The Ordeal of Richard Feverel ..........................................................................................................................1

Some years ago a book was published under the title of ``The Pilgrim's Scrip.'' It consisted of a selection of

original aphorisms by an anonymous gentleman, who in this bashful manner gave a bruised heart to the

world. He made no pretension to novelty. ``Our new thoughts have thrilled dead bosoms,'' he wrote; by which

avowal it may be seen that youth had manifestly gone from him, since he had ceased to be jealous of the

ancients. There was a halfsigh floating through his pages for those days of intellectual coxcombry, when

ideas come to us affecting the embraces of virgins, and swear to us they are ours alone, and no one else have

Some excitement was produced in the bosoms of ladies by so monstrous a scorn of them.

One adventurous person betook herself to the Heralds' College, and there ascertained that a Griffin between

two Wheatsheaves, which stood on the titlepage of the book, formed the crest of Sir Austin Absworthy

Bearne Feverel, Baronet, of Raynham Abbey, in a certain Western county folding Thames: a man of wealth

The outline of the baronet's story was by no means new. He had a wife, and he had a friend. His marriage was

for love; his wife was a beauty; his friend was a sort of poet. His wife had his whole heart, and his friend all

his confidence. When he selected Denzil Somers from among his college chums, it was not on account of any

similarity of disposition between them, but from his intense worship of genius, which made him overlook the

absence of principle in his associate for the sake of such brilliant promise. Denzil had a small patrimony to

lead off with, but that he dissipated before he left college, and thenceforth he was dependent upon his

admirer, with whom he lived, filling a nominal post of bailiff to the estates, and launching forth verse of some

satiric and sentimental quality; for being inclined to vice, and occasionally, and in a quiet way, practising it,

he was of course a sentimentalist and a satirist, entitled to lash the Age and complain of human nature. His

earlier poems, published under the pseudonym of Diaper Sandoe, were so pure and bloodless in their love

passages, and at the same time so biting in their moral tone, that his reputation was great among the virtuous,

who form the larger portion of the English bookbuying public. Electionseasons called him to

balladpoetry on behalf of the Tory party. Diaper possessed undoubted fluency, but did little, though Sir

A languishing, inexperienced woman, whose husband in mental and in moral stature is more than the

ordinary height above her, and who, now that her first romantic admiration of his lofty bearing has worn off,

and her little fretful refinements of taste and sentiment are not instinctively responded to, is thrown into no

wholesome household collision with a fluent man, fluent in prose and rhyme. Lady Feverel, when she first

entered on her duties at Raynham, was jealous of her husband's friend. By degrees she tolerated him. In time

Such was the outline of the story. But the baronet could fill it up. He had opened his soul to these two. He had

been noble Love to the one, and to the other perfect Friendship. He had bid them be brother and sister whom

he loved, and live a Golden Age with him at Raynham. In fact, he had been prodigal of the excellences of his

nature, which it is not good to be, and, like Timon, he became bankrupt, and fell upon bitterness.

The faithless lady was of no particular family; an orphan daughter of an admiral who educated her on his

After five years of marriage, and twelve of friendship, Sir Austin was left to his loneliness with nothing to

ease his heart of love upon save a little baby boy in a cradle. He forgave the man: he put him aside as poor for

his wrath, The woman he could not forgive; she had sinned every way. Simple ingratitude to a benefactor was

a pardonable transgression, for he was not one to recount and crush the culprit under the heap of his good

deeds. But her he had raised to be his equal, and he judged her as his equal. She had blackened the world's

In the presence of that world, so different to him now, he preserved his wonted demeanour, and made his

features a flexible mask. Mrs. Doria Forey, his widowed sister, said that Austin might have retired from his

Parliamentary career for a time, and given up gaieties and that kind of thing; her opinion, founded on

observation of him in public and private, was, that the light thing that had taken flight was but a feather on

her brother's Feverelheart, and his ordinary course of life would be resumed. There are times when common

men cannot bear the weight of just so much. Hippias Feverel, one of his brothers, thought him immensely

improved by his misfortune, if the loss of such a person could be so designated; and seeing that Hippias

received in consequence free quarters at Raynham, and possession of the wing of the Abbey she had

inhabited, it is profitable to know his thoughts. If the baronet had given two or three blazing dinners in the

great hall he would have deceived people generally, as he did his relatives and intimates. He was too sick for

The nursemaid waking in the night beheld a solitary figure darkening a lamp above her little sleeping charge,

and became so used to the sight as never to wake with a start. One night she was strangely aroused by a sound

of sobbing. The baronet stood beside the cot in his long black cloak and travelling cap. His fingers shaded a

lamp, and reddened against the fitful darkness that ever and anon went leaping up the wall. She could hardly

believe her senses to see the austere gentleman, dead silent, dropping tear upon tear before her eyes. She lay

stonestill in a trance of terror and mournfulness, mechanically counting the tears as they fell, one by one.

The hidden face, the fall and flash of those heavy drops in the light of the lamp he held, the upright, awful

figure, agitated at regular intervals like a piece of clockwork by the low murderous catch of his breath: it was

so piteous to her poor human nature that her heart began wildly palpitating. Involuntarily the poor girl cried

out to him, ``Oh, sir!'' and fell aweeping. Sir Austin turned the lamp on her pillow, and harshly bade her go

to sleep, striding from the room forthwith. He dismissed her with a purse the next day.

Once, when he was seven years old, the little fellow woke up at night to see a lady bending over him. He

talked of this the next day, but it was treated as a dream; until in the course of the day his uncle Algernon was

driven home from Lobourne cricketground with a broken leg. Then it was recollected that there was a

family ghost; and, though no member of the family believed in the ghost, none would have given up a

circumstance that testified to its existence; for to possess a ghost is a distinction above titles.

Algernon Feverel lost his leg, and ceased to be a gentleman in the Guards. Of the other uncles of young

Richard, Cuthbert, the sailor, perished in a spirited boat expedition against a slaving negro chief up the Niger.

Some of the gallant lieutenant's trophies of war decorated the little boy's playshed at Raynham, and he

bequeathed his sword to Richard, whose hero he was. The diplomatist and beau, Vivian, ended his flutterings

from flower to flower by making an improper marriage, as is the fate of many a beau, and was struck out of

the list of visitors. Algernon generally occupied the baronet's disused townhouse, a wretched being, dividing

his time between horse and card exercise: possessed, it was said, of the absurd notion that a man who has lost

his balance by losing his leg may regain it by sticking to the bottle. At least, whenever he and his brother

Hippias got together, they never failed to try whether one leg, or two, stood the bottle best. Much of a puritan

as Sir Austin was in his habits, he was too good a host, and too thorough a gentleman, to impose them upon

his guests. The brothers, and other relatives, might do as they would while they did not disgrace the name,

Algernon Feverel was a simple man, who felt, subsequent to his misfortune, as he had perhaps dimly fancied

it before, that his career lay in his legs, and was now irrevocably cut short. He taught the boy boxing, and

shooting, and the arts of fence, and superintended the direction of his animal vigour with a melancholy

vivacity. The remaining energies of Algernon's mind were devoted to animadversions on swift bowling. He

preached it over the county, struggling through laborious literary compositions, addressed to sporting

newspapers, on the Decline of Cricket. It was Algernon who witnessed and chronicled young Richard's first

fight, which was with young Tom Blaize of Belthorpe Farm, three years the boy's senior.

Hippias Feverel was once thought to be the genius of the family. It was his ill luck to have strong appetites

and a weak stomach; and, as one is not altogether fit for the battle of life who is engaged in a perpetual

contention with his dinner, Hippias forsook his prospects at the Bar, and, in the embraces of dyspepsia,

compiled his ponderous work on the Fairy Mythology of Europe. He had little to do with the Hope of

A venerable lady, known as GreatAunt Grantley, who had money to bequeath to the heir, occupied with

Hippias the background of the house and shared her caudles with him. These two were seldom seen till the

dinnerhour, for which they were all day preparing, and probably all night remembering, for the eighteenth

century was an admirable trencherman, and cast age aside while there was a dish on the table.

Mrs. Doria Forey was the eldest of the three sisters of the baronet, a florid affable woman, with fine teeth,

exceedingly fine light wavy hair, a Norman nose, and a reputation for understanding men, which, with these

practical creatures, always means the art of managing them. She had married an expectant younger son of a

good family, who deceased before the fulfilment of his prospects; and, casting about in her mind the future

chances of her little daughter and sole child, Clare, she marked down a probability; and the far sight, the deep

determination, the resolute perseverance of her sex, where a daughter is to be provided for and a man to be

overthrown, instigated her to invite herself to Raynham, where, with that daughter, she fixed herself.

The other two Feverel ladies were the wife of Colonel Wentworth and the widow of Mr. Justice Harley: and

the only thing remarkable about them was that they were mothers of sons of some distinction.

Austin Wentworth's story was of that wretched character which to be comprehended, that justice should be

For a fault in early youth, redeemed by him nobly, according to his light, he was condemned to undergo the

``Married his mother's housemaid,'' whispered Mrs. Doria, with a ghastly look, and a shudder at young

``The compensation for Injustice,'' says the ``Pilgrim's Scrip,'' ``is, that in that dark Ordeal we gather the

And the baronet's fair friend, Lady Blandish, and some few true men and women, held Austin Wentworth

He did not live with his wife; and Sir Austin, whose mind was bent on the future of our species, reproached

The principal characteristic of the second nephew, Adrian Harley, was his sagacity. He was essentially the

Adrian had an instinct for the majorities, and, as the world invariably found him enlisted in its ranks, his

The wise youth, then, had the world with him, but no friends. Nor did he wish for those troublesome

appendages of success. He caused himself to be required by people who could serve him; feared by such as

could injure. Not that he went out of the way to secure his end, or risked the expense of a plot. He did the

work as easily as he ate his daily bread. Adrian was an epicurean; one whom Epicurus would have scourged

out of his garden, certainly: an epicurean of our modern notions. To satisfy his appetites without rashly

staking his character, was the wise youth's problem for life. He had no intimates except Gibbon and Horace,

and the society of these fine aristocrats of literature helped him to accept humanity as it had been, and was; a

supreme ironic procession, with laughter of Gods in the background. Why not laughter of mortals also?

Adrian had his laugh in his comfortable corner. He possessed peculiar attributes of a heathen God. He was a

disposer of men: he was polished, luxurious, and happyat their cost. He lived in eminent selfcontent, as

one lying on soft cloud, lapt in sunshine. Nor Jove, nor Apollo, cast eye upon the maids of earth with cooler

fire of selection, or pursued them in the covert with more sacred impunity. And he enjoyed his reputation for

virtue as something additional. Stolen fruits are said to be sweet; undeserved rewards are exquisite.

The best of it was, that Adrian made no pretences. He did not solicit the favourable judgement of the world.

Nature and he attempted no other concealment than the ordinary mask men wear. And yet the world would

proclaim him moral, as well as wise, and the pleasing converse every way of his disgraced cousin Austin.

In a word, Adrian Harley had mastered his philosophy at the early age of oneandtwenty. Many would be

glad to say the same at that age twicetold: they carry in their breasts a burden with which Adrian's was not

loaded. Mrs. Doria was nearly right about his heart. A singular mishap (at his birth, possibly, or before it) had

unseated that organ, and shaken it down to his stomach, where it was a much lighter, nay, an inspiring

weight, and encouraged him merrily onward. Throned there it looked on little that did not arrive to gratify it.

Already that region was a trifle prominent in the person of the wise youth, and carried, as it were, the flag of

his philosophical tenets in front of him. He was charming after dinner, with men or with women: delightfully

sarcastic: perhaps a little too unscrupulous in his moral tone, but that his moral reputation belied him, and it

Such was Adrian Harley, another of Sir Austin's intellectual favourites, chosen from mankind to superintend

the education of his son at Raynham. Adrian had been destined for the Church. He did not enter into orders.

He and the baronet had a conference together one day, and from that time Adrian became a fixture in the

Abbey. His father died in his promising son's college term, bequeathing him nothing but his legal

A playfellow of Richard's occasionally, and the only comrade of his age that he ever saw, was Master Ripton

A comrade of some description was necessary, for Richard was neither to go to school nor to college. Sir

Austin considered that the schools were corrupt, and maintained that young lads might by parental vigilance

be kept pretty secure from the Serpent until Eve sided with him: a period that might be deferred, he said. He

October shone royally on Richard's fourteenth birthday. The brown beechwoods and golden birches glowed

to a brilliant sun. Banks of moveless cloud hung about the horizon, mounded to the west, where slept the

wind. Promise of a great day for Raynham, as it proved to be, though not in the manner marked out.

Already archerybooths and cricketingtents were rising on the lower grounds towards the river, whither the

lads of Bursley and Lobourne, in boats and in carts, shouting for a day of ale and honour, jogged merrily to

match themselves anew, and pluck at the living laurel from each other's brows, like manly Britons. The whole

park was beginning to be astir and resound with holiday cries. Sir Austin Feverel, a thorough good Tory, was

no gamepreserver, and could be popular whenever he chose, which Sir Miles Papworth, on the other side of

the river, a fasthanded Whig and terror to poachers, never could be. Half the village of Lobourne was seen

trooping through the avenues of the park. Fiddlers and gipsies clamoured at the gates for admission: white

smocks, and slate, surmounted by hats of serious brim, and now and then a scarlet cloak, smacking of the old

And all the time the star of these festivities was receding further and further, and eclipsing himself with his

reluctant serf Ripton, who kept asking what they were to do and where they were going, and how late it was

in the day, and suggesting that the lads of Lobourne would be calling out for them, and Sir Austin requiring

their presence, without getting any attention paid to his misery or remonstrances. For Richard had been

requested by his father to submit to medical examination like a boor enlisting for a soldier, and he was in

He was flying as though he would have flown from the shameful thought of what had been asked of him.

Byandby he communicated his sentiments to Ripton, who said they were those of a girl: an offensive

remark, remembering which, Richard, after they had borrowed a couple of guns at the bailiff's farm, and

Feeling that circumstances were making him look wonderfully like one, Ripton lifted his head and retorted

This angry contradiction, so very uncalled for, annoyed Richard, who was still smarting at the loss of his

birds, owing to Ripton's bad shot, and was really the injured party. He therefore bestowed the abusive epithet

``You shan't call me so, then, whether I am or not,'' says Ripton, and sticks his lips.

This was becoming personal. Richard sent up his brows, and stared at his defier an instant. He then informed

him that he certainly should call him so, and would not object to call him so twenty times,

With a gravity of which only boys and other barbarians are capable, Richard went through the entire number,

stressing the epithet to increase the defiance and avoid monotony, as he progressed, while Ripton bobbed his

head every time in assent, as it were, to his comrade's accuracy, and as a record for his profound humiliation.

The dog they had with them gazed at the extraordinary performance with interrogating wags of the tail.

At the twentieth solemn iteration of Ripton's capital shortcoming, Ripton delivered a smart backhander on

Richard's mouth, and squared precipitately; perhaps sorry when the deed was done, for he was a kindhearted

lad, and as Richard simply bowed in acknowledgment of the blow he thought he had gone too far. He did not

``A little more into the wood, I think. We may be interrupted.'' And Richard led the way with a courteous

reserve that somewhat chilled Ripton's ardour for the contest. On the skirts of the wood, Richard threw off his

jacket and waistcoat, and, quite collected, waited for Ripton to do the same. The latter boy was flushed and

restless; older and broader, but not so tightlimbed and wellset. The Gods, sole witnesses of their battle,

betted dead against him. Richard had mounted the white cockade of the Feverels, and there was a look in him

that asked for tough work to extinguish. His brows, slightly lined upward at the temples, converging to a knot

about the wellset straight nose; his full grey eyes, open nostrils, and planted feet, and a gentlemanly air of

calm and alertness, formed a spirited picture of a young combatant. As for Ripton, he was all abroad, and

fought in schoolboy stylethat is, he rushed at the foe head foremost, and struck like a windmill. He was

a lumpy boy. When he did hit, he made himself felt; but he was at the mercy of science. To see him come

dashing in, blinking and puffing and whirling his arms abroad while the felling blow went straight between

them, you perceived that he was fighting a fight of desperation, and knew it. For the dreaded alternative

glared him in the face that, if he yielded, he must look like what he had been twenty times calumniously

called; and he would die rather than yield, and swing his windmill till he dropped. Poor boy! he dropped

frequently. The gallant fellow fought for appearances, and down he went. The Gods favour one of two

parties. Prince Turnus was a noble youth; but he had not Pallas at his elbow. Ripton was a capital boy, but he

had no science. He could not prove he was not a fool! When one comes to think of it, Ripton did choose the

only possible way, and we should all of us have considerable difficulty in proving the negative by any other.

Ripton came on the unerring fist again and again; and if it was true, as he said in short colloquial gasps, that

he required as much beating as an egg to be beaten thoroughly, a fortunate interruption alone saved our friend

from resembling that substance. The boys heard summoning voices, and beheld Mr. Morton of Poer Hall and

A truce was sounded, jackets were caught up, guns shouldered, and off they trotted in concert through the

depths of the wood, not stopping till that and halfadozen fields and a larch plantation were well behind

When they halted to take breath, there was a mutual study of faces. Ripton's was much discoloured, and

looked fiercer with its natural warpaint than the boy felt. Nevertheless, he squared up dauntlessly on the

new ground, and Richard, whose wrath was appeased, could not refrain from asking him whether he had not

``Well, look here,'' said Richard, appealing to common sense, ``I'm tired of knocking you down. I'll say you're

Ripton demurred an instant to consult with honour, who bade him catch at his chance.

He held out his hand. ``There!'' and the boys grasped hands and were fast friends. Ripton had gained his

point, and Richard decidedly had the best of it. So they were on equal ground. Both could claim a victory,

Ripton washed his face and comforted his nose at a brook, and was now ready to follow his friend wherever

he chose to lead. They continued to beat about for birds. The birds on the Raynham estates were found

singularly cunning, and repeatedly eluded the aim of these prime shots, so they pushed their expedition into

the lands of their neighbours, in search of a stupider race, happily oblivious of the laws and conditions of

trespass; unconscious, too, that they were poaching on the demesne of the notorious Farmer Blaize, the

freetrade farmer under the shield of the Papworths, no worshipper of the Griffin between two

Wheatsheaves; destined to be much allied with Richard's fortunes from beginning to end. Farmer Blaize

hated poachers, and especially young chaps poaching, who did it mostly from impudence. He heard the

audacious shots popping right and left, and going forth to have a glimpse at the intruders, and observing their

Richard had brought down a beautiful cockpheasant, and was exulting over it, when the farmer's portentous

figure burst upon them, cracking an avenging horsewhip. His salute was ironical.

``Say, please,'' interposed Ripton, who, not being the possessor of the bird, was not blind to doubtful aspects.

``Please to you, sir? Why, my chap, you looks as if ye didn't much mind what come t' yer nose, I reckon. You

looks an old poacher, you do. Tall ye what 'tis!'' He changed his banter to business, ``That bird's mine! Now

you jest hand him over, and sheer off, you dam young scoundrels! I know ye!'' And he became exceedingly

opprobrious, and uttered contempt at the name of Feverel. Richard opened his eyes.

``If you wants to be horsewhipped, you'll stay where y'are!'' continued the farmer. ``Giles Blaize never stands

``Good! so be't! If you will have't, have't, my men!'' As a preparatory measure, Farmer Blaize seized a wing

of the bird, on which both boys flung themselves desperately, and secured it minus the pinion.

``That's your game,'' cried the farmer. ``Here's a taste of horsewhip for ye. I never stands nonsense!'' and

sweetch went the mighty whip, well swayed. The boys tried to close with him. He kept his distance and

lashed without mercy. Black blood was made by Farmer Blaize that day! The boys wriggled, in spite of

themselves. It was like a relentless serpent coiling, and biting, and stinging their young veins to madness.

Probably they felt the disgrace of the contortions they were made to go through more than the pain, but the

pain was fierce, for the farmer laid about from a practised arm, and did not consider that he had done enough

till he was well breathed and his ruddy jowl inflamed. He paused, to receive the remainder of the

Shameful as it was to retreat, there was but that course open to them. They decided to surrender the field.

``Look! you big brute,'' Richard shook his gun, hoarse with passion, ``I'd have shot you, if I'd been loaded.

The unEnglish nature of this threat exasperated Farmer Blaize, and he pressed the pursuit in time to bestow

a few farewell stripes as they were escaping tightbreeched into neutral territory. At the hedge they parleyed

a minute, the farmer to inquire if they had had a mortal good tanning and were satisfied, for when they

wanted a further instalment of the same they were to come for it to Belthorpe Farm, and there it was in

pickle: the boys meantime exploding in menaces and threats of vengeance, on which the farmer

contemptuously turned his back. Ripton had already stocked an armful of flints for the enjoyment of a little

skirmishing, Richard, however, knocked them all out, saying, ``No! Gentlemen don't fling stones; leave that

``Just one shy at him!'' pleaded Ripton, with his eye on Farmer Blaize's broad mark, and his whole mind

drunken with a sudden revelation of the advantages of light troops in opposition to heavies.

``No,'' said Richard, imperatively, ``no stones,'' and marched briskly away. Ripton followed with a sigh. His

leader's magnanimity was wholly beyond him. A good sparkling mark at the farmer would have relieved

Master Ripton; it would have done nothing to console Richard Feverel for the ignominy he had been

compelled to submit to. Ripton was familiar with the rod, a monster much despoiled of his terrors by

intimacy. Birchfever was past with this boy. The horrible sense of shame, selfloathing, universal hatred,

impotent vengeance, as if the spirit were steeped in abysmal blackness, which comes upon a courageous and

sensitive youth condemned for the first time to taste this piece of fleshly bitterness, and suffer what he feels is

a defilement, Ripton had weathered and forgotten. He was seasoned wood, and took the world pretty wisely;

not reckless of castigation, as some boys become, nor oversensitive as to dishonour, as his friend and

Richard's blood was poisoned. He had the fever on him severely. He would not allow stoneflinging, because

it was a habit of his to discountenance it. Mere gentlemanly considerations had scarce shielded Farmer

Blaize, and certain very ungentlemanly schemes were coming to ghastly heads in the tumult of his brain;

rejected solely from their glaring impracticability even to his young intelligence. A sweeping and

consummate vengeance for the indignity alone should satisfy him. Something tremendous must be done, and

done without delay. At one moment he thought of killing all the farmer's cattle; next of killing him;

challenging him to single combat with the arms, and according to the fashion of gentlemen. But the farmer

was a coward; he would refuse. Then he, Richard Feverel, would stand by the farmer's bedside, and rouse

him; rouse him to fight with powder and ball in his own chamber, in the cowardly midnight, where he might

``Lord!'' cried simple Ripton, while these hopeful plots were raging in his comrade's brain, now sparkling for

immediate execution, and anon lapsing disdainfully dark in their chances of fulfilment, ``how I wish you'd

have let me notch him, Ricky! I'm a safe shot. I never miss. I should feel quite jolly if I'd spanked him once.

We should have had the best of him at that game. I say!'' and a sharp thought drew Ripton's ideas nearer

home, ``I wonder whether my nose is as bad as he says! Where can I see myself? Gracious! what shall I do

when we get to Raynham, if it is? What'll the ladies think of me? O Lord, Ricky! suppose it turns blue?''

Ripton moved a meditative forefinger down the bridge of his nose as this horrible suspicion clouded him.

Farmer Blaize passed from his mind. The wretched boy called aloud in agony that his nose was turning blue.

``Oh, if I had a bit of raw meat to lay across it!'' he cried. ``What a fool I was to fight!Won't I learn

boxing!What shall I look like?'' To these doleful exclamations Richard was deaf, and trudged steadily

After tearing through innumerable hedges, leaping fences, jumping dykes, penetrating brambly copses, and

getting dirty, ragged, and tired, Ripton awoke from his dream of Farmer Blaize and a blue nose to the vivid

consciousness of hunger; and this grew with the rapidity of light upon him, till in the course of another

minute he was enduring the extremes of famine, and ventured to question his leader whither he was being

conducted. Raynham was out of sight. They were a long way down the valley, miles from Lobourne, in a

country of sour pools, yellow brooks, rank pasturage, desolate heath. Solitary cows were seen; the smoke of a

mud cottage; a cart piled with peat; a donkey grazing at leisure, oblivious of an unkind world; geese by a

horsepond, gabbling as in the first loneliness of creation; uncooked things that a famishing boy cannot

``Where _are_ you going to?'' he inquired with a voice of the last time of asking, and halted resolutely.

``Anywhere!'' Ripton took up the moody word. ``But ain't you awfully hungry?'' he gasped vehemently in a

``Not hungry!'' Ripton's amazement lent him increased vehemence. ``Why, you haven't had anything to eat

since breakfast! Not hungry? I declare I'm starving. I feel such a gnawing I could eat dry bread and cheese!''

Richard sneered: not for reasons that would have actuated a similar demonstration of the philosopher.

Richard faced about to make a querulous retort. The injured and hapless visage that met his eye disarmed

him. The lad's unhappy nose, though not exactly of the dreaded hue, was really becoming discoloured. To

upbraid him would be cruel. Richard lifted his head, surveyed the position, and exclaiming ``Here!'' dropped

down on a withered bank, leaving Ripton to contemplate him as a puzzle whose every new move was a worse

Among boys there are laws of honour and chivalrous codes, not written or formally taught, but intuitively

understood by all, and invariably acted upon by the loyal and the true. The race is not nearly civilized, we

must remember. Thus, not to follow your leader whithersoever he may think proper to lead; to back out of an

expedition because the end of it frowns dubious, and the present fruit of it is discomfort; to quit a comrade on

the road, and return home without him. these are tricks which no boy of spirit would be guilty of, let him

come to any description of mortal grief in consequence. Better so than have his own conscience denouncing

him sneak. Some boys who behave boldly enough are not troubled by this conscience, and the eyes and the

lips of their fellows have to supply the deficiency. They do it with just as haunting, and even more horrible

pertinacity, than the inner voice, and the result, if the probation be not very severe and searching, is the same.

The leader can rely on the faithfulness of his host: the comrade is sworn to serve. Master Ripton Thompson

was naturally loyal. The idea of turning off and forsaking his friend never once crossed his mind, though his

condition was desperate, and his friend's behaviour that of a Bedlamite. He announced several times

impatiently that they would be too late for dinner. His friend did not budge. Dinner seemed nothing to him.

There he lay plucking grass, and patting the old dog's nose, as if incapable of conceiving what a thing hunger

was. Ripton took halfadozen turns up and down, and at last flung himself down beside the taciturn boy,

Now, the chance that works for certain purposes sent a smart shower from the sinking sun, and the wet sent

two strangers for shelter in the lane behind the hedge where the boys reclined. One was a travelling tinker,

who lit a pipe and spread a tawny umbrella. The other was a burly young countryman, pipeless and tentless.

They saluted with a nod, and began recounting for each other's benefit the daylong doings of the weather, as

it had affected their individual experience, and followed their prophecies. Both had anticipated and foretold a

bit of rain before night, and therefore both welcomed the wet with satisfaction. A monotonous betweenwhiles

kind of talk they kept droning, in harmony with the still hum of the air. From the weather theme they fell

upon the blessings of tobacco; how it was the poor man's friend, his company, his consolation, his comfort,

``Better than a wife!'' chuckled the tinker. ``No curtainlecturin' with a pipe. Your pipe an't a shrew.''

``That be it!'' the other chimed in. ``Your pipe doan't mak' ye out wi' all the cash Saturday evenin'.''

``Take one,'' said the tinker, in the enthusiasm of the moment, handing a grimy short clay. SpeedthePlough

``And you can get rid of it, if ye wants for to, and when ye wants,'' added tinker.

``So ye can!'' SpeedthePlough took him up, ``So ye can! And ye doan't want for to. Leastways, t'other case.

``And,'' continued Tinker, comprehending him perfectly, ``it don't bring repentance after it.''

``Not nohow, master, it doan't! And''SpeedthePlough cocked his eye``it doan't eat up half the

Here the honest yeoman gesticulated his keen sense of a clincher, which the tinker acknowledged; and

having, so to speak, sealed up the subject by saying the best thing that could be said, the two smoked for

Ripton solaced his wretchedness by watching them through the briar hedge. He saw the tinker stroking a

white cat, and appealing to her, every now and then, as his missus, for an opinion or a confirmation; and he

thought that a curious sight. SpeedthePlough was stretched at full length, with his boots in the rain, and his

head amidst the tinker's pots, smoking profoundly contemplative. The minutes seemed to be taken up

``But it somehow comes round right,'' resumed the tinker. ``Why, look here. Where's the good o' moping? I

sees it all come round right and tight. Now I travels about. I've got beat. 'Casion calls me t'other day to

``Coals!'' echoed the tinker. ``You ask what I goes there for, mayhap? Never you mind. One sees a mort o'

life in my trade. Not for coals it isn't. And I don't carry 'em there, neither. Anyhow, I comes back. London's

my mark. Says I, I'll see a bit o' the sea, and steps aboard a collier. We were as nigh wrecked as the prophet

``Read your Bible,'' said the tinker. ``We pitched and tossed'tain't that game at sea 'tis on land, I can tell

ye! I thinks, down we're agoingSay your prayers, Bob Tiles! That was a night, to be sure! But God's

SpeedthePlough lurched round on his elbow and regarded him indifferently: ``D'ye call that doctrin'? He

bean't al'ays, or I shoo'n't 'be scrapin' my heels wi' nothin' to do, and, what's warse, nothin' to eat. Why, look

heer. Luck's luck, and bad luck's the contrary. Varmer Bollop, t'other day' has's rick burnt down. Next night

his gran'ry's burnt. What do he tak' and go and do? He takes and goes and hangs unsel', and turns us out of his

employ. God warn't above the devil then, I thinks, or I can't make out the reckonin'.''

``And a darn'd bad case. I'll tak' my oath on't!'' cried SpeedthePlough. ``Well, look heer! Heer's another

darn'd bad case. I threshed for Varmer BlaizeBlaize o' Beltharpeafore I goes to Varmer Bollop.

Varmer Blaize misses pilkins. He swears our chaps steals pilkins. 'Twarn't me steals 'em. What do _he_ tak'

and go and do? He takes and tarns us off, me and another, neck and crop, to scuffle about and starve, for all

_he_ keers. God warn't above the devil then, I thinks. Not nohow, as I can see!''

``And you can't mend it,'' added SpeedthePlough. ``It's bad, and there it be. But I'll tell ye what, master.

``Bad has its wages as well's honest work, I'm thinkin'. Varmer Bollop I don't owe no grudge to: Varmer

Blaize I do. And I shud like to stick a Lucifer in his rick some dry windy night.'' SpeedthePlough screwed

up an eye villainously. ``He wants hittin' in the wind,jest where the pocket is, master, do Varmer Blaize,

and he'll cry out `O Lor'!' Varmer Blaize will. You won't get the better o' Varmer Blaize by no means, as I

The tinker sent a rapid succession of white clouds from his mouth, and said that would be taking the devil's

side of a bad case. SpeedthePlough observed energetically that, if Farmer Blaize was on the other, he

There was a young gentleman close by, who thought with him. The hope of Raynham had lent a careless

halfcompelled attention to the foregoing dialogue, wherein a common labourer and a travelling tinker had

propounded and discussed one of the most ancient theories of transmundane dominion and influence on

mundane affairs. He now started to his feet, and came tearing through the briar hedge, calling out for one of

them to direct them the nearest road to Bursley. The tinker was kindling preparations for his tea, under the

tawny umbrella. A loaf was set forth, on which Ripton's eyes, stuck in the edge, fastened ravenously.

SpeedthePlough volunteered information that Bursley was a good three mile from where they stood, and a

``I'll give you halfacrown for that loaf, my good fellow,'' said Richard to the tinker.

``It's a bargain,'' quoth the tinker, ``eh, missus?'' His cat replied by humping her back at the dog. The

halfcrown was tossed down, and Ripton, who had just succeeded in freeing his limbs from the briar, prickly

``Those young squires be sharpset, and no mistake,'' said the tinker to his companion. ``Come! we'll to

Bursley after 'em, and talk it out over a pot o' beer.'' SpeedthePlough was nothing loth, and in a short time

they were following the two lads on the road to Bursley, while a horizontal blaze shot across the autumn land

Search for the missing boys had been made everywhere over Raynham, and Sir Austin was in grievous

discontent. None had seen them save Austin Wentworth and Mr. Morton. The baronet sat construing their

account of the flight of the lads when they were hailed, and resolved it into an act of rebellion on the part of

his son. At dinner he drank the young heir's health in ominous silence. Adrian Harley stood up in his place to

propose the health. His speech was a fine piece of rhetoric. He warmed in it till, after the Ciceronic model,

inanimate objects were personified, and Richard's tablenapkin and vacant chair were invoked to follow the

steps of a peerless father, and uphold with his dignity the honour of the Feverels. Austin Wentworth, whom a

soldier's death compelled to take his father's place in support of the toast, was tame after such magniloquence.

But the reply, the thanks which young Richard should have delivered in person were not forthcoming.

Adrian's oratory had given but a momentary life to napkin and chair. The company of honoured friends, and

aunts, and uncles, and remotest cousins, were glad to disperse and seek amusement in music and tea. Sir

Austin did his utmost to be hospitably cheerful, and requested them to dance. If he had desired them to laugh

``How triste!'' said Mrs. Doria Forey to Lobourne's curate, as that most enamoured automaton went through

``One who does not suffer can hardly assent,'' the curate answered, basking in her beams.

``Ah, you are good!'' exclaimed the lady. ``Look at my Clare. She will not dance on her cousin's birthday

``Alas, madam! you cannot do for all what you do for one,'' the curate sighed, and wherever she wandered in

He was the only gratified stranger present. The others had designs on the young heir. Lady Attenbury of

Longford House had brought her highlypolished specimen of marketware, the Lady Juliana Jaye, for a first

introduction to him, thinking he had arrived at an age to estimate and pine for her black eyes and pretty pert

mouth. The Lady Juliana had to pair off with a dapper Papworth, and her mama was subjected to the

gallantries of Sir Miles, who talked land and steamengines to her till she was sick, and had to be impertinent

in selfdefence. Lady Blandish, the delightful widow, sat apart with Adrian, and enjoyed his sarcasms on the

company. By ten at night the poor show ended, and the rooms were dark, dark as the prognosties

multitudinously hinted by the disappointed and chilled guests concerning the probable future of the hope of

Raynham. Little Clare kissed her mama, curtsied to the lingering curate, and went to bed like a very good

girl. Immediately the maid had departed, little Clare deliberately exchanged night attire for that of day. She

was noted as an obedient child. Her light was always allowed to burn in her room for half an hour, to

counteract her fears of the dark. She took the light, and stole on tiptoe to Richard's room. No Richard was

there. She peeped in further and further. A trifling agitation of the curtains shot her back through the door and

along the passage to her own bedchamber with extreme expedition. She was not much alarmed, but feeling

guilty she was on her guard. In a short time she was prowling about the passages again. Richard had slighted

and offended the little lady, and was to be asked whether he did not repent such conduct toward his cousin;

not to be asked whether he had forgotten to receive his birthday kiss from her; for, if he did not choose to

remember that, Miss Clare would never remind him of it, and tonight should be his last chance of a

reconciliation. Thus she meditated, sitting on a stair, and presently heard Richard's voice below in the hall,

``Master Richard has returned,'' old Benson the butler tolled out intelligence to Sir Austin.

``He complains of being hungry,'' the butler hesitated, with a look of solemn disgust.

Heavy Benson hesitated still more as he announced that the boy had called for wine. It was an unprecedented

thing. Sir Austin's brows were portending an arch, but Adrian suggested that he wanted possibly to drink his

The boys were in the vortex of a partridgepie when Adrian strolled in to them. They had now changed

characters. Richard was uproarious. He drank a health with every glass; his cheeks were flushed and his eyes

brilliant. Ripton looked very much like a rogue on the tremble of detection, but his honest hunger and the

partridgepie shielded him awhile from Adrian's scrutinizing glance. Adrian saw there was matter for study,

if it were only on Master Ripton's betraying nose, and sat down to hear and mark.

``Good sport, gentlemen, I trust to hear?'' he began his quiet banter, and provoked a loud peal of laughter

``Ha, ha! I say, Rip: `Havin' good sport, gentlemen, are ye?' You remember the farmer! Your health, parson!

We haven't had our sport yet. We're going to have some firstrate sport. Oh, well! we haven't much show of

birds. We shot for pleasure, and returned them to the proprietors. You're fond of game, parson! Ripton is a

dead shot in what cousin Austin calls the Kingdom of `wouldhavedone' and `mighthavebeen.' Up went

the birds, and cries Rip, `I've forgotten to load!' Oh, ho!Rip! some more claret.Do just leave that nose

of yours alone.Your health, Ripton Thompson! The birds hadn't the decency to wait for him, and so,

parson, it's their fault, and not Rip's, you haven't a dozen brace at your feet. What have you been doing at

``Playing Hamlet, in the absence of the Prince of Denmark. The day without you, my dear boy, must be dull,

Sandoe's poems! You know the couplet, Mr. Rady. Why shouldn't I quote Sandoe? You know you like him,

Rady. But, if you've missed me, I'm sorry. Rip and I have had a beautiful day. We've made new

acquaintances. We've seen the world. I'm the monkey that has seen the world, and I'm going to tell you all

about it. First, there's a gentleman who takes a rifle for a fowlingpiece. Next, there's a farmer who warns

everybody, gentleman and beggar, off his premises. Next, there's a tinker and a ploughman, who think that

God is always fighting with the devil which shall command the kingdoms of the earth. The tinker's for God,

``Oh, I forgot, parson.I mean no harm, Adrian. I'm only telling what I've heard.''

``No harm, my dear boy,'' returned Adrian. ``I'm perfectly aware that Zoroaster is not dead. You have been

``Here's to Zoroaster, then!'' cried Richard. ``I say, Rippy! we'll drink the Fireworshippers tonight, won't

A fearful conspiratorial frown, that would not have disgraced Guido Fawkes, was darted back from the

Another hideous and silencing frown was Ripton's answer. Adrian watched the innocent youths, and knew

that there was talking under the table. ``See,'' thought he, ``this boy has tasted his first scraggy morsel of life

today, and already he talks like an old stager, and has, if I mistake not, been acting too. My respected chief,''

he apostrophised Sir Austin, ``combustibles are only the more dangerous for compression. This boy will be

ravenous for Earth when he is let loose, and very soon make his share of it look as foolish as yonder

Uncle Algernon shambled in to see his nephew before the supper was finished, and his more genial presence

``Look here, uncle!'' said Richard. ``Would you let a churlish old brute of a farmer strike you without making

``Of course you would! So would I. And he shall suffer for it.'' The boy looked savage, and his uncle patted

Look there! Adrian read on Ripton's face, he says `never mind,' and lets it out!

``Yes, boy; and we'd beat them any day they bowl fair. I'd beat them on one leg. There's only Natkins and

``We beat!'' cries Richard. ``Then we'll have some more wine, and drink their healths.''

The bell was rung; wine ordered. Presently comes in heavy Benson, to say supplies are cut off. One bottle,

and no more. The Captain whistled: Adrian shrugged. The bottle, however, was procured by Adrian

One subject was at Richard's heart, about which he was reserved, in the midst of his riot. Too proud to inquire

how his father had taken his absence, he burned to hear whether he was in disgrace. He led to it repeatedly,

and it was constantly evaded by Algernon and Adrian. At last, when the boy declared a desire to wish his

father goodnight, Adrian had to tell him that he was to go straight to bed from the suppertable. Young

Richard's face fell at that, and his gaiety forsook him. He marched to his room without another word.

Adrian gave Sir Austin an able version of his son's behaviour and adventures; dwelling upon this sudden

taciturnity when he heard of his father's resolution not to see him. The wise youth saw that his chief was

mollified behind his moveless mask, and went to bed, and Horace, leaving Sir Austin in his study. Long

hours the baronet sat alone. The house had not its usual influx of Feverels that day. Austin Wentworth was

staying at Poer Hall, and had only come over for an hour. At midnight the house breathed sleep. Sir Austin

put on his cloak and cap, and took the lamp to make his rounds. He apprehended nothing special, but with a

mind never at rest he constituted himself the sentinel of Raynham. He passed the chamber where the

GreatAunt Grantley lay, who was to swell Richard's fortune, and so perform her chief business on earth. By

her door he murmured, ``Good creature! you sleep with a sense of duty done,'' and paced on, reflecting, ``She

has not made money a demon of discord,'' and blessed her. He had his thoughts at Hippias's somnolent door,

A monomaniac at large, watching over sane people in slumber! thinks Adrian Harley, as he hears Sir Austin's

footfall, and truly that was a strange object to see.Where is the fortress that has not one weak gate? where

the man who is sound at each particular angle? Ay, meditates the recumbent cynic, more or less mad is not

every mother's son? Favourable circumstancesgood air, good company, two or three good rules rigidly

adhered tokeep the world out of Bedlam. But, let the world fly into a passion, and is not Bedlam the

Sir Austin ascended the stairs, and bent his steps leisurely towards the chamber where his son was lying in

the left wing of the Abbey. At the end of the gallery which led to it he discovered a dim light. Doubting it an

illusion, Sir Austin accelerated his pace. This wing had aforetime a bad character. Notwithstanding what

years had done to polish it into fair repute, the Raynham kitchen stuck to tradition still, and preserved certain

stories of ghosts seen there, and thought to have been seen, that effectually blackened it in the susceptible

minds of new housemaids and undercooks, whose fears would not allow the sinner to wash his sins. Sir

Austin had heard of the tales circulated by his domestics underground. He cherished his own belief, but

discouraged theirs, and it was treason at Raynham to be caught traducing the left wing. As the baronet

advanced, the fact of a light burning was clear to him. A slight descent brought him into the passage, and he

beheld a poor human candle standing outside his son's chamber. At the same moment a door closed hastily.

He entered Richard's room. The boy was absent. The bed was unpressed: no clothes about: nothing to show

that he had been there that night. Sir Austin felt vaguely apprehensive. Has he gone to my room to await me?

thought the father's heart. Something like a tear quivered in his and eyes as he meditated and hoped this might

be so. His own sleepingroom faced that of his son. He strode to it with a heart. It was empty. My son! my

son! what is this? he murmured. Alarm dislodged anger from his jealous heart, and dread of evil put a

thousand questions to him that were answered in air. After pacing up and down his room he determined to go

The chamber assigned to Master Ripton Thompson was at the northern extremity of the passage, and

overlooked Lobourne and the valley to the west. The bed stood between the window and the door. Sir Austin

found the door ajar, and the interior dark. To his surprise, the boy Thompson's coach, as revealed by the rays

of his lamp, was likewise vacant. He was turning back when he fancied he heard the sibilation of a

whispering in the room. Sir Austin cloaked the lamp and trod silently toward the window. The heads of his

son Richard and the boy Thompson were seen crouched against the glass, holding excited converse together.

Sir Austin listened, but he listened to a language of which he possessed not the key. Their talk was of fire,

and of delay: of expected agrarian astonishment: of a farmer's huge wrath: of violence exercised towards

gentlemen, and of vengeance: talk that the boys jerked out by fits, and that came as broken links of a chain

impossible to connect. But they awoke curiosity. The baronet condescended to play the spy upon his son.

``How jolly I feel!'' exclaimed Ripton, inspired by claret; and then, after a luxurious pause``I think that

Richard allowed a long minute to pass, during which the baronet waited anxiously for his voice, hardly

``You would?'' returned Master Ripton. ``Well, I'm hanged!I say, if you went to school, wouldn't you get

into rows! Perhaps he hasn't found the place where the box was stuck in. I think he funks it. I almost wish you

hadn't done it, upon my honoureh? Look there! what was that? That looked like something.I say! do

``I don 't think about it,'' said Richard, all his faculties bent on signs from Lobourne.

Sir Austin breathed the better for this reply. He was beginning to gather a clue to the dialogue. His son was

engaged in a plot, and was, moreover, the leader of the plot. He listened for further enlightenment.

``I'll tell you what,'' continued Ripton. ``You let it all clean out to your cousin and uncle at supper.How

The young sensualist was in an ecstasy of gratitude to his late refection, and the slightest word recalled him to

``Yes; and felt your kick. It doesn't matter. Rady's safe, and uncle never blabs.''

``Well, my plan is to keep it close. You're never safe if you don't.I never drank much claret before,''

Ripton was off again. ``Won't I now, though! claret's my wine. You know, it may come out any day, and then

Richard only took up the businessthread of his friend's rambling chatter, and answered

``Haven't I, though! I didn't stick in the box, but I'm an accomplice, that's clear. Besides,'' added Ripton, ``do

you think I should leave you to bear it all on your shoulders? I ain't that sort of chap, Ricky, I can tell you.''

Sir Austin thought more highly of the boy Thompson. Still it looked a detestable conspiracy, and the altered

manner of his son impressed him strangely. He was not the boy of yesterday. To Sir Austin it seemed as if a

gulf had suddenly opened between them. The boy had embarked, and was on the waters of life in his own

vessel. It was as vain to call him back as to attempt to erase what Time has written with the Judgement

Blood! This child, for whom he had prayed nightly in such a fervour and humbleness to God, the dangers

were about him, the temptations thick on him, and the devil on board piloting. If a day had done so much,

what would years do? Were prayers and all the watchfulness he had expended of no avail?

A sensation of infinite melancholy overcame the poor gentlemana thought that he was fighting with a fate

He was half disposed to arrest the two conspirators on the spot, and make them confess, and absolve

themselves; but it seemed to him better to keep an unseen eye over his son: Sir Austin's old system prevailed.

Adrian characterized this system well, in saying that Sir Austin wished to be Providence to his son.

If immeasurable love were perfect wisdom, one human being might almost impersonate Providence to

another. Alas! love, divine as it is, can do no more than lighten the house it inhabitsmust take its shape,

sometimes intensify its narrownesscan spiritualize, but not expel, the old lifelong lodgers abovestairs

The valley still lay black beneath the large autumnal stars, and the exclamations of the boys were becoming

fevered and impatient. Byandby one insisted that he had seen a twinkle. The direction he gave was out of

their anticipations. Again the twinkle was announced. Both boys started to their feet. It was a twinkle in the

``He's done it!'' cried Richard in great heat. ``Now you may say old Blaize'll soon be old Blazes, Rip. I hope

``I'm sure he's snoring!Look there! He's alight fast enough. He's dry. He'll burn.I say,'' Ripton

``Of course we will. But, I say! I wish you hadn't given them the scent, though. I like to look innocent. I can't

when I know people suspect me. Lord! look there! Isn't it just beginning to flare up!''

``I'll fetch my telescope,'' said Richard. Ripton, somehow not liking to be left alone, caught hold of him.

``No; don't go and lose the best of it. Here, I'll throw open the window, and we can see.''

The window was flung open, and the boys instantly stretched half their bodies out of it; Ripton appearing to

Opaque and statuesque stood the figure of the baronet behind them. The wind was low. Dense masses of

smoke hung amid the darting snakes of fire, and a red malign light was on the neighbouring leafage. No

figures could be seen. Apparently the flames had nothing to contend against, for they were making terrible

``Oh!'' shouted Richard, overcome by excitement, ``if I had my telescope! We must have it! Let me go and

The boys struggled together, and Sir Austin stepped back. As he did so, a cry was heard in the passage. He

hurried out, closed the chamber, and came upon little Clare lying senseless along the floor.

In the morning that followed this night, great gossip was interchanged between Raynham and Lobourne. The

village told how Farmer Blaize, of Belthorpe Farm, had his rick feloniously set fire to; his stables had caught

fire, himself had been all but roasted alive in the attempt to rescue his cattle, of which numbers had perished

in the flames. Raynham counterbalanced arson with an authentic ghost seen by Miss Clare in the left wing of

the Abbeythe ghost of a lady, dressed in deep mourning, a scar on her forehead, and a bloody

handkerchief at her breast, frightful to behold! and no wonder the child was frightened out of her wits, lay in

a desperate state awaiting the arrival of the London doctors. It was added that the servants had all threatened

to leave in a body, and that Sir Austin to appease them had promised to pull down the entire left wing, like a

gentleman; for no decent creature, said Lobourne, could consent to live in a haunted house.

Rumour for the nonce had a stronger spice of truth than usual. Poor little Clare lay ill, and the calamity that

had befallen Farmer Blaize, as regards his rick and his cattle, was not much exaggerated. Sir Austin caused an

account of it to be given him at breakfast, and appeared so scrupulously anxious to hear the exact extent of

injury sustained by the farmer that heavy Benson went down to inspect the scene. Mr. Benson returned, and,

acting under Adrian's malicious advice, framed a formal report of the catastrophe, in which the farmer's

breeches figured, and certain cooling applications to a part of the farmer's person. Sir Austin perused it

without a smile. He took occasion to have it read out before the two boys, who listened very demurely, as to

an ordinary newspaper incident; only when the report particularized the garments damaged, and the unwonted

distressing position Farmer Blaize was reduced to in his bed, an indecorous fit of sneezing laid hold of Master

Ripton Thompson, and Richard bit his lip and burst into loud laughter, Ripton joining him, lost to

``I trust you feel for this poor man,'' said Sir Austin to his son, somewhat sternly.

It was a difficult task for Sir Austin to keep his old countenance toward the hope of Raynham, knowing him

the accompliceincendiary, and believing the deed to have been unprovoked and wanton. But he must do so,

he knew, to let the boy have a fair trial against himself. Be it said, moreover, that the baronet's possession of

his son's secret flattered him. It allowed him to act, and in a measure to feel, like Providence; enabled him to

observe and provide for the movements of creatures in the dark. He therefore treated the boy as he commonly

did, and young Richard saw no change in his father to make him think he was suspected.

The game was not so easy against Adrian. Adrian did not shoot or fish. Voluntarily he did nothing to work

off the destructive nervous fluid, or whatever it may be, which is in man's nature; so that two culprit boys

once in his power were not likely to taste the gentle hand of mercy, and Richard and Ripton paid for many a

trout and partridge spared. At every minute of the day Ripton was thrown into sweats of suspicion that

discovery was imminent, by some stray remark or message from Adrian. He was as a fish with the hook in

his gills, mysteriously caught without having nibbled; and dive into what depths he would he was sensible of

a summoning force that compelled him perpetually towards the gasping surface, which he seemed inevitably

approaching when the dinnerbell sounded. There the talk was all of Farmer Blaize. If it dropped, Adrian

revived it, and his caressing way with Ripton was just such as a keen sportsman feels towards the creature

that has owned his skill, and is making its appearance for the world to acknowledge the same. Sir Austin saw

the manoeuvres, and admired Adrian's shrewdness. But he had to check the young natural lawyer, for the

effect of so much masked examination upon Richard was growing baneful. This fish also felt the hook in its

gills, but this fish was more of a pike, and lay in different waters, where there were old stumps and black

roots to wind itself about, and defy alike strong pulling and delicate handling. In other words, Richard

``You know the grounds, my dear boy,'' Adrian observed to him. ``Tell me; do you think it easy to get to the

``Not?'' Adrian counterfeited courteous astonishment. ``I thought Mr. Thompson said you were over there

Ripton, glad to speak a truth, hurriedly assured Adrian that it was not he had said so.

``Oh yes!'' mumbled the wretched victims, reddening as they remembered, in Adrian's slightly drawled

``I suppose you were among the Fireworshippers last night, too?'' persisted Adrian. ``In some countries, I

hear, they manage their best sport at nighttime, and beat up for game with torches. It must be a fine sight.

After all, the country would be dull if we hadn't a rip here and there to treat us to a little conflagration.''

``A rip!'' laughed Richard, to his friend's disgust and alarm at his daring. ``You don't mean this Rip, do you?''

``Mr. Thompson fire a rick? I should as soon suspect you, my dear boy.You are aware, young gentlemen,

that it is rather a serious thingEh? In this country, you know, the landlord has always been the pet of the

laws. By the way,'' Adrian continued, as if diverging to another topic, ``you met two gentlemen of the road in

your explorations yesterday, Magians. Now, if I were a magistrate of the county, like Sir Miles Papworth, my

suspicions would light upon those gentlemen. A tinker and a ploughman, I think you said, Mr. Thompson.

``The ploughm.'' Ingenuous Ripton looking about, as if to aid himself whenever he was able to speak the

truth, beheld Richard's face blackening at him, and swallowed back half the word.

``The ploughman!'' Adrian took him up cheerily. ``Then we have here a ploughman out of employ. Given a

ploughman out of employ, and a rick burnt. The burning of a rick is an act of vengeance, and a ploughman

out of employ is a vengeful animal. The rick and the ploughman are advancing to a juxtaposition. Motive

being established, we have only to prove their proximity at a certain hour, and our ploughman voyages

Adrian spoke solemnly: ``They shave your head. You are manacled. Your diet is sour bread and

cheeseparings. You work in strings of twenties and thirties. =Arson= is branded on your backs in an

enormous A. Theological works are the sole literary recreation of the wellconducted and deserving.

Consider the fate of this poor fellow, and what an act of vengeance brings him to! Do you know his name?''

``How should I know his name?'' said Richard, with a stubborn assumption of innocence painful to see.

Sir Austin remarked that no doubt it would soon be known, and Adrian perceived that he was to quiet his

line, marveling a little at the baronet's blindness to what was so clear. He would not tell, for that would ruin

his future influence with Richard; still he wanted some present credit for his discernment and devotion. The

boys got away from dinner, and, after deep consultation, agreed upon a course of conduct, which was to

commiserate Farmer Blaize loudly, and make themselves look as much like the public as it was possible for

two desperate young malefactors to look, one of whom already felt Adrian's enormous A devouring his back

with the fierceness of the Promethean eagle, and isolating him for ever from mankind. Adrian relished their

novel tactics sharply, and led them to lengths of lamentation for Farmer Blaize. Do what they might, the hook

was in their gills. The farmer's whip had reduced them to bodily contortions: these were decorous compared

with the spiritual writhings they had to perform under Adrian's skilful manipulation. Ripton was fast

becoming a coward, and Richard a liar, when next morning Austin Wentworth came over from Poer Hall

bringing news that one Mr. Thomas Bakewell, yeoman, had been arrested on suspicion of the crime of Arson

and lodged in jail, awaiting the magisterial pleasure of Sir Miles Papworth. Austin's eye rested on Richard as

he spoke these terrible tidings. The hope of Raynham returned his look, perfectly calm, and had, moreover,

As soon as they could escape, the boys got away together into an obscure corner of the park, and there took

Scorpion girt with fire was never in a more terrible prisonhouse than poor Ripton, around whom the raging

element he had assisted to create seemed to be drawing momently narrower circles.

``There's only one chance,'' said Richard, coming to a dead halt, and folding his arms resolutely.

Richard fixed his eyes on a flint, and replied: ``We must rescue that fellow from jail.''

``Rescue him from jail!'' Ripton gazed at his leader, and fell back with astonishment. ``My dear Ricky! but

Richard, still perusing his flint, replied: ``We must manage to get a file in to him and a rope. It can be done, I

tell you. I don't care what I pay. I don't care what I do. He must be got out.''

``Bother that old Blaize!'' exclaimed Ripton, taking off his cap to wipe his frenzied forehead, and brought

``Never mind old Blaize now. Talk about letting it out. Look at you. I'm ashamed of you. You talk about

Robin Hood and King Richard! Why, you haven't an atom of courage. Why, you let it out every second of the

day. Whenever Rady begins speaking you start; I can see the perspiration rolling down you. Are you

afraid?And then you contradict yourself. You never keep to one story. Now, follow me. We must risk

everything to get him out. Mind that! And keep out of Adrian's way as much as you can. And keep to one

With these sage directions the young leader marched his companionculprit down to inspect the jail where

Tom Bakewell lay groaning over the results of the supermundane conflict, and the victim of it that he was.

In Lobourne Austin Wentworth had the reputation of the poor man's friend; a title he earned more largely ere

he went to the reward God alone can give to that supreme virtue. Dame Bakewell, the mother of Tom, on

hearing of her son's arrest, had run to comfort him and render him what help she could; but this was only

sighs and tears, and, oh deary me! which only perplexed poor Tom, who bade her leave an unlucky chap to

his fate, and not make himself a thundering villain. Whereat the dame begged him to take heart, and he

should have a true comforter. ``And though it's a gentleman that's coming to you, Tomfor he never

refuses a poor body,'' said Mrs. Bakewell, ``it's a true Christian, Tom! and the Lord knows if the sight of him

mayn't be the saving of you, for he's light to look on, and a sermon to listen to, he is!''

Tom was not prepossessed by the prospect of a sermon, and looked a sullen dog enough when Austin entered

his cell. He was surprised at the end of half an hour to find himself engaged in mantoman conversation

with a gentleman and a Christian. When Austin rose to go, Tom begged permission to shake his hand.

``Take and tell young master up at the Abbey that I an't the chap to peach. He'll know. He's a young

gentleman as 'll make any man do as he wants 'em! He's a mortal wild young gentleman! And I'm a Ass!

This was how it came that Austin eyed young Richard seriously while he told the news at Raynham. The boy

was shy of Austin more than of Adrian. Why, he did not know; but he made it a hard task for Austin to catch

him alone, and turned sulky that instant. Austin was not clever like Adrian: he seldom divined other people's

ideas, and always went the direct road to his object; so instead of beating about and setting the boy on the

alert at all points, crammed to the muzzle with lies, he just said, ``Tom Bakewell told me to let you know he

Richard repeated the intelligence to Ripton, who cried aloud that Tom was a brick.

``He shan't suffer for it,'' said Richard, and pondered on a thicker rope and sharper file.

``He!'' Richard's lip expressed contempt. ``A ploughman refuses to peach, and you ask if one of our family

The boys had examined the outer walls of the jail, and arrived at the conclusion that Tom's escape might be

managed if Tom had spirit, and the rope and file could be anyway reached to him. But to do this, somebody

must gain admittance to his cell, and who was to be taken into their confidence?

``Try your cousin,'' Ripton suggested, after much debate. Richard, smiling, wished to know if he meant

``No, no!'' Ripton hurriedly reassured him. ``Austin.'' The same idea was knocking at Richard's head.

``Let's get the rope and file first,'' said he, and to Bursley they went for those implements to defeat the law,

Ripton procuring the file at one shop and Richard the rope at another, with such masterly cunning did they

lay their measures for the avoidance of every possible chance of detection. And better to assure this, in a

wood outside Bursley Richard stripped to his shirt and wound the rope round his body, tasting the tortures of

anchorites and penitential friars, that nothing should be risked to make Tom's escape a certainty. Sir Austin

saw the marks at night as his son lay asleep, through the halfopened folds of his bedgown. It was a severe

stroke when, after all their stratagems and trouble, Austin Wentworth refused the office the boys had

zealously designed for him. Time pressed. In a few days poor Tom would have to face the redoubtable Sir

Miles, and get committed, for rumours of overwhelming evidence to convict him were rife about Lobourne,

and Farmer Blaize's wrath was unappeasable. Again and again young Richard begged his cousin not to see

him disgraced, and to help him in this extremity. Austin was firm in his refusal.

``My dear Ricky,'' said he, ``there are two ways of getting out of a scrape: a long way and a short way. When

you've tried the roundabout method, and failed, come to me, and I'll show you the straight route.''

Richard was too entirely bent upon the roundabout method to consider this advice more than empty words,

He imparted to Ripton, at the eleventh hour, that they must do it themselves, to which Ripton heavily

On the day preceding poor Tom's doomed appearance before the magistrate, Dame Bakewell had an

interview with Austin, who went to Raynham immediately, and sought Adrian's counsel what was to be done.

Homeric laughter and nothing else could be got out of Adrian when he heard of the doings of these desperate

boys: how they had entered Dame Bakewell's smallest of retail shops, and purchased tea, sugar, candles, and

comfits of every description, till the shop was clear of customers: how they had then hurried her into her little

backparlour, where Richard had torn open his shirt and revealed the coils of rope, and Ripton displayed the

point of a file from a serpentine recess in his jacket: how they had then told the astonished woman that the

rope she saw and the file she saw were instruments for the liberation of her son; that there existed no other

means on earth to save him, they, the boys, having unsuccessfully attempted all: how upon that Richard had

tried with the utmost earnestness to persuade her to disrobe and wind the rope round her own person: and

Ripton had aired his eloquence to induce her to secrete the file: how, when she resolutely objected to the

rope, both boys began backing the file, and in an evil hour, she feared, said Dame Bakewell, she had

rewarded the gracious permission given her by Sir Miles Papworth to visit her son, by tempting Tom to file

the Law. Though, thanks be to the Lord! Dame Bakewell added, Tom had turned up his nose at the file, and

``Boys are like monkeys,'' remarked Adrian, at the close of his explosions, ``the gravest actors of farcical

nonsense that the world possesses. May I never be where there are no boys! A couple of boys left to

themselves will furnish richer fun than any troop of trained comedians. No: no Art arrives at the artlessness of

nature in matters of comedy. You can't simulate the ape. Your antics are dull. They haven't the charming

inconsequence of the natural animal. Look at these two! Think of the shifts they are put to all day long! They

know I know all about it, and yet their serenity of innocence is all but unruffled in my presence. You're sorry

to think about the end of the business, Austin? So am I! I dread the idea of the curtain going down. Besides, it

``Sinks deepest,'' said Austin, ``but whether he learns good or evil from it is the question at stake.''

``This will be his first nibble at experience, old Time's fruit, hateful to the palate of youth! for which season

only hath it any nourishment! Experience! You know Coleridge's capital simile?Mournful you call it?

Well! all wisdom is mournful. 'Tis therefore, coz, that the wise do love the Comic Muse. Their own high food

would kill them. You shall find great poets, rare philosophers, night after night on the broad grin before a row

of yellow lights and mouthing masks. Why? Because all's dark at home. The stage is the pastime of great

minds. That's how it comes that the stage is now down. An age of rampant little minds, my dear Austin! How

I hate that cant of yours about an Age of Workyou, and your Mortons, and your parsons Brawnley, rank

radicals all of you, base materialists! What does Diaper Sandoe sing of your Age of Work? Listen!

Murmuring, ``Get your parson Brawnley to answer that!'' Adrian changed the restingplace of a leg, and

``My parson Brawnley, as you call him, has answered it,'' said Austin, ``not by hoping his best, which would

probably leave the Age to go mad to your satisfaction, but by doing it. And he has and will answer your

``You don't see Sandoe's depth,'' Adrian replied. ``Consider that phrase, `Ophelia of the Ages'! Is not

Brawnley, like a dozen other leading spiritsI think that's your term just the metaphysical Hamlet to

drive her mad? She, poor maid! asks for marriage and smiling babes, while my lord lover stands questioning

Austin laughed. ``Marriage and smiling babes she would have in abundance, if Brawnley legislated. Wait till

you know him. He will be over at Poer Hall shortly, and you will see what a Man of the Age means. But now

``Oh, those boys!'' Adrian tossed a hand. ``Are there boys of the Age as well as men? Not? Then boys are

better than men: boys are for all Ages. What do you think, Austin? They've been studying Latude's Escape. I

found the book open in Ricky's room, on the top of Jonathan Wild. Jonathan preserved the secrets of his

profession, and taught them nothing. So they're going to make a Latude of Mr. Tom Bakewell. He's to be

Bastille Bakewell, whether he will or no. Let them. Let the wild colt run free! We can't help them. We can

Adrian always made a point of feeding the fretful beast Impatience with pleasantriesa not congenial diet;

``You talk as if Time belonged to you, Adrian. We have but a few hours left us. Work first, and joke

``Yes, but this boy is at present under our guardianship under yours especially.''

``Not yet! not yet!'' Adrian interjected languidly. ``No getting into scrapes when I have him. The leash, young

``You may have something different to deal with when you are responsible, if you think that.''

``I take my young prince as I find him, coz: a Julian, or a Caracalla: a Constantine, or a Nero. Then, if he will

play the fiddle to a conflagration, he shall play it well: if he must be a disputatious apostate, at any rate he

``Without a single curb!'' Adrian gesticulated an acquiesced withdrawal. ``I'm sure you would not, still more

certain you cannot, do harm. And be mindful of my prophetic words: Whatever's done, old Blaize will have

to be bought off. There's the affair settled at once. I suppose I must go to the chief tonight and settle it

myself. We can't see this poor devil condemned, though it's nonsense to talk of a boy being the prime

Austin cast an eye at the complacent languor of the wise youth, his cousin, and the little that he knew of his

fellows told him he might talk for ever here, and not be comprehended. The wise youth's two ears were

stuffed with his own wisdom. One evil only Adrian dreaded, it was clear the action of the law.

As he was moving away, Adrian called out to him, ``Stop, Austin! There! don't be anxious! You invariably

take the glum side. I've done something. Never mind what. If you go down to Belthorpe, be civil, but not

obsequious. You remember the tactics of Scipio Africanus against the Punic elephants? Well, don't say a

wordin thine ear, coz: I've turned Master Blaize's elephants. If they charge, 'twill be a feint, and back to

the destruction of his serried ranks! You understand. Not? Well, 'tis as well. Only let none say that I sleep. If I

must see him tonight, I go down knowing he has not got us in his power.'' The wise youth yawned, and

stretched out a hand for any book that might be within his reach. Austin left him to look about the grounds for

A little laurelshaded temple of white marble looked out on the river from a knoll bordering the Raynham

beechwoods, and was dubbed by Adrian Daphne's Bower. To this spot Richard had retired, and there Austin

found him with his head buried in his hands, a picture of desperation, whose last shift has been defeated. He

allowed Austin to greet him and sit by him without lifting his head. Perhaps his eyes were not presentable.

``Gone!'' was the answer, sounding cavernous from behind hair and fingers. An explanation presently

followed, that a summons had come for him in the morning from Mr. Thompson; and that Mr. Ripton had

In fact, Ripton had protested that he would defy his parent and remain by his friend in the hour of adversity

and at the post of danger. Sir Austin signified his opinion that a boy should obey his parent, by giving orders

to Benson for Ripton's box to be packed and ready before noon; and Ripton's alacrity in taking the baronet's

view of filial duty was as little feigned as his offer to Richard to throw filial duty to the winds. He rejoiced

that the Fates had agreed to remove him from the very hot neighbourhood of Lobourne, while he grieved, like

an honest lad, to see his comrade left to face calamity alone. The boys parted amicably, as they could hardly

fail to do, when Ripton had sworn fealty to the Feverels with a fervour that made him declare himself bond,

and due to appear at any stated hour and at any stated place to fight all the farmers in England, on a mandate

``So you're left alone,'' said Austin, contemplating the boy's shapely head. ``I'm glad of it. We never know

There appeared to be no answer forthcoming. Vanity, however, replied at last, ``He wasn't much support.''

``And a staunch friend is not always to be found. Now, have you tried your own way of rectifying this

``I suppose, poor fellow,'' said Austin, in his kind way, ``he doesn't want to get into a deeper mess. I don't

``He is a coward,'' cried Richard. ``Do you think if I had a file I would stay in prison? I'd be out the first

night! And he might have had the rope, tooa rope thick enough for a couple of men his size and weight.

Ripton and I and Ned Markham swung on it for an hour, and it didn't give way. He's a coward, and deserves

Richard had raised his head in the heat of his denunciation of poor Tom. He would have hidden it had he

``I never met a coward myself,'' Austin continued. ``I have heard of one or two. One let an innocent man die

``Bad!'' Richard scorned the poor contempt. ``How I would have spurned him! He was a coward!''

``I believe he pleaded the feelings of his family in his excuse, and tried every means to get him off. I have

read also in the confessions of a celebrated philosopher that in his youth he committed some act of pilfering,

and accused a young servantgirl of his own theft, who was condemned and dismissed for it, pardoning her

``Then who is to call that man a coward?'' said Austin. ``He expiated his cowardice as all who give way in

moments of weakness, and are not cowards, must do. The coward chooses to think `God does not see. I shall

escape.' He who is not a coward, and has succumbed, knows that God has seen all, and it is not so hard a task

for him to make his heart bare to the world. Worse, I should fancy it, to know myself an imposter when men

Young Richard's eyes were wandering on Austin's gravely cheerful face. A keen intentness suddenly fixed

``So I think you're wrong, Ricky, in calling this poor Tom a coward because he refuses to try your means of

escape,'' Austin resumed. ``A coward hardly objects to drag in his accomplice. And, where the person

involved belongs to a great family, it seems to me that for a poor ploughlad to volunteer not to do so speaks

Richard was silent. Altogether to surrender his rope and file was a fearful sacrifice, after all the time,

trepidation, and study he had spent on those two saving instruments. If he avowed Tom's manly behaviour,

Richard Feverel was in a totally new position. Whereas, by keeping Tom a coward, Richard Feverel was the

injured one, and to seem injured is always a luxury; sometimes a necessity, whether among boys or men.

In Austin the Magian conflict would not have lasted long. He had but a blind notion of the fierceness with

which it raged in young Richard. Happily for the boy, Austin was not a preacher. A single insistence, a cant

phrase, a fatherly manner, might have wrecked him, by arousing ancient or latent opposition. The born

preacher we feel instinctively to be our foe. He may do some good to the wretches that have been struck

down, and lie gasping on the battlefield: he rouses antagonism in the strong. Richard's nature, left to itself,

wanted little more than an indication of the proper track, and when he said, ``Tell me what I can do, Austin?''

he had fought the best half of the battle. His voice was subdued. Austin put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

The boy bit his lip and frowned. ``Ask a favour of that big brute, Austin? I can't!''

``Just tell him the whole case, and that you don't intend to stand by and let the poor fellow suffer without a

``But, Austin,'' the boy pleaded, ``I shall have to ask him to help off Tom Bakewell! How can I ask him,

Richard stuck to that view of the case, and stuck to it the faster the more imperatively the urgency of a

``Why,'' continued the boy, ``I shall hardly be able to keep my fists off him!''

``He struck me!'' Richard's lip quivered. ``He dared not come at me with his hands. He struck me with a whip.

He'll be telling everybody that he horsewhipped me, and that I went down and begged his pardon. Begged his

``The man earns his bread, Ricky. You poached on his grounds. He turned you off, and you fired his rick.''

Austin looked at the boy steadily. ``You prefer to receive a favour from poor Tom Bakewell?''

At Austin's enunciation of this obverse view of the matter Richard raised his brow. Dimly a new light broke

in upon him. ``Favour from Tom Bakewell, the ploughman? How do you mean, Austin?''

``To save yourself an unpleasantness you permit a country lad to sacrifice himself for you? I confess I should

``Pride!'' shouted Richard, stung by the taunt, and set his sight hard at the blue ridges of the hills.

Not knowing for the moment what else to do, Austin drew a picture of Tom in prison, and repeated Tom's

volunteer statement. The picture, though his intentions were far from designing it so, had to Richard, whose

perception of humour was infinitely keener, a horrible chawbacon smack about it. Visions of a grinning

lout, open from ear to ear, unkempt, coarse, splayfooted, rose before him and afflicted him with the

strangest sensations of disgust and comicality, mixed up with pity and remorse a sort of twisted pathos. There

lay Tom; hobnail Tom! a baconmunching, reckless, beerswilling animal! and yet a man; a dear brave

human heart notwithstanding; capable of devotion and unselfishness. The boy's better spirit was touched, and

it kindled his imagination to realize the abject figure of poor clodpole Tom, and surround it with a halo of

mournful light. His soul was alive. Feelings he had never known streamed in upon him as from an ethereal

casement, an unwonted tenderness, an embracing humour, a consciousness of some ineffable glory, an

irradiation of the features of humanity. All this was in the bosom of the boy, and through it all the vision of

an actual hobnail Tom, coarse, unkempt, open from ear to ear; whose presence was a finger of shame to him

and an oppression of clodpole; yet toward whom he felt just then a lovingkindness beyond what he felt for

any living creature. He laughed at him, and wept over him. He prized him, while he shrank from him. It was a

genial strife of the angel in him with constituents less divine; but the angel was uppermost and led the

vanextinguished loathing, humanized laughter, transfigured pridepride that would persistently

contemplate the corduroys of gaping Tom, and cry to Richard, in the very tone of Adrian's ironic voice,

Austin sat by the boy, unaware of the sublimer tumult he had stirred. Little of it was perceptible in Richard's

countenance. The lines of his mouth were slightly drawn; his eyes still hard set into the distance. He remained

thus many minutes. Finally he jumped to his legs, saying, ``I'll go at once to old Blaize and tell him.''

Austin grasped his hand, and together they issued out of Daphne's Bower, in the direction of Lobourne.

Farmer Blaize was not so astonished at the visit of Richard Feverel as that young gentleman expected him to

be. The farmer, seated in his easychair in the little lowroofed parlour of an oldfashioned farmhouse,

with a long clay pipe on the table at his elbow, and a veteran pointer at his feet, had already given audience to

three distinguished members of the Feverel blood, who had come separately, according to their accustomed

secretiveness, and with one object. In the morning it was Sir Austin himself. Shortly after his departure,

arrived Austin Wentworth; close on his heels, Algernon, known about Lobourne as the Captain, popular

wherever he was known. Farmer Blaize reclined in considerable elation. He had brought these great people to

a pretty low pitch. He had welcomed them hospitably, as a British yeoman should; but not budged a foot in

his demands: not to the baronet: not to the Captain: not to good young Mr. Wentworth. For Farmer Blaize

was a solid Englishman; and, on hearing from. the baronet a frank confession of the hold he had on the

family, he determined to tighten his hold, and only relax it in exchange for tangible

advantagescompensation to his pocket, his wounded person, and his still more wounded feelings: the

total indemnity being, in round figures, three hundred pounds, and a spoken apology from the prime offender,

young Mister Richard. Even then there was a reservation. Provided, the farmer said, nobody had been

tampering with any of his witnesses. In that case Farmer Blaize declared the money might go, and he would

transport Tom Bakewell, as he had sworn he would. And it goes hard, too, with an accomplice, by law, added

the farmer, knocking the ashes leisurely out of his pipe. He had no wish to bring any disgrace anywhere; he

respected the inmates of Raynham Abbey, as in duty bound; he should be sorry to see them in trouble. Only

no tampering with his witnesses. He was a man for Law. Rank was much: money was much: but Law was

more. In this country Law was above the sovereign. To tamper with the Law was treason to the realm.

``I come to you direct,'' the baronet explained. ``I tell you candidly in what way I discovered my son to be

mixed up in this miserable affair. I promise you indemnity for your loss, and an apology that shall I trust,

satisfy your feelings, assuring you that to tamper with witnesses is not the province of a Feverel. All I ask of

you in return is, not to press the prosecution. At present it rests with you. I am bound to do all that lies in my

power for this imprisoned man. How and wherefore my son was prompted to suggest, or assist in, such an

``'Least, I can pretty nigh neighbour it with a guess,'' said the farmer. ``We an't good friends, Sir Austin, me

and your son, just nownot to say cordial. I, ye see, Sir Austin, I'm a man as don't like young gentlemen

apoachin' on his grounds without his permission,in special when birds is plentiful on their own. It

appear he do like it. Consequently I has to flick this whipas them fellers at the races: All in this 'ere

Ring's mine! as much as to say; and who's been hit, he's had fair warnin'. I'm sorry for't, but that's just the

Algernon's interview passed off in ale and promises. He also assured Farmer Blaize that no Feverel could be

No less did Austin Wentworth. The farmer was satisfied. ``Money's safe, I know,'' said he; ``now for the

'pology!'' and Farmer Blaize thrust his legs further out, and his head further back.

The farmer naturally reflected that the three separate visits had been conspired together. Still the baronet's

frankness, and the baronet's not having reserved himself for the third and final charge, puzzled him. He was

considering whether they were a deep, or a shallow lot, when young Richard was announced.

A pretty little girl with the roses of thirteen springs in her cheeks, and abundant beautiful bright tresses,

tripped before the boy, and loitered shyly by the farmer's armchair to steal a look at the handsome

newcomer. She was introduced to Richard as the farmer's niece, Lucy Desborough, the daughter of a

lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and, what was better, though the farmer did not pronounce it so loudly, a real

Neither the excellence of her character, nor her rank in life, tempted Richard to inspect the little lady. He

The farmer's eyes twinkled. ``Her father,'' he continued, ``fought and fell for his coontry. A man as fights

for's coontry 's a right to hould up his headay! with any in the land. Desb'roughs o' Dorset! d'ye know that

Richard did not know them, and, by his air, did not desire to become acquainted with any offshoot of that

``She can make puddens and pies,'' the farmer went on, regardless of his auditor's gloom. ``She's a lady, as

good as the best of 'em. I don't care about their being Catholics the Desb'roughs o' Dorset are gentlemen.

And she's good for the pianer, too! She strums to me of evenin's. I'm for the old tunes: she's for the new.

Gallike! While she's with me she shall be taught things use'l. She can parleyvoo a good 'un and foot it, as it

goes; been in France a couple of year. I prefer the singin' of 't to the talkin' of 't. Come, Luce! toon

upeh?Ye wun't? That song about the Viffendeera female''Farmer Blaize volunteered the

translation of the title``who wears theyou guess what? and marches along with the French sojers: a

Mademoiselle Lucy corrected her uncle's French, but objected to do more. The handsome cross boy had

almost taken away her voice for speech, as it was, and sing in his company she could not; so she stood, a

hand on her uncle's chair to stay herself from falling, while she wriggled a dozen various shapes of refusal,

``Aha!'' laughed the farmer, dismissing her, ``they soon learn the difference 'twixt the young 'un and the old

Reluctantly the daughter of the Royal Navy glided away. Her uncle's head followed her to the door, where

she dallied to catch a last impression of the young stranger's lowering face, and darted through.

Farmer Blaize laughed and chuckled. ``She an't so fond of her uncle as that, every day! Not that she an't a

good nursethe kindest little soul you'd meet of a winter's walk! She'll read t' ye, and make drinks, and

sing, too, if ye likes it, and she won't be tired. A obstinate good 'un, she be! Bless her!''

The farmer may have designed, by these eulogies of his niece, to give his visitor time to recover his

composure, and establish a common topic. His diversion only irritated and confused our shameeaten youth.

Richard's intention had been to come to the farmer's threshold: to summon the farmer thither, and in a loud

and haughty tone then and there to take upon himself the whole burden of the charge against Tom Bakewell.

He had strayed, during his passage to Belthorpe, somewhat back to his old nature; and his being compelled to

enter the house of his enemy, sit in his chair, and endure an introduction to his family, was more than he

bargained for. He commenced blinking hard in preparation for the horrible dose to which delay and the

farmer's cordiality added inconceivable bitters. Farmer Blaize was quite at his ease; nowise in a hurry. He

spoke of the weather and the harvest: of recent doings up at the Abbey: glanced over that year's cricketing;

hoped that no future Feverel would lose a leg to the game. Richard saw and heard Arson in it all. He blinked

``Mr. Blaize! I have come to tell you that I am the person who set fire to your rick the other night.''

An odd contraction formed about the farmer's mouth. He changed his posture, and said, ``Ay? that's what

The farmer again changed his posture. ``Then, my lad, ye've come to tell me a lie!''

Farmer Blaize looked straight at the boy, undismayed by the dark flush of ire had kindled.

``I say,'' the farmer renewed his first emphasis, and smacked his thigh thereto, ``that's a lie!''

Richard held out his clenched fist. ``You have twice insulted me. You have struck me: you have dared to call

me a liar. I would have apologisedI would have asked your pardon, to have got off that fellow in prison.

Yes! I would have degraded myself that another man should not suffer for my deed''

``And you take this opportunity of insulting me afresh. You're a coward, sir! nobody but a coward would

``Sit ye down, sit ye down, young master,'' said the farmer, indicating the chair and cooling the outburst with

his hand. ``Sit ye down. Don't ye be hasty. If ye hadn't been hasty t' other day, we sh'd a been friends yet. Sit

ye down, sir. I sh'd be sorry to reckon you out a liar, Mr. Feverel, or anybody o' your name. I respects yer

father, though we're opp'site politics. I'm willin' to think well o' you. What I say is, that as you say an't the

trewth. Mind! I don't like you none the worse for't. But it an't what is. That's all! You knows it as well's I!''

Richard, disdaining to show signs of being pacified, angrily reseated himself. The farmer spoke sense, and

the boy, after his late interview with Austin, had become capable of perceiving vaguely that a towering

Here was the same bitter cup he had already once drained brimming at Richard's lips again! Alas, poor

human nature! that empties to the dregs a dozen of these evil drinks, to evade the single one which Destiny,

``I came to say that I regretted the revenge I had taken on you for your striking me.''

``I should be very much obliged,'' Richard formally began: but his stomach was turned; he could but sip and

sip, and gather a distaste which threatened to make the penitential act impossible. ``Very much obliged,'' he

repeated: ``much obliged, if you would be so kind,'' and it struck him that had he spoken this at first he would

have given it a wording more persuasive with the farmer and more worthy of his own pride: more honest, in

fact: for a sense of the dishonesty of what he was saying caused him to cringe and simulate humility to

deceive the farmer, and the more he said the less he felt his words, and, feeling them less, he inflated them

more. ``So kind,'' he stammered, ``so kind'' (fancy a Feverel asking this big brute to be so kind!) ``as to do me

the favour'' (_me_ the favour!) ``to exert yourself'' (it's all to please Austin) ``to endeavour tohem! to''

The cup was full as ever. Richard dashed at it again. ``What I came to ask is, whether you would have the

kindness to try what you could do'' (what an infamous shame to have to beg like this!) ``do to savedo to

ensurewhether you would have the kindness'' It seemed out of all human power to gulp it down. The

draught grew more and more abhorrent. To proclaim one's iniquity, to apologise for one's wrongdoing; thus

much could be done; but to beg a favour of the offended partythat was beyond the selfabasement any

Feverel could consent to. Pride, however, whose inevitab1e battle is against itself, drew aside the curtains of

poor Tom's prison, crying a second time, ``Behold year Benefactor!'' and, with the words burning in his ears,

``Well, then, I want you, Mr. Blaize,if you don't mind will you help me to get this man Bakewell off

To do Farmer Blaize justice, he waited very patiently for the boy, though he could not quite see why he did

``Oh!'' said he, when he heard and had pondered on the request; ``Hum! ha! we'll see about it t'morrow. But if

The farmer's halfamused expression sharpened a bit ``So, young gentleman! and you're sorry for the night's

``And, if this poor man is released tomorrow, I don't care what the amount is.''

Farmer Blaize deflected his head twice in silence. ``Bribery,'' one motion expressed: ``Corruption,'' the other,

``Now,'' said he, leaning forward, and fixing his elbows on his knees, while he counted the case at his finger's

ends, ``excuse the liberty, but wishin' to know where this 'ere money's to come from, I sh'd like jest t'ask if so

``My father knows nothing of it,'' replied Richard. The farmer flung back in his chair. ``Lie number Two,''

said his shoulders, soured by the British aversion to being plotted at, and not dealt with openly.

Richard had not the slightest intention of ever letting his father into his counsels.

No consideration of the extent of damages, and the size of the sum, affected young Richard, who said boldly,

It was natural Farmer Blaize should be a trifle suspicious that a youth's guarantee would hardly be given for

his father's readiness to disburse such a thumping bill, unless he had previously received his father's sanction

The farmer threw an objectionable shrewdness into his query, that caused Richard to compress his mouth and

``The blame is mine!'' quoth Richard, with the loftiness of a patriot of old Rome.

``Na, na!'' the straightforward Briton put him aside. ``Ye did't, or ye didn't do't. Did ye do't, or no?''

Farmer Blaize reached his hand to the bell. It was answered in an instant by little Lucy, who received orders

to fetch in a dependent at Belthorpe going by the name of the Bantam, and made her exit as she entered, with

``Now,'' said the farmer, ``these be my principles. I'm a plain man, Mr. Feverel. Above board with me, and

you'll find me handsome. Try to circumvent me, and I'm a ugly customer. I'll show you I've no animosity.

Your father pays you apologize. That's enough for me! Let Tom Bakewell fight't out with the Law, and

I'll look on. The Law wasn't on the spot, I suppose? so the Law ain't much witness. But I am. Leastwise the

Bantam is. I tell you, young gentleman, the Bantam saw't! It's no mortal use whatever your denyin' that

ev'dence. And where's the good, sir, I ask? What comes of 't? Whether it be you, or whether it be Tom

Bakewellain't all one? If I holds back, ain't it sim'lar? It's the trewth I want! And here't comes,'' added the

farmer, as Miss Lucy ushered in the Bantam, who presented a curious figure for that rare divinity to enliven.

In build of body, gait, and stature, Giles Jinkson, the Bantam, was a tolerably fair representative of the Punic

elephant, whose part, with diverse anticipations, the generals of the Blaize and Feverel forces, from opposing

ranks, expected him to play. Giles, surnamed the Bantam, on account of some forgotten sally of his youth or

infancy, moved and looked elephantine. It sufficed that Giles was well fed to assure that Giles was

faithfulif uncorrupted. The farm which supplied to him ungrudging provender had all his vast capacity

for work in willing exercise: the farmer who held the farm his instinct reverenced as the fountainsource of

beef and bacon, to say nothing of beer, which was plentiful at Belthorpe, and good. This Farmer Blaize well

knew, and he reckoned consequently that here was an animal always to be relied ona sort of human

composition out of dog, horse, and bull, a cut above each of these quadrupeds in usefulness, and costing

proportionately more, but on the whole worth the money, and therefore invaluable, as everything worth its

money must be to a wise man. When the stealing of grain had been made known at Belthorpe, the Bantam, a

followthresher with Tom Bakewell, had shared with him the shadow the guilt. Farmer Blaize, if he hesitated

which to suspect, did not debate a second as to which he would discard; and, when the Bantam said he had

seen Tom secreting pilkins in a sack, Farmer Blaize chose to believe him, and off went poor Tom, told to

The Bantam's small sleepy orbits saw many things, and just at the right moment it seemed. He was certainly

the first to give the clue at Belthorpe on the night of the conflagration, and he may, therefore, have seen poor

Tom retreating stealthily from the scene, as he averred he did. Lobourne had its say on the subject. Rustic

Lobourne hinted broadly at a young woman in the case, and, moreover, told a tale of how these

fellowthreshers had, in noble rivalry, one day turned upon each other to see which of the two threshed the

best; whereof the Bantam still bore marks, and malice, it was said. However, there he stood, and tugged his

forelocks to the company, and if Truth really had concealed herself in him she must have been hard set to find

``Now,'' said the farmer, marshalling forth his elephant with the confidence of one who delivers his ace of

trumps, ``tell this young gentleman what ye saw on the night of the fire, Bantam!''

The Bantam jerked a bit of a bow to his patron, and then swung round, fully obscuring him from Richard.

Richard fixed his eyes on the floor, while the Bantam in rudest Doric commenced his narrative. Knowing

what was to come, and thoroughly nerved to confute the main incident, Richard barely listened to his

barbarous locution: but when the recital arrived at the point where the Bantam affirmed he had seen ``I'm

Baak'll wi's owen hoies,'' Richard faced him, and was amazed to find himself being mutely addressed by a

``What do you mean? Why are you making those faces at me?'' cried the boy indignantly.

Farmer Blaize leaned round the Bantam to have a look at him, and beheld the stolidest mask ever given to

``A see T'm Baak'll,'' the Bantam recommenced, and again the contortions of a horrible wink were directed at

Richard. The boy might well believe this churl was lying, and he did, and was emboldened to exclaim

The suborned elephant was staggered. He meant to telegraph to the young gentleman that he was loyal and

true to certain gold pieces that had been given him, and that in the right place and at the right time he should

This brought down on him the farmer, who roared, ``Thought! Ye thought! What d'ye mean? Speak out, and

``Thought!'' the farmer bellowed louder. ``Thought Devil take ye, when ye took yer oath on't. Hulloa!

What are ye screwin' yer eve at Mr. Feverel for?I say, young gentleman, have you spoke to this chap

Farmer Blaize grasped the two arms of the chair he sat on, and glared his doubts.

``Come,'' said he to the Bantam, ``speak out, and ha' done wi't. Say what ye saw, and none o' yer thoughts.

Damn yer thoughts! Ye saw Tom Bakewell fire that there rick!'' The farmer pointed at some muskpots in the

window. ``What business ha' you to be athinkin'? You're a witness? Thinkin' an't ev'dence. What'll ye say

tomorrow before magistrate! Mind! what you says today, you'll stick by tomorrow.''

Thus adjured, the Bantam hitched his breech. What on earth the young gentleman meant he was at a loss to

speculate. He could not believe that the young gentleman wanted to be transported, but if he had been paid to

help that, why, he would. And considering that this day's evidence rather bound him down to the morrow's,

he determined, after much ploughing and harrowing through obstinate shocks of hair, to be not altogether

positive as to the person. It is possible that he became thereby more a mansion of truth than he previously had

been; for the night, as he said, was so dark that you could not see your hand before your face; and though, as

he expressed it, you might be mortal sure of a man, you could not identify him upon oath, and the party he

had taken for Tom Bakewell, and could have sworn to, might have been the young gentleman present,

No sooner had he ceased, than Farmer Blaize jumped up from his chair, and made a fine effort to lift him out

of the room from the point of his toe. He failed, and sank back groaning with the pain of the exertion and

``They're liars, every one!'' he cried. ``Liars, perj'rers, bribers, and c'rrupters!Stop!'' to the Bantam, who

The Bantam played a tune upon the handle of the door, and still affirmed that he did not; a double

contradiction at which the farmer absolutely raged in his chair, and was hoarse, as he called out a third time

``Noa!'' said the Bantam, ducking his poll. ``Noa!'' he repeated in a lower note; and then, while a sombre grin

betokening idiotic enjoyment of his profound casuistical quibble worked at his jaw:

``Not up'n oath!'' he added, with a twitch of the shoulder and an angular jerk of the elbow.

Farmer Blaize looked vacantly at Richard, as if to ask him what he thought of England's peasantry after the

sample they had there. Richard would have preferred not to laugh, but his dignity gave way to his sense of the

ludicrous, and he let fly an irrepressible peal. The farmer was in no laughing mood. He turned a wide eye

back to the door, ``Lucky for'm,'' he exclaimed, seeing the Bantam had vanished, for his fingers itched to

``Now, look ye here, Mr. Feverel! You've been a tampering with my witness. It's no use denyin'! I say y' 'ave,

sir! You, or some of ye. I don't care about no Feverel! My witness there has been bribed. The Bantam's been

bribed,'' and he shivered his pipe with an energetic thump on the table``Bribed! I knows it! I could swear

``I'd take my Bible oath on't! He's been corrupted, my principal witness! Oh! it's dam cunnin', but it won't do

the trick. I'll transpoort Tom Bakewell, sure as a gun. He shall travel, that man shall. Sorry for you, Mr.

Feverel sorry ye haven't seen how to treat me properyou, or yours. Money won't do

everythingno! it won't. It'll c'rrupt a witness, but it won't clear a felon. I'd ha' 'sensed you, sir! You're a

boy and 'll learn better. I asked no more than payment and a 'pology; and that I'd ha' taken content always

provided my witnesses weren't tampered with. Now you must stand yer luck, all o' ye.''

``And if,'' continued the farmer, ``Tom Bakewell don't drag you into 't after 'm, why, you're safe, as I hope

``It was not in consideration of my own safety that I sought this interview with you,'' said Richard, head erect.

``Grant ye that,'' the farmer responded. ``Grant ye that! Yer bold enough, young gentlemancomes of the

blood that should be! If y' had only ha' spoke trewth!I believe yer fatherbelieve every word he said. I

``What!'' cried Richard, with an astonishment hardly to be feigned, ``you have seen my father?''

But Farmer Blaize had now such a scent for lies that he could detect them where they did not exist, and

The boy's perplexity saved him from being irritated. Who could have told his father? An old fear of his father

``My father knows of this?'' said he, very loudly, and staring, as lie spoke, right through the farmer. ``Who

has played me false? Who would betray me to him? It was Austin! No one knew it but Austin. Yes, and it

was Austin who persuaded me to come here and submit to these indignities. Why couldn't he be open with

``And why not you with me, young gentleman?'' said the farmer. ``I sh'd trust you if ye had.''

