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BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
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THE 
 
 GORDIAN KNOT: 
 
 % Storn of (feaob aivb of dtbil, 
 
 BY 
 
 SHIRLEY BROOKS. 
 
 L 
 
 " "Ev tous ^/xe'pacj exeiVous ovk f/v (3a<TiA€us ev I<rpoo)\ 'arrjp rb cv9te ev b<j>9 aXpoU avroO eiroi'et.' 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN TENNIEL 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 18G0. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 SAYILL AND EDWARDS, TRINTERP, 
 
 CHANDOS STREET. 
 
76S 
 
 3S73"/ 
 
 ^u 
 
 TO 
 
 MARK AND HELEN LEMON. 
 
 My dear Friends, 
 
 I have strong claims to the right of inscribing this book 
 with your names. 
 
 Years back, a pleasant and valuable literary connexion with 
 one of you originated a cordial friendship with both ; and, if I am 
 happy to say that I see no prospect of a termination of the first, I 
 am still happier to believe in the impossibility of an interruption of 
 the second. 
 
 Then, if I add that a large, and to me the most agreeable 
 portion of this volume, was composed in the quiet and delightful 
 Sussex retreat which you have chosen, and while I was enjoying the 
 kindest hospitalities of your household, I think that I have made 
 out my claim to sign myself, in this public manner, 
 
 Your obliged and attached Friend, 
 
 SHIRLEY BROOKS. 
 
 The Temple. 
 
 581 
 
PHEFACE. 
 
 Circumstances seem to require a few prefatory words from me, on the 
 completion of this novel. 
 
 A considerable interval has occurred between the issue of two of 
 the portions into which the tale was divided for the pui'pose of serial 
 publication. 
 
 .For this delay I am solely answerable,' and it may be well that I 
 should state its cause. 
 
 Few who know me and my occupations will be inclined to suppose 
 me to have been indolent, or negligent of work undertaken by me. 
 The inteiTuption to the issue of " The Gordian Knot " was occasioned 
 by influences of an exactly opposite description. 
 
 During its progress, I was induced to think that the acceptance of 
 certain other literary engagements, of a different character, would not 
 interfere with my devoting to the tale now published the full time 
 which I had set apart for its composition. Nor did they, nor would I 
 have permitted them to do so. But I am convinced that I under- 
 estimated the difficulty of suddenly turning from the various and 
 exciting duties and pleasures of journalism to the lines upon which 
 a writer who aspires to be an artist lays down a work of extended 
 character, and that it is not quite so easy as some persons believe to 
 comply with the summons of the almanac to foi'get active and polemic 
 occupation for certain days of labour of an utterly distinct nature. I 
 found that my work upon this novel became less and less easy to 
 execute, and when an interruption, caused by a domestic affliction, 
 occurred, the resumption of the fiction became more difficult than I 
 had supposed was possible. Finally, and with much regret, I was com- 
 pelled, in justice to myself, to defer the completion of my book until 
 I could devote to it the due leisure and attention. 
 
 This is, in all frankness, my own answer to the incessant inquiry 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 "why that book was not done." It is now right that I should do 
 justice to my excellent publisher, who I know has had frequently to 
 answer that question, sometimes urged with a pertinacity less agreeable 
 to him than flattering to me. I beg not only to exculpate Mr. Bentley 
 from the slightest blame in the matter of the delay, but to say that 
 so high was his estimate of my ability to complete my book at earlier 
 dates, that at one time he contemplated the bringing to bear upon me 
 the influence of an eminent and admirable nobleman — may I name 
 Lord Chelmsford — whose equitable suggestions it was thought might 
 expedite the progress of my invention. 
 
 Shall I add, to those of my own craft and fellowship who may do 
 me the honour to examine the construction of my book, that I trust 
 they will easily perceive that though there was delay in its completion, 
 there has been sedulous adherence to the original design. 
 
 S. B. 
 
 December) 1859. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. SOME INTRODUCTIONS 1 
 
 II. THE MANAGER'S FETE 10 
 
 III. THE CHERITONS AT HOME 16 
 
 IV. STRUGGLES AND CHANGES 23 
 
 V. A LONDON HOME 33 
 
 VI. THE SPENCERS AT HOME 42 
 
 VII. MARGARET AND ANOTHER . . 48 
 
 VIII. A CONSULTATION IN CHAMBERS 55 
 
 IX. DEMOSTHENES 65 
 
 X. AJAX AND TEUCER 73 
 
 XI. UNCLE HENRY 81 
 
 XII. A TEMPLE PLOT 87 
 
 XIII. UNCLE ROBERT 93 
 
 XIV. BY THE SAD SEA WAVES 97 
 
 XV. ANDROMEDA 103 
 
 XVI. MR. SPENCER AFTER DARK 109 
 
 xvn. cousin latimer's love 121 
 
 XVIII. CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 129 
 
 XIX. A PATIENT 135 
 
 XX. AN EXPERIMENT 142 
 
 XXI. DRUIDICAL EDUCATION 148 
 
 XXII. ONE GOEDIAN KNOT 154 
 
 XXIII. A MODEL HUSBAND 161 
 
 XXIV. CONDONATION 171 
 
 XXV. A VERY BLACK CLOUD. — AN OLD FRIEND 176 
 
 XXVI. THE OPERA 187 
 
 XXVII. AFTER THE OPERA 193 
 
 XXVIU. THE SKY SEEMS CLEARER 203 
 
 XXIX. A TRUE FRIEND 210 
 
vm CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE PAGE 
 
 XXX. GLIMPSE OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 213 
 
 XXXI. COUSIN CHEEITON 218 
 
 XXXII. SANS ADIEU 225 
 
 XXXIII. FEIENDS IN COUNCIL 231 
 
 XXXIV. VIRGINIUS AND VIEGINIA 240 
 
 XXXV. NEWS SPREADS 247 
 
 XXXVI. BEAPPEAEANCES 257 
 
 XXXVII. ANOTHER TANGLE 267 
 
 XXXVIII. VIEGINIUS ON GUAED 274 
 
 XXXIX. THE LECTURER 284 
 
 XL. ITHURIEL 289 
 
 XLI. THE CREATURE AT HOME 294 
 
 XLII. DARKER YET 306 
 
 XLIII. AN OPEN COUNCIL 315 
 
 XLIV. CALYPSO MORITURA 325 
 
 XLV. THE TEMPLE AGAIN 337 
 
 XLVI. AN UNDERCURRENT 342 
 
 XLVII. THE CONCEALED CARD 349 
 
 XLVIII. THE EMBASSY . . . . ' 353 
 
 XLIX. ALEXANDER 359 
 
 CHAPTER THE LAST. SOME ENDS OF A CUT KNOT 369 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 maegabet spenceb Frontispiece. 
 
 the ayah and hee chaege To face page 7 
 
 CALYPSO ,, 48 
 
 telemachus and mentob „ 57 
 
 a deputation „ 73 
 
 the cousins „ 76 
 
 love in idleness „ 99 
 
 1iodeen deuids „ 119 
 
 the patient „ 135 
 
 an experiment ,, 142 
 
 inattention „ 166 
 
 attention „ 192 
 
 a tbue feiend „ 210 
 
 a misdeliyeeed letteb „ 224 
 
 a willing witness „ 234 
 
 duke's gbandfatheb „ 242 
 
 vibg1nius on guabd „ 274 
 
 v/hebe is vibginia? „ 288 
 
 ALBAN „ 293 
 
 ATONEMENTS „ 337 
 
 THE LITTLE STAB „ 347 
 
 THE IEON PIT ,, 372 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SOME INTBODUCTIONS. 
 
 The first time that Philip Arundel saw Miss Spencer was in the 
 course of &Jete given, on the bank of the Thames, by the manager of 
 one of the opera-houses. But the first time that I saw little Margaret 
 Spencer was nine years earlier, and at the door of a dissenters' chapel 
 in a pleasant town in Shropshire. 
 
 In days when there were miles in England, the little quiet borough, 
 St. Oscars, was nearly two hundred miles from the gipat noisy city, 
 London. Now it is about six hours away, and these, I am told, seem 
 at least twelve to any traveller who is not rich enough to take his 
 seat on first-class cushions. The hard boards, keen draughts, and 
 general misery of the inferior carriages lead him, let us hope, to 
 reflect upon his un worthiness in not having deserved — and conse- 
 quently obtained — the blessings of riches, and induce him to register 
 his vow that, should he survive the journey, he will devote himself 
 with renewed energy to the struggle of life. If petulant philan- 
 thropists object to the deduction of this moral from the sufferings 
 of the humbler traveller under our present locomotive arrangements, 
 I am very sorry, but have no other that could be at all acceptable to 
 respectability. 
 
 In the time when I first knew St. Oscars, we went thither by his 
 Majesty's mail — red coach — red guard — red driver — four spanking 
 horses, which during the night were changed, as it seemed to the 
 aroused sleeper, every five minutes — snorting horn at the turnpikes 
 and in the towns — horribly cold feet in the morning — very high fares 
 — extortionate fees — good refreshment on the road' — and everybody 
 heartily glad when the business was over. Those are the items which 
 chiehy compose my recollections of the long journey, but as I went 
 up and down several times, it would not be difficult to remember that 
 one coachman told stupid stories with much good-nature and desire 
 to lighten the way for you; that a particular guard kept a private 
 French horn, and when we were away from towns would perform the 
 then fashionable melody wedded t<> -Mr. Bayley's hankering for exist- 
 ence in another and a butterfly woi'ld ; that at one or two inns there 
 were one or two pretty girls, or girls whose fresh and cheerful faces 
 looked pretty to people who were bored with ugly or sulky fellow- 
 travellers ; that there was a good deal of honest excitement in the 
 
 I'AKT I. B 
 
2 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 rapid motion, when the horses were sprung over a hard bit of road, 
 and the blood was stirred and the eye brightened by a pace at which 
 did the slowest of railway drivers now dare to crawl, he would be 
 saluted by howls of disapprobation from his plebeian passengers, while 
 their betters would sit devising venomous beginnings for accusing 
 letters to The Times. These incidents are not worth a great deal, but 
 there was one good feature in the old mode of travelling, and the only 
 one which can reasonably be urged in its favour. You saw England. 
 When you dived into the smoky hearts of her manufacturing counties, 
 or rattled into the decorous capitals of her garden provinces, when 
 you took hamlet, or borough, or cathedral city in your way, when you 
 were only careering along her noble roads and catching church, hill, 
 or river as you passed, you were gaining an idea of the face of the 
 mother-laud. And the few minutes of stoppage in the towns were, to 
 any one who knew how to use them, invaluable opportunities for fixing 
 the town in memory for the rest of one's life: All this is over, and we 
 have a far better system instead (especially for first-class passengers); 
 but even with the best corner in the railwav carriage, the ruff over 
 ones knees, the strapful of books on the untenanted cushion before 
 you, the newspaper, duly paper-knifed at the station, and all the 
 comfort of the journey, one confesses to wincing as the train passes the 
 board inscribed with the name of some fine old town, which one is 
 not likely to make a journey to see, but which, taken on the road, 
 would have linked itself to historical reminiscences, and made itself one 
 of the illustrations to one's private edition of the Chapter of Kings. 
 
 St. Oscars has probably been altered since those days. I have heard 
 something of a new church, a literary institution, a botanic garden, 
 a newspaper, and other innovations. I can only say that I hope the 
 St. Oscarians are happier for the change. I do not know why they 
 should be. We did remarkably well in my time, with the old church 
 and without the improvements. The church was damp, and one in 
 which it was difficult to hear; but the good vicar preached short 
 sermons, and bad ones, so that we got away soon and lost little. He 
 did not like preaching, that is a lamentable fact, but he liked visiting 
 the sick, and helping the poor, and seeing the children enjoy them- 
 selves. The evangelical minister of the next parish thought the 
 Doctor's chances in the next world were indifferent ; but very few of 
 us agreed with him, and every dissenter put up a shutter on the day 
 of the vicar's funeral, and a Particular-Baptist, also a stonemason, 
 offered a beautiful slab of marble for the mural tablet. As for our 
 reading, people read the books they had, and then read them again — 
 and so did the late Lord Dudley and Ward, protesting against being 
 told to buy new books. But we knew all that was going on. Several 
 of us joined to take a London paper, and it arrived in the middle of 
 the day after its publication, quite soon enough for any good news it 
 had to tell. Besides, there were the county papers, Whig and Tory — 
 but we did not think much of them, for we knew the editors, and 
 distrusted the Whig's arguments because his father had been bank- 
 rupt, and disbelieved much that the Tory said because he had a 
 Avooden leg — editors should be more mysterious. We certainly bad 
 no botanic garden, and indeed one of our stock stories, at which 
 
THE GOKDIAX KNOT. 3 
 
 every one laughed, was directed against a great lady neighbour, who 
 had spoken of a red daisy (quite correctly) as a bellls Jistulom, and 
 the St. Osoariaoa must have changed much if they admire wooden 
 tickets with barbarous Latin polysyllables tied to inoffensive shrubs. 
 Indeed, they must have altered a great deal if they support a local 
 newspaper, for we never did anything that was worth telling, or that 
 avc thought so. It is the new generation of vestrymen and municipal 
 lawgivers that require verbatim shorthand accounts (a great deal 
 fuller than the Parliamentary reports) of their squabbles about the 
 Imurthstones for cleaning the church steps, and brooms to cleanse the 
 pig-market We could fight over these things too, and could impute 
 motives, and be as offensive and abusive as our successors, but we did 
 not have our quarrelling written down and printed, as is now the 
 custom with provincial councils. As I have said, St. Oscars must 
 have altered. One thing which I have heard convinces me of the 
 fact even more than any of the evidence I have cited. We had two 
 public clocks in the place— one the church-clock, and the other a clock 
 on the town-hall. The consecrated works were confided to one clock- 
 maker, and the secular wheels to another. Less than five minutes' 
 walk took you from one building to the other, but there was always 
 more than five minutes' difference between the clocks. The reason of 
 this was that the two artificers hated each other, and each kept his 
 time at a hostile distance from that of the other. The clerical re°ai- 
 lator would never recognise the existence of the other one, and* it 
 was merely to annoy the poor old man that he was sometimes asked 
 to explain the discrepancy; but the irreligious horologist, not being- 
 appointed for life, was obliged to be at once more civil and more 
 scientific, and boldly declared that he kept his clock five minutes 
 ahead of the church to allow for the difference of longitude. We— 
 some of us— may not have been altogether satisfied with the reason, 
 but we permitted both directors to keep what time they liked, and 
 good-naturedly made the necessary allowance in our appointments. 
 -S ow St. Oscars has an illuminated dial, with punctuality laid on from 
 the railway station. I am certain that I should not know the place 
 again. 
 
 It was during my residence at St. Oscars that I made the acquaint- 
 ance of a little girl, whose subsequent history has since been, by a 
 singular series of accidents, constantly brought before me. It seems 
 convenient, for the better understanding her story, that I should here 
 tell, as briefly as I can, some circumstances which did not come to my 
 knowledge for several years later. 
 
 Margaret Spencer was the child of an officer in the service of the 
 East India Company. Her father, born shortly before the beginning 
 of the century, had joined his regiment in time to witness the last 
 defeat of Holkar, and had borne part in the subsequent war with the 
 Burmese. Where so much heroism was manifested whenever the 
 English soldier was permitted to close with his enemv, it might have 
 been forgiven to Armandale Spencer that he did not "seek the difficult 
 work of distinguishing himself amid such men as the victors of 
 Rangoon, Despatches did not mention him, but private letters from 
 brother officers occasionally did, though not in language one would 
 
 e2 
 
4 THE GORMAN KNOT. 
 
 altogether desire to register in one's family annals. Assuredly not in 
 such letters as find their way from the tent to the newspaper — those 
 words fresh from the battle-field — words which the proud father, with 
 a swelling heart, vainly strives to read aloud in his husky and choking 
 voice to girls who listen with eager eyes and heightened colour — while 
 the mother stifles her sobs and prays, silently. Nevertheless, Indian 
 officers, writing home to masculine friends, had a good deal to say 
 about Armandale Spencer. 
 
 First came the story of his marriage, and the unhesitating comments, 
 made by gentlemen who had no time to select their language, upon 
 the foolishness of Captain Spencer, up to that period supposed to be 
 a thorough man of the world, not to say as wary a hand as ever took 
 care, at a card party, to sit down sober and rise up a winner. This 
 accomplished Captain, armed at all points, had surrendered to a girl 
 of eighteen, who had been imported to Calcutta by a benevolent 
 relative, and whose culpable inanity her doll-beauty could not redeem. 
 Captain Spencer, then about four-and-thirty, met, wooed, and married 
 Miss Featherleigh, and the officers who wrote home scoffed when they 
 mentioned the match. There was matter for scoff, indeed — but they 
 did not know why it was so. 
 
 In due time Mrs. Captain Spencer, nee Featherleigh, presented her 
 husband with a daughter — presented, however, by the means of a 
 brief note written by a doctor, and carried by a black postman. The 
 father was certainly not in waiting to receive his newly-robed first- 
 born from the patronizing nurse, and to lay it upon the bosom of the 
 pale and happy mother. Spencer was up the country, and on some 
 mysterious errand, which made it diflicult to trace him, and Margaret 
 was six weeks old before her father heard that a daughter was born 
 to him. When he did hear it, moreover, he exhibited no particular 
 thankfulness, and as he happened to be smoking, in company with a 
 native gentleman of opulence, the Captain lit his next cheroot with the 
 doctor s note. 
 
 The officers continued to write (according to their natures) either 
 flippant or severe things about Captain Spencer, and his society 
 was not so much coveted by his friends as that of an agreeable man 
 of the world, with an exceedingly pretty young wife, usually appears 
 to be. Curious stories came afloat, and kept afloat, and Spencer did 
 not seem to be at any pains to sink them. Among them Avere odd 
 rumours as to the way in which he made his money. For he did 
 make a great deal of money, and remitted it to London through his 
 agents — facts which no man can keep seci-et where Orientals are about 
 him. Now, we know what a captain can earn in his military vocation, 
 and how much he is likely to be able to remit in eight or ten years to 
 his brother, a merchant in London. Armandale Spencer remitted 
 about twelve thousand pounds. 
 
 His brother, the merchant in London, was his senior by fifteen 
 years. This fact was a great misfortune for Armandale Spencer; not 
 that he lost any inheritance thereby, for the father of the two 
 brothers (little Margaret's grandfather) had dissipated his property, 
 in the most gentlemanlike manner, in pursuits largely in esteem at 
 the period of die Eegency, and had departed this life as much motirned 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 5 
 
 as is usual when the deceased have made such efforts to deserve the 
 tears of their posterity. But the seniority had caused Arniandale 
 Spencer to repose entire belief in his brother Robert, and though 
 faith in anything or anybody was by no means Captain Spencer's 
 weakness, lie had never conquered his childish reverence for his elder 
 relation. The case would probably have been different had the 
 brothers lived nearer, and Spencer's acquired knowledge of the world 
 had shown him how far superior he was to Robert in what the world 
 calls wisdom. It was a pity that Armandale's only characteristic in 
 the least deserving of respect should have led him into a course sadly 
 opposed to the interests of his little daughter. 
 
 When Margaret was about four years old, two events of great 
 importance to her took place. Her mamma ran away with a gentle- 
 man in the Company's Civil Service, and the little girl herself was 
 remitted to England, to the care of Mr. and Mrs. Spencer, the elder 
 brother and his wife. 
 
 The officers, in writing home, did not express any surprise 
 that Mrs. Spencer had eloped, but some of them were a little as- 
 tonished that a civilian should have carried her off, and others 
 that a civilian, whose intellectual qualifications were supposed to be 
 somewhat high, could have seen anything in so foolish a piece of 
 prettiness. Everybody agreed that it was a good thing for the child 
 that she had a rich uncle and aunt to receive her at home, and then 
 the subject dropped — for Lord Auckland came out, and gave the 
 Europeans several other things to talk about. I have for the present 
 little more to tell of two persons of whom I have hitherto been able 
 to tell nothing good — I mean Margaret's parents. 
 
 The ayah who had charge of little Margaret on her way home (as 
 she was taught to call it) had given her Eastern imagination some 
 licence, in depicting, for the comfort and happiness of her child, the 
 luxurious household into which she was to be received. Her papa's 
 lordly brother, a great man, and his noble wife, a lovely woman, would 
 be waiting on the shore in a beautiful carriage, to welcome Margaret 
 and her nurse, and take them away to a splendid house, where the 
 plates would be of gold and the chairs of silver, and where she would 
 pass her days like a little queen, lying on soft cushions, hearing lovely 
 music, and playing with toys which would be new every day. A dis- 
 appointment was in store for the young lady. The long voyage was 
 over, the vessel was safe in the dock (the Southampton Railway was 
 then uninvented), and the ayah and her charge were uncared for. 
 The other voyagers, eager for English homes, had departed, one by 
 one, or in groups, and none without a kind word and kiss for the 
 pretty little girl whose high spirits and gentleness had won all their 
 hearts on the way. At such a time the most considerate traveller is 
 restless and anxious to be about his own business, but several pas- 
 sengers had tarried to offer a home to the little girl until her relatives 
 could be sent for, and great indignation was expressed at the neglect 
 with which the latter had behaved. The ship had been telegraphed 
 long before, and Mr. Spencer, as a merchant, must have been aware of 
 it, or ought to have been. Lady M'Cullombich (who had gone out 
 
6 THE GOEDIAX KXOT. 
 
 much, as poor Mrs. Armandale Spencer had done, and had married 
 nearly as soon, but by the help of good principles and high cheek- 
 bones had escaped any such peril as the other lady had undergone, and 
 had come back to prepare a home for her rich old Scotch husband) — 
 this worthy and defiant woman all but carried off Margaret by force, 
 and would have done it, but for the gallant resistance of the Hindoo 
 body-guard. The ayah, whom Margaret insisted upon calling Boosey, 
 because that was the name of a bearer in a treasured story-book by 
 Mrs. Sherwood — and Margaret did not in the least care about its 
 being a man's name, — had by dint of repeating her imaginative 
 sketch of the prospect in store for her young lady brought herself to 
 believe in it. The faithful Eoosey, therefore, insisted on sticking to 
 the ship. 
 
 '•' Well, when the captain turns you over the side, and you haven't 
 got a home to go to, Maggie, make Boosey take a coach, and drive to 
 a house in Russell-square that's all covered with scaffold poles. Russell- 
 square, mind — but I'll tell somebody with a better memory." 
 
 And the excellent woman bustled away to leave her orders, and 
 then returning, and giving Margaret a robust kiss, bustled away to 
 her coach. 
 
 Still the nurse and her child remained, and no one came to receive 
 them. They were permitted to stay on board until long after the last 
 passenger had left, and the unlading had commenced, and yet no 
 messenger from the house of gold plates and silver chairs. The ayah 
 was shocked, and saddened, and sometimes infuriate. But Margaret 
 was too much amused with all that she saw, and with the new world 
 into which she had come, to feel her position very acutely. During 
 the day she rushed about the vessel, enjoying the confusion which had 
 succeeded to the order and regularity of the voyage, and at night she 
 said her prayers, crawled into her bed, and was fondled to sleep by 
 her affectionate nurse, who little thought she was doing wrong in 
 hushing her Christian child with a song chanted at heathen festivals 
 in honour of the Goddess of Flowers. But the poor ayah was to 
 make speedy atonement for her impiety. 
 
 On the third day from the departure of the kindhearted Lady 
 M'Cullombich, there was a disembarkation which greatly interested 
 Margaret. This was the landing from the vessel of a tiger of con- 
 siderable size and inuch beauty. He had been imported by an 
 enthusiastic Fellow of the Zoological Society, who designed a worthy 
 present to his associate beast-fanciers. He, more mindful of his 
 expected guest than the Spencers had been of theirs, hurried up from 
 the north as soon as the ship was telegraphed, and hastened to the 
 docks to welcome his growling bargain. Mr. Mungle (he has since 
 twice changed his name, and each time, I am happy to say, for an 
 estate, so he will hardly be recognised) came on board to superintend 
 the transfer of his property from the ship to the van.' Margaret and 
 the delighted old gentleman were friends in a minute. 
 
 •• So you have seen my tiger, young lady, and you like him ?" 
 
 " IS"o. I do not like him much, but I hope he is going to have a 
 eood home." 
 
X 
 
 X 
 
 . r^V re 
 
THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 7 
 
 "A capita] One. You must ask your papa and mamma to let you 
 come and see him." 
 
 "Ali! they are in India, but I will ask my uncle and aunt." 
 
 •■Ami what are their names, my love 1 I will send them word 
 when Mr. Tiger will be at home to you." 
 
 '• The same name as mine." 
 
 " But you have not told me that." 
 
 •■ My name is Margaret Spencer — but my uncle and aunt are not 
 called Margaret, you know, but Mr. and Mrs. Robert Spencer." 
 
 " Eh," said the old gentleman, rather sharplv. " Where do they 
 live r 
 
 " I don't know," replied Margaret, " but Boosey knows." 
 
 '•' And who is Boosey ?" 
 
 " That is," said the child, pointing to the ayah, who was watching 
 the tiger's cage, as it was forced along the deck. She was watching 
 it, and its occupant, with no friendly eye — the native, and especially 
 the native woman, regards the beast of the jungle as au enemy to 
 whom no quarter should be given, and Boosey was intolerant of the 
 system of making a pet of such a prisoner. 
 
 " A fine tiger,"' said Mr. Mungle, crossing to where she stood. 
 
 '• A tine devil," returned the Hindoo, in a low voice. " Shoot him, 
 and burn his head." 
 
 " You cruel woman," exclaimed the indignant Mr. Mungle. " I 
 don't believe that you are fit to be entrusted with the care of a child." 
 
 " What Miss Maggie think ?" said the ayah, looking affectionately 
 at her charge, who, in reply, clasped one dark hand fondly in two 
 little white ones. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Mungle, who could not help being appeased by 
 this loving demonstration, " but you ought to love all God's creatures, 
 and not talk of destroying them." 
 
 '• Much love for tiger — locking him up in a small cage," said the 
 nurse. " He is thankful." 
 
 " Ah !" said the naturalist, " but you don't understand, my good 
 woman. "We wish to admire the wonderful works of Providence, and 
 — steady there !" he exclaimed, as the men who were bringing the 
 cage on let it strike rather violently against the bulwark. He was, 
 perhaps, not altogether sorry at finding an excuse for not finishing 
 the argument. 
 
 " Devil well out of the ship," muttered the ayah. 
 
 " But see, how splendid his eyes are, Boosey," said Margaret. 
 " And there was a growl for you ! Is not he in a rage with the men 
 for carrying him about V And she ran forward, in perfect fearlessness, 
 to obtain a better view of the savage. His furious stare fell on her, 
 ami the ayah rushed up to drag her out of the influence of what the 
 Hindoo believed to be an evil eye. Boosey hail drawn back Margaret 
 a few paces, when one of the rollers on which the cage was moved 
 slipped from its place, the cage received another violent shock, and 
 the next moment there was a wild cry among the men as they 
 retreated in terror. The woodwork had partially given way. and the 
 tiger's paws were forcing an opening. 
 
8 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 The maddened ayah saw, or fancied she saw, that the savage's eyes 
 were still fixed on her child, and it was with a cry scarcely less wild 
 than the yell with which the beast, the next instant, writhed himself 
 into freedom, that she clutched Margaret, and thrust her to the head 
 of the cabin stairs. The tiger made his bound at the same instant, 
 and had the ayah been an English servant, with all the same devotion, 
 she could not have interposed in time to save the fair little head. 
 But her earnest love inspired a singular effort, and the lithe frame of 
 the Hindoo seemed to curl, as it were, around the body of the child, 
 and the brute's paw descended as he passed. Another moment, and 
 the Englishmen found their hearts, and with what weapons they could 
 snatch, rushed with one fierce shout at the animal, who, appalled at 
 their charge, sprang over the side of the vessel. 
 
 They raised the two forms that had fallen on the deck, and Mar- 
 garet, though terrified to a ghastly pallor, was found unhurt. But 
 the ayah lay senseless, and severely wounded by the terrible stroke, 
 apparently so effortless. 
 
 " God forgive me," said the naturalist, " for the words I used to her. 
 We must remove her instantly to the nearest hospital." 
 
 Amid their own fear, the men had seen and comprehended the 
 bravery of her deed, and they lifted her tenderly and admiringly. A 
 sort of litter was hastily extemporised, and poor Boosey was conveyed 
 to a neighbouring institution for the treatment of accidents. Margaret 
 would have followed, but the naturalist took her hand. 
 
 " You shall come with me, my darling, and to-morrow we will see 
 after the friends who seem to have forgotten you. At present I 
 won't ask you a word about them." 
 
 And he took away the child, promising to send for her luggage. 
 They reached his comfortable villa, in the Regent's Park, and from 
 his wife Margaret received a mother's kindness. 
 
 This was her welcome to England ; but it was not for some days that 
 the discovery was made why no friends had met her. It involved 
 another discovery of a far graver kind. A few weeks earlier Robert 
 Spencer had become a bankrupt. And in the business which he had 
 ruined the money entrusted to him by his brother Armandale had 
 been invested. Margaret Spencer had not a shilling in the world. 
 
 That the interesting little girl should be adopted by the benevolent 
 and childless couple under whose protection she had thus curiously 
 been thrown, would be the natural course of a story. But, happily for 
 Margaret, this destiny was not hers. A better training was in store 
 for her than that which she would have received as the spoiled child 
 of the home in the Regent's Park. The Spencers had a sister, who, 
 when quite young, had married almost as young a country surgeon, 
 and the match had been so displeasing to the vain and sanguine 
 merchant, Robert, that he had not only dropped all intercourse with 
 his sister, but had represented the marriage in so unfavourable a light 
 to his brother in India, that Armandale followed his example, and 
 Mrs. Captain Spencer was not even aware that she had a sister-in-law. 
 That relative, however, came forward in the hour of trouble, and while 
 Robert Spencer was hiding from his creditors, or fudging medical cer- 
 tificates that he was suffering from such diseases that his appearance 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 9 
 
 to attend to his own affairs would inevitably slay him, his bewildered 
 wife, though not an unkindly person, was easily induced to recognise 
 Mrs. Cheriton's relationship, and to concede to her the charge of the 
 
 little Indian girl. The Cheritons were settled at St. Oscars, and 
 thither, after a short sojourn with her first friends (who were far more 
 reluctant to give her up than her aunt had been), Margaret was taken, 
 to be received as one of the children of the Cheriton household. 
 
 Poor Boosey suffered much from her wounds, and more from a sense, 
 which almost distracted the faithful pagan, that she was abandoning a 
 solemn trust in leaving her charge in the hands of others. It was 
 difficult for the authorities in the hospital to prevail upon her to submit 
 to the treatment necessary to her restoration, and it was only after a 
 visit from Margaret and her aunt that Boosey acquired any kind of 
 self-commaud and patience. The assurance of the child that she was 
 being well cared for and happy, and the gentle voice and manner of 
 Mrs. Cheriton, did much towards assuaging the remorse of Boosey, 
 whose last thought would have been the recollection that it was her 
 own self-devotion that had laid her oil the hospital couch. Mrs. 
 Cheriton's promise was given that, as soon as the ayah had been com- 
 pletely restored to health, she should rejoin her young mistress, and 
 thenceforth Boosey endured the confinement with more resolution. 
 But it was a glad day for her when Mr. Mungle, who regarded himself 
 as the proximate cause of her misfortune, came to remove her, and to 
 arrange for her journey. His liberality, and that of his wife, were 
 lavishly exhibited in Boosey's favour, and there was no compensation 
 for her sufferings which he would not have been prepared to make, 
 except one, which the Hindoo pressed upon him with an affectionate 
 earnestness that greatly discomposed him. The tiger had speedily been 
 re-captured, and had been installed in a den in the Gardens ; and Boosey 
 incessantly prayed to Mr. Mungle that he would take a gun there, shoot 
 the animal, and burn his head. This proposition the excellent Fellow 
 was obliged to resist, but Boosey had no other reason to complain that 
 he did not make ample atonement for the disasters of which his taste 
 had been the cause. 
 
 When I have said that Lady M'Cullombich was in due time written 
 to, and informed that the little girl to whom she had shown her rough 
 and ready kindness was in safe hands, as much of Margaret's history 
 as connects itself with her voyage has been told. That voyage may be 
 regarded as having had a fortunate termination, for though all the 
 golden dreams with which the Indian had amused her child had been 
 harshly dissipated. I hope to show that the realities among which she 
 soon found herself united to give her a better and a happier home 
 than that which Armandale Spencer had destined for her. The little 
 Margaret was adopted into a religious family — a family of that kind, 
 not so rare as cynics are good enough to allege, but still cpaite rare 
 enough, where religion is not simply kept for use on Sundays from 
 10'45 a.m. to T10 p.m. It was so good an article that the Cheritons 
 were not afraid of wearing it out by using it on work-days — but, on 
 second thoughts, this statement seems to belong to a new chapter 
 
10 THE GOKD1AX KNOT. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MANAGER'S FETE. 
 
 The season -was at its height when the manager of the Opera-house 
 issued the invitations for a fete at his beautiful villa on the bank of 
 the river. As there was not the slightest reason in the financial 
 state of Lis treasury to justify his making this demonstration, and as 
 he was about to resign the management of the establishment, the 
 most ill-natured people (and there were a great many among his 
 guests) could assign no better reason for his hospitality than his own 
 good nature. It was mortifying to be reduced to admit this; but 
 sometimes one finds people doing kind things out of sheer kind- 
 heartedness, and perhaps there would be more of such things done if 
 more credit were given for those which we behold. 
 
 The day was fine enough to please a Frenchman, and the smoothly- 
 kept lawn, studded with geraniunls, and gently sloping to a terrace 
 that overlooked the river (the thoughtful manager had secured a high 
 tide for his afternoon), was gay with the summer fashions. Round 
 the door of a small tent, guarded by a gigantic grenadier in oriental 
 costume, there crowded a group of ladies eager to enter, for within 
 was a fortune-teller, who spoke French only, and had whispered a few 
 wonderful hints, proving his strange knowledge of secrets, to some who 
 had already consulted him. The choicest band, culled from the Opera- 
 house orchestra, was performing exquisitely, at s\ich a distance as 
 permitted one to listen to the music or to one's companion, at will. 
 The most accomplished conjuror in the world, with his lean face, dark 
 eyes, and hook nose, was walking about in Mephistophiles costume, 
 biding his time to astonish into ecstacies, with a few ordinary feats, 
 those who would have looked on languidly while he performed his 
 most wonderful achievements at a theatre. From the lawn dainty 
 bridges were laid to the windows of the villa., and a luxurious dejetmer 
 was incessantly renewed within, for this attention was by no means 
 overlooked by the assembly. And so in and out of the house, and 
 around the tent, and along the terrace, and across the turf, and upon 
 the garden seats, and against the trees, there glided, and lounged, and 
 leaned, and gossiped, and ceusui'ecl, and flirted, a very well-selected 
 party, most of them in good humour with the day, with the fete, with 
 the host, and with themselves. 
 
 Besides the distinguished nobodies, there were some somebodies at 
 the fete, somebodies political, artistic, commercial, literary, theatrical. 
 There was a Minister, who was pouring out so much nonsense to a gay 
 group of ladies, that when one found that he had been able to give the 
 Commons some more, late in the evening, one marvelled at his fertility 
 of resource. There were several members of Parliament, chiefly amateur 
 soldiers, with one or two elderly senators who, though in no way orna- 
 mental, were, as victims of the ballet, encouraged by the manager, 
 always thoughtful for his dependents. A few beautifully-jewelled 
 Hebrews were also about the grounds — wherever music is the goddess, 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 11 
 
 you find Israel at the shrine, either worshipping or taking the offerings. 
 There were some splendid capitalists, whom we all looked at with 
 profound veneration : the most gentlemanly millionaire of them all 
 lias since Keen transported, and another is in white terror of a similar 
 de>tiny, but we should look with equal veneration on the others, were 
 we honoured with cards to meet them next week. Moreover, several 
 authors might have been beheld in the flesh— and a good deal of it — ■ 
 walking among those groves, meditating noble thoughts, yet not averse 
 to feminine prattle and the lighter wines. An English composer or so 
 had been asked, and came, and perhaps scowled a little, when passed 
 by a smiling foreigner, who could not for his ears (no trifling venture) 
 have written such harmonies as the Britons indite, but, nevertheless, 
 had managed to have four operas produced, and condemned, in rapid 
 succession. Again, there were three or four of the half-dozen actors 
 who are strong enough in their own art to respect another, and can 
 hear the word opera mentioned without sneering. I saw a clergyman, 
 too, with neat lavender gloves, and thought him out of place, but 
 ceased to think so when I observed him listening very tolerantly to an 
 exceedingly fall-flavoured anecdote told by the little doctor of the 
 theatre ; but, perhaps, I do the priest wrong, for the doctor narrated 
 in French, and the other may not have understood him. There were 
 also some critics (the name is eschewed now-a-days, and rightly, when 
 there is so little to bear real criticism, and nobody to be swayed by it, 
 charm it never so wisely), and it was touching to see how the opera- 
 artists came up to them with enthusiastic reverence, and showed grati- 
 tude for the advice and reproof which these gentlemen could have 
 written — had they liked. Finally, there was a dinir.g-out wit, wh/> 
 garnered a great harvest that day by listening — contrary to his usual 
 custom — to other people's stories, and who, I am sorry to hear, has 
 since lost his prestige, through the fatal habit of putting greater names 
 into his anecdotes of personal experience than is quite safe in a man 
 who parades a Bristol diamond and a Birmingham H. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon a new aimisement was arranged by 
 the manager, whose theatrical experience had taught him not to allow 
 people much time to consider whether they were enjoying themselves 
 or not, A target was placed at one end of the lawn, and a set of the 
 most ladylike bows that ever were seen was borne around, by the 
 well-drilled servants, for the inspection of the guests. The ever- 
 courteous manager advanced, and addressed a few bland words of 
 invitation to the ladies to exhibit the skill which he was certain they 
 possessed, adding that, though of course he coidd not entertain the 
 presumptuous idea of offering prizes to his visitors, he had ventured 
 to hope that any fair Diana (he was a well-educated man, and, besides, 
 had brought out sundry mythological ballets) who should honour him 
 by shooting at his target, would do him the further honour to accept 
 a trifling bijou in memory of the favour she had accorded him. The 
 speeeli was irresistible, and was re-enforced by the appearance of a 
 salver covered with crimson velvet, on which was displayed a collection 
 of the prettiest trinkets the Palais-Royal could furnish. An archery 
 band was instantly enlisted, the fail- volunteers being of a class too 
 good for the display of underbred affectation, and under the direction 
 
12 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 of a celebrated bowyer, as graceful a group of pretty archers as ever 
 aimed at targets or lovers was speedily placed at due shooting distance. 
 Some "were prettily awkward with the weapon, some as prettily 
 dexterous, and the scene was pronounced a decided success by the 
 admiring spectators. 
 
 One girl after another had discharged her arrow, and smilingly 
 received compliment or consolation, when it came to the turn of a 
 young lady of singular beauty to try her fortune. She seemed under 
 the care of a rather handsome, but rather over-extensive and over- 
 dressed lady, who had manifested a little impatience for her protegees 
 opportunity to arrive, and had of course caused some little amusement 
 to the imperturbable dandies around. But she might be excused for 
 her desire to bring forward a charge so attractive as the girl whom 
 she urged onward to the shooting-place, and whom, though few 
 seemed to know her, many looked very anxious to know. Rather 
 tall, but with so exquisitely-developed a figure that her height was 
 not conspicuous, and with features whose special characteristic you 
 disregarded in the remarkable sweetness of expression which they 
 wore, the new candidate for archery honours elicited that murmur of 
 inquiry which implies extrer«e approbation on the part of those 
 around. And the next step of her patroness, though anything but 
 correct or jnoper, was received with no disfavour. She insisted, and 
 the reluctant girl's opposition was utterly in vain, that the latter 
 should remove her bonnet, without which the elder lady was sure 
 that the younger would shoot better. And imperiously carrying her 
 point, she detached the article, and a beautifully formed head, set in 
 a profusion of rich dark curls, was made manifest for the further 
 subjugation of the spectators. The action caused a flush to rise to 
 cheek and forehead, and for a moment the well cut lip showed a dis- 
 pleasure instantaneously subdued. AVe had more leisure to note that 
 the lovely archer's countenance was of a Grecian type, but not too 
 regular for a certain playfulness ; that she had violet eyes with long 
 lashes ; and when she smiled, which she presently did, and did as if 
 smiling were a habit with her, she disclosed exceedingly beautiful 
 teeth. We also noticed, as the leathern thimbles and gauntlets were 
 being adjusted to her hands, that they were small, and appeared to 
 be soft ; and it was equally impossible not to observe that her 
 arms were finely rounded. If people do not want to undergo this 
 kind of inspection, they must stay at home ; but nobody ought to 
 stay at home who can bear such scrutiny so well as could Margaret 
 Spencer. 
 
 The bow was raised, and drawn, and the arrow struck the target 
 fairly and well. Some of the other girls had made better shots, but 
 none of them were applauded as was Miss Spencer. And of all who 
 applauded, no one was so enthusiastic as a tall young fellow, very 
 good looking, and very well dressed, who had been imagining himself 
 bound to feel rather bored with the afternoon's business, but whose 
 superstitions in that way had been suddenly put to the rout by the 
 appearance of Margaret. He immediately became the natural and 
 enthusiastic personage which at five-and-twenty any youngster with 
 health and spirits ought to be, and he pushed forward, watched the 
 
THE GOUDIAX KNOT. 13 
 
 shot, and applauded it with as much intensity as he had ever dis- 
 played at cricket in the playing-fields at Eton when one of the other 
 side was splendidly caught out. He began to hate the smiling 
 manager, as he thanked Miss Spencer and led her to her friend, and 
 he looked so wildly eager to get himself presented to Margaret, 
 that the other dandies, a second time, were so fortunate as to be 
 amused. 
 
 The young gentleman, however, recked little of their smiles, and 
 speedily succeeded in hearing the magic words which had so great an 
 influence on the rest of the life of both himself and the young lady. 
 
 " Mr. Arundel. Miss Spencei'." 
 
 How delighted he was. And what a woi'ld of things he had to 
 say to her about the /etc, and the people, and the season, and every- 
 thing else. For his admiration, of course, was only at the point at 
 which one is desirous to make as favourable an impression on the 
 admired object as the latter has made upon oneself. At this point 
 there is no intensity of feeling to disable you from successful attempt 
 to please, and still further is it removed from that triumphant condi- 
 tion of things where passion gives eloquence, and instead of under- 
 mining, you blow the gate open, and march gloriously into the 
 citadel. 
 
 Now, later in the day there departed from the fete, and took their 
 way to the club, two young men. One of these was Mr. Philip 
 Arundel; the other was a friend, who was a joint occupant with him 
 of chambers in King's Bench Walk, in the Temple. They were, there- 
 fore, close intimates — read one another's love-letters, humbugged one 
 another's duns, borrowed one another's pipes and paletots, and " when 
 one tall fellow had money it was not for the other tall fellow to lack 
 it." The second man was named Claxton, and he was pretending to 
 be a barrister until a wealthy uncle should leave him a good deal of 
 property. And on their way to London they talked in this wise. 
 
 " I thought the old lady would have offered to set you down, Philip. 
 It wouldn't have been much out of her way." 
 
 " How do you know what her way is I" demanded Mr. Arundel. 
 
 " I know everything." 
 
 " You always say you do ; but your preternatural wisdom got us 
 into a hole about the Oaks, for instance, my dear Jack." 
 
 " A mere accident," returned Mr. Claxton, quietly, "and your men- 
 tioning it so often shows how little you can bring against me. ; . Put 
 tell us — has Mrs. Spencer asked you to the house I" 
 
 •■ Well, no — that is, I think she meant it. But she doesn't seem 
 exactly to know what to say to people." 
 
 " I take it that during her eclipse she has been consorting with 
 rather a different set, and has come back a little awkward." 
 
 •• What do you mean by eclipse i" 
 
 " I thought you knew all about her. I am sure you talked to that 
 girl long enough to have heard the history of all her family since the 
 ark.'' 
 
 " Only that was just what we were not talking about, Jack Claxton." 
 
 " Sensible little girl to shy the subject," replied Claxton, lighting a 
 cigar. 
 
1-i THE GORDIAX KXOT. 
 
 " She is not little, and she did not shy the subject. But one 
 doesn't cross-examine a girl about her relations, at least not that sort 
 of girl, who speaks for herself." 
 
 " All very fine ; but I must protect you, as usual, from the snares 
 of the world. That Mrs. Spencer is, as you don't seem to know, the 
 wife of old Bob Spencer, who went wrong some years ago, under cir- 
 cumstances of a piscatorial character." 
 
 " What do you mean V 
 
 " Highly fishy they were. Something about breach of trust, and 
 the embezzling his brother's money — a man in India. However, he 
 went to the bad, and nobody heard of him for a long while, which 
 was regretted, I believe. It was before our time, you know; but 
 Ackford, and Wrottleby, and some others, used to dine witli old 
 Spencer, and say his dinners were rather clumsy, but his wines first- 
 rate. If that woman had anything to do with the dinners, one can 
 see what a mull they must have been." 
 
 " Xever mind her — get on." 
 
 " Well, the old bankrupt has turned up again, whether with his 
 creditors' permission, or how, I don't hear. They may not think him 
 worth persecuting. But he must have got some means, because they 
 live in Gower-street, and they give parties now and then ; and besides, 
 they've taken this girl to live with them." 
 
 " She has been living in the country for years." 
 
 " Yes, with another aunt, who brought her up, and who has not 
 done the wisest thing in the world in handing her over to Mrs. Bob 
 to bring out." 
 
 " You cant bring a girl out in a country town." 
 
 " Granted; but what need to do it at all i Why didn't she stop down 
 at — wherever it was — and marry the curate or the doctor ? She'll 
 do no good under the shadow of that old disreputable bankrupt, who 
 robbed her father; and I can't make out how she comes to be upon 
 any sort of terms with his family." 
 
 " Her being so, my dear Jack, makes me think that you have got 
 up the case with your accustomed inaccuracy. But isn't she an 
 angelic party 1" 
 
 " Very nice, indeed, and with a steadier manner than one could 
 have expected in a girl brought up as she has been." 
 
 " How's that ? She is very well informed, I can tell you that, and 
 talks most charmingly." 
 
 " Listens, you mean, for you gave her no chance of, talking. But 
 what I mean is, that her country aunt is married to a doctor of some 
 kind, and they are dissenters, or schismatics, as that ass Octagon 
 Spandril would say. I suppose she is a dissenter herself." 
 
 " I suppose she is particularly glad to get out of that sort of thing, 
 and perhaps that is why she came to Mrs. Spencer rather than remain 
 in the country." 
 
 " Very likely," said Mr. Claxton, " which shows the frivolous and 
 ungrateful nature of woman. This is very good tobacco, Philip." 
 
 "Give me one. It shows nothing of the kind; but it is very 
 natural at her time of life, and with her good looks, that she should 
 want to come into the world." 
 
THE GOIIDIAX KNOT. 15 
 
 "Well, it's no business of mine, and not much of yours, I take it. 
 Philip." 
 
 " I don't know that." 
 
 "By Jove!"' remarked his friend. 
 
 " I swear I never saw anything like her," said Philip Arundel, 
 emphatically. 
 
 •• Champagne;" 
 
 '• I haven't had a drop." 
 
 •• Well, of course you will not make an idiot of yourself ?" said Mr. 
 Claxton, in that sort of imperative tone in which Ave demand a 
 promise from any one whom we much regard, and would save from 
 misfortune. 
 
 " I can't say. She is A 1. In fact, the ayewunnestgirl I oversaw." 
 
 " I know what will happen," said Jack Claxton, disconsolately. 
 " You'll get into that house, and that old woman will learn that your 
 governor has plenty of tin, and they'll ask you to suppers, and then 
 it will be all up." 
 
 '• Well," replied Mr. Arundel, not so terrified as he ought to have 
 been, " then you'll have the chambers to yourself, and you can pursue 
 your cooking experiments without interruption. You'll come out a 
 perfect Fraucatelli." 
 
 " Don't exhibit levity, Philip Arundel, when I am reproving you 
 and warning you. I say, my dear fellow, you must keep out of this 
 nonsense." 
 
 " I tell you what, Jack, she is a deuced deal too good for me," said 
 the other, earnestly. 
 
 " Quite so, in eveiy sense, and therefore you let her alone. ISToav, 
 I promised your governor to give an eye to your goings on, Phil, and 
 yen can't say that I ever pestered you with advice. But this is past 
 joking." 
 
 " He would like me to settle," said Arundel. " I have heard him 
 say so." 
 
 '■' Ay, but his notion of settling is not a bit like a match with the 
 dissenting niece of a disreputable bankrupt — a girl without a shilling. 
 You know that better than I do, and it's no use talking bosh." 
 
 '• Well, there's no harm done yet," said Arundel. 
 
 " Yes, there is, and you are just in the humour to do more. How- 
 ever, when Ave come back from the cruise, we'll talk about it again." 
 
 li Cruise 1 Oh, I shall bade out of that. I'm going to Avrite to 
 Topham, and say so. I'm not going to be shut up in a yacht Avith 
 him for a fortnight; and besides, I don't think the sea agrees Avith me." 
 
 " This is a worse symptom than any," said Claxton. " This morning 
 you Avere buying red shirts for the cruise." 
 
 " I'll sell them to you at cost price." 
 
 " Very sad, very sad," muttered Claxton. " Let us catch that 
 Hansom." 
 
 i'ylades, Pythias, Nisus, or any other devoted friend, heathen or 
 Christian, could not have said more to his friend, had they lived in 
 the present day. Perhaps, in the eagerness of his affectionate zeal to 
 save his companion from a beautiful and amiable girl, Mr. Claxton, 
 had he been inspired by the old classic virtue, should have married 
 
16 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 her himself — but to this flight of self-devotion he was unequal. But 
 he did his best for Arundel, alternately dilating upon the scampishness 
 of Robert Spencer and the vulgarity of his wife, and di'awing pathetic 
 pictures of the horror of introducing such people to the fastidiously 
 honourable elder Arundel, and to Philip's elegant sisters. The young 
 men dined together, and Jack pursued the subject with so much 
 pertinacity, that it was somewhat surprising that Philip, whose temper 
 was good, but not perfect, did not check him, and the fact that he did 
 not ought to have excited additional fears in the mind of his monitor. 
 Mr. Arundel received in extreme good humour all that was said by 
 his friend, evaded any further contest, and even admitted that a foolish 
 match was an unwise thing. 
 
 But the next day he went to the manager, with whom he was a 
 favourite, and easily induced him to send an opera-box to Mrs. Robert 
 Spencer. And that worthy lady had not had so many opera-boxes of 
 late that' she even thought of transferring the present, and therefore, 
 next night, two ladies appeared in box No. 80, and these, very soon 
 afterwards, were joined by a handsome young gentleman, who had been 
 impatiently watching that box through his great black double glass 
 for a long time, and hastened up to it with exceeding speed, and 
 actually without waiting for the end of the first act. But Mrs. 
 Robert Spencer did not express any displeasure, and if her beautiful 
 companion felt any, it was very carefully concealed. The result was 
 as the far-sighted Mr. Claxton had predicted — Mr. Arundel did get 
 into that house in Gower-street. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CHERITOXS AT HOME. 
 
 Of the years which elapsed between the deliverance of Margaret 
 Spencer from the tiger and her appearance at the Thames bank^/^e, 
 a sort of account has been given by Mr. John Claxton, but there is a 
 little that may be advantageously added to the frank narrative of 
 that gentleman. This is desirable, not only because some of the per- 
 sonages whom he referred to will be again heard of, but also because 
 it is well that we should be able to trace the influence of the early 
 training received by Margaret. 
 
 Adopted into the family at St. Oscars, the little girl took her place 
 as the youngest of the household. 
 
 Henry Cheriton, her aunt's husband, was a compound of manly 
 energy with almost feminine kindness. Slight in frame, his powers 
 of endurance were remarkable, even tested by the severe standard of 
 a country doctor's work. He had preserved what is seldom long left 
 in the constant presence of misery, an earnest sympathy for the afflic- 
 tion with which he had to deal, but that sympathy, though it might 
 thicken his voice, and even bring a dimness to his eye, when he 
 related to his wife or friend some scene of pain and sorrow that he 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 17 
 
 had witnessed, never touched eye, hand, or heart in the moment of 
 
 duty, never shook that composed firmness with which he discharged 
 his task. His success was great, though in the sphere to winch ho 
 had confined himself (and which he was often vainly invited to 
 exchange for a larger and more appreciated practice), his profits were 
 by no means commensurate with the benefits his skill conferred. He 
 was idolized by the poor, and against them he never had reason to 
 tiring the railing accusation, which nevertheless may be often founded 
 in justice, that they love to impose needless trouble on. the medical 
 man. They did not summon him from his bed to a bleak and stormy 
 ride, unless there were reason for the call, and those who, following 
 in the track of the good doctor, visited the cottages, heard no spiteful 
 tales against him, no thankless narratives of his treatment. His skill 
 could be but partially recognised by this class, but they could under- 
 stand his never-varying kindness, his respect for their households, for 
 themselves, and even for their prejudices and superstitions. In a time 
 of panic and epidemic, when it was necessary to rouse them to per- 
 sonal exertions for health and cleanliness, no appeal of mayor, clergy- 
 man, or landlord was so efficacious as that of Mr. Cheriton. A 
 poisonous ditch, against which abuse, protests, speeches had been 
 made for years in vain, was diverted and brought into communication 
 with a rushing watercourse, by the humble people who lived near it, 
 within two days from five minutes' address by Henry Cheriton upon 
 the cruelty of leaving such a pest near the homes of the little children; 
 and it is due to the mayor and clergyman of St. Oscars to add, that 
 in a time when sectarians were far more dreadful and dreaded beings 
 than now, the dissenting doctor was publicly thanked by both. 
 
 A more cheerful, fearless, kindly man never existed. For the 
 oppressed, Henry Cheriton always stood forward as champion ; but, a 
 gentleman by birth and bearing, his advocacy never took an offensive 
 attitude, and he never triumphed in its success. It was less an inter- 
 ference between patron and dependent, landlord and tenant, master 
 and servant, than the removal of a misunderstanding, and an endea- 
 vour to convince each that the other had unrecognised good qualities. 
 Many things that he did were said to be quite out of his line as a 
 medical man, and some of the smaller attorneys in his neighbour- 
 hood especially said so ; but such complaints passed Mr. Cheriton 
 as the idle wind. He once remarked, when told of such animadver- 
 sions — 
 
 ' ; My profession is a larger one than some people seem to under- 
 stand, it includes a general practice, for which I have a licence given 
 from Jerusalem. I am sorry folks cannot read it; but I can, and I 
 know my tether." 
 
 < Iheerful, and also, we have said, fearless, not only in presence of 
 his legitimate foes, plague, pestilence, and fever, but in face of physical 
 enemies. For there was a time when disturbances broke out in the 
 mining districts of more than one county adjoining that in which St. 
 I Iscars stands, and rough and grim men collected by the thousand at 
 the sound of horns, heard raving sermons by torchlight, and then 
 marched into the towns and flooded them with violence and tumult. 
 Humours came that such a visit was to be paid to St. Oscars, and the 
 part I. v 
 
18 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 magistracy, collecting what force they could of yeomanry and con- 
 stables, went out to meet the rioters. With the authorities, rode Mr. 
 Cheriton, and they took possession of a bridge upon the road, along 
 which the enemy was to come. They came in great force, armed 
 with clubs and missiles, and upon perceiving the small an-ay of their 
 opponents, littered a yell of derision, and opened a galling shower of 
 stones. The Riot Act was read in dumb show, and the lawful men 
 were thrown into confusion by the lawless ones, and would speedily 
 have fled, when Mr. Cheriton spurred forward on a white horse, well 
 known at many a home where its master had halted to do good, and 
 riding into the ranks of the assailants, seized the leader. 
 
 On the high ridge of the bridge the whole crowd could see the 
 slight figure of the doctor, who held his man in a determined grip. 
 Many of them knew him. Others were daunted by the daring of 
 the act, and there was no more stoning. He then addressed them, 
 and in a short energetic speech pointed out the folly and wickedness 
 of their acts, and warned them that, while the gentlemen of the dis- 
 trict were earnest in their desire to assist the working men through 
 their grievances, no intimidation would be borne with. There was 
 something of Cheriton's wonted kindliness in the address, and before 
 it was well ended the man he had captured asked leave to speak, and 
 mounting the parapet, motioned to the mob to retreat. They obeyed. 
 
 Have we sketched Mr. Cheriton sufficiently? If so, there needs 
 the fewer words about his wife — for what sort of a wife would such a 
 man choose 1 ? When he married Eleanor Spencer he was scarcely of 
 age, and she was eighteen. We have mentioned how unacceptable to 
 her brothers was the marriage. It, however, rendered her a happy 
 woman for life. She found in the husband of her affection, not only 
 the household stay, the affectionate friend, but one whose love was 
 ever active to form a somewhat neglected mind, and to temper a 
 somewhat too impetuous disposition. On the other hand, the 
 unvarying cheerfulness which marked the doctor in maturer life was 
 in large measure due to the never crushed, never despondent spirit of 
 his wife. He, always in earnest and conscientious, had in his earlier 
 days incurred the peril of discontent, of something as near cynicism 
 as such a nature could permit. He was discouraged, daily seeing how 
 much misery there is in the world, how many close their eyes to it, 
 or apply quack remedies, while the most zealous can do but little for 
 its diminution. These thoughts at one time recurred too often, but 
 Nelly Cheriton's influence drove them away. There was too much 
 sunshine about her for dark thoughts to abide. And thus the two, 
 in perfect confidence, love, and trust, aided one another along the 
 path of life. Nor wei'e Mrs. Cheriton's attractions entirely mental. 
 She was very pretty when, a slight girl, she gave her pretty hand to 
 the young doctor ; but as she developed into womanhood she became 
 prettier still. Her gentleness increased, but it did away with none 
 of her playful good humour ; and when children came around her, 
 there was not a merrier laugh in the nursery than that of the mother. 
 There were three children who had their hearts gladdened by that 
 laugh. Two boys came, and if it be lawful to use the word in refer- 
 ence to a ceremonial without godfathers or a godmother, silver mug, 
 
THE G0RDIAN KNOT. 19 
 
 fork, oi' spoon (the spiritual destitution among the Dissenters is very 
 sad), were christened respectively Alban and Latimer — Mr. Cheriton's 
 favourite reading lying in the martyrology. The little girl, who next 
 came to enrich the household's treasury, was named Bertha, in com- 
 memoration of an early Christian queen. Alban Cheriton was, when 
 Margaret joined the circle, a delicate, thoughtful, broad-browed boy, 
 whom his parents, much as they rejoiced in his manifest intellect, 
 would in their private hearts have rather seen in or over more hedges 
 and ditches, and less often over books and maps. He was six years 
 older than his cousin. No complaint of over-study could be brought 
 against his junior by two years, the bishop's namesake, who was as 
 bluff, rosy, mischievous, and warm-hearted a lad as ever made a 
 mother proud and anxious. But the character of each youth, parti- 
 cularly that of the elder, was modified before Margaret left them. 
 Bertha Cheriton was a happy, pleasant -faced child, lacking her mother's 
 beauty, but inheriting much of her disposition. And all three cousins 
 at once conspired to pet the little Indian. 
 
 The kind of education which Margaret was likely to receive in such 
 a household needs little detail. Mrs. Cheriton, with occasional aid 
 and direction from her husband, taught the children while they were 
 young, and the boys were in due course subjected to a sterner dis- 
 cipline, while a governess took up the work with Bei'tha and Mar- 
 garet. For a boarding school for girls Mr. Cheriton entertained a 
 dislike almost amounting to disgust — it is possible that this feeling 
 may have had rise in some of his professional experiences, but he was 
 reserved upon the subject. He was, however, a man of too large a 
 mind to wish to withhold from his children occupations of a pleasant 
 or refining character, merely because, in the absence of self-command, 
 they might be made of too much importance. Some of his more rigid 
 brethren condemned him for permitting his children to leam music 
 and dancing; but he smiled at some of his more rigid brethi'en, and the 
 lessons went on. To his wife, however 1 , he said — 
 
 "Nero fiddled over burning Rome. I look to you, Nelly, to make 
 Albau understand that a deep love even of Mendelssohn does not 
 comprise all the virtues. And though you need not set the case of the 
 daughter of Herodias before Bertha and Maggie, as poor, shallow, 
 good old Rigby did before me the other day, as an argument for 
 stopping the poor children's dances, I know that you, love, will make 
 them see why a carpet quadrille to-night does not mean an assembly- 
 room ball to-morrow." 
 
 So, under the guidance of affection and good sense, the training of 
 the children advanced, and years advanced too. The first of the group 
 to complete his education was Latimer Cheriton, who, having set his 
 heart upon law, somewhat to his father's wonderment, was allowed to 
 choose his vocation, and was articled to one of the worthiest members 
 of the profession. Bertha and Margaret, being nearly of an age, 
 emerged at the same time from their books and lessons. But Alban, 
 who was educated for his father's calling, and destined to take his 
 business, required a longer preparation, and it was decided that after 
 he had walked the hospitals, he should see some London practice 
 before settling at St. Oscars. There were good reasons for this 
 
 c2 
 
£0 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 arrangement ; but. could the elder Cheriton have foreseen some of 
 its results, he would not have proposed it to his son. 
 
 Increasing in beauty year by year, Margaret became the idol of 
 more hearts than one in our cpiiet country town. To some extent, the 
 wall of partition which divides the church party from the dissenters 
 in societies of no great magnitude, and which is strengthened by the 
 circumstance that in political struggles the two classes are usually ranged 
 on opposite sides, prevented much access, on the part of our Eligibles, 
 to the family circle of Mr. Cheriton. This wall, however, had been 
 a good deal breached by a few of our enterprising young Tories and 
 churchmen, who were deeply penetrated by the charms of Miss Spencer, 
 and it was not very much defended by the Cheritons. Still, the 
 dissenting doctor could not gather at his table the cream of our cream. 
 Of the young gentlemen to whom the town maidens chiefly looked up 
 as prizes worth the winning, Margaret had the refusal. Eustace 
 Galtimore, son of the leading Conservative solicitor, whose practice 
 was very lucrative, and who was thought to be able to return any- 
 body for the Parliamentary division of the county in which St. Oscars 
 stood, formally proposed, with the paternal consent. Young Galtimore 
 had black whiskers, dressed with much splendour, receiving his gar- 
 ments from London, wore many jewels, talked loudly and fluently, 
 had just enough reputation as a roue to make him fascinating, rode a 
 good horse well to hounds, and was the envy and admiration of every 
 young lady below the aristocracy of our neighbourhood. Him did 
 Margaret Spencer refuse, and her reasons were perfectly satisfactory 
 to her uncle and aunt, and, I suppose, to herself, though a step she 
 subsequently took renders it possible to doubt this. Two or three 
 serious young men, who were preparing for the schismatic ministry, 
 avowed their desire for such a helpmate; but ordinary worldly pru- 
 dence would have rendered their repulse matter of duty, even if 
 their riabby coats and large round ears had not made it equally so. 
 Margaret had several other opportunities of marrying, but as she 
 evaded them all, there is no need to set them down. One man, 
 perhaps, might have succeeded — a fire-eyed enthusia.-tic man, who 
 had convinced himself that missionary work was his mission, and had 
 instantly thrown up a profitable and prosperous calling, and was 
 fiercely wringing out the. secrets of three Oriental languages, pre- 
 paratory to sailing for the East, to set up the standard of his faith. 
 He visited St. Oscars, and was Cheriton's guest; and Margaret's 
 young spirit kindled in presence of his chivalry; but even while hold- 
 ing her hand and gazing in her animated and beautiful countenance, 
 as he described the battle-fields that awaited him, he never thought of 
 her save as a listener whom it behoved him to interest in the work 
 of his master. He went — his zeal was not unrewarded — and he sleeps 
 the sleep of Henry Martyn. 
 
 But there was one heart that beat for Margaret with a passion 
 nothing akin to the admiration of the smart young Galtimores or the 
 serious young Mubbles. And this, as will easily have been surmised, 
 was the heart of her cousin Alban. In boyhood studious and thought- 
 ful ; in youth still thoughtful, and not without a sensibility and a 
 poetical temperament not much to be encouraged, and certainly not to 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 21 
 
 be stimulated at that period of life, Alban, as he grew to manhood, 
 acquired a deeper and a sterner nature. There had been nothing 
 of effeminacy about him at the time when his carelessness for the 
 ordinary amusements of boyhood caused regret to his parents, and as 
 he advanced in life it was soon seen that his frame had strengthened, 
 that his powers of enduring fatigue wire great, and that his resolution 
 was dauntless. What his disposition would ultimately be it was 
 difficult to foresee. Reserved, and calm almost as a statue in presence 
 of the common disturbing causes or the quarrels of school or of his 
 native town, he would sometimes evince a domineering tendency 
 which surprised his companions, and before which they gave way. 
 But usually, the broad and lofty brow was unruffled, the pale but 
 severely handsome features were in repose, and the deep voice was 
 almost judicial in its gravity. Far from popular among the herd of 
 his fellows, Alban Cheriton was earnestly beloved by some two or 
 three who had found the key of his nature. Into his profession he 
 threw himself with strong purpose and will, and speedily distin- 
 guished himself where competition was possible. A prosperous career 
 was evidently before him. 
 
 Alban's love for his lovely cousin was in no degree based upon the 
 boyish feelings of association, or upon the accident of her having been 
 the first object of his attentions. We all know that the tendency of 
 very young cousins to love other young cousins of the opposite sex 
 is almost as natural as the tendency of the same relations, when of 
 more mature years, to hate cousins of their own gender. This child- 
 love had no place in Alban's bosom. He liked the pretty little Indian 
 when she arrived, and was always courteous and kind to her; but 
 when his rattling and daring brother Latimer used to declare her his 
 wife, and lead her away to imaginary homes in the garden, Alban 
 never beat him and took away his bride, or sulked at her flirtation, as 
 a really smitten boy would have done. It was on his final return 
 from school, at which his mind had been much improved by the usual 
 scholastic pursuits, and his fancy had also been largely fed by studies 
 of the poets — our own and those of modern Italy — that having 
 formed an ideal of feminine beauty, grace, and graciousness, he sud- 
 denly, and to his surprise, found it realized in the girl whom he had 
 regarded as a pleasant child-sister. It was then that he began to 
 watch over her with other eyes — then that his jealous vigilance would 
 have prevented, if he could, all access to her. Yet he proudly owned 
 to himself, and even in his love did himself this justice, that if 
 Margaret could listen to any of the suitors St. Oscars could furnish, 
 she was not the deity that should hallow the temple of a heart like 
 his. He scoffed at the showy, noisy Galtimore, and scarcely deigned 
 to regard him as a rival; and Alban's composed bearing towards the 
 studious yet ignorant serious young men, with the great round ears, 
 was unexceptionable. The pang that went to his heart was sent by 
 the missionary-crusader, in whose deep and determined nature Alban 
 recognised something akin to his own, and therefore something which 
 he believed ought to triumph with Margaret. It was with almost 
 torture that he watched her drinking in the enthusiastic utterances 
 of the man about to doom himself to exile, poverty, and suffering 
 
£2 THE GORDIAX KXOT. 
 
 for the victory of the faith, and it was with a gasping sensation of 
 relief that the young man marked the departure of the other. Those 
 who have loved — but, happily, the ocean washes away most sand- 
 marks — let us rather say those who are now loving, can tell one 
 another how Alban sought to sound the heart of Margaret, to dis- 
 cover whether the crusader had left his image there, whether, though 
 he fnd the young girl would meet no more, a second place in the heart 
 was all that was left to him who might win her hand. He sounded, and 
 to his unutterable joy found, or believed that he had found, that she had 
 but admired one good, brave man, and that another might still aspire 
 to a prouder reward. 
 
 His father doubtless saw the course of his son's affection, but held 
 his peace. He wished — as a father only can wish — his son's happi- 
 ness, and he waited events. His mother, who wished — as a mother 
 only can wish — her son's happiness in the way her son desired it, said 
 no word of what she saw, but redoubled her affectionate efforts not 
 only to render Margaret still more worthy of Alban — a mother's 
 thought — but to make the girl feel that there was but one home 
 where she could be so loved and cherished. 
 
 And Margaret herself? 
 
 Margaret must speak for herself when the time arrives. 
 
 And here I must not omit to add that the faithful pagan, who had 
 perilled her life for her little girl, was, on her recovery, received at 
 St. Oscars by Mrs. Cheriton, with the cordiality the nurse's devotion had 
 deserved. But a difficulty speedily arose. Boosey was eager to resume 
 the charge of Margaret, but her aunt thought that this was most 
 undesirable. Margaret was no longer the heiress, and therefore must 
 be educated into habits of self-dependence, and at all events weaned 
 from the indulgences of Indian life. She would share with Bertha all 
 the affectionate care of Mrs. Cheriton, but the continuing a special 
 lady's-maid for the little lady seemed to the aunt an unkindness and 
 an injustice. So, after one trying scene, in which the firmness of 
 Mr. Cheriton himself had to be called in aid of his wife's resolution, 
 Boosey resigned her office, and was lodged, in much comfort, in a 
 small house in the town. She refused to return to India, though 
 Mr. Mungle repeatedly offered to send her home in the best ship in 
 the Indian fleet, and she constituted herself a sort of sentinel where 
 she could not be a nurse. In the house in which she lived she was 
 not entirely without occupation, having to defend the faith of Brahma, 
 Yeeshnoo, and Seeva against the incessant endeavours of the Bar- 
 ticular-Baptist stonemason, of whom mention has been made, to con- 
 vert the pleasant-looking pagan from the ways of heathendom. She was 
 perfectly successful, and not the less so from a habit of emptying a large 
 brazen dish of water into the face of her antagonist when he grewprofane. 
 But she was very good-natured, and would often atone to the sculptor, 
 who was particular about eating as well as about christening by cooking 
 him some strange-coloured Oriental dish, which usually elicited from 
 the old man a quiet scriptural quotation, to the effect that whatever 
 is set before a Christian he ought to eat, asking no questions — a point 
 of religion a good deal forgotten by gentlemen who escape from cold 
 mutton to the club dinner, and very likely find fault with that. 
 
THE (JOUDIAX KNOT. 23 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 STRUGGLES AND CHANGES. 
 
 During the interval which has been described in the preceding- chap- 
 ter, the communications between the aunt to whom Margaret had 
 i remitted by her father, and the aunt who had relieved Mrs. 
 Spencer of a charge which her circumstances rendered unacceptable, 
 had been very scant. Mr. Cheriton deemed it his duty to obtain, as 
 early as possible, the assent of Margaret's father to her remaining at 
 St. Oscars, and with that intention he wrote, first through Mrs. 
 Spencer, and receiving no reply, to Captain Spencer himself. It is 
 probable that the first letter was never forwarded, for the relations 
 between Spencer and his brother at the time of the bankruptcy were 
 not likely to be so amicable as to encourage correspondence. But the 
 second letter was received, and acknowledged in the briefest manner. 
 Captain Spencer was obliged by Mr. Cheriton' s attention, and while 
 waiting explanations of circumstances which he could not at present 
 comprehend, would feel thankful to Mr. Cheriton to permit the 
 arrangement as to the child to remain as it was. In this letter were 
 enclosed bills for fifty pounds, which Mr. Cheriton placed in a bank 
 in little Margaret's name, and never touched again. Thenceforth, the 
 only intercourse between the families was confined to an occasional 
 scrambling letter from Mrs. Spencer, full of enthusiastic expressions 
 of love for Margaret, and of gratitude to those who were taking 
 charge of her. 
 
 Margaret had been eighteen for some months, when one morning 
 (our letters had then begun to arrive in the morning, instead of at 
 mid-day), during the family devotions, never missed in Mr. Cheriton's 
 household, the kneeling group was startled by a petition introduced 
 by " the priest, the father, and the husband," into his ordinary prayer 
 for protection and support throughout the day. It was asked that if 
 any painful duty, even to the cutting off the right hand or plucking 
 out the right eye, were appointed to be done, by those then before 
 their Maker, they might be mercifully sustained in its discharge. 
 And the voice of the speaker, usually so calm, was broken, and the 
 remainder of his prayer was indistinct. 
 
 The meal that followed was a silent one. All felt that Mr. Cheriton 
 had something to communicate, but each member of that family, with 
 all its affection, had acquired far too much self-command to ask for a 
 premature explanation of what would be told in the father's good 
 lime. It was evident, however, to the children, from the agitated 
 manner of their mother, usually so watchful and attentive to forestal 
 all their wants, that her husband had found time to confide the secret 
 to her. They lingered, but not receiving an invitation t<> remain, 
 I^atimer -withdrew to his office, and Bertha to some cottagers' children 
 whom she received every morning. Alban, whose residence was in 
 London, and was therefore regarded as a visitor, remained, when his 
 lather asked him to see a few poor patients, whuse troubles Mr. 
 
24 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Cheriton visually found time to hear before taking the business of the 
 day. The young man went out, and Margaret was about to retire to 
 her own room, when her uncle requested her to remain. 
 
 " My darling Maggie," he said, looking affectionately towards her, 
 " I have just received a letter, which materially affects your future 
 welfare." 
 
 Margaret was a girl, and a beautiful one, and may be pardoned it 
 her instinctive thought was that somebody else had become aware of 
 the fact. Her face was still cheerful as she looked up for information 
 as to the supposed offer. 
 
 " I will read the letter, my dear. I have told your aunt of its 
 purport. It is from another aunt, of whom, perhaps, we do not think 
 so often as she imagines we ought to do." 
 
 " Mrs. Spencer 1" 
 
 "Yes. Once her letters amused me a little, if one ought to be 
 amused at folly, but the folly has a sadder interest now. She says — 
 
 " My deak Sir, — At last ' the hour has come and the man,' as Sir 
 Walter says. I am now able to relieve you of a task which ' must 
 have been a joyful labour to you, but still it is one.' Will you 
 announce to my beloved Margaret that her Aunt Spencer is ready to 
 take her away from her rustic retirement, and to receive her among 
 the busy hum of men, where I hope her conquests will be as nume- 
 rous as her attractions. We have got a fii'st-rate house in Gower- 
 street, the best house in the street, and the situation is the best in the 
 metropolis, being alike removed from the grubs of the east and the 
 butterflies of the west ; in fact, like Mahomet's coffin, 'twixt heaven 
 and earth. The sooner dearest Margaretta (as I mean to call her, 
 though a rose by any other name would smell as sweet), can come to 
 her aunt — who finds she is not thought so old by the beaux as she 
 thought herself, and who has got a capital milliner — the better. How 
 this consummation devoutly to be wished is to be managed, I hardly 
 know; but as railways have annihilated both time and space, I suppose 
 that you will be her escoi't to London, and I hope that you will honour 
 my poor house with your presence for as many days or weeks as your 
 patients can spare their guide, philosopher, and friend. My kindest 
 love to your admirable wife, and to your charming little flock, and 
 believe me, 
 
 " Yours most impatiently, 
 
 "Tuesday." " HENRIETTA SPEXCER." 
 
 Mr. Cheriton read this letter with gravity, but not without a cer- 
 tain compassionate contempt for its tone. Margaret listened at first 
 with a deep attention, but as her uncle proceeded through the foolish 
 epistle, a smile beamed out on her face, and she was surprised to see 
 that at the end he looked up sadly. 
 
 " Well, uncle dear, that is soon answered," she said. " Will you do 
 it, as Aunt Spencer writes to you ?" 
 
 " And what am I to say, Maggie." 
 
 " Well, really, uncle, if you and aunt are not tired of me — " 
 
 " Stop, dear one," he said. " I ought to have told you all before 
 allowing you to speak. Indeed, there is an enclosure which I should 
 
THE GOUDIAX KNOT. 25 
 
 have read to you instead of that unwise letter. This, dear Margaret, 
 is from one to whom you must listen in another spirit." 
 
 " Dear Sik, — It is my wish and desire that henceforth my brother 
 
 and my sister-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. llobert Spencer, of London, should 
 take charge of my daughter Margaret, now resident with you. 
 
 "This being merely a business letter, I postpone addressing to you 
 and to your family the acknowledgments due for your protection and 
 care of Miss Spencer; but 1 will add, that I have directed arrange- 
 ments to be made for reimbursing you all expenses which you may 
 have incurred on her behalf. 
 
 " I am, dear Sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 " Armandale Spencer." 
 
 "Calcutta, January 1." 
 
 " From my father," said Margaret, faintly. 
 
 Her aunt rose and went to her, and placed an arm round her waist. 
 " From your father, dear Margaret. And before you express a wish, 
 or even a feeling on the subject, remember that he is your father, and 
 that you owe him duty." 
 
 "The letters have cmie upon me so suddenly," said poor Margaret. 
 " This morning we were making plans for my next birthday, and 
 now " 
 
 And she broke into crying. 
 
 Mrs. Cheriton allowed her this relief for a few moments, and then 
 drawing her closely to her own side, sought a few motherly words 
 with which to console her. 
 
 " At least there is no hurry, dear girl. Come, come. You will 
 have plenty of time to make your decision." 
 
 " My decision," sobbed Margaret, looking up with streaming eyes. 
 " Oh, if you say I have a decision " 
 
 " No," said Mr. Cheriton. " Margaret's conscience has told her 
 rightly. There is no decision for her, only obedience. But there is 
 no hurry, as you have said, dear Nell, and Maggie knows by this time, 
 or never will, that our sorrow at parting with her will be as great as 
 her own." 
 
 " I cannot, I must not, I ought not," exclaimed Margaret. " I 
 have neither father nor mother, except yourselves, and you have been 
 the best and the kindest in the world. Why am I to be taken away 
 from a home where I am so — so happy, and sent to live with some- 
 body who . "Well, you, uncle, with all your goodness, cannot 
 
 read her very letter with patience." 
 
 "My child, if duty were easy and pleasant, how gladly we should 
 do it. Being a trial, it is still more bounden upon us to do it with- 
 out repining. Shall we say no more about this for — what — a week. 
 I will make a proper answer to this lady, and you will have time to 
 learn to regard the separation as we must all seek strength to do." 
 
 " Yes, a week," said Margaret, " a fortnight. I have been with you 
 for fifteen years, and I am sure a fortnight is not too long for me to 
 reconcile myself to a change. No," she added, again breaking out in 
 tears, " I cannot leave you, and I will not." 
 
26 THE GOEDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " It is for you, Kelly, to bring her to a right view of this trouble," 
 said Mr. Cheriton • and taking his niece in his arms, and kissing her 
 affectionately, he left the room. 
 
 Then there arose a great conflict in the mother's breast. Any 
 mother who reads these lines will know 
 
 What angels, in their crystal armour, fought 
 A doubtful battle with her tempted thoughts. 
 
 She knew Alban's secret, and we know how she had woi'ked for his 
 happiness. Now, at this moment, with Margaret's heart full of the 
 home and the hearts she was asked to desert — now, if her thoughts 
 took the direction the mother desired, perhaps believed they might be 
 taking, as Margaret sobbed in her arms — now, if an understanding 
 that Alban's love was returned would make the departure unnecessary ! 
 And so two beings, one of whom she idolized beyond all on earth, 
 save her husband, and the other of whom she so loved as to deem her 
 worthy of Alban, would be made happy. 
 
 I suppose that forty-nine women out of fifty would have said the 
 few words necessary to turn the current into the right direction, and 
 are, perhaps, calling Mrs. Cheriton a scrupulous fool. 
 
 Of course, if Alban and Margaret were engaged, with the appro- 
 bation of his parents, and of those who had hitherto been her guardians, 
 it was for Alban to say where she should live, even if an immediate 
 marriage did not take place ; and why should it not 1 Then, a few 
 lines to the foolish woman in Gower-street, to say that long-neglected 
 duty had been resumed too late, and that Miss Spencer had taken 
 her destiny into her own keeping, or, rather, had confided it to one 
 every way worthy of the trust. 
 
 Remember, too, that the loving aunt who then held the beautiful 
 girl in her arms, had done the very thing herself; had set at nought 
 the counsels and threats of her worldly relatives ; had, still under age, 
 wedded the man of her love, and had been rewarded with years of the 
 most unbroken happiness. 
 
 Nevertheless, and with all these thoughts of the past and for the 
 future upon her, Eleanor Cheriton was sustained in her resolve to 
 show herself worthy of her lofty-minded husband. Would he, she 
 asked herself for a moment — but it was needless — she felt that his 
 brow would have flushed hot at the thought of a manoeuvre. And 
 she did her duty. 
 
 In a few moments the two women were on their knees together. 
 
 Mr. Cheriton, after a short interval of consideration, had joined 
 his son in the surgery, and when the last of the humble patients had 
 been permitted to work out her rigmarole of a recital that had nothing 
 to do with her affliction, and had gone away wholesomely believing 
 that her cure was certain, because she had made the doctor completely 
 understand her case, he quietly informed Alban of the purport of the 
 letters that day received. 
 
 The young surgeon was at that moment delicately adding from one 
 bottle to the contents of another. It was curiously characteristic of 
 him that he carefully completed his work, and then dashed to the 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 27 
 
 ofcrand the vessel ho had been so accurately filling. His father did 
 not give any sign that he noticed the violence. 
 
 "Margaret is to go to London," said Alban, in a voice that 
 trembled. 
 
 -Is there anything so dreadful in going to London?" said his 
 father, calmly. "It is not a usual terror with young ladies of your 
 cousin's tt'-CO and appearance. She is invited to the house of a 
 relative who lives in the gay world, as they call it — and the gay 
 world usually makes itself pleasant enough to handsome girls of 
 eighteen." 
 
 Alban looked hard at his father, whose tone was just then one in 
 which he indulged but rarely. 
 
 •■ Yes, that is true," said the young man, after a pause. He then 
 remained silent. The father's heart was swelling with a hope that 
 Alban, in the fulness of his own, would speak out to him, and ask 
 his counsel. 
 
 But Alban remained silent — took up a bone — laid it down again 
 with much precision — righted a few books and papers, and gazed 
 through the window of the surgery. His father gazed wistfully at 
 him, and then a horse's tramp was heard, and Mr. Cheriton went 
 out and mounted. As he passed the window, Alban was still standing 
 there, and made no acknowledgment of his father's parting nod. 
 
 Now it may be that Alban Cheriton knew his own business better 
 than his father — I mean his business in this love affair. For, most 
 assuredly had he opened his heart in the way Mr. Cheriton yearned 
 t" witness, and had confided his love, and the tact that he had never 
 declared it to his cousin, he would have received the most high-minded 
 of counsel, and indeed of command. Mr. Cheriton was prepared to 
 say to him — 
 
 " Had you been engaged, your course might properly have been 
 
 :it from what it now must be, namely, to be silent until your 
 
 cousin is under the roof of her new guardian. Then you may address 
 
 her, and ask the consent of her father. But new obligations are now 
 
 imoosed, and no advantage must be taken of the natural readiness to 
 
 q in time of affliction." 
 
 Possibly, this Avas precisely what Alban Cheriton did not want 
 said to him at this moment, and therefore he would say nothing to 
 bring it forth, but allowed his father to go away with a sorrowing 
 heart, that having invited his child's confidence, it had been withheld. 
 But had the father a right to expect that at twenty-four his son 
 would court the interdiction meditated. Let us be reasonable, even 
 though we are fathers. 
 
 What did happen was simply this: — 
 
 His father was hardly at the end of the town when Alban rushed 
 up-suurs to the breakfast-room. He found the door locked, and he 
 knew what that meant, and retired. He hastened down to the 
 kitchen in which his sister, having heard her little class, was busily 
 superintending the distribution of bowls of 'oread and milk. 
 
 •• 1 tester can see to that, can't she ] I want to speak to you in the 
 garden, Bertha. "' 
 
 '• Yes to be sure, child. Come along Lucy Johnson, don't eat so 
 
23 THE GOEDIAX KNOT. 
 
 fast. I expect to see some in your bowl when I come back, mind 
 that. That bowl's for you, Charlotte, and mind you don't fall into it. 
 Now then, Alban." And the light-hearted girl, who had half for- 
 gotten the warning of that morning, took his arm, and was going out 
 trippingly, when she looked up at him. 
 
 '' Oh, Alban, how pale you are. You must be ill." 
 
 "No, no. I am well, but come out into the air. Have they told 
 yon?" 
 
 "Told me. What?" 
 
 '■'About Margaret." 
 
 " No, Alban. What — what about Margaret 1 — quick." 
 
 " Her father has sent from India, appointing her a new guardian — 
 Mrs. Sjiencer — and she is to go and live in London." 
 
 Bertha did not look so utterly distressed at this intelligence as her 
 brother had, perhaps, expected, and she did not speak for a few 
 moments. When she did, it was to make anything but the answer he 
 looked for. 
 
 " Perhaps it is as well. At least for a time. But then you are 
 going to London too." 
 
 " You speak as if her going would be well, were it not for mine. 
 What do you mean, Bertha 1 ?" 
 
 " Don't speak crossly to me, please, Alban. You never do, and so 
 it seems the more strange." 
 
 " I did not mean it, dear; but tell me what you mean?" he said, in 
 some agitation. 
 
 " It would — her going woidd — will you be angry with me for 
 saying it ?" 
 
 " Only speak." 
 
 " It would perhaps prevent a mistake from going too far." 
 
 '•'What mistake?" 
 
 " Alban, I know that you are fond of Margaret — no, we all are that, 
 but you are more." 
 
 '•' You mean that I love her ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the girl, now shai-ing his agitation. 
 
 " And her going would prevent — what ?" 
 
 " You will hate me — no, you cannot do that. I wish I had not 
 said what I did; but now — " 
 
 " Bertha, speak out," said he, sternly. 
 
 " Margaret does not love you V 
 
 " She has told you this ?" 
 
 " Do you think for an instant that I would say what I know 
 must grieve you, Alban, if I did not know that it was true?" 
 
 " She is quite right," he said, much more quickly than Bertha 
 expected. " Why should she love me, you know ? I have never given 
 her any reason to love me. All is as it should be. Bertha, you will 
 forget that we have had these few words. Be sure you do. I rely 
 upon your forgetting it." 
 
 He walked away quickly, but steadily, returned to the surgery, 
 locked the door, and sat down. There had been much of agony, 
 mental and physical, undergone in that chamber. But. perhaps, no 
 unfortunate creature who had groaned there, had endured more than 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 29 
 
 this strong heart was struggling with. There was a damp upon the 
 high pale forehead that could have told its own story, had there hem 
 
 a witness. The set teeth, and the clenched hands, and the dim eye 
 betokened that a proud nature had received a sudden blow, and was 
 quivering under it, and vainly opposing physical resistance to the 
 effects of a moral shock. He would recover — completely recover — 
 but he must have time. 
 
 The door was tried — found fastened — and a retreating step was 
 heard. 
 
 It was his mother, who knew that the tidings had been conveyed 
 to him, and who had come Avith a hope in her heart. There could he 
 no betrothal at St. Oscars ; but both the young people were going to 
 London, Alban could visit the house in Gower Street, and the rest 
 would surely be easy for him. Had she found him inclined to open 
 his heart to her, this encouragement of course she might give him. 
 But he had chosen to be alone. 
 
 I know not whether she thought that he was engaged as she had 
 been, and took that comfort to her motherly heart. But if so, deeply 
 was she deceived. Alban was seated, fiercely contending with his 
 own excitement, and though abstaining from the reckless vulgarities 
 of blasphemy in which worldlings sometimes give utterances to their 
 deepest wrath, he was conjuring up, with the rapidity of a prompt 
 imagination, every form of rival that could come between himself and 
 his cousin. And upon each ideal the tortured lover was concentrating 
 a hatred that could be assuaged by no vengeance which it were well 
 to name here. 
 
 In a month everybody in our town knew that the day was fixed 
 for Margaret's departure. The only pei-son in St. Oscars who felt 
 pride and pleasure at the news that Miss Spencer was going to 
 London was the faithful Boosey, who had become a feature in the place, 
 and who never ceased to proclaim that her young lady was the heiress 
 of countless treasures, won by the terrible sword of her father, and 
 would one day regain her rights. To learn that the very relatives 
 who ought to have received her, years before, on her landing in 
 England had at last sent to reclaim her, caused the liveliest joy in 
 the bosom of the patient and affectionate Hindoo; and though her 
 delight met no response from those to whom she imparted it, no 
 chillness of reception could prevent her exulting, and breaking out in 
 snatches of her pagan hymns. For it should be mentioned that every 
 attempt to convert Boosey to a decently white, or even whitcy-brown 
 creed had signally failed. The Particular-Baptist had for years 
 assured her of her predestined damnation, and gentler and wiser 
 Christians had sought to bring her with tenderness into the fold ; but 
 the kind-hearted heathen was impenetrable, and all the home mis- 
 sionaries had given her up. I am not sure, indeed, that as pro- 
 vincialists, we were not in our hearts a little vain of possessing the 
 only professed heathen in the count}'. She was certainly more than 
 tolerated, and was very popular; and I remember that a ribald boy, 
 who, uninspired by awe for Oriental traditions, once presumed to 
 perform a nigger dance behind her, with appropriate song, as Boosey, 
 
30 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 carrying her vegetables, went down our principal street, was seized 
 by our respected beadle, and at once flogged with a severity which 
 was applauded by the whole of St. Oscars. The ex- ayah would have 
 liked to accompany Margaret to London, but Mr. Cheriton, who had 
 gained much influence over Boosey, persuaded her that she would 
 probably injure her young mistress's intei*ests by so doing, an intima- 
 tion which rooted her to the spot. 
 
 The day after that on which Alban had heard from his sister the 
 words so fatal to his hopes, he left St. Oscars for Chester, on pretext 
 of visiting a relative, and did not return to his native town, but 
 ultimately proceeded to London to undertake his medical duties. It 
 is not necessary, at this time, to trace the effect produced upon his 
 character by the shock he had received. But it should be said that 
 it was part of that character to accept, in an instant, the full truth, 
 without going through the process by which ordinary minds gradually 
 reconcile themselves to it. It belonged to Alban's proud and sensitive 
 nature to bear his sentence, and without cavil or contest to lay his 
 head to the block. His instinct told him that Bertha, who loved and 
 almost worshipped him, knew all, and had revealed all, and there was 
 an end of his dream. 
 
 Par be it from the present writer to uphold any such sensibility. 
 It has not fallen within his experience to discover that it leads in any 
 remarkable degree to the promotion of man's success either with men or 
 with women — and we live to succeed. Life is one long warning against 
 trying to cut our way with a polished i-azor-blade when a coarse chopper 
 would do the work. When Haunibal split up the Alps to make a 
 road for his soldiers, he used no delicate and subtle acid, but the 
 strongest smelling pickle-vinegar he could steal. 
 
 For aught I am authorized to sny, Alban may have thrown away 
 his own chances. I know what, under similar circumstances, the 
 smart, confident, black-whiskered, young Mr. Galtimore would have 
 done. Had his sister told him not to make an offer because the 
 young lady he admired did not love him, he would have given a 
 facetious imitation of the late Mr. O. Smith, and have said, "Then 
 she bust learn to love be;" and, at all events, he would have had an 
 interview. For this he would have prepared himself, and very pi*o- 
 perly (for you cannot take too much trouble to please), by dressing 
 himself to the best advantage, using his most delicate perfume, and 
 studying several love-phrases and touching turns of expression from 
 the pages of some tender novelist. He would have pleaded his own 
 cause with perfect self-possession, and would have been impetuous and 
 pressing at the right moment. And if he were rejected — as in 
 Margaret's case, this particular sample of a forward young man had 
 been served — at least he would have had the satisfaction of knowing 
 that it was not his own fault, but the girl's infernal bad taste, or some 
 prior affair that had stood in his way. I do not know that in the 
 average of cases such a gentleman would be rejected; and if he begged 
 to be allowed to let time prove him worthy of the inestimable treasure, 
 I suppose that the inestimable treasure would have granted him time 
 — and then, with patience and perseverance, and watching the turn of 
 the market, he might have finally gone in and won. "Who knows ? 
 
Till-: GORDIAN KNOT. 81 
 
 At all events, he -would not have taken a sister's assurance that he 
 had aohope, and thereupon walked away and suffered in silenee. But 
 so did Alban. 
 
 I trust that we are all too high bred to like mysteries and small 
 secrets. I am anxious to have as few as possible in this story. And 
 1 declare at once, Bertha was perfectly right in stating to her brother 
 that Margaret did not love him. Her feelings towards him were of 
 earnest respect, and of gratitude for kindness and for instruction. 
 To say that she was a little afraid of him, would, perhaps, be to say 
 too much, but in any long conversation with him she preferred that 
 other people should join her. She knew his learning, his skill, his 
 high principle; and she had somewhat, even with her inexperience, 
 detected the romance that lurked behind his lofty and composed 
 pride. But all this (to which, as a young lady, she was not likely 
 to forget to add his physical advantages) did not constitute what, 
 unknown to herself, Margaret Spencer was looking for. It is possible 
 that she may have been aware of his love for her, but I affirm that 
 their intimacy, from childhood, made it also possible that she was not, 
 and the matter is not at present of importance. If she were aware 
 of it, I do not think that any one will blame her for having taken 
 care that her good little cousin Bertha should be informed of the 
 state of the case. 
 
 The day was fixed for Margaret's journey, and then, on the evening 
 before, came a hastily-put-up parcel, containing a hastily-scrawled letter 
 from her aunt Spencer, who begged that her coming might be delayed 
 for three or four days, on account of Mr. Spencer having white- 
 washers in the house. The three or four days became a fortnight 
 before Mrs. Spencer wrote to ask for her niece's presence, and 
 having long since confused the particular excuse she made to Mar- 
 garet, among other excuses which she had had to lavish among 
 various persons, she expressed her satisfaction that the family with 
 the hooping-cough had all gone away from the ground-floor, and her 
 darling Margaret might come with perfect safety to a home which 
 should always be home, though it were never so homely. 
 
 " The woman said she had the best house in Gower-street, Nelly," 
 remarked Mr. Cheriton, privately, to his wife, as they stood before 
 the fire late one night. " This looks like lodgings, and a scramble." 
 
 "I fear dear Maggie is going into a fool's paradise," replied Mrs. 
 Cheriton. 
 
 " Xot the slightest doubt about the fool, but a good deal about the 
 pai-adise," he rejoined. 
 
 " All may be for the best, Henry. Something may happen to give 
 her back to us. Poor dear Alban !" 
 
 "He is either acting a very foolish part or a very brave and wise- 
 one," said Mr. Cheriton, " and I think that you and I are not likely 
 to doubt which it is, Nell." 
 
 Mrs. Cheriton looked up to a portrait of Alban, taken a few years 
 earlier (and perhaps wearing, in its gentle expression of untried power, 
 a look dearer to the mother than a later picture would have given), 
 and her eyes became' dimmer as she laid her soft hand on her 
 husband's. 
 
32 THE GORDIAX KXOT. 
 
 " He will be worthy of his father," she said. 
 
 " Like his father/' said her husband, " he owes all the good in him 
 to you. But," he added, " I wish that he had laid his plans before us, 
 instead of starting away as he did." 
 
 " Surety, dear Henry, he told us all his plans. He goes direct to 
 his new partner's, and takes the business for two years, and then 
 comes back to lighten your labours, and make us happy for the rest 
 of our lives." 
 
 '• I almost hoped that we were happy already." 
 " So we are, dear, very happy, and I hope very thankful. But you 
 know what I mean." 
 
 " Of course, dear. I wish I knew as well what the boy means." 
 " However, he goes to London," continued Mr. Cheriton, "and I have 
 no fear lest any disturbing cause should prevent his doing his duty. I 
 suppose, however, that he will soon avail himself of the privilege of 
 cousinhood to call on Margaret, and introduce himself to °Mrs. 
 Spencer, and I dare say he will be well received." 
 '•' I should think he tvould," said the mother. 
 
 "But it may not be so. The Spencers may wish to sever the con- 
 nexion between Maggie and ourselves, or your brother may have 
 given them orders to do so ; and in that case Alhan may make-up his 
 mind to have the Gower-street door shut in his face." 
 
 "What, Henry, after Margaret has lived with us for so many 
 years ! I know that my brothers have not given you any right to 
 think well of them, but let me think a little better than that. Why, 
 it would be the blackest ingratitude." 
 
 '•'Nay, dear, what are they to be grateful for? Do not you re- 
 member that I am to make out my bill for Maggie's board and 
 lodging, and that it is to be settled ? * After that is done, what obli- 
 gation is there to us ?" 
 
 " Don't, Henry. I love all that you say ; but, do you know, I love 
 the least what you say ironically. Let us believe that they will 
 behave as we wish them to do. Years have gone over their heads, as 
 over ours, and may have taught them lessons. You will see poor 
 Robert, Henry, when you take Margaret there, and, I don't say for 
 his own sake but for mine, you will be kind to him." 
 " Am I generally so very unkind to people, Nelly?" 
 A sob and an embrace, and the husband was answered. 
 
THE G011DIAN KNOT. 33 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A LONDON HOME. 
 
 If it bo true, as hath been held by many philosophers (chiefly in 
 the school where scholars have rubbed their elbows through their 
 coats) that one proves the nobility of one's friendship by one's willing- 
 ness to accept a friend's assistance at need, there was no reason for 
 Mr. Cheriton's apprehension that he would be coldly received in 
 Gower-street. On driving up to the house whence Mrs. Spencer 
 dated her scrambling letters, Margaret and her uncle perceived that 
 some species of contest, apparently of an unfriendly character, was 
 proceeding in the hall. A lady in a large dusty-looking morning- 
 wrapper, and with some very gay flowers in an exceedingly dirty 
 cap, was endeavouring by energetic oratory to convince an individual, 
 unpleasantly like a tax-collector, that he was sure to be paid, and 
 therefore that his taking summary measures, which, with the aid of a 
 confederate, he was about to employ, was perfectly ridiculous and 
 preposterous. But it requires a delicate mind to be convinced by 
 argument, and an exalted nature to forego, iipon conviction, your 
 previous design ; and in the inferior departments of the State her 
 Majesty is not always served by men so gifted. The personage in 
 question, after some ungenerous remarks upon his having had to 
 reiterate his requests about twenty times, and having been put off 
 with about that number of inconsistent excuses, beckoned his atten- 
 dant by an upward jerk of the chin, and entered the house. 
 Mr. Cheriton's experience among the needy part of society told him 
 at a glance what was going on, but it was too late for re treat. 
 Mrs. Spencer had espied him. 
 
 " Welcome, thrice welcome," she exclaimed, rushing to the cab- 
 door, with entire disregard of the criticisms which genteel Gower- 
 sti'eet might emit touching her garments (subjects on which Gower- 
 street is sensitive). " You must be Mr. Cheriton ; and this is darling 
 Margaret. Come, in with you ! Ann, see to the boxes." 
 
 Ann, a domestic, about whose great size and strength there could 
 be no doubt, but about whose face it would have been premature to 
 speak at that period of the clay, a3 such very false lights and shades 
 were left upon it by the duties of the morning, advanced with a good- 
 humoui'ed grin to remove the luggage, and Mrs. Spencer, talking 
 volubly, led the way into her mansion. 
 
 " I did not expect you so early; but good things can never come 
 too soon. Bis dat qui — what is it ? though I always say bliss chit. 
 But that scandalizes you gentlemen and scholars, who have no notion 
 of a poor woman's taking liberties with Latin, eh ? Of course you 
 have not breakfasted. What, you have ? Well, then, we'll call it 
 lunch and" — 
 
 And I am sorry to say that unhappy Juliet's perfumery hypothesis 
 came in once more — the rose by any other name. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer went into the parlour, beckoning her visitors to 
 
 PART II. D 
 
34 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 follow, but drew back, somewhat disconcerted at beholding the man 
 with whom she had previously been discussing finance, engaged with 
 his companion in taking hostile note of a French clock on the mantel- 
 piece, and of some ancillary biscuit-china. 
 
 " Ah !" she said, with a forced laugh, " the most absurd thing in 
 the world, and yet so vexatious. Mr. Spencer, who has no head for 
 business whatever — no more, I tell him, than a pin, and that carries 
 its point, which he never does — has gone out without leaving a cheque 
 for some payment — I don't exactly know what it is, Easter Offerings, 
 or something — that he knew ought to have been paid long ago ; and 
 the first I hear of it is, that it must be discharged on the instant." 
 
 The collector, as has been said, was not a man of delicate mind or 
 exalted nature, and yet he must have had some good-humour about 
 him. Instead of confronting the speaker with a little counterstate- 
 ment, to the effect that Mr. Spencer had no voice allowed him in the 
 house, and that Mrs. Spencer knew perfectly well all about the demand, 
 having excused its nonpayment by a series of inventions ranging from 
 the commonplace promise for the following Tuesday up to the 
 solemnity of having the money upstairs, but unfortunately in non- 
 corresponding halves of a bank-note, the man quietly said that such 
 things toere overlooked by gentlemen with much on their minds, but 
 that he could not wait any longer. 
 
 And a bright idea flashed upon Mrs. Spencer's mind, and she acted 
 upon it with extreme promptitude. The result was that Mr. Che- 
 riton inaugurated Margaret's entry into her aunt's house by paying 
 out the tax-gatherer. Of course Mr. Spencer would give him a 
 cheque for the amount the instant he returned home, or would pay 
 the money anywhere Mr. Cheriton pleased in town, or would send a 
 post-office order to St. Oscars, or in a registered letter — or, anyhow. 
 Mrs. Spencer, relieved from her immediate trouble, manifested large 
 acquaintance with the machinery of remittances. In the course of some 
 years of trouble she had known what it was to wait, and occasionally 
 to wait in vain, for one or other of these pecuniary devices. 
 
 But when the minions of the Exchequer had departed, Mrs. 
 Spencer lost no time in having the table spread with a plentiful 
 and luxurious breakfast. Nothing could have been better, but 
 for small blemishes whence unfavourable inferences are drawn 
 by hard-hearted observers. The mustard-pot was quite empty, 
 but not quite clean ; the cayenne had hardened at the bottom 
 of the cruet, and had to be poked up with a steel pen ; the plates 
 came up cold ; and a suspicious delay, and two bangs of the street 
 door-, implied that the stalwart Ann had to run out before the sugar- 
 basin could be refilled. This was not the way Aunt Cheriton's house- 
 hold was administered, thought Margaret. But although Mrs. 
 Spencer did not always pay her taxes, she either paid or had credit in 
 Piccadilly ; for a noble pate de foie gras, of which but one bold slice 
 had been taken for a lunch of her own, was brought from the sideboard- 
 closet as soon as the house had been vainly searched for the key, and 
 the strong-handed Ann had forced open the rickety door. Mrs. 
 Spencer meantime vanished, and returned in a great bustle, to do the 
 honours, having intermediately thrust herself into a very much finer 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 35 
 
 dress than is usually produced at breakfast, retaining the flowery cap, 
 for reasons of her own, not material to the story. 
 
 Aunt Spencer's eulogies of her niece's beauty, and predictions of 
 her conquests, were very profuse, and at this period seemed to Margaret 
 rather vulgar. Their tone was singularly unlike that of the quiet, 
 vet lively circle which she had left ; and she could not help remem- 
 bering a little arch gesture and glance with which Aunt Cheriton had 
 pretended to compliment Maggie on Mr. Galtimore's subjugation, and 
 contrasting that demoiisti'ation with the outspoken pi'ophecies by 
 Aunt Spencer that the beaux (nothing could cure her of this word) 
 would all be "at her feet." But we grow tolerant of those who 
 praise us, even though their praises are distasteful, or we think so ; 
 and Margaret, on the whole, bore it very well. Besides, her uncle, 
 so far from wishing her to feel that in leaving him and his family she 
 had changed for the worse, had warned her that she would find her- 
 self in a novel atmosphere, and must accustom herself to it a little 
 before complaining. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer lost no time in demanding point-blank of her beau- 
 tiful niece whether she had left her heart in the country. Mr. Che- 
 riton heard the question with mingled feelings ; but Margaret's 
 negative was given with much composure. 
 
 " So much the better, my dear," said Mrs. Spencer ; " for though I 
 dare say you would soon have learned to set a proper value on your- 
 self, and thrown over any unhappy bumpkin by whom you might 
 have been entrapped, still there is nothing like beginning without 
 incumbrances, you know." 
 
 " Plenty of time before us to think of this kind of thing, Maggie," 
 said her uncle, looking at her affectionately. " We are not nineteen 
 yet, Aunt Spencer." 
 
 " Nineteen me no nineteens," returned that votary of the Eliza- 
 bethan drama. " How old was your wife when you married her ?" 
 
 u That is so many years ago that I forget," said Mr. Cheriton, who 
 certainly had no answer to this appeal, Eleanor Spencer, as has been 
 said, having married at eighteen. 
 
 " I'll remember it for you, then," said Aunt Cheriton. " She was 
 a year younger than Margaret. Now, dear, I think we have dis- 
 posed of the grave and gloomy guardian who wants us to wait, eh ?" 
 
 "Well, Maggie, if at the mature age of nineteen you can meet 
 with anybody like your gloomy guardian, seize him, as your aunt did, 
 and make him as good a wife as she has done." 
 
 "Very pretty indeed," said Aunt Spencer. " I shall remember that 
 your Grace was bountiful." A citation which might have no particular 
 application to the subject, but which Mrs. Spencer would by no means, 
 for so trifling a reason, reject as garnish to her conversation. Sometimes 
 people, while they thought her worth thinking about, wondered where 
 she had acquired these scraps of garnish, for she never read a book 
 for three minutes. Nobody ever solved the problem, but it was 
 thought that she might have caught some of them at the theatre, of 
 which she was excessively fond. Fond, I say, of the theati'e, not, as 
 many ladies are, of their private box, and pleasant levee, and ice 
 between the acts. In her poor days, when the civilized portion of the 
 
 u -1 
 
36 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 house was denied to her, Mrs. Spencer would pay to be squeezed in, 
 the pit, and would endure to be walked over by the orange women, 
 kicked by the restless little boys, and be stifled, crushed, and gene- 
 rally maltreated, rather than not go at all. Here she may have 
 picked up some of her conversational embellishments, but how the 
 rest came to her no one could ever say. 
 
 The interview, after the first excitement was over, began to assume 
 a tone of constraint. The more Mr. Cheriton saw and heard of 
 Margaret's new protectress, the less satisfied he was at his niece's, 
 being transferred to such guardianship ; and he felt but little inclined 
 to respond to Mrs. Spencer's outbreaks of levity. She, on her part, 
 though usually most prompt to believe that she delighted and amused 
 all who were so happy as to come into contact with her, could not help 
 perceiving that the longer the keen-eyed country doctor remained in 
 her house, the more would he see that she was not anxious to reveal; 
 and therefore, when Mr. Cheriton spoke of his return to St. Oscars 
 that night, Mrs. Spencer's efforts to dissuade him from so speedy a 
 departure were faint. Perhaps she was not over-eager that he should 
 meet Mr. Spencer, to whom he would naturally look for an imme- 
 diate reimbursement of the morning's advance. Margaret herself was 
 silent and thoughtful. 
 
 " I am resigning to you a treasure, Aunt Spencer," said Mr. Cheriton 
 when about to leave, " and I am quite sure that you will discover its 
 value." 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, we will try to gild refined gold and paint the 
 lily, and all that ; and I trust that when you next see Margaretta, as 
 I insist upon calling her, you will say that the treasure has not lost 
 anything in my keeping." 
 
 " I trust I may," sighed Mr. Cheriton. 
 
 His affectionate farewell to Margaret — his whispered hope that she 
 would, under all circumstances, strive to bear in mind the lessons she 
 had learned at St. Oscars of higher duties than were recognised by the 
 world into which she was going — his reminding her of her pledge to 
 be Aunt Nelly's regular correspondent — these came next, and then 
 Margaret Spencer was left to her new friends. Mr. Cheriton departed 
 in anything but a satisfied mood, and Mrs. Spencer proceeded to induct 
 her niece into the bedroom prepared for her. There had been some 
 attempt at elegance in its decoration: two or three old boxes, covered 
 with a gay chintz, looked like handsome couches, but sternly betrayed 
 the confidence of any one who took them for what they seemed ; some 
 faded artificial flowers out of one of Mrs. Spencer's bonnets were 
 placed in glasses ; and on the walls were some extremely vile pictures 
 — two without frames — and a moon of remarkably obtrusive presence 
 in all. Moreover, Aunt Spencer, who had a sort of sentimental notion 
 about religion, and knew that Margaret had come from a household 
 where it was cultivated, had therefore set a low chair with a long 
 straight back under a flaring coloured print of a Madonna; and this 
 arrangement, in a corner of the room, she was pleased to indicate to 
 Margaret as a Preejew. 
 
 Seating her ample person on the edge of the bed — for she was in 
 the secret of the boxes — Mrs. Spencer expressed her hope that Mar- 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 37 
 
 garet would be" very comfortable ; and having received an appro- 
 priate answer, in which Margaret's dutiful feelings spoke rather than 
 any sanguine expectations, her aunt went on — 
 
 " You know, my dear — or perhaps you don't know, for I suppose 
 that the Oheritons were not overfond of talking about us, but we must 
 forget and forgive, as we grow older, for life is not long enough to 
 indulge in quarrels — I was saying that you perhaps know that your 
 Uncle Spencer has been in a peck of troubles for a good many years 
 past. Bygones should be bygones, or I could tell you a lot of things 
 that would surprise you ; and one of these days we'll have a long 
 gossip about auld lang syne. All that glitters is not gold, my dear — 
 you may take my word for that. But that's neither here nor there." 
 
 In this sentiment the bewildered Margaret was quite prepared to 
 agree ; but her aunt, who had set herself down to talk on her own 
 account, did not seem to care about replies. 
 
 "Well, my dear, we must take things as we find them, for we 
 can't make our own destiny ; and to be or not to be, that is a 
 question, but a question which we can't always answer. I only 
 know that I have done my part, and tried to keep up the reputation 
 of the family ; though I dare say you will hear quite the contrary 
 from a good many people. You can't make bricks without straw." 
 
 Margaret's course of reading helped her to recollect that such a 
 feat had been achieved in its time ; but she could form no idea what 
 her aunt was driving at. 
 
 "Now my husband, your poor uncle, no doubt acted towards your 
 poor father in a very unwise way ; and of course I had no notion as 
 to what was going on, or what was going to happen." 
 
 " I am quite ignorant of the whole story, aunt," said Margaret ; 
 " but I hope you will not distress yourself by talking about it. I am, 
 sure that no explanations can be due to me." 
 
 " Yes," said her aunt, " I can quite trace your exceedingly proper 
 and highly-superior Aunt Eleanor in that speech ; and I perfectly 
 understand the sort of impression which she has tried to give you. 
 I make no doubt that your Uncle Spencer is booked as a regular 
 swindler, and your Aunt Spencer as an extravagant, foolish woman ; 
 but in Christian charity, of course, my dear, you are to try to forget 
 all that, or at least to be silent about it. That is what the doctor's 
 wife has pi'escribed." 
 
 The listener coloured up at this mention of her aunt, about whom, 
 for the first time in Margaret's life, she heard an unkindly word ; but 
 she said quietly — 
 
 " I assure you, aunt, that you quite wrong Aunt Nelly. I am sure 
 that I never heard a syllable of accusation of any kind from her or 
 from Uncle Henry." 
 
 " Just so. The affair was represented to you as too shocking to be 
 talked about," persisted Mi-s. Spencer. " I can imagine the pity the 
 Cheritons must have expressed at your being transplanted from their 
 Garden of Eden, where all is trim and virtuous, and your being set 
 down in such a deplorable hotbed as Mr. Spencer's house." 
 
 " They were all very sorry to lose me, aunt, as I hope you will be, 
 •when it happens," said Margaret, gently. And it was impossible for 
 
3S THE GOEDIAX KNOT. 
 
 her aunt quite to resist that little appeal, accompanied by the pret- 
 tiest look in the world. She extended her hand to Margaret, and 
 held Margaret's, but would have her say out. 
 
 " When it happens, my dear, will I hope be when an elegant 
 cai-riage draws up to this door to receive the happy pair and cany 
 them away for the Loondermeal. But I suppose that at St. Oscai's 
 they comforted themselves with the belief that one of these days Mr. 
 Spencer would be in a mess again, and that I should be glad to get 
 rid of you." 
 
 Miss Spencer was perfectly sincere in assuring her pertinacious 
 aunt that no such thought had ever occurred to anybody at St. 
 Oscars ; but had the inquiry been made of Mr. Cheriton, I am not 
 quite so sure that he could have given so flat a denial. And, Mrs. 
 Spencer, having, as she said, " had it out," professed herself pacified, 
 kissed Margaret with vigour, and left her to transfer her dresses and 
 other properties from her neat travelling boxes to some rickety 
 drawers with capricious keys. , 
 
 She had never before visited London, and its wonders awaited her. 
 An extremely limited portion of these could be discerned from the 
 windows of her bed-room, and she could not help thinking that in 
 this respect her pretty St. Oscars room, from which she could look 
 first over her aunt's flower-garden, then over her uncle's field, next 
 across the fields of other " proud Salopians," until the stormy hills of 
 Wales were visible in the horizon, had advantages not possessed by 
 her new apartment. Happily, this was a back room, to which por- 
 tion of our houses the daily increasing tyranny of the Street Cry is 
 driving all who would preserve their reason. But the look-out was 
 upon a damp, dark parallelogram, which it would be profaning a 
 pleasant word to call a garden, and which had once boasted gravelled 
 paths. These walks were utterly blackened, save where they were green 
 and slimy. Prom rotting posts, on the worst of terms with the wall 
 to which they had been nailed, but from which they were successfully 
 trying to get away, hung snapped and mouldering cords — there had 
 been washing there once, a long time ago — but a string from a choked 
 dust-bin to a blighted tree bore some few efforts in that kind, the private 
 performance of the large Ann. A big bone lay in the centre of the 
 plot, and a half-starved cat sat looking at it, although the animal 
 knew that weeks ago the last atom of nourishment had been gnawed 
 off by herself and friends. Broken flower-pots, and the skeleton of 
 an old sofa which, for entomological reasons, it had been found 
 necessary to discard, completed the garden-scene which opened upon 
 Margaret. 
 
 " It is shockingly dismal," she thought ; " but if Aunt Nelly Lived 
 here she would send in a man with a spade and some loads of gravel, 
 and in a week it would be another place altogether." 
 
 At this moment a stone, or something of the kind, struck the 
 hungry cat on the side, and the scared animal, with a piteously 
 hoarse mew, scrambled over the wall, and vanished. 
 
 " What a shame !" exclaimed Margaret. " It is well for you, you 
 cruel thing, whoever you are, that Latimer is not here." And she 
 recollected how her younger cousin had fallen upon a great lout of a 
 
THE CJORDIAN KNOT. 30 
 
 country-boy who was stoning a cat, and had beaten him with a fury 
 which might be pardonable in a boy of the world, but which was 
 thought somewhat inconsistent in a serious youth who had just 
 volunteered as Sunday-school teacher. 
 
 A child ran out into the garden, but was so rapidly pursued by the 
 large servant, and brought back into the house, that Margaret could 
 only see that it was as ill-kept as the place into which it had run. 
 She had a vision of an excessively dirty pinafore, and of some flaxen 
 hair, extremely neglected. Of the face, in that momentary obser- 
 vation she could only see that it was pallid and unhealthy. The 
 girl fancied that she heard a blow as the child was borne in and the 
 door closed. 
 
 " The child stones the cat, and the maid beats the child," she said. 
 " I do not think that I shall bo comfortable here." But she resolved to 
 do something for both victims, as soon as she understood the ways 
 of the household. And so, abandoning the prospect, she went on 
 laying collars and handkerchiefs into the drawers, which were lined 
 with more Sunday newspapers than she had ever before seen in her 
 life. For though Henry Cheriton knew perfectly well that the 
 Sunday newspaper is prepared on the Saturday, whereas it is the 
 preparation of the Monday paper that breaks up the Christian 
 holiday for all concerned — and though he knew that to read of the 
 world and its doings on the day of rest could not be a greater offence 
 than to think and talk of them — still there were among his friends 
 weak vessels who were neither logical nor chronological, but whose 
 feebleness he respected, as became a stronger brother. Margaret, as 
 she looked at the papers, into which she was putting prettier things 
 than readers ever found there, remembered that upon many bonnets 
 and shawls, and other vanities, she had heard Sunday criticisms 
 delivered by serious folks, who would have been perfectly dismayed 
 had it been proposed to settle the discussion by turning to the 
 " Fashions for the Month " in a newspaper. This is a wonderful 
 age for conjuring, but the old gnat-strainers and camel-swallowers 
 retain their proud pre-eminence as the performers of astounding 
 feats. 
 
 Having made her arrangements, and taking in her hand an album 
 of cousin Bertha's — which that young lady had charged Margaret to 
 enrich with prints, autographs, sketches, or anything that was 
 attractive — Margaret came downstairs to the drawing-room. This 
 was a very handsome apartment, opening with folding-doors into 
 another nearly as large, and both were elegantly furnished. The 
 slovenliness which pervaded the rest of the house was either not here, 
 or was well kept out of sight. This floor was evidently the strong- 
 hold and citadel of Mrs. Spencer's social position, and Margaret was 
 pleased. The feminine eye, no matter how young, instinctively 
 detects the weak points in the domestic executive ; and our young 
 lady was glad to find that there appeared to be neither makesluft nor 
 negligence in this part of her aunt's mansion. 
 
 A small desk, closed, was on the table, as were several newspapers 
 of the day, two or three quite new books, a massive paper-cutter — 
 like a Ghoorka knife — for dealing with them, and some other evi- 
 
40 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 dences that what Dogberry calls the vanities — namely, reading and 
 writing — could be practised here. 
 
 Margaret found herself alone; but not being one of the persons 
 who find themselves bores, and must always seek companionship, she 
 sat down, and amused herself with one of the new books on the table. 
 And as the volume happened to be a fresh and noble poem by a 
 poetess who is unreasonable enough to demand that those who would 
 understand her magnificent lines shall bestow on them some little 
 thought in exchange for the great thought that has produced them 
 (and then the reader is but like the scrubby Diomed giving his brass 
 arms for the golden harness of splendid Sarpedon), Margaret's earnest 
 attention to Mrs. Browning rendered the reader unaware that another 
 person had entered the room. 
 
