BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 'SHIPS THAT PASS IN THENfCHT"
 
 -I 
 
 ] 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 <E LIBRARY 
 . OF
 
 BY BEATRICE HARRADEN. 
 
 Ships that Pass in the Night. 
 
 Authorized American Edition, l6mo; cloth, $1.00; 
 paper, 50c. 
 
 " There is a wealth of philosophy, humor, and pathos 
 in this little tale, and it is told so simply that one feels as 
 if he were a part of it, somehow. So truly are the human 
 heartstrings struck that he must be beyond redemption 
 whose inner self does not vibrate in sympathy many times, 
 as the pages are turned. . . . There is not a dull page 
 it is one book in ten thousand ; you should read 
 it." — Boston limes. 
 
 In Varying Moods. 
 
 ri;_;ht American Kdition. 161110 ; (doth, $1.00; 
 paper, 50 cent-. 
 
 G. P PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON
 
 Hn Waiting flfeoobe 
 
 BY 
 
 BEATRICE HARRADEN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT," HTC. 
 
 AMERICAN COPYRIGHT EDITION 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK LONDON 
 
 27 West Twenty-third Street =4 Bedford Street, Strand 
 
 Ube ftnicfeerbocfeet (press 
 
 1894
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1894 
 BV 
 
 C. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 Electrotypcd. Print<.<! an«] Boun.l by 
 
 -be *nfchcrbocftcr prces, IHcw i 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons
 
 o5 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 At the Green Dragon : An Episode — 
 I. — Hieronymus Comes . 
 II. — Hieronymus Stays . 
 III.— The Primary Glory . 
 IV. — The Making of the Pastry 
 V. — Pastry and Personal Monarchy 
 VI. — The Exciseman's Library 
 VII. — Auntie Lloyd Protests . 
 VIII. — The Distance Grows 
 IX. — David Laments .... 
 X. — Hieronymus Speaks . 
 XL — Hieronymus Goes 
 The Painter and his Picture 
 The Umbrella-Mender : A Study 
 The Bird on its Journey 
 The Clockmaker and his Wife . 
 Sorrow and Joy : An Allegory . 
 An Idyl of London .... 
 
 3 
 
 12 
 
 23 
 36 
 
 43 
 55 
 63 
 69 
 
 79 
 
 89 
 
 98 
 
 107 
 
 119 
 
 155 
 191 
 
 237 
 255 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 PREFACE TO AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 IT is some years ago since I saw in a little 
 church in Sussex a fragment of an old 
 stained-glass window representing God the 
 Father supporting on the cross the arms of 
 God the Son. I think it dated back to the 
 twelfth century. I remember that when I 
 saw it, the idea of the " Painter and His Pic- 
 ture " flashed across my mind. Strangely 
 enough, it was in the parlour of the Green 
 Dragon, many years afterwards, that I wrote 
 the " Painter and His Picture." It is very 
 curious how those old memories will assert 
 
 V
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 themselves when one is thinking <»f othei 
 things in quite other surroundings. 
 
 This was the case with the " Umbrella- 
 Mender." The lad always interested me, 
 but one day when I was full of other 
 thoughts, he came before my mind's eye so 
 vividly that there was no resisting his pres- 
 ence, and I wrote what I felt to be his 
 record. 
 
 And so it was with the old man and the 
 young girl in the " National Gallery." 1 
 saw them together there and noted theii 
 individualities. A long time afterwards, 
 whilst I was strolling along the Somer 
 shire lanes, these two people took possession 
 of my mind, and there was no escape from 
 them until I had written what I chose to 
 believe was their story. 
 
 I found the clockmaker and his wife in a
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 Somersetshire village : one of the quaintest 
 and prettiest villages in England. The little 
 old lady was a remarkable personality, and I 
 spent many pleasant hours with her. I was 
 never able to forget her pathetic face, and 
 the painful constraint of her manner. Some- 
 thing had " frozen the genial current of her 
 soul." So one day, in Cannes, I think, I 
 began to ease my heart of her, and set to 
 work to construe a history about her, which 
 has in it more truth than fiction. And, in- 
 deed, that may be said of most of the stories 
 in this little book. 
 
 The " Green Dragon " was written in Men- 
 tone, amongst the olive trees. As I now 
 write, the landlady of the Green Dragon 
 sends me a box of daffodils and asks if I 
 have yet invented a tale about my favourite 
 inn. I dare not tell her that I have already
 
 V11I 
 
 PREFA ( '£. 
 
 dune so, for I feci quite sure that she would 
 never forgive mc for speaking disrespectfully 
 of the Shropshire crumpets and the rum in 
 the tea. 
 
 U$C cS&^Ct/tffc&sijCtjdft 
 
 e/*^. 
 
 April 2, 1894.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON 
 
 AN EPISODE
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HIERONYMUS COMES. 
 
 FT was a pouring September evening when a 
 stranger knocked at the door of the Crown 
 Inn. Old Mrs. Howells saw that he carried a 
 portmanteau in his hand. 
 
 " If it 's a bedroom you want," she said, " I 
 can't be bothered with you. What with brewing 
 the beer and cleaning the brass, I 've more than 
 I can manage. I 'm that tired ! " 
 
 "And so am I," said the stranger, patheti- 
 cally. 
 
 " Go over the way to the Green Dragon," 
 suggested Mrs. Howells. " Mrs. Benbow may be
 
 4 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 able to put yon up. lint what with the brewing 
 and the (leaning, I can't do with yon." 
 
 The stranger stepped across the road to the 
 
 Green Dragon. He tapped at the door ; and a 
 
 cheery little woman made her appearance. She 
 
 carrying what they call in Shropshire a devil 
 
 of hot beer. It smelt good. 
 
 "Good evening, ma'am," said the stranger. 
 " I an you house me for the night ? The hostess 
 of the Crown Inn has turned me away. Hut you 
 surely will not do the same ? You observe what 
 a bad (old I have." 
 
 Mrs. Benbow glanced sharply at the strai 
 She had not kept the Green Dragon for ten 
 years without learning something about char- 
 acter ; and to-night she was particularly on her 
 guard, for her husband had gone to stay for two 
 days with some relative in Shrewsbury, so that 
 Mrs. Benbow and old John of the wooden leg, 
 called Dot and carry one, were left as sole guard- 
 ians of the little wayside public-house. 
 
 " It is not very convenient for me to take you 
 in," she said.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 5 
 
 " And it would not be very convenient for me 
 to be shut out," he replied. " Besides which, I 
 have had a whiff of that hot beer." 
 
 At that momenta voice from the kitchen cried 
 impatiently : " Here, missus ! where be that beer 
 of your'n ? I be feeling quite faint-like ! " 
 
 " As though he could call out like that if he 
 was faint ? " laughed Mrs. Benbow, running off 
 into the kitchen. 
 
 When she returned, she found the stranger 
 seated at the foot of the staircase. 
 
 " And what do you propose to do for me ? " 
 he asked, patiently. 
 
 There was no mistaking the genial manner. 
 Mrs. Benbow was conquered. 
 
 " I propose to fry some eggs and bacon for 
 your supper," she said, cheerily. " And then I 
 propose to make your bedroom ready." 
 
 " Sensible woman ! " he said, as he followed 
 her into the parlour, where a fire was burning 
 brightly. He threw himself into the easy-chair, 
 and immediately experienced that sensation of 
 repose and thankfulness which comes over us
 
 6 IN VAN V 7 A Y7 MOODS. 
 
 when we have found a haven. There he rested, 
 content with himself and his surroundings. The 
 tire lit up his face, and showed him to be a man 
 of about forty years. 
 
 There was nothing specially remarkable about 
 him. The face in repose was sad and thought- 
 ful ; and yet when he discovered a yellow cat 
 sleeping under the table, he smiled as though 
 some great pleasure had come into his life. 
 
 " Come along, little comrade ! " he said, as he 
 captured her. She looked up into his face so 
 frankly, that the stranger was much impressed. 
 " Why, I do believe you are a dog undergoing a 
 cat incarnation," he continued. "What quali- 
 ties did you lack when you were a dog, I won- 
 der ? Perhaps you did not steal sufficiently well: 
 perhaps you had not cultivated restfulness. And 
 your name ? Your name shall be Gamboge. I 
 think that is a suitable appellation for you : cer- 
 tainly more suitable than most of the names thrust 
 upon unoffending humanity. My own name for 
 instance, Hieronymus ! Ah, you may well mew ! 
 t are a thoroughly sensible creature."
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 7 
 
 So ke amused himself until Mrs. Benbow came 
 with his supper. Then he pointed to the cat, 
 and said quietly : 
 
 " That is a very companionable dog of yours." 
 
 Mrs. Benbow darted a look of suspicion at the 
 stranger. " We call that a cat in Shropshire," she 
 said, beginning to regret that she had agreed to 
 house the stranger. 
 
 " Well, no doubt you are partially right," said 
 the stranger, solemnly ; " but, at the same time, 
 you are partially wrong. To use the language of 
 the Theosophists " 
 
 Mrs. Benbow interrupted him. 
 
 " Eat your supper whilst it is hot," she said, 
 " then perhaps you '11 feel better. Your cold is 
 rather heavy in your head, is n't it ? " 
 
 He laughed good-temperedly, and smiled at 
 her as though to reassure her that he was quite 
 in his right senses ; and then, without further 
 discussion, he began to make short work of the 
 fried eggs and bacon. Gamboge, sitting quietly 
 by the fireside, scorned to beg ; she preferred to 
 steal. That is a way some people have.
 
 8 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 The stranger finished his supper, and lit his 
 pipe. Once or twice he began to doze. The 
 first time he \v;is aroused by Gamboge, who had 
 jumped on to the table, and was seeking what 
 she might devour. 
 
 "Ah, Gamboge," he said, sleepily, "I am 
 sorry I have not left anything appetising for 
 you. I was so hungry. Pray excuse." 
 
 Then he dozed off again. The second time 
 he was aroused by the sound of singing. He 
 caught the words of the chorus : 
 
 " I '11 gaily sing from day to day, 
 And do the best I can ; 
 If sorrows meet me on the way, 
 I '11 bear them like a man." 
 
 " An excellent resolution," murmured the 
 stranger, becoming drowsy once more. " Only 
 I wish they'd kept their determinations to them- 
 selves." 
 
 The third time he was disturbed by the sound 
 of angry voices. There was some quarrelling 
 going on in the kitchen of the Green Dragon
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 9 
 
 The voices became louder. There was a clatter 
 of stools and a crash of glasses. 
 
 ' You're a pack of lying gipsies ! " sang out 
 some one. " You know well you did n't pay the 
 missus ! " 
 
 " Go for him ! cro for him ! " was the cry. 
 
 Then the parlour door was flung open, and 
 Mrs. Benbow rushed in. " Oh," she cried, 
 " these gipsy men are killing the carpenter! " 
 
 Hieronymus Howard rushed into the kitchen, 
 and threw himself into the midst of the con- 
 test. Three powerful tramps were kicking 
 a figure prostrate on the ground. One other 
 man, Mr. Greaves, the blacksmith, was trying 
 in vain to defend his comrade. He had no 
 chance against these gipsy fellows, and though 
 he fought like a lion, his strength was, of 
 course, nothing against theirs. Old John of 
 the one leg had been knocked over, and was 
 picking himself up with difficulty. Everything 
 depended on the promptness of the stranger. 
 He was nothing of a warrior, this Hieronymus 
 Howard : he was just a quiet student, who
 
 IO 
 
 W VARYING MOODS. 
 
 knew how to tussle with ('.reck roots rather than 
 with English tramps. But he threw himself upon 
 the gipsies, fought hand to hand with them, 
 was blinded with blows, nearly trampled be 
 neath their feet, all but crushed against the wall. 
 Now he thrust them back. Now they pressed 
 on him afresh. Now the blacksmith, with des- 
 perate effort, attacked them again. Now the 
 carpenter, bruised and battered, but wild for 
 revenge, dragged himself from the floor, and 
 aimed a blow at the third gipsy's head. He 
 
 fell. 
 
 Then after a short, sharp contest, the two 
 other gipsies were driven to the door, which 
 Mrs. Benbow had opened wide, and were thrust 
 out. The door was bolted safely. 
 
 But they had bolted one gipsy in with them. 
 When they returned to the kitchen, they found 
 him waiting for them. He had recovered him- 
 self. 
 
 Mrs. Benbow raised a cry of terror. She had 
 thought herself safe in her little castle. The 
 carpenter and the blacksmith were past fighting.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. ti 
 
 Hieronymus Howard gazed placidly at the great 
 tramp. 
 
 " I am sorry we had forgotten you," he said, 
 courteously. " Perhaps you will oblige us by 
 following your comrades. I will open the door 
 for you. I think we are all rather tired — are n't 
 we ? So perhaps you will go at once." 
 
 The man gazed sheepishly at him, and then 
 followed him. Hieronymus Howard opened the 
 door. 
 
 " Good evening to you," he said. 
 
 And the gipsy passed out without a word. 
 
 "Well now," said Hieronymus, as he drew 
 the bolt, " that is the end of that." 
 
 Then he hastened into the parlour. Mrs. 
 Benbow hurried after him, and was just in time 
 to break his fall. He had swooned away.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HIERONYMUS STAYS. 
 
 LJIERONYMUS HOWARD had only in- 
 tended to pass one night at the Green 
 Dragon. But his sharp encounter with the 
 gipsies altered his plans. He was battered and 
 bruised and thoroughly shaken, and quite un- 
 able to do anything else except rest in the arm- 
 chair and converse with Gamboge, who had 
 attached herself to him, and evidently appreci- 
 ated her companionship. His right hand i 
 badly sprained. Mrs. Benbow looked after him 
 most tenderly, bemoaning all the time that he 
 should be in such a plight because of her. 
 There was nothing that she was nut willing to 
 do for him ; it was a long time sin< e Hi irony* 
 mus Howard had been so petted and spoilt. 
 Mrs. Benbow treated ever) one like a young 
 
 12
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 13 
 
 child that needed to be taken care of. The very 
 men who came to drink her famous ale were 
 under her strict motherly authority. 
 
 " There now, Mr. Andrew, that 's enough for 
 ye," she would say ; " not another glass to- 
 night. No, no, John Curtis ; get you gone 
 home. You '11 not coax another half-pint out 
 of me." 
 
 She was generally obeyed : even Hieronymus 
 Howard, who refused rather peevishly to take a 
 third cup of beef-tea, found himself obliged to 
 comply. When she told him to lie on the sofa, 
 he did so without a murmur. When she told 
 him to get up and take his dinner whilst it was 
 still hot, he obeyed like a well-trained child. 
 She cut his food and then took the knife away. 
 
 ' You must n't try to use your right hand," 
 she said, sternly. " Put it back in the sling at 
 once." 
 
 Hieronymus obeyed. Her kind tyranny 
 pleased and amused him, and he was not at all 
 sorry to go on staying at the Green Dragon. 
 He was really on his way to visit some friends
 
 i 4 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 just on the border between Shropshire and 
 Wales, to form one of a large house-party, con- 
 sisting of people both interesting and intellect- 
 ual ; qualities, by the way, not necessarily in- 
 separable. But he was just at the time needing 
 quiet of mind, and he promised himself some 
 really peaceful hours in this little Shropshire 
 village, with its hills, some of them bare, and 
 others girt with a belt of trees, and the brook 
 gurgling past the wayside inn. He was tired, 
 and here he would find rest. The only vexa- 
 tious part was that he had hurt his hand. But 
 for this mishap, he would have been quite con- 
 tent. 
 
 He told this to Mr. Benbow, who returned 
 that afternoon, and who expressed his regret at 
 the whole occurrence. 
 
 " Oh, I am well satisfied here," said Hierony- 
 mus, cheerily. " Your little wife is a capital host- 
 ess: somewhat of the tyrant, you know. Still one 
 likes that ; until one gets to the fourth cup of 
 beef-tea ! And she is an excellent cook, and the 
 Green Dragon is most comfortable. I 've noth-
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 15 
 
 ing to complain of, except my hand. That is 
 a nuisance, for I wanted to do some writing. I 
 suppose there is no one here who could write 
 for me." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Benbow, "perhaps the 
 missus can. She can do most things. She 's 
 real clever." 
 
 Mrs. Benbow being consulted on this matter, 
 confessed that she could not do much in that 
 line. 
 
 " I used to spell pretty well once," she said, 
 brightly ; " but the brewing and the scouring 
 and the looking after other things have knocked 
 all that out of me." 
 
 ' You wrote to me finely when I was away," 
 her husband said. He was a quiet fellow, and 
 proud of his little wife, and he liked people to 
 know how capable she was. 
 
 " Ah, but you are n't over-particular, Ben, 
 bless you," she answered, laughing, and running 
 away to her many duties. Then she returned to 
 tell Hieronymus that there was a splendid fire in 
 the kitchen, and that he was to go and sit there.
 
 16 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " I 'm busy doing the washing in the back- 
 yard," she said. " Ben has gone to look after 
 the sheep. Perhaps you '11 give an eye to the 
 door, and serve out the ale. It would help me 
 mighty. I 'm rather pressed for time to-day. 
 We shall brew to-morrow, and I must get the 
 washing done this afternoon." 
 
 She took it for granted that he would obey, 
 and of course he did. He transferred himself, his 
 pipe, and his book to the front kitchen, and pre- 
 pared for customers. Hieronymus Howard had 
 once been an ambitious man, but never before 
 had he been seized by such an overwhelming 
 aspiration as now possessed him — to serve out 
 the Green Dragon ale ! 
 
 " If only some one would come ! " he said to 
 himself scores of times. 
 
 No one came. Hieronymus, becoming im- 
 patient, sprang up from his chair and gazed 
 anxiously out of the window, just in time to see 
 three men stroll into the opposite inn. 
 
 " Confound them ! " he cried ; " why don't 
 they come here ? "
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 17 
 
 The next moment, four riders stopped at the 
 rival public-house, and old Mrs. Howells hurried 
 out to them, as though to prevent any possibility 
 of them slipping across to the other side of the 
 road. 
 
 This was almost more than Hieronymus could 
 bear quietly. He could scarcely refrain from 
 opening the Green Dragon door and advertising 
 in a loud voice the. manifold virtues of Mrs. Ben- 
 bow's ale and spirits. But he recollected in time 
 that even wayside inns have their fixed code of 
 etiquette, and that nothing remained for him 
 but to possess his soul in patience. He was 
 rewarded : in a few minutes a procession of 
 wagons filed slowly past the Green Dragon ; he 
 counted ten horses and five men. Would they 
 stop ? Hieronymus waited in breathless excite- 
 ment. Yes, they did stop, and four of the 
 drivers came into the kitchen. 
 
 " Where is the fifth ? " asked Hieronymus, 
 sharply, having a keen eye to business. 
 
 " He be minding the horses," they answered, 
 looking at him curiously. But they seemed to
 
 1 8 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 take it for granted that he was there to serve 
 them, and they leaned back luxuriously in the 
 great oak settle, whilst Hieronymus poured out 
 the beer, and received in exchange some grimy 
 coppers. 
 
 After they had gone the fifth man came to 
 have his share of the refreshment ; and then fol- 
 lowed a long pause, which seemed to Hierony- 
 mus like whole centuries. 
 
 " It was during a lengthened period like this," 
 he remarked to himself, as he paced up and 
 down the kitchen, " yes, it was during infinite- 
 time like this that the rugged rocks became 
 wave-worn pebbles ! " 
 
 Suddenly he heard the sound of horses' feet. 
 
 " It is a rider," he said, " I shall have to go 
 Hit to him." 
 
 He hastened to the door, and saw a young 
 .voman on a great white horse. She carried a 
 .narket basket on her arm. She wore no riding- 
 nabit, but was just dressed in the ordinary way 
 There was nothing picturesque about her appear- 
 .nce, but Hieronymus thought her face looked
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 19 
 
 interesting. She glanced at him, as though she 
 wondered what he could possibly be doing at 
 the Green Dragon. 
 
 " Well, and what may I do for you ? " he asked. 
 He did not quite like to say, " What may I bring 
 for you ? " He left her to decide that matter. 
 
 " I wanted to see Mrs. Benbow," she said. 
 
 " She is busy doing the washing," he answered. 
 " But I will go and tell her, if you will kindly 
 detain any customer who may chance to pass 
 by." 
 
 He hurried away, and came back with the 
 answer that Mrs. Benbow would be out in a 
 minute. 
 
 " Thank you," the young woman said, quietly. 
 Then she added : " You have hurt your arm, I 
 see." 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; " it is a great nuisance. 
 I cannot write. I have been wondering whether 
 I could get any one to write for me. Do you 
 know of any one ? " 
 
 " No," she said, bitterly ; " we don't write 
 here. We make butter and cheese, and we,
 
 20 JN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 fatten up our poultry, and then we goto market 
 and sell our butter, < heese, and poultry." 
 
 " Well," said Hieronymus, '* and why shouldn't 
 you ? " 
 
 He looked up at her, and saw what a discon- 
 tented expression had come over her young 
 face. 
 
 She took no notice of his interruption, but 
 just switched the horse's ears with the end of 
 her whip. 
 
 " That is what we do year after year," she 
 continued, " until I suppose we have become so 
 dull that we don't care to do anything else. That 
 is what we have come into the world for : to 
 make butter and cheese, and fatten up our 
 poultry, and go to market." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " and we all have to do 
 it in some form or other. We all go to market 
 to sell our goods, whether they be brains, or 
 practical common-sense (which often, you know, 
 has nothing to do with brains), or butter, or 
 poultry. Now I don't know, of course, what you 
 have in your basket ; but supposing you have
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 21 
 
 eggs, which you are taking to market. Well, you 
 are precisely in the same condition as the poet 
 who is on his way to a publisher's, carrying a 
 new poem in his breast-pocket. And yet there 
 is a difference." 
 
 " Of course there is," she jerked out scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 " Yes, there is a difference," he continued, 
 placidly ; " it is this : you will return without 
 those pegs, but the poet will come back still 
 carrying his poem in his breast pocket ! " 
 
 Then he laughed at his own remark. 
 
 " That is how things go in the great world, 
 you know," he said. " Out in the great world 
 there is an odd way of settling matters. Still 
 they must be settled somehow or other ! " 
 
 " Out in the world ! " she exclaimed. " That 
 is where I long to go." 
 
 " Then why on earth don't you ? " he replied. 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Benbow came running 
 out. 
 
 " I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Miss 
 Hammond," she said to the young girl ; " but
 
 22 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 what with the washing and the making ready 
 for the brewing to-morrow, I don't know where 
 to turn." 
 
 Then followed a series of messages to which 
 Ilieronymus paid no attention. And then 
 Miss Hammond cracked her whip, waved her 
 greetings with it, and the old white horse trotted 
 away. 
 
 " And who is the rider of the horse ? " asked 
 Hieronymus. 
 
 " Oh, she is Farmer Hammond's daughter," 
 said Mrs. Benbow. "Her name is Joan. She 
 is an odd girl, different from the other girls 
 here. They say she is quite a scholar too. 
 Why, she would be the one to write for you. 
 The very one, of course ! I '11 call to her." 
 
 But by that time the old white horse was out 
 of sight.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE PRIMARY GLORY. 
 
 '"THE next day at the Green Dragon was a busy 
 one. Mrs. and Mr. Benbow were up be- 
 times, banging casks about in the cellar. When 
 Hieronymus Howard came down to breakfast, 
 he found that they had brought three great bar- 
 rels into the kitchen, and that one was already 
 half full of some horrible brown liquid, under- 
 going the process of fermentation. He felt 
 himself much aggrieved that he was unable to 
 contribute his share of work to the proceedings. 
 It was but little comfort to him that he was 
 again allowed to attend to the customers. The 
 pouring out of the beer had lost its charm for 
 
 him. 
 
 " It is a secondary glory to pour out the beer," 
 he grumbled. " I aspire to the primary glory of 
 helping to make the beer." 
 
 23
 
 24 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 Mrs. Benbow was heaping on the coal in the 
 furnace. She turned round and looked at the 
 disconsolate figure. 
 
 "There is one thing you might do," she said. 
 " I 've not half enough barm. There arc two 
 or three places where you might call for some; 
 and between them all, perhaps you '11 get 
 enough." 
 
 She then mentioned three houses, Farmer 
 Hammond's being amongst the number. 
 
 " Very likely the Hammonds would oblige 
 us," she said. "They are neighbourly folk. 
 They live at the Malt-House Farm, two miles 
 off. You can't carry the jar, but you can take 
 the perambulator and wheel it back. I 've often 
 done that when I had much to carry." 
 
 Hieronymus Howard looked doubtfully at the 
 perambulator. 
 
 "Very well," he said, submissively. " I sup 
 pose I shall only look like an ordinary tramp. 
 It seems to be the fashion to tramp on this 
 road ! " 
 
 It never entered his head to rebel. The great
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 25 
 
 jar was lifted into the perambulator, and Hie- 
 ronymus wheeled it away, still keeping up his 
 dignity, though under somewhat trying circum- 
 stances. 
 
 " I rather wish I had not mentioned anything 
 about primary glory," he remarked to himself. 
 " However, I will not faint by the wayside ; 
 Mrs. Benbow is a person not lightly to be dis- 
 obeyed. In this respect she reminds me dis- 
 tinctly of Queen Elizabeth, or Margaret of 
 Anjou, with just a dash of Napoleon Bona- 
 parte ! " 
 
 So he walked on along the highroad. Two 
 or three tramps passed him, wheeling similar 
 perambulators, some heaped up with rags and 
 old tins and umbrellas, and occasionally a baby ; 
 representing the sum-total of their respective 
 possessions in the world. They looked at him 
 with curiosity, but no pleasantry passed their 
 lips. There was nothing to laugh at in Hierony- 
 mus's appearance ; there was a quiet dignity 
 about him which was never lost on any one. 
 His bearing tallied with his character, the char-
 
 26 J A' VARYING MOODS. 
 
 acter of a mellowed human being. There was 
 a restfulness about him which had soothed 
 more than one tired person ; not the restfulness 
 of stupidity, but the repose only gained by 
 those who have struggled through a great fever 
 to a great calm. His was a clean-shaven face ; 
 his hair was iron-grey. There was a kind but 
 firm expression about his mouth, and a sus- 
 picion of humour lingering in the corners. His 
 eyes looked at you frankly. There seemed to 
 be no self-consciousness in his manner ; long 
 ago, perhaps, he had managed to get away from 
 himself. 
 
 He enjoyed the country, and stopped more 
 than once to pick some richly tinted leaf, or 
 some tiny flower nestling in the hedge. He 
 confided all his treasures to the care of the 
 perambulator. It was a beautiful morning, and 
 the sun lit up the hills, which were girt with a 
 belt of many gems: a belt of trees, each rival- 
 ling the other in coloured luxuriance. I [ierony- 
 mus sang. Then he turned down a lane to 
 the left and found some nuts. He ate these,
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 27 
 
 and went on his way again, and at last found 
 himself outside a farm of large and important 
 aspect. A man was stacking a hay-rick. Hie- 
 ronymus watched him keenly. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " he exclaimed ; " I wish I 
 could do that. How on earth do you manage 
 it ? And did it take you long to learn ? " 
 
 The man smiled in the usual yokel fashion, 
 and went on with his work. Hieronymus plainly 
 did not interest him. 
 
 " Is this the Malt-House Farm ? " cried Hie- 
 ronymus, lustily. 
 
 " What else should it be ? " answered the 
 man. 
 
 "These rural characters are inclined to be 
 one-sided," thought Hieronymus, as he opened 
 the gate and wheeled the perambulator into the 
 pretty garden. " It seems to me that they are 
 almost as narrow-minded as the people who live 
 in cities and pride themselves on their breadth 
 of view. Almost — but on reflection, not 
 quite ! " 
 
 He knocked at the door of the porch, and a
 
 28 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 great bustling woman opened it. He explained 
 
 his mission to her, and pointed to the jar for th< 
 barm. 
 
 "You would oblige Mrs. Benbow greatly, 
 ma'am," he said. "In fact, we cannot get on 
 with our beer unless you come to our assist- 
 ance." 
 
 " Step into the parlour, sir," she said, smiling, 
 "and I'll see how much we've got. I think 
 you are the gentleman who fought the gipsies 
 You 've hurt your arm, I see." 
 
 " Yes, a great nuisance," he answered, cheer- 
 ily ; " and that reminds me of my other quest. 
 I want some one to write for me an hour or two 
 every day. Mrs. Benbow mentioned your 
 daughter, the young lady who came to us on the 
 white horse yesterday." 
 
 He was going to add : "The young lady who 
 wishes to go out into the world " ; but he 
 checked himself, guessing by instinct that tin- 
 young lady and her mother had probably very 
 little in common. 
 
 " Perhaps, though," he said, " I take a liberty
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 29 
 
 in making the suggestion. If so, you have only 
 to reprove me, and that is the end of it." 
 
 " Oh, I daresay she 'd like to write for you," 
 said Mrs. Hammond, " if she can be spared 
 from the butter and the fowls. She likes books 
 and pen and paper. They 're things as I don't 
 favour." 
 
 " No," said Hieronymus, suddenly filled with 
 an overwhelming sense of his own littleness ; 
 " you are occupied with other more useful 
 matters." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," rejoined Mrs. Hammond, fer- 
 vently. " Well, if you '11 be seated, I '11 send 
 Joan to you, and I '11 see about the barm/' 
 
 Hieronymus settled down in an old oak chair, 
 and took a glance at the comfortable panelled 
 room. There was every appearance of ease 
 about the Malt-House Farm, and yet Farmer 
 Hammond and his wife toiled incessantly from 
 morning to evening, exacting continual labour 
 from their daughter too. There was a good deal 
 of brasswork in the parlour : it was kept spot- 
 lessly bright.
 
 30 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 In a few minutes Joan came in. She carried 
 the jar. 
 
 " I have filled the jar with harm," she said, 
 without any preliminaries. "One of the men 
 can take it back if you like." 
 
 " Oh no, thank you," he said, looking at her 
 with some interest. " It came in the perambu- 
 lator ; it can return in the same conveyance." 
 
 She bent over the table, leaning against the 
 jar. She smiled at his words, and the angry 
 look of resentfulness, which seemed to be her 
 habitual expression, gave way to a more pl< 
 ing one. Joan was not good-looking, but her 
 face was decidedly interesting. She was of 
 middle stature, slight but strong ; not the typical 
 country-girl with rosy cheeks, but pale, though 
 not unhealthy. She was dark of complexion ; her 
 soft brown hair, over which she seemed to have 
 no control, was done into a confused mass at the 
 back, untidy, but pleasing. Her forehead was 
 not interfered with ; you might see it for your- 
 self, and note the great bumps which those 
 rogues of phrenologists delight to finger. Sin-
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 31 
 
 carried her head proudly, and from certain 
 determined little jerks which she gave to it, you 
 might judge of her decided character. She was 
 dressed in a dark gown, and wore an apron of 
 coarse linen. At the most she was nineteen 
 years of age. 
 
 Hieronymus just glanced at her, and could 
 not help comparing her with her mother. 
 
 " Well," he said, pleasantly, " and now, having 
 settled the affairs of the Green Dragon, I pro- 
 ceed to my own. Will you come and be my 
 scribbler for a few days ? Or, if you wish for a 
 grander title, will you act as my amanuensis ? 
 I am sadly in need of a little help. I have 
 found out that you can help me." 
 
 " I don't know whether you could read my 
 writing," she said, shyly. 
 
 " That does not matter in the least," he 
 answered. " I sha' n't have to read it. Some one 
 else will." 
 
 " My spelling is not faultless," she said. 
 
 " Also a trifle ! " he replied. " Spelling, like 
 every other virtue, is a relative thing, depending
 
 32 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 largely on the character of the individual. Have 
 you any other objection ? " 
 
 She shook her head, and smiled brightly at 
 him. 
 
 " I should like to write for you," she said, " if 
 only I could do it well enough." 
 
 " I am sure of that," he answered, kindly. 
 " Mrs. Benbow tells me you are a young lady 
 who does good work. I admire that beyond 
 everything. You fatten up the poultry well, you 
 make butter and pastry well — should n't I just 
 like to taste it ! And I am sure you have 
 cleaned this brasswork." 
 
