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:•%•

OHILDEEif OF EATUEE,

Oh ! la fleur de I'i^den, pourquoi I'as-tu fande,
Insouciante enfant, belie tve aux blonds cheveux '
1 out trahir et tout perdre dtait ta destinee

ROLLA.

CHILDREN OP NATURE.

a mov^ at m^Am WmAan.

THE EARL OE DESART,

AUTHOR OF •« ONLY A WOMAN'S LOVB." '« BBYOND TIIE81I V0ICB8."

<i1lj ' '

-^^ty fU^/^^ ^ ^ ///o.

TORONTO :
ROSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY.

1878.

'■•^*

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and seventy-eight, by the Rosb-Beltord Publisiiino Company, in the office
of the Minister of Agriculture. • --

CHILDREN OF NATURE:

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

CHAPTER I.

Ye rich fwok aw, ye'll aye dui reet.
Ye peer fwok aw, ye'll aye dui wrang ;

Let wise men aw say what they will,
It's money makes the meer to gang.

Anderson's Cumberland Ballads.

Lord Brocklesby, thirteenth baron, was not a man that
you can describe in two words. Esteemed clever from his
youth up, and always showing promise which he always
failed to fulfil, he had astonished his Eton tutor by the ease
with which he could throw off Latin verses, which were,
for the quantity, of pretty good quality. But they did
not improve as to the latter attribute, and idleness soon
restricted the former. At college, although he never
shone legitimatel}^ in the schools, he was accounted for a
term or two a great debater and a master of verbal fence
at that little Parliament where Praed made mincemeat of
Macaulay ; but, nevertheless, his rivals always passed him.
He never did more than enough to keep up a hazy charac-
ter for cleverness, originally earned by the suddenness
with v<rhich he had showed the restricted ability he did
possess ; and when he retired content with his Peer's de-
gree, his contemporaries were just beginning to forget ali

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

about him. His mind might then have been likened to a
vessel beating in short tacks against wind and tide, and
perpetually missing stays; appearing to a spectator to be
sailing bravely through the water, but yet never getting
any nearer to the goal.

Now, having struggled to be a great man for half a
century, and having neglected that county and parish
work for which he was essentially fitted, he had at last
resigned himself to the inevitable, and tried to be content
as a patrician with slender influence, a moderate income,
and two unmarketable daughters. There was a wife, too,
but of her hereafter. Of course a man like Lord Brock-
lesby, although merged in the crowd of papas who bring
ugly daughters to ugly houses in Eaton Square every
season, and depart at the end of July with ugly feelings,
could not be wholly repressed. He took up theories. He
made for himself a theory on every conceivable subject,
and was only too pleased that his affairs should go
wrong, or that his relatives and friends should be in diffi-
culties, that he might quickly trot out a brand-new
theory which should — if there was any virtue in philosophic
knowledge — put all straight again. He did everything
by theory. All the clocks in his house were set to differ-
ent times; for he observed that one of them was pretty
sure to be right, and by discovering which this was, or by
taking the mean time of all, you could be as well posted
up in the matter as the Director of Greenwich Observa-
tory.

He paid his cook ir a singularly ingenious manner.
By his side at dinner was placed a card, on which he made
a mark of every help of food he took upon his plate; for,
he argued, the better the cook the more helps you will take.
He also noted on this card the appetite with which he
sat (Jown ; for, as he said, refined and superior cookery
aims not only at present satisfaction, but also at the en-
biincement of the capability for enjoyment on the mor^
row. These cardg were stored up, and the marks adde(J

li.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

together every quarter ; but from this sum-total had to be
subtracted other marks made in a book which he kept in
his room, in which he entered any ailments he might suffer
from — one mark, for instance, for those not proceeding
directly from the stomach, but ten for indigestion or such-
like outrages on a cooking animal. The result was ar-
rived at by a scale he had devised, according to which the
cook was paid; but as the dinner cards passed through
the hands of butler and cook, the latter functionary took
care, by a judicious addition of marks, to be as well re-
munerated as any other member of his noble profession.
Again, the salary of his gamekeeper in Ireland was re-
gulated by the number of packs of grouse he was able to
show him at the beginning of the season ; and every
August poor Lord Brocklesby made a dreary expedition
over his nearly birdless moors, being shown, by a strate-
gic arrangement worthy of Count Moltke, the same pack
over and over again. One theory of his had given a good
deal of trouble when the family came to town for the
bringing "out" of his two daughters — namely, that these
young ladies should be dressed by contract by the milliner
in their county town ; and it required all Lady Brockles-
by's diplomacy to avert so terrible a fate. When his lord-
ship was Postmaster-General, a theory he entertained, and
was very nearly putting into practice, that all letters,
unless they showed upon their face a declaration by the
writer that there was nothing of an indecent, immoral, or
defamatory nature inside, should be opened before delivery
by the District Postmaster, kept the whole Ministry in an
agony of terror for a week ; and when he insisted on tak-
ing all the ballast out of his yacht to prove the truth of a
theory of sailing he had developed, he said, from watch-
ing the ducks in the pond at home, his friends began to
think of the expediency of some restraint being put upon
him. His cruise on this occasion was no farther than the
Needles, for then his vessel lay on her beam-ends, and he
had some difficulty in getting back to the safe waters of

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

the Solent. He was afflicted, too, in these later years,
with an absence of mind that caused him to make ridi-
culous mistakes. On one occasion it almost required
force to remove him from the House of Commons to the
more exalted Chamber, he having forgotten his translation,
although some fifteen years since. His retiring to rest in
the first bedroom he could find when attending a ball, and
the subsequent astonishment of the distinguished hostess
at finding him there (for it was her room he had chosen),
is a well-known joke at the Clubs. The insults he was
guilty of through saying the right thing to the wrong
person were innumerable ; had he been able to perform
miracles he would have made the deaf to see and the
blind to hear.

Lady Brocklesby was a woman of the world. A daugh-
ter of the noble house of FitzCrewe, Jind, therefore, as
everyone knows, niece of the late Duke of Cheshire (the
Duke, who spent so much money in his youth, and denied
himself even a toothbrush in his later years ; and whose
eldest son, the Marquis of Tarporley, was allowed the ex-
travagance of a silver watch when he was thirty), she
had every right to be a leader of society, and to consider
her marriage with Lord Brocklesby, then a smart young
man with some pretensions to intellect, a 7nSsalliance.
She might have been a success, for she was pretty, but all
was spoiled by her notion that she was clever. She was
entirely given up to a species of cunning, which she deemed
diplomacy. Heaven had provided her with many good
gifts, but she set up one only — this cunning — to worship,
and, like all idols, it failed her at a pinch. She would
scheme and intrigue mysteriously for days to obtain what
outspokenness would have gained her at once; if she
spoke the truth it was by accident, or because truth
seemed at that moment to be more misleading than fiction.
Suitor after suitor had been frightened away from her
daughters' side by the pertinacity with \C^hich she acted
on the horsedealers' maxim of praising bad points and

W
'.'I

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

leaving good ones to speak for themselves. Hesitating
men saw the bad points plainly enongh, and, hearing them
praised, lost all faith in the good ones.

And yet Lady Brocklesby had some power — the power
gained by fear. She had made slander a fine art, although
even in her skilful hand it now and then, like a boom-
erang in the hands of a novice, flew back and hit the
thrower ; but, never losing sight of the good old adage,
she made sure of some result by a prodigality in the
amount of mud with which she would bespatter an ad-
versary. One of her strict rules was invaluable, and was
the true secret of her power in the world — she never for-
gave nor forgot ; and not content with this — which is,
after all, a common Christian custom — she never let slip
he earliest opportunity to return i blow. If a rival,
having sat up too late or eaten too much supper the night
before, stabbed her at luncheon time, that rival knew well
that Lady Brocklesby s whole foil would transfix her be-
fore the day was over. Her justice had this advantage
over the popular idea of the article, in that, while iron-
handed, it was anything but leaden-footed. Another of
her attributf;s, and one which surely attests her greacness,
was that she possessed an infinite capability of imagining
a wrong when she wished to avenge one. Queen Eliza-
beth, and other sovereigns nearer to our day hare caused
revolts for the purpose of punishing them ; but none of
them ever rose to the level of Lady Brocklesby, who con-
cocted the wrong in her own mind as easily and pleasantly
as she concocted the revenge. Loudly did she parade her
misfortunes, eagerty did she drag aside the domestic cur-
tain, plaintively did she gain sympathy and rouse indig-
nation over her woe; and. ^"ke many an historian, she
believed in her own fictions after a little ventilation of
them, and what began as an ingenious lie in her mouth,
ended as a truth which she honestly felt it was cruelty
to doubt.

The eldest son and hope of the house, Spencer Chil-

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

lingham, member for the family seat of Sinnington, in
Snarlshire, might be shortly described as a thinking ma-
chine in which the motive-power had been forgotten. He
loaded himself with facts as an alderman loads himself
with turtle-fat, and was utterly unable to digest them.
The knowledge he had about him must hare beesi enor-
mous ; but there it lay, a heavy, inert mass, as useful to
himself or to the world at large as a fly in amber. He
had ken up women's rights, and read so much on the
subject that, beyond a hazy notion that trousers were
disgraceful unless worn by the weaker sex, he carried
away no conviction from that course of study.

He made a speech, at dinnertime, in the House of
Commons, in favour of marriage with a deceased wife's
sister, and flooded his few hearers with quotations from
amorous bachelors and scraps of the Scriptures ; but ir-
reverent scoflers remained as unconvinced as ever ; mere-
ly remarking that ho would kill off" a large family of sis-
ters, if he talked much tc^ them, in a short space of time.

He attended meetings in favour of yearly Parliaments,
of abolition of the game laws, of abolition of capital pun-
ishment — in fact, he wfi/S so anxious to abolish so much
that you would have expected a certai a amount of trucu-
lence in his appearance, a taint of iconoclast in his
address. '

Yet he was " the mildest-mannered man " that it was
possible to see ; in stature but five feet four, with narrow
shoulders, sandy hair, and a nervous stutter. But he
wore an eye-glass, which was to him what the enchanted
rose in Thackeray's fairy-tale was to Prince Bulbo.
When it fell with a clatter against his waistcoab buttons,
you saw a little figure, which inspired you more or less
with an inclination to laugh ; but when, with a twitch of
the little head, and opening of the little m.outh, and an
alarming elongation of the little face, that glass was
flrmly restored to its place, you could hardly avoid quail-
ing. It beamed., like a fiery note of interrogation, througl^

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

his conversation, and gave unlimited strength to liis argu-
ments,, which appeared to proceed f ro~Q it ; and how could
you answer an eye-glass ? We have heard of a man who
succeeded in life solely by virtue of a high, broad fore-
head, and twenty foreheads cannot match a sagely-posed
eyeglass.

There were two daughters, Emily and Jane, the former
somewhat red in the nose and sour in the temper, having,
in the twelve or fourteen years since she was presented,
endured many disappointments. Much in the spirit of
the old lady on the wi-ecked ship, who, when the captain
said they must now trust in Providence, exclaimed, " Has
it come to that ? " she had taken up religion as a last re-
source ; and her mother, who rightly deemed a rector
with a fair living would be better than /lothing, did not
at all discourage her devotional fervour. Jane, or Jenny,
as her brother Jack called her, had not yet arrived at the
time of life when curates could be acceptable ; and her
rather pretty smile, rosy cheeks, and neat little figure
were to be seen in every drawing-room in London where
young men and young women meet, tsnd Coote and
Tinney wake the echoes of the night.

Jack was the youngest oi the family, and was most
certainly its ornament. A not uncommon occurrence, as
if Nature prefers to finish — like a French penman — with
a flourish. But notwithstanding his superiority — possi-
bly in consequence of it — he was in his family circle an
Ishraael, or rather, we should say, he performed the? part
generally ascribed to the domestic cat. Whatever went
wrong was put down to him ; everything he said and did
was twisted to his disadvantage ; and he was not in con-
sequence very sorry when he was obliged to accompany
his regiment to Canada, and to confine his quarrels with
bis relations to a paper war. Between him and his
youngest sister there was a certain friendship ; but you
cannot expect a girl • going out " in London to think
much of an absent brother, who does not even know bv

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

name the fine people whose doings would fill her letters,
did she take the trouble to write to him.

The " family mansion," as it was termed by the house-
agent when to let for the winter season, was mouldy, dirty,
ugly and thoroughly respectable. Entering into its grimy
hall on a fine day was apt to give an imaginative visitor
a thrill of the kind felt when entering that wonderful place
at Rome where the monks' skeletons grin upon you so
queerly. There was an uncompromising heaviness and
respectablity about the painted deal hat and umbrella
stand, and an inquisitorial air in the face of the hall por-
ter, as much as to say, "Are you one of us ? " which set
the hearts of the curates who called on Miss Emily
a-beating, and which caused even the young blades who
" looked up " Miss Jane the day after the ball, where
they had stayed so long in the conservatory, to put their
hands mechanically in their pockets, feel the gold therein,
and calculate mentally how " a fellow " can live upon
£500 a ye&r.

It is a bright day in June: all the blinds of No. 119,
Eaton Square, are pulled down ; luncheon is just over,
and the family are congregated in the drawing-room, in
that listless, uncomfortable state which the introduction
into the system of a large hot meal, at about the worst
hour human beings ever chose for that ceremony, always
entails. The Chillinghams were old-fashioned in some of
their ways ; and on the hottest day the leg of mutton or
joint of beef would steam under the nose of his lordship,
who would say a hurried grace, in which the word
" Amen " alone was audible, wipe his brow, and distri-
bute well-proportioned helpings to the perspiring family
circle.

" Jane, dear," said Lady Brocklesby, taking up the
Morning Post and carelessly turning over its pages, " did
you say Lord Windermere intended to call to-day ? "

" Yes, mamma," answered Miss Jane, starting : she had
been ^arrowly inspecting an incipient spot upon her

A STORY OF MODEBN LONDON.

bad
lier

fair cheek in the looking-glass. " Yes ; he said he'd
call before four, as he goes down to Iv jwmarket this
evening."

" Well, then, we can give those poor horses some rest,
as we shan't want the carriage till night. It's no use
telling his lordship that we must have two pair."

" Eh, eh ? my dear ! " said Lord Brocklesby, desisting
in his efforts to induce, by wagging his head, a bullfinch
in a cage to pipe his solitary tune. " Another pair ? dear
no ! One pair's quite enough. The whole thing's a mat-
ter of habit ; once get a horse in the habit of trotting, and
he'd just as soon trot as stand still. Get him in the
habit of standing idle in the stable, and you might as well
have a clothes-horse. One pair's quite enough."

" Dear me, papa, do not talk such nonsense ! " said his
eldest daughter, somewhat snappishly.

It was her day for district-visiting, and the victory of
the charitable spirit over the carnal instincts of the flesh
— which leaned toward an arm-chair and a novel —
always caused some little acerbity in her tone on these
occasions. ' .■ < . . ^m; ,■

Lord Brocklesby was about to prove his theory, when
he was interrupted by an impatient exclamation from his
elder son, who, seated on a straight- backed chair and
armed with the family paper-knife — a huge weapon
which lay usually on the round table, and fascinated you
with its utilitarian ferocity of aspect — was perusing, con-
tempt and defiance beaming from his eyeglass, one of those
new monthly reviews which the illuminated of the earth
shower* nowadays so plentifully upon us.

** Trash ! Ignorance ! Here's a man pretending to in-
struct others, who absolutely repeats the old fallacies
about sanctity of marriage — family life indispensible to
a nation's welfare — the propagation of the human "

" Spencer," said Emily, rising with some dignity, " you
might at least wait till / am gone before conmiencing
your impious and immoral harangues ! " And with a look

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I i

in which a longing to go to sleep struggled with contempt
for the rest of her family, she departed. si

" Don't you say a word against marriage ! " cried Jaae,
merrily.

Spencer put up his eyeglass and transfixed her.

" A word against marria,ge, Jane ? If you can be seri-
ous for ten ndnutes, I will read the beginning of my arti-
cle foT' the Edectio Magazirie, in which I prove that in
the idea of iiiarriage is the germ of all hum£|,n wickedness.
I begin in the garden of Eden, and " '

" And I don't care a fig-leaf for your argument," said
his father, chuckling.

" You are getting coarser every day," said h^ ladyship,
who was writing a letter.

" Perhaps another time will be better for you to read
me that, Spencer," said Jane, timidly.

" Always another time ! I'm not sure I care to read it
to you at all," and Spencer, in a huff, resumed his article.

"Marriage," sai/i Lord Brocklesby, who was always
talkative after luncheon, " marriage is a capital thing —
sometimes ; " this word was added after a glance in the
direction of the writing-table. " I knew a scamp once —
in fact, a fellow that had been footman with us — stole
some of the plate, and then married, and keeps a public-
house. Oh no ! by-the-bye, that was another man — no,
this one was transported for forgery ; or it was the other
— I forget — but I know marriage is a very steadying
thing. Perhaps a little change now and then "

"Oh, papa ! " cried Jane, " what a shocking idea ! "

" Shocking ! " echoed the wearer of the eyeglass. " What
a parrot-cry that is. Do you know what cleverness con-
sists in, Jane, nowadays ? It consists in shocking people.
You can only make them listen by upsetting their preju-
dices. Make them angry at first, and then "

At this interesting moment a servant entered the room
^th some letters.

"From Jack, I see," said his lordship, handling the

i: 1

A STORY OF MODERN LONDOJS.

one which he had received in a somewhat suspicious
manner.

" Phonetic as usual, I suppose ? " said Spencer. ^ ^

" Dear old Jack ! " sighed Jane.

" He really spends a great deal in postage," said her
ladyship.

" Hope he don't want any money," murmured my lord.

" They're an affectionate lot," said the footman, aa he
closed the door.

Jack's letter ran thus :

" My dear Father,

" Before I announce to you the very important step in
life which I have taken, I must ask you to remember that
a whole year has passed since you knew me as a careless
and, I fear, sometimes very foolish • boy. Of course I
know a year isn't much, but when one is on one's own
hook, and seeing a good deal of many different kinds of
life, it seems to me that one puts on a lot of experience
very qoicklj^. I feel at least five years older than when
I got into such a row tor putting my umbrella under the
police-inspector's horse's tail. It was good fun though
to see the beautiful way he lit on the top of his hit ! and
I really do believe, my dear father, that I should be in-
capable Tww of any such childish folly. You will say I
am beating about the bush ; but the fact is that my news,
now I am putting it on paper, seems much more startling
than it would to tell you face to face. I am married ! I
t^iink I can see my mother's face when she hears it, for I
1: ^ow she considers all Americans are barbarians "

" An American ! " faltered Lady Brocklesby.

" But if she only knew my darling little Alice she would
soon alter her opinion. Well, I had better tell you all
about it as quickly as I can, and don't be angry with me

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

till the end of my letter ; and be angry with me, or say I
have not acted rightly then, if you can. She is simply
the prettiest, best, most — never mind — you'll see her
soon." .

" He is very kind," said Lady Brocklesby, with a sneer.

" You know that I took my leave fishing in the back-
^ oods this year. 1 left Montbec with Charlie Fairfield,
but Old Grumpy — I mean Colonel Grampion — soon tele-
graphed for him to come back, as there was not an officer
to each company. Such bosh, wasn't it ? So I was left
alone. Well, I wandered about with my Indians, and
fished a little and read a volume of Shelley thut Charlie
had lent me, over and over again, till I got to feel quite
sentimental, and began to long to see some one to speak
to besides the dusky fellows — capital chaps though in
their way — but thtai they wouldn't understand Shelley.
I'm not quite sure I did ; but he made me feel just as I
used as a boy, at evening church, when too fev candles
were lit and they sang a pretty hymn. Some fellows are
always having adventures, and I have often longed to
have one of my own. It came now with a vengeance.

" One day — just as I had almost made up my mind to
go back to Montbec, although I knew Old Grumpy would
collar me for duty at once if I did, and I had t. fortnight's
more leave to run — I came upon a pretty little Indian
village, in which there seemed to be a commotion. The
name of the place was nearly unpronounceable and quite
unwritable ; ' ^ it was something like Cocknawelago.

" I made out, after some trouble, that the commotion
was caused by the extreme illness of a chief — they were
Blackfeet — who seemed uncommonly popular ; and they
all were anxious to know if I had any medicine with me.
I had some quinint left, and of course I went at once to
the chief's hut. To my astonishment he was not an In-
dian (I had often heard there were a few civilised beings

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

among the Blackfeet, but nevertheless finding one was
odd), and, moreover, a gentleman. There didn't seem
to be much more life in him, and my quinine, I fancy,
did more harm than good. I believe he only took it
to please me. Poor man 1 His joy at seeing one of
his own class was excessive. He said he had scarcely
seen one for ten years, as he avoided the towns. It's no
use my writing to you now the story he told me of his
life, and how he came to be in this position. He was
evidently a gentleman, and a dying one too, so that there
was every reason to believe he spoke the truth. He had
nothing to be ashamed of, but had been very unfor-
tunate.

" * I am not afraid to die now,' he said to me at last,
* for I see by your face I can trust you. I was in the
army once myself, and, as one brother-officer to another, I
ask you on your honour to protect my daughter.' "

" You can imagine my astonishment all the more when
he went on to say that she was in the hut. To make a
long story short — he died ; and at his death-bed I first
saw Alice. She was left quite alone in the world. If her
father had relatives he never mentioned them, nor had
she any clue by which she could trace them. At the age
of eight she was taken away from towns and from civil-
isation and taught to be happy in the wild life they led.
She told me she had been very happy, and I was again
astonished to find how much more she knew than all the
long bills to private tutors and Eton masters you have
paid — my poor father — had taught me. Mr. Spranger —
that wag his name, Colonel John K. Spranger, once of
Boston — had been her school master. I was going to say
he had been her mother, for she had never known one ;
but at any rate he had made her love him very dearly.
Her grief at his loss was terrible ; she looked so lovely,
so innocent, so helpless. Even you, papa, would have
thought as I did — that there could be nothing better
than always to see such eyes, always to meet such a

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

i i

sweet, sad smile. I did not know what to do ; all I did
know was that she could not stay with the Blackfeet.
Even these curious old chaps, the head warriors, saw that,
but Ibey were all very sorry to part with her. I took
her away, and we made tracks for the nearest town,
Anaba. I couldn't leave the poor child, you know, and
yet of course it seemed odd our being together ; for she
was eighteen and I am not so very old. The worst part '
of it is that T look still younger than I am. After all,
twenty-four is a very respectable age. At every hotel
there were fusses, till we agreed to call ourselves brother
an^ sister. Oh ! I learned so to love her during that

journey — much more than one can love a sister "

'■" .
" Well, I'm sure," put in Miss Jane, with a toss of her
pretty head. .^

" And you can guess the end. What could she possibly
do for herself if left alone ? No man could have deserted
her. I know, if you had been in my place some years
ago, father, you would have done as I did — I married her
at St. Albans, Maine, and we love each other, I really and
truly believe, as no two human beings ever lov^ed before.
You need not be afraid, because she was brought up among
the Indians, that she is gauche, or in any way unfit to
mix in society. Mr. Spranger had travelled a great deal,
and evidently been always among the best people wher-
ever he went. She knew a great deal more than I did
about everything, even about London and English towns
and things of that sort. Her father had always got
newspapers from the towns, though he never would enter
them, and had kept himself well up in European politics.
I found a copy of the * Quarterly Review ' in the hut and
a manuscript about ' The Indian Races in America,'
which I must get published when I come home. He
was a very clever man I am sure ; though, how he con-
trived to drees his daughter so that, although not of

.-.-'•

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

course * in the taslijon,' she was not remarkable, beats me ;
I declare her get-up vas quite as good as I have often seen
on Jane or Emily at Sinning ton "

Both Jane and Emily smiled a little contemptuously
here.

" And as to her manners, if duchesses have better man-
ners than others she might have been one. Well, I over-
stayed my leave. I was too happy to remember Old
Grumpy, and got such a wigging when I got back ; and
weren't ail the fellows astonish'^d when I introduced them
to my wife ! No one could help liking her though. Old
Grumpy put on a pair of patent leather boots — which
gave him torture before a week was out — and as to
Dalesman — our major, you know — ha declared I had acted
very wisely. He knows the world well, too, does Dales-
man (his uncle, Sir Thomas Dalesman, is the man who
won the Derby last year, you know) ; so you see I have
some sense on my side.

" I know you will all dote upon her when she comes
home. Tell Jennie that Alice means to be great friends
with her. And now, my dear father, I should very much
like to have your advice as to staying in the regiment or
not. Of course I am awfully fond of the fellows, and
Alice is a great favourite already — a regular queen of the
regiment. Dalesman has been tremendously kind, and
given up to me his field-oiRcer's quarters. But all the
same, I find the expenses very heavy for a married man,
and the Colonel — who is not a bad old chap, barring when
he has the gout — seems to think it is not what he calls
' correct ' for me to live with my wife in quarters. So I
fancy that I ought to sell, and see whether I can get any-
thing at home that would bring me in more than soldier-
ing does. Write and tell me what you advise. I never
wrote so long a letter before ; but I want you to persuade
my mother that I have not done so foolish a thing as she

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

will think it at first. With best love to her and to my
sister, and to Spencer, if he is with you,

" Ever your aifectionate Son,

" Jack Ckillingham/'

The effect of this communication upon the family circle
may be imagined. Lady Brocklesby turned green with
rage, while the head of the family swore audibly, and
Miss Jane forgot to be shocked thereat.

After all had given vent to their feelings of surprise,
horror, and indignation, the natural desire of people of
the world to make the best of a bad job supervened ; and,
after a lengthy family council, it was decided that Jack
should be advised to sell oat and come to England, when
the family influence should be used to advance his
interests.

Lady Brocklesby wrote the letter, which was studiously
cold, and made scarcely any mention of Alice, and then
his lordship copied it, adding, however, a postscript of his
own, which his wife did not see, and which was as
follows: . • .■■, A ■■".;; ■-.:.■..'--,.' %;>•/;'■;,?;■■ ;.^.;.^^-^:^^''v^-:i;'^v''-/'.''^'','

" A scheme has been floating in my head for some time,
and your foolish behaviour decides me to attempt to give
it effect. I propose that a Younger Sons' Benefit Society
be formed, to which each younger son (of our class) shall,
from his coming of age, subscribe so much per annum.
The difference between this and usual benefit societies
will consist in the fact that the charities will be given,
not at the death, but at the marriage of the members.
We will talk it over when you come. God bless you, you
silly boy ! "

Not many months after the despatch of this epistle a
young couple landed at Liverpool. He, a frank, hand-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

some lad, such as may be often met with in this country,
with laughing blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a sunny
honest smile ; and she, simply a lovely woman. Her
figure was perfect, straight, symmetrical, graceful. Masses
of dark-brown hair, of the shade which is unbuyable,
were coiled round hor small head, and the only fault you
could have found with her face was that it mocked your
endeavours to decide as to when it was most charming.
Is it not in one of George Eliot's novels that the heroine's
eyes are compared, in their dreamy wistfulness, to those
of a dog ?

Alice Chillingham's eyes seemed always to be asking
for something — not with that bold, hungering look
which is much the fashion among certain ladies that we
know, but unconsciously and shyly ; and there was a
latent power of fierceness in them, too, that seemed to
indicate that the worship they could not help asking must
be kept within due bounds.

Innocent of evil, ignorant of the world, which never-
theless she had been educated in some measure to meet,
she steps into our tale a lady by birth, for was she not a
true child of nature ?

Among the letters which met Jack Chiilingham at
Liverpool, there was one which we may as well transcribe.
It was from the friend of his school-days, with whom he
had managed to keep up that rarity among the male sex
— a pretty regular correspondence.

" Married and done for, my dear Jack ! ' Needles and
pins, needles and pins,' eh ? How a conscier.i tious nursery-
maid, probably ' keeping company ' with the footman,
could have instilled such cynical poison into our infant
minds I know not. Perhaps she looked upon needles and
pins as a useful part of a trousseau.

CHILDREN OF NATIFRE.

" Do you remember old H , at Eton, and his f(;arf ul

speech when one of us was trembling before the birch —
* I'll make you unable to sit down for a week, sir.' Why,
my dear Jack, you've gone and made yourself unable to
sit down for life ! Married at four-and -twenty ! Good
gi'acious ! By the time you are beginning to understand
how to enjoy life you will find your son treading on your
heels, making love to the same woman a.^ yourself, black-
balling you at the Club, and giving the Jews post-obits
on your life. You may feel as young as you like ; you
will have to take to an alpaca umbrella and square-toed
boots. How I shall laugh to see you at the Zoo, with
your family, putting down a bag of nuts and half-a-dozen
buns while you wipe the nose of Augustus Edward, while
Alfred Plantagenet takes the opportunity of putting his
hand through the bars of the hyaena's cage, and Gloriana
Mathilda, feeling herself neglected in favour of her
brother's nose, screams so that a crowd collects and hoots
you for ill-using her. And then, when you travel ! I
think I see you ' taking baby ' in your carriage because
the nurse feels faint, not having had a glass of porter or
other refreshment for at least half an hour ; or collecting
your luggage — five enormous black cases for your wife,
and seven corded trunks for nurse and staff, and a rickety
old biscuit-box which holds things the said staff finds it
absolutely necessary to have at hand during the shortest
journey. Or I can imagine you in the Brompton Road
bargaining for a double perambulator, and getting eight-
eenpence off it if you take it without the fringe of the
parasol.

" I suppose you'll shave your moustache and grow those
squat whiskers which go so well with paterfamiliasian
respectability. The first, I understand from good au-
thority, you must do, as babies will not stand them at
kissing time ; and, with a baby, I am also credibly in-
formed, all times are kissing times. I haven't got a
present yet, but my idea is to invest in a magnificent copy,

.iSEaaiE-isj

SmMH

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

bound in calf, of a little volume I once saw somewhere,
* Dr. Somebody on the Rearing and Management of In-
fants ; ' and I might add a treatise of my own, to be
called, * Sweet Slobberings, with a Short Dissertation on
Pap.' Eh ? Don't be angry, old chap. I can't help laugh-
ing at the idea of your really being — what I have always
regarded with mingled feelings of pity and adiniiation —
a married man ! Mind you send me a line directly you
reach town to say where you are. London is cram full,
and I am enjoying myself immensely. My sister — ^you
know Nelly ? — says she is sure she shall like your wife ;
and my queer old aunt. Lady Meldrum (called Mrs. Mala-
prop, generally, though not of course by her dutiful
nephew) declares she delights in Americans — they are so
' aboriginal.' By-th.e-bye, she (Lady M.) gives a ball on
Wednesday. Why not let it be Mrs. Chillingham's (I
nearl}^ wiote Mrs. Jack's) first experience of a London
ball? Don't let her humbug j'^ou with the idea that she'<»
got no time to get a gown —women always have gowns
when they want to go anjnvhere. That's the experience
of your old pal and sincere one, , , ^

' "Badsworth.

" P.S. — If you're allowed a little wager I can put you
on a real good thing for the Ascot Stakes. Verb, sap."

.' ■.■

--s(-^.,::.„

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER II.

Never the earth on his round shoulders bare
A maid trained up from high or low degree,

That in her doings better could compare
Mirth with respect, few words with courtesy,

A careless comeliness with comely care.
Self -guard with mildness, sport with majesty.

Sidney's Arcadia.

The balls at Meldrum House were — for whatever reason
no one could exactly tell — estimated as somewhat superior
to most large gatherings of the kind. The wine was no
better ; the company was not particularly select ; the
house was not more fitted for dancing than many others ;
but it had been decided hy that mysterious and whimsi-
cal power called Fashion, that the Meldrum House balls
were good ; and good in consequence they >« ere universally
esteemed. Lady Meldrum had the knack of securing some
interest in the shape of a foreign lion, or a new comic
" entertainer," or a band from a wild country, which
played out of time on strange instruments; and it was
well known that her laws as to invitations were as fixed
as Fate. No one whosv; name was not on that visiting-
list could hope to enter the portals of the big, dingy house

in B Square. She was, besides, a proficient in the

art of rudeness, and those who escaped her darts (after all,
the majority) admired in a timorous way the perfect in-
difierence with which she would hurl a piece of clumsy but
stinging contempt at the greatest as well as the smallest
of her acquaintance. A good-natured, ill-educated, vulgar-
looking, and rather vulgar-thinking old woman, her posi-
tion at the head of " Society " was as curious as that of
the fly in amber, or the frog in stone; and thoughtful
lookers-on found her a more puzzling fact than even the

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

apple in the dumpling was to our worthy monarch.
Natural ignorance and petulance having caused her at the
outset of her career to commit what would have been
terrible gaucheries in one less highly placed, she had the
shrewdness (which is cunning stripped of malevolence) to
see that anything original is acceptable to " Society," as
long as its originality wars only with individuals, and not
with " Society " i^^elf. A sort of female mixture of Beau
Brummel and Dan O'Connell ; full of impudence, ignor-
ance, wit, self-confidence, and good-temper, she was what
the high-pressure of the nineteenth century life alone
could produce — a creation which not even the poet of all
time, who exhausted worlds and then imagined new, could
ever have pictured to himself in his wildest dreams.

And to think that that high yellow barouche, after
which Guardsmen and Foreign. Office clerks smile and
murmur, "There goes old Malaprop," should call up such
thoughts as these ! But every created thing has its use ;
and a vulgar " leader of Society " does a good deal for the
old argument which Burns gave voice to in his song, 'For
a' that, and a' that."

All in this world raay be earned except that thing with-
c>a a name, which perhaps the word " retinement" best
•expresses. Let refinement be unnecessary for social suc-
cess, and there will be plenty of galling, of proud "kibes;"
the field-marshal's baton will be in many a private's
knapsack.

It is a pity that advocates of equality do not know more
of " Society." Its present rules of advancement the^
could no more take exception at than could they at those
^f the Stock Exchange. The age of social prejudice is
dead.

Lady Meldrum's ball on this occasion was " to have the
honour of meeting H.R.H. So-and-So," and even her
nephew, Lord Badsworth, found it none too easy to pro-
cure an invitation for his friend and his wife.
" It's all very well, Frank," said my lady, " but a man

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

with a wife is a nuisance, particularly a newly-married
man, who knu\7s nobody, with a newly-married wife "

" He could scarcely have anything else," put in Lord
Badsvvorth.

" Who knows nobody either. Now if she was pretty "

" So she is," said the young lord.

" How do you know ? "

" Because Jack Chillingham always had perfect taste,
and wouldn't have married an ugly woman."

" Pooh ! " said Lady Meldrum. " Your uncle had per-
fect taste, they say, once ; and you see he married me.
And as to men with taste marrying pretty women, I never
shall forget— not if I live to be as old as Lady Megglefield
— what I felt when I saw Mrs. Arthur Bray, the artist's
wife, who is like a London statue after so many years'
exposure to the soot, sitting in the very best seat at my
concert the other night — the seat I had kept for Mrs.
Belfort. How I bundled her out, and how angry poor
Arthur was about it ! " And she burst out laughing.

" I should think so," put in Lord Badsworth.

" Oh, it didn't matter. They neither of them could
afford to quarrel with me. Bread and butter, my dear
Frank."

" Well, aunt — so you won't ask Jack and his wife to
your ball ? "

" Do you think they — I mean she — is presentable ? "

" After she's been here, she w,ust be."

" Yes," said Lady Meldrum, seriously, " of course it
would give her a great start. Poor thing ! Well, she
may come ; but look here, Frank, I shall trust to you to
see that she does not commit any absurdities — vaise with
her husband, or say ' Sir ' to anyone, or talk about being
* crowded ' after supper like the girl in Punch, because,
you see, I've all the best people in London coming — you
should have seen Lady Sandymount's face when I re-
fused her an invitation point-blank — and I don't want
anything to go wrong."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

brings
wigwam

" My dear aunt," said Lord Badsworth, " from a long
and careful study of human nature, I am convinced that
anyone entering your house must at once becomt^ infected
with the principles of good taste and propriety ; and as
to any woman in these enlightened days dancing with
her oAvn husband "

" That'll do, Frank," interrupted the old lady, rising
abruptly from her writing-table, where she had been look-
ing through her visiting-list. " ISow you can go. I ex-
pect Flittery here directly, and he hates the sight of
you."

" As I do of him/' said he, taking up his hat.

" Oh, he's the dearest little man ! He's my Red Indian :
all his scalps — and he scalps everyone — to my
He's such a character ! "
If he keeps for himself all those he takes from others
he ought to have a funny one." And with this Lord
Badsworth left his worthy aunt to receive her expected
visitor, after having obtained the card which opened
to Jack Chillingham and j^lice the portals of Meldrum
House.

When in one of those neat lodging-houses with which
the small streets running out of Piccadilly abound, he
wfl.«j, shortly afterwards, introduced by Jack to his wife,
be felt that he had been indeed pleading in a worthy
cause. Plainly, but prettily dressed, shy enough to charm,
but not enough to repel or to cause shyness to others, her
beauty enhanced by those looks of confidence and love
she could not help casting now and again towards her
husband, Alice was indeed one for whom, in olden days,
armour-clad cavaliers would have delighted to joust each
other to pieces. In her innocence of society and the ways
thereof there was no silliness — none of that ugly awk-
wardness which is so remarkable in the British school-
room, and which it takes all the arts and wiles of a
D'Egville to eradicate in time for the first Drawing-Room.
The daughter of an exile who had elected to abandon

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

civilisation, having seen scarcely anyone but savages
hitherto, and having had fr companions but her dogs,
her birds, and the flowers, a h are so companionable to
a solitary and therefore roii tntic child, Nature had evi-
dently predetermined she should be " a lady."

And a lady she was, from the coil of brown hair so
cunningly arranged to show oflf the perfect shape of her
head, to the tiny points of her bewitching bronze toes.
Badsworth had expected prettiness, with probably a nasal
' 'vang, and a rusticity which would amuse him, and was
irtled by the composed, merry naivete with which his
account of his struggle for the card was received.

" I am so glad you brought it," she said, smiling ; " for
now I know one man in London, and shall have one
partner, at any rate — that is, if you'll let me dance ; "
and she turned to Jack, who was contemplating with
delight the effect she had evidently produced upon his
friend.

" Of course, I should think so, dear. And as to your
knowing no one in town, we're about in tho same boat.
Except old Eton friends, or fellows who may have been
at the same tutor's as I was, I declare I don't know a
soul."

" Oh, we'll soon remedy that," said Badsworth ; " and
my aunt's ball will be a capital place to begin. I shall
constitute myself Lord Chamberlain to their Royal High-
nesses Prince and Princess Jack of Chillingham to-morrow
night, and make everyone give me a huge card to read
their names from. What are your royal highnesses' rules
as to introductions to your court ? "

" Oh ! " said Alice, " they are very simple. All the men
must be handsome and dance well, and all the women
must be good-natui'ed and dress well."

" By Jove !" cried Badsworth. '^ You'll have a very small
court then — at least in London. I might manage half-a-
dozen men nearly up to the mark, but good-natured, well-
dressed women ! Fancy any well-dressed woman being

iii t

ii^^^i^ium

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

good-natured when she saw another woman equally well-
dressed ! "

" That reminds me," put in Jack, " that there'll be
precious little time for your dress to be finished, dear. If
that infernal Madame — whatever her name is — doesn't
send it in time, I declare I'll — never pay her bill."

" What fun it will be ! " said Alice. " Why, I've never
danced with you. Jack — ^you .never gave me a ball at
Montbec, as dear Captain Fairfield promised — but now
won't we have a turn ! "

Badsworth coughed nervously. " Well, you see, Mrs.
Chillingham, it isn't exactly the custom in London for
wives "

" Don't married women dance here ? " And Alice's face
fell.

" Oh yes — dear me, yes — they dance, but they 'don't
dance with their own husbands — only with other people's
husbands."

"Never mind," said Jack, coming to the rescue, as Alice
coloured at the idea of having said something stupid.
" We'll defy etiquette — we did it before, eh ? — and dance,
despite all the dowagers in Europe." And then Jack —
Alice putting in a word now and then — gave a full and
circumstantial account of their momentous journey, and
the three young people laughed till they cried at Jack's
description of the wedding and its attendant difficulties.
"By-the-bye," said Badsworth, as he stood at the open
door on his way out, "the Eccentrics meet to-night. Would
you let your husband come there after the ball, Mrs.
Chillingliam ? "

" He mustn't sit up very late," said Alice, with perhaps
the least shade of acidity in her tone. The best of wives
cannot avoid slight jealousy of her husband's oM friends.

" What on earth are the Eccentrics ? " asked Jack.

" Oh, it's a club ffot up by Johnny Beere, Alf Taylor,
and some other of that set. We meet once a week to talk
or read our own effusions, if they're funny ; and tiiough

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

\\\

we're all uncommon good in reality, we try to think we
are esprits forts, and believe in nothing — except, of course,
Women. There's some clever talk sometimes. Johnny
Beere's great fun, and several lawyer chaps tell capital
stories ; and the poet of the future is too good, when kept
within bounds. You'd better come."

" I'll think about it," said Jack. And, of course, when
Badsworth was gone, Alice reproached herself for having,
even in thought, wished to prevent Jack enjoying him-
self ; and after an amicable contest, in which kisses were
the principal weapons, he resigned himself with the air of
a martyr to doing what he wished.

There is a well-worn story of a pig, and the ingenious
manner in which his Hibernian driver got him to Cork.
It is strange that husbands so seldom see in it only a par-
able addressed to them.

" What a beast of a thing a hired brougham is ! " said
Jack, as they rattled over the stones with a series of jerks
suggestive of the coachman going to sleep every few min-
utes, and waking himself by administering correction to
his unfortunate horse. " I must go and settle about hav-
ing one from Peters' to-morrow."

" Oh, Jack, do you think we can afford it ? " said Alice,
with a gasp, as her back was nearly broken by the effects
of an unusually sudden awakening on the part of the
coachman.

" Oh dear yes ; everyone says it's much cheaper than
cabs in the long run. Thank God ! here we are. Lost
your gloves ? By Jove ! haven't you any more ? It
would never do to go in without gloves. Do try your
pockets, Alice ! " And Jack panted with heat and excite-
ment, and felt the first delicate twinge of matrimonial —
what shall we say ? — infelicity. Luckily, the gloves were
discovered under the seat, and in a few moments our
young couple were ascending the broad and easy staircase
of Meldrum House, accompanied by Badsworth, who had
met them in the hall.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

" Lord Badsworth — Mr. and Mrs. Chillingham," shouted
the nan at the bottom of the stairs.

" Lord Badsword — Mr. and Mrs. Sinningham ! " shouted
the man on the landing.

" Lord Badwords — Mr. and Mrs. Sinagain ! " roared the
man close to Lady Meldrum's elbow.

" Why, we sound like three wicked people out of the
' Pilgrim's Progress,' " whispered Badsworth in Alice's ear,
as she approached the lady of the house ; who, covered
with diamono s, and rosy-red from the labour of shaking
hands, was scrutinising her through a gold-rimmed eye-
glass.

" Quite pretty, I declare, and nothing of the Yankee
about her. You know the story, Mr. Flittery ? Met her
in the train, and married her before they'd gone ten miles.
Quite a common thing in America, I'm told ; and the
guards take holy orders sc as to be useful. How d'ye do.
Lady Piralico ? Oh, you've brought both your girls, I see;
I only asked one. Dear me ! look at the duchess ! She's
fatter than ever. I hope she won't dance — the house is
old."

And so the old lady rattled on, her little speech about
Alice having been made in a loud tone while the poor
child was close to her, with as much composure as if she
were part of the furniture. Mr. Flittery stroked his re-
fined black moustache with his delicate white hand, and
departed in search of some one to introduce him to this
new beauty, while Badsworth, feeling some pleasure at
the remarks she elicited, conducted Alice to one of the
inner rooms, and obtained a vis-d-vis in the approaching
quadrille. Jack feeling rather out of his element, saun-
tered listlessly about and longed to see a familiar face.
He reflected, too, with some trepidation, that his mother
and sister were pretty sure to attend this ball, and that,
as he had not yet been to Eaton Square, or presented his
wife. Lady Brocklesby might in all probability be inclined
to vent her anger on Alice. It had been by Badsworth's

if I

ill

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

advice that he had not at once hurried like a dutiful
son to his parent immediately after reaching town.

" I wouldn't," his lordship had said. " That letter was
intended to be as cold as possible. They don't at present
mean to be very nice to your wife. Let them see she
could do without them. Let them see that you and she
have other friends : you may be sure if my aunt or any
other biggish people take her up — and they can't help it
when they've seen her — ^your mother will be glad to follow
suit. You know, old chap, I wouldn't say anything to
hurt you, but Lady Brocklesby is— just a trifle-worldly ;
and your wife asked out and admired, and not seeming
to want her help, will be quite a different thing to
your wife dashing straight to them for patronage and
assistance."

Jack had thought the advice good, but he felt never-
theless some perturbation at the near approach of the
meeting with his outraged parent.

To his intense delight he at length espied the face of
an old school friend, or rather one who had been at school
with him, and now only ranked as a friend in consequence
of his isolated position.

"Hollo, Keyser!" said he.

" My dear Chillingham, how are you ? " said Mr. Key-
ser, rather astonished at the warmth of the other's greet-
ing. " Where've you been ? I haven't seen you for some
weeks."

" I haven't been in London for four years," said Jack,
almost indignantly.

** God bless my soul ! Haven't you ? By Jove ! Quite
a new boy. Well, you've had the best of it. We're all
very stupid here ; even our wickedness doesn't make us
amusing," and the speaker gave a weary glance around
him, as one who should say, *' All is vanity."

"I don't suppose people here are worse than anywhere
else," said Jack " or than they have always been."

" Ah ! you've been away, you see," said Keyser, crossing

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

his arms and gazing sternly at the throng of hot dancers.
"You don't know what a pitch we've come to. There'll
be an awful explosion soon," and he nodded, and seemed
to be capable of pr(jphesying terrific woe,

" Dear me ! " said Jack. " How ? "

" I daresay there are fifty or sixty young married
women here to-night," said Mr. Keyser.

"Well?"

" Well ; out of them I don't believe there is one with a
rag of character."

Jack must have looked very horrified, for a gentle
smile stole over the stern determination of the other's
face.

"Not a rag. Morality is scattered to the winds.
They're all the same. It only takes one season — ^not al-
ways so much — to make them so. You think any of
those couples dancing there are innocently amusing them-
selves ? Pooh ! They're all laying plans for deceiving
their husbands. Luckily, we who have not been fools
enough to marry " rr?

Jack hemmed uncomfortably, and Mr. Keyser, who
seldom found so good a listener, went on in a melancholy
tone ; " We, I say, can look on with calmness, if with sad-
ness. Look at that young fellow there, with the square-
shoulders and fair beard. That's young Windermere,
who last year came into the largest property in England.
Half a county, coal, iron, all kinds of nice things. What's
his purpose, his use in life ? To have what the French
call * good fortunes.' He has caused two divorces already,
and there's a third ought to come off; only the husband
is nice and blind, you know "

" 1 don't quite understand," said Jack, whose eyes were
fixed upon this ogre's partner.

" Windermere is so rich he can manage very often to

buy the husband as well as the wife. Look at him now

— he's got a fresh victim, you see. Evidently a newly-

maiTied woman. He's saying the same things to her he

CHILDREN OF NATUEE.

has said to all tho others. Look how she listens to him !
No doubt her unfortunate husband is safe in bed at home,
and she'll humbug him about the dull ball she's had to-
morrow morning, and then some fine day he'll find
out "

" Stop — confound you ! " cried Jack, hotly ; " that's my
wife ! " .'

In the meantime Alice was making a, very decided suc-
cess. She was not followed by "a murmur of admiration,"
because such a thing never occurs, save in a novel; nor did
people stand on chairs to gaze at her, as they are reported
to have done when the Gunning sisters first shone upon
St. James's Court ; but there was a perfectly well-defined
conviction in everyone's mind at Meldrum House that
night that she was the prettiest woman in the room.

And she rather lost her head. The men, who one after
the other implied to her, without a soupgon of impertin-
ence, that she was charming, were so different to the
gallant officers of the 110th, whose attentions were al-
ways stupid or overdone. When Lord Windermere, with
the frank air which had deceived so many, assured her
that it was a real relief to them in town to be surprised ;
and, although they thought a good deal of their own
beauties, they had been surprised to-night — when little
Mr. Flittery confided to her that the beautiful Duchess of
Starville had retired angrily to bed — when H.R.H. danced
his third time with her — she could not help being flat-
tered, and her only woe was that Jack did not come and,
as it were, take part in her triumph.

She looked at Jack and herself as being so entirely one,
that it was hard to be obliged to enjoy anything without
him; and he, standing gloomily in the doorway, was curs-
ing the fate which had made him a second son and
lieutenant in a marching regiment, instead of a young
duke with twenty palaces and a conquering air amongst
women. Jack had always considered himself rather a
dandy in the garrison-towns he had defended ; but here,

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

amonf^ all these men who seemed so entirely at their ease,
his coat obstinately wrinkled at the collar, his boots turned
up at the toe and looked plebeian, and as to his gloves,
and his hands in them — where to keep them so as to
combine ease with elegance was more than he could
devise.

Mr. Keyser's monologue on the depravity of London
morals had also, absurd as it was, contributed to depress
him, and he was not sorry when the smiling face of his
mother appeared in view, and his misery, if he was to
have misery, promised to become active instead of
passive.

Whoever had witnessed the meeting of mother and son
would have gone to bed that night and blessed Heaven
for allowing so much maternal love still to remain in our
cold world ; yet there was no affection in Lady Brockles-
by's heart for her handsome second son. Her crafty, in-
triguing nature unconsciously rebelled against his frank
honesty, and she felt his fearless glance almost an insult ;
why she could not tell. There is no doubt that dishonesty
has more dislike for honesty than honesty for its reverse,
and with reason.

She had not been long in the ball-room before she
espied Alice, who was then dancing with the Royalty,
and, forgetting her Republican origin, was experiencing
and showing that pleasure which Royalty has always the
power of giving to those loyalists by nature, women.

" Dear me," said her ladyship, " who is that lovely
woman dancing with his Royal Highness ? "

" That," said a stander-by, who could not allow him-
self to appear ignorant, "that is the great American
beauty, the heiress we have all heard of — millions of dol-
lars and ever so many marble palaces ! "

"Ah, Jack," sighed she, turning to her son, whom she
insisted on keeping near her to introduce him to " people
he ought to know " — " there, if you'd done something of
that sort — millions of dollars ! "

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" I did something of that sort," said Jack, smiling,
" though without the millions of dollars, and not one
marble palace, because that lady happens to be Alice."

Lady Brocklesby turned — not white, that she could not
do when in her war-paint, but a shade paler in the few
spots where it was possible, and bit her lips angrily.
That the daughter-in-law she had intended to keep down
and patronise in a lofty manner, the poor Yankee girl
who had caught her fool of a son, and upset all her plans
for the aggrandisement of the family — for of Spencer she
had ceased to have any hope — should be so lovely, so
evidently admired, dancing with a Prince of the Blood
Royal !

That she should even be here in this exclusive house
at all ! It was ver^ mortifying, and the poor woman for
a moment was in danger of showing her mortification ;
but the weakness passed off, and she was able to congra-
tulate Jack in cordial terms on the beauty of his bride.
Jane was honestly in ecstasies, and thought with rapture
how far preferable such a chaperon would be to her
mother.

Strange, perhaps, it may seem, but a girl reaps many
advantages from being often with a pretty married
woman. Although not the rose, the proximity brings her
some of its odour ; and instead of comparing the two to
the disadvantage of the girl, men are rather inclined to
attribute to her some of the pleasure they have received
in the company of the two Of course, we allude to re-
latives ; a girl who lives too much with married women
after a few years is looked upon and treated as such by
men, who would propose to her about as soon as they
would run away with a solicitor's wife.

Alice Chillingham was agreeably surprised at the
warmth of her mother-in-law's greeting, and she and
Jane were bosom friends in ten minutes. Not that Alice
■was at all gushing, or over expansive to her own sex ; but
was not Jane Jack's sister ?

•A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

Already poor Jane began to feel the advantage of
having so pretty a sister-in-law ; for, while they remained
together, never had she been surrounded by so many
of what she would have called " the best men " in the
room. Even the Duke of Cheshire, who cordially disliked
his cousin, was civil to her in order to join the little
knot of which Alice was the centre, and continue one of
those half-serious, half-laughing flirtations with which
elderly gentlemen are obliged to solace themselves for
the want of more real joys ; a flirtation of chaffing com-
pliment and repartee, which Alice kept up with a sub-
lime, and to some of the hearers, almost impious, careless-
ness of the fact that she was addressing one of the great- •
est men in England, who had never been known before
to stay so late at a ball, or sav so many words to a woman
in public.

"You must be very fond of your uncle," Laid Lady
Brocklesby, as at last the Duke moved away.

" My uncle ? " said Alice.

" Yes; that's the Duke of Cheshire — my cousin."

" Oh dear ! I'd no idea — or I wouldn't "

" I never saw him so amused before," interrupted her
ladyship, smiling at Alice's confusion ; " and, after all,
there's no law against a man flirting with his niece."

"Now, Mrs. Chillingham, are you ready for supper? *'
said Badsworth.

" Did I promise you ? "

" Certainly."

" Oh no ; you promised to come to supper with me ! "
and Lord Windermere looked his most piteously innocent
look.

" I thought I was to have the honour," murmured a little
French attacM, who was accustomed to be thrown over.

" You're all wrong," said the merry voice of Johnny
Beere, the " funny-man " of society ; " Mrs. Chillingham's
just made a vow that, if I doii't] take her to supper, she'll
never sup again,"

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" Well, ' said Alice, looking round with a bright smile,
" as I can't go to supper with all of j^ou, and as, if I choose
one, the others might hurt him, I shall go to supper with
this gentleman ; " and, putting her hand on Jack's arm
she gave a little saucy nod and moved away.

She did it so prettily that Jack was delighted, and no
flirting couple in the siipper-room enjoyed themselves so
much as these two. Think of it, ye gods of etiquette —
the husband with his own wife !

" Who the deuce is that fellow ?" asked Lord Winder-
mere.

" That's the President of the United States," said Beere .
*' He has a vested right to sup with all American women.'

" Her husband," put in Badsworth.

" Oh, that's Chillingham, is it ?" said Lord Windermere,
thoughtfully. " Hasn't got a rap, eh ? What an infernal
bore it must be to have a pretty wife and no money ! "
and his lordship lounged across the room to find some fair
companion with whom to discuss champagne and plovers'

eggs-

" If Windermere tries his hand there," said Badsworth

to himself, " I'll " but he did not finish the sentence,

probably because he had decided on no course of action.

Everything, even a ball at Meldrum House, must have
an end, and Alice was not sorry when^ surrounded by of-
ficious youths, vying with each other as to who should
place her cloak over her white shoulders, she awaited,
(not without some anxiety on Jack's part, as to the pro-
bable condition of the coachman) the coming up of the
hired brougham.

" Remember you're coming to the Eccentrics," said
Badsworth to Jack, as Lord Windermere handed Alice
into the carriage.

" Oh yes. Jack," cried she, smiling rather sleepily out of
the window, determined that her wish to " talk over "' the
ball with her husband should |iot stand in the way of his
enjoyments,

■■-s'

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

" You must be eccentric if you sit up beyond this hour,"

said Jack, hesitatingly. ,., ', i Thi«

- So we are. We do nothing hke other people, ihis
is our regular hour for meeting; f^^e a week^ Come
along ; Johnny Beere's going. Good-night Mrs. Chillmg-
ham We'll return your husband in time for morning

^ToTd'Windermere's affabiUty to Jack as they walked
to Mount Street was beyond description ; and Jack who
had been inclined to resent his free-and-easy manner and
air of being already intimate with Ahce, quite changed
his mind before they reached the gloomy mansion where
the Eccentrics disported themselves, and vowed to himselt
that this fortunate youth was a "real good chap.

V-

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER III.

Their speech
In loftiness of sound was rich,
A Babylonish dialect,
Which learned pedants much affect :
It was a party-coloured dress
Of patched and pye-balled languages.

Hudibras.

i i!'

Following Badsworth and Windermere up a gloomy
staircase, Jack found himself in a large barn-like room,
evidently once a studio, in which some fifteen men vere
lounging and partaking of refreshments of the liquid order
The air was thick with smoke, and this, combined with
an insufficiency of gas, produced a sinister effect, which
was enhanced and made almost awful by the low tones in
which the several groups were speaking.

Jack silently sat down upon a vacant chair, and folt as
if he were intruding on a Shaker prayer-meeting.

*' This is your first visit to the Eccentrics ? " asked a
man, with his face arranged after a Vandyke picture, who
sat next him. " Yes ? " " You will be astonished, sir, at
what you hear. The conversation here is wonderful ; its
brilliancy is unknown elsewhere. You will be able to
listen to tournaments here that the best saloTis of Paris
couldn't give you. We all say what we think, sir."

" Oh !" said Jack, feeling that he was called upon for
an observation, and wishing they would say their good
things a little louder.

" Yes; we are enlightened and we show it. Mrs, Grundy
isn't a member of the Eccentrics," and the Vandyke gentle-
man laughed, but still under his breath. " We don't talk
here, sir," he went on, " we converse ; we shirk no sub-
ject ; we are shocked by no opinion. Only the other day
we elected Walt Whitman a member."

smp

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

Jack expressed his astonishment, although he had no
clear idea as to who this gentleman might be.

" Yes, there is no conventionality about us. The only
thing is," and here the speaker lowered his voice, " it may
perhaps strike you that there is a little — a little con-
straint among the members."

" They all seem afraid to speak up," said Jack.

" So they are," answered the other, with suppressed
triumph, " so they are. We don't tolerate stupidity here,
sir, and they're all afraid of saying something stupid."

" Rather spoils the fun, doesn't it ? " asked Jack, who
began to think that bed would be preferable to this
Elysium of modest if enlightened ones.

" Fun !" echoed he of the pointed beard — " fun ! We
don't come here for fun. We come to impart and to re-
ceive ideas. You see that group near the fireplace.
They're probably talking about the new theory of atoms,
or discussing Dean Wobbleboy's last discovery as to the
identity of Ritualism with the worship of frogs. They're
all clever men there and go deep, deep into matters. And
there, by the window, with long hair and spectacles —
you see that young man ? He's an iconoclast — doesn't
believe in anything."

" Does he believe in himself ? " asked Jack.

" No ; says he has no reason to believe himself to
be himself. Then there's the man he's talking to — a
poet — a poet of the future. Hasn't published anything
yet ; but when he does — whew ! " and the speaker gave
vent to a low whistle, expressive of the rapture of the
world when these poems did appear. *' Hush ! he's gettin,^
up ! He's going to read his last bit. Listen ! "

A thrill went through the whole room, am^ all leant lo'^-
ward in eager attention as a pale and knock-kj»ejd youtii,
with red hair and freckles as unintelligible as the stars of
heaven, arose, and in a quivering treble thus proceeded:

" Some of the membere have been kind enough to ask
pae to read a little thing — a very little thing — I scribbled

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

the other day. It is a humble endeavour to show — as all
my writings are humble endeavours to show — that the
highest form of aestheticism, the noblest kind * poetic
utterances, is perfectly consonant with practical, and what
is called everyday phraseology and business-like accuracy.
Just as a chimney-pot, to a true lover of art in its uncon-
ventional sense, is as heart-stirring as a sunset, so the bare
enumeration of facts, conveyed with an aesthetic purpose,
is as lovely ss all the rapturous vagueness which is gener-
ally called poetry. My little thing is called :

The Return of the Lover.

The weather got finer ; the fleecy clouds, et cetera,

Seemed to open out and curtsy to the sun.

And all the world, tumultuouslv heaving, as it were

A woman sailing, unaccustomed, on the sea.

Brought up its richest treasures of sight and yound.

Its maTiifold riches of verdure, colour and electricity,

To welcome back the gentleman who loved the lady.

Loved her exceedingly ;

And came, having made his fortune in the East London

Candle Company, Limited,

Came now with Two Thousand Five Hundred Pounds,

Eight Shillings and Tenpence per annum,

Secured, well secured, in the respecatable Consols,

And with his Joints, Sinews, Muscles, Veins, Arteries,

Cartilages, Bones, Fluids, Nerves,

Arms, Legs, Thighbones, Chest, Back, Breast,

Neck, Throat, Nose, Mouth, and Eyes,

Tongue, Liver, Heart, Lungs, and Stomach,

All in good order

(As might be seen by reference to his doctor, at 150, Brock
Street, Grosvenor Square),

To claim his blushing bride. .

So cometh love to him who hath the courage
Of speculation and an eye for a bargain !
The ear of the market is difficult to gain,
But it is gainable ; and fools are plenty.

"Sublime! " cried the Vandyke gentleman, in a rapture.
"What a moral; what practical good sense; what accu-
racy in the statement of the lover's means, and of his state
of health, and of his love — ' loved her exceedingly,' you
see. Fifty pages of raving couldn't do more to make you

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

feel his love ; and what beauty in the opening lines — the
description of the clearing of the weather, and the very
elements conspiring to welcome the man who has con-
quered the world by means of a candle company. Oh,
beautiful — beautiful ! "

Jack looked at his neighbour but could detect no signs
of irony. He seemed in tremendous earnest, and his re-
marks having been audible throughout the room, the poet
of the future ran across and warmly shook him by the
hand.

" Mr. Chillingham," said Lord Windermere, " let me in-
troduce you to Mr. Curlingfield — a very important member
of our Club."

Jack bowed, and Mr. Curlingfield did the same, and ran
a hand covered with rings through a dishevelled mass of
stiff, upstanding hair.

" What do you think of the Eccentrics ? " he asked, in
a low tone which showed that this was not to be con-
sidered a brilliant remark.

" It seems very — nice," answered Jack, at a loss for an
adjective.

" Ah, you should be here some nights ! You should
have been here the other day when Professor Dabble gave
U8 his theory of human tails. He distinctly proved that
in Ireland, in the twelfth century, the natives considered
it a mark of good birth to have your tail curling to the
right ; and the Irish patriot, O'Flaherty, who was a guest
that night, was so angry about it, that they very nearly
came to blows."

" I suppose he didn't like to think his ancestors wore
tails," said Jack, smiling, and nearly laughing outright as
he met Badsworth's eye.

" Oh no ; but he declared he could prove that the race
of kings from which he is descended always curled on the
left side, and he means to move for papers on the subject
when the Irish Parliament meets again. Then there waq
the Wedneodav before l^t -:---"

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

11 I! I /

" That was when you read that capital paper of yours,
wasn't it ? " asked Windermere ; and Jack thought he
discerned a semi-closing of one of his lordship's eyes.