 His footfall was so light that her not hearing his approach was not 
 surprising; and he had stood for a minute or more watching her 
 intelligent face as it expressed the pleasure she felt as rose-leaf after 
 rose-leaf of an involved and beautiful thought unfolded and expanded 
 to her mind. Then, as she raised her eyes, her half-formed smile 
 changed to a look of surprise as she found herself confronted by a 
 stranger; and she coloured highly as that look was returned by a 
 pleasant glance and a bow, respectful and yet half playful, as the 
 situation and the difference of age might warrant. 
 
 Before her stood a gentleman, considerably below the middle height, 
 and in form delicate almost to fragility, but whose appearance was 
 redeemed from aught of feebleness by a lionlike head, and features 
 which, classically chiselled, told of a mental force and will rarely 
 allotted. The hair, whose grey was almost whiteness, was long and 
 luxuriant, and fell back from a noble forehead. The eye, set back 
 under a bold, strong brow, yet in itself somewhat prominent, was 
 in repose, but its depths were those that, under excitement, light 
 up to a glow. About the flexible mouth there Lingered a smile, too 
 gentle to be called mocking, but evidence of a humour ready at 
 the slightest call — and yet the lips could frame themselves for 
 stern or passionate utterances at need. The slight stoop was at 
 first taken by Margaret for part of the bow with which the stranger 
 had greeted her, but she perceived that it was habitual, as the latter, 
 resting his small white hands on the head of an ivory-handled cane, 
 said, in a cheerful and kindly voice, and with a nod at the book — 
 " Fine diamonds in a fine casket there, are there not f 
 His tone was evidently intended to put Margaret at her ease, and 
 to make her forget that she had been surprised; and his manner was 
 so pleasant, and almost fatherly, that she felt herself in the presence 
 of some one of kindred nature to that of her uncle Cheriton. By a 
 curious confusion of idea, to be explained only by the suddenness of 
 the introduction, Margaret seized the notion that her other uncle was 
 before her. I am sorry, however, for the sake of one of my best-beloved 
 heroines, to say that neither the poetess's page nor the visitor's phrase 
 inspired her with a cleverer answer to his speech than a hesitating — 
 " O — yes, very." 
 
 And then she naturally expected to receive her relative's greeting, 
 but as she rose, the gentleman made a slight and courteous gesture 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 41 
 
 which seemed to beg her to sit, or do exactly what she liked, and she 
 resumed her chair in perplexity. Her companion looked at her 
 again with some interest, and his bright eye then fell upon Bertha's 
 volume, which Margaret had laid on the table. 
 
 " Ah," he said, pointing to the word on the cover, "those five 
 letters again in conspiracy against the peace of mankind. They 
 ought to be dispersed by a social police. But may one look V 
 
 " There is scarcely anything there," said Margaret, as he opened the 
 book. " Only a few pages have been touched." 
 
 " Ah, T see," he said. " Just a few songsters, as the bird-catchers 
 put some caged-birds near the nets, to persuade the others that the 
 situation is eligible. But," he continued, turning on until he came 
 to a drawing, " this is another kind of thing. This is capital." 
 
 It was a sketch by Mai'garet, and represented her Cousin Latimer, 
 in shooting costume, and gun in hand. At his feet lay a hare, victim 
 of his skill. 
 
 " Capital," he repeated. " Your own work ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret ; " the likeness happened to be thought for- 
 tunate, and so " 
 
 "No, no, you draw charmingly. I'll give you a motto for the 
 picture. Shall I ?" 
 
 " Please. I am glad of any contribution." 
 
 He took a pen, and in a curious little hand wrote below the 
 sketch : — 
 
 " And Beauty draws us with a single hare." 
 
 " I shall not find any poetry of yours here," he said. " You read 
 Mrs. Browning, and so you know better. What a treasure-house of 
 thought that woman is. Some of the boxes are locked, and you must 
 turn the key with a will ; but when you have opened, you are rich for 
 life." 
 
 The interview might have lasted longer, for Margaret became 
 greatly interested in the stranger's conversation, and was eager to 
 hear him condescend to touch upon their relationship. But she caught 
 her aunt's voice demanding of the servant whether she had seen any- 
 thing of Miss Spencer. 
 
 " My aunt wants me," she said, expecting that this must bring 
 about some word of self-introduction. But a courteous bow was the 
 response ; and the gentleman put his hand to the door as she went 
 out, extremely puzzled. 
 
 " Where were you, child V said Mrs. Spencer, on the stairs. 
 
 " I was in the drawing-room, aunt." 
 
 " Eh ! O, I should have told you not to go there. Just now we 
 have devoted that floor to a very distinguished man, who is staying 
 with us for a few days while his house is being painted." 
 
 " Why, aunt, do you know that I have been taking him for Uncle 
 Spencer." 
 
 " O my prophetic soul, my uncle !" replied the inexhaustible Shak- 
 sperean. " And did he encourage the mistake, child 1" 
 
 " Nothing could be more kind and polite. But what will he think 
 of me, going into his room, reading his books, and staying talking as 
 
42 THE GORDIAN KXOT. 
 
 quietly as if I had any business there. I actually asked him to write 
 in an album, and I declare I have left it on the table." 
 
 " I dare say he will not be much offended, my dear. He writes 
 books, in which he counsels all sorts of kindness and delicacy towards 
 women ; and I am told that he is one of the few men who believe in 
 what they write." 
 
 " An author, aunt ! O, who ?" 
 
 " Mr. Jasper Beryl." 
 
 " And I have actually asked him to write in a girl's album," said 
 Margaret, looking as if she had done something wrong. For she had 
 read the writings of the great wit and humourist, of whom her Uncle 
 Cheriton was an especial student, and she would, had she known him, 
 have as soon thought of asking such a favour as one would ask 
 Dr. Livingstone to put together a child's puzzle of Africa. 
 
 But Jasper Beryl was both amused and pleased with the interview. 
 He had seen at once that the young lady had strayed into the room, 
 unaware of his occupancy, and he had also seen at once that the 
 wanderer was a beautiful and single-minded girl. The next day he 
 went away, but before leaving he ascertained the name of his 
 uninvited visitor. After his departure there was found in his room a 
 packet directed to Miss Spencer, and it enclosed the volume of poetry 
 which Margaret had taken up, and a couple of lines recpiesting her 
 acceptance of the work " from a fellow-admirer." 
 
 This delighted Margaret, and she wrote to St. Oscars about it. 
 She was less delighted at her next discovery, which was made by 
 means of a little bill in her aunt's writing, which accidentally came 
 to the niece's hand, and in which the distinguished stranger had been 
 duly charged with apartments, candles, and other items of a lodging- 
 house. Mrs. Spencer saw no further use in trying to maintain her 
 dignity, but fairly explained that she coxild not bear to live in small 
 houses, and that the only way in which she could manage to occupy 
 large ones was by letting off a part. 
 
 " I told you so, Nelly," said Mr. Cheriton, when Margaret's next 
 letter arrived. " I said the woman let lodgings. Boor Maggie ! But 
 I am veiy glad that she has seen Jasper Beryl." 
 
 CHABTER VI. 
 
 THE SPENCERS AT HOME. 
 
 It has been intimated that had the obdurate yet considerate tax- 
 gatherer chosen to set the real state of affairs before Mr. Cheriton, the 
 position of the master of the house in Gower-street would have been 
 represented as somewhat insignilicant. He had, in fact, been talked 
 into marriage by his voluble partner, and had ever since been talked 
 down by her. While the weak Mr. Spencer had a vocation, and 
 practised it under a different roof from that of his home, he had 
 some little independence of action ; and the result, as has been 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 43 
 
 seen, was that his feeble but sanguine, disposition in the course of a 
 few years knocked down a good business, acquired by an uncle, who 
 dying had bequeathed it to Robert Spencer ; and further, that the 
 latter not only contrived to ruin himself, but to get rid of the money 
 remitted by his brother, Margaret's soldier-father. 
 
 The earth operates variously upon men who are flung down to 
 her. For some she has the power which is illustrated in the old 
 Greek fable, and they spring up strengthened, as Antieus, by the 
 magnetic touch. For others, she is only a platform of mud, which 
 clogs, clings to, and humbles for ever those who have had a tumble. 
 Robert Spencer's case was something between the two. There was not 
 the least chance of the broken man's ever getting himself right again ; 
 but he would never admit, even to himself, that he had been at all to 
 blame, or that he was in the slightest degree humiliated by his fall. 
 Circumstances over which he had no control were, he said, his chief 
 enemies, and next to them the hard and ungenerous nature of some 
 whom he had supposed his friends ; and next, again, the false and 
 hollow system of finance which was prevalent in England, and which 
 fettered the commerce it affected to protect. At no time in Robert 
 Spencer's life would he admit that he had done a foolish thing, or 
 neglected a wise one, unless, if we must set down a possible exception, 
 he may, in certain dark and private hours of dissatisfaction (as when 
 he had been sent upstairs into a fireless attic, and forbidden a pipe, 
 while his wife was trying to keep up appearances in the drawing- 
 room), have thought that it would have been better had he not 
 met the extensive Henrietta at St. Andrew's, Holborn, one morning, 
 as appointed. For the rest of his history i he was completely 
 persuaded that all that he had done was in compliance with the 
 dictates of a large mercantile and social wisdom. 
 
 Had he ever been described to Margaret, there would have been no 
 danger of her making the mistake of imagining Mr. Beryl to be her 
 aunt's husband. Robert Spencer was a tall, largely made, good- 
 natured looking man, with rather handsome features, a fresh colour, 
 and a cheery air, which went a long way towards obtaining compas- 
 sion for him ; for it is a great mistake, made by a great many people, 
 to suppose that a lachrymose method of bearing your misfortunes 
 helps you to sympathy. We have all so much trouble of our owu, 
 that we feel angry with those who force upon us additional disagree- 
 able images ; whereas, if a man in a peck of woes contrives to pre- 
 sent them a little cheerfully to you, the chances are that you try to 
 assist him out of them. When a common mendicant puts on his 
 grievous face and sets up his whine, you look wrathfully for the 
 policeman ; but if the same actor would try to show that he was 
 dreadfully distressed, but kept up a good heart, he would get much 
 copper money. Mr. Robert Spencer's cheeriness was instinctive, and 
 it had been a valuable friend to him at times when valuable friends, 
 or any others, were scarce. He took snuff with a bold, joyous 
 manner, and looked at the box — silver or wood, as finances allowed — 
 witii a proud and satisfied glance, as if the powder were gold-dust, 
 instead of two pennyworth of pounded weed. 
 
 Ij ntil his ruin, his wife exercised only what may be termed a very 
 
44 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 strong maternal government over Mr. Spencer ; but after that event 
 — which, it is needless to say, she had all aloug foreseen, all along 
 warned him against, and could all along have prevented had he con- 
 descended to consult her ; but, no ! a wife is the last person a man 
 will place confidence in — her authority became an unmixed despotism, 
 not even tempered by epigrams, for poor Robert Spencer never 
 dreamed of such treason. The Spencers disappeared after the crash. 
 I was going to say that he gave up his books and papers ; but so 
 compact an act of duty was entirely beyond him. He gave some, 
 and lost others, and left others, and kept a few, utterly useless to 
 him, as a protest against the iniquity which had overthrown him. 
 In fact, he was as feeble in his fall as in all else. The Spencers 
 vanished, or rather, slunk out of the way. But Mrs. Spencer had 
 not the slightest idea of being finally extinguished. She felt that 
 while her tongue was left to her there was hope. So Robert, by the 
 law of the land King, abdicated, and Queen Henrietta not only 
 reigned, but governed in his stead. "You must leave everything to 
 • me, my dear, and I'll manage somehow," was her coronation oath. 
 
 It would be well if all despots kept that obligation as fairly. Mrs. 
 Spencer was a foolish woman ; but she had two or three convictions 
 which stood her in the stead of wisdom. One was, that she must get 
 on, no matter how awkward the scramble might be ; and, in conse- 
 quence, she did get on. The estate was utterly bankrupt, and deeply 
 involved. There was nothing for anybody. But the Spencers never 
 sustained any actual privation. Of course they lived for a long time 
 in obscure regions ; but they lived in comfortable lodgings, and they 
 fared far better than many creditors who had been injured by the 
 failure. It would not be very edifying to detail the various processes 
 by which Mrs. Spencer contrived to keep herself and her husband 
 afloat. There was no particular code of ethics on which her operations 
 were based ; but she would sometimes say to Mr. Spencer, when he 
 looked admiringly, or perhaps a little aghast at some of her moves — 
 
 " My dear, the world wouldn't let us live with it, and so we must 
 live by it." 
 
 She always had a great deal of luggage ; firstly, because that looked 
 well and inspired confidence on going into apartments; and secondly, 
 because she had a way of occasionally leaving boxes as a sort of 
 security when she deferred the payment of her rent — a very ordinary 
 arrangement in her budget. And there was no swindling in this 
 species of deposit — the boxes were not empty, or full of stones, but 
 they contained portions of her wardrobe ; and portions which did not 
 look ill when a cunning landlady stole iuto the bedchamber to inspect 
 the portmanteau cunningly left with the keys in it for her furtive 
 research. But Mrs. Spencer did manage to get hold of a good deal 
 of money. She discarded all fastidious scruples, and levied a black- 
 mail upon those who had known her in her days of glory. She 
 borrowed money from some, coaxed it out of others, and in short 
 obtained it to an extent which nobody could imagine, save those who 
 have unfortunately been acquainted with the power of a large, 
 resolved, voluble, and not ill-looking woman. 
 
 So, always in a muddle, but never destitute, the Spencers managed 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 45 
 
 to get ou for some years. Mrs. Spencers pertinacity did not fail; and 
 upon two or three occasions she all but succeeded in getting her hus- 
 band established in some business or other — what, was the last thing she 
 cared to consider, holding him equally fit for all things, which perhaps 
 he was. But the interviews with Spencer himself settled the matter. 
 People liked him, and his cordial and cheery manner held him up ; 
 but when they came to reflect on the ineffable nonsense he had talked 
 about his early misfortunes, and his habit of laying his failures every- 
 where but on his own incapacity, they grew cautious, and declined 
 the plans. The work had to be done over and over again. At last, 
 however, and a short time before the business of this history com- 
 mences, Mrs. Spencer hooked her fish. A wealthy merchant who 
 had long been settled in Eussia, but who, yeai-s before, had been an 
 admirer of the already expansive but then youthful graces of Mrs. 
 Spencer, returned to England, and having heard but little of the intei-- 
 mediate history of Robert Spencer, save that he had failed, remem- 
 bered the friendship of other days, and assisted his old flame, not only 
 with money, but by becoming her surety for the rent of the house in." 
 Gower-street, and the furniture thereof. Mr. Keckling would, indeed, 
 have resided in the house as a lodger ; and he did try the experiment, 
 but the habitual scramble was too much for liim. To have to ring 
 half-a-dozen times, and finally ring up some bad toast, and then have 
 to ring again for butter, was a rude shock to the system of a gentle- 
 man who, in his adopted country, had but to send a note to the 
 police, and a scourging rewarded the servant who had laid the 
 serviette on the wrong side of his master's plate. But Mr. Keckling 
 was Mrs. Spencer's sheet-anchor, and helped her in all sorts of ways. 
 Thus, therefore, did the Spencers emerge from obscurity into the 
 splendour of Gower-street. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer was thus far practical. She had got her house and 
 furniture, and had she attended to her business, she might have pros- 
 pered, especially as her experience as a lodger had taught her how 
 much that long-suffering worm will bear without turning and giving 
 notice. But for regular business she had neither patience nor system ; 
 and the moment that a few pounds came in her way, it was much less 
 pleasant to put them away towards the rent, or to let them go in 
 diminution of the butcher's bill, than to have a little noisy jaunt to 
 Brighton or Margate, spend the money, and come back to find the 
 house in disarray, the best lodger in a fury, and the Irish servant 
 absent for the third night without leave, and with her mistress's 
 second-best bonnet. It was therefore the natural course of things 
 that they should go wrong ; and that they did go wrong has been 
 slightly shown at the door of her house. It could have been shown 
 more palpably; but if a reader can take a hint, why annoy him with 
 a long story of petty disasters and disorders 1 
 
 It occurred one day to the worthy woman, while it was really too 
 wet to go out, and she had not, at the moment, silver enough to make 
 a cab feasible, that she had not lately written to St. Oscars. And 
 proceeding to repair this defect, a sudden thought struck her. This 
 niece, who had really been confided to her, and whom, therefore, she 
 was bound to look after, who had doubtless been carefully brought up 
 
46 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 to habits of regularity and management — why should not this girl 
 corne and be her prime minister, manage the house, and leave her 
 aunt at leisure to snatch the few enjoyments which a cold-hearted 
 world would permit to her ? 
 
 Her aunt at all events snatched the pen, and — paused. Even she, 
 with all her thoughtless audacity, paused. For it was impossible for 
 her quite to forget that her husband, then deeply engaged in reading 
 a book on the currency, and making notes for its refutation (with a 
 scheme of his own for liquidating the national debt by a stock to be 
 based upon and representing Thames Guano), had robbed the young 
 lady whom it was tlms proposed to employ of every shilling she had 
 in the world. 
 
 But it was not in Henrietta Spencer's nature to be long stopped 
 by a trifle like that. She walked round aud round the subject, and 
 was rewarded, as any one will be who walks long enough round any 
 subject, by seeing it in a new light. 
 
 More bright ideas struck her, and the letter to St. Oscars was laid 
 aside; and some halfpence which Robert Spencer, under pressure, 
 pleaded guilty of hoarding upstairs, were sent out to be exchanged for 
 some foreign-post letter-paper. And this was the use to which it was 
 applied. 
 
 "311, Gower-street, London, 
 " September 9th. 
 
 " My dearest brother Armandale, — If you feel as I do, I, your 
 unhappy and deeply- sorrowing sister-in-law, that there is a time when 
 bygones should be bygones, and an attempt to make compensation for 
 error should be gently received, you will peruse this letter with the kind 
 sentiments so worthy of you, and with the recollection of a brother once 
 so dear to you, and to whom you are still so dear. ' The quality of 
 mercy is not strained, but droppeth like a gentle Jew from heaven ;' 
 and when I tell you that, having shown these lines to my beloved 
 husband, his tears fell upon the paper on which I write, you will give 
 him credit for sincerity of agreement in what I am about to say." 
 
 [This idea of the tears, by the way, was not, I regret to say, quite 
 original, for Mrs. Spencer having sent out the sulky servant in the 
 rain for the paper, that revengeful menial took care not to cover it 
 up. But it did credit to the writer that the sight of the water-spots 
 should suggest so touching a sentence.] 
 
 " I ought not to refer to what is past and gone. A poor obedient 
 woman, I could have no share in producing the ruin and sorrow which, 
 years ago, separated us. But deeply penitent for a fault (if it were 
 one, and not misfortune) that was not mine, I instantly sought a shelter 
 for the child whom you committed to me ; and, as I have informed 
 you, I selected out of many homes where my niece would have been 
 welcome, a home in the country, where her delicate frame ' might 
 not beteem the breezes too roughly,' and where her mind might be 
 cultivated with all accomplishments. I have more than once in- 
 formed you that the Cheritons at St. Oscars were doing their duty 
 by the dear child, for amid all my 'taking arms against a sea of 
 troubles,' I have always required and received a regular account of 
 their stewardship, and have omitted no care or counsel which could 
 improve their system. 
 
THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 47 
 
 " But this motherly care and watchfulness has not been sufficient 
 for inc. I have had a canker in my heart, 'yea, in my heart of 
 hearts,' for the loss which Margaret had sustained by the unfortunate 
 failure of Robert, a failure caused, he assures me, and you well know 
 how profoundly he comprehends the principles of commerce, by the 
 vicious system of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England. 
 I have felt, day and night, that until compensation and restoration 
 should be made, I was in a false position, and ashamed to behold 
 my natural face in a glass. But how to make it — ' ay, there was 
 the rub.' 
 
 " I have left no stone unturned to replace my beloved husband in 
 his proper position. ' The labour we delight in physics pain.' And 
 I am proud to say that I have succeeded. Were you, dearest 
 Arniandale, in England, I would never, never forgive you, did you 
 not instantly seek the above address, and find your brother and sister 
 once more installed in comfort, I might almost say in luxury, and 
 eager to place all at your feet. ' If we grow, the harvest is your own.' 
 But since this cannot be, and ' the multifarious sea incarnadine' rolls 
 its blue waters between us, I must assure you that, to a happier or 
 more refined home no one would wish to welcome a loved one. ' Be 
 it ever so humble, there's no place like home.' 
 
 " But this is not all — indeed it is nothing to what I have to say. A 
 dear and valued friend of earlier and happier days, who has been 
 acquiring a vast fortune in the confidential service of the Emperor of 
 Russia, has returned to England with his wealth, but wifeless and 
 childless in his voiceless woe. His first care was to seek us out, his 
 old friends, and had we desired it, he would have poured his treasure 
 into our laps usque et nauseam. But this we would not bear, and 
 the wealthy, yet solitary man, looks to us, I may say to me, for an 
 object to enrich. Can you doubt that my instant thought flew to our 
 beloved Margaret, or that I resolved that she should be his heiress. 
 He can repay tenfold the love of her infant days, and it rests but 
 with you to speak the word, and make her ' rich indeed.' 
 
 " I would ask you, therefore, to send over such a letter as will 
 enable me to reclaim my darling niece from the wilds of St. Oscars, 
 where she blushes unseen and wastes her sweetness on the desert air; 
 and I will fetch her to town myself. In these days travelling is a 
 trifle, and we put a girdle round the globe in twenty minutes ; and 
 she shall be kept here as a sacred thing. The Croesus of whom I 
 have spoken is a Mr. Keckling : I believe he is a Hospodar or 
 Bolivar, or something amounting to a marquis, in Russia, but here 
 he scorns titles — ' A man's a man for a' that !' and for him to see will 
 be for him to love her. So write by return of post. 
 
 '■'And now, dearest brother, permit my Robert to add his most 
 sincere, penitent, and cordial love. His heart is too full to write to 
 you now, but he will do so by the next mail. He exults with me at 
 the idea of Margaret's future happiness. 
 
 "Believe me, dearest brother Armandale, 
 
 " Your ever affectionate Sister, 
 
 " Henrietta Spencer." 
 " Captain Spencer, 
 
 H.M. — th Regiment, East Iu'lies." 
 
48 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 "P.S. Were other reason wanted why Margaret should now join 
 us, it would be that, in the respectable and religious family at St. 
 Oscars, there are two young men growing up with her, and the example 
 of her poor Aunt Cheriton might lead her to form an early and hasty 
 marriage. The sooner, therefore, that she comes up to us the better — 
 and I think you will say, marry come up !" 
 
 Mrs. Spencer did not see any necessity of taking her husband out 
 of the liquidated debt and sewage in order to read this letter to him, 
 but despatched it on her own account; and as she happened to write 
 on mail-day, but not to send the epistle to the post (the reason being 
 that she had no money, and prepayment to India was necessary) until 
 the following morning, it waited a fortnight. But it went off at last, 
 and we have read the result in the letter received at St. Oscars. 
 
 Mind, I do not think the woman meant mere downright lying in 
 her statement about Mr. Keckling and his money. As the story rose 
 under her hand, it became a very probable thing, in her judgment, 
 that he should make Margaret his heiress ; and the more she wrote, 
 the more and more proper it seemed. And when she wafered the 
 letter she had quite come to the determination that the Russian 
 should do as she had promised in his name, and she began to consider 
 the means of bringing about such a result. However, have Margaret 
 to town she must and would; and what a large and resolved woman 
 must and will do, she generally does. I would respectfully but 
 strongly recommend any young gentleman desirous of marrying, but 
 not confident in his powers of pushing his way through the world, to 
 look out for that type of female. I do not think that, in such a 
 mcnarje the butcher's, brewer's, and wine-merchant's bills will be quite 
 so small as in some which have lately been published in order to show 
 the price of a wife; but she will open, and if necessary shove open, so 
 many doors of providence for you, that such a union will be decidedly 
 a frugal marriage. Try, young gentlemen, but be bold — faint heart 
 never won fat ladv. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MARGARET AND ANOTHER. 
 
 When a bad person gets on well, it is a bit of luck ; and when a good 
 person gets on well, it is a special Providence ; and you can apply 
 which term you like to the circumstance that Mr. Keckling's patience 
 with Mrs. Spencer endured so long after the date of her Indian letter 
 as to last until Margaret had been brought to town. For really the 
 Shaksperean lady gave him a great deal of trouble. Of course she 
 never paid her rent, and he had to do it ; and of course she never 
 paid the instalments by which she had agi-eed to purchase her furni- 
 ture, and of coui-se he had to do that. But then, having opened this 
 vein of gold, she was always working it, always either borrowing his 
 money, or getting his name to a bill which he had to take up, or 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 49 
 
 drawing for little amounts with cheques that Avere invariably pre- 
 sented at some aggravating time, or giving him as a reference to 
 shopkeepers, or making him useful in some way. He was very good- 
 natured, but good nature has its limits; and I almost think that 
 Air. Keckling would, in a fit of irritation, have taken himself out of 
 town and left no address, in order to throw his persecutrix off the 
 scent, had not Margaret appeared upon the scene. 
 
 The old Russian merchant was greatly delighted with the beautiful 
 girl from Shropshire; and though he had as much intention of 
 making her his heiress as Russia has of paying us the costs of the 
 suit in Avhich we got our verdict in the Crimea, he did a good many 
 pleasant things for her, and he bore a good deal of additional worry 
 from Mrs. Spencer for Margaret's sake. He undertook to show 
 London to the young lady, and the kind old fellow took the trouble 
 to map out each day's excursions so as to embrace evexy object of 
 interest in the section assigned for exploration, and to read up the 
 •history of the streets in Mr. Peter Cunningham (if that can be called 
 trouble), and to introduce her to the metropolis of the world with an 
 elaboration seldom bestowed upon it by Englishmen, who, neverthe- 
 less, will study every street of every wretched continental town in 
 which they find themselves, with as much respect as if they were 
 surveying Jerusalem. The days on which Mrs. Spencer could not 
 come, with her mock enthusiasm, quotations, and bustle, were the 
 pleasantest, for then the old gentleman had the double delight, usually 
 and cruelly denied to old gentlemen, of talking and of being listened 
 to. But it was seldom that Mrs. Spencer would miss an expedition, 
 for a reason — or rather two. She did not care about St. Paul's, or 
 the Tower, or Whitehall, or the Abbey; but as the hospitable mer- 
 chant always broke the day in halves with a lunch, and ended it with 
 a dinner, she endured what she considered a bore for the sake of the 
 accessories. Margaret, on the other hand, was delighted, not having 
 then seen enough of sights to know that one sees them oidy for the 
 sake of saying that one has done so, or for the sake of somebody else. 
 The country girl thought Henry the Seventh's Chapel and Queen 
 Elizabeth's Armoury quite worth visiting, even in company with a 
 grey headed old gentleman who wore a velvet skull-cap, and never 
 paid her a single attention beyond that of taking care that she saw 
 everything and understood everything. And by the time that her 
 educational tour had been completed, she knew so much of London 
 that in after times she wrought calm havoc with the enthusiasm of 
 many very gentlemanly British monkeys who had seen the world on 
 the Continent, but did not know Aldgate from Alsatia. 
 
 Mr. Keckling, too, it was who got Margaret and her aunt the card 
 tor the managers party. The merchant had known and obliged that 
 gentleman in his time. The manager had wanted, for a month of his 
 season, a certain dancer of world-famous renown, but she had accepted 
 a St. Petersburg engagement. To chase her thither, to offer her 
 double terms to break her bargain, and to carry off the fair creature 
 with all her uncles, mothers, dressers, secretary, and the rest of the 
 rabble that cling to the gauze of these idols, would have been matter 
 of course in a civilized metropolis. But not so in Russia, where you 
 
 PART It. E 
 
50 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 must have a passport from your bed-room to your dressing-room, and 
 it must be vise before you may go thence to breakfast. Bribery had 
 to be performed on the most extensive system, and which embraced 
 almost an infinite series of payees, from a very great noble down to a 
 sentinel on duty, and then there were other bribes which went no 
 one dared guess were, except that the money was taken. The 
 Russian court did not care about ballet that year. Mr. Keckling, 
 who knew eveiy rascal in authority, and who could tell to a paper 
 rouble for how much he would sell his own fatkei-, was very useful to 
 the manager in seeing that he did not throw away more silver roubles 
 than could be helped. And, finally, when the dancer, who was a clever 
 girl in other ways than in entrechat and elevation, found that she had 
 several debts which must be discharged before she could go (indeed, a 
 departing traveller must advertise in three Russian papers, and if 
 you want your name spelt wrongly, so as to hide you from the 
 creditor's you affect to warn, you can manage that too, with money), 
 Mr. Keckling saw to this also, and bribed a police officer to frighten 
 the tradesmen into charging not more than three times what was fair. 
 Judge therefore, whether the manager, whose success with his new 
 <:ard had been splendid, was not ready to be grateful. And as all 
 men are grateful, and managers in particular, the invitation was pro- 
 cured, and used as we have seen. 
 
 Thus, vid Mr. Keckling, did Mr. Philip Arundel obtain his intro- 
 duction to Miss Margaret Spencer. The opera-box followed, and then 
 Mr. Arundel made his own play. He was invited to Gower-street, 
 and he went ; and being a young gentleman of tact, he paid such atten- 
 tions to the elder lady of the house, that his being asked again, and 
 his afterwards being specially requested to come, and his finally 
 coming to the dignity of being reproached for his absence, duly fol- 
 lowed. And there he is ; and what word is to describe his position ? 
 To say that a man is in love is old fashioned, and they tell me, vulgar. 
 I should like to say that he was enchanted by her charms, but the 
 words have been so hackneyed, that all the downright black magic 
 they imply is forgotten — that charms mean the implements of a 
 witch, and enchantment means the way she works with them. Let 
 us leave the affair without a definition. He is always at the house 
 because he meets Margaret there. 
 
 And now comes an exceedingly high, great, and doubtful question. 
 Is Mr. Arundel worthy of such a prize as Miss Margaret, and are we 
 to permit her to smile upon him 1 
 
 Well, what is to be done 1 Philip Arundel is a well-born, highly bred, 
 gentlemanly young fellow, decidedly handsome. He has been to Eton, 
 and to Oxford, so he has associated with the best sort of men ; and 
 if in reading a newspaper he comes upon a Latin quotation, asfruges 
 eonsumere nati in a corn-law article, or virtus nobilitas est solum in 
 one on an hereditary peerage, he need not slur it over like a snob. 
 Isext, he is certainly good tempered, and so far as one can see, good 
 natured. Touching his financial position more will be found in the 
 adjoining chapter. But supposing that to be all right, what has any- 
 body to say against the pretensions of Mr. Arundel to the hand of 
 Miss Spencer \ 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 51 
 
 Somebody says that there is " nothing in him." If that is a young 
 lady who is speaking, I know very well what she means. The sight 
 of a beautiful being like Margaret has not awakened in him a new life, 
 a new soul. The touch of her hand has not given an electric 
 thrill that has shot into his being, and revealed himself to himself. 
 The sealed fountain has not burst forth as the sealing-wax melted 
 under the fire of passion. Oh, I know all that. But surely you do 
 not want that now. In these days of French novels, and novels on 
 the French model, would you have a young fellow feel all that in 
 presence of the girl whom he wishes to make his own wife 1 Time 
 enough foe that when he meets somebody else's. Pray be reasonable, 
 and let us go on according to the rules of art and morality. 
 
 Nothing in him. Well, I don't know. They have now been 
 acquainted about a month, and Mr. Iveckling has made a little party, 
 which just fills a carriage, and has conveyed himself, the two old 
 Spencers, our Madge, and Mr. Arundel, to Burnham Beeches. And 
 in that forest these individuals amuse themselves after their fashion 
 until it shall be time to go to Maidenhead for the sole purpose which 
 would have brought Mrs. Spencer all that way into the country. 
 And the way that Philip and Margaret amuse themselves is by wan- 
 dering anions: the trees, and marking the fantastic forms of the old 
 trunks. The Londoner naturally goes into ecstasies with the beauty 
 of the scene and its silence, but the Shropshire girl has seen a good 
 deal of North Wales, and though pleased with the loveliness around, 
 can afford to admire it quietly. 
 
 " I think that you don't care about this sort of place so much," 
 observes Mr. Arundel, with that singular neatness of sentence and 
 happiness of phrase peculiar to modern dialogue. 
 
 [Nevertheless, Mr. Enfield Speaker, hold your tongue. It may be 
 .slatternly talk, but it is a great deal better than what you would have 
 said, Squaretoes. " This especial variety of picturesque scenery 
 appears to possess less attraction for you, dear Miss, than some other 
 class of landskip." Get out.] 
 
 " It is perfectly beautiful," said Margaret ; " but is wk, the beauty 
 of the kind that steals and wins upon one, and not that which makes 
 one — what did you say last night? — 'strike into an attitude of startled 
 delight.'" 
 
 " Clever girl — remembers what I said," thought Philip. '•' That is 
 so," he said; "that is certainly the great charm here, unless we 
 mention another which we poor Londoners feel when wc get into a 
 place like this — I mean the perfect repose." 
 
 " That," said Margaret, smiling, " is delightful, if one is not well. 
 And I can also imagine a person retiring into unbroken silence to 
 meditate some great deed, or to reflect on it after it is done. Else, 
 beyond the pleasure of change, I am not sure that I feel the great 
 charm of silence." 
 
 " If all the usual tilings that we think neat did not seem out of 
 place in talking to you, — all out of taste — I should answer with an 
 apology for praising silence in a lady's presence." 
 
 '• O, but pray don't deprive me of the advantage of hearing any- 
 thing that yon would sav to anybody else. I always tell you to 
 
 e2 
 
52 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 remember my provincial education, and how little chance I have had 
 of catching the tone of society." 
 
 "And if catching it means making the slightest change," said 
 Arundel, earnestly, li I hope you never will." 
 
 " Thank you," said Margaret, with another smile ; " hut you know 
 I have come to London for my improvement, and I must not neglect 
 myself. How very kind Mr. Keckling has been. I am sure that 
 such pains were never taken to make anybody understand London 
 as he has given with me." 
 
 " I wont try to diminish his merit," said Philip, " for he is the 
 very pattern of old gentlemen — I think I like him as well as my 
 own father." 
 
 " For shame !" 
 
 " Ah ! and that would be no slight praise, for my father is the best 
 old party in the whole world. He would adore you, for thinking 
 that we ought to work instead of enjoying ourselves in idleness. 
 You should hear him preach on that text to my sisters, when they 
 want him to take a drive instead of going down to the House of 
 Commons." 
 
 " But you do not agree with him ?" 
 
 " Theoretically, of course ; and I can understand a man's working 
 like a steam-engine, working while life holds out in him, upon con- 
 ditions." 
 
 " Conditions on which one is to do one's duty V 
 
 " Is it one's duty to work like that ?" 
 
 " I have been taught so." 
 
 " Well, do you know, I have been taught so too, but I don't think 
 the lesson sank very deep. I used to write in my copy-books that 
 we were to work with diligence, and I have done themes, proving the 
 beauty and dignity of labour ; but I am afraid I never convinced 
 myself, for one. But," he added, hastily (for having been defrauded 
 of one thing that he wanted to say, he resolved not to lose the next), 
 " let a man have an object in view — suppose it were to secure his own 
 happiness and that of one whom he loved — and he would rush into 
 harness and be checked by no obstacle in the world." 
 
 " And you think," said Margaret, with perfect composure, " that 
 the person whom he loved could be gratified at seeing that he would 
 do for her what he refused to duty." 
 
 " If she were a woman, yes," said Arundel. 
 
 " If she were a Christian, no," said Margaret. 
 
 " I am quite sure you are right," said Philip, after a pause, in 
 which I suppose he desired that she should think he had been con- 
 sidering her speech, and had discovered its truth. " Yes, you are 
 quite right. My dear mother would have said the same." 
 
 Which he thought i-ather cleverly thrown in. And then he 
 deemed it expedient to back out of a subject on which he was not 
 prepared to shine. 
 
 " Just look at this tree," he said. " It must be hundreds of years 
 old. It gives me just the same feeling that I had at the entrance of 
 the Pyramid." 
 
 " You have been in Egypt ?" asked Margaret, with much interest. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 53 
 
 " I did Egypt, as they say, about two years back." 
 
 " How delightful ! That is no word for it. I don't know a word. 
 But if I were told that I should be taken there next month or next 
 year, I am afraid that I should be of little use to anybody in the mean 
 time." 
 
 " You like travelling ?" 
 
 " I have had none worth mentioning. But to travel through 
 scenery with such a history woidd not be a thing to like, it would be 
 almost as great a privilege and happiness as one can conceive." 
 
 " A greater would be the escorting through them one who felt as 
 you describe," said Arundel, with enough gravity in his manner to 
 prevent his answer from sounding like a love-hint. " I can imagine 
 nothing more happy. I was going to say, that at the sort of chimney- 
 hole which forms the entrance to the Great Pyramid, some height 
 from the ground, the platform on which you stand is a single slab of 
 hard stone. On this names are carved after the fashion of travellei's ; 
 but, although we abuse Brown and Button and such like for doing 
 that sort of Vandalism in our time, there is an interest even in the 
 names of Browns and Buttons who cut them two or three hundred 
 years ago, and are gone to dust. On this slab are some names of the 
 sort, and I lay down to read them. Among them was one English- 
 man who had been there in sixteen hundred and — what was King 
 Charles the First's year 1 — I always forget." 
 
 " Of couz'se you are laughing," said Margaret ; " but if you think 
 that, in the loyal county of Salop we do not know all about King 
 Charles, you are mistaken. A beautiful silver-hilted sword of a 
 Cavalier was found in my uncle's own field." 
 
 " I assure you I always forget the commonest dates and numbers, 
 unless I make an artificial memory. I once wanted to punish a 
 cab-driver, and had to recollect his number ; and it was only 
 by repeating, all the way home, that the Sikhs showed fortitude, 
 that I coidd recollect 642 ; and what's more, the man was right, 
 and I shall be saddled with the memory of his cab-number as long as 
 I live." 
 
 "Well, the King showed fortitude; but as it was 1G49, you cannot 
 transfer the machinery." 
 
 " O, thanks, but I will — that is quite near enough. Yes, I know 
 that it was 164y on the stone; and I could not help thinking that 
 at the time when England was divided between two frantic parties, 
 and everybody was fighting, and raving, and slaying when he could, 
 one philosopher had stolen away out of the riot, and laid down in 
 Africa to cut his name before the Pyramid." 
 
 " If that man had the power of being useful to one side or the 
 other, according to his faith, I am not sure that I honour him for 
 stealing away," said Margaret. 
 
 " O, I could not have done it," said Philip. " I should have mounted 
 my horse, and waved my plumes, and drawn my sword, and charged 
 for the King." And as he said it, with a martial gesture, he looked 
 in a moment as handsome a cavalier as ever sprang to saddle for the 
 Stuart. But the youth had been educated amid good society, and 
 instantly subsided into the undemonstrative gentleman. 
 
54 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " I suppose you will be angry with me for saying that I hope you 
 would have charged on the other side," said Margaret. 
 
 " What, are you a traitor V asked he, laughing. 
 
 " No, I hope not. But I have been brought up to believe that 
 King Charles was one." 
 
 " Ah, I took that side in a debate at Oxford, but I made a poor 
 hand of it. I was much better in another debate, when I was for 
 the King, and abused the fanatics, and crop-ears, and Puritans, and 
 talked grandly about the altar and the throne." 
 
 " They must be useful things for an orator," said Margaret. " My 
 uncle came in laughing one day from a vestry, at St. Oscar's, and 
 said that a member who was averse to all changes had declared that 
 the throne and the altar were in danger, because the Board of Health 
 insisted on whitewashing his dirty cottages." 
 
 " I must argue the whole question with you, I see," said Philip ; 
 " and I shall come to Gower-street for the express purpose." 
 
 " But I cannot argue," said Margaret ; " and pray do not try to 
 shake my jjoor opinions, for you have no idea of the trouble it gave 
 me to form any — especially as my two cousins held opposite views, 
 and battled for King and for Cromwell whenever uncle would 
 allow it." 
 
 " Lady cousins 1" asked Philip, not entirely without apprehension, 
 for of all interlopers a lover hates a cousin. 
 
 " O no. My cousin Alban, who is a surgeon, was the stern 
 republican, and applauded the execution of the King. My other 
 cousin, Latimer, is a lawyer, and he contended that it was quite 
 illegal, and wished he had been there to plead for the prisoner." 
 
 " Both practising in the country, of course ?" said Philip, as un- 
 concernedly as he could. 
 
 " No ; Alban comes to town to practise ; and I suppose that you 
 will meet him in Gower-street." 
 
 " Has she come to town to be near him V thought Philip Arundel. 
 And the thought annoyed him all through an excellent dinner. And 
 he determined that whether he were rejected or accepted, he would 
 ascertain the state of Miss Spencer's heart. 
 
 Fortune aided him — fortune, which lurked in a bottle of peculiarly 
 fine St. Peray, whereof Mrs. Spencer partook liberally, talking to 
 match. Talking indeed so volubly that she fairly silenced the others, 
 who seemed, by tacit consent, to allow her to have it all to herself. 
 At last this struck her. 
 
 " Why, good people, what are you all so dumb for ? Not a word, 
 as Rosalind says, to throw at a dog. Mr. Keckling, you have 
 given us a splendid repast, sir, and we thank you, and I hope 
 your caviare was good ; in fact, that it was caviare to the General. 
 Bob, my dear, have you been putting an enemy into your brains to 
 steal away your mouth. Young barrister, have you nothing to say 
 to us ? A Daniel, yes, a very Daniel come into the lion's den for 
 judgment. And you, my flower of Shropshire, why are you so silent? 
 Silence is only commendable in a neat tongue that isn't vendible. I 
 should fancy you had lost your heart if you had not given me your 
 word that you were disengaged, and ready for victories. Come, good 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 55 
 
 folks, fill the bumper fair, and in honour of Maggie we'll drink all 
 friends round the Wrekin." 
 
 Philip Arundel not only complied, but looked as if he could have 
 kissed the old lady. And he sang so many songs in his bedroom at 
 chambers while undressing that night, that Mr. Claxton bawled out 
 the most terrific reproaches to him for coming home intoxicated — 
 which he was not in the least, except with a prospect he had set 
 before himself. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CONSULTATION IN CHAMBERS. 
 
 " This London" (as certain accurate persons very properly call it, in 
 order to distinguish our capital from its namesake in Canada West), 
 contains many varieties of Chambers for its unwedded inhabitants. 
 The extreme opposites of these abodes, unblest of the saffron-coloured 
 Hymen, but usually decked by as saffron-coloured a Hebe, wrinkled 
 by sixty winters, are often found under the same slates. On one 
 floor is the luxuriously furnished room in which, among Guidos and 
 Correggios of more or less antiquity, bis person folded in a soft 
 dressing-gown, his slippered feet deep in the whiteness of a delicate 
 rug, and in his hand a yellow-papered novel, the delicacy whereof is 
 not so evident, sits an Epicurean philosopher, improving his mind 
 until the silver-voiced pendule shall bid him dress for dinner. On 
 another floor is a chamber garnished with a thin, old, faded drugget, 
 four chairs of unpl easing dinginess, and a table on which are law 
 papers fresh and fresh (no need of dummies now) — and here, with 
 glasses upon his early-weakened eyes, sits — sifting facts from attorney- 
 chaff, and savage with the matter, yet satisfied in that he has it to 
 deal with — a Stoic pbilosopher, preparing his mind for a considtation. 
 Each in his own fashion is possibly making his way to different 
 departments of her Majesty's Bench. According to appearances, 
 E. is working towards the Borough and Captain Hudson, and S. 
 towards ermine and my Lord Campbell. But it is not always so. 
 The elegant Swell may, in five minutes, fling away Fils Dumas the 
 Dirty, with a slight and contemptuous curse, and may plunge into a great 
 brief, now in his outer and sobei-ly furnished room, and from the pages 
 of that document (lettered on the back with richer gilding than ever 
 adorned printed book) may snatch some point for his eloquent 
 harangue of the morrow. And perhaps, despite all his toil, the other 
 man may break down in the race — perhaps from trying to make too 
 good running — and, with a wasted constitution and broken hopes, may 
 return to his native town to die what the world will call igno- 
 miniously. The profound moral of our youth comes back to us at 
 every turn of life. Who has not had his juvenile knuckles rapped 
 for defrauding of a p, or enriching by an uncalled-for e, the golden 
 rule, "Judge not by appearances" 1 
 
56 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " The respectable firm of Arundel and Claxton," as in moments of 
 levity (whereof they had a good many) the young Templars were 
 pleased to describe themselves, were lodged in neither extreme. Their 
 chambers, in the row where lodged the sweet Ovid so lost in Murray, 
 so known, so honoured in the House of Lords, presented a sort of 
 mixtiu'e of the two styles, to which was added something of a third 
 character, brought from Oxford. They had four rooms, three being 
 bad ; and for the four they paid — or occasionally owed — a rent that 
 would have given them a beautiful house three miles away, or a noble 
 mansion in the country. This note is merely a record of a fact, and 
 not a growl at a grievance ; for is not the humblest cell in the Temple 
 better than all the stuck-up mansions of yelling Pimlico, and all the 
 solitary halls of the silent provinces '? He who denies it knows 
 the value neither of silence nor of sociality. 
 
 With three of the four rooms we have nothing to do. Two were 
 bedrooms, and in the third and dreariest snuffled a restless boy, some- 
 thing proud of his dignity of clerk, something interested in the last 
 number of the " Avenger of Blood," yet something pining for the 
 undignified pitching and tossing, carried on by mere boys, who were 
 not clerks, in a yard behind. Sometimes the clink of the copper and 
 the instant clamour of the antagonists were too much for him, and he 
 left the Avenger roasting his father's murderer, and went sulkily to 
 the window to gaze on the plebeians, and to wish that he had not 
 risen from the ranks. Then nobler thoughts came over him ; he re- 
 membered his salary, and the occasional order for the Adelphi from 
 his good-natured masters, and he went back to the half-cooked assassin 
 who was being so signally served out. by filial retribution. 
 
 But the principal chamber was a pleasant one, handsomely carpeted, 
 pictured from vai'ious collections, and not without its easy chairs for 
 its owners, and similar accommodation for any friend. Philip Arundel's 
 tastes were a little in the way of the Epicurean's above mentioned ; but 
 anything like fastidiousness had been corrected in Philip at College ; 
 and though there were some engravings, statuettes, and knick-knacks 
 which the elegant gentleman would not have disdained, they were 
 interspersed with articles that he would have removed with a pair of 
 tongs vid the window. Pipes of all kinds hung about, or littered 
 the mantelpiece, which was further encumbered with quaint tobacco 
 jars, in which terriers' heads, and even the feminine form, were pro- 
 faned into receptacles for the maligned weed. There was, against a 
 Avail, a noble stag's head ; but on its branches hung a travelling-cap, 
 a shot-flask, a Highland dirk, and other disfigurements, that made it. 
 resemble a stern Christmas-tree. A Gothic book-case was not ill- 
 furnished ; but between a Lucretius of 1511 and the "Pickwick 
 Papers" was a cigar cabinet ; and the last volume of " Boswell" would 
 have fallen as flat as Jemmy himself did on the pavement of that 
 assize town where he got so terribly tipsy, but that a pair of fencing- 
 gloves buttressed the book, and made you look round for foils and 
 masks. These you sought not in vain, for they were set as an appro- 
 priate halo around a bracket, from which, and from the sea, rose Venus 
 Anadyomene. 
 

THE GORDIAN KNOT. 57 
 
 And hero was a consultation going on, though not precisely 
 of the kind the Stoic philosopher was expecting when we looked 
 in upon his industrious dreariness. In an American rocking-chair, 
 aud smoking a German pipe, was our friend, Philip Arundel. 
 He was looking exceedingly well, and he was in high good humour. 
 Cai-elessly dressed, in a shooting-jacket, and with his handsome 
 throat exposed, and with his small feet in slippers, evidently a 
 love-ollering from an Ariadne — let us hope she is consoled — he 
 seemed a capital type of the young English gentleman, when per- 
 fectly contented with himself, and not dissatisfied with the world. 
 Confronting him, dressed with as much care, and looking almost 
 as well, hut with rather more gravity of aspect, was his mentor, John 
 Claxton, who was performing a feat worthy of the admirahle Crichton. 
 For, while lecturing his friend upon conduct that appeared to Claxton 
 to merit reproof, he was gradually emptying a tankard that had 
 contained much pale ale, and was also superintending the cooking of 
 a kidney — not in vulgar hunger, but to test the character of a new 
 recipe which had been given him by Alexis Soyer. A Skye terrier, 
 lying on a newspaper [on ,the floor, gazed at the process with much 
 calmness, having a conviction, from old experience, that his master's 
 experiment would end in a failure, which would result in the dish 
 being set before the Caledonian himself. 
 
 " I am saying the same thing over and over again, Philip," observed 
 Mr. Claxton. 
 
 " That is true, my dear Jack," replied Mr. Arundel, composedly. 
 " But never mind if you are." 
 
 " I tell you frankly that I think you are behaving ill in Gower- 
 street, and that's all about it." 
 
 " I am very sorry, my dear Jack, that you should think me 
 capable of behaving ill in any respectable house where I am received 
 with hospitality. Fortunately, Mrs. Spencer does not think with 
 you, or I should not be asked any more, whei-eas I am asked to go 
 there this evening, and hear some music. You see, Jack, that I 
 must have conducted myself with extreme propriety, and not as you 
 did at the Clissolds, when you came in huffy, and made speeches at 
 supper." 
 
 " Well, I shall have some words with your governor, and then wash 
 my hands of this affair." 
 
 " The sooner you wash your hands, my dear boy, and set the 
 kidney, which looks utterly execrable, before Fizz, the bettei-. I don't 
 see that you need ask my governor's leave ; but do if you like, he is 
 a very affable old man, and will receive you amicably." 
 
 " If you are determined to talk infernal nonsense when one wants 
 to say a word of sense to you, do it and " — 
 
 Mr. Claxton, in his indignation, was about to finish with a recom- 
 mendation of some strength ; but at this instant the overheated 
 sherry in which he was doing the kidney, caught fire, and hissed 
 furiously round the spoiled morsel, so he transferred the commination 
 to the meat. 
 
 " As profane a grace as I ever heard, Mr. Claxton," said Philip. 
 
58 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " All your fault," said liis friend, abandoning the operation in dis- 
 gust. " A cook's mind ought to be calm, or how can he work like an 
 artist 1 I'll try that again, when you are not here to irritate me. 
 Biceps !" 
 
 " Yes, sir," cried the student of tbe Avenger of Blood. 
 
 u Come here, sir." 
 
 The small clerk entered, and was enjoined to go round to the 
 Iris, in Fleet-street, and get the tankard refilled with pale ale. 
 
 " And mind you do go to the Iris, and not anywhere nearer, or I 
 shall find it out, Biceps, and your chances of being Lord Chancellor, 
 a situation which I am aware that your respectable mother intends 
 for you, will be diminished to the extent of your tumbling out at that 
 window." 
 
 Biceps, as the boy had been classically christened, his name being 
 Muscle, grinned with a mild pity for his loquacious employer, and 
 departed. 
 
 " What do you bully the lad for," said Philip Arundel. " He's 
 willing enough."' 
 
 " A capital boy, and therefore I take pains with his education. He 
 is very sharp and discreet, I can tell you. He was opening the door 
 for me to go out yesterday, when a man from Gresham's came up to 
 bother for his bill, of course. The miscreant did not know me, for 
 he asked whether Mr. Claxton was in, and Biceps, instead of looking 
 foolish, as millions of brats would have done, saw the situation, and 
 said, ' He'll be in town on Wednesday, sir. Did he say Wednesday or 
 Thursday, sir'?' he added, appealing to me — moi-mtme — and routing 
 the Philistine with slaughter." 
 
 " You should pay your bills, Claxton," said Arundel, with much 
 gravity, " and not be put to these shifts." 
 
 " Pay your own, and be hanged." 
 
 " Such is my intention," said Philip ; " I mean as to the paying. 
 And this is what I wanted to talk to you about. I have been 
 putting down everything in the way of debt that I can think of, from 
 Amos to the laundress's book ; and if we can't knock out a plan for 
 liquidating we must see about consolidating." 
 
 " Dictionary words, both. But what are you driving at ?" 
 
 " Well, somebody says that you'd better have one big debt than a 
 lot of little ones. The big one is a cannon ball, seldom fired off, and 
 not certain to hit ; but the small ones are like shot that are always 
 rattling at you, and catching you when you least expect it." 
 
 " And what are you bringing up that old bosh for V ' 
 
 " Because, as I tell you, I should like to piit all I owe into one 
 lump, and have but one creditor." 
 
 " Not so easy, my dear boy. But before we go into Committee of 
 Ways and Means, I say, Philip, is this notion part of the folly about 
 the girl in Gower-street F 
 
 " Call her Miss Spencer, please, Jack, just to oblige me." 
 
 " I hope I shall be able to call her so for many a year to come," 
 said his friend, adroitly using the rebuke for his own purpose. 
 
 " Now see here," said the other, re-charging his pipe. " Why 
 
THE (lOKPIAN KNOT. 59 
 
 would not the match, supposing I could make it — and mind you, I've 
 no right to say so, whatever 1 may think — supposing, I say, that I 
 could, why would it not be as sensible a thing as a fellow can do ? 
 The governor allows me four hundred a year, and I spend eight ; and 
 I haven't a bit of real comfort for it. This sort of thing is all very 
 well when one's a boy, or at College ; but at my time*of life a fellow 
 oughtn't to be sitting in chambers smoking baccy, and shy about raps 
 ;it the door. Isn't that so, Johannes Claxtoniusf 
 
 " Matter of taste. But I should consider it a deuced deal more 
 humiliating to have one's wife uncomfortable about raps at the door. 
 A woman can't sport a bit of black wood, and make faces behind 
 it at dims when they knock, after the fashion of exemplary parties 
 who shall be nameless." 
 
 " Who wants his wife to do so, Jackides 1 
 
 " Why, Philip," said Claxton, " what the devil else is before you ?" 
 
 A knock on private principles was heard, and the speaker hastened 
 t o admit Biceps and the beer. 
 
 " Give that second knock a little sharper, my boy," said Mr. Claxton, 
 " like this." And he showed the lad the approved signal, rapping 
 the poker upon the hearthstone. " Now, mind — Mr. Arundel and 
 myself are out of town, unless Mr. Ganarew calls — let him in." 
 
 Biceps returned to his novel, and his master to his subject. 
 
 " I was saying, what else is before you 1 In the first place, you are 
 over head and ears. In the next place, if you were cleared off you 
 would be in a mess again." 
 
 u Never, Jack, never. I swear that not a haperth of milk should 
 come into the place unless it was paid for and a receipt given." And 
 he thought he meant it, too. 
 
 " Next, you know perfectly well that the governor wo\ild be 
 just as likely to cut off the allowance as not, if you displeased him." 
 
 " I don't think he would. Besides, it wouldn't displease him. He 
 couldn't help liking her. Nonsense apart, Jack, come. You danced 
 with her the other night. Isn't she something a fellow might be 
 prcud to introduce to his relations." 
 
 " She's very well, but there are plenty like her." 
 
 " I will be dammed if there is one," said Mr. Arundel in a rage. 
 
 " Plenty, I tell you, you idiot. And instead of selfishly and 
 foolishly making this girl's life unhappy, by marrying her when you 
 have no business to do anything of the sort, wait till you can marry 
 properly, and then you'll find something just as good, that will 
 have grown up for you, and presented herself at the time she was 
 wanted." 
 
 " Of course, it is of no use to talk on such a subject, which is one 
 of feeling and not of argument," said Arundel, somewhat loftily. 
 
 " O, if you are wrapping yourself up in that sort of thing, I'll hold 
 my tongue till you come out. But I think you had best hear i*eason. 
 If your father continues your allowance, do you fancy you could keep 
 a wife on four hundred a year ?" 
 
 " Like an angel." 
 
 " Yes, no doubt. But that's not the way girls want to be kept. 
 
60 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 And Miss Margaret won't have a shilling. The old girl takes 
 lodgers. She pretends they are visitors — but visitors don't keep their 
 own tea and sugar locked up, as those Martins did ; didn't you 
 hear Mrs. Spencer borrow some sugar for the brandy-and-water, and 
 besides, there were other symptoms no one could mistake." 
 
 " There was no attempt at disguise. Miss Spencer told me herself 
 that her aunt sometimes added to her income by letting a first floor, 
 and that Jasper Beryl had stayed there." 
 
 "Eh, I wish we had been there then. I'd give anything to meet 
 him. Did I tell you what he said to Bob Ganarew, the other night 
 at the club." 
 
 " No, I think not." 
 
 " Ganarew, on seeing Beryl, fell into a tragic attitude, and doing a 
 bit of imitation of some actor or other, said, ' Embrace me, my friend.' 
 ' Thank you, no,' said Beryl, ' I'm an author, but I don't want to be 
 bound in calf.' " 
 
 " Good. How did Bob like it T 
 
 " O, all right," said Claxton, M Jasper Beryl makes you feel that 
 he says things of that kind out of an overflow of wit, not to hurt 
 you. He declares, too, that it is bad fellowship for anybody who has 
 got a joke to bottle it up and carry it away instead of giving it out 
 to the people about him. And I think he is right." 
 
 " Yes, when the jokes are like his ; but it would be hospitable in 
 most people, yourself for one, my dear Jack, to bottle up theirs most 
 sacredly, and to lose the corkscrew." 
 
 This kind of consultation, in which Claxton's remonstrances were 
 met by Arundel's persiflage, and which generally ended by straying 
 as entirely as other consultations (for which unfortunate clients pay 
 by the golden minute) sometimes do from the point in question, were 
 held at all sorts of times and in all sorts of places between the friends. 
 Claxton, to do him justice, worked hard to prevent Philip from 
 moving in a matrimonial direction. He told Arundel whenever he 
 heard of a young couple in difficulties ; and when they were out 
 together, Jack Claxton had a marvellous scent for any street where 
 he could show his friend the appalling carpet on the balcony, the 
 sign of an execution. He would lecture Arundel then and there, and 
 make him read how new furniture, and friends' presents, and the 
 Broadwood, and all that had set up the poor young bride and her 
 lover, was becoming spoil of Israel. Even in places of amusement 
 Mr. Claxton did not forget his mission, or over the quiet little club 
 dinner preceding the visit to the theatre. " "No opera stalls for 
 muffs who marry on miserable means," he would alliteratively say; 
 and when the admirable soup was followed by the delicate fish, and 
 this by the neatly served " portions," which enable humble bachelors 
 to have, for next to nothing, as well-cooked and elegant food as your 
 Duke, John Claxton would remark, in a melancholy tone — 
 
 " Take that last cotelette, Philip. Enjoy what Christian meat you 
 can before you come to huge and gory joints, and third days of cold 
 mutton. Eat, my poor Philip !" 
 
 But Claxton's great fortress of hope, his Sebastopol, was Philip 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. Gl 
 
 Arundel's father. This gentleman, who was, moreover, a Member of 
 Parliament, of no weight save what was physical, resided in 
 Thanington-square, with his two daughters, the Misses Blanche and 
 Geraldine Arundel. Of these two girls Philip was very fond, and 
 they regarded their brother not only as one of the best-looking and 
 best-mannered men in London, but as the greatest scholar that had 
 ever left college, and the ablest young barrister that had ever entered 
 the Temple. Mr. Arundel, the elder, probably took a more mode- 
 rate estimate of his son s merits, but seldom ventured a word in his 
 disparagement, because on such an occasion either the handsome 
 Blanche or the handsome Geraldine, or both, came up, a sisterly 
 contingent, with such feminine zeal and logic, that the old gentle- 
 man used almost to feel ashamed of himself for having found a 
 fault with his son. Now Claxton was a visitor in Thanington- 
 square, and a favourite with the girls and papa, and like a 
 chivalrous friend as he was, he determined to risk the chance, 
 which was, indeed, a probability, of quarrelling with Philip, and by 
 consequence losing the M.P.'s twenty port, and the pleasant friend- 
 ship of the young ladies, for the sake of saving Arundel from the 
 peril that menaced him. He conceived that he had a very good case. 
 There was a pretty girl, nothing more, who had been brought up in 
 the provinces, in a dissenter's family (Mr. Arundel, M.P., sat on the 
 Conservative benches, whenever the shifting sands of modern politics 
 allowed him to discover which those benches were), and who lived 
 with an uncle whose bankruptcy had been a discreditable one, and 
 whose foolish wife let lodgings. Was such a bride to come to 
 Thanington-square, and sit among the high and mighty men, and 
 their much higher and mightier wives, who often honoured the 
 senator's richly spread board 1 
 
 It was not in Claxton to command success, though he did more, 
 did Claxton, he deserved it. But love is pretty rapid in its move- 
 ments ; and long before the faithful John had screwed himself to the 
 point of going to the Square, and opening his attack, Philip Arundel 
 had enlisted both his sisters on his side of the question. He had 
 done it artfully, too, that handsome brother ; for he had gone home, 
 stayed at home (where there was always a bed for him), taken his sisters 
 out, and perfectly enchanted them by his attentions. And one day the 
 carriage took Papa and his three children to Palace-yard at four o'clock, 
 and the old gentleman having been put down, that, instead of availing 
 himself of that brilliant and beautiful afternoon, he might go into the 
 House and ask a question, about which he cared nothing, of a Minister 
 who knew exactly as much about it, the young people drove on to 
 Richmond, and Philip gave his sisters a pretty little repast, and 
 told them a pretty little story. He painted Margaret (and I humbly 
 hope somewhat in the way that another person has painted her) as a 
 sweet-naturcd and beautiful girl, who had been most advantageously 
 educated in a family where piety was not bigotry, and who had 
 shown her dutiful obedience to her father by leaving that happy home 
 for another, whence it would be delightful to rescue her. This little 
 bit of romance, added to the tiger-story, settled Margaret's business 
 
62 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 with the Demoiselles Arundel, and when they came back to London, 
 I believe that not only had they settled that they would receive her 
 with all the affection in the world, but what presents they would give 
 her at the wedding. 
 
 Consequently, when the chivalrous Claxton went down on the pre- 
 ventive service, he found his flank turned. "When, by way of opening 
 the business, he made a few sarcastic remarks at the expense of an 
 imaginary wife, whom he professed to have met in society, and who, 
 having been brought up as a dissenter, exposed her husband to ridicule 
 at a party by forbidding him to dance, Miss Geraldine observed that 
 the woman was simply a vulgar person, and that in dissenting families 
 of the better class she knew the girls were brought up very rationally ; 
 in fact, she had heard from Philip, who knew everything, that it was 
 the best kind of training possible. And when Mr. Claxton tried 
 another tack, and was severe upon marriages where money was not 
 brought on each side, Miss Blanche (who might, by the way, be fight- 
 ing a little for her own hand, for she then had designs upon a Puseyite 
 curate, who would have spent all her money on ecclesiastical architec- 
 ture but who providentially died of fever, caught in his incessant 
 visits to his sick poor,) said that a competence was very desirable, but 
 it did not seem to matter which party brought it ; and, moreover^ 
 this young lady, whose reading had, for the above parenthetical reason, 
 taken a serious direction, hinted that, after all, or rather, before all, 
 one thing was requisite, and that we were told of a kingdom to which, 
 if sought first, all the world's good things should be added. Claxton 
 therefore felt that this garrison was too strong for him, and perceived 
 that Arundel had been fortifying it, and therefore, like a wise man, 
 he determined to risk no desperate attack, but to retain his privilege 
 of talking to the young ladies, and drinking their father's wines. 
 But he had still great hope in the senator. 
 
 But you never know where to repose your trust. The great lock 
 that had defied everybody for years, with its offer of hundreds of 
 guineas to him who should open it, — well, a Yankee looked into it, 
 and the captured guineas were straightway seen under a glass case in 
 Hyde Park. That victory, even more than the yacht defeat, the 
 exposure of Woolwich block machinery, and the information that 
 the watch on Somerset House is not that of an Irishman who fell 
 from a scaffold and was saved by his watch-chain, — tended to bring 
 about one's final conviction that nothing which one is accustomed to 
 believe is true. One had believed in the lock, and reverenced its 
 splendid defiance with childlike faith and honour, but all is over. 
 Henceforth a man shall say he drove his nail through the moon, and 
 his friend shall confirm the boast, and add that he, happening to be 
 behind, clenched it, and one will neither credit nor doubt, but hear 
 with a mournful listlessness. 
 
 The faithful friend of Philip Arundel trusted in his Conservative 
 father to keep Margaret Spencer out of the family. He might as 
 well have trusted to the Conservative party to keep Lord Paimerston 
 out of the Treasury. Claxton's Sebastopol went down. Philip 
 Amndel ; when he had gained his own consent to marry our Maggie 
 
THE (iOIU)IAN KNOT. 63 
 
 if she would have him, took further counsel with his accomplices, 
 Blanche and Geraldine, and then took their advice, which was in 
 itself what might be expected from honourable and virtuous young 
 ladies, and which also happened to be the very wisest which could 
 have been given under the circumstances. This was to tell his lather 
 the whole truth. With some fathers this process answers, and as the 
 elder Arundel was a gentleman, and one who happened to like his 
 son very much, it answered in Philip's case. I am averse to specifics, 
 and therefore do not recommend it as a universal remedy for sons in 
 scrapes. 
 
 Philip told his father how much he owed, and how much he loved. 
 He added that he had not thought of making any proposal to his 
 creditors or to his mistress, until he had laid the whole business 
 before his parent. This was all so very proper that the old gentle- 
 man, though he looked grave, was very gentle, and, adjourning the 
 debate, desired his son to stay to dinner. Philip artfully observed 
 that he had no secrets from his sisters, and this pleased the father 
 again, for the widower was proud of his children, and wished them to 
 live in love and confidence together. 
 
 The Contingent charged without orders ; but as victory was the 
 result there was no blame. Blanche and Geraldine both assailed 
 their papa, and with the fair round arm of Blanche on his neck, and 
 a ring, once her mother's, on her fingei - , and with Geraldine's sweet, 
 warm, young face — more like that lost mother's — pressed against his 
 old cheek, what could the father do ? They would not dictate — they 
 would not say anything ; but Philip's happiness was in question, and 
 papa would do what was kindest and best. The dear old fellow had 
 never done anything else, and was not going to begin altering his 
 course at sixty. The battle was won, and the Contingent rode in 
 glory over the body of John Claxton. 
 
 So Philip Arundel, whether his wooing sped or not, was to be 
 relieved from his debts. He was to go to Mr. Tarleton, the family 
 solicitor, and set forth his liabilities, and that gentleman would say 
 who were to be paid in full, and who were to be treated as swindlers, 
 and then he would be furnished with the means to carry out his 
 judgment, and Philip would be free. And as regarded Miss Spencer, 
 the father could trust his son to form no unworthy match — to wed no 
 woman whom he would not set down between Blanche and Geraldine 
 with a certainty that there would be a sister the more. The objection- 
 able part of her family might be quietly dropped, while Mr. Cheriton, 
 whom the girls actually began to love through Philip's account of 
 him, received from Margaret, would of course be welcome in Thaning- 
 ton Square. Indeed, Mr. Arundel had some kind of recollection of 
 the name — whether it had been mentioned to him by Lord Porking- 
 ton, or some other of the Shropshire magnates, he forgot — but he 
 knew that he had heard it in pleasant association, and would like to 
 know the gentleman. 
 
 There, Jack Claxton, what do you say to that? The great lock 
 that was to lock out our Margaret from the Square — that is picked. 
 Go to your chambers and cook more kidneys, Jack Claxton. Oniitho- 
 
64 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 logical cooking hath been performed in your case, Anser, as your 
 vulgarer friends would say. 
 
 There was one thing more to be done before the young London 
 gentleman could honourably proffer matrimonial vows. There was a 
 letter to be written. 
 
 No wrong, save of the most respectable character — so respectable 
 that it passes in a crowd for right — shall obtrude itself in our story. 
 But I am to tell the truth : and the truth is, that Philip Arundel 
 had, in decorous language, to disembarrass himself of a connection. 
 Happily for him and for his conscience in the Last Hour, the great 
 ci'ime that lures a helpless being to a life of ignominy is not to be 
 laid to his charge. But in a little box-like house in a suburb — a tiny 
 dwelling, full of comforts and not without elegancies, mostly his own 
 presents — there waited for him, not often in vain, one whose erring 
 but affectionate nature had been developed by his kindness — and who 
 in future would wait in vain. 
 
 There was to be an allowance, and I think a small life-assurance, 
 and a confirmed gift of all in the house : and — you are quite right, 
 madam — what more could a Creature expect or deserve? 
 
 Nevertheless, Arundel, having written his letter, gave it to his 
 friend to be delivered — that Philip might not know the hour or the 
 day when it would be received, and when the pang which even Crea- 
 tures can feel would be inflicted in that quiet little home. 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. G5 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DEMOSTHENES. 
 
 Mr. Philip Arundel was too much in earnest about his intended 
 match to neglect the means of promoting it. Qui veut le Jin veut les 
 moyens is a good French saying, take it in what sense you will, and 
 whether Philip's desultory reading had ever thrown it in his way or 
 not, he acted upon its teaching. He spent a great deal of time in 
 the Square. He made himself useful to his father. He made himself 
 an idol to his sisters. And they owed it all to Margaret Spencer, for 
 whose dear sake her knight was content to ransack Blue-books, to 
 compose chai-ades, and to submit to any other duty which his 
 relatives could impose. 
 
 " Philip," said Mr. Arundel, as his handsome son came into the 
 bx-eakfast-room one morning, and kissing the pretty sister nearest him 
 and nodding a kiss to the other, began to lay out his plan for the 
 breakfast campaign, " don't you go out to-day until I have done with 
 you." And the elder gentleman, gathering up some letters and the 
 Times, and his spectacles, left the room. 
 
 '•' Has he breakfasted T said Philip, " and am I so late V 
 
 " You are rather late," said Blanche, " but papa has received a 
 letter that has taken away his appetite. I hope it is nothing to 
 annoy him much." 
 
 " Nothing about me, I hope," said Philip, anxiously. 
 
 ' ; It is a country letter," said Geraldine. 
 
 " How do you know, Jerry V said Philip. 
 
 " Don t call me that dreadful name, there's a dear," said his sister, 
 with a piteous look and then a laugh. 
 
 " Well then, Jeremiah at full length, how do you know it was 
 from the country 1" 
 
 " Because it was the only letter with London on the envelope — 
 I think it comes from Shackleby." 
 
 " From one of the governor's constituents. Wants a loan of a few 
 hundreds to set up his son in business, or an Under-Secretaryship of 
 State for his nephew, who spoke so well at the last election. There's 
 no harm in letters like that, my children. Bianca, some hot milk in 
 that coffee, please ; and, Jeremiah, darling, if it would not be trespass- 
 ing too much on your humanity to ask you to put some Strasbourg 
 stuff on that toast — that's a dear. But I am not to go out, you 
 heard." 
 
 " Perhaps papa will not keep you very long, and then we can have 
 our walk." 
 
 "Perhaps. But it is just possible that the interests of the nation 
 may demand that the honourable member for Shackleby should 
 know something about the Tombigbee Boundary question, which is 
 coming on this week, and that the honourable members son may 
 have to instruct him thereupon, in which case I must shut myself 
 up in the library, and begin by finding out where Tombigbee is." 
 
 PART III. F 
 
GQ THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " For shame, Philip. What in the world do you learn at Oxford ?" 
 said Blanche. 
 
 " That a tongue should be cut thicker than that, my dear — yes, 
 that's better, thanks," responded her brother. 
 
 " Tombigbee is a river in Alabama," said Geraldine. 
 
 "And Alabama is in — stop, niggers go to Alabama, with their 
 banjoes on their knee. I know. Why, here's the governor again." 
 
 The senator had got rid of his dressing-gown, and appeared in 
 decorous black, ready for legislative action. 
 
 " You are early, sir," said Philip. " You have hardly had a good 
 read at the paper this morning." 
 
 " There is nothing in the paper," said his father, a little im- 
 patiently. " You have not done your breakfast 1 Look at that precious 
 epistle, however ;' that wont hinder you." 
 
 As Philip took the letter, Geraldine, seeing that her father was 
 prepared to go out, rose for a little service which she had habitually 
 performed for many a year. When a child, she had rendered it to 
 the tall papa, who used to stoop for it, and who had gradually to 
 stoop less and less, until he found a graceful girl at his side, still 
 ready to do the same affectionate office, and to be paid with a kiss. 
 It was to cut one of what she called her Session Flowers, and to fix 
 it with an ingenious pin in his buttonhole. Of late years, I doubt 
 whether a Teller would have thought he had got quite all Mr. 
 Arundel's vote if he had gone into the lobby without the flower. 
 
 The pretty girl bestowed the decoration on her papa, who, for 
 once, paid little heed to her, and watched Philip's perusal of the 
 letter. Geraldine waited a moment or two for her reward, but it 
 was not forthcoming ; and she was going to sit down, and wait her 
 paymaster's pleasure, when his instinct told him that he was omitting 
 something ; and until he should bring back his attention to find 
 out what it was, he detained her by the hand, and still gazed at 
 his son. 
 
 " Shackleby 's improving," said Philip, as he finished. 
 
 " What do"you think of that .?" said his father 
 
 " It is impei'tinence in excelsis," remarked the younger man. 
 
 " It is impertinence in Mr. Tommy Coamings," returned the senator, 
 " and impertinence which I shall not get over in a hurry. A depu- 
 tation to me. A deputation to ask me questions, and to read me a 
 lecture for not having imitated some other members, and gone down 
 to give an account of my stewardship. I really don't think you see 
 the full insolence of the thing. Read it again. Eead it out, and let 
 your sisters hear it." 
 
 Philip accordingly read : — 
 
 " The Cross Kej's, Shackleby, 
 " June ISth. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — At a meeting of electors of Shackleby, held this day 
 at the Cross Keys, at which it was hoped that you would have taken 
 the opportunity of being present, in order to afford some of those 
 explanations of your political conduct which some of the most dis- 
 tinguished men of the time have not disdained to offer " 
 
 " Well, they sent me a miserable little handbill announcing the 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 07 
 
 meeting, but when I saw it was printed by Tornkins, I threw it in the 
 tire," interposed the senator. 
 
 " Quite right, sir," said his son. " The long-winded snob" (laughter 
 from the young ladies) " goes on" : — 
 
 " It was unanimously agreed that a deputation, consisting of the 
 following electors — namely, Messrs. Wrumble, Blogg, Aniseed, J. 
 Aniseed " 
 
 "That's his ass of a nephew, that uses musk," observed the repre- 
 sentative of !Shackleby. 
 
 " Beast !"' said Philip — £: Lockstraw, Davis, and Coamings, should 
 wait upon you at your residence, and should confer with you upon 
 the present alarming and important political crisis " 
 
 " What does that mean V asked Philip. 
 
 '•' Idiots always think there's a crisis," said his father, " except when 
 affairs really want delicate handling." 
 
 " Important political crisis, and ascertain the course which you 
 propose to take during the remainder of the session. For this pur- 
 pose we shall do ourselves the honour of waiting upon you on Thurs- 
 day, the 20th instant, at one o'clock. 
 
 '•' I am, dear sir, 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " Thomas Coamings." 
 
 " Marmaduke Arundel, Esq., M.P." 
 
 " Why, that's to-day," said Philip. 
 
 " Of course, that is the cunning. They knew that if they gave me 
 time to answer I should decline the honour, and so they manage to 
 let me know at breakfast that they will be here at mid-day." 
 
 " Do you mean to let them in, or give them in charge to the police," 
 asked Philip. 
 
 " Don't be ridiculous, my dear boy. Of course they must be seen, 
 and they must have lunch, or mischief may be done. Hang 'em, I 
 wish they would accept the best dinner I could give them instead of 
 the interview." 
 
 ' : You horribly undervalue your best dinners, my dear father," said 
 Philip, " when you can think of putting one of them before such a 
 set. But you can't receive them to-day, at least not at their hour. 
 Did you not tell me the Nevilbury Election Committee met to-day ?" 
 
 "' Yes, to be sure. Yesterday I was grumbling that I had not 
 claimed my privilege of sixty years to be excused." 
 
 " Well, sir, I have a proposition. Let me see these fellows, instead 
 of you. I will tell them that the immense impox*tance of the prin- 
 ciples involved in the Nevilbury case makes it essential that you 
 should attend the committee. I will hear what they have to say, and 
 answer for you. And I'll do the honours at lunch, a bore which you 
 will be glad to be relieved from." 
 
 I dare say that when Phaeton proposed to drive the chariot of 
 Apollo, the god-father looked a good deal staggered at his son's assur- 
 ance. Good Mr. Arundel had no overweening idea of his own genius 
 and statesmanship, but he had been a member for a great many years, 
 and it gave a curious wrench to certain of his instincts to hear himself 
 
 f 2 
 
CS THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 coolly asked to delegate his functions to a young fellow who was only 
 the other day turning somersaults in a frock and trousers. And that 
 little sensation over, the father's heart had fair play again, and he 
 felt proud that his son could undertake serious work, and pleased that 
 his son had offered to do it for his father's sake, and the look which 
 at first might have had a faint displeasure in it, became dubious and 
 a little wistful. 
 
 Not an aide-de-camp ever more closely watched the glance of the 
 Great Duke when in presence of the ranks of France's Italian master, 
 than the sisterly Contingent observed papa when the least thing that 
 interested the adored Philip was in question. They charged without 
 a moment's hesitation. 
 
 '•' O, do. papa," said Blanche, at the table ; " you know that Philip 
 sj^eaks capitally. You said so yourself at Lady Milford's." 
 
 " Yes, as Demosthenes, in a sheet, repeating words he had learned ; 
 but this is another matter, my child." 
 
 " But he distinguished himself at the debating society at College, 
 papa," said Geraldine, still in his hand ; " Mr. Claxton said that, and 
 you know he is not too ready to praise anybody." 
 
 " I assure you, my dear father," said Philip, " that I am not look- 
 ing at it as a bit of fun, or anything of that sort. If I gave these 
 chaps my own notions of their impertinence, they would not find 
 much to laugh at. But I know that they must be endured as matter 
 of business, and in that way I would receive them in your name. 
 When I say that, I think you may trust me to be serious." 
 
 i: It shall be so, then," said Mr. Arundel. " I confess that I feel 
 too much annoyed at their treating me in this way to be as cordial 
 as I should like to be with my constituents, and I am not sorry to 
 escape them. But remember, Philip, I trust a good deal with you. 
 Insignificant as these men are, there is not one that might not bother 
 me, and perhaps injure me, if he were offended, and things ma) 7 not 
 always be as pleasant in Shackleby as they have been, especially now 
 Mr. Ellington is coming of age. And after all, they are one's con- 
 stituents, and entitled to a certain attention." 
 
 " Give me a trial, sir," said Philip. 
 
 " Yes, yes, papa," said the Contingent, and Blanche, advancing to 
 support Geraldine, they closed upon the enemy, and took him 
 prisoner. And Geraldine was paid for her geranium, and Blanche 
 had a' trifle in the same coin, and idtimately the senator went away 
 to sit with several other senators in a very hot room, over a very 
 foul river, to listen to details of corruption much more appropriate 
 to the atmosphere than edifying to the auditors." 
 
 " Papa will be so delighted if you manage these people well," said 
 Blanche. " I know he was pleased at your offering, Philip, but it 
 was your calling them names and talking about the police, that 
 frightened him." 
 
 " Can we do anything to help you," said Geraldine. 
 
 " hang it, no," said the young aristocrat; " I'm not going to let 
 Aniseeds come near yov.T 
 
 " Never mind that in the least,*' said Geraldine, if we can do any 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 69 
 
 good. If they are ever such dreadful creatures, we don't care. Shall 
 we come to lunch ?" 
 
 "No," said Philip; "because you see, independently of the dis- 
 agreeableness, I don't know what jealousies we might stir up among 
 the other Coamingses and Aniseeds, by showing these ones too much 
 attention. But I'll tell you one thing. The governor's plan was to 
 hear them first, and afterwards give them lunch. I shall take the 
 liberty of reversing the process. So will you girls give the word, and 
 have a good substantial set-out for them here 1 We'll have them 
 just shown into the library, to impress them with our learning, then 
 brought here to impress them with our hospitality ; and, finally, we'll 
 favour them with a speech to impress them with our statesmanship." 
 
 " Shall we send you a table-cloth to make the speech in V de- 
 manded Blanche. 
 
 " And a laurel crown, like that you wore at Lady Milford's ?" 
 asked Geraldine. 
 
 " Go away. You are not sufficiently impressed with the solemn 
 importance of an interview between a distinguished statesman and 
 his intelligent and enlightened constituents. Besides, I want to talk 
 to Edwards about the wine. I'm not going to give them twenty port, 
 not that I grudge it, but because it might make them discontented 
 with the station in life in which it has pleased — and so on." 
 
 "I did not think you remembered so much of your catechism," said 
 Blanche, laughing merrily, as the young ladies left the room. 
 
 "This will be something to tell Margaret," thought Mr. Philip 
 Arundel, ringing for the butler. 
 
 Now the seven wise men who had undertaken the duty set forth 
 in Mr. Coamings's letter had committed themselves to that work in 
 the course of a social gathering at a certain inn at Shackleby, during 
 which seance they had talked one another into a good deal of excite- 
 ment, not much allayed by the exceedingly bad liquors of the Cross 
 Keys. Pen, ink, and paper were unfortunately produced by the 
 landlord, who ought to have known better, and a sort of minute was 
 drawn up and signed by the inflamed politicians, who thereby 
 engaged themselves to go to London and " have it out" with their 
 member. Had it not been for the document, they would probably, 
 upon consideration, have allowed the affair to end with the meeting 
 that produced it, for none of the party stood so high in Shackleby (that 
 is, could be so mischievous) that they were exactly entitled to be imper- 
 tinent to Mr. Arundel, and they were by no means sure of the recep- 
 tion that might await them. But there was their written determi- 
 nation staring them in the face, and they had not the courage to own 
 to one another that they had been rather foolish over-night. So to 
 London came six of the seven, Mr. Davis staying behind, on the plea 
 that it was his wedding-day, and that his wife would break her heart 
 if neglected on that anniversary ; two allegations entirely removed 
 from the facts, inasmuch it was not his wedding-day, and if it had 
 been, Mrs. Davis was much more likely to fracture the head of her 
 lord for any violation of conjugal fealty, than to break anything 
 belonging to herself. The English was, that she had forbidden him 
 
70 THE GOEDIAX KNOT. 
 
 to go. But the other patriots presented themselves at the appointed 
 hour at Mr. Arundel's door. 
 
 Philip had not wasted his time, but had looked up the local news- 
 papers giving an account of the last election at Shackleby, and had 
 read some notes and memoranda of his father's agent, so that he 
 managed to know a little about his visitors. And when they were 
 introduced, his reception of them was a very good mixture of dignity 
 and deference. He explained to them the immense importance of the 
 questions at issue in the Nevilbury case, and added, admitting 
 them suddenly to a startling confidence, that his father, who was en- 
 titled to exemption from such a service, had undertaken it at the 
 earnest and special solicitation of the head of the Government. 
 
 This gave Mr. Lockstraw an opening, and he, being really and 
 heartily a snob, winked, and hinted that such a solicitation by the 
 Government to a member of the Opposition meant a trap. 
 
 " I imagine that his Lordship knows my father too well to attempt 
 anything of that kind, Mr. Lockstraw," said Philip, with a grand 
 manner. " And I need not tell you, who have so large an acquain- 
 tance with our foreign relations, in consequence of your mercantile 
 connexion with the Continent" (Mr. Lockstraw owned part of a dirty 
 brig that ran to Ostend, and was susjiected by the Excise of another 
 kind of running), " that something really worthy of an English gentle- 
 man's notice would have been at my father's command, had he chosen 
 to listen to a proposition from Government." 
 
 " I know what you refer to," said Mr. Lockstraw. 
 
 Philip did not refer to anything, but Mr. Lockstraw whispered his 
 next neighbour that it was perfectly true, and nodded strongly, as if 
 to express his conviction that Mr. Arundel had been offered an am- 
 bassadorship, and had declined it from patriotic motives. 
 
 " Mr. Blogg," said Philip, " you were engaged in building a beau- 
 tiful villa some little time ago. I hope that it has been completed to 
 your satisfaction. My father inspected the designs, and has mentioned 
 that it was one of the most charming things he ever saw. He was 
 talking to Sir Chai'les Barry about it the other day." 
 
 Young hands will make blunders, and this was a bad hit. Mr. 
 Blogg had been building a something, and detestably ugly and pre- 
 tentious it was, and having stuck for lack of funds to complete it, a 
 proposition that the agent of Mr. Arundel should aid Mr. Blogg with 
 means for that purpose had been unfavourably received. Mr. Blogg 
 therefore grunted out, in no very pleasant tone, that he dared say he 
 should finish before Sir Charles did, but he took no notice of the 
 compliment. 
 
 " Of you, Mr. Aniseed, my father has so often spoken to me that I 
 seem to meet an old acquaintance," said Philip, to the musk-scented 
 young gentleman, for whom he at once conceived a greater dislike 
 than for any of the party. " You delivered some of the most telling- 
 addresses of the whole election. We Oxford men sometimes try our 
 hand at that sort of thing, in debate, but there is a reality about your 
 speeches that makes one envious." 
 
 Mr. James Aniseed was a solemn looking youth, badly shaved, and 
 with a sepulchral voice, which indeed had been his bane, for it is 
 
THE (iOKDIAX KNOT. 71 
 
 difficult to convince a man that what he can say impressively is not 
 worth listening to. 
 
 '• Reality," he said, sententiously, "must be the emanation of truth, 
 and truth must be the result of inherent conviction, and private 
 judgment. Upon that principle I have ever based my conduct, and 
 without disparagement to the classical acquirements taught in the 
 cloister (he meant Oxford), I am free to confess that I think them 
 hostile to the ratiocination demanded by the spirit of the age." 
 
 It was to Philip's credit that he bowed gravely, and quoted to Mr. 
 James Aniseed a nonsense Latin verse, as in ilhxstration of his argu- 
 ment, at which Mr. Aniseed, who only knew the Latin on the bottles 
 of a chemist who had vainly tried to teach him his business, bowed 
 again with a patronizing smile, allowing that the well-known line 
 with which, of course, he was perfectly familiar, was not inap- 
 plicable." 
 
 At this point Philip received notice that lunch was ready, and to 
 this refection he invited his visitors, with a cordiality that would 
 take no denial, and an assurance that this arrangement would enable 
 them to save time, as his father's labours would be over in an hour, 
 and the proposed conference could then take place. None of the 
 deputation Avere men to whom the proposition was unacceptable, and 
 they had performed a journey of some hours since breakfast. 
 
 An ample banquet, assuming the proportions of a dinner, awaited 
 them, and Edwards had looked out wine more adapted to such a 
 party than was the liquid his master chiefly loved. And Philip did the 
 honours well, and not being entirely unused to the art, caused the 
 glasses to be filled at a very early date after that of their being 
 emptied. 
 
 It was not long before Blanche and Geraldine, in the drawing- 
 room, heard loud single laughs, as patriot after patriot thawed, and 
 then united laughs, as they began to tell Shackleby jokes (Philip's 
 scraps of real good things were of course lost upon his audience), and 
 then a great gabble of tongues, which rose high when the parlour 
 door opened, and dulled to the ladies' ears as it closed again. And 
 this went on for a good while after the hour had passed. 
 
 We will not linger over the successful banquet as did the consumers 
 thereof. Suffice it to say that Mr. Philip Arundel's health was pro- 
 posed four times, fii-st, as his father's son ; secondly, as his father's re- 
 presentative; thirdly, as a class'c'l schol'r and a man of p'found 
 learning (this was from Mr. J. Aniseed, whose sepulchral utterances 
 were rather clipped by this time) ; and fourthly, as the possible suc- 
 cessor of his father in the representation of Shackleby. In each case 
 Philip made a neat and appropriate speech, and, encouraged by the 
 success of the Latin on Mr. Aniseed, inserted occasional selections 
 from the Three Concords and the impersonal verbs, judiciously 
 blending these with enough of sense, and a great deal more than 
 enough of action, and he was wondering which of the two remaining 
 members of the deputation would next rise, when his father's carriage 
 drove tip. 
 
 The Contingent were down in the hall in a moment. 
 
 " Philip has managed everything beautifully, papa." 
 
72 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " They are perfectly happy, papa, and delighted with Philip." 
 
 This was in one breath, and before papa could read a note which 
 Philip had desired the servant to give him on his return, and which 
 was to say that Mr. Arundel could come into the party or not, as he 
 pleased, but that Philip could get rid of them without his parent's 
 being bored. 
 
 " He has been speaking so capitally," said Blanche. " We could hear 
 him when the door opened, telling them all about the British consti- 
 tution, and the holy landmarks that were to advance with the spirit 
 of the times." 
 
 " A queer metaphor, my love," said the old gentleman, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "And — and," said Geraldine, eagerly, "that it was the duty of 
 every member to attend to the interests of his own borough, because 
 then there would be a bundle of sticks. They applauded that im- 
 mensely, papa." 
 
 A shout from the dining-room proclaimed that Mr. Philip Arun- 
 del's health was being proposed for the fifth time, and this was by 
 Mr. Lockstraw, who had a hazy recollection of what had been said in 
 the library, and who expressed a hope that a gentleman with such a 
 command of foreign language would be made foreign secretary one of 
 these days. But before the acclamation was over, and while Mr. 
 Arundel's mahogany was being indented by the blows of his visitors, 
 Mr. Coamings, who had heard the carriage, resolved, with the cunning 
 of intoxication, to be first to assure the senator that his constituents 
 were satisfied with him. 
 
 Mr. Coamings was a tall, undertakerly-looking man, whose pre- 
 posterously long back must alwa) T s have been a trouble to him, and 
 who found it particularly inconvenient to keep it straight under 
 existing circumstances. He managed to wriggle from the room while 
 the others were cheering, and came out as Mr. Arundel was going up- 
 stairs, having resolved to leave the whole business to Philip. The 
 senator turned on the stair, and confronted his correspondent. 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Coamings " 
 
 " Not a word, sir, not a word," said the other, mysteriously, and 
 with a tipsy smile, and waving his hand as permission to the other to 
 go his way. "Not a word. All is right, sir, — all is right, Mr. 
 Arundel. Never again, Mr. Arundel. I say, sir, never again. All 
 is right. Your son is a wonderful young man, sir, and will live to 
 make you as proud as" — and here the speaker, suddenly overcome by 
 recollection, seemed to have a difficulty in swallowing — " as proud as 
 I should have been of my poor boy if circumstances — but that's neither 
 here nor there. Never again, Mr. Arundel." 
 
 And he leant upon the end of the balusters, and continued to 
 nod and to repeat " Never again," as comprising the whole business. 
 Perhaps he meant that Mr. Arundel's political sagacity was never 
 again to be questioned, but nobody ever knew. 
 
 It is one thing to let our son make people tipsy, and another to let 
 our daughters behold the tipsy wretches. Mr. Arundel, scandalized 
 that Blanche and Geraldine should be evidence of Mr. Coamings' 
 eccentricities, was motioning to the girls to go up, when Mr. James 
 
THE OORDIAN KNOT. 73 
 
 Aniseed emerged from the room ; and being incomparably the 
 tipsiest of the party (from being the most artificial when sober), he no 
 sooner beheld the two ladies than he dropped on his knees and 
 made a desperate effort to recite what in his heart he thought was a 
 love-speech of ltonieo's, but which, in his confusion, happened to turn 
 out another celebrated address — 
 
 " These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good." 
 
 His voice brought out his brother members of the deputation, and it 
 was to be regretted that Mr. Blogg did not allow for the ease with 
 which a ■warm-looking but light mat is moved by the foot, for had 
 he done so, he would not have slipped down, prostrating himself 
 before his representative in a way unseemly in an independent elector. 
 The members behind him saved themselves from falling over him only 
 by clinging to the doox'-posts; while Philip, enraged with the 
 sepulchral youth for presuming to lay hold of Blanche's hand, darted 
 between, caught him by the collar, and sought to lift him to his feet. 
 
 Then each gentleman endeavoured in his own way to make his 
 peace with Mr. Arundel, whom they all thought they had offended, 
 and it was a long time before his hearty assurances that they were 
 welcome, and his taking them back to the parlour and drinking to their 
 healths, convinced them that they were really his friends. Finally, 
 Philip, who kept to his work to the last, sent them all away in cabs, 
 and the last that was seen of the deputation was the long back of Mr. 
 Coamings, who stuck, rather than leaned, from the cab-window, 
 incessantly repeating, " Never again, Mr. Arundel." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AJAX AND TEUCER. 
 
 I propose to impute as few motives as possible in the course of this 
 history. In the first place, such disquisitions impede the march of the 
 story, and in the second, one is pretty sure never to be quite right upon 
 such points. Our gallant young friend, Charley Limberham, the light 
 dragoon, did a splendid thing in India. He rode under a heavy tire 
 up to a breach scarcely wide enough for his horse, leaped him through, 
 and finding himself charged by a group of armed traitors on the other 
 side, began exterminating them with such caiuiestness, that when his 
 nun came up, they entered without opposition. Charley Limberham 
 is far too haughty a Swell to desire to be praised, except at head- 
 quarters, and when anybody spoke to him of his exploit, he always 
 said that his hard-mouthed beast of a horse had run away with him ; 
 which statement was as false as anything can be which it is possible for 
 an oilicer and a gentleman to say. Young Limberham went at those 
 pagans wilfully, and with all his might. But whether hewas inspired 
 to do so by pure military ardour, or by a sort of sarcasm which a cer- 
 tain detested lieutenant-colonel had uttered about the youth's care of 
 
74 THE GORDIAX KXOT. 
 
 his elegant person, or by the news which he had that morning re- 
 ceived, by dak, that his cousin, Arabella Bellew, was going to be 
 married, or by all these screws acting simultaneously, who shall say 1 
 He has gotten his Victoria Cross, and long may he wear it. 
 
 It would be insulting to the discernment of the reader, — nay, to his 
 powers of eyesight, did we make any mystery about the fact that Air. 
 Arundel the younger prospered in his suit to Miss Margaret Spencer. 
 My friend Mr. John Tenniel has revealed that fact in the masterly 
 series of medallions which he has carved in my aid, and which are 
 now in the reader's hand. But it may be expected that inasmuch as 
 Mr. Arundel is not exactly a pattern of perfection, some reasons, or at 
 all events, some excuses should be offered why our Margaret, who 
 (as King George the Third stated of the Duke of Gloucester) has her 
 first fault to commit, should smile upon a suitor apparently out of her 
 sphere. I repeat that such disquisitions interfere with the march of 
 a story, and besides, one might give the wrong reasons. 
 
 Philip Arundel's attentions were most delicate, but most assiduous, 
 and they were unlike anything of the kind which had ever been paid 
 to the country-bred girl. Then there was Philiji's grand air of supe- 
 riority — not in the least like the swagger of the provincial Galtimore, 
 who spoke loudly to his equals and coarsely to his inferiors, because 
 his father was a rich attorney, and had placed him above the chances 
 of life (for Philip was courtesy itself, and his good-nature certainly 
 found its way into his voice) — but a certain calm loftiness, which 
 disdained to open the question whether anybody or anything pro- 
 nounced by himself to be good or bad, had right of appeal against his 
 sentence. His gentlemanly ease and his complimentary deference, 
 which pleased without at all disconcerting, were points in his favour', and 
 then his knowledge of the world, and intimacy with a thousand people 
 and things hitherto known only to Margaret as productions of another 
 realm, gave him a great advantage with the young lady from the 
 Welsh border. 
 
 Apres, he was of a better family and better social position than her 
 own relations, and Margaret looked up to him a little, and everybody 
 who has studied the science of affinities knows how favourable that 
 altitude of observation is for discovering merits. He was educated, 
 had travelled, and was, in a sort of slovenly way, intellectual, though 
 he had never been sufficiently in earnest about any object of inquiry 
 to study it conscientiously. Very gentle, and very thoughtful for 
 Margaret's comfort (now that it happened to be his own), and very 
 reverent of what he found she reverenced, there was nothing in Mr. 
 Arundel's bearing or position that would have justified Maggie in 
 looking upon him with distaste or coldness — and a right-minded 
 young lady is always just, especially when she has to sit in judgment 
 on an agreeable young gentleman. 
 
 I am heartily ashamed of myself for these last paragraphs ; for in 
 reality, it is for Philip, not for Margaret, that excuses ought to be 
 made, and everybody must see that. A young man of excellent posi- 
 tion, an only son, a favourite with his father and everybody else, a 
 young man who might have married almost anywhere, in reason, he is 
 the person to be defended, or to need defence, when he marries a 
 
THE (iORDIAN KNOT. <•> 
 
 nobody with a pretty face. Tlnlip is a chivalrous fellow, a hero quite 
 equal in his way to Charley Limberham the dragoon. I trust not to 
 forget myself again, and be again found apologizing for the wrong 
 person. So, let the wedding flutes play, s])argite nuces, and on, over 
 their erackling shells, to the really starting-place of our history. 
 
 It need scarcely be said that, though Margaret was not slower than 
 became a young lady in perceiving the effect of her graces upon the 
 heart of Mr. Arundel, our good Aunt Spencer had beaten her in the 
 race of intelligence. It was our aunt's way, as it is that of many 
 folk of her class, never to let young people of opposite sexes meet 
 without introducing, and that with no particular delicacy, the cpu3stions 
 of love-making and matrimony ; and though she might have disgusted 
 a circle of more refined people than she was in the habit of delighting 
 by her conversation, she was not disliked, on this account, by the sort 
 of bachelors and damsels of whom her acquaintance chiefly consisted. 
 They liked jokes and hints on these topics, the men perhaps a trifle 
 less than the girls, who know how such business is promoted by its 
 being talked about. But Aunt Spencer's exceeding desire to forward 
 Mr. Arundel's views, and the unhesitating way in which she set about 
 it, more than once nearly brought the matter to an end; and had 
 Philip been a trifle less in earnest, a trifle less sedulous to put himself 
 right with Margaret, after one of Aunt Spencer's moments of especial 
 zeal had sent the poor girl blushing and almost crying from the room, 
 Margaret Spencer would never have seen him again. But Philip's 
 letter the next day was a masterpiece, and his blandness of allusion to 
 her relative, " whose affectionate intentions were not always so well 
 regulated by a sense of delicacy as was to be desired," was a euphuistic 
 expansion of the hearty curse he bestowed upon an infernal old vulgar 
 hag, in a confidence with Mr. Claxton. By tacit consent, Mrs. Spencer 
 was speedily and remorselessly excluded from the counsels of the 
 young people, to her great annoyance, and to her profuse expenditure 
 oi passages from King Lear. 
 
 The courtship, however, suited her very well, for though Arundel 
 never breathed a word, and Margaret never raised an eye, that spoke 
 of anything warmer than the topics of the day, when Mrs. Spencer 
 was present, Mr. Philip pursued a system of attentions which were 
 necessarily shared by that duenna, and which gave her a great deal of 
 the excitement and amusement that her soul loved. And as she got 
 her opera-box, theatre, dinner, drive, sight, or whatever else the lover 
 selected, she put up with her exclusion from his secrets, and it was 
 only when she had been a little over-refreshed by refection that she 
 would look provokingly mysterious, favour him with a nudge or so, 
 and a scrap from Hamlet's charge to his friends to keep the ghost-story 
 to themselves. She would not have liked to hear the way Mr. 
 Arundel talked of her to Mr. Claxton in King's Bench Walk ; but 
 the lady must be a very dear lady indeed (and there are some speci- 
 mens of the class, thank Heaven !) of whom, she being fifty years of 
 age, her friends in chambers always speak quite so respectfully as 
 those years and the grey hairs which must be somewhere under her 
 cap, demand of youth. 
 
 Several weeks had passed, and the legitimate opera season had 
 
76 THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 
 
 closed, but a few extra nights were being given, at playhouse prices, 
 and the works of Mozart and Beethoven, which are quite good enough 
 for vulgarians, had succeeded to the noises invented by Signor Verdi 
 for destroying all the voices of Italy. Mr. Philip Arundel had pro- 
 cured a box for a Fidelio night, and Margaret had experienced that 
 singular sensation of elevation, and of pleasure of which the soul 
 refuses to be ashamed, which is felt by the young and unworn mind 
 when brought into contact with a creation of genius. The opera was 
 over, and Aunt Spencer, who had of course been terribly bored, and 
 who liked music with tunes in it (as her definition went), was being 
 respectfully inserted by Arundel into the carriage which he had bor- 
 rowed from Thanington Square. Margaret stood at the door for a 
 moment, at his request, until he should step back for her, and Mrs. 
 Spencer was loudly repeating her hearty admiration of the vehicle 
 and of its soft cushions, when a voice addressed Margaret : 
 
 " Shall I take you to your carriage 1" 
 
 A tall, grave young man stood beside her, and spoke the words as 
 quietly as if he had been her husband, and they had parted a few 
 minutes before. 
 
 It was her cousin, Alban Cheriton. 
 
 Margaret's fair face flushed deeply, and she looked flurried. She 
 had, in truth, been forgetting Alban a good deal, and there were 
 many recollections which came back with a rush at the sound of his 
 voice. 
 
 " O, Alban !" 
 
 The words and the tone caught Philip's ear as he returned for 
 Margaret. 
 
 A month or so earlier, and he might have been displeased at this 
 meeting ; but he had made good use of his time, and believed that 
 he might defy competition. And though, at the first sight of the 
 cousin, a moment's shade came upon Philip's handsome face, he 
 met the stranger with the look of courteous inquiry proper under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 The two gentlemen exchanged glances for the first time. They 
 will, perhaps, have some other looks for one another before we have 
 done with them. 
 
 " My cousin, Mr. Alban Cheriton," said Margaret, " Mr. Arundel." 
 
 Philip's bow was exactly what it should have been, but Alban's 
 salutation was stiff and stern, and I will tell you why directly; but 
 we must not keep a young lady in opera costume waiting in the 
 street. 
 
 " You don't know Aunt Spencer," said Margaret. She took the 
 arm which Alban again offered, but gave a little look at Arundel, as 
 if askiug his permission to do so, and Alban saw it. 
 
 Margaret introduced her cousin to her aunt, and entered the 
 carriage. 
 
 " Very happy to make your acquaintance," said Mrs. Spencer, who 
 was always glad, to do her justice, to make anybody's. " Your name 
 is familiar in our mouths as household bread. And apropos of that, 
 will you come home and take bread and cheese, and such other pro- 
 
THE GOUDIAX KNOT. 77 
 
 ceediugs as we are charged withal. You have been introduced to 
 Mr. Arundel I All right. Come, then." 
 
 Alban made his acknowledgments, and, scarcely knowing that he 
 did so, certainly not knowing why he did so, accepted. 
 
 Philip thereupon courteously motioned to him to get into the 
 carriage. 
 
 •• There," said Mrs. Spencer, "the master of the house invites you. 
 In witli you, young sir." 
 
 Alban, who had been on the point of entering, drew back. 
 
 '■ I will walk," he said. "The theatre has been very hot. I should 
 like to walk. I will be in Gower-street as soon as yourselves." And 
 he turned, something abruptly, and was gone. 
 
 " That he wont," said Philip, laughing, " unless he takes a Hansom 
 cab and an intoxicated driver. We natter ourselves that our horses 
 can go along better than that." And they drove off rapidly. 
 
 " The inferior is presented to the superior," said Alban, grinding 
 his teeth as he rushed up the Haymarket. " And he is superior to 
 all the world and everything in it. And I am to be taken to her 
 house in his carriage. I will go, though. Charity, woman 1 Get 
 out of my road. There's not much charity in the way to-night." 
 
 These extremely incoherent observations, objectionable in them- 
 selves, and utterly reprehensible in a young gentleman who had been 
 religiously brought up, were elicited from the young surgeon by the 
 brief interview at the opera door. Yet there was nothing in the 
 external aspect of affairs to justify such demonstrations. He had 
 casually met a very pretty girl, who had instantly introduced him to 
 a pleasant acquaintance, and hospitality was at once proffered to him, 
 with a seat in a most comfortable carriage. I dare say that some of 
 the people who had been standing about the door, and noticed the 
 little scene, envied him, as they went home to their own troubles. 
 Perhaps, too, some of them pitied the beggar-woman whose whine 
 had brought so rough an answer from Alban, whereas she was a pro- 
 fessional mendicant whose honest exertions were much favoured by 
 fortune, whose husband was a very good-looking pickpocket, and who 
 ate asparagus and early peas a long time before most professional 
 people get either. We are always misplacing our envies and our 
 pities. 
 
 There are not many short cuts between the Haymarket and 
 Bedford- square, so the carriage had the pull, but the ladies had not 
 returned to the parlour, from taking off their opera cloaks, when 
 Alban Cheriton was shown into the presence of Philip Arundel. 
 
 " You are a capital walker, Mr. Cheriton," said Arundel, who was 
 in the mood to be cheerful and complimentary. " I should have 
 given you another five minutes, good." 
 
 " I walk a good deal," said Alban, coldly. 
 
 "Quite right. I only wish I did. But somehow it's difficult to 
 find time for walking." 
 
 " Your occupations keep you so closely confined ?" asked the other, 
 with dryness. 
 
 • - P>y Jove, no," laughed Philip; "again I may say I wish it was 
 
7S THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 so. But we live in hopes, sir, that metropolitan attorneys will one 
 day discover our merit, and that we shall be paid to destroy our 
 stomach and other comforts, for the benefit of a litigant public." 
 
 To this Mr. Cheriton vouchsafed no reply. But he might as well 
 have talked to Philip as taken up Berthas album, for on the very 
 first page that he opened were some verses (with P. A. at the foot), 
 inscribed by Arundel at Margaret's request, and of which she, holding 
 them to be full of beauty, could have repeated every syllable. Could 
 it have been instinct that led the cousin to dislike them % There was 
 no other reason, for they were good enough for their purpose, and 
 very clearly copied into the book, and he had no knowledge that the 
 initials were those of his companion. 
 
 Philip perceived that Albans handsome but severely made mouth 
 was taking a sardonic expression as he glanced over the poem, and 
 therefore, like a wise author and a Christian gentleman, he determined 
 to forestal any unfavourable criticism, which might have led to un- 
 pleasantness, by saying, 
 
 " Ah ! by the way, I have been unworthily occupying a page in a 
 book that must belong to a near relative of yours. That is Miss 
 Cheri ton's album — your sister, I imagine." 
 
 " Are these your verses?" said Alban, abruptly. 
 
 "Yes, if they deserve the name," replied Philip). "Miss Spencer 
 was kind enough to think well enough of them to let me put them 
 there ; but I don't go in for poetry, of course." 
 
 " A pity," said the other-, in a tone that was so very nearly rude, that 
 if Margaret had not just then entered, and Mrs. Spencer had not 
 followed, and the party had not taken their places round the supper- 
 table, I think Philip would have tried a retort. But he was in hi"-h 
 good humour again in a moment, and was speedily engaged in what 
 he called promoting supper. 
 
 " Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table," said Mrs. Spencer 
 to Alban, who did not seem in any hurry to imitate his gay enemy — 
 the word is out. " I am very glad to know .you. Indeed, I should 
 have known you anywhere, from your likeness to your excellent and 
 admirable father, who sat, by the way, in the very chair which you 
 now occupy, so you must represent him to advantage. I think you 
 are graver than he is, and pale with the overcasting sickle of thought; 
 but never mind all that now." 
 
 " It is something new for you to visit a theatre, Alban," said 
 Margaret, smiling. 
 
 " And to meet you there," was the cold reply. 
 
 " No doubt," said Aunt Spencer," and both you young people were 
 brought up to deny yourselves all sorts of rational pleasures, and to 
 believe that thereby you were earning yourselves heavenly mansions, 
 eh." 
 
 Mrs. Spencer's abominable ignorance of evangelical doctrine drew 
 but a hasty glance of contempt from Alban Cheriton, who had deeper 
 matter in hand than a chattering old woman's theology. 
 
 " But I am glad that you have both grown wiser. Noo savong 
 charnjay toot slar," added Mrs. Spencer, very properly pronouncing 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 79 
 
 her words with distinctness. " I think that Margarita is almost as 
 fond of a theatre as her aunt." 
 
 " Not quite, aunt," said Margaret, who scarcely wished that Albau 
 should think she had entirely forgotten the serious teaching of St. 
 Oscars." 
 
 " Well, when she is in good company, at all events," said our aunt, 
 giving Alban a sensation of torture which she was far too good- 
 natured to have inflicted voluntarily. 
 
 " And no one could be in better company than Beethoven's," said 
 Philip. " It is an epoch in life to hear that prisoners' chorus for the 
 first time." 
 
 Pie looked at Margaret as he spoke, and I dare say meant her to 
 feel that he would have added, but for the others, that he was en- 
 chanted that such an epoch in her life should have occurred in his 
 presence and through his means. 
 
 " I suppose the opera was good enough for fine ladies and gentle- 
 men, with their ready ecstasies," said Alban ; " but it was disgraceful 
 as a musical performance, and to anybody who really knows Beethoven 
 it must have been offensive." 
 
 " Am I to be ashamed of having been so much pleased," said 
 Margaret. " I am very sorry, but I have seldom enjoyed anything so 
 greatly." 
 
 " Accept my congratulations," said her cousin. 
 
 " I did not think much of it," said Aunt Spencer; " not that I am 
 not very grateful to you, Mr. Arundel, for giving us the treat ; but 
 the music is not to my mind." 
 
 His box, too, thought Alban. 
 
 " Very well, Mrs. Spencer," said Philip, " then we must try again, 
 until Ave find something that is to your mind. We will see what else 
 they are going to give before the house closes." 
 
 " O, it's very kind of you to take it so," said aunt, " but I did not 
 mean begging. Besides, you have been so excessively bountiful that 
 you ought not to be taxed any more. We must have been out with 
 you one way or another at least twenty times." 
 
 Do you hear that, Mr. Cheriton 1 
 
 " Very happy to have been in any way \iseful," said Philip. " I 
 don't call myself a useful being, by any means; but we are happy to 
 do what we can. Mr. Cheriton, shall we have a glass of champagne 
 to our better acquaintance. 
 
 Alban could but assent, but he went through the ceremony as 
 sternly as he might have done had one glass been poisoned, and the 
 spectators were waiting to see which guest would fall down. Some- 
 thing in Philip's manner as he finished was noticed by the hostess. 
 
 " You may look," she said, " and you are right. It is one of the 
 bottles you said you lost to Bob, about which we believe as much or 
 as little as we like. But Mr. Spencer's wine-merchant has disap- 
 pointed him in an order, and so I wouldn't stand upon my order of 
 going to the cellar, but went at once to your case. Capital it is, too, 
 is it not, Cousin Cheriton?" 
 
 '■ Excellent," murmured Alban. It spoke well for the young man's 
 
SO THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 principles, that amid all his agony and his wrath at having his cup 
 literally rilled to the brim, by taking his enemy's drink, he was not 
 betrayed into slandering good wine, though he would have given 
 worlds to abuse it and the donor. How Alban did hate that gay, 
 handsome, well dressed young fellow, who sat there talking and 
 laughing, and trying to make himself agreeable, and evidently suc- 
 ceeding. 
 
 Yet, look at them, even under the disadvantage sustained by the 
 young surgeon, of being miserable and savage, while the other is proud 
 and triumphant, and see which is the superior man. Philip is the model 
 of alight-hearted, prosperous young aristocrat, and just now he is look- 
 ing very well, and acting very well, and meaning very well, and he is 
 carrying all before him that he seeks to carry. But look at the other's 
 broad brow, and piei-cing gaze, and calm strong features — not so calm, 
 now, as they should be, but he will master them and the passion which 
 disturbs them — and mark his voice (confound him, that, too, is out of 
 tune to-night), when you shall hear him speak on a matter worthy 
 an earnest utterance. Life has been variously likened, first by poets 
 and then by every stupid idiot who can sound a cuckoo-note, to a road, 
 and also to a battle. Regarded as a road, life would be made very 
 pleasant by the cheery companionship of our Philip, who is just the 
 friend to lighten a journey. But if there is to be a battle, let one's 
 ally be Ajax rather than Teucer, and that fearless brow and stalwart 
 arm of Albans were good things to have by us in the hour of peril. 
 I am thinking of Margaret and her future destiny, and but that it 
 was not I but fortune who chose her partner for her, I should fear 
 that she might have right to complain that the best had not been done 
 for her. But this is not my fault, and, moreovei', forebodings are 
 extremely profane. Is not everything for the best ? 
 
 Alban Cheriton must have known that it is, but upon that evening- 
 he did not seem inclined to act up to his knowledge, and as the 
 American divine observed, he backslided uncommon. He got into a 
 very dangerous and improper mood. Continuing, throughout suppei*, 
 conversation of the same agreeable kind as that which hath been 
 recorded, he took the earliest opportunity of rising to depart, and his 
 answer to Mrs. Spencer's invitation to come to see her whenever his 
 engagements would allow, was as cold as anything could well be. 
 He made no doubt that Philip Arundel would avail himself of his 
 position in the family to remain, but Mr. Arundel had reasons of his 
 own for leaving at the same time. One of these was a notion that 
 Mrs. Spencer would feel a call to examine Margaret as to whether her 
 cousin had not been an admirer of hers, and though Philip was far 
 enough from suspecting what the truth was, he knew that the elder 
 lady might be champagnely inclined to say things which in his pre- 
 sence Margaret might not care to hear — as jests about new loves and 
 old ones, two beaux to her string, and other novelties dear to vulgar 
 women. Moreover, he wanted to get to the Square, where he stood 
 so well, and desired to continue so to stand. Therefore the young gen- 
 tlemen went away together, and Alban was submitted to the further 
 indignity of being offered a choice cigar from the case of his rival. 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 81 
 
 But this be refused, aud also evaded the question as to which way he 
 was going, and speedily and with brief farewell, left his enemy. 
 
 Philip went to Thanington Square, and finding his father detained 
 at the House, which sat to an unreasonable date that year, waited up 
 for the Senator, and bad a pleasant filial chat with the old man, 
 received new assurance that all should be put right for him, and that 
 his father would do everything in his power to promote his happiness. 
 
 Philip was asleep and dreaming (if people do dream when really 
 asleep) of Margaret's being presented at Court, in all loveliness of face 
 and costume, while 
 
 Alban was striding up and down Waterloo-bridge, and thinking 
 more wickedness against the scheme of creation tban I would write 
 down for the price of the united fame of Bayle, Voltaire, and Shelley. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 UXCLE HENRY. 
 
 Everybody has a right to be in a rage occasionally, but one should 
 use privileges with moderation. Twice we have seen Mr. Alban 
 Cheriton in a state of extreme wrath, first, when he found out that 
 his cousin did not care about him, and next, when he found out that 
 she cared about somebody else. It was scarcely the part of a reasonable 
 and moderate man to indulge himself in further self-torment in con- 
 nexion with the same object. And so Alban, having toned himself 
 down and wearied himself out by walking to and fro upon the earth 
 until the autumn morning began to dawn, found that he was again 
 master of himself until further provocation should produce a new 
 rebellion on the part of the most intractable of all vassals, Self. 
 
 And he, like his brilliant and prosperous rival, had work to do, but 
 it was not to talk humbug to humbugs. His active life was passed 
 in earnest discharge of the duties of his profession, and to this he 
 gave himself with his whole strength. Even after the agitation of the 
 night that has been described, and after a very few hours of rest, 
 Alban Cheriton addressed himself to his daily duties with a resolution 
 that no thought of what had so moved him should with his consent 
 intrude upon the hours of labour. He kept manfully to his purpose, 
 and when such thoughts came unbidden, he sternly scared them from 
 him, as when the birds came down to the carcase Abraham drove 
 them away. 
 
 He stood daily and nightly by many a sick bed, heard many a cry 
 of anguish and many a repining word. He gathered wisdom, that is 
 certain, and perhaps he learned lessons of forbearance and compassion 
 beside the couches of the afflicted. We shall see. If such lessons are 
 not taught in the school where the healer learns his art, I know not 
 where we should look for the instructor. 
 
 Leaving him thus worthily occupied, let us note how others were 
 engaged, and chiefly let us speak of her for whom we are most con- 
 cerned. 
 
 TART III. G 
 
82 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Margaret had fulfilled her promise to be a regular correspondent of 
 her aunt, and for many weeks her fresh and pleasant letters, describing 
 ■what she saw in London, and otherwise filled with the light-hearted 
 talk of an intelligent girl, introduced to new scenes and sensations, 
 were read at St. Oscars with almost unmixed pleasure. It was sad 
 to have lost her, but it was well to know that she was enjoying the 
 morning of her life. So felt Mr. and Mrs. Cheriton. But gradually 
 the letters became graver, and yet graver, and the sketches less vivid, 
 and the playfulness began to vanish altogether. And then, again, it 
 broke out in a fitful manner, almost amounting to levity, and the 
 tone of the girl's letters was felt, by her aunt at least, to be forced, 
 and to indicate that they were written as a duty rather than as a 
 pleasure — and yet gushes of the old affection showed themselves at 
 times, and the writer seemed on the eve of opening her heart, and 
 then to check herself, and question on question about St. Oscars, and 
 friends of no very high account, took the place which appeared to have 
 been meant for something more interesting. I do not mean to say 
 that the Cheritons traced all these symptoms in the order of their 
 progress, but when Mrs. Cheriton, months afterwards, found heart to 
 read Margaret's correspondence by the light of subsequent events, the 
 process through which the girl's nature had gone was perfectly 
 apparent to the sorrowful mother. 
 
 The sorrowful mother. For the letter came at last in which 
 Margaret Spencer, once more writing as the affectionate and cherished 
 child of the country home, revealed that Philip Arundel had made 
 her the offer of his hand, and that she saw her happiness in accepting 
 it. The letter in which she begged their counsel — I think insincerely 
 — the letter in which she begged their prayers, I am sure with all the 
 sincerity of a religious heart. Little did she dream of the sorrow she 
 was causing in her former home. For remember, that though it were 
 idle to suppose her blind to the admiration of her cousin Alban, she 
 had no reason to imagine that any of her relatives but Bertha were 
 aware of it, far less that it was the dearest wish of her aunt and uncle 
 that Alban's suit should be plied, and be successful. The short, grave, 
 not unkind, yet not caressing answer which she received from her 
 uncle, who promised to write more fully in a few days, but in the 
 mean time earnestly counselled her — as she had asked for counsel — 
 to spend much time alone, and on her knees — surprised Margaret, 
 and indeed grieved her. Shall I say that the womanly heart, rising 
 into dignity under the influence of a new feeling, akin to love, began 
 almost to hint at rebellion against advice that savoured a little of 
 dictation, a little of an undervaluing of her own sense of responsibility? 
 I will not say this, if it lead to the least disparagement of her very 
 sweet nature ; but if the truth is to be spoken about Margaret as 
 about other people, I am afraid there was something of this kind. 
 She certainly did not write again to St. Oscars, although the 
 promised epistle was delayed for more than a Aveek. 
 
