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COMMON PLACE, 
 
 AND 
 
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COMMONPLACE, 
 
 A Tae or To-pay; 
 
 Woaoeorre Kh SrLORITES. 
 
 BY 
 
 Sion GROSSE TTI, 
 
 AUTHOR OF ‘GOBLIN MARKET,’ AND 
 THE PRINCE’S PROGRESS.’ 
 
 ‘From sea to sea.’ 
 
 BOSTON : 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 1870. 
 

 
PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 
 
 THE earliest of these tales dates back to 1852, 
 the latest was finished in 1870: a lapse of years 
 sufficient to account for modifications of fone 
 and style. 
 
 ‘Pros and Cons,’ and ‘The Waves of this 
 Troublesome World,’ were written each with a 
 special object; which special object will, I hope, 
 ‘be accepted as my apology if the latter tale is 
 judged too childish. 
 
 Not one of the stories is founded on fact. 
 This might not seem worth stating, had I 
 not reason to fear that one or two of my 
 
 kindest friends have viewed ‘The Lost Titian’ 
 
Vi PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 somewhat in the light of an imposture. I 
 therefore take this opportunity of putting on 
 record that IJ am not conversant with any 
 tradition which points to the existence of a 
 lost picture by that great master with whose 
 name I have made free. 
 
 C. ae 
 
 April 1870. 
 
Per LEN TS. 
 
 Pace 
 COMMONPLACE. ‘ 3 
 THE LOST TITIAN . : : : : ; 145 
 NICK . : : : : : 167 
 HERO . : 5 : 4 ; : : 3 183 
 VANNA’S TWINS. : : : : ; 215 
 A SAFE INVESTMENT. : ; , 241 
 PROS AND CONS . : eee ek 257 
 
 THE WAVES OF THIS TROUBLESOME WORLD : 271 
 

 
COMMONPLACE, 
 

 
COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Oren t ERT: 
 
 BROMPTON-ON-SEA—any name not in ‘Brad- 
 shaw’ will do—Brompton-on-Sea in April. 
 The air keen and sunny; the sea blue and 
 rippling, not rolling ; everything green, in sight 
 and out of sight, coming on merrily. Birds 
 active over straws and fluff; a hardy butterfly 
 abroad for a change; a second hardy butterfly 
 dancing through mid-air, in and out, and round 
 about the first. A row of houses all alike stands 
 facing the sea—all alike so far as stucco fronts 
 and symmetrical doors and windows could make 
 them so: but one house in the monotonous row 
 
 was worth looking at, for the sake of more nu- 
 
4 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 merous hyacinths and early roses in its slip of 
 front garden, and on several of its window-sills. 
 Judging by appearances, and for once judging 
 rightly, this must be a private residence on an 
 esplanade full of lodging-houses. 
 
 A pretty house inside too, snug in winter, 
 fresh in summer; now in mid-spring sunny 
 enough for an open window, and cool enough 
 for a bright fire in the breakfast-room. 
 
 Three ladies sat at the breakfast-table, three 
 maiden ladies, obviously sisters by strong family 
 likeness, yet with individual differences strong 
 also. The eldest, Catherine, Miss Charlmont, 
 having entered her thirty-third year, had taken 
 on all occasions to appearing in some sort of 
 cap. She began the custom at thirty, when also 
 she gave up dancing, and adopted lace over her 
 neck and arms in evening dress. Her manner 
 was formal and kindly, savouring of the pro- 
 vinces rather than of the capital; but of the 
 provinces in their towns, not in their old country 
 seats. Yet she was a well-bred gentlewoman in 
 all essentials, tall and fair, a handsome member 
 
 of a handsome family. She presided over the 
 
COMMONPLACE. 5 
 
 tea and coffee, and, despite modern usage, re- 
 tained a tea-tray. 
 
 Opposite her sat Lucy, less striking in fea- 
 tures and complexion, but with an expression 
 of quicker sensibility. Rather pretty and very 
 sweet-looking, not turned thirty as yet, and on 
 some points treated by Catherine as still a 
 young thing. She had charge of the loaf and 
 ham, and, like her elder sister, never indulged 
 in opening letters till every one at table had 
 been served. 
 
 The third, Jane, free of meat-and-drink re- 
 sponsibilities, opened letters or turned over the 
 newspaper as she pleased. She was youngest 
 by many years, and came near to being very 
 beautiful. Her profile was almost Grecian, her 
 eyes were large, and her fair hair grew in wavy 
 abundance. At first sight she threw Catherine 
 and Lucy completely into the shade; after- 
 wards, in spite of their additional years, they 
 sometimes were preferred, for her face only of 
 the three could be thought insipid. Pleasure 
 and displeasure readily showed themselves in 
 it, but the pleasure would be frivolous and the 
 
6 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 displeasure often unreasonable. A man might 
 fall in love with Jane, but no one could make 
 a friend of her; Catherine and Lucy were 
 sure to have friends, however they might lack 
 lovers. 
 
 On the morning when our story commences 
 the elders were busied with their respective 
 charges, whilst Jane already sipped her tea and 
 glanced up and down the Births, Marriages, and 
 Deaths, in the ‘Times’ Supplement. There she 
 sat, with one elbow on the table and her long 
 lashes showing to advantage over downcast eyes. 
 Dress was with her a matter for deep study, and 
 her pink-and-white breakfast suit looked as fresh 
 and blooming as April’s self. Her hair fell 
 long and loose over her shoulders, in becoming 
 freedom; and Catherine gazing at her felt a 
 motherly pride in the pretty creature to whom, 
 for years, she had performed a mother’s duty ; 
 and Lucy felt how young and fresh Jane was, 
 and remembered that she herself was turned 
 twenty-nine: but if the thought implied regret 
 it was untinctured by envy. 
 
 Jane read aloud: ‘ “ Halberteto silanes aa: 
 
COMMONPLACE, 7 
 
 wish I were Jane. And here, positively, are 
 two more Janes, and not me. “ Catherine ”— 
 that’s a death. Lucy, I don’t see you anywhere. 
 Catherine was eighty-nine, and much respected. 
 “Mrs. Anstruther of a son and heir.” I wonder 
 if those are the Anstruthers I met in Scotland: 
 she was very ugly, and short. “ Everilda Stella,” 
 —how can anybody be Everilda? Then, with 
 a sudden accession of interest, ‘Why, Lucy, 
 Everilda Stella has actually married your Mr. 
 Hartley !’ 
 
 Lucy started, but no one noticed her. Ca- 
 therine said, ‘Don’t say “your” Mr. Hartley, 
 Jane: that is not a proper way of speaking 
 about a married gentleman to an unmarried 
 lady. Say “the Mr. Hartley you know,’ or, 
 “the Mr. Hartley you have met in London.” 
 Besides, I am acquainted with him also; and 
 very likely it is a different person. Hartley is 
 not an uncommon name.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, but it is that Mr. Hartley, sister,’ re- 
 torted Jane, and she read: 
 
 ““On Monday the 13th, at the parish-church, 
 Fenton, by the Rev. James Durham, uncle of 
 
8 ~ COMMONPLACE. 
 
 the bride, Alan Hartley, Esq. of the Woodlands, 
 Gloucestershire, to Everilda Stella, only child and 
 presumptive heiress of George Durham, Esq. of 
 
 ee J 
 
 Orpingham Place, in the same county. 
 
CHAPTER: II. 
 
 FORTY years before the commencement of this 
 story, William Charlmont, an Indian army- 
 surgeon, penniless, except for his pay, had 
 come unexpectedly into some hundreds a- 
 year, left him by a maiden great-aunt, who 
 had seen him but once, and that when he was 
 five years old, on’ which occasion she boxed 
 his ears for misspelling ‘elephant.’ His stoicism 
 under punishment, for he neither roared nor 
 whined, may have won her heart; at any rate, 
 from whatever motive, she, years afterwards, 
 disappointed three nephews and a female first 
 cousin by leaving every penny she was worth 
 to him. This moderate accession of fortune 
 justified him in consulting both health and 
 inclination by exchanging regimental practice 
 in India for general practice in England: and 
 
 a combination of apparently trifling circum- 
 
IO COMMONPLACE. 
 
 stances led him, soon after his return home, 
 to settle at the then infant watering-place of 
 Brompton-on-Sea, of which the reputation had 
 just been made by a royal duke’s visit; and 
 the tide of fashion was setting to its shore. 
 
 The house in which our story opens then 
 stood alone, and belonged to a clergyman’s 
 widow. As she possessed, besides, an only 
 daughter, and but a small life annuity—nothing 
 more—she sought for a lodger, and was glad 
 to find one in the new medical practitioner. 
 The widow, Mrs. Turner, was, and felt herself 
 to be, no less a gentlewoman when she let 
 lodgings than when with her husband and child 
 she had occupied the same house alone; no 
 less so when after breakfast she donned a 
 holland apron and helped Martha, the maid, to 
 make Mr. Charlmont’s bed, than when in old 
 days she had devoted her mornings to visiting 
 and relieving her poorer neighbours, 
 
 Her daughter, Kate, felt their altered for- 
 tunes more painfully ; and showed, sometimes 
 by uncomfortable bashfulness, sometimes by 
 
 anxious self-assertion, how much importance 
 
COMMONPLACE. II 
 
 she attached to the verdict of Mrs. Grundy. 
 Her mother’s holland apron was to her a daily 
 humiliation, and single-handed Martha an irri- 
 tating shortcoming. She chilled old friends by 
 declining invitations, because her wardrobe 
 lacked variety, and shunned new acquaintances 
 lest they should call at some moment when 
 herself or her mother might have to answer the 
 door. A continual aim at false appearances 
 made her constrained and affected ; and persons 
 who would never have dwelt upon the fact 
 that Mrs. Turner let lodgings, were certain to 
 have it recalled to mind by Miss Turner’s un- 
 easiness. 
 
 But Kate owned a pretty face, adorned by 
 a pink-and-white complexion, most refreshing 
 to eyes that had ached under an Indian sun. 
 At first Mr. Charlmont set her down as merely 
 affected and silly; then he began to dwell on 
 the fact that, however silly and affected, she 
 was indisputably pretty; next he reflected that 
 reverses of fortune deserve pity and demand 
 every gentleman’s most courteous consideration. 
 
 In himself such consideration at once took the 
 
12 COMMONPLACE, 
 
 form of books lent from his library ; of flowers 
 for the drawing-room, and fruit for dessert. 
 Kate, to do her justice, was no flirt, and saw 
 without seeing his attentions; but her more 
 experienced mother seeing, pondered, and seized, 
 or made, an opportunity for checking her 
 lodger’s intimacy. Mr. Charlmont, however, 
 was not to be rebuffed; opposition made him 
 earnest, whilst the necessity of expressing his 
 feelings gave them definiteness: and not many 
 months later Kate, with the house for her 
 dowry, became Mrs. William Charlmont, the 
 obnoxious lodger developed into an attached 
 and dear husband, and Mrs. Turner retired 
 on the life annuity to finish her days in inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 A few years passed in hopes and disappoint- 
 ments. When hope had dwindled to despond- 
 ency a little girl came—Catherine; after another 
 few years a second girl, named Lucy in memory 
 of her grandmother Turner, who had not lived 
 to see her namesake. Then more years passed 
 without a baby; and in due course the sisters 
 
 were sent to Miss Drum’s school as day- 
 
COMMONPLACE. 13 
 
 boarders, their mother having become ailing 
 and indolent. 
 
 Time went on, and the girls grew wiser and 
 prettier—Catherine very pretty. When she 
 was nearly twelve years old, Mr. Charlmont 
 said one evening to his wife, ‘I have made my 
 will, Kate, and left everything to you in the 
 first instance, and between the children after 
 you. And she answered, blushing—she was 
 still comely, and a blush became her:—‘O 
 William, but ‘suppose another baby should 
 come?’ ‘Well, I should make my will over 
 again, he replied: but he did not guess why 
 his wife blushed and spoke eagerly; he had 
 quite given up such hopes. 
 
 Mr. Charlmont was fond of boating, and 
 one day, when the girls were at home for the 
 Easter holidays, he offered to take them both 
 for a row; but Catherine had a bad cold, and 
 as Lucy was not a good sailor, he did not care 
 to take charge of her without her sister. His 
 wife never had liked boating. Thus it was 
 that he went alone. The morning was dull 
 and chilly; but there was no wind, and the 
 
14 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 sea was almost smooth. He took dinner and 
 fishing tackle in the boat with him, and gave 
 notice that he should not be at home till the 
 evening. 
 
 No wind, no sun; the day grew duller and 
 duller, dimmer and dimmer. A _ smoke-like 
 fog, beginning on land, spread from the cliffs 
 to the beach, from the beach over the water’s 
 edge; further and further it spread, beyond 
 sight ; it might be for miles over the sea. No 
 wind blew to shift the dense fog which hid 
 seamarks and landmarks alike. As day waned 
 towards evening, and darkness deepened, all 
 the fisher-folk gathered on the beach in pain 
 and fear for those at sea. They lit a bonfire, 
 they shouted, they fired off an old gun or two, 
 such as they could get together, and still they 
 watched, and feared, and hoped. Now one boat 
 came in, now another; some guided by the 
 glare, some by the sound of the firing: at last, 
 by midnight, every boat had come in safe, 
 except Mr. Charlmont’s. 
 
 As concerned him, that night was only like 
 
 all nights and all days afterwards; for neither 
 
COMMONPLACE. 15 
 
 man, nor boat, nor waif, nor stray from either, 
 ever drifted ashore. 
 
 Mrs. Charlmont took the news of her hus- 
 band’s disappearance very quietly indeed. She 
 did not cry or fret, or propose any measures 
 for finding him; but she bade Catherine be 
 sure to have tea ready when he came in. This 
 she repeated every day, and often in the day; 
 and would herself sit by a window looking out 
 towards the sea, smiling and cheerful. If any 
 one spoke to her she would answer at random, 
 but quite cheerfully. She rose or went to bed 
 when her old nurse called her, she ate and 
 drank when food was set before her; but she 
 originated nothing, and seemed indifferent to 
 everything except the one anxiety, that tea 
 should be ready for her husband on his return. 
 
 The holidays over, Lucy went back to Miss 
 Drum’s, trudging to and fro daily; but Cathe- 
 rine stayed at home to keep house and sit with 
 her poor dazed mother. 
 
 A few months and the end came. One 
 night nurse insisted with unusual determination 
 
 on the girls going to bed early; but before 
 
16 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 daybreak Catherine was roused out of her sleep 
 to see a new little sister and her dying mother. 
 Life was almost gone, and with the approach 
 of death a sort of consciousness had returned. 
 Mrs. Charlmont looked hard at Catherine, who 
 was crying bitterly, and taking her hand said 
 distinctly : ‘Catherine, promise to stay here 
 ready for your father when he comes on shore 
 —promise some of you to stay here: don't let 
 him come on shore and find me gone and no 
 one—don’t let the body come on shore and 
 find us all gone and no one—promise me, 
 Catherine !’ 
 
 And Catherine promised. 
 
 Mr. Charlmont died a wealthy man. He 
 had enjoyed a large lucrative practice, and had 
 invested his savings profitably: by his will, and 
 on their mother’s death, an ample provision re- 
 mained for his daughters. Strictly speaking, it 
 remained for Catherine and Lucy: the baby, 
 Jane, was unavoidably left dependent on her 
 
 sisters; but on sisters who, in after-life, never felt 
 
COMMONPLACE. 17 
 
 that their own right to their father’s property 
 was more obvious or more valid than hers. 
 Mr. Charlmont had appointed but one trustee 
 for his daughters—Mr. Drum, only brother of 
 their schoolmistress, a thoroughly honest lawyer, 
 practising and thriving in Brompton-on-Sea; a 
 man somewhat younger than himself, who had 
 speculated adroitly both with him and for him. 
 On Mrs. Charlmont’s death, Mr. Drum proposed 
 sending the two elder girls to a fashionable 
 boarding-school near London, and Jetting nurse, 
 with a wet-nurse under her, keep house in the 
 old home with baby: but Catherine set her face 
 against this plan, urging her promise to her 
 dying mother as a reason for not going away ; 
 and so held to her point that Mr. Drum yielded, 
 and agreed that the girls, who could not bear to 
 be parted, should continue on the same terms as 
 before at his sister's school. Miss Drum, an 
 intimate friend of their mother’s, engaged to 
 take them into such suitable society as might 
 offer until Catherine should come of age; and 
 as she resided within two minutes’ walk of their 
 house, this presented no difficulty. At twenty- 
 C 
 
18 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 one, under their peculiar circumstances, Catherine 
 was to be considered old enough to chaperone 
 her sisters. Nurse, a respectable elderly woman, 
 was to remain as housekeeper and personal at- 
 tendant on the children; and a wet-nurse, to be 
 succeeded by a nursery-girl, with two other 
 maids, completed the household. 
 
 Catherine, though only in her thirteenth year, 
 already looked grave, staid, and tall enough for 
 a girl of sixteen, when these arrangements were 
 entered into. The sense of responsibility waxed 
 strong within her, and with the motherly position 
 came something of the motherly instinct of self- 
 
 postponement to her children. 
 
19 
 
 CHAPTER If 
 
 THE last chapter was parenthetical, this takes 
 up the broken thread of the story. 
 
 Breakfast over, and her sisters gone their 
 several ways, Lucy Charlmont seized the 
 ‘Times’ Supplement and read the Hartley- 
 Durham paragraph over to herself:—‘On Mon- 
 day the 13th, at the parish church, Fenton, by 
 the Rev. James Durham, uncle of the bride, Alan 
 Hartley, Esq., of the Woodlands, Gloucester- 
 shire, to Everilda Stella, only child and pre- 
 sumptive heiress of George Durham, Esq., of 
 Orpingham Place, in the same county.’ 
 
 There remained no lurking-place for doubt. 
 Mr. Hartley,—‘ her’ Mr. Hartley, as Jane dubbed 
 him,—had married Everilda Stella, a presumptive 
 heiress. Thus concluded Lucy’s one romance. 
 
 Poor Lucy! the romance had been no fault 
 
 of hers, perhaps not even a folly: it had arisen 
 
20 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 thus. When Miss Charlmont was twenty-one 
 Lucy was eighteen, and had formally come out 
 under her sister’s wing; thenceforward going 
 with her to balls and parties from time to 
 time, and staying with her at friends’ houses 
 in town or country. This paying visits had 
 entailed the necessity of Jane’s having a gover- 
 ness. Miss Drum had by that time ‘relinquished 
 tuition, as she herself phrased it, and retired 
 on a conrfortable competence earned by her 
 own exertions; therefore, to Miss Drum’s school 
 Jane could not go. Lucy, when the subject 
 was started, declared, with affectionate impul- 
 siveness, that she would not pay visits at all, 
 or else that she and Catherine might pay them 
 separately ; but Catherine, who considered her- 
 self in the place of mother to both her sisters, 
 and whose standard of justice to both alike was 
 inflexible, answered, ‘My dear’—when Miss 
 Charlmont said ‘my dear’ it ended a discussion 
 —‘My dear, Jane must have a governess. She 
 shall always be with us in the holidays, and 
 shall leave the schoolroom for good when she 
 
 is eighteen, and old enough to enter society; 
 
COMMONPLACE. 21 
 
 but at present I must think of you and your 
 prospects.’ So Jane had a fashionable gover- 
 ness; fresh from a titled family, and versed in 
 accomplishments and the art of dress, whilst 
 Catherine commenced her duties as chaperone. 
 Lucy thought that her sister, handsomer than 
 herself and not much older, might have pros- 
 pects too, and tried hard to discover chances 
 for her; but Catherine nursed no such fancies 
 on her own account. Her promise to her dying 
 mother, that some one of them should always 
 be on the spot at Brompton-on-Sea, literally 
 meant at the moment, she resolved as literally 
 to fulfil, even whilst she felt that only by one 
 not fully in her right mind could such a pro- 
 mise have been exacted. Grave and formal 
 in manner, dignified in person, and in disposi- 
 tion reserved, though amiable, she never seemed 
 to notice, or to return, attentions paid her by 
 any man of her acquaintance; and if one of 
 these ever committed himself so far as to hazard 
 an offer, she kept his secret and her own. | 
 Lucy, meanwhile, indulged on her own ac- 
 
 count the usual hopes and fears of a young 
 
22 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 woman. At first all parties and visits were 
 delightful, one not much less so than another 
 then a difference made itself felt between them ; 
 some parties turned out dull, and some visits 
 tedious. The last year of Lucy’s going every- 
 where with Catherine, before, that is, she began 
 dividing engagements with Jane,—for until Lucy 
 should be turned thirty, self-chaperoning was 
 an inadmissible enormity in Miss Charlmont’s 
 eyes, in spite of what she had herself done; 
 as she said, her own had been an exceptional 
 case,—in that last year the two sisters had 
 together spent a month with Dr. Tyke, whose 
 wife had been before marriage ‘another Lucy 
 Charlmont, and a favourite cousin of their 
 father’s : concerning her, tradition even hinted 
 that, in bygone years, she had refused the 
 penniless army surgeon. 
 
 Be this as it may, at Mrs. Tyke’s house in 
 London, the sisters spent one certain June, and 
 then and there Lucy ‘met her fate, as with a 
 touch of sentiment, bordering on sentimentality, 
 she recorded in her diary one momentous first 
 
 meeting. Alan Hartley was a nephew of Dr. 
 
COMMONPLACE. 23 
 
 Tyke’s—handsome, and clever on the surface, if 
 not deep within. He had just succeeded his 
 father at the Woodlands, had plenty of money, 
 no profession, and no hindrance to idling away 
 any amount of time with any pretty woman who 
 was pleasant company. Such a woman was 
 Lucy Charlmont. He harboured no present 
 thoughts of marriage, but she did; he really 
 did pay just as much attention to a dozen girls 
 elsewhere, but she judged by his manner to 
 herself, and drew from it a false conclusion. 
 That delightful June came to an end, and he 
 had not spoken; but two years later occurred a 
 second visit, as pleasant and as full of misunder- 
 standing as the first. Meanwhile, she had re- 
 fused more than one offer. Poor Lucy Charlmont: 
 her folly, even if it was folly, had not been 
 very blameable. 
 
 The disenchantment came no less painfully 
 than unexpectedly: and Lucy, ready to cry, 
 but ashamed of crying for such a cause, thrust 
 the Supplement out of sight, and sitting down, 
 forced herself to face the inevitable future. 
 
 One thing was certain, she could not meet 
 
24 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Alan—in her thoughts he had long been Alan, 
 and now it cost her an effort of recollection to 
 stiffen him back into Mr. Hartley—she must 
 not meet Mr. Hartley till she could reckon on 
 seeing him and his wife with friendly compo- 
 sure. Oh! why—why—why had she all along 
 misunderstood him, and he never understood 
 her? Not to meet him, it would be necessary 
 to decline the invitation from Mrs. Tyke, which 
 she had looked forward to and longed for 
 during weeks past, and which, in the impartial 
 judgment of Miss Charlmont, it was her turn, 
 not Jane’s, to accept; which, moreover, might 
 arrive by any post. Jane she knew would be 
 ready enough to pay a visit out of turn, but 
 Catherine would want a reason ; and what reason 
 could she give? On one point, however, she - 
 was determined, that, with or without her reasons 
 being accepted as reasonable, go she would not. 
 Then came the recollection of a cracker she 
 had pulled with him, and kept in her pocket- 
 book ever since; and of a card he had left for 
 her and her sister, or, as she had fondly fancied, 
 
 mainly for herself, before the last return from 
 
COMMONPLACE. 25 
 
 Mrs. Tyke’s to Brompton-on-Sea. Treasures no 
 longer to be treasured, despoiled treasures,— 
 she denied herself the luxury of a sigh, as she 
 thrust them between the bars of the grate and 
 watched them burn. 
 
26 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ‘Lucy, Jane, said Miss Charlmont, some days 
 afterwards, addressing her sisters, and holding 
 up an open letter,—‘ Mrs. Tyke has sent a very 
 kind invitation, asking me, with one of you, to 
 stay a month at her house, and to fix the day. 
 It is your turn, Lucy; so, if you have no ob- 
 jection, I shall write, naming next Thursday for 
 our journey to London. Jane, I shall ask Miss 
 Drum to stay with you during our absence; 
 I think she will be all the better for a change, 
 and there is no. person more fit to have the 
 charge of you. So don’t be dull, dear, till we 
 come back.’ A 
 
 But Jane pouted, and said in a cross tone, 
 ‘Really, sister, you need not settle everything 
 now for me, as if I were a baby. I don’t want 
 
 Miss Drum, who is as old as the hills and as 
 
COMMONPLACE. 27] 
 
 solemn. Can’t you write to Mrs. Tyke and 
 say, that I cannot be left alone here? What 
 difference could it make in her large house?’ 
 
 For once Catherine answered her favourite 
 sister with severity, ‘Jane, you know why it 
 is impossible for us all to leave home together. 
 This is the last year you will be called upon 
 to remain behind, for after Lucy’s next birthday 
 it is agreed between us that she will take turns 
 with me in chaperoning you. Do not make 
 what may be our last excursion together un- 
 pleasant by your unkindness.’ 
 
 Still Jane was not silenced. ‘At any rate, 
 it need not be Miss Drum. I will stay here 
 alone, or I will have somebody more amusing 
 than Miss Drum.’ 
 
 Before Catherine could reply, Lucy with an 
 effort struck into the dispute. ‘Jane, don't 
 speak like that to our sister; I should be 
 ashamed to speak to her so. Still, Catherine,’ 
 she continued, without noticing a muttered 
 retort from the other, ‘after all, 1 am going to 
 side with Jane on the main point, and ask 
 
 you to take her to Notting Hill, and leave me 
 
28 COMMON PLACE. 
 
 at home to keep house with dear old Miss 
 Drum. This really was my own wish before 
 Jane spoke, so pray let us not say another 
 word on the subject.’ 
 
 But Catherine saw how pale and languid 
 she looked, and stood firm. ‘No, Lucy, that 
 would be unreasonable; Jane ought not to have 
 made any difficulty. You have lost your colour. 
 lately and your appetite, and need a change more 
 than either of us. I shall write to Mrs. Tyke, 
 promising her and the doctor your company 
 next Thursday; Jane will make up her mind 
 like a good girl, and I am sure you, my dear, 
 will oblige me by not withholding your assent.’ 
 
 For the first time ‘my dear’ did not close 
 the debate. ‘Catherine,’ said Lucy, earnestly, 
 whilst, do what she would, tears gathered in 
 her eyes, ‘I am certain you will not press me 
 further, when I assure you that I do not feel 
 equal to paying this visit. I have felt weak 
 lately,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘and I cannot 
 tell you how much I long for the quiet of a 
 month at home rather than in that perpetual 
 
 bustle. Merely for my own sake, Jane must go.’ 
 
COMMONPLACE. 29 
 
 Catherine said no more just then; but later, 
 alone with Lucy, resumed the subject so far 
 as to ask whether she continued in the same 
 mind, and answered her flurried ‘yes’ by no 
 word of remonstrance, but by an affectionate 
 kiss. This was all which passed between them ; 
 neither then nor afterwards did the younger 
 sister feel certain whether Catherine had or had 
 not guessed her secret. 
 
 Miss Drum was invited to stay with Lucy 
 in her solitude, and gladly accepted the in- 
 vitation. Lucy was her favourite, and when 
 they were together, they petted each other very 
 tenderly. 
 
 Jane, having gained her point, recovered her 
 good humour, and lost no time in exposing 
 the deficiencies of her wardrobe. ‘Sister,’ she 
 said, smiling her prettiest and most coaxing 
 smile, ‘you can’t think how poor I am, and 
 how few clothes I’ve got.’ | 
 
 Catherine, trying to appear serenely un- 
 conscious of the drift of this speech, replied, 
 ‘Let us look over your wardrobe, dear, and 
 
 we will bring it into order. Lucy will help, 
 
30 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 I know, and we can have Miss Smith to work 
 here too, if necessary.’ 
 
 ‘Oh dear, no!’ cried Janes e* theres no 
 looking over what does not exist. If it comes 
 to furbishing up old tags and rags, here I 
 stay. Why, you’re as rich as Jews, you and 
 Lucy, and could give me five pounds a-piece 
 without ever missing it; and not so much of 
 a gift either, for I’m sure poor papa would 
 never have left me such a beggar if he had 
 known about me.’ 
 
 This argument had been used more than 
 once before. Catherine looked hurt, Lucy 
 said, ‘You should remember that you have 
 exactly the same allowance for dress and pocket- 
 money that we have ourselves, and we both 
 make it do.’ 
 
 ‘Of course,’ retorted Jane, with latent spite- 
 fulness; ‘and when I’m as old and wise as you 
 two, I may manage as well; but at present it 
 is different. Besides, if I spend most on dress, 
 you spend most on books and music, and dress 
 is a great deal more amusing. And if I 
 dressed like an old fright, I should like to know 
 
COMMONPLACE. 31 
 
 who’d look at me. You don’t want me to 
 be another old maid, I suppose.’ 
 
 Lucy flushed up, and tried to keep her tem- 
 per in silence: her sore point had been touched. 
 Catherine, accustomed in such cases to protest 
 first and yield afterwards, but half ashamed 
 that Lucy’s eye should mark the process from 
 beginning to end, drew Jane out of the room, 
 and with scarcely a word more wrote her a 
 cheque for ten pounds, and dropped the subject 
 of looking over her wardrobe. 
 
 An ‘hour after the sisters had started for 
 London, Miss Drum arrived to take their place. 
 
 Miss Drum was tall in figure, rather slim 
 and well preserved, with pale complexion, hair, 
 and eyes, and an unvarying tone of voice. 
 She was mainly describable by negatives. She 
 was neither unladylike, nor clever, nor deficient 
 in education. She was old, but not very infirm; 
 and neither an altogether obsolete nor a youth- 
 ful dresser, though with some tendency towards 
 the former style. Propriety was the most sa- 
 lient of her attributes, and was just too salient 
 
 to be perfect. She was not at all amusing; in 
 
32 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 fact, rather tiresome, with an unflagging in- 
 tention of being agreeable. From her Catherine 
 acquired a somewhat old-fashioned formality ; 
 from her, also, high principles, and the instinct 
 of self-denial. And because unselfishness, itself 
 a negative, was Miss Drum’s characteristic 
 virtue, and because her sympathy, however 
 prosy in expression, was sterling in quality, 
 therefore Lucy, sore with unavowed heart-sorrow, 
 could bear her companionship, and run down 
 to welcome her at the door with affectionate 
 
 cordiality. 
 
33 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LONDON-BRIDGE STATION, with its whirl of 
 traffic, seems no bad emblem of London itself: 
 vast, confused, busy, orderly, more or less dirty; 
 implying enormous wealth in some quarter or 
 other ; providing luxuries for the rich, neces- 
 saries for the poor; thronged by rich and poor 
 alike, idle and’ industrious, young and old, men 
 and women: 
 
 London-Bridge Station at its cleanest is 
 soiled by thousands of feet passing to and fro: 
 on a drizzling day each foot deposits mud in 
 its passage, takes and gives mud, leaves its 
 impress in mud; on such a day the Station is 
 not attractive to persons fresh from the unfailing 
 cleanliness of sea coast and inland country ; and 
 on such a day, when, by the late afternoon, the 
 drizzle had done, and the platform had suffered 
 
 D 
 
34 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 each its worst,—on such a day Miss Charlmont 
 and her pretty sister, fresh and fastidious from 
 sea salt and country sweetness, arrived at the 
 Station. 
 
 Dr. Tyke’s carriage was there to meet the 
 train. Dr. Tyke’s coachman, footman, and 
 horses were fat, as befitted a fat master, whose 
 circumstances and whose temperament might be 
 defined as fat also; for ease, good-nature, and 
 fat have an obvious affinity. 
 
 ‘Should the hood be up or down?’ The 
 rain had ceased, and Miss Charlmont, who 
 always described London as stifling, answered, 
 ‘Up... Jane, leaning back with an elegant ease, 
 which nature had given and art perfected, felt 
 secretly ashamed of Catherine, who sat bolt 
 upright, according to her wont, and would no 
 more have lolled in an open carriage than on 
 the high-backed, scant-seated chair of her school- 
 days. | | 
 The City looked’ at once dingy and glaring ; 
 dingy with unconsumed smoke, and glaring 
 here and there with early-lighted gas. When 
 Waterloo Bridge had been crossed matters 
 
COMMONPLACE. 35 
 
 brightened somewhat, and Oxford Street showed 
 not amiss. Along the Edgware Road dirt and 
 dinginess re-asserted their sway ; but when the 
 carriage finally turned into Notting Hill, and 
 drove amongst the Crescents, Roads, and Gar- 
 dens of that cleanly suburb, a winding-up 
 shower, brisk and brief, not drizzly, cleared the 
 way for the sun, and finished off the afternoon 
 with a rainbow. | 
 
 Dr. Tyke’s abode was named Appletrees 
 House, though the orchard whence the name 
 was derived had disappeared before the memory 
 of the oldest inhabitant. The carriage drew up, 
 the door swung open: down the staircase came 
 flying a little, slim woman, with outstretched 
 hands and words of welcome; auburn-haired, 
 though she had outlived the last of the fifties, 
 and cheerful, though the want of children had not 
 ceased to be felt as a hopeless disappointment : 
 a pale-complexioned, high-voiced, little woman, 
 all that remained of that fair cousin Lucy of 
 bygone years and William Charlmont. 
 
 Behind her, and more deliberately, descended 
 her husband, elastic of step, rotund of figure, 
 
36 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 bright-eyed, rosy, white-headed, not altogether 
 unlike a robin redbreast that had been caught 
 in the snow. Mrs. Tyke had a habit of running 
 on with long-winded, perfectly harmless common- 
 places; but notwithstanding her garrulity, she 
 never uttered an ill-natured word or a false one. 
 Dr. Tyke, burdened with an insatiable love of 
 fun, and a ready, if not a witty, wit, was addicted 
 to venting jokes, repartees, and so-called anec- 
 dotes; the last not always unimpeachably 
 authentic. 
 
 Such were the hosts. The house was large 
 and light, with a laboratory for the Doctor, who 
 dabbled: in chemistry, and an aviary for his wife, 
 who doted on pets. The walls of the sitting- 
 rooms were hung with engravings, not with 
 family portraits, real or sham: in fact, no sham 
 was admitted within ‘doors, unless imaginary 
 anecdotes and quotations must be stigmatized 
 as shams; and as to these, when taxed with 
 invention, the Doctor would only reply by his 
 favourite Italian phrase: ‘Se zon 2 vero & ben 
 
 trovato.’ 
 
COMMONPLACE. 37 
 
 ‘Jane, said Mrs. Tyke, as the three ladies 
 sat over a late breakfast, the Doctor having 
 already retreated to the laboratory and his 
 newspaper :—‘ Jane, I think you have made a 
 ~ conquest.’ | 
 
 Jane looked down in silence, with a conscious 
 simper. Catherine spoke rather anxiously: 
 ‘Indeed, Cousin Lucy, I have noticed what you 
 allude to, and I have spoken to Jane about not 
 encouraging Mr. Durham. He is not at all a 
 man she can really like, and she ought to be 
 most careful not to let herself be misunderstood. 
 Jane, you ought indeed.’ 
 
 But Jane struck merrily in: ‘Mr. Durham is 
 old enough and—ahem !—handsome enough to 
 take care of himself, sister. And, besides,’ with 
 a touch of mimicry, which recalled his pompous 
 manner, ‘Orpingham Place, my dear madam, 
 Orpingham Place is a very fine place, a very 
 fine place indeed. Our pineapples can really 
 hardly be got rid of, and our prize pigs can’t 
 see out of their eyes; they can’t indeed, my 
 dear young lady, though it’s not pretty talk 
 for a pretty young lady to listen to.—Very 
 
38 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 well, if the pines and the pigs are smitten, why 
 shouldn’t I marry the pigs and the pines ?’ 
 
 ‘Why not?’ cried Mrs. Tyke with a laugh ; 
 but Miss Charlmont, looking disturbed, rejoined : 
 ‘Why not, certainly, if you like Mr. Durham; 
 but do you like Mr. Durham? And, whether 
 or not, you ought not to laugh at him,’ 
 
 Jane pouted: ‘Really one would think I 
 was a child still! As to Mr. Durham, when he 
 knows his own mind and speaks, you may be 
 quite sure I shall know my own mind and give 
 him his answer.— Orpingham Place, my dear 
 Miss Catherine, the finest place in the county ; 
 the finest place in three counties, whatever my 
 friend the Duke may say. A charming neigh- 
 bourhood, Miss Catherine; her Grace the Duchess, 
 the most affable woman you can imagine, and my 
 lady the Marchioness, a fine woman—a very > 
 fine woman. But they can’t raise such pines as 
 my pines; they can’t do it, you know; they 
 haven’t the means, you know.— Come now, 
 sister, don’t look cross; when I’m Mrs. Durham 
 you shall have your slice off the pigs and the 
 pines.’ 
 
39 
 
 Cree LER VI. 
 
 EVERILDA STELLA, poor Lucy’s unconscious 
 rival, had married out of the schoolroom. Pretty 
 she was not, but with much piquancy of face 
 and manner, and a talent for private theatricals. 
 These advantages, gilded, perhaps, by her re- 
 putation as presumptive heiress, attracted to 
 her a suitor, to whose twenty years’ seniority 
 she felt no objection. Mr. Hartley wooed and 
 won her in the brief space of an Easter holiday ; 
 and bore her, nothing loth, to London, to 
 enjoy the gaieties of the season. Somewhat 
 to the bridegroom’s annoyance, Mr. Durham 
 accompanied the newly-married couple to town, 
 and shared their pretty house at Kensington. 
 Alan Hartley, a favourite nephew of Dr. 
 
 Tyke, had, as we know, been very intimate 
 
40 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 at his house in old days. Now he was proud 
 to present his little wife of sixteen to his uncle 
 and aunt, though somewhat mortified at having 
 also to introduce his father-in-law, whose pom- 
 pous manners, and habit of dragging titled 
 personages into his discourse, put him to the 
 blush. Alan had dropped Everilda, and called 
 his wife simply Stella; her father dubbed her — 
 Pug; Everilda she was named, in accordance 
 with the taste of her peerage-studious mother. 
 This lady was accustomed to describe herself 
 as of a north-country family—a Leigh of the 
 Leazes ; which conveyed an old-manorial notion 
 to persons unacquainted with Newcastle-on- 
 Tyne. But this by the way: Mrs. Durham had 
 died before the opening of our tale. 
 
 At their first visit they were shown into the 
 drawing-room by a smiling maid-servant, and 
 requested to wait, as Dr. and Mrs. Tyke were 
 expected home every moment. Stella looked 
 very winning in her smart hat and feather and 
 jaunty jacket, and Alan would have abandoned | 
 himself to all the genial glow of a bridegroom, 
 but for Mr. Durham’s behaviour. That gentle- 
 
COMMONPLACE. AI 
 
 man began by placing his hat on the floor 
 between his feet, and flicking his boots with 
 a crimson silk pocket-handkerchief. This done, 
 he commenced a survey of the apartment, ac- 
 companied by an apt running comment,— 
 ‘Hem, no pictures—cheap engravings; a four- 
 and-sixpenny Brussels carpet ;'a smallish mirror, 
 wants regilding. Pug, my pet, that’s a neat 
 antimacassar: see if you can’t carry off the 
 stitch in your eye. A piano—a harp; fiddle- 
 stick !’ 
 
 When Dr. and Mrs. Tyke entered, they 
 found the Hartleys looking uncomfortable, and 
 Mr. Durham red and pompous after his wont; 
 also, in opening the door, they caught the 
 sound of ‘fiddlestick!’ All these symptoms, 
 with the tact of kindness, they ignored. The 
 bride was kissed, the father-in-law taken for 
 granted, and Alan welcomed as if no one in 
 the room had looked guilty. 
 
 ‘Come to lunch and take a hunch,’ said 
 the Doctor, offering his arm to Stella. ‘Mother 
 Bunch is rhyme, but not reason; you shall 
 munch and I will scrunch—that’s both. “Ah! 
 
42 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 you may well look surprised,” as the foreign 
 ambassador admitted when the ancient Britons 
 noticed that he had no tail. But you won't 
 mind when you know us better; I’m no worse 
 than a barrel-organ.’ 
 
