\n   Vorrei veder chi mi porta la bara;\n   Vorrei morir, e vorre' alzar la voce,\n   Vorrei veder chi mi parta la croce.\n\n\"Very well chosen, my dear,\" said Miss Prunty, when the song was\nfinished.\n\n\"And very well sung, my Gonerilla!\" cried the old lady.\n\nBut the signorino went up to the piano and shook hands with her.\n\n\"Little Mees Goneril,\" he said, \"you have the makings of an artist.\"\n\nThe two old ladies stared, for after all Goneril's performance had been\nvery simple. You see they were better versed in music than in human\nnature.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nSI VIEILLESSE POUVAIT!\n\n\nSignor Graziano's usual week of holiday passed and lengthened into\nalmost two months, and still he stayed on at the villa. The two old\nladies were highly delighted.\n\n\"At last he has taken my advice!\" cried Miss Prunty. \"I always told him\nthose premature grey hairs came from late hours and Roman air.\"\n\nMadame Petrucci shook her head and gave a meaning smile. Her friendship\nwith the signorino had begun when he was a lad and she a charming\nmarried woman; like many another friendship, it had begun with a\nflirtation, and perhaps (who knows?) she thought the flirtation had\nrevived.\n\nAs for Goneril, she considered him the most charming old man she had\never known, and liked nothing so much as to go out a walk with him.\nThat, indeed, was one of the signorino's pleasures; he loved to take the\nyoung girl all over his gardens and vineyards, talking to her in the\namiable, half-petting, half-mocking manner that he had adopted from the\nfirst. And twice a week he gave her a music lesson.\n\n\"She has a splendid organ!\" he would say.\n\n\"Vous croyez?\" fluted Madame Petrucci with the vilest accent and the\nmost aggravating smile imaginable.\n\nIt was the one hobby of the signorino's that she regarded with\ndisrespect.\n\nGoneril, too, was a little bored by the music lesson; but, on the other\nhand, the walks delighted her.\n\nOne day Goneril was out with her friend.\n\n\"Are the peasants very much afraid of you, signore?\" she asked.\n\n\"Am I such a tyrant?\" counter-questioned the signorino.\n\n\"No; but they are always begging me to ask you things. Angiolino wants\nto know if he may go for three days to see his uncle at Fiesole.\"\n\n\"Of course\"\n\n\"But why, then, don't they ask you themselves? Is it they think me so\ncheeky?\"\n\n\"Perhaps they think I can refuse you nothing.\"\n\n\"Che! In that case they would ask Madame Petrucci.\"\n\nGoneril ran on to pick some china roses. The signorino stopped\nconfounded.\n\n\"It is impossible!\" he cried; \"she cannot think I am in love with\nGiulia! She cannot think I am so old as that!\"\n\nThe idea seemed horrible to him. He walked on very quickly till he came\nto Goneril, who was busy plucking roses in a hedge.\n\n\"For whom are those flowers?\" he asked.\n\n\"Some are for you, and some are for Madame Petrucci.\"\n\n\"She is a charming woman, Madame Petrucci.\"\n\n\"A dear old lady,\" murmured Goneril, much interested in her posy.\n\n\"Old do you call her?\" said the signorino rather anxiously. \"I should\nscarcely call her that, though of course she is a good deal older than\neither of us.\"\n\n\"Either of us!\" Goneril looked up astounded. Could the signorino have\nsuddenly gone mad?\n\nHe blushed a little under his brown skin, that had reminded her of a\ncoffee-bean.\n\n\"She is a good ten years older than I am,\" he explained.\n\n\"Ah well, ten years isn't much.\"\n\n\"You don't think so?\" he cried delighted. Who knows, she might not think\neven thirty too much.\n\n\"Not at that age,\" said Goneril blandly.\n\nSignor Graziano could think of no reply.\n\nBut from that day one might have dated a certain assumption of\nyouthfulness in his manners. At cards it was always the signorino and\nGoneril against the two elder ladies; in his conversation, too, it was\nto the young girl that he constantly appealed, as if she were his\nnatural companion--she, and not his friends of thirty years. Madame\nPetrucci, always serene and kind, took no notice of these little\nchanges, but they were particularly irritating to Miss Prunty, who was,\nafter all, only four years older than the signorino. That lady had,\nindeed, become more than usually sharp and foreboding. She received the\nsignorino's gay effusions in ominous silence, and would frown darkly\nwhile Madame Petrucci petted her \"little bird,\" as she called Goneril.