" Yes, yes ! " and Mr. Curlingfield looked modest, and
again raked his hair, " it was rather an interesting sub-
ject. I tried to prove, and I think I may venture to say
I did prove, that Juliet was not entirely brought up by
the nurse ; but that, as the position of the Capulets would
.-surely warrant, she had a governess, or perhaps a nursery
/governess, which Shakespeare doesn't mention, for reasons
which I am now giving in an article I am preparing for
'lite Nineteenth Century. It will rathei- upset the com-
mentators, I expect, Mr. Chillingham ? " .

" It will, indeed," said Jack, gravely.

" It is absurd to think a nurse could have taught
Juliet to speak such good blank verse, is it not. Lord Win-
dermere ?"

" Perfectly absurd," replied his lordship.

At this moment a burst of laughter, which was alarm-
ing after the decorum which had hitherto reigned, made
them all turn, and hail the entrance of Mr. Beere as a dis-
tinct relief.

" As glum as usual," he said, opening a bottle of soda-
water. " Has the spirit moved no one to make a joke
yet ? Oh, I see what it is ! the poet of the future has been
at you. No wonder you look depressed, like a set of high-
art chairs stuck against a wall covered with sunflowers.
Sing a song somebody."

" No, no," said Badsworth ; " here's a fellow come on
purpose to hear a sermon."

" You're a nice chap to ask one fresh — I might say
reeking — from the haunts of fashionable vice to enter
upon such a solemn thing as a sermon. Never mind. One
can always strive to do good."

And, assuming a comical grave air, he commenced in
an unnatural voice, with quavers and desperate shakings
^t the most telling sentences, as follows :

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON. 45

" Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone ;
But when she got there the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.

" These beautiful words, dear friends, carry with them a
solemn lesson. I propose this evening to analyze their
meaning, and to attempt to apply it, lofty as it may be, to
our everyday life.

** Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone.

" Mother Hubbard, you see, was old. There being no
mention of others, we may presume she was alone ; a
widow — a friendless, old, solitary widow. Yet did she
despair ? Did she sit down and weep, or read a novel, or
wring her hands ? No ! sh ", luent to the cupboard. And
here observe that she tuent oO the cupboard. She did not
hop, or skip, or run, or jump, or use any other peripatetic
artifice ; she solely and merely went to the cupboard.

" We have seen that she was old and lonely, and we"
now further see that she was poor. For mark, the words are>
' the cupboard.' Not ' one of the cupboards,' or the 'right-
hand cupboard,' or the ' left-hand cupboard.' or the one
above, or the one below, or the one under the floor, but
just the cupboard. The one humble little cupboard the
poor widow possessed. And why did she go to the cup-
board ? Was it to bring forth golden goblets, or glitter-
ing precious stones, or costly apparel, or feasts, or any
other attributes of wealth ? It was to get her poor dog a
hone I Not only was the widow poor, but her dog, the
sole prop of her age, was poor too. We can imagine the
scene. The poor dog crouching in the comer, looking
wistfully at the solitary cupboard, and the widow going
to that cupboard in hope, in expectation maybe — to
open it, although we are not distinctly told that it was not
half open or ajar, to open it for that poor dog. . . ,_

*' But when she got there, the cupboard was bare, , ; • -
And BO the poor dog had none."

inl

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" ' When she got there ! ' You see, dear brethren, what
perseverance is. You see i ' ' ea^uty of persistence in do-
ing right. Site got there. tre were no turnings and
twistings, no slippings ^jlidings, no leaning to the
right or faltering to tl i.t. With glorious simplicity
we are told, she got thevt,.

" And how was her noble effort rewarded ?

" * The cupboard was bare ! ' It was bare ! There were
to be found neither apples nor oranges, nor cheesecakes
nor penny buns, nor gingerbread, nor crackers, nor nuts,
nor lucifer-matches. The cupboard was bare. There was
but one, only one solitary cupboard in the whole of that
cottage, and that one, the sole hope of the widow, the glo-
rious loadstar of the poor dog, was bare ! Had there been
a leg of mutton, a loin of lamb, a fillet of veal, even an
ice from Gunter's, the case would have been different, the
incident would have been otherwise. But it was bare,
my brethren, bare as a bald head, bare as an infant bom
without a caul.

" Many of you will probably say, with all the pride of
worldly sophistry, * The widow, no doubt, went out and
bought a dog-biscuit/ Ah, no ! Far removed from these
earthly ideas, these mundane desires, poor Mother Hub-
bard, the widow whom many thoughtless worldings would
despise, in that she only owned one cupboard, perceived —
or I might even say saw — at once the relentless logic of
the situation ; and yielded to it with all the heroism of
that nature which had enabled her without deviation to
reach the barren cupboard. She did not attempt, like the
stiff-necked scoffers of this generation, to war against the
inevitable; she did not try, like the so-called men of
science, to explain what she did not understand. She did
nothing. 'The poor dog had none!' And then at this
point our information ceases. But do we not know suffi-
cient ? Are we not cognisant of enough ?, ., -r* -, '

" Who would dare to pierce the veil that shrouds the
ulterior fate of old Mother Hubbard — her poor dog — the

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

n, what
in do-
gs and
to the
plicity

cupboard — or the bone that was not there? Must we
imagine her still standing at the open cupboard door, de-
pict to ourselves the dog still drooping his disappointed
tail upon the floor, the sought-for bone still remaining
somewhere else ? Ah , no, my dear brethren, we are not
so permitted to attempt to read the future. Suffice it for
us to glean from this beautiful story its many lessons ;
suffice it for us to apply them ; to study them as far as
in us lies, and bearing in mind the natural frailty of our
nature, to avoid being widows ; to shun the patronymic
of Hubbard, to have, if our means aflford it, more than one
cupboard in the house, and to keep stores in them all.
And, oh! dear friends, keeping in recollection what we
have learned this day, let us avoid keeping dogs that are
fond of bones. But, brethren, if we do, if fate has or-
dained that we should do anything of these things, let us
then go, as Mother Hubbard did, straight, without curvet-
ing or prancing, to our cupboard, empty though it be ; let
us, like her, accept the inevitable with calm steadfastness ;
and should we, like her, ever be left with a hungry dog
and an empty cupboard, may future chroniclers be able to
write also of us in the beautiful words of the text —

" And so the poor dog had none."

" Well," said Jack to Badsworth, as they walked home
in the glorious morning, and with some sense of shame
met healthy workmen, whose new day of toil had begun
before theirs of pleasure had ended, " well, that Eccen-
trics' Club of yours is the queerest place I ever was in."

" Yes, it's sometimes amusing. Johnny Beere's sermon
wasn't bad, he did the whining tone splendidly — and
some of the crotchets aired are very funny. Winder-
mere and I belong simply to laugh at it all; and I
can assure you that when the Iconoclast begins to
break images the fun is fast and furious. The worst of
the place is that they are so proud of their conversational
powers that no one dares speak above a whisper. They

i ■

i '•

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

only have the courage to read their effusions. By-the-bye,
your father is a member, and always comes on our ladies'
nights, only you mustn't tell her ladyship. Good-night,
old chap ! Don't forget you and your wife dine with me
at Maidenhead to-morrow — or, rather, to-day."

"Did you enjoy yourself ?" said Alice, when Jack came
in.

" Not a bit. I was longing to be here. You enjoyed
your ball though?"

" Yes; everyone was so kind. Oh, Jack," as she sat up
in her eagerness, " I am so glad I'm pretty. You know
you are prejudiced ; but I do think I am, after to-night,
and "

" And why should my vain little wife be glad she has
cause for vanity ? " said he, putting her hair back from
her blushing face.

" Because you're more likely to go on caring for me
-Jack."

,<,,,'. %1:':

1 . r\ ;, "<■ <:■■:'

^■.'

■;f^r/,'';': '.'H

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

CHAPTER IV.

He troubled was— alas, that it mought be — ; i-

With tedious brawlings of his parents dear.

Sidney's ^rmdia.

Such is the luck that some men gets, while they begin to mel.

I Gammer Ourton's Needle.

Besides that natural antagonism which a deceitful char-
acter feels for a frank one, Lady Brocklesby had a specific
reason for disliking her second son. Looking upon her
chances of life as far better than her husband's — and
indeed she was by several years the junior — she had some
time before Jack came of age decided that on his attain-
ing that period when the law allows a man to consider
himself a man, she would have the entail of a property in
Berkshire cut off, and an augmentatien of her jointure,
in the shape of a resettlement, efiected. To do this re-
quired the consent of her husband and both her sons.
Lord Brocklesby, saying that it was a matter that affect-
ed the latter far more than himself, was inclined to do as
they might wish ; merely observing that the charges on
the property were already far too great, and that the
future lord would, even as they now stood, be a poor
man.

Spencer, although not at all relishing the diminishment
of his income, had joined so heartily in the agitation for
the abolition of primogeniture and the law of entail, that
he could scarcely refuse ; more especially when his mother
pointed out how Jack's prospects could be bettered by
the arrangement. To every one's astonishment, Jack
declined to be a party to the transaction. Her ladyship
was furious.

"You calculate on your brother's dying unmarried, and
4

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

you are careful not to lose a penny for yourself," she said
with a sneer.

" My dear mother, Spencer is only a year older than I
am, and I look forward to his marrying before long. Of
course I wish your jointure was far larger than it is ; but
it is as big as the property can stand, and I don't think
it would be fair on Spencer, or on whoever had the title,
to make the charges bigger. Why, my father says that
even now "

" Your father is very much hurt by your extraordinary
conduct."

" No, my dear mother ; I think you are mistaken.
He quite agrees with me about it ; only he was willing
to leave it to Spencer and me to decide."

" Well, I must say Spencer has shown you an example
of unselfishness ; but it has always been the same. I've
taken your part and been worried to death by all your
follies and extravagances, and now you turn on me and
refuse to do what really should be possible without your
help. It's the most atrocious piece of ingratitude and
cupidity I ever heai'd of;" and her ladyship's thin lips
were pressed together till her mouth looked like a skill-
fully sewn-up wound.

All this was rather hard on Jack, but, secretly encour-
aged by his father, who had not had such an opportunity
of annoying her ladyship, without danger to himself, for
a long time, he stood manfully to hia guns, and when he
sailed with his regiment to Canada the mother's blessing
he carried with him was of a dubious nature. But
although Lady Brock lesby was quite ready to do him any
harm that she conveniently could, she was equally ready
to be proud of, and make much of him, if he achieved
distinction, no matter of what kind. She had a respect
for prosperity so intense as almost to overcome her malig-
nancy ; but woe betide those who incurred her dislike
and could not rise beyond her power. Vce victis ! If
Jack were to rob a church, and live prosperously and

II ■'■'i'

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

unsuspected on the spoil, his mother would have over-
whelmed him with attention and flattery, which would
have been very nearly real; but of Jack, living on his
pay in a marching regiment, and doing his duty to his
neighbour in orthodox fashion, she had a most supreme
contempt.

His extraordinary marriage had au tlrst, to a certain
extent, pleased her. In the first place, it was pretty sure
to be a punishment to him ; in the second, it was out of
the common, and something to talk about. There must
have been some gipsy taint in the old FitzCrewe blood,
for nearly every generation had produced a rebel to
social law ; and even Lady Brocklesby, to whom worldly*
applause and success was as the breath of her nostrils,
liked, in the little bit of her heart which had any truth
left, a dash of Bohemianism and defiance of custom. She
put her wealth and position first, of course, however dull
or monotonous they might be ; but she respected a pen-
niless gambler or a card-sharper who succeeded, far more
than the respectable taxpayer who kept within bounds
on five or six hundred a year.

Alice Chillingham she had at once seen was worth mak-
ing a friend of ; she might be a weapon against her son ;
and in any case the initiation of such a pretty, fresh
woman into the mysteries of London life would be amus-
ing ; while watching the development of her faculties —
and Lady Brocklesby now looked upon her much as we
look upon a puppy before its eyes are open — would be a
highly interesting psychological study. Beside this, the
constant chaperonage of Jane was apt to become a little
monotonous ; and the visitors to Eaton Square were not
so numerous as to make the addition of a few attracted
by Alice's naive wit and bright eyes anything but an
advantage.

Jack and Alice, ho>vever, preferred the liberty of their

lodgings in C Street to the two upper rooms offered

them in Eaton Square ; but a compromise was effected

i m

lii

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

by virtue of which Alice spent most of her time in the
Eaton Square drawing-room, and assisted daily at the
heavy luncheon.

One morning — they had then been in town about two
months, and as yet nothing had been done to find Jack a
profession or that mysterious " appointment " of which
those who do not want it -alk as if it grew on every
hedge — one morning he received a note written in the
neatest of little Anglo-Greek hands, and bearing the
monogram of the Duke of Cheshire :

^ My Dear Jack,

" Tarporley House, Maida Hill.

" Come to lunch with me to-day at two sharp. Drive
straight up Edgeware Road, and about two miles up.
Anyone will direct you to this house.

" Your aflfectionate Uncle,

" C."

" Oh, the dear old Duke ! " said Alice. " He's going to

give you something. Let me see. What ought it to be ?
ord Chancellor or Lord Chamberlain, or Lord of the
Admiralty, or Deputy-lieutenant, or "

" Stop — stop ! you're coming down in the scale too
quick. No ! I expect he isn't going to give me anything
except lunch. And he's so much in love with you, dear,
that he ought to stand the betrayed husband as much as
that."

" I say. Jack," said Alice, after a pause, during which
she had flattened her little nose against the window-pane,
and dropped — as she did about fifty times a day — her
work, handkerchief, and last-received letters upon the
floor, " I say, Jack ! "

'* Well ?^* said he, looking ap, rather red in the face,
after collecting her property from under the table.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

" Do you know that I am not sure that I quite care
about him ? "

" Care about whom, mobo vague of womankind ? "

" You mustn't be angry."

" I shall probably do someone an injury. No matter,
out with it."

" Well, I declare I think Lord Badsworth is quite de-
testable sometimes. I thought he liked me at first ; but
now he's always looking grave ; and the other night — at
that stupid ball, when we knew so few people — he told
me that I was making myself conspicuous. Fancy his
daring to say I was conspicuous ! "

" But what did he mean ? " asked Jack, in a more
serious tone.

" Oh, it was something about my dancing so much with
Lord Windermere ; but as I scarcely knew anyone else,
and as he himself wouldn't dance, and you wouldn't, and
as I couldn't sit still, what was I to do ? " And she
turned up her big eyes in half -saucy inquiry.

" I'll tell you what it is, Mrs. Chillingham," said Jack,
brushing his hat with his handkerchief, " you're a flirt,
and I ought to insist on separate maintenance. It's my
belief that while I am at my Club, studying the statistics
of the cotton trade, or dipping into ' Locke on the Human
Understanding,' as is my custom, like the other members
of the Club, of an afternoon, you are holding orgies over
your tea. By-the-bye, to be serious for a moment, have
you or have you not accepted Windermere's play and
supper on Tuesday ? "

'•' No, I'd forgotten ; but I'll write now. What shall I
say?"

" Oh, say * Yes.' He's an uncommon good fellow, Win-
dermere, and it's very thoughtful of him, because, of
course, he knows that until I get this appointment," and
Jack unconsciously assUii**3d an important and official air,
" we can't afford many pla;y If I see Badsworth, I shall

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

bring him home to join us in eating our chop to-night,
unless you dine at Eaton Square."

" No, I lunch there. But why should we have Lord
B. ? "

" Pooh, dear ! " said he, putting on his hat, and touch-
ing her forehead with his lips ; " you mustn't quarrel with
dear old Baddy. I shall insist on your kissing and mak-
ing up."

Then, as happy and careless as the swallows that v -e
darting amid the shadows of the old park trees, he started
to walk across by the Marble Arch to Tarporley House.
The Duke received him very graciou,sly, although his ad-
vent caused the interruption of one of the most exciting
scenes in the most exciting French novel of the season.
His grace, however, although glancing from time to time
at the paper book lying neglected on the table, bore his
privation very well.

The luncheon was excellent. Only the Duke's secretary
joined them, and beyond correcting every statement that
his employer made, and staring at Jack in stern wonder
whenever he ventured to open his mouth, contributed
little to the conversation.

" The weather is going to change," said the Duke ; "the
glass is falling."

" I beg your grace's pardon, the glass is rising," said the
secretaiy.

" The glass at the M Club was falling last night,"

said Jack.

The secretary looked as if he could crush the last
speaker if he liked, but happening to espy a ti*utHe on his
plate, he resumed eating, and Jack escaped.

" That speech of L 's last night in the Lower House

must have been very fine," remarked the Duke, as the
anal glass of sherry was being poured out.

" Dear me, no," said the secretary. " I saw J this

morning, and he assured me it was poor — quite poor, and
that the cheers in the newspapers are imaginary."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

light,
Lord

" Yes," said the Duke, with a smile, the reporters are
very capricious in that respect. I remember "

" I don't think," put in the secretary, " that, as a rule,
they are incorrect. I have a large acquaintance with that
branch of journalism, and 1 think I can safely say they
are very seldom incorrect."

" What do you think of my secretary? " asked the Duke,
when he and Jack were alone in the smoking-room, and
the latter was thinking that he had never known what
good tobacco was till he had lit the enormous Claro now
in his mouth.

" I think he seems rather "

" Inclined to contradict ? Eh ? Yes. I don't think
I've made a remark for the two years he's been with me
that he hasn't contradicted. He quite comes up to the
character I got of him, and is invaluable to me."

Jack looked astonished and the Duke smiled.

" You see, my dear boy, when a man has the luck —
good or bad, I scarcely know which — to be what I am,
he seldom or never obtains anything from others but grin-
ning acquiescence. If I were to try, I should find a
Polonius at every turn who would vow the clouds were
weasels or whales or what I pleased ; and of course this
is pleasant, but, like too much of anything, it is unwhole-
some. So, meeting that fellow at dinner one night, and
leaving the house in a fury with him for what I thought
his impertinence, I next morning thought he might be a
capital ai-tidote or blue pill to take after a surfeit of flat-
tery. He thinks me an ass, and I believe has the greatest
contempt for me, but he has a good head for business, and
it's wonderful how much less peevish and dictatorial I
have become since he's been with me. But " — and here
the Duke glanced at his French novel — " I mustn't keep
you all day talking about my affairs. The matter in hand
concerns you. I suppose you're hard up ? "

"Yes, lam, but "

** Of course, of course — we won't go into it. I've no

— -TTPj^-rw"! i.'.yvjpw,i|fljil|iif,p^ \ JJiiMPllii

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

t , '

head for figures, ani never could form an idea as to what
people can live upon, I spend every farthing I have —
that is all I know of my own affairs — so you mustn't
expect pecuniary help from me." *

" I assure you, Duke, I never " began Jack,

colouring.

" Of course you didn't ; besides, I don't want to make
an enemy of you — such a pretty wife as you have too ! —
and money transactions between gentlemen always bring
ill blood. No, no ! But I ought to be able to help you
in other ways. I suppose you haven't got any politics ? "

" No — not exactly — at least, that is, I haven't any clear
ones."

" Of course not — why should you ? I doubt if I have
any myself. I dislike the Government because they have
never given me anything, but I probably should dislike
them more if they had, as political work would kill me.
The Opposition appear to me to be the worse of the two,
although I have no reason particularly to dislike them.
Perhaps, on the whole, you'd better be a Radical."

" A Radical ! "

" Yes, it would bring you more prominently forward,
and it wouldn't prevent your turning into anything you
liked afterwards. All clever young men begin as Radicals.
Why not begin by writing a pamphlet calling for Yearly
Parliaments, Abolition of the House of Lords and of the
Church, and Primogeniture, and Fixity of Tenure for
English Tenants, and all that sort of thing ? "

" But really, Duke," gasped Jack, " I couldn't "

" Oh, you needn't be afraid of getting any of them. A
young politician must begin with some folly, and, as Horace
Walpole said, ' one nonsense is as good as another.' I
shouldn't be surprised if there is a vacancy at Shod-
borongh before long ; and it would be amusing to throw
the Government over and bring in a red-hot Radical.
Think over what I have said, my dear boy. I fancy I
can answer for your getting into Parliament somehow.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

what
ave —
ustn't

Jack,

for

Of course I'll pay all expenses ; and when there you'll
have to shift for yourself. If you play your cards well,
and turn round to the winning side at the right moment,
you ought to get something before long. My secretary
shall let you know directly old Tollebens has determined
to retire from Shodboiough. The Government are think-
ing of giving him a baronetcy to go, as he doesn't always
vote straight, and believe I shall bring in one of their
nominees." And the Duke, after shaking hands with
Jack with a gaiety produced by the thought of his pro-
jected trick on the Government, turned impetuously to
his novel, and was soon revelling in its suggestive in-
decencies. Jack did not quite see how a seat in the
House, plvyS any amount of Radicalism, could add much
butter to his bread ; but the Duke's wine was so good,
and his manner so genial, that his political immorality
escaped any severe comment from the young man.

When he reached Eaton Square he was astonished to
hear high words in the drawing-room, and, on entering,
to find Alice, with her eyes flaming, standing in the
middle of the room, angrily addressing his brother Spencer,
whose eyeglass was less confident than usual, while Jane
shivered in a corner, and Lady Brocklesby, with a smile,
went on with her eternal letter- writing.

" You shall not say such dreadful things to me ! " cried
Alice, with a stJimp of her foot.

" My dear Alice," replied Spencer, fixing his glass more
firmly, and shifting nervously from one little leg to the
other, " I was only telling you the very elementary truths
which it is right all should know. There is but one
object in marriage — look in your Prayer Book and see —
and if that object is deleterious, as it is in many cases,
then there should be no marriage. I really cannot under-
stand how a sort of false shyness should be allowed
to blind people any longer to the practical view of
the contract two people make to live together for the
sole " ' •

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

... , -I

1 mi ,i

" Stop, Spencer ! '' said Jack, looking rather serious.
" Don't let us have any more of this."

" Oh, he's been too dreadful," said Alice, casting a furi-
ous look at the eyeglass.

" My dear Jack," put in Spencer, " I was only telling
your wdfe what Malthus, and Bradlaugh, and all writers
of any "

" Confound Malthus and all your infernal nonsense ! "
cried Jack, angrily, putting his arm round Alice's waist.
" What can be the good of your talking to her in this
way ? and with your sister in the room, too ! "

" Oh, I stopped my ears ! " cried Jane, from the corner;
*' I always do when Spencer begins his horrid speeches !"

" But do you really believe " began Spencer.

" I only believe," answered Jack, " that if you ever dare
to talk any of your nasty philosophy before my wife
again, she shall not come to this house. I wonder you
can allow it, mother."

" My dear," said Lady Brocklesby, from the writing-
table, " / have no authority here. I don't see how you
can expect me to lay myself open to "

At this moment Lord Brocklesby entered, beaming with
pleasure.

" I've got it. Jack — I've got it ! " he cried, waving a
letter in his hand.

" Got what ? " said her ladyship, crossly.

" Why, Jack's future is safe ! He's appointed, at my
earnest request — by Jove, Jack, it is a chance — Secretary
to the Association for the Regeneration of Society ! "

" What Association ? " cried Spencer, starting up.

/' It's all arranged," continued his lordship, in intense
excitement ; " you'll have— oh, I forget what the salaiy is
at first — nothing much, but tx) increase — to increase as
the Association succeeds; and I think I may say" — and he
wentso far as to look at his wife for applause — " that I
have managed, the thing pretty well."

" Just ring the bell, please," said Lady Brocklesby, in

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

l,n indifferent tone. ** The noise you all make gives me
Ihe headache. Tell them to post these letters when they
lome. Remember, Jane, the carnage will be round at
ive. Good-bye, Alice dear ; we expect you to lunch to-
[iiorrow," and her ladyship sailed out.

" Do you mean to say," asked Spencer, pale and solemn,
I" that your society has come to anything ? "

" Dear me, yes," answered Lord Brocklesby, smiling.
I" We have a splendid mission before us."

" And you expect to attain the perfection of the human
Irace ? "

" In time — in time, my boy," and his lordship rubbed
I his hands.

" Bah ! " suddenly exclaimed the hope of the family,
startling himself by his energy, and dropping his glass.
" You're a set of dreamers. Now, there is reality in my
plan : the social changes I have sketched out would have

but no matter. Jack, I wish you joy of your post ! "

and the Honourable Spencer left the room in great agita-
tion.

" Jack," said Alice, as they walked home, " what does
it all mean ?"

' It means," answered he, in his emotion, stopping so
suddenly as to cause imminent risk of collision with a
country clergyman who was close behind, "that your un-
fortunate husband comes of a family of lunatics."

Alice gave a pretended start of horror, and they walked
on ; and the clergyman went back next day to his congre-
gation and pointed a terrific moral in his next sermon, by
the adornment of a tale of his in his travels having been
present when a husband avowed to his wife the hereditary
taint of madness that ran in his blood.

" Happy, thoughtless, gaudy creatures," preached , he,
" going gayly down the Piccadill}'^ of existence ! how can
you tell that the word ' madness ' may not sound in your
ear at any moment, and the gilded drawing-room be ex-

' I \

CHILDREN OF NATUPE.

changed for the howling darkness of an eternal lunatic
asylum ? "

Neither Farmer Chawbacon, nor Farmer Giles, nor even
the Squire's agent could tell ; so the sermon was very im-
pressive.

When they reached C Street, Jack found in his

pocket a paper which he remembered his father had thrust
into his hand as they parted ; and after dinner, when he
and Alice were sitting in the little black-hole which the
landlady called " the library " (although it boasted but a
drunken-looking deal book-shelf hung crooked upon the
wall, with three old " Books of Beauty," a volume of
" Household Words," and a cheap copy of '* Proverbial
Philosophy " therein), he lit his pipe and opened this
document. It was in Lord Brocklesby's handwriting, and
ran thus :

" Plan for the EncouragiJment of Free Trade in

Vice.

" To be attained by the Enrolment of a Society Limited (to good Society).

** Similia similibus curm 'wr.

" The object of this Society would be to apply a homoeo-
pathic method to the great evils which now exist in society,
and which all enemies of Communism must deplore as
giving a handle to those who stigmatise the upper classes
as corrupt. Vice of the sort we mean is a delicate plant
which thrives only as long as it is in hot water. Take
away the reprobation which it now, to a certain extent,
carries with it, you will eradicate its many evils, and by
* supporting end them.' It has truly been said by many
of the opponents of any scheme to restrict the sale of in-
toxicating drinks that the trade would find its own level
if left to itself, and that the abolition of licenses would
cause drunkenness to cease.

'*-jm9mm

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

lunatic

lor even
'ery im-

d in his
1 thrust
v^hen he
lich the
d but a
pon the
ume of
•verbial
ed this
ng, and

^DE IN

Society).

omoeo-
ociety,
ore as
classes
plant
Take
xtent,
id by
many
of in-
level
rould

I wrong,

" In the same spirit we propose, by granting any amount
of license, to make vice eventually odious in the eyes even
of the most hardened sinners.

" M. Dumas, in Paris, has attempted to inculcate virtue
by holding up the mirror to its opposite. The reason of
his want of success is that he allows a little of the halo of
social disapproval still to linger round immorality.

" What is the pleasure of doing wrong ? Its being
If nothing is wrong the pleasure will cease. The
human is naturally good ; therefore all incentives to
wickedness being removed, human beings will be good.
Q. E. D. Herrick says —

" He that may sin, sins least ; leave to transgress
Enfeebles much the seeds of wickedness ;

I and Herrick lived in the reign of Charles the Second.

" The primary objects, therefore, of our Society would
be to abolish the boundary mark now set up between vice
and virtue ; to make it a sine qua non for reception into
the houses of the associates and their friends, that no
scruples on any moral point should be retained ; and to
insist on * the world's ' recanting, for the present, its no-
tions concerning marriage and all the relations of the
sexes to each other."

" By Jove ! " said Jack, whose pipe had gone out.

" Well," yawned Alice, searching vainly for her high-art
needle- work, upon which she was sitting, " what a time it
is since you spoke ! Say . ^mething."

" I'll tell you what " — and he rose and lit their bedroom-
candles thoughtfully, while his wife opened her big eyes at
his solemn tone — " I'll tell you what Look here,

Alice, promise me that you will never be a philosopher!"

" Never, Jack ! " said Alice, rising to take her candle,
and joyfully finding her work ; " I'd die first !"

-rr

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER V.

Womankind more joy discovers
Making fools than keeping lovers.

ROCHESTEB.

Why, if thou never was't at Court, thou never saw'st good manners ; if
thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be wicked ; and
wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a pai-lous state, shep-
herd.

As You Like It.

Alice had just begun to discover that it is very difficult
in London for a liusband to be perfectly his wife's com-
panion and confidant, when she met Mrs. Belfort. Mrs.
Belfort was so undeniably pretty and popular, that she
could afford to be without jealc>usy of other women's looks,
and, whether on the principle of the fox that lost his
brush or not it is hard to say, she certainly was always
ready to help any young married woman of her acquaint-
ance, to join the ranks of " fastness," of which she was the
queen. The gilded youths, who were almost as much at
home in her prettily-furnished drawing-room as in their
club, sometimes heard of Mr. Belfort ; but he was never
seen, and was generally looked upon by them as a Mrs.
Harris, to be brought out as an excuse when some dis-
tasteful project was mooted or a lover's jealousy had to be
assuaged. But Mr. Belfort was, however, a reality of flesh
and blood ; an unfortunate who, not content with spending
his honestty and laboriously-acquired wealth on pictures
and china, and thus benefiting Art, must needs purchase
a pretty girl, young enough to be his daughter, from a
country rectory , and cast her, with diamonds and stepping
horses, upon the world of London, and with no surer guide
for her giddy vanity tlmn his poor, plodding, double-entry
self; thereby benefiting neither Nature nor Art. He

-^.„

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

EH.

1 manners ; if

wicked ; and

18 state, shep-

u Like It.

ry difficult
i^ife's com-
brt. Mrs.
', that she
len's looks,
it lost his
i^as always
• acquaint-
he was the
Ls much at
as in their
was never
as a Mrs.
some dis-
■ had to be
ity of flesh
I spending
n pictures
I purchase
er, from a
i stepping

struggled at first to make a partnership of the business,
but he was too old to learn the ways of society, and at
last, like a philosopher, he resigned himself to being only
the husband of a flirt, and nothing more. Minna Belfort
was no Aspasia, no Phryne, no Lady Audley, no heroine
whose heart is granite till the last chapter, when it be-
comes soft as butter for some totally inadequate reason.
She had been intended to be a very good woman, and
would have carried out the intention had not one necessary
ingredient in her composition been unfortunately over-
looked. This was what people call " a moral sense."
After some terrible escapade she would look innocently
surpnsed at any blame she incurred, much as a puppy
does after knocking down an old Sevres vase with his
tail. She was pretty — how could she help that ? She
was admired — could she prevent it ? She liked admira-
tion — why not ? it was her nature. Whatever her deeds
might be, she always avowed her intentions to be of the
very best, and might have quoted Butler, had she ever
read him, to the effect that " to do is less than to be wil-
ling." Nature had ordained that she should dance on the
brink of a precipice. If she sometimes fell over — well, it
was Nature's fault entirely ; and as to lookers-on being
angry, what business of theirS was it as long as she didn't
hurt herself ?

" You can't really think me wicked, poor little me ? "
she said to old Lady Gruffly on one occasion, opening her
blue eyes very wide; and even the stern old woman,
whose ideas of what women should be were higher than
King Arthur's, could not herself say that she did think
the pink-and- white child before her was wicked. And
the world, which is supposed to be so stem and unfor-
giving to faults like hers, laughed in a gentle way when a
new story came out, and never lifted the knout which
had flayed so many lesser offenders. After all, Minna did
look very pretty playing in the sunshine amid the flowers
on the chasm's brink ; and when she fell in, it was for her

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

husband to decide whether she should be picked out and
set playing again.

One of the secrets of this forbearance was that she had
never said an ill-natured thing, nor had ever felt a pang
of that jealousy which is v>he curse of women of her kind.

If a lover after looking into her eyes for some time
began to prefer Wack to blue ones, she cared nothing.
His taste might be correct. If he came back, so much
the better. If not, so mush the better for someone else.
It seemed so natural to her to change her own fancies that
such changing in others was no surprise. If any one of
the opposite sex remained impervious to her charms,
there was no harm done, tlis was the loss, not hers. She
might pity him, and

Think they want of health or sense
Who want an inclii-ation,

but she would no more be ani^y with him than she would

T'ake offence
At him who pleads lis passion.

Ignorant enough to make the hair of a School Board to
stand on end — for her father was one of those men with
views about education who always teach their own chil-
dren nothing — she had to a high degree that power of
mimicry or assimilation with her surroundings which is
possessed so often by the half -educated. It is sometimes
mistaken for tact ; and it is tiie younger brother of this
art which is the grease of the wheels of life : but it differs
from it insomuch that a connoisseur can always detect a
something spurious in the ring of the metal. The hall-
mark is well imitated, the taste appears to be perfect, but
it is only imitation. Luckily the world is not composed
of experts. And the eleventh commandment never gave
little Minna Belfort any concern whatever. She would
have pitied society had she Iteen cast out from it, and
would gaily have entered any other that was open to her.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

Had she chanced to be the first woman, she would have
sweetly ogled the bearer of the flaming sword while pass-
ing him in the gateway, and would have charitably con-
cluded that he had an affair on hand elsewhere if he did
not relax his frown.

Superficial observers have supposed that the greatest
crime a woman can commit in the eye of her sex is to
look well, but there is a greater — the arrogation of supe-
riority in sentimentalism. Minna Belfort was a universal
favourite with women, who petted her in very much the
same spirit as did her male admirers. No one ever dreamt
that she attempted to lead captive more than the senses
of her temporary victims ; their hearts, «Sz;c., were left for
legitimate and more sentimental flirtations, in which she
took no part. A pretty bubble on the sea of existence
she wf "5 one of those "personnes si ligeres et si frivoles
qu^elles sont aussi eloignSes d'avoir de vSritahles dSfavis
que des qualitSs solides^smd to waste more time upon the
analysis of her character would be to break a butterfly on
a wheel. The attraction she had for Alice Chillingham
would be difficult to explain. The difference in their
natures had a good deal to do with it, and there was
something in the pretty helplessness of the other that
appealed to Alice's stronger character. Besides, Mrs.
Belfort avowed an intense admiration for Jack, and a de-
termination to subdue him and detach Darby from his
Joan if she could, which amused the young wife, strong
in the consciousness of safety.

"He is such a difficult dear," said Mrs. Belfort, one day,
as Alice sat beside her in the neat victoria Mr. Belfort had
lately presented her with, " and always looks at you when
he might be looking at me. Why, he can see you at any

time, while me ," and her lips formed themselves into

a pretty pout. Alice looked to see whether there was any
reality in this complaint.

" You could scarcely expect," she said, smiling " to bring

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

i; I

fire and sword upon our happy hearth all at once. A
little time "

" Oh, my dear, that's no good at all. He'll be taken up
by somebody else when he gets more known, and then it
will be too late. I do wish I could happen to meet him
just after you've had a quarrel ! "

" We never quarrel."

" Don't you ? Well, I should have thought you would.
I thought poor people always did." And she bowed with
a bright smile to a passing cavalier.

" Though, after all," she went on, after a pause, during
which a little — a very little — twinge of envy of Minna's
. fine house, fine clothes and fine carriage troubled Alice's
mind, *' T don't see why you should. My father and mother
used to fight terribly over the legs of mutton and grocer's
book. But I suppose they were crosser than most people,
and they were old, too ; and I daresay we shall all get cross
when we get old and ugly." And the poor little woman
sighed as she glanced into the future and its possibilities.
" What will one (^o when one is ugly ? It will be too
But there is Lord Windermere. Let us stop the car-
riage here for a few minutes. John ! John ! stop ! "
They were taking a morning drive in Hyde Park, and the
obedient John pulled up his prancing gray ponies under
shadow of the trees near Ap'sley House.

"Lord Windermere," said Mrs. Belfort, solemnly, " Mrs.
Chillingham vsays you are behaving disgracefully to her."

" And in what way have I offended ? " said Le putting
one delicate boot on the step, aui leaning gracefully over
the carriage.

" I never said anything of the kind," said Alice, rather
haughtily.

" Oh !" exclaimed Mrs. Belfort, with a mock astonish-
ment.

" Are you going to the Glormes' to-night ? " said Lord
Windermere, in a voice which would have suited the im-
parting of a great secret.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

nee.

aken up
[ then it
leet him

I would,
red with

;, during
Minna's
[ Alice's
I mother
grocer's
b people,
Dfet cross
! woman
ibilities.
1 be too
the car-
stop ! "
and the
3S under

yr, " Mrs.
to her."
putting

illy over

3, rather

^tonish-

lid Lord
the iiu-

" I don't think I shall," replied Alice, vexed, but at
what she did not know.

" Won't Chillingham let you ? "

" Jack — I mean Mr. Chillingham — wouldn't dream of
preventing me if I wished it ? "

" And you don't wish it ? "

A beholder of the two would have supposed from his
eager manner that the fate of Windermere's whole life lay
in the reply he should receive. Mrs. Belfort was engaged
in a gay conversation with a young gentleman at the
other side of the carriage.

" I don't see what it matters to anyone," said Alice,
wishing they could drive on.

" Why, I've scarcely seen you to speak to since Friday,
and then "

" Well ? "

" Why, then your friend Badsworth' forbade you to
dance with me."

" What (lo you mean, Lord Windermere ? You know
perfectly well that Lord Badsworth has nothirig to do
with my partners."

" But he wants you not to go to the Glormes' to night."

Alice hesitated, and wished she could get hold of the
whip and reins for a moment; but Mrs. Belfort, with
averted head, was obstinately continuing her conversation.

" How do you know ?" she asked.

" No matter. I generally manage to find out what I
want to know. Badsworth is just the sort of fellow who
should regulate where a — a pretty woman can go; and
the Glormes' house "

" Lord Badsworth does nothing of the kind ! " ex-
claimed she, her eyes flashing. " I don't understand what
makes you think so. But Jack — 1 mean Mr. Chilling-
ham — doesn't much like — j~"

"Oh, he only is obeying Badsworth, his oracle."

Alice's hand tightened round the handle of her parasol.

" I daiesay I shall go," she said.

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

"You won't dare," answered he with a meaning smile,
putting his good-looking face very near to hers, and caus-
ing Badsworth, who happened at that moment to catch
sight of the group, to use a strong internal expression.

'* Dare 1" and Alice laughed, but not the pleasant laugh
that was usual to her ; '* I siiall certainly go." And as
she said this, she returned with a studiously careless nod
the half-sad, half-reproachful glance which accompanied
Badsworth's bow.

The prejudice against the Glormes' house was one very
inexplicable to all properly-constituted minds. Of course,
everyone knew that for many years their county had
obstinately refused to receive them, and that the doors of
all but the most careless were in London closed to them ;
but then had not the times changed ? There was Social
Progress, as well as Disestablishment of Churches, or Des-
poiling of Landlords, to the front ; and the old landmarks
are worthless now.

Sir John Glorme's character was no doubt made up of
many hues — generally d rk ones — but, as we know, " all
colours are blended well by gold ; " and when he came
into his fortune the shame which had overshadowed him
while hanging on the very outskirts of society vanished
into thin air.

It is true that at his house assignations were made ;
but then they were great ones who made them ; and if
the Duke of This happened always to dine on the same
night as Mrs. That (Mr. Th?.t being curiously absent,
perhaps dining with the Duchess of This), who had a
right to complain ?

It is true that at his house no woman with an atom of
womanly feeling would allow her daughter to be seen ;
but did not this give all the more room for the young
matrons to tread measures upon the slippery jjarquet ?

It is true that his house was beyond doubt or cavil
disreputable ; but as it is Go\^Ay true that it was fashion-
able, it mattered not a jot.

if v\

\l^

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

Windermere was quite right in saying that Bads worth
had advised Jack not to take his wife there. Jack had
foolishly let Alice know of this advice. Is not the result
obvious ? Alice insisted on going. Nevertheless, had she
not, in the midst of her irritation at finding that Winder-
mere knew the truth about it, met Badsworth's frown, the
chances are, she would have spent a quiet evening at their
lodgings with Jack, and contented herself with regrets
over the list in The Morning Post next day. And so the
first quarrel came about.

" You're quite mistaken if you think I am going to
arrange my conduct according to Lord Badsworth's
whims."

"And you're quite mistaken," said Jack, hotly, " if you
think it's only Badsworth, and not myself too, who
objects to this."

" I detest Lord Badsworth ! " she cried, rather inconse-
quently.

" All wives do detest their husband's friends, I believe,"
said Jack, trying hard to be sarcastic.

" I don't know, and I don't care, at)out other people's
wives ; but I do know one thing "

" Nonsense ! " and he kept up his sarcastic tone. "And
what may that be ? "

" That I shall go to this ball."

" Alice dear," and Jack became serious, and forgot the
ironical role, " it would hurt me if "

" You mean it would hurt your particular friend.
There's nothing wrong about the ball. Everyone's going!
Minna Belfort told me " •

" Minna Belfort is "

" Well, what is she ? I suppose you know she is my
friend?"

" Never mind what she is. Thank God you are not
like her ! "

" Your mother says I ought to go."

" My dear Alice, you married me, not my mother, and

' '

ii'l

I must insist-

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

But what he was about to insist

upon will never be known, for at this moment the door
was thrown open by the maid-of-all-work, and Lady
Brocklesby, smiling, and congratulating herself that she
had certainly heard high words, entered the room.

She did not look her best, for she and Alice were about
to proceed in broad daylight, arrayed in evening costume,
to pay their respects to their sovereign ; and perhaps, after
the age of forty, a low gown in the daytime is trying.
Her manner, however, was charming, and never did a
mother-in-law express more admiration than she over her
pretty daughter.

Jack in his Court suit felt ridiculous and stiff; while
Alice, angry with herself for quarrelling with him, and
therefore much more angry with him, determined to gain
herself an ally in the conflict.

" Only fancy," she said, when the details of her cos-
tume had been sufficiently inspected, " Jack says I mayn't
go to the Glormes' ball."

" Not go to the Glormes' ! Why "t would be a great
pity to miss it. The amount of fury which I've heard of
in consequence of the limited number of invitations is
tremendous."

" I don't think they're respectable," said Jack, bluntly.

" My dear Jack," and her ladyship's lips grew very thin,
" I scarcely see who constituted you the judge of others.
People of far higher position and as good character as
you, I hope, go there. Of course you can prevent your
wife going, if you please, but it certainly seems to me
rather a selfish proceeding, and very childish."

" It's neither selfish nor childish," said Jack, conscious
that dignity in a Court dress is impossible. " I simi)ly
don't choose Alice to go among a set of married women
who are "

"I think, Alice dear," interrupted Lady Brocklesby,
with gentle and acidulated firmness, " we had better go
now. It's a good thing to be early and not miss Her

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

insist
door
Lady
at she

about
itume,
;, after

lying,
did a
^er her

while
n, and
ogain

Majesty. If you're coming, Jack, I really must ask you
not to say anything coarse ; it upsets my nerves, and I
am sure Lord Brocklesby gives me quite enough of that
sort of thing."

And Jack, thoroughly snubbed, as much by his wife's
sulky silence as his mother's words, made himself as small
as he could, and entered the family coach.

Perhaps there is nothing more trying to a man's tem-
per than to stand about for a couple of hours in a strange
costume, with a sword stuck through his tails, among a
crowd of women who wonder what he does there. At

any rate, by the time the ceremony was over, ai^d C

Street reached, he was thoroughly out of humour, and the
sun set upon a very respectable quarrel between our young
couple.

3r cos-
iiayn't

(»i

, great
ard of
ions is

untly.
r thin,
►thers.
ter as
your
io me

3C10US

imply
omen

■.:■'■ ; .; ■ • ' '

iesby,
er go
i Her

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER VI.

' Alas for love ! The honey that he brings

Leaves bitterness : the arrows that he speeds
Return upon him \vith avenging stings.

He thinks to wound, and 'tis himself who bleeds.

Frederick Tennyson.

" My dear Alice," said Lady Brocklesby, as, with Jane on
the front seat, they drove to the Glorme ball, " you need
not put yourself out at all about Jack. His wishing you
to stay away from this ball was only a whim, and now he
is quite pleased to go to his club. Besides, my dear," and
her ladyship's thin, battered, berouged face looked almost
fiendish in its attempts to be arch, "you can't expect
a young husband always to be at his vdfe's elbow."

" I don't see why not," said Alice, looking gloomily at
her pretty white arm, and wondering \v^hy her companion
must talk. " If Jack was at all "

Lady Brocklesby waited for the remainder of the sen-
tence, but it was inaudible, as a heap of the rocks which
a beneficent vestry puts down for the benefit of the horse-
dealers was then encountered by th<3 carriage-wheels ;
and Alice was not inclined to raise her voice for the
pui-pose of abusing Jack, angiy with him as she was.

"No, my dear," said her ladyship, when they got oflf
the stones, " Jack is naturally like other young men ;
indeed he must be worse."

" Worse ? "

" Yes ; because you see he has never had anything of
this kind before. London was a sealed book to him till
now ; and of course you must expect "

" What ? " said Alice rather faintly, as the other
paused.

" Only a few of the natural indiscretions of his age.

III!

mMI

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

He was always a good boy, wavS Jack, but very — terribly
— fond of amusing himself in a way which a silly wife
would object to, but which you "

" Oh, mamma," cried Jane, in her excitement forgetting
the awe she felt for her mother, " that stupid Timmins
has given me two left-handed gloves ! What shall I
do ? "

" You really are too annoying, Jane," said her ladyship,
angrily.

" But it wasn't my fault, mamma ! " and poor Jane
nearly burst into tears. " It was that idiot Timmins ! "

" I've got two pair," said Alice, and was only too glad
to assist in coaxing Jane's rather plump fingers into
one of them, and thus to escape any more conversation
about Jack's propensities.

The ball, as far as she was concerned, was a failure.
Angry with herself, she was, naturally enough, angry with
everyone else ; the floor was sticky, the music was bad,
her partners danced ill — in fact all was out of tune. Lord
Windermere seemed to wear an air of triumph, too, which
annoyed her especially, and she could have boxed his
ears when, putting on his most winning smile and bend-
ing his curly fair locks towards her, he thanked her for
coming to the ball.

" It isn't your ball. Lord Windermere," she said, in a
defiant tone, which caused Mrs. Belfort, who was close by,
to laugh and whisper to her partner.

" No ; but I may be glad you have come — after all the
difficulty, too."

Alice turned away to someone else, but ras painfully
aware of the smile of amused superiority with which Lord
Windermere had received her snub.

Sir John Glorme was insufferable to her, too. A satyr
in evening dress, he leered and paid compliments which
would have made her laugh had they not made her blush.
He ostentatiously armed her about the room, and stand-
ing close by, he gave out her name and his opinion of her

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

nil

beauty, as if she had been a picture he had just purchased
at Christie's.

" Splendid, isn't she ? Just what I like. Not a bit

too small and yet not one of your d d big women.

Not fat, and yet plump enough for a Turk. No ; she's
not a widow — worse luck ; she's got a husband, but "
(with a wink) " he isn't here. Every dog has his day,
eh, Keyser, my boy ? "

Mr. Keyser assents with a languid smile, and asks her
— politely ignoring her fury — to dance.

" Some dogs ought to be drowned as puppies, and never
have any day," she says angrily, as they cross the room
in search of tea and respite from Sir John's half -drunken
admiration.

" Ah ! " HP ' \ Keyser, gazing into vacancy and seeking
ideas ther. , ah ! — ^yes, he is a boor ; but then, you see,
Mrs. Chillingham, there must be some such in the world.
Depend upon it that the unpleasant things of life are —
are — very disagreeable."

" That's very true," said Alice, smiling.

*•' You think so ? Yes, very true," and he sighed an
enormous sigh. " I have often thought — but, shall we sit
down ? You don't care about dancing, I suppose ? I
have often thought that the world would be a very sad
one without its griefs."

Alice glanced at him with some respect, for the remark
sounded clever.

" How ?" she said.

" Well, I've studied human nature pretty deeply, and
that's my conclusion. Depend upon it, we are all very
foolish. Now, look at this ball. Here we are, a number
of more or less intelligent people, collected together to do
nothing except jump about "

" So you really won't give me one dance ?" interrupted
Lord Windermere, looking very humble.

" Will you take me to the conservatory ? " said Alice to
Mr. Keyser ; " it's so hot here, and "

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

" Not one dance ? " repeated Lord Windermere stand-
ing in her way, and taking no notice whatever of Mr.
Keyser.

" I said I would not before," and Mr. Keyser was as-
tonished at the firmness with which the little hand upon
his arm impelled him towards the door.

" But you don't go so far in these days as to mean what
you say ? " asked Lord Windermere following them.

" Lovers' quarrels," whispered Mrs. Belfort as she
whisked by.

" What o'clock is it, Mr. Keyser ? " said Alice.

" I have no watch ; time is an exploded idea now.
Depend upon it, Mrs. Chillingham "

"Lord Windermere," said Alice, turning round in
exasperation, " what o'clock is it ? "

" Eleven,"

" And my carriage isn't ordered till twelve. Mr. Keyser,
will you take me downstairs, and then get me a cab ? "

Mr. Keyser looked at his dapper boots, and as he took
her downstairs mentally enumerated the various puddles
he might have to encounter before he could reach a
cabstand.

" Good God ! you're not going away ? " exclaimed Sir
John Glorme, who met them in the hall as he was return-
ing from a last inspection of the supper table ; but Alice
escaped into the cloakroom.

Poor child ! she was suffering agonies of remorse for
her disobedience to Jack, whom she pictured to herself
sitting in the little sitting-room alone and unhappy.

" I've never been anywhere without him before," she
thought ; and she also imagined that the manner of the
men to her that night was different to when her natural
protector had been present.

With her shawl on, she brushed past some new arrivals,
and stood out in the street ; but there was no cab or sign
of a cab. The absurdity of her position struck her for-
cibly, and she could have laughed had she not felt more

■F

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

Ill

'ii

11^

inclined to cry. It was not very tragical certtiinly. Only
a young married woman who had gone to a ball against
the wish of her husband, and determining to go home, had
anticipated the arrival of her carriage. Yet it is doubt-
ful whether small griefs, when the heart is soft and
foolish, are not worse than great ones in the more sensible
and more joyless years.

A voice at her elbow — a pleasant and respectful voice

said, " Well, Mrs. Chillingham, I don't suppose you mean

to walk home. Will you take my brougham ? I won't

charge any fare."

, "Oh, Lord Windermere, you're very kind ! but T

thought I should be able to get a cab. Mr. Keyser "

" Keyser, poor fellow, is moralizing over women's
caprices, and the ulterior destiny of thin shoes, half a
mile off at this moment. You'd better have the broug-
ham."

" But are you sure it's no inconvenience ? "
"Not a bit. I never meant to stay here long, as I
have to go to another place ; so I kept it." And Alice
found herself walking down the pavement with her hand
on his arm.

" Home, I suppose ? " he said, as he shut the door of
the little Wugham. " Oh, bye-the-bye, could you drop
me at Boodle's ? It's not a yard out of your way."
" No ! no ! no ! " she cried, in an agony. " No, thanks ;

please tell him to go to C Street," and she pulled up

the window, and nearly took off the tip of Lord Winder-
mere's well-shaped nose.

Sorrow for Jack's loneliness and her ill-treatment of
him was a little interfered with during her rapid drive
by the natural curiosity which compelled her to examine
all the little conveniences and inventions which coach-
builders exhaust . their ingenuity * upon when building
miniature broughams for rich bachelors. Scent bottles,
pockets for letters, a flask-case, brushes, looking-glasses,
receptacles for cigars, cigarettes, and ashes, almost blunted

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

the pang of mournful pleasure with which she hurried
back repentant to the embrace of her lonely husband ;
but when the carriage stopped, and she was admitted by
the sleepy maid, all the feelings that had spoiled her ball
returned in full force, and she dashed impetuously up-
stairs. All was darkness. With some difficulty Alice
found the match-box, an.i, having lighted all the candles
she could find — for one of the angelic traits in women is a
fondness for light, if not sweetness — searched for Jack
in such a way as to suggest that he was in the habit of
hiding himself behind the curtains or under the bed.
The search being fruitless, she sat down in what the lady
who was kind enough to accept five guineas a week for
the rooms called, in bitter irony, an easy-chair, and took
up the first book at hand. It was the last fashionable
novel from the practised pen of a great man — in fact,
the greatest man of the day. Opening it at random, and
listening anxiously for the glad sound of Jack's latch-
key in the (Joor, she read as follows :

" Vavasour sat, clad in \ morning costum6 of one of
those gauzy substances that seem to carry our imagina-
tion to the luxurious atmosphere of the fair East, and
pondered ; his hands (covered with rings wherein spark-
led jewels that would have shamed the Koh-i-noor)
before his face. Outside the ebony door, with its crystal
handles and golden panels, treading softly to and fro, on
carpets from the looms of sunny Persia, were the two
butlers, conversing now and then, when in their peregrin-
ations they met them, with the six grooms of the cham-
bers ; behind whom, radiant in brilliant uniforms of gold
and sky-blue, with their silk stockings flashing in the
tempered light of the sun streaming through the Vene-
tian glass windows, might have been observed a group of
five-and-twenty stalwart and respectful footmen. These
were not the whole of Vavasour's servants, as may well
be imagined, but the remainder were engaged in the
multifarious duties of the princely establishment. Th©

■F"

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

head butler entered the apartment and approached his
master witli noiseless tread.

" ' Your lordship will see the tailor ? Your lordship
made an appointment with him.'

" Vavasuur looked round carelessly, letting fall on the
table-cloth of finest linen, which was honoured by bear-
ing on its silver sheen his brilliant breakfast equipage,
a hand shaming even that in colour by its dazzling
whiteness.

" ' Yes ; let Mr. Rule be admitted to my presence.'

" * Your lordship would honour me with some com-
mands,' said Mr. Rule, approaching Vavasour's chair,
bearing in his hand the measuring implements of his call-

'* 'Yes,' said Vavasour, starting as from a reverie.
' Let me have a hundred coats, a thousand pairs of panta-
loons, and a hundred and fifty waistcoats. Place as many
precious stones in the waistcoats as you can. Let them
be everything that money can command and good taste
allow.'

" * The price will be fourteen thousand pounds,' mur-
mured Mr. Rule, reverently withdrawing.

" ' My steward will give you a cheque,' said Vavasour,
sinking again into a reverie."

Alice yawned, opened the window, and looked out. No
sign of Jack. Again at random she turned over the leaves
of the interesting work in her hand.

" There was a ball at the Duchess's. The ladies Migno-
nette and Endosphryne sparkled in gem-set grounds, that
paled even their splendour when the lovely eyelids were
raised, and floods of outlook from the flashing orbs burst
forth. The Duke, having just returned from an audience
Tidth Her Majesty, at Balmoral, was well and happy.
Tamarind, the artist, who spoke seventy-two languages,
and held that the nose and not the mouth was intended
for the organ of speech, chatted amiably in the domestic
circle : which circle he boasted he could always ' square.*

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

Suddenly the Lady Mignonette approached, with a tear
trembling on her beauteous chf.ek, ready to fall on the
equally beauteous parquet floor.

"* What is the matter, Mignonette V said the Duchess.

"' I have been grossly insulted !' replied the patrician
beauty, with streaming eyes.

"'By whom?' and the blue blood of the Duchess
mantled on her brow.

*" I have been spoken to by a commoner.'

" There was a breathless silence, a fearful pause, vJid no
one can tell what the result of this communication might
have been, had not Vavasour at that moment approached
and claimed Lady Mignonette's fair hand in the approach-
ing valse.

"' Are you fond of waistcoats V asked he, when they
reposed after the first wild whirl.

"' I have seen so few. Are you V

" ' Oh, Lady Mignonette,' and Vavasour sighed, * I have
made so many mistakes. The world is a riddle.'

" His partner looked up at him when he gave vent to
this withering sarcasm, and blushed.

"' Cannot you guess riddles ?' she said, timidly.

"' Oh, no!' said Vavasour, * for I make mistakes. I am
so rich, and yet I make so many mistakes. The world is
very flat, Lady Mignonette.'

"*My dear Mignonette,' said the Duchess of Carabbas,
approaching them, 'the Duke of Grandblessington and the
Prince Tortonibullico are dying to be presented to you.
May I have the pleasure ? '

" Vavasour turned away and bit his lips ; then saun-
tering through the scented saloons to one still more odor-
iferous, he coquetted daintily with a truffled ortolan."

Alice threw down the book impatiently. Was Jack
never coming home ? Visions of midnight murders, of
garrote robberies, of all the dark possibilities of which she
had ever heard or read, rose before her. One o'clock !
Was there ever such a wretched wife as she ?

^i.

m III

i!|i

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

The fashionable beauties of " V^^-vasour " having failed
to divert her attention from her melancholy situation, she,
after craning out ^ the window again and seeing nothing
but the policeman, took up another book that lay upon the
table, and determined to forget Jack, the ball she ought
not to have gone to, and all her miseries, in its perusal.
The volume opened where Jack — with supreme indiffer-
ence to what the authorities of the circulating library
might say — had turned down half of three or four pages
to mark a favourite passage.

"The rain came down drip, drip upon our two bare
curly heads. I saw a slug crawl over the toe of my not
very sound boot, and a big pearly drop run slowly down
my lover's nose, and made him look like one of those
faces on the top of Milan Cathedral — gurgoyles, I think
they are. I speak first.

"'Ned!'

"* Well. Nice and dry, isn't it ?'

" I burrow my head inside his waistcoat, so that he may
not see my burning blushes.

"' Do you know what a gurgoyle is V

"' Is it anything to eat V

"* You dear old stupid 1' I exclaim, my voice muffled in
consequence of my position. ' I don't think you know
anything.'

"'Yes, I do — by Jove, yes !'

"* And what's that ?' and I come out " my retreat for
a moment and look up at him.

" ' That you've the biggest, sweetest eyes that ever
drove a poor fellow to distraction !'

" The plash, plash of the rain made a soft musical
accompaniment to the music taat Ned and I uncon-
sciously are performing in our jwn hearts. Our lips met,
and remained together — it seemed an eterrJty of happi-
ness. Oh, my .splendid Ned! — my grand, ugly, honest
Hercules! '

" * Don't ! don't ! don't ! ' I cry at length, and he holds

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

me at arm's length and looks into my eyes with a sudden
fierceness.

" ' Have you jver kissed a man before ? ' he says, gnaw-
ing a large piece ofi" his tawny moustache.

" ' You hurt my arms,' I cry, half -angry, half -pleased
to see the splendour in his eyes when they are fierce.

" * Poor little arms ! ' — and I am clasped close in his
embrace again — ' but have you ? '

" * Never ! ' I say, emphatically, in his ear, hoping he
will not see the blush which the recollection of my little

flirtations with A , and B , and C and my

engagement to D , calls up.

" There is a pause, and I feel a cold drop of rain making a
promenade down the small of my back. I shiver. Three
or four rather improper quotations from the Bible come
into my head ; a parody of a Welsh hymn echoes in my
brain ; and all the time the relentless rain falls upon our
two heads, so close together and so heedless of it. In-
voluntarity I put one of my white arms round Ned's neck
— that stately column of brown flesh — and pouting my
red lips towards his till the damp moustache touches
them, I say in a shy whisper :

" ' Kiss me again, Ned ! ' "

Strange to say, even this refined and delicate love scene
was scarcely sufficient to keep Alice's thoughts from her
absent husband. She put down the book with a sigh,
and determined to think. Being a woman she naturally
thought of herself, and in a minor degree of others in
their relations to herself. But the thinking experiment
did not succeed ; as, to her horror, she found Lord Wind-
ermere's "half -sleepy, half -insolent face intruding into her
thoughts. Lord Windermere ! It was curious that she
should think of him, for she detested him ; at least, she
felt that detestation was the proper state of feeling which
every decent young woman should be in as regards his
lordsh:' i And then the clock struck two, and a new
policQi ^n, with boots that creaked more horribly thi a

CHILDREN OF NATUBE.

his predecessor's, came on the beat ; and Alice's brain was
clouded over with the mists of drowsiness; her pretty
head fell back against the preposterous cretonne of the
arm-chair ; one innocent white hand hung down, having
dropped the volume in which sweet tales full of passion
and delicacy were told ; and — low be it spoken in the ears
of those followers of Byron who cannot see a woman eat
— Alice sent through the open window a gentle snore to
mingle with the music of the morning breeze, as it played
for a moment scornfully amid the chimneys ere speeding
away to the " green woods and pastures," w^hich are "new"
and beautiful at each rising of the sun.

A STORY OF MODEEN LONDON.

EIS

rs
it

CHAPTER VII.

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing tinael ; who impen
Their baaiag vanities to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
From human pastures.

Endymion.

We have said that luncheon in Eaton Square was always
a function of some importance, but on this sweltering
afternoon of July there was an extra solemnity in the
whole business, and the stout butler beat the gong with
the air of a drum-major.

" Good God, my lady ! " says Lord Brocklesby, walking
impatiently up and down the drawing-room, " are we
ever to get our luncheon ? I really don't think we need
wait for Flittery."

" Mr. Garter is coming," said her ladyship, impressively,
glancing at her eldest daughter, who blushed, and looked
out of the window, while Jane patted her affectionately
on the hand.

" Oh, Garter's coming, is he ? " and his lordship gi'unted.
" I'd have ordered a second joint if I'd known."

" I am sure, papa," exclaimed Jane, still patting her sis-
ter's hand, " Mr. Garter doesn't eat any more than other
people ; and remember all the work he does."

Emily lifted her gray eyes to the ceiling, and appeared
to derive consolation from the whitewash which our Bii-
tish taste delights in. She was one of those women to
whom martyrdom is almost as much a necessity as matri-
mony, and who will nxake the former for thenihclves de-
spite any amount of contiadiction, being unfortunately,
unable to manufacture the latter state of existence. But
her martyrdom, which conaisted principally in the painful

^'!T"»'^W^?

CHILDREN OF NATtJRE.

effort to be martyrized^ was nearly at an end. The golden
gates of which she had often, with unconscious incredu-
lity, spoken to old men and women, about to find all out
for themselves, were passed by her or nearly so ; and now
that she hwd reached them they turned out not to be the
vague dreai. ji a disappointed woman, plajdng at sanc-
timonious utility while she longed for worldly uselessness,
but the actual portals into a splendid harbour of domestic
felicity in this world, which even she — the despised by
the worldlings — could reach and pass through.