 Yet with all Dr. Tyke’s endeavour to be 
 funny, and this time it cost him an effort, 
 and with all his wife’s facile commonplaces, 
 two of the guests seemed ill at ease. Alan 
 felt, as it were with every nerve, the impression 
 his father-in-law must produce, while Stella, 
 less sensitive for herself, was out of countenance 
 for her husband’s sake. Mr. Durham, indeed, 
 was pompous and unabashed as ever; but 
 whilst he answered commonplace remarks by 
 remarks no less commonplace, he appeared to 
 be, as in fact he was, occupied in scrutinizing, 
 and mentally valuing, the plate and china. 
 
 ‘Charming weather, said Mrs. Tyke, wit 
 an air of intelligent originality. 
 
 ‘Yes, ma’am; fine weather, indeed; billing 
 and cooing weather; ha! ha!’ with a glance 
 across the table. ‘Now I dare say your young 
 
 ladies know what to do in this weather.’ 
 
COMMONPLACE. 43 
 
 “We have no children, and Mrs. Tyke . 
 whispered, lest her husband should hear. Then, 
 after a pause, ‘I dare say Orpingham Place was 
 just coming into beauty when you left.’ 
 
 , Mr. Durham thrust his thumbs into his 
 waistcoat-pockets, and leaned back for conver- 
 sation. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say to 
 that,—I don’t indeed; I don’t know which the 
 season is when Orpingham Place is of in 
 beauty. Its conservatories were quite a local 
 lion last winter—quite a local lion, as my 
 friend the Duke remarked to me; and he 
 said he must bring the Duchess over to see 
 them, and he did bring her Grace over; and 
 I gave them a luncheon in the largest con- 
 servatory, such as I don’t suppose they sit down 
 to every day. For the nobility have blood, if 
 you please, and the literary beggars are wel- 
 come to all the brains they ’ve got’ (the Doctor 
 smiled, Alan winced visibly); ‘but you’ll find 
 it’s us city men who’ve got backbone, and 
 backbone’s the best to wear, as I observed to 
 the Duke that very day when I gave him 
 such a glass of port as he hasn’t got in his 
 
44 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 cellar. I said it to him, just as T say it to 
 you, ma’am, and he didn’t contradict me; in 
 fact, you know, he couldn't.’ 
 
 After this it might have been difficult to 
 start conversation afresh, when, happily, Jane 
 entered, late for luncheon, and with an apology » 
 for her sister, who was detained elsewhere. She 
 went through the necessary introductions, and 
 took her seat between Dr. Tyke and Mr, 
 Durham, thus commanding an advantageous 
 view of the bride, whom she mentally set 
 down as nothing particular in any way. 
 
 Alan had never met Jane before. He asked 
 her after Miss Charlmont and Lucy, after Lucy 
 especially, who was ‘a very charming old friend’ 
 of his, as he explained to Stella. For some 
 minutes Mr. Durham sat silent, much im- 
 pressed by Jane’s beauty and grace; this gave 
 people breathing-time for the recovery of ease 
 and good humour; and it was not till Dr. Tyke 
 had uttered three successive jokes, and every one, 
 except Mr. Durham, had laughed at them, that 
 the master of Orpingham Place could think of 
 any remark worthy of his attractive neighbour ; 
 
COMMONPLACE. 46 
 
 and then, with much originality, he too ob- 
 served,—‘ Charming weather, Miss Jane.’ 
 
 And Jane answered with a smile; for was 
 not this the widower of Orpingham Place? 
 
 That Mr. Durham’s conversation on sub- 
 sequent occasions gained in range of subject, 
 ‘is clear from Jane’s quotations in the last 
 chapter. And that Mr. Durham was alive to 
 Jane’s fascinations appeared pretty evident, as 
 he not only called frequently at Appletrees 
 House, but made up parties, to which Dr. and 
 Mrs. Tyke, and the Miss Charlmonts, were in- 
 variably asked. 
 
46 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 GAIETY in London, sadness by the sea. 
 
 Lucy did her very best to entertain Miss 
 Drum with the cheerfulness of former visits ; 
 in none of which had she shown herself more 
 considerate of the old lady’s tastes than now. 
 She made breakfast half-an-hour earlier than 
 usual; she culled for her interesting scraps from 
 the newspaper; she gave her an arm up and 
 down the Esplanade: on sunny days; she re- 
 claimed the most unpromising strayed stitches 
 in her knitting; she sang her old-fashioned 
 favourite ballads for an hour or so before tea- 
 time, and after tea till bed-time played energeti- 
 cally at backgammon: yet Miss Drum was 
 sensible of a change. All Lucy’s efforts could 
 not make her cheeks rosy and plump, and her 
 laugh spontaneous; could not make her step 
 elastic or her eyes bright. 
 
COMMONPLACE. 47 
 
 It is easy to ridicule a woman nearly thirty 
 years old for fancying herself beloved without a 
 word said, and suffering deeply under disappoint- 
 ment: yet Lucy Charlmont was no contemptible 
 person. However at one time deluded, she had 
 never let a hint of her false hopes reach Mr. 
 Hartley’s observation; and however now dis- 
 appointed, she fought bravely against a betrayal 
 of her plight. Alone in her own room she 
 might suffer visibly and keenly, but with any 
 eye upon her she would not give way. Some- 
 times it felt as if the next moment the strain 
 on her nerves might wax unendurable; but such 
 a next moment never came, and she endured 
 still. Only, who is there strong enough, day 
 after day, to strain strength to the utmost, and 
 yet give no sign? 
 
 ‘My dear, said Miss Drum, contemplating 
 Lucy over her spectacles and across the back- 
 gammon-board one evening when the eyes 
 looked more sunken than ever, and the whole 
 face more haggard, ‘I am sure you do not take 
 exercise enough. You really must do more 
 
 than give me an arm on the Esplanade; all 
 
48 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 your bloom is gone, and you are much too thin. 
 Promise me that you will take at least one long 
 walk in the day whenever the weather is not 
 unfavourable.’ 
 
 Lucy stroked her old friend’s hand fondly: 
 ‘I will take walks when my sisters are at 
 home again; but I have not you here al- 
 ways.’ 
 
 Miss Drum insisted: ‘Do not say so, my 
 dear, or I shall feel bound to go home again; 
 and that I should not like at all, as we both 
 know. Pray oblige me by promising.’ 
 
 Thus urged, Lucy promised, and in secret 
 rejoiced that for at least an hour or two of 
 the day she should thenceforward be alone, 
 relieved from the scrutiny of those dim, affec- 
 tionate eyes. And truly she needed some 
 relief. By day she could forbid her thoughts to 
 shape themselves, even mentally, into words, 
 although no effort could banish the vague, dull 
 sorrow which was all that might now remain 
 to her of remembrance. But by night, when 
 sleep paralysed self-restraint, then her dreams 
 were haunted by distorted spectres of the past; 
 
COMMONPLACE. 49 
 
 never alluring or endearing—for this she was 
 thankful—but sometimes monstrous, and always 
 impossible to escape from. Night after night 
 she would awake from such dreams, struggling 
 and sobbing, with less and less conscious strength 
 to resume daily warfare. 
 
 Soon she allowed no weather to keep her 
 indoors at the hour for walking, and Miss Drum, 
 who was a hardy disciple of the old school, 
 encouraged her activity. She always sought 
 the sea, not the smooth, civilised esplanade, but 
 the rough, irreclaimable shingle ;—to stray to 
 and fro till the last moment of her freedom ; 
 to and fro, to and fro, at once listless and un- 
 resting, with wide, absent eyes fixed on the 
 monotonous waves, which they did not see. 
 Gradually a morbid fancy grew upon her that 
 one day she should behold her father’s body 
 washed ashore, and that she should know the 
 face: from a waking fancy, this began to haunt 
 her dreams with images unutterably loathsome. 
 Then she walked no more on the shingle, but 
 took to wandering along green lanes and country 
 roads. 
 
 E 
 
50 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 But no one struggling persistently against 
 weakness fails to overcome: also, however pro- 
 saic the statement may sound, air and exercise 
 will take effect on persons of sound constitution. 
 Something of Lucy’s lost colour showed itself, by 
 fits and starts at first, next steadily ; her appetite 
 came back, however vexed she might feel at its 
 return; at last fatigue brought sounder sleep, and 
 the hollow eyes grew less sunken. This refresh- 
 ing sleep was the turning-point in her case ; it 
 supplied strength for the day, whilst each day 
 in its turn brought with it fewer and fewer 
 demands upon her strength. Seven weeks after 
 Miss Drum exacted the promise, Lucy, though 
 graver of aspect, and at heart sadder than before 
 Alan Hartley’s wedding, had recovered in a 
 measure her look of health and her interest in 
 the details of daily life. She no longer greatly 
 dreaded meeting her sisters when at length 
 their much-prolonged absence should terminate ; 
 and in spite of some nervousness in the antici- 
 pation, felt confident that even a sight of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Hartley would not upset the outward 
 
 composure of her decorum. 
 
COMMONPLACE. 51 
 
 Miss Drum triumphed in the success of her 
 prescription, and brought forward parallel in- 
 stances within her own experience. ‘That is 
 right,’ she would say, ‘my dear; take another 
 slice of the mutton where it is not overdone. 
 There is nothing like exercise for giving an 
 appetite, only the mutton should not be over- 
 done. You cannot remember Sarah Smith, who 
 was with me before your dear mother entrusted 
 you to my care; but I assure you three doctors 
 had given her over as a confirmed invalid when 
 I prescribed for her ;’ and the old lady laughed 
 gently at her own wit. ‘I made her take a 
 walk every day, let the weather be what it 
 might; and gave her nice, juicy mutton to eat, 
 with a change to beef, or a chicken, now and 
 then for variety; and very soon you would not 
 have known her for the same girl ; and Dr. Grey 
 remarked, in his funny way, that I ought to be 
 an M.D. myself. Or, again: ‘Lucy, my dear, 
 you recollect my French assistant, Mademoiselle 
 Leclerc, what a fine, strong young woman she 
 
 was when you knew her. Now when she first 
 
Re COMMONPLACE. 
 
 came to me she was pale and peaking, afraid 
 of wet feet or an open window; afraid of this, 
 that, and the other, always tired, and with no 
 appetite except for sweets. Mutton and exer- 
 cise made her what you remember; and before 
 she went home to France to marry an old 
 admirer, she thanked me with tears in her eyes 
 for having made her love mutton. She said 
 “love” when she should have said “like ;” but 
 I was too proud and pleased to correct her 
 English then, I only answered, “Ah, dear 
 Mademoiselle, always love your husband and 
 love your mutton.’ 
 
 Lucy had a sweet, plaintive voice, to which 
 her own secret sorrow now added a certain 
 simple pathos; and when in the twilight she 
 sang ‘Alice Grey,’ or ‘She wore a wreath of 
 roses, or some other old favourite, good Miss 
 Drum would sit and listen till the tears gathered 
 behind her spectacles. Were tears in the singer’s 
 eyes also? She thought now with more tender- 
 ness than ever before of the suitors she had 
 rejected in her hopeful, happy youth, especially 
 
COMMONPLACE. 53 
 
 of a certain Mr. Tresham, who had wished her 
 all happiness as he turned to leave her in his 
 dignified regret. She had always had a great 
 liking for Mr. Tresham, and now she could feel 
 for him. 
 
54 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ON the 28th of June, four letters came to Lucy 
 by the first delivery :— 
 
 Jb. 
 
 My dear Lucy, 
 
 Pray do not think me thoughtless if I 
 once more ask whether you will sanction an 
 extension of our holiday. Mrs. Tyke presses 
 us to remain with her through July, and Dr. 
 Tyke is no less urgent. When I hinted that 
 their hospitality had already been trespassed 
 upon, the Doctor quoted Hone (as he said: I 
 doubt if it is there) :— 
 
 ‘In July 
 No good-bye ; 
 In August 
 
 Part we must.’ 
 
COMMONPLACE. 55 
 
 I then suggested that you may be feeling 
 moped at home, and in want of change; but, of 
 course, the Doctor had still an answer ready :— 
 
 Tell Lucy from me, that if she takes you away 
 
 I shall take it very ill, as the homceopath said 
 when his learned brother substituted cocoa-nibs 
 for champagne. And all the time Cousin Lucy 
 was begging us to stay, and Jane was looking 
 at me so earnestly: in short, dear Lucy, if ‘No’ 
 must be said, pray will you say it; for I have 
 been well-nigh talked over. 
 
 And, indeed, we must make allowances for 
 Jane, if she seems a little selfish ; for, to let you 
 into a secret, I believe she means to accept 
 Mr. Durham if he makes her the offer we all are 
 expecting from him. At first I was much dis- 
 pleased at her giving him any encouragement, 
 for it appeared to me impossible that she could 
 view his attentions with serious approbation : 
 but I have since become convinced that she 
 knows her own mind, and is not trifling with 
 him. How it is possible for her to contemplate 
 union with one so unrefined and ostentatious I 
 
 cannot conceive, but I have no power to restrain 
 
56 - COMMONPLACE. 
 
 her ; and when I endeavoured to exert my in- 
 fluence against him, she told me in the plainest 
 terms that she preferred luxury with Mr. Durham 
 to dependence without him. Oh, Lucy, Lucy! 
 have we ever given her cause to resent her po- 
 sition so bitterly? Were she my own child, I 
 do not think I could love. her more or care for 
 her more anxiously: but she has never under- 
 stood me, never done me justice. I speak of 
 myself only, not of you also, because I shall 
 never marry, and all I have has been held simply 
 in trust for her: with you it is, and ought to be, 
 different. 
 
 But you must not suffer for Jane’s wilfulness. 
 If you are weary of our absence I really must 
 leave her under Cousin Lucy’s care—for she 
 positively declines to accompany me home at 
 present—and return to every-day duties. I am 
 sick enough of pleasuring, I do assure you, as it 
 is; though, were Mr. Durham a different man, 
 I should only rejoice, as you may suppose. 
 
 Well, as to news, there is not much worth 
 transmitting. Jane has been to the Opera three 
 , times, and tothe English play once. Mr. Durham 
 
COMMONPLACE. Ae 
 
 sends the boxes, and Dr. and Mrs. Tyke never 
 tire of the theatre. The last time they went to 
 the Opera they brought home with them to 
 supper Mr. Tresham, whom you may recollect 
 our meeting here more than once, and who has 
 lately returned to England from the East. 
 Through some misunderstanding he expected 
 to see you instead of me, and looked out of 
 countenance for a moment: then he asked after 
 you, and begged me to remember him to you 
 when I wrote. He appeared much interested in 
 hearing our home news, and concerned when I 
 mentioned that you have seemed less strong 
 lately. Pray send compliments for him when 
 next you write, in case we should see him 
 again. 
 
 Mr. Hartley I always liked, and now I like 
 his wife also: she is an engaging little thing, 
 and gets us all to call her Stella. You, I am 
 sure, will be fond of her when you know her. 
 How I wish her father resembled her! She is 
 as simple and as merry as a bird, and witnesses 
 Mr. Durham’s attentions to Jane with perfect 
 equanimity. As to Mr. Hartley, he seems as 
 
58 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 much amused as if the bulk of his wife’s enor- 
 mous fortune were not at stake; yet any 
 one must see the other man is in earnest. 
 Stella is reckoned a clever actress, and private 
 theatricals of some sort are impending. I say 
 ‘of some sort,’ because Jane, who is indisputably 
 the beauty of our circle, would prefer zableaux 
 vivants ; and I know not which will carry her 
 point. 
 
 My love to Miss Drum. Don’t think me 
 selfish for proposing to remain longer away 
 from you; but, indeed, I am being drawn in 
 two opposite directions by two dear sisters, of 
 whom I only wish that one had as much good 
 sense and good taste as the other. 
 
 Your affectionate sister, 
 CATHERINE CHARLMONT. 
 
 IT. 
 My dear Lucy, 
 I know Catherine is writing, and will 
 make the worst of everything, just as if I 
 was cut out to be an old maid. 
 
COMMONPLACE. 59 
 
 Surely at my age one may know one’s 
 own mind; and, though I’m not going to say 
 before I am asked whether I like Mr. Durham, 
 we are all very well aware, my dear Lucy, 
 that I like money and comforts. It’s one 
 thing for Catherine and you, who have enough 
 and to spare, to split hairs as to likes and dis- 
 likes; but it’s quite another for me who have 
 not a penny of my own, thanks to poor dear 
 papa’s blindness. Now do be a dear, and tell 
 sister she is welcome to stay this one month 
 more; for, to confess the truth, if I remain 
 here alone I may find myself at my wit’s end 
 for a pound or two one of these days. Dress 
 is so dear, and I had rather never go out 
 again than be seen a dowdy; and if we are 
 to have tableaux I shall want all sorts of 
 things. I don’t hold at all with charades and 
 such nonsense, in which people are supposed 
 to be witty; give me a piece in which one’s 
 arms are of some use; but of course, Stella, 
 who has no more arm than a pump-handle, 
 votes for theatricals. 
 
 The Hartleys are coming to-day, and, of 
 
60 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 course, Mr. Durham, to take us after luncheon 
 to the Crystal Palace. There is a grand con- 
 cert coming off, and a flower-show, which would 
 all be yawny enough but for the toilettes. I 
 dare say I shall see something to set me raving ; 
 just as last time I was at the Botanic Gardens, 
 I pointed out the loveliest suit of Brussels 
 lace over white silk; but I might as well ask 
 Catherine for wings to fly with. : 
 
 Good-bye, my dear Lucy. Don’t be cross 
 this once, and when I have a house of my 
 own, I’ll do you a good turn. 
 
 Your affectionate sister, 
 JANE. 
 
 P.S. I enclose Mr. Durham’s photograph, 
 which he fished and fished to make me ask 
 for, so at last I begged it to gratify the poor 
 man. Don’t you see all Orpingham Place in 
 
 his speaking countenance? 
 
COMMONPLACE. 61 
 
 ITT. 
 
 My dearest Lucy, 
 
 You owe me a kindness to balance my 
 disappointment at missing your visit. So please 
 let Catherine know that she and Jane may 
 give us a month more. Dr. Tyke wishes it 
 no less than I do, and Mr. Durham perhaps 
 more than either of us; but a word to the 
 wise. 
 
 Your affectionate cousin, 
 Lucy C. TYKE: 
 
 P.S. The Doctor wont send regards, because 
 he means to write to you himself. 
 
 * 
 
 IV. 
 
 Dear Lucy, 
 
 If you agree with the snail, you find 
 your house just the size for one ; and lest bestial 
 example should possess less force than human, 
 I further remind you of what Realmah the 
 
62 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Great affirms,—‘I met two blockheads, but the 
 one sage kept himself to himself’ All which 
 sets forth to you the charms of solitude, which, 
 as you are such a proper young lady, is, of 
 course, the only anybody you can be in love 
 with, and of whose society I am bent on afford- 
 ing you prolonged enjoyment. 
 
 This can be effected, if your sisters stay 
 here another month, and indeed you must not 
 say us nay; for on your ‘yes’ hangs a tale 
 which your ‘no’ may for ever forbid to wag. 
 Miss Catherine looks glummish, but Jenny is 
 all sparkle and roses, like this same month of 
 June; and never is shé more sparkling or rosier 
 than when the master of Orpingham Place hails 
 her with that ever fresh remark, ‘Fine day, 
 Miss Jane.’ Don’t nip the summer crops of 
 Orpingham Place in the bud, or, rather, don’t 
 retard them by unseasonable frost; for I can’t 
 fancy my friend will be put off with anything 
 less than a distinct ‘no; and when it comes 
 to that, I think Miss Jane, in her trepidation, 
 will say ‘yes. And if you are a good girl, 
 
 and let the little one play out her play, when 
 
COMMONPLACE. 63 
 
 she has come into the sugar and spice and all 
 that’s nice, you shall come to Notting Hill 
 this very next May, and while the sun shines 
 make your hay. 
 
 Your venerable cousin’s husband 
 (by which I merely mean), 
 Your cousin’s venerable husband, 
 FRANCIS TYKE, M.D. 
 
 N.B. I append M.D. to remind you of 
 my professional status, and so quell you by 
 the weight of my advice. 
 
 Lucy examined the photograph of Mr. 
 Durham with a double curiosity, for he was 
 Mr. Hartley’s father-in-law as well as Jane’s 
 presumptive suitor. She looked, and saw a 
 face not badly featured, but vulgar in expression ; 
 Befeute- not amiss, but ill at. ease in) its 
 studied attitude and superfine clothes. As- 
 suredly it was not George Durham, but the 
 
64 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 master of Orpingham Place who possessed at- 
 tractions for Jane; and Lucy felt, for a sister 
 who could be thus attracted, the sting of a 
 humiliation such as her own baseless hopes 
 had never cost her. 
 
 Each of her correspondents was answered 
 with judicious variation in the turn of the 
 sentences. To Jane she wrote dryly, return- 
 ing Mr. Durham’s portrait wrapped in a. ten- 
 pound note; an arrangement which, in her 
 eyes, showed a symbolic appropriateness, lost 
 for the moment on her sister. Catherine she 
 answered far more affectionately, begging her 
 on no account to curtail a visit which might 
 be of importance to Jane’s prospects; and on 
 the flap of the envelope, she added compli- 
 ments to Mr. Tresham. 
 
65 
 
 CHAPTER: IX. 
 
 Mr. TRESHAM had loved Lucy Charlmont 
 sincerely, and until she refused him had 
 entertained a good hope of success. Even at 
 the moment of refusal she avowed the liking 
 for him which all through their acquaintance 
 had been obvious; and then, and not till then, 
 it dawned upon him that her indifference 
 towards himself had its root in preference for 
 another. But he was far too honourable a 
 man either to betray or to aim at verifying his 
 suspicion; and though he continued to visit at 
 Dr. Tyke’s, where Alan Hartley was so often to 
 be seen idling away time under the comfortable 
 conviction that he was doing no harm to him- 
 self or to any one else, it was neither at once, 
 nor of set purpose, that Arthur Tresham pene- 
 trated Lucy’s secret. Alan and himself had been 
 F 
 
66 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 College friends ; he understood him thoroughly ; 
 his ready good-nature, which seemed to make 
 every one a principal person in his regard ; 
 his open hand that liked spending; his want 
 of deep or definite purpose; his unconcern 
 as to possible consequences. Then Lucy,—in 
 whom Mr. Tresham had been on one point 
 wofully mistaken,—she was so composed and 
 so cordial to all her friends; there was about 
 her such womanly sweetness, such unpretentious, 
 dignified reserve towards all: her face would 
 light up so brightly when he, or any other, 
 spoke what interested her, not seldom, certainly, 
 when fe spoke:—even after a sort of clue 
 had come into his hands, it was some time 
 before he felt sure of any difference between 
 her manner to Alan and to others. When 
 the conviction forced itself upon him, he grieved 
 more for her than for himself; he knew his 
 friend too intimately to mistake his pleasure 
 in being amused for any anxiety to make 
 himself beloved; he knew about Alan much 
 that Lucy did not and could not guess, and 
 from the beginning inferred the end. 
 
COMMONPLACE. ° 67 
 
 In the middle of that London season 
 Catherine and Lucy returned to Brompton-on- 
 Sea; and before August had started the main 
 stream of tourists from England to the con- 
 tinent, Mr. Tresham packed up his knapsack, 
 and, staff in hand, set off on a solitary ex- 
 pedition, of undetermined length, to the East. 
 He was neither a rich nor a poor man; had 
 been called to the bar, but without pursuing 
 his profession, and was not tied to any given 
 spot; he went away to recruit his spirits, 
 and, having recovered them, stayed on out of 
 sheer enjoyment. Yet, when one morning his 
 eye lighted on the Hartley-Durham marriage 
 in the ‘Times’ Supplement, home feeling stirred 
 within him; and he who, twenty-four hours 
 earlier, knew not whether he might not end 
 his days beside the blue Bosphorus, on the 
 evening of that same day had started west- 
 ward. 
 
 He felt curious, he would not own to him- 
 self that he felt specially interested, to know 
 Powetuey faced; and he» felt: curious; ine a 
 
 minor degree, to inspect her successful rival. 
 
68 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 With himself Lucy had not yet had a rival; 
 not yet, perhaps she might one day, he re- 
 peated to himself, only it had not happened 
 yet. And then the sweet, dignified face rose 
 before him kind and cheerful; cheerful still 
 in his memory, though he guessed that now 
 it must look saddened. He had never yet 
 seen it with a settled expression of sadness, 
 
 and he knew not how to picture it so. 
 
 Mr. Drum—or Mr. Gawkins Drum, as he 
 scrupulously called himself, on account of a 
 certain Mr. Drum, who lived somewhere and 
 went nowhere, and was held by all outsiders 
 to be in his dotage— Miss Drum’s brother, 
 Mr. Gawkins Drum, had for several years stood 
 as a gay young bachelor of sixty. Not that, 
 strictly speaking, any man (or, alas! any 
 woman) can settle down at sixty and there 
 remain; but at the last of a long series of 
 avowed birthday parties, Mr. Drum had drunk 
 his own health as being sixty that very day; 
 
COMMONPLACE. 69 
 
 this was now some years ago, and still, in 
 neighbourly parlance, Mr. Drum was no more 
 than sixty. At sixty-something-indefinite Gaw- 
 kins brought home a bride, who confessed to 
 sixty; and all Brompton-on-Sea indulged in a 
 laugh at their expense, till it oozed out that the 
 kindly old couple had gone through all the 
 hopes and disappointments of a many years’ 
 engagement, begun at a reasonable age for 
 such matters, and now terminated only because 
 the bedridden brother, to whom the bride had 
 devoted herself during an ordinary lifetime, 
 had at last ended his days in peace. “Mr. 
 and Mrs. Gawkins Drum forestalled their neigh- 
 bours’ laugh by their own, and soon the 
 laugh against them died out, and every one 
 accepted their house as amongst the pleasantest 
 resorts in Brompton-on-Sea. 
 
 Miss Drum, however, felt less leniently to- 
 wards her brother and sister-in-law, and de- 
 liberately regarded them from a shocked point 
 of view. The wedding took place at Richmond, 
 where the bride resided; and the honeymoon 
 
 came to an end whilst Lucy entertained her 
 
70 COMMONPLACE.’ 
 
 old friend, during that long visit at Notting 
 Hill, which promised to colour all Jane’s 
 future. 
 
 ‘My dear,’ said Miss Drum to her deferential 
 listener; ‘My dear, Sarah,—and Lucy felt that 
 that offending Sarah could only be the bride,— 
 ‘Sarah shall not suffer for Gawkins’ folly and 
 her own. I will not fail to visit her in her 
 new home, and to notice her on all proper 
 occasions, but I cannot save her from being 
 ridiculous. I did not wait till I was sixty 
 to make up my mind against wedlock, though 
 perhaps’—and the old lady bridled—‘I also 
 may have endured the preference of some in- 
 fatuated man. Lucy, my dear, take an old 
 woman’s advice: marry, if you mean to marry, 
 before you are sixty, or else’ “remain? dike 
 myself; otherwise, you make yourself simply 
 ridiculous.’ 
 
 And Lucy, smiling, assured her that she 
 would either marry before sixty or not at all; 
 and added, with some earnestness, that she 
 did not think she should ever marry. To 
 
 which Miss Drum answered with stateliness: 
 
COMMONPLACE. 71 
 
 ‘Very well; do one thing or do the other, only 
 do not become ridiculous.’ 
 
 Yet the old lady softened that evening, 
 when she found herself, as it were, within the 
 radius of the contemned bride. Despite her 
 sixty years, and in truth she looked less than 
 her age, Mrs. Gawkins Drum was a personable 
 little woman, with plump red cheeks, gentle eyes, 
 and hair of which the soft brown was threaded, 
 but not overpowered, by grey. There was no 
 affectation of youthfulness in her gown, which 
 was of slate-coloured silk; nor in her cap, 
 which came well on her head; nor in her 
 manner to her guests, which was cordial; nor 
 in her manner to her husband, which was 
 affectionate, with the undemonstrative affection- 
 ateness that might now have been appropriate | 
 had they married forty years earlier. 
 
 Her kiss of welcome was returned frostily 
 by Miss Drum, warmly by Lucy. Mr. Drum 
 at first looked a little sheepish under his sister’s 
 severe salutation. Soon all were seated at tea. 
 
 ‘Do you take cream and sugar?’ asked 
 
 the bride, looking at her new sister. 
 
72 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 ‘No sugar, I thank you, was the formal 
 reply. ‘And it will be better, Sarah, that 
 you should call me Elizabeth. Though I am 
 an old woman your years do not render it 
 unsuitable, and I wish to be sisterly.’ 
 
 ‘Thank you, dear Elizabeth,’ answered Mrs. 
 Gawkins, cheerily; ‘I hope, indeed, we shall 
 be sisterly. It would be sad times with me 
 if I found I had brought coldness into my 
 new home.’ | 
 
 But Miss Drum would not thaw yet. ‘Yes, 
 I have always maintained, and I maintain 
 still, that there must be faults on both sides 
 if a marriage, if any marriage whatever, in- 
 troduces dissension into a family circle. And 
 I will do my part, Sarah.’ . 
 
 ‘Yes, indeed; but Sarah knew not what 
 more to Say. 
 
 Mr. Drum struck in,—‘Lucy, my dear’— 
 she had been .a little girl, perched sion. 
 knee when her father asked him years before 
 to be trustee,—‘Lucy, my dear, you’re not 
 in full bloom. Look at my old lady, and 
 guess: what’s a recipe for roses ?’ 
 
COMMONPLACE. 73 
 
 ‘For shame, Gawkins!’ cried both old 
 ladies; one with a smile, the other with a 
 frown. 
 
 Still, as the evening wore on, Miss Drum 
 slowly thawed. Having, as it were once for 
 all, placed her hosts in the position of culprits 
 at the moral bar, having sat in judgment on 
 them, and convicted them in the ears of all 
 men (represented by Lucy), she admitted them 
 to mercy, and dismissed them with a qualified 
 pardon. What most softened her towards the 
 offending couple’ was their unequivocal pro- 
 fession of rheumatism. When she unbendingly 
 declined to remain seated at the supper-table 
 one minute beyond half-past ten, she alleged 
 rheumatism as her impelling motive; and Gaw- 
 kins and Sarah immediately proclaimed their 
 own rheumatic experience and sympathies. As 
 Miss Drum observed to Lucy on their way 
 home, ‘Old people don’t confess to rheumatism 
 if they wish to appear young.’ 
 
 Thus the feud subsided, though Miss Drum 
 to the end of her life occasionally spoke of 
 
 her sister-in-law as ‘that poor silly thing,’ and 
 
74 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 of her brother as of one who should have 
 known better. 
 
 Whilst, on her side, Mrs. Gawkins Drum 
 remarked to her husband, ‘What a very old- 
 looking woman that Miss Charlmont is, if 
 she’s not thirty, as you say. I never saw 
 
 such an old, faded-looking woman of her age.’ 
 
75 
 
 CHADTER X, 
 
 PARTIES ran high at Kensington and Notting 
 Hill. Stella stood up for charades, Jane for 
 tableaux. Mr. Hartley naturally sided with 
 his wife, Miss Charlmont held back from vol- 
 unteering any opinion, Mrs. Tyke voted for 
 the last speaker, Dr. Tyke ridiculed each al- 
 ternative ; at last Mr. Durham ingeniously threw 
 his weight into both scales, and won for both 
 parties a partial triumph. ‘Why not, asked 
 he,—‘ why not let Pug speak, and Miss Jane 
 be silent ?’ 
 
 This pacific suggestion once adopted, Dr. 
 Tyke proposed that a charade word should 
 be fixed upon, and performed by speech or 
 spectacle, as might suit the rival stars; for 
 instance, Love-apple. 
 
 But who was to be Love? 
 
76 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Everybody agreed in rejecting little boys; 
 and Jane, when directly appealed to, refused 
 to represent the Mother of love and laughter ; 
 ‘for,’ as she truly observed, ‘that would not be 
 Love, after all” Mr. Durham, looking laboriously 
 gallant, aimed at saying something neat and 
 pointed; he failed, yet Jane beamed a smile 
 upon his failure. Then Dr. Tyke proposed a 
 plaster Cupid; this, after some disputing, was 
 adopted, with vague accessories of processional 
 Greek girls, to be definitely worked out after- 
 wards. For ‘Apple’ Alan suggested Paris 
 and the rival goddesses, volunteering himself 
 as Paris: Jane should be Venus, and Catherine 
 would make a capital Juno. Jane accepted 
 her own part as a matter of course, but 
 doubted about her sister. ‘Yes,’ put in Miss 
 Charlmont, decisively, ‘I will be Juno, or any- 
 thing else which will help us forward a little.’ 
 So that was settled; but who should be 
 Minerva? Stella declined to figure as the 
 patroness of wisdom, and Jane drily observed, 
 that they ought all to be tall, or all to be 
 
 short, in her idea. At last a handsome, not 
 
COMMONPLACE. Tf 
 
 too handsome, friend, Lady Everett, was thought 
 of to take the part. The last scene Dr. Tyke 
 protested he should settle himself with Stella, 
 and not be worried any more about it. So 
 those two went into committee together, and 
 Alan edged in ere long for consultation; finally, 
 Miss Charlmont was appealed to, and the 
 matter was arranged amongst them without 
 being divulged to the rest. 
 
 But all was peace and plenty, smiles and 
 wax-candles, at Kensington, when at last the 
 evening came for the performance. Mrs. Hart- 
 ley’s drawing-rooms being much more spacious 
 than Mrs. Tyke’s, had been chosen for con- 
 venience, and about two hundred guests as- 
 sembled to hear Stella declaim and see Jane 
 attitudinize, as either faction expressed it. Good- 
 natured Mrs. Tyke played the hostess, whilst 
 Mrs. Hartley remained occult in the green- 
 room. Dr. Tyke was manager and prompter. 
 Mr. Durham, vice Paris- Hartley, welcomed 
 people in a cordial, fussy manner, apologising 
 for the smallness of London rooms, and re- 
 
 eretfully alluding to the vast scale of Orpingham 
 
78 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Place, ‘where a man can be civil to his friends 
 without treading on their toes or their tails— 
 ha! ha!’ 
 
 But there is a limit to all things, even 
 fussiness has an end. At last every one 
 worth waiting for had arrived, been received, 
 been refreshed. Orpingham Place died out 
 of the conversation. People exchanged common- 
 places, and took their seats; having taken 
 their seats they exchanged more common- 
 places. ‘What’s the word ?’—‘ It’s such a bore 
 guessing: I never guess anything.‘ People 
 ought to tell the word beforehand.’—‘ What a 
 horrible man! Is that Mr. Hartley ?}—‘No, 
 old Durham ; backbone Durham.’—‘ Why back- 
 bone ?’—‘ Don’t know; hear him called so.’— 
 ‘Isn't there a Beauty somewhere ?’—‘ Don't 
 know; there’s the Beast,—and the hackneyed 
 joke received the tribute of a hackneyed laugh. 
 
 The manager’s bell rang, the curtain drew up. 
 
 A plaster cast of Cupid, with fillet, bow, 
 and quiver, on an upholstery pedestal, stood 
 revealed. Music, commencing behind the scenes, 
 
 approached; a file of English-Grecian maidens, 
 
COMMONPLACE. 79 
 
 singing and carrying garlands, passed across 
 the stage towards a pasteboard temple, pre- 
 sumably their desired goal, although they glanced 
 at their audience, and seemed very independent 
 of Cupid on his pedestal. There were only 
 six young ladies; but they moved slowly, with 
 a tolerable space interposed between each and 
 each, thus producing a _ processional effect. 
 They sang, in time and in tune, words by 
 Dr. Tyke; music (not in harmony, but in uni- 
 son, to ensure correct execution) by Arthur 
 Tresham :— 
 
 ‘Love hath a name of Death: 
 He gives a breath 
 And takes away. 
 Lo we, beneath his sway, 
 Grow like a flower ; 
 To bloom an hour, 
 To droop a day, 
 And fade away.’ 
 
 The first Anglo-Greek had been chosen 
 for her straight nose, the last for her elegant 
 foot; the intermediate four, possessing good 
 
 voices, bore the burden of the singing. They 
 
80 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 all moved and sang with self-complacent ease, 
 but without much dramatic sentiment, except 
 the plainest of the six, who assumed an air 
 of languishment. 
 
 Some one suggested ‘cupid-ditty,’ but with- 
 out universal acceptance. Some one else, on 
 no obvious grounds, hazarded ‘Bore, Wild 
 Boar: a remark which stung Dr. Tyke, as 
 playwright, into retorting, ‘Boreas,’ 
 
 The second scene was dumb show. Alan 
 Hartley as Paris, looking very handsome in a 
 tunic and sandals, and flanked by the largest- 
 sized, woolly toy lambs, sat, apple in hand, 
 awaiting the rival goddesses. A flourish of 
 trumpets announced the entrance of Miss Charl- 
 mont, a stately crowned Juno, robed in amber- 
 coloured cashmere, and leading in a leash a 
 peacock, with train displayed, and ingeniously 
 mounted on noiseless wheels. She swept 
 grandly in, and held out one arm, with a studied 
 gesture, for the apple; which, doubtless, would 
 have been handed to her then and there, had 
 not warning notes on a harp ushered in Lady 
 Everett: a modest, sensible-looking Minerva, 
 
COMMONPLACE. SI 
 
 robed and stockinged in blue, with a funny 
 Athenian owl perched on her shoulder, and 
 a becoming helmet on her head. Paris hesi- 
 tated visibly, and seemed debating whether or 
 not to split the apple and the difference to- 
 gether, when a hubbub, as of birds singing, 
 chirping, calling, cleverly imitated by Dr. Tyke 
 and Stella on water-whistles, heralded the ap- 
 proach of Venus. In she came, beautiful Jane 
 Charlmont, with a steady, gliding step, her 
 eyes kindling with victory, both her small 
 hands outstretched for the apple so indisputably 
 hers, her lips parted in a triumphant smile. 
 Her long, white robe flowed classically to the 
 floor; two doves, seeming to nestle in her 
 hair, billed and almost cooed; but her face 
 eclipsed all beside it; and when Paris, on 
 one knee, deposited the apple within her slim, 
 white fingers, Juno forgot to look indignant 
 and Minerva scornful. 
 
 After this the final scene fell dead and flat. 
 In vain did Stella whisk about as the most 
 coquettish of market-girls of an undefined epoch 
 and country, balancing a fruit~basket on her 
 
 G 
 
82 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 head, and crying, ‘Grapes, melons, peaches, 
 love-apples,’ with the most natural inflections. 
 In vain did Arthur Tresham beat down the 
 price of peaches, and Alan Hartley bid for 
 love-apples:—Jane had attained one of her 
 objects, and eclipsed her little friend for that 
 evening. 
 
 The corps dramatique was to sit down to 
 supper in costume; a point arranged ostensibly 
 for convenience, secretly it may be for vanity’s 
 sake: only Stella laid her fruit-basket aside, 
 and Miss Charlmont released her peacock. 
 Lady Everett continued to wear the helmet, 
 which did not conceal her magnificent black 
 hair (she had been a Miss Moss before marriage, 
 Clara Lyon Moss), and Jane retained her pair 
 of doves. 
 
 But during the winding up of the charade, 
 more of moment had occurred off the stage than 
 upon it. Jane, her part over, left the other 
 performers to their own devices, and quietly 
 made her way into a conservatory which opened 
 out of the room devoted for that evening to 
 cloaks and hoods. If she expected to be fol- 
 
COMMONPLACE. 83 
 
 lowed she was not disappointed. <A heavy step, 
 and an embarrassed clearance of throat, an- 
 nounced Mr. Durham. He bustled up to her, 
 where she sat fanning herself and showing white 
 and brilliant against a background of flowers 
 and leaves, whilst he looked at once sheepish 
 and pompous, awkward and self-satisfied; not 
 a lady’s man assuredly. 
 