\nOnce indeed Miss Prunty was heard to remark it was tempting Providence\nto have dealings with a creature whose very name was a synonym for\ningratitude. But the elder lady only smiled, and declared that her\nGonerilla was charming, delicious, a real sunshine in the house.\n\n\"Now I call on you to support me, signorino,\" she cried one evening,\nwhen the three elders sat together in the room while Goneril watered the\nroses on the terrace. \"Is not my Goneril a charming little bebe?\"\n\nSignor Graziano withdrew his eyes from the window.\n\n\"Most charming, certainly; but scarcely such a child. She is seventeen,\nyou know, my dear signora.\"\n\n\"Seventeen! Santo Dio! And what is one at seventeen but an innocent,\nplayful, charming little kitten?\"\n\n\"You are always right, madame,\" agreed the signorino; but he looked as\nif he thought she were very wrong.\n\n\"Of course I am right,\" laughed the little lady. \"Come here my\nGonerilla, and hold my skein for me. Signor Graziano is going to charm\nus with one of his delightful airs.\"\n\n\"I hoped she would sing,\" faltered the signorino.\n\n\"Who? Gonerilla? Nonsense, my friend. She winds silk much better than\nshe sings.\"\n\nGoneril laughed. She was not at all offended. But Signor Graziano made\nseveral mistakes in his playing. At last he left the piano. \"I cannot\nplay tonight,\" he cried. \"I am not in the humour. Goneril, will you come\nand walk with me on the terrace?\"\n\nBefore the girl could reply Miss Prunty had darted an angry glance at\nSignor Graziano.\n\n\"Good Lord, what fools men are!\" she ejaculated. \"And do you think, now,\nI'm going to let that girl, who's but just getting rid of her malaria,\ngo star-gazing with any old idiot while all the mists are curling out of\nthe valleys?\"\n\n\"Brigida, my love, you forget yourself,\" said Madame Petrucci.\n\n\"Bah!\" cried the signorino. He was evidently out of temper.\n\nThe little lady hastened to smooth the troubled waters. \"Talking of\nmalaria,\" she began in her serenest manner, \"I always remember what my\ndearest Madame Lilli told me. It was at one of Prince Teano's concerts.\nYou remember, signorino?\"\n\n\"Che! How should I remember,\" he exclaimed. \"It is a lifetime ago, dead\nand forgotten.\"\n\nThe old lady shrank, as if a glass of water had been rudely thrown in\nher face. She said nothing, staring blindly.\n\n\"Go to bed, Goneril!\" cried Miss Prunty in a voice of thunder.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nBIRDS OF A FEATHER.\n\n\nA few mornings after these events the postman brought a letter for\nGoneril. This was such a rare occurrence that she blushed rose red at\nthe very sight of it, and had to walk up and down the terrace several\ntimes before she felt calm enough to read it. Then she went upstairs and\nknocked at the door of Madame Petrucci's room.\n\n\"Come in, little bird.\"\n\nThe old lady, in pink merino and curl-papers, opened the door. Goneril\nheld up her letter.\n\n\"My cousin Jack is coming to Florence, and he is going to walk over to\nsee me this afternoon. And may he stay to dinner, cara signora?\"\n\n\"Why, of course, Gonerilla. I am charmed!\"\n\nGoneril kissed the old lady, and danced downstairs brimming over with\ndelight.\n\nLater in the morning Signor Graziano called.\n\n\"Will you come out with me, Mees Goneril,\" he said; \"on my land the\nearliest vintage begins to-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, how nice!\" she cried.\n\n\"Come, then,\" said the signorino, smiling.\n\n\"Oh, I can't come to-day, because of Jack.\"\n\n\"Jack?\"\n\n\"My cousin: he may come any time.\"\n\n\"Your cousin?\" the signorino frowned a little. \"Ah, you English,\" he\nsaid, \"you consider all your cousins brothers and sisters!\"\n\nGoneril laughed.\n\n\"Is it not so?\" he asked a little anxiously.\n\n\"Jack is much nicer than my brothers,\" said the young girl.\n\n\"And who is he, this Jack?\"\n\n\"He's a dear boy,\" said Goneril, \"and very clever; he is going home for\nthe Indian Civil Service Exam; he has been out to Calcutta to see my\nfather.\"\n\nThe signorino did not pay any attention to the latter part of this\ndescription, but he appeared to find the beginning very satisfactory.