Farmer Blaize pulled the bell. ``'Company the young gentleman out, Lucy,'' he waved to the little damsel in

the doorway. ``Do the honours. And Mr. Richard, ye might ha' made a friend o' me, sir, and it's not too late so

to do. I'm not cruel, but I hate lies. I whipped my boy Tom, bigger than you, for not bein' aboveboard, only

yesterday, ay! made 'un stand within swing o' this chair, and take 's measure. Now, if ye'll come down to

me, and speak trewth before the trialif it's only five minutes before 't; or if Sir Austin, who 's a

gentleman, 'll say there's been no tamperin' with any o' my witnesses, his word for 'twell and good! I'll do

my best to help off Tom Bakewell. And I'm glad, young gentleman, you've got a conscience about a poor

Richard marched hastily out of the room, and through the garden, never so much as deigning a glance at his

wistful little guide, who hung at the garden gate to watch him up the lane, wondering a world of fancies about

To have determined upon an act something akin to heroism in its way, and to have fulfilled it by lying

heartily, and so subverting the whole structure built by good resolution, seems a sad downfall if we forget

what human nature, in its green weedy spring, is composed of. Young Richard had quitted his cousin Austin

fully resolved to do his penance and drink the bitter cup; and he had drunk it; drained many cups to the dregs;

and it was to no purpose. Still they floated before him, brimmed, trebly bitter. Away from Austin's influence,

he was almost the same boy who had slipped the guinea into Tom Bakewell's hand, and the lucifers into

Farmer Blaize's rick. For good seed is long ripening; a good boy is not made in a minute. Enough that the

seed was in him. He chafed on his road to Raynham at the scene he had just endured, and the figure of

Belthorpe's fat tenant burnt like hot copper on the tablet of his brain, insufferably condescending, and, what

was worse, in the right. Richard, obscured as his mind's eye was by wounded pride, saw that clearly, and

Heavy Benson's tongue was knelling dinner as Richard arrived at the Abbey. He hurried up to his room to

dress. Accident, or design, had laid the book of Sir Austin's aphorisms open on the dressingtable. Hastily

Young Richard ran downstairs feeling that his father had struck him in the face.

Sir Austin marked the scarlet stain on his son's cheekbones. He sought the youth's eye, but Richard would

not look, and sat conning his plate, an abject copy of Adrian's succulent air at that employment. How could

he pretend to the relish of an epicure when he was painfully endeavouring to masticate The Devil's mouthful?

Heavy Benson sat upon the wretched dinner. Hippias, usually the silent member, as if awakened by the

unnatural stillness, became sprightly, like the goatsucker owl at midnight, and spoke much of his book, his

digestion, and his dreams, and was spared both by Algernon and Adrian. One inconsequent dream he related,

about fancying himself quite young and rich, and finding himself suddenly in a field cropping razors around

him, when, just as he had, by steps dainty as those of a French dancingmaster, reached the middle, he to his

dismay beheld a path clear of the bloodthirsty steelcrop, which he might have taken at first had he looked

Hippias's brethren regarded him with eyes that plainly said they wished he had remained there. Sir Austin,

however, drew forth his notebook, and jotted down a reflection. A composer of aphorisms can pluck

blossoms even from a razorcrop. Was not Hippias's dream the very counterpart of Richard's position? He,

had he looked narrowly, might have taken the clear path: he, too, had been making dainty steps till he was

surrounded by the grinning blades. And from that text Sir Austin preached to his son when they were alone.

Little Clare was still too unwell to be permitted to attend the dessert, and father and son were soon closeted

It was a strange meeting. They seemed to have been separated so long. The father took his son's hand; they

sat without a word passing between them. Silence said most. The boy did not understand his father: his father

frequently thwarted him: at times he thought his father foolish: but that paternal pressure of his hand was

eloquent to him of how warmly he was beloved. He tried once or twice to steal his hand away, conscious it

was melting him. The spirit of his pride, and old rebellion, whispered him to be hard, unbending, resolute.

Hard he had entered his father's study: hard he had met his father's eyes. He could not meet them now. His

father sat beside him gently; with a manner that was almost meekness, so he loved this boy. The poor

By degrees an emotion awoke in the boy's bosom. Love is that blessed wand which wins the waters from the

hardness of the heart. Richard fought against it, for the dignity of old rebellion. The tears would come; hot

and struggling over the dams of pride. Shamefully fast they began to fall. He could no longer conceal them,

or cheek the sobs. Sir Austin drew him nearer and nearer, till the beloved head was on his breast.

An hour afterwards, Adrian Harley, Austin Wentworth, and Algernon Feverel were summoned to the

Adrian came last. There was a style of affable omnipotence about the wise youth as he slung himself into a

chair, and made an arch of the points of his fingers, through which to gaze on his blundering kinsmen.

Careless as one may be whose sagacity has foreseen, and whose benevolent efforts have forestalled, the point

of danger at the threshold, Adrian crossed his legs, and only intruded on their introductory remarks so far as

in parody of the old ballad. Young Richard's red eyes, and the baronet's ruffled demeanour, told him that an

explanation had taken place, and a reconciliation. That was well. The baronet would now pay cheerfully.

Adrian summed and considered these matters, and barely listened when the baronet called attention to what

he had to say: which was elaborately to inform all present, what all present very well knew, that a rick had

been fired, that his son was implicated as an accessory to the fact, that the perpetrator was now imprisoned,

and that Richard's family were, as it seemed to him, bound in honour to do their utmost to effect the man's

Then the baronet stated that he had himself been down to Belthorpe, his son likewise: and that he had found

The lamp which ultimately was sure to be lifted up to illumine the acts of this secretive race began slowly to

dispread its rays; and, as statement followed statement, they saw that all had known of the business: that all

had been down to Belthorpe: all save the wise youth Adrian, who, with due deference and a sarcastic shrug,

objected to the proceeding, as putting them in the hands of the man Blaize. His wisdom shone forth in an

oration so persuasive and aphoristic that had it not been based on a plea against honour, it would have made

Sir Austin waver. But its basis was expediency, and the baronet had a better aphorism of his own to confute

Adrian curbed his desire to ask Sir Austin whether an attempt to counteract the just working of the law was

``I am to understand then,'' said he, ``that Blaize consents not to press the prosecution.''

``Of course he won't,'' Algernon remarked. ``Confound him! he'll have his money, and what does he want

``These agricultural gentlemen are delicate customers to deal with. However, if he really consents''

``I have his promise,'' said the baronet, fondling his son. Young Richard looked up to his father, as if he

wished to speak. He said nothing, and Sir Austin took it as a mute reply to his caresses, and caressed him the

more. Adrian perceived a reserve in the boy's manner, and as he was not quite satisfied that his chief should

suppose him to have been the only idle, and not the most acute and vigilant member of the family, he

commenced a crossexamination of him by asking who had last spoken with the tenant of Belthorpe?

``I think I saw him last,'' murmured Richard, and relinquished his father's hand.

Adrian fastened on his prey. ``And left him with a distinct and satisfactory assurance of his amicable

``Not?'' the Feverels joined in astounded chorus. Richard sidled away from his father, and repeated a

Here was quite another view of their position. Adrian, generally patient of results, triumphed strongly at

having evoked it, and turned upon Austin Wentworth, reproving him for inducing the boy to go down to

Belthorpe. Austin looked grieved. He feared that Richard had failed in his good resolve.

``And you see what comes of it, sir,'' Adrian struck in. ``These agricultural gentlemen, I repeat, are delicate

customers to deal with. For my part I would prefer being in the hands of a policeman. We are decidedly

Adrian smoothed his palms, and smiled again. Then they could afford to defy Mr. Blaize, he informed them

significantly, and made once more a mysterious allusion to the Punic elephant, bidding his relatives be at

peace. They were attaching, in his opinion, too much importance to Richard's complicity. The man was a

fool, and a very extraordinary arsonite, to have an accomplice at all. It was a thing unknown in the annals of

rickburning. But one would be severer than law itself to say that a boy of fourteen had instigated to crime a

fullgrown man. At that rate the boy was ``father of the man'' with a vengeance, and one might hear next that

``the baby was father of the boy.'' They would find common sense a more benevolent ruler than poetical

When he had done, Austin, with his customary directness, asked him what he meant.

``I confess, Adrian,'' said the baronet, hearing him expostulate with Austin's stupidity, ``I for one am at a loss.

I have heard that this man, Bakewell, chooses voluntarily not to inculpate my son. Seldom have I heard

anything that so gratified me. It is a view of innate nobleness in the rustic's character which many gentlemen

might take example from. We are bound to do our utmost for the man.'' And, saying that he should pay a

second visit to Belthorpe, to inquire into the reasons for the farmer's sudden exposition of vindictiveness, Sir

Before he left the room Algernon asked Richard if the farmer had vouchsafed any reasons, and the boy then

spoke of the tampering with the witnesses, and the Bantam's ``Not upon oath!'' which caused Adrian to choke

with laughter. Even the baronet smiled at so cunning a distinction as that involved in swearing a thing, and

``How little,'' he exclaimed, ``does one yeoman know another! To elevate a distinction into a difference is the

natural action of their minds. I will point that out to Blaize. He shall see that the idea is native born.''

``This trotting down to Belthorpe spoils all,'' said he. ``The affair would pass over tomorrowBlaize has

``No, he isn't,'' Richard corrected him. ``It's not that. I'm sure he believes his witnesses have been tampered

``What if they have, boy?'' Adrian put it boldly, ``The ground is cut from under his feet.''

``Blaize told me that if my father would give his word there had been nothing of the sort, he would take it.

Austin looked at Adrian keenly, and questioned him whether he thought the farmer was justified in his

suspicions. The wise youth was not to be entrapped. He had only been given to understand that the witnesses

were tolerably unstable, and, like the Bantam, ready to swear lustily, but not upon the Book. How given to

understand, he chose not to explain, but he reiterated that the chief should not be allowed to go down to

Sir Austin was in the lane leading to the farm when he heard steps of some one running behind him. It was

dark, and he shook off the hand that laid hold of his cloak, roughly, not recognising his son.

``Not now,'' continued the boy. ``I will tell you all tonight. I must see the farmer myself. It was my fault, sir.

II lied to himthe Liar must eat his Lie. Oh, forgive me for disgracing you, sir. I did itI hope I did

``Go, and I will wait for you here,'' said his father. The wind that bowed the old elms, and shivered the dead

leaves in the air, had a voice and a meaning for the baronet during that halfhour's lonely pacing up and

down under the darkness, awaiting his boy's return. The solemn gladness of his heart gave nature a tongue.

Through the desolation flying overheadthe wailing of the Mother of Plenty across the bareswept

landhe caught intelligible signs of the beneficent order of the universe, from a heart newly confirmed in

its grasp of the principle of human goodness, as manifested in the dear child who had just left him. confirmed

in its belief in the ultimate victory of good within us, without which nature has neither music nor meaning,

In the dark, the dead leaves beating on his face, he drew forth the notebook, and with groping fingers traced

out: ``There is for the mind but one grasp of happiness: from that uppermost pinnacle of wisdom, whence we

Of all the chief actors in the Bakewell Comedy Master Ripton Thompson awaited the fearful morning which

was to decide Tom's fate, in dolefulest mood, and suffered the gravest mental terrors. Adrian, on parting with

him, had taken casual occasion to speak of the position of the criminal in modern Europe, assuring him that

International Treaty now did what Universal Empire had aforetime done, and that among Atlantic barbarians

now, as among the Scythians of old, an offender would find precarious refuge and an emissary haunting him.

In the paternal home, under the roofs of Law, and removed from the influence of his conscienceless young

chief, the staggering nature of the act he had put his hand to, its awful felonious aspect, overwhelmed poor

Ripton. He saw it now for the first time. ``Why it's next to murder!'' he cried out to his amazed soul, and

wandered about the house with a prickly skin. Thoughts of America, and commencing life afresh as an

innocent gentleman, had crossed the agitated brain of Ripton. He wrote to his friend Richard, proposing to

collect disposable funds, and embark, in case of Tom's breaking his word, or of accidental discovery. He

dared not confide the secret to his family, as his leader had sternly enjoined him to avoid any weakness of

that kind; and, being by nature honest and communicative, the restriction was painful, and melancholy fell

upon the boy. Mama Thompson attributed it to love. The daughters of parchment rallied him concerning Miss

Clare Forey. His hourly letters to Raynham, his silence as to everything and everybody there, his loss of

appetite, nervousness, and unwonted propensity to sudden inflammation of the cheeks, were set down for

sure signs of the passion. Miss Letitia Thompson, the pretty and least parchmenty one, destined by her Papa

for the heir of Raynham, and perfectly aware of her brilliant future, up to which she had, since Ripton's

departure, dressed and grimaced, and studied cadences (the latter with such success, though not yet fifteen,

that she languished to her maid, and melted the small factotum footman)Miss Letty, whose insatiable

thirst for intimations about the young heir Ripton could not satisfy, tormented him daily in revenge, and once,

quite unconsciously, gave the lad a fearful turn; for after dinner, when Mr. Thompson read the paper by the

fire, preparatory to sleeping at his accustomed post, and Mama Thompson and her submissive female brood

sat tasking the swift intricacies of the needle, and emulating them with the tongue, Miss Letty stole behind

Ripton's chair, and introduced between him and his book the Latin initial letter, large and illuminated, of the

theme she supposed to be absorbing him, as it did herself. The unexpected vision of this accusing Captain of

the Alphabet, this resplendent and haunting A, fronting him bodily, threw Ripton straight back in his chair,

while Guilt, with her ancient indecision what colours to assume on detection, flew from red to white, from

``Aha!'' she sang, ``you are found out, Mr. Mum!'' and innocently followed up the attack by asking him how

he would wear his badge, before or behind? which precipitated Ripton from the room, in sick certainty that he

was discovered, and thrilled the motherly heart of Mama Thompson with the blissful prospect of marrying

``Why, what does A stand for? Silly!'' said Letitia, after rallying her brother next morning at breakfast. ``For

``Yes, and you know what else!'' rejoined his persecutor, while another sister, previously instructed,

``And for Arson,'' added the deep paternal voice, unwittingly springing a mine under poor Ripton.

Letty's study of the aspects of love, and of the way young people should look, and of the things they should

do, under the dominion of the passion, was not much assisted by its outward development in the supposed

lovestricken youth. ``I'm sure,'' she thought, ``I shall never be like that. He bounds in his seat. He never

looks comfortable. He seems to hate us all, and does nothing but mumble his food, and growl, and frown. If

The delivery of a letter into Master Ripton's hands, however, furnished her with other and likelier

appearances to study. For scarce had Ripton plunged his head into the missive than he gave way to violent

transports, such as the healthyminded little damsel, for all her languishing cadences, deemed she really

could express were a downright declaration to be made to her. The boy did not stop at table. Quickly

recollecting the presence of his family, he rushed to his own room. And now Miss Letty's ingenuity was taxed

to gain possession of that letter. In love, it is said, all stratagems are fair, and many little ladies transverse the

axiom by applying it to discover the secrets of their friends. Letty ransacked the drawers in Ripton's room,

she dived her hands into the pockets of his garments lying about, she turned down the pillow, she spied under

the mattress of his bed, with an easy conscience; and if she found nothing, of course, as she was doing a

wrong, she did not despair of gaining her object, and soon knew that Ripton carried it about in his left

jacketpocket, persecuting Ripton with her caresses, till she felt the tantalising treasure crack beneath her

fingers. Some sisters would have coaxed him for a sight of it. Letty was not so foolish: she did not allude to

it, and was still hovering round the pocket, at a loss to devise any new scheme, when accident bestowed on

her what artifice denied. They were standing on a hill together, and saw some people of their acquaintance

coming up in a ponychaise. Letty told Ripton to wave his handkerchief, which he snatched from the very

pocket, and waved vigorously, and continued waving, heedless that his sister had on a sudden lost her interest

in the ponychaise. Indeed she presently commanded him to turn a contrary way, and was voluble with

reasons for getting home immediately, though they had set out for a long walk into the country. Once home,

Letitia darted up stairs to be alone with her naughty self. She had the letter. Ripton had dropped it as he drew

forth his handkerchief. With the eyes of amazement she read this foreign matter:

``Dear Ripton,If Tom had been committed I would have shot old Blaize. Do you know my father was

behind us that night when Clare saw the ghost and heard all we said before the fire burst out. It is no use

trying to conceal anything from him. Well as you are in an awful state I will tell you all about it. After you

left Ripton I had a conversation with Austin and he persuaded me to go down to old Blaize and ask him to

help off Tom. I went for I would have done anything for Tom after what he said to Austin and I defied the old

churl to do his worst. Then he said if my father paid the money and nobody had tampered with his witnesses

he would not mind if Tom did get off and he had his chief witness in called the Bantam very like his master I

think and the Bantam began winking at me tremendjously as you say, and said he had sworn he saw Tom

Bakewell but not upon oath. He meant not on the Bible. He could swear to it but not on the Bible. I burst out

laughing and you should have seen the rage old Blaize was in. It was splendid fun. Then we had a

consultation at home Austin Rady my father Uncle Algernon who has come down to us again and your friend

in prosperity and adversity R. D. F. My father said he would go down to old Blaize and give him the word of

a gentleman we had not tampered with his witnesses and when he was gone we were all talking and Rady

says he must not see the farmer. I am as certain as I live that it was Rady bribed the Bantam. Well I ran and

caught up my father and told him not to go in to old Blaize but I would and eat my words and tell him the

truth. He waited for me in the lane. Never mind what passed between me and old Blaize. He made me beg

and pray of him not to press it against Tom and then to complete it he brought in a little girl a niece of his and

says to me she's your best friend after all and told me to thank her. A little girl twelve years of age. What

business had she to mix herself up in my matters. Depend upon it Ripton wherever there is mischief there are

girls I think. She had the insolence to notice my face, and ask me not to be unhappy. I was polite of course

but I would not look at her. Well the morning came and Tom was had up before Sir Miles Papworth. It was

Sir Miles gout gave us the time or Tom would have been had up before we could do anything. Adrian did not

want me to go but my father said I should accompany him and held my hand all the time. I shall be careful

about getting into these scrapes again. When you have done anything honourable you do not mind but getting

among policemen and magistrates makes you ashamed of yourself. Sir Miles was very attentive to my father

and me and dead against Tom. We sat beside him and Tom was brought in. Sir Miles told my father that if

there was one thing that showed a low villain it was rickburning. What do you think of that. I looked him

straight in the face and he said to me he was doing me a service in getting Tom committed and clearing the

country of such fellows and Rady began laughing. I hate Rady. My father said his son was not in haste to

inherit and have estates of his own to watch and Sir Miles laughed too. I thought we were discovered at first.

Then they began the examination of Tom. The Tinker was the first witness and he proved that Tom had

spoken against old Blaize and said something about burning his rick. I wished I had stood in the lane to

Bursley with him alone. Our country lawyer we engaged for Tom crossquestioned him and then he said he

was not ready to swear to the exact words that had passed between him and Tom. I should think not. Then

came another who swore he had seen Tom lurking about the farmer's grounds that night. Then came the

Bantam and I saw him look at Rady. I was tremendously excited and my father kept pressing my hand. Just

fancy my being brought to feel that a word from that fellow would make me miserable for life and he must

perjure himself to help me. That comes of giving way to passion. My father says when we do that we are

calling in the devil as doctor. Well the Bantam was told to state what he had seen and the moment he began

Rady who was close by me began to shake and he was laughing I knew though his face was as grave as Sir

Miles. You never heard such a rigmarole but I could not laugh. He said he thought he was certain he had seen

somebody by the rick and it was Tom Bakewell who was the only man he knew who had a grudge against

Farmer Blaize and if the object had been a little bigger he would not mind swearing to Tom and would swear

to him for he was dead certain it was Tom only what he saw looked smaller and it was pitchdark at the time.

He was asked what time it was he saw the person steal away from the rick and then he began to scratch his

head and said suppertime. Then they asked what time he had supper and he said nine o'clock by the clock

and we proved that at nine o'clock Tom was drinking in the alehouse with the Tinker at Bursley and Sir

Miles swore and said he was afraid he could not commit Tom and when he heard that Tom looked up at me

and I say he is a noble fellow and no one shall sneer at Tom while I live. Mind that. Well Sir Miles asked us

to dine with him and Tom was safe and I am to have him and educate him if I like for my servant and I will.

And I will give money to his mother and make her rich and he shall never repent he knew me. I say Rip. The

Bantam must have seen me. It was when I went to stick in the lucifers. As we were all going home from Sir

Miles's at night he has lots of redfaced daughters but I did not dance with them though they had music and

were full of fun and I did not care to I was so delighted and almost let it out. When we left and rode home

Rady said to my father the Bantam was not such a fool as he was thought and my father said one must be in a

state of great personal exaltation to apply that epithet to any man and Rady shut his mouth and I gave my

pony a clap of the heel for joy. I think my father suspects what Rady did and does not approve of it. And he

need not have done it after all and might have spoilt it. I have been obliged to order him not to call me Ricky

for he stops short at Rick so that everybody knows what he means. My dear Austin is going to South

America. My pony is in capital condition. My father is the cleverest and best man in the world. Clare is a

little better. I am quite happy. I hope we shall meet soon my dear Old Rip and we will not get into any more

``_P.S._ I am to have a nice River Yacht. Goodbye, Rip. Mind you learn to box. Mind you are not to show

``N.B. Lady B. was so angry when I told her that I had not come to her before. She would do anything in the

Poor little Letitia, after three perusals of this ingenuous epistle, where the laws of punctuation were so loftily

disregarded, resigned it to one of the pockets of her brother Ripton's best jacket, deeply smitten with the

careless composer. And so ended the last act of the Bakewell Comedy, on which the curtain closes with Sir

Austin's pointing out to his friends the beneficial action of the System in it from beginning to end.

Laying of ghosts is a public duty, and as the mystery of the apparition that had frightened little Clare was

never solved on the stage of events at Raynham, where dread walked the Abbey, let us go behind the scenes a

moment. Morally superstitious as the baronet was, the character of his mind was opposed to anything like

spiritual agency in the affairs of men, and, when the matter was made clear to him, it shook off a weight of

weakness and restored his mental balance; so that from this time he went about more like the man he had

once been, grasping more thoroughly the great truth, that This World is well designed. Nay, he could laugh

on hearing Adrian, in reminiscence of the ill luck of one of the family members at its first manifestation, call

the uneasy spirit, Algernon's Leg. Mrs. Doria was outraged. She maintained that her child had seen.

Not to believe in it was almost to rob her of her personal property. After satisfactorily studying his old state

of mind in her, Sir Austin, moved by pity, took her aside one day and showed her that her Ghost could write

words in the flesh. It was a letter from the unhappy lady who had given Richard birth, brief cold lines,

simply telling him his house would be disturbed by her no more. Cold lines, but penned by what

heartbroken abnegation, and underlying them what anguish of soul! Like most who dealt with him, Lady

Feverel thought her husband a man fatally stern and implacable, and she acted as silly creatures will act when

they fancy they see a fate against them: she neither petitioned for her right nor claimed it: she tried to ease her

heart's yearning by stealth, and now she renounced all. Mrs. Doria, not wanting in the family tenderness and

softness, shuddered at him for accepting the sacrifice so composedly: but he bade her to think how distracting

to this boy would be the sight of such relations between mother and father. A few years, and as man he

should know, and judge, and love her. ``Let this be her penance, not inflicted by me!'' Mrs. Doria bowed to

the System for another, not opining when it would be her turn to bow for herself.

Further behind the scenes we observe Rizzio and Mary grown older, much disenchanted: she discrowned,

dishevelled, he with gouty fingers on a greasy guitar. The Diaper Sandoe of promise lends his pen for

small hires. His fame has sunk; his bodily girth has sensibly increased. What he can do, and will do, is still

his theme; meantime the juice of the juniper is in requisition, and it seems those small hires cannot be

performed without it. Returning from her wretched journey to her wretcheder home, the lady had to listen to a

mild reproof from easygoing Diaper,a reproof so mild that he couched it in blank verse: for, seldom

writing metrically now, he took to talking it. With a fluent sympathetic tear, he explained to her that she was

damaging her interests by these proceedings; nor did he shrink from undertaking to elucidate wherefore.

Pluming a smile upon his succulent mouth, he told her that the poverty she lived in was utterly unbefitting her

gentle nurture, and that he had reason to believecould assure herthat an annuity was on the point of

being granted her by her husband. And Diaper broke his bud of a smile into full flower as he delivered the

radiant information. She learnt that he had applied to her husband for money. It is hard to have one's last prop

of selfrespect cut away just when we are suffering a martyr's agony at the stake. There was a five minutes'

tragic colloquy in the recesses behind the scenes,totally tragic to Diaper, who had fondly hoped to bask in

the warm sun of that annuity, and reemerge from his state of grub. The lady then wrote the letter Sir Austin

held open to his sister. The atmosphere behind the scenes is not wholesome, so, having laid the Ghost, we

That infinitesimal dose of =The World= which Master Ripton Thompson had furnished to the System with

such instantaneous and surprising effect was considered by Sir Austin to have worked well, and to be for the

time quite sufficient, so that Ripton did not receive a second invitation to Raynham, and Richard had no

special intimate of his own age to rub his excessive vitality against, and wanted none. His hands were full

enough with Tom Bakewell. Moreover, his father and he were heart in heart. The boy's mind was opening,

and turned to his father affectionately reverent. At this period, when the young savage grows into higher

influences, the faculty of worship is foremost in him. At this period Jesuits stamp the future of their

chargeling flocks; and all who bring up youth by a System, and watch it, know that it is the malleable

moment. Boys possessing any mental or moral force to give them a tendency, then predestinate their careers;

or, if under supervision, take the impress that is given them: not often to cast it off, and seldom to cast it off

In Sir Austin's Notebook was written: ``Between Simple Boyhood and AdolescenceThe Blossoming

Seasonon the threshold of Puberty, there is one Unselfish Hoursay, Spiritual Seedtime.''

He took care that good seed should be planted in Richard, and that the most fruitful seed for a youth, namely,

Example, should be of a kind to germinate in him the love of every form of nobleness.

``I am only striving to make my son a Christian,'' he said, answering them who persisted in expostulating

with the System. And to these instructions he gave an aim: ``First be virtuous,'' he told his son, ``and then

serve your country with heart and soul.'' The youth was instructed to cherish an ambition for statesmanship,

and he and his father read history and the speeches of British orators to some purpose; for one day Sir Austin

found him leaning crosslegged, and with his hand to his chin, against a pedestal supporting the bust of

Chatham, contemplating the hero of our Parliament, his eyes streaming with tears.

People said the baronet carried the principle of Example so far that he only retained his boozing dyspeptic

brother Hippias at Raynham in order to exhibit to his son the woful retribution nature wreaked upon a life of

indulgence; poor Hippias having now become a walking complaint. This was unjust, but there is no doubt he

made use of every illustration to disgust or encourage his son that his neighbourhood afforded him, and did

not spare his brother, for whom Richard entertained a contempt in proportion to his admiration of his father,

``He seems to be ashamed to,'' Richard replied. ``He wants to know what is the good? and I don't know what

``I'm afraid it has gone too far with him,'' said Sir Austin, ``and until he has had some deep sorrows he will

not find the divine want of Prayer. Strive, my son, when you represent the people, to provide for their

education. He feels everything now through a dull impenetrable rind. Culture is halfway to Heaven. Tell

him, my son, should he ever be brought to ask how he may know the efficacy of Prayer, and that his prayer

Happy in his father and in himself, the youth now lived. Conscience was beginning to inhabit him, and he

carried some of the freightage known to men; though in so crude a form that it overweighed him, now on this

The wise youth Adrian observed these further progressionary developments in his pupil, soberly cynical. He

was under Sir Austin's interdict not to banter him, and eased his acrid humours inspired by the sight of a

felonious young rickburner turning saint, by grave affectations of sympathy and extreme accuracy in

marking the not widelydistant dates of his various changes. The Breadandwater phase lasted a fortnight:

the Vegetarian (an imitation of his cousin Austin), little better than a month: the religious, somewhat longer:

the religiouspropagandist (when he was for converting the heathen of Lobourne and Bursley, and the

domestics of the Abbey, including Tom Bakewell), longer still, and hard to bear;he tried to convert

Adrian! All the while Tom was being exercised like a raw recruit. Richard had a drillsergeant from the

nearest barracks down for him, to give him a proper pride in himself, and marched him to and fro with

immense satisfaction, and nearly broke his heart trying to get the roundshouldered rustic to take in the

rudiments of letters: for the boy had unbounded hopes for Tom, as a hero in grain.

Richard's pride also was cast aside. He affected to be, and really thought he was, humble. Whereupon Adrian,

as by accident, imparted to him the fact that men were animals, and he an animal with them.

``_I_ an animal!'' cries Richard in scorn, and for weeks he was as troubled by this rudiment of

selfknowledge as Tom by his letters. Sir Austin had him instructed in the wonders of anatomy, to restore his

=SeedTime= passed thus smoothly, and adolescence came on, and his cousin Clare felt what it was to be of

an opposite sex to him. She too was growing, but nobody cared how she grew. Outwardly even her mother

seemed absorbed in the sprouting of the green offshoot of the Feverel tree, and Clare was his handmaiden,

little marked by him. Lady Blandish honestly loved the boy. She would tell him: ``If I had been a girl, I

would have had you for my husband.'' And he with the frankness of his years would reply: ``And how do you

know I would have had you?'' causing her to laugh and call him a silly boy, for had he not heard her say she

``You don't read your father's Book,'' she said. Her own copy was bound in purple velvet, giltedged, as

decorative ladies like to have holier books, and she carried it about with her, and quoted it, and (Adrian

remarked to Mrs. Doria) hunted a noble quarry, and deliberately aimed at him therewith, which Mrs. Doria

``See here,'' said Lady Blandish, pressing an almondy fingernail to one of the Aphorisms, which instanced

how age and adversity must clayenclose us ere we can effectually resist the magnetism of any human

``Well, then, my squire,'' she touched his cheek and ran her fingers through his hair, ``learn as quick as you

can not to be all hither and yon with a hundred different attractions, as I was before I met a wise man to guide

They frequently approached this theme, and always retreated from it; always with the same beating of heart

to Richard, accompanied by the sense of a growing mystery, which, however, did not as yet generally disturb

Life was made very pleasant to him at Raynham, as it was part of Sir Austin's principle of education that his

boy should be thoroughly joyous and happy; and whenever Adrian sent in a satisfactory report of his pupil's

advancement, which he did pretty liberally, diversions were planned, just as prizes are given to diligent

schoolboys, and Richard was supposed to have all his desires gratified while he attended to his studies. The

System flourished. Tall, strong, bloomingly healthy, he took the lead of his companions on land and water,

and had more than one bondsman in his service besides Ripton Thompsonthe boy without a Destiny!

Perhaps the boy with a Destiny was growing up a trifle too conscious of it. His generosity to his occasional

companions was princely, but was exercised something too much in the manner of a prince; and,

notwithstanding his contempt for baseness, he would overlook that more easily than an offence to his pride,

which demanded an utter servility when it had once been rendered susceptible. If Richard had his followers

he had also his feuds. The Papworths were as subservient as Ripton, but young Ralph Morton, the nephew of

Mr. Morton, and a match for Richard in numerous promising qualities, comprising the noble science of

fisticuffs, this youth spoke his mind too openly, and moreover would not be snubbed. There was no middle

course for Richard's comrades between high friendship or absolute slavery. He was deficient in those

cosmopolite habits and feelings which enable boys and men to hold together without caring much for each

other; and, like every insulated mortal, he attributed the deficiency, of which he was quite aware, to the fact

of his possessing a superior nature. Young Ralph was a lively talker: therefore, argued Richard's vanity, he

had no intellect. He was affable: therefore he was frivolous. The women liked him: therefore he was a

butterfly. In fine, young Ralph was popular, and our superb prince, denied the privilege of despising, ended

Early in the days of their contention for leadership, Richard saw the absurdity of affecting to scorn his rival.

Ralph was an Eton boy, and hence, being robust, a swimmer and a cricketer. A swimmer and a cricketer is

nowhere to be scorned in youth's republic. Finding that manoeuvre would not do, Richard was prompted once

or twice to entrench himself behind his greater wealth and his position; but he soon abandoned that also,

partly because his chilliness to ridicule told him he was exposing himself, and chiefly that his heart was too

chivalrous. And so he was dragged into the lists by Ralph, and experienced the luck of champions. For

cricket, and for diving, Ralph bore away the belt: Richard's middlestump tottered before his ball, and he

could seldom pick up more than three eggs underwater to Ralph's halfdozen. He was beaten, too, in jumping

and running. Why will silly mortals strive to the painful pinnacles of championship? Or why, once having

reached them, not have the magnanimity and circumspection to retire into private life immediately? Stung by

his defeats, Richard sent one of his dependent Papworths to Poer Hall, with a challenge to Ralph Barthrop

Morton; matching himself to swim across the Thames and back, once, twice, or thrice, within a less time than

he, Ralph Barthrop Morton, would require for the undertaking. It was accepted, and a reply returned, equally

formal in the trumpeting of Christian names, wherein Ralph Barthrop Morton acknowledged the challenge of

Richard Doria Feverel, and was his man. The match came off on a midsummer morning, under the direction

of Captain Algernon. Sir Austin was a spectator from the cover of a plantation by the riverside, unknown to

his son, and, to the scandal of her sex, Lady Blandish accompanied the baronet. He had invited her

attendance, and she, obeying her frank nature, and knowing what =The Pilgrim Scrip= said about prudes, at

once agreed to view the match, pleasing him mightily. For was not here a woman worthy the golden ages of

the world? one who could look upon man as a creature divinely made, and look with a mind neither tempted,

nor taunted, by the Serpent! Such a women was rare. Sir Austin did not discompose her by uttering his

praises. She was conscious of his approval only in an increased gentleness of manner, and something in his

voice and communications, as if he were speaking to a familiar, a very high compliment from him. While the

lads were standing ready for the signal to plunge from the steep decline of greensward into the shining

waters, Sir Austin called upon her to admire their beauty, and she did, and even advanced her head above his

shoulder delicately. In so doing, and just as the start was given, a bonnet became visible to Richard. Young

Ralph was heels in air before he moved, and then he dropped like lead. He was beaten by several lengths.

The result of the match was unaccountable to all present, and Richard's friends unanimously pressed him to

plead a false start. But though the youth, with full confidence in his better style and equal strength, had

backed himself heavily against his rival, and had lost his little riveryacht to Ralph, he would do nothing of

the sort. It was the Bonnet had beaten him, not Ralph. The Bonnet, typical of the mystery that caused his

heart those violent palpitations, the Bonnet was his dear, detestable enemy. He took a savage pleasure in

And now, as he progressed from mood to mood, his ambition turned towards a field where Ralph could not

rival him, and where the Bonnet was etherealized, and reigned glorious mistress. A cheek to the pride of a

boy will frequently divert him to the path where lie his subtlest powers. Richard gave up his companions,

servile or antagonistic: he relinquished the material world to young Ralph, and retired into himself, where he

was growing to be lord of kingdoms: where Beauty was his handmaid, and History his minister, and Time his

ancient harper, and sweet Romance his bride; where he walked in a realm vaster and more gorgeous than the

great Orient, peopled with the heroes that have been. For there is no princely wealth, and no loftiest heritage,

to equal this early one that is made bountifully common to so many, when the ripening blood has put a spark

to the imagination, and the earth is seen through rosy mists of a thousand freshawakened nameless and

aimless desires; panting for bliss and taking it as it comes; making of any sight or sound, perforce of the

enchantment they carry with them, a key to infinite, because innocent, pleasure. The passions then are

gambolling cubs; not the ravaging gluttons they grow to. They have their teeth and their talons, but they

neither tear nor bite. They are in counsel and fellowship with the quickened heart and brain. The whole sweet

Something akin to the indications of a change in the spirit of his son, which were now seen, Sir Austin had

marked down to be expected, as due to his plan. The blushes of the youth, his long vigils, his clinging to

solitude, his abstraction, and downcast but not melancholy air, were matters for rejoicing to the prescient

gentleman. ``For it comes,'' said he to Dr. Clifford of Lobourne, after consulting him medically on the youth's

behalf and being assured of his soundness, ``it comes of a thoroughly sane condition. The blood is healthy,

the mind virtuous: neither instigates the other to evil, and both are perfecting toward the flower of manhood.

If he reach that purein the untainted fulness and perfection of his natural powersI am indeed a happy

father! But one thing he will owe to me: that at one period of his life he knew paradise, and could read God's

handwriting on the earth! Now those abominations whom you call precocious boysyour little pet

monsters, doctor!and who can wonder that the world is what it is? when it is full of themas they will

have no divine time to look back upon in their own lives, how can they believe in innocence and goodness, or

be other than sons of selfishness and the Devil? But my boy,'' and the baronet dropped his voice to a key that

was touching to hear, ``my boy, if he fall, will fall from an actual region of purity. He dare not be a sceptic as

to that. Whatever his darkness, he will have the guiding light of a memory behind him. So much is secure.''

To talk nonsense, or poetry, or the dash between the two, in a tone of profound sincerity, and to enunciate

solemn discordances with received opinion so seriously as to convey the impression of a spiritual insight, is

the peculiar gift by which monomaniacs, having first persuaded themselves, contrive to influence their

neighbours, and through them to make conquest of a good half of the world, for good or for ill. Sir Austin had

this gift. He spoke as if he saw the truth, and, persisting in it so long, he was accredited by those who did not

understand him, and silenced them that did. ``We shall see,'' was all the argument left to Dr. Clifford, and

So far certainly the experiment had succeeded. A comlier, braver, better boy was nowhere to be met. His

promise was undeniable. The vessel, too, though it lay now in harbour and had not yet been proved by the

buffet; of the elements on the great ocean, had made a good trial trip, and got well through stormy weather, as

the records of the Bakewell Comedy witnessed to at Raynham. No augury could be hopefuler. The Fates must

indeed be hard, the Ordeal severe, the Destiny dark, that could destroy so bright a Spring! But, bright as it

was, the baronet relaxed nothing of his vigilant supervision. He said to his intimates: ``Every act, every

fostered inclination, almost every thought, in this Blossoming Season, bears its seed for the Future. The living

Tree now requires incessant watchfulness.'' And, acting up to his light, Sir Austin did watch. The youth

submitted to an hour's examination every night before he sought his bed; professedly to give an account of his

studies; but really to recapitulate his moral experiences of the day. He could do so, for he was pure. Any

wildness in him that his father noted, any remoteness or richness of fancy in his expressions, was set down as

incidental to the Blossoming Season. The Blossoming Season explained and answered for all. There is

nothing like a theory for binding the wise. Sir Austin, despite his rigid watch and ward, knew less of his son

than the servant of his household. And he was deaf, as well as blind. Adrian thought it his duty to tell him

that the youth was consuming paper. Lady Blandish likewise hinted at his mooning propensities. Sir Austin

from his lofty watchtower of the System had foreseen it, he said. But when he came to hear that the youth

``A very different thing from writing poetry, madam,'' said the baronet. ``No Feverel has ever written poetry.''

``I don't think it's a sign of degeneracy,'' the lady remarked. ``He rhymes very prettily to me.''

A London phrenologist, and a friendly Oxford Professor of poetry, quieted Sir Austin's fears.

The phrenologist said he was totally deficient in the imitative faculty; and the Professor, that he was equally

so in the rhythmic, and instanced several consoling false quantities in the few effusions submitted to him.

Added to this, Sir Austin told Lady Blandish that Richard had, at his best, done what no poet had ever been

known to be capable of doing: he had, with his own hands, and in cold blood, committed his virgin

Killing one's darling child is a painful imposition. For a youth in his Blossoming Season, who fancies himself

a poet, to be requested to destroy his firstborn, without a reason (though to pretend a reason cogent enough

to justify the request were a mockery), is a piece of abhorrent despotism, and Richard's blossoms withered

under it. A strange man had been introduced to him, who traversed and bisected his skull with sagacious stiff

fingers, and crushed his soul while, in an infallible voice, declaring him the animal he was: making him feel

such an animal! Not only his blossoms withered, his being seemed to draw in its shoots and twigs. And when,

coupled thereunto (the strange man having departed, his work done), his father, in his tenderest manner,

stated that it would give him pleasure to see those same precocious, utterly valueless, scribblings among the

cinders, the last remaining mental blossoms spontaneously fell away. Richard's spirit stood bare. He protested

not. Enough that it could be wished! He would not delay a minute in doing it. Desiring his father to follow

him, he went to a drawer in his room, and from a cleanlinen recess, never suspected by Sir Austin, the

secretive youth drew out bundle after bundle: each neatly tied, named, and numbered: and pitched them into

flames. And so Farewell my young Ambition! and with it Farewell all true confidence between Father and

It was now, as Sir Austin had written it down, The Magnetic Age: the Age of violent attractions, when to hear

mention of love is dangerous, and to see it, a communication of the disease. People at Raynham were put on

their guard by the baronet, and his reputation for wisdom was severely criticized in consequence of the

injunctions he thought fit to issue through butler and housekeeper down to the lower household, for the

preservation of his son from any visible symptom of the passion. A footman and two housemaids are believed

to have been dismissed on the report of heavy Benson that they were in or inclining to the state; upon which

an undercook and a dairymaid voluntarily threw up their places, averring that ``they did not want no young

men, but to have their sex spied after by an old wretch like that,'' indicating the ponderous butler, ``was a

little too much for a Christian woman,'' and then they were ungenerous enough to glance at Benson's

wellknown marital calamity, hinting that some men met their deserts. So intolerable did heavy Benson's

espionage become, that Raynham would have grown depopulated of its womankind had not Adrian

interfered, who pointed out to the baronet what a fearful arm his butler was wielding. Sir Austin

acknowledged it despondently. ``It only shows,'' said he, with a fine spirit of justice, ``how all but impossible

``I do not object,'' he added; ``I hope I am too just to object to the exercise of their natural inclinations. All I

``No gadding about in couples,'' continued the baronet, ``no kissing in public. Such occurrences no boy

should witness. Whenever people of both sexes are thrown together, they will be silly; and where they are

highfed, uneducated, and barely occupied, it must be looked for as a matter of course. Let it be known that I

only require discreetness.'' Discreetness, therefore, was instructed to reign at the Abbey. Under Adrian's able

Discreetness, too, was enjoined to the upper household. Sir Austin, who had not previously appeared to

notice the case of Lobourne's hopeless curate, now desired Mrs. Doria to interdict, or at least discourage, his

``Really, Austin!'' said Mrs. Doria, astonished to find her brother more awake than she had supposed, ``I have

``The man amuses me,'' said Mrs. Doria. ``You know, we have few amusements here, we inferior creatures. I

confess I should like a barrelorgan better; that reminds one of town and the opera; and besides, it plays more

than one tune. However, since you think my society bad for him, let him stop away.''

The sight of the Notebook backing a sardonic smile, caused Mrs. Doria her unusual flash of irony; and truly

it was hard upon a lady to mark this cold Rhadamanthus deliberately and openly jotting her down to

Prejudgement and condemnation at her sex in some future edition of the Verdicts. With the selfdevotion of a

woman she abjured it, and grew patient and sweet the moment her daughter Clare was spoken of, and the

business of her life in view. Mrs. Doria's maternal heart had betrothed the two cousins, Richard and Clare;

had already beheld them espoused and fruitful. For this she yielded the pleasures of town; for this she

immured herself at Raynham; for this she bore with a thousand follies, exactions, inconveniences, things

abhorrent to her, and Heaven knows what forms of torture and selfdenial, which are smilingly endured by

that greatest of voluntary martyrsa mother with a daughter to marry. Mrs. Doria, an amiable widow, had

surely married but for her daughter Clare. The lady's hair no woman could possess without feeling it her

pride. It was the daily theme of her lady'smaid,a natural aureole to her head. She was gay, witty, still

physically youthful enough to claim a destiny; and she sacrificed it to accomplish her daughter's! sacrificed,

as with heroic scissors, hair, wit, gaietylet us not attempt to enumerate how much! more than may be

said. And she was only one of thousands; thousands who have no portion of the hero's reward; for he may

reckon on applause, and condolence, and sympathy, and honour; they, poor slaves! must look for nothing but

the opposition of their own sex and the sneers of ours. O, Sir Austin! had you not been so blinded, what an

Aphorism might have sprung from this point of observation! Mrs. Doria was coolly told, between sister and

brother, that during the Magnetic Age her daughter's presence at Raynham was undesireable. Instead of

nursing offence, her sole thought was the mountain of prejudice she had to contend against. She bowed, and

said, Clare wanted seaairshe had never quite recovered the shock of that dreadful night. How long, Mrs.

``That,'' said Sir Austin, ``depends. A year, perhaps. He is entering on it. I shall be most grieved to lose you,

``Marriageable, Austin! at seventeen! don't name such a thing. My child shall not be robbed of her youth.''

``As you are of that opinion, Helen,'' said he, ``perhaps we may still make arrangements to retain you with us.

Would you think it adviseable to send Clareshe should know disciplineto some establishment for a

``To an asylum, Austin?'' cried Mrs. Doria, controlling her indignation as well as she could.

``Austin!'' Mrs. Doria exclaimed, and had to fight with a moisture in her eyes. ``Unjust! absurd!'' she

murmured. The baronet thought it a natural proposition that Clare should be a bride or a schoolgirl.

``I cannot leave my child.'' Mrs. Doria trembled. ``Where she goes, I go. I am aware that she is only one of

our sex, and therefore of no value to the world, but she is my child. I will see, poor dear, that you have no

``I thought,'' Sir Austin remarked, ``that you acquiesced in my views with regard to my son.''

``Yesgenerally,'' said Mrs. Doria, and felt culpable that she had not before, and could not then, tell her

brother that he had set up an Idol in his housean Idol of flesh! more retributive and abominable than

wood, or brass, or gold. But she had bowed to the Idol too longshe had too entirely bound herself to gain

her project by subserviency to enjoy that gratification now. She had, and she dimly perceived it, committed a

greater fault in tactics, in teaching her daughter to bow to the Idol also. Love of that kind Richard took for

tribute. He was indifferent to Clare's soft eyes. The parting kiss he gave her was ready and cold as his father

could desire, and Sir Austin had hardly slept overnight for thinking of the effect it might have on the

magnetic youth. He caressed his son as if Richard had done something virtuous. Compensation his boy

should have for any trifling crosses to his feelings. He should have yachts, horses, whatever he fancied. Sir

Austin now grew eloquent to him in laudation of manly pursuits: but Richard thought his eloquence barren,

his attempts at companionship awkward, and all manly pursuits and aims, life itself, vain and worthless. To

what end? sighed the blossomless youth, and cried aloud, as soon as he was relieved of his father's society,

what was the good of anything? Whatever he didwhichever path he selected, led back to Raynham. And

whatever he did, and however wretched and wayward he showed himself, only confirmed Sir Austin more

and more in the truth of his provisions. Tom Bakewell, now the youth's groom, had to give the baronet a

report of his young master's proceedings, in common with Adrian, and while there was no harm to tell Tom

spoke out. ``He do ride like fire every day to Pig's Snout,'' naming the highest hill in the neighbourhood,

``and stand there and stare, never movin', like a mad 'un. And then hoam agin all slack as if he'd been beaten

To the interrogationDid he look East or West? Tom, dreading a snare, replied that he had not marked:

``There is no woman in that!'' mused the baronet. ``He would have ridden back as hard as he went,'' reflected

this profound scientific humanist, ``had there been a woman in it. He would shun vast expanses, and seek

shade, concealment, solitude. The desire for distances betokens emptiness and undirected hunger: when the

``Exactly,'' said the baronet. ``As I foresaw. At this period an insatiate appetite is accompanied by a fastidious

palate. Nothing but the quintessences of existence, and those in exhaustless supplies, will satisfy this craving,

which is not to be satisfied! Hence his bitterness. Life can furnish no food fitting for him. The strength and

purity of his energies have reached to an almost divine height, and roam through the Inane. Poetry, love, and

suchlike, are the drugs earth has to offer to high natures, as she offers to low ones debauchery. 'Tis a sign,

this sourness, that he is subject to none of the empiricisms that are afloat. Now to keep him clear of them!''

The Titans had an easier task in storming Olympus. As yet, however, it could not be said that Sir Austin's

System had failed. On the contrary, it had reared a youth, handsome, intelligent, wellbred, and, observed the

ladies, with acute emphasis, innocent. Where, they asked, was such another young man to be found?

``Oh!'' said Lady Blandish to Sir Austin, ``if men could give their hands to women unsoiledhow different

``Happy, indeed!'' was the baronet's caustic ejaculation. ``But where shall I meet one equal to him, and his

``No, that you know they are not,'' said the lady, stamping. ``But they are more innocent than boys, I am

``Because of their education, madam. You see now what a youth can be. Perhaps, when my System is

published, or ratherto speak more humblywhen it is practised, the balance may be restored, and we

``It's too late for poor me to hope for a husband from one of them,'' said the lady, pouting and laughing.

``It is never too late for beauty to waken love,'' returned the baronet, and they trifled a little. They were

approaching Daphne's Bower, which they entered, and sat there to taste the coolness of a descending

The baronet seemed in a humour for dignified fooling; the lady for serious converse.

``I shall believe again in Arthur's knights,'' she said. ``When I was a girl I dreamed of one.''

``And showed his good taste by turning aside for the more tangible San Blandish?''

The lady gathered her mouth. ``Either we are very mighty, or you are very weak.''

``But whatever we are, and if we are bad, bad! we love virtue, and truth, and lofty souls, in men: and, when

we meet those qualities in them, we are constant, and would die for themdie for them. Ah! you know men

``The knights possessing such distinctions must be young, I presume?'' said Sir Austin.

``Yesah!'' said the lady mocking him. ``Intellect may subdue womenmake slaves of them; and they

worship beauty perhaps as much as you do. But they only love for ever and are mated when they meet a

``My dream was in the nursery. The day my frock was lengthened to a gown I stood at the altar. I am not the

only girl that has been made a woman in a day, and given to an ogre instead of a true knight.''

Here the couple changed characters. The lady became gay as the baronet grew earnest.

``You know it is our lot,'' she said. ``And we are allowed many amusements. If we fulfil our duty in

producing children, that, like our virtue, is its own reward. Then, as a widow, I have wonderful privileges.''

``Certainly,'' she responded. ``I have no trouble now in patching and piecing that rag the world callsa

character. I can sit at your feet every day unquestioned. To be sure, others do the same, but they are female

Sir Austin drew nearer to her. ``You would have made an admirable mother, madam.''

The lady tapped her toe with her parasol, blushing. ``But I am a mother,'' she said.

That he could look relieved by so presumptuous a speech was a sign how far the lady had gone with him.

Sir Austin's most graciously appended, ``Call him ours, madam,'' and held his head as if to catch the word

from her lips, which, however, she chose to refuse, or defer. They made the coloured West a common point

``As you will not say `ours,' madam, let me. And, as you have therefore an equal claim on the boy, I will

The announcement of a project hardly savoured of a coming proposal, but for Sir Austin to confide one to a

woman was almost tantamount to a declaration. So Lady Blandish thought, and so said her soft, deepeyed

smile, as she perused the ground while listening to the project. It concerned Richard's nuptials. He was now

nearly eighteen. He was to marry when he was fiveandtwenty. Meantime a young lady, some years his

junior, was to be sought for in the homes of England, who would be every way fitted by education, instincts,

and bloodon each of which qualifications Sir Austin unreservedly enlargedto espouse so perfect a

youth and accept the honourable duty of assisting in the perpetuation of the Feverels. The baronet went on to

say that he proposed to set forth immediately, and devote a couple of mouths, to the first essay in his

``I fear,'' said Lady Blandish, when the project had been fully unfolded, ``you have laid down for yourself a

``I know it.'' The baronet's shake of the head was piteous. ``Even in England she will be rare. But I confine

myself to no class. If I ask for blood it is for untainted, not what you call high blood. I believe many of the

middle classes are frequently more carefulmore purebloodedthan our aristocracy. Show me among

them a Godfearing family who educate their childrenI should prefer a girl without brothers and

sistersas a Christian damsel should be educated say, on the model of my son, and she may be

Lady Blandish bit her lip. ``And what do you do with Richard while you are absent on this expedition?''

``Then give it up. His future bride is now pinafored and breadandbuttery. She romps, she cries, she dreams

of play and pudding. How can he care for her? He thinks more at his age of old women like me. He will be

``Ay! true,'' he muttered. ``Adrian said the same. He must not see her. How could I think of it! The child is

``Then, madam,'' and the baronet rose, ``there is one thing for me to determine upon. I must, for the first time

``It is my duty, madam, having thus brought him up, to see that he is properly mated,not wrecked upon

the quicksands of marriage, as a youth so delicately trained might be; more easily than another! Betrothed, he

will be safe from a thousand snares. I may, I think, leave him for a term. My precautions have saved him

She had emerged from the temple, and stood beside Sir Austin on the upper steps, under a clear summer

``Madam!'' he took her hand, and his voice was gallant and tender, ``under whose but yours?''

Lady Blandish felt that she had been wooed and asked in wedlock. She did not withdraw her hand. The

baronet's salute was flatteringly reverent. He deliberated over it, as one going through a grave ceremony. And

he, the scorner of women, had chosen her for his homage! Lady Blandish forgot that she had taken some

trouble to arrive at it. She received the exquisite compliment in all its unique honeysweet: for in love we

The lady's hand was still in durance, and the baronet had not recovered from his profound inclination, when a

noise from the neighbouring beechwood startled the two actors in this courtly pantomime. They turned their

heads, and beheld the hope of Raynham on horseback, surveying the scene aghast. The next moment he had

All night Richard tossed on his bed with his heart in a rapid canter, and his brain bestriding it, traversing the

rich untasted world, and the great Realm of Mystery, from which he was now restrained no longer. Months he

had wandered about the gates of the Bonnet, wondering, sighing, knocking at them, and getting neither

admittance nor answer. He had the key now. His own father had given it to him. His heart was a lightning

steed, and bore him on and on over limitless regions bathed in superhuman beauty and strangeness, where

cavaliers and ladies leaned whispering upon close green swards, and knights and ladies cast a splendour upon

savage forests, and tilts and tourneys were held in golden courts lit to a glorious day by ladies' eyes, one pair

of which, dimly visioned, constantly distinguishable, followed him through the boskage and dwelt upon him

in the press, beaming while he bent above a hand glittering white and fragrant as the frosted blossom of a

May night. Awhile the heart would pause and flutter to a shock: he was in the act of consummating all earthly

bliss by pressing his lips to the small white hand. Only to do that, and die! cried the Magnetic Youth: to fling

the Jewel of Life into that one cup and drink it off! He was intoxicated by anticipation. For that he was born.

There was, then, some end in existence, something to live for! to kiss a woman's hand, and die! He would

leap from the couch, and rush to pen and paper to relieve his swarming sensations. Scarce was he seated

when the pen was dashed aside, the paper sent flying with the exclamation, ``Have I not sworn I would never

write again?'' Sir Austin had shut that safetyvalve. The nonsense that was in the youth might have poured

harmlessly out, and its urgency for ebullition was so great that he was repeatedly oblivious of his oath, and

found himself seated under the lamp in the act of composition before pride could speak a word. Possibly the

pride even of Richard Feverel had been swamped if the act of composition were easy at such a time, and a

single idea could stand clearly foremost; but myriads were demanding the first place; chaotic hosts, like ranks

of stormy billows, pressed impetuously for expression, and despair of reducing them to form, quite as much

as pride, to which it pleased him to refer his incapacity, threw down the powerless pen, and sent him panting

to hid outstretched length and another headlong career through the rosygirdled land.

Toward morning the madness of the fever abated somewhat, and he went forth into the air. A lamp was still

burning in his father's room, and Richard thought, as he looked up, that he saw the evervigilant head on the

watch. Instantly the lamp was extinguished, the window stood cold against the hues of dawn. Had he cast a

second glance at his own chamber he might then have seen the evervigilant head on the watch. Sir Austin

had slept no more than his son. Beholding him so early abroad his worst fears were awakened. He hurried to

gaze at the forsaken couch, a picture of tempest; the papers, with halfwritten words ending in reckless tails

and wild dashes, strewn everywhere about, blankly eloquent; chairs upset, drawers left open, companion

slippers astray about the room. The abashed baronet dared not whisper to his soul what had thus distracted the

youth. As little could he make selfconfession that it was impossible for him to face his son for some time to

come. No doubt his conscious eye looked inward, and knew; but he chose to juggle with it, and say to

himself, that not an hour must be lost in betrothing Richard, and holding him bond to virtue, and therefore he

would immediately depart on his expedition. The pain of not folding the beloved son to his breast before he

went was moreover a fortunate beguilement of the latent dread that his going just now was a false step. It

would be their first separation. Sir Austin ascended to the roof of the Abbey, and descried him hastening to

the boathouse by the riverside. Ere he was out of sight, the baronet's sense of sacrifice had blinded his

Strong pulling is an excellent medical remedy for certain classes of fever. Richard took to it instinctively. The

clear fresh water, burnished with sunrise, sparkled against his arrowy prow; the soft deep shadows curled

smiling away from his gliding keel. Overhead solitary morning unfolded itself, from blossom to bud, from

bud to flower; still delicious changes of light and colour, to whose influences he was heedless as he shot

under willows and aspens, and across sheets of riverreaches, pure mirrors to the upper glory, himself the

sole tenant of the stream. Somewhere at the founts of the world lay the land he was rowing toward;

something of its shadowed lights might be discerned here and there. It was not a dream, now he knew. There

was a secret abroad. The woods were full of it; the waters rolled with it, and the winds. Oh, why could not

one in these days do some high knightly deed which should draw down ladies' eyes from their heaven, as in

the days of Arthur! To such a meaning breathed the unconscious sighs of the youth, when he had pulled

He was off Bursley, and had lapsed a little into that musing quietude which follows strenuous exercise, when

he heard a hail and his own name called. It was no lady, no fairy, but young Ralph Morton, an irruption of

miserable masculine prose. Heartily wishing him abed with the rest of mankind, Richard rowed in and

jumped ashore. Ralph immediately seized his arm, saying that he desired earnestly to have a talk with him,

and dragged the Magnetic Youth from his waterdreams, up and down the wet mown grass. That he had to

say seemed to be difficult of utterance, and Richard, though he barely listened, soon had enough of his old

rival's gladness at seeing him, and exhibited signs of impatience; whereat Ralph, as one who branches into

matter somewhat foreign to his mind, but of great human interest and importance, put the question to him.

``I don't know any,'' quoth Richard indifferently. ``Why are you out so early?''

In answer to this, Ralph suggested that the name of Mary might be considered a pretty name.

Richard agreed that it might be; the housekeeper at Raynham, half the women cooks, and all the housemaids,

``Yes, I know,'' said Ralph. ``We have lots of Marys. It's so common. Oh! I don't like Mary best. What do you

``Do you know,'' Ralph continued, throwing off the mask and plunging into the subject, ``I'd do anything on

earth for some namesone or two. It's not Mary, nor Lucy. Clarinda's pretty, but it's like a novel. Claribel,

I like. Names beginning with 'Cl' I prefer. The 'Cl's' are always gentle and lovely girls you would die for!

Richard had never been acquainted with any of them to inspire that emotion. Indeed these urgent appeals to

his fancy in feminine names at five o'clock in the morning slightly surprised him, though he was but half

awake to the outer world. By degrees he perceived that Ralph was quite hanged. Instead of the lusty,

boisterous boy, his rival in manly sciences, who spoke straightforwardly and acted up to his speech, here was

an abashed and blushpersecuted youth, who sued piteously for a friendly ear wherein to pour the one idea

possessing him. Gradually, too, Richard apprehended that Ralph likewise was on the frontiers of the Realm of

Mystery, perhaps further towards it than he himself was; and then, as by a sympathetic stroke, was revealed

to him the wonderful beauty and depth of meaning in feminine names. The theme appeared novel and

delicious, fitted to the season and the hour. But the hardship was that Richard could choose none from the

``Not better than the names ending in `a' and `y,' Richard replied, wishing he could, for Ralph was evidently

``Come under these trees,'' said Ralph. And under the trees Ralph unbosomed. His name was down for the

army: Eton was quitted for ever. In a few months he would have to join his regiment, and before he left he

must say goodbye to his friends. . . . . Would Richard tell him Mrs. Forey's address? he had heard she was

somewhere by the sea. Richard did not remember the address, but said he would willingly take charge of any

``Will you?'' cried Ralph, diving his hand into his pocket; ``here it is. But don't let anybody see it.''

``My aunt's name is not Clare,'' said Richard, perusing what was composed of the exterior formula. ``Ah!

``Have I?'' murmured Ralph, hiding his hot face in a stumble, and then peeping at the address to verify. ``So I

have. The address, you know . . . . It's because I like to write the name of Clare,'' he added hurriedly by way

Richard meditated unwittingly``I suppose we like the names of the people we like best?''

``Emmeline Clementina Matilda Laura, Countess Blandish,'' Richard continued in a low tone, transferring the

``I'm certain,'' said Richard, as he finished his performance, ``I'm certain we like the names of the people we

like best.'' And, having made this great discovery for himself, he fixed his eyes on blushing Ralph. If he

discovered anything further he said nothing, but bade him goodbye, jumped back into his boat, and pulled

down the tide. The moment Ralph was hidden by an abutment of the banks, Richard reperused the address.

For the first time it struck him that his cousin Clare was a very charming creature. he remembered the look of

her eyes, and especially the last reproachful glance she gave him at parting. What business, pray, had Ralph

to write to her? Did she not belong to him Richard Feverel? He read the words again and again: Clara Doria

Forey. Why, Clare was the name he liked bestnay, he loved it. Doria, tooshe shared his own name

with him. Away went his heart, not at a canter now, at a, gallop, as one who sights the quarry. He felt too

weak to pull. Clare Doria Foreyoh, perfect melody! Sliding with the tide, he heard it fluting in the bosom

When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs that the Fates are behindhand in furnishing a temple

Above greenflashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder below, lilies, golden and white, were

swaying at anchor among the reeds. Meadowsweet hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing

bramble, and there also hung a daughter of earth. Her face was shaded by a broad straw hat with a flexible

brim that left her lips and chin in the sun, and, sometimes nodding, sent forth a light of promising eyes.

Across her shoulders, and behind, flowed large loose curls, brown in shadow, almost golden where the ray

touched them. She was simply dressed, befitting decency and the season. On a closer inspection you might

see that her lips were stained. This blooming young person was regaling on dewberries. They grew between

the bank and the water. Apparently she found the fruit abundant, for her hand was making pretty progress to

her month. Fastidious youth, which shudders and revolts at woman plumping her exquisite proportions on

breadandbutter, and would (we must suppose) joyfully have her quite scraggy to have her quite poetical,

can hardly object to dewberries. Indeed the act of eating them is dainty and induces musing. The dewberry is

a sister to the lotus, and an innocent sister. You eat: mouth, eye, and hand are occupied, and the undrugged

mind free to roam. And so it was with the damsel who knelt there. The little skylark went up above her, all

song, to the smooth southern cloud lying along the blue: from a dewy copse standing dark over her nodding

hat the blackbird fluted, calling to her with thrice mellow note: the kingfisher flashed emerald out of green

osiers: a bowwinged heron travelled aloft, seeking solitude: a boat slipped toward her, containing a dreamy

youth; and still she plucked the fruit, and ate, and mused, as if no fairy prince were invading her territories,

and as if she wished not for one, or knew not her wishes. Surrounded by the green shaven meadows, the

pastoral summer buzz, the weirfall's thundering white, amid the breath and beauty of wild flowers, she was a

bit of lovely human life in a fair setting; a terrible attraction. The Magnetic Youth leaned round to note his

proximity to the weirpiles, and beheld the sweet vision. Stiller and stiller grew nature, as at the meeting of

two electric clouds. Her posture was so graceful that, though he was making straight for the weir, he dared

not dip a scull. Just then one most enticing dewberry caught her eyes. He was floating by unheeded, and saw

that her hand stretched low, and could not gather what it sought. A stroke from his right brought him beside

her. The damsel glanced up dismayed, and her whole shape trembled over the brink. Richard sprang from his

boat into the water. Pressing a hand beneath her foot, which she had thrust against the crumbling wet sides of

the bank to save herself, he enabled her to recover her balance, and gain safe earth, whither, emboldened by

He had landed on an island of the stillvexed Bermoothes. The world lay wrecked behind him: Raynham

hung in mists, remote, a phantom to the vivid reality of this white hand which had drawn him thither away

thousands of leagues in an eyetwinkle. Hark, how Ariel sung overhead! What splendour in the heavens!

What marvels of beauty about his enchanted head! And, O you wonder! Fair Flame! by whose light the

glories of being are now first seen . . . . . Radiant Miranda! Prince Ferdinand is at your feet.

Or is it Adam, his rib taken from his side in sleep, and thus transformed, to make him behold his Paradise,

So to each other said their changeing eyes in the moment they stood together; he pale, and she blushing.

She was indeed sweetly fair, and would have been held fair among rival damsels. On a magic shore, and to a

youth educated by a System, strung like an arrow drawn to the head, he, it might be guessed, could fly fast

and far with her. The soft rose in her cheeks, the clearness of her eyes, bore witness to the body's virtue; and

health and happy blood were in her bearing. Had she stood before Sir Austin among rival damsels, that

Scientific Humanist, for the consummation of his System, would have thrown her the handkerchief for his

son. The wide summerhat, nodding over her forehead to her brows, seemed to flow with the flowing heavy

curls, and those firethreaded mellow curls, only halfcurls, waves of hair call them, rippling at the ends,

went like a sunny redveined torrent down her back almost to her waist: a glorious vision to the youth, who

embraced it as a flower of beauty, and read not a feature. There were curious features of colour in her face for

him to have read. Her brows, thick and brownish against a soft skin showing the action of the blood, met in

the bend of a bow, extending to the temples long and level: you saw that she was fashioned to peruse the

sights of earth, and by the pliability of her brows that the wonderful creature used her faculty, and was not

going to be a statue to the gazer. Under the dark thick brows an arch of lashes shot out, giving a wealth of

darkness to the full frank blue eyes, a mystery of meaningmore than brain was ever meant to fathom:

richer, henceforth, than all mortal wisdom to Prince Ferdinand. For when nature turns artist, and produces

contrasts of colour on a fair face, where is the Sage, or what the Oracle, shall match the depth of its lightest

Prince Ferdinand was also fair. In his slim boatingattire his figure looked heroic. His hair, rising from the

parting to the right of his forehead, in what his admiring Lady Blandish called his plume, fell away slanting

silkily to the temples across the nearly imperceptible upward curve of his brows therefelt more than seen,

so slight it wasand gave to his profile a bold beauty, to which his bashful, breathless air was a flattering

charm. An arrow drawn to the head, capable of flying fast and far with her! He leaned a little forward to her,

drinking her in with all his eyes, and young Love has a thousand. Then truly the System triumphed, just ere it

was to fall; and could Sir Austin have been content to draw the arrow to the head, and let it fly, when it would

fly, he might have pointed to his son again,and said to the world, ``Match him!'' Such keen bliss as the

youth had in the sight of her, an innocent youth alone has powers of soul in him to experience. *

``O Women!'' says =The Pilgrim's Scrip,= in one of its solitary outbursts, ``Women, who like, and will have

for hero, a rake! how soon are you not to learn that you have taken bankrupts to your bosoms, and that the

If these two were Ferdinand and Miranda, Sir Austin was not Prospero, and was not present, or their fates

So they stood a moment, changeing eyes, and then Miranda spoke, and they came down to earth, feeling no

She spoke to thank him for his aid. She used quite common simple words; and used them, no doubt, to

express a common simple meaning: but to him she was uttering magic, casting spells, and the effect they had

on him was manifested in the incoherence of his replies, which were too foolish to be chronicled.

The couple were again mute. Suddenly Miranda, with an exclamation of anguish, and innumerable lights and

shadows playing: over her lovely face, clapped her hands, crying aloud, ``My book! my book!'' and ran to the

``My book! my book!'' she answered, her long delicious curls swinging across her shoulders to the stream.

Then turning to him, divining his rash intention, ``Oh, no, no! let me entreat you not to,'' she said; ``I do not

so very much mind losing it.'' And in her eagerness to restrain him she unconsciously laid her gentle hand

``Indeed, I do not really care for the silly book,'' she continued, withdrawing her hand quickly, and reddening.

The young gentleman had kicked off his shoes. No sooner was the spell of contact broken than he jumped in.

The water was still troubled and discoloured by his introductory adventure, and, though he ducked his head

with the spirit of a dabchick, the book was missing. A scrap of paper floating from the bramble just above the

water, and looking as if had caught its edges and it had flown from one adverse element to the other, was all

he could lay hold of; and he returned to land disconsolately, to hear Miranda's murmured mixing of thanks

``No, indeed!'' she replied, and used the awful threat: ``I will run away if you do,'' which effectually

Her eye fell on the firestained scrap of paper, and brightened, as she cried, ``There, there! you have what I

want. It is that. I do not care for the book. No, please! You are not to look at it. Give it me.''

Before her playfully imperative injunction was fairly spoken, Richard had glanced at the document and

discovered a Griffin between Two Wheatsheaves: his crest in silver: and belowO wonderment immense!

his own handwriting! remnant of his burntoffering! a page of the sacrificed poems! one blossom preserved

Who would have said, have thought, that, where all else perished, Odes, flattering bits of broadwinged Epic,

Idyls, Lines, Stanzas, this one Sonnet to the stars should be miraculously reserved for such a starry fate!

As they walked silently across the meadow, Richard strove to remember the hour and the mood of mind in

which he had composed the notable production. The stars were invoked, as seeing and foreseeing all, to tell

him where then his love reclined, and so forth; Hesper was complacent enough to do so, and described her in

And surely no words could be more prophetic. Here were two blue eyes and golden hair; and by some strange

chance, that appeared like the working of a divine finger, she had become the possessor of the prophecy, she

that was to fulfil it! The youth was too charged with emotion to speak. Doubtless the damsel had less to think

of, or had some trifling burden on her conscience, for she seemed to grow embarrassed. At last she drew up

her chin to look at her companion under the nodding brim of her hat (and the action gave her a charmingly

freakish air), crying, ``But where are you going to? You are wet through. Let me thank you again; and pray

``Wet?'' replied the magnetic muser, with a voice of tender interest; ``not more than one foot, I hope? I will

``Not I, but you. You know you saved me, and would try to get that silly book for me, and you are dripping

He really did not: and it was a fact that he spoke truth. She pursed her sweet dewberry mouth in the most

``I cannot help it,'' she said, her mouth opening, and sounding harmonious bells of laughter in his ears.

``Not to feel that you have been in the water the very moment after!'' she musically interjected, seeing she

``It's true,'' he said; and his own gravity then touched him to join a duet with her, which made them no longer

feel strangers, and did the work of a month of intimacy. Better than sentiment, laughter opens the breast to

love; opens the whole breast to his full quiver, instead of a corner here and there for a solitary arrow. Hail the

occasion propitious, O British young! and laugh and treat love as an honest God, and dabble not with the

sentimental rouge. These two laughed, and the souls of each cried out to other, ``It is I, It is I.''

They laughed and forgot the cause of their laughter, and the sun dried his light riverclothing, and they

strolled toward the blackbird's copse, and stood near a stile in sight of the foam of the weir and the

Richard's boat, meanwhile, had contrived to shoot the weir, and was swinging, bottom upward, broadside

``Yes,'' he replied, and low, as if he spoke in the core of his thought. ``What do I care for it now!''

His old life was whirled away with it, dead, drowned, His new life was with her, alive, divine.

She flapped low the brim of her hat. ``You must really not come any farther,'' she softly said.

``And will you go, and not tell me who you are?'' he asked, growing bold as the fears of losing her came

across him. ``And will you not tell me before you we''his face burned``how you came by thatthat

She chose to select the easier question to reply to: ``You ought to know me; we have been introduced.'' Sweet

``Then who, in heaven's name, are you? Tell me! I never could have forgotten you.''

``Belthorpe! Belthorpe!'' quoth Richard, as if he had to touch his brain to recollect there was such a place.

The magnetized youth gazed at her. By what magic was it that this divine sweet creature could be allied with

``Then whatwhat is your name?'' said his mouth, while his eyes added, ``O wonderful creature! How

``Have you forgot the Desboroughs of Dorset, too?'' she peered at him archly from a sidebend of the

``The Desboroughs of Dorset?'' A light broke in on him. ``And have you grown to this? That little girl I saw

He drew close to her to read the nearest features of the vision. She could no more laugh off the piercing

fervour of his eyes. Her volubility fluttered under his deeply wistful look, and now neither voice was high,

Richard, with his eyes still intently fixed on her, returned, ``You are very beautiful!''

The words slipped out. Perfect simplicity is unconsciously audacious. Her overpowering beauty struck his

heart, and, like an instrument that is touched and answers to the touch, he spoke.

Miss Desborough made an effort to trifle with this terrible directness; but his eyes would not be gainsaid, and

checked her lips. She turned away from them, her bosom a little rebellious. Praise so passionately spoken,

and by one who has been a damsel's first dream, dreamed of nightly many long nights, and clothed in the

virgin silver of her thoughts in bud, praise from him is coin the heart cannot reject, if it would. She quickened

``Indeed I must,'' she said, pulling at the obnoxious broad brim of her hat; and, interpreting a pause he made

for his assent to her rational resolve, shyly looking at him, she held her hand out, and said, ``Goodbye,'' as if

The hand was pure whitewhite and fragrant as the frosted blossom of a Maynight. It was the hand whose

shadow, cast before, he had last night bent his head reverentially above, and kissedresigning himself

thereupon over to execution for payment of the penalty of such daring by such bliss well rewarded.

``Goodbye,'' she said again, as frankly as she could, and at the same time slightly compressing her fingers

``You will not go?'' Mechanically he drew the white hand nearer his thumping heart.

The question was subtle. A moment or two she did not answer, and then forswore herself, and said, Yes.

All at once an alarming delicious shudder went through her frame. From him to her it coursed, and back from

her to him. Forward and back love's electric messenger rushed from heart to heart, knocking at each, till it

surged tumultuously against the bars of its prison, crying out for its mate. They stood trembling in unison, a

But she had none to reply with, and could only mutely bend upward her gentle wrist.

``Then, farewell!'' he said, and, dropping his lips to the soft fair hand, kissed it, and hung his head, swinging

Strange, that now she was released she should linger by him. Strange, that his audacity, instead of the

executioner, brought blushes and timid tenderness to his side, and the sweet words, ``You are not angry with

She repeated her words in deeper sweetness to his bewildered look; and he, inexperienced, possessed by her,

almost lifeless with the divine new emotions she had realized in him, could only sigh and gaze at her

``I think it was rude of me to go without thanking you again,'' she said, and again proffered her hand.

The sweet heavenbird shivered out his song above him. The gracious glory of heaven fell upon his soul. He

touched her hand, not moving his eyes from her, nor speaking, and she, with a soft word of farewell, passed

across the stile, and up the pathway through the dewy shades of the copse, and out of the arch of the light,

And away with her went the wild enchantment. He looked on barren air. But it was no more the world of

yesterday. The marvellous splendours had sown seeds in him, ready to spring up and bloom at her gaze; and

in his bosom now the vivid conjuration of her tones, her face, her shape, makes them leap and illumine him

There was nothing to tell him that he had been making love and declaring it with extraordinary rapidity; nor

did he know it. Soft flushed cheeks! sweet mouth! strange sweet brows! eyes of softest fire! how could his

ripe eyes behold you, and not plead to keep you? Nay, how could he let you go? And he seriously asked

Tomorrow this place will have a memorythe river and the meadow, and the white falling weir: his heart

will build a temple here; and the skylark will be its highpriest, and the old blackbird its glossygowned

chorister, and there will be a sacred repast of dewberries. Today the grass is grass: his heart is chased by

phantoms and finds rest nowhere. Only when the most tender freshness of his flower comes across him does

he taste a moment's calm; and no sooner does it come than it gives place to keen pangs of fear that she may

Erelong he learns that her name is Lucy. Erelong he meets Ralph, and discovers that in a day he has distanced

him by a sphere. Erelong he and Ralph and the curate of Lobourne join in their walks, and raise classical

discussions on ladies' hair, fingering a thousand delicious locks, from those of Cleopatra to the Borgia's.

``Fair! fair! all of them fair!'' sighs the melancholy curate, ``as are those women formed for our perdition! I

think we have in this country what will match the Italian or the Greek.'' His mind flutters to Mrs. Doria,

Richard blushes before the vision of Lucy, and Ralph, whose heroine's hair is a dark luxuriance, dissents, and

claims a noble share in the slaughter of men for darkhaired Wonders. They have no mutual confidences, but

Lady Blandish, and others who professed an interest in the fortunes and future of the systematized youth, had

occasionally mentioned names of families whose alliance according to apparent calculations, would not

degrade his blood: and over these names, secretly preserved on an open leaf of the notebook, Sir Austin, as

he neared the metropolis, distantly dropped his eye. There were names historic and names mushroomic;

names that the Conqueror might have called in his musterroll; names that had been, clearly, tossed into the

upper stratum of civilized life by a millwheel or a merchantstool. Against them the baronet had written M.

or Po,, or Pr.signifying, Money, Position, Principles, favouring the latter with special brackets. The

wisdom of a worldly man, which he could now and then adopt, determined him, before he commenced his

round of visits, to consult and sound his solicitor and his physician thereanent; lawyers and doctors being the

rats who know best the merits of a house, and on what sort of foundation it is standing.

Sir Austin entered the great city with a sad mind. The memory of his misfortune came upon him vividly, as if

no years had intervened, and it were but yesterday that he found the letter telling him that he had no wife and

his son no mother. He wandered on foot through the streets the first night of his arrival, looking strangely at

the shops and shows and bustle of the world from which he had divorced himself; feeling as destitute as the

poorest vagrant. He had almost forgotten how to find his way about, and came across his old mansion in his

efforts to regain his hotel. The windows were alightsigns of merry life within. He stared at it from the

shadow of the opposite side. It seemed to him he was a ghost gazing upon his living past. And then the

phantom which had stood there mocking while he felt as other menthe phantom, now flesh and blood

reality, seized and convulsed his heart, and filled its unforgiving crevices with bitter ironic venom. He

remembered by the time reflection returned to him that it was Algernon, who had the house at his disposal,

probably giving a cardparty, or something of the sort. In the morning, too, he remembered that he had

divorced the world to wed a System, and must be faithful to that exacting Spouse, who, now alone of things

Mr. Thompson received his client with the dignity and emotion due to such a rentroll and the

unexpectedness of the honour. He was a thin stately man of law, garbed as one who gave audience to acred

bishops, and carrying on his countenance the stamp of paternity to the parchmentskins, and of a virtuous

attachment to Port wine sufficient to increase his respectability in the eyes of moral Britain. After

congratulating Sir Austin on the fortunate issue of two or three suits, and being assured that the baronet's

business in town had no concern therewith, Mr. Thompson ventured to hope that the young heir was all his

father could desire him to be, and heard with satisfaction that he was a pattern to the youth of the Age.

``A difficult time of life, Sir Austin!'' said the old lawyer, shaking his head. ``We must keep our eyes on

``We must take care to have seen where we planted, and that the root was sound, or the mischief will do itself

His legal adviser murmured ``Exactly,'' as if that were his own idea, adding, ``It is my plan with Ripton, who

has had the honour of an introduction to you, and a very pleasant time he spent with my young friend, whom

he does not forget. Ripton follows the Law. He is articled to me, and will, I trust, succeed me worthily in your

confidence. I bring him into town in the morning; I take him back at night. I think I may say that I am quite

``Do you think,'' said Sir Austin, fixing his brows, ``that you can trace every act of his to its motive?''

``Do you''Sir Austin held the same searching expression ``do you establish yourself in a radiating

centre of intuition: do you base your watchfulness on so thorough an acquaintance with his character, so

perfect a knowledge of the instrument, that all its movementseven the eccentric onesare anticipated

The explanation was a little too long for the old lawyer to entreat another repetition. Winking with the painful

deprecation of a deaf man, Mr. Thompson smiled urbanely, coughed conciliatingly, and said he was afraid he

could not affirm that much, though he was happily enabled to say that Ripton had borne an extremely good

``I find,'' Sir Austin remarked, as sardonically he relaxed his inspecting pose and mien, ``there are fathers

who are content to be simply obeyed. Now I require not only that my son should obey; I world have him

guiltless of the impulse to gainsay my wishesfeeling me in him stronger than his undeveloped nature, up

to a certain period, where my responsibility ends and his commences. Man is a selfacting machine. He

cannot cease to be a machine; but, though selfacting, he may lose the powers of selfguidance, and in a

wrong course his very vitalities hurry him to perdition. Young, he is an organism ripening to the set mechanic

diurnal round, and while so he needs all the angels to hold watch over him that he grow straight and healthy,

Mr. Thompson agitated his eyebrows dreadfully. He was utterly lost. He respected Sir Austin's estates too

much to believe for a moment he was listening to downright folly, Yet how otherwise explain the fact of his

excellent client being incomprehensible to him? For a middleaged gentleman, and one who has been in the

habit of advising and managing, will rarely have a notion of accusing his understanding; and Mr. Thompson

had not the slightest notion of accusing his. But the baronet's condescension in coming thus to him, and

speaking on the subject nearest his heart, might well affect him, and he quickly settled the case in favour of

both parties, pronouncing mentally that his honoured client had a meaning, and so deep it was, so subtle, that

Sir Austin elaborated his theory of the Organism and the Mechanism, for his lawyer's edification. At a

``I apprehended you! Oh, I agree with you, Sir Austin! entirely! Allow me to ring for my son Ripton. I think,

if you condescend to examine him, you will say that regular habits, and a diet of nothing but

lawreadingfor other forms of literature I strictly interdicthave made him all that you instance.''

Our old friend Ripton sat in a room apart with the confidential clerk, Mr. Beazley, a veteran of law, now little

better than a document, looking already signed and sealed, and shortly, to be delivered, who enjoined nothing

from his pupil and companion save absolute silence, and sounded his praises to his father at the close of days

when it had been rigidly observednot caring, or considering, the finished dry old document that he was,

under what kind of spell a turbulent commonplace youth could be charmed into stillness six hours a day.

Ripton was supposed to be devoted to the study of Blackstone. A tome of the classic legal commentator lay

extended outside his desk, under the partially lifted lid of which nestled the assiduous student's head law

being thus brought into direct contact with his brainpan. The officedoor opened, and he heard not; his

name was called, and he remained equally moveless. His method of taking in Blackstone seemed absorbing

``Comparing notes, I daresay,'' whispered Mr. Thompson to Sir Austin. ``I call that study!''

``Ahem!'' the old clerk replied, ``he is like this every day, sir. I could not ask more of a mouse.''

Sir Austin stepped forward to the desk. His proximity roused one of Ripton's senses, which blew a call to the

others. Down went the lid of the desk. Dismay, and the ardours of study, flashed together in Ripton's face. He

slouched from his perch with the air of one who means rather to defend his position than welcome a superior,

the right hand in his waistcoat pocket fumbling a key, the left catching at his vacant stool.

Sir Austin put two fingers on the youth's shoulder, and said, leaning his head a little on one side, in a way

habitual to him, ``I am glad to find my son's old comrade thus profitably occupied. I know what study is

myself. But beware of prosecuting it too excitedly! Come! you must not be offended at our interruption; you

will soon take up the thread again. Besides, you know, you must get accustomed to the visits of your client.''

So condescending and kindly did this speech sound to Mr. Thompson, that, seeing Ripton still preserve his

appearance of disorder and sneaking defiance, he thought fit to nod and frown at the youth, and desired him

to inform the baronet what particular part of Blackstone he was absorbed in mastering at that moment.

Ripton hesitated an instant, and blundered out, with dubious articulation, ``The Law of Gravelkind.''

``Gravelkind,'' again rumbled Ripton's voice. Sir Austin turned to Mr. Thompson for an explanation. The old

Ripton read his error in the sternly painful expression of his father's face, and corrected himself. ``Gavelkind,

``Ah!'' said Mr. Thompson with a sigh of relief. ``Gravelkind, indeed! Gavelkind! An old Kentish'' He

was going to expound, but Sir Austin assured him he knew it, and a very absurd law it was, adding, ``I should

like to look at your son's notes, or remarks on the judiciousness of that family arrangement, if he has any.''

``You were making notes, or referring to them, as we entered,'' said Mr. Thompson to the sucking lawyer; ``a

Ripton glanced at his desk and then at his father; at Sir Austin, and at the confidential clerk. He took out his

In his praiseworthy efforts to accommodate the keyhole, Ripton discovered that the desk was already

unlocked. Mr. Thompson marched to it, and held the lid aloft. A book was lying open within, which Ripton

immediately hustled among a mass of papers and tossed into a dark corner, not before the glimpse of a

The baronet smiled, and said, ``You study Heraldry, too? Are you fond of the science?''

Ripton replied that he was very fond of itextremely attached, and threw a further pile of papers into the

The notes had been less conspicuously placed, and the search for them was tedious and vain. Papers, not

legal, or the fruits of study, were found that made Mr. Thompson more intimate with the condition of his

Mr. Thompson suggested to his son that they might be among those scraps he had thrown carelessly into the

dark corner. Ripton, though he consented to inspect them, was positive they were not there.

``What have we here?'' said Mr. Thompson, seizing a neatly folded paper addressed to the Editor of a law

publication, as Ripton brought them forth, one by one. Forthwith Mr. Thompson fixed his spectacles and read

Mr. Thompson hem'd! and stopped short, like a man who comes unexpectedly upon a snake in his path. Mr.

``To Absalom, the son of David, the little Jew usurer of Bond Court, Whitecross Gutters, for his introduction

There was a pause: an awful underbreath of sanctified wonderment and reproach passed round the office.

Sir Austin assumed an attitude. Mr. Thompson shed a glance of severity on his confidential clerk, who

Ripton, now fairly bewildered, stuffed another paper under his father's nose, hoping the outside perhaps

would satisfy him: it was marked ``Legal Considerations.'' Mr. Thompson had no idea of sparing or shielding

his son. In fact, like many men whose selflove is wounded by their offspring, he felt vindictive, and was

ready to sacrifice him up to a certain point, for the good of both. He therefore opened the paper, expecting

something worse than what he had hitherto seen, despite its formal heading, and he was not disappointed.

The ``Legal Considerations'' related to the Case regarding which Ripton had conceived it imperative upon

him to address a letter to the Editor of the ``Jurist,'' and was indeed a great case, and an ancient; revived

apparently for the special purpose of displaying the forensic abilities of the Junior Counsel for the Plaintiff,

Mr. Ripton Thompson, whose assistance the AttorneyGeneral, in his opening statement, congratulated

himself on securing; a rather unusual thing, due probably to the eminence and renown of that youthful

gentleman at the Bar of his country. So much was seen from the copy of a report purporting to be extracted

from a newspaper, and prefixed to the Junior Counsel's remarks, or Legal Considerations, on the conduct of

the Case, the admissibility and nonadmissibility of certain evidence, and the ultimate decision of the judges.

Mr. Thompson, senior, lifted the paper high, with the spirit of one prepared to do execution on the criminal,

and in the voice of a towncrier, varied by a bitter accentuation and satiric singsong tone, deliberately read:

``The AttorneyGeneral, assisted by Mr. Ripton Thompson, appeared on behalf of the Plaintiff. Mr. Serjeant

``Oh!'' snapped Mr. Thompson, senior, peering venom at the unfortunate Ripton over his spectacles, ``your

With another sideshot at the Confidential Clerk, who retired immediately behind a strong entrenchment of

``This Case is too well known to require more than a partial summary of particulars'' . . . .

``Ahem! we will skip the particulars, however partial,'' said Mr. Thompson. `Ah! what do you mean here, sir,

``Not I,'' answered Ripton, from under his head. ``It's Mr. Cap Mr. Opp It's the Defendant's Counsel.

Outraged by hearing the culprit speak at all, his father broke in, ``How dare you talk so unblushingly, sir!''

``Enough!'' cried Mr. Thompson, appealing mutely to all present, and elongating his syllables with a

vehement sneer; ``I think we may be excused your Legal Considerations on such a Case. This is how you

employ your lawstudies, sir! You put them to this purpose? Mr. Beazley! you will henceforward sit alone. I

must have this young man under my own eye. Sir Austin! permit me to apologize to you for subjecting you to

Mr. Thompson wiped his forehead, as Brutus might have done after passing judgment on the scion of his

``These papers,'' he went on, fluttering Ripton's precious lucubrations in a waving judicial hand, ``I shall

retain. The day will come when he will regard them with shame. And it shall be his penance, his punishment,

to do so! Stop!'' he cried, as Ripton was noiselessly shutting his desk, ``have you more of them, sir; of a

similar description? Rout them out! Let us know you at your worst. What have you therein that corner?''

Ripton was understood to say he devoted that corner to old briefs on important cases.

Mr. Thompson thrust his trembling fingers among the old briefs, and turned over the volume Sir Austin had

observed, but without much remarking it, for his suspicions had not risen to print.

``A Manual of Heraldry?'' the baronet politely inquired, before it could well escape.

``Allow me to see that you have our arms and crest correct.'' The baronet proffered a hand for the book.

``A Griffin between two Wheatsheaves,'' cries Ripton, still clutching it nervously.

Mr. Thompson, without any notion of what he was doing, drew the book from Ripton's hold; whereupon the

two seniors laid their grey heads together over the titlepage. It set forth in attractive characters beside a

coloured frontispiece, which embodied the promise displayed there, the entrancing adventures of Miss

Had there been a Black Hole within the area of those law regions to consign Ripton to there and then, or an

Iron Rod handy to mortify his sinful flesh, Mr. Thompson would have used them. As it was, he contented

himself by looking Black Holes and Iron Rods at the detected youth, who sat on his perch insensible to what

Mr. Thompson cast the wicked creature down with a ``Pah!'' He, however, took her up again, and strode away

with her. Sir Austin gave Ripton a forefinger, and kindly touched his head, saying, ``Goodbye, boy! At

``Is it possible,'' quoth Mr. Thompson, the moment he had ushered his client into his private room, ``that you

``Certainly,'' the baronet replied. ``Why not? This by no means astonishes me. When there is no longer

danger to my son he will be welcome as he was before. He is a schoolboy. I knew it. I expected it. The

``One of the very worst books of that abominable class!'' exclaimed the old lawyer, opening at the coloured

frontispiece, from which brazen Miss Random smiled bewitchingly out, as if she had no doubt of captivating

Time and all his veterans on a fair field. ``Pah!'' he shut her to with the energy he would have given to the

office of publicly slapping her face; ``from this day I diet him on bread and water rescind his

pocketmoney!How he could have got hold of such a book! How he! And what ideas! Concealing

them from me as he has done so cunningly! He trifles with vice! His mind is in a putrid state! I might have

believed I did believeI might have gone on believingmy son Ripton to be a moral young man!''

The old lawyer interjected on the delusion of fathers, and sat down in a lamentable abstraction.

``The lad has come out!'' said Sir Austin. ``His adoption of the legal form is amusing. He trifles with vice,

true: people newly initiated are as hardy as its intimates, and a young sinner's amusements will resemble

those of a confirmed debauchee. The satiated, and the insatiate, appetite alike appeal to extremes. You are

astonished at this revelation of your son's condition. I expected it; though assuredly, believe me, not this

sudden and indisputable proof of it. But I knew that the seed was in him, and therefore I have not latterly

invited him to Raynham. School, and the corruption there, will bear its fruits sooner or later. I could advise

Mr. Thompson murmured, like a true courtier, that he should esteem it an honour to be favoured with Sir

Austin Feverel's advice: secretly resolute, like a true Briton, to follow his own.

``Let him, then,'' continued the baronet, ``see vice in its nakedness. While he has yet some innocence,

nauseate him! Vice, taken little by little, usurps gradually the whole creature. My counsel to you, Thompson,

``Oh, I shall punish him, Sir Austin! Do not fear me, sir. I have no tenderness for vice.''