 ‘ Hem—haw—Miss Jane, you surpassed your- 
 self. I shall always think of you now as Venus ; 
 I shall, indeed. Jane smiled benignantly. ‘Poor 
 Pug’s nose is quite out of joint; it is, indeed. 
 But the chit has got a husband, and can snap 
 her fingers at all of us.” Jane surveyed him 
 with grave interrogation, then cast down her 
 lustrous eyes, and slightly turned her shoulder 
 in his direction. Abashed, he resumed: ‘But 
 
 really, Miss Jane, now wasn’t Venus a married 
 
 
 
 lady too? and couldn’t we 2> = -Janesinter= 
 rupted him: ‘Pray give me your arm, Mr. 
 Durham ;’ she rose: ‘let us go back to the 
 company. I don’t know what you are talking 
 about, unless you mean to be rude and very 
 
 unkind :’ the voice broke, the large, clear eyes 
 
84. COMMONPLACE. 
 
 softened to tears; she drew back as he drew 
 nearer. Then Mr. Durham, ill-bred, but neither 
 scheming nor cold-hearted, pompous and fussy, 
 but a not ungenerous man for all that,—then 
 Mr. Durham spoke: ‘Don’t draw back from me, 
 Miss Jane, but take my arm for once to lead 
 you back to the company, and take my hand 
 for good. For I love and admire you, Miss 
 Jane; and if you will take an oldish man for 
 your husband, you shall never want for money 
 or for pleasure while my name is good in the 
 City.’ 
 
 Thus in one evening Jane Charlmont attained 
 both her objects. 
 
 Supper was a very gay meal, as brilliant as 
 lights, glass, and plate could make it. People 
 were pleased with the night’s entertainment, 
 with themselves, and with each other. Mr. 
 Durham, with an obtrusive air of festivity, sat 
 down beside Jane, and begged his neighbours 
 not to inconvenience themselves, as they did 
 not mind squeezing. Jane coloured, but judged 
 
 it too early to frown. Mr. Durham, being some- 
 
COMMONPLACE. 85 
 
 what old-fashioned, proposed healths: the fair 
 actresses were toasted, the Anglo-Greeks in a 
 bevy, the distinguished stars one by one. Mr. 
 Tresham returned thanks for the processional 
 six; Dr. Tyke for Miss Charlmont, Sir James 
 Everett and Mr. Hartley for their respective 
 wives. 
 
 Then Jane’s health was drunk: who would 
 rise to return thanks? Mr. Durham rose: 
 ‘Hem—haw—’ said he: ‘haw—hem—ladies 
 and gentlemen, allow me to return thanks for 
 the Venus of the evening—I mean for the Venus 
 altogether, whose health you have done me the 
 honour to drink’—knowing smiles circled round 
 the table. ‘Done us, I should say: not that I 
 unsay what I said; quite the contrary, and I’m 
 not ashamed to have said it. I will only say 
 one word more in thanking you for the honour 
 you have done her and all of us: the cham- 
 pagne corks pop, and suggest popping ; but after 
 popping mum ’s the word. Ladies and gentle-_ 
 men, my very good friends, I drink your very 
 good health.’ 
 
 And the master of Orpingham Place sat down. 
 
86 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Lucy received the news of Jane’s engagement 
 with genuine vexation, and then grew vexed 
 with herself for feeling vexed. Conscience took 
 alarm, and pronounced that envy and pride had 
 a share in her vexation. Self retorted: It is 
 not envy to see that Jane is mercenary, nor 
 pride to dislike vulgarity. Conscience insisted : 
 -It is envy to be annoyed by Jane’s getting 
 married before you, and it is pride to brand 
 Mr. Durham as vulgar, and then taboo him 
 as beyond the pale. Self pleaded: No one 
 likes growing old and being made to feel it; 
 and who would not deprecate a connection who 
 will put one out of countenance at every turn ? 
 But Conscience secured the last word: If you 
 were younger than Jane, you would make more 
 
 allowances for her; and if Mr. Durham were 
 
COMMONPLACE. 87 
 
 engaged to any one except your sister, you 
 would think it fair not to condemn him as 
 destitute of every virtue because he is under- 
 bred. 
 
 Thus did Conscience get the better of Self. 
 And Lucy gulped down dignity and disappoint- 
 ment together when, in reply to Miss Drum’s, 
 ‘My dear, I hope your sisters are well, and 
 enjoying their little gaieties,’ she said, cheer- 
 fully : ‘Now, really, you should give me some- 
 thing for such wonderful news: Jane is engaged 
 to be married.’ 
 
 There was nothing Miss Drum relished more 
 than a wedding ‘ between persons suited to each 
 other, and not ridiculous on the score of age 
 and appearance, as she would herself pointedly 
 have defined it. Now Jane was obviously young 
 enough and pretty enough to become a bride; 
 so Miss Drum was delighted, and full of interest 
 and of inquiries, which Lucy found it rather 
 difficult to answer satisfactorily. 
 
 ‘And who is the favoured gentleman, my 
 dear ?’ 
 
 ‘Mr. Durham, of Orpingham Place, in Glou- 
 
88 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 cestershire. Very rich it seems, and a widower. 
 His only daughter, Lucy hurried on with an 
 imperceptible effort, ‘married that Mr. Hartley 
 Catherine and I used to meet so often at Notting 
 / Hill. She was thought to be a great heiress; 
 but I suppose this will make some difference.’ 
 
 ‘Then he is rather old for Jane ?’ 
 
 ‘He is not yet fifty it seems, though of course 
 that is full old. By what he says, Orpingham 
 Place must be a very fine country-seat; and 
 Jane appears cut out for wealth and pleasure, 
 she has such a power of enjoying herself;’ and 
 Lucy paused. 
 
 Miss Drum, dropping the point of age, re- 
 sumed: ‘Now what Durham will this be, my 
 dear? I used to know a Sir Marcus Durham— 
 a gay, hunting Baronet. He was of a north- 
 country family; but this may be a branch of 
 the same stock. He married an Earl’s daughter, 
 Lady Mary; and she used to take precedence, 
 let who would be in the room, which was not 
 thought to be in very good taste when the 
 dowager Lady Durham was present. Still an 
 
 Earl’s daughter ought to understand good breed- 
 
COMMONPLACE. 89 
 
 ing, and that was how she acted ; I do not wish 
 to express any opinion. Perhaps Mr. Durham 
 may have a. chance of the Baronetcy, for Sir 
 Marcus left no children, but was succeeded by 
 a bachelor brother; and then Jane will be “my 
 lady” some day.’ 
 
 eo, feplied) Lucy; ‘I don't think’ that 
 likely. Mr. Durham is enormously wealthy, by 
 what I hear; but not of a county family. He 
 made his fortune in the City.’ 
 
 Miss Drum persisted: ‘The cadets of even 
 noble families have made money by commerce 
 over and over again. It is no disgrace to make 
 a fortune; and I see no reason why Mr. Durham 
 should not be a baronet some day. Many a 
 City man has been as fine a gentleman as any 
 idler at court. Very likely Mr. Durham is an 
 elegant man of talent, and well connected; if 
 so, a fortune is no drawback, and the question 
 of age may be left to the lady’s decision.’ 
 
 Lucy said no more: only she foresaw and 
 shrank from that approaching day of undeceiving 
 which should bring Mr. Durham to Brompton- 
 
 on-Sea. 
 
go COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Once set off on the subject of family, there 
 was no stopping Miss Drum, who, having had 
 no proveable great-grandfather, was sensitive on 
 the score of pedigree. 
 
 ‘You might not suppose it now, Lucy, but 
 it is well known that our family name of Drum, 
 though less euphonious than that of Durham, 
 is in fact the same. I made the observation 
 once to Sir Marcus, and he laughed with plea- 
 sure, and often afterwards addressed me as 
 cousin. Lady Mary did not like the suggestion ; 
 but no one’s fancies can alter a fact:’ and the 
 old lady looked stately, and as if the Drum- 
 Durham theory had been adopted and em- 
 blazoned by the College of Heralds; whereas, 
 in truth, no one besides herself, not even the 
 
 easy-tempered Gawkins, held it. 
 
 Meanwhile, all went merrily and smoothly 
 at Notting Hill. As Jane had said, she was 
 old enough to know her own mind, and appar- 
 ently she knew it. When Mr. Durham presented 
 her with a set of fine diamonds, she dropped 
 
 naturally into calling him George; and when 
 
COMMONPLACE. OI 
 
 he pressed her to name the day, she answered, 
 with an assumption of girlishness, that he must 
 talk over all those dreadful things with Catherine. 
 
 To Miss Charlmont he had already opened 
 his mind on the subject of settlements: Jane 
 should have everything handsome and ample, 
 but Pug must not lose her fortune either. This 
 Catherine, deeming it right and reasonable, 
 undertook to explain to Jane. Jane sulked a 
 little to her sister, but displayed only a smiling 
 aspect to her lover, feeling in her secret heart 
 that her own nest was being particularly well 
 feathered: for not only were Mr. Durham’s new 
 marriage settlements most liberal, in spite of 
 Stella’s prospective twenty thousand pounds on 
 coming of age, and twenty thousand at her 
 father’s demise; but Catherine, of her own 
 accord, provided that at her death all her share 
 of their father’s property should descend to 
 Jane, for her own separate use, and at her own 
 absolute disposal. The younger sister, indeed, 
 observed with safe generosity: ‘Suppose you 
 should marry, too, some day?’ But Catherine, 
 
 grateful for any gleam of unselfishness in her 
 
92 _ COMMONPLACE. 
 
 favourite sister, answered warmly and decisively : 
 ‘I never meant to marry, and I always meant- 
 what fortune I had to be yours at last: only, 
 dear, do not again think hardly of our poor 
 father’s oversight.’ 
 
 Mr. Durham was urgent to have the wedding- 
 day fixed, and Jane reluctant merely and barely 
 for form’s sake. A day in August was named, 
 and the honeymoon pre-devoted to Paris and 
 Switzerland. Then Miss Charlmont pronounced 
 it time to return home; and was resolute that 
 the wedding should take place at Brompton- 
 on-Sea, not at Notting Hill as the hospitable 
 Tykes proposed. 
 
 Jane was now nothing loth to quit town ; 
 Mr. Durham unwilling to lose her, yet willing as 
 recognising the step for an unavoidable pre- 
 liminary. Nevertheless, he felt hurt at Jane’s 
 indifference to the short separation; whilst Jane, 
 in her turn, felt worried at his expecting any 
 show of sentiment from her, though, having once 
 fathomed his feelings, she kept the worry to 
 herself and produced the sentiment. He looked 
 
 genuinely concerned when they parted at London- 
 
COMMONPLACE. 93 
 
 Bridge Station ; but Jane never in her life had 
 experienced a greater relief than now, when the 
 starting train left him behind on the platform. 
 A few more days, and it would be too late to 
 leave him behind: but she consoled herself by 
 reflecting that without him she might despair 
 of ever seeing Paris; Switzerland was secondary 
 in her eyes. 
 
 Miss Drum had often set as a copy, ‘ Manners 
 make the Man,’ and explained to her deferential 
 pupils how in that particular phrase ‘ Man’ in- 
 cludes ‘Woman. Catherine in later life reflected 
 that ‘Morals make the Man’ (including Woman) 
 conveys a not inferior truth. Jane might have 
 modified the sentence a trifle further, in employ- 
 ing it as an M copy, and have written, ‘Money 
 makes the Man.’ 
 
94 
 
 CHAPTERGATE 
 
 Lucy welcomed her sisters home, after an 
 absence of unprecedented duration, with warm- 
 hearted pleasure, but Jane went far to ex- 
 tinguish the feeling. 
 
 In the heyday of her blooming youth and 
 satisfaction, she was not likely to acquire any 
 tender tact lacking at other times; and an 
 elder sister, mentally set down in her catalogue 
 of old maids, was fair game. 
 
 ‘Why, Lucy,’ she cried, as they sat together 
 the first evening, herself the only idler of the 
 three, ‘you look as old as George, and about 
 as lively: Miss Drum must be catching.’ 
 
 ‘Do leave Miss Drum alone,’ Lucy an- 
 swered, speaking hastily from a double annoy- 
 ance. ‘And if,—she forced a laugh,—‘surely 
 if my looks recall George to your mind they 
 ought to please you.’ 
 
COMMONPLACE. 95 
 
 But Jane was incorrigible. ‘My dear, George 
 is Orpingham Place, and Orpingham Place is 
 George ; but your looks suggest some distinction 
 between the two. Only think, he expected 
 me to grow dismal at leaving him _ behind, 
 and I did positively see his red pockethandker- 
 chief fluttering in the breeze as we screamed 
 out of the station. And he actually flattered 
 himself I should not go out much till the 
 wedding is over; catch me staying at home 
 if I can help it! By-the-bye, did you mean a 
 joke by wrapping his photograph up in the ten- 
 pound note? it struck me afterwards as really 
 neat in its way.’ 
 
 ow lane! @ put in Catherine, and more 
 she might have added in reproof; but at that 
 instant the door opened, and Mr. Ballantyne 
 was announced. 
 
 Mr. Ballantyne was a solicitor, related to 
 Mrs. Gawkins Drum, and taken into partner- 
 ship by that lady’s husband shortly before 
 their marriage. Judging by looks, Mr. Bal- 
 lantyne might have been own nephew to Miss 
 Drum rather than to her sister-in-law, so neutral 
 
96 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 was he in aspect and manner; if ever any 
 one liked him at first sight, it was because 
 there was nothing on the surface to stir a 
 contrary feeling; and if any one volunteered 
 a confidence to him, it was justified by his 
 habitual taciturnity, which suggested a me- 
 chanical aptitude at keeping a secret; yet, 
 however appearances were against him, he was 
 a shrewd man of business, and not deficient 
 in determination of character. 
 
 He arrived by appointment to show Miss 
 Charlmont the draft of her settlement on her 
 sister, and take, if need be, further instructions. 
 She was one to see with her own eyes rather 
 than merely to hear with her own ears, and, 
 therefore, retired with the papers to the so- 
 litude of her own room, leaving her sisters 
 to entertain the visitor. 
 
 Thus left, Mr. Ballantyne took a respectful 
 look at Jane, whose good luck in securing the 
 master of Orpingham Place he considered rare 
 indeed. - Looking ‘at her ‘he “arrived ate. 
 conclusion that Mr. Durham also had _ been 
 
 lucky. Jane just glanced at Mr. Ballantyne, 
 
COMMONPLACE. 97 
 
 mentally appraising him as a nonentity; but 
 in that glance she saw his admiration; ad- 
 miration always propitiated her, and she deigned 
 to be gracious. 
 
 Various maiden ladies in Brompton-on-Sea 
 would have been gracious to Mr. Ballantyne 
 from a different motive. Though still a youngish 
 man he was a widower, already in easy cir- 
 cumstances, and with a prospect of growing 
 rich. His regard for his late wife’s memory 
 was most decorous, but not such as to keep 
 him inconsolable; and his only child, Frank, 
 being no more than five years old and healthy, 
 need scarcely be viewed as a domestic draw- 
 back ; indeed, certain spinsters treated’ the 
 boy with a somewhat demonstrative affection, 
 but these ladies were obviously not in their 
 teens. 
 
 Mr. Ballantyne meanwhile, though mildly 
 courteous to all, had not singled out any one for 
 avowed preference. Possibly he liked Miss Edith 
 Sims, a doctor’s daughter, a bold equestrian, 
 a first-rate croquet player; she hoped so sin- 
 cerely, for she had unbecoming carroty hair 
 
 H 
 
98 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 and freckles ; possibly he liked Lucy Charlmont, 
 but she had never given the chance a thought. 
 Of Miss Charlmont, whom he had seen twice, 
 and both times exclusively on business, he 
 stood in perceptible awe. ; 
 
 Catherine, finding nothing to object to in 
 the draft, returned it to Mr. Ballantyne with 
 her full assent. Then tea was brought in, 
 and Mr. Ballantyne was asked to stay. His 
 aptitude for carrying cups and plates, recog- 
 nised and admired in other circles, here re- 
 mained in abeyance; Miss Charlmont adhering 
 to the old fashion of people sitting round the 
 tea-table at tea no less formally than round 
 the dining-table at dinner. 
 
 A plan for a picnic having been set on 
 foot by the Gawkins Drums, Lucy had been 
 invited, and had accepted before Jane’s en- 
 gagement was announced. So now Mr. Bal- 
 lantyne mentioned the picnic, taking for granted 
 that Lucy would join, and empowered by the 
 projectors to ask her sisters also; Jane brightened 
 at the proposal, being secretly charmed at a 
 
 prospect of appearing amongst her familiar 
 
COMMONPLACE. 99 
 
 associates as mistress elect of Orpingham Place ; 
 but Catherine demurred,— 
 
 ‘Thank you, Mr. Ballantyne; I will call 
 myself and thank Mrs. Drum, but Mr. Durham 
 might object, and I will stay at home with 
 my sister. No doubt we shall find future 
 opportunities of all meeting.’ 
 
 ‘Dear me!’ cried Jane; ‘Mr. Durham isn’t 
 Bluebeard; or, if he is, I had better get a 
 little fun first. My compliments, please, and 
 I shall be too glad to come.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, Jane!’ remonstrated Miss Charlmont ; 
 but it was a hopeless remonstrance. Jane, once 
 bent on amusement, was not to be deterred 
 by doubtful questions of propriety; and the 
 elder sister, mortified, but more anxious for 
 the offender’s credit than for her own dignity, 
 changed her mind perforce, and, with a sigh, 
 accepted the invitation. If Jane was deter- 
 mined to go, she had better go under a middle- 
 aged sister’s eye; but the party promised 
 to be a large one, including various strange 
 gentlemen, and Catherine honestly judged it 
 objectionable. 
 
100 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Jane, however, was overflowing with glee, 
 and questioned Mr. Ballantyne energetically as 
 to who were coming. When he was gone 
 she held forth to her sisters,— 
 
 ‘That hideous Edith Sims, of course she 
 will ride over on Brunette, to show her figure 
 and her bridle hand. I shall wear pink, and 
 sit next her to bring out her freckles. I’ve 
 not forgotten her telling people I had no 
 fortune. Don’t you see she’s trying to hook 
 Mr. Ballantyne? you heard him say she has 
 been consulting him about something or other. 
 Let’s drive Mr. Ballantyne over in our carriage, 
 and the baby can perch on the box.’ 
 
 Lucy said, ‘ Nonsense, Jane; Mr. Ballantyne | 
 has his own dog-cart, and he is tiresome enough 
 without keeping him all to ourselves.’ 
 
 And Catherine added, this time peremp- 
 torily, ‘My dear, that is not to be thought 
 of; I could not justify it to Mr. Durham. 
 Either you will drive over with Lucy and me, 
 and any other person I may select, or you 
 must find a carriage for yourself, as I shall 
 
 not go to the picnic.’ 
 
IOI 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE environs of Brompton-on-Sea were rich in 
 spots adapted to picnics, and the Gawkins Drums 
 had chosen the very prettiest of these eligible 
 spots. Rocky Drumble, a green glen of the 
 floweriest, but with fragments of rock showing 
 here and there, possessed an echo point and a 
 dripping well: it was, moreover, accredited by 
 popular tradition with a love-legend, and, on 
 the same authority, with a ghost for moonlight 
 nights. Rocky Drumble was threaded from 
 end to end by a stream which nourished water- 
 cresses ; at one season its banks produced wild 
 strawberries, at another nuts, sometimes mush- 
 rooms. All the year round the glen was fre- 
 quented by song-birds; not seldom a squirrel 
 ~would scamper up a tree, or a rabbit sit upright 
 on the turf, winking his nose. Rocky Drumble on 
 
102 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 a sunny summer-day was a bower of cool shade, 
 and of a silence heightened, not broken, by 
 sounds of birds and of water, the stream at hand, 
 the sea not far off; a bower of sun-chequered 
 shade, breaths of wind every moment shifting 
 the shadows, and the sun making its way in, 
 now here, now there, with an endless, monoto- 
 nous changeableness. 
 
 On such a day the Charlmonts drove to their 
 rendezvous in Rocky Drumble. The carriage 
 held four inside; Miss Drum and Catherine 
 sitting forward, with Lucy and Jane opposite. 
 On the box beside the driver perched little 
 Frank Ballantyne, very chatty and merry at 
 first; but to be taken inside and let fall asleep 
 when, as was foreseen, he should grow tired. 
 The child had set his heart on going to the pic- 
 nic, and good Miss Drum had promised to take 
 care of him—Miss Drum nominally, Lucy by 
 secret understanding, for the relief of her old 
 friend. 
 
 Miss Drum wore a drawn silk bonnet, which 
 had much in common with the awning of a 
 
 bathing-machine. Catherine surmounted her 
 
COMMONPLACE. 103 
 
 inevitable cap by a broad-brimmed brown straw 
 hat. Lucy wore a similar hat without any cap 
 under it, but looked, in fact, the elder of the 
 two. Jane, who never sacrificed complexion to 
 fashion, also appeared in a shady hat, dove- 
 coloured, trimmed with green leaves, under which 
 she produced a sort of apple-blossom effect, in 
 a cloud of pink muslin over white, and white 
 appliquée again over the pink. Catherine had 
 wished her to dress soberly, but Jane had no 
 notion of obscuring her beauties. She had bar- 
 gained with Mr. Durham that he was not to 
 come down to Brompton-on-Sea till the after- 
 noon before the wedding; and when he looked 
 hurt at her urgency, had assumed an air at once 
 affectionate and reserved, assuring him that this 
 course seemed to her due to the delicacy of their 
 mutual relations. Five days were still wanting 
 to the wedding-day, George was not yet inalien- 
 ably at her elbow, and no moment could appear 
 more favourable for enjoyment. Surely if a 
 skeleton promised to preside at the next ban- 
 quet, this present feast was all the more to be 
 relished : for though, according to Jane’s defini- 
 
104 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 tion, George was Orpingham Place, she would - 
 certainly have entered upon Orpingham Place 
 with added zest had it not entailed George. 
 
 Miss Charlmont had delayed starting till the 
 very last moment, not wishing to make more of 
 the picnic than could be helped ; and when she 
 with her party reached the Drumble, they found 
 their friends already on the spot. The last- 
 comers were welcomed with a good deal of 
 friendly bustle, and half-a-dozen gentlemen, in 
 scarcely more than as many minutes, were pre- 
 sented to Jane by genial little Mrs. Drum, who 
 had never seen her before, and was charmed at 
 first sight. Jane, happily for Catherine’s peace 
 of mind, assumed an air of dignity in unison 
 with her distinguished prospects: she was gra- 
 cious rather than coquettish—gracious to all, 
 but flattering to none; a change from former 
 days, when her manner used to savour of coaxing. 
 Edith Sims had ridden over on Brunette, and 
 Jane, keeping her word as to sitting next her, 
 produced the desired effect. 
 
 The Charlmonts coming late, every one was 
 
 ready for luncheon on their arrival, and no 
 
COMMONPLACE. 105 
 
 strolling was permitted before the meal. As to 
 the luncheon, it included everything usual and 
 nothing unusual, and most of the company 
 consuming it displayed fine, healthy appetites. 
 Great attention was paid to Jane, who was be- 
 yond all comparison the best-looking woman 
 present ; whilst two or three individuals made 
 mistakes between Catherine and Lucy, as to 
 which was Miss Charlmont. 
 
 Poor Lucy! she had seldom felt more heavy- 
 hearted than now, as she sat talking and laugh- 
 ing. She felt. herself getting more and more 
 worn-looking as she talked and laughed on, 
 getting visibly older and more faded. How she 
 wished that Frank, who had fallen asleep on a 
 plaid after stuffing unknown sweets into his 
 system—how she wished that Frank would 
 wake and become troublesome, to give her some 
 occupation less intolerable than ‘grinning and 
 bearing !’ 
 
 Luncheon over, the party broke up, splitting 
 into twos and threes, and scattering themselves 
 here and there through the Drumble. Miss 
 Charlmont attaching herself doggedly to Jane, 
 
106 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 found herself clambering up and down banks and 
 stony excrescences in company with a very young 
 Viscount and his tutor: as she clambered exas- 
 peration waxed within her at the futility of the 
 young men’s conversation and the complacency | 
 of Jane’s rejoinders ; certainly, had any one been 
 studying Catherine’s face (which nobody was), he 
 would have beheld an unwonted aspect at a picnic. 
 
 Miss Drum, ostentatiously aged because in 
 company with her brother and his bride, had 
 chosen before luncheon was well over to wrap 
 herself up very warmly, and ensconce herself for 
 an avowed nap inside one of the flys. ‘You 
 can call me for tea,’ she observed to Lucy ; ‘and 
 when Frank tires you, you can leave him in the 
 carriage with me.’ But Frank was Lucy’s one 
 resource : minding him served as an excuse for 
 not joining Mr. Drum, who joked, or Mr. Ballan- 
 tyne, who covertly stared at her, or Edith Sims, 
 who lingering near Mr. Ballantyne talked of 
 horses, or any other person whose conversation 
 was more tedious than silence. 
 
 When Frank woke, he recollected that nurse 
 
 had told him strawberries grew in the Drumble; 
 
COMMONPLACE. 107 
 
 a fact grasped by him without the drawback of 
 any particular season. Off he started in quest 
 of strawberries, and Lucy zealously started in 
 his wake, not deeming it necessary to undeceive 
 him. The little fellow’ wandered and peered 
 about diligently awhile after imaginary straw- 
 berries ; failing these, he suddenly clamoured for 
 a game at hide-and-seek: he would hide, and 
 Lucy must not look. 
 
 They were now among the main fragments 
 of rock found in the Drumble, out of sight of 
 their companions. Lucy had scarcely shut her 
 eyes as desired, when a shout of delight made 
 her open them still more quickly, in time to 
 see Frank scampering, as fast as his short legs 
 would carry him, after a scampering rabbit. He 
 was running—she recollected it in an instant— 
 headlong towards the stream, and was already 
 some yards from her. She called after him, but 
 he did not turn, only cried out some unintelli- 
 gible answer in his babyish treble. Fear lent 
 her speed ; she bounded after him, clearing huge 
 stones and brushwood with instinctive accuracy. 
 
 She caught at his frock—missed it—caught at 
 
108 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 it again—barely grasped it—and fell, throwing 
 him also down in her fall. She fell on stones 
 and brambles, bruising and scratching herself 
 severely: but the child was safe, and she knew 
 it, before she fainted away, whilst even in fainting 
 her hand remained tightly clenched on his frock. 
 Frank’s frightened cries soon brought friends 
 to their assistance. Lucy, still insensible, was 
 lifted on to smooth turf, and then sprinkled with 
 water till she came to herself. In few words, for 
 she felt giddy and hysterical but was resolute 
 not to give way, she accounted for the accident, 
 blaming herself for having carelessly let the child 
 run into danger. It was impossible for any car- 
 riage to drive so far along the Drumble, so she 
 had to take some one’s arm to steady her in 
 walking to meet the fly. Mr. Ballantyne, as pale 
 as a sheet, offered his arm ; but she preferred Mr. 
 Drum’s, and leaned heavily on it for support. 
 Lucy was soon safe in the fly by Miss Drum’s 
 side, whose nap was brought to a sudden end, 
 and who, waking scared and fidgety, was dis- 
 posed to lay blame on every one impartially, 
 
 beginning with herself, and ending, in a tempered 
 
COMMONPLACE. 109 
 
 form, with Lucy. The sufferer thus disposed of, 
 and packed for transmission home, the remaining 
 picnickers, influenced by Mrs. Drum’s obvious 
 bias, declined to linger for rustic tea or other 
 pleasures, and elected then and there to return 
 to their several destinations. The party mus- 
 tered round the carriages ready to take their 
 seats: but where were Catherine and Jane, 
 Viscount and_ tutor ? Shouting was tried, 
 whistling was tried, ‘Cooee’ was tried by 
 amateur Australians for the nonce: all in vain. 
 At last Dr. Sims stepped into the fly with Lucy, 
 promising to see her safe home; Miss Drum, 
 smelling-bottle in hand, sat sternly beside her; 
 Frank, after undergoing a paternal box on the 
 ear, was degraded from the coachman’s box to 
 the back seat, opposite the old lady, who turned 
 towards him the aspect as of an ogress: and 
 thus the first carriage started, with Edith rein- 
 ing in Brunette beside it. The others followed 
 without much delay, one carriage being left for 
 the truants; and its driver charged to explain, if 
 possible without alarming the sisters, what had 
 
 happened to cut short the picnic. 
 
IIO 
 
 CHAPTER. iM 
 
 THE day before the wedding Lucy announced 
 that she still felt too much bruised and shaken 
 to make one of the party, either at church or at 
 
 - breakfast. . Neither sister contradicted her: 
 
 Catherine, because she thought the excuse valid ; 
 Jane, because Lucy, not having yet lost the 
 traces of her accident, must have made but a 
 sorry bridesmaid: and, as Jane truly observed, 
 there were enough without her, for her defection 
 still left a bevy of eight bridesmaids in capital 
 working order. ie 
 Brompton-on-Sea possessed only one hotel 
 of any pretensions,—‘ The Duke’s Head,’ so 
 designated in memory of that solitary Royal 
 Duke who had once made brief sojourn beneath 
 its roof. He found it a simple inn, bearing the 
 name and sign of ‘The Three Mermaids ;’ the 
 
COMMONPLACE. tit 
 
 mermaids appearing in paint as young persons, 
 with yellow hair and combs, and faces of a type 
 which failed to account for their uninterrupted 
 self-ogling in hand-mirrors ; tails were shadowily 
 indicated beneath waves of deepest blue. After 
 the august visit this signboard was superseded 
 by one representing the Duke as a gentleman 
 of inane aspect, pointing towards nothing dis- 
 coverable; and this work of art, in its turn, gave 
 place to a simple inscription, ‘The Duke’s Head 
 Hotel.’ 
 
 Call it by what name you would, it was as 
 snug a house of entertainment as rational man 
 or reasonable beast need desire,.with odd little 
 rooms opening out of larger rooms and off stair- 
 cases ; the only trace now visible of the Royal 
 Duke’s sojourn (beyond the bare inscription of 
 his title) being Royal Sentries in coloured paste- 
 board effigy, the size of life, posted on certain 
 landings and at certain entrances. All the 
 windowsills bore green boxes of flowering plants, 
 whence a sweet smell, mostly of mignonette, 
 made its way within doors. The best apart- 
 ments looked into a square courtyard, turfed 
 
112 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 along three sides, and frequented by pigeons ; 
 and the pigeon-house, standing in a turfy corner, 
 was topped by a bright silvered ball. 
 
 The landlord of the ‘Duke’s Head, a thin, 
 tallowy-complexioned man, with a manner which 
 might also be described as unpleasantly oily or 
 tallowy, was in a bustle that same day, and all 
 his household was bustling around him: for not 
 merely had the ‘Duke’s Head’ undertaken to 
 furnish the Durham-Charlmont wedding-break- 
 fast with richness and elegance, but the bride- 
 groom elect, whom report endowed with a 
 pocketful of plums, the great Mr. Durham him- 
 self, with sundry fashionable friends, was coming 
 down to Brompton-on-Sea by the 5.30 train, 
 and would put up for one night at the ‘ Duke’s 
 Head.’ The waiters donned their whitest neck- 
 cloths, the waitresses their pinkest caps; the 
 landlady, in crimson gown and gold chain, loomed 
 like a local Mayor; the landlord shone, as it 
 were, snuffed and trimmed: never, since the 
 era of that actual Royal Duke, had the ‘Duke’s 
 Head’ smiled such a welcome. 
 
 Mr. Durham, stepping out of the carriage on 
 
COMMONPLACE. 113 
 
 to the railway platform, and followed by Alan 
 Hartley, Stella, and Arthur Tresham, indulged 
 hopes that Jane might be there to meet him, 
 and was disappointed. Not that the matter had 
 undergone no discussion. Miss Charlmont, that 
 unavoidable drive home from the picnic with a 
 young Viscount and a tutor for vwzs-d-vis still 
 rankling in her mind, had said, ‘ My dear, 
 there would be no impropriety in our meeting 
 George at the Station, and he would certainly 
 be gratified. But Jane had answered, ‘ Dear me, 
 sister! George will keep, and I’ve not a moment ° 
 to spare; only don’t stay at home for me.’ 
 
 So no one met Mr. Durham. But when he 
 presented himself at the private house on the 
 Esplanade, Jane showed herself all smiling wel- 
 come, and made him quite happy by her pretty 
 ways. True, she insisted on his not spending 
 the evening with her; but she hinted so tenderly 
 at such restrictions vanishing on the morrow, 
 and so modestly at remarks people might make 
 if he did stay, that he was compelled to yield 
 the point and depart in great admiration of her 
 reserve, though he could not help recollecting 
 
 I 
 
114 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 that his first wooing had progressed and pros- 
 pered without any such amazing proprieties. 
 But then the mother of Everilda Stella had seen 
 the light in a second-floor back room at Gates- 
 head, and had married out of a circle where 
 polite forms were not in the ascendant ; whereas 
 Jane Charlmont looked like a Duchess, or an 
 Angel, or Queen Venus herself, and was alto- 
 gether a different person. So Mr. Durham, 
 discomfited, but acquiescent, retreated to the 
 ‘Duke’s Head,’ and there consoled himself with 
 more turtle-soup and crusty old port jthan 
 Dr. Tyke would have sanctioned. Unfortunately 
 Dr. and Mrs. Tyke were not coming down till 
 the latest train that night from London, so 
 Mr. Durham gorged unrebuked. He had seen 
 Lucy, and taken rather a fancy to her, in spite 
 of her blemished face, and had pressed her to 
 visit Orpingham Place as soon as ever he and 
 Jane should have returned from the Continent. 
 He preferred Lucy to Catherine, with whom he 
 never felt quite at ease; she was so decided and 
 self-possessed, and so much better bred than 
 himself. Not that Backbone Durham admitted 
 
COMMONPLACE. I15 
 
 this last point of superiority ; he did not acknow- 
 ledge, but he winced under it. Lucy on her 
 side had found him better than his photograph; 
 and that was something. 
 
 After tea she was lying alone on the drawing- 
 room sofa in the pleasant summer twilight; 
 alone, because her sisters were busy over Jane’s 
 matters upstairs; alone with her own thoughts. 
 She was thinking of very old days, and of days 
 not so old and much more full of interest. She 
 tried to think of Jane and her prospects; but 
 against her will Alan Hartley’s image intruded 
 itself on her reverie, and she could not banish 
 it. She knew from Mr. Durham that he had 
 come down for the wedding; she foresaw that 
 they must meet, and shrank from the ordeal, 
 even whilst she wondered how he would behave 
 and how she herself should behave. Alone, 
 and in the half darkness, she burned with shame- 
 faced dread of her own possible weakness, and 
 mortified self-love wrung tears from her eyes 
 as she inwardly prayed for help. 
 
 The door opened, the maid announced Mr. 
 and Mrs. Hartley. 
 
116 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Lucy, startled, would have risen to receive 
 them, but Stella was too quick for her, and 
 seizing both her hands, pressed her gently 
 backwards on the sofa. ‘Dear Miss Charl- 
 mont, you must not make a stranger of me, 
 and my husband is an old friend. Mayn't 
 I call you Lucy?’ 
 
 So this was Alan’s wife, this little, winning 
 woman, still almost a child; this winning woman, 
 who had won the only man Lucy ever cared 
 for. It cost Lucy an effort to answer, and 
 to make her welcome by her name of Stella. 
 
 _ Then Alan came forward and shook hands, 
 looking cordial and handsome, with that kind 
 tone of voice and tenderness of manner which 
 had deceived poor Lucy once, but must never 
 deceive her again. He began talking of their 
 pleasant acquaintanceship in days of yore, of 
 amusements they had shared, of things done 
 together, and things spoken and not forgotten ; 
 it required the proof positive of Stella seated 
 there smiling in her hat and scarlet feather, 
 and with the wedding-ring on her small hand, 
 
 to show even now that Alan only meant friend- 
 
COMMONPLACE, 117 
 
 liness, when he might seem to mean so much 
 more. 
 
 Lucy revolted under the fascination of his 
 manner; feeling angry with herself that he 
 still could wield power over her fancy, and 
 anery a little with him for having made him- 
 self so much to her and no more. She insisted 
 on leaving the sofa, rang the bell for a second 
 edition of tea, and sent up the visitors’ names 
 to her sisters. When they came down she 
 turned as much shoulder as good breeding 
 tolerated towards Alan, and devoted all the 
 attention she could command to Stella. Soon 
 the two were laughing together over some 
 feminine little bit of fun; then Lucy brought 
 out an intricate piece of tatting, which, when 
 completed, was to find its way to Notting 
 Hill—the antimacassar of Mr. Durham’s first 
 visit there being, in fact, her handiwork; and, — 
 lastly, Lucy, once more for the moment with 
 pretty pink cheeks and brightened eyes, con- 
 voyed her new friend upstairs to inspect Jane’s 
 
 ‘ bridal dress, white satin, under Honiton lace. 
 
 When the visit was over, and Lucy safe 
 
118 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 in the privacy of her own room, a sigh of 
 relief escaped her, followed by a sentiment of 
 deep thankfulness; she had met Alan again, 
 and he had disappointed her. Yes, the spectre 
 which had haunted her for weeks past had, 
 at length, been brought face to face and had 
 vanished. Perhaps surprise at his marriage 
 had magnified her apparent disappointment, 
 perhaps dread of continuing to love another 
 woman’s husband had imparted a morbid and 
 unreal sensitiveness to her feelings; be this 
 as it might, she had now seen Alan again, 
 and had felt irritated by the very manner 
 that used to charm. In the revulsion of her 
 feelings she was almost ready to deem herself 
 fortunate and Stella pitiable. 
 
 She felt excited, exalted, triumphant rather 
 than happy; a little pained, and, withal, very 
 glad. Life seemed to glow within her, her 
 blood to course faster and fuller, her heart to 
 throb, lightened of a load. Recollections which 
 she had not dared face alone, Mr. Hartley, 
 by recalling, had stripped of their dangerous 
 charm ; had stripped of the tenderness she had 
 
COMMONPLACE. IIg 
 
 dreaded, and the sting under which she had 
 writhed; for he was the same, yet not the 
 same. Now, for the first time, she suspected 
 him not indeed of hollowness, but of shallow- 
 ness. 
 
 She threw open her window to the glorious 
 August moon and stars, and, leaning out, drank 
 deep of the cool night air. She ceased to 
 think of persons, of events, of feelings; her 
 whole heart swelled, and became uplifted with 
 a thankfulness altogether new to her, profound, 
 transporting. When at length she slept, it 
 was with moist eyes and smiling lips. 
 
I20 
 
 CHAPTI-ARGAw 
 
 THE wedding was over. Jane might have looked 
 still prettier but for an unmistakable expression 
 of gratified vanity; Mr. Durham might have 
 borne himself still more pompously but for a 
 deep-seated, wordless conviction, that his bride 
 and her family looked down upon him. Months 
 of scheming and weeks of fuss had ended in 
 a marriage, to which the,one party brought 
 neither refinement nor tact, and the other neither 
 respect nor affection. 
 
 Wedding guests, however, do not assemble 
 to witness exhibitions of respect or affection, 
 and may well dispense with tact and refine- 
 ment when delicacies not in season are pro- 
 vided; therefore, the party on the Esplanade 
 waxed gay as befitted the occasion, and ex- 
 pressed itself in toasts of highly improbable 
 import. 
 
COMMONPLACE. 12a 
 
 The going off was, perhaps, the least suc- 
 cessful point of the show. Catherine viewed 
 flinging shoes as superstitious, Jane as vulgar; 
 therefore no shoes were to be flung. Mr. 
 Durham might have made head against ‘ super- 
 stitious, but dared not brave ‘vulgar; so he 
 kept to himself the fact that he should hardly 
 feel thoroughly married without a tributary shoe, 
 and meanly echoed Jane’s scorn. But Stella, 
 who knew her father’s genuine sentiment, chose 
 to ignore ‘superstition’ and ‘vulgarity’ alike; 
 so, at the last moment, she snatched off her 
 own slipper, and dexterously hurled it over 
 the carriage, to Jane’s disgust (no love was 
 lost between the two young ladies), and to 
 Mr. Durham’s inward satisfaction. 
 
 Lucy had not joined the wedding party, 
 not caring overmuch to see Jane marry the 
 man who served her as a butt; but she peeped 
 wistfully at the going off, with forebodings in 
 her heart, which turned naturally into prayers, 
 for the ill-matched couple. In the evening, 
 however, when many of the party had re- 
 
 turned to London, the few real friends and 
 
I22 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 familiar acquaintances who reassembled as Miss 
 Charlmont’s guests found Lucy in the drawing- 
 room, wrapped up in something gauzily be- 
 coming to indicate that she had been ill, and 
 looking thin under her wraps. 
 