\n\n\"So he is only a boy,\" he muttered to himself, and went away\ncomparatively satisfied.\n\nGoneril spent most of the day watching the road from Florence. She might\nnot walk on the highway, but a steep short-cut that joined the main road\nat the bottom of the hill was quite at her disposal She walked up and\ndown for more than an hour. At last she saw some one on the Florence\nroad. She walked on quickly. It was the telegraph-boy.\n\nShe tore open the envelope and read: \"Venice.--Exam. on Wednesday.\nStart at once. _A rivederci._\"\n\nIt was with very red eyes that Goneril went in to dinner.\n\n\"So the cousin hasn't come,\" said Miss Prunty kindly.\n\n\"No; he had to go home at once for his examination.\"\n\n\"I dare say he'll come over again soon, my dear,\" said that\ndiscriminating lady. She had quite taken Goneril back into her good\ngraces.\n\nThey all sat together in the little parlour after dinner. At eight\no'clock the door-bell rang. It was now seven weeks since Goneril had\nblushed with excitement when first she heard that ring; and now she did\nnot blush.\n\nThe signorino entered. He walked very straight, and his lips were set.\nHe came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition.\n\n\"Mees Goneril,\" he said, \"will you come out on the terrace?--before it\nis too late,\" he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Goneril, and they went out together.\n\n\"So the cousin did not come?\" said the signorino.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThey went on a little way in silence together. The night was moonlit and\nclear; not a wind stirred the leaves; the sky was like a sapphire,\ncontaining but not shedding light. The late oleanders smelt very sweet;\nthe moon was so full that one could distinguish the peculiar\ngreyish-pink of the blossoms.\n\n\"It is a lovely night!\" said Goneril.\n\n\"And a lovely place.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThen a bird sang.\n\n\"You have been here just eight weeks,\" said the signorino.\n\n\"I have been very happy.\"\n\nHe did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said:--\n\n\"Would you like to live here always?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes! But that is impossible.\"\n\nHe took her hand and turned her gently so that her face was in the\nlight.\n\n\"Dear Mees Goneril, why is it impossible?\"\n\nFor a moment the young girl did not answer. She blushed very red and\nlooked brave.\n\n\"Because of Jack!\" she said.\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"Nothing is settled,\" added the young girl, \"but it is no use pretending\nnot to know!\"\n\n\"It is no use,\" he repeated very sadly.\n\nAnd then for a little while they listened to the bird.\n\n\"Mees Goneril,\" said the signorino at last, \"do you know why I brought\nyou out here?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" she answered.\n\nIt was a minute before he spoke again.\n\n\"I am going to Rome to-morrow,\" he said, \"and I wanted to bid you\ngood-bye. You will sing to me to-night, as it will be the last time?\"\n\n\"Oh, I hope not the last time!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" he said a little testily; \"unless--and I pray it may not be\nso--unless you ever need the help of an old friend.\"\n\n\"Dear Signor Graziano!\"\n\n\"And now you will sing me my 'Nobil Amore'?\"\n\n\"I will do anything you like!\"\n\nThe signorino sighed and looked at her for a minute. Then he led her\ninto the little parlour where Madame Petrucci was singing shrilly in the\ntwilight.\n\nA. MARY F. ROBINSON.\n\n\n\n\n\nOUT OF THE SEASON.\n\n\n\"But why not? There isn't a soul in London--who's to see? What harm is\nthere in it?\"\n\n\"Oh, none of course--a cup of tea is a cup of tea, and whether you drink\nit here or there, what matter!--only--well, the thing I think of is,\nwould Rowley mind?\"\n\n\"Mind his own business, I should say, rather I That's what they have to\nswear to do in the marriage service, haven't they?\"\n\nThe lady to whom this question was addressed, Mrs. Rowley Dacres, shook\nher head reprovingly. She was young and very pretty; and Teddy\nVere--known among certain of his friends as the Fledgeling--was not\naverse to seeing her make a pretence of being angry.