``That is not what is wanted, Thompson. You mistake me. He should be dealt with gently. Heavens! do you

hope to make him hate vice by making him a martyr for its sake? You must descend from the pedestal of age

to become his Mentor: cause him to see how certainly and pitilessly vice itself punishes: accompany him into

``And depend upon it,'' he added, ``that, until fathers not thoroughly up to their duty, we shall see the sights

we see in great cities, and hear the tales we hear in little villages, with death and calamity in our homes, and a

legacy of sorrow and shame to the generations to come. I do aver,'' he exclaimed, becoming excited, ``that, if

it were not for the duty to my son, and the hope I cherish in him, I, seeing the accumulation of misery we are

handing down to an innocent posterityto whom, through our sin, the fresh breath of life will be

foulIyes! I would hide my name! For whither are we tending? What home is pure absolutely? What

``And what is to come of this?'' Sir Austin continued. ``When the sins of the fathers are multiplied by the

sons, is not perdition the final sum of things? And is not life, the boon of heaven, growing to be the devil's

game utterly? But for my son, I would hide my name. I would not bequeath it to be cursed by them that walk

This was indeed a terrible view of existence. Mr. Thompson felt uneasy. There was a dignity in his client, an

impressiveness in his speech, that silenced remonstrating reason and the cry of long years of comfortable

respectability. Mr. Thompson went to church regularly; paid his rates and dues without overmuch, or at least

more than common, grumbling. On the surface he was a good citizen, fond of his children, faithful to his

wife, devoutly marching to a fair seat in heaven on a path paved by something better than a thousand a year.

But here was a man sighting him from below the surface, and though it was an unfair, unaccustomed, not to

say unEnglish, method of regarding one's fellowman, Mr. Thompson was troubled by it. What though his

client exaggerated? Facts were at the bottom of what he said. And he was acute he had unmasked Ripton!

Since Ripton's exposure he winced at a personal application in the text his client preached from. Possibly this

Mr. Thompson shook his head, and, with dolefully puckered visage and a pitiable contraction of his

shoulders, rose slowly up from his chair. Apparently he was about to speak, but he straightway turned and

went meditatively to a siderecess in the room, whereof he opened a door, drew forth a tray and a decanter

labelled =Port,= filled a glass for his client, deferentially invited him to partake of it; filled another glass for

Sir Austin never took wine before dinner. Thompson had looked as if he meant to speak: he waited for

Mr. Thompson saw that, as his client did not join him in his glass, the eloquence of that Porty reply was lost

Having slowly ingurgitated and meditated upon this precious draught, and turned its flavour over and over

with an aspect of potent Judicial wisdom (one might have thought that he was weighing mankind in the

balance), the old lawyer heaved, and said, sharpening his lips over the admirable vintage, ``The world is in a

``But that,'' Mr. Thompson added immediately, illconcealing by his gaze the glowing intestinal

congratulations going on within him, ``that is, I think you would say, Sir Austinif I could but prevail

``There's virtue somewhere, I see, Thompson!'' Sir Austin murmured, without disturbing his legal adviser's

The old lawyer sat down to finish his glass, saying, that such a wine was not to be had everywhere.

They were then outwardly silent for a space. Inwardly one of them was full of riot and jubilant uproar: as if

the solemn fields of law were suddenly to be invaded and possessed by troops of Bacchanals: and to preserve

a decently wretched physiognomy over it, and keep on terms with his companion, he had to grimace like a

Mr. Thompson brushed back his hair. The baronet was still expectant. Mr. Thompson sighed deeply, and

emptied his glass. He combated the change that had come over him. He tried not to see Ruby. He tried to feel

miserable, and it was not in him. He spoke, drawing what appropriate inspirations he could from his client's

countenance, to show that they had views in common: ``Degenerating sadly, I fear!''

``According to what my winemerchants say,'' continued Mr. Thompson, ``there can be no doubt about it.''

``It's the grape, or the ground, or something,'' Mr. Thompson went on. ``All I can say is, our youngsters will

have a bad lookout! In my opinion Government should be compelled to send out a Commission to inquire

into the cause. To Englishmen it would be a public calamity. It surprises meI hear men sit and talk

despondently of this extraordinary disease of the vine, and not one of them seems to think it incumbent on

him to act, and do his best to stop it.'' He fronted his client like a man who accuses an enormous public

delinquency. ``Nobody makes a stir! The apathy of Englishmen will become proverbial. Pray try it, Sir

Austin! Pray allow me. Such a wine cannot disagree at any hour. Do! I am allowanced two glasses three

hours before dinner. Stomachic. I find it agree with me surprisingly: quite a new man. I suppose it will last

our time. It must! What should we do? There's no Law possible without it. Not a lawyer of us could live.

Ours is an occupation which dries the blood. We requireAhem! have I taken my second glass?''

Mr. Thompson meditated; conceived that he had, and again that he had not. The same luxury of indecision

``Too much is decidedly bad,'' he continued, looking firmly convinced. ``But just the quantum makes men of

``Now that very wineSir AustinI think I do not err in saying, that very wine your respected father, Sir

Pylcher Feverel, used to taste whenever he came to consult my father, when I was a boy. And I remember one

day being called in, and Sir Pylcher himself poured me out a glass. I wish I could call in Ripton now, and do

the same. No! Leniency in such a case as that!The wine would not hurt himI doubt if there be much

left for him to welcome his guests with. Ha! ha! Now if I could persuade you, Sir Austin, as you do not take

wine before dinner, some day to favour me with your company at my little country cottage I have a wine

therethe fellow to thatI think you would, I do think you would''Mr. Thompson meant to say, he

thought his client would arrive at something of a similar jocund contemplation of his fellows in their

degeneracy that inspirited lawyers after potation, but condensed the sensual promise into ``highly approve.''

Sir Austin speculated on his legal adviser with a sour mouth comically compressed.

It stood clear to him that Thompson before his Port, and Thompson after, were two different men. To

indoctrinate him now was too late: it was perhaps the time to make the positive use of him he wanted.

Drawing forth the Notebook: and pencilling roughly: ``Two prongs of a fork; the World stuck between

them Port and the Palate: 'Tis one which fails firstDown goes World;'' and again the

hieroglyph``Portspectacles.'' He said, ``I shall gladly accompany you this evening, Thompson,'' words

that transfigured the delighted lawyer, and restored the skeleton of a great Aphorism to his pocket, there to

``I came to visit my lawyer,'' he said to himself. ``I think I have been dealing with The World in epitome!''

The rumour circulated that Sir Austin Feverel, the recluse of Raynham, the rank misogynist, the rich baronet,

was in town, looking out a bride for his only son and uncorrupted heir. Doctor Benjamin Bairam was the

excellent authority. Doctor Bairam had safely delivered Mrs. Deborah Gossip of this interesting bantling,

which was forthwith dandled in dozens of feminine laps. Doctor Bairam could boast the first interview with

the famous recluse. He had it from his own lips that the object of the baronet was to look out a bride for his

only son and uncorrupted heir; ``and,'' added the doctor, ``she'll be lucky who gets him.'' Which was

interpreted to mean, that he would be a catch; the doctor probably intending to allude to certain extraordinary

A demand was made on the publisher of =The Pilgrim's Scrip= for all his outstanding copies.

Conventionalities were defied. A summershower of cards fell on the baronet's table.

He had few male friends. He shunned the Clubs as nests of scandal. The cards he contemplated were mostly

those of the sex, with the husband, if there was a husband, evidently dragged in for propriety's sake. He

perused the cards and smiled. He knew their purpose. What terrible light Thompson and Bairam had thrown

on some of them! Heavens! in what a state was the blood of this Empire. Before commencing his campaign

he called on two ancient intimates, Lord Heddon, and his distant cousin Darley Absworthy, both Members of

Parliament, useful men, though gouty, who had sown in their time a fine crop of wild oats, and advocated the

advantage of doing so, seeing that they did not fancy themselves the worse for it. He found one with an

imbecile son and the other with consumptive daughters. ``So much,'' he wrote in the Notebook, ``for the

Darley was proud of his daughters' white and pink skins. ``Beautiful complexions,'' he called them. The eldest

was in the market, immensely admired. Sir Austin was introduced to her. She talked fluently and sweetly. A

youth not on his guard, a simple schoolboy youth, or even a man, might have fallen in love with her, she

was so affable and fair. There was something poetic about her. And she was quite well, she said, the baronet

frequently questioning her on that point. She intimated that she was robust; but towards the close of their

conversation her hand would now and then travel to her side, and she breathed painfully an instant, saying,

``Isn't it odd? Dora, Adela, and myself, we all feel the same queer sensationabout the heart, I think it

Sir Austin nodded and blinked sadly, exclaiming to his soul, ``Wild oats! wild oats!''

``It's all nonsense, Feverel,'' he said, ``about bringing up a lad out of the common way. He's all the better for a

little racketing when he's greenfeels his bone and muscle learns to know the world. He'll never be a

man if he hasn't played at the old game one time in his life, and the earlier the better. I've always found the

best fellows were wildish once. I don't care what he does when he's a greenhorn; besides, he's got an excuse

for it then. You can't expect to have a man, if he doesn't take a man's food. You'll have a milksop. And,

depend upon it, when he does break out he'll go to the devil, and nobody pities him. Look what those fellows,

the grocers, do when they get hold of a young what d'ye call 'em?apprentice. They know the

scoundrel was born with a sweet tooth. Well! they give him the run of the shop, and in a very short time he

soberly deals out the goods, a devilish deal too wise to abstract a morsel even for the pleasure of stealing. I

know you have contrary theories. You hold that the young grocer should have a soul above sugar. It won't do!

Take my word for it, Feverel, it's a dangerous experiment, that of bringing up flesh and blood in harness. No

colt will bear it, or he's a tame beast. And look you: take it on medical grounds. Early excesses the frame will

recover from: late ones break the constitution. There's the case in a nutshell. How's your son?''

``Oh, Lipscombe's always the same!'' Lord Heddon sighed peevishly. ``He's quietthat's one good thing;

but there's no getting the country to take him, so I must give up hopes of that.''

Lord Lipscombe entering the room just then, Sir Austin surveyed him, and was not astonished at the refusal

``Wild oats! wild oats!'' again thinks the baronet, as he contemplates the headless, degenerate, weedy issue

Both Darley Absworthy and Lord Heddon spoke of the marriage of their offspring as a matter of course.

``And if I were not a coward,'' Sir Austin confessed to himself, ``I should stand forth and forbid the banns!

This universal ignorance of the inevitable consequence of sin is frightful! The wild oats plea is a torpedo that

seems to have struck the world, and rendered it morally insensible.'' However, they silenced him. He was

obliged to spare their feelings on a subject to him so deeply sacred. The healthful image of his noble boy rose

He was content to remark to his doctor, that he thought the third generation of wild oats would be a pretty

Families against whom neither Thompson lawyer nor Bairam physician could recollect a progenitorial blot,

either on the male or female side, were not numerous. ``Only,'' said the doctor, ``You really must not be too

exacting in these days, my dear Sir Austin. It is impossible to contest your principle, and you are doing

mankind incalculable service in calling its attention to this the gravest of its duties: but as the stream of

civilization progresses we must be a little taken in the lump, as it were. The world is, I can assure youand

I do not look only above the surface, you can believethe world is awakening to the vital importance of the

``Doctor,'' replied Sir Austin, ``if you had a pureblood Arab barb would you cross him with a screw?''

``Then permit me to say, I shall employ every care to match my son according to his merits,'' Sir Austin

returned. ``I trust the world is awakening, as you observe. I have been to my publisher, since my arrival in

town, with a manuscript `Proposal for a New System of Education of our British Youth,' which may come in

``Certainly,'' said the doctor. ``You will admit, Sir Austin, that, compared with continental nationsour

neighbours, for instancewe shine to advantage, in morals, as in everything else. I hope you admit that?''

``I find no consolation in shining by comparison with a lower standard,'' said the baronet. ``If I compare the

enlightenment of your viewsfor you admit my principle with the obstinate incredulity of a country

Doctor Bairam would hardly be flattered at such a comparison, assuredly, he interjected.

``Besides,'' added the baronet, ``the French make no pretences, and thereby escape one of the main penalties

of hypocrisy. Whereas we!but I am not their advocate, credit me. It is better, perhaps, to pay your

Doctor Bairam wished the baronet success, and diligently endeavoured to assist his search for a mate worthy

One of these mamas favoured by Doctor Benjamin Bairam was Mrs. Caroline Grandison, said to be a

legitimate descendant of the great Sir Charles: a lady who, in propriety of demeanour and pious manners, was

the petticoated image of her admirable ancestor. The cleanlinen of her morality was spotless as his. As

nearly she neighboured perfection, and knew it as well. Let us hope that her history will some day be written,

and the balance restored in literature which it was her pride to have established for her sex in life.

Mrs. Caroline was a colourless lady of an unequivocal character, living upon drugs, and governing her

husband and the world from her sofa. Woolly Negroes blest her name, and whiskered JohnThomases

deplored her weight. The world was given to understand that sorrows and disappointments had reduced her to

the contemplative posture which helped her to consider the urgent claims of her black fellowcreatures and

require the stalwart services of her white. In her presence the elect had to feel how very much virtue is its

own reward; for, if they did not rightly esteem the honour she did them, they had little farther encouragement

from Mrs. Caroline Grandison. On the other hand her rigour toward vice was unsparing; especially in the

person of one of her own sex, whom she treated as heaven treats fallen angels. A sinful manwhy, Mrs.

Caroline expected nothing better: but a sinful womanOh! that was a scandal, a shame! And you met no

sinful woman at Mrs. Caroline Grandison's parties. As a consequence, possibly, though one hardly dares

suppose it, her parties were the dullest in London, and gradually fell into the hands of popular preachers,

specific doctors, raw missionaries with their passage paid for, and a chance dean or so; a nondancing,

stoutdining congregation, in the midst of which a gay young guardsman was dismally out of his element,

and certainly would not have obtruded his unsodden spirit had there been no fair daughters.

The completeness of the lady's reputation was rounded by the whispers of envious tongues; which, admitting

the inviolability of her character, remarked that indeed she was a little too careful to appear different from

others, and took an ascetic delight in the contrast. There is no doubt that she took a great deal of medicine.

Dr. Bairam may have contributed toward her asceticism somewhat. The worthy doctor may even, perhaps,

In her sweet youth this lady fell violently in love with the great Sir Charles, and married him in fancy. The

time coming, when maiden fancy must give way to woman fact, she compromised her reverent passion for

the hero by declaring that she would never change the name he had honoured her with, and must, if she

espoused any mortal, give her widowed hand to a Grandison. Accordingly two cousins were proposed to her;

but the moral reputation of these Grandisons was so dreadful, and such a disgrace to the noble name they

bore, that she rejected them with horror. Woman's mission, however, being her perpetual precept, she felt at

the age of twentythree bound to put it in practice, and, as she was handsome, and most

handsomelyendowed, a quite an objectionable gentleman was discovered, who, for the honour of assisting

her in her mission, agreed to disembody himself in her great name, and be lost in the blaze of Sir Charles.

With his concurrence she rapidly produced eight daughters. A son was denied to her. This was the second

generation of Grandisons denied a son. Her husband, the quite unobjectionable gentleman, lost heart after the

arrival of the eighth, and surrendered his mind to more frivolous pursuits. She also appeared to lose heart; it

was her saintly dream to have a Charles. So assured she was that he was coming at last that she prepared male

babylinen with her own hands for the disappointing eighth. When, in that moment of creative suspense, Dr.

Bairam's soft voice, with sacred melancholy, pronounced, ``A daughter, madam!'' Mrs. Caroline Grandison

covered her face, and wept. She afterwards did penance for her want of resignation, and relapsed upon

Mrs. Caroline Grandison appeared to lose heart. But people said she was not really solaced by religion and

little dogs. People said, that her repeated consultations with Dr. Bairam had one end in view, and that all

those quantities of medicine were consumed for a devout purpose. Eight is not a number to stop at. Nine if

you like, but not eight. No one thinks of stopping at eight. People said that the pertinacity of her spirit

weakened her mind, and that she consulted cards and fortunetellers, and cast horoscopes, to discover if there

would be a ninth, and that ninth a Charles. They might truly have said, that the potency of Dr. Bairam's

prescriptions weakened the constitution. Mrs. Caroline Grandison grew fretful, and, reclined on an invalid

The disappointing eighth was on the verge of her teens when Sir Austin visited town. None of Mrs. Caroline

Grandison's daughters had married: owing, it was rumoured, to the degeneracy of the males of our day. The

elder ones had, in their ignorance, wished to marry young gentlemen of their choosing. Mrs. Caroline

Grandison bade them wait till she could find for them something like Sir Charles: she was aware that such a

man would hardly be found alive again. If they rebelled, as model young ladies occasionally will, Mrs.

Caroline Grandison declared that they were ill, and called in Dr. Bairam to prescribe, who soon reduced

No lady living was better fitted to appreciate Sir Austin, and understand his System, than Mrs. Caroline

Grandison. When she heard of it from Dr. Bairam, she rose from her couch and called for her carriage,

determined to follow him up and come to terms with him. All that was told her of the baronet conspired to

make her believe he was Sir Charles in person fallen upon evil times: the spirit of Sir Charles revived to mix

his blood with hers and produce a race of moral Paladins after Sir Charles's pattern. She reviewed her

daughters. Any one of the three younger ones would be a suitable match, and, if he wanted perfectly educated

young women, where else could he look for them? But he was difficult to hunt down. He went abroad shyly.

He was never to be met in general society. The rumour of him was everywhere, and an extremely

unfavourable rumour it was, from mothers who had daughters, and hopes for their daughters, which a few

questions of his had kindled, and a discovery of his severe requisitions extinguished. It appeared that he had

seen numerous young ladies. He had politely asked them to sit down and take off their shoes; but such

monstrous feet they had mostly that he declined the attempt to try on the Glass Slipper, and politely departed;

or tried it on, and with a resigned sad look declared that it would not, would not fit!

Some of the young ladies had been to schools. Their feet were all enormously too big, and there was no need

for them to take off their shoes. Some had been very properly educated at home; and to such, if Bairam

physician and Thompson lawyer did not protest, the Slipper was applied; but by occult arts of its own it

seemed to find out that their habits were somehow bad, and incapacitated them from espousing the Fairy

Unsuspecting damsels were asked at what time they rose in the morning, and would reply, at any hour. Some

said, they finished in the morning the romance they had relinquished to sleep overnight, little considering

how such a practice made the feet swell. One of them thought it a fine thing to tell him she took Metastasio to

There was a damsel closer home who did not take Metastasio to bed with her, and who ate dewberries early

in the morning, whose foot, had Sir Austin but known it, would have fitted into the intractable Slipper as

easily and neatly as if it had been a soft kid glove made to her measure. Alas! the envious sisters were

keeping poor Cinderella out of sight. Dewberries still abounded by the banks of the river; and thither she

strolled, and there daily she was met by one who had the test of her merits in his bosom: and there, on the

night the scientific humanist conceived he had alighted on the identical house which held the foot to fit the

Slipper, there under consulting stars, holy for evermore henceforth, the Fairy Prince, trembling and with

tears, has taken from her lips the first ripe fruit of love, and pledged himself hers. *

A night of happy augury to Father and Son. They were looking out for the same thing; only one employed

science, the other instinct; and which hit upon the right it was for time to decide. Sir Austin dined with Mrs.

``What!'' said Sir Miles, when Mrs. Caroline expressed her wish for an introduction, ``you want to know

Feverel? Aha! Why, you are the very woman for him, ma'am. It's one of the strongminded he's after. So you

shall, so you shall. I'll give a dinner tomorrow. And let me tell you in confidence that the value of his mines

is increasing, ma'am. You needn't be afraid about his crotchets. Feverel has his eye on the main chance as

``You do not believe, Sir Miles, that one may esteem him for his principles and sympathize with his object?''

``Well, ma'am,'' Sir Miles returned, ``I'm a plain man. I said to my wife the other dayshe was talking

something in that wayand I said to her, If Feverel had five hundred, instead of fifty thousand,

ayearhe's got that clear, ma'am, and it'll doublehow about his principles then? Aha! A rich man can

play the fool if he likes, and you women clap your hands, and cheer him. Now, if I were to have a System for

all my rascals, you'd call me something like what I should beeh? You would, though! And I wish I had

sometimes, for they're every one of 'em in scrapes, and I've got to pay the piper. But that's part of their

``Have you seen much of his son?'' Mrs. Caroline inquired, restraining an appearance of particular interest.

``Not much, ma'am; not much. Aha! I expect it's the mothers 'll be asking about _his_ son, and the daughters

``He's a fine lad. I'll say that for him, ma'am. He'll go a long way when he's once loose, that lad will. I came

to hear the other day that I was pretty near transporting him the young villain!''

Sir Miles told Mrs. Caroline certain facts that had gradually become public intelligence about his

``Have I frightened you a bit, ma'am?'' said twinkling Sir Miles; but the perverse woman, with the downfall if

her hands, checked his exultation by exclaiming: ``Is it not a proof of his father's wisdom to watch him so

Next day, at Sir Miles Papworth's hastilyordered dinner, Mrs. Caroline Grandison, who had summoned her

great dormant energies successfully to stand upon her feet, was handed down by Sir Austin. They sat

Sir Austin and Mrs. Caroline discovered that they had in common from an early period looked on life as a

science: and, having arrived at this joint understanding, they, with the indifference of practised dissectors,

laid out the world and applied the knife to the people they knew. In other words, they talked most frightful

scandal. It is proverbial what a cold torturer science can be. Malice is nothing to it. They reviewed their

friends. Pure blood was nowhere. Sir Austin hinted his observations since his arrival in town, and used a

remark or two from Bairam and Thompson. Mrs. Caroline cleverly guessed the families, and still further

opened his eyes. Together they quashed the wildoats special plea. Mrs. Caroline gave him a clearer idea of

his system than he had ever had before. She ran ahead of his thoughts like nimble fire. She appeared to have

forethought them all, and taken a leap beyond. When he plodded and hesitated on his conception, she, at a

word, struck boldly into black and white, making him fidget for his Notebook to reverse a sentence or two

``How true are some of the things you say, Sir Austin! And how false, permit me to add, are others!'' she

deprecatingly remarked. ``That, for instance, on Domestic Differences. How could you be so cynical as to

say, `_In a dissension between man and wife that one is in the right who has most friends._' It really angered

me. Cannot one be absolutely superiornotoriously the injured one?'' (Mrs. Caroline was citing her own

case against the fainthearted, foxhunting Unobjectionable.) ``But you amply revenge it. You say, `_Great

Hopes have lean offspring._' How true that is! How I know it myself! How true every disappointed woman

must know it to be! And what you say Of the Instincts and the Mindsomethingthat our Instincts seek

stability here below, and are always casting anchor somethingwithout the Captain's consentand

that it is at once the fruitful source of unhappiness and the proof of immortalityI'm making nonsense of it,

In this way she played with him. The theorist was dazzled, delighted. Lady Blandish was too like a

submissive slave to the System. Mrs. Caroline wedded it on the equal standing of an English wife, who gives

Her name appeared on his cardtable the day after the dinner. Six of her eight daughters, and a sprinkling of

her little dogs, were ready for his visit by the afternoon or fashionable morning. Charlotte and Harriet were

absent. Clementina was the elder in attendance, and the rest presented fairly decreasing heights down to the

disappointing last, Carola, called as near Charles as was permissible, a right ruddy young woman out of the

``We receive you into the family,'' the fond mother leaned on her elbows maternally smiling, to welcome her

visitor. ``I wished my daughters to share with me the pleasure of your acquaintance.''

``And knew well, madam, how to gratify me most.'' Sir Austin bowed to the ceremony of introduction, and

Carola twisted, and tried to read the frill of her trousers. She was dressed very young.

``My child!'' her mother admonished her. Whereat Carola screwed out a growl, ``Thirteen.''

``Allow me to congratulate you, my dear.'' Sir Austin bent forward, and put his lips to her forehead.

``She is not well today,'' said Mrs. Caroline. ``She is usually full of life and gaietyalmost too much of an

``She's the maddest creature I ever knew.'' Mrs. Caroline immediately went upon his tack with unction.

``Today she is shy. She is not herself. Possibly something has disagreed with her.''

``That nasty medicine, it is, mama,'' mumbled wilful Carola, swinging her frock.

Sir Austin turned to Mrs. Caroline, and inquired anxiously if the child took much medicine.

``The smallest occasional closes,'' Mrs. Caroline remarked, to an accompaniment of interjectory eyebrows

and chins from all her younger daughters, and a reserved demure aspect of the elder ones.

``I do not like much medicine for children,'' said the baronet, a little snappishly.

``Only the smallest occasional doses!'' Mrs. Caroline repeated, making her voice small and the doses sound

``My son has had little, or nothing,'' said the baronet. The young ladies looked on the father of that son with

``It is,'' she added, rising with heroic effort, ``not to be compared to our country one. But it is of excellent use,

and all my girls exercise in it, when in town, once a day, without intermission. My principle is, that girls

require a development of their frames as well as boys; and the more muscle they have the better women they

``On my honour, madam,'' said the enraptured baronet, ``you are the only sensible woman I have met,'' and he

Daughters and little dogs trooped to the gymnasium, which was fitted up in the court below, and contained

swingpoles, and stridepoles, and newly invented instruments for bringing out special virtues: an instrument

for the lungs: an instrument for the liver; one for the arms and thighs; one for the wrists; the whole for the

Owing, probably, to the exhaustion consequent on their previous exercises of the morning, the young ladies,

excepting Carola, looked fatigued and pale, and anything but wellbraced; and for the same reason,

doubtless, when the younger ones were requested by their mother to exhibit the use of the several

instruments, each of them wearily took hold of the depending strap of leather, and wearily pulled it, like

``I sometimes hear them,'' said their mama, ``while I am reclining above, singing in chorus. `Row, brothers,

The baronet was too much wrapped up in the enlightenment of her principle to notice the despondency of

``We have a professor of gymnastics, who comes twice a week to superintend,'' said Mrs. Caroline.

``How old did you say your daughter is, madam?'' the baronet abruptly interrogated her.

``Which?Oh!'' she followed his eye and saw it resting on ruddy Carola, ``thirteen. She this day completes

her thirteenth year. That will do, dears; much of it is not good after your dinners.''

The baronet placidly nodded approval of all her directions, and bestowed a second paternal kiss upon Carola.

``They talk of the Future Man, madam,'' he said. ``I seem to be in the house of the Future Woman.''

``Happy you that have a son!'' exclaimed Mrs. Caroline, and, returning to the drawingroom, they exchanged

Away with Systems! Away with a corrupt World! Let us breathe the air of the Enchanted Island.

Golden lie the meadows: golden run the streams; red gold is on the pinestems. The sun is coming down to

The sun is coming down to earth, and the fields and the waters shout to him golden shouts. He comes, and his

heralds run before him, and touch the leaves of oaks and planes and beeches lucid green, and the pinestems

redder gold; leaving brightest footprints upon thicklyweeded banks, where the foxglove's last upperbells

incline, and brambleshoots wander amid moist rich herbage. The plumes of the woodland are alight; and

beyond them, over the open, 'tis a race with the longthrown shadows; a race across the heaths and up the

hills, till, at the farthest bourne of mounted eastern cloud, the heralds of the sun lay rosy fingers, and rest.

Sweet are the shy recesses of the woodland. The ray treads softly there. A film athwart the pathway quivers

manyhued against purple shade fragrant with warm pines, deep mossbeds, feathery ferns. The little brown

squirrel drops tail, and leaps; the inmost bird is startled to a chance tuneless note. From silence into silence

Peeps of the revelling splendour above and around enliven the conscious full heart within. The flaming West,

the crimson heights, shower their glories through voluminous leafage. But these are bowers where deep bliss

dwells, imperial joy, that owes no fealty to yonder glories, in which the young lamb gambols and the spirits

of men are glad. Descend, great Radiance! embrace creation with beneficent fire, and pass from us! You and

the viceregal light that succeeds to you, and all heavenly pageants, are the ministers and the slaves of the

For this is the home of the enchantment. Here, secluded from vexed shores, the prince and princess of the

island meet: here like darkling nightingales they sit, and into eyes and ears and hands pour endless everfresh

Roll on, grinding wheels of the world: cries of ships going down in a calm, groans of a System which will not

know its rightful hour of exultation, complain to the universe. You are not heard here.

He calls her by her name, Lucy: and she, blushing at her great boldness, has called him by his, Richard.

Those two names are the keynotes of the wonderful harmonies the angels sing aloft.

Out in the world there, on the skirts of the woodland, a sheepboy pipes to meditative eve on a

Love's musical instrument is as old, and as poor: it has but two stops; and yet, you see, the cunning musician

Other speech they have little; light foam playing upon waves of feeling, and of feeling compact, that bursts

only when the sweeping volume is too wild, and is no more than their sigh of tenderness spoken.

Perhaps love played his tune so well because their natures had unblunted edges, and were keen for bliss,

confiding in it as natural food. To gentlemen and ladies he finedraws upon the viol, ravishingly; or blows

into the mellow bassoon; or rouses the heroic ardours of the trumpet; or, it may be, commands the whole

Orchestra for them. And they are pleased. He is still the cunning musician. They languish, and taste ecstasy:

but it is, however sonorous, an earthly concert. For them the spheres move not to two notes. They have lost,

or forfeited and never known, the first supersensual spring of the ripe senses into passion; when they carry the

soul with them, and have the privileges of spirits to walk disembodied, boundlessly to feel. Or one has it, and

the other is a dead body. Ambrosia let them eat, and drink the nectar: here sit a couple to whom Love's simple

Pipe, happy sheepboy, Love! Irradiated angels, unfold your wings and lift your voices!

They have outflown philosophy. Their instinct has shot beyond the ken of science. They were made for their

So runs the internal outcry of each, clasping each: it is their recurring refrain to the harmonies. How it

They believe that the angels have been busy about them from their cradles. The celestial hosts have worthily

striven to bring them together. And, O victory! O wonder! after toil and pain, and difficulties exceeding, the

The tide of colour has ebbed from the upper sky. In the West the sea of sunken fire draws back; and the stars

leap forth, and tremble, and retire before the advancing moon, who slips the silver train of cloud from her

Young as when she looked upon the lovers in Paradise, the fair Immortal journeys onward. Fronting her, it is

not night but veiled day. Full half the sky is flushed. Not darkness: not day; but the nuptials of the two.

A soft beam travels to the ferncovert under the pinewood where they sit, and for answer he has her eyes:

turned to him an instant, timidly fluttering over the depths of his, and then downcast; for through her eyes her

The nightjar spins his dark monotony on the branch of the pine. The soft beam travels round them, and

Pipe no more, Love, for a time! Pipe as you will you cannot express their first kiss; nothing of its sweetness,

and of the sacredness of it nothing. St. Cecilia up aloft, before the silver organpipes of Paradise, pressing

So Love is silent. Out in the world there, on the skirts of the woodland, the selfsatisfied sheepboy delivers

a last complacent squint down the length of his pennywhistle, and, with a flourish correspondingly awry, he

also marches into silence, hailed by supper. The woods are still. There is heard but the nightjar spinning on

Enchanted Islands have not yet rooted out their old brood of dragons. Wherever there is romance, these

monsters come by inimical attraction. Because the heavens are certainly propitious to true lovers, the beasts

of the abysses are banded to destroy them, stimulated by innumerable sad victories; and every lovetale is an

Epic War of the upper and lower powers. I wish good fairies were a little more active. They seem to be

cajoled into security by the happiness of their favourities; whereas the wicked are always alert, and

circumspect. They let the little ones shut their eyes to fancy they are not seen, and then commence.

These appointments and meetings, involving a start from the dinnertable at the hour of contemplative

digestion and prime claret; the hour when the wise youth Adrian delighted to talk at his easeto recline in

dreamy consciousness that a work of good was going on inside him; these abstractions from his studies,

excesses of gaiety, and glumness, heavings of the chest, and other odd signs, but mainly the disgusting

behaviour of his pupil at the dinnertable, taught Adrian to understand, though the young gentleman was

clever in excuses, that he had somehow learnt there was another half to the divided Apple of Creation, and

had embarked upon the great voyage of discovery of the difference between the two halves. With his usual

coolness Adrian debated whether he might be in the philosophic or the practical stage of the voyage. For

himself, as a man and a philosopher, Adrian had no objection to its being either; and he had only to consider

which was temporarily most threatening to the ridiculous System he had to support. Richard's absence

annoyed him. The youth was vivacious, and his enthusiasm good fun; and besides, when he left table, Adrian

had to sit alone with Hippias and the Eighteenth Century, from both of whom he extracted all the amusement

that could be got, and he saw his digestion menaced by the contagious society of two ruined stomachs, who

bored him just when he loved profoundly to calculate whether a particular dish, or an extraglass of wine,

would have a bitter effect on him and be felt through the remainder of his years. He was in the habit of

uttering his calculations half aloud, wherein the prophetic doubts of experience, and the succulent

insinuations of appetite, contended hotly. It was horrible to hear him, so let us pardon Adrian for tempting

``Happy to take wine with you,'' Adrian would say, and Hippias would regard the decanter with a pained

``Drink, nephew Hippy, and think of the doctor tomorrow!'' the Eighteenth Century cheerily ruffles her cap

``It's this literary work!'' interjects Hippias, handling his glass of remorse. ``I don't know what else it can be.

You have no idea how anxious I feel. I have frightful dreams. I'm perpetually anxious.''

``No wonder,'' says Adrian, who enjoys the childish simplicity to which an absorbed study of his sensational

existence has brought poor Hippias. ``No wonder. Ten years of Fairy Mythology! Could any one hope to

sleep in peace after that? As to your digestion, no one has a digestion who is in the doctor's hands. They

prescribe from dogmas, and don't count on the system. They have cut you down from two bottles to two

glasses. It's absurd. You can't sleep, because your system is crying out for what it's accustomed to.''

Hippias sips his Madeira with a niggardly confidence, but assures Adrian that he really should not like to

venture on a bottle now: it would be rank madness to venture on a bottle now, he thinks. Last night only, after

partaking, under protest, of that rich French dish, or was it the duck? Adrian advised him to throw the

blame on that vulgar bird.Say the duck, then. Last night, he was no sooner stretched in bed, than he

seemed to be of an enormous size: all his limbshis nose, his mouth, his toeswere elephantine! An

elephant was a pigmy to him. And his hugeousness seemed to increase the instant he shut his eyes. He turned

on this side; he turned on that. He lay on his back; he tried putting his face to the pillow; and he continued to

swell. He wondered the room could hold himhe thought he must burst itand absolutely lit a candle,

By this time Adrian and Richard were laughing uncontrollably. He had, however, a genial auditor in the

Eighteenth Century, who declared it to be a new disease, not known in her day, and deserving investigation.

She was happy to compare sensations with him, but hers were not of the complex order, and a potion soon

righted her. In fact, her system appeared to be a debatable ground for aliment and medicine, on which the

battle was fought, and, when over, she was none the worse, as she joyfully told Hippias. Never looked

ploughman on prince, or village belle on Court Beauty, with half the envy poor nineteenthcentury Hippias

expended in his gaze on the Eighteenth. He was too serious to note much the laughter of the young men.

``I fancy, uncle, you have swallowed a fairy,'' says Richard. ``You know what malicious things they are. Is

``Upon my honour,'' Adrian composes his features to remark, ``I think Ricky has hit the right nail. You have

not only swallowed one, you have swallowed the whole mythology! I'm not astonished you suffer so. I never

could, I confess, so they don't trouble me; but, if I had, I should pour a bottle of the best on them every night.

``Can my uncle,'' Richard meditates, his eyes on Hippias's wizened face, ``ever have been, as my father says,

Alas, and alackaday! Yes! Love had once piped even to Hippias in dewy shade. He was once an ardent

youth, the genius of the family, master of his functions. ``Which, when one ceases to be,'' says the =Pilgrim's

Scrip,= ``one is no longer man:'' and appends that ``it is the tendency of very fast people to grow organically

_downward._'' Pity the sorrows of a poor dyspepsy! Like the Actinia, poor Hippias had grown to be all

``You will drink a bottle and drown the fairy on the day Ricky's married,'' says Adrian, eyeing the traitor

Hippias realizes distant consequences immediately, and contracts his jaw to stipulate for it at night, then: not

in the morning at the breakfast. He is capable of nothing but very weak tea and dry toast, or gruel, in the

morning. He adds that, how people can drink wine at that early hour, amazes him. ``I should,'' he exclaims

energetically, ``I should be afraid to go to bed that night, if I did such a thing!''

Adrian leans to Richard, and bids the blushmantled youth mind he does not swallow his fairy, or he may

have a similar unbewitching fear upon him on the awful occasion. Richard cocks his ear. His hour has struck.

This `Tragedy of a CookingApparatus,' as Adrian designated the malady of Hippias, was repeated regularly

every evening. It was natural for any youth to escape as quick as he could from such a table of stomachs.

Adrian bore with his conduct considerately, until a letter from the baronet, describing the house and maternal

System of Mrs. Caroline Grandison, and the rough grain of hopefulness in her youngest daughter, spurred

him to think of his duties, and see what was going on. He gave Richard half an hour's start, and then put on

his hat to follow his own keen scent, leaving Hippias and the Eighteenth Century to piquet.

In the lane near Belthorpe he met a maid of the farm not unknown to him, one Molly Davenport by name, a

buxom lass, who, on seeing him, invoked her Good Gracious, the generic maid's familiar, and was instructed

Adrian glanced about the lane like a cool brigand, to see if the coast was clear, and replied to her, ``I am,

``Cause I can't stop out long tonight,'' Molly explained, taking the rebuke to refer altogether to her bad

``You may go in when you please, miss. Is that any one coming? Come here in the shade.''

It was hard upon the wise youth, and he felt it so, that she would not accept his impeccability. He said

austerely: ``I desire you to know, miss, that, notwithstanding your unprotected situation and the favouring

darkness, a British female, in all places and at all seasons, may confidently repose the precious

The buxom lass interrupted the harangue by an explosion of giggles. ``I declare,'' she cried, ``I used for to

believe you at fust; and when you begin you looks like it now. You're al'ays as good as a play. I saydon't

Adrian spoke with resolution. ``Will you listen to me, Miss Davenport!'' He put a coin in her hand, which had

a medical effect in calming her to attention. ``I want to know whether you have seen him at all?''

``Who? Your young gentleman? I sh'd think I did. I seen him tonight only. Ain't he growed handsome. He's

al'ays about Beltharp now. It ain't to fire no more ricks. He's afire 'unself. Ain't you seen 'em together? He's

Adrian requested Miss Davenport to be respectful, and confine herself to particulars. The buxom lass then

told him that her young missis and Adrian's young gentleman were a pretty couple, and met one another

``They're all nature, I suppose,'' said Adrian. ``How is it I don't see her at church?''

``She's Catholic, or somethink,'' said Molly. ``Her feyther was, and a leftenant. She've a Cross in her

bedroom. She don't go to church. I see you there last Sunday alookin' so solemn,'' and Molly stroked her

Adrian insisted on her keeping to facts. It was dark, and in the dark he was indifferent to the striking contrasts

suggested by the buxom lass, but he wanted to hear facts, and he again bribed her to distil nothing but facts.

Upon which she told him further, that her young lady was an innocent artless creature who had been to school

upwards of three years with the nuns, and had a little money of her own, and was beautiful enough to be a

lord's lady, and had been in love with Master Richard ever since she was a little girl. Molly had got from a

friend of hers up at the Abbey, Mary Garner, the housemaid who cleaned Master Richard's room, a bit of

paper once with the young gentleman's handwriting, and had given it to her Miss Lucy, and Miss Lucy had

given her a gold sovereign for itjust for his handwriting! Miss Lucy did not seem happy at the farm,

because of that young Tom, who was always leering at her, and to be sure she was quite a lady, and could

The next moment she ran up close, and speaking for the first time as if there were a distinction of position

between them, petitioned: ``Mr. Harley! you won't go for adoin' any harm to 'em 'cause of what I said, will

you now? Do say you won't now, Mr. Harley! She is good, though she's a Catholic. She was kind to me when

I was ill, and I wouldn't have her crossedI'd rather be showed up myself, I would!''

The wise youth gave no positive promise to the buxom lass, and she had to read his consent in a relaxation of

his austerity. The noise of a lumbering foot plodding down the lane caused her to be abruptly dismissed.

Molly took to flight, the lumbering foot accelerated its pace, and the pastoral appeal to her flying skirts was

heard``Moll! yau, theyre! It be IBantam!'' But the sprightly Silvia would not stop to his wooing, and

Adrian was a lazy dragon. All he did for the present was to hint and tease. ``It's the Inevitable!'' he said, and

asked himself why he should seek to arrest it. He had no faith in the System. Heavy Benson had. Benson of

the slow thicklidded antediluvian eye and loosecrumpled skin; Benson, the Saurian, the womanhater.

Benson was wide awake. A sort of rivalry existed between the wise youth and Heavy Benson. The fidelity of

the latter dependant had moved the baronet to commit to him a portion of the management of the Raynham

estate, and this Adrian did not like. No one who aspires to the honourable office of leading another by the

nose can tolerate a party in his ambition, Benson's surly instinct told him he was in the wise youth's way, and

he resolved to give his master a striking proof of his superior faithfulness. For some weeks the Saurian eye

had been on the two secret creatures. Heavy Benson saw letters come and go in the day, and now the young

gentleman was off and out every night, and seemed to be on wings. Benson knew whither he went, and the

object he went for. It was a womanthat was enough. The Saurian eye had actually seen the sinful thing

lure the hope of Raynham into the shades. He composed several epistles of warning to the baronet of the

work that was going on; but before sending one he wished to record a little of their guilty conversation; and

for this purpose the faithful fellow nightly trotted over the dews to eavesdrop, and thereby aroused the good

Richard, in a fury, bade him name the wretch, and Tom hung his arms, and aped the respectable protrusion of

``It's he, is it?'' cried Richard. ``He shall rue it, Tom! If I find him near me when we're together he shall never

``Don't hit too hard, sir,'' Tom suggested. ``You hit mortal hard when you're in earnest, you know.''

Richard averred he would forgive anything but that, and told Tom to be within hail tomorrow nighthe

Heavy Benson's epistle of warning, addressed to Sir Austin Absworthy Bearne Feverel, Bart., and containing

an extraordinary travesty of the mutual converse of two lovesick beings, specially calculated to alarm a

moral parent, was posted and travelling to town. His work was done. Unluckily for his bones, he had, in the

process, acquired a prurient taste for the service of spy upon Cupid; and, after doing duty at table, he was

again out over the dews, hoping to behold the extreme wickedness of the celestial culprit.

Lady Blandish dined that evening at Raynham, by Adrian's pointed invitation. According to custom, Richard

started up and off, with few excuses. The lady exhibited no surprise. She and Adrian likewise strolled forth to

enjoy the air of the Summer night. They had no intention of spying. Still they may have thought, by meeting

Richard and his innamorata, there was a chance of laying a foundation of ridicule to sap the passion. They

``I have seen the little girl,'' said Lady Blandish. ``She is prettyshe would be telling if she were well set

up. She speaks well. How absurd it is of that class to educate their women above their station! The child is

really too good for a farmer. I noticed her before I know of this; she has enviable hair. I suppose she doesn't

paint her eyelids. Just the sort of person to take a young man. I thought there was something wrong. I

received, the day before yesterday, an impassioned poem evidently not intended for me. My hair was gold.

My meeting him was foretold. My eyes were homes of light fringed with night. I sent it back, correcting the

``Which was death to the rhymes,'' said Adrian. `` I saw her this morning. The boy hasn't bad taste. As you

say, she is too good for a farmer. Such a spark would explode any System. She slightly affected mine. The

The wise youth did not see why they should exaggerate a trifle. The lady said she would have an interview

with Richard, and then write, as it was her duty to do. Adrian shrugged, and was for going into the scientific

``Poor boy!'' she sighed. ``I am really sorry for him. I hope he will not feel it too strongly. They feel strongly,

``That's another thing,'' said Lady Blandish. ``You have heard about the Grandisons, I presume?''

Their talk was then of the dulness of neighbouring county people, about whom, it seemed, there was little or

no scandal afloat: of the lady's loss of the season in town, which she professed not to regret, though she

complained of her general weariness: of whether Mr. Morton of Poer Hall would propose to Mrs. Doria, and

of the probable despair of the hapless curate of Lobourne; and other gossip, partly in French.

They rounded the lake, and got upon the road through the park to Lobourne. The moon had risen. The

``Good heavens, madam!'' Adrian protested. This was science with a vengeance. However, he did not plead

verbally against the impeachment, though the lady's decisive insight astonished him. He began to respect her,

scarce relishing her exquisite contempt and reflected that widows were terrible creatures.

He had hoped to be a little sentimental with Lady Blandish, knowing her romantic. This mixture of the

harshest common sense and an air of ``_I_ know you men,'' with romance and refined temperament, subdued

the wise youth more than a positive accusation supported by witnesses would have done. He looked at the

lady. Her face was raised to the moon. She knew nothing she had simply spoken from the fulness of her

human knowledge, and had forgotten her words. Perhaps, after all, her admiration, or whatever feeling it was,

for the baronet, was sincere, and really the longing for a virtuous man. Perhaps she had tried the opposite set

pretty much. Adrian shrugged. Whenever the wise youth encountered a mental difficulty he instinctively

lifted his shoulders to equal altitudes, to show that he had no doubt there was a balance in the case plenty

At their tryst in the wood, abutting on Raynham Park, wrapped in themselves, piped to by tireless Love,

Richard and Lucy sat, toying with eternal moments. How they seem as if they would never end! What mere

sparks they are when they have died out! And how in the distance of time they revive, and extend, and glow,

With the onward flow of intimacy, the two happy lovers ceased to be so shy of common themes, and their

speech did not reject all as dross that was not pure gold of emotion. Lucy was very inquisitive about

everything and everybody at Raynham. Whoever had been about Richard since his birth, she must know the

``You should know my cousin Austin. You shall know him. He would take to you best of them all, and you to

him. He is in the tropics now, looking out a placeit's a secretfor poor English workingmen to

``He is such a noble fellow! Nobody here understands him but me. Isn't it strange? Since I met you I love him

better! That's because I love all that's good and noble better nowBeautiful! I loveI love you!''

``What do you think I've determined, Lucy? If my father but no! my father does love me.No! he will

not; and we will be happy together here. And I will win my way with you. And whatever I win will be yours;

for it will be owing to you. I feel as if I had no strength but yours none! and you make meO Lucy!''

``Love me,'' comes the blushing whisper, and the duet gives place to dumb variations, performed equally in

``You are fond of the knights, Lucy. Austin is as brave as any of them.My own bride! Oh, how I adore

you! When you are gone, I could fall upon the grass you tread and kiss it. My breast feels empty of my

heart Lucy! if we lived in those days, I should have been a knight, and have won honour and glory for

Her eyes fill with tears, and, as she lifts them heavenward to thank her God, the light of heaven strikes on

them, and she is so radiant in her pure beauty that the limbs of the young man tremble.

They lean togethershadows of ineffable tenderness playing on their thrilled cheeks and brows.

He dares not touch her lips. He lifts his hand, and presses his mouth to it. She has seen little of mankind, but

her soul tells her this one is different from others, and at the thought, in her great joy, tears must come fast, or

her heart will breaktears of boundless thanksgiving. And he, gazing on those soft, rayillumined,

darkedged eyes, and the grace of her loose falling tresses, feels a scarcesufferable holy fire streaming

Their souls are joined, are made one for evermore beneath that bending benediction.

``Lucy! come with me tonight, and look at the place where you are some day to live. Come, and I will row

you on the lake. You remember what you said in your letter that you dreamt?that we were floating over

the shadow of the Abbey to the nuns at work by torchlight felling the cypress, and they handed us each a

sprig. Why, darling, it was the best omen in the world, their felling the old trees. And you write such lovely

``Ah, Richard! See! we forget! Ah!'' she lifts up her face pleadingly, as to plead against herself, ``even if your

father forgives my birth, he will not my religion. And, dearest, though I would die for you I cannot change it.

It would seem that I was denying God; andoh! it would make me ashamed of my love.''

``Fear nothing!'' He winds her about with his arm. ``Come! He will love us both, and love you the more for

being faithful to your father's creed. You don't know him, Lucy. He seems harsh and sternhe is full of

kindness and love. He isn't at all a bigot. And besides, when he hears what the nuns have done for you, won't

he thank them, as I do? Andoh! I must speak to him soon, and you must be prepared to see him soon, for

I cannot bear your remaining at Belthorpe, like a jewel in a sty. Mind! I'm not saying a word against your

uncle. I declare I love everybody and everything that sees you and touches you. Stay! it is a wonder how you

could have grown there. But you were not born there, and your father had good blood. Desborough! there

She dreads to. She begs not to. She is drawn away. The woods are silent, and then

Adrian reclined against a pine overlooking the ferncovert. Lady Blandish was recumbent upon the brown

pinedroppings gazing through a vista of the lower greenwood which opened out upon the moonlighted

valley, her hands clasped round one knee, her features almost stern in their set hard expression.

She did not answer. A movement among the ferns attracted Adrian, and he stepped down the decline across

the pineroots to behold Heavy Benson below, shaking fernseed and spidery substances off his crumpled

``Is that you, Mr. Hadrian?'' called Benson, starting, as he puffed, and exercised his handkerchief.

``Is it _you,_ Benson, who have had the audacity to spy upon the Mysteries, and are not struck blind?'' Adrian

called back, and coming close to him, added, ``You look as if you had just been well thrashed.''

``Isn't it dreadful, sir?'' snuffled Benson. ``And his father in ignorance, Mr. Hadrian!''

``He shall know, Benson! He shall know how you have endangered your valuable skin in his service. If Mr.

``Ha!'' Benson spitefully retorted. ``This won't go on, Mr. Hadrian. It shan't, sir. It will be put a stop to

tomorrow, sir. I call it corruption of a young gentleman like him, and harlotry, sir, I call it. I'd have every

``Then why didn't you stop it yourself, Benson? Ah, I see! you waitedeh? Hm!or what, Benson? This

is not the first time you have been attendant on Mr. Apollo and Miss Dryope? You have written to

The wise youth returned to Lady Blandish, and informed her of Benson's zeal. The lady's eyes flashed. ``I

``Do me a favour,'' the lady replied. `` Get my carriage sent round to meet me at the parkgates.''

Adrian bowed and left her. She was still sitting with her hands clasped round one knee, gazing towards the

``An odd creature!'' muttered the wise youth. ``She's as odd as any of them. She ought to be a Feverel. I

suppose she's graduating for it. Hang that confounded old ass of a Benson! He has had the impudence to steal

The shadow of the cypress was lessening on the lake. The moon was climbing high. As Richard rowed the

boat, Lucy sang to him softly. She sang first a fresh little French song, reminding him of a day when she had

been asked to sing to him before, and he did not care to hear. ``Did I live?'' he thinks. Then she sang to him a

bit of one of those majestic old Gregorian chants, that, wherever you may hear them, seem to build up

cathedral walls about you. The young man dropped the sculls. The strange solemn notes gave a religious tone

to his love, and wafted him into the knightly ages and the reverential heart of chivalry.

Hanging between two heavens on the lake: floating to her voice: the moon stepping over and through white

shoals of soft high clouds above and below: floating to her voiceno other breath abroad! His soul went

``Look, my Lucy. The lights of the old place are on the lake. Look where you are to live.''

``O Richard! that I were one of the women who wait on you! I should ask nothing more. How happy she must

``My darling angellove. You shall be happy; but all shall wait on you, and I foremost, Lucy.''

She puts her hand quietly against her bosom, and he knows where it rests. O love! O heaven!

They are aroused by the harsh grating of the bow of the boat against the shingle. He jumps out, and lifts her

``See!'' she says, as the blush of his embrace subsides ``See!'' and prettily she mimics awe and feels it a

And he, looking at her rather than at the cypress, delighting in her arch grave ways

`` Why, there's hardly any shadow at all, Lucy. She mustn't dream, my darling! or dream only of me.''

``Tomorrow, Lucy! The letter in the morning, and you at night. O happy tomorrow!''

``Let us pray, Lucy, to die together, when we are to die. Death or life, with you! Who is it yonder? I see some

The figure of Adrian, instead of advancing, discreetly circled the lake. They were stealing away when he

called. His call was repeated. Lucy entreated Richard to go to him; but the young man preferred to summon

``Oh! if he does, dearestI don't know, but I feel such a presentiment. You have not spoken of him

``Good?'' Richard clutched her hand for the innocent maiden phrase. ``He's very fond of eating; that's all I

``Mr. Adrian wishes particular to speak to you, sir,'' said Tom, emphasizing his achievement of a

``Do go!'' Lucy reurges him. ``Tomgood Tomwill see me home. Tomorrow, dear love!

``Oh, unkind! but you must not come with me now. It may be news of importance, dearest. Think, Richard!''

At the imperious command the welldrilled Tom strides off a dozen paces, and sees nothing. Then the

``Are we seconds, or principals, O fiery one?'' was Adrian's answer. ``I want nothing with you, except to

``Of course notsuch a secret old fist as he is! I want some one to tell him to order Lady Blandish's

carriage to be sent round to the parkgates. I thought he might be round your way over thereI came upon

``Hunting Diana, I suppose. He thinks she's not so chaste as they say,'' continued Adrian. ``Are you going to

Richard had turned to the cypress, and was tugging at the tough wood. He left it and went to an ash.

``You'll spoil that weeper,'' Adrian cried. ``Down she comes!all! But Goodnight, Ricky. If you see

Doomed Benson following his burly shadow hove in sight on the white road while Adrian spoke. The wise

youth chuckled and strolled round the lake, glancing over his shoulder every now and then.

It was not long before he heard a bellow for helpthe roar of a dragon in his throes. Adrian placidly sat

down on the grass, and fixed his eyes on the water. There, as the roar was being repeated amid horrid

`` `The Fates are Jews with us when they delay a punishment,' says the =Pilgrim's Scrip= or words to that

effect. Not a bad idea, that of the Fates being JewsJewesses more classically speaking. The heavens

evidently love Benson, seeing that he gets his punishment on the spot. What a lovely night! Those two young

ones do it well. Master Ricky is a peppery young man. Love and war come as natural to him as bread and

butter. He gets it from the ap Gruffudh. I rather believe in race. What a noise that old ruffian makes! He'll

require poulticing with the =Pilgrim's Scrip.= We shall have a message tomorrow, and a hubbub, and

perhaps all go to town, which won't be bad for one who's been a prey to all the desires born of dulness for a

decade. Benson howls: there's life in the old dog yet! He bays the moon. Look at her. She doesn't care. It's the

same to her whether we coo like turtledoves or roar like twenty lions. Most beauteous moon! How

complacent she looks! How admirably equable! And yet she has just as much sympathy for Benson as for

Cupid. She would smile on if both were being birched. She is Perfect Justice. Was that a raven or Benson? He

howls no more. It sounds guttural: froglike something between the brekkekkek and the hoarse raven's

croak. The fellow'll be killing him. It's time to go to the rescue. A deliverer gets more honour by coming in at

the last gasp than if he forestalled catastrophe.Ho, there, what's the matter?''

So saying, the wise youth rose, and leisurely trotted to the scene of battle, where stood St. George puffing

``Holloa, Ricky! is it you?'' said Adrian. ``What's this? Whom have we here?Benson, as I live!''

``Make this beast get up,'' Richard returned, breathing hard, and shaking his great ashbranch. ``Make him

``He seems incapable, my dear boy. What have you been up to?Benson! Benson!I say, Ricky, this

``He's shamming!'' Richard clamoured like a savage. ``Spy upon me, will he? I tell you, he's shamming. He

hasn't had half enough. Nothing's too bad for a spy. Let him get up! Let him get up!''

``He has written to my father,'' Richard shouted. ``The miserable spy! Let him get up! Let him get up!''

``Ooogh! I won't!'' huskily groaned Benson. ``Mr. Hadrian, you're a witness he's murderedmy back!''

``I daresay you love your back better than any part of your body now,'' Adrian muttered. ``Come, Benson! be

a man. Mr. Richard has thrown away the stick. Come, and get off home, and let's see the extent of the

``Ooogh he's a devil! Mr. Hadrian, sir, he's a devil!'' groaned Benson, turning half over in the road to ease his

Adrian caught hold of Benson's collar and lifted him to a sitting posture. He then had a glimpse of what his

hopeful pupil's hand could do in wrath. The wretched butler's coat was slit and welted; his hat knocked in; the

stain of a tremendous blow across his nose, which made one of his eyes seem gone; his flabby spirit so

broken that he started and trembled if his pitiless executioner stirred a foot. Richard stood over him with

folded arms, grasping his great stick; no dawn of mercy for Benson in any corner of his features.

Benson screwed his neck round to look up at him, and immediately gasped, ``I won't get up! I won't get up!

He's ready to murder me again!Mr. Hadrian! if you stand by and see it, you're liable to the law, sirI

won't get up while he's near.'' No persuasion could induce Benson to try his legs while his executioner stood

Adrian took Richard aside: ``You've almost killed the poor devil, Ricky. You must be satisfied with that.

``The coward bobbed while I struck,'' said Richard. ``I marked his back. He ducked. I told him he was getting

At this civilized piece of savagery, Adrian opened his mouth to shake out a coil of laughter.

``Did you really? I admire that. You told him he was getting it worse? I thought you were in a passion.

Beautifully cool! Bravo!You are politely informed that if you take that posture, in the nature of things

``Come,'' he said, ``Excalibur has done his work. Pitch him into the lake. And seehere comes the

Blandish. You can't be at it again before a woman. Go and meet her, and tell her the noise was an ox being

With a whirr that made all Benson's bruises moan and quiver, the great ashbranch shot aloft, and Richard

Adrian got Benson on his feet. The heavy butler was disposed to summon all the commiseration he could feel

for his bruised flesh. Every halfstep he attempted was like a dislocation. His groans and grunts were

``The cheapest policy of insurance I remember to have heard of!'' said Adrian. ``Never part with that hat,

``He's a devil, Mr. Hadrian! He's a devil, sir, I do believe, sir. Ooogh! he's a devil!I can't move, Mr.

Hadrian. I must be fetched. And Dr. Clifford must be sent for, sir. I shall never be fit for work again. I haven't

``You see, Benson, this comes of your declaring war upon Venus. 'Twas Venus, Venus struck the deadly

blow! I hope the maids will nurse you properly. Let me see: you are friends with the housekeeper, aren't you?

``So you've got no friend but your bed. Get to it as quick as possible, Benson.''

``I can't move.'' Benson made a resolute halt. ``I must be fetched,'' he whinnied. ``It's a shame to ask me to

``You will admit that you are heavy, Benson,'' said Adrian, ``so I can't carry you. However, I see Mr. Richard

``I have been horribly frightened,'' she said. ``Tell me, what was the meaning of those cries I heard?''

``Only some one doing justice on a spy,'' said Richard, and the lady smiled, and looked on him fondly, and

By twelve o'clock at noon next day the inhabitants of Raynham Abbey knew that Berry, the baronet's man,

had arrived posthaste from town, with orders to conduct Mr. Richard thither, and that Mr. Richard had

refused to go, had sworn he would not, defied his father, and despatched Berry to the Shades. Berry was all

that Benson was not. Whereas Benson hated woman, Berry admired her warmly. Second to his own stately

person, woman occupied his reflections, and commanded his homage. Berry was of majestic port, and used

dictionary words. Among the maids of Raynham his conscious calves produced all the discord and the frenzy

those adornments seem destined to create in tender bosoms. He had, moreover, the reputation of having

suffered terribly for the sex; which assisted his object in inducing the sex to suffer terribly for him. What with

his calves, and his dictionary words, and the attractive halo of the mysterious vindictiveness of Venus

surrounding him, this Adonis of the lower household was a mighty man below, and he moved as one.

On hearing the tumult that followed Berry's arrival, Adrian sent for him, and was informed of the nature of

``You should come to me first,'' said Adrian. ``I should have imagined you were shrewd enough for that,

``Pardon me, Mr. Adrian,'' Berry doubled his elbow to explain. ``Pardon, me, sir. Acting recipient of special

Adrian tacitly acknowledged the choiceness of the phraseology, and asked if he had seen Benson.

Berry protested: ``On my honour, sir! From the plenitude of health and spirits I regarded Mr. Benson with

``And now go to Mr. Richard again, Berry. There will be a little confusion if he holds back. Just go to him,

and perhaps you had better throw out a hint or so of apoplexy. A slight hint will do. And hereBerry!

when you return to town, you had better not mention anythingto quote Johnson of Benson's

Berry retired, saying to himself, ``What I like, is to confabulate with educated people. You always learn

something new from them.'' And he drew forth his pocketJohnson that he might commit the new words he

He dashed off a hasty letter by Tom to Belthorpe, and, mounting his horse, galloped to the Bellingham

Sir Austin was sitting down to a quiet early dinner at his hotel, when the Hope of Raynham burst into his

The baronet was not angry with his son. On the contrary, for he was singularly just and selfaccusing while

pride was not up in arms, he had been thinking all day after the receipt of Benson's letter that he was deficient

in cordiality, and did not, by reason of his excessive anxiety, make himself sufficiently his son's companion:

was not enough, as he strove to be, mother and father to him; preceptor and friend; previsor and associate. He

had not to ask his conscience where he had lately been to blame towards the System. He had slunk away from

Raynham in the very crisis of the Magnetic Age, and this young woman of the parish (as Benson had termed

Yes! pride and sensitiveness wore his chief foes, and he would trample on them. To begin, he embraced his

son: hard upon an Englishman at any timedoubly so to one so shamefaced at emotion in cool blood, as

it were. It gave him a strange pleasure, nevertheless. And the youth seemed to answer to it; he was excited.

Was his love, then, commencing to correspond with his father's as in those intimate days before the

But when Richard, inarticulate at first in his haste, cried out, ``My dear, dear father! You are safe! I

Instead of replying, Richard dropped into a chair, and seized his hand and kissed it, murmuring again that he

``Those doctors are such fools!'' Richard broke out. ``I was sure they were wrong. They don't know headache

from apoplexy. It's worth the ride, sir, to see you. You left Raynham so suddenlyBut you are well! It was

``If you were ill, I couldn't come too soon, though, if coroner's inquests sat on horses, those doctors would be

found guilty of mareslaughter. Cassandra'll be knocked up. I was too early for the train at Bellingham, and I

wouldn't wait. She did the distance in four hours and threequarters. Pretty good, sir, wasn't it?''

``It has given you appetite for dinner, I hope,'' said the baronet, not so well pleased to find that it was not

``I'm ready,'' replied Richard. ``I shall be in time to return by the last train tonight. I will leave Cassandra in

His father quietly helped him to soup, which he commenced gobbling with an eagerness that might pass for

``I shall be glad to get back to the old place,'' said the baronet. ``My stay in town has certainly been

profitable. I have made some pleasant acquaintances who may probably favour us with a visit there in the late

autumnpeople you may be pleased to know. They are very anxious to see Raynham.''

``Was I, sir? How odd! Well! I don't want to remain here. I've seen enough of it.''

Richard laughed, and related his bewilderment at the miles of brick, and the noise, and the troops of people,

The baronet watched his symptomatic brilliant eyes, and favoured him with a doubledealing sentence

``To anchor the heart by any object ere we have half traversed the world, is youth's foolishness, my son.

``He knows all!'' thought Richard, and instantly drew away leagues from his father, and throw up

Dinner over, Richard looked hurriedly at his watch, and said, with much briskness, ``I shall just be in time,

Richard was going to repeat the question, but found his father's eyes fixed on him so meaningly that he

``I am not aware what you may have thought of me, Richard, during the years we have lived together; and

indeed I have never been in a hurry to be known to you; and, if I had died before my work was done, I should

not have complained at losing half my reward, in hearing you thank me. Perhaps, as it is, I never may.

Everything, save selfishness, has its recompense. I shall be content if you prosper.''

He fetched a breath and continued: ``You had in your infancy a great loss.'' Father and son coloured

simultaneously. ``To make that good to you I chose to isolate myself from the world, and devote myself

entirely to your welfare; and I think it is not vanity that tells me now that the son I have reared is one of the

most hopeful of God's creatures. But for that very reason you are open to be tempted the most, and to sink the

``In our House, my son, there is peculiar blood. We go to wreck very easily. It sounds like superstition; I

cannot but think we are tried as most men are not. I see it in us all. And you, my son, are compounded of two

races. Your passions are violent. You have had a taste of revenge. You have seen, in a small way, that the

pound of flesh draws rivers of blood. But there is now in you another power. You are mounting to the

tableland of life, where mimic battles are changed to real ones. And you come upon it laden equally with

force to create and to destroy.'' He deliberated to announce the intelligence, with deep meaning: ``There are

``It is when you encounter them that you are thoroughly on trial. It is when you know them that life is either a

mockery to you, or, as some find it, a gift of blessedness. They are our ordeal. Love of any human object is

The young man heard the whistle of the train. He saw the moonlighted wood, and the vision of his beloved.

``I believe,'' the baronet spoke with little of the cheerfulness of belief, ``good women exist.''

``But,'' and the baronet gazed on Richard intently, ``it is given to very few to meet them on the thresholdI

may say, to none. We find them after hard buffeting, and usually, when we find the one fitted for us, our

madness has misshaped our destiny, our lot is cast. For women are not the end, but the means, of life. In

youth we think them the former, and thousands, who have not even the excuse of youth, select a mateor

worsewith that sole view. I believe women punish us for so perverting their uses. They punish Society.''

`Our most diligent pupil learns not so much as an earnest teacher,' says the =Pilgrim's Scrip;= and Sir Austin,

in schooling himself to speak with moderation of women, was beginning to get a glimpse of their side of the

Cold Blood said, ``It is a passion coming in the order of nature, the ripe fruit of our animal being.''

Hot Blood felt: ``It is a divinity! All that is worth living for in the world.''

Cold Blood said: ``It is a fever which tests our strength, and too often leads to perdition.''

Cold Blood said: ``It is a name men and women are much in the habit of employing to sanctify their

``You know my love for you, my son. The extent of it you cannot know; but you must know that it is

something very deep, andI do not wish to speak of itbut a father must sometimes petition for

gratitude, since the only true expression of it is his son's moral good. If you care for my love, or love me in

return, aid me with all your energies to keep you what I have made you, and guard you from the snares

besetting you. It was in my hands once. It is ceasing to be so. Remember, my son, what my love is. It is

different, I fear, with most fathers: but I am bound up in your welfare: what you do affects me vitally. You

will take no step that is not intimate with my happiness, or my misery. And I have had great disappointments,

So far it was well. Richard loved his father, and even in his frenzied state he could not without emotion hear

Unhappily, the baronet, who by some fatality never could see when he was winning the battle, thought proper

in his wisdom to water the dryness of his sermon with a little jocoseness, on the subject of young men

fancying themselves in love, and, when they were raw and green, absolutely wanting to bethat most

awful thing, which the wisest and strongest of men undertake in hesitation and after selfmortification and

penancemarried! He sketched the Foolish Young Fellowthe object of general ridicule and covert

contempt. He sketched the Womanthe strange thing made in our image, and with all our

facultiespassing to the rule of one who in taking her proved that he could not rule himself, and had no

knowledge of her save as a choice morsel which he would burn the whole world, and himself in the bargain,

to possess. He harped upon the Foolish Young Fellow, till the foolish young fellow felt his skin tingle and

After this, the baronet might be as wise as he pleased: he had quite undone his work. He might analyze Love

and anatomize Woman. He might accord to her her due position, and paint her fair: he might be shrewd,

Closing his sermon with the question, softly uttered: ``Have you anything to tell me, Richard?'' and hoping

for a confession, and a thorough reestablishment of confidence, the callous answer struck him cold: ``I have

Richard turned his back on further dialogue by going to the window. In the section of sky over the street

twinkled two or three stars; shining faintly, feeling the moon. The moon was rising: the woods were lifting up

to her: his star of the woods would be there. A bed of moss set about flowers in a basket under him breathed

``You have nothing you could say to me, my son? Tell me, Richard! Remember, there is no home for the soul

``Nothing at all, sir,'' the young man replied, meeting him with the full orbs of his eyes.

At last it grew impossible for Richard to control his impatience, and he said: ``Do you intend me to stay here,

``Cassandra will take me,'' said the young man earnestly. ``I needn't ride her hard, sir. Or perhaps you would

lend me your Winkelried? I should be down with him in little better than three hours.''

``Well, I could stable him in the village. Dowling knows the horse, and would treat him properly. May I have

The cloud cleared off Richard's face as he asked. At least, if he missed his love that night he would be near

her, breathing the same air, marking what star was above her bedchamber, hearing the hushed nighttalk of

the trees about her dwelling: looking on the distances that were like hope half fulfilled and a bodily presence

bright as Hesper, since he knew her. There were two swallows under the eaves shadowing Lucy's

chamberwindows: two swallows, mates in one nest, blissful birds, who twittered and cheepcheeped to the

solelying beauty in her bed. Around these birds the lover's heart revolved, he knew not why. He associated

them with all his closeveiled dreams of happiness. Seldom a morning passed when he did not watch them

leave the nest on their breakfastflight, busy in the happy stillness of dawn. It seemed to him now that if he

could be at Raynham to see them in tomorrow's dawn he would be compensated for his incalculable loss of

tonight: he would forgive and love his father, London, the life, the world. Just to see those purple backs and

The baronet's trifling had placed this enormous boon within the young man's visionary grasp.

``You know there would be nobody ready for you at Raynham. It is unfair to disturb the maids.''

``Well, then, my son,'' said the baronet, preserving his halfjocular air, ``I must tell you that it is my wish to

``Then you have not been ill at all, sir!'' cried Richard, as in his despair he seized the whole plot.

``I think, Richard, you can best answer that,'' rejoined Sir Austin, kindly severe.

Dread of being signalized as the Foolish Young Fellow prevented Richard from expostulating further. Sir

Austin saw him grinding his passion into powder for future explosion, and thought it best to leave him for

For three weeks Richard had to remain in town and endure the teachings of the System in a new atmosphere.

He had to sit and listen to men of science who came to renew their intimacy with his father, and whom of all

men his father wished him to respect and study; practically scientific men being, in the baronet's estimation,

the only minds thoroughly mated and enviable. He had to endure an introduction to the Grandisons, and meet

the eyes of his kind, haunted as he was by the Foolish Young Fellow. The idea that he might by any chance

be identified with him held the poor youth in silent subjection. And it was horrible. For it was a continued

outrage on the fair image he had in his heart. The notion of the world laughing at him because he loved sweet

Lucy stung him to momentary frenzies, and developed premature misanthropy in his spirit. Also the System

desired to show him whither young women of the parish lead us, and he was dragged about at nighttime to

see the sons and daughters of darkness, after the fashion prescribed to Mr. Thompson; how they danced and

ogled down the high road of perdition. But from this sight possibly the teacher learnt more than his pupil,

since we find him seriously asking his meditative hours, in the Notebook: ``Wherefore Wild Oats are only

of one gender?'' a question certainly not suggested to him at Raynham; and again ``Whether men might

not be attaching too rigid an importance? . . .'' to a subject with a dotted tail apparently, for he gives it no

other in the Notebook. But, as I apprehend, he had come to plead in behalf of women here, and had

deducted something from positive observation. To Richard the scenes he witnessed were strange wild

pictures, likely if anything to have increased his misanthropy, but for his love.

Mrs. Grandison appeared to be in raptures with the son of a System. What her daughters thought of a young

gentleman who did nothing but frown and bite his lips in their company may be imagined. With Carola,

Riding in the park one morning, Carola beheld her intended galloping furiously down the Row, and left her

sister Clementina's side to waylay him. He pulled up smartly, and this young person's frank accost was

``No, I see you're not. My sisters all say you are. I should think you were not afraid of anything. A man afraid

``Well!'' said Richard, ``at all events I'm not afraid of you. Are you a girl?''

``Yes,'' she sighed, striping her pony's ears with her whip, ``I'm afraid I am! I used to keep hoping once that I

wasn't. I'm afraid it's no use.'' She seriously shook her curls, and looked up at him. Richard shouted with

``But what do you want to be?'' he asked, scrutinizing the comical young person.

``A boy, to be sure!'' said Carola, and pouted proudly, as if the wish had raised her out of her sex. At this

Richard laughed again and took to the young woman. They trotted on in company. Within five minutes he

``Yes, I do. What do you think they call your father? The Griffin! That's what they call him. I don't know

why. I like him. Do you know who gave me this pony? He did, to be sure! He bought it the day after my

birthday. He's fonder of me than you are. I like fathers better than mothers. My pa and ma don't agree. I say!

``Well, then, Richardif you don't really mind. What a nice fellow you are, and we all thought you so

Richard, with all the muscles of his face in play, lamented the severe restriction.

``It's so much handier,'' Carola continued. ``Look at this! all one side!I used to when I was little, though.

Not here, you know,in the country. And ma knew of it. She didn't interfere. She wanted me to be a boy. If

I call you Richard, you'll call me Carl, won't you? That's the German for Charles. In the country the boys call

``Do you know why none of my sisters'll have you? Because they've all got lovers themselvesall but me.

And they have letters from them, too, and write back. I shouldn't know what to say. Ma would let us have

``Yes,'' Carola nodded. ``Ma says you are going to be a hero. One of us is to be married to you. Do you call

Richard complimented her by saying he thought she would grow to be a very handsome chap.

Carola assured him she could not think it. ``My nose turns up, and my cheeks are so red. Pa calls them

cabbageroses. I don't mind the `roses,' but I can't bear the `cabbage'! Why is it you laugh so?''

``Why, now, that's just like me,'' exclaimed Carola. ``We're just alike. I hate people who mope. I thought you

``I declare if you don't talk exactly like my sister Clem! She's moping in love you know,Richard!''

``You don't hear me. Why are you so sad in a minute? Why do you call me `old friend'?''

``Because''he bent down and put his hand on her neck ``because, becausewell! why?I

``Do you?'' cried the joyful Carola, clapping her hands. ``That's right! I'm so glad. Mind you always do,

Richard informed her he had never been to one in his life, which caused lively astonishment to Miss Carl.

``Then you don't know what a beautiful lady is if you've never been to a theatre,'' she said authoritatively.

``There you are againjust like Clem!Are you in love, too? Oh, I hope it isn't with Clem! She'll never

have you. I heard her say she'd die first. I did indeed!It's a secrethis name's Walter. I've seen her

letters: Lieutenant Papworth, in the Hussars. She begins them`Dearest, dearest Walter!'and they take

her hours to writeI shouldn't write like that. I should say, `Dear Richard! I love you. I hope we shall be

Richard looked down upon her with something like veritable affection. Almost every turn in the artless little

Carola flushed up and was quiet. Clementina cantered to join them, bowing distantly to Richard, as if

After this conversation with the daughter of a System, Richard informed his father that he thought girls were

``I think they are,'' said his father. ``I am beginning to think that the subsequent immense distinction is less

``When they much prefer riding strideways,'' said Richard, and repeated some of his young friend's remarks,

which his father evidently thought charming, and chuckled over frequently. A girl so like a boy was quite his

Certain sweet little notes from Lucy sustained the lover during the first two weeks of exile. Suddenly they

ceased; and now Richard fell into such despondency that his father in alarm had to take measures to hasten

their return to Raynham. At the close of the third week Berry laid a pair of letters, bearing the Raynham

postmark, on the breakfasttable, and, after reading one attentively, the baronet asked his son if he was

``For Raynham, sir?'' cried Richard, and relapsed, saying, ``As you will!'' aware that he had given a glimpse

Berry accordingly received orders to make arrangements for their instant return to Raynham.

The letter Sir Austin lifted his head from to bespeak his son's wishes was a composition of the wise youth

``Benson is doggedly recovering. He requires great indemnities. Happy when a faithful fool is the main

sufferer in a household! I quite agree with you that a faithful fool is the best servant of great schemes. Benson

is now a piece of history. I tell him that this is indemnity enough, and that the sweet Muse usually insists

upon gentlemen being halfflayed before she will condescend to notice them; but Benson, I regret to say,

ignobly rejects the comfort so fine a reflection should offer, and had rather keep his skin and live opaque.

Heroism seems partly a matter of training. Faithful folly is Benson's nature: the rest has been thrust upon him.

``The young person has resigned the neighbourhood. I had an interview with the fair Papist myself, and also

with the man Blaize. They were both very sensible, though one swore and the other sighed. She is pretty. I

hope she does not paint. As to her appearance she would affect Adam more than me; but, as I did not see her

as Eve was seen, I cannot tell how the likeness may be. I can affirm that her legs are strong, for she walks to

Bellingham twice a week to take her Scarlet bath, when, having confessed and been made clean by the

Romish unction, she walks back the brisker, of which my Protestant muscular system is yet aware. It was on

the road to Bellingham I engaged her. She is well in the matter of hair. Madam Godiva might challenge her, it

would be a fair match. Has it never struck you that Woman is nearer the _vegetable_ than Man? Mr.

Blaize intends her for his sona junction that every lover of fairy mythology must desire to see

consummated. Young Tom is heir to all the _agre'mens_ of the Beast. The maids of Lobourne say (I hear)

that he is a very Proculus among them. Possibly the envious men say it for the maids. Beauty does not speak

bad grammarand altogether she is better out of the way. Allow me to congratulate you on having found

Richard's unripe half in good condition, and rosy. I shall be glad to see the original man again, to whom his

``I have fulfilled your commission to the best of my ability, and heartily sad it has made me. She is indeed

very much above her stationpity that it is so! She is almost beautiful _quite_ beautiful at times, and

not in _any way_ what you have been led to fancy. The poor child had no story to tell. I have again seen her,

and talked with her for an hour as kindly as I could. I could gather nothing more than we know. It is just a

woman's history as it invariably commences (not with _all_Is it fortunate for us, or the reverse?) Richard

is the god of her idolatry. She will renounce him, and sacrifice herself for his sake. Are we so bad? She asked

me what she was to do. She would do whatever was imposed upon herall but pretend to love another, and

that she never would, and, I believe, _never will._ You know I am sentimental, and I confess we dropped a

_few tears_ together. Her uncle has sent her for the winter to the institution where it appears she was

educated, and where they are very fond of her and want to keep her, which it would be a good thing if they

were to do. The man is a good sort of man. She was entrusted to him by her father, and he never interferes

with her religion, and is very scrupulous about all that pertains to it, though, as he says, he is a Christian

himself. In the Spring (but the poor child does not know this) she is to come back, and be married to his lout

of a son. I am _determined_ to prevent that. May I not reckon on your promise to aid me? When you see her,

I am sure you will. It would be sacrilege to look on and permit such a thing. You know, they are _cousins._

She asked me, where in the world was there one like Richard? What could I answer? They were your own

words, and spoken with a depth of conviction! I hope he is really calm. I shudder to think of him when he

comes, and discovers what I have been doing. I hope I have been really doing right! A good deed, you say,

never dies; but we cannot always knowI must rely on you. Yes, it is, I should think, easy to suffer

martyrdom when one is sure of one's cause! but then one _must_ be sure of it. I have done nothing lately but

to repeat to myself that saying of yours, No. 54, C. 7, P.S.; and it has consoled me, I cannot say why, except

`` `_For this reason so many fall from God, who have attained to Him; that they cling to Him with their

``I like to know of what you were thinking when you composed this or that sayingwhat _suggested_ it.

May not one be admitted to inspect the machinery of wisdom? I feel curious to know how thoughts_real_

thoughtsare born. Not that I hope to win the secret. Here is the beginning of one (but we poor women can

never put together even two of the three ideas which you say go to form a thought): `When a wise man makes

a false step, will he not go farther than a fool?' It has just flitted through me.

``I cannot get on with Gibbon, so wait your return to recommence the readings. I dislike the _sneering

essence_ of his writings. I keep referring to his face, until the dislike seems to become personal. How

different is it with Wordsworth! And yet I cannot escape from the thought that he is always solemnly thinking

of himself (but I _do_ reverence him). But this is curious; Byron was a greater egoist, and yet I do not feel the

same with him. He reminds me of a beast of the desert, savage and beautiful; and the former is what one

would imagine a superior donkey reclaimed from the heathen to bea _very_ superior donkey, I mean,

with great power of speech and great natural complacency, and whose stubbornness you must admire as part

of his mission. The worst is that no one will imagine anything sublime in a superior donkey, so my simile is

unfair and false. Is it not strange? I love Wordsworth best, and yet Byron has the greater power over me. How

is that?'' (``Because,'' Sir Austin wrote beside the query in pencil, ``women are cowards, and succumb to

Irony and Passion, rather than yield their hearts to Excellence and Nature's Inspiration.'')

``I have finished Boiardo and have taken up Berni. The latter offends me. I suppose we women do not really

care for humour. You are right in saying we have none ourselves, and `cackle' instead of laugh. It is true (of

me, at least) that `Falstaff is only to us an incorrigible fat man.' I want to know what he _illustrates._ And

Don Quixotewhat end can be served in making a noble mind ridiculous?I hear you saypractical!

So it is. We are very narrow, I know. But we like witpractical again! Or in your words (when I really

_think_ they generally come to my aidperhaps it is that it is often all _your thought_); we `prefer the

rapier thrust, to the broad embrace, of Intelligence.' By the way, is there a characteristic in Mrs. Grandison?

Or is she only _good?_ If so, how tired you must be! I hope Richard really is beginning to take an interest in

the child. I sincerely trust that this young creature _is not so good as her mother._ I wish indeed the

experiment were well `launched through the surf,' as you do us the honour to term it.

Something, no doubt, the baronet had in store for her, and possibly the lady's instinct made her meditate on

He trifled with the letter for some time, rereading chosen passages as he walked about the room, and

considering he scarce knew what. There are ideas language is too gross for, and shape too arbitrary, which

come to us and have a definite influence upon us, and yet we cannot fasten on the filmy things and make

them visible and distinct to ourselves, much less to others. Why did he twice throw a look into the glass in the

act of passing it? Why did he for a moment stand with erect head facing it? His eyes for the nonce seemed

little to peruse his outer features; the greygathered brows, and the wrinkles much action of them had traced

over the circles half up his high straight forehead; the irongrey hair that rose over his forehead and fell away

in the fashion of Richard's plume. His general appearance showed the tints of years; but none of their weight,

and nothing of the dignity of his youth, was gone. It was so far satisfactory, but his eyes were wide, as one

who looks at his essential self through the mask we wear. Perhaps he was speculating as he looked on the sort

of aspect he presented to the lady's discriminative regard. Of her feelings he had not a suspicion. But he knew

with what extraordinary lucidity women can, when it pleases them, and when their feelings are not quite

boiling under the noonday sun, seize all the sides of a character, and put their fingers on its weak point. He

was cognizant of the total absence of the humorous in himself (the want that most shut him out from his

fellows), and perhaps the clearthoughted intensely selfexamining gentleman filmily conceived, Me also, in

He may have so conceived the case; he was capable of that greatmindedness, and could at times snatch very

luminous glances at the broad reflector which the world of fact lying outside our narrow compass holds up

for us to see ourselves in when we will. Unhappily, the faculty of laughter, which is due to this gift, was

denied him; and having once seen, he, like the companion of friend Balaam, could go no farther. For a good

wind of laughter had relieved him of much of the blight of selfdeception, and oddness, and extravagance;

Journeying back to Bellingham in the train, with the heated brain and brilliant eye of his son beside him, Sir

Austin tried hard to feel infallible, as a man with a System should feel; and because he could not do so, after

much mental conflict, he descended to entertain a personal antagonism to the young woman who had stepped

in between his experiment and success. He did not think kindly of her. Lady Blandish's encomiums of her

behaviour and her beauty annoyed him. Forgetful that he had in a measure forfeited his rights to it, he took

the common ground of fathers, and demanded, ``Why he was not justified in doing all that lay in his power to

prevent his son from casting himself away upon the first creature with a pretty face he encountered?''

Deliberating thus, he lost the tenderness he should have had for his experimentthe living, burning youth

at his elbow, and his excessive love for him took a rigorous tone. It appeared to him politic, reasonable, and

just, that the uncle of this young woman, who had so long nursed the prudent scheme of marrying her to his

son, should not only not be thwarted in his object but encouraged and even assisted. At least, not thwarted.

Sir Austin had no glass before him while these ideas hardened in his mind, and he had rather forgotten the

Father and son were alone in the railway carriage. Both were too preoccupied to speak. As they neared

Bellingham, the dark was filling the hollows of the country. Over the pinehills beyond the station a last rosy

streak lingered across a green sky. Richard eyed it while they flew along. It caught him forward: it seemed

full of the spirit of his love, and brought tears of mournful longing to his eyelids. The sad beauty of that one

spot in the heavens seemed to call out to his soul to swear to his Lucy's truth to him: was like the sorrowful

visage of his fleurdeluce, as he called her, appealing to him for faith. That tremulous tender way she had of

halfclosing and catching light on the netherlids, when sometimes she looked up in her lover's facea

look so mysticsweet it had grown to be the fountain of his dreams: he saw it yonder, and his blood thrilled.

Know you those wandlike touches of I know not what, before which our grosser being melts, and we, much

as we hope to be in the Awaking, stand etherealized, trembling with new joy? They come but rarely; rarely

even in love, when we fondly think them revelations. Mere sensations they are, doubtless: and we rank for

them no higher in the spiritual scale than so many translucent glorious _polypi_ that quiver on the shores, the

hues of heaven running through them. Yet in the harvest of our days it is something for the animal to have

had such mere fleshly polypian experiences to look back upon, and they give him an horizonpale seas of

luring splendour. One who has had them (when they do not bound him) may find the Isles of Bliss sooner

than another. Sensual faith in the upper glories is something. ``Let us remember,'' says =The Pilgrim's Scrip,=

``that Nature, though heathenish, reaches at her best to the footstool of the Highest. She is not all dust, but a

living portion of the spheres. In aspiration it is our error to despise her, forgetting that through Nature only

can we _ascend._ Cherished, trained, and purified, she is then partly worthy the divine mate who is to make

It was one of these strange bodily exaltations which thrilled the young man, he knew not how it was, for his

sadness and his forebodings vanished. The soft wand touched him. At that moment, had Sir Austin spoken

openly, Richard might have fallen upon his heart. He could not. He chose to feel injured on the common

ground of fathers, and to pursue his System by plotting. Lady Blandish had revived his jealousy of the

creature who menaced it, and jealousy of a System is unreflecting and vindictive as jealousy of woman.

Heathroots and pines breathed sharp in the cool autumn evening about the Bellingham station. Richard

stood a moment as he stepped from the train, and drew the country air into his lungs with large heaves of the

chest. Leaving his father to the felicitations of the stationmaster, he went into the Lobourne road to look for

his faithful Tom, who had received private orders through Berry to be in attendance with his young master's

mare, Cassandra, and was lurking in a plantation of firs uninclosed on the borders of the road, where Richard,

knowing his retainer's zest for conspiracy too well to seek him anywhere but in the part most favoured with

Tom smuggled his pipe into his pocket. He sent his undress cap on one side to scratch at dilemma, an old

agriculural habit to which he was still a slave in moments of abstract thought or sudden difficulty.

``No, I don't want the rake, Mr. Richard,'' he whinnied with a deprecating false grin, as he beheld his master's

``D'you hear, Tom?'' cried Richard imperatively. ``I haven't had a letter for a week! How is she? Where is

Tom stepped back to Cassandra's hindquarters, and round to her forefeet, pretending to be spying after

furzethorns. Between anger and alarm at Tom's hesitation to answer honestly, a quality that served for

patience restrained his master; but Tom saw that this trifling would not do, and he got up from the mare's

loins, and said, holding forth both hands open, ``There, sir! I don't mind saying it. I know I ought for to have

powsted a letter, tell'n you all of it as much as I'd come to hearbut there, Mr. Richard, I do writ so

shocken bad, and that's the truth, I wasn't the man for't. Well, sir,'' Tom warmed to speak out now he had

began, ``I should a' stopped her. I know that, sir. I know'd how it'd knock you down. But I ain't a scholar! I

ain't what you thinks or hopes forbain't a bit of a hero. I never can do anything 'less it's in company. I

can't do't by myself. _I'm_ no hero. I know very well Lord Nelson 'd a done it,'' continued Tom,

remembering, doubtless, many a lecture on the darling hero of Britain. ``_He'd_ 'a done it. So'd the Duke o'

Wellington, or any o' them Peninsular War chaps. But I hadn't the spirit to step in and sayYou shan't take

her away. I thought about 't, but thereI couldn't! There's no more mistakes between us now, Mr. Richard.

Thus Richard learnt the news. He took it with surprising outward calm, only getting a little closer to

Cassandra's neck, and looking very hard at Tom without seeing a speck of him, which had the effect on Tom

of making him sincerely wish his master would punch his head at once rather than fix him in that owllike

Tom was brought to understand he must make the most of trifles, and recited how he had heard from a female

domestic at Belthorpe of the name of Davenport, formerly known to him, that the young lady never slept a

wink from the hour she knew she was going, but sat up in her bed till morning crying most pitifully, though

she never complained. Hereat the tears unconsciously streamed down Richard's cheeks. Tom said he had tried

to see her, but Mr. Adrian kept him at work, ciphering at a terrible sumthat and nothing else all day!

saying, it was to please his young master on his return. ``Likewise something in Lat'n,'' added Tom.

``Nom'tive Mouser!'nough to make ye mad, sir!'' he exclaimed with pathos. The wretch had been put to

Tom saw her on the morning she went away, he said: she was very sorrowfullooking, and nodded kindly to

him as she passed in the fly along with young Tom Blaize. ``She have got uncommon kind eyes, sir,'' said

Tom, ``and cryin' don't spoil them.'' For which his hand was violently wrenched.

Tom had no more to tell, save that, in rounding the road, the young lady had hung out her hand, and seemed

``And though she couldn't see me,'' said Tom, ``I took off my hat. I did take it so kind of her to think of a

Tom was at highpressure sentimentwhat with his education for a hero and his master's lovestricken

``No, sir. That was the last!'' said Tom, imitating the forlornness of his master's voice.

``Why did they take her away? what have they done with her? where have they taken her to?''

These redhot questionings were addressed to the universal heaven rather than to Tom.

``Why didn't she write?'' they were resumed. ``Why did she leave? She's mine. She belongs to me! Who

``Yes, sir,'' said the welldrilled recruit, dressing himself up to the word of command. He expected a

variation of the theme from the change of tone with which his name had been pronounced, but it was again,

``Where have they taken her to?'' and this was even more perplexing to Tom than his hard sum in arithmetic

had been. He could only draw down the corners of his mouth hard, and glance up queerly.

``No mistake about that, Mr. Richard. Cryin' all night and all day, I sh'd say.''

Richard paused to discover whether his instinct had caught a new view from these facts. He was in a cage,

Her tears were the stars in his black night. He clung to them as golden orbs. Inexplicable as they were, they

were at least pledges of love. She could not have been too miserable to please him.

``Better wait,'' Tom advised, ``till I search out where the young lady ishadn't you, sir?''

The hues of sunset had left the West. No light was there but the steadfast pale eye of twilight. Thither he was

drawn: thither he must go. He had not listened to Tom's sound sense, but it appeared to guide him, for he

mounted Cassandra, saying: ``Tell them something, Tom. I shan't be home to dinner,'' and rode off toward the

forsaken home of light over Belthorpe, wherein he saw the wan hand of his Lucy, waving farewell, receding

Night had come on as Richard entered the old elmshaded, grassbordered lane leading down from Raynham

to Belthorpe. The pale eye of twilight was shut. The wind had tossed up the bank of Western cloud, which

was now flying broad and unlighted across the sky, broad and balmy the charioted Southwest at full

charge behind his panting coursers. As he neared the farm his heart fluttered and leapt up. He was sure she

must be there. She must have returned. Why should she have left for good without writing? He caught

suspicion by the throat, making it voiceless, if it lived: he silenced reason. Her not writing was now a proof

she had returned. He listened to nothing but his imperious passion, and murmured sweet words for her, as if

she were by: tender cherishing epithets of love in the nest. She was thereshe moved somewhere about

like a silver flame in the dear old house doing her sweet household duties. His blood began to sing: O happy

those within, to see her, and be about her! By some extraordinary process he contrived to cast a sort of glory

round the burly person of Farmer Blaize himself. And oh! to have companionship with a seraph one must

know a seraph's bliss, and was not young Tom to be envied? The smell of late clematis brought on the wind

enwrapped him, and went to his brain, and threw a light over the old redbrick house, for he remembered

where it grew, and the winter rosetree, and the jessamine, and the passionflower: the garden in front with

the standard roses tended by her hands; the long wall to the left striped by the branches of the cherry, the peep

of a further garden through the wall, and then the orchard, and the fields beyondthe happy circle of her

dwelling! it flashed before his eyes while he looked on the darkness. And yet it was the reverse of hope which

kindled this light and inspired the momentary calm he experienced: it was despair exaggerating delusion,

wilfully building up on a groundless basis. ``For the tenacity of true passion is terrible,'' says =The Pilgrim's

Scrip:= ``it will stand against the hosts of heaven, God's great array of Facts, rather than surrender its aim,

and must be crushed before it will succumb sent to the lowest pit!'' He knew she was not there; she was

gone. But the power of a will strained to madness fought at it, kept it down, conjured forth her ghost, and

would have it as he dictated. Poor youth! the great array of facts was in due order of march.