The Reverend Theophilus Garter, Rector of St. Ban-
bury's, in the West End, and prime institutor of a genteel
Protestant style of confession, was a prize worthy of a
gi-eater fisherwoman than Emily Chillingham. To begin
with, his living, aided by many gifts which such an ascetic
nature as his naturally drew forth, made him a well-to-do
man. He was caressed by many great ones, and knew
as many family secrets as there are in all the tin boxes of
Lincoln's Inn Fields. He was young- — about forty -five —
with a splendid mass of naturally curling and glossy brown
hair, which formed what the most enthusiastic of his lady
district visitors called an aureole round his intellectual
head; his figure was neat, his dress perfect, his gloves soilless
as his soul, his boots all that there could be of most un-
parsonic, his hat curled at the brim, his flower fresh every
morning from Solomon's, his voice sweet as Patti's when
it wooed the doubting, stern as Mr. Gladstone's when it
warned the defiant ; his gait important, without a tendency
to waddle, and gay, with no soup^on of swagger ; his ad-
dress that of Chesterfield and D'Orsay rolled into one ;
and his morals for himself as strict as his morality for
others was broad, benevolent, and forgiving.

That he should cast his eyes on Emily was a surprise
to her as well as to several hundred other virgins of
demure age ; and it would be uncharitable to suggest
that a small income of £1000 a year over and above her
younger child's fortune, left her by a defunct spinster

i| I

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

aunt, could have had anything to do with Mr. Garter's
choice.

As yet he had only spoken with definiteness to Lady
Brocklesby, and there was only a tacit understanding that
this afternoon was to witness the glad enunciation of
" Yes," which was already leaping in anticipation out of
the delighted Emily's mouth.

" Confound it ! I shall go down ! " said his lordship.
" Unpunctuality is all very well in common people, but
in parsons it is inexcusable. Ain't they always telling us
to remember how time flies, and how we must prepare for
our latter end ? If I'm right in my theory that Paradise
will be what each man likes best, dear me ! what an enor-
mous larder Garter will possess when he goes over to the
majority ! "

" I don't believe," said Spencer, " that, supposing for a
moment tliat the theory of an after existence is true "

" Oh, Spencer ! " from Emily.

" That there is any notion yet put afloat by the wildest
of visionaries which supposes us to take our stomachs out
of the world with us."

** My dear boy," said Lord Brocklesby, who was always
awed by his elder son's eyeglass, " you mistake me. I did
not mean that Garter would actually swallow mutton-
chops in the other world, but that he would perpetually
drefc // he was doing so — do so in his soul, wliich of course
I know is all that he can take with him. And talking
of that reminds me that we have flsh to-day for lunch —
it's Friday, you know, Emily, and his reverence fasts on
the fish before he feasts on the meat — and it's getting
cold. I know a man — you may have known him, Sptincer ;
no, by-the-bye, you weren't born — but he was a capital
fellow ; only cared al)Out eating. Stay, was that him ?
yes, or else it was another man in the same regiment.
Well, you needn't yawn so, Jane."

** 1 wasn't yawning, papa."

" Weren't you ? Well then, you were imitating the

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

'i
■ t;

'i'

I'j: '•■■[

fcV f--

' 'i

hippopotamus when he expects a bun, and very like it
was. Well, this fellow that I've told you all about was
so annoyed once at having to wait for dinner, and know-
ing that the soup was spoilt — it was Bisque, I fancy — that
he had an indigestion, and died of it that night. At least
I fancy he died ; I know I never heard any more of him."

" Dear me, my lord," said Lady Brocklesby, looking in
the glass, and wishing she had put on just one touch more
rouge, " you are quite overwhelming with your recollec-
tions. Mrs. Nickleby was nothing to you in the way of
connected narrative. By-the-bye has anyone seen Alice
or Jack lately ? "

At this moment Mr. Flittery was announced, and im-
mediately afterwards Mr. Garter, and they proceeded
downstairs in the shy, disconnected manner in which Eng-
lish people always do any social act for which hard-and-
fast rules are not laid down.

Of course the Rev. Theophilus sat by Emily, who, in a
seventh heaven of delight, listened to the remarks he found
time to make between his mouthfuls.

" I am too shocked," says her ladyship, the servants
having retired, "and I cannot believe it. Surely, Mr.
Flittery "

" Oh, my dear Lady Brocklesby ! "

" You can speak out here ; we are all relatives except
you," and she smiled in a beneficent fashion on the per-
spiring rector.

" Well, it is certainly ti'ue," said Flittery.

" That she. left that ball with him in his brougham ?
I did miss her very suddenly, but T never dreamed of
this."

*' Who — who — who ? " cried his lordship, who was en-
gaged in eating a hot plover's egg out of an egg-cup, his
last gastronomic freak.

" Why, Alice," said his* wife, in veiy clear and distinct
accents. " I am afraid she has committed an imprud-
ence,"

-A.*; i ■

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

" Pooh, pooh ! " said his lordship. " The world is peo-
pled by imprudences. I am sure there'd be no marriages

without, except, of course " And catching the four

reproachful eyes of his eldest daughter and the clergyman
he faltered.

" I am very sorry to hear this," said Mr. Garter, slowly,
as if his words had to force themselves through the lun-
cheon he had just eaten. " She appeared to me to be a
pretty creature, and I had hopes of awakening her before
long to a sense of what she might do for the souls of
others."

" At present she is only concerned to wear out her own
soles valsing," said Lord Brocklesby. " But why shouldn't
she take a lift from Windermere ? I suppose her carriage
hadn't come."

" You understand nothing about it," said her ladyship,
crossly. " I only hope it will never come out. Of course,
my dear Mr. Flittery, you "

" Oh, / never talk ! One naturally comes across many
odd things in one's life in London, but I am always silent
as the grave about them; and in the case of such a charming
person as your daughter-in-law, I need scarcely say "

" As far as I care, you can say what you like," cried
Lord Brocklesby, getting rather red. " I'm not afraid of
my little Alice ever doing anything that won't bear day-
light. By Jove ! " and here he poured out his third glass of
sherry, " I remember such a pretty girl that came out in
'43, and they got up stories about her, and I said I would
vouch for her good name with my life, just as I would for
little Alice," and he smiled pleasantly.

" And what became of the young lady ? " asked Spencer,
cruelly, knowing his father's idiosyncrasy.

" Became of her ? Oh, poor thing ! I forgot that — she
ran away two months after marriage with a courier, or
something of that kindj; but 1 never followed her history
up."

" It is indeed sad," said Mr. Garter, " when one thinks

■ 1 ''" v''^tiWrr"*'f4.lH|W"!"

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

how many people are cast away through not meeting at
the critical moment with some one who can say a word of
comfort to them. Lady Clementina Greyswill, with whom
I visited one of our districts this morning, tells me that
the wonderful effects of the few words she has at differ-
ent times said to that little Mrs. Belfort, for instance, have
done wonders."

" On the principle of setting a thief to catch a thief, I
suppose," said Spencer. " Poor Lady Clementina avoided
her ultimate destiny of sanctity as long as she possibly
could, and it was only when that last wig of hers was an
egregious failure that she turned to the arms of Holy
Church, which doesn't object to paint if piety be put on
as well."

" I think that is rather uncharitable," said the parson,
with as near approach to ill-humour as he ever showed.
" Dear Lady Clementina brings great experience to her
glorious campaign against wickedness in high places. As
a woman of the world she can speak on equal terms with
women of the world ; and if some of the vices she reproves
have been committed by her, does not that fit her
peculiarly for showing their emptiness and insufficiency ?"

Emily looked at her neighbour with pride, and Spencer,
warned by vigorous kicks under the table from his father,
gave up the argument.

In a short time the clergyman and Emily were alone
together in the drawing-room ; the remainder of the fam-
ily, having, on various pretences, strayed away.

Emily, feeling very red and uncomfortable, sat on the
edge of her chair and tried to recall instances of courtship
in the religious romances she sometimes read.

The Reverend Theophilus smoothed his tie, brushed up
his curling hair with one white ringed hand, coughed as
he was wont to do while inspecting his fashionable con-
gregation before the sermon, and, leaning over the backjof
Emily's chair, thus began : " Dear Miss Chillingham.
Very dear sister in the Lord. It has often crossed my

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

mind that I should thank you for your cordial co-opera-
tion with me in our humble efforts for the regeneration of
others ; for your comprehending my meaning so well when
often it seemed doubtful to the crowd. Miss Chillingham
— Emily — may I call you Emily ? "

" Oh yes ! " And she trembled till the thin gilt-legged
chair creaked under her.

" Emily as my sister you have done great things for our
cause ; you have, although born in the purple, and capa-
ble of enjoying in society all the admiration and excite-
ment your station and beauty would bring you" — Emily
clasped her hands with grateful delight — "you have
chosen the good part ; you have preferred to labour with
me for the sake of the souls of others. It seems to me,
Emily — dear Emily " — and here he took her willing hand
and swayed it about as he spoke, much in the manner of
one negligently playing with a dog's tail, looking mean-
while in the glass at his comely features, and wondering
whether Lord Brocklesby's interest would go as high as a
bishopric — " that there is a position for which you are em-
inently fitted, and which your lady mother has no ob-
jection to your entering upon. I mean that of my
wife."

Emily gave a long sigh ; it was the happiest moment of
her existence. Shall we grudge it her ? shall we laugh
at her poor withered affections, wasted on this lump of
affectation and hypocrisy ? Surely not. As long as her
eyes are not opened, and he remains upon the pedestal
where she has mentally placed him, she will be happy ;
and if her narrow notions of religion do no good to others,
still tKey are credited by herself, and are not, therefore,
altogether fruitless.

Meanwhile the conversation in the back drawing-room
turned upon Alice's adventure after the Glormes' ball, as
related by Mr. Flittery.

" I always knew it would be so," said Lady Brocklesby.
" Jle knew nothing of her before marriage ; and these

CHILDREN OP NATURE.

American girls have 8uch freedom given them ! And
Lord Windermere too ! Certainly the most dangerous
man in London. Poor Jack ! my poor boy ! "

" Ah ! " said Mr. Flittery, sighing too. " It is sad ! And
he has no suspicion ! A charming fellow — charming ! So
fresh and unsophisticated ! But, Lady Brocklesby, how
ignorant of the ways of London ! "

" I think," said she, after a pause, during which Mr.
Flittery twisted his little black moustache with loving
tenderness, " I think it will be better to say nothing about
this sad affair as yet. It may mean nothing, and I
wouldn't have my poor boy's domestic happiness ruined
by doubt before it is unavoidable. I may depend upon
you ? "

" My dear lady," and Mr. Flittery rose and smote his
breast, " you know that /, at least, am not given to scan-
dal."

And in twenty -four hours half society was talking of
Lord Windermere's new victim,

I-

K i:

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

CHAPTER VIII.

Love is maintained by wealth : when all is spent,
Adversity then breeds the discontent.

Herbick.

A FORTNIGHT has elapsed since the unfortunate Glorme
ball caused the first disagreement of any seriousness that
had occuned between our young couple. Perhaps Jack
would have mollified more easily to his wife's earnest ex-
pression of repentance when he came home and found her
sleeping by the open window, had it not been that she
was abetted in her rebellion against his authority by Lady
Brocklesby, and that Lady Brocklesby — whom he mis-
trusted, despite the fifth commandment — knew all about
their quarrel, and its termination in the utter rout of the
husband.

Besides this, while Alice was waiting repentantly for
his coming in, he had been assisting several young gentle-
men of the Household Brigade to get through an evening,
and the extra glass or two which he had perforce swal-
lowed that night took the wrong turn, and produced cross-
ness instead of geniality. Certainly Jack was decidedly
ill-tempered at breakfast next morning, and refused to
be moved by the red eyes and inflamed nose opposite.

They had now moved into what the agent called " a bi-
jou residence" in North Street, Park Lane, and after a
week's practice had managed to perfect themselves in the
feat of turning round in the drawing-room without knock-
ing anything down. And they had begun to experience
the horrors incident on a young couple, ignorant of every-
thing connected with domestic economy, trying to keep
house and entertain their friends on £500 a year. Jack's
was not the recklessness of a spendthrift, but that of ig-

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

norance. He had an almost Micawber-like belief in the
" something" which would surely " turn up," and his
mother, who had helped them to set up their establishment,
had rather fostered this idea, the argument in her mind
being, '' If I can bring him into pecuniary trouble he will be
glad to consent to the entail being cut off for the sake of
a sum down," Alice, naturally enough, had no notions
on the subject of money whatever. Her natural shrewd-
ness, however, often told her that they were going too fast
but Jack always assumed so business-like an air, and so pa-
tronisingly soothed her when she remonstrated on the
number of " little dinners" and casual luncheons they gave
their friends, that she — believing him to know most
things — was easily quieted for the moment. Nevertheless
when she saw people continually waiting in their little
hall, and noticed that after the weekly visit their cook
paid to Jack's sanctum with " the books," his face was
gloomy and his manner tinged with a dash of bitterness
and railing at the fortunate ones of the earth, she could
not feel quite at her ease.

" My dear Alice," Jack said to her one day, " if we live
in London at all, we must live more or less like othc^r peo-
ple. Of course I economise as much as I can, tlio.igh
Perkins is infernally fond of stock meat ; and as to there
being extravagance in my asking fellows in to lunch or
dinner, that's all nonsense, What's enough for two is
enough for three, or for four either."

" I think that's false reasoning," said she, gently.

" Well, all I can say is, the weeks we have no one the
books are just as big. It appears Goggles eats as much as
most aldermen, according to Perkins, by-the-bye." Gog-
gles was Alice's pug, a very king of pugs, fat as the his-
torian Gibbon, ugly as Wilkes the patriot, ill-tempered as
Xantippe, who made a philosopher.

" Poor Goggles ! but seriously, dear "

" Seriously, Alice, it's a waste of time to talk about it,
3y-the-way, Windermere dines here to-night."

■* Jtle dines here very often."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

" Yes ; and he declares Perkins cooks admirably. I am
sure she ought to, considering what I have to pay." And
Jack sauntered off to smoke a pipe downstairs.

Lord Windermere had managed to establ* h. himself
thoroughly as ami de la maison ; and was so useful to
Jack that it never occurred to that young and credulous
gentleman there could be any stronger motive in his con-
stant visits than a wish to enjoy the company and conver-
sation of Mr. Jack Chiilingham. Lord Windermere's
manner with men was as perfect as with women. The
frank aspect with which he listened to their opinions, and
humbly subordinated his own ; his genial smile and shake
of the hand on meeting ; his careless honhommie and in-
tense appreciation of jokes, no matter how old or bad,
combined with his singularly attractive face, secured him
almost as many friends as he had acquaintances ; and even
those sensitive husbands or pretty wives, who formed the
class against whom he had declared war to the knife,
felt that they were matched against a worthy foe, to be
defeated by whom was almost itself honourable.

It was only now and then that a flash of hard worldli-
ness betrayed — in a careless moment — the cynical, cruel
nature of the real man ; although in cases when he thought
such an assumption desirable, he could subdue some darkly
romantic French-novel-reading dame with a blatant athe-
ism and misanthropy which even De Musset could scarcely
have done justice to.

That Alice was certainly the prettiest new beauty in
town that season was quite reason enough for him to wear
her Qplours ; but he had soon found another reason in the
indifference with which she received his homage, and he
would now have been very seriously annoyed had any
accident prevented him from still basking in the light of
her smiles. And she did smile upon him. Perceiving the
mistake he had made at first, he now addressed her with
the most respectful and formal courtesy ; and Alice felt
grateful to him for the many amusements he discovered

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

5f5;

illll

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for them, and for the friendship he evinced towards Jack,
whose circle cf friends in London widened but slowly.

It is sad how true the lines from Herrick prefixed to
this chapter are. Love may exist comfortably in a cot-
tage, no doubt, but it must be a cottage whose chimneys
do not smoke, a cottage with modern drainage, windows
that will open and shut, and a pleasant neighbourhood.
Love and worry will not abide together ; and poverty,
especially that form of it called "genteel," which has to
sacrifice half of its little all for appearance's sake, means
worry. Worry leads to loss of temper, loss of temper to
hard words, which although loon forgiven are in most
cases never quite forgotten. And the use of hard words
one day makes it certain that they will recur another day,
another, and another ; until Love, who exists only upon
sympathies and dulcet tones, spreads his wings and be-
takes himself to where people are rich enough to bill and
coo, and drink champagne, and keep their tempers.

Neither Jack nor Alice was exactly aware of it, but
each little disagreement they had over their domestic dif-
ficulties was another nail in the coffin of their young ro-
mance. He had on one occasion told her she was " worse
than useless," and after retorting that he was " horribly
unkind," she had wept bitterly over the remark.

A week later she smiled at the recollection of her exag-f
gerated grief at so small a thing, for now he had actually
said, " It was a pity they had ever married ! " It is true that
at the time this terrible observation was made Jack was in
a state bordering on frenzy, caused by the discovery that
their rate of living exceeded their income by treble its whole
amount, not counting anything except what they placed
in their mou'hs — an emotion that was excusable when, in
addition to this, all their servants had just given wai-ning
in consequence of being denied a hot supper. Yet it had
set Alice wondering, going back to what we may call first

Erinciples, and speculating — the most dangerous of specu-
itions for a young wife — on what might liave happened

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

if that part of her existence which embraced matrimony
had been differently planned.

Badsworth, who worshipped the ground on which
Alice's high heels rested, and who was furious at scraps
of tea-table gossip, connecting her name with Lord Winder-
mere's, which he sometimes heard, attempted to warn her
that her innocence of evil was taken by " the world " for
a taste for it.

" Do you mean," said she, sternly, her eyes looking very
stern, and her hands tightly clenched together, " do you
mean that you think so. Lord Badsworth ?"

"No, no," he cried hastily, wishing the floor would
swallow him. " I only mean that people are horribly
ill-natured, particularly when the thing is about any
pretty woman who is not — I mean whom they didn't
know — that is, who "

" You mean who is not quite one of themselves. And
so Jack and I are not to be permitted to choose our own
friends?"

Alice tried to speak in a dignified tone, but her voice
shook a little with anger, and the look in her eyes would
have alarmed a bolder man than Badsworth.

"For God's sake, Mrs. Chillingham, don't misunder-
stand me. Of course I know perfectly well how cause-
less most stories one hears in London are ; but as your
friend, I " Her lip curled, and he went on desper-
ately. " Well, as Jack's friend, who would like to be
yours, it does drive me mad to hear people daring to
talk."

" Don't you think, as Jack's friend " — and there was a
cruel emphasis on the phrase — " you should speak to
Jack ? I can assure you I shall take no orders as to
changing my friends from anyone except him. Of course,
as Jack's friend you have a right to say what you like to
him ; but I scarcely think the position carries also with
it the right to insult me." Her bitterness was probably
m part due to a dim consciousness that Badsworth had

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

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not spoken entirely without reason. We always deny
more indignantly the crimes we have nearly committed
than those of which we are wholly innocent."

Badsworth gave a groan, and, seizing his hat, fled from
the storm he had evoked ; and had the satisfaction of
running against Lord Windermere's button-hole flower
on the staircase, as the latter ascended.

*' If ever I interfere in that way again," he said to him-
self, as he walked down Park Lane, " may I be but

it is too bad of Jack to be so infernally green. And as
to speaking to him — no, quite impossible.

If Badsworth truly supposed that his anxiety was alto-
gether, or even principally, caused by his early friend-
ship with Jack, and not at all by the impression Jack's
wife's beauty had produced upon him, he must have pos-
sessed a remarkable genius for self-deceit. But some
very truthful and very religious people do possess such
genius, even to the point of believing they are • charitable
when mentally consigning their friends to the pains of
hell fire.

M >

Autumn approached, and the Demon of Change took
possession of the souls of those persons who condescend
to call themselves ** Society."

The butcher who supplied No. 12, North * Street, Park
Lane, had agreed to wait a few months for his money ;
sufficient funds had been discovered to satisfy the de-
mands of the parting servants ; and the banker's book
was considerably on the wrong side, when Jack received
the following letter :

^*Dear Mr. Chillingham,

"The Duke of Cheshire desires me to inform you
that by the retirement (to be announced immediately) of

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

Mr. Tollebens, the seat at Shodborough will be vacant
in a very short time. His grace thinks that you should
at once proceed there and place yourself in the hands of
the local agent. If you will call on Mr. Horton, in High
Street, you will receive all assistance from him. It is
entirely due to his zeal and sagacity that Mr. Tollebens
came in at the last election. I am further to tell you
that the Duke wishes to defray the whole expense of the
election, whether contested or not.

" I remain yrs. faithfully,

"George Seymour Smyth,

" (Priv. Secretary to the Duke of Cheshire).'*

"It's a curious thing," said Jack, after some expressions
of gratitude to the Duke, " that he never hints what my
politics are to be."

" Write and ask him," put in Alice, with a flash of tho-
roughly feminine common sense. The Duke's answer,
however, scarcely gave the aspirant for senatorial fame
much information.

" You can be," the Duke said, " Tory and stupid and
safe ; or Liberal and mediocre and hesitating ; or Radical
and clever and ruinous. An honest Ijiberal-Oonservative
would be a fine animal. But fine things in politics are
impossible. Mob rule is the worst of tyrannies, and we
approach nearer to it every day ; not by accident, but on
purpose, simply because the kind of ruin is popular, and
popularity means place. On the other hand, standing
still is bad ; and any setting up of classes of human beings
over other classes is utterly indefensible. I sometimes
think a duke with wealth and castles is the most ridicul-
ous object the sun can shine on, except, of course, an
anointed king. Yet the 'Majesty of the People' is a
myth. It is — as you can see by what I say— out of the
7

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

question for me to give you advice. Only recollect that
principles are necessary in politics, but what they are
matters very little. Shodborough shall vote for you, or
I will know the reason why.

" Your affec. Uncle,

"C.

" Give my love to your wife. I hope her bright eyes
are not dimmed by our London smoke."

Perhaps it is a fact worthy of noticing that when Lord
Windermere heard of Jack's approaching departure in
search of political glory, he at once telegraphed to the
master of his yacht at Cowes that his cruise was post-
poned ; a change of plan with which, in that paradise of
sham sailors, the old skipper was not likely to quarrel.

i>i

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or

A ^TORY dF MODERN LONDON.

le
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\ CHAPTER IX.

La fortune et rhumeur gouvernent le monde.

La RoCHiSPOUCAULD.

" Madame,

" I take it of bad part that you have not sent me a
cheque for my bill, for I have large moneys to pay to other
peoples, and what can I if I am not paid by my clients ?
I suffer in having to say that if I do not receive my due
before a week I shall be forced to bring before M. your
husband my claim, and to tell M. Chillingham that I am
about to request my advocate to gain it for me.

"lam, Madame,

; " Your humble servitor,
" Louise de Brebaut-Grandcours."

This missive, written in small characters, ornamented '
with magnificent spidery flourishes, was received by
Alice some half hour after Jack had left for Shodbo-
rough ; and Jack's last words had been a desponding
hope that they might not be in St. George's Workhouse
before long. It was certainly very terrible ; and besides
this magnificently-named maker of exquisite confections,
compared with which Worth's best work was devoid of
poetry, there were many other tradesmen who had, now
the season was well nigh over, been displaying an uncom-
fortable curiosity to see, as they themselves would have
put it, the colour of ChiUingham's money. Visions of
Jack's arrest just as he returned victorious from Shod

100

CHILDtlEN OF NATl/RE.

borough rose in Alice's mind ; and she pictured to herself
the agony of a whole nation at seeing the future orator,
the budding Prime Minister, at the very outset of his
career, led, manacled and guarded, to the gloomy seclu-
sion of a debtor's gaol. Alice was not well versed in the
Bankruptcy Laws, but she had a dim consciousness that
at that moment they owed more than they could pay,
and that they were therefore to some extent dishonest,
and therefore to some extent deserving of actual punish-
ment. She had not yet been acquainted long enough
with genteel poverty to know that there is nothing dero-
gatory in attempting to cheat a tradesman by taking his
goods and paying for them in promises only. And what
made the discovery of all she owed on her own account
still worse was, that Jack had always insisted on deluding
himself into the belief that he had a wife who was supe-
rior to other men's wives in the matter of economy in
dress, and boasted so loudly that she, spending nothing,
could look better than other women who ruined their
husbands in milliners' bills, that Alice never had the
heart to disabuse him ; i}.nd though, perhaps, she had in
her pocket a stern demand from her bootmaker, or an
.outcry of indignant protest from her glover, preserved a
guilty silence, and allowed Jack still to " lay the flatter-
ing unction to his soul " that a woman can dress well and
spend little. '

And now there seemed a very conspiracy of their
tradesmen suddenly to demand their money. Just at a
time, too, when money was even scarcer than usual in
North Street, and when it would be terrible for Jack
either to have his victory embittered, or his defeat made
doubly sad, by a disclosure of the crisis. What was to
be done ? She looked at her banker's book (Jack had
insisted on her having a separate account for the small
sum she called her pin-money ; for, as she remarked,
" Then you see, dear, I can't possibly leave the firm alto-
gether penniless. Women are always afraid of writing

. i

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

101

cheques." Alas ! the figures were on the wrong side, and
it was only a few days ago since her attention had been
politely called to this fact.

It never struck her that the relentless milliner would
have gladly lent the money to pay her own bill, or that
there were genteel little doors off the Strand, with three
unobtrusive, almost aristocratic balls above them, where
jewels, lace, and many other things can be deposited, and
a consideration received from a gentlemanly person who
takes charge of them. No vulgar " popping," or pawning,
or receiving of tickets ; quite a commercial transaction.
But, then, she was as yet a novice in the art of saving
appearances on nothing a year. All she did know was that
something uncommonly like ruin seemed already to have
come upon them, and that if she could save Jack a pang at
any cost, she would ; for had not his romantic love for her
been the cause of all ? Women are the true philosophers
where money is concerned. They solely value it for what
it brings, and rarely — except in isolated cases of old maids
who keep starving cats and omit to wash — love it for its
own sake, as many men do. In real life as well as in
novels women face ruin better than men ; it is only after-
wards, when the man has braced himself to bear the ine-
vitable, that the woman begins to kick against the conse-
quences of the ruin she had so boldly defied, and which
in the abstract she had not feared. It is Lombard Street
to a China orange that she then makes these conse-
quences worse to herself and to all about her; for the
capabilities of feminine repining are inexhaustible. They
were male dogs that licked the sores of Lazarus ; female
dogs would have scratched them.

In these days of energy, lawn-tennis, roller-skating,
and bear-fighting in high places, women have lost some of
their old and well-established luxuries ; and one of these
is that piece of consolatory refreshment, " a good cry."
A fair lady jilted would be much more likely now-a-daya '
to throw a sofa-cushion or a loaf of bread at the faithless
pX^Q, or to accidentally topple him over on the sham ice, than

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102

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

to retire to her bedroom, let down her back hair and
weep as in the good old days. Yet the '* good cry " was no
doubt a very great comfort, surpassing in its pick-me-up
qualities even the glass of disguised alcohol with which
modern doctors soothe the nerves of great ladies living
on excitement. Alice, regardless of being behind the age,
and recking nothing of red eyes, laid her head upon the
terrible letter from Mme. de Br^baut-Grandcours, and
wept bitterly; and at that moment Lord Windermere
was announced.

" I beg your pardon, Mrs. Chillingham ; I "

" Oh, never mind," and she tried to smile, and hoped
she did not look ' an object." " You know women are al-
ways allowed to make fools of themselves sometimes, and
— and Jack's just gone to Shodborough,"

" Yes ; but only for a week or so ; and to come back a
great man, licensed to make laws for us. I wonder
whether he could be persuaded to bring in a bill to make
women speak the truth."

" Why, Lord Windermere, don't you believe me ? "

" Believe that you were crying, and trying to spoil those
lovely eyes, because Jack has gone away for a week ? No."

" Then its very rude of you," and Alice attempted to
be angry ; but his kind tone was pleasant to her, and she
dreaded being left alone to think of Mme. de Br^baut-
Grandcours and St. George's Workhouse.

" Something in that letter has given you pain ? "

" No ; " and she crumpled it up nervously. " At least
— but it doesn't much matter."

" Doesn't it ? Well, for my part, I can't see what the
use of friendship is if one hides one's troubles from one's
friends. Now, if I were in trouble, I should tell you at
once, Mrs. Chillingham, though I daresay you'd be bored."

" No, I shouldn't, really."

" You see, I — it va^j be impertinent, but I don't mean
it so — I've taken a very great liking for you — and Jack :
I feel sure that he would tell me if he got into any roW.

" I'm not in any row," said she, smiling,

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

103

" ^ell, something has gone wrong anyhow. Have those
precious relations of yours been doing anj'ihing ? "

" Oh no ! but you musn't cross-examine me like this.
T suppose you think a woman never can keep a secret."

"I'll tell you what," said Lord Windermere, after a
pause, during which he had never taken his eyes off her
blushing face ; " I know what it is. It's money. Don't
be offended. Jack told me he was hard up. You were
crying about money."

" Somebody says that's the only thing worth crying for
in this world," she said, evasivly,

" Yes, of course. Bills, banker's book over-drawn of
course ; and here you are fretting your poor little self

over it all, hile I Do you know, Mrs. Chillingham,

the injustice in this world is terrible," and he jumped up,
and marched up and down the room.

" How do you mean ? " she asked surprised, by his
vehemence.

" Why, there are you and Jack — ^you the prettiest,
nicest woman in Christendom, and he the best fellow,
worried to death about money matters ; and here am I, a
selfish, useless animal, with such a heap lying at my
banker's that I can't spend it. I've just been taking my
cheque-book round to pay a lot of things, and it's filthy to

think that I can't actually spend enough, while you "

He stopped close to the table where she sat. "Look
here, Mrs. Chillingham, its ridiculous your being worried
about such things. Let me lend you enough to stop
your bothers."

" Oh no, Lord Windermere, it wouldn't be right at all.
Jack "

** It would only be lending it to «ck really ; only
you see he has this election in hand just now, and it
would be a pity to worry him about milliners' bills,
wouldn't it ? Besides, y^erhaps he doesn't think you owe
quite as much as yo^i do."

Involuntarily Alice glanced at the dunning letter which
lay upon the table.

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CHILDREN OF NATURE,

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Lord Windermere seized it. " Yes, just as 1 tliought,"
he cried, impulsively. ** Well, you know, Jack wouldn't
be pleased to see this."

*' No," faltered she, feeling that it was no use to pretend
to be dignified under these circumstances.

" Then why ever let him be troubled by it, or any of
the others ? For, of course, there aie others."

" Really, Lord Windermere "

" Oh, my dear Mr.^ "!hillingham, you really must not be
offended. If you won't allow me the privilege of a friend,
I know Jack would — only why not save him annoyance
just now by permitting me to pay all these things, and, of
course, you — th .t is, he — can repay me at any time ? "

The woman 'vho hesitates is lost, they say. Alice hesi-
tated. She — unlike Mrs. Belfort — was blessed or cursed
with a moral sense, and she felt that to accept money
from a young man was not strictly right. Still she did
not believe it to be very wrong ; and, no doubt, as Lord
Windermere said, it would really be as much a loan to her
husband as to her. And then the pain and bitterness it
would save her and Jack ! Of course it would be paid
back ; and to Lord Windermore the temporary loss of a
small sum mattered nothing. Would it not be unfriendly
to refuse ? Yet, was friendship between a man and a
woman possible ? Alice believed it was, and came from a
country which has proved that it is so — that is, where
the blood flows slowly, and the soul is taken up with dollar-
making. And as she hesitated. Lord Windermere wrote
a cheque for £1000, and laid it on the table.

" Don't let us say another word about it," said he.
" When Jack leads the Radicals to victory, and takes
away all our property, I shall probably come to you for
a great deal more ; and," — here for one moment he aban-
doned his respectful, almost business-like manner as he
took her hand — " dear Mrs. Chillingham, I would give my
whole foicune to obtain for you a moment's pleasure."

And he was gone, leaving Alice with his cheque and a
kiss his lips had dare(i to press upon her hand.

I !i

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A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

105

CHAPTER X.

Rem facias, rem ! Si possis, recte : si non, quocunque modo, rem !

Horace.

-:*

Alice's first impulse was to tear up the cheque and give
orders that Lord Windermere should never again be ad-
mitted. That her hand should have been kissed was not
so very terrible, for pretty women cannot always stand
on tiptoe of virtue when tliey value adequately their
prettiness and its advantages ; but that £1000 should lie
on her table as it were paid for that hand-kiss seemed
shocking.

And yet was it, after all so shocking ? Good heavens !
A young married woman taking money from her — friend?
Yes, surely he was her friend and nothing else; and Jack's
friend, too. And it was to save Jack from trouble that
he did this. Of course, it was possible for ill-natured
people to say ill-natured things, but if she in her own
heart knew there was no harm, there was no harm.
" Dear me," said she to herself, " I wish I had been at
Oxford and learnt logic." As far as she knew, this £1000
would clear off all they owed. Yet — what a nuisance
Lord Windermere was, giving it to her instead of to
Jack, though, perhaps, Jack's exaggerated sense of inde-
pendence would have made him reject it. But surely,
then, if he would have refused it, it must be wrong for
her behind his back to accept. She seized a pen.

"Dear Lord Windermere,

"I return your cheque, which I could not think of
accepting, and I am astonished "

,;,-., -y-

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

No ! that would not do ; for if she had been astonished
she would ha e shown her astonishment before Lord
Windermere went. One thousand pounds ! It was a
large sum ; and how delicious it would be, when Jack
came back, to feel that there would be no money trouble,
crisis, or discoveries ! If Lord Windermere were only
twenty years older ! Yet, surely, it was absurd to care
about such folly as what spiteful people might say. If
she did accept this loan — at this point she took up the
cheque and unfolded it — at any rate. Jack must know at
once. She had a dim perception that Lord Windermere
would be pleased if she had a secret from her husband,
and nothing was farther |rom her mind than to gratify
him. But if it would be a gratification, did not that fact
alone prove decisively that she should not take this
money ? '

Again Alice took up her pen.

"Dear Lord Windermere,

"I return you the cheque which you were kind
enough to offer to lend Jack and me ; because I think
that, if anything of the sort were done, it should be
through my husband, who understands about money mat-
ters. Very many thanks all the same for your great
kindness."

Certainly a stupid letter ; yet how could she explain
Iierself better ? It should certainly go ; and the envelope
was nearly directed when Mrs. Belfort was shown in.

Mrs. Belfort was one of those who are so entirely igno-
rant of deep feeling that they cause in lookers-on not so
blessed by Nature a feeling of shame at the absurd
reality of life to themselves, while this pink-and-white
doll unconsciously and without effort attained what no
pagan philosopher ever could quite honestly acquire.
She simply took life exactly as it came, an(J would nq

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON,

107

more have complained at a freak of Fortune than sh^
would have assaulted her ticket because the train war.
behind time. We have heard of laughing philosophers,
and of many other sorts, but the philosophy of ignorance
is the only kind that is quite perfect.

" I am in despair," she said, sitting down on the sofa,
and looking a picture of smug prosperity. " Quite in
despair, dear."

" And why, Minna ? "

" Charlie's left me ; gone after Mrs. Delmar."

"Charlie? Mr. Belfort?"

" Oh no ! Ey-the-bye, it is a coincidence. He's Charlie,
too. Oh no ! I mean Charlie Wildair. He was my
especial last season, and I meant it to have gone on for
another. Isn't it dreadful ? "

" My dear Minna " — and Alice Ipoked very grave —
" you know I hate your talking like this, and I believe you
only do it to annoy me. You don't really mean the dread-
ful things you say."

" Oh yes, I do ! Charlie really is desperately taken by
Kate Delmar. But, after all, perhaps I shall get over it,
though he certainly is the best-looking boy to be seen
anywhere now. Almost better-looking than Windy — eh,
Alice ? " and Mrs. Belf ort's big blue eyes rested maliciously
on Alice's face.

"I don't think Lord Windermere particularly good-
looking," said Alice, demurely.

"Oh!"

" He is very agreeable — sometimes."

"Oh!" ' ;

" And very fond of Jack." ' . .. '

"Oh!" ' " - '-^^ '"■'■' '^"^

" Why do you go on saying * Oh ! ' like that, Minna ? "

" Did I ? But, I say, Alice, you've been crying. What
a pity ! Tom Babbles declares every time a woman cries
she loses so much of the size of her eyes — decimal some-
thing or other he called it. I haven't cried " — and she

108

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

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pondered gravely for a moment — " not since my old man
would make the honeymoon a fortnight instead of a week.
And it was aggravating, for Charlie Wildair was desper-
ately in love with me then, and who could tell what a
fortnight's absence might do ? And after all my trouble
and anxiety, here is Charlie gone after all ! Do you like
my fiock, dear ? "

" It's lovely/' said Alice, abstractedly. " Do you know,
Minna, I want to ask you a serious question."

" People are always wanting to ask me serious ques-
tions. But they are generally men." >

" How do all th% women who are poor, and whom one
sees in different gowns every day, and with carriages and
things, manage it ? "

" What a funny question ! " said Mrs. Belfort, glancing
round the little drawing-room, which Jack in a fit of ex-
travagance, had furnished in the highest of what we are
now pleased to call high art.

"Well, but how do they ?"

" Why, people give them things, I suppose," said Mrs.
Belfort, carelessly.

" What sort of people — relations ? "

" Relations, dear ! Who ever heard of relations giving
anything ? No. What's the use of women being pretty
if they can't get things given them ? Why, though my
old man is very good to me, and scarcely ever grumbles
at what I spend, I find occasional presents very useful.
Poor dear Charlie Wildair — I am so sorry to lose him —
nearly ruined himself last year giving me things. In-
deed, I believe that house at Ascot — which my old man
was so cross about, that I had to declare I'd leave him
if he didn't apologise — must have cost Charlie his year's
income."

" And you took that from Captain Wildair ? "

" Of course I did. I shouldn't have gone to Ascot else ;
and I had the loveliest frocks — one, I remember, wa^
blue, with -'

I .

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

109

" I think you were very wrong," said Alice, rather in-
dignantly.

" Oh no ! Everyone does it ; and there's something so
pleasant about having things given one like that, that I
don't know why the fact of having a rich husband should
prevent one taking them — sometimes."

" Does everyone really do it ? "

" Of course they do. Why, you know as well as I do
that there are at least a dozen women going about now
whose husbands couldn^t pay for their dress, let alone all
their other expenses."

" It's very dreadful," said Alice.

" Dreadful ! Why, dear, I suppose rich men, particu-
larly rich bachelors, were made for the purpose ; and it's
quite the regular thing now. Nobody minds."

" Of course •! can understand." said Alice, slowly, " a
woman accepting a loan from a friend "

" Of course ! That's what it is — they're only loans from'
friends. Why, Emily Greenell told me the other day
that her husband always expected Lord Courtall to pa,y
the coal and beer bijls for each season."

"What! that boy?"

" Oh, he comes of age next year ; and he can get any-
thing from the Jews, they say."

" Look here, Minna," and Alice stood up in her agita
tion. " Supposing I told you that Lord Windermere had
— finding out by accident that my bills for dress and things
were rather troublesome — had offered to lend me enough
to pay them — only a loan of course — and I'm to tell
Jack ? "

" I should sa^ that Lord Windermere was only doing
what he ought," said Mrs. Belf ort, smiling ; and I shouldn't
trouble Mr. Chillingham about it, if I were you. Hus-
bands and wives often see a thing in different lights."

" But there's only one light in which anyone could see
this."

" Well, my dear, all I can say is, those poor ponies will

,fi

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

be grilled if they stand any longer in the sun. Men never
know when they're well off ; and if I were you I wouldn't
give my husband an opportunity of refusing a piece of
luck. Lord Windermere is enormously rich,"

" But to have a secret from Jack ! " said Alice, half to
herself.

" Oh, I've heaps of secrets from my old man, though I'm
tremendously fond of him. He certainly gives me much
more than an one else, except compliments, and I do like
being told I am pretty."

"Do you? I hate it!" Alice's tone was decidedly
cross. It had certainly been a mistake to try and obtain
advice from this frivolous little woman ; but, neverthe-
less, the matter-of-course way in which she had taken
what was to Alice an announcement of great importance
had its effect ; and, when Mrs. Belfort's high-stepping
• ponies had rattled out of North Street, Alice tore up her
note to Lord Windermere and placed the cheque in a
drawer, so that she might still further think over the
course she would pursue.

So Mme. de Br^baut-Grandcours and the others got
their money, and Alice, half in innocence, but only half,
put her little foot on the path downwards.

Lord Windermere, when twelve hours had elapsed and
the cheque had not been returned, crowned himself in an-
ticipation with victorious laurels, and had he known as
much of Milton as of women, would doubtless have ex-
claimed —

If this fail,
The pillared firm: ""t is rottenness,
And earth's base b^^^o on stubble.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

Ill

CHAPTER XI.

What is a wise man ?

Well, sir, as times go, 'tis a man who knows himself to be a fool and
hides the fact from his neighbour. •

Old Play.

When Jack called at his club on the way to the railway-
station, he found there a telegram from Mr. Hort-on, of
Shodborough, saying that things were not quite ripe for
his advent, and that he had better defer coming for another
two days. Nothing loth, he returned in a swift hansom
to North Street, and was received by his wife with as
much effusion as if he had been through a campaign, or
been engaged for a winter in attempting to reach the
North Pole without lime-juice.

Failing to obtain any political directions from the Duke,
and his own mind being in a chaotic *tate with respect to
party cries and ambition, he determined to take counsel
of his friends before going to Shodborough. His friends
however, although willing enough, were not very capable
in this respect. Johnny Beere being consulted first, sug-
gested " Down with heverything " as a fine Radical motto;
but on Jack humbly observing that he thought that a
little strong, the professed " funny man " advised him to
take " Speed the plough, and down with machinery and
free tretde ! " for a war-cry.

But this wouldn't quite do.

" Look here, Jack " — Mr. Beere called everyone by his
christian-nam e after an hour's acquaintance — " I'll tell
you what we'll do. We'll have a dinner — a regular

112

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

on Liberty, and the ' Mill on the Floss/ and all sorts of
Mills, which 'grind exceeding small' in the season here,
by-the-bye. * No mattar,' as they say in melodrama.
Why don't they call it apple, or nut, or ginger- beer drama?
as irtMos — the Latin, you know, for melons — are seldom
sold at transpontine theatres. The Venus of Melos —
misspelt Milo sometimes — lost her arms from disease
brought on by eating too many melons. Did you ever
read ' Fau se Alerte,' in * Monsieur, Madame, et B^b^ ? '
Some French archaeologists swear that, like the parvenu-
loved Heralds' ^^Uege people, they have found Venus's
arms, but I don l believe it. But I am wandering from
the subject, as Queen Elizabeth said when she ran away
from Lord Essex, after boxing his ears, or might have said.
Never mind, we will return, as the Czar won't say when
he takes Constantinople. We will have a thoughtful din-
ner. 1 read a book — first-class — the other day, in which
the host was elevated (you never can make a joke before
a Roman Catholic) by his idea of having bills of talk as
well as bills of fare. That's what we'U have. I'll ask
the people, and we (5an all pay our share, and you shall
stand or sit at my right hand ^ndi keep the thing going
with me. Eh?"

"I don't quite see," began Jack, bewildered by the
other's flow of talk.

" Of course not. You now see through a glass (that
sherry and bitters) darkly ; but after such a dinner as I
will order, we shall see everything face to face. We'll
dine at — ah ! at the Aquarium ! There's ^mething fishy
about a political candidate which suggests it ; and you
can't be offended, as whatever you do there'll be plenty
of tanks — I mean thanks — with nothing in 'em. To
morrow night — eight o'clock. Are you game ? " "^

" Of course ; though I ought to go to Sbodborough by
the last train that night. But who will draw up the con-
versation menii ? "

" I will, and I'll make everyone swear to observe it.

> I'

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

113

the

By gad ! how intellectual we will be ! I say, old chap,rub up
your first principles, and all that sort of thing, will you ? *

" But what have they got to do with politics ? "

" Oh, I don't know ; but they might come in, and a
fellow like you, with a pretty wife and a duke for an
uncle, and a conscience, as I'm told you have, ought to
know all about first principles. But of course I shall
bring in politics about cheese-time. * The word poltik,*
as Count Smorltork said, ' surprises in himself,' and there's
nothing like surprise to aid digestion. We'll have politics
all dessert-time, and go on with it as long as you like ;
and we shall have a capital opportunity of comparing the
gifted * Zazel ' on the wire to a politician. I can hear
Keyser moralising about it already."

" The cannon would be the confidence of his party, I
suppose ?"

" And the net she falls so softly upon the outside mob,
always ready to hold up a fallen minister." . .

"And which he, like Zazel, only makes use of as a means
to get back to the cannon."

" Well, look here, Jack," said Johnny Beere, as he
sauntered towards a group in another part of the room,
" eight o'clock sharp — wits sharp, I mean."

" Not going to Shodborough till the day after to-mor-
row ? " said Alice, when she heard of this dinner-party.
" I thought you were in such a hurry ? "

" So I was, dear," said Jack; "but you see one day can't
make much difference, and though of course this business
is mostly fun, still I may gather something from it. I've
got to write my address," and Jack looked rather ruefully
at the foolscap, as yet unsoiled, which he had purchased
ior his mighty effort.

" Let me write it,' said Alice, bringing her husband a
light for his cigar. They were in the " den," or library,
of North Street, after dining out.

" Write away."
8

114

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" You're a Tory, of course ? "
" Anything you like."
" Well, let me see. ' Gentlemen-
them gentlemen, don't you ? "

You always call

" Always," said Jack, lazily enjoying the first whiffs of
a cigar which represented a day's income.

" ' Gentlemen,' " went on Alice, sitting at the writing-
table with an important air, and reading her words slowly
as she wrote them, *" if you elect me for Parliament you
will be doing a great good to England, and pleasing your
landlord very much.' "

" That's an argument ad hominem" spid Jack, with the
superior air that the quotation of Latin before a woman
gives a man. - ^

" I daresay it is, replied Alice, inking her fingers in
perplexity ; " but I don't quite know how to go on."

" You must say which side I'm on."

" But how can I sav so when I don't know ? "

" That's just my difficulty."

" Oh, i know. * In consequence of the great difficulty

in taking a decided line in the unparal ' Where do

the two Il's come, Jack ? "

" First two," said Jack, sleepily.

" * Unparalleled difficulty of the present situation, I shall
be ' Are you listening ? "

" Yes, darling," and Jack waved his cigar in proof of
being awake.

" * I shall be ' No, ' I am,* that's much better—* I

am only prepared to tell you that whatever question may
come before me as your representative, I shall most cer-
tainly take the side which is right.' I don't see how any-
thing could be better than that."

" No," said he, rising and putting his arm round her
waist as he leaned over the table. " But they would want
to know what I thought right."

"Surely they might leave that to you," cried she, rather
indignantly, " What can a lot of butchers, and bakers,

i '

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

115

rays call

rhiffs of

«rriting-
s slowly
Bnt you
Qg your

vith the
woman

gers in
n."

ifficulty
here do

,1 shall

roof of

ler— ' I
mmay
)st cer-
wany-

nd her
i want

rather
>akers,

and people know about it? They must leave you to
settle that."

" I wish they would — when I've found out for myself."

" I'll always tell you what / think," said Alice, with a
pretty saucy air of wisdom.

"You!"

" Yes, sir. I'm not so ignorant as you think. I've had
pamphlets sent me ; pamphlets about the Turks, and mas-
sacres, and vivisection, and the Contagious Dis "

" Did you read them all ? " cried Jack, starting.

" No-o ; but I mean to. I had a lot about the contagi-
ous thing — something to do with cattle, poor ill-used
things, isn't it?"

" I vote we go to bed," said Jack, throwing away the
end of his cigar.

" But you'll let me help you with the address, dear,
when I've read all my pamphlets ? "

" Heaven forbid ! " said Jack, kissing her. " Don't you
bother your little head about politics — at least till I'm in
Parliament." v

" Ah, Jack ! " said she, putting her white arm round
his neck, and turning her great eyes up to his, " I long
for it to come right. Then I shall go every night to the
House, and how proud I shall feel when you make the
speech of the season, and everybody says when they
see me, ' That's the wife of Mr. Chillingham, the great
orator ! ' "

" You foolish little woman ! " said Jack, pinching her
ear. Do you know what a seat in the House means ? As
far as I can make out, it means sitting in a bad atmos-
phere, listening to bad speeches, while every now and
then you try vainly, like a bad fisherman, to catch the
Speaker's eye."

" You silly boy ! " said Alice, " you know perfectly well
that you will make a great success. At any rate I know
It,

" I only know you look too pretty to-night."

|!i"'n

116

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" And you are not going to dine at home to morrow,
our last night ? You haven't ever been away yet. I wish
you weren't going at all ! " -

" And how about Shodborough ? "

" I hate Shodborough ! Why can't they elect you
without all this trouble ? Send your photograph and the
address."

" If I sent yours it might do more good," said Jack, as
he followed her up the narrow staircase.

" How 'jlad I am that he won't have Mme. de Br^baut-
Grandcour's bill to bother him ! " thought Alice as —

Her gentle limbs did she undresa,
And lay down in her lovliness.

;■•»■

irV,-, ■ ^,-

'■'.■:' :-.■ "rC-. .-y-'^ ii\i ], )

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

'117

CHAPTER XII.

„T.

Others apart sat on a hill retired, ■ ' ■ ';

In thougnts more elerate, and reasoned high - '^ ■'

w ^^t w w w w ,. i

And found no end, in wandering mazes lost.

Paradise Lost.

Lord Brocklesby was so delighted at his second son's
public spirit in consenting to stand for Shodborough, that
he took a step which he had been contemplating for some
time, and from which his wife had been very eager to
dissuade him — he doubled Jack's allowance, and added to
his will a codicil by which Jack would inherit a small un-
settled property about equal to the present addition to his
income, at his father's death. As thfe will stood before
the codicil, Lady Brocklesby would have taken the pro-
perty, and she was naturally much incensed, and looked
round her anxiously for some means of revenge.

" You do it all, I suppose, for the beaux yeux of Alice,"
she said.

" Partly, my dear — partly," said Lord Brocklesby, some-
what nervously, " though I think I would have done the
same had she squinted."

" It seems to me you are blind." ■ ^ ^ '^

" No, I'm not, but I am getting a little deaf."

" Yes— :to the calls of justice."

" My love, do you suppose Jack and his wife could pos-
sibly keep out of debt on five hundred pounds a year ?"

" They are in debt as it is, and Alice is behaving very
badly to my boy," cried her ladyship, angrily. " The
more you give them, the worse it will be ; and do you
suppose that your wretched little hundreds can pay for
Alice's dress ? And somebody pays."

" What on earth do you mean, my lady ?"

" Never mind. Some day you'll regret leaving your
wife a pauper for the sake of "

^1^'

in' 1

t ■; 1

F'^^jrrjPfrjr "-'.■-'^•r,

3)>

118

CHILDREN OF Nx^TURE.

But even lady Brocklesby couldn't say the word that
rose to her lips, and the conversation ended, leaving his
lordship more or less happy with the conviction that he
had annoyed his wife and yet had not laid himself open
to any very terrible retaliation.

" There, darling," said Jack to Alice, when he heard of
the addition to their income ; " now we shall get on
famously, particularly as we owe so little. Fancy if you
were like Mrs. Belf ort, or any of that lot ! Why, we should
have been broke long ago ! But, by Jove, it's wonderful !
You dress better than any one of them, and cost nothing !
Good-bye, dearest ! "

" Good-bye, Jack," said she, with tearful eyes. " Mind
you write every day — twice a day if you can ; and tele-
graph if I could do any good at Shodborough. How
horrid this dinner at the Aquarium is ! J should have had
you for another three hours."

At the Aquariun were assembled Lord Badsworth ; Mr.
Curlingfield, the Shakespearian commentator and hypercri-
tical f'hilosopher, who would have revelled in the famous
discussion as to how many angel s could dance on the poiiic
of a pin ; Johnny Beere, brimming over with bad pun3
and gay, nonsensical i un ; Keyser, the gloomy moraliser,
who kept his skeleton not in his cupboard, but in his
pocket, and who allowed no banquet to pass over without
its production ; Sir John Glorme, the wicked man, about
whom boys on entering London life spoke in awe-stricken
whispers, and of whom stories were told that froze the
blood of mothers, and caused all decent bodies to shudder ;
Flitterv, the man about town, who lived no one knew
how, bu o always on the best food and with the best com-
pany, and who knew a little of almost every conceivable
subject ; and Spencer Chillingham, who came with his
eyeglass to help his brother with a little advice, gnd, if
possible, to startle somebody by the negation of something
they believed in. ■■., -=

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

119

After all, it requires some intelligence to hold a sincere
creed ; any fool can be a sceptic. The blue-nosed ape at
the Zoological Gardens does not believe the sun will rise
next day ; it is so far above him that he scorns to have an
opinion ; but he does believe that the scheme of the world
is conceived with a view to his receiving a certain amount
of nuts every Saturday afternoon ; and he gets the nuts,
and the sun rises, and he says, " How foolish are the other
apes who have creeds as to the ^nn which they can only
see, while I believe alone in the nuts which I can crack
and digest." So the blue-nosed ape is clever and enlight-
ened, and never dreams that when the sun doesn't rise the
nuts will cease to come. But such ideas as these had not
entered the head of Spencer Chillingham, whose gospel
of incredulity was credulous to the extremest degree, and
who grovelled before the Pope of Disbelief more humbly
than Ultramontane ever bowed down to the Monarch of
the Vatican.

Their table was placed in a gallery overlooking the
glass-covered hall, and as they unfolded their napkins
and glanced at each other with that awkward suspicion
which Britonb usually affect before they are warmed with
meat and drink, a band below struck up an inspiring
medley of popular airs.

*' I rise, gentlemen," said Johnny Beere, solemnly, " to
protest against any flippancy to-night. This is an im-
portant occasion. My friend — our friend — Jack Chilling-
ham, is about to enter the lists and tilt against the enemy.
It is for us during dinner to discover what the enemy is.
I propose, therefore, that we form ourselves into a mix-
ture of a Social Science Congress and a St. James' Hall
Conference *o discuss, in the intervals of mastication, the
several subjects upon our conversation menu."

" MenuaiUe, he means," said Flittery, twisting his
moustache. , ,

" Eh ? " said Badsworth, amused.

" Menuaille is French for ' bosh,' " and Flittery smiled
in a superior manner.

t:.

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" The first subject is," went on Beere, referring to a
card beside his plate, " ' Th':: Aim of L'ie.' "

" I know," said Flittery, still smiling and still superior.
'* Aimer ! "

" Are we to make bad puns ? " asked Spencer, angiily.

" The aim of life," said Keyser, dreamily, " of course it
is to forget — to forget the past, to ignore the present, to
shut out the future."

" What would you have, then ? " said Badsworth,
laughing.

We should have " — and Keyser dropped his spoon
and looked up at the glass roof — " we should have our
Innerness — the life which is independent of the freaks of
outside eventualities. I myself, who have succeeded in
rising above all carnal feelings "

" Sweet or dry champagne, sir ? "

" Dry. I am able to look on happily, or if sadly, with
only the qualified and charitable sadness of a spectator, at
the passions and hopes and fears of the world. I am
able 1 don't think much of this champagne, Beere."

" Pooh ! " cried Spencer, delighted at the pause oc-
casioned by Keyser's sipping of his wine. " You are not
put here to look on. We are all actors, and no one wants
to be a super, or, if undertaking a big part, to be a stick.
Everyone's duty is to fight against prejudice; and pre-
judice is rampant. The world is like a gigantic lunatic
asylum, in which all the patients are not only curable, but
are rapidly becoming well. The keepers know this very
well, but also know that they will lose their salaries
when all are sane and there is no need for the asylum ;
so they give the unfortunate patients everything they
can imagine to keep them quietly mad, and only let one
or two out now and then when their sanity is beyond
question. But, nevertheless, there are so many sane ones
inside now, that the keepers and doctors must soon be
beaten, and the gates of the humbug-building be thrown
wide open for all to go out."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

121

" It strikes me we are wandering from the subject on
the card, * The Aim of Life,' " said Jack, looking at his
brother with some dismay.

" The aim of life," said Curlingfield, rubbing up his
hair, " is to enter into the glorious thoughts of the giants
of old days."

" By Jove !" said Johnny Beere, quite puzzled.

" Take Shakespeare, for instance. I myself have writ-
ten a pamphlet to prove that the disputed passage con-
cerning * runaway's eyes ' was never "

" Shakespeare ! " interrupted Sir John Glorme, who had
already obtained by skilful manoeuvring two glasses of
the Perier Jouet. "Shakespeare wrote for his time.
Swinburne writes for ours. And as to ' runaway's eyes '

— except that they are frequently d d by the husband

who stays at home — I don't see what they matter. Be-
sides— — "

" Gentlemen, gentlemen ! " expostulated Beere, tapping
the table with the handle of his knife. " * The Aim of
Life,' if you please."

" The aim of life is to be happy," said Jack, hesitating.

" Yes, but how ? " said Beere.

** By making others happy, of course," said Sir John
Glorme, with a leer.

" To be happy," said Badsworth, looking rather stern-
ly at the baronet, "it is absolutely necessary to be un-
selfish."

" Bah ! " cried Spencer, " selfishness is the very main-
spring of human movement. The whole fabric of civiliza-
tion and religion is built upon it. What does the first
mean ? — Trade ! What does trade mean ? — A, B, or C
trying to make a fortune for himself. And as to the second,
what keeps the mob straight or makes them wish to
keep so ? — Fear for themselves of that "

" * Something after death,'" put in Curlingfield, " which,
a.s Hamlet says in the improved version I have ready for
the press ' •

lU ■

-i; t

122

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" Selfishnees," went on Spencer, hurriedly, '* is the
real power in the world. Energy is another name for

XL*

" So the aim of life is to be selfish ? " Si Jack.

" Not exactly," said Flittery, who had scarcely listened
to the foregoing, being engaged in subduing by the power .
of his eye a young lady dining at the next table. " You
must discriminate. The aim of life is to get on. If a
man starts at the bottom of the ladder, he must see that
his feet are flrmly planted on each rung as he goes up.
When they irmly planted, and if he isn't obliged to
hold on with .o hands, he may use them to assist others
— to the rung below him."

" Didn't it ever strike you," said Badsworth, " that we
are all here engaged in trying to guess a riddle ? "

" I never could guess riddles," murmured Keyser.

" And that it is well worth guessing ? That life is not
a mere lounge, but a school where the best boy will get to
the top if he learns his lessons thoroughly ? "

" But what the deuce is the lesson ? " said Sir Johr.
" I've studied human nature pretty closely for these
last twenty years, and I only have found out two
things."

" And what are they ? " asked Jack, as the baronet
paused.

" That men are great liars, and that women are greater
liars."

" Twenty years — and that the result ! " said Badsworth,
half to himself.

" Well," said Sir John, turning on him, " what have
you found out in your five years ? "

' I think I have found out this — that we often make
people what we think them. If you determine only to
see the bad side of a man's or woman's character, that is
the side you will be shown. When two people try to see
eaxih other's hearts, the good in one reflects the good in
the other, and the bad the bad,"

!—-£=-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

123

" God bless my soul ! " cried Johnny Beere, " here's the
fish done, and we are as far from having found out the
aim of life as ever. What's the next subject ? ' The Aim
of Life ' is abandoned ; we come to * The Causes of Sue-
cess in Society.' "

" A pretty wife." said Sir John.

" Intellect," said Curlingfield.

" Ej9Prontery," said Keyser.

" Stupidity and credulity," said Spencer.

" Good looks, good digestion, and knowledge of human
nature," said Flittery.

"We might argue the point till dessert-time," said
Bads worth ; " it's too complicated. I should be inclined
to say that a popular man may be anything except a man
without a pleasant grin."

" The pleasant grin has it," cried Beere. " But Baddy's
quite right. The subject is too big£ we'll take a corner
of it — ' The Causes of Success with W omen.' "

" Ah ! " murmered Sir John, smacking his lips and look-
ing positively fiendish in his archness.

" Earnestness," said Jack. " I fancy what women like
most in men is for them to be thoroughly in earnest.
They tell me that in foreign society. Englishmen are liked
so much — although they are gauche, and usually unable
to pay a compliment or walk out of a room — because they
mean what they say."

" I don't think that," said Keyser. " Mystery is what
women like. They only admire what they don't under-
stand. Byron knew this when he hinted at his mysteri-
ous crijnes and unholy passions."

" My dear boys," said Sir John, pulling his shirt-sleeves
over his chalky knuckles with an air, " you are both at
fault. Woman's one great pleasure in a man is to deprive
her female friends of him. You remember the old story
of the young man who went to the head of one great firm
and asked for his daughter, saying the other great firm
was about to make him partner ; and went to the head of

fiii ''W

124

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

It:
'hi'

the latter firm and asked to be made partner on the
ground that he was to marry the daughter of Firm No. 1
— and got both. "Well, that's the kind of thing I mean.
Make Mrs. A. think Mrs. B. longs for you, and make
Mrs. B. think Mrs. A. pines for you ; and, by gad, sir, they
both begin to long and pine, for the sake of spiting each
other."

Keyser looked intensely disgusted during this speech.

" They talk of women," he said half to himself, " and
the word love is never even mentioned."

" Why should it be ? " asked Spencer. "What is it ?
A sham — a poetical delusion. A thing some half-witted
fop, who had nothing better to do while guarding his
sheep on Parnassus, invented as a compliment to himself
when he talked nonsense to his shepherdess. I don't
want to be coarse, for I know it shocks Flittery, but the
plain fact is, that love consists solely "

" Hi, hi ! " cried Beere, bringing his knife down on the
table with a bang. " You're off the track. Pull up. I
don't see anything of love in the menu, though there was
turtle soup. No, it's time for the subject of the evening.
Jack's thirsting to astonish us with a brief account of the
Constitution. 'Politics!'"

" Define politics," said Keyser, who had not spared the
champagne, snorting with pleasure at the prospect of
puzzling even Spencer Chillingham.

" Politics," said the latter, adjusting his eye-glass, " is
the art of keeping the majority of a nation under the de-
lusion that they ought to be content to be poor, power-
less, and downtrodden, and hiding from them the fact
that they could kick their masters into the sea at any
moment. The fabric of civilized life is built entirelj^ on
imposture, and politics forms the machinery by which the
charlatans, who have climbed to the top on the ladder of
universal ignorance, work."

"I'm sure," said Flittery, deprecatingly, "politicians, as
a rule, are far from being charlatans. Consider for a

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

125

moment how ail the best men in England join the House
of Commons, and remember what the House of Lords is! "
"I do, indeed," said Spencer, shuddering; "the most
splendid exhibition of arrogant stupidity to be seen in the
world."

" Really, Chillingham," said Flittery, his colour rising,
" I am ready to listen to many extraordinary remarks
from you ; but, as I happen to have two uncles in the
House, I must beg "

" No quarrelling," said Beere, " and stick to the sub-
ject. Let the candidate f jr Shodborough tell us what he
thinks."

r. '.•<'f\

126

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XIII.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in
all Venice : his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels
of chaff'

Merchant of Venice.