 Mr. Cheriton and his wife, as ever in cases of trouble, sought advice 
 and consolation from each other. 
 
 " This was what I feared," sobbed the mother. " Poor, j>oor Alban." 
 
 " Poor fellow, indeed," said Mr. Cheriton. " And he has in some 
 measure brought it upon himself." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 83 
 
 " Henry ! How f 
 
 " Yon remember our conversation before I took Margaret to 
 London, when he had chosen to leave us. I hoped that he meant to 
 seek her out, and to tell her that he loved her. He has never been 
 near her, until, his liking for music having taken him to a theatre, he 
 accidentally meets her, and spends an evening in her society. That 
 is not the way to prosper in such matters, Nelly." 
 
 " How can you blame him, Henry clear, for his delicacy in not 
 intruding upon the Spencers until she had had time to become 
 settled ?" 
 
 " His father intruded upon the Spencers, without much regard to 
 ceremony, when somebody whom he loved was to be found with 
 them." 
 
 "You are different men, Henry. You are inurulsive and unhesi- 
 tating ; Alban is determined, but he is shy and proud, dear fellow." 
 
 " I honour and love him for his self-respect, Nelly, but I fear it has 
 lost him Margaret. It is not surprising that she should have found 
 many persons to admire her, or that she should have been pleased 
 with one of them." 
 
 " She never valued Alban rightly," said the mother, " or she would 
 not have yielded to the first fashionable butterfly that was pleased to 
 notice her." 
 
 " Be just, dear Nelly, even though we speak of Alban. He had 
 never spoken to her of his love." 
 " She must have known it." 
 
 " Perhaps. Then again, you may wrong this young man by speak- 
 ing contemptuously of him. Margaret has had offers, and is scarcely 
 the girl to be deceived by external appearance. Mr. Arundel may 
 make her a very excellent husband." 
 
 " Don't defend her, Henry. I used to love her very much." 
 "And so you do now." 
 
 " I hope I do — I am not sure. But I cannot bear to hear her 
 defended for slighting such a being as Alban, for anybody." 
 
 " Has not Alban slighted her ? He allows her to go to London 
 
 without a word from him " 
 
 " Henry, how unjust, love! Did you not yourself say that her 
 guardian having claimed her, it was not under our roof that Alban 
 should try to engage her affections ?" 
 
 " I said so to you, Nelly," said Mr. Cheriton. " I never said so to 
 him. That would have been the decision which you or I should have 
 been bound to give, had we been consulted. But Alban did not 
 happen to consult either of us, and I am afraid that we should have 
 forgiven him, if a young, warm heart had prompted him to forget the 
 exact line of duty." 
 
 " And you are actually blaming him, Henry, for having acted more 
 honourably than you expected." 
 
 " Not I, Nelly dear, so do not look angry." 
 " Angry with you V And her hand lay in her husband's. 
 It is a good plan to adopt in conjugal discussions when differences 
 arise. The tongue is very proud, abominably proud and sulky, and 
 often refuses to say what the heart desires should be said, but the 
 
 g2 
 
84 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 fingers know their place, and are ready to convey an apologetic or 
 forgiving pressirre which will stop ninety-nine quarrels out of a 
 hundred, if the parties love one another. Specially will a wife do 
 well to accept such a demonstration from her husband, as full acknow- 
 ledgment that he has been wrong and unjust, and begs her pardon ; 
 statements which it is evident that no man, with a real sense of his 
 manly dignity, could utter under any circumstances whatever. This 
 digression has given the Cheritons time to think again over the 
 subject before them. 
 
 " And now, Henry, what can be done for Alban 1 Is Margaret 
 to throw herself away upon this Mr. Arundel, and break Albans 
 heart V 
 
 " My dear Nelly, if he will not act for himself, what can we do for 
 him 1 We know nothing of Mr. Arundel, but we know Alban pretty 
 well, and it is not too much to say, that if our boy gives himself fair 
 play, be ought to fear no rival. This he does not choose to do." 
 
 " Let me go to London and see Maggie." 
 
 " To say— what V 
 
 '•' To say what, if I had said it when she was crying in my arms 
 at the idea of leaving us, would have spared all this misery." 
 
 "Nelly, the thought now in your heart is a wrong one. No, it is not 
 in your heart ; and were that hour to be gone through again, you 
 would behave as nobly as you then did. But about your going to 
 London. If you imagine that any good can be done, go by all means. 
 But I confess I read in her letter that her mind is made up, and 
 that she has pledged herself." 
 
 " She asks our advice." 
 
 " The tone in which you said that shows that you have answered 
 yourself, Nell. You know what asking advice means." 
 
 " I should like to go up, Henry." 
 
 "You shall go by the first train in the morning, dear. Old 
 Galtimcre is going up, I know, so he can take care of you. If he 
 knew your errand, he would be the more interested." 
 
 '•' How inconsistent it is of Margaret. She refused young Galti- 
 raore because he was a vain, worldly young man, and now she accepts 
 a person who is all that, and perhaps worse." 
 
 " A woman's consistency at nineteen, love, is a thing as much to 
 be desired, and as little to be expected, as a woman's justice at any 
 age at all." 
 
 " Why, dear, allow this. He must be a worldly character ; he 
 takes her to the opera." 
 
 " Where they meet Alban." 
 
 " You are determined not to be pleased with anything the poor boy 
 does, Henry," said Mrs. Cheriton, performing a manoeuvre akin to that 
 of castling at chess ; " but I know you feel as strongly as I do 
 about him." 
 
 " I do indeed, deax*est, and I intend to go to London with you. and 
 to have one talk with Margaret. We shall see whether her old 
 uncle's pleading will have no avail with her." 
 
 " You will plead for Alban ?" 
 
 " No, but for Margaret. I will not name Alban ; I have no right 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 85 
 
 to name him as lie has refused to speak for himself. But I will strive 
 to make her assure herself that she is choosing the husband a Chris- 
 tian girl should select — a husband who will be her strength and sup- 
 port, and not her temptation. I will see whether all our care for her 
 immortal welfare has been permitted to be thrown away. This, 
 Eleanor, I have a right to do, — more — it is my duty, and if its dis- 
 charge leads to the putting an end to this engagement of hers, well 
 and good, if not, we shall have done what is right." 
 
 " Then you think I ought not to go up," said the mother, wistfully. 
 
 " You hope that you still love Margaret. Why not join me in 
 showing that you do ? We will go together." 
 
 He was a very good man, and very sincere. I do not know whether 
 he held in his inner soul a conviction that woman's nature does at 
 times prove too strong for her sense of right and wrong ; that Alban's 
 mother would find a time to speak out, and that Alban's father would 
 be glad that she should. 
 
 But their plans were crossed by a letter next morning from Alban 
 himself. It was written in his usual thoughtful style, had words of 
 affection for his mother, and some hospital experience for his father. 
 In the course of the letter was this paragraph. 
 
 " On Tuesday night there was some Beethoven music at the opera- 
 house, and I was tempted to go. The performance was inferior to 
 what I expected, but Beethoven, my dear mother, wrote too legibly 
 to be so misread, even by blundering scholars, as to be unintelligible, 
 and the evening was a pleasant relaxation. After the opera, I had a 
 curious meeting. I found our Margaret at the door, and I went to 
 the Spencers' to supper. There was a young gentleman of the party, 
 a son of the Tory member for Shackleby, Mr. Arundel, and I suppose 
 that Margaret will be Mrs. Arundel the younger — Mrs. Arundel, in 
 fact, for the father is a widower. The family is highly respectable, 
 and I do not imagine that we have so implanted our noncon. and 
 radical doctrines into Margaret's mind, that she will not be open to 
 conviction that a conservative with a carriage is a desirable person to 
 marry. But perhaps she has already told you all this, and more. 
 If so, why have I not heard of it % " 
 
 " Is that the writing of a young man who is going to break his 
 heart V said Mr. Cheriton to his wife. 
 
 "Alban from his childhood concealed his feelings," said the mother. 
 " We never quite understood him." 
 
 " But evidently there is enough to show that if we took any step 
 in his behalf, now, he would repudiate it. Margaret has declined to 
 see that he loved her, and has smiled upon another. Your proud 
 boy has done with her for ever." 
 
 It looked very like it, and Mrs. Cheriton gave up her idea of the 
 journey to London ; yet the mother's heart was at times tormented 
 with misgivings. ■ She would read, and re-read Alban's letter, and 
 wonder why he had informed himself so carefully of the position of 
 the Arundels, and whether, having done so, he was in hopeless despair 
 of the son of a country surgeon being able to compete with young 
 Arundel. "Our " Margaret — had this affectionate term slipped out 
 by accident, and did it show the real feeling of the writer '? With 
 
86 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 sundry other speculations, made in all a mother's earnest and yearn- 
 ing love, and not unfrequently with the teai\s dimming the reader's 
 eyes. He is happy who has never caused those tears to flow, save 
 from the overflow of love. 
 
 But Mr. Cheriton, though he felt that his son's chance was at an 
 end, fulfilled the mission which he had assigned to himself. He went 
 up to London, arrived, without warning, in Gower-street, and saw 
 Margaret. They took a long walk in the Regent's-park together, 
 and Henry Cheriton veiy faithfully and very affectionately set before 
 the agitated, but not unthankful girl, the view which a religious man 
 of the Cheriton type takes of the marriage vows, and of compact 
 between a believer and a worldling. He reminded her that a union 
 for time might not imply union for eternity, and he dwelt gravely 
 upon the sad condition of the wife who had to look forward to eternal 
 divorce from her husband at the tomb of either. He did not fail, 
 also, to warn her that she might not be privileged, should she con- 
 tract such a marriage, to keep her own light burning, and that her 
 own soul might be drawn into peril — the more fatally, the more truly 
 she loved the unbeliever. He told her these things, not harshly, but 
 with a low and often broken voice, but he told them as things that 
 he believed as belonging to salvation, and he implored her to be 
 certain that she was marrying a Christian. Those who might alto- 
 gether refuse to accept his teaching, and who might stigmatize it as 
 either cruel and rash, or as the fruit of a narrow interpretation of 
 divine mysteries, could not charge him with doing his work either 
 negligently or unkindly. The prophet had faith in his message, and 
 gave it as one of inspiration, but he spoke tenderly, and as to a 
 beloved child. 
 
 Margaret's tears fell fast — fastest when he sought to be most kind, 
 and almost to apologize for his plain speaking. She clung to his arm, 
 sometimes convulsively. She had little to say, less than he could 
 have wished, but he believed that her conscience was touched, 
 and he felt that his duty was done. Nothing could be more affec- 
 tionate than their parting. 
 
 Nevertheless, the interview of the morning, and some long and 
 solitary meditation by Margaret after it, did not prevent Philip 
 Arundel's knock in the afternoon from making her heart beat taster, 
 and her cheek flush with pleasure. She may have intended to inter- 
 rogate Philip upon his religious opinions, but circumstances inter- 
 posed to prevent that examination, as he had but a few minutes to 
 stay, on occasion of that call, which was only to ascertain whether 
 Mrs. Spencer had any engagement for the evening that would prevent 
 her accepting a private box at the Olympic Theatre. And though 
 Mrs. Spencer had none, and Mr. Arundel joined her and her niece in 
 the course of the performance, it is manifest that the Olympic Theatre 
 is not exactly the place for a theological investigation. Next day 
 Mai'garet did not seem to feel that the inquiry she may have intended 
 was so absolutely necessaiy, and the longer she delayed it the more 
 impossible it became. However, there was no doubt that, at college, 
 Philip had signed a declaration of belief in the Thirty-nine Articles, 
 and was it for her to doubt his sincerity in his declaration, or, though 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. S7 
 
 she had been brought up as a Dissenter, to set her judgment in oppo- 
 sition to the great and good men who had framed those elastic faith- 
 bandsl Philip believed in the Articles — and she believed in Philip. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A TEMPLE PLOT. 
 
 The courtship prospered. Mr. Tarleton, the family solicitor, who was 
 a union of acuteness and honesty, dealt out stern justice to Philip 
 Arundel's creditors, and speedily aided that young gentleman to see 
 his way to the end of his difficulties. Margaret Spencer was intro- 
 duced to the Arundel family, and easily effected a conquest of their 
 hearts, the senator being charmed with her gentleness, and the girls 
 by her beauty, which they could well afford to admire, and besides, 
 she had been approved by the infallible Philip. But an obstacle 
 opposed itself to a continuation of the intimacy. The season ended, 
 and of course there was no abiding in Thanington-square. Philip 
 Arundel began to be unhappy. 
 
 He was very much attached to Margaret, but was he to remain in 
 town in September and October. For that matter, was she to remain 
 there 1 Was not Mrs. Spencer going somewhere or other 1 The idea 
 of Gower-street in those months was preposterous, outrageous, inhu- 
 man. But what was to be done. Civilization has its duties, and 
 here was one of them sadly interfering with the happiness of two 
 lovers. 
 
 The young ladies would have settled the question in an instant, but 
 for adverse circumstances. If papa had been going as usual to the 
 seaside, Margaret would have been invited to stay with them there, 
 and everybody made happy. But unluckily there was a round of 
 visits to be performed, with soj our nings under the roofs of old friends, 
 and six or seven weeks of the autumn were thus laid out for the 
 Arundels. Philip chafed at this, and I believe that to gratify him 
 the girls would have done their utmost to get the visiting given up, 
 but it was manifestly out of the question, and the House having risen, 
 the statesman and his daughters departed for the country homes of 
 their friends. 
 
 Mr. John Claxton had remained in London longer than was his 
 wont, and declared that he did so for the sake of Philip, who resolved 
 to tarry as long as he could be seen in Pall Mall, and yet lay claim 
 to the name of a Christian gentleman. And the Thanington-square 
 house being shut up, Mr. Arundel became again the inhabitant of the 
 Temple, then fast relapsing into the silence and solitude which may have 
 prevailed there before the Knights Templar moved tluther from their 
 lodgings in Holborn in 1184. 
 
 " John Claxton," said Philip, one morning, as the two were stand- 
 ing on the stone coping of the garden, that is to say, on the edge of 
 the river, and paying as much attention to the prohibition against 
 smoking in that sacred place as was being paid to Lord Palmerston's 
 
88 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 edict to the same effect by a dozen factory chimneys on the opposite 
 bank, " John Claxton, what a fix I am in. That Mrs. Spencer will 
 never go out of town. She has a new story eveiy day about her in- 
 tentions and her hindrances, but all ends in nothing." 
 
 " Spex it's a case of impecuniosity," said Mr. Claxton, kicking a 
 pebble into a barge. 
 
 " I suppose it may be," said Philip. " I wish one saw any way to 
 remove that excuse, because the idea of their staying on where they 
 are is perfectly abominable." 
 
 " They meaning Miss Spencer. Why dou't her old friends at St. 
 Oscars ask her there V 
 
 " I dare say. Thank you," said Philip. 
 
 " Shropshire is a very rich county, and comprises every variety of 
 pleasing scenery. It is divided in two by the noble river Severn, and 
 has a fine lake, called Ellesmere, and some minor ones. Its mineral 
 wealth is large, and its industrial products are various. The 
 inhabitants, though said to be proud, are affable, clean, and hospitable, 
 and the women are proverbially beautiful. Shrewsbury cakes are a 
 delicacy of repute, and Shrewsbury clock has been immortalized by 
 the sweet swan of Avon. The Wrekin is — " 
 
 '•' Do hold your clack. I want you to tell me whether you see any 
 sort of way to move the old lady." 
 
 "Love ought to be ready with stratagem. That feat about the 
 champagne was well enough, but it is a pity you threw the trick away, 
 instead of keeping it for a more important purpose." 
 
 " So I would, but the fact is that Mrs. Spencer had threatened us 
 with champagne, and I knew what abomination would come in from 
 the nearest hostelry. So in self-defence, I lost the bet to her husband, 
 and paid it." 
 
 " Spex it would be rather barefaced to try it again — to lose a 
 twenty-pound note to Mr. Bob, and hand it to madam." 
 
 " Well, I would screw that out, and do it, but I have no faith in 
 her applying it as I propose. She would fool it away, and remain 
 just where she is." 
 
 " You have a good and, I am sure, a perfectly just appreciation of 
 the relatives of your fiancee, Mr. Arundel." 
 
 " I don't consider them her relatives — they are mere interlopers. 
 She shall see them for the last time on the day we are married. If 
 Mi\ Spencer were not her guardian, or Margaret were of age, the 
 partnership should be dissolved sooner. What her father can have 
 been thinking about to take her from the Cheritons, who are first-rate 
 j>eople, and hand her to the tender mercies of the Spencers, is a 
 mystery to me. However, we'll rectify that blunder." 
 
 " But for that blunder you would never have seen her, you know." 
 
 " That's true, perhaps. All's for the best. Well but, Jack, to 
 revert to the question. How can we drive Mrs. Spencer out of Gower- 
 street for a couple of months 1" 
 
 " Where would you send her V 
 
 " What does it matter ? The quieter the place the better." 
 
 " Fewer people to remark upon that hideous wide-awake of yours 
 when vou follow them down." 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 89 
 
 " Be serious, can't you, John Claxton 1 Levity out of place is a 
 great bore. Besides, you're a good fellow, and you know how miserable 
 I am about it." 
 
 "Well, but see. The lady can't leave her house. Everything 
 would go to the bad, and Robert Spencer would have pewter-pots in 
 the drawing-room, and a ruffian bawling after them at the door iu 
 the morning. This, you must see, is reasonable." 
 
 " I say, would you mind taking the drawing-room floor and stopping 
 there I You could give a look to the house generally, and then they 
 could get away. I'll stand the expenses." 
 
 " Confound your impudence. Do you want me to stay in Gowei'- 
 street in October 1 ?" 
 
 " It would be deuced friendly thing in you, Jack." 
 " Friendships a holy affair, but that's a trifle too exalted. I'll tell 
 you what I'll do for you. I'll go and talk to her about her health, 
 ami frighten her with sanatory statistics and bills of mortality. She 
 is fidgety on those points, and I could make her afraid to remain in 
 town in the autumn. I dare say I could get a scrap into a country 
 papei*, about the neighbourhood of Bedford-square being peculiarly 
 pestilential, and show it to her as a passage from the Board of Health's 
 last report. But then, if Aunty has no funds, cut bono ?" 
 
 " Why, let's see. It wouldn't be the thing for me to be lending 
 her money, circumstanced as we are, but I'm certain she would take 
 it from anybody, in a quiet way. Why shouldn't you lend her 
 some ?" 
 
 " Simply because I haven't got any." 
 
 " O, I'll find it, of course. You frighten her like fun, and if she 
 brings out anything about the exchequer, try-on twenty pounds, and 
 promise another when she is settled by the sea. She'll take it." 
 
 " Most people will take money, Philip. Do you know that I have 
 remarked that weakness in the public I" 
 
 This notable and highly irreverent project, into which Mr. Claxton 
 entered with considerable zeal, for he liked a little intrigue, and he 
 disliked Mrs. Spencer, was carried into effect, but not with the exact 
 effect intended by its contrivers. John Claxton got his terrifying para- 
 graph printed, and made to look like a veritable extract from the 
 Whitehall manifesto, and in the course of a call on Mrs. Spencer, he 
 brought his machinery into play with so much success, that the lady, 
 whose health was culpably good, became quite convinced of her danger, 
 and was easily led to avail herself of the aid adroitly tendered by her 
 insidious visitor. Mr. Claxton returned in quiet triumph to his 
 principal. 
 
 Two days later this letter was received in King's Bench Walk. 
 
 "Blubbins's — The Fort, Margate." 
 '• My dear Sir, — For this relief, much thanks. Your most kind 
 and friendly warning has not been thrown away, and I assure you 
 that I feel quite another being in the fresh breezes of the Isle of 
 Thanet. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it, say I, while I can 
 get pure atmosphere, and here the temple-hunting martyrs, as Banquo 
 says, (have you any in your Temple ?) do prove that the breath of 
 
90 THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 
 
 heaven is a nipping and an eager air. I left Gower-street in three 
 hours after seeing you, and am very comfortably established in lodg- 
 ings here, and should you be able to withdraw from your legal studies 
 and come and find sermons in stones, and books in the running 
 brooks of Kent, be sure that you will be welcome here. The house 
 in Gower-street I have left in the charge of my dear Marguerita, 
 who is quite competent to let the apartments if anybody calls, and 
 generally to answer inquiries, and manage. Her poor uncle will, of 
 course, be her protector during my absence, and I doubt not all will 
 go on charmingly. I will not intrude on your time with a longer 
 epistle, as the hour is almost come when I must render up myself to 
 the wild and j^easty. With best regards to your elegant friend, 
 " Believe me, ever yours sincerely, 
 
 " Henrietta Spencer." 
 
 "JohnClaxton, Esq." 
 
 The diplomatist was, as may be imagined, terribly discomfited on 
 receiving this letter. ' But his wrath was mildness compared to the rage 
 into which the elegant friend flew, when he found that their scheme 
 had made matters ten times worse than they were before, and that he 
 had sent an old woman, whom he began to abominate, to enjoy herself 
 by the seaside, while his Margaret, his — the future Mrs. Arundel — was 
 actually degraded to the position of having to answer anybody who 
 might call, upon the price of lodgings, boot-cleaning, and the kitchen 
 fire. How he strode up and down the chamber, and how rudely poor 
 Fizz was flung into the bed-room for getting in the way, and how 
 Biceps was snubbed for coming in with the Times. Alban Cheriton, 
 on the bridge, might have been sublimer in his wrath, but he cer- 
 tainly was not stormier. I never print what is called an oath, except 
 where it is necessary to the matter in hand, but I may record that 
 during that day Mr. Arundel never mentioned the name of Henrietta 
 Spencer, without coupling therewith a commination worthy of 
 Vigilius Tapsensis, the African bishop, of whose cx - eed St. Athanasius 
 is held to take the credit. 
 
 " Bender up herself to the wild and yeasty. What does the old 
 idiot mean by that jargon V said Philip, when he had become calm 
 enough for gentle criticism on the letter. 
 
 " Going to bathe, I take it," said his friend. " Some muddle about 
 the yeasty sea, and the wild and wasteful ocean." 
 
 " She go and bathe ! An old hippopotamus. I hope she'll be 
 drowned. I will be hanged if I don't. I hope she'll be drowned." 
 
 "I see no objection," said Claxton, "but it is of no use putting 
 oneself in a fury. We have been signally beaten, that's flat. Now 
 then to repair our defeat. Call that poor dog in, or you'll break his 
 heart." 
 
 Fizz, who was sitting in a piteous attitude in the doorway, scru- 
 pulously obeying the order to keep in the bed-room, but with not half- 
 an-inch between his humiliated nose and the carpet of the sitting- 
 room, was on his master's knees in an instant, hi an ecstasy of whine 
 and forgiveness. 
 
 " The old woman must be brought up to town again instantly," 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 91 
 
 said Philip. " I wont have Miss Spencer left to meet her aunt's 
 snobbish acquaintances, and duns, and all that. Turn it over in 
 your mind, while I go up and see how the land lies." 
 
 It was with very considerable satisfaction that he found, on arriving 
 in Gower-street, that another friend had preceded him. This was 
 Mr. Keckling, who no sooner became aware that Mrs. Spencer had 
 gone off, leaving her house in the care of her niece, than he came 
 round, expressed much auger, and instantly took all the vacant rooms 
 in the house. 
 
 •• But of what use will they be to you V said Margaret. " You have 
 such a very nice house of your own." 
 
 Mr. Keckling made no answer, but took out of the window a bill 
 intimating that apartments were to be let there, tore it up, and threw 
 it behind the gold shavings in the grate. 
 
 " That saves you from any visitors of that sort, my dear. Your 
 aunt is a most thoughtless woman. I may say, that in some respects 
 she is an objectionable woman. Yes, an objectionable woman. Now, 
 who else is in the house V 
 
 " The American gentleman, who has the drawing-room floors, is 
 gone to France for a month, but they are to be kept for him. There 
 are two young artists in the attics." 
 
 " Give them notice to emit ; I want the attics. Stop, I'll do it 
 myself. I'll make them a little present to clear out this very 
 evening." 
 
 This was easily managed, the rather that the young artists in 
 question were in artistic arrear with their rent, and were in terror 
 lest the heavy foot ascending to their rooms was that of an enemy 
 with views upon their scanty property. Poor fellows, they were 
 agreeably surprised at the apparition of a kindly mannered old gentle- 
 man in a velvet skull-cap, who explained to them as courteously as he 
 would have done to two young noblemen, that it would oblige him if 
 they would resign their chambers, and who, in a good-natured paternal 
 way, told them that the rent was of no consequence, they might send 
 it at Christmas, or when they pleased. He did more — he actually 
 bought an abominable landscape of one of them for four pounds, thus 
 enabling them to depart in joy and glory. 
 
 The house was entirely cleared, except of the servants, and Mr. 
 Keckling' s next step was to request Miss Spencer to prepare herself 
 to go home with him. 
 
 " You are most kind," said Margaret, " but I gave my aunt a pro- 
 mise to remain and take care of her house." 
 
 " But it is my house now, Miss, and I don't want you in it. In 
 fact, I don't like you, and you shan't live here. I turn you out. Now, 
 my love, see about your bonnet." 
 
 Margaret, however, was not to be decoyed from what she deemed 
 her duty, although Mr. Keckling represented to her that she could 
 do her aunt no good by remaining, that lie would be answerable for 
 everything, and that he would even send in a dependent of his own 
 to keep watch and ward. She had given her word, and until it should 
 be released by her aunt, she must keep to her compact. 
 
 ' ; It is excessively tiresome of you, my dear child, but you are per- 
 
92 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 fectly right," said Mr. Keckling ; " and as you wont come and live 
 with me, I shall come and live with you." 
 
 And when Philip called, he found the kind old Russian merchant 
 established in the house, with a couple of his own servants, and his 
 own white cat, fetched in an express cab to make Mr. Keckling feel 
 himself thoroughly at home. Margaret was relieved of eveiy care, 
 her old friend taking the entire administration into his own hands, 
 and (to the extreme dissatisfaction of Mrs. Spencer's slovenly menials) 
 organizing a system of order such as had never pervaded the house 
 under Henrietta Spencer's vacillating sway. 
 
 This arrangement gave Philip Arundel considerable consolation, 
 but it did not carry out his plans. He expi'essed to Mr. Keckling his 
 surprise that Mrs. Spencer had not taken her niece to the sea-side. 
 
 '•'She's an objectionable woman, sir," said the Russian merchant, 
 " but I am not going to let my little friend, Miss Margaret, suffer by 
 her foolishness. I am very fond of Miss Margaret, sir, and if I were 
 twenty years younger, I should ask her whether M.K. would not 
 make as pretty a monogram as M.A., which we have seen experi- 
 mentally drawn on a certain card. However, you need not be un- 
 happy. I have written to Mrs. Spencer, demanding carte blanche to 
 do as I please about her niece's residence, and there ai'e some very 
 good reasons why I should receive it by to-morrow's post." 
 
 " And what are your plans, sir V said Philip, eagerly. 
 
 " Well, sir, if they interest you, I don't mind revealing them. I 
 have had the pleasure of showing a good deal of London to Miss 
 Margaret, and I propose to have the pleasure of showing her a little 
 of the country. I mean, as soon as ever she pronounces herself 
 ready, to take her to Ryde, where I have written to secure a house." 
 
 " Capital," said Philip. 
 
 The place was exactly that in which he had wished Margaret to pass 
 the autumn, and here she would be under the best of guardians, and 
 out of the way of the Spencers, and all their snobbishness. So thought 
 Mr. Arundel, and though he did not convey his feelings in those 
 exact words when Margaret came into the room, smiling that happy 
 smile of hers, he speedily made her understand how satisfied he was 
 Avith the scheme. 
 
 "It all depends upon aunt's releasing my promise, you know, 
 Philip," she said, with pretended gravity. 
 
 " If the permission does not come to-morrow morning, I shall 
 telegraph to her that the house is on fire," said Arundel. 
 
 " I shall telegraph something much more to the purpose," said Mr. 
 Keckling, with a cpiiet look, and a nod. " But it will come, unless 
 she misses the post." 
 
 Of course she missed the post — the Henrietta Spencer class have a 
 special gift for doing that, under circumstances which would almost 
 make it seem impossible. But the leave and licence subsequently 
 came in a parcel, with something from Prospei'o's speech to Ariel, 
 when giving It liberty to go where it pleased, and a hope, that 
 merrily, merrily Meg would live now, under the blossom that hung 
 on the bough." 
 
 " Orange-blossom, one of these days," whispered Philip. 
 
THE GOHDIAX KNOT. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 UN'CLE ROBERT. 
 
 There was one person who to a certain extent was attached to the 
 l lower-street establishment, but whose voice was seldom heard therein 
 to much purpose, and, indeed, when Mrs. Spencer was there, seldom 
 heard at all. This was the lord and master of the house, Robert 
 Spencer. 
 
 Mr. Keckling did not like him. I do not think that though the 
 Russian merchant had in other days admired Henrietta, he preserved 
 any grudge against the fortunate man who had become the possessor 
 of her ample charms. But Mr. Keckling had been a man of business, 
 and though it now pleased him to spend his money with unbusiness- 
 like liberality, he preserved some of his old instincts, and he disliked 
 an unlucky man, and an untidy man, and an untruthful man, and 
 Robert Spencer was something of all three. The old merchant was, 
 nevertheless, occasionally kind to Robert, and upon leaving Gower- 
 street he felt a compassion for the seedy, helpless, cheery creature 
 who was thus to be left to himself in hot London, while all his 
 "belongings" were in pleasanter homes. And before going he 
 demanded Robert Spencer's presence, and requested his acceptance 
 of a ten-pound note, in case he felt any inclination to run down to 
 Margate for a day or two and see his wife, an inclination which, if 
 Robert had it, he had too much manly self-denial to indulge, while 
 he could turn his windfall to a great deal pleasanter account. 
 
 " I thank you, Mr. Keckling," said Mr. Spencer, " and I assure you 
 in the frankest manner that the money is extremely acceptable ; for, 
 although I have, of course, the means of travelling as I please, I feel 
 it due to this establishment to withdraw from it as little capital as 
 possible in its present incipient stage of progress." 
 
 " I hope it will be luckier than it has been," said Mr. Keckling. 
 " System is what is wanted. Xothing can succeed without system." 
 
 '•' I assent to the proposition, sir, but must animadvert upon it to 
 the extent of remarking that there are good systems and bad ones. 
 For instance, the system represented by this piece of paper which you 
 have been good enough to place in my hands is an extremely bad and 
 fallacious one." 
 
 " The Bank ! What's the matter with the Bank ? I always get 
 my dividends." 
 
 " The whole theory and practice of the Bank of England, sir, is 
 utterly false and wrong, or I should not now be in the position ■which 
 I occupy. Suppose that this money-jobbing company, sir, when I was 
 in my difficulties, had discounted my bills instead of returning them. 
 What then/'' 
 
 " Then you would have muddled away the money, and three months 
 afterwards you would have dishonoured the bills." 
 
 " You are a noble-minded man, sir, but you take a mere mercantile 
 view of these epiestions, not a large one, based upon the inherent 
 rights of citizenship, and buttressed by the eternal principles of phi- 
 lanthropy." 
 
94 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " If I had taken such views, I should have been in no position 
 to offer you a ten-pound note, my dear Mi*. Spencer. Good day to 
 
 y° u -" 
 
 Mr. Robert Spencer, being thus suddenly placed in the possession 
 of a sum, not the tenth part of which had his lady allowed him to 
 appropriate, at one time, for many a long day, was extremely puzzled 
 to decide how he should enjoy himself. He first turned his note into 
 "old and some of the gold into silver, and some of the silver into 
 stimulants of inhalation and imbibition, which, consumed in the most 
 novel and audacious way in the parlour (in defiance of a not very 
 respectfully worded warning from big Ann to her soi-disant master), 
 aided him to a gentle slumber on the sofa. 
 
 His earlier visions are not upon record, but he stated that, hunting 
 in dreams (like the clown-husband to whom Mr. Tennyson so cruelly 
 married Cousin Amy), he had hunted the Governor of the Bank 
 of England into a corner of The Parlour, and was proving to him that 
 the less likely he considered a man to take up his bills, the more, 
 upon philanthropic principles, he was bound to discount them • when 
 the Governor, with an entire abrogation of mercantile dignity and 
 propriety, took a small fiddle out of a bullion chest, and began to play 
 a hornpipe. Mr. Spencer was so disgusted at this informality, that 
 he Grappled with the perpetrator, and, in trying to bring him to a 
 sense of the fitness of things, fell off the sofa ; woke, but still heard 
 the Governor's hornpipe. The sounds did not proceed from a mere 
 fiddle of the mind, but from a vile, material instrument, that was 
 being played in the kitchen. 
 
 Mr. Spencer was not endowed with such authority in the house, 
 that he could effectually resent this impertinence on the part of his 
 wife's servants ; and therefore, he deemed it best to take no notice of 
 the noise, and to be supposed not to have heard it. To this policy of 
 compromise he adhered for a short time, when the fiddle ceased, and 
 a piteous cry from a child was heard. Then came blows, and en- 
 treaties for mercy. 
 
 This, Robert Spencer, who (foolish fellow though he was) had very 
 kindly instincts about him, could not stand, and he hurried down the 
 lower stairs — much more familiar to him than such parts of a house 
 usually are to its master — and dashed at the door of the room whence 
 the noises proceeded. 
 
 " What's all this V he demanded of Ann, who confronted him at 
 the threshold, and would have closed the door in his face, had lie 
 been a second later. 
 
 " O nothing" said Ann • looking half-inclined to hustle her master 
 from the place. But he looked a little too angry for her to risk inso- 
 lence, and he pushed past her. 
 
 A little girl, of seven or eight years old, dressed in a very short 
 frock, which, though crumpled and shabby, had once been handsome, 
 was sitting on the ground, rubbing her legs as if to ease them of pain, 
 and with large tears rolling down her cheeks. Her hair was tied up 
 in a small net. The child was not pretty, at least, crouching there in 
 her poverty and misery she was not, but she looked very helpless and 
 much to be pitied. In the kitchen were, in addition to the big Ann, 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 95 
 
 another woman, of slatternly appearance, and a low-looking fellow in 
 an old shooting-coat and a cloth cap. He was a little drunk, and his 
 coarse features and bleared eyes looked particularly offensive to 
 [Robert Spencer, as the man stared impudently at him. 
 
 " Who are these people, Ann %" Mr. Spencer said, with some 
 determination of manner. 
 
 " Friends of mine," was the saucy reply. 
 
 " And she's a friend of ours," said the other woman, still more 
 saucily. And the fellow in the cap laughed at the speech. 
 
 " Who was beating that child V demanded Spencer. 
 
 Nobody replied. 
 
 " Who was beating you, my dear 1" he asked of the little creature 
 herself, at whom the woman instantly held up a clenched hand, which 
 awed her to silence, and she went on rubbing her slender legs. 
 
 "The gent seems curious," said the man, jeeringly, and taking off 
 his cap and looking into it. " I wonder nobody makes a civil answer 
 to a civil question." 
 
 This time the woman laughed out, and a grin came over Ann's 
 features. Eobert Spencer felt something of the degradation of his 
 social position, but at the moment he felt more of anger at the ill- 
 treatment of the child. 
 
 A policeman passed, and Spencer, for once in his life, acted promptly 
 and well. He opened the area door, and called to the officer. 
 
 " Go and let him in, Ann," he said. 
 
 "We don't want no police here," was his servant's reply, "and 
 them as does may fetch 'em themselves." 
 
 Eobert Spencer would have gone up for the purpose, but saw a 
 signal given by Ann, and remembered that there was a back door to 
 the garden, through which she could have hurried her friends as he 
 ascended the stairs. His brains must have been improved by what 
 he had taken, for it immediately occurred to him to make his own 
 prisoners, and he retreated, drew the kitchen door close, and locked it 
 before the party saw his plan. He then hurried upstairs, and ad- 
 mitted the officer. 
 
 Ann, with more zeal than discretion, had immediately seized the 
 poker, and sought to force the door open, and had partly succeeded 
 when the policeman came down with her master. 
 
 " Best keep quiet with that thing," said the officer, in a persuasive 
 voice. " Uncommon like burglary !" 
 
 He opened the door, and Ann, frantic at this new self-assertion on 
 her master's part, rushed forward, but was repressed by the officer. 
 The others were old hands, and knew better than to show the least 
 sign of resistance or discomposure. The child was still rubbing her 
 legs, and did not seem to take much interest in the scene. 
 
 " I heard this child screaming under blows, and coming down, I 
 find these persons with my servant, and all are grossly insolent. They 
 are here without my sanction, and I presume for dishonest purposes. 
 I give them all in charge. There is valuable property in the house, 
 and the servant has no doubt informed them that the family is away." 
 
 The policeman inspected all parties with a moveless countenance, 
 and then he said — 
 
96 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " I can take 'em. But this is what it is. Your servant's a had 
 one, and there's been a High upon her for a good bit. These two 
 aint in it." 
 
 " But somebody was brutally ill-treating the child. I'll know who, 
 and I'll have that somebody punished." 
 
 " Who hit you 1" demanded the officer. 
 
 " Yes, you'd better speak," said Ann, warningly. The child looked 
 up, but made no answer. 
 
 "It was her," said the policeman. " I see her whacking of it with 
 a whip one evening before. A High has been on her." 
 
 " Lock her up. If you are sure about the others, it's another story." 
 
 " I could lay my hand «n 'em any time, eh, master," said the officer, 
 addressing the man. He simply winked. The woman remarked — 
 
 " Hope you'll have no call to it, sir." 
 
 "That child shall not go away to be more ill-treated. I am not in 
 the habit of swearing, policeman, but I assert to you distinctly that I 
 will be damned if it shall," said Mr. Spencer, grandiloquently, but in 
 thorough earnest. 
 
 " If the gent wishes Sue to stop to tea with him, we are agreeable," 
 said the man, with great gravity, " but hopes he wont keep her up 
 too late, because that is bad for her precious health. We'll send the 
 carriage for her at nine precisely." 
 
 Assuming permission to leave, the man and his companion slunk 
 from the kitchen rather stealthily, though under the eyes of Spencer 
 and the officer. The latter listened to their footsteps as they went 
 along the hall, and shook his head. 
 
 " He couldn't help looking into the parlour, but he'll touch nothing.'' 
 
 The officer was wrong, for the fellow took a very sufficient pull at 
 what Spencer had left in the spirit-bottle, and then they departed. 
 
 " Now, young woman, if you're ready." 
 
 " What am I took for V said Ann, affecting indignation. 
 
 " When they look in your box, they'll know," said the officer. 
 " You know all about it. What's the odds ] If you hadn't welted 
 the kid, it might have been to-morrow ; as you did welt her, it's to- 
 day. Come along." 
 
 " To be took through such a fool as that, who daren't say his nose 
 is his own when his wife's in the house," cried the prisoner, in a great 
 passion. "I'd like to smash him." And she really seemed to be 
 speaking the truth. 
 
 " No matter who it is when a High's upon you," said the officer, who 
 evidently regarded this proposition as conclusive, for he took up a 
 shawl that was lying on the dresser, and a black bonnet that had 
 been deposited for safety in a soup-tureen, and very unceremoniously 
 investing Ann therewith, he marched her upstairs, and away. 
 
 " Now will you speak to me, my poor child]" said Robert Spencer, 
 kindly. 
 
 " Don't slash me any more," said the child, looking up imploringly 
 at him ; " I can't bear it, I can't, indeed. I danced as well as I could, 
 I did, indeed My poor legs are covered with weals. Don't hurt 
 me, please." 
 
 Robert Spencer fairly burst into tears 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 07 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. 
 
 The power of loving, and the power of making love, I take to be two 
 very distinct, gifts, seldom found united in one individual. They 
 resemble, respectively, the power of thinking and the power of talking, 
 and one would not be much surprised to find that the number of 
 people who can make love without feeling it is proportionate to that 
 of the number of people who can (and will) talk without thinking. 
 But do not let us be savage, do not let us be dissatisfied with these 
 arrangements of nature. Bless us all, what sort of a world would it 
 be if nobody sighed and whispered unless he had a passion at his 
 heart, and if nobody cptestioned and answered unless he had a brain 
 in his head I What woidd become of society in general, and Sir 
 Cresswell Cresswell in particular ? 
 
 Should you ask me whether our elegant Philip Arundel belonged to 
 the first mentioned class, or the second — whether he had a perception 
 of love's mysteries, or only the faculty of talking impressively about 
 them — I should answer, I should tell you, that I really do not know. 
 Let us speak of our man as we found him. A very pleasing-looking 
 gentleman, whom I had the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Charles Kean 
 designate as a tame snake, gave, later in that evening, a definition of 
 love which certainly does not set out the passion Miss Spencer had 
 inspired in Mr. Arundel. His love, assuredly, was not made up of 
 sighs and tears, humbleness, purity, trial, and the other articles in the 
 tame snake's inventory. Should you ask me whether he had become, 
 under the magic of passion, a mystery to himself — whether he alter- 
 nately felt that his own nature was changed, and that all that was 
 around him had changed its nature and value — whether he seemed 
 to himself to have suddenly sounded the depth of his own being, and 
 to have found himself miserably shallower and grandly deeper than 
 ever before — whether he became at once the most determined and the 
 most purposeless of Heaven's creatures — whether he was at intervals 
 proud of himself and intensely thankful to the Providence that had 
 led him to a glorious happiness, and steeped in self-abasement and 
 profane in his repining that he could but have a Pisgah-top view of a 
 bliss which he would never be worthy to attain — whether all the 
 world held but two objects as a centre for its revolution, and of these 
 two objects he was sometimes the one that was triumphant and 
 ecstatic, while the other was all sweetness and devotion, sometimes the 
 one that was rejected, miscomprehended, despised, while the other 
 stood apart, a statue of coldness and pride — whether a strong man's 
 heart leaped like a girl's at the sound of a voice or the rustle of a 
 dress, and a strong man's nerves played him false when they should 
 have been true, and yet again heart and nerves were at times more 
 courageous and more trusty than he had ever before found them — 
 whether intense thought about himself (what fool wrote that love for- 
 got self for another'?) became elevated from vanity to worship by 
 
 TAUT IV. ir 
 
9S THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 the all-absorbing desire to please, and to please worthily, and whether 
 in the very endeavour to be worthier he was checked by fear lest he 
 should by any change lose the vantage ground he had been so favoured 
 as to gain — whether a Presence was ever before him, and around and 
 about him, pervading thought, care, hope, and dream, and was per- 
 haps felt the least when the living and real deity was breathing, and 
 blushing, and smiling before him — whether all these are among the 
 signs that love delivers in the case of our friend, I should answer, I 
 should tell you, in the words of the courtier of whom his Queen asks 
 the trifling question whether there are not twenty thousand giants in 
 the back garden, " Madam, shall I tell you what I am going to say? 
 I do firmly believe that there is not one." 
 
 But, en revanche, and I imagine that a very large class of young 
 females would consider the revenge very ample, nobody could have 
 made love more pleasantly and tenderly than Philip. You will pro- 
 bably suppose that he was not very long in following Margaret and 
 her Russian merchant to the Isle of Wight. And there he played 
 the tame snake as naturally as if he had all -his life worn the garb of 
 that crawling harlequin. Love-making by the seaside — presuming 
 that you have luxurious weather during the day, and a luxurious 
 home to be resorted to about seven o'clock, (I exclude all needi- 
 ness and squalor from the picture) — is, or suppose I say must be, the 
 most refined and delightful of amusements. Who is that growling 
 because I write amusements, and reminding me that love-vows are 
 solemn things, and that they make an avenue or vista, as it were, 
 up to the altar of Hymen — no, not Hymen (frivolity again), but 
 of the Church of England 1 I repeat, amusements, and am fortified 
 with a quotation from Isaac Watts, — 
 
 Beligion never was designed to make our pleasures less. 
 
 This amusement, then, as practised by our Margaret and her lover, 
 was conducted somewhat in the following fashion. Mr. Keckling, like a 
 wise man, disliked to get up too early in the morning; and as Philip, like 
 a wise man, disliked to go to bed too early in the night, the arrange- 
 ment that brought Mr. Arundel to Anemone Lodge, Hyde, to break- 
 last at ten o'clock, suited both gentlemen well, and everything suited 
 gentle Margaret. I dare say that she rose three hours sooner, and 
 read in her Bagster's Bible, and looked out the references, and 
 perhaps kept a little diary; or painted a few seaweeds from the damp 
 life, or worked a flower or so into certain slippers — a species of man- 
 trap in which when a woman gets you by the foot she thinks she has 
 you ; or re-strung her bracelet-beads on new elastic ; or made some 
 nice little use of her time : but Miss Spencer did not appear until the 
 proper date, and then she looked so fresh, and so cool, and so pretty, 
 that I suppose she must have washed her face and hands again, and 
 smoothed her hair once more, just before coming down to breakfast. 
 That meal, with its seaside variations, in respect of which Philip was 
 strong, and could preach like St. Antony over the fish, occupied an 
 agreeable hour; and then Mr. Arundel went down to the clubhouse, 
 looked at the papers, smoked his cigar, and saw that a boat which he had 
 chartered for the season had its provisions on board. Then he returned 
 

 
 
 
 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 99 
 
 to fetch Margaret and her friend ; and it was pleasant to see his atten- 
 tion to the old gentleman, and how carefully Philip helped him down 
 the slimy steps from the pier to the boat. Then came a long sail, if 
 the wind were fair, or a merry day of fishing, if that were decided on. 
 In the former case, the way that Margaret was enshrined in the 
 pleasantest corner, and covered with the choicest rugs and wraps, and 
 begged to note all noteworthy matters on sea or shore, and reminded 
 of a line from Walter Scott, when a sea-bird came brushing the white 
 wave with her whiter wing, and carefully guarded from the sail in 
 tacking, and generally watched with a sedulous but not fussy care, 
 was doubtless as pleasant to the gentle girl as it was intended to be. 
 But when anchor was cast for sport, and the lines were got out, and 
 the party went busily to war upon the fish, how carefully Margaret's 
 tackle was attended to, how her bites were pointed out, and how 
 exultingly her soles and whitings were hauled in for her. Mr. Keck- 
 ling enjoyed the thing like a schoolboy, and would let nobody inter- 
 fei'e with him, even to the impaling the ngly worms, but fished from 
 the bow, chalking on the gunwale a mark for every capture ; so that 
 Philip had nothing to do but to mind Miss Spencer. And he minded 
 her very well. 
 
 On other days they had drives, and visited country churches, and 
 saw prospects ; and sometimes they walked, but not often, for Mr. 
 Keckliug had an objection to that kind of locomotion. Or they sat 
 by the sea, and talked, and were sometimes made thoughtful by the 
 incessant warning of the eternal voice, but not often, for you know 
 that their united ages would not have made fifty years. Why should 
 the sea-voice have anything for the young but music — be aught but a 
 song without words, a caressing song, reminding them of happy hours 
 of sunshiny leisure, promising them as happy hours in summers to 
 come 1 Perhaps such hou*\s are coming — if not, why be told that it is 
 not so 1 Let the ear be older and the heart be harder before the sea- 
 music forms itself into the stern words which he who hears not at 
 some hour of his life dies as those whom the gods love — or is but a 
 stone on the sea-shore. 
 
 The days were pleasant, pleasanter, perhaps, the evenings, for after 
 Mr. Keckling's hospitality had done its duty (and there is one brief 
 period in the life of most men when they do not care how soon they 
 come to the coffee) there Avas the cpuiet hour or so in the drawing- 
 room. The Russian merchant liked his nap after dinner, and our 
 young couple had been bred up with too clear a sense of the rever- 
 ence due to age to think of disturbing his rest by loud convei'sation. 
 Now, in order to speak low and yet be heard, it was necessary that 
 they should not sit very far apart. Therefore they did not sit 
 far apart. So went the hours until Philip Arundel withdrew to his 
 hotel, or, at least, from Anemone Lodge, for I believe that he observed 
 the Christian duty <>t" recollecting every night the events of the day, 
 and pondering over the same, and this process took him some time 
 and several Havannahs. 
 
 He had some sentiment about him, just a pleasant, graceful <pian- 
 tity, enough to keep lip and eye from laughing at a wrong time — nay, 
 a little more. It was the kind of sentiment that is evolved only 
 
 h2 
 
100 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 when one is quite comfortable in one's own person and circumstances, 
 and one has leisure to be gently sympathetic, where the object of 
 sympathy is not ungraceful or disagreeable. This is a not uncommon 
 gift, and on the strength of it, and in society where all is refined and 
 rose-coloured, many persons get credit for having very feeling hearts. 
 It is that species of sympathy which has no idea of being sympathized 
 with, and crystallizes at once if anybody else takes the liberty of 
 taking it for real feeling. Neanmoins, it is as well to have it as not, 
 if you have not the real ai*ticle. I believe that a poet's line creating 
 a- melancholy image of a pretty and forsaken woman, buried with her 
 broken heart in some lonely country grave, would have touched Philip 
 Arundel. He would have given the image material association with 
 some one he had known, and liked, and having thus incarnated the 
 thought it would have brought a tear to his eye. To the unwritten 
 poetry of the life of a plain woman, the mother of a lot of coarse 
 brats, for whose sake and that of a rough husband she was content to 
 toil and moil for thirty years, and finally drop, uncared for in illness, 
 and unthanked in death, into a grim hole in a crowded London church- 
 yard, I equally believe our Philip would have been as deaf as becomes 
 a gentleman. He would take home a flower that Margaret had given 
 him, and set it up in some water, and think, as he gazed upon it, how 
 gentle, and yet full of meaning, had been her voice when she 
 looked up in his face and gave him the gift. He would probably say 
 Darling. He would probably think what little present he should buy 
 for her for next day, and with what pretty words he should present it. 
 But inasmuch as such meditation would most likely take place at 
 night, when he was imbibing his final refreshment, the romance of the 
 flower woiild in no degree prevent the reality of the brandy-and- 
 water from being present to his mind, nor preserve the waiter from a 
 proper reproof if the latter fluid were not as hot or as cold as Mr. 
 Arundel desired. Now I have read, somewhere, in southern story, of 
 a man who, being in love, received a flower from liis mistress, and 
 thereupon went into a church — he was, to be sure, a benighted papist 
 — and, falling on his knees before the Lady of the White Lilies, did 
 remain for the space of fourteen hours, asking her by what good deed 
 of his life he had ever merited such unsurpassed and overwhelming 
 bliss. 
 
 As for Margaret, she had made up her mind that she was loved, and 
 having, with all the honesty of her nature deserved that satisfaction 
 by giving her whole heart to Philip, she was about as happy as it is 
 possible for a good, pretty, healthy girl to be. She grew prettier every 
 day. She had been accustomed to fresh country air, and the sojourn in 
 town, with all its excitement, had done her little good ; and the great 
 excitement of all, the discovery that her happiness was in the keeping 
 of another, had for a time paled her cheek, and perhaps a little dimmed 
 her bright eyes. Put here she was with every advantage, the sea- 
 breezes, a pleasant home, a fatherly friend, and a recognised and 
 devoted lover, and her face resumed its beauty of' contour and colour, 
 and if her voice remained something less elastic than in mere girlhood, 
 the change was not wrought by aught of regret, but by the thought- 
 fulness which will come upon the cheeriest maiden when she counts 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 101 
 
 the clays between her liberty and the duties and dignities of matron- 
 hood. Perhaps never in her life, except once, did Margaret look so 
 charming as on the sea-beach at Hyde. Margaret Spencer never did. 
 
 It need not be said that she had a correspondence to conduct — the 
 girl who is not a good correspondent is either an idiot, or afraid of her 
 spelling. Margaret had letters from St. Oscai's, but though her cousin 
 Bertha wrote, and a brief but affectionate note (not written without 
 an effort) sometimes came from her uncle, her aunt Cheriton ceased to 
 write as of old. But she had a new correspondent in her cousin Lati- 
 mer, who, somewhat puzzlingly to her, began a series of letters which 
 he kept up with unremitting vigour. Latimer Cheriton had completed 
 his term of service to the profession, which to his father's surprise, and 
 perhaps regret, he had selected, and having passed his examination, 
 became duly qualified to promote peace on earth and goodwill among 
 men as an attorney-at-law. The joyous, frank, merry Latimer, ever 
 first in mischief and last in quarrel, had been everybody's favourite, 
 and especially Margaret's, who as has been recorded, had taken his 
 portrait in sportsman's gear, a costume in which he seemed more likely 
 to distinguish himself than in the graver garb of attorney-craft. But 
 the older we grow the more ready we are to coincide with an eminent 
 philosopher whose dictum is enviously excluded from the sayings of 
 the Seven, and who observed that nobody never knows nothing about 
 nothing. Latimer Cheriton set himself to his work with all his might, 
 and by the time that he was prepared to go into practice, the rule was 
 once more found good which advises folk to be ready in case an oppor- 
 tunity turns up. It turned up for him in the shape of a little partner- 
 ship in London, in which he would begin by taking only about two 
 hundred a year, but from which, if he duly laboured at encouraging 
 the natural instincts of his fellow-creatures, he would one day derive 
 a handsome income. He, like Alban, had come to town with business 
 objects, but did not contemplate a return, as Alban did, to his Shrop- 
 shire home. He wrote capital letters to his cousin Margaret, and 
 wrote them in such a clear, legible, lawyer's hand, that she read them 
 all through. I have said that they puzzled her a little, but the puzzle 
 was not in the writing. Margaret began to fancy that they were too 
 affectionate. 
 
 It was a slight mistake on her part — I mean that she mistook the 
 writer's intentions, if she interpreted them as uncousinly. But you 
 must forgive her this sensitiveness. Was it not a loyal inspiration ? 
 I appeal to any well-disposed lady who has opened her heart to the 
 conqueror thereof, whether she did not at once feel a call to mount 
 new guns on the ramparts, to up with drawbridge and down with 
 portcullis, to sentinel the castle with earnest vigilance, and to get the 
 very best melted lead ready to pour down from the machicolations 
 upon any daring assailant. You know that it was so, Madam, and I 
 only hope that you would not now say to me, in extreme confidence, 
 and with a slight sigh and slighter shrug of those white and matronly 
 shoulders, that such extra- chivalry was rather thi'own away. Next, 
 I should like to ask, but this in fear and trembling, whether the most 
 humble and modest young female person does not obtain, by an en- 
 gagement, some little elevation in her own eyes. Does not she by 
 
102 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 taking plight add (as Henrietta Spencer would say) one cupid to her 
 stature I In a word, is she not a little prouder, even of so small a 
 feat as having secured for life the obedience, purse, and devotion of so 
 utterly worthless a thing as a Man 1 And, if I may, with tremor, 
 assume that this is so, of course she sees a correspondingly increased 
 liberty on the part of anybody who may think himself good enough 
 to offer her homage. Margaret was the best girl in the world, but she 
 had never thought of her cousin Latimer as a possible pretender to 
 her hand, and now that he had taken his station in this life as an 
 attorney in a small way, while she was troth-plight to a splendid young 
 aristocrat, any demonstration on the part of Cousin Latimer was parti- 
 cularly objectionable. 
 
 Margaret, however, might have spared her little dissatisfaction, and 
 answered her cousin as frankly and fully as he wrote to her. For he 
 knew all about her engagement, and heartily approved it, so far as he 
 had any knowledge of the circumstances, and it was because she was 
 an engaged girl, and had been the friend of his boyhood, that Latimer 
 poured out his merry, but just now earnest, heart in the epistles in 
 question. He wanted some sympathy and encouragement, poor fellow, 
 and was paving the way towards asking for it. For he had fallen into 
 love, and wanted to marry upon his two hundred a year. When one 
 of his letters made this known to Margaret, and the explanation was 
 delayed all the longer by reason of her — I wont say mounting the 
 high horse, but putting her pretty little foot for a moment into the 
 stirrup, she was sitting in her bed-room, and by some miracle the mirror 
 was so turned that she could see her face in it. She happened to look 
 up, and saw a very sweet face, covered with a blush of anger with her- 
 self for having made the mistake, and then lighted up with a meiTy 
 smile at the absurdity of the affair. That very night there ci-ossed 
 the water, for Latimer, a kinder letter than she had ever written him, 
 and one which, I am soiry to say, put him in further heart for the mad 
 and wicked project which I have said he had in view. 
 
 Letters came from Blanche and Geraldine, dated from country 
 houses where they were being made much of, and where they wished 
 Margaret was with them to share the lovely rides, moonlight boating 
 on the lakes, consecration of a restored church (this was Miss Blanche, 
 the Puseyite ; it was the worldlier Geraldine who told how she had 
 ci'iticized the early English architecture, and pronounced it five-and- 
 twenty minutes earlier than the date Mr. Scott assigned to it) — picnics 
 in interesting ruins, a regatta, and the other diversions of the country. 
 Nothing could be kinder than the letters, and even a little bit of 
 feminine sauciness in one of them, the writer pretending to wonder 
 on what part of the Continent Philip was spending his long vacation, 
 was ecrase in a tiny postscript, in which Margaret was warned that 
 if she should happen to meet anybody looking like Demosthenes, 
 walking on the sea-shore and declaiming, she was to be sure to give 
 him some pebbles to put into his mouth, and ask him whether he had 
 received any deputations lately. 
 
 Aunt Spencer did not write, for the opposite reason to that which 
 caused the silence of Aunt Cheriton. The large Henrietta was too 
 comfortable at Margate to care about writing, she being of the class 
 
THE tiOKDIAN KNOT. 103 
 
 who seldom take up a pen fitt your amusement, but are very ready 
 with it for their own advantage. Philip's money, with some additions 
 that he had privately Blade rid Mr. Claxtou (for lie was afraid that if 
 the old girl, as he profanely called her. came up, she would he want- 
 ingMiss Spencer in London), was keeping her exceedingly well nourished 
 at the Fort, and while she was happy, Mrs. Spencer never thought of 
 anybody else. Her miracles of energy were performed when she was 
 in evil case, or saw her way to a c&up. One would say that she was the 
 classic soldier who had lost his Belt, but one is afraid to think of 
 such an article suited to her ample charms. Henrietta withheld 
 from the lovers her advice and Shaksperianisms, and they bore with 
 the privation as became them. 
 
 Altogether, Philip and Margaret had a happy time during that 
 autumn at Kvde. 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 ANDROMEDA. 
 
 One evening in October, towards the close of a somewhat gloomier 
 day than had lately been seen, Margaret and her old friend 
 set out for a short walk, unaccompanied by Philip, who had been 
 detained at his hotel by a business communication from Mr. Tarleton, 
 the solicitor. 
 
 * I am perfectly certain," said Margaret, as they left Anemone 
 Lodge, " that you are kind enough to come out only because you 
 think the air is good for me. Now this is very naughty of you. I 
 am sure you would rather sit in the armchair, and hear me read 
 P< udennis. Would not you?" 
 
 " Do you know, Miss Opposition, that I happen to think the air 
 good for me as well as for you." 
 
 " And so it is ; but you do not like walking, and you walk for my 
 sake," replied Margaret. 
 
 " Poor Philip L" said Mr. Keckling, good-naturedly, " what a per- 
 tinacious little wife he will have. Come, we will compromise. I 
 want the air, and I don't want to walk, so we will go on the pier, if 
 you have no further objection to raise, Miss." 
 
 There was some little bustle on the pier; the steamer had, shortly 
 before, landed the passengers from London, and a cluster of porters 
 was growling and grumbling to one another over the luggage, ac- 
 cording to inexplicable custom, before proceeding to carry it away. 
 There must be some superstition or religious observance connected 
 with this ceremony of abusing the boxes, and the distances, and the 
 business generally, prefatorily to delivering the luggage with prompt- 
 ness and fidelity. These old men of the sea occupy the position of 
 Sinbad, and appear to be about as well satisfied with it as he was. 
 
 The companions waited for a few minutes, until the last great 
 white covered trunk moved slowly off, looking in the gloom like a 
 fat coffin under which the officiating undertaker was grunting a most 
 
104 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 objectionable service ; and then they went upon the pier, and listened 
 to the water slapping and splashing around the piles, and to the 
 steamer, which was moored, and gasping out its final sobs, and to the 
 hearty laughter of some yachting men, who were striving to console 
 themselves in the claret of the clubhouse for the fatigues and hardships 
 of a voyage from Southampton, performed that afternoon. The lights 
 of Portsmouth were beginning to be visible, and unromantic as was 
 the notion of a set of gas-lamps in a dirty harbour town, the spai'kle 
 imparted a sort of neighbourly sensation not unwelcome on a dull 
 evening. 
 
 One passenger, who held a small carpet-bag, had remained upon 
 the pier, and was apparently in no hurry to leave it. He was leaning 
 with his back against the rail at the end, and examining the general 
 features of the town, which, like its opposite neighbour, was lighting 
 up. As Margaret and Mr. Keckling approached, the stranger moved 
 towards a corner as if to make way for them. 
 
 " Not a very cheerful look-out to-night," my dear, said Mr. Keck- 
 ling. 
 
 " No," said Margaret ; " but how fortunate we have been in our 
 evenings up to this time." 
 
 There was not much in the words, but they fell upon an ear that 
 eagerly caught the sounds of that voice. 
 
 " My cousin, Miss Spencer," said Alban Cheriton, advancing, and 
 raising his hat. " We are always meeting unexpectedly." 
 
 Margaret was startled for a moment — more startled than there 
 seemed any reason to be — and it was with somewhat less than her 
 usual grace that she introduced Alban to Mr. Keckling. And when 
 she had mastered herself, and began to consider whether she were 
 really vexed or gratified that her cousin had come down to see her 
 (that he had done so she was too certain of his feelings to doubt), she 
 experienced certain contradictory sensations. Had it been Latimer, 
 before his secret was revealed, she would simply have been displeased; 
 but the grave, wise, stern Alban was another person to bring to her 
 feet — and, good as she was, Margaret was a woman, and all the better 
 for being one. 
 
 " Mr. Cheriton, of whom I have heard you speak. I am happy to 
 make your acquaintance, sir. Have 3^011 friends in the island ?" 
 
 " I hope to fiud that I have," said Alban. 
 
 " Well, when they can spare you, we shall expect to see you at 
 Anemone Lodge — it lies over that way ; but anybody will direct you 
 to it, or, what will be better, come there with us presently." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Alban. " I will leave my carpet-bag at 
 the hotel, and join you here in a few minutes." 
 
 " Margaret, my dear, it is a little colder here than I like, and yet I 
 find the sea-air pleasant. I have a good mind to take a liberty with 
 your cousiu at once, and ask him to tell the porter at his hotel to go 
 up and bring me my cloak." 
 
 " Let me fetch it myself, sir," said Alban, rather eagerly. " Ane- 
 mone Lodge — I shall find it — at least, I think so, though I don't know 
 Ryde," he added, possibly for reasons of his own. 
 
 At first Mi\ Keckling would not hear of such a thing, but Mr. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 105 
 
 Cheriton persisting, Margaret could hardly avoid offering to show him 
 the way, and consequently the cousins departed together. 
 
 " You have never been in the Isle of Wight before, Alban f said 
 Margaret. " It is the most lovely place in the world, with every 
 variety of scenery, and all within such easy reach. I had no idea 
 that there could be anything so pretty, and I am sure you will be 
 delighted when you have made a few rambles. This way," she went 
 on, as they got to the land end of the pier, "and then to the right. 
 There in a short way round by those trees, but in the gloom the 
 walking is not quite so pleasant as the road, as the path is paved with 
 large stones, and you can easily stumble over them." 
 
 If anybody knows why Miss Spencer was pleased to take the lead 
 in this way, I do not. She was just about to begin again, with a 
 rapid description of Black Gang Chine, when Alban said, stopping and 
 touching her arm — 
 
 " One moment, Margaret, and then the more you can tell me of the 
 Isle of Wight, and of anything else that interests you, the more I 
 shall be pleased. But just a word. I have come down here to see 
 you—" 
 
 " Of course, and it is very kind of you," said she, rather flutteringly. 
 
 " Hear me, dear Margaret. I want half an hour's conversation 
 with you in private." 
 
 " There is nothing wrong, nothing amiss at St. Oscars ?" asked 
 Margaret. I am afraid that she knew quite well that there was not. 
 
 " Nothing — nothing wrong there, or elsewhere, I hope. But when 
 can I speak with you 1" 
 
 " Whenever you like, of course," said Margaret. " I assure you 
 that Mi-. Keckling was in earnest when he asked you to come to the 
 Lodge ; he is the kindest creature in the world, and the most hos- 
 pitable, and he will be delighted to see you as often as it suits you 
 to come." 
 
 " And so will you V 
 
 " Why, what a question. Shall I not always be glad to see you, or 
 anybody else out of the dear old house. But we must not keep Mr. 
 Keckling waiting longer than we can help ; let us walk on. Have 
 you heard from aunt lately 1 ? I had a letter from Bertha about a 
 week ago, but she did not tell me much St. Oscars news. I suppose 
 she reserves that for you, so that when you return you may be quite 
 aware of what your patients have been doing in your absence." 
 
 He calmly let her talk on, and then said — 
 
 " I will tell you all that I have heard, but first tell me when we 
 can speak together." 
 
 " Any time, Alban. Come when you please. We are seldom at 
 home much during the day, but always in the evenings. After 
 sailing, or fishing, or anything of that sort, the charm of the quiet 
 evening is very great. There, that is the Lodge, with the white gate 
 — perhaps you would go on and get the cloak — it hangs in the Hall, 
 as Ave proudly call it, and you are not to laugh at it." 
 
 Alban obeyed ; but the servant, to whom he was a stranger, had 
 read stories of well-dressed rogues obtaining coats under false pre- 
 tences, and all his representations were in vain. Margaret, after 
 
106 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 waiting several minutes, had to come up, and vouch for her cousin's 
 respectability. At length the cloak was procured. 
 
 " We have been such a time," said Margaret, " that I think we 
 must take the short road. I know it quite well, so you have only to 
 follow me." 
 
 This little stratagem only partially succeeded. Alban could not 
 renew the subject of a private interview, as they hastened down the 
 rough path, but he obtained such an interview when they reached the 
 pier, whence Mr. Keckling, feeling the cold increase, had departed. 
 
 " He has gone home the road way, expecting to meet us," said Mar- 
 garet. " How tiresome." 
 
 " It is all well," said Alban. " We are alone here, Margaret, and 
 out of hearing, and I will at once say what I came from London to 
 say to yo\i. You will listen to me, I am sure, if not for my sake, 
 for that of the old house where you were the darling for so many 
 years." 
 
 There was no escape for her now, and perhaps, on the whole, she 
 wished that such an interview were past and over. Perhaps she was 
 inclined to resist his gravity of appeal by a last attempt at levity — 
 something about her not having seen so very many years — but, if so, 
 the words died on her lip, and she replied in her old, sweet, quiet 
 voice : — 
 
 " Alban, anything which you think you ought to say to me I am 
 sure I ought to listen to." 
 
 "Then look here, Margaret." 
 
 He took her hand and led her, it was but a few steps, to the rail 
 against which he had been leaning when they first saw him. He 
 pointed to the sea, which was growing troubled and noisy. By the 
 faint lights the crest of a wave could at intervals be seen, but gloom 
 lay upon the mass of water, which they heard seething and wallowing 
 in the darkness. 
 
 " There," he said. " In that mid channel, and within sight of 
 happy homes, many a wretched fellow, wrecked, or fallen from his 
 ship, has struggled in his agony, in the dreary night, and has at last 
 gone clown, with a scream, or with a prayer. Can you not imagine 
 him in the grasp of the savage waves, as they fling him one to an- 
 other, until one of them opens, that the dead man may sink 
 through." 
 
 " Alban, why paint so dreadful an image 1 Such things have been ; 
 but why not, if we are to speak of them, why not imagine what must 
 also have happened many and many a time — the poor creature's cry 
 heard, the answering shout bidding him keep heart and hope, the 
 strong fishermen pulling out bravely to his help, and then dragging him 
 on board, and ten minutes afterwards the wife sobbing for joy and 
 clutching him to her heart ?" 
 
 " God bless you for the words and for the thought, Margaret," he 
 said, passionately. " (3, if they were an omen. Listen to me. The 
 drowning man, in his last struggle, as he wildly tries to heave himself 
 from the water to get a last look at the home he is never to see again, 
 that man is mvself," 
 
 " Alban !*' 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 107 
 
 a Myself, I repeat. And as that poor wretch will not go down to 
 the deep without one last struggle and cry, I will not bear to see all 
 that I covet in life and in death torn from me without an effort, wild, 
 unmanly, I eare not what it seems, to save myself from misery. " 
 
 Thei'e was a pause. 
 
 '•' You are silent, because you understand me, and are too frank and 
 too true to affect doubt. 
 
 " I might think I understood you, Alban,"' said Margaret, "but 
 that you use words far too strong for anything of an earthly 
 nature." 
 
 " You think so," said Alban, more calmly. <; I should see hope in 
 that, for your heart has never been really awakened to what it should 
 learn, if you can deem any words strong enough for the heart's emo- 
 tion. Margaret, you do not need to be told — I know you do not — 
 that you have been the one idol of my life, the one being whom I 
 have ever loved, loved with an intensity that has been my deadliest 
 enemy. In the earnestness of my love — you know that it is so — 
 in my consciousness of its fervour and truth, I have neglected and 
 despised the wisdom of the world and the world's game, and I have 
 forfeited, perhaps for ever, the treasure for which I would have given 
 every hope and happiness of life. All this you know, Margaret. I 
 have been a miserable, proud, self-asserting fool, and I am justly 
 punished — no, not justly, for such a punishment is too bitter for any 
 wrong — but I am fearfully punished for my folly. Even now, plead- 
 ing to you as that sailor we have spoken of might have uttered his 
 last prayer, I feel that I am speaking a language to which I am 
 unused, and that smooth-tongued men, without a thousandth part of 
 what I feel, may tell you in far more eloquent words, that which is a 
 lie from their lips, but from mine is the holiest truth ; I swear it, 
 Margaret — I swear it. Will you not answer me," he said, in an im- 
 ploring tone. 
 
 •• What would you have me say, dear Alban ?" said Margaret, 
 agitated, but retaining her self-possession. M The past is past, our 
 future lot is fixed for us ; and you, Alban, are not to be told that all is 
 for the best." 
 
 " No," he cried, " I am not. Do not mock my heart and your own 
 with falsehood. It is not so. All is for the worst. But I have no 
 one to blame, to scorn, to cui'se, but myself. I had my destiny in my 
 own hands, and I marred it. When you were day after day with me, 
 when your heart was your own, — no, that is your own now, but when 
 your fancy, which is now touched by the outside graces of a worthless 
 worldling " 
 
 Poor Alban ! No need for him to declare himself a novice in the 
 art of pleading to woman. Margaret's pride and her love both flew 
 to the rescue of her lover's good name. 
 
 " Alban," she said. " I may hear anything you wish to say about 
 yourself, but I am not — I mean, that it would not be right iu me to 
 hear anything against another. You cannot wish to give me pain. ' 
 
 " O, you are right, quite right," he said, with bitterness. " It is 
 against the rules of the world that I should even warn one who has 
 been my sister " 
 
108 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Who will be your sister still, your attached aucl grateful sister, if 
 you will let her, Alban." 
 
 " I will not. Do not sport with me," said Alban, vehemently. 
 " Nay," he said, seeing she almost recoiled from his passion," forgive 
 me, forgive me, I am rough, I am brutal ; but, Margaret, it is the last 
 struggle for life. Margaret, I will speak more calmly. I know that 
 you have engaged yourself to — to this young gentleman. It is impos- 
 sible — nay, hear me on — impossible that your earnest and beautiful 
 nature, your fine intellect, your warm heart can have really been led 
 astray by anything that he can offer. He can never appreciate you, 
 and you are dooming yourself to a life of sorrowful regrets and humi- 
 liation. I will not preach to you — perhaps much religion that we 
 have been taught is a fable — I have thought so since I came into 
 sorrow — but let me counsel you. O, forget me, if you will, forget 
 that I shall ever be ready, honoured, proud to lay at your feet the 
 triumphs of a life that will be no ignoble one if you will bless it — 
 forget that — but wait, pause, and do not madly surrender a priceless 
 treasure, like yourself, into hands utterly unworthy to possess it. 
 Ah ! you have heard me now, Margaret, and chide me if you will, but 
 what I have said will abide in your memory." 
 
 " I fear it will," said Margaret ; " but T will try and forget all except 
 that a cousin was unkind without meaning to be so." 
 
 " A cousin," repeated Alban, bitterly. "Even a friend were too 
 warm a word." 
 
 " That is a sacred word," replied Margaret, with dignity, " and a 
 title that should be earned before it is given. Is it a friend's part to 
 say much that you, Alban, have said to me, knowing what you know ?" 
 
 " Yes," he said, almost fiercely, " it is a friend's part. I have 
 warned you against marrying a frivolous profligate, and the day may 
 come when you will recal this pier, and this sea, and wish that you 
 had listened to a friend. Ah, you are going, and going in anger. 
 Thus it is that I have pushed you from me all my life, when I would 
 have given my life to take you to my heart." 
 
 Margaret was now too much offended to spare the stroke. 
 
 " Alban, after what has passed, I suppose that you will scarcely 
 come to Anemone Lodge. You will not wish to meet its most con- 
 stant guest, almost inmate, of whom you have chosen to speak so 
 wrongfully." 
 
 He laughed, under his voice, but scoffingly, and justly earned a 
 second blow. She continued, calmly, 
 
 " Perhaps it is right to say, as it may put you at peace with your- 
 self as to much of the past, that long before my coming to London I 
 knew that you had been thinking favourably of me, and as it was 
 quite impossible that under any circumstances I could reward your 
 condescension as you might wish, I begged Bertha to save us any un- 
 pleasant scenes. I hoped that she would have succeeded." 
 
 ' ; This is our mild and gentle Margaret," said Alban, " because a 
 word is said in disparagement of " 
 
 " Of her affianced husband. Alban, would you speak more gently 
 if any one in your presence insulted the character of your affianced 
 wife ! If you would, I beg your pardon." 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 109 
 
 " You have not mixed with the world in vain, Margaret. Already 
 you have learned its sarcasms, and its heartlessness. You are pru- 
 dently arming yourself for the sort of battle into which you are so 
 eager to go." 
 
 " You do me great injustice, Alban, but it must be something very 
 sad indeed that Margaret Spencer ought not to forgive in a child of 
 the house where some of her happiest days were spent." 
 
 " You are spending happier days now — here. You dare not deny it?" 
 
 "Why should I deny it?" said Margaret, quietly. " I hope that 
 vou, Alban, will live to see days as happy. Won't you take my 
 hand 1 Let me speak, and then perhaps you will. I have for years 
 admired your genius, Alban, and your force of character, and though 
 I have always felt that I am not the kind of wife whom you ought to 
 seek, the woman you choose will be a proud and happy one. Do not be 
 angry with me for knowing myself better than you could do, bnt think 
 kindly of your sister and playfellow, and wish her well. Won't you 
 take my hand?" 
 
 Nothing could be sweeter than the voice in which she spoke, or 
 kinder than the manner she adopted. Perhaps there were some tears 
 in her eyes, but if so the darkness, now complete, prevented his seeing 
 them. 
 
 " If she speaks so to me, whom she cares nothing for, and who have 
 offended her, what treasures of fondness she must have for him," was 
 the thought that traversed Alban's whole being, like one of the fiery 
 serpents of the Mosaic story. 
 
 " We must try to meet no more," he said, " or we shall learn to 
 hate one another." 
 
 He caught her in his ai'ins, touched her cheek with his lips, and 
 was hastening from the pier, when it suddenly occurred to him, amid 
 his excitement, that to leave her in the darkness, and in such a situ- 
 ation, was scarcely the course even for a rejected and outraged lover. 
 
 " I will send a servant to you," he exclaimed. " Pray remain a 
 moment or two." 
 
 But as he reached the gate, he saw a tall figure hurrying up, and 
 his eye, quickened, as his ear had been earlier in the evening, instantly 
 made out Philip Arundel, who, not noticing him, rushed towards the 
 end of the pier. A little earlier and it had been a new case of Perseus 
 arriving to deliver Andromeda, by the sea, from a furious monster. 
 
 It is just to Alban to say that he waited in the gloom to see Mar- 
 garet come off, duly escorted, and that then he was seen no more by 
 any of the party at the Lodge. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MR. SPENCER AFTER DARK. 
 
 " Aim why were we up so late last night that we had to eat our 
 breakfast in our bed this morning]" replied unto a child the present 
 writer. 
 
110 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " 0, I went to a lecture with Miss Middleton, and it was about the 
 Druids. Do you know that they used to make a great brass image of 
 Their God, and make it red hot. and put little babies in its hands, and 
 they fell off into a fire and were burned, and the music played that 
 they might not be heard crying. Isn't it a good thing that there are 
 no Druids now ?" 
 
 We left Eobert Spencer downstaix-s bemoaning over the pitiful 
 plaint of the little girl whose ill-treatment had aroused him into un- 
 wonted action. As soon as his compassion had found its first vent, 
 and he had assured her of his protection, he brought her up into the 
 parlour, and desired her to remain there while he got her some tea, in 
 quest of which he proceeded to ransack. But the moment the good- 
 natured old fellow left the room, the child limped to the table, seized 
 the bottle of spirits of which her proprietor had already taken heavy 
 toll, and applied it to her lips with a relish that betokened premature 
 acquaintance with such stimulants. Still further precocity was 
 evinced by her next move. The bottle was still at her mouth when 
 she heard the step of her host, and in a moment she had stripped one 
 stocking from her leg, and was down upon a footstool. 
 
 '• What are you doing, my poor child ?" said Robert, as he 
 came in. 
 
 " Please I was rubbing my poor leg with some gin, sir, to get the 
 bruises out. 1 ' 
 
 " No, no, don't use that," said Mr. Spencer ; " we'll get you some- 
 thing better than that from the chemist's. Pull up your stocking, 
 there's a dear, and come out with me. I must buy you some cakes, 
 or what you'd like, for 1 can find nothing here. Your name's Susan, 
 isn't it." 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " I thought I heard that man call you Sue." 
 
 " Yes, sir, that's the short for Zuleika," said the child, who was 
 still child enough to seem to take a little pride in her fine name. 
 
 " Zuleika, eh 'I And who are those people that were with you i" 
 
 " Uncle and aunt, sir." 
 
 '• And if they are your uncle and aunt, why did they allow you to 
 be beaten by my servant f 
 
 '• I don't know, sir," said Zuleika, who had evidently had orders 
 not to be communicative. " I'm so hungry, sir," she added, artfully, 
 by way of bringing the questioning to an end. 
 
 " Hungry, poor thing, are you ? Well, we'll soon set that right. 
 Come along, we'll get rid of the hunger." 
 
 Forth they went, and inasmuch as any kind of hunger that can be 
 assuaged by the miscellaneous larder of Tottenham Court-road, may 
 be at once combated there, at small cost, Pobert Spencer easily ful- 
 filled his promise. To do poor Zuleika justice, she was hungry, and 
 disposed of a sausage, some hot eel, a saucer of whelks, and some curds 
 and whey with great celerity, her patron permitting her entire free- 
 dom of selection, and only making imbecile faces as each nastiness was 
 succeeded by something nastier. At Zuleika's instigation he then 
 bought her some periwinkles, which were placed in a cone of news- 
 paper, and holding this in the manner of a bouquet, and picking out 
 
TEE (JOIcI)lAN KNOT. Ill 
 
 an occasional snail to eat as she walked, the child accompanied him 
 <l;i\vn to Oxford-street. 
 
 " I suppose yon wouldn't give us them coppers you took just now V 
 she said, glancing up sideways at him ; and though the speech was 
 worldly enough, the look had in it that childlike helplessness which 
 touches anybody who can be touched at all. 
 
 Robert Spencer was vexed as well as touched, for he meant to have 
 made her a present, and was sorry she had asked for it. 
 
 " What would you do with money, if I gave it you ?" 
 
 " Hide it away against the time when they don't give me nothing 
 to eat." 
 
 " But they are not often so poor as to have nothing for you, I 
 hope ?" 
 
 - They aint, of course, sir," said Zuleika. " But they say I shan't 
 make old bones, so it's no odds whether I'm hungry or not." 
 
 " There, child, hei'e's five shillings for you," said Robert, hastily. 
 " And you know where I live ?" 
 
 " Shouldnt wonder if I did," said the girl, laughing shrilly, and not 
 pleasantly. 
 
 " Well, if you are in want at any time, come to me, and I'll give 
 you a dinner. Why don't you take the money V 
 
 " Give it us in tanners." 
 
 " Tanners," said Robert, laughing ; "where did you learn slang, you 
 little slut % A nd what do you want it in sixpences for ?" 
 
 " If you don't, they'll take it all from me." 
 
 " Your uncle and aunt ?" 
 
 Zuleika nodded, and smelt at her bouquet of periwinkles. 
 
 " I see. Then look here. Take the half-crowns, and say it was what 
 I gave you. Let them take it if they like, and I'll give you five shil- 
 lings in sixpences for yourself, which you can keep to yourself." 
 
 The child was silent, and did not seem altogether to approve of this 
 liberal arrangement. 
 
 '• Well," said Robert, "won't that do ?" 
 
 " They'd know I wouldn't give it 'em all," said Zuleika ; " and you've 
 been a good friend to me, and you've no call to give them five bob. 
 Give it us in smalls." 
 
 So Mr. Spencer gave her five shillings in sixpences, with the under- 
 standing that she was to say the present had been half-a-crown, which 
 she had changed, and spent sixpence thereof. Perhaps, Zuleika ob- 
 served, they might lick her, perhaps they might let her keep another 
 sixpence, but it was no odds. Suddenly, Mr. Spencer missed her in 
 the crowd, and felt annoyance that though she had, he was convinced, 
 left him for good, she had not thanked him and wished him good-bye. 
 It did not occur to him to ask himself where the poor child had been 
 taught such amenities, or whether they were likely to spring like flowers 
 as the natural ornaments of an education which was based on lying, 
 starvation, and beating. Many good people say, and think, that their 
 inferiors are ungrateful, with about as reasonable ground as our friend 
 Bob Spencer had for complaining to himself of poor little Zuleika. 
 
 But in ten minutes more, being the time which it took him to get 
 back to his own house, lie encountered a grievance of a far more prac- 
 
112 
 
 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 tical character. Mr. Keckling, it will be remembered, had cleared the 
 house of most of its inmates, Mr. Claxton had driven out its mistress, 
 the policeman had removed big Ann, and Mr. Spencer, in going out 
 with Zuleika, had left it untenanted, and had shut the door behind 
 him. Of course the supposition that the queen-regent -would permit 
 Robert Spencer a latch-key would be preposterous — we all know Hen- 
 rietta better. And, in fine, he was locked out of an empty house. 
 Humanity had been its own reward. He had fed the hungry, and 
 was left roofless. 
 
 A profane idea of going round for a locksmith, and having the door 
 forced, may have occurred to the master of the hoiise, but it was only 
 that he might dismiss it with hatred — almost with the feeling with 
 which we scout, and scare through the ivory gate, the mad dreams in 
 which those that we love and would die for are pictured by the devil 
 of darkness as doing base or impure actions. And, thrusting his hand 
 into his pocket, an habitual attitude with our financier (even when he 
 knew that his hand would be quite solitary there), inasmuch as it had 
 something of the capitalist about it, he lighted upon what seemed to 
 him a heap of money — the sovereigns and silver out of Mr. Reckling's 
 ten-pound note. Robert Spencer was quite pleased with his door for 
 giving him so admirable an excuse for making a night of it. 
 
 But Mr. Spencer's idea of a night of it was, I need hardly say, 
 young gentlemen, not much like yours. It did not comprise a dinner 
 and too much wine, and half-price and too much bad air, and singing- 
 rooms and too much grog and tobacco, and plaj'-rooms and too much 
 betting, and the cetera to which clesunl may or may not sound like 
 the fitting companion word. He was a virtuous, elderly man, with a 
 taste of his own, which, weather and wife permitting, was to talk 
 and listen to as nnich nonsense, in a social way, as could be compressed 
 into a single evening. London is a place where this amusement may 
 be obtained with no great difficulty, and Robert Spencer knew how 
 to procure it at no great distance from his home. 
 
 In another quarter of an hour, Mr. Robert Spencer had engaged a 
 bed for himself at a respectable tavern, and was seated at a table in a 
 large and well-lighted room on the first floor of that establishment. 
 He had assumed a new character, and abandoning that of the Good 
 Samaritan, he had become a Rum Buffer. 
 
 The Rum Buffers were an unaffiliated branch of one of those ter- 
 rific societies (obviously emanations of the Vehm Gericht) which 
 cause such dread in the Court of the Tuileries, and peril the alliance 
 between the two great kingdoms of the Eastern world. The Rum 
 Buffers, indeed, were a more dangerous companionship than that from 
 which they had severed, for they were revolutionary in the highest 
 degree. In the original society, of which the ablest Buffers had been 
 distinguished members, and which had been known as the Humps — 
 perhaps themselves offshoots from the United Buffaloes — the chair- 
 man, the Grand Hump, as that mystic officer was called, enjoyed a 
 casting vote. But when quarrels arose, and the harmony of the 
 Humps was broken up by extreme personalities, pointed into epi- 
 grams by the simultaneous launch of pint-pots, the new republic, 
 the Rum Buffers, sternly decided that their president should reign 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 113 
 
 but not govern, and that he should have neither veto nor assenting 
 power. Should the existence of this society be revealed to the 
 ministers of despots, it is difficult to think that its existence will be 
 compatible with the preservation of our foreign relations. 
 
 At an exceedingly large and stout table — strong enough to be the 
 scaffold for axe and block, should democracy have sway — sat Mi\ 
 Robert Spencer, with about twenty other Rum Buffers, whose thirst 
 for tyrannicide was at that moment superseded by a thirst for spirits 
 and water, and who, though ordinarily breathing vengeance against 
 despots, were just then only breathing the vapours of something 
 called Screws. The conspirators were chiefly of the trading class, and 
 they had obtained, by incessant practice, such a liendish mastery over 
 their countenances that their diabolical expression was tamed down 
 into one of pretended good-nature, and affected neighbourliness. 
 They hypocritically laughed at small, and apparently harmless jokes 
 (unless there were hidden meaning in the allusions), and but that one 
 knew their dark designs against autocracy, and the relentless and 
 bloodthirsty measures which they were panting to execute, it would 
 not have been difficult to imagine them a knot of worthy and not 
 over wise fellows, who liked to meet over matters socially, and to 
 have rule and method in their fun. 
 
 The chairman, at the end of the oblong table, had no higher seat 
 than his fellow-conspirators, but his chair had arms, which theirs 
 lacked. The only sign which distinguished him was a cap, sur- 
 mounted by a large, but light model of a railway buffer, on which 
 was inscribed, in white letters on a black ground, " Rum." Apart 
 from the deep political significance of this, it might be objected to as 
 a bit of tomfoolery, and as such I would denounce it, if I were quite 
 sore that such things were confined to plebeian gatherings, and that 
 no club where noblemen — and I have heard, gentlemen — hebdomadal ly 
 assemble, observe a similar rite. The inferiority of the Rum Buffers, 
 however, is marked, for though they have the courage to let their 
 chairman make a fool of himself, they see no amusement in a witty 
 organization for the embarrassment of visitors, nor have they the 
 daring — while perhaps a father and a son are sitting at the same 
 table — to drink in form and with honours the sort of toasts which 
 Rochester, when half drunk, would have proposed to Sedley. 
 
 A watchful stranger might have remarked that the landlord of the 
 house, whose assumed joviality was more observable than that of any 
 of his guests, generally waited upon them himself, and seemed very 
 anxious that all should receive every attention, and if one could feel 
 any sympathy for a man who made his house the den of assassins, it 
 would be for a pei'son so situated, who, knowing the furious and 
 ruffianly character of the association, was compelled to pay such 
 cringing care lest anything should occur to excite the tiger-nature to 
 premature bloodshed. 
 
 The chairman, who (like the murderer Eugene Aram) was a school- 
 master, and alfected to regard the Buffers as his adult class meeting 
 for evening instruction, complimented Mr. Spencer upon his re- 
 appearance at the board, at which, for financial reasons, our friend 
 Robert had not been an attendant of late. Mr. Spencer's excuses 
 
 PART IV. I 
 
114 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 ■were graciously received, as was a proposition on his part that he 
 should be permitted to stand glasses all round. "Buffer Spencer, 
 your health," was speedily heard on all sides, sometimes coupled with 
 facetious additions, as " and many of 'em," or, " I looks to-vords yer." 
 
 More serious business then began, and the chairman, who, it should 
 be said, was addressed (in democratic mockery of the title, " the Lord 
 High," given to the Commissioner of the Ionian Isles) as the " Lord 
 Bum," proceeded to apprise the Bum Buffers that the subject for dis- 
 cussion that evening was as follows : — 
 
 " Whether the execution of King Charles the First had been bene- 
 ficial to the country or not ?" 
 
 He would call upon Buffer Brigstock to open the debate by a 
 motion in the affirmative. 
 
 Buffer Spencer begged to be allowed to interpolate a few preli- 
 minary words. (Cries of " Order.") 
 
 The Lord Bum said, that the elegant and classical language of the 
 Buffer who had just risen should plead for momentary indulgence, 
 especially as his visits resembled those described by an immortal poet 
 as angelic — few and far between. 
 
 Buffer Brigstock said he would bow to the Lord Bum, and did bow, 
 accordingly. 
 
 Buffer Spencer said, that what he was about to suggest might be 
 deemed irregular, but he thought that there were crisises 
 
 The Lord Bum. — Crises. The Buffer will not confound the word 
 with the name Chryses, priest of Apollo, whose prayers brought a 
 pestilence on the Grecian host before Troy. 
 
 Buffer Spencer promised that he would not do so ; and thanking the 
 noble lord for the correction, would say that there were crises when 
 regulations and precedents should be eliminated. (Hear, hear.) He 
 thought that such a crisis had now occurred. The immediate ques- 
 tion of the day was not, he thought, whether King Charles the First 
 had been properly executed, but whether the Governor and Company 
 of the Bank of England had exercised a wise discretion or an arbitrary 
 tyranny in again raising the rate of discount, as they had yesterday 
 done. (Murmurs.) This was his view, and with the permission of 
 the noble lord, he should move a resolution to the effect that such be 
 the discussion of the evening. 
 
 Buffer Sancock rose to order. It was not competent for any 
 Buffer to bring on a motion after the Lord Rum had called on them 
 to open the debate. 
 
 Buffer Dill considered that the introduction of such a subject was 
 highly uncalled for. They met there for the social hour and the social 
 glass ; and to talk over topics of a pleasant nature, like King Charles's 
 execution, was all very well. But a question about the Bank and 
 discounts took them back to their cash-books and cheque-books, and 
 he considered that this was anything but the right thing. Buffer 
 Spencer was not engaged in trade, and his vast mercantile transactions 
 might make such matters agreeable to him ; but it was not so with 
 everybody. 
 
 Tradesmen being proverbial for knowing nothing about the affairs 
 of their neighbours and customers, of course this sarcasm of Buffer 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 115 
 
 Dill's was not understood, and the winks that were exchanged had 
 nothing to do with it. 
 
 The Lord Rum said that they had doubtless made laws ; but as the 
 person who made anything was greater than the thing he made, 
 and 
 
 Buffer Nodeumb said this was not always so. Last winter his little 
 boy had made a snow-ball three times as big as himself, and rolled it 
 against the washus door. 
 
 The Lord Rum wished he had been behind him with a well wax- 
 ended cane. But he was about to say, that those who made laws, 
 being greater than what they made, could unmake them. Quod erat 
 demonstrandum. If, therefore, it were the pleasure of the meeting 
 that the resolution proposed should be taken into consideration, he 
 did not think that they were precluded from such discussion. 
 
 Buffer Brigstock, fortified by this here 
 
 Buffer Nodcumb. — And fiftified by that hair. The honourable 
 Buffer pointed to the greyish locks of the speaker. This, the epigram 
 of the evening, elicited roars of laughter, and the members repeated it 
 to one another for the next quarter of an hour. Order being re- 
 stored, 
 
 Buffer Spencer moved the resolution of which he had given notice, 
 
 Buffer Brigstock did not understand that kind of conduct. It had 
 been settled that the King was the subject 
 
 Buffer Nodcumb wished to know how that could be? But his 
 interruption was this time ineffective. 
 
 Buffer Brigstock proceeded. He had been at a good deal of pains, 
 and some expense, to make himself acquainted with the business, and 
 he did not see why what he mightcall taking the bread out of his mouth 
 was to be the order of the day. He would not impute motives ; but 
 for an honourable Buffer to begin with standing glasses round, and 
 then to try to revolutionize them, was a little too inconsistent. Looey 
 jSTapoleon had given the army sausages — (cries of "Order") — and 
 very good things sausages were, as he ought to know, who sold them 
 — (cheers and laughter) ; but the principle of bribery was opposed to 
 the feelings of Englishmen. 
 
 Buffer Spencer was eager to disclaim, in the most solemn manner, 
 any such idea. The imputation must proceed from some one better 
 acquainted with dead cats than with living Englishmen. 
 
 It need hardly be said that this insinuation produced a stormy 
 debate, in the course of which a good deal of harsh language was 
 used, but it ended by Buffer Spencers i-efusing to make any apology, 
 but volunteering to retract the words " dead cats," and to substitute 
 for them " traditions of the past." This being deemed satisfactory, 
 the discussion proceeded, and 
 
 The Lord Rum put the question, when it became evident that 
 despite the noble anti-bribery theory of Buffer Brigstock, the glasses 
 round had not been without their effect. There were for the Bank 
 Discussion 14, for the Martyrdom Question 8. 
 
 Buffer Spencer hoped that all acerbity would now be forgotten, and 
 as the most cantankerous sausage-maker in existence could not now 
 charge him with having any object to gain, he would ask the noble 
 
 i 2 
 
116 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 lord's permission to moisten a dry discussion, with another glasses round. 
 (Cheers, and the order given.) 
 
 The Lord Hum. — Cito dot qui Bis dat. (Applause.) 
 
 Buffer Nodcumb (as a nigger). — What am Dat ? (Laughter.) 
 
 Buffer Spencer then said. — It is my intention to move a resolution 
 amounting to a vote of censure upon the ignorant, corrupt, and job- 
 bing corporation called the Bank of England, and I think, my lord, 
 that when such a resolution, from a meeting like this, finds its way 
 into the foolishly called Parlour of that abominable institution, the 
 effect will resemble that of a thirteen-inch shell discharged from a 
 mortar into the trenches of the dismayed and astounded enemy. 
 (Cheers.) Now, my lord, I will first ask myself a question 
 
 Buffer Hyde (a lawyer's clerk, with much general information). — 
 And a devilish foolish answer you'll get, as Lord Bacon said to Lord 
 Mansfield. 
 
 Buffer Spencer hoped not. He would ask himself what was a Bank 1 
 
 The Lord Rum. — Derived originally from the Latin Bancus. 
 
 Buffer Spencer was indebted for that most valuable information. 
 He would then endeavour to define one. He would say that a bank 
 was a locality made a receptacle for the circulating medium, condi- 
 tionally on its flux and reflux being regulated in conformity with the 
 temporary exigencies of society. (Hear, hear.) He was proud to 
 find that his definition was accepted, and he would next proceed to 
 ask how far the Bank of England realized that definition 1 Society 
 was composed of various parts, but perhaps the most natural partition 
 would be to divide it into the classes who can help themselves, and 
 the classes who cannot. 
 
 Mr. Nodcumb apologized for interrupting, but the distance at which 
 the backy-box was from him left him among the latter class, unless the 
 speaker, by pushing it, would enable him to join the former, and help 
 himself. 
 
 Buffer Spencer resumed. He was one of those who would assert, 
 without fear of contradiction, that an institution, let it call itself a 
 bank or what it liked, that ignored the existence of one of those 
 classes, and reserved its advantages for the other, was a mockery, a 
 delusion, and a snare. And such was the conduct of the Bank of 
 England. He challenged contradiction. Were the Brothers Baring 
 to enter the court of the Bank, and demand a loan, whether of shil- 
 lings for cab hire, or thousands for some gigantic operation, they 
 would have it. Did the Baron Rothschild desire to buy up Jericho 
 or Damascus, the money would be sent by the Bank either to his 
 counting-house or to his mansion in Piccadilly. If the Marquis of 
 Westminster had set his eye on a Murillo in the city, and instead of 
 going home for the money, sent into Mr. Weguelin for it, the footman 
 would come back with ten, twenty, or thirty thousand pounds in his 
 menial hat. But reverse the picture. 
 
 Mr. Nodcumb.— The Murillo 1 
 
 Buffer Spencer. — No, Buffer, the circumstances. Suppose that I, 
 having no money and no credit, but seeing a legitimate enterprise 
 before me which must result in prosperity, were to send my paper to 
 the Bank for acceptance and discount, should I get it 1 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 117 
 
 The smile that passed across the faces of several of the solvent and 
 well-to-do tradesmen around the speaker, did not seem exactly to pro- 
 mise that if they were to be the discounters he proposed to apply to, the 
 money would be quite so ready as in the other cases he had mentioned. 
 The Lord Rum noted this, and perhaps having a little fellow-feeling 
 with Mr. Spencer, from not always having the school-bills regularly 
 paid (people who would think it a sin to defraud the butcher will 
 often evade the dues to the teacher), he interposed with a good- 
 natured suggestion, that it might be as well to avoid what he called 
 individualization. But Mr. Spencer had partaken of a good deal of 
 refreshment, and was moreover a capitalist at the moment, and could 
 afford to talk of his poverty. 
 
 He thanked the noble lord for a delicacy which he could assure 
 him was highly appreciated, but he wished to put a strong case. He 
 was free to confess that his own paper was not, at that crisis, what in 
 financial circles would be termed first-class, but he was equally free to 
 assert that his commercial instincts and acquirements were subordinate 
 to none. Inferior abilities had been plastered \\\) with paper. 
 
 Buffer Bressummer, as a builder, who knew something about plas- 
 tering, might take the liberty of saying that such a thing was im- 
 possible. 
 
 Buffer Hopgood had never heard of paper being a plaster, except 
 brown paper and vinegar, when the boy fell down the hill and broke 
 his crown. 
 
 The Lord Bum said that Buffer Spencer's illustration was an imagi- 
 native one, but perhaps permissible in oratory; though, did it appear 
 in severer composition, he should animadvert upon it. 
 
 Buffer Spencer, in continuation, would allow that he had a personal 
 antipathy to the Bank of England, but his strictures were based on 
 public grounds. But for the mean, tyrannical, and cowardly policy 
 of that institution (the orator's voice began to falter) he, instead of 
 humbly entertaining those whom he was proud to see around him, 
 with spirituous liquors in a tavern-room, would have been offering 
 them the best of claret, in a splendid dining-room, hung round with 
 researchy pictures, and graced with the presence of female loveliness. 
 This the Bank of England had denied him, and he hungered and 
 thirsted for the day when that x'otten corporation, undermined by 
 its own atrocious treacheries, and crushed by its own appalling 
 tyrannies, should sink into irretrievable and — and — immeasurable 
 annihilation. 
 
 The British are just, and never withhold from a man who has 
 fairly toiled through a mass of syllables the guerdon of warm 
 applause. We have a veneration for what resembles eloquence — a 
 veneration entirely irrespective of the meaning of words. Mr. 
 Spencer's peroration was loudly cheered, by auditors who immediately 
 added to one another that what he had said was neither here nor 
 there. 
 
 The Lord Bum said that he was sure the meeting would sympathize 
 with a speaker whose chief enmity to an institution was founded 
 on its preventing his doing more kindness to his friends (applause) ; 
 and by way of corollary to Buffer Spencer's propositions, and in order 
 
118 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 to diversify the night, he would suggest that they should give him 
 musical honours. 
 
 With much enthusiasm the Rum Buffers delivered a chorus, 
 hearing their united testimony to the jollity and goodness of Buffer 
 Spencer's fellowship. 
 
 Buffer Spencer was again upon his legs, but visibly affected. He 
 might be said to have been a jolly good fellow, there were the makings 
 of it in him, or perhaps he had better say the remains, for he was a 
 crushed worm (cries of " No, no"). Yes, he was, crushed and trampled 
 to the earth by the iniquity of the Governor and Company of the Bank 
 of England, who had blasted his mercantile reputation, ruined his 
 commercial enterprises, and driven the iron into his very soul. But 
 he defied the Bank of England, and all its minions, from the haughty 
 Governor in his gilded chariot to the sniggering clerk on his threepenny 
 omnibus, and they might all 
 
 He concluded with proposing that Threadneedle-street should 
 transfer its establishment to a quarter where, if Milton is right, it 
 would have in Mammon a convenient neighbour in case of a run. 
 The noble lord in the chair, however, suggested that it would be 
 rather irregular to put this suggestion into a formal resolution, and a 
 milder, but still highly condemnatory motion was submitted to the 
 Bum Buffers. And as these gentlemen did not care in the least 
 about the Bank of England, and had no objection to pay a little com- 
 pliment to their friend, who a third time proposed to refresh the 
 meeting at his own proper charge, there was carried and registered 
 against that institution one of the severest and most vindictive sen- 
 tences ever placed on record since the days of Cato and Carthage. 
 
 The party separated at a reasonable hour, as became men who had to 
 arise betimes ; but Robert Spencer, exultant in his new liberty, did not 
 see fit to retire to bed until he had made a not very steady circuit of 
 observation in the neighbourhood. As he passed a small public- 
 house in a squalid street, chiefly inhabited by sellers of birds and 
 stealers of dogs, he heard the notes of a fiddle, which recalled to him 
 the scene of the early part of the evening. 
 
 " She might have wished me good-night," murmured the Buffer ; 
 " but it's no odds, as she says. I forgive her. I forgive her. Un- 
 grateful slut." 
 
 Uttering these words with the care which the awakened conscience 
 of a man who has taken too much bids him bestow upon his delivery, 
 Mr. Spencer smiled elaborately, and then thought he would look into 
 the house whence the music proceeded. What he observed, on 
 entering, seemed to him, in his hazy state, like a dream. 
 
 For there was Zuleika in the taproom of the public-house, evi- 
 dently the star and centre of attraction. The room, with its sanded 
 floor, coarse seats, and coarser company, on whom shone a flaring gas- 
 light that brought out the dinginess of garment and dirtiness of flesh 
 with displeasing strength, was hot and fusty, and Robert Spencer 
 felt a little tipsier, after inhaling its unwholesome atmosphere for a 
 minute or two. The child was in the middle, under the light, and 
 was executing a dance to the music of the performer whom Mr. 
 Spencer bad found in his kitchen, and who was seated at the end in 
 
1 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■' 
 
 ^ 
 
 - 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 - 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 - 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 119 
 
 one of the boxes, urging her to renewed efforts when her wearied 
 little limbs did not obey her will, or rather his, with sustained preci- 
 sion. The woman was also present, somewhat intoxicated, but suffi- 
 ciently sober to keep her eager eye on the few halfpence which, when 
 the dance was over, Zuleika was sent round to collect. Few gave 
 money, but several offered drink to the child, and when the drink 
 was spirituous, she was not unwilling to sip. 
 
 " Clever young thing, that," said one of the spectators — a decent- 
 looking mechanic — to Spencer, as the latter sat down opposite to 
 him. 
 
 " I — I have seen her before somewhere," returned Spencer. 
 
 " Like enough, for she's always about. They do take it out of 
 her, that's a fact," said the other in a lower voice. " She's worth 
 her salt." 
 
 ' : Salt — salt — saltatory — yes," remarked Mr. Spencer, lucidly. 
 
 " She's at it all the evening," said the other, who, pleased to have 
 got a listener, disregarded the quality of his listening ; " and I don't 
 understand how she manages to keep it up, but habit's everything. 
 First, she has to dance in an open air bally at Clipy (possibly Cal- 
 liope) Gardens. Then she gets away to dance in the pantermine, and 
 from the Clipy Gardens — which is by Rotherhithe — to the theaytre 
 is three good mile, take it which way you will, and her friends don't 
 look as if they invested much money in busses. Then when she's 
 done in the pantermine she gets her own clothes on — and changing 
 dresses ever so many times is wearying work, I'm told — and then they 
 take her from public-house to public-house, and she dances, as it might 
 be here. Sometimes the company won't have 'em at no price, and 
 the waiter turns 'em out ; sometimes they'll let her dance and dance ; 
 and mind you, some of her steps are first-rate, for I've a cousin who's 
 a young man in an orchestral", and he's seen her, and he's a judge ; 
 and when she's danced herself out, they won't give anything, or 
 perhaps only lush. Sometimes, though, she picks up a good lot of 
 coppers, and the woman there, which she calls her aunt, but is as 
 much her aunt as I am, she sacks that. I don't suppose the poor 
 child gets any of it, but I dare say she gets jolly well licked when the 
 coppers don't come in." 
 
 " It's a shame," jerked out Mr. Spencer, compressing his lips, 
 
 and staring in a most owlish manner. 
 
 " That's about it," said the other ; " and I've got children of my 
 own, and sooner than one on 'em should be brought up to that sort 
 of thing, I'd put her in the cistern with a brick tied to her neck, and 
 think I'd done the right and the kind thing by her. Here, Sal," he 
 said, " here's a brown for you. Going to give us another par?" 
 
 " Shy lot," said Zuleika. 
 
 " Then I'm off," said the other, " as the sport's over." He nodded 
 to the child, and went away. He was a good-natured man, and kind 
 to his own children, but it never occurred to him that in witnessing 
 and encouraging the performance, he was taking part in the wrong he 
 had condemned. Why should a mechanic be wiser than his betters? 
 Mrs. Brown is the best wife in Tyburnia, Mrs. Jones is the best 
 mother in Bromptonia, and Mrs. Robinson is the best wife and 
 
120 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 mother in Belgravia, and all three would shudder at sitting down in 
 the same room (or pew) with a Traviata. Yet they all three know 
 that milliners' girls work fifteen hours in a day, and that ballet girls 
 are paid twelve shillings a week. When the ladies order dresses and* 
 take boxes, does it occur to them that they are part of the system 
 that sends portly parsons and obese churchwardens clamouring to a 
 home secretary for police bludgeons to beat guilty creatures out of 
 Respectable streets. 
 
 It is, indeed, a good thing that there are no Druids in England, or 
 we might be daily offering living sacrifices of the bodies of our 
 children. What cause for joy and thankfulness has every one who 
 lives in an enlightened age, and witnesses the mai'ch of intellect, and 
 the triumphs of civilization. And what a heathenish view the poet r 
 Keats, must have taken of society, when he could write, — 
 
 " And but to think is to be full of sorrow." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 cousin latuiek's love. 
 
 Me. Latimer Cheriton, it has been said, wrote divers letters to his 
 beautiful cousin, when she was at Hyde, and it was only after several 
 of them had been received that Margaret was completely enlightened, 
 and answered him becomingly. He certainly desired some encouragement 
 in the course which he was taking, but it is just to him to say that 
 he did not wait for that stimulus. Latimer had but little of his 
 brother Alban in his nature. When he wanted anything he asked 
 for it, and if it were not to be had for asking, he did his best to 
 get it. 
 
 What he wanted at this part of our story was a young lady of the 
 name of Lizzie Pybus. 
 
 As far as Miss Pybus herself was concerned, there was no particular 
 difficulty in his way. Lizzie was an exceedingly nice, cheerful, 
 affectionate little girl, with bright hair (a good deal of it, and in 
 clustering curls), pleasant features, wearing an expression of readiness 
 to be pleased, pretty round white arms, and that species of figure 
 around which it might rather occur to you to put your own arm than 
 to retire some distance for artistic contemplation. Her eyes were 
 dark, and her lips were red, and she coidd sing songs (not much opera 
 music), and coidd play quadrilles upon the pianoforte, and never 
 looked cross at being asked to do so. Her feet were very neat, re- 
 minding one of Sir John Suckling's mice, and altogether, without 
 there being anything very remarkable about her, she was one of our 
 dear good little English girls with whom Providence has lodged the 
 man-taming secret that tells them How to make home Happy. 
 
 This was all very well, and Latimer Cheriton, having met this Miss 
 Pybus and a few of her sisters at a dance, thought that Lizzie would 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 121 
 
 do very well to make his home happy. He was not very long before 
 he managed to be intimate enough with her to confide to her his opinion, 
 and was very much delighted to find that she had no objection to try 
 the experiment. Why should she hesitate? Her heart was dis- 
 engaged, and Latimer was a handsome, merry, honourable young 
 fellow, calculated to make an excellent husband. I ask again, why 
 should she hesitate I The class to which Lizzie Pybus belongs does 
 not read French novels, and its maidens do not wait to love until 
 they can find a scoundrel, and then call him their Destiny. 
 
 But, you see, though the willingness of two persons to be married 
 together may be regarded as an important element in the promotion 
 of a match, it is not all that is necessary. 
 
 Mr. Pybus, the young lady's father, was one of those gentlemen 
 who, in the House of Commons, are the real representatives of the 
 country. The father of Latimer's love was not like the father of 
 Arundel, a sworn law-maker. But he was a member of the select 
 body to whom the law-makers address themselves when they wish 
 the nation to know what they say, the body to whom unless a states- 
 man appeals, and makes himself heard by the same, his name will be 
 little regarded by the world, and his speeches will not be regarded at 
 all. When a member merely spoke to the House, he turned towards 
 Mr. Arundel, of Thanington-square. When he spoke to the country, 
 he turned towards Mr. Pybus, of Lloyd-square. It is, one would 
 hope, needless to add (and therefore let us add it) that Mr. Pybus 
 was a Parliamentary Reportei*. 
 
 Mrs. Pybus had been as pretty a girl as Lizzie, and was still plea- 
 sant looking, and what may be termed comely. I cannot tell how she 
 had managed to preserve all her teeth so well, for they were as regular 
 and white as when her smile had first disclosed their enamel to the 
 enamoured Charles Pybus — and they were the same set. People say 
 acids are bad for the teeth — nothing acid ever came out of that good- 
 natured woman's mouth, that is quite certain. Charles Pybus thought 
 her just as charming as when they were married by the late venerable 
 and venerated Bishop of Calcutta, at the Church of St. Mary, Isling- 
 ton, and held that none of her daughters were at all equal to her. 
 And good as her teeth were, her eyes had been just enough injured 
 by time to make her blind to the fact that years and gallery hours 
 had put some grey into her Chai4es's hair, and some crowsfeet into his 
 handsome face. They lived in great comfort and happiness in Lloyd 
 Square, Mr. Pybus's salary being a capital one, and his earnings in 
 other ways being by no means small. But then, 
 
 There were nine girls. Nine Misses Pybus, or Miss Pybuses, or 
 
 Pybi. 
 
 Their nine names were Fanny, Mary, Lizzie, Jane, Lucy, Barbara, 
 Lavinia, Jemima, and Magdalena. From this recapitulation it will be 
 perceived that the young couple began (as usual) by complimenting 
 relatives by christening children after them, but gradually finding (as 
 usual) that such compliment produces no particular benefit, they obliged 
 the children, instead, by giving them pretty names to wear through 
 life. 
 
 Our Lizzie, and Mr. Latimer's, was the third. I do not say that 
 
12-Z THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 she was the prettiest of them all, though he would have said so. The 
 wittiest lady novelist of our day cleverly says that a man often takes 
 one girl out of a handsome family, who have looked excessively well 
 together, and when he has married her, finds that his share of the 
 general stock of good looks is a small one. Nobody who has married 
 a Miss Pybus told this to Mrs. Gore. Each of the grown-up girls 
 had a special grace of her own, and they were all distinguishable. 
 You never took Jane for Barbara, or Mary for Lucy, though you had 
 not met the girls three times. Lizzie's speciality was her active good- 
 nature, which could never be kept out of sight. She had a faculty of 
 finding out occasions to be good-natured, when very well disposed 
 folks could not see them. And if reduced to such straits that she 
 could not do a kind thing, Lizzie, rather than be quite idle, would say 
 one. 
 
 The merits of the other eight young ladies are not material to the 
 course of our narrative, but they all had merits, besides their looks, 
 and we may see more of them hereafter. But I think a reader should 
 not be a flirt, and should be content with the intimate acquaintance 
 which an author permits him to form with the choicest of the charac- 
 ters that meet them, and should not desire to be upon equally good 
 terms with everybody. It is not because we are reading a book that 
 we should forget our refined and fastidious manners, and cultivate a 
 familiarity which woidd be most objectionable in ordinary life. And 
 a reader who finds that his author abstains from making him inti- 
 mate with any particular character, or taking him home to any 
 particular house, ought to conclude, as a gentleman would do in 
 society, that the other has a good reason for his abstinence, and feel 
 obliged to him. 
 
 It has now been shown pretty plainly, I imagine, why there was an 
 obstacle in the way of the union between Latimer and Lizzie. Mr. 
 Pybus had not a fortune that he could divide by nine, and the young 
 lawyer was only just coining into two hundred a year — four pounds a 
 week. 
 
 Latimer was very fond of Lizzie, but he was a prudent young fellow, 
 and he walked round Lloyd Square a great many times of a night 
 after he had left her fathers house, and meditated on the means of in- 
 creasing his income. People really ought to be ashamed of them- 
 selves, he thought, for not quarrelling half enough, and neglecting to 
 throw business in the way of a meritorious young solicitor who wished 
 to marry a loveable young lady. 
 
 The next time he called, and he really visited the Pybuses very 
 often, it was in the evening, shortly before the close of the season. 
 All the girls were delighted to see him, from Fanny, the Vicereine, to 
 little Magdalena, who was virtually the Queen of the establishment, 
 and whose despotism was only tempered by her being sent to bed when 
 her unconstitutional practices became too much for her loving subjects 
 and sisters. And as it was desirable to do something to amuse them- 
 selves and their visitor, Fanny sang, Mary asked a new charade, Jane 
 narrated a story abridged by herself from the London Journal (with 
 the trifling omission of its real points), Lucy developed the mysteries 
 of a cat's-cradle of her own invention, Barbara brought him some tea, 
 
THE GOHDIAN KNOT. 1'Zo 
 
 Lavinia challenged liim to chess, and was check-mated in nine moves, 
 Jemima brought him some more tea, and Magdalena got upon his 
 knee, and pulled the pin out of his scarf. Lizzie merely came and sat 
 near him, and though she did nothing else to amuse him, he appeared 
 as much pleased with this attention as with any of the other minis- 
 trations. 
 
 ■ I thought papa was to he at home this evening," said Latimer. 
 
 " He expected that there would be a count-out," said Lizzie ; " but 
 we have often noticed that when such a thing has been most likely, he 
 has been kept until very late." 
 
 " If I were a reporter," said Latimer, " I would show special favour 
 to any member who counted the hotise out, and when he wanted to 
 distinguish himself, he should be immortalized at great length. I 
 would make it worth his while to be humane. Just imagine them 
 keeping people in a hot chamber, on such a lovely evening as this, to 
 hear debates, even if they were good, which they are quite sure not 
 to be." 
 
 " Yes, but it must soon be over now," said Fanny. " The house 
 was up before this time last year. And then for the sea-side, eh, 
 mamma?" 
 
 "For one or two of you, perhaps," said Mrs. Pybus, with pretended 
 reserve. But a remonstrant chorus of " O, ma," and some merrily 
 defiant laughter, showed that the young ladies were not greatly dis- 
 couraged by the oracle. 
 
 * Fanny will go, of course," said mamma, " because she is the 
 eldast." 
 
 " And Maddy, because she is the youngest," cried out Miss Magda- 
 lena, determined to make all safe at once. Each of the others spoke 
 for herself. 
 
 " And Mary, because she has not been very well." 
 
 " And Jane, because she will be very unwell if she doesn't." 
 
 " And Lucy, because she didn't go last year." 
 
 " Why, you were at Seven-Oaks, my dear," said Mrs. Pybus. 
 
 Lucy caught up Jemima's school maps, and, turning to England, 
 begged her mamma to take notice that Seven-Oaks was not by the 
 sea-side, and finished the geographical lesson with a kiss. 
 
 " Barbara is going," said that young lady, " because papa promised 
 her. 
 
 " Lavinia is going, because she is very fond of Margate." 
 
 " And of somebody else who is gone there," said Lucy, whereat Miss 
 Lavinia coloured a little and laughed, and tossed her young head, and 
 said it was no such thing, so of course it was. 
 
 "Jemima must go, because everybody else is going, and you wouldn't 
 be so cruel as to leave her in the house by herself." 
 
 " You would be with me, you know, Mima dear," said Lizzie, 
 smiling. 
 
 " O, but you are going too," cried out four or five voices. 
 
 " We cannot all go, that is quite certain," said Lizzie. " Fancy," 
 she said, turning to Latimer, " fancy Papa going up to a door and 
 asking whether he could have rooms for nine girls, of various sizes." 
 
 " It would sound rather awfully," said Latimer ; " but it would be 
 
124 THE GORDIAN KXOT. 
 
 a very stern landlady that could refuse you, if she saw you all. But 
 did you ever hear of the American story about the widow who got 
 into the house where no children were admitted T 
 
 " Tell me," said Magdalena, peremptorily. 
 
 " Well, she saw the landlord, and made terms, and when he asked 
 her whether she had any children, she put her handkerchief to her 
 eyes, and said, with sobs, that she had had eight boys, but that they 
 were all in the churchyard. So she got possession, and then sent for 
 the eight boys out of the churchyard, where she had left them to play 
 leap-frog while she managed the business." 
 
 The laugh had not finished when Mr. Pybus came in, and there was 
 a rush at his neck, and much kissing. 
 
 " We didn't hear you knock, papa," said Mrs. Pybus. 
 
 " You did not V demanded Mr. Pybus, with solemnity. " Ahem. 
 For your not having heard me knock, I might assign several reasons, 
 but I shall trouble you with the last only, namely, that I came in 
 without knocking, and with my latch-key. I burst upon you un- 
 awares, and I find Bacchanalian revelry." 
 
 " You got the count-out then, after all," said Latimer, as soon as 
 the garland of daughters disentwined itself from their father, and 
 allowed him to shake hands with the visitor. 
 