 " Yes," she said, " when I am tired of every 
 one and every thing, I go and rub up the brasses 
 until they are spotless. When I am utterly 
 weary of the whole concern, and just burning to 
 get away from this stupid little village, I polish 
 the candlesticks and handles until my arms are 
 worn out. I had a good turn at it yesterday." 
 
 " Was yesterday a bad day with you then ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " When I was riding
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 33 
 
 the old white horse yesterday, I just felt that I 
 could go on riding, riding for ever. But she is 
 such a slow coach. She won't go quickly ! " 
 
 " No, I should think you could walk more 
 quickly," said Hieronymus. " Your legs would 
 take you out into the world more swiftly than 
 that old white horse. And being clear of this 
 little village, and being out in the great world, 
 what do you want to do ? " 
 
 " To learn ! " she cried ; " to learn to know 
 something about life, and to have other in- 
 terests : something great and big, something 
 worth wearing one's strength away for." 
 
 Then she stopped suddenly. "What a goose 
 I am ! " she said, turning away half ashamed. 
 
 " Something great and big," he repeated. 
 " Cynics would tell you that you have a weary 
 quest before you. But I think it is very easy 
 to find something great and big. Only, it all 
 depends on the strength of your telescope. You 
 must order the best kind, and unfortunately one 
 can't afford the best kind when one is very 
 
 young. You have to pay for your telescope, not 
 
 3
 
 34 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 with money, but with years. But when at last 
 it comes into your possession, ah, how it alters 
 the look of things." 
 
 He paused a moment, as though lost in 
 thought ; and then, with the brightness so 
 characteristic of him, he added : 
 
 " Well, I must be going home to my humble 
 duties at the Green Dragon, and you, no doubt, 
 have to return to your task of feeding up the 
 poultry for the market. When is market-day 
 at Church Stretton ? " 
 
 " On Friday," she answered. 
 
 " That is the day I have to send off some of 
 my writing," he said ; " my market-day, also, 
 you see." 
 
 " Are you a poet ?" she asked, timidly. 
 
 " No," he answered, smiling at her ; " I am 
 that poor creature, an historian : one of those 
 restless persons who furridge amongst the annals 
 of the past." 
 
 "Oh," she said, enthusiastically, "I have 
 always cared more about history than any- 
 thing else ! " 

 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 35 
 
 "Well, then, if you come to-morrow to the 
 Green Dragon at eleven o'clock," he said, 
 kindly, " you will have thu privilege of writing 
 history instead of reading it. And now I sup- 
 pose I must hasten back to the tyranny of Queen 
 Elizabeth. Can you lift that jar into the peram- 
 bulator ? You see I can't." 
 
 She hoisted it into the perambulator, and then 
 stood at the gate, watching him as he pushed it 
 patiently over the rough road.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE MAKING OF THE PASTRY. 
 
 ""THAT same afternoon Mrs. Hammond put on 
 her best things and drove in the dog-cart 
 to Minton, where Auntie Lloyd of the Tan- 
 House Farm was giving a tea-party. Joan 
 had refused to go. She had a profound con- 
 tempt for these social gatherings, and Auntie 
 Lloyd and she had no great love, the one for 
 the other. Auntie Lloyd, who was regarded as 
 the oracle of the family, summed Joan up in a 
 few sentences : 
 
 " She \s a wayward creature, with all her fads 
 about books and book-learning. I 've no patience 
 with her. Fowls and butter and such things have 
 been good enough for us ; why does she want to 
 meddle with things which don't concern her ? 
 She 's clever at her work, and diligent too. If it 
 were n't for that, there 'd be no abiding her," 
 
 36 

 
 A T THE GREEN DRA GON. 37 
 
 Joan summed Auntie Lloyd up in a few words : 
 
 " Oh, she 's Auntie Lloyd," she said, shrugging 
 her shoulders. 
 
 So when her mother urged her to go to Minton 
 to this tea-party, which was to be something quite 
 special, Joan said : 
 
 " No, I don't care about going. Auntie Lloyd 
 worries me to death. And what with her, and 
 the rum in the tea, and those horrid crumpets, 
 I 'd far rather stay at home, and make pastry, and 
 read a book." 
 
 So she stayed. Th?re was plenty of pastry in 
 the larder, and there seemed no particular reason 
 why she should add to the store. But she evi- 
 dently thought differently about the matter, for 
 she went into the kitchen, and rolled up her 
 sleeves and began her work. 
 
 " I hope this will be the best pastry I have ever 
 made," she said to herself, as she prepared several 
 jam-puffs and an open tart. " I should like him 
 to taste my pastry. An historian. I wonder what 
 we shall write about to-morrow." 
 
 She put the pastry into the oven, and sat
 
 38 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 lazily in the ingle, nursing her knees, and 
 musing. She was thinking the whole time of 
 Hieronymus, of his kind and genial manner, 
 and his face with the iron-grey hair : she would 
 remember him always, even if she never saw 
 him again. Once or twice it crossed her mind 
 that she had been foolish to speak so impatienth 
 to him of her village life. He would just think 
 her a silly discontented girl, and nothing more. 
 And yet it had seemed so natural to talk to him 
 in that strain : she knew by instinct that he 
 would understand, and he was the first she had 
 ever met who would be likely to understand. 
 The others — her father, her mother, David Ellis 
 the exciseman, who was supposed to be fond of 
 her, these and others in the neighbourhood — 
 what did they care about her desire to improve 
 her mind, and widen out her life, and multiply 
 her interests ? She had been waiting for months, 
 almost for years indeed, to speak openly to some 
 one : she could not have let the chance go by, 
 now that it had come to her. 
 
 The puffs meanwhile were forgotten. When
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 39 
 
 at last she recollected them, she hastened to 
 their rescue, and found that she was only just in 
 time. Two were burnt : she placed the others 
 in a dish, and threw the damaged ones on the 
 table. As she did so, the kitchen-door opened, 
 and the exciseman came in, and seeing the 
 pastry, he exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, Joan, making pastry ! Then I '11 test 
 it !" 
 
 " You '11 do nothing of the sort," she said, half 
 angrily, as she put her hands over the dish. " I 
 won't have it touched. You can eat the burnt 
 ones if you like." 
 
 " Not I," he answered. " I want the best. 
 Why, Joan, what 's the matter with you ? You 're 
 downright cross to-day." 
 
 " I 'm no different from usual," she said. 
 
 " Yes, you are," he said ; " and, what's more, 
 you grow different every week." 
 
 " I grow more tired of this horrid little village 
 and of every one in it, if that 's what you mean," 
 she answered. 
 
 He had thrown his whip on the chair, and
 
 40 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 stood facing her. He was a prosperous man, 
 much respected, and much liked for many miles 
 round Little Stretton. It was an open secret 
 that he loved Joan Hammond, the only question 
 in the village being whether Joan would have 
 him when the time came for him to propose to 
 her. No girl in her senses would have bun 
 likely to refuse the exciseman ; but then Joan 
 was not in her senses ; so that anything might 
 be expected of her. At least, such was the ver- 
 dict of Auntie Lloyd, who regarded her niece 
 with the strictest disapproval. Joan had always 
 been more friendly with David than with any 
 one else ; and it was no doubt this friendliness, 
 remarkable in one who kept habitually apart 
 from others, which had encouraged David to go 
 on hoping to win her, not by persuasion but 1>\ 
 patience. He loved her, indeed he had always 
 loved her ; and in the old days, when he was a 
 schoolboy and she was a little baby-child, he had 
 left his companions to go and play with his tiny 
 girl-friend up at the Malt-House Farm. He had 
 no sister of his own, and he liked to nurse and
 
 A T THE GREEN DRA GOAT. 4* 
 
 pet the querulous little creature who was always 
 quiet in his arms. He could soothe her when 
 no one else had any influence. But the years 
 had come and gone, and they had grown apart ; 
 not he from her, but she from him. And now 
 he stood in the kitchen of the old farm, reading 
 in her very manner the answer to the question 
 which he had not yet asked her. That question 
 was always on his lips : how many times had he 
 not said it aloud when he rode his horse over 
 the country ? But Joan was forbidding of late 
 months, and especially of late weeks, and the 
 exciseman had always told himself sadly that 
 the right moment had not yet come. And to- 
 day, also, it was not the right moment. A great 
 sorrow seized him, for he longed to tell her that 
 he loved and understood her, and that he was 
 yearning to make her happy. She should have 
 books of her own ; books, books, books : he had 
 already bought a few volumes to form the be- 
 ginning of her library. They were not well 
 chosen, perhaps, but there they were, locked up 
 in his private drawer. He was not learned, but
 
 42 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 he would learn for her sake. All this flashed 
 through his mind as he stood before her. He 
 looked at her face, and could not trace one- 
 single expression of kindliness or encourage- 
 ment. 
 
 " Then I must go on waiting," he thought, and 
 he stooped and picked up his whip. 
 
 " Good-bye, Joan," he said, quietly. 
 
 The kitchen-door swung on its hinges, and 
 Joan was once more alone. 
 
 "An historian," she said to herself, as she 
 took away the rolling-pin, and put the pastry 
 into the larder. " I wonder what we shall write 
 about to-morrow."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PASTRY AND PERSONAL MONARCHY. 
 
 JOAN sat in the parlour of the Green Dragon, 
 waiting until Hieronymus had finished eat- 
 ing a third jam-puff, and could pronounce him- 
 self ready to begin dictating. A few papers 
 were scattered about on the table, and Gamboge 
 was curled up on the hearth-rug. Joan was 
 radiant with pleasure, for this was her nearest 
 approach to intellectuality ; a new world had 
 opened to her as though by magic. And she 
 was radiant with another kind of pleasure : this 
 was only the third time she had seen the his- 
 torian, and each time she was the happier. It 
 was at first a little shock to her sense of intel- 
 lectual propriety that the scholar yonder could 
 condescend to so trivial a matter as pastry ; but 
 then Hieronymus had his own way about him, 
 
 which carried conviction in the end. 
 
 43
 
 44 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "Well," he said, "and now I think I am 
 ready to begin. Dear me! What excellent 
 pastry ! " 
 
 Joan smiled, and dipped her pen in the ink. 
 
 " And to think that David nearly ate it," she- 
 said to herself. And that was about the first 
 time she had thought of him since yesterday. 
 
 Then the historian began. His language was 
 simple and dignified, like the man himself. His 
 subject was " An Introduction to the Personal 
 Monarchy, which began with the Reign of Henry 
 VIII." Everything he said was crystal-clear. 
 Moreover, he had that rare gift, the power of 
 condensing and of suggesting too. He was 
 nothing if not an impressionist. Joan had no 
 difficulty in keeping pace with him, for he dic- 
 tated slowly. After nearly two hours, he left 
 off, and gave a great sigh of relief. 
 
 " There now," he said, " that 's enough for 
 to-day." 
 
 And he seemed just like a schoolboy released 
 from lessons. 
 
 " Come, come," he added, as he looked over
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 45 
 
 the manuscript. " I shall be quite proud to send 
 that in to the printer. You would make a capi- 
 tal little secretary. You are so quiet, and you 
 don't scratch with your pen : qualities which are 
 only too rare. Well, we shall be able to go on 
 with this work, if you can spare the time, and 
 will oblige me. And we must make some ar- 
 rangement about money matters." 
 
 " As for that," said Joan, hastily, " it 's such a 
 change from the never-ending fowls and that 
 everlasting butter." 
 
 "Of course it is," said Hieronymus, as he took 
 his pipe from the mantel-shelf. " But all the 
 same, we will be business-like. Besides, con- 
 sider the advantage : you will be earning a little 
 money with which you can buy either books to 
 read, or fowls to fatten up. You can take your 
 choice, you know." 
 
 " I should choose the books," she said, quite 
 fiercely. 
 
 " How spiteful you are about those fowls ! " 
 he said. 
 
 " So would you be, if you had been looking
 
 46 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 after them all your life," Joan answered, still 
 more fiercely. 
 
 " There is no doubt about you being a volcanic 
 young lady," Hieronymus remarked, thought- 
 fully. " But I understand. I was also a volcano 
 once : I am now extinct. You will be extinct 
 after a few years, and you will be so thankful 
 for the repose. But one has to go through a 
 great many eruptions as preliminaries to peace." 
 
 " Any kind of experience is better than none 
 at all," Joan said, more gently this time. " You 
 can't think how I dread a life in which nothing 
 happens. I want to have my days crammed full 
 of interests and events. Then I shall learn 
 something ; but here — what can one learn ? You 
 should just see Auntie Lloyd, and be with her 
 for a quarter of an hour. When you 've seen 
 her, you 've seen the whole neighbourhood. Oh, 
 how I dislike her ! " 
 
 Her tone of voice expressed so heartily her 
 feelings about Auntie Lloyd, that Hieronymus 
 laughed, and Joan laughed too. 
 
 She had put on her bonnet, and stood ready
 
 A T THE GREEN DRA GON. 47 
 
 to go home. The historian stroked Gamboge, 
 put away his papers, and expressed himself in- 
 clined to accompany Joan part of the way. 
 
 He ran into the kitchen to tell Mrs. Benbow 
 that he would not be long gone. 
 
 " Dinner won't be ready for quite an hour," she 
 said, " as the butcher came so late. But here is a 
 cup of beef-tea for you. You look rather tired." 
 
 " I 've had such a lot of pastry," Hieronymus 
 pleaded, and he turned to Mr. Benbow, who had 
 just come into the kitchen followed by his faith- 
 ful collie. " I don't feel as though I could 
 manage the beef-tea ! " 
 
 " It 's no use kicking against the traces," said 
 Mr. Benbow, laughing. " I 've found that out 
 long ago. Sarah is a tyrant." 
 
 But it was evidently a tyranny which suited 
 him very well, for there seemed to be a kind of 
 settled happiness between the host and hostess 
 of the Green Dragon. Some such thought passed 
 through Hieronymus's mind as he gulped down 
 the beef-tea, and then started off happily with 
 Joan.
 
 48 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " I like- both the Benbows," he said to her. 
 
 And it is very soothing to be with people who 
 are happy together. I 'm cosily housed thi 
 and not at all sorry to have had my plans altered 
 by the gipsies ; especially now that I can go on 
 with my work so comfortably. My friends in 
 Wales may wait forme as long as they choose." 
 
 Joan would have wished to tell him how glad 
 she was that he was going to stay. But she just 
 smiled happily. He was so bright himself, that 
 it was impossible not to be happy in his com- 
 pany. 
 
 " I 'm so pleased I have done some dictating 
 to-day," he said, as he plucked an autumn leaf 
 and put it into his buttondiole. " And now I 
 can enjoy myself all the more. You cannot think 
 how I do enjoy the country. These hills are so 
 wonderfully soothing. I never remember being 
 in a place where the hills have given me such a 
 sense of repose as here. Those words constantly 
 recur to me : 
 
 " ' His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
 His cloud above it saileth still,
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 49 
 
 (Though on its slopes men sow and reap). 
 More softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 He giveth His Beloved sleep.' 
 
 It 's all so true, you know, and yonder are 
 the slopes cultivated by men. I am always 
 thinking of these words here. They match 
 with the hills, and they match with my feel- 
 ings." 
 
 " I have never thought about the hills in that 
 way," she said. 
 
 " No," he answered, kindly, " because you are 
 not tired yet. But when you are tired, not with 
 imaginary battlings, but with the real campaigns 
 of life, then you will think about the dews falling 
 softly on the hills." 
 
 " Are you tired, then ? " she aked. 
 
 " I have been very tired," he answered, simply. 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few minutes, 
 and then he added : " You wished for knowl- 
 edge, and here you are surrounded by oppor- 
 tunities for attaining to it." 
 
 " I have never found Auntie Lloyd a specially
 
 5 o IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 interesting subje< t for study," Joan said, obsti- 
 nately. 
 
 Hieronymus smiled. 
 
 " I was not thinking of Auntie Lloyd," he 
 said. " I was thinking of all these beautiful 
 hedges, these lanes with their countless treasures, 
 and this stream with its bed of stones, and those 
 hills yonder : all of them eloquent with the won- 
 der of the earth's history. You are literally sur- 
 rounded with the means of making your minds 
 beautiful, you country people. And why don't 
 you do it ? " 
 
 Joan listened. This was new language to her. 
 
 Hieronymus continued : 
 
 " The sciences are here for you. They offer 
 themselves to you, without stint, without meas- 
 ure. Nature opens her book to you. Have 
 you ever tried to read it? From the things 
 which fret and worry our souls, from the people 
 who worry and fret us, from ourselves who 
 worry and fret ourselves, we can at least turn to 
 Nature. There we find our right place, a rest- 
 ing-place of intense repose. There we lose that
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 51 
 
 troublesome part of ourselves, our own sense of 
 importance. Then we rest, and not until then." 
 
 " Why should you speak to me of rest ? " the 
 girl cried, her fund of patience and control 
 coming suddenly to an end. " I don't want to 
 rest. I want to live a full, rich life, crammed 
 Avith interests. I want to learn about life itself, 
 not about things. It is so absurd to talk to me 
 of rest. You 've had your time of unrest, — you 
 said so. I don't care about peace and repose ! 
 I don't " 
 
 She left off as suddenly as she had begun, 
 fearing to seem too ill-mannered. 
 
 " Of course you don't," he said, gently, " and 
 I 'm a goose to think you should. No, you will 
 have to go out into the world, and to learn for 
 yourself that it is just the same there as every- 
 where : butter and cheese-making, prize-win- 
 ning, and prize-losing, and very little satisfac- 
 tion either over the winning or the losing ; and a 
 great many Auntie Lloyds, probably a good deal 
 more trying than the Little Stretton Auntie 
 Lloyd. Only, if I were you, I should not talk
 
 52 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 about it any more. I should just go. Saddle 
 the white horse and go ! Get your experiem 
 thick and quick. Then you will be glad to rest." 
 
 "Are you making fun of me? "she asked, 
 half suspiciously, for he had previously joked 
 about the slow pace of the white horse. 
 
 " No," he answered, in his kind way ; " why 
 should I make fun of you? We cannot all be 
 content to go on living a quiet life in a little 
 village." 
 
 At that moment the exciseman passed hy 
 them on horseback. He raised his hat to Joan, 
 and looked with some curiosity at Hieronymus. 
 Joan coloured. She remembered that she had 
 not behaved kindly to him yesterday ; and after 
 all, he was David, David who had always been 
 good to her, ever since she could remember. 
 
 " Who was that ? " asked Hieronymus 
 " What a trim, nicedooking man ! " 
 
 " He is David Ellis, the exciseman," Joan 
 said, half reluctantly. 
 
 " I wonder when he is going to test the beer 
 at the Green Dragon," said the historian,
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON, 53 
 
 anxiously. " I would n't miss that fof anything. 
 Will you ask him ? " 
 
 Joan hesitated. Then she hastened on a few- 
 steps, and called " David ! " 
 
 David turned in his saddle, and brought his 
 horse to a standstill. He wondered what Joan 
 could have to say to him. 
 
 " When are you going to test the beer at the 
 Green Dragon ?" she asked. 
 
 " Some time this afternoon," he answered. 
 " Why do you want to know ? " 
 
 " The gentleman who is staying at the inn 
 wants to know," Joan said. 
 
 " Is that all you have to say to me ? " David 
 asked, quietly. 
 
 " No," said Joan, looking up at him. " There 
 is something more ; about that pastry " 
 
 But just then Hieronymus had joined them. 
 
 " If you 're talking about pastry," he said, " I 
 never tasted any better than Miss Hammond's. 
 I ate a dishful this morning ! " 
 
 The exciseman looked at Joan, and at the 
 historian.
 
 54 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "Yes," he said, as he cracked his whip, "it 
 tastes good for those who can get it, and it tastes 
 bad to those who can't get it." 
 
 And with that he galloped away, leaving Joan 
 confused, and Hieronymus mystified. He 
 glanced at his companion, and seemed to 
 expect that she would explain the situation ; 
 but as she did not attempt to do so, he walked 
 quietly along with her until they came to the 
 short cut which led back to the Green Dragon. 
 There he parted from her, making an arrange- 
 ment that she should come and write for him on 
 the morrow. But as he strolled home, he said 
 to himself : " I am much afraid that I have been 
 eating some one else's pastry ! Well, it was 
 very good, especially the jam-puffs! "
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE EXCISEMAN'S LIBRARY. 
 
 pvAVID ELLIS did not feel genially disposed 
 towards the historian; and yet when he stood 
 in the kitchen of the Green Dragon, testing the 
 new brew, and saw Hieronymus eagerly watch- 
 ing the process, he could not but be amused. 
 There was something about Hieronymus which 
 was altogether irresistible. He had a power 
 quite unconscious to himself, of drawing people 
 over to his side. And yet he never tried to win : 
 he was just himself, nothing more and nothing 
 less. 
 
 " I am not wishing to pry into the secrets of 
 the profession," he said to David Ellis ; " but I 
 do like to see how everything is done." 
 
 The exciseman good-naturedly taught him how 
 to test the strength of the beer, and Hierony- 
 
 55
 
 56 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 mus was as pleased as though he had learnt 
 some great secret of the universe, or unearthed 
 some long-forgotten fact in history. 
 
 " Are you sure the beer comes up to its usual 
 standard ? " he asked mischievously, turning to 
 Mrs. Benbow at the same time. " Are you sure 
 it has nothing of the beef-tea element about it ? 
 We drink beef-tea by the quart in this estab- 
 lishment. I 'm allowed nothing else ! " 
 
 David laughed, and said it was the best beer 
 in the neighbourhood ; and with that he left the 
 kitchen and went into the ale-room, to exchange 
 a few words with Mr. Howells, the proprietor of 
 the rival inn, who always came to the Green 
 Dragon to have his few glasses of beer in peace, 
 free from the stormy remonstrances of his wife. 
 Every one in Little Stretton knew his secret, 
 and respected it. Hieronymus returned to the 
 parlour, where he was supposed to be deep in 
 study. 
 
 After a few minutes, some one knocked at the 
 door, and David Ellis came in. 
 
 " Excuse me troubling you," he said, rather
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 57 
 
 nervously, " but there is a little matter I wanted 
 to ask you about." 
 
 " It 's about that confounded pastry ! "thought 
 Hieronymus as he drew a chair to the fireside, 
 and welcomed the exciseman to it. 
 
 David sank down into it, twisted his whip, and 
 looked now at Hieronymus and now at the books 
 which lay scattered on the table. He evidently 
 wished to say something, but he did not know 
 how to begin. 
 
 '' I know what you want to say," said Hie- 
 ronymus. 
 
 " No, you don't," answered the exciseman. 
 " No one knows except myself." 
 
 Hieronymus retreated, crushed, but rather 
 relieved too. 
 
 Then David, gaining courage, continued : 
 
 " Books are in your line, are n't they ? " 
 
 " It just does happen to be my work to know 
 a little about them," the historian answered. 
 " Are you interested in them too ? " 
 
 ' Well," said David, hesitating, " I can't say 
 I read them, but I buy them."
 
 58 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " Most people do that," said Hieronymus ; " it 
 takes less time to buy than to read, and we are 
 pressed for time in this century." 
 
 " You see," said the exciseman, " I don't buy 
 the books for myself, and it 's rather awkward 
 knowing what to get. Now what would you get 
 for a person who was really fond of reading : 
 something of a scholar, you understand ? That 
 would help me for my next lot." 
 
 " It all depends on the taste of the person," 
 Hieronymus said, kindly. " Some like poetry, 
 some like novels : others like books about the 
 moon, and others like books about the North 
 Pole, or the Tropics." 
 
 David did not know much about the North 
 Pole or the Tropics, but he had certainly bought 
 several volumes of poetry, and Hieronymus's 
 words gave him courage. 
 
 " I bought several books of poetry," he said, 
 lifting his head up with a kind of triumph 
 which was unmistakable. " Cowper, Mrs. 
 Hemans " 
 
 " Yes," said Hieronymus, patiently.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 59 
 
 "And the other day I bought Milton," con- 
 tinued the exciseman. 
 
 " Ah," said the historian, with a faint smile 
 of cheerfulness. He had never been able to 
 care for Milton (though he never owned to 
 this). 
 
 " And now I thought of buying this," said 
 David, taking from his pocket-book a small slip 
 of paper and showing it to his companion. 
 
 Hieronymus read : " Selections from Robert 
 Browning." 
 
 " Come, come ! " he said, with a sigh of relief, 
 " this is a good choice ! " 
 
 " It is not my choice," said David, simply. " I 
 don't know one fellow from the other. But the 
 man at the shop in Ludlow told me it was a book 
 to have. If you say so too, of course that settles 
 the matter." 
 
 " Well," said Hieronymus, " and what about 
 the other books ? " 
 
 " I tell you what," said David, suddenly, " if 
 you 'd come to my lodgings one day, you could 
 look at the books I 've got, and advise me about
 
 60 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 others. That would be the shortest and pleas- 
 antest way." 
 
 " By all means," said the historian. " Then 
 you have not yet given away your gifts ? " 
 
 " Not yet," said David, quietly. " I am wait- 
 ing awhile." 
 
 And then he relapsed into silence and timidity, 
 and went on twisting his whip. 
 
 Hieronymus was interested, but he had too 
 much delicate feeling to push the inquiry, and 
 not having a mathematical mind, he was quite 
 unable to put two and two together without help 
 from another source. So he just went on smok- 
 ing his pipe, wondering all the time what possible 
 reason his companion could have for collecting 
 a library beginning with Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 After a remark about the weather and the 
 crops — Hieronymus was becoming quite agri- 
 cultural — David rose in an undecided kind of 
 manner, expressed his thanks, and took his le 
 but there was evidently something more he 
 wanted to say, and yet he went away without 
 saying it.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 61 
 
 "I'm sure he wants to speak about that 
 pastry," thought Hieronymus. " Confound him ! 
 Why does n't he ? " 
 
 The next moment the door opened, and David 
 put his head in. 
 
 " There's something else I wanted to say," he 
 stammered out. " The fact is, I don't tell any- 
 body about the books I buy. It 's my own 
 affair, and I like to keep it to myself. But I 'm 
 sure I can trust you." 
 
 " I should just think you could," Hierony- 
 mus answered. 
 
 So he promised secrecy, and then followed 
 the exciseman to the door, and watched him 
 mount his horse and ride off. Mr. Benbow 
 was coming in at the time, and Hieronymus 
 said some few pleasant words about David Ellis. 
 
 " He 's the nicest man in these parts," Mr. 
 Benbow said, warmly. "We all like him. 
 Joan Hammond will be a lucky girl if she 
 gets him for a husband." 
 
 " Is he fond of her, then ? " asked Hie- 
 ronymus,
 
 62 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " He has always been fond of her," Mr. Ben- 
 bow answered. 
 
 Then Hieronymus, having received this valu- 
 able assistance, proceeded carefully to put two 
 and two together. 
 
 " Now I know for whom the exciseman in- 
 tends his library ! " he said to himself, tri- 
 umphantly.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AUNTIE LLOYD I ROTESTS. 
 
 A UNTIE LLOYD was a material, highly 
 prosperous individual, utterly bereft of 
 all ideas except one ; though, to be sure, the 
 one idea which she did possess Avas of over- 
 whelming bulk, being, indeed, the sense of her 
 own superiority over all people of all coun- 
 tries and all centuries. This was manifest not 
 only in the way she spoke, but also in the way 
 she folded her hands together on the buckle 
 of her waist-belt, as though she were murmur- 
 ing : " Thank heaven I am Auntie Lloyd, and 
 no one else ! " All her relations, and indeed 
 all her neighbours, bowed down to her author- 
 ity : it was recognised by every one that the 
 mistress of the Tan-House Farm was a person- 
 age who must not be disob eyed in the smallest 
 
 63
 
 64 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 particular. There had been one rebel in the 
 camp for many years now: Joan. She alone 
 had dared to raise the standard of revolt. At 
 fust she had lifted it only an inch high ; but 
 strength and courage had come with years, and 
 now the standard floated triumphantly in the 
 air. And to-day it readied its full height, for 
 Auntie Lloyd had driven over to the Mart- 
 House Farm to protest with her niece about 
 this dictation, and Joan, though she did not 
 use the exact words, had plainly told her to 
 mind her own business. 
 
 Auntie Lloyd had been considerably " worked 
 up " ever since she had heard the news that 
 Joan went to write for a gentleman at the 
 Green Dragon. Then she heard that Joan not 
 only wrote for him, but was also seen walking 
 about with him ; for it was not at all likely that 
 an episode of this description would pass with- 
 out comment in Little Stretton ; and Auntie 
 Lloyd was not the only person who remarked 
 and criticised. A bad attack of sciatica had 
 kept her from interfering at the outset ; but as
 
 A T THE GREEN DRA GON. 65 
 
 soon as she was even tolerably well, she made 
 a descent upon the Malt-House Farm, having 
 armed herself with the most awe-inspiring 
 bonnet and mantle which her wardrobe could 
 supply. But Joan was proof against such ter- 
 rors. She listened to all Auntie Lloyd had to 
 say, and merely remarked that she did not con- 
 sider it was any one's affair but her own. That 
 was the most overwhelming statement that had 
 ever been made to Auntie Lloyd. No wonder 
 that she felt faint. 
 
 " It is distinctly a family affair," she said, 
 angrily. " If you 're not careful, you '11 lose 
 the chance of David Ellis. You can't expect 
 him to be dangling about your heels all his life. 
 He will soon be tired waiting for your pleasure. 
 Do you suppose that he, too, does not know you 
 are amusing yourself with this new-comer ? " 
 
 Joan was pouring out tea at the time, and 
 her hand trembled as she filled the cup. 
 
 " I won't have David Ellis thrust down my 
 throat by you or by any one," she said, deter- 
 minedly, 
 s
 
 66 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 And with that she looked at her watch, and 
 calmly said that it was time for her to be off 
 to the Green Dragon, Mr. Howard having 
 asked her to go in the afternoon instead of 
 the morning. But though she left Auntie 
 Lloyd quelled and paralysed, and was con- 
 scious that she had herself won the battle 
 once and for all, she was very much irritated 
 and distressed too. Hieronymus noticed that 
 something was wrong with her. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked. "Has 
 Auntie Lloyd been paying a visit to the Malt- 
 House Farm, and exasperated you beyond all 
 powers of endurance? Or was the butter- 
 making a failure ? Or is it the same old 
 story : general detestation of every one and 
 everything in Little Stretton, together with an 
 inward determination to massacre the whole 
 village at the earliest opportunity?" 
 
 Joan smiled, and looked up at the kind 
 face which always had such a restful influ- 
 ence on her.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 67 
 
 " I suppose that is the root of the whole 
 matter," she said. 
 
 " I am sorry for you," he said, gently, as 
 he turned to his papers ; " but I think you 
 are not quite wise to let your discontent grow 
 beyond your control. Most people, you know, 
 when their lives are analysed, are found to 
 have but sorry material out of which to fash- 
 ion for themselves satisfaction and content- 
 ment." 
 
 Her face flushed as he spoke, and a great 
 peace fell over her. When she was with him, 
 all was well with her : the irritations at home, 
 the annoyances either within or without, either 
 real or imaginary, and indeed all worries, 
 passed for the time out of her memory. 
 David Ellis was forgotten, Auntie Lloyd was 
 forgotten ; the narrow, dull, every-day exist- 
 ence broadened out into many interesting pos- 
 sibilities. Life had something bright to offer 
 to Joan. She bent happily over the pages, 
 thoroughly enjoying her congenial task ; and
 
 68 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 now and again during the long pauses of si- 
 lence, when Hiemn vmus \ \; thinking out his 
 subje< t, she -lamed at his kind face and his 
 silvered head. 
 
 And restless little Joan was restful.
 
 CrlAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE DISTANCE GROWS. 
 