1 1

1-^

'* I don't quite agree with my brother there as to politics
— that is, the definition of the term," said Jack, wonder-
ing whether the Aquarium authorities would object to
his smoking a cigarette ; " and I don't see the good of
my telling you fellows what 1 think. Our object is to
settle what I am to think."

" Of course," cried Johnny Beere ; " so it is. It's a
mere question of choice of parties, as the linkman said,
when he read The Morning Post, and the biggest party
is the best, or at any rate that at which there is most
* carriage company.' "

"Yes, there's the grand fault of our system," said
Spencer. " The meddling of the well-to-do classes with
politics is most pernicious. How can a man with a good
coat legislate with a proper respect for rags ; a man with
clean hands see nothing disagreeable in dirty ones ; a
contented man know anything of the majority of his
countrymen, the discontented ? "

" Why, would you like to see the American plan — the
politicians a low and despised class — adopted here ? "
asked Flittery, in a tone of horror.

" Not a bit of it," said Spencer, firmly. " The politi-
cians of America, for all their apparent fierceness, are
Philistines. No! I hold that all but labouring men
are merely ornamental ; the real flesh and blood is to be
found "

"In Mr. Bright's residuum ? " asked Badsworth, smil-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

127

ing. "And where would you and the other well-con-
ducted Democrats be then ? "

" What matter where we are so long as power is in the
proper hands ? " cried Spencer, enthusiastically. " Oh,
I'd give every hope of fame or success I have, just to see
the prosy nobodies I have to listen to for such dreary
hours in the House kicked off their pedestals by a lot of
strong-minded nature — educated shoemakers."

" There's nothing like leather," murmured Beere.

" Man," went on Spencer, warming to his theme, "man
is so ignorant as yet that he does not know what a grand
thing he is when stripped of all the artificial and effete
attributes which silly custom has grafted on to him.
They tell us we cannot make a Utopia, and I ask why
not ? Poob ! We can make anything. We are omni-
potent as regards ourselves ; and as to equality — perfect
and pure and simple equality — being impossible, why,
the only wonder is that a little knot of people who hap-
pen to hold the gold and silver of the world should have
been able so long to prevent its advent. It will come —
it is coming fast— but I fear we have lived rather too
early."

" Never mind, old chap," said Beere, clapping him con-
solingly on the shoulder ; " cheer up, and remember that
if you had lived any later you would have missed
Zazel."

" But I don't quite see," said Jack, who was rather im-
pressed by his brother's enthusiasm, " how all this helps
me. I can't go and tell the Shodborough people to
divide the Duke of Cheshire's property amongst them."

" Good God ! " said Flittery, " Shodborough is intensely
Tory. You must be blue there." ' -{•- -^ - -

" Must I ? " said Jack, feeling that at last something
practical had been arrived at.

" Green enough here," said Beere, par parentMse.
" By Jove, here's Zazel ! We must shelve our debate for
a bit, eh ? "

128

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

Id .5

ti-n ]'

m i

» ;.

" No ; I'll tell you what we'll do," said Badsworth.
" Each shall write down as shortly as he can his
opinion on the different subjects of the day, and Cur-
lingfield, who is a master of the language, shall weld the
thing into one harmonious whole. Seeing that young
lady on the wire will perhaps keep us duly impressed by
the beauty of the old theory of the balance of power,
and the cannon part remind us of the horrors of war."

This proposition was assented to, and after a short time
the following admirable address was with some conscious
pride produced by Curlingfield :

" To THE Electors of Shodborough :

" GeNj'LEMEN, — I am unable to resist the request of so
many influential inhabitants of your borough, and I beg
to offer myself as a candidate for the vacancy in your
representation in Parliament. It being advisible that no
doubt should exist as to my opinions on the several ques-
tions which now divide men's minds, I will as briefly as
possible, tell you exactly what I think on each of them.

" Taking what is called the Eastern Question first, it
appears to me that while another war in defence of a
corrupt state such as Turkey would be most impolitic,
the occupation of any part of that kingdom by Russia
would be detrimental to the interests of this country ;
and that, although a causeless jealousy of Russia is most
unworthy of us, it is the duty of Her Majesty's Govern-
ment to allow no fear of propping up even Turkish mis-
rule to stand in the way of preserving a proper balance
of power in Europe, and the absolute freedom from
danger of our empire in the East.

" My opinion as to the proposed extension of the fran-
chise is simple. I consider that the agricultural labourer
is the perfect equal of many to whom the right of voting
has long ago been given ; but I should be strongly against
any so-called reform in this direction if it interfered

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

129

ing
nst
ired

in anj way with the power enjoyed by the present
electors.

"As to the Church of England, for which I have the
deepest respect, I should be most strongly against any
measure of disestablishment, unless I believed that in the
interests of freedom and in deference to the mighty /and
enlightened body of Nonconformists, such a measure
could be considered necessary.

" The game laws no doubt press hardly upon those per-
sons who want game and are prevented by circumstances
from preserving it ; at the same time I am bound to say
that there is nothing more sacred, more bound up with
the prosperity of this country, than the rights of property.
A measure which gave the poorest cottager an inalienable
right to the wild creatures provided by Nature, and re-
tained for game preservers those other rights which are
to my mind so essential, would meet with my hearty sup-
port.

" And I hold the same firm opinion as to the laws con-
nected with land. Should it ever be advisable to make
changes here, they should be such as to satisfy the land-
owner, whose greatness is bound up with the greatness of
England, while bringing peace, happiness, and prosperity
to the doors of every farmer and labourer in the land.

" To the Irish among you, I will go so far as to say
that, calling together the glories of the old House in
College Green, where Crattan, Curran, Shiel, and Flood
thundered their splendid rhetoric, I would gladly yield
to them the Home Rule they demand ; with only this
proviso, that not the smallest change be made in our glori-
ous Constitution, as amended in the year 1800.

'* I shall be amongst you almost immediately, and shall
be happy to answer any question you may desire to put to
me; although I apprehend, after this clear enunciation
of my views, that there will be little necessity for this
course."

" Very clear and concise," said Beere, sending^for an
9 :^

!>'

130

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

m :h!|

envelope ; " and nevertheless leaves you so free. We'll
have it posted in case you should forget it or leave it in
your pocket."

And in High Street, Shodborough, next day, there was
much rubbing of spectacles and pondering over this
document; and while Mr. Horton, the Conservative agent,
asserted stoutly that Mr. Chillingham was "Blue to the
backbone," Mr. Rellible, the butcher, who was strongly
suspected of toying with tl e advanced Liberal party,
although he supplied the FitzCrewe family with meat,
declared that there was no doubt the young gentleman
belonged to Birmingham School.

And when Mr. H-opgoal, the son of the oil and colour-
man, and the idol of the Republican Club held at the
Goat and Horns, read the address, he turned pale, and
shivered at the thought of what his brother Republicans
would say, could they see him baffled by the words of
a member of the effete aristot racy. But, then, poor Mr.
Hopgoal did not know that the address had been written
after a great deal of Perier-Jouet, amid the boundings of
Zazel, applause of the spectators, and braying of a lively
band. Perhaps if he had known this, he would have
burned his books, even his copy of Tom Paine, and fled
to some land where life is taken more seriously.

The result of the efforts of Mr. Curlingfield was that,
when Mr. Horton and a choice deputation of " Blue " citi-
zens attended that afternoon at The FitzCrewe Arms,
they were perfectly in the dark as to Jack's opinions, and
that unfortunate youth found himself under the necessity
of forming these opinions hurriedly as he sat on a hard-
backed chair, faced by half-a-dozed perspiring gentlemen
in shiny black frock-coats, also on hard-backed chairs ;
while, as the ready question preceded the reluctant and
stammering reply for two mortal hours, and the cuckoo
came out of the clock on the wall at intervals and laughed
at him, and the sun shone on him and seemed to dry up
what little brains he possessed, and the children playing

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

131

in the road screamed and put his half -formed answer to
flight, and flies settled on his nose and drove him mad, our
poor hero felt that, after this, he would have borne
patiently all the tortures of the Inquisition.

In the end, however, Mr. Horton carried him triumph-
antly through, and, at a great meeting held at the town-
hall two days afterwards, he was adopted as a fit and
proper person to represent Shodborough in Parliament,
although he scarcely as yet knew what his political opin-
ions were or were supposed to be.

and
Ickoo
Ighed

lying

132

CHILDREN OF NATURK

CHAPTER XIV.

. . . In the fatness of these pursy times
Virtiie itself of vice must pardon beg.

Hamlet.

I', t

[11

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if!

: \

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'i '

It was impossible that Alice could see so much of two
such women as her mother-in-law and Mrs. Belfort with-
out being in some degree contaminated. Hers was an
impressionable, credulous nature, assimilating itself in-
sensibly to those natures with which it came in contact,
and by reason of its ignorance of guile failing to see harm
where less pure ones would have recoiled with horror.
She had many points in common with her husband — his
impulsiveness and absence of suspicion ; and it was easier
for her to believe that the things she had always consid-
ered wrong were not so very wrong after all, than to be-
lieve that they were as wrong as she had supposed, and
yet were commonly practised by those amongst whom s!ie
lived. All the young married women she met appeared
to own admirers as naturally as they owned parasols ;
and where there was no concealment or attempt at con-
cealment it was difficult to believe there could be wrong,
or what poor Alice considered wrong's companion, shame.
For the last two months Lord Windermere had been so
continually at her elbow in public, that gradually the
whole of her ac^^iaintances had tacitly agreed to look
upon him as part of her establishment ; and — Jack hav-
ing already sufficient of the husband about him not to
bnjoy being a cavaliere servente — she did find it agreeable
enough to have a good-looking, pleasant young man always
at hand to anticipate and obey her lightest wish. Be-
sides, he was decidedly the principal target at which
mothers were shooting, for hia wealth was considerable,

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

133

and what woman — the sweetest, the most unselfish — can
resist the pleasure of making her sisters angry ?

Jack Chillingham, whose knowledge of London and
London ways was very limited, would no more have
dreamed of hinting that Lord Windermere was too much
with his wife than of knocking her down. Lady Brock-
lesby, by cleverly-dropped bits of admiration at Alice's
success and other women's discomfiture, associated Lord
Windermere in her mind with an agreeable sensation.
Mrs. Belfort took the whole thing so much as a matter of
course, that Alice, when with her, felt ashamed of the im-
portance she attached to it ; indeed Mrs. Belfort would
as soon have thought of going out without a gown as
without a lover. Jack himself liked to have Windermere
to save him trouble, and indeed expense, in many little
ways ; and thought that his own conversation and parts
were as much that nobleman's attraction as Alice's com-
pany ; besides which, Jack, who was of that comfortable
order of beings who are satisfied with their own things
because they are their own, thought that Perkins (the
£2G a year kitchen-maid who was so reckless with the
dripping) was sufiicient to bring any gowr'Triet to North
Street. Thus all combined to make the downward road
easy to Alice's pretty feet ; and the world looked on, and
nodded and smiled, and was ready to turn from her with
contempt when she reached the bottom, to find no way
up again. As yet, however, the decline was very gradual,
and on either side the r^ses bloomed, and merry com-
panions in bright clothes made the road gay enough.
Hurljngham, Prince's, the Orleans Club, countless din-
ners, parties, and balls, race-meetings, garden-parties, in-
vitations to country-house for the winter ; and, above all,
a constant shower of delicate flattery, of only half-con-
cealed love-making, of passionate glances, and of triumph
over other women — if Alice's head had not been turned
she would have been a Gorgon ; and what woman ever
Wiis a Gorgon ? Since the episode of the £1000 cheque,

134

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

\5 i

i (

I??

Windermere's manner had not altered, as she was inclined
to believe it would. On the contrary, it was more deeply
respectful than ever, and if she sometimes surprised a
passionate look in his eyes, it was a surprise, and he al-
ways at once averted his gaze, and appeared confused.
In many indirect methods he humbly apologised for the
kiss he had in a moment of ungovernable feeling ventured
to press upon her hand, until at length Alice, full of pity
for his apparent remorse, was almost driven to tell him
there was no harm in it. Windermere knew well when
to " make the running " and when to " wait," although it
required a prize as fair as was Alice Chillingham to induce
him to remain behind so long and so patiently. He knew
perfectly well what the world said, and therefore had all
the prestige of a success ; the delights thereof were, in
his opinion, not far off. The main difficulty was that he
had not as yet been able to hit upon the weak place in
Alice's armour. Her innocence was not stupidity; her
vanity was too small to have much influence on her actions;
her impatience of control was something, and Badsworth's
interference had certainly furthered his cause ; and as to
her love for Jack, or her capabilities of loving, Winder-
mere had very hazy notions as to the meaning of the
word : looking at " love " as a convenient form of express-
ing coarse ideas in a drawing-room. He had easily fath-
omed Badsworth's feeling towards Alice, and it was with
some pleasure that he beheld the suicidal step of interfer-
ence taken by that young gentleman. Badsworth, on the
other hand, was driven nearly mad by the calm way in
which Alice had been, so to speak, handed over to Win-
dermere, and cursed Jack in his heart for a booby un-
worthy of a pretty wife.

When the latter had been about a week at Shodborough,
and reported that another five days would finish the task
of cajoling the electors for the present, a small party was
got up by Mrs. Belfort for the pui-pose of attending the
French play, and afterwards taking the taste of the double

. I

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

135

entendres out of their mouths by means of a supper at
Lord Windermere's chambers.

" Somehow I aon't think Jack would quite like it,"
said Alice.

" Nonsense, dear ! " said Mrs. Belfort. " What is there
to dislike in it ? "

" You see — Lord Windermere's chambers "

" They're very nice ones ; such pretty pictures — classi-
cal, you know, dear ; it's wonderful to think how small
the milliners' bills must have been in classical days ! "

And Mrs. Belfort sighed as she thought of the forth-
coming wrangle over her own extravagance which she
had annually with her husband ; for on this point only
did he dare speak, his commercial instincts for once sup-
plying him with some semblance of authority.

" Well, I suppose I had better say yes. What is the
party?"

" There are you and I and Mrs. Jellaby and Lady
Glorme, and each of us brings our man. I've Charlie
Holster, Tiny Jellaby has Jim Sunnerton, Kitty Glorme
has Flittery, and you, of course, have our noble host."
" I hate all this pairing," said Alice, impatiently.
" Nature, my love," said Mrs. Belfort, calmly, " only
nature."

With the exception of our heroine, a faster party than
this could not well have been got together, even by Mrs.
Belfort ; and when Badsworth, who was in a box with
some men, saw them enter the stalls, he groaned aloud.
In one of the intervals between the acts he met Winder-
mere in the lobby.

" Come to supper with me to-night ? " asked the latter.
" All that lot are coming."

" No thank you," said Badsworth, stitfly, biti ^^g his lip
with vexation.

At the door of the theatre, when they were waiting for
their carriage, he made an effort.

" Must you go to this supper ? " he asked. -• •'-

'IS

136

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I' Ml

" Must I ? " said Alice, mocking him and laughing.
" No, T don't suppose I must, except that I am hungry."

" I wish you wouldn't."

" Do you ? Why ? " she asked, carelessly.

" Because — because Do you think, Mrs. Chilling-
ham, that Jack "

" Here's your brougham," said Windermere, coming up.
" Can you give me a lift ? "

"Alice hesitated, and met Badworth's reproachful eye.

" *^ertainly," she said ; and they drove off.

The supper party was an immense success, as supper-
parties often are. Ijady Glorme sang little love songs
exquisitely, and gazed fondly the while into Flittery's
eyes ; Mrs. Jellaby was in a splendid vein of somewhat
risqu^ humour, and kept them all in roars of laughter and
Alice in an agony of blushes ; and Charlie Holster and
Jim Sunnerton danced a burlesqued cancan in a style
which enraptured the company.

The chambers consisted of two rooms, in the inner one
of which the piano stood ; and when Alice sat down to
it to sing them an English ballad, whose innocence was
like a ray of sunlight there amid the garnish glitter of
the gas, the others sat in the front room to listen ; all
save Windermere, who leant over the piano and gazed at
Alice's small head and white shoulders with quickening
pulse. The champagne had passed around briskly, as
good wine does, and he was not as much master of him-
self as usual. Not that he was drunk ; no one had ever
seen him to show signs of having taken too much wine ;
but his passions were more fierce, and his prudence weaker
than they should have been. And Alice — will readers
turn from this tale with loathing, if we say that a
woman, even the purest, cannot drink three, or even two
glasses of sti'ong champagne, amid a Babel of laughter,
joke, and song, without her imagination being a little ex-
cited — without her blood circulating a little quicker than
in the morning ? Moved by her own simple song, she

■ /

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

137

turned to her neighbour instinctively for sympathy and
met his passionate gaze.

" Your song was cold," he said. *' They married and
had children, and went to church, and were happy ever
after. Here's a little thing from the French, which I
heard the other day." And as she rose and stood by the
piano, he sat down and sang in a true if not powerful
voice, with much expression : ,

- . ♦

" My soul has a secret, my life has its mystery,

My heart is stnick down to the ground at a blow,
'Tis so hopeless I fain would conceal the sad history, ■
For she who has done it her deed does not know.

Not all my life's homage to her unperceiving it
Would render less lonely my heart's solitude ;
> Alone I should live in the cold world, and leaving it,
Leave her unwon ; nay, leave her unwoo'd.

Straight is her path ; not to right noi to left of it
Tixm her soft eyes, although God made her kind ;

She recks not of love nor of those who, bereft of it.
Murmur of death and despair to the wind.

And all but her duty austerely unheeding,

She'll glance o'er these verses, so hot with my flame ;

And sweetly unconscious she'll turn from her reading
Of her that I love, and will ask me— her name ! "

Alice was silent ; she did not care a straw for the man
at her side, but she was tete montSe — in a state when a
woman should be in church or under lock and key. Her
imagination was on fire ; the world seemed all love —
gentle pure love, such as angels may feel unblamed.

" My_ darling," whispered Windermere, suddenly catch-
ing her to him almost fiercely; and his lips met hers, and
for a moment — for a short moment — she suffered him,
and did not even turn her head away.

But his triumph was short.

"Lord Windermere!" she cried (the noise in the next
room luckily being at its height), wrenching herself with
an efibrt from his grasp, and confronting him with flaming

138

CHILDKEN OF NATURE.

eyes—" you have insulted me ! I will never speak to vou
again!" ^ -^

He attempted to speak ; but with an imperious gesture
she turned away and entered the next room.
. " Mr. Flittery, will you see if my carriage has come ? It
IS much later than I thought. Oh, it is there ! Thanks.
Good-night." ' > i

" I'm sure there was a row," said Flittery, as he walked
to his club with Sunnerton. " Probably she is spending
too much for his lordship. Did you notice her eyes when
she came into the room ? By gad, how splendid she looks
in a rage ! "

1 ,"■

U-'

r:'" 1

i: ■

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A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

139

ire

ks.

;ed

en
ks

CHAPTER XV.

If but a woman's heart might see

Such erring heart unerringly

For once I But that may never be.

D. G. RoSSETTI.

The electors of Shodborough were much taken by the
frank pleasant manner of the young candidate sent down
by the Duke of Cheshire ; and as his grace allowed his
agents to spend money much as they pleased, all went
merry as a marriage-bell in the little town, and Jack
began to think politics not such weary work after all.
He had some sense of humour, and the canvass disclosed
to him many amusing interiors, which made amends for
countless hot and heavy afternoon dinners of which he
was frequently compelled to partake. The (politically
speaking) weak-kneed butcher was his staunch ally now,
and had no doubt whatever but that Jack was not so very
" Blue" after all ; while the patriotic band of Republicans
were in despair, and hated the aristocracy more tragically
than ever.

Mr. Flitterj', who liked to make himself useful to dukes,
came down to bear our hero company, and share some of
his burdens of politeness ; and Flittery was not to be des-
pised as an assistant, for had soft words been able to do
so, he oould have buttered nil the parsnips in all the ajar-
deus of England. Mr. Horton reported to the Duke that
the seat might be pronounced is nearly safe, and Mr.
Tollebens be now permitted to accept the stewardship of
those mysterious things, the Chiltern Hundreds, coupled
with a baronetcy, the price of his retirement. Jack was
beginning to become a little wife-sick, if we may coin a
word, and longed to see Alice's bright eyes again ; so he

140

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

received with much satisfaction Mr. Hortor nounce-
ment that in a few days he might go back * ^n, there
to hold himself ready to swoop down v ab electors

directly the vacancy actualty occurred. at before he
went he had one other duty to perform, which was to
assist at the opening of the new Theatre Royal, Shod-
borough, built by the Duke, who was fond of the drama,
and presented by him to the town. All the dead walls —
and there were an astonishing number of dead walls at
Shodborough — were covered with yellow posters, quite
eclipsing the modest blue ones which contained Jack's
address, announcing that the eminent tragedian, Mr.
Arthur Arnington, and the star of burlesque, Miss Violet
Vandeleur, WERE COMING, and that a performance
would be given on such a night " by special request of
His Grace the Duke of Cheshire, the Honourable John
Chillingham, and Mr. Peter Weekes, Mayor."

It was four years before the time of which we are writ-
ing that Captain Reginald Hargrave, of Her Majesty's
Fourth Regiment of Foot Guards, was returning from

hunting with the H bhire foxhounds. He had seen a

good run from a good position, and was going slowly home
in that agreeable frame of mind engendered by the con-
sciousness of having acquitted himself well. His horse
was rather leg- weary, and, with a cigar in his mouth, he
walked beside it, every now and then resting his hand
affectionately upon the mane. A good-looking, broad-
shouldered youth, like many others you can see any day
on parade, or slowly traversing the cool Arcade of Bur-
lington-— not much intellect, but a good conscience, a
splendid appetite, and a total ignorance of fear. Why
should Nelly, the pietty daughter of Farmer Tilcott, of
the Crown Farm, have been standing at the little rustic
door that led into the orchard just as the captain passed ?

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

141

Was it chance or was it fate, or had the little flirt seen the
red coat from her window*^nd descended ? All that is
certain is, that she blushed prettily as he took off his hat
and stood still, apparently somewhat embarrassed on his
side.

She spoke first.

'* I hope you've had good sport, Captain Hargrave ? "

The voice was low and soft, with just enough of the
country accent to add piquancy to it.

" Capital, Miss Tilcott," said the Captain, looking at her
with a]l his eyes ; " but I think meeting you is the best
part of thfe day."

" Oh, Captain Hargrave ' Men always say those silly
things, but they don't mean them."

" By jingo, I do, though ; but I can't keep old Marmion
standing still. Will you walk a little way down the road
with me ? " ,

" Poor Marmion ! " said Nelly, laying her little hand —
not as white as some in Belgravia, but well-shaped and
pleasing to the eye — on the horse's neck ; " yes, I can
walk a little way, though papa wouldn't like it."

And then they walked together very slowly, and the
old story was commenced — the sad old story of credulity
and passion, of folly and crime, of momentary happiness
and life-long remorse. How often they met that winter,
until Hargrave was obliged to'go back to £own and duty ;
how Nelly pined for her absent lover ; how they corres-
ponded stealthily by means of a married sister in the
village ; how he hesitated between what his relations
would have called folly and what he knew to be crime
and cowardice ; how he chose the latter ; and how a pure
and trusting maiden became, because of her very trust
and purity, a thing which all properly brought up people
should shun with loathing and contempt, it matters little
to enter into here. The whole thing is so sad, and, alas !
so common. It is happening every day, it will go on
happening, and it has always happened. As long as the

''\)

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

i4k

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world is divided into classes, and as long as hearts refuse
always to recognize the barriers which divide them, so
long will there occur these lapses frc:n the path which
seems so broad to those who have never been tempted out
of it.

Reginald Hargrave was no exceptional villain, no wicked
baronet of melodrama, to whom rustic virtue is an
absurdity ; he simply yielded to what appeared to him a
stern necessity ; for who could doubt that when duty and
inclination clashed, the former, at least where a woman
was concerned, should give way ?

He could neither forbear to see his loving little Nelly,
nor could he brave his father and astonish his scoffing and
sceptical brother-officers by marrying her. So he fell
back on the proverb, in medio tutissirn,u8, and was very
happy and made her very happy for a time, until she
found out what she had become, and knew that in com-
plying with his love she had, though he himself scarcely
knew it, lost his respect. Then all the usual results fol-
lowed. There is a ^'eat sameness in these stories. Quar-
rels, neglect, misery, separation ; and the man drinks the
waters of Lethe, and the woman the cup of degradation ;
the one adds a feather to his cap and receives more adu-
lation from his fellows, and the other is clothed with shame
as with a garment, and finds no course left for her but to
exult in her degradation if she would not die of it. Nelly
Tilcott, discarded by her family, deserted by her lover,
looked round for a means of existence, and chose the
theatre. Super, ballet-girl, small parts, an attempt at a
better one in a country theatre — success. She climbed
the ladder easily enough, thanks to a pretty face and some
intelligence ; and when, as Miss Violet Vajideleur, she
came to Shodborough, she was a star of some importance
in that lesser heaven occupied by the queens of bur-
lesque.

No one seemed to be at all surprised at Sir John
Glorme's appearance with her, nor at his taking the two

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

143

best boxes in the theatre for every night of the company's
stay in the town. Several of the Shodborough ladies —
notably the wife of the principal solicitor — said it was
disgusting, and would have hissed poor Nelly if they had
dared ; but, oddly enough, they did not seem half so angry
with Sir John — who must have had something to do with
the matter, after all — and were delighted when Jack
presented them and their husbands and daughters to that
estimable baronet. -^

n^!f I]

it a
bed

-,- 'rl*,-,- •' ■

)me
she

nee
)ur-

■y

' ^^ : .'-1.

)hn
wo

144

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I I

CHAPTER XVI.

Gratis est mort ; plus d'amour sans payer :
En beaux louis se content lea fleurettes.

Db la Fontaine.

r .

I If-

i »

I*';' ' ti

Sir John Glorme was not a man much subject to emo-
tion ; every part of him, heart included, was as tough as
his face looked ; yet his liaison — or whatever the word
may be for such things — with Miss Violet Vandeleur was
of more importance to him, was more necessary to his
welfare, than most previous affairs of the sort. He did
not know that the absolute purity of her mind (a sad
contrast, alas ! to what of her was not mind) was the cause
of the hold she had over his senses.

"A pretty woman is like a good dinner," he said;
" there are many cooks clever enough to entice you to eat
more than is good for you ; but, by gad ! this woman is
like a better dinner than any ever eaten at Bignon's — you
can't stop eating, and yet you feel none the worse for it."

Nelly — or Violet, as we had better call her — saw the
best side of Sir John's character, not knowing that she
had been the first to bring to light the fact that there was
any side to it not wholly bad, and did not hate him. Their
union was, in her opinion, a purely mercenary transaction,
in which she would most scrupulously be honest as long
as the bargain which she had made was honestly carried
out. The poor child hated herself — as she now was — so
much that she had no strong feeling of any kind left for
others. She was popular behind the footlights, because of
her absence of professional jealousy ; and in front of them
the many young men who raved of her, and sent her
bouquets and bracelets, and spent weary hours at stage-
doors to see her enter her — or Sir John's — brougham,

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

145

voted her either as oold as ioe, or else a wonderful speci-
men of fidelity.

And she was faithful, in a weary, sad way that would
have touched a worse man — if such existed — than Sir
John Glorme.

She had chosen her life — at least so she said to herself,
ignoring, woman-like, the fact that a certain captain with
blue eyes had been a scoundrel to her ; she had chosen
her life, and she would at least live that life with as little
reproach as possible. She did sometimes remember the
old days in H shire, when she only dreamed of hand-
some princes and dukes, who came to woo and wed the
farmer's daughter, in the intervals of real enjoyment and
innocent laughter, which seldom gave an opportunity for
day-dreaming. She did sometimes wonder, with a dull
aching at her heart — which Heaven forbid you, reader,
may ever have — why she had felt so unutterably happy
when his lips had first met hers; and she did sometimes long,
but with a longing that was almost killed at its inception
by despair, for one hour of her old feeling to return, so
that she might be able once more to believe, to trust, to
sin, even, but to sin, without knowing of the shame.

Everything was so cut and dried now. No sentiment,
no illusions, no romance. Carriages, diamonds, houses in
Brompton, perpetual laughter and empty love-making,
applause of the stalls, envious glances from the boxes,
enthusiasm of the gallery — bah ! she would have given
all these for one second of the thrill that used to be called
up when that somewhat stupid guardsman touched her
hand and gave vent to an inane compliment.

"But it had gone ; quicker than youth, anticipating that
restless visitor, beauty. Only four years ! And here she
was — she thought a fair temple it migkt be, but nothing
but ruin within. To act, to eat and drink, and have a
sufficiently rich protector, that was her aim in \ii&^>

Poor Violet ! Could Sir John Glorme, as he gloats over
you as his property, and hugs himself with the conscious-
10

146

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I * «

4 ;V'

41 -Jl

It**

ness of being envied, only know what a tumult of unar-
ran^ed thoughts are surging within that well-shaped
head, what incomprehended desires are disturbing that
little brain, which he thinks never goes beyond dreams of
a new gown or anticipation of a Richmond dinner on
Sunday, he would be, not ashamed, for men of his stamp
leave that at their first school, but rather l larmed. Poor
Violet ! Impetuous, truthful, loving (though she knew it
not then), there was a whole poem in her nature, and
man — slave of habit — could only read the sad prose he
hD:d himself tried to scrawl upon her heart.

As she had two names, so she had two beings. There
was the Nelly Tiicott, who had believed in love, and who
had given up everything that made life worth having for
her lover ; and there was Violet Vandeleur, the burlesque
actress, who believed in nothing and nobody — not even
in herself — and had buried her heart, or thought she had
buried it, in the same grave which had gaped to swallow
up her character. Such was the young lady who, with
but little to hide the charms of her person, played before
Mr. Weeke^, the Mayor of Shodborough, Mr. Flittery,
and our hero, and was kind enough to accept an invita-
tion afterwards offered by the two latter to sup at the
FitzCrewe Arms Hotel.

It was a very pleasant entertainment, and certainly
equalled in gaiety, if not in refinement, that other supper
in Windermere's chambers of which we have heard. The
champagne was not good ; but Flittery had taken care
that it should be well iced, and ice is to wine as fox-hunt-
ing is said to be to society — it brings all classes together
on a footing of equality or nearly so.

Violet Vandeleur had a half-mocking, half-sad manner
that was veiy captivating, if a little be w^ildering at times
to the tyro; and Jack caught himself once or twice
wondering whether she were laughing at him or no. A
tinge of bitterness lay under the surface of her mirth, and
a close observer might often remark the cruel — if covert

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

147

— sneer with which she received a compliment to her
beauty. The sneer was at herself, but those who saw it
naturally were alarmed, and it came tg be understood at
those clubs where young men do congregate that Violet
V. (as she was termed) was not one to be " tackled " with
impunity, or until the hardy cavalier had a certain amount
of wine beneath his belt. Jack Chillingham was thor-
oughly disgusted at the coarse speeches which Sir John
Glorme permitted to escape him, and at which Violet did
not even pretend to blush ; but he was pleased to observe
that she never replied to or seemed much amused by them ;
and once or twice he thought he detected a look of in-
tense sadness cross her features before the Baronet's
chuckle over his own wit had quite died out. Flittery
wondered lazily why Lady Brocklesby was so anxious to
part her second son from his wife, and rather wished he
had not engaged himself — for, reasons connected with a
certain invitation to a very select house into which Flit-
tery had not yet succeeded in creeping — to assist her in
her project. But Alice might have read all Jack's thoughts,
as he sat beside the burlesque actresi and tried to under-
stand the magnitude of the gulf which divided her from
her sisters with titles in Mayfair. Of course he could see
at once that she was not exactly what he called a " lady ;"
there was still in her voice a trace of the old country
" burr ;" and the natural brusque grace with which she
moved had not — although perfect in its way —

That repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere ;

while she seemed this evening somewhat defiantly to fling
her profession in his face by using theatrical slang and in-
sisting on " shop " talk.

Mr. Arthur Ajrington, the tragedian, who only became
" eminent " when out of Londor., ^eing contented with
very small parts when in that city, ow^iived himself ex-
tujtly as a tragedian should do. H^ was laconic, gloomy

-.<v-7

■,.?'' "^ ' V

II ' M

111!

i I 3

148

CHILDREN OF NATUllft.

mysterious ; his hair was long, his ey«.s glittered, his gait
was dignified, until, unfortunately, a ninth tumbler of
champagne proved too strong for even this worthy descen-
dant of the school of rant ; and he dropped his " h's,"
forgot his dignity, gloom, and mystery, hiccuped like a
low come. lan, and was eventually carried to bed by two
waiters, while he, in most affectionate if maudlin terms,
apostrophised Sir John Glorme as one to whom his heart
" would ever warm in friendship's tenderest tie."

But before this untoward if not unexpected event oc-
curred, Violet had left them, with a glance from her deep
dark eyes into Jack's face which made that incipient
politician remark to himself for the fiftieth time that
night, " Poor girl ! What a pity ! that old brute, Glorme ! "
and, going to bed perhaps the least bit affected by the
amount of doubtful champagne the laws of good fellow-
ship had compelled him to swallow, he fell asleep, and
dreamt that he rescued the black-eyed damsel from a
host of dragons (all with some resemblance to Sir John)
himself gorgeously and becomingly attired in golden
armour, and bestriding the winner of that year's Derby
but that when — the sward being covered with defunct
monsters, and Violet clad in the costume of Aladdin, safe
and sound — he rode with his vizor raised, to receive his
reward at the hands of the Queen of Beauty, that lady,
who was no other than his wife, reviled him horribly,
and finally condemned him to reside in Shodborough
High Street with Mr. Horton, and make a speech every
day from the balcony on the subject of the incidence of
taxation.

And while Jack wasted his time dreaming, Mr. Flittery,
after plunging his face in cold water, lit another cigarette
p.nd wrote to Lady Brocklesby a letter which detailed all
the events of the past twelve houi's. ^ ^i.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

149

CHAPTER XVII.

But love is siich a mystery,

I cannot find it out ;
For when I think I am best resolved,
Then I am most in doubt.

SucKLiNa,

For man was invented logic ; for woman the art of
reasoning by sentiment ; and as the male monopolises, and
sometimes makes sad nonsense of, the first science, so does
the female take the other to her fair bosom, and cherish-
ing it there as only woman can cherish an absurdity,
make the sickly thing live and flourish, and often get the
better of its robust and real brother. With a fair fieid and
no favour of intellect, we would back the deductions
formed by feminine wishes, joined with vague reminis-
cences of a brother's or a brother's tutor's catchwords,
against all the hard-and-fast proved facts of all the Oxford
professors. Angry as Alice was with Windermere for
having dared to kiss her, she was still more angry with
him for using those words — " My darling." This was
indeed preposterous, audacious, wicked to the last degree.
She was not Im darling ; she was nobody's darling ;
darlings ceased te be such when they married, or at least
after the honeymoon As to the kiss — well, there are
few women, even the most austere, who think very much
of a kiss. Perhaps they lack the nerve from the lips to
the heart which Voltaire^ mentions, and which the sterner
sex probably possesses. It may be that a kiss is so essen-
tially the antechamber of love to them, that they no more
are affected by it than we are by the entrance-hall of a
king's house. Of coui-se we know that to get into the
ftugust presence we nuist pass through the hall, but it is
not until the lackey has his hand on the door of the re-

150

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

ception-room that our heart begins to beat and our knees
to incline inwards. To a man who has reached, through
vanity and a wish to excel his dogs and horses, the semi-
sentimentalism which does duty for the whole article in
this " empty day," a kiss is the very embodiment of
ecstasy ; the exact mingling of love as poets ha^^e it with
love as men have it, which suits his real sensualism and
his sham sentiment.

" The first kiss of love " is such a pretty thing — until

we find that the second kiss is rather better ; and

But we are leaving little Alice Chillingham all this time
with tearful eyes, swallowing her wrath as best she may,
and her breakfast not at all, as she sits with a letter be-
fore her in the place where her plate of buttered toast
should be.

" Can you forgive me ? I shall never forgive myself.
Yet fjD explain my madness would be another insult. Oh,
Mrs. Chillingham ! you in your purity can never under-
stand what a demon a man can be when But I will

not — I dare not try to excuse myself. I was drunk, I
think — not with wine ! Will you believe me when I pro-
mise never to offend again ? or must I go away and never
see you again ? Surely it can be no crime to see you
sometimes, and to talk about the weather ? I am sane
again now. I know what your servant will say when I
call, but can you not think that the brute of last night is
dead, and that the Windermere who is alive has no con-
nection with him ? Of course you are angry, and so am
I ; and both of us with the same person. Surely here we
are agreed, at any rate ? There is nothing I would not
do to reinstate myself in your good opinion ; for I feel —
pardon my presumption if T am wrong — that you in some
sense know me better than others — -that you have pene-
trated what might be called the crust of worldliness which
we are all covered with in Lot don, and know that I am
not quite the brainless money-spending machine 1 pre-
tend to be. You are growing still more angry as you

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

151

read this letter ; you are vowing to yourself that you will
never see the conceited fool who insulted you again ; but
remember that, come what may, you cannot prevent me
always being your friend — -your true, your respectful
friend through life."

There certainly was nothing in this letter to offend her
anew ; yet she felt that the very writing of it was a fresh
fault, and she also knew — though she scarcely owned it
even to herself — what the forgiving of his offence would
in truth mean. No amount of sophistry on either of their
parts could prevent their future friendship or acquain-
tanceship being of a different kind from what it had been
before. They had their secret, which would, whenever
they met, be in their thoughts, and each would know it
was in the mind of the other. No ; she could not, in
honesty to Jack, whom she loved, forgive this imperti-
nent, troublesome, good-looking lord. She would not an-
swer his letter, and strict orders should be given not to
admit him. Of course they must meet in society, and
anything in the shape of cutting would only make peo-
ple talk ; but her converse with him should be henceforth
but " Yea " and " Nay," and it would be hard if he found
an opportunity of even asking her to forgive him.

And yet he was very charming ; his manner had that
soft caress in it which comes so well from six feet of man-
liness, and he had been so far educated as to be able to
touch lightly and pleasantly enough on many subjects
above the ordinary society style of conversation.
Although frivolous, he knew how to make his frivolity
graceful ; and although cynical, his cynicism could seem
at times only the cloak for a generous, almost a confiding
disposition. Moreover, Windermere had also all the ad-
vantages which repeated conquests give a man ; the con-
fidence, the experience, the art se faire valoir, which wo-
men always appreciate. They are utterly unable to
comprehend modesty in men when they themselves are
concerned, and do not quite despise the most harmless ot

152

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I 1

coxcombs as long as he only blows his trumpet loud and
long enough.

The result of Alice's cogitations was that no answer
should be sent to Lord Windermere, and that, at any rate
for the present, and until Jack returned, he should not be
admitted into North Street ; and she took up her pen,
and wrote a long letter to her husband, describing all she
had done for the last week, with some most amusing de-
t'-ils as to the " engagedness " of Emily Chillingham and
ti.e rector, but omitting all mention of the man who was
in her thoughts. Jack, smoking his pipe in the Shodbo-
rough Inn, was struck by this omission, and supposed that
Windermere had gone yachting, and then thought to him-
self what a good fellow his lordship was, and how lucky
it was that Alice liked him, " for," said the sagacious
Jack, " wives so seldom take to their husband's friends."

But Alice had reckoned without her host in supposing
that it would be so easy for her to avoid the man with
whose name all society was coupling hers.

That very night she met him at her father-in-law's in
Eaton Square, and was sent in to dinner with him. It
might have been awkward had not Windermere possessed
as much tact as a Frenchwoman, and chatted pleasantly
about the different topics of the day with the most perfect
unconsciousness ; and at last Alice plucked up her courage,
and soon found herself conversing as easily and gaily
with her neighbour as if she had not a few hours before
been vowing by all her gods she would never speak with
him more.

Flittery, just returned from Shodborough, was on the
other side of her, and she happened to catch some words
between him and Lady Brocklesby which caused her to
prick up her ears.

" You'll never make me believe it of Jack," said Lady
Brocklesby, shaking her head resolutely. ". I don't believe
he'd have the courage to speak to an actress — at any rate
not during an election. And is she so very pretty off thti
stage ? "

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON. 16^

" Violet v.," said Flittery, in a judicial tone, " is about
as pretty a little thing as you could find anywhere. Pret-
tier off than on the stage I should say."

" Of course her character "

"The less said about that the better," said Flittery, look-
ing horribly knowing. " You know old Glorme is — but,"
and here he lowered his voice and leant across the table,,
"I think our friend Jack has " The rest was inaudible.

" What's that about Jack ?" asked Alice, in her clear
voice.

"Oh nothing," said her ladyship, sportively. "Only
that Jack, in the interval of politics, is studying the drama,
and with a very good instructor."

"And who may that be ? "

" Oh, no, Alice dear, we mustn't say ; that would be
telling tales out of school."

"But what is it all about ?-^what is Jack doing?"
asked Alice, with a touch of asperity in her tone.

" Only giving little suppers to Miss Violet Vandeleur,"
said Lady Brocklesby, rather too eagerly, and with diffi-
culty keeping up the sportive tone in which she had com-
menced. "A terrible scandal, isn't it, dearest ? But we
have our little suppers, too," and she glanced at Winder-
mere.

" Suppers ! little suppers ! " exclaimed Lord Brocklesby
from the other end of the table ; " the very worst things in
in the world. I remember poor Harry Coulton, who shot
himself after supper at Grockford's. Everyone said that
his depression of mind was caused much more by the lobs-
ter jsalad than the loss of money ; and he had lost a cracker!
Now, I come to think of it, though, I'm not sure it was
after supper he did it, as I remember hearing the news
just as I was going from White's down to the House of
Commons, and that would have been too early. Stop a
bit — no, it couldn't have been White's, because "

But Alice could noi^ wait for the end of these remini-
scences,

•

164

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" What fun for Jack ! " she said, laughing, yet rather
constrainedly. " I'm so glad he has something better to
amuse him than snuffy Mr. Horton, and the horrid, greasy
electors, who are always making him make disagreeable
promises. And sO|Miss Violet — what's her other name? —
is pretty, is she ? "

" Oh, lovely," said Flittery, carelessly ; " and they say
— of course I know her very little ; I've rather a dislike
to that sort of thing myself — that she is very attractive,
better educated than most, and full of sentiment and
that sort of thing."

" How nice ! I've always wanted to know an actress."

" You'll soon have an opportunity then, my love," said
Lady Brocklesby, rather dryly.

'' No, no ! " shouted his lordship, who had caught the
last words. " Don't you do it, Alice. Never you let Jack
get among those people. It's like drinking opium, or any
other bad but attractive habit. Such freedom, such fun !
Why, I recollect the day when I lived, as it were, behind
the scenes, and when " ■ '

" I don't think we need have your experience," said
her ladyship, snappishly ; " and they wouldn't ppply
here, for Jack has, I should suppose, no intention of 1 ving
like you, behind the scenes."

" Oh, I wasn't married then ! " said Lord Brocklesby,
with a sigh.

Alice had the fullest confidence in her husband, and
yet she felt rather disquieted and inclined to be jealous.
She remembered the kiss she had received — she who was
so devoted to Jack — and felt that temptation is not
always too easily overcome.

However, Jack was to be back next day, and it would
go hard if she could not speedily efface from his mind
the recollection of even the loveliest actress that ever
wreathed a painted face in smiles.

Lady Brocklesby was very sympathetic in the draw-
jng-room when the ladies were alone.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

155

I-

" You mustn't mind, darling," she said, pressing Alice's
unresponding hand, " little things of this sort."

" What sort ? " asked Alice, rather defiantly, and her
eyes looking fierce,

" Well, well, if Jack is foolish, my dear, you see he is
very young — and — actresses aie very taking to young
men. Besides, in these days, dear me ! one scarcely
knows what is wrong and what is right : even the best
people do such odd things. By-the-bye, how very much
changed Lord V/indermere is ! He used to be so very
general in his attentions — a male bee, getting honey
everywhere ; and now they say he is no fun at all, and
his best friends declare him almost a bore — so gloomy
and preoccupied." *

" What makes you talk of Jack and this actress in
such a way ? " asked Alice, suddenly. " How could he
help meeting her at Shodborough* ? Don't you suppose
he is able to speak to a woman without falling in love
with her ? "

"Of course, my dear," and Lady Brocklesby smiled
pityingly. " Of course, people do exaggerate and are
often most ill-natured. There may be nothing in it, and
even if there is, you couldn't expect to be difierent to all
the young married women ; and it makes not much dif-
ference whether it comes sooner or later."

" I hate hearing you talk like that, Lady Brocklesby !"
exclaimed Alice, with unnecessary vehemence. ** I don't
believe the world even here is as b d as you would make
it out. I don't a bit see why two people who — who
love' one another should ever drift apart, as you hint they
must."

" I don't see why they should ; I only know they gen-
erally do. Ah, my dear Alice," and her ladyship sighed
deeply, " when you have lived as long as I have, you will
know what I know — that it is only for children and poets
that such words as love and constancy have any mean-^
ing."

If!

M ?

166^

CHILDREN OF NATUEB.

" Well, if one can't remain a child, one may try to be a,
j)oet."

The men entered at this moment.

" Alice is wishing to be a poet," said Lady Brocklesby,
.as Windermere approached them.

" Women — pretty women — are poetry itself," said he
gallantly, scarcely glancing at Alice's red cheeks.

" Ah ! " said Lord Brocklesby, " not so bad ; but nothing
to what we used to say in our young days. Now a young
man puts his feet up on a sofa and tells a lady to ring
the bell : and as to saying a pretty thing or turning a
neat compliment, they can go no farther than the poke
in the ribs or slap on the back, which used to be reserved
for the Jove-making of bargees and farm labourers."

'' Bravo, my lord ! " cried Flitte y, examining his dap-
per slices. " But I hope we are not all of us quite bears."

" No," said his lordship, who hated Flittery because my
lady liked him, " some of you are asses."

Windermere kept studiously away from Alice during
the rest of the evening, and commenced in the distance a
bantering flirtation with Jane, which that young lady
received with far greater gratitude than it merited, and,
almost alarmed by her good luck, cast anxious glances
from time to time across the room to see how her sister-
in-law " took it." She was somewhat disconcerted, how-
ever, by the abruptness with which the young lord's man-
ner changed, and became distrait and cold; and the
indifference with which he wished her good-night, having,
he said, to attend " the House," nearly caused her to cry
from disappointment.

There seemed something very eccentric in the manner
of driving adopted by Alice's job-coachman that night as
he started from Eaton Square. He was alone on the box,
and Alice was terrified at seeing him roll to and fro before
they had gone many yards, and show unmistakable sig^s
of being almost helplessly drunk.

Bang ! they went up against a lamp-post. The shock

A STOKY OF MODERN LONDON.

167

caused the man to drop the reins. The horse, albeit
usually of a mild disposition, was so surprised at finding
himself free with the reins at his heels that he speedil}'
broke into a canter shaved a cart by an inch in Grosvenor
Gardens, whirled the carriage round the corner of Ara-
bella Row with such violence as to threaten an upset, and
before they reached Buckingham Palace Road was going at>
a good hand gallop, with Alice too frightened to scream
or even to faint, and too wise to juiap out, huddled up in
a comer with her hands clasped, while the coachman held
on to the side-rails, and, with his eyes shut, muttered
mingled prayers and curses.

" Hollo ! " cried a young gentleman in evening dress,
and accompanied by a large cigar, who was crossing at the
comer of the Palace. " A runaway ! By gad I some one
must stop them ! "

Waving his arms and shouting, »he checked the career
of the frightened horse, and seizing him by the bit
brought him to a halt, at the expense only of a broken
hat, a fall on his knees, and the consequent damaging of
his black trousei-s.

" There's no harm done," he said, looking into the

gentleman and taka

brougham. " By Jove ! Mrs. Chillingham ! How lucky 1
With your permission I'll remove this gent]
his place."

Suiting the action to the word, he took the coachman,
who struggled feebly, by the collar, and deposited him in
the road, amid the grinning crowd. Then, taking the
bedraggled reins, he drove rapidly off.

"IJiope you haven't been much frightened," said he, as
Alice got out at her own door. " Good-night. I think I
know your stables, and will take the carriage there ; " and
lifting his battered and muddy hat with distant respect,
Lord Windermere drove away, leaving Alice, agitated by
very mixed feelings, on the doorstep.

158

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

• ■'f

;,Ml

. CHAPTER XVIII.

II n'y a point d'accident ai malheureux dont lea habiles gens ne tirent
quelque avantage ; ni si heureux que lee imprudenta ne puissent tourner ji
leur prejudice.

. . La Rochefoucauld.

" And so you don't care for your profession ? "

" How can I ? Don't you see what it is ? It's all very
well to talk bosh about holding the mirror up to nature,
and the stage being one of the great what-d'ye-call-'ms
of the age, and that sort of thing ; but it isn't, you know.
Of course, when a fellow puts on black clothes and plays
Hamlet or Othello, he may be a great man ; or when a
woman lets down her back hair and looks gloomy, and
makes the pit cry, she may be an artist, and all that ; I
can't say much about that branch. But I'm sure that
when a woman kicks her legs about and speaks bad lines
with worse puns, and winks at the young men in the
boxes, and — well, you know what I mean — I'm quite
sure that's not art, and when I'm called an artiste in the
papers it amuses me."

"But why don't you change and do something else,'
then ? "

" My dear boy," Violet Vandeleur assumed an air of '
protection with regard to Jack that rather amused him,
*' you ask silly questions. Ah ! " — and she sighed — " I
wish I could change a good many things ; myself most
of all."

" And yet most girls in the class you come from are
envying you ? " said Jack, to whom she had confided her
history, or as much of it as she liked to tell.

"Do they? I suppose so. How little they know 1
The triumphs of a burlesque actress ! I declare some-
times, Chillingham, that I could spit in the faces of the

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

159

grinning stalls for being such fools as to like the trash I
am saying or singing. And then the gloating old fellows
with opera-glasses, and young men from Aldershot,
who wait outside the stage-door and who send me notes,
and bouquets, and presents through the door-keeper.
Triumphs ! Every moment of the life of such as I am
is a fresh insult — all the worse because one can't — one
hasn't the smallest right to resent it. If I could only

" and the little hand was clenched and the white

teeth set resolutely.

" Could only what ? "

" Get away from it all — from the life, and everything,"
she said, glancing almost imperceptibly at the door
through which Sir John Glorme might be expected shortly
to enter ; " sometimes to meet a good woman, or a man
who did't think one was only made for his amusement,
and nothing else. I declare, , Chillingham " — and she
raised her earnest black eyes to his — " I declare I don't
believe they think actresses have any souls ; they think
they are all paint and legs and jokes — ^and shame.'* She
said the last word half to herself, and with a slight
shudder.

" You said you longed sometimes to meet a good woman.
J am sure you would like my wife."

" Your wife ! " cried she, holding up her little hands in
horror, half real, half mocking. " Me meet the Honoura-
ble Mrs. Chillingham ! — me, Violet V., the incomparable
dancer of cancans ! "

" I don't see," began Jack, annoyed ; but she touched
him gently on the shoulder, and inteiTupted him.

'^You're a good fellow, Chillingham — I very nearly
called you Jack — but you don't know even your own
world. You don't know quite what I am, and how aw-
fully wide is the ditch between ladies in society and — ^no-
ladies out of it."

" But you don't know," said Jack, hastily, " how differ-
ent my wife is to the people you hear about. She isn't a

CHILDEEN OF NATURE.

if > ;

; f!

I. i

If'

fine lady a bit, and I know she would like to talk to you,
and perhaps might be able to comfort you a bit when you
feel low, like to-day."

" God bless my soul, child ! Why, the touch of the hem
of my frock is contamination. Don't you know that my
disease is catching ? "

She had lost her softness now, and said this with a
bold, mocking glance, which put to flight the sentimental
speech which trembled on Jack's lips, as indeed she in-
tended it should.

" I su})pose you're the best judge," he said rather
huffily.

" Of coui-se I am, and when you come to my age •"

" Why,, I'm two or three years older than 70u, Miss
Vandeleur ! "

" You forget how I have lived," she said, the mockery
giving place to a sad, far-away look. " I've packed twen-
ty years into four, T think. But why 7nu8t we talk of
me ? — it's a subject I detest."

" Then you are alone in that opinion," said Jack, gal-
lantty ; but she did not reply.

" Chillingham ! " she said suddenly, after a pause, during
which he had wondered what it wa.« that made her so
much more attractive than most women of her class,
" you're a good fellow. I should say you were the only
man in England who would speak to me of his wife. You
are one of very few who speak to me as if I were a fellow-
creature at all, and not always only a toy to play with
and despise. You make me feel more human —as if there
was some softness left. Tell me of yourself and her, your
wife. Is she pretty ? "

"Lovely," said Jack, enthusiastically, recalling the
smile in Alice's mouth and eyes as she bade him fare-
well. " And as good as she is pretty. You can't have

any idea how " He stopped suddenly, remembering

some vague wisdom about not praising one woman to
another.

A STORY Ob' MODERN LONDON.

161

" I can have no idea of a good woman, you mean,"
said Violet, rather defiantly.

" Oh no ! I didn't — indeed I didn't. I w;"3 going to
say I was sure Alice had no uncharitablene^s in her. I
wisltyou would let me tell her about you. She would
delight in seeing you. May I ? "

" Go and ask one of your fine friends thnt question,"
said Violet, scornfully. " Or, rather, take cai e not to, lest
you find yourself in a lunatic asylum."

At this point Sir John Glorme entered, his brow a little
clouding as he saw Jack still in Violet's company ; for the
worthy baronet did not quite rise — cynic by profession
as he was — above the vulgar weakness of jealousy ; and
Jack was soon called away on electoral business not of the
pleasantest nature. Mr. Hopgoal, the bright light of the
Republican party, had suddenly issued an address, dated
from the Goat and Horas ; and poor Mr. Horton, who was
naturally of a desponding frame of mind, was in agonies.
The Duke of Cheshire, although generous in large matters,
was somewhat too fond of justice in the abstract, and f little
too intolerant of vulgarity and flattery, to be very popu-
lar with the multitude, and there had grown up, with the
ballot and other atrocities, a general though scarcely ex-
pressed opinion in the town that it would be rather a fine
thing to show some independence at last, and vote against
the FitzCrewe influence.

A leader only was wanted, and Mr. Hopgoal, a thorough
Shodborough man, connected by birth with half of the
best tradesmen, brought up at the Shodborough school
and speaking with the Shodborough accent — for Shod-,
borough prided itself on the purity of its tongue, and its
superiority in this respect to London — was the very man.
The Dissenting interest would go with him, for the Duke,
although he never entered a church himself, and when he
couM be induced to mention religious matters, gave ut-
terance to a kind of mild and easy-going materialism, or,
we might say, atheism without a backbone, which shocked
11

162

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

good people, was a sturdy supporter of the Establishment.
The Irish party, too, would vote for Hopgoal, as he seemed
inclined to break somebody's head. Altogether, Jack's
prospects had darkened very much, and the meetings of
the committee at The FitzCrewe Arms quite lost the
comfortable glass-of-liquor-and-chaff air which they had
assumed before the Hopgoal address appeared. It was
true that the advanced Liberal party had always threat-
ened an opposition, but Mr. Horton had counted on their
candidate being old Mr. Mealey, of Mealey Park, whose
views were gentle, whose chances were small, ^nd who
had too wholesome an awe of the great house of Fitz-
Crewe to make a very desperate battle of it.

In the intervals of promising and vowing, and butter-
ing and cajoling, Jack, however, found time to write a
letter to his wife, explaining that he was kept at Shod-
borough by unexpected circumstances, and going on to
tell her of Violet, and the interest she had excited in him.

" You could not help liking her," he wrote. " She is
so pretty, and so sorry for herself, a: i ashamed of her
life, and queer altogether. Poor girl ! she says she has
no friends, no good woman to whom she can even speak ;
and I told her I knew you were enough above prejudice
to be kind to her, and to see her sometimes. She is not
a bit what one would suppose ; and really, when she told
me her history, which I will tell you when we meet, I
felt as if she had behaved in her life rather better than
one could have expected. I believe she has an engage-
ment in London soon, and I look forward to seeing my
darling wife doing an unfortunate girl a real kindness,
maybe saving her — who knows ? — from her present life."

It was perhaps unfortunate that this letter was put
into Alice's hands just after Lord Windermere had, as she
thought, saved her life at the risk of his own.

Fate seems very blundering in its arrangements some-
times.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

163

CHAPTER XIX.

Thurt from your presence forth I k'«^>

A loHt and lonely man ;
Reckless alike of weal or woe,

Heaven's benison or ban.
He who hjis known the tempest's worst

May bare him to the blast.
Blame not these tears — they are the first ;

Are they the last ?

Pbaed.

It is no doubt a nice thing to have your life saved, but a
good deal depends on its being done by the right person.
Alice, reflecting ov^er her adventure, was inclined to think
sometimes that it would have'been better that she should
be a mangled corpse than that Lord Windermere should
have prevented that consummation. " Is it fate," she
thought, " that seems to deny me the power of avoiding
him, and throws all these opportunities in his way ? *
When people begin to talk of Fate they are generally in
a bad way ; for a scapegoat is never looked for until there
is at least reasonable cause for believing that he may be
recpiired.

Of course Windermere called next day "" to inquire,"
and equally of course Alice could not deny herself to him
under the circumstances. Indeed, it cannot confidently
be affirmed that she wished to deny herself. That he
was a hero to her she no longer attempted to coticeal from
herself ; but, good gracious ! there are plenty of heroes
about, and there was no reason she should care for this
one man more than any other.

" Yes," he said, after her somewhat incoherent gratitude
had been expressed, " yes, it wa^ lucky your horse was
8top|)ed in time ; but as to danger — there was no danger
to u\e ! — or difficulty ; why, any other fellow in the street

•'''rv

fel

» S' i I,

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1U4

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

would have done the same in a second, only I happened
to be nearest to the brute's head."

" Why you were knocked down and dragged on your
knees, and you tore your clothes, and spoiled your hat —
and "

"Very serious damage ! I did do it rather clumsily, and
it's not kind of you to remind me of the fact. There was
a butcher just behind me when I stopped you who would
have done it with one arm."

" I don't believe any butcher would have done it," said
Alice, rather indignantly ; " and I insist on being grate-
ful to you, Lord Windermere, whatever you may say."

" Gratitude is better than dislike, at any rate," said he,
looking into her eyes; "and I was afraid yesterday that
you hated me. You ought to forgive what I did, be-
cause "

"Oh, I don't want to talk of it," cried Alice. " We've
forgotten all about it,"

"You may have," he said slowly, and half to himself.
*'Ah! I wish /could!"

Alice affected not to hear, and seemed much in .erested
by something in the street.

"Jack's coming back directly," she said at last, after a
long pause — a dangerous pause — a pause in which each
thought of the secret between them — the fatal kiss.

" Is he ? " said Windermere, starting. " So soon ? "

" Soon ! he's been away nearly three weeks."

"And it has passed like three hours. I wonder if I
have ever been so happy before."

" Happy ! You rich men are always happy, are you
not ? " Alice tried hard to be playful, but scarcely suc-
ceeded.

" Are we ? Do you know, Mrs. Chillingham, that I
have, within three weeks, found out a great truth."

" And what may that be ? " asked Alice, looking rather
uncomfortable.

" I have found out that what I called pleasure and

i:^

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

165

what I called pain up to this year, were not pleasure and
pain at all. They were only miserable counterfeits; shams,
I know the real thing now — both sensations — and they
have revealed themselves to me together."

" I don't quite see," said Alice, still interested in the
street, and only showing him her exquisite profile as she
gazed intently out of the window ; the while an Italian
organ-man, desperately sanguine, grinned, and nodd'id,
and bowed to her over his instrument. " I don't quite
see how anyone can feel pleasure and pain together."

" Don't you ? Have you ever been in love ? "

Alice looked round for a moment, and then quickly
resumed her unconscious tantalising of the Italian.

" What a question. Lord Windermere ! " she said, as
lightly as she could. " I thought you said the other day
that love had been civilized out of modern society, and
was only left in the village ale-shop, or among the hop-
pickers."

" Did I say so ? I was a fool. I never knew what
love was till the other day ; and then, when I found out
that the poets are not liars, that no amount of veneering
and sham civilization can kill the feeling which I now
know is the mark of our superiority to the animals — a
feeling which seems to be heaven and hell together — I
also found out what is the meaning of those sad words,
" too late ! "

" You are very sentimental this morning," said Alice,
'constniinedly, " and moralise like Mr. Keyser."

" Do I ? " he sighed gently, and looked, for Alice
glanced round for a moment, very handsome, as the sun
just touched upon his curly fair hair. " Well, I shnn't
bore you much more at any rate. I'm going to India
next week."

India ! It seemed a long way off; and there were
tigers and shipwrecks, and he had just saved her life.
Surely these were the only reasons why she felt sick and
faint as he said the words, and why her little hands

166

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

i'.f

grasped the bars of the window so tightly. The Italian
was getting tired of smiling, and began to think the
pretty lady in the window, for all her prettiness, was a
miser. India ! Why, people went to India every day ;
it was no journey at all now, they said. Besides, he was
nothing to her, this fair-haired man, with the soft smile
and stern 'eyes. Jack — Jack ! She only cared foi^Jack;
and he was fooling away the time he might have saved
her from all this — bother, with an actress — a pretty, a
fascinating actress, whom he wished, oh infamy ! to intro-
duce to herself.

But she only said, calmly :

" To India ! I didn't know you cared about travelling."

" Nor do I."

" Then why — why do you go ? "

" Because I cannot stay at home ; because I dare not
be near — dare not be in England, I mean. If I stayed, I
should go mad. I am glad " — here he rose and came to
her, as if to say good-bye — '" that Jack is coming back at
once. I know he is very fond of you, but ill-natured
people will say ill-natured things, you know, and it's
hard upon a poor little woman to be left all alone like
this."

Somehow his imminent departure for India seemed to
excuse the familiarity of speech.

" I want you to look upon me as your friend always,"
he said, holding her hand, "and " He stopped, seem-
ing unable to say more.

Alice's little hand trembled in his, but she apparently
forgot to remove it ; and then they two stood while you
might have counted a score, and the organ-man departed
in utter disgust to play elsewhere.

*' When do you go ? " she said at last, gently.

" I go to-morrow ; that is, I go to get things ready, and
shall not come back to town again." ,;, , -^ r

" And must you ? "

" Unless you tell me to stiy."

II!