 In Miss Charlmont’s idea a wedding-party 
 should be at once mirthful and grave, neither 
 dull nor frivolous. Dancing and cards were 
 frivolous, conversation might prove dull; games 
 were all frivolous except chess, which, being 
 exclusive, favoured general dulness. These 
 points she had impressed several times on Lucy, 
 who was suspected of an inopportune hankering 
 after bagatelle; and who now sat in the snuggest 
 corner of the sofa, feeling shy, and at a loss 
 what topic to start that should appear neither 
 dull nor frivolous. 
 
 Dr. Tyke relieved her by turning her em- 
 barrassment into a fresh channel: what had 
 she been doing to make herself ‘look like a 
 turnip-ghost before its candle is lighted ?? 
 
 ‘My dear Lucy!’ cried Mrs. Tyke, loud 
 enough for everybody to hear her, ‘you really 
 
 do look dreadful, as if you were moped to 
 
COMMONPLACE. 124 
 
 death. You had much better come with the 
 Doctor and me to the Lakes. Now I beg 
 you to say yes, and come.’ 
 
 Alan heard with good-natured concern; 
 Arthur Tresham heard as if he heard not. 
 But the first greeting had been very cordial 
 between him and Lucy, and he had not seemed 
 to remark her faded face. 
 
 ‘Yes, resumed Dr. Tyke. ‘Now that’s 
 settled. You pack up to-night and start with 
 us to-morrow, and you shall be doctored with 
 the cream of drugs for nothing.’ 
 
 But Lucy said the plan was preposterous, 
 and she felt old and lazy. 
 
 Mrs. Tyke caught her up: ‘Old? my dear 
 child! and I feeling young to this day !’ 
 
 And the Doctor added: ‘Why not be pre- 
 posterous and happy? “ Quel che piace giova,” 
 as our sunny neighbours say. Besides, your © 
 excuses are incredible: “ Not at home,” as the 
 snail answered to the woodpecker’s rap.’ 
 
 Lucy laughed, but stood firm; Catherine 
 protesting that she should please herself. At 
 
 last a compromise was struck: Lucy, on her 
 
124 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 cousins’ return from their tour, should go to 
 Notting Hill, and winter there if the change 
 did her good. ° ‘If. not,” saic@eaieweweari: 
 ‘I shall come home again, to be nursed by 
 Catherine.’ 
 
 ‘If not,’ said Dr. Tyke, gravely for once, 
 ‘we may think about our all seeing Naples 
 together.’ 
 
 Edith Sims, her hair and complexion toned 
 down by candlelight, sat wishing Mr. Ballantyne 
 would come and talk to her; and Mr. Ballan- 
 tyne, unmindful of Edith at the other end of 
 the room, sat making up his mind. Before the 
 accident in the Drumble he had thought of Lucy 
 with a certain distinction, since that accident he 
 had felt uncomfortably in her debt, and now 
 he sat reflecting that, once gone for the winter, 
 she might be gone for good so far as himself 
 was concerned. She was nice-looking and 
 amiable; she was tender towards little mother- 
 less Frank; her fortune stood above rather than 
 below what he had proposed to himself in a 
 second wife:—if Edith could have read his 
 
 thoughts, she would have smiled less compla- 
 
 : 
 
COMMONPLACE. 125 
 
 cently when at last he crossed over to talk to 
 her of Brunette and investments, and when later 
 still he handed her in to supper. As it was, 
 candlelight and content became her, and she 
 looked her best. 
 
 Mrs. Gawkins Drum, beaming with good will, 
 and harmonious in silver-grey moire under old 
 point lace, contrasted favourably with her angular 
 sister-in-law, whose strict truthfulness forbade 
 her looking congratulatory: for now that she 
 had seen the ‘elegant man of talent’ of her pre- 
 visions, she could not but think that Jane had 
 married his money-bags rather than himself: 
 therefore Miss Drum looked severe, and when 
 viewed in the light of a wedding guest, 
 ominous. 
 
 Catherine, no less conscientious than her old 
 friend, took an opposite line, and laboured her 
 very utmost to hide mortification and mis- 
 givings, and to show forth that cheerful hospi- 
 tality which befitted the occasion when con- 
 templated from an ideal point of view; but ease 
 was not amongst her natural gifts, and she failed 
 
 to acquire it on the spur of an uneasy moment. 
 
126 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 Warners make the Man,’ ‘Morals make the 
 Man,’ kept running obstinately in her head, and 
 she could not fit Mr. Durham to either sentence. 
 In all Brompton-on-Sea there was no heavier 
 heart that night than Catherine Charlmont’s. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 NOVEMBER had come, the Tykes were settled 
 at home again, and Lucy Charlmont sat in a 
 railway-carriage on her way from Brompton-on- 
 Sea to Notting Hill. Wrapped up in furs, and 
 with a novel open on her lap, she looked very 
 snug in her corner; she looked, moreover, 
 plumper and brighter than at Jane’s wedding- 
 party. But her expression of unmistakable 
 amusement was not derived from the novel 
 lying unread in her lap: it had its source in 
 recollections of Mr. Ballantyne, who had made 
 her an offer the day before, and who had ob- 
 viously been taken aback when she rejected 
 his suit. All her proneness to bring herself in 
 in the wrong could not make her fear that she 
 had even for one moment said or done, looked 
 or thought, what ought to have misled him: 
 
128 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 therefore conscience felt at ease, and the comic 
 side of his demeanour remained to amuse her, 
 despite a decorous wish to feel sorry for him. 
 He had looked so particularly unimpulsive in 
 the act of proposing, and then had appeared 
 so much more disconcerted than grieved at her 
 positive ‘No,’ and had ‘hinted so broadly that 
 he hoped she would not talk about his offer, 
 that she could not imagine the matter very 
 serious to him: and if not to him assuredly to 
 nobody else. ‘I dare say it will be Edith Sims 
 at last,’ mused she, and wished them both well. 
 
 A year earlier his offer might have been a 
 matter of mere indifference to her, but not now; 
 for her birthday was just over, and it was 
 eratifying to find herself not obsolete even at 
 thirty. This birthday had loomed before her 
 threateningly for months past, but now it was 
 over; and it became a sensible relief to feel 
 and look at thirty very much as she had felt 
 and looked at twenty-nine. Her mirror bore 
 witness to no glaring accession of age having 
 come upon her in a single night. ‘After all, 
 she mused, ‘life isn’t over at thirty. Her 
 
COMMONPLACE. 129 
 
 thoughts flew before her to Notting Hill; if 
 they dwelt on any one in especial, it was not 
 on Alan Hartley. 
 
 Not on Alan Hartley, though she foresaw 
 that they must meet frequently; for he and 
 Stella were at Kensington again, planning to 
 stay there over Christmas. Stella she rather 
 _ liked than disliked; and as she no longer deemed 
 her lot enviable, to see more of her would 
 be no grievance. Mr. Tresham also was in 
 London, and likely to remain there; for since 
 his return from the East he had taken himself 
 to task for idleness, and had joined a band of 
 good men in an effort to visit and relieve the 
 East-end poor in their squalid homes. His 
 hobby happened to be emigration, but he did 
 not ride his hobby rough-shod over his destitute 
 neighbours. He was in London hard at work, 
 and by no means faring sumptuously every 
 day; but glad sometimes to get a mouthful of 
 pure night air and of something more substan- 
 tial at Notting Hill. He and Lucy had not 
 merely renewed acquaintance at the wedding- 
 party, but had met more than once afterwards 
 
 K 
 
130 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 during a week’s holiday he gave himself at the 
 seaside; had met on the beach, or in country 
 lanes, or down in some of the many drumbles. 
 They had botanised in company; and one day 
 had captured a cuttle-fish together, which Lucy 
 insisted on putting safe back into the sea before 
 they turned homewards. ‘They. had talked of 
 what grew at their feet or lay before their eyes; 
 but neither of them had alluded to those old 
 days when first they had known and liked each 
 other, though they obviously liked each other 
 still. 
 
 Lucy, her thoughts running on some one 
 who was not Alan, would have made a very 
 pretty picture. <A sort of latent smile pervaded 
 her features without deranging them, and her 
 eyes, gazing out at the dreary autumn branches, : 
 looked absent and soft; soft, tender, and pleased, 
 though with a wistful expression through all. 
 
 The short, winter-like day had darkened by 
 the time London Bridge was reached. Lucy 
 stepped on to the platform in hopes of being 
 claimed by Dr. Tyke’s man; but no such 
 functionary appeared, neither was the fat coach- 
 
COMMONPLACE. 131 
 
 man discernible along the line of vehicles await- 
 ing occupants. It was the first time Lucy had 
 arrived in London without being either accom- 
 ' panied or met at the Station, and the novel 
 position made her feel shy and a little nervous; 
 so she was glad to stand unobtrusively against 
 a wall, whilst more enterprising individuals 
 found or missed their luggage. She preferred 
 waiting, and she had to wait whilst passengers 
 craned their necks, elbowed their neighbours, 
 blundered, bawled, worried the Company’s ser- 
 vants, and found everything correct after all. 
 At last the huge mass of luggage dwindled to 
 three boxes, one carpet-bag, and one hamper, 
 which were Lucy’s own; and which, with her- 
 self, a porter consigned to a cab. Thus ended 
 her anxieties. 
 
 From London Bridge to Notting Hill the 
 cabman of course knew his way, but in the 
 mazes of Notting Hill he appealed to his fare 
 for guidance. Lucy informed him that Apple- 
 trees House stood in its own large garden, and 
 was sure to be well lighted up; and that it lay 
 somewhere to the left, up a steepish hill. A 
 
132 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 few wrong turnings first made and next re- 
 trieved, a few lucky guesses, brought them to 
 a garden-wall, which a passing postman told 
 them belonged to Dr. Tyke’s premises. Lucy 
 thrust her head out, and thought it all looked 
 very like, except that the house itself stood 
 enveloped in grim darkness; she had never 
 noticed it look so dark before: could it be that 
 she had been forgotten and every one had gone 
 out? 
 
 They drove round the little sweep and 
 knocked ; waited, and knocked again. It was 
 not till the grumbling cabman had knocked 
 loud and long a third time that the door was 
 opened by a crying maid-servant, who admitted 
 Lucy into the unlighted hall with the explana- 
 tion: ‘O Miss, Miss, master has had a fit, and 
 mistress is taking on so you can hear her all 
 over the place. At the same instant a peal of 
 screaming, hysterical laughter rang through the 
 house. 
 
 Without waiting for a candle, Lucy ran 
 stumbling up the broad staircase, guided at 
 once by her familiarity with the house and by 
 
COMMONPLACE. 133 
 
 her cousin’s screams. On the second-floor 
 landing one door stood open revealing light at 
 last, and Lucy ran straight in amongst the 
 lights and the people. For a moment she was 
 dazzled, and distinguished nothing clearly: in 
 another moment she saw and understood all. 
 Arthur Tresham and a strange gentleman were 
 standing pale and silent at the fireplace, an old 
 servant, stooping over the pillows, was busied 
 in some noiseless way, and Mrs. Tyke had flung 
 herself face downwards on the bed beside her 
 husband. 
 
 Her husband? No, not her husband any 
 
 longer, for she was a widow. 
 
134 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 A WEEK of darkened windows, of condolence- 
 cards and hushed inquiries, of voices and faces 
 saddened, of footsteps treading softly on one 
 landing. A week of many tears and quiet 
 sorrow; of many words, for in some persons 
 grief speaks; and of half-silent sympathy, for 
 in some even sympathy is silent. A week 
 wherein to weigh this world and find it want- 
 ing, wherein also to realise the far more ex- 
 ceeding weight of the other. A week begun 
 with the hope whose blossom goes up as dust, 
 and ending with the sure and certain hope of 
 the resurrection. 
 
 In goods and chattels, Mrs. Tyke remained 
 none the poorer for her husband’s death. He. 
 had left almost everything to her and absolutely 
 at her disposal, well knowing that their old 
 
COMMONPLACE. 135 
 
 faithful servants were no less dear to her 
 than to himself, and having on his side no 
 poor relations to provide for. His nephew 
 Alan Hartley, and Mr. Tresham, were appointed 
 his executors. Alan the good-natured, addicted 
 to shirking trouble in general, consistently shirked 
 this official trouble in particular. Arthur Tre- 
 sham did what little work there was to do, 
 and did it in such a way as veiled his friend’s 
 shortcomings. Mrs. Tyke, with a life-long habit 
 of leaning on some one, came, as a matter 
 of course, to lean on him, and appealed to 
 him as to all sorts of details, without once 
 considering whether the .time he devoted to 
 her service was reclaimed out of his work, or 
 leisure, or rest; he best knew, and the know- 
 ledge remained with him. Alan, though sin- 
 cerely sorry for his uncle’s death, cut private 
 jokes with Stella about his co-executor’s frequent 
 visits to Appletrees House, and ignored the 
 shortcomings which entailed their necessity. 
 Mrs. Tyke, in her bereavement, clung to 
 Lucy, and was thoroughly amiable and help- 
 less. She would sit for hours over the fire, 
 
136 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 talking and crying her eyes and her nose red, 
 whilst Lucy wrote her letters, or grappled with 
 her bills. Then they would both grow sleepy, 
 and doze off in opposite chimney-corners. So 
 the maid might find them when she brought 
 up tea, or so Arthur when he dropped in on 
 business, or possibly on pleasure. Mrs. Tyke 
 would sometimes merely open sleepy eyes, 
 shake hands, and doze off again; but Lucy 
 would sit up wide awake in a moment, ready 
 to listen to all his long stories about his 
 poor people. Soon she took to making things 
 for them, which he carried away in his pocket, 
 or, when too bulky for his pocket, in a parcel 
 under his arm. At last it happened, that 
 they began talking of old days, before he 
 went to the East, and then each found that 
 the other remembered a great deal about those 
 old days. So gradually it came to pass that, 
 from looking back together, they took also 
 to looking forward together. 
 
 Lucy’s courtship was most prosaic. Old 
 women’s flannel and old men’s rheumatism 
 
 alternated with some more usual details of 
 
COMMONPLACE. 137 
 
 love-making, and the exchange of rings was 
 avowedly an exchange of old rings. Arthur 
 presented Lucy with his mother’s wedding- 
 cuard; but Lucy gave him a fine diamond 
 solitaire which had been her father’s, and the 
 romantic corner of her heart was gratified by 
 the inequality of the gifts. She would have 
 preferred a little more romance certainly on 
 his side; if not less sense, at least more 
 sentiment ; something reasonable enough to be 
 relied upon, yet unreasonable enough to be 
 flattering. ‘But one cannot have everything,’ 
 she reflected, meekly remembering her own 
 thirty years; and she felt what a deep resting- 
 place she had found in Arthur’s trusty heart, 
 and how shallow a grace had been the flatter- 
 ing charm of Alan’s manner. Till, weighing 
 her second love against her first, tears, at 
 once proud and humble, filled her eyes, and 
 ‘one cannot have everything’ was forgotten 
 in ‘I can never give him back half enough.’ 
 After the exchange of rings, she announced 
 her engagement to Catherine and Mrs, Tyke; 
 
 to Jane also and Mr. Durham in few words; 
 
138 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 and as all business connected with Dr. Tyke’s 
 will was already satisfactorily settled, and Apple- 
 trees House about to pass into fresh hands, she 
 prepared to return home. Mrs. Tyke, too 
 purposeless to be abandoned to her own re- 
 sources, begged an invitation to Brompton- 
 on-Sea, and received a cordial welcome down 
 from both sisters. Arthur was to remain at 
 work in London till after Easter; and then 
 to join his friends at the seaside, claim his 
 bride, and take her away to spend their honey- 
 moon beside that beautiful blue Bosphorus which 
 had not made him forget her. 
 
 If there was a romantic moment in their 
 courtship, it was the moment of parting at the 
 noisy, dirty, crowded railway-station, when 
 Arthur terrified Lucy, to her great delight, by 
 standing on the carriage-step, and holding her 
 hand locked fast in his own, an instant after 
 the train had started. 
 
139 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A SHORT chapter makes fitting close to a short 
 story. 
 
 In mid May, on a morning which set 
 forth the perfection either of sunny spring 
 warmth or of breezy summer freshness, Arthur 
 Tresham and Lucy Charlmont took each other 
 for better for worse, till death should them 
 part. Mr. Gawkins Drum gave away the 
 bride; Miss Drum appeared auspicious as a 
 rainbow ; Catherine glowed and expanded with 
 unselfish happiness; Mrs. Gawkins Drum pro- 
 nounced the bride graceful, elegant, but old- 
 looking; Mr. Durham contributed a costly 
 wedding present, accompanied by a speech 
 both ostentatious and affectionate; Jane dis- 
 played herself a little disdainful, a little cross, 
 and supremely handsome; Alan and Stella— 
 
140 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 there was a young Alan now, a comical little 
 fright, more like mother than father—Alan and 
 Stella seemed to enjoy their friend’s wedding as 
 light-heartedly as they had enjoyed their own. 
 No tears were shed, no stereotyped hypocri- 
 sies uttered, no shoes flung; this time a true 
 man and a true woman who loved and honoured 
 each other, and whom no man should put 
 asunder, were joined together; and thus the 
 case did not lend itself to any tribute of lies, 
 
 miscalled white. — 
 
 Four months after their marriage Mr. Tresham 
 was hard at work again in London among 
 his East-end poor; while Lucy, taking a day’s 
 holiday at Brompton-on Sea, sat in the old 
 familiar drawing-room, Catherine’s exclusively 
 now. She had returned from the East bloom- 
 ing, vigorous, full of gentle fun and kindly 
 happiness: so happy, that she would not have 
 exchanged her present lot for aught except 
 her own future; so happy, that it saddened 
 her to believe Catherine less happy than her- 
 self. 
 
COMMONPLACE. I4I 
 
 The two sisters sat at the open window, 
 alike yet unlike: the elder handsome, resolute, 
 composed; the younger with the old wistful 
 expression in her tender beautiful eyes, They 
 had talked of Jane, who, though not dissatisfied 
 with her lot, too obviously despised her hus- 
 band; once lately, she had written of him as 
 the ‘ habitation-tax’ paid for Orpingham Place: 
 of Jane, who’ was too worldly either to keep 
 right in the spirit, or go wrong in the letter. 
 They had talked, and they had fallen silent; 
 for Catherine, who loved no one on earth as 
 she loved her frivolous sister, could best bear 
 in silence the sting of shame and grief for her 
 sake. 
 
 Full in view of the drawing-room windows 
 spread the sea, beautiful, strong, resistless, mur- 
 muring; the sea which had cast a burden on 
 Catherine’s life, and from which she now never 
 meant to absent herself; the sea from which 
 Lucy had fled in the paroxysm of her nervous 
 misery. ‘ 
 
 At last Lucy spoke again very earnestly,— 
 ‘Oh, Catherine, I cannot bear to be so happy 
 
142 COMMONPLACE. 
 
 when I think of you! If only you, too, had 
 a future.’ | 
 
 Catherine leaned over her happy sister 
 and gave her one kiss, a rare sign with her 
 of affectionate emotion. Then she turned to 
 face the open sky and sea.—‘My dear,’ she 
 answered, whilst her eyes gazed beyond clouds 
 and waves, and rested on one narrow streak 
 of sunlight which glowed at the horizon‘ My 
 dear, my future seems further off than yours; 
 
 but I certainly have a future, and I can wait.’ 
 
woe LOSE TITIAN. 
 

 
 
 
THE LOST. TITIAN. 
 
 ‘A lie with a circumstance.’ 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 THE last touch was laid on. The great painter 
 stood opposite the masterpiece of the period ; 
 the masterpiece of his life. 
 
 Nothing remained to be added. The orange 
 drapery was perfect in its fruit-like intensity of 
 hue; each vine-leaf was curved, each tendril 
 twisted, as if fanned by the soft south wind; the 
 sunshine brooded drowsily upon every dell and 
 swelling upland: but a tenfold drowsiness slept 
 in the cedar shadows. Look a moment, and 
 those cymbals must clash, that panther bound 
 forward; draw nearer, and the songs of those 
 ripe, winy lips must become audible. 
 
 L 
 
146 THE LOST TITIAN, 
 
 The achievement of his life glowed upon the 
 easel, and Titian was satisfied. 
 
 Beside him, witnesses of his triumph, stood 
 his two friends—Gianni the successful, and 
 Giannuccione the universal disappointment. 
 
 Gianni ranked second in Venice ; second in 
 most things, but in nothing first. His colorito 
 paled only before that of his illustrious rival, 
 whose supremacy, however, he ostentatiously 
 asserted. So in other matters. Only the re- 
 nowned Messer Cecchino was a more sonorous 
 singer; only fire-eating Prince Barbuto a better 
 swordsman ; only Arrigo il Biondo a finer dancer 
 or more sculpturesque beauty; even Caterina 
 Suprema, in that contest of gallantry which has 
 been celebrated by so many pens and pencils, 
 though she awarded the rose of honour to Matteo 
 Grande, the wit, yet plucked off a leaf for the 
 all but victor Gianni. 
 
 A step behind him lounged Giannuccione, 
 who had promised everything and fulfilled no- 
 thing. At the appearance of his first picture— 
 ‘Venus whipping Cupid with feathers plucked 
 
 from his own wing’—Venice rang with his praises, 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. 147 
 
 and Titian foreboded a rival: but when, year 
 after year, his works appeared still lazily im- 
 perfect, though always all but perfect, Venice 
 subsided into apathetic silence, and Titian felt 
 that no successor to his throne had as yet 
 achieved the purple. 
 
 So these two stood with the great master in 
 the hour of his triumph: Gianni loud, and Gian- 
 nuccione hearty, in his applauses, 
 
 Only these two stood with him: as yet 
 Venice at large knew not what her favourite 
 had produced. It was, indeed, rumoured, that 
 Titian had long been at work on a painting 
 which he himself accounted his masterpiece, but 
 its subject was a secret ; and while some spoke of 
 it as an undoubted Vintage of red grapes, others 
 maintained it to bea Dance of wood-nymphs ; while 
 one old gossip whispered that, whatever else the 
 painting might contain, she knew whose sunset- 
 coloured tresses and white brow would figure 
 in the foreground. But the general ignorance 
 mattered little; for, though words might have 
 named the theme, no words could have described 
 
 a picture which combined the softness of a dove’s 
 
148 THE LOST TITIAN. 
 
 breast with the intensity of an October sunset : 
 a picture of which the light almost warmed, and 
 the fruit actually bloomed and tempted. 
 
 Titian gazed upon his work, and was satis- 
 fied : Giannuccione gazed upon his friend’s work, 
 and was satisfied: only Gianni gazed upon his 
 friend and upon his work, and was enviously 
 dissatisfied. 
 
 ‘To-morrow, said Titian,—‘ to-morrow Venice 
 shall behold what she has long honoured by her 
 curiosity. To-morrow, with music and festivity, 
 the unknown shall be unveiled; and you, my 
 friends, shall withdraw the curtain.’ 
 
 The two friends assented. 
 
 ‘To-morrow,’ he continued, half amused, half 
 thoughtful, ‘ I know whose white brows will be 
 knit, and whose red lips will pout. Well, they 
 shall have their turn: but blue eyes are not al- 
 ways in season ; hazel eyes, like hazel nuts, have 
 their season also.’ 
 
 ‘True, chimed the chorus. 
 
 ‘But to-night, he pursued, ‘let us devote 
 the hours to sacred friendship. Let us with 
 
 songs and bumpers rehearse to-morrow’s festi- 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. 149 
 
 vities, and let your congratulations forestall its 
 triumphs.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, evviva /’ returned the chorus, briskly ; 
 and again ‘evviva !’ 
 
 So, with smiles and embraces, they parted. 
 So they met again at the welcome coming of 
 Argus-eyed night. 
 
 The studio was elegant with clusters of 
 flowers, sumptuous with crimson, gold-bordered 
 hangings, and luxurious with cushions and per- 
 fumes. From the walls peeped pictured fruit 
 and fruit-like faces, between the curtains and 
 in the corners gleamed moonlight-tinted statues ; 
 whilst on the easel reposed the beauty of the 
 evening, overhung by budding boughs, and illu- 
 minated by an alabaster lamp burning scented 
 oil. Strewn about the apartment lay musical 
 instruments and packs of cards. On the table 
 were silver dishes, filled with leaves and choice 
 fruits ; wonderful vessels of Venetian glass, con- 
 taining rare wines and iced waters ; and footless 
 goblets, which allowed the guest no choice but 
 to drain his bumper. 
 
 That night the bumpers brimmed. Toast 
 
I50 THE LOST TITIAN. 
 
 after toast was quaffed to the success of to- 
 morrow, the exaltation of the unveiled beauty, 
 the triumph of its author. 
 
 At last Giannuccione, flushed and sparkling, 
 rose: ‘Let us drink,’ he cried, “to"oureiost > 
 success to-morrow: may it be greater than the 
 past, and less than the future!’ 
 
 ‘Not so,’ answered Titian, suddenly; ‘not 
 so: I feel my star culminate.’ 
 
 He said it gravely, pushing back his seat, 
 and rising from table. His spirits seemed in 
 a moment to flag, and he looked pale in the 
 moonlight. It was as though the blight of the 
 evil eye had fallen upon him. 
 
 Gianni saw his disquiet, and laboured to re- 
 move it. He took a lute from the floor, and 
 tuning it, exerted his skill in music. He wrung 
 from the strings cries of passion, desolate sobs, 
 a wail as’ of one abandoned, plaintive, most 
 tender tones as of the solitario passero. The 
 charm worked: vague uneasiness was melting 
 into delicious melancholy. He redoubled his 
 efforts; he drew out tinkling notes joyful as the 
 
 feet of dancers; he struck notes like fire, and, 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. I51 
 
 uniting his voice to the instrument, sang the 
 glories of Venice and of Titian. His voice, full, 
 mellow, exultant, vibrated through the room ; 
 and, when it ceased, the bravos of his friends 
 rang out an enthusiastic chorus. 
 
 Then, more stirring than the snap of cas- 
 tanets on dexterous fingers; more fascinating, 
 more ominous, than a snake’s rattle, sounded 
 the music of the dice-box. 
 
 The stakes were high, waxing higher, and 
 higher ; the tide of fortune set steadily towards 
 Titian. Giannuccione laughed and _ played, 
 played and laughed with reckless good-nature, 
 doubling and redoubling his bets apparently 
 quite at random. At length, however, he 
 paused, yawned, laid down the dice. observing 
 that it would cost him a good six months’ toil 
 to pay off his losses—a remark which elicited 
 a peculiar smile of intelligence from his com- 
 panions—and, lounging back upon the cushions, 
 fell fast asleep. 
 
 Gianni also had been a loser: Gianni the 
 imperturbable, who won and lost alike with 
 
 steady hand and unvarying colour. Rumour 
 
152 THE LOST TITIAN: 
 
 stated that one evening he lost, won back, lost 
 once more, and finally regained his whole pro- 
 perty unmoved: at last only relinquishing the 
 game, which fascinated, but could not excite 
 him, for lack of an adversary. 
 
 In like manner he now threw his possessions, 
 as coolly as if they been another’s, piecemeal 
 into the gulph. First his money went, then his 
 collection of choice sketches ; his gondola fol- 
 lowed, his plate, his jewelry. These gone, for 
 the first time he laughed. 
 
 ‘Come,’ he said, ‘amico mio, let us throw 
 the crowning cast. I stake thereon myself; if 
 you win, you may sell me to the Moor to- 
 morrow, with the remnant of my patrimony ; 
 to wit, one house, containing various articles of 
 furniture and apparel; yea, if aught else remains 
 to me, that also do I stake: against these set 
 you your newborn beauty, and let us throw for 
 the last time; lest it be said cogged dice are 
 used in Venice, and I be taunted with the true 
 proverb,—* Save me from my friends, and I will 
 take care of my enemies.’ 
 
 ‘So be it, mused Titian, “eGvenweonssa san 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. 153 
 
 gain, my friend shall not suffer; if I lose, I can 
 but buy back my treasure with this night’s 
 winnings. His whole fortune will stand Gianni 
 in more stead than my picture; moreover, luck 
 favours me. Besides, it can only be that my 
 friend jests, and would try my confidence.’ 
 
 So argued Titian, heated by success, by 
 wine and play. But for these, he would freely 
 have restored his adversary’s fortune, though it 
 had been multiplied tenfold, and again tenfold, 
 rather than have risked his life’s labour on the 
 hazard of the dice. 
 
 They threw. 
 
 Luck had turned, and Gianni was successful. 
 
 Titian, nothing doubting, laughed as he 
 looked up from the table into his companion’s 
 face; but no shadow of jesting lingered there. 
 Their eyes met, and read each other's heart at a 
 glance. 
 
 One, discerned the gnawing envy of a life 
 satiated : a thousand mortifications, a thousand 
 inferiorities, compensated in a moment. 
 
 The other, read an indignation that even yet 
 
 scarcely realised the treachery which kindled 
 
154 THE LOST TITIAN, 
 
 it; a noble indignation, that more upbraided 
 the false friend than the destroyer of a life’s 
 hope. 
 
 It was a nine-days’ wonder in Venice what 
 had become of Titian’s masterpiece ; who had 
 spirited it away,—why, when, and where. Some 
 explained the mystery by hinting that Cle-— 
 mentina Beneplacida, having gained secret access 
 to the great master’s studio, had there, by dint 
 of scissors, avenged her slighted beauty, and 
 in effigy defaced her nut-brown rival. Others 
 said that Giannuccione, paying tipsy homage 
 to his friend’s performance, had marred its yet 
 moist surface. Others again averred, that in 
 a moment of impatience, Titian’s own sponge 
 flung against the canvas, had irremediably 
 blurred the principal figure. None knew, none 
 guessed the truth. Wonder fulfilled its little 
 day, and then, subsiding, was forgotten: having, 
 it may be, after all, as truly amused Venice 
 the volatile as any work of art could have 
 done, though it had robbed sunset of its glow, 
 its glory, and its fire. 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. 155 
 
 But why was the infamy of that night 
 kept secret? 
 
 By Titian, because in blazoning abroad his 
 companion’s treachery, he would subject him- 
 self to the pity of those from whom he scarcely 
 accepted homage; and, in branding Gianni 
 as a traitor, he would expose himself as a 
 dupe. . 
 
 By Gianni, because had the truth got wind, 
 his iniquitous prize might have been wrested 
 from him, and his malice frustrated in the 
 moment of triumph; not to mention that ven- 
 geance had a subtler relish when it kept back 
 a successful rival from the pinnacle of fame, 
 than when it merely exposed a friend to hu- 
 miliation. As artists, they might possibly have 
 been accounted rivals; as astute men of the 
 world, never. 
 
 Giannuccione had not witnessed all the trans- 
 actions of that night. Thanks to his drunken 
 sleep, he knew little; and what he guessed, 
 Titian’s urgency induced him to suppress. It 
 was, indeed, noticed how, from that time for- 
 
 ward, two of the three inseparables appeared 
 
156 THE LOST TITIAN. 
 
 in a measure, estranged from the third; yet 
 all outward observances of courtesy were con- 
 tinued, and, if embraces had ceased, bows and 
 doffings never failed. 
 
 For weeks, even for months, Gianni restrained 
 his love for play, and, painting diligently, la- 
 boured to rebuild his shattered fortune. All 
 prospered in his hands. His sketches sold 
 with unprecedented readiness, his epigrams 
 charmed the noblest dinner-givers, his verses 
 and piquant little airs won him admission into 
 the most exclusive circles. Withal, he seemed 
 to be steadying. His name no more pointed 
 stories of drunken frolics in the purlieus of 
 the city, of mad wagers in the meanest com- 
 pany, of reckless duels with nameless adversaries. 
 If now he committed follies, they were com- 
 mitted in the best society; if he sinned, it 
 was, at any rate, in a patrician casa; and, 
 though his morals might not yet be flawless, his 
 taste was unimpeachable. His boon companions 
 grumbled, yet could not afford to dispense with 
 him; his warmest friends revived hopes which 
 long ago had died away into despair. It was 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. 157 
 
 the heyday of his life: fortune and Venice 
 alike courted him; he had but to sun himself 
 in their smiles, and accept their favours. 
 
 So, nothing loth, he did, and for a while 
 prospered. But, as the extraordinary stimulus 
 flagged, the extraordinary energy flagged with 
 it. Leisure returned, and with leisure the al- 
 lurements of old pursuits. In proportion as 
 his expenditure increased, his gains lessened; 
 and, just when all his property, in fact, be- 
 longed to his creditors, he put the finishing 
 stroke to his obvious ruin, by staking and 
 losing at the gambling-table what was no longer 
 his own. 
 
 That night beheld Gianni grave, dignified, 
 imperturbable, and a beggar. Next day, his 
 creditors, princely and plebeian, would be upon 
 him: everything must go; not a scrap, not a 
 fragment, could be held back. Even Titian’s 
 masterpiece would be claimed; that prize for 
 which he had played away his soul, by which, 
 it may be, he had hoped to acquire a world- 
 wide fame, when its mighty author should be 
 
 silenced for ever in the dust. 
 
158 THE LOST TITIAN. 
 
 Yet to-morrow, not to-night, would be the 
 day of reckoning; to-night, therefore, was his 
 own. With a cool head he conceived, with a 
 steady hand he executed, his purpose. Taking 
 coarse pigments, such as, when he pleased, 
 might easily be removed, he daubed over those 
 figures which seemed to live, and that won- 
 derful background, which not Titian himself 
 could reproduce; then, on the blank surface, 
 he painted a dragon, flaming, clawed, prepos- 
 terous. One day he would recover his dragon, 
 recover his Titian under the dragon, and the 
 world should see. 
 
 Next morning the crisis came. 
 
 After all, Gianni’s effects were worth more 
 than had been supposed. They included Gian- 
 nuccione’s Venus whipping Cupid—how obtained, 
 who knows ?—a curiously wrought cup, by a 
 Florentine goldsmith, just then rising into notice ; 
 within the hollow of the foot was engraved 
 Benvenuto Cellini, surmounted by an outstretched 
 hand, symbolic of welcome, and quaintly al- 
 lusive to the name; a dab by Giorgione, a 
 scribble of the brush by Titian, and two feet 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. I59 
 
 square of genuine Tintoret. The creditors 
 brightened ; there was not enough for honesty, 
 but there was ample for the production of a 
 most decorous bankrupt. 
 
 His wardrobe was a study of colour; his 
 trinkets, few but choice, were of priceless good 
 taste. Moreover, his demeanour was unimpeach- 
 able and his delinquencies came to light with 
 the best grace imaginable. Some called him a 
 defaulter, but all admitted he was a thorough 
 gentleman. 
 
 Foremost in the hostile ranks stood Titian; 
 Titian, who now, for the first time since that 
 fatal evening, crossed his rival’s threshold. His 
 eye searched eagerly among the heap of name- 
 less canvasses for one unforgotten beauty, who 
 had occasioned him such sore heartache; but 
 he sought in vain; only in the forefront sprawled 
 a dragon, flaming, clawed, preposterous ; grinned, 
 twinkled, erected his tail, and flouted him. 
 
 ‘Yes,’ said Gianni, answering his looks, not 
 words, yet seeming to address the whole circle, 
 ‘Signort miei, these compose all my gallery. 
 An immortal sketch, by Messer Tiziano’—here 
 
160 THE LOST TITIAN. 
 
 a complimentary bow—‘a veritable Giorgione ; 
 your own work, Messer Robusti, which needs 
 no comment of mine to fix its value. A 
 few productions by feebler hands, yet not devoid 
 of merit. These are all. The most precious 
 part of my collection was destroyed (I need 
 not state, accidentally), three days ago by fire. 
 That dragon, yet moist, was designed for mine 
 host, Bevilacqua Mangiaruva; but this morning, 
 I hear, with deep concern, of his sudden demise.’ 
 
 Here Lupo Vorace of the Ovco decapitato 
 stepped forward. He,as he explained at length, 
 was a man of few words (this, doubtless, in 
 theory); but to make a long story short, so 
 charmed was he by the scaly monster that 
 he would change his sign, accept the ownerless 
 dragon, and thereby wipe out a voluminous 
 score which stood against his debtor. Gianni, 
 with courteous thanks, explained that the 
 dragon, still moist, was unfit for immediate 
 transport ; that it should remain in the studio 
 for a short time longer; and that, as soon as 
 its safety permitted, he would himself convey 
 
 it to the inn of his liberal creditor. But on this 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. 161 
 
 point Lupo was inflexible. In diffuse but un- 
 varying terms he claimed instant possession of 
 Gianni’s masterstroke. He seized it, reared it 
 face upwards on to his head, and by his exit 
 broke up the conclave of creditors. 
 What remains can be briefly told. 
 
 _ Titian, his last hope in this direction wrecked, 
 returned to achieve, indeed, fresh greatnesses : 
 but not the less returned to the tedium of 
 straining after an ideal once achieved, but now 
 lost for ever. Giannuccione, half amused, half 
 mortified, at the slighting mention made of his 
 performances, revenged himself in an epigram, 
 
 of which the following is a free translation :— 
 
 ‘Gianni my friend and I both strove to excel, 
 But, missing better, settled down in well. 
 Both fail, indeed ; but not alike we fail— 
 My forte being Venus’ face, and his a dragon’s tail,’ 
 
 Gianni, in his ruin, took refuge with a former 
 friend ; and there, treated almost on the footing 
 of a friend, employed his superabundant leisure 
 in concocting a dragon superior in all points to 
 its predecessor ; but, when this was almost com- 
 
 M 
 
162 THE LOST TITIAN. 
 
 pleted, this which was to ransom his unsuspected 
 treasure from the clutches of Lupo, the more 
 relentless clutches of death fastened upon 
 himself.’ | 
 
 His secret died with him. 
 
 An oral tradition of a somewhere extant 
 lost Titian having survived all historical accu- 
 racy, and so descended to another age, misled 
 the learned Dr. Landau into purchasing a 
 spurious work for the Gallery of Lunenberg ; 
 and even more recently induced Dr. Dreieck 
 to expend a large sum on a nominal Titian, 
 which he afterwards bequeathed to the National 
 Museum of Saxe Eulenstein. The subject of 
 this latter painting is a Vintage of red grapes, 
 full of life and vigour, exhibiting marked talent, 
 but clearly assignable to the commencement of 
 a later century. 
 
 There remains, however, a hope that some 
 happy accident may yet restore to the world 
 the masterpiece of one of her most brilliant 
 sons. 
 
 Reader, should you chance to discern over 
 
 wayside inn or metropolitan hotel a dragon 
 
THE LOST TITIAN. 163 
 
 pendent, or should you find such an effigy amid 
 the lumber of a broker’s shop, whether it be red, 
 green, or piebald, demand it importunately, pay 
 for it liberally, and in the privacy of home scrub 
 ee at may be that from behind the dragon 
 will emerge a fair one, fairer than Andromeda, 
 and that to you will appertain the honour of 
 yet further exalting Titian’s greatness in the 
 eyes of a world. 
 

 
NICK. 
 

 
IN DGC.K. 
 
 THERE dwelt in a small village, not a thousand 
 miles from Fairyland, a poor man, who had no 
 family to labour for or friend to assist. When 
 I call him poor, you must not suppose he was 
 a homeless wanderer, trusting to charity for a 
 night’s lodging; on the contrary, his ‘stone 
 house, with its green verandah and _ flower- 
 garden, was the prettiest and snuggest in all 
 the place, the doctor’s only excepted. Neither 
 was his store of provisions running low: his 
 farm supplied him with milk, eggs, mutton, 
 butter, poultry, and cheese in abundance; his 
 fields with hops and barley for beer, and wheat 
 for bread ; his orchard with fruit and cider; and 
 his kitchen-garden with vegetables and whole- 
 some herbs. He had, moreover, health, an 
 
168 NICK. 
 
 appetite to enjoy all these good things, and 
 strength to walk about his possessions. No, I 
 call him poor because, with all these, he was 
 discontented and envious. It was in vain that 
 his apples were the largest for miles around, if 
 his neighbour’s vines were the most productive 
 by a single bunch; it was in vain that his lambs 
 were fat and thriving, if some one else’s sheep 
 bore twins: so, instead of enjoying his own 
 prosperity, and being glad when his neighbours 
 prospered too, he would sit grumbling and be- 
 moaning himself as if every other man’s riches 
 were his poverty. And thus it was that one 
 day our friend Nick leaned over Giles Hodge’s 
 gate, counting his cherries. 
 