He had breathed her name many times, and once overloud; almost a cry for her escaped him. He had not

noticed the opening of a door and the noise of a foot along the gravel walk. He was leaning over Cassandra's

uneasy neck watching the one window intently, when a voice addressed him out of the darkness.

Richard's trance was broken. ``Mr. Blaize!'' he said, recognizing the farmer's voice.

``Good even'n t' you, sir,'' returned the farmer. ``I knew the mare though I didn't know you. Rather bluff

tonight it be. Will ye step in, Mr. Fev'rel? it's beginnin' to spit going to be a wildish night, I reckon.''

Richard dismounted. The farmer called one of his men to hold the mare, and ushered the young man in. Once

there Richard's conjurations ceased. There was a deadness about the rooms and passages that told of her

absence. The walls he touchedthese were the vacant shell of his divinity. He had never been in the house

Young Tom Blaize was in the parlour, squared over the table in openmouthed examination of an ancient

book of the fashions for a summer month which had elapsed during his mother's minority. Young Tom was

respectfully studying the aspects of the radiant beauties of the polite work. He also was a thrall of woman,

``What, Tom!'' the farmer sang out as soon as he had opened the door; ``there ye 'be! at yer Folly agin, are

ye? What good'll them fashens do to you, I'd like t' know? Come, shut up, and go and see to Mr. Fev'rel's

mare. He's al'ays at that ther' Folly now. I say there never were a better name for a book than that ther Folly!

The farmer laughed his fat sides into a chair, and motioned his visitor to do likewise.

``It's a comfort they're most on'em females,'' he pursued, sounding a thwack on his knee as he settled himself

agreeably in his seat. ``It don't matter muchwhat they does, except pinchin' inwaspin' itat the

A blush went over Richard; he was thinking, ``Is this the chair she sat in?'' She seemed to put her arms about

him, and say, ``Suppose I have gone? Shall I not soon be back to you? Why are you so downcast?''

``It seems Folly's a new name for them fashens. So they tells me,'' said the farmer, ``not a bad 'un, I think!

Hope yer father's well, Mr. Fev'rel? Ah! if he'd been the man he bid fair to bethough we was opp'site

politicswell! it's a loss anyhow! Not the first time you've bin in this apartment, young gentleman?''

``No, Mr Blaize! it is not,'' Richard now spoke. ``I think I ought to haveyou see, that was my book of

To this proper speech, the farmer replied drily, ``Well! so long as that sort of Folly don't grow to be the

A rather embarrassing silence ensued, broken by a movement of legs changing places, like evolutions of

``You seem very lonely here,'' said Richard, glancing round, and at the ceiling.

``Lonely?'' quoth the farmer. ``Well, for the matter o' that, we be!jest now, so 't happens; I've got my

pipe, and Tom 've got his Folly. He's on one side the taable, and I'm on t'other. He gaapes, and I gazes. We

``Y' acted like a man in coming, young gentleman, and I does ye honour for it!'' said Farmer Blaize with

The thing implied by the farmer's words caused Richard to take a quick breath. They looked at each other,

Above the mantelpiece, surrounded by tarnished indifferent miniatures of highcollared, welltodo

yeomen of the anterior generation, trying their best not to grin, and highwaisted old ladies smiling an

encouraging smile through plentiful cappuckers, there hung a passably executed halffigure of a naval

officer in uniform, grasping a telescope under his left arm, who stood forth clearly as not of their kith and kin.

His eyes were blue, his hair light, his bearing that of a man who knows how to carry his head and shoulders.

The artist, while giving him an epaulette to indicate his rank, had also recorded the juvenility which a

lieutenant in the naval service can retain after arriving at that position, by painting him with smooth cheeks

and fresh ruddy lips. To this portrait Richard's eyes were directed. Farmer Blaize observed it, and said

``Yes,'' said the farmer, ``pretty well. Next best to havin' _her,_ though it's a long way off that!''

``An old family, Mr. Blaizeis it not?'' Richard asked in as careless a tone as he could assume.

``Gentlefolkswhat's left of 'em,'' replied the farmer with an equally affected indifference.

``Gone, sir! packed off!Can't have her here now.'' The farmer thrummed a step brisker, and eyed the

``Mr. Blaize,'' Richard leaned forward to get closer to him. He was stunned, and hardly aware of what he was

``You needn't to ask, sirye know,'' said the farmer, with a side shot of his head.

The farmer bluntly denied it was he was the party who made her unhappy. ``Nobody can't accuse me. Tell ye

what, sir. I wunt have the busybodies set to work about her, and there's all the matter. So let you and I come

A blind inclination to take offence made Richard sit upright. He forgot it the next minute, and said humbly:

``What can I do, Mr. Blaize, that she may come back again?'' the young hypocrite asked.

``Now,'' said the farmer, ``you're coming to business. Glad to hear ye talk in that sensible way Mr. Fev'rel.

You may guess I wants her bad enough. The house ain't itself now she's away, and I ain't myself. Well, sir!

This ye can do. If you gives me your promise not meddle with her at all I can't mak' out how you come to

be acquainted; not to try to get her to be meetin' youand if you'd 'a seen her when she left, you

wouldwhen did ye meet?last grass, wasn't it?your word as a gentleman not to be writing letters,

``People seem to think she'll harm you, young gentleman,'' the farmer said with some irony.

``What people? Who spoke of us?'' Richard began to scent a plot, and would not be baulked.

``Well, sir, look here,'' said the farmer. ``It ain't no secret, and if it be, I don't see why I'm to keep it. It

appears your education's peculiar!'' The farmer drawled out the word as if he were describing the figure of a

snake. ``You ain't to be as other young gentlemen. All the better! You're a fine bold young gentleman, and

your father's a right to be proud of ye. Well, sirI'm sure I thank him for't he comes to hear of you and

Luce, and of course he don't want nothin' o' thatmore do I. I meets him there! What's more I won't have

nothin' of it. She be my gal. She were left to my protection. And she's a lady, sir. Let me tell ye,ye won't

find many on 'em so well looked to as she bemy Luce! Well, Mr. Fev'rel, it's you, or it's her one of ye

must be out o' the way. So we're told. And Luce I do believe she's just as anxious about yer education as

yer fathershe says she'll go, and wouldn't write, and 'd brake it off for the sake o' your education. And

she've kep her word, haven't she?And she's a true 'n. What she says she'll do!True blue she be, my

Any one who has tossed a sheet of paper into the fire, and seen it gradually brown with heat, and strike to

His anger did not evaporate in words, but condensed and sank deep. ``Mr. Blaize,'' he said between his set

teeth, ``this is very kind of the people you allude to, but I am of an age now to think and act for myselfI

love her, sir!'' His whole countenance changed, and the muscles of his face quivered.

``Well!'' said the farmer appeasingly, ``we all do at your agesomebody or other. It's natural!''

``I love her!'' the young man thundered afresh, too much possessed by his passion to have a sense of shame in

the confession. ``Farmer!'' his voice fell to supplication, ``will you bring her back?''

Farmer Blaize made a queer face. He askedwhat for? and where was the promise required? But was not

the lover's argument conclusive? He said he loved her! and he could not see why her uncle should not in

consequence immediately send for her, that they might be together. All very well, quoth the farmer, but

what's to come of it? What was to come of it? Why, love, and more love! And a bit too much! the farmer

``Then you refuse me, farmer,'' said Richard. ``I must look to you for keeping her away from me, not

totothese people. You will not have her back, though I tell you I love her better than my life?''

Farmer Blaize now had to answer him plainly, he had a reason and an objection of his own. And it was, that

her character was at stake, and God knew whether she herself might not be in danger. He spoke with a kindly

candour, not without dignity. He complimented Richard personally, but young people were young people;

At first the son of a System did not comprehend him. When he did, he said: ``Farmer! if I give you my word

of honour, as I hope for heaven, to marry her when I am of age, will you have her back?''

He was so fervid that, to quiet him, the farmer only shook his head doubtfully at the bars of the grate, and let

his chest fall slowly. Richard caught what seemed to him a glimpse of encouragement in these signs, and

``It's because my father is against me,'' Richard went on, and undertook to show that love was so sacred a

matter that no father could entirely and for ever resist his son's inclinations. Argument being a cool field

where the farmer could meet and match him, the young man got on the tramroad of his passion, and went

ahead, He drew pictures of Lucy, of her truth, and his own. He took leaps from life to death, from death to

life, mixing imprecations and prayers in a torrent. Perhaps he did move the stolid old Englishman a little, he

The farmer stretched out his hand for the pipe that allayeth botheration. ``May smoke heer now,'' he said.

Richard nodded, and watched the operations while the farmer filled, and lighted and began to puff, as if his

``Who'd a' thought, when you sat over there once, of it's comin' to this?'' ejaculated the farmer, drawing ease

and reflection from tobacco. ``You didn't think much of her that day, young gentleman! I introduced ye.

``It's queer,'' said the farmer, putting the mouth of the pipe to his wrinkledup temples.

Richard waited for him, and then he laid down the pipe altogether, as no aid in perplexity, and said, after

``Look, young gentleman! My word's gone. I've spoke it. I've given 'em the 'surance she shan't be back till the

Spring, and then I'll have her, and thenwell! I do hope, for more reasons than one, ye'll both on ye be

wiserI've got my own notions about her. But I an't the man to force a gal to marry 'gainst her inclines.

Depend upon it I'm not your enemy, Mr. Fev'rel. You're jest the one to mak' a young gal proud. So

Richard's impetuosity had made him really afraid of speaking his notions concerning the projected felicity of

The farmer repeated that he had no more to say; and Richard, with ``Wait till the Spring! Wait till the

Spring!'' dinning despair in his ears, stood up to depart. Farmer Blaize shook his slack hand in a friendly way,

and called out at the door for young Tom, who, dreading allusions to his Folly, did not appear. A maid rushed

by Richard in the passage, and slipped something into his grasp, which fixed on it without further

consciousness than that of touch. The mare was led forth by the Bantam. A light rain was falling down strong

warm gusts, and the trees were noisy in the night. Farmer Blaize requested Richard at the gate to give him his

hand, and say all was well. He liked the young man for his earnestness and honest outspeaking. Richard could

not say all was well, but he gave his hand, and knitted it to the farmer's in a sharp squeeze, when he got upon

A calm, clear dawn succeeded the roaring West, and threw its glowing grey image on the waters of the

Abbeylake. Before sunrise Tom Bakewell was abroad, and met the missing youth, his master, jogging

Cassandra leisurely along the Lobourne parkroad, a sorry couple to look at. Cassandra's flanks were caked

with mud, her head drooped: all that was in her had been taken out by that wild night. On what heaths and

heavy fallows had she not spent her noble strength, recklessly fretting through the darkness!

``Take the mare,'' said Richard, dismounting and patting her between the eyes. ``She's done up, poor old gal!

Tom asked no questions. He saw that he was in for the first act of the new comedy.

Three days would bring the anniversary of Richard's birth, and though Tom was close, the condition of the

mare, and the young gentleman's strange freak in riding her out all night becoming known, prepared

everybody at Raynham for the usual badluck birthday, the prophets of which were full of sad gratification.

Sir Austin had an unpleasant office to require of his son; no other than that of humbly begging Benson's

pardon, and washing out the undue blood he had spilt in taking his Pound of Flesh. Heavy Benson was told to

anticipate the demand for pardon, and practised in his mind the most melancholy Christian deportment he

could assume on the occasion. But while his son was in this state, Sir Austin considered that he would hardly

be brought to see the virtues of the act, and did not make the requisition of him, and heavy Benson remained

drawn up solemnly expectant at doorways, and at the foot of the staircase, a Saurian Caryatid, wherever he

could get a step in advance of the young man, while Richard heedlessly passed him, as he passed everybody

else, his head bent to the ground, and his legs bearing him like random instruments of whose service he was

unconscious. It was a shock to Benson's implicit belief in his patron; and he was not consoled by the

philosophic explanation, ``That Good in a strong manycompounded nature is of slower growth than any

other mortal thing, and must not be forced.'' Damnatory doctrines best pleased Benson. Benson was ready to

pardon, as a Christian should, but he did want his enemy before him on his knees. And now, though the

Saurian Eye saw more than all the other eyes in the house, and saw that there was matter in hand between

Tom and his master to breed exceeding discomposure to the System, Benson, as he had not received his

indemnity, and did not wish to encounter fresh perils for nothing, held his peace.

Sir Austin partly divined what was going on in the breast of his son, without conceiving the depths of distrust

his son cherished towards him, and all, or quite measuring the intensity of the passion that consumed him. He

was very kind and tender with him. Like a cunning physician who has, nevertheless, overlooked the change

in the disease superinduced by one false dose, he meditated his prescriptions carefully and confidently, sure

that he knew the case, and was a match for it. He decreed that Richard's erratic behaviour should pass

unnoticed. Two days before the birthday, he asked him whether he would object to the Grandisons coming,

and having company? To which Richard said: ``Have whom you will, sir.'' The preparation for festivity

On the birthday eve he dined with the rest. Lady Blandish was there, and sat penitently at his right. Hippias

prognosticated certain indigestion for himself on the morrow. The Eighteenth Century wondered whether she

should live to see another birthday. Adrian drank the twoyears' distant term of his tutorship, and Algernon

went over the list of the Lobourne men who would cope with Bursley on the morrow. Sir Austin gave ear and

a word to all, keeping his mental eye for his son. To please Lady Blandish also, Adrian ventured to make

trifling jokes about Mrs. Grandison; jokes delicately not decent, but so delicately so, that it was not decent to

perceive it. He desired to know whether Berry was in sufficient muscular condition to transport the lady

upstairs and down; and being told that no doubt Berry would be, were the service required of him, Adrian

appeared to reflect profoundly, and thought that on no account must the precious freight be consigned to the

inflammable Berry; in support of which Adrian mildly cited certain grievous instances in the Pagan

mythology of breach of trust even when the offenders were Gods, which Berry had no pretence to be, after

``Then you must do it,'' said Richard, just waking up, and for want of something to say.

``Even I dare not! Such an ordeal as that!''Adrian gravely replied, shaking a meek sinner's head, and it

was impossible to help laughing at his solemn manner. Algernon, knowing him better than the others,

``Well, then, Hip!'' Algernon turned to his melancholy brother, ``Hip will do for it exactly.''

``Happy one!'' Adrian apostrophized Hippias reverently, ``behold in his arms the fruit of a thousand

And at this picture of the virtuous lady borne as a prize by the dyspepsy, there was laughter all round the

After dinner Richard left them. Nothing more than commonly peculiar was observed about him, beyond the

excessive glitter of his eyes' but the baronet said, ``Yes, yes! that will pass.'' He and Adrian, and Lady

Blandish, took tea in the library, and sat till a late hour discussing casuistries relating mostly to the

Appledisease. Converse very amusing to the wise youth, who could suggest to the two chaste minds

situations of the shadiest character, with the air of a seeker after truth, and lead them, unsuspecting, where

they dare not look about them. The Aphorist had elated the heart of his constant fair worshipper with a newly

rounded, if not newlyconceived sentence, when they became aware that they were four. Heavy Benson

stood among them. He said he had knocked, but received no answer. There was however, a vestige of

surprise and dissatisfaction on his face beholding Adrian of the company, which had not quite worn away,

``Well, Benson? well?'' said the baronet, not understanding the interruption, and impatient at Benson's

presence. Benson persisted in the flabbysevere without speaking, and the appearance of this strange owl

presiding stupidly over them, was so astonishing as to keep them all looking at him. They had disconcerted

Benson, who was of slow wit, by being three instead of two, and he was troubled what to say for himself. At

Benson regarded the impression he had made. It was not a very distinct one. Lady Blandish laughed and said:

``I see. Benson wishes to have us up early in the morning. Hasn't my maid gone to bed?''

``To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Hadrian, she has gone to her bed.'' Benson's tone defied misconstruction

Benson had judged his climax properly. And a carpetbag! The baronet looked blank. Adrian raised his

Out he was, and with a carpetbag, which Tom Bakewell carried. He was on the road to Bellingham, under

heavy rain, hasting like an escaped captive, wild with joy, while Tom shook his skin, and grunted at his

discomforts. The mail train was to be caught at Bellingham. He knew where to find her now, through the

intervention of Miss Davenport, and thither he was flying, an arrow loosed from the bow: thither, in spite of

fathers and friends and plotters, to claim her, and take her, and stand with her against the world.

They were both thoroughly wet when they entered Bellingham, and Tom's visions were of hot drinks. He

hinted the necessity for inward consolation to his master, who could answer nothing but ``Tom! Tom! I shall

see her tomorrow!'' It was badtravelling in the wet, Tom hinted again, to provoke the same insane

outcry, and have his arm seized and furiously shaken into the bargain. Passing the principal inn of the place,

``No!'' cried Richard, ``there's not a moment to be lost!'' and as he said it, he reeled, and fell against Tom,

muttering indistinctly of faintness, and that there was no time to lose. Tom lifted him in his arms, and got

admission to the inn. Brandy, the country's specific, was advised by host and hostess, and forced into his

mouth, reviving him sufficiently to cry out, ``Tom! the bell's ringing: we shall be late,'' after which he fell

back insensible on the sofa where they had stretched him. Excitement of blood and brain had done its work

upon him. The poor youth suffered them to undress him and put him to bed, and there he lay, forgetful even

of love; a drowned weed born onward by the tide of the hours. There his father found him.

Was the Scientific Humanist remorseful? He had looked forward to such a crisis as that point in the disease

his son was the victim of, when the body would fail and give the spirit calm to conquer the malady, knowing

very well that the seeds of the evil were not of the spirit. Moreover, to see him and have him was a repose

after the alarm Benson had sounded. Anxious he was, and prayerful; but with faith in the physical energy he

attributed to his System. This providential stroke had saved the youth from heaven knew what! ``Mark!'' said

The lady had accompanied him to the Bellingham inn on first hearing of Richard's seizure.

``Oh! what an iron man you can be,'' she exclaimed, smothering her intuitions. She was for giving the boy his

bauble; promising it him, at least, if he would only get well and be the bright flower of promise he once was.

It was a hard sight for this man who loved his son so deeply. The youth lay in his strange bed, straight and

Sir Austin walked away from her, and probed the depths of his love. ``The stroke will not be dealt by me,'' he

His patient serenity was a wonder to all who knew him. Indeed, to have doubted and faltered now was to

have subverted the glorious fabric just on the verge of completion. He believed that his son's pure strength

was fitted to cope with any natural evil: that such was God's law. To him Richard's passion was an ill incident

to the ripeness of his years and his perfect innocence; and this crisis the struggle of the poison passing out of

himnot to be deplored. He was so confident that he did not even send for Dr. Bairam. Old Dr. Clifford of

Lobourne was the medical attendant, who, with headshaking, and gathering of lips, and reminiscences of

ancient arguments, guaranteed to do all that leech could do in the matter. The old doctor did admit that

Richard's constitution was admirable, and answered to his prescriptions like a piano to the musician. ``But,''

he said at a family consultation, for Sir Austin had told him how it stood with the young man, ``drugs are not

much in cases of this sort. Change! That's what's wanted, and as soon as may be. Distraction! He ought to see

the world, and know what he is made of. It's no use my talking, I know,'' added the doctor.

``On the contrary,'' said Sir Austin, ``I am quite of your persuasion. And the world he shall seenow.''

``But, doctor,'' said Lady Blandish, ``have you known a case of this sort before?''

``Never, my lady,'' said the doctor, ``they're not common in these parts. Country people are tolerably

``Ask the doctor whether they were healthyminded women,'' said the baronet. ``No! you are both looking at

the wrong end. Between a highlycultured being, and an emotionless animal, there is all the difference in the

world. But of the two, the doctor is nearer the truth. The healthy nature is pretty safe. If he allowed for

organization he would be right altogether. To feel, but not to feel to excess, that is the problem.''

``That couplet,'' said Sir Austin, ``exactly typifies the doctor's hero. I think he must admire

Agamemnoneh, doctor? Chryseis taken from us, let us seize Bryseis!Children cry, but don't die, for

``Simply have a stronger appreciation of the sugar, and make a greater noise to obtain it,'' Adrian took him

When the young Experiment again knew the hours that rolled him onward, he was in his own room at

Raynham. Nothing had changed: only a strong fist had knocked him down and stunned him, and he opened

his eyes to a grey world: he had forgotten what he lived for. He was weak and thin, and with a pale memory

of things. His functions were the same, everything surrounding him was the same: he looked upon the old

blue hills, the farlying fallows, the river, and the woods: he knew them, and they seemed to have lost

recollection of him. Nor could he find in familiar human faces the secret of intimacy of heretofore. They were

the same faces: they nodded and smiled to him. What was lost he could not tell. Something had been knocked

out of him! He was sensible of his father's sweetness of manner, and he was grieved that he could not reply to

it, for every sense of shame and reproach had strangely gone. He felt very useless. In place of the fiery love

Thus in the heart of the young man died the Spring Primrose, and while it died another heart was pushing

The wonderful change in Richard, and the wisdom of her admirer, now positively proved, were exciting

matters to Lady Blandish. She was rebuked for certain little rebellious fancies concerning him that had come

across her enslaved mind from time to time. For was he not almost a prophet? It distressed the sentimental

lady that a love like Richard's could pass off in mere smoke, and words such as she had heard him speak in

Abbeywood resolve to emptiness. Nay, it humiliated her personally, and the baronet's shrewd

prognostication humilitated her. For how should he know, and dare to say, that love was a thing of the dust

that could be trodden out under the heel of science? But he had said so, and he had proved himself right. She

heard with wonderment that Richard of his own accord had spoken to his father of the folly he had been

guilty of, and had begged his pardon. The baronet told her this, adding that the youth had done it in a cold

unwavering way, without a movement of his features: had evidently done it to throw off the burden of the

duty he had conceived. He had thought himself bound to acknowledge that he had been the Foolish Young

Fellow, wishing, possibly, to abjure the fact by an act of penance. He had also given satisfaction to Benson,

and was become a renovated peaceful spirit, whose main object appeared to be to get up his physical strength

by exercise and no expenditure of speech. In her company he was composed and courteous; even when they

were alone together, he did not exhibit a trace of melancholy. Sober he seemed, as one who has recovered

from a drunkenness and has determined to drink no more. The idea struck her that he might be playing a part,

but Tom Bakewell, in a private conversation they had, informed her that he had received an order from his

young master, one day while boxing with him, not to mention the young lady's name to him so long as he

lived; and Tom could only suppose that she had offended him. Theoretically wise Lady Blandish had always

thought the baronet; she was unprepared to find him thus practically sagacious. She fell many degrees; she

wanted something to cling to; so she clung to the man who struck her low. Love, then, was earthly; its depth

could be probed by science! A man lived who could measure it from end to end; foretell its term; handle the

young cherub as were he a shot owl! We who have flown into cousinship with the empyrean, and disported

among immortal hosts, our base birth as a child of Time is made bare to us!our wings are cut! Oh, then, if

science is this victorious enemy of love, let us love science! was the logic of the lady's heart; and secretly

cherishing the assurance that she should confute him yet, and prove him utterly wrong, she gave him the

fruits of present success, as it is a habit of women to do; involuntarily partly. The fires took hold of her. She

felt soft emotions such as a girl feels, and they flattered her. It was like youth coming back. Pure women have

``The ways of women, which are Involution, and their practices, which are Opposition, are generally best hit

upon by guess work, and a bold word;''it being impossible to track them and hunt them down in the

So that we may not ourselves become involved and opposed, let us each of us venture a guess and say a bold

word as to how it came that the lady, who trusted love to be eternal, grovelled to him that shattered her tender

Hitherto it had been simply a sentimental dalliance, and gossips had maligned the lady. Just when the gossips

grew tired of their slander, and inclined to look upon her charitably, she set about to deserve every word they

had said of her; which may instruct us, if you please, that gossips have only to persist in lying to be crowned

with verity, or that one has only to endure evil mouths for a period to gain impunity. She was always at the

Abbey now. She was much closeted with the baronet. It seemed to be understood that she had taken Mrs.

Doria's place. Benson in his misogynic soul perceived that she was taking Lady Feverel's: but any report

circulated by Benson was sure to meet discredit, and drew the gossips upon himself; which made his

meditations tragic. No sooner was one woman defeated than another took the field! The object of the System

``He seems to have received a fresh legacy of several pounds of lead,'' returned the wise youth, and imitating

Dr. Clifford's manner. ``Change is what he wants! distraction! send him to Wales, sir, for a month, and let

``Then we must continue to have him on our shoulders all day, and on our chests all night!'' Adrian

``I think while he preserves this aspect we won't have him at the dinnertable,'' said the baronet.

Adrian thought that would be a relief to their digestions; and added: ``You know, sir, what he says?''

Receiving a negative, Adrian delicately explained to him that Benson's excessive ponderosity of demeanour

``You must pardon a faithful fool, sir,'' he continued, for the baronet became red, and exclaimed:

``His stupidity is past belief! I have absolutely to bolt my studydoor against him.''

``Have you, indeed, sir!'' said Adrian, and at once beheld a charming scene in the interior of the study, not

unlike one that Benson had visually witnessed. For, like a wary prophet, Benson, that he might have warrant

for what he foretold of the future, had a care to spy upon the present: warned haply by =The Pilgrim's Scrip=

of which he was a diligent reader, and which says, rather emphatically: ``Could we see Time's full face, we

were wise of him.'' Now to see Time's full face, it is sometimes necessary to look through keyholes, the

veteran having a trick of smiling peace to you on one cheek and grimacing confusion on the other behind the

curtain. Decency and a sense of honour restrain most of us from being thus wise and miserable for ever.

Benson's excuse was that he believed in his master, who was menaced. And moreover, notwithstanding his

previous tribulation, to spy upon Cupid was sweet to him. So he peeped, and he saw a sight. He saw Time's

full face; or, in other words, he saw the wiles of woman and the weakness of man: which is our history, as

Benson would have written it, and a great many poets and philosophers have written it.

Yet it was but the plucking of the Autumn primrose that Benson had seen: a somewhat different operation

from the plucking of the Spring one: very innocent! Our staid elderly sister has paler blood, and has, or thinks

she has, a reason or two about the roots. She is not all instinct. ``For this high cause, and for that I know men,

and know him to be the flower of men, I give myself to him!'' She makes that lofty inward exclamation while

the hand is detaching her from the roots. Even so strong a selfjustification she requires. She has not that

blind glory in excess which her younger sister can gild the longest leap with. And if, mothlike, she desires

the star, she is nervously cautious of candles. Hence her circles about the dangerous human flame are wide

and shy. She must be drawn nearer and nearer by a fresh _reason._ She loves to sentimentalize. Lady

Blandish had been sentimentalizing for ten years. She would have preferred to pursue the game. The

darkeyed dame was pleased with her smooth life and the soft excitement that did not ruffle it. Not willingly

``Sentimentalists,'' says =The Pilgrim's Scrip,= ``are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense

``It is,'' the writer says of Sentimentalism elsewhere, ``a happy pastime and an important science to the timid,

the idle and the heartless; but a damning one to them who have anything to forfeit.''

However, one who could set down the dying for love, as a sentimentalism, can hardly be accepted as a clear

authority. Assuredly he was not one to avoid the incurring of the immense debtorship in any way: but he was

a bondman still to the woman who had forsaken him, and a spoken word would have made it seem his duty to

face that public scandal which was the last evil to him. What had so horrified the virtuous Benson, Richard

had already beheld in Daphne's Bower; a simple kissing of the fair white hand! Doubtless the keyhole

somehow added to Benson's horror. The two similar performances, so very innocent, had wondrous opposite

consequences. The first kindled Richard to adore Woman; the second destroyed Benson's faith in Man. But

Lady Blandish knew the difference between the two. She understood why the baronet did not speak; excused,

and respected him for it. She was content, since she must love, to love humbly, and she had, besides, her pity

for his sorrows to comfort her. A hundred fresh reasons for loving him arose and multiplied every day. He

read to her the secret book in his own handwriting, composed for Richard's Marriage Guide: containing

Advice and Directions to a Young Husband, full of the most tender wisdom and delicacy; so she thought;

nay, not wanting in poetry, though neither rhymed nor measured. He expounded to her the distinctive

character of the divers ages of love, giving the palm to the flower she put forth, over that of Spring, or the

Summer rose. And while they sat and talked, ``My wound was healed,'' he said. ``How?'' she asked. ``At the

fountain of your eyes,'' he replied, and drew the joy of new life from her blushes, without incurring further

Let it be some apology for the damage caused by the careering hero, and a consolation to the quiet wretches,

dragged along with him at his chariotwheels, that he is generally the last to know when he has made an

actual start; such a mere creature is he, like the rest of us, albeit the head of our fates. By this you perceive the

true hero, whether he be a prince or a potboy, that he does not plot; Fortune does all for him. He may be

compared to one to whom, in an electric circle, it is given to carry the _battery._ We caper and grimace at his

will; yet not his the will, not his the power. 'Tis all Fortune's, whose puppet he is. She deals her dispensations

through him. Yea, though our capers be never so comical, he laughs not. Intent upon his own business, the

true hero asks little services of us here and there; thinks it quite natural that they should be acceded to, and

sees nothing ridiculous in the lamentable contortions we must go through to fulfil them. Probably he is the

elect of Fortune, because of that notable faculty of being intent upon his own business: ``Which is,'' says

=The Pilgrim's Scrip,= ``with men to be valued equal to that force which in water _makes a stream._'' This

It happened that in the turn of the year, and while old earth was busy with her flowers, the fresh wind blew,

the little bird sang, and Hippias Feverel, the Dyspepsy, amazed, felt the Spring move within him. He

communicated his delightful new sensations to the baronet, his brother, whose constant exclamation with

regard to him, was: ``Poor Hippias! All his machinery is bare!'' and had no hope that he would ever be in a

condition to defend it from view. Nevertheless Hippias had that hope, and so he told his brother, making great

exposure of his machinery to effect the explanation. He spoke of all his physical experiences exultingly, and

with wonder. The achievement of common efforts, not usually blazoned, he celebrated as mighty triumphs,

and, of course, had Adrian on his back very quickly. But he could bear him, or anything, now. It was such

ineffable relief to find himself looking out upon the world of mortals instead of into the black phantasmal

abysses of his own complicated frightful structure. ``My mind doesn't so much seem to haunt itself, now,''

said Hippias, nodding shortly and peering out of intense puckers to convey a glimpse of what hellish

A poor Dyspepsy may talk as he will, but he is the one who never gets sympathy, or experiences compassion:

and it is he whose groaning petitions for charity do at last rout that Christian virtue. Lady Blandish, a

charitable soul, could not listen to Hippias, though she had a heart for little mice and flies, and Sir Austin had

also small patience with his brother's gleam of health, which was just enough to make his disease visible. He

remembered his early follies and excesses, and bent his ear to him as one man does, to another who

``I think,'' said Adrian, seeing how the communications of Hippias were received, ``that when our Nemesis

takes lodgings in the stomach, it's best to act the Spartan, smile hard, and be silent.''

``Exactly,'' replied the baronet. ``Mankind has an instinctive disgust for the victims of those appetites. We

Richard alone was decently kind to Hippias; whether from opposition, or real affection, could not be said, as

the young man was mysterious. He advised his uncle to take exercise, walked with him, cultivated cheerful

impressions in him, and pointed out innocent pursuits. He made Hippias visit with him some of the poor old

folk of the village, who bewailed the loss of his cousin Austin Wentworth, and did his best to waken him up,

and give the outer world a stronger hold on him. He succeeded in nothing but in winning his uncle's gratitude.

The season bloomed scarce longer than a week for Hippias, and then began to languish. The poor Dyspepsy's

eager grasp at beatification relaxed: he went underground again. He announced that he felt ``spongy

things''one of the more constant miseries of his malady. His bitter face recurred: he chewed the cud of

horrid hallucinations. He told Richard he must give up going about with him: people telling of their ailments

made him so uncomfortable the birds were so noisy, pairingthe rude bare soil sickened him.

``Besides,'' said Hippias, ``it's singular, but at this time of the year, Richard, I always have the same idea. I

can't go out and see a garden without thinking I ought to be upside down, and have the bulbous part

underneath me, like those what do you call those flowers?yes, like those crocuses. And you cant

Richard treated him with a gravity equal to his father's. He asked what the doctors said.

``Oh! the doctors!'' cried Hippias with vehement scepticism. ``No man of sense believes in medicine for

chronic disorder. Do you happen to have heard of any new remedy then, Richard? No? They advertise a great

many cures for indigestion, I assure you, my dear boy. I wonder whether one can rely upon the authenticity of

those signatures? I see no reason why there should be no cure for such a disease?Eh? And it's just one of

the things a quack, as they call them, would hit upon sooner than one who is in the beaten track. Do you

know, Richard, my dear boy, I've often thought that if we could by any means appropriate to our use some of

the extraordinary digestive power that a boa constrictor has in his gastric juices, there is really no manner of

reason why we should not comfortably dispose of as much of an ox as our stomachs will hold, and one might

eat French dishes without the wretchedness of thinking what's to follow. And this makes me think that those

fellows _may,_ after all, have got some truth in them: some prodigious secret that, of course, they require to

be paid for. We distrust each other in this world too much, Richard. I've felt inclined once or twicebut it's

absurd!If it only alleviated a few of my sufferings _I_ should be satisfied. I've no hesitation in saying that

I should be quite satisfied if it only did away with one or two, and left me free to eat and drink as other people

do. Not that I mean to try them. It's only a fancyEh? What a thing health is, dear boy! Ah! if I were like

``I've forgotten what I felt!'' Hippias sighed. ``You've very much improved, my dear boy.''

Hippias looked at him anxiously: ``If I go to town and get the doctor's opinion about trying a new

courseEh, Richard? will you come with me? I should like your company. We could see London together,

Richard smiled at the feeble glimmer of enjoyment promised by his uncle's eyes, and said he thought it better

they should stay where they werean answer that might mean anything. Hippias immediately became

possessed by the beguiling project. He went to the baronet, and put the matter before him, instancing doctors

as the object of his journey, not quacks, of course: and requesting leave to take Richard. Sir Austin was

getting uneasy about his son's manner. It was not natural. His heart seemed to be frozen: he had no

confidences: he appeared to have no ambitionto have lost the virtues of youth with the poison that had

passed out of him. He was disposed to try what effect a little travelling might have on him, and had himself

once or twice hinted to Richard that it would be good for him to move about, the young man quietly replying

that he did not wish to quit Raynham at all, which was too strict a fulfilment of his father's original views in

educating him there entirely. On the day that Hippias made his proposal, Adrian, seconded by Lady Blandish,

also made one. The sweet Spring season stirred in Adrian as well as in others: not to pastoral measures: to the

joys of the operatic world and bravura glories. He also suggested that it would be adviseable to carry Richard

to town for a term, and let him know his position, and some freedom. Sir Austin weighed the two proposals.

He was pretty certain that Richard's passion was consumed, and that he was now only under the burden of its

ashes. He had found against his heart, at the Bellingham inn, a great lock of golden hair. He had taken it, and

the lover, after feeling about for it with faint hands, never asked for it. This precious lock (Miss Davenport

had thrust it into his hand at Belthorpe as Lucy's last gift), what sighs and tears it had weathered! The baronet

laid it in Richard's sight one day, and beheld him take it up, turn it over, and drop it down again calmly, as if

he were handling any common curiosity. It pacified him on that score. The young man's love was dead. Dr.

Clifford said rightly: he wanted distractions. The baronet determined that Richard should go. Hippias and

Adrian then pressed their several suits as to which should have him. Hippias, when he could forget himself,

did not lack sense. He observed that Adrian was not at present a proper companion for Richard, and would

``A young philosopher's an old fool!'' returned Hippias, not thinking that his growl had begotten a phrase.

His brother smiled with gratification, and applauded him loudly: ``Excellent! worthy of your best days! That

is as good a thing as I have heard, Hippias. You're wrong, though, in applying it to Adrian. He has never been

precocious. All he has done has been to bring sound common sense to bear upon what he hears and sees. I

think, however,'' the baronet added, ``he may want faith in the better qualities of men.'' And this reflection

inclined him not to let his son be alone with Adrian. He gave Richard his choice, who saw which way his

father's wishes tended, and decided so to please him. Naturally it annoyed Adrian extremely. He said to his

``I suppose you know what you are doing, sir. I don't see that we derive any advantage from the family name

being made notorious for twenty years of obscene suffering, and becoming a byword for our constitutional

tendency to stomachic distension before we fortunately encountered Quackem's Pill. My uncle's tortures have

been huge, but I would rather society were not intimate with them under their several headings.'' Adrian

enumerated some of the most abhorrent. ``You know him, sir. If he conceives a duty, he will do it in the face

of every decencyall the more obstinate because the conception is rare. If he feels a little brisk the

morning after the pill, he sends the letter that makes us famous! We go down to posterity with heightened

characteristics, to say nothing of a contemporary celebrity nothing less than our being turned insideout to

Sir Austin assured the wise youth that Hippias had arranged to go to Dr. Bairam. He softened Adrian's

chagrin by telling him that in about two weeks they would follow to London: hinting also at a prospective

Summer campaign. The day was fixed for Richard to depart, and the day came. Madame the Eighteenth

Century called him to her chamber and put into his hand a fiftypound note, as her contribution toward his

pocketexpenses. He did not want it, he said, but she told him he was a young man, and would soon make

that fly when he stood on his own feet. The old lady did not at all approve of the System in her heart, and she

gave her grandnephew to understand that, should he require more, he knew where to apply, and secrets

would be kept. His father presented him with a hundred poundswhich also Richard said he did not

wanthe did not care for money. ``Spend it or not,'' said the baronet, perfectly secure in him. All he desired

``I wonder how my cabbagerose is looking,'' Richard remarked. ``She was disappointed at not seeing me

``Well, she cried about you,'' said the baronet, content to hear his son add: ``Poor little thing!'' however

Hippias had few injunctions to observe, beyond that of going to the Grandisons. They were to take up

quarters at the hotel, Algernon's general run of company at the house not being altogether wholesome. The

baronet particularly forewarned Hippias of the imprudence of attempting to restrict the young man's

movements, and letting him imagine he was under surveillance. Richard having been, as it were, pollarded by

despotism, was now to grow up straight, and bloom again, in complete independence, as far as he could feel.

So did the sage decree; and we may pause a moment to reflect how wise were his provisions, and how

successful they must have been, had not Fortune, the great foe to human cleverness, turned against him.

The departure took place on a fine March morning. The bird of Winter sang from the budding tree; in the blue

sky sang the bird of Summer. Adrian rode between Richard and Hippias to the Bellingham station, and

vented his disgust on them after his own humorous fashion, because it did not rain and damp their ardour. In

the rear came Lady Blandish and the baronet, conversing on the calm summit of success.

``You have shaped him exactly to resemble yourself,'' she said, pointing with her ridingwhip to the grave

``Outwardly, perhaps,'' he answered, and led to a discussion on Purity and Strength, the lady saying that she

``But you do not,'' said the baronet. ``And there I admire the always true instinct of woman, that they _all_

worship Strength in whatever form, and seem to know it to be the child of heaven; whereas Purity is but a

characteristic, a garment, and can be spottedhow soon! For there are questions in this life with which we

must grapple or be lost, and when, hunted by that cold eye of intense innerconsciousness, the clearest soul

becomes a cunning fox, if it have not courage to stand and do battle. Strength indicates a boundless

naturelike the Maker. Strength is a God to youPurity a toy. A pretty one, and you seem to be fond of

The lady listened, pleased at the sportive malice which showed that the constraint on his mind had left him. It

was for women to fight their fight now; she only took part in it for amusement. This is how the ranks of our

enemies are thinned; no sooner do poor women put up a champion in their midst than she betrays them.

``I see,'' she said archly, ``we are the lovelier vessels; you claim the more direct descent. Men are seedlings:

Women slips! Nay, you have said so,'' she cried out at his gestured protestation, laughing.

He replied, ``I have none or you would share them. I shall study him in the world. This indifference must

wear off. I shall mark his inclinations now, and he shall be what he inclines to. Occupation will be his prime

safety. That, and the feeling of guardianship to this child. His cousin Austin's plan of life appears most to his

taste, and he can serve the people that way as well as in Parliament, should he have no stronger ambition. The

clear duty of a man of any wealth is to serve the people as he best can. He shall go among Austin's set, if he

wishes it, though personally I find no pleasure in rash imaginations, and undigested schemes built upon the

``Look at him now,'' said the lady. ``He seems to care for nothing; not even for the beauty of the day.''

Adrian could be seen to be trying zealously to torment a laugh, or a confession of irritation, out of his hearers,

stretching out his chin to one, and to the other, with audible asides. Richard he treated as a new instrument of

destruction about to be let loose on the slumbering metropolis; Hippias as one in an interesting condition; and

he got so much fun out of the notion of these two journeying together, and the mishaps that might occur to

them, that he esteemed it almost a personal insult for his hearers not to laugh. The wise youth's dull life at

``Oh! the Spring! the Spring!'' he cried, as in scorn of his sallies they exchanged their unmeaning remarks on

the sweet weather across him. ``You seem both to be uncommonly excited by the operations of turtles, rooks,

There's an old native pastoral!Why don't you write a Spring sonnet, Ricky? The asparagusbeds are full

of promise, I hear, and eke the strawberry. No lack of inspiration for you. Berries I fancy your Pegasus has a

taste for. What kind of berry was that I saw some verses of yours about once?amatory verses to some

kind of berryyewberry, blueberry, glueberry! I can't remember rightly. Pretty verses, though decidedly

warm. Lips, eyes, bosom, legslegs? I don't think you gave her any legs. No legs and no nose. That

appears to be the poetic taste of the day. It shall be admitted that you create she very beauties for a chaste

and offend no moral community. I say, that's not a bad image of yours, my dear boy:

But as a candid critic, I would ask you if the likeness can be considered correct when she has no legs? You

will see at the ballet that you are quite in error about women at present, Richard. That admirable institution

which our venerable elders have imported from Gallia for the instruction of our gaping youth, will edify and

astonish you. I assure you I used, from reading =The Pilgrim's Scrip,= to imagine all sorts of things about

them, till I was taken there, and learnt that they are very like us after all, and then they ceased to trouble me.

Mystery is the great danger to youth, my son! Mystery is woman's redoubtable weapon, O Richard of the

Ordeal! I'm aware that you've had your lessons in anatomy, but nothing will persuade you that an anatomical

figure means flesh and blood. You can't realize the fact. Do you intend to publish when you're in town? It'll

be better not to put your name. Having one's name to a volume of poems is as bad as to an advertising pill.

My uncle, I dread, is madly bent upon returning thanks publicly for the pill, so you must be content to let

Ignotus wear your laurels, or the critics will confound you together. `Notwithstanding the deplorable state of

this gentleman's stomach,' they will say, `the Muse and Cupid have taken so strong a hold on him, that he is

evidently one of those who, to avoid more punishable transgressions, must commit verse, and we prefer to

attribute any shortcomings which it may be our duty to indicate, rather to the utter distraction of his internal

``I will send you an early copy, Adrian, when I publish,'' quoth Richard. ``Hark at that old blackbird, uncle.''

``Yes!'' Hippias quavered, looking up from the usual subject of his contemplation, and trying to take an

``What a chuckle he gives out before he flies! Not unlike July nightingales. You know that bird I told you

ofthe blackbird that had its mate shot, and used to come to sing to old dame Bakewell's bird from the tree

opposite. A rascal knocked it over the day before yesterday, and the dame says her bird hasn't sung a note

``But where's your moral?'' interposed the wrathful Adrian. ``Where's constancy rewarded?

Where's the moral of that? except that all's game to the poet! Certainly we have a noble example of the

devotedness of the female, who for three entire days refuses to make herself heard, on account of a defunct

``As you please, my dear Adrian,'' says Richard, and points out larchbuds to his uncle, as they ride by the

The wise youth was driven to extremity. Such a lapse from his pupil's heroics to this last verge of Arcadian

coolness, Adrian could not believe in. ``Hark at this old blackbird!'' he cried, in his turn, and pretending to

``O what a pretty comedy!Don't we wear the mask well, my Fiesco?Genoa will be our own

tomorrow!Only wait until the train has startedjolly! jolly! jolly! We'll be winners yet!

``You do the blackbird well,'' said Richard, and looked at him in a manner mildly affable.

Adrian shrugged. ``You're a young man of wonderful powers,'' he emphatically observed; meaning to say that

Richard quite beat him; for which opinion Richard gravely thanked him, and with this they rode into

There was young Tom Blaize at the station, in his Sunday beaver and gala waistcoat and neckcloth, coming

the lord over Tom Bakewell, who had preceded his master in charge of the baggage. He likewise was bound

for London. Richard, as he was dismounting, heard Adrian say to the baronet: ``The Beast, sir, appears to be

going to fetch Beauty;'' but he paid no heed to the words. Whether young Tom heard them or not, Adrian's

look took the lord out of him, and he shrunk away into obscurity, where the nearest approach to the fashions

which the tailors of Bellingham could supply to him, sat upon him more easily, and he was not unaccountably

stiffened by the eyes of the superiors whom he sought to rival. The baronet, Lady Blandish, and Adrian

remained on horseback, and received Richard's adieux across the palings. He shook hands with each of them

in the same kindly cold way, eliciting from Adrian a marked encomium on his style of doing it. The train

Now surely there will come an age when the presentation of science at war with Fortune and the Fates, will

be deemed the true epic of modern life; and the aspect of a scientific humanist who, by dint of incessant

watchfulness, has maintained a System against those active forces, cannot be reckoned less than sublime,

even though at the moment he but sit upon his horse, on a fine March morning such as this, and smile

wistfully to behold the son of his heart, his System incarnate, wave a serene adieu to tutelage, neither too

eager nor morbidly unwilling to try his luck alone for a term of two weeks. At present, I am aware, an

audience impatient for blood and glory scorns the stress I am putting on incidents so minute, a picture so little

imposing. An audience will come to whom it will be given to see the elementary machinery at work: who, as

it were, from some slight hint of the straws, will feel the winds of March when they do not blow. To them

will nothing be trivial, seeing that they will have in their eyes the invisible conflict going on around us,

whose features a nod, a smile, a laugh of ours perpetually changes. And they will perceive, moreover, that in

real life all hangs together: the train is laid in the lifting of an eyebrow, that bursts upon the field of

thousands. They will see the links of things as they pass, and wonder not, as foolish people now do, that this

Such an audience, then, will participate in the baronet's gratification at his son's demeanour, wherein he noted

the calm bearing of experience not gained in the usual wanton way: and will not be without some excited

apprehension at his twinge of astonishment, when, just as the train went sliding into swiftness, he beheld the

grave, cold, selfpossessed young man throw himself back in the carriage violently laughing. Science was at

a loss to account for that, Sir Austin checked his mind from inquiring, that he might keep suspicion at a

distance, but he thought it odd, and the jarring sensation that ran along his nerves at the sight, remained with

Lady Blandish's tender womanly intuition bade her say: ``You see it was the very thing he wanted. He has got

``It was,'' Adrian put in his word, ``the exact thing he wanted. His spirits have returned miraculously.''

``Probably something his uncle said or did,'' Lady Blandish suggested, and led off at a gallop.

Her conjecture chanced to be quite correct. The cause for Richard's laughter was simple enough. Hippias, on

finding the carriagedoor closed on him, became all at once aware of the brighthaired hope which dwells in

Change, for one who does not woo her too frequently; and to express his sudden relief from mental

despondency at the amorous prospect, the Dyspepsy bent and gave his hands a sharp rub between his legs:

Every time he glanced at his uncle the song sprang up, and he laughed so immoderately that it looked like

``Why, why, why, what are you laughing at, my dear boy,'' said Hippias, and was provoked by the contagious

They laughed themselves into the pleasantest mood imaginable. Hippias not only came aboveground, he flew

about in the very skies, _verting_ like any blithe creature of the season. He remembered old legal jokes, and

anecdotes of Circuit; and Richard laughed at them all, but more at himhe was so genial, and childishly

fresh, and innocently joyful at his own transformation, while a lurking doubt in the bottom of his eyes, now

and then, that it might not last, and that he must go underground again, lent him a look of pathos and humour

which tickled his youthful companion irresistibly, and made his heart warm to him.

``I tell you what, uncle,'' said Richard, ``I think travelling's a capital thing.''

``The best thing in the world, my dear boy,'' Hippias returned. ``It makes me wish I had given up that Work

of mine, and tried it before, instead of chaining myself to a task. We're quite different beings in a minute. I

``Leave that to me, uncle. I shall order for you. You know, I intend to make you well. How gloriously we go

``Perhaps I shall do something yet,'' sighed Hippias, alluding to the vast literary fame he had aforetime

``Ugh!'' Hippias grunted, ``I dare say, Richard, you sleep the moment you get into bed!''

``The instant my head's on my pillow, and up the moment I wake. Health's everything!''

``And if you'll put yourself in my hands,'' Richard continued, ``you shall do just as I do. You shall be well

and strong, and sing `Jolly!' like Adrian's blackbird. You shall, upon my honour, uncle! ''

He specified the hours of devotion to his uncle's recovery no less than twelve a daythat he intended

to expend, and his cheery robustness almost won his uncle to leap up recklessly and clutch health as his own.

``Mind,'' quoth Hippias, with a halfseduced smile, ``mind your dishes are not too savoury!''

``Light food and claret! Regular meals and amusement! Lend your heart to all, but give it to none!'' exclaims

young Wisdom, and Hippias mutters, ``Yes! yes!'' and intimates that the origin of his malady lay in his not

``Love ruins us, my dear boy,'' he said, thinking to preach Richard a lesson, and Richard boisterously broke

Hippias blinked, exclaiming, ``Really, my dear boy! I never saw you so excited.''

``Ah!'' Hippias wagged a melancholy head, ``you've got the Golden Bride! Keep her if you can. That's a

pretty fable of your father's. I gave him the idea, though. Austin filches a great many of my ideas!''

You know, the young inquirer comes to a group of penitent sinners by the brink of a stream. They howl, and

Then the doleful party march off in single file solemnly, and the fabulist pursues

And prodigal of the happiness she lends him, he asks to share it with one of them. There is the Silver Maid,

and the Copper, and the Brassy Maid, and others of them. First, you know, he tries Argentine, and finds her

only twenty to the pound, and has a worse experience with Copperina, till he descends to the scullery; and the

lower he goes, the less obscure become the features of his Bride of Gold, and all her radiance shines forth, my

``Verse rather blunts the point. Well, keep to her, now you've got her,'' says Hippias.

``We will, uncle! Look how the farms fly past! Look at the cattle in the fields! And how the lines duck, and

``Not if he doesn't sleep till an hour before it rises!'' Hippias interjected. ``You don't rhyme badly. But stick to

prose. Poetry's a Basemetal maid. I'm not sure that any writing's good for the digestion. I'm almost afraid it

``Fear nothing, uncle!'' laughed Richard. ``You shall ride in the park with me every day to get an appetite.

You, and I, and little Carolaa splendid little girl. I shall call her my Golden Bride. You know that little

Wasn't Sandoe once a friend of my father's? I suppose they quarrelled. He understands the heart. What does

``Largest heart!'' he sneered. ``What's a `glacierridge?' I've never seen one. I can't deny it rhymes with

`bridge.' But don't go parading your admiration of that person, Richard. Your father will speak to you on the

``I thought they had quarelled,'' said Richard. ``What a pity!'' and he murmured to a pleased ear:

The flow of their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of passengers at a station. Richard examined

their faces with pleasure. All faces pleased him. Human nature sat tributary at the feet of him and his Golden

Bride. As he could not well talk his thoughts before them, he looked out at the windows, and enjoyed the

changing landscape, projecting all sorts of delights for his old friend Ripton, and little Carola, and musing

hazily on the wondrous things he was to do in the world; of the great service he was to be to his

fellowcreatures. In the midst of his reveries he was landed in London. Tom Bakewell stood at the carriage

door. A glance told Richard that his squire had something curious on his mind, and he gave Tom the word to

``Dash'd if I can help it, sir!'' he said. ``That young Tom! He've come to town dressed that spicy! and he don't

know his way about no more than a stag. He's come to fetch somebody from another rail, and he don't know

how to get there, and he ain't sure about which rail 'tis. Look at him, Mr. Richard! There he goes.''

``Don't you know, sir? You don't like me to mention the name,'' mumbled Tom bursting to be perfectly

Richard turned away, and was seized by Hippias, who begged him to get out of the noise and pother, and

caught hold of his slack arm to bear him into a conveyance; but Richard, by wheeling half to the right, or left,

always got his face round to the point where young Tom was manoeuvring to appear at his ease. Even when

they were seated in the conveyance, Hippias could not persuade him to drive off. He made the excuse that he

did not wish to start till there was a clear road. At last young Tom cast anchor by a policeman, and, doubtless

at the official's suggestion, bashfully took seat in a cab, and was shot into the whirlpool of London. Richard

He laughed oddly, and made a random answer that he hoped the fellow would drive fast.

``I hate slow motion after being in the railway,'' he said. Hippias assured him there was something the matter

They say, that when the skill and care of men rescue a drowned wretch from extinction, and warm the

flickering spirit into steady flame, such pain it is, the blood forcing its way along the dry channels, and the

heavilyticking nerves, and the sullen heartthe struggle of life and death in him grim death relaxing

his gripe; such pain it is, he cries out no thanks to them that pull him by inches from the depths of the dead

river. And he who has thought a love extinct, and is surprised by the old fires, and the old tyranny, he rebels,

and strives to fight clear of the cloud of forgotten sensations that settle on him; such pain it is, the old sweet

music reviving through his frame, and the charm of his passion fixing him afresh. Still was fair Lucy the one

woman to Richard. He had forbidden her name but from an instinct of selfdefence. Must the maids of baser

metal dominate him anew, it is in Lucy's shape. Thinking of her now so near himhis darling! all her

graces, her sweetness, her truth; for, despite his bitter blame of her, he knew her trueswam in a thousand

visions before his eyes; visions pathetic, and full of glory, that now wrung his heart, and now elated it. As

well might a ship attempt to calm the sea, as this young man the violent emotion that began to rage in his

breast. ``I shall not see her!'' he said to himself exultingly, and at the same instant thought, how black was

every corner of the earth but that one spot where Lucy stood! how utterly cheerless the place he was going to!

Then he determined to bear it; to live in darkness; there was a refuge in the idea of a voluntary martyrdom.

``For if I chose I could see her this day within an hour!I could see her, and touch her hand, and, oh,

heaven!But I do not choose.'' And a great wave swelled through him, and was crushed down only to

Then Tom Bakewell's words recurred to him, that young Tom Blaize was uncertain where to go for her, and

that she might be thrown on this Babylon alone. And flying from point to point, it struck him that they had

known at Raynham of her return, and had sent him to town to be out of the waythey had been miserably

plotting against him once more. ``They shall see what right they have to fear me. I'll shame them!'' was the

first turn taken by his wrathful feelings, as he resolved to go, and see her safe, and calmly return to his uncle,

whom he sincerely believed not to be one of the conspirators. Nevertheless, after forming that resolve, he sat

still, as if there were something fatal in the wheels that bore him away from itperhaps because he knew,

as some do when passion is lord, that his intelligence juggled with him; though none the less keenly did he

feel his wrongs and suspicions. His Golden Bride was waning fast. But when Hippias ejaculated to cheer him:

``We shall soon be there!'' the spell broke. Richard stopped the cab, saying he wanted to speak to Tom, and

would ride with him the rest of the journey. He knew well enough which line of railway his Lucy must come

by. He had studied every town and station on the line. Before his uncle could express more than a mute

remonstrance, he jumped out and hailed Tom Bakewell, who came behind with the boxes and baggage in a

companion cab, his head a yard beyond the window to make sure of his ark of safety, the vehicle preceding.

``What an extraordinary, impetuous boy it is,'' said Hippias. ``We're in the very street!''

Within a minute the stalwart Berry, despatched by the baronet to arrange everything for their comfort, had

``Behindamong the boxes, fool!'' Hippias growled, as he received Berry's muscular assistance to alight.

``Luncheon was ordered precise at two o'clock, sirbeen in attendance one quarter of an hour. Heah!''

Berry sang out to the second cab, which, with its pyramid of luggage, remained stationary some thirty paces

distant. At his voice the majestic pile deliberately turned its back on them, and went off in a contrary

On the stroke of the hour when Ripton Thompson was accustomed to consult his gold watch for practical

purposes, and sniff freedom and the forthcoming dinner, a burglarious foot entered the clerk's office where he

sat, and a man of a scowling countenance, who looked a villain, and whom he was afraid he knew, slid a

letter into his hands, nodding that it would be prudent for him to read, and be silent. Ripton obeyed in alarm.

Apparently the contents of the letter relieved his conscience; for he reached down his hat, and told Mr.

Beazley to inform his father that he had business of pressing importance in the West, and should meet him at

the station. Mr. Beazley zealously waited upon the paternal Thompson without delay, and together making

their observations from the window, they beheld a cab of many boxes, into which Ripton darted and was

followed by one in groom's dress. It was Saturday, the day when Ripton gave up his lawreadings,

magnanimously to bestow himself upon his family, and Mr. Thompson liked to have his son's arm as he

walked down to the station; but that third glass of Port which always stood for his second, and the groom's

suggestion of aristocratic acquaintances, prevented Mr. Thompson from interfering: so Ripton was permitted

In the cab Ripton made a study of the letter he held. It had the preciseness of an imperial mandate.

``=Dear Ripton,=You are to get lodgings for a lady immediately. Not a word to a soul. Then come along

``Lodgings for a lady!'' Ripton meditated aloud: ``What sort of lodgings? Where am I to get lodgings? Who's

the lady?I say!'' he addressed the mysterious messenger. ``So you're Tom Bakewell, are you, Tom?''

``Do you remember the rick, Tom? Ha! ha! We got out of that neatly, didn't we, Tom? We might all have

been transported, though. I could have convicted you, Tom! safe! It's no use coming across a practiced

lawyer. Now tell me.'' Ripton having flourished his powers, commenced his examination: ``Who's this lady?''

``And where does she come from now?'' asked Ripton, with the friendly cheerfulness of a baffled counsellor.

``A friend of the family, I suppose? a relation?'' Ripton left this insinuating query to be answered by a look.

``Ah!'' Ripton took a breath, and eyed the mask opposite him. ``Why, you're quite a scholar, Tom! Mr.

``Come to town this mornin' with his uncle,'' said Tom. ``All quite well, thank ye, sir.''

``Ha!'' cried Ripton, more than ever puzzled, ``now I see. You all came to town today, and these are your

boxes outside. So, so! But Mr. Richard writes for me to get lodgings for a lady. There must be some

``'M sure _I_ d'n know what he wants,'' said Tom. ``You'd better go by the letter, sir.''

Ripton reconsulted that document. `` `Lodgings for a lady, and then come along with Tom. Not a word to a

soul.' I say! that looks likebut he never cared for them. You don't mean to say, Tom, he's been running

Tom fell back upon his first reply: ``Better wait till ye see Mr. Richard, sir,'' and Ripton exclaimed: ``Hanged

if you ain't the tightest witness I ever saw! I shouldn't like to have you in a box. Some of you country fellows

Tom received the compliment stubbornly on his guard, and Ripton, as nothing was to be got out of him, set

about considering how to perform his friend's injunctions; deciding firstly, that a lady fresh from the country

ought to lodge near the parks, in which direction he told the cabman to drive. Thus, unaware of his high

It is, nevertheless, true that certain favoured people do have beneficent omens to prepare them for their parts

when the hero is in full career, so that they really may be nerved to meet him; ay, and to check him in his

course, had they that signal courage. For instance, Mrs. Elizabeth Berry, a ripe and wholesome landlady of

advertised lodgings, on the borders of Kensington, noted, as she sat rocking her contemplative person before

the parlour fire this very March afternoon, a supernatural tendency in that fire to burn _all on one side:_

which signifies that a wedding approaches the house. Whywho shall say? Omens are as impassable as

heroes. It may be because in these affairs the fire is thought to be all on one side. Enough that the omen

exists, and spoke its solemn warning to the devout woman. Mrs. Berry, in her circle, was known as a

certificated lecturer against the snares of matrimony. Still that was no reason why she should not like a

wedding. Expectant, therefore, she watched the one glowing cheek of Hymen, and with pleasing tremours

beheld a cab of many boxes draw up by her bit of garden, and a gentleman emerge from it in the act of

consulting an advertizement paper. The gentleman required lodgings for a lady. Lodgings for a lady Mrs.

Berry could produce, and a very roseate smile for a gentleman; so much so that Ripton forgot to ask about the

terms, which made the landlady in Mrs. Berry leap up to embrace him as the happy man. But her experienced

woman's eye checked her enthusiasm. He had not the air of a bridegroom: he did not seem to have a weight

on his chest, or an itch to twiddle everything with his fingers. At any rate, he was not the bridegroom for

whom omens fly abroad. Promising to have all ready for the lady within an hour, Mrs. Berry fortified him

The remarkable vehicle which had woven this thread of intrigue through London streets, now proceeded

sedately to finish its operations. Ripton was landed at an hotel in Westminster. Ere he was halfway up the

stairs, a door opened, and his old comrade in adventure rushed down. Richard allowed no time for salutations.

``Have you done it?'' was all he asked. For answer Ripton handed him Mrs. Berry's card. Richard took it, and

left him standing there. Five minutes elapsed, and then Ripton heard the gracious rustle of feminine garments

above. Richard came a little in advance, leading and halfsupporting a figure in a blacksilk mantle and

small black straw bonnet; youngthat was certain, though she held her veil so close he could hardly catch

the outlines of her face; girlishly slender, and sweet and simple in appearance. The hush that came with her,

and her soft manner of moving, stirred the silly youth to some of those ardours that awake the Knight of

Dames in our bosoms. He felt that he would have given considerable sums for her to lift her veil. He could

see that she was tremblingperhaps weeping. It was the master of her fate she clung too. They passed him

without speaking. As she went by, her head passively bent, Ripton had a glimpse of noble tresses and a lovely

neck; great golden curls hung loosely behind, pouring from under her bonnet. She looked a captive borne to

the sacrifice. What Ripton, after a sight of those curls, would have given for her just to lift her veil an instant

and strike him blind with beauty, was, fortunately for his exchequer, never demanded of him. And he had

absolutely been composing speeches as he came along in the cab! gallant speeches for the lady, and sly

congratulatory ones for his friend, to be delivered as occasion should serve, that both might know him a man

of the world, and be at their ease. He forgot the smirking immoralities he had revelled in. This was clearly

serious. Ripton did not require to be told that his friend was in love, and meant that life and death business

Presently Richard returned to him, and said hurriedly, ``I want you now to go to my uncle at our hotel. Keep

him quiet till I come. Say I had to see yousay anything. I shall be there by the dinner hour. Rip! I must

Ripton feebly attempted to reply that he was due at home. He was very curious to hear the plot of the New

Comedy; and besides, there was Richard's face questioning him sternly and confidently for signs of

unhesitating obedience. He finished his grimaces by asking the name and direction of the hotel. Richard

pressed his hand. It is much to obtain even that recognition of our devotion from the hero.

Tom Bakewell also received his priming, and, to judge by his chuckles and grins, rather appeared to enjoy the

work cut out for him. In a few minutes they had driven to their separate destinations; Ripton was left to the

unusual exercise of his fancy. Such is the nature of youth and its thirst for romance, that only to act as a

subordinate is pleasant. When one unfurls the standard of defiance to parents and guardians, he may be sure

of raising a lawless troop of adolescent ruffians, born rebels, to any amount. The beardless crew know that

they have not a chance of pay; but what of that when the rosy prospect of thwarting their elders is in view?

Though it is to see another eat the Forbidden Fruit, they will run all his risks with him. Gaily Ripton took

rank as lieutenant in the enterprise, and the moment his heart had sworn the oaths, he was rewarded by an

exquisite sense of the charms of existence. London streets wore a sly laugh to him. He walked with a

dandified heel. The generous youth ogled aristocratic carriages, and glanced intimately at the ladies,

overflowingly happy. The crossingsweepers blessed him. He hummed lively tunes, he turned over old jokes

in his mouth unctuously, he hugged himself, he had a mind to dance down Piccadilly, and all because a friend

It was only when he stood on the doorstep of Richard's hotel, that his jocund mood was a little dashed by

remembering that he had then to commence the duties of his office, and must fabricate a plausible story to

account for what he knew nothing abouta part that the greatest of sages would find it difficult to perform.

The young, however, whom sages well may envy, seldom fail in lifting their inventive faculties to the level of

their spirits, and two minutes of Hippias's angry complaints against the friend he serenely inquired for, gave

``We're in the very streetwithin a stone'sthrow of the house, and he jumps like a harlequin out of my cab

into another; he must be madthat boy's got madness in him! and carries off all the boxesmy

dinnerpills, too! and keeps away the whole of the day, though he promised to go to the doctor, and had a

dozen engagements with me,'' said Hippias, venting an enraged snarl to sum up his grievances,

``He has called on him twice, sir,'' said Ripton expressively. ``On leaving me he was going a third time. I

By fine degrees, beyond the reach of art, Ripton ventured to grow circumstantial, saying that Richard's case

was urgent and required immediate medical advice; and that both he and his father were of opinion Richard

``He's dreadfully alarmed about himself,'' said Ripton, and tapped his chest, and threw up his lips and brows.

Hippias protested he had never heard a word from his nephew of any physical affliction.

Algernon Feverel and Richard came in while he was hammering at the alphabet to recollect the first letter of

the doctor's name. They had met in the hall below, and were laughing heartily as they entered the room.

``Have you seen the doctor?'' he asked, significantly plucking at Richard's fingers.

``Why, the doctor you were going to for the third time when you left me,'' said Ripton, in a manner not to be

Richard sought in turn the countenances of all present, and settled upon Ripton's with a ludicrous stare.

Algernon clapped him on the back. ``What the deuce do you want with doctors, boy?''

The solid thump awakened him to see matters as they were. ``Oh, ay! the doctor!'' he said, smiling frankly at

his lieutenant. ``Why, he tells me he'd back me to do Milo's trick in a week from the present day.Uncle,''

he came forward to Hippias, ``I hope you'll excuse me for running off as I did. I was in a hurry. I left

something at the railway. This stupid Rip thinks I went to the doctor about myself. The fact was, I wanted to

fetch the doctor to see you here so that you might have no trouble, you know. You can't bear the sight of

his instruments and skeletonsI've heard you say so. You said it set all your marrow in revolt `fried

your marrow,' I think were the words, and made you see twenty thousand different ways of sliding down to

Hippias emphatically did not remember, and he did not believe the story. Irritation at the mad ravishment of

his pillbox rendered him incredulous. As he had no means of confuting his nephew, all he could do safely to

express his disbelief in him, was to utter petulant remarks on his powerlessness to appear at the dinnertable

that day: upon which Berry just then trumpeting dinnerAlgernon seized one arm of the Dyspepsy, and

Richard another, and the laughing couple bore him into the room where dinner was laid, Ripton sniggering in

They had fun at the dinnertable. Richard would have it; and his gaiety, his byplay, his princely superiority

to truth and heroic promise of overriding all our laws, his handsome face, the lord and possessor of beauty

that he looked, as it were a star shining on his forehead, gained the old complete mastery over Ripton, who

had been, mentally at least, half patronizing him till then, because he knew more of London and life, and was

After a second circle of the claret, the hero caught his lieutenant's eye across the table, and said:

``We must go out and talk over that lawbusiness, Rip, before you go. Do you think the old lady has any

Richard observed that Ripton's father seemed doubtful. Ripton cited his father's habitual caution. Richard

made a playful remark on the necessity of sometimes acting in opposition to fathers. Ripton agreed to itin

``Pretty legal morality, gentlemen!'' Algernon interjected; Hippias adding: ``And lay, too!''

The pair of uncles listened further to the fictitious dialogue, well kept up on both sides, and in the end desired

a statement of the old lady's garrulous case; Hippias offering to decide what her chances were in law, and

``Rip will tell you,'' said Richard, deferentially signalling the lawyer. ``I'm a bad hand at these matters. Tell

Ripton disguised his excessive uneasiness under endeavours to right his position on his chair, and, inwardly

praying speed to the claret jug to come and strengthen his wits, began with a carelessaspect: ``Oh, nothing!

indeed! Sheaquite the old style. There's no doing anything with her!'' and Ripton took a long breath

``So it appears,'' Hippias commented, and Algernon asked: ``Well? and about her wig? Somebody stole it?''

while Richard, whose features were grim with suppressed laughter, bade the narrator continue.

Ripton lunged for the claret jug. He had got an old lady like an oppressive bundle on his brain, and he was as

helpless as she was. In the pangs of ineffectual authorship his ideas shot at her wig, and then at her one

characteristic of extreme obstinacy, and tore back again at her wig, but she would not be animated. The

obstinate old thing would remain a bundle. Law studies seemed light in comparison with this tremendous task

of changeing an old lady from a doll to a human creature. He flung off some claret, perspired freely, and,

with a mental tribute to the cleverness of those author fellows, recommenced: ``Oh, nothing! She

ladysomewhere down in Suffolk. I think we had better advise her not to proceed. The expenses of

litigation are enormous! SheI think we had better advise her to stop short, and not make any scandal.''

``And not make any scandal!'' Algernon took him up. ``Come, come! there's something more than a wig,

Ripton was commanded to proceed, whether she did or no. The luckless fictionist looked straight at his

``Born with effort!'' ejaculated Hippias. ``Must give her pause after that! and I'll take the opportunity to

stretch my length on the sofa. Heigho! that's true what Austin says: `The general prayer should be for a full

stomach, and the individual for one that works well; for on that basis only are we a match for temporal

matters, and able to contemplate eternal.' Sententious, but true. I gave him the idea, though! Take care of your

stomachs, boys! and if ever you hear of a monument proposed to a scientific cook or gastronomic doctor,

send in your subscriptions. Or say to him while he lives, Go forth, and be a Knight! Ha! They have a good

cook at this house. He suits me better than ours at Raynham. I almost wish I had brought my manuscript to

town, I feel so much better. Aha! I didn't expect to digest at all without my regular incentive. I think I shall

``Let Mr. Thompson finish first,'' said Algernon. ``I want to hear the conclusion of the story. The old girl has

a wig and a daughter. I'll swear somebody runs away with one of the two! Fill your glass, Mr. Thompson, and

``So somebody does,'' Ripton received his impetus. ``And they're found in town together,'' he made a fresh

``She finds him with her wig on in company!'' said Algernon. ``Capital! Here's matter for the lawyers!''

``And you advise her not to proceed, under such circumstances of aggravation?'' Hippias observed,

``It's the daughter,'' Ripton sighed, and surrendering to pressure, hurried on recklessly, ``A runaway

matchbeautiful girl!the only son of a baronetmarried by special license. Athe point is,'' he

now brightened and spoke from his own element, ``the point is whether the marriage can be annulled, as she's

of the Catholic persuasion and he's a Protestant, and they're both married under age. That's the point.''

Having come to the point he breathed extreme relief, and saw things more distinctly; not a little amazed at his

The two elders were making various absurd inquiries, when Richard sent his chair to the floor, crying, ``What

a muddle you're in, Rip! You're mixing halfadozen stories together. The old lady I told you about was old

Dame Bakewell, and the dispute was concerning a neighbour of hers who encroached on her garden, and I

``Ah, to be sure!'' said Ripton humbly, ``I was thinking of the other. Oh, of course! Yessheaher

``Here, come along,'' Richard beckoned to him savagely. ``I'll be back in five minutes, uncle,'' he nodded

The young men left the room, and put on their hats. In the hallpassage they met Berry, dressed to return to

Raynham. Richard dropped a helper to the intelligence into his hand, and warned him not to gossip much of

``What on earth induced you to talk about Protestants and Catholics marrying, Rip?'' said Richard, as soon as

``Why,'' Ripton answered, ``I was so hard pushed for it, 'pon my honour, I didn't know what to say. I ain't an

author, you know; I can't make a story. I was trying to invent a point, you know, and I couldn't think of any

other, and I thought that was just the point likely to make a jolly good dispute. Capital dinners they give at

those crack hotels. Why did you throw it all upon me? I didn't begin on the old lady.' ''

The hero mused, ``It's odd! It's impossible you could have known! I'll tell you why, Rip! I wanted to try you.

You fib well at long range, but you don't do at close quarters and single combat. You're good behind walls,

but not worth a shot in the open. I just see what you're fit for. You're staunchthat I am certain of. You

always were. Lead the way to one of the Parksdown in that direction. You know where she is!''

Ripton led the way. His dinner had prepared this young Englishman to defy the whole artillery of established

morals. With the muffled roar of London around them, alone in a dark slope of green, the hero, leaning on his

henchman, and speaking in a harsh clear undertone, delivered his explanations. Doubtless the true heroic

insignia and point of view will be discerned, albeit in common private's uniform.

``They've been plotting against me for a year, Rip! When you see her, you'll know what it was to have such a

creature taken away from you. It nearly killed me. Never mind what she is. She's the most perfect and noble

creature God ever made! It's not only her beautyI don't care so much about that!but when you've

once seen her, she seems to draw music from all the nerves of your body; but she's such an angel. I worship

her. And her mind's like her face. She's pure gold. There, you'll see her tonight.

``Well,'' he pursued, after inflating Ripton with this rapturous prospect, ``they got her away, and I recovered.

It was Mister Adrian's work. What's my father's objection to her? Because of her birth? She's educated; her

manners are beautifulfull of refinementquick and soft! Can they show me one of their ladies like

her?she's the daughter of a naval lieutenant! Because she's a Catholic? What has religion to do

``Well, when I recovered I thought I did not care for her. It shows how we know ourselves! And I cared for

nothing. I felt as if I had no blood. I tried to imitate my dear Austin. I wish to God he were here. I love

Austin. He would understand her. He's coming back this year, and thenbut it'll be too late then.Well,

my father's always scheming to make me perfecthe has never spoken to me a word about her, but I can

see her in his eyeshe wanted to give me a change, he said, and asked me to come to town with my uncle

Hippy, and I consented. It was another plot to get me out of the way! As I live, I had no more idea of meeting

He lifted his face. ``Look at those old elm branches! How they seem to mix among the stars!glittering

Ripton tipped his comical nose upward, and was in duty bound to say, Yes! though he observed no

``Well,'' the hero went on, ``I came to town. There I heard she was coming, toocoming home. It must

have been fate, Ripton! Heaven forgive me! I was angry with her, and I thought I should like to see her once

only once and reproach her for being falsefor she never wrote to me. And, oh, the dear angel! what

she must have suffered! I gave my uncle the slip, and got to the railway she was coming by. There was a

fellow going to meet hera farmer's sonand, good God! they were going to try and make her marry

him! I remembered it all then. A servant of the farm had told me. That fellow went to the wrong station, I

suppose, for we saw nothing of him. There she wasnot changed a bit!looking lovelier than ever! And

when she saw me, I knew in a minute that she must love me till death!You don't know what it is yet,

Rip!Will you believe it?Though I was as sure she loved me and had been true as steel, as that I shall

see her tonight, I spoke bitterly to her. And she bore it meeklyshe looked like a saint. I told her there

was but one hope of life for meshe must prove she was true, and as I give up all, so must she. I don't

know what I said. The thought of losing her made me mad. She tried to plead with me to waitit was for

my sake, I know. I pretended, like a miserable hypocrite, that she did not love me at all. I think I said

shameful things. Oh what noble creatures women are! She hardly had strength to move. I took her to that

place where you found us.Rip! she went down on her knees to me. I never dreamed of anything in life so

lovely as she looked then. Her eyes were thrown up, bright with a crowd of tearsher dark brows bent

together, like Pain and Beauty meeting in one; and her glorious golden hair swept off her shoulders as she

hung forward to my hands.Could I lose such a prize? If anything could have persuaded me, would

not that?I thought of Dante's MadonnaGuido's Magdalen.Is there sin in it? I see none! And if

there is, it's all mine! I swear she's spotless of a thought of sin. I see her very soul! Cease to love her? Who

dares ask me? Cease to love her? Why I live on her!To see her little chin straining up from her throat, as

The here's head was again contemplating the starry branches. His lieutenant's question came to him after an

``Young Tom? Why, it's young Tom Blaizeson of our old enemy, Rip! I like the old man now. Oh! I saw

``Lord!'' cried Ripton, ``are we going to get into a mess with Blaizes again? I don't like that!''

``I've provided for that. The fool went to the Southeast instead of the Southwest. All warmth, all

sweetness, comes with the Southwest!I've provided for that, friend Rip. My trusty Tom awaits him

there, as if by accident. He tells him he has not seen her, and advises him to remain in town, and go for her

there tomorrow, and the day following. Tom has money for the work. Young Tom ought to see London, you

know, Rip!like you. We shall gain some good clear days. And when old Blaize hears of itwhat then?

I have her! she's mine!Besides, he won't hear for a week. This Tom beats that Tom in cunning, I'll wager.

Ha! ha!'' the hero burst out at a recollection. ``What do you think, Rip? My father has some sort of System

with me, it appears, and when I came to town the time before, he took me to some peoplethe

Grandisonsand what do you think? one of the daughters is a little girla nice little thing

enoughvery funnyand he wants me to wait for her! He hasn't said so, but I know it. I know what he

means. Nobody understands him but me. I know he loves me, and is one of the best of menbut just

consider!a _little girl_ who just comes up to my elbow. Isn't it ridiculous? Did you ever hear such

``No, no! The die's cast!'' said Richard. ``They've been plotting for a year up to this day, and this is what

comes of it! If my father loves me, he will love her. And if he loves me, he'll forgive my acting against his

wishes, and see it was the only thing to be done. Come! step out! what a time we've been!'' and away he went,

compelling Ripton to the sort of strides a drummerboy has to take beside a column of grenadiers.

Ripton began to wish himself in love, seeing that it endowed a man with wind so that he could breathe great

sighs, while going at a tremendous pace, and experience no sensation of fatigue. The hero was communing

with the elements, his familiars, and allowed him to pant as he pleased. Some keeneyed Kensington urchins,

noticing the discrepancy between the pedestrian powers of the two, aimed their wit at Mr. Thompson junior's

expense. The pace, and nothing but the pace, induced Ripton to proclaim that they had gone too far, when

they discovered that they had overshot the mark by half a mile. In the street over which stood love's star, the

hero thundered his presence at a door, and evoked a flying housemaid, who knew not Mrs. Berry. The hero

attached significance to the fact that his instincts should have betrayed him, for he could have sworn to that

``Haven't you got her card?'' Ripton inquired, and heard that it was in the custody of the cabman. Neither of

``You ought to have chalked it, like that fellow in the Forty Thieves,'' Ripton hazarded a pleasantry which

Betrayed by his instincts, the magic slaves of Love! The hero heavily descended the steps.

Ripton murmured that they were done for. His commander turned on him, and said: ``Take all the houses on

the opposite side, one after another. I'll take these.'' With a wry face Ripton crossed the road, altogether

Then were families aroused. Then did mortals dimly guess that, something portentous was abroad. Then were

labourers all day in the vineyard, harshly wakened from their evening's nap. Hope and Fear stalked the street,

as again and again the loud companion summonses resounded. Finally Ripton sang out cheerfully. He had

Mrs. Berry before him, profuse of mellow curtsies. Richard ran to her and caught her hands: ``She's well?

``Oh, quite well! only a trifle tired with her journey, and flutteringlike,'' Mrs. Berry replied to Ripton alone.

The wise woman sagely ushered Ripton into her own private parlour, there to wait till he was wanted.

``In all cases where two have joined to commit an offence, punish one of the two lightly,'' is the dictum of

It is possible for young heads to conceive proper plans of action, and occasionally, by sheer force of will, to

check the wild horses that are ever fretting to gallop off with them. But when they have given the reins and

the whip to another, what are they to do? They may go down on their knees, and beg and pray the furious

charioteer to stop, or moderate his pace. Alas! each fresh thing they do redoubles his ardour. There is a power

in their troubled beauty women learn the use of, and what wonder? They have seen it kindle Ilium to flames

so often! But ere they grow matronly in the house of Menelaus, they weep, and implore, and do not, in truth,

know how terribly twoedged is their gift of loveliness. They resign themselves to an incomprehensible

frenzy; pleasant to them, because they attribute it to excessive love. And so the very sensible things which

I reckon it absurd to ask them to be quite in earnest. Are not those their own horses in yonder team?

Certainly, if they were quite in earnest, they might soon have my gentleman as sober as a carter. A hundred

different ways of disenchanting him exist, and Adrian will point you out one or two that shall be instantly

efficacious. For Love, the charioteer, is easily tripped, while honest jogtrot Love keeps his legs to the end.

Granted dear women are not quite in earnest, still the mere words they utter should be put to their good

account. They do mean them, though their hearts are set the wrong way. 'Tis a despairing, pathetic homage to

the judgement of the majority, in whose faces they are flying. Punish Helen, very young, lightly. After a

certain age you may select her for special chastisement. An innocent with Theseus, with Paris she is an

The fair young girl was sitting as her lover had left her. trying to recall her stunned senses. Her bonnet was

unremoved, her hands clasped on her knees; dry tears in her eyes. Like a dutiful slave, she rose to him. And

first he claimed her mouth. There was a speech, made up of all the pretty wisdom her wild situation and true

love could gather, awaiting him there; but his kiss scattered it to fragments. She dropped to her seat weeping,

By his silence she divined his thoughts, and took his hand and drew it to her lips.

But she could not look and speak too. The lover knew his mastery when he had her eyes.

``Would you see me indifferent to everything in the world? Would you have me lost? Do you think I will live

another day in England without you? I have staked all I have on you, Lucy. You have nearly killed me once.

A second time, and the earth will not be troubled by me. You ask me to wait, when they are plotting against

us on all sides? Darling Lucy! look on me. Fix your fond eyes on me. You ask me to wait when here you are

given to me when you have proved my faithwhen we know we love as none have loved. Give me

Where was her wise little speech? How could she match such mighty eloquence? She sought to collect a few

``Dearest! your father may be brought to consent by and by, and then Oh! if you take me home

The lover stood up! ``He who has been arrangeing that fine scheme to disgrace and martyrize you? True, as I

live! that's the reason of their having you back. Your old servant heard him and your uncle discussing it.

He!Lucy! he's a good man, but he must not step in between you and me. I say God has given you to me.''

He was down by her side again, his arms enfolding her. She had hoped to fight a better battle than in the

Ah! why should she doubt that his great love was the first law to her? Why should she not believe that she

would wreck him by resisting? And if she suffered, oh sweet to think it was for his sake! Sweet to shut out

The hag Wisdom annoyed them little further. She rustled her garments ominously, and vanished.

She was won. The rosy gate from which the word had issued was closed with a seal.

Ripton did not enjoy his introduction to the caged bird of beauty that night. He received a lesson in the art of

pumping from the worthy landlady below, up to an hour when she yawned, and he blinked, and their common

candle wore with dignity the brigand's hat of midnight, and cocked a drunken eye at them from under it.

Beauty, of course, is for the hero. Nevertheless, it is not always he on whom beauty works its most

conquering influence. It is the dull commonplace man into whose slow brain she drops like a celestial light,

and burns lastingly. The poet, for instance, is a connoisseur of beauty: to the artist she is a model. These

gentlemen by much contemplation of her charms wax critical. The days when they had hearts being gone,

they are haply divided between the blonde and the brunette;, the aquiline nose and the Proserpine; this shaped

eye and that. But go about among simple unprofessional fellows, boors, dunderheads, and here and there you

shall find some barbarous intelligence which has had just strength enough to conceive, and has taken Beauty

as its Goddess, and knows but one form to worship, in its poor stupid fashion, and would perish for her. Nay,

more: the man would devote all his days to her, though he is dumb as a dog. And, indeed, he is Beauty's Dog.

Almost every Beauty has her Dog. The hero possesses her; the poet proclaims her; the painter puts her upon

canvas; and the faithful old Dog follows her: and the end of it is that the faithful old Dog is her single

attendant. Sir Hero is revelling in the wars, or in Armida's bowers; Mr. Poet has spied a wrinkle; the brush is

for the rose in its season. She turns to her old Dog then. She hugs him; and he, who has subsisted on a bone

and a pat till there he squats decrepid, he turns his grateful old eyes up to her, and has not a notion that she is

hugging sad memories in him: Hero, Poet, Painter, in one scrubby one! Then is she buried, and the village

hears languid howls, and there is a paragraph in the newspapers concerning the extraordinary fidelity of an

Excited by suggestive recollections of Nooredeen and the Fair Persian, and the change in the obscure

monotony of his life by his having quarters in a crack hotel, and living familiarly with WestEnd

peopleliving on the fat of the land (which forms a stout portion of an honest youth's romance), Ripton

Thompson breakfasted next morning with his chief at halfpast eight. The meal had been fixed overnight for

seven, but Ripton slept a great deal more than the nightingale, and (to chronicle his exact state) even

halfpast eight rather afflicted his new aristocratic senses, and reminded him too keenly of law and bondage.

He had preferred to breakfast at Algernon's hour, who had left word for eleven. Him, however, it was

Richard's object to avoid, so they fell to, and Ripton no longer envied Hippias in bed. Breakfast done, they

bequeathed the consoling information for Algernon that they were off to hear a popular preacher, and

``When I'mwhen this is over, I'll see that they are, tooas many as I can make happy,'' said the hero:

adding softly: ``Her blind was down at a quarter to six. I think she slept well!''

``You don't mean to say you've been there this morning?'' Ripton exclaimed. ``Really?'' and an idea of what

``Here,'' he said, coming under some trees in the park, ``here's where I talked to you last night. What a time it

``You'll''Ripton darkly winked; but his chief looked uninstructed, and he branched into the converse of

On the way, that Richard might have an exalted opinion of him, he hinted decorously at a somewhat intimate

and mysterious acquaintance with the sex. Ripton Thompson had seen pretty girls, and pretty girls had seen

Then was Ripton shocked, and cried, ``Oh, dear!'' and had a taste of the feeling of superiority, destined that

He was again deposited in Mrs. Berry's charge for a term that caused him dismal fears that the Fair Persian

still refused to show her face, but Richard called out to him, and up Ripton went, unaware of the

transformation he was to undergo. Hero and Beauty stood together to receive him. From the bottom of the

stairs he had his vivaciously agreeable smile ready for them, and by the time he entered the room his cheeks

were painfully stiff, and his eyes strained beyond their exact meaning. Lucy, with one hand anchored to her

lover, welcomed him kindly. He relieved her shyness by looking so extremely silly. They sat down, and tried

to commence a conversation, but Ripton was as little master of his tongue as he was of his eyes. After an

interval, the Fair Persian having done duty by showing herself, was glad to quit the room. Her lord and

``No, Richard!'' Ripton waited to reply with sufficient solemnity, ``indeed I don't!''

He spoke differently; he looked differently. He had the Old Dog's eyes in his head. They watched the door

she had passed through; they listened for her, as dogs' eyes do. When she came in, bonneted for a walk, his

agitation was doglike. When she hung on her lover timidly, and went forth, he followed without an idea of

envy, or anything save the secret raptures the sight of her gave him, which are the Old Dog's own. For

beneficent Nature requites him. His sensations cannot be heroic, but they have a fulness, and a wagging

delight, as good in their way. And this capacity for humble unaspiring worship has its peculiar guerdon.

When Ripton comes to think of Miss Random now, what will he think of himself? Let no one despise the Old

It did not please Ripton that others should have the bliss of beholding her, and as, to his perceptions,

everybody did, and observed her offensively, and stared, and turned their heads back, and interchanged

comments on her, and became in a minute madly in love with her, he had to smother low growls. They

strolled about the pleasant gardens of Kensington all the morning, under the young chestnut buds, and round

the windless waters, talking, and soothing the wild excitement of their hearts. If Lucy spoke, Ripton pricked

up his ears. She, too, made the remark that everybody seemed to look happy, and he heard it with thrills of

joy. ``So everybody is, where you are!'' he would have wished to say, if he dared, but was restrained by fears

that his burning eloquence would commit him. Ripton knew the people he met twice. It would have been

From the Gardens, in contempt of Ripton's frowned protest, Richard boldly struck into the Park, where

solitary carriages were beginning to perform the circuit. Here Ripton had some justification for his jealous

pangs. The young girl's golden locks of hair; her sweet, now dreamily sad, face; her gentle graceful figure in

the black straight dress she wore; a sort of halfconventual air she hada mark of something not of class,

that was partly beauty's, partly maiden innocence growing conscious, partly remorse at her weakness and dim

fear of the future it was sowing did attract the eyeglasses. Ripton had to learn that eyes are bearable, but

eyeglasses an abomination. They fixed a spell upon his courage; for somehow the youth had always ranked

them as emblems of our nobility, and hearing two exquisite eyeglasses, who had been to front and rear

several times, drawl in gibberish generally imputed to lords, that his heroine was a charming little creature,

just the size, but had no style,he was abashed; he did not fly at them and tear them. He became dejected.

Beauty's dog is affected by the eyeglass in a manner not unlike the common animal's terror of the human

Richard appeared to hear nothing, or it was homage that he heard. He repeated to Lucy Diaper Sandoe's

and projected hiring a horse for her to ride every day in the park, and shine among the highest.

They had turned to the West, against the sky glittering through the bare trees across the water, and the

brightedged rack. The lover, his imagination just then occupied in clothing earthly glories in celestial, felt

where his senses were sharpest the hand of his darling falter, and instinctively looked ahead. His uncle

Algernon was leisurely jolting towards them on his one sound leg. The dismembered Guardsman talked to a

friend whose arm supported him, and speculated from time to time on the fair ladies driving by. The two

white faces passed him unobserved. Unfortunately Ripton, coming behind, went plump upon the Captain's

live toeor so he pretendedcrying, ``Confound it, Mr. Thompson! you might have chosen the other.''

The horrible apparition did confound Ripton, who stammered that it was extraordinary.

``Not at all,'' said Algernon. ``Everybody makes up to that fellow. Instinct, I suppose!''

``Sorry I couldn't wait for you this morning, uncle,'' he said, with the coolness of relationship. ``I thought you

His voice was in perfect tonethe heroic mask admirable. Algernon examined the downcast visage at his

side, and contrived to allude to the popular preacher. He was instantly introduced to Ripton's sister, Miss

The Captain bowed, smiling melancholy approval of his nephew's choice of a minister. After a few stray

remarks, and an affable salute to Miss Thompson, he hobbled away, and then the three sealed volcanoes

breathed, and Lucy's arm ceased to be squeezed quite so much up to the heroic pitch.

This incident quickened their steps homeward to the sheltering wings of Mrs. Berry. All that passed between

them on the subject comprised a stammered excuse from Ripton for his conduct, and a goodhumoured

rejoinder from Richard, that he had gained a sister by it: at which Ripton ventured to wish aloud Miss

Desborough would only think so, and a faint smile switched poor Lucy's lips to please him. She hardly had

strength to reach her cage. She had none to eat of Mrs. Berry's nice little dinner. To be alone, that she might

cry and ease her heart of its accusing weight of tears, was all she prayed for. Kind Mrs. Berry, slipping into

her bedroom to take off her things, found the fair body in a fevered shudder, and finished by undressing her

``Just an hour's sleep, or so,'' the mellifluous woman explained the case to the two anxious gentlemen. ``A

quiet sleep and a cup of warm tea goes for more than twenty doctors, it dowhen there's the flutters,'' she

pursued. ``I know it by myself. And a good cry beforehand's better than the best of medicine.''