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

167

n
e
a

>
1

]

1'^

Alice was silent. The battle within her was too strong
for words. In the last ten minutes she had — as the man
beside her said that he had — found out a great, a terrible
truth. She had discovered that there were depths in her
nature which had not been stirred till now. She could no
longer deceive herself. She loved Jack — she knew she
loved him, as dearly now as the day when she stood en-
circled by his arms on the deck of the good ship Scotia ;
but this new feeling that had sprung up and seemed to
tear her very heart— it was far different. It was horrible
— it was delicious. It frightened her - it enchanted her.
Whatever it was, she felt born to be its slave. Was this
indeed Alice Chillingham standing by the window ?
That person seemed to have died, and with her her inno-
cence, her soft likings which she called love, and, alas !
her happiness. She was no hypocrite to herself, and as
she looked up into Windermere's eyes she felt that all her
being had gone out to him ; that, come what might, strive
as she would, she was a guilty woman at heart. But she
would fight undauntedly to the end.

" What have my wishes to do with it ? " she said, tak-
ing her hand from his.

" I don't know, only that I have no laws now but
them " , ,

Another of those deadly pauses, so much more eloquent
than any words.

" You — you will come back soon ? " She was tearing
a rose to pieces, and its petals fell at Windermere's
feet.

" No ! " he said fiercely. Then, stooping and picking
up the remainder of the rose which had dropped from her
hands, " Forgive me. I shall come back — when I can
bear to " » . • ' ; .. . '

"To do what?" .:

Womanlike she hurried on what she would fain have
averted. No woman ever truly prays to be kept from

168

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

'It

temptation. She wishes for the temptation, that she may
— overcome it.

" To see you, Alice ! Will you not let me look into
your sweet eyes once more before I go ? '

See looked up again.

" You ought not to speak like that ! "

" Ought not ! " he echoed, bitterly. '* No, of course, I
ought not. It is so easy for you, happy with your husband
and all you love, to say that to a miserable devil whose
life is a hell to him, just because he ought not. Don't
mind what 1 say, Mrs. Chillingham — I am half mad ; but
it is your fault. We shall not meet again for years.
When I come back all will be altered. Though I can
never forget what I feel ior you, I shall be able, at least,
to bear it with composure Now — but I am tiring you —
good bye."

He held out his hand, but she seemed not to see it.

" Do you think it is you, and you only, who have things
to bear ? " she said gently, looking him wistfully in the
face. " Did it ever strike you that to force yourself to do
your duty is sometimes as hard a fate as to be forced by
others to do it ? You men are very proud of your capa-
bilities of devotion and self-sacrifice when you love; but
will you ever sacrifice the love itself ? "

" Oh Alice ! " cried Windermere, suddenly interrupting
her. He had read her secret — his success — in her wistful
eyes. " Do not send me away! Tell me to stay ! I cannot
tear out my heart ! Do not be mad, and make yourself
miserable for a wretched prejudice I "

His arm was half round her waist ; his face close to hers.
The battle seemed all but over.

" No, no ! You have no right to think I meant — I

You must leave me now — I am not well."

Her white cheeks and trembling lips testified to the
truth of this.

" And I may come again

Mil

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

169

;11

" No — I implore you — go ! I may be weak — wicked,
but I have strength enough left to tell you this : that
never willingly will I see you again."

" And I must go — to India ? "

" As you please."

Alice's tone was cold, but her heart was beating so
fiercely that she feared he would hear it.

" You mean this ? " asked he, softly.

" Cannot you see," she cried, " that you are torturing
me?"

" Forgive me, Alice — I may call you Alice once more ?
Good-bye — good-bye."

He bent over her hand ; his lips touched it. He was
gone. ' •

The closing of the street-door awoke Alice from an ap-
parent reverie.

" My God ! " she said in her heart, an expression of
startled horror on her face. " f^orgive me ! But I love
him — I love him ! "

■ ■■-■'■" r' -' ■ ■ -* ■

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170

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XX.

Alaa ! the love of women ! it is known

To be a lovely and a fearful thing :
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown,

And if 'tis lost life hath no more to bring
To them but mockeries of the past alone.

Btron.

Mil

Lady Meldrtjm concealed, under all her oddities and
vulgarities, a good heart ; and she had never been able to
cultivate up to the required pitch the art of destroying
characters and taking pleasure in hearing them destroyed.
She could say a rude thing with infinite gusto ; but she
bore no malice if the repartee was galling ; and she ob-
stinately refused to believe in the absolute decay of morals
which is supposed to have set in nowadays. Alice's face
and freshness had charmed her, and her indignation at
the stories now openly told of that young lady knew no
bounds.

" It's just like you all ! " she said. " Just because she's
prettier, and nicer, and more innocent than any of us, you
can't allow her even the mildest of virtues. Why, you've
only got to look at her and hear her talk to know these
tales are false — as false as Flittery's smile."

Flitterv was at once her friend and her detestation.
She despised him thoroughly, and never lost an oppor-
tunity of showing it, but he fetched and carried very
well, always knew what was going on, was tant soit peu
ornamental, well connected, and altogether an admirable
tame cat.

" Well, all that I can say is ," said this gentleman,

not noticing the reference to himself.

She interrupted him. " Whenever Flittery is going to

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

171

■, i

f ^

be terrific in his spite he says, ' It's all he can say.' Now
for it!"

" Well, Windy is never out of the house ; and Mr. C.
is very often out of it — and — well, well, time will
show."

Badsworth, who was standing close by in conversation
with some other men, gi-ew very ppic and bit his lips, but
said nothing.

" At all events," said Lady Meldrum, " we might as
well have the story. I hate hints and innuendoes."

" The story is a simple one, and not a bit surprising to
anyone who has had their eyes open lately. Coming
back from Richmond last Sunday with his coach, who
should Charley Heyward meet going there — it was even-
ing — but Windermere in his phaeton, and with him a
lady in a veil ; but who was easily recognised as "

" As who ? " asked Badsworth, eagerly.

Flittery glanced at his face with a covert smile.

" Why, Mrs. Chillingham, of course."

" I don't believe a word of it."

" There is no reason why you should," said Flittery
turning away.

Then Badsworth went to his sister, to whom he had
got into the habit of confiding his griefs and joys.

She was a bright little thing, a painting by Watteau —
this Lady Eleanor Stonegrave. Artistic, sentimental,
mirth-loving, firmly believing in good was she, and pat-
rician to her dainty finger-ends. Her little head was full
of what she called — her pouting lips almost refusing to
bring out the big words — the amelioration of the masses;
but the practicability of her schemes was not much supe-
rior to that of the French queen, who could not under-
stand why the people should be silly enough to starve
when they could buy such charming brioches at two sous
apiece. Life was, as she intended it to be, very pictur-
esque to her, and as she had not yet met any man endowed
with a sufliciency of this quality — picturesqueness — she

Ill

172

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

;lf

! I

had hitherto refused all offers, and preferred to remain
Lady Eleanor Stonegrave.

" But what can I do, dear ? " she said, when her brother
had finished his recital.

" I'm sure T don't know — except — couldn't you warn
her how people are talking ? Of course, I know how
good and innocent she really is, and so do you."

Lady Eleanor shook her head softly. "

" Yes, you do. You needn't shake your head, Nell —
you must. But you see she doesn't know London, or
what brutes people are. And Windermere is such a cun-
ning brute."

" I don't see how I could interfere," said Lady Eleanor.
" She'd think it great presumption in an unmarried
girl ; and besides, dear, do you know, I don't much like
going to North Street, If Lord Windermere isn't there,
that odious Mrs. Belfort is sure to be."

" How like a woman ! Because poor little Mr. Bel-
fort doesn't happen to be in your ' set ' she is perforce
odious."

" How like a man ! Because a woman is pretty, no
matter what else she is, she is * poor little Mrs. So-and-so '
at once. But, surely, Lady Brocklesby hears things about
her daughter-in-law ! She is not a woman people are
shy of talking before ; and I've seen her watching Mrs.
Chillingham when she's been talking to Lord Winder-
mere, in a very peculiar manner."

" Confound her ! " cried Bads worth. " I believe she
has some reason for wanting mischief to be made between
Jack and his wife. What an ass that fellow is, to be
sure."

At the time this speech was made, the ass in question
was shouting himself hoarse upon the hustings, making
prodigious points, audible only to the reporter, and in which
" the British Constitution " seemed to play a prominent
part.

But it was all of no use. The rebel spirit in Shod-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

173

borough flamed out fiercely at last, an(^ at the close of
the poll the numbers stood :

Hopgoal
Chillingham.

927
873

" It was all that actress ! " muttered poor, perspir-
ing Mr. Horton, as he stood in the balcony of The Fitz-
Crewe Arms, and saw the crowd melt away which had
been listening to Jack's valedictory oration, to which he
had with great effort succeeded in imparting a lijetter-luck-
next-time air.

" It was all that d d actress ! It must have lost us

at least one hundred votes of the Low Church people,
that seeing him gallivanting about the streets with her."

Windermere did not go to India after all. He came
again to North Street for one more farewell, and Alice
hating herself for the weakness-r-asked him to stay in
ICngland.

She attempted to throw a sop to her conscience by
saying " Not at home " to him twice the next day, and
with feminine inconsequence allowed him to take her a
drive into the country the day after.

She scarcely yet realized the full meaning of what she
had done, of the change which had taken place in her.
She knew Jack was coming back immediately, and she
shuddered at her ingratitude, at her wickediaess .in not
being delighted, as a short week ago she would have been.
And yet, alas ! she was very happy — happy with a wild,
passionate enjoyment that she had never felt before.

With some women it is far greater pleasure to love
than to be loved.

Alice never asked herself whether she was not giving
her all, and receiving nothing in exchange.

Her " faith, unfaithful, made her falsely true."

Windermere, however, was not aware of the fulness of
his triumph. He did know her well enough to be aware
that she was not like the dozen or so of other women who

I !

174

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

had listened with downcast eyes and r.dttej^ng bosoms
to his soft words. That she was compromised, was enough
for him. That was tho great barrier to be crossed, and
the rest was easy. Her fits of coldness, her impatient
rejection of the smallest caress, her indignation even at
his calling her by her Christian-name, he looked upon as
so many feints to draw out the commencement of the
liaison as much as possible. That success was in his
grasp he doubted not at all, and he would not have ob-
jected to \N^at he considered her affected prudery, had it
been May instead of August, or were his yacht not await-
ing him in Cowes Roads.

Little knew he of the fierce ^)attl8 between passion and
dutv that raffed within Alice's heart. Little knew he of
the ridiculous pedestal upon which that young woman
had placed him. Had he dreamed of all this, he would
probably have retired alarmed ; for, as he had often said
at the club, '* there is nothing so disagreeable as to have
a woman too seriously in love with one." Whether this
speech did much to reassure the suspicious and pitiable
husbands who overheard it is, perhaps, doubtful.

Foi" the first time since they met in America, Alice met
Jack's honest look of admiration and rapturous embrace
with embarrassment. For the first time she felt that she
was acting when, in answer to his fond questions, she
avowed anew her affection for him. And ^''^^t she did
love him — in a way.

It was simply that till the other day she had not known
what p; ssionate love was ; she had mistaken the calm
happiness with which she accepted Jack's homage and
protection for a far different feeling.

As she lay down to sleep that night, her strongest senti-
ment was intense pity for herself, and a vague anger
with Fate for having so deceived and tricked her.

On one thing she was sternly resolved. Lord Winder-
mere, Jack, no one, should ever know the fiery ordeal she
/ad gone through. She would do her duty to he^ hu."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

175

band just as if no such person as the young lord existed.
She would cut this gui'^y passion out of her heart. Not
at once — that she knew to be impossible — but by degrees.
She would force herself henceforward to be contented
with such happiness as an unsatisfied heart could afford.
Her life would be incomplete ; she would be another of
those human beings who have just missed their destinies,
and have themselves made this world nothing but a stony
path along which to hurry, when it might have been a
garden of lovely flowers, wherein to linger is pleasant.

Jack's delight at returning, stung her to the quick.
She thought of Judas as she returned his kisses. She
almost longed to confess all, and throw herself upon his
pity ; and — it must be confessed that she had not had
quite time yet to pick up all the ways of society — she
fell on her knees, and, while thanking Heaven, with
charming inconsequence, for having brought her into this
sweet temptation, prayed eagerly that she knight be given
strength to overcome the same.

And Jack, ere he went to sleep, thought to himself that
his defeat at Shodborough, his poverty, and the pile of
disagreeable missives which awaited his return, were
amply compensated for l)y the pure love of his beautiful
wife.

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CHAPTER XXI.

Desipere est mortale etemo jiingere et unii
Consentire putare, et fungi mutua posse.

Lucretius.

Armado.— Adieu, valoitv ! nist, rapier ! be still, drum ! for your manager
is 'n love : yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extempornl god of rhyme, for
I am sure I shall turn sonnetteer.

Love's Labour's Lost

The " season " flickered — flamed up at one or two despe-
rate gaieties, by means of which lovers of London tried to
obtain momentary oblivion of the long boredom now
approaching — and finally went out amid the champagne
and heat of Goodwood and the calmer joys of Cowes.

Like every other season it has been a " very bad one :"
the tradesmen had despaired, and made their cent, per
cent. ; the lucky proprietor of park chairs had amassed a
fortune in coppers, but had grumbled at the averseness to
seating themselves shown by some few spring captains ;
the linkmen apparently existing in a perpetual state of
hoarseness and semi-intoxication, had returned to the mys-
terious bourne from whence they should emerge when
the swallows again came back and to'd us it was summer ;
cross mammas and triumphant if perspiring papas con-
veyed their charges — less fair, less blooming, than a few
short months ago, and with the weight of one more lost
opportunity upon their shoulders — away to the green
pastures of home ; the tailors were beseiged by anxious
dandies who had put off" ordering their yachting or other
rural clothes to the last ; the doctors were sending their
patients to German baths, and were themselves arranging
their holiday tours : and the thorough London fogies were
congratulating themselves as the clubs gradually emptied,
and it was no longer necessaiy to sit upon the last editions

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

177

of the papers in order to make certain of retaining them,
or to hide tlie amusing novels under sofa cushions.

The bursting of the bubble of a London season has
something melancholy in it, and might indeed be made
the theme of several pages of moralising had we not to
attend to our story, and to develop as far as in us lies
the ulterior destiny of Alice Chillingham,

It is so much the fashion among novelists to take liber-
ties with the post-bag, that we offer no apology to our
readers for laying before them the following letters :

No. 1. From Lady Eleanor Stonegrave, at Hollingly
Hall, Cheshire, to Lord Badsworth, St. James Place,
London.

" Mv poor dear Frank, .

" Fancy your being kept stewing in London in
this weather and with no one to speak to except the
policemen and milkmaids ! I declare I think the army
ought to be broken up — or at least the guards ought —
when the season is over. Who on earth is there left in
town worth guarding, I should like to know ? So you
want me tell you all about our party here. I think I
can guess the reason, and am very angry with you, and
shall tell you nothing, except that we are all very cheery
and lazy, and the lawn-tennis ground is jierfect, and the
pUice beautiful in its way ; I don't care much for the
style. But the Duke is a Goth, and says Morris and Co. are
— well, he says a very rude thing about them, and always
laughs when I try to talk of high art. 1 suppose some
people, even sensible ones, have that sense wanting which
teaches us that there can be poetry in the leg of a side-
board, and a symphony in a kettle-holder, ^Esthetic
Perception is — but I wont give you a high art lecture, for
half suspect you are rather devoid of the sense I men-
12

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

tioned. The party here is not very large. It consists of
Mrs. Jellaby, who dresses in exquisite taste, and manages
to talk to every body about things they like, as if she
thoroughly understood each subject, and makes eyes at
the Duke, who lat o-hs at her behind her back, and is
charmed by her. Tnen, of course — how wicked we are
nowadays, to be sure ? — of course there is Charlie Hols-
ter, with very high collars, and much shirt-sleeve and bad
manners, but cheery and pleasant in a way too, and de-
voted to Mrs. J. ; Mr. Keyser, who moralises at breakfast,
which is a crime worthy of hanging, and who will try
and talk about art to me. Do you know, dear, that I
half believe — but, no ; yOu will only say I am conceited ;
all the same, I do think something. Mr. Tollebens — I
beg his pardon. Sir Marmaduke Tollebens, Bart — a snuffy
old gentleman, isn't he ? but full of intelligence, till after
dinner, when I fear he is generally rather too full of his
grace's '48. They took him to bed last night after he
had twice evolved a chair out of his inner consciousness,
and therefore had twice sat down rather painfully on the
floor. Another baronet — that dreadful Sir John Gloraie.
I cannot understand why the Duke should have asked
him here. One never breathes quite freely while he is in
the room, and there is something in his blood-shot eyes
which haunts me. We are, however, spared one inflic-
tion — Lady G. is not here. Johnny Beere, who is, as he
himself says, in tiptop form, keeps us all aliVe, though
how he manages such high spirits the fii*st thing in the
morning, when I hear he is the last to leave the smoking-
room, is wonderful. He and some of the younger men
pulled Mr. Keyser out of the bed tho other night, and Mr.
Keyser tries to cut him, but he won't be cut, and it is
amusing, though, perhaps, rather a shame. I think on
the whole practical joking is vulgar, and Mr. Keyser
takes it very welJ, considering. Lady Meldrum is here,
quite splendid, ridiculously overdressed, and a terror to

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

179

the poor Duke, whose secretary must, I think, have in-
vited her out of contrariety.

^' Then there are a lot of inferior FitzCrewes — cousins
and nephews, and others ; nearly all nice-looking, and all
ready to black the Duke's boots, which boots, by-the-bye,
are rather large just now, as his grace has a touch of gout'
and isn't in the best of tempers.

" Let me see — is that all ? No. There's Mr. Flittery,
who's amusing, and the best raconteur I know — good-
looking, too ; and the Chillinghams. Do you know, Frank
dear, that I like her very much ? Not a bit what I used
tj fancy her in London. I think she is melancholy ; she
is so gentle, and gives way to ever^^one in such a pretty
way. What eyes she has ! The Duke is hopelessly in
love with her, and no wonder. I can scarcely imagine
any man being near her for ten minutes without being
hopelessly in love with her. I£o2v I wish she would sit

to dear Mr. W as a * symphony,' or an ' arrangement,'

or something ! But she scarcely seems to think herself
pretty ; indeed I think she is the only unconceited woman
I ever saw. She has her pug and her husband with her.
The pug — Goggles by name — is delicious, with its tongue
hanging out of its mouth, and such a skin ! The hus-
band — well, I rather like him ; but — I suppose it's some-
thing wrong in my nature — I never care about a man
who is so palpaL. y in love with his wife. Of course he
ought to be, but I think he might manage to hide it.
Between you and me, I fancy his devotion ])ores her just
a little ; but then too much devotion bores every woman.
Mr. Keyser says that contempt is what a )\^oman likes
best ; but I hope that is not quite true. I know I hate
being despised. What a long stupid letter I've written !
But it's your own fault. Make them give you leave as
soon as you can, and come to Stonegrave. We'll have
some acting ; and if you're all very good I'll paint your
scenery. — Your very affectionate sister,

"Nelly." :■».,

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" P.S. — If you happen to be anywhere near Leicester
Square soon, go to Lambert's shop, and pick me up some-
thing delicious and quaint in old silver, as a present for
Emily Chillingham — something slightly ecclesiastical
would be best.

" P.S. No. 2. — I forgot to say that Lord Windermere
has accepted an invitation here, and comes the day after
to-morrow. The Chillingham s at lunch suddenly an-
nounced their intention of going to-morrow, but they
have been persuaded to stay another week."

Letter No. 2. — From Alice Chillingham, at Hollingly
Hall, to Mrs. Belfort, Cowes, Isle of Wight.

"My Dearest Minna,

" I really don't think that I have anything to tell
you. Compared to your doings — dancing, yachting, and
must I add, flirting ? — we are as quiet as qiiakers. The
Duke is charming, and we are fast friends — not fast in one
sense, you understand. He is far nicer when you know him
well ; his indifference, cynicism, and selfishness are all
put on, and if he were not a duke he would be perfect.
You will have seen in The Post what our party is ; I
know you are a great reader of the fashionable intelligence,
so I need say nothing about it. I was very much relieved
not to find a particular' person. You ought not to have
written to me as you did, Minna. Supposing that what
you said were true, or half true, would it not be a terrible
thing for him, for me, for — for everyone ? You know we
can't all be like you, and turn everything serious into
childish play. I envy you, dear, though I don't approve
of you, and I can't possibly imitate you, and would not
if I could. Jack is so good, and kind and nice ; not a bit
cross or put out at his disappointment about Parliament,
where I am convinced he would have made a name. I

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

181

think the Duke likes him extremely, and I'm • 'ire he
ought to. . , .

" I had to stop writing, as the luncheon-gong sounded ;
and now, what do you think ? The Duke has just an-
nounced that Lord Windermere comes on Friday. I've
told you so much that I might as well tell you more, for
I know you do not talk. I daren't meet him ! It is too
bad of the Duke to ask him — or, at any rate, it is too bad
of him to accept ; but we are going. I have persuaded
Jack that I want to go to North Street to arrange my
things before we let the house, and that I am dull here ;
and we shall go to-morrow. The Duke is furious ; but
I can't help that. Meet that man I will not at any price.
You don't know how torn and miserable I am, dear ; but
never write to me as you did last. Consolation does not
lie in that way. ,

" In haste,

" Yours ever, *

" Alice CftiLLiNGHAM.

" P. S. — After all the Duke has persuaded Jack to stay.
Only forty-eight hours before he comes ! That odious
Mrs. Jellaby is full of her feeble wit, and she and Mr.
Flittery are whispering in a corner and looking at me as
I write. How I wish we had never come here ! "

Letter No. 3. — From Lord Windermere, the Wraith,
R. Y. S., Plymouth, to Lieut.-Colonel Herbert Der-
ringer, Travellers' Club, London.

" My Dear Herbert,

" Beastly weather, and rather lucky for you you
didn't come. Thunderstorms and calms. I think T shall
give up yachting. It's a snare and a delusion. Perhaps

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182

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

! !

a big steamer with a party of cheery fellows who would
all play high, to go round the world in, might be fun.
Certainly trying to win a race when there's not enough
of wind to blow your flag out is damnation. I'm not sure
you are not right in hanging on in town. I am not sure,
indeed, that you are not right in everything. You have
no ostensible means of livelihood, and yet you live better
than I do. You haven't got a drop of the milk of human
kindness in you, and you are the most popular fellow in
London. You hate women, and they all dote on you.
You never take the trouble to do more than walk down
Pall Mall, and yet we all know you can shoot and ride
better than any of us ; and you profess never to open a
book, or to know an inn-sign from a Raphael, while your
friends are perfectly aware that you can write verses as
witty as Hood's and as melodious as Tom Moore's, that
you have read every work in English, French, German,
and Italian worth reading, are a first-class classical
scholar, and can paint at least as well as half the R.A's.

" You are an absurdity, that's the fact of it, and it
amuses me this sweltering day, lying under my awning,
with a pipe and a bottle of hock, to remind you of the
fact.

"You want to know what I am doing. Well, I'm
thinking of a pair of dark eyes. Not an unusual thing
with me, eh ? But this time I am not the victor musing
on the field of battle, but the beaten general wonder-
ing how the deu ;e he made so many mistakes. Of course
you know who I mean; even you must allow she is perfect.
I made all sorts of promises to keep away, «Sz;c. — you see
it has progressed — and I now intend deliberately to break
them. If there'd been any wind at these confounded
regattas, or if the Wraith had done better when we did
have enough to move through the water with, it might
have been different. But the ship is no good except when
reefing is i-he order of the day, and I'm sick of the whole
thing. So I send by this post an acceptance ©f old

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

183

Cheshire's invitation for next week at Hollingly, where
she is to be.

" Despite your solemn assurance that another row of the
old kind would be the last straw to break the camel's
back of the toleration of society, I intend to have one
more. Besides, I don't care a damn for society, and even
if it did look black — which I don't believe it ever would
on me (it only disapproves of those it can kick with
impunity) — Alice's eyes are worth a bigger price than
that. %

" She puzzles me rather. Whether she is amusing her-
self or is really seriously taken I can't make out. Some-
times I think: she is desperately in love with her husband
— not that tJtat even often stands in the way of a larky
woman. Sometimes I believe she only flirts with me to
be seen of men — and women; but ofteni-st it seems she is
wretched and sentimental, and trying not to show me she
cares for me.

" I wish you would go into society more, you old her-
mit, and then you might have i,4ven your valuable opin-
ion. She has the most lovely bands and feet I ever saw.
Lady Brocklesby is a curious w« man. All the season her
chief endeavour appeared to be to arrange that I should
meet her daughter-in-law. Perhaps to some women
match-unmaking comes as natural as match-making to
others. But it struck me as odd and rathv3r disgusting.
Write and tell me the news occasionally ; and if you have
any sweet love ditties written in your hot youth, you
might send them to me. It may be, according to Butler,
that —

' She that by poetry is won
Is but a desk to write upon,'

but I haven't found it so ; only the poetry must be rather
incomprehensible to have much effect.

Yours, W."

184

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

Letter No. 4. — From Lieut-Colonel Herbert Derringer,
Travellers' Club, to Lord Windermere, Hollingly
Hall.

" My dear Winpy,

** You're an ass, as I've told you a thousand times.
The Divorce Court is as vulgar as Hampstead Heath now;
and you look as well riding a whirligig on Margate Par-
ade as running away with your friend's wife, in these
practical days. The ridicule is all thrown on the Lotha-
rio, not the Benedict now, — on the horner and not on the
hornee. They manage these things better in France ; but
we do not live in France. A.s to defying the opinion of
people you live with, you talk like a boy of sixteen. You
might just as well cut off your feet so as to walk without
suffering from your corns. Of course, the opinion of your
set is a nuisance ; just as having your hair cut is
a nuisance ; but it must exist, and you must not let
your tangled locks stream ' like a meteor to the troubled
air.'

" However, ' Gang your ain gait.' I never trouble my-
self about other people's affairs. Only one thing — do not
commit the common mistake of being a friend of the hus-
band's. It is bad form. Just as I never tell a lie — not
from principle, but because it is less trouble to speak the
truth — so I have a reasonless, and utterly irrational per-
haps, dislike to anything like deceit.

" I have burnt all my school-day verses, I think — at
least lean lay my hands on none but these, v/hich are almost
too silly even for you to have written. However you
are welcome to them. > .r

"Yours ever,

.... ' ' ■ >

f:? '^ " Herbert Derringer."
A» tlje enclosed verses did eventually reach Alice, wliQ

\'-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

185

thought them perfect, we may as well place them before
the reader, on whom their perusal is not obligatory ;

Oh, sweet eyes bathed in liquid blue !

Oh, pouting rosy lips !
Oh, tiny ears of shell -like hue

Oh, fairy finger-tips !

\\^en to those lips my own I press,

And when that little hand
Nestles in mine with shy caress,

And — a magician wand —

Turns all my blood to sudden fire.
And bids me leave our mirth

For the stern joys of fierce desire.
Then heaven comes down to earth.

Then, as thy soft dishevelled hair

Half hides but to adorn
The glory of those bright eyes, where

A thousand Cupids mourn

That they are chained in heaven above.

And cannot come to kiss
Thy lips, whose wealth of earthly love

Exceeds all heavenly bliss ;

I pray for death, that ne'er again
While beats my quickened heart,

Those words may come, so full of pain,
" Oh darling, we must part ! "

To feel that as I die thou'lt press
My eyes—ail filled with thee—

With quivering lips, whose mournfulness
Would make life sad to me.

Were joy indeed ; and I could then

A happy conqueror die.
For aye to pity other men

Who live so lovelessly.

But no ; I cannot wholly die
While thou'rt alive, and kind ;

My body might decay, but I
Should leave my soul behind !

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In addition to this turgid effusion there was a little
song, afterwards set to music by " Lauriette," and sung
with much success at the St. James' Hall concerts by
Madame Squallini :

Love it is a tender thing,
Formed by angel's whispering ;
Gently tend it ere it die.
Leaving gloom and misery.

True love cannot fettered be

By the world's hypocrisy.

Rules let silly mortals make :

Them, or else their hearts, they break.

Eyes that love and lips that kiss,
Nature's paradise is this ;
When the silent music sways
New-born passion's happy days.

And the beating of *-,heir hearts.
That no prudish terror parts,
Marks the tune of Love's own song,
" Life is Love, and Love is long ! "

U 1

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

187

CHAPTER XXII.

You have uot known
The dreadful soul of woman, who one day
Forgets the old and takes the new to heart ;
Forgets what man remembers, and therewith
Forgets the man.

D. G. ROSSETTI.

The shrubbery at Hollingly was celebrated. In its oora-
plicated windings it was easy to lose yourself — at least
many couples said so after a prolonged absence, thus
falsifying the old adage that two heads are better than
one, for no person alone had ever yet been puzzled into
forgetfulness of his proper road. How Alice and Wind-
ermere found themselves, the day after his coming, in a
shady walk some two miles from the house, the former
of them at least never knew. They had commenced their
walk with a large party, but there had been much straggl-
ing and defection, and at length, as we have said, they
were alone together. It was one of those afternoons
which make up to us English for the disagreeables of our
changeful climate. A bright blue sky, in which white
fleecy clouds sailed lazily, occasionally passing before the
sun and giving us a giateful respite from his beams ; the
shadows on the distant hills, ever changing, ever beautiful;
the bark of the sheep-dog in the neighbouring fields,
blending almost musically with the tinkling of the Swiss
bells which the Duke insisted on putting on his cattle ;
and with the hum of the honey-gathering bee, a scent of
many flowers on the summer air, a delicious feeling of
repose all around.

It was a day, an hour, . jr love ; but of course for love
only which is legitimate. However, we giieve to say
that these two young people sauntering along, but few
words passing between them, did feel the influence of

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

their surroundings. Nature is too careless in these matters,
and the philosophers ought to see to it.

" I will go if you wish it," he said at last, stopping
short and facing her.

She said nothing, and the birds went on singing just
as if there were no such things as death struggles in
human hearts.

" I don't know why I came — I "

" No ! Why — why did you come ? "

She spoke eagerly, but never looked up.

" I suppose it was because I couldn't stop away. Destiny
is too strong sometimes."

" Destiny ? Is it destiny ? "

" Call it what you will," he said softly, and managing
to meet her eyes for a moment. " Any name will do for
— misery."

" Misery ? "

" Yes. What else is all this ? You make a plaything
of me — fool me — drive me mad with those eyes, and then
talk of propriety and duty as coldly as you would order
a bonnet. I suppose women are all the same ; but I did
think that you "

" You thought that I was as bad as many others whom
you have — known ? "

" I thought you were — what you are — an angel, or
perhaps I thought nothing. I sim])ly fell in love ; and
who reasons, or thinks, or argues then ? Now you have
had your success, and can go and laugh at me and try
somebody else."

"Do you think so hardly of me ?"

"Have you not played with my love ?"

" T have not .'"'and the colour rose in Alice's pale cheeks
as she looked up, her lips quivering with repressed feel-
ing. " You know I have not ! Do you believe one can-
not feel and — and hide it ? "

She put her hand on her side, and her breath came
(juickly, but he would not spare her a jot.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

189

" You hide it so well that it is hard to believe in its ex-
istence. It is so easy to talk of hidden feelings, while you
order me away."

"No, no!"

" You do not wish me gone, Alice ? You do not know
how much rests on your answer."

" Why," cried the poor girl, " why do you try me so
hard ?,"

" Because I love you — because you love me. Can you
deny it ? Tell me now, here, once for all, as you shall
answer for your word to heaven, that you do not love me."

There was no answer ; her breath came short, and with
one hand she grasped the branch of the cedar under which
they stood. There was no answer, and no sound but the
distant cooing of a wood-dove.

" You cannot say so ! " His breath was on her cheek,
his arm round her.

" God help me, I cannot," she cried, raising her tear-
stained eyes to his and yielding to his embrace. And
their lips met, and the birds sang on, and the sun shone,
and the calm oxen cropped cheir evening meal and jing-
led their merry bells, just as if there were no such things
as shame and remorse, as crime and breaking hearts, as
faith and honour and purity trampled underfoot, in the
world.

As she stood before her mirror that night, ere going to
the drawing room, and saw her own loveliness ; as she
listened at dinner to the old Duke's courtly compliments,
and smiled approval of Flittery's stories ; more than all,
when Jack took her in his arms before going to the smok-
ing-room, r.nd vowed his little wife was perfection, there
was one person who hated and despised Alice Chillingham
from the depths of her nature, and that peison was Alice-
Chillingham herself.

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XXIII.

So justice, while she winks at crimes,
Stmnbles on innocence sometimes.

Hudibras.

The French cynic, who sometimes took a rather narrow
view of society, has written, " On peut trouver des femmes
qui n'ont jamais eu de galanterie ; mais il est rare d'en
trouver qui nen ayent jawiais eu quune." It is sad to
think this may be true of women in general. At any rate
it was not so of Alice. Her love — now awakened in full
force for the first time — was an unselfish and an abiding
passion. She had given all, and it was a grief to her to
think there was no farther, no greater sacrifice she could
make. There was scarcely any remembrance of herself
in her mind — all was his. Women who can feel like this
had better never to be bom ; they are unfit for the busi-
nesslike and practical nineteenth century; they are anoma-
lies, who should have existed only when Arthur rode in
search of knightly adventure, with Excalibur flashing in
his hand. Jack had been the first civilised young man
Alice had ever seen ; her youth had been strange and de-
solate, and his ready sympathy and frank admiration
would have touched a girl even less impressible than she.
Till now she had never dreamed that he was not first in
her heart ; only there had been a never expressed and
scarcely understood feeling of disappointment with life,
.and with what she considered was love. It seemed so
tame and humble compared with the article as described
in poem and romance. Perhaps it was her fault, and
could only be attributed to her coldness and earthliness.
Now, suddenly, painfully, she was disabused. She knew
now how swiftly the blood could course through her veins ;
she knew now how weak had been her wildest notion of

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

191

the sentiment which — let the cynics and utilitarians say
what they please — after all does govern a good part of
the world. A gambler is supposed to live in a world of
his own, quite untouched by changes arouqd him. Em-
pires may fall, relatives may die, wives may elope, Mr.
Gladstone may write pamphlets. What matter — shall it
be black or red ? A woman " in love " for the first time
is much in this state, drunk, dreaming, bereft of feeling,
of affections, impervious to all v/hich does not touch that
one subject. The " moral sense " of which we spoke before
is for a time beaten entirely down, only however to ari,^e
again when the first delirium is past, and to take a cruelly
effective revenge. It was impossible that Jack could fail
to see the change which now came over Alice's manner to
himself. But he — and he alone of all lookers-on — entire-
ly failed to guess the cause. Of course as she grew colder
and could less and less often be prevailed upon to indulge in
those little marital toyings which are so annoying to look-
ers-on, he grew the hotter and the more anxious for such
distractions. After a round of visits, in most of which
they met Windermere — the shutters of North Street
were taken down, and Jack, reluctantly giving up
his vague plans of hunting — plans the state of his bank-
er's book sternly forbade the execution of — determined to
get through the winter as best he might by the aid of his
clubs, a little harmless play, and much theatre-going. He
was growing almost as moody and fitful as his wife. Do
what he would, he could not put a stop to the estrange-
ment which was growing up between them. They were
drifting apart, he saw with dismay, and he was powerless
to prevent it. There was nothing he could really take
hold of. Alice was soft and gentle, contradicted him far
less than before, smiled when he came home, smiled even
when he came home very late at night — a piece of matri-
monial rebellion she had used to take some umbrage at.
There was no al)solute thing to complain of. When he
told her that she confided less in him than before, she said

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the only reason was that there was nothing to confide.
When he asked her if she was unhappy, she only kissed
him and said " No," and then perhaps put on a false air
of gaiety which hurt him almost more than her mournf ul-
ness.

Poor Jack ! It was a sad experience for a young, ar-
dent nature such as his. He had no hardness- — not even
so much as is necessary in the hard world — and he believed
in good so thoroughly. Life to him was what a smiling
port is to a sailor who has been long at sea. Everything .
was lovely ; promises were kept ; faith was reliable.
There was no purgatory in his idea of existence — it was
either heaven or hell.

And he lost much of his equanimity of temper, became
decidedly " cross," and absented himself more and more
from the pretty little house in North Street.

His embarrassments in the way of money were also
not calculated to enhance his happiness. Creditors
were rapidly losing the oily manner of the tradesman
anxious to please, and assuming the obnoxious air of the
dun. Jack's spasmodic efforts at economy did but little
good, and indeed had the effect of rendering these folks
suspicious, and neither he nor his wife had very clear
ideas as to that grand principle of economic life, that there
are exactly twenty shillings in a pound.

The more Jack stayed at his club the oftener during the
winter did Windermere run up from Melton, where his
horses had a splendidly easy time of it, and an unlooked-
for opportunity of attempting the mysterious equine feat
of eating their heads off" ; and of course the world, both
at the head-quarters of hunting and in London, wagged
their heads and said things of Jack which would have
startled that young and innocent gentleman.

Windermere was not by nature worse than most other
London men. He governed himself according to his lights,
and could scarcely be blamed because he failed to see there
was wrong where no one had seriously taught him to look V

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

193

for it. From the moment of his going to Oxford — we
will do Eton the justice to say there are no toadies among
the boys and few among the masters — he had been put
upon a pedestal above other men, and invited to be selfish,
and to permit lesser mortals to flatter, and fetch and carry
for him.

Once launched into London society, he was at once the
target for all the bright eyes around him. With good
looks, good temper, average abilities, an old title, bound-
less wealth, who was so regardless of worldly advantage
as to say him nay ? And as he tossed his coroneted hand-
kerchief about, surely he would have been of extraordi-
nary virtue to remember that what was genial fun to him
was grief and ruin perhaps to many others. Society
shouted in his ear continually one refrain, " Amuse your-
self ! put your foot on my neck ! trample me well down !
I like it from your lordship ! " and sang of him in the
words of Herrick :

May his pretty Dukeship grow
Like to a rose of Jericho !

# * # *

^lay the Grace and the Hours,
Strew his hopes and him with flowers,
And so dress him up with Love
As to be the Chick of Jove !

Could it be expected that he would think of any other
person than himself, when all conspired to point out that
he owed no duty but to that person ?

His manner with women was almost perfect, and stood
in marked contrast to the awkward insouciance now af-
fected by our golden youth. He had found that, although
it was no doubt less trouble to lounge and yawn, and put
your feet up, yet courtesy was amply repaid by increased
success ; and he knew well that a pleasant smile is very
little trouble, and carries with it its own reward.

To men — except those of his own set — he was reticent
and somewhat haughty. But he was too rich to be un-
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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

popular, and the people he snubbed rather respected him
for doing so.

Careful enough in small things, never spending half-a-
crown when a florin would do as well, he knew when to
be generous, even lavish, with proper eflfect ; and he would
sometimes fool away money on race-courses, or over cards,
with apparent recklessness, while in reality knowing ex-
actly how much it would be convenient for him to lose,
and being quite ready to stop when the limit was reached.

Alice Chillingham was only one in a long line of vic-
tims ; perhaps one of the most difficult, and therefore the
most valued, but not standing out from the crowd with
any especial prominence. She cast down her pearls, and
the pig who picked them up did so as a favour, but was.
enough of an educated pig to prefer them to acorns.

The liaison was a great boon to those who remained in
town for the winter, when so few people run away with
each other, and when, as the Frenchman said, we all com-
mit suicide in the Thames.

The utter ignorance of Jack, of his criminal pretence of
ignorance ; the beauty, the freshness, the Americanness
of Alice ; the wealth and previous performances of Win-
dermere, all combined to make it one of those choice
pieces of scandal which to quote — or rather to misquote
— Gray, did

Wake to ecstasy the living liar.

The Rev. Theophilus Garter, who had by this time
united himself to Emily, heard of it, and lifted his white
hands in pious horror. Emily consigned her brother and
his wife to the lowest pit of that place which amiable
philanthropists so pleasantly declare is to be the ulterior
destiny of most of us, and admired her husband. She
always admired her husband ; and as he liked being ad-
mired, they lived very happily. ! ^'

As vanity is the ruling passion and the most lasting,
so it follows that true happiness between two people tied

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

195

to each other for life, can only exist when one is mean
enough to flatter, and the other is stupid enough to like
being flattered.

A fool and a hypocrite run capitally in double har-
ness.

Emily was one of those women who begin with a cer-
tain quantity of faith, evenly spread over religion, fashion,
love and all the other objects of nineteenth-century esti-
mation, but who, from some inward cause — such as ugli-
ness, shyness, or want of surface geniality — gradually lose
all their beliefs save one : the one which combines in the
highest degree hysterical sentiment and comfortableness,
and which is accessible to the ugliest and the most shy —
emotional religion. All the enthusiasm that had carried her
through night after night of painful wall-flowering balls ;
that had enabled her to ride over a fence (with a feeling
akin to that of Curtius as he dashed to his doom, in her
heart), because Lord Eskdale was out hunting, and had
avowed himself fond of ladies who can ride ; and had
buoyed her up as she studied and tried to commit to
memory for sentimental quotation poetry the meaning of
which she failed to grasp, and of the music of which she
recked nothing : driven out of one fortress after another,
had at last fixed itself firmly in the mighty stronghold
of the Church. What she worshipped was the outward
and visible sign rather than that which it symbolized, the
servant-priest rather than the Master that he served, the
granite-built church she repaired rather than the un-
known region she tried to think she would like to repair
to ; but her faith in its narrow groove, was not particu-
larly harmful to herself or to those around her ; and if
she complacently regarded the imminent destruction in a
painful and never-ending agony of most of those with
whom she daily shook hands and exchanged compliments,
after all she gave charming tea and beautifully cut bread-
and-butter in the pretty house hard by St. Banbury's
Church, and spoke of sinners in high places with a tear-

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

ful charity which seemed to combine justice and mercy
in a manner befitting a Christian in Belgravia.

The Reverend Theophilus, inspired one afternoon by
many muffins and several cups of tea — greasy, glowing,
and good-looking — had ventured to attempt to snatch
this brand, their near relative — and a fierce light beats
upon the pulpit of a popular preacher — from the burning ;
but the reception he received in North Street was too
much even for his persistence.

Alice surpassed herself in her indignation — the sense
of fury which arises from a knowledge of tho justice of
the accusation — and, her temper having been a little
rufiled that week by some performances of Jack's, spoke
up and flashed her great eyes in a manner which caused
the sainted Mentor .? wish himself awav.

Alice thought he was a hypocrite ; she looked at his
patent leather boots, his lavender gloves, his brushed-up
hair, his general aspect of pomatum, and could not be-
lieve in his sincerity ; but she was to a certain extent
wrong — next to himself, the man certainly believed in
his Creator.

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197

CHAPTER XXIV.

Vetabo qui Cereris aacrum
Vulgat-it arcanae sub iisdem
Sit trabibus, vel fragilemque mecum
Sol vat phaselum.

Horace.

The behaviour of Jack's, which we mentioned in the last
chapter as having ruffled his wife's temper, was in tliis
wise. We will not insult our readers' intelligence by
telling them that, although she was in love with another
man, she was ready to resent and to grieve over any dim-
inution of Jack's regard for herself. That goes without
saying. And she believed that such a diminution was
taking place. He made no secret of his acquaintance
with and admiration of Violet Vandeleur, the actress ;
indeed, out of pique, he was rather inclined to exaggerate
his liking for her. As often as possible he took Alice
to the theatre where she displayed her well shaped legs ;
and Alice frequently detected, or thought that she de-
tected, glances of intelligence passing across the foot-
lights. That she had no right, situated as she was, to re-
sent this did not make it any more bearable ; and woman-
like, she tried to make havoc of the data in her domestic
history, and to prove to herself that her own conduct was
palliated by circumstances which followed it. It was of
no -use, however. Had Jack been a very Lord Rochester
she could not have done other than despise herself. And
Jacl as no Lord Rochester. He was not even libertine
enougn to be popular in this naughty day. Alice would
have been astonished had she known that his visits to
Violet were almost exclusively taken up by the discussion
of herself. Thirsting for sympathy, and finding his wife
daily less sympathetic, Jack had opened his heart to the

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frank little actress, who had taken a real liking for him,
and was grateful for his confidence and friendship as she
had never been for the vows and diamonds of her many
adorers. As she truly said, she had never been treated
as a woman, much less as a friend, by any man since she
left the old farm-house ; and it was intensely pleasant to
her to sit, in her pretty little drawing-room in Brompton,
and give Jack good advice and sympathy, and feel for the
moment — until Sir John came in with his false teeth and
falser laugh — that she was of a higher use in the world
than to dance a cancan.

She had a soft voice, and could throw a world of tender
interest into her eyes. Besides, she was warm-hearted,
and grieved to see this promising manage so soon broken
up. Alice she had seen from afar oft', and Jack delighted
in the honest admiration she evinced for that lady.

" She is pretty, isn't she ? " he would say.

" Prett)'- ! she's a regular stunner — I mean a beauty ! I
shall never cure myself of slang. Jack, so it's no use your
looking glum. Fancy your not being happy with her !
And you are so fond of each other, too ! "

" I don't know about that. Look here, Violet, I'd give
all I had in the world — not much, certainly," said poor
Jack, mentally appraising his effects — " to gei- her to look
at me once again as she used. I don't believe she knows
what's happening ; I believe she can't help it ; but she
doesn't care for me any more — that's the long and short
of it. ' And he commenced to pace up and down the little
room, the countless little tables covered with china mon-
strosities having many nan^ow escapes as he brushed by.

" Do you think there's anyone else ? " asked Violet,
watching him gravely.

He stopped short.

" Anyone else ? I don't quite undei^tand."

" I mean do you think she likes anyone else ? They
say women, even great ladies, sometimes do it." '

Violet could not restrain a little sneer. ► : • -.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

199

He burst out, " I've a devilish good mind never to come
here again. Anyone else ? Violet, must you think every-
one as — like yourself ? "

" No, no, Jack," she said humbly. " Of course I didn't
mean it. You see I can only judge from my fellows, and
know nothing of the swells. This Lord Windermere you
talk about so often — he's your friend, isn't he ? "

" Yes," said Jack, mollified, but still frowning. " He's
my friend and hers too. He saved her life, you know —
or at least did a plucky thing which many fellows wouldn't
have done ; and — and, besides, he has been very good-
natured to me." He was thinking of several hundreds
which Windermere had lent him to settle a whist account,
and which stood somewhat between him and his rest at
Dresent.

" I ne\ er heard of Lord Windermere's being good-
natured before," said Violet, looking up quickly.

" Didn't you ? Oh, I daresay you haven't heard much
about him. He's the best-natured fellow going — the
most generous in fact." Jack thought this at least was
due to the man who had saved him from what he believed
would have been disgrace ; he was so very ignorant of
" the way we live now."

** Jack," said Violet, suddenly, touching his arm to bring
him to an anchor, " you haven't borrowed money from
him?"

" Well — well — yes. How did you guess ? Why do
you ask ? One can always borrow from a pal, I suppose ?"
And Jack looked huffily surprised.

*^He's no pal of yours."

" No pal of mine ! Oh yes he is. Quite enough to "

" To borrow money from. Jack, I'm sorry you have
done this."

" My dear girl, of course I am too ; I'm sorry I wanted
the money, and I'm sorry I haven't paid it back. But I
hate talking on unpleasant subjects. Windy 's as rich as
a Jew, and isn't in any hurry to get it back. Besides, my

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

turn of luck must come soon ; I don't believe any man
ever held such cards as I have for the last month."

" Does Mrs. Chillingham know you play ? " asked
Violet. - ^*v--. ..^■;.-. :.-.^.' ■ vv^;-.,^

"You're in a very inquisitive mood this morning, Vi.
No, I don't suppose she thinks I put on quite so much as
I do." And then he went into a rhapsody over her wonder-
ful cleverness as the manager of a household, again dwelt
on her beauty, and finally got back to his misery at her
coldness, and his determination to bring matters to their
old footing ; while the actress sat quietly by, knowing the
whole miserable story as well as if it had been enacted
before her, and trembling to think of the day when this
eager, loving, credulous boy should come to be aware of
his dishonour. ^ -

That time was not far ofi". A few days after the con-
versation we have recorded, Sir John Glorme met Jack as
he came out of the Brompton villa.

Sir John was not in a good temper. He was fully
assured that this good-looking youngster was poaching on
his preserves, and he had been for some time trying to
make up his mind whether he would cast Violet off and
fly to a fresh conquest, or whether he could, without in
any way compromising his dignity and his character for
success, warn the impudent trespasser off. - '

As luck would have it, on this especial afternoon he
had received bad news from his trainer, added to which
was the fact that a chase he had engaged in just before
had ended in the triumph and escape of the prey.

" Ah, Chillingham ! Here again, eh ? Do you suppose
I pay for all this " — and he waved his arm so as to take
in the garden, villa, pretty stables, and Violet herself —
" for your benefit ? Of course I'm delighted to see you
when I a/sk you — when I ask you."

Jack was too preoccupied to care for the Baronet's
anger, and was about to pass by with a careless nod, when
the other interposed.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

201

" Did you hear me ? Because you can't stay at home,
I don't want yoi:' to ive here. I pay just as much for
Violet as Windermere does for your wife, and you have
no more right here than you have there."

He tried to laugh, but an awkward sensation that he
had said too much oppressed him. Young men are some
times so hasty — ^and so strong ! He was somewhat com
forted, however, by seeing a stalwart policeman busily
engaged in eating an orange on the other side of the street.

Jack stared him in the face as if he had heard nothing
for a moment, and then, in a low, hoarse voice, said : .

" Say that again — all of it ! "

Sir John was not at his ease. There is time for much
that is disagreeable before even the fleetest policeman can
cross a road. . • - . :.^

" I only — only hinted you should not call here while I

am out." * .; vi W..V,;

" But you said something else."

Jack's tone was low, and hu words seemed to come
through his closed teeth ; but he didn't look at the Baro-
net, and that worthy began to feel more at ease.

" I only mentioned what all the world knows — that
Windermere calls very often on your wife."

" But you said — about paying "

" Do you mean to pretend you know nothing of it ? "
asked Sir John with a sneer. . .

He was reassured by Jack's calmness. The latter looked
him straight in the eyes now.

" Sir John Glorme, you dared just now to say that

Windermere paid for — my wife. It's a d d lie. He

lent ine some money the other day — that's the mistake.

But look here " J ack made a step towards him, and Sir

John glancing over his shoulder, saw with dismay that
the policeman had moved away — " If I ever hear of your
whispering such foul lies again — and if such tales get
about, I shall know who spread them — I'll kill you like
a rat ! "

202

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

Jack looked rather fine as he towered over the shak-
ing form of the disconcerted Baronet, who, however,
managed to reply with some semblance of dignity :

" I am sorry a momentary feeling of anger made me
say what I did, I only repeated what is in everyone's
mouth. I am glad to hear it is not true. I advise you
to have it contradicted." And he passed unmolested
through the garden ga^^e, and disappeared into the villa,
where he speedily steadied his disordered nerves with a
strong draught prepared by the fair hands of Miss
Violet.

Jack stood still in the road while you might have
counted a hundred. A v il had suddenly dropped from
his eyes. Trusting as he had been before, in exactly the
same proportion was he now hopeless. It scarcely oc-
curred to him to question the truth of what Sir John
had hinted.

Trifles, light as air.
Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ.

And it must be admitted that Windermere's constant
visits to North Street, the extraordinary fact of milliners'
bills being no longer a constant torment to the establish-
ment, and Alice's changed manner, were scarcely trifles
to one with his eyes newly opened.

The wish may often be the " father to the thought,"
but on many occasions we seem eager to convince our-
selves of what we dread to know. A jealous man, con-
stantly seeking what he would not find, is only one amid
innumerable instances.

A passing hansom caused him to look up — for *n our
direst woe we are unwilling to be run over ; it was empty,
and in another moment he was whirling away to meet
his fate, which on this occasion was represented by
Messrs. CoUinson and Hoade, the well-known bankers,
with whom he had an appointment, which the cabman's
question of " Where to, sir ? " recalled to his memory.

A STOR^ OF -MODERN LONDON.

203

/ CHAPTER XXV.

Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown
If angry Fortune on their union frown.

Lord Lyttletok.

When I was at home I was in a better place ; but travellers must be
content.

As You Like It.

There was some excitement at Sinnington, Lord Brock-
lesby's place in Snarlshire, where the family were pass-
ing the winter, for the Duke of Cheshire had suddenly
proposed himself as a visitor. His grace was not much
given to going to other men's houses ; for, as he said,
if he changed his habits, he was a nuisance to himself ;
and if he adhered to them, he was a nuisance to his
host ; and least of all did he go to the Brocklesbys', whom
he detested. Once a year, in the summer, he was induced
to eat his dinner in Eaton Square, but several times of late
he had shown symptoms of rebellion against this very
moderate piece of family duty. So his note asking to be
allowed to come to Sinnington, if they could find room
for him, created some stir. The notion of the possibility
of not finding room for the head of her ladyship's family
was very funny ; for as Spencer observed, fixing his glass
with a fiercer twist of his eyebrows than usual there
was- scarcely any menial office which they would not
have undertaken for him with grateful pride.

Shy and reserved, except in the company of pretty
women who could talk, with a smattering of a good many
things, and showing on the surface a sort of easy-going
satirical power which was rather alarming in a duke, even
the boldest social iconoclast was somewhat afraid of him ;
and there was an air of mystery about the doings in the

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CHILDREN OF' NATURE.

big villa of Maida Vale and in the pretty hotel in Paris,
which had a prodigious effect on those unfortunate ones
whose wickednesses were known and could not, therefore,
be deemed more heinous than the}'^ were. He took a sort
of miid interest in Lord Brocklesby, which had com-
menced when he heard of that nobleman having proposed
to his hslf sister.

"Either he is mad," said the Duke, "or he is the pluck-
iest individual in Europe ;" and even yet he had not quite
made up his mind which he was.

The strongest feeling the Duke probably had of a pos-
itive kind was a dislike to the clergy, and had he known
that among the guests of Sinnington were the Rev. Theo-
philus Garter and his bride, even the business he had in
hand would scarcely have been powerful enough to take
him there.. ' ^

This business was no less than to expostulate with the
Brocklesby s on the little trouble they seemed to take to
keep Alice and Jack out of danger. The Duke had —
later than others, for he discouraojed gossip — heard of
what was said about Alice and Windermere, and had
smiled sadly, but more or less indifferently, until the
money part of the story was told him. He was fond of
Jack — in his careless, selfish way — and admired Alice
excessively. When he had the gout at Hollingly she was
the only person he could bear near him ; and somehow
the little mock flirtation which, according to his usual
habit, he had instituted with her, did not seem so mock,
did not remind him of his age so much as most of such
affairs. Like many elderly men who have sneered at
women all their lives, he was quite ready now to fall at
the feet of any who would only " make believe a great
deal " that he was some twenty years younger than the
Peerage would have it ; and young ladies who blushed
when he spoke to them, and trembled in expectation of
a caustic mot, little knew how easily they might have
gained a ducal coronet, If the Duke had been a country

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

205

squire he would have married his cook ; as it was, the
responsibilities of his position, and a sense of refinement
which he at once cherished and despised, alone kept him
from some nearly equal folly. We say "folly" from habit,
but after all the cook generally makes the squire uncom-
monly happy.

" That's a nice boy of yours, Brocklesby," he began, as
he strolled back from the farm with his host, his brain
bewildered by all the ingenious theories connected with
agriculture to which he had listened.

" He is," said his lordship, emphatically, stopping short,
and confronting him. " He is that, entirely owing to the
way I trained him. My theory is — or was ; I've invented
a still better plan now — that, as surprise is the essence
of wit, so it is the element which we should oftenest call
up in teaching. Let a child know nothing until, say, ten
or twelve years old, and then suddenly tell him that CAT
spells cat. He never forgets it ; it so surprises him."

" Did you teach Jack in this way ? " asked the Duke,
half Weary, half amused.

" Yes No, by-the-bye, I only thought of it after he

had gone to Eton, or I should have. No. I had intend-
ed to try it at the village school, but her ladyship — who,-
clever woman as she is, is rather slow at grasping new
ideas — joined with the dolt of a schoolmaster in objecting,
and "

" Why don't you ask Jack and his wife here ? " asked
the other, abruptly.

Lord Brocklesby never objected to being interrupted.
A subject was to him as a stick to a dog when he has
fetctied it out of the water. He worries it, and tears it,
and clings to it, but is quite ready to drop it if another be
thrown in for him.

" God bless my soul ! Why, we do. At least, we have.
They've been here this winter."

" I think it would be well to get them away from town
now. Of course, Brocklesby, it would be affectation in us

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CHILDREN OF NATURE.

to pretend we haven't heard any of the ill-natured stories
which are being spread about them ; and their being here
would do much to stop those stories."

" To tell tbe truth," said Lord Brocklesby, looking rather
perplexed, " I did mention the subject to her ladyship the
other day "

" And she didn't like it ? "

" Well, you see, with all her faults she is very sound on
one point. No one can ever say she tolerates the fastness
which is all the fashion now, and "

" You mean she thinks Alice too fast to associate with
your daughter ? " asked the Duke, his lip curling.

" I'm sure, my dear Cheshire," said his lordship, ner-
vously flicking at the laurel leaves with his stick, " I'm
sure / have no vulgar prejudices, but after having tried
both, I have to come to the conclusion that a quiet life is
preferable to a stormy one ; and her ladyship requires a
very light hand. Besides, I've a theory that "

" Don't you see," interrupted the Duke, impatiently,
" that these foolish children are simply going to perdition
left to themselves ? They neither of them know anything
of the world, and they've got into such trouble that only
-a miracle can save them. Why, do you know what they
say of your son ? '

" Yes, yes ; and of course it's not true. No Chilling-
ham would allow anyone to pay for him. Yery few
Chillinghams got the chance. We were always an un-
lucky family "

" Why, do you mean to say " began the other ; but

his lordship went placidly on :

" I remember a fellow — you probably knew him — Jack
Mendlip — oh, no, that was the elder brother; this was
Tommy Mendlip, with a cock eye, you know. There
were stories about old Middlesex paying for him ; and
Mrs. Tommy was lovely — octoroon blood or soipething,
met her in America or Africa — but of course they were
all lies. She ran away with someone soon after, though ;

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

207

yes, with Middlesex himself. And then Tommy went
through the Bankruptcy Court, and was made governor
of some place or other, and drank himself to death in six
months. Ah," and he sighed sentimentally, " those were
jolly days, weren't they, Cheshire ?"

The Duke saw that nothing was to be done in this
quarter, and his next attack was made on Spencer, who
had come home armed with piles of blue-books to prepare
a Bill it was his intention to bring forward the next ses-
sion, having for its ooject the prohibition of the accumula-
tion of wealth either by nations or individuals, which he
ingeniously proved was the initial cause of all evil. As
he said, it was a large subject, and it was not to be won-
dered at that he was rather inaccessible during its con-
templation. As a matter of principle he disliked dukes ;
but this one with his good-natured smile and total
indifference to his (Spencer's) most startling assertions,
rather awed him.

" Really, I never trouble myself with these matters,"
he said, laying down his Adam Smith with a sigh. " They
seem very unimportant ; and, as a matter of fact, their
occurring to one's relations does not alter their import-
ance. As a practical, impartial man, I ought not to mind
reading in the paper, 'Brown v. Brown and Jones, less
than Chillingham v. Chillingham and ' anyone else."

" Carry that principle out, and it ought not to matter
whether you or Brown is kicked."

" Ah, philosophy is not perfected yet. I do believe it
would be possible for a man sufficiently to conquer mat-
ter by mind to be able to look upon actual bodily pain in
himself as calmly as if it were in someone else. But to
return to the subject on which you spoke. If what peo-
ple are saying is true, what can you or anyone do ? If it
is untrue, what need to interfere ? "

" The simple fact is, my dear Spencer," said the Duke
with difficulty controlling his impatience, " that there is
a clear duty before your parents "

208

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" It can't be so very clear, or they would see it," said
Spencer, adjusting his glass. ' ■

" Well, I shall speak to your mother," and the Duke
turned away, muttering a word which sounded very like
"idiot." , ,: : .,

His interview with his half-sister was not more suc-
cessful than the others. She was ready to do anything
he liked, to take his advice in any case, except this. On
this point he really must allow her to take her own line.
Women understood more of these things than men, and
she had a distinct duty to perform to her daughter. One
could not be too particular nowadays, and — well, the
fact was that Alice did not come of the same class as
themselves. Although the Duke and others had been so
kind about it, of course the marriage had been a terrible
thing for Jack ; and what had happened was only natural.
Indeed, she herself had predicted it. Her dear brother
must not be offended ; it was so good of him to come
down to Sinnington and have a few quiet days with
them ; he really must not be offended, but Alice could not
be asked there. Jack, of course, would come when he liked."

" And Windermere too ? " asked the Duke, with some-
thing like an oath. A' ...

" Lord Windermere can go anywhere. I don't mean to
defend him in this instance, but men in his position are
often more sinned against than sinning. And Alice "

" Good God, Theodora ! do you mean to hint that that
pretty innocent little thing "

Lady Brocklesby coloured through her rouge.

" I mean to say that from the very first she was a flirt,
and that from the very first. she had determined to make
up to Lord Windermere ! Before she came into the family
he was most particular in his attentions to Jane — lunched
in Eaton Square continually."

" That must have meant something," put in his grace,
with a horrible recollection of one hot meal he had acci-
dentally been caught for.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

209

" In short, I have reason to know that he liked her ex-
cessively."

And Remembering her wrongs at the hands of her son
and daughter-in-law, Lady Brocklesby's lips thinned till
you could scarcely see where her mouth was.

"Well, I shall ask them to HoUingly at once."

Afraid of her brother as she was, she could not resist
the sneer —

" Do you think that will restore her character ? "

The Duke was shocked to think that a relation of his
could look so ill-tempered, but took no notice of this re-
mark. He at once recognised the truth which was in it. One
of the disadvantages of his bachelor position this certainly
was. Nevertheless a vague idea entered his head that by
doing violence to his tenderest feelings and filling his
house with bishops and curates, he might make the com-
pany so excessively respectable as to send Alice from it
with the world's absolution upon her.

" Important business " soon made his return to London
necessary ; and he entered the Maida Vale mansion, feel-
ing intensely the extreme wisdom of those Eastern po-
tentates who, on ascending their thrones, kill off, for pru-
dential reasons, every relative they possess.

i m

210

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XXVI.

v My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of com is but vain hope of gain.
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun.
And now I live, and now my life is done.

Ghidiock Titchhoume.

" Sing to me," said Alice, shivering ; " I feel low to-day ;
low and frightened at nothing. Sing to me."

Windermere was not a brilliant performer, but in a
room his voice was quite loud enough, and he knew how
to throw more expression into it than many greater sing-
ers can do.