 " Yes, but it was a close thing, for that ass Myope wanted a House, 
 that he might let off a speech he has been cooking up about Exchequer 
 Bills. If, three months back, he knew an Exchequer Bill from a 
 Dividend Warrant, it's as much as he did. We should have been all 
 right, for they wouldn't have made a House for a quack like that, but 
 some Irishmen wanted to bring in a plan for a railway along the 
 Giant's Causeway, and so they stopped, instead of going away to dinner 
 like men. However, the whips stood by the door and kept fellows 
 back, and luckily, a boat upset in the river, just before the terrace, 
 and ever so many men ran out to see that, and a good fellow, who 
 was wide awake, snatched the moment, and moved the count." 
 
 " Nobody was drowned, I hope, papa," said Barbara. 
 
 " If anybody had been, my dear, his noble devotion in saving me a 
 wearisome evening would have been amply repaid by my gratitude. 
 You don't think so '? Well, then, nobody was drowned. Have they 
 been taking care of you, Latimer ¥' 
 
 " All care, thank you." 
 
 "I have taken care of him. I have taken care of his shirt-pin," 
 cried Miss Magdalena, displaying the article, stuck into the front of 
 her dress. 
 
 " Give it back directly, Maddy the madcap," said her father. " Mr. 
 Cheriton spoils you, and I don't know where he learns the habit, unless 
 it's from your parents and your sisters." 
 
 Very much at home, therefore, was our merry Latimer among the 
 Pybuses, and the head of the house had taken a strong and natural 
 liking for him, and saw, with no dissatisfaction, which way things 
 would eventually go. 
 
 " I have no money to give my girls," he said, walking in the Square 
 with Latimer, while an early supper was in preparation ; " but as I 
 value each of them at twenty thousand pounds, the man who gets 
 
THE GOltDIAN KNOT. 125 
 
 my consent must make handsome settlements, and you shall have 
 the job of drawing them up." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to take Instructions," said the young lawyer. 
 " In the meantime, I want to consult you about a matter on which 
 I have been meditating for some time. May I ?" 
 
 " Refer your question to a select committee, consisting of me, and 
 you shall have an early report. 1 ' 
 
 " I have just entered, as you know, into business with Mr. 
 Sandpiper, and there is every prospect of its becoming a good one." 
 
 " I weep as a philanthropist, but rejoice as a friend." 
 
 " Now, in the meanwhile, and as my time is far from being fully 
 occupied, what do you say to an idea I have of entering the reporters' 
 gallery, and so making my income better than it is likely otherwise 
 to be I It is on this that I came to ask your advice." 
 
 " Well, some are born reporters, some achieve reporting, and 
 some have reporting thrust upon them. It is no play, I can tell you, 
 bub work that requires not only very considerable abilities, but great 
 wideawakeativeness, and great industry. Have you got all this ?" 
 
 "You can judge of my abilities for the work. I think I know 
 myself well enough to say that I am not afraid of falling short in the 
 other two qualifications." 
 
 " Do you know anything of shorthand ?" 
 
 " I have been working at it." 
 
 " Nothing but practice, and unremitting practice, will make you 
 skilful. You must think in shorthand. No day must pass without 
 your taking a spell at it. Write it whenever you can get a pencil 
 into your hand. Write down your washing-bills in it ; write your 
 love-letters in it ; write your diary in it ; take down in it the gossip 
 in an omnibus, the sermon in church, the dialogue at the theatre, the 
 speeches of your counsel. Steep your mind in stenography, and 
 you'll do ; but it is one of the few things in this world that are not 
 to be done by halves." 
 
 " I quite see the value of your advice as to acquiring the art ; but 
 what do you say about my taking up the pursuit?" 
 
 " This. If you go at it in earnest, you will succeed, and in due 
 course you will get an engagement, which will make a pleasant 
 addition to your legal earnings. Then you will learn a great deal, 
 both of men and things ; for, nonsense apart, the House of Commons 
 is a grand machine, and though the steam-engine is not always in 
 gear, it is only fools that fancy the machine is worked by ass-power. 
 A few sessions in that gallery are no bad way of finishing a young 
 man's education, Cheriton." 
 
 " That I am sure of," said Latimer, " but I tell you frankly that my 
 immediate views are avaricious. I want more money." 
 
 " Most people do," said Mr. Fybus, smiling. He was not going 
 to be drawn into asking the young man why he wanted money, 
 though I dare say Mr. Latimer Cheriton wished that he would. 
 " Well," he continued, " you have now a good half year before you ; 
 Parliament will be up in a week, and will not meet again until 
 February. If, towards Christmas, you feel that you have mastered 
 the art — and mind, though I don't know what training you have given 
 
126 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 yourself, I do not suppose that anything under a year will qualify you 
 for the gallery— come to me, and we will see whether anything can be 
 done. But once more I would impress upon you, that constant work 
 is the sole means to this end." 
 
 " Upon my word I wish," said Latimer, " that, if it would not be 
 boring you past bearing, you would give me live minutes of your 
 attention now, and see how far I have got." 
 
 " With all my heart. But there's Maddy at the window waving 
 the signal for supper. We'll put you through your paces afterwards." 
 
 " After supper," said Latimer, in some trepidation. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Pybus, " why not. If the girls talk, so much the 
 better, as it will accustom you to the giggle and clack of the ladies 
 over our heads in the House, who revenge themselves for not being 
 seen by making themselves most unpleasantly heard." 
 
 This last sentence was uttered as they came in. 
 
 *' How ungallant," said Barbara. " Besides, you should send the 
 ladies a polite message, and then they would be quiet." 
 
 " Would they, Babbums," said her father. " I've often sent you 
 one, in your time, without that desirable effect." 
 
 " Ah ! that was when I was young," said Sixteen. " I dare say, 
 now, that instead of being polite, you look round and scowl at the 
 ladies, and say rude things about them." 
 
 " The single men do, sometimes, my dear, and would send the 
 police to them, if possible, but the married men are much more 
 indulgent, besides knowing better." 
 
 The cheerful meal over, and the glasses on the board, Mr. Pybus 
 said to Latimer : — 
 
 " There's some paper, and there's a pencil." 
 
 " Is he going to draw our pictures," said Maddy. " Do mine first, 
 Mr. Cheriton, please, do." And the young lady stuck herself straight 
 up, in what she conceived to be a sitter's true attitude. 
 
 " Will you be quiet, miss," said papa, " and not remind me that you 
 are sitting up to supper, contrary to all the proprieties 1 I am 
 taking an apprentice, and I want to try whether he will suit me." 
 
 Was there any reason why Lizzie's colour should rise, and why her 
 eyes should sparkle with pleasure ? Latimer has since told her that 
 they did, but she has replied that he was too much flustered with his 
 first lesson to look at her. 
 
 " Now, then, Order at the Bar," said Mr. Pybus, in a rolling, sono- 
 rous voice, in imitation of some fine tones which please the Com- 
 mons' ears no longer, but will long, let it be hoped, fall pleasantly 
 upon those of the territorial aristocracy. " The question is, whether 
 the Right Honourable Charles Pybus shall not forthwith betake 
 himself, by himself, unto some sea-side residence for a month or two, 
 leaving his incumbrances to take care of the house in Lloyd-square. 
 Order ! order !" exclaimed the Speaker, as a turmoil of protest broke 
 forth. 
 
 " We wont be left behind," cried Maddy, " and that's all about it." 
 
 " Ring the bell for the Sergeant-at-Arms, and desire her to commit 
 the honourable member to bed," said Mr. Pybus. " Reporter, are 
 you awake 1" 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 127 
 
 " O, I wasn't going to write that sort of thing. I was waiting for 
 the speeches," said Latimer. 
 
 " But it is that sort of thing, and every sort of thing, that you must 
 learn to take, and be able to describe graphically, sir, at the very 
 shortest notice. If an earthquake should open the floor of the House 
 iluring a debate, you are not to take your pencil off your paper, but 
 to go on, saying that some interruption here occurred, owing to a con- 
 vulsion of nature, and fourteen or fifteen honourable members were 
 swallowed up, among whom you noticed so and so, and new writs 
 haviug been moved for the counties and boroughs thus vacated, the 
 debate was resumed. But you want speeches. Now, then. The 
 question is before the House. Lady Fanny Pybus." 
 
 Fanny. — I think that the right honourable daddy 
 
 The Speaker. — Order ! 
 
 Fanny. — Well, then, I think that Mr. Pybus ought to do exactly 
 what he likes, and I am of this opinion, because I am quite sure that 
 he will like to take mamma and me with him, though he may decide, 
 in his wisdom, that it is better for younger persons to be domestic 
 in their early days (murmurs). 
 
 Magdalena. — / am going, and so I tell you. (Goes round, and in 
 the most unparliamentary manner gets upon the Speaker's knee.) 
 
 Mr. Pybus. — Somebody go and fetch me the Honourable Robert 
 Bourke's Parliamentary Precedents. I am really not aware of the 
 course the Speaker should adopt when he is sat upon. 
 
 All this time Mr. Pybus kept a keen eye upon Latimer, and 
 observed with satisfaction that he was at all events writing on, and 
 had not come to grief and stagnation. 
 
 Barbara. — A great writer has remarked, that of all the passions 
 implanted in the human breast, one of the most hurtful is that of 
 selfishness (hear, hear, from several voices). I might deduce instances 
 of this passion from my biographical dictionary, but I think I will 
 not. But I should just like to ask Miss Fanny how 
 
 The Speaker. — Order ! Order ! The honourable member is out of 
 order in addressing, or naming any other honourable member. I am 
 the person spoken at by everybody, and I am called Sir. 
 
 Barbara. — Then, Sir, I should like to ask you whether you think 
 the honourable — what am I to say — the honourable creature over 
 there would like to be left behind, when her sisters go out of town 1 
 
 Fanny. — I should like to know whether it is regular for the indi- 
 vidual to call me a creature. 
 
 The Speaker. — If the woi-d is used simply as implying that the 
 honourable member is part of the system of creation, I apprehend 
 that the term is not one which can properly be repudiated ; but 
 if it be intended as imputing to the honourable member any qua- 
 lities of an objectionable nature, it is irregular, and must be with- 
 drawn. 
 
 Barbara. — I only meant that she was a selfish pig, and I don't see 
 why this pig should go to Margate and this pig stay at home, any 
 more than why this pig should have some bread and butter while this 
 pig has none. 
 
 The debate was here enlivened by Miss Magdalena's giving a 
 
128 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 lively imitation of the utterances of the fifth pig mentioned in the 
 digital ballad cited by Barbara. 
 
 The Speaker. — The reporter will be good enough to be instantly 
 reminded of the zoological noises with which the House used to be 
 amused in the early days of reform in Parliament. 
 
 Mr. Latimer Cheriton. — But I was not there, and I did not know 
 that such noises were then made. 
 
 Mr. Pybus. — That has nothing to do with it. You ought to know 
 everything that can by possibility have any bearing upon any subject 
 which comes under your notice. Suppose that a speaker referred to 
 such a thing, and you could not very well hear him. What a muddle 
 you might make of your sentence from not being familiar with what 
 he was talking about. I tell you that you must know everything. 
 Have you done enough, or shall we talk any more nonsense for you 
 to take down? 
 
 Mr. Cheriton — Nearly all I have done has been rather conversation 
 than speaking. Could you give me a bit of level oratory. 
 
 Mr. Pybus. — Why, the other is ten times the hardest. Anybody 
 who can take dialogue can take anything. One reporter used to say 
 that he was always ten words ahead of most speakers. But come, 
 take a few lines of the real Parliamentary stuff. (Rises, and takes a 
 graceful attitude.) It is not, sir, too much to say that I could have 
 tendered my humble support to this resolution, or, rather, I should 
 say, have expressed my humble sentiments on the question (for I have 
 listened in vain, sir, for a resolution from your lips), with appreciably 
 more satisfaction had I been enabled, either from the structure of the 
 question, or from the arguments that have pt'oceeded from the other 
 side, to arrive at a clear perception of the objects sought to be attained. 
 And in the first place, sir, I would be permitted to ask who is the 
 Honourable Charles Pybus upon whose contemplated action this 
 House is called, in the absence of all information, to pronounce a 
 verdict of authorization. I, sir, am free to confess that I am one of 
 those who do not think that the solemn opinion of this House ought 
 to be invoked upon every trivial occasion. Nee Deus intersit, nisi 
 dignus vindice nodus. And presuming that I were to grant, sir, as I 
 do not say that I am unwilling to do, to the friends and admirers 
 of Mr. Pybus, that the gentleman in question is graced with every 
 virtue that can adorn and illustrate our common h.umanit} T , I still, sir, 
 find myself as remote as ever from a solution of the problem why his 
 domestic arrangements should be the subject of investigation in this 
 
 House . Now, Latimer, imagine yourself touched on the shoulder, 
 
 your " turn" is done, and so snatch up your note-book and leave your 
 stall, into which your successor dives noiselessly, and takes the next 
 word. Let's look. 
 
 The look of the shorthand was so satisfactory to Mr. Pybus, that 
 Lizzie's eyes had another opportunity of sparkling at his words, and 
 when Latimer had written out the scene from his notes, and they 
 were read, on another evening, to the party, they all applauded the 
 faithfulness with which he had "taken" their chatter. So that the 
 matrimonial prospects of our cousin Latimer do not look so wild as 
 when we first spoke of them. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 129 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON. 
 
 •■ A-3TUSE yourself your own way, ray dear, until lunch-time," said the 
 Russian merchant to Margaret, one morning during their stay at 
 Ryde. "1 have business in the town that may occupy me for some 
 time. 
 
 Soon afterwards Mr. Keckling was seated in a retired apartment 
 in one of the quieter portions of Ryde. It was a room which 
 was kept for him, and contained a box or two of papers, and 
 some other indications of business, which he chose to exclude from 
 Anemone Lodge. 
 
 With him was a plain-looking, plainly-dressed man, of middle age, 
 who might have been a confidential clerk, or a detective officer, or a 
 supercargo, or anything else that gives the idea of shrewdness, and of 
 reserve except towards his owner or employer. Perhaps the supercargo 
 notion predominated in this case, as Mr. Reckling's companion had a 
 somewhat weather-worn face, and behind the ears and at the back of 
 the neck that curious red bronziness which implies that the party so 
 coloured has been a traveller, who has scorned pith hats, and other 
 parasolic contrivances. Mr. Keckling had become the man of 
 business again, and his speech was sharp and decisive, as in the 
 old days. 
 
 " When did you land, Earnshaw ?" 
 
 " Last night, at Folkestone." 
 
 li Why did you go to London ?" 
 
 " Because Harris had not forwarded your letter saying where I 
 should find you, sir." 
 
 A note, jotted on an envelope that lay at Mr. Reckling's hand, may 
 not have betokened any access of good fortune to Mr. Harris. 
 
 " A good overland journey ?" 
 
 " Much as usual — the time saved in one place lost in another. 
 Yes, there was something wrong with the engine, and we wasted some 
 hours doctoring it at Malta, and so missed the first train at 
 Marseilles." 
 
 " Well, you found Ryiner at Calcutta ?" 
 
 '• No. Oddly enough, he was being buried as we landed." 
 
 " Eh ! dead % Who manages the business V 
 
 " A nephew, who does not seem to know what he is about." 
 
 " And could do you no good .<"' 
 
 " I induced him to let me look at his uncle's books," said Mr. 
 EarnshaWj quietly. And, indeed, he did look very much like the kind 
 of person who would ransack the penetralia of a feeble-minded person's 
 household while the latter was making up his feeble mind as to 
 whether he should consent to the proceeding or not." 
 
 " And you had to go up the country?" 
 
 " To Allahabad." 
 
 '•'And now then?" said Mr. Keckling, eagerly, and leaning 
 
 PART V. 1C 
 
330 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 forward. Earnshaw shook his head, as intimating that his news was 
 unfavourable. 
 
 " As bad as we heard,'' said the old merchant, with a regret in his 
 "voice. 
 
 " Much worse than you were pleased to tell me, sir," said the 
 other. 
 
 Mr. Keckling took no notice of the implied hint at reserve, but 
 merely said, 
 
 " Let me hear what you learned." 
 
 " I have the dates and particulars, and names of persons who can 
 be called as witnesses " 
 
 " I know you have, Earnshaw. You never forget anything that 
 ought to be remembered. But tell me in half a dozen words, and 
 we will look into details when necessary. Is Captain Armandale 
 Spencer living V 
 
 " He was when I left Allahabad. I don't mean that he was ill or 
 anything ; but up to that date I had knowledge of him." 
 
 " You saw him ?" 
 
 " I was told that I had seen him, but there were four men in the 
 carriage, and the Oriental dress makes everybody look alike." 
 
 " He wears the dress ¥•' 
 
 He is one of them in dress, heart, soul, and damned rascality, 
 begging your pardon for using the expression instead of choosing one. 
 As for the officers, and the English, none of them speak to him : but 
 I believe he has some acquaintances among the half-blood — I always 
 forget the name — Euphrates " 
 
 " Eurasians." 
 
 " It sounds a babyish word, to my thinking : but, being weak, it's 
 the fitter for them, for a more helpless breed I never knew ; and yet 
 they can be spiteful, too." 
 
 " You did not take Spencer's character from them V 
 
 "There's no mystery about his character, sir. He's a scoundrel. 
 But what he may be doing, or what his intentions are, nobody seems 
 to know." 
 
 " Perhaps he bas none. He has established himself in the house- 
 hold of one of these wealthy natives, and while he is supplied by 
 his patron with eveiy means of enjoying himself in his wicked, 
 debauched way, he cares for nothing else." 
 
 " That is not what people believe who have reason to kuow what 
 they are talkiug about. He is as bad and depraved a man as you'll 
 find in Asia, and that is saying a strong thing. But he has too 
 much energy and brains to drop into a mere binite, like the men he 
 lives with, and makes his tools. I don't know what to think, but 
 you'll remember, sir, the affair that made so much noise, when a 
 gang of forgers tried to rob all the banks in Europe at once." 
 
 " You don't mean that Spencer was in that V 
 
 " No, sir, of course not. But it crossed my mind more than once 
 whether some plot of that kind is not hatching. When you please 
 to go into the papers, I'll show you why I think so." 
 
 "It may be so," said Mr. Keckling, unwilling to reject his trusty 
 emissary's suggestion, but not inclined to accept it as worth much. 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 131 
 
 The conversation proceeded for some time, and the merchant elicited 
 a more complete statement of the position of Armandale Spencer. 
 He had, it appeared, from an early period of his sojourn in India, 
 east in bis lot with the wealthier natives with whom he was brought 
 into contact ; and that he must have rendered them services which 
 they were ready to reward lavishly, was obvious to all who knew the 
 Asiatic nature. We have already been aware of his rapid accu- 
 mulation of a fortune which, if not large, was infinitely larger than he 
 could have honourably aeqiiired, and we know how that fortune was 
 lost. Mr. Reckling's information went to show that Spencer soon 
 set himself to repair his loss, and that he was utterly careless as to 
 what the world around him thought of his mode of effecting his 
 object. For a long time, and while it was expedient, he had taken 
 precautions to avoid palpable violations of the wholesome rules of 
 the Indian service, in which was shown the most salutary jealousy 
 of any over-intimacy between the the European and the Asiatic. But 
 gradually, and as it became of less and less consequence to him to stand 
 well with his legitimate associates and military superiors, the liber- 
 tine and gambler became more reckless, and possibly in a time of 
 sterner reckoning might have been called to a severe account. But 
 it was at a period when a certain laxity prevailed, for reasons and 
 under influences to which it is not within the province of the novelist 
 to advert, and the talents of Armandale Spencer, his daring, and the 
 good luck which these frequently bring, and which is often unphilo- 
 sophicallv sundered from them by the observer, and treated as a 
 inere accident, preserved him from what should have been the con- 
 sequence of his irregularity. Ultimately, when scandals became 
 more and more rife, and even the distance at which he usually sought 
 to establish himself could not prevent them from being unpleasantly 
 palpable to the authorities, Spencer availed himself of the first 
 moment after he had completed the term that permitted him to 
 retire from the Service, claimed his pension, and plunged without 
 secrecy or hesitation into the society to which he liad always attached 
 himself. A musician, a facile linguist, a dexterous sportsman, and 
 an unrestrained sensualist, Armandale Spencer found much accepta- 
 tion in the households of the rich native gentlemen of his acquain- 
 tance, and at the petty courts with whose dusky sovereigns he 
 occasionally chose to reside. 
 
 It is unnecessary, at this point of our story, to dwell upon the darker 
 and more repulsive shades of Armandale Spencer's life. It is enough 
 to say that before the Russiau merchant (whose interest in Margaret 
 Spencer had induced him to despatch Earnshaw for the purpose of 
 either verifying or refuting suspicions which originally occurx-ed to 
 Mr. Reckling's mind after conversations with Aunt Henrietta in her 
 less guarded moments) there was laid a picture which would simply have 
 excited the contempt of the upright and honourable old gentleman, 
 had there been no Margaret in existence, but which, when he thought 
 of the ex-officer as the father of the innocent and beautiful girl, 
 inspired Mr. Reckling with indignation. I regret to add that this 
 Englishman's mind was so lamentably unconstitutional, that he 
 actually regretted that the rZyimc under which he had passed so 
 
 k 2 
 
132 THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 
 
 many years of his life had no power in India. He deplored the fact 
 that there was no Czar to whom he could cause influential repre- 
 sentations to be made, and who, upon being induced to see the necessi- 
 ties of the case, would with three written words have doomed a life 
 to be dragged to its end in a Siberian cavern. As this was, luckily 
 for Armandale Spencer, out of the question, Mr. Keckling was com- 
 pelled to devote his cares to the benefit of the daughter instead of 
 to the chastisement of the father. 
 
 But there was another member of the family to be inquired after, 
 and whose history Mr. Keckling's envoy had also made it his business 
 to follow out, so far as he could do so, with the aid of clues furnished 
 by the Calcutta house to which Earnshaw had been accredited. It 
 will be remembered by those who have done the author the honour of 
 accompanying him through his narration, that Armandale Spencer 
 made a hasty marriage with a very young lady, whose prettiness 
 appeared to the wondering world (from which he was not then ex- 
 cluded) her only recommendation, and that in a short time, and just 
 before Margaret was sent to England, Mrs. Armandale Spencer had 
 left the house of her husband for that of a clever member of the Civil 
 Service. The Russian merchant desired to know whether Margaret 
 had still a mother. 
 
 It is not, of course, to be supposed that Margaret's old friend was 
 the only person who had made such inquiries. Mrs. Spencer, of 
 Gower-street, had. as was natural, been called upon for any informa- 
 tion of which she, as Armandale's correspondent, might be the depo- 
 sitory, and she had giren the readiest and most frank answers, which, 
 addressed to persons without suspicion, and without the habit of 
 falsehood, had been received as satisfactory. She had declared, 
 unhesitatingly, that poor Mrs. Armandale Spencer had died (the par- 
 ticulars of the complaint and the patient's dying words being given 
 with feminine minuteness, if with occasional feminine variation) 
 v.-ithin a few months after parting with her darling child. She had 
 further declared xliat her gallant brother-in-law was perpetually 
 moving about in a most responsible office at the most distant part of 
 India, and that he had desired all communications to be addressed to 
 his Calcutta agents so that his receiving them was very uncertain. 
 It never occurred to anybody to question the truth of a very probable 
 story, and therefoie it was received as matter of course. I should 
 like to know anybody who has not for years accepted some solution 
 of a domestic question, simply because the possibility of deceit never 
 suggested itself, end who, when suspicion- lit up a chink, and after- 
 wards the bull's-eye light of ; ' the real truth, my dear," broke out, has 
 not been unjustly accused of mole-sightedness for not having found it 
 ail out a long time age. Mr. Tompkins, sir, for seven whole years, at 
 banquet and at ball, have you beheld those diamonds sparkling in your 
 lady's ear, and you look complacently at them, for her ears arc very 
 pretty, and what more natural than those jewels should have been 
 given to Arabella (as she says) by her dear uncle, just before he sailed 
 away to Monte Yideo, to be lost on the voyage 1 Mrs. Stephens, madam, 
 it is exceedingly nice and kind of you to have that little orphan girl, 
 your husbsidts protegee, home at your house for the holidays, and to take 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 188 
 
 her to the pantomime, and to send her a cake now and then, and a 
 velvet-covered Church Service, and your husband is a very humane 
 creature to have taken charge (as he says) of the child of a poor client 
 of his who died of a broken heart caused by a Chancery suit, out of 
 which, as Stephens jollily adds, he really made some good costs, so 
 can afford to keep the child, though he don't see much in her. 
 Uncle ! client ! Eh, you are very clever people, but I know what I 
 know. 
 
 But Mr. Keckling did not feel so certain of the truth of all that 
 Mrs. Henrietta said, especially since, as hath been hinted, she varied 
 her narrative, and slew Mrs. Armandale sometimes with consumption, 
 sometimes with the result of an accident, and once by a falling-in of a 
 minaret. And, having a very deep and sincere affection for Margaret, 
 the old merchant, whose Russian habits let little stand in the way of 
 his endeavouring to acquire anything that he wanted, if gold would 
 buy it, said nothing, but wrote from time to time to an old Indian 
 correspondent to collect information, and then despatched a confidential 
 agent to take up the threads and complete the investigation. He 
 found out, as we have seen, that Margaret had a father living. Mr. 
 Keckling certainly thought it most probable that Mrs. Armandale 
 Spencer was dead, although the Henriettian story of her death was mul- 
 tiform. But he decided on inquiring, nevertheless, and the result was 
 that the lady was discovered not only to be alive, but to be prosperous, 
 if the word can fitly be applied to one who was living in splendid iniquity. 
 
 There was one jJerson in England, all the time, who could, had she 
 pleased, have enlightened all parties interested in Mrs. Spencer's 
 history. But she was, in the first place, out of London, and, in the 
 next, had been impressed by Captain Spencer (when hurrying her and 
 his child of four years old on board the home-bound vessel) with the 
 conviction that even to remember a scene that she had witnessed — a 
 missing mistress, servants in terror of a master who was menacing 
 them with Gehenna unless they answered questions — a household in 
 disorder — and a day of scandal, chase, and tears, — would be an act 
 of treachery to her little lady. Poor Boosey would have defied the 
 question as resolutely as poor Beatrice Cenci ; nay, more nobly, for the 
 Italian bore agony for the honour of her own house aud kindred, the 
 Indian would have endured any torment for the child of an alien 
 and infidel master. 
 
 Mr. Earnshaw had, however, rendered any reference to the ayah 
 as unnecessary as it would have been unavailing. He had got upon 
 the trail in the case of Mrs. Armandale. The intellectual civilian 
 who, sixteen years before, had not been intellectual enough to resist 
 the fascinations of an ivory forehead, liquid blue eyes, rosy lips, and 
 golden hair, had, something more than fifteen years before, discovered 
 that these charms (to which, if you are interested in tlie matter, you 
 may add a lithe and graceful figure and a languishing manner, that 
 almost amounted to personal flattery of the intended victim), were at 
 least balanced — he had a mathematical mind, and l-eckoned up things 
 — by pardonable ignorance and culpable selfishness. In India, it is 
 difficult for any lady, who is in the possession of wealth, to avoid making 
 dress her business, in the enforced idleness of the climate ■ but Mrs. 
 
184 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 Spencer made the outward adorning herself not merely her business, 
 but her religion. .Nobody had taught her any other. It is a creed 
 that rich men, or men who do not care about being rich, may tolerate 
 in their wives ; but the intellectual civilian intended to take a fortune 
 to England, and had no mind to Jet it be wasted on the milliners of 
 Calcutta, for the amusement of a lady who was not his wife. In 
 short, the ivory forehead, and the other attractions, soon lost their 
 power ; and intellect resumed its sway. Husband and lover had ex- 
 changed shots — or their seconds said they had — but the former 
 brought no action against the latter ; and very odd things were said, 
 during the early morning drives, by persons who really had no 
 concern with the subject. They also wondered what Mrs. Armandale 
 Spencer would do w r hen the civilian recovered his senses. 
 
 It is scarcely more our business than it was theirs to inquire. We 
 may be quite sure that a fool who has made a false step will not 
 recover it ; though a wise man's stumble is often the happiest thing 
 for him. Mrs. Armandale was not likely to repent her sin, and hide 
 herself in retirement to ascertain whether repentance meant anything 
 except discontent. The intellectual civilian had not behaved unlike 
 a gentleman, otherwise than in breaking up a household and de- 
 priving a baby of its mother ; and he made a liberal, if not lavish, 
 provision for her. Peraaps, had he behaved worse, there would have 
 been more chance of lier reformation ; but he gave her enough to 
 maintain a position, and to gather round her a knot of associates who 
 would take care, for the sake of their own enjoyments, that Mrs. 
 Spencer did not worry herself with a thought like that which Mrs. 
 Quickly so earnestly recommended the dying Falstaff to postpone. 
 Such society can be obtained in almost an}' part of the Devil's Walk, 
 and in Calcutta as elsewhere. 
 
 Mrs. Armandale bore the climate exceedingly well. Selfish and 
 unexciteable people are the best citizens of the world, for every place 
 agrees with them, if they can only get all they want. The sixteen 
 years of her life, after her separation from Captain Spencer, passed 
 lightly over her : 3nd though the face had long lost its girlish love- 
 liness, and womanly expression had not succeeded to the expired 
 charm, the features remained unsharpened and pretty ; and the form, 
 instead of attempting, became rounder and more voluptuous. Those 
 who knew her at this time, always spoke of her to me as " very nice 
 to look at." It is not, perhaps, the highest praise that can be awarded 
 to created woman, but numbers of created women act as if the 
 attaining it were the topmost height of their ambition — an achieve- 
 ment that silences your Excelsior. 
 
 I do not wisli to recount all that Mr. Eamshaw had to tell to his 
 employer aboui this unhappy woman, nor should I have introduced 
 her history bat for the exigency of the narrative. Mr. Keckling 
 himself, though much too practical a man to decline to receive any 
 pai-ticle of information that co\ild be afforded him by anybody, cut 
 the scandalous chronicle rather short, only requiring to be exactly 
 certified as to the position of Mrs. Armandale at the time of his 
 inquiry. "As the husband is, the wife is," writes one of the great 
 poets of our time ; and the imperishable truth that makes the poe m 
 

 I 
 
 r 
 
 J7%&s .y%t£#n^ 
 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 135 
 
 — the spark of the coal from off the altar — is in the line. I have 
 told you thai Arniandale Spencer had forgotten his position, lu- 
 nation, and the ereed into which he had been baptized, and was 
 living a life of luxurious vice. For some five years the heart, and 
 soul, and nature of a young wife had been in his hands, to be moulded 
 for goad or evil — nay, he had deliberately assumed the charge; the 
 man of thirty-four had wooed and wedded the child of eighteen. How 
 he had discharged it may best and least offensively be told in telling 
 that, when her apprenticeship was over, she imitated her master so 
 far as her scantier brain would allow. A rich Pagan had been 
 sufficiently enlightened by Christian example to discard any prejudices 
 against a liaison with one of a different faith ; and the wife of 
 Arinandale Spencer was not likely to be more bigoted than her 
 tawny admirer. 
 
 So good Keekling went back to the beautiful girl he had left iu 
 Anemone Lodge, taking with him this knowledge of the history of 
 her parents. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A PATIENT. 
 
 Alban Chebttoh returned to town, and straggled to forget the 
 severest humiliation he had ever received. The proud man was 
 wounded to the very heart. Xot only had his earnest love been 
 rejected, but he had been compelled to experience a sense of infe- 
 riority to those whom his reason told him, and truthfully, were not 
 his equals. He had been schooled by a girl whom but, as it seemed, 
 the other day he was teaching to read. He had been made to feel 
 that in the social scale he, with all his intellect, knowledge, and 
 power, weighed lighter than a frivolous and idle young worldling. 
 The word reminds us that his religious principjes should now have 
 come to his aid. Perhaps, as they did not do so, we may have hastily 
 assumed that he possessed any. We may have taken for granted that 
 they would be the result of a religious education. We may see. 
 
 One evening towards dusk, a few days after his return from Pyde., 
 Mr. Cheriton was in his private room, engaged in study. An empty 
 skull before him was giving a lesson to a full one, and the student 
 was intently occupied in testing the theory of a phrenological writer 
 whose work he held. After some time, there came a witness to his 
 occupation, but one who abstained from disturbing him until he laid 
 down the book, which he could then hardly see to read, and threw 
 himself back in his chair for consideration. Then, to his surprise, 
 he was addressed by name. A lady, very quietly dressed, and with 
 8 veil over the upper part of her face, was his companion. 
 
 Recovering rapidly from his surprise, Alban said a few words of 
 apology, and regret that the servant had not attended to announce 
 her. Had she been kept waiting long ? 
 
136 - THE GORDIAN KXOT. 
 
 " My time is of no consequence, and you were making such good 
 use of yours that I could not think of interrupting you," said a 
 voice that was pleasant, and yet, as it struck Alban, rather forced in 
 its cheerfulness. He was about to ring for lights, when his visitor 
 said — 
 
 " If you will be so good as to delay the light until it is necessary 
 I shall be glad, for my eyes suffer in it." 
 
 She crossed the room, and took a seat upon a couch at its further 
 end. It was scarcely the act of a patient with a confidence to make. 
 " I am not exactly afraid of that skull, but still if you would put 
 it out of the way I should prefer it." 
 
 " By all means," said Alban, removing it. 
 " Thank you. What an advantage men have over women !" 
 " Do you think they have ? Do you mean in not being afraid of 
 skulls ?" 
 
 " No, I mean in being able to relieve their minds, when they are 
 in trouble, by settling to some pursuit that distracts them. We can- 
 not do that — the trouble comes back to us every minute, and seems 
 to try to worry us into madness." 
 
 " You are not speaking of your own case, I hope ?" said Alban. 
 " Never mind about that. I am at all events speaking of yours." 
 "Mine ?" said Alban, with a slight laugh. 
 
 "Yes, certainly. Will you tell me that you have not been in 
 great trouble and distress of mind within the last week ?" 
 
 " A curious question. But may I remind you that a professional 
 
 man's time has many calls upon it. Your visit 
 
 " There, there. I am not come for physic, nor for advice — at least, 
 I think not. But don't turn me out. O, I am not come on a beo-<nn<>- 
 errand neither. I have not got a father at home who is a clergyman, 
 and who must pawn his Bible for food if you do not relieve him, 
 and I have not seen better days, and my poor mother was not a 
 friend of your father's, and I am not a governess turned into the street 
 for repulsing the attentions of my employer. I know what you think 
 a woman in a veil, vho calls at dusk and does not give her name, 
 must be." 
 
 "You must pardon my rudeness," said Alban, who was in no 
 humour to be talked to, " if I ask you the object of your call." 
 
 "But you ought to answer me first. I asked you whether you 
 had not been in great trouble of mind, which you forget in hard 
 reading." 
 
 " If you wish to know whether hard reading will produce forget- 
 
 fulness^ ." 
 
 " W hether you have found it do so," persisted the stranger. 
 " We never reveal professional confidences," said Alban. " But, 
 once more, what occasions your visit to me V 
 
 " I hardly know. Perhaps you will be able to tell me. When did 
 you return from the Isle of Wight 1 Now, then, how did she know 
 that I had been in the Isle of Wight, when I told the people here 
 that I was going to Shropshire ? Because she saw you at Hyde — there." 
 " Either, madam, I have the pleasure of speaking to a friend whom 
 I do not recognise, or all this is, shall I say — " 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 187 
 
 "Impertinent ! But we all say impertinent things at times. Even 
 a grave medical man can leave his patients, and run away to say 
 i in pertinent things to a young lady on Kyde pier. To be sure, he 
 got as good as he brought, and a little better ; and so he had to run 
 back again, and comfort himself with books and skulls." 
 Here Alban rang the bell angrily. 
 " Is that to tell them to put me into the street 1" 
 " It is that I may see my visitor." 
 
 " Please don't, please don't," said the lady, earnestly. " I will tell 
 you who I am, and everything, directly. Please not to order the 
 lights yet." 
 
 " Why was this lady not announce.! to me ?" said Alban, to the 
 servant. "How dare you keep visitors waiting in the hall? Lights 
 when I ring next." 
 
 " She deserved a scolding," said the lady ; " but not for keeping 
 me waiting, because she had left the door ajar, and I walked iu. She 
 had only just stepped out, of course, as they all say; and a bachelor 
 knows no better. If you had married your cousin, Miss Margaret, 
 she would have kept better order in your house for you. Now, are 
 you not in a rage 1" 
 
 " Not the slightest," replied the young surgeon. " But I must now 
 know who it is that has a right to speak on such subjects." 
 
 " I do not know that I have a right. Perhaps you will think that 
 I have none. But if it will make you more ready to listen to me, I 
 may as well tell you that I know a good deal ; and, among other 
 things, I know everything that passed between you and your cousin 
 on the pier." 
 
 " Go on, at yoxir pleasure, madam," said Alban, sternly. 
 " How did she know that I Either Margaret must have told her, 
 or Margaret must have told Mr. Arundel, and he has repeated it ; 
 aud I will kill him. No, you mustn't. It was in neither of these 
 ways that I learned it." 
 
 " There could be but one other," said Alban, who could not resist 
 an impulse to speak, "and that was by listening." 
 " And that toas the way," said his visitor. 
 " And your object, madam V 
 
 " It had nothing to do with you — don't imagine a new conquest." 
 " In that case, why am I told of it 1 ?" said the young surgeon, dis- 
 regarding the flippant conclusion of her speech. 
 
 The next moment it pleased his visitor to sob heavily, and then to 
 go into severe, but not noisy hysterics. To order in lights was now 
 Alban's obvious course ; and as he administered the remedies usual 
 in such cases, he found that he was tending a young lady, who was 
 unknown to him, and whose features, agreeable rather than handsome, 
 seemed to have been drawn and sharpened by suffering of some kind. 
 Her eyelids were swollen with weeping, and her eyes, which 
 might have appeared fine under other circumstances, had little lustre 
 except what sparkled in the tears with which they were now charged. 
 She was evidently trying to master the affection which had thus 
 suddenly seized her, and put away Alban's hand with an apologetic 
 gesture. 
 
13S THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Only leave me alone," she said, in a piteous voice. " I sliall be 
 better directly, and then I will go away." 
 
 After a few minutes, she began to express her sorrow for having 
 thus yielded to her feelings, and was gathering her mantle around 
 her, as if to depart, shivering as she did so ; when Alban said — 
 
 "Nay, nay, you are not yet prepared to go. Give your nerves 
 fair play ; and take this." And he brought her a glass of wine. 
 
 " Very nice wine," she said, after tasting it. And the remark 
 seemed so curiously placed that even Alban could not help being- 
 amused. 
 
 "You are a judge, then," he said, "for I know it is very 
 good." 
 
 " I have tasted a good deal in my time," said the girl, finishing 
 the glass. " I did not think that I should have been such a fool. I 
 beg your pardon." 
 
 "Ask a doctor's pardon for being ill — what are you thinking 
 about ?" 
 
 " I am all right again, now. And now you want to know who 
 I am T 
 
 " If you think proper to tell me." 
 
 "Why are men such hypocrites? You are full of curiosity to 
 know, but you think it is dignified to speak like that." 
 
 It was clear to Alban that she approached the truth with reluctance, 
 and was inclined to avail herself of any incidental remark to delay 
 her explanation. So he remained silent. 
 
 " You are a medical man, and accustomed to hear all sorts of 
 things," she said ; " but then you are a religious man, and I am afraid 
 of shocking you. No, I will write you a letter." 
 
 " Far better to speak." 
 
 " And you wont be shocked ?" 
 
 " Not easily." 
 
 "What's the reason that Miss Spencer will not marry you?" 
 
 " If you know what you pretend to know, the question is idle." 
 
 " Pretend ! Who stood on Hyde pier and compared himself to a 
 poor sailor struggling in the waters within sight of home, and being 
 drowned at last, and who was told not to think of such horrors, but 
 to fancy the boat pulling off and saving him, and his wife kissing him 
 for joy 2" 
 
 " Yes, you either heard, or have heard of a conversation." 
 
 " I heard it, I tell you, so do not be afraid that your secrets have 
 been betrayed. A miserable woman, crouching in a corner behind 
 a boat, was easily overlooked in the twilight, but she was there." 
 
 " As friend or enemy V 
 
 " I cared nothing about you. But I wished that ten times the 
 insults you received had been heaped and showered upon you, and 
 had driven you wild, and then in your rage if you had seized the 
 other person who was with you, and flung her away into the ocean, I 
 would have fallen down and worshipped you." 
 
 For a moment or two Alban stood in silent bewilderment. Not 
 more, for he had loved, and his instincts had received that strange. 
 but certain quickening which such experience brings. 
 
THE OOUDIAX KXOT. loO 
 
 '• No ono can bate BEiss Spencer for her own sake," said lie. "I 
 suppose that I understand you V 
 
 •• But I do hate her for her own sake," returned the other, vehe- 
 mently. "Who is she that no one is to be allowed to say they hate 
 her i You need not tight her battles. She is quite able to take care 
 of herself. A girl who lived in a common lodging-house, and yet 
 can manage to entrap a gentleman and the son of a member of Par- 
 liament into marrying her, she not having a penny in the world to 
 bless herself with, does not stand in need of your defence, or any- 
 body else's." 
 
 " Most improper language," said Alban. He detested the woman 
 before him for daring to speak with vulgar injustice of Margaret, and 
 yet there was some thought — some lurking hope that he might hear 
 what in some way could be gain to him — that prevented his silencing 
 and dismissing his visitor. " Unjust and improper language." 
 
 " She is so just, is she not I Forcing herself into a family so far 
 superior to her, and spoiling the fortunes of a man on whom his rela- 
 tions perfectly doted. That is so just ! As to its being improper to 
 say so, I told you that you would be shocked, and of course you are, 
 but it is none the less true for all that." 
 
 " Why do you come here to say this to me ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Yes, I tell falsehoods. I do know, Mr. Chertton. 
 I heard what passed on the pier, and I heard that girl lavish her 
 ungrateful insults upon you. I know what you feel, or what a man. 
 if he has a heart in his bosom, ought to feel, at such treatment. And 
 I came here with a sort of hope that you might not be content to lie 
 down quiet, like a beaten dog, but might do something to show that 
 you were not to be treated in that way with impunity." 
 
 Albans lip enrled for a moment in disdain at the idea of such 
 words having any effect upon him, save that of rousing his contempt. 
 And then came a touch of pity for one who was showing how real 
 were her feelings by the transparency of her appeal. 
 
 u You are young," he said, "too young to deserve the grief which 
 you are undergoing." 
 
 " I am not young," she answered, petulantly. " I am twenty, and 
 I a hundred." 
 
 '•I must not inquire into your troubles. I may guess at them, 
 but that is all I can do. But let me try to impress upon you that 
 brooding over them, and thinking of revenge on people, is not a good 
 way to find peace of mind and health." 
 
 " Who was talking of my troubles V returned the girl. " I wt.s 
 speaking of yours, and you begin to preach to me. I don't want to 
 be preached to. No, you have been very kind, and I beg your par 
 again. I believe that I am going mad. How is it, and what is the 
 matter, when things that happened yesterday seem a thousand years 
 . and words that you have heard, kind words, months back, come 
 ringing into your ears as if the person who said them had 
 spoken, and when you woidd give the world that some great stone 
 should suddenly crush your head and extinguish all your cares in an 
 instant ( Do you know anything about that, or do they put it in the 
 doctoi-s' books ;" 
 
140 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " You ought not to have known it, poor child, and the Devil will 
 have a reckoning with those who have taught you so much." 
 
 " Just now you flew into a rage because I called her names." 
 
 " Why try to deceive yourself and me 1 My relative is about to 
 many a person in whom you have had an interest — that is the case. 
 She is blameless in the matter — you best know whether the other 
 person is so." 
 
 " She is not blameless, and in your heart you do not think so, 
 though of course it is not for you, a haughty gentleman, to own to 
 me that your relative, as you call her, has done wrong. But what 
 right had she to step out of her station, and lay hei'self out to entrap 
 her superior ?" 
 
 " How can you presume to say such a thing 1 Her station is equal 
 to that of any other lady — but I cannot argue such a matter with 
 yon. I can only excuse myself for talking about it for a moment, 
 because I wish to guide you into the right course. Now we will end 
 the discussion, as you are quite well enough to go out." 
 
 " Do not turn me out of the house," said the girl, looking hurt. 
 " I have not been accustomed to be treated unkindly ; but, perhaps, 
 you are right, and I ought to learn to be treated so." 
 
 "Nothing could be further from my meaning," said Alban ; "and 
 pray believe it." He could not but feel compassionately for the 
 impulsive, untaught being before him, and he endeavoured to remove 
 the impression which her hasty nature had received. He asked her 
 a few questions about her health, and gave her a few general direc- 
 tions, rather to make lier feel that he was kindly disposed towards 
 her than with any idea that he was arresting her attention. And he 
 was right enough in Ins surmise that his counsel was not being much 
 heeded ; for iu the midst of a special suggestion to her against 
 unnecessary excitement, she suddenly interrupted him 
 
 " O ! break off this marriage — break it off, if you have any mercy 
 in you ! You are too proud to do it on your own account, though 
 you would give your life to see Philip Arundel lying dead upon the 
 floor. Break it off for mine !" 
 
 "You talk wildly, girl." 
 
 " I know it. I feel wildly — I think wildly. I know that I shall 
 be dragged away to a cold cell in Bedlam some day soon, poor me ! 
 But I know what I am talking about. Do you think that Margaret 
 Spencer would marry Arundel unless she thought he loved her 
 beyond all earthly things, and had never loved another V 
 
 "How many minutes ago were you speaking of that lady? " 
 
 " That lady ! — that lady !" the girl repeated, stamping impatiently. 
 
 " I repeat, how many minutes ago were you imputing an unworthy 
 desire to marry where you think she ought not % You can answer 
 your own question." 
 
 " ! will you argue with a poor, half-frenzied woman as if she 
 were rational, and weighed her words ? Never mind what I said, but 
 help me." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " You know Margaret — there, let me be respectful and humble, 
 then. You know Miss Spencer. She believes Arundel's whole soul 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 141 
 
 is hers, and that lie never cared for any one else. If her eyes were 
 opened, she would break off the match — if I said different, it was 
 only woman's spite — I believe she would, and so would I, if I were a 
 good girl, God help me, and in her place. If she were to read one 
 of a hundred letters which I could show her, there would be an end 
 of everything." 
 
 " Is that so r said Alban, mechanically. 
 
 " Letters in which he pours out his love and his fondness, and talks 
 of his perfect happiness and bliss — and they are not addressed to Miss 
 Spencer, mind that !" 
 
 "Well," said Alban. 
 
 "I know what is in your head," she went on. "Why has not 
 this woman sent the letters to my cousin Margaret 1 Because I 
 knew what she would do with them. She would not read them, but 
 would either burn them, or return them, or hand them to him as 
 a proof of her confidence. 
 
 " This would be the act of the mean, intriguing " 
 
 " O don't — don't. Do you think I do not feel how good she is, 
 how worthy to be loved I But she shall not be loved by him. All 
 the world shall be free to her but him. It is wicked that he should 
 deceive her. as he is doing, — very wicked. Will you not interfere and 
 save her. you who love her, or say you love her, so dearly? Your 
 pride, 0'! your pride ! You know me, and despise me. You could 
 save your cousin — perhaps win her for yourself. But it must not be 
 done. I see that it will not be done. You are too proud to save 
 her from ruin and misery, because I point out the way." 
 
 " You have pointed out no way," said Alban, agitated. 
 
 " See that she reads — reads with her own eyes — three letters, and 
 she is saved." 
 
 There was cunning in the girl's next act. She crossed to the 
 door, pointed to the sofa on which she had been sitting, and was out 
 of the house almost in less time than it takes to tell it. And on 
 the sofa lay, not a packet, but a number of separate letters, some 
 half open. It would have been difficult even 10 take them up and 
 put them together without seeing some of the contents. 
 
 The young surgeon, after a moment or two, put away the decanter 
 and wine-glass which he had brought out fcr the relief of his 
 patient, and taking a drawer, swept into it, with one movement, all 
 the papers she had left, replaced and locked the drawer, drew the 
 candles to him, and resumed his study of the skull. He believed that 
 he had got himself well in hand ; and, so far as outward appearances 
 went, he had certainly achieved that victory. But I doubt whether, 
 upon that evening, he grappled with his theme closely enough to enable 
 him to add much to his stock of phrenological knowledge. I think 
 his speculations strayed from heads to hearts. Both, however, are 
 legitimate subjects of medical investigation. 
 
142 THE GORDIAX KXOT. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AX EXPERIMENT. 
 
 " We had returned to London" (wrote Margaret, after circumstances, 
 which will be described in their place, had strangely varied the 
 fortunes of those of whom Ave have spoken) " towards the close of 
 autumn, and I remember that the weather was so soft and beautiful 
 that I was able to be a good deal in the large garden of Mr. Recklings 
 house. He came out to me one day, while I was staying with him 
 (for I never went back to live in Gower-street), seated himself under 
 a tree, and sat watchiug his large white cat, — who had made great 
 friends with me, — so long and intently, that I could not help 
 taking notice of it. I remember, too, that the day I am going to 
 mention was Sunday, from the most ridiculous little circumstance. 
 Dear old Mr. Kecklingkad a favourite joke about his cat. Her name, 
 on week days, was Tib ; but he use to say, gravely, that on Sunday 
 everything should be hue and genteel, so, on Sundays, puss was 
 elevated to the dignity of Tilburina. And he would solemnly quote 
 to her bits from some play, and ask her whether she saw the Spanish 
 fleet, whether she still retained the idea that a whale was a bird, and 
 what she had further to advance about the oyster that was un- 
 fortunate in love ; and say all sorts of funny little things to her, 
 reproving her for her radeness in winking in reply. The day I speak 
 of I recollect he addressed his pet by her short name, and I set him 
 right, reminding him what day it was. I was so happy in those days 
 that I had time to notice every little thing that amused me ; and 
 sometimes I made memorandums of such nonsense in my diary that 
 when I look at them, I seem to wonder whether the hand that turns the 
 leaves is the same hand that wrote such things. 
 
 " I did not write down the conversation we had that clay, but I 
 have a very strong recollection of it, because my own position at 
 the time naturally made any story like that he told me very in- 
 teresting indeed. 
 
 '• Mi*. Keckling asked me to come and sit down by liim, as he had 
 something to read that might amuse me. He took out a letter, 
 and read a few words. I do not recollect them exactly, but they were 
 somethiug like this : — ' The perplexity of the poor young bride increases 
 every day, and is becoming a sorrow, which injures her good looks. 
 Nobody except myself, who am in her secret, can guess at the reason, as 
 tltere is everything to make her happy. I wish you would manage to 
 see her, and counsel her^ There was some more, describing her 
 house, and other matters, but I did not take so much notice of this. 
 
 " ' Yes, it is a curious affair,' he said, after reading the letter. ' I 
 should like to hear what you would say about it. The lady referred 
 to is the daughter of a valued old friend of mine, and I should be glad 
 to advise her for good if I could.' 
 
 " ' A bride,' I said. ' You never told me that any friend of yours 
 was being married. Did you send her a present V 
 
m%^-\, 
 
 ^^V^U . ' 
 
THE C.OHMAX KNOT. 143 
 
 "' Eh V he said. 'No, no. la fact,' he adtted, after a iniv.se, 'it 
 «M a run-away Bort of business. All right and proper, but nobody 
 was consulted. It' L make up my mind to give her a present I shall 
 take your oj anion on it. But that is not the point now. The poor 
 little thing is in great trouble as to what she ought to d •>.' 
 
 " He waited a little while without speaking I fancied that he 
 was considering whether he would tell me the story or not. Then he 
 said — 
 
 " ' It was what you young ladies call a love-match. Neither party 
 has any money ; but he — the husband — is — is the heir to an estate 
 and title, so that if they can carry on the war in the meantime — 
 which I dare say friends will aid them to do — it will be a good 
 marriage for my little friend. She is a fair-haired little thing, 
 half a head shorter than you. and wont look at all dignified when she 
 becomes a baronet's lady ; but that does not matter.' 
 
 '•' I made some laughing answer, and he vent on. 
 
 " ' But the fact is, that there is a skeleton in the family. I don't 
 want to speak to you of disagreeable matters, but to make you under- 
 stand the situation of the girl, I must just ted you that my old friend, 
 her father, made a mistake in his choice of a vife, and that her mother 
 turned out a worthless person, from whom he had to be separated. 
 It has been the custom in the family to speak of her as what we all 
 wish she were — namely, dead, and buried But she is living, 
 and this has been always known by Bessy (that's her name) ; and, 
 indeed, she has had to send money and other things to her mother 
 from time to time.' 
 
 " I listened, of course, with all possible interest. 
 
 '• " Well, it seems likely, from circumstances taat we have heard of, 
 that this bad woman will come forward, and that the young husband 
 will learn of her existence.' 
 
 " ' But,' I said. I think hastily, I know I felt astonished, ' do you 
 mean that the young lady did not make her husband aware of her 
 position before engaging herself to him f 
 
 " ' Why, no,' said Mr. Keckling ; and I rememter that I was rather 
 surprised at the cool tone in which he spoke of the concealment, as if 
 it had been a matter of choice whether the truth should be spoken or 
 not. ' Xo, she did not — acting probably under advice from female 
 friends.' 
 
 " ' Dear Mr. Keckling — do female friends advise a woman how to 
 behave to ' 
 
 " ' To the man avIio has her heart ? You are right, my dear ; but 
 people see things in different ways.' 
 
 •• • And she loved this gentleman V 
 
 " ' Yes. I really believe she loved him earnestly, and that might 
 be one reason why she withheld her secret from him.' 
 
 " ' But why should she do that V I asked. 
 
 "' ' Why, my dear, you have happily lived in the kind of society 
 where some sorts of wrongs and wickednesses are never even talked 
 about, but you may know that there is a very strong feeling against 
 marriage with the daughter of a divorcee. Some folks unkindly say 
 that there is alwavs something of the mother in the child.' 
 
144. THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " ' How wicked ! How cruelly wicked !' 
 
 " Well, my dear, it may be so. Perhaps they misunderstand the 
 second commandment, and forget that it is not for them to visit the 
 sins of parents on children. But be this as it may, such is the 
 feeling ; and then there are heaps of kinder people, who know per- 
 fectly well that it is the education, and not the birth, that makes the 
 child, but who, though they would repel the idea of being unjust, 
 would object to union with a family in which there had been a 
 scandal, and a story for chatter, and whisper, and gossip.' 
 
 " ' I can understand that very well,' I said ; < and all this seems 
 to me to have made it still more the duty of this poor young lady to 
 take care that her intended husband was aware of the circum- 
 stances.' 
 
 '•' ' But I think it possible that such a revelation might have broken 
 off the match ; and you see she loved him, and, moreover, it was a 
 good match for her.' 
 
 '•' ' Dear Mr. Keckling, you are not speaking seriously, I know.' 
 
 " l "Why, after all, she has done him no particular harm. She is a 
 good girl, and will make him a right good wife, and knows she will, 
 and means to do it. Coidd one expect her to break her heart and 
 lose her chances because some people are, as you say, wicked and 
 cruel, and some are genteel and weak V 
 
 '' ' I have a good mind to scold you for yom" Jesuitism, sir, only 
 you are laughing all the time.' 
 
 " 'Indeed I am not. my clear. I netfer felt more seriously in my 
 life. I want your advice for my little friend.' 
 
 " ' 1 am sure I would not judge her — I do not know how she may 
 have been taught, or low weak her nature may be— I will not ven- 
 ture to condemn her. But I cannot help feeling that she has done so 
 wrong and sinful a tiling that I dare not think she will escape suffer- 
 ing and punishment. Dear Mr. Keckliug, what should be done V 
 
 " ' You would tell her, then — 1 mean, if you two young girls were 
 shut up together in secret conference — you would tell her that in 
 your mind she had done very wrong.' 
 
 " ' O, if she is really — if she has learned what duty means — there 
 would be no need to tell her that, poor thing. She must be bumbled 
 to the dust.' 
 
 " ' Proud child ! Womanly dignity, eh 1 Taking a husband under 
 false pretences.' 
 
 •• ' Yes, sir, there is that,' I said ; and I know I coloui-ed up 
 with a sort of indignation. ' That thought will be bitter humiliation 
 to her worldly pride as long as she lives. But there is a graver and 
 sadder thing. If we were together — and I am sure that if you think 
 I can do her any good I will go to her, or she shall come to me, you 
 know that — if we were together, I hope that though she can never 
 forgive herself, she would let me join her in asking forgiveness from 
 One who is never besought in vain.' 
 
 " It was not often that I spoke so earnestly to Mr. Keckling, or on 
 any religious subject. It was not that he ever seemed disinclined to 
 such matters, but it appeared presumptuous in me, a girl of nineteen, 
 to pretend to teach a good old man, who was always doing me and 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 145 
 
 others some kindness, and always living a life of charity and bene- 
 volence. I know very well, and I have read in books and tracts, that 
 some think differently, and urge that it is the duty of young persons 
 who believe that they have the truth, to press it in season and out of 
 season upon elders and superiors whom they believe to be without it, 
 but I feel that I was never made for a teacher, except where any one 
 loves me very much, and will let me whisper any little word in my 
 own weak way. But upon this occasion Mr. Keckling so insisted on 
 my answer, that I think it Avould have been to show myself ashamed 
 of religion had I not spoken as I did. 
 
 " ' Then,' he said, taking my hand, ' you see in this girl's concealment 
 of the truth, a shame, regarded in a worldly view, and a sin against 
 God P 
 
 " ' Indeed, sir, I do. Pray do not think I set myself up as a judge, 
 but I have been taught ' 
 
 " ' That will do, my love, I quite comprehend you, and now that you 
 have told me your opinion so frankly, I will tell' you that mine is 
 entirely the same, and that Bessy, knowing what she did, ought to 
 have either told her lover, or let so painful a duty be done by a friend. 
 She might have lost the man she loved.' 
 
 " ' Do you think she would, unless she had misplaced her love V 1 
 said, without looking up. I dare say I coloured again. 
 
 " ' Man's love and woman's are two things, my dear. He might be 
 very fond of her, and no doubt he was and is, but a baronet expec- 
 tant, let him be never so devoted, might find time to recollect that 
 Providence has placed him in a situation of responsibility and ex- 
 ample, and that he owes a duty to society, and must not violate its 
 prejudices ; and then there are mothers, and aunts, and sisters, and 
 so on — perhaps expectations — and reasonable concession to the feelings 
 of one's family is what they have a right to require.' 
 
 " ' If that is the sort of affection which the poor young lady has 
 secured, at the price of the sacrifice of her self-respect,' I said, ' I 
 fear she is more to be pitied than we supposed.' 
 
 '' I do not remember that we talked any more upon the subject. I 
 have a very abiding recollection of the principal part of the conversa- 
 tion, and as I am asked to write it down as fully as I can, I have 
 done so, and if I have not used the very words that were spoken, I 
 have faithfully given their spirit. Nor did Mr. Keckling encourage 
 me to renew the subject. Once or twice, I asked him whether he 
 had anything to tell me about the young lady of whom we had 
 spoken, and his answer implied that all was going on well, but he 
 did not desire to enter into particulars. I hope and trust that he 
 was not deceived, and that my being asked to write out the conver- 
 sation is not the consequence of any unhappy issue of the matter. 
 It will be very kind if 1 am allowed to know that it is not." 
 
 That is the end of Margaret's record of a conversation that 
 occurred, as she has said, late in the autumn. For our story must 
 advance more rapidly than 1 could desire over its pleasanter periods. 
 
 PAKT V. L 
 
146 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 I have much to tell, and but such space to tell it in as must be 
 husbanded with care. Had I ampler room and verge enough, -we 
 would linger with Margaret and her lover on the sea-shore, and, of 
 course unseen, listen to love's vows, and flatteries, and playfulnesses, 
 and murmurs, and whispers, and note its delightful silences, and the 
 sudden meeting of eyes and smiles that end those pauses, and bid the 
 gentle cycle of tenderness to begin again its never-wearying round. 
 They looked very well, that young couple, I can tell you, as they 
 walked about performing courtship, and you lose a treat through my 
 inability to exhibit them to your notice. Then I could have set forth, 
 with elaboration, how, when they returned to town, there was a 
 house to be chosen, and I siippose that there is not a more prettily 
 suggestive sight than that of a pair of lovers house-hunting, with Pro- 
 priety accompanying them, but always finding itself discreetly tired to 
 death in a down-stairs apartment, and sitting down in the midst 
 thereof on a dusty chair without a back, while they explore drawing- 
 rooms and the rest of it, and consider whether that will be a good 
 place for setting up the human Lares and divine Penates. But I can 
 only mention that a house was taken, and that it was in the Wood of 
 Saint John. I write was — for houses are not built to stand, but to 
 let. The architect is dispensed with by the greedy builder, who keeps, 
 chained up in his cellar, some wretched student of the art, and bids ' 
 for employment by the stingy would-be houseowner by offering to 
 save him architect's fees, and to furnish plans by the creature in the 
 cellarage. Then do folks wonder that builders' houses are vile to the 
 spectator, incommodious to the inhabitant, lucrative to the coroner. 
 I answer for the existence of none of such houses unless I have seen 
 them within the year, and it is longer since I saw the abode taken by- 
 Philip Arundel. At the time, he and Margaret admired it much ; and 
 after their first visit of inspection brought away on the eye an 
 impression of elegance and colour, a result craftily obtained by the 
 proprietor, who had inserted some stained-glass on the staircase, and 
 some vine-leaves in brass-work on the garden-gate. Note, ye house- 
 owners, who are so stupid as not to know it, that it is a little bait like 
 this that often lets houses to young folks, and also to older ones. The 
 house was taken, and Philip, in his loverly abandon, was eager to give 
 it a name, and wanted to call it the Casket, because of its being 
 about to contain his jewel ; and Pearl Yilla, because Margaret means 
 a Pearl ; and Spencer Lodge, for a jet more obvious and absurd 
 reason ; but these follies were overruled, and the place retained its 
 unpretending numeral on the brass-bound wicket. 
 
 It was not intended that Philip should be an idle man. He did 
 not even intend it himself. On the contrary, though Mr. Arundel 
 (who furnished the house from blacking-brush to Broadwood) arranged 
 to make the young couple a handsome allowance, it was understood 
 that Philip was to pursue his profession in earnest. The respectable 
 firm of Arundel and Claxton was to be dissolved ; Jack Claxton 
 himself representing that if Philip meant business, it could not be 
 carried on under the peculiar system that always let in beer and shut 
 out strangers. Philip was to take briefs whenever he could get them, 
 and the A. and C. arrangements were not exactly calculated to impress 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 147 
 
 upon unimaginative solicitors that a great advocate lurked behind the 
 perpetually-closed black door, awaiting occupn tit >u. So another set of 
 ohambars was taken for Philip, and these were down in a cellar in the 
 Temple, so situate that passers- by could Look upon and into the window, 
 and see the industrious barrister toiling at his calfskins and briefs ; a 
 spectacle which it was justly thought would inspire confidence. Tin- 
 young lawyer was to decide upon rising in his profession, and making 
 a handsome income, " and then," said old Mr. Arundel, looking wist- 
 fully at his handsome sou, " one of these days we must see whether 
 those Shackleby gentlemen would like to exchange old lamps for 
 new ones." 
 
 ' : The exchange would be about as lucky for them as it was for the 
 princess in the story," said Philip. 
 
 " You vain thing," said Geraldine. " Do you mean that you think 
 you should carry the House away I" 
 
 " No, he did not mean that," said Margaret, immediately putting in 
 a plea for him, whereat both the girls broke out into their merry 
 laughs, in which she joined the next moment, with some little 
 accession of colour. 
 
 •• We spoil him, dear," said Blanche, " and we rather look to you to 
 be severe with him for his good." 
 
 ' ; O, I will be dreadful," said Margaret, " only we must be just, you 
 know, and Philip did mean that Shackleby would lose sadly by- 
 such a change." 
 
 '• Well, I think he did, my love," said Mr. Arundel, who had grown 
 very fond of her. " But if he could always have you by his side to 
 interpret his speeches for him, I don't know that Geraldine's notion 
 might not be carried out." 
 
 " I wont have my father flattering you," said Philip, in a low 
 voice to Margaret, as he drew her to a window. " That is my 
 business, and I will not allow any intruders." 
 
 " He is so kind," said Max-garet. " See." And she held out her 
 pretty hand, on one finger of which was a ring Philip had not 
 seen there before. 
 
 " Ah," he said, " it was my mother's. That shows how he loves 
 you — and you deserve that he should, dearest," he added, kissing the 
 finger, and pi-essing the hand. 
 
 " It is I who am to be spoiled," said Margaret, smiling affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 This littlescene took place the day after that of the conversation with 
 Mr. Keckling which Margaret has written down for us. It will easily 
 be divined that the sentiments which he contrived to elicit from 
 her on that occasion, and the firmness with which she avowed them, 
 produced a strong impression on his mind. The imaginary story 
 which he had framed was a device which may have been suggested 
 to him by some of his experience of diplomatic police in Russia, 
 where strange ways are adopted of arriving at people's view,-, 
 ascertaining their characters, and giving them hints for their 
 guidance. The result had made it perfectly clear to Mr. Keckling 
 what would be Margaret's course if the slightest portion of Earn- 
 shaw's information should reach her 1 The old man pondered a good 
 
 L 2 
 
148 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 deal on the subject, and naturally enough arrived at the conclusion 
 that his course was to let events take theirs. 
 
 "She shall marry him," he said, "in her innocence of the history 
 of her family, and she shall have nothing to reproach herself with. 
 I can testify to her utter ignorance of the story of her father and 
 mother, if, hereafter, any one who looks her in the face can dare to 
 doubt her. And if " 
 
 The rest was muttered so low, that even Tib, who was purring on 
 his lap in acknowledgment of her masters attention in pulling her 
 great thick tail, could hardly have heard it ; but I believe it was 
 something about a resolution to protect Margaret against the Enemy 
 himself, at need. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 DRUIDICAL EDUCATION. 
 
 It has been profoundly remarked, that when a man plunges into the 
 abyss of dissipation, it is very difficult for him to check himself. It 
 is possible that Curtius (about whose Christian name, as they very 
 properly call it, many smart and instructed writers are divided, the 
 majority calling him Quintus for a reason of their own) might have 
 had, at the instant he took his celebrated leap, some second thoughts 
 of the kind which passed through the be-muddled bi-ain of our friend 
 Robert Spencer, when he woke, late on the morning after he had 
 made a night of it. But gravitation, patriotic or vicious, will have 
 its way — Curtius went down the hole, and Robert Spencer went on 
 misconducting himself. The day following his demolition of the 
 Bank of England was Sunday ; and the evil-minded man agreed with 
 himself that it was of no use going home, there could be no letter from 
 his adored Henrietta ; and, moreover, if he were to have recourse to 
 force or stratagem for entering the house from which he had been 
 locked out, evidently the Sabbath-day was not a fit time for such 
 endeavour. And so, it grieves me to relate, he spent that day with 
 very little regard to the proprieties, and that night in a still less 
 commendable fashion. 
 
 It would not be edifying to trace his steps, which gradually became 
 more and more unsteady as the Sunday night advanced, or the social 
 circles in which he passed it. Suffice it to say, that the process he 
 underwent in those circles was exactly the reverse of that shadowed 
 out in the magnificent image of Akeuside, who suggests the possible 
 progress of the disembodied spirit from star to star, 
 
 " Refining, gradual, for her final height, 
 And purging off some- dross at every sphere." 
 
 Xight had given way to beautiful dawn, and dawn had prosed down 
 into a dull and gloomy morning, when Spencer, in a state which I 
 hope will not be very easy for a reader to conceive, and which I have 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 149 
 
 certainly not the remotest intention of endeavouring to describe, 
 found himself in a broad street near Clerkenwell Green. The street 
 was alive with population, though the shops were unopened, except 
 here and there an early breakfast house ; and Spencer became aware 
 of the fact that he had turned over another leaf in life, and that 
 Monday morning was before him. The premiss was useless to him, 
 for he was incapable of arguing further ; but as he found that if he 
 turned northward he was much pushed and jostled, whereas, if he 
 reversed his way, he was borne easily along by the passengers 
 through the street, whom he fancied were unusually numerous and 
 active, Mr. Spencer took the course that was least troublesome, and 
 was impelled onwards until he reached one of the grand arteries of 
 London life. Here, also, it appeared to the reveller's eye that there 
 were great numbers of people about ; and he felt, as men under 
 vicious excitement will sometimes feel, annoyed with them for being 
 abroad in such preposterous quantities. Here, however, the south- 
 ward agency deserted him ; and as the folks were all going eastward, 
 he went with them. 
 
 The crowd seemed very cheerful, not to say joyous. It was chiefly 
 composed of the humbler classes, in their working clothes, but among 
 them were numerous persons of a higher grade, and a few dressed as 
 gentlemen. There were great numbers of women, but these were all 
 of the inferior class, many of them clean, neatly dressed, and pleasantly 
 excited, as appeared by their smiles and loud laughter. There were, 
 also, other women, of a class not ordinarily visible at that early hour, 
 and of these some were flauntingly arrayed, and had especially smart 
 bonnets, of light colour, and with flowers, which looked gay amid the 
 general sombreness of costume. Some of them were noisy and 
 rampant, and were attended by men not meanly dressed, but of most 
 mean and scoundrelly aspect, and with bloodshot eyes, which looked 
 at you first with effrontery, and then slinkingly. Among the decent 
 women, some had children by their side, and many had babies in their 
 arms, whom they occasionally nourished, and othei-wise comforted, 
 chirrupping to them the maternal nonsense so much wiser (as Mrs. 
 Browning has acutely observed) than wiser talk. Mixed up in the 
 crowd were girls of all ages, but chiefly varying from ten to fifteen, 
 and these were mostly dirty, slatternly, and impudent, making their 
 eager way onward with that indefinite sort of pawing and pushing, 
 directed against no obstacle in particular, which that class of female 
 adopts to facilitate her progress through a crowd. Boys were also 
 there, some innocent- faced urchins, shaggy and shoeless, others com- 
 fortably dressed, and bearing the hard lines of premature vice and 
 cunning. Many of these had short pipes, and not a few had female 
 companions of their own type ; but the younger ones ran in and out, 
 burrowing with their heads in the crowd, and despite occasional cuff's 
 and kicks, getting well on in the moving mass. With it went other 
 lads, with bundles of cheap newspapers, whose names they incessantly 
 screeched, vendors of cakes, lozenges, and oranges, a few soldiers, 
 who;.e uniforms aided to light up the picture, a few bronzed sailors, in 
 high glee, a good many trim policemen, who glanced with much dis- 
 favour at the throng, and occasionally made a dive and a plunge, 
 
150 THE GORD1AN KXOT. 
 
 which sometimes caught a boy, but more generally proved ineffective, 
 and a number of sturdy farmers, many of them occupying more cubic 
 inches of space than a unit has a right to in this limited world. 
 Society, with the exception of its cream, was fairly represented by the 
 animated and cheerful crowd that struggled along, bearing Robert 
 Spencer with it. 
 
 There was no quarrelling, and as much order as was at all compa- 
 tible with the progress of a great throng determined upon an object. 
 Sometimes members of the mass would be too determined, and their 
 elbowing and driving was either checked by the sturdy arms of the 
 ■working men on whom they pressed, or by the shrill protests of the 
 women. But there was general good humour, and everybody seemed 
 willing, provided he or she did well for himself, to let others do as 
 well as they might. Gradually the mob grew denser and denser, and 
 it seemed as if several streams of a similar character had met in 
 confluence round a common centre. A few minutes more, and the 
 still bewildered Spencer was safely packed up in a tight throng, 
 whence there was no possible escape, unless, like certain saints of the 
 Christian mythology, he could have been borne aloft by an inspired 
 volition. 
 
 An idea then began to interpenetrate the brain of Spencer that all 
 this crowd had not gathered for nothing, and that as a component 
 part of it he might as well ascertain what he was about. But on 
 trying to frame a little inquiiy of the neighbours who wedged him 
 in, he found, and was painfully conscious of the fact, that he could 
 not deliver himself, adequately and coherently, of his demand, and 
 therefore he postponed question, and waited to see what was going 
 to happen, in the meantime smiling as he thought kindly upon 
 a child of a year old which had its face over its mother's shoulder, 
 and was cooing as it played with her hair. T 
 
 Suddenly, the withdrawal of some large object, perhaps a cart, from 
 the neighbourhood, allowed the portion of the crowd that included 
 Robert to press forward a few yards, when it became as dense and 
 rigid as before. But that few yards had done the business, in bring- 
 ing him past a corner which had shut out the view of the object 
 which had assembled the excited multitude. 
 
 Taken for itself, this object might seem scarcely worthy of so much 
 homage. It was not a glittering trophy. It was not a statue to be 
 unveiled. It was not a rostrum for an orator. It was simply a sort 
 of platform, of no great height, erected in front of one of the doors 
 of a large stone building, and from which door a passage of several 
 steps ascended to the platform. The latter was surrounded by a 
 slight chain work, on rails, lest any one should tail outside it. The 
 description is complete, when we have added that two stout posts 
 supported a cross-beam, from which, and over the centre of the plat- 
 form, there depended a short iron chain. 
 
 Robert Spencer was more than half sobered in a moment, and 
 the sudden sensation which was thus given him, first sickened him, 
 and then created a vehement desire on his part to get away from a 
 scene which he now understood, and at whose loathsomeness his very 
 soul shuddered. His limbs lost their slouch, he stood upright on lq g 
 
T1IK (iOUDIAN KNOT. 151 
 
 feet, and at once begged to be allowed to get away. His prayer was 
 received with scoff from the men, and by a giggle from the mother 
 of the baby, and lie was recommended to make his miserable life 
 happy. 
 
 " But 1 can't bear it. I must go," he cried out. 
 
 •• M nst's for her most gracious majesty the Queen," pleasantly 
 observed the woman, over her shoulder. 
 
 ' ; I shall be ill, I shall be mad — I wont stay I" he exclaimed, trying 
 in vain to move. It was impossible, even had his neighbours been 
 inclined to help him. They were jammed inextricably, with the 
 pressure of a couple of thousand men behind them, and ten times 
 that number before and around, for the platform was very attractive. 
 
 A decent mechanic, in a flannel jacket and cap (caps are de rigueur 
 with the lutbitiie upon such occasions,for a reason), seeing that Spencer 
 was evidently in extreme terror and suffering, said, civilly enough , — 
 
 " I'd stand still, if I was you, sir. There goes the three-quarters. 
 In eighteen minutes, at furthest, you'll be able to get away." 
 
 indeed, as he spoke, the very sweet and musical chimes of a neigh- 
 bouring church, dedicated to The Tomb of Him who died on Calvary, 
 sounded out into the air laden with the hot breath of myriads. It 
 wanted a quarter of eight o'clock. 
 
 '• I cannot bear the sight," said Spencer. " I got into the crowd 
 without knowing why. I shall faint !" 
 
 '• Shut your eyes, man alive," said another neighbour, roughly but 
 kindly. " That's your only chance, and we'll tell you when to 
 open 'em." 
 
 After another despairing appeal, Spencer felt that the course 
 thus advised would in some measure relieve him, and he closed his 
 eyes, though the doing so only seemed to make him feel more keenly 
 tlie presence of the scene around him. The baby had done the 
 same, and was sleeping very calmly on the shoulder of its mother. 
 
 He closed his eyes, and so avoided the sight of the day. Had he 
 kept them open, he would have seen — this. 
 
 As the minutes went slowly away, a spectator would every now 
 and then glance up to the clock of the CI lurch of the Tomb. When 
 that clock noted that about three minutes only were wanting to 
 eight o'clock, an electric movement ran through the crowd, and here 
 and there a woman's scream went up. Then, in obedience to a 
 general and peremptory call, all hats went off. You know now why 
 caps are so much better on these occasions. Then there was fright- 
 ful silence, unlike anything, I hope, that the majority of those who 
 read these lines will ever be able to call to mind. Again a scream 
 or too, and a woman subsides in a dead faint — fall she cannot — and a 
 strong arm in red cloth holds her up ; but the soldier's facj is fixed 
 on the platform. And now the intense and awful silence is a thing 
 that can be felt,\\\m darkness. It could not be borne long ; it is too 
 unnatural for creatures to whom God has given breaths and voices. 
 
 The sweet, grave sound of the bell is given out again, and every 
 man and woman in that fearful crowd counts the strokes. The hour 
 of eight is told. One man will never hear the voice of a church-bell 
 atrain on this earth. 
 
152 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Up the ascending passage slowly move several men, all in black, 
 and they come upon the platform, and take certain appointed stations. 
 One of them holds a book. Amid them is a man whom they have 
 brought with them, and whose legs tremble under him. Perhaps he 
 would cling to one of his companions for support, only his arms, 
 from the elbow upwards, are pinioned to his side ; but he can, as you 
 see, clench and open and again clench his hands in the extremity of 
 his terror. His face is very white, but a shorter man advances to 
 him, and turns him with his back to the church of the Tomb, so I 
 cannot (standing on a grave in its churchyard,) tell you how he looks, 
 even with the aid of the double glass I ordinarily take to the opera- 
 house that I may the better see the lady-dancers. But I can see the 
 shorter man kneel on one knee before the pinioned man. Surely not 
 to ask his pardon, as we read in records of the death of noblemen on 
 the scaffold. No, it is to put some stout straps round his legs, and 
 fasten them together. His legs can hardly tremble now, but he 
 might fall forward on his face if an arm were not kindly put round him. 
 It is the ai'm of the man with the book. Now the short man rises, and 
 places a stout, white, new rope round the pinioned man's neck, and 
 
 I think, speaking for myself, the sensation caused by the fasten- 
 ing that rope is the ghastliest of all. I know that this is a mere 
 material sensation, so to speak, and arises from the incongruity of the 
 act with the appearance of the actors. The stage, and the black 
 clothes, the slow walk, and the gravity, all have something of a 
 solemn decency ; but that coarse bit of white cord, and the putting it 
 upon a quiet man's neck, revolt the sense of fitness. At least, so 
 it appeared to me. 
 
 The other end of the rope is hooked to the chain on the beam, and 
 all the men in black, save three, have retreated to the passage, leaving 
 the platform to the three. One of these, the short man, produces a 
 large white cap, draws it quickly over the whole head of the pinioned 
 man, and disappears. He is gone below the platform, I know, 
 though I cannot see him ; and has got hold of a large handle which 
 can withdraw three bolts at once. But two men remain in presence 
 of the mighty crowd, and one is the man with the book. The man 
 with the handle is listening below, waiting to catch some words which 
 will be read from the book. They are exquisite words, and we 
 have all sobbed to hear them, as, while they were reading, we laid some 
 dear one in the earth. The service for the Burial of the Dead is 
 being read over a live man, who has not one minute to live. I do 
 not know what words that good priest has reached, or what is the 
 signal to the man with the handle, but perhaps the words are — 
 
 " Henceforth, blessed are the dead ichich die in the Lord " 
 
 Ha ! I can see only half the man with the rope round his neck. 
 The man at the handle has worked it, and the floor of the platform 
 has given way. The pinioned man has dropped through, and is 
 hanging by his neck ; his head, in its white cap, thrown back, and on 
 one side. His hands are moving a little, but I am told that in his 
 case it is merely a muscular action. However, to make all sure, the 
 man who held the handle is now hanging by the hanged man's legs. 
 You can see him sway a little. All is over. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 153 
 
 They have killed him. 
 
 And they have done it very rapidly, adroitly, and humanely, and 
 not at all in the cruel way in which the savage and brutal man, just 
 dead, killed a woman about two months ago, in order to rob her of 
 some money and jewels. And ever since he was sentenced to appear 
 on that platform, the good priest whom you saw, and who is now 
 gone in to breakfast with the other gentlemen (I breakfasted hastily 
 before coming, and intend to do so again, leisurely), has been telling 
 him to make his peace with God, though the now dead man had no 
 such mercy on the woman he slew. He has had full three weeks to 
 repent his sins and become a true Christian; and therefore it is 
 nobody's fault except his own if he has not done so. Anyhow, he 
 deserved to die — and is dead. I am not going into any question 
 about man's right to protect himself, by what he believes the most 
 effective means, against the violence of his fellow-man. 
 
 The dead man will hang there for one hom-, after which the rope 
 will be cut by the man who worked the handle, and the body will 
 be carried into the prison, and finally buried in a graveyard, over 
 which the now dead man was walking five minutes ago. But we 
 need not, perhaps, wait to see the ceremony of cutting down. 
 Happily for Robert Spencer, who had been keeping his eyes tightly 
 closed, (though the scene was only too faithfully interpreted to him by 
 the sounds around,) many of his neighbours, being industrious 
 mechanics, now wished to go to their work, and he was allowed to get 
 away, now quite sobered. 
 
 He hurried from the spot as fast as the crowd wovdd allow him, 
 and paid little heed to those he saw in his way ; nor did he buy the 
 account of the way the man died — an account printed two days back, 
 and sold before the drop had fallen. He pushed northwards ; but 
 before he was nearly clear of the throng, a voice accosted him. 
 
 " Here you are, sir." 
 
 It was Zuleika, the little dancing-girl. She had apparently made 
 up her grievances with her so-called uncle, for she was on the shoulder 
 of that individual, who was leaning against a house ; and perhaps he 
 had brought her to the execution by way of cementing the peace 
 with a treat. She looked rather pale and scared, but deemed it 
 befitting her to affect to have no unpleasant sensations, and to launch 
 a joke at Mr. Spencer. But the moment he recognised her, he gave 
 her a look of unfeigned disgust, and hastened away. 
 
 I do not know what right he had to be disgusted. We have no 
 Druids now ; but I have no doubt that if we could search into the 
 annals of the old ones, we should find that they paid every attention 
 to the education of their young folk, our revered ancestry. I have 
 no doubt that when there was a public sacrifice, and the babies wei'c 
 put into the red-hot hands of the brazen idols, fathers and mothers 
 not only came to witness the spectacle, but brought their children, and 
 held them on their stalwart shoulders to see the victims roll off into 
 the fire. A nation that does not edi;cate its children cannot be 
 expected to prosper ; and though Robert Spencer did not choose to 
 look at the crowd that day, I did, — and saw that out of the thousands 
 present, thousands were children. And the knowledge that it was 
 
15-1 THE GORDIAN K2s T OT. 
 
 so, gave me great comfort, as it showed me that our glorious old 
 England was still true to some of the maxims and habits of our 
 ancestors. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ONE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God 
 and in the face of this con<n - e<ratiou — " 
 
 [The congregation was select and distinguished. It consisted of 
 Marmaduke Arundel, Esq., M.P. for Shackleby, and his charming 
 daughters, the Misses Blanche and Geraldine Arundel, bridesmaids. 
 It comprised Mistress Henrietta Spencer, of Gower Street, whose 
 presence could not well be prevented, though her husband had been 
 got rid of in the most artful and considerate manner by Mr. Keckliug, 
 who sent him on a special mission to ascertain the respectability of a 
 non-existent country bank. We also observed Miss Bertha Cheriton, 
 bridesmaid, looking fresh, and espieyle, and pretty. \V T e noticed 
 Mr. John Claxton, who appeared as the bridegroom's friend. Our 
 attention was next directed to the worthy Mr. Keckling himself, 
 who, in the lamented absence of Mr. Spencer, gave away the bride. 
 In the gallery, much interested in the ceremony, but taking no part 
 in the pageant, were Mr. Latimer Cheriton and four Miss Pybi. Mr. 
 Tarleton, thesolicitor, was present, and the allegorical mind might have 
 pictured Law consigning Youth and Beauty to the guardianship of 
 Religion. Finally, near the altar, and looking, if not cheerful, by no 
 means melodramatic, stood Alban Cheriton.] 
 
 — " to join together this Man and this Woman in holy matrimony, 
 which is an honourable estate/' 
 
 And in due course the officiating clergyman, assisted by a reverend 
 friend, arrived at " amazement," and Philip Arundel had a wife, 
 whose name was Margaret, and who had been bom Spencer. He had 
 entered into a compact to love her, comfort her, honour and keep her 
 in sickness and in health ; and forsaking all other, keep him only 
 unto her, so long as they both should live. 
 
 This arrangement being distinctly understood, the benediction was 
 pronounced, and one Gordian knot was tied. 
 
 The three bridesmaids did not cry. Blanche and Geraldine, who 
 were girls of the world, saw nothing to cry about in the fact that 
 their brother was marrying a beautiful girl, and being placed in a 
 comfortable position. Bertha had lived out of the way of such cere- 
 monials, and, being an observant little person, kept her eye on the 
 Arundels, as a sort of fugle-girls who were to set her an example, 
 and not seeing them weep, it did not occur to her to do so. But more 
 than one person of that party confided to another, that during the 
 se rvice there was somebody sobbing in the church. I think Philip 
 A^rundel was too excited to hear it — I hope so. John Claxton heard 
 
TI1K G0XDL&5 KNOT. 155 
 
 it, ami had his own ideas, which he kept to himself. The ©yea of the 
 weeper, be that person who it might, were like the fleece of the son of 
 Joash the Abiezrite, fur there were dews there when all around was 
 dry. But I knew not whether the omen was for good, as in the 
 Case of ( iideon. 
 
 Let it be said, however, that this abstinence from pathetic demon- 
 stration was not observed by every member of the bridal party. 
 Aunt Henrietta, who had restrained herself with laudable self-com- 
 mand during the ceremony (perhaps held a little in awe by the stately 
 Arundels), deemed it fitting to give subsequent proof of her tender 
 affection for Margaret. Accordingly, when the time came for append- 
 ing the signatures of the witnesses in the vestry, and Mr. Arundel 
 politely offered the pen to Mrs. Spencer, that lady, after looking at him 
 several times with great intentness, as if her heart w^ere much too full 
 to permit her to utter her feelings, dropped the ink-charged pen upon 
 the book, to the extreme disgust of parson and clerk, and throwing her- 
 self back upon a chair, gave a very good imitation of hysterics, which, 
 as there was not the smallest occasion for them, did not excite much 
 sympathy. Alban Oheriton, however, who had watched the per- 
 formance with a sarcastic expression upon his lip, effected the most 
 miraculously speedy cure. 
 
 "So much excitement is dangerous," he said, "in the case of a 
 full habit. I will do what is necessary, and take Mrs. Spencer 
 home." 
 
 The words were disagreeable enough., for the wedding breakfast was 
 not at Mrs. Spencer's house, but at Mr. Reckling's, and the worthy 
 woman had no idea of being excluded from the repast. But when, 
 turning towards the young surgeon to deprecate the proposed treat- 
 ment, she beheld rather a formidable lancet glittering in his hand, she 
 sprang up in dismay, declared herself " quite better," and hastened to 
 snatch up the pen and sign her name in the wrong place. After this, 
 ahe conducted herself with sufficient decorum and self-restraint 
 until a later period of the day. 
 
 It cannot be denied that when Mr. and Mrs. Philip Arundel came 
 out at the church door, they found the road of life very nicely gra- 
 velled and rolled smooth for them. 
 
 The wedding breakfast went off admirably, and by no means the 
 less so that good Mr. Keckling, who had insisted upon being the 
 host upon the occasion, had exercised his own determined will in 
 the selection of the dishes, and had made the whole affair much 
 like a Greenwich banquet. This singular innovation was largely 
 applauded by the older people, and also by the epicurean, Mr. John 
 ( 'laxton. who discovered that a delicate allusion to the bride's birth- 
 place lay hidden in the cot cf cites dc saumon a '"/// 'ml ostein, and was 
 gracefully facetious upon the promise of happiness and riches which 
 he declared to be typified by the geWe con d'Or. The younger ones 
 were much too excited and happy to care what was before them, and 
 praised everything indiscriminately. Only poor little Bertha Cheri- 
 ton, who had newer Been such a dainty display, was rural enough to 
 forget to watch the fugle-girls, and to exhibit unfeigned surprise at 
 the elaborate delights with which the Genius of the Banquet can 
 
156 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 reward his rich and discriminating worshippers. Jack Claxton was 
 pleased with her, and took some pains to instruct her young mind 
 into the mysteries — made her taste the sole a la Mazarin, and the 
 Spey trout a la Tartare, and prevented her from astonishing herself 
 by making too hasty an acquaintance with boudin glace. 
 
 " Nobody said grace," she remarked to him, sotto voce. 
 
 " And it was very wrong to forget it," he replied. " As the poet 
 remarks — 
 
 " 'An undevout gastronomer is mad.' " 
 
 " For shame, to spoil such a beautiful line," said Bertha, earnestly. 
 
 " I think I have improved it, on the contrary. As for the stars, 
 no doubt they are all veiy well in their way, though I never saw any 
 particular use in them ; but look at this table. There is something 
 to be thankful for. Is it not nobler to be able to make those lovely 
 rissoles — no, no, beyond that ; those little round things — than to know 
 that Jupiter has got four moons — if it is four, for I am sm-e I forget ? 
 What's the good of Jupiter, tell me now V 
 
 " Why," said Bertha, opening her eyes very wide, " don't you know 
 that he is a thousand times as large as this world ?" 
 
 " More shame for him to give us no more light. Yes, have some 
 more champagne. You must — it is part of the matrimonial ser- 
 vice, and a bridesmaid's duty — see, Miss Arundel takes it. You are 
 looking at those silver things stuck in that sole ; well, they are not 
 hair-pins, though they do look like it. I must take some wine with 
 your brother. What an intellectual head he has !" 
 
 " We think him very clever, of course, you know." 
 
 "Ah ! but so do we. I should not presume to judge of his pro- 
 fessional ability ; but one of our first surgeons told me that a paper 
 your brother has lately read, on — on an extremely difficult subject," 
 said Claxton (remembering to whom he was talking) — " is one of the 
 ablest essays he had ever heard." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Bertha, colouring with pleasure. " He never told 
 us. I must write about it to mamma. What is Mr. Arundel stand- 
 ing up for ?" 
 
 " O, have you never assisted at one of these pretty little comedies 
 before ?" 
 
 " Do you mean a marriage ?" 
 
 " I catch in your tone a rebuke for speaking lightly of a subject 
 you think solemn." 
 
 " So it is," replied Bertha. 
 
 " The bride, your cousin, is not looking very solemn about it." 
 
 " Because Mr. Philip Arundel is making her laugh ; but I am sure 
 she feels that the occasion is a serious one, poor girl." 
 
 Mr. Claxton was really amused at the pretty little Dissenter's 
 sobriety of thought ; but every one had now to be grave, as the Senator 
 rose to propose the health of the Man and the Wife. Mr. Arundel 
 had meant to be a little parliamentary, but he had not got very far 
 before he forgot that he was an orator in the thought that he was a 
 father — and he became so unconventional and so earnest in his prayer 
 for the happiness of his son and his daughter-in-law, that when his 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 157 
 
 kind old voice faltered, ami tears of happiness and hope clouded His eyes, 
 the girls began to cry too, and even the young men of the world 
 might have been seen compressing their lips, and only with a struggle 
 preserving the composure which a man of society values so dearly. 
 
 " *Vt vis me fieve" said Alban to Claxton, as the speech ended. 
 " Mr. Arundel understands that point of art." 
 
 " What does Alban mean V asked Bertha of her instructor. 
 
 " A piece of advice given in old days. If you would make your 
 hearers cry, show that you are in earnest by weeping yourself. I 
 don't recommend the same course about laughing, as I hate a man 
 who laughs at his own jokes, or anybody else's." 
 
 " I think you would be very angry if people did not laugh at 
 yours," said the little country-girl, delivering a shrewd thrust at the 
 rather self-satisfied London man. Bertha did not know much about 
 ria tie veau pique a la puree asperge, and the other works of high art 
 which had been exhibited before her ; but she was not a bad judge of 
 character, and could hold her own with most folk. 
 
 " I am never angry, and I never joke," said Claxton. " ~No\v for 
 Philip." 
 
 The newly-made husband returned thanks very gracefully. For 
 some reason this speech is usually very stupid, and often a break- 
 down ; but Arundel managed not to find his utterances choked by 
 his happiness, and in some well-worded sentences he assured his 
 hearers of his conviction that an inestimable treasure had been con- 
 fided to him, and of his resolution to show throughout life his appi'e- 
 ciation of such a boon. His allusion to his father's kindness, the 
 extent of which he said that only one or two present could know, 
 made the old gentleman put out his hand, and hold Philip's affection- 
 ately for a minute or two, whereat there were more hydraulic 
 symptoms, but they were suppressed. 
 
 Margaret Arundel was looking very lovely and loveable in her 
 bridal array, though paler than was her custom. Only the charming 
 colour returned at no rare intervals to her cheeks, when a kind 
 speech from Mr. Arundel, or an undertoned word or two from her 
 husband, came to her eai*. And when Aunt Spencer, who had, through 
 Philip's care, been humanely placed at a considerable distance from 
 the wedded couple, watched her opportunity, and followed up some- 
 body's pleasantry by shouting, 
 
 " Ha ! mistress bride, hath that affrighted you V 
 a richer carnation than came over Margaret's fair face and bust has 
 not often been seen. But she was very happy amid the agitation of 
 the occasion, and felt as one who meant to make another's hap- 
 piness, and was not altogether distrustful of her power to do it. 
 
 The wedding presents had been far more numerous than she could 
 have expected, for her own circle of acquaintances was limited ; but 
 that of the Arundels was large ; and moreover, Blanche and Geraldine 
 had, when in the country, spoken so enthusiastically about their intended 
 sister-in-law, that, in order to please the girls, who were exceedingly 
 popular, several friends, who knew little of Philip, had written to beg 
 the acceptance of gifts. And Margaret was more fortunate than 
 some brides, for a little thought was bestowed in the selection of 
 
15S THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 presents, and the donors tried to obtain something which everybody 
 was not likely to give ; and so Mrs. Philip did not receive fourteen 
 glass butter-dishes with fourteen silver cows on them. And anions 
 the gifts was one from Aunt Spencer, which had, at all events, the 
 merit of good intention, for she had visited a Mount of Piety, with 
 which she had occasional relations when lodgers did not pay, or it was 
 absolutely necessary to raise means ; and of the Pious Mountaineer, 
 with the hard face and spectacles, had purchased a dingy-looking old 
 salver, at a tolerably moderate price. This she confided to a small 
 silversmith to rub up and smarten; but it being the nature of such 
 women never to do anything until the last moment, she had delayed 
 this confidence until the eve of the bridal, so that the article had to be 
 sent on to Mr. Keckling's. Here it arrived during the feast, and 
 Aunt Spencer snatched away the paper, and at once presented the 
 gift at the table, perhaps not sorry so to distinguish herself. She begged 
 Margaret to accept it, though made only of the pale and common 
 drudge 'twixt man and man ; and Margaret's 'thanks were being 
 uttered, when Philip said — 
 
 " Stay, Mrs. Philip Arundel. That becomes my property now. 
 Thank you, Aunt Henrietta; I am very much obliged to you." 
 
 And Margaret looked delighted at the speech, and was rejoiced that 
 she, and all that she had, and all that she ever could have, were 
 Philip's; and that she was to look to him for everything in the 
 world. 
 
 " An inscription on it, too," said John Claxton, who had been 
 showing the now shining salver to Bertha. " Let me read it to you." 
 Some of them expected another bit of Shakspeare ; but Claxton, 
 rising, read from the salver — 
 
 " Presented to James Snitchey, who commenced waiter at the 
 Spangled Cow Tavern, Moorfields, 11th August, 1807, by a few gents 
 using the house, in testimony of his honesty, civility, and intelligence, 
 inth June 1822." 
 
 There was no standing this ; and the whole party, Mrs. Spencer 
 excepted, burst into a merry laugh. 
 
 "They have sent home the wrong article, of course," said Philip, 
 good-naturedly, for he had some suspicion of the real state of the 
 case. '' You must make them change it, Aunt Henrietta, and we shall 
 find the right one on our return." 
 
 But Mrs. Spencer was too much flustered with the exposure to 
 have tact to accept the proffered aid, and she vehemently denounced 
 certain persons unknown to her auditory, as cheats, who deserved 
 that every honest hand should take a whip and lash the rascals naked 
 through the world, — an instalment of which punishment, in the form 
 df a summons, she declared her intention of inflicting that very after- 
 noon. They had known that the inscription was there, and that was 
 why they had kept the thing unsecured, that she might not read it, 
 she said,- — gradually revealing the little histoiy of the transaction, to 
 the secret delight of Claxton, who, as has been told, detested her, and 
 rejoiced in her mortification. 
 
 " I would not change it, Mrs. Spencer, if I were you," he said. 
 ' ; Get the names and dates beaten out, and insert Philip's name 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 159 
 
 and the day he commenced husband, as is elegantly stated. Let 
 us hope that he will be honest, civil, and intelligent in that 
 capacity." 
 
 No ; Mrs. Spencer was in a rage, and would not laugh, but sat medi- 
 tating vengeance upon the treacherous Pious Mountaineer, and scarcely 
 listened to the courtly speech in which Mr. Iveckling proposed the 
 health of the bridesmaids, with thanks to them, not only for their 
 charming discharge of their duty, but for their goodness in honouring 
 his house with their presence. 
 
 " As the youngest bridesmaid, it is etiquette for you to answer 
 this," said Claxton to Bertha. But her look of terror was so genuine 
 that he felt ashamed of himself, as indeed he ought to have been, for 
 practising on an uninitiated person, aud he hastened to relieve the poor 
 girl's mind ; and being himself signalled to by the Miss Arundels, who 
 thought it would please Philip to have his friend so complimented, he 
 acquitted himself pretty well. But these clever young fellows seldom 
 do a little bit of the harmless conventionalities of society so well as 
 old gentlemen of the old school. One has heard from folks of the 
 latter class, elegant and telling after-dinner speeches, which have 
 pleased everybody ; when smart men, who knew themselves to be highly 
 superior articles, have gone in for fireworks, and produced no effect 
 at all. Jack Claxton's reply Avas not half so good as old Mr. Keck- 
 ling's speech, and Jack felt it, and instantly administered consolation 
 to his soul by saying to himself that it was not the old boy's words, 
 but his house, and his banquet, and his presents, and his position, 
 that made the difference between them ; and that if he, John Claxton, 
 had been the founder of the feast, and the owner of the house, and 
 especially had all that silver hair, he would have had all the women's 
 affectionate looks and enthusiasm. Happy is the man who is like 
 unto the snail, in having always a slime ready for the reconstruction 
 of his shell when smashed into. 
 
 Mr. Keckling's own health and that of the father of the bride- 
 groom were, of course, remembered ; and Philip himself, possibly 
 urged by some gentle prompting by his side, begged that similar homage 
 might be done to the kind friends with whom his wife's youth had 
 been passed, and to whom she owed a debt of gratitude she could 
 never forget ; and he hoped that Alban and Bertha would charge them- 
 selves with conveying that assurance home. While this was being 
 said, Margaret glanced for a moment at her cousin Alban, and was, or 
 should have been (and women always feel as they should), delighted to 
 see that he was not, apparently, suffering from afflicting memories ; 
 but was waiting with a gracious half smile, until he should have to 
 respond. And this he did with great propriety, adding an expression 
 of his certainty that the aniiable and accomplished gentleman to whom 
 his cousin had given her hand was in every way worthy of such a 
 happiness. 
 
 These were not exactly the words he had used on the pier at Byde, 
 but they were cleaidy better adapted to the occasion than those rather 
 energetic utterances would have been. Margaret listened to his 
 speech with :i singular mixture of feeling. If I may say that a 
 shadow of something like a defiant thought crossed the texture of 
 
160 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 that feeling, I may add, that I believe it was only the affectionate and 
 loving girl defying her husband not to be — despite pi-edictions — all 
 that she believed him. 
 
 And then approached the time for the departure of the linked 
 lovers ; but Margaret found a moment to think of her Aimt Henrietta, 
 by whose discomfiture the bride, unlike Claxton, had been grieved. 
 The i)Oor woman had meant to do a kindness, and had not the means 
 to go to a great silversmith ; but having done her best, had been the 
 victim of an accident. She whispered this to Philip, and asked 
 whether something could not be said for her aunt. He would at that 
 moment have proposed the health of the Titans, and success to their 
 next invasion of Heaven — or an equivalent toast from our own 
 theology — if the beautiful creature beside him had wished such an 
 honour ; and he was instantly on his legs, pronouncing a warm 
 eulogium on the person whom he had not very long before called a 
 hippopotamus and an old idiot, and had hoped would be drowned in 
 her bathing. Ought a man to be held responsible for his actions 
 during the period previous to his emancipation from the superstition 
 that a woman is an angel ? 
 
 Mrs. Spencer was much obliged, but had been laughed at, and did 
 not like it ; and her reply was rather sulky, and her mind was per- 
 petually getting away to the whip for the lashing of the undraped 
 pawnbroker through the world. Even Shakspeare played her false 
 this time, and would not supply her with a single quotation, — a priva- 
 tion which the party bore with extreme equanimity. 
 
 A little later, and the fair girl whose fortunes we are seeking to 
 traee is finally consigned to the care of him who has sworn to be 
 faithful and true. There should have been some one to say to him, in 
 a young and true poet's words — 
 
 " The Maidea will fulfil your hope, 
 Only as you fulfil your Vow." 
 
 They are gone. If we have lingered somewhat long in their 
 society, and in the company of their friends, it may be forgiven. 
 Two Years of their life will have elapsed before we again meet one 
 member of that wedding party. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 161 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 A MODEL HUSBAXD. 
 
 They passed — those two years — and at their close not more than the 
 average of change that is iti such a period brought to a group of ac- 
 quaintance had been wrought in the circle in which our story chiefly 
 moves. The Cheritons of St Oscars continued their tranquil life of 
 love, kindness, and duty. The Spencers of London held on in their 
 unsteady and unprofitable career of impulse and casualty. 
 
 Alban Cheriton remained in town, although the limited term for 
 which he had originally intended to practise there had expired. He had 
 gained much honourable notice from the heads of his profession for 
 vigour of thought, sagacity, and courage ; and as his father's energies 
 were still unabated, Mr. Cheriton willingly abstained from summon- 
 ing Alban to his aid while that aid was not absolutely necessary, and 
 while the young surgeon was winning a reputation in a wider and 
 nobler field than that of St. Oscars. Alban's manner had become 
 far more popular than when we first knew him ; and though his 
 habitual gravity was retained, and, indeed, sat advantageously upon 
 the professional man (patients generally hate a cheerful doctor, for 
 not being sufficiently impressed by the awful and unheai*d-of nature 
 of their tribulatiou), he exchanged it, upon occasion, for what appeared 
 to be genuine enjoyment of life, and still more frequently for a not 
 unpleasantly ironical tone, in which the ordinaiy ear detected no 
 latent bitterness. He was held to be an exceedingly able man, who 
 had not much of the world to learn. One part of this verdict was 
 amply justified ; the other may have been based upon mere impression, 
 derived from Alban's self-possession and ready sarcasm. 
 
 The Church of England, borrowing an Oriental lyric, apprises the 
 good husband that his wife shall be like the vine upon the walls of 
 his house, and that his children shall be like the olive branches round 
 about his table. Philip Arundel avowed himself perfectly satisfied 
 with an instalmental fulfilment of the promise ; and when Margaret 
 made him the father of a boy of even more than the beauty always 
 discoverable in an infant by those interested in its histoiy, he per- 
 mitted himself, while duly thankful for the blessing, to entertain a 
 hope that his family would not increase in the fashion indicated by 
 the Hebrew benison. And certainly, if he had been prompted to 
 this wish by a conviction that so lovely a mother and so lovely a child 
 could scarcely be again seen in loving juxtaposition, Philip might 
 have been forgiven his Malthusian aspiration. As the pale sweet 
 face of Margaret — looking the paler for her rich dark curls — reposed 
 on the pillow, with the tiny head of her baby peering below, and as 
 her smile, ever gentle, but now speaking a world of new tendei-ness 
 aud affection, rose as by instinct to her lips when Philip approached 
 the couch, the young husband might well be pardoned, amid his 
 thankfulness that his treasure had been spared to him, the hope that 
 it might never again be risked. 
 
 PART vi. M 
 
162 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Whether this was exactly what he meant, or rather, whether it was 
 all that he meant, one need hardly discuss. He was certainly very 
 fond of Margaret ; he had been much agitated as her hour of trial 
 came on, and sincerely exultant when informed that all was well. 
 There was nothing that he would not have done to render her the 
 slightest comfort or pleasure. But it is just possible that he may 
 have thought of himself as well as of his wife. Their honeymoon 
 he had enjoyed beyond expression, and the innumerable little cares 
 and discussions of the subsequent period, while they settled down 
 into their pretty home, had been a source of great pleasure to him, 
 to say nothing of the amusements, hospitalities, and excursions which 
 they had shared, and to all of which the companionship of a graceful 
 and intelligent girl had given a double zest. Later again, and 
 during the time when Margaret was less able to be his companion 
 abroad, his exemplary attention to her had not arisen from a mere 
 sense of duty — he had been really devoted and affectionate ; and, 
 later still, as we have said, Philip was all that a husband should have 
 been. Perhaps, however, he could not help regarding the whole 
 arrangement as a kind of bore, and, at all events, as something that 
 he had not desired. There was no disguising from himself the fact 
 that his wife had been, and would be, a good deal withdrawn from 
 his society, and a good deal disqualified from helping him to enjoy 
 himself. And I am not sure that he did not consider it a kind of 
 breach of the matrimonial compact on Margaret's part, when, in 
 answer to a hint of his, to the effect that he should be very glad if 
 she would delegate the nursing her infant, the poor girl looked first 
 startled, and then so grieved, that Philip (who was in great hopes 
 to have found her as docile on this point as on most others) was 
 unable to bear the sight of the pretty face in such trouble, and the 
 bright eyes so much brighter with a sudden film of tears. But though 
 at immense pains to convince her that he had spoken in jest, he could 
 not help feeling himself wronged. The point was never raised again ; 
 but Philip was known to have privately demanded of a married 
 friend or two, at how early a date it was the thing to wean a human 
 animal. Calculation upon the information he received did not afford 
 him much delight. 
 
 On Margaret's intense happiness over her child, and holy love for 
 it, there is no need to dwell. The girl had dreamed that, in giving 
 up her heart to a lover, her being had changed, and her destiny was 
 fixed for ever. The wife, becoming a mother, learned in no dream, 
 but in all the clearness of womanly perception, and receiving the 
 lesson with all the humility and loyalty of woman's heart, that she 
 had been led into a new world of love and duty; and in the still 
 watches of the night, and in the dim quiet of the chamber, where her 
 infant nestled to her bosom, she prayed for strength to quit herself 
 well. Pei'haps, as she made her prayer, the baby stirred beside her 
 heart, and, with a murmured blessing, she pressed her lips upon its 
 warm brow. Perhaps at that moment its father was thinking what a 
 bore it was that Margaret could not have hired a nurse, left the child 
 to her, and come with him for a little yachting, which would have 
 done her all the good in the world. Perhaps he almost doubted 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 1G3 
 
 whether he ought not to have insisted upon her taking more care of 
 herself. A baby was all very well, but health and comfort were not 
 to be sacrificed for a sentiment. 
 
 All this had happened, and been said, and thought, about a year 
 after the marriage. At the time at which we resume our story, 
 little Marmaduke Arundel, christened, of coiu^se, after his grandfather, 
 the senator, was a lovely child of about a year old, and for him 
 Margaret seemed to live, and move, and have her being. It may be 
 as well that those whom medical men call primiparous mothei's have 
 not the entire rule of the universe ; if they had, vainly might the 
 raging farmer bellow to Jupiter for small rain upon the tender herb. 
 Rain might bring up the crops, but it would prevent the First Baby 
 from I'iding forth in his perambulator. The merchant might shake 
 his fist at the weathercock, and clamour for an east wind, to bring 
 his rich argosies into the river ; but the ax-gosies might dance in the 
 Downs till domesday — we are not going to give the First Baby 
 bronchitis. Fruit might languish for the ripening sun, and not in 
 vain, but that the fierce rays that ripen fruit peel the skin off the 
 nose and the chin of the First Baby ; and as for that blanket of 
 snow so much wanted by the shivering earth — -Baby's kind-hearted 
 mamma would give her own best blanket to a beggar, but she will 
 hear of no snow — do you want the streets kept damp for a month, 
 and all sorts of diseases rising from the ground ? Yes, it is certainly 
 well that there are no female Joshuas — the celestial machinery 
 woidd soon be as much out of order as a lady's watch. Philip made 
 this impertinent remark to Margaret one day, on her looking some- 
 what wistfully at the thermometer ; upon which she refuted him by 
 showing him that her own watch, Mr. Reckling's present, was right 
 to a minute, and begged him not to speak lightly of Joshua, as, 
 whether he really made the sun stand still or not, the story had a 
 Christian meaning and application, and, besides, came out of a book 
 which — but here he kissed her, and there was an end of the debate. 
 
 It may be important, or at all events interesting, to mention that 
 Margaret's baby, though baptized Marmaduke, was not habitually 
 addressed by that title, but was called " Duke," — a word which ad- 
 mitted of playful variations about his Grace, and his Royal Highness, 
 and so on. I dare say that his foolish mother, in her heart of hearts, 
 liked this name for its own sake, and thought that her baby 
 ought to be a duke, and was certain that no duchess had such a baby, 
 etc. etc. etc. etc. 
 
 One would be exceedingly sorry to grudge Margaret the large joy 
 and happiness which this child brought her. Her pleasure was at 
 once so deep and so ecstatic, that it would seem a cruelty to wish it 
 had b?en away. But one is bound to say that, great as was her gain 
 by her baby, she was not, in mercantile language, a gainer on the 
 whole transaction. For the kind of thought which made its way 
 into her husband's mind so early in their wedded life — the thought that 
 he was a loser by the arrival of his son, and the more so by Margaret's 
 devotion to that infant — grew and strengthened during the subse- 
 quent eight or ten months, and finally became habitual. An heir- 
 apparent naturally goes into opposition to the reigning sovereign, 
 
 M 2 
 
164 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 and the case often occurs in smaller houses than palaces. Day by 
 day, week by week, and month by month, Philip made up his mind 
 that the small crowing, cooing thing, which his wife worshipped as an 
 idol, came between her heart and his, and deprived him of bis dues 
 of affection and companionship. And the more he indulged this 
 thought, the more it, like any other indulged thing, intruded and 
 took liberties with what it should have reverently let alone. 
 
 Nothing, I hope I need hardly say, could be more unjust to the 
 good and affectionate Margaret than any suspicion that she was wil- 
 fully preferring her child to her husband, or abating in her duty to 
 the latter. In truth, the idea that she was giving dissatisfaction 
 never entered her head. She found herself entrusted by Providence 
 — blessed would have been the word of her choice — with a little trea- 
 sure, which demanded her constant and sedulous care, and which 
 brought out, in all their fulness and richness, affections which made 
 her ten times happier than she had ever before been. It never 
 occurred to her that, in giving way to her passionate love for her 
 child, she could be alienating the regard of her husband. Herself 
 utterly unselfish, it never crossed her mind that Philip, to whom she 
 looked up as to a model of manly excellence, could feel aggrieved that 
 she could no longer be his ready attendaut when there was pleasure 
 to be sought, or that his conversation, his reading, or his game at 
 chess, could not now be their undisturbed occupation, as in days 
 " before baby came." At first, she had taken it for granted that 
 Philip would share her pride and transports ; and his behaviour during 
 the extreme infancy of the child, when his feelings for her induced 
 him to treat all her ecstasy about th* infant with good-nature if not 
 with sympathy, had tended to protract this delusion. Later, when 
 her praises of her idol found very little echo iu her husband's voice — 
 when his paternal kiss was given carelessly — when he evinced, involun- 
 tarily, annoyance at the child's cries, and seemed relieved when it was 
 laid away to sleep, Margaret was puzzled ; but the goodness of her 
 heart prevented her from being hurt, and she made up her mind that 
 men's way of loving children was different from that of women. 
 Still it seemed strange to the happy Margaret, when indulging in 
 some of the million endearments between mother and child, or perhaps 
 venturously trying whether baby could stand for a moment (and 
 watching the grand experiment with an anxiety which Stephenson 
 never felt when the Pocket gave its first snort), that her appeal to 
 papa to put down his newspaper and behold the great sight arose 
 half unheeded, and brought perhaps only a monosyllable, perhaps a 
 careless glance, or perhaps still less notice was vouchsafed. Margaret 
 could not make it out, and, half reproachfully, would sometimes press 
 the child's soft face to its father's, and little knew that he endured the 
 caress much more for the sake of saving her annoyance than from 
 any admiration of the violet-scented creature thus forced upon his 
 parental notice. 
 
 Gradually, but certainly, Duke turned his father a good deal out 
 of the house. In the times of their early wedlock it was very rarely 
 that Margaret and Philip spent an evening apart, and his attentions 
 increased up to the time of Duke's arrival. Then, of course, came 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 165 
 
 the period when a husband and a father must find his own amuse- 
 ments, if he requires any ; and Philip Arundel naturally made his 
 way back to a Club or two, and other gatherings, at which the man 
 whose home is on the other side of a black door in an Inn of Court, 
 or in solitary lodgings, may be easily forgiven for assisting, but where 
 the man with a house and a wife should have a particularly good ex- 
 cuse for being found at midnight. And having found that it Avas,.-- 
 amuse himself in this way, he carried on the habit after the excuse 
 quite possible to had ceased. 
 
 •• I think, Margaret dear, that 1 shall dine at the Club to-night. 
 My coming home induces you to sit up longer than you ought to 
 do, and that is not well. For a little time we must be careful of 
 you." 
 
 This — or this sort of thing — said in a caressing manner, and in 
 a tone of grave concern, of course answered its purpose with the 
 affectionate wife, and she coidd not plead that Philip's coming home 
 and entertaining her with cheerful conversation would do her more 
 good than an additional hour or so of rest. She did urge one day, how- 
 ever, that when he did not come home he missed seeing baby before 
 it went finally to sleep ; but this argument had not the weight it 
 deserved, and Philip, indeed, sometimes went out in the morning 
 without ever seeing Duke at all, a negligence which Margaret thought, 
 the first time it happened, would make papa so uncomfortable that he 
 would come home in the middle of the day. But no such repentance 
 happened, and the mother began to comprehend that, by some accident 
 or other, men must have been created who did not care about 
 babies. 
 
 There was a christening, however, and Philip behaved as well upon 
 this occasion as he did at his marriage ; and his speech after dinner, in 
 return for the health of his wife and himself, was almost touching. 
 Margaret, in fact, sobbed outright, which she had never done at her 
 wedding, when Philip quoted something from Coleridge about his 
 hope that one of these days his child might " wander like a breeze" 
 beside the sea, and be as happy there as his parents had been a couple 
 of years ago. The senator, who was one of the godfathers, and Mr. 
 Keckling, who was the other, were also delighted, as, it is needless to 
 say, was Geraldine Arundel, who had " drawn lots," she said (Philip 
 more than hinted that the girls had tossed up a sixpence), with 
 Blanche as to which should be godmother. Margaret long looked back 
 to this christening day. 
 
 But Philip had broken the home-spell, so far as he was concerned, 
 and it was not impossible that he might, ere long, break the wife-spell 
 too. At present there was no reason for this. Margaret was to him 
 what she had ever been from the hour she consented to become his — 
 gentle, affectionate, docile, seeking only how she could render herself 
 more and more acceptable to him. She knew that she had received an 
 education which, though good, was a provincial one, and that he was 
 naturally fastidious ; and she studied to correct anything, if there 
 were anything, in language, tone, or thought, that could annoy her 
 husband. She took his estimate of everybody as her own, and without 
 a pang resigned several opinions, which she had learned under the 
 
166 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 roof of her libei'al and dissenting uncle, in favour of the more ai'isto- 
 cratic Arnndelian politics. There were only two subjects on which 
 she could never be shaken. One of these was religion. This, with 
 Margaret, was no mere sentiment, inspired by a fine oi'gan, and an 
 impressive preacher, and the stained-glass of a handsome church, and 
 about as valuable and as likely to exercise influence on one's life as 
 the sensation one derives from the last scene of " Ptobert the Devil." 
 It was a religion whose seat was in the heart, and not in the senses. 
 She was no bigot. Brought up a dissenter, she had unhesitatingly 
 become a member of the Church of England, in conformity with the 
 desire of her husband — if so grave a term should be applied to his 
 observing, on the first Sunday they spent together, that he supposed 
 they might as well go to church as not ; but since that time she had 
 been regular in her attendance there, when health permitted. And 
 if ever a shade of displeasure came over her face, it was when Philip, 
 who fancied himself a bit of a philosopher, came out with a little 
 morsel of Voltairean flippancy, or Straussian neology, and tried to 
 shake her reverence for things that she had been taught to hold sacred. 
 This style of attack annoyed her the moi - e from its being new to her. 
 She had lived with those who would as soon have thought of arguing 
 about the truth of revelation, as a man would think of arguing about 
 the honour of his mother. And when Philip hinted to her that it 
 was all very well to let charity-children believe certain things in a 
 bald, vulgar way, but that there was another way in which thinking 
 persons could, without rejecting the received stories, bring them into 
 accord with philosophical views ; Margaret was shocked, and wanted 
 to know whether the poor charity-children had no souls. Philip had 
 caught up a good many of the small arguments with which clever 
 men, especially men who smoke meerschaums, are in the habit of 
 entirely smashing Christianity ; but arguments that are quite strong 
 enough for a party of men over wine, and between double entendre, 
 will not always serve with an earnest-minded woman, who is not 
 ashamed to believe that her reason may not be strong enough to teach 
 her everything in this world and the next. So with Margaret 
 Arundel. Her other faith, as has been intimated, was in her baby. 
 Save on these two points (and really it is not quite the worst thing 
 that can be said of a woman, that she loves her God and her child), 
 there was nothing in which Mai'garet was not the implicitly sub- 
 missive wife that chiefly falls to the lot of a husband who does not 
 know how to value the gift. 
 