 CO the days slipped away, and Joan came regu- 
 larly to the Green Dragon, to write to the 
 historian's dictation. These mornings were red- 
 letter days in her life : she had never before had 
 anything which she could have called compan- 
 ionship, and now this best of all pleasures was 
 suddenly granted to her. She knew well that 
 it could not last ; that very soon the historian 
 would go back into his own world, and that she 
 would be left lonely, lonelier than ever. But 
 meanwhile she was happy. She always felt, after 
 having been with him, as though some sort of 
 peace had stolen over her. It did not hold her 
 long, this sense of peace. It was merely that 
 quieting influence which a mellowed nature exer- 
 cises at rare moments over an unmellowed na- 
 
 69
 
 70 IN VARYING MOv. 
 
 tu re, being indeed a snatch of that wonderful 
 restfulness which lias something divine in its 
 essence. She did not analyse her feelings for 
 him, she dared not. She just drifted on, dream- 
 ing. And she was grateful to him too, for she 
 had unburdened her heavy heart to him, and he 
 had not laughed at her aspirations and ambi- 
 tions. He had certainly made a little fun over 
 her, but not in the way which conveyed con- 
 tempt : on the contrary, his manner of teasing 
 gave the impression of the kindliest sympathy. 
 He had spoken sensible words of advice to her 
 too ; not in any formal set lecture — that would 
 have been impossible to him, — but in detached 
 sentences given out at different times, with 
 words simple in themselves, but able to suggest 
 many good and noble thoughts. At least that 
 was what Joan gathered, that was her judgment 
 of him, that was the effect he produced on her. 
 Then he was not miserly of his learning. He 
 was not one of those scholars who keep their 
 wisdom for their narrow and appreciative little 
 set; he gave of his lust, with royal generosity,
 
 A T THE GREEK DRAGON. 71 
 
 to every one, and he gave of his best to her. 
 He saw that she was really interested in history, 
 and that it pleased her to hear him talk about 
 it. Out then came his stores of knowledge, all 
 for her special service ! But that was only half 
 of the process ; he taught her by finding out 
 from her what she knew, and then returning her 
 knowledge to her twofold enriched. She was 
 eager to learn, and he was interested in her 
 eagerness. It was his nature to be kind and 
 chivalrous to every one, and he was therefore 
 kind and chivalrous to his little secretary. He 
 saw her constantly in " school-hours," as he 
 called the time spent in dictating, and out of 
 school-hours too. He took such an interest in 
 all matters connected with the village that he 
 was to be found everywhere, now gravely con- 
 templating the cows and comparing them with 
 Mr. Benbow's herd, now strolling through the 
 market-place, and now passing stern criticisms 
 on the butter and poultry, of which he knew 
 nothing. Once he even tried to sell Joan Ham- 
 mond's butter to Mrs. Benbow.
 
 72 IN VAR YING MOODS. 
 
 "I assure you, ma'am," I • said to the land- 
 lady of the Green Diagon, "the very best 
 cooking butter in the kingdom ! Taste ;m<l 
 
 e." 
 
 "But it isn't cooking butter!" interposed 
 Joan, hastily. 
 
 But she laughed all the same, and Hierony- 
 mus, much humbled by his mistake, made no 
 more attempts to sell butter. 
 
 He seemed thoroughly contented with his life 
 at Little Stretton, and in no hurry to join his 
 friends in Wales. He was so genial that every 
 one liked him and spoke well of him. If he 
 was driving in the pony-carriage and saw any 
 children trudging home after school, he would 
 find room for four or five of them and take them 
 back in triumph to the village. If he met an 
 old woman carrying a bundle of wood, he im- 
 mediately transferred the load from herself, to 
 himself, and walked along by her side, chatting 
 merrily the while. As for the tramps who 
 passed on the high-road from Ludlow to Church 
 Stretton, they found in him a sympathetic
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 73 
 
 friend. His hand was always in his pocket for 
 them. He listened to their tales of woe, and 
 stroked the " property " baby in the perambu- 
 lator, and absolutely refused to be brought to 
 order by Mrs. Benbow, who declared that she 
 knew more about tramps than he did, and that 
 the best thing to do with them was to send them 
 about their business as soon as possible. 
 
 " You will ruin the reputation of the Green 
 Dragon," she said, " if you go on entertaining 
 tramps outside. Take your friends over to the 
 other inn ! " 
 
 She thought that this would be a strong argu- 
 ment, as Hieronymus was particularly proud of 
 the Green Dragon, having discovered that it 
 was patronised by the aristocrats of the village, 
 and considered infinitely superior to its rival the 
 Crown Inn opposite. 
 
 But the historian, so yielding in other respects, 
 continued his intimacies with the tramps, some- 
 times even leaving his work if he chanced to see 
 an interesting-looking wanderer slouching past 
 the Green Dragon. Joan had become accus-
 
 74 
 
 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 tomed to these interruptions. She just sat wait- 
 ing patiently until Hieronymus came back, and 
 plunged tune more into the History of the 
 Dissolution of the Monasteries, or the Attitude 
 of the Foreign Powers to each other during the 
 latter Years of Henry VIII. 
 
 " I 'm a troublesome fellow," he would say to 
 her sometimes, " and you are very patient with 
 me. In fact, you 're a regular little brick of a 
 secretary." 
 
 Then she would flush with pleasure to hear 
 his words of praise. But he never noticed that, 
 and never thought he was leading her farther 
 and farther away from her surroundings and 
 ties, and putting great distances between herself 
 and the exciseman. 
 
 So little did he guess it, that one day he even 
 ventured to joke with her. He had been talking 
 to her about John Richard Green, the historian, 
 and he asked her whether she had read A Short 
 History of the English People. She told him she 
 had never read it. 
 
 " Oh, you ought to have that book," he said :
 
 AT THE GRREN DRAGON. 75 
 
 and he immediately thought that he would buy 
 it for her. Then he remembered the excise- 
 man's library, and judged that it would be better 
 to let him buy it for her. 
 
 " I hear you have a very devoted admirer in 
 the exciseman," Hieronymus said, slyly. 
 
 " How do you know that ? " Joan said, 
 sharply. 
 
 "Oh," he answered, "I was told." But he 
 saw that his volcanic little companion was not 
 too pleased ; and so he began talking again of 
 John Richard Green. He told her about the 
 man himself, his work, his suffering, his person- 
 ality. He told her how the young men at Ox- 
 ford were advised to travel on the Continent to 
 expand their minds, and if they could not afford 
 this advantage after their university career, then 
 they were to read John Richard Green. He 
 told her, too, of the grave at Mentone, with the 
 simple words, " He died learning." 
 
 Thus he would talk to her, taking her always 
 into a new world of interest. Then she was in an 
 enchanted kingdom, and he was the magician.
 
 7 6 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 It was a world in which agriculture and dairy- 
 farming and all the other wearinesses of her 
 every-day life had no part. Some people might 
 think it was but a poor enchanted realm which 
 he conjured up for her pleasure. But enchant- 
 ment, like every other emotion, is but relative 
 after all. Some little fragment of intellectuality 
 had long been Joan's idea of enchantment. 
 And now it had come to her in a way altogether 
 unexpected, and in a measure beyond all her 
 calculations. It had come to her, bringing with 
 it something else. 
 
 She seemed in a dream during that time : 
 yes, she was slipping farther away from her own 
 people, and farther away from the exciseman. 
 She had never been very near to him, but lately 
 the distance had become doubled. When she 
 chanced to meet him, her manner was more 
 than ordinarily cold. If he had chosen to 
 plead for himself, he might well have asked 
 what he had done to her that he should deserve 
 to be treated with such bare unfriendliness. 
 
 One day he met her. She was riding the
 
 AT THE GREEN DA' AGON. 77 
 
 great white horse, and David rode along beside 
 her. She chatted with him now and again, but 
 there were long pauses of silence between them. 
 
 " Father has made up his mind to sell old 
 Nance," she said suddenly, as she stroked the 
 old mare's head. " This is my last ride on her." 
 
 " I am sorry," said David, kindly. " She 's 
 an old friend, isn't she ? " 
 
 " I suppose it is ridiculous to care so much," 
 Joan said ; " but you know we 've had her such 
 a time. And I used to hang round her neck, 
 and she would lift me up and swing me." 
 
 " I remember," said David, eagerly. " I 've 
 often watched you. I was always afraid you 
 would have a bad fall." 
 
 " You ran up and caught me once," Joan 
 said. " And I was so angry ; for it was n't 
 likely that old Nance would have let me fall." 
 
 " But how could I be sure that the little arms 
 were strong enough to cling firmly to old 
 Nance's neck ? " David said. " So I could n't 
 help being anxious." 
 
 " Do you remember when I was lost in that
 
 7 8 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 mist," Joan said, "and you came and found 
 me, and carried me home ? I was so angry that 
 you would not let me walk." 
 
 " You have often been angry with me," David 
 said, quietly. 
 
 Joan made no answer. She just shrugged 
 her shoulders. 
 
 There they were, these two, riding side by 
 side, and yet they were miles apart from each 
 other. David knew it, and grieved.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DAVID LAMENTS. 
 
 F^AVID knew it, and grieved. He knew 
 that Joan's indifference was growing 
 apace, and that it had taken to itself alarm- 
 ing proportions ever since the historian had 
 been at the Green Dragon. He had con- 
 stantly met Joan and Hieronymus together, and 
 heard of them being together, and of course he 
 knew that Joan wrote to the historian's dicta- 
 tion. He never spoke on the subject to any one. 
 Once or twice, Auntie Lloyd tried to begin, but 
 he looked straight before him and appeared not 
 to understand. Once or twice, some other of 
 the folk made mention of the good-fellowship 
 which existed between Joan and the historian. 
 " Well, it 's natural enough," he said, quietly. 
 ' Joan was always fond of books, and one feels 
 
 79
 
 80 IN VARYING MOODS, 
 
 glad she can talk about them with some one who 
 is real clever." 
 
 But was he glad ? Poor David ! Time after 
 time he looked at his little collection of hooks, 
 handling the volumes just as tenderly as one 
 handles one's memories, or one's hopes, or one's 
 old affections. He had not added to the library 
 since he had spoken to Hieronymus and asked 
 his advice on the choice of suitable subjects. 
 He had no heart to go on with a hobby which 
 seemed to have no comfort in it. 
 
 To-night he sat in his little sitting-room smok- 
 ing his pipe. He looked at his books as usual, 
 and then locked them up in his oak chest. He 
 sat thinking of Joan and Hieronymus. There 
 was no bitterness in David's heart ; there 
 was only sorrow. He shared with others a 
 strong admiration for Hieronymus, an admira- 
 tion which the historian never failed to win, 
 though it was often quite unconsciously given, 
 and always quiet unconsciously received. So 
 there was only sorrow in David's heart, and no 
 bitterness.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 81 
 
 The clock was striking seven of the evening, 
 when some one knocked at the door, and Hie- 
 ronymus came into the room. He was in a par- 
 ticularly genial mood, and puffed his pipe in 
 great contentment. He settled down by the 
 fireside as though he had been there all his life, 
 and chatted away so freely that David forgot 
 his own melancholy in his pleasure at having 
 such a bright companion. A bottle of whisky 
 was produced, and the cosiness was complete. 
 
 " Now for the books ! " said Hieronymus. 
 " I am quite anxious to see your collection. 
 And look here : I have made a list of suitable 
 books which any one would like to have. Now 
 show me what you have already bought." 
 
 David's misery returned all in a rush, and he 
 hesitated. 
 
 " I don't think I care about the books now," 
 
 he said. 
 
 What nonsense ! " said Hieronymus. 
 
 ' You 're not shy about showing them to me ? I 
 
 am sure you have bought some capital good 
 
 ones." 
 6
 
 82 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "Oh, it was n"t that," said David, quietly, as 
 he unlocked the oak chest, and took out the 
 precious volumes and laid them on the table. In 
 spite of himself, however, some of the old eager- 
 ness came over him, and he stood by, waiting 
 anxiously for the historian's approval. Hierony- 
 mus groaned over Mrs. Hemans's poetry, and 
 Locke's Human Understanding, and Defoe's 
 History of the Plague^ and Cowper, and Hannah 
 More. He groaned inwardly, but outwardly he 
 gave grunts of encouragement. He pan..! 
 David on the shoulder when he found Selections 
 from Browning, and he almost caressed him 
 when he discovered Si/as Marner, 
 
 Yes, David was proud of his treasures : each 
 one of them represented to him a whole world 
 of love and hope and consolation. 
 
 Hieronymus knew for whom the books were 
 intended, and he was touched by the exciseman's 
 quiet devotion and pride. He would not on 
 any account have hurt David's feelings ; he 
 would have praised the books, however unsuit- 
 able they might have seemed to him.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 83 
 
 " My dear fellow," he said, " you 've done 
 capitally by yourself. You 've chosen some 
 excellent books. Still, this list may help you to 
 go on, and I should advise you to begin with 
 Green's History of the English People" 
 
 David put the volumes back into the oak 
 chest. 
 
 " I don't think I care about buying any 
 more," he said, sadly. " It 's no use." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Hieronymus. 
 
 David looked at the historian's frank face, 
 and felt the same confidence in him which all 
 felt. He looked, and knew that his man was 
 loyal and good. 
 
 " Well, it 's just this," David said, quite simply. 
 " I 've loved her ever since she was a baby-child. 
 She was my own little sweetheart then. I took 
 care of her when she was a wee thing, and I 
 wanted to look after her when she was a grown 
 wom-^n. It has just been the hope of my life to 
 make Joan my wife." 
 
 He paused a moment, and looked straight 
 into the fire.
 
 84 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "I know she is different from others, and 
 « leverer than any of us here, and all that. I 
 know she is always longing to get away from 
 Little Stretton. But I thought that perhaps we 
 might be happy together, and that then she 
 would not want to go. But I 've never been 
 quite sure. I've just watched and waited. 
 I 've loved her all her life. When she was a 
 wee baby I carried her about, and knew how to 
 stop her crying. She has always been kinder 
 to me than to any one else. It was perhaps 
 that which helped me to be patient. At least, 
 I knew she did not care for any one else. It 
 was just that she did n't seem to turn to any one." 
 
 He had moved away from Hieronymus, and 
 stood knocking out the ashes from his pipe. 
 
 Hieronymus was silent. 
 
 " At least, I knew she did not care for any 
 one else," continued David, " until you came. 
 Now she cares for you." 
 
 Hieronymus looked up quickly. 
 
 " Surely, surely you must be mistaken," he 
 said.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 85 
 
 David shook his head. 
 
 " No," he answered, " I 'm not mistaken. 
 And I 'm not the only one who has noticed it. 
 Since you 've been here, my little Joan has gone 
 farther and farther away from me." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Hieronymus. He had 
 taken his tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and 
 was slowly filling his pipe. 
 
 " I have never meant to work a harm to her 
 or you, or any one," the historian said, sadly. 
 " If I had thought I was going to bring trouble to 
 any one here, I should not have stayed on. But 
 I 've been veryhappy amongst you all, and you 've 
 all been good to me ; and as the days went on, 
 I found myself becoming attached to this little 
 village. The life was so simple and refreshing, 
 and I was glad to have the rest and the change. 
 Your little Joan and I have been much together, 
 it is true. She has written to my dictation, and 
 I found her so apt that, long after my hand 
 became well again, I preferred to dictate rather 
 than to write. Then we 've walked together, and 
 we 've talked seriously and merrily, and sadly too.
 
 86 IN VARY IXC, MOODS. 
 
 \\C 've just been comrades : nothing more. She 
 seemed to me a little discontented, and I tried 
 to interest her in things I happen to know, and 
 so take her out of herself. If I had had any idea 
 that I was doing more than that, I should have 
 left off at once. I hope you don't doubt me." 
 
 " I believe every word you say," David said, 
 warmly. 
 
 " I am grateful for that," Hieronymus said, 
 and the two men grasped hands. 
 
 " If there is anything I could do to repair my 
 thoughtlessness," he said, " I will gladly do it. 
 But it is difficult to know what to do and what 
 to say. For perhaps, after all, you may be mis- 
 taken." 
 
 The exciseman shook his head. 
 
 " No," he said, " I am not mistaken. It has 
 been getting worse ever since you came. There 
 is nothing to say about it ; it can't be helped. 
 It 's just that sort of thing which sometimes hap- 
 pens : no one is to blame, but the mischief is 
 done, all the same. I don't know why I 've 
 told you about it. Perhaps I meant to, perhaps
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 87 
 
 I did n't. It seemed to come out naturally 
 enough when we were talking of the books." 
 
 He was looking mournfully at the list which 
 Hieronymus had drawn out for him. 
 
 " I don't see that it 's any use to me," he said. 
 
 He was going to screw it up and throw it into 
 the fire, but the historian prevented him. 
 
 " Keep it," he said, kindly. " You may yet 
 want it. If I were you, I should go on collect- 
 ing a library. I should go on patiently adding 
 book after book, and with each book you buy, 
 buy a little hope too. Who knows ? Some day 
 your little Joan may want you. But she will 
 have to go out into the world first and fight her 
 battles. She is one of those who must go out 
 into the world and buy her experiences for 
 herself. Those who hinder her, are only hurting 
 her. Don't try to hinder her. Let her go. 
 Some day when she is tired, she will be glad 
 to lean on some one whom she can trust. But 
 she must be tired first, and thus find out her 
 necessity. And it is when we find out our ne- 
 cessity that our heart cries aloud. Then it is
 
 88 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 that those who love us will not fail us. They 
 will be to us like the shadow of a great rock in 
 a weary land.'' 
 
 I )a\ id made no answer, but he smoothed out 
 the crumpled piece of paper and put it carefully 
 into his pocket-book.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HIERONYMUS SPEAKS. 
 
 TTIERONYMUS was unhappy: the excise- 
 man might or might not be mistaken, but 
 the fact remained that some mischief had been 
 done, inasmuch as David Ellis's feelings were 
 wounded. Hieronymus felt that the best thing 
 for him to do was to go, though he quite deter- 
 mined to wait until he saw the hill-ponies gath- 
 ered together. There was no reason why he 
 should hasten away as though he were ashamed 
 of himself. He knew that not one word had 
 been spoken to Joan which he now wished to 
 recall. His position was a delicate one. He 
 thought seriously over the matter, and wondered 
 how he might devise a means of telling her a 
 little about his own life, and thus showing her, 
 
 without seeming to show, her that his whole 
 
 89
 
 go JN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 heart was filled with the memories of the past. 
 He could not say to Joan : " My little Joan, my 
 little secretary, they tell me that I have been 
 making havoc of your heart. Now listen to me, 
 child. If it is not true, then I am glad. And 
 if it is true, I am sad : because I have been 
 wounding you against my knowledge, and put- 
 ting you through suffering which I might so 
 easily have spared you. You will recover from 
 the suffering ; but alas ! little Joan, that I 
 should have been the one to wound you ! " 
 
 He could not say that to her, though he would 
 have wished to speak some such words. 
 
 But the next morning after his conversation 
 with David Ellis, he sat in the parlour of the 
 (ireen Dragon, fondling the ever-faithful Gam- 
 boge. Joan Hammond looked up once or 
 twice from her paper, wondering when the his- 
 torian would begin work. He seemed to be 
 taking a long time this norning to rouse him- 
 self to activity. 
 
 " I shall take Gamboge with me when I go,"' 
 he said at last. " I 've bought her for half-a-
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. Ql 
 
 crown. That is a paltry sum to give for such a 
 precious creature." 
 
 "Are you thinking of going then?" asked 
 
 Joan, fearfully. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " I must just wait to 
 see those rascals the hill-ponies, and then I 
 must go back to the barbarous big world, into 
 which you are so anxious to penetrate." 
 
 " Father has determined to sell Nance," she 
 said, sadly, " so I can 't saddle the white horse 
 and be off." 
 
 " And you are sorry to lose your old friend? ,! 
 
 he said, kindly. 
 
 " One has to give up everything," she 
 
 answered. 
 
 " Not everything," Hieronymus said. " Not 
 the nasty things, for instance— only the nice 
 
 things ! " 
 
 Joan laughed, and dipped her pen into the 
 
 ink. 
 
 " The truth of it is, I 'm not in the least in- 
 clined to work this morning," said Hieronymus. 
 
 Joan waited, the pen in her hand. He had
 
 9 2 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 said that so many times before, and yet he had 
 always ended by doing some work after all. 
 
 " I believe that my stern task-mistress, my 
 dear love who died so many years ago, I be- 
 lieve that even she would give me a holiday to- 
 day," Hieronymus said. "And she alw 
 claimed so much work of me ; she was never 
 satisfied. I think she considered me to be a 
 lazy fellow, who needed spurring on. She had 
 great ambitions for me; she believed every- 
 thing of me, and wished me to work out her 
 ambitions, not for the sake of the fame and 
 the name, but for the sake of the good it does 
 us all to grapple with ourselves." 
 
 He had drawn from his pocket a small minia- 
 ture of a sweet-looking woman. It was a spirit- 
 ual face, with tender eyes : a face to linger in 
 one's memory. 
 
 " When she first died," Hieronymus con- 
 tinued, as though to himself, " I could not have 
 written a line without this dear face before me. 
 It served to remind me that although I was un- 
 happy and lonely, I must work if only to please
 
 A T THE GREEN BRA GON. 93 
 
 her. That is what I had done when she was 
 alive, and it seemed disloyal not to do so when 
 she was dead. And it was the only comfort I 
 had ; but a strong comfort, filling full the heart. 
 It is ten years now since she died ; but I 
 scarcely need the miniature ; the dear face is 
 always before me. Ten years ago, and I am 
 still alive, and sometimes, often indeed, very 
 happy. She would have wished me to be 
 happy : she was always glad when I laughed 
 heartily, or made some fun out of nothing. 
 ' What a stupid boy you are ! ' she would say. 
 But she laughed all the same. We were very 
 happy together, she and I ; we had loved each 
 other a long time, in spite of many difficulties 
 and troubles. But the troubles had cleared, 
 and we were just going to make our little home 
 together, when she died." 
 
 There was no tremor in his voice as he spoke. 
 
 "We enjoyed everything," he went on; 
 " every bit of fun, every bit of beauty, — the 
 mere fact of living and loving, the mere fact of 
 the world being beautiful, the mere fact of there
 
 (>4 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 being so much to do and to strive after. I was 
 not very ambitious for myself. At one time I 
 had cared greatly ; then the desire had left me. 
 But when she first came into my life, she roused 
 me from my lethargy ; she loved me, and did 
 not wish me to pause one moment in my life's 
 work. The old ambitions had left me, but for 
 her sake I revived them ; she was my dear good 
 angel, but always, as I told her, a stern taskgiver. 
 Then when she was gone, and I had not her 
 dear presence to help me, I just felt I could not 
 go on writing any more. Then I remembered 
 how ambitious she was for me, and so I did not 
 wait one moment. I took up my work at once, 
 and have tried to earn a name and a fame for 
 her sake." 
 
 He paused, and stirred the fire uneasily. 
 
 " It was very difficult at first," he continued ; 
 " everything was difficult. And even now, after 
 ten years, it is not always easy. And I cared so 
 little. That was the hardest part of all : to 
 learn to care again. But the years pass, and we 
 live through a tempest of grief, and come out
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 95 
 
 into a great calm. In the tempest we fancied 
 we were alone ; in the calm we know that we 
 have not been alone : that the dear face has 
 been looking at us lovingly, and the dear voice 
 speaking to us through the worst hours of the 
 storm, and the dear soul knitting itself closer 
 and closer to our soul." 
 
 Joan bent over the paper. 
 
 " So the days have passed into weeks and 
 months and years," he said, " and here am I, 
 still looking for my dear love's blessing and ap- 
 proval ; still looking to her for guidance, to her 
 and no one else. Others may be able to give 
 their heart twice over, but I am not one of those. 
 People talk of death effacing love ! As though 
 death and love could have any dealings the one 
 with the other ! They always were strangers ; 
 they always will be strangers. So year after 
 year I mourn for her, in my own way, happily, 
 sorrowfully, and always tenderly ; sometimes 
 with laughter, and sometimes with tears. When 
 I see all the beautiful green things of the world, 
 and sing from very delight, I know she would be
 
 <)6 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 glad. When I make a good joke or turn a <!< 
 sentence, I know she would smile her praise. 
 When I do m) work weft, I know- she would be 
 satisfied. And though I may fail in all I under- 
 
 tak( . still there is the going on trying. Thus I 
 am always a mourner, offering to her just that 
 kind of remembrance which her dear beautiful 
 soul would cherish most." 
 
 He was handling the little miniature. 
 
 "May 1 see the face ?" Joan asked, very gently. 
 
 He put the miniature in her hands. She 
 looked at it, and then returned it to him, almost 
 reverently. 
 
 " And now, little secretary," he said, in his 
 old bright way, " I do believe I could do some 
 work if f tried. It's only a question of will- 
 power. Come, dip your pen in the ink, and 
 write as quickly as you can." 
 
 He dictated for nearly an hour, and then Joan 
 slipped off quickly home. 
 
 Up in her little bedroom it was all in vain that 
 she chased the tears from her face. They came 
 again, and they came again.
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 97 
 
 " He has seen that I love him," she sobbed. 
 " And that was his dear kind way of telling me 
 that I was a foolish little child. Of course I was 
 a foolish little child, but I could n't help it ! 
 Indeed I could n't help it. And I must go on 
 crying. No one need know." 
 
 So she went on crying, and no one knew.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HIERONYMUS GOES. 
 
 'THEY were captured, those little wretches the 
 hill-ponies, having been chased down from 
 all directions, and gathered together in the en- 
 closure set apart for their imprisonment. There 
 they were, cabin'd, cribb'd, and confin'd, some 
 of them distressed, and all of them highly in- 
 dignant at the rough treatment which they had 
 received. This gathering together of the wild 
 ponies occurred two or three times in the year, 
 when the owners assembled to identify their 
 particular herd, and to re-impress their mark on 
 the ponies which belonged to them. It was no 
 easy matter to drive them down from the hills ; 
 though indeed they came down willingly enough 
 at night to seek what they might devour. Then 
 one might h< ar their little feet pattering quickly
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 99 
 
 over the ground, helter-skelter ! The villagers 
 were well accustomed to the sound. " It 's only 
 the hill-ponies, the rascals ! " they would say. 
 But when they were wanted, they would not 
 come. They led the beaters a rare dance over 
 hill and dale ; but it always ended in the same 
 way. Then, after four or five years of life on 
 the hills, their owners sold them, and that was 
 the end of all their fun, and all their shagginess 
 too. 
 
 Hieronymus stood near the enclosure watch- 
 ing the proceedings with the greatest interest. 
 The men were trying to divide the ponies into 
 groups, according to the mark on their backs. 
 But this was no easy matter either : the little 
 creatures kicked and threw themselves about in 
 every direction but the right one, and they were 
 so strong that their struggles were generally suc- 
 cessful. The sympathies of Hieronymus went 
 •with the rebels, and he was much distressed 
 when he saw three men hanging on to the tail of 
 one of the ponies, and trying to keep him back 
 from another group.
 
 ioo IN VARY IXC, MOODS. 
 
 " I say, you there ! " he cried, waving his 
 stick. " I can't stand that." 
 
 Mrs. Benbow, who was standing near him, 
 laughed, and called him to order. 
 
 " Now don't you be meddling with what you 
 don't understand," she said. " You may know 
 a good deal about books, but it 's not much you '11 
 know about hill-ponies." 
 
 " That's quite true," said Hieronymus, humbly. 
 
 " Come along with me now," commanded Mrs. 
 Benbow, " and help me buy a red pig ! " 
 
 Nothing but a red pig would have made 
 Hieronymus desert the hill-ponies. A red pig 
 was of course irresistible to any one in his 
 senses ; and the historian followed contentedly 
 after the landlady of the Green Dragon. She 
 made her way amongst the crowds of people 
 who had come to this great horse-fair, which 
 was the most important one of the whole year. 
 Hieronymus was much interested in everyone 
 and everything he saw ; he looked at the horses 
 and sheep and cows, and exchanged conve? 
 Hon with any one who would talk to him.
 
 A T THE GREEN DRAGON. 101 
 
 "There 's a deal of money will change hands 
 to-day," said a jolly old farmer to him. " But 
 prices be dreadful low this year. Why, the pigs 
 be going for a mere nothing." 
 
 " I 'm going to buy a pig," Hieronymus said, 
 proudly, " a red one." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the farmer, looking at him with 
 a sort of indulgent disdain, " 't is a breed as I 
 care nothing about." 
 
 Then he turned to one of his colleagues, evi- 
 dently considering Hieronymus rather a feeble 
 kind of individual, with whom it was not profit- 
 able to talk. 
 
 The historian was depressed for the moment, 
 but soon recovered his spirits when he saw the 
 fascinating red pigs. And his pride and con- 
 ceit knew no bounds when Mrs. Benbow 
 actually chose and bought the very animal 
 which he had recommended to her notice. He 
 saw David Ellis, and went to tell him about the 
 pig. The exciseman laughed, and then looked 
 sad again. 
 
 " My little Joan is very unhappy," he said,
 
 lofl IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 half in a whisper. "The old white horse is to 
 be sold. Do you see her there yonder? How 
 I wish I could buy the old mare and give her to 
 Joan ! " 
 
 " That would be a very unwise thing for you 
 to do," said Hieronymus. 
 
 ' Yes," said David, " And do you know, I Ve 
 been thinking of what you said about her going 
 out into the world. And I found this advertise- 
 ment. Shall I give it to her ? " 
 
 Hieronymus looked at it. 
 
 " You 're a dear fellow, David," he said, 
 warmly. " Yes, give it to her. And I too have 
 been thinking of what you said to me. I've 
 told her a little of my story, and she knows now 
 how my heart is altogether taken up with my 
 past. So if I 've done any harm to her and you, 
 I have tried to set it right. And to-morrow 1 
 am going home. You will see me off at the 
 station ? " 
 
 " I '11 be there," said the exciseman. 
 
 But there was no sign in his manner that he 
 wished to be rid of Hieronymus. The histo-
 
 AT THE GREEN DRAGON. 103 
 
 rian, who all unconsciously won people's hearts, 
 all unconsciously kept them too. Even Auntie 
 Lloyd, to whom he had been presented, owned 
 that he " had a way" about him. (But then he 
 had asked after her sciatica !) 
 
 He spoke a few words to Joan, who stood 
 lingering near the old white mare. She had 
 been a little shy of him since he had talked so 
 openly to her ; and he had noticed this, and 
 used all his geniality to set her at her ease again. 
 This is my last afternoon," he said to her, 
 " and I have crowned the achievements of my 
 visit here by choosing a red pig. Now I 'm 
 going back to the big barbarous world to boast 
 of my new acquirements : brewing beer, eating 
 pastry, drinking beef-tea, cutting up the beans, 
 making onion pickles, and other odd jobs 
 assigned to me by Queen Elizabeth of the 
 Green Dragon. Here she comes to fetch me, 
 for we are going to drive the red pig home in 
 the cart. Then I 'm to have some tea with rum 
 in it, and some of those horrible Shropshire 
 crumpets. Then if I 'm still alive after the
 
 i"4 IN VARY IXC, MOODS. 
 
 crumpets and the rum, there will be a few more 
 odd jobs for me to do, and then to-morrow I go. 
 As for yourself, little se< retary, you are going 
 to put courage into your heart, and fight your 
 battles well. Tell me ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said ; and she looked up brightly, 
 though there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Do you know those words, ' Hitch your 
 waggon to a star ' ? " he said. " Emerson was 
 right. The waggon spins along merrily then. 
 And now good-bye, little secretary. You must 
 come and see me off at the station to-morrow. 
 I want all my friends around me." 
 
 So on the morrow they gathered round him : 
 Mr. Benbow, Mrs. Benbow, two of the Malt- 
 House Farm boys, the old woman who kept 
 the grocer's shop and who had been doing a 
 good trade in sweetmeats since Hieronymus 
 came, the exciseman, and Joan Hammond, and 
 old John of the wooden leg. They were all 
 there, sorrowful to part with him, glad to have 
 known him. 
 
 " If you would only stay," said Mrs. Benbow,
 
 A T THE GREEN DKA GON. 105 
 
 " there are so many other odd jobs for you to 
 do !" 
 
 " No, I must go," said the historian. ' There 
 is an end to everything, excepting to your beef- 
 tea ! But I 've been very happy." 
 