" Bright eyes 1 bright eyes ! your guilt is clear,
A wicked theft you ve done !
■ . . A man and a heart aid enter here,

And the man went out alone. "

** Bright eyes ! bright eyes ! the heart you hold-
Encaged, no more to rove —
Is starving, shivering in the cold,
For hearts subsist on love.

" Bi^ht eyes ! bright eyes ! you have so much
That it could live upon ;
A heaven is in your finger touch,
• And in your smile a sun. ■'■■:■ ''^'^■■■'.•'x^':-':^:-^^-,':'''

" Bright eyes ! bright eyes ! you should not proVe
So cruel in yoiu' play.
Or let it feed its fill on Ic

Or let it die to-day.'

love,

Alice sighed. She had not listened to the common-
place words of the song, but the simple melody had been
an accompaniment to her thoughts — thoughts which, had
•he guessed them, would have astonished the good-looking

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

211

youth beside her. She was leaning on the piano, both
the little hands supporting her chin, her eyes looking
dreamily at nothing.

'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear :

Heaven were not heaven if we knew wnat it were.

What was this cold feeling of disappointment at her
heart but the disappearance of the glamour with which
she had surrounded her first love, the awakening from the
dream which she thought, in her insensate folly, would
last for ever ?

Was it for this she had lost her own respect ? — was it
for this she had been so false, so cruel, so contemptible ?
And yet she loved him with all her heart still. She met
his inquiring gaze.

" I am unhappy, Clare — wretched ! Do you think
wickedness always makes one so ? They used to say/'
she went on, with a miserable attempt at a smile, " that
everything wrong is pleasant. I'm sure it ought to be,
considering what one gives up for it."

" Gives up, Alice ? I don't quite understand ; " and he
twirled his moustache rather angrily.

" Well," cried she, " is it : othing to give up one's peace
of mind, one's self-respect ? — to be daily, hourly lying to
and deceiving one who is so true, so generous ? Oh, Clare,
I wish I was dead — I wish I was dead ! "

Heedless of grammar she bent her head upon the piano
and sobbed.

Windermere, like most men, hated scenes ; like a spoilt
man, he never endured them.

" This is nonsense," he said, rising, and taking up his
hat and onyx-topped cane. " You're overstrung and ner-
vous, and "

" Oh, what have I done ! what have I done !" ^e wailed,
and he fairly ran away, observing as he opened the door,
" You ought to hi. more sensible, dear. This is absurd.
Everybody does it ; " and .with this he went downstairs

212

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

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and was soon in the afternoon express on his way to
Melton ; wondering, as he meditatively puffed his cigar,
why women were so foolish, and could never make them-
selves agreeable for more than a fortnight.

'• She takes things too seriously, that little woman,"
he said next day to Charlie Holster, when enjoying with
that hard-riding young gentleman those sweet smoking-
room confidences which follow a good day's sport and a
dinner worthy of it. " She'll frighten me away before
long, and only have herself to thank for it."

" Ah," said Charlie, wagging his head with all the sa-
gacity bred of two bottles of champagne and unlimited
glasses of fizzii}g drink afterwards ; " women are all very
well in summer. They ought to follow the example of
the swallows, and go away somewhere before the hunting
season begins. You've lost some of our best things this
year, Windy, with all that philaudering up in town.
What do you ride to-morrow ? "

" Gad, I don't know. Whatever the great Mr. Jones
pleases, I suppose "

" You let that fellow have his own way far too much,"
said Captain Holster ; and, leaving the subject of woman-
kind, the conversation turned to that of the more useful
animal — in winter — the stud-groom.

On his way to the banker's, with whom he had an im-
portant appointment to discuss w.ays and means, Jack
tried his best to collect his thoughts. He was utterly
stunned by the blow he had received. Alice — his Alice

— false ? It could not be ! And yet He wondv. . 3d

vaguely what made the people he met stare so curiously
at him, not knowing that his eyes were the eyes of a
madman, and his expression almost that of a murderer.

Mr. Hoade's explanations and expostulations in the
bank-parlour he scarcely heard or heeded, and that worthy

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

213

junior partner concluded that he had imbibed too much
sherry. As he rose to depart, however, Mr. Hoade let fall
sgme words which fully aroused him from his trance.

" If you could only keep your account with the same
regularity as Mrs. Chillingham, it would be so far better.
I don't think she has ever been overdrawn."

Alice had, when they first set up house, petitioned, as
a great joke, to have a separate account ; so that, as she
then said, laughing, her economies in dress might be kept
quite distinct from Jack's extravagances in other domestic
arrangements.

" Ah I hasn't she ? But it would be difficult to confuse
so small an account."

" I think of the two it is rather the larger. I must
wish you good afternoon now, Mr. Chillingham," and he
turned away with a bow.

" Rather larger ! " cried Jack. " Might I 1 suppose

there would be no objection to my looking at Mrs. Chil-
lingham's account ? "

" None in the least," said Mr. Hoade. " I will send a
clerk to you with it."

There it was, seeming to stand out from the rest of the
page, transferring itself as it were from the paper to
Jack's brain, the entry :

June , 18 . .

Per Lord Windermere, £1000.

The clerk, who was a clerk of some position, and had
studied human nature as it is to be found in Camberwell
and in the novels of the day, read the romance in real
life before him at a glance, and his scorn of the stupidity
shown by Lord Windermere in supplying proof against
himself in the shape of this cheque was extreme. In-
deed, the transaction was scarcely worthy of his lord-
ship's skill and wariness, though, as lie afterwards observed
to Mr. Flittery, "You see, I had my chc(jue-b()ok in my

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214

CHILDREN OF NATUKE.

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pocket, and a chance of creating a secret between her and
me which might never have occurred again. If I'd sent
notes even an hour afterwards she'd have refused them.
The thing was to let her see, while she was bothered about
the dressmaker's bill, the money to pay it by its side.
All the same, I grant you it was a false move,"

" Per Lord Windermere, £1000." Jack stood looking
at the entry till the pitying clerk was fain to recall him
to a sense that time is money.

" Have you done with the account ? " he asked.

Jack stared at him, put on his hat, left his gloves and
stick lying on the table, and walked out, pursued by his
hansom, which he had forgotten to pay.

He got in, his property was brought to him by the
messenger, and the cabman said :

"Where to, sir?"

" Where to ! " It sounded like cruel mockery. He had
no home now. The people walking along the street
seemed to know of his shame ; the cabman surely was
sneering at him. Where could he hide himself ? But
even with a broken heart you cannot sit in a stationary
hansom long. Fate, the great policeman, sternly orders
us to move on, whether vre know where to go to or not.

There are times of such great misery that to act seems
impossible, when the heart is so crushed out of a man
that he can only grovel in the mud.

" Go to No. — , North Street," he said.

Arrived at his own house, he paid the cabman, and
drew oat his latch-key, but dared not enter.

Badsworth's chambers were in Jermyn Street, and he
bent his steps that way.

Badsworth was at home, for it was dressing-time, and
delighted to see him.

"You never look up nowadays, old fellow," he said.
" But, hollo ! What's the matter ? You look as if you'd
seen a ghost ! "

" Nothing — only I don't feel (|uite tlie thing. Perha|)s

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

215

I'd better go home;" and he rose and moved wearily
towards the door.

" Sit down ! " cried Badsworth, seizing his arm. " You
look as if you were going to faint. There, drink up that
stuff; it's old brandy. That's right. Why, Jack, I
thought you were as strong as a horse."

" Frank," said Jack, not taking his eyes off the ground,
" did you know it ?"

" Know what ?" asked the other, the truth flashing
across him.

" About them — him and her ?"

" I— well, the fact is "

" You did know ! Why didn't you tell me ?"

" I know nothing certain. Jack, old chap " — and he
put his hand on his friend's shoulder — " you mustn't be
too quick to believe "

Jack roes impatiently. »

" I believe the worst."

" Oh no ; trust me that "

" I will trust no one — no one ever again. She tricked
me— fooled me ; but I'll kill him ! By God, I'll kill him!
And you knew it all, and stood by, and call yourself my
friend ! What did you know ?" he asked turning fiercely
on Badsworth.

" I knew " — Badsworth spoke slowly, and in a low voice
— " I knew that he came very often — too often — to your
house. I knew that people said " .

"Well?"

" They said that you couldn't afford to pay for her
gowns, and "

" Go on."

"Surely you can guess what they said. It was not
true, Jack, though."

" True ! Yes, I suppose it was true. I haven't found
out whether he paid all her bills / I only know she
told me she owed nothing the oth tty."

" Is it not possible that this was all — that what you

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216

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

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think is without foundation ?" asked Badsworth, lamely.

" Do men — is Windermere likely to pay away money
for nothir "

BadsM Ji was silent.

" What do you mean to do ?" he asked, after a pause.

There was no answer.

" You ought to ask her for an explanation, at any rate."

"An explanation!" Jack laughed bitterly. "Women
can always explain things. No. He shall give me one
though, when I've paid him. I owe him money myself,
too, Frank."

" Look upon my purse as yours, old chap. He ought to
be paid at once."

" No, I won't borrow from friends again. Who knows
that you may not be as false as he ?"

Badsworth drew back the hand he had extended to
press Jack's — the nearest approach to a caress between
Englishmen.

" Forgive me, old fellow, forgive me I didn't mean it.
I would take your moi?ey, if I would take anyone's. I
must go now."

"Where?" said Badsworth, placing himself between his
friend and the door.

" I don't know. I must be alone somewhere and think,
or I shall go mad. Do you believe in a broken heart,
Frank ? I wonder if it s only in novels such things
happen ?" and with a ghastly smile he pushed by to the
door, and walked hurriedly down the street.

Alice waited dinner that night till nine o'clock, and
went to bed eventually after a solitary meal, somewhat
alarmed at the unusual absence of her husband.

Iri

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

217

CHAPTER XXVTI.

North. — You are a gentleman, and a gamester, sir ?

Armado. — I confess both : they are both the varnish of a complete

man.

Lovers Labour Lost.

Jack walked away from Bads worth's chambers with no
thought where he was going, and wandered aimlessly on,
much to the inconvenience of the other pedestrians, who
would probably have affirmed, had they been given the
opportunity, that no crisis in a man's life excuses him for
running up against his fellow-creatures.

Some irony of fate seemed to force him to think of his
wife as she had been — it seemed so long ago — when he
trusted her implicitly ; and not as she was now, deceiving,
outraging him, making him an unconscious party to what
appeared to him the most heinous imaginable offence.

His previous blindness was now made up for by an al-
most preternatural astuteness. A thousand little circum-
stances, widch had in reality no bearing on the matter,
ranged themselves in his mind on the side of the prose-
cution.

Everything Alice had done or omitted to do for the^past
three months spoke, he thought, volumes for her love of
Windermere. It is to be observed that Jack never looked
upon this business as anything but serious. He could not
believe in his darling doing this thing — treating him, who
loved her, so cruelly — except for one all-powerful reason:
that she loved this man.

Jack sighed as he thought of his own inferiority in
looks, in position, in weaKb, in intellect, in address, in
everything. What wonder he was not able to keep her
for himself ! And yet he would have been so loyal, so
true^ if she could only have tried a little harder to likQ

218

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

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him best ! No doubt they had had petty difference's ;
perhaps he had been harsh sometimes ; but surely she liad
known all the time how utterly he loved her.

He had stayed late at his club ; but if she had really
disliked it, did she not know that he would have vowed
never to enter a club again ? It certainly seemed hard
upon him. He was young, and might have a long life
before him ; and he shuddered, much to the astonishment
of a passer-by, as he thought of a long life without her.
He was one of those men, rare now either in life or fiction,
whose fondness for a woman has something higher and
stronger in it than his fondness for horses, pictures, or a
good dinner. Not romance reading, but the natural ro-
mance inherent in a fresh young heart, made him think
of love much as the poets talk or sing of it. Religion he
believed in, and would gladly, no doubt, have given his
blood for it had he lived in the olden time. In these days
the belief is tempered by the distance from week-day life
at which it is now kept. The spare zt ai that was in him
had gone all to his love, and his worship of the little wo-
man he had made his own was, to a certain extent, re-
moved from all the grossness which we are accustomed to
associate with that inclination of one human being for
another, which itself provides us so greatly with amuse-
ment and scandal.

That Alice could have sinned for any other reason than
passion in its purest form he never for one moment
thought ; that she had not sinned, considering the cir-
cumstances which he knew, he did not believe, for he
possessed no power of casuistry which draws a broad
society line betw-een the will and the deed. Had Alice
told him that she drew Windermere on and extracted
gold from him by pretended affection. Jack would have
been more mortified than he was now. That she could be
false through love was no doubt horrible ; that she could
be false through falseness would have been far more so.

Forgive her ! What ! was he to forgive one so immea-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

219

surably superior to him ? He had never felt his insignifi-
cance till now, and now he valued himself much in the
manner a dealer does a horse he means to buy. But he
hardly knew how to manage such forgiveness. For her
happiness — he said this to himself a thousand times — he
was ready to give up any chance of his own. For her
happiness he would give up even the semblance of honour,
and he would almost give up honour's self. But this
man : was he worthy of so great a prize ? Jack remem-
bered the niany equivocal stories he had heard about him ;
remembered many C3niical remarks about women spoken
at clubs and in smoking-rooms in the small hours. No —
he would not give her up to him. Although she did not
think so, he, Jack, was more worthy of her love than
Windermere. And could he not perhaps gain it back ?
Might this not be a temporary hallucination ? Of course,
as a great part of the world has it, a husband should not
forgive in such cases ; but what rigb.t had he to decide on
her future, which any action of the kind he had half an
hour ago contemplated would be ? Could he, who loved
her, be the one to ruin her — to make the tongues of men
and women cry derisively at her shame. And how, oh
how, could he live and know her to be away from him
and cast out ? It is to be observed that Jack had not
that strict code of morals with regard to the found-out
ones which distinguishes society. He was only a young
husband suffering the very commonplace agony of dis-
covering that he was but a husband and nothing more.

It was late before he awakened from his trance of per-
plexity and sorrow sufficiently to descend to the mun-
dane action of looking at his watch ; too late to think of
dinner, had he indeed been able to eat. Grief is, however,
a thirsty thing ; and, when he had retraced his steps and
found himself not a hundred yards from the green-baize
doors of The Buccaneer Club, he tume<' in to partake of
one of those champagne cocktails for which the place is
celebrated. '

220

CHfLDREN OF NATURE.

As he moodily drank it in the front room, the muffled
sounds — such as " Baccarat !" " Nine !" " That's another
hundred ! " " Now, then, make your game !" — that came
through the folding-doors leading into the play-room,
suggested to him a possible escape from the unbearable
position of being in debt to Windermere.

He rapidly calculated his resources. There was his
fortune. Not much when translated into a yearly income,
certainly.; but not a bad sum with which to tackle fortune
for a night, even in so high-playing a club as The Buc-
caneer. Then of his commission-money there was a little
left, and he had a few pounds at his banker's. True, if he
lost all this he was a ruined man; but, ruined already as
he was in every other way, what did such trifles as £. s. d.
matter ? Of course the tradesmen would suffer. That
was sad, no doubt. But debts of honour must be paid
first, and, after all, young gentlemen like Jack Chilling-
ham cannot be made to sympathise greatly with shop-
keepers. That it is so is wrong ; but it is so, and will be
as long as there are carelessness and sharp practice in the
world.

Jack opened the folding-doors and entered the next
room. No one looked up at his entrance; all were too
much engaged in waiting for the dealer to announce his
cards. " Nine," said he, dealing himself an opportune six
on to the king and three; and the faces all round the long
table, excepting that of the dealer, fell considerably.
Englishmen, save when under foreign eyes, do not gamble
as well as foreigners.

Among themselves, expressions of anger and disappoint-
ment are given vent to, and do not add to the pleasant-
ness of the spectacle. Jack sat down after purchasing a
sufficient number of counters with a cheque, the amount
of which rather astonished the steward, whose duty it
was to sell those dangerous pieces of ivory. At first his
play was cautious. He staked a £5 counter every time,
and won. Then he be^an to double the stake, and still

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

221

won. At last he thought he was justified in putting on
two £100 counters, and they were swept away.

We will not weary the reader by recounting how
Fortune played with him, alternately coaxing and flout-
ing him, for all the world like a flesh -and-blood woman,
until he had lost all the money which he could possibly
lay hands upon in any reasonable time.

He was not an experienced gambler, and his voice
shook a little as he arrested the next deal, and said,
" What's in the bank ?"

The dealer, Lord Sandymont, a youth who was busily
engaged in gambling away a fair fortune he had lately in-
herited, looked up surprised.

He had never dreamed of such impertinence as that
Jack Chillingham, a married younger son, one of the class
that Sandymont associated with alpaca umbrellas and
wide-toed boots, should dare to measure swords with him
across the green cloth.

He, however, carelessly counted the gold, n ' ., and
counters in a pile in front of him, and replied, " A little
over two thou'. Better say two thousand five hundred.
That'll be the bank."

There was a low murmur round the table, half of ad-
miration of Sandymont's grand manner, half of impa-
tience at Jack's delaying the deal.

" Banco ! " said the latter.

Now let it be known to the uninitiated that this means,
" I claim the bank from you, and will play you one game
single-handed to see whether you keep it and take my
money, or I take it and yours."

A low buzz succeeded this challenge. Sandymont
whispered to his nearest neighbour, and the pause waa
awkward.

Jack understood it, and coloured painfully. " You need
not be afraid of my not paying," he said. " I don't say I
can give you the money to-night, Sandymont ; but if I
lose I can give you a cheque which you can present di-

222

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

rectly I have seen my banker. I have more than double
this amount in the world."

Sandymont felt ashamed of himself.

" Nonsense, old fellow," he said. " I don't know what
you're thinking of. We are all gentlemen here, I hope.
So it's Banco, eh ? Come on then ! "

The cards were dealt. In Baccarat the object is to get
nine. With three court cards you are " Baccarat," and lose.

Jack got five. Should he take another or no ? The
rule by which steady players are guided says " No." But
Sandymont looked as if he had something good. He
risked it. A five!

" Bac ! " said he, trying to look cool and careless, but
succeeding badly.

" Do you add that to the bank ? " he asked.

" Might as well," answered the dealer, carelessly. "Yes,
the bank, gentlemen, is now five thou'. Would any gen-
tleman* iike to go Banco again ? "

There was some bravado in this speech, for Sandymont
was the heaviest player at The Buccaneer, and the stakes
were getting higher than was usual even there.
' " Go on, Sandy ! " said Charlie Holster, who was
anxious to begin again with his £10 counters. " Of course
you can keep the bank. Go on ! "

" Stop ! " cried Jack. " Can one go Banco twice run-
ning ? "

" As often as you like," said Sandymont, thinking
the usual modestly-betting boy was drunk. " Do you want
to?"

" Yes ; I'll go you again."

" It's five thousand now, Chillingham," said a neigh-
bour, in a warning voice.

" That'll make seven thousand five hundred you'll lose,"
said another.

" Or win," retorted Jack.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he looked round.
It was Windermere.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

223

>»

" You're going too far, old chap," whispered the latter,
leaning his hand on Jack's arm. "Don't be a fool.
Banco for such sums with a fellow of Sandy's luck
is perdition. I wouldn't try it, I know. Why not
back out ? "

Jack felt as if the hand on his shoulder scorched him,
but he controlled himself, and only said in a low voice,
" Leave me alone."

" I say, my dear fellow," went on Windermere, who
thought that Jack had had too much champagne, and
was good-naturedly anxious to keep him out of a scrape,
"you ought to recollect that you're married, and have
others "

" Leave me alone, I say ! " cried Jack, angrily, with a
shrug of the shoulders.

The other held his peace, and stood there to watch the
denouement.

" You really mean it ? " asked Sandymont, who had
been leaning back in his chair, amusedly watching the
little scene between our hero and Windermere.

" I said Banco," answered Jack, laconically.

" Eight ! " cried the dealer, triumphantly, throwing his
tw6 cards on the table.

Jack felt the beads of perspiration on his brow. He
had two court cards. The third came slowly, as if San-
dymont enjoyed his suspense. At present, ten not count-
ing. Jack was nothing. There was but one card that
could save him.

How clumsy the, dealer seemed; what a time it was
before he extracted the top card from the others ; it ap-
peared to be an age before it was turned up upon the
table. Jack wondered that those nearest him were not
startled by the noise his heart made.

That card perhaps meant ruin, dishonour (for Jack was
now playing for rather more than he could p ay) ; it might
mean that he should remain for life in debt to W indermere,
to the man who

224

CHTLDREN OF NATURE.

The card came down ; it fell, through some clumsiness
of Sandymont, face downwards, and Jack's trembling
fingers could scarcely put it right.

A nine !

Sandymont twirled his moustache, but made no sign of
annoyance. " A near thing, that," he observed, and called
for a brandy-and-soda.

Jack with difficulty repressed a shout of delight.

" It's your bank," said Sandymont, rising ; " or I'll go to
banco with you if you like. But not unless you please."

" All right," said Jack. Eat two thousand more, and
he must have won enough to pay Windermere everything ;
perhaps even to square accounts with the tradesmen.

" Five thousand in the bank," he said, trying to imitate
Sandymont's cool air, " and, Sandy, your banco. Nine ! "

" By Jove ! you're in luck," murmured the ex-dealer. ^
" I've had enough, and it's time for bed."

" I shall go too, I think," said Jack, rising, and feeling
his limbs trembling beneath him. " Waiter, another cock-
tail."

A STORY Ot MODERN LONDOI^.

^25

•:«"4

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Should all despair
That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind
Would hang theinBelves.

Winter's Tale.

Letter from the Duke of Cheshire to Lady Meldrum.

"My dear Lady,

" I^ is many years since you and I were friends, but
I think we neither of us have quite forgotten those days
when we were foolish and didn't know it. What folly wis-
dom is, considering it can only get as far as to show us we
are fools ! I am growing old ; you are a woman and can-
not do so ; still I believe I shall not be wrong when I
venture to hint that you have reached that age when a wo-
man can like and be kind to another woman. Am I not ?
And you can do a kindness now.

" That pretty little Alice Chillingham, in whom I know
you take a great interest, is making a fool of herself, and
not a soul about her, as far as I can make out, has taken
the smallest trouble . to stop her from running into the
hole she has dug for herself.

" I have only just realized how far things have gone,
and I am told — but this you will know best — that several
people whose good opinion is of value have declared that
whether the husband chooses to shut his eyes or not, they
will receive her no more. Bo you think you could do
anything, my dear lady ? You know W. very well, and I
know of old that you are no coward. No man could
speak to him on the subject, but a clever woman could.
Will he drop it ? That is the question If he would I
15

lil

226

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

|!- \'\

f i

believe we could save the child even now. You and I to-
gether surely could, if I turn eminently respectable and
have bishops always in Maida Vale.. Another thing I
should like to know. Is he at all in earnest, — that is
would he marry her if things came to the worst ? I sup-
pose not. I wouldn't have in his place. How differently
one looks at things from outside 'certainly ! I declare that
my liking for this girl gives me nearly all the ridiculous
feelings of a husband. I should hate to think of that
pretty, fresh, innocent little cieature, with the most natur-
ally aristocratic manner I ever saw — ^so different to the
hothouse article we know here — being thrown away like
those we meet occasionally in a theatre-box or at a Ger-
man watering place.

" From what I hear, she is desperately smitten with
our friend W. (by-the-bye, he is certainly the most suc-
cessful young fellow of the day, though, my dear lady, I
fancy he would not have come up to the mark twenty
years ago, eh T) and believes in him most thoroughly.
Would it be of any use to shake that belief ? You have
tact and I am deficient in the article, or perhaps too lazy
to draw upon the fund. I leave it to you, merely saying
that if in recollection of old days you will do your best,
you will confer a very great favour upon your old friend,

■ "Cheshire."

Lady Meldrum, on receipt of this epistle, at once
sent for Windermere, who, rather surprised at the urgency
of the old lady, at length was prevailed upon to go to

B Square. She was not long in coming to the

point.

" And so you are doing harm again, and more than ever
this timo, too," and she held up her fat finger in half-
playful menace.

" I don't quite understand," said he, lazily leaning back
in his chair, and speculating en her ladyship's weight.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

227

"Oh, yes you do ; you understand very well. I mean
Mi^. C " ■ .:■:,. •^::::'. „^..^ .- I*.' -

"Mrs. C ?" ;-..i'

" Yes, '^ou know."

" I know so many people whose names begin with G.
There are the Calverleys, and the Comens, and the "

" I mean Mrs. Chiilingham."

"Ah, a nice little thing ! American, you know, and
fresh. Different to most. Oh, yes, I know her very
well."

" Windermere," said she, with as much seriousness as
she dared — he would be frightened away very easily, she
felt — '* you're doing more harm than you know there."

" Dear me, no," he said, stroking his soft moustache and
speaking in a sentimental tone. " Dear me, no. She is
doing more than sJie knows, you should say. I declare.
Lady Meldrum, I'm desperately in love with little Alice."

" Are you, really."

" Of course. But what makes you so serious about
it ?" ^

" I'm very fond of her."

"So am I." < -.

" Ani yet you would ruin her ! "

He looked at the old lady in surprise. There was no
badinage in her voice now.

" Ruin her ? "

" Yes. Don't talk to me of the way of the world and
what they all do. Because society has been vulgarised by
a set of snobs who think it is fashionable to be vicious,
or because a few fools in high places are so, is that any
reason why intelligent ladies and gentlemen should be-
have like a set of third-rate French actresses and boule-
vard-strutters, or like tho footmen and maids in their ser-
vants' halls ? But if only in that way, Windermere, it's
bad enough. But I say that a man like you, who delib-
erately sets himself to seduce the wife of his friend,
merely because she is innocent and fresh "

ill!

228

CHILDREN OF NATURE*

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Windei'mere was not accustomed to being lectured.

" He is not my friend," said he, sulkily. " He is not^n
my set." -

" All the more reason for you to keep away from his
house," cried her ladyship, rather illogically. " Tell me
one thing," and she stood up in front of his chair, and
held a large paper-knife over his head, as if prepared for
physical force, if necessary — "tell me one thing — how
will it all end ?"

" How am I to know ? " asked he, with half-comic per-
plexity, glancing at the formidable piece of ivory over his
head. ^ ^*

" Who else is to know? Now, answer me one question.
When the crash comes "

" I don't see why any crash should come,"

" But I do. The husband is not like the most of them
nowadays."

" Isn't he ? " sneered Windermere.

" No ; he is not. But he's a fool, and doesn't, know
you're a blackguard."

" Lady Meldrum ! " cried he, springing to his feet, and
regardless of the paper-knife.

" Yes — I repeat it ; and you may call me out if you
like. When that poor girl finds herself without a home,
without a name, for your sake, what will you do ? "

He was silent, meditating instant retreat, and the future
avoidance of " this old madwoman's " company.

" Will you prove then that I am wrong in what I called
you just now ? Will you marry her ? "

" Keally "

" Will you marry her ? "

" I think, Lady Meldrum," said he, haughtily, and
moving towards the door, " that you rather forget your-
self."

" No, I don't ! " screamed the old lady, in a passion, her
'* front " trembling with emotion. " No, I don't ; but I
should do so if I were to omit to tell you what you are.

▲ STORT OF MODERN LONDON.

229

if I were to omit to brand you with the name of coward
and "

But he had fled, and her ladyship, even in her wrath,
remembered that after all he was not much worse than
all the others, differing only in this respect that he was
more successful.

" I am sure I did all I could," she thought to herself, aa
she whirled along in the high yellow barouche that after-
noon ; " but as to stopping such things as these, you
might as well try to empty out the sea with a teacup."

. -L

When Jack got back to North Street after his lucky
gamble it was broad day. He crept quietly upstairs to
his dressing-room, his heart beating at the idea of his
wife's waking and meeting him. As yet he had not made
up his mind what to do. All he knew now was, that he
had enough money to pay Windermere all he had paid
for her, and what he had lent him,seif .

As he had his hand on the handle of his dressing-room
door, his eye was caught by a note lying on the tray which
held Alice's morning tea, and which her maid had laid
down for a moment on a table on o;>e landing. It was in
Windermere's handwriting.

An irresistible impulse caused him to seize it and tear
it open.

" My own Darling,

" I will call wlien J. is oui *^his afternoon, and

He read no more, but leant down his head upon the
mantelpiece and groaned.

The first agony oi seeing himself mentioned to Alice
as an alien, as one to be got out of the way, was very
sharp.

230

CHiLDPvEi< t t' NATURE.

CHAPTER XXIX.

I lov'd a lasse, a faire one,

As faire as e'er was seen :
She was indeed a rare one,

Another Sheba queene :
But, foole as then I was,

I thought she lov'd me too ;
And now, alas ! sh' 'as left roe !

Falero, lero, loo.

Master Witheb.

t^ej

" A NOTE for you," said Jack, entering Alice's room. She
was in a peignoir — one that her husband had often ad-
mired — and looked singularly pretty with her soft hair
falling on her shoulders, and her feet shod with the neatest
of coquettish slippers. - ■

She looked up inquiringly, and started as she saw the
handwriting on the envelope.

" I have read it, Alice," he said in a low voice.

She did not speak for a moment. It had come then,
the discovery, with its attendant shame, and all the hor-
rors she had often pictured to herself.

" Forgive me, Jack ! " -- * ..

Jack stood still in front of her, the letter still in his
hand. j ..

" Had you not better read it ? " .

But she could only cry out again —

" Forgive me ! "

" Yes, I suppose I must. It is the fashion nowadays,

they tell me, to forgive these things ; but " and here

his misery overcame his sarcasm. " Oh, Alice, I did not
think you would have used ~me so."

She was aln^ost choked by her emotion. To see Jack,
whom she loved (in a way), who had trusted her so com-
pletely, with whom she had spent so many happy hours,

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

231

broken-hearted, and because of her, was terrible. At
that moment her chief feeling was pity for him, joined
with anger against that splendid scapegoat, Kate.

" Oh, Jack ! I didn't know — I didn't mean — you could
not think "

He stopped her sternly.

" What could I not think ? Have you not taken this
man's money ?"

There was no answer.

" Have you not received him unknown to me ? "

No answer.

" Have you not been to his rooms ? "

Upon her face came a look almost imperceptible, which
seemed to be born of some sweet recollection.

Jealousy is keen-sighted, and Jack recognised it at
once as such.

" You love this man ? " he cried fiercely.

She looked up, and meeting the anger in his eyes, again
contemplated her pretty slippers. The little white hand
clenched itself as if for combat, and her breath came
quickly.

"Do you love him?" cried her husband, again ad-
vancing close to her, in an almost menacing manner.

She met his gaze bravely enough this time, poor child,
deeming herself to be loyal even in her dishonour.

" What wbuld you have me say ?"

" The truth. But still," he went on, as she was about
to speak, " remember that what you say will decide our
future. My happiness, at any rate depends on it. Alic^ !
do not delude yourself. Remember how happy we have
been together, how happy we might yet be, and do not
let some passing fancy weigh against such love as you
have known. "

" I have been horrible, cruel, wicked ; so bad that I
deserve the worst you can do to me. But, oh. Jack, I do
love him. He is ho "

" Stop ! " cried Jack, huskily. " I can bear a good deal.

V i

i 1*.

:* ' I

■I

f'l'v
Iff,

J \

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232

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I have borne a good deal. But to hear from your lips that
you I shall go mad!" and he paced the room in un-
controllable agitation.

She was the first to speak.

" Jack, please listen to me for a moment, and then do
what you think best. When I met you first, and when
you asked me to marry you, I had seen no one. I did
believe then — I believed until — until three months ago,
that all I had of love was yours ; and then I found "

" You found that, like all other women of your stamp,
you wanted more than one lover!" cried poor Jack,
desperate. *

" No. You have a right to be angry. I cannot bear
you to be sorry, for I am not worth it. I did not know
for some time what my feelings were about hwi ; and,
believe me, Jack, I did try to stifle them. Do you re-
member when I asked you not to see so much of him ? "

Jack assented with a groan. She, in the selfishness of
love, was slowly tearing out his heart-strings.

" I did try and avoid him, ever so many times, and
then — then I heard stories of you and that actress ■"

" D d lies ! " muttered he.

" And, Jack, I am 710^ like the women you compared
me to just now. I know that it is only possible for me
to love once."

" As you will say to the next person to whom you are
good enough to transfer your affections. Oh, mj'^ God !
why have I to bear this ? " He leant his head upon the
mantelpiece, and there was silence in the room for a time,
at last he turned, and she thought she saw a trace of tears
upon his cheek.

" Alice, my darling, my own, say that all this is a
hideous dream, and let us wake now ! You cannot have
changed so utterly. I love- you so much that you cannot
do anything but love me in return. Say all this is false,
that you have been a little foolish, flirted too much-
done wrong, if it must be so. God help me I I would

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

233

forgive you all, for I love you too much to lose you !
But for the love of heaven do not say that your heart
has gone from me. Speak, darling ; tell me you are still
my own little wife ! "

He had taken her in his arms and covered her face
with kisses ; while she remained cold and passive, but
trembling in every limb. ^^

" I will be a good wife 'to you," she said, slowly, and as
if each word was an effort. " I will never see — him —
again, if you order it, and "

" You will say that you love me ? "

" You know I am very fond of you." »

" But you love him ? " and he started up.

She did not answer.

" Answer me — I demand it as a right, and will be fooled
no longer. Do you refuse to give up this schoolgirl senti-
ment for a blackguard who will throw you aside like an
old glove when he has done with you, as he has all the
others — for a man who has bought you with a few gowns,
and a few thousands — for a snob who goes about parading
his marquisate before frisky matrons as a shopboy parades,
his sham diamond ring before shopgirls — for a "

Jack scarcely knew what he was saying in his justifiable
rage.

" Stop ! " cried Alice, with her eyes flaming. " Stop !
I have said I will obey your orders, and will promise you,
although it, will break my heart, never t^ see him again ;
but " .

" You own that ! My God, this is tuo much ! You
oy^n that it will break your heart not to see him ! D — -n

you, you " and he used a word which we cannot

write as he spoke it, and which we will not indicate by
any of the pretty phrases now much in vogue to designate
what is rapidly becoming a respectable — nay a fashionable
class.

" You shall never say such words to me again ! " cned
she, drawing hei'self up.

234

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

He was mad from rage and mortification. Surely there
was so :cuse for him ?

"W ot?"

" ,ase I will not stay with you to hear them."
a only want an excuse to go to your friend"

" 1 want no excuse, and you know," she cried, looking
very pretty as she confronted her angry husband, her
eyes flaming and her cheeks flushed, " that I want no
excuse. I have behaved badly to you. Until now you
have been far too good to me, and I have repaid you by
deception. I confess it. Do as you will about me ; but
remember one thing — I will not bear such words as you
used just now."

"Alice," said he softening again — for the terror of
losing her was strong within him — " I am sorry for what
I said, but you drove me very hard when you said you
— you cared about him."

" And what could I say ? I have had enough of lying
and trickery. I do love him, and I oughtn't to, and I
can't help it."

" But not very much ? " asked Jack, inviting more
torture.

" Why do you force me to say such things ? " she asked,
half petulant, half pitying. " Why do you cross-examine
me like this ? Why not do what other people do in these
cases ? "

Alice's idea of the explosion had been quite different
to this. She had expected ruin and desolation, and tragedy
and blue fire, and all the concomitants of a domestic
esclandre. And here was the injured one pleading as if
he were in the wrong, and making her deliberately choose
to step off" the path and down the precipice, instead of
falling over without a chance, and with no time to reflect
on the inconvenience attache'd to the fall.

** I love him so much that if I were to lose him 1 should
lose all the part of my life that makes life anything but

-• . m y mr mi f a ^' jx !-> ■■■ ^ ^ rt e» v

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

235

eating and drinking and sleeping. So much that nothing
can ever come between my heart "

" For God's sake, don't talk of hearts" interrupted Jack.
" There are no such things in the bargain you have driven
with his lordship. You spoke just now of ' the actress,'
as you called her in your splendid disdain. Well, you
know what she is. She is, I now see, a thousand times
purer, better than you are. She, at least, can be loyal and
true, and "

" You had better go back to her," said Alice, with a
touch of jealousy.

" Why not ? She, at least, is honest. When she takes
money there is no doubt about the reason. She hurts no
credulous fool of a husband by doing so."

" I will not be insulted in this way ! " cried Alice, with
a stamp of her foot.

" Are yoii insulted ? Why ? Surely you insult your-
self sufficiently by what you confess to me."

" Oh, Jack," and she turned to him with a gesture of
despair, " I wish you were my brother and not my hus-
band."

" It's a choice of evils," murmured Jack, sullenly.

" I want a friend. Jack, and you won't be one to me."

" No — I'm only your husband."

" Don't beso unkind. How could I help making a mis-
take ? Have you never made any mistakes ? "

" It appears I have made one very big one."

Alice was frightened by this unusual caustic tone. She
drew nearer to him.

-" Don't you care at all for me now ? " she asked, hold-
ing out her hand.

Jack hesitated ; then seized the little hand and drew
her close to him.

" I love you ! " he whispered in her ear. " I love you
so that I would kill you before I'd let you be anyone
else's ! You have sworn to love me always, and you shall,

^Si

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236

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

or at any rate you shall stay with me and let me love
you!"

" And I must promise ? " she asked, tremulously.

"Promise! What?"

" Never to see him again, never to "

" Do you want to ? "

" Once more ! " she cried, breaking from his arms : " only
once more, to say good-bye ! " and she laid her head down
on the arm of the sofa and wept bitterly.

Jack shivered from head to foot. In vain for him to
try and persuade himself that this was no more than a
passing fancy — a flirtation which the example of such
friends as Mrs. Belfort had drawn her into. - ^

" D n him ! " he cried. " Why should he have come

between us ? Shall you never forget him ? "

" I will do all you wish," murmured Alice between her
sobs.

" You will live with me and keep his memory in your
heart ! You will do what you call ' your duty,' and be
as false as hell all the time ! No ! Go your own way !
Dishonour yourself and me — perhaps it is fashionable —
only go ! I will not see you again. Thank God, we have
no child to be cursed with the history of a bad mother !
Go ! This house is mine, and you who have deceived me
had better follow your heart and leave it ! When I come
back I shall expect to find it rid of a woman whose pre-
sence is an insult to me ! "

He hurried from the room, and, after a few hasty direc-
tions to his servant, from the house, leaving his wife to
battle out as best she might, the fierce struggle between
her duty and what she, poor ignorant child, conceived to
be a higher obligation — the love of her heart.

How it would have ended may be considered doubtful,
had not Windermere appeared in North Street that after-
noon. ,

To strike >yhile tl)e iron was hot was his favourite axiom

A STORY OP MODERN LONDON.

237

wliere the other sex was concerned, and here be found the
metal pliable enough. Alice did not tell him any details
of the scene that had taken place, but he gathered enough
to see that now was his grand opportunity. And he took
it. Before the lamps were lit, the fatal "yes " had been
said, and, while the respectable folk left in town were
discussing their dinners, a young wife was bumping along
towards Charing Cross Station in a four-wheeled cab,
trying to believe she was happy, but only feeling that
she was guilty.

'■'*»•<'.

7 '■ ' V,

238

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XXX.

I meant no ill.
That which brought me hither
Was a desire I have to be with you

Rather than those I live with. This is all.

The Ooblint.

Oh how mysterious is the bond

Which blends the earthly with the pure ! ,

Margaret Davidson.

Lady Meldrum's flitting from B Square to the sunny-
South was a very impressive affair. Conscious, perhaps,
of some want of dignity in her person, she was very care-
ful to preserve as much as possible in her surroundings ;
and her butler had a larger white waistcoat, her hall-
porter a redder nose, and her footmen more bulbous calves
than those dignitaries in other establishments which
attempted grandeur. And surely if it were incumbent on
one of her ladyship's position to parade the evidences of
rank and wealth before the limited public of London, it
was still more so when the southern counties of England
and the length of France were to be traversed ? Part of
this retinue consisted of his lordship, who sailed away
from the English shore, where were his fat pigs and his
beloved prize bullocks, with much the same feelings at
his heart as saddened the fair Queen of Scots when going
the reverse way.

He had never attempted rebellion, for he was a weak
man, easily overborne, and 'his wife was no ordinary foe.
She was fond of him in a brusque, rather cruel fashion,
and suffered no one to bully him but herself. She fain
would have him by her as a sort of roi faineant, or, we
might say, invisible deity, which she, as high priest, could

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

239

manipulate in her own way, but which still Hhould be a
deity to others. When she talked pompously of *' my
lord " and " his lordship's wishes," persons who had never
seen him were rather awed ; and Mr. Flittery did not for-
get for some time the reception of a joke of his at my
lord's expense met with at his wife's hands. It nearly
cost poor Flittery the run of one of the " best houses " in
London.

The arrival of the cavalcade from B Square at

Charing Cross created some stir even at that busy place.
An American " belle " would have stared at the amount
of large black boxes there were there, guarded by maids,
footmen, and couriers of every nationality, and all in vari-
ous stages of fusG and fury. A King Charles' spaniel, a
parrot, and a most obnoxious monkey added all they could
to the confusion ; while my lady, very red in the face in
consequence of a hastily-swaJilowed meal before starting,
stood in the middle, alternately giving excited instruc-
tions to one or other of her domestics, petting and sooth-
ing the animals, and saying an affectionate farewell to the
friends who had come, as in duty bound, to see her off.

" Goad-bye, dear ! Write all the news ! Villa Gor-
goni, you remember — Villa Gorgoni, Nice — not Nizza,
now — it's French, you know, and very wrong it was of
Napoleon. Am^lie, what on earth are you doing ? Don't
you see those rugs are on Jock's head ? — he'll be crushed,
poor dear ! Why, where are they putting my luncheon-
basket ? In the other carriage, you stupid man ! Oh
yes, yes ! I'll tell you all that happens there ; and there's
.always something amusing happens at Nice. Gambling
and love-making go together, I think. Poor little Topsy !
Never mind, then ! Did the nasty man tread on his tail ?
Amdlie, where have you put those meat biscuits ? No,
not those ! — the new sort Mr. Flittery got me the other
day. Can't find them ! Well I won't start without
them. Put them in my small bag, did I ? Impossible !
Oh yes, here they are ! Train going ? Dear me,

*;4'

I «i;;

1 'it '

240

CHILDREN OF NATUKE.

why it Wants at least five minutes to the time ! Good-
bye, dearest ! Mind you write ! That woman who
passed us just now has a pretty figure, but I didn't see
her face. Why, there's Windermere ! I wonder where
he's going ! Take care, John ! — that's not the way to
take up Topsy ! I ivill not have her taken up by the
necx!"

" We must start the train, my lady," says the guard,
in desperation.

" Quite right, guard — of course you must. Unpunctu-
ality is the source of all danger. Would you just take
hold of Jock's chain ? He won't bite ; my maid seems to
have forgotten him. Am^lie, take Polly in the carriage
with you. Mind, Thomas is to come and find out if I
want anything at each station. Oh, inspector ! — do you
think there is any wind ? Will the sea be smooth ? "

But the bowing ofiicial could not reassure her voluble
ladyship, for as she spoke the train glided out of the sta-
tion.

In another carriage of the same train were seated
two travellers, man and woman, both of whom seemed to
be rather absorbed in reflections.

Even in these days of bioad-mindedness, running away
from your husband is rather an important matter, and
Uice, although we can find no excuse for her, was not
of the mould of those ladies who change their lovers
nearly as often and more easily than they change their
gloves. She had that " moral sense " which seems so
uselessly annoying when it has failed to deter us from the
commission of a fault, and it — conscieTice some calJ it —
was worrying her most terribly now.

The other afiair of this sort that Windermere had had
— to do him justice there had been but one before — was
so different. Then the lady had laughed and joked, and
wondered pleazi^ntly what he (a deceived husband is
always spoken of as " he," just as a corpse is " it ") would
say when her flight was discovered. She had called for

ii^t

A STORY OP MODERN LONDON.

241

" B. and S." at one of the stations, and had insisted on
SI oking a cigarette on the bridge of the steamer.

Now the lady was all tears and tremor, and poor Win-
dermere began at last to feel as if he were a bridegroom
trying to console his school-room bride for her parting
with " mamma and sisters."

" I can't see why you came, if it makes you so unhappy
already," he said at last, rather petulantly.

The reply was femininely inconsequent.

"You, at least, ought to be the last to reproach me."

" I don't, darling — of course I don't — what I mean is
that if we are going to be miserable "

" How can I be anything else ? " she asked, raising her
tearful eyes. " I believe Jack will die. I do indeed.
He was so fond of me, Clare ! "

" And you regret it already, then ?" '

He spoke huffily. Had he lost his hunting, and put
himself to much inconvenience for this ?

" I don't know. Everything seems to be all wrong."

" I suppose you don't care about me any more. It's a
pity you didn't find it out two hours ago."

" Oh, I do ! You know I do. Should I be here else ?
You're not quite kind, Clare. I am giving up everything
a woman prizes for you — my name, my home, my hus-
band '*

" Really, Alice," said he, lighting a cigar, and puffing
viciously at it, " we can't go into the matter in this way.
Your husband is "

" The best, kindest man in the world ! "

" Look here ; let us be serious. When the train gets to
Dover it will be perfectly possible for you to go back to
him. You know how dearly I love you ; but don't think
for a moment, Alice, that I am base enough to take ad-
v«ntage of you in any way ; but, of course, if you go
jac' now, my dream of happiness is shattered. Can you
not believe I will make you happy, darling ?"

" Forgive i^^e, Clare," said she, " I am a fool. I know
16

1!.

242

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I cannot live without you ; but I do wish I hadn't been
obliged to treat poor Jack so badly."

Then Windermere, thinking that affairs had better rest
on this footing, said no more, except such words as are
inspired by folly and love, real or feigned, and poor little
Alice forgot for the moment her remorse and fears, and
allowed herself to be happy in the ridiculous belief that
"love is enough" to carry the pilgrim through life's
dangers.

All for love and the world well loit.

It is sad to think that any sane adult person should
ever have believed in such an immoral axiom.

They drove straight across Paris, ajid took the morn-
ing train to Marseilles, again at the station meeting the
Meldrum party. Alice shrank back when she saw her
ladyship's portly form, and again escaped recognition,
although the gold-rimmed eye-glass was very busy to dis-
cover whether Windermere was alone or not.

And now a catastrophe occurred which was important
in its consequences, although seemingly of no great mo-
ment at the time. Windermere, who had a dim aristo-
cratic notion that time was scarcely made for such as he,
disregarding the fact that they had but ten minutes at
Lyons, determined on a thorough toilet, and had the sat-
isfaction, when about half clad, of hearing the train leave
the station. Even for Lord Windermere they could nc^
bring it back. So there was nothing for it but to follow by
a slow train that started in a few hours, or await the next
express. He determined on the latter course, and sent a
telegram to the station at Marseilles, telling Alice which
hotel to go to and await his arrival. His nom de voyage
was Mr. Keswick (this being the second title in his family),
and so his telegram was addressed to " Madame Keswick."

It did not strike him that he had omitted to tell Alice
of this change of name, and that therefore his message
was not very likely to find her.

m^^

im...

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

243

Alice's dismay at finding herself dashing south alone may-
be imagined, and her utten: helplessness on arriving at
Marseilles was piteous to behold. She had been kept
awake all night by her thoughts, and the excitement which
had hitherto sustained her was fast dying away. The
disappearance of her companion was the last straw, and
she fairly broke down in the salle d'attente as she realized
the fact that she had forgotten her purse — or perhaps pur-
posely left it behind, not wishing to take anything that
might be Jack's — and had no notion where to go or what
to do. Windermere's servant had been assisting in his
master's toilet, and was also left behind.

" Mrs. Chillingham ! " said a voice at her side, and she
turned to encounter the astonished gaze of Lady Meldrum.

« Yes— I— that is "

" Child ! " cried her ladyship, excitedly, not heeding the
looks of curiosity around. " Child, what are you doing ?
Is Mr. Chillingham here ? "

Alice turned to escape, but the stout old lady held her
arm. <

" No," she cried ; " you shall not go — at least, not till I
have told him what I think. Where is Lord Windermere ? "

She spoke sternly, and Alice, wearied out with excite-
ment and bodily fatigue, was no match for her.

" He was left behind accidentally at Lyons," she stam-
mered out, " and I was going to " But at this moment

nature gave way, and she sank back fainting on to one of
benches that lined the room.

" Am^lie, quick ! my salts. Now then, look up dear :
" that's better ! You must come to my hotel. John, is the
fiacre there ? Now, my good man, stand -^ut of the way.
Don't you see the lady is ill ? Give her 3 ou. arm on the
other side, Amdlie. There! th.Ll^ do. She'll be quite
well in a minute. Cocker, cb VHoW de VUnivers! Vite !
Drive on ! Now, my Loi^ of Windermere, we'll see
whether a stupid old woman cannot checkmate you for
once. Was there ever such a lucky meeting ! "

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XXXI.

This soul hath been o

Alone on a wide, wide sea :
So lonely 'twas that God Himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

Ancient Mariner.

mi '

liii li

Scarcely knowing where he was going, already broken-
hearted at having used such bitter words to the woman
he could not help loving, Jack found himself in Brompton,
and was soon seated in Violet Vandeleur's hijou house.
Before he had told her much, she guessed the whole truth,
and overflowed with compassion and such advice as her
experience of the narrow world in which she lived had
given her. And the world behind the foot-lights is not
a bad parody of that in front.

The " paying public " are perhaps a little less jealous, a
trifle less conceited and egotistical, than the artistes whose
success to a great extent depends upon their conceit and
egotism. The grand v)bject in life, as on the stage, is to
stand on your friend's shoulders for the better reaching
of the topmost branch, and to give that friend a kick
downwards when the branch is firmly grasped, and he can
be of no further use. Violet had had to fight her way to
her little eminence like the rest, and was naturally har-
dened and unrefined by the process : but, surviving all her
caticans and double entendres, displays of legs and of
temper, chaff* with semi-drunken spring captains, and
mean shifts to gain the advantage of a rival, she possessed
a true woman's heart in her bosom still ; and was, more-
over, far more impressed by a catastrophe in the ranks
above* her kin than she would have been by the direst
occurrence among those with whom she lived.

A STORY or MODERN LONDON.

245

Wlien Tibbs the comedian deplored the loss of his wife,
who had preferred the aristocratic company of a heavy
dragoon, Violet looked upon it as an excellent joke ; but
that the Honorable Jack Chillingham should meet a sim-
ilar fate was terrible indeed.

Jack's chivalrous manner to herself, and apparent ignor-
ance of the fact that courtesy is not required for such as
she, had made a great impression upon her ; and, if it was
impossible for her to be what is called " in love " with
anyone, she cared so much for him that, in his presence,
she felt ashamed of herself, abjured strong liquors, and
rarely if ever let slip an oath out of her pretty mouth.

" Don't give up, Jack ! " she cried. " It may all come
right. You know she does like you best, and then "

*' But I know nothing of the kind," he said moodily.
" I would have gladly laid down my life for her ; and this
is my reward."

Violet thought she had heard words something like
this on the stage ; but only said, " She could not be so
cruel."

" Cruel ! For inhuman cruelty, give m_e a woman who
knows that a man loves her — that she is sure of him,
let her do what she may. But, by God, she shall see that
I am not so helpless as she thinks ! " cried he, knowing
that he was talking nonsense. " She shall go her own
way and 1 mine, and I don't care if I never see her false
face again." i

"Yes, you do, Jack," said the actress, gently. "Yes,
you do, my poor boy. You can never live without her."

" Can I not ! You shall see," he began ; but the words
died upon his lips, and he buried his face in his hands
with a gi-oan.

Violet laid her hand gently upon his shoulder — a pretty
hand, not so white as Alice's, except when powdered for
performances, but pretty, and not plebeian.

" Jack, my friend, I am only a poor actress whom all
play with and despise ; but I like to think I can be your

-rvr jsr'i. ]"■-: ■'; ' - :".; . , ■/(.••.■

246

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

ht-*-r

friend — at a distance, of course, but still your friend. If
this is as you say — if all is really over between you and
your wife, still do not let it spoil your life. Believe me,
Jack, there is no woman that ever breathed worth such a
sacrifice. I daresay we are all much alike. Human
nature is not very different in Belgrave Square to what it
is in Brompton. Only in Belgrave Square they hide it,
and we don't. If she had loved you she could not have
done this ; if she did not love you, surely it is best the
discovery should come. Should you like to go on with a
woman who was shamming to you all the while ? — whose
every kiss was a lie ? With one of us — well, you buy us,
you know, and you are aware pretty well of the value of
the article — but with one of your great people it must be
truth or a pei-petual sham and falseness."

"What matter, if one thought it was true ? " asked Jack,
unconsciously repeating Othello's cry of agony.

" But you would not really think it was true ; at least
not for long. A hundred little things would show you
its falseness every day, and the attempt to make yourself
believe you were happy would soon cease. No, Jack ; the
fact is sad enough, but that it should be known as a fact
is all the better."

" You are rather a Job's comforter, Violet."

" Am I ? I don't remember much about Job; but if
our stage-manager had a little of his character I think I
should like him better. But now, Jack, will you take
my advice for once ? Go back to Noi-th Street, and make
certain you and she are not deceiving yourselves. Do ! "

" I must see her once more," he said, rising, and mov-
ing to the door without looking round. " Yes, I will go
back. Slie shall say all that again to me if she can. If
I could only wake and find it all nothing but a bad
dream ! Do you know, Violet," he continued, with his
hand on the door, " I sometimes cannot believe it is 1
who am so wretched, remembering how only a few days
ago I was the happiest fellow in London."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

247

" Poor dear Jack ? " sighed she, as he went out, and a
sudden eagerness coming over him, promised a cabman
an extra fee to drive quickly to North Street.

There was no Alice there. He supposed shi had gone
out driving, and sat down in the drawing-r( om to wait,
A pretty little room, with marks of Alice's artless taste
and refinement everywhere. Vne little sketch she had
done at Montbec, on the wall, recalled to him the happiest
moments of his life. Her work lay upon the table, and
he took it and pressed it to his lips. As he laid it down,
he became aware of a letter addressed to him, which
was near it on the table. Surely it was her handwrit-
ing ? She had written to tell him that the cruel words
said that morning were false ; that she was only trying
him ; that her love was his and not another's. He tore
open the envelope— there was a forget-me-not upon it,
which he remembered distinctly afterward, as one often
notes trifles in moments of intense excitement— and read :

" Forgive me ! Forget me ! I was not worthy of your
love. I am a wretched, wicked woman. Nothing you
can say is bad enough. But try and forgive me some

day, and do not grieve the loss of one "w^ho is ^what

you said just now. Good-bye.

"Alice."

Two hours afterwards Alice's maid, surprised at the
absence of her mistress, came to the drawing-room and
found Jack seated there, with a letter in his hand, gazing
into the fire. She had to address him several times be-
fore he became aware of her presence.

" Mi's. Chillingham returns to dress? " she asked.

" Returns ! returns ! Never," said Jack, as one in a
dream.

Perkins confided to the man-servant that master
seemed quite odd-like, as if he had seen a ghost. Per-
haps in the declining fire he did see the ghost of his hap-

77? ''.7^^-- ' ">^.^'*%rTTy , tJ

i:;.

248

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

lit

S* >

1P
- aU

iM^

r ■

piness ! As night came on, and no blandishments on
the servant's part could induce him to dine ; and as their
mistress still did not come back, an inkling of the truth
began to ooze out. It was not long in reaching next
door ; it travelled from downstairs to my lady's chamber
mysteriously in many houses that night ; and next morn-
ing it was pretty well known in London that a new
amusement was to be provided for scandal-lovers; and
while male old women ran from club to club collecting
and inventing savoury details, austere ladies, whose only
virtue consisted in not having as yet broken the Eleventh
Commandment, cast up their splendid eyes, and hinted
how they had known it would end in this way many
months ago.

Strange to say, much blame fell to the share of the
victim ; and if there were but a tithe of truth in what
was said of Jack, he must have been a very Chevalier de
Faublas in his code of morals, and have possessed the
wealth of the Indies to keep up the numerous establish-
ments with which he was credited.

" D n it all ! " said Sir John Glorme, in the bow

window of his club, " I can stand a good deal. No fellow
can call me st ait-laced ; but, by Jove ! young Chilling-
ham is too baa. I shall cut him if he presumes to go
into society again."

And the general club public rather agreed with this
new champion of comparative morality. Windermere
alone came out of the ordeal of social criticism without
a stain upon his character. Women one and all became
eager to know him better, and many a young gentleman
whose " ©nly wish was woman to win " cursed in his heart
the fortune which had not given him Windermere's pos-
ition and talent for conquest.

Lord Brocklesby had come up to town to have his hair
cut — at least this was the reason he gave his wife and
family — and, hearing the news, drove off at once to North
Street.

'■w.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

249

The old gentleman was more iseriously i)ut out than
he had been since the Government refused to adopt a
Reform Bill he had concocted in a stray half -hour after
dinner, and was inclined to be angry with his son for al-
lowing Alice to prove his predictions concerning her to
prove false.

" It must have been your absurd jealousy," he said.

" Jealousy ! But I'm not going to argue about it with
you, father. The thing has happened — too late to ask why."

And not all his father's ingenious theories concerning
matrimony, and schemes for the prevention for the future
of such occurrences as this, could move him from the
strange state of lethargy into which he had fpJlen. His
mind was so entirely absorbed by his loss, by thoughts of
her, that he could spare no thought on anger with the
man. That would come ; but at present the killing of
twenty Windermeres seemed so insignificant beside the
loneliness, the lovelessness, to which he was condemned.
For two days he did not stir from his house ; his father
was fain at last to return to the country, piteously la-
menting the times gone by when a man was quick to
avenge his dishonour with a ready pistol.

At last he roused himself and crawled to Scotland Yard.

" Yes, sir ! " said the smug detective, washing his
hands in the air. " No doubt we shall be able to ascer-
tain where they are very shortly. The gentleman is
pretty well known by sight, you see, sir. Can you let
me have a photo of the lady ? If you have one about
you now, so much the better, as we can commence inquir-
ies at once."

Poor Jack hesitated, and then, with trembling hand,
drew out a large locket which he wore round his neck
and gave it to the man.

" Ha ! very pretty, very nice," said he, opening it as he
would have opened a box of cigars, while Jack could have
murdered him for profaning it by his touch.

" May I ask, sir, whether this is at all flattered ?
Ladies sometimes, you know "

m i ■

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250

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" Not in the least," said Jack, shortly, clenching his
fists. "You will take care of that, please. I — I — set
some value on it, and should not like to lose it."

" Most careful, sir; rely on us. If you will call again
in about two days, I have no doubt we shall have a per-
fect case for you."

A perfect case ! Jack groaned as he thought of his
little Alice being part of a detective's " perfect case !"
Probably he might have ascertained where they had fled
without resorting to Scotland Yard ; but he shrank from
speaking to or seeing a friend, and found it easier to put
the facts before a stranger than to listen to the condol-
ences of Badsworth or Keyser. One little note he received
that day did give him some comfort, he scarcely knew why.

It was from Lady Eleanor Stonegrave, and said, " Do
not be too unhappy, dear Mr. Chillingham ; I for one do
not believe it is true, and I do believe you will find there
has been some terrible mistake."

A very shocking thing for an unmarried girl to write
about, or know anything of, such a matter ; but then this
one was rather unconventional, and was too fond of her
brother, Badsworth, to refuse him anything ; and he
thought, not wrongly, that one line of condolence from a
good woman will do more than a dozen pages from the
dearest of male friends.

The detective had little occasion to use his abilities,
for that very evening Jack received the following tele-
gram:

" From Lady Meldrum, Villa Gorgoni, Nice.
" Alice is with me. Left London under misconcep-
tion. Come and join her here."

The night -mail carried one passenger whose eager-
ness to get on could not be satisfied by the speed any
engine might attain to ; and much wrath and confusion
was created at The Buccaneer Club the same night by
the appearance of Windermere, calm and collected, look-
ing utterly unlike an eloper.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

251

his
-set

CHAPTER XXXII.

Voyez vous, ma chfere, au sifecle oh nous sommes,

La plupart des hommss

Sont trfes inconstants.
Sur deux amoureux pleins d'un zfele extreme,

La moitid vous aime

Pour passer le temps.

Dk Musset.

The quiet of Lady Meldrum's darkened salon in the Villa
Gorgoni was a relief to Alice after the intense excitement
of the past forty-eight hours. She as yet shrank from
making inquiries as to how she got there, where Winder-
mere was, or how much Lady Meldrum knew. From
some little peculiarity in her ladyship's manner, a soft
gravity very unusual with her, she however conjectured
that her story was pretty well known. Still it was not
until the next day that curiosity mastered a shrinking to
enter upon the subject, and she said :

" How kind and good you are to me, Lady Meldrum.
I'm sure I don't know why. Has — has any one called to
see me ? "

" My child," said the latter, plumping suddenly down
on a chair beside the sofa on which Alice was propped up
by skilfully-arranged pillows ; for she was still weak —
worn out by excitement ; " my child, some one has called.
He took some time discovering where you were ; and he
shall take still longer to see you — if I can prevent him."

" Oh, Lady Meldrum ! I must ; that is, I " If was

rather a difficult sentence to finish. - >

" You have done a foolish, wicked thing, Alice Chil-
lingham," said Lady Meldrum, severely, " and Providence
has interposed to save you against your will."

" But my promise "

252

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" Sucli promises are made honourable by the breaking
of them. You have promised, child ! What ? To break
your husband's heart, to disgrace his family — not that I
care twopence about them — and to cast yourself out for
life from the companionship of honest folk. Do you
know what people will call you ? "

Alice covered her face with her hands, and moaned
piteously. Even in the midst of her grave thoughts she
could not help remembering that her position was some-
what ridiculous.

" I can't help it. The thing is done now."

" No dear. The thing is not done. You have simply
come a sudden journey to Nice with your friend. Lady
Meldrum (who is fond of you, notwithstanding all your
naughtiness), because of a silly quarrel about your bread-
and-butter with your husband. You preferred it thin,
he thick ; and so "

" Oh no, no ! You don't know all. I can never go
back now."

" Yes, you can, and shall. I don't suppose he will be
such a scoundrel as to talk ; and not a soul can tell you
didn't come with me. I don't suppose anyone will dare
to disbelieve me." And the old lady drew herself up,
and looked very fierce. " Besides, I have taken other
measures to put an end to this folly."

" What measures ? " asked Alice, anxiously. '

" I have telegraphed to your husband."

"To Jack!"

"Yes, to Jack," said Lady Meldrum, good-naturedly
mimicking her tone of horror. " Would it be so very
dreadful to you to see him ? " •' - / , • .,

" CJh yes — at least — with Aim here." .