 It is an ugly word, but it must come out — Philip began to neglect 
 his wife; Not coarsely, nor exactly in an unkind manner, and 
 assuredly not with any intention of hurting her feelings. He was 
 perfectly aware how good she was, and when with her he retained 
 more of his own old fondness than, when absent, he imagined that 
 he felt. He was glad, too, when he heard from her some cheerful 
 little story about the way in which her evening had been agreeably 
 helped out in his absence. That is to say, that Philip was a good- 
 natured gentleman. But the good-natured gentleman contrived to 
 be away from home a good deal, and that at hours when it is not the 
 custom of solicitors to come rushing down the steps of the Temple 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 167 
 
 cellars with briefs!, and when Philip was certainly not in his par- 
 ticular cellar reading the briefs which had been delivered. It was the 
 old story. There was no particular harm in what he did. He dined 
 with his equals at a respectable place ; and if he drank too much 
 wine, it was not a great deal too much — certainly not enough to make 
 him forget anything, except that he ought to go home. No harm 
 afterwards, so far as one can see. If he went to the theatre, in most 
 cases the deed carried its own punishment, as he usually suffered from 
 a bad performance, and always from a bad ventilation. I do not think 
 he played much — a little whist, with men he knew, was no great 
 gambling — and Philip understood something about the game, and once 
 bought his wdfe a toilet-bottle with part of his winnings. His supper 
 Mas usually a light one, and oysters are exceedingly digestible fish ; 
 and as for drinking, — why, if you will eat, you must drink some- 
 thing ; and in regard to tobacco, most men want either a sedative or 
 a stimulant, and tobacco has the ambidexti'ous advantage of being 
 both. And then, when he was enjoying himself in any of these ways, 
 and the thought that he was a married man came across him (when 
 Ids eye fell on his hand he could hardly help being reminded of the 
 fact, by a ring his wife had given him), he immediately choked 
 it off: 
 
 " If Margaret were not tied to the house by that child, I should be 
 taking her somewhere, instead of being here ; so it is not my fault 
 that I am here and she is at home. Box-keeper !" 
 
 The proper lunch for a Templar is a hard biscuit, and a glass of 
 water from one of the excellent pumps of the vicinity. But if the 
 same Grand Master who, in the time of Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert and 
 Ivanhoe, worked so sudden and signal a regeneration in the habits of 
 the order, were to take a midday stroll round Paper Buildings, and 
 other aristocratic portions of his domain, he would find that the 
 luxury he so sternly condemned had made its way into the deep soli- 
 tudes and awful cells of the Temple. Some men have napkined refec- 
 tions from adjacent hostelries ; others seek the hostelries themselves ; 
 while a third, and still more Sybaritic class, wander westward in search 
 of refreshment at their Clubs. 
 
 One afternoon, Philip Arundel, who belonged to the third class 
 just mentioned, was on his westward march, when Alban Cheriton 
 overtook him. The young men did not meet very frequently, but 
 they were on friendly terms ; and Alban, though he did not often 
 intrude himself upon the St. John's Wood menage, was an occasional 
 visitor there, and was always received with kindness by his cousin 
 Margaret. Some advice which he had given in the case of a little 
 illness of Duke's had, moreover, afforded him no slight hold upon Mrs. 
 Aruudel's gratitude. 
 
 Alban mentioned that he was on his way to one of the West- end 
 hospitals, to witness a new and important operation which was to be 
 performed by the great Sir Scalpel Slasher. 
 
 "Sometl 'ng awful for the poor patient, I suppose," said Philip. 
 
 " Well, yes," said Alban, " it will be severe ; but it will be performed 
 under eJ .oroform." 
 
 " Co aid you take in an outsider ? I have an immense interest in 
 
168 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 that kind of thing. But don't think of it, of course, if I should be 
 cle trop." 
 
 " Are your nerves steady ¥' said Alban. " Sir Scalpel was awfully 
 abusive one day because a young dresser fainted away in the middle 
 of some operation. He told the young fellow that he was a disgrace 
 to a liberal profession." 
 
 " I'll not faint," said Philip, " that I'll promise you. I should not 
 like to hear a man screaming, and that the chloroform will prevent. 
 If you can take me, I shall be much obliged." 
 " So be it," said Alban ; and they went. 
 
 When they reached the hospital, they found that the operation was 
 postponed for half an hour, to suit some engagement of the great 
 surgeon's; so they went down-stairs into a comfortable room below the 
 basement, in which they found a knot of medical students eating cold 
 meat-pie, and otherwise fortifying their nerves and clearing their 
 minds for the approaching lesson. Mr. Cheriton, who was held in 
 much admiration even by a class not in the habit of being much im- 
 pressed, or of signifying their esteem with any servility of ceremony, 
 was made very welcome by the seniors of the party, and by the 
 house-surgeons ; and perhaps Philip felt, as he listened to the profes- 
 sional conversation with which the pie was flavoured, and noted that 
 the questions put to Alban were real and searching, and that his 
 answers were as real and conscientious, that fluency and savoir /aire 
 are hollow things, after all, when compared to the results of sound and 
 earnest study. Perhaps he felt a little envious of any man who could 
 come, without preparation, into a circle like that, and fearlessly bring 
 up theory and experience to be raked and sifted, by men with cool 
 heads and keen perceptions. Humbug had small chance there. 
 
 " It's a real engagement of Slasher's, I suppose," said one of the 
 men, " that makes him keep us waiting." 
 
 " Lord, yes," said another; "he never did the cellar dodge." 
 " What's that ?" asked two or three voices. 
 
 " Why," returned the first speaker, " it's a sort of general name 
 for any plan for making people think you are in enormous re- 
 quest." 
 
 " Uncle clerivalur .?" asked Philip. 
 
 " Latin, I believe," replied the other ; " in which case I respect- 
 fully drink to your health in this beer. I heard the word first used 
 about a doctor who was in the habit of asking folks to dinner, and not 
 making his own appearance for an hour after they had all come, and 
 when they were raging, and who used then to hurry in with all sorts 
 of apologies, and say that he had been detained by some duchess, or 
 countess, or at the Palace." 
 
 " That's common enough ; but what about the cellar V persisted 
 another. 
 
 " Well, one day he tried this trick ; and after his guests had waited 
 an hour or so, one of them declared he would order dinner, and the 
 instant he had rang, in popped the host, who must have '^een hiding 
 in the cellar, for they had watched the front door and the bedroom 
 stairs." 
 
 " A stupid kind of story," observed a grateful auditor. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 1G9 
 
 ''Who said it wasn't V calmly replied the narrator. " And why 
 shouldn't I tell a stupid story if I like 1 We live in a free country, 
 1 am given to understand." 
 
 Presently it was proposed that they should adjourn to the place of 
 operation. This was a very small theatre, with a strong and awful- 
 looking table iu the centre, around which the seats arose very pre- 
 cipitously. It was lighted from above. It had in its time been 
 perhaps a more fearful torture-chamber than any in the Inquisition ; 
 but since the discovery of the merciful agent which has almost 
 turned the surgical table into a bed of roses, the chamber has seldom 
 echoed to the agonized shriek of the sufferer. Philip Arundel being 
 among the earliest arrivals, was placed very near the scene of action, 
 and he looked round with some dismay to see that the other intend- 
 ing spectators hemmed him in so closely that there was no escape for 
 him, let his sensations be what they might. 
 
 It was speedily announced that Sir Scalpel Slasher's carriage was 
 at the door, and orders were given to bring down the patient. In a 
 few moments a pallid-looking being, with a blanket thrown over him, 
 and his eyes blindfolded, was borne carefully in, and placed upon the 
 table. While the spectators were watching him, a slightly-built man, 
 in black, with his coat buttoned close up to his chin, entered from 
 a side-door, and gave a keen glance at the patient. Cold blue eyes, 
 an aquiline nose, compressed lips, and a decided manner, afforded at 
 first an impi'ession that a stern man stood before you; but a second 
 look showed you that there was benevolence in the face, and some 
 quietly-given directions for the greater comfort of the patient con- 
 firmed the conviction. 
 
 Alban, looking at the new arrival, touched Philip, that he might 
 notice the great surgeon. But Philip's nerves began to remind him 
 of their existence ; and the touch seemed to grate upon him. He 
 heartily wished that he had not asked to be brought there ; and 
 when something glittered in the hand of the operator, and Philip 
 perceived that he was looking, as a French duellist looks at his 
 sword, upon the edge of a most malignant-seeming knife, Arundel's 
 sensation was less enviable than that of the pale creature on the 
 table, who knew nothing of the steel that was so near him. 
 
 A nod from Sir Scalpel, and the stupifying process began. In what 
 seemed to Philip a veiy short time, one of the surgeons at the 
 patient's head gently forced open an eye of the latter, who had sunk 
 into repose, and was far away in his native county, carousing with 
 old schoolmates, and roughly courting the Phyllis of his youth. The 
 nod was returned by this gentleman; and Sir Scalpel, knife in hand, 
 advanced to the table — 
 
 " You bore it very well," said Alban, as he conducted Philip from 
 the theatre, as soon as the mutilated patient had been carried away. 
 •• 1 thought at one time you would have broken your word, and gone 
 down. We'll get you some brandy." 
 
170 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " If you would," gasped Arundel. " My head seems to be coming 
 open." 
 
 It was thought, in after-days, that the shock which that night 
 struck Margaret to the heart might have been prepared for her by 
 the deliberate design of one who had his own ends to serve. It was 
 thought that when, late in the evening, Alban Cheriton brought to 
 the gate of the house in St. John's-wood a companion so foolishly 
 tipsy, that at one moment he poured out wild nonsense, and the next 
 was almost in tears, and who had so lost command of himself that he 
 could hardly stagger up the short walk from the gate, he had not 
 unwillingly afforded Margaret, who had rejected him, this specimen 
 of the conduct of him who had been preferred. It was even thought 
 that Philip had fallen into a trap laid for him by the designing 
 Cheriton. We are seldom judged rightly in this world ; and, more- 
 over, I will not say that passages in Alban's subsequent life did not 
 give excuse for general suspicion of all his relations with Philip 
 Arundel. But save that he did not, upon this occasion, dissuade the 
 latter from returning home until sobered, as Cheriton might easily 
 have done, there was, I believe, no reason to accuse him of any pre- 
 meditation in presenting to Margaret, for the first time, the spectacle 
 of a helplessly drunken husband. 
 
 Had Alban nurtured such a plan, he would have repented it, could 
 he have seen it in action — seen the young wife witnessing the folly 
 of the intoxicated Arundel, and terrified alike to approach or to with- 
 draw from him. Utterly bewildered by his allusions to the scene he 
 had witnessed (and which had really been the cause of his yielding to 
 the influence of far less wine than he could ordinarily take with 
 impunity), and shamed by his absurdities of speech and gesture, poor 
 Margaret gazed in speechless grief upon a sight happily new to her ; 
 and it was not until the painful interview was broken in upon by a 
 domestic whom Arundel's condition did not much affect, but who was 
 indignant that her delicate young lady should be detained to witness 
 it, that Philip was beguiled to his own apartment, and Margaret left 
 to her tears and her prayers. That was the first night of misery she 
 had passed since making Arundel's acquaintance. 
 
 I wish it had pleased Alban to spare it her, instead of to say, as he 
 drove back to town — 
 
 " Why should I have kept him at my place ] She found him so 
 perfect — how do I know but she may like that sort of thing V 
 
 Not even deceiving himself by such words, and there was nobody 
 else to deceive. 
 
 However, though he would not save Margaret that miserable night, 
 he saw fit to go up to St. John's-wood in the morning, to ascertain how 
 matters stood. He learned that Margaret was in her bedroom, and that 
 Mr. Arundel had gone out very early in the morning, " before she was 
 awake," — not, poor thing, that she had slept, and he must have trodden 
 stealthily for her to miss his footfall. So Alban sat down at 
 Margaret's neat little writing-table, and left Philip a note, in which 
 friendly inquiries after his health were followed by a regret that 
 Arundel had so pertinaciously rejected Alban's solicitations to remain 
 at his lodirhiKS. He added an obscure hint that he had arranged 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 17L 
 
 something which might have led to unpleasantness, and that Philip 
 must take care to say nothing about it. This note he sealed, but, 
 purposely, with such apparent carelessness that the least handling 
 would cause it to open, and then he left it for Mr. Arundel. If Mrs. 
 Arundel chose to read it, that was not Mr. Cheriton's fault. If she 
 did, the contents, and the careful inquiries which he made of the 
 servant about her master, whom Alban took care to mention that he 
 had seen home on the preceding night, were calculated to do Philip no 
 particular good, and Alban no particular harm. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 CONDONATION. 
 
 The husband had left home stealthily, in order to avoid meeting his 
 wife until some sort of explanation had been made by him — some apology 
 offered for the outrage to her feelings. The sentiment that prompted 
 this departure was a gentlemanly one ; but a husband who loved 
 more sincerely would hardly have waited for this tardy and devious 
 mode of reconciliation, and would have found, too, a surer way to 
 attain his object. Margaret had been shocked and stunned by the 
 unwonted sight which had been presented to her ; but a pang of 
 another kind shot through her loving heart when she found that 
 Arundel had hesitated to come to her when restored to himself — to 
 throw himself into her arms, and to receive absolution. 
 
 But Philip was better treated than he deserved, as sometimes 
 happens to us all ; and it is, no doubt, that we may not tempt our- 
 selves to habitual acts of unworthiness that we so pertinaciously omit 
 to register and remember these instances of good fortune. He had 
 hastened to his chambers, and had set himself to write a letter to his 
 wife, explaining the way in which he had been led so far to forget 
 himself. But morning composition is impeded by the effects of over- 
 hilarity overnight ; and in proportion to the rapidity with which one 
 has then talked, is the slowness with which one now writes. Philip 
 was still on the first page of his narrative when a lady's unmis- 
 takeable knock was heard, and in another half minute Margaret had 
 kissed him ; and, glancing at the letter, which began with her name, 
 quietly put it into the fire, and kissed him again. 
 
 She did not want to hear anything more on the subject ; she had 
 brought Albau's letter with the seal broken — that could not be 
 avoided — but she had not read a word ; and she came to remind 
 him of a promise to take her up the river. It was just the autumn 
 day for the purpose ; they were in time for an early train to 
 Maidenhead ; the Cliefden woods would be beautiful ; he should 
 row her in a little boat ; they could dine quietly at Mr. bkindeH's. 
 
 " And the baby 1" asked Philip. 
 
 Margaret coloured ; she was in doubt whether he would be pleased 
 
172 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 with her ; but — but nurse and baby were in a cab at the corner — 
 
 would he mind 
 
 He would have been a more ungrateful wretch than I hope he 
 was, if he had minded anything that day. It was exactly what he 
 could have wished ; there was no business particularly requiring his 
 attention that day ; the weather was lovely ; it would do her good, 
 him good, Duke good ; and if she had only — but it didn't matter in 
 the least, and wasn't worth a word — but if she had happened to 
 
 think of Fizz and a fishing-rod 
 
 And both were in the cab at the corner, the faithful dog keeping 
 jealous guard over his master's infant ; and the tackle, though 
 selected by Margaret in a great hurry, and under unfavourable 
 circumstances, was by no means the bundle of incongruities which 
 might have been expected. Philip cheerily declared that with a 
 little addition, easily procured, it would be exactly the thing ; and 
 away they went for the day. 
 
 Evidently it would be encouraging a husband to persist in habits 
 of intoxication for a wife to make up matters in such a way ; and 
 therefore, madam, it is needless to say that the much better plan, 
 when a spouse returns home " over-nourished," is to begin at once with 
 ridicule or scolding, or both, and to seiwe the same refrigerators up 
 at breakfast, finishing off with a caution, as he goes out, not to do 
 the same thing two nights running ; not that it is anything to you, 
 of course — he has long since ceased to take any interest in your 
 feelings, or to care what you wish — but because everybody has re- 
 marked that his constitution is not what it was, and such freaks, 
 which might be all very well in a young, strong man, will accelerate 
 a break-up, for which he knows best — you knew nothing of his affairs, 
 of course — how should you 1 — whether he is prepared, as a man with a 
 family that he pretends to care about, ought to be. A gentleman who 
 has undergone this form of treatment is very likely to abstain from an 
 excess, or, at all events, to abstain from coming home after one. 
 Margaret was but a young matron, and may be pardoned her error. 
 
 Talking to his wife about his offence while nurse was present, was 
 of course impossible, but a good general conversation was maintained 
 vid the baby, whose feats of intelligence and miracles of virtue sup- 
 plied Margaret with ample theme for discussion, at which she worked 
 so perseveringly, that Arundel began to be deluded into the belief 
 that, after all, there might be something in his child superior to the 
 average characteristics of babies. Some masculine parents sincerely 
 entertain this creed, though affecting to disavow it ; but they are not 
 generally men of Philip Arundel's type, but undersized parties, with 
 legs more or less out of the line of beauty, but who nevertheless 
 strap down their trousers, wear high hats, and dress more smartly on 
 Sundays than at other times. And why are they to be laughed at 
 for holding, touching their offspring, the faith that you, Dr. Cribb, 
 have about your sermons — you, Lieutenant-Colonel Cascable, R.A., 
 about your bombshells — you, Mr. Fleck, about your pictures — and you, 
 Mr. Fitzserial, about your novels 1 
 
 But when Maidenhead was reached, and Duke and his attendant 
 left there until their proprietors' return, and Margaret and her hus- 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 173 
 
 bund were floating past the beautiful woods, now coloured to a 
 hundred different tints by the autumn sun, Philip made an attempt 
 to extenuate his conduct. 
 
 " My darling," said Margaret, putting her hand into his, " please 
 don't say a word about it. It is very unkind of you to think that I 
 do not know quite well that it was all accidental ; and if I had not 
 been sitting up, which I had no business to do, I should have known 
 nothing about it. Now it will be very cross of you to say any more, 
 — wont it, Fizz 1 You must bite your master if he is cross to me." 
 
 " You are the best girl in the world," said Philip. 
 
 " I know I am," said Margaret, smiHng ; " and Duke is the best boy 
 in the world, though you have never told him so from the hour he 
 came. Did you ever see anything more heavenly than his eyes, 
 sir r 
 
 Of course you know what Philip answered, and there was a good 
 deal moi-e of the same kind of thing. The condonation was complete \ 
 and as for Alban's letter, it was torn up and made into little boats, 
 and set floating at Cookham. 
 
 But thenceforth, when Philip returned home at all late, Margai'et, 
 despite herself, would watch nervously lest there should be any symp- 
 tom of his having indulged in wine, and perhaps would sometimes 
 imagine that she detected such evidence when really there was 
 nothing of the kind. It would be going too far to say that her con- 
 fidence in her husband was shaken, but she experienced a certain 
 uneasiness as to his power of resisting temptation. 
 
 " I heard of you the other night," said our friend John Claxton to 
 Philip, as they met a few days later. 
 
 " You heard something to my credit and renown, I hope," returned 
 Arundel. 
 
 " I don't know about that." 
 
 " Living in a demoralized atmosphere, my dear Jack, you are in- 
 capable of discerning the true beauty of goodness. Marry a wife, 
 and comport yourself seemingly." 
 
 " If I had married a wife, I don't think I should go home to her 
 in a state of mops and brooms, after offering to fight a fishmonger in 
 the Haymarket because he had arranged his lobsters and prawns in a 
 way displeasing to my bewildered eye." 
 
 Philip coloured with vexation. 
 
 " Was I such an ass ?" he said. " It's very likely. Who told you, 
 
 John r 
 
 " A medical animal." 
 
 " Not Alban Cheriton V 
 
 " Do you think he knows that there are such things as fishmongers 
 and tipsy swells ] Do you imagine that he would concern himself 
 with your follies f" 
 
 " By Jove, Jack, he led me into the only real scrape I've been in 
 since my marriage. I don't mean to say that it was his fault ; but he 
 took me to an operation, which so upset me that, as far as I know, 
 very little wine took hold of me, and it was a Case." 
 
 " Cheriton did, eh ?" said Mr. Claxton. " I did not know that he 
 patronized you." 
 
174 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Nor I," said Arundel, haughtily. 
 
 " Humbly imploring pardon if offending — which not being meant 
 should ^ not be taken," said John Claxton, in a sarcastic tone, " I 
 would imply that Mrs. Arundel's cousin is a gentleman whom' one 
 of these days, it will be something to know. He's well in the saddle, 
 my boy, and means to ride the race." 
 
 " And win it, I hope," said Philip ; « for he is a very good fellow, 
 though a little stiff and silent. He'll be better when he has seen 
 more of the world." 
 
 " The calm assurance of some folks is commendable," said Claxton. 
 " And you propose to show the world to this man, who has more 
 brains in his finger than — now then, look red again — than I have in 
 my whole body — and you begin the exhibition at the Haymarket !" 
 
 " I have no more recollection, Jack, of having been there than of 
 being in the moon. Indeed, I can't think what I did with my after- 
 noon. "We went to the hospital early, and it was night when I o- t 
 home." 
 
 " And pretty late into the night, too. Do you keep your servants 
 up until such hours ?" 
 
 " I have my latch-key," said Philip, hastily. 
 
 • " And your watch-key ; but you could use neither of them that 
 night, Philippus. Answer like a man whether your watch was goin" 
 next morning." 
 
 " Yes, it was," said Philip. Which was true ; but a white hand, 
 that trembled too much to make the operation an easy one, had wound 
 up the watch. 
 
 " Well, you are no longer my pupil," said Claxton, " and so I 
 have nothing to say ; but if I had, I should strongly recommend you 
 not to relapse into our ungodly bachelor fashions. You have the 
 best excuse in the world for cutting anybody and everybody that 
 
 would keep you from home ; and if I had a wife like yours " 
 
 " Confound your preaching ; didn't you do everything to dissuade me 
 from marrying, you humbugging old epicure that you are V 
 
 " That is in no sort, manner, or degree the question," replied 
 Claxton, coolly. " That I thought you best calculated to grace 
 bachelorship is no reason why I should desire to see you disgrace 
 matrimony. What business have you at Clubs ?" 
 " One must hear what is going on, I suppose." 
 
 " There is a journal called the Times, which you may read for an 
 hour every morning for a small amount in copper, and which will tell 
 you accurately what is going on, many hours before the Club can repeat 
 it to you inaccurately." 
 
 " What's the good of talking stuff ?— one don't go to the Club for 
 what one can read in the Times." 
 
 " No ; you go to the Club to hear what men are going to the bad, 
 and why ; and whether they were hit hard at Epsom or at Ascot ; and 
 to remark that you always thought they were rather goino- it. And you 
 want to hear which of the corps de ballet it is that is this year makin^ 
 a greater fool of Sir Pilkington Winks than Providence left him, and 
 who was her last victim, and who wants to be her next. And you 
 desire to meet Jowley, because he is junior in Mrs. Labinaton's 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 175 
 
 divorce case, and will tell yon a lot of things that came out iu 
 evidence, but which it wouldn't do to print in the papers. And, 
 further, yon go because there has been a savage quarrel between 
 Saker and Blosset, who are both members, and were such sworn friends, 
 and you want to know the particulars ; and whether that is true about 
 Blosset and Miss Montefiasco, the black-eyed Hebrew vocalist. And 
 you covet to hear the last spiteful thing that has been invented about 
 poor Egerton, who is the most harmless boi-e in the world. And 
 you want to make a bet whether Lord Fitzrupert's horse will run for 
 the Two Thousand while his master is a minister, and on the horse's 
 winning, and on the double event. And you want to say a few 
 things about some of the candidates who are up for election at the 
 club, in the hope of getting one or two black-balled. And you want 
 to get Tyssen Dalston to ask you to dinner, now that he has come 
 into his uncle's wine, and so you will lead the talk up to comet hock, 
 and say there is none in England. And you want to get some letters 
 that you don't choose should come to your chambers, far less to your 
 house. These are the noble objects of your going to the club, I 
 admit, and not to hear what is iu the Times." 
 
 " A devilish long speech, Jack — after which you might give us a 
 weed." 
 
 " Come over the way, and I will. But isn't all I say quite true ? 
 And what's- the good of all that bosh to you, with a wife at home, and 
 society to go into ? You don't tell your wife about Miss Montefiasco 
 and the rest of it ]" 
 
 " Well, not exactly." 
 
 " And you don't talk about such things when you have dinner- 
 parties r 
 
 " Hang it, Pinnock's Catechism, hold your nonsense. We shall see 
 you married one of these days, and then we shall also see whether you 
 are so ready to give up all your amusements." 
 
 " My hypothetical weakness is no excuse for your incontrovertible 
 folly, my boy ; and now, as I have said enough " 
 
 " At least." 
 
 " It is all for your good, you know. Come over and have a 
 smoke." 
 
 '• That you consider a proper thing to do in the daytime. I am 
 glad of that, anyhow." 
 
 " Reserve your gladness for fitter occasion. I hold the practice to 
 be exceedingly improper in the daytime ; but then I like it, and am 
 too much an enemy of all despotisms to permit my good sense to 
 tyrannize over my passions. 
 
 And so they returned to the old chambers to which long ago the 
 reader has been introduced ; and Philip Arundel, well satisfied, as he 
 had every right to feel, with his married condition, owned to a certain 
 odd sensation as he sat himself down to offer a burnt sacrifice in that 
 Temple of Liberty. 
 
176 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A VERY BLACK CLOUD. 
 
 Marmaduke Arundel, member for Shacklebury, was sitting in his 
 library in the house in Thanington-square, considering a political 
 question which was about to be discussed in Parliament (and, no doubt, 
 deciding upon his own course with reference to the merits of the 
 subject, and not with any thought of his party's claims or his consti- 
 tuents' prejudices), when he was informed that a gentleman, whose 
 card bore the name of Mr. Armand, wished to see him. 
 
 " I don't know him," said Mr. Arundel. " Have you seen him 
 before, Thompson ?" 
 
 " Not to my knowledge, sir. He looks rather like a clergyman, 
 sir, I'm thinking." 
 
 " Humph. Some beggar, 1 suppose — sheepfold not lai*ge enough 
 for the dear lambs — shepherd wants a guinea. Send him in," he 
 added, despairingly. 
 
 Servants' descriptions of your visitors are, however, so invariably 
 ridiculous, that a reader will not be surprised to hear that the only 
 clerical association connected with the dress of the stranger now 
 ushered in to Mr. Arundel, was, that his clothes were black. But 
 they were well made, and somewhat military in their neat and trim 
 cut ; and the visitor wore smart high-heeled boots, of patent-leather. 
 The hat had what is called shape about it, but the shape was not that 
 affected by shepherds in holy orders. The visitor's age might be 
 about that of Mr. Arundel himself, but he looked younger, and was 
 compacter and more decided in his movements than the representative 
 of Shackleby, who had taken very mildly the disease called life. 
 
 " I am an entii'e stranger to you, Mr. Arundel, and I have no 
 favour to ask," said the visitor, smiling. " The knowledge of that 
 second fact may be satisfactory, as it is a slow torture to know that 
 a story is working gradually round in the direction of your cheque- 
 book." 
 
 "Is the visit with which you honour me connected with the inte- 
 rests of my excellent constituents V asked the senator. 
 
 " Very remotely, if at all ; but they are to be congratulated on their 
 being so immediately in the mind of their member." 
 
 Mr. Arundel bowed, and waited further information. 
 
 " You are, Mr. Arundel, happy in the possession of a son — a young 
 gentleman of whom every one speaks with regard." 
 
 " I am glad, sir, to hear that any merit he may have is so largely 
 recognised." 
 
 " He was married, with your approbation, some two years ago, or 
 rather more, to a young lady every way worthy of him ?" 
 
 " He was, sir." 
 
 " And they live in St. John's-wood, in happiness and prosperity V 
 
 " The address is in the Blue-book, sir," said Mr. Arundel, who 
 naturally began to be puzzled with this resume of family history. 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 177 
 
 " Thanks ; but I have seen your daughter-in-law at her house, and 
 your son at his chambers. Their infant, your grandson, a very charm- 
 ing production, has some resemblance to yourself — as much as the un- 
 defined features of a child can have to the lineaments of a thoughtful 
 man in years." 
 
 " The interest you take in them " 
 
 " Needs explanation. You shall have it. But, in the first place, I 
 should like to ask vou whether you know anything of the family of 
 Mrs. Philip Arundel V' 
 
 " I should have imagined, sir, from your appearance and manner, 
 that vou were acquainted with the world ; and would conclude, from 
 the fact of the marriage, that all necessary information had been 
 aflbrded," said Mr. Arundel, dryly. 
 
 " A most proper answer," said the other. " The public service 
 suffers from Mr. A rundel's not choosing to occupy a position in which 
 he could give such answers from the Treasury bench." 
 
 Mr. Arundel remained silent. 
 
 " Now, sir," said the visitor, after a short pause, " I will make my 
 business exceedingly clear. You will to-mon-ow entertain at your 
 hospitable board a select party of friends, among whom will be in- 
 cluded your son and your daughter-in-law." 
 
 " It is no secret, sir, however you may have heard of it." 
 
 " It is no secret, sir, as you justly remark. Any one favoured with 
 an invitation to Mr. Arundel's table is, and properly, too proud of the 
 distinction to be silent upon the subject. My object is to suggest a 
 single addition to your party." 
 
 " You are exceedingly obliging." 
 
 " Which means damnably impertinent. A happy language is ours 
 — so agreeably reversible. I am in hopes, however, that my sugges- 
 tion will meet your approval. I propose to you to forward to Mrs. 
 Philip Arundel, with a request that she will convey it to the right 
 quarter, an invitation for to-morrow, Tuesday, at eight, to her father, 
 who has just arrived in England. Ask him to waive ceremony, and 
 accompany the young couple. I have reason to believe that he will 
 comply." 
 
 " Mr. Armand," said Mr. Arundel, taking up the card, and reading 
 the name from it. The visitor interrupted him. 
 
 " Mr Armand is " 
 
 " My present visitor, sir ; and, as a man of the world, that gentleman 
 will know where a conversation should stop. Stopped at its present 
 point, no annoyance can be caused to any reasonable person. I beg 
 to make this remark— namely, that the circle of my acquaintance is 
 already as large as I desire it to be, and therefore my increasing it is 
 out of the question." 
 
 He rose, and put his hand to the bell. 
 
 " A word more, sir, before you ring. Your answer is, as you ob- 
 serve, one with which it is impossible to quarrel. I, of course, have 
 but to accept it and withdraw. But inasmuch as I should grieve not 
 to show equivalent courtesy, I deem it right to say that the course 
 you take, no doubt from well-considered reasons, will not tend to the 
 restriction of your circle of acquaintance, but the reverse." 
 
 PART VI. N 
 
178 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Mr. Arundel made no answer, but again approached the bell. 
 
 " In this way, sir. Your dinner on Tuesday will be given only to 
 those whom you have invited ; but your next will include both Mrs. 
 Philip Arundel's father — and her mother." 
 
 " There is no such person," said Arundel. 
 
 " I have such very good reasons for knowing the contrary " 
 
 " I have no wish whatever to hear them, or to prolong this inter- 
 view," said Mr. Arundel, ringing. Thompson was prompt at the 
 door, having a theory that mendicant clergymen were not particular 
 as to what offerings they collected, or whether the levy wei*e legal, 
 and the master of the house was master of the situation. The stranger 
 bowed himself out with much propriety. 
 
 " About what I expected," he said to himself, as he paced the 
 square; " and as we both kept our tempers so well, there is no harm 
 done. Cui-se the woman for making the old gentleman tell a lie." 
 
 What this last amiable sentiment meant may be discovered here- 
 after. 
 
 The dinner to which the stranger had referred, took place, and 
 among the guests were Philip and his wife, the latter looking the 
 most charming of young matrons. Mr. Arundel had designed to say 
 a word either to Philip or to Margaret upon the subject of the inter- 
 view he had had, and on which he had been bestowing some uneasy 
 thoughts. It need scarcely be said that he had no doubt as to who 
 his visitor had been, or that information which he had, since the 
 marriage, received from the vigilant Mr. Keckling, had determined 
 him on the course he should take in the event of Armandale Spencer's 
 ever seeking his acquaintance. But of Mrs. Spencer, Keckling had 
 said nothing ; and although Mr. Arundel had no reason to believe the 
 assertion of the strauger, and saw in it only an intended annoyance, he 
 was too much concerned for the happiness of his children not to wish 
 them on their guard. He therefore meant to caution Philip and 
 Margaret as to the line of conduct they should adopt if Armandale 
 Spencer forced his presence upon them. But the eternal baby, Duke, 
 was again in the way. Margaret, who had been thinking about little 
 else during dinner, begged Philip, so piteously, to take her away 
 before the gentlemen came upstairs, that there was nothing else to be 
 done ; and it was to Philip's credit that, though the drive from Than- 
 ington-square to St. Johns-wood is a long one, he did not make a 
 single disagreeable remark in reply to Margaret's pretty apologies and 
 pleas. It would have been difficult, to be sure, to say anything 
 unpleasant to such a face as that when it rested lovingly on one's 
 shoulder ; but, if she had been a plain woman, I think that, pei'haps, 
 
 but then, to be sure, she would never have been Philip Arundel's 
 
 wife. All I mean is, that it is best for a woman to be good-looking 
 when a man has an opportunity of being disagreeable. 
 
 Thei'e was one person who was watching the movements of others, 
 and whose espionage was of the most effective description. Before 
 the interview of Mr. Amiand with the elder Arundel, Margaret's 
 staunch friend Mr. Keckling had received a visit from his trusty 
 subordinate, Earnshaw. 
 
 " News, Earnshaw 1 You look like it." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 179 
 
 " Well, yes, sir ; but nothing, I'm sorry to say, that you will be glad 
 to hear. That is him." 
 
 " It is he — eh ?" said the old gentleman. " Took his passage as Mr. 
 Almond, did he ?" 
 
 " Armand," said Earnshaw, spelling the word to his employer. " It 
 is a bit of his own name, sir, you know." 
 
 " Nearly half the truth ; and that, as a great man says, Earnshaw, 
 is a very fair instalment in these bad times. And where have you 
 traced him to ?" 
 
 " No great tracing wanted, sir. He took lodgings at once in Half 
 Moon-street, and there he is. And he has called in Gower-street, and 
 has been into the house, and up to Mr. Philip's place ; but there he did 
 not go in, but rang the bell, and saw the lady in the garden, with the 
 babe ; and he pretended to mistake the number, and begged pardon 
 for giving trouble." 
 
 " He means to give more than he'll beg pardon for, I've a notion," 
 said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " Keep an eye on him, I suppose, sir V 
 " A close one. Fenning seems worth his salt ?" 
 " He's very quiet, and very quick, sir ; and never spares himself 
 when there's work to be done. He'll never lose sight of the man." 
 
 " Fenning will do. What has become of that Harris, whom I dis- 
 charged for his blundering when you came back from India ?" 
 
 " I heard he had been a street-preacher, sir ; and after that a 
 tout to a show. I haven't heard of him lately, but I fancy he has 
 come to grief." 
 
 " Let him be found — will you, Earnshaw 1 — so that I can lay my 
 hand on him if I want him." 
 "■Certainly, sir." 
 
 " And specially let me know, either through yourself or through 
 Fenning, what the other man does. Does Fenning think he saw the 
 Spencers in Gower-street ?" 
 
 " He was in the house more than an hour, but neither of them 
 came to the door with him, which they would have done, very likely, 
 sir, considering who he was, if they had been at home." 
 
 " That is, if he told them who he was — and if they were friends. 
 I wish the boat had gone down with him ; but it's always the 
 way." 
 
 " Born to be hanged, perhaps, sir, which is an assurance, like." 
 " I'm afraid he isn't ; and, indeed, I hope he isn't — not for his own 
 sake, of course, but for that of other people. I've no more to say 
 until your next report, Earnshaw, except that, if anything particular 
 occurs, don't wait for morning, but let me know at any time — midnight, 
 if you think necessary." 
 
 And the wary Mr. Earnshaw thought it quite sufficiently " pais 
 ticular," when Mr. Armand had called in Thanington-squarc, to let^ha^; 
 fact be known to his employer the same evening. 
 
 " The rascal is losing no time," said Mr. Keckling, " and therefore 
 we must imitate him. Poor, dear girl, she has had a couple of happy 
 years, however, and Omnipotence itself can't undo the past. If Philip 
 behaves like a trump, she may have many more, dear soul." 
 
 N 2 
 
180 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 " Lady M'Cullombich !" said Philip, one morning, looking at his 
 wife's card-basket. " Why, I thought she was dead. Didn't I read 
 to you that she was dead, Margaret V 
 
 " Her husband died last year," said Mrs. Arundel • " perhaps that 
 is what you are thinking about, dear." 
 
 " Very likely — the name is a queer one, and fixes itself in the 
 memory. Did you see her?" 
 
 " No ; I had gone out for a walk with baby." 
 
 " Of course you had," said Philip. " But I wonder what made 
 her come. We have met her about at various places ; but somehow 
 the acquaintance has never improved." 
 
 " I don't know why she has not called upon me," said Margaret. 
 " I have always assured her that I shall never forget her kindness 
 when I was a little thing coming home from India ; but she never 
 said anything about calling." 
 
 " Wants to get at the governor, through us, about some raw-boned ■ 
 cousin, who would like a place, perhaps ?" said Philip. * However, 
 I suppose you had better call — she may want to entrust vast estates 
 to the management of a first-rate adviser." 
 
 " I hope so," said his wife, laughing. " Are you going so soon ? 
 Duke will be down directly — wont you wait, and see how nice he 
 looks in his new sash and shoes 1" 
 
 " I'll leave him this with you," said Philip, giving her the conjugal 
 adieu, and lighting a cigar as he departed. 
 
 " Five minutes would not have made much difference in his walk 
 to town," thought the wife. " But he will care more about baby when 
 it comes to be a little older." 
 
 Margaret, who had a habit of doing at once what she had to do, 
 determined to return Lady M'Cullombich's call directly; but, to 
 Mrs. Arundel's surprise, the energetic Scotch lady paid her a second 
 visit long before the hour when people's invisibility ceases. She, like 
 another Scotch lady of whom we have all heard, was not for standing 
 upon the order of going, when the order of the day was Go ; and she 
 speedily forced the brass-bound gate, carried the glacis and covered- 
 way at a rush, and was in the breakfast-room before the servant could 
 bring her to any sort of parley. 
 
 " Of course your mistress is at home — everybody is at home now — 
 just say Lady M'Cullombich is here." And she seated herself in 
 Philip's lounging-chair ; took up BelVs Life, which he had left on the 
 ground ; and did by no means drop the paper with disgust, though the 
 first article on which her keen grey eye fell was an account of a 
 slashing mill between Johnson's Novice and the Nobby Nigger. Her 
 ladyship looked exceedingly strong and well, and very little, if any- 
 thing, older than when she parted from Margaret at the docks. The 
 
THE GORPIAN KNOT. 181 
 
 face, though by no menus handsome, with its high cheek-bones, was 
 wholesome and pleasant \ and she had capital teeth, and plenty of 
 them. She was rather showily dressed, but she had not meant to be 
 fine, and what there was of loud colour was really due only to her 
 inability to do better for herself. 
 
 " Lord bless me, child," she exclaimed, as Mrs. Arundel entered 
 with the eternal infant — " why, you were a baby yourself the other 
 day, and now you have the impudence to set up one of your own. 
 And a very nice one, indeed — very nice. If I had ever wanted 
 anything of the kind — which I never did — I would have liked one of 
 that kind." 
 
 " I should have called on you, to-day," said Margaret, " but I am so 
 glad that you have come up again." 
 
 " I came that you might not call," replied her ladyship. " Not, of 
 course, out of inhospitality, which is not the worst of our Scottish 
 vices, but for other reasons of which I will tell you. Is your lord at 
 home P 
 
 " I am sorry to say that he is gone to the Temple." 
 " I am glad of that also — templa quaum deelacta — as I used to 
 teach the girls when I was a governess. He is out of the way. Now, 
 as you evidently can't listen to me with that creature in your hands, 
 just pack him off for a quarter of an hour." 
 
 Margaret did not quite see the justice of this arrangement ; but the 
 good-natured peremptoriness of the Scotch lady would take no denial ; 
 and the baby was summarily dismissed, opening, as his mother 
 believed, wistful and wondering eyes, to know what he had done to 
 deserve being so cruelly exiled. 
 
 " And now, my dear Mrs. Arundel — for I suppose a matron will 
 
 not like to be called Margaret " 
 
 " I should, please," said the younger lady, smiling. 
 " Very well, then ; so it shall be. Now I have something to say to 
 you that will require your good sense to be exercised." 
 " But I do not know that I have any," said Margaret. 
 " If I had not known it, I should not have been here," said her 
 visitor. " My dear child, listen to me. I don't apologize for taking 
 a friend's privilege. We have not seen much of each other for a long 
 time, for Sir Thomas saw no company ; and perhaps I can hardly 
 call myself a friend, or expect you to think me one." 
 
 " I found you a very dear friend on the voyage," said Margaret. 
 " Pooh ! I found a pretty and gentle child, and petted her, as much 
 for my own amusement as for her advantage. I claim no good marks 
 for that. And what I am going to say to you now is a duty rather 
 than anything else." 
 
 " Ought I to be terrified, dear Lady M'Cullombich ?" 
 " No one ought ever to be terrified," replied the Scotch lady. 
 " But we all need wary walking at times, and just now your time for 
 wariness has come." 
 
 " Please tell me, then, at once, what is the matter. I do not care 
 about being prepared for anything, or led up, you know." 
 
 " Sensible girl. Well, the case is this. You have made a happy 
 marriage, which has brought you into a very good position in society, 
 
182 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 — brought you, in fact, into a family of first-class folks, who, I hear, 
 adore you." 
 
 " Philip's relations are all that is good to me ; and I am very happy, 
 — very happy, indeed." 
 
 " And you deserve to be so. But there is a snake creeping into 
 your Eden, and unless we take good care what we are about, much of 
 this happiness will be brought to an end." 
 
 " Dear Lady M'Cullombich, what can you possibly mean ?" 
 
 " I have no desire to frighten you, my dear, and I believe, indeed, 
 that you have too much sense to be easily frightened ; but still there 
 is a surprise in store for you, and it is one of a disagreeable nature. I 
 must speak veiy plainly to you, at any risk of annoyance." 
 
 " The plainer the better," said Margaret. " Stop," she said, sud- 
 denly colouring, " Stop. It is nothing against — I mean, nothing 
 imputing any blame to my husband on any account ?" 
 
 " If it were " 
 
 " I would ask you to be silent. I hear nothing against him except 
 from his own lips." 
 
 " I am sorry you suppose it possible, dear, that there can be any- 
 thing to say against Mr. Arundel." 
 
 " I do not," said Margaret, again colouring, but firmly. " But you 
 spoke in so grave a way, that it seemed possible you might have 
 heard — I mean " 
 
 " There, dear; don't be ashamed of loving him so well as to suppose 
 that there can be no trouble for you unless it is connected with him. 
 You will learn the lesson that there are other folks in the world 
 beside your husband. What I have to say has nothing to do with his 
 doings." 
 
 Margaret did not answer, but her frank smile showed that she had 
 been relieved by these words. 
 
 " But it is grave enough for all that," said Lady M'Cullombich ; "and 
 for your own sake and Mr. Arundel's, you must not treat it lightly. 
 When you left Calcutta, I suppose that you hardly remember being 
 brought on board the ship ?" 
 
 " I remember it quite well, I assure you." 
 
 " Well, who brought you on board ?" 
 
 " A gentleman whom I had very seldom seen, and whom I now 
 know to have been my poor father." 
 
 " Yes, your poor father," said Lady M'Cullombich, with a bitter 
 emphasis on the word. " You have not much remembrance of 
 him ?" 
 
 " I recollect that he was tall and handsome ; but he was in a great 
 hurry, and, I thought, in great anger, though he did not say much. 
 The beginning of the voyage seems like a dream to me, and not a very 
 pleasant one ; but I soon began to enjoy myself, and I was very happy 
 at sea." 
 
 " You have never corresponded with your fathei V 
 " I never did, because I was ordered not to do so. Uncle Cheriton 
 wrote on business once or twice, but only on business." 
 
 " If a daughter does not write to her father, or inquire about him, 
 there should be some reason for it besides her being ordered not. I 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 1S3 
 
 should have written home to my father at the Manse, if the Governor- 
 General and all the service had forbidden it." 
 
 " But T was also told, Lady M'Cullombich, by those whom I loved 
 and trusted, that I ought not to try to communicate with him until 
 it was his pleasure, and that there were very strong reasons for his not 
 wishing to receive letters from me." 
 
 " And it never occurred to you to ask what those reasons were ?" 
 
 " My Aunt and Uncle Cheriton told me what they pleased, and I 
 had every confidence in them." 
 
 " And Mrs. Eobert Spencer " 
 
 " Aunt Henrietta also avoided the subject ; and as I knew that my 
 Uncle Robert's misfortunes had inflicted great injury on my father, I 
 felt that it was not for me to give her pain by inquiries. It was 
 enough for me that I had instructions what to do." 
 
 " You have been very well schooled, my dear ; and Mr. Philip 
 Arundel should be a happy man." 
 
 " And I hope he is. I think so, do you know ?" said Margaret. 
 Lady M'Cullombich touched her hand kindly, and proceeded — 
 
 " Now, my love, it is necessary to tell you this. Your father, 
 Mr. Armandale Spencer, is an exceedingly unworthy man ; and with- 
 out paining your feelings by going into particulars of his misconduct, 
 I may say that he is a person whom no English gentleman in India 
 would receive at his table. It is a hard and cruel truth to tell you, 
 and, be sure, I should never have breathed it unless I had been com- 
 pelled. I see that you have not been at all prepared to hear this, 
 and if I could have broken it to you more gently, I would. Only, 
 you must make up your mind to the truth." 
 
 Margaret became very pale, and a sickening sensation passed 
 through her frame. A compound of feelings had been stirred into 
 activity. It was not in nature that disastrous news affecting an 
 unknown and neglectful parent should strike such a chill upon her 
 heart. What was her father to her but a name? — and it is only in 
 French novels, not in life, that such a shadowy image becomes a 
 cherished idol. But she heard all this of the man whom she had 
 made the father-in-law of the proud and fastidious Arundel, the 
 husband of her heart, the father of her child. No wonder that she 
 looked pallid, and that when she had to speak her lips took a piteous 
 expression, and refused to shape the words she would have uttered. 
 Poor Margaret ! her trials were beginning, and it is with no affecta- 
 tion of pain that 1 address myself to describe their gathering 
 around her. 
 
 " Dear child," said her friend, after a merciful pause, to enable 
 Margaret to regain something of composure, " I have thought and 
 talked all this painful scene over many times before I came to you ; 
 and I had pictured that sorrowful face and those swimming eyes, and 
 I was half inclined to turn coward, and, by writing to you, to avoid 
 seeing your pain. But I trampled on my cowardice ; and you, dear 
 one, must trample on your sorrow. For, as I said, it is for your 
 husband's sake that you must now make an effort." 
 
 A more effectual spell could not have been spoken ; and Margaret, 
 
184 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 looking up through the tears that now streamed down her cheeks, 
 listened for further counsel. 
 
 " I know for whom you are suffering," said Lady M'Cullombich. 
 " As for your father, beyond the mere fact of relationship " 
 
 " That is much — very much," sobbed Margaret. " But besides that, 
 I have not seen him for years, and should not know him " 
 
 " You would not know him ; but you have seen him within the week." 
 
 " What are you telling me V said Margaret, agitated. 
 
 " He is in England. He has been to that gate — no, not into the 
 house, but to the gate. You have forgotten the circumstance ; but 
 one morning a gentleman rang the bell, and you were in the garden 
 with your child. He professed to have mistaken the house " 
 
 " I spoke to him, on his apology ; it was but a word or two — but 
 we have spoken together. I remember it perfectly — baby was 
 frightened at the stranger " 
 
 "And well he might be, — the dislike to his grandfather was 
 instinctive." 
 
 " That was my father ? That !" 
 
 " Mr. Armandale Spencer, as perhaps we may as well call him." 
 
 "No, no, dear Lady M'Cullombich; whatever he may be, or have 
 done, it is not for his child to foi'get his rightful name. And that 
 was he ! Why did he come so 1 and why would he not cross the 
 threshold f 
 
 " For reasons of his own. One might be, that he might not desire 
 to meet Mr. Philip Arundel." 
 
 " Philip would have received him kindly, or at least courteously ; 
 and I am sure would not have remembered his errors, whatever they 
 are, on the first day he came to see his child." 
 
 " My love, I told you that your way was one for wary walking. What 
 you Say, makes it more and moi-e clear that it is so. There is before you, 
 in my mind, a clear path of duty ; but I fear that you may be led to 
 see, or rather to imagine, that you have before you a divided duty. 
 And if you try to act on this view, my dear child, there is fearful 
 trouble in store for you." 
 
 " Tell me what you mean, dear Lady M'Cullombich." 
 
 " We have a Scottish saying, my love, that ' blood is thicker than 
 water ■' but, like many sayings, it is false, and nonsense. You have, I 
 see, caught at the idea that this Mr. Armandale Spencer, who has 
 never been anything in the world to you that was good, and now 
 threatens to be everything to you that is bad — that he, I say, has 
 some claim upon your duty. He has none. He has himself renounced 
 the relation of parent, and all your duty is pledged to another. I am 
 obliged to urge this upon you, clear, because I foresee that the very 
 first act of Mr. Armandale Spencer will involve you in unhappiness 
 with your husband." 
 
 " No," said the young wife, with a bright smile breaking for a 
 moment over her fair face. " No, it will not do that." 
 
 " I know little, personally, of your husband, my love ; but I 
 conclude that he resembles other men of his order, — that he is proud 
 and sensitive, and that to find himself in intimate connexion with a 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 1S5 
 
 bad and despised man like Mr. Spencer, would gall him to the quick. 
 — Do not turn so pale, my dear girl," Lady M'Culloinbich added, 
 compassionately. 
 
 But she had given words to the thought that had darted through 
 the very heart of poor Margaret. 
 
 " It is the key, though," thought Lady M'Cullombich ; " and much 
 as it paiDS her to strike it, that is the only way." 
 
 " You," she continued — but with an effort, for she grieved for the 
 sorrow she was inflicting — "you know the temper of yoiir husband, 
 and perhaps his mind, — we wives always believe that we do. How 
 would Mr. Arundel take the discovery that he had married a lady 
 whose father is a disgrace to society, this fact having been carefully 
 concealed ?" 
 
 " Philip believe that I would conceal anything from him ?" said 
 Margaret, her eye lighting up, and her forehead flushing. " No, dear 
 Lady M'Cullombich ; if that is all there is to fear, it is indeed little." 
 
 " You believe this '?" 
 
 " Nay, will you not let me believe that I know my own husband ? 
 But," Margaret went on, " the sad story you have told me — I must 
 ask you, may I not, how you know so much that has been concealed 
 from me ?" 
 
 " I know it, dear, from those who have made it their business to 
 watch, and to know the goings out and comings in of Mr. Spencei*, 
 but who, though they have told me much, have not told me all. Do 
 not lay any hope to your bosom that I may be misinformed, or that 
 things are exaggerated. Mr. Spencer's history is blacker than it will 
 ever be painted to you." 
 
 If Margaret had indulged any such hope, it vanished ; the evident 
 sincerity of a woman not given to talking idly left no room to doubt 
 that she had fully informed herself of the truth of all that she had to 
 till. 
 
 " And — and what," said Margaret, in a low and troubled voice, 
 " have you to tell me of — of his plans 1 You spoke of a first step 
 that was likely to be taken." 
 
 " Calcutta — indeed, India — is no place for him now. He is proud 
 and restless ; and though he has chosen for some years to bear a tainted 
 name, and to be excluded from English houses, he has now found this 
 condition intolerable, and has returned to England, with the deter- 
 mination of introducing himself once more into society." 
 
 " Perhaps, having reformed," said Margaret, timidly, " he " 
 
 " There is no reform for such a man," said Lady M'Cullombich, 
 almost sternly; "and if there were, the homes of honourable men and 
 virtuous women are not the quai-antines for him. He is come, I tell 
 you, to force his way; and having discovered that you have married 
 into one of the best families for his purpose, he will use you for it as 
 remorselessly as he would use a dog in a tiger-hunt. Only beware of 
 yielding to his will in that or any matter." 
 
 " But what can he ask of me?" said poor Margaret. 
 
 " Recognition of himself, and introduction to othei's." 
 
 " How can I refuse to recognise him — my own father V said 
 
186 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Margaret. "The very thought makes me shudder at myself for 
 having listened to it." 
 
 " I do not mean that you are to refuse to admit his being Mr. 
 Armandale Spencer," said Lady M'Cullombich, " though he deserves 
 far woi\se treatment than that. But he will claim to visit you — to sit 
 at your table — to know your friends." 
 
 " But Philip is the master of the house, and it is for him to decide 
 whom I shall receive." 
 
 " It is to that I would bring you. If your Husband orders you to 
 shut your door against your Father — I give him the name, that I may 
 put the case as strongly as I can — will you obey ?" 
 
 " It is a cruel thought. But Philip has a right to say who shall 
 come into his house." 
 
 " But you meditate upon your power over Philip, and you think 
 that you will be able to make him indulgent." 
 
 " He never was unkind to me ; why should he begin to be so now 1 
 But you do not know him, dear Lady M'Cullombich. I wish that 
 you knew him better." 
 
 " I hope to do so, my love. Meantime, what do you mean to do as 
 to what has passed between us 1 Shall you tell Mr. Arundel that I 
 have been here, and that you have seen me V 
 
 " Shall I tell him 1 — certainly, dear Lady M'Cullombich. I have 
 no secrets from him." 
 
 "Then you will also tell him, love, of all that I have said." 
 
 " All," said Margaret. But I believe that she indulged in 
 mental reservation as to the mode in which she should communicate 
 the news. 
 
 " Right. It is right that he should know it ; and it is you who 
 are the fitting person to make him accpaainted with the story. If he 
 do not receive it with gentleness and tolerance when told in your 
 affectionate voice, and with your eyes full of love, I know not how 
 better it could be brought to his knowledge. And now I have ended 
 an interview for which you will hate me — nay, don't speak — I told 
 you how gladly I would have been spared it ; for, let come what may, 
 you will always associate poor Helen M'Cullombich with the painful 
 story she has had to tell you. But promise me one thing — that you 
 will send me a note, saying how Mr. Arundel has borne the 
 disclosure." 
 
 " I promise," said Margaret ; " and I hope and believe that I shall 
 have to write you but four words — ' Like my own Philip.' " 
 
 Her ladyship made a departure as brusque as her entrance had 
 been, and was gone in a minute. 
 
 Many a minute sat the daughter, with her forehead bent and her 
 eyes fixed on the ground — an attitude of humiliation, though all un- 
 consciously taken, and the tears flowed fast froni her eyes. She had 
 bent lower yet, and where it is no humiliation to bend, before she 
 found consolation ; and, before drying her eyes, she sought the happi- 
 ness a young mother feels as she presses her nestling to her heart. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE OPERA. 
 
 It was not decreed, howevei', that Margaret should carry out her plan 
 of making her revelation to her husband that night. It chanced that 
 he came home exceedingly late, and that in the morning he rose early 
 and left a note upon her table, to wait her awakening, saying that he 
 was gone on a little fishing excursion, and that she was not to be un- 
 comfortable if he did not return until the following day. 
 
 This grieved Margaret — I do not mean the excursion and the 
 absence, for she had no selfishness, and was always glad when Philip 
 made himself a holiday, whether she shared it or not — but the delay 
 in letting him know what Lady M'Cullombich had told her. She 
 was perfectly well aware (as the lady had hinted) that she cotdd make 
 an unwelcome disclosure at least as palatable as any one else could 
 hope to make it to Philip ; and she trembled at the idea of some one else 
 being before her with the tidings, and perhaps causing Arundel to re- 
 turn to her in anger, or with wounded feelings. And, encouraged by 
 the success of her former venture in the same way, and on the chance 
 of his having missed his train, or his friends, or changed his mind, she 
 went down to the Temple in the course of the day. But Philip's 
 chambers were hermetically sealed ; and the clerk had probably gone 
 fishing also, having left on the door an undated permission to the 
 public to Return in Two Ho\u*s — a permission which by no means 
 invariably implies that the public will get anything by availing itself 
 thereof. 
 
 Restless and uneasy, Mrs. AiTindel returned home, but was unable 
 to address herself to any of her ordinary occupations ; and even 
 Duke's blandishments were, upon this occasion, insufficient to make 
 his mother perfectly happy. In the course of the afternoon she again 
 drove out, this time taking her son and his nurse, and called at Mr. 
 Keckling's. The old merchant was, as ever, delighted to see her, and 
 professed the utmost raptures with Duke ; and upon ascertaining the 
 state of affairs at home, and that Mrs. Arundel would be alone if she 
 returned, he gallantly insisted that she should not return, and should 
 remain and dine with him. As a further inducement, he informed her 
 that her cousins Alban and Latimer were coming. And Margaret, 
 who, for once, felt a species of reluctance to be left with no companion- 
 ship but her own thoughts, assented ; and in Mr. Keckling's good- 
 natured gossip, and in some of his new books, and especially in the 
 grand experiment of introducing his great cat to the notice of her 
 baby, she beguiled the time until dinner. 
 
 Her cousins were delighted to see her — at least Alban said he was, 
 and Latimer looked as if he was. The latter was in very high spirits ; 
 for he had to tell — which he did almost before the servants had with- 
 drawn — that his short-hand apprenticeship had prospered beyond his 
 expectation ; that he had been suddenly taken on trial, in consequence 
 
188 THE GORPIAN KNOT. 
 
 of the promotion of a gentleman who reported for one of the leading 
 newspapers; that he had been proved to be quite up to his work,and 
 thereupon had been engaged for the coming year, at a salary of 
 several guineas a week. Hereupon the prudent scruples of Mr. 
 Pybus, the father of his adored Lizzie, had given way ] and the young 
 couple, who were not going to take a house, or incur any expenses for 
 the sake of show, were to be wedded in about six weeks, and to live 
 in some comfortable lodgings near the parent-house, until Latimer's 
 income should warrant more splendour. 
 
 " Very proper arrangement," said Mr. Keckling ; " and without 
 having as yet the pleasure of knowing the intended Mrs. Latimer 
 Cheriton, I dedicate this glass of wine to the honour of a young lady 
 who has shown so much real good sense." 
 
 Latimer was enchanted, of course, and would tell his fiancee what 
 had been said. 
 
 " Something should be said, too, for her mamma," observed Mr. 
 Keckling, " who has not refused her consent to make two young folks 
 happy because it does not just at present suit my friend Latimer to 
 put his wife in as good a position, at the beginning of their married 
 career, as Mrs. Pybus herself has attained through her husband's 
 exertions for many years. So here is Mrs. Pybus's good health." 
 
 " You were not up, Margaret, when I called the other morning," 
 said Alban. 
 
 " I am not generally so idle," she said ; " but I had been up rather 
 late over night." 
 
 " Arundel, of course, kept you up," he said. " Though he was with 
 me, who am obliged to keep good hours generally, he was a bad boy 
 \ipon that occasion. But you must pardon us for once." 
 
 " Was Philip late ?" said Margaret, quite calmly. " It is baby who 
 deranges my hours in the most shocking manner." 
 
 Alban smiled, in reply to this wifely refusal to be aware that her 
 husband had gone wrong, and jingled a couple of glasses to amuse the 
 person on whom the blame had been thrown. 
 
 A little later, one of Mr. Keckling's trustiest emissaries entered, 
 and brought what seemed a large letter, and what was certainly a 
 handsome bouquet. 
 
 " I know this is all right," said the old gentleman, laying down the 
 letter, " by Morley's bringing these flowers. Mrs. Philip, drive down 
 with me for one act of the opera and one act of the ballet, and so 
 help out the evening. You will oblige me so much ; for I want par- 
 ticularly to hear some of the Norma music, and you know I hate 
 going alone." 
 
 Margaret looked at her child, and then at her dress ; and it was to 
 her honour, I think, that this was the order in which she took the 
 subjects. 
 
 " We'll send him home in the carriage directly, and then it can 
 come back for us," said Mr. Keckling. " And I am sure that dress is 
 quite pretty enough for anywhere." 
 
 However, men talk nonsense on these points, and there are some 
 subjects not to be lightly treated. Mrs. Arundel, as well as her 
 infant, were rattled away by Mr. Keckling's fast-stepping horses, and 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 139 
 
 she was to return as quickly as became a lady who had a toilette to 
 make. When she had got iuto the carriage, she half regretted that 
 she had accepted the engagement, and one of those old-fashioned doubts 
 crossed her mind as to whether a theatre was exactly the place for a 
 pei-son who had heard sorrowful news, and bore a troubled mind. 
 But the feeling gave way to circumstances, as it might well do. If 
 many an opera-box could speak, it would, perhaps, tell tales of fiercer 
 passions, and of deeper sorrows, than were being simulated on the 
 stage, while the occupants of that fashionable cell were, to all appear- 
 ance, as bland and emotionless, except when it was proper to appland 
 the divine singer, as becomes well-behaved people. I know of one 
 couple, who had loved, and who, after an hour of hissed reproach and 
 piteous appeal, pronounced the words of parting for ever ; and it was 
 all done during one of Mr. Lumley's beautiful ballets of other times. 
 
 Neither of the Cheritons proposed to accompany Mr. Keckling and 
 Margaret, though courteously invited to do so. Latimer, of course, 
 was in that state of mind in which it is impossible to exist without 
 seeing a certain other person at least once in the twenty-four hours ; 
 or, if the difficulties in the way of actual vision are insurmountable, 
 of looking at the blessed house in which the person resides, — and, 
 unless she sleeps at the back, the blessed blinds of the windows of her 
 chamber of rest. There were not above four or five miles between 
 him and Lizzie Pybus. It is needless to say that he walked off at a 
 speed that rapidly reduced that trifle of space — pleasant to add that l 
 he x*eached Lloyd-square in time to find that the family had gone to 
 Sadler's Wells, where he joined them — and that in one box, at least, 
 of that meritorious establishment, there was neither reproach, appeal, 
 nor word of parting. 
 
 Alban also took his leave, though pi*ofessing much regret that an 
 engagement prevented his accompanying his cousin and her friend. 
 
 In one of the streets leading northward from the New Road, the 
 lights of a brougham flashed rather closely upon him, and, looking at 
 the carriage, which was tenanted by one lady, he recognised, and was 
 recognised by, an acquaintance. The brougham stopped, and Alban 
 was invited to enter. 
 
 " You need not be afraid of being compi'omised, doctor," said the 
 lady, with a laugh, but neither a pleasant nor a natural one, "because 
 we will keep the blinds down ; and you need not be afraid of meeting 
 anybody, because he is gone to Scotland." 
 
 " Every arrangement for one's happiness," said Alban, as he got into 
 the brougham. " And how is the cough 1" 
 " better, worse, — what does it matter ?" 
 
 " Nothing to you. perhaps, who have only to cough ; but a great 
 deal to me, who have undertaken to cure." 
 
 " You'll never cure me, and I don't want you to it," said the lady, 
 in brougham English. 
 
 " Why don't you do as I bid you 1 I told you to wi*ap up and 
 stay at home ; and here you are, out at night in a low dress." 
 " Is it too low V said the lady, saucily. 
 " For a cough, a good deal. Wont you go home V 
 " No, I shan't. I am going to the opera. Will you come to my box 1" 
 
190 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " I have just refused to go with some people I have been dining 
 with, and it would hardly do for them to see me in the house." 
 " Go to them, and then come to me. What's their number f 
 " I forget — no, I did not look, for the box came in while we were 
 at dinner ; but it is the second tier." 
 
 " Then it is Mr. Cackling's, for there was only that to let, and he 
 sent for it while my servant was at Mitchell's. Oh, you have been 
 dining at Cackling's 1 I know who else was there, then. Is she 
 going to the opera V 
 " Yes." 
 
 The lady sat back in the corner, to the detriment of a great red 
 holly-wreath in her fine hair, and uttered a little, long, malicious 
 laugh. 
 
 " Come to my box, I tell you. It is on the same side as Cackling's, 
 so you wont be seen by them. I'll make it worth your while. 
 Honour. You come." 
 " Tell me why I should." 
 
 " Because I shall be there, sir. You come," she repeated. 
 " I think I will," he said, leaving the carriage. 
 Meantime Mrs. Arundel had returned to her friend's, mise ct ravir, 
 and that feat accomplished in very brief time. In a little time 
 longer she and Mr. Keckling were seated in their box. It was over 
 the stage, being in fact the last of the tier ; and when the great 
 artistes " stepped out of the picture" (as Mr. Dowton used, with 
 curious imprecations, to vow he should do), Margaret was amused by 
 the novel effect of beiug behind them. 
 
 After a scene or so, the door opened, and a gentleman made his 
 appearance, to whom both gave a hearty welcome. 
 
 " I made you out from my box, and ventured down to pay my 
 homage. May I stay a little while I" 
 
 " Take my place, Mr. Beryl," said Mr. Keckling. 
 " No, sir ; I hope I know my own better," returned Jasper Beryl, 
 whose acquaintance Mr. Keckling had made soon after the present 
 to Margaret, and had much prized. " Displace Mammon 1 I am no 
 iconoclast, sir." 
 
 " That Mammon is all gammon," said the good-natured Keckling, 
 laughing, for he had not the least hesitation in capping epigrams 
 with the wit ; and never was in the least offended at any retort. 
 
 " Ha ! If your wine is as old as your wit, sir, you have the best 
 cellar in London." 
 
 " I wish you would come and try it oftener, be it what it may," 
 replied Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " There, Mrs. Arundel, is the very chivalry of repartee. I say a 
 rude thing to him, and he answers me with an invitation. I am 
 abashed, sir — abashed — and will do penance in a white table-cloth — 
 name your day for spreading one." 
 " Will you say Friday f ' 
 
 " Friday is said. O, I must tell you a story. I have been looking 
 at a house, which, among its other advantages, is up your way, Mrs. 
 Arundel. Going over the rooms down-stairs, I went into one that was 
 proposed as a servant's bed-room. The walls were green with wet. 
 
THE GORDIAN KXOT. 191 
 
 ' Rather damp, is it not V said I, to the stuck-up old maid who was 
 showing me about. 'No, sir,' she said, 'I don't think it's damp — for a 
 servant.' " 
 
 " That was a damper for lier" said the unquenchable Keckling. 
 
 " What a tall man that is in the pit," said Mrs. Arundel. 
 
 " One of the Auakim," said Mr. Beryl, bringing his glass to bear 
 upon the person pointed out. " Oh, don't you know who that is 1 — 
 your estate is the more gracious — it's a man named Gladwing." 
 
 " Ah ! once he represented Kent," I think, said Keckling. 
 
 " Kent in King Lear, then," returned Jasper Beryl. " The man is, or 
 rather calls himself, an actor." 
 
 " Very severe," said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " Why," said Beryl, laughing heartily, " upon my word T did not 
 mean it. Do you see anything very severe in that innocent speech, 
 Mrs. Arundel ?" 
 
 " But you do say severe things, you know," said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " Never," said Beryl, — " honey and oil, honey and oil." 
 
 " Oil of vitriol," said Keckling, promptly. 
 
 " Keckling," said Mr. Beryl, solemnly, " I don't believe that you 
 are as rich as you pretend to be. You have several times to-night 
 said words that indicate more brains than Croesus has any right to. 
 I fear me you are an impostor, Keckling." 
 
 "No, I am not," said Keckling; "but I tell you that you deserve 
 the prize for saying bitter things. I shall present you with a medal." 
 
 " Of the Inhumane Society 1 No ; make it a cup." 
 
 "Very well," said the fated Keckling ; " so I will." 
 
 " Just so. But not a great rich, chased thing, you know, Keckling 
 — something simple — just a very plain mug, like your own, that I 
 may remember you by it." 
 
 Mr. Keckling laughed until the very orchestra looked up savagely. 
 
 " Come, come," said Beryl, " Oi'pheus excited the brutes, but we are 
 reversing the process. Let's be decorous ; we don't come to a place 
 of entertainment to be amused." 
 
 The opera soon ended ; and, just at its close, Alban Cherito'n came 
 into the box. He briefly explained his change of purpose, and entered 
 into conversation with Mr. Beryl, whose veneration for the really distin- 
 guished men in the medical profession was very great. But to-night 
 Beryl must have reaped small information from Alban's remarks. He 
 was restless, and kept moving towards a point whence he could see 
 through a gap behind the curtain. The danseuses were collecting for 
 the opening tableau of the ballet. 
 
 '• Eh," said the quick-sighted Jasper Beryl, " you are eager to study 
 the anatomy of the feminine leg — are you, Esculapius 1 Well, none of 
 the works of Nature are to be slighted. Why don't you go through 
 that door in search of knowledge V 
 
 There was a small door covered with chintz, which opened upon a 
 sort of skeleton box, or platform, commanding the whole of the stage, 
 and from this the manager could signify his approbation of a group, 
 or discontent with a set scene. Alban went through for a few minutes, 
 and returned. 
 
 The curtain rose, and a great variety of perfumery ascended from the 
 
192 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 garments of the seventy or eighty young ladies who, with expanded 
 draperies, and gracefully bended arms, began the series of evolutions 
 supposed to describe that their all but perfect hapjriness in that 
 lovely glade, with the silver lake beyond, would be made quite perfect 
 if their queen would only appear. The modest petition expressed by 
 the extended limbs and enchanting smiles of the corps was granted ; 
 the graceful phalanx drew right and left, and made a lane, and their 
 queen, darting on, and gyrating violently, went teetotum fashion across 
 the stage and down to the lights — a handsome, firmly-limbed girl, 
 who thoroughly knew her work, and went at it in earnest. Her face 
 spoke rather more of shrewdness than of sentiment ; but she was 
 altogether a pretty-looking — an attractive personage. 
 
 The danseuse, amid very loud plaudits, executed some of those feats 
 that look so easy, and which demand the practice of years ; and with a 
 dashing lour cle force, carried herself fairly off the stage, on the side 
 of Mr. Keckling's box. There was a rush forward of the corps de 
 ballet, a group, and the curtain fell on the prologue. 
 
 Alban had again been through the door, and returned. He seemed 
 about to speak to Margaret, when a thought appeared to strike him, 
 and he called Beryl's attention to the new grouping into which the 
 girls were being arranged for the opening of the next act. Beryl 
 looked through the door, and returned. 
 
 " Mrs. Arundel," he said, " ladies, they say, always like a peep in 
 advance of everybody else. Look here, and see what the rest of the 
 world will not see for five minutes." 
 
 Margaret approached the door, and looked curiously upon the novel 
 scene — the girls dropping into attitudes, the countless scene-shifters 
 running about, the stage-manager giving angry orders, and a few — a very 
 few — habitues trespassing on the stage for the sake of exchanging some 
 fade nonsense with the dancers. It was a busy, apparently confused, 
 and altogether unwonted sight for Margaret. In her newly-awakened 
 interest she advanced three or four steps, so as to command a wider 
 view ; and in another moment her eye fell upon a group at the wiug. 
 
 There stood the handsome Queen of the Elves, panting with her 
 exertions, and smiling at her triumph ; and behind her, proffering a 
 shawl, with the utmost attention, and whispering into her ear — 
 perhaps only a caution not to catch cold — was a handsome man, 
 evidently delighted with the honour of paying this homage to the 
 vigorous beauty. Behind him stood a Devil, who was, of course, to 
 take some objectionable pai-t in the plot of the coming ballet. 
 
 Margaret obtained one full view of the group — the panting lady — 
 the Devil — and her own husband, Philip Arundel. And then, but for 
 the watchful Alban, she would probably have fallen to the ground. 
 With his arm round her waist, he bore her back to her seat. No 
 one, in the excitement of the moment, was watching the expression on 
 Alban's face. 
 

THE GORDIAN KNOT. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 AFTER THE OPERA. 
 
 Mb. Beryl's quick eye, and quicker brain recognised the situation in 
 an instant, and his warm heart as instantly prompted him to endea- 
 vour to put matters right. But he could not know Alban's interest 
 in the sceue, and naturally turned to him for assistance. 
 
 " You see how it is," said Mr. Beryl, hurriedly, while Mr. Keckling 
 was busying himself in restoring Margaret to composure. " The 
 poor thing's husband has been flirting behind the scenes, when she 
 imagined him somewhere else." 
 
 " Gone fishing." said Alban ; " she said so just now." 
 
 " Ha ! II peclie, no doubt," muttered the other. " But can't we 
 make it lighter for her 1 Say you knew that he was here, and that 
 was why she was taken through to see him." 
 
 " I might say that," thought Alban, " with perfect truth. I am 
 afraid," he answered, " that two or three little things have happened 
 — Mrs. Arundel would scarcely believe my assurance." 
 
 " Then I'll try mine," said the kind-hearted Beryl. And, giving a 
 significant look at Mr. Keckling, he began a most earnest apology to 
 Margaret for a little ruse which had been intended to give her an 
 agreeable surprise. Mr. Keckling had been in the plot, and that was 
 why he had brought her there. Mr. Cheriton had actually come on 
 with Philip, as Alban conld tell her." 
 
 Poor Margaret would have believed it if she could, but her instinct 
 forbad her receiving the story; and if she gave a single glance at Alban 
 in search of confirmation of Mr. Beryl's fiction, Alban's well-managed 
 look of compassion would have scared away any credence she might 
 have given to the tale. He said a few words in verification of it, but 
 they were transparently hypocritical, and were intended to be so 
 received. With a sickly kind of smile, much moi'e melancholy than 
 tears would have been, Margaret turned to look at the perform- 
 ance, which was now resumed. The handsome danseuse was again 
 before the audience, and was earning plaudit upon plaudit by a 
 new display of her vigour. Mrs. Arundel's suddenly awakened feeling 
 towards the unconscious artist was something nearer hate than aught 
 that Margaret had ever experienced before. Perhaps, had it been 
 analysed, it would have been found to be less of actual animosity 
 against the girl, than of the tormenting but resistless curiosity which 
 impels us to close quarters with anything we feel to be our enemy. 
 Mrs. Arundel would have liked, or she imagined that she would have 
 liked, to be closeted with that girl — to have scrutinized her attractions, 
 bodily and mental — and to have demanded by what special charm, 
 lacked by herself, the dancer could have lured a husband from the 
 side of his wife. ^^ 
 
 You may think, some of yo\i, that she was making a mountain of 
 a mole-hill ; and you know that there are heaps of wives who would 
 have heard with the most perfect unconcern of their husbands 
 
 TAUT VII. o 
 
194 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 having been seen shawling half the corps de ballet. Quite aware r 
 those wives would have been, that such folly involved no particular 
 disloyalty, or quite unprepared, even if it had, to break their hearts 
 for the matter. But I have good hope that most of you will not 
 think in this manner, and that all of you will recollect that Margaret 
 was a very young wife, and a very loving one, and that she had been 
 nurtured in a veiy anti-Gallican atmosphere. 
 
 Mr. Keckling wished her to leave the theatre, but Margaret begged 
 to be allowed to see the ballet out, and actually did remain until the 
 curtain fell. 
 
 Meantime, Mr. Beryl, who was most earnest in his desire to 
 restore Mrs. Arundel to the peace of mind of which his accidental 
 and most innocent invitation had been the proximate means of 
 bereaving her, had vanished from the box, and descending into the 
 penetralia had briefly apprised Philip of the state of affairs. 
 
 The pseudo-fisherman was certainly taken aback by the infoi'ma- 
 tion, and seemed rather bewildered, and then felt inclined to revenge 
 himself for this discomposure by being displeased with all concerned. 
 
 " They had no business to bring her out in her state of health," he 
 said, hastily. 
 
 Beryl's bright and speaking eyes looked him through, and under 
 other circumstances Philip might have received a home-thrust in 
 return for his discourtesy ; but when Beryl was on an errand of kind- 
 ness he would not have paused for the temptation of delivering the 
 most brilliant lunge ever executed — of how many mastei-s of fence 
 will you say as much — and he laid his hand on Philip's. 
 
 " My dear young fellow, we've all done these tilings," (glancing 
 round at the book-muslins and fleshings at every corner), " and we've 
 all wished we hadn't. Save yourself the pain of having to wish it. 
 Bun upstairs and swear by all the gods that you were here by Keck- 
 ling's appointment. You'll be believed now — to-morrow you wont. 
 Go." 
 
 But Philip was not inclined to take this friendly advice, and, with 
 a few words of gentlemanly acknowledgment, he went out at a 
 gentlemanly pace through the stage-door, and was ready in the crush- 
 room to receive his wife and Mr. Keckling in the most gentlemanly 
 manner when they should come through. 
 
 They were not long; and Margaret, leaning on her old friend's arm, 
 looked very unhappy, and kept her eyes down in a way very different 
 from her usual cheerful manner of noticing everybody with a curiosity 
 she had not lived long enough in the world to repress, so that Philip 
 was close to her before she saw him, and then she flushed to the 
 temples, and the next moment was pale again. His behaviour was 
 as gentlemanly as could have been desired. 
 
 " I am so glad you came," he said. " Our fishing party turned out 
 a failure, two fellows having played false, and I came back to town, 
 and calling here I found Mr. Keckling had a box, so I dressed, dined 
 at chambers, and came on, pretty sure of finding you." 
 
 He said all this with something of a marked tone, as if he were re- 
 gistering the story which he intended to abide by, and were giving his 
 hearers notice that it was to be accepted. At last the young wife, 
 
THE GOUDIAX KNOT. 195 
 
 whose ear was painfully alive to the least whisper from him, instantly 
 caught this intention in his tone, and looked up at him, half timidly, 
 for a moment. He did not seem to care to catch her eye. 
 
 Mr. Keckling did not exactly know what to say. He was exces- 
 sively angry with Philip, but had somehow arrived at a conviction 
 that for a third party to manifest excessive anger against an offending 
 husband is not always the most certain way to benefit an aggrieved 
 wife. And luckily, just then, his carriage stopped the way. 
 
 Mr. Arundel was pleased to talk, though it might be with an effort, 
 upon a variety of subjects, on the way to Mr. Keckling's, but he had 
 little to say when the latter had been set down and during the drive 
 home. Margaret had a habit on such occasions of placing a white 
 warm hand affectionately in the hand of her husband, but to-night she 
 omitted the ceremony, and he did not seek it. But of course he 
 handed her out in the most gentlemanly manner at their door, nor 
 did he forget any of the proper attentions which a gentleman should 
 pay to his wife on her retiring to the chamber where she and her in- 
 fant (Philip could not stand a baby's noise in the night), are to x-epose. 
 He lit her candle, opened the door for her, touched her cheek with a 
 kiss, which may or may not have been returned (I imagine that it was 
 not, and that Margaret shrank, but in the slightest manner, and per- 
 haps with a shiver or a murmur, from the salute), and having wished 
 her good night, refrained from closing the door until she had reached 
 the first landing, when he shut it in the quietest manner. 
 
 Then, I am sorry to say, he sat down in his large chair, and gave 
 way to sentiments of a most unbecoming character. 
 
 " This was to be the sort of thing, was it ? This was what he had 
 got by sacrificing his liberty and his independence, and putting his 
 neck into the yoke, and becoming a drudge who went day by day to 
 slave in chambers, for the sake of his wife and family. He was to be 
 kept in fetters, watched, followed, spied upon. If he happened for once 
 to take a day's holiday, and change his mind about the way of spending 
 it, he was to be called to account, and a scene was to be made. Stranger's 
 were to interfere, his wife's friends, too, not his, and he was to have a 
 menacing message brought him in a theatre, warning him that he was no 
 longer his own master. His wife was taught — he would do the girl 
 the justice to say that he believed it had been put into her head, as she 
 was generally reasonable enough but for a fanatic notion or two — she 
 was taught to look hurt and haughty, and when he was ready to 
 make it up, and forget and forgive everything, she was to stalk coldly 
 out of the room, and leave him like a boy who had done wrong and been 
 scolded for it, and who must humble himself further before he could 
 be forgiven. He would be damned if he would do anything of the 
 kind. That was not his notion of matrimony, nor was it the sort of 
 thing that was practised among his friends, Harry Ascalon's wife 
 was a beautiful woman, and had brought him a lot of money (for 
 shame, Philip, O for shame), and yet Sir Harry could go to Baden 
 without her, and no row. Did the Bolterdikes go on like that, and 
 yet Dikey had notoriously given hot cause to be savage? Whereas 
 he, Philip Arundel, what the devil had he done to be spied upon, 
 and schooled, and scolded, and sulked at I Margaret had indulged a 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 most ridiculous curiosity, which was only excusable because she 
 knew no better, but which was anything but the thing, and had gone 
 behind the scenes, among a parcel of — (Mr. Arundel here charac- 
 terized his friends by a stronger word than need be set down) — and 
 because, doing a wrong, a very wrong and undignified thing herself, 
 she happened to see him paying an ordinary attention to an artist, 
 she was to be entitled to a grievance. Or else that old Keckling, 
 who had all his Russian notions of spies about him, had found out 
 that Philip was behind, and had sent Margaret in on purpose, art- 
 fully making Alban and Beryl his tools. If Mr. Keckling was going 
 to be a kind of father confessor, and have a private influence over 
 Margaret, he, Philip, would not stand it for an hour, and would take 
 the first opportunity of making that fact known, by Jove. He hadn't 
 been such a bad match, and he hadn't been such a bad husband, 
 and he was not going to be treated in that manner by anybody; and 
 if that was the game that was to be played with him, folks should 
 have enough of it." 
 
 And having worked himself into a state of irritation and restless- 
 ness, he determined to assert his marital rights, turned down the 
 lamp, turned out the gas, and left the house. The clocks cried One, 
 as he glanced up at Margaret's window, and saw that the faint night- 
 light was burning in her room. 
 
 " She can get to sleep soon enough, I dare say," he said, almost 
 bitterly. 
 
 I think he felt that he was uttering a falsehood, and that he knew 
 Margaret was not asleep, but most likely either crying over her baby, 
 or sobbing prayers by her bedside; but Philip was in no humour to 
 have the wrong which he had manufactured chased away by the 
 truth. I think he muttered some more unworthiness about its being 
 all very well to cry, but people made their own griefs by their foolish- 
 ness, and I am not sure that he did not risk a profanity about its 
 being best that people should not watch as well as pray. There is a 
 state of mind, chiefly found when a person is quite in the wrong, and 
 has no intention of being in the right, in which no form of words, 
 however cruel, or unjust, or wicked, comes amiss ; but there mingles 
 with all this such a leaven of self-conviction of one's perverse folly, 
 that I hope such utterances may, if noted at all by the recording 
 angel, be ticked off as half retracted, and scored out at the earliest 
 period of repentance. Sometimes I have thought that .soliloquy, 
 good or bad, is the mental safety-valve, and that we should hesitate 
 to sit upon it. 
 
 When I mention that Philip left the house in this ill-conditioned 
 mood, I do not mean that he thought of doing more than absenting 
 himself for a day or so, and giving Margaret; as he condescendingly 
 worded it, the opportunity of putting herself right with him. He pro- 
 bably thought that she would do in this case as she had done before, 
 namely, come down to the Temple to him, refuse to have any explana- 
 tions, and forget the whole affali in an embrace and a holiday. To 
 tell the truth, and although he was as unreasonable as man could easily 
 be in entertaining such a wish or hope, it would have been well had 
 Margaret taken this course. Let me say that beyond the folly of his 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 197 
 
 going behind the scones, and putting himself en evidence as an at- 
 tendant on the lady of the handsome limbs, Philip had done nothing 
 very bad. He had certainly meant to go and iish, and the party had 
 been broken up, though not exactly in the way he had stated in the 
 crush-room, inasmuch as two of the intending piscatores, who were 
 rather fast in their walk and conversation, had insisted on catching 
 fish at Greenwich instead of up the river, and had invited three or 
 four young ladies, of the operatic persuasion, to join them. Philip 
 had no particular business to be of the party, but he found the 
 arrangements all made, and he hated to be baulked of a holiday ; and 
 so — as one of the young ladies epigrammatically remarked, as she held 
 her glass for some more champagne, he went a fishing — with a hook. 
 It was not the thing to do, nor needed he have gone to the opera 
 afterwards, but it was a crime which, if some excellent wives do not 
 now and then manage to know of it, some excellent husbands are 
 marvellously artful at concealing. Of course there was no excuse for 
 his indulging in a bad temper, and going out at a bad hour. But, 
 knowing what we know of other troubles just then threatening Mar- 
 garet, we may be pardoned for wishing that husband and wife had 
 been — no matter at what cost of dignity or feeling — on the best of 
 terms. 
 
 For, you will remember, it had been Margaret's intention to confide 
 to her husband, on the preceding night, the revelation made by Lady 
 M'Cullombich. This had been prevented by accident, and it had 
 been prevented again, throughout the day of which we speak, by the 
 events we have described. And I know not whether to concede that 
 it was a weakness in Mai'garet, in whom I hope we have as yet seen 
 little weakness (I will not admit that her devoted, if apparently mis- 
 placed love, is one), that the question of her worthless father and his 
 arrival in England seemed to her subordinate to that of her peccant 
 husband and his unkindness. For the moment, this was certainly her 
 view, or rather, poor thing, her feeling. Remember, please, that her 
 conscience, which would have loudly outspoken had she had aught to 
 charge herself with in the matter of the concealment of Armandale 
 Spencer's character, had no whisper of accusation for her, and that 
 there was no voice within to say, " He deceives you, but did not you 
 first deceive him ?" The young wife's heart was full of her new 
 sorrow, and it had strength to exclude, for the hour, the sorrow that 
 was a day old. And after many an hour of prayer and tears, poor 
 dear Margaret sunk exhausted into unrefreshing sleep ; she dreamed 
 of her garden gate opening to admit an unwelcome guest, but the 
 figure that filled the entrance was not that of an angry lather, but 
 that of a half-clad and triumphant woman. 
 
 Morning brought to Margaret a more balanced, yet more perturbing 
 view of her position. Her husband, having wronged her by falsehood 
 and by an insulting levity of conduct (her mind was too pure, her 
 heart too gentle, to venture an idea of deeper wrong) had assumed an 
 attitude which she could not, with all her gentleness, bring herself to 
 tolerate. He, knowing that she knew all, had deliberately stated the 
 case as he chose it should be received ; had dismissed the matter 
 without a word of apology or affection, and had shown that he ex- 
 
198 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 pected her to banish the subject, and resume her ordinary habit of 
 playful affection. Musing on this injustice, and finding the wound 
 less bearable at each probing, and at each recollection of how little it 
 had been deserved, Margaret recalled, almost with terror, the scene 
 with Lady M'CulIombich, and the revulsion of feeling thus caused was 
 in its full and agitating operation, when a servant, with that menial 
 instinct for mischief which must be implanted in the class for a wise 
 purpose (perhaps to warn its superiors against errors which will be 
 microscopically noted and maliciously narrated) took the earliest 
 opportunity of informing her that Master had never been to bed, and 
 the door chain had not been put up. Again, then, Philip Arundel 
 had gone out into society, where he might leai-n the secret which had 
 now been nearly two days in his wife's possession ; and this time he 
 might learn it when in displeasure with her, perhaps with himself, 
 and who could say what effect it might produce 1 All that the poor 
 girl had relied upon for disarming Philip's probable auger, had 
 vanished — no tale was to be told, with whisper, caress, tears, to a 
 placable and affectionate husband ; but a haughty and angry man 
 was to hear it from some cold, or even malevolent stranger. It is a 
 sad, and a piteous thing to say, but Margaret actually looked at her 
 watch, and felt a sort of reprieve in observing that the domestic had 
 been so eager to tell her tale that she had aroused her mistress at 
 eight o'clock, and that it must be some hours before Philip could 
 mingle with the world and run the risk of hearing of his father-in- 
 law. It must be some hours before her husband could return, charged 
 with the miserable news. This was the thought of the young creature 
 who had been but the other day thanking God, with tears of joy, for 
 making her the happiest wife and mother in His world. 
 
 It was with a sensation not altogether unlike that of a hunted 
 animal that poor Margaret looked round her, and hesitated where she 
 should go for counsel — perhaps for succour. There was the kind- 
 hearted Scottish lady. To her, not forty-eight hours before, Margaret 
 had said that she would hear no word against her husband, and that 
 when she had told him her story, she should be able to send to her 
 friend a message that all was well. To her was Margaret to go, to 
 narrate her husband's follies, and to own that she had not found, and 
 had not had the resolution to make, a time for a communication of 
 vital importance to them both. Lady M'CulIombich would smile, 
 perhaps contemptuously, perhaps compassionately ; but it would be a 
 deep humiliation. For this, however, she would school herself; pep- 
 haps she had deserved to be humiliated. Was there no one else? For 
 a moment — and let the gallant Arundel make the best of it — for one 
 moment Margaret's thought went towai'ds her strong, broad-browed, 
 intellectual cousin, Alban Cheriton. He had suffered at her hands ; 
 he had been insulted — at least rebuked — by her ; but he was grave, 
 and wise, and firm, and she believed good. Should she take counsel 
 of him 1 Gallant Arundel, you may rejoice that the thought died, 
 not a lingering, but a violent, death. A woman's noble instinct 
 crushed it out, with some indignation, almost on the instant, and your 
 wife did not go, with the burden of her sorrows, to consult one who 
 had hated you, and loved her. That she might have done so, in all 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 199 
 
 the trust and pttrity of her nature, and that she would have returned 
 with her beautiful devotion and loyalty to you scathless and spotless, 
 who daises doubt ? But again be it said, it is well for you that she 
 chose another friend in this hour of trial. 
 
 "I expected you, my love," said Mr. Keckling. "I should not 
 have stirred from the house all day." He rang. " Morley, at home 
 to nobody. Stop ! — except, of course, Mr. Philip Arundel." 
 
 " Do you expect Philip ?" said Margaret, nervously. 
 
 " On the contrary, my love. He cannot come, at present, at least." 
 
 " Oh, why 3 There is nothing " 
 
 " Nothing, my dear. But he happened to be witness to a street 
 quarrel which occurred about five o'clock this morning, and his evi- 
 dence will be wanted by the police-magistrate ; he must therefore 
 attend the court. It is one of the inconveniences of being about the 
 streets when one ought to be in one's bed ; but it is a trifle to a healthy 
 young man. I should not like it." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Keckling, I am so miserable !" 
 
 " My dear child, I forbid your being so. I know what is grieving 
 you, and it grieves me that such a thing should have happened ; but 
 we must look at such matters in their true light." 
 
 " But you do not know one half of my sorrows," said Margaret, 
 looking piteously at him, with her lip quivering. "And I am sure I 
 do not know that I have any right to come to you about them ; but 
 you have always been so kind and " 
 
 " Mrs. Arundel, my dear, please to stop," said the old gentleman. 
 " If you say one more word of that sort, 1 shall, for the first time in 
 my life, begin to find fault with you. I would scold you dreadfully, 
 only your coming to me shows me that you love and trust the old 
 man ; and now go on, without another syllable of apology." 
 
 " As to last night," said Margaret, colouring, " I do not wish, dear 
 Mr. Keckling, to say a word " 
 
 " But I wish to say a good many words, my love. But first, a 
 question. Has there been any — I wont use such a term as quarrel — 
 but has the subject been talked of with — with anger or irritation T 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Arundel, in a tone which puzzled Keckling. 
 
 " That is as well," he said, dubiously, after a pause. " Though," he 
 added, " when a husband commits a little absurdity, the best and 
 healthiest way is for him to do penance, and have absolution at 
 once." 
 
 But Margaret looked sad and pained, and her friend saw that he 
 mistook his way in adopting a light tone. He was about to speak 
 more gravely, when Mrs. Arundel answered — 
 
 " Dear Mr. Keckling, I do not think you would be glad to see me 
 — I mean, I do not think you would hold me very high in your 
 esteem, if I had come to talk to you about — about anything in which 
 Philip — in which my husband had seemed to be unkind." 
 
 " A good many wives have come to me on such errands, though, in 
 my time," muttered Mr. Keckling. " My love," he said, " I am quite 
 sure that whatever is right, and good, and wife] ike is the thing that 
 you will do under all circumstances ; and whatever you may have to 
 say to the old man, he will think it an honour to hear, and he will 
 
200 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 have pride and happiness in trying bis utmost to relieve you from 
 any annoyance. And I will only say one word more, my dear, namely, 
 that there are very few things that cannot he done in these days by a 
 man with a cool head and a good purse ; and both of those are as 
 heartily at your service as I can put them so." 
 
 Do you know what that good, wicked old man was thinking. It 
 is no reproach to him. He had not lived among the angels. He had 
 a notion that Margaret was horribly jealous of the handsome danseuse, 
 and would be grateful to him to get her out of the country, and he 
 was considering whether he should have her engaged at St. Petersburg 
 or the Havannah, or lend some young nobleman, fascinating, but hard- 
 up, a lump of money, conditionally on his carrying her off to Sicily. 
 
 " Yoxi are all kindness, as you always have been," said Margaret, 
 " and what I have to confide to you is so sad that I shall need all your 
 best advice, and 1 shall never be able to thank you enough for it. 
 Dear Mr. Keckling, I have had a sorrowful story told me. I have 
 learned something full of sbame and humiliation." 
 
 "Ah !" exclaimed Mr. Keckling, adding the sort of growl a man 
 emits when something has happened which he anticipated, but which 
 not the less angers him. 
 
 " I have had news from India," she continued, in a subdued voice. 
 
 " That will do, my love," said he, abruptly. " I will spare you the 
 pain of repeating it." 
 
 " Then you have heard it," gasped Margaret, turning deadly white. 
 "And Philip " 
 
 She sat for some moments in a species of blank grief, and looked at 
 Mr. Keckling, but without speaking. He rose, and approaching her, 
 took her hand kindly, and said — 
 
 " It has reached you at last. May I ask how 1" 
 
 " Ought I — yes, she did not wish any secret — Lady M'Cullombich 
 was with me " 
 
 " On Tuesday morning, I know. And she told you of family dis- 
 grace and — well, well, it must have come to you ; and she would tell 
 it in kindness, I should think." 
 
 " O yes, yes ; and that I might do the best that could be done — 
 that I might break it to Philip." 
 
 " And you have done so," said Keckling, eagerly. 
 
 " No," replied Margaret ; " I should have done so — I ought — 
 but " 
 
 " But something pi*evented ; and now comes this infernal folly — I 
 beg your pardon, my love — but now there is a sort of estrangement 
 between you." 
 
 " Do not say that, please." 
 
 " Well, dear, he behaves foolishly, and then goes away from his 
 home and gets himself — I mean he is out of the way. However, 
 we will make all that right. We must act with a little tact, but we 
 will make it right — at least, I hope so. We will have him here 
 by-and-bye, and then we must break the story to him." 
 
 " It is from me that he ought to hear it," said poor Margaret ; " I 
 feel that, and I hope to be able to do my duty." She spoke rather 
 firmly, but she looked helpless enough just then. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 201 
 
 " I do not see that it is your duty," said Keckling, again taking her 
 hand. " It is not a subject on which any woman should be called on 
 to speak, if the same thing can be said for her. There is but one 
 point to establish in your husband's mind, namely, your own utter 
 and absolute ignorance of the state of things until you received this 
 information." 
 
 " And if he doubts that, my heart is broken," said Margaret. 
 " But he cannot, and will not." 
 
 " If he does, I will hate him to the last hour of my life," said the 
 old man, vehemently. " But he cannot. He cannot look at you and 
 doubt. For the story itself, I will tell it him. As far as a 
 gay young fellow can care for a slow-going old one, I think he cares 
 for me, and he will perhaps be as glad — or rather will regret as little 
 — to have heard it from me as from any one." 
 
 '• And, if I may ask you," said Margaret, " have you — you have 
 known our sad story — you have known it long ?" 
 
 " Dear child, to show you how complete a proof I have of your per- 
 fect ignorance of all the facts until now, and to show you also how 
 painfully close was my acquaintance with them, let me recall to your 
 recollection what you have entirely forgotten, namely, that I myself 
 told you the story." 
 
 " Told me !" said Margaret, astonished. 
 
 " With changed names and details," said Keeling, " or you would 
 no longer have been in ignorance, but I laid the true history before 
 you, my love." 
 
 " Mr. Keckling — what — when V said Margaret, trembling exceed- 
 ingly- 
 
 " My love, in that very garden under the window, in the autumn 
 before your marriage. You will remember our conversation, for you 
 have since written it down with great care, and I have your writing 
 in my strong box ; but far, indeed, were you from dreaming that it 
 was your own position that I described — " 
 
 The cry that came from Margaret was so strange that he stopped, 
 startled. 
 
 " A story," she said, in a hoarse, under voice, in which not a note 
 of the sweet tone could be heard — " a story of a bride, whose mother 
 had been wicked, and whose husband did not know — " 
 
 " Yes, love, yes ; but be calmer — be calmer, for the love of God. 
 You will make yourself ill; there is no need for this. We shall 
 manage to keep our secrets, except where we choose them to be known. 
 Do not tremble so, dear child." 
 
 " But," gasped Margaret, " tell me, quick. In that story you said 
 that the father — the bride's father — was a good man, though the 
 mother — " 
 
 " I did ; but that was to remove the facts farther away from the 
 truth. I know the truth, my dear child, which was and is, that your 
 parents are well worthy one another, and all imworthy, utterly, 
 cursedly unworthy, that a being like you should owe them the only 
 thing you ever owed them — a name ! now happily changed for an un- 
 tarnished one." 
 
 But the last part of this speech had been entirely lost upon Mar- 
 
202 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 garet, who had listened intently to its opening words, and then with- 
 out actually fainting, had lost all idea of the meaning of what was 
 said, or rather had lost the power that commands the attention. She 
 swayed herself on her chair, and struggled hysterically for breath. 
 But Margaret was a brave girl, and fought to the last the battle 
 against the overwhelming sensation which threatened to deprive her 
 of consciousness. After some minutes her endurance was rewarded. 
 A violent burst of tears came to her relief, and when the agitation of 
 weeping was over, poor Margaret was able to speak again, and to 
 thank Mr. Keckling for the attentions which he was, in extreme 
 concern, lavishing upon her. 
 
 " That's well, * he said, delighted as her voice became again articulate. 
 " That's well — that's very well. This — it is best for you — no, the 
 water ? There, then, there. Now we shall get calm and quiet. Eh ?" 
 
 " I would beg your pardon for all the trouble I am giving you — " 
 
 " If you dare, my darling. My grief is that you should have such 
 trouble, you who never did any one an injury, or thought an unkind 
 thing of anybody in your life." 
 
 " We know who sends trouble, and why V said Margaret. " But 
 it is very, very hard to bear. I had heard from Lady M'Cullombich 
 about my poor father, but to learn that I have a parent whom I must 
 not name, though she is my mother, is a bitter, bitter grief. And 
 when this has to be told " 
 
 " My love, my lamb," said Keckling, himself now agitated, " let me 
 understand you aright. Have I — I told you anything that you did 
 not know when you came here just now — speak, my dear child." 
 
 " Do not let it grieve you," said Margaret ; " you would have done 
 anything rather than grieve me." 
 
 " I am a fool, an old fool, with all my self confidence. You did 
 not know until to-day — I see it is so — you did not know that Mrs. 
 Armandale Spencer was living." 
 
 " I had believed my poor mother to be dead, years and year's ago," 
 said she, in a low voice. " But I never heard that it would have 
 been best — best as the world would say — if it had been so." 
 
 " Never will I forgive myself," said Keckling ; " never on this 
 earth." 
 
 " Do not say so," said Margaret. " I must have known it, sooner 
 or later, dear Mr. Keckling, and perhaps it is for the best that all my 
 shame and trouble comes at once. And if I needed your advice be- 
 fore, how much more do I need it now J" 
 
 "Never forgive myself," muttered Keckling to himself, as if per- 
 emptorily ending some dispute with a third party. " My dear," he 
 said, in a prompter and more businesslike tone than he ordinarily used 
 with her, " the past must be the past. Our business is with the pre- 
 sent, and as far as we can, with the future. This foolish coldness 
 between yourself and Mr. Arundel must instantly be made up, and 
 he must be apprized of the sad matters we have talked about. I 
 charge myself with this — but you must undertake another duty, not 
 less important." 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 " You have great and deserved influence with Philip's father. You 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 203 
 
 are a special favourite with him. If it were not so it would be 
 equally your duty to do what I am going to say, but you stand so 
 well with him, that what might be a terrible revelation will be only 
 a disagreeable communication, and you will be good friends as ever. 
 You must go to Thanington-square, see old Mr. Arundel, and while 
 he hears the story, let him see your face, in which truth is written as 
 it seldom is written in these days of hypocrisy. You must tell Philip's 
 father what you know." 
 
 "And Philip," said Margaret, tremulously ; "might not he resent 
 
 that r 
 
 " Not improbably," said Philip Arundel. " I am no listener, of 
 course, Mr. Keckling, but being immediately admitted, I ran up-stairs, 
 and opening the door, could not help hearing the last words. I sup- 
 pose I may ask for a few more, on a subject in which I seem to be 
 interested '?" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE SKY SEEMS CLEARER. 
 
 Margaret sprang from the sofa, and impulsively, yet not without 
 timidity, took her husband's hand. Philip received this attention 
 with perfect courteousness, and with a smile led his wife back to her 
 seat, and then shook hands with Mr. Keckling. It was very clear 
 that Mr. Arundel felt, or meant to show himself entirely at ease, and 
 rather in the judicial position than that of a gentleman whose recent 
 acts might seem to demand a little explanation. 
 
 " I hardly expected you so soon, Philip, though I did expect you," 
 said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " O, a matter like that which detained me is soon disposed of when 
 one knows how to go to work," said Mr. Arundel, carelessly. " It is 
 not worth another word." 
 
 " I have told Mrs. Arundel," said Keckling, pointedly, " that you 
 happened to be witness to a street quarrel, and had to appear at a 
 police-court and give evidence." 
 
 " Very kind of you to put it so," said Philip, " in order to spare her 
 any unnecessary apprehension. But I always avoid secrets and mys- 
 teries, and now as it is all over, Margaret, I may as well tell you that 
 I was the principal party in the quarrel, and was locked up in the 
 station-house. The magistrate nearly understood the case, though 
 not quite, and behaved quite as well as I expected, and the fine was a 
 slight one. I tell you this, my dear Margaret, on principle, because 
 a husband who keeps secrets from his wife always appears to me to 
 lower himself. It looks either as if he were afraid of her temper, or 
 distrusted her confidence in him." 
 
 Under the circumstances all this might be deemed sufficiently cool, 
 but neither of his auditors was inclined to comment upon the speech. 
 
204 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 "And J am sure," said Mr. Keckling, "that you would hold the 
 same opinion in reference to a wife who had secrets from a husband." 
 
 " That," said Philip, " I am inclined to think I should regard as a 
 much graver offence. But I suppose that we need not go further 
 into matrimonial ethics. You don't look your best this morning, my 
 dear Margaret, by any means. I wish you would be a little more 
 considerate of yourself, and not try to engraft your country system 
 of early hours upon our late hour system in London. It is what they 
 call lighting the candle at both ends." 
 
 " Indeed I am not very well to-day, Philip," said his wife ; " but 
 it is nothing of much importance, and I dare say I shall be better 
 by-and-bye. I am very glad that you have come." 
 
 " And considering how long we have been married, Mr. Keckling," 
 said Philip Arundel, " I think it is a satisfactory thing to hear such a 
 speech from one's wife." 
 
 Mr. Keckling: rancr. 
 
 " At home to no one — to no one, Morley," he said peremptorily. 
 
 " May I, with apologies, ask you to make a single exception to that 
 order, Mr. Keckling ]" said Philip. " I think that my father may call 
 upon you, and I hope you will let him in." 
 
 " Except Mr. Arundel. This gentleman's father — you understand, 
 Morley," said Mr. Keckling. The servant withdrew. 
 
 " I pledge myself that he is not coming to bore you with politics," 
 said Philip, " or I would not have asked admission for him." 
 
 Philip spoke lightly, but there was something in his manner which 
 did not altogether accord with his tone. Margaret felt this, and 
 her courage was not re-assured by the perception. 
 
 " I am always delighted, I may also say honoured, by a visit from 
 Mr. Arundel," said the old gentlemen ; " and I am glad to hear him 
 talk on a subject he understands so well as politics." 
 
 " I dare say he wishes the House were of your opinion," said Philip 
 irreverently. It was evident that he intended not to begin the 
 more serious conversation which was felt to be inevitable. Mr. 
 Keckling, therefore, determined to open the campaign ; the rather as 
 he had assumed to himself a protectorate over Margaret, and felt 
 bound to be her champion. 
 
 " After what you said just now, and in which I quite agree," he 
 said, " about secrets, I think I ought to apologise for something I 
 said last night. I imagined that Mrs. Arundel, who was exceedingly 
 unwell, was startled at suddenly seeing you at the opera, and in con- 
 sideration for her nerves, I said that we had expected you. As I said 
 it with the best intentions, I suppose you will forgive me." 
 
 '• My dear sir, you are always kindness itself. But nobody thought 
 of explaining to me how I happened to find my wife (whom I had 
 supposed to be at home with her baby) in such brilliant society, and 
 as 1 was much too polite to ask questions, I naturally expected — and 
 experienced — the same indulgence." 
 
 This was his way of describing the silence of poor Margaret, as she 
 returned in her sorrow from the opera, and went, embraceless, from 
 the room. It must be admitted that the adroit use of language is 
 that which distinguishes some people from other people. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 205 
 
 Margaret would have liked to say something, but she literally 
 dared not, for Philip, smiling and courteous as he was, had drawn a 
 sort of barrier of ice around himself, and instinct told her that she 
 should get no nearer to his heart, at that moment, by any assault 
 upon the fortification. She should receive, she felt, some answer that 
 could not be complained of, but which would be gall and wormwood 
 to one who never needed, more than then, affectionate, and one 
 may say actively affectionate, treatment. Keckling, too, vieux 
 diplomat as he was, saw that the situation was one which demanded 
 what Lady M'Collumbich called wary walking. Still the walk must 
 be taken, no matter what lions there might be in the path, or what 
 pitfalls. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Arundel," said the old gentleman ; " I have a 
 communication to make to you, which 1 will ask you (though I am 
 sure needlessly, you have so much self command and courtesy) to 
 hear in all calmness, and to consider well in all its bearings, even 
 before — if you will permit me to ask you so much — even before giving 
 utterance to any opinion on the subject." 
 
 " A most solemn exordium, my dear Mr. Keckling, and one that 
 raises indefinite expectations. May I venture to dream that you 
 have bought me a seat in Parliament, and are going to indoctrinate 
 me with the views you desire me to hold? You shall find me docility 
 itself." 
 
 " My dear young friend, it is, I assure you, no light matter. It 
 involves a story of painful interest, and it may involve the happiness 
 of persons very dear to me." 
 
 Philip spoke more respectfully, as he answered, — ■ 
 
 " Is it permitted, sir, at this stage, to ask whether these persons 
 are known to me ?" 
 
 " My dear Philip, two of them are in this room, and the third is 
 in his little cradle in your home." 
 
 '•' Then, Mr. Keckling, let me say one word before you proceed. It 
 may save trouble and mystification. You know, and Margaret there" 
 (what would that affectionate heart have given, had he said Margaret 
 here, with his arm around her?) " knows that I am the very last person 
 to imagine that any one else is going to commit an indiscretion, and 
 that I always put the very best construction upon eveiything, to the 
 last moment that I am allowed to do so. But perhaps, among us, 
 I may be pardoned if my natural feelings make me a little anxious 
 that nothing should disturb our comfort. Now it is just possible, 
 that you — I will not say anybody else, because I think and hope that 
 is impossible — may have taken an idea with regard to some part of 
 my conduct, and that 3 r ou may be kindly intending to promote the 
 happiness of those you have so delicately alluded to, by raising some 
 discussion, or asking some explanation. Only one word more. I will 
 ask you, for reasons whose weight must be more apparent to me than 
 to anybody, utterly to forego such possible intention — I will not even 
 hint at the painful alternative." * 
 
 Philip always spoke fluently and easily, but this speech seemed the 
 result of forethought and deliberation. On another occasion it might 
 have highly offended the benevolent Keckling, but to-day he had too 
 
206 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 inuch concern for the feelings of othei-s to have time to think of his 
 own. 
 
 " My dear Philip," he said, " it would indeed be a grave act of 
 error on your part that would justify even an old and tried friend like 
 myself in venturing to call you to account. Nothing of the kind is in 
 my thoughts." 
 
 " I am sure, sir, tbat you will pardon me the idea, knowing how 
 deep my interest is in such a qxiestion." 
 
 " Not a word of apology to me," said Mr. Keckling, though he would 
 have liked to make a very different answer, and to have given Philip 
 a splendid lecture on his treatment of Margaret. " But it occurs to 
 me, my dear," he added to her, " that what I wish to say to your hus- 
 band I could perhaps say more unreservedly in your absence. I don't 
 like asking you to go to another room, but as Mr. Arundel is coming 
 I shoidd wish to see him here. Do you mind looking at some new 
 print-books in the drawing-room for half an hour T 
 
 " On the other hand, as I have no secrets from my wife," said 
 Philip, " if you see no objection to her remaining, I should prefer it." 
 
 Now, I think, is my time to tell you that Philip had heard from 
 his father of Mr. Armandale Spencer's visit to the latter, knew per- 
 fectly well what Mr. Keckling desired to tell, and felt certain, also, 
 that this was the revelation to be made to him. 
 
 " I — I will stay — I would rather stay," said Margaret, whose heart 
 was just then firmer than her voice. 
 
 " Don't set that wish down to female curiosity, but to conjugal 
 obedience, Mr. Keckling," said Philip, smiling. " Ah," he added, as 
 a loud knock was heard, " methinks I hear my father. His coming 
 must postpone your confidences, Mr. Keckling." 
 
 " On the contrary," replied the old gentleman, who could hardly 
 help adding that it was possible the father might more easily be 
 brought than the son to regard seriously a matter introduced, as this 
 had been, by an old and earnest friend. 
 
 Mr. Arundel saluted the little party with his usual bonhommie, 
 and, to Margaret's satisfaction, kissed her affectionately, as was his 
 habit. Perhaps she wondered when it would happen that her hus- 
 band would do the same. The state of isolation, chill, and doubt into 
 which she had been suddenly placed was becoming perfectly intoler- 
 able to her nature. 
 
 After a little of ordinary conversation, Philip (who had gone to the 
 window, and had given that searching review of the condition and 
 appearance of the paternal brougham, horses, and servants which sons 
 delio-ht to volunteer, and which domestics are thought to regard with 
 infinite disgust) returned to the others, and with a manner from which 
 he had discharged all his assumed reserve and levity, said — 
 
 " My dear father, I am sure your arrival is most welcome and well- 
 timed. Our kind friend, Mr. Keckling, has been making several 
 attempts to open a subject which ought not to be raised in your ab- 
 sence. Now that you have come, I hope that I have your permission 
 to tell him that he can tell us nothing that we do not know, and that 
 we are most glad to save him the pain of repeating a disagreeable 
 story." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 207 
 
 What curious musical instruments women are, and how complicated 
 is their mechanism ! The words swept, as a master's hand, over the 
 keys, and brought up a joyous gush of melody. The next instant 
 there followed a low, plaintive murmur, like that of the wiud through 
 harp strings. In other words, Margaret instantly felt relieved and 
 grateful; and then came the thought, "Would I have left him in 
 anxiety and sorrow, when one whispered word would have set his 
 heart at ease H And then she looked at Philip, in the hope that he 
 would see what a weight had been taken from her heart ; but it hap- 
 pened that he did not, or would not, look in her direction. I think, 
 if Mr. Arundel had not been present, she would have thrown herself 
 into her husband's arms, and sobbed away her trouble ; but she was 
 not, poor thing, quite certain that such an act would be approved. 
 She had never happened to behold any of the superior classes in a 
 state of excitement and agitation, and not knowing how they con- 
 ducted themselves under such circumstances, had self-command 
 enough to remember that she might vex Philip by any anti-Thaning- 
 touian display of feeling. I told you she was a brave girl ; and this 
 self-mastery was more to her credit than the loudest hysterics would 
 have been. 
 
 As for Mr. Keckling, he was in no mood to feel unqualified plea- 
 sure about anything ; but for Margaret's sake he was glad to hear 
 what he heard, and that things looked well thus far. 
 
 " You are quite right, Philip," said his father, " in saying what you 
 -say. My dear little Margaret," (the senator always called her little, 
 though she was not, but Parliamentary folks have a diminishing 
 dialect of their own, and call a yard of talk " a very few remarks, 
 Sir,") he added, going over to her, and seating himself by her side on 
 the sofa, " my dear little daughter will not want any assurance from 
 me, or from any of us, how deeply we sympathize with her misfortune." 
 He pressed her hand kindly, and went on. " But we will not call it 
 lier misfortune, because we all intend to share it with her, and to help 
 her to relieve herself from it. She knows how we love and value her ; 
 and no more need be said about that. We are one family, and the 
 only thing for us to do is to join, heart and hand, and do our best to 
 avert an evil that threatens us all." 
 
 If the member for Shacklebury would have talked like that in the 
 House, he would have been listened to. But with the same idea to 
 impart there, he would have got into long syllables, and the absolute 
 advisability of united endeavour to eliminate an element of mischief, 
 which, he was free to confess, he was one of those who could not con- 
 template without apprehension and dismay. 
 
 The tears fell fast from Margaret's eyes, and she pressed Mr. 
 Arundel's hand as her reply. 
 
 " I speak for myself." said Mr. Arundel, "and for my girls, Blanche 
 and Geraldine, when I say that if anything could make our Margaret 
 more dear to us than she is, it would be her undergoing sorrow or 
 trouble. Philip has, I know, made her fully understand this. If I 
 repeat it, I do so only because her delicacy of mind might, perhaps, 
 cause her a suspicion of our feeling annoyed or aggrieved about any- 
 thing that has come up, or may come up. Now she will dismiss such 
 
208 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 an idea, if she has wronged us by entertaining it, fur ever and 
 ever." 
 
 "You can never surprise me, Mr. Arundel, by any act of justice 
 and kindness," said Mr. Keckling, warmly ; " but you can always 
 delight me, though never so much as now." Aud he went and shook 
 Arundel's hand. 
 
 " We are all of one mind," said Arundel ; " as of course we must 
 be. But the real question is, what is to be done under the circum- 
 stances, and this I think we can discuss more freely and advan- 
 tageously without dear Margaret, whom I did not expect, you know, 
 to find here, and to whom I should have gone on leaving. Philip, 
 suppose you put your wife into the carriage, and ask her to take half 
 an hour's drive in the fresh air, and then come back for me. May we 
 do so, Margaret, my love V 
 
 She was pleased, partly, no doubt, because the arrangement was 
 sensible ; partly, I think, because Philip would take her to the 
 carriage, and must have a moment for a kind word, or something of 
 the sort. He attended her to the carriage with the utmost politeness, 
 talking, as they went, about the fineness of the weather, and the good 
 the drive would do her, and stood on the door-step until she had de- 
 parted, and even bid her good bye, with a smile and a nod. Any one 
 seeing and hearing him would have called him a model husband. 
 
 The conclave then took the case into grave consideration. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Keckling," said the elder Arundel ; " we will now go 
 into committee. This miserable Armaudale Spencer, what is to be 
 done with him 1 I think we agree that it is impossible to allow him 
 to remain in England." 
 
 " Quite impossible," said Mr. Armandale Spencer's son-in-law. 
 
 " If he can be got rid of," said the more cautious Mr. Keckling ; 
 "it would be moi'e desirable." 
 
 " One would like to do the thing quietly, and so far as such a word 
 may be applied to the affair, pleasantly," said Mr. Arundel. " I have, 
 of course, turned over various plan in my mind. The first and the most 
 natural method that occurs to me, is the getting him an appointment 
 in a colony. I see the objection that may arise in your minds — the 
 fellow's character is so excessively bad. But I do not think that this 
 would be made a great difficulty just now. They owe us a good deal 
 for consenting not to overhaul certain recent appointments, quite as 
 bad — I may say to you in confidence that * * * * '"' 's single claim 
 to that capital place across the Atlantic, was that he had done some 
 exceedingly dirty work for Lord , and, finding himself neg- 
 lected, was inclined to talk about it. We had all the facts, and a 
 notice was all but put upon the paper. And there are some other 
 things of the kind. Now, I never ask for anything, and I don't sup- 
 pose, if I made an exception now, that I should find much difficulty. 
 But the point is whether the infernal fellow would go." 
 
 " It is a great chance for him, thanks to his being a rascal," said 
 Philip. " If he were an honest man he might whistle for such luck a 
 good while, which strikingly displaj^s the advantage of honesty. I 
 should think he would jump at it. He should change his name, to 
 avoid scandal, and I dare say he would do very well in a colony." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 209 
 
 " I have, perhaps, no right to express an opinion, because my in- 
 formation about him is all second-hand," said Keckling, " but still 1 
 think it is reliable. It must be a very good thing that would tempt 
 him, inasmuch as he knows the extreme value of his bad character. 
 He is too well aware of the exceeding annoyance and disgrace which 
 he can inflict at home, to be easily shelved abroad." 
 
 " He must have committed all sorts of crimes in India," said the 
 impetuous Philip. " I wish we had evidence of them." 
 
 " Nonsense, Philip," said his father, mildly. " Would you like to 
 see your father-in-law hanged 1" 
 
 " Particularly, sir, if nobody else saw it. But that is the ob- 
 jection, I admit, to what otherwise would be the most desirable of all 
 compromises." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Keckling, is it worth while sounding him ]" 
 
 " We must approach him very indirectly, or he will at once suspect 
 our object, and raise his terms," said Philip. 
 
 " I don't care about his terms," said Keckling, " if I could only 
 deliver you all and my dear child, your wife, Philip, from his pre- 
 sence. To anything Mr. Arundel got for him, I would cheerfully add 
 a thousand pounds or more, though all the time nothing would give 
 me so much pleasure as handing him fourpence to buy a rope." 
 
 " None of us, Mr. Keckling, will ever forget your kind zeal for 
 our happiness." 
 
 " Frankly, you are indebted to my Mai-garet for it." 
 
 " And, as frankly, we are glad to be so indebted." 
 
 " I believe," said Keckling, pleased, " that I could get this man 
 thrown in the way of a very trustworthy and confidential friend of 
 mine, and that I could get a peep at his hand, and if you assent, I 
 will try." 
 
 " By all means," said Arundel, " and I will see Mr. Gumption, and 
 ask him what he has got to give away, in case I want it. Gumpy owes 
 me a good turn on his private account, for getting an ass of a 
 relation of his into the srood graces of a neighbour of mine who had a 
 living to fill up." 
 
 " If we were only in Russia," said Keckling, " instead of putting- 
 gold into Spencers pocket, by this time quicksilver should be oozing 
 out at his palms." 
 
 " Shockingly corrupt country is Russia, I believe," said the Senator, 
 " Anything may be done there by money, is not it so 1" 
 
 " Money, or money's worth, as in most other places that I have 
 ever seen," said Keckling, smiling. " Only rubles are easier things to 
 pay over than parishes." 
 
 Arundel did not catch the other's meaning, but Philip did, and 
 laughed applaudingly. 
 