 His luggage had increased since he came to 
 Little Stretton. He had arrived with a small 
 portmanteau ; he went away with the same 
 portmanteau, an oak chair which Mr. Benbow 
 had given him, and a small hamper containing 
 Gamboge. 
 
 " Take care how you carry that hamper," he 
 said to the porter. " There is a dog inside 
 undergoing a cat incarnation ! " 
 
 To Joan he said : " Little secretary, answer 
 the advertisement and go out into the world." 
 
 And she promised. 
 
 And to David he said : " When you 've fin- 
 ished that book-list, write to me for another 
 one. 
 
 And he promised. 
 
 Then the train moved off, and the dear kind 
 face was out of sight.
 
 106 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 • ■■••• 
 
 Mrs. Benbow went home to do the scouring 
 and cleaning. 
 
 David rode off to Ludlow and bought a 
 book. 
 
 Joan sat in her room at the Malt-House 
 Farm and cried her heart out. Then she 
 looked at the advertisement, and answered it. 
 
 " It was kind of David," she said. 
 
 So David sent Joan out into the world. 
 
 The weeks, the months, seem long without 
 her. He buys his books, and with every new 
 book he buys new comfort. He recalls the 
 historian's words : " Some day, when she is 
 tired, she will be glad to lean on some one 
 whom she can trust." 
 
 So David waits.
 
 THE 
 PAINTER AND HIS PICTURE 
 
 107
 
 THE 
 PAINTER AND HIS PICTURE. 
 
 ^HERE was once an artist. He was the only 
 son of a pious mother, whose consolation 
 in times of trouble had been her unquestioning 
 faith in God. 
 
 Wlien he was still a child and his talent had 
 begun to show itself, she said within herself : 
 
 " My son, my Pierre, will paint pictures of the 
 Holy Mother, and the Saints, and the Blessed 
 Christ. There have been great religious painters 
 before him, but he will be great too ; and he 
 will devote his talent to the service of the 
 Church." 
 
 That was what she wished for him. She tcld 
 
 him what she wished him to do and to be ; and 
 
 he, aglow with her enthusiasm, and himself 
 
 109
 
 no IN VARY IXC, MOODS. 
 
 ardent by nature, caught the spirit of her mean- 
 ing, and kept it in his heart for many years, 
 even after she had passed away. 
 
 " I will be a painter of sacred subjects," he 
 said to himself. 
 
 Then the time went by, and he earned for 
 himself fame by his pictures of the Madonna 
 and the Saints, and many scenes from Bible His- 
 tory, and the weeping Magdalene. 
 
 And a picture of Christ saying to the woman 
 taken in adultery: "Woman, where are those 
 thine accusers ? " 
 
 There was the mark of piety and enthusiasm 
 in his work. It was not merely that he painted 
 a picture, but that he believed what he painted. 
 
 Then one day he began a picture of the Cruci- 
 fixion. It was for some altar. He intended to 
 show God the Father supporting the arms of 
 God the S^n. 
 
 God's face was to be the tenderest that human 
 heart could imagine and human hand depict : 
 God who sent the trials, but at the same time 
 lent his own great holy strength to help us to
 
 THE PAINTER AND HIS PICTURE, in 
 
 bear the trials. The painter had seen an old 
 stained-glass window of this subject : it was 
 quaint and grotesque. But his picture was to 
 be something poetical ; yet so true, that no one 
 looking at it could believe that God was not our 
 Helper. 
 
 But the painter lived in an age of unbelief. 
 The old faith, which had been so much to so 
 many thousands, was fast losing its power. 
 
 When he first began to think more deeply 
 about religion, he smiled at the unbelievers. 
 He scoffed at them, as many have done before. 
 
 " Wait," they said to him, " your turn will 
 come. To those who think at all, there comes 
 this time of unbelief. Some struggle out of their 
 doubts — so they convince themselves — and get 
 back- to their old faith, because they cannot do 
 without it. Others, braver, face the future 
 calmly, and learn to be strong without the help 
 of religious stimulant. Your turn will come." 
 
 But he shook his head, and went confidently 
 back to his work : to his Saints and Madonnas, 
 and dead Christs.
 
 112 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 Until one day. 
 
 And on that day the brush fell from his hand. 
 He could not paint Cod the Father supporting 
 
 the arms of (iod the Son. 
 
 The Son — who was He ? 
 
 The Father — who was He? Had he ever 
 been known to give us help and strength in h^urs 
 of need ? Even supposing he fashioned the 
 earth, what was he doing now ? Did he, would 
 he, hear the cries of distress to which stricken 
 humanity gave utterance every day ? 
 
 The painter put away his brush. The light 
 of life had faded from his heart. He turned to 
 books, and read and read, and every day his 
 brain grew more bewildered. He was seeking 
 in books for the meaning of the great problem : 
 that problem which has distracted so many 
 brains, and stronger ones than the painterV 
 
 Those who knew him watched him. His turn 
 had come. Would he struggle back to his old 
 faith, or would he become a free man ? So the 
 time went by. The picture of the Father sup- 
 porting the arms of the Son was put aside.
 
 THE PAINTER AND HIS PICTURE. 113 
 
 The painter had wished at first to burn it ; but 
 he just let it lie there with other unfinished 
 pictures. So it lay there. 
 
 And the painter, who had freed himself from 
 his old bondage, took up his brush once more, 
 and painted secular subjects. He laughed at 
 his own old self. 
 
 " To think that I clung so long to rotten gar- 
 ments ! " he said. " To think that I have been 
 deceived by fairy stories, foolish traditions, and 
 time-honoured gossip ! To think that all these 
 years, reason, man's most glorious possession, 
 has been stifled and wellnigh choked by tradi- 
 tional sentiment ! But now I breathe, and am 
 free. Now I see that man is God, and that in 
 him is resident all strength and power and great- 
 ness. Man stands alone : for himself and by 
 himself will he work out his own salvation. 
 God is the great myth, the great delusion." 
 
 Meanwhile he worked at his new pictures. 
 Now and again he was asked to paint an altar- 
 piece. 
 
 " Nay, I have done with pale-faced Saints and
 
 ii 4 IN VARY IXC MOODS. 
 
 Madonnas," he would say. "The legends of 
 the Bible have no meaning for me now. I can- 
 not paint what I cannot believe." 
 
 "Yet the legends of the Bible are beautiful,'' 
 said some one to him. " And surely to the art 
 ist, all beautiful subjects should be acceptable. 
 What has mere creed to do with art? Art 
 should know no limitation." 
 
 But the painter shook his head. 
 
 " My faith has gone," he said. " I cannot 
 paint your altar-pieces. God, the Holy Mother, 
 the Blessed Christ, are empty names to me now. 
 They belonged to my dark Past. They have- 
 no part in my clearer Present." 
 
 Thus he gloried in his new-found freedom, 
 lie preached the gospel of soul-emancipation. 
 
 "Ye slaves of dogma and doctrine, throw oil" 
 your fetters and be men ! ; ' he cried. 
 
 He had all the enthusiasm and exaggeration 
 of a convert. 
 
 For years men had been saying these very 
 words to their fellow-men. Hundreds of years 
 ago, men had thrown off the various fetters of
 
 » 
 
 THE PAINTER AND HIS PICTURE. 115 
 
 the various dogmas, and had bravely faced the 
 desolation of loneliness which freedom gives as 
 its inseparable gift. 
 
 Yet the painter thought he was the only free 
 man. But that is a way we all have. We think 
 we have unearthed some rare treasure. Like 
 children, we hasten to show what we have 
 found. And countless ages before we were 
 born, countless men have unearthed that very 
 treasure, each one for himself. 
 
 So the painter with his freedom. 
 
 One day an old man came to the painter's 
 studio. He was a man well known in certain 
 circles as a great thinker and philosopher. 
 Some people called him an atheist ; but these 
 were ignorant folk. But others who understood 
 better, called him one of those " to whom God 
 whispers in the ear." 
 
 His eye chanced to light on the unfinished 
 picture of God the Father supporting the arms 
 of God the Son. 
 
 The painter hastened to make excuses for 
 this picture.
 
 u6 IN VARYING MOO/'S. 
 
 " It belonged to my Past," he said. " I was 
 painting it, when all at once I began to doubt. 
 And then reason got the better of my senti- 
 ment. So I laid the picture aside. I meant 
 to burn it. But it had represented a certain 
 amount of work, and I had not the heart to 
 destroy it. So I let it lie. But some day I shall 
 destroy it." 
 
 Then the old man touched the painter on the 
 arm. 
 
 " Nay, nay," he said, gently. " Do not de- 
 stroy it. Some day, when you least think it, you 
 will wish that picture." 
 
 " You do not believe in my stability ? " said 
 the painter. " You think that I am one of those 
 who creep back thankfully to the bosom of the 
 Church?" 
 
 The old man smiled tenderly. 
 
 " My son, my son," he whispered, " you and 
 I need our God. We go back to him and learn 
 to know him only when we have freed oursehrs 
 from the dogmas and doctrines which have 
 risen up as barriers between him and us. We
 
 THE PAINTER AND HIS PICTURE. 1 17 
 
 leap over the barriers, and the impetus takes us 
 farther than was necessary. Then we retrace 
 those few steps — but they are not quickly re- 
 traced, — and then we find God : that great 
 Mystery which we call by different names, yet 
 always meaning God. You will finish your pic- 
 ture, my son. You wonder at my words, but 
 you will yet finish it : thinking different 
 thoughts, working in a different spirit : yet at 
 the same picture." 
 
 And the painter shook his head. 
 
 " Never," he said ; " never ! " 
 
 But one day in the years that came after- 
 wards, he chanced to look among his old 
 canvases. And there lay the picture of God 
 the Father supporting God the Son. 
 
 Time had mellowed the painter : time which 
 includes in its power suffering. 
 
 The words of the old philosopher, now dead, 
 stole across his memory, like some sweet sound 
 remembered.
 
 n8 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 And the painter set to work, lovingly and 
 patiently. A great peace came over him as he- 
 worked. He had begun the picture as a Fact, 
 a Reality : he finished it as a Symbol. 
 
 God was that Power, greater than ourselves, 
 or the noblest part of ourselves, without which 
 we could not struggle and conquer. 
 
 Christ was man : any man or any woman 
 making or attempting to make a noble thing of 
 life. 
 
 There was an expression of ineffable tender- 
 ness on the face of the Father. 
 
 And there was a strange mixture of suffering 
 and confidence on the face of the Son. 
 
 One might have expected him to whisper : " I 
 suffer, but all is well with me " ; just as sick 
 people, in the midst of their pain, look up and 
 smile, as though to give reassuring courage to 
 the watchers. 
 
 It was a beautiful picture : the work of a 
 peaceful and pious mind. 
 
 This was the last picture the artist ever 
 painted.
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER 
 
 A STUDY 
 
 no
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 
 
 FT was a winter's evening. The clock of St. 
 Sepulchre was striking six as Mr. Corio- 
 lanus Crocker, the umbrella-mender, rose from 
 his bench, laid aside his work, and shut up his 
 shop. He then retired into the little inner room, 
 made some tea, contrived a sandwich 5 and settled 
 himself down to an evening's enjoyment with 
 his books. In a few minutes he was lost in 
 the dear delights of Grote's Greece ; for Mr. 
 Crocker was a scholar, and looked such, even 
 when he was repairing umbrellas. One might 
 have expected him at any given minute to put 
 away his work, and deliver a lecture on some 
 abstruse subject : perhaps on the political as- 
 pects of the reign of Thothmes the Third, or 
 
 121
 
 122 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 on the Potentialities of the Differential Cal 
 cuius. One might have expected this in vain, 
 since Mr. Crocker was as sparing of his words 
 as most rich people are of their money. He 
 was short and shrivelled, and not unlike a thin 
 umbrella, a threadbare, shabbily-genteel um- 
 brella, with an uncompromising handle, and 
 a long-drawn piece of elastic, and an ancient 
 button, and a well-worn stick which wanted 
 r -tipping. 
 
 Mr. Crocker had a small face provided with 
 small piercing eyes. His hair was brown and 
 scanty. He had a habit of combing back this 
 hair with his thin hand when he was engaged 
 in contemplating an invalid umbrella, and won 
 dering whether it was worth a new stick, or a 
 new handle, or a new frame, or a nc\7 silk or 
 alpaca covering. 
 
 A piece of paper pasted on Mr. Crocker's 
 window announced that no customers were 
 wanted after six o'clock, and the neighbours 
 had learned that it was no light matter to dis- 
 turb the umbrella-mender when once the shut-
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 123 
 
 ters of the little shop had been put up. He 
 was thus usually enabled to enjoy Grote's 
 Greece without any possible fear of business- 
 annoyances. 
 
 But this evening, just as he was finishing an 
 account of the battle of Salamis, there came a 
 loud ring at the shop-bell. Mr. Crocker did not 
 pay the slightest active attention to this appeal, 
 but no doubt he was conscious of the disturb- 
 ance, for he looked up from his book, cast a few 
 indignant glances towards the shop-door, and 
 then poured himself out another cup of tea, and 
 returned to Grote and Greece. The bell rang 
 again, this time louder and more impatiently. 
 Mr. Coriolanus Crocker read on quietly. But 
 when the bell pealed a third time, he darted 
 into the shop, opened the door hurriedly, and 
 said : 
 
 " I won't have any customers after six o'clock. 
 There 's another umbrella-mender at the top of 
 the road. Go to him, and if he won't do your 
 work, go to the devil, for all I care ! " 
 
 " I am inclined to think I have arrived at the
 
 124 tN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 destination you mention," said the ringer of the 
 bell. " Allow me, however, to assure you that 
 1 am not a customer, and have not come to 
 see you about anything so uninteresting as 
 umbrellas. Probably you do not realise that it 
 nowing. I can understand that, for you are 
 -t. mding out of the snow, and I am standing in 
 the snow. Thank you, I will step in and tell 
 you my business." 
 
 Mr. Crocker raised the lamp to the stranger's 
 face. He looked about thirty years of age, and 
 had the appearance of being an unsuccessful 
 artist. 
 
 " I don't know you," said Mr. Crocker, put- 
 ting the lamp on the counter. " Please to tell 
 me your business and then go ; for my time 
 is precious, and I don't care to waste it on 
 strangers." 
 
 " I will be brief," answered the stranger, taking 
 a ring from his pocket. " This is your son's ring. 
 You recognise it ? Well, then, he is dying, and 
 wishes to see you before he says farewell to this 
 world. You'll excuse me, but I think we have
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 125 
 
 not much time to lose. He was well on the 
 road when I left him." 
 
 " My son dying," murmured the umbrella- 
 mender, as though to himself, " and dying he 
 turns to me. I am glad of that." 
 
 " I am ready," he said to the artist. He took 
 his hat from the peg, and together with the 
 stranger passed out of the shop. 
 
 " You are my son's friend, no doubt ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " No," replied the other, curtly. " I 'm low 
 enough, but I have not sunk to that degradation 
 yet." 
 
 " Do you refer to his personal character or to 
 his father's profession ? " asked the umbrella- 
 mender, fiercely. 
 
 " I 've nothing against his father's profession," 
 answered the stranger. " For my part, I should 
 think it is much better fun having umbrellas to 
 mend than having no pictures to paint. You get 
 bread and cheese on the one, but you starve on 
 the other. Then you die and go to hell, and not 
 -ul cares,"
 
 126 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 Then there was silence between them, and the 
 
 snow fell fast and thick. 
 
 "I suppose you loved your son once?" the 
 stranger said, after a pause. 
 
 " I have always loved my son," the umbrella- 
 mender answered. 
 
 " I wonder he did not turn out a better man, 
 if he had some one to care for him. That ought 
 to make such a difference to a fellow," said the 
 stranger, sadly. 
 
 " You are hard on the dying," said the um- 
 brella-mender. 
 
 " I hate your son ! " muttered the stranger. " I 
 hate him. He has come between me and all my 
 chances of success and happiness. And when he 
 is dead, I shall have to go after him, for it was my 
 hand that struck him down." 
 
 Mr. Crocker started back. 
 
 " Your hand ? " he cried. " And you dare to 
 tell me this ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " said the other, coolly. " I don't 
 value my life at a brass farthing. We 've got to
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 127 
 
 die, and it really does not matter much whether 
 we die on the gallows or on a feather-bed. We 
 have only a few steps to go now. We cross the 
 road, and turn down that narrow street opposite. 
 I beg of you to take my arm, sir ; the roads are 
 slippery, and you may fall." 
 
 The umbrella-mender shook off the stranger's 
 arm. 
 
 a 
 
 Don't touch me," he said, with a shudder. 
 I can understand you are naturally annoyed 
 with me," replied the other. " It would be too 
 absurd to suppose that a man would be friends 
 with a stranger who has murdered his son. 
 Follow me now." 
 
 They had arrived at a wretched house. The 
 door was opened by a little girl, who slunk away 
 immediately. They groped their way up some 
 rickety stairs, and went into a darkened room. 
 The artist struck a match and lit a candle and 
 held it over the bed. 
 
 "Your son is still alive," he whispered to the 
 umbrella-mender. " I am glad we are not too
 
 T23 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 late. I feared we should just miss him." Then 
 he closed the door gently, leaving the umbrella- 
 mender bending over his son. 
 
 " Marius ! " the father whispered, as he took 
 his son's hand and kissed it tenderly. " Marius, 
 you know me ? " 
 
 The dying man looked up. 
 
 " Dad ! " he murmured, " I 'venot been much 
 of a credit to you. Poor dad ! and you hoped 
 for so much from me. Well, it 's too late now. 
 But just kneel down, dad, and let my head rest on 
 your arm. Just like that." 
 
 And he died, with a peaceful smile on his face. 
 He had been nothing but a sorrow to his father, 
 nothing but a shame. His short life had been 
 crowded with crimes of every description, except 
 murder. He did not understand anything about 
 affection, or gratitude, or honour. But all the 
 same, he died witli a peaceful smile on his fat e, 
 his head resting, childlike, on his father's arm. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, the artist came ba< k 
 into the room and found the umbrella-mender 
 kneeling by the bedside. The candle had burned
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 129 
 
 very low, and the fire sent forth but a feeble 
 flicker. It was bitterly cold. 
 
 The artist spoke gently to the umbrella- 
 mender. 
 
 " I see your son is dead," he said, " and of 
 couise I hold myself responsible for his death, 
 and am prepared to pay any penalty. But mean- 
 while you are shivering with cold. Let me 
 persuade you to come nearer to the fireplace, 
 and to wrap yourself in this rug until I have 
 succeeded in rekindling the fire. The snow is 
 still falling fast, and the ground is covered with 
 a white garment. But it won't long remain 
 white — that 's the pity of it. Do not you think 
 so?" 
 
 The umbrella-mender withdrew his arm from 
 beneath his son's head, and suffered the stranger 
 to lead him to the fireside and help him into an 
 easy-chair. There was a look of intense pain on 
 the umbrella-mender's face. He watched his 
 son's murderer kneel down and attend to the 
 fire ; he watched every bit of stick put on to it, 
 
 and once he stooped forward and picked up a 
 
 9
 
 i 3 o IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 bit which had fallen from the bundle, and he 
 himself threw it into the fire. But the fire 
 would not draw, and so the stranger fetched a 
 newspaper, and he and the umbrella-mender 
 held it before the grate, until their patience and 
 perseverance were rewarded by success. 
 
 " It would be no trouble for me to make you 
 some coffee," said the stranger. " I was always 
 famous for my coffee. Your son used to praise 
 it." 
 
 "Thank you," said the umbrella-mender, half- 
 dreamily. "I should like some. I always 
 enjoy a good cup of coffee. One does not 
 often get it good in England." 
 
 " I suppose you don't object to my smoking 
 here ? " asked the stranger. " If you think it is 
 not quite reverent, just tell me so, and I shall 
 understand." 
 
 "Smoke by all means," replied the umbrella- 
 mender, watching the young man not unkindly. 
 
 The bright light of the fire fell full on his 
 handsome face ; there was no expression of 
 viciousness or wickedness, but a sort of dull
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 131 
 
 sadness, as though the young man had honestly 
 tried to make a good thing of life, and all the 
 world had been against him. 
 
 " Perhaps you will allow me to offer you a 
 cigarette," suggested the stranger. 'Your son 
 gave me these cigarettes a fortnight ago. They 
 are not strong. Try them." 
 
 "Thank you," said the umbrella-mender, 
 " but I do not smoke now." 
 
 The stranger nodded pleasantly, and put the 
 cigarettes back on the mantelshelf. He moved 
 about very quietly preparing the coffee, and in 
 a few minutes the comforting fragrance filled 
 the room. The umbrella-mender lifted the cup 
 to his lips, and drank long and deep. 
 
 "That was very refreshing," he said to the 
 stranger, who had settled himself down by the 
 fire, with his pipe in his mouth, and the coffee 
 on the fender. " You certainly can make a 
 good cup of coffee." 
 
 Suddenly he turned round and said quickly : 
 " It has just struck me that you may have added 
 poison to that coffee. I do not really mind if
 
 j 32 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 you have done this, but I should much like to 
 know. It would be quite natural for you to 
 wish to poison me, since I am probably the 
 only person who knows that you have murdered 
 my sou. I should not be in the least surprised 
 or angry, so I beg of you to tell me the truth." 
 
 He put his hand on the young man's arm, 
 almost caressingly. 
 
 " The idea never even entered my head, sir," 
 answered the young man. " You might guess 
 that, because I am drinking from the same 
 coffee-pot. I beg of you not to think badly of 
 me." 
 
 " But you have murdered my son," said the 
 umbrella-mender. " He lies there, struck down 
 by your hand ; at least, so you tell me. And I 
 see no reason why you should invent such a 
 story ; unless, perhaps, you 're mad. By the 
 way, I have not the pleasure of knowing your 
 name." 
 
 " My name is Bernard Dene," answered the 
 stranger, taking his tobacco-pouch from his 
 pockets and refilling his pipe. " At least, that is
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 133 
 
 what I choose to call myself. I thought that 
 was a good name for an artist, but it never 
 brought luck to me. It is hard when you have 
 the power and the wish to work, and you cannot 
 get anything to do. But I expect you do not 
 know what that means ; you are not unlucky." 
 
 "Not particularly so," said the umbrella- 
 mender, sipping his coffee. " Now I wish you 
 would oblige me by telling me something about 
 yourself. And I should very much like to 
 know why you have killed my son." 
 
 Then the young man drew closer to the old 
 man, and told him about himself. He had had 
 no chances in life, and if there were a God 
 of heaven and earth, as some people seemed to 
 think, that God of heaven and earth had a 
 strange way of taking care of those who needed 
 help, and hope, and encouragement. No one 
 had ever cared for him until he met a sweet 
 woman whom he married. And she had died 
 in giving birth to his little girl. That was six 
 years ago. He had never known his father ; 
 and as for his mother, it was very little she had
 
 134 JN VARYING Moons. 
 
 troubled herself about him. Nothing had ever 
 prospered with him : neither art, nor love, nor 
 friendship. Even his little girl did not love him ; 
 
 she had always seemed frightened of him ; 
 why, he could not guess. Still he had tried to 
 make the best he could of life, until Marius 
 Crocker came across his path. The end of it 
 was that Marius Crocker had betrayed the 
 woman whom Bernard Dene loved, and for 
 whom he was trying to work, hoping that he 
 might at last conquer failure, and win happiness 
 and peace. The man who had robbed him of 
 this last hope deserved to die. He had told 
 him that he would kill him, and Marius Croc :ker 
 had jeered at him. Well, he would not jeer any 
 more now. 
 
 ' That is my story, sir," he cried, excitedly. 
 " You see, I was obliged to kill your son. For- 
 give me, sir ; I say it with all due deference to 
 you : but the world is better without him. But I 
 fear I have hurt your feelings. I am very sorry." 
 
 The umbrella-mender stirred restlessly in his 
 chair.
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 135 
 
 " No, you have not hurt my feelings," he 
 murmured, half to himself, " for Marius was 
 never a son to me. In fact, I never knew what 
 a son's love meant. I have only read of such 
 love. But his life was different from yours : he 
 had every care, every thought bestowed on him. 
 But I feel sure that nothing could ever have 
 made him a good man. He had not the genius 
 for being good, just as I have not the genius for 
 painting. He broke his mother's heart, and 
 she died. He broke my heart ; but you see I 
 live on. Whilst I had money, Marius robbed 
 me. So I became poor, knowing that this was 
 my one chance of peace. When he realised 
 that I had no more money to give, he left me 
 alone, and that was the only merciful thing he 
 ever did for me. But with all this I loved 
 him. It is a way we have, you know, of loving 
 those who are a life's sorrow, a life's anxiety 
 to us." 
 
 He paused a moment, and then drew nearer 
 to the vouns man. 
 
 " And because I loved him, and because you
 
 136 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 killed him, you must die," he said, slowly. 
 
 Not that I sec there is any advantage in your 
 death : you, by your death, cannot bring him 
 back to life again, even if I wished him to 
 come back to life again. And I do not wish this. 
 He lies there, at least powerless to do evil, and 
 that is a gain for the world, and for him too. 
 But all the same, you must die, for several 
 reasons : first of all, for your own sake ; and 
 secondly, for my wife's sake ; and thirdly, for 
 your child's sake. You probably understand 
 the first and the third reasons ; and as for the 
 second, it is briefly this : women are revengeful. 
 I cannot hope that my wife's soul will greet my 
 soul in perfect love if our son Marius is una- 
 venged. The joy of our souls' meeting will thus 
 be marred, just because, to gratify my own 
 earthly wish, I shall have spared you. You see 
 plainly you must die. Rut I am sorry ; yes, I 
 am very sorry. You are a fine young fellow, and 
 I could have loved you." 
 
 Bernard Dene took his pipe from his mouth, 
 and bent forward eagerly.
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 137 
 
 " Thank you," he said ; " it was good of you 
 to say that. I shall never forget that. I sup- 
 pose you would not shake hands with me, would 
 you ? " 
 
 " By all means," answered the umbrella- 
 mender, warmly ; and he held out his hand, 
 which Bernard Dene grasped firmly. " I am 
 pleased to have made your acquaintance. You 
 seem to be a gallant young man, and you must 
 not lose heart about yourself. Ah ! but I 
 forgot that you had not long to live. I sup- 
 pose you will kill yourself to-night?" 
 
 "Yes; but not for an hour or so," said the 
 artist, rising. " I should like first to show you 
 some of my paintings, such as they are. I 
 made a portrait of him. You may be interested 
 in that. If it pleases you, I trust you will 
 accept it as a little remembrance of him and 
 me. What a terrible night ! It is still snow- 
 ing hard. I do not know how you will manage 
 about getting home. It was not fair to bring 
 you out. Perhaps it will be better for you to 
 remain here. I can easily make up a bed for
 
 138 JN VARYIS'il MOODS. 
 
 you ; or you could have mine. I shall not n 
 mine, you know." 
 
 "Thank you," said the umbrella-mender; 
 "but I think I will go home when it leaves off 
 snowing." 
 
 At that moment his eye detected an umbrella 
 resting against the window. He rose from his 
 chair by the fire and examined the umbrella. 
 
 " It wants mending," he said. " The frame- 
 work is strong, but it ought to be re-covered. 
 If you go in for usefulness, and not merely for 
 elegance, I should recommend alpaca. I will 
 take it home with me, and you must call for it 
 at your own convenience. I shall make no 
 charge. Ah ! I beg your pardon. I had for- 
 gotten. You will not require it, will you ?" 
 
 " Probably not," said the artist, smiling. 
 " There is the portrait of your son. It is the 
 best painting I have ever done. Let us take 
 it to the bedside, and then you will see what an 
 excellent likeness it is." 
 
 So these two men stood together by the bed- 
 side of Marius Crocker, now looking at his
 
 THE UMBkELLA-MENDER. 139 
 
 features fixed in death, and now looking at the 
 portrait, which seemed to be a living thing. 
 There was life in those eyes, there was life in 
 every thread of hair, there was life in every 
 vein. 
 
 The umbrella-mender turned away with a 
 nervous laugh. 
 
 "Put it in the dark," he said. "Put it 
 where I cannot see it." 
 
 Bernard Dene placed it with its face towards 
 the wall. 
 
 " That laugh was the laugh of a madman," he 
 said, half aloud. " I thought from the first you 
 were mad, but now I am sure of it." 
 
 The umbrella-mender laughed again quietly. 
 He warmed his hands by the fire. 
 
 " Do you mind burning that portrait ? " he 
 asked, suddenly. "The very thought of it 
 troubles me. I insist on its being burnt at once. 
 It is not agreeable of you to hesitate. It can- 
 not possibly matter to you, as you are going to 
 die so soon. And it matters very much to me." 
 
 He darted forward and seized the picture
 
 i 4 o IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 with both hands, and would have carried it at 
 once to the fire ; but the artist, roused to anger, 
 roughly prevented him, and for a moment the 
 two men struggled desperately. 
 
 Neither the one nor the other conquered ; 
 for suddenly something fell from the bed yon- 
 der, and the artist looked at the umbrella- 
 mender, and the umbrella-mender looked at 
 the artist, and they stood there together, 
 paralysed with fear, holding the picture be- 
 tween them; and the candle gave a feeble 
 flicker and went out, and the tick of the clock 
 during that suspense seemed to have become 
 louder and more painfully regular. 
 
 Then the artist spoke in a whisper. 
 
 "What was that?" he asked. "Perhaps he 
 is not dead after all. We will speak to him. 
 You call his name. Lean on my arm, for you 
 are trembling." 
 
 " And you are trembling too," whispered the 
 umbrella-mender. " Let me beseech you to be 
 quite calm. I will speak to him. Marius ! 
 Marius ! " he said, in an awed tone of voice.
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 141 
 
 But there was no answer. The artist put the 
 portrait in the umbrella-mender's hands, and 
 struck a match and lit another bit of candle, 
 and then peered around. A book had fallen 
 from the bed. Bernard Dene picked it up and 
 showed it to the umbrella-mender. He smiled 
 sorrowfully as he turned over the leaves and 
 looked at the simple illustrations. 
 
 " I remember now," he said. " This is my 
 little girl's book. He was fond of my little girl. 
 That was the one good thing about him. He 
 played with her, and read to her, and 
 talked to her, and I do believe he was as 
 tender as any mother with her. But even for 
 this I hated him, for she loved him better than 
 she loves me. I always knew there was no 
 place for me in this world. He bought her this 
 book. He probably cheated some one out of 
 the money, and then came home and gave her 
 pleasure. That was his way of doing things. 
 By the way, will you take care of my little girl 
 when I 'm gone ? Her name is Fairy. You 
 cannot but love her."
 
 142 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " I was going to propose that to you," said 
 the umbrella-mender, kindly. "I should like 
 to have her, and I think 1 have changed my 
 mind about that portrait. I should much like 
 to have it." 
 
 " I am glad of that," answered the artist, 
 warmly. " I do not care about my life, but I 
 am jealous for the life of my pictures. I leave 
 them all to you. They will help to pay you for 
 Fairy. The only one I do not wish you to sell 
 is the portrait of your son. You must hang 
 that in your umbrella-shop. Now I will go and 
 fetch my little girl, and then you must go home. 
 I am sure you will trust me to kill myself. I 
 flatter myself that I have never broken my word 
 to any one. I was born a gentleman, and I 
 will die a gentleman. At least I can do that." 
 
 The umbrella-mender held out his hand. 
 
 " I trust you implicitly," he said. " I will call 
 in to-morrow morning and look regretfully at 
 you. I shall always think kindly of you, and I 
 hope you will do the same of me. I only wish 
 that we had met under happier circumstances.
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 143 
 
 But unfortunately we have no choice in these 
 matters — no choice. I should tell you, though, 
 that I think you are undoubtedly mad. I flatter 
 myself that I am an excellent judge of character. 
 I should not make this remark about you, but 
 that you ventured to make it about me ; and as 
 I am not offended, there is no reason why you 
 should be offended. After all, you know, mad- 
 ness is only a relative term, like vice and virtue, 
 and everything else. For all we know, that 
 which we call courage here may be called cow- 
 ardice in the planet Venus. And similarly, 
 those who are called mad here may be called 
 sane there. Now fetch your little girl, and we 
 will leave you alone to die." 
 