\n\n\"Don't let me hear you speak so flippantly of matrimony,\" she began\nseverely; \"and for your future edification, it is not the man but the\n_woman_ who swears to obey.\"\n\n\"Then why in Heaven's name don't you do as I bid you?\"\n\n\"As _you_ bid me! Come, that's rather strong form, I must say! You're\nnot Rowley, are you?\"\n\n\"No, worse luck for me, I'm not,\" and the good-looking fair face put on\nsuch an intensely woebegone expression that the resolution of the\nbeholder gave way.\n\nPoor boy! it really was dreadfully unlucky that be should be so\ndesperately in love with her, more especially since Rowley had taken to\nbe absurdly jealous of him, as if--now that she was married--she could\never think seriously of anybody. Only after you'd been brought up--to\ncut your teeth, as one might say--flirting, well, it was just a little\nbit hard to give it up at twenty-three. Besides, it wasn't as if she\nmeant anything--except in Rowley's case she never had; and as far as\nTeddy went, scores of mothers had said before her, dozens of times, that\nthey were only too delighted to see their sons attach themselves to a\nmarried lady--it kept them out of harm's way; so that instead of\nmischief, it was a service she was doing Teddy. The two had been of the\nsame party during Goodwood week. Teddy had joined them after on board\nLord Datchett's yacht at Cowes; and, his leave up, and he forced to stop\nin London during the end of August, what more natural than that when she\ncame up to town for a few days' shopping, Teddy should offer to act\nescort to her?--it was such a pleasure to him, poor fellow! And as there\nwasn't a single soul left to see them, what harm could there be!\n\nNotwithstanding, the little lady never lost sight of propriety--Garden\nwas always near enough for her to be able to say, \"I've my maid with\nme;\" and added to this, \"Bella Chetwode was in town, very much occupied\nit's true, but still that same staunch friend, always good at a pinch,\nwho, if told that you had been met going to see her, invariably answered\nthat she expected you. Life is full of surprises, and if one is armed at\nall points matters go on so much more smoothly.\"\n\nNow it happened that on the previous evening Teddy had shown visible\nsigns of becoming unruly. He didn't see why he should be sent away. Why\ncould he not stop--stop and have dinner with her?\n\n\"Why? Because, in the first place, it wouldn't do; and in the second--I\nforgot though,\" she said; \"being a man, I ought to have reversed the\norder--there's nothing to give you.\"\n\n\"That don't matter,\" said Teddy heroically--\"I don't care what I eat.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't you; but I do--you might be wanting to eat me.\"\n\nTeddy threw a look intended to convey that he could conceive no more\ndelicious morsel.\n\n\"There there, say good-bye and go away, do!\" she cried. \"I declare\nyou're beginning to get cannibalish already.\"\n\nAnd in spite of all further entreaties and a goodly show of ill-humour,\nwhich experience had taught him to keep handy for display, Teddy was\nforced to obey her command that he should take his departure.\n\n\"I must take care not to let that boy go too far,\" Nina reflected when\nhe had gone. \"He wants his paces pulled up now and then, or else he'll\nget trying to kick over. However, it's only for a day or two, and then I\nshall be off; and by next season--Oh, he'll have forgotten me, I\ndaresay.\"\n\nShe did not \"daresay\" anything of the sort--there was a deal too much\nvanity in her composition to willingly give up any homage that had once\nbeen offered to her; but the supposition served as a salve for her\nconscience, which in the matter was not altogether easy, for in her\nletters to Rowley, and she wrote to him every day, she had never said a\nsingle syllable of having seen Teddy. It was not that she had any wish\nto be sly with him; but, reasoning in her own way--what good was there\nin telling any one things which would make them uneasy, and Rowley was\nsuch a good fellow, so wrapt up in and devoted to her,--he'd be wretched\nif she told him that Teddy was in town and came to see her every day.