 ‘Yes, he muttered, ‘I wish I were sparrows 
 to eat them up, or a blight to kill your fine trees 
 altogether.’ 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered when he 
 felt a tap on his shoulder, and looking round, 
 perceived a little rosy woman, no bigger than a 
 butterfly, who held her tiny fist clenched in a 
 menacing attitude. She looked scornfully at 
 
 him, and said: ‘Now listen, you churl, you! 
 
NICK. 169 
 
 henceforward you shall straightway become 
 everything you wish; only mind, you must re- 
 main under one form for at least an hour.’ Then 
 she gave him a slap in the face, which made his 
 cheek tingle as if a bee had stung him, and dis- 
 appeared with just so much sound as a dewdrop 
 makes in falling. 
 
 Nick rubbed his cheek in a pet, pulling wry 
 faces and showing his teeth. He was boiling 
 over with vexation, but dared not vent it in 
 words lest some unlucky wish should escape 
 him. Just then the sun seemed to shine brighter 
 than ever, the wind blew spicy from the south; 
 all Giles’s roses looked redder and larger than 
 before, while his cherries seemed to multiply, 
 swell, ripen. He could refrain no longer, but, 
 
 heedless of the fairy-gift he had just received, 
 
 bf 
 
 
 
 exclaimed, ‘I wish I were sparrows eating 
 No sooner said than done: in a moment he 
 found himself a whole flight of hungry birds, 
 pecking, devouring, and bidding fair to devas- 
 tate the envied cherry-trees. But honest Giles 
 was on the watch hard by; for that very morning 
 it had struck him he must make nets for the 
 
170 NICK. 
 
 protection of his fine fruit. Forthwith he ran 
 home, and speedily returned with a revolver fur- 
 nished with quite a marvellous array of barrels. 
 Pop, bang—pop, bang! he made short work of 
 the sparrows, and soon reduced the enemy to 
 one crestfallen biped with broken leg and wing, 
 who limped to hide himself under a holly-bush. 
 But though the fun was over, the hour was not; 
 so Nick must needs sit out his allotted time. 
 Next a pelting shower came down, which soaked 
 him through his torn, ruffled feathers ; and then, 
 exactly as the last drops fell and the sun came 
 out with a beautiful rainbow, a tabby cat pounced 
 upon him. Giving himself up for lost, he chirped 
 in desperation, ‘O, I wish I were a dog to worry 
 you! Instantly—for the hour was just passed 
 —in the grip of his horrified adversary, he turned 
 at bay, a savage bull-dog. A shake, a deep 
 bite, and poor puss was out of her pain. Nick, 
 with immense satisfaction, tore her fur to bits, 
 wishing he could in like manner exterminate all 
 her progeny. At last, glutted with vengeance, 
 he lay down beside his victim, relaxed his ears 
 and tail, and fell asleep. 
 
NICK. 171 
 
 Now that tabby-cat was the property and 
 special pet of no less a personage than the doc- 
 tor’s lady; so when dinner-time came, and not 
 the cat, a general consternation pervaded the 
 household. The kitchens were searched, the 
 cellars, the attics; every apartment was ran- 
 sacked; even the watch-dog’s kennel was vi- 
 sited. Next the stable was rummaged, then the 
 hay-loft ; lastly, the bereaved lady wandered 
 disconsolately through her own private garden 
 into the shrubbery, calling ‘Puss, puss,’ and 
 looking so intently up the trees as not to per- 
 ceive what lay close before her feet. Thus it 
 was that, unawares, she stumbled over Nick, and 
 trod upon his tail. 
 
 Up jumped our hero, snarling, biting, and 
 rushing at her with such blind fury as to miss. 
 his aim. She ran, he ran. Gathering up his 
 strength, he took a flying-leap after his victim ; 
 her foot caught in the spreading root of an oak- 
 tree, she fell, and he went over her head, clear 
 over, into a bed of stinging-nettles. Then she 
 found breath to raise that fatal cry, ‘Mad dog!’ 
 
 Nick’s blood curdled in his veins; he would 
 
172 NICK. 
 
 have slunk away if he could; but already a 
 stout labouring-man, to whom he had done 
 many an ill turn in the time of his humanity, 
 had spied him, and, bludgeon in hand, was pre- 
 paring to give chase. However, Nick had the 
 start of him, and used it too; while the lady, 
 far behind, went on vociferating, ‘Mad dog, 
 mad dog!’ inciting doctor, servants, and vaga- 
 bonds to the pursuit. Finally, the whole 
 village came pouring out to swell the hue and 
 cry. 
 
 The dog kept ahead gallantly, distancing 
 more and more the asthmatic doctor, fat Giles, 
 and, in fact, all his pursuers except the bludgeon- 
 bearing labourer, who was just near enough to 
 persecute his tail. Nick knew the magic hour 
 must be almost over, and so kept forming wish 
 after wish as he ran,—that he were a viper only 
 to get trodden on, a thorn to run into some 
 one’s foot, a man-trap in the path, even the 
 detested bludgeon to miss its aim and break. 
 This wish crossed his mind at the propitious - 
 moment ; the bull-dog vanished, and the labourer, 
 
 overreaching himself, fell flat on his face, while 
 
NICK. 173 
 
 his weapon struck deep into the earth, and 
 snapped. 
 
 A strict search was instituted after the miss- 
 ing dog, but without success. During two 
 whole days the village children were exhorted 
 to keep indoors and beware of dogs; on the 
 third an inoffensive bull pup was hanged, and 
 the panic subsided. 
 
 Meanwhile the labourer, with his shattered 
 stick, walked home in silent wonder, pondering 
 on the mysterious disappearance. But the 
 puzzle was beyond his solution; so he only 
 made up his mind not to tell his wife the whole 
 story till after tea. He found her preparing 
 for that meal, the bread and cheese set out, 
 and the kettle singing softly on the fire. ‘Here’s 
 something to make the kettle boil, mother,’ said 
 he, thrusting our hero between the bars and 
 seating himself; ‘for I’m mortal tired and 
 thirsty.’ 
 
 Nick crackled and blazed away cheerfully, 
 throwing out bright sparks, and lighting up 
 every corner of the little room. He toasted 
 the cheese to a nicety, made the kettle boil 
 
174 NICK. 
 
 without spilling a drop, set the cat purring with 
 comfort, and illuminated the pots and pans into 
 splendour. It was provocation enough to be 
 burned; but to contribute by his misfortune to 
 the well-being of his tormentors was still more 
 ageravating. He heard, too, all their remarks 
 and wonderment about the supposed mad-dog, 
 and saw the doctor’s lady’s own maid bring the 
 labourer five shillings as a reward for his exer- 
 tions. Then followed a discussion as to what 
 should be purchased with the gift, till at last it 
 was resolved to have their best window glazed 
 with real glass. The prospect of their grandeur 
 put the finishing-stroke to Nick’s indignation. 
 Sending up a sudden flare, he wished with all his 
 might that he were fire to burn the cottage. 
 Forthwith the flame leaped higher than ever 
 flame leaped before. It played for a moment 
 about a ham, and smoked it to a nicety; then, 
 fastening on the woodwork above the chimney- 
 corner, flashed full into a blaze. The labourer 
 ran for help, while his wife, a timid woman, with 
 three small children, overturned two pails of 
 
 water on the floor, and set the beer-tap running. 
 
NICK, 175 
 
 This done, she hurried, wringing her hands, to 
 the door, and threw it wide open. The sudden 
 draught of air did more mischief than all Nick’s 
 malice, and fanned him into quite a conflagra- 
 tion. He danced upon the rafters, melted a 
 pewter-pot and a pat of butter, licked up the 
 beer, and was just making his way towards the ~ 
 bedroom, when through the thatch and down 
 the chimney came a rush of water. This ar- 
 rested his progress for the moment; and before 
 he could recover himself, a second and a third 
 discharge from the enemy completed his dis- 
 comfiture. Reduced ere long to one blue flame, 
 and entirely surrounded by a wall of wet ashes, 
 Nick sat and smouldered; while the good- 
 natured neighbours did their best to remedy the 
 mishap,—saved a small remnant of beer, assured 
 the labourer that his landlord was certain to do 
 the repairs, and observed that the ham would 
 eat ‘ beautiful.’ 
 
 Our hero now had leisure for reflection. His 
 situation precluded all hope of doing further 
 mischief ; and the disagreeable conviction kept 
 forcing itself upon his mind that, after all, 
 
176 NICK, 
 
 he had caused more injury to himself than to 
 any of his neighbours. Remembering, too, how 
 contemptuously the fairy woman had looked 
 and spoken, he began to wonder how he could 
 ever have expected to enjoy her gift. Then it 
 occurred to him, that if he merely studied his 
 own advantage without trying to annoy other 
 people, perhaps his persecutor might be pro- 
 pitiated ; so he fell to thinking over all his © 
 acquaintances, their fortunes and misfortunes ; 
 and, having weighed well their several claims 
 on his preference, ended by wishing himself 
 the rich old man who lived in a handsome 
 house just beyond the turnpike. In this wish 
 he burned out. - 
 
 The last glimmer had scarcely died away, 
 when Nick found himself in a bed hung round 
 with faded curtains, and occupying the centre 
 of a large room. A night-lamp, burning on 
 the chimney-piece, just enabled him to discern 
 a few shabby old articles of furniture, a scanty 
 carpet, and some writing materials on a table. 
 These objects looked somewhat dreary; but for 
 
 his comfort he felt an inward consciousness of a 
 
NICK. 17% 
 
 goodly money-chest stowed away under his bed, 
 and of sundry precious documents hidden in a 
 secret cupboard in the wall. 
 
 So he lay very cosily, and listened to the 
 clock ticking, the mice squeaking, and the house- 
 dog barking down below. This was, however, 
 but a drowsy occupation ; and he soon bore 
 witness to its somniferous influence by sinking 
 into a fantastic dream about his money-chest. 
 First, it was broken open, then shipwrecked, 
 then burned; lastly, some men in masks, whom 
 he knew instinctively to be his own servants, 
 began dragging it away. Nick started up, 
 clutched hold of something in the dark, found 
 his last dream true, and the next moment was 
 stretched on the floor—lifeless, yet not insen- 
 sible—by a heavy blow from a crowbar. 
 
 The men now proceeded to secure their 
 booty, leaving our hero where he fell. They 
 carried off the chest, broke open and ransacked 
 the secret closet, overturned the furniture, to 
 make sure that no hiding-place of treasure 
 escaped them, and at length, whispering to- 
 gether, left the room. Nick felt quite dis- 
 
 N 
 
178 NICK. 
 
 couraged by his ill success, and now entertained 
 only one wish—that he were himself again. 
 Yet even this wish gave him some anxiety ; 
 for he feared that if the servants returned and 
 found him in his original shape they might 
 take him for a spy, and murder him in down- 
 right earnest. While he lay thus cogitating 
 two of the men reappeared, bearing a shutter 
 and some tools. They lifted him up, laid him 
 on the shutter, and carried him out of the 
 room, down the back-stairs, through a long 
 vaulted passage, into the open air. No word 
 was spoken; but Nick knew they were going 
 to bury him. | 
 
 An utter horror seized him, while, at the 
 same time, he felt a strange consciousness that 
 his hair would not stand on end because he 
 was dead. The men set him down, and began 
 in silence to dig his grave. It was soon ready 
 to receive him; they threw the body roughly 
 in, and cast upon it the first shovelful of earth. 
 
 But the moment of deliverance had arrived. 
 His wish suddenly found vent in a prolonged 
 unearthly yell. Damp with night dew, pale 
 
NICK. 179 
 
 as death, and shivering from head to foot, 
 he sat bolt upright, with starting, staring eyes 
 and chattering teeth. The murderers, in mortal 
 fear, cast down their tools, plunged deep into 
 a wood hard by, and were never heard of 
 more. 
 
 Under cover of night Nick made the best 
 of his way home, silent and pondering. Next 
 morning he gave Giles Hodge a rare tulip- 
 root, with full directions for rearing it; he 
 sent the doctor’s wife a Persian cat twice the 
 size of her lost pet; the labourer’s cottage 
 was repaired, his window glazed, and his beer- 
 barrel replaced by unknown agency; and when 
 a vague rumour reached the village that the 
 miser was dead, that his ghost had been heard 
 bemoaning itself, and that all his treasures had 
 been carried off, our hero was one of the few 
 persons who did not say, ‘And served him 
 right, too.’ 
 
 Finally, Nick was never again heard to 
 
 utter a wish. 
 

 
HERO.) 
 
 Pee AMOR PTOSLS, = 
 

 
HERO. 
 
 ‘Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us!’ 
 BURNS. 
 
 IF you consult the authentic map of Fairy- 
 land (recently published by Messrs. Moon, Shine, 
 and Co.) you will notice that the emerald- 
 green line which indicates its territorial limit, 
 is washed towards the south by a bold ex- 
 panse of sea, undotted by either rocks or 
 islands. To the north-west it touches the 
 work-a-day world, yet is effectually barricaded 
 against intruders by an impassable chain of 
 mountains; which, enriched throughout with 
 mines of gems and metals, presents on Man- 
 side a leaden sameness of hue, but on Elf- 
 
 side glitters with diamonds and opals as with 
 
184 HERO. 
 
 ten thousand fire-flies. The greater portion 
 of the west frontier is, however, bounded, not 
 by these mountains, but by an arm of the 
 sea, which forms a natural barrier between 
 the two countries; its eastern shore peopled 
 by good folks and canny neighbours, gay 
 sprites, graceful fairies, and sportive elves; its 
 western by a bold tribe of semi-barbarous 
 fishermen. 
 
 Nor was it without reason that the first 
 settlers selected this fishing-field, and continued 
 to occupy it, though generation after gener- 
 ation they lived and died almost isolated. Their 
 swift, white-sailed boats ever bore the most ~ 
 delicate freights of fish to the markets of 
 Outerworld—and not of fish only; many a 
 waif and stray from Fairyland washed ashore 
 amongst them. Now a fiery carbuncle blazed 
 upon the sand; now a curiously-wrought ball 
 of gold or ivory was found imbedded amongst 
 the pebbles. Sometimes a sunny wave threw 
 up a_ rose-coloured winged shell or jewelled 
 starfish ; sometimes a branch of unfading sea- 
 
 weed, exquisitely perfumed. But though these 
 
HERO, 185 
 
 treasures, when once secured, could be offered 
 for sale and purchased by all alike, they were 
 never, in the first instance, discovered except 
 by children or innocent young maidens; in- 
 deed, this fact was of such invariable occurrence, 
 and children were so fortunate in treasure- 
 finding, that a bluff mariner would often, on 
 returning home empty-handed from his day’s 
 toil, despatch his little son or daughter to 
 a certain sheltered stretch of shingle, which 
 went by the name of ‘the children’s harvest- 
 field; hoping by such means to repair his 
 failure. 
 
 Amongst this race of fishermen was none 
 more courageous, hospitable, and free-spoken 
 than Peter Grump the widower; amongst their 
 daughters was none more graceful and pure 
 than his only child Hero, beautiful, lively, 
 tender-hearted, and fifteen; the pet of her 
 father, the pride of her neighbours, and the 
 true love of Forss, as sturdy .a young fellow 
 as ever cast a net in. deep water, or rowed 
 against wind and tide for dear life. 
 
 One afternoon Hero, rosy through the splash- 
 
186 HERO. 
 
 ing spray and sea-wind, ran home full-handed 
 from the harvest-field. 
 
 ‘See here, father!’ she cried, eagerly de- 
 positing a string of sparkling red beads upon 
 the table: ‘see, are they not beautiful ?’ 
 
 Peter Grump examined them carefully, hold- 
 ing each bead up to the light, and weighing 
 them in his hand. 
 
 ‘Beautiful indeed!’ echoed Forss, who un-_ 
 noticed, at least by the elder, had followed Hero 
 into the cottage. ‘Ah, if I had a sister to find 
 me fairy treasures, I would take the three 
 months’ long journey to the best market of 
 Outerworld, and make my fortune there.’ 
 
 ‘Then you would rather go the three months’ 
 journey into Outerworld than come every even- 
 ing to my father’s cottage?’ said Hero, shyly. 
 
 ‘Truly I would go to Outerworld first, 
 and come to you afterwards,’ her lover an- 
 swered, with a smile; for he thought how 
 speedily on his return he would have a tight 
 house of his own, and a fair young wife, too. 
 
 ‘Father, said Hero presently, ‘if, instead 
 of gifts coming now and then to us, I could 
 
HERO. | 187 
 
 go to Giftland and grow rich there, would 
 you fret after me?’ 
 
 _ * Truly,’ answered honest Peter, ‘if you can 
 go and be Queen of Fairyland, I will not 
 keep you back from such eminence; for he 
 thought, ‘my darling jests; no one ever tra- 
 versed those mountains or that inland sea, and 
 how should her little feet cross over?’ 
 
 But Hero, who could not read their hearts, 
 said within herself, ‘They do not love me as 
 I love them. Father should not leave me 
 to be fifty kings; and I would not leave Forss 
 to go to Fairyland, much less Outerworld.’ 
 
 Yet from that day forward’ Hero -was 
 changed ; their love no longer seemed sufficient 
 for her; she sought after other love and other 
 admiration. Once a lily was ample head-dress, 
 now she would heighten her complexion with 
 a wreath of gorgeous blossoms; once it was 
 enough that Peter and Forss should be pleased 
 with her, now she grudged any man’s notice 
 to her fellow-maidens. Stung by supposed in- 
 difference, she suffered disappointment to make 
 her selfish, Her face, always beautiful, lost 
 
188 | HERO. 
 
 its expression of gay sweetness; her temper 
 became capricious, and instead of cheerful airs 
 she would sing snatches of plaintive or bitter 
 songs. Her father looked anxious, her lover 
 sad; both endeavoured, by the most patient 
 tenderness, to win her back to her former 
 self; but a weight lay on their hearts when 
 they noticed that she no longer brought home 
 fairy treasures, and remembered that such could 
 be found only by the innocent. 
 
 One evening Hero, sick alike of herself and 
 of others, slipped unnoticed from the cottage, 
 and wandered seawards. Though the moon 
 had not, yet risen, she could see her way 
 distinctly, for all Fairycoast flashed one blaze 
 of splendour. A soft wind bore to Hero the 
 hum of distant instruments and songs, mingled 
 with ringing laughter; and she thought, full 
 of curiosity, that some festival must be going 
 on amongst the little people; perhaps a wed- 
 ding. 
 
 Suddenly the music ceased, the lights danced 
 up and down, ran to and fro, clambered here 
 
 and there, skurried round and round with ir- 
 
HERO. 189 
 
 regular precipitate haste, while the laughter 
 was succeeded by fitful sounds of lamentation 
 and fear. Hero fancied some precious thing 
 must have been lost, and that a minute search 
 was going on. For hours the commotion con- 
 _tinued, then gradually, spark by spark, the 
 blaze died out, and all seemed once more quiet ; 
 yet still the low wail of sorrow was audible. 
 
 Weary at length of watching, Hero arose; 
 and was just about to turn homewards, when — 
 a noisy, vigorous wave leaped ashore, and de- 
 posited something shining at her feet. 
 
 She stooped. What could it be? 7 
 
 It was a broad, luminous shell, fitted. up 
 with pillows and an awning. On the pillows 
 and under the scented canopy lay fast asleep 
 a little creature, butterfly-winged and coloured 
 like a rose-leaf. The fish who should have 
 piloted her had apparently perished at his 
 post, some portion of his pulp still cleaving 
 to the shell’s fluted lip; while unconscious of 
 her faithful adherent’s fate, rocked by wind 
 and wave, the Princess Royal of Fairyland 
 had floated fast asleep to Man-side. Her dis- 
 
190 HERO. 
 
 appearance it was which had occasioned such 
 painful commotion amongst her family and 
 affectionate lieges; but all their lamentations 
 failed to rouse her; and not till the motion 
 of the water ceased did she awake to find 
 herself, vessel and all, cradled in the hands of 
 Hero. 
 
 During some moments the two stared at 
 each other in silent amazement; then a sus- 
 -picion of the truth flashing across her mind, 
 Princess Fay sat upright on her couch and 
 spoke,— 
 
 ‘What gift shall I give you that so I may 
 return to my home in peace?’ 
 
 For an instant Hero would have answered, 
 ‘Give me the love of Forss; but pride checked 
 the words, and she said, ‘Grant me, wherever 
 I am, to become the supreme object of ad- 
 miration.’ 
 
 Princess Fay smiled, ‘As you will,’ said 
 she; ‘but to effect this you must come with 
 me to my country.’ 
 
 Then, whilst Hero looked round for some 
 
 road which mortal feet might traverse, Fay 
 
HERO. I9I 
 
 uttered a low, bird-like call. A slight froth- 
 ing ensued, at the water’s edge, close to the 
 shingle, whilst one by one mild, scaly faces 
 peered above the surface, and vigorous tails 
 propelled their owners. Next, three strong 
 fishes combining themselves into a raft, Hero 
 seated herself on the centre back, and hold- 
 ing fast her little captive, launched out upon 
 the water. 
 
 Soon they passed beyond where mortal sailor 
 had ever navigated, and explored the unknown 
 sea. Strange forms of seals and porpoises, 
 marine snails and unicorns contemplated them 
 with surprise, followed reverentially in their 
 wake, and watched them safe ashore. 
 
 But on Hero their curious ways were lost, 
 so absorbed was she by ambitious longings. 
 Even after landing, to her it seemed nothing 
 that her feet trod on sapphires, and that both 
 birds and fairies made their nests in the ad- 
 jacent trees. Blinded, deafened, stultified by 
 self, she passed unmoved through crystal streets, 
 between fountains of rainbow, along corridors 
 
 carpeted with butterflies’ wings, up a staircase 
 
192 HERO. 
 
 formed from a single tusk, into the opal pre- 
 sence-chamber, even to the foot of the carnelian 
 dormouse on which sat enthroned Queen Fairy. 
 
 Till the Queen said, ‘What gift shall I give 
 you, that so my child may be free from you 
 and we at peace?’ . 
 
 Then again Hero answered, ‘Grant me, 
 wherever I am, to become the supreme object 
 of admiration.’ 
 
 Thereat a hum and buzz of conflicting 
 voices ran through the apartment. The im- 
 mutable statutes of Fairycourt enacted that 
 no captured fairy could be set free except 
 at the price named by the captor; from this 
 necessity not even the blood-royal was exempt, 
 so that the case was very urgent; on the 
 other hand, the beauty of Hero, her extreme 
 youth, and a certain indignant sorrow which 
 spoke in her every look and tone, had enlisted 
 such sympathy on her side as made the pigmy 
 nation loth to endow her with the perilous pre- 
 eminence she demanded. 
 
 ‘Clear the court) shrilled the usher of the 
 golden rod, an alert elf, green like a grasshopper. 
 
HERO. 193 
 
 Amid the crowd of non-voters Hero, bearing 
 her august prisoner, retired from the throne- 
 room. 
 
 When recalled to the assembly an imposing 
 silence reigned, which was almost instantly 
 broken by the Queen. ‘ Maiden, she said, ‘it 
 cannot be but that the dear ransom of my 
 daughter’s liberty must be paid. I grant you, 
 wherever you may appear, to become the su- 
 preme object of admiration. In you every man 
 shall find his taste satisfied. In you one shall 
 recognise his ideal of loveliness, another shall 
 bow before the impersonation of dignity. One 
 shall be thrilled by your voice, another fascin- 
 ated by your wit and inimitable grace. He who 
 prefers colour shall dwell upon your complexion, 
 hair, eyes; he who worships intellect shall find 
 in you his superior ; he who is ambitious shall 
 feel you to be a prize more august than an 
 empire. I cannot ennoble the taste of those 
 who look upon you: I can but cause that in you 
 _all desire shall be gratified. If sometimes you 
 chafe under a trivial homage, if sometimes you 
 are admired rather for what you have than for 
 
 O 
 
194 HERO. 
 
 what you are, accuse your votaries,—accuse, if 
 you will, yourself, but accuse not me. In con- 
 sideration, however, of your utter inexperience, 
 I and my trusty counsellors have agreed for one 
 year to retain your body here, whilst in spirit 
 you at will become one with the reigning object 
 of admiration. If at the end of the year you 
 return to claim this pre-eminence as your own 
 proper attribute, it shall then be unconditionally 
 sranted : if, on the contrary, you then or even 
 sooner desire to be released from a gift whose 
 sweetness is alloyed by you know not how 
 much of bitter shortcoming and disappointment, 
 return, and you shall at once be relieved of a 
 burden you cannot yet estimate.’ 
 
 So Hero quitted the presence, led by spirits 
 to a pleasance screened off into a perpetual 
 twilight. Here, on a rippling lake, blossomed 
 lilies. She lay down among their broad leaves 
 and cups, cradled by their interlaced stems, 
 rocked by warm winds on the rocking water ; 
 she lay till the splash of fountains, and the chirp 
 of nestlings, and the whisper of spiced breezes, 
 
 and the chanted monotone of an innumerable. 
 
HERO. 195 
 
 choir, lulled to sleep her soul, lulled to rest her 
 tumultuous heart, charmed her conscious spirit 
 into a heavy blazing diamond,—a glory by day, 
 a lamp by night, and a world’s wonder at all 
 times. 
 
 Let us leave the fair body at rest, and crowned 
 with lilies, to follow the restless spirit, shrined 
 in a jewel, and cast ashore on Man-side. 
 
 No sooner was this incomparable diamond 
 picked up and carried home than Hero’s darling 
 wish was gratified. She outshone every beauty, 
 ._ she eclipsed the most brilliant eyes of the colony. 
 For a moment the choicest friend was super- 
 seded, the dearest mistress overlooked. For a 
 moment—and this outstripped her desire — 
 Peter Grump forgot his lost daughter and Forss 
 his lost love. Soon greedy admiration developed 
 into greedy strife: her spark kindled a con- 
 flagration. This gem, in itself an unprecedented 
 fortune, should this gem remain the property of 
 a defenceless orphan to whom mere chance had 
 assigned it? From her it was torn in a moment: 
 then the stronger wrested it from the strong, 
 
 blows revenged blows, until, as the last con- 
 
196 HERO. 
 
 tender bit the dust in convulsive death, the 
 victor, feared throughout the settlement for his 
 brute strength and brutal habits, bore off the 
 prize toward the best market of Outerworld. 
 
 It irked Hero to’ nestle in that polluted 
 bosom and count the beatings of that sordid 
 heart ; but when, at the end of the three months’ 
 long journey, she found herself in a guarded 
 booth, enthroned on a cushion of black velvet, 
 by day blazing even in the full sunshine, by 
 night needing no lamp save her own lustre; 
 when she heard the sums running up from thou- 
 sands into millions which whole guilds of jewellers, 
 whole caravans of merchant princes, whole royal 
 families clubbed their resources to offer for her 
 purchase, it outweighed all she had undergone 
 of disgust and tedium. Finally, two empires, 
 between which a marriage was about to be con- 
 tracted and a peace ratified, outbid all rivals 
 and secured the prize. 
 
 Princess Lily, the august bride-elect, was 
 celebrated far and near for courteous manners 
 and delicate beauty. Her refusal was more 
 
 gracious, her reserve more winning, than the 
 
HERO. 197 
 
 acquiescence or frankness of another. She might 
 have been more admired, or even envied, had 
 she been less loved. If she sang, her hearers 
 loved her; if she danced, the lookers-on loved 
 her; thus love forestalled admiration, and happy 
 in the one she never missed the other. 
 
 Only on her wedding-day, for the first time, 
 she excited envy ; for in her coronet appeared 
 the inestimable jewel, encircling her sweet face 
 with a halo of splendour. Hero eclipsed the 
 bride, dazzled the bridegroom, distracted the 
 queen-mother, and thrilled the whole assembly. _ 
 Through all the public solemnities of the day 
 Hero reigned supreme: and when, the state 
 parade being at length over, Lily unclasped her 
 gems and laid aside her cumbrous coronet, 
 Hero was handled with more reverential tender- 
 ness than her mistress. 
 
 The bride leaned over her casket of treasures 
 and gazed at the inestimable diamond. ‘Is it 
 not magnificent ?’? whispered she. 
 
 ‘What?’ said the bridegroom: ‘I was look- 
 at you.” 
 
 So Lily flushed up with delight, and Hero 
 
198 HERO. 
 
 experienced a shock. Next the diamond shot 
 up one ray of dazzling momentary lustre; then 
 lost its supernatural brilliancy, as Hero quitted 
 the gem for the heart of Lily. 
 
 Etiquette required that the young couple 
 should for some days remain in strict retire- 
 ment. Hero now found herself in a secluded 
 palace, screened by the growth of many centuries. 
 She was waited on by twenty bridesmaids only 
 less noble than their princess; she was wor- 
 shipped by her bridegroom and reflected by a 
 hundred mirrors. In Lily’s pure heart she 
 almost found rest: and when the young prince, 
 at dawn, or lazy noon, or mysterious twilight— 
 for indeed the process went on every day and 
 all day—praised his love’s eyes, or hair, or 
 voice, or movements, Hero thought with proud 
 eagerness of the moment when, in her own 
 proper person, she might claim undisputed pre- 
 eminence. 
 
 The prescribed seclusion, however, drew to a 
 close, and the royal pair must make their en- 
 trance on public life. Their entrance coincided 
 with another’s exit. 
 
HERO. 199 
 
 Melice Rapta had for three successive seasons 
 thrilled the world by her voice, and subdued it 
 by her loveliness. She possessed the demeanour 
 of an empress, and the winning simplicity of a 
 child, genius and modesty, tenderness and in- 
 domitable will. Her early years had passed in 
 obscurity, subject to neglect, if not unkindness ; 
 it was only when approaching womanhood 
 developed and matured her gifts that she met 
 with wealthy protectors and assumed their 
 name: for Melice was a foundling. 
 
 No sooner, however, did her world-wide 
 fame place large resources at her command, 
 than she anxiously sought to trace her unknown 
 parentage; and, at length, discovered that her 
 high-born father and plebeian mother—herself 
 sole fruit of their concealed marriage—were 
 dead. Once made known to her kindred, she 
 was eagerly acknowledged by them; but reject- 
 ing more brilliant offers, she chose to withdraw 
 into a private sphere, and fix her residence 
 with a maternal uncle, who, long past the 
 meridian of life, devoted his energies to bo- 
 
 tanical research and culture. 
 
200 HERO. 
 
 So, on the same evening, Lily and her hus- 
 band entered on their public duties, and Melice 
 took leave for ever of a nation of admirers. 
 
 When the prince and princess appeared in 
 the theatre, the whole house stood up, answering 
 their smiles and blushes by acclamations of 
 welcome. They took their places on chairs 
 of state under an emblazoned canopy, and the 
 performance commenced. 
 
 A moonless night: three transparent ghosts 
 flit across the scene, bearing in their bosoms 
 unborn souls. They leave behind tracks of 
 light from which are generated arums. Day 
 breaks—Melice enters; she washes her hands 
 in a fountain, singing to the splash of the 
 water; she plucks arums, and begins weaving 
 them into a garland, still singing. 
 
 Lily bent forward to whisper something to 
 her husband ; but he raised his hand, enforcing 
 ‘Hush!’ as through eyes and ears his soul drank 
 deep of beauty. The young wife leaned back 
 with good-humoured acquiescence; but Hero? 
 
 In another moment Hero was singing in 
 
 the unrivalled songstress, charrhing and subduing 
 
HERO. 201 
 
 every heart. The play proceeded ; its incidents, 
 its characters developed. Melice outshone, out- 
 sang herself; warbling like a bird, thrilling 
 with entreaty, pouring forth her soul in passion. 
 Her voice commanded an enthusiastic silence, 
 her silence drew down thunders of enthusiastic 
 applause. She acknowledged the honour with 
 majestic courtesy; then, for the first time, 
 trembled, changed colour: would have swept 
 from the presence like a queen, but merely 
 wept like a woman. 
 
 It was her hour of supreme triumph. 
 
 Next day she set out for her uncle’s resi- 
 dence, her own selected home. 
 
 Many a long day’s journey separated her 
 from her mother’s village, and her transit thither 
 assumed the aspect of a ceremonial progress. 
 At every town on her route orations and em- 
 blems awaited her; whilst from the capital 
 she was quitting, came, pursuing her, messages’ 
 of farewell, congratulation, entreaty. Often an 
 unknown cavalier rode beside her carriage some 
 stage of the journey; often a high-born lady 
 met her on the road, and, taking a last view 
 
202 HERO. 
 
 of her countenance, obtained a few more last 
 words from the most musical mouth in the 
 world. 
 
 At length the goal was reached. The small 
 cottage, surrounded by its disproportionately 
 extensive garden, was there; the complex for- 
 cing-houses, pits, refrigerators, were there ; Uncle 
 Treeh was there, standing at the open door - 
 to receive his newly-found relative. 
 
 Uncle Treeh was rather old, rather short, 
 not handsome; with an acute eye, a sensitive 
 mouth, and spectacles. With his complexion 
 of sere brown, and his scattered threads of white 
 hair, he strikingly resembled certain plants of 
 the cactus tribe, which, in their turn, resemble 
 withered old men. 
 
 All his kind. face brightened with welcome 
 as he kissed his fair niece; and led her into 
 his sitting-room. On the table were spread 
 for her refreshment the choicest products of 
 his gardens: ponderous pine-apples, hundred- 
 berried vine clusters, currants large as grapes 
 and sweet as honey. For a moment his eyes 
 
 dwelt on a human countenance with more 
 
HERO. 203 
 
 admiration than on a vegetable; for a moment, 
 on comparing Melice’s complexion with an ole- 
 ander, he awarded the palm to the former. 
 
 But a week afterwards, when Melice, lean- 
 ing over his shoulder, threatened to read what 
 he was writing, Treeh looked good-naturedly 
 conscious, and, abandoning the letter to her 
 mercy, made his escape into a neighbouring 
 
 conservatory. 
 She read as follows :— 
 
 My Friend,— 
 You will doubtless have learned how - 
 
 my solitude has been invaded by my sister’s 
 long-lost daughter, a peach-coloured damsel, 
 with commeline eyes, and hair darker than 
 chestnuts. For one whole evening I suspended 
 my beloved toils and devoted myself to her: 
 alas! next day, on revisiting Lime Alley, 
 house B, pot 37, I found that during my ab- 
 sence a surreptitious slug had devoured three 
 shoots of a tea-rose. Thus nipped in the bud, 
 my cherished nursling seemed to upbraid me 
 with neglect; and so great was my vexation, 
 
204 HERO. 
 
 that, on returning to company, I could scarcely 
 conceal it. From that hour I resolved that | 
 no mistaken notions of hospitality should ever 
 again seduce me from the true aim of my 
 existence. Nerved by this resolution, I once 
 more take courage; and now write to inform 
 you that I am in hourly expectation of be- 
 holding pierce the soil (loam, drenched with 
 liquid manure) the first sprout from that un- 
 named alien seed, which was brought to our 
 market, three months ago, by a seafaring man 
 of semi-barbarous aspect. I break off to visit 
 
 my hoped-for seedling. 
 
 At this moment the door, hastily flung 
 open, startled Melice, who, looking up, beheld 
 Treeh, radiant and rejoicing, a flowerpot in 
 his hand. He hurried up to her, and, setting 
 his load on the table, sank upon his knees. 
 “Look P ‘he’ cried, 
 
 ‘Why, uncle,’ rejoined Melice, when curious 
 examination revealed to her eyes a minute living 
 point of green, ‘this marvel quite eclipses me!’ 
 
 A pang of humiliation shot through Hero, 
 
 . 
 
HERO. 208 
 
 an instantaneous sharp pang; the next moment 
 she was burrowing beneath the soil in the 
 thirsty sucking roots of a plant not one-eighth 
 of an inch high. 
 
 Day by day she grew, watched by an eye 
 unwearied as that of a lover. The green sheath 
 expanded fold after fold, till from it emerged 
 a crumpled leaf, downy and notched. How was 
 this first-born of an unknown race tended ; 
 how did fumigations rout its infinitesimal foes, 
 whilst circles of quicklime barricaded it against 
 the invasion of snails! It throve vigorously, 
 adding leaf to leaf and shoot to shoot: at . 
 length, a minute furry-bud appeared. 
 
 Uncle Treeh, the most devoted of foster- 
 fathers, revelled in ecstasy; yet it seemed to 
 Hero that his step was becoming feebler, and 
 his hand more tremulous. One morning he 
 waited on her as usual, but appeared out of 
 breath and unsteady: gradually he bent more 
 and more forward, till, without removing his 
 eyes from the cherished plant, he sank huddled 
 on the conservatory floor. 
 
 Three hours afterwards hurried steps and 
 
206 HERO. 
 
 anxious faces sought the old man. There, on 
 the accustomed spot, he lay, shrunk together, 
 cold, dead ; his glazed eyes still riveted on his 
 favourite nursling. 
 
 They carried away the corpse —could Treeh 
 have spoken he would have begged to lie where 
 a delicate vine might suck nourishment from his 
 remains—and buried it a mile away from the 
 familiar garden; but no one had the heart to 
 crush him beneath a stone. The earth lay 
 lightly upon him; and though his bed was 
 unvisited by one who would have tended it— 
 for Melice, now a wife, had crossed the sea 
 to a distant home—generations of unbidden 
 flowers, planted by winds and birds, blossomed 
 there. 
 
 During one whole week Hero and her peers 
 dwelt in solitude, uncared for save by a mournful 
 gardener, who loved and cherished the vegetable 
 family for their old master’s sake. But on the 
 eighth day came a change: all things were 
 furbished.up, and assumed their most festive 
 aspect; for the new owners were hourly ex- 
 
 pected. 
 
HERO. 207 
 
 The door opened. A magnificently attired 
 lady, followed by two children and a secondary 
 husband, sailed into the narrow passage, casting 
 down with her robe several flower-pots. She 
 glanced around with a superior air, and was 
 about to quit the scene without a word, when 
 the gardener ventured to remark, ‘Several very 
 rare plants, madam.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, yes,’ she cried, ‘we knew his eccentric 
 tastes, poor dear old man!’ and stepped door- 
 wards. 
 
 One more effort: ‘This madam,’ indicating 
 Hero, ‘is a specimen quite unique.’ 
 
 ‘Really,’ said she; and observed to her 
 husband as she left the house, ‘ These use- 
 less buildings must be cleared away. This 
 will be the exact spot for a ruin: I adore a 
 ruin |’ 
 
 A ruin ?—Hero’s spirit died in the slighted 
 plant. Was it to such taste as this she must 
 condescend? such admiration as this she must 
 court? Merely to receive it would be humilia- 
 tion. A passionate longing for the old lost life, 
 the old beloved love, seized her; she grew 
 
208 ; IIERO. 
 
 tremulous, numbed: ‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘this 
 is death !’ 
 
 A hum, a buzz, voices singing and speaking, 
 the splash of fountains, airy laughter, rustling 
 wings, the noise of a thousand leaves and flower- 
 cups in commotion. Sparks dancing in the 
 twilight, dancing feet, joy and triumph; unseen 
 hands loosing succous, interlacing stalks from 
 their roots beneath the water; towing a lily-raft 
 across the lake, down a tortuous inland creek, 
 through Fairy-harbour, out into the open sea. 
 
 On the lily-raft lay Hero, crowned with 
 lilies, at rest. A swift tide was running from 
 Fairycoast to- Man-side: every wave heaving 
 her to its silver crest bore her homewards; every 
 wind whistling from the shore urged her home- 
 wards. Seals and unicorns dived on either 
 hand, unnoticed. All the tumbling porpoises 
 in the ocean could not have caught her eye. 
 
 At length, the moon-track crossed, she 
 entered the navigable sea. There all was cold, 
 tedious, dark; not a vessel in sight, not a living 
 sound audible. She floated farther: something 
 
HERO. 209 
 
 black loomed through the obscurity; could it 
 be a boat? yes, it was certainly a distant boat; 
 then she perceived a net lowered into the water ; 
 then saw two fishermen kindle a fire, and pre- 
 pare themselves to wait, it might be for hours. 
 Their forms thrown out against the glare struck 
 Hero as familiar: that old man, stooping more 
 than his former wont; that other strong and 
 active figure, not so broad as in days of yore ;— 
 Hero’s heart beat painfully : did they remember 
 yet? did they love yet? was it yet time? 
 Nearer and nearer she floated, nearer and 
 nearer. The men were wakeful, restless; they 
 stirred the embers into a blaze, and sat waiting. 
 Then softly and sadly arose the sound of a 
 
 boat-song :— 
 
 PETER GRUMP. 
 