 The artist closed the door quietly after him, 
 and the umbrella-mender, finding himself alone, 
 stood by the bed where his son lay dead, with 
 that peaceful smile on his face. 
 
 " I do not know of what you are thinking, 
 Marius," he whispered, as he put his hand on 
 that cold forehead, " but, for my own part, I am 
 glad you should smile happily. If you, who
 
 i4-t IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 have done so much evil, have nothing to fear in 
 death, then we, who have done less evil, Marius, 
 we can have nothing to fear. Farewell, my 
 son ; I do not grieve for you now. But whilst 
 you lived, my whole life was one great grief for 
 you. You bowed my head, you broke my heart. 
 But that only made me love you the more. 
 Farewell, Marius, my son." 
 
 He kissed the cold forehead, and, shivering, 
 passed over to the fireside, and once more ex- 
 amined the umbrella which he was going to take 
 home to mend. He combed his scanty brown 
 hair with his hand, as was his wont when en- 
 gaged in professional contemplation. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured, " this umbrella has a 
 good strong framework. Marius never had a 
 strong moral framework. I think human beings 
 are very like umbrellas, very like umbrell 
 But they do not last so well, and I do not think 
 they ever can be repaired ; they can only be 
 patched up for a time." 
 
 He was still holding the umbrella in his 
 hand, when Bernard Dene came into the room,
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 145 
 
 carrying a little fair-haired girl wrapped in a 
 grey shawl. She was crying, and looked terrified. 
 
 ' This is Fairy," the artist said. And then he 
 added almost pathetically : " She always cries 
 when she is with me. She is frightened of me ; 
 but she loved him yonder. Hush, child ! you 
 must not cry. You will wake him. He is tired, 
 and he wants to sleep. You may kiss him, on 
 the forehead. 
 
 " Oh, how cold ! " she said, shrinking back, 
 when her lips met the cold forehead. 
 
 'Yes, Fairy," her father said, fondling her 
 fair hair. " But it is snowing, you know. Every 
 one is cold when it is snowing." 
 
 " Put me down," she begged ; " I don't want 
 to be with you. Let me go to the little old 
 gentleman." 
 
 " She never loved me," murmured the artist ; 
 " it was every one else but me." 
 
 And he turned away and wept his whole heart 
 out, whilst the umbrella-mender was holding the 
 child in his arms, talking to her as though he 
 had known and loved her all her life, he who had
 
 146 JN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 never before held a child in his arms, except 
 Marius yonder. 
 
 " Will you come home with me, little one ? " 
 he asked, in a voice so gentle that Bernard Dene 
 ceased weeping and listened to it. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, smiling at him, and her 
 fair head rested on his shoulder. 
 
 " Then say ' good-bye ' to your father," he 
 said, "and we will go home at once." 
 
 " Good-bye, dad," she said, carelessly. It was 
 nothing to her to part from him. 
 
 " You '11 not see me again, Fairy," he said, 
 sadly. 
 
 " Sha'n't I ? " she asked. " Do you know, dad, 
 if he was n't so cold I should kiss him again ? I 
 think I 'd like to." 
 
 So they held her over him, and she kissed 
 him, and put her little arms around his neck. 
 Then they put his last gift-book in her hand, 
 and the umbrella-mender turned to the artist : 
 
 " I am sorry to leave you," he said, kindly ; 
 " but the hour has now come, and we must go 
 our own ways. You have a long way to go. Re-
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 147 
 
 member, I trust you implicitly. Farewell. I 
 shall see you to-morrow ; not as you are now, it 
 is true. I shall look upon what you were ; and 
 believe me, young man, I shall grieve for you. 
 Farewell, Bernard Dene. Even failure is only 
 a relative term, you know. And that which the 
 world calls failure may have some better name 
 in another planet. Therefore do not lose heart 
 about yourself." 
 
 The artist bowed his head : his right hand 
 rested on the child's head, his left hand on the 
 umbrella-mender's shoulder. 
 
 " You have spoken very kindly to me," he 
 said. " If there be a God, I trust that God may 
 bless you, and make your latter days happy and 
 peaceful. As for me, be assured that I shall 
 not break my word to you. I leave my child 
 and my pictures to you. Shall I see you home ? 
 The snow lies thick on the ground, and you do 
 not know the way very well, and it is bitterly 
 cold. Put on my overcoat. I shall not want it, 
 for I shall not go out again unless you would 
 like me to see you home,"
 
 148 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " Do not trouble to do that," said the um- 
 brella-mender. " Fairy and I will easily find 
 our way. And many thanks for the offer of the 
 coat. I should be grateful for it. Do not be 
 anxious about Fairy. I will take every care of 
 her. And now, good-night." 
 
 The artist followed them down the creaking 
 stairs, and opened the door for them to pass out. 
 He closed the door hastily after them. There 
 were a few men standing about, and some boys 
 were snowballing each other and laughing 
 lustily, and one of them, seeing the umbrella- 
 mender, prepared a huge missile, and was just 
 about to aim it at his head, when a great coarse- 
 looking woman prevented him. 
 
 " Hold hard ! " she cried, with an oath. " It 's 
 the mad painter's little daughter. Snowball me, 
 not her." 
 
 Fairy clung closer to the umbrella-mender. 
 
 " That 's what they always call him," she 
 whispered, dreamily, " mad, mad, — what can it 
 mean ? " 
 
 But before he could answer her, she had
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. I49 
 
 fallen into a gentle sleep ; and thus he bore 
 her along the snow-covered streets, careful of 
 every step he took, lest perchance he might 
 slip and rouse her from her slumbers. Her 
 little golden head rested against his face, and 
 her little hands tightly clasped his neck, and 
 he loved to feel her touch, remembering that 
 she, and she alone, had called forth what good 
 there was in his son's evil nature. The world 
 might call him bad, for such he had proved 
 himself to be to the world ; but this child said 
 he was good, for such he had shown himself 
 to be to her. It was something in his favour 
 that he had won this child's love : maybe it 
 would go all the better with him hereafter be- 
 cause her lips had touched his cold forehead. 
 
 So the umbrella-mender carried her to the 
 umbrella shop. He laid her tenderly on the 
 counter, well wrapped in the warm grey shawl. 
 He lit the lamp, and made up the fire in the 
 ittle inner room, and then, to the best of his 
 ability, improvised a cosy bed, where he placed 
 er, just as she was. Then he knelt by her
 
 150 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 and guarded her for a while, smiling content- 
 edly when he saw her smiling in her sleep. 
 After an hour or so he left her, and carefully 
 shading the lamp from her eyes, he settled 
 down to read a few pages of Grote's Greece 
 in which he had been engaged when he was 
 summoned away to his son's death-bed. He 
 tried to collect his thoughts and concentrate 
 them on the subject, which had a great inter- 
 est for him ; but he found himself thinking 
 now of the artist, now of his son, and he 
 found his eyes wandering away from the pages 
 of Grote's history to the spot yonder where 
 the child was sleeping and smiling, and hold- 
 ing tightly in her hands Marius Crocker's last 
 gift-book. 
 
 "What will she prove?" he said aloud. 
 " Her father is undoubtedly mad. It is a 
 curious sensation being with a madman. My 
 heart stood still within me when we were 
 struggling for that picture. Fancy him being 
 quite willing to kill himself because he had 
 murdered Marius ? If he had not been mad,
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. i*i 
 
 he would have sent me after Marius, instead 
 of choosing to go himself. Well, he is a fine 
 young fellow, and it is a pity he should die.'* 
 
 Then he laughed softly. 
 
 " Of course he was mad : his eyes told me 
 that. Still, I am glad to have made his ac- 
 quaintance. I shall always think of him with 
 pleasure. I wonder how he will get on in the 
 next planet ! I trust he will be happy and 
 successful." 
 
 And meanwhile the artist, alone with the 
 dead man, wrote out his will. It was briefly 
 this : 
 
 "To Coriolanus Crocker, of 30 Stone Street, 
 umbrella-mender and madman, I leave my little 
 girl Fairy and all my pictures signed with my 
 name. Any of my pictures, except the por- 
 trait of Marius Crocker, whom I have killed, 
 may be sold by Coriolanus Crocker, Marius 
 Crocker's father. 
 
 "Bernard Dene. 
 
 " 24M January, 1878."
 
 152 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "Some one ought to witness this," he said 
 to himself, rising up with the pen in his hand. 
 Ilis eyes fell on his silent companion. "To 
 be sure ! " he cried. " A capita] idea ! Ma- 
 rius himself shall witness my last will and tes- 
 tament." 
 
 He took the cold hand in his own, and pui 
 the pen between the thumb and the first fin 
 ger, and made it trace out the signature 
 " Marins Crocker, dead man." 
 
 He smiled, and rubbed his hands together, 
 as though he were quite delighted with him- 
 self. 
 
 "Now I must kill myself," he said, as he 
 dried the paper before the fire. " And I think 
 that is about all. Fancy that madman trusting 
 me to kill myself ! No sane man would have 
 done such a thing. I saw from the beginning 
 that he was mad. There was no mistaking 
 the look in his eyes." 
 
 Suddenly he became pensive. 
 But the umbrella-mender spoke very kindly 
 to me," he murmured to himself, "and he did
 
 THE UMBRELLA-MENDER. 153 
 
 not once reproach me for having killed Ma- 
 rius. In fact he behaved like a gentleman. 
 And he said something about failure, which 
 struck me as being comforting. Well, I trust 
 that his latter days may be happy and peace- 
 ful. That is what we want — peace. I have 
 never known peace : there was always confu- 
 sion and tumult in my brain. Perhaps death 
 brings peace. I shall soon find out about 
 that. . . ." 
 
 The people of the house heard the report 
 of a pistol. They rushed up to the artist's 
 room, expecting to have to break open the 
 door. But it was not even closed against 
 them ; so they passed through without delay, 
 and found the artist fallen on the ground. 
 They raised his head gently. 
 
 " I killed that man yonder," he whispered. 
 " Let that be clearly understood. You did 
 not know the umbrella-mender, did you ? He 
 is undoubtedly " 
 
 At that moment the artist died.
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 
 
 TT was about four in the afternoon when a 
 young girl came into the salon of the little 
 hotel at C. in Switzerland, and drew her chair 
 up to the fire. 
 
 " You are soaked through," said an elderly 
 lady, who was herself trying to get roasted. 
 " You ought to lose no time in changing your 
 clothes." 
 
 " I have not anything to change," said the 
 young girl, laughing. "Oh, I shall soon be 
 
 dry!" 
 
 " Have you lost all your luggage ? " asked the 
 
 lady, sympathetically. 
 
 "No," said the young girl, " I had none to 
 lose." And she smiled a little mischievously, as 
 though she knew by instinct that her compan- 
 
 157
 
 158 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 ion's sympathy would at once degenerate into 
 suspicion ! 
 
 " I don't mean to say that I have not a knap- 
 sack," she added, considerately. " I have 
 walked a long distance — in fact from Z." 
 
 " And where did you leave your compan- 
 ions ?" asked the lady, with a touch of forgive- 
 ness in her voice. 
 
 " I am without companions, just as I am with- 
 out luggage," laughed the girl. 
 
 And then she opened the piano, and struck a 
 few notes. There was something caressing in 
 the way in which she touched the keys : who- 
 ever she was, she knew how to make sweet music ; 
 sad music, too, full of that undefinable longing, 
 like the holding out of one's arms to one's 
 friends in the hopeless distance. 
 
 The lady bending over the fire looked up at 
 the little girl, and forgot that she had brought 
 neither friends nor luggage with her. She hesi- 
 tated for one moment, and then she took the 
 childish face between her hands and kissed it.
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 159 
 
 " Thank you, dear, for your music," she said, 
 gently. 
 
 " The piano is terribly out of tune," said the 
 little girl suddenly, and she ran out of the room 
 and came back carrying her knapsack. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " asked her com- 
 panion. 
 
 " I am going to tune the piano," the little girl 
 said ; and she took a tuning-hammer out of her 
 knapsack, and began her work in real earnest. 
 She evidently knew what she was about, and 
 pegged away at the notes as though her whole 
 life depended on the result. 
 
 The lady by the fire was lost in amazement. 
 Who could she be ? Without luggage and with- 
 out friends, and with a tuning-hammer ! 
 
 Meanwhile one of the gentlemen had strolled 
 into the salon ; but hearing the sound of tuning, 
 and being in secret possession of nerves, he fled, 
 saying, " The tuner, by Jove ! " 
 
 A few minutes afterwards, Miss Blake, whose 
 nerves were no secret possession, hastened into
 
 i6o IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 the salon, and in her usual imperious fashion de- 
 manded instant silence. 
 
 " I have just done," said the little girl. " The 
 piano was so terribly out of tune; I could not 
 resist the temptation." 
 
 Miss Blake, who never listened to what any 
 one said, took it for granted that the little girl 
 was the tuner, for whom M. le Propri^taire had 
 promised to send ; and having bestowed on her 
 a condescending nod, passed out into the gar- 
 den, where she told some of the visitors that the 
 piano had been tuned at last, and that the tuner 
 was a young woman of rather eccentric appear- 
 ance. 
 
 " Really, it is quite abominable how women 
 thrust themselves into every profession," she 
 remarked, in her masculine voice. "It is so 
 unfeminine, so unseemly." 
 
 There was nothing of the feminine about Miss 
 Blake : her horse-cloth dress, her waistcoat and 
 high collar, and her billy-cock hat were of the 
 in is< aline genus ; even her nerves could not be 
 < lied feminine, since we learn from two or
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 161 
 
 three doctors (taken off their guard) that nerves 
 are neither feminine nor masculine, but com- 
 mon. 
 
 " I should like to see this tuner," said one of 
 the tennis-players, leaning against a tree. 
 
 " Here she comes," said Miss Blake, as the 
 little girl was seen sauntering into the garden. 
 
 The men put up their eye-glasses, and saw a 
 little lady with a childish face and soft brown 
 hair, of strictly feminine appearance and bear- 
 ing. The goat came towards her and began 
 nibbling at her frock. She seemed to under- 
 stand the manner of goats, and played with him 
 to his heart's content. One of the tennis-players, 
 Oswald Everard by name, strolled down to the 
 bank where she was having her frolic. 
 
 " Good afternoon," he said, raising his cap. 
 " I hope the goat is not worrying you. Poor lit- 
 tle fellow ! This is his last day of play. He is 
 to be killed to-morrow for table d'hote." 
 
 " What a shame ! " she said. " Fancy to be 
 killed, and then grumbled at ! " 
 
 ' That is precisely what we do here," he said,
 
 162 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 laughing. " We grumble at everything we eat. 
 And 1 own to being one of the grumpiest ; 
 though the lady in the horse-cloth dress yonder 
 follows close upon my heels." 
 
 " She was the lady who was annoyed at me 
 be< ause I tuned the piano," the little girl said. 
 "Still, it had to be done. It was plainly my 
 duty. I seemed to have come for that pur- 
 pose." 
 
 " It has been confoundedly annoying having 
 it out of tune," he said. " I \e had to give up 
 singing altogether. But what a strange profes- 
 sion you have chosen! Very unusual, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Why, surely not," she answered, amused. 
 " It seems to me that every other woman has 
 taken to it. The wonder to me is that any one 
 ever scores a success. Nowadays, however, no 
 one could amass a huge fortune out of it." 
 
 " No one, indeed ! " replied Oswald Everard, 
 laughing. " What on earth made you take to 
 it?" 
 
 " It took to me," she said, simply. " It wrapt
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 163 
 
 me round with enthusiasm. I could think of 
 nothing else. I vowed that I would rise to the 
 top of my profession. I worked day and night. 
 But it means incessant toil for years if one 
 wants to make any headway." 
 
 " Good gracious ! I thought it was merely a 
 matter of a few months," he said, smiling at the 
 little girl. 
 
 " A few months," she repeated, scornfully. 
 " You are speaking the language of an amateur. 
 No : one has to work faithfully year after year ; 
 to grasp the possibilities and pass on to greater 
 possibilities. You imagine what it must feel 
 like to touch the notes, and know that you are 
 keeping the listeners spellbound ; that you are 
 taking them into a fairyland of sound, where 
 petty personality is lost in vague longing and 
 regret." 
 
 " I confess I had not thought of it in that 
 way," he said, humbly. " I have only regarded 
 it as a necessary every-day evil ; and to be quite 
 honest with you, I fail to see now how it can 
 inspire enthusiasm. I wish I could see," he
 
 164 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 added, looking up at the engaging little figure 
 before him. 
 
 " Never mind," she said, laughing at his dis- 
 tress ; " I forgive you. And after all, you are 
 not the only person who looks upon it as a 
 necessary evil. My poor old guardian abomi- 
 nated it. He made many sacrifices to come and 
 listen to me. He knew I liked to see his kind 
 old face, and that the presence of a real friend 
 inspired me with confidence." 
 
 " I should not have thought it was nervous 
 work," he said. 
 
 " Try it and see," she answered. " But surely 
 you spoke of singing. Are you not nervous when 
 you sing ?" 
 
 " Sometimes," he replied, rather stiffly. " But 
 that is slightly different." (He was very proud 
 of his singing, and made a great fuss about it.) 
 " Your profession, as I remarked before, is an 
 unavoidable nuisance. When I think what I 
 have suffered from the gentlemen of your pro- 
 fession, I only wonder that I have any brains 
 left. But I am uncourteous."
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNE V. 165 
 
 " No, no," she said. " Let me hear about 
 your sufferings." 
 
 " Whenever I have specially wanted to be 
 quiet," he said ; and then he glanced at her 
 childish little face, and he hesitated. " It seems 
 so rude of me," he added. He was the soul of 
 courtesy, although he was an amateur tenor 
 singer. 
 
 " Please tell me," the little girl said, in her 
 winning way. 
 
 " Well," he said, gathering himself together, 
 "it is the one subject on which I can be elo- 
 quent. Ever since I can remember, I have been 
 worried and tortured by those rascals. I have 
 tried in everyway to escape from them, but there 
 is no hope for me. Yes ; I believe that all the 
 tuners in the universe are in league against me, 
 and have marked me out for their special prey." 
 
 " All the what ? " asked the little girl, with a 
 jerk in her voice. 
 
 " All the tuners, of course," he replied, rather 
 snappishly. " I know that we cannot do without 
 them ; but, good heavens ! they have no tact, no
 
 l66 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 consideration, no mercy. Whenever I 've wanted 
 to write or read quietly, that fatal knock has come 
 at the door, and I 've known by instinct that all 
 chance of peace was over. Whenever I 've been 
 giving a luncheon-party, the tuner has arrived, 
 with Ids abominable black bag, and his abomi- 
 nable card, which has to be signed at once. < >n 
 one occasion I was just proposing to a girl in her 
 father's library, when the tuner struck up in the 
 drawing-room. I left off suddenly, and fled from 
 the house. But there is no escape from these 
 fiends : I believe they are swarming about in the 
 air like so many bacteria. And how, in the name 
 of goodness, you should deliberately choose to be 
 one of them, and should be so enthusiastic over 
 your work, puzzles me beyond all words. Don't 
 say that you carry a black bag, and present cards 
 which have to be filled up at the most inconvenient 
 
 time : don't " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, for the little girl was 
 convulsed with laughter. She latghed until the 
 tears rolled down her cheeks ; and then she 
 dried her eyes and laughed again.
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 167 
 
 " Excuse me," she said, " I can't help myself ; 
 it 's so funny." 
 
 " It may be funny to you," he said, laughing 
 in spite of himself ; " but it is not funny to 
 me." 
 
 " Of course it is n't," she replied, making a 
 desperate effort to be serious. "Well, tell me 
 something more about these tuners." 
 
 " Not another word," he said, gallantly. " I 
 am ashamed of myself as it is. Come to the 
 end of the garden, and let me show you the 
 view down into the valley." 
 
 She had conquered her fit of merriment, but 
 her face wore a settled look of mischief, and she 
 was evidently the possessor of some secret joke. 
 She seemed in capital health and spirits, and had 
 so much to say that was bright and interesting, 
 that Oswald Everard found himself becoming 
 reconciled to the whole race of tuners. He was 
 amazed to learn that she had walked all the way 
 from Z., and quite alone too. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think anything of that," she said ; 
 " I had a splendid time, and I caught four rare
 
 i68 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 butterflies. I would not have missed those for 
 anything. As for the going about by myself, 
 that is a second nature. Besides, I do not be- 
 long to any one. That has its advantages, and 
 I suppose its disadvantages ; but at present I 
 have only discovered the advantages. The 
 disadvantages will discover themselves ! " 
 
 " I believe you are what the novels call an 
 advanced young woman," he said. "Perhaps 
 you give lectures on Woman's Suffrage or some- 
 thing of that sort ? " 
 
 " I have very often mounted the platform," 
 she answered. " In fact, I am never so happy 
 as when addressing an immense audience. A 
 most unfeminine thing to do, is n't it ? What 
 would the lady yonder in the horse-cloth dress 
 and billy-cock hat say ? Don't you think you 
 ought to go and help her drive away the goat? 
 She looks so frightened. She interests me 
 deeply. I wonder whether she has written an 
 essay on the Feminine in Woman. I should 
 like to read it : it would do me so much good." 
 
 " You are at least a true woman," he said,
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 169 
 
 laughing, " for I see you can be spiteful. The 
 tuning has not driven that away." 
 
 " Ah, I had forgotten about the tuning," she 
 answered, brightly ; " but now you remind me, I 
 have been seized with a great idea." 
 
 " Won't you tell it to me ? " he asked. 
 
 " No," she answered. " I keep my great ideas 
 for myself, and work them out in secret. And 
 this one is particularly amusing. What fun I 
 shall have ! " 
 
 " But why keep the fun to yourself ? " he said. 
 " We all want to be amused here ; we all want to 
 be stirred up : a little fun would be a charity." 
 
 "Very well, since you wish it, you shall be 
 stirred up," she answered ; "but you must give 
 me time to work out my great idea. I do not 
 hurry about things, not even about my profes- 
 sional duties. For I have a strong feeling that 
 it is vulgar to be always amassing riches ! As I 
 have neither a husband nor a brother to support, 
 I have chosen less wealth, and more leisure to 
 enjoy all the loveliness of life ! So you see I 
 take my time about everything. And to-morrow
 
 i 7 o IN VARYING MOO PS. 
 
 I shall catch butterflies at my Leisure, and lie 
 
 amongst the dear old pines, and work at mj 
 great idea." 
 
 " I shall catch butterflies," said her com- 
 panion. " And I too shall lie amongst the dear 
 old pines." 
 
 "Just as you please," she said ; and at that 
 moment the table d'hote bell rang. 
 
 The little girl hastened to the bureau and 
 spoke rapidly in German to the cashier. 
 
 " Ach, Fraulein ! " he said. ' You are not 
 really serious ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am," she said. " I don't want them to 
 know my name. It will only worry me. Say I 
 am the young lady who tuned the piano." 
 
 She had scarcely given these directions and 
 mounted to her room, when Oswald Everard, 
 who was much interested in his mysterious com- 
 panion, came to the bureau and asked for the 
 name of the little lady. 
 
 " Es ist das Fraulein welches das Piano ge- 
 stimmt hat," answered the man, returning with 
 unusual quickness to his account-book.
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 1 71 
 
 No one spoke to the little girl at table d'hote , 
 but for all that, she enjoyed her dinner, and gave 
 her serious attention to all the courses. Being 
 thus solidly occupied, she had not much leisure 
 to bestow on the conversation of the othei 
 guests. Nor was it specially original : it treated 
 of the shortcomings of the chef, the tastelessness 
 of the soup, the toughness of the beef, and all 
 the many failings which go to complete a moun- 
 tain-hotel dinner. But suddenly, so it seemed to 
 the little girl, this time-honoured talk passed 
 into another phase : she heard the word music 
 mentioned, and she became at once interested to 
 learn what these people had to say on a subject 
 which was dearer to her than any other. 
 
 " For my own part," said a stern-looking old 
 man, " I have no words to describe what a 
 gracious comfort music has been to me all my 
 life. It is the noblest language which man may 
 understand and speak. And I sometimes think 
 that those who know it, or know something of it, 
 are able at rare moments to find an answer to 
 life's perplexing problems."
 
 172 IN VARYING Moons. 
 
 The little girl looked up from her plate. 
 Robert Browning's words rose to her lips, but 
 she did not give them utterance : 
 
 " God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear ; 
 The rest may reason, and welcome ; 't is we musicians 
 know." 
 
 " I have lived through a long life," said 
 another elderly man, " and have therefore had 
 my share of trouble ; but the grief of being 
 obliged to give up music was the grief which 
 held me longest, or which perhaps has never 
 left me. I still crave for the gracious pleasure 
 of touching once more the strings of the violon- 
 cello, and hearing the dear tender voice singing 
 and throbbing and answering even to such poor 
 skill as mine. I still yearn to take my part in 
 concerted music, and be one of those privilege d 
 to pi ethoven's string quartettes. But that 
 
 will have to be in another incarnation, I think." 
 
 He glanced at his shrunken arm, and then, as 
 though ashamed of this allusion to his own per- 
 sonal infirmity, he added hastily : 
 
 " But when the first pang of such a pain is
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOUR XT Y. 173 
 
 over, there remains the comfort of being a 
 listener. At first one does not think it a com- 
 fort ; but, as time goes on, there is no resisting 
 its magic influence. And Lowell said rightly, 
 ' that one of God's great charities is music' " 
 
 " I did not know you were musical, Mr. 
 Keith," said an English lady. " You have never 
 before spoken of music." 
 
 " Perhaps not, madam," he answered. " One 
 does not often speak of what one cares for most 
 of all. But when I am in London, I rarely miss 
 hearing our best players." 
 
 At this point others joined in, and the various 
 merits of eminent pianists were warmly dis- 
 cussed. 
 
 " What a wonderful name that little English 
 lady has made for herself ! " said the Major, who 
 was considered an authority on all subjects. " I 
 would go anywhere to hear Miss Thyra Flower- 
 dew. We all ought to be very proud of her. She 
 has taken even the German musical world by 
 storm, and they say her recitals at Paris have 
 been brilliantly successful. I myself have heard
 
 174 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 her at New York, Leipsic, London, Berlin, and 
 even Chicago." 
 
 The little girl stirred uneasily in her chair. 
 
 " I don't think Miss Flowerdew has ever been 
 to Chicago," she said. 
 
 There was a dead silence. The admirer of 
 Miss Thyra Klowerdew looked much annoyed, 
 and twiddled his watch-chain. He had meant 
 to say Philadelphia, but he did not think it 
 necessary to own to his mistake. 
 
 " What impertinence ! " said one of the ladies 
 to Miss Blake. "What can she know about it ? 
 Is she not the young person who tuned the 
 piano ? " 
 
 " Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdew's 
 piano ! " suggested Miss Blake in a loud 
 whisper. 
 
 " You are right, madam," said the little girl, 
 quietly. ' I have often tuned Miss Flowerdew's 
 piano." 
 
 There was another embarrassing silence ; and 
 then a lovely old lady, whom every one rever- 
 enced, came to the rescue.
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 175 
 
 " I think her playing is simply superb," she 
 said. " Nothing that I ever hear satisfies me so 
 entirely. She has all the tenderness of an angel's 
 touch." 
 
 " Listening to her," said the Major, who had 
 now recovered from his annoyance at being 
 interrupted, " one becomes unconscious of her 
 presence, for she is the music itself. And that is 
 rare. It is but seldom nowadays that we are 
 allowed to forget the personality of the player. 
 And yet her personality is an unusual one : hav- 
 ing once seen her, it would not be easy to forget 
 her. I should recognise her anywhere." 
 
 As he spoke, he glanced at the little tuner, 
 and could not help admiring her dignified com- 
 posure under circumstances which might have 
 been distressing to any one ; and when she rose 
 with the others, he followed her, and said stiffly : 
 
 " I regret that I was the indirect cause of 
 putting you in an awkward position." 
 
 " It is really of no consequence," she said, 
 brightly. " If you think I was impertinent, I 
 ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to be
 
 176 TN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 officious. The words were spoken before I was 
 aware of them." 
 
 She passed into the salon, where she found a 
 quiel corner for herself, and read some of the 
 newspapers. No one took the slightest notice 
 of her : not a word was spokeft to her ; hut when 
 she relieved the company of her presence, her 
 impertinence was commented on. 
 
 " I am sorry that she heard what I said," re- 
 marked Miss lUake. "But she did not seem to 
 mind. These young women who go out into 
 the world lose the edge of their sensitiveness and 
 femininity. I have always observed that." 
 
 " How much they are spared then ! " answered 
 some one. 
 
 Meanwhile the little girl slept soundly. She 
 had merry dreams, and finally woke up laugh- 
 ing. She hurried over her breakfast, and then 
 stood ready to go for a butterfly-hunt. She 
 looked thoroughly happy, and evidently had 
 found, and was holding tightly, the key to 1,' 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Oswald Everard was waiting on the balcony,
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNE Y. 177 
 
 and he reminded her that he intended to go 
 with her. 
 
 " Come along, then," she answered ; " we 
 must not lose a moment." 
 
 They caught butterflies, they picked flowers, 
 they ran ; they lingered by the wayside, they 
 sang ; they climbed, and he marvelled at her 
 easy speed. Nothing seemed to tire her, and 
 everything seemed to delight her : the flowers, 
 the birds, the clouds, the grasses, and the fra- 
 grance of the pine-woods. 
 
 " Is it not good to live?" she cried. "Is it 
 not splendid to take in the scented air ? Draw 
 in as many long breaths as you can. Is n't it 
 good ? Don't you feel now as though you were 
 ready to move mountains ? I do. What a dear 
 old nurse Nature is ! How she pets us, and gives 
 us the best of her treasures ! " 
 
 Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard's 
 soul, and he felt like a schoolboy once more, re- 
 joicing in a fine day and his liberty ; with noth- 
 ing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing 
 to threaten the freedom of the moment, 
 
 IZ
 
 178 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " Is it not good to live ?" he cried. "Yes, 
 indeed it is, if we know how to enjoy." 
 
 They had conic upon some haymakers, and 
 the little girl hastened up to help them. There 
 she was in the midst of them, laughing and talk- 
 ing to the women, and helping them to pile up 
 the hay on the shoulders of abroad-backed man, 
 who then conveyed his burden to a pear-shaped 
 stack. Oswald Everard watched his companion 
 for a moment, and then, quite forgetting his dig- 
 nity as an amateur tenor singer, he too lent his 
 aid, and did not leave off until his companion 
 sank exhausted on the ground. 
 
 " Oh," she laughed, " what delightful work 
 for a very short time ! Come along ; let us go 
 into that brown chalet yonder and ask for some 
 milk. I am simply parched with thirst. Thank 
 you, but I prefer to carry my own flowers." 
 
 " What an independent little lady you are ! " 
 he said. 
 
 " It is quite necessary in our profession, I can 
 assure you," she said, with a tone of mischief in 
 her voice, " That reminds me that my profes-
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 179 
 
 sion is evidently not looked upon with any 
 favour by the visitors at the hotel. I am heart- 
 broken to think that I have not won the esteem 
 of that lady in the billy-cock hat. What will 
 she say to you for coming out with me ? And 
 what will she say of me for allowing you to 
 come ? I wonder whether she will say, ' How 
 unfeminine ! ' I wish I could hear her ! " 
 
 " I don't suppose you care," he said. " You 
 seem to be a wild little bird." 
 
 " I don't care what a person of that descrip- 
 tion says," replied his companion. 
 
 "What on earth made you contradict the 
 Major at dinner last night ? " he asked. " I was 
 not at the table, but some one told me of the 
 incident ; and I felt very sorry about it. What 
 could you know of Miss Thyra Flowerdew ? " 
 
 " Well, considering that she is in my profes- 
 sion, of course I know something about her," 
 said the little girl. 
 
 " Confound it all ! " he said, rather rudely. 
 " Surely there is some difference between the 
 bellows-blower and the organist,"
 
 180 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "Absolutely none," she answered — "merely 
 a variation of the original theme ! " 
 
 As she spoke she knocked at the door of the 
 chalet, and asked the old dame to give them 
 some milk. They sat in the Stube, and the little 
 girl looked about, and admired the spinning- 
 wheel, and the quaint chairs, and the queer old 
 jugs, and the pictures on the walls. 
 