" You think they will shoot each other. Dear no, my
poor child. Men don't think us worth risking their skins
for US nowadays. At any rate, I don't think there is
cause for alarm, however sanguinary our ill-used Jack may
be, for he can hardly fight a duel from an express train

r irowvrciaitm

W5ti-»5«wrr5— — ,T

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

253

with a man in another express train going in an opposite
direction."

" What do you mean ? " cried Alice, starting up.

" Lie still — you're too weak to get up, you see — and I'll
tell you. I mean simply that Lord Windermere returns
by the evening train, to-day, and that I expect Mr. Chil-
lingham about three hours later."

" But I must see Clare, I must "

" That you certainly shall not," said her ladyship J^^-
ly ; evidently prepared, if necessary, to use force for the
canying out of her scheme.

Alice, pale and languid on the sofa, and torn by con-
flicting emotions, certainly did not appear very diflicult
to control just then ; and Lady Meldrum, as she looked
upon her fair form and great wondering eyes, felt herself
quite the mistress of the situation. Much as she talked
about and laughed over the details of elopements and
such like events that add piquancy to the London season,
she had never been actually mixed up with one before ;
and the pleasure of this thought was only marred by the
conviction that, even to her most intimate friends, silence
on the subject would be for ever necessary. Winder-
mere's departure she had achieved by admitting him to
an interview with herself, and then declaring that Alice
was so ill that it was out of the question that he should
see her ; by stopping and burning promptly the impass-
ioned note which he had caused to be conveyed to her ;
by announcing to him that Alice had entirely repented,
and had telegraphed for her husband ; and by showing
- him distinctly what an absurd position he would be placed
in did he remain there to face a husband who would
not only horsewhip him, but who had also, so declared
Lady Meldrum, cut him out.

Windermere had a decided objection to violence. Cour-
ageous enough in principle, he was of a prudent mind
when detail came to be considered ; and, it must be ad-
mitted, that to be cudgelled or shot without the satisfac-

i! ;.

Sji'

254

CHILrREN OF NATURE.

■■ct

V' "

tion of having anything tangible to be cudgelled or shot
for, is an unnecessary inconvenience.

Above all things he disliked and feared anything in the
shape of ridicule. As other men seek glory, honour,
goodness, or superiority of any kind, so he sought, as his
life's object, the conquest of wc: len ; and he knew full
well that a woman will pardon anything- -crime, duplic-
ity, or cruelty — before she will pardon ridicule.

Souvent celuy qui demeure
Est cause de sou mischef :

Celui qui fuit de bonne heure
Peut combattre derechef.

i:,-i,

Impressed with this truth, he thoughtfully retraced
his steps from the Villa Gorgoni. The position was too
awkward to be maintained ; Alice was doubtless a nice
little thing, and much enamoured of him, and it was cer-
tainly very aggravating to have the cup then dashed from
his lips ; but if he clung to it there was a chance of los-
ing the sipping of many other cups almost equally sweet.
Alice had certainly been the beauty of the past season,
and he had been much envied, and would be more so if
he persevered. Should he stay on and brave all. It cer-
tainly was d — — nably hard on him. But then there was
Chillingham, a determined looking fellow and a barbar-
ian ; one who did not know the ways of society, or what
to do in such cases as this, but who was quite capable of
knocking him down, or giving him a black eye on the
Pro7neru.de des Anglais. That would be insupportable.
The idea of travelling about with the lady and a swollen
nose, or bones too much bruised to hobble, was insup-
portable. Yes ; a return to England and the delights of
the shires was the only thing, and he ordered his valet to
take tickets for that night's train.

On Alice — except as regarded himself and his own
vanity — he did not bestow a thought. What she might
feel never entered into his calculations. Indeed, he was

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

255

consciods of a mild anger against her for having in some
wise been the cause of all this inconvenience. That he
had been hardly treated he felt ; and he was not accustomed
to hard treatment.

Thus, while Alice oobbed her heart out on Lady Mel-
drum's sofa in the darkened, scented room, and pictured
her lover's misery, and groaned over her involuntary
falseness to him, and tried to nerve herself — urged there-
to by her good-natured hostess, to stifle the love of her
young heart — Lord Windermere lay back comfortably in
his railway carriage reading a French novel, and planning
in his mind ever and again some of those little enter-
tainments which pass away so pleasantly, and often so
profitably, to men of his kind, the long winter evenings
in London, when the earth is as hard as iron, and the
foxes are perforce allowed a temporary respite.

And in another train, tearing in the darkness along the
lovely shore of the tideless sea, came one with heart and
brain on fire with revived hope, with love that seemed
to go stronger frori every rebuff*. Never did journey ap-
pear so ]ong as did this one to Jack Chillmgham. In
vain he set himself to splve the mystery of her disappear-
ance, the reason for her having written that wild, guilty
note ; he could think of nothing but the delight of clt^sp-
uig her lissome form again in his arms, of pressing his
lips again to hers.

An old Frenchman and his wife, who were in the sam »
carriage with him, chuckled and whispered to each other,
amused at his impatience and restlessness, and wove a
- charming romance, of the Parisian sort, thereon. How
they would have stared had they known that this was a
husband, and a husband placed in the position of hus-
bands in French comedy from time immemorial !

Perhaps, however, even this would not have surprised
them; for, they might have said, the English are almost
mad enough to be fond of their own wives.

*' She is not well — knocked up by the journey," said

y.^

256

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

Lady Meldrum to him in the hall of the villa. " Don't
startle her, and don't mind much what she says. I know
you had a quarrel, and you must make it up. There, go
upstairs, my dear boy, and give her a kiss."

The southern twilight was just disappearing as Jack
entered the salon, and it was nearly dark. Trembling
with suppressed emotion, and forgetting everything ex-
cept that he loved her and was near her, he groped his
way to the sofa.

" My darling ! " he said, as he put his arm around her
and drew her to him.

" Clare ! Is that you ? Oh, my love, I am so glad ! "

At that moment a servant entered with the lamp, and
Alice saw her husband standing before her with an ex-
pression in his face which neither she nor any one else
had ever yet seen there. - - : »

. \

■t ;

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

257

CHAPTER XXXIII.

her

If Love be rough with you, be rough 'vith Love ;
Prick Love for pricking, and you beat Love down.

' . '. f Rwneo and Juliet.

And still she sobbed, " Not for the pain at all,"
She said, " but for the Love, the poor good Love
You gave me," — so she cried herself to sleep.

' • ' , - ■ D. G. ROSSETTI.

" I don't believe a ward of the story," said pretty Lady
Newmarket, fcwile princeps in the most select of circles ;
" and even if there were some truth in it, T don't see
what reason we have for making ourselves disagreeable.
If she did run away from her husband — well, he ran after
her and caught her, and didn't seem to mind ; and as to
Windermere having gone with her, that must be all non-
sense, for he was in London, to my certain knowledge, at the
very time she arrived at Nice. There certainly was some
mystery, my dear ; and she did not go with old Mala-
prop, whatever she may say. Still, we have nothing to
do with all that. I rather like a woman to have a his-
tory, and I intend to know her."

This about settled tlie question of Alice's position in
the smart world, for Lady Newmarket was certainly at
the top now, despite her doubtful birth and insatiableness
in flirtation, and her words for the present were law. Of
course, many had wagged their heads and been scornful
when the appetising cup of scandal was dashed from their
lips at the last moment — and in the dead season of the
year too — by the tale written adroitly home by Lady
Meldrum ; and some incredulous ones, resolutely refusing
to allow their pleasure to be balked bv such paltry atFairs
as date;^, still declined to see in Alice s sudden journey to

258

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

France, anything but an elopement with Lord Winder-

mere.

Indeed, particulars were not wanting of the meeting of
the lover and the husband, of a cudgelling, of a duel, of
fearful wounds, of showing of the white feather, of the
faithless wife's tears and lamentations, and of the ulti-
mate triumph of legitimate virtue. According to some.
Jack had demanded £10,000, and had eventually been
content to accept dishonour for half that sum. Others de-
clared, on the contrary, that after receiving a tremendous
drubbing, Windermere had refused to stand a shot, but had
incontinently fled by special train, obtained at enormous
expense, and only after much influence had been brought
to bear on the French Cabinet ; while perhaps the favour-
ite story was that Alice, having a dark lover at Nice,
had only taken advantage of the noble lord's purse and
escort to meet him, and had dismissed her temporary pro-
tector on arrival at the station.

Whatever the truth might be, Windermere's associates
all remnrked that he had returned to Melton in anything
but a ji.oilant state of mind, and that for a week after he
rode much harder than was his wont — for he was ordina-
rily very careful of his person, and if splenetive, could not
be accused of rashness. •' v ■ ' . 7 - . ••

Alice and Jack spent their winter in the South ; they
both felt that the old life in North Street could not
again be faced just yet ; and amid the thousand joys of
Italy, her blue sky, her orange trees and lovely mountains,
and bursts of song and melody, and dreams of heaven
caught for us by kings of men and preserved on canvas,
and visions of beauty perpetuated in fair marble, they
tried to forget that for both of them life had suddenly
lost most of its attractions, that the play had siiddenly
ceased, and nothing but a long vista of hopelest , work,
with a grave at the end of it, had taken its place.

Twenty times a day did Alice vow to herself that, come
what might, there was one thing left for her, one object

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

259

she had in the world — to do her duty. It was cold and
comfortless no doubt, and her life henceforth was to be
lit by no ray of sun ; but there it was starmg her in the
face, and she would meet her fate unflinchingly. Some
little comfort perhaps she unconsciously derived from a
vague notion of martyrdom ; an idea that she, poor
child, was somehow for the good of society sacrificing her-
self, laying her bleeding heart upon the altar of conven-
tionality and decorum ; and once or twice, while musing
over the perfections of her lover, she caught herself
wondering whether many women could be so good, so
virtuous, as she. Her task was more difficult now than
it bad been ; for Jack, cut to the heart every minute of
the day by some new evidence of her estrangement from
him, had become morose, even at times savage, when in her
company. She did try to love him in the way he wished,
so much, so vainly ! and he saw the attempt and recog-
nized the failure, and was made angry by both ; while
she, with some of that unreason which ill-natured males
attribute to her sex, felt angry with him because she
could not succeed in her laudable attempts. To an ob-
server they would have appeared a happy couple, who
had got over all that bubbling affection which is so an-
noying to lookers-on, and were content to glide through
life side by side without any disagreeable friction. They
were both too full of what they considered great woes to
carp at trifles, or to cause any of those petty scenes
which make life seem often so mean a thing. Jack was
silent and moody certainly; and when alone with his
wife, as we have said, his ways were almost fierce ; but
so many Englishmen, particularly when travelling on the
Continent, with hotel bills to pay, and tickets to take,
and bargains to be made in strange tongues, are moody,
sometimes even fierce, that this alone would scarcely lead
you to suspect there was anything serious to divide him
from his wife. Of course, as he had daily evidence that
what she had confessed to him was true, that she had

260

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

made a mistake when she thought she loved him, so much
the more unreasoningiy and passionately did he worship
her shadow ; and the continual struggle within him, lest
he should fall at her feet and ask her to trample him, and
let him grovel always so in the light of her eyes, even
though these eyes lightened at another's name, would
have worn out a better temper and more patience than he
possessed.

When toAvards the middle of April they at last turned
their steps homeward, after a winter that seemed ages to
both, and with mixed feelings prepared to pass through
another of those bustling orgies called London seasons,
instead of a bright, careless boy, credulous, and therefore
happy, there accompanied the beautiful Mrs. Chillingham,
about whom so many tales were told, and for whose face
on his canvas so many painters longed, and in whose
honour so many dandies gave an extra twirl to their
moustache, a sad, depressing, and certainly sullen-looking
man.

Alice would have been more than human — and she was
very human, poor child! — had she not wished to see Win-
dermere again. Only in the distance, that she might be
certain she could face him without a tremor ; to see, too,
that he was happy, and had — this was a difficult thing to
wish — forgotten her and their wicked journey, and all she
had promised him. And as they drove from the station
through a blinding snow-storm, and she gazed dreamily
out of the window with that rapt look which speaks of
strong feeling. Jack knew her thoughts, and writhed
with pain, with humiliation, with resentment, pnd above
all with a deep sense of self-pity. A heart is such an in-
tangible thing, there is no laying hold of it and keeping
it. Strength is no use, cajolery oi no a<^count. Reasonless,
it goes whither it will, and we may whistle ourselves black
in the face ere it will return. Not being able even to
keep the one in our own bosom, it would assuredly seem
foolish to assume, as we so often do, that we can keep that

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

261

o much
v^orship
m, lest
m, and
s, even
would
;lian he

turned
ages to
hrough
easons,
erefore
igham,
se face
whose
) their
ooking

he was
e Win-
ight be
ee, too,
hing to
all she
station
eamily
jaks of
rrithed
. above
an in-
eeping
lonless,
3 black
iven to
yseem
)p that

which beats in another's. The unreasonableness of
heart, too, is so great that, although we have both arch-
bishops to perform the marriage ceremony, and throw into
it twenty bridesmaids, showers of old shoes, cabinet min-
isters to make speeches, and the biggest cake and greatest
number of presents ever known, it will perhaps fly off a
few months afterwards in a totally wrong direction, and
cause all sorts of pain and annoyance to all sorts of moat
respectable, nay, even sometimes to most high-born
people.

If Jack could only have philosophised a little he might
possibly have cured himself, but philosophy is, with most
of us, only a fair-weather guide, and to feel keenly was
all the art known by our unfortunate hero.

The piles of bills neatly laid out upon the hall-table did
not constitute an agreeable welcome to North Street, and
many minor misfortunes, such as the cook's ^sence with-
out notice, the man-servant's too-evident booziness,and the
smoking of newly-lit fires, added to the general discomfort
and dreariness of that first night " at home." Then of
course there were no newspapers, and Jack's stock of
cigars was run out, and the key of the cellar had been put
in so safe a place that no one could find it ; and the snow
fell doggedly outside, and, thawing as it fell, made loco-
motion either on foot or on wheels almost an impossibility.
Alice's temper had been a little ruffled by the loss of a box,
coming immediately after the derangement incidental on
the rough Channel passage ; and Jack, who would not have
owned to sea-sickness for the world, was certainly none
the better for the tossing they had experienced. As he
sat in his little den that night, without pipe or book to
keep him from his thoughts, his greatest enemy, if he had
one, might have accorded him pity ; while Alice, with her
flushed cheek on the pillow, tears stealing down her cheeks,
tried to sleep, and, while vowing she would be true to her
duty, sobbed for the recollection of her love.

262

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

As all things mourn awhile

At fleeting blisses,
Let us, too; but be our dirge
. , A dirge of kisses.

■ •' Keats. ■ "~

Mrs. Belfort happened to be in town when our two
travellers returned ; and, as at this early period, before the
Derby had collected the usual crowd to take part in the
town festivities, London was rather dull, she came often
to North Street, and resumed her intimacy with Alice,
which the course of events had rather broken oflf. Alice,
hungering for sympathy which she was afraid as well as
ashamed to demand from anybody else, had so low an
estimate of Mrs. Belfort's capabilities in the way of British
shockableness, that no more agreeable society could at
this juncture have been provided her. To Mrs. Belfort's
mind a lover was as much a necessity of a pretty woman
as a cloak in cold weather or a fan at the opera ; and, in-
nocent of all reasoning, her instincts brought her straight
to the same result as regards the use and duties of hus-
bands which has been so often attained, after pages of sen-
timent and copious philosophic disserta.tion, by legions
^ of French novelists. Alice's story, or as much of it as
she could extract from that blushing rebel against the
Eleventh Commandment, filled her with pious wrath.
She felt much as a Lord of the Admiralty would feel were
a brand-new ironclad to be moored in the Thames as a
boy's school. Everything, she would have argued, had
Providence implanted the power of argumentation in her
brain, has its use. The use of a pretty woman is — first,
to marry well ; secondly, to flirt well. Of course there
should be as nmch discretion put into the second as the

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

263

first; but to do the one and to be forbidden to do the other,
was as if you buttered your loaf and then could not cut
your slice off. There is nothing pleasanter to an harmo-
nious mind than a sense of completeness ; and for a wo-
man to only half fulfil her destiny is as disagreeable and
annoying to a well-regulated person as a picture hung
askew is to a correct eye.

" Do tell me all about it, dearest," she purred, holding
a teacup in her gloved hand, after an interesting digres-
sion on the fashion for the coming season. " Did you run
away with him ? It must have been such fun ! How I
do wish "

And Mrs. Belfort heaved a deep sigh, suggestive of
thoughts too big or too burning for mere words.

Alice did not notice her friend's question, but appa-
rently spoke her thoughts aloud when she said musingly ;

" Things do seem hard — too hard almost to bear. It is
difficult at my age to give up all thoughts of happiness."

" Fiddlestick ! " cried Mrs. Belfort, almost energetically.
" Give up ! Time enough for that, my dear, when \^'« are
given up — I mean when we get old and ugly. So mon-
sieur le mari is a bear, is he ? "

" No, he is not a bear — at least not particularly."

" No, I don't suppose bears are jealous," said Mrs. Bel-
fort, thinking of a recent surreptitious visit to the Zoo-
logical Gardens with Charlie Holster. " But, really, my
dear Alice, you mustn't stand any nonsense. He'll be
going on with some one else soon, if vou don't take care."

"He! Who?"

"Why, Windy, to be sure. They say he has been
making up to Mrs. Surfcees at Melton this winter, but I
don't quite believe it."

" You mustn't think it would matter to me if he did,
Minna," said Alice, though a thump of her heart and
a sudden tinge of colour on her cheeks belied her words.

" Well, after all, there are as good fish in the sea as e v^er
came out of it, and a change is very nice, certainly. I

CHILDREN OF NATURE,

know I always get tired of a man after a year. Even
Charlie Holster is "

" You don't know me a bit ! " cried Alice impetuously,
" and I hate to hear you say such things, for you don't
mean them," she added, looking affectionately at the
pretty little doll opposite her.

" Perhaps I don't know you, dear. I know very few
things, except that one can be very happy if one deter-
mines to be, and I suppose very miserable if one likes
being miserable. I don't."

"But can't you see, Minna, that sometimes one is
obliged to be miserable ? Now, if Captain Holster "

"Dear old Charlie!"

" If Captain Holster had to go to India or some other
dreadful place "

" Well, poor fellow, he's so impressionable, he'd be very
happy with the — what is it they are called ? — the grass
widows."

"And you?"

" Me, dear ! Oh, I — I should get someone else. How
good-looking Lord Bads worth is ! " .

" Is he ? " said Alice, absently.

" Is he ? Do you mean to say you don't know what
he thinks of you ? "

" No, dear, and I don't care. As to coming to see you
often, of course I will, as often as I can. It isn't very
pleasant here now."

" It's too bad of Mr. Chillingham," said Mrs. Belfort,
rising, and surveying herself in the glass over the mantel-
piece. " Dear, dear ! how red this horrid east wind makes
one's nose ! It really is too bad of him ! I wonder what
he supposed when he married a pretty wife ? But I
must be off ; mind you come to my music to-morrow ;
quite a small party."

" Yes — but — you know I can't meet Lord Windermere,
Minna."

" You can't ! Why not ? "

" You must not ask him when I am coming."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

265

Even

How

what

" Very well," and Mrs. Belfort smiled knowingly. " I'll
join with the husband, and the poor child shall be kept
out of mischief. Good-bye."

Lady Glorme, too, whose hard defiant manner and
coarseness of speech had before repelled Alice, now be-
came a constant visitor in North Street. An intrigue
was her favourite pastime, whether of her own or of
others, and as Sir John was a pander by nature, she met
with no opposition in her schemes concerning Alice and
Windermere. '

Alice's previous insensibility to her advances had,
moreover, given her a slight reason for revenge, and she
thought that if no more amusing occupation distracted
her thoughts, it would be interesting enough to bring this
little affair to a denouement, and then turn on her friend,
and let her see whether innocence would lare better than
brazenness when the world's tongqp was wagging.

The Brocklesbys remained in the country, and it hap-
pened that few of Alice's intimate friends had yet come
to town, so that, in her wish to escape as much as possible
from the house where everything reminded her of the
lover whose memory she worshipped, and the husband
whose faith she had betrayed, she divided a good deal of
her time between the two residences inhabited by Mrs.
Belfort and Lady Glorme.

And Alice's nature, rendered weaker by her unlucky
love or fancy, or whatever it might have been, was more
ready now than before to receive the insidious lessons
continually instilled into her. Her code of morals re-
ceived shock after shock ; human nature seemed to be so
different, so much worse, so much more easy-going than
she had imagined it. At last her own sin, which loomed
a few weeks before a giant of atrocity, appeared nothing
compared to actions she heard daily spoken of with jest,
with envy, with approbation.

Rigid virtue did seem so ridiculous when criticised by
those to whom, in all sincerity, virtue could only be hypq-.

ir''

i^ Ml;

266

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I
If

Iti «

crisy. Had Jack possessed an iota of worldliness, a very
little knowledge of the society into which he had plunged
his pretty wife, there would have been time even yet to
have stepped in and saved her. But, crushed by the
weight of his hopeless love, he only stood aside and
awaited the end with despair. They seldom met now,
except at dinner ; and by tacit consent it had been ar-
ranged that the oftener Alice could find a dinner at a
friend's house, and Jack could therefore dine at his club,
the more agreeable it was for both.

There were times, however, when Jack revolted against
this arrangement, and would stay in all day, or accompany
Alice in her shopping expeditions, or walk with her in
the park ; but the experiment was never successful, and
both were intensely relieved when the end of such long
silent days came, and with it bed and oblivion of care.

There were times, too, when Jack, with heated words,
demanded an explanation of their misery, as if by ad-
ditional probing he could cure the gaping wound. And
then there was probably a furious quarrel, during which
both said things they afterwards regretted, but which
rankled in the hearts of the hearers. It is so easy, so
natural, and comfortable, to forget the evil things you
have said ; but it is almost impossible to forget the in-
juries said to yourself.

At his club Jack now a;Ssumed a new character. Silent
and shy before, he now talked louder than any in the
smoking-room ; his modest pint at dinner was changed
for a bottle : and his one glass upstairs to moisten his
tobacco into an indefinite number. Whenever a bit of
gambling was going forward, he threw himself into the
thick of it, with varying luck, and soon acquired a cer-
tain name for coolness in either fortune, and for the amount
of strong waters he could place under his belt without
showing signs of it.

He became far more popular, and populaiity had always
been incense to him ; but now its charm was gone. Ever

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

267

present with him, whether holding safe the odd trick when
the stakes were " ponies " and " fifties," or congi-atulating
the debutante behind the scenes after a successful first
night, was the recollection of the homeless home, where
the woman he loved so passionately beat herself against
the bars and cried out against her cagement. One night,
after a protracted bout of Scart4, during which Sir John
Glorme had without much difficulty extracted from him
a sum lepresenting about three years of his income. Jack
returned home in the morning light, and the fresh air
found out the cleft in his armour, and forced him to walk
in a manner suitable enough in a sailor, but not creditable
to a gentleman in evening dress.

Alice, detained in the drawing-room by the charms of
some new novel, had gone to sleep in her chair, and there
he found her. Steadying himself with difficulty he leant
over her, and passionately pressed his lips to hers. It was
months since he had thus kissed her, and in the confused
state of his brain he imagined that he had obtained a
triumph, and smiled foolishly as she woke.

" What— who is it ? Jack!"

*•' Yes, dear," and trying to combine dignity with senti-
ment he looked, as indeed we are sadly obliged to own he
was, rather dissipated and more than a little intoxicated.

Alice rose indignantly, and, when he attempted to stop
her passage to the door, pushed him easily aside, and
swept out of the room.

He had tried to speak again, but a horrifying conscious-
ness of his own condition caused the words to die upon
^ his lips, while the look of contemptuous aversion he saw
upon her face almost sobered him. His thoughts refused
to arrange themselves in his poor fuddled brain, but he
felt that the last link that had bound her to him was now
broken — that the respect she could not before help feel-
ing for him was gone for ever,

268

CHILDREN OF NATURE,

CHAPTER XXXV.

To be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the braia.

Ckristdbel.

And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resigned ;
And I've repelled the tender lure,
And hoped my heart should sleep secure.

Moore's Anacreon.

Badsworth's feelings when, soon after the flight to Nice,
he had obeyed his friend's instructions and delivered to
Lord Windermere a sum of money representing as nearly
as possible what that nobleman had lent to Jack or paid
for Alice, had not been a,greeable. He had been grievously
shocked and hurt by the whole business ; for, while Jack
was a dear friend, Alice had seemed to him the living
embodiment of all that was perfect and most innocent in
womanhood.

Many a quarrel he had risked at clubs hy his savage
interposition when her name was lightly spoken ; and,
indeed, had he happened to live in those dreadful days
when L an, bored and hldse, could not )mfortably sneer
away a woman's character without having perhaps to
answer for his words at the sword's point, he might have
found plenty of enjoyment for his rapier. The many
half -unconscious snubs Alice had inflicted on the profes-
sional lady-killers raised her a good many keen enemies
amoi.g them, and when she came down from her pedestal
and behavea as they had predicted in their wrath, it was
impossible that the triumph should be entirely stifled and
many a side-splitting joke and neat riddle tc led to
Mieir skill in making scandal amusing, p.nd an agreeable

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

269

.set-off to more important converse upon horse-racing or
polo. Badsworth's own feelings towards Alice he studi-
ously retrained :*'»om analysing. All he knew was
that in the hour ot her downfall if such must come and
he knew of the wretched state or affairs in North
Street — he could not do otherwise than feel for her that
pity which is nearly akin to love. And Alice read the
pity in his kind eyes when they met, and nursed an utter
reasonless gi'udge against him for it. She knew him
loyal and true, and perhaps felt that this loyalty and
truth made her conduct a shade worse — that it added
another pang to the sorrow and shame she could not help
feeling in her saner moments.

She met Windermere sometimes now in society, but
their greeting was of the most formal kind, only once or
twice when accidentally she met his artistically melan-
choly, sentimentally wistful gaze fixed upon her, the
light words upon her lips died away, and she felt as if
she were choking with suppressed emotion. Perhaps
her beauty and charm of manner caused more sensation
this season than it had the last. Great personages had
smiled on her now, and the titled toadies hastened to
supply to their leaders that flattery which takes the form
of imitation. There was now also a certain melancholy
in her air which many thought suited her better than her
former childlike gaiety, and when soft words fell from
the exquisite mouth, while the lustrous eyes gazed
dreamily into vacancy, many a man whose creed was
generally that of cynical worldliness felt that it would
indeed be worth while to ffive

was

All other bliss
And all his worldly worth for this.
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon those perfect lips.

But she did not flirt, in he ordinary sense of the word.
There was a natural ca^ ^s in her tone, a gentle sweet-

270

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

' ii

ness in her voice, which she could not have suppressed
had she attempted it ; and the wretchedness of her heart
made her grateful to all around her for what she deemed
their kindness.

That all the world should love her was very comforting,
and like a child she clung the more to kindness when she
felt she scarcely deserved it.

Any ideas Windermere may have formed as to seeking
fresh conquests vanished at the sight of her success in
society ; and had he expressed' his thoughts aloud he
would have said he was just now riding a waiting race.

He was not ignorant of the secret of her altered man-
ner, and knew well the meaning of the unwilling looks
she often cast in his direction. He understood, too, or
thought he understood why her words were so cold when
she addressed him, and why she took such pains to avoid
a tete-d-tSte ; and he bided his time patiently and confi-
dently, congratulating himself on the fact of there being
yet many weeks to elapse before the end of the season.
Perhaps, had he known the fierceness of the struggle in
the poor child's heart, even he would have relented ; but
he scarcely Believed in th existence of deeper feelings
than his own, and considered that the love which novelists
sometimes portrayed as divorced from any grosser feeling
was only a pretty invention of those novelists, and had no
place whatever in real life. Like many another woman,
Alice had set up a worthless idol for her worship, but it
must be allowed that in this case the idol was excessively
good-looking, very popular, most agi'eeable, and rode,
danced, sang, and made love like the Admirable Crichton
himself.

She was not the first of her sex who had deemed him
worthy of a great sacrifice ; but unfortunately she had
not acquired tne .art of spreading her passion thin over
many such affairs — as the butter in our schoolroom days
was spread over the l^af — and dashed down the whole
pat at once, to eat dry bread for the remainder of her life.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

271

As the season went on Jack went less and less into
society, and spent more and more time at his club. The
Duke of Cheshire had given Alice a horse, and it was his
delight to accompany her every morning in Rotten Row;
pleased, as all elderly men are, to be seen with an acknow-
ledged beauty. Her talk amused him excessively, and
with him she was more at her ease than with others ;
and sometimes, listening to his half-hearted but amusing
cynicism, almost forgot her troubles. He knew perfectly
well that all was not right between the young couple, and
had a vague idea that he might do good by seeing more
of them ; so that the frugal luncheon or dinner in North
Street was often honoured by his pleasant presence and
old-world courtliness.

Lady Brocklesby, seeing which way the wind blew,
trimmed her sails accordingly, refused to be offended by the
many excuses Alice invented to escape the dreary meal
in Eaton Square, and was most effusive in her admiration
of and affection for her daughter-in-law. His lordship —
who was busy inventing a matchless torpedo — was only
too pleased that things should go smoothly again, and
gave, in strict confidence, so many different versions to
his cronies of the Nice journey, that tney all were effec-
tually puzzled, and only agreed upon one point, that
" poor Brocklesby was breaking up — head going — no
memory — always thought him a little odd,' and so dis-
missed the subject.

Spencer Chillingham, having suddenly adopted the
tenets of the Free-Love Brotherhood, and gone to America
to look, more closely into them, was not likely to be an
advocate of family severity ; and as to Jane, she did not
think it necessary to judge for herself in such matter's
and was only too delighted to be taken out by her sister-
in-law, and to bask in some of the reflected rays of her
popularity. Emily alone stood out. It was all very well
to hush-up the scandal of the elopement, but until she
heard a proper and verified explanation, she would be-

272

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

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fiif I

nt i

lieve it did occur, and her brother's absurd weakness in
condoning it could not alter her notions of right and
wrong. The Reverend Theophilus was a little inclined
to dispute his wife's ruling on this point ; but, like a wise
man, be thought it better to give way occasionally on
small matters, so that the great ones might be more cer-
tainly decided in his fvour, and did not seriously con-
test her determination. So, when Alice, as in duty bound,
drove in her neat victoria to St. Banbury's rectory-house,
" Not at home " was the invariable response — a circum-
stance which, we fear, troubled our pretty sinner not at all.
One morning Jack, contrary to his wont, had come on
foot to the park — ostensibly to cast his eye over a new
hack of which the Duke of Cheshire was proud — and as
he walked moodily down the path by the carriages,
scarcely noticing the salutes of his friends, a voice from a
smart pony-carriage arrested his steps.

" Oh, Jack ! Mr. Chillingham I mean. How are you ?
We haven't met for an age. I've just got an engagement

at the Theatre. Ain't you glad ? Why, how seedy

you're looking ! "

*' Am I ? I can't say the same of you, Violet. You
are Vjlooming. Better looking than ever, I declare, if
that's possible."

" Now, you know, sir, yovb are not allowed to pay me
compliments. I thought that was our compact.

" You see the sudden surprise was too much for me.
So you have got the great engagement at last. When do
you open ? "

" Oh, directly, I believe — ^and I'm to have real good
parts. You must come the first night."

"Come! of course, I will ; and bring all my friends."
" I say, Jack ;" and Violet put her pretty face down

close to his, *' it's all right again, isn't it ? " . , .

She spoke in a low voice, and with much sympathy in
her eyes. -

Jack hesitated, and looked annoyed. ^

*' All right again ? Yes, of course it is,"

' ■ tfWS^

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

273

You

good

" Oh ! I'm so glad ! " she cried, clasping her hands. " I
was sure it would be so; that you were mistaken. I
never was so pleased at anything in ray life as when
Charlie Holster told me so."

" Oh, he told you, did he ? " said Jack, raging within at
his affairs being talked over by such people.

" Yes ; you must come and see me again as you used,
and we will have some more pleasant chats. When ?
Why not now ? Let me drive you home. My ponies are
such ducks, and I'm quite a first-class whip — even Tom
Bobsley says so. Oh no! Perhaps it wouldn't do for
you to be seen in my trap !" And her laugh had a touch
of bitterness in it.

They were at the end of the drive nearest to Apsley
House, and were therefore close to the Row. As Jack
was about to refuse Violet's invitation, rather surprised
at her asking him so to defy the convenances, he hap-
pened to see Windermere, mounted on the most perfect
thoroughbred that money could secure, and looking a very
good specimen of a young Englishman, twist his horse
suddenly round, and accost a lady who appeared to be
riding alone.

That lady was Alice, the Duke of Cheshire having
turned to the railing for a few momenta to exchange some
words with a friend on foot.

Jack fancied that he could even at that distance see
the blush that mantled on her cheek when Windermere
bent his head eagerly down to address her, and ground
his teeth.

^ " Well, good-bye ! " cried Violet, shortening her reins,
and taking her ivory -handled whip from its socket. " I
shall have a turn round the park."

" Take me with you," said Jack, and in a moment he
was at her side. " Now drive as close to the end of the
Row as the pejler will let you. I want to see if — that's
it!"

" Who was that lady who looked at you so oddly ? "
18

I' •}

274

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I !

« I

asked Violet, as they whirled along towards the Marble
A.rch

" That ? My wife ! "

Violet looked round quickly. Something she saw in
his face kept her unusually silent during the remainder
of their drive.

" Believe me, I feel for you," Windermere had said to
Alice in the few moments that elapsed before the Duke
returned to her side. " It is cruel of him to humiliate
you in public. My poor darling, will you never let your-
self or me be happy ? "

Then, with a grave bow, he rode off, feeling that the
incident of that morning had brought him very near in-
deed to his triumph.

The ride that day in the park, the Duke was forced to
own, was not a success. No efforts of his could dispel
Alice's taciturnity, and at last when she begged to go
home, on the plea of a headache, his grace was not sorry.
Furious with Jack, angry with herself, almost angry
with Windermere for daring to speak as he had done, she
returned home, and underwent veritable torture at lunch
eon listening to the empty and ill-natured gossip of Flit-
tery, and trying to laugh at the somewhat foolish jokes of
Johnny Beere.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

276

CHAPTER XXXVI.

'Tis o'er ! No more we face the odds

Against our hopes that fate has set ;
And only ask, oh, cruel gods !

One moment when we may forget.

R. D, Stordale.

" I shan't see you any more this season, old fellow," said
Badsworth to Jack one morning at his club ; " for I'm off
in the Wraith for a cruise, and a bit of racing, too, perhaps,
if I can find anything slow enough to beat."

" Take me with you ? " said Jack. " Who is coming ? "
" Only Keyser. Of course I should be delighted.

Nothing I should like better — only "

" Of course if you don't want me," began Jack, offended
at the other's hesitation.

" Don't be a fool, Jack. I was only tliinking that per-
haps — well, you see — do you think it would be wise to go
away just now — to leave Mrs. Chillingham all alone ?
She would be dull— — "

" Dull ! " interrupted Jack, bitterly. " No, my absence
won't make her dull. Heaven knows we are dull enough.
No ; put all that out of your head, and don't be inhos-
pitable. I crave a berth on board the Wraith ; and will
the friend of my youth refuse me so slight a favour ? "
But there was a lack of humour in the bombast ; Jack's
jokes, never very comic, were utterly devoid of fun just
at present.

" Very well," said Badsworth, but still reluctantly,
knowing, as he did, the falseness of the line which tells
us that " absence makes the heart grow fonder." " Very
well, only you must look sharp, as I want to sail to-
morrow in time for the Porthampton regatta. The Wraith
is all ready, and we've nothing to do but to take down the

1' K

I.' *

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;'|!||

276

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

I \

! M--

box from Fortnum and Mason's, and provide ourselves
with some light reading and smoke. Mind you eschew
nails in the heels of your boots ; old Sharp, my skipper
and tyrant, is very particular about his decks, and would
order me overboard if he saw the imprints of my hoofs, I
believe. By Jove ! we'll have great fun. Keyser amuses
me, though most people think him a bore, and he is really
a good fellow at heart."

" Yes," said Jack, sighing, and watching the blue smoke
of his cigarette curling upwards towards the ceiling, " we
will have fun ; we will forget all our bothers for a short
time, at any rate ; the gentle moralising of Keyser shall
mingle its influence with the ripple of the waves against
the good ship's side, and lull us to dreamless rest ; while
amid the battle of the elements we will — oh ! hang it, I
forget what people do amid the battle of the elements — I
only know I feel inclined to lie down below on such occa-
sions. And, thank Heaven, by a judicious silence as to
our course, we need scarcely ever get a letter. How long
shall the cruise be ? "

" Oh, about a fortnight. We can do some of the regattas
and end by a look at the Irish Coast. Well, you are on,
eh ? Meet me to-morrow morning at Waterloo at eleven
o'clock."

" I'm going for a cruise with Badsworth," said Jack that
evening to his wife.

" Are you ? " she said, coldly, without looking up from
her book. " I hope you will enjoy yourself."

"Thank you."

*' Shall you be away long ? "

" About a fortnight."

"Oh."

" Perhaps you'd like me to stay away longer ; 1 daresay
I could manage it."

She raised her eyes calmly. Since the episode in the
park, when she thought Jack had so gone out of his way to
insult her publicly, her manner had hardened considerably.

iiliillHi

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

277

" Wliy should I wish you to stay away, or to go away ?
It's all the same to me."

" Yes, I suppose it is. I daresay if I were drowned or
hanged to-morrow, it would be 'all the same' to you 1 "

" I hope you won't do anything foolish or rash, so as to
run a risk of being drowned ; and as to your being hang-
ed — well, I suppose that is always in your own hands."

" You are very sarcastic this evening."

" Am I ? I didn't mean to be. But perhaps it is a
second case of the man who had been talking prose all
his life and had never known it." «'

" I don't care twopence about the man who talked
prose," said Jack, returning sulkily to his evening paper.

" I don't see why you should," replied his wife, turning
over a page of her book. And this was their parting :
for soon after, and without further conversatioix between
them, Jack left the house and sauntered, cigar in mouth,
to his club, where at least he could gain a temporary
oblivion of his cares. This was their parting. Alice,
amid her other qualities, was possessed of a strong natural
pride, which she had often been cautioned, in her early
youth, would assuredly bring her to a bad end. And the
insult in the park she could not yet forgive. It seemed
so much the worse because it occurred just when she was,
as she thought, so bravely fighting the desperate battle
agf*inst her own fondest wishes. That she should be
stabbed by him whose honour she was at such a sacrifice
defending ! It was outrageous.

She dreamed of no revenge ; it did not seem to her
that, as Mrs. Belfort insisted, this act of Jack's put him
outside the pale ; destroyed all the right he had to her
loyalty ; but it did seem that she had been cruelly in-
sulted, and that she owed it to herself to resent it most
haughtily. So it came about that they parted with
cold, querulous words, and Jack went down next day to
Southampton with his friends, and tried, his heart feeling
like a stone in his bosom, to emulate their thoughtless
gaiety.

it h

278

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

'!li

The Wraith was a neat schooner of a little over a
hundred tons, well built and well found and fitted, al-
though not in that gaudy drawing-room style now so
much in vogue. She looked like business all over ; not
too smart and ladylike for a turn at trawling, and not
too slow to hold her own in a smart breeze against many
of the racing machines. As, meeting a stiff nor'-easter
off the Foreland, she sent the spray flying over her
graceful bows and the bubbling sea hissing up to the lee
rail. Jack for the time forgot his woes, and felt his spirits
rise with that enthusiasm which we patriotically believe
only Britons feel when they are struggling with wind
and water.

The newnesss of the life, too, had a singular charm.
Of course, the unscrewing of the swing table was forgot-
ten, and great was the breaking of crockery in conse-
quence. Of course, Keyser tipped his chair over back-
wards at dinner, in the midst of a mighty jobation as to
the civilising effects of ozone. Of course, everyo^ie
bumped their heads and skinned their elbows in sudden
and thoughtless movements, and, of course, each incident
caused much laughter of the hearty kind seldom heard
in Pall Mall.

And Jack, when, with much difficulty and rasping of
shins, he had climbed into his narrow berth, said the lit-
tle prayer which had somehow survived from his nursery
days, and which he repeated half-shamefacedly on going
to sleep each night, and the short addition of which he
was the author (in which Alice's name and happiness
and love came), with more confidence in his simple words
being heard than he had felt since the day when he met
Sir John Glorme outside Violet's house.

It would be untrue to say that Alice felt no pangs of
conscience at the coldness with which she had parted
from her husband. Notwitstanding his ^performance in
Violet's pony-carriage, he had, she could but confess, been
very good to her. She could readily understand what

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

270

-M

he felt at her changed feelings, and she pitied him from
her heart — pitied him as if she was not a free agent in
the matter, and was almost equally to be pitied for being
perforce the cause of unhappiness to one she esteemed.
If Windermere, with his undefinable charm, had never
existed, had never bewitched her with his glances and
whispers ! But it was too late. She could only be mis-
erable, and make those who loved her miserable ; and
in the meantime there was, there could possibly be, no
hann in her extracting as much amusement and forget-
fulness out of society as possible, and if the exigencies
thereof required that she should occasionally exchange a
few formal words with the man ever present in her
thoughts — well, it behoved her to meet this temptation
boldly, since it was unavoidable, and to beat down the
cravings of her weak heart. She nursed some resent-
ment against Jack for going away just now ; for in some
degree she felt his presence in North Street a protection.

Mrs. Belfort looked upon the yachting tour as a direct
interposition of Providence in favour of nature and the
laws of modem society, and was most ingeniously indig-
nant with her friend for refusing such assistance.

" Opportunities," said she, reflectively, " are not always
to be had for the asking. It is a curious thing that,
although there are twelve — at least, I suppose there are
twenty-four, aren't there, dear ? — hours in a day, there
are so few opportunities. Charlie — my old man, you
know — has really got quite fussy lately, and I know he
means to bother more than usual over my bills, even
though I manage to keep back half of them. And he
utterly refuses to take me to Cowes this year, though I've
got the most lovely yachting frocks, and a bathing-dress
— ah, something like ! I'll show it you when you come
next to our place. I must get to TrouvlWe somehow. If
Charlie won't take me I'll run away from him — that I
will ! "

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innocence and prettiness as she gave vent to this terrific
threat, which, however, she was quite capable of putting
into execution ; so, to avert any fears on the part of our
most respectable readers, we may mention, that by giving
up Cowes, she did prevail upon Mr. Belfort to go to Trou-
ville, and managed to excite much attention there, both
by yachting frocks and bathing costume.

Her calm, babyish recklessness created much havoc
among the French dandies, and inspired them with a re-
spect for the English style of flirtation which they had
never before felt.

M. de la Pollisonniere indeed declared that she was well
worthy of his homage ; which he would no doubt have
laid at her pretty feet had he not at that moment unfor-
tunately been engaged in attracting the matrimonial at-
tention of an American heiress, whose dollars would, he
thought, be most useful to Mademoiselle Fanchette of the

Theatre, Paris, lately become rather too greedy

for the Marquis's somewhat attenuated purse.

This stern devotion to duty in preference to pleasure
gained the poor gentleman much pity and admiration
from Alphonse and Victor and all his friends of the cercle
at Trouville ; and it was written home to astonished
youths still lingering in the French capital that De la
Pollisonniere was going, at last, to " range himself."

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■.~rT»^.>^-==f^fr;-.\ ■,•■;.

A STORY OP MODERN LONDON.

281

CHAPTER XXXVII.

The ring of silver voices, and the sheen

Of festal garments — and my lady streams
With her gay court across the garden j?reen ,
Some laugh and dance, some whisper their love dreams.

Fr.i!;DERicK Tennyson.

I pray thee, by the gods above,
Give me the mighty bowl I love,
And let me sing in wild delight,
" I will— I will be mad to-night ! "

Moore.

With all their faults, the bitterest enemies of Sir John
and Lady Glorme could not deny that on all occasions
when they extended hospitality to their friends, the thing
was done with no niggard hand. The best dry champagne
flowed as if it were but five shillings a bottle, and Gun-
ter's supply was drawn upon with a recklessness which
seemed stupendous to the lucky guest.

The pair might be under a cloud, but at any rate its
lining was well silvered and gilt, and with your mouth
full of pdtS de foie gras, washed down with Chateau Mar-
gaux of '48, you could scarcely be expected to take pains
about finding the dark side of the cloud.

Perhaps the villa near Maidenhead was, next to his
figure and air, the thing of which the Baronet was most
proud, and it certainly was a pretty little place, with its
rose-clad walls, cunningly-devised nooks and corners,
which Sir John called, with one of his coarse laughs,
" flirting-traps ; " with its smooth lawn, broken here and
there by brilliant flower-beds and flowering shrubs, slop-
ing down to the river ; with its neat stables, its miniature
farm, its exquisite piggeries, built like so many dolls'
Swiss cottages ; its billiard- room, its ball marquee at the

282

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

>v.!

^ Sijs»[l'

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back, its shady polo-ground, and its general air of wealth
and good taste.

A great many good people, after one visit to Kose Villa,
declared they would never go there more. But they gen-
erally did return when asked ; and, wh^n there, fell into
the prevailing habit of whispering in gloomy corners, and
looking as viciously mysterious as possible.

When Alice received an invitation to one of the Rose
Villa parties her first impulse was to refuse. She had
seen a good deal of Lady Glorme of late, and had found
that lady's utter contempt for goodness and habit of
classifying the world as hypocrites or knaves act like a
tonic on her — disagreeable, but strengthening. Still,from
knowing Lady Glorme to becoming one of her set was a
long step, and Alice shrank from doing what, neverthe-
less, she knew so many young married women who en-
joyed the esteem of society had done, and going to this
Maidenhead villa without her lord and master.

Some instinct, too, told her that Lady Glorme had a
reason for trying to bring her and Windermere together
again ; and she mistrusted herself if she were tried too
hard, or too high, as the racing slang of the day would
have it.

Had it not been for a joint attack made by Lady Glorme
and Mrs. Belfort she would have refused point-blank ;
and even then she only consented provisionally. Her
visitors, however, were well aware of the truth that the
woman who hesitates is lost, and Lady Glorme had but
little fear of her party being without the graceful pre-
sence of the beauty of the day.

Never, perhaps, had party gone off better than this
one. Johnny Beere outdid himself in eccentricities ;
Charlie Holster -v ant through the most complicated
aquatic feats ; Flittery was swamped in a canoe amid
loud merriment, and crawled dripping on shore with a
terrible grin upon his wet face — for he saw a duchess laugh-
ing. The comic singer from the racecourse sur]>asse(l

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

283

- wealth

se Villa,
ley gen-
fell into
ers, and

lie Rose
^he had
1 found
labit of
b like a
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t was a
Bverthe-
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Her
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icities ;

ilicated
e amid
with a

h laugh-
rpassed

himself in impromptu personalities ; but failed, here in
such good society, to raise the blushes he could command
when performing before less elevated folk, and inwardly
cursed the want of indelicacy of his muse. The sun was
bright, and no fear of damage prevented the ladies from
wearing their gaudiest plumage ; while the young gen-
tlemen in their white hats, trousers, and coats resembled
so many aristocratic bakers.

Alice was there — looking very young and pretty — and
enjoyed herself excessively until she saw Windermere
scull down the river in an outrigger and proceed leisurely
to disembark at the villa landing place. Why did he look
so handsome in his careless boating dress ? And why did
he come there ? Were there no other parties in or about
all London, that they must always meet ? As she angrily
mused in this fashion, her eyes met his, and she blushed
as she tried to answer his bow with proper carelessness.
To hide her embarrassment of course she talked more,
and appeared indeed to flirt more, than usual ; and young
Mohawk, of the Life Guards Green, with difficulty con-
trolled his emotion as he thought he had at last, after
years of trying, achieved a veritable triumph.

" Will you give me that rose ? " he said, wondering why
her voice would be so husky when he most wanted a
melodious note.

" This ? Oh yes ! " and Alice smiled as she met the
eager gaze of his somewhat expressionless orbs.

" Thanks — so much. By Jove, Mrs. Chillingham,
you're a "

" Good judge of roses — and who to give them to."
" " No — I was going to say that you are the

" Look, Captain Mohawk — there are Mr.
Captain Leedle going to run a race in sacks.
I wish you'd run in a sack too."

" I will," cried poor Mohawk, desperately. " I will if
you wish it. But, oh, Mrs. Chillingham, may I call you "

"Oh, do look! — that's capital — poor Mr. Beere — soiLe-

Beere and
What fun!

2!84

Ct^tLDT?^:N OF NATTTRE.

one ought to pick him up. Now you may go on, Captain
Mohawk — you were telling me all about your bear-fight
after mess ; let me see, you'd got to where all the chairs
had been thrown out of the window, and Lord Softy was
setting fire to the curtains."

" I don't care to talk to yon about such things," said
Mohawk, with indescribable tenderness. "I'm sure you
don't care to hear them. Don't you think one can feel
serious sometimes ? "

" Yes — I should say poor Mr. Beere does at this mo-
ment — poor fellow, his nose is bleeding. By-the-bye,
have you ever seen Goggles, Captain Mohawk ? No !
Then you must come to North Street and make his ac-
quaintance. He's sure to bite you — he's so jealous — he
always bites my particular friends."

ft was lucky for Captain Mohawk's self-esteem that he
did not see the indifferent sarcasm in Alice's eyes as she
said this.

"I should like it of all things — but I don't think I
should come to see Goggles."

** Shouldn't you ? He's well worth it."

Alice was getting a little tired of her military admirer,
and looked round for someone to relieve guard. As she
did so Windermere happened to saunter past with Mrs.
Surtees on his arm — Mrs. Surtees, whose name had been
coupled with his during the winter — the best-looking of
hard-riding women, and not inexperienced in the chase of
other animals than foxes.

After this Captain Mohawk found his flirtation terribly
uphill work ; indeed, he soon made an excuse, and betook
himself to the house for sympathy and champagne-cup,
declaring to Jim Summerton, who was likewise strength-
ening himself for renewed attacks upon his natural enemy
— woman — that after all little Alice Chillingham had
devilish little in her ; whereupon the Honourable Jim
winked, and looked so unutterably arch, that his friend
respected him from that hour.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

285

n, Captain
bear-fight
the chairs
Softy was

ings," said

sure you

i can feel

this mo-
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k ? No I
:e his ac-
ilous — he

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res as she

t think I

admirer,
As she
ith Mrs.
lad been
oking of
chase of

terribly
i betook
gne-cup,
trength-
l1 enemy
I am had
ble Jim
s friend

When Windermere took Mrs. Surtees for a stroll and
disappeared from view, a great change came over our
heroine. This was an unlooked-for solution of all diffi-
culties. The way along which she could flee from temp-
tation was cleared for her. And yet it was scarcely
pleasure that agitated her. Jack, could he have read her
thoughts, would have found there ample revenge for what
he had suffered from the pangs of jealousy.

It seemed that the hour when the party were to collect
for dinner would never come ; and when it did come, and
she found herself seated between her host and Captain
Mohawk," whose attentions to her. Lady Glorme had, of
course, observed, brought no comfort; for opposite to
her, so that she could scarcely tear her eyes from the con-
templation of them, were Lord Windermere and the ter-
rible huntress.

It was hard to bear with equanimity. To renounce is
all very well, and carries with it the sweetness of virtue and
of martyrdom. But to be renounced ! That is far different,
for it neither receives nor merits anything but contempt.

Alice was not accustomed to employ much art in con-
cealing her emotions, and her host beside her, and Lady
Glorme at the other side of the table, read her like a
book ; while Captain Mohawk wished he was anywhere
but beside this silent, rather alarming young woman.

Mrs. Surtees had a dim suspicion that she was being
made use of for some purpose ; but plots were things to
be expected at Rose Villa, and all was fish that came to
her net. A few hours' flirtation with Windermere was
in itself an agreeable thing; and if he meant nothing,
why, she meant nothing either, so they were quits on that
score. Besides, although rather a queen at Melton, she
was scarcely at her ease in London, and was not sorry to
show these fine ladies who could not ride a young horse
over a gate to save their lives, that she, Kate Surtees,
could do something besides ride a young hoi*se over a
gate, and do it as well as they.

286

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

i!l^;

Everything must have an end — at least, so people say
— and at last Alice's torture ceased, and they broke up
into small groups on the lawn, the men lighting cigars,
some of the ladies — we are sorry to record — placing
cigarettes between their delicate lips, and some betaking
themselves to the river and drifting about lazily under
the bright moon. A subdued laugh or an occasional burst
of song that came across the water sounded prettily in the
still night, and even men of the Mohawk stamp felt the
influence of the scene. It was an hour when Diogenes
himself would have made love, had he but a couple of
bottles of Sir John's dry Monopole 'inder his belt, lit one
of that worthy's half-crown cigars, and sate himself down
under the bright stars with a pair of soft, shining eyes
and pouting lips within three feet of his philosophership.

" Will you come out in a boat with me ? "

It was Windermere who spoke, and his voice was sweet
music to Alice's ears. But she tried to be stem.

" No, thanks ; I shall do very well here."

" Oh ! Ah, yes ! here's Mohawk coming this way. I
won't interrupt."

" Oh no, no ! " she cried, in almost comic despair.
" Anything but that. Do save me from him ! "

" I see you are saved. He cannot pass Kate Surtees's
chair."

" Had you not better hurry back in time, then ? "

" Hurry back ! Poor Kate ! No, I think we're about tired
of each other by this time. I like horsey talk very well in
winter, but it is desecration to drag it into a scene like this."

" I thought you — you liked her ? "

" So I do. She's a fine rider ; better than many men
who think they can go, but she's out of place anywhere
but on a horse."

" You did not think so all this afternoon ? "

" * Quand on vJa pas ce qu*on aime,' you know. I
could say now, with that very industrious gentleman de-
ceased, * I have wasted a day,' "

A STORY OF MODERN LONDOl^.

287

Bople say
broke up
ig cigars,
— placing
betaking
ily under
>nal burst
ily in the
3 felt the
Diogenes
couple of
It, lit one
self down
ling eyes
»phership.

VEs sweet

way. I

despair.

Surtees's

out tired
y well in
ike this."

any men
nywhere

mow. I
man de-

His words were careless ; but his tone belied them, and
he threw himself down on the grass at Alice's feet.

They neither of them spoke. He was no novice in these
matters, and knew well the inestimable value of judi-
cious pauses when hearts are full. At last he said, throw-
ing away his cigar, which fell with a splash into the
river, and made a bubbling circle of light —
" I wish life could be always this."
" What — dining with the Glormes ? " Alice's voice
would tremble, despite herself.

" No, sitting here, near to you. Oh, Alice, you do not

know "

" Oh, here's Windermere ! " cried Beere, who did not
reckon tact amid his virtues, coming up to them. " We
want to have a charade in the ball-room. Lady Glorme's
got a whole heap of properties. I've engaged myself as
low comedian, and we want you to play the lover."

" I never make a fool of myself," said Windermere,
rising. '' Come out in a punt, Mrs. Chillingham. I'll
promise not to upset you."

And as Windermere's strong arm with one stroke sent
the punt out well into mid-stream, Johnny Beere shook
his head with all the wisdom induced by a good dinner.

" Poor little thing ! It's a d d shame ; but, after

all, it's no business of mine." . m

The charade was a great success, particularly when
Captain Mohawk appeared as suitor for the fair hand of
Mrs. Surtees and failed to find any words in which to ex-
press his devotion ; Johnny Beere, as a fine lady, was per-
fect ; and Flittery's rendering of a sentimental ditty was
- deservedly encored.

But perhaps the great success of the whole day was the
choice piece of scandal the whole party carried up to
town with them in the last train, in consequence of
the non-appearance of Lord Wii\dermere and Mrs. Chil-
lingham.

288

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

,^!

¥1

'i !

llli

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Go where we will, this hand is thine,

Those eyes before nie smiling thiis,
Through good and ill, through storm and shine,

The world's a world of love for us !
On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
Where 'tis no crime to love too well.

Lalla Rookh.

The punt had scarcely got way on her before Alice re-
pented that she had so weakly yielded to Windermere's
half -imperious invit .tion. And yet knowing, as of course
she did, her own strength, there was nothing that the
most censorious could carp at in the fact that they were
spending a quiet after-dinner hour on the river, as is done
by so many against whom no one would dare .wag tongue.

It was, however, of no use to argue against the convic-
tion which forced itself upon her, that this aquatic expe-
dition was a crisis in her fate — that she had in this one
weak moment knocked down the wall she had been so
laboriously building between herself and the danger she
longed for and feared so much.

Even Windermere, whose boast was that no woman had
ever for a moment made him forget himself, Mt to some
extent the influence of the hour ; and as he d/opped his
punt pole, and sitting down opposite to his passenger
allowed the boat to drift with the stream, it really seemed,
he afterwards declared, as if he might possibly be tempted
to make a fool of himself.

'* At last," he said.

Alice tried to answer, but no word would come. She
was saying " At last " too in her heart, poor child !

And then began the sort of jerky, apparently meaning-
less t^lk which is so impossible to render on paper. Every

r. M ' ^:mmi r: fm w\i r'<" ^ -

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

289

syllable of it has its own peculiar value to those engaged
— in every silence there is a volume, in every broken-off
sentence a whole world of meaning ; but it is dull enough
to outsiders in all conscience. Windermere saw that his
best chance lay in persuading Alice that, although cold-
ness and avoidance were very proper and correctfin the
ordinary run of these cases, theirs was no common instance
of unhappy love ; that although, of course, the world
might applaud her for breaking his heart and rendering
the rest of his life worthless and miserable, it was a selfish,
nay, almost an immoral kind pf morality after all — for
which she of course would take her orthodox reward both
in this world and in the next, and could therefore afford
to sit comfortably still, and watch his struggles and
wretchedness with all decorous equanimity. That is, if
she* could — if she was so cold, so calculating, so cruel. If
she meant thus to beggar him to the end of time of all
the wealth of love in him which he put under her foot — ■
well, perhaps it was correct. No doubt any one of the
bench of bishops would say so, and she could afford to
sneer at the ravings of a poor fool who could only love
and place his love above les convenances. She had had a
victory — no other woman, whatever people might say,
had ever touched the chord in him which we all have in
us, if we only knew it — and of course she was in her
right to triumph. But oh, would she not for one brief
moment, now; that circumstances had made it possible
that they should meet face to face once more, despite all
her cruel avoidance of him, would she not look kindly at
him — say one word (it would not be compromising, she
-need not be afraid of Mrs. Grundy there) to cheer him,
and make it possible for him to go on fighting against the
hard world, although all happiness was lost to him for ever?
Windermere said all this and much more to the same
effect, far better than we can write it ; and he was aided,
also, by a pair of uncommonly eloquent eyes, and a voice
which he well knew how to make the most of.
19

! i ;:

290

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" And when does he come back ? " asked he, after one
of those long silences which say of much.

" I am not quite sure — but soon, certainly."

She sighed. The allusion to Jack came disagreeably in
upon her reverie, and forced some unpleasant sanity into
her sweet madness.

" And then, I suppose, we shall never see each other
again ? "

" Oh yes — often — at places, and "

" No, I mean alone."

Alice said nothing. He was only putting her thoughts
into words ; and instinctively she felt that all her strength
would now be needed.

" We must see each other sometimes — we tnust"

" I am afraid that I — that is, that he "

" Alice, it is absurd for you to deny that we cannot live
without meeting. It is too late now for scruples — is it
not ? "

Not the most sharp-eared could have heard whether the
word that Alice's lips formed was " Yes " or " No." Per-
haps she scarcely knew herself.

Whenever the stage of preconcerted arrangements for
deceiving a husband is reached, all pity, all excuse must
be swept away. And yet Alice — as we have striven to
show — was not naturally bad.

There was much in her that was noble, that was self-
sacrificing, that was true. Yet here was her nobility be-
ing dragged in the mud at the chariot- wheels of a worth-
less profligate, her self-sacrifice twisted into a selfish act
of cruelty to one whose misfortune was that he loved her
and had given her his all, her truth become nothing but
organised deceit and petty lying. And yet, O reader, if
any prim critic should tell you it is unnatural, that we
are not describing human beings and human events and
failings as they are, do not believe him ; but look into the
world "of men and women going and coming around you,
and tell that prim critic that he should buy a pair of spec-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

291

Iter one

3ably in
ity into

h other

Noughts
strength

inot live
2S — is it

;ther the
." Per-

ents for
se must
riven to

iras self-
ity be-
worth-
fish act
>ved her
ing but
ader, if
that we
its and
into the
nd you,
of spec-

tacles. It would be so easy, so pleasant to draw the good
girl who does r'ght always, and continually lets fall
pretty sentiments and does charitable actions, and makes
up flannel petticoats for the poor while the worldlings
dance up at the Marquis's castle, and who of course mar-
ries the Marquis's eldest son, after three weeks' nursing of
that young gentleman when he breaks his leg out hunt-
ing at her door, and she has brought him to a sense of his
soul's danger during that period. Then, on the other
hand, there could be nothing more sternly agreeable than
to portray the wicked girl who is fond of diamonds and
gowns, and never makes up flannel petticoats, and does
make up to young men, and insists on going to the Castle
while her little brother is dying; whom the Marquis's
eldest son, after a brief . ^rtation, finds out and drops
ignominiously, and who eventually gets killed in a rail-
way accident, or catches the smallpox, and is hideous ever
after. There would be little trouble in writing social
history after this fashion, and it would no doubt give
pleasure to many respectable admirers of " the eternal fit-
ness of things." The only argument to be urged against
this course is that, by some misconception possibly, human
beings are not so easily labellable. They insist on having
queer twists, and odd, unsuspected quirks, which are
most annoying to all spectators with regular and well-
balanced minds.

Had anyone with an ear for music been on the Thames

'bank near Maidenhead that night he would have been

gratified by a song which came from a punt floating down

the stream, sung by a melodious tenor voice to an ^r

which, if not original, was pleasing enough.

Thus it went —

The summer moon is shining, lovj,
To bless but you and me ;

' ir

r> ■!

lii' ^i

! ■!'■■■

I i'.
1 I

1 'i'iiM-'

'!;'!

I I

292 CHILDREN OF NATURE.

And as we thus reclining, love,

A myriad visions see
Of love for aye — oh, gently say

That you are mine !

Our hearts may float for ever, love,

Upon the stream of night :
No rocks nor shoals shall sever, love.

The silent troth they plight,
If only you to love proveTirue,

For you are mine !

Then with the light of eyn, love.

Blessed light from drt y eyes,
That hold another heavei., love.

In their unspoke replies ;
And let me know, 'mid weal or woe.

That you are mine !

Poor Jack ! He had never written a verse in his life,
and had no more voice tha,n a peacock.