\nNo; where ignorance was bliss it was folly to let it interfere with\nfishing; much better let Rowley continue in peace and tranquillity; and\non Saturday he and she were to join each other at the Twyford Junction,\non their way to Scotland to pay a heap of visits together, some new\ngowns for which had brought her to London; and her face softened with a\nsmile that flitted across it as she assured herself that ten minutes\nwith Rowley would make her forget the existence of Teddy. Poor\ninfatuated boy!\n\nPossibly Mrs. Dacres' velvety brown eyes would have opened a trifle\nwider could she have followed the footsteps of her devoted admirer.\nTeddy, wise in his generation, made the provision of a consolation a\nmatter of principle; therefore when the door closed behind him at one\nhouse, he quickly hailed a hansom which should take him to another,\nwhere he would not only be welcomed, but instead of having to beg for a\ndinner he would be begged to eat one. Matters turned out as he premised,\nand he only picked up his grievance against Nina the next day when he\nwas urging her that they should go to his rooms and have tea.\n\nWhen this proposition was started Teddy wasn't particularly keen as to\nwhether she came or whether she did not; but, ill luck would have it,\nNina chose that very opportunity for asserting her dignity--and after\nthat the question of the tea became a question of who should be\nconqueror.\n\n\"If I give in again, I'll be hanged,\" said Teddy to himself, and he\nbrought to bear the various resources he was master of with such effect\nthat Nina, driven into a corner, was fairly beaten and confessed to\nherself that it served her right--\"he's been allowed to go too far, and\nthis is the upshot of it.\"\n\nShe made these reflections however with a face that told no tales,\nstepped into a hansom with a pretty air of being overruled by a will\nstronger than her own, and only insisted on keeping up her ungainly\nsized parasol because \"the sun in one's eyes is so disagreeable.\"\n\nNow, as chance would have it, instead of fishing in the country,\nCaptain Rowley Dacres was spending that day in London. Circumstances had\nbrought him to town early in the morning; but, to his discredit do I\ntell it, he hated shopping, and hadn't Nina told him in every letter she\nsent that she was with the dressmaker every hour of the day? If he went\nhome he should have to go with her there, or to some other confounded\nplace, for so long as a shop was near, Nina would be safe to have\nsomething to buy in it. During those few months they were engaged, what\na purgatory he had gone trough. He was a lover then--he was a husband\nnow, and he whistled the air of a popular tune known by the name of \"Not\nfor Joe.\"\n\nThe first few bars had but just escaped him, when who should he stumble\nacross but an old chum, Nick Walcot, who, hearing that up to seven\no'clock--when he was going to pop in upon Nina--Rowley had nothing to\ndo, gave a mysterious wink of his eye saying, \"All right, old fellow;\nI'm going somewhere, and I'll take you.\"\n\nThe somewhere proved to be a small bijou residence in the neighbourhood\nof Thurloe Square; and, arrived at the door, it suddenly struck Rowley\nwho lived there.\n\n\"Oh come, I say,\" he began, drawing back a step or two. \"I don't half\nthink this'll do. I'm married now, you see, and I've given up this sort\nof society.\".\n\nNick looked at him with an air of injured surprise.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he asked. \"There's nothing against Miss Fisher that\nI know of; it's simply that I've been asked to lunch with her, and as I\nknow she'll have a friend, I take ditto because I'd rather sit down four\nthan three.\" Rowley hastened to disabuse any prejudice against Miss\nFisher, whom he felt sure was the very soul of propriety, \"Only, don't\nyou know, women get an idea, and though my little wife's the best sort\nin the world, if she got scent that I'd been lunching with an actress\ninstead of going straight to her, there'd be the very deuce to pay.\"\n\n\"Fiddle de dee! besides, how is she to know? who's to tell her?\" and\nbefore there was time to answer, a vigorous pull was given to the bell.\n\n\"Confound this fellow; I wish I'd gone straight off to Nina. What a fool\nI am!\" These were the reflections of Captain Dacres as he followed his\nfriend into the presence of Miss Fisher, who received him with easy\ncordiality.