 " Ah, but you shall see the other room," the 
 old peasant woman said, and she led them into 
 a small apartment, which was evidently intended 
 for a study. It bore evidences of unusual taste 
 and care, and one could see that some loving 
 hand had been trying to make it a real sanctum 
 of refinement. There was even a small piano. 
 A carved book-rack was fastened to the wall. 
 
 The old dame did not speak at first ; she gave 
 her guests time to recover from the astonish- 
 ment which she felt they must be experiencing ; 
 then she pointed proudly to the piano. 
 
 " I bought that for my daughters," she said, 
 with a strange mixture of sadness and triumph. 
 11 I wanted to keep them at home with me, and
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. iSl 
 
 I saved and saved and got enough money to buy 
 the piano. They had always wanted to have 
 one, and I thought they would then stay with 
 me. They liked music and books, and I knew 
 they would be glad to have a room of their own 
 where they might read and play and study ; and 
 so I gave them this corner." 
 
 "Well, mother," asked the little girl, "and 
 where are they this afternoon ? " 
 
 " Ah," she answered, sadly, " they did not care 
 to stay. But it was natural enough ; and I was 
 foolish to grieve. Besides, they come to see me." 
 
 " And then they play to you ? " asked the little 
 girl, gently. 
 
 " They say the piano is out of tune," the old 
 dame said. " I don't know. Perhaps you can 
 tell." 
 
 The little girl sat down to the piano, and 
 struck a few chords. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " It is badly out of tune. 
 Give me the tuning-hammer. I am sorry," she 
 added, smiling at Oswald Everard, " but I can- 
 not neglect my duty. Don't wait for me."
 
 1&2 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " I will wait for you," he said, sullenly ; and 
 he went into the balcony and smoked his pipe, 
 and tried to possess his soul in patience. 
 
 When she had faithfully done her work, she 
 played a few simple melodies, such as she knew 
 the old woman would love and understand ; and 
 she turned away when she saw that the listener's 
 eyes were moist. 
 
 " Play once again," the old woman whispered. 
 " I am dreaming of beautiful things." 
 
 So the little tuner touched the keys again 
 with all the tenderness of an angel. 
 
 "Tell your daughters," she said, as she rose 
 to say good-bye, " that the piano is now in good 
 tune. Then they will play to you the next time 
 they come." 
 
 " I shall always remember you, mademoi- 
 selle," the old woman said ; and, almost uncon- 
 sciously, she too took the childish face and 
 kissed it. 
 
 Oswald Everard was waiting in the hay-field 
 for his companion ; and when she apologised to 
 him for this little professional intermezzo, as
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 183 
 
 she called it, he recovered from his sulkiness 
 and readjusted his nerves, which the noise of 
 the tuning had somewhat disturbed. 
 
 " It was very good of you to tune the old 
 dame's piano," he said, looking at her with 
 renewed interest. 
 
 " Some one had to do it, of course," she 
 answered, brightly, " and I am glad the chance 
 fell to me. What a comfort it is to think that 
 the next time those daughters come to see her, 
 they will play to her, and make her very happy. 
 Poor old dear ! " 
 
 " You puzzle me greatly," he said. " I can- 
 not for the life of me think what made you 
 choose your calling. You must have many 
 gifts ; any one who talks with you must see that 
 at once. And you play quite nicely too." 
 
 " I am sorry that my profession sticks in your 
 throat," she answered. " Do be thankful that T 
 am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might be 
 something worse — a snob, for instance." 
 
 And, so speaking, she dashed after a butterfly, 
 and left him to recover from her words. He
 
 1S4 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 wis conscious of having deserved a reproof; 
 and when at hist he overtook her, he said as 
 much, and asked for her kind indulgence. 
 
 "I forgive you," she said, laughing. "You 
 and I are not looking at things from the same 
 point of view ; but we have had a splendid 
 morning together, and I have enjoyed every 
 minute of it. And to-morrow I go on my 
 way." 
 
 " And to-morrow you go," he repeated. " Can 
 it not be the day after to-morrow ?" 
 
 " I am a bird of passage," she said, shaking 
 her head. " You must not seek to detain me. 
 I have taken my rest, and off I go to other 
 climes." 
 
 They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald 
 Everard saw no more of his companion until 
 the evening, when she came down rather late for 
 ! ible d'hote. She hurried over her dinner and 
 went into the salon. She closed the door and 
 sat down to the piano, and lingered there with- 
 out touching the keys : once or twice she raised
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY. 185 
 
 ner hands, and then she let them rest on the 
 notes, and half-unconsciously they began to 
 move and make sweet music, and then they 
 
 drifted into Schumann's Abcndlied, and then 
 
 * 
 the little girl played some of his Kinderscenen, 
 
 and some of his Fantasie Stiicke, and some of his 
 
 songs. 
 
 Her touch and feeling were exquisite ; and 
 her phrasing betrayed the true musician. The 
 strains of music reached the dining-room, and 
 one by one the guests came creeping in, moved 
 by the music and anxious to see the musician. 
 
 The little girl did not look up : she was in a 
 Schumann mood that evening ; and only the 
 players of Schumann know what enthralling 
 possession he takes of their very spirit. All the 
 passion and pathos and wildness and longing 
 had found an inspired interpreter ; and those 
 who listened to her were held by the magic 
 which was her own secret, and which had won 
 for her such honour as comes only to the few. 
 She understood Schumann's music, and was at 
 her best with him.
 
 1 86 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music 
 this evening because she wished to be at her 
 best ? Or was she merely being impelled by an 
 overwhelming force within her ? Perhaps it was 
 something of both. 
 
 Was she wishing to humiliate these people 
 who had received her so coldly ? This little ;, r ir) 
 was only human ; perhaps there was something 
 of that feeling too. Who can tell ? But she 
 played as she had never played in London, 
 or Paris, or Berlin, or New York, or Phila- 
 delphia. 
 
 At last she arrived at the Carnival, and those 
 who heard her, declared afterward that they had 
 never listened to a more magnificent rendering. 
 The tenderness was so restrained ; the vigour 
 was so refined. When the last notes of that 
 spirited Marclic des DaviJsbiinJlcr centre les 
 Philistins had died away, she glanced at Oswald 
 Kverard, who was standing near her, almost 
 c'azed. 
 
 " And now my favourite piece of all," she 
 said ; and she at once began the Second Novel-
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOUR XL V. 187 
 
 lette, the finest of the eight, but seldom played 
 in public. 
 
 What can one say of the wild rush of the 
 leading theme, and the pathetic longing of the 
 Intermezzo ? 
 
 ". . . The murmuring dying notes, 
 That fall as soft as snow on the sea " ; 
 
 and 
 
 " The passionate strain that deeply going, 
 Refines the bosom it trembles through." 
 
 What can one say of those vague aspirations 
 and finest thoughts which possess the very dullest 
 amongst us when such music as that which the 
 little girl had chosen, catches us and keeps us, 
 if only for a passing moment, but that moment 
 of the rarest worth and loveliness in our unlovely 
 lives ? 
 
 What can one say of the highest music, ex- 
 cept that, like death, it is the great leveller : 
 it gathers us all to its tender keeping — and we 
 rest. 
 
 The little girl ceased playing. There was not
 
 1 88 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 a sound to be heard ; the magic was still hold- 
 ing her listeners. When at last they had 1, 
 themselves with a sigh, they pressed forward to 
 greet her. 
 
 " There is only one person who can play like 
 that," cried the Major, with sudden inspiration 
 — " she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew." 
 
 The little girl smiled. 
 
 " That is my name," she said, simply ; and 
 she slipped out of the room. 
 
 The next morning, at an early hour, the Bird 
 of Passage took her flight onwards, but she was 
 not destined to go off unobserved. Oswald 
 Everard saw the little figure swinging along the 
 road, and he overtook her. 
 
 "You little wild bird!" he said; "and so 
 this was your great idea : to have your fun out 
 of us all, and then play to us and make us feel, 
 I don't know how — and then to go." 
 
 "You said the company wanted stirring up," 
 she answered ; " and I rather fancy I have 
 stirred them up."
 
 THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNE V. 181; 
 
 " And what do you suppose you have done for 
 me ? " he asked. 
 
 " I hope I have proved to you that the bellows- 
 blower and the organist are sometimes identical," 
 she answered. 
 
 But he shook his head. 
 
 " Little wild bird," he said, " you have given 
 me a great idea, and I will tell you what it is : 
 to tame you. So good-bye for the present." 
 
 " Good-bye," she said. " But wild birds are 
 not so easily tamed." 
 
 Then she waved her hand over her head, and 
 went on her way singing.
 
 CONCERNING 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE 
 
 IQI
 
 CONCERNING THE CLOCKMAKER 
 AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 IT was late in the evening, and the rain, which 
 had been pouring all the day long, was still 
 pelting against the windows of the clockmaker's 
 kitchen. The clockmaker's wife put down her 
 knitting, threw a few sticks on the fire, unfastened 
 the bellows from their accustomed place on the 
 right-hand side of the hearth, and by their aid 
 fanned life into the dying embers. She glanced 
 at the clockmaker, who sat at the table, and 
 was busily engaged in repairing a watch. 
 
 ' Thomas," she said, " I am sure you cannot 
 see by that light. Let me trim you another 
 lamp." 
 
 13 193
 
 194 tN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 1 have just done," he answered, gruffly, with- 
 out Looking ti]> from his work. 
 
 He went on working and she went on knit- 
 ting ; and, except for the sound of ln-r needles, 
 and the purring of the black cat whi< h sat staring 
 into the fire, there was silence in the room, until 
 the clockmaker dropped one of his tools, and 
 the black cat sprang after it, and chased it gaily 
 on the floor. 
 
 " The devil take that cat ! " growled the 
 clockmaker. 
 
 " Not yet, I hope," said the little old lady, who 
 quietly picked up the tool, replaced it on the 
 table, and caressed the offending cat, which, 
 after this vigorous sally, had returned to its 
 former task of contemplating the fire. 
 
 The little old lady leaned forward in her chair 
 and nursed her face. She was an old-fashioned 
 person, with sharp features and stiff grey ring- 
 lets falling over her sunken cheeks. Her ( 
 were piercingly bright ; she had an intellectual 
 forehead ; her countenance was almost distress- 
 ing in its eagerness,
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HiS IVJPE. 195 
 
 At last uhe clockmaker rose from his chair, 
 and came and rested in the old carved-oak settle 
 which served the double purpose of keeping out 
 the draught from the door, and forming a com- 
 fortable though ancient seat. 
 
 He took off his spectacles, and held them in 
 his hand. 
 
 " Well, Volumnia," he said, " to-morrow you 
 and I will part. Not a very pleasant prospect 
 so far as the weather is concerned. Uo you hear 
 the rain ? " 
 
 " I fear you will have a wet journey," said his 
 wife. " Perhaps you remember that to-morrow 
 is the anniversary of our wedding-day. On that 
 day the rain came down in torrents just as it is 
 pouring now. That was not a very cheerful 
 omen for our wedding." 
 
 " No, Volumnia," the old man answered, smil- 
 ing grimly ; " my friends tried to persuade me 
 not to marry you." 
 
 " Precisely," said the old lady, dryly, " and my 
 friends tried to persuade me not to marry you." 
 
 ** I wish you had listened to them, Volumnia,"
 
 I ./. IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 he sighed, as he leaned back in the settle. Vo- 
 lumnia Webster shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 Because I did not listen to my friends, and 
 you did not listen to your friends, Thomas," she 
 said, " we have each of us lost thirty-five years 
 of life. That was a pity. Life is short, and we 
 cannot afford to fritter it away. But in all human 
 probability we have each of us about twenty 
 more years to live : so we must make the most 
 of that. There is plenty of time to do a good 
 many things in twenty years." 
 
 " The curious part," said the clockmaker, as 
 he stroked the black cat, "the curious part, 
 Vclumnia, is that we have never thought of all 
 this before. Now, to be honest with me, do you 
 recollect a single day's pleasure in my com- 
 pany ?" 
 
 Volumnia Webster mused. 
 
 " Nothing readily suggests itself to me," she 
 said, after a pause. " Ah, yes : I can recall one 
 very happy day in London, spent with books 
 and pictures. Stay, I forgot that you did not 
 spend that day with me. No. Thomas ; to b?
 
 THE CLOCKMAR'ER AND HIS WIFE. 197 
 
 candid with you, I can dwell on nothing pleasur- 
 able in the past, so far as you are concerned. 
 The fact is, there has always been such a gulf 
 between us I came from surroundings utterly 
 different from your world, and not only our 
 spheres, but our actual ways of looking at things 
 were different. Then, too, I was of gentle birth ; 
 you know I have no wish to speak unkind words 
 to you, Thomas, but I do not think the same 
 adjective can qualify your birth." 
 
 " You have told me that several times before," 
 he replied, half-sulkily. " You may have for- 
 gotten all your other duties, but you have never 
 forgotten the duty of reminding me, either di- 
 rectly or indirectly, that your father was a naval 
 captain and that my father was not a naval cap- 
 tain. But there, let that pass ; everybody must 
 have some kind of hobby, and I do not grudge 
 you yours. We were speaking of enjoyment in 
 the past, were we not ? You said you could 
 recollect nothing pleasant, so far as I was con- 
 cerned. Well, I have the advantage of you, 
 Volumnia ; for I can recall a very happy day
 
 t 9 8 TN WARY IXC MOODS. 
 
 spent with you in Winchester Cathedral. I><> 
 you not remember looking at the Crusaders, 
 and noting whi< h of them had been on* e, twice, 
 
 or thrice to the Holy Land ? I thought them 
 fools because of their enthusiasm, and, as usual, 
 you did not agree with me. And then we went 
 into the town, and bought that clock yonder. 
 That reminds me : there is something wrong 
 with the hands ; I must see to them before 
 I go to bed to-night. Indeed, I will do so 
 now." 
 
 " You are getting confused," said Volumnia 
 Webster, placidly, as her husband opened the 
 glass of the clock's face ; " I have never been 
 in Winchester." 
 
 "Why, of course," he answered, turning 
 round, " you were not with me ! That was the 
 happiest day I ever spent. Everything in Win- 
 chester interested me, and I made friends with 
 that old clockmaker, who wanted me to buy his 
 business. If I had had the money, nothing 
 would have pleased me better, for I always felt 
 buried in this stupid village. I have never had
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 19. 
 
 the chance of putting my talents to good ac- 
 count. Well, that is of the Past too." 
 
 He had now set in order the hands of the 
 clock ; and, taking out his heavy gold watch, he 
 corrected the time, and returned to the settle. 
 
 " I should tell you, Volumnia," he continued, 
 " that I leave my affairs in excellent condition. 
 I have wound them up just as if they were the 
 affairs of a dead man. I owe nothing ; indeed 
 some few shillings are owing to me for repairs 
 which I have finished this afternoon. The 
 clock belongs to Farmer Garrett, and the watch 
 is the property of Mr. Fane. Be sure to return 
 them to-morrow, and, as for the extra money, it 
 will be useful to you at Christmas." 
 
 Volumnia Webster stirred uneasily in her 
 chair. 
 
 " Christmas without you, will seem strange, 
 Thomas," she said. 
 
 " Perhaps," he answered, " but one soon gets 
 accustomed to feeling strange." 
 
 He took from his pocket his heavy old-fash- 
 ioned watch, and looked at it regretfully.
 
 200 IN VARYING Moons. 
 
 " You remember, this belonged to youi 
 brother, Volumnia ? " he said, sadly. "It has 
 been my companion fur many years. I suppose 
 I must give it back to you, but I shall miss it 
 terribly." 
 
 " No doubt you will feel strange at first," said 
 Volumnia, " but, to quote your own words, one 
 soon gets accustomed to feeling strange." 
 
 The old clockmaker shook his head. 
 
 " No, Volumnia," he repelid ; "I shall miss 
 that watch sadly. We can learn to do without 
 people much more easily than without things. 
 We become absurdly attached to our little per- 
 sonal possessions." His voice faltered as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " I give in," she said, after a pause, " you may 
 keep the watch." 
 
 " Thank you," he said, warmly ; " that is gener- 
 ous of you. In fact, Volumnia, you have been 
 kind to me in a great many ways, and I think 
 I ought to tell you, that I owe you a certain 
 amount of gratitude for all that you have done 
 for me, and been to me, during these thirty-five
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 201 
 
 years. Sometimes I think it almost a pity that 
 we should part ; but, on the whole, I believe we 
 have decided for the best. And now, listen, 
 Volumnia : I wish to impress on you that if 
 any neighbours come in, and question you about 
 our affairs, as neighbours will do, you may just 
 tell them that we have not parted in anger, but 
 that we are tired of each other. If they want 
 more particulars, as neighbours often do want, 
 you may tell them to go to the devil and get 
 satisfied. They will not put further questions 
 to vou." 
 
 " I will remember your words," said his wife, 
 putting down a violet comforter which she had 
 just that moment finished. " Here is your com- 
 forter ; be sure and wear it in the cold and damp 
 weather, for you cannot afford to trifle with your 
 throat ; and if you wish to live a good twenty 
 years longer you must take every possible pre- 
 caution. For my own part, I shall be anxious to 
 know how your health goes on. Is it desirable 
 that we should exchange letters ? " 
 
 " I think that is hardly necessary," he said,
 
 2o2 /x I /AT/" MOODS. 
 
 looking approvingly at the comforter. "After 
 to-morrow, we pra< ti< ally < case to live for ea< h 
 other : so that it cannot really matter to you 
 what becomes of me, and it cannot matter to 
 me what becomes of you." 
 
 She drew her chair a little nearer to him, and 
 looked at him almost pleadingly ; she looked at 
 the face, which had once shone with kindness 
 for her ; at the forehead, which her hand had 
 so often soothed in hours of sickness ; at his hair, 
 grey in some places, and white in others ; and she 
 remembered how she had once tried to count 
 those many curls, and had left off in despair. 
 They were still there, those same curls, but grown 
 old and grey. She thought of the young work- 
 man of thirty-five years ago, whose love and 
 courage in an hour of trouble had won her 
 heart, and when she spoke again there were very 
 gentle accents in her voice. 
 
 " There have been times, Thomas," she whis- 
 pered, as she put her hand on his arm — "there 
 have been times when I have loved you very 
 dearly. I want you to know this, and to remem-
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 203 
 
 ber this when you are far away ; for it is some- 
 thing to be loved tenderly, if only for a short 
 time." 
 
 A tear fell from her bright eye on to his hand. 
 He looked up, and seeing that her eyes were full 
 of tears, he pressed her hand and bade her be 
 comforted. But even as he spoke there was a 
 strange tremor in his voice, and a troubled ex- 
 pression on his own face. Thus they sat together 
 in silence. 
 
 Then she spoke. 
 
 " There are some few treasures, which we must 
 divide to-night, Thomas. You were asking me 
 the other day for the miniature of your grand- 
 father. I have got it quite safe, together with 
 the old picture of my mother. All our little 
 relics are in that box. We shall see better if 
 we look at them by the lamplight ; and when we 
 have decided which are yours and which are 
 mine, I will set the supper-table, and fry you 
 some bacon and sausages." 
 
 Sitting side by side at the table, they took out 
 the treasures one by one ; and old memories
 
 204 IN I '.I R I T ING M 0ODS. 
 
 were called forth at the sight of cadi cherished 
 object: glad me ries and sad memories curi- 
 ously intermingled. There was a chain belong- 
 ing to the naval captain's father, and a picture 
 of the naval captain himself, at which Volum- 
 nia Webster gazed proudly, and at which 
 the clockmaker stared resignedly, and there 
 were a few curious rings, some of which were 
 identified by the clockmaker, and others by his 
 wife. 
 
 " See here, Volumnia," he said ; " this is my 
 mother's hair in this quaint locket. I never 
 knew my mother, but I remember being told 
 that they cut off a lock of her hair, as she lay 
 dead, and they placed it in my tiny hands. I 
 am glad to see that again." 
 
 Then they came upon a miniature of Volum- 
 nia Webster, when she was a child of five years, 
 and the clockmaker looked at it a long time, 
 now admiring the eager little f;u e, and now ex- 
 amining with genuine approval the delicate 
 workmanship of the gold setting. 
 
 "That is a beautiful piece ■■ c . work," he said,
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 205 
 
 enthusiastically. " Any goldsmith might be 
 proud of that." 
 
 "You always wished to sell it," she said, 
 sharply. "You have so little sentiment in you." 
 
 " So you have told me several times," he re- 
 plied, without any sign of annoyance. 
 
 " But this is the gem of all, Thomas," she said, 
 as she handed him the miniature of a lady. 
 " People said I was like my mother, but that was 
 a libel on my mother's face. When I was young, 
 though, I daresay my eyes were nearly as bright 
 as hers. They are not bright now." 
 
 The old man looked up at Volumnia. 
 
 ' No, they are not bright now," he said, criti- 
 cally. 
 
 He laid the picture aside, without any further 
 remark ; but he must needs have noticed that 
 self-same pleading expression of countenance 
 and that half-puzzled look, as though something 
 in life had troubled the little lady, and all her 
 ingenuity could not avail to set her mind at rest. 
 
 " This is old Peter Goodwin," said Volumnia 
 Webster, " he was my mother's grandfather, I
 
 206 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 always think his quaint green coat, and his 
 brown fiddle, and his grey wig go well together. 
 I am very proud of Peter Goodwin." 
 
 " You were always proud of your ancestors," 
 growled the clockmaker. " For my own part, 
 I am quite thankful I never had any. But 
 there, I do not grudge them to you. As I said 
 before, every one must have a hobby, and an- 
 cestors are not expensive, all things considered." 
 
 As she spoke, she took from off the table the 
 miniature of a young boy, and slipped it into her 
 lap, thinking that she had been unobserved. 
 
 "What are you hiding from me?" he asked. 
 " I do not want to rob you of your family treas- 
 ures, and it is not kind of you to mistrust me." 
 
 " It never even entered my head, Thomas," she 
 said, eagerly, " and I only wished to spare you 
 pain. If you must see, look ! " 
 
 \nd she put the picture gently in his hands, 
 and bent over him without speaking a word. 
 
 " We had not many reasons to be proud of our 
 descendant, Volumnia," he said, bitterly. ' He 
 promised well in the picture, did he not ? But
 
 THE CLOCK MAKER AND HIS WIFE. 207 
 
 he did not make a very great thing of life. He 
 had fine notions, derived from your ancestors, 
 Volumnia. But it was not a very aristocratic 
 ending to die in a drunken brawl. Here, take 
 your picture. Your love for that boy was so 
 great that you shut me out in the cold. All 
 your thoughts were for him." 
 
 " Ah, you were always so hard," said the little 
 old lady, passionately. 
 
 "Well, leave that matter alone now," rejoined 
 the clockmaker, banging on the table with his fist. 
 
 All at once, some one knocked softly at the 
 shop-door, and Volumnia said : 
 
 " I think I heard a knock at the shop-door." 
 
 " Nonsense," returned her husband. " Your 
 ears are too sharp." 
 
 " And I have always thought yours were too 
 dull, Thomas," the little lady replied. ' Well, 
 as you do not stir, I will go to the shop-door." 
 
 When she opened it, she found a man sitting 
 on the doorstep. " Did you knock ? " she asked, 
 as he rose and stood before her. 
 
 ' Yes," he answered ; " I took that liberty.
 
 2o8 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 Yours was the only light I saw in the village. 
 
 I have been walking so many miles, and it is 
 such a fearful night. I rested on your doorstep, 
 and I could not resist the temptation of knocking." 
 
 She be< koned him into the shop. 
 
 "You are drenched with rain," she said, 
 kindly. "Come into the kitchen, and you shall 
 warm yourself, and be made welcome." 
 
 As he leaned against the counter, the rain 
 trickled down his face, and down his torn coat, 
 and from off his fair moustache. lie was proba- 
 bly a strolling player, for he carried under his 
 arm a fiddle and a bow wrapped in a green bag, 
 and this was the only part of him which was not 
 drenched with rain. He was tall, and of slight 
 build ; a man of about forty years. His face 
 was that of a sufferer ; but there was some kind 
 of humour lingering about his mouth, and about 
 his whole bearing there was a certain style of 
 which poverty had not been able to rob him. 
 
 The little old lady eyed him curiously, th< _ 
 kindly. 
 
 " You are in a sorry plight, stranger," she said,
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 209 
 
 as she took his fiddle and laid it gently on the 
 counter. " Ah, do not be afraid ! this is not the 
 first time that I have handled a fiddle. I am 
 very glad that you called here for shelter. We 
 would not wish to turn any one away on such a 
 night as this." 
 
 " I looked in at your window," he said, half- 
 dreamily. " I saw you bending over something ; 
 and just for the moment I almost felt as if I 
 were coming to some one I knew. That made 
 it easy for me to knock." 
 
 She led the way into the kitchen, and, turning 
 to her husband, she said : 
 
 "Thomas, here is a stranger who seeks our 
 hospitality." 
 
 " You are welcome," said the clockmaker, 
 who came towards the stranger. " You are wel- 
 come, whoever you are. But what the devil are 
 you doing out on such a night as this ? " 
 
 " Some people have not any home," replied 
 
 the fiddler, smiling. " I happen to be one of 
 
 those unlucky individuals." 
 
 The clockmaker laughed, 
 14
 
 2io IN VARY IXC, MOODS. 
 
 "Rest in the settle yonder, and warm your- 
 self," he said, " and my wife will prepare our 
 supper. For my part, I am hungry, and, you 
 will excuse me being personal, but you look 
 starving." 
 
 " That's just what I am," replied the fiddler, 
 sinking back into the settle. " IJut, upon my 
 word, we homeless, supperless creatures become 
 accustomed to our state. We even learn to be 
 merry over our misfortunes. Now, I ask you to 
 look at my coat. Is there not humour in it ?" 
 
 "There are a good many holes in it," said 
 Volumnia Webster, laughing. " And it is as 
 damp as it can be. Take it off and let me dry it." 
 
 " It is not much of a coat," said the stranger, 
 brightly. " Now you would not believe it — 
 would you — but I was a dandy once ! I used 
 to pride myself on being well-dressed ; and my 
 shirt-fronts were something to behold and won- 
 der at ! My boots were of the newest fashion, 
 and the cut of my coat was absolutely faultless. 
 However, that is all of the past." 
 
 " Precisely," remarked the clockmaker, who
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 211 
 
 had put on his spectacles to examine the new- 
 comer. 
 
 Then he added : 
 
 " Have you come a long way to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the stranger, frankly, " and I 
 have completely lost my bearings. Not that 
 it particularly matters where I do go, for times 
 are bad everywhere for us strolling fiddlers. 
 People like to listen, but they do not like to pay! 
 Well, I can partly sympathise : I myself never 
 cared about paying for anything ? It is a habit 
 some people have." 
 
 " By the way," said Volumnia Webster, as she 
 cut up the bacon and put it into the frying-pan, 
 " I left your fiddle lying on the counter ; it must 
 be damp. Perhaps you will fetch it, Thomas ; 
 and I will give it a good toasting : not to scorch 
 it, but just to prevent all chances of rheumatism. 
 That is what my father, the naval captain, used 
 to do." 
 
 " Confound the naval captain ! " growled the 
 clockmaker half to himself, as he rose to fetch 
 the fiddle,
 
 2i2 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " My father, the na\ al < aptain," i ontinued the 
 little old lad) , " was fond of music, and he plaj ed 
 
 a little on the fiddle yonder, that dirt)- old thing 
 hanging against the wall. I shall show it to you 
 later on." 
 
 " I should like to play on it," said the stranger, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " And so you shall," she answered, kindly. 
 " Thank you, Thomas ; give the stranger's fid- 
 dle to me." 
 
 She took it from its bag, and warmed it at a 
 discreet distance from the fire ; she turned it 
 over, and examined it, smiling half-mournfully, 
 as though sad memories were forcing themselves 
 upon her mind. 
 
 " It is quite a common instrument," said the 
 stranger, who had been watching her with in- 
 terest ; "but I used to have a beautiful one in 
 the days when I was prosperous. That was a 
 good long time ago now. I did not then think 
 that I should become a strolling player, making 
 music for children and maidens to dance to and 
 men to drink to. I had ambitions then."
 
 THE CLOCKMAK'ER AND HIS WIFE. 213 
 
 " And have you no ambitions now ? " asked 
 Volumnia Webster, taking down the toasting- 
 fork from the right-hand side of the fireplace. 
 
 " Yes," he laughed, jumping up from the set- 
 tle, " my ambition is to help you to toast those 
 slices of bread. I am a famous toaster." 
 
 She put the fork into his hand, resigning to 
 him without hesitation the office of toaster. 
 There was something genial about his manner 
 which communicated itself even to the clock- 
 maker and his wife, and found response in 
 them. It was impossible not to feel drawn to- 
 wards him, for he had that in him which claimed 
 and secured a sympathetic welcome. The little 
 old lady saw that it gave him pleasure to help 
 her, so she asked him to place the chairs to the 
 supper-table, and fetch the dish from off the 
 dresser. 
 
 " You cannot think what a comfort it is to be 
 in this cheerful kitchen," he said, as he helped to 
 put the bacon into the dish. " Only those who 
 have been out into the darkness of the night, 
 can appreciate the warmth and glow of a red
 
 2i4 IN VARYING MOOns. 
 
 fire, and the kindness of those who welcome 
 wanderers to that red fire. It is ever so long 
 since I have been into a home. I had almost 
 forgotten what a fireside looked like ; and it is 
 quite a luxury to be treated as one still having 
 some hold on humanity. That alone is almost 
 as good as the supper which you are preparing. 
 I do not say that it precisely drives away hun- 
 ger, but it does drive away the blues." 
 
 In a few minutes the three were seated at the 
 table ; the guest ate heartily of the bacon and 
 sausages, and made short work of the toast and 
 Dutch cheese, and did not spare the home-made 
 jam, which he declared was a relish not fre- 
 quently finding its way into his life. 
 
 " That pot of jam is no safer with me than it 
 would be with a schoolboy," he said, turning to 
 his hostess, who was smiling to see her guest so 
 happy. The ciockmaker, too, was amused ; he 
 kept the stranger's coffee-cup well filled, and 
 seemed altogether in an excellent humour. 
 
 " That puts warmth into a man," the fiddler 
 said, leaning back contentedly in his chair. " I
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 215 
 
 feel alive again. One does not have a supper 
 like this every day, I can tell you. The stroll- 
 ing player must take what he can get, and some- 
 times he cannot get anything at all ! Then he 
 must play his tune to himself, and take that for 
 food and drink ; he must live on that, or starve 
 on that : and what do you think, sir ? — the 
 sooner he starves to death the better ? " 
 
 " It all depends upon the nature of the person. 
 The world might be the poorer or the richer for 
 his death," remarked the clockmaker, as he 
 poured the steaming coffee into his saucer and 
 blew on it. " But so far as their own wishes are 
 concerned, most people cling to life. For my 
 own part although I am an oldish man, I wish 
 to live as long as I can hold together : and it 
 is not because I am particularly happy. Vo- 
 lumnia, my wife, gives me twenty years of life, 
 if I am careful. What do you think of her 
 judgment ? " 
 
 The stranger laughed. 
 
 " I should not say you were very strong," he 
 answered ; " but you probably have more life in
 
 2 if) IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 your little finger than I have in my whole bod) 
 
 And then, of course, you have more chances 
 of taking care of yourself than I have. I am 
 not in a position to consult the weather, for in- 
 stance ; and you are." 
 
 " Thomas has a delicate throat," interposed 
 Volumnia Webster ; " otherwise I have no fears 
 for him. He is particularly anxious to live a 
 long time ; for to-morrow he and I part. And 
 such few years as may remain to us, we shall 
 spend as each of us thinks fit." 
 
 " What an odd idea ! " exclaimed the stranger. 
 
 " Not at all," remarked the clockmaker, 
 gruffly ; " the only odd part of it is, that we did 
 not come to the determination before, but have 
 waited thirty-five years before making up our 
 minds." 
 