 If underneath the water ~ 
 You comb your golden hair 
 With a golden comb, my daughter, 
 Oh, would that I were there. 
 If underneath the wave 
 You fill a slimy grave, 
 Would that I, who could not save, 
 Might share. 
 RS: 
 
210 HERO. 
 
 FORSS. 
 
 If my love Hero queens it 
 In summer Fairyland, 
 What would I be 
 But the ring on her hand? 
 
 Her cheek when she leans it 
 Would lean on me :— 
 
 Or sweet, bitter-sweet, 
 
 The flower that she wore 
 
 When we parted, to meet 
 On the hither shore 
 Anymore? nevermore. 
 
 Something caught Forss’s eye; he tried the 
 nets, and finding them heavily burdened began 
 to haul them in, saying, ‘It is a shoal of white 
 fish ; no, a drift of white seaweed ;—but sud- 
 denly he cried out: ‘Help, old father! it is a 
 corpse, as white as snow!’ 
 
 Peter ran to the nets, and with the younger 
 man’s aid rapidly drew themin. Hero lay quite 
 still, while very gently they lifted the body over 
 the boat-side, whispering one to another: ‘It 
 is a woman—she is dead!’ They laid her down 
 where the fire-light shone full upon her face— 
 her familiar face. 
 
 Not a corpse, O Peter Grump: not a corpse, 
 
HERO. 211 
 
 O true Forss, staggering as from a death-blow. 
 The eyes opened, the face dimpled into a happy 
 smile; with tears, and clinging arms, and cling- 
 ing kisses, Hero begged forgiveness of her father 
 and her lover. 
 
 I will not tell you of the questions asked 
 and answered, the return home, the wonder and 
 _ joy which spread like wildfire through the 
 colony. Nor how in the moonlight Forss wooed 
 and won his fair love; nor even how at the 
 wedding danced a band of strangers, gay and 
 
 agile, recognised by none save the bride. I 
 
 will merely tell you how in after years, sitting ° 
 
 by her husband’s fireside, or watching on the 
 shingle for his return, Hero would speak to her 
 children of her, own early days. And when 
 their eyes kindled while she told of the mar- 
 vellous splendour of Fairyland, she would assure 
 them, with a convincing smile, that only home 
 is happy: and when, with flushed cheeks and 
 quickened breath, they followed the story of her 
 brief pre-eminence, she would add, that though 
 admiration seems sweet at first, only love is 
 
 sweet first, and last, and always. 
 

 
 &2 
 
 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 
 

 
 ah 
 
 
 
 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 
 
 THERE I stood on the platform at H , girt 
 by my three boxes, one carpet-bag, strapful 
 of shawls and bundle of umbrellas; there I 
 stood, with a courteous station-master and two 
 civil porters assuring me that not one lodging © 
 was vacant throughout H——. At another 
 time such an announcement might not have 
 greatly signified, for London, whence I came, 
 was less than three hours off; but on this par- 
 ticular occasion it did matter because I was 
 weakened by recent illness, the journey down 
 had shaken me, I was hungry and thirsty 
 for my tea, and, through fear of catching cold, 
 I had wrapped up overmuch; so that when 
 those polite officials stated that they could 
 
216 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 not point out a lodging for me I felt more 
 inclined to cry than I hope anybody sus- 
 pected. One of the porters, noticing how pale 
 and weak I looked, good-naturedly volunteered 
 to go to the three best hotels, and see whether 
 in one of them, I could be housed for the 
 moment; and though the expensiveness of such 
 a plan secretly dismayed me, I saw nothing 
 better than to accept his offer. Meanwhile, 
 I retreated into the waiting-room wishing him 
 success ; but wondering, should he not succeed, 
 what would become of me for the night. 
 
 Happily for me, my troubles were not 
 aggravated by imaginary difficulties. I was 
 turned forty-five, and looked not a day younger ; 
 an age at which there is nothing alarming 
 in finding oneself alone in a strange place, 
 or compelled to take a night journey by rail. 
 So I sat on the waiting-room sofa, shut my 
 eyes to ease, if possible, a racking headache, 
 and made up my mind that, at the worst, 
 I could always take the mail-train back to 
 London. 
 
 After all, I had not long to wait. Within 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 21y 
 
 ten minutes of leaving me my porter returned 
 with the news that, if I did not mind a very 
 unfashionable, but quite respectable, quarter of 
 H—, he had just heard of a first floor 
 vacated half-an-hour before my arrival, and 
 tency, if) pleased, to receive me. J merely 
 asked, was it clean? and being assured that 
 there was not a tidier young woman in all 
 H—— than ‘Fanny,’ that her husband was 
 a decent optician and stone-cutter, and that 
 for cleanliness any of their floors might be 
 eaten off, I felt only too thankful to step 
 into a fly, and accompany my boxes to an 
 abiding place. Before starting, I happened 
 _to ask the name of my landlord, and was 
 answered, somewhat vaguely, by my porter, 
 ‘We-cail them: Cole.’ 
 
 The report of a coming lodger had travelled 
 before me, and I found Mr. Cole and his 
 Fanny awaiting me at their shop-door. But 
 what a Mr. Cole and what a Fanny. He 
 was a tall, stout foreigner, about thirty years 
 of age, ready with tucked-up shirt-sleeves and 
 
 athletic arms to bear my boxes aloft; she 
 
218 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 was the comeliest of young matrons, her whole 
 face one smile, her ears adorned by weighty 
 gold pendents, and with an obvious twin baby 
 borne in each arm. Husband and wife alike 
 addressed me as ‘Meess,’ and displayed teeth 
 of an enviable regularity and whiteness as they 
 smiled or spoke. Thus much I saw at a first 
 glance. 
 
 Too tired for curiosity, I toiled up the 
 narrow staircase after my boxes, washed my 
 dusty face and hot hands, and stepped into 
 my little sitting-room, intending to lie down 
 on the sofa, and wait as patiently as might 
 be whilst tea, which I had already ordered, 
 was got ready. A pleasant surprise met me. 
 I suppose the good-natured porter may have 
 forewarned Mr. Cole of my weakness and wants ; 
 be this as it may, there stood the tea ready 
 brewed, and flanked by pats of butter, small 
 rolls, a rasher, and three eggs wrapped up 
 in a clean napkin. After this, my crowning 
 pleasure for the day was to step into a bed 
 soft as down could make it, and drop to 
 
 sleep between sheets fragrant of lavender. 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 219 
 
 A few days’ convalescence at H—— did 
 more for me than as many weeks’ convalescence 
 in London had effected. Soon I strolled about 
 the beach without numbering the breakwaters, 
 or along the country roads, taking no count 
 of the milestones; and went home to meals 
 as hungry as a school-girl, and slept at nights 
 like a baby. One of my earliest street-dis- 
 coveries was that my landlord’s name, as in- 
 scribed over his window, was not Cole, but 
 Cola (Nicola) Piccirillo ; and a very brief sojourn 
 under his roof instructed me that the Fanny 
 of my friend the porter was called Vanna 
 (Giovanna) by her husband. They were both 
 Neapolitans of the ex-kingdom, though not 
 of the city, of Naples; whenever I asked either 
 of them after the name of their native place, 
 they invariably answered me in a tone of 
 endearment, by what sounded more like ‘Va- 
 scitammd’ than aught else I know how to 
 spell; but when my English tongue uttered 
 ‘Vascitammo’ after them, they would shake 
 their heads and repeat the uncatchable word; 
 at last it grew to be a standing joke between 
 
220 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 us that when I became a millionnaire my 
 courier Cola and my maid Vanna should take 
 the twins and me to see Vascitammo. 
 
 I never thought of changing my lodgings, 
 though, as time went on, it would have been 
 easy to do so, and certainly the quarter we 
 inhabited was not fashionable. A _ laborious, 
 not an idle, community environed our doors 
 and furnished customers to the shop: it was 
 some time before I discovered that Jlamico 
 Piccirillo held a store for polished stones and 
 marine curiosities in the bazaar of H——. 
 He liked to be styled an optician ; but whilst 
 he sold and repaired spectacles, driving a pros- 
 perous trade amongst the fishing population 
 who surrounded us, and supplying them with 
 cheap telescopes, compasses, and an occasional 
 magic-lantern, he was not too proud to eke 
 out his gains by picking up and preparing 
 marine oddities, pebbles, or weeds. After we 
 became intimate I more than once rose at three 
 or four in the morning, as the turn of the tide 
 dictated; and accompanied him on a ramble of 
 
 exploration. He scrambled about slippery, 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. B07 
 
 jagged rocks as sure-footed as a wild goat; and 
 if ever my climbing powers failed at some critical 
 pass, thought nothing of lifting me over the 
 difficulty, with that courteous familiarity which, 
 in an Italian, does not cease to be respectful. 
 I was rather lucky in spying eligible stones, 
 which I contributed to his basket; and then, 
 when we got home, he would point out to 
 his wife what ‘da Signora’ had found ‘ger 
 mot due e per li piccine. I understood a 
 little Italian and they a little English, so we 
 generally, in spite of the Neapolitan blurring 
 accent, made out each other’s meaning. 
 Vanna was one of the prettiest women I 
 ever saw, if indeed I ought ‘to term merely 
 pretty a face which, with good features, contained 
 eyes softer and more lustrous than any others 
 I remember; their colour I never made out, 
 but when she lowered the large eyelids, their 
 long black lashes seemed to throw half her 
 face into shadow. I don’t know that she 
 was .clever except. as a housewife, but in this 
 capacity she excelled, and was a dainty cook 
 
 over her shining pots and pans: her husband’s 
 
25>? VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 ‘due maccheroni’ often set me hankering, as 
 I spied them done to a turn and smoking 
 hot ; though I confess that when Cola brought 
 home a cuttle-fish and I saw it dished up as 
 a ‘calamarello’ my English prejudice asserted 
 itself. 
 
 ‘Mr. and Mrs. Cole’ were unique in my 
 small experience of people, but surely the 
 twins must have remained unique in anybody’s 
 experience. What other babies were ever so 
 fat or so merry? To see their creased arms 
 was enough till one saw their creased legs, 
 and then their arms grew commonplace. I 
 never once heard them cry: a clothes-basket 
 formed their primitive bassinette, and there 
 they would sprawl, tickling each other and 
 chuckling. They chuckled at their father, 
 mother, myself, or any stranger who would 
 toss them, or poke a finger into their cushions 
 of fat. They crowed over their own teeth- 
 ing, and before they could speak seemed to 
 bandy. intuitive jokes, and chuckled in concert. 
 Well were they named Felice Maria and Maria 
 
 Gioconda. At first sight, they were utterly 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 222 
 
 indistinguishable apart; but experiment proved 
 that Felice was a trifle heavier than his sister, 
 and that fingers could go a hair’s-breadth farther 
 round her fat waist than round his. When I 
 made their acquaintance their heads were thickly 
 plaistered with that scurf which apparently an 
 Italian custom leaves undisturbed; but as this 
 wore off, curly, black down took its place, and 
 balanced the large, dark eyes and silky eyebrows 
 and lashes, which both inherited from their 
 mother. What we, in our insularity, term the 
 English love of soap and water was shared 
 by Vanna, and it was one of my amusements 
 to see the twins in their tub. Often, if hastily 
 summoned to serve behind the counter, Vanna 
 would leave them in the tub to splash about, 
 and throw each other down and pick each 
 other up, for a quarter of an hour together; and 
 if I hinted that this might not be perfectly 
 safe for them, she invariably assured me that 
 in her ‘paese’ all the babies toddled about 
 the shore, and into the sea and out again so 
 soon as ever they could toddle. ‘4 che male 
 
 vt potrebb essere? non vi son coccodrili.’ an 
 
224 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 argument no less apposite to the tub than 
 to the sea. 
 As I possessed a small competence and 
 
 no near home-ties, I felt under no constraint 
 
 
 
 to leave H sooner than suited my humour ; 
 so, though I had originally intended to remain 
 there no longer than seven or eight weeks, 
 month after month slipped away till a whole 
 year had elapsed, and found me there still. 
 In a year one becomes thoroughly acquainted 
 with daily associates, and from being pre- 
 possessed by their engaging aspect, I had 
 come to love and respect Piccirillo and his 
 wife. Both were good Catholics, and evinced 
 their orthodoxy as well by regularity at mass 
 and confession as by strict uprightness towards 
 customers and kindliness towards neighbours. 
 Once when a fishing-boat was lost at sea, 
 and its owner, Ned Gough, left well-nigh 
 penniless, Cola, who was ingenious in preparing 
 marine oddities, arranged a group of young 
 skate in their quaint hoods and mantles, and 
 mounted them ona green board amongst sea- 
 
 weed bushes as a party of gipsies; this would 
 
¢ 
 VANNA’S TWINS. 225 
 
 have been raffled for, and the proceeds given 
 to the ruined boatman, had I not taken a 
 fancy to the group, and purchased it. And 
 the first time the twins walked out alone was 
 when they crossed over the road hand in 
 hand, each holding ‘an orange as a present to 
 a little sick girl opposite. Both parents watched 
 them safe over, and I heard one remark to 
 the other, that ‘ Wossignore’ would bless 
 them. 
 
 It was mid-May when I arrived at H 
 
 
 
 bd 
 
 and about mid-May of the year following I 
 returned to London. A legal question had 
 meanwhile arisen touching my small property ; 
 and this took so long to settle, that during many 
 and many months I remained in doubt whether 
 I should continue adequately provided for, or be 
 reduced to work in some department or other 
 for my living. The point was ultimately de- 
 cided in my favour, but not before much vexa- 
 tion and expense had been incurred on both 
 sides. At the end of three years from quitting 
 H—— I made up my mind to return and settle 
 
 there for good: no special ties bound me to 
 Q 
 
226 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 London, and I knew of no people under whose 
 roof I would so gladly make my solitary home 
 as with Piccirillo and his wife ; besides, the twins 
 were an attraction. As to the optician’s shop 
 being in an out-of-the-way quarter, that I cared 
 nothing for, having neither the tastes nor the 
 income for fashionable society: so, after a pre- 
 liminary letter or two had passed between us, 
 I found myself one glowing afternoon in June 
 standing once again on the H—— platform, not 
 in the forlorn position I so vividly remembered, 
 but met by Cola, broader than ever in figure, 
 and smiling his broadest, who whipped up my 
 trunks with his own hands on to the fly, and 
 took his place by the driver. 
 
 Vanna came running out to meet me at the 
 carriage door, seizing and kissing both my 
 hands; and before I even alighted two sturdy 
 urchins had been made to kiss ‘la Szgnora’s 
 hand. Ten minutes more and I was seated at 
 tea, chatting to Vanna, and renewing acquaint- 
 ance with my old friends Felice and Gioconda. 
 This was effected by the presentation to them 
 
 of a lump of sugar apiece, for which each again 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 227 
 
 kissed my hand, fortunately before their mouths 
 had become sticky by suction. 
 
 They were the funniest little creatures ima- 
 ginable, and two of the prettiest. Felice was 
 still just ahead of Gioconda in bulk, but so 
 much like her that (as I found afterwards) if 
 for fun they exchanged hats I got into a com- 
 plete mental muddle as to which was which, 
 confused by the discrepant hats and frocks. 
 There was no paid Roman Catholic school in 
 H——, but the good nuns of St. L taught 
 the little boys and girls of their congregation ; 
 
 
 
 and morning after morning I used to see the 
 twins start for school hand in hand, with dinner 
 
 as well as books in their bags; for St. L 
 
 
 
 was too far from their home to admit of going 
 and returning twice in one day. All the neigh- 
 bours were fond of them; and often before their 
 destination was reached a hunch of cake from 
 some good-natured rough hand had found its 
 way into one or other bag, to be shared in due 
 course. 
 
 At their books they were ‘proprio maravi- 
 
 gtliosi, as Vanna phrased it ; whilst Cola, swelling 
 
228 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 with paternal pride under a veil of humility, 
 would observe, ‘Von c’é male, né lui née lei? I 
 believe they really were clever children and 
 fond of their books: at any rate, one Holy 
 Innocents’ Day they brought home a prize, a 
 little story in two volumes, one volume apiece ; 
 for, as the kind nuns had remarked, they were 
 like one work in two volumes themselves, and 
 should have one book between them. That 
 night they went to bed and fell asleep hand in 
 hand as usual, but each holding in the other 
 hand a scarlet-bound volume, so proud were 
 they. They were but seven years old, and had 
 never yet slept apart: never yet, and, as it 
 turned out, never at all. 
 
 The Christmas when this happened was one 
 of the brightest and pleasantest I recollect ; 
 night after night slight frost visited us, but day 
 after day it melted away, whilst sea and sky 
 spread clear and blue in the sunshine. In other 
 countries much snow had fallen and was still 
 falling, but snow had not yet reached our 
 shores. 
 
 Christmas, as usual, brought a few bills to 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 229 
 
 me, and likewise to my friends. Of theirs the 
 heaviest was the doctor’s bill, for the twins had 
 caught scarlatina in the summer, and had got 
 well on a variety of pills and draughts. Then 
 Cola bethought himself of certain money due 
 to him at a coast-guard station not many miles 
 from H 
 pay the doctor; and one Saturday, a day or 
 two after Twelfth Day, he took the first after- 
 
 noon train to E——, this being the nearest 
 
 
 
 , and which would just suffice to 
 
 point on the line to his destination, and went 
 to look after his debtor, telling Vanna that he 
 might not be back before the latest train came 
 into H——. ; 
 
 So Vanna took her seat behind the counter, 
 and looked up the road towards St. L——, 
 watching for her little ones to come racing home 
 from school, for school broke up early on 
 Saturdays. As she sat, she knitted some- 
 thing warm and useful, for she was never idle, 
 and hummed in her low, sweet voice the first 
 words of a Christmas carol. I only know 
 those first words, so pathetic in their devout 
 
 simplicity :— 
 
230 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 ‘Tu scendi dalle stelle, O Re del Cielo, 
 E vieni in una grotta al freddo al gelo: 
 O Bambino mio divino 
 Io Ti voglio sempre amar ! 
 O Dio beato 
 E quanto Ti costo l’ avermi amato.’ 
 
 She was thus occupied as I crossed the shop 
 on my way upstairs, and whilst I paused to say 
 a word in passing, a young woman, her face 
 swollen with crying, came up, who, almost with- 
 out stopping, called out: ‘O Fanny, Fanny, my 
 three are down with the fever, and I’m running 
 for the doctor!’ and in speaking she was gone. 
 
 Sympathetic tears had gathered in Vanna’s 
 kind eyes when I looked at her. ‘Won hanno 
 padre, she said, half apologetically ; and I then 
 recollected who the young woman was, and that 
 her children were worse than fatherless. Poor 
 Maggie Crowe! deserted by a good-for-nothing 
 husband she worked hard to keep her little ones 
 out of the workhouse; did charing, took in 
 needlework, went out nursing when she could 
 get a job, and now her three children were 
 ‘down with the fever,’ and she had had to leave 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 231 
 
 them alone in her wretched hovel on the east 
 to fetch 
 
 the parish doctor. We soon saw her tearing 
 
 
 
 cliff to run a mile and more into H 
 
 back as she had come, not stopping ‘now to 
 speak. 
 
 I went to my room, and looking into my 
 charity-purse found that I could afford five 
 shillings out of it for this poor family, and 
 settled mentally that I would take them round 
 next day after church. At the moment I was 
 feeling tired and disinclined to stir, and I con- 
 cluded the parish doctor, who bore a character 
 for kindness, would certainly for that night 
 supply his patients with necessaries. 
 
 Justeatter the clock struck three I heard a 
 bustle below; the twins had come home and 
 were talking eagerly to their mother in their 
 loud, childish voices. I heard Vanna answer 
 them once or twice; then she spoke continu- 
 ously, seeming to tell them something, and I 
 heard both reply, ‘Mamma si. A few minutes 
 later I was surprised to see them from my 
 window trotting along the street, but not in 
 
 the direction from which they had just come, 
 
eH) VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 and bearing between them a market-basket, 
 each of them holding it by one handle. 
 
 A suspicion of their errand crossed my mind, 
 and I hurried downstairs to warn Vanna that a 
 few snowflakes had already fallen and more 
 hung floating about in the still air. She had 
 noticed this of herself, but replied that they 
 knew their way quite well, and it was not far 
 to go; indeed, she could not feel easy without 
 sending up a few oranges left from Twelfth Day 
 for the sick children. Her own had had the 
 fever, they had promised her to go straight and 
 return straight without loitering, and though 
 she looked somewhat anxious, she concluded 
 bravely : ‘ Vossignore avra cura di loro.’ 
 
 I went back to my room thoroughly mor- 
 tified at the rebuke which her alacrity ad- 
 ministered to my laziness)s ‘How much less 
 would it not have cost me to set off at once 
 with my five shillings than it cost poor Vanna 
 to send her little ones, tired as perhaps they 
 were, to what, for such short legs, was a con- 
 siderable distance. From my window, moreover, 
 
 I soon could not help perceiving that not 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 233 
 
 only the snow, rare at first, had begun to 
 fall rapidly and in large flakes, but that the 
 sky lowered dense and ominous over the east 
 cliff. I felt sure that there, and thither it 
 was that the twins were bound, it must already 
 be snowing heavily. 
 
 Four o'clock struck, but Felice and Gio- 
 conda had not come back. I heard Vanna 
 closing the shop. In another five minutes she 
 came up to me dressed in bonnet and shawl, 
 with a pale face that told its own story of 
 alarm. Still she would not acknowledge her- 
 self frightened, but tried to laugh, as she 
 apologized for leaving me alone in the house, 
 assured me that no one could possibly be 
 calling at that hour, and protested that she 
 would not be out long. If the twins arrived 
 in her absence she was sure I would kindly 
 let them sit by my fire till her return; then, 
 fairly breaking down and crying, she left me, 
 repeating, ‘Mon son che piccint, poveri piccini, 
 povert piccint miet.’ eS 
 
 A couple of men with lighted lanterns stood 
 
 waiting for her in the street; one of them 
 
234 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 made her take his arm, and I knew by the 
 voice that it was Ned Gough. MHour after 
 hour struck, and they did not return. 
 
 About seven o’clock I heard a loud knock- 
 ing; and running down to open the door, for 
 being left alone in the house I had locked 
 up and made all safe, I found Piccirillo, who 
 on account of the snow had hastened home 
 by an earlier train than he had mentioned, 
 and was now much amazed at finding the 
 house closed and no light burning below. When 
 he understood what had happened he seemed 
 beside himself with agitation and terror. Fling- 
 ing up his arms he rushed from the house, 
 calling out, ‘Vanna, Vanna mia! dove sei? 
 rispondimi: figlt miter, rispondetemt. Neigh- 
 bours came about him, offering what comfort 
 they could think of: but what comfort could 
 there be? He, too, must set off in the snow 
 to seek his poor lost babies and their mother ; 
 and soon he started, lantern and stick in hand, 
 ejaculating, and making vows as he went. 
 ‘Dio mio, Dio mio, abbi pieta di not. 
 
 All through the long night it snowed and 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. 235 
 
 snowed: at daybreak it was snowing still. 
 Soon after daybreak the seekers returned, 
 cold, silent, haggard; Piccirillo carrying his 
 wife, who lay insensible in his arms. After 
 hours of wandering they had met somewhere 
 out towards the east cliff, and Vanna, at sight 
 of her husband, had dropped down utterly 
 spent. She had gone straight to Maggie 
 Crowe's cottage, and found that the twins had 
 safely left the oranges there and started home- 
 wards; Felice tired but manful, poor little 
 Gioconda trudging wearily along, and clinging 
 to her brother. Maggie had tried to keep 
 them at the cottage as it was already snow- 
 ing heavily, and the little girl had cried and 
 wanted to stay and warm herself; but her 
 brother said ‘No; they had promised not to 
 loiter, his sister would be good and not cry, 
 he would take care of her; so whilst Maggie 
 was busy with her own sick children, the 
 twins had started. Beyond this, not one of 
 the searching party could trace them; the 
 small footmarks must have been effaced almost 
 
 as soon as imprinted on the snow; and any one 
 
236 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 of the surface inequalities of that snow-waste, 
 which now stretched right and left for miles, 
 might be the mound to cover two such feeble 
 wayfarers. | 
 
 For three days the frost held and our 
 suspense lasted; then the wind veered from 
 north round to west, a rapid thaw set in, and 
 a few hours ended hope and fear alike. The 
 twins were found huddled together in a chalky 
 hollow close to the edge of the cliff, and 
 almost within sight of Maggie’s hovel: Gio- 
 conda with her head thrust into the market- 
 basket, Felice with one arm holding the basket 
 over his sister, and with the other clasping 
 her close to him. Her fat hands met round 
 his waist, and clasped between them was a small 
 silver cross I had given her at Christmas, and 
 which she had worn round her neck. 
 
 - Lovely and pleasant in their lives, in their 
 death they were not divided; but as they 
 had always shared one bed, they now shared 
 one coffin and one grave. 
 
 After a while Piccirillo and his wife re- 
 
 covered from their passionate grief; but Vanna 
 
VANNA’S TWINS. a 
 
 — 
 
 drooped more and more as spring came on, 
 and clothed the small grave with greenness. 
 They had no other child, and the house was 
 silent indeed and desolate. Once I heard them 
 talking to each other of ‘Vascitamméd:? Vanna 
 said something I did not catch, and then Cola 
 answered her; ‘S72, Vanna mia, ritorneremo , 
 tolea Lddio che 10 perda te ancora, 
 ~So I knew that we should soon have to 
 part. They came upstairs together to me one 
 evening, and with real kindliness explained that 
 all their plans were altered on account of 
 Vanna’s failing health, and that they must 
 go home to their own country lest she should 
 die. Vanna cried and I cried, and poor Cola 
 fairly cried too. I promised them that the 
 little grave shall never fall into neglect whilst 
 I live, and in thanking me they managed 
 to say through their tears,—‘ Vossignore é buono, 
 e certo li avra benedetti.’ 
 The business was easily disposed of, for 
 though small, it was a thriving concern, and 
 capable of extension. Other affairs did not 
 
 take long to settle; and one morning I saw 
 
238 VANNA’S TWINS. 
 
 my kind friends off by an early train, on their 
 road through London to ‘Vascitammd,’ which 
 
 now neither the twins nor I shall ever see. 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
 IT was a pitchy dark night. Not the oldest in- 
 habitant remembered so black a night, so moon- 
 less, so utterly starless; and whispering one to 
 another, men said with a shiver that longer still, 
 not for a hundred years back—ay, or for a thou- 
 sand years—ay, or even since the world was— 
 had such gross darkness covered the land. Yet 
 those who counted the time protested that 
 morning must now be at hand, ready to break, 
 even while East and West were massed in one 
 common indistinguishable blot of blackness ; 
 and those who discerned the signs of the times, 
 those who waited for the morning, looked often 
 towards one house which could not be hid, for 
 it was set upon a hill, nor overturned, for it was 
 
 R 
 
242 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
 founded upon a rock, and from which a light 
 streamed pure and steady, shaming the flickering 
 gas-lamps of the town, the dim glare of shops 
 and private dwellings, and the flaring, smoking 
 torches of such wayfarers as thought, by com- 
 passing themselves about with sparks, to find 
 safety in their transit to and fro. 
 
 On this cheerless night a solitary traveller 
 entered the town by the eastern gate. He rode 
 a white horse: about both the beast and his 
 rider there was something foreign, or if not 
 foreign, at any rate unusual. The man was keen 
 and military of aspect, and had the air of one 
 bound on some mission of importance. The 
 horse seemed to know his road without guidance, 
 to turn hither or thither by instinct, not to loiter, 
 yet not to make haste. They passed through 
 the eastern gate, which was opened wide before 
 them : without let or hindrance they entered in, 
 and the horse’s hoofs struck once on the paved 
 road. 
 
 In an instant, at the western outskirts of the 
 city a flare of red light shot up. Out came 
 
 houses into view from the night darkness; to 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 243 
 
 right and left they flashed out for a moment: 
 for a moment you could spy through the win- 
 dows people sitting at table, reading, working, 
 dancing, as the case might be: you could note 
 a bird’s cage hanging here or there, a eat or two 
 creeping along the gutter, a few foot-passengers 
 arrested by the unexpected glare looking round 
 them in all directions for its source, a single 
 carriage threading its way cautiously along the 
 dangerous streets: for a moment—then a cry 
 went up, then there came the crash and crush 
 of a tremendous explosion, and then darkness 
 settled once more over its own dominion ; whilst 
 through the darkness those who could not see 
 each other’s faces heard each other’s groans, 
 cries for help, shrieks of terror or of agonizing 
 pain. All the gas-lamps of the city had gone 
 out as though at a single whiff, for it was an 
 explosion of the great central gasworks which 
 had taken place. And the darkness deepened. 
 To the south of the city lay the sea. Day 
 and night its surges were never still nor silent ; 
 day and night ships heaved on its bosom, 
 passing in or out of harbour, laden with pas- 
 
244. A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
 sengers, with gold, silks, provisions, merchandise 
 of all sorts. On this night, if any one had had 
 owl’s eyes to peer with, he might have discerned 
 that the deep boiled like a pot of ointment; he 
 would have seen in a score, yea, in a hundred 
 vessels, the sailors at their wits’ end reeling to 
 and fro, and staggering like drunken men ; 
 whilst the strong masts snapped like straws, 
 and the tough, hollow ship-sides stove in as 
 though they had been of paper—till captains, 
 crews, and passengers, were fain to cast over- 
 board freights and treasures, rarities from the 
 ends of the earth, corn, and wine, and oil—to 
 cast these overboard, and at length, abandoning 
 the ship, to flee for their lives in boats, on 
 planks, on pieces of the vessel, too happy if 
 with bare life they escaped to land, beggared 
 but alive. Meanwhile those on the quays could 
 guess, though they could not see, the ruin, as 
 wretch after poor wretch struggled to shore ; 
 but for one who came, a score at least were seen 
 no more for ever. 
 
 In a central quarter of the town stood the 
 
 old-established county bank, concerning which 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 245 
 
 the townspeople had long boasted that not the 
 national bank itself was safer. In panic years 
 it had remained unaffected by the surrounding 
 pressure ; it had stood firm, and stand it would 
 whilst the town was atown: so said its directors, 
 its shareholders, the public voice in unison. 
 But on this certain night of all nights in the 
 year, when ship after ship went down with 
 entire costly cargoes, and scores and hundreds 
 of hands on board; when the gasworks exploded, 
 to the obvious utter ruin of the shareholders ; 
 when a report spread that the treasurer of the 
 chief railway company had absconded with all 
 the funds in his hands, a report confirmed 
 as night wore, and soon established as a fact ; 
 on this night of all nights, the dismayed citizens 
 turned in thought to their bank. Every man 
 beheld an enemy in his neighbour, an enemy 
 who would forestall others and save himself at 
 all costs ; and in the panic of accumulated losses 
 man after man bent his steps towards the bank. 
 The doors were besieged; with loud cries the 
 men—and the women too, for many of these 
 had flocked thither impelled by the instinct of 
 
* 
 
 246 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
 self-preservation—men and women beset the 
 doors, demanding instant admittance, and clam- 
 ouring for their money deposits to be restored 
 to them then and there. The pressure waxed 
 irresistible ; the doors yielded; a terrified clerk 
 or two strove vainly with plausible words to 
 appease the foremost applicants; then desper- 
 ately discharged claim after claim in notes, 
 sovereigns, silver, till the last sixpence—,down 
 to the last penny—was disbursed. When it 
 became known that the old-established secure 
 bank had stopped payment before it had met 
 a tithe of its liabilities, it was as much as the 
 clerks could do to escape with whole skins from 
 the infuriated, disappointed populace. 
 
 But more troubles were to come. At the 
 railway station a telegram had been received 
 early in the evening intimating that a branch 
 bank in an adjacent town had been constrained 
 by sudden pressure to stop payment, though, as 
 it was hoped, only momentarily. This disastrous 
 news had been studiously confined to one or 
 two parties, who hoped to profit by being in 
 
 advance of their neighbours; but soon a second 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 247 
 
 telegram of like import came in from another 
 quarter; then a third; and it became impos- 
 sible any longer to suppress the facts. A ter- 
 rible commotion ensued on ’Change ; there was 
 scarcely a house in all the town where ruin, or 
 at the least reverse, had not entered. 
 
 But what, after all, were these partial local 
 failures? Before the night was over another 
 telegram arrived, and it transpired that the 
 main national bank itself had broken. 
 
 Then a cry went up through the length and 
 breadth of the land. 
 
 When our wayfarer reached the Exchange it 
 was crowded by persons of all ranks and ages, 
 brought together by the bond of a common 
 disaster. He dismounted, tethered his white 
 horse to the railings outside, and entering joined 
 the concourse within, apparently with no further 
 object than to observe and listen, passing from 
 group to group, pausing sometimes a longer, 
 sometimes a shorter period, here or there as 
 the case might demand. Most of the persons 
 present—of those at least who were not simply 
 
 paralysed and struck dumb by their misfortunes 
 
248 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
 —stood disputing in loud, excited tones, as to 
 the causes and details of the present public 
 calamities ;—whose carelessness it was which had 
 occasioned the gas explosion ; how many vessels 
 and lives, and what value of cargo, had perished 
 in the storm; some rating the probable loss at 
 millions and some at tens of millions; what 
 hope there might still be of a dividend from the 
 local bank; whether any of the reported failures 
 had been without fraud; what head the country 
 could make against the vast smash of the 
 national bank. But here and there some one 
 man or woman seemed, in the hubbub of rage 
 and dismay, to be wrapped in private, personal 
 erief, alien from the general cares. 
 
 One such, a _ half-frantic elderly woman, 
 huddled in a corner, was tearing her hair and 
 crying out in broken, half-articulate speech. 
 The strange traveller approached her, and in a, 
 voice of great sympathy inquired into the source 
 of her passionate sorrow. Then, weeping and 
 gnashing her teeth, she shrieked her answer: 
 ‘My son, my son, he has been cashiered to-day 
 
 from his regiment! His commission was all we 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 249 
 
 had in the world, and he was all I loved in the 
 world.’ An old sullen man, accosted by the 
 .traveller, replied shortly that his strong-box 
 had been broken open and rifled by thieves, and 
 that as he was removing a small remnant of 
 money left to him from his own house to a place 
 of security, the few precious coins had slipped 
 through a hole in the bag and been lost. Ano- 
 ther man, being questioned, seemed to find some 
 relief in complaint, and answered readily that 
 he had embarked enormous capital in construct- 
 ing a reservoir for water, on a scale amply suff- 
 cient for the supply of the whole town, but that, 
 at the very moment when he hoped to realise 
 cent per cent upon his original outlay, a flaw 
 had been discovered in the main aqueduct, and 
 it was then perceived, too late, that all the cis- 
 terns were broken and could hold no water. 
 Every tale was diverse, yet, in fact, every one 
 was the same. Each speaker had sunk all that 
 he had in some plausible investment, the invest- 
 ment had burst like a bubble, and now one and 
 all in desperate sorrow could but bewail their 
 
 ruin as without remedy. They had no eyes, no 
 
250 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
 thought, no sympathy, save each man for him- 
 self; none stretched a helping hand to his 
 neighbour, or spoke a word of comfort, or cared 
 who sank or who swam in this desolation which 
 had come like a flood. 
 
 From such as these it was vain to demand 
 hospitality. The traveller went out from amongst 
 them, remounted his horse, and pursued his 
 way along the darkened, deserted streets, be- 
 tween rows of tall houses, in which the voice of 
 mirth and music seemed silenced for ever. Now 
 at one door, now at another, he knocked to ask 
 for refreshment, but always without success. 
 Sometimes no answer was vouchsafed to his 
 summons ; sometimes he was turned away with 
 churlish indifference, or even with abuse for 
 having ventured to disturb the household in its 
 night of distress. 
 
 At last he observed one cottage, which, de- 
 tached from other residences, stood alone in its 
 trim garden-plot. In this only, amongst all the 
 dwellings he had passed, there shone a light. 
 He dismounted once more, tethered his horse to 
 
 the wicket-gate, followed the gravel-path, and 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 251 
 
 knocked gently at the house-door. A calm, 
 cheerful-looking woman opened to him, and 
 seeing a stranger at that late hour, conceived at 
 once that he was a wayfarer in quest of repose 
 and refreshment, and bade him enter and be 
 welcome. Then, while he sat down by the fire, 
 she hastened to set before him milk and bread, 
 meat, wine, and butter. This done, she ran out 
 and led the horse under an open shed (she had 
 no stable), and there provided it with clean straw 
 and fodder. : 
 
 Now when the traveller had eaten and drunk 
 and sat awhile, he began to question her con- 
 cerning her prosperity and cheerfulness in that 
 night of ruin; and she, as the others had done, 
 answered him all that he would know. 
 
 ‘My money, said she, ‘is not invested as so 
 many in this town have invested theirs. When 
 I was yet young, One told me that riches do 
 certainly make to themselves wings and fly 
 away; and that gold perisheth, though it be 
 purified seven times in the fire. Nevertheless 
 He added that, if I chose, there could with my 
 gold and silver be made ready for me an ever- 
 
252 A SAFE INVESTMENT. 
 
 lasting habitation, to receive me when the pre- 
 sent fashion shall have passed away; and that 
 I might lay up for myself treasure where neither 
 moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves 
 do not break through and steal. So, when I 
 was willing, He further informed me by what 
 means I should send my deposits to that secure 
 house whereof the Owner will be no man’s debtor. 
 On the first day of the week I was to go up to 
 the branch-house upon the hill—you see it, sir, 
 out to the East yonder; there, where a light 
 shines to lighten every one that goeth into the 
 house ; and according as I had been prospered, 
 I was to drop somewhat into the money-chest 
 kept there. All such sums would be placed to 
 my account, and would bear interest. But be- 
 sides this, I was apprised that the Owner of the 
 house employs many collectors, who may call 
 at any moment, often at the most unlikely mo- 
 ments, for deposits. FFrrom-these I was to take 
 heed never to turn away my face, but I was to 
 give to them freely, being well assured that they 
 would carry all entrusted to them safely to my 
 
 account. Thus, sometimes a fatherless child 
 
A SAFE INVESTMENT. 253 
 
 calls on me, sometimes a distressed widow ; 
 sometimes a sick case comes before me; some- 
 times a stranger, sir, as you have done this very 
 night, demands my hospitality. And as I know 
 whom I have trusted, and am persuaded that 
 He will keep that which I commit to Him, I 
 gladly spend and am spent, being a succourer of 
 many, and looking for the recompense of the 
 reward.’ 
 
 So when the strange traveller had rested 
 awhile, his horse also having been refreshed, 
 he rose before daybreak, mounted, and rode 
 away. Whence he came and whither he went 
 I know not, but he rode as one that carries back 
 tidings to Him that sent him. Also this I know, 
 that some, being mindful to entertain strangers, 
 
 have entertained angels unawares. 
 

 
 rf ae ar 
 aes 
 
 
 
PROS AND CONS. 
 

 
 mi 
 
 
 
PROS AND CONS. 
 
 ‘But, my dear doctor, cried Mrs. Plume, ‘you 
 never can seriously mean it.’ 
 
 The scene was the Rectory drawing-room 
 _ —tea-time; some dozen parishioners drinking 
 tea with their Rector and his wife. Mrs. Good- 
 man looked down; her husband, the Rector, 
 looked up. 
 
 ‘I really did mean it, said he, courteously ; 
 ‘and, with your permission, I mean it still. 
 Let us consider the matter calmly, my dear 
 Mrs. Plume, calmly and fairly; and to start 
 us fairly I will restate my proposal, which is 
 that we should all combine to do our best 
 towards bringing about the abolition of pews 
 
 from our parish church.’ 
 
258 PROS AND CONS. 
 
 ‘Then I,’ returned Mrs. Plume, shaking her 
 head airily, ‘must really restate my protest. 
 You never seriously can mean it.’ 
 
 ‘Nay, resumed the Rector, ‘ don’t think that 
 I am unmindful of your feelings on this point; 
 and he glanced round the circle. ‘If I spoke 
 hastily I ask your pardon and patience; but 
 this matter of pews and pew-rents is on my 
 conscience, and ¢hat I must lighten at all 
 costs; even, Mr. Sale,—for Mr. Sale frowned 
 —‘at the cost of my income. However, why 
 should we conclude ourselves to be at variance 
 before we have ventilated the matter in hand? 
 I for one will never take for granted that 
 any good Christian is against the acknowledg- 
 ment of our absolute equality before God.’ 
 