 When Margaret returned, it was merely intimated to her that the 
 question had been fully considered, and it was hoped that a course 
 had been struck out that would obviate all difficulties. And so she 
 returned to her baby, with a heart a good deal lightened, but by no 
 means satisfied by the incidents of the morning. 
 
 part vi r. 
 
210 THE GORDIAX KXOT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A TRUE FRIEND. 
 
 " I am glad you quite understand that I was no party to my 
 cousin's mal apropos entrance upon the scene," said Alban Cheriton 
 to Philip, as they sat together after dinner the same day. For Philip, 
 to his discredit be it spoken, had become tired of the unhesitating 
 counsel of his old and faithful friend, John Claxton, and had sought 
 as much as he could of the companionship of Alban. The latter had 
 acquired considerable influence over Philip, and, moreover, cultivated 
 our model husband more sedulously than might have been expected 
 from their earlier relations. To-day the two had gone down to dine 
 at Blackwall, and though there was no reason why the table should 
 not have been graced by the presence of poor Margaret, who could 
 have easily left Duke during the reasonable period of a water-side 
 feast, she was left to herself at St. John's Wood. Philip, however, 
 who was always a gentleman, had taken care to apprize his wife that 
 she was not to expect him. But though she was not with them, they 
 talked about her. 
 
 " I didn't care a farthing about the matter, my dear fellow," said 
 Philip. "If there had been anything wrong, I should not have been 
 seen there ; but I Avas riled at the notion of my being kept in leading- 
 strings. Keckling, for instance, is one of the goodest old fellows 
 going, but he rather forgot himself when he thought proper to invent 
 an excuse for me to my wife." 
 
 " He was quite wrong," said Alban, passing the bottle ; " but as he 
 has put j-ou, or is said to have done so, under obligations, I suppose 
 he thinks he has the right to look after you." 
 
 " I shall feel it necessary to disabuse him of that notion in consi- 
 derably less than no time," replied Philip. 
 
 " You know," said Alban, " that I am a quiet man ; I live out of 
 your world, and my thoughts are pretty well given up to my pro- 
 fession " 
 
 " I know," said Philip, " that you are about the cleverest party I have 
 the pleasure of knowing, and that if I were in a scrape I should come 
 to you for advice, and be sure that I was served wdtk the right article." 
 " If you had fractured your skull, or sprained your ankle," said 
 Alban, laughing, " I dare say I might do something for you; but I am 
 not wdiat is called a man of the world. Therefore, my giving a hint 
 to you, who .-ire emphatically one, is a bit of the extreme coolness so 
 desirable this weather. Risking your thinking so, I should say that 
 in family matters as in all others, it is best to begin as one means to 
 go on." 
 
 '• That's true," said Philip ; " and I sujmose you mean that I 
 rather let other people manage for me." 
 
 " Well, a little, perhaps. Mind, you have ' no right,' as people say, 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 211 
 
 to take my opinion in the matter, because, in the first place, I am a 
 single man — next, I am not a man of society — and lastly and chiefly, 
 if I had any voice in such a matter, I am your wife's cousin, not yours, 
 and I should, of course, stick up for her side of any question. You 
 have heaps of family allies, she has nobody but me, of whom, moreover, 
 she is not, and never was, particularly fond." 
 
 " I assure you that you are wrong. Margaret always speaks of 
 you in the highest terms." 
 
 " Just so, my dear Philip. Of course she does. I dare say you 
 know all about it — in fact, she is sure to have told you that the infan- 
 tine disease called cousinly love came into our family, but that it 
 didn't take with Margaret, only with me, and I had to be cured by 
 finding out that she did not care in the slightest degree about me." 
 
 Carelessly as Alban said this, he carefully watched the face of the 
 listener. He wanted to know how much Margaret had ever told her 
 husband regarding the passion entertained by her cousin for her, and 
 especially whether Philip had heard of the scene on the pier, of which 
 interview there had ah*eady turned out to be one more witness than 
 Alban Cheriton had designed." 
 
 " I rather gathered as much," said Philip. " I suppose we all fall 
 in love with our cousins. I was in love with four or five of them, 
 and the bother I had to beat them all off when I got hold of some- 
 thing serious was a caution, I assure you. They were perfectly per- 
 secuting, and I only managed the quarrel at last, by intentionally mis- 
 directing my letters, and setting the girls at war among themselves on 
 then* discovery of one another's deceitful behaviour." 
 
 " Well, I am glad Margaret bears no malice," said Alban ; " and I 
 drink to her health. How is your boy 1 I have not seen him for a 
 good while." 
 
 Nor had Philip, as it happened ; but he did not deem it necessary 
 to admit how unpaternal were his feelings towards poor little Duke. 
 
 " He's very well," said Arundel. " He is always roaring, I think." 
 
 u That's no particular symptom .of being very well," replied Alban, 
 laughing • " children don't always roar, except when they have some- 
 thing to complain of. I must have another look at him." 
 
 ••' I wish you would," said Philip. He had, we ought to say, uttered 
 a very gross libel against his child, who happened to be an extremely 
 tranquil as well as tractable infant, of whom his mamma would have 
 indignantly stated that he never cried at all, also an exaggeration, but 
 nothing like Philip's abominable story. 
 
 " You know," said Alban, " to revert for a moment to what we 
 were saying, the tone and style of your menage must naturally be 
 given by yourself. My cousin is an admirable person, but has lived 
 in a humbler sphere than that to which she has been raised by mar- 
 riage, and must therefore be content, as indeed she ought to be glad 
 and proud, to take all her notions from you." 
 
 " Yes," said Philip ; " that is certainly the case." 
 
 " In a few yeai-s you and she will be occupying a still higher place 
 in the world, and this is a very excellent— what shall I say — ap- 
 prenticeship for her, and I am delighted, for her sake, that she has so 
 easy a means of qualifying herself to be a distinguished woman of 
 
 p2 
 
212 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 society. Therefore, it seems to me that the more you urge upon her 
 the desirability of acquiring the habits of the world — I don't mean as 
 to mere manners, for hers are excellent, so far as I may judge — but 
 habits of thought and feeling, so much the better for her. Again, as 
 I say, I ought to hesitate at giving an opinion — " 
 
 "But you talk the soundest and best sense possible, and pre- 
 cisely what I have often said to her myself." 
 
 Albans lip curled at what Philip, no doubt, considered climax. 
 But he answered — 
 
 " Of course, and she will see its propriety. For instance, I suppose 
 that in good society it is not exactly the custom for a wife to go into 
 hysterics in a public place, because she sees her husband paying some 
 harmless attentions to another lady. Margaret may as well under- 
 stand this, because she made the mistake, and made people smile at 
 you when you came out together." 
 
 "O, damn it, was anybody laughing?" said Philip, reddening. 
 
 " Well, yes ; one couldn't help seeing it, being behind you," said 
 the other. " The Seftons, and who are those tall women, with green 
 wreaths, on the second tier 1" 
 
 " Lady Adlington and her sister, Mrs. Crawley, people I used to be 
 au onieux with ; I didn't notice them." 
 
 " They seemed much amused. Of course, it does not particularly 
 signify." 
 
 " That, my dear fellow, is matter of opinion," said Philip, with much 
 sujjeriority. " Sometimes things like that do signify. At any rate, I 
 am devilish vexed." 
 
 '• With your permission, that seems to me absurd. Margaret is not 
 to blame, because she knew no better. Is it not your business to 
 teach her better t As I said, I speak up for her." 
 
 " Quite right. I have said something about this, but I have not 
 taken the line you suggest." 
 
 " I don't suggest it — fancy my suggesting to a man how to train 
 his wife ! But it is as well that you should not neglect this part of 
 her education. And as I have said so much, I may as well say that, 
 knowing Margaret's character, I know that you will not do much by 
 mere advice, and certainly not by anything approaching to reproof or 
 rebuke." 
 
 " Think not 1 She is docile enough." 
 
 " Certainly ; but the impression passes with the moment. Now, I 
 should like to see her an ornament of society. I shall look up to her, 
 and feel proud even of having been rejected by such a person. But 
 she must get over her provincial and ungraceful ways." 
 
 " Making a scene is not the thing, certainly," said Philip. 
 
 " Well, were I you I should convey that lesson to her, not by any 
 mere talking to, far less by the least harshness, which she does not 
 deserve, but by showing her that the more inclined she is to make 
 scenes, the more chance there is of your giving her opportunities for 
 them. She will take the hint at last, and it will abide by her." 
 
 " I tli ink there's something in what you say." 
 
 "I take it for granted, of course, that any nonsense like that of 
 your shawling the girl at the opera was perfectly harmless — if I 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 213 
 
 thought otherwise, as Margaret's cousin, I would never speak to you 
 again. Well, there is no harm in such a thing, so do it again, or 
 something of the kind, and let your wife see, or know, that you do it. 
 She has plenty of sense, and I believe that she will not go into hysterics 
 a second time." 
 
 " Doctor, your health; your prescriptions are free from quackery." 
 
 " My treatment of a woman is to treat her like a reasonable being. 
 I never scold, I seldom preach, but I let her comprehend, by dint of 
 exerting her own brain, what I mean." 
 
 '' And if you were in my place, you would stay out late, or not 
 come home at all, or go behind the scenes " 
 
 " I don't say that I would do a single thing of the kind. But I do 
 say that I would do as I pleased. But bachelors' wives and maids' 
 children, you know." 
 
 " Yes, but some bachelors know what they are talking about, and 
 I take you to be one of them. Your health, again ; and may you one 
 day be the head of the College of Surgeons." 
 
 " I don't know what I have done to you to deserve that wish, but 
 such is life." 
 
 And soon afterwards Philip Arundel returned to town with his 
 true friend, but it was far into the morning before the young husband 
 reached his home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 GLIMPSE OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 Mr. Keckling had no very strong hope in the success of Mr. Arun- 
 del's plan for banishing Armandale Spencer by making him a public 
 servant, and the worthy Russian merchant had, as we have seen, 
 adequate means to form an opinion of the character of the ex-officer. 
 Keckling had no reason to believe that Margaret's father had re- 
 entered upon London life with any intention of again abandoning 
 that stage. As regarded mere wealth, and the pleasures which it can 
 procure, Armandale had, in India, been able to command all that a 
 luxurious, sensual man could desire, and it was not very probable 
 that he would voluntarily accept the limited enjoyments and, routine 
 duties of a decorous colony, after being accustomed to freedom of 
 action and to all the licence of native life in the East. It was, so far 
 as Mr. Keckling understood, Spencer's fixed determination to re- 
 introduce himself into English society; aud as he was well aware of 
 the effects of the disqualifying career he had pursued for so many 
 years, he was resolved to counteract that influence by availing him- 
 self unscrupulously of the means which events at home had seemed to 
 place within his reach. 
 
 But as the senator had the faith natural to his order, that a place 
 was the thing to which all men, electors included, perpetually 
 aspired, and regarded as the crowning glory of life, Mr. Keckling 
 
214 THE GORDIAN KXOT. 
 
 felt that this plan must be tried and fail before Mr. Arundel 
 would listen to any other suggestion. And therefore the m^j^iant 
 summoned his familiar. 
 
 " He is still in Half -Moon-street, Earnshaw ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, and I think he means to stay there, for he has had 
 cards engraved with his address, but he has been looking at chambers 
 in the Albany." 
 
 " Cards, eh ?" 
 
 " Here is one of them," said Earnshaw, handing it to his em- 
 ployer. It bore the names Armandale Spencer, in bold letters. 
 There -was no attempt at any mystification that might confuse 
 people as to " whether this Spencer was that Spencer." He w~as 
 that Spencer, and no other. 
 
 " How did you get this, Earnshaw ?" said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " Fenniug got it, sir. I suppose a shilling to the servant in Half- 
 Moon Street got it for him. That's the shortest way, he says, when 
 you want anything off a person's table to look at — a letter, or anything 
 of that sort." 
 
 " And how does he spend his time ?" 
 
 " Very quiet, sir. He writes a good deal." 
 
 " Dines ?" 
 
 " Sometimes at home, sir, but not often, as he says they know 
 nothing about cooking. He goes to the Oriental Hotel a good 
 deal." 
 
 " Visits ?" 
 
 " Not at all, and nobody comes to him." 
 
 " Has he been to Mr. Arundel's again V 
 
 " Certainly not, sir." 
 
 " To his daughter's ?" 
 
 " He may have gone once, but it is not known. It came on wet 
 on Wednesday evening, and he took a cab and drove north, and being 
 so wet, there was not another cab to be got, and he went out 
 of sight, but he was home in two hours." 
 
 " That cab excuse wouldn't have served in Russia, eh, Earnshaw 1" 
 
 " No, sir," said Earnshaw, smiling ; " but the same accident would 
 have happened, only you would have been told a lie about it instead 
 of the truth. I will say of Eenniug, that he never tells a lie to me." 
 
 " Has he been to Gower-street V 
 
 " No, sir ; but I should mention that a stout person, believed to be 
 Mrs. Spencei*, has called upon him twice." 
 
 " Seen him ?" 
 
 "Both times, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! that is well," said Mr. Keckling. " Did she stop long — did 
 they seem friendly V 
 
 " Confidential, in a manner, sir. The lady was always talking 
 loud, and laughing, but he spoke low, and tried to make her do the 
 same. He also gave her money, and put her in great good humour. 
 She gave the maid half-a-crown, and said a bit of a play to her." 
 
 " All right," said Keckling. " Take a glass of wine, Earnshaw. 
 Specially let it be noticed whether any other lady comes to see him r 
 or is visited by him. See me on Friday. Good day." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 215 
 
 For reasons of Lis own, at which, however, the reader will be at no 
 particular loss to guess, Mr. Keckling had kept Mrs. Robert Spencer 
 at arm's length since the marriage. No actual rupture had taken place; 
 but Keckling had managed not to receive her notes in time to answer 
 them in the haste-post-haste desired by the "writer, and the robiir et 
 as triplex of his well-guarded gate had been too strong to be stormed 
 even by her assurance. It was impossible that she should not feel 
 herself snubbed. Mr. Keckling had therefore to smooth matters a 
 little before he could make use of the lady in the way he proposed to 
 do ; but luckily she was one of those well-constituted people who 
 easily forgive an affront from a person well off in this world, and a 
 present of certain delicacies dear to Mrs. Robert, accompanied by a 
 polite note from the old gentleman, brought a most amiable response 
 from Gower-street, beginning, " How doth your lordship for this 
 many a day '?"' and gently intimating that rich gifts seemed poor when 
 givers proved unkind. Finally, Mr. Keckling was reproached for 
 never coming to see his old friends, who nevertheless still wore him 
 in their heart of hearts, <fcc. 
 
 To do away with the ground of this reproach, Mr. Keckling made 
 a speedy call in Gower-street, where Mrs. Spencer continued to muddle 
 on, sometimes in tolerable comfort, sometimes in ludicrous neediness, 
 but always in her normal condition of scramble and unthrift. He 
 was rapturously received by Henrietta, who poured out a flood of that 
 kind of personal narrative, until you have waded through which, it is 
 almost hopeless to think of fixing the attention of her class of persons 
 on anything you may have to say. Having borne the effusion with 
 the calmness of a philosopher exhausting an air-pump, Mr. Keckling 
 gradually turned the conversation into the direction he desired. 
 
 "And how does your brother-iu-law like England after so manv 
 years' absence V he demanded. 
 
 " O, he is perfectly happy. Here he takes up his everlasting rest, 
 you know, and he is bringing old friends around him, and making new 
 ones, and preparing to spend the sear and yellow leaf of his life (not 
 that he is yellow in the least, but exceedingly well-looking) in comfort 
 and social enjoyment at home. There's no place like home, you know, 
 my dear Mr. Keckling." 
 
 " So they tell me. I never had one, and can do extremely well 
 without it. I fancy that home, matrimony, and two or three other 
 things that are said to be absolutely essential to happiness, are super- 
 stitions that people will explode when they really discover how much 
 better you are treated at an hotel than in your own house, and how 
 much more polite every other woman is to you than your own 
 wife." 
 
 " 0, you dreadful heathen, you ! What shameful sentiments ! I 
 don't believe, however, that your wish is father to the thought. When 
 did you see darling Margaretta V 
 
 " The other day. She was very well and very happy." 
 
 " Bless her. And the baby, who is the loveliest creature that ever 
 came into this world." 
 
 " Very well, too, I believe. I don't care much about babies." 
 
 " Its grandpapa is dying to see it, I know. It seems odd to call 
 
21G THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 so young a looking man by that venerable name, but still he is 
 grandpapa." 
 
 " And why has he not seen it ? Margaret is always at home, and 
 he has only got to call." 
 
 " That is true, and I am so glad that I have seen you, because I 
 think that you can help me to smooth away the little difficulties that 
 there seem to be — I should make none, if I were in Armandale's place, 
 and so I have told him; but he is sensitiveness itself, and shrinks 
 from anything that resembles a faux pas. You see he has been in 
 England some time, as is quite well known to everybody, and Philip 
 Arundel ought to have sought him out, and paid him the attentions 
 due to his position and their relationship. I dare say, indeed I am 
 sure, that with your influence over Philip, you can easily set matters 
 straight, and blessed are the peacemakers, you know." 
 
 The selection of private growls performed by Mr. Keckling during 
 this description of Armandale Spencer was extremely choice, but as 
 the lady went on he rolled her various propositions over and over in 
 his mind, and endeavoured to shape for himself a scheme of conduct 
 with a view to his own object. 
 
 " I'll tell you how you might do it charmingly," said Henrietta. 
 " Give one of your delightful little dinners of the olden time, and 
 invite nobody but frieuds — have the wedding party over again in fact, 
 with the addition of Armandale, and thus bring everybody together 
 in harmony." 
 
 " Not a bad notion," said the old gentleman, " I'll think about it." 
 
 " Do it without thinking, before the purpose cools," retorted Mrs. 
 Spencer. 
 
 " One objection, my dear lady, is, that I have not the happiness of 
 knowing Mr. Armandale Spencer." 
 
 " Leave that to me. Authorize me to invite him in your name, 
 and the thing is done. You will be mutually delighted with one 
 another, for you have both travelled, he in hot climates, you in cold; 
 and with the addition of a slight pelisse Madrid's and Moscow's 
 climes are all of a piece, as Byron says. You are both men of the 
 world, and your characters are, curious to say, not altogether unlike." 
 
 " You be — something, madam,"' growled Keckling. " Well, I must 
 see about it." 
 
 " Come, we get on. That's better thau thinking about it, though 
 I would rather hear you say you would do it. I'll do, and I'll do, 
 and I'll do, is an old saying." 
 
 " By an old witch," mumbled the ungallant Keckling. " And 
 what may Mr. Armandale's plans be ?" he added, carelessly. " He went 
 into business, I think, after he had left the army ?" 
 
 " Ah, thereby hangs a tale, you know." 
 
 " No ; my memory does not serve me as it did. I forget. Wasn't 
 there some law-suit between the brothers — your husband and this 
 gentleman ]" 
 
 " It is not worth while unthreading the rude eye of rebellion any 
 more," said Mrs. Spencer. " All is forgiven and forgotten, and Ar- 
 maiidale has the greatest regard and affection for poor Robert, and 
 justly says that the financial crisis of the period when the misfortune 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 217 
 
 — the loss of the poor fellow's money — occurred, fully j ustified Bob 
 in all that he did. And now Armandale has an ample competence — 
 he is not exactly rolling in riches, and, indeed, when I had accidental 
 occasion to ask him for a momentary loan the other day, he was 
 obliged to excuse himself, but still he is extremely well off, and so he 
 can afford to laugh at sorrows gone by." 
 
 " No idea of resuming business here, then ?" 
 
 " I don't know why he should not — indeed, now you mention it, I 
 think he did say something of the kind, but my mind was occupied 
 with another matter, and I did not particularly attend to him. Why 
 should not you take him into partnership, my dear sir ?" 
 
 " I !" said Mr. Keckling, fairly taken aback by this monstrous 
 proposition. 
 
 " Just the thing, I should think. He is a most clever and skilful 
 man, who understands business thoroughly, and he would relieve you 
 of everything." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " Upon my word, the idea seems a most happy one. Women know 
 nothing of such affairs, of course; but a word of inspiration sometimes 
 falls like lightning, and sets a whole machine in motion — doesn't it?" 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing happening, my dear madam ; but we 
 learn new things every day in this age of progress. Where does Mr. 
 Armandale Spencer live ?" he added, just as if he had not got that 
 gentleman's card in his pocket-book. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer told him the address, after searching a couple of dusty 
 card-racks and an old work-box in vain for the piece of paper on 
 which it was, she said, written down ; and though she gave him the 
 wrong number (when did a Henrietta Spencer-woman ever give the 
 right one), the circumstance to which we have adverted made the 
 mistake of no consequence. 
 
 " Then you will call on him, will you 1 He will be enchanted 
 to see you, and there is nothing so pleasant to men who have seen the 
 world as to compare notes." 
 
 " It is highly delightful," said Mr. Keckling, rising to go. " How 
 is your husband 1 Not at home, I suppose 1 My best regards to him." 
 
 " He is reading at the British Museum," said Mrs. Spencer. 
 
 If she had said that he was riding on the British Lion, the state- 
 ment would not have sounded more absolutely nonsensical to Mr. 
 Keckling. 
 
 " Doing what, my dear madam f 
 
 " Reading at the Museum. He has determined to study the history 
 of finances — don't you call them *? and means to write a book on the 
 subject." 
 
 Keckling was rude enough to laugh, not too goodnaturedly. 
 
 " It was Armandale's suggestion to him," said Henrietta. "Arman- 
 dale declares that Robert's head for finance is a marvellous one, but 
 that his mistake was his trying to manage paltry private business of his 
 own, instead of devoting himself to more gigantic pi-ojects for the 
 public. He failed in one, but could have succeeded in the other, just 
 as a great musician might be able to do nothing upon a kit but might 
 play spendidly on a violoncello." 
 
218 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Very true, Mrs. Spencer, very true indeed. Well, my best regards 
 to the violoncello player. I hope he has plenty of rosin for his bow. 
 Good-day." 
 
 It is right to say that the British Museum story was all an inven- 
 tion, not of Mrs. Spencei-'s, but of her brother-in-law's. It was his 
 device for delivering poor Bob out of the despotism of Gower-street. 
 Mr. Robert Spencer was presumed to be daily shut up among Mr. 
 Panizzi's books, preparing a work that was to immortalize him ; when 
 in reality he was calmly smoking his pipe, and indidging in the most 
 stupid conversation with the frequenters of some of the numerous 
 hostelries of St. Pan eras, his means of enjoyment being furnished by 
 his brother, who had been moved to compassion at the sight of the 
 domestic subjection under which Robert had groaned. This need not 
 be set down as a good trait in Armandale's character, unless you par- 
 ticularly wish to be charitable. It was the result of his heathenish 
 habits. He had lived in the East, where woman is a slave, so long, 
 that his tyrannical nature revolted at the sight of the wholesome 
 despotism which Christendom permits her to exercise, and his aiding 
 Robert to escape from the sway of his wife was, in its degree, an act 
 of treason to British institutions. Mrs. Robert was, however, mysti- 
 fied, and her lrasband was happier than he had been for many a day. 
 
 A.s for the lady herself, she did not lose much time in dressing her- 
 self and hurrying off to call upon Armandale, before whom, and upon 
 rather a slight foundation for so goodly a fabric, she reared a chateau 
 d' 'Espagne, the principal features whereof were that the millionaire 
 Xeckling was dying to know him — was coming to see him — was going 
 to ask him to dinner — and was anxious to take him into partnership. 
 Sir Bulwer Lytton says that it is a good general rule never to tell a 
 woman the truth. He might have added, that one chief obj ection to 
 telling it her, is the extreme ingratitude of such a course. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 COUSIN' CHERITON. 
 
 Alban's counsel agreed too well with the inclination of Philip 
 Arundel not to be followed up, and in some respect improved upon. 
 A very unsalutary effect was being produced upon him by the kind 
 of life he was leading, and by the estrangement which was arising 
 between him and the affectionate Margai'et. It is bad enough when 
 a man goes wild ways from folly or from impulse, but when he takes 
 into his head an idea that irregularities of all kinds are an assertion of 
 his rightful position in the world, things are likely to come to an un- 
 toward issue. Fate, like Sir John Falstaff with his recruit, is taking 
 such order with him that all his friends are likely to be mourners. 
 
 Philip's own instincts, until they had been warped by self-will and 
 by dissipation, would have told him that at this time his conduct 
 towards his wife ought to have been most delicate and considerate. 
 
THE GOUDIAX KNOT. 219 
 
 The affair of the opera might easily have been disposed of; nor was 
 Margaret (grateful in her inmost soul for the kindness with which the 
 Arundels had behaved in regard to her great trouble) at all inclined 
 to dwell upon an unpleasant recollection. Ten words and a kiss from 
 Philip, and there would have been an end of the matter for ever. Nor 
 did the poor girl indeed, in the absence of those little atonements, 
 even venture to contravene his august decree that no more was to be 
 said on the subject. She longed for an opportunity of assuring him 
 how entirely he was forgiven ; but Philip had as resolutely determined 
 that there had been nothing to forgive, as the sturdy old captain in 
 Queen Anne's time, to whom that respected sovereign's pardon was 
 graciously brought for having imperilled one of her ships contrary to 
 orders, and thereby sunk or taken three ships of the enemy. The 
 captain flung the pardon at the head of the messenger who brought it, 
 and there would have been a risk, had Margaret acted like Queen Anne, 
 of Phdip's imitating, of course in a gentlemanly mannei-, the indignant 
 sea captain. But setting aside the affair of the opera, there was every 
 reason why Philip should have acted just now with signal kindness. He 
 knew Margaret's nature, and how deeply she felt the disgrace which she 
 had innocently introduced into the A rundel family, audit should have 
 been the care of a loving husband to show that no one else felt it, or chose 
 to do so. The other Arundels were all kindness, and made special en- 
 deavour to have Margaret with them, in public and in private ; but 
 in the case of a retiring and home-loving woman like Mrs. Arundel, 
 it is difficult, without the decided co-operation of the husbaud, to get 
 the wife much into society ; and Philip, without exactly opposing 
 himself to the attentions of his family, was so little earnest in urging 
 Margaret to accept them, that the kind intentions of the elder 
 Arundel and the girls were constantly baffled. Philip was engaged, 
 or Philip was out of town, or Philip somehow was out of the way 
 when he should have been at his wife's side ; and he did not much im- 
 prove matters by intimating, in answer to her gentle remarks — they 
 never came to remonstrances — that she could always do exactly as 
 she liked, and might therefore be good enough to allow him similar 
 liberty. Poor child ! she did not want to do exactly as she liked ; she 
 wanted Philip to prescribe her daily occupations, and to stand as 
 closely by her as he could, to see that she followed out his wishes, and 
 reward her with his affection for so doing. He had no idea of any 
 such employment — in fact, he looked upon matrimony as an honour- 
 able sinecure, a view not permitted of gods or men. Margaret gradu- 
 ally grew very unhappy: 
 
 Unhappy, certainly. And yet if she had complained — had bi*ought 
 her state before any private tribunal of people of the world (I think 
 she would have died first), there would have been a marvellously strong 
 case for her husband, and a poorish one for herself. I think I hear a* 
 shrewd good-natured worldly friend summing up the evidence for her 
 benefit "Really, my dear Mrs. Arundel, the court can't help think- 
 ing that you have been very ill-advised to make a stir in this matter. 
 Do look into your history. There were you, a pretty country girl, 
 without fortune or connexion, married by one of the pleasantest and 
 best fellows about town, and a member of a capital family into the 
 
220 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 bargain. They treated you with all affection ; the father furnished a 
 nice house for you, you have a good allowance, a charming baby, and 
 really everything that a woman can want in the world. And though 
 a black cloud threatened you — and there really would have been an 
 excuse for black looks — everybody has made light of it, and you are 
 treated with the utmost consideration. And just because your hand- 
 some young husband, who has so many social qualities that people 
 court him, likes occasionally to stay out a little late, and to have a 
 little pleasure in which you could not as a mother take your share, 
 and because he does not go into lovers' transports when you meet 
 (you admit that he is a perfect gentleman), you come forward and say 
 you are unhappy. Upon the court's word, Mrs. Arundel, you are a 
 little unreasonable. The court can tell you that hundreds of girls 
 would only be too happy to be unhappy on such terms. We fear, 
 ma'am, that your health is not very good, and is acting on your spirits 
 and temper, and the court strongly recommends you to try a little 
 sea air — Scarborough, now, is a very charming place, or Lowestoft ; — 
 suppose you try six weeks of that sort of thing, and see whether it 
 will not bring you to a better sense of your advantages. As a reli- 
 gious kind of woman, you must be aware that for what we have re- 
 ceived the Lord is asked to make us truly thankful, and so forth ; and 
 the court sincerely hopes that you habitually attend to your religious 
 exercises. The court is very sorry, Mrs. Arundel, but we must really 
 dismiss your petition, with costs." 
 
 Such would, no doubt, be the judgment ; and the world would re- 
 mark upon it, that it was " devilish sensible, too ;" and the woman 
 would be entirely to blame if, after such a warning as that, she made 
 things unpleasant, or forgot herself in any way. And this settled, we 
 will go on with her story. 
 
 Alban Cheriton, in performance of the promise so kindly given to 
 his friend at Blackwall, chose an early day for going up to St. John's 
 Wood to see Margaret's baby. Naturally, of course, he selected a 
 time when Margaret herself was likely to be at home ; for how can a 
 medical man satisfactorily judge of the condition of a child without 
 hearing what its mother has to say upon the subject ? A servant 
 whose to-morrow's holiday depended upon her being able to be spared, 
 would report a night of the fiercest whooping-cough as " a little 
 hacking, M'm, as would be better if the dear were kep at home for a 
 day." Therefore Alban was perfectly right in his selection of his 
 hour ; besides, why should he not wish to see his cousin Margaret 1 
 
 But why, before going from his house, does the young sux-geon 
 retire to his room — that in which we saw him with the book and the 
 skull before him 1 Why does he carefully lock the doors and see 
 that the keys are so turned in the locks that the most practised spy 
 outside could learn nothing through the key-hole? Why'? — but as 
 we are not inside the room with him, and as it is of no use trying to 
 peep, we cannot tell what else he may be doing. Only we know that 
 he is locked up for half an hour, and is very quiet during that time. 
 Perhaps he is saying his prayers. 
 
 " I don't think there is much the matter with him, Margaret." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 221 
 
 " Not much !" repeated the mother, anxiously. " But you do think, 
 Alban, that he is not well V 
 
 " No, I do not go so far as that. He is delicate, that is certain ; 
 but there is no derangement of function that I am aware of, and, 
 assuredly, there is no disease of any kind. I think he requires care, 
 great care." 
 
 " And that I think I may say he has," said Margaret, simply. He 
 was never out of her thoughts, and very little out of her sight. 
 
 " You must not entrust him to nurses more than you can help. 
 Thex - e is nothing like a mother's eye, and hand, and voice. This is 
 important at his age. I dare say that you have a very good nurse, 
 but none of them have — it is not in nature that they should have — 
 the vigilant interest of a parent. A mother is a child's second set of 
 senses." 
 
 " But I never leave Duke, Alban, if I can avoid it. Whenever I 
 am at home, day and night, he is with me, and I am never out for 
 more than an hour or two. The evening at the opera, when you were 
 there, was the last time I have been away." 
 
 " But when you go to dinner parties, or evening parties " 
 
 " I assixre you — I don't know how it is — but we have been to none 
 lately. I have had some invitations, but something has prevented my 
 going. Philip, of course, is out a good deal, for it will not do, he 
 truly says, to let our acquaintance drop away ; but I have been quite 
 a hermit." 
 
 " That I do not like. It is not good for any one to be always 
 in the same scene and with the same people. And you are com- 
 panionless. It is certainly unhealthy, and I suppose must be very 
 dull." 
 
 " Duke is a great companion to me, bless his life," said his mother, 
 pressing the child's soft cheek against her own. " He lets me say 
 just what I like to him, and never tells me I talk nonsense — do you, 
 Duke ? No, he isn't so rude to his mamma ; and he smiles at 
 her observations, and receives things as they are meant, and is alto- 
 gether a perfect little Chesterfield ; are you not, Duke 1 ?" 
 
 You don't know, my dear friends — but I do — why at this moment 
 I hate that Alban Cheriton with a savage hatred, or that I should 
 especially exult to see him fall down in a fit. But he will not. On 
 the contrary, he is smiling at the child as it nestles its head on its 
 mother's shoulder ; and he is tickling its face with the feather-end of 
 a pen, and making it laugh shyly, and as if not quite sure that it 
 was not being taken an unwarrantable liberty with. 
 
 " You must get him out of town, Margaret. I have been considering 
 the whole case, both before I came here, and since. He wants country 
 air, and the sooner he has it the better." 
 
 " Philip has not decided where we go this year, but " 
 
 " But you must decide for him — at least as far as baby is concerned, 
 as the matter may take a more serious turn than we expect." 
 Margaret was as pale as her infant in a moment. 
 " But you say there id nothing serious, nothing to alarm me, 
 Alban." 
 
222 THE GOIiDIAN KXOT. 
 
 " I say so still. But Duke is at that period of life when an attack 
 of any kind may come suddenly, and if the constitution is not 
 strengthened and ready to resist it, we may get into trouble. Were 
 I you, I would not let my movements be dependent on Philip's. I 
 am sure that, under the circumstances, he would not wish it. Where 
 is he r 
 
 " He is in the country, in Derbyshire, I believe, though he left it 
 a little doubtful." 
 
 "And will be home " 
 
 " That is rather uncertain." 
 " But you know where to write to him V 
 
 "Yes, but Idonot know wlien he will receive the letter," said Margaret. 
 " That would be awkward, in case of need," said Alban. " Suppose 
 that you were ill, or the child were ill, Philip ought to be within 
 telegraph reach." 
 
 " He knows, at least he hopes, that I shall not be ill," said Mar- 
 garet, with a smile, not so cheerful as it might be, " especially as I 
 seldom tell him of any of my ailments, and he knows I am here to 
 take care of baby." 
 
 "Hm," was Alban's answer. " Well," he continued, "I take upon 
 myself the responsibility of saying that Duke must go out of town. 
 I told Philip that I was coming to see him, and he especially begged 
 me to do so, as I suppose he has told you." 
 
 Philip had either utterly forgotten all about it, or not chosen to 
 mention it. Margaret's heart, always ready to find good in every- 
 thing, received what Alban said as proof of Philip's interest in his 
 child, and of his desire to spare her any preliminary anxiety. 
 
 " He did not tell me," she said, with a slightly heightened colour, 
 "for I suppose he did not want to frighten me, which was very 
 kind of him. But, my dear Alban, Duke's going out of town means 
 my going out of* town — for of course it is utterly impossible for him to 
 go without me, as you just said." 
 "Ouite." 
 
 "Some days may pass before I can consult Philip." 
 " You must not wait to consult Philip. I take on myself, I tell 
 you, the responsibility of ordering you out of town. Simply write and 
 tell him where you are going, and lie can follow you on his return." 
 "A journey is nothing in these days, is it T 
 " Not such a one as you should take." 
 
 "And where ought we to go — to the sea-side, do you think V 
 " Not into too bracing an air at first. We may move you round, 
 hereafter, into another climate, but take it easy at first. Do you 
 know Hastings f 
 
 " No ; is it a nice place V 
 
 " Parts of it are nice ; and if the Board of Health had power to 
 hang, as I hope to see it have some day, Hastings might be made 
 perfect. I should send you to a place far away from anything 
 objectionable. Now, can you go to-morrow, by a mid-day train, as 
 if so, I will write to-night, and secure lodgings for you." 
 
 " Day after to-morrow, please,"4taid Margaret, pleadingly; " I have 
 so many things to attend to." 
 
THE GORDIAX Kl 228 
 
 ..: is the mistake that stops thousands of pleasant journeys. 
 thing, but go away. You will find, ou your return, 
 that things have gone on just as well as if you had fidgeted you: 
 
 ;tll." 
 
 " It must be the day after to-morrow, nevertlu I Margaret, 
 
 " for such a number of And will you be so kind as to write 
 
 to-night, and I will write to Philip." 
 
 •• 1.- •: me write here." said Alban. crossing to Marga r et's desk: '"and 
 I can post the letter in my way back, and then all will be safe."' 
 
 He s;it down to write, and Margaret left the room with the 
 baby. 
 
 When she came back, Alban's letter was not quite finished, which 
 rather surprised her, as he had been celebrated for a habit of ready 
 and brief composition j but he inad> mark about forgetting 
 
 the address, and promised to write from his own home. Then he 
 went away. 
 
 M rgaret Arundel unhesitatingly made up her mind to follow his 
 advice. The only question which had occurred to her to give her 
 pause, was whether her husband would approve her thus sud- 
 denly leaving her home without his sanction being previously ob- 
 tained to such a step. But she believed it was impossible that 
 under the circumstances Philip could be displeased at her taking the 
 course recommended by Alban : and even had she supposed that Mr. 
 Arundel could manifest any dissatisfaction with that course, the 
 mother felt ready to brave any pain which she might be caused by 
 his displeasure, which she knew could be but temporary. And again, 
 his having made Duke's health a subject for consultation with Alban, 
 and his having requested her cousin to visit the child, and advise ui 
 his condition, seemed proof to her that Philip was. if less demonstra- 
 tively interested than herself in his beautiful heir, as sincerely at- 
 tached to him — as careful of him. For it is easy to beHeve those 
 whom we love loved by others. 
 
 On the following day Alban sent her word that he had telegraphed 
 to Hastings, and had secured the apartments he desired, and he gave 
 her the necessary directions as to the railway train by which she 
 to travel. 
 
 I had not heard from Philip, but before going she, of course, 
 wrote him a long letter, telLing him what Alban had said, and the 
 step she had consequently adopted, and she added an affectionate hope 
 that he would join her at Hastings as early as his arrangements would 
 permit. And by way of enriching the letter, she guided a peu in the 
 tiny band of Duke, making him send his love to papa, and las petition 
 that papa would come and see the little traveller in his new home by 
 the sea. While tracing this Margaret thought of the christening ban- 
 quet, and the touclung hope then expressed by the paternal orator, 
 that his child might live to wander "like a breeze," on the sea-shore, 
 and be a> happy there as his father and mother had been in the days 
 of their early acquaintance; and though this kind of unescorted flight 
 WS4 not quite the way in which she had hoped they would have pro* 
 Deeded to carry out the wish, still the recollection, at such a moment, 
 gave her pleasure, and a tear or so that dropped upon her baby was 
 
224 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 not a tear of grief. It takes but a small ray of sunshine to light up 
 the recesses of a loving heart. 
 
 " And now, baby, you really must go down while mamma makes 
 up her letter, or else it will not be a neat and pretty one. Now go 
 and teach Fizz his book, darling, and mind he reads properly." 
 
 Fizz was all life and delight at the sound of his name, and the play- 
 fellows were soon in the most confidential intercourse. 
 
 Margaret, searching in her desk for an envelope, suddenly lighted 
 on one of Philip's letters. She was surprised at the sight, for she had 
 treasured these epistles with great care, locking them away in one of 
 her most secure strongholds. 
 
 " How could I have left this one out," she said. 
 
 It was a long letter, too. the fourth side being covered with writing, 
 and it was without its cover, and lying so that she could read a por- 
 tion without taking it up ; and she amused herself, as we sometimes 
 do, by thus puzzling at the character of a paper that unexpectedly 
 meets our eyes. 
 
 The words she read were certainly not of the kind one leaves ex- 
 posed in an unlocked desk to the curiosity of servants. Tenderness 
 and affection breathed in every line, and Philip spoke of his perfect 
 content, his confidence, and his love. Margaret read with delight, 
 yet with some bewilderment ; for though the sentiments were those 
 he had, in their days of courtship and early wedlock, constantly ex- 
 pressed, there was something fresh to her in the language, and she had, 
 as she believed — and had good right to believe — most of his letters by 
 heart. It was with a slight flutter, and yet a smile, that she took 
 up the document, and even teased herself for a moment or two longer 
 by going on with the words before looking back to the date to see 
 when the letter was addressed to her. 
 
 Then she looked to the first page — to the beginning of the letter — 
 and then she read — 
 
 " My otcn dear little Maria /" 
 
 Slowly, and with swimming eyes, from which she indignantly 
 brushed, not tears, but a blinding film which came over them, as if to 
 hide the cruel paper from her, Margaret read the entire letter. It was 
 from Philip, when staying with some distinguished friends in Scot- 
 land, and was full of kindness and apparent love for a woman, several 
 times addressed with an endearing epithet, as Maria, and whom he 
 hoped soon to rejoin, meantime sending her some little gage <V amour, 
 and bidding her rely on her being constantly in his thoughts, and on 
 his eagerness to be again in her arms. Yes, to the very end she 
 read it. 
 
 Every one has seen that noble and tragic picture, in which a great 
 painter of our own day has embodied three scenes of a terrible stoiy 
 of a husband's wrongs, a woman's crime, and the sin of the parent 
 visited upon the children. All unlike, save in the beauty of her form 
 and in the prostration of her attitude, was our Margaret to the guilty 
 creature whom Augustus Egg has sketched on her own floor, in the 
 agony of shame and sorrow. But as that woman lies on the ground, 
 amid her insulted household gods, lay, in the presence of her affrighted 
 child, poor Margaret Arundel. 
 
' 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 225 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 SANS ADIEU. 
 
 " Send for Lady M'Cullonibich," were the first distinct words which 
 Mrs. Arundel uttered to her bewildered servants, who, summoned by 
 the despairing cries of Duke, had raised from the ground the heart- 
 stricken wife, and were trying such remedies as occurred to them in 
 their haste and alarm. And in a comparatively short time, which 
 alternately seemed to Margaret the passing of a few crowded minutes, 
 and then an age, her Scottish friend was beside the bed on which Mrs. 
 Arundel had been laid. 
 
 The visitor removed her bonnet and shawl, placed a chair near the 
 bed, and having dismissed the servants, and taken care that they were 
 not listening at the door, she sat quietly down by Margaret, took her 
 hand, and said — 
 
 " As I expected, my love. You have told the story, and it has 
 been unkindly received." 
 
 Margaret gazed at the speaker with a sort of wonderment. The 
 story. The existence of a disreputable father, who had returned to 
 England, and would be a disgrace to the proud Arundels. It had 
 almost passed from her memory. What had she not gone through 
 since she parted from Lady M'Cullonibich, promising to write a few 
 words to say how "her own Philip" had received the information. 
 Her own Philip ! The opera-dancer's Philip. His dear little Maria's 
 Philip. Anybody's but hers. And she lay back sobbing, but not 
 violently. Her prostration had been too complete for the agitation 
 which most women evince in the hour of distress. 
 
 Suddenly she rose up. 
 
 " The letter, the letter ?" she gasped. 
 
 " Is here, love," said Lady M'Cullonibich ; " is it not 1 This had 
 fortunately fallen under a chair in the room where they tell me you 
 were found, and it caught my eye before your servants had had time 
 to discover it. Here it is, whatever it is." 
 
 " Keep it. Do not give it to me," said Margaret, shuddering. 
 
 " It is your husband's writing, I conclude, love." 
 
 " It is Mr. Arundel's writing," said the wife. " Keep it." 
 
 " Am I to read it V asked Lady M'Cullonibich. " I suppose I had 
 better, and save you explanations." 
 
 " Don't let me see you reading it, please," said Margaret, faintly. 
 " Go where I cannot see your face." 
 
 Lady M'Cullonibich passed into a dressing-room, and rapidly 
 mastered the contents of the letter, and its character. At least she 
 perceived that it was a warmly written effusion on the part of Philip 
 Arundel, and that Margaret was not its object ; but she misconceived 
 one fact, which she deemed important. 
 
 "I understand, my love," she said, taking Margaret's hand once 
 
 PART Vill. Q 
 
226 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 more, and trying to arrange her disordered hair. " You are in 
 God's hand, and he sends such sorrows. May he forgive those who 
 cause them." 
 
 " 0. Lady M'Cullombich !" said Margaret, piteously. And clasping 
 her friend tightly round the neck, the poor girl's tears flowed fast and 
 bitterly. 
 
 "No man ever lived who was worth those tears," said Helen 
 M'Cullombich. " We make our wretched idols, and then we repine 
 because they are but common clay. You have had your eyes cruelly 
 opened to the truth, love ; but perhaps it is for the best that the truth 
 should come thus early to you." 
 
 She spoke, well aware that her words were scarcely heard and not 
 at all heeded by the sobbing creature in her arms. 
 
 " So soon after his marriage, too. It is hard," said Helen. 
 
 This speech Margaret caught, and again looked up wonderingly at 
 her friend, but lacked the energy to reply. She pointed, however, to 
 the letter, which Lady M'Cullombich had thrown on the bed. 
 
 "I see, August, and this is only September. Eh," said Lady 
 M'Cullombich, suddenly. "Why, my child, this letter is three years 
 old. It was an affair before marriage. Bless me, my love," said 
 Helen, quite radiantly, " what are we making a fuss about ? What 
 fools we are for overlooking the date ; but I am the worst, as I call 
 myself a woman of business." 
 
 She quite held up Margaret in her vigorous arms, and looked 
 astonished that her discovery did not impart instant consolation. 
 
 " Ah !" she said. " I see. The acquaintance has been — say it is 
 not so — it has not been renewed." 
 
 " No, no," said Margaret, hastily, and flushing crimson. 
 
 " Then, my dearest child," said Helen, almost remonstrating, " why 
 is all this agitation 1 I cannot comprehend it. Why has the letter 
 — is this the letter 1 There was no other, which a servant has taken 1 
 I will have it from her in five minutes, if it be so. I see a policeman 
 passing." And the energetic lady, once more herself, had her hand 
 on the bell-handle. 
 
 " There is no other letter," said Margaret. " Is not that enough ?" 
 
 "I do not seem quite to understand the case," said Helen 
 M'Cullombich, sitting down, but not very near her friend. " Your 
 servants tell me that, hearing your child scream violently, they 
 ran up, and found you had fainted. I find you on your bed in a 
 state of agitation, and all I see at present in explanation is a letter 
 written by Mr. Arundel to some girl or other, most likely before he 
 ever saw you, certainly long before you were married. I came expect- 
 ing to find you in a real trouble, not an imaginary one. I am glad, 
 my dear, that the real one has been so easily got rid of that you have 
 so much thought to spare for nonsense." 
 
 Poor Margaret was in no condition to utter what she felt — her lips 
 repeated, almost inaudibly, " nonsense." 
 
 " My dear child, what else can I call it 1 What have you to do 
 with what Mr. Arundel did in other days. You are so good and so 
 desirous to be right in all matters, that I am sure you will not be 
 angry with me fur telling you that a wife is supposed to know nothing 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. %%# 
 
 of such affairs. Philip would feel that the grievance was on his side, 
 not yours, it \ on ever hinted at such a thing." 
 
 Margaret was silent. 
 
 " Of course," continued her nionitrix, " it is all very shocking, but 
 men lead the sort of life they choose, and think they are angels and 
 examples if no one can prove anything against them when they have 
 settled. You did not suppose that you had married a young gentle- 
 man who was different from other young gentlemeu. Come, be 
 rational, my dear child. You have your husband's whole heart now j 
 so put that letter into a candle-flame, and dismiss it from your mind. 
 Where are your Vesta-matches ?" 
 
 " Not for the world," said Margaret, seizing the letter, folding it, 
 and placing it under a pillow — not that upon which she was lying. 
 
 " You are rather less sensible than I believed you, my dear," said 
 Lady M'Cullombich ; " but I am glad to see that you are getting so 
 much better that you can meditate the future. I should like to know, 
 though, what you are going to do with that letter — because it would 
 be for the manifest happiness and peace of the world, if a law were 
 made that no letter should ever be preserved twenty-four hours after 
 it was received." 
 
 " I must keep this one," said Margaret, humbly. " It was very 
 kind of you to come to me, dear Lady M'Cullombich." 
 
 " Stuff, child. But I do not know that I should have come in such 
 a hurry, if I had known what was the matter. Tell me, now, if you 
 are calm enough, what has passed about your father." 
 
 " All was known," said Margaret, in a low voice. 
 
 " All was known," repeated Lady M'Cullombich, slowly. 
 
 " More than you had told me." 
 
 It was Lady M'Cullombich's turn to colour, which she did through 
 her healthy bronze. 
 
 " If I concealed anything, my dear, it was from no love of conceal- 
 ment, but because I thought that one part of the sad story might be 
 hidden for ever." 
 
 "All is well," said Margaret, still faintly. " All was well," she 
 added, as to herself. 
 
 " The Arundels see the history in the right light, as regards you V 
 
 " Yes, I believe so." 
 
 " Then, as you say, all is well. Then you are to be congratulated, 
 my dear, and I congratulate you heartily. With a good understanding 
 among yourselves, you may set Mr. Armandale Spencer at defiance ; 
 and I doubt not that means will be found to get rid of him from this 
 country." 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Margaret, dreamily. 
 
 " My love, I quite understand all about it now. You have been 
 agitated, and nervous, and restless for some days about this matter : 
 and it was quite of importance enough to justify your being so. And 
 having made yourself ill, or at least peculiarly sensitive to impressions, 
 there comes that wretched letter — you don't tell me how you lighted 
 upon it, or whether it was sent to you — yes, it must have been Bent 
 to you. Mr. Arundel would not be likely to keep one of his own 
 letters." 
 
 Q2 
 
228 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Do you know," said Margaret, suddenly rousing herself to the 
 subject nearest her heart, "that is a mystery to me. I was searching 
 the desk, downstairs, and the letter was there." 
 
 " A locked desk T 
 
 " Sometimes I have locked it ; not lately. Nothing of consequence 
 was kept there." 
 
 " Anybody could go to it V 
 
 " Nobody ever did, except Mr. Arundel and me — there was only 
 writing-paper, and that sort of thing." 
 
 " Mr. Arundel ; — by the way," said Lady M'Cullombich, inter- 
 rupting herself hastily, " tell me, was he all that you could desire, 
 all that you could expect, then, about the discovery? Was he, in a 
 word, all kindness and consideration, as you hoped, dear, if I did not 
 dare to hope so strongly, that he would be." 
 
 " He was all that was — that was courteous and respectful — " 
 
 " Courteous and respectful ! You are his wife — courtesy and 
 respect to a woman when passionate affection is due to her, are 
 wrong and insult, and far worse offences than unkindness and 
 outrage. I have no right to ask, however. It is a question between 
 husband and wife." 
 
 " You have a right to my confidence in this matter, dear Lady 
 M'Cullombich. I have told you the manner in which Mr. Arundel 
 behaved." 
 
 " Then he behaved ill." 
 
 Margaret, for the first time, was silent when her husband's conduct 
 was impugned. After a pause, she said, — 
 
 " It is not for me to complain : and there was another thing which 
 happened — it was at the Opera — nothing of consequence, but it 
 might have helped to make him colder than — than he would, perhaps, 
 have been." 
 
 " A matter in which he was in the right and you in the wrong, of 
 course." 
 
 " No," said Margaret, colouring. 
 
 " Ah ! Then he was wrong on one occasion, and therefore, like a 
 man, behaved ill to you on another. And he was in the habit of 
 going to this desk, you say," asked Lady M'Cullombich, abruptly. 
 
 " What of that ?" gasped poor Margaret. 
 
 " God forgive me if I think worse of men, husbands, than they 
 deserve," said Helen ; " but it would be hard. I have known of such 
 things as would make the bravest woman tremble at entrusting her 
 happiness and her salvation to another — but pass that now. You 
 are better, much better, dear, and some calm sleep will restore your 
 nerves." 
 
 " Sleep," murmured Margaret. " I feel that there is but one sleep 
 in which I shall ever be calm again ; and if it were not for my child, 
 my own one, God knows, I would not care how soon that sleep came 
 to me. But you have put a new thought into my mind — what did 
 you mean just now ? Not, in mercy ! not what crossed my poor 
 brain as you spoke." 
 
 " Tell me, love." 
 
 " You did not mean that Philip put the letter there, knowing that 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 229 
 
 I should find it T It was in her agony, only, that she had called him 
 by his Christian name. 
 
 " The shameful thought crossed my mind too," said Helen, shocked 
 at the new sorrow she had caused, and desirous to soften it. " But 
 it was for a moment only, and I was wrong — evidently wrong. Tt 
 would be absurd to suspect him of doing so — what end could he gain 1 
 Tt would be wanton folly. A man has the good taste, if not the good 
 feeling, to conceal even his old love affairs from his wife, and your 
 husband is a gentleman at heart. The idea was a ridiculous one. 
 Send it away, and let us think who else could have placed the letter 
 there. Any one, you say, could get to the desk." 
 
 Margaret's look was piteous — it showed that an abiding idea had 
 fastened upon her. 
 
 " Yes, yes," continued Helen, " we must trace this. It is a duty to 
 ourselves, to everybody." 
 
 She took the letter from under the pillow, and looked through 
 the pages as if seeking to gain a hint. There was no envelope — no 
 postmark. 
 
 " Had your servants, or either of them, known Mr. Arundel or his 
 family ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Has he, or have you, scolded them lately, or refused them any in- 
 dulgence, or given them warning ? Because, if so, this is just the way 
 a servant would take revenge — find a letter in a coat pocket, or some- 
 where, and put it where it would occasion mischief." 
 
 " I have never done anything to deserve their dislike. Mr. Arundel 
 is cold and distant with servants, but never condescends to anger. 
 Yet, now you recal it, I noticed that Hannah was very eager, a day 
 or two ago, to tell me something that vexed me." 
 
 " They are all that, unless it tells against themselves, my dear. 
 But was it something about Mr. Arundel ?" 
 
 " Yes. But nothing of consequence." 
 
 "That is nothing — when a low person cannot fire a pistol at you, 
 he will discharge a squirt. The case is evidently this, my dear. One 
 of you has offended one of your servants, who, having found that 
 letter, has used it for your mortification, and is now exulting in her 
 success. It is not worth while revenging oneself on such a creature." 
 
 " Do not speak of anything so wicked as revenge," said Margaret. 
 And she again became silent. 
 
 Neither woman believed in the solution Helen had given. But 
 she compassionated Margaret, and sought to turn her thoughts in 
 another direction than that they had taken. Margaret was not led 
 away for a moment. Lady M'Cullombich had struck a new choi'd, 
 hitherto unsounded, and now all that Mrs. Arundel desired was that 
 her friend would go away, and leave her to a sensation which she had 
 never experienced, and which, with all its pain, had something in it 
 that was sustaining. Margaret became, or seemed to herself to be- 
 come, rapidly better and stronger. She rose from the bed and ar- 
 ranged her dress and hair. 
 
 " I must ring for poor little Duke," she said ; " I am afraid I have 
 frightened him past forgiveness." 
 
230 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 " Let me go, first," said Lady M'CulIombich, who, with female free- 
 masonry, perceived that Margaret had no more to say to her that 
 might not be said at any time. " I am glad, love, to find that you have 
 become so much more reasonable — you see that the letter that an- 
 noyed you was an old affair, and told you that only which nineteen 
 women out of twenty would hear if their husbands were careless or 
 their servants were malicious. And you will not give your wretched 
 enemy any further victory 1 That is well. God bless you ; and mind, 
 I love you for sending for me in your trouble, and though I hope 
 you will have no more trouble, send for me again if it should ever 
 be so." 
 
 " No," said Margaret to herself, as the street door closed on her 
 friend. " No ; you are a good, kind woman, but you do not quite 
 understand Margaret Arundel." 
 
 She repeated the last word — her husband's name — with some firm- 
 ness. Then she went to the bed, and leant against the foot in deep 
 thought. Could we have seen her beautiful face, pale, but frequently 
 flushing, and her features wrought upon by emotion that had its mo- 
 ments of relief, but was chiefly of pain, we should have pitied her. 
 It may be that some superior intelligence witnessed her suffering and 
 pitied her not, knowing that all she was to undergo was but the fiery 
 trial destined for those for whom in the Evening there is Light. 
 
 " He loved her. He would have me know that he has loved before. 
 This is the revelation made in return for my miserable secret. He 
 would spare me all anger — all scenes, as he would call them, but he 
 points my way, and shows that it must be another than his. At least 
 he shall see that he has married a woman who needs not such a lesson 
 twice. He used to praise my docility and quickness of learning — he 
 shall have no cause to say that I have lost it." 
 
 She went down stairs, and rang with no faltei'ing hand. The do- 
 mestics were astonished to find in how short a time, and with what 
 prompt words, they were discharged, paid to the last fraction, and 
 dismissed from the house, by their usually gentle and soft- speaking 
 mistress. Duke's nurse was retained for his sake, and the villa having 
 been placed in charge of a trusted couple, to await Mr. Arundel's 
 orders, Margaret, with a heart full to overflow, but which she proudly 
 restrained from overflowing, saw the brass-bound wicket closed behind 
 her. There was no thought then of the little house being called the 
 Casket, or Pearl Villa, or Spencer Lodge, and, in another hour, she 
 who had been its pearl was being borne, with her child and nurse, 
 far away from the great city where she had found so much happiness 
 and so much misery. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 231 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 
 
 Some days later, Mr. Alban Cheriton was in conference with a lady 
 patient, at his own residence. 
 
 " I know you hate me for coming here," she said, " but it is your 
 own faidt. Why do you not make my opiate stronger ?" 
 
 " I might make it too strong," said Alban, " and then, you know, 
 you would sleep for ever." 
 
 " So much the better." 
 
 " Don't talk in that profane manner," said Alban, in the calm tone 
 habitual to him when he was uninterested in those he addressed ; 
 at which time he would utter any speech that occurred to him, 
 and watch its effect as he would have watched the mingling of two 
 chemical agents. " Besides, who knows that it would be so much the 
 better ? We are told that something which is by no means the better 
 is in store for folks who lead unrighteous lives, and indulge their pas- 
 sions, and never go to church." 
 
 " Do you believe it ?" asked the girl, wistfully. 
 
 " You do," said Alban, " and that is the point ; because, as you 
 know what is right, you are without excuse for neglecting it, and 
 your look-out in the other world is very bad." 
 
 " If it is worse than my look-out in this one, it must be bad indeed," 
 she replied, in a tone between carelessness and despondency. " But 
 don't be unkind, don't torment me. It will soon be over, and then 
 you will hear no more of Maria Prescott." 
 
 " I never heard of her before. What do you say Prescott for ?" 
 
 " It is a veiy good name, isn't it V 
 
 " It rhymes to flannel waistcoat, that's one good thing, because it 
 may remind you to wrap up, as I am always ordering you to do. 
 But what made you change? What was the matter with the name of 
 Silverton ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; but mayn't a body change one's mind. And what's the 
 use of a name, when one scarcely ever saw it on a cheque V 
 
 " Ah." 
 
 " Wise man : knows everything when he's told. Now, just make 
 me a very strong dose, if you please, that will give me one good long 
 night's sleep, or else I shall think about changing my medical atten- 
 dant, and then the world would be at an end, wouldn't it V 
 
 " I can't and wont go on strengthening the medicine for you. If 
 you would only be so good as to mind the rest of my prescriptions, 
 you would not need opiates." 
 
 " What's the use of talking like that ; you know quite well that 1 
 must go on as I am going on, and that I can no more pull up than 
 you can light gunpowder and tell it to burn slowly." 
 
 •• Who taught you that illustration — it is not so idiotic as feminine 
 images usually are. Who gave it youl" 
 
 " You men don't understand us. You fancy we don't feel our 
 
232 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 silliness, and sometimes try to pick up an idea when it is dropped by 
 somebody we like. We don't get much gratitude for trying to be a 
 little better than we are, and we get told that we are parrots, or that 
 we learn things for a purpose." 
 
 " So you do, and for the same reason that you make your hair shiny 
 and keep your hands white." 
 
 " Well, well, one can excuse your having a bad opinion of women, 
 because a woman has treated you very badly, and the smart of it 
 still lasts. How is she, by the way? She made a nice scene of it at 
 the Opera." 
 
 " Maria," said Alban, imperiously, " I have requested you, more 
 than once, to desist from any mention of that lady. I don't wish to 
 be rude to you, but if you don't comply with a very reasonable re- 
 quest, you may seek medical aid somewhere else. I speak of this for 
 the last time." 
 
 " Well, don't get solemn. I don't want to annoy you, and it is 
 annoying to feel oneself thrown over. I have felt it myself." 
 
 " You," said Alban, in a tone into which he infused far more con- 
 tempt than was either polite or Christianlike, seeing that in the first 
 place he was addressing a woman, who is entitled to our best courtesy, 
 and that in the second we are all equals, as miserable sinners, and 
 have no right to scorn one another. 
 
 " Yes, me," returned the girl, quickly, and wounded. " I under- 
 stand you. Proud, high, and honourable people, who never do a 
 mean action, perhaps because they are never tempted to, they may 
 have fine feelings and lacerated hearts ; but people who can't talk 
 French and Italian, aud haven't ' been born with silver spoons in 
 their mouths, they, of course, can't feel anything, and are to be laughed 
 at if they show any sensibility. It's all right, of course, and it was 
 meant to be so, and when the low class was made the feelings were 
 left in them by some mistake." 
 
 " You are dreadfully profane to-day, Maria," said Alban, quietly. 
 
 " Don't sit mocking me," said the girl, passionately. " There was 
 a day when you wouldn't have dared to do it." 
 
 " Was there ?" asked Alban, rather amused. " Were you in train- 
 ing as a fighter in those days, or what V 
 
 " There were people who cared for me, and wouldn't have seen me 
 insulted," replied she. "But what's the good of talking about that? 
 Please to give me my medicine, and let me go." 
 
 " With much pleasure, I assure you," said Alban. 
 
 The girl looked angrily at him, at this concluding speech, and then 
 began to cough violently. He watched her through the first paroxysm, 
 and signed that he would fetch her something. As he was leaving 
 the room, Philip Arundel's voice was heard. Maria sprang up, and, 
 amid her choking cough, made urgent appeal not to be compelled to 
 meet him. Alban, who seemed equally desirous that she should not, 
 would have managed a safe retreat for her, but in her excitement she 
 disregarded bis beckoning, and ran into a bed-room adjoining his only 
 reception-room. The next moment Philip came in. 
 
 " Excuse my almost forcing my way up," said Arundel, " but mine 
 case of necessity. I am in such a damned scrape." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 233 
 
 " Mental, physical, pecuniary - 
 
 " Not pecuniary, but I think every other put together." 
 
 " Never mind. All the black rabbits don't amount to that one 
 black horse." 
 
 " I used to think so, but by Jove I would rather every bailiff in 
 London were racing and dodging me. I'll tell you in two words." 
 
 " Not too loud," said Alban, " for the houses are built thin." That 
 was not exactly what he meant. On second thoughts, he said, " Let 
 us go and walk up and down in the square, I have been stifling here 
 till I've got a headache." 
 
 "It is just coming on to rain like mad," said Philip, "and I've thin 
 boots on. I wont keep you long." 
 
 There was no help for it, and Alban, reiterating his caution to Philip 
 to speak low, was obliged to trust to fortune. To have pi'essed their 
 going out would have seemed extraordinary, and it happened that he 
 had no other room at his disposal. 
 
 " As a man of the world, you will hear what I am going to say 
 without any nonsense, I know. I speak frankly to you, because I am 
 sure of that," said Philip. 
 
 " A medical man has no prejudices, you know," said Alban. 
 
 " Well, it's an awkward thing to say to one of my wife's family, but 
 it can't be helped. You know what men are when they are young, 
 and how they get into entanglements which are the devil and all after- 
 wards, and much more easy to get into than to get out of. Now, that 
 happened to me, and long before I knew your cousin Margaret, there 
 was something of that sort going on. I don't deny that it was rather 
 a strong case, or that I was ass enough to let my feelings go a good 
 way into it." 
 
 " Rather a mistake, I am told," said Alban. 
 
 "So it is, old fellow, and a devilish stupid mistake; but what's to 
 be done? When old Nick drives we must all make the sparks fly, 
 wheelers, leadei's, and all. Once in harness, he keeps you up to the 
 collar, I can tell you. Well, I was, or fancied that I was, very happy ; 
 and when I was away from the party, I was fool enough to write no end 
 
 of letters, which the party, being no fool, took care to keep. By , 
 
 one of 'em's turned up now — got into my wife's hands, by ." 
 
 One person was hearing this who knew the fact perfectly well, and 
 had been duly apprised that Mrs. Arundel had left her husband's 
 house. But another person, with a hand on the handle of a bedroom 
 door, was also hearing it, though she had opened so very little of the 
 door that even Alban' s eye did not detect the fact. 
 
 " But," said Alban, " though that is disagreeable enough, it is 
 surely no such very great matter. I take it for granted that all 
 communication between you and the person in question ceased before 
 you married my cousin, and, equally of course, has never been 
 renewed." 
 
 " Certainly, upon my honour," said Philip. " And, moreover, I did 
 all that was proper in the way of provision and all that, so that there 
 is not the shadow of an excuse for her annoying me — it is, in fact, 
 infernally ungrateful and wicked in Maria." 
 
 -Maria heard this, and also heard Mr. Cheriton reply — 
 
234 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Women know nothing about gratitude. They will love you, if 
 you like, and love you very well. But gratitude's above them." 
 
 "I believe you are right," said Philip. " I know that the allow- 
 ance was regularly paid, and everything in the world done as arranged, 
 and it only shows what a fool I was to care about a person who could 
 turn out so bad, and try to injure me at home." 
 
 " But the letter can't have done that," said Alban. " My cousin 
 has too much sense." 
 
 " I'll tell you what she has done, then. She has left the house, and 
 gone off with the child, I don't know where, and all that she has done 
 is to enclose me the letter, by way of showing me that she has re- 
 ceived it. Look — here it is. And here's an envelope, directed to me 
 in her own hand." 
 
 " And posted " 
 
 " Why, that would be no clue ; because if she wished to be con- 
 cealed, she would naturally get it posted in some town in the North, 
 or Wales, or anywhere, to throw one off the scent. But this was 
 posted at the railway, London Bridge." 
 
 " She is gone to Hastings," said Alban. 
 
 " How should you know 1" 
 
 " I advised her to go there. You asked me to call and see the boy. 
 I did ■ and saw that he wanted sea air. So I named Hastings." 
 
 "She would remember that, and go to Scarborough or Aberystwitk." 
 
 " I tell you, no. I prescribed Hastings for the child, and you know 
 best whether she would run any risk with him. Besides, I see no 
 proof that she wants to be concealed. Indeed, I see no proof of any 
 anger or ill-feeling. The letter has got into her hands, and she must 
 take some notice of it. The most delicate way was to return it to 
 you, without a word." 
 
 " I can't blame you, my dear fellow, for seeing your cousin's conduct 
 in the best light ; but I know her better than you do, as is natural. 
 Have I told you that she had discharged the servants, and given the 
 house to an old woman to take care of 1 " 
 
 " No. That looks determined, certainly. I do not defend that 
 step ; it was one that no wife ought to take without her husband's 
 authority. You see, I am just, though I am poor Margaret's cousin. 
 But for this, I should have said that either there was no quarrel at 
 all, or that she had just, wxmian-like, gone away, to give you the 
 pleasure of going after her, making some little acknowledgment, 
 receiving pardon, and bringing her back again." 
 
 "Pardon," said Philip. " Nonsense apart, Alban, pardon for what ] 
 It is something new for a woman to take upon herself to ask what a 
 man did before marriage, and certainly when she has done him the 
 honour of marrying him, such inquiries are as useless as they are 
 ridiculous and impertinent. If I lived in the Agapemone before I 
 was married, what's that to her 1 I have come out, and I don't go 
 back again, and that is all she has to care about. Do you know, that I 
 consider myself both insulted and ill-treated?" 
 
 " I will, of course, refrain from adopting your expressions, my dear 
 Philip," said Alban, with sadness ; " but I am bound to admit that 
 my cousin has taken a step which I regret now, and which she will live 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 235 
 
 to regret. At the same time, I think for the sake of your own family — 
 ours has no claim on you — and for the sake of your child, you will do 
 well to leave a door of reconciliation ajar." 
 
 Another door was ajar behind the speaker ; but he had risen to 
 speak to the impetuous Philip, and therefore was unaware that they 
 were being seen as well as heard. 
 
 " I shall not act hastily, or otherwise than as becomes a gentleman," 
 said Philip, " and there are circumstances — at least there have been 
 circumstances" (he hardly knew how to explain that he had been for 
 a long time ti-eating his wife with neglect, coldness, and a species of 
 tyranny none the more bearable for being polished and unimpeachable) 
 " which may, or which might, to a certain extent, make a temporary 
 alienation, without scandal, of course, not altogether irrational. But 
 Margaret has taken the thing into her own hands, and I am not a 
 person who chooses to be dictated to in my family affairs. The 
 business is a very awkward one — very." 
 
 Alban, although he sat in mortal fear lest the ears of the person in 
 the bed-room should be preternaturally opened, owned to a sensation 
 of triumph as he found that the seed which he had from time to time 
 sown had brought forth fruit, and that the harvest was likely to be 
 so promising. And as Philip, irritated by events, yet checked and 
 pulled by the consciousness that nearly everything he had to complain 
 of was his own causing, went round and round the bush, and evidently 
 did not know what to do; Alban judged it the time 
 
 "When wisdom throws 
 The golden bridge she builds for flying foes." 
 
 " Cerius amicus in re incertd cernitur," he said. 
 
 " That is true," said Philip, " and, to tell you the truth- 
 
 ; You relied on my acting for you to the best of my ability. I 
 thank you for your confidence," said Alban, just touching his friend's 
 arm for a moment. " The chief difficulty, as far as I am concerned, 
 is, you know, in the fact that Mrs. Arundel is my relative, and that 
 any course I may advise may seem — I wont say to you, who 
 know me, but to your friends — as dictated by my regard for her. It 
 is that feeling which would make me recommend you to ask some 
 other friend to act on your behalf, and do you let me see to my 
 cousin's interests." 
 
 " It will be a new thing for my friends to interfere in my affairs," 
 said Philip. " I ask you to represent me, and I shall be quite sure 
 that I get fair play." 
 
 •' Well, then," said Alban Cheriton, "so be it, and I will endeavour 
 to be just to both parties. I know pretty well what is in your mind, 
 when you allude to circumstances. I may say to you that I honour 
 you much for your manliness and frankness in admitting that you 
 have been in some degree to blame, and I am sorry that my cousin 
 does not appear to have quite understood a nature like yours. I 
 know what your life has been pretty well, and I do not see that she 
 has much to complain about, certainly nothing to justify her availing 
 herself of the first pretext to break up your household and leave your 
 protection. Margaret has so entirely put herself in the wrong, that 
 
236 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 I think the first overtures cannot proceed from you, if you are 
 hereafter to be re-united, and you are to be the head of the house- 
 hold." 
 
 " Decidedly not," said Philip. " I am, and have a right to be, 
 offended past forgiveness. The only thing is, that in taking a hasty 
 step, she does not know what inconveniences she may be encounter- 
 ing. I do not even know what money she may have — not too much, 
 I fear." 
 
 " Her friend and counsellor, Mr. Keckling, will have seen to that," 
 said Alban, in no way pleased with evidence that Philip Arundel in 
 his heart regarded Margaret with tenderness and respect, and really 
 attached no grave character to her going away. A thought that 
 Philip's own honour was in the faintest danger from his wife's 
 abandoning him, were it for an age, never dared to intrude. He was, 
 as he said, offended and angry, but he did Margaret too much justice 
 to feel the slightest apprehension. 
 
 " Keckling ! Ah," said Arundel, incensed anew at the mention of 
 the Russian merchant ; " he meddles too much in my family affairs." 
 " That I take to be no new discovery." 
 "No ; we have spoken of it before. If I thought that he was 
 
 advising my wife in her present course " 
 
 " I have no doubt of it." 
 
 " Have you not 1 Then he is an old hypocrite, for he is at this time 
 professing the utmost friendliness, and has undertaken to do something 
 which would be a great service to me." 
 
 "I think he is a hypocrite; but hypocrites, who have a character 
 to keep up, often do one better service than honest men. Is this 
 particular service a secret ?" 
 
 Philip was posed. It was a delicate question whether he ought to 
 speak to Alban upon the subject of his cousin's unfortunate pedigree. 
 If Alban had been aware of the circumstances, there was a certain 
 suggestion of something more than unfriendliness in Philip's having 
 been kept in the dark. If Mr. Cheriton, on the other hand, were 
 ignorant of the history of Margaret's father and mother, it was need- 
 less to enlighten him. 
 
 He would have spared himself all such mental discussion, and some 
 other trouble, had he been apprised of this, namely :— 
 
 That Mr. Keckling would have known nothing of Margaret's story, 
 and that the experimental narrative by which he ascertained Mar- 
 garet's sentiments, would by consequence never have been told, but for 
 a well-conceived device of Alban Cheriton's. 
 
 On the other hand, Alban had not been aware that the Arundels 
 had met at Keckling's, and it did not occur to him that the service 
 in question had aught to do with the skeleton in the family. 
 
 " It is a secret," said Alban, after a pause, " and therefore let us 
 
 pass on. I think that my course is to find Mrs. Arundel " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, one moment," said Philip. 
 
 Philip's conscience was as yet by no means seai-ed with a red-hot 
 
 iron. He felt in his heart of hearts that he had done much, as has 
 
 been said, to bring on the separation which had been thus suddenly 
 
 accomplished. He could not conceal from himself that there would be 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 237 
 
 a great many points to be urged in Margaret's favour. But though 
 sufficiently clear-sighted to see this, he had not self-command enough 
 to act upon his convictions, and to take, as he ought to have done, the 
 initiative — that is (to drop polysyllabic slang) to go after his wife, own 
 his errors, and — dear old English household phrase — "make it up." 
 Philip's character lacked the earnestness that would, under similar 
 circumstances, have sped Alban on such a course. He rather chose 
 to heap up defences for himself, to show that Margaret was under 
 such deep obligation to him and his, that her conduct was utterly 
 inexcusable. It was folly in him, and follies are usually more severely 
 punished in this world than vices. 
 
 " I interrupted you," said Philip, " because you ought quite to 
 understand how Margaret has been treated in our family, and there- 
 fore how little justification thei^e is for her sudden and harsh be- 
 haviour." 
 
 " I have not to learn, my dear Arundel, that my cousin has been 
 appreciated as she deserves to be," said Alban. 
 
 " There is something more than appreciation," said Arundel. " I 
 mention the subject with reluctance, and I do not know how far you 
 are acquainted with it. Mrs. Arundel's father — " 
 
 Alban laid his hand on Philip's arm. 
 
 " You need not say much more. I have always been prepared to 
 hear you name that person, and another. Evidently, it was not for 
 me to bring up the subject." 
 
 " You are right. "Well, the discovery was made." 
 
 Alban Cheriton felt that his eyes must be bright with the con- 
 sciousness of success, and with the certainty of a final triumph, and 
 he would not raise them to the face of Arundel. Cheriton now saw 
 how to deliver his blow. 
 
 " Pardon me, this time," he said, " but the words you have chosen 
 are scarcely those which should describe the case. My cousin may 
 have been wrong in her last act, but I cannot hear duplicity imputed 
 to her, even accidentally. There was no discovery. There was an 
 explanation." 
 
 " I don't quite see what you are driving at," said Philip. 
 
 " It was," said Alban, almost sternly, " a great honour and dis- 
 tinction for the child of the dissenting doctox - 's family, the niece of the 
 lodging-house keeper, to marry into the house of Arundel. We all 
 are grateful for the honour; I do not speak in mockery. But not into 
 the house of Arundel, or into the house of Brunswick, would a 
 member of our family marry at the price of a lie." 
 
 " Who talks of lies 1" 
 
 " Before I can take any step in your affairs, Philip, I must call on 
 you to withdraw the word discovery, and admit in the fullest manner 
 that before Margaret accepted your proposal of marriage she explained 
 to you, or caused to be explained to you, the terrible stain and blot 
 upon her pedigree." 
 
 " Alban," cried Philip, white with passion. 
 
 "You must make this declaration, I repeat," said Alban, in a low 
 determined voice. " I will not wrong you by the thought that you 
 could avail yourself of the miserable story to make this separation a 
 
238 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 permanent one. That course has been effectually barred by the 
 frankness with -which Margaret revealed the truth before your 
 marriage." 
 
 " And as I stand here, and as a man and a gentleman, and before 
 God," said Philip, hardly able to speak, " I heard the story for the 
 first time within the last month." 
 
 " We can never speak again, Mr. Arundel," said Alban, in a tone 
 of grave sorrow. " Family considerations will, I hope, prevent our 
 being active enemies, but we are henceforth strangers. I need hardly 
 add that you have put it out of my power to interfere in this painful 
 business, except as my cousin's agent, and in conference with some 
 third person." 
 
 But Philip's nature, not deep, but not false, was now too much 
 stii'red to allow him to notice harsh words. He was staggered, almost 
 stunned, and there was something piteous in his tone as he replied, 
 with a deprecating gesture — 
 
 "A word, a word, Alban Cheriton, if we never speak again until 
 the day of judgment! Answer me, and then quarrel as you will. 
 Did Margaret know her father and mother's history — answer me, I 
 say, point-blank, and in a word — before her marriage ? Answer me as 
 man to man." 
 
 " Are you mad 1 Did Margaret know why she was sent home from 
 India ? Did Margaret know why she was kept in an obscure country 
 town, where, because her story was known, even her rare beauty could 
 not procure her a husband among the prejudiced and narrow-minded 
 provincials 1 Did Margaret know, living with her father's sister, 
 Mrs. Spencer 1 You talk too wildly, sir, and too evidently in earnest, 
 for me to accuse you, again, of intentional insult, but you bitterly 
 bewilder me by your speeches." 
 
 " It was — it was matter of family talk among you, then?" stammered 
 Philip. 
 
 "No," said Alban. "Ours is a household where subjects of pain 
 and sin are not made family talk, but never were the miserable 
 Spencers forgotten in family prayer." 
 
 Philip Arundel uttered an oath we record not, and covered his face 
 with his hands. 
 
 It was the other man who should have done so. But he watched 
 the working of the poison with less remorse than he would have felt 
 in seeing some wretched animal writhe in the torments of an experi- 
 ment. His triumphant enemy, the superb Arundel, the butterfly 
 lover who had won from him the treasure of his heart, the man for 
 whom Margaret had rejected and insulted him, the man who would 
 have rendered his life a blank had he not stirred his heart to hate and 
 action — there he sat, abandoned by his wife, and as he believed, 
 deceived by her. Half his vengeance was accomplished. 
 
 As Philip sat in silence, Alban summoned up the scene on Byde 
 pier. It was nearly balanced, he thought. 
 
 Philip rose, deadly pale. 
 
 " Take no step in relation to your cousin until you hear from me 
 again," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 " I can give no pledge," replied Alban, coldly. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 239 
 
 "I am her husband, sir, remember that," said Philip, his colour 
 returning, and his eye Hashing angrily. But he was met by a look as 
 proud as his own, and with a calm eye. Alban suppressed the retort 
 that arose to his tongue, and said, with mildness — 
 
 " Nothing, I hope, will be forgotten by me which I ought to 
 remember." 
 
 Philip Arundel went hastily out. 
 
 Alban Cheriton sat down in his large chair, and gazed intently 
 upon the skull that lay on his table, not seeing it, however, for a 
 moment. There was no smile of triumph, no vulgar manifestation of 
 pleasure. But he sat very still — quite still. 
 
 Suddenly he sprang up, recollecting what he has forgotten during 
 the exciting interview that had passed. He hurried to the door of 
 the adjacent room, and opening it, found Maria asleep on his bed. 
 
 " The coast is clear," he cried. 
 
 The girl roused herself, and said, repiningly — 
 
 " You might have let me have my sleep out, knowing how little I 
 get." 
 
 " Sleep at night," said Alban. " It is not well to do so in the day- 
 time." 
 
 " All your fault," said Maria, at the looking-glass. " Why did you 
 not get rid of him sooner 1 I looked at all your books, which ai-e 
 rubbish, and then I thought I would lie down, and so I went off, 
 Now I shan't have another wink for twenty-four hours." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said Alban. 
 
 " Not you. What did he want. Strychnine 1" 
 
 " What should he want strychnine for V ' 
 
 " I don't know ; but it's chiefly sold to married men, I hear." 
 
 "Well, I didn't sell him any strychnine," said Alban, compressing 
 his lips, a gesture which was not lost upon the girl at the mirror. 
 She then instinctively smoothed the bed, and followed Alban into the 
 sitting-i'oom. 
 
 " Please give me my medicine," she said. 
 
 " Certainly," said Alban, with more kindness than he had before 
 shown. " I will go down and mix it." 
 
 His back was scarcely turned when she darted at the letter from 
 Philip to herself, almost as she had darted at it when it first came to 
 gladden her in her little suburban home. In the course of the con- 
 versation Philip had laid it on the well-littered table, and Cheriton 
 had not seen it. It was again in the possession of Philip's " dear 
 little Maria." She was about to put it into her pocket, when a 
 second thought struck her — she sprang upon a chair, seized an old 
 and uninviting-looking book from a high shelf, put the letter between 
 the leaves, and replaced the volume, the title of which, with sundry 
 grimaces, she mastered sufficiently to recollect it. When Alban 
 returned with the medicine, she was looking out at the window. 
 
 " By the green shade of my old blind father," she said, " it has 
 been raining like no end." 
 
 " Where's the brougham?" said Alban. 
 
 " It's no case of Brougham now, but of Walks," responded the girl, 
 flippantly. " Now, is this stuff strong?" 
 
240 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Stronger than it ought to be." 
 
 " Well, I'm weaker than I ought to be, so we're quits." 
 
 Maria made a parade of putting away the bottle carefully, and 
 departed. But she had not got very far from the house, when she 
 took the phial from her pocket, deliberately poured its contents into 
 the kennel, and to the astonishment of a small boy, presented him 
 with the bottle. 
 
 " I think," she said to herself, " that he did believe I had been 
 asleep, but perhaps he did not ; and if he thought that I had listened 
 that man would as quietly have sent me off with a bottle full of 
 something to finish me, as I gave the empty one to that brat. A wise 
 thing to get rid of it, too, Miss Maria, or you might be tempted to 
 get up some dark night, and quietly walk straight out of this evil 
 world. And yet I don't know that it was wise, either. Nobody 
 would miss me, and I dare say they would bury me by my poor little 
 Willy. I am sorry I threw it away, now." 
 
 But the unfortunate, half-taught, purposeless, cheerless Creature 
 for once wronged Alban. His mind had been so occupied by his own 
 objects that he had no thought to spare for her, after the first five 
 minutes of the interview, and he accepted without challenge the idea 
 presented to him on entering the bedroom. He thought she had been 
 asleep. Nor had she any right, beyond that given her by her own 
 fantastic imagination, to suppose that Alban would have put her out 
 of the way. You may not approve of his course in reference to his 
 cousin and her husband, but there was a love affair, and all is fair in 
 love, as we have been taught, in childhood, from time immemorial. 
 The devil may be as black as he is painted, but there is no propriety 
 in painting him blacker. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 VIRGINIUS AND VIRGINIA. 
 
 Alban Cheriton was perfectly right in surmising that Mrs. Arundel 
 had gone to Hastings. It was the place which he had suggested as 
 likely to be most beneficial to her child, and in the agitation of her 
 departui'e she was only too glad to have one fixed idea as to her 
 destination. She had enough to think of without reviewing the 
 merits of the various retreats offered to the railway traveller ; and 
 willingly did she avail herself of this facile means of transit, which 
 catches up the metropolitan from amid the bustle, and whirl, and 
 roar of the great city, and with a scream and a rush sets him down 
 in a solitary and silent nook by the sea. 
 
 It occurs to me that the admiring references made by writers of 
 our day to our means of locomotion, may read (if we are lucky 
 enough to be read at all) as the expression of a sort of childlike 
 wonder and satisfaction. But future ages will be good enough, let 
 tis hope, to verify dates, and to notice that men who live in this 
 present Donati Comet year have gone through the transition state of 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 211 
 
 travel. Lave, in their youth, endured or enjoyed the old erawling 
 and uncertain coach, and are revelling in the pleasure of first-class 
 carriages and titty miles an hour with the zest of a man who has 
 n poor until middle life, and then comes into affluence. Our 
 children, who first saw fresh fields and pastures new through the 
 plate glass of the corner of the railway carriage, will have non< 
 this feeling ; and if they write books — which Providence in its mercy 
 prevent as far as may be — they will never emit any of these little 
 hings of gratitude for the iron roads. Besides, for aught that I 
 or the British Association know, my grandsons may pay a fly-tax on 
 their wings. 
 
 Margaret's sensations during her brief journey were not so com- 
 plicated as she expected them to be. During that time, whatever 
 may have been the case afterwards, one mastering feeling overrode 
 all else. The gentle spirit had been fairly roused by ungentle in- 
 justice, and wound»d pride forbad the access of regret, hope, or 
 di spondency. The wife simply felt that she had received at the 
 hands of her husband deadly insult and wrong, and until she could 
 show that she could at once accept and resent his message, as she 
 interpreted it to be, she had no power to bring herself to anything 
 like a calm survey of her position. Her desire was to hurry from 
 London, and even the speed with which she was borne along failed to 
 keep pace with her impatience. Fatal, indeed, was the bias given to 
 her thoughts by the words of her friend Lady M'Cullombieh. Philip 
 had loved, passionately loved, before he met Margaret — that she 
 learned from the terrible letter she had found. Philip closed a long 
 course of neglect, coldness, and estrangement by deliberately bringing 
 to her notice the fact that he had loved another — that poison thought 
 infused by the friend whose counsel she had sought in the hour 
 of her trial. Add, that the time he had chosen to strike the blow 
 when she was all humble thankfulness at having escaped humili- 
 ation, when her heart was full of gratitude and kindness to him and 
 his, and she felt that her life's devotion was consecrated anew to his 
 happiness. The storm-clouds had parted, the blue and hopeful sky 
 was visible, and as she looked up in joy the bolt had been launched, 
 and by whose hand ? In language which was familiar to her, it may 
 be said that " she did well to be angry." 
 
 The terminus was reached, porters raced for the carriage handles, 
 and in another instant the bustle of an arriving train was busy on the 
 platform. Unused to travel alone, Margaret looked out in some 
 bewilderment, when the door was opened, and little Duke, who was 
 near it, and had been quite astonished and almost cowed during the 
 journey by the unusual coldness and silence of his mother, was lifted 
 out by a gentleman, who, holding the startled child on his arm, ten- 
 dered his hand to assist Margaret from the carriage. 
 
 An elderly, but still young-looking man, tall, and of ready and 
 gentlemanly address, received her, and in a kindly voice, begged her 
 to be careful how she stepped out. Margaret had seen the face once 
 before in England, many times, but many years before, in India. At 
 another moment she might have doubted the identity of the stranger 
 but there are times when the faculties are preternaturally sharpened 
 part vm. R 
 
242 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 and concentrated. She had not an instant's doubt upon the subject 
 now, and she placed her hand in that of her father. 
 
 " I would not get into the same carriage with you, my dear," he said, 
 in the continuous tone he might have used if he had accompanied her 
 to the London terminus, " for I knew that with a child it is pleasanter 
 for a lady to have the place to herself, but I took care that no one 
 else should be put in. Nurse, take care of the boy while I see to the 
 luggage. Will you walk, my dear, or have a fly 1" 
 
 This commonplace matter-of-fact resumption of acquaintance would 
 have seemed strange to Margaret at another time, and it would also 
 have ^een a question with her whether she was to allow her father to 
 become her companion. But though she had instantly recognised 
 him, and at the same moment recognised the complication of troubles 
 which his presence might bring, her energies refused to come to her 
 aid. She calmly, and with a kind of unconscious indifference, accepted 
 .his services and awaited his directions. 
 
 "There are your boxes, my dear, and there is nurse's," he said, 
 having, with the tact of an old traveller, indicated them, and got them 
 rapidly separated by a porter (with the aid of a slight fee), while 
 bustling men were bawling, and fast men were swearing, and old 
 women were clamouring at their baggage, with far smaller effect. 
 
 " Are you going to an hotel, or to lodgings ?" 
 
 Margaret handed him the address which had been sent her by 
 Alban. 
 
 " Horley Crescent — T know it — an excellent situation, airy, but 
 protected." And in a few minutes the party were in a fly, and en 
 route for the cliff. 
 
 Duke's grandfather found quite enough to occupy him in talking to 
 his grandchild, and in making friends with him, not forgetting a word 
 or two calculated to please his nurse, to have occasion to trouble 
 Margaret to say much. But when they were installed in the excel- 
 lent lodgings where they were duly expected and provided for, and 
 nurse had withdrawn with the child, Mr. Armandale Spencer ap- 
 proached his daughter, embraced her slightly, touched her forehead 
 with a light kiss, and having acquitted himself of these preliminaries, 
 said, in a pleasant way, 
 
 " Now, my dear child, we will quite understand one another, and 
 after that there will be need of very little talk between us which all 
 the world may not hear. First let me say that you have grown into 
 the beautiful creature I always prophesied you would be, and that I 
 am exceedingly proud of you. As for Duke, he is a little angel. I 
 can't help saying this, though it is not exactly business." 
 
 Margaret was not displeased — that was all. 
 
 " To come to myself. You have heard a great deal about me, espe- 
 cially of late, which it must have been very unpleasant to you to 
 hear. I may as well say to you, for your private satisfaction, that 
 much that is said against me is utterly false, and the rest is exag- 
 gerated. I am pleased to see that hopeful look, my dear, but as we 
 are now talking business, I am bound to add that much that is said 
 to my discredit I have no means of refuting, and therefore you may 
 consider it as true — such being the way of the world." 
 
 
THE GCRDIAN KNOT. 213 
 
 "But not of a daughter," said Margaret, gravely. 
 " My dear daughter, that sentiment is worthy of you, and of those 
 who have taken so much pains to make you what you are. I quite 
 recognise its sweetness and kindness. But I am sorry to say that I 
 must be completely understood. The rules of society, as they are 
 called in England, proscribe the man who violates them, and that 
 fault it has been m} r misfortune to commit upon certain occasions. 
 In ;i word, my dear, please to take it for granted, however disagreeable 
 it is for me to say it, and you to hear it, that I am not what is called 
 a Respectable man. I would not force this fact upon you, but 
 that it is absolutely necessary that you should be fully possessed 
 of it." 
 
 His child could only look, and listen. 
 
 " Further, my dear, it is well for me to mention that some of your 
 friends are not only perfectly aware of this unpleasant fact, but are 
 in consequence inclined to adopt a line of action against which I am, 
 reluctantly, compelled to defend myself." 
 
 " I know nothing, sir, of " 
 
 " My dear, you need not tell me that. You, if a free agent, would 
 be all that is dutiful and affectionate, remembering that in the com- 
 mandment you are told to honour your father, without any condition 
 as to whether he deserves to be honoured or not. But you are not a 
 free agent, nor am I unreasonable enough to expect you to act as one 
 — indeed I do not desire it. At present, at all events, I wish you to 
 know, and do not ask you to act." 
 
 This intimation was somewhat satisfactory to Margaret, and put 
 her, as it was designed to do, more at her ease. 
 
 "In the first place, my dear girl," said Armandale, in his agreeable 
 manner, " the friends I allude to are kind enough to establish a very 
 careful watch upon my goings out and comings in. I have lived too 
 long where that kind of thing is habitual not to detect the system 
 when it is put into operation, especially when it is done so clumsily 
 as by your Russian friend, Mr. Keckling." 
 
 '■ .Air. Keckling set spies on you, sir !" exclaimed Margaret. "It is 
 impossible !" 
 
 " It is, nevertheless, perfectly true, my dear; and I am making no 
 complaint about it. In the East the tiling is perfectly understood, 
 and we receive a spy with complete politeness until he has been spied 
 upon in his turn, and then, if it be worth while, a cup of coffee, pro- 
 perly made, saves him and us further trouble. But even if that sort 
 of self-defence were practicable here, it would not be desirable. Mr. 
 Keckling's spying is very harmless in itself, and he learns nothing 
 but what, if he would write me a list of questions, he should know 
 from myself, day by day. A blundering old tradesman from Russia 
 is no match for a gentleman who has worn a turhan." 
 ■• I assure you, sir, that you do not know Mr. Keckling." 
 "Not so well as I intend to know him, my love, but quite well 
 enough to make no mistake in what 1 am saying. But I repeat that 
 I have no complaint, and if I had one, I should not trouble you with 
 it at a time when you have trouble enough upon your hands." 
 Margaret looked up in surprise. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Do you wonder at my knowing that. Is it not my duty to know 
 all that I can about you, and to do all I can for you V 
 
 That it was something late for her father to make this discovery 
 may have occurred to Margaret, but she was too good to have said it, 
 even had she been in spirits to do so. 
 
 " I have made it my business to ascertain what it was necessary for 
 me to be acquainted with, but I have not gone about my work in the 
 style of our friend from Russia. I know, my dear, that you have had 
 differences with your husband, about which I shall say nothing ; and 
 I am aware, also, that you have dismissed your servants, and, in high 
 displeasure with Mr. Arundel, have come to the sea-side. I have 
 felt it my duty to take care that you did not suffer by that slightly 
 precipitate step." 
 
 " You have, sir ?" 
 
 " My dear, I don't want to touch upon painful topics, but this is 
 not the first time that a member of my family has run away from her 
 husband's house — don't turn so very red, my dear — circumstances are 
 entirely different in all but the running away." 
 
 " I did not think of that," said Margaret, indignantly. " I thought 
 — but never mind." 
 
 " You thought, and again your sentiments do you honour, that I 
 was a little unfeeling in making reference to a certain domestic inci- 
 dent. You would be right, but for the necessity I had of being fully 
 comprehended. Let me go on to say, therefore, that I am naturally 
 sensitive when anything of the sort happens, and it appeared to me 
 that T could not act in a kinder manner, or more as became me, than by 
 enabling you to say, my dear, in the event of your leaving your home 
 being censured, that you had your father's escoi't, and that your 
 father was with you during your absence from your husband's roof." 
 
 Mrs. Arundel's charming face had perhaps seldom been seen to less 
 advantage, for the variety of considerations thus suddenly urged upon 
 her united to give her a bewildered look, of no pleasant character. A 
 certain terror also came upon her for a moment — a woman's feeling 
 that after all men were of stronger nature than her own, and that 
 a contest with her destiny would be hopeless. But she rallied, and 
 said, with some spirit — 
 
 " I am not afraid of any act of mine being misinterpi'eted by those 
 whose opinion I value." 
 
 " The speech of an innocent child, my dear. But you must re- 
 member that you are the mother of an innocent child, and that for 
 his sake it is your duty to be guarded. You know best whether you 
 may not yourself have suffered from want of a similar thoughtl'ulness 
 el-ewhere." 
 
 The speech told, and Margaret broke into tears. 
 
 " It is lamentable to me that tears should mark our first interview, 
 my dear Margaret, but we will hope that it will be for the last as well 
 as the first time that they will fall. I have now told you nearlyall that 
 I had to say, and you will be glad to be alone after your journey. I 
 shall not intrude upon you again to-day, I think, but in the morning we 
 shall meet. I trust that darling Duke will not have been fatigued 
 by his journey." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 2 15 
 
 Armandale Spencer left the room, laying a gentle hand on his 
 daughter's head as he went out. His first business was to secure 
 apartments for himself in the same house. This he managed, and 
 his reason for taking a separate sitting-room, namely, that having 
 important business to attend to daily, he could not always be with 
 his darlings, as he called Margaret and Marmaduke, was favourably 
 received by the smiling landlady, who found the caddies of elderly 
 gentlemen much easier plunder than those of young matrons. 
 
 Then did Armandale stroll down to the telegraph station, and 
 dispatch a message (repeated) to London. Later in the day he wrote 
 his daughter a kind little note, begging her not to agitate her mind 
 with any feelings of apprehension as to the step she had taken in 
 leaving town, for that he had adopted every precaution to prevent a 
 whisper of scandal, having sent up a message of which he enclosed 
 her a copy. 
 
 From Armandale Spencer, of Hastings, to Marmaduke Arundel, 
 Esq., M.F., Tltaniugton-square, London. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 My daughter, Mrs. Philip Arundel, left town this morning, 
 hy the noon train, with me, and is residing with me at No. 11, Horlcy- 
 crescent, Hastings. 
 
 Margaret's position seemed destined to become more and more embar- 
 rassing every hour. Of course, had Armandale Spencer been that which 
 he took such pains to impress upon her that he was not, namely, a 
 s spectable man, nothing could be more desirable than the care which 
 he thus claimed to exercise over his child. But, unhappily, the melan- 
 choly revelation made to her by Mr. Keckling, the conclave in which 
 the Arundels met that gentleman to debate how to be freed from Ar- 
 mandale's pi-esence, and, lastly, her father's own admission that he was 
 a rogue, transformed parental attention into mischievous if not ma- 
 licious plotting. She had left her husband's house, it was true, but 
 this was under circumstances in which she held herself to be entirely 
 in the right, though the step was a grave and important one. But 
 she had hardly left her home when she found herself in the charge of 
 one whom her husband and his friends regarded with hatred and 
 contempt, and who took instant opportunity to apprise her husband 
 •Mid his friends that she was with him. I would not willingly detract 
 from the heroism of my heroine, but if everybody had their due, I 
 am afraid I should have to set down that in the increasing com- 
 plication and distress of her position, Margaret wished at times (ami 
 was but a girl, poor thing) that she were again in her own bed- 
 room, at the moment Lady M'Cullombich had departed. It may be 
 that the servants would not have been discharged, nor the boxes 
 packed. 
 
 But there was the situation, and if she was woman enough to feel 
 alarmed, she was also woman enough to be true to herself. She 
 resolved to separate herself IV' nn her unworthy father, if possible 
 without violence or reproach, and to establish herself (for his words, 
 coarse as they were, had made her think, and feel that there was 
 
246 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 truth in what he had said) where witnesses to her daily life should 
 never be wanting. Her husband had cast her out, and it might be 
 that they would meet no more on earth, but no hour of their separa- 
 tion should remain unaccounted for, even though that account lasted 
 until her life was summed up in the book by which we shall all 
 be judged. 
 
 It was not surprising that she preferred writing to her father to 
 encountei-ing him in person. She addressed him in a respectful letter, 
 in which she urged the claims and duties of her position as a wife, 
 and asked of him, in proof of the affection which she was willing to 
 believe he felt for her, that he would not fiu-ther embarrass her, and 
 injure the interests of his helpless grandchild, by insisting on being 
 her companion. In any way that she could promote his welfare, she 
 added, she should fed it a duty and a privilege to do so, but she 
 begged, for all their sakes, that, for the present at least, he would 
 retire, if not from the town, from the house. 
 
 Still less surprising was it that poor Margaret, in a situation of 
 doubt and difficulty such as she had never before known, should once 
 more have recourse to her old and dear friend, the Russian merchant. 
 A brief letter to Mr. Keckling, merely informing him where she was, 
 and begging him, with the most earnest apology for asking it, to come 
 down and see her, was her next composition. 
 
 She had known little of her father, and had lived nearly all her 
 life with honest and honourable people, and therefore it did not occur 
 to her to do the next thing which she ought to have done. 
 
 Nor will it surprise anybody to be told that when the house- 
 servant, who had been summoned by Mrs. Arundel's bell to deliver 
 one letter to Armandale Spencer, Esq., and to take the other to the 
 post, went into the room of the gentleman for the first mentioned 
 purpose, he, who had been on the watch, hoped, in a very natural 
 manner, that his daughter had not forgotten to write another letter, 
 and the girl as natui'ally mentioned that she had one for the post. 
 Mr. Spencer instantly said that he would take it, which pleased the 
 domestic ; and he proceeded to please her still further by giving her 
 half-a-crown, and desiring her to say, if asked, that she herself had 
 put it into the box at five o'clock. For less than that sum the poor 
 maiden would have told a lie of much darker complexion. Mr. 
 Armandale Spencer therefore obtained the letter, and as on reading- 
 it he saw nothing in it which made him deem it necessary to trouble 
 Mr. Keckling therewith, he locked it up in his own neat despatch- 
 box, it being a way of his to keep all letters. The man who habitually 
 does so is either a not very wise, or a not very good man. 
 
 The father wrote no answer to his daughter, but sending for her 
 nurse, told her to give his best love to Mrs. Arundel, and say that 
 what she desired should be attended to ; and he managed to be unwell 
 next day, so that he could not leave his sitting-room. It was sad for 
 Margaret that she could not visit and attend upon him, but she would 
 have spared her trouble had she looked in and seen him calmly 
 smoking over a vile French novel (pardon the tautology) and enjoying 
 its vileness. He, too, had written letters to Loudon, and he was 
 awaiting their effect. In their case, of course, the little operation of 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 247 
 
 posting had not been forgotten, it being a way of his to post all 
 letters with his own hand. The man who habitually does so is cer- 
 tainly a wise, and possibly a good man. 
 
 And there, for the moment, we will leave our Margaret, in order 
 to return to town, where others are occupied not irrespectively of her 
 interests. For herself, poor girl, there was little peace or rest. Her 
 pride had been wounded, her heart had been almost crushed, and to 
 add to these miseries, she had been innocently brought iuto a position 
 that must give mortal offence to those who had treated her so well. 
 And when post after post arrived, and there was no letter from Mr. 
 BLeckling, who had ever shown himself so tenderly careful and loving, 
 she began to feel new alarm. Had she done a wrong in leaving her 
 home, and was there to be added to all her sorrows the sense of 
 shame and error ? Poor dear Margaret — let us not needlessly intrude 
 upon her misery. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 NEWS SPREADS. 
 
 Philip Arundel left the residence of Alban with a fiercer battle 
 raging in his bosom than had ever raged in that ordinarily tranquil 
 dominion. He had entered the house wounded and annoyed, as he 
 had said, but perhaps a little ashamed of himself, and he had certainly, 
 as he now unhesitatingly owned to himself, hoped that Alban would 
 have volunteered to arrange matters and restore Margaret to his arms. 
 It had pleased him in prosperous times to sport lightly with the hap- 
 piness in his possession, and he had assuredly never done full justice 
 to Margaret's character. But now that she had withdrawn from him, 
 and he had leisure to recollect, and motive to sound his own heart, he 
 began to discover something of the real value of the treasure he had 
 treated so carelessly. And though it was not in him to clear himself 
 of the conventionalities of the world, and to rush earnestly after that 
 which was so well worth saving, he had a well-grounded hope that 
 things would be made all right again, and he mentally vowed that he 
 would, when Margaret and he were once more united, become another 
 kind of husband The old idea of his having condescended in marry- 
 ing her, and the yet more unworthy idea that he was as good a hus- 
 band as most men made, and as most women had a right to expect, 
 were becoming very faint and mean to his eyes, and he was awakening 
 to the conviction that he had acted foolishly and unkindly to a good 
 and beautiful wife. 
 
 As for her last step, that of going away, it was by no means the 
 thing, of course ; but then it showed the strong affection she must 
 have entertained for him when she could not bear even to hear that 
 he had rather liked a mistress of other days. Was not jealousy 
 flattering to a man] People said so. especially feminine people, and 
 though his high-bred creed had told him that such a passion was low 
 
248 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 and vulgar, and only fit for women who could tear one another's caps 
 and scratch, there might be exceptions ; and if such a thorough lady 
 as Margaret could be jealous, the man who made her so ought to be 
 very proud. He could not be greatly offended at her earnest way of 
 showing how much she cared for him, and though it was bad taste for 
 a woman to get herself talked about, he would excuse it this time, and 
 he was quite sure she would never do it again. In fact, Philip was 
 working himself round, in rather a shallow manner, to an immediate 
 reconciliation, and was prepared to try and be a better boy. 
 
 When, as has been seen, he showed his enemy the way to smite, 
 and the blow was given. 
 
 He rushed from the house, utterly regardless of the proprieties, and 
 at a pace which nothing in ordinary times could have induced him to 
 adopt ; and he went on at this fierce rate, and without any definite 
 purpose, until he found himself on the heath to the north of London. 
 He did not know that he had been going thither, but he found rising 
 ground opposing him, and there was something in the struggle with 
 the hill that was not disagreeable to his exasperated feelings. For he 
 was now stung to the very quick. 
 
 And now, I imagine, we may answer the question asked long ago. 
 Had he loved Margaret ? We may unhesitatingly answer — no. For 
 his feeling now was exasperation. Had he loved — it had been sorrow. 
 
 Deceived, deluded, blinded by a girl who had lived all her life 
 in the country, and in her first London season had the art to entrap 
 into marriage a gentleman, a man of the world, a professed sceptic as 
 to most things, and supposing himself specially gifted with the power 
 of seeing other people's games. That was something, that was much ; 
 but, to his credit, that was not all, or even the main crime on Mar- 
 garet's part. 
 
 She had been so candid, so pure, so frank. Her whole heart had 
 been given up, to him ; his words were her lessons, his kisses her 
 reward, his embrace her happiness. He had believed in her, he who 
 had tried to think that he believed in no woman, and that woman was 
 by reason of her weakness and vanity an irresponsible person, and there- 
 fore not to be trusted. Margaret had neither weakness nor vanity 
 beyond what was graceful and becomiug to woman ; and he would 
 have trusted her, he owned to himself in the hour of his bitterness, 
 trusted her with his whole heart. And she had dared to be a fraud, a 
 cheat, had dared to buy up his affections with her false coin, had dared 
 to be cunning and treacherous, and to keep in her bosom a cursed 
 secret while that bosom reclined against his own, and those innocent- 
 looking eyes gazed up to his. 
 
 Yes, it demanded all the indisputable proof received that day, to 
 make him believe anything against Margaret, while that last image 
 was present to her husband's mind. But the proof was indisputable — 
 irrefragable. 
 
 And though good angels are often out of the way when they are 
 wanted (a fact that might seem to demand explanation), bad devils 
 are much more attentive to their business. When were they want- 
 ing, if they could be useful ? There was one ready on Hatnpstead 
 Heath, with a suggestion at the proper time. As Philip's thoughts 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 2 10 
 
 hurried on to this point, there was the right devil in the right place, 
 to hint that Margaret had suspected, perhaps discovered, that her 
 husband was aware of her duplicity, and had availed herself of the 
 excuse tor leaving him afforded by the letter. To be sure, it was so. 
 On reflection, Margaret was not a foolish girl — she knew the duties 
 of a wife, and a wife's position and privileges. It was not jealousy. 
 She would not have thrown all her advantages and happiness away for 
 the sake of a past intrigue — very few women were fools enough to do 
 S( i e\ in when the affair was a present one — no. Mrs. Arundel had been 
 mixed up in the discussion at Keckling's ; she had got a hint that her 
 part could not be concealed — she had gone sooner than face Philip. 
 She was coward as well as traitress. 
 
 " What a cursed fool I was to marry ! " was the exclamation sent 
 up from earth to heaven by the maddened Philip. The remark is 
 supposed to have been made by other men in their time ; but it has 
 seldom been uttered with more intensity of expression. 
 
 Now have I a mind to risk a humiliatingly coarse illustration of a 
 meaning I would convey. A vulgar image — a commonplace image — 
 everything that is out of art, and beneath the dignity of a writer with 
 self-respect and self-command — yet I will write it. 
 
 Many were the asses grazing on that heath ; but not one of them, 
 nor all of them put together, could so completely typify the Repre- 
 sentative Ass, as did Philip Arundel. 
 
 " How white you look, Philip," said John Claxton. " Deuced bad ; 
 whiter than any married man has a right to look. Sit down over there, 
 and be blowed up. The old story, of course. You never come near me ; 
 but I hear of you, reprobate and Antinomian. Will you beer 1 No, 
 better not. I'll give you some Cognac, that will send a little colour 
 into your cheeks." 
 
 " Yes, give me that," said Philip Arundel, in a tone that made his 
 friend susjjend his hospitalities and look at him earnestly. 
 
 " You are ill, my boy," said Claxton, coming up to him. " That's 
 not Evans's, and that sort of thing. You are all in a shake." 
 
 " Give me the brandy, Jack. It can't hurt me. Nothing can 
 hurt me." 
 
 " Don't begin that d — d dismal rubbish, my dear fellow, or I will 
 take you round to my doctor's in five minutes. There, by all means 
 take the stuff, and behave yourself." 
 
 Philip took the glass, and put it to his lips ; but at the moment it 
 touched them, nature gave a shudder, — he set down the liquor, and 
 laving his head on the table, began to sob violently. 
 
 " By Jove," said Claxton, " something has happened, and you have 
 not come here for nothing. Here, Clarke, Clarke," he cried to his clerk, 
 who was entering, but was stopped by Claxton, who did not wish him to 
 see Philip's agitation. " Let nobody in on any pretence whatever." 
 
 " Mr. Ganarew was to call at two " 
 
 " I'm gone to a consultation at Westminster — let no one in, I tell 
 you," and he closed the double doors, and bolted them. Then he 
 approached Philip very kindly, and desired him not to try to talk. 
 
250 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " I must talk. T came to talk to you, old fellow. I wish I had 
 talked to you a good deal more," said Arundel, mastering himself as 
 best he could. " There's nothing like an old friend, after all." 
 
 " And it's after all that some folks come to an old friend, Philip, 
 which is not very nattering to him. But I don't mean you, though 
 I wish I had seen a little more of you." 
 
 Philip Arundel then confided his whole story to Claxton, and, so 
 far as he knew, as truthfully as it has been set before the reader. 
 
 Claxton was more grieved than surprised at the estrangement 
 between Margaret and Philip, though he did not tell the latter so ; and 
 when Arundel had narrated the circumstances of the letter, the flight 
 of Margaret, and the revelation of Alban, John Claxton was silent for 
 a long time after Philip had concluded his tale. 
 
 " This is not the sort of case," Claxton said at last, in answer to a 
 look from Philip, that seemed to ask why the other did not speak to 
 him, " in which a man wants anything in the shape of comfort from 
 any other man. Here is a very grave and sad state of things, and 
 our business is to see how it has come about, and how it can be pulled 
 round." 
 
 " I suppose I had better go on the continent for a time." 
 
 " Nonsense, Philip, nonsense," said his friend, much more empha- 
 tically than it was the custom of the good-natured, self-indulgent, 
 self-preserving John Claxton to deliver himself. " You are not the 
 fellow I take you to be if you do anything of the kind." 
 
 " Why, what better can I do ?" 
 
 " I don't know. I can't tell. I don't see my way at all, yet. But 
 one thing is certain — namely, that you must not run away. It would 
 be madness just now. Come and stop with me in the old place here. 
 I must think over all that you have told me, and I shall want to ask 
 you a lot of questions. There is your old room. We'll have it ready 
 for you by to-night. I'll tell Clarke." 
 
 " No, I think not. I don't care where I am ; but 
 
 " Then you may as well be here as anywhere else. Besides, I repeat, 
 I shall want you. Clarke !" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered the latter, entering. 
 
 "Go round and tell Mrs. Bolcifer to get that room ready for 
 somebody to sleep in to-night. Now, Philip, let us have a stroll." 
 
 " I seem to have walked miles and miles, but I don't know where 
 I have been." 
 
 " Then we'll have a cab, and get into the air." 
 
 " I think the last time we rode in a cab together was the day I first 
 saw Margaret. Don't you recollect — after the fete." 
 
 " Yes. I gave you some advice." 
 
 " Which I did not take, you know," said Philip. 
 
 " You were quite right not to take it." 
 
 " I could understand your saying that a year ago, but not now." 
 
 " I say it again, nevertheless ; but let us go out. Tell Mr. 
 Ganarew I was obliged to go out, but I shall dine at the club at 
 seven." 
 
 " Where's Biceps V said Philip languidly. 
 
 ' ; O, sacked. He gave parties to his young friends, the other boys, 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 251 
 
 and their Psyches, and kept his own keys of my cellar and cigar-box. 
 I convicted him, and lie howled for mercy. So I thundered at him for 
 an hour, explained to him that the gallows in this world, and the 
 devil in the next, were the very least he had to expect, and I gut him 
 a place as pew-opener at a new chapel at Wandsworth, where he's 
 dressed in a sort of fancy costume, and, I dare say, pawns the prayer- 
 books. His poor old mother thought he would come to be Lord 
 Chancellor j but she does not think so now, I believe. Come along." 
 
 And down in St. Oscars, too, as well as in Hastings, and in the 
 Temple, and at Kensington, was there talk of Margaret and her flight. 
 Whose hand, do you think, sent into the happy home of Henry and 
 Eleanor Cheriton the tidings that the long-cherished child of that 
 household had left her husband? Who told the story in a form like 
 this l— 
 
 "My dear Father. 
 
 " I sincerely hope that you will not learn from the news- 
 papers something which it is right you should know, but which I 
 wish I had not to tell. Break it gently — as I know you will do — -to 
 my mother, who will be deeply wounded at the news. Margaret's 
 husband has been with me to-day, bringing miserable tidings. I was 
 aware that there had been estrangement between them for a long 
 time. I have seen her at the opera and elsewhere without him, and 
 she had acquaintances of whom he and his family strongly disapproved. 
 To-day he came here in a state of great agitation, and told me that 
 3he had eloped. She has not abandoned her child, which is not a bad 
 sign, but she has broken up Arundel's household, and has given no 
 clue to her retreat. I am unwilling to put upon paper what forces 
 itself upon my mind, nor is it necessary. Poor girl! Of how little 
 avail have been the teachings she received under our i-oof, and the 
 sweet example of my mother. You know — and I am aware that you 
 regret — that my convictions upon serious subjects differ from your 
 own, but we must all be at one in our sorrow that the good seed 
 which was so lovingly sown has perished in the soil. Should I succeed 
 in obtaining poor M.'s address, I would try to get a letter safely into 
 her hands, if you or my mother think that such an appeal might avail. 
 You will of course use your own discretion in apprising Bertha of the 
 evil issue of the marriage at which she was bridesmaid. 
 
 " Your affectionate Son, 
 
 "Thursday. " ALBAX ChERITOX." 
 
 "P.S. — I will use special means of getting a letter to her. One sunt 
 by the regular channel would most likely be intercepted, for evident 
 reasons." 
 
 " Sad, sad news, dear Nelly." 
 
 The mother instantly recognised her son's writing, and became pale 
 as ashes. 
 
 "Something has happened to Alban, or to Latimer?" was her 
 hurried question. 
 
2'J-l THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " No, to neither." 
 
 " O, thank God." 
 
 " But one whom we loved almost as well, would have loved as well 
 if she had so chosen it " 
 
 " Margaret, dear Margaret. Dead 1 " asked the mother, in a terrified 
 whisper. 
 
 "Some would say — I do not — that I wish it were only that. Poor 
 child !" 
 
 " Ah ! her husband has left her. I always feared that fatal choice. 
 The blow has come, then." 
 
 " It is worse than that. She has left her husband." 
 
 " Henry !" 
 
 " Alban asked me to break it to you, Nelly ; but you have strength 
 to hear what must be heard." 
 
 "It is not true ! It is not true ! Yes ; he has driven the poor girl 
 from his home by his sin, or outrage. Why did she not come here ? " 
 
 " There is Alban's letter, love." 
 
 " It is not true." 
 
 Mrs. Cheriton read the letter, with teai-less eyes, from beginning to 
 end, and a strange shadow came over her face — a sickening sensation 
 "woke at her heart. Was there anything in the words which womanly 
 instinct told her was false and wrong, and which motherly love felt 
 with a convulsing pang. Her eyes, usually ready with sympathy 
 even for a stranger's sorrow, gave no sigh of grief, while her husband's 
 were moist, and his voice clung to his throat. 
 
 " Destroy that letter, love," she said, in a low tone. 
 
 This was strange ; for she was in the habit of begging all letters of 
 her son's, even the merest business notes to his fathei-, and hoarding 
 them up in neatly-tied packets, as treasures. 
 
 " Destroy it, love," she repeated. " It means no good, and will 
 bring no good. It should not have been wi-itten." 
 
 " Nelly," said her husband, earnestly, " for the first time in our 
 lives we do not understand one another. Or, rather, I do not under- 
 stand you." 
 
 " Please, darling, do not ask me any question just now. But wait 
 for other news before you make up your mind what to believe about 
 dear Margaret." 
 
 " I see, love, what you believe, or you would use another word. 
 But how is it possible for Alban to be deceived ? He has been very 
 intimate of late with Margaret's husband ; indeed, so intimate, that 
 were Alban of a less stable and upright character I might have 
 feared that the gay man of society would do him no good. Mr. 
 Arundel comes to him, and makes the statement he sends us." 
 
 " It is much easier, I have heard you say, Henry, for a woman to 
 be quite right than for her to show why she is right. I feel it is 
 true, now." 
 
 " You think that Arundel has imposed a false story on poor Alban, 
 and that Margaret has been compelled by ill-usage to leave her home ?" 
 
 " If Mr. Arundel has done that great wickeduess, may God pardon 
 him," said Mrs. Cheriton. It was no answer, however. 
 
 "But in that case," pursued Cheriton, "she ought to be here. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 253 
 
 Surely we had earned the right to hold our door open to her when- 
 ever she was in sorrow. At least she would have written to us." 
 
 " Perhaps she has done so." 
 "And where is the letter?" 
 
 " Alban lays a stress upon letters being intercepted. Twice he 
 alludes to it, if you observe, and in his postscript, which shows how 
 his mind dwelt upon the idea. It would scarcely have come into his 
 head accidentally." 
 
 " He may know more than he tells us." 
 " I fear he does," said Mrs. Cheriton, in a low voice. 
 " Are there to be mysteries between us, Nelly, even in thought I" 
 " Not for worlds, dear Henry," said his wife, taking his hand. 
 " But we have to form a judgment on a most solemn matter, and you 
 know my judgment is timid. I think, or you think that I am often 
 right, but I never should be if I were hasty." 
 
 " Yet you instantly pronounced Margaret to be innocent." 
 " O Henry, yes, and I say it again and again. That is not the 
 question. Dearest, if you insist on my saying what comes to my 
 mind about this sorrowful story, I will tell you, but it will be very 
 kind if you will let me have my thoughts to myself until we hear 
 more." 
 
 " So be it, Nelly," said her husband. " But ought we, think you, 
 to do nothing 1 Let what may have happened, here is this child, our 
 child, charged with sin and shame. If we believed her guilty, it would 
 be our duty to seek her out and strive to reclaim her, how much more 
 is it our duty, if we believe her innocent, to interfere for her pro- 
 tection V 
 
 " I feel all that," she answered ; " but I feel, too, that we have not 
 Margaret's real story before us. There. It is useless to ask me why 
 I am so sure of that, for I cannot tell you ; I cannot answer that 
 question to myself. But sure I am that the little creature who used 
 to race about this room, and kneel down at that sofa in her little 
 nightgown and with her bare feet, to say the hymn-prayer that you 
 made for her, has not been allowed to grow up into the woman who 
 would do sin before God. Henry, believe that." 
 