She nursed them into a makebelieve of eating, and retired to her softer charge and sweeter babe, reflecting,

``Lord! Lord! the three of 'em don't make fifty! I'm as old as two and a half of 'em, to say the least.'' Mrs.

Berry used her apron, and by virtue of their tender years took them all three into her heart.

The lover flung down his knife and fork: ``What could I do? If I had said nothing, we should have been

suspected. I was obliged to speak. And she hates a lie! See! it has struck her down. God forgive me!''

Ripton affected a serene mind: ``It was a fright, Richard,'' he said. ``That's what Mrs. Berry means by flutters.

Those old women talk in that way. You heard what she said. And these old women know. I'll tell you what it

``She regrets it,'' muttered the lover. ``Good God! I think she fears me.'' He dropped his face in his hands.

Ripton went to the window, repeating energetically for his comfort: ``It's because you've got a fool for your

Sombre grew the street they had last night aroused. The sun was buried alive in cloud. Ripton saw himself no

more in the opposite window. He watched the deplorable objects passing on the pavement. His aristocratic

visions had gone like his breakfast. Beauty had been struck down by his egregious folly, and there he

Richard came to him: ``Don't mumble on like that, Rip!'' he said. ``Nobody blames you.''

``Ah! you're very kind, Richard,'' interposed the wretch, moved at the face of misery he beheld.

``Listen to me, Rip! I shall take her home tonight. Yes! If she's happier away from me!do you think me

a brute, Ripton? Rather than have her shed a tear, I'd! I'll take her home tonight!''

Ripton suggested that it was sudden; adding from his larger experience, people perhaps might talk.

The lover could not understand what they should talk about, but he said: ``If I give him who came for her

yesterday the clue? If no one sees or hears of me, what can they say? O Rip! I'll give her up. I'm wrecked for

ever! what of that? Yeslet them take her! The world in arms should never have torn her from me, but

He searched in outoftheway corners for the hat of resolve. Ripton looked on, wretcheder than ever.

The lover sternly continued his hunt. He found the propelling machine at last, and put it on, saying under its

Here was sadness and gloom come upon them! Ripton likewise commenced the search for his doleful casque,

and toppled it moodily on the back of his head in sign of glorious enterprise abandoned, and surrender to the

It was a moment when, perhaps, one who sided with parents and guardians and the old wise world, might

have inclined them to pursue their righteous wretched course, and have given small Cupid a smack and sent

him home to his naughty Mother. Alas! (it is =The Pilgrim's Scrip= interjecting) women are the born

accomplices of mischief! In bustles Mrs. Berry to clear away the refection, and finds the two knights helmed,

and sees, though 'tis dusk, that they wear doubtful brows, and guesses bad things for her dear God Hymen in

``Dear! dear!'' she exclaimed, ``and neither of you eaten a scrap! And there's my dear young lady off into the

``Soft as a baby!'' Mrs. Berry averred. ``I went to look at her this very moment, and there's not a bit of trouble

in her breath. It come and it go like the sweetest regular instrument ever made. The Black Ox haven't trod on

_her_ foot yet! Most like it was the air of London. But only fancy, if you had called in a doctor! Why, I

Ripton attentively observed his chief, and saw him doff his hat with a curious caution, and peer into its

recess, from which, during Mrs. Berry's speech, he drew forth a little glovesdropped there by some freak

``Keep me, keep me, now you have me!'' sang the little glove, and amused the lover with a thousand conceits.

``Oh! we mustn't go for disturbing her,'' said the guileful good creature. ``Bless ye! let her sleep it out. And if

you young gentlemen was to take my advice, and go and take a walk for to get a appetiteeverybody

should eat! it's their sacred duty, no matter what their feelings be! and I say it who 'm no chicken!I'll

frickashee thiswhich is a chicken against your return. I'm a cook, I can assure ye!''

The lover seized her two hands. ``You're the best old soul in the world!'' he cried. Mrs. Berry appeared

willing to kiss him. ``We won't disturb her. Let her sleep. Keep her in bed, Mrs. Berry. Will you? And we'll

call to inquire after her this evening, and come and see her tomorrow. I'm sure you'll be kind to her. There!

there!'' Mrs. Berry was preparing to whimper. ``I trust her to you, you see. Goodbye, you dear old soul.''

He smuggled a handful of gold into her keeping, and went to dine with his uncles, happy and hungry.

Before they reached the hotel, they had agreed to draw Mrs. Berry into their confidence, telling her (with

embellishments) all save their names, so that they might enjoy the counsel and assistance of that trump of a

woman, and yet have nothing to fear from her. Lucy was to receive the name of Letitia, Ripton's youngest

and bestlooking sister. The heartless fellow proposed it in cruel mockery of an old weakness of hers.

``Letitia!'' mused Richard. ``I like the name. Both begin with L. There's something softwomanlikein

Material Ripton remarked that they looked like pounds on paper. The lover roamed through his golden

groves. ``Lucy Feverel! that sounds better! I wonder where Ralph is. I should like to help him. He's in love

with my cousin Clare. He'll never do anything till he marries. No man can. I'm going to do a hundred things

when it's over. We shall travel first. I want to see the Alps. One doesn't know what the earth is till one has

seen the Alps. What a delight it will be to her! I fancy I see her eyes gazing up at them.

Beautiful! These lines, Rip, were written by a man who was once a friend of my father's. I intend to find him

and make them friends again. You don't care for poetry. It's no use your trying to swallow it, Rip!''

``The Alps! Italy! Rome! and then I shall go to the East,'' the hero continued. ``She's ready to go anywhere

with me, the dear brave heart! Oh, the glorious golden East! I dream of the desert. I dream I'm chief of an

Arab tribe, and we fly all white in the moonlight on our mares, and hurry to the rescue of my darling! And we

push the spears, and we scatter them, and I come to the tent where she crouches, and catch her to my saddle,

Ripton strove to imagine he could enjoy it. ``And then we shall come home, and I shall lead Austin's life,

with her to help me. First be virtuous, Rip! and then serve your country heart and soul. A wise man told me

Sunshine and cloud, cloud and sunshine, passed over the lover. Now life was a narrow ring; now the

distances extended. An hour ago and food was hateful. Now he manfully refreshed his nature, and joined in

Meantime Beauty slept, watched by the veteran volunteer of the hero's band. Lucy awoke from dreams which

seemed reality, to the reality which was a dream. She awoke calling for some friend, ``Margaret!'' and heard

one say, ``My name is Bessy Berry, my love! not Margaret.'' Then she asked piteously where she was, and

where was Margaret, her dear friend, and Mrs. Berry whispered, ``Sure you've got a dearer!''

``Ah!'' sighed Lucy, sinking on her pillow, overwhelmed by the strangeness of her state.

Mrs. Berry closed the frill of her nightgown and adjusted the bedclothes quietly.

``Gone, to be back, my love! Ah! that young gentleman!'' Mrs. Berry chanted: ``Not a morsel have he eat; not

``O Mrs. Berry! why did you not make him?'' Lucy wept for the faminestruck hero who was just then

Mrs. Berry explained that to make one eat who thought the darling of his heart like to die, was a sheer

impossibility for the cleverest of women; and on this deep truth Lucy reflected, with her eyes wide at the

candle. She wanted one to pour her feelings out to. She slid her hand from under the bedclothes, and took

Mrs. Berry's, and kissed it. The good creature required no further avowal of her secret, but forthwith leaned

her consummate bosom to the pillow, and petitioned Heaven to bless them both!Then the little bride was

``Why,'' said Mrs. Berry, ``your love is out of your eyes, and out of everything ye do.'' And the little bride

wondered more. She thought she had been so very cautious not to betray it. The common woman in them

made cheer together after their own April fashion. Following which Mrs. Berry probed for the sweet

particulars of this beautiful lovematch; but the little bride's lips were locked. She only said her lover was

``Dear, dear!And why shouldn't ye be?'' she ejaculated, seeing sadness return to the bridal babe. ``So as

you was born, so shall ye be! But you'll have to make your arrangements about the children. The girls to

worship with you. the boys with him. It's the same God, my dear! You mustn't blush at it, though you do look

``And you that can't bear the thoughts of it! Well, I do wish there was fathers and mothers on both sides and

dockments signed, and bridesmaids, and a breakfast! but love is love, and ever will be, in spite of them.''

She made other and deeper dives into the little heart, but though she drew up pearls, they were not of the kind

she searched for. The one fact that hung as a fruit upon her tree of Love, Lucy had given her; she would not,

in fealty to her lover, reveal its growth and history, however sadly she yearned to pour out all to this dear old

Mother Confessor. Her conduct drove Mrs. Berry from the rosy to the autumnal view of matrimony,

``And when you see your ticket,'' said Mrs. Berry, ``you sha'n't know whether it's a prize or a blank. And,

Lord knows! some go on thinking it's a prize when it turns on 'em and tears 'em. I'm one of the blanks, my

dear! I drew a blank in Berry. He was a black Berry to me, my dear! Smile away! he truly was, and I a prizin'

him as proud as you can conceive! My dear!'' Mrs. Berry pressed her hands flat on her apron. ``We hadn't

been a three months man and wife, when that manit wasn't the honeymoon, which some can't saythat

manYes! he kicked me. His wedded wife he kicked! Ah!'' she sighed to Lucy's large eyes, ``I could have

borne that. A blow don't touch the heart,'' the poor creature tapped her sensitive side. ``I went on loving of

him, for I'm a soft one. Tall as a Grenadier he is, and when out of service grows his moustache. I used to call

him my body guardsmanlike a Queen! I flattered him like the fools we women are. For, take my word for

it, my dear, there's nothing here below so vain as a man! That I know. But I didn't deserve it . . . . I'm a

superior cook . . . . I did not deserve that noways.'' Mrs. Berry thumped her knee, and accentuated up to her

climax: ``I mended his linen. I saw to his adornmentshe called his clothes, the bad man! I was a servant

to him, my dear! and there it was nine monthsnine months from the day he swear to protect and

cherish and thatnine calendar months, and my gentleman is off with another woman! Bone of his bone!

pish!'' exclaimed Mrs. Berry, reckoning her wrongs over vividly. ``Here's my ring. A pretty ornament!

What do it mean? I'm for tearin' it off my finger a dozen times in the day. It's a symbol? I call it a tomfoolery

for the deadalive to wear it, that's a widow and not a widow, and haven't got a name for what she is in any

Dixonary. I've looked, my dear, and''she spread out her arms``Johnson haven't got a name for me!''

At this impressive woe Mrs. Berry's voice quavered into sobs. Lucy spoke gentle words to the poor outcast

from Johnson. The sorrows of Autumn have no warning for April. The little bride, for all her tender pity, felt

happier when she had heard her landlady's moving tale of the wickedness of man, which cast in bright relief

the glory of that one hero who was hers. Then from a short flight of inconceivable bliss, she fell, shot by one

Mrs. Berry immediately dried her eyes to radiance. ``Young, my dear! Nonsense! There's no so much harm in

being young, here and there. I knew an Irish lady was married at fourteen. Her daughter married close on

fourteen. She was a grandmother by thirty! When any strange man began, she used to ask him what pattern

caps grandmothers wore. They'd stare! Bless you! the grandmother could have married over and over again.

``She married beneath her, my dear. Ran off with her father's bailiff's son. `Ah, Berry!' she'd say, `if I hadn't

been foolish, I should be my lady nownot Granny!' Her father never forgave herleft all his estates out

``In his way, my dear, he did,'' said Mrs. Berry, coming upon her matrimonial wisdom. ``He couldn't help

himself. If he left off, he began again. She was so clever, and did make him so comfortable. Cook! there

wasn't such another cook out of a Alderman's kitchen; no, indeed! And she a born lady! That tells ye it's the

duty of all women! She had her saying`When the parlour fire gets low, put coals on the ketchen fire!' and

a good saying it is to treasure. Such is man! no use in havin' their hearts if ye don't have their stomachs.''

Perceiving that she grew abstruse, Mrs. Berry added briskly: ``You know nothing about that yet, my dear.

Only mind me and mark me: don't neglect your cookery. Kissing don't last: cookery do!''

Here, with an aphorism worthy a place in =The Pilgrim's Scrip,= she broke off to go posseting for her dear

invalid. Lucy was quite well; very eager to be allowed to rise and be ready when the knock should come.

Mrs. Berry, in her loving considerateness for the little bride, positively commanded her to lie down, and be

quiet, and submit to be nursed and cherished. For Mrs. Berry well knew that ten minutes alone with the hero

Thanks to her strategy, as she thought, her object was gained. The night did not pass before she learnt, from

the hero's own mouth, that Mr. Richards, the father of the hero, and a stern lawyer, was adverse to his union

with this young lady he loved, because of a ward of his, heiress to an immense property, whom he desired his

son to espouse; and because his darling Letitia was a CatholicLetitia, the sole daughter of a brave naval

officer deceased, and in the hands of a savage uncle, who wanted to sacrifice this beauty to a brute of a son.

Mrs. Berry listened credulously to the emphatic narrative, and spoke to the effect that the wickedness of old

people formed the excuse for the wildness of young ones. The ceremonious administration of oaths of secresy

and devotion over, she was enrolled in the hero's band, which now numbered three, and entered upon the

duties with feminine energy, for there are no conspirators like women. Ripton's lieutenancy became a

sinecure, his rank merely titular. He had never been marriedhe knew nothing about licenses, except that

they must be obtained, and were not difficulthe had not an idea that so many days' warning must be given

to the clergyman of the parish where one of the parties was resident. How should he? All his forethought was

comprised in the ring, and whenever the discussion of arrangements for the great event grew particularly hot

and important, he would say, with a shrewd nod: ``We mustn't forget the ring, you know, Mrs. Berry!'' and

the new member was only prevented by natural complacence from shouting: ``Oh, drat ye! and your ring

too.'' Mrs. Berry had acted conspicuously in fifteen marriages, by banns, and by licenses, and to have such an

obvious requisite dinned in her ears was exasperating. They could not have contracted alliance with an

auxiliary more invaluable, an authority so profound; and they acknowledged it to themselves. The hero

marched like an automaton at her bidding; Lieutenant Thompson was rejoiced to perform services as

``It's in hopes you'll be happier than me, I do it,'' said the devout and charitable Berry. ``Marriages is made in

heaven, they say; and if that's the case, I say they don't take much account of us below!''

Her own woful experiences had been given to the hero in exchange for his story of cruel parents.

Richard vowed to her that he would henceforth hold it a duty to hunt out the wanderer from wedded bonds,

``Oh, he'll come!'' said Mrs. Berry, pursing prophetic wrinkles: ``he'll come of his own accord. Never

anywheres will he meet such a cook as Bessy Berry! And he know her value in his heart of hearts. And I do

believe, when he do come, I shall be opening these arms to him again, and not slapping his impidence in the

As when nations are secretly preparing for war, the docks and arsenals hammer night and day, and busy

contractors measure time by inches, and the air hums around for leagues as it were myriads of bees, so the

house and neighbourhood of the matrimonial soft one resounded in the heroic style, and knew little of the

changes of light decreed by Creation. Mrs. Berry was the general of the hour. Down to Doctors' Commons

she expedited the hero, instructing him how boldly to face the Law, and fib: for that the Law never could

resist a fib and a bold face. Down the hero went, and proclaimed his presence. And lo! the Law danced to him

its sedatest lovely bear'sdance. Think ye the Law less susceptible to him than flesh and blood? With a

beautiful confidence it put the few familiar questions to him, and nodded to his replies: then stamped the

bond, and took the fee. It must be an old vagabond at heart that can permit the irrevocable to go so cheap,

even to a hero. For only mark him when he is petitioned by heroes and heroines to undo what he does so

easily! That small archway of Doctors' Commons seems the eye of a needle, through which the lean purse has

a way, somehow, of slipping more readily than the portly; but once through, all are camels alike, the lean

purse an especially big camel. Dispensing tremendous marriage as it does, the Law can have no conscience.

``Of course not!'' returns Mrs. Berry. ``It's as easy, if ye're in earnest, as buying a plum bun.''

Likewise the ambassador of the hero went to claim the promise of the Church to be in attendance on a certain

spot, on a certain day, and there hear oath of eternal fealty, and gird him about with all its forces: which the

Church, receiving a wink from the Law, obsequiously engaged to do, for less than the price of a plumcake.

Meantime, while craftsmen and skilled women, directed by Mrs. Berry, were toiling to deck the day at hand,

Raynham and Belthorpe slept,the former soundly; and one day was as another to them. Regularly every

morning a letter arrived from Richard to his father, containing observations on the phenomena of London;

remarks (mainly cynical) on the speeches and acts of Parliament; and reasons for not having yet been able to

call on the Grandisons. They were certainly rather monotonous and spiritless. The baronet did not complain.

That cold dutiful tone assured him there was no internal trouble or distraction. ``The letters of a healthful

physique!'' he said to Lady Blandish, with sure insight. Complacently he sat and smiled, little witting that his

son's ordeal was imminent, and that his son's ordeal was to be his own. Hippias wrote that his nephew was

killing him by making appointments which he never kept, and altogether neglecting him in the most

shameless way, so that his ganglionic centre was in a ten times worse state than when he left Raynham. He

wrote very bitterly, but it was hard to feel compassion for his offended stomach.

On the other hand, young Tom Blaize was not forthcoming, and had despatched no tidings whatever. Farmer

Blaize smoked his pipe evening after evening, vastly disturbed. London was a large placeyoung Tom

might be lost in it, he thought; and young Tom had his weaknesses. A wolf at Belthorpe, he was likely to be a

sheep in London, as yokels have proved. But what had become of Lucy? This consideration almost sent

Farmer Blaize off to London direct, and he would have gone had not his pipe enlightened him. A young

fellow might play truant and get into a scrape, but a young man and a young woman were sure to be heard of,

unless they were acting in complicity. Why, of course, young Tom had behaved like a man, the rascal! and

married her outright there, while he had the chance. It was a long guess. Still it was the only reasonable way

of accounting for his extraordinary silence, and therefore the farmer held to it that he had done the deed. He

argued as modern men do who think the hero, the upsetter of ordinary calculations, is gone from us. So, after

despatching a letter to a friend in town to be on the lookout for son Tom, he continued awhile to smoke his

pipe, rather elated than not, and mused on the shrewd manner he should adopt when Master Honeymoon did

Toward the middle of the second week of Richard's absence, Tom Bakewell came to Raynham for Cassandra,

and privately handed a letter to the Eighteenth Century, containing a request for money, and a round sum.

The Eighteenth Century was as good as her word, and gave Tom a letter in return, enclosing a cheque on her

bankers, amply providing to keep the heroic engine in motion at a moderate pace. Tom went back, and

Raynham and Lobourne slept and dreamed not of the morrow. The System, wedded to Time, slept, and knew

not how he had been outragedanticipated by seven pregnant seasons. For Time had heard the hero swear

to that legalizing instrument, and had also registered an oath. Ah me! venerable Hebrew Time! he is

unforgiving. Half the confusion and fever of the world comes of this vendetta he declares against the hapless

innocents who have once done him a wrong. They cannot escape him. They will never outlive it. The father

of jokes, he is himself no joke; which it seems the business of men to discover.

The days roll round. He is their servant now. Mrs. Berry has a new satin gown, a beautiful bonnet, a gold

brooch, and sweet gloves, presented to her by the hero, wherein to stand by his bride at the altar tomorrow;

and, instead of being an old wary hen, she is as much a chicken as any of the party, such has been the magic

of these articles. Fathers she sees accepting the facts produced for them by their children; a world content to

At last Time brings the bridal eve, and is blest as a benefactor. The final arrangements are made; the

bridegroom does depart; and Mrs. Berry lights the little bride to her bed. Lucy stops on the landing where

there is an old clock eccentrically correct that night. 'Tis the palpitating pause before the gates of her

transfiguration. Mrs. Berry sees her put her rosy finger on the =One= about to strike, and touch all the hours

successively till she comes to the =Twelve= that shall sound ``Wife'' in her ears on the morrow, moving her

lips the while, and looking round archly solemn when she has done; and that sight so catches at Mrs. Berry's

heart that, not guessing Time to be the poor child's enemy, she endangers her candle by folding Lucy warmly

in her arms, whimpering, ``Bless you for a darling! you innocent lamb! You shall be happy! You shall!''

Although it blew hard when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, the passage of that river is commonly calm; calm as

Acheron. So long as he gets his fare, the ferryman does not need to be told whom he carries: he pulls with a

will, and heroes may be over in half an hour. Only when they stand on the opposite bank, do they see what a

leap they have taken. The shores they have relinquished shrink to an infinite remoteness. There they have

dreamed: here they must act. There lie youth and irresolution: here manhood and purpose. They are veritably

in another land: a moral Acheron divides their life. Their memories scarce seem their own! The

=Philosophical Geography= (about to be published) observes that each man has, one time or other, a little

Rubicona clear, or a foul, water to cross. It is asked him: ``Wilt thou wed this Fate, and give up all behind

thee?'' And ``I will,'' firmly pronounced, speeds him over. The abovenamed manuscript authority informs us

that by far the greater number of carcases rolled by this heroic flood to its sister stream below, are those of

fellows who have repented their pledge, and have tried to swim back to the bank they have blotted out. For

though every man of us may be a hero for one fatal minute, very few remain so after a day's march even: and

who wonders that Madam Fate is indignant, and wears the features of the terrible Universal Fate to him? Fail

before her, either in heart, or in act, and lo, how the alluring loves in her visage wither and sicken to what it is

modelled on! Be your Rubicon big or small, clear or foul, it is the same: you shall not return. Onor to

``The danger of a little knowledge of things is disputable: _but beware the little knowledge of one's self!_''

Richard Feverel was now crossing the River of his Ordeal. Already the mists were stealing over the land he

had left: his life was cut in two, and he breathed but the air that met his nostrils. His father, his father's love,

his boyhood and ambition, were shadowy. His poetic dreams had taken a living attainable shape. He had a

distincter impression of the Autumnal Berry and her household than of anything at Raynham. And yet the

young man loved his father, loved his home: and I dare say Caesar loved Rome: but whether he did or no,

Caesar when he killed the Republic was quite bald, and the hero we are dealing with is scarce beginning to

feel his despotic moustache. Did he know what he was made of? Doubtless, nothing at all. But honest passion

has an instinct that can be safer than conscious wisdom. He was an arrow drawn to the head, flying from the

bow. His audacious mendacities and subterfuges did not strike him as in any way criminal; for he was

perfectly sure that the winning and securing of Lucy would in the end be boisterously approved of, and in that

case were not the means justified? Not that he took trouble to argue thus, as older heroes and selfconvicting

villains are in the habit of doing, to deduce a clear conscience. Conscience and Lucy went together.

It was a soft fair day. The Rubicon sparkled in the morning sun. One of those days when London embraces

the prospect of summer, and troops forth all its babies. The pavement, the squares, the parks, wore early alive

with the cries of young Britain. Violet and primrose girls, and organ boys with military monkeys, and

systematic bands very determined in tone if not in tune, filled the atmosphere, and crowned the blazing

procession of omnibuses, freighted with business men, cityward, where a column of reddish brown

smoke,blown aloft by the Southwest, marked the scene of conflict to which these persistent warriors

repaired. Richard had seen much of early London that morning. His plans were laid. He had taken care to

ensure his personal liberty against accidents, by leaving his hotel and his injured uncle Hippias at sunrise.

Today or tomorrow his father was to arrive. Farmer Blaize, Tom Bakewell reported to him, was raging in

town. Another day and she might be torn from him: but today this miracle of creation would be his, and then

from those glittering banks yonder, let them summon him to surrender her who dared! The position of things

looked so propitious that he naturally thought the powers waiting on love conspired in his behalf. And she,

too since she must cross this river, she had sworn to him to be brave, and do him honour, and wear the

true gladness of her heart in her face. Without a suspicion of folly in his acts, or fear of results, Richard

strolled into Kensington Gardens, breakfasting on the foreshadow of his great joy, now with a vision of his

bride, now of the new life opening to him. Mountain masses of clouds, rounded in sunlight, swung up the

blue. The flowering chestnut pavilions overhead rustled and hummed. A sound in his ears as of a banner

He was to meet his bride at the church at a quarter past eleven. His watch said a quarter to ten. He strolled on

beneath the long stemmed trees toward the well dedicated to a saint obscure. Some people were drinking at

the well. A florid lady stood by a younger one, who had a little silver mug halfway to her mouth, and

``Drink, child!'' said the maturer lady. ``That is only your second mug. I insist upon your drinking three full

``Drink!'' was the harsh injunction. ``Nothing to the German waters, my dear. Here, let me taste.'' She took

the mug and gave it a flying kiss. ``I declare I think it almost nicenot at all objectionable. Pray taste it,''

An unmistakable cisRubicon voice replied: ``Certainly, if it's good fellowship; though I confess I don't think

Without a doubt those people were Mrs. Doria, Clare, and Adrian. He had them under his eyes.

Clare, peeping up from her constitutional dose to make sure no man was near to see the possible consequence

Richard came forward, and capitulated honourably, since retreat was out of the question. Mrs. Doria swam to

meet him: ``My own boy! My dear Richard!'' profuse of exclamations. Clare shyly greeted him. Adrian kept

``Why, we were coming for you today, Richard,'' said Mrs. Doria, smiling effusion; and rattled on, ``We

want another cavalier. This is delightful! My dear nephew! You have grown from a boy to a man. And there's

down on his lip! And what brings you here at such an hour in the morning? Poetry, I suppose! Here, take my

arm, child. Clare! finish that mug and thank your cousin for sparing you the third. I always bring her,

when we are by a chalybeate, to take the waters before breakfast. We have to get up at unearthly hours.

Think, my dear boy! Mothers are sacrifices! And so you've been alone a fortnight with your agreeable uncle!

A charming time of it you must have had! Poor Hippias! what may be his last nostrum?''

``Nephew!'' Adrian stretched his head round to the couple. ``Doses of nephew taken morning and night

fourteen days! And he guarantees that it shall destroy an iron constitution in a month.''

``Well?'' resumed his vigorous aunt, walking on with him, while Clare and Adrian followed. ``I really never

saw you looking so handsome. There's something about your face look at meyou needn't blush.

You've grown to an Apollo. That blue buttonedup frock coat becomes you admirably and those gloves,

and that easy necktie. Your style is irreproachable, quite a style of your own! And nothing eccentric. You

have the instinct of dress. Dress shows blood, my dear boy, as much as anything else. Boy!you see, I

can't forget old habits. You were a boy when I left, and now!Do you see any change in him, Clare?'' she

``Richard is looking very well, mama,'' said Clare, glancing at him under her eyelids.

``I wish I could say the same of you, my dear.Take my arm, Richard. Are you afraid of your aunt? I want

to get used to you. Won't it be pleasant, our being all in town together in the season? How fresh the Opera

will be to you! Austin, I hear, takes stalls. You can come to the Forey's box when you like. We are staying

with the Foreys close by here. I think it's a little too far out, you know; but they like the neighbourhood. This

is what I have always said: Give him more liberty! Austin has seen it at last. How do you think Clare

The question had to be repeated. Richard surveyed his cousin hastily, and praised her looks.

``If she had but a little more colour, my dear Richard! I'm sure I give her all the iron she can swallow, but that

pallor still continues. I think she does not prosper away from her old companion. She was accustomed to look

``Absurd!'' Mrs. Doria pressed his arm. ``The nonsense of a boy! Why did you undertake to forward such

``I'm certain he loves her,'' said Richard, in a serious way. The maternal eyes narrowed on him. ``Life, my

dear Richard, is a game of crosspurposes,'' she observed, dropping her fluency, and was rather angered to

``You breakfast with us,'' she freshened off again. ``The Foreys wish to see you; the girls are dying to know

you. Do you know, you have a reputation on account of that'' she crushed an intruding

adjective``System you were brought up on. You mustn't mind it. For my part, I think you look a credit to

it. Don't be bashful with young women, mind! As much as you please with the old ones. You know how to

behave among men. There you have your Drawingroom Guide! I'm sure I shall be proud of you. Am I not?''

A benevolent idea struck Richard, that he might employ the minutes to spare, in pleading the case of poor

Ralph; and, as he was drawn along, he pulled out his watch to note the precise number of minutes he could

``Pardon me,'' said Mrs. Doria. ``You want manners, my dear boy. I think it never happened to me before that

Richard mildly replied that he had an engagement at a particular hour, up to which he was her servant.

``Fiddlededee!'' the vivacious lady sang. ``Now I've got you, I mean to keep you. Oh! I've heard all about

you. This ridiculous indifference that your father makes so much of! Why, of course, you wanted to see the

world! A strong healthy young man shut up all his life in a lonely houseno friends, no society, no

amusements but those of rustics! Of course you were indifferent! Your intelligence and superior mind alone

Overborne by his aunt's fluency of tongue, and occupied in acute calculation of the flying minutes, Richard

let many pass before he edged in a word for Ralph. When he did, Mrs. Doria stopped him immediately.

``But listen to me in earnest, aunt. I want you to be kind to Ralph. Don't drive him toYou may be sorry

for it. Let himdo let him write to her, and see her. I believe women are as cruel as men in these things.''

``Oh, they're both good families. It's not that absurdity, Richard. It will be to his credit to remember that his

first fancy wasn't a dairymaid.'' Mrs. Doria pitched her accent tellingly. It did not touch her nephew.

Mrs. Doria laughed. ``I hope so, child. We must find some comfortable old gentleman for her.''

``And I engage Ralph shall be ready to dance at her wedding, or eat a hearty breakfastWe don't dance at

weddings now, and very properly. It's a horrid sad business, not to be treated with levity.Is that his

regiment?'' she said, as they passed out of the hussarsentinelled gardens. ``Tush, tush, child! Master Ralph

will recover, ashem! others have done. A little headacheyou call it heartache and up you rise

again, looking better than ever. No doubt, to have a grain of sense forced into your brains, you poor dear

children! must be painful. Girls suffer as much as boys, I assure you. More, for their heads are weaker, and

their appetites less constant. Do I talk like your father now? Whatever makes the boy fidget at his watch so?''

``Listen, Clare! Richard is going. He says he has an engagement. What possible engagement can a young

man have at eleven o'clock in the morning?unless he's going to be married? Eh? Then of course!'' Mrs.

``Is the church handy, Ricky!'' sad Adrian. ``You can still give us half an hour if it is. The celibate hours

``Won't you stay with us, Richard?'' Clare asked. She blushed timidly, and her voice shook.

Something indefinitea sharpedged thrill in the tones made the burning bridegroom speak gently to her.

``Indeed, I would, Care; I should like to please you, but I have a most imperative appointmentthat is, I

Mrs. Doria took forcible possession Of him. ``Now do come, and don't waste words. I insist upon your

having some breakfast first, and then, if you really must go, you shall. Look! there's the house. At least you

Richard conceded this. She little imagined what she required of him. Two of his golden minutes melted into

nothingness. They were growing to be jewels of price, one by one more and more precious as they ran, and

now so costlyrare rich as his blood! not to kindest relations, clearest friends, could he give another. The

They watched his abrupt muscular stride through the grounds of the house. He looked like resolution on the

march. Mrs. Doria, as usual with her out of her brother's hearing, began rating the System.

``See what becomes of that nonsensical education! The boy really does not know how to behave like a

common mortal. He has some paltry appointment, or is mad after some ridiculous idea of his own, and

everything must be sacrificed to it! That's what Austin calls concentration of the faculties. I think it's more

likely to lead to downright insanity than to greatness of any kind. And so I shall tell Austin. It's time he

``He's an engine, my dear aunt,'' said Adrian. ``He isn't a boy, or a man, but an engine. And he appears to

have been at high pressure since he came to townout all day and half the night.''

``Not at all. Extremely shrewd is Master Ricky, and carries as open an eye ahead of him as the ships before

Adrian begged her to retain her astonishment till the right season, which would not be long arriving.

Their common wisdom counselled them not to tell the Foreys of their hopeful relative's ungracious

behaviour. Clare had left them. When Mrs. Doria went to her room her daughter was there, gazing down at

In answer to an inquiry why she had not gone to take off her things, Clare said she was not hungry. Mrs.

Doria lamented the obstinacy of a constitution that no quantity of iron could affect, and eclipsed the

lookingglass, saying: ``Take them off here, child, and learn to assist yourself.''

She disentangled her bonnet from the array of her spreading hair, talking of Richard, and his handsome

appearance, and extraordinary conduct. Clare kept opening and shutting her hand, in an attitude half pensive,

half listless. She did not stir to undress. A joyless dimple hung in one pale cheek, and she drew long even

Mrs. Doria, assured by the glass that she was ready to show, came to her daughter,

``Now really,'' she said, ``you are too helpless, my dear. You cannot do a thing without a dozen women at

your elbow. What will become of you? You will have to marry a millionaire. What's the matter with you,

Clare undid her tightshut fingers, as if to some attraction of her eyes, and displayed a small gold hoop on the

``A weddingring!'' exclaimed Mrs. Doria, inspecting the curiosity most daintily.

Rapid questions as to where, when, how, it was found, beset Clare, who replied: ``In the Gardens, mama.

``Of course not! only he does such absurd things! I thought, perhapsthese boys are so exceedingly

ridiculous!'' Mrs. Doria had an idea that it might have been concerted between the two young gentlemen,

Richard and Ralph, that the former should present this token of hymenaeal devotion from the latter to the

young lady of his love; but a moment's reflection exonerated boys even from such preposterous behaviour.

``Now, I wonder,'' she speculated on Clare's cold face, ``I do wonder whether it's lucky to find a

weddingring? What very quick eyes you have, my darling!'' Mrs. Doria kissed her. She thought it must be

lucky, and the circumstance made her feel tender to her child. Her child did not move to the kiss.

``Let's see whether it fits,'' said Mrs. Doria, almost infantine with surprise and pleasure.

Clare suffered her glove to be drawn off. The ring slid down her long thin finger, and settled comfortably.

``It does!'' Mrs. Doria whispered. To find a weddingring is open to any woman; but to find a weddingring

that fits may well cause superstitious emotions. Moreover, that it should be found while walking in the

neighbourhood of the identical youth whom a mother has destined for her daughter, gives significance to the

``It really fits!'' she pursued. ``Now I never pay any attention to the nonsense of omens and that kind of thing

(had the ring been a horseshoe Mrs. Doria would have picked it up and dragged it obediently home), ``but

this, I must say, is oddto find a ring that fits!singular! It never happened to me. Sixpence is the most I

ever discovered, and I have it now. Mind you keep it, Clarethis ring. And,'' she laughed, ``offer it to

Mother and daughter had never spoken explicitly of Richard. Mrs. Doria, by exquisite management, had

contrived to be sure that on one side there would be no obstacle to her project of general happiness, without,

as she thought, compromising her daughter's feelings unnecessarily. It could do no harm to an obedient young

girl to hear that there was no youth in the world like a certain youth. He the prince of his generation, she

might softly consent, when requested, to be his princess; and if never requested (for Mrs. Doria envisaged

failure), she might easily transfer her softness to squires of lower degree. Clare had always been blindly

obedient to her mother (Adrian called them Mrs. Doria Battledoria and the fair Shuttlecockiana), and her

mother accepted in this blind obedience the text of her entire character. It is difficult for those who think very

earnestly for their children to know when their children are thinking on their own account. The exercise of

their volition we construe as revolt. Our love does not like to be invalided and deposed from its command,

and here I think yonder old thrush on the lawn who has just kicked the last of her lank offspring out of the

nest to go shift for itself, much the kinder of the two, though sentimental people do shrug their shoulders at

these unsentimental acts of the creatures who never wander from nature. Now, excess of obedience is, to one

who manages most exquisitely, as bad as insurrection. Happily Mrs. Doria saw nothing in her daughter's

manner save a want of iron. Her pallor, her lassitude, the tremulous nerves in her face, exhibited an imperious

``The reason why men and women are mysterious to us, and prove disappointing,'' we learn from =The

Pilgrim's Scrip,= ``is, that we will read them from our own book; just as we are perplexed by reading

Mrs. Doria read her daughter from her own book, and she was gay;she laughed with Adrian at the

breakfasttable, and mock seriously joined in his jocose assertion that Clare was positively and by all

hymenaeal auspices betrothed to the owner of that ring, be he who he may, and must, whenever he should

choose to come and claim her, give her hand to him (for everybody agreed the owner must be masculine, as

no woman would drop a weddingring), and follow him whither he listed all the world over. Amiable

giggling Forey girls called Clare, The Betrothed. Dark man, or fair? was mooted. Adrian threw off the first

strophe of Clare's fortune in burlesque rhymes, with an insinuating gypsy twang. Her Aunt Forey warned her

to have her dresses in readiness. Her Grandpapa Forey pretended to grumble at bridal presents being expected

from grandpapas. This one smelt orangeflower, another spoke solemnly of an old shoe. The finding of a

weddingring was celebrated through all the palpitating accessories and rosy ceremonies involved by that

famous instrument. In the midst of the general hilarity, Clare showed her deplorable want of iron by bursting

Did the poor mockedat heart divine what might be then enacting? Perhaps, dimly, as we say: that is, without

At an altar stand two fair young creatures, ready with their oaths. They are asked to fix all time to the

moment, and they do so. If there is hesitation at the immense undertaking, it is but maidenly. She conceives

as little mental doubt of the sanity of the act as he. Over them hangs a cool young curate in his raiment of

office. Behind are two apparently lucid people, distinguished from each other by sex and age: the foremost a

bunch of simmering black satin; under her shadow a cockrobin in the dress of a gentleman, big joy swelling

out his chest, and pert satisfaction cocking his head. These be they who stand here in place of parents to the

Firmly the bridegroom tells forth his words. This hour of the complacent giant at least is his, and that he

means to hold him bound through the eternities, men may hear. Clearly, and with brave modesty, speaks she:

no less firmly, though her body trembles: her voice just vibrating while the tone travels on, like a smitten

Time hears sentence pronounced on him: the frail hands bind his huge limbs and lock the chains. He is used

Then comes that period when they are to give their troth to each other. The Man with his right hand takes the

Woman by her right hand: the Woman with her right hand takes the Man by his right hand.Devils dare

Their hands are joined: their blood flows as one stream. Adam and fair Eve front the generations. Are they

And then they loose their hands, and the cool curate doth bid the Man to put a ring on the Woman's fourth

finger, counting thumb. And the Man thrusts his hand into one pocket, and into another, forward and back

many times: into all his pockets. He remembers that he felt for it, and felt it in his waistcoat pocket, when in

Yet, though Angels smile, shall not Devils laugh! The curate deliberates. The black satin bunch ceases to

simmer. He in her shadow changes from a beaming cockrobin to an inquisitive sparrow. Eyes multiply

questions: lips have no reply. Time ominously shakes his chain, and in the pause a sound of mockery stings

Think ye a hero one to be defeated in his first battle? Look at the clock! there are but seven minutes to the

stroke of the celibate hours: the veteran is surely lifting his two hands to deliver fire, and his shot will sunder

them in twain so nearly united. All the jewellers of London speeding down with sacks full of the nuptual

The battle must be won on the field, and what does the hero now? It is an inspiration! For who else would

dream of such a reserve in the rear? None see what he does; only that the blacksatin bunch is

remonstratingly agitated, stormily shaken, and subdued: and as though the menacing cloud had opened, and

dropped the dear token from the skies at his demand, he produces the symbol of their consent, and the service

They are prayed over and blest. For good, or for ill, this deed is done. The names are registered; fees fly right

and left: they thank, and salute, the curate, whose official coolness melts into a smile of monastic gallantry:

the beadle on the steps waves off a gaping world as they issue forth: bridegroom and bridesman recklessly

scatter gold on him: carriagedoors are banged to: the coachmen drive off, and the scene closes, everybody

And the next moment the bride is weeping as if she would dissolve to one of Dian's Virgin Fountains from

the clasp of the SunGod. She has nobly preserved the mask imposed by comedies, till the curtain has fallen,

and now she weeps, streams with tears. Have patience, O impetuous young man! It is your profession to be a

hero. This poor heart is new to it, and her duties involve such wild acts, such brigandage, such terrors and

tasks, she is quite unnerved. She did you honour till now. Bear with her now. She does not cry the cry of

ordinary maidens in like cases. While the struggle went on her tender face was brave; but, alas! Omens are

against her: she holds an everpresent dreadful one on that fatal fourth finger of hers, which has coiled itself

round her dream of delight, and takes her in its clutch like a horrid serpent. And yet she must love it. She

dares not part from it. She must love and hug it, and feed on its strange honey, and all the bliss it gives her

Say. Is it not enough to cause feminine apprehension for a woman to be married in another woman's ring?

You are amazons, ladies, at Saragossa, and a thousand citadelswherever there is strife, and Time is to be

taken by the throat. Then shall few men match your sublime fury. But what if you see a vulture, visible only

to yourselves, hovering over the house you are gaily led by the torch to inhabit? Will you not crouch and be

As for the hero, in the hour of victory he pays no heed to omens. He does his best to win his darling to

confidence by caresses. Is she not his? Is he not hers? And why, when the battle is won, does she weep? Does

Oh, never! never! her soft blue eyes assure him, steadfast love seen swimming on clear depths of faith in

He is silenced by her exceeding beauty, and sits perplexed waiting for the shower to pass.

Alone with Mrs. Berry, in her bedroom, Lucy gave tongue to her distress, and a second character in the

``My darlin' child!'' The bridal Berry gazed at the finger of doleful joy. ``I'd forgot all about it! And that's

what've made me feel so queer ever since, then! I've been seemin' as if I wasn't myself somehow, without my

ring. Dear! clear! what a wilful young gentleman! We ain't a match for men in that stateLord help us!''

``I can't say I should 'a liked it myself, my dear,'' Mrs. Berry candidly responded.

``Oh! why, why, why did it happen!'' the young bride bent to a flood of fresh tears, murmuring that she felt

``Haven't you got a comfort in your religion for all accidents?'' Mrs. Berry inquired.

``None for this. I know it's wrong to cry when I am so happy. I hope he will forgive me.''

Mrs. Berry vowed her bride was the sweetest, softest, beautifulest thing in life.

``I'll cry no more,'' said Lucy. ``Leave me, Mrs. Berry, and come back when I ring.''

She drew forth a little silver cross, and fell upon her knees to the bed. Mrs. Berry left the room tiptoe.

When she was called to return, Lucy was calm and tearless, and smiled kindly to her.

``He does not wish me to go in to the breakfast you have prepared, Mrs. Berry. I begged to be excused. I

Mrs. Berry very much deplored it, as she had laid out a superior nuptial breakfast, but with her mind on her

``Don't ye cross tonight, if it's anyways rough, my dear. It isn't adviseable.'' Mrs. Berry sank her voice to

say, ``Don't ye be soft and give way to him there, or you'll both be repenting it.''

Lucy had only been staving off the unpleasantness she had to speak. She saw Mrs. Berry's eyes pursuing her

``Another, my dear?'' Berry did not comprehend. ``One's quite enough for the objeck,'' she remarked.

``I mean,'' Lucy touched her fourth finger, ``I cannot part with this.'' She looked straight at Mrs. Berry.

That bewildered creature gazed at her, and at the ring, till she had thoroughly exhausted the meaning of the

words, and then exclaimed, horrorstruck: ``Deary me, now! you don't say that? You're to be married again

``But, my dear!'' the wretched Berry wrung her hands, divided between compassion and a sense of injury.

``I know all that you would say, Mrs. Berry. I am very grieved to pain you. It is mine now, and must be mine.

There she sat, suddenly developed to the most inflexible little heroine in the three Kingdoms.

From her first perception of the meaning of the young bride's words, Mrs. Berry, a shrewd physiognomist,

knew that her case was hopeless, unless she treated her as she herself had been treated, and seized the ring by

``What!'' she gasped faintly, ``one's own lawful weddingring you wouldn't give back to a body?''

``Because it is mine, Mrs. Berry. It was yours, but it is mine now. You shall have whatever you ask for but

Mrs. Berry rocked on her chair, and sounded her hands together. It amazed her that this soft little creature

``Don't ye know, my dear, it's the fatalest thing you're inflictin' upon me, reelly! Don't ye know that bein'

bereft of one's own lawful weddingring's the fatalest thing in life, and there's no prosperity after it! For what

stands in place o' that, when that's gone, my dear? And what _could_ ye give me to compensate a body for

the loss o' that? Don't ye knowOh, deary me!'' The little bride's face was so set that poor Berry wailed off

``I know it,'' said Lucy. ``I know it all. I know what I do to you. Dear, dear Mrs. Berry! forgive me! If I parted

So this fair young freebooter took possession of her argument as well as her ring.

``But, my child,'' she counterargued, ``you don't understand. It ain't as you think. It ain't a hurt to you now.

Not a bit, it ain't. It makes no difference now! Any ring does while the wearer's a maid. And your Mr.

Richard'll find the very ring he intended for ye. And, of course, that's the one you'll wear as his wife. It's all

the same now, my dear. It's no shame to a maid. Now donow dothere's a darlin'!''

``Mrs. Berry,'' said Lucy, ``you know what myhe spoke: `With this ring I thee wed.' It was with _this_

``Won't it be unlucky you're wearin' of that ring which served me so? Think o' that!''

``Mrs. Berry,'' Lucy said again, ``it was this ring. It cannot it never can be another. It was this. What it

``Then what am _I_ to do?'' the illused woman groaned. ``What shall I tell my husband when he come back

``You never see so keen a eyed man in joolry as my Berry!'' returned his solitary spouse. ``Not know, my

dear? Why, any one would know that 've got eyes in his head. There's as much difference in weddingrings

``Just when you're going to be the happiest wife on earth all you want yours!'' she pursued the tender

``Mrs. Berry,'' she said, ``I think we must not lose time in getting ready, or he will be impatient.''

Poor Berry surveyed her in abject wonder from the edge of her chair. Dignity and resolve were in the ductile

form she had hitherto folded under her wing. In an hour the heroine had risen to the measure of the hero.

Without being exactly aware what creature she was dealing with, Berry acknowledged to herself it was not

After putting the corners of her apron to her eyes, Berry bustled humbly about the packing. Then Lucy,

whose heart was full to her, came and kissed her, and Berry bumped down and regularly cried. This over, she

``I suppose it was to be, my dear! It's my punishment for meddlin' wi' such matters. No, I'm not sorry. Bless

ye both. Who'd 'a thought you was so wilful?you that any one might have taken for one of the sillysofts!

You're a pair, my dear! indeed you are! You was made to meet! But we mustn't show him we've been

crying.Men don't like it when they're happy. Let's wash our faces and try to bear our lot.''

So saying the blacksatin bunch careened to a renewed deluge. She deserved some sympathy, for if it is sad

to be married in another person's ring, how much sadder to have one's own old accustomed lawful ring

violently torn off one's finger and eternally severed from one! But where you have heroes and heroines, these

They had now both fought their battle of the ring, and with equal honour and success.

In the chamber of banquet Richard was giving Ripton his last directions. Though it was a private wedding,

Mrs. Berry had prepared a sumptuous breakfast. Chickens offered their breasts: pies hinted savoury secrets:

things mystic, in a mash, with Gallic appellatives, jellies, creams, fruits, strewed the table: as a tower in the

midst, the cake colossal: the priestly vesture of its nuptual white relieved by hymenaeal splendours.

Many hours, much labour and anxiety of mind, Mrs. Berry had expended upon this breakfast, and why?

There is one who comes to all feasts that have their basis in Folly, whom criminals of trained instinct are

careful to provide against: who will speak, and whose hateful voice must somehow be silenced while the

feast is going on. This personage is =The Philosopher.= Mrs. Berry knew him. She knew that he would come.

She provided against him in the manner she thought most efficacious: that is, by cheating her eyes and

intoxicating her conscience with the due and proper glories incident to weddings where fathers dilate,

mothers collapse, and marriage settlements are flourished on high by the family lawyer: and had there been

no show of the kind to greet her on her return from the church, she would, and she foresaw she would, have

stared at squalor and emptiness, and repented her work. The Philosopher would have laid hold of her by the

ear, and called her bad names. Entrenched behind a breakfasttable so legitimately adorned, Mrs. Berry

defied him. In the presence of that cake he dared not speak above a whisper. And there were wines to drown

him in, should he still think of protesting; fiery wines, and cool: claret sent purposely by the bridegroom for

For one good hour, therefore, the labour of many hours kept him dumb. Ripton was fortifying himself so as to

forget him altogether, and the world as well, till the next morning. Ripton was excited, overdone with delight.

He had already finished one bottle, and listened, pleasantly flushed, to his emphatic and more abstemious

chief. He had nothing to do but to listen, and to drink. The hero would not allow him to shout Victory! or

hear a word of toasts; and as, from the quantity of oil poured on it, his eloquence was becoming a natural

force in his bosom, the poor fellow was afflicted with a sort of elephantiasis of suppressed emotion. At times

he half rose from his chair, and fell vacuously into it again; or he chuckled in the face of weighty,

severelyworded instructions; tapped his chest, stretched his arms, yawned, and in short behaved so

singularly that Richard observed it, and said: ``On my soul, I don't think you know a word I'm saying.''

``Every word, Ricky!'' Ripton spirted through the opening. ``I'm going down to your governor, and tell him:

Sir Austin! Here's your only chance of being a happy father no, no!Oh! don't you fear me, Ricky! I

shall talk the old gentleman over. I feel tremendous! I feel, upon my honour, Ricky, I feel as if nobody

_could_ resis' me!'' Ripton stamped his might on the table. ``I shall tell him the whole affair pointblank. I

can tell you that if it comes to argument 'tween us, I can lay on the man who'll have the best of it. I shall tell

him I was a witness. And I hope, Sir Austin, in a year's time, you'll have the best of all, sir! jolly 'ittle

grandson!'' Ripton's head went roguishly to right and left, and he emptied his glass at a draught.

Richard arrested his resumption of speech, and he continued slowly to fizz like an illcorked effervescence,

``Look here. You had better not go down tonight. Go down the first thing tomorrow, by the six o'clock

train. Give him my letter. Listen to megive him my letter, and don't speak a word till he speaks. His

eyebrows will go up and down, he won't say much. I know him. If he asks you about her, don't be a fool, but

No cork could hold in Ripton when she was alluded to. He shouted: ``She's an angel!''

Richard checked him: ``Speak sensibly, I sayquietly. You can say how gentle and good she ismy

fleurdeluce! And say, this was not her doing. If any one's to blame, it's I. I made her marry me. Then go to

Lady Blandish, if you don't find her at the house. You may say whatever you please to her. Give her my

letter, and tell her I want to hear from her immediately. She has seen Lucy, and I know what she thinks of

her. You will then go to Farmer Blaize. I told you Lucy happens to be his nieceshe has not lived long

there. She lived with her Aunt Desborough in France while she was a child, and can hardly be called a

relative to the farmerthere's not a point of likeness between them. Poor darling! she never knew her

mother. Go to Mr. Blaize, and tell him. You will treat him just as you would treat any other gentleman. If you

are civil, he is sure to be. And if he abuses me, for my sake and hers you will still treat him with respect. You

hear? And then write me a full account of all that has been said and done. You will have my address the day

after tomorrow. By the way, Tom will be here this afternoon. Write out for him where to call on you the day

after tomorrow, in case you have heard anything in the morning you think I ought to know at once, as Tom

will join me that night. Don't mention to anybody about my losing the ring, Ripton. I wouldn't have Adrian

get hold of that for a thousand pounds. How on earth I came to lose it! How well she bore it, Rip! How

Ripton again shouted: ``She's an angel!'' He endeavoured to get a leap beyond the angels, but being of tame

imagination, those commonplace hosts had to stand for what he felt. Throwing up the heels of his second

``You may trust your friend, Richard. Your oldest friend, Ricky!Eh? A cool head and a heart in the right

place! A man who'd want to drink better wine than this he'd bet' not drink any 't all. I think I was,

hem! marking that we know what wine is. Talking of old Blaize, ain't it odd we should be drinking cleret

'gether, just married? I mean, when you come to think of it, Ricky? It strike me 's odd. But as for your

thinking there 'll be much fuss, you know, there you're wrong. Let's have s'more cleret.''

Richard hospitably opened another bottle for him, and sat knocking his finger nails on his teeth, impatient for

the bride, while Ripton freely flowed forth. In spite of the innocuousness of claret, his words were displaying

an oily tendency to run into one another, and his eyes were growing vivaciously stupid.

``Strikes me, Richard, every fresh bottle's better than one before. Well, I was saying, you know, I shall make

all right with your father. Oh! _he_ won't stand out after a little talking. And mind you, Mr. Ricky, I _can_

talk! I ought to have gone the Bar, you know. Cleret! cleret I keep saying: claret, sir! 'Minds me of

Gravelkind. You may drink as much as ever you like, and it never 'fects you. Gentleman's wine! Though if

you ask me pointblank which I p'fer, why, I'd rather go the Bar. I'm an only son, you know, and a mother

and four sisters, and I must do as I'm tole. Ha! ha! that Letty! what a face she'll make when she hears of it! sil'

'ittle thing!ha! ha!I do think this has been the jollies' day I ever knew! Behave, sir? She did behave

most beautiful! I hear her voice nowlike that glass. Tell you the truth, girls don't quite take to menot

in that way, you know. I don't know how to talk to them unless they begin, and look all right. It went as

smooth, Ricky!but such a chap. You're sure to do it if you say you will. Aha! when you pulled at old Mrs.

``Here's to Penelope!'' said Richard, just wetting his mouth. The carriage was at the door: a couple of dire

organs, each grinding the same tune, and a vulturescented itinerant band (from which not the secretest

veiled wedding can ever escape) worked harmoniously without in the production of discord, and the noise

acting on his nervous state made him begin to fume and send in messages for his bride by the maid.

Ripton drank Penelope, and afterwards had an idea that Penelope did not mean Lucy. He tried to tell Richard

that the health proposed was that of his lovely wife, but Richard had no ear for him, and let him mumble on.

By and by the lovely wife presented herself dressed for her journey, and smiling from stained eyes.

Mrs. Berry was requested to drink some wine, which Ripton poured out for her, enabling Mrs. Berry thereby

to measure his condition. Ripton's expressive bibulous invitation was: ``Aha! Mrs. Berry!''

Penelope bowed and bumped her duty to them all. Richard and Lucy talked apart. Ripton balanced his body

against the back of his chair. A notion possessed his nodding head that it devolved upon him to make a

formal speech, and that now was the time. If ever the old Dog was to enunciate in human language his

devoted appreciation of Beauty, the occasion was present. But how was he to fashion his phrases?

Notwithstanding the state he was in, his sincere homage caused him to be critical of his capabilities, and then

his brain whirled; innumerable phantom forms of sentences with a promise of glowing periods, offered their

heads to him, and immediately cut themselves off from all consequence, so that he was afraid to commence.

Speaking, moreover, he found to affect his balance. It became a problem whether he should talk, or retain his

perpendicular. His latent sense of propriety counselled him not to risk it, and he stood mute, looking like a

mask of ancient comedy, beneath which general embracing took place. The bride kissed Mrs. Berry, Mrs.

Berry kissed the bridegroom, on the plea of her softness. Ripton's long tight smile elaborated as the mad idea,

engendered by these proceedings, of claiming certain privileges due to him in his character of bridesman,

flashed across him. Some one noticed that the cake had not been cut, and his attention was drawn to the cake,

and he fell upon it, literally, rising sufficiently ashamed not to dare to look in the fair bride's face, much more

to claim a privilege. Lucy, however, gave him her hand, with a musical ``Goodbye, Mr. Ripton,'' and her

extreme graciousness made him just sensible enough to sit down before he murmured his fervent hopes for

``I shall take good care of him,'' said Mrs. Berry, focussing her eyes to the comprehension of the company.

``Farewell, Penelope!'' cries Richard. ``I shall tell the police everywhere to look out for your lord.''

Berry quavered, touched with compunction at the thoughts of approaching loneliness. Ripton, his mouth

drawn like a bow to his ears, brought up the rear to the carriage, receiving a fair slap on the cheek from an old

White handkerchiefs were waved, the adieux had fallen to signs: they were off. Then did a thought of such

urgency illumine Mrs. Berry, that she telegraphed, hand in air awakening Ripton's lungs, for the coachman to

stop, and ran back to the house. Richard chafed to be gone, but at his bride's intercession he consented to

wait. Presently they beheld the old blacksatin bunch stream through the streetdoor, down the bit of garden,

and up the astonished street, halting, panting, capless at the carriage door, a book in her hand,a

muchused, dogleaved, steamy, greasy book, which, at the same time calling out in breathless jerks,

``There! never ye mind looks! I ain't got a new one. Read it, and don't ye forget it!'' she discharged into

Lucy's lap, and retreated to the railings, a signal for the coachman to drive away for good.

How Richard laughed at the Berry's bridal gift! Lucy, too, lost the omen at her heart as she glanced at the title

of the volume. It was Dr. Kitchener on Domestic Cookery! Mrs. Berry's beloved private copy, with the

wisdom contained in which she trusted to allure back to home and its duties the wandering Ulysses of

General withdrawing of heads from streetwindows, emigration of organs and bands, and a relaxed

atmosphere in the circle of Mrs. Berry's abode, proved that Dan Cupid had veritably flown to suck the life of

fresh regions. With a pensive mind she grasped Ripton's arm to regulate his steps, and returned to the room

where her creditor awaited her. In the interval he had stormed her undefended fortress, the cake, from which

altitude he shook a dolorous head at the guilty woman. She smoothed her excited apron, sighing. Let no one

imagine that she regretted her complicity. She was ready to cry torrents, but there must be absolute

castigation before this criminal shall conceive the sense of regret; and probably then she will cling to her

wickedness the more such is the born Pagan's tenacity! Mrs. Berry sighed, and gave him back his shake

of the head. O you wanton, improvident creature! said he. O you very wise old gentleman! said she. He asked

her the thing she had been doing. She enlightened him with the fatalist's reply. He sounded a bogey's alarm of

contingent grave results. She retreated to the entrenched camp of the fact she had helped to make. ``It's

done!'' she exclaimed. How could she regret what she felt comfort to know was done? Convinced that events

alone could stamp a mark on such stubborn flesh, he determined to wait for them, and crouched silent on the

cake, with one finger downwards at Ripton's incision there, showing a crumbling chasm and gloomy rich

The eloquent indication was understood. ``Dear! dear!'' cried Mrs. Berry, ``what a heap o' cake, and no one to

Ripton had resumed his seat by the table and his embrace of the claret. Clear ideas of satisfaction had left him

and resolved to a boiling geyser of indistinguishable transports. He bubbled, and waggled, and nodded

amicably to nothing, and successfully, though not without effort, preserved his uppermost member from the

seductions of the nymph, Gravitation, who was on the lookout for his whole length shortly.

``Ha! ha!'' he shouted, about a minute after Mrs. Berry had spoken, and almost abandoned himself to the

``Why do you laugh, young man?'' she inquired, familiar and motherly on account of his condition.

``Ha! hah!'' Ripton laughed louder, and caught his chest on the edge of the table and his nose on a chicken.

``That's goo'!'' he said, recovering, and rocking under Mrs. Berry's eyes. ``No frien' send to? I like that!''

Mrs. Berry searched him with a glance. Perhaps the inebriate youth might let her into a few sweet particulars

of this interesting business, denied to her by the wary bridegroom and his obedient bride, she thought. She

wanted to have the stern father and cruel uncle described to her; their stature, complexion, and annual net

``I did not say, no friend,'' she remarked. ``I said, no one; meanin', I know not where for to send it to.''

Ripton's response to this was: ``You cut fair, Mizz Berry. There won't be much for 'em, I sh...'sure you. Take

glass wine. Cleret's my wine, sh...herry's yours. Why 'n't you put Richard's crez' on that cake? Mr.

Richardsha! ha! best fun the word!why 'n't you put a Griffin on that cake, Mizz Berry?

Wheatsheaves each side. Plenty 't means and plenty tete'tis! I'm very fond of heraldry,'' he added with a

``Oldest bar'netcy 'n England! If 'tisn't my name's not Rip'm Thomps'Es... quire. Gentleman, ma'm,

though he is arricled the law. Take glass wine, M...Mizz Berry. Cleret's my wine, sh...herry's yours. This bom

my third bod'l. What's three to a gentleman, though he isn't a bar'net's son with fifty ththousand ayear.''

``Fifty thousand! My goodness gracious me!'' ejaculated Mrs. Berry in flattering accents.

``Na a penny less, ma'm! And I'm his oldts friend. Very near transp...orted once, drinking cleret 'gether. Nev'

'fects you! Do take glass wine. Ha! ha! you think he's Richards. Nor a bir of it! No bar'net Richards's I know.

We're 'bliged be secret, Mizz Berry.'' Ripton looked profoundedly secret. ``Anything if 't's your own

dedriment. That's law, Mizz Berry. And 't's not his own dedriment. It's his delaight ha! hah!''

Here gravitation gave Ripton a strong pull. He just saved himself, and went on, with a hideous mimicry of the

God of Secrecy: ``We're oblige' be very close. And she's the most lovely!If I hear man say thing 'gainst

her, I...I knock 'm down! I...I...I knock 'm down! She is such a pretty creature!'' he sang in falsetto.

``You needn't for to cry over her, young man,'' said Mrs. Berry, who was resolved to stop his claret the

Ripton attempted the God of Secrecy again, but his lips would not protrude enough, and his eyebrows were

disaffected. He laughed outright. ``Wha' 's it matter now? They're married, sir. Wha' 've you be 'shamed

Filling Mrs. Berry's glass, and his own, to overflowing, and again splitting the solitary female who formed his

audience into two sexes, Ripton commanded silence, and pendulously swayed over Mrs. Berry's lap in total

forgetfulness of what he had ventured on his legs to celebrate. Aware that they did duty for some purpose, he

shut his eyes to meditate, but at this congenial action densest oblivion enwrapped his senses, and he was in

danger of coming into Mrs. Berry's lap head foremost; a calamity she averted by rising likewise, and shaking

him roughly, which brought him back to visionary consciousness, when he sank into his chair, and mildly

A little asperity was in her voice as she replied. ``You were going to propose a toast. And then, young man,

you'd better lie down a bit, and cool yourself. Do it sitting,'' she gesticulated peremptorily. ``I'll open the

bottle and fill the glass for you. I declare you're drinking it out of tumblers. It's shocking! You're never going

Ripton chivalrously insisted on a bumper. She filled it for him, under mental protest, for conscience pricked

``Young man,'' said Mrs. Berry, severely, ``I wanted for to drink their right healths by their right names, and

``You do?'' he said, and filling another bumper he with cheerfully vinous articulation and glibness of tongue

proposed the health of Richard and Lucy Feverel, of Raynham Abbey! and that mankind should not require

an expeditions example of the way to accept the inspiring toast, he drained his bumper at a gulp. It finished

him. The farthing rushlight of his reason leapt and expired. He staggered to the sofa, and there stretched.

Some minutes subsequent to Ripton's signalization of his devotion to the bridal pair, Mrs. Berry's maid

entered the room to say that a gentleman was inquiring below after the young gentleman who had departed,

and found her mistress with a tottering wineglass in her hand, exhibiting every symptom of unconsoled

hysterics. Her mouth gaped, as if the fell creditor had her by the swallow. She ejaculated with horrible

exultation that she had been and done it, as her disastrous aspect seemed to testify, and her evident, but

inexplicable, access of misery induced the sympathetic maid to tender those caressing words that were all

Mrs. Berry wanted to go off into the selfcaressing fit without delay; and she had already given the preluding

demoniac ironic outburst, when the maid called heaven to witness that the gentleman would hear her; upon

which Mrs. Berry violently controlled her bosom, and ordered that he should be shown upstairs instantly to

The maid did as she was told, and Mrs. Berry, wishing first to see herself as she was, mutely accosted the

lookingglass and tried to look a very little better. She dropped a shawl on Ripton and was settled, smoothing

The gentleman was Adrian Harley. An interview with Tom Bakewell had put him on the track, and now a

``It have been!'' Mrs. Berry answered, glancing over her shoulder at the window, and gulping as if to get her

Mrs. Berry smothered an adjective to ``weather'' on a deep sigh. Her wretchedness was palpable. In

proportion to it Adrian waxed cheerful and brisk. He divined enough of the business to see that there was

some strange intelligence to be fished out of the culprit who sat compressing hysterics before him; and as he

was never more in his element than when he had a sinner, and a repentant prostrate abject sinner, in hand, his

``I presume these are Mr. Thompson's lodgings?'' he remarked, with a look at the table.

Mrs. Berry's head and the whites of her eyes informed him that they were not Mr. Thompson's lodgings.

``No?'' said Adrian, and threw a carelessly inquisitive eye about him. ``Mr. Feverel is out, I suppose?''

A convulsive start at the name, and two corroborating hands dropped on her knees, formed Mrs. Berry's

``Mr. Feverel's man,'' continued Adrian, ``told me I should be certain to find him here. I thought he would be

with his friend, Mr. Thompson. I'm too late, I perceive. Their entertainment is over. I fancy you have been

In the presence of that cake this observation seemed to mask an irony so shrewd that Mrs. Berry could barely

contain herself. She felt she must speak. Making her face as deplorably propitiating as she could, she began:

``His father's Sir Austin?'' wailed the blacksatin bunch from behind her handkerchief.

``Oh, then, what have I been and done!'' she cried, and stared blankly at her visitor. ``I been and married my

baby! I been and married the bread out of my own mouth! O Mr. Harley! Mr. Harley! I knew you when you

was a boy that big, and wore jackets; and all of you. And it's my softness that's my ruin, for I never can resist

The quiet ease of the question overwhelmed Mrs. Berry, and upset that train of symbolic representations by

which she was seeking to make him guess the catastrophe and spare her the furnace of confession.

``I did not make it myself, Mr. Harley,'' she replied. ``It's a bought cake, and I'm a lost woman. Little I

dreamed when I had him in my arms a baby that I should some day be marrying him out of my own house! I

little dreamed that! Oh, why did he come to me! Don't you remember his old nurse, when he was a baby in

arms, that went away so sudden, and no fault of hers, Mr. Harley! The very mornin' after the night you got

into Mr. Benson's cellar, and got so tipsy on his MadearyI remember it as clear as yesterday!and Mr.

Benson was that angry he threated to use the whip to you, and I helped put you to bed. I'm that very woman.''

``Won't you see it all, kind sir?'' Mrs. Berry appealed to him in pathetic dumb show.

Doubtless by this time Adrian did see it all, and was mentally cursing at Folly, and reckoning the immediate

consequences, but he looked uninstructed, his peculiar dimplesmile was undisturbed, his comfortable

Mrs. Berry burst forth: ``It were done this mornin', Mr. Harley, in the church, at halfpast eleven of the clock,

or twenty to, by licence;'' adding from the bottom of her voice, ``and I've never a ring to show for it!''

Adrian was now obliged to comprehend a case of matrimony. ``Oh!'' he said, like one who is as hard as facts,

and as little to be moved: ``Somebody was married this morning; was it Mr. Thompson, or Mr. Feverel?''

Mrs. Berry shuffled up to Ripton, and removed the shawl from him, saying: ``Do he look like a new married

``Oh! he were quite reasonable and proper then,'' Mrs. Berry begged him to understand.

``Of course, ma'am.'' Adrian lifted and let fall the stupid inanimate limbs of the gone wretch, puckering his

mouth queerly. ``You were all reasonable and proper, ma'am. The principal male performer, then, is my

cousin, Mr. Feverel? He was married by you, this morning, by license, at your parish church, and came here,

Mrs. Berry flew out. ``He never drink a drop, sir. A more moderate young gentleman you never see. Oh!

don't ye think that now, Mr. Harley. He was as upright and master of his mind as you be.''

``Ay!'' the wise youth nodded thanks to her for the comparison, ``I mean the other form of intoxication.''

Adrian desired her to sit down, and compose herself, and tell him circumstantially what had been done.

Mrs. Berry, as her recital declared, was no other than that identical woman who once in old days had dared to

behold the baronet behind his mask, and had ever since lived in exile from the Raynham world on a little

pension regularly paid to her as an indemnity. She was that woman, and the thought of it made her almost

accuse Providence for the betraying excess of softness it had endowed her with. How was she to recognize

her baby grown a man? He came in a feigned name; not a word of the family was mentioned. He came like an

ordinary mortal, though she felt something more than ordinary towards him she knew she did. He came

bringing a beautiful young lady, and on what grounds could she turn her back on them? Why, seeing that all

was chaste and legal, why _should_ she interfere to make them unhappyso few the chances of happiness

``One wrench,'' said the sobbing culprit, ``one wrench, and my ring went off like my Berry!''

She had no suspicions, and she had therefore never thought of looking at the signatures in the vestrybook.

``And it's fort'nate I didn't!'' she exclaimed, ``for out I should 'a shrieked there and then, never mind where's

the spot, to think I been and married my own baby unbeknown. Not till this Mr. Thompson proposed their

healths tipsy by their right names did I thinkFeverel! Raynham Abbey! Oh! then I had been and married

``You looked as if you were suffering from a premature indigestion of bridecake, ma'am,'' said Adrian. ``I

``As, of course, you shouldknowing the family. Where may these lunatics have gone to spend the

Mrs. Berry swimmingly replied: ``To the Isle o' . I don't know, indeed, sir!'' she snapped the

indication short, and jumped out of the pit she had fallen into. Repentant as she might be, those dears should

not be pursued and cruelly barked of their young bliss! ``Tomorrow, if you please, Mr. Harley: not today!''

By a measurement of dates he discovered that the bridegroom had brought his bride to the house on the day

he had quitted Raynham, and this was enough to satisfy Adrian's mind that there had been concoction and

chicanery. Chance, probably, had brought him to the old woman: chance certainly had not brought him to the

``Very well, ma'am,'' he said, in answer to her petitions for his favourable offices with Sir Austin in behalf of

her little pension, and the bridal pair, ``I will tell him you were only a blind agent in the affair, being naturally

soft, and that you trust he will bless the consummation. He will be in town tomorrow morning; but one of

you two must see him tonight. An emetic kindly administered will set our friend here on his legs. A bath,

and a clean shirt, and he might go. I don't see why your name should appear at all. Brush him up, and send

him to Bellingham by the seven o'clock train. He will find his way to Raynham; he knows the neighbourhood

With this fair prospect of leaving a choice of a perdition between the couple of unfortunates, for them to fight

Mrs. Berry touchingly arrested him. ``You won't refuse a piece of his cake, Mr. Harley?''

``Oh, dear, no, ma'am.'' Adrian turned to the cake with alacrity. ``I shall claim a very large piece. Richard has

a great many friends who will rejoice to eat his weddingcake. Cut me a fair quarter, Mrs. Berry. Put it in

paper, if you please. I shall be delighted to carry it to them, and apportion it equitably according to their

Mrs. Berry cut the cake. Somehow, as she sliced through it, the sweetness and hapless innocence of the bride

was presented to her, and she launched into eulogies of Lucy, and clearly showed how little she regretted her

conduct. She vowed that they seemed made for each other; that both were beautiful; both had spirit; both

were innocent; and to part them, or make them unhappy, would be, Mrs. Berry wrought herself to cry aloud,

Adrian listened to it as the expression of a matteroffact opinion. He took the huge quarter of cake, nodded

``So dies the System!'' was Adrian's comment in the street. ``And now let prophets roar! He dies respectably

in a marriagebed, which is more than I should have foretold of the monster. Meantime,'' he gave the cake a

Adrian really bore the news he had heard with creditable disinterestedness, and admirable repression of

anything beneath the dignity of a philosopher. When one has attained that felicitous point of wisdom from

which one sees all mankind to be fools, the diminutive objects may make what new moves they please, one

does not marvel at them: their sedateness is as comical as their frolic, and their frenzies more comical still.

On this intellectual eminence the wise youth had built his castle, and he had lived in it from an early period.

Astonishment never shook the foundations, nor did envy of greater heights tempt him to relinquish the

security of his stronghold, for he saw none. Jugglers he saw running up ladders that overtopped him, and

airballoons scaling the empyrean; but the former came precipitately down again, and the latter were at the

mercy of the winds; while he remained tranquil on his solid unambitious ground, fitting his morality to the

laws, his conscience to his morality, his comfort to his conscience. Not that voluntarily he cut himself off

from his fellows: on the contrary, his sole amusement was their society. Alone he was rather dull, as a man

who beholds but one thing must naturally be. Study of the animated varieties of that one thing excited him

sufficiently to think life a pleasant play; and the faculties he had forfeited to hold his elevated position he

could serenely enjoy by contemplation of them in others. Thus:wonder at Master Richard's madness:

though he himself did not experience it, he was eager to mark the effect on his beloved relatives. As he

carried along his vindictive hunch of cake, he shaped out their different attitudes of amaze, bewilderment,

horror; passing by some personal chagrin in the prospect. For his patron had projected a journey,

commencing with Paris, culminating on the Alps, and lapsing in Rome: a delightful journey to show Richard

the highways of History and tear him from the risk of further ignoble fascinations, that his spirit might be

altogether bathed in freshness and revived. This had been planned during Richard's absence to surprise him.

Now the dream of travel was to Adrian what the love of woman is to the race of young men. It supplanted

that foolishness. It was his Romance, as we say; that buoyant anticipation on which in youth we ride the airs,

and which, as we wax older and too heavy for our atmosphere, hardens to the Hobby, which, if an obstinate

animal, is a safer horse, and conducts man at a slower pace to the sexton. Adrian had never travelled. He was

aware that his romance was earthly and had discomforts only to be evaded by the one potent talisman

possessed by his patron. His Alp would hardly be grand to him without an obsequious landlord in the

foreground: he must recline on Mammon's imperial cushions in order to moralize becomingly on the ancient

world. The search for pleasure at the expense of discomfort, as frantic lovers woo their mistresses to partake

the shelter of a hut and batten on a crust, Adrian deemed the bitterness of beggarliness. Let his sweet mistress

be given him in the pomp and splendour due to his superior emotions, or not at all. Consequently the wise

youth had long nursed an ineffectual passion, and it argued a great nature in him that, at the moment when his

wishes were to be crowned, he should look with such slight touches of spleen at the gorgeous composite

fabric of Parisian cookery and Roman antiquities crumbling into unsubstantial mockery. Assuredly very few

even of the philosophers would have turned away uncomplainingly to meaner delights the moment after.

He was sitting by the window in his hotel, reading. He had fought down his breakfast with more than usual

success, and was looking forward to his dinner at the Foreys with less than usual timidity.

``Ah! glad you've come, Adrian,'' he said, and expanded his chest. ``I was afraid I should have to ride down.

This is kind of you. We'll walk down together through the park. It's absolutely dangerous to walk alone in

these streets. My opinion is, that orangepeel lasts all through the year now, and will till legislation puts a

stop to it. We were free from that nuisance in the Summeronce; but now everybody's stupid

inconsiderateness has multiplied tenfold the malignity of those boys who broke our necks in the Winter, and

there's positively no relapse. I give you my word I slipped on a piece of orangepeel yesterday afternoon in

Piccadilly, and I thought I was downI thought I was down! I saved myself by miracle.''

``I think I shall get one, after a bit of a walk,'' chirped Hippias, ``Yes. I think I feel hungry now.''

``Charmed to hear it,'' said Adrian, and began unpinning his parcel on his knees. ``How should you define

``Hm!'' Hippias meditates; he always prided himself on being oracular when such questions were addressed

``Very good definition. In other words, a piece of orangepeel; once on it, your life and limbs are in danger,

and you are saved by a miracle. You must present that to the =Pilgrim.= And the monument of folly, what

Hippias meditated anew. ``All the human race on one another's shoulders.'' He chuckled at the sweeping

``Very good,'' Adrian applauded, ``or in default of that, some symbol of the thing, say; such as this of which I

``Cake!'' cried Hippias, retreating his chair with intense disgust. ``Well! you're right of them that eat it. If

Iif I don't mistake,'' he peered at it, ``the noxious composition bedizened in that way is what they call

weddingcake. It's arrant poison! It's destruction to the stomach! Ugh! Who is it you want to kill? What are

Adrian rang the bell for a knife. ``To present you with your due and proper portion.''

``Well,'' said Adrian, ``you will have friends and relatives, and can't be saved from them, not even by miracle.

It is a habit which exhibits, perhaps, the unconscious inherent cynicism of the human mind, for people who

consider that they have reached the acme of mundane felicity, to distribute this token of esteem to their

friends, with the object probably'' (he took the knife from a waiter and went to the table to slice the cake) ``of

enabling those friends (these edifices require very delicate incisioneach particular currant and subtle

condiment hangs to its neighboura weddingcake is evidently the most highly civilized of cakes, and

partakes of the evils as well as the advantages of civilization!)I was saying, they send us these

lovetokens, no doubt (we shall have to weigh out the crumbs, if each is to have his fair share) that we may

the better estimate (got to the bottom at last!) their state of bliss, by passing some hours in purgatory. This, as

far as I can apportion it, without weights and scales, is your share, my uncle!''

``Get away!'' Hippias vehemently motioned, and started from his chair. ``I'll have none of it, I tell you! It's

death! It's fifty times worse than that beastly compound Christmas pudding! What fool has been doing this,

``You are not compelled to eat any before dinner,'' said Adrian, pointing the corner of the table after him,

``but your share you must take, and appear to consume. One who has done so much to bring about the

marriage cannot in conscience refuse his allotment of the fruits. Maidens, I hear, first cook it under their

pillows, and extract nuptial dreams therefromsaid to be of a lighter class, taken that way. It's a capital

cake, and, upon my honour, you have helped to make ityou have indeed! So here it is.''

The table again went at Hippias. He ran nimbly round it, and flung himself on a sofa exhausted, crying:

``Then shall I tell Richard that you won't touch a morsel of his cake?'' said Adrian, leaning on his two hands

``Yes, your nephew: my cousin: Richard! Your companion since you've been in town. He's married, you

know. Married this morning at Kensington parish church, by licence, at halfpast eleven of the clock, or

twenty to. Married, and gone to spend his honeymoon in the Isle of Wight: a very delectable place for a

month's residence. I have to announce to you that, thanks to your assistance, the experiment is launched,

There was something to think and to say in objection to it, but the wits of poor Hippias were softened by the

shock. His hand travelled halfway to his forehead, spread out to smooth the surface of that seat of reason,

``Surely you knew all about it? you were so anxious to have him in town under your charge.'' . . .

``Married?'' Hippias jumped uphe had it. ``Why, he's under age! he's an infant.''

``So he is. But the infant is not the less married. Fib like a man and pay your feewhat does it matter? Any

one who is breeched can obtain a licence in our noble country. And the interests of morality demand that it

should not be, difficult. Is it truecan you persuade anybody that you have known nothing about it?''

``Ha! infamous joke! I wish, sir, you would play your pranks on somebody else,'' said Hippias sternly, as he

Adrian sat down to instil belief by gentle degrees, and put an artistic finish to the work. He had the

gratification of passing his uncle through varied contortions, and at last Hippias perspired in conviction, and

exclaimed, ``This accounts for his conduct to me. That be must have a cunning nothing short of infernal! I

``I'm not equal to this world of fools,'' he added faintly. and shut his eyes. ``No, I can't dine. Eat? ha! . . . no.

Shortly after, Hippias went to bed, saying to himself, as he undressed, ``See what comes of our fine schemes!

Poor Austin!'' and as the pillow swelled over his ears, ``I'm not sure that a day's fast won't do me good.'' The

He sighted his melancholy uncle Algernon hunting an appetite in the Row, and looking as if the hope ahead

of him were also onelegged. The Captain did not pass without querying the ungainly parcel.

``I hope I carry it ostentatiously enough?'' said Adrian. ``Enclosed is wherewithal to quiet the alarm of the

land. Now may the maids and wives of Merry England sleep secure! I had half a mind to fix it on a pole, and

engage a band to parade it. This is our dear Richard's weddingcake. Married at halfpast eleven this

morning, by licence, at the Kensington parish church; his own ring being lost he employed the ring of his

beautiful bride's lachrymose landlady, she standing adjacent by the altar. His farewell to you as a bachelor,

and hers as a maid, you can claim on the spot, if you think proper, and digest according to your powers.''

Algernon let off steam in a whistle. ``Thompson, the solicitor's daughter!'' he said. ``I met them the other day,

``No.'' Adrian set him right. ``'Tis a Miss Desborough, a Roman Catholic dairymaid. Reminds one of pastoral

England in the time of the Plantagenets! He's quite equal to introducing her as Thompson's daughter, and

himself as Beelzebub's son. However, the wild animal is in Hymen's chains, and the cake is cut. Will you

``Oh, by all means!not now.'' Algernon had an unwonted air of reflection.``Father know it?''

``Wants money!'' said Adrian, putting the combustible he carried once more in motion.

The women were the crowning joy of his contemplative mind. He had reserved them for his final discharge.

Dear demonstrative creatures! Dyspepsia would not weaken their poignant outcries, or selfinterest cheek

their fainting fits. On the generic woman one could calculate. Well might =The Pilgrim's Scrip= say of her

that, ``She is always at Nature's breast;'' not intending it as a compliment. Each woman is Eve throughout the

ages; whereas the =Pilgrim= would have us believe that the Adam in men has become warier, if not wiser;

and weak as he is, has learnt a lesson from time. Probably the Pilgrim's meaning may be taken to be, that Man

At any rate, Adrian hoped for such natural choruses as you hear in the nursery when a bauble is lost. He was

awake to Mrs. Doria's maternal predestinations, and guessed that Clare stood ready with the best form of

filial obedience. They were only a poor couple to gratify his Mephistophelian humour, to be sure, but Mrs.

Doria was equal to twenty, and they would proclaim the diverse ways with which maidenhood and

womanhood took disappointment, while the surrounding Forey wills and other females of the family

assembly were expected to develop the finer shades and tapering edges of an agitation to which no woman

All went well. He managed cleverly to leave the cake unchallenged in a conspicuous part of the

drawingroom, and stepped gaily down to dinner. Much of the conversation adverted to Richard. Mrs. Doria

``Seen him? no! Heard of him? yes!'' said Adrian. ``I have heard of him. I heard that he was sublimely happy,

and had eaten such a breakfast that dinner was impossible; claret and cold chicken, cake and''

One fast young male Forey allied the System and the cake in a miserable pun. Adrian, a hater of puns, looked

at him, and held the table silent, as if he were going to speak; but he said nothing and the young gentleman

Mrs. Doria peevishly exclaimed, ``Oh! fishcake, I suppose! I wish he understood a little better the

``Whether he understands them, I can't say,'' observed Adrian, ``but I assure you he is very energetic in

The wise youth talked innuendoes whenever he had an opportunity, that his dear relative might be rendered

sufficiently inflammable by and by at the aspect of the cake; but he was not thought more than commonly

``Was his appointment at the house of those Grandison people?'' Mrs. Doria asked, with a hostile upperlip.

Adrian warmed the blindfolded parties by replying, ``Do they keep a beadle at the door?''

Mrs. Doria's animosity to Mrs. Grandison made her treat this as a piece of satirical ingenuousness. ``I dare

Old Mr. Forey advised his punning grandson Clarence to give that house a wide berth, where he might be

The Foreys gave good dinners, and with the old gentleman the excellent old fashion remained in permanence

of trooping off the ladies as soon as they had taken their sustenance and just exchanged a smile with the

flowers and the dessert, when they rose to fade with a beautiful accord, and the gallant males breathed under

easier waistcoats, and settled to the business of the table, sure that an hour was their own. Adrian took a chair

``I want to ask you,'' he said, ``whether an infant in law can legally bind himself.''

``If he's old enough to affix his signature to an instrument, I suppose he can,'' yawned Brandon.

The patriarch of the table sang out to Adrian that he stopped the vigorous circulation of the claret.

``Dear me, sir!'' said Adrian, ``I beg pardon. The circumstances must excuse me. The fact is, my cousin

Richard got married to a dairymaid this morning, and I wanted to know whether it held in law.''

It was amusing to watch the manly coolness with which the announcement was taken. Nothing was heard

``I thought it better to let the ladies dine in peace,'' Adrian continued. ``I wanted to be able to console my

``Well, butwell, but,'' the old gentleman, much the most excited, puffed``eh, Brandon? He's a boy,

this young ass! Do you mean to tell me a boy can go and marry when he pleases, and any trull he pleases, and

the marriage is good? If I thought that I'd turn every woman off my premises. I would! from the housekeeper

``Till he knew what women are made of, sir!'' the old gentleman finished his sentence vehemently. ``What,

``He has been trying the very System you have proposed, sirone that does not reckon on the powerful

action of curiosity on the juvenile intelligence. I'm afraid it's the very worst way of solving the problem.''

``At your age,'' Adrian relieved his embarrassment, ``it is natural, my dear Clarence, that you should consider

the idea of an isolated or imprisoned manhood something monstrous, and we do not expect you to see what

amount of wisdom it contains. You follow one extreme, and we the other. I don't say that a middle course

exists. The history of mankind shows our painful efforts to find one, but they have invariably resolved

themselves into asceticism, or laxity, acting and reacting. The moral question is, if a naughty little man, by

reason of his naughtiness, releases himself from foolishness, does a foolish little man, by reason of his

A discussion, peculiar to men of the world, succeeded the laugh at Mr. Clarence. Then coffee was handed

round and the footman informed Adrian, in a low voice, that Mrs. Doria Forey particularly wished to speak

with him. Adrian preferred not to go in alone. ``Very well,'' he said, and sipped his coffee. They talked on,

sounding the depths of law in Brandon Forey, and receiving nought but hollow echoes from that profound

cavity. He would not affirm that the marriage was invalid: he would not affirm that it could not be anulled,

He thought not; still he thought it would be worth trying. A consummated and a nonconsummated union

``Dear me!'' said Adrian, ``does the Law recognize that? Why that's almost human!''

Another message was brought to Adrian that Mrs. Doria Forey _very_ particularly wished to speak with him.

``What can be the matter?'' he exclaimed, pleased to have his faith in woman strengthened. The cake had

So it proved, when the gentleman joined the fair society. All the younger ladies stood about the table,

whereon the cake stood displayed, gaps being left for those sitting to feast their vision, and intrude the

comments and speculations continually arising from fresh shocks of wonder at the unaccountable apparition.

Entering with the halfguilty air of men who know they have come from a grosser atmosphere, the gallant

``Here! Adrian!'' Mrs. Doria cried. ``Where is Adrian? Pray come here. Tell me! Where did this cake come

from? Whose is it? What does it do here? You know all about it, for you brought it. Clare saw you bring it

into the room. What does it mean? I insist upon a direct answer. Now do not make me impatient, Adrian.''

Certainly Mrs. Doria was equal to twenty. By her concentrated rapidity and volcanic complexion it was

The wise youth bowed: ``Categorically. This cake came from the house of a person, a female, of the name of

Berry. It belongs to you partly, partly to me, partly to Clare, and to the rest of our family, on the principle of

But when Adrian told her that Richard had left town, her struggling hope sank. ``The wretched boy has

Oh! that System! The delicate vituperations gentle ladies use instead of oaths, Mrs. Doria showered on that

System. She hesitated not to say that her brother had got what he deserved. Opinionated, morbid, weak,

justice had overtaken him. Now he would see! but at what a price! at what a sacrifice!

Sadly the wise youth recapitulated Berry's words. ``He was married this morning at halfpast eleven of the

``The happy damsel is, I regret to say, the Papist dairymaid,'' said Adrian, in sorrowful but deliberate accents.

Then arose a feminine hum, in the midst of which Mrs. Doria cried, ``Brandon!'' She was a woman of energy.

``Brandon,'' she drew the barrister a little aside, ``can they not be followed, and separated? I want your

advice? Cannot we separate them? A boy! it is really shameful if he should be allowed to fall into the toils of

The worthy barrister felt inclined to laugh, but he answered her entreaties: ``From what I hear of the young

``I'm speaking of law, Brandon. Can we not obtain an order from one of your Courts to pursue them and

Brandon assured her that the Judges were a hardworked race, and to a man slept heavily after dinner.

``Will you do so tomorrow, the first thing in the morning? Will you promise me to do so, Brandon?Or a

magistrate! A magistrate would send a policeman after them. My dear Brandon! I begI beg you to assist

us in this dreadful extremity. It will be the death of my poor brother. I believe he would forgive anything but

``What is it, aunt?'' asked the wise youth. ``You want them followed and torn asunder by wild policemen?''

``Yes! yes!'' Mrs. Doria did not require any of his elucidations. ``Pray be quiet, Adrian, and let me speak.

Brandon! it cannot be! it's quite impossible! Can you stand there and tell me that boy is legally married? I

never will believe it! The law cannot be so shamefully bad as to permit a boya mere childto do such

absurd things. Grandpapa!'' she beckoned to the old gentleman. ``Grandpapa! pray do make Brandon speak.

These lawyers never will. He might stop it, if he would. If I were a man, do you think I would stand here?''

``Well, my dear,'' the old gentleman toddled to compose her, ``I'm quite of your opinion. I believe he knows

no more than you or I. My belief is they none of them know anything till they join issue and go into Court. I

``To encourage the bankrupt perruqiuer, sir?'' said Adrian. ``They would have to keep a large supply of wigs

``And you can jest, Adrian!'' his aunt reproached him. ``But I will not be beaten. I knowI am firmly

convinced that no law would ever allow a boy to disgrace his family and ruin himself like that, and nothing

shall persuade me that it is so. Now, tell me, Brandon, and pray do speak in answer to my questions, and

please to forget you are dealing with a woman. _Can_ my nephew be rescued from the consequences of his

folly? _Is_ what he has done legitimate? _Is_ he bound for life by what he has done while a boy?''

``Wella,'' Brandon breathed through his teeth. ``Ahm! the matter's so very delicate, you see, Helen.''

``Ahm! well!'' pursued Brandon. ``Perhaps if you could arrest and divide them before nightfall, and make

``Well . . . hm! a . . . in that case . . . a . . . Or if a lunatic, you could prove him to have been of unsound mind''

``Yes! well! in that case . . . Or if of different religious persuasions'' . . .

``Yes! well! in that case . . . objections might be taken to the form of the marriage . . . Might be proved

``He _can't_ be much more,'' cried Mrs. Doria. ``I think,'' she appeared to reflect, and then faltered

The kind wise youth could not find it in his heart to strike away the phantom straw she caught at.

``Oh! about that, I should fancy,'' he muttered, and found it necessary at the same time to duck and turn his

``Yes! well, then . . .'' Brandon was resuming with a shrug, which was meant to say he still pledged himself to

nothing, when Clare's voice was heard from out the buzzing circle of her cousins: ``Richard is nineteen years

Mrs. Doria fought the fact by years and finally by months, Clare was too strong for her.

``Singular child!'' she mentally apostrophized the girl who scornfully rejected straws while drowning,

``But there's the religion still!'' she comforted herself, and sat down to cogitate.

Music was proposed. There are times when soft music hath not charms; when it is put to as base uses as

Imperial Caesar's dust and is simply taken to fill horrid pauses. Angelica Forey thumped the piano, and sang:

``_I'm a laughing Gitana, haha! haha!_'' Nobody believed her. Matilda Forey and her cousin Mary

Branksburne wedded their voices, and songfully incited all young people to _Haste to the bower that love has

built,_ and defy the wise ones of the world; but the wise ones of the world were in a majority there, and very

few places of assembly will be found where they are not; so the glowing appeal of the British balladmonger

passed into the bosom of the emptiness he addressed. Clare was asked to entertain the company. The singular

child calmly marched to the instrument, and turned over the exquisitely appropriate illustrations to the British

``Sing this, dear,'' said Angelica. ``This is pretty: `_I know I have not loved in vain!_' Eh? don't you like that?

or this: `_He knew not that I watched his ways._' What's this correction in the lines. . .? `_I thought he knew

not I wore_' It's that Clarence! Really it's a shame how he treats our books. And here again: `_When I

heard he was married._' _Spliced!_ he has written in. One of his dreadful slang words! I'll serve him out,

though. Oh! he is too absurd. Look: `_I dare not breathe his name._' He has written: `_For it is not

But Clarence candidly revealed the estimation in which the British balladmonger is held by the applausive

sons of Britain (not enamoured of the fair cantatrice), who murmur ``Beautiful! Charming song!'' and nightly

receive drawingroom lessons of disgust at hearts, and bosoms, and bowers, that may partly account for their

reticence and gaucherie when hearts, and bosoms, and bowers, are things of earnest with them.

Clare rejected all pathetic anatomy, and sang a little Irish air. Her duty done, she marched from the piano.