\n\n\"Good gracious on me! Captain Dacres,\" she said, \"what a time it is\nsince I've seen you, to be sure; I took it for granted you were dead.\"\n\n\"Dead!\" repeated Nick Walcot. \"Why he's married; didn't you know?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's about the same to me,\" laughed the lady, and then tilting\nherself back in her chair so that her voice might reach the further room\nmore easily, she called, \"Doady I say, come in here--there's a surprise\nfor you.\"\n\nAnd in answer to the summons a young lady appeared, who threw herself\ninto a dramatic attitude exclaiming, \"What! Captain Dacres? Well I\nnever! Why--who'd a thought of seeing you?\"\n\nCertainly it was not Captain Dacres who had anticipated that pleasure,\nfor while responding with the best grace he could command to the chaff\nand banter which began to be darted at him, he was consigning Miss\nFisher, and more especially the effusive Doady, to every depth between\nthis world and the one below.\n\nThe announcement of luncheon opened a more cheerful vista. \"Here I am,\nand I must make the best of it,\" thought Rowley following, in company\nwith Doady, Nick Walcot and Miss Fisher. \"But if ever anything of the\nsort happens again may I be tarred and feathered. To think I ever\nthought this woman pretty, and to fancy that to this day Nina is jealous\nof her.\"\n\nThe luncheon, commenced at an unusually late hour, took a long time\ngetting through; the two ladies were excellent company, and\nnotwithstanding the invectives he had indulged in, five o'clock struck\nvery quickly. Then it was discovered that everybody was going the same\nway, and it ended with two hansoms being called. Miss Fisher and Nick\nWalcot got into one, Captain Rowley and Doady Donne occupied the other.\n\n\"How tiresome the sun is, let me put up your parasol?\" said our friend\nRowley, with evident anxiety to screen her; but Doady begged he wouldn't\ntrouble.\n\n\"I don't mind the sun a bit,\" she said. \"And I'm not in the least\nafraid of any one seeing me, since you've married you've grown so very\nrespectable.\"\n\n\"Confound her,\" ejaculated Rowley mentally, and he congratulated himself\non the emptiness of London, resolving to keep his head well back and sit\na little on one side as they went through Piccadilly. Doady asked a\nquestion about some friend in whom she had formerly felt an interest;\nthis led to past reminiscences and the telling of some good story, over\nwhich Rowley was still laughing when there came a crash, followed by a\nbump and a swaying forward and back. \"Hang the fellow, he's run into\nanother hansom!\"\n\nIn an instant Rowley had dexterously jumped out on to the pavement; the\noccupant of the other hansom, whose wheel was locked into theirs,\nobeying the same instinct, had done the same.\n\n\"Why, if ain't Teddy Vere. Oh my!\" ejaculated one feminine voice\nshrilly, while from under a red parasol, still open, another groaned,\n\"Rowley! it can't be! Oh, what will become of me?\"\n\nSelf-preservation is the first law of nature; the woman who hesitates is\nlost. Before another minute had passed Nina was out of one cab and into\nanother close by.\n\n\"Drive off as fast as you can--never mind where! I'll tell you when we\nget further on,\" and five minutes later she gave the cabman the address\nof Mrs. Chetwode's house.\n\nBursting into the room she cried, \"Oh, Bella, such a horrible thing has\noccurred! Do help me.\" And she told her the whole story, ending by\nsaying, \"I left word at home, when I went out, that I was going to see\nyou.\"\n\nMrs. Chetwode said something by way of calming her, and then she rang\nthe bell.\n\n\"Tell Martin to go to Mrs. Dacres', and say she will not return to\ndinner, I've prevailed on her to stop with me. Now, my dear, try and\nkeep calm and put on the best face you can, and we must trust to\nProvidence to help us through.\"\n\n\"But suppose he saw me\"\n\n\"Oh, no, we'll suppose he didn't see you; and I think you may trust to\nTeddy--he's got his head screwed on the right way.\"\n\nNina wiped away the tears which had flowed over. \"Nothing can excuse me\nfor being so imprudent,\" she said with a half sob; \"all the time I knew\nhow wrong it was of me; and the worst is, Bella, I didn't care.\"\n\n\"Didn't care! How?