 " Only too gladly, and from my innermost heart, darling. But 
 what, then, does all this mean ?" he said, holding up the letter. 
 
 Autumn was on, and the grate fireless, but Mrs. Cheriton lit a 
 match and gave it to her husband, with a petitioning look. Alban's 
 letter was soon in ashes. 
 
 " If the charge could be as easily done away," he said. " We must 
 answer Alban, however." 
 
 " May I dictate what I should like said V 
 " Surely, Nell T 
 
 "Is there anything else that you have to say to him, dear." 
 " Yes, I have a long account, ready written, of the interesting case 
 Iwas called over to Mold about. 1 thought he would like to send it 
 to the Lancet." 
 
 " Then I would forward it to him, Henry, and just add in a post- 
 sci'i t that his letter of to-day ' has reached us, and caused us much 
 painful thought.' Nothing more." 
 
254; THE GORDIAN KXOT. 
 
 " He will think that rather a singular message." 
 
 "And that is what I should like him to think it, Henry." 
 
 " It shall go." 
 
 Bertha at this moment entered the room, with her usual cheery 
 smile and voice. 
 
 " I hear there is a letter from Alban. Does he dare to mention me 
 in it ?" 
 
 " Why should he not ?" asked her father, a look exchanged by the 
 parents having arranged that nothing should be said to Bertha on the 
 mournful subject. 
 
 " He is bold enough for anything ; but I think after his abominable 
 neglect of every order I gave him, he would scarcely presume to men- 
 tion my name. Does he, now, mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes," would have set the querist on other questions. " Yes, but 
 you are not to ask in what connexion," would have been authoritative ; 
 but the Cheritons did not so talk to their child. " Alban's letter 
 does not contain your name" would have been true, inasmuch as the 
 letter was non-existent ; but it would have been Jesuit's truth, which 
 bears the same relation to the real article as Mosaic gold does. 
 
 " Yes, your name was mentioned, but it was specially left to my 
 discretion to tell you what Alban said or not, and I use that discre- 
 tion, and am silent," said Mr. Cheriton. 
 
 " He is never going to be married, papa V 
 
 " He certainly does not say so, my dear." 
 
 " There is a lady in the case, then 1 What fun. Fancy the grave 
 Alban grimly inditing love letters. O, I must w-rite and tease him." 
 And the light-hearted girl left the room, singing. 
 
 " If she writes and makes the mystic allusions which she is j list 
 likely to make to Alban " 
 
 " She shall not write," said Mrs. Cheriton. " I will tell her not." 
 
 The Roman, or French, or other Emperor (it is not of the slightest 
 consequence what his name was, for everybody tells it of a different 
 one) who wished he had never learned to write, wished a very sensible 
 thing. The mischief done by teaching people to write is perfectly 
 frightful. In my Utopia there shall be licensed amauuenses for 
 absolute necessity, and even the letters they write shall be looked 
 over by a censor, and the penalty of expulsion shall attach to any- 
 body else's making or using a pen. 
 
 Bertha happened to go out and call on one of her lady friends, who 
 happened to be writing letters, and this reminded Bertha to send her 
 brother a few lines, which went away with her friend's epistles. So 
 that in the afternoon, when Mrs. Cheriton said, — 
 
 " Bertha, dear, don't write any nonsense to Alban ; his mind is 
 veiy much occupied just now, and he will hardly thank yr>u for it ;" 
 the frank response was — 
 
 " I've done it, mamma, and the letter is halfway to London. I 
 caught the twelve o'clock post." 
 
 " What did you say ¥' 
 
 " O, only three or four lines of sauciness." 
 
 " Do you remember them 1" 
 
 " Yes ; let me see. yes. I said, ' We do not believe one single 
 
THE GORDIAX KNOT. 255 
 
 word. We believe it to be an entire invention of your own. She 
 ■w ill have nothing to say to you ; and you will have to beg p 
 for Jrour audacity, and get out of the way.' " 
 
 '■ A ladylike note, Bertha/'' 
 
 " Well then, he shouldn't be so rude to me, mamma. For >ix 
 months I have been writing to him to buy me a reel lor my fishing- 
 rod. I wonder, as he Bees bo much of Mr. Arundel, that he is not 
 more polite. Mr. Arundel is attention itself, though he is married, 
 and th'' last time I was in town I did but say I wanted some gloves, 
 and next day there came a lovely box with a dozen in it, all colours, 
 and six and a quarter. Alban would have seen me in the street with- 
 out gloves before he would have thought of such a thing." 
 
 " If you tore your glove, dear, Mr. Arundel could help you ; but if 
 you tore your hand, Alban would be your better friend. Which is 
 the intellect to be admired 1 "' 
 
 " Yes, mamma ; but don't you see that we don't make a practice of 
 tearing our hands, while we are always spoiling our gloves; so the 
 every day friend is the most generally useful. But you look quite 
 unwell, dear," said Bertha. " Are you not well 1 Will you lie down I 
 Shall I draw down the blinds, and hold my tongue f 
 
 " I am not very well, love ; but it is nothing. So you said that we 
 did not believe a word of what Alban had written, that it was all his 
 own invention, and that she would have nothing to say to hiin." 
 
 " My dearest mother, how came my nonsense to stick so fast in 
 your memory V 
 
 " It has done so, my dear, you see. Now get a sheet of note-paper, 
 and write to him again. I will tell you what to say." 
 
 "Certainly, mamma dear." 
 
 And the preparations being complete, Bertha wrote from her 
 mother's dictation. 
 
 My dear Albax, 
 
 I sent you this morning a few lines of nonsense, founded on 
 an entire mistake. I imagined that you had written to papa and 
 mamma, announcing your having fixed your attention upon 
 lady. I now write to say that I know nothing whatever as to what 
 really were the contents of your letter. 
 
 Your affectionate Sister, 
 
 Bertha. 
 
 If the first despatch from Bertha, received at night by her brother 
 Alban. occasioned him a singular sensation and a restless night, he 
 was infinitely more bewildered by the receipt of the second on the 
 following morning, accompanied as it was by a long letter from his 
 father, in which the case of the Mold patient was amply die 
 and the story about Margaret was dismissed in two lines. In fact, he 
 was thoroughly perplexed. Bertha's first message seemed to bear a 
 Bingular relation to the position of Mrs. Arundel, but it was explained 
 away, only to make the explanation itself a riddle. Why was it felt 
 ary to clear away the idle words of a light-minded girl, unless 
 felt that they might, if unrecalled, be interpreted by him in a 
 
256 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 most objectionable manner. And why were they recalled in a formal 
 note, so unlike the writer's ordinary style, — really a note that some 
 defendant cheesemonger might write as apology for having slandered 
 a plaintiff butterman's Dorset. Then the father's brief reference to a 
 subject on which Alban naturally thought, as he opened the letter, 
 that Mr. Cheriton had dilated at the great length actually bestowed 
 on the leg of a smashed Welshman. 
 
 He was puzzled, and he was troubled. 
 
 "For that is a bad day for a man on which he suspects, and knows 
 he has a right to suspect, that he, the idol of his home, is in danger of 
 tottering. 
 
 And though Alban and the rest of his profession cannot point 
 out its seat, there is such a thing as Conscience. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 REAPPEARANCES. 
 
 It was, however, less his conscience than anotlier motive power which 
 made Alban Cheriton despatch his professional business as hastily as 
 he could (and it is singular how safely patients cau be left when the 
 doctor really wants to get away), and betake himself to Mr. Reckling's 
 house the day after the curious letters from St. Oscars had reached 
 him. He wished to hear news of Margaret, and he was certain that 
 his cousin would apply in her trouble to her old and tried friend, who, 
 in his turn, knew no reason for excluding the young surgeon from hi* 
 confidence. 
 
 He found a small and oddly-selected party in the old gentleman's 
 dining-room that morning. Mr. Reckling himself was in the large 
 chair, in which he imagined that he mastered the daily newspaper, 
 which really mastered him, and gave his ideas of all public matters a 
 form and coloiir for the day. Near him sat, rather upon the edge 
 of his chair, as became an inferior, Mr. Earnshaw, the Russian mer- 
 chant's trusty and trusted employe. But there were two other figures 
 completing the group. One was a middle-aged, rather good-looking, 
 but ill-dressed man, who, from his rusty black garb, might seem 
 a broken-down clerk, but that a cei'tain assurance of manuer and, 
 when he spoke, a louder tone than is usual with men habituated to 
 converse with their masters, suggested some other calling. The 
 other figure, round whose waist the arm of the rusty man was 
 placed, as a sort of official demonstration, rather than affectionately, 
 or so it would seem from the occasional efforts the embraced party- 
 made to escape, was that of the little girl, Zuleika, of whom we last 
 heard at the time Mr. Robert Spencer encountered her taking a 
 lesson at the hands of the law and its finisher. 
 
 Zuleika was looking better, in many respects, than in the old days. 
 Her cheeks were plumper, and much cleaner, and probably the same 
 amendment had taken place in her legs, but these were no longer 
 visible, the brief and tawdry dress of the dancing girl having given 
 place to a respectable dark-brown frock, coarse, but white, collar, and 
 a tidy little hat. She had a pair of black mittens, too, which, in the 
 old days would not have been a politic arrangement, but which she 
 could now wear fearlessly, for she had unobjectionable nails, save that 
 they were scraped on the inside to that whiteness which is always ab- 
 normal. The stranger, as has been said, was patronizing or protecting 
 her in some way, but she did not seem much pleased with his attentions, 
 and availed herself of A loan's entering to leave the rusty wing of the 
 former, and take her independent seat on a chair near Mr. Earnshaw. 
 
 " Am I interrupting business)'- said Alban. 
 
 "Not in the least, Mr. Cheriton," replied Reckling ; " Iparticularly 
 
 wanted to see you. Sit down here. I shall not be engaged many 
 
 minutes, and I have something special to say to you. Here's the 
 
 Times — capital article on Gladstone, rather severe, though — or if you 
 
 PART ix. s 
 
258 THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 
 
 like to listen to what we're talking about, it's no secret, and may in- 
 terest you. This is Mr. Earnshaw, a confidential assistant of mine ; — 
 who these are you'll hear." 
 
 With a slight inclination to Earnshaw, Alban took a seat. Earn- 
 shaw's bow in return was even slighter, but he did not mean to be 
 rude ; he had a habit of feeling that his business was to know any 
 face that came before him, and to remember it again, and so he gave 
 Alban that short but careful look usual to the detective, and then 
 seemed to put away the likeness thus taken duly registered for future 
 use. Alban, on the other hand, gave a professional glance at Zuleika, 
 and though his features offered no sign of an opinion which he at 
 once formed, he had also something to remember. 
 
 " Now, Earnshaw, go on with your story," said Mr. Keckling. " I 
 should tell you, Mr. Cheriton, that this man, Harris, whom you see 
 here, was formeidy in my service, but we did not get on very well. 
 When I write letters, I have a curious fancy to have them forwarded 
 to the persons for whom they are meant, and Harris did not always 
 think it worth while to humour me in that caprice." 
 
 " I made only one mistake, sir. Do me that justice." 
 
 " I found you out in one only, Harris, that I admit ; but men are 
 just like women — eh, Mr. Cheriton V 
 
 " Those who go wrong once will go wrong twice, you mean ? 
 They say so," said Alban, "but the cases are not parallel, because 
 woman goes wrong from weakness, and man from obstinacy. A good 
 fright may terrify a woman into propriety for the rest of her life, but 
 a man, not being frightened, finds a precedent in his error, and sticks 
 to it." 
 
 " The gentleman talks like a book," interposed Harris, with com- 
 posure ; " but, begging his pardon, not like a wise book. Women are 
 a great deal worse than men are." A sentiment at which Zuleika, 
 feeling the sex outraged in her small person, made a face of contempt. 
 
 " We therefore separated," said Mr. Keckling, not choosing to take 
 notice of the remark intruded by his inferior. " Mr. Harris went his 
 own way, and I have lost sight of him for two or three years." 
 
 " He took the liberty of not losing sight of you, sir," said Harris. 
 Not servilely, but with a show of earnestness, he added, " If Provi- 
 dence is good enough to let a weak man be taken in hand by a strong 
 one, it is not because the strong one pitches the weak away for a bit 
 that he is to lose all heart, and think he wont be helped at the 
 last." 
 
 Keckling did not look displeased, but Earnshaw replied — 
 
 " I may be wrong, Hams, but I think the less you say about Pro- 
 vidence the better. When I say that, I look at that gal." And he 
 did look at Zuleika in a very stern manner, the sternness being in- 
 tended not for the child, but for Harris. 
 
 "The subject is not one within your, scope, Mr. Earnshaw," 
 returned Harris, who did not appear to entertain the least respect for 
 the confidential man, and perhaps resti'ained himself out of regard for 
 Mr. Keckling from a more uncivil retort. " You are ordered to tell 
 .a story, not to make your own obnoxious remarks upon the dramatis 
 personce. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 259 
 
 [A hint, by the way, -which, if taken, would make a good many 
 books plcasanter reading.] 
 
 " Mr. Keckling," said Earnshaw, addressing himself to Alban, " of 
 course turned this man Harris away, and naturally he went to the 
 bad." 
 
 " It should be explained, .sir," said Harris, with a smile, " that I 
 became a dissenting minister, which, as Mi*. Earnshaw says, naturally 
 seems dreadfully bad in his eyes, as he is naturally attached to the 
 Established Church, being, naturally, the son of a very drunken 
 beadle, deceased." 
 
 Earnshaw was too well trained to allow his anger to explode in the 
 presence of his master, and proceeded. 
 
 " A dissenting minister means anything, or everything, or nothing. 
 I have seen a dissenting minister in a very good gig. But this man 
 took to preaching about the streets, and collecting halfpence from the 
 mob." 
 
 " Congregation," whispered Harris, mildly. 
 
 " Nice congregation," said Earnshaw, with so much acerbity that 
 Alban had some reason for thinking Harris's irreverent sketch of the 
 other's ecclesiastical origin was accurate. " Thieves and rascals." 
 
 " The more in need, then, of my ministration," returned Harris, 
 with mock self-complacency. 
 
 " I dare say the shepherd and his flock were very well suited," said 
 Mr. Keckling, but not in an unkind tone. " However, you did not 
 prosper as a clergyman, Harris, for reasons into which, I suppose, it 
 is unnecessary to go." 
 
 u The only reason was, sir, that not having been brought up at a 
 charity-school, like Mr. Earnshaw, and soundly flogged if ever I said 
 my soul was my own, I had not quite that command of temper which 
 is desirable in a minister of the Gospel, and when my congregation 
 chaffed me too much, I punched their heads. Eut I was liked, and I 
 made money, till the police were set on me by a pack of infidel 
 tradesmen, who alleged that I caused fights under their windows. 
 Luther once threw his inkstand at the devil, and I once shied a pint 
 pot at a mocking Ethiopian serenader — I don't know whether the 
 devil was hurt, but I cut the black chap's head open a bit — a handle 
 was made of it, and I had to give up the ministry." 
 
 " And then I think you became a mountebank of another kind." 
 
 " I must not venture to ask you to choose other words than those 
 you please to employ, sir," said Harris; "but if I were telling my 
 own story I should say that, not being permitted to address the public 
 about their immortal souls, I tried another way to benefit them. The 
 stage, sir, as you know quite well, is a great moral engine, and the 
 object of writing, and getting up, and acting plays is the doing good in 
 the way of shaming vice and encouraging virtue. Actors are, in fact, 
 missionaries xmder another name, and so I joined that missionary 
 society." 
 
 " And I should think that before the child," said Mr. Earnshaw, 
 " being of the sex she is, you might hold your tongue about what got 
 you out of an engagement at twenty-five shillings a-week." 
 
 ' ; The business of the stage," retorted the unabashed Harris, " is to 
 
 s2 
 
260 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 show vice its own image, and I allow that circumstances induced me 
 to personate the character with more fidelity than was perhaps neces- 
 sary. That the lady of my manager had a taste for a dark eye and 
 an intellectual countenance was to be regretted, still more so that in 
 carrying out that taste she earned out an ormolu clock and a few 
 similar trifles, which I had not dreamed of her bringing with her in 
 her flight." 
 
 " You got six months for that," said Eamshaw. 
 
 " They passed, I trust, improvingly. Nay, I may say I know im- 
 provingly, for when I entered the donjon keep in which I was to be 
 incarcerated, I could not have picked a lock to save my life. Long 
 before my release, I had learned seven ways of opening a locked box, 
 to say nothing of other instruction." 
 
 " And yet if you put a rascal into a separate cell," said Mr. Keck- 
 ling. almost in a rage, "they say you make him mad." 
 
 '"' There is no such thing as made madness," said Alban, hastily. 
 
 The tone and manner were so unlike his usual calm, sententious 
 delivery that Keckling remembered the speech many a day after. 
 
 " The stoiy is took out of my hands," said Eamshaw. 
 
 " Taken, Mr. Eamshaw," said Harris. " What might you not 
 have been, sir, if Lindley Murray had but been a charity-school book I 
 But there is not much more to tell." 
 
 "I think there is," returned Eamshaw. "I think there's some- 
 thing to be told about a man who robbed another man, a manager of 
 a theayter, of his wife, child, and property 5 and when the woman, 
 who, bad as she was, had some feeling, died of a broken heart " 
 
 " There is no such thing as a broken heart," again broke in Alban, 
 abruptly. " Why do people use such infernally foolish words ?" 
 
 " I am sure I am very sorry," said Eamshaw, deferential to one 
 whom he saw stood well with his master. ''Anyhow, the poor thing 
 died." 
 
 " Disease, starvation, ill-treatment, many things will kill,"' replied 
 Alban, instantly recovering his calmness. " There is no reason for 
 accusing Nature of making bungling work." 
 
 "What I was coming to," said Eamshaw, "was that the mother 
 having died, as she did, the child whom you might have thought the 
 man would have tried to provide for, was left to chance and the 
 parish." 
 
 " You trace all the beadle in that charge," said Hai-ris. " It is 
 true, nevertheless, in words, but false in fact. There was no choice 
 for me, I was sent to prison ; and when I came out, what could 
 I do r 
 
 " You could have written begging letters," said Zuleika, suddenly 
 speaking for the first time, and not much to the delight of her 
 audience. 
 
 " I wrote one begging letter," said Harris, " which was to Mr. 
 Keckling, stating my case and my sorrow, and praying him. by the 
 memory of old services, to send me and the child to the colonies." 
 
 " Then you retained old habits," said Keckling, " and did not send 
 the letter, for I never had it." 
 
 "That I can easily understand, sir," said Harris, "though it was 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 261 
 
 delivered at your door by my own hand. It is not worth while asking 
 where it went." 
 
 ''You accuse somebody of intercepting it ?" asked Keckling. 
 
 " 1 prefer to accuse nobody, sir, as no good could now be done by 
 its being all explained." He kept his eyes away steadily from Earn- 
 shaw as he spoke. " I only say that I made one attempt to provide 
 for the child who had thus come into my keeping, and that it failed. 
 Afterwards, I lost her, which was no fault of mine/' 
 
 " No, I bolted," said Zuleika, " that air a fact." 
 
 " This — the child V said Alban, to whom the identity of Zuleika 
 with the daughter of the unfortunate woman in question had not 
 occurred. 
 
 " I'm the child," said Zuleika, " so treat me tenderly, for I was 
 reared a pet." And she broke into a shrill laugh at the contrast 
 between her words and the truth. " The fact was, the governor had 
 the change taken out of him at the mill, and he was so uncommon, 
 frightened at what he'd gone through, that he would try for nothing 
 that he couldn't come by in an honest way. Honesty's all very fine, 
 but herrings and bread and water five times a week didn't suit this 
 child at all. So I wished him good morning, if you please, and 
 turned my talents to better account." 
 
 " She had learned to dance and that a bit with her father and 
 mother, and so she joined some low people, and danced at public- 
 houses and bad places." 
 
 " Never was in a bad place in my life," returned Zuleika, pertly, 
 " unless old Spencer's is one, in Gower-street." ' 
 
 " What do you know of Mr. Spencer's '?" asked Alban, surprised. 
 
 " Kitchen, outhouse, garden, likewise front parlour and hall," said 
 the girl. " Didn't like to go higher, for fear of fire." 
 
 " There is truth in it," said Mr. Keckling to Alban. " Mr. Robert 
 Spencer found her in his kitchen, being ill-treated by a servant, one 
 evening, and he behaved kindly to her ; but her bad nature came out, 
 and she ran away from him in a most ungrateful manner, after he had 
 given her food and money. They're all alike !" 
 
 " I wasn't ungrateful," said the child, with earnestness. " But I 
 had the office, and I didn't want to be licked again. Old Spencer 
 knew that. He came late at night where T was dancing, and if he 
 was drunk he knew me again. He has no call to say I was un- 
 grateful. I could have robbed his house many a time, and there 
 was them as would have been glad to see me do it." 
 
 " Before he was kind to you, that was," said Earnshaw. " You 
 never were in the house afterwards 1" 
 
 " Before or behind, what's the odds '?" said Zuleika, defiantly. 
 
 Alban Cheriton watched the child with attention, and sought to 
 learn more of her. 
 
 " And may I ask," said he to Mr. Keckling, " with what object 
 these persons are here ?" 
 
 " Well," said Keckling, " you may say that I am a foolish senti- 
 mental fellow, who might ea.sily find better persons to assist than 
 either of these — a man whom I discharged for misconduct and who 
 found his way into prison for robbery, and a child whom I dare say 
 
262 THE GORMAN KNOT. 
 
 you think, as I do, as bad a little creature as you'll find within four 
 walls. But I have my whims, and sometimes I humour them. I am 
 inclined to do the precious pair some good, if they would let me." 
 
 "Fire away and welcome," said the irredeemable Zuleika. But 
 Harris kept his eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 "I doift gather, I think," said Alban, "from what I have heard, 
 what their occupations have lately been, or how they came to be 
 together again. I do not ask explanation out of mere curiosity, as 
 I think it possible that I might suggest something to you, Mr. 
 Keckling." 
 
 "It was Mr. Keckling's wish, sir," said Earnshaw, "that they 
 should be found, and found they were accordingly. Harris will tell 
 you himself what he was doing." 
 
 " So will Zuleika," broke in the girl. « She was dancing a hornpipe 
 in the costume of a British sailor, and will oblige the company with 
 it on the table, if desired by several persons of distinction." 
 " Be quiet, child, quiet," said Keckling, compassionately. 
 " She will be quiet enough before long," said Alban to him, in an 
 undertone. 
 
 " I have been bad enough," said Harris, whose self-sufficient and 
 self-sustaining tone seemed at times to desert him, especially when he 
 was addressed by Mr. Keckling. " I have been bad enough, and it 
 may not be of much consequence what I do. But there is no use in 
 making things worse than they are. When I was found, as Mr. 
 Earnshaw calls it, and if he is to have any credit for finding me, pray 
 let him have it, I was selling play bills, or trying to sell them." 
 
 " And I did hear something about your being very handy at finding- 
 particular cabmen to take home young swells who were tipsy, and had 
 money and jewellery about them, which is a very thoughtful thing in 
 you," said Earnshaw. 
 
 "Give a dog a bad name," said Harris, calmly. "It happened 
 once that a cabman robbed a gentleman in a cab I "had called, and as 
 I had been in prison before, of course it was my business to put tipsy 
 gentlemen into thieves' cabs, and I got large pickings by it. What a 
 pity my father wasn't a beadle." 
 
 " That will do," said Keckling. " You have had temptations, and 
 have yielded to them, and have been punished, but ought not to be 
 persecuted. I shall have something to say to you presently. Mean- 
 time, you will be none the worse, either of you, for something to eat." 
 " I wondered when you was going to cut the dialect and come to 
 the sassingers," said Zuleika, misquoting a stage direction given by the 
 late Mr. Duci-ow for shortening a piece. 
 
 " I will send for you presently," said Keckling, entrusting Harris 
 and the child to a servant, with orders to make them comfortable. 
 
 "Will not Mr. Earnshaw honour us?" said Harris, seeing the latter 
 linger behind. " Grace said by the son of a beadle would indeed have 
 an unction — sound quite prayerbookish." 
 
 Earnshaw had several times looked at his master, as if to say, " I 
 must not resent these taunts, but you ought to protect me." But 
 Mr. Keckling was not pleased to interfere, and as his man remained, 
 as if to be taken into counsel, said — 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 2Go 
 
 " I shall not want you until to-morrow, Earnsliaw." 
 
 Mr. Keckling never spoke twice on the same subject to his de- 
 pendents, and the trusted man, for all his trustedness, could only bow 
 and retire. He would not have dared to be found about the house 
 ten minutes later. Keckling owned that he had whims, and one of 
 them was to be master of his servants. 
 
 " A curious lot, are they not V he said to Alban, as soon as they 
 were alone. 
 
 "You had better let the child call on me," said the latter. "I am 
 afraid she is past help; but wc may as well see." 
 
 " Is that so V said Keckling, gravely. 
 
 " Consumption, evidently. Bad food, too little of it, ill-usage, expo- 
 sure at night, over-exertion, very likely constant stimulants. A child 
 is not such a difficult thing to kill, my dear sir." 
 
 " But," said Keckling, " I conclude the seeds of the disease were 
 implanted before she began that kind of life." 
 
 " It is not necessary to suppose so," said the young surgeon. 
 
 It would, however, have been a comfort to Mr. Keckling to be 
 allowed to suppose it. For the truth was, that the case of poor 
 Harris had been resting upon his mind for a long time ; and some- 
 thing having occui'red to bring the subject forcibly before him, he 
 had ordered that Earnshaw should make search for the discarded 
 clerk. It may be remembered that in the interview between Earn- 
 shaw and his employer, when the former came to report that Arman- 
 dale Spencer had come to England, and was in lodgings in Half-Moon- 
 street, Mr. Keckling had ordered Earnshaw to have Harris at hand, 
 if wanted. Earnshaw had, at the time, failed to find his man, but 
 said nothing of this to his master, from whose thoughts other matters, 
 including Margaret's affairs, had driven the subject ; but by what was 
 great good luck (Mr. Keckling's despotic notions being remembered) 
 the employe was fortunate enough to be able to make a satisfactory 
 reply when Keckling next referred to the topic. Harris's history was 
 placed before his late master. 
 
 It may also occur to a reader to ask how Zuleika's connexion with 
 Harris came before Mr. Keckling. The very simple answer may, we 
 fear, damage the character of Mr. Earnshaw for benevolence. He, 
 hating Harris, and having become master of the latter's stoiy, had 
 determined that if Keckling thought of conferring a benefit on the 
 discharged clerk it should not be without full knowledge of the facts, 
 and he therefore took pains to discover Zuleika, and went so far, in 
 order to make her a more presentable object, and one more likely to 
 excite Mr. Keckling's fastidious sympathies, as to have her taken care 
 of for a short time by some friends of his own, and to introduce her 
 in the becoming guise that has been described. Who will not be 
 tempted to deny that there is actually any evil in the world, when 
 they perceive that the workings of a passion which we call evil thus 
 induced a man to feed the hungry and clothe the naked 1 Nay, the 
 apostle from Tarsus takes similar ground, touching the preaching of 
 the Gospel, not caring whether it is even done from actual ill-will to- 
 one's rivals. 
 
 "I am very glad you called to-day," said Mr. Keckling. "The 
 
2G4. THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 fact is — but perhaps you .are already informed of it — that Mrs. 
 Arundel has taken a step that must occasion us all much embarrass- 
 ment." 
 
 " In leaving town ?" said Alban, wishing to be as guarded as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 " Leaving town !" repeated Iveckling ; " that is nothing. Anybody 
 may leave town. But do you know with whom she has left town V 
 
 For one moment all the blood in Alban Cheriton's body seemed 
 driven back upon his heart ; for one moment he endured one of those 
 sensations into which are concentrated the agony of a life. But it 
 was only, as it needed be only, for a moment. Had he built up the 
 throne for another 1 Had he poisoned Margaret's home-happiness 
 that some other than himself might teach her to be happy ? An 
 instant, and the thought was driven from him. In the hour of his 
 deadliest purpose he was forced to do justice to the character of Mar- 
 garet. He might hope hereafter to move her heart towards himself; 
 but he felt that her heart at that moment, however troubled, was pure 
 to its inmost depths. The pang that shot through him, and the 
 thought that removed it, vindicated the cause of her whom he strove 
 to destroy. 
 
 His emotion was, of course, misunderstood by the old man. 
 
 " Ah," he said, " then you do not know. It is most lamentable, 
 most grievous. She has gone with her father." 
 
 " With her father ?— what, the— the— " 
 
 " You may well hesitate over a word that is bad enough for him. 
 But see this." 
 
 And he showed Alban the telegraphic despatch which Armandale 
 Spencer had sent to the elder Arundel, and of which the latter, in much 
 bewilderment, had apprised Mr. Iveckling, with an earnest request for 
 their immediate meeting. 
 
 " Her father !" repeated Alban, who, relieved of all his first sensa- 
 tions, was engaged in considering how far his own views would be 
 promoted or hindered by this singular complication of the adven- 
 ture. 
 
 " It must estrange her from Arundel still more — much more," he 
 thought. " The black character of old Spencer — Philip's fury at 
 learning from me that Margaret knew the whole story — and now her 
 taking Armandale as her companion and friend, and proclaiming it to 
 Marmaduke Arundel and his family." 
 
 And sad indeed was the tone in which, turning to Mr. Iveckling, 
 he deplored the step Margaret had taken, and the impressions into 
 which she must have been deluded. 
 
 " I would to God I could see that it was only a delusion, my dear 
 Mr. Cheriton. If it were only a mistake, thei-e would be nothing in 
 it. But Margaret knew so well what a rascal had been given her, 
 poor girl, for a father. I had taken such pains to make her under- 
 stand his character, and the difficulties that surrounded her, and so 
 had another valued friend, and then she takes the fatal step of asso- 
 ciating herself with this veiy man. What could my darling child 
 have been thinking about ?" 
 
 " Then," said Alban, sadly, " matters have gone further than I had 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 265 
 
 imagined. The quarrel with her husband must have been more 
 enduring than such a thing needed to be." 
 
 "Quarrel!" repeated Keckling. " Why, that was all made up; — 
 in fact, it was no quarrel at all. Why, she was here, and they were 
 very good friends, and she went for a drive while we, that is the two 
 Arundels and myself, discussed what was to be done with the old 
 rascal. I saw her smiling at Philip ; they were on the best of 
 terms." 
 
 " Then you do not know that my cousin broke up the home in 
 St. John's Wood, discharged the servants, and went out of town, 
 nobody knowing where, not even her husband. This despatch is my 
 tirst intimation of her retreat : Philip will, of course, learn it from 
 his father." 
 
 "Mr. Philip Arundel has driven her to this," said the old man, 
 white with anger. 
 
 " If I thought so," said Alban, " I " 
 
 " Thought so ; — I tell you it is so, Alban Cheriton. You are out 
 of the world, or have the brains to avoid its follies, but that young 
 fool, Philip, to whom has fallen a prize every way too good for him, 
 has lived recklessly, neglected and insulted his wife, and has now 
 forced her into the arms of her worthless father. I wish I had never 
 had art or part in the marriage. I wish I had prevented it, as I could 
 have done." 
 
 " As you could have done !" repeated Alban, wonderingly. " I know 
 your influence with Margaret was deservedly great " 
 
 " Influence — bah ! I had something stronger than influence." 
 
 As if Alban did not know that, having supplied Mr. Keckling with 
 the very article. 
 
 " But it is of no use talking of the past. And she has never 
 written to me. I have been doing her injustice. I thought, poor 
 child, that she did not dare to write because she knew how strongly I 
 felt about Mr. Armandale Spencer. It was another cause that held 
 her hand. She would not willingly tell me of the misconduct of her 
 unworthy husband." 
 
 " Such a reason certainly was more in accordance with her beautiful 
 character," said Alban, " than mere timidity, or shame at owning to 
 what she had thought it right to do." 
 
 " You are right, sir. It is a beautiful character, and deserves to be 
 appreciated. I wish to God she had married a man, and not a cox- 
 comb. I wish you had cared about her ; — I thought you did at one 
 time. If you had entered the lists against Arundel he would have 
 had no chance ; but so it was to be, I suppose." 
 
 " I know no man worthy of Margaret, Mr. Keckling." 
 
 " No more do I, Mr. Cheriton ; but some men are less unwoi'thy 
 than others. And never could there be a man more unworthy of her 
 than Philip Arundel. I was very furious with him the last time he 
 was here, for his high and mighty airs, and his coldness towards a 
 girl whose little finger is worth his soul and body together, but I 
 never thought he would have gone on and driven her to this. But I 
 don't blame her. By God, I don't blame her," said the old man, dash- 
 ing his fist upon the table, and lookiug Alban hard in the face. '•' I 
 
2G6 THE GORDIAN KJS T OT. 
 
 blame him, Philip, her infernal husband, who has spoiled her, as far 
 as so noble and dear a creature can be spoiled. I blame nobody else. 
 Even her damned thief of a father is not so bad. He is only fighting 
 for himself, and if he does her mischief it is not because he wants to 
 injure her, but only because she comes across his path. But the other 
 fellow, who had all that was heavenly and lovely given him in your 
 cousin, for him to show that he is a wretch, and to force her to leave 
 his house — by the Lord, Mr. Cheriton, I should like to shoot him. 
 It would be a dangerous thing, Mr. Cheriton, for him to come in my 
 way." 
 
 And having paused from raging and swearing a little, Mr. Keck- 
 ling sat down, and began to consider the case anew. 
 
 " I will go down to her," he said, after a pause. " I'll let her un- 
 derstand her mistake in associating with her father; but I'll assure 
 her that in leaving her damnable husband, she has done exactly the 
 right thing, and that he is a thoroughly bad fellow. She shall come 
 here. She shall be mistress of this house." 
 
 Pai-t of this plan suited Alban's views. That the breach between 
 Philip and Margaret should be widened by her old friend's approba- 
 tion of her conduct was exactly what Alban could have desired, and 
 to any proposed vituperation of Philip, Mr. Cheriton gave his heartiest 
 assent. But, on the other hand, the detaching Margaret from the 
 new-found ally of Alban, namely Armandale Spencer, whose influence 
 in estranging her from her friends would be very formidable, was by 
 no means so much to be wished, and the installing Margaret in Mr. 
 Reckling's house, where she would find a second happy home, with all 
 its pleasures and society, was not to be wished at all. Yet, what was 
 to be done? Mi*. Keckling, when he had made up his mind to a 
 course, could seldom be checked. Alban would accept the situation 
 as it stood, and take his own line. 
 
 " I am rejoiced to hear that you will do this, sir," he said. " I love 
 Mai'garet better, I think, than any brother ever loved his sistei*, and 
 it wounds me to the heart that one who was bred up among us, and 
 so dear to us all, should, through no fault of her own, be so sorely 
 tried and harassed. I would go down with you, myself, to Hastings, 
 if you accejjted my companionship, only I have an operation to-morrow 
 on which more is staked than the welfare of the patient — my profes- 
 sional reputation — or I would transfer the case to a friend." 
 
 "I shall start to-night. You can follow, you know. Will you 
 copy the address T 
 
 Alban had the address at home, but he made a pretext of taking a 
 note of it. 
 
 " I will start to-night," repeated the old man. " I will say that I 
 have seen you, and that your feelings are exactly the same as mine. 
 She will be glad, poor girl, that you approve her conduct." 
 
 " Why," said Alban, suddenly recollecting that he had left "a loose 
 end" that demanded tying, " I have copied this address mechanically, 
 and without noticing it. But I see she has gone to the very house 
 which I recommended to her, and indeed wrote about. She had been 
 uncomfortable as to the state of her child, and I had counselled sea- 
 air. I am veiy glad of that — you will find her in an excellent lodging, 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 2G7 
 
 where, if she had to stay at Hastings, she would be very well oft*." 
 And he gave Mr. Keckling directions how to find the house. 
 
 " Now I will leave you," said Alban, " as you have some prepara- 
 tions to make. By the way — a much graver matter had nearly put 
 it out of my head, but you will perhaps tell that child to call on me." 
 
 « child r 
 
 " Yes, the man Harris's child ; or at least " 
 
 " I had forgotten they were here. His business must stand over 
 until 1 come back from Hastings. But just see the girl yourself as 
 you go down — call her up into the hall, and give her your orders." 
 
 a You will bring Margaret to town V 
 
 " Assuredly, if she will come." 
 
 " I trust she will see no objection to that. It is the best thing she 
 could possibly do." 
 
 " I will tell her that you say so." 
 
 As he went out Alban called to Zuleika, and asked her to come and 
 see him. The young lady's reply need not be set down, but she gave 
 her promise, and kept it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 AXOTHEK TANGLE. 
 
 Who dares set our children copies, saying that " Beauty is of Small 
 Account compared with Goodness?" Tear the leaf out wherever you 
 see such profanity. Beware of putting such falsehood into copy- 
 books, O parents and guardians ! Lord Eldon has deprived some of 
 you of the custody of children for less offences. Write, on the con- 
 trary, in your best copper-plate, for transcription by our innocents, 
 that " Beauty is the best gift to woman" — provided a woman be a lady, 
 by which of course I mean somebody whose family is well to do. 
 Beauty, under our existing Christian arrangements, is a hindrance to 
 dependents ; for what sensible lady likes her governess to be prettier 
 than her daughter, or her maid to be prettier than herself? and to 
 the poor girl, no doubt, the possession of a charming face is, under 
 our Clmstian arrangements aforesaid, a curse bestowed by some ma- 
 lignant fairy, protectress of casino lovers, and the rest of the aris- 
 tocracy. But, dear and respectable woman, lawfully married wife, 
 down upon your knees morning and evening, and thank Providence 
 if you have been made beautiful; or have reason to think so. Thank 
 Providence, I repeat to you, for a gift that has saved or will 
 save you two-thirds of the vexations which make up life. If you 
 only knew its value ! You think you do ; but, as the Queen 
 of Sheba complained to Solomon the Wise, one half has not been 
 told. It won your husband, that you know epiite well, though 
 you pretend to think that accomplishments, sweetness, high-breeding, 
 and all that were your real charms. Stuff"! he married you for 
 
268 THE GORMAN KNOT. 
 
 youi- beauty, and would tell you so, but for reasons which I will 
 not betray. And it is by your beauty that you keep him — I wont 
 say constant, we. are all that, you know — but attentive, considerate, 
 generous, forgiving, enduring. I tell you, madam, that if you were 
 a plain woman you would be treated in a far different manner. The 
 plain ones all are. Some know it, but are too vain to say so — some 
 don't know it, but it is true. If an ugly woman said to a husband a 
 quarter of the unpleasant things that you say, he would pack her off 
 into the country on a separate maintenance. If she ran up such a 
 milliner's bill as you calmly asked your husband to cast up the other 
 morning — as quietly assuming a cheque for it as the raw young 
 voluble dissenting missionary going to the Hottentots said, in answer 
 to an instructing friend, that of course he should assume justification 
 by faith — it would be tossed back to her with a growl, if the man 
 were a gentleman, and an oath if he were a snob. If she wrote him, 
 he being away, the careless and scanty letter that you wrote the 
 other day, and which you would hardly have written at all but that 
 you wanted money for a ball-dress (whereas she sent him sixteen 
 sides of clearly written, affectionate, and amusing stuff, not at all a 
 bore to read, and very good hints for his dinner- table-talk at the 
 country house), she would have had a brief extract from the counter- 
 foils of his cheques for the year, and an intimation that she would 
 have no more money till Christmas, when he meant to retrench. But 
 you are beautiful, or he thinks so. He likes that face, and he is weak 
 enough not to like to see, or to imagine it (which is worse, because 
 one imagines gentleness and misses abuse) in a melancholy state, 
 tears gathering in the eyes, disappointment clouding the features, 
 perhaps embarrassment at his conduct giving the countenance a really 
 piteous effect. That's why you get the playful answer and the kiss 
 in return for your rudeness, when you ought to have a box on the 
 ears. That is why the party is given, the opera-box taken, the visit 
 to Brighton accoi'ded, and when you send your half-sulky letter for 
 money, then, as Mr. Tennyson says — 
 
 Thy face across liis fancy comes, 
 
 And yives the cheque-book to his hands. 
 
 Be thankful, too, for your small mercies — your small waist, small 
 hand, small foot, small talk, but above all, dear woman, be thankful 
 that you have got one of those faces which a man of average sensi- 
 bility does not like to see in discontent or distress. 
 
 An ugly woman (I never saw one in all my life, I solemnly declare 
 it, but I am told that there are many) will remark upon this that a 
 man so actuated must be a fool and unworthy of the regard of an 
 intellectual being. This I am ready to admit without the slightest 
 qualification, but that is not to the purpose. One does not write to 
 aiTaign the dispositions of nature. She has created us as we are, and 
 she has also created black-beetles, toads, mosquitoes, and other things 
 the xise whereof we are unable to discover. The mystery will some 
 day be cleared up, and we shall know at the same time what fools 
 were made for. Let that pass, and O ye, whom we insult by calling 
 angels, seeing that our pictures can but typify an angel by a bad 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 200 
 
 resemblance to yourselves, ouce more give thanks that you are 
 lovely, ami endeavour to keep so. 
 
 I have advanced some detestable propositions, and it might be politic 
 to withdraw them. No, let us be martyrs to the truth, if it must be 
 so, and let the book be thrown down with contempt, or sent back 
 with tierce comment in pencil to the circulating libraiy. Also am I 
 open to milder remonstrances. " Then do you not think — do you 
 really not think that there is something in a woman's intellect, in her 
 regard lor you, in her obedience and devotion, that can enchain a 
 
 man, even if she be less attractive than " Hold your tongue, 
 
 madam, and don't be a Hypocrite. I know what I, myself, think of 
 that bad forehead of yours, and that sulky upper lip, and the hair 
 which that lying Stipple, who painted your horrible picture there, calls 
 (to your face) auburn, and the extremely unpleasant mouth, and ugly 
 ear, and I also know how you would describe them if they appertained 
 to any of your dearest friends. But I know also what you think of 
 them yourself, and what you thought of them while you were putting 
 in the bandoline before your toilette-glass this morning, and nagging 
 away all the time at Jones in his dressing-room — and, madam, I know 
 what Jones thought and still thinks of them, and so do you. What's 
 the good of talking hypocrisy? Uo you believe yourself an ugly 
 woman ? Do you believe that Jones thinks you are, or suspects it, 
 or murmurs such a suspicion to himself when down in his cellar, or 
 bathing in the sea, or on the Stock Exchange, or elsewhere, out of the 
 possibility of your hearing him I Y on know better. Have I made 
 my peace ? 
 
 Frantic and furious we have seen was Philip Arundel, as he stood 
 upon Hampstead Heath, and, like Achilles, shouted to the skies, 
 declaring that lie was a fool to marry. In miserable sort was Philip 
 Arundel, when he wept in the chambers of his friend. And dreary 
 and doleful were Philip Arundel's days thenceforth, and still more 
 dreary and doleful his nights. He had his wrong to comfort him, 
 and let folks say what they will, a good wrong is a warm, lively com- 
 panion, almost as pleasant as a tire, and cheaper. But even a lively 
 wrong grows a bore at times. Poor Philip became very much 
 depressed, and would even talk — I need hardly say without the 
 faintest intention of the kind — of making away with himself. A 
 much sui-er sign of his desponding state was that he began to neglect 
 his dress, and made very little riot and disturbance when an idiotic 
 laundress used common instead of patent blacking to his shoes. He 
 walked about the Temple Gardens a good deal, and chewed several 
 miles of toothpicks, cursing his destiny, but somehow managing to 
 remember the dinner hour. And — for no one supposes we had all 
 that elegant writing about beauty for nothing — he was perpetually 
 haunted by the sweet face of Margaret, his wife. It was her face 
 that had originally secured him, and her face had its old charm and 
 power. It came before him at all times and in all places. He saw 
 it at the breakfast-table, where it was wont to appear so fresh and 
 kindly, and the reality of John Claxton's face seemed very hard. Jack's 
 demand whether there was any news, as Philip skimmed the paper 
 (Jack minded his meals, and read afterwards), was couched in about the 
 
270 THE GORDIAN KXOT. 
 
 same words that Margaret would use, but the arch face that, as iu old 
 times, peeped round the corner of his paper as the question was 
 asked, had braids and earrings, which was not Mr. Claxton's costume. 
 A face at the door, as he went out, had lips which whispered to him 
 not to be late unless he had something very pleasant to engage him, 
 and lips which had something else to do, and when he had departed 
 the face still attended on him, looked at a picture with him, smiled at 
 a contretemps, turned pale at a street accident, waxed sorrowful at a 
 sad story. It was at his table at dinner, and he sometimes felt, 
 after a bottle or so, as if he could fill a wine glass as he had 
 been used to do for the Presence that was perpetually there. 
 It was in the best chair in the private box, a chair which he took 
 with a sort of reluctance, it was by his side in the cab, it was holding 
 a spill to light his cigar, it stooped a sweet and visionary mouth to 
 taste whether his grog was nicely mixed, it took the shirt-pin from 
 his cravat — in fact the presence Avas always before him — a beautiful 
 face to which he was gradually preparing to forgive everything, to 
 which he was almost bringing himself to concede that he, too, had 
 something to be forgiven. If Margaret had been a plain girl — but 
 then, as has been before remarked in the course of this history, she 
 would never have been Mrs. Philip Arundel. 
 
 Claxton, to whose guidance Philip had surrendered himself, had in- 
 terdicted his taking any step of any kind in reference to Mrs. Arundel. 
 John Claxton, whether by instinct or by reasoning, had arrived at 
 one conviction — namely, that he had not got the whole case before 
 him. And until he should have the case before him, he refused to 
 act or to allow his friend to act. Meantime he was not idle ; but, on 
 the contrary, was using his best endeavours to supply himself with 
 materials for a judgment. Claxton was no lawyer, for his wealthy 
 uncle had been satisfied that his nephew should be a barrister, but he 
 was keen, shrewd, and worldly — the last word being used in its least 
 severe sense — and he privately piqued himself upon what he called 
 the facidty of seeing into things. He could moreover hold his tongue 
 until he could use it with advantage, and though not exactly like 
 Mr. Addison's Cato, 
 
 A proper person to entrust 
 A love-tale with, 
 
 he was not by any means the least desirable of counsellors when you 
 doubted whether the heroine of your love-tale were playing you fair, 
 or worth your attention. John believed a good deal in women — that 
 is, if they happened to be perfectly thorough-bred (holding, however, 
 the mass of his countrywomen in a most objectionable contempt and 
 derision), and he had been pleased to confer this title upon Margaret, 
 despite all her antecedents. He had written her down a lady, and he 
 meant to do his best for her. I am truly sorry that I cannot depict 
 him as more chivalrous, and as looking upon woman as a being to be 
 helped and protected under all circumstances. I can describe the man 
 only as he was and is, and if a woman had had a plebeian laugh, or a 
 vulgar habit of any kind, if ever an aspirate had fallen from her chaplet 
 of articulation or been wrongly garnered thereto, John Claxton would 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 271 
 
 n< it have i'elt that it was any part of his business to help that sort of per- 
 son. I don't know that lie would not have let his clerk at chambers 
 take in " pink notes" for her husband. But for Mrs. Arundel he had 
 resolved to do his utmost, and he even thought that he owed it to her 
 to do so, having once tried as hard as he prudently could to prevent 
 her being Mrs. Arundel. 
 
 Claxton put himself into immediate communication with Philip's 
 father, whose senatorial intellect — though of coui-se adequate to de- 
 cide upon the relations and welfare of nations, or he would not have 
 been elected — were not equal to the task of disentangling his son's 
 position. Mr. Arundel was very much bewildered and very much 
 grieved. He loved and was proud of his son, and he had also become 
 deeply attached, as has been seen, to his son's wife, and that two per- 
 sons for whom the good and kind old man felt nothing but affection, 
 and whom he would have done anything to serve, should combine, 
 voluntarily or not, to give him pain and perplexity, and all without 
 warning, completely — to use a household word — overset him. He 
 would hardly talk to Claxton about it, but gladly recognised him as 
 the common friend of all parties, and left the matter in his hands. 
 Perhaps, from old experiences, he had some kind of idea that his son 
 might not be by any means blameless in the business, and this fact he 
 was naturally in no hurry to see proved. But he had all a gentleman's 
 love of justice, and at the right time he would see justice done to 
 Margaret. Meantime, it was more pleasant — or at least less unplea- 
 sant to him — to let the matter take its course a little ; and if Mr. 
 Claxton would be so good as to form an opinion, and let him know 
 what he thought, it would be kind. And it may be mentioned (who 
 among us is without other motives than those we parade 1) that Mr. 
 John Claxton had reasons of his own for wishing to stand well in the 
 good graces of the father of a certain person. He was glad, however, 
 that the absence of the Misses Arundel, who were visiting in Sussex, 
 pi-evented his having to discuss the subject ever so slightly with them; 
 for, not having made up his own mind on the case, he did not want 
 it made up for him, as, of course, is the practice when the object of 
 one's admiration has formed her opinion upon a subject. 
 
 When Mr. Arundel received the telegraphic message from Arman- 
 dale Spencer the senator simply enclosed a copy of it (for it would 
 not have been senatorial to send the original) to Claxton, with a line 
 or two to the effect that " comment was beyond his power," and for 
 once he did not follow the conventional course, and instantly attempt 
 that of which he had declared himself incapable. Mr. Keckling, 
 having called upon the member for Shacklington, had the same 
 despatch put into his hand, and impetuously impounded it, to be used 
 as we have seen. That despatch decided more than one person on a 
 line of action. 
 
 " I asked you to call about one, young lady," said Alban Cheriton, 
 as the person he addressed — our acquaintance (mine, I beg the re- 
 spectable reader's pardon) Maria. 
 
 •' Well, it isn't three," responded the girl. 
 
 ''Nearer four; but no matter. How are you going on ?" 
 
272 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 "I don't know. "Worse, I believe; but you don't care enough 
 about that to send for me to ask after my health. Come." 
 
 " Very unkind of you to say so. Now it happens that I am going 
 out of town, and I wished to see you before I went. Have you taken 
 all the medicine I gave you V 
 
 " Yes, every drop. No, I broke the bottle in my way home." 
 
 " Which story is true V 
 
 a Whichever you likes — you pays your " 
 
 w Spare me that, Maria. You've said it so often." 
 
 "And how am I to get new jokes, do you think ? I don't live so 
 cheerful a life that I can be always inventing clever things to amuse 
 you, Mi\ Sulky." 
 
 " Do you find it dull ?" 
 
 " Does a duck swim V 
 
 " Well, will you like a companion, if I find you one V 
 
 " Most likely not. I should think a, companion of your finding 
 would be a lively lot. Who is it 1 A living skeleton 1" 
 
 " We are all living skeletons." 
 
 " Speak for yourself, please. I am nothing of the kind. Look at 
 my arms ; do you call those skeleton arms ?" 
 
 And she drew back her dress and sleeves, and bared a couple of 
 round and pretty arms, rather large, perhaps for her height, but the 
 fault woidd hardly have occurred to any but a hypercritic. They 
 were also very white, and seemed made to be ornamented. 
 
 "I'll give you a bracelet for one of those handsome limbs," said 
 Alban, ' 4 if you do as I ask you." 
 
 " Don't call them limbs ; it sounds like an operation going to be 
 performed. Well, what do you want done? No good, I suppose ; 
 when did a man ever pay a woman to do good for him ]" 
 
 " Why should he when he can do it himself, and it goes against her 
 natui-e V 
 
 " I believe you are right, and that we are awful bad. But who 
 makes us so V 
 
 " Don't be profane, Maria. I am always reproving you for that 
 error, so very objectionable in a woman." 
 
 " What do you mean by profane 1 I mean that it is you men who 
 bring us up as fools, and teach us nothing but sin, and then shrug 
 shoulders at one another like hypocrites, and say how precious bad 
 we are." 
 
 " I never say so. What sort of a bracelet will you like ?" 
 
 ''■ Don't care. Only mind that it's one that looks handsome, and 
 will find favour if I take it round to my uncle some day, to see if it 
 will fit my aunt or any of my lady cousins." 
 
 " Don't do that. Come to me when you are driven to that strait." 
 
 '•' Another liberal offer. You must want me to commit something 
 dreadful. If it's murder, mention it, as Keeley says." 
 
 " I want you to have a child home at your house." 
 
 " And poison it 1 I shan't." 
 
 " Don't be so ridiculous. So far from that, I wish you to take every 
 care of her. Of course, I'll pay all expenses." 
 
 u O, it's a her. How old is her '?" 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 273 
 
 " Nine — ten, perhaps. I hardly know, but somewhere about that 
 
 a S e -" 
 
 " What ! the mother so completely forgotten ? O, you men !" 
 
 "Nonsense. I don't know who the mother is. I never saw 
 her in my life. But I want the child, who has been a good deal 
 neglected, taken care of for a time, and I should think it would be 
 just the thing for you. Nothing like a child to set a woman's 
 thoughts into healthy action." 
 
 " Ah," said the girl, " I thought so once." And her thoughts 
 strayed back to a sad time, and a miserable November afternoon, and 
 a little coffin borne away in the wet to a melancholy London church- 
 yard, and a weeping mother roused the same evening from the hearth- 
 rug, and pulling back her dishevelled hair to answer a bullying 
 creditor's demand for an instalment of a debt, most improperly 
 neglected while a baby was dying. 
 
 " Think so again," said Alban, not unkindly, and after a pause to 
 let a current of idea, which he pretty well guessed at, run its course. 
 '• Think so again. This child is a sort of patient of mine — at least a 
 valued friend takes a good deal of interest in her, and I have pro- 
 mised to see to her a little." 
 
 " 0, but what's the matter with her ?" asked Maria. " If you want 
 a nurse, I don't much see it in that light." 
 
 " There is nothing the matter with her, except that she has lived 
 carelessly, and been rather hardly treated, and wants bringing into 
 condition." 
 
 "Well, I'll see how I like her, if you choose to send her on 
 those terms ; but if she does not please me, whether it's her fault or 
 mine — and it's most likely to be mine — you are to take her off my 
 hands." 
 
 " Certainly, at any time. Then I may send her to you V 
 
 " Send away. What's her name ? Norval on the Grampian 
 
 hiiis r 
 
 "'Almost as absurd — Zuleika. But call her what you like." 
 
 " So I don't call her too late for dinner, eh 1 And what's her sur- 
 name 1" 
 
 " Harris." 
 
 " Yes, I thought she came of the Harrises — or of the Walkers. 
 But I don't want to pry into your secrets — what are they to me 1 
 Send Miss Harris, as soon as you like, to the original old-established 
 shop for manners and morals, kept by Maria Prescott, spinster. N.B. 
 — Copy the address." 
 
 " There would be some fun in you, Maria, if you did not affect that 
 ridiculous mixture of levity and despair." 
 
 " It is not affectation. I feel so. I feel, like the pig that they fed 
 one day and starved the next, to make alternate streaks of fat and 
 lean, only my streaks come oftener. Talking of mixtures, make me 
 up another buttle, please, in place of that I broke." [He can't mean 
 me any harm just now, as he's sending me a lodger, thought poor 
 Maria.] 
 
 " Very well, I will. But I think I shall alter my treatment of 
 you when I come back to town." 
 
 PAKT IX. T 
 
274 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 "I think you ought, for it isn't half polite enough, considering 
 the service I have been to you." 
 
 Alban's face suddenly assumed a look so stern and fierce that 
 the poor girl trembled before him. He observed her agitation, 
 and continued to watch her steadily for some moments. Her eye fell 
 before his, and when she looked up again he had mastered his features. 
 Then came to her the recollection that she had his secret, and she 
 summoned courage and looked him full in the face. There was a 
 working of his proud lip, as if in wrath with himself, but — his eye, 
 in its turn, became uneasy, and he turned away. 
 
 " I wish I had never come here," she said to herself as Alban left 
 the room. " There will no good come to me of any dealings with 
 that man. But what's the oclds 1 I wish I was dead !" 
 
 And when her medical friend returned with the medicine, she was 
 singing a melody of American Ethiopia, recording the decease of a 
 certain Ancient Edward, gone where the good niggers go. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYIII. 
 
 VIKGINIUS ON GUARD. 
 
 " And never write to me ! that was the worst of all," said Mr. 
 Keckling. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Keckling, as if I should not write to you before any- 
 body, when I am in trouble." 
 
 " Then you are not in trouble, my love ?" 
 
 " How can you ask such a question 1 If you could be unkind, 
 I should say you wanted to be so now." 
 
 " Then, once more, my dear, why did you not write to me directly?" 
 
 " And that was the very thing I did, the first day I came here." 
 
 <( Who posted the letter, dear V 
 
 " The servant here. You do not mean to say that you never had 
 it?" 
 
 " To use your own words, how can you ask such a question 1 Do 
 you think I snould not have been with you by the next train V 
 
 " I thought that you were so angry with me that you would not 
 answer," said Margaret. " You have taken such a weight off my 
 heart 
 
 " Dear child, confidence, as somebody said, is a plant of slow 
 growth in an aged bosom ; but when it takes root, it takes it pretty 
 deeply. Nothing ever can or shall make me think you in the wrong 
 about anything, and you might have known that by this time." 
 
 " How good you are. Then my letter must have miscarried ?" 
 
 " Yes, my love. I have no doubt that I know where it is, but 
 I should like to be certain. Was that the girl to whom you gave 
 it — the one who showed me in 1 It was V And he rang the bell. 
 The same domestic appeared. 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 275 
 
 " A nice thing you've done for yourself, young woman," said Mr. 
 Keckling, in a voice of affected harshness. " That was bad money 
 which the gentleman in the other room gave you for this lady's letter; 
 — you remember, I see, and I am a detective policeman. Passing bad 
 money is transportation, girl," he added still more sternly. 
 
 " But — but I haven't passed it," stammered the girl, thrown off 
 her guard. 
 
 " Not passed it V thundered Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " No, sir ; no, on my Bible hoath I haven't. It's in my box now." 
 
 " What is — the crown piece 1" said Mr. Keckling, at a venture. 
 
 " Ah, don't lay traps for me, sir : I'm only a poor girl — you know it 
 was only half-a-crown. I'll fetch it if you like, sir." 
 
 "The half-crown given you by Mr. Spencer, when he took this 
 lady's letter." 
 
 " He said he would take it to the post." 
 
 " And you were to say that you had done it 1" 
 
 " The lady never asked me the question, sir. Ask her if she did."' 
 
 " No, I did not," said Margaret. " I never thought of being de- 
 ceived." 
 
 " Servants always deceive you," said Mr. Keckling. " Here this 
 girl sells your letter, which might have been life and death, for half-a- 
 crown ; and I dare say for half- a- sovereign she would have put rats- 
 bane into your baby's food." 
 
 " Lord G — Almighty 1" shrieked out the girl, in horror and in- 
 dignation, " I wonder the floor don't open and swaller yer up for say- 
 ing such a dreadful wicked thing. I hurt an apple of that dear babe's 
 eyes ! Why, I love him like my own little brother that's at Horsham. 
 Ask his nurse if I didn't run out in the rain to buy him saveloy-cakes, 
 and would again. I think you must be a very bad man." 
 
 The explosion was so perfectly natural, and the girl so evidently 
 spoke from her heart, that Margaret began to cry, and Keckling to 
 laugh. 
 
 " Well, you have done dreadful mischief as it is," said Mr. 
 Keckling, " but I believe you did not mean it. But you mind, and if 
 you have letters given you again, never part with them. You may 
 
 go-" 
 
 And she went, but in a most excessive rage, deeming herself the 
 injured party, and cut to the very heart at the allusion to the child, 
 for whom she, like most people who came near him, had formed 
 a very honest attachment. It was difficult to get a bell answered iu 
 the house for the rest of that day. 
 
 " Your father, you see, was afraid of your communicating with me," 1 
 said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " Not precisely afraid," said a gentlemanly voice, " but he thought 
 that, for several reasons, the present interview should be delayed." 
 
 And Mr. Armandale Spencer, who had glided into the room un- 
 perceived, as the servant left it, bowed pleasantly to Mi*. Keckling, 
 and -at down upon the sofa beside Margaret, affectionately taking one 
 of her hands in his fatherly clasp, and retaining it. 
 
 Keckling had in some measure primed himself for the encounter 
 with Spencer, but had not calculated on its being begun iu so verv 
 
 t2 
 
276 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 quiet a manner. Mr. Spencer's assurance put him into a rage, and 
 as he had a casus belli in the detaining a letter belonging to him- 
 self, he hastened to pour in a volley. 
 
 " What did you mean, Mr. Spencer, by keeping a letter that was 
 intended for me ?" 
 
 " Aware, my dear Mr. Keckling, of the delicate stratagem by which 
 you have arrived at the knowledge of the fact, I almost wonder that 
 your keenness does not lead you to a solution of the problem you 
 have just put to me. Does it not occur to you that what I meant 
 by keeping the letter was to prevent its being received by you V 
 
 " And how dared you take my letter ] I would say, but for the 
 presence of Mrs. Arundel, how dared " 
 
 " I steal your letter ?" 
 
 Keckling nodded savagely. 
 
 " I am glad, then, that the presence of my beloved child saves you 
 from making a blunder. The letter, you observe, had not become 
 yours ) and even had I taken it from the Post-office, the theft would 
 not have been from you, but from the Postmaster-General, whose pro- 
 perty a posted letter becomes. It is impossible to be too accurate, in 
 making a criminal charge." 
 
 " I dare say you have known, or will know, a good deal about such 
 charges," said Keckling, losing all remains of temper. 
 
 Armandale Spencer rose, and said with some dignity — 
 
 " You must feel, Mr. Keckling, that this room is no place for such 
 remarks. There is the door." 
 
 But Keckling not moving, Spencer, after a pause, said — 
 
 " We are both old men, Mr. Keckling ; and though I have the ad- 
 vantage in personal strength, owing to my temperate and active 
 habits, while you have become obese from self-indulgence, and there- 
 fore I could probably put you through that window with little dif- 
 ficulty, any such combat between us would be as ridiculous as that of 
 Peachuru and Lockit, whom we resemble in character a good deal." 
 
 " Don't say that to me, sir," said Keckling. 
 
 " But really, my dear Mr. Keckling," returned the other, " for a 
 very clever man, you are curiously afraid of hearing the truth. It is 
 said to be characteristic of real talent to like to hear it. Now, you and 
 I are travelled men — men of the world ; we have respectively pushed 
 our fortunes according to our abilities, you going in for roubles and I 
 for rupees, and both of us employing such means of success as were 
 most efficient. You have a hundred times bribed an official into let- 
 ting you into a lucrative contract, and I in my poor way have managed 
 a native, and made him see merits in me which he would do well to 
 reward. We have not been moral men, Keckling ; but we have been 
 lucky men, who knew how to take the world as we found it." 
 
 The fault of this charming address, intended, perhaps, to be exas- 
 perating, was, that being rather too long, it gave Mr. Keckling time 
 to regain his self-possession, and to remember that he must lose in any 
 contest with such a man as Armandale Spencer. So he allowed the 
 other to finish his insulting speech, and then replied with tolerable 
 calmness — 
 
 " In one respect I agree with you, Mr. Spencer — namely, that we 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 277 
 
 shall do well to avoid violence of any kind. I was wrong to express 
 myself angrily at your detaining my letter." 
 
 Despite his endeavours, Mr. Keckling could not keep a little 
 emphasis from falling upon the word, and turning a civil speech into 
 a bitter sneer. The toncjue is indeed at times " an unruly evil, and 
 full of deadly poison." But Armandale Spencer refused to accept the 
 taunt. 
 
 " I have nothing more to say, sir, after that frank avowal that a 
 father's effort for his child's welfare should not be judged by the rules 
 of mere every-day etiquette. In the same spirit of frankness I hand 
 you the letter, which you will observe I have opened, and which I 
 inform you that I read." 
 
 Margaret looked up indignantly, and would have withdrawn her 
 hand; but her father held it with so detei'mined a grasp that she could 
 not release it save by a struggle. 
 
 Mr. Keckling took the letter Avith a bow, and placed it in his 
 pocket-book. 
 
 " We may talk as men of business," he said. 
 
 "Assuredly, my dear sir; and I would suggest that one first point 
 should be your explaining your business in Mrs. Arundel's apart- 
 ment." 
 
 " That is rather beyond your range, Mr. Spencer. I address myself 
 to a friend, who happens to be a married lady, and of course decides 
 who shall or shall not be her visitors. The blunder is, however, 
 excusable, considering your Oriental habits." 
 
 " Mrs. Arundel, having left her husband, and placed herself under 
 the protection of her father, will be guided by him, sir, in the selec- 
 tion of her acquaintances," said Spencer, grinding his teeth. 
 
 " You force me into a corner, Mr. Spencer," said Keckling, seeing 
 his advantage, "and that, I believe, you diplomatic gentlemen don't 
 consider the high game. You know the answer which, if you persist 
 in your last remark, I must make to it." 
 
 '• Make it, sir, that we may quite imdei'stand one another." 
 
 " We do so already, Mr. Spencer, and there is no propriety in pain- 
 ing Mrs. Arundel by the use of harsh language in her presence. I 
 must, however, decline to concede that Mrs. Arundel is in your society 
 by her own choice, any more " he paused. 
 
 " Any more, sir ) Pray finish. Have no apprehension." 
 
 " Any more, sir, than any other respectable person, aware of your 
 — your merits, could be." 
 
 " There is nothing like being explicit, Mr. Keckling." 
 
 " On that point I was sure you would agree with me, Mr. Spencer." 
 
 They still held off a little, as fencers make appeals, beats on blade, 
 and other tentatives. 
 
 Margaret managed to withdraw her hand from her father's, and 
 said, rising, that she must go up-stairs to her child. His grandfather, 
 with an indulgent smile, said that her doing so was needless, as, from 
 the window, he saw Duke and his nurse at a distance, which happened 
 to be the fact. 
 
 " You are naturally desirous to escape this conversation. Mrs. 
 Arundel," said Mr. Keckling ; " and I wish that you could do so. It 
 
278 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 5s not I who seek to make you remain, to hear what you must be so 
 unwilling to hear." 
 
 "Which, therefore, throws that painful responsibility on me," said 
 Arm an dale Spencer; "and, believe me, I accept it with sincere sorrow. 
 But to make matters as agreeable as is consistent with business, I 
 think I may say that we all know pretty well why this delightful 
 meeting takes place. Mr. Keckling is tolerably nearly aware why I 
 have sought the companionship of my dear child, and I do not imagine 
 that I deceive myself as to the motive which has brought him to 
 Hastings." 
 
 " If you do I will undeceive you at once, sir. It is to end that 
 companionship as speedily as possible." 
 
 " Of course," replied Spencer. " And the means 1" 
 
 " May I presume that an appeal to your fatherly feelings, a refe- 
 rence to the cruel embarrassment in which you wantonly involve your 
 daughter, will not be without avail f 
 
 " The presumption would be a pardonable one. But a similar 
 appeal has been made to me by Mrs. Arundel herself, and it would be 
 insulting to her to recognise in a stranger's ai'gument the force I could 
 not see in the same reasoning by my beloved child." 
 
 " Then, if you will not leave her, she shall leave you." 
 
 " You grow peremptory, Mr. Keckling, and it is something early to 
 become so. If Mrs. Arundel pleases, I will, in deference to a look 
 from her, retire to my own room, and remain there until she has 
 removed from the house." 
 
 " And then " 
 
 " Pardon me if I say that my own course — though I should be 
 proud to take your advice upon it — is not to be submitted to your 
 dictation." 
 
 The advice Keckling burned to tender was, that Spencer should go 
 to the toy-shop over the way, and, once more to quote the Laureat, 
 
 Take a skipping-rope, 
 And hang himself thereby. 
 
 But this was not counsel to be proffered under the circumstances. 
 
 " You mean, Mr. Spencer, that you will renew your persecution of 
 Mrs. Arundel in some other way. You may as well speak out." 
 
 "When I have an object in view, my dear Mr. Keckling, I usually 
 accomplish it. I may, in deference to the wishes of others, abandon 
 any special means which I may have selected, but I adopt others, and, 
 as I said, I succeed." 
 
 " It would be satisfactory to me, Mr. Spencer, if you saw your way 
 to an arrangement that should spare us the chance of any future in- 
 terviews of this kind. We can afford to speak very frankly to one 
 another. You know perfectly well that I can have no interest in 
 your Avelfare, excej)t as it is connected with Mrs. Arundel. But you 
 have also, of course, learned that I care sufficiently about her to make 
 a sacrifice for her benefit. Why not name that sacrifice, and let me 
 see if I can meet you V 
 
 " I am obliged by your candour, sir. I am, I dare say, right in 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 279 
 
 saying, that if, by our mutual arrangement, I should retire to my 
 room, and put a pistol to my head, you would, the moment after hear- 
 ing the report, draw a cheque for a couple of thousand guineas, and 
 enclose it to my executors." 
 
 Mr. Keckliug has since said that he believes he felt, involuntarily, 
 at his breast-pocket to know if his cheque-book were there, he was so 
 pleased at the idea thus presented to him. 
 
 " You don't deny it," said Armandale, laughing. " I am not pre- 
 pared, however, to negotiate on such a basis. I have never quite satis- 
 tied my conscience that what Cato did and Addison did not approve 
 is justifiable under any ordinary circumstances. Waiving the religious 
 aspect of the question, however, I am not inclined, even for so hand- 
 some a douceur, to pi'ess advantages which I believe I see before me. 
 Let me say that the handsomeness of the sum increases my conviction 
 that I have an excellent market to resort to." 
 
 " I name no sum as the price of your ceasing to annoy your child, 
 sir. Money, however, should not stand in your way ; and, supposing 
 that the influence of myself, or of other friends of hers, could procure 
 for you a colonial appointment " 
 
 " I should be compelled to decline it. My health is good, and I am 
 promised a long lease of life in this climate ; but I must not exchange 
 it for a warmer one." 
 
 " You will, one of these days," muttered Calvinistic Keckling. 
 
 " We might find you something in Ireland, or in France, con- 
 ditionally " 
 
 " The accent of Ireland is detestable to me, and so are the morals 
 of France. I regret that my attachment to my dear native country 
 should be so offensive to you and your friends, sir, but I feel that it is 
 not to be eradicated." 
 
 " I think I have now earned the right to ask you to name your own 
 terms." 
 
 " I really see no ground on which you can ask it. You wish to 
 buy of me something which I don't desire to sell. I will listen to your 
 biddings, but I am not disposed to ticket my goods." 
 
 Mr. Keckling was beginning to lose patience and temper again. 
 
 " You have learned this kind of evasive talk among those scoun- 
 drels in the East," he said ; " but at the same time you have forgotten 
 that it does not suit us here." 
 
 • : I am aware that Mr. Keckling has long been naturalized in 
 Eussia ; in which happy region everybody is corruptible, and where 
 there is a tariff for everything, from the broken head of a cabman to 
 the honour of a wife." 
 
 At these last words of all, Keckling uttered an ironical laugh, and 
 whispered something in Spencer's ear. Armandale suddenly turned 
 white with rage, and, with a furious gesture, as it were, brushed away 
 Keckling from him, exclaiming, violently — 
 
 '■' You are a dastardly old liar, sir — a dastardly old liar." 
 
 Keckling rushed to the door, opened it, and signed to Margaret 
 to withdraw. She rose to obey, but the infuriated Armandale caught 
 her Avrist, and said — 
 
 '•' No, stay, young lady, and learn with what kind of ruffian you 
 
280 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 are willing to live for the sake of his money and his luxuries. That 
 man has just dared to say to your father, in the room where you, his 
 child, are " 
 
 " Spencer," exclaimed Keckling, " an instant. She knows much of 
 your character, but she does not know your crowning shame. She 
 does not know it, I tell you. If she learns it, remember, it is from 
 your own lips." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, sir," cried Armandale, with a savage oath. " It 
 is your character that is to be shown up." 
 
 Keckling's agitation for Margaret's sake was great, and in his 
 anxiety to stay the tongue of Armandale, he spoke thickly and 
 hurriedly — 
 
 " Remember, remember," he said, " Mr. Spencer, I know what 
 I said ; I know what I am saying. Before you — before you utter 
 another word, think of this. I told you something just now in your 
 ear. I have — listen — I have written documents to prove it — letters 
 which you know." 
 
 And he pointed at Armandale Spencer with a menacing finger. 
 
 Spencer's eyes flamed like those of an enraged tiger-cat, but his 
 face became whiter, and there were the signs of discomfiture in the 
 relaxing muscles of the jaw. He was about to speak, when Keckling 
 repeated, sternly — 
 
 " Letters which you know." 
 
 The father's hand loosed its hold of the daughter's wrist, and 
 Margaret, with an appealing look of infinite terror, directed at Mr. 
 Keckling, obeyed his sign, and fled from the room. Armandale's 
 eyes followed her for the moment during which she was in sight, and 
 then Spencer, exercising a sudden self-mastery, quietly closed the 
 door. 
 
 He then turned to the Russian merchant — ■ 
 
 "You take the ti-ick this time, Mi*. Keckling." 
 
 "Honours don't count, anyhow," returned Keckling, scoffingly. 
 He did not care what he said, now that his pet, Margaret, was not in 
 the room to be pained and grieved. 
 
 " True. But you have not won the game." 
 
 " Damn the game, sir," cried Keckling, relieving his mind with the 
 comminative phrase. " Don't talk of games, sir. We play games with 
 honest and honourable men, who win or lose fairly, not with rascally 
 gamblers. By Jove, what a scoundrel you are ! Don't look at me 
 like that, because I permitted your damned swagger rather than pain 
 Mrs. Arundel; for, if you come near me, I'll dash my fist in your 
 face." 
 
 And the sturdy old man looked as if his blow, which would cer- 
 tainly have been given with his whole heart, might be a damaging hit. 
 
 " A fellow," pursued Keckling, " who trades on his own bad name, 
 and forces his own daughter to hawk about the article for sale." 
 
 "And means to have it sold well, mind that," responded Spencer, in 
 a brutal tone, utterly unlike the silken softness in which he had en- 
 folded his earlier verbiage. 
 
 " I make no doubt of it," said Keckling, " if the hangman don't 
 spoil the market. Well, are we to deal ?" 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 281 
 
 "You (lout mind doing that, then?" 
 
 " Certainly not. It is a rule of commei-ce that if the devil has an 
 article to sell which I want to buy, I am not to be blamed for dealing 
 with him, so long as our connexion is only one of business." 
 
 " And this is a parallel case." 
 
 " No; be hanged if it is. ' The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman,' 
 as the chap says in the play. But shall we deal 1" 
 
 '• You offer nothing." 
 
 '• The deuce I don't ! A colonial appointment and a lump of 
 money, and that to a man whose character is so bad that he hasn't a 
 chance." 
 
 " That is the rock on which you split, Mr. Iveckling. I have every 
 chance, including one of which you know nothing. Why should I 
 transport myself?" 
 
 " Indeed," said Iveckling, " I am heartily sorry that the proceed- 
 ing should be voluntary. But so it is ; and really for what you are 
 offered, and which can only be got by putting the screw upon certain 
 high people, there are thousands of honest men who would fall on 
 their knees and bless the Almighty for his goodness." 
 
 " M} r religion is not so demonstrative," said Armandale, with some- 
 thing of his soft manner. " Besides, if Providence has given me the 
 talent to convei't even the misfortunes with which He has been pleased 
 to visit me to my benefit, and to my enjoyment of his special bounties, 
 it would be atheistic to neglect my advantages. In short," he said, 
 suddenly returning to his coarser tone, " I know what I'm about, 
 and I don't think you'll turn me from it." 
 
 "I think I shall." 
 
 "Well, you are desperately in earnest about it, certainly, which 
 shows me the strength of my game." 
 
 " Bah," said Keckling, " we know that you are not a fool, and that 
 you see the infernal value of your character as well as we do. You 
 know that your daughter is dear to a good many people hei*e, and has 
 married into a first-class family of honourable men and virtuous 
 women, and therefore that we would do a great deal to keep your 
 existence, which, as you so proudly and so truly say, is a conta- 
 mination, out of sight and scent. We give you credit for being per- 
 fectly alive to all that. Don't you push matters too far, though." 
 
 "Tin-eaten me, eh?" And he smiled, almost benevolently. 
 
 "Not I. But I would deal with you, if I could; and I tell you 
 fairly, that, if I can't deal, I shall defy you." 
 
 " That would be very wise." 
 
 " I am not sure that it would not be wise to do so at once; but we 
 will try the other course first. Bemeniber, therefore, that, if you will 
 come to terms, and take yourself off for good and all, until it shall 
 please the devil to take you finally off* to where you will be better 
 appreciated, well and good, if one may use such words in such a case. 
 If you don't, remember this — that your abominable article is good for 
 sale only while sale means preventing its being known. To speak 
 plainly, when once the mischief is done, and you have wounded your 
 daughter's heart, and shocked her friends with the disclosure, the 
 sooner you hang yourself the better. There will be no more offers 
 
2S2 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 then, and, on the contrary, you will be kicked from every door you 
 knock at. You know best whether you have provided against having 
 to make your last knock at the door of the workhouse." 
 
 " A well and boldly-drawn picture, Mr. Keckling ; the effect not 
 weakened by any hesitation as to the colouring." 
 
 " Think over it, that's all." 
 
 " Not quite all. You fancy that you have seen my whole hand of 
 cards." 
 
 " My good fellow — God forgive me for the word — one has seen the 
 trick of mystery and mystification too often to be gulled by pretended 
 secrets." 
 
 " Don't be so hasty. I intend neither mystery nor secret — I mean 
 to tell you everything that I design. I advised Mr. Marmaduke 
 Arundel, member of Parliament, to invite his son's father-in-law to 
 dinner. He refused. Next time I wish to come, you will be among 
 the first to recommend him to send me an invitation." 
 
 '■' I may — and the stars may fall." 
 
 " You will, Mr. Keckling ; and you will show your good sense by so 
 doing. You all are, or profess to be, exceedingly fond of my child 
 Margaret." 
 
 " Damn it, man, call her Mrs. Arundel," said Keckling, contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 " That is, perhaps, more to the purpose," said Spencer, unabashed 
 at the bitter taunt. " You, and the Arundels, and the Scotch 
 woman who married old M'Cullombich for very good x-easons of 
 her own " 
 
 " Keep your scandals to yourself." 
 
 " Well, you all love Margaret, Mrs. Philip Arundel." 
 
 " Of course we do, and therefore hate you. Get on." 
 
 " You ought to love her. You have seen her in various capacities : 
 as girl, wife, and mother, doing her duty in a way which must have 
 charmed you all. You have not had much opportunity of witness- 
 ing her discharge of her duty as a daughter — circumstances have 
 not yet been favourable — but the pleasure is in store for you, and will 
 be enjoyed before long." 
 
 Mr. Keckling simply growled the wrath he could not so conve- 
 niently clothe in words. 
 
 " Suppose," continued Spencer, " a yet gentler and sweeter happi- 
 ness is in store for Margaret and for you all?" 
 
 He paused, but Keckling was silent, listening sternly. 
 
 " Suppose you beheld her clasped to the heart of a penitent and 
 affectionate mother V 
 
 " Scoundrel, you would not " 
 
 " Would I not," replied Armandale, fiercely ; " and why not 1 
 What mercy have any of you a right to ask of me, to whom you 
 would show so much 1 Do you think that I will stand on terms now ? 
 I have that card in my hand, and by heaven I will play it, if need. 
 I can at any moment produce that woman — that harlot — the mother 
 of Margaret, the mother-in-law of Mr. Philip Arundel. Do you think 
 that she would be more welcome than myself in Thanington-square ?" 
 
 He suddenly opened the door, and seemed mortified. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 283 
 
 " You lioped site was listening, did yon?" hinted Keckling. 
 
 '•' I thought it likely," said Armandale, " from my knowledge 
 of women. But it is of no consequence. Yon will tell her what I 
 have said, I know. I shall return to London to-night. Yon will 
 always find me at Half-Moon-strect; you know the address, or your 
 spy Earnshaw cau give it 3 r ou." 
 
 " I have seen much vileness," said Mr. Keckling, "at home andabroad ; 
 but I find that I have never sounded the real depths of iniquity." 
 
 " There is not the least doubt," said the other, " that you, my dear 
 Mr. Keckling, are a very well-meaning man, but a very great ass. 
 Since we are to be frank, own that you are no match for me." 
 
 " Yet," said Keckling, rising and confronting Spencer, " a word 
 from me a little while ago dashed you into silence, if not into shame. 
 You did in India that which you could not bear to be told of in Eng- 
 land ; but which shall be told, if you make it necessary, wherever your 
 name is mentioned. Shall I seud you copies of the documents to 
 Half-Moon-street I" 
 
 " They prove little," said Spencer, sullenly. 
 
 " They prove that the man who would now sell his child's happi- 
 ness, formerly sold his wife's honour." 
 
 " It is a lie !" said the conscience-stricken Armandale, alternately 
 pale and flushing; "but it has nothing to do with our business. If 
 you have any offer to make me, you are a cursed fool to bring up 
 that kind of thing. Mind what you are aftei\" 
 
 And the man left the room with as near an approach to a skulk 
 as one who had so long studied the graces of manner could well dis- 
 play. He had been beaten out by the old merchant. Honesty had 
 for once triumphed over impudent villany. 
 
 Was it so? 
 
 When Keckling, eager to save Margaret from the shame that 
 awaited her, menaced Spencer with the production of the letters, the 
 thought was an inspiration to save the poor girl. 
 
 Keckling had no knowledge that any such letters were in existence. 
 He knew what was said in Calcutta at the time of Mrs. Armandale 
 Spencer's elopement, and he risked the declaration, hastily speculating 
 on a possibility, and, at all events, delaying the exposure. 
 
 But, in reference to the affair with which, in his own mind, he con- 
 nected the documents, no such letters had ever been in existence. Ar- 
 inandale's conscience had affixed another meaning to Keckling's Avords, 
 and the lie, shot at one mark, had missed it, and " made gold" in 
 another. Keckling had lied, that is the fact, so far as he knew. But 
 he was not penitent ; and, on the contrary, indulged in some little 
 triumph at the expense of the man who had insulted him throughout 
 the interview. And then he found time to turn his attention to Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 The scene between them — though scene is hardly the word, where 
 sorrow and agitation on one side, and soothing kindness and sug- 
 gestion on the other, were so real, and so apart from the exaggerated 
 demonstrations in which it is a part (the principal part) of the reli- 
 gion of some folks to indulge — was naturally distressing. It is not 
 necessary to detail what is already known. Margaret had to explain 
 
281 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 not only her acquaintance with her father, but her separation from her 
 husband, and all her griefs were poured into the sympathizing ear of 
 her old friend, who felt her more and more endeared to him — as is 
 ever the case — by the storm he had gone through for her sake. He 
 was glad to be able to apprise her that for the moment she was freed 
 from her father's surveillance ; and it may easily be imagined that Mr. 
 Keckling did not inform her of the last stroke of Spencer's wicked 
 ingenuity. It required but little eloquence on the part of Mr. Keck- 
 ling to persuade Mrs. Arundel to leave her present abode, but it 
 needed much more to induce her to return to London. Amid all her 
 own sorrow and trouble her child's welfare was ever present to her, 
 and she had been ordered to the sea for the benefit of Duke. It 
 seemed so very important to Mr. Keckling that Margaret should be 
 completely removed from the sphere of Spencer's influences, that lie 
 sunk all minor considerations ; and finding that she was resolute in 
 her affectionate care for the child, he was at last compelled to have 
 recourse to stratagem. A £jain, I rejn*et to record it, but such are the 
 tortuous ways of that philanthropist, who had studied in Russia, Mr. 
 Keckling employed falsehood. Such accounts were brought by him 
 and by his contrivance, of the recent appearance of scarlet fever in 
 Hastings, and of its malignant ravages among the children there, 
 facts of which, as Mi\ Keckling justly said, Mr. Alban Cheriton could 
 not have been aware when he recommended the place, that Margaret 
 was but too ready to depart from so dangerous a locality, and the 
 doubly triumphant Keckling left Hastings next day, having defeated 
 the father and carried off the daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE LECTURER. 
 
 Albax Cheriton was at this time in the full tide of an honourable 
 career. His talents, as has been seen, were speedily and fully reco- 
 gnised by his professional associates; and he had distinguished himself 
 by some boldly and brilliantly written papers \ipon topics connected 
 with his profession, some of which papers had secured the attention of 
 the very first men in it, and had procured him especial notice and 
 compliment. The private practice in which he had undertaken to 
 co-operate rapidly expanded under his hand, and his partner, a 
 weaker, but an amiable and honourable man, had insisted upon Alban's 
 participation in the profits of the business being more in accordance 
 with the value of his services than their original arrangement would 
 have made it. He was therefore prospering, in a pecuniary sense, 
 and making a mark for himself before the public and the profession. 
 
 Lecturing had been rather a favourite pursuit of Alban's. It suited 
 the somewhat wilful, not to say dictatorial, habit of his mind to deliver 
 his thoughts in a form that enabled him to insist upon certain points 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 285 
 
 being assumed, elaborate proof being impossible in the compass of a 
 discourse, and to invest suck parts of his theme as he specially pre- 
 ferred, with the wealth of his illustrations — a treatment in which he 
 was peculiarly fortunate. Not, be it said, that Alban used flowery 
 language, or even culled metaphor from fields too distant for the 
 journey of the ordinary and practical mind. Nobody listened with a 
 loftier contempt than Alban when any of his fellows assumed a sen- 
 timental tone, or indulged in bombastic oratory. But his large and 
 minute acquaintance with the economy of creation, and the patient 
 study which he had been accustomed to give to the sciences, enabled 
 him at once to startle, to delight, and to instruct his hearers by the 
 riches of his researches, aptly produced at the very moment when they 
 were required, and so presented that they welded themselves with the 
 truth he sought to establish, and the two became inseparable thence- 
 forth and for ever in the mind of the hearer. No wonder, therefore, 
 that Alban, with his acuteness of thought for the older, and his 
 pregnant illustration for the younger devotee of the profession, 
 enjoyed a respect and a popularity which was deserved and envied. 
 
 It was noted that, about the time in which we have recently 
 spoken, a certain change came over the manner and the matter of the 
 lecturer. It was at first gradual, but soon became so marked, that 
 none who had known him in his earlier days could fail to appi-eciate 
 it. The manner of Alban became bolder, almost to offence, aud his 
 propositions were advanced with an air of challenge, seldom modest, 
 and sometimes unpleasantly defiant. The older men were vexed, and 
 assigned a natural and commonplace cause for the change, in supposing 
 that Mr. Cheriton's success had turned his head a little, and that his 
 arrogance was the result. They hoped, therefore, that time and 
 thought would tame him down; and in the meantime they did not 
 frequent his lectures as before. But the defection of the elders was 
 more than compensated for by the increased attraction which the 
 addresses offered to the younger men. It was not the dictatorial pro- 
 positions, nor the fiery challenges that brought them, but strange 
 bursts of eloquence, which had superseded the severer and more 
 analytical part of Albans orations. The speaker seemed to have 
 found a new gift, and he poured out his language, eloquent and glow- 
 ing, in a way which excited and charmed the minds of the young 
 disciples ; youths by no means ready to yield to mere frothy talk, but 
 whose wits speedily discovered that, whether or not their instructor 
 were talking wisely, he was assuredly talking splendidly. Alban de- 
 claimed upon the wonders he had before been content to point out, and 
 as he brought the secrets of science before his hearers, and illuminated 
 each mystery with the glow of his eloquence, pausing at no paradox, 
 and hesitating at no audacity, the fascinations of his discourse became 
 stronger and stronger. Topics habitually abstained from in such 
 essays the lecturer boldly dragged forward, and he would sometimes 
 make even the boldest thinkers around him look astonished, when, 
 taking some phenomenon in nature, or some structural miracle of 
 the human frame, he would refuse to it the admiration which it 
 had been the habit of older and better men to bestow, and 
 would daringly intimate his conviction that censure upon its 
 
THE GORDIAX KXOT. 
 
 cruelty or upon its inadequacy were the more befitting com- 
 ment. Sometimes a murmur of dissent from an orthodoxly 
 educated lad would strike his ear. Then Alban's dark cheek would 
 flush, his lip take a sneer, he would launch a keen sarcasm or 
 two upon the dissentient, and then rush into a full tide of ironical 
 adoration of the wisdom of the scheme of creation, and of reprobation 
 of those who saw, in our weaknesses, diseases, wars, wickedness, and 
 misery, the least reason for doubting that everything was directed by 
 Almighty benevolence and love. Nor was this all. He would startle 
 and dismay by his irreverence, but he would at times awaken another 
 and almost as unbefitting a train of sensation, when a professional 
 theme gave him the hint, or when it suited his whim dexterously 
 to extort a hint from some subject assuredly not promising such 
 fruit ; and Alban would delight in allusions more coarse, but all 
 the more mischievous from their delicacy and warmth, to the passion 
 of love, and to its innumerable and mystic influences upon the 
 frame. The topic gradually intruded itself so frequently, that even 
 the students at the lectures, young men of a not very fastidious 
 class, used sometimes to think that Mr. Cheriton might reserve 
 some of his illustrations. But the mingled power and grace with 
 which he usually dealt, even with a dangerous theme, worked its 
 own success; and Alban's lectures were more than ever attractive. It 
 was also noted by two or three closer observers, that when Cheriton 
 had trespassed unusually near the bounds that separate investigation 
 from voluptuousness, that night he was as unusually liberal with his 
 scoff and sarcasm against the pretended perfection of creation, and the 
 hint that roused those rows of eager listeners to unholy thought on 
 the pleasures of the senses, was followed by a rude shock, a semi- 
 blasphemous taunt directed against the Goodness that, while giving to 
 man the faculty of passion, has given him the intellect that forbids 
 him to be passion's slave. 
 
 Alban, as he had told Mr. Keckling, had a surgical operation to 
 perform, and he executed it with a brilliancy which elicited plaudits 
 from the spectators, as the pale and dismembered patient, scarcely 
 awakening from the all-merciful anaesthetic, was borne from the table. 
 But the still more powerful detaining cause that prevented Alban's 
 departure was his engagement to deliver one of the addresses that 
 have been described. And never had he been in fuller and more 
 baneful force — never had the torrent of his eloquence rushed in more 
 strength — never had Alban trodden more recklessly upon dangerous 
 ground, or offered more mischievous texts to tempt or to mislead his 
 hearers. Specially adroit was the sophistry with which that night 
 he sought to show that an average of what is called crime was — as 
 testified by statistics — a necessity in society ; and that the conditions 
 under which man lived, and the passions implanted, so mysteriously, 
 in his nature, rendered it impossible that he should invariably con- 
 form to laws based on a so-called theology rather than on the teach- 
 ings of philosophy. 
 
 He had one more auditor that night than he imagined, and as he 
 passed from the lecture-table to an adjoining room, he encountered 
 his father. 
 
THE GOUDIAN KNOT. 287 
 
 " All is well, I trust, at St. Oscars," said Alban. 
 
 " All would be well, but for the disturbing news you sent us. That 
 has brought me up. Have you anything to add to it?" 
 
 " Mrs. Aruudel is at Hastings. I intend to go there to-morrow." 
 
 11 You intend to go !" repeated his father, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Her old friend, Mr. Keckling, has started to-night, and I should 
 have accompanied him, but for having this lecture." 
 
 " I do not know that you would have done good at Hastings, but I 
 wish that you had gone." 
 
 " Mr. Keckling will say all that should be said." 
 
 " I do not mean that I wish it on Margaret's account, but on your 
 own, and that of all these poor young fellows, to whom you have been 
 retailing worse poison than they could find in this laboratory." 
 
 " You know that my views, on some matters, my dear father, are 
 not your own, but give me credit for being honest." 
 
 " I do not. I have never asked you to affect belief in things which 
 are the happiness of my life and that of your mother. I never, after 
 you became of age to judge for yourself, asked your conformity to our 
 religious habits and observances. Your hours were your own, your 
 Sabbaths were your own. I often prayed for you; I never judged 
 you. To-night you have humbled me. I took a pride — perhaps too 
 much — in your intellect, and I did not murmur at your grappling, in 
 fearlessness and in earnestness, with mysteries which many of us 
 accept in love and trust from those who teach us. But I never 
 thought to find you perverting and prostituting your fine talents, and, 
 for the sake of the applause of a mob of boys, uttering with pretended 
 approbation the shallownesses and tawdry sophistries I have heard 
 to-night. When my boy Alban was twenty, he would have torn into 
 atoms, and with scorn and contempt, the trash my son Alban, in the 
 vigour of manhood, has not been ashamed to parade to-night. You 
 have humbled me, Alban. But we will talk no more of this until the 
 duty next to our hand is done. What is your cousin's address at 
 Hastings ?" 
 
 " Horley-place, or Terrace — I forget ; but I have it at home. Will 
 you write to her ¥' 
 
 " No, I will go to her. If she is to have a home other than her 
 husband's, the fitting place is the home of her childhood." 
 
 " You will take her to St. Oscars, to my mother — to Bertha?" asked 
 Alban, in an undertone of disquiet. 
 
 " Look me straight in the face, Alban," said his father. 
 
 It was a simple request, and in Alban's early life, when the father 
 loved to gaze on the broad brow and bright eye of his first-born child, 
 it was often made, and instantly obeyed. Strange that now, when 
 they spoke as equals, when the younger man had fairly fought up 
 his way in the world, and had acquired the right to look proudly to his 
 father, as a son looks who has not been unworthy of his sire, the fine 
 face of Alban was clouded, and it was with an effort and a sort of 
 murmur that he fixed his eyes, not on his father's, but on a lower 
 part of the face of the latter. 
 
 The elder Cheriton turned ghastly pale* 
 
 " Alban," he exclaimed, in a voice of intense pain. " Alban, look 
 at me. Look into my eyes, Alban." 
 
288 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 But he would not. He turaed away, affected to busy himself with 
 some trifle in the room, and made a remark about the gas being about 
 to be turned off. 
 
 His father gazed at him long and earnestly. Henry Cheriton's lips 
 worked convulsively, and once or twice parted as if forming words. 
 He might have been pi'aying that a trial too awful, as he might well 
 think it, for endurance, might be spared him, or that he might have 
 strength to bear it. 
 
 " Let us go to your house," he said, after a long pause. " I want 
 your cousin's address to-night." 
 
 And they went away together, the brilliant lecturer, and the 
 sorrow-stricken father. 
 
 The same night another person in our story was strangely called to 
 account for his deeds. 
 
 Claxton and Philip Arundel had been together at some place of 
 amusement, had supped, and returned to their chambers in the Temple. 
 Chambers, as those who have inhabited them know, can be made the 
 most pleasant places in the world, but the entrance to them is seldom 
 cheerful, and at night the solemn black door, through which in dark- 
 ness you enter your black and lonesome rooms — away from all neigh- 
 bourly sound, and without the myriad comforts of a home where 
 woman dwelleth, is a doleful, not to say funereal thing. Companion- 
 ship, however, destroyed much of this effect for our young fellows, 
 and Claxton was certainly singing a recollection of an opera, and 
 Philip, I am sorry to add, whistling an accompaniment, as the former's 
 latchkey bid the yawning entrance disclose itself. The room was 
 without light, save the rays that glimmered up from a gas lamp in the 
 Temple, and the master of the apartments hastened to a handily- 
 placed box in which he kept his lucifer-matches. As he lit the 
 candle, he was sui'prised to hear Philip, who was behind him, ex- 
 claim — 
 
 " The devil !" 
 
 But Claxton, who piqued himself on — among other trifles — never 
 being discomposed, calmly replied — 
 
 " Show him in." 
 
 Turning round, he beheld his friend in the clutch of a female, 
 decently, but rather curiously, dressed — her costume being that of an 
 Englishwoman of humble life, save her head-dress, which covered her 
 head and fell down her back, and was Oriental. Her dark skin looked 
 almost black in the half-lighted room, and her eyes glittered like those 
 of a cat. 
 
 It was the ayah, Boosey, who had come up from St. Oscai's. The 
 faithful old creature had scented out that there was something wrong 
 with her darling child, and had tracked her husband to his lair. She 
 held him with a firm grasp, and cried, — 
 
 " What you done with Miss Maggie V 
 

 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XL, 
 
 ITII URIEL. 
 
 Miserable indeed was the night passed by Henry Cheriton after the 
 lecture. The brave, strong, good man bowed himself down under a 
 weight which, at certain dark moments, he felt unable to bear, while 
 oven the strength that in his hours of sorrow he had been accus- 
 tomed to seek elsewhere, seemed to his stricken and despairing heart 
 to be withheld, or but scantly to aid him in bearing his terrible 
 burden. 
 
 And with the earthly friend to whom from the day that had made 
 them one he had been accustomed to turn with all his joys, and with 
 such subtle sorrows as his own gallant nature could not, single-handed, 
 overmaster, he could not now take counsel and solace. Cheiiton 
 shuddered (with that sickening terror known only to those who have 
 loved deeply, and have seen sudden grief come upon the faces of those 
 they have loved) from the thought of sharing with his wife the secret 
 that had glanced to his soul from the eyes of Alban. 
 
 He desired that a room might be prepared for him in the house 
 where his son resided, and few words passed between them on retiring 
 to rest. Alban seemed eager to separate from his father, and on the 
 plea of a heavy day's work performed, and another to come, he 
 speedily left Mr. Cheriton, slightly touching his hand on leaving the 
 room. The father heard Alban's door locked and double-locked, and 
 to Cheriton's ear, rendered perhaps over-sensitive by excitement, this 
 seemed to be done in a certain deliberate and noisy manner, as if to 
 signify that Alban was not to be intruded upon. But this idea may 
 have been but a fancy. 
 
 Cheriton passed the ni^ht, as has been said, in misery. How often 
 he sprang up from his sleepless bed, to listen at Alban's door, to hold 
 his own breath while seeking to hear the breathing of his son, to 
 watch, when any accidental sound came to his ear, whether Alban had 
 been disturbed by it, let the parent say who has tended the sick slum- 
 bers of a child. Let the mother say, for the heart of Henry Cheriton 
 loved with almost a feminine love. 
 
 Yet the watcher was mocked. Alban never rested in that bed at 
 all. After retiring, he allowed some time to elapse, during which bis 
 father might suppose him undressing, and he permitted some quarter 
 of an hour more to elapse, after which he knew that Cheriton would 
 not disturb the sleep he would believe had come. Then Alban rose, 
 and lefc his room by the window, which opened on a balcony, whence 
 he passed into another apartment, and noiselessly descended the stairs. 
 Henry Cheriton was watching, with a throbbing heart, at his son's 
 door, when Alban was many a mile away, trampling in lonely fields, 
 amid grass wet with the night-dew. 
 
 In the morning, when, at an hour much later than it was Alban's 
 custom to rise, all attempts to obtain an answer from his room failed, 
 the open windows told their own story. 
 PABT X. U 
 
290 THE GOUDIAN KNOT. 
 
 By the morning delivery came a letter for Alban, with the 
 Hastings post-mark. Cheriton opened it, and found that it was 
 from Mr. Keckling, who briefly apprized Alban that his cousin was 
 with her old friend, and would immediately return to London. The 
 words conveyed little meaning to the heart-broken father beyond a 
 sensation that he was relieved of a duty which he had felt himself 
 about to neglect. 
 
 Margaret was once more the honoured and petted guest of Mr. 
 Keckling, in fact the mistress of his house. It was her wish, and in 
 that house her wish was law, that she should remain in complete 
 privacy. Poor girl, from the first moment of agony in which she 
 had discovered that her husband's heart had once been another's, 
 until her return to the quietude of Mr. Keckling's residence, she had 
 had but little time to realize her own situation. The miserable 
 episode of her becoming acquainted with her father, and their still 
 more miserable separation, had so perturbed the sorrowful under- 
 current of feeling that some leisure was needed for the troubled 
 waters to clear — to clear only that they might become Marah — 
 bitterness. 
 
 She was alone with her child, her companion by day and by night, 
 when the drawing-room door was opened quietly, and, unannounced, 
 her cousin Alban stood before her. 
 
 Their last interview had been on the day when he came up to the 
 house then her own, and had advised her taking little Duke to the 
 sea-side. Actually, this was but a short time back, but what had 
 marked the intervening period made it an age for Margaret. She 
 had lost a husband, she had gained a father. As for Alban, at this 
 period of his life, he took little count of time. 
 
 " You did not expect me," he said, sitting down without taking her 
 hand. 
 
 " No, indeed," said Margaret, in some agitation, she hardly knew 
 why. 
 
 " T saw the blinds up, and other signs that the house was in- 
 habited, so I came in on the chance of hearing of you."' 
 
 " Mr. Keckling wrote to you that we were coming up from 
 Hastings," said Margaret, collecting her memories. 
 
 "Did he?" said Alban, carelessly. " The boy looks better."' 
 
 " You think so ]" asked Margaret, anxiously. " He seems very 
 well. We were frightened away from Hastings by the scarlet 
 fever." 
 
 " Some people are easily frightened," replied Alban, with a little, 
 odd laugh, which sounded almost rudely. "Not that you are one of 
 those," he added. " No, no ; you are brave and courageous." 
 
 " I thought so once," said Mrs. Arundel, with a faint smile ; " but 
 we none of us know what we are until we are tried." 
 
 " A new remark, embodying a profound physiological discovery," 
 said her cousin, in the same abrupt and nearly rude inanner. " Have 
 you seen my father V 
 
 " No," said Margaret, flushing with varied emotions at the idea of 
 meeting her uncle, the friend of her youth, her kindly adviser. " Is he 
 in town i" 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 291 
 
 " I don't know. Aral my father's keeper 1 ?" 
 
 She gazed at him with much astonishment. She had seen him both 
 calmly sarcastic and impassioned even to violence, but he had never 
 before worn in her presence the unpleasant manner he then displayed. 
 " What made you ask me whether I had seen my uncle ?" she re- 
 joined. 
 
 " I supposed he would have been here," said Alban, almost angrily. 
 He came up from St. Oscars to get your address from me. I don't 
 know what he wanted to say to you, of course — how should I ?" 
 " I know," said poor Margaret, gently. 
 
 " No, you don't," replied her cousin, suddenly turning on her, and 
 answering sharply. 
 
 She did not speak, and he broke out again. 
 
 " I don't advise you to see him. He is a good man, as you know, 
 as I know, as everybody knows. Of course he is a good man, uncom- 
 monly, extraordinarily good. But he sees matters by his own lights 
 only, and they throw a queer colour upon some things, a very queer 
 colour ; and then he talks less pleasantly than ladies like to be 
 talked to." 
 
 " O Alban ! that you should say so. Where is he staying '] Please 
 give me his address. I hope you gave him mine." 
 
 " Yes, I did," said Alban ; " and if he has not been to see you, it is 
 for reasons of his own — reasons you may not like perhaps, and very 
 likely you will not, but there they are." 
 
 " Alban, is it my imagination — if it is, I know you will forgive me, 
 for 1 have had much trouble; — but you seem to speak in a tone you 
 have never been accustomed to use to me." 
 
 " I dare say. We all change. It is a world of changes, and we 
 must be accustomed to them. You're a pious young person, and have 
 been taught all that. Troubles ! we all have our troubles. Do you 
 think I have no troubles ?" 
 
 " I hoped that you had not many," said Margaret, still gently. " I 
 understood that you were very prosperous, and I have often seen 
 your great talents praised in the newspapers. I supposed that you 
 were on the high road to all that success can give you." 
 
 " You have improved, Margaret. Good society has not been lost 
 upon you. No woman of the world could have spoken more properly, 
 or more falsely." 
 
 " Alban !" exclaimed Margaret, rather grieved than angry at the 
 insult. 
 
 " Falsely," he repeated with a sort of snap. " 0, 1 am not a mem- 
 ber of good society, so you must excuse ray want of courtliness. I 
 dare say that you never heard such a word from Mr. Philip Arundel, 
 your husband V 
 
 " Never !" said Margaret, instantly. 
 
 " No. What is the phrase — ' whatever his conduct may have been, 
 his language was always that of a gentleman' — that is the way smirk- 
 ing fools will talk about him." 
 
 Margaret made no answer. , 
 
 " So the subject is not to be discussed," said Alban. 
 " Can you need to be told so P' said Mrs. Arundel, quietlv. 
 
 u 2 
 
292 THE GOBDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Then why do you want to see my father ?" retorted her cousin, 
 with downright asperity. 
 
 She looked at him with increasing wonder. 
 
 " Ha ! the world again. Stifle the words that were upon our 
 tongue. Don't say, ' Because he is an affectionate, gentle uncle, and 
 you are a coarse brute of a cousin.' But say something. It is surely 
 not polite to refuse an answer to a question. Say that you want to 
 hear of dear St. Oscars, and dear Aunt Nelly, and dear cousin Bertha, 
 and all that you used to love so. Say something, Mrs. Arundel, if it 
 be ever so bland and insincere." 
 
 " The best thing for me to say, Alban, is that something has evi- 
 dently occurred to make you different from .what you usually are, and 
 that it would be considerate in you not to revenge yourself by speak- 
 ing unkindly to me, who have given you no offence." 
 
 " No offence — no offence ! When you are deliberately inflicting 
 the deadliest cruelty upon me." 
 
 " Alban ! I !" 
 
 " You aggravate it with every word." 
 
 Again she was silent. 
 
 " You aggravate it with every look." 
 
 But she did not look away. She was too much amazed, bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 " Yes. And you know it. What ai-e you doing — what are you 
 saying ? That something may have troubled me, you do not know 
 what, but that you have nothing to do with it. As if your trouble 
 were not my trouble, Margaret," he said earnestly. "As if anything 
 earthly could disturb me but your sorrows. As if my heart did not 
 bleed with every wound in yours, and as if I would not gladly die to 
 comfort or to avenge you. This you refuse to see." 
 
 " Alban, what, what on earth can you do for me f said Mrs. 
 Arundel, almost trembling at his changed manner. 
 
 "Do!" he exclaimed. "Ask a man who has loved madly, still 
 loves madly, what he can do when the woman he loves is in need of 
 his ai*m. Do ! Shall I sweep all your enemies before you, drive them 
 from off the face of God's world, trample them down, grind them to 
 powder 1 You have but to speak. You have a father, a cruel and 
 plotting miscreant ; a husband, a debauched and cold-blooded op- 
 pressor. Will you be eased of them ? You have but to say the word. 
 I have a million means at my command. Shall they die by poison ?" 
 (he dropped his voice to a fierce whisper), " I have a thousand 
 poisons. Shall they be strangled 1 I have the cord with which 
 Judas hanged himself — I bought it at Jerusalem of a Carmelite. I 
 will kill them so secretly that they shall be thought to have committed 
 suicide. Speak !" 
 
 The terrible truth was before her — the naked, glaring, horrible 
 truth. She gasped for breath as it came upon her like a hot and 
 stifling wind, choking sensation. 
 
 " Ay, I have spoken out to you now, Margaret, my love, my 
 darling. I have torn away the veil that was between our hearts, and 
 you will be happy. I shall be happy. No more mysteries between 
 us, Margaret, my beloved one. No more fiends in fine clothes to 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 293 
 
 shut rod-hot doors between us, just as we were flying into each other's 
 anus. We shall be happy now ; but — " he suddenly dropped the 
 impassioned tone in which he had been speaking, and whispered, 
 " but first we must make all safe, or we may be hunted and trapped 
 again. Your father shall die to-night — your husband to-morrow. 
 Keckling shall die too — not for his crimes, but because he links you 
 with the wicked days that are past. You must have no remembrance 
 of them, nothing to bring back memories, scratching in the shape ot 
 demons at your heart. They shall be strangled, all of them. That 
 child -" 
 
 His speech was broken by the mother's cry, as his eye fell, in hate, 
 upon the baby, amusing itself with a toy. She sprang to her feet, 
 and her impulse was to dart upon Duke, and rush with him from the 
 room ; but a mother's thoughts are of lightning speed when they are 
 for her child, and Margaret was checked. Her act would rouse the 
 tigerish nature, and what would she be in the fierce grasp of the 
 madman ! 
 
 " That child must die !" he said, in a gentle, almost piteous voice ; 
 " and it is a pity, because he has your eyes and lips, and would remind 
 me of you — but what need of that, when you will never be out of my 
 sight for a moment 1 We will bury him among flowers. I charge 
 myself with that ; but he must not live to connect you with the 
 cursed Arundels. He shall die without knowing it.- I have a violet 
 wine, that is very sweet, and will send him calmly into the sleep that 
 knows no waking." 
 
 Margaret thought that she could have borne his violence better than 
 this — his voice had regained its old richness, and he spoke in a lover's 
 tone, of a baby's death. It was not to be borne. Taking the little 
 hand of the child in her own, she laid her other hand softly on her 
 cousin's arm, and said with a forced calmness — 
 
 « Alban " 
 
 She would have proceeded, but started in terror. That gentle touch 
 produced a strange effect. 
 
 The expression of Alban's face suddenly changed, almost to distor- 
 tion. He took a quick, shuddering breath, and then his muscles 
 became rigid, and he stood as one who has sustained a pang of agony, 
 and dares not move lest he discover that some dreadful thing has 
 chanced to him. 
 
 So they stood for some moments, and Alban cried out with a bitter 
 cry — 
 
 " The waters — the waters ! They are closing over me." 
 
 " Dear Alban " 
 
 "The waters — the waters!" he cried out agaiu. " Do you not re- 
 member what I told you on that pier at Hyde. The drowning man 
 is in the grasp of the savage waves. / told you that you should re- 
 member it one day when it should be too late. Let me drown — let 
 me sink. Off with your hand ! I, Alban Cheriton — I take the cast- 
 oil' wife of such a thing as Philip A*f undel ! Off !" 
 
 And throwing her roughly from him, he rushed from the room with 
 a frightful cry. 
 
 Though it had been to dash himself from a window, or down the 
 
294 THE GOltDIAN KNOT. 
 
 well staircase of the house, Margaret's thoughts followed him not. 
 In one instant the mother had her child clutched to her heart, and 
 the next they were flying through the opposite door to that at which 
 the madman had hurried out. And in a safe and distant room, and 
 behind bolt and lock, a rain of kisses had showered upon the wonder- 
 ing child — a rain of tears had fallen upon his bright curls, before 
 Margaret had time for pitying thoughts of her cousin. 
 
 " Violet wine and a grave of flowers," were the words that she 
 kept unconsciously murmuring to herself. " 0, my heart's love, my 
 own ano-el !" 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 
 THE CREATURE AT HOME. 
 
 It will be remembered that the Ayah, Boosey, eager to obtain news 
 of her well-beloved lady, had traced Philip Arundel to his old 
 chambers, and that she broke in upon him and his friend Claxton at 
 a late hour one night, and demanded of the husband what he had 
 done with the beautiful child of her idolatry. It was with great 
 difficulty that the two gentlemen could satisfy her importunate 
 hungering and thirsting for information on the subject dearest to her 
 heart. Satisfy her, indeed, they could not, and after an interview in 
 which the affectionate heathen had employed every variety of 
 eloquence of which she was mistress to induce Philip to promise to 
 seek out " Miss Maggie," and implore her pardon for his wickedness 
 — which Boosey determinately took for granted nothing else could 
 have alienated him from such an angel as Margaret — Claxton con- 
 sidered that he had i*eally gained a victory in bringing her to with- 
 draw, accepting his pledge that he would try to bring about her 
 desire He finally succeeded in placing the black door between 
 himself and the Ayah, but was by no means convinced that she had 
 left the Temple, and was not crouching in a corner of the staircase 
 to be ready to accompany him on his mission. 
 
 And indeed Boosey, despite her long civilization at St. Oscars, 
 would have had not the least hesitation in thus laying siege to Philip 
 Arundel had it appeared to be expedient. But she had other views. 
 With the instinct of her watchful race, she had in the early days of 
 her St. Oscars sojourn made out the nature of Alban Cheriton, and 
 detected his adoration of Margaret at a time when no other j)erson 
 suspected it. The Ayah admired the strong and influential character of 
 Alban, and much preferred one who could on occasion show himself 
 master of those around him to the gentler and more easy-uatured young 
 gentlemen who supposed themselves to be in love with Miss Maggie. In 
 the earlier part of our book it was mentioned that one who intended 
 to be a missionary had visited St. Oscars, and that his ardent and 
 devoted bearing had excited in the bosom of Alban a certain terror 
 lest his cousin should be fascinated by the power which woman recog- 
 nises in real or even simulated energy. Boosey owed Alban a 
 kindness in respect of this stranger's visit, for on his hearing that 
 
THE GOHDIAJC KNOT. 295 
 
 one of the heathen whom he longed to convert was actually resident 
 in St. Oscars, he insisted upon trying his force upon Boosey. Alban, 
 not unnaturally antagonistic to his suspected rival, and not sorry to 
 have an opportunity of showing that he too could be energetic and 
 determined, had withstood this wish so warmly, and had so indig- 
 nantly protested against Boo3ey's being tormented, that his Christian 
 character had been in no small danger of suspicion on the part of 
 his dissenting friends. His father and mother were strangely puzzled 
 at his vehement display of an ti-proselytism, but he gained his purpose, 
 or supposed purpose, and saved the Ayah from a terrible assault on 
 her creed. This good deed she never forgot, and it established a sort 
 of friendship between the ignorant heathen and the brilliant 
 Christian. They continued to exchange kind messages through the 
 other Cheritons during Alban's stay in London. Boosey, in her 
 unutterable grief at discovering that "something was wrong about 
 Miss Maggie," no sooner resolved to rush to town and rescue her 
 from whatever tiger might now be menacing her (as in other days), 
 than she determined on enlisting her great and honoured friend Mr. 
 Alban in the cause of Margaret. That her visit to Philip was paid 
 before she had time to seek out Alban, was the result of her accidentally 
 discovering that the Temple, near which her only London female acquain- 
 tance and hostess lived, was not a place of religion, but, on the contrary, 
 a haunt of lawyers. Philip she knew was a lawyer, and her friend's 
 research did the rest. But as soon as she had expended her remon- 
 strances upon Philip — he received them, be it said, with a sort of 
 melancholy gentleness, and Avithout the least resentment (perhaps if 
 a white inferior had taken such a liberty her reception might have 
 been different) — the untiring Boosey resolved to find Alban. 
 
 Alban's residence was next day reached by Boosey, but upon recon- 
 noitring it cautiously, after the manner of her race, before applying 
 to see the young surgeon, the Ayah perceived her St. Oscars patron 
 and friend, his lather, at a window. An interview with Mr. Cheriton 
 formed no part of her present plan, and she therefore waited, with 
 Oriental patience, hour after hour, until she saw Cheriton leave the 
 house. Then, making her demand, she found that her long vigil had 
 been thrown away, Mr. Alban Cheriton was absent, and his return 
 uncertain. 
 
 An English person of one sex (or, possibly, of another) would have 
 been revenged on the troublesome destinies by some more or less 
 decorous objurgations ; but the pagan calmly accepted the decree of 
 fortune, and walked away to consider her next best step to gain her ob- 
 ject. Boosey wandered through a large distinct lying in the neighbour- 
 hood of the New Boad, and may have thought that the aemi-gentility 
 of the locality much resembled that of the respectable part of her own 
 country town, and may have wondered at the marvellous consumption 
 of beer by the residents, as proved by the fact that no street ever 
 seemed without a yelping emissary from some hostel, either pro- 
 claiming the fluid or demanding its metallic receptacles. Had she 
 beeu a Mahometan she might have imagined she was hearing the 
 cries of some peripatetic mneezann. 
 
 " Smoking, too," said Alban, as he entered the small drawing-room 
 
296 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 of a comfortable little two-storied house in one of the small streets 
 through which Boosey's pilgrimage lay. 
 
 The house was that of the Creature, our wayward acquaintance 
 Maria, here for her own reasons calling herself, as hath been revealed, 
 Mrs. Prescott. The drawing-room was excellently, one might almost 
 say richly, furnished; for many of Maria's chattels were of an expensive 
 character, and savoured too much of luxe for the neighbourhood in 
 which they were then placed. There were none of the usual lodging- 
 house features about her room. Not there was the rigid, paltry- 
 looking carpet, that seemed fine-drawn at points, and ready to split 
 up at a hasty movement of a chair. Not there the rickety round 
 table, oil-skin covered, and oscillating at a touch, after the manner of 
 a nautically hung telescope frame. Not there the three or four pale 
 ill-finished mahogany dining-room chairs, with horsehair seats,and with 
 their intrusion into the drawing-room apologized for, as it were, by as 
 many four-and-sixpenny dubious companions in rosewood. Not there 
 were the thin moreen curtains, of scrimp measure, and evidently 
 never made to draw ; nor the miserable little painted closet called a 
 Shiffonear, smelling of fustiness generally, with a slight predominance 
 of pepper, and adorned with the remnants of a bronze lamp, long 
 eclipsed for ever. Nor, on the walls, were the usual decorations of 
 the district, the two pictures — one of the ruins, one of the sea — and 
 each bearing a moon the size of a peppermint lozenge, and casting a 
 long white splash down an unimaginable back-ground; the art treasury 
 being also enriched by the portraits in oil of a scowling man and a 
 smirking woman (with watch, chain, bunch of seals, and jam-tart 
 brooch), supposed to be the owner of the house and his female, and 
 by two black profile portraits of two ugly boys, the unfortunate con- 
 sequence of the union. Nor, lastly, was the mantelpiece made to 
 hold a villanous narrow looking-glass, in which the eye of the 
 feeblest imagination could read the " only eighteen shillings " that 
 had been beaten down to fifteen, when Mrs. Bloggs was furnishing to 
 let, and used to sally out at night, with a similar hard-faced matron, 
 and grind the face of brokers until what were deemed bargains were 
 extorted. 
 
 Maria had brought in furniture of her own, had thrown down a 
 deep, soft, warm carpet over the very possible abomination below, had 
 swept away the equally possible pictorial trash, and hung, in much 
 too fine frames, some coloured French engravings, large, clever, and 
 chiefly scriptural; for the naked Oriental narratives afford our friends 
 the French artists great opportunities for being objectionable. A 
 large handsome mirror reflected the room, and into tliat mirror was 
 reflected a gilded girandole, while below was an exceedingly handsome 
 cabinet ; and if the china behind the glass doors were rubbish, so is 
 that in a thousand smart houses. Whose business is it whether a 
 lady's cup cost shillings or guineas? Moreover, Maria had some 
 pretty tables with pretty things on them ; some good, for they had 
 been presents, but a woman can do a world in this way with a slender 
 purse and a knowledge of the arcades ; and what with some showy 
 curtains, and delicate mats, and some statuettes, and a wonderful 
 great white cat, and a bright fire, and a presence of pastille odour^ 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 297 
 
 (besides another), and Maria herself, in a large morning dress, lounging, 
 slippered, in a luxurious easy chair, the place was quite as pleasant 
 as it needed to be. Nobody but a snob would have supposed that he 
 was in a lady's room ; but many a good and gentle lady is much more 
 snobbishly lodged, and her husband ought to be ashamed of himself. 
 