" By Jove ! '" exclaimed Windermere, as uhey landed at
the villa, " no one here. They can't have gone. Why !
look here, Alice ? This is a pleasant fix ! The last train
has gone." She clasped her hands in absolute despair,
" We must get a special," said Windermere, and they
hurried to the station. But of course, at that hour, a
special was out of the question.

Alice felt that she had been caught in a trap, and was
indignant. Get back to London somehow that night she
declared she would, even if she walked the whole way.
What Lady Glorme and her party must have said of her,
what " all London " would say of her to-morrow, was ap-
palling ; and when at last they obtained a rickety fly and
a pair of horses, most of the romance of the evening had
fled, and for twenty weary miles Alice had the pleasure
of contemplating what appeared to be something very
like ruin.

. ;; ; ; i- .

iv-ijt

\ '.. ;>.;, u

1! f

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

293

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Oh, 'tivS most sweet
When in one line two crafts directly meet.

Hamlet.

his life,

nded at
Why!
,st train
despair,
^d they
hour, a

^nd was
cfhi she

e way.

of her,
vs^as ap-

fly and
iinif had

leasure
ig very

" Give her a little more sheet — steady so. Stand by,
somebody, to sing out directly ha sees the flash of the
gun- — it'll come a few seconds afore the sound. Look
alive with that tackle there ! How many minutes yet,
sir?

" Two and a half," said Jack, who, watch in hand, was
intently regarding the beach in front of the Porthampton
Yacht Club, where was stationed the gun by which they
were to start.

It was what is called a " flying start," in which one
gun is fired for preparation, and five minutes afterwards
another, when the vessels have to cross an imaginary line
between two objects. Nothing requires more skill, for,
though it may be fatal to the yacht's chance to lose even
half a minute by being late over the line, a fraction of a
second too soon, and you have to turn back and recross,
thus losing much time.

" One minute more ! " sang out Jack, and the graceful
little ships, crowded with snow-white canvas, neared each
other and attempted a little jockeying to gain the coveted
.position of No. 1.

" Half a minute only ! "

The Corinne^s boom is well over the Wraitlis taffrail,
while the latter is putting her nose perilously near the
rigging of the Vol-au-Vent

" Time ! "

There was a wliite puflT of smoke, and ])efore the sound
came, three of them were past the mark-boat, their skip-

t:i

VH^

294

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

pers vying with each other in their frenzy and the loud-
ness of their words of com ntiand. Captain Sharpe of the
Wraith looked on with giim approval, as Jack lent a
strong hand in the various rope-pullings to be gone
through before all was considered to be as it should be
for the long turn to windward they began with ; even
Keyser roused himself from his ordinary state of rumina-
tion, and forgetting all about cause and effect, tore the
skin off his hands with reckless indifference, and would
even have gone aloft had it been required of him. The
only fixed ideas he possessed on the subject of yachting
were that you must wear white shoes, carry a large pair
of opera-glasses slung around a blue serge jacket, crown
yourself with a police-inspector's cap, and stay on that
portion of the deck which was uppermost, if possible
without holding on to anything. Having also some misty
idea on the subject of the immense advantage of shifting
ballast, he gave himself a good deal of occupation, when
it came to beating in short tacks, by going down to the
cabin each time they went about, and carefully removing
three books, which constituted their library, two umbrellas,
an ink-bottle, and a packet of pens, from one side to the
other.

His friends, imagining that he looked paler than his
wont, attributed these constant disappearances down the
companion to a wrong cause, which was very hard on
poor Mr. Keyser, as he boasted himself to be an excellent
sailor.

The Wraiih sailed well ; there was just enough wind
to render the carrying of topsails before long of doubtful
benefit, and soon she had managed, by dint of not loading
herself, as the others were doing, with more than they
could carry, to establish a clear lead of the whole fleet.
As the wind continued to freshen, and canvass began to
disappear, those on board her became more and more
jubilant.

" By Jove ! " said Badsworth, *' if this goes on we shall

^-^.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

295

gone

even

shall

do it. Fancy the despised little Wraith showing her
heels to the clippers ! Look at the way they are bury-
ing themselves, and here we are on a level keel. Why,
we could play billiards on the deck — eh, Keyser ? "

Keyser, who had just emerged from below, nodded
mysteriously.

" There goes the Fionas topmast ! Hurrah ! " cried
Jack exulting in a true philosophic spirit over his friend's
misfortunes.

"There's no cause to be glad," grumbled the skipper,
glancing round. "She'd have to take it in directly.
Can you make out the mark-boat yet, Mr. Keyser ? "

Keyser, who deemed it right at intervals to sweep the
horizon with his glass, took a long survey of the dancing
water, but failed to find what was wanted.

" / see it," said the captain, with sarcastic emphasis,
"/see it half-an-hour ago just on the starboard bow."

Keyser gazed steadily over the port-side, and Captain
Sharpe chuckled.

That sound was of good omen, for he had never been
seen to smile until he thought he had his race pretty well
in hand.

Yacht-racing is one of those amusements which afford
no gratification to any except those actually engaged in
them. There is nothing much more uninteresting than to
see a crowd of vessels sail past a fiag-boat at long inter-
vals, and to hear that the one which passed last is the
winner by time ; still less amusing is it to read an ac-
count of such doings. So we will spare our readers any
more of the chances and changes of the race in which the
Wraith was engaged; until on rounding the last mark,
she found herself a good mile ahead of anything, with a
straight run in home dead before what had now increased
to half a gale.

There were only about five miles to be traversed, and
small fear of her being caught in that distance.

The enthusiasm of his companions had communicated

w .

I9l

rii'

li!'

. 4rte

I ■III'

Kai:\

296

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

itself to Jack Chillingham ; and Alice and Windermere,
and all his minor woes, were forgotten in his longing for
the victory of the Wraith.

A good luncheon, at which they were electrified by the
discovery of Keyser's genius concerning the ballast, fol-
lowed by that sweetest of soothers, the fragrant pipe,
disposed him to look at everything through rose-coloured
spectacles, and to forget the world was anything but lunch-
eons, and p'pes, and yacht races.

"This is ^hebest fun I've ever bad," he said to Bads-
worth, as they enjoyed the liberty they could now indulge
in harmlessly of standing up on deck (for they were
before the wind), and calmly and proudly surveyed the
vainly-pursuing yachts.

" I shall always ask myself on board the Wraith when
she is in commission, old chap."

" You shall," said Bads worth, warmly. " She shall
never win a race without you to help. Hollo ! what's
that beastly steamer doing, Sharpe ? "

" That's Lord Coddleboys', the Blunderbore. She'll
give way for uq. right enough."

" Well, she's running it rather fine, anyhow. Confound
it, Sharpe, she'll be into us ! "

They all ran instinctively forwards, as a large screw-
steam yacht came dashing at them at the rate often
knots, they themselves going about fourteen.

"Put your helm down ! " shouted Sharpe. "Put your
helm down ; get in that spinnaker : look alive ; she's
into us ! "

The crash was terrific. The steamer's sharp bow cut
half through the Wraith's side, and her floating was only
a question of minutes. What had happened on board the
Blunderbore no ono ever quite knew. The ladies she
carried had wanted to pass as close as possible to the
winning yacht, which altered her course a little with a
shift of wind as they neared her, and at the last moment
the steamer did not answer her helm.
Jack was standing close to where she struck the Wraith^

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

297

rmere,
ng for

by the
st, fol-
b pipe,
loured
lunch'

Bads-
ndulge
Y were
^ed the

■I when

e shall
what's

She'll

nfound

screw-
often

it your
; she's

ow cut
as only
ard the
ies she
to the
with a
loment

Waith,

and when, after the first crash, those on board had a mo-
ment to look round and realize their position, he was lying
on the deck motionless, in the midst of an entangled heap
of smashed bulwarks, blocks, rigging, and spars.

There was no time to lose, and they had scarcely lifted
him up the side of the Blunderbore before the Wraith
began to settle down.

The steamer backed out, to avoid danger from the
tottering mast, and in ten minutes Badsworth's pretty
ship had disappeared under the waves.

Of course, for they were close to the harbour, they were
surrounded by a crowd of ships and boats of every des-
cription, and one very smart tourist in a pleasure-boat,
whose nose betrayed his origin, was enterprising enough
to offer Badsworth a small sum of money for his submerged
ship, while a sharp-looking individual with a note-book
forced himself up the side of the Blunderbore and took
down a detailed account of the accident, for a local news-
paper, from Keyser, whose nautical knowledge was used
to such effect that the readers of that local newspaper
were next day informed that the Wraith backed into the
Blunderbore s quarter in consequence of the latter's having
shifted her balloon jib ani set her standing rigging.

Lord Coddleboys was most profuse in his apologies,
although he would not quite admit his vessel to have been
in the wrong ; for Lord Coddleboys nursed a private idea
that when he careered over the waters in his expensive
vessel, with the Commodore's burgee at the main, and a
beautiful new ensign flying astern, it was little short of
impertinence for any other ship to get into his way ; and
" the idea that he could bo in any way bound by the rules
of the road was repugnant to him as savouring of revolu-
tion and anarchy.

" Do you think you are much hurt. Jack ? " asked Bads-
worth, wiping the cold perspiration off his friend's brow
as he lay on the sofa in the Blunderbore' s main cabin.

" I feel all crushed ; I think it must be something wrong
with my chest — and ribs — great pain inside," "

''.'*■

III.

1 ;•

298

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" We shall be in harbour directly and get a doctor.
Cheer up, old fellow ; it may be nothing. A broken rib
or two often feels very bad at first."

Jack shook his head, and even that movement caused
him to wince with agony.

" Is the old ship gone ? " he asked.
* "What does the ship matter ? Oh, Jack, I trust you
are not badly hurt ! "

■X " I'm sorry, though, for the ship. The Blunderhore
might have "

" D n the . lunderhore ! Coddleboys ought to be

shut up as a dangerous idiot, and his skipper hanged.
Is the pain just as bad ? "

' 7es, very difficult to bear. Are we near the harbour
now ? "

Badsworth ran up on deck, and returned immediately.

" Close by. They are signalling for a doctor."
. "And Oh, my God ! this pain is awful. A tele-
gram to "

" Oh yes, of course, Jack. Mrs. Chillingham will know
it in an hour, and catch the evening express. Be here by
nine o'clock."

" Thank you. Baddy," said Jack, with a feeble motion,
as if to press his friend's hand. " I shall like to see her.
She's very — very pretty, isn't she, Baddy ? "

The pain was making him almost unconscious of what
he said.

Badsworth bit his lips. It is hard to look on with
proper indifference at a fellow-creature's sufferings, what-
ever the philosophers may formulate.

The doctor was not long in making *" his mind.

*' You should telegraph to his relations at once," he said.
" The poor young man will scarcely live through the
night. He has received fearful internal injuries."

" Poor fellow ! " said Lord Coddleboys, when he heard
the news. "But to have him die on boa.d my vessel !
It really is quite unusual — devilish annoying. Wilkins,
^o and order dinner at the Marine Hotel,"

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

299

CHAPTER XL.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others : deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret :
Oh, death in life, the days that are no more.

Tennyson.

Dans la pauvre &me humaine
La meilleure pens^e est toujours incertaine,
Mais une larme coule et ne se trompe pas.

De Musset.

what

" What o'clock is it ? " asked Jack, feebly.

Badsworth glanced at the handsome clock fixed above
the cabin stove — a clock presented to the Most Noble the
Marquis of Coddleboys by the members of the Royal
Spittlelick Yacht Club, " as a slight mark of their esteem
and admiration for his lordship, both as a man and a
commodore."

" A quarter to nine. She will be here in half an hour.
Do you feel any worse, old fellow ? "

" No ; only weaker. The pain is less. I suppose one
can't die without having some warning — half an hour's
warning. It would be so terrible, my God ! never to see
her again — never to "

His words came slowly, and towards the end of the
sentence became inaudible. The silence was only broken
by the ripple of the water against the ship's side, as she
swung head to the tide, and an occasional burst of primi-
tive song from one or other of the yachts lying around.
In consequence of the accident there were to be no fire-
works, but the crews did not see why ^ little privatQ
pciusic should also be forbidden.

i0t

!^i'il

300 CHILDREN OF NATURE.

Good-bye, Charlie ! While you're on the sea
, "^Vrite me a letter, love — send me a letter, love.
J Good-bye, Charlio ! While you are away

Do not forget your Nellie, d -a - arling !

came in as a strange accompaniment to the dying man's
groans and laboured breathing.

Jack caught the words of the song.
" Mine is a long voyage — no letter — nothing but to be
forgotten !" he murmured. ■ <

" Oh no, Jack ! " c led Badsworth, tears starting to his
eyes as he leant over the sofa. " No, no, my old friend —
I shall never — she will ne'"^': — forget you ! "

" Yes — you will — you should. Don't think I am so
selfish as to wish What time is it ? Surely it is half-
past nine now."

" Just. The train is sure to be rather late. There's a
fly waiting at the station, and Keyser will be there to — -
to break it to her. Or would vou rather I went ? "

" No — don't go — I might — it sounds cowardly — but I
shouldn't like to^die alone. She is sure to have got your
telegram, isn't she ? " : . ; ' . ■; -

" Certain. I sent one to Eaton Square to make sure,
and I also telegraphed to your man-servant to take the
news to her wherever she might be dining. Your people
will come down too, you know."

Jack moved restlessly, and tiie pain caused him to give
a sharp cry.

"Yes, they'll come, of course," he said, when Badsworth
had given him some of the stuff sent by the doctor ; " but
— they'll leave me alone with her — at least at the last, I
want to tell her all. Oh, Baddy, I behaved so ill to her.
Poor Alice, my poor darling. One day I was mad, and I
insulted her in the park ; will she forgive me, do you
think ? It is easy to forgive a dying man, they say. You
don't know how I loved her-7-I don't think she knows —
but she will know now, she must believe me now."
He spoke half to himself, and seemed to require no

DO give

worth
; " but
last, I
to her.
and I
io you
You
ows

lire no

A STOET OF MODERN LONDON,

301

answer ; and Bads worth could not have made one, for his
heart was very full. . '

The clock with the gi-and inscription strucl;. ten. Its
tone was rich and pompous, and it must have been ashamed
to register the last moments of a miserable wretch with
but a' few hundreds a year.

" Ten ! She must have missed the train ! " There was
despair in Jack's voice.

" It may have been late. There ! I hear the boat com-
ing alongside."

" Go on deck, Baddy, and ask them all not to come down
for a minute. I want to see her alone first. I can't die
without being sure she loves me in spite of all."

Badsworth hurried up the companion to find no one on
deck but Keyser. r -

" Why, where ? " he began.

" Never came. Not a sign of anyone. I sent another
telegi-am, and got the station-master to arrange for a
special to be ready at Waterloo, so she may come at any
moment yet. How is he ? "

" Sinking fast. God grant she may come in time ! Oh,
Keyser, I scarcely dare go down and tell him."

" It is hard — awful, ^ut she is sure to come — perhaps
dining out, and the stupid servant made some mistake.
One or other of the telegrams must have reached her ;
and then there was one to the Brocklesbys."

But unfortunately no one happened to know that Alice
was at Rose Villa, for she had first gone to Mrs. Belfort's
and been driven by that lady to the railway-station.

The disappointment obviously hastened the end ; the
"hope of seeing his wife had to some extent buoyed Jack
up hitherto. He gave way to despondency now, and
became weaker every hour.

Eleven — twelve. The stern clock would have no com-
promise with time because a broken-hearted man wa»
dying, and rang out with all its accustomed stateliness the
news that another day had come. •

302

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" Never to see her again," he said. " Oh, my love ! my
love ! "

The telegram sent to Lady Brocklesby reached her just
as she was on the eve of starting with Jane for a peculiarly
desirable dinner, to be followed in the same house by.a still
more peculiarly desirable party. It was a house the entrance
to which even Lady Brocklesby had found it very difficult
to force, and it certainly seemed to her that it would be
madness to throw away her victory, earned by much
trouble and some eating of dirt. Besides, very probably
the danger was exaggerated — people did exaggerate these
things so often; there was sure to be an early train, and poor
Jack could be no better for their giving up this one party.
Had they only been asked to the gathering after dinner
it might not have mattered so much, but everyone knows
that to be asked to the dinner before the party is a sign
of great favour. She was not sure, indeed, that in some
sort it was not her duty in this instance to put her natural
feelings aside, for when Royalty is to be present an invi-
tation is almost a command, to disobey which is a lack of
loyalty. Some vague and confused reminiscence of a
Spartan mother, or a Roman father sacrificing his son
upon the altar of his country, came into her mind. Then
a telegram might be so easily overlooked in the hurry of
the moment — put in the pocket and forgotten. It might
have been from his lordship, who had gone down to the
country to try his torpedo in a fish-pond ; it might have
been on any unimportant subject. There could be nothing
odd in her not reading it till they returned home that
night.

" Are you ready, mamma ? " asked Jane entering the
room, dressed all in virgin white, and looking very fresh
and pretty.

Her mother inspected her approvingly.

" Yes, my dear. We are in capital time ; and I think
your dress does very well. Let us go."

!^^

IL-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

303

fresh

think

The clock in the cabin of the Blunderbore struck one.
Keyser, pacing slowly up and down the deck in the moon-
light, was hailed by an approaching boat.

" Is that the Blunderbore ! "

"Yes." , ■ „ .V ■ .. ■ , :: ,' ■,.

" A telegram, sir. A shilling to pay."

" From John Smith, North Street, Park Lane, London.
To Lord Badsworth, Porthampton. — Mrs. Chillingham
gone out of town with Mrs. Belfort, and not yet returned.
Half -past twelve o'clock."

Jack had still enough consciousness left to be aware of
the receipt of this telegram, and they could not refuse to
acquaint him with its contents. It seemed to revive him,
and his voice became stronger than it had been for three
hours.

" Will you go, Keyser — kind friend ? I want to speak
alone with Badsworth. Come back soon to say good-
bye."

" Baddy," he went on, when the other had resumed his
vigil overhead, " there is no hope now of my seeing
her. I must tell you. Put your head down. I can't
speak loud. I loved her, you know, and tried do right
about her, but she — we were veiy happy once — she cared
more for Windermere." t- • . .

Badsworth was silent. It is idle to prevaricate or in-
vent smooth things face to face with that stem truth.
Death.

" She loved him very dearly, and he — I think he would
be good to her " Badsworth made a motion of dis-
sent, but Jack went on hurriedly, stopping now and
again to take breath, and his voice growing feebler as he
proceeded. " Yes — he would — he could not help it. Her
heart is pure, and she is so beautiful. Tell her — my last
wishes — that I, who loved her more than she knew — want
.her to be happy — happy and good. I want her to marry
him — tell her that. Perhaps I may know of her happi-
ness — and it would make me happy then — though I can't-

304

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

see her once more. — Oh, God ! — it is cruel to die without
saying good-bye ! — We parted almost in anger, Baddy. —
Tell Ler that, and tell him — tell him — a dying man's
prayer to him is to be good to her, to make her happier —
better, perhaps — than I could."

He paused, and across the still water came the sailor's
refrain —

Good-bye Charlie, while you are away,
Do not forget your Nellie d — a— rling !

" You will do +his, Baddy, for your old pal."

" I will, so help me God ! " said Bad worth, holding
Jack's feeble hand in both his own.

" Good-bye. I think it is come now. Tell her I loved
her ; tell her "

Something like a blush came over his cheeks, as he
whispered ; habit even at that supreme moment making
him ashamed of such a piece of un-Englishism : —

" Give me a kiss."

Badsworth pressed his lips to the cold forehead, his
eyes dim with tears. " Good-bye, old friend." . v.

And Keyser, looking in through the door, saw, and for-
get to moralise over the incident — saw, and coming in too
late ever to exchange words with poor Jack Chillingham
again, was not ashamed to sit down and weep like a
woman.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

305

hout

nans
ier —

jlor's

)lding

loved

as he
taking

,d, his

id f or-

in too

igham

Hike a

1 fi

CHAPTER XLI.

She mav turn an J hide
, ', From the spirita that glide,

• And the ghost that stands at her bedside :

But never a kiss the vow shall seal,
Nor warm embrace her bosom feel.

The Qiteen's Wake.

The twenty miles or so between Rose Villa and North
Street took a long time to traverse. The horses were
unusually bad, and the driver who did not relish being
knocked up at this hour of the night, exceptionally sulky.

In vain Windermere expostulated in strong terms, and
showed his companion that his temper could sometimes at
least be rather irritable. In vain he offered bribes for an
increase of pace. Ill temper had conquered greed in the
coachman's bosom, and he doggedly jogged along as
solemnly as if he were driving a hearse.

And Alice watched the dark hedges as they passed
slowly by, and had ample time to reflect on what she had
done, and on the consequence thereof. It must be con-
fessed that a more miserable lady could scarcely have been
found in t^e land.

Flirtation is a very delicate plant; and there is noth-
ing more fatal to it than the small contretemps of every-
day life. It recks nothing of grand incidents, fearful
storms, earthquakes, horrible accidents, but tight boots or
•gloves out at the finger are annihilation. Every jolt of
the fly, every angry oath from Windermere, flew away
with another bit of sentiment ; and when they arrived,
jaded and fairly tired of each other's society, at the door
of her house, both were relieved to an extent they could
not have believed possible a few hours before. Winder-
mere, indeed, was accustomed to lay down that two hours
20

ti !

.''\

■ I

306

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

iim

is as much as you should ever be alone with a woman ;
but even he had considered this in some sort an excep-
tional case.

" You had better come in," she said, with a weary-
smile ; " your club will have been shut long ago, and
Smith is sure to have left out some wine and water —
or something."

*' Thanks. That confounded flyman was enough to
make anyone thirsty."

And he accompanied her upstairs.
" A telegram ! — two telegrams ! I wonder who they can
be fro ! " she said listlessly, taking up the two envel-
opes which lay upon the table.

"Oh, please, m'm," said the servant, "I was to tell

you — at least the telegrams are to say Poor Mr. Chil-

lingham ! "

*'' Poor Mr. Chillingham ! What " and she nervous-
ly tore open one of the telegrams.
" My God ! " '

" What is it, Alice ? " cried Windermere, approaching
her, and, forgetting the presence of the servant, placing
his arm round her, for she tottered as if about to fall.
" What is the matter ? "

She shook ofl" his arm as if his touch were contagion,
and faced him.

" Matter ! The matter is that while I have been — been
false in heart to him with you ! — with you ! " — she repeat-
ed the words with a bitter scorn that startled him — " he,
my poor Jack, my husband, has been dying — dying !

and I, who should liave been at his side ! Oh,

God ! "

She read and re-read the fatal telegrams with a stony
look of despair. There were the words — no doubt about
them. For once the telegraph clerk had written clearly
enough : " Come at once. Jack is seriously hurt." And
then the other, more urgent : " Come immediately if you
.would see him alive. Special train ordered. He is ask-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

307

jman ;
3xcep-

weary

0, and
ater —

igh to

ley can
envel-

to tell
r. Chil-

ervous-

oaching
placing
) to fall.

[itagion,

-been
repeat-
n— " he,
dying !
- Oh,

a stony
3t about
1 clearly
And
y if you
; is ask-

ing for you." Smith held out another : " This was re-
ceived in Eaton Square two hours ago — * It' is too late. I
come up by next train. Wait my arrival.' "
They were all three from Badsworth.
" * Too late ! ' 'He is asking for me ! ' " cried the be-
wildered horror-struck girl, throwing up her arms. " Too
late!— too late!"

And Windermere was only just in time to save her
from falling, and to lay her on the «ofa. But she did not
swoon. Providence would not let her have a moment's
oblivion yet,

" I will not believe it ! " she cried. " It cannot be !

Only three days ago so well — so Smith, get me a cab

directly ! Porthampton ? It is only two hours by rail.
They say a special is ordered. Go ! quick ! Don't you
hear my order ? "

" Beg your pardon, m'm, but " hesitated the servant.

" I think," said Windermere, gently, " that you had
better wait, as Badsworth tells you. You see he says —
it is — too late."

" Too late ! " cried she, turning on him with a strange
glitter in her great eyes.

*' Too late ! and you dare say it to me ! You, for whose

sake I have sacrificed — I have sacrificed I hate

you ! "

Windermere shrugged his shoulders almost imper-
ceptibly. He was used to the inconsequence of wo-
mankind, but was beginning to feel keenly the annoy-
ance of a " scene."

" But I cannot stay here," she said, after a pause, during
which she had again pored over those three significant
telegrams, " He is a«king for me, I tell you. Let me go.
Why do you keep me nere ? He may forgive me yet, he
may. I will go to him ! "

She spoke wildly, and, on her way to the door, sud-
denly sank down on the sofa and covered her face with
her hands.

lis

308

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

Thf 7 heard her murmur again, " Too late ! " under her
breath.

Windermere took up a " Bradshaw."

" The early train leaves Por^-hampton at five. Let me
see. Badsworth can be here in an hour."

"An hour 1 " she cried, starting up again. " I cannot
wait an hour. I must know all. I must "

At that moment there was a ring at the door-bell.
Badsworth had taken advantage of the sympathies of the
authorities at Porthampton, and obtained an engine to
bring him to town.

He entered the room now, and started as he saw Wind-
ermere. Alice's dress, the open telegrams upon the table,
showed him at once the state of the case.

" You never got them ? " he said, pointing to the
table.

Alice seized him by the arm, her delicate fingers press-
ing into his flesh.

" Is he— is he It isn't true ? "

" It is true," answered Badsworth, sternly, for the sight
of Windermere had taken pity from his heart. " It is
true. He died a little after one o'clock this morning,
very peaceably. You would like to know the particu-
lars, I suppose. Are you able to hear them now ? "

He glanced at Windermere as he spoke, and that gen-
tleman understood the look.

" It is too terrible," murmured he, in a very touching
tone of compassion — " too terrible. I had better leave
you to tell her now. Poor Jack ! " And with that he
moved towards the door.

" Stop ? " cried Alice, with startling vehemence. "No,
you shall stay. It is right that you, for whose sake I
have wronged the dead, should see my punishment. It ia
right, Lord Windermere, that you should know — as I am
now to know — what was happening when you sang
songs — love-songs, while he was dying — to me in the

gen-

"No,

ike I

It is

I am

sang

the

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

309

boat. Go on, T am strong enough to hear anything
now."

Poor Badsworth never had a more difficult task than
that which he now set himself to do. Furious with
Alice as he had been on entering, the potent spell of her
beauty came upon him now with full force, and there
was something in her manner which forbade him to doubt
the reality of the shock that had come upon her. Simp
ly, and as shortly as he could, he detailed the sad story,
but when he came to the long hours of waiting for her,
and to Jack's despair at her non-appearance, she inter-
rupted him.

" You hear ? " she said to Windermere, who had unwil-
lingly obeyed her and remained. " You hear ? To lis-
ten to your sweet speeches, to plot against his honest
faith in me — me, his false w if e — I did not come when he
called on me in his last moments. This, his last kiss, his
pardon, his love, I have given up to you — for your —
what ? What," she cried, in a tone of irrepressible
anguish, " can you give me in exchange for this ? "

Windermere did not stir. This was really getting in-
tolerable. The woman was mad — natural, perhaps, but
very disagreeable.

" I do not think," said Badsworth, gently, " I do not
think he ever sui)posed you staid away on purpose. Wo

knew there must be some mistake — you were out,

>>
or

" Do not speak to me in that way," she said. " Do not
look kindly at me. I am a murderess — the murderess of
a heart. Oh, Jack, Jack ! I did love you ! I know
it now, and I can never tell you so ! Where is he ? Let
me give him one kiss. Come with me to him, Lord
Windermere, and stand there while I tell him so — and
say ' No ' to it if you can.'*

Sh(! raised her head defiantly, and looked Windermere
in the face.

310

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" You had better go," whispered Bads worth to him.
"Your presence seems to hurt her" — and his lord 'ip
promptly availed himself of the opportunity.

" He will be here very soon," said Badsworth, as iice
stood in the same still attitude, as if carved in stone.

"And he will forgive me ? Oh, say you think he will
forgive me. But no — he is dead, dead — and I love him."

" He did forgive you, my poor child," said Badsworth,
taking both her hands in his. " His last words were love
for you."

" His last words — t. l — O God ? I shall go mad ! It
cannot be true ! Say it s all a joke — you are making fun
of me, dear, good Lord Badsworth ? Don't go on with it
any more — it is rather — I mean — tell me the truth. You
have only done it to punish me for what I did ? Let it
stop now, for it tries me too much."

Her eager eyes gazed into Badsworth's with something
of the fire of madness in them as she clutched his arm
with nervous hands.

" It is too true," he said.

" True ! true ! And I was false ; but I was never false
to myself. I know all now. I never loved him," point-
ing with a contemptuous gesture to the door through
which Windermere had departed ; " and now — too late."

Not a tear came as she rocked herself backwards and
forwards seated on the sofa, with low moans of despair.

The exquisite hat, which had been the admiration of
the guests of Rose Villa, had slipped aside ; her dark hair
was dishevelled in a manner which would have carried
despair to the soul of Mrs. Perkins ; her face was white
as death ; and black rims had already formed beneath
her unnaturally staring eyes. But Badsworth had never
looked upon anything more beautiful, more sad, than this
young widow in her despair and self-reproach.

What she suffered then she has never, she will never,
tell to anyone ; but when a few hours afterw^ards Bads-

A STORY Of MODERN LONDON.

311

worth left her alone with the body of her husband— the
*'it" which is always invested with so mysterious an
awe— he thought he had never read in human face so
sad a tale of hopelessness and profound misery. Who
shall say what passed in that darkened room during the
long hours that Alice, tearless still, watched by the side
of him who would never smile on her again ?

There is grief no intense that no words can describe it,
sadness so deep that no on-looker can appreciate a thou-
sandth part of it.

^^:;'A?:/:.',;f ^1*'

CHILDREN OF NATURE,

■.'; '. .'■ ,J

CHAPTER XLII.

Her tears fell with the dews at even : ■ - • .• '. ' •; ; ' ,

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; ' '• ,

She could not look on the sweet heaven, , .

Either at noon or eventide.

Tennyson. •''.';/••

]■ t - ' ■ ' ' .

The bellH shall ring, the clerk shall sing, '

The good old wife shall winde us ; f

And the sexton shall lay our bodies in the clay.
Where nobody shall find us. . y

Neto Academy of Compliments.

Those of Lady Brocklesby's intimates who were ad-
mitted to her at this time of her grief were much impressed
by the redness of her eyes and nose, and by all the other
signs of maternal affection which she exhibited. That he
had not always been a good son to her she frankly ad-
mitted ; " but one forgets all that now ! " she exclaimed,
between her sobs. " If I could only have seen the poor
boy once more, and told him how freely and fully I for-
g^YQ him ; how my mother's heart bled for him ; I should
be happier. But it is some consolation to us to think
that we did all we could ; and that all we have now to
do is to bow to the decrees of an all-wise Providence.
* He gives ; He takes away.' That is a beautiful passage.
Poor boy ! His has been a sad history — a wasted life.
That woman was a great trial to us, my dear. How
could it be otherwise ? No birth, no breeding, and — ah !
we could have borne all that — but no character. That is
what hurts us. Such a disgrace to the whole family.
I'm sure I hope poor Jane's prospects are not irretrievably
ruined by such a connection. Of course we shall have
nothing more to do with her — but she was my son's wife.
And the way she got over Lord Windermere was wonder-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

313

f ul. She met him here, yo r know, a good deal, when his
attentions to Jane were V3ry marked. All these stories
true, dear ? Yes, I fear so. She was telegraphed for
over and over again, but was at Maidenhead with Lord
Windermere. Isn't it terrible ? It is all very well to
talk calmly over such things, as wo often do, but when
they happen in one's own family, ah ! then one knows
what they really are ! " ^

People carried away with them from Lady Brock lesby's
presence a confused idea that her ladyship was very good
and long-suffering ; and that Jack's death was especially
intended by Provideiice to show how far goodness and
long-suffering could be carried. The affair of the tele-
gram she kept discreetly locked in her own breast, and if
she did in the corner thereof feel a regret that even such
a party as she and Jane had enjoyed that night should
have stood in the way of her again seeing her son aliva,
still there could be Ijut little doubt that she had done
her duty to society, and surely society comes before
individuals.

She rather enjoyed a lazy existence of sal- volatile and
sympathy, tempered by pretty religious adulation and
self-abasement ; and, seated with her back to the light,
and a supply of pocket-handkerchiefs at hand, there was
really someth *ng very touching about the extreme good
taste of her resignation.

Grief is so often apt to be vulgar and unpleasing, that
it was a pleasure to come across so soft and refined an
article as this.

We will not go so far as to say that no one was sorry
for Jack but Alice and Badsworth. Many of his friends,
taken by his frank boyish manners, were very sorry for a
day or two.

It is a mere platitude to say that the dead are not re-
membered ; and, although there is something pathetic in
the ease with which a life goes entirely out of view and
remembrance almost simultaneously, the pathos is more

314

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

or less artificial after all. If the gaps left by those who
fall were not instantly filled up, we should not be a very
useful army to fight the enemies around us on every side.

Alice's terror at the approach of the moment when it
would be taken away and hidden under ground was becom-
ing hourly more intense, when she was as much surprised
as she could be then by the entrance of Spencer Chilling-
ham, who had but just arrived from America, and had
grown a long tuft under his chin. Lord Brocklesby had
called at the house, as had also Emily Garter, bursting
with satisfaction at the assistance propriety was receiv-
ing from the " hand of Providence," and Minna Belfort,
who had a kind of loyalty in her nature ; but Alice had
refused to see anyone. To be alone with her remorse was
all she asked now.

Spencer, by asserting that he came on business con-
nected with the funeral, was however permitted to enter.

The head of the coffin had been left open, and the can-
dlelight fell upon Jack's face, calm and peaceful, and on
the girlish figure that bent over it.

Spencer had need of all his philosophy, but it did not
fail him, and he commenced his business in a matter-of-
fact tone.

** The funeral has been arranged for to-morrow ? " he
said, after a few awkward expressions of sympathy,
which Alice scarcely noticed. She bowed assent, and
clutched the sides of the coffin with both hands, as if to
defy them to remove it.

" At Wokingham ? "

She gave a low cry. There was something in the men-
tion of the place which reminded her of how far he was
away from her. Had she not reproved him on one occasion
when, relating some of his early Aldershot adventures, he
had spoken laughingly of the " cold meat train," and ex-
plained to her the meaning of the name ?

How little they either of them then thought but

Spencer went on.

./s .

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

315

-but

" Yes ; my father was so far right as to object to all the
fuss and nonsense or sending — sending it — down to the
country. Funerals are an abomination altogether; a
farce, and an unhealthy one. Now, poor Jack was above
all vulgar prejudices. Don't you think so ?"

He put up his eyeglass in almost a pathetic manner as
he asked this question.

" Yes," she said, not attending to his words, but only
conscious some answer was required of her.

" Oh yes ! He was so good — so kind ! Jack ! my love !
My own Jack ! "

It would have seemed that only a fiend could have tor-
tured further the poor child, sobbing her heart out over
the coffin ; but then Spencer, although kind at heart, was
a philosopher, and was just now under the influence of a
new hobby. Philanthropy is generally wholly regard-
less of others, and would rather do harm than be defrauded
of its own especial style of benevolence.

" You have an opportunity now of showing that you
are above them too. Jack's death may be made the com-
mencement of a great movement which shall do inestima-
ble good to the human race. Did it ever strike you that
incalculable harm is done by the present style of burial?"

Alice had once heard her husband, when what he called
" mugging up " politics for the electors of Shodborough,
speak of the Burials Question ; so she said vaguely," You
mean about the service. I shouldn't like anything to be
different now to what is usually done."

" Oh, I don't allude to the religious or sectarian view
of the question, though of course tha,t must be settled
soon : the words ' ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' in our
service are more applicable, by-the-bye, to the right kind
of sepulture than the wrong. No ; what I allude to is the
actual disposal of — of the body."

Alice opened her eyes wide — eyes looking all the
larger because of the wanness of her face — but said
nothing.

316

CHIIDREN OF NATURE.

'r\: ■'

" There is nothing but red-tapeism, vulgar clinging to
habits because they are habits, blind fear of change, which
prevents the whole world taking at once to our plan. All
we want is a few examples among the upper classes.
People are so silly as to think a man with a good coat is
more likely to be right than a man with a bad one. Now,
here is a capital opportunity. He, poor fellow, would not
have objected, and I cannot believe you will object. Cre-
mation, there can be no doubt, is "

Alice started up. r^ , ; i J' 1

" You wan't to burn him ! "

" Merely reduce the remains to a white ash, which,
placed in an urn of whatever pattern you like, and which
I should be glad to provide, would be as worthily sepul-
tured there, surely, as slowly rotting in the ground, and
disseminating poisonous vapours around."

" Go away," said she, with a feeble wave of her hand.
'' Go away. Oh, my Jack, my poor boy, they want to take
you from me and burn you, to leave me quite alone —
alone in the world, and to burn vou ! "

" It is folly to associate companionship with what is
nothing but so much matter to be disposed of in the best
way," said Spencer, holding his ground, but requiring all
his philosophy to do so. Either his eyeglass was very bad,
or it had become unaccountably damped and blurred his
vision. Still he held his ground.

"Put aside such folly, Alice. I tell you that )'ou have
an opportunity of doing much good, and at the sacrifice
only of an utterly rea Monless scruple. In an oven heated
up to "

But Alice could bear no more. Crying out to him once
again to leave her, she flung herself upon the coflin,
encircling it with her arms, and went into violent hys-
terics.

No philosopher alive but would be conquered by
hysterics ; and, after calling for assistance, our specimen
fled, thoroughly ashamed of the weakness shown by his

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

317

ging to
i, which
Ian. All

classes.

coat is
I. Now,
uld not
It. Cre-

which,

which

sepul-

d, and

hand, v
.0 take
lone —

hat is
e best
ng all
y bad,
sd his

have
rifice
eated

once
offin,
hys-

l by

imen

his

eyeglass, and wondering what it was that caused the
strange and unwonted feeling of a lump in his throat.

The next morning dawned, dark and dismal, with
masses of clouds fleeting rapidly across the sky. No one
was in the street but a policeman and a belated gentleman
in evening clothes, with a singular bad opera-hat, trying
to persuade his legs to carry him home without unneces-
sary and undignified detour.

Then came some workmen, proceeding to their daily
toil no doubt. No, they stop at No. — , North Street.
Alice hears the sound as one of them gently draws out
the bell-pull. The noise of a carriage — very late even for
the most enthusiastic cotillon dancers. No carriage for
the living — the carriage that takes us our last drive.
Nodding plumes and seedy-looking men in black. Alice
looks out of the window. That equipage, with its unreal
air of woe, has a strange fascination for her ; she scarcely
can realize that it has come to take from her all that is
left of him she wronged and loved. Yes, she loved him.
Does anyone dare to deny it ? Her tortured heart for
ever asked this question defiantly. Two of the men come
upstairs and enter the room. Goggles barks fiercely, and
one of them laughs at the grotesque little creature's
impotent ferocity. That laugh rouses her. She dashes
to the door, but it is too late. They are in the room.
Smith and Wilkins appear behind them. Alice feels her-
self alone in the midst of her enemies. With a wild cry
she clasps the coffin, her head resting upon it. They
screwed it up the night before, despite all her. efibrts;
and she has torn her tender fingers trying in vain to open
it again.

" Let me see him once more ! " she cries. Then, as they
lay hold of it, one on either side, she contends fiercely
with them, trying to unclasp their hands.

" You shall not ! " she shrieks. " It is mine ! It is
mine ! What right have you to take him away ? Leave
go — oh leave go ! I will pay you well to leave him here.

! 'i

I l

318

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

See ! here is my purse ! One — two — ^pounds, and I have
some at the bank. I will write a cheque. But do not
take him away ! "

" Poor thing !" said one of the men, perplexed.

" Come away with me, ma'am," said Wilkins, the maid.
" You'd best come away."

" They shall not take it, Wilkins. Smith, order them
from the house. It is mine, is it not ? Make them go !
Only one day more — let me have i+ one day more — only
one!" • s.:,:' .■-:•■.;,>;■.- ■

" You eee, mum," said the honest servant — whose expe-
riences, though vast according to his account of them to
admiring footmen, did not quite enable him to meet this
difficulty — "you see, all the arrangements are made; and
one day or another won't make any difference to you,
mum, after it's over."

It is possible that even this argument might have
failed of its logical effect if Alice had not fainted away.

When she awoke it was to an iliness which mercifully
deprived her of the power of thought ; and Jack soon lay
among the hundreds of forgotten dead. The clergyman
who performed the ceremony was much pleased by the
presence of the Duke of Cheshire at the funeral, and per-
haps he had never read the service with more pathos and
correctness than on this occasion.

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

319

i I have
b do not

'■■V3:^:fVV^':

he maid.

ler them
hem go !
'e — only

se expe-
them to
leet this
.de; and
to vou,

ht have
away,
ercifully
soon lay
Tgyman
by the
md per-
ihos and

.■■•J"-\l ■;■/■.' '■■/■'

CHAPTER XLIII.

' ' It Bounds like stories from the land of spirits,

If any man obtain that which ho merits,
Or any mei it that which he obtaiua.

CoLBRrooB.

Kepe ye content awhile, so that your tongues ye holde,
Methinkes you shuld remembre, this is no place to scolde.

i-' Gammer Chirton' a Needle.

There was but one opinion in London as to Alice's beha-
viour. Some, indeed, said she had lit Windermere's cigar-
ette with the telegram announcing Jack's accident ; others
that she had telegraphed back to the effect that she could
not come, being better employed. Dark hints were even
thrown out that the accident was not quite so accidental
as might be supposed; although how Alice could have
been in league with Lord Coddleboys' skipper was not
explained. But the universal opinion was that she had
passed the bounds of tolerance. And, strangely enough,
all the anger against her was not mixed up with much
pity for Jack.

A man unlucky in his wife is never the object of strong
sympathy, save from those who are, or suspect they soon
may be, in a like strait ; and many people talked of the
poor fellow's fortnight's cruise in the English Channel in
much the same way as they might have spoken of a voy-
age to the Antipodes.

" Why did he leave her alone ? " they asked. And of-
ten they went on to speak of small establishments else-
where than in Norfch Street, of whole families of hidden
children, of Don Juanism infinite.

The weekly papers inserted mysterious articles, which

i *

n !

: i

! ni

320

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

were delightful puzzles to their many readers, as keen for
scandal as terriers for rats :

"It is said — with what truth we know not — that a
certain noble lord, whose eccentricities are proverbial, is
much embarrassed by the discovery that his son, whose
sad death by accident on board a yacht we all deplore,
has left no less than three widows to bewail his loss, and,
Avhat is worse, to demand jointures at his lordship's
hands."

Then a week later :

" It is not true that poor Jack C had embraced

the doctrines of polygamy. Far from it ; we understand
that he was above vulgar prejudices of any kind, and was

never' ^married at all ! Lord W is horror-struck at

the matrimonial danger he has escaped."

In another of these journals there appeared the follow-
ing:

" So poor Jack Chillingham has gone over to the ma-
jority ! Well, he wasn't a bad fellow ; could take his li-
quor like a man, and, if he had a wonderful knack of
producing the king at 4cart4, de mortuis, &c."

Again :

" The American lady, whose beauty electrified us this
season, is so inconsolable at her sudden loss of a husband
that she has determined to take another one at once.
The favourites are a noble lord whose good looks and
great riches are well known, and a young viscoimt in the
Guards who was lately bereaved of his yacht. But nei-
ther of them likes the prospect."

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

321

s keen for

•t — that a
v^erbial, is
3n, whose
il deplore,
loss, and,
lordship's

embraced
aderstand
I, and was
-struck at

le follow -

the ma-

ike his li-

knack of

d us this

husband

at once.

looks and

mt in the

But nei-

s^>

Alice at length yielded to the peremptory commands of
her doctor, and took a drive round Regent's Park, closely
veiled. But veils were no protection against the piercing
glance of McSquirter, of The Piccadilly Pioneer, who
happened to be taking a constitutional, and imbibing
ideas with the pure air there ; and in his next issue ap-
peared a crushing paragraph :

" A fair lady, about whom all London is talking, not in
her praise, appeared in public last Tuesday. It was cur-
ious to see with what a sudden blindness her quondam
>icquaintances were seized as she passed."

Of course Alice never knew of all this. Nor, poor
child, would she have cared much had she known. But
Badsworth was driven nearly mad by it all, and eyed the
collection of whips and canes in the corner of his room
with savage longing. His promise to Jack weighed upon
his spirits, and it was some time before he could muster
up sufficient resolution to fulfil it.

Meeting Windermere one afternoon at The Buccaneer
Club, however, he determined to get it off his conscience,
and asking the other to go with him into an empty ca rd-
room, which looked gloomily dissipated in the day-light,
he, as shortly and simply as possible, recounted what had
passed between Jack and himself in the cabin of the
Blunderhore. Windermere was half -amused, half-angry
at what he considered the other's impertinent meddling.

" Really, Badsworth," he said, " I cannot allow anyone
to interfere in my affairs." *^

His haughty tone roused Badsworth at once.

" I scarcely see how you can take that line in this case.
I am to blame in not having spoken sooner to you in the
matter." . .

" You are to blame in speaking at all."

Badsworth made an effort to be calm.

*' My promise to poor ChilLingham "

Ill

,*■

111

322

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

" Does not excuse anything. You had no business to
make such a promise."

" You will permit me to be the judge of that."

" It is no moment to me what folly you may commit,
unless it entails any impertinence to myself."

" Impertinence ! Lord Windermere, I advise you to
choose your words more carefully. I have a right to an
answer from you."

*' You have no right to speak one word to me of my pri-
vate affairs. As to this particular absurdity, if you had a
spark of knowledge of the world, you would be aware
of how inexcusable it is. A lady does me the honour to
like me ; we accidentally miss a train ; the world chooses
to put a harsh construction on it, which I admit is very
annoying to us both "

" Annoying I "

" Allow me to finish what I have to say. The world
is wrong, no doubt ; but the world's mouth is too large to
muzzle. We have to bear it. As to what you call my
'duty,' I can scarcely believe you are in your senses to
come to me with such transparent humbug. You thrust
yourself into an affair with which you have nothing to
do, and then you are astonished when I tell you are
impertinent."

" I am not going to have that said to me twice.
Lord Windermere," said Badsworth, his face white with
anger.

Now Windermere had just finished a very good luncheon,
and two or three large glasses of sherry make a very good
substitute for natural courage.

" Won't you ? Take care, my good friend, lest with
your talent for meddling in other people's concerns you
don't get kicked some fine day."

The calm sneer was perfect. Windermere was cele-
brated for his calm, aggravating sneers. He was much
the taller and the stronger man of the two, and rather
enjoyed the ^ixcitement of the (^[uarrei.

U .;!

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

323

siness to

commit,

you to
^ht to an

' my pri-
on had a
)e aware
onour to
. chooses
t is very

le world
large ti>
call my
Senses to
•u thrust
►thing to
you are

e twice,
lite with

mcheon,
3ry good

est witli
irns you

i&H cele-
as much
d rather

" Will you kick me, my lord ? " asked Badsworth, com-
ing close up to him and looking dangerous.

" It would be a great deal of trouble," said the other,
in ultra-languid tones. " But I suppose I should if neces-
sary.

" Take that, then, you infernal scoundrel ! " cried Bads-
worth, losing all self-control.

The " that " was a smart cut over the face with the
back of his hand, which Windermere was too late to ward
off.

The shock and the sherry combined made him a giant
in his righteous self-defence. A vulgar brawl in a club
was certainly distasteful, but when a man is angry the
ini.nediate use of his natural weapon is pleasant to him,
particularly if he be bigger than his antagonist.

One blow in the face, quickly followed by another ar-
tistically planted between the eyes, and Badsworth, trip-
ping against a footstool, came heavily to the ground, just
as three or four members, startled by the angry tones and
other sounds of combat, burst tumultuously into the room.
Badsworth rose quickly, but of course no further display
of pugilism was permitted.

" He struck me, gentlemen," said Windermere, looking
very cool, and quickly ari'anging his cuff, which had be-
come somewhat ruffled, " and I was obliged to knock him
down in self-defence. I am sorry such a scene should have
occurred here — very sorry — but it was no fault of mine."

" I struck him," said Badsworth, looking very dishevel-
led and unheroic, " because he is a scoundrel. '

" You see ! " said Windermere, with a smile of lofty con-
tempt. " The matter must be placed in the hands of the
committee. Rainford, will you see about ciilling a meet-
ing. I^ of course, cannot attend, but shall be happy to
give you all information in my power ; and 1 daresay
Lord Badsworth will explain how it was that a dif-
ference he has with me concerning a lady — whose name
r at least nuist refuse to mention — has made him forget

324

CHILDREN Of* i^ATlTRE.

ili,' 'i

the rules that hitherto have governed gentlemen, which
tjp to this moment I thought all the members of this club
were."

The Marquis was plainly master of the situation, and
the indignation against Badsworth was universal. Good
heavens ! People outside would say that The Buccanneer
Club was rowdy — that the members settled their differen-
ces by vulgar fisticuffs — an example must be made !

A few days afterwards the committee met, and, acting
on Rule ^'^^III., which enabled them to return the subscrip-
tion and erase the name of any member who " behaved
in a manner immoral, untj3ntlemanlike, or prejudicial to
the interests of the club" — for the Buccaneers were very
strict except in money matters — decided that Badsworth
should be requested to withdraw from their innocent so-
ciety. .

But before this, Badsworth — confined to his room with
a black eye and swelled lip — had written to demand
Windermere's instant presence in Belgium, and the letter
was promptly laid before his commanding-ofiicer. This
offence, added to the disgrace of being expelled his club,
necessitated his withdrawal from his regiment, of which
he was foolish enough to be very fond. Thus ended his
first and last attempt to vindicate the laws of friendship,
honour, and morality !

All right-minded persons will, no doubt, think he was
justly served. Nothing can of course excuse violence in
these days of frock-coats and chimney-pot hats ; and as
to that immoral institution, the duello, thank Heaven we
live in a land where there are judges, police, damages for
defamation, and above all, a sound and educated Public
Opinion !

To crown all, Alice was very indigiiant with him for
having, as she said, humiliated her in such a manner.
" To think," she cried, looking very pretty in her widow's
weeds, "that you should suppose I could ever forget
Jack ! It was cruel of you. Lord Badsworth ! Your pro-

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

325

which
lis club

)n, and
Good
anneer
iflferen-
! !

acting
bscrip-
ehaved
icial to
•e very
sworth
ent so-

[n with
iemand
3 letter
This
is club,
which
led his
idship,

le was
3nce in
and as
ven we
^es for
PubUe

dm for
lanner.
adow's
forget
or pro-

mise ! Oh, I cannot, I will not, believe that Jack ever
thought me so heartless, so wicked. But I forgive you."

^ en, indeed, Badsworth began to see that there was
something in this life as we lead it that was past his
comprehension, as perhaps there was.

Be it remembered that he was young, and had not
wholly put aside the voice of enthusiasm, which, being a
blunder, is worse than a crime. Be it remembered that
to his innocently obtuse mind this splendid Public Opi-
nion, that we — who are wise — all love and revere so much,
was only the outcoming or effect of a variety of causes,
mostly mean and sordid ; that he had not yet accurately
gauged the extent to which moral obliquity is absolutely
necessary to worldly* eyesight ; that, in fact, ho was not
yet, what by the grace of society he might, perhaps, still
become, by careful observance of the most successful of
his fellows, a true humbug — we apologise — a thorough
"man of the world." He did not yet know, as we, the initia-
ted, know, that as poison is often used for medicinal pur-
poses, so falsehood is necessary to bring out the grand
truths of life ; that wisdom now is best rendered by
cunning ; that friendship means gratitude for services to
come. Let us hope that some day, when he has lived
down his present disgrace, he will, by fully recognising
these facts, be able to jog along pleasantly with the rest
of us, treading on no corns by reason of over-obtrusive
honesty !

The only drawback to Windermere's triumph was that
the Duke of Cheshire, whom he rather reverenced as one
of the last of a race to whose grandeur even he could not
quite aspire, cut him dead whenever they met. " I have
never," he said to Flittery, " been so bothered about a
woman before."

" Poor old chap," muttered Mr. Flittery, twisting one
of his lordship's magnificent cigars about in his white
fingers, " it certainly has been uncommonly hard upon

you."

;ti

326

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

CHAPTER XLIV.

Tout est dit ! le bonheur s'est enfui pour toujours :

Et mon cceur vivra solitaire.
A tous les monuments mines de mes jours

J'ai cueilli la parifetaire.

HOUSSAYE.

" I don't understand what they all mean," said Lady
Meldrum. " Do they think that no one can throw stones
at them ? The idea of Lady Newmarket setting herself
up ! She of all people ! "

" You forget," said the Duke of Cheshire, rather sadly,
" you forget the Eleventh Commandment."

" No, I don't. Thou shalt not commit "

He interrupted her rather hastily.

" Thou shaft not be found out."

" Oh — ah — well, I daresay. I never heard it before.
I've so many things to do, you know, and I never had
much education. But, Duke, can we do nothing for this
poor child ? "

" I fear not. The fiat has gone forth. She is to be sent
irretrievably to Coventry."

" Coventry ! What a horrid place ! Where people
hang with grooms and porters on the bridge, and women
ride on hoi*seback without any clothes. It is the most
cruel thing. I'll ask her to my parties, at any rate."

" To be cut by everyone. Besides, she absolutely re-
fuses to go anywhere. No, my dear lady, we can do
nothing for her in that line. What I wanted you, with
your kind heart, to do is to find out how we can assist her
in other ways. She has no relatives in the world of her
own, and the Brocklesbys have, as you know, cast her
off."

" As if that mattered ! The Brocklesbys are "

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

327

>id Lady
)w stones
g herself

ler sadly,

b before,
jver had
^ for this

o be sent

e people
i women
the most
Lte."

iitely re-
can do
ou, with
issist her
d of her
cast her

"Yes; but you see it does matter. It means bread-and-
butter to her."

" You don't mean to say they would let her starve ? "

" Not quite, but very nearly. It isn't his fault; but he's
afraid of his wife."

Lady Meldrum thought of her lord, and was silent.

" And his wife has ordained, as far as I can make out,
that our little Alice is to go as near to starvation as possible.
She has been put by them, I suppose, in a wretched brick
house at Clapham," (His grace shuddered at the idea.)
" And I want you to arrange that she should move to
some nicer place which I would gladly give her. You see,
she's my relation."

" Duke, you're a gentleman ! " cried the old lady, im-
pulsively. " Of course I will arrange it. Do you know,
sometimes I wonder whether our code is quite just. There's
Alice Chillingham, so pretty that no man could help
making love to her — no man who was a man, at least —
even poor dear Meldrum made eyes at her, and I caught
him — it was splendid ! And then, on the other hand,
there is myself — look at me, I'm as good-looking as ever
I was — and that's not saying much. Tut, tut, man, don't
I see myself in the glass every . day ? What temptation
have I had compared to that lovely child ? To say nothing
of being as rich as I want to be, while she has had to
struggle to put gowns on her back. No, Duke, things
are not fairly arranged in this world, though you and I
have no cause to complain."

" I don't know," said the Duke, rather absently, and
forgetting to whom he " spoke. " Complaining depends
upon temperament. We all have cause enough. Look-
ing back on opportunities wasted — on umitigated lazi-
ness and selfishness — the retrospect is not a happy one.
But," he went on, rousing himself and half smiling at the
idea of moralising to Lady Meldrum — " but this has
nothing to do with the subject. Lady Brocklesby wishes
to keep Alice out of society, an outcast, at Clapham, all

■'.

328

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

?dy
she

y upon

her days — and moreover she wishes existence
struggle for her. "We must prevent' it. You ha^'
been good to her, and she would take from yc
would, I fancy, fling back in my face. May ^
you?"

" That you may," said the old woman, with emphasis.

But it was of no avail. Alice accepted, with apparent
eagerness, the rdle marked out for her by her mother-in-
law ; and accompanied by her maid and Goggles, retired
to the dreary little house kindly taken for her by that
lady.

The awfully sudden bereavement she had sustained,
coming, as it did, at a moment when she had just put
aside her honour and been false to her plighted troth, had
utterly broken her down, and she had even listened
meekly to a joint lecture delivered to her by Emily Garter
and the pious Lady Clementina Greyswell. It was not
to pluck a brand from the burning that these ladies came ;
that was not the aim of their kindly religious principles ;
it was rather to convince the brand that it was destined
to be utterly destroyed. They left her proud of the des-
pair they believed they had filled her with ; and attributed
to their gloomy prophecies what was the effect of the
remorse consuming her.

Before the season was over, Windermere, having a latent
fear that the Duke of Cheshire and Lady Meldnim be-
tween them might yet compass his marriage with the
lady whose pretty ways had served to while away a season,
but whose position was not such as to make her worthy
to wear the celebrated Windermere diamonds, engaged
himself to a sweet girl of seventeen, just come out, the
third daughter of a ducal house which was noted for its
matrimonial successes — a house which seemed, indeed, to
have a vested interest in all the rich young men of
London, so naturally did it appropriate them when-
ever it sent a tender scion into the world. The young
woman had perhaps some school-room notions of a

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

329

,?dy

d,t she

ij upon

Qphasis.
pparent
ther-in-
, retired
by that

stained,
ust put
oth, had
listened
J Garter
svas not
3scame ;
nciples ;
iestined
the des-
ributed
of the

a latent
um be-
ith the

season,

worthy

ngaged

out, the

for its
deed, to
men of

when-
i young
of a

love-match, and scarcely cared to be disposed of so
arbitrarily —

•, ^ But Strephon sighed so loud and strong > ;..,

,y' "' He blew a settlement along ;

And bravely drove his rivals down i '; ■ ' *

With coach-and-six and house in town.
The bashful nymph no more withstands,
Because her dear pa])a commands.

And soon everything was as pleasantly arranged as could
be, and all the friends and acquaintances of each family,
and many who aspired to rank in that number, began to
seek for wedding-gifts which should make as much show
for as little cost as possible.

Poor little Jane Chillingham, who had cherished in her
heart of hearts a romantic admiration for the good-look-
ing lord, pined for a short time, and read a great deal of
poetry about broken hearts and lonely lives and solitude
and desolation, in the retirement of her bedroom ; and
Lady Brocklesby hinted darkly that she was not one of
those who would sacrifice her daughter on the altar of
mere worldly prosperity ; but a very magnificent ormolu
inkstand, which her ladyship obtained a bargain, figured
among the list of presents in Tltc Mornmg Post never-
theless.

In one of the most sad-looking and respectable of all
the sad-looking and respectable houses of Clapham* sat
our poor unworthy heroine, fallen from her high estate,
her name smirched, her happiness departed. Yet she still
ventured to be fair ; and might, perhaps, were it not for a
proud obstinacy which misfortune had strengthened, have

* We beg to say, in deprecation of Claphamite anger, that we are well
aware there are many charming residences there ; but near the railway there
are long stretches of two storied stucco houses which teem the very abomina-
tion of desolation.

330

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

been happy yet. She knew well enough that Badsworth
needed but a sign to fly to her feet. She recognised now
his unselfish devotion, and she was grateful to him for it ;
but no consideration whatever would induce her to break
the oath she had sworn to herself over her husband's
corpse — nothing turn her from the life of repentance she
had vowed to lead.

Mrs. Wilkins enters hurriedly, eager, as all servants
are, to impart bad news. " Goggles seems odd, mum ;
took with a fit, I think." The little wretch of a dog who
had but one good quality — love for his mistress — opens
his glazing eye, attempts, but abortively, to give a wag of
his uncurling tail, and with a last effort licks Alice's
hand. Then there is a shiver, and he is gone to the happy
hunting-grounds, where he may have more success than
he had with the too fleet rabbits in this life of disappoint-
ment.

" And if you please, mum," says Mrs. Wilkins, after
paying a due compliment to the defunct, " I should like
to leave at my month. I couldn't bear this place any
longer, it is so dreadful lonesome, and not what I've been
accustomed to."

It is the last straw. Alice lays down her little head
and weeps. No Goggles, no Wilkins ! Everything that
reminded her of the past to go ! Trivial, childish, is it
not ? But, after all, life is made up to a great extent of
trivialities, and many of our most poignant griefs are
very childish.

Then, to feed the flames of her gi'ief, she extracts from
her desk a letter — read nearly every day — which was
found among Jack's papers. It was probably written in
one of his dark hours of jealousy, and had been accident-
ally kept.

•

" My love — for you are my love — I forgive you. God
knows whether things might have been otherwise —
whether I am to blame — it is too late to think of that

A STORY OF MODERN LONDON.

331

Lsworth
ed now
L for it ;
break
sband's
ice she

ervants

mum ;

og who

—opens

wag of

Alice's

i happy

sss than

,ppoint-

s, after
dd like
,ce any
ve been

le head
ig that
ih, is it
:tent of
iefs are

its from
Lch was
itten in
3cident-

now. You will only get this letter when we shall meet
no more. Alice, it wasn't your fault — you tried to love
me — I know it. But it could not be. My heart is bro-
ken — but it is by Fate and not by you. Think some-
times, oh, my darling, of the happy days before you found
out that you did not love me. 'Think sometimes of our
happy talks about our future together. How little we
dreamed then that we could separate ! — that there was
no such thing as our future ! I have the past at least,
Alice. You cannot — he cannot — rob me now of the recol-
lection of that, lost though it is now. It was no pretence,
it was no delusion. You did love me — do not say you
did not — that when your eyes met mine they did not
speak the truth. Before such love as mine no lie could
live — the moment the change came, my heart knew it and
warned me. Think of me sometimes, Alice — the thought
of me can do you no harm ; for, as regards you, at least,
I have no blame to fear. Be good, dear ; try to think of
me as a friend who would fain still watch over you, and
do riot hurt me more than I can bear. You were made
for a far higher position than 1 could give you. You are
the loveliest woman on the earth. But be good, my love,
be good. Good-bye."

Incoherent, badly written, blotted — but it came from
the depths of a true man's heai-t.

And Alice, staining the paper with her tears, prayed
for that release which the grave face of the second-rate
physician who paid her so many visits dimly fore-
shadowed.

It is sad when the heart dies before the machine which
it animates is quite worn out.

God
rwise —
of that

So Lady Brock lesby got the settlement of the little
property in Hampshire for which her soul had longed,

332

CHILDREN OF NATURE.

and Jack and Alice Chillingham were as thoroughly for-
gotten in " London Society " as we shall be, oh reader !
when our grandchildren, dressed in the prevailing fash-
ion, pass over our mouldy graves to worship their Crea-
tor according to the lights of the day.

Ainsi tout change, ainsi tout passe :
Ainsi nous-m^mes nous passons.
Sans laisser, h^las ! plus de trace
Que cette barque oh nous glissons
Siir cette mer oh tout s'efface.

THE END.

AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON'S NOVELS.

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