 ‘Sir, interposed Mr. Blackman, ‘we are equals, 
 whatever may be our colour or our country. 
 But whilst the Zenana counts its victims by 
 thousands, whilst the Japanese make boast of 
 their happy despatch, whilst the Bushman, 
 dwindling “before our face, lives and dies as the 
 beasts that perish, shall we divert our attention 
 
 from such matters of life and death to fix it 
 
PROS AND CONS. 259 
 
 on a petty question of appearance? Pardon 
 me if tears for our benighted brethren blind 
 me to such a matter as this.’ 
 
 ‘Our benighted brethren,’ said the Rector, 
 gravely, ‘have my pity, have my prayers, 
 have my money in some measure. Of your 
 larger gifts in these several kinds I will not 
 ask you to divert one throb, or one word, 
 or one penny in favour of our poor fellow- 
 parishioners. No, dear friend, help us by your 
 good example to enlarge our field of chari- 
 table labour; to stretch full handed towards 
 remote spots; but not meanwhile to fail in 
 breaking up our own fallow ground at home. 
 We all know that if at this moment either 
 our foreign or our native ragged brother were 
 to present himself in church, however open 
 our hearts may be to him, our pew-doors would 
 infallibly be shut against him, and he would 
 find himself looked down upon both literally 
 and figuratively. This, I own to you, were 
 I he, would discomfit me, and put a stum- 
 bling-block in my way as a worshipper.’ 
 
 ‘Pooh! pooh!’ broke in Mr. Wood, testily : 
 
260 PROS AND CONS. 
 
 ‘My dear fellow, I really thought you a wiser 
 man. What hardship is it for a flunky or 
 a clodhopper to sit in a seat without a 
 door ?? 
 
 ‘Ah!’ rejoined the Rector quietly, ‘for a 
 servant, as you say, or for a mere sower of 
 our fields, or (why not?) for a carpenter’s son 
 either? But allow me to name two points 
 which strike me forcibly,—two very solemn 
 points ; and Dr. Goodman spoke with solemnity, 
 and bowed his head. ‘ First, that if our adorable 
 Lord were now walking this world as once 
 He walked it, and if He had gone into our 
 parish church last Sunday, as long ago He 
 used to frequent the synagogue of Nazareth, 
 He would certainly not have waited long to 
 be ushered into a pew, but would, at least 
 as willingly, have sat down amongst His own 
 “blessed” poor; and, secondly, that we should 
 all have left Him to do so unmolested; for 
 I cannot suppose that His were the gold ring 
 and goodly apparel which would have challenged 
 attention.’ 
 
 _ There was a pause, broken by Mrs. Plume, 
 
PROS AND CONS. 261 
 
 who, turning to her hostess, observed: ‘Ah,’ 
 dear Mrs. Goodman, we know and revere the 
 zeal of our dear good apostle. But you and 
 I are old housekeepers, old birds not to be 
 caught with chaff;’ and she shook a fascinating 
 finger at her pastor; ‘and we know that the 
 poor are not nice neighbours; quite infectious, 
 in fact. They do very well together all in 
 a clump, but one really couldn't risk sitting 
 amongst them, on various grounds, you know.’ 
 
 ‘Well,’ resumed the Rector, ‘I plead guilty 
 to being but a tough man, thick-skinned, and 
 lacking certain subtler members, entitled nerves. 
 But what will you? You must make allow- 
 ances for me, and even put up with me as 
 I am. With docility, and all the imagination 
 of which I am master, I throw myself into 
 your position, and shudder with you at these 
 repulsively infectious poor. I even seek to 
 deepen my first impression of horror by ques- 
 tioning myself in detail, and I dwell on the 
 word “infectious.” This brings before me 
 small-pox, typhus fever, and other dreadful 
 
 ailments; and I hasten (in spirit) to slam to, 
 
262 PROS AND CONS. 
 
 if only I could to bolt and bar, my pew-door. 
 Safely ensconced within, I peer over my ne- 
 cessary barrier, and, relieved from the pressure 
 of instant peril, gaze with pity on the crowd 
 without, all alike typhus-stricken, all alike re- 
 dolent of small-pox. A new terror thrills 
 me. Are ‘all alike’ infectious? or have we 
 grouped together sound and unsound, sick and 
 healthy? Ah, you hint, that amount of risk 
 cannot be helped if they are to come to church 
 at all. I am corrected, and carrying out the 
 lesson of my Teacher I echo: That amount 
 of risk cannot be helped if we are to come 
 to church at all.’ 
 
 ‘These men! these men!’ cried Mrs. Plume, 
 gaily. And Miss Crabb observed, from behind 
 her blue spectacles, ‘Well, I suppose a woman 
 of my age may allude to anything she pleases; 
 so I make bold to tell you, Dr. Goodman, 
 that small-pox may be all nonsense; but that 
 nobody would like to sit amongst smells, and 
 cheek-by-jowl with more heads than one in 
 a bonnet.’ 
 
 ‘Smells,’ rejoined the Rector, ‘I do strongly 
 
PROS AND CONS. 263 
 
 object to; including scents, my dear Mrs. Plume; 
 but that is a matter of taste. The other 
 detail, which I know not how to express more 
 pointedly than in the striking words of Miss 
 Crabb, is yet more to be deprecated: but let 
 us consider whether pews fairly meet the dif- 
 ficulty. Fairly? I ask; and then unhesitatingly 
 answer, No. For all the poor, both clean and 
 dirty, occupy our free seats together; and 
 surely to sit next a dirty neighbour is, at the 
 least, as great a hardship on the cleanly poor as 
 it would be on the rich, who are so far better 
 able to have their clothes cleansed, or even, in 
 case of need, to discard them. If, indeed, all 
 dirty individuals would have the good feeling to 
 compact themselves into one body it might be 
 reassuring to their fellows, but this it were in- 
 vidious to propose; and besides, we are at 
 present mooting pews or no pews, not any third 
 possible—or shall we say impossible ?—alter- 
 native. I confess to you, he resumed, very 
 seriously, ‘when I remember the little stress 
 laid by Christ on clean hands, and the para- 
 
 mount importance in His eyes of a clean heart; 
 
264 PROS AND CONS. 
 
 when I reflect on the dirt of all kinds which 
 must have touched Him in the crowds He 
 taught and healed; when I realise that every 
 one of my parishioners, poor as well as rich, will 
 confront me at His judgment-bar, I tremble lest 
 any should be deterred from coming to Him 
 because I am too fine a gentlemen to go out 
 into the highways and hedges, and compel to 
 come in those actual poor—foul of body, it may 
 be, as well as of soul—whom yet He has num- 
 bered to me as my flock.’ 
 
 Silence ensued—an uncomfortable silence ; 
 broken by Mrs. Goodman’s nervous proffer of 
 tea to Mr. Sale, who declined it. 
 
 Mr. Home resumed the attack. ‘ Doctor,’ 
 observed he, ‘all other objections to open seats 
 might perhaps be overruled ; but consider the 
 sacredness of family affection, and do not ask 
 us to scatter ourselves forlornly through the 
 church, here a husband, there a wife; and he 
 interchanged a smile with Mrs. Home; ‘there, 
 again, a practical orphan. I for one could not 
 , possibly say my prayers without my little woman 
 at my elbow.’ , 
 
PROS AND CONS. 265 
 
 ‘Here,’ cried the Rector, ‘I joyfully meet 
 you halfway. The division of the sexes in dis- 
 tinct aisles is a question by itself, and one which 
 I am not now discussing. Only go betimes to 
 church ’—at this a glance of intelligence passed 
 round the circle, whilst Mrs. Home coloured,— 
 ‘and I stake my credit that you will hardly 
 ever fail to find six contiguous seats for your 
 party.’ 
 
 Then Mr. Stone spoke up—Mr. Stone, the 
 warmest man in the parish. He spoke with his 
 fat hands in his fat pockets. 
 
 ‘Dr. Goodman, sir,—the courteous Rector 
 bowed,—‘ my attachment to the Church and 
 my respect for your cloth must not prevent my 
 doing my duty by my fellow-parishioners, 
 whose mouthpiece on the present occasion I 
 claim to.be. A general movement of relief 
 accepted him as the lay champion. ‘We ac- 
 knowledge, sir, and appreciate your zeal amongst 
 us, but we protest against your innovations. 
 We have borne with chants, with a surpliced 
 choir, with daily services, but we will not bear 
 
 to see all our rights trampled under foot, and 
 
266 PROS AND CONS. 
 
 all our time-hallowed usages set at nought. 
 The tendency of the day is to level social dis- 
 tinctions and to elevate unduly the lower orders. 
 In this parish at least let us combine to keep 
 up wise barriers between class and class, and to 
 maintain that fundamental principle practically 
 bowed to all over our happy England, that what 
 you can pay for you can purchase. This, sir, 
 has been our first dissension’—a statement not 
 quite correct,—‘ let it be our last; and in token 
 that we are at one again, here is my hand.’ 
 
 Dr. Goodman grasped the proffered hand, 
 looking rather pale as he did so. 
 
 ‘Let this betoken,’ rejoined he, ‘that what- 
 ever is discarded amongst us, it shall not be 
 Christian charity. And now it grows late. I 
 must not selfishly prolong our discussion ; yet, 
 as your pastor, with a sacred duty to discharge 
 towards all my flock, suffer me to add one word. 
 What Mr. Stone has alleged may be the system 
 of worldly England ; though many a man pro- 
 fessing far less than we do would repudiate so 
 monstrous a principle; but as Churchmen we 
 can have nothing to do with it. God’s gifts 
 
PROS AND CONS. 267 
 
 are bought without money and without price: 
 “‘ Ho, every one,” cries His invitation. I, there- 
 fore, as His most unworthy ambassador, protest 
 that in His house I will no longer buy and sell 
 as in a market. I confess myself in fault that 
 I have so long tolerated this monstrous abuse; 
 and I avow that you, my brethren, have this 
 evening furnished me with the only plausible 
 argument in favour of pews which has ever been 
 suggested to me, for it zs hard upon our open- 
 hearted poor that they should be compelled to 
 sit by persons who, instead of viewing them as 
 brethren beloved, despise the poor.’ 
 

 
THE WAVES OF THIS 
 TROUBLESOME WORLD, 
 
 A TALE OF HASTINGS FIFTEEN 
 YEARS AGO. 
 

 
 a 
 ’ 
 
 
 
THE WAVES OF THIS 
 TROUBLESOME WORLD. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 PERHAPS there is no pleasanter watering-place 
 in England where to spend the fine summer 
 months than Hastings, on the Sussex coast. 
 The old town, nestling in a long, narrow valley, 
 flanked by the East and West Hills, looks down 
 upon the sea. At the valley mouth, on the 
 shingly beach, stands the fish-market, where 
 boatmen disembark the fruit of daily toil ; where 
 traffic is briskly plied, and maybe haggling 
 rages ; where bare-legged children dodge in and 
 out between the stalls; where now and thena 
 travelling show—dwarf, giant, or what not— 
 
 arrests for brief days its wanderings. 
 
272 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 Hard by the market, on the beach, stands 
 the fishermen’s chapel—plain, but comely, with, 
 near the door, its small chest for offerings. I 
 know not whether chanted psalms and hymns 
 rise within its walls; but if they do, the windy 
 sea must sound an accompaniment exceeding 
 in solemn. harmony any played upon earthly 
 organs, to such words as, ‘One deep calleth 
 another, because of the noise of the water- 
 pipes: all Thy waves and storms are gone 
 over me;’ or, ‘They are carned sy ero ee 
 heaven, and down again to the deep: their soul 
 melteth away because of the trouble;’ or, ‘ Let 
 not the waterflood drown me, neither let the 
 deep swallow me up.’ 
 
 It is a pretty sight in brilliant holiday 
 weather to watch the many parties of health 
 or pleasure-seekers which throng the beach. 
 Boys and girls picking up shells, pebbles, and 
 star-fishes, or raising with hands and wooden 
 spades a sand fortress, encircled by a moat full 
 of sea-water, and crowned by a twig of seaweed 
 as a flag; mothers and elder sisters reading or 
 working beneath shady hats, whilst after bathing 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 273 
 
 their long hair dries in the sun and wind. Hard 
 by rock at their moorings bannered pleasure- 
 boats, with blue-jerseyed oarsmen or white sails ; 
 and if the weather is oppressively hot and sunny, 
 a gaily-coloured canopy is reared on light poles, 
 for the protection of voyagers. When tide is 
 high, a plank or a long step suffices ; but at low 
 water, as the shore is flat, boatmen have fre- 
 quently to carry children, and even women, 
 across the broad stretch of wet sands to and 
 from the vessels. 
 
 Very different from such seafarers in sport 
 are their near neighbours, the seafarers in ear- 
 nest ; who neither hoist canopies for fair weather, 
 nor tarry at home for foul; who might say with 
 the patriarch Jacob, ‘In the day the drought 
 consumed me, and the frost by night ;’ whose 
 vigils often see the moon rise and set; who 
 sometimes buffet with the winds and tug against 
 the tide for very life. 
 
 It is with one of these that my tale has to 
 do: let us peep into his cottage. 
 
 An accident to his boat, only just now, after 
 hours of diligent labour, repaired, has kept 
 
 D 
 
274 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 Frank Hardiman on shore all day. Within 
 another hour the tide will be favourable, and 
 he must put to sea; till then he stays with 
 his wife and two children, Jane and Henry. 
 They are seated at tea, discussing the con- 
 tents of a letter received that afternoon. Let 
 us look at the faces and listen to the con- 
 versation. 
 
 Frank Hardiman is thirty-one years old, tall, 
 stout, tanned by the sun, with a deep, jolly voice, 
 bright eyes, and the merriest of laughs. His 
 wife, Emma, is slim and rather pretty, dressed 
 with considerable taste and uncommon neatness; 
 for before her marriage she was upper nurse in 
 a gentleman’s family, and, indeed, made acquaint- 
 ance with her good man when loitering along 
 the beach after her little charges. Jane is nine 
 years old, quiet and shy, with a mild expression, 
 redeemed from insipidity by lines of unusual 
 firmness about the mouth: when she speaks it 
 is mostly in a slow, apathetic manner ; but now 
 and. then a flash of feeling reveals that there 
 are strength and depth in her character. Harry 
 
 has scarcely entered his seventh year, and is a 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 275 
 
 miniature likeness of his father, only less sun- 
 burned. 
 
 The letter under discussion ran as follows :— 
 
 Dear Brother and Sister, 
 
 My husband died ten days ago in the 
 hope of a blessed resurrection. Moreover God, 
 Who does all things well, has been pleased to 
 call my sin to remembrance, and to slay my 
 son. I am alone indeed now; not in debt, 
 having just enough in hand to pay my way 
 till Thursday, and then come down to you. 
 Will you receive me? We parted in anger, but 
 perhaps you will forgive me when you know 
 how much I have lost, and guess with how sore 
 a longing I desire to lay my bones amongst 
 my own people. If I do not hear from 
 you by Thursday, I shall understand that you 
 cannot forgive: nevertheless remember, in 
 the next world if not in this, we must meet 
 again. 
 
 Your sorrowful, affectionate sister, 
 SARAH LANE. 
 
276 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 ‘How can she fancy we’d bear malice after 
 all her troubles?’ said Frank; ‘and when it 
 was for her own good, too. Write at once, my 
 dear, and make her welcome to all we’ve got, 
 such as it is, and the best of it.’ 
 
 ‘Yes,’ replied Emma, dryly. She was jea- 
 lously alive to her husband’s fondness for his 
 sister, and by no means relished the prospect of 
 her returning to live with them. 
 
 ‘ How old is Aunt Sarah ?’ inquired Jane. 
 
 ‘Twenty-five last March ; and five years ago 
 she was the prettiest girl in Hastings. You 
 must furbish up your room a bit, Jenny, and 
 make your aunt as comfortable as you can. 
 She’s got rather high notions, naturally; but I 
 guess they must have come down by this time, 
 poor thing! only don’t let us make her feel 
 strange coming back to what used to be her 
 home—and shall be her home again, please 
 God, if she’ll come and share it. Well, I’m 
 off, Emma,’ continued Frank, rising and shaking 
 himself: ‘you ’ll write a kind welcome, I know, 
 for you’re the scholar; and you needn’t say a 
 
 word about me, except that I’m just the same 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. a7 
 
 as five years ago. Good night.’—‘ Good night.’ 
 So he left the cottage. 
 
 Then Jane busied herself with washing the 
 tea-things and ‘tidying up;’ Harry, at the 
 imminent risk of his fingers, began hacking a 
 small bit of wood, to produce what he dubbed 
 a boat, and Emma sat down to write the letter 
 
 of invitation—TI cannot say welcome :— 
 
 My dear Sister, 
 
 Your letter came to hand this after- 
 noon, and Frank and I are very sorry for your 
 troubles ; but if you come here I dare say you 
 will mind less. Frank says, ‘Come and_ wel- 
 come, and be as all was five years ago:’ only 
 ours is but a poor place for such as you, and 
 you must not mind having Jenny in bed with 
 you; and you cannot expect me to do nothing 
 but wait on you, as I have a good handful with 
 Frank and the children, I tell you plainly. 
 
 So next Thursday we shall expect you, and 
 no more at present from 
 - Your affectionate sister, 
 EMMA HARDIMAN. 
 
278 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 Whilst Emma wrote her letter, Jane, I say, 
 washed the tea-things. There was brisk tho- 
 roughness in her manner of washing; no great 
 handiness, but concentrated energy: she was 
 evidently conscientious. Next she coaxed Harry 
 to forego his hacking and be put to bed, showing 
 tact and good nature with firmness in the trans- 
 action. Then, returning with her bonnet on her 
 head and a basket on her arm, she asked her 
 mother whether she should not take her letter 
 to the post. 
 
 ‘Yes,’ answered Emma; ‘and you must 
 make haste, too, or it won’t be in time. Here’s 
 a penny for a stamp; and,’ putting a crown- 
 piece into the little girl’s hand, ‘you must bring 
 me in some butter, and sugar, and treacle, and a 
 loaf, and some tea; and call at Mrs, Smith’s 
 for my bonnet, and get a reel of black cotton 
 and a paper of needles. And you must run, 
 too; you’ll have running enough, I reckon, 
 when madam comes.’ 
 
 _ Away ran Jane with all her might, reaching 
 the post-office in much more than time to catch 
 
 the evening mail. ‘Well, my little woman, is 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 279 
 
 it a love-letter you’re carrying?’ said the post- 
 master; to which she answered demurely, ‘ No, 
 sir, please; it’s to my aunt in London. Seeing 
 he was busy she added no more, but set off on 
 her next errand. This took her to a various- 
 smelling shop in one of the back streets, where 
 she ran glibly through the accustomed list of 
 articles: ‘Half a pound of butter, a pound of 
 sugar, two pennyworth of treacle (for Harry), 
 a quartern loaf,a quarter of a pound of three- 
 and-fourpenny tea, and two rashers of bacon,’ 
 supplying the last item from her knowledge of 
 what must be wanted, though her mother had 
 forgotten to name it. She packed all carefully 
 in her little basket, counted the change from 
 her crown-piece, chirped to a poor imprisoned 
 lark, which could catch not one glimpse of sky 
 from his nail in the shop, stroked her old friend 
 the black cat, and started for Mrs. Smith’s smart 
 establishment in the High Street. 
 
 Mrs. Smith, in a false front and staring 
 flowers, presiding behind her millinery counter, 
 looked somewhat formidable. Jane preferred 
 
 asking the young woman on the other side for 
 
280 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 the black cotton and needles. These were sup- 
 plied and paid for; then Mrs. Smith called out 
 to know if she wanted anything else. ‘ Please, 
 ma'am,’ began Jane, ‘is mother’s bonnet 
 ‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Smith, shortly, ‘tell your 
 
 mother that her bonnet isn’t done yet, and she 
 
 
 
 needn’t keep bothering after it; for when it’s 
 done I’ll send it home, and not before. Good 
 evening!’ This bonnet was a bone of con- 
 tention between the two women: it was to be 
 trimmed in return for certain errands already 
 executed by Jane; and the milliners hands 
 being filled just now with more lucrative orders, 
 great delay ensued in its completion. 
 
 When Jane reached home, she found her 
 mother seated hard at work making a black- 
 and-white muslin dress with flounces—Emma 
 loved to be smart on Sunday—for her own wear, 
 Jane put “away the purchases, handed what 
 change remained to Mrs. Hardiman, and sat 
 down to write a’ copy and work an addition sum 
 for Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife, who gave her 
 an hour’s instruction two or three times a-week. 
 
 The little girl laboured to do her very best, and 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 281 
 
 had just produced a particularly correct capital 
 B when her mother shook the table. Not a 
 word said poor Jane, though a great blot was 
 jerked out of the pen on to the B. She tried 
 again and again for six lines more, but without 
 equalling the defaced B; then, that page finished, 
 turned her mind to the sum. ‘4 and 4 are 8, 
 
 ) 
 
 and I are 9, and 7——’ ‘Jane,’ cried her 
 mother, ‘there’s nothing for supper; run out 
 and fetch two rashers.’ ‘I got them, mother, 
 when I was out, because I knew they were 
 wanted,’ was the cheerful answer, and reckoning 
 recommenced. ‘4 and 4 are 8,and I are 9, and 
 7 are sixt janet “Ves, mother! “ Was 
 
 the letter in time?’ ‘Oh, much more than 
 
 5] 
 
 
 
 ’ 
 
 time. 4 and 4——’ ‘I shall never get through 
 these flounces to-night: put away your books, 
 child, and help me. I’m sure your schooling 
 isn’t worth much if it doesn’t teach you to 
 mind me.’ 
 
 Jane jumped up, though she could have cried, 
 laid by her book and slate, and sat down close 
 to her mother. In another minute two pairs of 
 
 hands were hemming as fast as they could henr 
 
282 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 at the flounces. Why was Emma in such a 
 hurry to finish making her dress? It could not 
 be out of regard to her sister-in-law’s feelings, as 
 she and her daughter were already in black for 
 the death of an old relation who had left them 
 a few pounds; neither could it be with an exclu- 
 sive eye to Sunday, for this was only Tuesday 
 evening: no, she was bent on receiving poor, 
 sad Sarah in this fine gown, because she felt 
 jealous of her good looks, and wanted to out- 
 shine her in Frank’s eyes. 
 
 Jane, who had no idea of this state of things, 
 asked, ‘What was Uncle Lane?’ 
 
 ‘Don’t call him‘ uncle,” retumed imma, 
 sharply; ‘he was no kith or kin to us, but a 
 Methodist fografer [photographer], and but a 
 poor body at best. I dare say his widow hasn't 
 a pound that she can call her own, though she 
 is so ready to invite herself to live with them 
 who work hard for their bread. However, your 
 father must please himself. [Thread snaps.] 
 _ Mrs. Smith’s cotton is mere rubbish; you go to 
 Widow Wright’s next time, and see if you can’t 
 
 get an honest pennorth; do you hear?’ 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 283 
 
 ‘Yes, mother. I shall like to have Aunt 
 Sarah in my bed: is she like father?’ 
 
 ‘No—yes—I don’t know; don’t bother me. 
 You'll have enough and to spare of Aunt Sarah, 
 I can tell you.’ 
 
 Silence once more, except for the click, click, 
 of thimble and needle; Jane wondering what 
 she had said amiss, for her mother was not 
 usually cross. 
 
 At last the flounces were finished. ‘There, 
 that will do, observed Emma, more compla- 
 cently, for they looked puffy and well. ‘I 
 declare it’s supper-time; make haste, child, and 
 
 toast the bacon whilst I clear away.’ 
 
 On Wednesday, Jane having, under her 
 mother’s direction, scrubbed her own bed-room 
 floor, added a blue bason and jug to its furniture, 
 and an extra chair. The window looked into 
 Frank’s garden, very bright just now with nas- 
 turtiums; and though it did not command a sea 
 view, the murmur, or tumult, or roar of the great 
 deep, could always, except in very still weather, 
 
 be distinctly heard from it. 
 
284 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 The room made ready, let us glance at its 
 future occupant. 
 
 Sarah Lane, now so mournful, had years ago 
 been not only the prettiest, but almost the 
 merriest girl in Hastings. True, she was a child 
 of sorrow to her mother, who died without even 
 kissing her new-born baby; but, bequeathed to 
 the guardianship of father and brother, she never 
 missed a mother’s care. Often might Henry 
 Hardiman be seen loitering up and down the 
 parade, or lounging by the sun-dial, holding in 
 his arms his little girl; or, as she grew older, 
 putting his finger into her chubby fist to help 
 her intoddling. Sometimes, in pleasant.weather, 
 he took her in the boat with him for a row; 
 sometimes left her on shore under the care of 
 Frank, who lugged her unweariedly about the 
 beach, where she served as plaything to her 
 father’s rugged mates. ? | 
 
 When the time arrived for Frank to go out 
 with his father and share his labours, a change 
 _ensued for little Sarah. She was sent to a 
 superior school—for Henry Hardiman drove a 
 
 flourishing trade—and only went home on a 
 
 « 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 285 
 
 Saturday to stay till the Monday; the Hardi- 
 mans, from father to son, observing Sunday, and 
 frequenting St. Clement’s Church. Henry and 
 Frank were not a little proud of their girl as she 
 walked beside them, rosy and good-humoured, 
 or, with a pretty childish voice, joined in the 
 hymns of the congregation ; and before long she, 
 too, learned to be proud of her sturdy, weather- 
 beaten father in his Sunday blue coat, and of 
 her handsome, merry brother, and to give them 
 back warm love for the life-long love which they 
 gave her. | 
 
 At fifteen, grown tall and womanly, Sarah | 
 came home to keep her father’s house. Her 
 school-education included several useful items: 
 she was quick and clever with her needle, read 
 with fluency and expression, wrote a clear hand, 
 was a capital accountant, had a fair knowledge 
 of geography, history, and spelling, could ex- 
 press herself well in a letter ; moreover, she knew 
 a little music and a little dancing, and, thanks 
 to natural voice and ear, sang sweetly and tune- 
 ably. Very soon the cottage bore witness to 
 her good taste. The old-fashioned furniture 
 
286 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 was rubbed up; a few geraniums and fuchsias 
 screened the parlour window ; a Virginia creeper, 
 scarlet-coloured in autumn, clambered up the 
 outer wall; and carefully tended plants ren- 
 dered her garden the prettiest in the Tackle 
 way. She liked and wore bright colours; and 
 when she watered her window- flowers, or 
 gathered a nosegay in the garden, or sat among 
 the Pier Rocks watching for her father’s boat to 
 come across the intense blue, sunny sea, often 
 and often passers-by lingered to admire her 
 noble beauty and untaught grace. 
 
 When her skill as a needlewoman became 
 known, first neighbours, then ladies, engaged her 
 to work for them. By this means she amassed 
 a little sum of money, carefully stored amongst 
 her treasures, but never spent. Sometimes 
 Henry, coming home, found her sewing and 
 singing, whilst puss purred at her feet, and the — 
 kettle sang on the fire. Then he would say, 
 ‘Bless you, Sally; there’s no need for you to 
 _ wear out your plump bits of fingers. Ain't 
 Frank and I big enough to work for you?’ 
 And she would answer, ‘Ah, but some day when 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 287 
 
 you’re a dear old father, and stay at home in 
 the chimney-corner, Frank mustn’t have all the 
 pleasure of working for you, and my earnings 
 will come in handy, you’ll see.’ 
 
 Several young men courted her for her fair 
 face, or clever ways, or kind heart; but to all of 
 them she answered a civil ‘No,’ till it came to 
 be said among the fisher-folk that Sarah Hardi- 
 man must be waiting for a lord. Even John 
 Archer, a well-to-do, God-fearing young boat- 
 man, who followed her for many an anxious 
 month, only at last elicited her gentle, firm ‘ No,’ 
 though her father pitied the poor lad, and Frank © 
 spoke warmly in his favour. Soon after Sarah 
 left school, Frank married and brought home his 
 Emma; but Sarah continued mistress of the 
 house, her father’s darling, and very dear to her 
 brother, which, with her good looks and many 
 suitors, made Emma sore and jealous. The 
 two young women were not over cordial together, 
 though they never spoke of their coolness, and 
 Frank was long before he even suspected it. 
 So four years passed. 
 
 One Saturday night, as the little family sat 
 
288 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 round the fire, over which spluttered eggs and 
 bacon for supper,—as Henry dozed, Frank 
 netted, Emma worked for her baby, and Sarah 
 turned the rashers, a noise of quarrelling outside 
 roused the two men. They started up, but 
 before they could reach the door a loud crash 
 
 was heard of something falling and breaking on 
 ~ the pavement; then three or four voices cried 
 ‘Shame!’ They ran out, and the women were 
 left alone in some anxiety. 
 
 After a few minutes old Hardiman returned. 
 ‘Sally,’ explained he, ‘here’s a poor travelling 
 showman whose box of things has just been 
 smashed by big Ben, because he said the sun 
 would take his likeness. Ben, I reckon, has had 
 a glass too much. So I think it will be but 
 Christian-like to take him in for to-night, as he’s 
 quite a stranger here, and seems a decent body, 
 if you’ll shake him down a bed, my darling.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, father,’ answered the girl; and just 
 then Frank and a young man entered, bearing 
 _ between them the wrecks of a portable photo- 
 graphic apparatus. 
 
 ‘Sit down and be kindly welcome, : Sarah 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 289 
 
 said, blushing like a rose; she set a chair for 
 the stranger, and, with practical hospitality, 
 broke three more eggs, and put three more 
 rashers into the frying-pan. Then she placed 
 those already cooked on the table, with cheese, 
 butter, home-made bread, and strong beer. 
 
 At supper the guest warmly thanked his 
 entertainers, and proceeded to gratify their 
 curiosity about himself. His name was John 
 Lane ; both his parents were dead, and, indeed, 
 he had no near relation in the world. His 
 business was to take photographs, at sixpence 
 and upwards ; for this purpose he travelled from 
 town to town, seldom remaining in one place 
 for more than a few weeks: ‘Till to-night,’ he 
 continued, somewhat bitterly, ‘I never met with 
 an ignorant brute. He then drew from his 
 pocket a small case containing specimens of his 
 art, both portraits and landscapes. 
 
 Frank looked at them in silent admiration ; 
 but Sarah observed, pointing to a coloured head, 
 ‘I like that best ; I always want to know what 
 eyes and hair people have.’ John Lane glanced 
 up at her: ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘the sun can’t paint 
 
 U 
 
290 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 eyes and hair” ‘Well, Mr. Lane,’ interposed 
 Emma, ‘I must get you to do Jenny’s portrait. 
 When will you be able?’ ‘I will come as soon | 
 as I possibly can,’ he answered, eagerly. So 
 that evening concluded. 
 
 Next morning, while they sat at breakfast, 
 Sarah said to the guest, ‘Our old church is 
 worth seeing: I think when you’ve been there 
 with us, you'll want to take its likeness too.’ 
 But John Lane, flushing crimson, replied, with- 
 out looking up, ‘I can’t go there, thank you: 
 I’m what you call a Methodist.’ 
 
 Certainly John Lane by no means exagge- 
 rated in his own favour when he told his story. 
 He might have said that during some years he 
 had been the sole support of a bedridden mother, 
 for her sake often denying himself all save bare 
 necessaries ; that by perseverance and ingenuity 
 he had attained proficiency in his art; that he 
 had laid up a sum of money, and was in the 
 way to add to it. Any one who knew him well 
 could have related these facts and more. Two 
 
 years before this period, about the time of his 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 291 
 
 mother’s death, he stopped one Sunday after- 
 noon to hear an itinerant preacher, who, bare- 
 headed, Bible in hand, went out—to use his 
 own phrase—into the highways and hedges, to 
 compel men to come in. John stopped to kill 
 time ; but the rough, zealous words pricked his 
 conscience to the quick: before he went his way 
 he had resolved to redeem the time. From 
 that day he was an altered man: he read his 
 Bible with fervent, persistent prayer, and at 
 the first opportunity introduced himself to the 
 preacher whose words had convinced him of sin. 
 These two men, both honest, both zealous, both 
 uninstructed, provoked each other to good works; 
 but, utterly alien from church unity, ignored 
 many vital doctrines. The elder man, con- 
 strained by the love of Christ, sailed as a mis- 
 sionary to India: John Lane then believed that 
 he was called to fill the gap ; to lift up his voice 
 like a trumpet, and proclaim the gospel to souls 
 perishing for lack of knowledge. Therefore he 
 gave up his fixed quarters in London, and 
 wandering from town to town, endeavoured to 
 
 speak a word in season to persons who came 
 
292 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 to him in the way of business ; and on Sundays, 
 after attending one service in the Methodist 
 chapel, devoted his afternoon to out-of-door 
 preaching. 
 
 This was the man whom what we call 
 accident, but what is in fact the appointment or 
 permission of God, brought to the fisherman’s 
 cottage; to Hardiman and Frank, staunch 
 churchgoers ; to Emma, not over partial to her 
 sister-in-law ; to beautiful Sarah, with her winning 
 ways and disengaged heart. 
 
 Of course John Lane deemed himself in 
 duty bound to bear witness for the truth here as 
 elsewhere. Hardiman listened to him, but shook 
 his head when he spoke of the love of the 
 Establishment having waxed cold, of experience, 
 and professors. ‘I like practisers,’ said Henry 
 Hardiman; and trudged to St. Clement’s as 
 heretofore. Emma went once to the Methodist 
 | chapel, but was mightily offended when the 
 preacher, looking, as she declared, full at her 
 light blue bonnet, observed, ‘It might have 
 been better for Dives in hell if he had not 
 
 dressed so finely.’ Sarah, who would not grieve 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 293 
 
 her father, continued a regular attendant at the 
 old parish church once every Sunday ; but if, 
 as frequently happened, in her afternoon stroll 
 she caught sight of John Lane surrounded by a 
 group of listeners, too often idlers, she was sure 
 to join his audience and add her sweet voice 
 to their hymns. Then followed the walk toge- 
 ther home; the earnest communings by the 
 way, of God, and Jesus, and heaven, of the 
 everlasting burnings to be fled from, and the 
 everlasting prize to be run for. 
 
 So these two came to love each other: 
 Henry only saw that the young man loved his 
 beautiful daughter. 
 
 ‘John Lane,’ said he one day, ‘you love 
 Sarah, and mean well by her; but I tell you 
 plainly she’s not for such as you. She’s said 
 “No” to many a man already, and she’ll say 
 “No” to you when you ask her: for she shall 
 ‘never have my blessing on her marrying a 
 Methodist, and gadding from place to place 
 making mischief. Take my advice, my lad, 
 and keep away from Sarah, and she won't run 
 
 after you.’ 
 
294. THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 So John kept away from the cottage ; and 
 if Sarah fretted, she said not a word of her 
 troubles to any one. 
 
 About a week had elapsed since they last 
 saw each other, when she, having finished some 
 work for a lady at Halton, set off to carry it 
 home. <A long round led her to the field-path, 
 beset by fence and gates: on the right, where 
 the West Hill slopes towards the town, hay- 
 making was going on with a pleasant smell. 
 Scarcely a breath of wind stirred: and when 
 for a few minutes she sat on a wayside bench 
 to cool herself, she noticed how a subtle exhala- 
 tion rising from the heated ground became per- 
 ceptible where it slightly altered the appearance 
 of objects seen through it. 
 
 Her business at Halton was quickly trans- 
 acted ; and with lightened hands, if not a 
 lightened heart, she was turning homewards, 
 _when straight before her, pack on back, stood 
 John Lane. 
 
 Sarah looked very tall and stately: ‘ Good- 
 bye, Mr. Lane,’ said she, ‘since I see you’re on 
 your travels again; and I hope you'll find a 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 295 
 
 kinder welcome where you’re going than you 
 got at Hastings.’ 
 
 “Good-bye, indeed,’ he answered, gravely, 
 ‘if you call me Mr. Lane; and I hope I shall 
 never find such another kind welcome, if it’s 
 only to break my heart afterwards.’ 
 
 It was not in human nature to part so: no 
 wonder Sarah’s look softened; no wonder John 
 forgot his pack and his migration, and turned 
 back towards Hastings with her. He told her 
 all: how her father had called him a mischief- 
 making Methodist; had said. he had no chance, 
 and had better keep away; how he had prayed 
 and wrestled against temptation ; ‘ because,’ 
 added he, simply, ‘I wasn’t sure, Sarah, that 
 you would say “No.” But God gave me grace 
 to esteem the reproach of Christ better than 
 all the 
 the treasures of Egypt.’ Again he said, ‘ Good- 
 bye;’ but Sarah said, ‘Stuff! you know, John, 
 I can’t answer “ Yes” or “No” till you ask me 
 
 
 
 ah, better than much more than all 
 
 something.’ 
 So in the field-path John asked, and she 
 
 answered. Then from gate to gate along the 
 
206 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 steaming fields, whilst haymakers rested and 
 birds sat silent in the noon heat, they two 
 walked, talking earnestly. At the last gate 
 they parted, Sarah saying, ‘ Very well, now 
 that’s settled. John, I do believe my soul is 
 at stake in this matter, for it’s only you in all 
 the world who have taught me to love God; 
 and though father won’t bless my marrying a 
 Methodist, he’ll bless me when I am married.’ 
 
 They were married secretly one Sunday 
 morning at the Methodist chapel—not without 
 keen stings of conscience, which neither owned 
 to the other. When that same day Henry 
 Hardiman heard from them what was done, he 
 uttered no angry words, but took the blow 
 stoutly. To his daughter’s eager expressions of 
 affection he merely answered, ‘Maybe, maybe, 
 Sally;’ and when a week later she and her 
 husband set off for Eastbourne, he blessed her 
 gravely before she went. 
 
 But that one trouble had made an old man 
 of him. Soon Frank went alone to fish, while 
 Henry sat at home in the chimney-corner, hold- 
 
 ing Emma’s youngest born on his knee, or crept 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 297 
 
 along the Tackle Way, with a finger in Jane’s 
 chubby fist to help her in toddling. Next, days 
 came when he could only sit moping in the 
 chimney-corner: the doctor, looking at him, 
 shook his head; and Frank wrote Sarah word 
 that if she cared for her father’s pardon she 
 must come now and ask it. She came: was 
 received coldly by her brother and sister-in-law, 
 kindly by her father; only when she hung 
 about him with tears and fond words, he an- 
 swered patiently, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ So 
 he died. 
 
 A few more months, and Sarah became 
 mother of a small, weak baby—a little Henry. 
 A few more years, and still wearing black for 
 her dead only son, she sat beside her husband’s 
 death-bed: her kind husband, who never once 
 had spoken a harsh word to her. Long ago 
 they had repented of the cruel wrong done to 
 the old man; had confessed their fault one to 
 the other, exchanged forgiveness, and prayed 
 together for pardon. Their store of money 
 wasted during John’s tedious illness ; and Sarah, 
 watching him as he lay dying, felt a sort of 
 
208 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 satisfaction in the thought that she had just 
 enough left to bury her dead out of sight before 
 asking help of her relations. 
 
 His last look was at her; his last words 
 were, ‘Thanks be to God, which giveth us the 
 victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 299 
 
 2M ad feed Gl 
 
 THURSDAY afternoon arrived. Frank, Jane, and 
 little Harry, went down to the station to meet 
 Sarah Lane; whilst Emma stayed at home in 
 the puffy new muslin, preparing tea and making 
 ready for her sister-in-law’s reception. She was 
 in high good humour; for Frank before setting 
 off had praised her pretty face, and observed, 
 ‘Poor Sally won’t look like that, I fancy, when 
 she comes home again.’ 
 
 She came. Just the old stately grace and 
 fine features, but none of the old bloom; her 
 eyes were dim and sunken, her cheeks hollow; 
 instead of bright colours she wore widow’s weeds. 
 She came back to the familiar home, the fond 
 warm-hearted brother, the sister-in-law who had 
 never loved her; only the dear old man was 
 wanting, whose grey hairs she had brought down 
 
 with sorrow to the grave. 
 
300 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 Frank kissed his sister when she crossed the 
 threshold, but could not utter one word of wel- 
 come, struck dumb by her changed face: it was 
 Emma, who, really touched, came forward and 
 welcomed her cordially. Not much was said 
 that evening. Sarah held little Henry—so like 
 his grandfather—on her lap till he fell fast 
 asleep there, and Frank carried him upstairs 
 for Jane to put to bed. Then Sarah, left alone 
 with her sister-in-law, rose, and holding out her 
 hand said, ‘Emma, I promised John to ask your 
 pardon for the ill-will there has been between 
 us, and I do ask it. Please God, I shall not 
 stand in your way any more to vex you, nor eat 
 the bread of idleness for long. Good-night.’ 
 To judge by her wasted form and frequent 
 hacking cough, she would not for long eat the 
 bread of men at all. 
 