\"\n\n\"I mean I didn't care for Teddy. What could a boy like that possibly be\nto me? Why, of course I love Rowley dearly--more than I could tell you;\nand to think I should risk it all in this stupid way. Oh! it's my\nabominable vanity; that's what it is. Aunt Jane always said it would be\nmy ruin, and so it will be--after this, you see, Rowley will believe\nanything of me? Oh, Bella, what shall I do? I shall die.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, it's the best thing that could happen to you if you are\ngoing to behave in this absurd manner.\" Mrs. Chetwode saw that strong\nmeasures must be resorted to; she quite intended reading Nina a lecture;\nbut the time to do so was not now. \"There's no doubt but that you _have_\nbeen imprudent, _very_; but if I am to help you it's not by letting you\nsit there and cry.\"\n\n\"Wh--at do you wish me to do?\"\n\n\"To dry your eyes and come down with me to dinner and chat away as we\nalways do. If your husband was going home Martin will bring back word\nthat he is there, or else he will come here and fetch you.\"\n\n\"You took the message?\" Mrs. Chetwode asked as the two ladies descended\nto dinner.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Really, Nina, I ought to have ordered a better dinner for you.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not a bit hungry.\"\n\n\"But you ought to be after going about so much as we have to-day.\nBy-the-by, how did you decide about that hat I saw; do you think it will\nsuit you? Describe it to me.\"\n\nForced to answer, Nina was trotted by her friend from one subject of\ntoilette to the other, until in the midst of a got-up argument\nconcerning trimmings, there came a thundering knock at the door.\n\n\"Dear bless me! What a late visitor! Who can it be? Martin, just go out\nand look--never mind the door,\" and Mrs. Chetwode jumped up and stood\nso that she could hear the inquiry: \"Is Mrs. Dacres here?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, the ladies are at dinner.\"\n\n\"Oh! Ah!\"\n\n\"Captain Dacres, is that you?\" Bella had run out to meet him. \"Why, what\na surprise--Nina, fancy, here's your husband, dear,\" and she preceded\nRowley back into the dining-room.\n\n\"Rowley!\" For her life Nina couldn't say more--every atom of colour had\nforsaken her.\n\n\"My dear child, have I frightened you? I'm so sorry, but I found after\nall I had to come to town. Carne has made such an awful mess about the\ngun he was to get for me, and so I didn't write. I thought I'd surprise\nyou.\"\n\nNina laughed out like a boisterous child. \"What a silly thing I am,\" she\nsaid, \"I was afraid something had happened.\"\n\nRowley put his arm round her, for though she was laughing, her voice\nsounded like crying all the time.\n\nUnder other circumstances he might have been more struck with the little\nembarrassment which she could not perfectly control, but at the moment\nhe was not quite himself either. That impudent Doady Donne had played a\nshameful hoax on him, had actually had the audacity to declare that she\nhad seen his wife--Nina, Mrs. Dacres--in Teddy Vere's hansom! He hadn't\ntaken what she said very pleasantly, for the bare notion made him\nfurious, and--though telling himself all the while that he didn't\nbelieve it--until he had found Nina seated with her friend, it was\nimpossible to feel any security.\n\n\"'Pon my life, it's too bad!\" he was saying mentally. \"I don't know what\nthings are coming to; there ought to be a stop put to it, a line must be\ndrawn somewhere; and such women oughtn't to be permitted to speak of a\nlady in that chaify way.\"\n\nWhile these reflections occupied his mind he was giving scraps of news\nto Nina, and answering Mrs. Chetwode, who was frankly saying that she\nhadn't a morsel of dinner to give him.\n\n\"But I don't want any, I've only just had a most enormous luncheon.\"\n\n\"Luncheon! Where?\"\n\n\"Why, my dear, at the station--ham, beef, beer--you know--veal pie--that\nsort o' thing.\"\n\n\"Rowley! how could you! You'll be awfully ill, you know.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it, not I. I--\" but at this moment rat-tat-a-tat-tat went\nthe knocker.\n\nOh! agony--there wasn't a doubt this was Teddy!\n\n\"I say, what a game--here's another visitor!\" remarked Captain Dacres\ncheerily.