 " And I suppose you think that if you wait 
 much longer it will be too late," suggested the 
 stranger. " The time does slip away so stealth- 
 ily, does it not ?" 
 
 He suddenly rose from the table. 
 
 " If this is the case," he said, " I have al-
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 217 
 
 ready intruded too long. You cannot want a 
 stranger here on your last evening." 
 
 " On the contrary," replied the clockmaker, 
 lighting his pipe, " we are very glad to have 
 you : we were not particularly happy before 
 you arrived. Your coming here has been a 
 pleasure. Do not hurry away ; but light your 
 pipe and draw nearer to the fire, and tell us 
 something about yourself." 
 
 " There are two serious obstacles to your first 
 invitation," said the fiddler : " I have no pipe 
 and no tobacco." 
 
 " Here are both," replied the little old lady. 
 
 " And as for your third invitation," continued 
 the stranger, smiling his thanks to the clock- 
 maker's wife, " I doubt whether you would be 
 particularly pleased with my history. It is not 
 that of a hero. Indeed I am a most unheroic 
 person. Why, people said I killed my mother ; 
 but I myself have never believed in the theory 
 of broken hearts. Does grief kill ? " 
 
 " No," replied the clockmaker, gruffly, " it 
 does not kill."
 
 218 W VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " yes," replied Volumnia Webster. " It 
 brings death to the soul. I know that well, for 
 my own heart has been dead these many years. 
 Our son struck the blow. 1 wonder whether he 
 spoke as lightly as you speak." 
 
 The clockmaker frowned, and made a gesture 
 of impatience. 
 
 " Do let the past alone to-night, Volumnia," 
 he said, sternly. " On the morrow, when I leave 
 you, you may do as you please about mourning 
 over a dead rogue. But now it would be more 
 useful if you cleared away the supper things." 
 
 The little old lady's bright eyes flashed indig- 
 nantly and her slight frame trembled with well- 
 controlled anger; but she gave no answer, and 
 merely busied herself with carrying out the 
 clockmaker's suggestion, whilst the fiddler 
 rested in the settle, smoking his pipe. But 
 when the clockmaker took up some watches 
 which he had been repairing, and left the 
 kitchen, the fiddler rose to help her. 
 
 "That was rather rough on you," he said, 
 kindly, '' and it was entirely my fault. And I
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 2 14 
 
 believe you are suffering. My mother used to 
 suffer like that when she pleaded for me with 
 my father, and I used to laugh. But that was 
 long ago. I do not laugh now." 
 
 " He never understood the boy." Volumnia 
 Webster burst out passionately. " The boy took 
 after my family : he was of a highly wrought 
 temperament and of an artistic disposition, and 
 his father, who, as you see, came from a lower 
 sphere, could not appreciate a nature so unlike 
 his own. He told the lad time after time that 
 he was a rogue and would go straight to the 
 dogs. Never a day passed but that cruel words 
 were spoken between them. He was capable of 
 much good ; he had generous instincts. He 
 meant well, but he was easily led away. There 
 was one man of all men who dragged him down. 
 I would sacrifice all the remaining years of my 
 life if I could stand face to face with that man. 
 It would be too merciful to kill him ; but I 
 could curse him living, curse him dying, and 
 curse him dead. His name is in my heart ; I 
 treasure it there for very hatred."
 
 23o /x Varying moiws. 
 
 she put her hands over her face. The stran- 
 ger seemed lost in thought. His own thin- 
 drawn face wore a troubled expression. He 
 held his pipe listlessly in his hand. He 
 
 shivered. 
 
 When at last she looked up, he had regained 
 his composure. 
 
 " You would not wonder at my words," she- 
 said, sadly, " if you understood how mothers 
 love their sons. But you sons cannot under- 
 stand : you laugh. And I daresay my boy 
 laughed too. Ah, well, he was a handsome lad, 
 the real gentleman in manner and appearance. 
 If he had lived, he would have become the very 
 image of my father, the naval captain. That 
 used to irritate my husband, for he could not 
 bear to think that I had belonged to a sphere 
 utterly different from his own. And yet such 
 was the case. In the old days when I lived in 
 my father's house, I was surrounded by gentle- 
 folk, people of culture and refinement and 
 talent. That all seems to me a dream now, and 
 I have to look at the fiddle yonder to remember
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. ii\ 
 
 that these things have been. But I weary you. 
 What is all this to you ? " 
 
 " It is my pleasure to hear you," the fiddler 
 said, eagerly. " It is so long since any one has 
 thought it worth while to talk to me. As I told 
 you before, it is a perfect luxury to be treated 
 like a human being. You were talking about 
 spheres : well, I have fallen out of my original 
 one — or, to be rather more accurate, I was 
 kicked out ! I sinned against the world, and 
 the world has had its revenge in never giving 
 me the chance of beginning all over again. At 
 first I thought it was deuced hard. Now I have 
 learnt to shrug my shoulders, and laugh." 
 
 "Do you always laugh?" asked Volumnia 
 Webster, touching him on the arm. 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " No," he answered, " there are times when I 
 do not laugh. There are times, too, when I 
 fancy that if, somewhere or other, there could 
 be spared to me just a little of love and sympa- 
 thy, out of the mass of love and sympathy 
 throbbing in the world's heart, I should yet try
 
 222 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 to begin all over again. There is nothing more 
 awful than loneliness of life and soul ; nothing 
 more deadening than to feel that no one cares 
 whether you fare ill or well, whether you die by 
 the wayside, or whether you live to reach the 
 next village. By Heaven ! When you and your 
 husband talk of parting on the morrow, you do 
 not know what you say. Forgive me if I have 
 said too much. I have no right to act the 
 preacher to any one ; but there is irony in the 
 whole situation ; a home, a red fire, and every 
 appearance of comfort — and no happiness ! " 
 
 " To make happiness," said Volumnia Web- 
 ster, half to herself, " sympathy is necessary, 
 and I have wanted sympathy all my life long. 
 I have not been a happy woman : the months, 
 the years, going by and bringing joy to some 
 people, never brought joy to me. Well, well ; 
 the fire is burning low, stranger : oblige me by 
 piling on the logs Thomas likes to see a cheer- 
 ful fire. I must just go and fetch his overcoat, 
 which wants mending, and then, perhaps, you 
 will give us a little music on your fiddle."
 
 THE CLOCK MAKER AND HIS WIFE. 223 
 
 " Certainly," said the stranger, as he put on 
 the logs. 
 
 The black cat sitting on the hearth watched 
 him with eager green eyes, and probably com- 
 ing to the conclusion that he was a friend of the 
 family, showed approval of his presence by an 
 outburst of purring. The stranger stroked his 
 sleek coat, and then gently rolled him over and 
 played with him. 
 
 " You will have a bad time shortly," he said 
 to the cat, " for I am going to fiddle. Perhaps, 
 though, I shall charm you, after the fashion of 
 the celebrated Orpheus, of whom you may, per- 
 chance, have heard." 
 
 At that moment the clockmaker came into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " I have done all my work," he said, cheerily, 
 " and I leave everything in excellent order, so 
 that to-morrow I shall start my new life with an 
 easy conscience. My wife tells me you will give 
 us a tune. I dearly love a tune, though she de- 
 clares I am not fond of music. It is wonderful 
 how a wife settles a thing of that sort. By the
 
 224 W VARYING MOODS. 
 
 way, stranger, I expe< t you have been hearing 
 all about the naval captain ! I have never been 
 able to get free of that man, though he died man j 
 years ago ! Woe unto the man whose wife has 
 relations in the navy ! " 
 
 " Or the army ! " laughed the fiddler, taking 
 his fiddle out of the green bag. " You should 
 be grateful for small mercies. The navy may 
 irritate a man's throat, but the army generally 
 chokes him ! " 
 
 " You are quite a puzzle to me," said the 
 clockmaker, watching his guest with obvious in- 
 terest. " You have the bearing and the speech 
 of what people call a gentleman, and yet you are 
 a strolling fiddler, homeless and, possibly, 
 penniless." 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," interposed the stranger, 
 with a smile ; " I am the happy possessor of 
 exactly fourpence halfpenny. Lest you doubt 
 me, here they are." 
 
 " I own that I am curious about you," resumed 
 the clockmaker. 
 
 " I will satisfy your curiosity," said the
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 225 
 
 stranger, good-naturedly, nodding to the little 
 old lady who had brought her work, and was 
 now sitting in the settle near her husband. 
 
 He stood before them, thrumming the strings 
 of his fiddle. 
 
 " I can't think why the deuce you are going 
 to part to-morrow," he said. "When you have 
 heard my edifying story, you will say I am bad. 
 But when I look at you both, I believe you are 
 mad. Well, that is neither here nor there. With 
 regard to myself, I have made a hash of my life. 
 I chose my own path, and so I can blame no 
 one except myself. When I was doing penal 
 servitude for forgery my mother died, they said 
 of a broken heart. We have already discussed 
 that matter. When I came out again, I thought 
 I would try to raise myself, just for the sake of 
 her memory. It was rather late to think of that, 
 was n't it ? I looked about for a livelihood, and, 
 of course, I looked in vain. Then I remembered 
 my fiddle ; for in the days gone by I had been 
 considered a brilliant player. I tried to get 
 pupils, but the story of my life spread about, and 
 
 15
 
 226 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 my pupils left me. I played for a few weeks in 
 
 a theatre or< lustra, and there, too, my history 
 became known, and I was obliged to . I 
 
 played with a harpist in the streets of London. 
 One day he (ailed me a cursed convict, and re- 
 fused to work with me. So now, turned off by 
 every one, I play alone. May I still stay with 
 you, or must I go ? Most people tell me to go. 
 It is not possible to hurt my feelings now ; so I 
 beg of you to be frank, and to decide just as 
 your fancy dictates." 
 
 Neither of them answered. Volumnia and 
 Thomas Webster stared into the fire as though 
 they were seeing sad pictures too. There were 
 tears in the little old lady's eyes, and the clock- 
 maker looked distressed. 
 
 " Then I will go," said the fiddler, just a little 
 sadly. He had left off thrumming the strings of 
 his fiddle. 
 
 " No," said the old man, kindly, " still stay 
 with us, you are our guest ; we made you wel- 
 come, and you are still welcome. I only paused 
 because your words made me think of my son,
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 227 
 
 who was killed in a drunken brawl fifteen years 
 ago. If he had lived, would his life have been 
 like yours, I wonder ? We must give you a help- 
 ing hand, stranger, for his sake. What do you 
 say, Volumnia ? " 
 
 ' That would be my wish," said Volumnia 
 Webster, earnestly. 
 
 The fiddler bent down and reverently kissed 
 her hand. 
 
 " I have not heard such kind words for years," 
 he said. " I feel a different man for them. 
 They will make everything easier for me. And 
 now for some music," he added, cheerily. " ' Fit 
 audience let me have, though few.' I am 
 nothing of a musician now, you know. The 
 music generally required at country inns does 
 not reach a very high standard : it is not pre- 
 cisely classical. So do not be critical. I think 
 I shall play you a Maypole dance." 
 
 Perhaps he was nothing of a player, but he 
 knew how to make his fiddle speak to the old 
 couple resting in the settle. He had forgotten 
 them, He was standing on the village-green
 
 228 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 fiddling for the Maypole dancers. Perhaps he 
 heard the village-folk cry " Faster, faster, 
 fiddler ! " for he perpetually increased his 
 speed, and did not seem to tire. But now these 
 merry notes died away, giving place to a gentle 
 melody, such as would linger in the listener's 
 memory. The fiddle sang, and sobbed and 
 sobbed again. 
 
 The clockmaker started as though he were 
 pierced. 
 
 " Volumnia," he whispered, uneasily, " where 
 have we heard that music ? Ah ! I know. I 
 have heard it these many years, and sometimes, 
 when I have refused to listen, I have heard it 
 all the same. Why, it was the little piece our 
 boy wrote for my birthday greeting. You have 
 it safe, Volumnia? Tell me, Volumnia, am 1 
 dreaming ? " 
 
 " No, dear, you are not dreaming," she 
 answered. " That is the very music our boy 
 wrote — you remember how proud we were ! — 
 we had such hopes for him, had n't we ? He 
 was so talented in every way. Poor Ralph '
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 229 
 
 " How all the Past returns, Volumnia," he 
 whispered, " until everything has become the 
 Past ! " 
 
 His head rested on her shoulder, and her hand 
 fondled those grey curls, fondled so often in the 
 days gone by. 
 
 All unconsciously the stranger had put them 
 under a spell, the spell of the Past. They had 
 forgotten him and his personality : they only 
 heard the music. 
 
 The stranger ceased playing, and, looking up, 
 saw how the clockmaker rested like a tired child, 
 and how his wife was fondling those grey curls. 
 He saw that they had both forgotten him. 
 
 " And naturally too," he said to himself, " for 
 I have no claim on their remembrance. I have 
 intruded on them long enough as it is, and now 
 I must go out into the darkness of the night 
 and again take up my loneliness." 
 
 He glanced round the cosy kitchen, at the 
 red fire, at the quaint clock, at the copper 
 warming-pan, at the dresser stocked with old 
 china. Everything spoke to him of a home.
 
 230 IN VARY IXC, MOODS. 
 
 He wis glad to have seen one again: the 
 remembrance would be pleasant to him. Just 
 as he was putting his fiddle into the green bag, 
 
 the string broke with a loud clang, and Volum- 
 nia Webster woke from her reverie. 
 
 " Ah ! you there ! " she said. " Tell me how 
 you knew that music ; why did you choose that 
 to play to us ? I must know why you chose that." 
 
 He wondered at her eagerness to know. 
 
 " I seem to be telling you all my secrets to- 
 night," he said, smiling sadly. " If confession 
 is good for the soul, then my soul has gained 
 something to-night. You spoke of that man 
 who had dragged your son down. Your words 
 sank deep into my heart, for they reminded me 
 of what I had done in a similar way to a young 
 fellow as full of promise as your son might have 
 been. And I suppose I was thinking of him 
 when I played that melody, for he wrote it, and 
 I was the first to play it to him. I always 
 thought it was a beautiful melody. 
 
 The clockmaker started up, and put his hand 
 roughly on the stranger's arm.
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 231 
 
 "You knew him, then ? " he asked, excitedly. 
 
 " Knew him ? " laughed the fiddler. " Why, 
 we were inseparable ! He was my shadow. I 
 could do anything with him — twist him round 
 my finger — twirl him just as I pleased. He was 
 rare good company, too — could sing a rattling 
 song with any one ; full of wit and fun. 
 Heavens ! how he made us fellows laugh ! 
 Why, he was the wildest of " 
 
 The fiddler stopped suddenly : the little old 
 lady was leaning over the back of a chair glar- 
 ing at him, just like a tigress preparing to 
 spring ; the clockinaker was standing a few 
 steps off, his arms tightly folded together, and 
 his face working like the face of a man who is 
 trying to make up his mind about something or 
 other, trying to puzzle out some mystery. 
 
 " What is the matter with you both ? " the 
 fiddler asked, nervously. " Have I done any- 
 thing wrong? Have I said anything to hurt 
 your feelings ? " 
 
 A wild cry broke from the little old lady's lips. 
 She rushed to the cupboard in the recess, pulled
 
 032 IN VARYING MOODS, 
 
 out some papers and threw them on the table. 
 
 She turned them over with trembling hands, and 
 at last found the pai ket she required. She tore 
 it open, and took out the faded photograph of a 
 young man. She held it up for the fiddler to 
 see. 
 
 " Was that anything like your friend whom 
 you dragged down to hell ? " she hissed out. 
 
 The stranger started back as though he had 
 been struck. His face was deadly pale. 
 
 " My God ! " he cried. " That was the very 
 man — Ralph Webster ! " 
 
 The photograph dropped from her hand. 
 
 "Then at last," she said, slowly, " we stand 
 face to face with our son's worst enemy. It was 
 worth while living to see him like this : an out- 
 cast from every home ! " 
 
 The stranger bowed his head. He tried to 
 speak, but the words would not come. 
 
 " Go ! " said the clockmaker, touching him 
 roughly on the shoulder, and pointing to the 
 door. " This is no resting-place for you." 
 
 The stranger took up fiddle and bow and
 
 THE CLOCKMAKER AND HIS WIFE. 233 
 
 green bag, and crept to the door. The rain was 
 still pelting against the windows, and the wind 
 was still howling its dismal story. He paused just 
 by the door, hoping against all hope that the 
 little old lady would relent, and say one word 
 of kind dismissal. If ever a human face was 
 eloquent with pleading, his face was eloquent at 
 that last moment. 
 
 " What are you waiting for ? " she asked, 
 sternly. " Go before my tongue is loosened." 
 
 He swung open the door, went into the shop, 
 and unlocked the shop-door, which banged 
 mournfully after him as he passed out into the 
 darkness of the wild night. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 When he had gone, Volumnia Webster's com- 
 posure broke down, and she sank into the settle 
 and wept bitterly. The clockmaker bent over 
 her, and comforted her, taking the little tear- 
 stained face in his hands and kissing it. 
 
 " Volumnia," he whispered, " we have been 
 drawn very near to each other to-night." 
 
 And she smiled to hear his words. She watched
 
 234 IK VARYING MOODS. 
 
 him pick up the photograph, and put it ba< k into 
 
 the cupboard ; and she watched him fix his pipe 
 on the rack which hung just over the bellows, 
 
 and she saw him throw his favourite tools into 
 their accustomed drawer. The clock struck 
 twelve. 
 
 " You have a long journey to go on the morrow, 
 Thomas," she said, " and you ought to be get- 
 ting to rest. I must stay up a little longer to 
 finish your overcoat." 
 
 " Never mind that," he answered, as he took 
 the coat from her hands, " I am not going on a 
 journey either to-morrow or any other day. I 
 shall stay here with you, Volumnia, and live my 
 twenty years here. The fiddler was right in 
 saying that we were mad. May I stop, Volum- 
 nia? I could not bear to part from you now." 
 
 And she bade him stay always, promising him 
 half-humorously that the naval captain should 
 not worry him more than was absolutely neces- 
 sary. And she spoke of the fiddler and his lone- 
 liness ; she said she could never forget that 
 pleading look on his face as he stood by the
 
 THE CLOCKMAKRR AND HIS WIFE. 235 
 
 door waiting for one kind word ; she realised 
 now that all his future hung at that moment in 
 the balance ; she regretted his hasty dismissal ; 
 she recalled the words he had spoken about the 
 value of affection, and how he should have 
 wished to begin all over again, if a little human 
 sympathy could have been granted to him ; she 
 forgot that he was a man whose name she had 
 been cherishing in her memory for very hatred : 
 she only remembered that he was a wretched 
 wanderer, whom she had sent out into the dark- 
 ness of the night. All the pity that was in the 
 depths of her heart, rose up. 
 
 " Let us call him back, Thomas," she said, 
 eagerly. " Let us give him the helping hand we 
 promised him before we knew who he was." 
 
 So they opened the shop-door, and they 
 shouted his name — 
 
 "Mark Weston — Mark Weston, come back to 
 us ! We shall welcome you as we welcomed 
 you before. We have only forgiveness and 
 kindness for you. Come back, Mark Weston ! " 
 
 But there was no answer.
 
 236 IN VARYING M WDS. 
 
 "We want to help you, Mrrk Weston," I 
 
 little old lady cried. "Com-, t" i s." 
 
 The wind and the rain gave re] ly ; the fiddler 
 gave none. 
 
 " No one could hear in such a storm," s 
 the clockmaker. " It is of no use." 
 
 They shut the shop-door reluctantly and 
 returned to the kitchen, and trimmed the lamp 
 and put it in the window, and they sat talking 
 over the fire : talking about their young days 
 and about Ralph and the fiddler. 
 
 " When the fiddler sees the light, he will come 
 back," they said to each other. 
 
 They waited until the day broke, and the 
 storm was hushed in sleep, and the fire died 
 out. 
 
 But the fiddler did not come back.
 
 SORROW AND JOY 
 
 AN ALLEGORY 
 
 237
 
 SORROW AND JOY. 
 
 /^OUNTLESS years ago, two sisters were 
 
 ^^ born into the world, twin sisters. Their 
 
 names were Sorrow and Joy. Those who looked 
 
 upon them could hardly distinguish the one from 
 
 the other, and indeed those who knew them best 
 
 sometimes called Sorrow by Joy's name, and 
 
 Joy by Sorrow's name. They grew up loving 
 
 each other with tender affection. They were 
 
 inseparable ; by day they ran together over the 
 
 daisied fields, through the daffodil woods, near 
 
 the sweet brooklet, along the hedge-grown 
 
 lanes, now stopping to pick some tiny fern or 
 
 delicate blue flower. By night they slept 
 
 together, hand clasped in hand, Sorrow's fair 
 
 head resting against Joy's fair head. 
 
 They answered to each other's name, and when 
 
 239
 
 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 people asked for Sorrow, Joy would say : " Will 
 I not do as well ? I 'm Joy, you know, but it 's 
 all the same." And when people wished to see 
 . Sorrow would reply : " I "m Sorrow, but it 's 
 quite the same thing as seeing Joy ; for 
 and I are twins, and there is no difference 
 between ns 
 
 And yd there was a difference between them : 
 a difference of soul, which only the mind's eye 
 and the flowers could detect. 
 
 When Joy plucked the flowers, they smiled 
 and lived, but when Sorrow touched them, they 
 withered in her hand. 
 
 '"Never mind!" laughed Joy; "there are 
 more yet in the woods and meadows, and when 
 the next spring comes, there will be still more.*' 
 
 A white-haired old man, living near them, 
 told the story of how he took one of them by 
 the hand, thinking he had chosen Joy, and lo ! 
 she had the soul of Sorrow, although she seemed 
 to have the face and form of Joy. And her soul 
 had entered into his soul, and made him sad for 
 evermore.
 
 SORROW AND JOY. 241 
 
 But a young wife, whose life was troubled, 
 told the story of how she had deliberately 
 sought out Sorrow for a companion, and lo ' she 
 proved to be Joy's own self. And the soul of 
 Joy entered into the young wife's soul, and made 
 her glad for evermore. 
 
 Every one wanted Joy, and no one wanted 
 Sorrow. As time went on and brought knowl- 
 edge with it, Sorrow began to understand this, 
 and her eyes became tearful and her heart 
 heavy within her. She wondered to see Joy 
 smiling and laughing. 
 
 " Ah, sister," she said one day, " you may 
 well smile and laugh, for the world loves you, 
 and wherever you go, you are a welcome guest. 
 But as for myself, no one cares for me ; indeed, 
 when people know that I am Sorrow, they turn 
 aside from me, and they close their doors 
 against me. That is my portion in life." 
 
 " Nay," answered the other, as she kissed 
 Sorrow tenderly, " but you have forgotten about 
 that woman with whom you stayed for many 
 weeks. When you left her, she died, People
 
 242 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 said she died because Sorrow forsook her. 
 Therefore six- must have loved Sorrow." 
 
 But Sorrow shook her head. 
 
 "Nay, nay," she murmured, "no one loves 
 Sorrow. I know that well. People learn to bear 
 with Sorrow. That is all." 
 
 The years passed by. And Sorrow and Joy 
 were still strangely alike, and at times they 
 were still mistaken, the one for the other, as in 
 the days of their childhood, when they danced 
 over the daisied fields, or roamed through the 
 daffodil woods, or knelt together by the clear 
 stream, throwing in tiny leaves and watching 
 them borne away by the current, borne away 
 to the distant sea, where the streams meet and 
 greet. 
 
 Only now Sorrow and Joy were not always 
 together. Each had her work to do, each had 
 her own life to live ; each went her own way, 
 through the peaceful villages, through the 
 densely crowded cities. Each of them visited 
 cottages, each of them visited palaces. Joy 
 passed through factories, but Sorrow lingered
 
 SORROW AND JOY. 243 
 
 there. Sorrow dwelt with the pinched and pov- 
 erty-stricken inmates of the alleys and courts, in 
 great cities. Joy never went there. Joy played 
 with the children on the village green ; she 
 danced with them round the May-pole, she 
 sang with them their merry songs. There was 
 music in her laughter, and there was sunshine 
 in her presence, and that was what the world 
 wanted — sunshine, always more sunshine. 
 Therefore the world loved Joy, and welcomed 
 her, and would not let her hasten away. 
 
 Sometimes Sorrow and Joy met at the same 
 place ; sometimes Sorrow entered at the moment 
 when Joy was taking her leave. Once Joy, meet- 
 ing her twin sister at the door of the house, fell 
 on her knees and entreated Sorrow not to visit 
 that house. 
 
 " Dear sister," she pleaded, " I entreat you not 
 to put your foot upon that threshold. The people 
 of this home are all dear to me ; I left them with 
 smiles on their faces. The son, the hope and 
 pride of the home, has come back to them from 
 distant lands. He is ill, but there is every chance
 
 244 IN VARY IXC, MOODS. 
 
 that he may live and become strong. Sorrow, 
 will you grant my recjuest?" 
 
 And because Sorrow loved Joy, Sorrow did 
 not enter that house ; but she and Joy passed 
 down the street together, hand in hand, as in the 
 old days, whilst the people of the house whi< h 
 Sorrow had not visited, little knew how near to 
 them Joy's twin sister had come. Just a few 
 steps across their threshold, and she would have 
 been amongst them, an unwelcome guest. 
 
 They did not often meet like this, but they 
 often went to the same houses at different 
 times, and Sorrow learnt how Joy had been 
 welcomed, and Joy learnt how Sorrow had been 
 coldly received. Then Joy would plead for 
 Sorrow : " When Sorrow comes, be brave and 
 faithful," she would say. " If you are brave and 
 faithful you will find that you will be able to 
 bear with Sorrow's presence. She brings with 
 her something which I do not bring : she brings 
 knowledge, to understand deep mysteries, the 
 wearisome problems of existence ; she brings 
 courage, to make the best of life and life's oppor-
 
 SORROW AND JOY. 245 
 
 tunities. Those whom Sorrow has visited, can 
 best understand the meaning of Joy." 
 
 But they would not believe Joy's words ; they 
 thought that she spoke out of the fulness of her 
 affection for her twin sister. 
 
 One day Sorrow met Joy outside a great city. 
 
 " I have been searching for you far and wide," 
 she said, as she took Joy's hand and put it to her 
 lips. " I want you to go to the places where I 
 have been. I want you to visit the factories 
 where young girls toil year after year, without 
 much hope, without much comfort ; I want you to 
 go to the close courts, where poverty and crime 
 lurk. I want you to smile on those poor sisters 
 for whom the world has no pity and no love. I 
 want you to give pleasure to those who have had 
 no pleasure for all these long years. Take some 
 of the young children into the country : show 
 them the beauties of Nature. Let them wander 
 through the daffodil woods which you and I 
 loved. Let them pluck the yellow flowers. They 
 will feel all the better and all the happier for 
 plucking those yellow flowers. Let them gather
 
 346 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 mosses — the greenest you can find. Teach them 
 the songs of the birds. They will carry that 
 music in their hearts, and it will be a pure joy 
 to them." 
 
 "I will do all this," said Joy, eagerly, "but 
 you must come too, dear Sorrow. You know 
 the country even better than I know it. Nay, 
 you must come too." 
 
 " Not so," answered Sorrow, smiling, " it is 
 better that I should not go with you. And 
 listen, Joy, there is a poet who for many years 
 now has been writing true words and beautiful 
 thoughts. You have never visited him. Go to 
 him, and tell him you have come instead of 
 Sorrow, and that you bring with you success and 
 appreciation. Tell him I sent you. Say farewell 
 to him for me." 
 
 " And where are you going ? " asked Joy, 
 anxiously. " You look tired, dear Sorrow." 
 
 " I am going to wander about," answered Sor- 
 row. " The world has had too much of me. 
 I will take shelter with no one. I will watch 
 from afar, whilst you work and teach."
 
 SORROW AND JOY. 247 
 
 " I teach ! " said Joy, smiling wonderingly. 
 
 " Yes," whispered Sorrow, "you shall be a great 
 teacher and a great reformer. The sunshine of 
 your presence, the sweet music of your voice, 
 the tender smile on your fair face shall be 
 powers in the land. You shall do good and 
 lasting work. Blessed now, you shall be tenfold 
 more blessed." 
 
 " And you, Sorrow ? " asked Joy. 
 
 But Sorrow had disappeared. She left the 
 lights of the great city behind her. She wandered 
 about homeless. She hated her own life, because 
 she brought trouble to those to whom she would 
 fain have brought pleasure. She felt that she was 
 leading a cruel and a useless life, and the sooner 
 she died, the better for the world. 
 
 As she thus mused a voice said to her, " Who 
 art thou ? " 
 
 And she answered, as though to herself, u I 
 am Sorrow's self." 
 
 " Welcome, thrice welcome ! " replied the 
 voice, " I have yearned for thee. It has seemed 
 as if every one knew thee except myself."
 
 248 in varying moods. 
 
 Sorrow looked up and saw a man standing 
 near her. 
 
 " I am a painter," he said. " They say I have 
 talent and enthusiasm, but that until I am \\ ise 
 with the knowledge which is born of Sorrow, 1 
 shall never do any great work. I wish to live lor 
 Art, and for Art alone; therefore I welcome 
 Sorrow. Place thy hand in mine, O Sorrow." 
 
 But Sorrow shook her head. " Sorrow will 
 come to thee in thy turn, O painter," she said. 
 " Never seek for her. She will come of her own 
 free-will when thou least awaitest her, and then 
 she will make thee wise with the knowledge 
 which is hers and hers only." 
 
 She thought of him as she wandered on ; and 
 the next morning she retraced her steps and un- 
 perceived entered his studio. Here she found 
 every sign of luxury and comfort. She looked 
 at his paintings, and recognised in them unde- 
 veloped power, and genius trying to express 
 itself. His work was good, but there was some- 
 thing lacking in it : depth of meaning. 
 
 A child was playing on the hearth, waiting no
 
 SORROW AND JOY. t<\<) 
 
 doubt for her father to come back and finish the 
 portrait which rested against the easel. She was 
 a lovely little brown-haired maiden. Sorrow 
 stooped down and kissed her, and then, full of 
 remorse, hastened away. 
 
 That same night it was known that Sorrow 
 had visited the artist's home, for his youngest 
 and best-loved child had died. 
 
 Meanwhile Joy was working busily in the 
 factories, amongst the toilers of the great cities, 
 amongst the outcasts, amongst the poor and 
 wretched. They looked up from their work, 
 from their poverty, from their wretchedness, and 
 saw Joy's gracious presence. She brought hope 
 into their lives, and active sympathy. Some of 
 their faces caught the expression of her face ; 
 lips which had never learnt to smile, now learnt 
 from her. Hardened hearts yielded to her. 
 That which Sorrow could not teach, Joy was 
 teaching : the beauty of holiness, the un- 
 conquerableness of hope, the loveliness of 
 truth. 
 
 Joy took the children into the country, and
 
 TN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 they plucked the daffodils and violets and 
 primroses, and they gathered berries and 
 
 mosses and richly tinted leaves. They listened 
 to the singing of the birds. Their hearts \. 
 filled with gratitude and wonder. They had not 
 known how fair the world was until Joy came 
 amongst them. 
 
 Joy visited the poet and gave him Sorrow's 
 farewell message. And because of Joy's visit, 
 the poet's words were spoken throughout the 
 length and breadth of the land. 
 
 Sorrow heard of Joy's noble work and blessed 
 her for it. 
 
 " Let me ever give place to Joy," she thought. 
 "The world has no need of me. The fame 
 which I have won for the artist will never make 
 up to him for the loss of Ins child. His art 
 is tenfold richer, but his life is tenfold poorer." 
 
 One night she dreamed that she went to the 
 halls of Death, and asked to be shown into the 
 presence of the Lord of Death. 
 
 "Why art thou here?" asked the Lord of 
 Death, gravely, as she stood before him, her head
 
 SORROW AND JOY. 251 
 
 bowed, and her arms folded in front of her : a 
 sad figure. 
 
 " I have come to beg thee to put thy cold 
 hand on me," she whispered ; " I wish to die. I 
 wish to free the world of my dark presence. I 
 wish my very name to be forgotten." 
 