Mothers are rarely deceived by their daughters in these matters; but Clare deceived her mother; and Mrs.

Doria only persisted in feeling an agony of pity for her child, that she might the more warrantably pity

herselfa not uncommon form of the emotion, for there is no juggler like that heart the balladmonger puts

in to our mouths so boldly. Remember that she saw years of selfdenial, years of a ripening scheme, rendered

fruitless in a minute and by the System which had almost reduced her to the condition of constitutional

hypocrite. She had enough of bitterness to brood over, and some excuse for selfpity.

Still, even when she was cooler, Mrs. Doria's energetic nature prevented her from giving up. Straws were

straws, and the frailer they were the harder she clutched them. She rose from her chair, and left the room,

``Adrian,'' she said, turning upon him in the passage, ``you mentioned a house where this horrible cake. . . . .

The wise youth had not bargained for personal servitude. He had hoped he should be in time for the last act of

the opera that night, after enjoying the comedy of real life. ``My dear aunt'' . . , . he was beginning to

There was nothing for it but to obey. He stamped his assent to the =Pilgrim='s dictum, that Women are

practical creatures, and now reflected on his own account that relationship to a young fool may be a vexation

What Mrs. Doria intended to do, the practical creature did not plainly know; but her energy positively

demanded to be used in some way or other, and her instinct directed her to the offender on whom she could

use it in wrath. She wanted somebody to be angry with, somebody to abuse. She dared not abuse her brother

to his face: him she would have to console. Adrian was a fellowhypocrite to the System, and would, she was

aware, bring her into painfully delicate, albeit highly philosophic, ground by a discussion if the case. So she

When a soft woman, and that soft woman a sinner, is matched with a woman of energy, she does not show

much fight, and she meets no mercy. Bessy Berry's creditor came to her in female form that night. She then

behold it in all its terrors. Hitherto it had appeared to her as a male, a disembodied spirit of her imagination

possessing male attributes, and the peculiar male characteristic of being moved, and ultimately silenced, by

tears. As female, her creditor was terrible indeed. Still, had it not been a late hour, Bessy Berry would have

died rather than speak openly that her babes had sped to make their nest in the Isle of Wight. They had a long

start, they were out of the reach of pursuers, they were safe, and she told what she had to tell. She told more

than was wise of her to tell. She made mention of her early service in the family, and of her little pension.

Alas! her little pension! Her creditor had come expecting no paymentcome, as creditors are wont in such

moods, just to take it out of her, to employ the familiar term. At once Mrs. Doria pounced upon the pension.

``That, of course, you know is at an end,'' she said in the calmest manner, and Berry did not plead for the little

True admirers of women had better stand aside from the scene. Undoubtedly it was very sad for Adrian to be

compelled to witness it. Mrs. Doria was not generous. The =Pilgrim= may be wrong about the sex not

growing; but its fashion of conducting warfare we must allow to be barbarous, and according to what is

deemed the pristine, or wild cat, method. Ruin, nothing short of it, accompanied poor Berry to her bed that

The scene over, Adrian reconducted Mrs. Doria to her home. Mice had been at the cake during her absence,

apparently. The ladies and gentlemen present put it on the greedy mice, who were accused of having gorged

``I'm sure they're quite welcome,'' said Mrs. Doria. ``It's a farce, this marriage, and Adrian has quite come to

my way of thinking. I would not touch an atom of it. Why, they were married in a married woman's ring! Can

_that_ be legal, as you call it? Oh, I'm convinced! Don't tell me. Austin will be in town tomorrow, and if he

is true to his principles, he will instantly adopt measures to rescue his son from infamy. I want no legal

Mrs. Doria's fine scheme had become so much a part of her life, that she could not give it up. She took Clare

to her bed, and caressed and wept over her, as she would not have done had she known the singular child,

saying, ``Poor Richard! my dear poor boy! we must save him, Clare! we must save him!'' Of the two the

mother showed the greater want of iron on this occasion. Clare lay in her arms rigid and emotionless, with

one of her hands tightlocked. All she said was: ``I knew it in the morning, mama.'' She slept clasping

By this time all specially concerned in the System knew it. The honeymoon was shining placidly above them.

Is not happiness like another circulating medium? When we have a very great deal of it, some poor hearts are

aching for what is taken away from them. When we have gone out and seized it on the highways, certain

inscrutable laws are sure to be at work to bring us to the criminal bar, sooner or later. Who knows the

honeymoon that did not steal somebody's sweetness? Richard Turpin went forth, singing: ``Money or life'' to

the world: Richard Feverel has done the same, substituting ``Happiness'' for ``Money,'' frequently synonyms.

The coin he wanted he would have, and was just as much a highway robber as his fellow Dick, so that those

who have failed to recognize him as a hero before, may now regard him in that light. Meanwhile the world he

has squeezed looks exceedingly patient and beautiful. His coin chinks delicious music to him. Nature, and the

order of things on earth, have no warmer admirer than a jolly brigand or a young man made happy by the

And now the author of the System was on trial under the eyes of the lady who loved him. What so kind as

they? Yet are they very rigorous, those soft watchful woman's eyes. If you fall below the measure they have

made of you, you will feel it in the fulness of time. She cannot but show you that she took you for a giant,

and has had to come down a bit. You feel yourself strangely diminishing in those sweet mirrors, till at last

they drop on you complacently level. But, oh beware, vain man, of ever waxing enamoured of that wonderful

elongation of a male creature you saw reflected in her adoring upcast orbs! Beware of assisting to delude her!

A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that: she will haply learn

to acknowledge that no mortal tailor could have fitted that figure she made of you respectably, and that

practically (though she sighs to think it) her ideal of you was on the pattern of an overgrown charityboy in

the regulation jacket and breech. For this she first scorns the narrow capacities of the tailor, and then smiles at

herself. But shouldst thou, when the hour says plainly, Be thyself, and the woman is willing to take thee as

thou art, shouldst thou still aspire to be that thing of shanks and wrists, wilt thou not seem contemptible as

well as ridiculous? And when the fall comes, will it not be flat on thy face, instead of to the common height

of men? You may fall miles below her measure of you, and be safe: nothing is damaged save an overgrown

charityboy; but if you fall below the common height of men, you must make up your mind to see her rustle

her gown, spy at the lookingglass, and transfer her allegiance. The moral of which is, that if we pretend to

be what we are not, women, for whose amusement the farce is performed, will find us out and punish us for

Had Sir Austin given vent to the pain and wrath it was natural he should feel, he might have gone to

unphilosophic excesses, and, however much he lowered his reputation as a sage, Lady Blandish would have

excused him: she would not have loved him less for seeing him closer. But the poor gentleman tasked his

soul and stretched his muscles to act up to her conception of him. He, a man of science in life, who was

bound to be surprised by nothing in nature, it was not for him to do more than lift his eyebrows and draw in

All he said, after Ripton had handed the letters and carried his penitential headache to bed, was: ``You see,

A very philosophical remark for one who has been busily at work building for nearly twenty years. Too

philosophical to seem genuine. It revealed where the blow struck sharpest. Richard was no longer the Richard

of his creation his pride and his joybut simply a human being with the rest. The bright star had sunk

among the mass. And yet, what had the young man done? And in what had the System failed?

The lady could not but ask herself this, while she condoled with the offended father.

``My friend,'' she said, tenderly taking his hand before she retired, ``I know how deeply you must be grieved.

I know what your disappointment must be. I do not beg of you, to forgive him now. You cannot doubt his

love for this young person and according to his light, has he not behaved honourably, and as you would have

wished, rather than bring her to shame? You will think of that. It has been an accidenta misfortunea

``The God of this world is in the machinenot out of it,'' Sir Austin interrupted her, and pressed her hand

At any other time her mind would have been arrested to admire the phrase; now it seemed perverse, vain,

false, and she was tempted to turn the meaning that was in it against himself, much as she pitied him.

``You know, Emmeline,'' he added, ``I believe very little in the fortune, or misfortune, to which men attribute

their successes and reverses. They are useful impersonations to novelists; but my opinion is sufficiently high

of flesh and blood to believe that we make our own history without intervention. Accidents?Terrible

``Goodnight,'' she said, looking sad and troubled. ``When I said, `misfortune,' I meant, of course, that he is

He assured her that he hoped not to do so, and the moment she was gone he set about shutting it as tight as he

could. If, instead of saying, Base no system on a human being, he had said, Never experimentalize with one,

he would have been nearer the truth of his own case. He had experimented on humanity in the person of the

son he loved as his life, and at once, when the experiment appeared to have failed, all humanity's failings fell

on the shoulders of his son. Richard's parting laugh in the trainit was explicable now: it sounded in his

ears like the mockery of this base nature of ours at every endeavour to exalt and chasten it. The young man

had plotted this. From step to step Sir Austin traced the plot. The curious mask he had worn since his illness;

the selection of his incapable uncle Hippias for a companion in preference to Adrian; it was an evident,

wellperfected plot. That hideous laugh would not be silenced. Base, like the rest, treacherous, a creature of

passions using his abilities solely to gratify themnever surely had humanity such chances as in him! A

Manichaean tendency, from which the sententious eulogist of nature had been struggling for years (and which

was partly at the bottom of the System), now began to cloud and usurp dominion of his mind. As he sat alone

How are we to know when we are at the head and fountain of the fates of them we love?

There by the springs of Richard's future, his father sat. and the devil said to him: ``Only be quiet: do nothing:

resolutely do nothing: your object now is to keep a brave face to the world, so that all may know you superior

to this human nature that has deceived you. For it is the shameless deception, not the marriage, that has

``Ay!'' answered the baronet, ``the shameless deception, not the marriage! wicked and ruinous as it must be; a

destroyer of my tenderest hopes! my dearest schemes! Not the marriage:the shameless deception!'' and he

How are we to distinguish the dark chief of the Manichaeans when he talks our own thoughts to us?

Further he whispered, ``And your System:if you would be brave to the world, have courage to cast the

dream of it out of you: relinquish an impossible project; see it as it is dead: too good for men!''

By and by he took his lamp, and put on the old cloak and cap, and went to gaze at Ripton. That exhausted

debauchee and youth without a destiny slept a dead sleep. A handkerchief was bound about his forehead, and

his helpless sunken chin and snoring nose projected up the pillow, made him look absurdly piteous. The

baronet remembered how often he had compared his boy with this one: his own bright boy! And where was

``Yes,'' he responded, ``I dare say this one never positively plotted to deceive his father: he followed his

Ripton, with his sunken chin and snoring nose under the light of the lamp, stood for human nature, honest,

``Miss Random, I fear very much, is a necessary establishment!'' whispered the monitor.

``Does the evil in us demand its natural food, or it corrupts the whole?'' ejaculated Sir Austin. ``And is no

angel of avail till that is drawn off? And is that our conflictto see whether we can escape the contagion of

``Though it look on itself through Port wine?'' he suggested, remembering his lawyer Thompson.

Richard's laugh, taken up by horrid reverberations, as it were through the lengths of the Lower Halls, replied.

This colloquy of two voices in a brain was concluded by Sir Austin asking again if there were no actual

difference between the flower of his hopes and yonder drunken weed, and receiving for answer that there was

a decided dissimilarity in the smell of the couple; becoming cognizant of which he retreated.

Sir Austin did not battle with the tempter. He took him into his bosom at once, as if he had been ripe for him,

and received his suggestions, and bowed to his dictates. Because he suffered, and decreed that he would

suffer silently, and be the only sufferer, it seemed to him that he was greatminded in his calamity. He had

stood against the world. The world had beaten him. What then? He must shut his heart and mask his face; that

was all. To be far in advance of the mass, is as fruitless to mankind, he reflected, as straggling in the rear. For

how do we know that they move behind us at all, or move in our track? What we win for them is lost; and

It was thus that a fine mind and a fine heart at the bounds of a nature not great, chose to colour his

retrogression and countenance his shortcoming; and it was thus that he set about ruining the work he had

done. He might well say, as he once did, that there are hours when the clearest soul becomes a cunning fox.

For a grief that was private and peculiar, he unhesitatingly cast the blame upon humanity; just as he had

accused it in the period of what he termed his own ordeal. How had he borne that? By masking his face. And

he prepared the ordeal for his son by doing the same. This was by no means his idea of a man's duty in

tribulation, about which he could be strenuously eloquent. But it was his instinct so to act, and in times of

trial great natures alone are not at the mercy of their instincts. Moreover it would cost him pain to mask his

face; pain worse than that he endured when there still remained an object for him to open his heart to in

proportion; and he always reposed upon the Spartan comfort of bearing pain and being passive. ``Do

nothing,'' said the devil he nursed; which meant in his case, ``Take me into you and don't cast me out.''

Excellent and sane, I think, is the outburst of wrath to men, when it stops short of slaughter. For who that

locks it up to eat in solitary, can say that it is consumed? Sir Austin had as weak a digestion for wrath, as

poor Hippias for a green duckling. Instead of eating it, it ate him. The wild beast in him was not the less

deadly because it did not roar, and the devil in him not the less active because he resolved to do nothing.

He sat at the springs of Richard's future, in the forlorn deadhush of his library there, hearing the cinders

click in the extinguished fire, and that humming stillness in which one may fancy one hears the midnight

Fates busily stirring their embryos. The lamp glowed mildly on the bust of Chatham.

Toward morning a gentle knock fell at his door. Lady Blandish glided in. With hasty step she came straight to

``My friend,'' she said, speaking tearfully, and trembling, ``I feared I should find you here. I could not sleep.

He wished it had been Adrian who had come to him. He had an extraordinary longing for Adrian's society.

He knew that the wise youth would divine how to treat him, and he mentally confessed to just enough

weakness to demand a certain kind of management. Besides Adrian, he had not a doubt, would accept him

entirely as he seemed, and not pester him in any way by trying to unlock his heart; whereas, a woman, he

feared, would be waxing too womanly, and swelling from tears and supplications to a scene, of all things

abhorred by him the most. So he rapped the floor with his foot, and gave the lady no very welcome face when

She sat down by his side, still holding one hand firmly, and softly detaining the other.

``Oh, my friend! may I believe you? May I speak to you?'' She leaned close to him. ``You know my heart. I

have no better ambition than to be your friend. Surely I divide your grief, and may I not claim your

confidence? Who has wept more over your great and dreadful sorrows? I would not have come to you, but I

do believe that sorrow shared relieves the burden, and it is now that you may feel a woman's aid, and

``Be assured,'' he gravely said, ``I thank you, Emmeline, for your intentions.''

``No, no! not for my intentions! And do not thank me. Think of him . . . think of your dear boy . . . Our

Richard, as we have called him.Oh! do not think it a foolish superstition of mine, but I have had a

thought this night that has kept me in torment till I rose to speak to you. . . . Tell me first you have forgiven

The lady paused despondingly, and looked at him in a wistful manner, saying with a sigh, ``Yes! I know how

``No, it must be now. You have helped me when I struggled to rise into a clearer world, and I think, humble

as I am, I can help you now. I have had a thought this night that if you do not pray for him and bless him . . .

He was stung and offended, and could hardly help showing it in spite of his mask.

``This is assuredly a new way of committing fathers to the follies of their sons, Emmeline!''

``No, not that. But will you pray for your boy, and bless him, before the day comes?''

He restrained himself to pronounce his words calmly: ``And I must do this, or it will end in misery? How

else can it end? Can I save him from the seed he has sown? Consider, Emmeline, what you say. He has

``Oh, so different! This young person is _not,_ is _not_ of the class poor Austin Wentworth allied himself to.

Indeed it is different. And hebe just and admit his nobleness. I fancied you did. This young person has

great beauty, she has the elements of good breeding, sheindeed I think, had she been in another position,

``Yes, I will speak only of him. He met her by a fatal accident. We thought his love dead, and so did he till he

saw her again. He met her, he thought we were plotting against him, he thought he should lose her for ever,

``Ah! do not trifle, my friend. Say: would you have had him act as young men in his position generally do to

``You mean,'' he said, ``that fathers must fold their arms, and either submit to infamous marriages, or have

``I do _not_ mean that,'' exclaimed the lady, striving for what she did mean, and how to express it. ``I mean

that . . . he loved her. Is it not a madness at his age? But what I chiefly mean issave him from the

consequences. No, you shall not withdraw your hand. Think of his pride, his sensitiveness, his great wild

naturewild when he is set wrong: think, how intense it is, set upon love; think, my friend, do not forget

``That I should save him, or any one, from consequences, is asking more than the order of things will allow to

you, Emmeline, and is not in the disposition of this world. I cannot. Consequences are the natural offspring of

acts. My child, you are talking sentiment, which is the distraction of our modern age in everythinga

phantasmal vapour distorting the image of the life we live. You ask me to give him a golden age in spite of

himself. All that could be done, by keeping him in the paths of virtue and truth, I did. He is become a man,

The baffled lady sighed. He sat so rigid: he spoke so securely, as if wisdom were to him more than the love of

his son. And yet he did love his son. Feeling sure that he loved his son while he spoke so loftily, she

reverenced him still, baffled as she was, and sensible that she had been quibbled with.

``Call him a man,he is, and must ever be the child of your education, my friend.''

``You would console me, Emmeline, with the prospect that, if he ruins himself, he spares the world of young

Closely she scanned the mask. It was impenetrable. He could meet her eyes, and respond to the pressure of

her hand, and smile, and not show what he felt. Nor did he deem it hypocritical to seek to maintain his

elevation in her soft soul, by simulating supreme philosophy over offended love. Nor did he know that he had

an angel with him then: a blind angel, and a weak one, but one who struck upon his chance.

``Very poor ones. I feel my weakness. I cannot utter half I have been thinking. Oh, if I could!''

``And before I leave you, dear friend, shall I be forgiven? may I beg it?will you bless him?''

The baronet was startled. In very dread of the soft fit that wooed him, he pushed back his chair, and rose, and

``It's day already!'' he said with assumed vivacity throwing open the shutters, and displaying the young light

Lady Blandish dried her tears as she knelt, and then joined him, and glanced up silently at Richard's moon

standing in wane toward the west. She hoped it was because of her having been premature in pleading so

earnestly, that she had failed to move him, and she accused herself more than the baronet. But in acting as she

had done, she had treated him as no common man, and she was compelled to perceive that his heart was at

present hardly superior to the hearts of ordinary men, however composed his face might be, and apparently

serene his wisdom. From that moment she grew critical of him, and began to study her idola process

dangerous to idols. He, now that she seemed to have relinquished the painful subject, drew to her, and as one

``God's rarest blessing is, after all, a good woman! My Emmeline bears her sleepless night well. She does not

``I could bear many, many!'' she replied, meeting his eyes, ``and you would see me look better and better, if .

Perhaps he wanted some mute form of consolation; perhaps the handsome placid features of the darkeyed

dame touched him: at any rate their Platonism was advanced by his putting an arm about her. She felt the arm

Thus proximate, they by and by both heard something very like a groan behind them, and looking round,

beheld the Saurian eve. Lady Blandish smiled, but the baronet's discomposure was not to be concealed. By a

strange fatality every stage of their innocent loves was certain to have a human beholder.

``Oh, I'm sure I beg pardon,'' Benson mumbled, arresting his head in a melancholy pendulosity. He was

``And I think I shall follow him, and try to get forty winks,'' said Lady Blandish. They parted with a quiet

``Get me my breakfast as soon as you can,'' he said, regardless of the aspect of injured conscience Benson

sombrely presented to him. ``I am going to town early. And, Benson,'' he added, ``you will also go to town

this afternoon, or tomorrow, if it suits you, and take your book with you to Mr. Thompson. You will not

The heavy butler essayed to speak, but the tremendous blow and the baronet's gesture choked him. At the

door he made another effort which shook the rolls of his loose skin pitiably. An impatient signal sent him out

It was the month of July. The Solent ran up green waves before a fullblowing Southwester. Gay little

yachts bounded out like foam, and flashed their sails, light as seanymphs. A crown of deep summer blue

By an open window that looked on the brine through nodding roses, our young bridal pair were at breakfast,

regaling worthily both of them. Had the Scientific Humanist observed them, he could not have contested the

fact that, as a couple who had set up to be father and mother of Britons, they were doing their duty. Files of

eggcups with disintegrated shells, bore witness to it, and they were still at work, hardly talking from rapidity

of exercise. Both were dressed for an expedition. She had her bonnet on, and he his yachtinghat. His sleeves

were turned over at the wrists, and her gown showed its lining on her lap. At times a chance word might

spring a laugh, but eating was the business of the hour, as I would have you to know it always will be where

Cupid is in earnest. Tribute flowed in to them from the subject land. Neglected lies Love's pennywhistle on

which they played so prettily, and charmed the spheres to hear them. What do they care for the spheres, who

have one another? Come, eggs! come, bread and butter! come, tea with sugar in it and milk! and welcome,

the jolly hours. That is a fair interpretation of the music in them just now, Yonder instrument was good only

for the overture. After all, what finer aspiration can lovers have, than to be free man and woman in the heart

of plenty? And is it not a glorious level to have attained? Ah, wretched Scientific Humanist! not to be by and

mark the admirable sight of these young creatures feeding. It would have been a spell to exorcise the

The mighty performance came to an end, and then, with a flourish of his tablenapkin, husband stood over

wife, who met him on the confident budding of her mouth. The poetry of mortals is their daily prose. Is it not

a glorious level to have attained? A short, quickblooded kiss, radiant, fresh, and honest as Aurora, and then

Richard says without lack of cheer, ``No letter today, my Lucy!'' whereat her sweet eyes dwell on him a

little seriously, but he cries, ``Never mind! he'll be coming down himself some morning. He has only to know

her, and all's well! eh?'' and so saying he puts a hand beneath her chin, and seems to frame her fair face in

``But one thing I do want to ask my darling,'' says Lucy, and dropped into his bosom with hands of petition.

``Take me on board his yacht with him todaynot leave me with those people! Will he? I'm a good sailor,

``The best afloat!'' laughs Richard, hugging her, ``but, you know, you darling bit of a sailor, they don't allow

more than a certain number on board for the race, and if they hear you've been with me, there'll be cries of

foul play! Besides, there's Lady Judith to talk to you about Austin, and Lord Mountfalcon's compliments for

``I hope I don't frown and blush as I did?'' she said, screwing her pliable brows up to him winningly, and he

bent his cheek against hers, and murmured something delicious. ``And we shall be separated forhow

``Am I so foolish, Richard?'' she forgot her trifling to ask in an earnest way, and had another Aurorean kiss,

After hiding a month in shyest shade, the pair of happy sinners had wandered forth one day to look on men

and marvel at them, and had chanced to meet Mr. Morton of Poer Hall, Austin Wentworth's friend, and

Ralph's uncle. Mr. Morton had once been intimate with the baronet, but had given him up for many years as

impracticable and hopeless, for which reason he was the more inclined to regard Richard's misdemeanour

charitably, and to lay the faults of the son on the father; and thinking society to be the one thing requisite to

the young man, he had introduced him to the people he knew in the island; among others to the Lady Judith

Felle, a fair young dame, who introduced him to Lord Mountfalcon, a puissant nobleman; who introduced

him to the yachtsmen beginning to congregate; so that in a few weeks he found himself in the centre of a

brilliant company, and for the first time in his life tasted what it was to have free intercourse with his

fellowcreatures of both sexes. The son of a System was, therefore, launched; not only through the surf, but

Now the baronet had so far compromised between the recurrence of his softer feelings and the suggestions of

his new familiar, that he had determined to act toward Richard with justness. The world called it

magnanimity, and even Lady Blandish had some thoughts of the same kind when she heard that he had

decreed to Richard a handsome allowance, and had scouted Mrs. Doria's proposal for him to contest the

legality of the marriage; but Sir Austin knew well he was simply just in not withholding money from a youth

so situated. And here again the world deceived him by embellishing his conduct. For what it is to be just to

whom we love! He knew it was not magnanimous, but the cry of the world somehow fortified him in the

conceit that in dealing perfect justice to his son he was doing all that was possible, because so much more

Consequently Richard did not want money. What he wanted more, and did not get, was a word from his

father, and though he said nothing to sadden his young bride, she felt how much it preyed upon him to be at

variance with the man whom, now that he had offended him and gone against him, he would have fallen on

his knees to; the man who was as no other man to him. She heard him of nights when she lay by his side, and

the darkness, and the tears, and the broken mutterings, of those nights clothed the figure of the strange stern

man in her mind. Not that it affected the appetites of the pretty pair. We must not expect that of Cupid

enthroned, and in condition; under the influence of seaair, too. The files of eggcups laugh at such an idea.

Still the worm did gnaw them. Judge, then, of their delight when, on this pleasant morning, as they were

issuing from the garden of their cottage to go down to the sea, they caught sight of Tom Bakewell rushing up

the road with a portmanteau on his shoulders, and, some distance behind him, discerned Adrian.

``It's all right!'' shouted Richard, and ran off to meet him, and never left his hand till he had hauled him up,

``Lucy! this is Adrian, my cousin.''Isn't he an angel? his eyes seemed to add; while Lucy's clearly

The fullbodied angel ceremoniously bowed to her, and acted with reserved unction the benefactor he saw in

their greetings. ``I think we are not strangers,'' he was good enough to remark, and very quickly let them

know he had not breakfasted; on hearing which they hurried him into the house, and Lucy put herself in

``Dear old Rady,'' said Richard, tugging at his hand again, ``how glad I am you've come! I don't mind telling

``Six, seven, eight, nine eggs,'' was Adrian's comment on a survey of the breakfasttable.

``Why wouldn't he write? Why didn't he answer one of my letters? But here you are, so I don't mind now. He

wants to see us, does he? We'll go up tonight. I've a match on at eleven; my little yachtI've called her

the `Blandish'against Fred Currie's `Begum.' I shall beat, but whether I do or not, we'll go up tonight.

``My dear boy!'' Adrian returned, sitting comfortably down, ``let me put myself a little more on an equal

footing with you before I undertake to reply. Half that number of eggs will be sufficient for an unmarried

man, and then we'll talk. They're all very well, as well as I can recollect after the shaking my total vacuity has

had this morning. I came over by the first boat, and the sea, the sea has made me love mother earth, and

``Adrian! what did he say when he heard of it? I want to know exactly what words he said.''

``Well says the sage, my son! `Speech is the small change of Silence.' He said less than I do.''

Soon the table was cleared, and laid out afresh, and Lucy preceded the maid bearing eggs on the tray, and sat

down unbonneted, and like a thoroughbred housewife, to pour out the tea for him.

``Now we'll commence,'' said Adrian, tapping his egg with meditative cheerfulness; but his expression soon

changed to one of pain, all the more alarming for his benevolent efforts to conceal it. Could it be possible the

``This egg has boiled three minutes and three quarters,'' he observed, ceasing to contemplate it.

``Dear, dear!'' said Lucy, ``I boiled them myself exactly that time. Richard likes them so. And you like them

``On the contrary, I like them soft. Two minutes and a half, or threequarters at the outside. An egg should

never rashly verge upon hardnessnever. Three minutes is the excess of temerity.''

``If Richard had told me! If I had only known!'' the lovely little hostess interjected ruefully, biting her lip.

``We mustn't expect him to pay attention to such matters,'' said Adrian, trying to smile.

``Hang it! there are more eggs in the house,'' cried Richard, and pulled savagely at the bell.

Lucy jumped up, saying, ``Oh, yes! I will go and boil some exactly the time you like. Pray let me go, Mr.

Adrian restrained her departure with a motion of his hand. ``No,'' he said, ``I will be ruled by Richard's tastes,

Lucy threw a sad look at Richard, who stretched on a sofa, and left the burden of the entertainment entirely to

her. The eggs were a melancholy beginning, but her ardour to please Adrian would not be damped, and she

deeply admired his resignation. If she failed in pleasing this glorious herald of peace, no matter by what small

misadventure, she apprehended calamity; so there sat this fair dove with brows at work above her serious

smiling blue eyes, covertly studying every aspect of the plumpfaced epicure, that she might learn to

propitiate him. ``He shall not think me timid and stupid,'' thought this brave girl, and indeed Adrian was

astonished to find that she could both chat and be useful, as well as look ornamental. When he had finished

one egg, behold, two fresh ones came in, boiled according to his prescription. She had quietly given her

orders to the maid, and he had them without fuss. Possibly his look of dismay at the offending eggs had not

been altogether involuntary, and her woman's instinct, inexperienced as she was, may have told her that he

had come prepared to be not very well satisfied with anything in love's cottage. There was mental faculty in

How much she had achieved already she partly divined when Adrian said: ``I think now I'm in case to answer

your questions, my dear boythanks to Mrs. Richard,'' and he bowed to her his first direct

``To begin, the Pilgrim has lost his Notebook, and has been persuaded to offer a reward which shall

maintain the happy finder thereof in an asylum for life. Bensonsuperlative Bensonhas turned his

shoulders upon Raynham. None know whither he has departed. It is believed that the sole surviving member

``Benson gone?'' Richard exclaimed. ``What a tremendous time it seems since I left Raynham!''

``So it is, my dear boy. The honeymoon is Mahomet's minute; or say, the Persian King's waterpail that you

read of in the story: You dip your head in it, and when you draw, it out, you discover that you have lived a

life. To resume: your uncle Algernon still roams in pursuit of the lost oneI should say, hops. Your uncle

Hippias has a new and most perplexing symptom; a determination of bridecake to the nose. Ever since your

generous present to him, though he declares he never consumed a morsel of it, he has been under the

distressing illusion that his nose is enormous, and I assure you he exhibits quite a maidenly timidity in

following itthrough a doorway, for instance. He complains of its terrible weight. I have conceived that

Benson invisible might be sitting on it. His hand, and the doctor's, are in hourly consultation with it, but I fear

it will not grow smaller. The Pilgrim has begotten upon it a new Aphorism: that Size is a matter of opinion. It

is the last in the Notebook, and if they do with Notebooks as it is the fashion to treat novelsturn from

the commencement to the conclusion the happy finder will have rapidly qualified himself to appreciate

``Poor uncle Hippy!'' said Richard, ``I wonder he doesn't believe in magic. There's nothing supernatural to

rival the wonderful sensations he does believe in. Good God! fancy coming to that!''

``The Pilgrim has your notion, Richard. Whom does he not forestall? `Confirmed dyspepsia is the apparatus

of illusions,' and he accuses the Ages that put faith in sorcery, of universal indigestion, which may have been

the case, owing to their infamous cookery. He says again, if you remember, that our own Age is travelling

back to darkness and ignorance through dyspepsia. He lays the seat of wisdom in the centre of our system,

Mrs. Richard: for which reason you will understand how sensible I am of the vast obligation I am under to

Richard looked on at Lucy's little triumph, attributing Adrian's subjugation to her beauty and sweetness. She

had latterly received a great many compliments on that score, which she did not care to hear, and Adrian's

homage to a practical quality was far pleasanter to the young wife, who shrewdly guessed that her beauty

would not help her much in the struggle she had now to maintain. Adrian continuing to lecture on the

excelling virtues of wise cookery, a thought struck her: Where, where had she tossed Mrs. Berry's book?

``All!'' replied Adrian. ``Or stay: you know Clare's going to be married? Not? Your Aunt Helen''

``Oh, bother my Aunt Helen! What do you think she had the impertinence to writebut never mind! Is it to

``Your Aunt Helen, I was going to say, my dear boy, is an extraordinary woman. It was from her originally

that the Pilgrim first learnt to call the female the practical animal. He studies us all, you know. =The Pilgrim's

Scrip= is the abstract portraiture of his surrounding relatives. Well, your Aunt Helen''

``being foiled in a little pet scheme of her owncall it a System if you likeof some ten or

``instead of fretting like a man, and questioning Providence, and turning herself and everybody else

inside out, and seeing the world upside down, what does the practical animal do? She wanted to marry her to

somebody she couldn't marry her to, so she resolved instantly to marry her to somebody she could marry her

to: and as old gentlemen enter into these transactions with the practical animal the most readily, she fixed

upon an old gentleman; an unmarried old gentleman, a rich old gentleman, and now a captive old gentleman.

The ceremony takes place in about a week from the present time. No doubt you will receive your invitation in

``And that cold, icy, wretched Clare has consented to marry an old man!'' groaned Richard. ``I'll put a stop to

Richard got up and strode about the room. Then he bethought him it was time to go on board and make

``I'm off,'' he said. ``Adrian, you'll take her. She goes in the Empress, Mountfalcon's vessel. He starts us. A

little schooneryachtsuch a beauty! I'll have one like her some day. Goodbye, darling!'' he whispered to

Lucy, and his hand and eyes lingered on her, and hers on him, seeking to make up for the priceless kiss they

were debarred from. But she quickly looked away from him as he held her: Adrian was silent: his brows

``Oh, bother your system! Put on your hat, and come along. I'll put you on board in my boat.''

``Richard! I have already paid the penalty of them who are condemned to come to an island. I will go with

you to the edge of the sea, and I will meet you there when you return, and take up the Tale of the Tritons: but,

though I forfeit the pleasure of Mrs. Richard's company, I refuse to quit the land.''

``Yes, oh, Mr. Harley!'' Lucy broke from her husband, ``and I will stay with you, if you please. I don't want to

go among those people, and we can see it all from the shore. Dearest! I don't want to go. You don't mind? Of

course, I will go if you wish, but I would so much rather stay;'' and she lengthened her plea in her attitude and

Adrian protested that she had much better go; that he could amuse himself very well till their return, and so

forth; but she had schemes in her pretty head, and held to it to be allowed to stay in spite of Lord

Mountfalcon's disappointment, cited by Richard, and at the great risk of vexing her darling, as she saw.

``There, do as you like. Get your things ready to leave this evening. No, I'm not angry.''Who could be? he

seemed as he looked up from her modest fondling to ask Adrian, and seized the indemnity of a kiss on her

forehead, which, however, did not immediately disperse the shade of annoyance he felt.

``Good heavens!'' he exclaimed. ``Such a day as this, and a fellow refuses to come on the water! Well, come

along to the edge of the sea.'' Adrian's angelic quality had quite worn off to him. He never thought of

devoting himself to make the most of the material there was: but somebody else did, and that fair somebody

succeeded wonderfully in a few short hours. She induced Adrian to reflect that the baronet had only to see

her, and the family muddle would be smoothed at once. He came to it by degrees; still the gradations were

rapid. Her manner he liked; she was certainly a nice picture: best of all, she was sensible. He forgot the

farmer's niece in her, she was so very sensible. She appeared really to understand that it was a woman's duty

But the difficulty was, by what means the baronet could be brought to consent to see her. He had not yet

consented to see his son, and Adrian, spurred by Lady Blandish, had ventured something in coming down. He

was not inclined to venture more. The small debate in his mind ended by his throwing the burden on time.

Time would bring the matter about. Christians as well as Pagans are in the habit of phrasing this excuse for

folding their arms; ``forgetful,'' says =The Pilgrim's Scrip,= ``that the Devil's imps enter into no such

As she loitered along the shore with her amusing companion, Lucy had many things to think of. There was

her darling's match. The yachts were started by pistolshot by Lord Mountfalcon on board the Empress, and

her little heart beat after Richard's straining sails. Then there was the strangeness of walking with a relative of

Richard's, one who had lived by his side so long. And the thought that perhaps this night she would have to

``O Mr. Harley!'' she said, ``is it trueare we to go tonight? And me,'' she faltered, ``will he see me?''

``Ah! that is what I wanted to talk to you about,'' said Adrian. ``I made some reply to our dear boy which he

has slightly misinterpreted. Our second person plural is liable to misconstruction by an ardent mind. I said

'see you,' and he supposednow, Mrs. Richard, I am sure you will understand me. Just at present perhaps it

would be adviseable when the father and son have settled their accounts, the daughterinlaw can't be a

Lucy threw up her blue eyes. A halfcowardly delight at the chance of a respite from the awful interview

``Well, that is my notion. But the fact is, he is such an excellent husband that I fancy it will require more than

The wise youth pressed her hand with lymphatic approbation. They walked on till the yachts had rounded the

``Is it tonight, Mr. Harley?'' she asked with some trouble in her voice now that her darling was out of sight.

``I don't imagine your eloquence even will get him to leave you tonight,'' Adrian replied gallantly. ``Besides,

I must speak for myself. To achieve the passage to an island is enough for one day. No necessity exists for

any hurry, except in the brain of that impetuous boy. You must correct it, Mrs. Richard. Men are made to be

managed, and women are born managers. Now, if you were to let him know that you don't want to go

tonight, and let him guess, after a day or two, that you would very much rather . . . you might affect a

peculiar repugnance. By taking it on yourself, you see, this wild young man will not require such frightful

efforts of persuasion. Both his father and he are exceedingly delicate subjects, and his father unfortunately is

not in a position to be managed directly. It's a strange office to propose to you, but it appears to devolve upon

you to manage the father through the son. Prodigal having made his peace, you, who have done all the work

from a distance, naturally come into the circle of the paternal smile, knowing it due to you. I see no other

way. If Richard suspects that his father objects for the present to welcome his daughterinlaw, hostilities

will be continued, the breach will be widened, bad will grow to worse, and I see no end to it.''

Adrian looked in her face, as much as to say: Now are you capable of this piece of heroism? And it did seem

hard to her that she should have to tell Richard she shrank from any trial. But the proposition chimed in with

her fears and her wishes: she thought the wise youth very wise: the poor child was not insensible to his

flattery, and the subtler flattery of making herself in some measure a sacrifice to the home she had disturbed.

Victory is the commonest heritage of the hero, and when Richard came on shore proclaiming that the

Blandish had beaten the Begum by seven minutes and threequarters, he was hastily kissed and congratulated

by his bride with her fingers among the leaves of Dr. Kitchener, and anxiously questioned about wine.

``Dearest! Mr. Harley wants to stay with us a little, and he thinks we ought not to go immediatelythat is,

``Ah! that's it, you coward!'' said Richard. ``Well, then, tomorrow. We had a splendid race. Did you see us?''

``Oh, yes! I saw you and was sure my darling would win.'' And again she threw on him the cold water of that

solicitude about wine. ``Mr. Harley must have the best, you know, and we never drink it, and I'm so silly, I

don't know good wine, and if you would send Tom where he can get _good_ wine. I have seen to the dinner.''

``Well, I do, but Mountfalcon doesn't, and Lady Judith thinks you ought to have been there.''

Richard put his hand to feel for the little heart: her eyelids softened, and she ran away.

It is to say much of the dinner that Adrian found no fault with it, and was in perfect good humour at the

conclusion of the service. He did not abuse the wine they were able to procure for him, which was also much.

The coffee, too, had the honour of passing without comment. These were sound first steps toward the

After coffee they strolled out to see the sun set from Lady Judith's grounds. The wind had dropped, The

clouds had ruled from the zenith, and ranged in amphitheatre with distant flushed bodies over sea and land:

Titanic crimson head and chest rising from the wave faced Hyperion falling. There hung Briareus with

deepindented trunk and ravined brown, stretching all his hands up to unattainable blue summits. Northwest

the range had a rich white glow, as if shining to the moon, and westward, streams of amber, melting into

``What Sandoe calls the passionflower of heaven,'' said Richard under his breath to Adrian, who was

serenely chanting Greek hexameters, and answered, in the swing of the caesura, ``He might as well have said

Lady Judith, with a black lace veil tied over her head, met them in the walk. She was tall and dark;

darkhaired, darkeyed, sweet and persuasive in her accent and manner. ``A second edition of the Blandish,''

thinks Adrian. She welcomed him as one who had claims on her affability. She kissed Lucy protestingly, and

remarking on the wonders of the evening, appropriated her husband. Adrian and Lucy found themselves

The sun was under. All the spaces of the sky were alight, and Richard's fancy flamed.

``So you're not intoxicated with your immense triumph this morning?'' said Lady Judith.

``Don't laugh at me. When it's over I feel ashamed of the trouble I've taken. Look at that glory!I'm sure

``Was I not there to applaud you? I only think such energies should be turned into some definitely useful

``Well I thank you for thinking it, Lady Judith. Something I will do. A man must deserve to live, as you say.''

``Sauces,'' Adrian was heard to articulate distinctly in the rear, ``Sauces are the top tree of this science. A

``How can men see such sights as those, and live idle?'' Richard resumed. ``I feel ashamed of asking my men

``Not when you're racing the Begum, I think. There's no necessity for you to turn democrat like Austin. Do

``No. What is writing like mine? It doesn't deceive me. I know it's only the excuse I'm making to myself for

Vague, shapeless ambition had replaced love in yonder skies. No Scientific Humanist was by to study the

natural development, and guide him. This lady would hardly be deemed a very proper guide to the undirected

energies of the youth, yet they had established relations of that nature. She was five years older than he, and a

``We'll work together in town, at all events,'' said Richard, ``Why can't we go about together at night and find

Lady Judith smiled, and only corrected his nonsense by saying, ``I think we mustn't be too romantic. You will

``Especially at breakfast,'' Adrian's unnecessarily emphatic gastronomical lessons to the young wife here

``You must be our champion,'' continued Lady Judith: the rescuer and succourer of distressed dames and

``You do,'' said Richard earnestly: ``from what I hear: from what I know!'' His thoughts flew off with him as

knighterrant hailed shrilly at exceeding critical moments by distressed dames and damsels. Images of airy

towers hung around. His fancy performed miraculous feats. The towers crumbled. The stars grew larger,

seemed to throb with lustre. His fancy crumbled with the towers of the air, his heart gave a leap, he turned to

``My darling! what have you been doing?'' And as if to compensate her for his little knighterrant infidelity,

``We have been engaged in a charming conversation on domestic cookery,'' interposed Adrian.

``Cookery! such an evening as this?'' His face was a handsome likeness of Hippias at the presentation of

``Indeed I quite agree with you, child,'' said Lady Judith, ``and I think you have the laugh of us. I certainly

``Let us give it up to them,'' said Lady Judith to Richard. ``You and I never will make so delightful and

Richard appeared to have grown perfectly willing to give everything up to the fair face, his bridal Hesper.

Next day Lucy had to act the coward anew, and as she did so, her heart sank to see how painfully it affected

him that she should hesitate to go with him to his father. He was patient, gentle; he sat down by her side to

appeal to her reason, and used all the arguments he could think of to persuade her.

``If we go together and make him see us both: if he sees he has nothing to be ashamed of in yourather

everything to be proud of; if you are only near him, you will not have to speak a word, and I'm certainas

certain as that I live that in a week we shall be settled happily at Raynham. I know my father so well,

``Adrian? Not a bit. Adrian only knows a part of people, Lucy; and not the best part.''

``No, no, Richard; oh, dear no!'' she cried, and looked at him more tenderly because she was not quite

``He doesn't know my father at all,'' said Richard. But Lucy had another opinion of the wise youth, and

secretly maintained it. She could not be won to imagine the baronet a man of human mould, generous,

forgiving, full of passionate love at heart, as Richard tried to picture him, and thought him, now that he

beheld him again through Adrian's embassy. To her he was that awful figure, shrouded by the midnight.

``Why are you so harsh?'' she had heard Richard cry more than once. She was sure that Adrian must be right.

``Well, I tell you I won't go without you,'' said Richard, and Lucy begged for a little more time.

Cupid now began to grumble, and with cause. Adrian positively refused to go on the water unless that

element were smooth as a plate. The Southwest still joked boisterously at any comparison of the sort; the

days were magnificent; Richard had yachting engagements; and Lucy always petitioned to stay to keep

Adrian company, conceiving it her duty as hostess. Arguing with Adrian was an absurd idea. If Richard

hinted at his retaining Lucy, the wise youth would remark; ``It's a wholesome interlude to your extremely

``All manner of things,'' said Lucy; ``not only cookery. He is so amusing, though he does make fun of =The

Pilgrim's Scrip,= and I think he ought not. And then, do you know, darlingyou won't think me vain?I

``Doesn't everybody like you, admire you? Doesn't Lord Mountfalcon, and Mr. Morton, and Lady Judith?''

The conquest of an epicure, or any young wife's conquest beyond her husband, however loyally devised for

their mutual happiness, may be costly to her. Richard in his hours of excitement was thrown very much with

Lady Judith. He consulted her regarding what he termed Lucy's cowardice. Lady Judith said: ``I think she'd

``What else can you do? Be reconciled yourself as quickly as you can. You can't drag her like a captive, you

It is not pleasant for a young husband, fancying his bride the peerless flower of Creation, to learn that he must

``What I fear,'' he said, ``is that my father will make it smooth with me, and not acknowledge her: so that

whenever I go to him, I shall have to leave her, and tit for tatan abominable existence, like a ball on a

billiardtable. I won't bear that ignominy. And this I know, I know! she might prevent it at once, if she would

``Where my old lord tells me to go, I go,'' the lady coldly replied. ``There's not much merit in that. Pray don't

Lucy had come to drop them. Unaccustomed to have his will thwarted, and urgent where he saw the thing to

do so clearly, the young husband had spoken strong words: and she, who knew that she would have given her

life by inches for him; who knew that she was playing a part for his happiness, and hiding for his sake the

nature that was worthy his esteem; the poor little martyr had been weak a moment.

She had Adrian's support. The wise youth was very comfortable. He liked the air of the Island, and he liked

being petted. ``A nice little woman! a very nice little woman!'' Tom Bakewell heard him murmur to himself

according to a habit he had; and his air of rather succulent patronage as he walked or sat beside the innocent

Beauty, with his head thrown back and a smile that seemed always to be in secret communion with his

marked abdominal prominence, showed that she was gaining part of what she played for. Wise youths who

buy their loves, are not unwilling, when opportunity offers, to try and obtain the commodity for nothing.

Examinations of her hand, as for some occult purpose, and unctuous pattings of the same, were not

infrequent. Adrian waxed now and then Anacreontic in his compliments. Lucy would say: ``That's worse than

``Better English than the noble lord deigns to employ allow that?'' quoth Adrian.

``To all, save to our noble vernacular,'' added Adrian. ``He seems to scent a rival to his dignity there.''

``We are at our ease here in excellent society,'' he wrote to Lady Blandish. ``I am bound to confess that the

Huron has a happy fortune, or a superlative instinct. Blindfold he has seized upon a suitable mate. She can

look at a lord, and cook for an epicure. Besides Dr. Kitchener, she reads and comments on =The Pilgrim's

Scrip.= The `Love' chapter, of course, takes her fancy. That picture of Woman, `_Drawn by Reverence and

coloured by Love,_' she thinks beautiful, and repeats it, tossing up pretty eyes. Also the lover's petition:

`_Give me purity to be worthy the good in her, and grant her patience to reach the good in me._' 'Tis quite

taking to hear her lisp it. Be sure that I am repeating the petition! I make her read me her choice passages.

``The Lady Judith I spoke of is Austin's Miss Menteith married to the incapable old Lord Fells, or Fellow, as

the wits here call him. Lord Mountfalcon is his cousin, and herwhat? She has been trying to find out, but

they have both got over their perplexity, and act respectively the bad man reproved and the chaste counsellor;

a position in which our young couple found them, and haply diverted its perils. They have quite taken them in

hand. Lady Judith undertakes to cure the fair Papist of a pretty, modest trick of frowning and blushing when

addressed, and his lordship directs the exuberant energies of the original man. 'Tis thus we fulfil our destinies,

and are content. Sometimes they change pupils; my lord educates the little dame, and my lady the hope of

Raynham. Joy and blessings unto all! as the German poet sings. Lady Judith accepted the hand of her

incapable lord that she might be of potent service to her fellowcreatures. Austin, you know, had great hopes

``I have for the first time in my career a field of lords to study. I think it is not without meaning that I am

introduced to it by a yeoman's niece. The language of the two social extremes is similar. I find it to consist in

an instinctively lavish use of vowels and adjectives. My lord and Farmer Blaize speak the same tongue, only

my lord's has lost its backbone, and is limp, though fluent. Their pursuits are identical; but that one has

money, or, as the Pilgrim terms it, _vantage,_ and the other has not. Their ideas seem to have a special

relationship in the peculiarity of stopping where they have begun. Young Tom Blaize with _vantage_ would

be Lord Mountfalcon. Even in the character of their parasites I see a resemblance, though I am bound to

confess that the Hon. Peter Brayder, who is my lord's parasite, is by no means noxious.

``This sounds dreadfully democrat. Pray don't be alarmed. The discovery of the affinity between the two

extremes of the Royal British Oak has made me thrice conservative. I see now that the national love of a lord

is less subservience than a form of selflove; putting a goldlace hat on one's image, as it were, to bow to it. I

see, too, the admirable wisdom of our system:could there be a finer balance of power than in a

community where men intellectually nil, have lawful vantage and a goldlace hat on? How soothing it is to

intellectthat noble rebel, as the Pilgrim has itto stand, and bow, and know itself superior! This

exquisite compensation maintains the balance: whereas that period anticipated by the Pilgrim, when science

shall have produced an _intellectual aristocracy,_ is indeed horrible to contemplate. For what despotism is so

black as one the mind cannot challenge? 'Twill be an iron age. Wherefore, madam, I cry, and shall continue

to cry. `_Vive_ Lord Mountfalcon! long may he sip his Burgundy! long may the baconfed carry him on

``Mr. Morton (who does me the honour to call me Young Mephisto, and Socrates missed) leaves tomorrow

to get Master Ralph out of a scrape. Our Richard has just been elected member of a Club for the promotion of

nausea. Is he happy? you ask. As much so as one who has had the misfortune to obtain what he wanted can

be. Speed is his passion. He races from point to point. In emulation of Leander and Don Juan, he swam, I

hear, to the opposite shores the other day, or some worldshaking feat of the sort: himself the Hero whom he

went to meet: or, as they who pun say, his Hero was a Bet. A pretty little domestic episode occurred this

morning. He finds her abstracted in the fire of his caresses: she turns shy and seeks solitude: green jealousy

takes hold of him: he lies in wait, and discovers her with his new rivala veteran edition of the culinary

Doctor! Blind to the Doctor's great national services, deaf to her wild music, he grasps the intruder,

dismembers him, and performs upon him the treatment he has recommended for dressed cucumber. Tears and

shrieks accompany the descent of the gastronome. Down she rushes to secure the cherished fragments: he

follows: they find him, true to his character, alighted and straggling over a bed of blooming flowers. Yet ere a

fairer flower can gather him, a heel black as Pluto stamps him into earth, flowers and all: happy burial!

Pathetic tribute to his merit is watering his grave, when by saunters my Lord Mountfalcon. `What's the

mattah?' says his lordship, soothing his moustache. They break apart, and 'tis left to me to explain from the

window. My lord looks shocked, Richard is angry with her for having to be ashamed of himself, Beauty dries

her eyes, and after a pause of general foolishness, the business of life is resumed. I may add that the Doctor

has just been dug up, and we are busy, in the enemy's absence, renewing old AEson with enchanted threads.

A month had passed when Adrian wrote this letter. He was very comfortable; so of course he thought Time

was doing his duty. Not a word did he say of Richard's return, and for some reason or other neither Richard

Lady Blandish wrote back: ``His father thinks he has refused to come to him. By your utter silence on the

subject, I fear that it must be so. Make him come. Bring him by force. _Insist_ on his coming. Is he mad? He

To this Adrian replied, after a contemplative, comfortable lapse of a day or two, which might be laid to his

efforts to adopt the lady's advice, ``The point is that the half man declines to come without the whole man.

Lady Blandish was in despair. She had no positive assurance that the baronet would see his son; the mask put

them all in the dark; but she thought she saw in Sir Austin irritation that the offender, at least when the

opening to come and make his peace seemed to be before him, should let days and weeks go by. She saw

through the mask sufficiently not to have any hope of his consenting to receive the couple at present; she was

sure that his equanimity was fictitious; but she pierced no farther, or she might have started and asked herself,

Is this the heart of a woman? The lady at last wrote to Richard. She said: ``Come instantly, and come alone.''

Then Richard, against his judgement, gave way. ``My father is not the man I thought him!'' he exclaimed

sadly, and Lucy felt his eyes saying to her: ``And you, too, are not the woman I thought you.'' Nothing could

the poor little heart reply but strain to his bosom and sleeplessly pray in his arms all the night.

Three weeks after Richard arrived in town, his cousin Clare was married, under the blessings of her energetic

mother, and with the approbation of her kinsfolk, to the husband that had been expeditiously chosen for her.

The gentleman, though something more than twice the age of his bride, had no idea of approaching senility

for many long connubial years to come. Backed by his tailor and his hairdresser, he presented no such bad

figure at the altar, and none would have thought that he was an ancient admirer of his bride's mama, as

certainly none knew he had lately proposed for Mrs. Doria before there was any question of her daughter.

These things were secrets; and the elastic and happy appearance of Mr. John Todhunter did not betray them at

the altar. Perhaps he would rather have married the mother. He was a man of property, well born, tolerably

well educated, and had, when Mrs. Doria rejected him for the first time, the reputation of being a

foolwhich a wealthy man may have in his youth; but as he lived on, and did not squander his

moneyamassed it, on the contrary, and did not seek to go into Parliament, and did other negative wise

things, the world's opinion, as usual, veered completely round, and John Todhunter was esteemed a shrewd,

sensible manonly not brilliant; that he was brilliant could not be said of him. In fact, the man could

hardly talk, and it was a fortunate provision that no impromptu deliveries were required of him in the

Mrs. Doria had her own reasons for being in a hurry. She had discovered something of the strange impassive

nature of her child; not from any confession of Clare's, but from signs a mother can read when her eyes are

not resolutely shut. She saw with alarm and anguish Clare had fallen into the pit she had been digging for her

so laboriously. In vain she entreated the baronet to break the disgraceful, and, as she said, illegal alliance his

son had contracted. Sir Austin would not even stop the little pension to poor Berry. ``At least you will do

that, Austin,'' she begged pathetically. ``You will show your sense of that horrid woman's conduct?'' He

refused to offer up any victim to console her. Then Mrs. Doria told him her thoughts,and when an

outraged energetic lady is finally brought to exhibit these painfully hoarded treasures, she does not use half

words as a medium. His System, and his conduct generally, were denounced to him, without analysis. She let

him understand that the world laughed at him; and he heard this from her at a time when his mask was still

soft and liable to be acted on by his nerves. ``You are weak, Austin! weak, I tell you!'' she said, and, like all

angry and selfinterested people, prophecy came easy to her. In her heart she accused him of her own fault,

in imputing to him the wreck of her project. The baronet allowed her to revel in the proclamation of a dire

future, and quietly counselled her to keep apart from him, which his sister assured him she would do. But to

be passive in calamity is the province of no woman. Mark the race at any hour. ``What revolution and hubbub

does not that little instrument, the needle, avert from us!'' says =The Pilgrim's Scrip.= Alas, that in calamity

women cannot stitch! Now that she saw Clare wanted other than iron, it struck her she must have a husband,

and be made secure as a woman and a wife. This seemed the thing to do: and, as she had forced the iron down

Clare's throat, so she forced the husband, and Clare gulped at the latter as she had at the former. On the very

day that Mrs. Doria had this new track shaped out before her, John Todhunter called at the Foreys. ``Old

John!'' sang out Mrs. Doria, ``show him up to me. I want to see him particularly.'' He sat with her alone. He

was a man multitudes of women would have marriedwhom will they not?and who would have

married any presentable woman: but women do want asking, and John never had the word. The rape of such

men is left to the practical animal. So John sat alone with his old flame. He had become resigned to her

perpetual lamentation and living Suttee for his defunct rival. But, ha! what meant those soft glances

nowaddressed to him? His tailor and his hairdresser gave youth to John, but they had not the art to

bestow upon him distinction, and an undistinguished man what woman looks at? John was an

indistinguishable man. For that reason he was dry wood to a soft glance. He was quickly incandescent. He

proposed, at the close of an hour's conflagration, thus: ``Aren't you ever going to change your state, Helen?''

``Then it's a shame,'' muttered John, thinking how many children and cries of ``Papa'' this womanto

Ere he could fall back upon his accustomed resignation, Mrs. Doria had assured the man that, she knew of no

one who would make so good a husband, no one she would like so well to have related to her.

``But if I can't have her?'' returned John, staring stupidly at her enigmatical forefinger.

``Something younger is something better, John. No. I'm not young, and I intend to remain what I am. Put me

by. You must marry a young woman, John. You are well preserved younger than most of the young men

of our day. You are eminently domestic, a good son, and will be a good husband and good father. Some one

At first John Todhunter thought it would be very much like his marrying a baby. However, he listened to it,

and that was enough for Mrs. Doria. ``I'll do the wooing for you, John,'' she said.

She did more. She went down to John's mother, and consulted with her on the propriety of the scheme of

wedding her daughter to John in accordance with his proposition. Mrs. Todhunter's jealousy of any disturbing

force in the influence she held over her son Mrs. Doria knew to be one of the causes of John's remaining

constant to the impression she had aforetime produced on him. She spoke so kindly of John, and laid so much

stress on the ingrained obedience and passive disposition of her daughter, that Mrs. Todhunter was led to

admit she did think it almost time John should be seeking a mate, and that heall things considered

would hardly find a fitter one. And this, John Todhunter old John no moreheard to his amazement

when, a day or two subsequently, he instanced the probable disapproval of his mother.

The match was arranged. Mrs. Doria did the wooing. It consisted in telling Clare that she had come to years

when marriage was desireable, and that she had fallen into habits of moping, which might have the worse

effect on her future life, as it had on her present health and appearance, and which a husband would cure.

Richard was told by Mrs. Doria that Clare had instantaneously consented to accept Mr. John Todhunter as

lord of her days, and with more than obediencewith alacrity. At all events, when Richard spoke to Clare,

the strange passive creature did not admit constraint on her inclinations. Mrs. Doria allowed Richard to speak

to her. She laughed at his futile endeavours to undo her work, and the boyish sentiments he uttered on the

subject. ``Let us see, child,'' she said, ``let us see which turns out the best; a marriage of passion, or a

Heroic efforts were not wanting to arrest the union. Richard made repeated journeys to Hounslow, where

Ralph was quartered, and if Ralph could have been persuaded to carry off a young lady who did not love him,

from the bridegroom her mother averred she did love, Mrs. Doria might have been defeated. But Ralph in his

cavalry quarters was cooler than Ralph in the Bursley meadows. ``Women are oddities, Dick,'' he remarked,

running a finger right and left along his upper lip. ``Best leave them to their own freaks. She's a dear girl,

though she don't talk: I like her for that. If she cared for me I'd go the race. She don't, and never did. It's no

use asking a girl twice. _She_ knows whether she cares a fig for a fellow. My belief, Mr. Dick, is, that she's

The hero quitted him with some contempt, saying to himself, ``I believe he's nothing more than an

embroidered jacket now.'' But as Ralph Morton was a young man, and he had determined that John

Todhunter was an old man, he sought another private interview with Clare, and getting her alone, said:

``Then you're going to marry an old mana man you don't love, and can't love! Oh, good God! do you

know what you're doing?'' He flung about in a fury. ``Do you know what it is? Clare!'' he caught her two

She shrank a little at his vehemence, but neither blushed nor stammered: answering: ``I see nothing wrong in

``Your mother! I tell you it's an infamy, Clare! It's a miserable sin! I tell you, if I had done such a thing I

would not live an hour after it. And coldly to prepare for it! to be busy about your dresses! They told me

when I came in that you were with the milliner. To be smiling over the horrible outrage! decorating yourself!''

``That one of my blood should be so debased!'' he cried, brushing angrily at his face. ``Unhappy! I beg you to

feel for yourself, Clare. But I suppose,'' and he said it scornfully, ``girls don't feel this sort of shame.''

She looked at him softly; a look he interpreted for the meekness he detested in her.

``No, I believe you have none!'' he added. ``And what can I do? I can't step forward and stop this accursed

marriage. If you would but say a word I would save you; but you tie my hands. And they expect me to stand

``Will you not be there, Richard?'' said Clare, following the question with her soft eyes. It was the same voice

``Oh, my darling Clare!'' he cried in the kindest way he had ever used to her, ``if you knew how I feel this!''

and now as he wept she wept, and came insensibly into his arms. ``My darling Clare!'' he repeated.

``You _will_ do it, Clare? You will be sacrificed? So lovely as you are, too! Oh! to think of that mouth being

given over to. . . . O curses of hell! to think. . . . . Clare! you cannot be quite blind. If I dared speak to you,

``I must not disobey mama,'' Clare murmured, without looking up from the nest her cheek had made on his

``Then kiss me for the last time,'' said Richard. ``I'll never kiss you after it, Clare.''

He bent his head to meet her mouth, and she threw her arms wildly round him, and kissed him convulsively,

Argument with Mrs. Doria was like firing paperpellets against a stone wall. To her indeed the young

married hero spoke almost indecorously, and that which his delicacy withheld him from speaking to Clare.

He could provoke nothing more responsive from the practical animal than ``Poohpooh! Tush, tush! and

``Really,'' Mrs. Doria said to her intimates, ``that boy's education acts like a disease on him. He cannot regard

anything sensibly. He is for ever in some mad excess of his fancy, and what he will come to at last heaven

Threats of prayer, however, that harp upon their sincerity, are not very well worth having. Mrs. Doria had

embarked in a practical controversy, as it were, with her brother. Doubtless she did trust he would be able to

bear his sorrows to come, but one who has uttered prophecy can barely help hoping to see it fulfilled: she had

Poor John Todhunter, who would rather have married the mother, and had none of your heroic notions about

the sacred necessity for love in marriage, moved as one guiltless of offence, and that deserves his happiness.

Mrs. Doria shielded him from the hero. To see him smile at Clare's obedient figure, and try not to look

Meantime Clare's marriage served one purpose. It completely occupied Richard's mind, and prevented him

from chafing at the vexation of not finding his father ready to meet him when he came to town. A letter had

awaited Adrian at the hotel, which said, ``Detain him till you hear further from me. Take him about with you

into every form of society.'' No more than that. Adrian had to extemporize that the baronet had gone down to

Wales on pressing business, and would be back in a week or so. For ulterior inventions and devices

wherewith to keep the young gentleman in town, he applied to Mrs. Doria. ``Leave him to me,'' said Mrs.

``Who can say,'' asks =The Pilgrim's Scrip,= ``when he is not walking a puppet to some woman?''

Mrs. Doria would hear no good of Lucy. ``I believe,'' she observed, as Adrian ventured a shrugging protest in

her behalf,``it is my firm opinion that a scullerymaid would turn any of you men round her little

fingeronly give her time and opportunity.'' By dwelling on the arts of women, she reconciled it to her

conscience to do her best to divide the young husband from his wife till it pleased his father they should live

their unhallowed union again. Without compunction, or a sense of incongruity, she abused her brother and

So the puppets were marshalled by Mrs. Doria, happy, or sad, or indifferent. Quite against his set resolve and

the tide of his feelings, Richard found himself standing behind Clare in the churchthe very edifice that

had witnessed his own marriage, and heard, ``I, Clare Doria, take thee John Pemberton,'' clearly pronounced.

He stood with black brows dissecting the arts of the tailor and hairdresser on unconscious John. The back,

and much of the middle, of Mr. Todhunter's head was bald; the back shone like an eggshell, but across the

middle the artist had drawn two long dabs of hair from the sides, and plastered them cunningly, so that all

save wilful eyes would have acknowledged the head to be covered. The man's only pretension was to a

respectable juvenility. He had a good chest, stout limbs, a face inclined to be jolly. Mrs. Doria had no cause

to be put out of countenance at all by the exterior of her soninlaw: nor was she. Her splendid hair and

gratified smile made a light in the church. Playing puppets must be an immense pleasure to the practical

animal. The Forey bridesmaids, five in number, and one Miss Doria, their cousin, stood as girls do stand at

these sacrifices, whether happy, sad, or indifferent; a smile on their lips and tears in attendance. Old Mrs.

Todhunter, an exceedingly small ancient woman, was also there. ``I can't have my boy John married without

seeing it done,'' she said, and throughout the ceremony she was muttering audible encomiums on her boy

The ring was affixed to Clare's finger; there was no ring lost in this commonsense marriage. John had his

disengaged hand at his waistcoatpocket, and the instant the clergyman bade him employ it, he drew the ring

out, and dropped it on the finger of the cold passive hand in a businesslike way, as one who had studied the

matter. Mrs. Doria glanced aside at Richard. Richard observed Clare spread out her fingers that the operations

He cut her short. ``I've stood for the family, and I'll do no more. I won't pretend to eat and make merry over

She turned to Adrian, and said: ``He is going. You must go with him, and find some means of keeping him,

Richard bade Clare farewell. She put up her mouth to him humbly, but he kissed her on the forehead.

Mr. Todhunter stood beaming and endangering the art of the hairdresser with his pockethandkerchief. Now

he positively was married, he thought he would rather have the daughter than the mother, which is a reverse

``I should be happy to, if I could,'' sedately replied the hero, to the consternation of those around. Nodding to

Adrian, who had been behind him, deputed to watch for a possible unpleasantness, just hinted to John: ``You

Adrian hurried after Richard in an extremely discontented state of mind. Not to be at the breakfast and see the

best of the fun, disgusted him. However, he remembered that he was a philosopher, and the strong disgust he

felt was only expressed in concentrated cynicism on every earthly matter engendered by the conversation.

They walked side by side into Kensington Gardens. The hero was mouthing away to himself, talking by fits.

Presently he faced Adrian, crying: ``And I might have stopped it! I see it now! I might have stopped it by

going straight to him, and asking him if he dared marry a girl who did not love him, And I never thought of it.

``Ah!'' went Adrian. ``An unpleasant cargo for the conscience, that! I would rather carry anything on mine

``Well, he's not a Cavalier,'' said Adrian, ``and that's why you wonder your aunt selected him, no doubt? He's

decidedly of the Roundhead type, with the Puritan extracted, or inoffensive, if latent.''

``There's the double infamy!'' cried Richard, ``that a man you can't call bad, should do this damned thing!''

``Go to him now, Richard, my son. Go to him now. It's not yet too late. Who knows? If he really has a noble

elevated. superior mindthough not a Cavalier in person, he may be one at hearthe might, to please

you, and since you put such stress upon it, abstain . . . perhaps with some loss of dignity, but never mind. And

the request might be singular, or seem so, but everything has happened before in this world, you know, my

dear boy. And what an infinite consolation it is for the eccentric, that reflection!''

The hero was impervious to the wise youth. He stared at him as if he were but a speck in the universe he

It was provoking that Richard should be Adrian's best subject for cynical pastime, in the extraordinary

heterodoxies he started, and his worst in the way he took it; and the wise youth, against his will, had to feel as

conscious of the young man's imaginative mental armour, as he was of his muscular physical.

``The same sort of day!'' mused Richard, looking up. ``I suppose my father's right. We make our own fates,

``Growing bald at the top,'' said Adrian. ``Do they suggest the bridegroom to you?''

``Will you believe that my aunt Helen compared the conduct of that wretched slave Clare to Lucy's, who, she

had the cruel insolence to say, entangled me into marriage?'' the hero broke out loudly and rapidly. ``You

knowI told you, Adrianhow I had to threaten and insist, and how she pleaded, and implored me to

``Don't you remember my telling you?'' Richard was earnest to hear her exonerated.

``Pleaded and implored, my dear boy? Oh, no doubt she did. Where's the lass that doesn't.''

``The generic title can't be cancelled because of your having married one of the body, my son.''

This happy shaft did stick. With a furious exclamation Richard shot in front, Adrian following him; and

asking him (merely to have his assumption verified), whether he did not think she might have shaved her

head? and, presuming her to have done so, whether, in candour, he did not think he would have waitedat

After a minute or so, the wise youth was but a fly buzzing about Richard's head. Three weeks of separation

from Lucy, and an excitement deceased, caused him to have soft yearnings for the dear lovely homeface. He

told Adrian it was his intention to go down that night. Adrian immediately became serious. He was at a loss

what to invent to detain him, beyond the stale fiction that his father was coming tomorrow. He rendered

homage to the genius of woman in these straits. ``My aunt,'' he thought, ``would have the lie ready; and not

At this juncture the voice of a cavalier in the Row hailed them, proving to be the Honourable Peter Brayder,

Lord Mountfalcon's parasite. He greeted them very cordially; and Richard, remembering some fun they had

in the Island, asked him to dine with them; postponing his return till the next day. Lucy was his. It was even

The Hon. Peter was one who did honour to the body he belonged to. Though not so tall as a West of London

footman, he was as shapely; and he had a power of making his voice insinuating, or arrogant, as it suited the

exigencies of his profession. He had not a rap of money in the world; yet he rode a horse, lived high,

expended largely. The world said that the Hon. Peter was salaried by his Lordship, and that, in common with

that of Parasite, he exercised the ancient companion profession. This the world said, and still smiled at the

Hon. Peter; for he was an engaging fellow, and where he went not Lord Mountfalcon would not go.

They had a quiet little hotel dinner, ordered by Adrian, and made a square at the table, Ripton Thompson

being the fourth. Richard sent down to his office to fetch him, and the two friends shook hands for the first

time since the great deed had been executed. Deep was the Old Dog's delight to hear the praises of his Beauty

sounded by such aristocratic lips the Hon. Peter Brayder's. All through the dinner he was throwing out hints

and small queries to get a fuller account of her; and when the claret had circulated, he spoke a word or two

himself, and heard the Hon. Peter eulogize his taste, and wish him a bride as beautiful; at which Ripton

blushed, and said, he had no hope of that, and the Hon. Peter assured him marriage did not break the mould.

After the wine the Hon. Peter took his cigar on the balcony, and found occasion to get some conversation

``Our young friend heremade it all right with the governor?'' he asked carelessly.

``Oh yes!'' said Adrian. But it struck him that Brayder might be of assistance in showing Richard a little of

the `society in every form' required by his chief's prescript. ``That is,'' he continued, ``we are not yet

permitted an interview with the august author of our being and I have rather a difficult post. 'Tis mine both to

keep him here, and also to find him the opportunity to measure himself with his fellowman. In other words,

his father wants him to see something of life before he enters upon housekeeping. Now I am proud to confess

that I'm hardly equal to the task. The demi, or damnedmondeif it's that he wants him to observeis one

``Ha! ha!'' laughed Brayder. ``You do the keeping, I offer to parade the demi. I must say, though, it's a queer

Brayder followed the curvings of the whiff of his cigar with his eyes, and ejaculated, ``Infahnally

``Mount? to tell the truth I don't know where he is, Chasing some light craft, I suppose. That's poor Mount's

weakness. It's his ruin, poor fellow! He's so confoundedly in earnest at the game.''

``He's a baby about women, and always will be,'' said Brayder. ``He's been once or twice wanting to marry

them. Now there's a womanyou've heard of Mrs. Mount? All the world knows her.If that woman

hadn't scandalized'' The young man joined them, and checked the communication. Brayder winked to

``Yes, yes!but we won't shock him,'' Brayder observed, patting Richard on the back. He appeared to

Next morning Richard was surprised by a visit from his aunt. Mrs. Doria took a seat by his side, and spoke as

``My dear nephew. Now you know I have always loved you, and thought of your welfare as if you had been

my own child. More than that, I fear. Well, now, you are thinking of returning toto that placeare you

not? Yes. It is as I thought. Very well now, let me speak to you. You are in a much more dangerous position

than you imagine. I don't deny your father's affection for you. It would be absurd to deny it. But you are of an

age now to appreciate his character. Whatever you may do he will always give you money. That you are sure

of. That you know. Very well. But you are one to want more than money: you want his love. Richard, I am

convinced you will never be happy, whatever base pleasures you may be led into, if he should withhold his

love from you. Now, child, you know you have grievously offended him. I wish not to animadvert on your

conduct.You fancied yourself in love, and so on, and you were rash. The less said of it the better now.

But you must nowit is your duty now to do somethingto do everything that lies in your power to

show him you repent. No interruptions! Listen to me. You must consider him. Austin is not like other men.

Austin requires the most delicate management. You mustwhether you feel it or no present an

appearance of contrition. I counsel it for the good of all. He is just like a woman, and where his feelings are

offended he wants utter subservience. He has you in town, and he does not see younow you know that he

and I are not in communication: we have likewise our differences: Well, he has you in town, and he holds

aloof:he is trying you, my dear Richard. No: he is not at Raynham: I do not know where he is, He is

trying you, child, and you must be patient. You must convince him that you do not care utterly for your own

gratification. If this personI wish to speak of her with respect, for your sakewell, if she loves you _at

all_if, I say, she loves you _one atom,_ she will repeat my solicitations for you to stay and patiently wait

here till he consents to see you. I tell you candidly, it's your only chance of ever getting him to receive _her._

That you should know. And now, Richard, I may add that there is something else you should know. You

should know that it depends entirely upon your conduct now, whether you are to see your father's heart for

ever divided from you, and a new family at Raynham. You do not understand? I will explain. Brothers and

sisters are excellent things for young people, but a new brood of them can hardly be acceptable to a young

man. In fact, they are, and must be, aliens. I only tell you what I have heard on good authority. Don't you

understand now? Foolish boy! if you do not humour him, he will marry Lady Blandish. Oh! I am sure of it. I

know it. And this you will drive him to. I do not warn you on the score of your prospects, but of your

feelings. I should regard such a contingency, Richard, as a final division between you. Think of the scandal!

It was Mrs. Doria's object to produce an impression, and avoid an argument. She therefore left him as soon as

she had, as she supposed, made her mark on the young man. Richard was very silent during the speech, and

save for an exclamation or so, had listened attentively. He pondered on what his aunt said. He loved Lady

Blandish, and yet he did not wish to see her Lady Feverel. Mrs. Doria laid painful stress on the scandal, and

though he did not give his mind to this, he thought of it. He thought of his mother. Where was she? But most

his thoughts recurred to his father, and something akin to jealousy slowly awakened his heart to him. He had

given him up, and had not latterly felt extremely filial; but he could not bear the idea of a division in the love

of which he had ever been the idol and sole object. And such a man, too! so good! so generous! If it was

jealousy that roused the young man's heart to his father, the better part of love was also revived in it. He

thought of old days: of his father's forbearance, his own wilfulness. He looked on himself, and what he had

done, with the eyes of such a man. He determined to do all he could to regain his favour.

Mrs. Doria learnt from Adrian in the evening that her nephew intended waiting in town another week.

``That will do,'' smiled Mrs. Doria. ``He will be more patient at the end of a week.''

``Oh! does patience beget patience?'' said Adrian. ``I was not aware it was a propagating virtue. I surrender

him to you. I sha'nt be able to hold him in after one week more. assure you, my dear aunt, he's already . . .''

``Thank you, no explanation,'' Mrs. Doria begged. When Richard saw her next, he was informed that she had

received a most satisfactory letter from Mrs. John Todhunter: quite a glowing account of John's behaviour:

but on Richard's desiring to know the words Clare had written, Mrs. Doria objected to be explicit, and shot

``No, I mean _for her,_'' his aunt remarked. ``Don't look like your father, child.''

A lady driving a pair of greys was noticed by Richard in his rides and walks. She passed him rather obviously

and often. She was very handsome; a bold beauty, with shining black hair, red lips, and eyes not afraid of

men. The hair was brushed from her temples, leaving one of those fine reckless outlines which the action of

driving, and the pace, admirably set off. She took his fancy. He liked the air of petulant gallantry about her,

and mused upon the picture, rare to him, of a glorious dashing woman. He thought, too, she looked at him.

He was not at the time inclined to be vain, or he might have been sure she did. Once it struck him she nodded

``Now that's my idea of Bellona,'' Richard exclaimed. ``Not the fury they paint, but a spirited, dauntless,

``Bellona?'' returned the wise youth. ``I don't think her hair was black. Red, wasn't it! I shouldn't compare her

to Bellona; though, no doubt, she's as ready to spill blood. Look at her! She does seem to scent carnage. I see

your idea. No; I should liken her to Diana emerged from the tutorship of Master Endymion, and at nice play

among the gods. Depend upon itthey tell us nothing of the matter Olympus shrouds the storybut

you may be certain that when she left the pretty shepherd she had greater vogue than Venus up aloft.

``Like to know her?'' drawled the Hon. Peter. Richard replied indifferently, ``No,'' and Mrs. Mount passed out

The young man wrote submissive letters to his father. ``I have remained here waiting to see you now five

weeks,'' he wrote. ``I have written to you three letters, and you do not reply to them. Let me tell you again

how sincerely I desire and pray that you will come, or permit me to come to you and throw myself at your

feet, and beg my forgiveness, and hers. She as earnestly implores it. Indeed, I am very wretched, sir. Believe

me, there is nothing I would not do, to regain your esteem and the love I fear I have unhappily forfeited. I will

remain another week in the hope of hearing from you, or seeing you. I beg of you, sir, not to drive me mad.

``Nothing he would not do!'' the baronet commented as he read. ``There is nothing he would not do! He will

remain another week and give me that final chance! And it is I who drive him mad! Already he is beginning

Sir Austin had really gone down to Wales to be out of the way. A ShaddockDogmatist does not meet

misfortune without hearing of it, and the author of =The Pilgrim's Scrip= in trouble found London too hot for

him. He quitted London to take refuge among the mountains; living there in solitary commune with a virgin

Some indefinite scheme was in his head in this treatment of his son. Had he construed it, it would have

looked ugly; and it settled to a vague principle that the young man should be tried and tested.

``Let him learn to deny himself something. Let him live with his equals for a term. If he loves me he will read

The lady wrote: ``You speak of a term. Till when? May I name one to him? It is the dreadful _uncertainty_

How could Lady Blandish go and ask the young man to wait a year away from his wife? Her instinct began to

When people do not themselves know what they mean, they succeed in deceiving, and imposing upon others.

Not only was Lady Blandish mystified; Mrs. Doria, who pierced into the recesses of everybody's mind, and

had always been in the habit of reading off her brother from infancy, and had never known herself to be once

wrong about him, she confessed she was quite at a loss to comprehend Austin's principle. ``For principle he

has,'' said Mrs. Doria; ``he never acts without one. But what it is I cannot at present perceive. If he would

write, and command the boy to await his return, all would be clear. He allows us to go and fetch him, and

then leaves us all in a quandary. It must be some woman's influence. That is the only way to account for it.''

``Singular!'' interjected Adrian, ``what pride women have in their sex! Well, I have to tell you, my dear aunt,

that the day after tomorrow I hand my charge over to your keeping. I can't hold him in an hour longer. I've

had to leash him with lies till my invention's exhausted. I petition to have them put down to the chief's

account, but when the stream runs dry I can do no more. The last was, that I had heard from him desiring me

to have the Southwest bedroom ready for him on Tuesday proximate. `So!' says my son. `I'll wait till then,'

and from the gigantic effort he exhibited in coming to it, I doubt any human power's getting him to wait

``We must, we must detain him,'' said Mrs. Doria. ``If we do not, I am convinced Austin will do something

rash that he will for ever repent. He will marry that woman, Adrian. Mark my words. Now with any other

young man . . . But Richard's education! that ridiculous System! . . . Has he no distraction? nothing to amuse

``Has the boy no object we can induce him to follow?If he had but a profession!''

``What say you to the regeneration of the streets of London, and the profession of moralscavenger, aunt? I

assure you I have served a month's apprenticeship with him. We sally forth on the tenth hour towards night.

A female passes. I hear him groan. `Is _she_ one of them, Adrian?' I am compelled to admit she is not the

saint he deems it the portion of every creature wearing petticoats to be. Another groan; an evident internal, `It

cannot beand yet!' . . . that we hear on the stage. Rollings of eyes: impious questionings of the Creator of

the universe; savage mutterings against brutal males; and then we meet a second young person, and repeat the

performanceof which I am rather tired. It would be all very well, but he turns upon me, and lectures me

because I don't hire a house, and furnish it for all the women one meets to live in in purity. Now that's too

much to ask of a quiet man. Master Thompson has latterly relieved me, I'm happy to say.''

``I must see Richard tomorrow morning,'' Mrs. Doria ended the colloquy by saying.

The result of her interview with her nephew was, that Richard made no allusion to a departure on the

Tuesday; and for many days afterward he appeared to have an absorbing business on his hands: but what it

was Adrian did not then learn, and his admiration of Mrs. Doria's genius for management rose to a very high

On a morning in October they had an early visitor in the person of the Hon. Peter, whom they had not seen

``Gentlemen,'' he said, flourishing his cane in his most affable manner, ``I've come to propose to you to join

us in a little dinnerparty at Richmond. Nobody's in town, you know. London's as dead as a stockfish.

Nothing but the scrapings to offer you. But the weather's fine: I flatter myself you'll find the company

``No, no: positively you must come,'' said the Hon. Peter. ``I've had some trouble to get them together to

relieve the dulness of your incarceration. Richmond's within the rules of your prison. You can be back by

night. Moonlight on the waterlovely woman. We've engaged a citybarge to pull us back. Eight

``You're in for another rick, you two,'' said Adrian. ``Arrange that we go. You haven't seen the cockney's

After some persuasion, Richard yawned wearily, and got up, and threw aside the care that was on him,

Adrian consulted Brayder's eye at this. The Hon. Peter briskly declared he should be delighted to have

``If you don't get a match on to swim there with the tide eh, Feverel, my boy?''

Richard replied that he had given up that sort of thing, at which Brayder communicated a queer glance to

Richmond was under a still October sun. The pleasant landscape, bathed in Autumn, stretched from the foot

of the hill to a red horizon haze. The day was like none, that Richard vividly remembered. It touched no link

in the chain of his recollection. It was quiet, and belonged to the spirit of the season.

Adrian had divined the character of the scrapings they were to meet. Brayder introduced them to one or two

of the men, hastily and in rather an undervoice, as a thing to get over. They made their bow to the first knot of

ladies they encountered. Propriety was observed strictly, even to severity. The general talk was of the

weather. Here and there a lady would seize a buttonhole, or any little bit of the habiliments, of the man she

was addressing; and if it came to her to chide him, she did it with more than a forefinger. This, however,

Where ladies are gathered together, the Queen of the assemblage may be known by her Court of males. The

Queen of the present gathering leaned against a corner of the open window, surrounded by a stalwart Court,

in whom a practised eye would have discerned guardsmen, and Ripton, with a sinking of the heart,

apprehended lords. They were fine men, offering inanimate homage. The trim of their whiskerage, the cut of

their coats, the highbred indolence in their aspect, eclipsed Ripton's sense of selfesteem. But they kindly

looked over him. Occasionally one committed a momentary outrage on him with an eyeglass, seeming to

cry out in a voice of scathing scorn, ``Who's this?'' and Ripton got closer to his hero to justify his humble

pretensions to existence and an identity in the shadow of him. Richard gazed about. Heroes do not always

know what to say or do; and the cold bath before dinner in strange company is one of the instances. He had

recognised his superb Bellona in the lady by the garden window. For Brayder the men had nods and jokes,

the ladies a pretty playfulness. He was very busy, passing between the groups, chatting, laughing, taking the

feminine taps he received, and sometimes returning them in sly whispers. Adrian sat down and crossed his

Mrs. Mount was flashing her teeth and eyes with laughter at one of her Court, who appeared to be Fool.

Dinner was announced. The ladies proclaimed extravagant appetites. Brayder posted his three friends. Ripton

found himself under the lee of a dame with a bosom. On the other side of him was the mignonne. Adrian was

at the lower end of the table. Ladies were in profusion, and he had his share. Brayder drew Richard from seat

to seat. A happy man had established himself next to Mrs. Mount. Him Brayder hailed to take the head of the

table. The happy man objected, Brayder continued urgent, the lady tenderly insisted, the happy man

grimaced, dropped into the post of honour, strove to look placable. Richard usurped his chair, and was not

Then the dinner commenced, and had all the attention of the company, till the flying of the first

champagnecork gave the signal, and a hum began to spread. Sparkling wine that looseneth the tongue, and

displayeth the verity, hath also the quality of colouring it. The ladies laughed high; Richard only thought

them gay and natural. They flung back in their chairs and laughed to tears; Ripton thought only of the

pleasure he had in their society. The champagnecorks continued a regular filefiring.

``Where have you been lately? I haven't seen you in the park,'' said Mrs. Mount to Richard.

``No,'' he replied, ``I've not been there.'' The question seemed odd: she spoke so simply that it did not impress

him. He emptied his glass, and had it filled again. The Hon. Peter did most of the open talking, which related

to horses, yachting, opera, and sport generally: who was ruined; by what horse, or by what woman. He told

``Bravo!'' cried his Bellona, and her eye sent a lingering delirious sparkle across her brimming glass at him.

``I'm sure you're a safe one to back,'' she added, and seemed to scan his points approvingly.

``Oh, yes!'' answered Ripton, with more candour than accuracy, ``I always drink it.''

``Do you indeed?'' said the enraptured bosom, ogling him. ``You would be a friend, now! I hope you don't

A laugh was circling among the ladies of whom Adrian was the centre; first low, and as he continued some

narration, peals resounded, till those excluded from the fun demanded the cue, and ladies leaned behind

gentlemen to take it up, and formed an electric chain of laughter. Each one, as her ear received it, caught up

her handkerchief, and laughed, and looked shocked afterwards, or looked shocked and then spouted laughter.

The anecdote might have been communicated to the bewildered cavaliers, but coming to a lady of a demurer

cast, she looked shocked without laughing, and reproved the female table, in whose breasts it was consigned

to burial: but here and there a man's head was seen bent, and a lady's mouth moved, though her face was not

turned toward him, and a man's broad laugh was presently heard, while the lady gazed unconsciously before

her, and preserved her gravity if she could escape any other lady's eyes; failing in which handkerchiefs were

simultaneously seized, and a second chime arose, till the tickling force subsided to a few chance bursts.

What nonsense it is that my father writes about women! thought Richard. He says they can't laugh, and don't

understand humour. It comes, he reflected, of his shutting himself from the world. And the idea that he was

seeing the world, and feeling wiser, flattered him. He talked fluently to his dangerous Bellona. He gave her

``Oh!'' said she, ``that's your tutor, is it!'' She eyed the young man as if she thought he must go far and fast.

Ripton felt a push. ``Look at that,'' said the bosom, fuming utter disgust. He was directed to see a manly arm

round the waist of the mignonne. ``Now that's what I don't like in company,'' the bosom inflated to observe

with sufficient emphasis. ``She always will allow it with everybody. Give her a nudge.''

Ripton protested that he dared not; upon which she said, ``Then I will;'' and inclined her sumptuous bust

across his lap, breathing wine in his face, and gave the nudge. The mignonne turned an inquiring eye on

Ripton; a mischievous spark shot from it. She laughed, and said; ``Aren't you satisfied with the old girl?''

``Do, do fill her glass, and keep her quietshe drinks port when there's no more champagne,'' said the

The bosom revenged herself by whispering to Ripton scandal of the mignonne, and between them he was

enabled to form a correcter estimate of the company, and quite recovered from his original awe; so much so

as to feel a touch of jealousy at seeing his lively little neighbour still held in absolute possession.

Mrs. Mount did not come out much; but there was a deferential manner in the bearing of the men toward her,

which those haughty creatures accord not save to clever women; and she contrived to hold the talk with three

or four at the head of the table while she still had passages aside with Richard.

The port and claret went very well after the champagne. The ladies here did not ignominiously surrender the

field to the gentlemen; they maintained their position with honour. Silver was seen far out on Thames. The

The faintsmelling cool Autumn air was pleasant after the feast. Fragrant weeds burned bright about the

``We are split into couples,'' said Adrian to Richard, who was standing alone, eyeing the landscape. ``'Tis the

influence of the moon! Apparently we are in Cyprus. How has my son enjoyed himself? How likes he the

Adrian was jolly, and rolled comfortably as he talked. Ripton had been carried off by the sentimental bosom.

He came up to them and whispered: ``By Jove, Ricky! do you know what sort of women these are?''

``Puritan!'' exclaimed Adrian, slapping Ripton on the back. ``Why didn't you get tipsy, sir? Don't you ever

intoxicate yourself except at lawful marriages? Reveal to us what you have done with the portly dame?''

Ripton endured his bantering that he might hang about Richard, and watch over him. He was jealous of his

innocent Beauty's husband being in proximity with such women. Murmuring couples passed them to and fro.

``By Jove, Ricky!'' Ripton favoured his friend with another hard whisper, ``there's a woman smoking!''

``And why not, O Riptonus?'' said Adrian. ``Art unaware that woman cosmopolitan is woman consummate?

``Why mayn't they do what men do?'' the hero cried impetuously. ``I hate that contemptible

narrowmindedness. It's that that makes the ruin and horrors I see. Why mayn't they do what men do? I like

the women who are brave enough not to be hypocrites. By heaven! if these women are bad, I like them better

than a set of hypocritical creatures who are all show, and deceive you in the end.''

Ripton, as usual, was crushed by his leader. He had no argument. He still thought women ought not to smoke;

and he thought of one far away, lonely by the sea, who was perfect without being cosmopolitan.

=The Pilgrim's Scrip= remarks that: ``Young men take joy in nothing so much as the thinking women

Angels: and nothing sours men of experience more than knowing that all are not quite so.''

The Aphorist would have pardoned Ripton Thompson his first Random extravagance, had he perceived the

simple warmhearted worship of feminine goodness Richard's young bride had inspired in the breast of the

Ripton thought of her, and had a feeling of sadness. He wandered about the grounds by himself, went through

an open postern, and threw himself down among some bushes oil the slope of the hill. Lying there, and

``What does he want?'' said a woman's voice. ``It's another of his villanies, I know. Upon my honour,

Brayder, when I think of what I have to reproach him for, I think I must go mad, or kill him.''

``Tragic!'' said the Hon. Peter. ``Haven't you revenged yourself, Bella, pretty often? Best deal openly. This is

a commercial transaction. You ask for money, and you are to have iton the conditions: double the sum,

``You know, my dear Bella, it has long been all up between you. I think Mount has behaved very well,

considering all he knows. He's not easily hoodwinked, you know. He resigns himself to his fate, and follows

``My dear Bella! You strike your bird like a hawk. I didn't say seduce. Hold him inplay with him. Amuse

The two walked farther, and the result of the colloquy was shut from Ripton. He left the spot in a serious

mood, apprehensive of something dark to the people he loved, though he had no idea of what the Hon. Peter's

On the voyage back to town, Richard was again selected to sit by Mrs. Mount. Brayder and Adrian started the

jokes. The pair of parasites got on extremely well together. Soft fell the plash of the oars; softly the

moonlight curled around them; softly the banks glided by. The ladies were in a state of high sentiment. They

sang without request. All deemed the British balladmonger an appropriate interpreter of their emotions. After

good wine, and plenty thereof, fair throats will make men of taste swallow that remarkable composer Eyes,

lips, hearts; darts and smarts and sighs; beauty, duty; bosom, blossom; false one, farewell! To this pathetic

strain they melted. Mrs. Mount, though strongly requested, declined to sing. She preserved her state. Under

the tall aspens of Brentfordait, and on they swept, the white moon in their wake. Richard's hand lay open by

his side. Mrs. Mount's little white hand by misadventure fell into it. It was not pressed, or soothed for its fall,

or made intimate with eloquent fingers. It lay there? like a bit of snow on the cold ground. A yellow leaf

wavering down from the aspens struck Richard's cheek, and he drew away the very hand to throw back his

hair and smooth his face, and then folded his arms, unconscious of offence. He was thinking ambitiously of

``Which is the more perilous?'' is a problem put by the =Pilgrim:= ``To meet the temptings of Eve, or to pique

her?'' Mrs. Mount stared at the young man as at a curiosity, and turned to flirt with one of her Court. The

Guardsmen were mostly sentimental. One or two rattled, and one was such a goodhumoured fellow that

Adrian could not make him ridiculous. The others seemed to give themselves up to a silent waxing in length

of limb. However far they sat removed, everybody was entangled in their legs. Pursuing his studies, Adrian

came to the conclusion that the same close intellectual and moral affinity which he had discovered to exist

between our nobility and our yeomanry, is to be observed between the Guardsman class, and that of the corps

de ballet: they both live by the strength of their legs, where also their wits, if they do not altogether reside

there, are principally developed: both are volage; wine, tobacco, and the moon, influence both alike; and

admitting the one marked difference that does exist, it is, after all, pretty nearly the same thing to be

A long Guardsman with a deep bass voice sang a doleful song about the twining tendrils of the heart

ruthlessly torn, but required urgent persuasions and heavy trumpeting of his lungs to get to the end: before he

had accomplished it, Adrian had contrived to raise a laugh in his neighbourhood, so that the company was

divided, and the camp split: jollity returned to onehalf, while sentiment held the other. Ripton, blotted

behind the bosom, was only lucky in securing a higher degree of heat than was possible for the rest. ``Are

``_I_ am,'' said the mignonne, as if to excuse her conduct, which was still evident to the decorous fat one,

Disdain prevented any further notice of her. Those familiar with the ladies enjoyed their sparring, which was

frequent. The mignonne was heard to whisper: ``That poor fellow will certainly be baked.''