 The next day; and the next, Sarah went 
 amongst her neighbours seeking for needlework, 
 but without success. Many old friends greeted 
 her coldly, for Henry Hardiman’s death was 
 generally laid at her door. Some promised to 
 
 employ her, but had no work just then. She 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 301 
 
 called at several houses from which she used 
 to receive orders, but her richer customers had 
 not yet left London for the sea-side : she trudged 
 to Halton, and found that the young lady who 
 employed her there had married long ago, and 
 gone away to the Lake country. 
 
 Poor Sarah! she was a widow indeed, and 
 desolate, trusting in God. 
 
 On Sunday morning, before setting out for 
 chapel, she said, ‘Don’t wait dinner for me, as 
 I dare say I shan’t be back much before tea- 
 time’ Emma tossed her head in its flowered 
 crape bonnet, and wondered to Frank ‘which 
 of her Methodist friends will give her a dinner ?’ 
 
 Sarah Lane sat down to no dinner that day ; 
 but when she felt pretty certain that the con- 
 gregation must have dispersed from St. Clement’s, 
 she went into the churchyard and sat down on 
 her father’s grave. There, motionless, silent, 
 past crying, she remained for hours. Will, 
 mental powers, life itself, seemed at a standstill ; 
 whilst, as if of their own accord, old days came 
 back before her eyes. She remembered toddling 
 along, helped by the unwearied finger; being 
 
302 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 rowed out to sea in pleasant weather, till, grown 
 tired, she nestled to sleep under the rough great- 
 coat ; changing once a-week from lessons and 
 school discipline to snug home; walking hand 
 in hand to church. She remembered being 
 installed mistress of the cottage; altering, re- 
 newing, embellishing, just as she pleased ; being 
 fondled, cared for, scarcely allowed to work for 
 him who toiled night and day for her; con- 
 tinuing first and dearest even after Frank brought 
 a wife to live with them. She remembered the 
 new love that hardened her against the old; 
 the tacit deceit; the short parting, with its 
 blessing, grave and sorrowful; the long, long 
 parting, with its patient, unvaried ‘Maybe, 
 maybe, Sally.’ Over and over again her eye 
 
 mechanically read,— 
 
 ‘HENRY HARDIMAN, 
 AGED 55. 
 
 Affliction sore long time he bore, 
 Physicians were in vain, 
 
 Till God did please his soul release, 
 And ease him of his pain.’ 
 
 She did not perceive that these lines are dog- 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 303 
 
 grel; she only felt that they were true. Her 
 baby, her dear John,—their loss seemed light 
 while she sat by her dead father whom she had 
 killed, and heard his feeble voice saying in her 
 ears, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ 
 
 ‘My!’ cried Emma, when, as the kettle 
 sang on the fire, and Jane knelt on the hearth 
 toasting huge slices for tea, Sarah crept into 
 the cottage with a few daisies and blades of 
 grass in her hand: ‘you startled me just like 
 
 a ghost, and I declare you’re as white as one.’ 
 
 _ It cost Sarah’s pride a severe struggle before 
 she could bring herself to apply for work to 
 Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife: she feared some 
 harsh word might be dropped concerning her 
 own conduct years ago; and John blamed for 
 what, as she persisted in saying, she led him 
 into. But no employment offered elsewhere ; 
 and the words of Holy Scripture, ‘If* any 
 would not work, neither should he eat,’ kept 
 goading her; till one afternoon, by a great 
 effort, she set off towards the curate’s old- 
 fashioned house in the Croft. A strange servant 
 
304 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 opened the door, and perceiving a decent-looking 
 widow, led her straight into the sitting-room. 
 Mrs. Grey heard some one enter, but not catch- 
 ing the name, looked up from her writing, and 
 seeing as she supposed a stranger, rose and 
 inquired civilly to whom she had the pleasure 
 of speaking. 
 
 ‘You don’t recollect me, ma’am, began 
 Sarah; but at the sound of that familiar voice 
 Mrs. Grey started forward, and cordially pressing 
 her hand, exclaimed, ‘Oh, Sarah Hardiman— 
 Mrs. Lane—how glad I am to see you! I 
 heard you were come home, and thought it 
 would not be long before you paid‘ me a visit. 
 Sit down, and let me‘help you off with your 
 bonnet and shawl; for now that you are here I 
 shall not let you go so easily.’ 
 
 This kindness quite overcame the poor widow. 
 A great flow of tears relieved her; and when 
 Mrs. Grey spoke soothing words, she answered, 
 ‘Let be, ma'am, let be: it’s the first time since 
 I buried John, and it does me good.’ 
 
 So the curate’s wife, who had known her | 
 from a baby, seated herself by her; and drawing 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 305 
 
 the bowed-down head to her bosom, let her sob 
 there; not attempting to check her grief, but 
 only whispering that she understood the lightest 
 part of it, having lost her own youngest boy 
 five months ago. When the sobs grew less 
 choking, she poured out a glass of wine and 
 made her eat some cake—little guessing how 
 sorely her guest stood in need of food; since 
 Sarah grudged herself every morsel she ate 
 whilst she earned nothing and was a burden 
 to Frank and Emma. 
 
 At length the purpose of her visit was told: 
 “I came to ask,’ said Sarah, ‘whether you would 
 give me some needlework. I have been trying 
 ever since I came back to find employment, and 
 no one wants my services. Will you let me 
 work for you ?’ 
 
 Mrs. Grey replied directly, ‘I have plenty of 
 things to make just now, and you shall have 
 them all if you like to begin to-morrow.’ Then, 
 remembering that in days of yore there was not 
 much cordiality between the sisters-in-law, she 
 added, ‘If you don’t mind, I should prefer your 
 not taking them home, at least not at first, but 
 
 x 
 
306 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 working here with me. Perhaps some day it 
 may comfort you to tell me about your troubles : 
 you don’t know how often I thought of you and 
 felt for you whilst you were away.’ 
 
 Just then little Jane Hardiman, whose course 
 of study had undergone temporary suspension 
 on account of the extra bustle at home, came in 
 for her hour’s lesson. Sarah rose to go; but 
 Mrs. Grey begged her to sit down if she was 
 not in a hurry, and wait till her niece was 
 ready to walk home with her. Then business 
 commenced. 
 
 The addition sum was produced, worked at 
 last without one blunder ; the blotted B elicited 
 a mild rebuke ; a flower-pot added to the sam- 
 pler was inspected and approved. Next Jane, 
 who had, in preparation, read it over by herself, 
 was questioned on the parable of the lost sheep 
 (Luke, xv. 4). 
 
 ‘Where was the shepherd pasturing his flock?’ 
 
 - Tn the wilderness.’ 
 ‘What is a wilderness ?’ 
 ‘A barren place, without houses, or trees, or 
 
 grass, or water.’ 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 307 
 
 ‘But what then were the sheep to eat ?’ 
 
 Some moments spent inthought. ‘Did they 
 have manna, ma’am ?’ 
 
 ‘No, I do not suppose they had manna. In 
 a wilderness there are certain spots where water 
 springs out of the ground; and round about 
 this water or fountain the ground is fertile, fruit- 
 bearing and other shady trees grow, and grass 
 springs up. I recollect once reading of a tra- 
 veller who found a single most beautiful’ lily 
 blooming by such a fountain. Doubtless the 
 good shepherd fed his flock on a fruitful spot 
 of the wilderness, as the Psalm says,—‘ He shall 
 feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth 
 beside the waters of comfort.” How many 
 sheep were there?’ 
 
 ‘A hundred.’ 
 
 ‘Who took care of them ?’ : 
 
 ‘ Their shepherd.’ 
 
 ‘Did the shepherd fall asleep at night and 
 let the wolf come and catch them ?’ 
 
 ‘No.’ 
 
 ‘No, certainly. He kept watch over his flock 
 by night: if he saw a roaring lion or a great 
 
308 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 heavy bear coming to tear them, he rose and 
 killed it or drove it away. Well, ninety-nine 
 sheep followed him wherever he went : but what 
 did one do ?’ 
 
 ‘It got away.’ 
 
 ‘Where did it go ?’ 
 
 ‘Did it go into the other part of the wilder- 
 ness ?? 
 
 ‘Yes; quite away from the grass and water, 
 where there was nothing but sand. It couldn’t 
 eat sand or drink sand, could it ?’ 
 
 ‘No, ma’am.’ 
 
 ‘So it must have died very soon of hunger 
 and thirst, even if no wild beast had devoured 
 it.. Dideit:die ? 
 
 ‘No; because the shepherd went and fetched 
 ite 
 
 ‘And when he found it, did he drive it 
 before him, striking it and using angry words ?’ 
 
 ‘No; he laid it on his shoulders rejoicing, 
 and all his neighbours rejoiced with him when it 
 came safely back.’ 
 
 ‘Very well. But this is not merely a beau- 
 —tiful tale about a shepherd and his flock; it is 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 309 
 
 one of the sacred parables spoken by our blessed 
 Saviour. What do I mean by a parable?’ asked 
 Mrs. Grey. | 
 
 A long pause: at last,—‘Stories that tell 
 about other things.’ 
 
 ‘Really that will not do for an explanation, 
 said the teacher ; ‘ because, though I understand 
 what you mean, a person who knew nothing of 
 what a parable is would be none the wiser. 
 Perhaps your aunt will kindly help us. Then, 
 turning to her, ‘Mrs. Lane, will you inform 
 your niece what a parable is?’ 
 
 Sarah, who, as we know, had been well 
 taught in her childhood, and who had greatly 
 increased her religious knowledge during the 
 years of her married life, replied readily, ‘A 
 spoken emblem ; just as holly in a window tells 
 us of Christmas.’ 
 
 ‘Thank you, yes; or as the cross brings 
 before our eyes Him Who hung thereon. And 
 since all our blessed Saviour’s parables teach us 
 something concerning God, or heaven, or our 
 own duty, we must spare no pains to understand 
 them. Now then, Jane, tell me the hidden 
 
310 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 meaning of this parable of the lost sheep. The 
 shepherd is es 
 
 ‘Jesus Christ, who calls Himself the Good 
 Shepherd’ (John, x. 11). 
 
 “The flock are '¢ 
 
 ‘Every one.’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 ‘Not every one. He has “other sheep” 
 (John, x. 16). The wilderness where they lived 
 is this world. What was the fruitful spot where 
 he pastured them ?’ 
 
 No answer. ‘It is the Church, continued 
 Mrs. Grey; ‘the fold or pen if we speak under 
 
 an emblem, the Church if we speak plainly. So 
 “a 
 
 
 
 this flock is not all people, but 
 
 ‘Christian people.’ 
 
 ‘Yes; in those days every one who was a 
 Christian at all belonged to the fold, or Church. 
 What, then, did the sheep do who went wander- 
 ing away ?’ 
 
 ‘It committed a sin.’ 
 
 ‘And if the good shepherd had not gone to 
 seek and to save that which was lost, what must 
 have happened to it ?’ 
 
 ‘It must have died,’ answered Jane, earnestly. 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 311 
 
 ‘But he went and looked about for it, and 
 brought it back, and called all his friends and 
 neighbours to rejoice with him.’ 
 
 ‘Quite right. A verse which follows tells us 
 who the friends and neighbours are: which verse 
 is that ?’ 
 
 The child considered a moment, and then 
 repeated, ‘I say unto you, that likewise joy 
 shall be in heaven over one sinner that re- 
 penteth, more than over ninety and nine just 
 persons, which need no repentance’ (Luke, 
 N'7). 
 
 ‘Or,’ resumed the teacher, ‘it is explained 
 still more clearly at the end of the next parable 
 (ver. 10): “Likewise, I say unto you, there is 
 joy in the presence of the angels of God over 
 one sinner that repenteth.””’ 
 
 Now Mrs. Grey, much as she loved Sarah 
 Lane, and admired her many good qualities, 
 could not doubt that she fell into grievous error 
 when she turned her back on the church of her 
 baptism, and followed ever so dear a person 
 into schism; neither could she judge how eager 
 
 the widow might be to lead her family after 
 
312 _THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 her. Therefore she added, trying not to look 
 conscious,— 
 
 ‘This sheep by sin wandered, as it supposed, 
 quite away from its kind shepherd’s eye and 
 care; but if, instead of going far, it had just 
 crept through the paling and sat down outside 
 the fold, and when its master called it back, 
 had answered, “ Master, I will follow thee 
 whithersoever thou goest : but the grass outside 
 the fold is more nourishing than that which grows 
 inside, and the sheep whom I lived with there 
 do not love and follow thee as entirely as I wish 
 to do,’—would its master have been pleased 
 with it?’ 
 
 ‘Oh no!’ 
 
 ‘Yet this, Jane, is just what many people 
 do now. They fancy they can find better food 
 for their souls out of. the Church than in it, and 
 so join the Dissenters ; refusing to return, though 
 they see written in the Bible that God added 
 to the Church daily such as should be saved. 
 That will do for the present: next time we 
 will talk about the parable of the lost piece of 
 
 money.’ 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 313 
 
 Then Jane drew from her basket a large 
 ‘bunch of rose-coloured seaweed, the dock-leaved 
 fucus, neatly smoothed on white cardboard, and 
 said timidly, ‘ Please, ma’am, father desires his 
 respects; and will you accept this, as you seem 
 to fancy such things? It came up in the net 
 last week, and he says he never found such a 
 handsome piece of the sort before.’ 
 
 Mrs. Grey looked delighted: ‘Oh, how 
 lovely! I have nothing like it. Do thank your 
 father very much for his kind present, and tell 
 him it will be the beauty of my collection.’ 
 
 So day by day Sarah Lane went to the 
 Croft ; and when it was not convenient for her 
 to sit with Mrs. Grey, took her needlework up 
 into the nursery: for nurse, as her mistress 
 knew, was a good steady person, much more 
 likely to lead the young widow right than to 
 be led wrong by her. Or sometimes she carried 
 her work home, because Emma complained of 
 being left always alone. Or sometimes, if the 
 day was fine, and the material one that could 
 
 not fade, she sat amongst the Pier Rocks sew- 
 
314 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 ing, much as she had sat years ago watching for 
 her father’s boat. 
 
 Native air, bracing sea-breezes, a mind at 
 rest as to the supply of daily bread,— under the 
 influence of these blessings her health rallied, 
 her wasted figure became plumper, and her step 
 more elastic. By little and little, old friends 
 warmed towards her, and old customers came 
 back; soon she had as many orders as she could 
 execute. 
 
 Mrs. Grey remarked, ‘Why, Sarah, you’re 
 growing quite stout and rosy: I do believe, after 
 all, you may get as strong and live as long as 
 any of us.’ . 
 
 The widow turned a little pale, but answered 
 cheerfully, ‘Please God, ma’am, I shall, if it is 
 His will” Only the cough continued, hack, 
 hack, and scarcely seemed to get better. 
 
 One day the curate’s wife came into her 
 nursery, carrying a basin full of whitish jelly. 
 ‘Do try this for your cough, Mrs. Lane,’ said 
 she; ‘and if it does you good, I will tell you 
 how to make some more.’ Sarah tried it: the 
 
 taste was rather pleasant, and in a day or two 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 315 
 
 that extreme irritation at her chest abated. 
 Then she learned that this soothing jelly was 
 made by boiling down a whitish seaweed (the 
 carrageen, or Irish Moss), which washes up in 
 abundance on the Hastings coast, and adding a 
 little sugar and lemon-juice to render it pala- 
 table. 
 
 Jane and Harry, when they walked on the 
 shingle, used to fill their baskets with white 
 weed for poor sick Aunt Sarah. Sometimes 
 Harry got lazy, and would not take any pains 
 to find the carrageen moss; but conscientious 
 Jane looked carefully for it, and seldom failed to 
 collect a little store, which was dried in the sun, 
 and then laid by against cold wet weather, when 
 she might not be able to go out seeking it. 
 Her kind teacher had once made her learn the 
 text, ‘Whosoever shall give you a cup of water 
 to drink in My name, because ye belong to 
 Christ, verily I say unto you, he shall not lose 
 his reward’ (Mark, ix. 41); explaining that any 
 act of kindness done to any person for the sake 
 of pleasing our Lord Jesus Christ, will be re- 
 membered by Him and rewarded at the last 
 
316 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 day. This it was which made Jane so diligent; 
 and often, when she felt inclined for a run in the 
 lanes and green fields to gather hyacinths, or 
 ' pink lychnis, or bunches of fiery poppies, she 
 coaxed Harry to come down on the shingle 
 instead, and look for pretty stones and shells 
 and star-fishes, whilst she picked up seaweed. 
 
 One certain Wednesday morning symptoms 
 of extraordinary bustle became evident in the 
 snug cottage on the Tackle Way. To judge by 
 appearances, a birth, marriage, or death at the 
 least, must have been impending: no, it was 
 only Emma Hardiman’s quarterly cleaning-day, 
 which, having come round, occasioned such 
 commotion. Frank was packed off from a 
 quick breakfast to his fishing; Sarah received 
 a broad hint that the sooner she vacated the 
 sitting-room the better it would be; Harry was 
 sent into the garden with his knife and bits of 
 wood ; and Jane was bid ‘put away her nonsense 
 [a prize picture-book received only the day pre- 
 viously for good conduct], and turn her hand to 
 something useful.’ 
 
 Now, as Emma on cleaning-days was fretted 
 
» 
 
 TROUBLESOME WORLD. 317 
 
 and snappish, Sarah pitied the poor child; so 
 instead of starting for the Croft, she said to her 
 sister-in-law, ‘Indeed, I would rather not stir 
 out to-day, or do needlework either; only that 
 dress ought to go back at once to Ecclesbourne, 
 as Mrs. Bright said she wanted it in a hurry. 
 Will you let the children carry it home for me? 
 They can take their dinner with them, and keep 
 out of our way all day, whilst I remain to help 
 you. We shall get through the work twice as 
 fast, and do it twice as well. Don’t you re- 
 member the hand that I am at scrubbing and 
 tidying ?’ 
 
 So the dress was neatly pinned up in a 
 handkerchief for Jane to carry, and a basket 
 stocked with two hunches of bread and two 
 blocks of cold bacon was given to little Henry. 
 Sarah sent also the bill, and showed Jane where 
 to sign her name when she took the money ; 
 for Mrs. Bright liked to pay at once for what- 
 ever she had. 
 
 It was a fine warm morning when the children 
 started along the East Cliff towards Eccles- 
 
 bourne, trudging amongst all sorts of pleasant 
 
318 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 sights, sounds, and smells. There was the scent 
 of a hayfield, the sweetness of dog-roses and 
 honeysuckle, the fragrance of thyme beneath 
 their feet; there were chirpings in the hedges, 
 scattered skylarks in the air, a murmur of waves; 
 there was blue sky above their heads, bright 
 living green and golden sunshine around them, 
 elittering sea far down below the cliff, flowers 
 in the grass and about the hedges, butterflies 
 here, there, and everywhere. 
 
 Cap in hand, shouting and jumping, away 
 ran Harry after the butterflies; whilst elder 
 Jane, precious parcel in hand, plodded steadily 
 forward, sometimes calling her truant brother, 
 sometimes waiting for him to come up with her. 
 This walk over the glorious East Hill was doubly 
 delightful after those many strolls along the 
 shingle. 
 
 Mrs. Bright lived in a pretty house that 
 stood in its own neat garden. The children 
 felt quite shy as they opened the wicket-gate 
 and proceeded soberly along the gravel walk 
 up to the house-door. Perhaps Mrs. Bright 
 
 would see them out of window, and wonder 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 319 
 
 what they wanted. Harry got behind Jane, and 
 looked as if he had never run in his life, much 
 less after a butterfly; Jane put the best face 
 she could on the matter, and rang the bell. 
 
 But when a maid-servant, having opened the 
 door and asked their business, showed them 
 into the parlour, Mrs. Bright’s good-natured 
 smile and manner gave them courage. She had 
 spied them as they came along the garden— 
 not treading on the borders or meddling with 
 the flowers,—and wondered in her own mind 
 who that neat little girl and boy might be. 
 When she found they were Mrs. Lane’s niece 
 and nephew come with her new dress, saw Jane 
 write her name readily at the foot of the bill, 
 and noticed her civil ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ and 
 curtsey, she was quite pleased, and showed them 
 several pretty things. First of all, they watched 
 a large white cockatoo crack a nut, and heard 
 him say, ‘Pretty Poll,’ and ‘Pretty cockatoo ;’ 
 next they saw a glass bowl full of water, in 
 which swam gold and silver fishes, much hand- 
 somer than those their father brought ashore 
 in his boat. Mrs. Bright showed them some 
 
320 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 coloured pictures—amongst which Jane recog- 
 nised the good shepherd seeking his lost sheep 
 —in a handsome old clasped Bible, and gave 
 a story-book to the girl, but shook her head 
 when she heard the boy could not say his letters. 
 Then, handing each of the children a cup of 
 milk, which they drank at once, and a hunch 
 of sweet cake to serve as pudding after their 
 bread and bacon, she sent them away very well 
 pleased. 
 
 Down the steep cliff steps they scrambled to 
 the rocky beach below, to sit on a huge stone 
 which was hollowed ‘something,’ as Harry said, 
 ‘like father’s arm-chair,’ and eat their dinner. 
 By this time the beauty of the day was gone; 
 clouds which in the early morning had been 
 ranged along the horizon were spread over a great 
 portion of the sky, and the air felt much cooler. 
 The children, however, were hungry and happy 
 enough not to notice these changes, but held 
 their feast with great glee. Then they had a 
 long game at hide-and-seek in and out amongst 
 the rocky fragments, Jane hunting for Harry, 
 
 and tickling him well when she found him. At 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 321 
 
 last she proposed setting off homewards; but 
 Harry by this time was tired and sleepy, so she 
 sat down in the ‘arm-chair’ with his curly head 
 in her lap, and soon both the little ones were 
 fast asleep. 
 
 When Jane woke it was with a start, anda 
 loud sound roaring in her ears. She felt chilled 
 and cramped, but could not at first remember 
 where she was; when she did remember, she 
 shook up Harry in a great fright, and bade him 
 keep fast hold of her hand and come straight 
 back to the cliff path. During their sleep a thick 
 brown fog had risen from the ground like smoke ; 
 it hid the cliff, and even the rocks and shingle 
 at a very few yards’ distance: only Jane could 
 ' make out the sea distinctly, because the tide 
 was rising ; waves were foaming, breaking, roar- 
 ing, close at hand amongst the huge stones; 
 not a moment must be lost in escaping for their 
 lives. 
 
 They scrambled as fast as they could from 
 the terrible advancing sea ; but that was slowly, 
 for the fog thickened and thickened, and many 
 a fall they got slipping on the slimy tangle. 
 
 ¥ 
 
322 THE WAVES OF THIS © 
 
 Hand in hand they kept on stoutly, but in the 
 darkness turned to one side, being quite unable 
 to make out the cliff. Suddenly a shower of 
 foam fell on them. Harry stood stock-still, 
 hiding his face against his sister, and trembling 
 all over; he did not cry or utter a word, but 
 he could not move one step further. ‘Come on, 
 dear,’ said Jane, trying not to seem frightened ; 
 ‘perhaps we shall see the steps directly. But 
 Harry could not stir; he clung to his sister, 
 utterly unable to move a foot forward. Louder 
 and louder the tumult, thicker and thicker the 
 foam, closer and closer came the strong, broken, 
 irresistible sweep of sea. 
 
 Jane felt ready to sit down and cry; but 
 she remembered the Good Shepherd seeking 
 His lost sheep, and in her heart prayed Him 
 now to seek and save His little lambs. Next— 
 there was no help for it—she caught up Harry 
 in her arms, and stumbled as well as she could 
 cuess towards the cliff. 
 
 At last they dimly discerned it, not so high 
 as at the spot where they descended, stretching 
 sheer, rugged, upwards; but no trace of steps 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 323 
 
 was on its precipitous face. This was a different 
 point of the East Hill, and at high tide the sea 
 dashed against its foot. 
 
 A little above the ground a narrow shelf 
 jutted out of the rock. This they succeeded in 
 gaining, but further ascent was impossible. 
 Jane made Harry kneel by her side, and toge- 
 ther they repeated the Lord’s Prayer in small, 
 sad voices: then, sitting down, she took her 
 brother on her lap, and, rocking backwards and 
 forwards, tried to sing him to sleep before the 
 dreadful death came; praying in her heart all 
 the while as well as she was able; not even 
 starting, lest she should wake the little one, when 
 the first cold touch of water reached her feet. 
 
 But it was not God’s will that the water- 
 flood should drown them, and the deep swallow 
 them up; at that very moment lights flashed 
 above their heads, and loud shouts reached 
 them. Jane screamed in answer, bidding Harry 
 scream too, lest they should not be heard; and 
 scream he did with all his might. Then a man 
 secured to a stout rope was swung over the clift 
 
 by his companions, and took both children in 
 
324 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 his strong arms; then all three were drawn up 
 into safety, just as a foaming wave swept over 
 the rocky shelf. 
 
 ‘O that men would therefore praise the Lord 
 for His goodness, and declare the wonders that 
 He doeth for the children of men !’ 
 
 Next Sunday morning — 
 
 ‘Frank Hardiman and his family desire to 
 return thanks to Almighty God for great mercies 
 teceived,—gave out Mr. Grey, before reading 
 the ‘ General Thanksgiving ;’ at which announce- 
 ment half the congregation turned their heads 
 in one direction. 
 
 There knelt Frank, his handsome, sunburnt 
 face full of emotion: on his right hand was 
 Emma, on his left Jane, holding Harry almost 
 as tightly as when they clung together on the 
 terrible rock. But who could that be with 
 bowed head, kneeling next to the boy, and 
 sobbing in her prayers? There was no mis- 
 taking the close widows bonnet and heavy 
 black dress, though the patient widowed face 
 
 remained hidden; once more Sarah Lane was 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 325 
 
 kneeling where so often she had knelt by her 
 father’s side: if that day her sweet voice could 
 not be heard joining in the hymns, doubtless in 
 her heart she praised God. 
 
 Jane had said, ‘Please do come, Aunt Sarah;’ 
 so she yielded to one longing of her divided 
 heart, and worshipped once more in the familiar 
 holy house; yet the next Sunday found her 
 again amongst the Methodists. ‘John,’ she 
 pleaded, ‘seemed upbraiding me all through the 
 service for deserting him in his cold grave.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, Mrs. Grey,’ she said, earnestly, ‘he may 
 have been right or wrong, I can’t tell; but it’s 
 - not for me to sit in judgment on him who loved 
 Christ and spent himself to save souls. I led 
 him into sin, but he led me to repentance: if 
 I’m patient, he showed me first the way; and if 
 I’m humble, he prayed without ceasing that I 
 might become so.’ 
 
 ‘God forbid, replied Mrs. Grey, tenderly, 
 ‘that either you or myself should sit in judg- 
 ment on any man, least of all on one who loved 
 our blessed Lord, and laboured to do Him ser- 
 
 vice. This I know’—and the wife coloured— 
 
326 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 ‘your husband taught my husband a living 
 lesson of boldness, self-denial, and trampling 
 false shame under foot. Often when I see him 
 earnest in the pulpit, or zealous in his schools, 
 or energetic amongst his poor, I remember John 
 Lane, and thank God for his example. Do not 
 let us dwell on the worn, suffering body, at rest 
 now in its dust; let us lift our minds towards 
 the free soul, resting, we both hope, in Paradise. 
 Oh, dear Sarah, if he now sees that there was a 
 more excellent way than he himself trod, can 
 you imagine he would grudge you the know- 
 ledge of it? Would he not rather say, ‘ Be 
 very jealous for the unity of Christ’s fold, even 
 whilst you open a wide heart of love to all who 
 love the Lord Jesus?” It is not my part to 
 exhort you; only recollect, if ever you allow 
 my husband to teach you anything which you 
 need to learn, he will but be repaying to you 
 some part of all he owes John Lane,’ 
 
 From that day forward one great barrier be- 
 tween the widow and the Church was removed : 
 she no longer fancied that Church people were 
 criticising and branding her dead John; she no 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 227 
 
 longer felt as if, by continuing a Methodist, she 
 stood by one whose excellences were unappre- 
 ciated, and whose errors, if such she admitted 
 them to have been, were triumphantly con- 
 demned. Often before this, when she sat at 
 work listening to the earnest, simple words in 
 which Mrs. Grey expounded parable or miracle 
 to Jane, and drew out its lesson of mercy or 
 warning,—sometimes dwelling on the holiness 
 without which no man shall see the Lord, some- 
 times on the yearning Divine compassion which 
 sought and saved that which was lost, some- 
 times on the many mansions, sometimes on the 
 one fold under one Shepherd,—conscience had 
 spoken ; now at length she listened to its voice 
 only to answer, ‘Speak, Lord; for Thy servant 
 heareth.’ 
 
 ‘Line upon line, precept upon precept; here 
 a little, and there a little :’ so the message was 
 revealed to her as she was able to receive it. 
 First she opened to her tried friend the curate’s 
 wife, stating her difficulties, willing, if it might 
 be, to have them removed; next she took cou- 
 
 rage, spoke to Mr. Grey himself, and found in 
 
328 THE WAVES OF THIS 
 
 him a patient listener, a faithful guide, and one 
 who felt and professed deep obligation to John 
 ate, eae 
 
 Back from meeting-house to church, through 
 church up to the blessed Sacrament of the Altar, | 
 the grace of God led her. 
 
 Another five years of patient progress passed 
 away; let us take a parting glance at Sarah 
 Lane. 
 
 Sarah Lane still? Yes, though faithful John 
 Archer tried once and again to win a kind an- 
 swer. She continues to wear black for her dear 
 husband’s sake, and at least once in the year 
 journeys up to London to see and tend his 
 grave. Though she cannot preach on the high- 
 ways, his example stirs her up to energy in the 
 Sunday-school, and tenderness in visiting suf- 
 ferers. Many a time has she stinted her own 
 meal to feed the hungry ; many a time has she 
 _ curtailed her night’s rest to nurse the sick. She 
 teaches Jane her business, calls her her right 
 hand and little forewoman, yet feels perhaps a 
 secret preference for Harry, so like his grand- 
 father. 
 
TROUBLESOME WORLD. 329 
 
 Though very diligent at her work, and fre- 
 _ quently in the season hurried by her employers, 
 she is seldom absent from the Wednesday and 
 Friday morning service, held alternately at St. 
 Clement’s and All Saints’ Churches. Sunday 
 she strictly and thankfully observes ; partaking, 
 whenever an opportunity offers, of the comfort- 
 able Sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood. 
 Certainly now neither the prettiest nor the 
 merriest woman in Hastings, but I truly believe 
 this widow is one of the happiest : having chosen 
 that good part which shall not be taken from 
 her; thankful that her idol was removed for a 
 season, if so she might receive him for ever ; 
 able to say at last, ‘Whom have I in heaven 
 but Thee ? and there is none upon earth that I 
 desire in comparison of Thee. Amen. Even 
 
 so, come, Lord Jesus.’ 
 
 THE END. 
 
4a 
 
 
 
F. S. ELLIS’S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Now Ready, 
 Crown 8vo. in an ornamental binding designed by the Author, 
 price 12s. 
 
 nee VES. 
 
 By DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 From the ‘ Athenzum.’ 
 
 ‘To the public in general this volume will announce a new poet. Toa small 
 but influential circle of thinkers its publication will be only the formal evidence 
 of powers and accomplishments long since recognised. . . . We shall have 
 written to little purpose if there be any poem in the volume to which our readers 
 will not eagerly resort.’ 
 
 From the ‘Fortnightly Review.’ 
 
 ‘There are no poems of the class in English—I doubt if there be any even in 
 Dante’s Italian—so rich at once and pure. Their golden affluence of images 
 and jewel-coloured words never once disguises the firm outline, the justice and 
 chastity of form. No nakedness could be more harmonious, more consummate 
 in its fleshly sculpture, than the imperial array and ornament of this august 
 poetry. . . . There has been no work of the same pitch attempted since Dante 
 sealed up his youth in the sacred leaves of the ‘‘ Vita Nuova ;” and this poem of 
 his name-child and translator is amore various and mature work of kindred genius 
 
 and spirit.’ 
 From the ‘ Pall Mall Gazette.’ 
 
 ‘Here is a volume of poetry upon which to congratulate the public and the 
 author ; one of those volumes, coming so seldom and so welcome to the cul- 
 tivated reader, that are found at a first glance to promise the delight of a new 
 poetical experience. There is no mistaking the savour of a book of strong and 
 new poetry of a really high kind; no confounding it with the milder effluence 
 that greets us from a hundred current books of poetry, in various degrees praise- 
 worthy, or hopeful, or accomplished ; and we may say at once that it is the 
 former and rarer savour that is assuredly in the present case to be discerned.’ 
 
 From the ‘ Globe.’ 
 
 ‘In all [the Poems] the same qualities are apparent. They have in high 
 measure each highest gift of which lyric poetry is capable. Passion, imagina- 
 tion, creative power, tenderness, and pathos are all apparent, and are accom- 
 panied by exquisite sense of melody, unexampled beauty of form, splendid 
 colour, and, if we may use such a term, by absolute fragrance.’ 
 
F. S. Ellis’s Publications. 
 
 fifth Edition. Two vols. Crown 8vo. cloth, price 16s. 
 
 THE EARTHLY PARAS: 
 
 A collection of Tales in verse. 
 By WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 Part 
 
 Prologue, March and April, containing the Stories of— 
 
 THE MAN BORN TO BE KING. 
 THE DOOM OF KING ACRISIUS. 
 
 THE PROUD KING. 
 
 THE WANDERERS. 
 ATALANTA’S RACE. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 May to August, containing the Stories of— 
 
 CUPID AND PSYCHE.: THE SON OF CRSUS. 
 THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE. THE WATCHING OF THE 
 
 THE LOVE OF ALCESTIS. FALCON. 
 THE LADY OF THE LAND. PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE. 
 
 OGIER THE DANE. 
 
 Second Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, price 125. 
 
 THE EARTHLY Aka 
 Part [Te 
 
 September, October, and November, containing the 
 Stories of— 
 
 THE DEATH OF PARIS. THE MAN WHO NEVER 
 
 THE LAND EAST OF THE SUN LAUGHED AGAIN. 
 AND WEST OF THE MOON, THE STORY OF RHODOPE. 
 ACONTIUS AND CYDIPPE. THE LOVERS OF GUDRUN, 
 
 In October will be published the Fourth and concluding portion of 
 
 THE EARTHLY: Paiageioe 
 
F. S. Ellis’s Publications. 
 
 Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, price 8s. 
 THE 
 
 ete DEATH OF JASON: 
 A Poem, in Seventeen Books. 
 
 By WILLIAM Morris, Author of ‘ The Earthly Paradise.’ 
 
 
 
 Notices of Mr. Morris’s Works. 
 
 *Morris’s ‘‘ Jason” is in the purest, simplest, most idiomatic English, full of 
 freshness, full of life, vivid in landscape, vivid in human action—worth reading 
 at the cost of many leisure hours, even to a busy man. 
 
 “We must own that the minute attention Mr. Morris bestows on scenic details 
 he also applies to the various phases of human emotion, and ofttimes he fills the 
 eyes with sudden sorrowless tears of sympathy with some homely trouble aptly 
 rendered, or elevates our thoughts with themes charming in their pure simplicity, 
 and strong with deep pathos.’—7izes. 
 
 ‘A thorough purity of thought and language characterises Mr. Morris, . . . 
 and ‘* The Earthly Paradise” is thereby adapted for conveying to our wives and 
 daughters a refined, though not diluted, version of those wonderful creations of 
 Greek fancy which the rougher sex alone is permitted to imbibe at first hand. 
 Yet in achieving this purification, Mr. Morris has not imparted tameness into his 
 versions. ‘The impress of familiarity with classic fable is stamped on his pages, 
 and echoes of the Greek are wafted to us from afar both delicately and imper- 
 ceptibly. . . . Suffice it to say, that we have enjoyed such a thorough treat 
 in this, in every sense, rare volume, that we heartily commend it to our readers. 
 
 ‘Or Part III.—Those who found the charm of Mr. Morris’s first volume so 
 rare and novel that they were fain to sigh when the last page was finished, may 
 now congratulate themselves upon the publication of a third part. Nor will they, 
 in what is now presented to them, deem that aught of this charm is diminished 
 through the circumstance that style and manner are no longer novel.’—Saturday 
 Review. 
 
 ‘It may be doubted whether any poet of our day equals Mr. Morris in ena- 
 bling his readers to see the objects which are presented to him. It is certain, 
 however, that this power has never been displayed on so large a scale by any 
 contemporary. A word or two should be said on the brief descriptions of the 
 months, and upon the musings of the wanderers, both of which intervene between 
 the respective stories. Of these the former afford relief, by fresh and graphic 
 glimpses, of the passing seasons, and the latter are written in a sweet and pensive 
 vein, which, after the stir and interest of the narrative portion, floats to the ear 
 like music caught from sea in the momentary lull of the billows.’ 
 
 “Or Part III.—A volume which, in its treatment of human motives and 
 feelings, displays, we think, higher qualities than the writer has yet exhibited, 
 and which in its painting of external scenes has that admirable fusion of the real 
 and ideal which we have praised heretofore.’—A theneum. 
 
 ‘The book must be read by any one who wishes to know what it is like; and 
 few will read it without recognising its author for a poet who has struck a new 
 vein, and who preferring his art above popularity, has achieved a work which 
 will yet be popular wherever true poetry is understood.’ 
 
 ‘Or Part III.—In the noble story of ‘‘Gudrun” this (dramatic) power is 
 well sustained throughout, and in versifying this Saga, Mr. Morris has added a 
 genuine and pathetic vitality to the characters of the ill-starred heroine of Olaf 
 and Oswif, Kiartan and Bodli, Ingibiorg and Refna. This poem, taken alto- 
 gether, the most ambitious that Mr. Morris has yet produced, is well worth a 
 careful analysis, which, however, we have no space to giveit.’—~Padl Mali Gazette. 
 
F. S. Ellis’s Publications. 
 
 Crown 8vo. cloth, price 8s. 
 
 THE STORY OF GREVTT 
 STRONG. 
 
 Translated from the Icelandic of the Grettis Saga (one of 
 the most remarkable prose works of ancient 
 Icelandic Literature), 
 
 By W. MORRIS anp E. MAGNUSSON. 
 
 ‘ The translator’s work has been admirably done; the English may fairly be 
 called faultless ; and it is no slight satisfaction to read a book in which every- 
 thing is expressed in the fittest phrase, and in which we feel no temptation to 
 make any verbal changes. —Saturday Review. 
 
 Now ready, crown 8vo. in an ornamental binding designed 
 Jor the Author, price 125. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE VOLSUNGS 
 AND NIBLUNGS. 
 With Songs translated from the Elder Edda. | 
 By WILLIAM MORRIS and E. MAGNUSSON. 
 
 LVearly ready, crown 8vo. cloth. 
 
 SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE. 
 
 By ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE, Author of ‘ Atalanta 
 in Calydon,’ &c. 
 
F. S. Ellis’s Publications. 
 
 
 
 8vo. cloth gilt, 10s. 6d. 
 
 THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF 
 SeerOrN MAUNDEVILE, Kr. 
 
 A.D. 1322-46. 
 
 Which Treateth of the Way to Hierusalem; and of the 
 Marvayles of Inde, with other Ilands and Countryes. 
 
 Illustrated with 72 most curious Wood Engravings. Originally Printed in 
 English by Richard Pynson. 
 
 NOW REPRINTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND A 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 By J. O. HALLIWELL, Esq. 
 
 ‘Wherever English, in its early, robust, manly form, is read, Sir John Maun- 
 devile is admired. His humble piety, his solemn reverence for the holy places 
 which he visited, his simple faith in all he heard, his acute observation of 
 what he actually saw, his self-sacrifice, his devotion,’ his credulity, his firm faith, 
 his long endurance, appear in almost every page, and make his volume not 
 only the earliest, but one of the noblest of its class.’ 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 F, S. Exiis, 33 Kinc STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 

 

 

 

 

 
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