\n\n\"One who is expected, I shouldn't wonder.\" Mrs. Chetwode, as usual, rose\nequal to the emergency. \"We may as well let the cat out of the bag,\nNina, and tell him.--We've got a young man coming to take us to the\nplay,\" and turning to Martin she said, \"Show him into the boudoir if\nthat's Mr. Vere.\"\n\n\"Mr. Vere! What, Teddy! Here, stop, I'll open the door!\" exclaimed\nRowley hastily \"Don't you go\"\n\n\"But why?\" interposed Mrs. Chetwode amazedly.\n\n\"Because it's interrupting you so awfully in your dinner. No, no, we'll\ngo up stairs together--it'll be all right you'll see\"\n\nHe was already in the hall, had opened the door--their voices, laughing\nit seemed--sounded together.\n\n\"What can it mean?\" said Nina anxiously\n\n\"Never mind, one thing is certain--he didn't see you\"\n\n\"Perhaps it's the beer--he seems a little excited, don't you think?\"\n\n\"I'm not going to leave them together Teddy,\" called out Mrs. Chetwode,\n\"come in here. Have you brought tickets for the comedy?\"\n\n\"Tickets, eh?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's no use disguising; we've--\"\n\n\"No, no!\" broke in Rowley, \"not a bit, I know all about it, old fellow;\nthey've told me what you've come to do--I'll go with you. By Jove,\ncapital idea! Ha, ha.\"\n\n\"Oh, it must be the beer,\" thought Nina, and watching Bella's eye she\ntapped her forehead with her finger to indicate that there was no doubt\nthat Rowley's head was slightly affected.\n\n\"Mrs. Chetwode, I'm awfully sorry,\" began Teddy, \"but do you know, I've\nmade such a mess about the comedy; they aint playing that piece at all\nthere now. I hope you'll both forgive me.\"\n\n\"How tiresome! What a naughty boy you are!\" said Bella. \"Now there's\nnothing for us to do.\"\n\n\"Nothing to do,\" said Rowley. \"Not a bit of it; we ain't going to be\nstumped for one failure; we'll go somewhere--where shall it be, Nina,\neh?\"\n\n\"Any place you like, dear,\" so long as I am with you, the big brown eyes\nseemed to say; and Rowley, looking back again, thought, \"And I could\ndoubt her--bless her heart, the darling!\" while Nina kept repeating,\n\"This will be a lesson for me as long as I live. Never again, no more\nflirtation--never, never, never!\"\n\nLater in the evening when it was decided that they should all go to the\nFisheries, without hesitation as to the other two, Nina and Rowley went\noff together.\n\n\"Are we to follow the turtle doves?\" said Teddy with sarcasm.\n\n\"As you please,\" said Bella, \"but it doesn't in the least matter--you\nknow I've a scolding in store for you, Teddy?\"\n\n\"No, not now,\" and he held up his hands pleadingly.\n\n\"Yes, but you've been most imprudent, and it's by the very greatest luck\nin the world that Rowley didn't see you. If he had, it would have been\nanything but pleasant for Nina.\"\n\n\"Hm!\" and Teddy gave his nose a screw. He was terribly tempted to tell what\nhe looked on as the very best joke in the world--only--well--no--perhaps\nbetter not--if you once let a thing slip out it often gets spoken of,\nnobody knows how; and as Rowley had whispered at the door, \"Teddy, I say,\nnot a word about having seen me before,\" and he had answered \"Honour\nbright, old chap; you may trust me,\" he'd keep the matter dark; only there\nwas one to score against Miss Doady Donne for telling him last night at\ndinner that she was going to play propriety to a friend that day. He hated\na lie without a reason; and as it seemed to him he'd gone quite far enough\nin that direction, this would serve as a capital peg to hang a quarrel on.\n\n\"Shall we say good-night?\" said Bella.\n\n\"Do you want to get rid of me?\"\n\n\"N--no.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see you do,\" and he held out his hand to her.\n\n\"Good-night,\" she began, trying to hold herself very severely, \"and let\nthis little adventure be a lesson to you. All's well that ends well, but\nremember _all_ doesn't always end so.\"\n\n\"Quite true,\" he said, feigning to have listened penitently.\"\nBy-the-way, would you mind repeating that same little sermon to our\nfriend Rowley?--it might be of service to him. What do I mean?--oh\nnothing--only that one good turn deserves another.\"","title":"Tales from Many Sources, Vol. V","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":67211}