Very prettily the ladies took and gave warmth, for the air on the water was chill and misty. Adrian had beside

him the demure one who had stopped the circulation of his anecdote. She in nowise objected to the fair

Past Kew and Hammersmith, on the cool smooth water; across Putney reach; through Battersea bridge; and

the City grew around them, and the shadows of great millfactories slept athwart the moonlight.

All the ladies prattled sweetly of a charming day when they alighted on land. Several cavaliers crushed for

``My brougham's here; I shall go alone,'' said Mrs. Mount. ``Some one arrange my shawl.''

She turned her back to Richard, who had a view of a delicate neck as he manipulated with the bearing of a

``Which way are you going?'' she asked carelessly, and, to his reply as to the direction, said: ``Then I can give

you a lift,'' and she took his arm with a matterofcourse air, and walked up the stairs with him.

Ripton saw what had happened. He was going to follow. the portly dame retained him, and desired him to get

Ripton procured the cab, and stuffed it full without having to get into it himself.

``Take liberties with your menyou sha'n't with me,'' retorted the angry bosom, and drove off.

``So she's been and gone and run away and left him after all his trouble!'' cried the pert little thing, peering

into Ripton's eyes. ``Now you'll never be so foolish as to pin your faith to fat women again. There! he shall be

made happy another time.'' She gave his nose a comical tap, and tripped away with her possessor.

Ripton rather forgot his friend for some minutes: Random thoughts laid hold of him. Cabs and carriages

rattled past. He was sure he had been among members of the nobility that day, though when they went by him

now they only recognized him with an effort of the eyelids. He began to think of the day with exultation, as

an event. Recollections of the mignonne were captivating. ``Blue eyesjust what I like! And such a little

impudent nose, and red lips, poutingthe very thing I like! And her hair? darkish, I thinksay, brown.

And so saucy, and light on her feet. And kind she is, or she wouldn't have talked to me like that.'' Thus, with a

groaning soul, he pictured her. His reason voluntarily consigned her to the aristocracy as a natural appanage:

Then his mind reverted to Mrs. Mount, and the strange conversation he had heard on the hill. He was not one

to suspect anybody positively. He was timid of fixing a suspicion. It hovered indefinitely, and clouded

people, without stirring him to any resolve. Still the attentions of the lady toward Richard were queer. He

endeavoured to imagine they were in the nature of things, because Richard was so handsome that any woman

must take to him. ``But he's married,'' said Ripton, ``and he mustn't go near these people if he's married.'' Not

a high morality, perhaps: better than none at all: better for the world were it practised more. He thought of

Richard along with that sparkling dame, alone with her. The adorable beauty of his dear bride, her pure

heavenly face, swam before him. Thinking of her, he lost sight of the mignonne who had made him giddy.

He walked to Richard's hotel, and up and down the street there, hoping every minute to hear his step;

sometimes fancying he might have returned and gone to bed. Two o'clock struck. Ripton could not go away.

He was sure he should not sleep if he did. At last the cold sent him homeward, and leaving the street, on the

moonlight side of Piccadilly he met his friend patrolling with his head up and that swing of the feet proper to

``Old Rip!'' cried Richard cheerily. ``What on earth are you doing here at this hour of the morning?''

Ripton muttered of his pleasure at meeting him. ``I wanted to shake your hand before I went home.''

Richard smiled on him in an amused kindly way. ``That all? You may shake my hand any day, like a true

man as you are, old Rip! I've been speaking about you. Do you know, thatMrs. Mountnever saw you

``Oh!'' Ripton said, well assured that he was a dwarf: ``You saw her safe home?''

``Yes. I've been there for the last couple of hours talking. She talks capitally: she's wonderfully clever.

``But, Richard, excuse meI'm sure I don't mean to offend youbut now you're married . . . . perhaps

you couldn't help seeing her home, but I think you really indeed oughtn't to have gone upstairs.'' Ripton

``What do you mean?'' said Richard. ``You don't suppose I care for any woman but my little darling down

``No; of course not. That's absurd. What I mean is, that people perhaps willyou know, they dothey

say all manner of things, and that makes unhappiness, and . . . I do wish you were going home tomorrow,

The hero gave one of his scornful glances. ``So you're anxious about my reputation. I hate that way of

looking on women. Because they have been once misledlook how much weaker they are!because the

world has given them an ill fame, you would treat them as contagious, and keep away from them for the sake

``Because I'm worse than you,'' was all the logical explanation Ripton was capable of.

``Yes,'' said Richard, ``and I, so do I hope so. But I've work to do now. I dare not, I cannot, leave it. Lucy

would be the last to ask me;You saw her letter yesterday. Now listen to me, Rip. I want to make you be

Then he read Ripton a lecture on erring women, speaking of them as if he had known them and studied them

for years. Clever, beautiful, but betrayed by love, it was the first duty of all true men to cherish and redeem

them. ``We turn them into curses, Rip; these divine creatures.'' And the world suffered for it. Thatthat

``I don't feel anger or horror at these poor women, Rip! It's strange. I knew what they were when we came

home in the boat. But I doit tears my heart to see a young girl given over to an old mana man she

Forgetting to contest the premiss, that all betrayed women are betrayed by love, Ripton was silenced. He, like

most young men, had pondered somewhat on this matter, and was inclined to be sentimental when he was not

hungry. They walked in the moonlight by the railings of the park. Richard harangued at leisure, while

Ripton's teeth chattered. Chivalry might be dead, but there was still something to do, went the strain. The lady

of the day had not been thrown in the hero's path without an object, he said; and he was sadly right there. He

did not express the thing clearly; nevertheless Ripton understood him to mean that he intended to rescue that

lady from further transgressions, and show a certain scorn of the world. That lady, and then other ladies

unknown, were to be rescued. Ripton was to help. He and Ripton were to be the knights of this enterprise.

When appealed to, Ripton acquiesced, and shivered. Not only were they to be knights, they would have to be

Titans, for the powers of the world, the spurious ruling Social Gods, would have to be defied and overthrown.

And Titan number one flung up his handsome bold face as if to challenge base Jove on the spot; and Titan

number two strained the upper button of his coat to meet across his pockethandkerchief on his chest, and

warmed his fingers under his coattails. The moon had fallen from her high seat and was in the mists of the

West, when he was allowed to seek his blankets, and the cold acting on his friend's eloquence made Ripton's

flesh very contrite. The poor fellow had thinner blood than the hero; but his heart was good. By the time he

had got a little warmth about him, his heart gratefully strove to encourage him in the conception of becoming

``Alas!'' writes the =Pilgrim= at this very time to Lady Blandish, ``I cannot get that legend of the Serpent

from me, the more I think. Has he not caught you, and ranked you foremost in his legions? For see: till you

were fashioned, the fruits hung immobile on the boughs. They swayed before us, glistening and cold. The

hand must be eager that plucked them. They did not come down to us, and smile, and speak our language,

and read our thoughts, and know when to fly, when to follow! how surely to have us!

``Do but mark one of you standing openly in the track of the Serpent. What shall be done with her? I fear the

world is wiser than its judges! Turn from her, says the world. By day the sons of the world do. It darkens, and

they dance together downward. Then comes there one of the world's elect who deems old counsel devilish;

indifference to the end of evil worse than its pursuit. He comes to reclaim her. From deepest bane will he

bring her back to highest blessing. Is not that a bait already? Poor fish! 'tis wondrous flattering. The Serpent

has slimed her so to secure him! With slow weary steps he draws her into light: she clings to him; she is

human; part of his work, and he loves it. As they mount upward, he looks on her more, while she, it may be,

looks above. What has touched him? What has passed out of her, and into him? The Serpent laughs below. At

This alliterative production was written without any sense of the peril that makes prophecy.

It suited Sir Austin to write thus. It was a channel to his acrimony moderated through his philosophy. The

letter was a reply to a vehement entreaty from Lady Blandish for him to come up to Richard and forgive him

``He tries to be more than he is,'' thought the lady: and she began insensibly to conceive him less than he was.

The baronet was conscious of a certain false gratification in his son's apparent obedience to his wishes, and

complete submission; a gratification he chose to accept as his due, without dissecting or accounting for it.

The intelligence reiterating that Richard waited, and still waited; Richard's letters, and more his dumb abiding

and practical penitence; vindicated humanity sufficiently to stop the course of virulent aphorisms. He could

speak, we have seen, in sorrow for this frail nature of ours that he had once stood forth to champion. ``But

how long will this last?'' he demanded with the air of Hippias. He did not reflect how long it had lasted.

It was not mere obedience that held Richard from the arms of his young wife: nor was it this new knightly

enterprise he had presumed to undertake. Hero as he was, a youth, open to the insane promptings of hot

blood, he was not a fool. There had been talk between him and Mrs. Doria of his mother. Now that he had

broken from his father, his heart spoke for her. She lived, he knew: he knew no more. Words painfully

hovering along the borders of plain speech had been communicated to him, filling him with moody

imaginings. If he thought of her, the red was on his face, though he could not have said why. But now, after

canvassing the conduct of his father, and throwing him aside as a terrible riddle, he asked Mrs. Doria to tell

him of his other parent. As softly as she could she told the story. To her the shame was past: she could weep

for the poor lady. Richard dropped no tears. Disgrace of this kind is always present to a son, and, educated as

he had been, these tidings were a vivid fire in his brain. He resolved to hunt her out, and take her from the

man. Here was work set to his hand. All her dear husband did was right to Lucy. She encouraged him to stay

for that purpose, thinking it also served another. There was Tom Bakewell to watch over Lucy: there was

work for him to do. Whether it would please his father he did not stop to consider. As to the justice of the act

On Ripton devolved the humbler task of grubbing for Sandoe's place of residence; and as he was

unacquainted with the name by which the poet now went in private, his endeavours were not immediately

successful. The friends met in the evening at Lady Blandish's townhouse, or at the Foreys', where Mrs.

Doria procured the reverer of the Royal Martyr, and staunch conservative, a favourable reception. Pity, deep

pity for Richard's conduct Ripton saw breathing out of Mrs. Doria. Algernon Feverel treated him with a sort

of rough commiseration, as a young fellow who had spoilt his luck. Pity was in Lady Blandish's eyes, though

for a different cause. She doubted if she did well in seconding his father's unwise schemesupposing him

to have a scheme. She saw the young husband encompassed by dangers at a critical time. Not a word of Mrs.

Mount had been breathed to her, but the lady had some knowledge of life. She touched on delicate verges to

the baronet in her letters, and he understood her well enough. ``If he loves this person to whom he has bound

himself, what fear for him? Or are you coming to think it something that bears the name of love because we

have to veil the rightful appellation?'' So he responded remote among the mountains. She tried very hard to

speak plainly. Finally he came to say that he denied himself the pleasure of seeing his son specially, that he

for a time might be put to the test the lady seemed to dread. This was almost too much for Lady Blandish.

Love's charity boy so loftily serene now that she saw him half denudeda thing of shanks and wrists

Going home at night Richard would laugh at the faces made about his marriage. ``We'll carry the day, Rip,

my Lucy and I! or I'll do it alonewhat there is to do.'' He slightly adverted to a natural want of courage in

women. which Ripton took to indicate that his Beauty was deficient in that quality. Up leapt the Old Dog;

``I'm sure there never was a braver creature upon earth, Richard! She's as brave as she's lovely, I'll swear she

is! Look how she behaved that day! How her voice sounded! She was trembling . . . Brave? She'd follow you

And Richard rejoined: ``Talk on, dear old Rip! She's my darling love, whatever she is! And she is gloriously

lovely. No eyes are like hers. And when I make them bashfulby heaven! I'll go down tomorrow morning

Ripton only wondered the husband of such a treasure could remain apart from it. So thought Richard for a

``But if I go, Rip,'' he said despondently, ``if I go for a day even I shall have undone all my work with my

``Yes,'' Ripton assented, and the words ``Please remember me to dear Mr. Thompson,'' fluttered about the Old

It came to pass that Mrs. Berry, having certain business that led her through Kensington Gardens, spied a

figure that she had once dandled in long clothes, and helped make a man of, if ever woman did. He was

walking under the trees beside a lady, talking to her not indifferently. The gentleman was her bridegroom and

her babe. ``I know his back,'' said Mrs. Berry, as if she had branded a mark on it in infancy. But the lady was

not her bride. Mrs. Berry diverged from the path, and got before them on the left flank; she stared, retreated,

and came round upon the right. There was that in the lady's face which Mrs. Berry did not like. Her innermost

question was, why he was not walking with his own wife? She stopped in front of them. They broke, and

passed about her. She hemmed! at Richard's elbow. The lady presently made a laughing remark to him,

whereat he turned to look, and Mrs. Berry bobbed. She had to bob a second time, and then he remembered

the worthy creature, and hailed her Penelope, shaking her hand so that he put her in countenance again. Mrs.

Berry was extremely agitated. He dismissed her, promising to call upon her in the evening. She heard the lady

slip out something from a side of her lip, and they both laughed as she toddled off to a sheltering tree to wipe

``Why doesn't he walk arminarm with her?'' was her next inquiry. ``Where's his wife?'' succeeded it. After

many interrogations of the sort, she arrived at naming the lady a boldfaced thing; adding subsequently,

brazen. The lady had apparently shown Mrs. Berry that she wished to get rid of her, and had checked the

outpouring of her emotions on the breast of her babe. ``I know a lady when I see one,'' said Mrs. Berry. ``I

haven't lived with 'em for nothing; and if she's a lady bred and born, I wasn't married in the church alive.''

Then, if not a lady, what was she? Mrs. Berry desired to know. ``She's imitation lady, I'm sure she is!'' Berry

Establishing the lady to be a spurious article, however, what was one to think of a married man in company

with such? ``Oh no! it ain't that!'' Mrs. Berry returned immediately on the charitable tack. ``Belike it's some

one of his acquaintance 've married her for her looks, and he've just met her. . . . Why it'd be as bad as my

Berry!'' the relinquished spouse of Berry ejaculated, in horror at the idea of a second man being so monstrous

in wickedness. ``Just coupled, too!'' Mrs. Berry groaned on the suspicious side of the debate. ``And such a

sweet young thing for his wife! But no, I'll never believe it. Not if he tell me so himself! And men don't do

Women are swift at coming to conclusions in these matters; soft women exceedingly swift: and soft women

who have been betrayed are rapid beyond measure. Mrs. Berry had not cogitated long ere she pronounced

distinctly and without a shadow of dubiosity: ``My opinion ismarried or not married, and wheresomever

he pick her upshe's nothin' more nor less than a Bella Donna!'' as which poisonous plant she forthwith

registered the lady in the botanical notebook of her brain. It would have astonished Mrs. Mount to have

In the evening Richard made good his promise, accompanied by Ripton. Mrs. Berry opened the door to them.

She could not wait to get him into the parlour. ``You're my own blessed babe; and I'm as good as your

mother, though I didn't suck ye, bein' a maid!'' she cried, falling into his arms, while Richard did his best

to support the unexpected burden. Then reproaching him tenderly for his guileat mention of which Ripton

chuckled, deeming it his own most honourable portion of the plotMrs. Berry led them into the parlour,

and revealed to Richard who she was, and how she had tossed him, and hugged him, and kissed him all over,

when he was only that bigshowing him her stumpy fat arm. ``I kissed ye from head to tail, I did,'' said

Mrs. Berry, ``and you needn't be ashamed of it. It's be hoped you'll never have nothin' worse come t' ye, my

Richard assured her he was not a bit ashamed, but warned her that she must not do it now, Mrs. Berry

admitting it was out of the question now, and now that he had a wife, moreover. The young men laughed, and

Ripton laughing overloudly drew on himself Mrs. Berry's attention: ``But that Mr. Thompson

therehowever he can look me in the face after his inn'cence! helping blindfold an old woman! though

I ain't sorry for what I didthat I'm free for to say, and it's over, and blessed be all! Amen! So now where

is she and how is she, Mr. Richard, my dearit's only cuttin' off the `s' and you are as you was.Why

``Ah! and how long have it been?'' asked Mrs. Berry, her heart beginning to beat at his manner of speaking.

``Oh! you never been dudgeonin' already? Oh! you haven't been peckin' at one another yet?'' Mrs. Berry

``September!'' breathed Mrs. Berry, counting on her fingers, ``September, October, Novtwo months and

more! nigh three! A young married husband away from the wife of his bosom nigh three months! Oh my! Oh

``My father sent for meI'm waiting to see him,'' said Richard. A few more words helped Mrs. Berry to

comprehend the condition of affairs. Then Mrs. Berry spread her lap, flattened out her hands, fixed her eyes,

``My dear young gentleman!I'd like to call ye my darlin' babe! I'm going to speak as a mother to ye,

whether ye likes it or no; and what old Berry says, you won't mind, for she's had ye when there was no

conventionals about ye, and she has the feelin's of a mother to you, though humble her state. If there's one

that know matrimony it's me, my dear, though Berry did give me no more but nine months of it: and I've

known the worst of matrimony, which, if you wants to be woful wise, there it is for ye. For what have been

my gain? That man gave me nothin' but his name; and Bessy Andrews was as good as Bessy Berry, though

both is `Bs,' and says he, you was 'A,' and now you's `B,' so you're my A B, he says, write yourself down that,

he say; the bad man, with his jokes!Berry went to service.'' Mrs. Berry's softness came upon her. ``So I

tell ye, Berry went to service. He left the wife of his bosom forlorn and he went to service; because he were

al'ays an ambitious man, and wasn't, so to speak, happy out of his uniformwhich was his liverynot

even in my arms: and he let me know it. He got among them kitchen sluts, which was my mournin' ready

made, and worse than a widow's cap to me, which is no shame to wear, and some say becoming. There's no

man as ever lived know better than my Berry how to show his legs to advantage, and gals look at 'em. I don't

wonder now that Berry was prostrated. His temptations was strong, and his flesh was weak. Then what I say

is, that for a young married manbe he whomsoever he may be to be separated from the wife of his

bosoma young sweet thing, and he an innocent young gentleman!so to sunder, in their state, and be

kep' from each other, I say it's as bad as bad can be! For what is matrimony, my dears? We're told it's a holy

Ordnance. And why are ye so comfortable in matrimony? For that ye are not a sinnin'! And they that severs

ye they tempts ye to stray: and you learn too late the meanin' o' them blessin's of the priestas it was

ordained. Separatewhat comes? Fust it's like the circulation of your blood astoppin'all goes wrong.

Then there's misunderstandingsye've both lost the key. Then, behold ye, there's birds 'o prey hoverin'

over each on ye, and it's which'll be snapped up fust. ThenOh, dear! Oh, dear! it be like the devil come

into the world again.'' Mrs. Berry struck her hands and moaned. ``A day I'll give ye: I'll go so far as a week:

but there's the outside. Three months dwellin' apart! That's not matrimony, it's divorcin'! what can it be to her

but widowhood? widowhood with no cap to show for it! And what can it be to you, my dear? Think! you

been a bachelor three months! and a bachelor man,'' Mrs. Berry shook her head most dolefully, ``he ain't a

widow woman. I don't go to compare you to Berry, my dear young gentleman. Some men's 'arts is vagabonds

born they must go astrayit's there natur' to. But all men are men, and I know the foundation of 'em,

Mrs. Berry paused. Richard was respectfully attentive to the sermon. The truth in the good creature's address

was not to be disputed, or despised, notwithstanding the inclination to laugh provoked by her quaint way of

putting it. Ripton nodded encouragingly at every sentence, for he saw her drift, and wished to second it.

Seeking for an illustration of her meaning, Mrs. Berry solemnly continued: ``We all know what checked

prespiration is.'' But neither of the young gentlemen could resist this. Out they burst in a roar of laughter.

``Laugh away,'' said Mrs. Berry. ``I don't mind ye. I say again, we all do know what checked prespiration is.

It fly to the lungs, it gives ye mortal inflammation, and it carries ye off. Then I say checked matrimony is as

bad. It fly to the heart, and it carries off the virtue that's in ye, and you might as well be dead! Them that is

joined it's their salvation not to separate! It don't so much matter before it. That Mr. Thompson t'hereif he

go astray, it ain't from the blessed fold. He hurt himself alonenot double, and belike treble, for who can

say now what may be? There's time for it. I'm for holding back young people so that they knows their minds,

howsomever they rattles about their hearts. I ain't a speeder of matrimony, and good's my reason! but where

it's been donewhere they're lawfully joined, and their bodies made one, I do say this, that to put division

between 'em then, it's to make wanderin' comets of 'emcreatures without a objeck, and no soul can say

Mrs. Berry here took a heavy breath, as one who has said her utmost for the time bring.

``My dear old girl,'' Richard went up to her and applauding her on the shoulder, ``you're a very wise old

woman. But you mustn't speak to me as if I wanted to stop here. I'm compelled to. I do it for her good

``A pretty pleasure! puttin' a snake in the nest of young turtledoves! And why don't she come up to you?''

``Well, that you must ask her. The fact is, she's a little timid girlshe wants me to see him first, and when

``A little timid girl!'' cried Mrs. Berry. ``Oh, lor', how she must ha' deceived ye to make ye think that! Look at

that ring,'' she held out her finger, ``he's a stranger: he's not my lawful! You know what ye did to me, my

dear. Could I get my own weddingring back from her? `No!' says she, firm as a rock, `he said, _with this

ring_ I thee wed' I think I see her now, with her pretty eyes and lovesome locksa darlin'!And that

ring she'd keep to, come life, come death. And she must ha' been a rock for me to give in to her in that. For

what's the consequence? Here am I,'' Mrs. Berry smoothed down the back of her hand mournfully, ``here am I

in a strange ring, that's like a strange man holdin' of me, and me a wearin' of it just to seem decent, and feelin'

all over no better than a b a bigthat nasty name I can't abide!I tell you, my dear, she ain't

soft, no! except to the man of her heart; and the best of women's too soft theremore's our sorrow!''

``I agree with you, Mrs. Berry,'' Ripton struck in, ``Mrs. Richard would do anything in the world her husband

``Bless you for your good opinion, Mr. Thompson! Why, see her! she ain't frail on her feet; she looks ye

straight in the eyes; she ain't one of your hangdown misses. Look how she behaved at the ceremony!''

``And if you'd ha' seen her when she spoke to me about my ring! Depend upon it, my dear Mr. Richard, if she

blinded you about the nerve she've got, it was somethin' she thought she ought to do for your sake, and I wish

I'd been by to counsel her, poor blessed babe!And how much longer, now, can ye stay divided from that

``A father's will,'' urged Mrs. Berry, ``that's a son's law; but he mustn't go again' the laws of his natur' to do

``Just be quiet at presenttalk of other things, there's a good woman,'' said Richard.

``How strange, now, our meetin' like this! meetin' at all, too!'' she remarked contemplatively. ``It's them

advertisements! They brings people together from the ends of the earth, for good or for bad. I often say,

there's more lucky accidents, or unlucky ones, since advertisements was the rule, than ever there was before.

They make a number of romances, depend upon it! Do you walk much in the Gardens, my dear?''

``Very pleasant it is there with the fine folks and flowers and titled people,'' continued Mrs. Berry. ``That was

``She was a handsome woman! or I should say, is, for her day ain't past, and she know it. I thought at

firstby her backit might ha' been your aunt, Mrs. Forey; for she do step out well and hold up her

shoulders: straight as a dart she be! but when I come to see her faceOh, dear me! says I, this ain't one of

the family. They none of 'em got such bold facesnor no _lady_ as I know have. But she's a fine

Mrs. Berry talked further of the fine woman. It was a liberty she took to speak in this disrespectful tone of

her, and Mrs. Berry was quite aware that she was laying herself open to rebuke. She had her end in view. No

rebuke was uttered, and during her talk she observed intercourse passing between the eyes of the young men.

``Look here, Penelope,'' Richard stopped her at last. ``Will it make you comfortable if I tell you I'll obey the

``Very well, thenbe happyI will. Now listen. I want you to keep your rooms for methose she had.

Mrs. Berry's short neck made the best imitation it could of an offended swan's action. She was very angry.

She said she did not like so many ladies, which natural objection Richard met by saying that there was only

``And Mrs. Berry,'' he added, dropping his voice. ``You will treat her as you did my dear girl, for she will

require not only shelter but kindness. I would rather leave her with you than with any one. She has been very

His serious air and habitual tone of command fascinated the softness of Berry, and it was not until he had

gone that she spoke out. ``Unfort'nate! He's going to bring mean unfort'nate female! Oh! not from my babe

can I bear that! Never will I have her here! I see it. It's that boldfaced woman he's got mixed up in, and

she've been and made the young man think he'll go for to reform her. It's one o' their artsthat is; and he's

too innocent a young man to mean anythin' else. But I ain't a house of Magdalensno! and sooner than

In love, Mrs. Berry's charity was all on the side of the law, and this is the case with many of her sisters. The

=Pilgrim= sneers at them for it, and would have us credit that it is their admirable instinct which, at the

expense of every virtue save one, preserves the artificial barrier simply to impose upon us. Men, I presume,

Early next day Mrs. Berry bundled off to Richard's hotel to let him know her determination. She did not find

him there. Returning homeward through the Park, she beheld him on horseback riding by the side of the

identical lady. The sight of this public exposure shocked her more than the secret walk under the trees. ``You

don't look near your reform yet,'' Mrs. Berry apostrophized her. ``You don't look to me one that'd come the

Fair Penitent till you've left off bein' fairif then you do, which some of ye don't. Laugh away and show

yer airs! Spite o' your hat and feather, and your ridin'habit, you're a Bella Donna.'' Setting her down again

In the evening she heard the noise of wheels stopping at the door. ``Never!'' she rose from her chair to

exclaim. ``He ain't rided her out in the mornin', and been and made a Magdalen of her afore dark?''

A lady veiled was brought into the house by Richard. Mrs. Berry feebly tried to bar his progress in the

passage. He pushed past her, and conducted the lady into the parlour without speaking. Mrs. Berry did not

follow. She heard him murmur a few sentences within. Then he came out. All her crest stood up, as she

whispered vigorously, ``Mr. Richard! if that woman stay here, I go forth. My house ain't a penitentiary for

He frowned at her curiously; but as she was on the point of renewing her indignant protest, he clapped his

hand across her mouth, and spoke words in her ear that had awful import to her. She trembled, breathing low:

``My God, forgive me! Lady Feverel is it? Your mother, Mr. Richard?'' And her virtue was humbled before

One may suppose that a prematurely aged, oily little man; a poet in bad circumstances; a decrepit butterfly

chained to a disappointed inkstand, will not put out strenuous energies to retain his ancient paramour when a

robust young man comes imperatively to demand his mother of him in her person. The colloquy was short

between Diaper Sandoe and Richard. The question was referred to the poor spiritless lady, who, seeing that

her son made no question of it, cast herself on his hands. Small loss to her was Diaper; but he was the loss of

habit, and that is something to a woman who has lived. The blood of her son had been running so long alien

from her that the sense of her motherhood smote her now with strangeness, and Richard's stern gentleness

seemed like dreadful justice come upon her. Her heart had almost forgotten its maternal functions. She called

him Sir, till he bade her remember he was her son. Her voice sounded to him like that of a brokenthroated

lamb, so painful and weak it was, with the plaintive stop in the utterance. When he kissed her, her skin was

cold. Her thin hand fell out of his when his grasp relaxed. ``Can sin hunt one like this?'' he asked, bitterly

reproaching himself for the shame she had caused him to endure, and a deep compassion filled his breast.

Poetic justice had been dealt to Diaper the poet. He thought of all he had sacrificed for this womanthe

comfortable quarters, the friend, the happy flights. He could not but accuse her of unfaithfulness in leaving

him in his old age. Habit had legalized his union with her. He wrote as pathetically of the break of habit as

men feel at the death of love; and when we are old and have no fair hope tossing golden locks before us, a

wound to this second nature is quite as sad. I know not even if it be not actually sadder.

Day by day Richard visited his mother. Lady Blandish and Ripton alone were in the secret. Adrian let him do

as he pleased. He thought proper to tell him that the public recognition he accorded to a particular lady was,

``'Tis a proof to me of your moral rectitude, my son, but the world will not think so. No one character is

sufficient to cover twoin a Protestant country especially. The divinity that doth hedge a Bishop would

have no chance in contact with your Madam Danae. Methinks I see the reverend man! though he takes

excellent care to make it a contemptible hypothesis. That part of his pastoral duty he wisely leaves to

weanling laymen. Drop the woman, my son. Or permit _me_ to speak what you would have her hear.''

``Well, you've had my doctorial warning,'' said Adrian, and plunged back into his book.

When lady Feverel had revived to take part in the consultations Mrs. Berry perpetually opened on the subject

of Richard's matrimonial duty, another chain was cast about him. ``Do not, oh, do not offend your father!''

was her one repeated supplication. Sir Austin had grown to be a vindictive phantom in her mind. She never

So Mrs. Berry, to whom Richard had once made mention of Lady Blandish as the only friend he had among

women, bundled off in her blacksatin dress to obtain an interview with her, and an ally. After coming to an

understanding on the matter of the visit, and reiterating many of her views concerning young married people,

Mrs. Berry said: ``My lady, if I may speak so bold, I'd say the sin that's bein' done is the sin o' the lookers on.

And when everybody appear frighted by that young gentleman's father, I'll sayhopin' your

pardonthey no cause be frighted at all. For though it's nigh twenty year since I knew him, and I knew him

then just sixteen monthsno moreI'll say his heart's as soft as a woman's, which I've cause for to know.

And that's it. That's where everybody's deceived by him, and I was. It's because he keeps his face, and makes

ye think you're dealin' with a man of iron, and all the while there's a woman underneath. And a man that's like

a woman he's the puzzle o' life! We can see through ourselves, my lady, and we can see through men, but one

o' that sorthe's like somethin' out of nature. Then I sayhopin' be excusedwhat's to do is for to treat

him _like_ a woman, and not for to let him 'ave his own waywhich he don't know himself, and is why

nobody else do. Let that sweet young couple come together, and be wholesome in spite of him, I say; and

then give him time to come round, just like a woman; and round he'll come, and give 'em his blessin', and we

shall know we've made him comfortable. He's angry because matrimony have come between him and his son,

and he, womanlike, he's wantin' to treat what is as if it isn't. But matrimony's a holier than him. It began

long long before him, and it's be hoped will endoor long's the time after, if the world's not coming to

Now Mrs. Berry only put Lady Blandish's thoughts in bad English. The lady took upon herself seriously to

advise Richard to send for his wife. He wrote, bidding her come. Lucy, however, had wits, and inexperienced

wits are as a little knowledge. In pursuance of her sage plan to make the family feel her worth, and to conquer

the members of it one by one, she had got up a correspondence with Adrian, whom it tickled. Adrian

constantly assured her all was going well: time would heal the wound if both the offenders had the fortitude

to be patient: he fancied he saw signs of the baronet's relenting: they must do nothing to arrest those

favourable symptoms. Indeed the wise youth was languidly seeking to produce them. He wrote, and felt, as

Lucy's benefactor. So Lucy replied to her husband a cheerful rigmarole he could make nothing of, save that

she was happy in hope, and still had fears. Then Mrs. Berry trained her fist to indite a letter to her bride. Her

bride answered it by saying she trusted to time. ``You poor marter,'' Mrs. Berry wrote back, ``I know what

your sufferin's be. They is the only kind a wife should never hide from her husband. He thinks all sorts of

things if she can abide being away. And you trusting to time, why it's like trusting not to catch cold out of

Richard gave it up. He began to think that the life lying behind him was the life of a fool. What had he done

in it? He had burnt a rick and got married! He associated the two acts of his existence. Where was the hero he

was to have carved out of Tom Bakewell!a wretch he had taught to lie and chicane: and for what? Great

heavens! how ignoble did a flash from the light of his aspirations made his marriage appear! The young man

sought amusement. He allowed his aunt to drag him into society, and sick of that he made late evening calls

on Mrs. Mount, oblivious of the purpose he had in visiting her at all. Her manlike conversation, which he

``Call me Bella: I'll call you Dick,'' said she. And it came to be Bella and Dick between them. No mention of

Mrs. Mount spoke quite openly of herself. ``I pretend to be no better than I am,'' she said, ``and I know I'm no

worse than many a woman who holds her head high.'' To back this she told him stories of blooming dames of

Also she understood him. ``What you want, my dear Dick, is something to do. You went and got married like

a hum!friends must be respectful. Go into the army. Try the turf. I can put you up to a trick or

She told him what she liked in him. ``You're the only man I was ever alone with who don't talk to me of love

and make me feel sick. I hate men who cant speak to a woman sensibly.Just wait a minute.'' She left him

and presently returned with, ``Ah, Dick! old fellow! how are you?'' arrayed like a cavalier, one arm stuck

in her side, her hat jauntily cocked, and a pretty oath on her lips to give reality to the costume. ``What do you

think of me? Wasn't it a shame to make a woman of me when I was born to be a man?''

``I don't know that,'' said Richard, for the contrast in her attire to those shooting eyes and lips, aired her sex

Then she proposed that they should go out into the midnight streets arminarm, and out they went and had

great fits of laughter at her impertinent manner of using her eye. glass, and outrageous affectation of the

``They take up men, Dick, for going about in women's clothes, and vice versaw, I suppose. You'll bail me,

old fellaa, if I have to make my bow to the beak, won't you? Say it's becas I'm an honest woman and don't

care to hide theaunmentionables when I wear themas the t'others do,'' sprinkled with the dandy's

And he with many assurances guaranteed to stand by her, while she bent her thin fingers trying the muscle of

his arm, and reposed upon it more. There was delicacy in her dandyism. She was a graceful cavalier.

``Sir Julius,'' as they named the dandy's attire, was frequently called for on his evening visits to Mrs. Mount.

When he beheld Sir Julius he thought of the lady, and ``vice versaw,'' as Sir Julius was fond of exclaiming.

The woman now and then would peep through Sir Julius. Or she would sit, and talk, and altogether forget she

She never uttered an idea or a reflection, but Richard thought her the cleverest woman he had ever met.

All kinds of problematic notions beset him. She was cold as ice, she hated talk about love, and she was

A rumour spread that reached Mrs. Doria's ears. She rushed to Adrian first. The wise youth believed there

was nothing in it. She sailed full down upon Richard. ``Is this true? that you have been seen going publicly

Richard knew of no person answering to his aunt's description in whose company he could have been seen.

The acquaintance of a lady very much misjudged and ill. used by the world, Richard admitted to.

Urgent grave advice Mrs. Doria tendered her nephew, both from the moral and the worldly point of view,

mentally ejaculating all the while: ``That ridiculous System! That disgraceful marriage!'' Sir Austin in his

The rumour came to Lady Blandish. She likewise lectured Richard, and with her he condescended to argue.

But he found himself obliged to instance something he had quite neglected. ``Instead of her doing me harm,

Lady Blandish shook her head and held up her finger. ``This person must be very clever to have given you

``How mad and wicked is the man who can let him be tempted so!'' thought Lady Blandish.

He would pronounce no promise not to visit her, not to address her publicly. The world that condemned her

and cast her out was no betterworse for its miserable hypocrisy. He knew the world now, the young man

``My child! the world may be very bad. I am not going to defend it. But you have some one else to think of.

``Ay! you all speak of her now. There's my aunt: `Remember you have a wife!' Do you think I love anyone

but Lucy? poor little thing! Because I am married am I to give up the society of women?''

Adrian became more emphatic in his warnings. Richard laughed at him. The wise youth sneered at Mrs.

Mount. The hero then favoured him with a warning equal to his own in emphasis, and surpassing it in

``We won't quarrel, my dear boy,'' said Adrian. ``I'm a man of peace. Besides, we are not fairly proportioned

for a combat. Ride your steed to virtue's goal! All I say is, that I think he'll upset you, and it's better to go at a

slow pace and in companionship with the children of the sun. You have a very nice little woman for a

To have his wife and the world thrown at his face, was unendurable to Richard; he associated them somewhat

after the manner of the rick and the marriage. Charming Sir Julius, always gay, always honest, dispersed his

``Of course I am. Don't you remember you said I was such a little thing when I came out of my woman's

``Then'' . . . his project recurred to him. But the incongruity of speaking seriously to Sir Julius struck him

``What! when I had the heels of my boots raised half an inch,'' Sir Julius turned one heel, and volleyed out

``I don't come much above your shoulder even now,'' she said, and proceeded to measure her height beside

``I'll show you how,'' and he lifted Sir Julius lightly, and bore the fair gentleman to the lookingglass, holding

Sir Julius, charming as he was, lost his vogue. Seeing that, the wily woman resumed her shell. The memory

``Yes! Ah! then! if I had been!'' sighed Mrs. Mount, gazing on the pattern of the carpet.

Her nearest eye, setting a dimple of her cheek in motion, slid to the corner toward her ear, as she sat with her

head sideways to him listening. When he had gone, she said to herself: ``Old hypocrites talk in that way; but I

Their next meeting displayed her quieter: subdued as one who had been set thinking. He lauded her fair

But it was not only that mood with her. Dauntless defiance that splendidly befitted her gallant outline and

gave a wildness to her bright bold eyes, when she would call out: ``Happy? who dares say I'm not happy? D'

you think if the world whips me I'll wince? D' you think I care for what they say or do? Let them kill me!

they shall never get one cry out of me!'' and flashing on the young man as if he were the congregated enemy,

add: ``There! now you know me!''that was a mood that well became her, and helped the work. She ought

``This must not go on,'' said Lady Blandish and Mrs. Doria in unison. A common object brought them

together. They confined their talk to it, and did not disagree. Mrs. Doria engaged to go down to the baronet.

Both ladies knew it was a dangerous, likely to turn out a disastrous, expedition. They agreed to it because it

was something to do, and doing anything is better than doing nothing. ``Do it,'' said the wise youth, when

they made him a third, ``do it, if you want him to be a hermit for life. You will bring back nothing but his

dead body, ladiesa Hellenic, rather than a Roman, triumph. He will listen to youhe will accompany

you to the stationhe will hand you into the carriage and when you point to his seat he will bow

``Speak to him, you, Adrian,'' said Mrs. Doria. ``Speak to the boy solemnly. It would be almost better he

``Almost?'' Lady Blandish opened her eyes. ``I have been advising it for the last month and more.''

Each lady saw a point of dissension, and mutually agreed, with heroic effort, to avoid it by shutting their

mouths. What was more, they preserved the peace in spite of Adrian's clever artifices.

``Well, I'll talk to him again,'' he said. ``I'll try to get the Engine on the conventional line.''

Throwing banter aside, as much as he could, Adrian spoke to Richard. ``You want to reform this woman. Her

manner is openfair and freethe traditional characteristic. We won't stop to canvass how that particular

honesty of deportment that wins your approbation has been gained. In her college it is not uncommon. Girls,

you know, are not like boys. At a certain age they can't be quite natural. It's a bad sign if they don't blush, and

fib, and affect this and that. It wears off when they're women. But a woman who speaks like a man, and has

all those excellent virtues you admirewhere has she learnt the trick? She tells you. You don't surely

approve of the school? Well, what is there in it, then? Reform her, of course. The task is worthy of your

energies. But, if you are appointed to do it, don't do it publicly, and don't attempt it just now. May I ask you

Richard walked away from the interrogation. The wise youth, who hated long unrelieved speeches and had

Dear tender Lucy! Poor darling! Richard's eyes moistened. Her letters seemed sadder latterly. Yet she never

called to him to come, or he would have gone. His heart leapt up to her. He announced to Adrian that he

should wait no longer for his father. Adrian placidly nodded. The enchantress observed that her knight had a

``RichardI can't call you Dick now, I really don't know why''she said, ``I want to beg a favour of

``If you care to. What I want to say is this: when you meet me outto cut it shortplease not to

``No,'' she caressed his hand, ``and there is none. I know that. But,'' modest eyelids were drooped, ``other

``Nothing. I don't. Not that!'' snapping her finger, ``I care for you, though.'' A prolonged look followed the

He did not combat it with his usual impetuosity. Adrian's abrupt inquiry had sunk in his mind, as the wise

youth intended it should. He had instinctively refrained from speaking to Lucy of this lady. But what a noble

So they met in the Park; Mrs. Mount whipped past him; and secrecy added a new sense to their intimacy.

Though this lady never expressed an idea, Richard was not mistaken in her cleverness. She could make

evenings pass gaily, and one was not the fellow to the other. She could make you forget she was a woman,

and then bring the fact startlingly home to you. She could read men with one quiver of her halfclosed

eyelashes. She could catch the coming mood in a man, and fit herself to it. What does a woman want with

ideas, who can do thus much? Keenness of perception, conformity, delicacy of handling, these be all the

Love would have scared the youth: she banished it from her tongue. It may also have been true that it

sickened her. She played on his higher nature. She understood spontaneously what would be most strange and

taking to him in a woman. Various as the Serpent of old Nile, she acted fallen beauty, humourous

indifference, reckless daring, arrogance in ruin. And acting thus, what think you?She did it so well

``Richard! I am not what I was since I knew you. You will not give me up quite?''

She told him her history when this soft horizon of repentance seemed to throw heaven's twilight across it. A

woman's history, you know: certain chapters expunged. It was dark enough to Richard.

``Did I love him? He was a nobleman and I a tradesman's daughter. No. I did not love him. I have lived to

``Yes. When we're young we can be very easily deceived. If there is such a thing as love, we discover it after

we have tossed about and roughed it. Then we find the man, or the woman, that suits us:and then it's too

She chose to admit that. ``Yes. And the first who talks of love to a girl must be a fool if he doesn't blind her.''

Nevertheless she had opened a wider view of the world to him, and a colder. He thought poorly of girls. A

woman a sensible, brave, beautiful woman seemed, on comparison, infinitely nobler than those weak

She was best in her character of lovely rebel accusing foul injustice. ``What am I to do? You tell me to be

different. How can I? What am I to do? Will virtuous people let me earn my bread? I could not get a

housemaid's place! They wouldn't have meI see their noses smelling! Yes: I can go to the hospital and

sing behind a screen! Do you expect me to bury myself alive? Why, man, I have blood: I can't become a

Stone. You say I am honest, and I will be. Then let me tell you that I have been used to luxuries, and I can't

do without them. I might have married menlots would have had me. But who marries one like me but a

fool? and I could not marry a fool. The man I marry I must respect. He could not respect meI should

know him to be a fool, and I should be worse off than I am now. As I am now they may look as pious as they

And so forth: direr things. Imputations upon wives: horrible exultation at the universal peccancy of husbands.

This lovely outcast almost made him think she had the right on her side, so keenly her Parthian arrows

Mrs. Mount's house was discreetly conducted: nothing ever occurred to shock him there. The young man

would ask himself where the difference was between her and the women of society? How base, too, was the

army of banded hypocrites! He was ready to declare war against them on her behalf. His casus belli,

accurately worded, would have read curiously. Because the world refused to lure the lady to virtue with the

offer of a housemaid's place, our knight threw down his challenge. But the lady had scornfully rebutted this

prospect of a return to chastity. Then the form of the challenge must be: Because the world declined to

support the lady in luxury for nothing! But what did that mean? In other words: she was to receive the devil's

wages without rendering him her services. Such an arrangement appears hardly fair on the world or on the

devil. Heroes will have to conquer both before they will get them to subscribe to it.

Heroes, however, are not in the habit of wording their declarations of war at all. Lance in rest they challenge

and they charge. Like women they trust to instinct, and graft on it the muscle of men. Wide fly the

leisurelyremonstrating hosts: institutions are scattered, they know not wherefore, heads are broken that have

not the balm of a reason why. 'Tis instinct strikes! Surely there is something divine in instinct.

Still, war declared, where were these hosts? The hero could not charge down on the ladies and gentlemen in a

ballroom, and spoil the quadrille. He had sufficient reticence to avoid sounding his challenge in the Law

Courts; nor could he well go into the Houses of Parliament with a trumpet, though to come to a tussle with

the nation's direct representatives did seem the likelier method. It was likewise out of the question that he

should enter every house and shop, and battle with its master in the cause of Mrs. Mount. Where, then, was

his enemy. Everybody was his enemy, and everybody was nowhere! Shall he convoke multitudes on

Wimbledon Common? Blue Policemen, and a distant dread of ridicule, bar all his projects. Alas for the hero

``What can I do for this poor woman?'' cried Richard, after fighting his phantom enemy till he was worn out.

``O Rip! old Rip!'' he addressed his friend, ``I'm distracted. I wish I was dead! What good am I for?

Miserable! selfish! What have I done but make every soul I know wretched about me? I follow my own

inclinations I make people help me by lying as hard as they canand I'm a liar. And when I've got it

I'm ashamed of myself. And now when I do see something unselfish for me to do, I come upon grinsI

It was only friend Ripton's ear that was required, so his words went for little: but he did say he thought there

was small matter to be ashamed of in winning and wearing the Beauty of Earth. Richard added his customary

He fought his duello with empty air till he was exhausted. A last letter written to his father procured him no

reply. Then, said he, I have tried my utmost. I have tried to be dutifulmy father won't listen to me. One

thing I can doI can go down to my dear girl, and make her happy, and save her at least from some of the

``There's nothing better for me!'' he groaned. His great ambition must be covered by a housetop: he and the

cat must warm themselves on the domestic hearth! The hero was not aware that his heart moved him to this.

Mrs. Mount heard that her friend was goingwould go. She knew he was going to his wife. Far from

discouraging him, she said nobly: ``GoI believe I have kept you. Let us have an evening together, and

then go: for good if you like. If not, then to meet again another time. Forget me. I sha'n't forget you. Your the

best fellow I ever knew, Richard. You are, on my honour! I swear I would not step in between you and your

wife to cause either of you a moment's unhappiness. When I can be another woman I will, and I shall think of

Lady Blandish heard from Adrian that Richard was positively going to his wife. The wise youth modestly

veiled his own merit in bringing it about by saying: ``I couldn't see that poor little woman left alone down

``Well! Yes!'' said Mrs. Doria, to whom the modest speech was repeated, ``I suppose, poor boy, it's the best

``Do you know this dress? No? It's the dress I wore when I first met younot when I first saw you. I think I

remarked you, sir, before you deigned to cast an eye upon humble me. When we first met we drank

champagne together, and I intend to celebrate our parting in the same liquor. Will you liquor with me, old

She was gay. She revived Sir Julius occasionally. He, dispirited, left the talking all to her.

Mrs. Mount kept a footman. At a late hour the man of calves dressed the table for supper. It was a point of

honour for Richard to sit down to it and try to eat. Drinking, thanks to the kindly mother nature, who loves to

see her children made fools of, is always an easier matter. The footman was diligent: the champagne corks

``What! down, my boy?'' she cried. ``They shall never see me hoist signals of distress. We must all die, and

the secret of the thing is to die game, by Jove! Did you ever hear of Laura Fenn? a superb girl! handsomer

than your humble servantif you'll believe ita `Miss' in the bargain, and as a consequence, I suppose, a

much greater rake. She was in the huntingfield. Her horse threw her, and she fell plump on a stake. It went

into her left breast. All the fellows crowded round her, and one young man, who was in love with herhe

sits in the House of Peers now we used to call him `Duck' because he was such a dear he dropped

from his horse to his knees: `Laura! Laura! my darling! speak a word to me!the last!' She turned over all

white and bloody! `II shan't be in at the death!' and gave up the ghost! Wasn't that dying game? Here's to

the example of Laura Fenn! Why, what's the matter? See! it makes a man turn pale to hear how a woman can

``It's give me a turn, my lady,'' pleaded John, and the man's hand was unsteady as he poured out the wine.

``You ought not to listen. Go, and drink some brandy.'' John footman went from the room.

``Can't you bear to hear of blood? You know, it was only one naughty woman out of the world. The

clergyman of the parish didn't refuse to give her decent burial. We are Christians! Hurrah!''

She cheered, and laughed. A lurid splendour glanced about her like lights from the pit.

``Pledge me, Dick! Drink, and recover yourself. Who minds? We must all diethe good and the bad.

Ashes to ashesdust to dustand wine for living lips! That's poetryalmost. Sentiment: `May we

never say die till we've drunk our fill!' Not badeh? A little vulgar, perhaps, by Jove! Do you think me

``Where's the wine?'' Richard shouted. He drank a couple of glasses in succession, and stared about. Was he

``Nobly spoken! and nobly acted upon, my brave Dick Now we'll be companions. `She wished that heaven

She pointed to a symbolic golden anchor studded with gems and coiled with a rope of hair in her bosom. It

``Do you know when I stole the lock? Foolish Dick! you gave me an anchor without a rope. Come and see.''

``Don't you recognize your own hair! I should know a thread of mine among a million.''

Something of the strength of Samson went out of him as he inspected his hair on the bosom of Delilah.

``And you knew nothing of it! You hardly know it now you see it! What couldn't a woman steal from you?

But you're not vain, and that's a protection. You're a miracle, Dick: a man that's not vain! Sit here.'' She curled

up her feet to give him place on the sofa. ``Now let us talk like friends that part to meet no more. You found a

ship with fever on board, and you weren't afraid to come alongside and keep her company. The fever isn't

catching, you see. Let us mingle our tears together. Ha! ha! a man said that once to me. The hypocrite wanted

``Twentyone? You just look it, you blooming boy. Now tell me my age, Adonis!Twenty_what?_''

She laughed violently. ``You don't pay compliments, Dick. Best to be honest; Guess again. You don't like to?

Not twentyfive, or twentyfour, or twentythree, or see how he begins to stare!twentytwo. Just

twentyone, my dear. I think my birthday's somewhere in next month. Why, look at me, closecloser.

``I understand you. When did I commence for to live? At the ripe age of sixteen I saw a nobleman in despair

because of my beauty. He vowed he'd die. I didn't want him to do that. So to save the poor man for his

family, I ran away with him, and I dare say they didn't appreciate the sacrifice, and he soon forgot to, if he

``Where's the wine?'' cried Richard. He seized some dead champagne, emptied the bottle into a tumbler, and

John footman entered to clear the table, and they were left without further interruption.

She leaned on her arm, her hair crushed against a reddened cheek, her eyes halfshut and dreamy.

She blinked and yawned, as one who is awaked suddenly. ``I think you spoke,'' said she.

``You are unhappy, Bella. You can't conceal it. Your laugh sounds like madness. You must be unhappy. So

The mighty pity falling from his eyes took in her whole shape. She did not mistake it for tenderness, as

``Who cares for you, Bella? I do. What makes my misery now, but to see you there, and know of no way of

helping you? Father of mercy! it seems too much to have to stand by powerless while such a ruin is going

Her hand was shaken in his by the passion of torment with which his frame quaked.

Involuntarily a tear started between her eyelids. She glanced up at him quickly, then looked down, drew her

This article of apparel instantaneously changed the tone of the conversation, for he, rising abruptly, nearly

squashed the lady's lapdog, whose squeaks and howls were piteous, and demanded the most fervent caresses

of its mistress. It was: ``Oh, my poor pet Mumpsy, and he didn't like a nasty great big ugly heavy foot on his

and he cried out and knew the place to come to, and was oh so sorry for what had happened to himmum

``Yes!'' said Richard savagely, from the other end of the room, ``you care for the happiness of your dog.''

``A course se does,'' Mumpsy was simperingly assured in the thick of his silky flanks.

``Now,'' said the lady, ``you must come and beg Mumpsy's pardon whether you meant to do it or no, because

little doggies can't tell thathow should they? And there's poor Mumpsy thinking you're a great terrible

rival that tries to squash him all flat to nothing, on purpose, pretending you didn't see; and he's trembling,

poor dear wee pet! And I may love my dog, sir, if I like; and I do; and I won't have him illtreated, for he's

never been jealous of you, and he is a darling, ten times truer than men, and I love him fifty times better. So

First a smile changed Richard's face; then laughing a melancholy laugh, he surrendered to her humour, and

``Well, we'll act as if we thought so. Let us be gay, Richard, and not part like ancient fogies. Where's your

fun? You can rattle; why don't you? You haven't seen me in one of my charactersnot Sir Julius: wait a

A white visage reappeared behind a spring of flame. Her black hair was scattered over her shoulders and fell

half across her brows. She moved slowly, and came up to him, fastening weird eyes on him, pointing a finger

at the region of witches. Sepulchral cadences accompanied the representation. He did not listen, for he was

thinking what a deadly charming and exquisitely horrid witch she was. Something in the way her underlids

worked seemed to remind him of a forgotten picture; but a veil hung on the picture. There could be no

analogy, for this was beautiful and devilish, and that, if he remembered rightly, had the beauty of seraphs.

His reflections and her performance were stayed by a shriek. The spirits of wine had run over the plate she

held to the floor. She had the coolness to put the plate down on the table, while he stamped out the flame on

the carpet. Again she shrieked: she thought she was on fire. He fell on his knees and clasped her skirts all

Was she a witch verily? There was sorcery in her breath; sorcery in her hair: the ends of it stung him like

``There! I won't be a witch; I won't be a witch: they may burn me to a cinder, but I won't be a witch!''

``No, don't change. I like to see you so.'' He gazed at her with a mixture of wonder and admiration. ``I can't

``Richard,'' her tone was serious, ``you were going to speak to me of my parents.''

Her head shook sorrowfully at the glistening fireirons. He followed the abstracted intentness of her look,

``Dear Bella! if you will tell me where he lives, I will go to him. He shall receive you. He shall not

``Let me go to your father, Bellalet me go to him tomorrow. I'll give you my time. It's all I can give. O

``So you like me best dishevelled, do you, you naughty boy! Ha! ha!'' and away she burst from him, and up

flew her hair, as she danced across the room, and fell at full length on the sofa.

``We'll talk of everyday things, Dick,'' she called to him from the sofa. ``It's our last evening. Our last?

Heigho! It makes me sentimental. How's that Mr. Ripson, Pipson, Nipson?it's not complimentary, but I

can't remember names of that sort. Why do you have friends of that sort? He's not a gentleman. Better is he?

Well, he's rather _too_ insignificant for me. Why do you sit off there? Come to me instantly. ThereI'll sit

He was reflecting on the fact that her eyes were brown. They had a haughty sparkle when she pleased, and

when she pleased a soft languor circled them. Excitement had dyed her cheeks deep red. He was a youth, and

``It's our last nightI suppose it's our last hour together in this worldand I don't want to meet you in the

next, for poor Dick will have to come to such a very, very disagreeable place to make the visit.''

``Well, we'll admit it. His Highness below likes lovely women, I hear say. A gentlemen of taste! You don't

``Then hear, and wonder.'' Her voice trolled out some lively roulades. ``Don't you think he'll make me his

prima donna below? It's nonsense to tell me there's no singing there. And the atmosphere will be favourable

to the voice. No _damp,_ you know. You saw the pianowhy didn't you ask me to sing before? I can sing

Italian. I had a master who made love to me. I forgave him because of the musicstoolmen can't help

``Because I'm such a rake. I don't know any other reason. No; I hate sentimental songs. Won't sing that.

Tatiddytiddyiddya . . . e! How ridiculous those women were, coming home from Richmond!

``Hum! don't much like that. Tumtetumtamaccanto al fuocoheigho! I don't want to show off,

``I used to sing that when I was a girl, sweet Richard, and didn't know at all, at all, what it meant. Mustn't

``For such are young gentlemen made ofmade of: such are young gentlemen made of!''

After this trifling she sang a Spanish ballad sweetly. He was in the mood when the imagination intensely

vivifies everything. Mere suggestions of music sufficed. The lady in the ballad had been wronged. Lo! it was

the lady before him; and soft horns blew; he smelt the languid nightflowers; he saw the stars crowd large

and close above the and plain: this lady leaning at her window desolate, pouring out her abandoned heart.

The lady wandered to Venice. Thither he followed her at a leap. In Venice she was not happy. He was

prepared for the misery of any woman anywhere. But, oh! to be with her! To glide with phantommotion

through throbbing streets; past houses muffled in shadow and gloomy legends; under storied bridges; past

palaces charged with full life in dead quietness; past grand old towers, colossal squares, gleaming quays, and

Was it the champagne? the music? or the poetry? Something of the two former, perhaps: but most the

enchantress playing upon him. How many instruments cannot clever women play upon at the same moment!

And this enchantress was not too clever, or he might have felt her touch. She was no longer absolutely bent

on winning him, or he might have seen a manoeuvre. She liked him liked none better. She wished him

well. Her pique was satisfied. Still he was handsome, and he was going. What she liked him for, she

rathervery slightlywished to do away with, or see if it could be done away with: just as one wishes to

catch a pretty butterfly, without hurting its patterned wings. No harm intended to the innocent insect, only

one wants to inspect it thoroughly, and enjoy the marvel of it, in one's tender possession, and have the felicity

He knew her what she was, this lady. In Seville, or in Venice, the spot was on her. Sailing the pathways of the

moon it was not celestial light that illumined her beauty. Her sin was there: but in dreaming to save, he was

Silence, and the rustle of her dress, awoke him from his musing. She swam wavelike to the sofa. She was at

``I have been light and careless tonight, Richard. Of course I meant it. I _must_ be happy with my best

``You will not forget me? and I shall try . . . try . . .'' Her lips twitched. She thought him such a very

``If I changeif I can change . . . Oh! if you could know what a net I'm in, Richard!''

Now at those words, as he looked down on her haggard loveliness, not divine sorrow but a devouring

jealousy sprang like fire in his breast, and set him rocking with horrid pain. He bent closer to her pale

He cried: ``I never will!'' and strained her in his arms, and kissed her passionately on the lips.

She was not acting now as she sidled and slunk her halfaverted head with a kind of maiden shame under his

At a season when the pleasant Southwestern island has few attractions to other than invalids and hermits

enamoured of wind and rain, the potent nobleman, Lord Mountfalcon, still lingered there to the disgust of his

friends and special parasite. ``Mount's in for it again,'' they said among themselves. ``Hang the women!'' was

a natural sequence. For, don't you see, what a shame it was of the women to be always kindling such a very

inflammable subject! All understood that Cupid had twanged his bow, and transfixed a peer of Britain for the

fiftieth time: but none would perceive, though he vouched for it with his most eloquent oaths, that this was a

totally different case from the antecedent ones. So it had been sworn to them too frequently before. He was as

a man with mighty tidings, and no language: intensely communicative, but inarticulate. Good round oaths had

formerly compassed and expounded his noble emotions. They were now quite beyond the comprehension of

blasphemy, even when emphasized, and by this the poor lord divinely felt the case was different. There is

something impressive in a great human hulk writhing under the unutterable torments of a mastery he cannot

contend with, or account for, or explain by means of intelligible words. At first he took refuge in the depths

of his contempt for women. Cupid gave him line. When he had come to vent his worst of them, the fair face

stamped on his brain beamed the more triumphantly: so the harpooned whale rose to the surface, and after a

few convulsions, surrendered his huge length. My lord was in love with Richard's young wife. He gave

proofs of it by burying himself beside her. To her, could she have seen it, he gave further proofs of a real

devotion, in affecting, and in her presence feeling, nothing beyond a lively interest in her wellbeing. This

wonder, that when near her he should be cool and composed, and when away from her wrapped in a tempest

of desires, was matter for what powers of cogitation the heavy nobleman possessed.

The Hon. Peter, tired of his journeys to and fro, urged him to press the business. Lord Mountfalcon was

wiser, or more scrupulous, than his parasite. Almost every evening he saw Lucy. The inexperienced little

wife apprehended no harm in his visits. Moreover, Richard had commanded her to the care of Lord

Mountfalcon, and Lady Judith. Lady Judith had left the island for London: Lord Mountfalcon remained.

There could be no harm. If she had ever thought so, she no longer did. Secretly, perhaps, she was flattered.

Lord Mountfalcon was as well educated as it is the fortune of the run of titled elder sons to be: he could talk

and instruct: he was a lord: and he let her understand that he was wicked, very wicked, and that she improved

him. The heroine, in common with the hero, has her ambition to be of use in the worldto do some good: and

the task of reclaiming a bad man is extremely seductive to good women. Dear to their tender bosoms as old

china is a bad man they are mending! Lord Mountfalcon had none of the arts of a libertine: his gold, his title,

and his person, had hitherto preserved him from having long to sigh in vain, or sigh at all, possibly: the Hon.

Peter did his villanies for him. No alarm was given to Lucy's pure instinct, as might have been the case had

my lord been overadept. It was nice in her martyrdom to have a true friend to support her, and really to be

able to do something for that friend. Too simpleminded to think much of his lordship's position, she was yet

a woman. ``He, a great nobleman, does not scorn to acknowledge me, and think something of me,'' may have

been one of the halfthoughts passing through her now and then, as she reflected in selfdefence on the

January was watering and freezing old earth by turns, when the Hon. Peter travelled down to the sun of his

purse with great news. He had no sooner broached his lordship's immediate weakness, than Mountfalcon

began to plunge like a heavy dragoon in difficulties. He swore by this and that he had come across an angel

for his sins, and would do her no hurt. The next moment he swore she must be his, though she cursed like a

cat. His lordship's illustrations were not choice. ``I haven't advanced an inch,'' he groaned. ``Brayder! upon

my soul, that little woman could do anything with me. By heaven! I'd marry her tomorrow. Here I am,

seeing her every day in the week out or in, and what do you think she gets me to talk about?history! Isn't

it enough to make a fellow mad? and there am I lecturing like a prig, and by heaven! while I'm at it I feel a

pleasure in it; and when I leave the house I should feel an immense gratification in shooting somebody. What

Brayder hummed an air, and broke it to say, ``He's in for Don Juan at a gallop, that's all.''

Brayder handed my lord a letter. It was dated from the Sussex coast, signed ``Richard,'' and was worded thus:

``Since we're both devils together, and have found each other out, come to me at once, or I shall be going

somewhere in a hurry. Come, my bright hellstar! I ran away from you, and now I ask you to come to me!

You have taught me how devils love, and I can't do without you. Come an hour after you receive this.''

Mountfalcon turned over the letter to see if there was any more. ``Complimentary loveepistle!'' he remarked,

and rising from his chair and striding about, muttered, ``The dog! how infamously he treats his wife!''

``Strolled into Bella's dressingroom, waiting for her turned over her pincushion haphazard. You know

``By Jove! I think that girl does it on purpose. Thank heaven, I haven't written her any letters for an age. Is

``Not she! But it's odd, Mount!did you ever know her refuse money before? She tore up the cheque in

style, and presented me the fragments with two or three of the delicacies of language she learnt at your

Mountfalcon took counsel of his parasite as to the end the letter could me made be serve. Both

conscientiously agreed that Richard's behaviour to his wife was infamous, and that he at least deserved no

mercy. ``But,'' said his lordship, ``it won't do to show the letter. At first she'll be swearing it's false, and then

``The rule of contrary,'' said Brayder carelessly. ``She must see the trahison with her eyes. They believe their

eyes. There's your chance, Mount. You step in: you give her revenge and consolationtwo birds at one

``You're an ass, Brayder,'' the nobleman exclaimed. ``You're an infernal blackguard. You talk of this little

woman as if she and other women were all of a piece. I don't see anything I gain by this confounded letter.

``Thank you. Now see how this will end. You're too soft, Mount. You'll be made a fool of.''

``I tell you, Brayder, there's nothing to be done. If I carry her offI've been on the point of doing it every

day what'll come of that? She'll lookI can't stand her eyes I shall be a foolworse off with her

Mountfalcon yawned despondently. ``And what do you think?'' he pursued. ``Isn't it enough to make a fellow

gnash his teeth? She's . . .'' he mentioned something in an underbreath, and turned red as he said it.

``Hm!'' Brayder put up his mouth and rapped the handle of his cane on his chin. ``That's disagreeable, Mount.

You don't exactly want to act in that character. You haven't got a diploma. Bother!''

``Do you think I love her a bit less?'' broke out my lord in a frenzy. ``By heaven! I'd read to her by her

bedside, and talk that infernal history to her, if it pleased her, all day and all night.''

``I'll go to her this evening,'' Mountfalcon resumed, after to judge by the cast of his facereflecting

deeply. ``I'll go to her this evening. She shall know what infernal torment she makes me suffer.''

``Ahm!'' went the Honourable Peter. ``This way to the sign of the Green Man, ladies!''

``Once was enough, Mount. The Salvage Man is strong. I may have forgotten the trick of alighting on my

feet. Therethere! I'll be sworn she's excessively innocent, and thinks you a disinterested friend.''

``I'll go to her this evening,'' Mountfalcon repeated. ``She shall know what damned misery it is to see her in

such a position. I can't hold out any longer. Deceit's horrible to such a girl as that. I'd rather have her cursing

``Speaking and looking as she does,'' continued my lord, not heeding him. ``Dear little girl!she's only a

``My belief is, Brayder, that there are angels among women,'' said Mountfalcon, evading his parasite's eye as

To the world Lord Mountfalcon was the thoroughly wicked man; his parasite simply ingeniously dissipated.

Full many a man of God had thought it the easier task to reclaim the Hon. Peter.

Lucy received her noble friend by firelight that evening, and sat much in the shade. She offered to have the

candles brought in. He begged her to allow the room to remain as it was. ``I have something to say to you,''

Lord Mountfalcon knew he had a great deal to say, but how to say it, and what it exactly was, he did not

``You conceal it admirably,'' he began, ``but you must be very lonely hereI fear, unhappy.''

``I should have been lonely, but for your kindness, my lord,'' said Lucy. ``I am not unhappy.'' Her face was in

``Is there any help that one who would really be your friend might give you, Mrs. Feverel?''

``None indeed that I know of,'' Lucy replied. ``Who can help us to pay for our sins?''

``At least you may permit me to endeavour to pay my debts, since you have helped me to wash out some of

``Ah, my lord!'' said Lucy, not displeased. It is sweet for a woman to believe she had drawn the serpent's

``I tell you the truth,'' Lord Mountfalcon went on. ``What object could I have in deceiving you? I know you

Tom Bakewell, who had a habit of coming into the room on various pretences during the nobleman's visits,

put a stop to the revelation, if his lordship intended to make any. When they were alone again, Lucy said,

Mountfalcon stared. ``To read?oh! ha! yes!'' he remembered his evening duties. ``Very happy, I'm sure.

``The life of the Emperor Julian. But indeed I feel quite ashamed to ask you to read, my lord. It's new to me;

like a new worldhearing about Emperors, and armies, and things that really have been on the earth we

walk upon. It fills my mind. But it must have ceased to interest you, and I was thinking that I would not tease

``Your pleasure is mine, Mrs. Feverel. 'Pon my honour, I'd read till I was hoarse, to hear your remarks.''

Lord Mountfalcon had fine full eyes, and by merely dropping the lids he could appear to endow them with

Now it was an object of Lucy's to have him reading; for his sake, for her sake, and for somebody else's sake;

which somebody else was probably considered first in the matter. When he was reading to her, he seemed to

be legitimizing his presence there; and though she had no doubts or suspicions whatever, she was easier in

her heart while she had him employed in that office. So she rose to fetch the book, laid it open on the table at

his lordship's elbow, and quietly waited to ring for candles when he should be willing to commence.

That evening Lord Mountfalcon could not get himself up to the farce, and he felt a pity for the strangely

innocent unprotected child with anguish hanging over her, that withheld the words he wanted to speak, or

``What I do not like him for,'' said Lucy meditatively, ``is his changing his religion. He would have been such

``Oh! the Emperor Julian! Well, he was an apostate: but then, you know, he meant what he was about. He

Lucy's hand pressed the bell. She did not like the doubtful light with one who was so unscrupulous. Lord

Mountfalcon had never spoken in this way before. He spoke better, too. She missed the aristocratic twang in

his voice, and the hesitation for words, and fluid lordliness with which he rolled over difficulties in speech.

Simultaneously with the sounding of the bell the door opened, and presented Tom Bakewell. There was a

double knock at the same instant at the street door. Lucy delayed to give orders.

``Can it be a letter, Tom?so late!'' she said, changing colour. ``Pray run and see.''

``Oh, no!yes, I am, very!'' said Lucy. Her quick ear caught the tones of a voice she remembered. ``That

``Me, my darlin'!'' Mrs. Berry, breathless and rosy with her journey, returned the salute. ``Me truly it is, in

fault of a better, for I ain't one to stand by and give the devil. his licenceroamin'! and the salt sure enough

have spoilt my bridegown at the beginnin', which ain't the best sign. Bless ye! Oh, here he is.'' She behold a

male figure in a chair by the half light, and swung round to address him. ``You bad man!'' she held aloft one

of her fat fingers, ``I've come on ye like a bolt, I have, and goin' to make ye do your duty, naughty boy! But

your my darlin' babe,'' she melted, as was her custom, ``and I'll never meet you and not give to ye the kiss of

Before Lord Mountfalcon could find time to expostulate the soft woman had him by the neck, and was down

``Oh, my gracious!'' Mrs. Berry breathed with horror, ``I been and kiss a strange man!''

Lucy, halflaughing, but in dreadful concern, begged the noble lord to excuse the woful mistake.

``Extremely flattered, highly favoured, I'm sure,'' said his lordship, rearranging his disconcerted moustache;

``My husband's dear old nurseMrs. Berry,'' said Lucy, taking her hand to lend her countenance. ``Lord

Mrs. Berry sought grace while she performed a series of apologetic bobs, and wiped the perspiration from her

forehead. ``'M sure, my lord! 'm sure, my lord! had I a'known your lordship know I never should 'a

presume. Oh, dear! oh, dear! it was accidentals, quite, my lord! mistakin' of your lordship for another. I

never, never kiss a man but my babe and my Berry, never! no indeed! not bein' the woman to''

Lucy put her into a chair: Lord Mountfalcon asked for an account of her passage over to the island; receiving

distressingly full particulars, by which it was revealed that the softness of her heart was only equalled by the

``Well, and where's mywhere's Mr. Richard? 'yer husband, my dear?'' Mrs. Berry turned from her tale to

``And where else, my love? since he haven't been seen in London a whole fortnight.''

``We will dismiss the Emperor Julian till tomorrow, I think,'' said Lord Mountfalcon rising, and bowing.

Lucy gave him her hand with mute thanks. He touched it distantly, embraced Mrs. Berry in a farewell bow

The moment he was satisfactorily gone, Mrs. Berry threw up her arms. ``Did ye ever know sich a horrid thing

to go and happen to a virtous woman!'' she exclaimed. ``I could cry at it, I could! To be goin' and kissin' a

strange hairy man! Oh, dear me! what's comin' next, I wonder? Whiskers! thinks Ifor I know the touch o'

whiskers't ain't like other hairwhat! have he growed a crop that sudden, I says to myself; and it kind

o' flashed on me I been and made a awful mistake! and the lights come in, and I see that great hairy

manbeggin' his pardonnobleman, and if I could 'a dropped through the floor out o' sight o' men, drat

``Askin' that solemn?'' retorted Berry. ``What him? your husband? O' course I did! and you got

``I have not heard from my husband for fifteen days,'' said Lucy, and her tears rolled heavily off her cheeks.

``O Mrs. Berry! dear kind Mrs. Berry! have you no news? nothing to tell me! I've borne it so long. They're

cruel to me, Mrs. Berry. Oh, do you know if I have offended himmy husband? While he wrote I did not

complain. I could live on his letters for years. But not to hear from him! To think I have ruined him, and that

he repents! Do they want to take him from me? Do they want me dead? O Mrs. Berry! I've had no one to

speak out my heart to all this time, and I cannot, cannot help crying, Mrs. Berry!''

Mrs. Berry was inclined to be miserable at what she heard from Lucy's lips, and she was herself full of dire

apprehension; but it was never this excellent creature's system to be miserable in company. The sight of a

sorrow that was not positive, and could not refer to proof, set her resolutely the other way.

``Fiddlefaddle,'' she said. ``I'd like to see him repent! He won't find anywheres a beauty like his own dear

little wife, and he know it. Now, look you here, my dearyou blessed weepin' petthe man that could

see ye with that hair of yours there in ruins, and he backed by the law, and not rush into your arms and hold

ye squeezed for life, he ain't got much man in him, I say; and no one can say that of my babe! I was sayin',

look here, to comfort yeOh, why, to be sure he've got some surprise for ye. And so've I, my lamb! Hark,

now! His father've come to town, like a good reasonable man at last, to unite ye both, and bring your bodies

``Oh?'' cried Lucy, ``that takes my last hope away. I thought he had gone to his father. She burst into fresh

``Ah, fifteen weeks, my dear, after sich a man as that. He's a regular meteor, is Sir Austin Feverel, Raynham

Abbey. Well, so hark you here. I says to myself, that knows himfor I did think my babe _was_ in his

natural nest I says, the bar'net'll never write for you both to come up and beg forgiveness, so down I'll go

and fetch you up. For there was your mistake, my dear, ever to leave your husband to go away from ye one

hour in a young marriage. It's dangerous, it's mad, it's wrong, and it's only to be righted by your obeyin' of

me, as I commands it: for I has my fits, though I _am_ a soft 'un. Obey me, and ye'll be happy tomorrow

Lucy was willing to see comfort. She was weary of her selfinflicted martyrdom, and glad to give herself up

``'Cause, 'causewho can tell the why of men, my clear? But that he love ye faithful, I'll swear. Haven't he

groaned in my arms that he couldn't come to ye?weak wretch! Hasn't he swore how he loved ye to me,

poor young man! But this is your fault, my sweet. Yes, it be. You should 'a followed my 'dvice at the

fust'stead o' going into your 'eroics about this and t'other.'' Here Mrs. Berry poured forth fresh sentences

on matrimony, pointed especially at young couples. ``I should 'a been a fool if I hadn't suffered myself,'' she

Lucy smoothed her ruddy plump cheeks, and gazed up affectionately into the soft woman's' kind brown eyes.

Endearing phrases passed from mouth to mouth. And as she gazed Lucy blushed, as one who has something

very secret to tell, very sweet, very strange, but cannot quite bring herself to speak it.

``Well! there's three men in my life I kissed,'' said Mrs. Berry, too much absorbed in her extraordinary

adventure to notice the young wife's struggling bosom, ``three men, and one a nobleman! He 've got more

whisker than my Berry. I wonder what the man thought. Ten to one he'll think, now, I was glad o' my

chancethey're that vain, whether they's lords or commons. How was I to know? I nat'ral thinks none but

her husband 'd sit in that chair. Ha! and in the dark? and alone with ye?'' Mrs. Berry hardened her eyes, ``and

your husband away? What do this mean? Tell to me, child, what it mean his bein' here alone without ere a

``Lord Mountfalcon is the only friend I have here,'' said Lucy. ``He is very kind. He comes almost every

``Lord Muntfalconthat his name?'' Mrs. Berry exclaimed. ``I been that flurried by the man, I didn't mind

it at first. He come every evenin', and your husband out o' sight! My goodness me! it's gettin' worse and

worse. And what do he come for, now, ma'am? Now tell me candid what ye do together here in the dark of an

``O Mrs. Berry! please not to speak in that wayI don't like it,'' said Lucy pouting.

``Because he is kind, Mrs. Berry. He sees me very lonely, and wishes to amuse me. And he tells me of things

``And wants to be a teachin' some of his things, mayhap,'' Mrs. Berry interrupted with a ruffled breast.

``You are a very ungenerous, suspicious, naughty old woman,'' said Lucy, chiding her.

``And you're a silly, unsuspectin' little bird,'' Mrs. Berry retorted, as she returned her taps on the cheek. ``You

``Well, then, Mrs. Berry, almost every evening that he comes we read History, and he explains the battles,

``That's' one bit o' lime on your wings, my bird. History, indeed! History to a young married lovely woman

alone in the dark! a pretty History! Why, I know that man's name, my dear. He's a notorious living rake, that

``Ah, but he hasn't deceived me, Mrs. Berry. He has not pretended he was good.''

``More's his art,'' quoth the experienced dame. ``So you readHistory together in the dark, my dear!''

``I was unwell tonight, Mrs. Berry. I wanted him not to see my face. Look! there's the book open ready for

him when the candles come in. And now, you dear kind darling old thing, let me kiss you for coming to me. I

``So we will,'' said Mrs. Berry softening to Lucy's caresses. ``So let us. A nobleman, indeed! alone with a

young wife in the dark, and she sich a beauty! I say this shall be put a stop to now and 'enceforth, on the spot

it shall! He won't meneuvle Bessy Berry with his arts. There! I drop him. I'm dyin' for a cup a' tea, dear.''

Lucy got up to ring the bell, and as Mrs. Berry, incapable of quite dropping him, was continuing to say: ``Let

him go and boast I kiss him; he ain't nothin' to be 'shamed of in a chaste woman's kissunawareswhich

men don't get too often in their lives, I can assure 'em;''her eye surveyed Lucy's figure.

Lo, when Lucy returned to her, Mrs. Berry surrounded her with her arms, and drew her into feminine depths.

``Oh, you blessed!'' she cried in most meaning tone, ``you good, lovin', proper little wife, you!''

``As if _I_ couldn't see, you pet! It was my flurry blinded me, or I'd 'a marked ye the fust shock. Thinkin' to

Mrs. Berry's eves spoke generations. Lucy's wavered; she coloured all over, and hid her face on the

``You're a sweet one,'' murmured the soft woman, patting her back, and rocking her. ``You're a rose, you are!

and a bud on your stalk. Haven't told a word to your husband, my dear?'' she asked quickly.

``That's right. We'll give him a surprise; let it come all at once on him, and thinks helosin 'breath`I'm

``Oh! you _are_ a sweet one,'' said Bessy Berry, and rocked her more closely and lovingly.

Then these two had a whispered conversation, from which let all of male persuasion retire a space nothing

Returning, after a due interval, we see Mrs. Berry counting dates on her fingers' ends. Concluding the sum,

she cries prophetically: ``Now this right everythinga baby in the balance! Now I say this angelinfant

come from on high. It's God's messenger, my love! and it's not wrong to say so. He thinks you worthy, or you

wouldn't 'a had one not for all the tryin' in the world, you wouldn't, and some tries hard enough, poor

creatures! Now let us rejice and make merry! I'm for cryin' and laughin', one and the same. This is the

blessed seal of matrimony, which Berry never stamp on me. It's be hoped it's a boy. Make that man a

grandfather, and his grandchild a son, and you got him safe. Oh! this is what I call 'appiness, and I'll have my

tea a little stronger in consequence. I declare I could get tipsy, to know this joyful news.''

So Mr. Berry carolled. She had her tea a little stronger. She ate and she drank; she rejoiced and made merry.

Says Lucy demurely: ``Now you know why I read History, and that sort of books.''

``Do I?'' replies Berry. ``Belike I do. Since what you done's so good, my darlin', I'm agreeable to anything. A

fig for all the lords! They can't come anigh a baby. You may read Voyages and Travels, my dear, and

Romances, and Tales of Love and War. You cut the riddle in your own dear way, and that's all I cares for.''

``No, but you don't understand,'' persists Lucy. ``I only read sensible books, and talk of serious things,

because I'm sure . . . because I have heard say . . . dear Mrs. Berry! don't you understand now?''

Mrs. Berry smacked her knees. ``Only to think of her bein' that thoughtful! and she a Catholic, too! Never tell

me that people of one religion ain't as good as another, after that. Why, you want to make him a historian, to

be sure! And that rake of a lord who've been comin' here playin' at wolf, you been and made

himunbeknown to himselfsort o' tutor to the unborn blessed! Ha! ha! say that little women ain't got

art ekal to the cunningest of 'em. Oh! I understand. Why, to be sure, didn't I know a lady, a widow of a

clergyman: he was a postermost child, and afore his birth that woman read nothin' but Blair's `Grave' over

and over again, from the end to the beginnin';that's a serious book!very hard readin'!and at four

year of age that child that come of it reelly was the piousest infant!he was like a little curate. His eyes

was up; he talked se solemn.'' Mrs. Berry imitated the little curate's appearance and manner of speaking. ``So

They chattered on happily till bedtime. Lucy arranged for Mrs. Berry to sleep with her. ``If it's not dreadful to

ye, my sweet, sleepin' beside a woman,'' said Mrs. Berry. ``I know it were to me shortly after my Berry, and

felt it. It don't somehow seem nat'ral after matrimonya woman in your bed! I was 'bliged t' ave somebody,

for the cold sheets do give ye the creeps when you've been used to that that's different.''

Upstairs they went together, Lucy not sharing these objections. Then Lucy opened certain drawers, and

exhibited pretty caps, and laced linen, all adapted for a very small body, all the work of her own hands: and

Mrs. Berry praised them and her. ``You been guessing a boywomanlike,'' she said. Then they cooed, and

kissed, and undressed by the fire, and knelt at the bedside, with their arms about each other, praying; both

praying for the unborn child; and Mrs. Berry pressed Lucy's waist the moment she was about to breathe the

petition to heaven to shield and bless that coming life; and thereat Lucy closed to her, and felt a strong love

for her. Then Lucy got into bed first, leaving Berry to put out the light, and before she did so, Berry leaned

over her, and eyed her roguishly, saying, ``I never see ye like this, but I'm half in love with ye myself, you

blushin' beauty! Sweet's your eyes, and your hair do take one solyin' back. I'd never forgive my father if

he kep me away from ye fourandtwenty hours just. Husband o' that!'' Berry pointed at the young wife's

loveliness. ``Ye look so ripe with kisses, and there they are alangishin'! . . You never look so but in your

bed, ye beauty!just as it ought to be.'' Lucy had to pretend to rise to put out the light before Berry would

give up her amorous chaste soliloquy. Then they lay in bed, and Mrs. Berry fondled her, and arranged for

their departure tomorrow, and reviewed Richard's emotions when he came to hear he was going to be made

a father by her, and hinted at Lucy's delicious shivers when Richard was again in his rightful place, which

she, Bessy Berry, now usurped; and all sorts of amorous sweet things; enough to make one fancy the adage

subverted, that stolen fruits are sweetest; she drew such glowing pictures of bliss within the law and the limits

of the conscience, till at last, worn out, Lucy murmured ``Peepy, dear Berry,'' and the soft woman gradually

Bessy Berry did not sleep. She lay thinking of the sweet brave heart beside her, and listening to Lucy's breath

as it came and went; squeezing the fair sleeper's hand now and then, to ease her love as her reflections

warmed. A storm of wind came howling over the Hampshire hills, and sprang white foam on the water, and

shook the bare trees. It passed, leaving a thin cloth of snow on the wintry land. The moon shone brilliantly.

Berry heard the housedog bark. His bark was savage and persistent. She was roused by the noise. By and by

she fancied she heard a movement in the house; then it seemed to her that the housedoor opened. She

cocked her ears, and could almost make out voices in the midnight stillness. She slipped from the bed, locked

and bolted the door of the room, assured herself of Lucy's unconsciousness, and went on tiptoe to the

window. The trees all stood white to the north; the ground glittered; the cold was keen. Berry wrapped her fat

arms across her bosom, and peeped as close over into the garden as the situation of the window permitted.

Berry was a soft, not a timid, woman: and it happened this night that her thoughts were above the fears of the

dark. She was sure of the voices; curiosity without a shade of alarm held her on the watch; and gathering

bundles of her dayapparel round her neck and shoulders, she silenced the chattering of her teeth as well as

she could, and remained stationary. The low hum of the voices came to a break; something was said in a

louder tone; the housedoor quietly shut; a man walked out of the garden into the road. He paused opposite

her window, and Berry let the blind go back to its place, and peeped from behind an edge of it. He was in the

shadow of the house, so that it was impossible to discern much of his figure. After some minutes he walked

rapidly away, and Berry returned to the bed an icicle, from which Lucy's limbs sensitively shrank.

Next morning Mrs. Berry asked Tom Bakewell if he had been disturbed in the night. Tom, the mysterious,

said he had slept like a top. Mrs. Berry went into the garden. The snow was partially melted; all save one

spot, just under the portal, and there she saw the print of a man's foot. By some strange guidance it occurred

to her to go and find one of Richard's boots. She did so, and, unperceived, she measured the sole of the boot

in that solitary footmark. There could be no doubt that it fitted. She tried it from heel to toe a dozen times.

Sir Austin Feverel had come to town with the serenity of a philosopher who says, 'Tis now time; and the

satisfaction of a man who has not arrived thereat without a struggle. He had almost forgiven his son. His deep

love for him had wellnigh shaken loose from wounded pride and more tenacious vanity. Stirrings of a

remote sympathy for the creature who had robbed him of his son and hewed at his System, were in his heart

of hearts. This he knew; and in his own mind he took credit for his softness. But the world must not suppose

him soft; the world must think he was still acting on his System. Otherwise what would his long absence

signify?Something highly unphilosophical. So, though love was strong, and was moving him to a

The Aphorist read himself so well, that to Juggle with himself was a necessity. As he wished the world to see

him, he beheld himself: one who entirely put aside mere personal feelings: one in whom parental duty, based

He was, therefore, rather surprised at a coldness in Lady Blandish's manner when he did appear. ``At last!''

said the lady, in a sad way that sounded reproachfully. Now the Scientific Humanist had, of course, nothing

``If he had gone,'' said the baronet, ``he would have anticipated me by a few hours.''

This, when repeated to Lady Blandish, should have propitiated her, and shown his great forgiveness. She,

Their converse was not happy and deeply intimate. Philosophy did not seem to catch her mind; and fine

phrases encountered a rueful assent, more flattering to their grandeur than to their influence.

Days went by. Richard did not present himself. Sir Austin's pitch of selfcommand was to await the youth

Seeing this, the lady told him her fears for Richard, and mentioned the rumour of him that was about.

``If'' said the baronet, ``this person, his wife, is what you paint her, I do not share your fears for him. I think

too well of him. If she is one to inspire the sacredness of that union, I think too well of him. It is impossible.''

``Call her to you,'' she said. ``Have her with you at Raynham. Recognize her. It is the disunion and doubt that

so confuses him and drives him wild. I confess to you I hoped he had gone to her. It seems not. If she is with

Science is notoriously of slow movement. Lady Blandish's proposition was far too hasty for Sir Austin.

``We shall see her there in time, Emmeline. At present let it be between me and my son.''

He spoke loftily. In truth it offended him to be asked to do anything, when he had just brought himself to do

The meeting between him and his father was not what his father had expected, and had crooned over in the

Welsh mountains, among the echoes of his Aphorisms. Richard shook his hand respectfully, and inquired

after his health with the common social solicitude. He then said: ``During your absence, sir, I have taken the

liberty, without consulting you, to do something in which you are more deeply concerned than myself. I have

taken upon myself to find out my mother and place her under my care. I trust you will not think I have done

Sir Austin replied: ``You are of an age, Richard, to judge for yourself in such a case. I would have you simply

beware of deceiving yourself in imagining that you considered any one but yourself in acting as you did.''

``I have not deceived myself, sir,'' said Richard, and the interview was over. Both hated an exposure of the

feelings, and in that both were satisfied: but the baronet, as one who loves, hoped and looked for tones

indicative of trouble and delight in the deep heart; and Richard gave him none of those. The young man did

not even face him as he spoke: if their eyes met by chance, Richard's were defiantly cold, His whole bearing

``This rash marriage has altered him,'' said the very just man of science in life, and that meant: ``it has

He pursued his reflections. ``I see in him the desperate maturity of a suddenlyripened nature: and but for my

faith that good work is never lost, what should I think of the toil of my years? Lost, perhaps to me! lost to

The Philosopher, we may conceive, has contentment in benefiting embryos: but it was a somewhat bitter

prospect to Sir Austin. Bitterly he felt the injury to himself. One little incident spoke well of Richard. A poor

woman called at the hotel while he was missing. The baronet saw her, and she told him a tale that threw

Christian light on one part of Richard's nature. But this might gratify the father in Sir Austin; it did not touch

the man of science. A Feverel, his son, would not do less, he thought. He sat down deliberately to study his

No definite observations enlightened him. Richard ate and drank; joked and laughed. He was generally before

Adrian in calling for a fresh bottle. He talked easily of current topics; his gaiety did not sound forced. In all

he did, nevertheless, there was not the air of a youth who sees a future before him. Sir Austin put that down.

It might be carelessness, and wanton blood, for no one could say he had much on his mind. The man of

science was not reckoning that Richard also might have learned to act and wear a mask. Dead

subjectsthat is to say, people not on their guardhe could penetrate and dissect. It is by a rare chance,

as scientific men well know, that one has an opportunity of examining the structure of the living.

However, that rare chance was granted to Sir Austin. They were engaged to dine with Mrs. Doria at the

Foreys, and walked down to her in the afternoon, father and son arminarm, Adrian beside them. Previously

the offended father had condescended to inform his son that it would shortly be time for him to return to his

wife, indicating that arrangements would ultimately be ordered to receive her at Raynham. Richard had

replied nothing; which might mean excess of gratitude, or hypocrisy in concealing his pleasure, or any one of

the thousand shifts by which gratified human nature expresses itself when all is made to run smooth with it.

Now Mrs. Berry had her surprise ready charged for the young husband. She had Lucy in her own house

waiting for him. Every day she expected him to call and be overcome by the rapturous surprise, and every

day, knowing his habit of frequenting the park, she marched Lucy thither, under the plea that Master Richard,

The round of the red winter sun was behind the bare Kensington chestnuts, when these two parties met.

Happily for Lucy and the hope she bore in her bosom, she was perversely admiring a fair horsewoman

galloping by at the moment. Mrs. Berry plucked at her gown once or twice, to prepare her eyes for the shock,

but Lucy's head was still half averted, and thinks Mrs. Berry ``'Twon't hurt her if she go into his arms head

foremost.'' They were close; Mrs. Berry performed the bob preliminary. Richard held her silent with a terrible

face: he grasped her arm, and put her behind him. Other people intervened. Lucy saw nothing to account for

Berry's excessive flutter. Berry threw it on the air and some breakfast bacon, which, she said, she knew in the

morning while she ate it, was bad for the bile, and which probably was the cause of her bursting into tears,

``It's all'' Mrs. Berry pressed at her heart and leaned sideways, ``it's all stomach, my dear. Don't ye

mind,'' and becoming aware of her unfashionable behaviour, she trailed off to the shelter of the elms.

``You have a singular manner with old ladies,'' said Sir Austin to his son, after Berry had been swept aside.

``Scarcely courteous. She behaved like a mad woman, certainly. Are you ill, my son?''

Richard was deathpale, his strong form smitten through with weakness. The baronet sought Adrian's eye.

Adrian had seen Lucy as they passed, and he had a glimpse of Richard's countenance while disposing of

Berry. Had Lucy recognized them, he would have gone to her unhesitatingly. As she did not, he thought it

well, under the circumstances, to leave matters as they were. He answered the baronet's look with a shrug.

His father's further meditations, as they stepped briskly to the Foreys, gave poor Berry a character which one

who lectures on matrimony, and has kissed but three men in her life, shrieks to hear the very title of.

``Richard will go to his wife tomorrow,'' Sir Austin said to Adrian some time before they went in to dinner.

Adrian asked him if he had chanced to see a young fairhaired lady by the side of the old one Richard had

treated so peculiarly; and to the baronet's acknowledgment that he remembered to have observed such a

Sir Austin could now dissect the living subject. As if a bullet had torn open the young man's skull, and some

blast of battle laid his palpitating organization bare, he watched every motion of his brain and his heart; and

with the grief and terror of one whose mental habit was ever to pierce to extremes. Not altogether conscious

that he had hitherto played with life, he felt that he was suddenly plunged into the stormful reality of it. He

``All will be right with him tomorrow,'' he replied; for the game had been in his hands so long, so long had

he been the God of the machine, that having once resolved to speak plainly and to act, he was to a certain

``I notice he has a rather wild laughI don't exactly like his eyes,'' said Mrs. Doria.

It was reserved for Mrs. Doria herself to experience that change. In the middle of the dinner a telegraphic

message from her soninlaw, worthy John Todhunter, reached the house, stating that Clare was alarmingly

ill, bidding her come instantly. She cast about for some one to accompany her, and fixed on Richard. Before

he would give his consent for Richard to go, Sir Austin desired to speak with him apart, and in that interview

he said to his son: ``My dear Richard! it was my intention that we should come to an understanding together

this night. But the time is short poor Helen cannot spare many minutes. Let me then say that you

deceived me, and that I forgive you. We fix our seal on the past. You will bring your wife to me when you

return.'' And very cheerfully the baronet looked down on the generous future he thus founded.