 But the Lord of Death answered thus : " Thy 
 name and the name of Joy are bracketed to- 
 gether. Ye are twin sisters. When thou diest, 
 Joy must die also. Surely thou dost not wish 
 her to die when she is doing her good work. 
 What would the world be without Joy ? And 
 yet if I lay my cold hand on thee, I must needs 
 lay it on Joy. For as the light implies the dark- 
 ness, and as the day implies the night, so Joy 
 implies Sorrow, and Sorrow implies Joy. Thus, 
 thou seest ye are inseparably bound up together. 
 Together ye came into the world, and together 
 ye must leave the world. What is thy choice, 
 Sorrow ? Wilt thou live or die ? " 
 
 " I will live ! " cried Sorrow, " so that Joy, 
 my twin sister, may live for evermore. For 
 the world has need of her smiles, her laughter,
 
 252 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 and all her loving influence, o Lord of Death, 
 this is my choice — life for evermore." 
 
 And Sorrow awoke, remembering her dream. 
 In her heart there was that strange gladness 
 which comes of sacrifice. She sought out her 
 sister. She scarcely recognised her, for there- 
 was a beauty on Joy's face which Sorrow had 
 never before seen so clearly defined. 
 
 " You have given me a great work to do," 
 whispered Joy, as she clung close to Sorrow. 
 " Never until now did I realise the grand possi- 
 bilities of life. Give me of your knowledge, 
 Sorrow, and help me to be a great teacher, a 
 great reformer, as you wished me to be. O 
 Sorrow, I have seen smiles light up wan faces 
 of men and women and children. I have seen 
 wonderful things happen. Ah, and I have 
 heard people bless Sorrow, because Sorrow has 
 prepared the way for Joy. Come back from 
 your wanderings, dear, for the world has need of 
 you as well as of me. 
 
 " Kiss me, Joy," said Sorrow, " your words 
 comfort me."
 
 SORROW AND JOY. 253 
 
 And Joy kissed her. 
 
 " You will never know death," said Sorrow, 
 as she looked proudly at her sister. " Other 
 things may pass away, but Joy shall live for 
 
 ever 
 u 
 
 And you, dear Sorrow?" asked Joy. 
 
 " I too shall live for ever," answered Sorrow, 
 gently. " And Joy, when I go about my work, 
 you must come with me, to soothe the grief I 
 bring, and to kiss away the tears called forth 
 by my presence. Will you promise this to me, 
 Joy ? " 
 
 And Joy promised it. 
 
 Then the sisters passed on together in silence. 
 The golden sunshine fell on their faces, and over 
 their fair hair. They seemed wond'rously alike, 
 for Joy had borrowed some part of Sorrow's ex- 
 pression, and Sorrow's eyes had caught the light 
 in Joy's eyes. And as in the old days when 
 they danced over the daisied fields and through 
 the daffodil woods, so now, no one looking at 
 them could tell which was Sorrow and which 
 was Joy,
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON 
 
 255
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 
 
 JT was one o'clock, and many of the students 
 in the National Gallery had left off work, 
 and were refreshing themselves with lunch and 
 conversation. There was one old worker who 
 had not stirred from his place, but he had put 
 down his brush, and had taken from his pocket 
 a small book, which was like its owner, thin and 
 shabby of covering. He seemed to find pleasure 
 in reading it, for he turned over its pages with 
 all the tenderness characteristic of one who loves 
 what he reads. Now and again he glanced at 
 his unfinished copy of the beautiful portrait of 
 Andrea del Sarto, and once his eyes rested on 
 another copy next to his, better and truer than 
 his ; and once he stooped to pick up a girl's 
 prune-coloured tie which had fallen from the 
 neighbouring easel. After this he seemed to be- 
 17 2 57
 
 253 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 • .ime unconscious of his surroundings, as uncon- 
 si ious indeed as any one of the pictures near 
 him. Any one might have been justified in mis- 
 taking him for the portrait of a man, but that 
 his lips moved ; for it was his custom to read 
 softly to himself. 
 
 The students passed back to their places, not 
 troubling to notice him, because they knew from 
 experience that he never noticed them, and that 
 all greetings were wasted on him, and all words 
 were wanton expenditure of breath. They had 
 come to regard him very much in the same way 
 as many of us regard the wonders of Nature, 
 without astonishment, without any questionings, 
 and often without any interest. One girl, a new- 
 comer, did chance to say to her companion : 
 
 " How ill that old man looks ! " 
 
 " Oh, he always looks like that," was the 
 answer. " You will soon get accustomed to him. 
 Come along ! I must finish my ' Blind Beggar ' 
 this afternoon." 
 
 In a few minutes most of the workers were 
 busy again, although there were some who con-
 
 AN ID YL OF LONDON. 259 
 
 tinued to chat quietly, and several young men 
 who seemed reluctant to leave their girl-friends, 
 and who were by no means encouraged to go ! 
 One young man came to claim his book and pipe 
 which he had left in the charge of a bright-eyed 
 girl, who was copying Sir Joshua's Angels. She 
 gave him his treasures, and received in exchange 
 a dark-red rose which she fastened in her belt ; 
 and then he returned to his portrait of Mrs. Sid- 
 dons. But there was something in his discon- 
 solate manner which made one suspect that he 
 thought less of Mrs. Siddons's beauty than of the 
 beauty of the girl who was wearing the dark-red 
 rose ! The strangers, strolling through the rooms, 
 stopped now and again to peer curiously at the 
 students' work. They were stared at indignantly 
 by the students themselves, but they made no 
 attempt to move away, and even ventured some- 
 times to pass criticisms of no tender character on 
 some of the copies. The fierce-looking man who 
 was copying " The Horse-Fair," deliberately put 
 down his brushes, folded his arms, and waited 
 defiantly until they had gone by ; but others,
 
 a6o IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 wiser in their generation, went on painting calmly. 
 Several workers were painting the new Raphael ; 
 one of thrm was a white-haired old gentlewoman, 
 
 whose hand was trembling, and yet skilful still. 
 M »re than once she turned to give a few hints 
 to the young girl near her, who looked in some 
 distress and doubt. Just the needful help was 
 given, and then the girl plied her brush merrily, 
 smiling the while with pleasure and gratitude. 
 There seemed to be a genial, kindly influence at 
 work, a certain homeliness too, which must needs 
 assert itself where many are gathered together, 
 working side by side. All made a harmony : the 
 wonderful pictures collected from many lands 
 and many centuries, each with its meaning, and 
 its message from the past ; the ever-present 
 memories of the painters themselves, who had 
 worked and striven and conquered ; and the liv- 
 ing human beings, each witli his wealth of earnest 
 endeavour and hope. 
 
 Meanwhile, the old man read on uninterrupt-. 
 edly until two hands were put over his book, 
 and a gentle voice said :
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 261 
 
 " Mr. Lindall, you have had no lunch again. 
 Do you know, I begin to hate Lucretius. He 
 always makes you forget your food." 
 
 The old man looked up, and something like 
 a smile passed over his joyless face when he saw 
 Helen Stanley bending over him. 
 
 " Ah ! " he answered, " you must not hate 
 Lucretius. I have had more pleasant hours with 
 him than with any living person." 
 
 He rose, and came forward to examine her 
 copy of Andrea del Sarto's portrait. 
 
 " Yours is better than mine," he said, critically; 
 " in fact, mine is a failure. I think I shall only 
 get a small price for mine ; indeed, I doubt 
 whether I shall get sufficient to pay for my 
 funeral." 
 
 " You speak dismally," she answered, smiling. 
 
 " I missed you yesterday," he continued, half 
 dreamily. " I left my work, and I wandered 
 through the rooms, and I did not even read 
 Lucretius. Something seemed to have gone 
 from my life ; at first I thought it must be my 
 favourite Raphael, or the Murillo, but it was
 
 86a IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 neither the one nor the other — it was you. That 
 was strange, was n't it? But you know we get 
 .11 1 ustomed to anything, and perhaps I should 
 
 have missed you less the second day, and by 
 the end of a week I should not have missed 
 you at all. Mercifully we have in us the power 
 
 of forgetting." 
 
 " I do not wish to plead for myself," she said, 
 " but I do not believe that you or any one could 
 really forget. That which outsiders call forget- 
 fulness might be called by the better name of 
 resignation." 
 
 "I don't care about talking any more now," 
 he said, suddenly, and he went to his easel and 
 worked silently at his picture ; and Helen Stan- 
 ley glanced at him and thought she had never 
 seen her old companion look so forlorn and 
 desolate as he did to-day. He looked as if no 
 gentle hand had ever been placed on him in 
 kindliness and affection, and that seemed to her 
 a terrible thing ; for she was one of those pre- 
 historically minded persons who persist in be- 
 lieving that affection is as needful to human life
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 263 
 
 as rain to flower-life. When first she came to 
 work at the Gallery — some twelve months ago — 
 she had noticed this old man, and had wished 
 for his companionship ; she was herself lonely 
 and sorrowful, and, although young, had to 
 fight her own battles, and had learnt something 
 of the difficulties of fighting, and this had given 
 her an experience beyond her years. She was 
 not more than twenty-four years of age, but she 
 looked rather older, and though she had beauti- 
 ful eyes, full of meaning and kindness, her 
 features were decidedly plain as well as unat- 
 tractive. There were some in the Gallery who 
 said amongst themselves jestingly, that as Mr. 
 Lindall had waited so many years before talk- 
 ing to any one, he might have chosen some one 
 better worth the waiting for ! But they soon 
 became accustomed to seeing Helen Stanley and 
 Mr. Lindall together, and they laughed less than 
 before ; and meanwhile the acquaintance 
 ripened into a sort of friendship, half sulky on 
 his part, and wholly kind on her part. He told 
 her nothing about himself, and he asked nothing
 
 264 IN VAR YING MOODS. 
 
 aboul herself; for weeks ho never even knew 
 her name Sometimes he <li<l nut speak at all, 
 and the two friends would work silently side b) 
 side, until it was time to go ; and then lie waited 
 until she was ready, and walked with her a< t 
 Trafalgar Square, where they parted, and went 
 their own ways. 
 
 But occasionally, when she least expected it, 
 he would speak with glowing enthusiasm on art ; 
 then his eyes seemed to become bright, and his 
 bent figure more erect, and his whole bearing 
 proud and dignified. There were times, too, 
 when he would speak on other subjects : on the 
 morality of free-thought, and on those who had 
 died to vindicate free-thought, on Bruno, of 
 blessed memory, on him and scores of others 
 too. He would speak of the different schools of 
 philosophy ; he would laugh at himself and at 
 all who, having given time and thought to the 
 study of life's complicated problems, had not 
 reached one step farther than the old-world 
 thinkers. Perhaps he would quote one of his 
 favourite philosophers, and then suddenly relapse
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 265 
 
 into silence, returning to his wonted abstraction, 
 and to his indifference to his surroundings. 
 Helen Stanley had learnt to understand his 
 ways, and to appreciate his mind, and, without 
 intruding on him in any manner, had put herself 
 gently into his life, as his quiet champion and 
 his friend. No one, in her presence, dared 
 speak slightingly of the old man, or to make fun 
 of his tumble-down appearance, or of his worn- 
 out silk hat with a crack in the side, or of his 
 rag of a black tie, which, together with his over- 
 coat, had " seen better days." Once she brought 
 her needle and thread, and darned the torn 
 sleeve during her lunch-time ; and though he 
 never knew it, it was a satisfaction to her to have 
 helped him. 
 
 To-day she noticed that he was painting badly, 
 and that he seemed to take no interest in his 
 work ; but she went on busily with her own 
 picture, and was so engrossed in it that she did 
 not at first observe that he had packed up his 
 brushes, and was preparing to go home. 
 
 "Three more strokes," he said, quietly, "and
 
 266 TN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 you will have finished your picture. I Bhall 
 never finish mine : Perhaps you will Ik- good 
 enough to set it right for me. I am not coming 
 
 here again. I don't seem to have caught the 
 true expression : what do you think ? But I am 
 not going to let it worry me, for I am sure you 
 will promise to do your best for me. See, I will 
 hand over these colours and these brushes to 
 you, and no doubt you will accept tin- palette as 
 well. I have no further use for it." 
 
 Helen Stanley took the palette which he held 
 out towards her, and looked at him as though 
 she would wish to question him. 
 
 " It is very hot here," he continued, " and I 
 am going out. I am tired of work." 
 
 He hesitated, and then added : ' I should like 
 you to come with me, if you can spare the time." 
 
 She parked up her things at once, and the two 
 friends moved slowly away, he gazing absently 
 at the pictures, and she wondering in her mind 
 as to the meaning of his strange mood. 
 
 When they were on the steps inside the build- 
 ing, he turned to Helen Stanley and said :
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 267 
 
 " I should like to go back to the pictures once 
 more. I feel as if I must stand amongst them 
 just a little longer. They have been my com- 
 panions for so long, that they are almost part of 
 myself. I can close my eyes and recall them 
 faithfully. But I want to take a last look at 
 them ; I want to feel once more the presence of 
 the great masters, and to refresh my mind with 
 their genius. When I look at their work, I think 
 of their life, and can only wonder at their death. 
 It was so strange that they should die." 
 
 They went back together, and he took her to 
 his favourite pictures, but remained speechless 
 before them, and she did not disturb his thoughts. 
 At last he said : 
 
 " I am ready to go. I have said farewell to them 
 all. I know nothing more wonderful than being 
 amongst a number of fine pictures. It is almost 
 overwhelming. One expects Nature to be grand; 
 but one does not expect Man to be grand." 
 
 "You know we don't agree there," she an- 
 swered. " / expect everything grand and great 
 from Man."
 
 2f>8 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 They went out of the Gallery, and into Tra- 
 falgar Square. It was a si orching afternoon in 
 
 August, but there was some cooling comfort in 
 seeing the dancing water of the fountains spark- 
 ling so brightly in the sunshine. 
 
 " Do you mind stopping here a few minutes ? " 
 he said. " I should like to sit down and wat< h. 
 There is so much to see." 
 
 She led the way to a seat, one end of whirl! 
 was occupied by a workman, who was sleeping 
 soundly, and snoring too, his arms folded 
 tightly together. He had a little clay-pipe in 
 the corner of his mouth : it seemed to be tu< 
 in so snugly that there was not much danger of 
 its falling to the ground. At last Helen spoke 
 to her companion. 
 
 "What do you mean by saying that you will 
 not be able to finish your picture ? Perhaps you 
 are not well. Indeed, you don't look well. You 
 make me anxious, for I have a great regard for 
 you." 
 
 " I am ill and suffering," he answered, quietly. 
 " I thought I should have died yesterday ; but
 
 AN ID YL OF LONDON. 269 
 
 I made up my mind to live until I saw you 
 again, and I thought I would ask you to spend 
 the afternoon with me, and go with me to West- 
 minster Abbey, and sit with me in the Cloisters. 
 I do not feel able to go by myself, and I know 
 of no one to ask except you ; and I believed you 
 would not refuse me, for you have been very 
 kind to me. I do not quite understand why you 
 have been kind to me, but I am wonderfully 
 grateful to you. To-day I heard some one in 
 the Gallery say that you were plain. I turned 
 round and I said, ' I beg your pardon, / think 
 she is very beautiful.' I think they laughed, 
 and that puzzled me ; for you have always 
 seemed to me a very beautiful person." 
 
 At that moment the little clay-pipe fell from the 
 workman's mouth, and was broken into bits. He 
 awoke with a start, gazed stupidly at the old man 
 and his companion, and at the broken clay-pipe. 
 
 " Curse my luck ! " he said, yawning. " I was 
 fond of that damned little pipe." 
 
 The old man drew his own pipe and his own 
 tobacco-pouch from his pocket.
 
 270 JN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "Take these, stranger," he said "I don't 
 want them. And good luck to you." 
 
 The man's face brightened up as he took the 
 1 Ipe and pouch. 
 
 " You 're uncommon kind," he said. " Can 
 \<»u spare them?" he added, holding them out 
 half-reluctantly. 
 
 " Yes," answered the old man ; " I shall not 
 smoke again. You may as well have these 
 matches too." 
 
 The labourer put them in his pocket, smiled 
 his thanks, and walked some little distance off ; 
 and Helen watched him examine his new pipe, 
 and then fill it with tobacco and light it. 
 
 Mr. Lindall proposed that they should be 
 getting on their way to Westminster, and they 
 soon found themselves in the Abbey. They sat 
 together in the Poet's Corner ; a smile of quiet 
 happiness broke over the old man's tired face as 
 he looked around and took in all the solemn 
 beauty and grandeur of the resting-place of the 
 great. 
 
 "You know," he said, half to himself, half to
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 271 
 
 his companion, " I have no belief of any kind, 
 and no hopes and no fears ; but all through my 
 life it has been a comfort to me to sit quietly in 
 a church or a cathedral. The graceful arches, 
 the sun shining through the stained windows, 
 the vaulted roof, the noble columns, have helped 
 me to understand the mystery which all our books 
 of philosophy cannot make clear, though we bend 
 over them year after year, and grow old over 
 them, old in age and in spirit. Though I my- 
 self have never been outwardly a worshipper, I 
 have never sat in a place of worship but that, 
 for the time being, I have felt a better man. But 
 directly the voice of doctrine or dogma was 
 raised, the spell was broken for me, and that 
 which I hoped was being made clear, had no 
 further meaning for me. There was only one 
 voice which ever helped me, the voice of the 
 organ arousing me, thrilling me, filling me with 
 strange longing, with welcome sadness, with 
 solemn gladness. I have always thought that 
 music can give an answer when everything else 
 is. of no avail. I do not know what you believe.,"
 
 272 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 " I am so young t<» have found out," she said, 
 almost pleadingly. 
 
 " Don't worry yourself," he answered, kindly. 
 " Be brave and strong, and let the rest go. I 
 should like to li\e long enough to see what you 
 will make of your life. I believe you will never 
 be false to yourself or to any one. That is rare. 
 I believe you will not let any lower ideal take the 
 place of your high ideal of what is beautiful and 
 noble in art, in life. I believe that you will 
 never let despair get the upper hand of you. If 
 it does, you may as well die ; yes, you may as 
 well. Ami I entreat you not to lose your entire 
 faith in humanity. There is nothing like that for 
 withering up the very core of the heart. I tell 
 you, humanity and nature have so much in com- 
 mon with each other, that, if you lose your entire 
 faith in the former, you will lose part of your 
 pleasure in the latter ; you will see less beauty 
 in the trees, the flowers, and the fields, less 
 grandeur in the mighty mountains and the sea. 
 The seasons will come and go, and you will 
 scarcely heed their coming and going: Winter
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 273 
 
 will settle over your soul, just as it settled over 
 mine. And you see what I am." 
 
 They had now passed into the Cloisters, and 
 they sat down in one of the recesses of the 
 windows, and looked out upon the rich plot of 
 grass which the Cloisters enclose. There was 
 not a soul there except themselves : the cool 
 and the quiet and the beauty of the spot re- 
 freshed these pilgrims, and they rested in calm 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Helen was the first to break the silence. 
 
 " I am glad you have brought me here," she 
 said ; " I shall never grumble now at not being 
 able to afford a fortnight in the country. This 
 is better than anything else." 
 
 " It has always been my summer holiday to 
 come here," he said. " When I first came I was 
 like you, young and hopeful, and I had won- 
 derful visions of what I intended to do and to 
 be. Here it was I made a vow that I would be- 
 come a great painter, and win for myself a rest- 
 ing-place in this very Abbey. There is humour 
 
 in the situation, is there not ? " 
 18
 
 274 W VARYING MOODS. 
 
 "I don't like to hear you say that," she 
 answered. " It is Dot always possible for us to 
 fulfil all our ambitions. Still, it is better to have 
 had them, and failed of them, than not to have 
 had them at all." 
 
 "Possibly," he replied, coldly. Then he 
 added : " I wish you would tell me something 
 about yourself. You have always interested me." 
 
 " I have nothing to tell you about myself," she 
 answered, frankly. " I am alone in the world, 
 without friends and without relations. The very 
 name I use is not a real name. I was a found- 
 ling. At times I am sorry I do not belong to 
 any one, and at other times I am glad. You 
 know I am fond of books and of art, so my life 
 is not altogether empty ; and I find my pleasure 
 in hard work. When I saw you at the Gallery, 
 1 wished to know you, and I asked one of the 
 students who you were. lie told me you were 
 a misanthrope. Then I did not care so much 
 about knowing you, until one day you spoke to 
 me about my painting, and that was the beginning 
 of our friendship."
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 275 
 
 " Forty years ago/' he said, sadly, " the friend 
 of my boyhood deceived me. I had not thought 
 it possible that he could be false to me. He 
 screened himself behind me, and became pros- 
 perous and respected, at the expense of my hon- 
 our. I vowed I would never again make a 
 friend. A few years later, when I was beginning 
 to hold up my head, the woman whom I loved 
 deceived me. Then I put from me all affection 
 and all love. Greater natures than mine are 
 better able to bear these troubles, but my heart 
 contracted and withered up." 
 
 He paused for a moment, many recollections 
 overpowering him. Then he went on telling her 
 the history of his life, unfolding to her the story 
 of his hopes and ambitions, describing to her the 
 very home where he was born, and the dark-eyed 
 sister whom he had loved, and with whom he had 
 played, over the daisied fields, and through the 
 carpeted woods, and all amongst the richly tinted 
 bracken. One day he was told she was dead, 
 and that he must never speak her name ; but he 
 spoke it all the day and all the night — Beryl,
 
 27^> IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 nothing but Beryl ; and he looked for her in the 
 
 fields, and in the \\ oods, and amongst the bra< ken. 
 It seemed as if he had unlocked the casket of 
 his heart, closed for so man) years, and as if all 
 the memories of the past and all the se< rets of 
 his life were rushing out, glad to be free on< e 
 more, and grateful for the open air of sympathy. 
 
 "Beryl was as swift as a deer!" he ex- 
 claimed. " You would have laughed to see her 
 on the moor. Ah ! it was hard to give up all 
 thoughts of meeting her again. They told me I 
 should see her in heaven ; but I did not care 
 about heaven. I wanted Beryl on earth, as I 
 knew her, a merry, laughing sister. I think you 
 are right : we don't forget ; we become resigned 
 in a dead, dull kind of way." 
 
 Suddenly he said : " I don't know why I have 
 told you all this. And yet it has been such a 
 pleasure to me. You are the only person to 
 whom I could have spoken about myself, for no 
 one else but you would have cared." 
 
 " Don't you think," she said, gently, " that you 
 made a mistake in letting your experiences em-
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 277 
 
 bitter you ? Because you had been unlucky in 
 one or two instances, it did not follow that all 
 the world was against you. Perhaps you un- 
 consciously put yourself against all the world, 
 and therefore saw every one in an un- 
 favourable light. It seems so easy to do that. 
 Trouble comes to most people, doesn't it ? — and 
 your philosophy should have taught you to make 
 the best of it. At least that is my notion of the 
 value of philosophy." 
 
 She spoke hesitatingly, as though she gave 
 utterance to these words against her will. 
 
 " I am sure you are right, child," he said, 
 eagerly. 
 
 He put his hands to his eyes, but he could not 
 keep back the tears. 
 
 " I have been such a lonely old man," he 
 sobbed ; " no one can tell what a lonely, loveless 
 life mine has been. If I were not so old and so 
 tired, I should like to begin all over again." 
 
 He sobbed for many minutes, and she did not 
 know what to say to him of comfort ; but she 
 took his hand within her own, and gently
 
 27» J.\ VARYING MOODS. 
 
 « aressed it, as one might do to a little child in 
 pain. He looked up and smiled through his 
 
 tears. 
 
 " You have been very good to me," he said, 
 " and I daresay you have thought me ungrate- 
 ,ful. You mended my coat for me one morning, 
 and not a day has passed but that I have looked 
 at the darn, and thought of you. I liked to re- 
 member that you had done it for me. But you 
 have done far more than this for me ; you have 
 put some sweetness into my life. Whatever be- 
 comes of me hereafter, I shall never be able to 
 think of my life on earth as anything but beau- 
 tiful, because you thought kindly of me, and 
 acted kindly for me. The other night, when this 
 terrible pain came over me, I wished you were 
 near me ; I wished to hear your voice. There 
 is very beautiful music in your voice." 
 
 " I would have come to you gladly," she said, 
 smiling quietly at him. "You must make a 
 promise that when you feel ill again, you will 
 send for me. Then you will see what a splendid 
 nurse I am, and how soon you will become
 
 AN ID YL OF LONDON. 279 
 
 strong and well under my care, strong enough to 
 paint many more pictures, each one better than 
 the last. Now, will you promise ? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, and he raised her hand rever- 
 ently to his lips. 
 
 " You are not angry with me for doing that ? " 
 he asked, suddenly. " I should not like to vex 
 you." 
 
 " I am not vexed," she answered, kindly. 
 
 " Then perhaps I may kiss it once more ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, and again he raised her 
 hand to his lips. 
 
 " Thank you," he said, quietly; " that was kind 
 of you. Do you see that broken sun-ray yon- 
 der ? Is it not golden ? I find it very pleasant 
 to sit here ; and I am quite happy, and almost 
 free from pain. Lately I have been troubled 
 with a dull, thudding pain near my heart ; but 
 now I feel so strong, that I believe I shall finish 
 that Andrea del Sarto after all." 
 
 " Of course you will," she answered, cheerily, 
 " and I shall have to confess that yours is better
 
 s8o IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 than mine ! I am quite willing to yield the 
 palm to yon." 
 
 " I must alter the expression of the mouth," 
 he replied. " That is the part which has worried 
 me. I don't think I told you that I have had a 
 commission to copy Rembrandt's Old Jew. I 
 must set to work on that next week." 
 
 " But you have given me your palette and 
 brushes ! " she laughed. 
 
 " You must be generous enough to lend them 
 to me," he said, smiling. " By the way, I intend 
 to give you my books, all of them. Some day I 
 must show them to you. I especially value my 
 philosophical books ; they have been my faith- 
 ful companions through many years. I believe 
 you do not read Greek. That is a pity, because 
 you would surely enjoy Aristotle. I think I 
 must teach you Greek : it would be an agree- 
 able legacy to leave you when 1 pass away into 
 the Great Silence." 
 
 " I should like to learn," she said, wondering 
 to hear him speak so unreservedly. It seemed 
 as if some vast barrier had been rolled aside,
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 281 
 
 and as if she were getting to know him better, 
 having been allowed to glance into his past life, 
 to sympathise with his past mistakes, and with 
 the failure of his ambitions, and with the dead- 
 ening of his heart. 
 
 " You must read yEschylus," he continued, 
 enthusiastically ; " and, if I mistake not, the 
 Agamemnon will be an epoch in your life. 
 You will find that all these studies will serve to 
 ennoble your art, and you will be able to put 
 mind into your work, and not merely form and 
 colour. Do you know, I feel so well, that I be- 
 lieve I shall not only live to finish Andrea del 
 Sarto, but also to smoke another pipe ? " 
 
 " You have been too rash to-day," she laughed, 
 " giving away your pipe and pouch, your palette 
 and brushes, in this reckless manner ! I must 
 get you a new pipe to-morrow. I wonder you 
 did not part with your venerable Lucretius " 
 
 " That reminds me," he said, fumbling in his 
 pocket ; " I think I have dropped my Lucretius. 
 I fancy I left it somewhere in the Poet's Corner. 
 It would grieve me to lose that book."
 
 =32 JN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 Let me go and look for it," she said, and 
 
 she advanced a few steps and then came back to 
 him. 
 
 You have been saying many kind words to 
 me," she said, as she put her hand on his arm, 
 " and I have not told you that I value your 
 friendship, and am grateful to you for letting 
 me be more than a mere stranger to you. I 
 have been very lonely in my life ; for I am not 
 one to make friends easily, and it has been a 
 great privilege to me to talk with you. I want 
 you to know this ; for if I have been anything 
 to you, you have been a great deal to me. I 
 have never met with much sympathy from those 
 of my own age : I have found them narrow and 
 unyielding, and they found me dull and un- 
 interesting. They had passed through few 
 experiences, and knew nothing about failure or 
 success, and some of them did not even undc-r- 
 stand the earnestness of endeavour, and laughed 
 at me when I spoke of a high ideal. So I with- 
 drew into myself, and should probably have 
 grown still more isolated than I was before, but
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 283 
 
 that I met you, and, as time went on, we became 
 friends. I shall always remember your teach- 
 ing, and I will try to keep to a high ideal of life 
 and art and endeavour, and I will not let despair 
 creep into my heart, and I will not lose my faith 
 in humanity." 
 
 As she spoke, a lingering ray of sunshine lit 
 up her face and gently caressed her soft brown 
 hair : slight though her form, and sombre her 
 clothes, and unlovely her features, she seemed a 
 gracious presence, because of her earnestness. 
 
 " Now," she said, cheerily, " you rest here 
 until I come back with your Lucretius, and then 
 I think I must be getting on my way home. But 
 you must fix a time for our first Greek lesson ; 
 for we must begin to-morrow." 
 
 When she had gone, he walked in the Cloisters, 
 holding his hat in his hand and his stick under 
 his arm. There was a quiet smile on his face, 
 which was called forth by pleasant thoughts in 
 his mind, and he did not look quite so shrunken 
 and shrivelled as usual. His eyes were fixed 
 on the ground ; but he raised them and observed
 
 284 IN VARYING MOODS. 
 
 a white cat creeping towards him. It came and 
 rubbed itself against his foot, and purring with 
 
 all its might, seemed determined to win some 
 kind of notice from him. The old man stooped 
 down to stroke it, and was just touching its 
 sleek coat, when he suddenly withdrew his hand, 
 and groaned deeply. He struggled to tin 
 recess, and sank back. The st i* k fell on the 
 stone with a clatter, and the battered hat rolled 
 down beside it, and the white cat fled away in 
 terror ; but realising that there was no cause for 
 alarm, it came back and crouched near the 
 silent figure of the old man, watching him in- 
 tently. Then it stretched out its paw and 
 played with his hand, doing its utmost to coax 
 him into a little fun ; but he would not be 
 coaxed, and the cat lost all patience with him, 
 and left him to himself. 
 
 Meanwhile Helen Stanley was looking for the 
 lost Lucretius in the Poet's Corner. She found 
 it lying near Chaucer's tomb, and was just going
 
 AN IDYL OF LONDON. 285 
 
 to take it to her friend, when she saw the work- 
 man to whom they had spoken in Trafalgar 
 Square. He recognised her at once, and came 
 towards her. 
 
 " I 've been having a quiet half-hour here," 
 he said. " It does me a sight of good to sit in 
 the Abbey." . 
 
 " You should go into the Cloisters," she said, 
 kindly. " I have been sitting there with my 
 friend. He will be interested to hear that you 
 love this beautiful Abbey." 
 
 " I should like to see him again," said the 
 workman. " He had a kind way about him, 
 and that pipe he gave me is an uncommon good 
 one. Still, I am sorry I smashed the little clay- 
 pipe. I 'd grown used to it. I 'd smoked it 
 ever since my little girl died and left me alone 
 in the world. I used to bring my little girl 
 here, and now I come alone. But it is n't the 
 same thing." 
 
 " No, it could not be the same thing," said 
 Helen, gently. " But you find some little com- 
 fort here?"
 
 286 IN VAN VIM: MOODS. 
 
 "Some little comfort," he answered. "One 
 can't expect much." 
 
 They went together into the Cloisters, and as 
 they came near the recess where the old man 
 rested, Helen said : 
 
 "Why, he has fallen asleep ! He must have 
 been very tired. And he has dropped his hat 
 and stick. Thank you. If you will put them 
 down there, I will watch by his side until he 
 wakes up. I don't suppose he will sleep for 
 long." 
 
 The workman stooped down to pick up the 
 hat and stick, and glanced at the sleeper. 
 Something in the sleeper's countenance arrested 
 bis attention. He turned to the girl, and saw 
 that she was watching him. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked, anxiously. " What 
 is the matter with you ? 
 
 He tried to speak, but his voice failed him, 
 and all he could do, ws»s to point with trem- 
 bling hand to the old man. 
 
 Helen looked, and a loud cry broke from her 
 lips. The old man was dead.
 
 
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