``Well! the delay cannot be long. I do not apprehend that you will be kept from your happiness many days.''

``And what mental freak is this that can induce you to postpone it and play with your first duty?''

``I have heard that from an old woman called Berry!'' said Richard to himself, not intending irony.

``Will you receive her at once?'' he asked resolutely. The baronet was clouded by his son's reception of his

graciousness. His grateful prospect had formerly been Richard's marriagethe culmination of his System.

Richard had destroyed his participation in that. He now looked for a pretty scene in recompense:Richard

leading up his wife to him, and both being welcomed by him paternally, and so held one ostentatious minute

``Really you tempt me to fancy you already regret your rash proceeding!'' the baronet exclaimed; and the next

moment it pained him he had uttered the words, Richard's eyes were so sorrowfully fierce. It pained him, but

he divined in that look a history, and he could not refrain from glancing acutely and asking: ``Do you?''

``Regret it, sir?'' The question aroused one of those struggles in the young man's breast which a passionate

storm of tears may still, and which sink like leaden death into the soul when tears come not. Richard's eyes

``Do you?'' his father repeated. ``You tempt meI almost fear you do.'' At the thoughtfor he expressed

``Ask me what I think of her, sir! Ask me what she is! Ask me what it is to have taken one of God's precious

angels and chained her to misery! Ask me what it is to have plunged a sword into her heart, and to stand over

her and see such a creature bleeding! Do I regret that? Why, yes, I do! Would you?''

Sir Austin winced and reddened. Did he understand? There is ever in the mind's eye a certain wilfulness. We

``Tell me why you passed by her as you did this afternoon,'' he said gravely: and in the same voice Richard

Mrs. Doria, bustling in practical haste, and bearing Richard's hat and greatcoat in her energetic hands, came

between them at this juncture. Dimples of commiseration were in her cheeks while she kissed her brother's

Sir Austin was forced to let his son depart. As of old, he took counsel with Adrian, and the wise youth was

soothing. ``Somebody has kissed him, sir, and the chaste boy can't get over it.'' This absurd suggestion did

more to appease the baronet than if Adrian had given a veritable reasonable key to Richard's conduct. It set

him thinking that it might be a prudish strain in the young man's mind, due to the System in difficulties.

``I may have been wrong in one thing,'' he said, with an air of the utmost doubt of it. ``I, perhaps, was wrong

His was an order of mind that would accept the most burdensome charges, and by some species of moral

Clare was little talked of. Adrian attributed the employment of the telegraph to John Todhunter's uxorious

distress at a toothache, or possibly the first symptoms of an heir to his house.

On the doorstep of the hotel, when they returned, stood Mrs. Berry. Her wish to speak a few words with the

``Well, ma'am, you have something to say,'' observed the baronet, for she seemed loth to commence.

``Wishin' I hadn't:'' Mrs. Berry took him up, and mindful of the good rule to begin at the beginning, pursued:

``I dare say, Sir Austin, you don't remember me, and I little thought when last we parted our meeting 'd be

like this. Twenty year don't go over one without showin' it, no more than twenty ox. It's a might o'

``In them round figures a beloved son have growed up, and got himself married!'' said Mrs. Berry,

Sir Austin then learnt that he had before him the culprit who had assisted his son in that venture. It was a

stretch of his patience to hear himself addressed on a family matter, but he was naturally courteous.

``He came to my house, Sir Austin, a stranger! If twenty year alters us as have knowed each other on the

earth, how must they alter they that we parted with just come from heaven! And a heavenly babe he were! se

Mrs. Berry bumped a curtsey to him in her chair, continuing: ``I wished afore I spoke to say how thankful am

I bound to be for my pension not cut short, as have offended so, but that I know Sir Austin Feverel, Raynham

Abbey, ain't one o' them that likes to hear their good deeds pumlished. And a pension to me now, it's

something more than it were. For a pension and pretty rosy cheeks in a maid, which I wasthat's a bait

``If you will speak to the point, ma'am, I will listen to you,'' the baronet interrupted her.

``It's the beginnin' that's the worst, and that's over, thank the Lord! So I'll speak, Sir Austin, and say my say:

Lord speed me! Believin' our idees o' matrimony to be sim'lar, then, I'll say, once marriedmarried for

life! Yes! I don't even like widows. For I can't stop at the grave. Not at the tomb I can't stop. My husband's

my husband, and if I'm a body at the Resurrection, I say, speaking humbly, my Berry is the husband o' my

body; and to think of two claimin' of me thenit makes me hot all over. Such is my notion of that state

'tween man and woman. No givin' in marriage, o' course I know, and if so I'm single.''

The baronet suppressed a smile. ``Really, my good woman, you wander very much.''

``Beggin' pardon, Sir Austin; but I has my point before me all the same, and I'm comin' to it. Acknowledgin'

our error, it's done, and bein' done, it's writ aloft. Oh! if you ony knew what a sweet young creature she be!

Indeed 'taint all of humble birth that's unworthy, Sir Austin. And she got her idees, too. She read History! She

talk that sensible as would surprise ye. But for all that she's a prey to the artful o' menunpertected. And

it's a young marriagebut there's no fear for her, as far as she go. The fear's t'other way. There's that in a

manat the commencement which make of him Lord knows what! if you any way interferes: whereas

a woman bides quiet. It's consolation catch her, which is what we mean by seducin'. Whereas a' manhe's

``Well ma'am, I see you have something in your mind, if you would only come to it quickly.''

``Then here's my point, Sir Austin. I say you bred him so as there ain't another young gentleman like him in

England, and proud he make me. And as for her, I'll risk sayinit's done, and no harmyou might search

England through, and nowhere will ye find a maid that's his match like his own wife. Then there they be. Are

they together as should be? O Lord no! Months they been divided. Then she all lonely and exposed, I went,

and fetched her out of seducers' wayswhich they may say what they like, but the inn'cent is most open to

when they're healthy and confidin'I fetch her, andthe libertyboxed her safe in my own house. So

much for that sweet! That you may do with women. But it's himMr. RichardI _am_ bold, I know, but

thereI'm in for it, and the Lord 'll help me! It's him, Sir Austin, in this great metropolis, warm from a

young marriage. It's him, andI say nothin' of her, and how sweet she bears it, and it's eating her at a time

when. Natur' should have no other trouble but the one that's goin' onit's him, and I askso

boldshall thereand a Christian gentleman his fathershall there be a tug 'tween him as a son and

him as a husbandsoon to be somethin' else? I speak bold outI'd have sons obey ther fathers, but the

priest's words spoke over him, which they're now in my ears, I say I ain't a doubt on earthI'm sure there

Sir Austin heard her to an end. Their views on the junction of the sexes were undoubtedly akin. To be

lectured on his prime subject, however, was slightly disagreeable, and to be obliged mentally to assent to this

old lady's doctine was rather humiliating, when it could not be averred that he had latterly followed it out. He

``One gets so addle'pated thinkin' many things,'' said Mrs. Berry, simply. ``That's why we see wonder clever

people al'ays goin' wrongto my mind. I think it's al'ays the plan in a dielemmer to pray God and walk

The keenwitted soft woman was tracking the baronet's thoughts, and she had absolutely ran him down and

taken an explanation out of his mouth, by which Mrs. Berry was to have been informed that he had acted

from a principle of his own, and devolved a wisdom she could not be expected to comprehend.

Of course he became advised immediately that it would be waste of time to direct such an explanation to her

He gave her his hand, saying, ``My son has gone out of town to see his cousin who is ill. He will return in

Mrs. Berry took the tips of his fingers, and went halfway to the floor perpendicularly. ``He pass her like a

``Ah?'' said the baronet. ``Yes, well! they will be at Raynham before the week is over.''

Mrs. Berry was not quite satisfied. ``Not of his own accord he pass that sweet young wife of his like a

``All's well as ends well,'' she said to herself. ``It's bad inquirin' too close among men. We must take 'em

In Mrs. Berry's eyes the baby was the victorious reserve. Adrian asked his chief what he thought of that

``I think I have not met a better in my life,'' said the baronet, mingling praise and sarcasm. *

Clare lies in her bed as placid as in the days when she breathed; her white hands stretched their length along

the sheets, at peace from head to feet. She needs iron no more. Richard is face to face with death for the first

Clare gave her mother the welcome of the dead. This child would have spoken nothing but kind

commonplaces had she been alive. She was dead, and none knew her malady. On her fourth finger were two

When hours of weeping had silenced the mother's anguish, she, for some comfort she saw in it, pointed out

that strange thing to Richard, speaking low in the chamber of the dead; and then he learnt that it was his own

lost ring Clare wore in the two worlds. He learnt from her husband Clare's last request had been that neither

``I beg of my husband, and all kind people who may have the care of me between this and the grave, to bury

The tracing of the words showed the bodily torment she was suffering, as she wrote them on a scrap of paper

In wonder as the dim idea grew from the waving of Clare's dead hand, Richard paced the house, and hung

about the awful room; dreading to enter it, reluctant to quit it. The secret Clare had buried while she lived,

arose with her death. He saw it play like flame across her marble features. The memory of her voice was like

a knife at his nerves. His coldness to her started up accusingly: her meekness was bitter blame.

On the evening of the fourth day, her mother came to him in his bedroom, with a face so white he asked

himself if aught worse could happen to a mother than the loss of her child. Choking she said to him, ``Read

this,'' and thrust a leatherbound pocketbook trembling in his hand. She would not breathe to him what it

``Tell me,'' she said, ``tell me what you think. John must not hear of it. I have nobody to consult but youO

``=My Diary='' was written in the round hand of Clare's childhood on the first page. The first name his eye

``Richard's fourteenth birthday. I have worked him a purse and put it under his pillow, because he is going to

have plenty of money. He does not notice me now because he has a friend now, and he is ugly, but Richard is

The occurrences of that day were subsequently recorded, and a childish prayer to God for him set down. Step

by step he saw her growing mind in his history. As she advanced in years she began to look back, and made

``We went into the fields and gathered cowslips together, and pelted each other, and I told him he used to call

them `coalssleeps' when he was a baby, and he was angry at my telling him, for he does not like to be told

He remembered the incident, and remembered his stupid scorn of her meek affection. Little Clare! how she

lived before him in her white dress and pink ribbons, and soft dark eyes! Upstairs she was lying dead. He

``Mama says there is no one in the world like Richard, and I am sure there is not, not in the whole world. He

says he is going to be a great General and going to the wars. If he does I shall dress myself as a boy and go

after him, and he will not know me till I am wounded. Oh I pray he will never, never be wounded. I wonder

``Lady Blandish said there was a likeness between Richard and me. Richard said I hope I do not hang down

my head as she does. He is angry with me because I do not look people in the face and speak out, but I know

Then it came to a period when the words: ``Richard kissed me,'' stood by themselves, and marked a day in her

Afterwards it was solemnly discovered that Richard wrote poetry. He read one of his old forgotten

All the verses were transcribed. ``It is he who is the humble knight,'' Clare explained at the close, ``and his

``Richard was not sorry to lose me. He only loves boys and men. Something tells me I shall never see

Raynham again. He was dressed in blue. He said Good bye, Clare, and kissed me on the cheek. Richard never

kisses me on the mouth. He did not know I went to his bed and kissed him while he was asleep. He sleeps

with one arm under his head, and the other out on the bed. I moved away a bit of his hair that was over his

eyes. I wanted to cut it. I have one piece. I do not let anybody, see I am unhappy, not even mama. She says I

want iron, I am sure I do not. I like to write my name. Clare Doria Forey. Richard's is Richard Doria Feverel.''

His breast rose convulsively. Clare Doria Forey! He knew the music of that name. He had heard it

somewhere. It sounded faint and mellow now behind the hills of death. He could not read for tears. It was

midnight. The hour seemed to belong to her. The awful stillness and the darkness were Clare's. Clare's voice

Painfully, with blinded eyes, he looked over the breathless pages. She spoke of his marriage, and her finding

``I knew it was his. I knew he was going to be married that morning. I saw him stand by the altar when they

laughed at breakfast. His wife must be so beautiful! Richard's wife! Perhaps he will love me better now he is

married. Mama says they must be separated. That is shameful. If I can help him I will. I pray so that he may

be happy. I hope God hears poor sinners' prayers. I am very sinful. Nobody knows it as I do. They say I am

good, but I know. When I look on the ground I am not looking after earthworms, as he said. Oh, do forgive

Then she spoke of her own marriage, and that it was her duty to obey her mother. A blank in the Diary

But now as he read his eyes were fixed, and the delicate feminine handwriting like a black thread drew on his

``I cannot live. Richard despises me. I cannot bear the touch of my fingers or the sight of my face. Oh! I

understand him now. He should not have kissed me so that last time. I wished to die while his mouth was on

Further: ``I have no escape. Richard said he would die rather than endure it. I know he would. Why should I

be afraid to do what he would do? I think if my husband whipped me I could bear it better. He is so kind, and

tries to make me cheerful. He will soon be very unhappy. I pray to God half the night. I seem to be losing

Richard laid the book open on the table. Phantom surges seemed to be mounting and travelling for his brain.

Had Clare taken his wild words in earnest? Did she lie there deadhe shrouded the thought.

``A quarter to one o'clock. I shall not be alive this time tomorrow. I shall never see Richard now. I dreamed

last night we were in the fields together, and he walked with his arm round my waist. We were children, but I

thought we were married, and I showed him I wore his ring, and he saidif you always wear it, Clare, you

are as good as my wife. Then I made a vow to wear it for ever and ever. . . . It is not mama's fault. She does

not think as Richard and I do of these things. He is not a coward, nor am I. He hates cowards.

``I have written to his father to make him happy. Perhaps when I am dead he will hear what I say.

``I heard just now Richard call distinctlyClari, come out to me. Surely he has not gone. I am going I

The words were written larger, and staggered towards the close, as if her hand had lost mastery over the pen.

``I can only remember Richard now a boy. A little boy and a big boy. I am not sure now of his voice. I can

only remember certain words. `Clari,' and `Don Ricardo,' and his laugh. He used to be full of fun. Once we

laughed all day together tumbling in the hay. Then he had a friend, and began to write poetry, and be proud.

If I had married a young man he would have forgiven me, but I should not have been happier. I must have

``It is past two o'clock. The sheep are bleating outside. It must be very cold in the ground. Goodbye,

With his name it began and ended. Even to herself Clare was not overcommunicative. The book was

slender, yet her nineteen years of existence left half the number of pages white.

Those last words drew him irresistibly to gaze on her. There she lay, the same impassive Clare. For a moment

he wondered she had not movedto him she had become so different. She who had just filled his ears with

strange tidingsit was not possible to think her dead! She seemed to have been speaking to him all through

He dismissed the nightwatchers from the room, and remained with her alone, till the sense of death

oppressed him, and then the shock sent him to the window to look for sky and stars. Behind a low broad pine,

hung with frosty mist, he heard a bellwether of the flock in the silent fold. Death in life it sounded.

The mother found him praying at the foot of Clare's bed. She knelt by his side, and they prayed, and their

joint sobs shook their bodies, but neither of them shed many tears. They held a dark unspoken secret in

Clare was buried in the family vault of the Todhunters. Her mother breathed no wish to have her at Lobourne.

``Richard,'' she said, ``the worst is over for me. I have no one to love but you, dear. We have all been fighting

against God, and this . . . Richard! you will come with me, and be united to your wife, and spare my brother

He answered the broken spirit. ``I have killed one. She sees me as I am. I cannot go with you to my wife,

because I am not worthy to touch her hand, and were I to go, I should do _this_ to silence my selfcontempt.

Go you to her, and when she asks of me, say I have a death upon my head thatNo! say that I am abroad,

seeking for that which shall cleanse me. If I find it I shall come to claim her. If not, God help us all!''

A man with a beard saluted the wise youth Adrian in the full blaze of Piccadilly with a clap on the shoulder.

``Do you want to try my nerves, my dear fellow? I'm not a man of fashion happily, or you would have struck

Austin took his arm, and asked for news with the hunger of one who had been in the wilderness five years.

``The Whigs have given up the ghost, my dear Austin. The free Briton is to receive Liberty's pearl, the Ballot.

The Aristocracy has had a cycle's notice to quit. The Monarchy and old Madeira are going out; Demos and

Cape wines are coming in. They call it Reform. So, you see, your absence has worked wonders. Depart for

another five years, and you will return to ruined stomachs, cracked sconces, general upset, and an equality

Austin indulged him in a laugh. ``I want to hear about ourselves. How is old Ricky?''

``Yon know of hiswhat do they call it when greenhorns are licensed to jump into the milkpails of

dairymaids?a very charming little woman she makes, by the waypresentable! quite old Anacreon's

rose in milk. Well! everybody thought the System must die of it. Not a bit. It continued to flourish in spite.

It's in a consumption now, thoughemaciated, lean, raw, spectral! I've this morning escaped from

Raynham to avoid the sight of it. I have brought our genial uncle Hippias to towna delightful companion!

I said to him: `We've had a fine Spring.' `Ugh!' he answers, `there's a time when you come to think the Spring

old.' You should have heard how he trained out the `old.' I felt something like decay in my sap just to hear

him. In the prizefight of life, my dear Austin, our uncle Hippias has been unfairly hit below the belt. Let's

``I suppose it's not common among your tropical savages. He has one: one as big as two. 'Tis that has been

the deathblow to the System. It bore the marriagethe baby was too much for it. Could it swallow the

baby, 't would live. She, the wonderful woman, has produced a large boy. I assure you it's quite amusing to

see the System opening its mouth every hour of the day, trying to gulp him down, aware that it would be a

``The poor boy is ruined by his excessive anxiety about it. Character? he has the character of a bullet with a

treble charge of powder behind it. Enthusiasm is the powder. That boy could get up an enthusiasm for the

maiden days of Ops! He was going to reform the world, after your fashion, Austin,you have something to

answer for. Unfortunately he began with the feminine side of it. Cupid proud of Phoebus newly slain, or

Pluto wishing to people his kingdom, if you like, put it into the soft head of one of the guileless grateful

creatures to kiss him for his good work. Oh, horror! he never expected that. Conceive the System in the flesh,

and you have our Richard. The consequence is, that this male Peri refuses to enter his Paradise, though the

gates are open for him, the trumpets blow, and the fair unspotted one awaits him fruitful within. We heard of

him last that he was trying the German waterspreparatory to his undertaking the release of Italy from the

subjugation of the Teuton. Let's hope they'll wash him. He is in the company of Lady Judith Felleyour

old friend, the ardent female Radical who married the decrepit lord to carry out her principles. They always

``Judith is bad for him in such a state. I like her, but she was always too sentimental,'' said Austin.

``Sentiment made her marry the old lord, I suppose? I like her _for_ her sentiment, Austin. Sentimental

people are sure to live long and die fat. 'Tis feeling that's the slayer, coz. Sentiment! 'tis the cajolery of

existence: the soft bloom which whose weareth, he or she is enviable. Would that I had more!''

Further inquiries, responded to in Adrian's figurative speech, instructed Austin that the baronet was waiting

for his son, in a posture of statuesque offended paternity, before he would receive his daughterinlaw and

grandson. That was what Adrian meant by the efforts of the System to swallow the baby.

``We're in a tangle,'' said the wise youth. ``Time will extricate us, I presume, or what is the venerable signor

``Really, Austin, you carry matters with too long a beard,'' Adrian objected. ``Don't you care what you eat?''

he roared hoarsely, looking humourously hurt. ``I dare say not. A slice out of him that's handysauce du

Adrian gave him his own address, and Lucy's, and strolled off to do the better thing.

Overnight Mrs. Berry had observed a long stranger in her teacup. Posting him on her fingers and starting

him with a smack, he had vaulted lightly and thereby indicated that, he was positively coming the next day.

She forgot him in the bustle of her duties and the absorption of her faculties in thoughts of the incomparable

stranger Lucy had presented to the world, till a knock at the streetdoor reminded her. ``There he is!'' she

cried, as she ran to open to him. ``There's my stranger come!'' Never was a woman's faith in omens so

justified. The stranger desired to see Mrs. Richard Feverel. He said his name was Mr. Austin Wentworth.

Mrs. Berry clasped her hands, exclaiming, ``Come at last!'' and ran bolt out of the house to look up and down

the street. Presently she returned with many excuses for her rudeness, saying: ``I 'xpected to see her comin'

home, Mr. Wentworth. Every day twice a day she go out to give her blessed angel an airing. No leavin' the

child with nursemaids for her! She _is_ a mother! and good milk, too, thank the Lord! though her heart's se

Indoors Mrs. Berry stated who she was, related the history of the young couple, and her participation in it,

and admired the beard. ``Though I'd swear you don't wear it for ornament, now!'' she said, having in the first

Ultimately Mrs. Berry spoke of the family complication, and with dejected head and joined hands threw out

While Austin was giving his cheerfuller views of the case Lucy came in, preceding the baby.

``I am Austin Wentworth,'' he said, taking her hand. They read each other's faces, these two, and smiled

Mrs. Berry allowed time for Lucy's charms to subdue him, and presented Richard's representative, who,

seeing a new face, suffered himself to be contemplated before he commenced crying aloud, and knocking at

``Ain't he a lusty darlin'?'' says Mrs. Berry. ``Ain't he like his own father? There can't be no doubt about zoo,

zoo pitty pet. Look at his fists. Ain't he got passion? Ain't he a splendid roarer? Oh!'' and she went off

A fine boy, certainly. Mrs. Berry exhibited his legs for further proof, desiring Austin's confirmation as to

``She might 'a done it here,'' said Mrs. Berry. ``There's no prettier sight, I say. If her dear husband could but

see that! He's off in his heroicshe want to be doin' all sorts o' things: I say he'll never do anything grander

than that baby. You should 'a seen her uncle over that babyhe came here, for I said, you _shall_ see your

own fam'ly, my dear, and so she thinks. He come, and he laughed over that baby in the joy of his 'art, poo'

man! he cried, he did. You should see that Mr. Thompson, Mr. Wentwortha friend o' Mr. Richard's, and a

very modestminded young gentleman he worships her in his innocence. It's a sight to see him with that

baby. My belief is he's unhappy 'cause he can't anyways be nursemaid to him. Lor! and there, everything so

beautiful, and just that one screw loose. O Mr. Wentworth! what _do_ you think of her, sir?''

Austin's reply was as satisfactory as a man's poor speech could make it. He heard that Lady Feverel was in

the house, and Mrs. Berry prepared the way for him to pay his respects to her. Then Mrs. Berry ran to Lucy,

and the house buzzed with new life. The simple creatures felt in Austin's presence something good among

them. ``He don't speak much,'' said Mrs. Berry, ``but I see by his eye he mean a deal. He ain't one o' yer

Lucy pressed the hearty suckling into her breast. ``I wonder what he thinks of me, Mrs. Berry? I could not

``He looks proper even with a beard, and that's a trial for a virtuous man,'' said Mrs. Berry. ``One sees straight

_through_ the hair with him. Think! he'll think what any _man_ 'd thinkyou asuckin,' spite o' all your

sorrow, my sweet,and my Berry talkin' of his Roman matrons!here's a English wife 'll match 'em all!

that's what he thinks. And now that leetle dark under yer eye'll clear, my darlin', now he've come.''

Mrs. Berry looked to no more than that; Lucy to no more than the peace she had in being near Richard's best

friend. When she sat down to tea it was with a sense that the little room that held her was her home perhaps

A chop procured and cooked by Mrs. Berry formed Austin's dinner. During the meal he entertained them

with anecdotes of his travels. Poor Lucy had no temptation to try to conquer Austin. That heroic weakness of

Mrs. Berry had said: ``Three cupsI goes no further,'' and Lucy had rejected the proffer of more tea, when

Austin, who was in the thick of a Brazilian forest, asked her if she was a good traveller.

Lucy hesitated, and then said, ``Yes,'' decisively, to which Mrs. Berry added, that she was not a

``There used to be a train at seven o'clock,'' Austin remarked, consulting his watch.

Lucy tried to stop her beating heart, as she answered, ``Yes.'' Mrs. Berry cunningly pretended to interpret the

irresolution in her tones with a mighty whisper: ``She's thinking what's to be done with baby.''

``Oh!'' cried Mr. Berry, ``and I'll be his miss, and bear him, a sweet! Oh! and think of it! me nursemaid once

more at Raynham Abbey! but it's nursewoman now, you must say. Let us be goin' on the spot.''

She started up and away in hot haste, fearing delay would cool the heavensent resolve. Austin smiled,

eyeing his watch and Lucy alternately. She was wishing to ask a multitude of questions. His face reassured

her, and saying: ``I will be dressed instantly,'' she also left the room. Talking, bustling, preparing, wrapping

up my lord, and looking to their neatnesses, they were nevertheless ready within the time prescribed by

Austin, and Mrs. Berry stood humming over the baby. ``He'll sleep it through,'' she said. ``He's had enough

for an alderman, and goes to sleep sound after his dinner, he do, a duck!'' Before they departed, Lucy ran up

Master Richard was taken up, and when Lucy came back her eyes were full of tears.

Off they went, and with Austin near her, Lucy forgot to dwell at all upon the great act of courage she was

``He!'' cries nursewoman Berry from the rear, ``his little tumtum's _as_ tight _as_ he can hold, a pet! a

lamb! a bird! a beauty! and ye may take yer oath he never wakes till that's slack. He've got character of his

There are some tremendous citadels that only want to be taken by storm. The baronet sat alone in his library,

sick of resistance, and rejoicing in the pride of no surrender; a terror to his friends and to himself. Hearing

Austin's name sonorously pronounced by the man of calves, he looked up from his book, and held out his

hand. ``Glad to see you, Austin.'' His appearance betokened complete security. The next minute he found

It was a cry from Mrs. Berry that told him others were in the room besides Austin. Lucy stood a little behind

the lamp: Mrs. Berry close to the door. The door was half open, and passing through it might be seen the

petrified figure of a fine man. The baronet glancing over the lamp rose at Mrs. Berry's signification of a

woman's personality. Austin stepped back and led Lucy to him by the hand. ``I have brought Richard's wife,

sir,'' he said with a pleased, perfectly uncalculating, countenance, that was disarming. Very pale and

trembling Lucy bowed. She felt her two hands taken, and heard a kind voice. Could it be possible it belonged

to the dreadful father of her husband? She lifted her eyes nervously: her hands were still detained. The

baronet contemplated Richard's choice. Had he ever had a rivalry with those pure eyes? He saw the pain of

her position shooting across her brows, and, uttering gentle inquiries as to her health, placed her in a seat.

``Perhaps you had better take to Richard's room at once,'' he pursued. ``You have the Lobourne valley there

Lucy's colour mounted. Mrs. Berry gave a short cough, as one who should say, ``The day is ours!''

``Lucy is rather tired,'' said Austin, and to hear her Christian name thus bravely spoken brought grateful dew

At this Mrs. Berry came forward. Not immediately: it seemed to require effort for her to move, and when she

was within the region of the lamp, her agitation could not escape notice. The blissful bundle shook in her

``By the way, what is he to me?'' Austin inquired generally as he went and unveiled the younger hope of

An observer might have supposed that the baronet peeped at his grandson with the courteous indifference of

``I really think he's like Richard,'' Austin laughed. Lucy looked: I am sure he is.

``As like as one to one,'' Mrs. Berry murmured feebly; but Grandpapa not speaking she thought it incumbent

on her to pluck up. ``And he's as healthy as his father was, Sir Austinspite o' the might 'a beens. Reg'lar

as the clock! We never want a clock since he come. We knows the hour a' the day, and _of_ the night.''

``You nurse him yourself, of course?'' the baronet spoke to Lucy, and was satisfied on that point.

Mrs. Berry was going to display his prodigious legs. Lucy, fearing the consequent effect on the prodigious

lungs, begged her not to wake him. ``'I'd take a deal to do that,'' said Mrs. Berry, and harped on Master

Richard's health and the small wonder it was that he enjoyed it, considering the superior quality of his diet,

and the lavish attentions of his mother, and then suddenly fell silent on a deep sigh.

Thus, having capitulated, Raynham chose to acknowledge its new commandant, who was now borne away,

under the directions of the housekeeper, to occupy the room Richard had slept in when an infant.

Austin cast no thought on his success. The baronet said: ``She is extremely welllooking.'' He replied: ``A

But a much more animated colloquy was taking place aloft, where Lucy and Mrs. Berry sat alone. Lucy

expected her to talk about the reception they had met with, and the house, and the peculiarities of the rooms,

and the solid happiness that seemed in store. Mrs. Berry all the while would persist in consulting the

lookingglass. Her first distinct answer was, ``My dear! tell me candid, how do I look?''

``Very nice indeed, Mrs. Berry; but could you have believed he would be so kind, so considerate?''

``I'm sure I looked a frump,'' returned Mrs. Berry. ``Oh, dear! two birds at a shot. What _do_ you think,

``Go to bed, Berry, dear,'' says Lucy, pouting in her soft caressing way. ``I will undress you, and see to you,

``Ha! ha!'' Berry laughed hysterically; ``she thinks it's about this business of hers. Why, it's child'splay, my

darlin'. But I didn't look for tragedy tonight. Sleep in this house I can't, my love!''

Lucy was astonished. ``Not sleep here, Mrs. Berry? Oh! why, you silly old thing? I know.''

``Belike I am when they're six foot two in their shoes, and bellows when you stick a pin into their calves. I

Lucy meditated on optical delusions, but Mrs. Berry described him as the Colossus who had marched them

into the library, and vowed that he had recognized her, and quaked. ``Time ain't aged him,'' said Mrs. Berry,

``Go, my dear. Leave him to be happy in his own way. It's over atween us, I see that. When I entered the

house I felt there was something comin' over me, and lo and behold ye! no sooner was we in the

hallpassageif it hadn't been for that blessed infant I sh'd 'a dropped. I must 'a known his step, for my

heart began thumpin', and I knew I hadn't got my hair straightthat Mr. Wentworth was in such a

Mrs. Berry attempted to rise. ``I may as well go at once,'' she whimpered. ``If I see him I shall only be

disgracin' of myself. I feel it all on my side already. Did ye mark him, my dear? He's in his uniform. His

uni_corn_ I used to call it, vexin' him. I know I was vexin' to him at times, I was. Those big men are se

touchy about their dignitynat'ral. Hark at me! I'm goin' all soft in a minute. Let me leave the house, my

dear. I dare say it was good half my fault. Young women don't understand men sufficientnot altogether

and I was a young woman thenand then what they goes and does they ain't quite answerable for: they

feels, I dare say, pushed from behind. Yes. I'll go. I'm a frump. I'll go. 'Tain't in natur' for me to sleep in the

Lucy laid her hands on Mrs. Berry's shoulders, and forcibly fixed her in her seat. ``Leave baby, naughty

woman? I tell you he shall come to you, and fall on his knees to you and beg your forgiveness.''

``If you get more from Martin Berry than breathaway words, great'll be my wonder!'' said Mrs. Berry.

``We will see,'' said Lucy, thoroughly determined to do something for the good creature that had befriended

Mrs. Berry examined her gown. ``Won't it seem we're runnin' after him?'' she murmured faintly.

``Oh! where is all I was goin' to say to that man when we met!'' Mrs. Berry ejaculated. Lucy had left the

room. On the landing outside the door Lucy met a lady dressed in black, who stopped her and asked if she

was Richard's wife, and kissed her, passing from her immediately. Lucy despatched a message for Austin,

and related the Berry history. Austin sent for the great man, and said: ``Do you know your wife is here?''

Before Berry had time to draw himself up to enunciate his longest, he was requested to step upstairs, and as

his young mistress at once led the way, Berry could not refuse to put his legs in motion and carry the stately

Of the interview Mrs. Berry gave Lucy a slight sketch that night. ``He began in the old way, my dear, and

says I, a true heart and plain words, Martin Berry. So there he cuts himself and his Johnson short, and down

he goesdown on his knees. I never could 'a believed it. I kep my dignity as a woman till I see that sight,

but that done for me. I was a ripe apple in his arms 'fore I knew where I was. There's something about a fine

man on his knees that's too much for us women. And it reely was the penitent on his two knees, not the lover

on his one. If he mean it! But ah! what do' you think he begs of me, my dear?not to make it known in the

Lucy attributed it to his sense of shame at his conduct, and Mrs. Berry did her best to look on it in that light.

``Did the bar'net kiss ye when you wished him good night?'' she asked. Lucy said he had not. ``Then bide

awake as long as ye can,'' was Mrs. Berry's rejoinder. ``And now let us pray blessings on that

Like many other natural people, Mrs. Berry was only silly where her own soft heart was concerned. As she

secretly anticipated, the baronet came into her room when all was quiet. She saw him go and bend over

Richard the Second, and remain earnestly watching him. He then went to the halfopened door of the room

where Lucy slept, leaned his ear a moment, knocked gently, and entered. Mrs. Berry heard low words

interchanging within. She could not catch a syllable, yet she would have sworn to the context. ``He've called

her his daughter, promised her happiness, and given a father's kiss to her.'' When Sir Austin passed out she

Briareus reddening angrily over the seawhere is that vaporous Titan? And Hesper get in his rosy

garlandwhy looks he so implacably sweet? It is that one has left that bright home to go forth and do

cloudy work, and he has got a stain with which he dare not return. Far in the West fair Lucy beckons him to

come. Ah, heaven! if he might! How strong and fierce the temptation is! how subtle the sleepless desire! it

drugs his reason, his honour. For he loves her; she is still the first and only woman to him. Otherwise would

this black spot be hell to him? otherwise would his limbs be chained while her arms spread open to him. And

if he loves her, why then what is one fall in the pit, or a thousand? Is not love the password to that beckoning

bliss? So may we say; but here is one whose body has been made a temple to him, and it is desecrated.

A temple, and desecrated! For what is it fit for but for a dance of devils? His education has thus wrought him

He can blame nothing but his own baseness. But to feel base and accept the bliss that beckonshe has not

Ah, happy English home! sweet wife! what mad miserable Wisp of Fancy led him away from you, high in his

conceit? Poor wretch! that thought to be he of the hundred hands, and war against the absolute Gods. Jove

whispered a light commision to the Laughing Dame; she met him; and how did he shake Olympus? with

Sure it were better to be Orestes, the Furies howling in his ear, than one called to by a heavenly soul from

whom he is for ever outcast. He has not the oblivion of madness. Clothed in the lights of his first passion,

robed in the splendour of old skies, she meets him everywhere; morning. evening and night, she shines above

him; waylays him suddenly in forest depths; drops palpably on his heart. At moments he forgets; he rushes to

embrace her; calls her his beloved, and lo, her innocent kiss brings agony of shame to his face.

Daily the struggle endured. His father wrote to him, begging him by the love he had for him to return. From

that hour Richard burnt unread all the letters he received. He knew too well how easily he could persuade

himself: words from without might tempt him and quite extinguish the spark of honourable feeling that

To arrest young gentlemen on the downward slope is both a dangerous and thankless office. It is,

nevertheless, one fair women greatly prize, and certain of them professionally follow. Lady Judith, as far as

her sex would permit, was also of the Titans in their battle against the absolute Gods; for which purpose,

mark you, she had married a lord incapable in all save his acres. Her achievements she kept to her own mind:

she did not look happy over them. She met Richard accidentally in Paris; she saw his state; she let him learn

that she alone on earth understood him. The consequence was that he was forthwith enrolled in her train. It

soothed him to be near a woman. Did she venture her guess as to the cause of his conduct, she blotted it out

with a facility women have, and cast on it a melancholy hue he was taught to participate in. She spoke of

sorrows, personal sorrows, much as he might speak of hisvaguely, and with selfblame. And she

understood him. How the dark unfathomed wealth within us gleams to a woman's eye! We are at compound

interest immediately: so much richer than we knew! almost as rich as we dreamed! But then the instant

we are away from her we find ourselves bankrupt, beggared. How is that? We do not ask. We hurry to her

and bask hungrily in her orbs. The eye must be feminine to be thus creative: I cannot say why. Lady Judith

understood Richard, and he feeling infinitely vile, somehow held to her more feverishly, as one who dreaded

the worst in missing her. The spirit must rest; he was weak with what he suffered.

Austin found them among the hills of Nassau in Rhineland: Titans, male and female, who had not displaced

Jove, and were now adrift prone on floods of sentiment. The bluefrocked peasant swinging behind his oxen

of a morning, the gailykerchiefed fruitwoman, the jackassdriver, even the doctor of those regions, have

done more for their fellows. Horrible reflection! Lady Judith is serene above it, but it frets at Richard when he

is out of her shadow. Often wretchedly he watches the young men of his own age trooping to their work. Not

Lady Judith had a nobler in prospect for the hero. He gaped for anything blindfolded, and she gave him the

map of Europe in tatters. He swallowed it comfortably. It was an intoxicating cordial. Himself on horseback

overriding wrecks of Empires! Well might commonsense cower with the meaner animals at the picture.

Tacitly they agreed to recast the civilized globe. The quality of vapour is to melt and shape itself anew; but it

is never the quality of vapour to reassume the same shapes. Briareus of the hundred unoccupied hands may

turn to a monstrous donkey with his hind legs aloft, or twenty thousand jabbering apes. The phantasmic

groupings of the young brain are very like those we see in the skies, and equally the sport of the wind. Lady

Judith blew. There was plenty of vapour in him, and it always resolved into some shape or other. You that

mark those clouds of eventide, and know youth, will see the similitude: it will not be strange, it will barely

seem foolish to you, that a young man of Richard's age, Richard's education and position, should be in this

wild state. Had he not been nursed to believe he was born for great things? Did she not say she was sure of it?

And to feel base, and yet born for better, is enough to make one grasp at anything cloudy. Suppose the hero

with a game leg. How intense is his faith in quacks! with what a passion of longing is he not seized to

break somebody's head! They spoke of Italy in low voices. ``The time will come,'' said she. ``And I shall be

ready,'' said he. What rank was he to take in the liberating army? Captain, colonel, general in chief, or simple

private? Here, as became him, he was much more positive and specific than she was. Simple private, he said.

Yet he saw himself caracoling on horseback. Private in the cavalry, then, of course. Private in the cavalry

overriding wrecks of Empires. She looked forth under her brows with mournful indistinctness at that object

in the distance. They read Petrarch to get up the necessary fires. Italia mia! Vain indeed was this speaking to

those thick and mortal wounds in her fair body, but their sighs went with the Tiber, the Arno, and the Po, and

their hands joined. Who has not wept for Italy? I see the aspirations of a world arise for her, thick and

So when Austin came Richard said he could not leave Lady Judith, Lady Judith said she could not part with

him. For his sake, mind! This Richard verified. Perhaps he had reason to be grateful. The highroad of Folly

may have led him from one that terminates worse. He is foolish, God knows; but for my part I will not laugh

at the hero because he has not got his occasion. Meet him when he is, as it were, anointed by his occasion,

Richard felt his safety in this which, to please the world, we must term folly. Exhalation of vapours was a

wholesome process to him, and somebody who gave them shape and hue a beneficent Iris. He told Austin

He welcomed Austin with every show of manly tenderness, and sadness at heart. Austin he had always

associated with his Lucy in that Hesperian palace of the West. Austin waited patiently. Lady Judith's old lord

played on all the baths in Nassau without evoking the tune of health. Whithersoever he listed she changed her

abode. So admirable a wife was to be pardoned for espousing an old man, She was an enthusiast even in her

connubial duties. She had the brows of an enthusiast. With occasion she might have been a Charlotte Corday.

So let her also be shielded from the ban of ridicule. Nonsense of enthusiasts is very different from nonsense

of ninnies. She was truly a highminded person, of that order who always do what they see to be right, and

always have confidence in their optics. She was not unworthy of a young man's admiration, if she was unfit

to be his guide. She resumed her ancient intimacy with Austin easily, while she preserved her new footing

with Richard. She and Austin were not unlike, only Austin never dreamed, and had not married an old lord.

The three were walking on the bridge at Limburg on the Lahn, where the shadow of a stone bishop is thrown

by the moonlight on the water brawling over slabs of slate. A woman passed them bearing in her arms a baby,

``Well, that is a fine fellow,'' said Austin, ``but I don't think he's much bigger than your boy.''

``He'll do for a nineteenthcentury Arminius,'' Richard was saying. Then he looked at Austin.

``What have I said that deserves to be repeated?'' Austin counterqueried quite innocently.

``His modesty goes very far,'' said Lady Judith sweeping a curtsey to Richard's paternity.

Richard's heart throbbed with violence. He looked again in Austin's face. Austin took it so much as a matter

The moment the two men were alone, Richard said in a quick voice: ``Austin! were you in earnest?''

``Why, they all wrote to you. Lucy wrote to you: your father, your aunt. I believe Adrian wrote too.''

``He's a noble fellow, I can tell you. You've nothing to be ashamed of, my dear boy. He'll soon be coming to

Hence, fantastic vapours! What are ye to this! Where are the dreams of the hero when he learns he has a

child? Nature is taking him to her bosom. She will speak presently. Every domesticated boor in these hills

can boast the same, yet marvels the hero at none of his visioned prodigies as he does when he comes to hear

of this most common performance. A father? Richard fixed his eyes as if he were trying to make out the

Telling Austin he would be back in a few minutes, he sallied into the air, and walked on and on. ``A father!''

he kept repeating to himself: ``a child!'' And though he knew it not, he was striking the keynotes of Nature.

The moon was surpassingly bright: the summer air heavy and still. He left the high road and pierced into the

forest. His walk was rapid: the leaves on the trees brushed his cheeks; the dead leaves heaped in the dells

noised to his feet. Something of a religious joya strange sacred pleasure was in him. By degrees it

wore; he remembered himself: and now he was possessed by a proportionate anguish. A father! he dared

never see his child. And he had no longer his phantasies to fall upon. He was utterly bare to his sin. In his

troubled mind it seemed to him that Clare looked down on himClare who saw him as he wasand that

to her eyes it would be infamy for him to go and print his kiss upon his child. Then came stern efforts to

By the log of an ancient tree half buried in dead leaves of past summers, beside a brook, he halted as one who

had reached his journey's end. There he discovered he had a companion in Lady Judith's little dog. He gave

the friendly animal a pat of recognition, and both were silent in the forestsilence.

It was impossible for Richard to return; his heart was surcharged. He must advance, and on he footed, the

An oppressive slumber hung about the forestbranches. In the dells and on the heights was the same dead

heat. Here where the brook tinkled it was no coollipped sound, but metallic, and without the spirit of water.

Yonder in a space of moonlight on lush grass, the beams were as white fire to sight and feeling. No haze

spread around. The valleys were clear, defined to the shadows of their verges; the distances sharply distinct,

and with the colours of day but slightly softened. Richard beheld a roe moving across a slope of sward far out

of riflemark. The breathless silence was significant, yet the moon shone in a broad blue heaven. Tongue out

of mouth trotted the little dog after him; couched panting when he stopped an instant; rose weariedly when he

started afresh. Now and then a large white nightmoth flitted through the dusk of the forest.

On a barren corner of the wooded highland looking inland stood gray topless ruins set in nettles and rank

grassblades. Richard mechanically sat down on the crumbling flints to rest, and listened to the panting of the

dog. Sprinkled at his feet were emerald lights: hundreds of glowworms studded the dark dry ground.

He sat and eyed them, thinking not at all. His energies were expended in action. He sat as a part of the ruins,

and the moon turned his shadow Westward from the South. Overhead, as she declined, long ripples of silver

cloud were imperceptibly stealing toward her. They were the van of a tempest. He did not observe them, or

the leaves beginning to chatter. When he again pursued his course with his face to the Rhine, a huge

mountain appeared to rise sheer over him, and he had it in his mind to scale it. He got no nearer to the base of

it for all his vigorous outstepping. The ground began to dip; he lost sight of the sky. Then heavy

thunderdrops struck his cheek, the leaves were singing, the earth breathed, it was black before him and

behind. All at once the thunder spoke. The mountain he had marked was bursting over him.

Up started the whole forest in violet fire. He saw the country at the foot of the hills to the bounding Rhine

gleam, quiver, extinguished. Then there were pauses; and the lightning seemed as the eye of heaven, and the

thunder as the tongue of heaven, each alternately addressing him; filling him with awful rapture. Alone

theresole human creature among the grandeurs and mysteries of stormhe felt the representative of

his kind, and his spirit rose, and marched, and exulted, let it be glory, let it be ruin! Lower down the lightened

abysses of air rolled the wrathful crash: then white thrusts of light were darted from the sky, and great

curving ferns, seen steadfast in pallor a second, were supernaturally agitated, and vanished. Then a shrill song

roused in the leaves and the herbage. Prolonged and louder it sounded, as deeper and heavier the deluge

pressed. A mighty force of water satisfied the desire of the earth. Even in this, drenched as he was by the first

outpouring, Richard had a savage pleasure. Keeping in motion he was scarcely conscious of the wet, and the

grateful breath of the weeds was refreshing. Suddenly he stopped short, lifting a curious nostril. He fancied

he smelt meadowsweet. He had never seen the flower in Rhinelandnever thought of it; and it would

hardly be met with in a forest. He was sure he smelt it fresh in dews. His little companion wagged a miserable

wet tail some way in advance. He went on slowly, thinking indistinctly. After two or three steps he stooped

and stretched out his hand to feel for the flower, having, he know not why, a strong wish to verify its growth

there. Groping about his hand encountered something warm that started at his touch, and he, with the instinct

we have, seized it, and lifted it to look at it. The creature was very small, evidently quite young. Richard's

eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, wore able to discern it for what it was, a tiny leveret, and he supposed

that the dog had probably frightened its dam just before he found it. He put the little thing on one hand in his

The rain was now steady; from every tree a fountain poured. So cool and easy had his mind become that he

was speculating on what kind of shelter the birds could find, and how the butterflies and moths saved their

coloured wings from washing. Folded close they might hang under a leaf, he thought. Lovingly he looked

into the dripping darkness of the coverts on each side, as one of their children. Then he was musing on a

strange sensation he experienced. It ran up one arm with an indescribable thrill, but communicated nothing to

his heart. It was purely physical, ceased for a time, and recommenced, till he had it all through his blood,

wonderfully thrilling. He grew aware that the little thing he carried in his breast was licking his hand there.

The small rough tongue going over and over the palm of his hand produced this strange sensation he felt.

Now that he knew the cause, the marvel ended, but now that he know the cause his heart was touched and

made more of it. The gentle scraping continued without intermission as on he walked. What did it say to him?

A pale gray light on the skirts of the flying tempest displayed the dawn. Richard was walking hurriedly. The

green drenched weeds lay all about in his path, bent thick, and the forest drooped glimmeringly. Impelled as a

man who feels a revelation mounting obscurely to his brain, Richard was passing one of those little

forestchapels, hung with votive wreaths, where the peasant halts to kneel and pray. Cold, still, in the twilight

it stood, raindrops pattering round it. He looked within, and saw the Virgin holding her Child. He moved by.

But not many steps had he gone ere his strength went out of him, and he shuddered. What was it? He asked

not. He was in other hands. Vivid as lightning the Spirit of Life illumined him. He felt in his heart the cry of

his child, his darling's touch. With shut eyes he saw them both. They drew him from the depths; they led him

a blind and tottering man. And as they led him he had a sense of purification so sweet he shuddered again and

When he looked out from his trance on the breathing world, the small birds hopped and chirped: warm fresh

sunlight was over all the hills. He was on the edge of the forest, entering a plain clothed with ripe corn under

They heard at Raynham that Richard was coming. Lucy had the news first in a letter from Ripton Thompson,

who met him at Bonn. Ripton did not say that he had employed his vacation holiday on purpose to use his

efforts to induce his dear friend to return to his wife; and finding Richard already on his way, of course

Ripton said nothing to him, but affected to be travelling for his pleasure like any cockney. Richard also wrote

to her. In case she should have gone to the sea he directed her to send word to his hotel that he might not lose

an hour. His letter was sedate in tone, very sweet to her. Assisted by the faithful female Berry, she was

``Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts,'' was one of his rough notes, due to an observation of Lucy's

maternal cares. Let us remember, therefore, we men who have drunk of it largely there, that she has it.

Mrs. Berry zealously apprised him how early Master Richard's education had commenced, and the great

future historian he must consequently be. This trait in Lucy was of itself sufficient to win Sir Austin.

``Here my plan with Richard was false,'' he reflected: ``in presuming that anything save blind fortuity would

He could admit now that instinct had so far beaten science; for as Richard was coming, as all were to be

happy, his wisdom embraced them all paternally as the author of their happiness. Between him and Lucy a

The delicate question how she was to treat her uncle he settled generously. Farmer Blaize should come up to

Raynham when he would: Lucy must visit him at least three times a week. He had Farmer Blaize and Mrs.

Berry to study, and really excellent Aphorisms sprang from the plain human bases this natural couple

``It will do us no harm,'' he thought, ``some of the honest blood of the soil in our veins.'' And he was content

in musing on the parentage of the little cradled boy. A common sight for those who had the entry to the

So Richard was crossing the sea, and hearts at Raynham were beating quicker measures as the minutes

progressed. That night he would be with them. Sir Austin gave Lucy a longer, warmer salute when she came

down to breakfast in the morning. Mrs. Berry waxed thrice amorous. ``It's your second bridals, ye sweet livin'

widow!'' she said. ``Thanks be the Lord! it's the same man too! and a baby over the bedpost,'' she appended

``Strange,'' Berry declared it to be, ``strange I feel none o' this to my Berry now. All my feelin's o' love seem

In fact the faithless male Berry complained of being treated badly, and affected a superb jealousy of the baby;

but the good dame told him that if he suffered at all he suffered his due. Berry's position was decidedly

uncomfortable. It could not be concealed from the lower household that he had a wife in the establishment,

and for the complications this gave rise to, his wife would not legitimately console him. He devised to

petition the baronet. Lucy did intercede for him, but Mrs. Berry was obdurate. She averred she would not

give up the child till he was weaned. ``Then, perhaps,'' she said prospectively. ``You see I ain't se soft as you

``Belike I am,'' Mrs. Berry was proud to agree. We like a new character, now and then. Berry had delayed too

She explained herself: ``Let me see my Berry with his toes up, and I'm his tender nurse. It's a nursewoman

he've foundnot a wife. 'Tain't revengin' him, my darlin'! She never is to a babynot a woman

isn'twhat she grow to a man. I had to see my Berry again to learn that, it seem. We goes

offsomehowto a man. Hard on em', it may be. Nat'ral, it is. The Scripture tells of concubines. And

there was Abram, we read. But it's all a puzzle, man _and_ woman! and we perplexes each other on to the

end. Nor 'tain't that Berry's alter. That man's much as he was, in body both and in spirit. It's me am changed,

and Berry discovers it to me I am. It's a mis'rable truth, it be, my feelin's as a wedded wife seem gone now I

got him. `Kiss me,' says he. I gives him my cheek. `So cold, Bessy Berry,' he says reproachful. I don't say

nothin', for how'd 'he understand if I tell him I gone back to a spinster? So it is! and was I to see my Berry

kissin' another woman now, I'd only feel perhapsjust that,'' Mrs. Berry simulated a short spasm. ``And it

makes me feel different about Eternal Life now,'' she continued. ``It was always amarriagin' in it

before:couldn't think of it without partners:all for sex! But now them words `No givin' in Marriage'

comes home to me. A man and a woman they does their work below, and it's ended long afore they lays their

bodies in the graveleastways the woman. It's be hoped you won't feel that, my darlin', yet awhileyou

``Boilin', then. Bless her! she knows she is!'' And Mrs. Berry, in contemplation of the reunion of the younger

Were it not notorious that the straightlacedprudish dare not listen to the natural chaste, certain things Mrs.

Berry thought it adviseable to impart to the young wife with regard to Berry's infidelity, and the charity

women should have toward sinful men, might here be reproduced. Enough that she thought proper to broach

Oily calm is on the sea. At Raynham they look up at the sky and speculate that Richard is approaching fairly

speeded. He comes to throw himself on his darling's mercy. Lucy irradiated over forest and sea, tempest and

peaceto her the hero comes humbly. Great is that day when we see our folly! Ripton and he were the

friends of old. Richard encouraged him to talk of the two he could be eloquent on, and Ripton, whose secret

vanity was in his powers of speech, never tired of enumerating Lucy's virtues, and the peculiar attributes of

``Against you, Richard! he moment she knew she was to be a mother, she thought of nothing but her duty to

``Yes, once. They asked me down. And your father's so fond of herI'm sure he thinks no woman like her,

Richard was too full of blame of himself to blame his father: too British to expose his emotions. Ripton

divined how deep and changed they were by his manner. He had cast aside the hero, and however Ripton had

obeyed him and looked up to him in the heroic time, he loved him tenfold now. He told his friend how

much Lucy's mere womanly sweetness and excellence had done for him, and Richard contrasted his own

profitless extravagance with the patient beauty of his dear homeangel. He was not one to take her on the

easy terms that offered. There was that to do which made his cheek burn as he thought of it, but he was going

to do it, even though it lost her to him. Just to see her and kneel to her was joy sufficient to sustain him, and

warm his blood in the prospect. They marked the white cliffs growing over the water. Nearer the sun made

them lustrous. Houses and people seemed to welcome the wild youth to commonsense, simplicity, and

They were in town by midday. Richard had a momentary idea of not driving to his hotel for letters. After a

short debate he determined to go there. The porter said he had two letters for Mr. Richard Feverelone had

been waiting some time. He went to the box and fetched them. The first Richard opened was from Lucy, and

as he read it, Ripton observed the colour deepen on his face, while a quivering smile playd about his mouth.

He opened the other indifferently. It began without any form of address. Richard's forehead darkened at the

signature. This letter was in a sloping feminine hand, and flourished with light strokes all over, like a field of

``I know you are in a rage with me because I would not consent to ruin you, you foolish fellow. What do you

call it? Going to that unpleasant place together. Thank you, my milliner is not ready yet, and I want to make a

good appearance when I do go. I suppose I shall have to some day. Your health, Sir Richard. Now let me

speak to you seriously. _Go home to your wife at once._ But I know the sort of fellow you are, and I must be

plain with you. Did I ever say I loved you? You may hate me as much as you please, but I will save you from

``Now listen to me. You know my relations with Mount. _That beast Brayder_ offered to pay all my debts

and set me afloat, if I would keep you in town. I declare on my honour I had no idea why, and I did not agree

to it. But you were such a handsome fellowI noticed you in the Park before I heard a word of you. But

then you fought shyyou were just as tempting as a girl. You _stung_ me. Do you know what that is? I

would make you care for me, and we know how it ended, without any intention of mine, I _swear._ I'd have

cut off my hand rather than do you any harm, upon my honour. Circumstances! Then I saw it was all up

between us. Brayder came and began to chaff about you. I dealt the animal a stroke on the face with my

ridingwhipI shut him up pretty quick. Do you think I would let a man speak about you?I was going

to swear. You see I remember Dick's lessons. O my God! I do feel unhappy.Brayder offered me money.

Go and think I took it, if you like. What do I care what anybody thinks! Something that blackguard said

made me suspicious. I went down to the Isle of Wight where Mount was, and your wife was just gone with an

old lady who came and took her way. I should so have liked to see her. You said, you remember, she would

take me as a sister, and treat meI laughed at it then. My God! how I could cry now, if water did any good

to a _devil,_ as you politely call poor me. I called at your house and saw your manservant, who said Mount

had just been there. In a minute it struck me. I was sure Mount was after a woman, but it never struck me that

woman was your wife. Then I saw why they wanted me to keep you away. I went to Brayder. You know how

I hate him. I made love to the man to get it out of him. Richard! my word of honour, they have planned to

carry her off, if Mount finds he cannot seduce her. Talk of devils! He's one; but he is not so bad as Brayder. I

``Now after this, I am quite sure you are too much of a man to stop away from her another moment. I have no

more to say. I suppose we shall not see each other again, so goodbye, Dick! I fancy I hear you cursing me.

Why can't you feel like other men on the subject? But if you were like the rest of them I should not have

cared for you a farthing. I have not worn lilac since I saw you last. I'll be buried in your colour, Dick. That

``You are not going to believe I took the money? If I thought you thought thatit makes me _feel_ like a

``Adieu! Say it's because you don't like his face. I suppose devils must not say _Adieu._ Here's plain old

goodbye, then, between you and me. Goodbye, dear Dick! You won't think that of me?

``May I eat dry bread to the day of my death if I took, or ever will touch, a scrap of their money. =Bella.=''

The driver received directions. Richard sat without speaking. His friend knew that face. He asked whether

there was bad news in the letter. For answer he had the lie circumstantial. He ventured to remark that they

``It's the right way,'' cried Richard, and his jaws were hard and square, and his eyes looked heavy and full.

The cabman pulled up at a Club. A gentleman, in whom Ripton recognised the Hon. Peter Brayder, was just

then swinging a leg over his horse, with one foot in the stirrup. Hearing his name called, the Hon. Peter

``Is Mountfalcon in town?'' said Richard, taking the horse's reins instead of the gentlemanly hand. His voice

``Mount?'' Brayder replied, curiously watching the action; ``yes. He's off this evening.''

``He _is_ in town?'' Richard released his horse. ``I want to see him. Where is he?''

The young man looked pleasant: that which might halve aroused Brayder's suspicions was an old affair in

parasitical register by this time. ``Want to see him? What about?'' he said carelessly, and gave the address.

``By the way,'' he sung out, ``we thought of putting your name down, Feverel.'' He indicated the lofty

Richard nodded back to him, crying, ``Hurry.'' Brayder returned the nod, and those who promenaded the

district soon beheld his body in elegant motion to the stepping of his wellearned horse.

Ripton was left in the cab at the door of my lord's residence. He had to wait there a space of about ten

minutes, when Richard returned with a clearer visage, though somewhat heated. He stood outside the cab,

and Ripton was conscious of being examined by those strong grey eyes. As clear as speech he understood

them to say to him, ``You won't do,'' but which of the many things on earth he would not do for he was at loss

``Go down to Raynham, Ripton. Say I shall be there tonight certainly. Don't bother me with questions.

Drive off at once. Or wait. Get another cab. I'll take this.'' Ripton was ejected, and found himself standing

alone in the street. As he was on the point of rushing after the galloping cabhorse to get a word of

Ripton had an eye for lords. An ambrosial footman, standing at the open door of Lord Mountfalcon's house,

and a gentleman standing on the doorstep, told him that he was addressed by that nobleman. He was

requested to step into the house. When they were alone, Lord Mountfalcon, slightly ruffled, said: ``Feverel

has insulted me grossly. I must meet him, of course. It's a piece of infernal folly!I suppose he is not quite

My lord resumed: ``I am perfectly guiltless of offending him, as far as I know. In fact, I had a friendship for

``Ah!'' went the other, eyeing Ripton in lordly cognizant style. ``You know nothing of this business perhaps?''

The question was quite unnecessary. Ripton confessed to the law, and my lord did not look surprised.

Ripton gave him a commoner's obeisance; but getting to the door, the sense of the matter enlightened him.

``No help for it, if his friends don't shut him up in Bedlam between this and tomorrow morning.''

Of all horrible things a duel was the worst in Ripton's imagination. He stood holding the handle of the door,

revolving this last chapter of calamity suddenly opened where happiness had promised.

Ripton ejaculated unintelligible stuff. Finally Lord Mountfalcon said: ``I went out of my way, sir, in speaking

to you. I saw you from the window. Your friend is mad. Deuced methodical, I admit, but mad. I have

particular reasons to wish not to injure the young man, and if an apology is to be got out of him when we're

on the ground, I'll take it, and we'll stop the damned scandal, if possible. You understand? I'm the insulted

party, and I shall only require of him to use formal words of excuse to come to an amicable settlement. Let

him just say he regrets it. Now, sir,'' the nobleman spoke with considerable earnestness, ``should anything

happenI have the honour to be known to Mrs. Fevereland I beg you will tell her. I very particularly

Mountfalcon rang the bell, and bowed him out. With this on his mind Ripton harried down to those who were

The watch consulted by Hippias alternately with his pulse, in occult calculation hideous to mark, said

halfpast eleven on the midnight. Adrian, wearing a composedly amused expression on his dimpled plump

face,held slightly sideways, aloof from paper and pen,sat writing at the library table. Round the

baronet's chair, in a semicircle, were Lucy, Lady Blandish, Mrs. Doria, and Ripton, that very ill bird at

Raynham. They were silent as those who question the flying minutes. Ripton had said that Richard was sure

to come; but the feminine eyes reading him ever and anon, had gathered matter for disquietude, which

increased as time sped. Sir Austin persisted in his habitual air of speculative repose.

Remote as he appeared from vulgar anxiety, he was the first to speak and betray his state.

``Pray put up that watch. Impatience serves nothing,'' he said, halfturning hastily to his brother behind him.

His remark was unheard, and the bearing of it remained obscure. Adrian's pen made a louder flourish on his

``What are you writing?'' the baronet inquired testily of Adrian, after a pause; twitched, it may be, by a sort of

``Do I disturb you, sir?'' rejoined Adrian. ``I am engaged on a portion of a Proposal for uniting the Empires

and Kingdoms of Europe under one Paternal Head, on the model of the evertobeadmired and lamented

Holy Roman. This treats of the management of Youths and Maids, and of certain magisterial functions

connected therewith. `It is decreed that these officers be all and every men of science,' etc.'' And Adrian

Mrs. Doria took Lucy's hand, mutely addressing encouragement to her, and Lucy brought as much of a smile

``If he said he would come, he will come,'' Sir Austin interjected. Between him and the lady there was

something of a contest secretly going on. He was conscious that nothing save perfect success would now hold

``He declared to me he would be certain to come,'' said Ripton; but he could look at none of them as he said

it, for he was growing aware that Richard might have deceived him, and was feeling like a black conspirator

against their happiness. He determined to tell the baronet what he knew, if Richard did not come by twelve.

``Time for me to be in bed,'' growled Hippias, as if everybody present had been treating him badly.

Mrs. Berry came in to apprise Lucy that she was wanted above. She quietly rose. Sir Austin kissed her on the

forehead, saying: ``You had better not come down again, my child.'' She kept her eyes on him. ``Oblige me

by retiring for the night,'' he added. Lucy shook their hands, and went out accompanied by Mrs. Doria.

``This agitation will be bad for the child,'' he said, speaking to himself aloud.

Lady Blandish remarked: ``I think she might just as well have returned. She will not sleep.''

It was twelve o'clock when Hippias shut his watch, and said with vehemence: ``I'm convinced my circulation

Sir Austin and Lady Blandish knew well that any comment would introduce them to the interior of his

machinery, the external view of which was sufficiently harrowing; so they maintained a discreet reserve.

Taking it for acquiescence in his deplorable condition, Hippias resumed despairingly: ``It's a fact. I've

brought you to see that. No one can be more moderate than I am, and yet I get worse. My System is

organically soundI believe: I do every possible thing, and yet I get worse. Nature never forgives! I'll go to

Sir Austin took up his brother's thought: ``I suppose nothing short of a miracle helps us when we have

``Nothing short of a quack satisfies us,'' said Adrian, applying wax to an envelope of official dimensions.

Ripton sat accusing his soul of cowardice while they talked; haunted by Lucy's last look at him. He got up his

courage presently and went round to Adrian, who, after a few whispered words, deliberately rose and

accompanied him out of the room, shrugging. When they had gone, Lady Blandish said to the baronet: ``He is

``Tomorrow, then, if not tonight,'' he replied. ``But I say he will come tonight.''

``I mean,'' said the ungenerous woman, ``your System will require no further sacrifices from either of them?''

When he did answer, it was to say: ``I think her altogether a superior person. I confess I should scarcely have

``No: it was presumptuousbeyond a certain point,'' said the baronet, meaning deep things.

Lady Blandish eyed him. ``Ah me!'' she sighed, ``if we would always be true to our own wisdom!''

``You are very singular tonight, Emmeline.'' Sir Austin stopped his walk in front of her.

In truth, was she not unjust? Here was an offending son freely forgiven. Here was a young woman of humble

birth freely accepted into his family and permitted to stand upon her qualities. Who would have done

moreor as much? This lady, for instance, had the case been hers, would have fought it. All the people of

position that he was acquainted with would have fought it, and that without feeling it so peculiarly. But while

the baronet thought this, he did not think of the exceptional education his son had received. He took the

common ground of fathers, forgetting his System when it was absolutely on trial. False to his son it could not

be said that he had been: false to his System he was. Others saw it plainly, but he had to learn his lesson by

Lady Blandish gave him her face; then stretched her hand to the table, saying, ``Well! well!'' She fingered a

halfopened parcel lying there, and drew forth a little book she recognized. ``Ha! what is this?'' she said.

``Benson returned it this morning,'' he informed her. ``The stupid fellow took it away with himby

It was nothing other than the old Notebook. Lady Blandish turned over the leaves, and came upon the later

She read: ``A maker of Proverbswhat is he but a narrow mind the mouthpiece of narrower?''

He merely said: ``Consider the sort of minds influenced by set sayings. A proverb is the halfwayhouse to

an Idea, I conceive; and the majority rest there content: can the keeper of such a house be flattered by his

She felt her feminine intelligence swaying under him again. There must be greatness in a man who could thus

speak of his own special and admirable aptitude. Further she read, ``Which is the coward among us?_He

``Oh! that is true! How much I admire that!'' cried the darkeyed dame as she beamed intellectual raptures.

Another Aphorism seemed closely to apply to him: ``There is no more grievous sight, as there is no greater

``He must have written it,'' she thought, ``when he had himself for an example strange man that he is!''

Lady Blandish was still inclined to submission, though decidedly insubordinate. She had once been fairly

conquered: but if what she reverenced as a great mind could conquer her, it must be a great man that should

hold her captive. The Autumn Primrose blooms for the loftiest manhood; is a vindictive flower in lesser

bands. Nevertheless Sir Austin had only to be successful, and this lady's allegiance was his for ever. The trial

was at hand. She said again: ``He is not coming tonight,'' and the baronet, on whose visage a contemplative

There was commotion all over the house at the return of the young heir. Berry, seizing every possible

occasion to approach his Bessy now that her involuntary coldness had enhanced her value``Such is men!''

as the soft woman reflectedBerry ascended to her and delivered the news in pompous tones and

wheedling gestures. ``The best word you've spoke for many a day,'' says she, and leaves him unfee'd, in an

``Lord be praised!'' she entered the adjoining room exclaiming, ``we're goin' to be happy at last. They men

have come to their senses. I could cry to your Virgin and kiss your Cross, you sweet!''

``Hush!'' Lucy admonished her, and crooned over the child on her knees. The tiny open hands, full of sleep,

clutched; the large blue eyes started awake; and his mother, all trembling and palpitating, knowing, but

thirsting to hear it, covered him with her tresses, and tried to still her frame, and rocked, and sang low,

Richard had come. He was under his father's roof, in the old home that had so soon grown foreign to him. He

stood close to his wife and child. He might embrace them both: and now the fulness of his anguish and the

madness of the thing he had done smote the young man: now first he tasted hard earthly misery.

Had not God spoken to him in the tempest? Had not the finger of heaven directed him homeward? And he

had come: here he stood: congratulations were thick in his ears: the cup of happiness was held to him, and he

was invited to drink of it. Which was the dream? his work for the morrow, or this? But for a leaden load he

felt like a bullet in his breast, he might have thought the morrow with death sitting on it was the dream. Yes;

he was awake. Now first the cloud of phantasms cleared away: he beheld his real life, and the colours of true

human joy: and on the morrow perhaps he was to close his eyes on them. That leaden bullet dispersed all

They stood about him in the hall, his father, Lady Blandish, Mrs. Doria, Adrian, Ripton; people who had

known him long. They shook his hand: they gave him greetings he had never before understood the worth of

or the meaning. Now that he did they mocked him. There was Mrs. Berry in the background bobbing, there

was Martin Berry bowing, there was Tom Bakewell grinning. Somehow he loved the sight of these better.

``Ah, my old Penelope!'' he said, breaking through the circle of his relatives to go to her, ``so you've found

him at last? Tom! how are you? Berry! I hope you're going to behave like a man.''

Berry inclined with dignified confusion, and drew up to man's heightto indicate his honourable

intentions, let us hope. Tom Bakewell performed a motion as if to smear his face with an arm, but decided on

``Bless ye, my Mr. Richard,'' whimpered Mrs. Berry, and whispered rosily, ``all's agreeable now. She's

The person who betrayed most agitation was Mrs. Doria. She held close to him, and eagerly studied his face

and every movement, as one accustomed to masks. ``You are pale, Richard?'' He pleaded exhaustion. ``What

detained you, dear?'' ``Business,'' he said. She drew him imperiously apart from the others. ``Richard! is it

over?'' He asked what she meant. ``The dreadful duel, Richard.'' He looked darkly. ``Is it over? is it done,

Richard?'' Getting no immediate answer, she continuedand such was her agitation that the words were

shaken by pieces from her mouth: ``Don't pretend not to understand me, Richard! Is it over? Are you going to

die the death of my childClare's death? Is not one in a family enough? Think of your dear young

Mrs. Doria had chanced to overhear a trifle of Ripton's communication to Adrian, and had built thereon with

Wondering how this woman could have divined it, Richard calmly said: ``It's arrangedthe matter you

``Tell me''but he broke away from her, saying: ``You shall hear the particulars tomorrow,'' and she, not

He had eaten nothing for twelve hours, and called for food, but he would take only dry bread and claret,

which was served on a tray in the library. He said, without any show of feeling, that he must eat before he

saw the younger hope of Raynham: so there he sat, breaking bread, and eating great mouthfuls, and washing

them down with wine, talking of what they would. His father's studious mind felt itself years behind him, he

was so completely altered. He had the precision of speech, the bearing of a man of thirty. Indeed he had all

that the necessity for cloaking an infinite misery gives. But let things be as they might, he was there. For one

night in his life Sir Austin's perspective of the future was bounded by the night.

``Will you go to your wife now?'' he had asked, and Richard had replied with a strange indifference. The

baronet thought it better that their meeting should be private, and sent word for Lucy to wait upstairs. The

others perceived that father and son should now be left alone. Adrian went up to him, and said: ``I can no

longer witness this painful sight, so Goodnight, Sir Famish! You may cheat yourself into the belief that

you've made a meal, but depend upon it your progenyand it threatens to be numerouswill cry aloud

and rue the day. Nature never forgives! A lost dinner can never be replaced! Goodnight, my dear boy. And

hereoblige me by taking this,'' he handed Richard the enormous envelope containing what he had written

that evening. ``Credentials!'' he exclaimed humourously, slapping Richard on the shoulder. Ripton heard also

the words ``propagatorspecies,'' but had no idea of their import. The wise youth looked: You see we've

made matters all right for you here, and quitted the room on that unusual gleam of earnestness.

Richard shook his hand; and Ripton's. Then Lady Blandish said her goodnight, praising Lucy, and

promising to pray for their mutual happiness. The two men who knew what was hanging over him, spoke

together outside. Ripton was for getting a positive assurance that the duel would not be fought, but Adrian

said: ``Time enough tomorrow. He's safe enough while he's here. I'll stop it tomorrow:'' ending with banter

of Ripton and allusions to his adventures with Miss Random, which must, Adrian said, have led him into

many affairs of the sort. Certainly Richard was there, and while he was there he must be safe. So thought

Ripton, and went to his bed. Mrs. Doria deliberated likewise, and likewise thought him safe while he was

there. For once in her life she thought it better not to trust to her instinct, for fear of useless disturbance where

peace should be. So she said not a syllable of it to her brother. She only looked more deeply into Richard's

eyes, as she kissed him, praising Lucy. ``1 have found a second daughter in her, dear. Oh! may you both be

They all praised Lucy, now. His father commenced the moment they were alone. ``Poor Helen! Your wife

has been a great comfort to her, Richard. I think Helen must have sunk without her. So lovely a young

person, possessing mental faculty, and a conscience for her duties, I have never before met.''

He wished to gratify his son by these eulogies of Lucy, and some hours back he would have succeeded. Now

Richard spoke sedately, but the irony was perceptible, and he could speak no other way, his bitterness was so

Sensitive to tone and manner as he was, his ebullition of paternal feeling was frozen. Richard did not

approach him. He leaned against the chimneypiece, glancing at the floor, and lifting his eyes only when he

spoke. Fortunate! very fortunate! As he revolved his later history, and remembered how clearly he had seen

that his father must love Lucy if he but knew her, and remembered his efforts to persuade her to come with

him, a sting of miserable rage blackened his brain. But could he blame that gentle soul? Whom could he

blame? Himself? Not utterly. His Father? Yes, and no. The blame was here, the blame was there: it was

everywhere and nowhere, and the young man cast it on the Fates. and looked angrily at heaven, and grew

``Richard,'' said his father, coming close to him, ``it is late tonight. I do not wish Lucy to remain in

expectation longer, or I should have explained myself to you thoroughly, and I thinkor at least

hopeyou would have justified me. I had cause to believe that you had not only violated my confidence,

but grossly deceived me. It was not so, I now know. I was mistaken. Much of our misunderstanding has

resulted from that mistake. But you were marrieda boy: you knew nothing of the world, little of yourself.

To save you in afterlifefor there is a period when mature men and women who have married young are

more impelled to temptation than in youth,though not so exposed to it,to save you, I say, I decreed

that you should experience selfdenial and learn something of your fellows of both sexes, before settling into

a state that must have been otherwise precarious, however excellent the woman who is your mate. My System

with you would have been otherwise imperfect, and you would have felt the effects of it. It is over now. You

are a man. The dangers to which your nature was open are, I trust, at an end. I wish you to be happy, and I

Sir Austin's mind was unconscious of not having spoken devoutly. True or not, his words were idle to his

Not moving: looking fixedly at his father with a hard face on which the colour rushed, Richard said: ``A

It was horrible, it was, cruel: it was uncalled for Richard knew that. He wanted no advice on such a

matter, having fully resolved what to do. Yesterday he would have listened to his father, and blamed himself

alone, and done what was to be done humbly before God and her: now in the recklessness of his misery he

had as little pity for any other soul as for his own. Sir Austin's brows were deep drawn down.

Clearly his intelligence had taken it, but thisthe worst he could hearthis that he had dreaded once and

Richard said: ``I told you all but the very words when we last parted. What else do you think would have kept

Angered at his callous aspect, his father cried: ``What brings you to her now?''

Sir Austin fell into his chair. Meditation was impossible. He spoke from a wrathful heart: ``You will not dare

``So much? If you ask me whether I had affection for her, I can say I had none.''

O base human nature! Then how? then why? A thousand questions rose in the baronet's mind. Bessy Berry

``Poor child! poor child!'' he apostrophized Lucy pacing the room. Thinking of her, knowing her deep love

He proposed to Richard to spare her. Vast is the distinction between women and men in this one sin, he said,

and supported it with physical and moral citations. His argument carried him so far that to hear him one

would have imagined he thought the sin in men small indeed. His words were idle.

``She must know it,'' said Richard sternly. ``I will go to her now, sir, if you please.''

Sir Austin detained him, expostulated, contradicted himself, confounded his principles, made nonsense of all

his theories. He could not induce his son to waver in his resolve. Ultimately, their goodnight being

interchanged, he understood that the happiness of Raynham depended on Lucy's mercy. He had no fears of

her sweet heart, but it was a strange thing to have come to. On which should the accusation fallon

He remained in the library pondering over the question, at times breathing contempt for his son, and again

seized with unwonted suspicion of his own wisdom: troubled, much to be pitied, even if he deserved that

Richard went straight to Tom Bakewell, roused the heavy sleeper, and told him to have his mare saddled and

waiting at the park gates East within an hour. Tom's nearest approach to a hero was to be a faithful slave to

his master, and in doing this he acted to his conception of that high and glorious character. He got up and

heroically dashed his head into cold water. ``She shall be ready, sir,'' he nodded.

``Tom! if you don't see me back here at Raynham, your money will go on being paid to you.''

The very name of the island shocked Richard's blood, and he had to walk up and down before he could knock

at Lucy's door. That infamous conspiracy to which he owed his degradation and misery scarce left him the

The soft beloved voice responded to his knock. He opened the door, and stood before her. Lucy was

halfway toward him. In the moment that passed ere she was in his arms, he had time to observe the change

in her. He had left her a girl: he beheld a womana blooming woman: for pale at first, no sooner did she

see him than the colour was rich and deep on her face and neck and bosom half shown through the loose

dressingrobe, and the sense of her exceeding beauty made his heart thump, and his eyes swim.

``My darling!'' each cried, and they clung together, and her mouth was fastened on his.

They spoke no more. His soul was drowned in her kiss. Supporting her, whose strength was gone, he, almost

as weak as she, hung over her, and clasped her closer, closer, till they were as one body, and in the oblivion

her lips put upon him he was free to the bliss of her embrace. Heaven granted him that. He placed her in a

chair and knelt at her feet with both arms around her. Her bosom heaved; her eyes never quitted him: their

light as the light on a rolling wave. This young creature, commonly so frank and straightforward, was broken

with bashfulness in her husband's arms womanly bashfulness on the torrent of womanly love; tenfold

more seductive than the bashfulness of girlhood. Terrible tenfold the loss of her seemed now, as distantly

The same sweet blue eyes! the eyes that he had often seen in the dying glories of evening; on him they dwelt,

shifting, and fluttering, and glittering, but constant: the light of them as the light on a rolling wave.

And true to him! true, good, glorious, as the angels of heaven! And his she was! a womanhis wife! The

temptation to take her, and be dumb, was all powerful: the wish to die against her bosom so strong as to be

the prayer of his vital forces. Again he strained her to him, but this time it was as a robber grasps priceless

treasurewith fierce exultation and defiance. One instant of this. Lucy, whose pure tenderness had now

surmounted the first wild passion of their meeting, bent back her head from her surrendered body, and said

almost voicelessly, her underlids wistfully quivering: ``Come and see himbaby;'' and then in great hope

of the happiness she was going to give her husband, and share with him, and in tremour and doubt of what his

feelings would be, she blushed, and her brows worked: she tried to throw off the strangeness of a year of

``Darling! come and see him. He is here.'' She spoke more clearly, though no louder.

Richard had released her, and she took his hand, and he suffered himself to be led to the other side of the bed.

His heart began rapidly throbbing at the sight of a little rosycurtained cot covered with lace like milky

Lucy turned first to him, and then to her infant, fearing it should have been disturbed.

``What is it, darling?'' said she, in alarm at his voice and the grip he had unwittingly given her hand.

O God! what an Ordeal was this! that tomorrow he must face death, perhaps die and be torn from his

darlinghis wife and his child; and that ere he went forth, ere he could dare to see his child and lean his

head reproachfully on his young wife's breastfor the last time, it might behe must stab her to the

``Lucy?'' She saw him wrenched with agony, and her own face took the whiteness of hisshe bending

He held her two hands that she might look on him and not spare the horrible wound he was going to lay open

``Lucy. I did not come because I was not worthy of my wife! Do you understand?''

``Darling,'' she faltered plaintively, and hung crouching under him, ``what have I done to make you angry

``O beloved!'' cried he, the tears bursting out of his eyes. ``O beloved!'' was all he could say, kissing her

``Lucy. I stayed away from youI could not come to you, because . . . I dared not come to you, my wife,

my beloved! I could not come because I was a coward: because hear methis was the reason: I have

Again her lips moved repeating his words. She caught at a dim fleshless meaning in them. ``But you love

``Yes: that I can say before God. I love you, and I have betrayed you, and am unworthy of younot worthy

Her eyes shone brilliantly. ``You love me! you love me, darling!'' And as one who has sailed through dark

fears into daylight, she said: ``My husband! my darling! you will never leave me? We never shall be parted

He drew his breath painfully. To smooth her face growing rigid with fresh fears at his silence, he met her

mouth. That kiss in which she spoke what her soul had to say, calmed her, and she smiled happily from it,

and in her manner reminded him of his first vision of her on the summer morning in the field of the

meadowsweet. He held her to him, and thought then of a holier picture: of Mother and Child: of the sweet

Had he not absolved his conscience? At least the pangs to come made him think so. He now followed her

leading hand. Lucy whispered: ``You mustn't disturb him mustn't touch him, dear!'' and with dainty

fingers drew off the covering to the little shoulder. One arm of the child was out along the pillow; the small

hand open. His babymouth was pouted full; the dark lashes of his eyes seemed to lie on his plump cheeks.

Richard stooped lower down to him, hungering for some movement as a sign that he lived. Lucy whispered.

``He sleeps like you, Richardone arm under his head.'' Great wonder, and the stir of a grasping tenderness

was in Richard. He breathed quick and soft, bending lower, till Lucy's curls, as she nestled and bent with him,

rolled on the crimson quilt of the cot. A smile went up the plump cheeks: forthwith the bud of a mouth was in

rapid motion. The young mother whispered, blushing: ``He's dreaming of me,'' and the simple words did

more than Richard's eyes to make him see what was. Then Lucy began to hum and buzz sweet

babylanguage, and some of the tiny fingers stirred, and he made as if to change his cosy position, but

reconsidered, and deferred it, with a peaceful little sigh. Lucy whispered: ``He is such a big fellow. Oh! when

you see him awake he is so like you, Richard.'' He did not hear her immediately: it seemed a bit of heaven

dropped there in his likeness: the more human the fact of the child grew the more heavenly it seemed. His

son! his child! should he ever see him awake? At the thought he took the words that had been spoken, and

``Oh no! not yet, dear: not for hours. I would have kept him awake for you, but he was so sleepy.''

Richard stood back from the cot. He thought that if he saw the eyes of his boy, and had him once on his heart,

he never should have force to leave him. Then he looked down on him, again struggled to tear himself away.

Two natures warred in his bosom, or it may have been the Magian Conflict still going on. He had come to see

his child once and to make peace with his wife before it should be too late. Might he not stop with them?

Might he not relinquish that devilish pledge? Was not divine happiness here offered to him?If foolish

Ripton had not delayed to tell him of his interview with Mountfalcon all might have been well. But pride said

it was impossible. And then injury spoke. For why was he thus base and spotted to the darling of his love? A

mad pleasure in the prospect of wreaking vengeance on the villain who had laid the trap for him, once more

blackened his brain. If he would stay he could not. So he resolved, throwing the burden on Fate. The struggle

was over, but oh, the pain! Lucy beheld the tears streaming hot from his face on the child's cot. She marvelled

at such excess of emotion. But when his chest heaved, and the extremity of mortal anguish appeared to have

seized him, her heart sank, and she tried to get him in her arms. He turned away from her and went to the

``Look!'' he said, ``do you remember our rowing there one night, and we saw the shadow of the cypress? I

wish I could have come early tonight that we might have had another row, and I have heard you sing there!''

``Darling!'' said she, ``will it make you happier if I go with you now? I will.''

``Yes! to have livedthe child on your heartand never to have uttered a complaint!you are brave.

O my Lucy! my wife! you that have made me man! I called you a coward. I remember it. I was the

cowardI the wretched vain fool! Darling! I am going to leave you now. You are brave, and you will bear

it. Listen: in two days, or three, I may be backback for good, if you will accept me. Promise me to go to

bed quietly. Kiss the child for me, and tell him his father has seen him. He will learn to speak soon. Will he

Dreadful suspicion kept her speechless; she could only clutch one arm of his with both her hands.

``Richard! my darling husband! Going? What is it takes you from me?'' But questioning no further, she fell

on her knees, and cried piteously to him to staynot to leave them. Then she dragged him to the little

sleeper, and urged him to pray by his side, and he did, but rose abruptly from his prayer when he had

muttered a few broken wordsshe praying on with tightstrung nerves in the faith that what she said to the

interceding Mother above would be stronger than human hands on him. Nor could he go while she knelt

And he wavered. He had not reckoned on her terribIe, suffering. She came to him, quiet. ``I knew you would

remain.'' And taking his hand, innocently fondling it. ``Am I so changed from her he loved? You will not

He was almost vanquished by the loveliness of her womanhood. She drew his hand to her heart, and strained

it there under one breast. ``Come: lie on my heart,'' she murmured with a smile of holy sweetness.

He wavered more, and drooped to her, but summoning the powers of hell, kissed her suddenly, cried the

words of parting, and hurried to the door. It was over in an instant. She cried out his name, clinging to him

wildly, and was adjured to be brave, for he would be dishonoured if he did not go. Then she was shaken off.

Mrs. Berry was aroused by an unusual prolonged wailing of the child, which showed that no one was

comforting it, and failing to get any answer to her applications for admittance, she made bold to enter. There

she saw Lucy, the child in her lap, sitting on the floor senseless:she had taken it from its sleep and tried to

``Oh my! Oh my!'' Mrs. Berry moaned, ``and I just now thinkin' they was so happy!''

Warming and caressing the poor infant she managed by degrees to revive Lucy, and heard what had brought

``Go to his father,'' said Mrs. Berry. ``TatetiddleteheightyO! Go, my love, and every horse in Raynham

shall be out after 'm. This is what men brings us to! HeightyoightyiddletyAh! Or you take blessed baby,

The baronet himself knocked at the door. ``What is this?'' he said. ``I heard a noise and a step descend.''

``It's Mr. Richard have gone, Sir Austin! have gone from his wife and babe! RumteumteiddledyOh,

my goodness! what sorrow's come on us!'' and Mrs. Berry wept, and sang to baby, and baby cried

vehemently, and Lucy, sobbing, took him and danced him and sang to him with drawn lips and tears

dropping over him. And if the Scientific Humanist to the day of his death forgets the sight of those two poor

true women jigging on their wretched hearts to calm the child, he must have very little of the human in him.

``His ordeal is over. I have just come from his room and seen him bear the worst that could be. Return at

once he has asked for you. I can hardly write intelligibly, but I will tell you what we know.

``Two days after the dreadful night when he left us, his father heard from Ralph Morton. Richard had fought

a duel in France with Lord Mountfalcon, and was lying wounded at a hamlet on the coast. His father started

immediately with his poor wife, and I followed in company with his aunt and his child. The wound was not

dangerous. He was shot in the side somewhere, but the ball injured no vital part. We thought all would be

well. Oh! how sick I am of theories, and Systems, and the pretensions of men! There was his son lying all but

dead, and the man was still unconvinced of the folly he had been guilty of. I could hardly bear the sight of his

composure. I shall hate the name of Science till the day I die. Give me nothing but commonplace

``They were at a wretched French cabaret, smelling vilely, where we still remain, and the people try as much

as they can do to compensate for our discomforts by their kindness. The French poor people are very

considerate where they see suffering. I will say that for them. The doctors had not allowed his poor Lucy to

go near him, She sat outside his door, and none of us dared disturb her. That was a sight for Science. His

father and myself, and Mrs. Berry, were the only ones permitted to wait on him, and whenever we came out,

there she sat, not speaking a wordfor she had been told it would endanger his lifebut she looked such

awful eagerness. She had the sort of eye I fancy mad persons have. I was sure her reason was going. We did

everything we could think of to comfort her. A bed was made up for her and her meals were brought to her

there. Of course there was no getting her to eat. What do you suppose _his_ alarm was fixed on? He

absolutely said to mebut I have not patience to repeat his words. He thought her to blame for not

_commanding_ herself for the sake of her _maternal duties._ He had absolutely an idea of insisting that she

should make an effort to suckle the child. I shall love that Mrs. Berry to the end of my days. I really believe

she has _twice_ the sense of any of usScience and all. She asked him plainly if he wished to poison the

``Poor man! perhaps I am hard on him. I remember that you said Richard had done wrong. Yes; well, that

may be. But his father eclipsed his wrong in a greater wronga crime, or quite as bad; for if he deceived

himself in the belief that he was acting righteously in separating husband and wife, and exposing his son as

he did I can only say that there are some who are worse than people who deliberately commit _crimes._ No

doubt science will benefit by it. They kill little animals for the sake of science.

``We have with us Doctor Bairam, and a French physician from Dieppe, a very skilful man. It was he who

told us where the real danger lay. We thought all would be well. A week had passed, and no fever

supervened. We told Richard that his wife was coming to him, and he could bear to hear it. I went to her and

began to circumlocute, thinking she listenedshe had the same eager look. When I told her she might go in

with me to see her dear husband, her features did not change. M. Despre's, who held her pulse at the time,

told me, in a whisper, it was cerebral fever brain fever coming on. We have talked of her since. I noticed

that though she did not seem to understand me, her bosom heaved, and she appeared to be trying to repress it,

and choke something. I am sure now, from what I know of her character, that sheeven in the approaches

of delirium was preventing herself from crying out. Her last hold of reason was a thought for Richard. It

was against a creature like this that we plotted! I have the comfort of knowing that I did my share in helping

to destroy her. Had she seen her husband a day or two beforebut no! there was a new _System_ to

interdict that! Or had she not so violently controlled her nature as she did, I believe she might have been

``He said once of a man, that his conscience was a coxcomb. Will you believe that when he saw his son's

wife poor victim! lying delirious, he could not even then see his error. You said he wished to take

Providence out of God's hands. His mad selfdeceit would not leave him. I am positive that, while he was

standing over her, he was blaming her for not having considered the child. Indeed he made a remark to me

that it was unfortunate`disastrous,' I think he saidthat the child should have to be fed by hand. I dare

say it is. All I pray is that this young child may be saved from him. I cannot bear to see him look on it. He

does not spare himself _bodily_ fatiguebut what is that? that is the vulgarest form of love. I know what

you will say. You will say I have lost all charity, and I have. But I should not feel so, Austin, if I could be

_quite sure_ that he is an altered man even now the blow has struck him. He is reserved and simple in his

speech, and his grief is evident, but I have doubts. He heard her while she was senseless call him cruel and

harsh, and cry that she had suffered, and I saw then his mouth contract as if he had been touched. Perhaps,

when he thinks, his mind will be clearer, but what he has done cannot be undone. I do not imagine he will

abuse women any more. The doctor called her a `forte et belle jeune femme:' and _he_ said she was as noble

a soul as ever God moulded clay upon. A noble soul `forte et belle!' She lies upstairs. If he can look on her

``She died five days after she had been removed. The shock had utterly deranged her. I was with her. She

died very quietly, breathing her last breath without painasking for no onea death I should like to die.

``Her cries at one time were dreadfully loud. She screamed that she was `drowning in fire,' and that her

husband would not come to her to save her. We deadened the sound as much as we could, but it was

impossible to prevent Richard from hearing. He knew her voice, and it produced an effect like fever on him.

Whenever she called he answered. You could not hear them without weeping. Mrs. Berry sat with her, and I

``But the trial for us came when she was gone. How to communicate it to Richardor whether to do so at

all! His father consulted with us. We were quite decided that it would be madness to breathe it while he was

in that state. I can admit nowas things have turned outwe were wrong. His father left usI believe

he spent the time in prayerand then leaning on me, he went to Richard, and said in so many words, that

his Lucy was no more. I thought it must kill him. He listened, and smiled. I never saw a smile so sweet and so

sad. He said he had seen her die, as if he had passed through his suffering a long time ago. He shut his eyes. I

could see by the motion of his eyeballs up that he was straining his sight to some inner heaven.I cannot

``I think Richard is safe. Had we postponed the tidings, till he came to his clear senses, it must have killed

him. His father was right for once, then. But if he has saved his son's body, he has given the deathblow to

``A letter found on his clothes tells us the origin of the quarrel. I have had an interview with Lord M. this

morning. I cannot say I think him exactly to blame: Richard forced him to fight. At least I do not select him

the foremost for blame. He was deeply and sincerely affected by the calamity he has caused. Alas I he was

only an instrument. Your poor aunt is utterly prostrate and talks strange things of her daughter's death. She is

only happy in _drudging._ Dr. Bairam says we must under any circumstances keep her employed. Whilst she

is doing something, she can chat freely, but the moment her hands are not occupied she gives me an idea that

``We expect the dear child's uncle today. Mr. Thompson is here. I have taken him upstairs to look at her.

``Come at once. You will not be in time to see her. She will lie at Raynham. If you could you would see an

angel. _He_ sits by her side for hours. I can give you no description of her beauty.

``You will not delay, I know, dear Austin, and I want you, for your presence will make me more charitable

than find it possible to be. Have you noticed the expression in the eyes of blind men? That is just how

Richard looks, as he lies there silent in his bedstriving to image her on his brain.'' THE END.