 " Smoking, too," said Alban, as the privileged doctor entered the 
 room unannounced. "Good for the lungs, of course." 
 
 1 Only cigarettes, you old growl, and uncommon mild, like me. 
 Have some '?" 
 "Not I." 
 
 " Affectation ! All the great ladies smoke, I hear, only they go 
 into the lady's-maids' rooms to do it. I don't keep a lady's maid, 
 except Zuleika ; so I does as I pleases, and what's the odds as long as 
 you're happy V 
 
 "Oh, if you're happy, keep so, by all means," said Alban. " I shall 
 give you no more advice." 
 
 " Made his fortune, going to retire, live on his estate — kill pigs ? 
 Send us a brisket now and then, for luck." 
 " Where's Zuleika V 
 
 " Is she a pig 1 Any how she sleeps like one. There's no getting 
 her up of a morning, or afternoon either. I suppose she has been on 
 short allowance of sleep all her life, and now she's taking it out." 
 " How does she behave ?" said Alban. 
 " How should I know ?" 
 
 "A nice guardian you are, Mrs. Prescott, to a young and fragile 
 charge." 
 
 " 1 told you at stai'ting that I was not going to be bothei'ed. I 
 give orders that she shall get up when she likes, and have exactly 
 what she chooses to eat and drink. I'm out before she's up, and she's 
 
 abed " 
 
 " In bed !" 
 
 " Abed I choose to say — and she's there before I come home from 
 the opera, or wherever it is. What more can an anxious mother 
 do? Am I to give her tracts? Because I don't see what particular 
 good they will do her small mind, seeing as how she wouldn't read 'em 
 if she could, and couldn't read 'em if she would." 
 " Teach her." 
 
 " Teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Do you take me for a 
 governess, governor ?" said Maria, sending some smoke out at her 
 nostrils, a feat that was immediately followed by a paroxysm of 
 distressing cough. 
 
 Alban allowed the fit to exhaust itself without his making the 
 slightest movement or endeavour to allay its violence ; and when it 
 was over, and Maria looked at him with eyes streaming with tears 
 drawn forth by the agitation, he met her piteous regard with a slow, 
 deliberate smile. 
 
 It was characteristic that she seized a handkerchief, wiped her 
 eyes hastily, and with deliberation, in her turn, selected a fresh 
 cigarette from a gaily embroidered case. As she took a light she 
 said — 
 
 " Experience makes fools wise, so as I am no wiser by experience 
 
298 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 I am not a fool. There's argument for yon, Mr. Death's Head and 
 Cross Bones." 
 
 " Ominous words !" said Alban, cruelly. " People should be careful 
 how they use them, under some circumstances." 
 
 "Bother !" returned Maria, promptly, but a shade paler than she 
 had been. " Am I going to have a fit of coffin sooner for saying 
 undertaker. I'm not superstitious. Key Sarah Sarah, as the Italians 
 say, and when Sarah brings the key, into the locker we go, and not 
 before. Now then." 
 
 Alban gave a long-drawn, half-pitying, half-contemptuous sigh, that 
 was particularly offensive to the excitable Maria. 
 
 "What are you making that sort of noise for 1 ? Speak, if you've 
 got anything to say, and if you haven't, hold your tongue, but don't 
 make noises at people as if they were dogs and cats. What's brought 
 you here this morning in this humour? -If you can't be civil, suppose 
 you were to stop away till you can, and don't hurry yourself on my 
 account." 
 
 And the cigarette went into the fire, and Maria snatched up the 
 first book in her hand, and began reading intensely. 
 
 " How women differ !" said Alban, quietly. 
 
 " Then you'd better go to the sort you like best," snapped Maria. 
 
 " I have come from that sort," pursued Alban ; " and I thought 
 that I should like to tell you why." 
 
 " I don't want to hear anything about it. I hate to be insulted, 
 mind that." 
 
 " Why should I insult you V returned Alban. 
 
 " Because I cannot help myself, of course. That's the way of the 
 world. Trample on those that are down." 
 
 As she stood up upon her hearth, with an indignant look, a passing 
 flush on her cheek, and a compressed mouth, she was as little like 
 one who is down as could well be imagined. But the inspiration 
 was but momentary, the cheek paled and flushed, and paled again, 
 and it was with a tremor in all her limbs that Maria re-seated her- 
 self, and then the tears came to her ej'es. 
 
 " And me so ill," she said, with piteous reproach. 
 
 " It takes two to make a quarrel, Maria," said Alban, quite un- 
 moved, though to take the hand of a handsome woman who had 
 made appeal in such a tone, and to try to soothe her, would have 
 been instinctive with most men. "I shall not be one of the two. I 
 have a duty to perform, and that is why I came here." 
 
 "An odd place to choose to perform duties in," laughed out Maria, 
 hysterically, amid her tears. " Are you sure you haven't come to the 
 wrong shop ?" 
 
 " Maria, will you listen to me I" 
 
 He spoke in a graver voice than he had been accustomed to use in 
 conversation with the Creature. His usual banter, in which alternated 
 a certain pity with a certain cynicism, was gone, and he really seemed 
 to have an important communication to make. 
 
 She looked at him for a minute, and I do not like to say what idea 
 rushed upon the poor girl's mind. He had come from good women, 
 and he had something to say to her. Those who quite understand 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 299 
 
 a character which I have sought to make as little prominent as is 
 
 consistent with the purposes of our stoiy, will comprehend the hasty 
 and troubled glance which she cast upon her property (it had not 
 been long in that resting-place), and the reason why she supposed that 
 she might have no special motive for longer bearing the name she had 
 last assumed,; for there be ravens, as well as doves, that find no rest for 
 the sole of their feet, poor ravens ! But the idea was dissipated almost 
 as soon as formed. 
 
 " Don't frighten me, please," she said. "You don't know how really 
 ill I am, though I laugh it off." 
 
 '"' Do I not, poor child V said Alban. But there was no kindness 
 in the tone. 
 
 " Well, don't frighten me," she repeated, earnestly. 
 
 " Maria, I have revenged you." 
 
 She gazed at him for some moments, and then in a helpless, dreamy 
 way repeated, as asking a question — 
 
 " Revenged 1 Me P 
 
 "Yes, revenged you fully, amply. Even what women, whose 
 passion is vengeance, would call a full and ample revenge." 
 
 "And on whom, in goodness' name 1 ?" 
 
 " Maria !" he paused for a little while, and then went on. " You 
 were a better plotter than I was, Maria, and laid your foundations 
 deep, very deep, but I have put the chief corner-stone to the 
 building." 
 
 She had never heard of chief corner-stones, but Alban's mind was 
 loose and rambling among some of the recollections of a religious 
 household. 
 
 " You came to me long, long ago, and you brought me letters, 
 which I should not have read, but that you made me read them by a 
 clever artifice. Yes, you left them with me, and I put them away ; 
 but you knew that they would rest in no hiding-place, but would 
 one day come out and be learned by heart. Those were his letters 
 to you." ■ 
 
 " But, but," gasped Maria, turning deadlier pale than ever, as 
 not only this act of hers, but the scene which she had witnessed from 
 Alban's bed chamber came full upon her mind ; " but you have not 
 
 betrayed — you have not " and a conflict of feelings threw the girl 
 
 into a renewed tremor. 
 
 " I have done your work and my own, and done neither negli- 
 gently," said Alban. "Do you want your lover back again — your 
 Philip Ai'undel 1 Because I believe that you may have him again for 
 the calling." 
 
 Maria was silent. She remembered all she had heard, with the 
 door ajar, when Philip and Alban had that terrible interview at 
 which Alban had sought to crush all the husband's faith in his wife. 
 Of what had passed since she was ignorant. Of Mrs. Arundel's per- 
 secution by her father, of her rescue by Mr. Keckling, of Philip's 
 persistence in estrangement from Margaret, of course Maria knew 
 nothing. In truth, when the first storm of her grief at severance from 
 Philip had given way to bitterness and wilduess, there was nothing 
 that he could do that she did not narrowly watch, with the vigilance 
 
300 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 of one who was clinging to her only hope. We have seen that she 
 even followed him to the sea, and crouched in concealment to learn 
 what she could of her who had been a successful rival. But later, 
 when all hope was over, when she found that Philip was happy 
 with his young and beautiful bride, and that society, closing round 
 the prosperous couple, effectually shut her out from all chance of 
 restoring her relations with Philip Arundel, angry emotion was suc- 
 ceeded by a half-despairing, half-reckless tone of mind, which made 
 her adverse to any meditation upon the past, and induced her rather 
 to avoid hearing anything that could strongly remind her of the old 
 days. The scene at Alban's had been in a manner forced upon her 
 attention, and it is not in woman, when painful secrets are being 
 exchanged, not to try to have a part in the mystery. Eut after that 
 excitement was over, Maria had sought, as far as she could, to forget 
 the occasion. Her failing health, too, made her, unconsciously to 
 herself, eager to enjoy, in her whimsical capricious way, what time 
 might be left to her, and she gradtially feared that her life, 
 though still large enough for pleasure, had no longer room left in it 
 for passion. Others, beside such as was Maria, suddenly find them- 
 selves similai'ly dwarfed. Hence, when Alban broke upon her with 
 an idea, long and utterly abandoned, Maria, who at their first inter- 
 view would have covered his feet with tears of gratitude for such a 
 suggestion, now felt not hostile towards Philip, but strangely ill- 
 disposed towards him who had stirred the buried memories. 
 
 " You don't thank me," said Alban, after some moments of silence 
 on each side. " But there are thanks which lie too deep for words." 
 
 " I have nothing to thank you for," said Maria, hurriedly. " No, 
 I mean you have been very kind to me, in your way, and I am very 
 much obliged for all that." For she instinctively clung by any friend, 
 as those always do who may not long be likely to need any friendship. 
 
 " You mean that what I have done was to serve my own purpose, 
 rather than yours. Well, right. But what matters the motive 'I 1 
 have done it, and you are the gainer." 
 
 "But what have you done ?" asked Maria, bewildered. 
 
 " I have used the poison you gave me to use." 
 
 " Poison ! I !" And her memory ran a curious round, touching 
 upon the various medicines she had received from Alban ; and her wan- 
 dering imagination began to frame some crude notion of a plot, such as 
 she had seen in plays or read in novels, of changed bottles, and 
 murder innocently wrought. 
 
 " Yes, poison," he repeated ; " good, deadly, concentrated poison, and 
 all the deadlier for being disguised in honey." 
 
 Then, the only definite idea arising in poor Maria's mind was that she 
 hated honey, and she looked vacantly at Cheriton, and made no answer. 
 
 " I am talking shop to you, as they say," he went on, "and that is 
 not right ; and in good society, like Mrs. Arundel's, it is esteemed 
 vulgar," with a savage bitterness on the name. " I mean that 
 you supplied me with the means of separating your Philip and his 
 Margaret — she don't call herself his Margaret now, you must know — 
 and 1 have used the means to perfection. They will never speak to 
 one another again until they meet at the judgment." 
 
THE GGRDTAN KNOT. 301 
 
 " What is that to me V said Maria, sadly. 
 
 " Why, everything, if what you told to me with your sobs and 
 vour tears, in niy consulting room, the first night we ever met, meant 
 anything but folly. You said yon loved the man, swore it, begged 
 me to move heaven and earth to bring him back to you ; and, Maria, 
 you showed me how to do it. Were you playing the fool with me 1 
 Ef so, beware of me, for I am dangerous." 
 
 " O, do uot threaten me, do not terrify me. I am so ill. What 
 have T done ?" 
 
 " Done I Done well, and like a loving woman, who can love and can 
 dare for love. I, too, have done something in that way ; but the plot 
 was yours, and yours is the glory of the victory. That was a lovely 
 letter, a beautiful letter ! When he was writing it to you from that 
 lord's house in Scotland, the devil himself must have been whispering 
 the words to him, and must have heated the wax that bore that fine 
 brave aristocratic seal, with the castle on it, which no doubt he 
 thought it a proud thing to use. He little thought how it would 
 break down his castle." And Alban's laugh was anything but a 
 pleasant one. 
 
 " I remember the letter," said Maria ; " he put some heather 
 ilowers into it. I have the heather now. I have kept it, like a fool." 
 
 " Not in the least like a fool, but with a sage jiresentiment that 
 you would one day put it to his lips, and ask him whether he 
 remembered it. You recollect the letter. So does Margaret 
 Arundel, and will do so to her dying day. I chose it out of the 
 heap you gave me — by the way, I must give you them back, for they 
 are too precious to be in cold keeping like mine. I chose it, I tell 
 you, out of the heap ; and the way that I managed it should reach his 
 wife's hands when he was too far off to be reproached, and embraced, 
 and forgiven (I took care of that) — ha, Maria, my finesse was worthy 
 of a woman." 
 
 Maria looked as if she wished to henr moi-e. 
 
 '• I went up and talked to her about her child's health — she had 
 a child, you know, and her very heart is in that child — to say she 
 would die for it is to say nothing ; but you can't understand what 
 that sort of woman is with a baby — she looks into its eyes as if she 
 saw into heaven, and when it smiles " 
 
 13ut here Maria, who had been standing near her chair, dropped 
 into it on her knees, and burst into passionate weeping. She did 
 not know what it was to love a baby ! And the miserable November 
 afternoon, and the little coffin under the damp pall, and the cruel 
 creditor in the evening, all came back to the Creature. 
 
 As before, he allowed her to recover from the excitement without 
 a word of comfort. 
 
 But as soon as she had somewhat calmed, he went on. 
 
 " I managed to send her from the room, and while she was gone, 
 I placed that lovely letter in her writing-desk. 1 knew that she 
 would soon have to search that hiding-place. When she did, she 
 found the letter, for she sent it back to the writer ; but she had first 
 left his house." 
 
 This latter act was already known to Maria. She did not reply. 
 
302 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " All that I have to regret is, that I could not see her read the 
 precious epistle. How delightful it must have been to hei', for she 
 loved him as much as ever woman loved a man ; loves him still too, 
 which makes your revenge the sweeter. To read all those passionate 
 words, all those playful phrases, all those little allusions to home 
 happiness and home secrets, all that nonsense which a man writes 
 only to a woman's heart, not her head — only when he loves her 
 enough to believe that her heart will judge his words — and then to 
 reflect that it was all addressed, only the other clay, to some other 
 woman, not to divine Margaret herself, mother of his all-perfect 
 child. You could perhaps have contrived to have this sweetest 
 morsel of revenge ; you could have listened at some door, or hid 
 yourself — as you did at Ryde — in some lurking-place, but my inven- 
 tion failed me. However, it was done, and the woman went nearly 
 mad, and left her husband. So, he is yours for the asking." 
 
 And while he spoke, and while he alluded to the secreting a lettei*, 
 and listening, something which had well nigh passed away from 
 Maria's memory came back to her. That something had been the 
 work of a few seconds only, and might easily escape such a mind as 
 hers. 
 
 " So he has got back my letter," said Maria, in a low voice. 
 
 " He brought it to me, and gave it me the day you had to hide 
 in my bedroom. It has done its duty twice, perhaps it may do it a 
 third time, in reviving all the feelings under which it was written. 
 That is something like a letter — talk of the inspired epistles — there's 
 a vitality for you." 
 
 This Maria was not heeding, nor would she have comprehended it 
 had she heeded. 
 
 " Well," he said, " you should lose no time, for men like Philip 
 Arundel are easily caught at and easily lost. The coast is clear 
 now, and you had better act promptly. You should send for him 
 directly, and make matters up." 
 
 " He come to me, after I have acted so treacherous, giving up his 
 letters." 
 
 " Pooh, don't make difficulties in your own way. If he cares about 
 you, a little soft talk will make him look at that act in its true light, 
 as a proof of the intensity of your affection for him. Men are 
 wonderfully charitable to crimes they believe have been committed 
 for their sakes." 
 
 " He would not come," murmured Maria. 
 
 " You make me savage with your helplessness," said Alban, em- 
 phatically ; " a girl wants to see a man who has loved her, and can 
 devise no way to bring him to her. It would not quite do for me to 
 send him, because I am, j'ou know, horribly shocked at his treatment 
 of my dear and ill-used cousin, yet I would almost — but, bah ! 
 Write and say that you are dying, and for the memory of old times 
 would like to touch a hand that had once been kind, or any other lie 
 that is waiting in that inkstand ready to leap into a woman's pen." 
 
 "And he has separated from his — from Mrs. Arundel, and they 
 can never be united again V 
 
 " Never." ' 
 
 " And where is she ?" 
 
THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 303 
 
 "She lives with old Kockling — Cackling, as you insisted on calling 
 him." 
 
 " And the baby T 
 
 "Where she is, that yon may swear, if it were the ends of the 
 earth, or in any of the four corners of the same, as the Scriptures 
 scientifically describe it." 
 
 " But there is some other quarrel, is there not J" ventured Maria ; 
 " is there not some disreputable relative " 
 
 She glanced cautiously at him as she spoke. He was silent for 
 half a minute or so, and then be broke into a laugh, and pointed 
 with outstretched arm and finger at her. 
 
 " Ha ! you were listening in my bedroom. I might have guessed 
 it, but your pretended sleep was so good. That's how you know 
 that Philip is enraged with you. And knowing you, and your class, 
 and what you are, and how well you plot, it was monstrous idiotcy 
 in me to suppose that you would not be listening. Do you know, I 
 sometimes think my brain is not what it was. I am bewitched, like 
 the foolish Galatians. But it was very crafty of you to listen, very 
 clever. And then to make me tell you everything as if you did not 
 know it. By heaven, I have such a good mind to strangle you !" 
 
 And he looked so fierce that Maria, in ghastly terror, shrunk 
 into her chair like a child that would resist being taken out for 
 punishment. 
 
 A child, however, for whom no punishment had any special terror, 
 here broke rather than came into the room through the folding door, 
 and changed the current of Alban's ideas. It was Zuleika, who had 
 been pleased to arise from her couch at last, and came bouncing in. 
 Perceiving Alban, the young lady had the grace to apologize for her 
 somewhat incomplete toilette, an apology for which there was some 
 reason, inasmuch as a pair of slippers on her naked feet, and a 
 splendid shawl of Maria's wrapped fantastically round the girl, were 
 the only additions she had made to her sleeping attire. Her hair 
 was all loose and tangled, but a gay red chenille net affected to 
 restrain some of it within bounds. 
 
 " You ugly ruonke}-," said Alban, in uncivil earnest. 
 
 " Same to you, brother," returned the girl, whose powers ot 
 repartee had not been diminished by her residence in the domain of 
 demi-civilization. 
 
 "Give me your hand," he said, drawing Zuleika rather roughly 
 towards him. 
 
 "I want it for myself," replied Zuleika, "it's the onl} r one, except 
 this other, that I've g 
 
 " Don't be a fool,'' said Alban, peremptorily ; and as he held her 
 in his powerful grasp, Zuleika thought that it might be as well not 
 to risk, by any further resistance, the chance of his administering 
 physical castigation. 
 
 He felt her pulse, looked steadily in her face until her bold grey 
 eyes turned upon his. and then he dropped them. He placed his ear 
 to her chest, and released her. 
 
 " Warranted sound, wind and limb?" demanded Zuleika, as soon 
 as she was out of immediate reach. 
 
 '• Warranted a Limb," replied Alban. " Maria, let her have 
 
304 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 exactly what she fancies. It is of no manner 1 of consequence what 
 she eats or drinks." 
 
 " You are the pride of the doctors," said Zuleika ; " and when I 
 marry the Duke of Durnbledowndeary shire, you shall be my head 
 cook and bottle-washer." 
 
 Noticing neither the compliment nor the promise, Alban said, 
 " Look to her, Maria. It wont last long." 
 
 Maria, with a convulsive sob, looked pityingly at the child, and 
 held out her arms. And, imp as she was, Zuleika's evil little heart 
 was touched by the genuine lovingness of the look and motion, and 
 she sprang to Maria's knees, and buried the elf-locks in her lap. 
 
 "Sentiment here too, as well as in decent society," said Alban, 
 with a curious sneex*. And he went abruptly out of the room, and 
 out of the house. 
 
 His hand was on the door-knob, when an unexpected vision en- 
 countered him. 
 
 It was the Ayah, whose wanderings had led her into the street in 
 which Mrs. Prescott lived, and who, examining, as was her habit, 
 every window as she went along, had caught a glimpse of Alban in 
 the course of his iuterview with Maria, and of course waited — and 
 would have waited till midnight — to pounce upon him. 
 
 "What, Boosey !" exclaimed Alban. " The blackness of darkness 
 come upon us ! And what brings you to Babylon, you dear old 
 heathen ?" 
 
 " O, Mr. Alban ! Poor Miss Maggie !" 
 
 " Poor Miss Maggie !" repeated Alban, whose mood had suddenly 
 taken a hilarious character. " Poor Miss Maggie ! Is that the way 
 to speak of the beautiful and accomplished Mistress Philip Aruudel ? 
 Have you no respect for persons, you ancient Canidia 1 Poor Miss 
 Maggie, indeed !" 
 
 "But Mr. Alban, will he come back to her 1 ?" asked the affec- 
 tionate and single-minded Ayah. 
 
 " He ? Who, Canidia 1 He means a good many people in this 
 big city." 
 
 " O, you know, Mr. Alban. I seen him, Mr. Philp, but he 'ull 
 not say." 
 
 " You've seen Mr. Philp, as you call him ?" 
 
 " Been in his rooms, top of the stone stairs. But he 'ull not say. 
 What is us to do V 
 
 "And so you have been to the Temple, trying to make peace 
 between the Christian husband and wife, have you ?" And he laughed 
 long and loud. " Well done, you good old heathen, and for your 
 good intentions may a thousand years be taken off your time in 
 Padalon. But you have a zeal which is not according to knowledge, 
 Boosey, do you know that ?" 
 
 " Dont'ee laugh, Mr. Alban." 
 
 " Not laugh, Boosey. Why, is that against the Shaster 1 ?" 
 
 " Poor Miss Maggie !" 
 
 " Why, what a black cuckoo you are, Boosey." 
 
 " Will he come back to her ?" 
 
 " Hm, Boosey," said Alban, affecting to survey her deliberately, 
 and' to consider her words. " Will he come back, you say, meaning 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 305 
 
 will Mr. Philip Arundel return to the arms of your former mistress, 
 Mrs. Philip Arundel 1 Well, dear Boosey, I should say that he would 
 certainly not come back." 
 
 " O, Mr. Alban !" 
 
 " Neither, Boosey, is it altogether fitting and right that he should 
 return to Miss Maggie." 
 
 " He is a bad man, but she will pardon. She is all good." 
 
 " That piece of profanity we will pass over, Boosey, in consideration 
 of your limited lights. But you ought to know by this time, Ayah, 
 that though in your own country gentlemen are allowed to have as 
 many wives as they can keep, in this country we allow a man only 
 one." 
 
 " I know, Mr. Alban." 
 
 " If you know that, Boosey, why do you ask Mr. Philip to break 
 the laws ]" 
 
 " He breaks Miss Maggie's heart." 
 
 " That is very sad, very sad — but laws must be kept, though hearts 
 are broken. Mr. Philip's wife lives in this very house, and your foot 
 is upon her door-stone." 
 
 "Miss Maggie," exclaimed the delighted Ayah. "I will go to 
 her." 
 
 " You shall go in, if you please, and welcome. I undertake that 
 for you. Come along." 
 
 And pushing back the door, which he had not closed, he entered, 
 closely followed by the eager Boosey. 
 
 They went upstairs, and Alban, throwing open the drawing-room, 
 door, pointed out the occupants to the Ayah. Maria was in her chair, 
 sorrowfully embracing Zuleika, who knelt before her, with her 
 dishevelled hair on the shoulder of Maria. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mrs. Arundel," said Alban. " There, Boosey, is Mr. 
 Philip Arundel's real wife, and there is his child. It is no wonder 
 that, with such creatures to love, he has nothing more to say to your 
 unhappy mistress." 
 
 The two girls stared in utter bewilderment. 
 
 Boosey gazed for some time, until she thoroughly comprehended 
 what was told her, and her whole frame shook with rage. Three or four 
 times she raised her long lean arms, and sought to speak, but no 
 words came. In fact, her English did not serve her for a hundredth 
 part of what she desired to say. But at length it became necessary 
 for her to give utterance to her wrath, and though aware that not a 
 syllable of what she said was understood, she poured forth a frantic 
 torrent of curses in her own language, accompanied by the most lavish 
 gestures of menace and warning. 
 
 At a pause, Alban laid his hand on the Ayah's arm to remove her. 
 She shook off his touch, and, as resolved that something at least of 
 her anger should be understood by her audience, she exclaimed, 
 pointing to Maria — 
 
 " I should like to burn her head !" 
 
 And then Alban drew her from the room. 
 
 " Does it not bum enough ?." said poor Maria, again clasping the 
 child in an affectionate embrace. 
 
 PART X. X 
 
306 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 DARKER YET. 
 
 It need hardly be said, that when Henry Clieriion had in some 
 measure recovered from his first overwhelming grief, and could sum- 
 mon calmness to address himself to duty, the duty that lay readiest 
 to his hand was of a nature to afflict him even more bitterly than 
 aught that preceded it had done. It was his terrible task to com- 
 municate to his wife, to Alban's mother, the fatal news that the 
 intellect, so admired by that father, so adored by that mother, had 
 given way in the storm of life, and been wrecked on its hidden rocks. 
 He felt that it must be told by letter. They had never yet had a 
 sorrow that, when it came, they had not borne breast to breast, and 
 side by side, cast before the Healer. But, strong and good man as was 
 Cheriton, he quailed under the thought of seeing the mother's first 
 agony. She must compose that loving face from the torture of such 
 tidings under she turned to his arms. In tears — not in wild shudder 
 and with a wild cry — she must come, the bereaved one, to his bosom. 
 He did not even chide himself for this weakness ; he did not seek to 
 overcome it by an exertion of his strong will. Henry Cheriton owned 
 that to be the bearer of such news was more than he could endure, 
 and he refused a task beyond his strength. 
 
 He wrote. And when, in after years, it chanced that in sadly 
 reading through the treasured papers of one who had gone before him, 
 with a smile on her dying lip, to her reward, he came upon this letter, 
 he did not much marvel that he had broken the tidings so tenderly 
 and well. For the unutterable love, which, in those after years of soli- 
 tude and desolation, filled his heart, told him that his heart's deepest 
 recesses must have been searched to supply him with what he should 
 say in the day of the great affliction. But it were scarcely well to 
 seek to place that letter here. 
 
 Then Henry Cheriton applied himself to the duty that had brought 
 him from St. Oscars to London. He had learned from the letter to 
 Alban, opened by himself, that Margaret was at Mr. Keckling's house. 
 And he went there to her. 
 
 The agitation of such a meeting being over, Maigaret sat with him, 
 her hand in his, in the room where the fearful interview with her 
 eousin had taken place. She told him, in gentle and almost whispered 
 words, what had occmred between Alban and herself. The con- 
 firmation was complete ; but no confirmation had been needed by the 
 keen intellect of Cheriton, who had learned all in the ante-chamber of 
 that accursed lecture-room. 
 
 " We will speak of yourself, dearest child," said her uncle, after 
 some minutes of silence. 
 
 " O ! not in your own heavy, heavy trouble." 
 
 " It was to do so, dearest Maggie," he said, " that I came, with 
 your aunt's earnest concurrence, to town." 
 
 " Dear Aunt Nelly." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 307 
 
 •• Xay. you never doubted //''/• love, Maggie? 1 ' he said, tenderly. 
 * You were always her child ; and does a mother's love ever grow cold ? 
 Do you think that you have ever been forgotten — you know when 
 and where .' " 
 
 Margaret's arms round his neck made answer for her. 
 
 "And now, dear one, you must tell me all — all your story; and 
 we must see whether your old uncle cannot do something to get back 
 the happiness of his darling. Or, rather let me save you all the pain 
 I can, by telling you what we know, or suppose ourselves to know. 
 The gentleman who became your husband has, in some degree, I fear, 
 justified what I ventured to say to you, Maggie, in that long walk of 
 ours in the Regent's Park, when a dear and loving girl, though willing 
 to listen to advice, was overborne by her own belief in her lover. Do 
 not think, for a moment, that I am hinting a reproach, my own child 
 — all was most natural ; and perhaps I might not have been more 
 hopeful for your happiness if I had succeeded in turning you away 
 from one to whom your affections had been given. But that is of the 
 past. Mr. Arundel has not known how to appreciate the wife whom 
 God had given him, and estrangement has followed. Now, dear 
 Margaret, you must tell me something of that estrangement. Is it a 
 breach that — I speak to a Christian lady — can be healed by the in- 
 tervention of friends I" 
 
 What a question was that for poor Margaret to answer. She was 
 slow to speak, and no wonder. It was not because she did not per- 
 fectly \mclerstaud the meaning of the inquiry, but because she did. 
 Henry Cheriton perceived that he was unduly pressing her. 
 
 " You hesitate, my love, and that is the best sign I could receive ; 
 for I am sure that my Margaret Arundel could not hesitate if the 
 truth were a sad and a disgraceful one, and she had a husband who 
 had been base to her — unworthy to be named by her." 
 
 " No, no ; Philip is not that," exclaimed Margaret, sobbing. 
 
 " Then, with God's blessing, my dear child, we will hope that all 
 may be well. And there can be nothing which it can be more than 
 painful for you to tell me, and you will not mind the pain. It is a 
 sad and a grievous thing when wife and husband even suspend that 
 sacred relationship, and I will not say that any needless delay in 
 returning to mutual duty may not amount to guilt. The word is a 
 harsh word, dear love, but the oath of marriage is a solemn thing." 
 
 " Oh, it is, it is !" said Margaret. 
 
 " Therefore, love, let us avoid all possible playing with sin. I have 
 come to do my best for you ; and if I may have the comfort in my 
 own great affliction to know that I have helped to put an end to yours, 
 it will be something to take back to my poor home." 
 
 " If it could be so ! If I could be — " 
 
 " Come, half the difficulty is over, if it is the earnest wish of one 
 of you that this unchristian state of things should be ended. Now, 
 tell me, dearest. The separation — how was it 1 He left you, and 
 
 how r 
 
 " I left him," said Margaret, in a low and firm voice. 
 " And yet," said her uncle, gravely, " there was no such wrong as 
 may not be forgiven — I mean, in the world's language ] Poor Alban 
 
 x 2 
 
308 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 wrote to us that you had left Mr. Arundel, Margaret ; but your 
 aunt believed him to be in error, and I had since made up my mind 
 that his letter was but another symptom of his malady." 
 
 " I left him, uncle," repeated Margaret, with calmness. 
 
 " I must wait to hear more, my child." 
 
 " You shall hear all, dearest uncle — all," she said, passionately. 
 " And you and my aunt, and bless her — O, tell her how I bless her 
 for her trust in me — tell her that, dear uncle—" 
 
 " Indeed I will." 
 
 "You shall be judges, and there is no other judgment in this world 
 that I would ask, whether I have been wrong." 
 
 And she told him her story from the beginning ; — told it frankly 
 and candidly, yet with wifely jealousy of saying more to the prejudice 
 of her husband than she should have said, glancing very lightly indeed 
 over the actual wrong things that Philip had done, utterly omitting 
 any mention of his vicious irregularities (in one great case, her heart, 
 went back to the kiss at his chambei'S and the happy day by the Clif- 
 den woods), and even withholding all allusion to the scene at the opera. 
 But she laid, she coidd not help laying, stress upon his neglect and 
 coldness, which had stung her more than any folly or wrong that 
 could be confessed and forgiven ; and then she approached the mise- 
 rable business of the discovered letter, and the tale that it told. Here 
 our Margaret's womanly heart was too strong for her, and to her child- 
 hood's friend, her loved and honoured uncle, she poured out her grief 
 with a fulness, and perhaps with an indignation, in which she had 
 never indulged when to friends less dear to her she had (it was seldom) 
 spoken of her troubles. 
 
 He heard her to the end without interrupting her, but with an 
 occasional kindly pressure of the hand, or an encouraging murmur, 
 helping her on her way. And then she was silent, and he said, after 
 a pause : 
 
 " Dear child, you have been sorely tried, and the wound has come, as 
 always, where we least expect to be injured. You have been stricken 
 through the affections that should have been guarded with all the 
 devotion a husband could show. I know, dear love, how you have 
 suffered, and you do not want to be told how I feel for and with you." 
 
 There was, however, something in his tone that made Margaret 
 look up wistfully in his face. 
 
 " I have been wrong 1" she exclaimed, with agitation. And then 
 the pride of her nature came to her aid, and she said to herself that 
 let even her uncle decide against her, she had not been wrong, and she 
 stilled herself to hear what he would say. 
 
 " It is very sad that your husband should have shown himself so 
 shallow, so unworthy, I would say so profligate. It was a deep grief 
 to you, dear child, and I am not one who would lay a burden on 
 another beyond the power to support it. God knows I have myself 
 this very day shrunk from a trial which I feared. But if you have 
 told me all, and I know that you have, Maggie, bear with me while 1 
 say that those who counselled you to break up your home, and leave 
 it, gave you counsel which — which you should never have had 
 from me." 
 
THE GORDIAJT KNOT. ."09 
 
 '•' I was my own counsellor, dearest uncle. ~No one knew of my 
 intention." 
 
 '• You reached Hastings before informing any friend or relation ?" 
 
 " Yes ; or, I ought to say, I intended to do so, uncle." 
 
 "And you were accompanied, perhaps?" 
 
 " Indeed I was. And this brings me to another part of my troubles, 
 Uncle Henry." 
 
 Cheriton made no reply. A loan's letter once more flashed to his 
 mind. One portion of it which he had supposed to be false had turned 
 out true, and what if the insinuation that Margaret had not been 
 unaccompanied in her flight by one whose presence meant ■ 
 
 Henry Cheriton trembled. His fatherly love for the fair young 
 creature before him caused a shudder through his frame. And yet it 
 was but for a second. The picture his wife had drawn of the inno- 
 cent child, kneeling, barefooted, at her little prayer, rushed across his 
 eyes and tilled them with a mist, and this he had hardly brushed away 
 when the open and ingenuous face of the beautiful wife and mother 
 succeeded to the picture. He could not look twice in that face and 
 fear for her. Yet he said — 
 
 " You went down alone to Hastings — I mean, except with your 
 child and servant V 
 
 " 0, if I had, dear uncle, what added trouble might have been 
 spared me." 
 
 •' "Who was your companion, Margaret ?" asked her uncle, in the 
 most composed voice he could use. 
 
 u My father." 
 
 Her reply was so frank and natural, aud the tone was so nearly 
 pitiful, that Henry Cheriton, between relief and sympathy, felt his 
 eyes swimming in tears. But he was, for a moment, actually happy, 
 even with her sorrow and his own to bear. It is not easy to say how 
 much he loved that girl. 
 
 And then came the new revelation, the whole story of Armandale 
 Spencer, and his suddenly discovering himself to Margaret, and assum- 
 ing the place of protector, and the shameful confession that he had 
 made of his character. And there was the scene between Mr. Keck- 
 ling and Mr. Spencer, or rather so much of it as poor Margaret had 
 heard, or the former had deemed it necessaiy to relate to her, and the 
 suppression of her lettei', and all the rest of the Hastings story. All 
 this, however distressing, Margaret told with perfect fluency and 
 calmness — there was nothing to Philip's discredit in the history, and 
 there was no need, therefore, for her to pick her Way, or soften truths. 
 And for the astonished Cheriton, who had heard nothing of the return 
 aud intrigues of the Indian adventurer, a new light dawned upon the 
 conduct of Margaret. How rejoiced he was to be able to see possible 
 excuses for the step which he had been conscientiously inclined to 
 condemn. 
 
 ".Margaret, love," he said, ' : it seems as if your way in life was 
 indeed hedged with thorns, but we know — you know — that the 
 lliorn hedges are appointed in mercy to keep us from straying. But 
 that we may hasten to the end of our story, and consider our course of 
 action, let me ask you something more. I do not require to be told that 
 
310 THE GORDIAX KNOT. 
 
 you have riot said a word more against the conduct of Mr. Arundel 
 than he deserved, but I imagine that you have, on the contrary, said 
 less, and on an important point. The Aruudels had, as I gather, 
 become aware of this unhappy return of your father V 
 
 " Certainly. He made his way into the house of Philip's father, 
 and threatened " 
 
 " Yes, yes. And they, feeling the shame and disgrace of such a 
 connexion, visited it upon you, and your husband used your father's 
 character as a pretext for ill-treating you, poor child?"' 
 
 " He was never so unkind," replied Margaret, with heightened 
 colour, and if the truth must be spoken, with somewhat of increased 
 brightness in her eye. " Whatever else I may have to mourn over, I 
 have no reproach of that kind to make. Not only was Philip most 
 scrupulous never to make an allusion to the unhappy circumstances, 
 but here, in this very room, dear uncle, and in his presence, he and 
 his father warmly declared that my misfortune was theirs, and 
 that their only concern was to defend us all against anything my 
 father was likely to do." 
 
 [Now this had been old Mr. Arundel's speech, not Philip's ; but the 
 wife may be pardoned for making her husband party to a declaration 
 of which at all events he was a witness.] 
 
 " That conduct of the Arundel family was very noble, Margaret. I 
 do not say that they did more than Christians were bound to do, but 
 how few act up to that standard." 
 
 " It was most noble, uncle ; and the kind way in which the sad 
 business was received made me still more grateful." 
 
 And it was impossible to doubt the sincerity with which she spoke, 
 and Cheriton could not but admire it, though she had now cut away 
 the ground on which he had hoped to be able to build justification for 
 her leaving the home of her husband. 
 
 " Then, dear child, as I now understand, you have had no com- 
 munication with Mr. Philip Arundel since vou left St. John's 
 Wood." 
 
 "None. Stay," said Margaret, whose truthful nature would not 
 allow her to rest on the verbal accuracy of her answer to a question, 
 * I ought to say that I have heard nothing from him." 
 
 " But you have written to him." 
 
 "No," said Mai'garet, colouring highly, "not written to him. But 
 I could not help — indeed, it seemed due — at least — I enclosed to him 
 that letter." 
 
 " The letter found in your writing-desk. Ah, Margaret, we are 
 never so prone to do a wilful thing as when we have just done a 
 wrong one." 
 
 " Dear uncle, if you knew how you grieve me by what you say ! 
 And how much more I am grieved that I cannot bring myself to think 
 as you do." 
 
 " I will not lose time in ai-gument, Margaret. We have our work 
 to do, and we will set about it at once, for if there were no other 
 reason for our speed, I must hasten down to St. Oscars to comfort one 
 whose heart will be half-broken when I arrive." 
 
 "My darling aunt. O, what a trial ! How will she bear it V 
 
THE GOUDIAN KNOT. SI! 
 
 " You know, dear. But it is indeed a trial. There, we will not 
 allow it to intrude, while other matters call on us. It appears to me, 
 my love, that my course is at once to seek your husband. Happily, 
 he lias, 1 believe, a good opinion of me ■" 
 
 " O yes." 
 
 u And will therefore be sure that T should say nothing to him for 
 the mere sake of making peace, when there were likelihood of no real 
 peace, but that I shall speak to him as truthfully as I would to my 
 own son." 
 
 " But what would you say, uncle ?" asked Margaret, with a naivete 
 that under other circumstances might have excited a smile. 
 
 " This, dear Maggie, as from you " 
 
 She drew herself together, and seemed about to speak, but restrained 
 herself. 
 
 "That having taken counsel with one who loves you as well as he 
 loves his own child, you have allowed yourself to be convinced that 
 nothing which had occurred before you left St. John's Wood justified 
 that step — that you regret it, and desire that it may be pardoned, and 
 thai you may he allowed to retract it." 
 
 Margaret's lips were now so strongly compressed that you would 
 never imagine they could form themselves into that beautiful smile of 
 which mention has been made. Nevertheless, they opened. 
 
 " You would say this from me, Uncle Henry ?" 
 
 " I should say that from you, Margaret. But, as you well know, I 
 should say so only after you had made me the request that I should 
 so speak. What else I, as an old man, and one who loves you dearly, 
 and hoped to love your husband for your sake, may say from my own 
 heart to that husband, upon the subject of the past and the future, 
 you may safely leave to my affection. What 1 may, if 1 have the 
 happiness tosucceed, have to say to you too, dear child, upon the new life 
 which you will then undertake, may perhaps best be kept until then ; 
 but I would have you, Margaret, take advantage of my absence to 
 have some self-communings — on your knees." 
 
 Loving one another earnestly, there they were in antagonism. 
 He, taught by his religion, was treating as a false pride that which 
 she, taught by her heart, was vindicating as a true one. 
 
 " And now, dear Margaret, authorize your uncle to speak in your 
 name." 
 
 " Uncle Henry," said Mrs. Arundel, with firmness, " there are no 
 words in which I can tell you how grateful I am to you for your 
 kindness. Even in your own bitter sorrow you give yourself up 
 to me." 
 
 " You shall thank me another time, love ; now I want only to 
 know iwat I may go." 
 
 '• Will you ever — will you ever forgive me when I tell you that 
 this must not be — at least not now, and in the way that you wish?" 
 
 " I have had all the truth told me, 1 repeat," said Chariton ; '• 1 am 
 sure that 1 have had all the truth.." 
 
 '• All the truth, dearest uncle, yes," said Margaret, taking his hand, 
 " all except what never can be told, at least in any words that I know 
 how to use. How can 1 tell vou of what I have suffered 1 I do not mean 
 
312 THE G011D1AX KNOT. 
 
 from any actual wrong to me, except the greatest wrong of all to 
 loving heart, the not getting loved in return. As for Philip's neglect 
 of me, that might have been hard to bear, but the weary days and 
 nights I have passed alone and in sorrow were nothing to me while I 
 believed that he loved me, and that one day I should have all his 
 affection. I have cried over my poor sleeping baby till he waked with 
 the dropping of my tears, and, smiled at me, and the smile seemed to 
 say that there was hope for me, and happiness. I would have borne, 
 waited, and been silent until it pleased God to give me back my 
 husband's heart, and then when he opened his arras I would have 
 crept to them like a child, and wept my own heart out for joy and 
 gratitude. But, ! dear Uncle Henry, to have all my hopes blotted 
 out at once, to learn that my husband's love had been given elsewhere, 
 and that the utmost I could look to was his courtesy — to feel that all 
 the affection I lavished upon him was distasteful, or perhaps tolerable, 
 as it reminded him of other caresses ; 0, dearest friend that I have 
 in the world — will you say to me that I have not been humbled, and 
 that I am to ask for more humility ?" And she threw herself into 
 his arms, and wept aloud. 
 
 It might be that there was conflict in the bosom of Henry Cheriton 
 between the instincts of nature and the dictates of piety. He might 
 have been about to attempt to administer worldly comfort to poor 
 Margaret, as she clung sobbingly to him, or he might have been pre- 
 paring to whisper some of the inspired consolations which he had often 
 proved and tried as sure balm under affliction. But he was spared 
 all need of speech of either kind. 
 
 The Ayah stood before them. 
 
 "Boosey, you!" exclaimed Mr. Cheriton, astonished. And Margaret, 
 brushing some of the tears from her face, looked up with equal surprise. 
 
 " My poor Miss Maggie," said the Indian, casting herself at the 
 feet of Mrs. Arundel, and embracing her knees. " My poor, poor, 
 Miss Maggie." 
 
 Margaret stooped and imprinted an affectionate kiss on the dark 
 forehead of the Ayah, and then sought to raise her. But she con- 
 tinued to cling to her mistress's knees, and to repeat her words of 
 commiseration. 
 
 Mr. Cheriton's surprise speedily gave way to his habitual self- 
 possession. Something has been told the faithful old creature, at St. 
 Oscars, about Margaret's being unhappy, he thought, and she has come 
 up designing to be useful. Like myself, he inwardly added, and 
 perhaps to as good purpose. 
 
 "Now, Boosey," he said, "get up; Mrs. Arundel is ill, and you 
 will make her worse if you go on so." 
 
 The fear of doing Margaret the least harm had its usual effect upon 
 the Ayah, and in a moment she was on her feet, and wiping her eyes 
 with energy ; but her lips still murmured " poor Miss Maggie." 
 
 " What brought you to town, Boosey ?" said Mr. Cheriton. 
 
 The Ayah smiled very sadly, and silently pointed at Margaret. 
 
 " How kind of you, dear nurse," said Mrs. Arundel. 
 
 But the Indian, with a beckoned wave of her hand, disclaimed the 
 idea of having done anything worth thanks. 
 
THE C.ORDIAN KNOT. ol3 
 
 "You culled at my house?" asked Cheriton ; "you left all well?" 
 
 '•' I did not go," said Boosey, whose mind seemed pre-occupied. 
 "Let me speak yon, Doctor," she said, signalling him, but with much 
 respect, towards the other drawing-room. 
 
 " Can you have anything to tell me that Mrs. Arundel should not 
 hear ?" 
 
 '• I do not want to tell you nothiug ; I want to speak you" 
 
 " Tins way, then j" and they entered the adjacent room. 
 
 " Now, what is it, Boosey 1 — quick, please." 
 
 " O, very quick — quick as death ! Tell me. A Christian has 
 marry two wives at one time?" 
 
 " Nonsense, Boosey ; no Christian could do such a thing. Besides, 
 no man can do it ; the second woman is no wife at all." 
 
 " Quite well. Then, the first woman is killed — no, she dies ; the 
 other woman is the wife now, the lady and mistress of all ?" 
 
 " No, certainly not ; unless he marries her again." 
 
 " Ah ! he must marry her again ?" 
 
 "Well, no, he is not obliged; but he will, or else he is a 
 scoundrel." 
 
 " Quite well, Doctor ;" and Boosey returned to the room in wdrich 
 Margaret was. 
 
 Mrs. Arundel had seated herself in one of the lai'ge chairs, and the 
 Ayah came behind hei-, and, with the soft and gentle touches of 
 Eastern handmaids, began arranging Margaret's lovely hair, smoothing 
 tresses into bi'aids, and severing braids into tresses again, as in the 
 days of the childhood of her charge. 
 
 "Mr. Philp is not a scoundrel 1 ?" she suddenly murmured, question- 
 ingly, in the ear of Margaret. 
 
 Mrs. Arundel started, and then, perceiving the point of the inquiry, 
 coloured all over face and neck. The Ayah kissed her, apologetically, 
 and looked for a reply. 
 
 •' No, no, Boosey," said Margaret, hastily. " No." 
 
 " Quite well," said the Ayah, resuming her work upon the hair. 
 
 Mr. Cheriton re-entered the room, and looked at Boosey as it* 
 desirous to dismiss her for the moment. She instantly understood 
 the look, and said that she would go downstairs to the servants. 
 
 " What made you ask me those questions in the next room V said 
 Cheriton. 
 
 The Ayah looked gloomily, and made no reply. 
 
 " Tell me, Boosey," persisted Cheriton ; " if you know any poor 
 woman who has been wronged, we may be better able to help her 
 than you." 
 
 " No, no, I know her not," said Boosey, impatiently ; " I do not 
 know nothing. Miss Maggie, please to ring for me." 
 
 And she left the room. 
 
 .Margaret instantly mentioned to her uncle the words which the 
 Ayah had whispered, and which the former supposed to be merely 
 Boosey 's mode of obtaining comfort for herself touching her beloved 
 mistress's position. 
 
 " Ha ! was that her question ?" said < heriton and he hurried to the 
 bell, and rang it violently. 
 
314 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 It was answered by one of Mr. Reckling's servants ; but the Ayah's 
 immediate attendance was ordered, and, whether with good will or 
 not, Boosey obeyed. 
 
 " I desire to know, Boosey," said Mr. Cheriton, u why you asked 
 me those questions ?" 
 
 " No why. Nothing," returned the Ayah. 
 
 " Mrs. Arundel desires to know." 
 
 " Better not know, Miss Maggie — not now. By and bye." 
 
 " Please to tell me now, Boosey," said Margaret, who saw that her 
 uncle was more than usually desirous of having his way. 
 
 " The Doctor knows what I tell," said the Ayah, " and what he 
 tell — marry her again, or he is a scoundrel." 
 
 " Who is ?" demanded Cheriton. 
 
 " Nobody is," replied the Ayah, triumphantly : " Miss Maggie 
 tell rne." 
 
 " What does this mean V asked Cheriton, sternly. " Speak out, 
 Boosey, and let us have no shuffling. What has Mr. Philip Arundel 
 to do with your question ? What has he done ?" 
 
 "I seen his wife," said Boosey, "and his child — a nasty, ugly 
 child — very ugly girl — yes. But he is not a scoundrel, and all shall 
 be quite well," and she made a motion towards the door. 
 
 But Cheriton stopped her, and by dint of questioning, and the free 
 use of Margaret's name, he elicited from her that which the reader 
 already knows, namely, that Alban had taken her into a house and 
 shown her the wife and child of Philip Arundel. 
 
 " But she will soon die," said Boosey, consolingly. 
 
 Permitted, by a sign, to depart, she left the room, waving her hand 
 as if in congratulation to Margaret. 
 
 " What new revelation is this, my child ?" said her uncle, hastening 
 to her side ; " the idea of another wife is, of course, sheer idiotcy, 
 but " 
 
 " But there is a child," said Margaret, bursting into tears again, 
 perhaps the bitterest she had shed that day ; " there is a child ! That 
 was never known to me ; and now, now I can see why my own darling 
 was looked coldly on — why his father never cared to see, and to kiss 
 him. The love that should have been my child's belongs to another 
 child — hers to whom that letter was written. I used to think," she 
 went on, passionately, "that if he could love our baby, I would not 
 so much cave about myself; but he never could, and now I know 
 why. Her child ! O, Uncle Henry ! this last blow was all that was 
 wanting. O, I am so wretched ! Her child ! Now, Uncle Henry, 
 will you have me pray to be more humbled?" 
 
 " Dearest love, be calm. You have only the word of an ignorant 
 woman, grossly deceived as to one point -" 
 
 " But not the other. She has been taken to that woman's house, 
 
 and has seen her and her girl. A girl, too, and Philip always 
 
 Dearest uncle, do not try to comfort me by the thought that there 
 may be mistake. Boosey has seen riiili|>"s child, and now I know 
 why he cared nothing for my darling Duke ; there could be no other 
 reason for his neglecting that little angel. For her child !" 
 
 The dark hour of all is the hour before day. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 315 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 AX OPES COUNCIL. 
 
 It had long been Alban Cheriton's intention to produce upon his cousin 
 Margaret's mind the effect mentioned in the preceding chapter. But 
 he had laid a complicated plot, designing that Margaret's own eyes 
 should deceive her into the belief that she beheld the child of Philip 
 Arundel. It was, however, entirely in keeping with the rest of his 
 conduct, and in natural obedience to the disorderly dictates of his 
 brain, that he should forestal his plan on suddenly encountering the 
 Ayah ; and no sooner had he achieved his purpose, and furnished Boosey 
 with Margaret's address (of which he was certain that she would im- 
 mediately avail herself), than, with the singular i-eadiness of madness, 
 instantly to convert to its own use the idea last presented to it, Alban 
 chuckled and rejoiced to himself at the adroitness he had manifested, 
 and departed muttering incoherent exultation that at last he had 
 fulfilled his work. Strangers who passed him, and saw the fine face 
 distorted with occasional grimace, wondered, supposed him insane, 
 and forgot him ; but some who knew the celebrated lecturer's features, 
 watched him with more interest, and imagined that he was puzzling 
 over some abstruse theory, or some professional problem, and actually 
 entertained an increased respect for a genius that was so visibly 
 superior to the usages of the world — one of the thousand cases in 
 which a little knowledge leadeth us further astray than doth total 
 ignorance. 
 
 John Claxton had, as it will easily be supposed, deemed it best to 
 get rid of the pertinacious Ayah by giving any kind of promise that was 
 likely to place her upon the other side of his black door, nor would he 
 have particularly troubled himself to fulfil an engagement made, as he 
 described it, under duresse. In fact, it was one of Mr. Claxton's ideas 
 that as the lower orders attach little or no value to exact truth, their 
 betters need be troubled with few scruples about administering to 
 them an article which they do not appreciate. John Claxton never 
 romanced, either to or about one of his equals, and was indeed 
 curiously exact in his statements in conversation. But the remark- 
 able calmness with which he addressed to his inferiors any allegation 
 which occurred to him as likely to be pleasant to them, or to promote 
 any object he had for the moment in view, was worthy of all admira- 
 tion, and may perhaps be one of the reasons why he has, since the 
 time of our story, been so eminently successful as a canvasser and a 
 hustings speaker. Par be it from me to imply that to his other 
 characteristic he is likely to be indebted for a failure in the House 
 to which we all aspire. 
 
 But Mr. Claxton, though performing the office of a friend in con- 
 soling with and comforting Philip Arundel, and in some measure 
 diverting him from considerations which were really working upon 
 his miud to its improvement, but to the detriment of his health, was 
 much dissatisfied with the position of affairs. He had done his best 
 
316 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 or worst, as we know, to dissuade Arundel from marrying, but having 
 failed, and having seen Philip mated with youth, beauty, and gentle- 
 ness, John Claxton was enraged with his friend for not accepting a 
 situation that was not, after all, so very disagreeable, and behaving him- 
 self in married life with steadiness and loyalty. He was very anxious to 
 lieal the breach between Margaret and Philip, and therefore detained 
 the latter in England, instead of allowing him to shoot oil* to Paris or 
 Baden. But the means did not come to his hand, and his inventive 
 powers were not of the strongest. Of course he soon ascertained all 
 that there was to know, and Mrs. Arundel's return to Mr. Reckling's 
 was at once signified to him. There was the man in the Temple, and 
 the woman in the Regent's Park ; but the problem how to bring them 
 together was still unsolved. The Ayah's visit to the young lawyer's 
 chambers was, therefore, not unwelcome to him ; for, at all events, it 
 offered him an opportunity of an explanatory visit to Keckling — 
 perhaps to Margaret. 
 
 Without consulting Philip, therefore, Mr. Claxton resolved to see 
 how the land lay, and in the afternoon following the visit of Boosey, 
 he went up to Mr. Keckling's house. But he thought that it might 
 not be amiss first to call in Thanington Squai-e, where he was always 
 welcome. He was indeed looked upon as a sort of custos to Philip, and 
 though the latter had not unnaturally chosen to separate himself a 
 good deal from his family since the late events of which we have 
 spoken, Mr. Arundel and the girls kept up an indirect communication 
 with him through Claxton, and seemed to hold the latter responsible 
 that Philip did nothing wild or desperate. 
 
 To-day Blanche and Geraldine wei'e out, but Mr. Arundel, was in 
 his library, reading hard in Hansard for hints for a speech he had 
 persuaded himself that he ought to make. He sadly needed Philip 
 to string together for him the points which he was rather feebly noting 
 on the back of a glossy letter with a very thick lead pencil that wrote 
 hard and badly. John Claxton's arrival was an excuse to the senator 
 for laying aside work in which his old soul did not delight, and for 
 which it need hardly be said there was not the least real necessity, 
 for the bill against which he meant to speak had beeu introduced by 
 the Government without the smallest intention of its being passed, 
 and only to shut the mouth of Sir Barnabas Cutch (who would have 
 otherwise brought in a much better), and it was born with an " I " 
 mark on its back, setting it apart for slaughter on Innocents' day. 
 The country, therefore, practically lost nothing by Mr. Claxton's 
 interruption. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Claxton," said the old gentleman, 
 looking what he declared himself to be, a trouble few people take. 
 " I had half made up my mind to send you a note." 
 
 Claxton was happy, of course, and what could he do 1 
 
 '• Well, the fact is, Claxton," said the father, " and I dare say you 
 can perfectly well understand it without my saying much about it, 
 we are all very uncomfortable about Philip, and the way he is going 
 on. I don't mean, of course, to say for a moment that if he is not in 
 his own house, or mine, he is in the next best place in the world, with 
 your companionship." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 317 
 
 " My dear sir, I feel exactly as you do in the matter, and I think 
 that he decidedly ought to be in his own house, or yours." 
 
 " I knew you would say so. Now the girls fancy all sorts of things 
 about him, — that he must be growing melancholy and misanthropical, 
 and, perhaps — you know what girls' imaginations are — that lie is 
 likely to get into a bad way, as a purposeless unhappy man will. I 
 don't mean to say, of course, that I have any such fancies about him ; 
 but I don't like to see Blanche aud Geraldine making themselves 
 miserable with the idea." 
 
 This, it should be said, was an entirely unfair representation of the 
 case, for though Philip's sisters were much grieved at losing sight of 
 him, they never imagined anything very sentimental on the subject, 
 and it was the dear old Marmaduke himself who suggested all the 
 uncomfortableness, aud then lidgeted himself therewith. 
 
 " Philip is not particularly unwell," said the scrupulous John Clax- 
 tou, " but it is a bad thing for a man to be in his position, and I often 
 hear him declare himself bored to death." 
 
 He did not mention that the last time he had heard Philip so 
 describe himself was on the previous evening in the middle of a drama 
 which on the play-bill in his hand was termed comic. 
 
 " Poor boy !" said Mr. Arundel. " His situation is most unfortu- 
 nate, and I really see no immediate mode of altering it for him. How 
 sadly eveuts have turned out, my dear John Claxton, and how dif- 
 ferently from what we hoped and expected when I held his hand at 
 that wedding breakfast, and believed that all I prayed for was coming 
 to pass." 
 
 And tears stood in the father's eyes. 
 
 " We will hope to have it all right for him yet," said Claxton. 
 " It will be a happy day for me when I see it so, my dear lad," re- 
 plied the other. 
 
 " At least, I will tell him what you say." 
 
 " I hope that there is no need to tell Philip that," said Mr. Arundel; 
 "and yet say so — do, please ; for he may be led at times to think that 
 •we are not thinking of him. God knows that is not so. I can 
 answer for myself, and I am sure I can answer for my girls." 
 
 "And I for Philip that he never doubts it. But everybody likes. 
 a kind word now and then.'' 
 
 " Verv true ; and I have sometimes thought that if more kind words 
 were said, people who love one another well would love one another 
 better." 
 
 He was thinking of Philip and Margaret, for, to tell the truth, the 
 kindly natured old man had not been well pleased with his son's calm 
 politeness to his warmhearted wife in the days when the estrange- 
 ment v.-;is increasing, and Arundel knowing nothing of its cause-;. 
 
 '• .May I ask," said Claxton, "whether you have ever heard any- 
 thing of or from Mrs. Philip?" 
 
 •■ Not a syllable," said Arundel. " That is, not a syllable directly. 
 You know what respectable person did me the honour to send me a 
 telegraphic message from Hastings?" 
 
 " Yes, but Mrs. Philip has long since returned to town." 
 
 "I did not know it. Aud I think I on "lit to have known it. She 
 
318 THE GOPvDIAN KNOT. 
 
 knew well how I always loved her, and it did not need Philip's expla- 
 natory letter to me, to assure me that there was nothing more than 
 a case of temper in it, and that she was not much to blame. Does she 
 think I would have been harsh with her, or taken even my own sons 
 part against her ?" 
 
 " I beg pardon," said Claxton. " Philip wrote to you ?" 
 
 "Nothing very surprising iu that, is there — that he should write 
 to his father, explaining the quarrel, and begging that no interference 
 might take place ?" 
 
 " And — and — " asked Claxton, eagerly, " taking care that as little 
 blame as possible fell on his wife?" 
 
 " Yes ; and there is nothing very surpi'ising in that, either." said 
 Arundel, a little proudly. " Philip has his faults; but he is as just 
 as ever gentleman was, or could be." 
 
 " He never told me," said Jack Claxton, with real pleasure in his 
 face ; " and yet he tells me most things. But that's nothing between 
 us. I am as glad as if you had given me a great heap of money." 
 
 " Tell me why, if you do not mind." 
 
 " Oh, because it shows that, in spite of gloomy looks and despairing 
 talk, he is certain of a reconciliation one of these days, and would 
 be rejoiced at it." 
 
 " You read it in that light 1 I am very glad to hear you say so ; 
 for, to tell you the truth, so do I. And, the hope of seeing them 
 happy again, and that darling boy of theirs on his father's knee, is 
 a thing that I look forward to with a desire which you don't un- 
 derstand, Mr. Claxton, and it is impossible that you should ; but you 
 will when your head is as white as mine, and you have a son to 
 trouble it." 
 
 " I am thoroughly pleased," said John Claxton. 
 
 I am sorry to say, all their kind feelings were thrown away. It 
 was perfectly true that Philip had written that letter to his father, 
 upon discovering that Margaret had departed. It was written when 
 his better nature was aroused, and he secretly admitted to himself 
 that he had been no model husband. 
 
 But, after he had despatched that letter, came the interview with 
 Alban, and all its poison. 
 
 " Yes," Mr. Arundel said, " I confess to you, Mr. Claxton, that I 
 have been something more than surprised that Mrs. Arundel has not 
 written to me. There are reasons — purely reasons of feeling, but 
 quite strong enough to justify me in saying so — why she should have 
 placed the most implicit confidence in me. I was quite prepared to 
 believe that Philip was in the wrong rather than his wife." 
 
 " Every one of your friends and hers, sir, was aware how high 
 Mrs. Arundel stood in your estimation." 
 
 " Stands, if you like, Mr. Claxton. At all events, I will form no 
 judgment against her without the fullest understanding of the quarrel. 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 319 
 
 But as she will not write to me, and Philip keeps away, only begging 
 that I will not interfere, 1 am stranded." 
 
 '• There is one thing that occurs to me as possibly accounting for 
 Mrs. Arundel's silence. You have alluded to the person in whose 
 charge she seems to have placed herself." 
 
 "Her father I Well, 1 do not know that we are justified in going 
 even so jar as that. I cannot think she placed herself in his hands. 
 I need not tell you what he is, or how little chance she would have of 
 escaping his pertinacious persecution ; and in the absence of all proof 
 that she willingly allied herself with him, I prefer to think that she 
 is unwillingly brought into his society. I would soon have settled 
 all that, but for Philip's earnest request that I would not act." 
 
 •• Well, sir," said Claxton, "I am glad to take the same view, but 
 it comes in support of what I was going to say. That Mr. Spencer 
 interdicted her from writing to you V 
 
 '•'But you say that she has returned to town — do I understand that 
 her father is with her P' 
 
 •■Most unlikely, for the reason that she is in the house of a man 
 who would be delighted to hang Mr. Armandale Spencer, I mean 
 Mr. Keckling." 
 
 •• Margai-et there," said the old gentleman, with glistening eyes. 
 * That is well. I might have guessed that she would be. I tell you 
 what, Claxton, spite of Philip, or rather in order to do the best thing 
 in the world for Philip, I will go and see Mrs. Arundel. It can do 
 no harm." 
 
 '• It may do great good, on the contrary," said Claxton, " and I 
 am very happy to hear you say you will." 
 
 "By George ! I'll go now ; now, upon the instant." 
 " To tell you the truth. I was going myself to see Mr. Keckling, 
 for a reason which I will mention." 
 
 " I'll take you — mention it as we go along." And he rang for the 
 brougham. 
 
 He was reminded that the young ladies had it, and were gone for 
 a morning with Mr. Albert Smith on Mont Blanc. 
 " We wont wait for the carriage. A cab." 
 
 Claxton told him, en route, of the visit of the Ayah to the chambers, 
 and of her frantic demand that justice should be done to Miss 
 Maggie. 
 
 Now Mr. Arundel, with all his merits, had a belief in his own power 
 of seeing a few inches further into a mill-stone than his neighbours 
 could, and thought he beheld an opportunity of exerting his lynx 
 faculty. 
 
 " That is a very curious thing, Mr. Claxton. That is more than 
 carious, it is very suggestive. Did not you two lawyers make any- 
 thing out of the fact of the black woman's visit ?" 
 
 "I don't know that we made more of it than it was very ill-timed, 
 and rather outrageous." 
 
 " Ah ! But we old fellows have a habit of putting this and that 
 together. I wonder it did not strike you that this woman is in 
 league with Armandale Spencer. He was her former master ; 
 
320 THE GOEDIAX KNOT. 
 
 Margaret has told me about her, and these Eastern people's idea of 
 service is that it lasts for life. You may rely upon it that Spencer 
 has got hold of Mrs. Blackey, and that hois using her as a spy/' 
 
 " She believes that she is doing Mrs. Arundel service, then," said 
 Claxton, " and she would tear Mr. Spencer's eyes out if she thought 
 he was employing her to injure her misti*ess's interests. I never saw 
 a helpless-looking woman so suddenly transform herself into a she- 
 tiger in my life. I don't believe those folks are our fellow creatures, 
 not a bit of it. They have some cross of the lower creation in them, 
 and ought to be treated as if they had." 
 
 " Well, do you know," said Mr. Arundel, in rather a confidential 
 voice, " I have had that idea all my life, but it wont do to utter it 
 in these days of universal philanthropy. "We shall have a black Mr. 
 Speaker one of these fine mornings." 
 
 " Why not, you have a black-Rod," laughed Claxton. " The first 
 to the left, cabman. Third door. Here we are." 
 
 Mr. Keckling was at home, and in his parlour, nursing his great 
 white cat, and reading through a file of the Joui'nal of Odessa, a print 
 that would scarcely repay that ti'ouble on the part of most people, but 
 in which he found notice of the proceedings and promotions of divers 
 acquaintance of his own. He was privately glad to see his visitors, 
 but he did not permit them to discover this, and to Mr. Arundel 
 he showed rather a studied courtesy, as wishing to be on guard 
 until he knew what line was to be adopted towards his darling 
 Margaret. 
 
 " It is hardly necessary to tell you, Mr. Keckling, upon what sub- 
 ject we have desired to see you," said Arundel, after the ordinary 
 common places of a call ; "and I am quite sure that you will feel as I 
 do about the state of affairs between two young persons very near to 
 our hearts." 
 
 Mr. Keckling nodded intelligence, but internally reserved to him- 
 self the right of limiting his care about the matter to what concerned 
 one young person. 
 
 " And I am equally sure that you will be as delighted as mvself to 
 help to put an end to that state of affairs." 
 
 "That." said Mr. Keckling, quietly, " depends upon the sort of end 
 that is to be put to them." 
 
 "Of course it does," replied Arundel ; "but I think Mr. Keckling 
 will take it for granted that my object is the same as his." 
 
 " I have avowed no object at all," returned Keckling. " But to be 
 as frank with you, Mr. Arundel, as I ought to be towards a gentle- 
 man whose character I esteem so highly, I should be glad to under- 
 stand the position we respectively occupy before I talk about the 
 business." 
 
 Mr. Arundel was taken a little aback, but he said — 
 
 " Is there any difficulty about that V 
 
 "If I seem to see any," replied Mr. Keckling, "you must pardon 
 my excess of caution. We old mercantile men, you know, Mr. 
 Arundel, have not all the open-heartedness of our betters, the aris- 
 tocrats." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 321 
 
 Arundel was not much more pleased with the second speech than 
 the lirst. P>ut he laughed good-naturedly. 
 
 " Well, we wont discuss social questions and prejudices, hut try 
 w hether we cannot hammer out some plan for bringing our two young 
 folks together again, Mr. Kcckling. That I am sure will gratify you." 
 
 " Again, Mr. Arundel, I must decline to commit myself. That is, 
 unless I know exactly how we stand." 
 
 " Perhaps you would explain a little," said John Claxton. 
 
 " I mean this," said Keckling. " A lady is under my roof, whom 
 circumstances and conduct which I don't care to designate, have 
 compelled to leave the house of her husband. I am willing, and, 
 indeed, shall be happy to discuss any plan for her advantage, but I 
 should like to know whether I am to discuss it with two gentlemen 
 who come on another gentleman's part, or whether we ai*e a mere 
 open council without sides to take, or interests to advocate." 
 
 This, thought Mr. Claxton, is tolerably plain speaking, considering 
 that she ran away from him, not he from her. Further, he thought, 
 the old parliament-man must love Margaret a good deal, or he would 
 hardly let such very high ground be taken by her friend. 
 
 Mr. Arundel was piqued, but his heart was too true to let his 
 temper have the victory where the interests of those he loved were 
 concerned. 
 
 " Open council, by all means, Mr. Keckling, and no advocacy at 
 all. Our affections are, I think, too deeply engaged in the subject to 
 allow us any formalities or hesitations. The point is, how can we 
 best bring Philip Arundel and Margaret his wife into union again." 
 
 "You have satisfied yourself, then, Mr. Arundel, that such a 
 re-union is the object at which their friends should aim V 
 
 " Surely it is. Two young folks, in eveiy way calculated to make 
 each other happy, and who I believe sincerely love one another, 
 are separated by some trumpery misunderstanding, and would be 
 grateful for life to the friends who should once more place them in 
 one another's arms. What do you think the shortest way to such 
 a consummation V 
 
 " Well, sir, in the ordinary affairs of life, we should know what to 
 do. We should either say, of two quarrelling parties, that both have 
 been wrong, and they must mutually forgive and forget ; or we 
 should say that one had been wrong, decide which one, and desire 
 that one to express regret and receive pardon." 
 
 " Just so. Well, we won't talk about pardon, because that is a 
 grave word, rather too grave to apply to boy-and-girl mistakes." 
 
 "But we certainly will not talk about mutual forgiveness, because 
 that implies that both have been wrong, which of course is not the 
 case here. So that neither plan seems to suit the emergency." 
 
 "■ Why," said Mr. Arundel, a little ruffled, " I allow, of course, and 
 do so very cheerfully, that dear Margaret has not been in the wrong. 
 Still it was rather a strong step to break up her household and leave 
 her home ; and therefore I think that if we suggest that no more 
 shall be said about it, and we ask the young folks to dine at my 
 house to-morrow, the affair will be mado up in the quietest and 
 simplest way." 
 
 PART XI. Y 
 
322 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " We are at cross-purposes, Mr. Arundel, that is quite evident." 
 
 " Nay, I hope not." 
 
 " I imagine so, however. At all events, if this Mere not open 
 council, and I were seriously arranging the terms on which Mr. and 
 Mrs. Arundel -were to meet, I should say that I was sure we mis- 
 understood one another. And that we might not do so any more, 
 I should premise, that not only has Mrs. Arundel done no wrong, but 
 has done what was most perfectly and absolutely right, and that not 
 only has Mr. Arundel done much wrong, but that I cannot see how 
 anything short of the fullest acknowledgment of his misconduct, and 
 the amplest apology for it, could justify Mrs. Arundel in even listen- 
 ing to terms of any kind." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Mr. Arundel, now extremely red up to the 
 roots of his silver hair, "if I have thoroughly misunderstood your 
 sentiments towards my son." 
 
 " I have never explained them to you yet," replied Keckling, 
 " nor would I willingly give you pain, under any circumstances." 
 
 Mr. Arundel's bow was haughty enough this time. 
 
 " I would say one thing," said John Claxton, who privately owned 
 the justice of Keckling's views, but who felt, pro tempore, as the 
 retained counsel for Philip's father. " Setting aside the right and 
 Avrong of the case for a moment, Mr. Keckling, you know, as a man 
 of the world, that no real union could ever be effected by such 
 means as you speak of. What is the position of the husband who 
 has had to sue to his wife for forgiveness V 
 
 " Is it so humiliating? He has sued to her in his time for a far 
 greater favour — her love. But I do not deny what you say, Claxton ; 
 and you are right in believing that most people would be but in- 
 differently re-united on such terms." 
 
 " Then, why not let us adjust easier ones ?" 
 
 " Allow me to speak," said Mr. Arundel, with dignity. " I am 
 perhaps the person most interested here, as I am speaking of my 
 son, while Mi". Keckling and Mr. Claxton speak of their Mends. 
 Mr. Keckling has, of course, formed his idea of the nature of the 
 quarrel — if I am to use such a word — from the statements of the 
 dear lady up-stairs. She is as candid and true as an angel, but she 
 cannot fail to have given her own, perhaps mistaken, opinions on her 
 grievances. I have seen nobody, heard nobody ; my only communi- 
 cation from my son being an exculpation of Margaret from any 
 graver error than temper " 
 
 Mr. Keckling interpolated an oath, but in an undertone, and Mr. 
 Arundel was not obliged to hear it, so did not, and went on. 
 
 " And a request that T would not interfere. I am anxious to 
 believe everything to he in Mix. Arundel's favour, but I cannot 
 permit my son to he condemned unheard, far less that humiliation 
 should he exacted from him." 
 
 " And a request, if I heard yoxi aright, sir," said Keckling, not 
 noticing the last words, '•'that you would not interfere V 
 
 " Which, in my love for them both. I have now resolved to dis- 
 regard," said the old man. 
 
 " You see, sir, yoti come to a congress without credentials," said 
 
THE C50RDIAN KNOT. 323 
 
 Mr. Kecklingj "but that I should hot insist upon. But the additional 
 insult to Mrs. Arundel, in her husband's letter to you — you said a 
 letter " 
 
 " I meant it." 
 
 ■ That insult deliberately written down — and mind, if I do not 
 give it another and a coarser name, it is out of reverence for the 
 feelings of the writer's father — completes the impossibility of any 
 sort of compromise." 
 
 "Now, Mr. Keckling, I must make a remark which I have 
 reserved. I was desirous to adjust this reconciliation through an 
 clil and valued friend of Margaret's • but, since yoii take up the posi- 
 tion you do, I am compelled to request that you do not interpose 
 between myself and my daughter-in-law." 
 
 " Who is my adopted daughter !" 
 
 " I rejoice in her good fortune. But she is still my son's wife, 
 and therefore his father, who has always shown himself hers, has a 
 claim to her affection and even duty. At all events, I must have an 
 interview with her." 
 
 " It must be with her consent, and with mine." 
 
 " I will not turn aside to squabble upon words, Mr. Keckling. Let 
 me see Margaret." 
 
 " No,'' said Mr. Keckling, suddenly becoming flushed, and speaking 
 furiously, " you shall not see Margaret. I comprehend you, sir. 
 You have no doubt of your power and influence, if you can only get 
 to speak with the girl. You know well what you will say. You 
 will be dignified and impressive enough, as becomes the aristocrat deal- 
 ing with his inferior. You will remind her of the honour which has 
 been conferred upon the child of a disreputable Indian officer, and the 
 2>rotecjee of a pack of dissenters and lodging-house keepers, and of an 
 old snob of a retired tradesman, in elevating her to be the wife of a 
 son of the great Mr. Arundel. You will point out to her that she 
 ought not, for the sake of her heart and her happiness, and trifles of 
 that sort, to sink back into the Slough of plebeian Despond; but if her 
 husband is a profligate and a scoundrel she must overlook all that, 
 and be proud to walk about in company with his sisters, and be 
 received by their Mends. And perhaps you will appeal to her 
 motherly love, and ask whether that lovely child of hers is to be 
 brought up among the lower orders and made a clerk or a shopman, 
 when he might be put into the Fusileer Guards and marry a title. Sir, 
 you have given Margaret a bad husband. Do you think that favour 
 gives you the right to tempt her back into a wretched life? You 
 shall no( see Margaret." 
 
 "Mr. Keckling," said Arundel, whose eyes had flashed at a part 
 of this sudden onslaught, but who had now recovered himself, and 
 spoke gravely and almost sadly, " you make me indeed pity poor 
 Margaret, if she be really under the influence of one who can speak 
 as you have just spoken. Whether she be under that influence or 
 not, I will take another opportunity oi' testing. This interview 
 cannot, of course, be protracted." Ho drew on his gloves, and rose. 
 
 •■ Nay, [ am an old man, like yourself, Arundel," said Mr. Keckling, 
 pa ionately, "and I have but one darling in the world. If I spoke 
 
 y 2 
 
324 THE GORDTAN KNOT. 
 
 unjustly to you, forgive me. But you shall not take her away to give 
 her back to your worthless boy." 
 
 " You speak falsely of him," said the indignant father. " He is 
 not worthless, he is a noble fellow. If you slander him to his wife, 
 for your own selfish purposes, the guilt be on your own head." 
 " I slander him ?" repeated Keckling, scornfully. 
 " I believe that you are purposely keeping open and widening the 
 breach. Do I blame you for loving Margaret ? No, who can help 
 loving her 1 But it is not love that separates a woman from 
 her lawful husband, to make her the companion of your own weary 
 hours. That is selfishness of the vilest type. But 1 will not discuss 
 such a matter with you. I am glad to have had an insight into the 
 practices by which the young couple are kept apart." 
 
 " On my honour, on my soul, Mr. Arundel," returned Keckling, 
 almost humbly, "you wrong me. Margaret left her husband after 
 a long series of insults and almost cruelties, brought to a climax by 
 the discovery that his love had been given to a kept mistress ; by 
 whom, as we have just learned, he has a child." 
 
 "This may or may not be true," said Mr. Arundel, abashed, and 
 uncertain what to reply. " Mr. Claxton, you are Philip's friend." 
 
 " Insults and cruelties are words I will not adopt," said Claxton. 
 " Philip neglected his wife most unwisely, and I do not hesitate to 
 say, most unfairly. He was much attached to a girl who had lived 
 under his protection for some years before his marriage ; but the con- 
 nexion was of coui-se broken off at the proper time, and a settlement 
 made upon kei*. I do not believe that he has seen her since, and the 
 story about the child is simply a lie." 
 
 It would not have been quite out of nature, as times go, that a 
 father should know something of this part of the private history of 
 his son ; but Mr. Arundel had been kept completely in the dark by 
 Philip (who had a certain delicate feeling — not as to the fact, but as 
 to the fact being known — that he was in the habit of transferring 
 himself from the society of his sisters to that of a mistress, or vice 
 versd), and the whole revelation took him by the extremest surprise. 
 He looked deeply grieved and hurt. 
 
 "We have a witness in the house at this moment," said Keckling, 
 " who will tell you that the child is in existence, and who has seen it 
 within the last few hours." 
 
 " Who is that f asked Claxton, sharply. 
 
 " Mrs. Arundel's old Indian nurse ; they call her Boosey. I can 
 summon her, if you will not take my word." 
 
 " Ah I" said Mr. Arundel, catching at any gleam of hope that 
 Philip might be less to blame than had been supposed, " What did I 
 tell you, coming along in the cab ? That woman is in a plot with 
 Armandale Spencer, and here is a proof of it — she comes to slander 
 my son." 
 
 " No," said Claxton, " Spencer's interest would be to keep Philip 
 and Margaret together. His game is spoiled, if he has not that hold 
 over you." 
 
 "It is a slander," insisted the fathei\ 
 
 "There is more than enough without it," said Mr. Keckliug, "to 
 
THE QORDIAN KNOT. 325 
 
 justify m\ solemn assurance to you, Mr. Arundel, that no earthly 
 influence will over again place Margaret in the arms of your son." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 CALYPSO MORITURA. 
 
 The group was about to break up when a footman entered and put 
 a written visiting card into Mr. Keckling's hand. 
 
 " I don't know the name," he said, impatiently. 
 
 "The lady must see you, she said, sir," was the servant's reply. 
 
 "Must?" 
 
 " I have not seen her before, sir ; but she is quite a lady," said 
 the man, in that tone which servants in whom their masters have 
 confidence use only when they have a good reason for using it, and 
 the reason the domestic in question had was not a bad one, and was 
 safe in the pocket of his livery waistcoat. 
 
 " I shall be disengaged presently," said Mr. Keckling, in an under- 
 tone. 
 
 " I am going," said Mr. Arundel, coldly. 
 
 " Is Mr. Arundel's carriage at the door 1 " asked Mr. Keckling, 
 louder. 
 
 " I hope that he will allow it to wait a few minutes," said a lady, 
 entering the apartment, with a somewhat humbler salutation than a 
 lady was likely to make under the circumstances. 
 
 The three gentlemen looked surprised, as was natural, but Mr. 
 Arundel and Mr. Keckling saw a stranger ; Mr. Claxton did not. 
 
 " Excuse intrusion," said Maria Prescott, who had assumed some- 
 thing of an extra flippancy in order to conceal a real timidity. "One 
 gentleman of the three knows me, and perhaps will do himself the 
 honour of introducing me." 
 
 " Mrs. Prescott ?" said Keckling, interruptively, looking at the card. 
 
 " Ask me again and I'll tell you the same," said Maria ; " but I 
 don't mean you, sir. If Mr. John Claxton is not too ashamed of 
 having known objectionable parties to explain who I am, perhaps he 
 will have the goodness to do so." 
 
 Now, Mr. John Claxton had, as has been intimated in the earlier 
 part of this story, no particular sympathy with females in a false 
 position, unless they also happened to be ladies. And he felt no small 
 indignation with Maria for intruding herself into a respectable house. 
 So he answered, in no very indulgent manner, 
 
 "I do not think that you had better appeal to me for a character." 
 
 "And who the deuce appealed to you for a character?" was the 
 prompt rejoinder. "If 1 wanted a character I should hardly go for 
 one to a briellc-ss barrister, up a dozen flights of stairs in the Temple, 
 who don't pay his rent and his coal bill, and owes for allrounders. A 
 pretty recommendation to a decent family wanting a finishing gover- 
 ness his would be." 
 
 Men 1 tell their male friends that of course they never let out any- 
 
326 THE G0RD1AN KNOT. 
 
 thing to their wives, or other lady friends, and no doubt Philip 
 Arundel would have repudiated the idea of having ever said a word 
 out of chambers about tilings that went on in them. But neverthe- 
 less it is marvellous to find how well informed the female world is 
 about all that goes on in the other. 
 
 " This," said Mr. Claxton, bitterly, " happens to be the person of 
 whom we were just speaking." 
 
 Mr. Arundel looked at the girl with every intention of being 
 savage, as became a father. But, somehow, words that he had a good 
 mind to use died upon his tongue, and his gaze became that of 
 curiosity rather than of unkindness. There was something before 
 him — well, it was all very bad — but it was something that had been 
 kind to his son, and loved him, and though of course Mr. Arundel 
 ought to have shoved her out of the room, or left the contaminated 
 atmosphere, like a respectable man and a member of the Church of 
 England, he was not even scowling at her. How loose men's prin- 
 ciples are ! 
 
 Not so Mr. Keckling, who had seen in the course of his foreign 
 life a great deal too much of Traviataism to be in the slightest degree 
 shocked at the fact; but who saw in this particular Traviata simply a 
 person who had been a means of annoying his Margaret, and for 
 whom, therefore, he had no mercy. 
 
 " What do you want here, woman ?" was his harsh inquiry. 
 
 Poor Maria's lip quivered at the speech, for, as she said a long time 
 ago, she was not accustomed to be treated unkindly — in words. But 
 she bore herself with some little dignity, though the painful flush on 
 her cheek negatived all her pretence to calmness. 
 
 "If what I am going to say is not sufficient apology for my pre- 
 suming to intrude," she said, "I have no other, and when I have 
 done, you can easily put me into the street. I am only one girl, in a 
 bad state of health, and you are three men, any one of you strong 
 enough to throw me out of window if he likes." 
 
 Something in her tone touched Arundel to the heart, and, if it will 
 be believed in Christian society, the father was the first to reply t<> 
 the mistress of his son. 
 
 " Pray do not speak as if — pray speak as if you knew we were sure 
 that you would not have come here without a good reason." 
 
 And I blush in the solitude of my own chamber to write it, Mr. 
 Arundel offered her a chair. 
 
 Maria's look, at receiving this courtesy, was more grateful than 
 Arundel believed that a look, under such circumstances, could have 
 been. It was actually painful to him, and he fumbled with his gloves, 
 and turned away, and tried to lose the recollection of the glance. On 
 the whole, the man is happy, who is not haunted through life by the 
 ghosts of a few faces, seen in single, separate moments of excitement. 
 Mr. Arundel never forgot that look. 
 
 But Maria did not take the proffered seat, but supported herself 
 by the back of the chair, and said, 
 
 " The doctor will not tell me — I mean a doctor you all know, Mr. 
 Alban Cheriton — he wont tell me, I say, that my time is very^short, 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. M 
 
 bu'i he Las given over prescribing for me, and lets 1110 do as I like, 
 and I know w bat that means." 
 
 The i hree men kept silence. 
 
 f 'Good riddance of bad rubbish, says you, or if you don't say it, you 
 think it, and perhaps I think the same. I>ut as T am going, and it 
 is iidt a great many very good things I have dune in my time, I should 
 like to finish off with one that may perhaps prevent some of you from 
 ing quite all you think of me, when J am in the churchyard. I 
 don't know why you should not say it, for I shall be quiet enough, 
 but 1 seem to want " 
 
 A paroxysm of coughing here interrupted her, but she instantly 
 waved her hand, as if to desire that there might be no attempt to 
 assist her. 
 
 •• Elxcu e the cough," she .said, on recovering. "I am silencing it 
 as fast as I can, and nobody will be troubled with it much longer." 
 
 John ' Slaxton had many good points, and in spite of what she had 
 said of him, he went into the next room and returned with a glass of 
 water for her, but he protested against her presence, and herself, and 
 the whole scene, by simply placing the glass near her hand, without a 
 \\>'d, and without looking at her, and he resumed his seat. 
 
 " Thanks, gentle swain," said Maria. " I did not deserve it, for I 
 spoke very rude to you." And she took rather a large draught of 
 the water so ungraciously given. 
 
 "Now," she said, " to business. Mr. Arundel, I have never spoken 
 to \>:u before, but I know you well. Once when I saw you was the 
 cruellest hour in all my life, but you did not know that I was there. 
 Mr. Keckling was also present, and so was Mr. Claxton. So that I 
 am acquainted with you all. But there is no one to say a word for 
 me, and so you must please yourselves about believing what I want 
 to tell you. Only, I am a dying woman, and I have nothing in the 
 vide world, to gain by deceiving any of you." 
 
 " We are sure that you have no such intention," said Mr. Arundel. 
 
 "If you would not speak to me, sir," said Maria. "It is a great 
 liberty in me to ask it, but — there, I am dying, what does it matter 1 
 and your voice is so like — like somebody else's — please to forgive me." 
 
 He made a kindly motion of his band, but she hastily drew her 
 own away. 
 
 " Docs anybody here know a book called Hysterical — stop, no, I 
 remember it by that — Histerieomasters, or something 1 ?" 
 
 '• There is a book called Histriomastrix," said John Claxton. 
 
 "That is it," said Maria, " Please to remember it — I mention it 
 while it is in my head, for it goes out of my head for days and days 
 together. Why not write it down, says you, but somehow it never 
 comes to me when I have got a pen and ink. But it is safe now. 
 nember, also, the fifth shelf from the ground. Now that's all safe, 
 thank you." 
 
 "The fifth shelf, where ?" asked Claxton. 
 
 " Lord ! And I did not tell you that ! My poor head is gone. I 
 ought to be dead, what use am I? At Mr. Alban Clicriton's, the 
 doctor's. Now it is all sale, and i may talc il easy." 
 
tf28 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Mr. Arundel looked earnestly at Claxton, as if to discover whether 
 the poor thing before them were really in the possession of her senses, 
 and Claxton responded by a grave look and nod, implying that they 
 had better listen. 
 
 " Mr. Arundel, let me speak to you, but please not to answer me. 
 I am sure you will let me. I am not going to say anything that 
 might displease you about — about " 
 
 " Mr. Arundel's son," supplied John Claxton. " If you like to pass 
 over anything unpleasant, Mrs. Prescott, and conclude that Mr. 
 Arundel knows all that you can tell him " 
 
 "I know that he does not, then, nor you neitkei', Mr. Claxton, or 
 else I should not be hei"e. Please to let me tell my story my own 
 way." 
 
 " I really spoke only to save you pain." 
 
 " It is rather late in my poor life for pain to be saved to me, and a 
 little more or less wont signify." 
 
 They waited for her to resume, after another coughing fit, which 
 seemed to shake her very being. 
 
 " Mr. Alban Cheriton is a very great scoundrel." 
 
 Mr. Keckling started. He had not seen Henry Cheriton, but he 
 knew what had passed between Alban and Margaret, and was indis- 
 posed to take Margaret's view of her cousin's state of mind. In fact, 
 the moment anybody annoyed her in any way, her fretful friend con- 
 ceived a hostility against that person, which became utterly uncha- 
 ritable. 
 
 " I am inclined to think you speak truth there," he said. " I would 
 have turned you out of the house for saying it, a few days ago." 
 
 " Do it now, if you like," said Maria, " for I have not a friend in 
 the world to take my part. You may ill-use me very safely." 
 
 Mr. Arundel would not speak, but he touched her hand for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Well, perhaps I have a friend, but I am sure it is one I don't 
 ought to have. I will not give him much trouble." She said this 
 very respectfully, but without looking at Mr. Arundel. 
 
 " When you go and get that letter — you remember the book and 
 the shelf — " 
 
 "Perfectly," said Claxton, "but you have mentioned no letter." 
 
 " The letter's in the book," cried Maria. " O my head, it had bet- 
 ter be burned, as that black woman wished." 
 
 "And what is the letter ?" asked Claxton, desirous to bring the 
 interview to a point. 
 
 " The letter is one of a great many," said Maria, slowly, and as if 
 she was resolved, this time, to tell a coherent story. " which Philip — 
 which young Mr. Arundel wrote to me, in — in days that are gone and 
 forgotten for ever. Mr. Alban Cheriton put this letter into a desk, 
 where the young lady Mr. Philip Arundel married might be sure to 
 find it, and be driven wild at the thought that he had loved somebody 
 else beside herself, and wild it drove her, I hear." 
 
 This revelation came upon the thi'ee gentlemen like a thunder- 
 stroke. Mr. Arundel was rather glad, to believe it. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 3£9 
 
 ^ Mr. Keckling was ready to believe anything against Alban, since 
 his behaviour to Margaret. 
 
 Mr. Claxton scarcely knew whether to believe or not. 
 
 " How do you know of this stratagem with the letter, Mrs. Pres- 
 cott ?" he asked. 
 
 " Because he told me himself. But there is more than that, and 
 something which you may understand, though I don't. Mr. Alban 
 Cheriton was my doctor, and though it's little good all the doctors in 
 the world could do me, he did his best, and if I had followed his 
 orders, I might have lasted a good bit longer than I am likely to do ; 
 but what would have been the use ? But I get talking of myself, 
 which nobody cares about, and myself least of all. Well, one day I 
 had been to him for my medicine, and in came Mr. Philip Arundel. 
 I was hurried into the next room, and perhaps I didn't listen, perhaps 
 I did." 
 
 And she told, in her fragmentary way, that which has been already 
 told. 
 
 " Something whispered me that it would be better if I did not take 
 back that letter, which had been left on the table. So I stuck it into 
 the book I have told you the name of — it's gone from me again — and 
 there it will be found." 
 
 " If it is found, it only proves that you put it there," said Claxton. 
 
 " But if Mr. Philip Arundel is questioned about the conversation 
 which he believed was secret, and if he tells you that Mr. Alban 
 Cheriton revealed to him that, long before he married Miss — Miss — " 
 
 " Never mind, we know," said Keckling. 
 
 " Pray don't suppose I want to defile such a name by mentioning 
 it with my objectionable lips," said Maria, with a touch of her old 
 defiance. 
 
 " Miss Spencer," said Claxton. " Well, that long before he 
 married " 
 
 " That the young lady knew all and everything about a certain 
 rascal of a father of hers " 
 
 " Alban told Philip that ?" exclaimed Keckling. 
 
 "Yes, you seem to understand it. I don't. But Mr. Philip 
 Arundel was most indignant, and would not believe it." 
 
 "I should think not," said Keckling. 
 
 Mr. Arundel preserved his silence, but he listened intently. 
 
 " But he believed it at last, and perhaps you will try him by Lhe.se 
 words which have stuck in my memory, though I don't know why 
 they should. No, sir, ours is not a household where subjects of pain 
 and sin are made family talk, but never toere the miserable Spencers 
 forgotten in family prayer. That finished the business, and Philip — 
 I mean young Mr. Arundel— went away raving. And Mr. Alban 
 remained, smiling like a fiend. Ask about that, and find the letter, 
 and you will have a notion, I fancy, of the sort of game that Mr. 
 Alban Cheriton has been playing." 
 
 " How did he get the letter which you say he laid in Mrs. Arundel's 
 way V asked Keckling, sternly. 
 
 " I gave it him, with a great many other letters from the same to 
 the same," replied Maria, steadily enough, but with a very pale face. 
 
330 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 •' In order to help him to do this wickedness ?" said Keckling. 
 
 " No," said Maria. 
 
 •• What for, then?'' 
 
 " To prevent another wickedness." 
 
 " Against whom ?" 
 
 '• Against me." 
 
 Keckling laughed a scornful laugh, but there was no echo of it 
 from cither of his companions, and John Claxton looked exceedingly 
 grave. 
 
 " I suppose I understand," said Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " I understand perfectly," said Claxton. Perhaps he saw that Mr. 
 Arundel was inclined to an indulgent course, and Mr. Claxton might 
 have his own reasons for wishing to stand well with the father of a 
 Miss Arundel. There must be a motive power for every motion, wo 
 are told. "I may perhaps be allowed to save unpleasant recital, by 
 stating how I comprehend all this." 
 
 " But let the woman tell her own story," said Keckling. 
 
 " Where there is an inclination to atone for wrong," said Arundel, 
 in an under voice, yet one quite audible by Maria, "we should be 
 considerate." 
 
 " Mr. Arundel, you are very good to me ; much better than I 
 deserve," said Maria ; " but whatever I may be, I have done no 
 wrong in this matter." 
 
 " I should like to be made to see that," said Keckling, " as it 
 appears to me that a wickeder thing has never been done than what 
 you admit you did." 
 
 " Allow me a moment," said Claxton. " You are aware, both of 
 you, of the unfortunate relations that were subsist ing between Philip 
 and this lady " 
 
 " They were not unfortunate," said Maria, earnestly. "He was 
 \ ery happy, so was I, and I behaved to him as well as any wife could 
 have done. Indeed, I was his wife, and whatever the opinions of 
 proper-minded people about breaking truth and vows may be, the 
 poor girl that is speaking to you would have dolled all the devices in 
 the world to separate her from the man she loved, until he had ordered 
 her to leave him." 
 
 " Don't talk about what you do not understand," said Keckling, in 
 the highest degree offended that such a person should presume to 
 criticize the conduct of his Perfection. " We know why it suits 
 persons in certain positions to be faithful, or to try to be thought so." 
 
 Maria did not look defiance at him, in return for this coarseness, 
 but merely smiled, rather sadly. 
 
 "I know my own feelings," she answered, "and it makes very 
 little odds to me what people say to me now." 
 
 " I was going to explain," said Claxton ; " and what Mrs. Prescott 
 has said makes it all the clearer to you ; that she, having, as I am 
 sure I shall not wound her by saying, a very strong attachment for 
 Philip Arundel, thought herself warranted in seeking, by every means 
 in her power, to prevent his marriage." 
 
 " So she was," said Maria, firmly. 
 
 "With this view she deposited with Mr. Alban Cheriton, who 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 331 
 
 appears to haw: behaved in a mysterious maimer, letters which she 
 thought might, if shown to the friends of Miss Spencer, induce them to 
 think him an undesirable suitor. But the marriage once concluded, 
 there was not the least intention on her part to disturb its happiness, 
 and if I see anything to blame in her subsequent conduct, it is that 
 she neglected to obtain back those letters from Mr. Cheriton." 
 
 •• A likely story," said Keckling. " But true or not, the mischief 
 was done, and done through Mrs. — Mrs. —he looked carelessly at the 
 card — Preston's, Prescott's means." 
 
 " And that is why she is lure to bear any humiliation which gen- 
 tlemen think it manly to inflict," returned the girl. 
 
 "There is no idea of humiliation, my poor girl," said Arundel, in 
 whose nature there was going on a most objectionable struggle 
 between pity and propriety. "If you have come here on a kindly 
 errand, you may be quite sure that your object will be appreciated." 
 
 " I don't say that it is kind," said Maria, sobbing. In her weak, 
 
 but easily excited condition, a gentle word at once melted her. "And 
 
 1 don't say that I came here out of any love for anybody I am likely 
 
 ee here ; but what does it matter, if I tell you the truth \ and I 
 
 told it you, as there is a Heaven above lis." 
 
 " But you have not said why you did not get back the letters," said 
 Keckling, a little softened, but still desirous to be hostile. 
 
 "Why?" echoed Maria, "why? Because Alban Cheriton would 
 •on have torn the heart out of his bosom as have given me up one 
 line of them until he had worked out his own purpose. If I had 
 even hinted that I wanted them, or tried to get them, or told any- 
 body that he had them, he would have strangled me. You don't 
 • in to know Mr. Alban Cheriton." 
 
 " Do you know," said Mr. Keckling, " that Mrs. Arundel is his 
 cousin V 
 
 "Do I know that, and everything else in the world that concerns 
 her ? But you arc fooling with me, when you pretend not to know 
 that he has been so madly in love with her all his life, that he goes 
 about like a wild thing now; and I don't believe at times that he is 
 in his right senses." 
 
 This speech really fell like a shell among the party, and Maria 
 looked more astonished than any of them at the effect she had pro- 
 duced. The news was startling to them all three. Mr. Arundel, of 
 course, had been entirely uninformed of any of Alban's earlier life, 
 and knew him only as an occasional guest, whose intellect made him. 
 a welcome one. For Mr. Iveckling, he was equally taken unawares. 
 Margaret had been far too honourable, far too superior to the vanity 
 that induces women to boast of rejected oil': is, to betray the passion- 
 ate advances of her cousin. She had, previously to her marriage, 
 with unfeigned gladness seen him subordinate his feelings to the 
 necessities of the time, congratulate her at the wedding breakfast, 
 and afterwards become, apparently, the friend of her young husband. 
 I lad Alban ever dared to renew his advances, it is not for me to 
 speculate upon what her course might have been, but having beheld 
 him vanquish all outward manifestation of his love, and accept the 
 natural position of a near and valued relative, the wife had claimed 
 
332 THE GOItDIAN KNOT. 
 
 to herself the right to forget what had been offered to the girl, and 
 Margaret Arundel had been loyal to the unspoken promise implied 
 in her words on the pier at Hyde ; and what had never been told to 
 her Philip was not likely to have been told to Mr. Keckling. 
 
 The only one of the three who had ever had the least inkling of the 
 truth was John Claxton, and his knowledge had come in so indirect 
 a way, and was so slight, that until this moment he had scarcely given 
 the subject a thought. But he now recollected that Philip, in report- 
 ing to him some of the conversation between Alban and himself at 
 the river-side dinner, had mentioned Alban's admission of his having 
 had the usual disease of cousin-hood, and to his having taken it by 
 himself, Margaret escaping. The medical allusion, appropriate to 
 the speaker, Lad fixed the words in Philip's mind more than had the 
 meaning, or he would never have remembered it at all. Now, the 
 affectedly careless phrase came back to John Claxton. 
 
 Mr. Keckling was bewildered. He had but just heard of Alban's 
 violent scene with Margaret, though she had said but little of its real 
 character. But there are some truths which insist on your belief, 
 and this one was irresistible. Yet the old man did his best, with the 
 aid of his pride, to set up a wall and a banner against it, for he was 
 sorely hurt that his favourite, his protegee, his adopted child, should 
 have kept a secx*et from him. And he was augry with her for se- 
 cresy, with himself for obtuseness, with Maria for her revelation. 
 Still, he could not meet her words with a denial to believe them. 
 
 " Nice places seem to have been selected for confidences affecting 
 the honour and happiness of your daughter-in-law, Mr. Arundel," 
 was the best and worst that the irritated old man could do for himself. 
 
 "Alban Cheriton's happiness was going to be destroyed by the 
 marriage, and so was mine, and it was natural we should take coun- 
 sel togethex*," replied Maria, who seexxxed provokingly determined to 
 assert her right to undex-go the suffex'ings which a x'espectable woxxxan 
 might have sustained. 
 
 '• Mr. Arundel," said Claxton, " you and I ax-e equally asto- 
 nished " 
 
 " There is aixother feeling I must owxx to besides astonishxnexxt," 
 said Mr. Arundel, in a tone which showed that he spoke the truth. 
 " If this secret has been kept so well fronx all of xxs, at least it was 
 not kept from one whonx it principally concexaxed, I lxxean Mrs. Philip 
 Arundel, and " 
 
 " Not oxxe word to her detriment, not oxxe syllable," cried Keckling, 
 energetically. 
 
 " You canxxot, Mr. Keckling, be more ixxterested than I axn iix 
 putting the best interpretatioxx upon every portioxx of her conduct." 
 
 " Don't breathe a doubt, Mr. Arundel, don't let one breathe itself 
 to you, sir. Whatever Margaret has clone, or xxot done, she will 
 prove to have acted as becomes the xxoblest and the purest girl in the 
 world." 
 
 " I am. certainly disposed to suspend all judgment," said Mr. 
 Arundel. 
 
 " Mrs. Arundel," said Claxton, " is above all blame, and a word 
 from her would be enough." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 333 
 
 And this, thought poor Maria, is the generous and trustful way 
 in which thin class of people deal with persons of their own rank. 
 It's all right, quite right; but suppose she had been a governess, 
 or a milliner, or me. But that's all right, too, no doubt. 
 
 " I suppose," said Maria, " that if I say anything about the lady, 
 I shall be ordered to hold my tongue, and not contaminate her name 
 by mentioning it." 
 
 " Should you speak so." said Claxton, "after what Mr. Arundel has 
 said r 
 
 " No," said Maria, " I should not, and I am an unthankful wretch; 
 but I have had so little of late to thank anybody for, that I have 
 got out of the way of behaving properly. Please to let me say what 
 I know. Once in all his life, and as I hope for the mercy which 
 I have no right to, I believe that it was only once in all his life, 
 Alban Cheriton declared his love to Miss Spencer. And if you 
 would like to know where it was, I will tell you : It was on a dark 
 evening in the Isle of Wight, and they stood together at the end of 
 a pier, out in the waves, and he pleaded to her like a madman ; and 
 she answered him that his jileading was utterly in vain. And if 
 you want to know who was the witness to this, though they thought 
 that no human eye was near them, it was a miserable woman, who 
 was having her heart torn to pieces, and who was crouching down 
 under some sailcloth, and listening with her heart throbbing and 
 her eyes bursting, for some sort of hope that the lady did not love 
 Philip Arundel, and that there was some little, last chance of that 
 poor wretch's keeping him to herself." 
 
 The words carried conviction of their truth, and the distress of the 
 recollection she had evoked, gave to her tearful eyes and convulsed 
 lip so piteous an expression that Keckling himself looked compassion- 
 ately at her, and as for Arundel, the confession of her intense love 
 for his son, not only moistened his own eyes, but actually compelled 
 him to say, with feeling, 
 
 '•' Poor child, poor child." 
 
 " Well, I am not much more than a child," sobbed Maria, "though 
 I ought to be, and perhaps I should have been — never mind. But I 
 meant to finish by saying, that at this time, the first and last that he 
 ever dared to speak to her, his love turned to hate, and what he has 
 since done you know." 
 
 "I really do not wish to annoy you," said Mr. Keckling, "but 
 was it before or after that scene, which must have been while T was 
 staying at Rvde " 
 
 " You came on the pier, but it was cold, and you sent Alban away, 
 and soon afterwards went away yourself, leaving Miss Spencer, which 
 I did not understand, but I supposed that he had begged her to stop 
 till he came back." 
 
 "No," said Keckling, jealous of even a trifle that could imply 
 that Margaret had willingly listened. " I remember the night well. 
 I sent him for my cloak, but we missed, and he returned for his cousin." 
 
 "Had it been as suggested, there would have been nothing strange 
 in her consenting to remain and say a few words to an old friend," 
 said Claxton. 
 
334 THE GORDIAK KNOT. 
 
 Maria smiled, rather bitterly. Perhaps she had been less liberally 
 judged in her time for some similar act, but she did not speak. 
 
 " I was going to ask," said Keckling, " whether it was before or 
 after this interview that you deposited those letters with Cheriton ?" 
 
 Maria coloured all over her face and neck. 
 
 " I am here to speak the truth," she said, promptly. " It was 
 after."' 
 
 " When you knew that all must be ended between Mr. Philip and 
 yourself?" 
 
 " Where there is love there is hope," replied Maria, in a low voice. 
 " But it is all over now, love and hope and all, so you need not be 
 too harsh with me; and if you are, it is all one, for the bad child 
 has her orders to be off to the bed where she'll sleep sound enough 
 and forget all her troubles." 
 
 "Who is speaking harshly, or thinks of doing so?" reiterated 
 Arundel. " Let me ask a question, if you will be so kind as to 
 answer it." 
 
 " I guess it," said Maria. " No, thank God, nor never had, though 
 I was once very far from thinking I should ever come to be thankful 
 for it." 
 
 This answer completely mystified Mr. Arundel, who had certain! v 
 meant to put no question to which such a response could possibly 
 apply ; but Keckling caught at her meaning on the instant. 
 
 " Have you seen an Ayah lately ?" he asked, eagerly. 
 
 "Dare say I have," said Maria, with a faint gleam of the manner 
 which had for some time characterized her ; "but I didn't know it 
 when I saw it." 
 
 " You don't know the word — an eastern nurse— a dark woman P 
 
 "Indeed, yes," said Maria, "and that brings me here." 
 
 "The question I was going to ask," interposed Arundel, "you 
 seem about to answer. I am desirous to know what induces you to 
 make these explanations ?" 
 
 " A moment," said Keckling, with his hand on the bell. " It is yon, 
 then, whom this Ayah declares she has seen V 
 
 " It is true enough. The hideous creature was brought into my 
 room by Mr. Alban, and nearly frightened me into hysterics, which 
 is a very easy thing to do to me now." 
 
 " It will not frighten you into hysterics to see her again, I suppose ?" 
 said Keckling, ringing. 
 
 " No," said Maria, slowly. " It will be best. Put will you be sure 
 to protect me against her. because she curses like a she-fury, and may 
 wish to kill me. for anything I know." 
 
 '• Fear nothing,*' said Keckling and Claxton in a breath. And the 
 Ayah was again summoned. As she entered the room, Maria ; 
 and went with some trepidation behind the large chair on which she 
 had been sitting, giving, moreover, a glance at Mr. Arundel as if to 
 assure herself of protection. 
 
 The Ayah opened the door very quietly, and to no greater distance 
 than wis necessary to let her glide into the room. A single dance 
 showed her the visitor whose presence had caused her to be summoned, 
 and a concentrated expression of hate instantly appeared in her face. 
 
THE OORDTAN KNOT. 835 
 
 Her eyea glittered, and, in short, there was a manifestation of oriental 
 ferocity, now unhappily more easy to be comprehended by English 
 readers than it would have been a few years ago. Maria drew closer 
 to Mr. Arundel, as Boosey advanced further into the room, and nearer 
 to her superiors than a British servant would have deemed it her 
 place to stand, and Maria regarded her movement as that of a cat 
 approaching for a bound. 
 
 "Stand th&re, woman," said Keckling, indicating a spot nearer the 
 door, and speaking as men do who have learned a master's authority 
 on the banks of the Neva. Boosey, though not accustomed to be so 
 addressed of late, instantly obeyed. 
 
 "Is that," asked Mr. Keckling, "the lady whom Mr. Alban 
 Cheriton showed you?" 1 
 
 " Yes," said the Ayah, gloomily. 
 " Who was with her when you saw her ?" 
 " She knows." 
 
 " I ask you, woman 1 do you hear )" said Keckling, irate. 
 The Ayah was silent. 
 
 " Answer," said John Claxton ; " you know me, and that I am the 
 friend of Mr. Philip Arundel." 
 " I know you," said Boosey. 
 
 t( Who the devil cares," exclaimed Mr. Keckling, " who you know 
 or who you don't know, woman 1 You are ordered to answer a 
 question, and if you don't answer it I will send you off to prison under 
 the care of that policeman by the gas-lamp." 
 
 In one second Boosey had darted from the room. She was not in 
 the least awe of the threat, or of Keckliug's violent words, but a 
 thought had struck her, and she was resolved to ascertain, before 
 speaking, whether opening her mouth might do some injury to Miss 
 Maggie. She vanished like a figure from a morning dream, and 
 hurried up to her young mistress. 
 
 " Will my answering the question do as well," said Maria, " or am 
 I not to be believed ?" 
 
 '• Much better," said Keckling; "but I will make an example of 
 that black-skinned brute. How dare she go without replying. Who 
 was with you, my dear," he added hastily, correcting himself into " my 
 dear Mrs. Prescott," and then feeling that he had made a blunder, 
 but the others had no leisure to note it. " Who was with you J" 
 "Somebody very well known to you, sir, she says," replied Maria. 
 "To me?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. It maybe very strange that acquaintances of yours. 
 should know me, but it is true, nevertheless. This is a very humble 
 acquaintance, however, and her name is Zuleika Harris." 
 " A miserable little street dancing girl." 
 
 " I don't know about miserable, as I have been asked to make In r 
 comfortable; and so I have, as far as I could, though she's hard 
 metal to hammer on. But she's dying, poor little soul." 
 
 Mr. Keckling did not seem to care whether the child spoken of 
 were dying or not, but went on eagerly — 
 
 "Did the man we have been speaking of as having done so much 
 mischief place her with you?" 
 
336 THE G0RD1AN KNOT. 
 
 . "„ Ye '?' certo ;inly > Dllt tnere was no mischief in that, was there, 
 sir?" said Maria, really uncertain whether she had heen unconsciously 
 doing more wrong. " She was ill, and had been ill-treated, and I was 
 to see her looked after. I took the affair to be a bit of human kind- 
 ness." 
 
 " Listen," said Keckling, " and see what sort of kindness you have 
 helped to do to one who never willingly injured you, or any one else, 
 in her life. Alban Cheriton has contrived to make Mrs. Arundel 
 believe that the child, Zuleika, is the child of Philip Arundel and 
 yourself, and the Ayah was brought to see you and her together, 
 and to tell her mistress of your happy home, to which she believes, 
 of course, that Philip comes to complete the happy group." 
 
 Maria had resumed her seat, but now sprang to her feet. 
 
 " O !" she exclaimed, with a wild shuddering cry, " I have no child ! 
 My baby, my darling, is a little angel in heaven ; and perhaps God 
 in his mercy will some day remember how very, very youn^ that 
 baby's poor mother was when he died, and what bitter tears she wept 
 upon his poor little coffin — I don't know— -I am a wretched thing, 
 but they do say there is love for us all— and I am sure I loved that 
 child enough to be remembered for his sake, if there is anything 
 after we are gone. I beg your pardon, all of you, for talking wild," 
 she added, trying to wipe away the tears that came down plenti- 
 fully, and streamed through the thin fingers she pressed to her eyes. 
 " What you want to know is whether Philip Arundel was that child's 
 father. No. And I have never had another. And I have never heard 
 the sound of Philip Arundel's voice since — since — did any of you hear 
 mine when I hid myself in a pew in the church gallery, and cried my 
 heart out on the floor, while he was saying the service to his bride ! 
 Never since, as I hope to see my baby in heaven !" 
 
 The last words seemed to choke her utterance, and she stared wildly 
 round, stretched out her hands imploringly for support, and before 
 one of their eagerly extended hands could reach her, she fell clown 
 upon the ground before them. 
 
 But it was not her words that had choked her utterance. 
 
 " You sent for me ?" said Margaret Arundel, who at that instant 
 entered the apartment, and addressed Mr. Keckling. 
 
 " Sent for you, my love ?" said Mr. Keckling, in great perturbation. 
 " No, no. That lying Ayah ; I will murder her. Pray go away, go 
 away instantly. This is no place for you." 
 
 But Margaret's eye caught sight of the fallen form of Maria, whom 
 Mr. Arundel and Claxton were gradually raising, with a caution that 
 was but too necessary, for the fatal sign was crimson on her lip and 
 hand, and on the bosom of her dress. 
 
 " Yes, you did quite right to send for me, if I can be useful;' 
 said Mrs. Arundel, "and please let me come to her. I am not foolish 
 about — about that — I have seen something at St. Oscars. Pray let 
 me — — " 
 
 This was said as Mr. Keckling was interposing to prevent Margaret 
 from approaching the fallen girl. 
 
 " It is not that," said Keckling, " but you rmtst go, my dear, " 
 
 Boosey had followed her mistress, and drew stealthily to her ear. 
 
llllliPi^'iEiMtoBi 
 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 337 
 
 " It is her. It is liis child's mother. But she is clown — she is down !" 
 repeated Boosey, in savage triumph. 
 
 Down 1 ay, and so was the great devil himself — down, trampled, 
 spurned, for having dared for one single second of time, and as those 
 words hissed into the ear of the Christian woman, to strive for a 
 place in her heart. Her wrongs, her sorrows, up to the very last 
 and bitterest of which she had just heard — he flashed them all before 
 her in one lurid moment, and then — and then, down into the dust 
 with you, wretched old helpless serpent, under the foot of the Woman, 
 ever to be thy enemy and conqueror in this world, until the Infinite, 
 in vengeance or pardon, deals with thine eternity. 
 
 Down, too, was Margaret Arundel, with a knee on the ground, 
 and an arm tenderly supporting the form of her husbaud's mistress. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE TEMPLE AGAIN. 
 
 At the moment that poor Maria was falling, if not exactly in Philip 
 Arundel's cause, at least from excitement occasioned in endeavouring 
 to serve him, he was in the Chambers, carefully knocking out the ashes 
 from his meerschaum, and was busily replenishing it for a fresh 
 smoke, as Margaret was on her knees by the side of Maria. This is, 
 of course, not making any charge against him — he could know 
 nothing of what was being done and suffered for his sake — but is 
 simply mentioned as one of the coincidences of life. Many such 
 things occur daily, and we make them matters of foolish self-reproach . 
 " That I should have been dealing cards while my child was dying," 
 a grieving father has said ere now. " That I was laughing at Mr. 
 Bobson while my boy was lying, with a broken leg, in the mud 
 of the Peiho !" a mother may have exclaimed. Yet is not this fiat re- 
 bellion against the merciful provision of nature, that we shall not, and 
 cannot, be in two places at once 1 We have no right to be angry 
 with ourselves for our limited powers. 
 
 But it is a legitimate matter of complaint against Philip that 
 when, an hour or so later, he heard John Claxton's latch-key, he 
 prepared to assail Claxton with reproach for having gone out with- 
 out telling him where, or rather, whether and when he would be back 
 to dinner. A querulous tone had grown upon him, as it will upon 
 people who have nothing to do except to do right, and who do not 
 even do that. 
 
 But Claxton's unusually grave manner was instantly noted by 
 Philip, and the pipe was thrown aside. 
 
 "Something wrong?" asked Philip, earnestly, and laying his hand 
 on his friend's arm. 
 
 " Sit down," said Claxton. " Clarke !" 
 
 " He's gone," said Philip. " It got late, so I told him you " 
 
 " So much the better," said Claxton, closing the black door, and 
 
 PART XI. Z 
 
338 THE GOBDIAN KNOT. 
 
 the next, and the door of the room in which they were, preparations 
 which bad their effect upon Philip. 
 
 "You've seen somebody," said Philip. 
 
 " Have I not P returned his friend. 
 
 « Tell us all i quick !" 
 
 " Philip," said John Claxton, " I do not say that there is time to 
 lose, but there is time to think, which is never time lost. You are 
 perhaps at the most important moment of your life." 
 
 " But tell me at once — we can think afterwards," said Philip, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " You must, please, let me have my own way. If I had bad news 
 for you, I would, of course, give it you at once, without mystification, 
 and trust to your being a man with it. But that is not so." 
 
 " If it's not bad, it's good. Out with it, John ; though, to tell the 
 truth, if it is not bad, I hardly see how there can be anything I 
 should be much interested in." 
 
 " I thought so too, until a very little while ago." 
 
 " Take your own way. I know you will, so it's needless my say- 
 ing that." And he resumed his pipe. 
 
 "Ah, you'll not smoke that out," said Claxton. 
 
 " What makes you say that ?" 
 
 " See if you do. But to begin. I have not called in the Square 
 a good while, so I thought I would go there to-day." 
 
 "Good heaven! all's well there? You said there was nothing 
 wrong," said Philip, anxiously. 
 
 " Do you think I would speak as I do if there was?" 
 
 " Well, as the dear old governor and the girls are all right, I think 
 I do see my way to the end of this baccy." 
 
 " There are other persons in. the world besides your father and 
 sisters, Philip." 
 
 " I suppose there are. But do not look so grim, if you have nothing 
 disagreeable to say. I never, in all our acquaintance, saw you so 
 solemn, old boy." 
 
 "Perhaps I never felt so strongly upon any subject as I feel just now." 
 
 " If you say that, Jack, I know I ought to be grave." 
 
 "Hear what I have to say. I called upon Mr. Arundel, and found 
 him at home, but your sisters were out." 
 
 " Bore for you." 
 
 " On the contrary, I went to see him. He went with me to 
 Mr. Reckling's, who was also at home. The party increased by the 
 addition of three other persons, who came separately, but we were 
 all six together an hour ago. The three were, Mrs. Philip Arundel, 
 the Ayah Boosey, who was here, and Maria." 
 
 "Are you out of your senses?" cried Philip, starting up. "A 
 vulgar sell is a thing I never heard you try in your life, and I am 
 sure you would not begin on me ; but, old fellow " 
 
 " Sit down," said Claxton, peremptorily. " If you think I am in 
 any joking mood now, you will find to the contrary. The party 
 was as I tell you." 
 
 " But, good God ! what do you mean ? Maria speaking to my 
 father — but even that might be nothing ; but speaking to my wife !" 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 339 
 
 " No, she did not apeak to your wife." 
 
 " That's something j hut, hy Jove, the impudenco that could take 
 her into their presence. I did not think it was in her. I thought 
 she had some good instincts, and had learned rather a better tone of 
 feeling from knowing me, than to go and do such an infernal thing. 
 But they are all alike — pay them and pet them, and they are all 
 pleasa&t, hut turn your back, and they stab at you." 
 
 And injured virtue and innocence looked the picture of indignation. 
 
 " You will be more sorry for these words than for anything you 
 ever said in your life," replied John Claxton, calmly. 
 
 '•Shall If asked the other. "Well, we shall see. But I am 
 heartily glad you prevented her from speaking to Margaret." 
 
 " We did not prevent her." 
 
 ' : What, she had the good taste to be silent in Mrs. Arundel's 
 presence V 
 
 " Mrs. Amndel forbad Maria to speak to her." 
 
 '•' That was right, and showed proper dignity ; but you ought surely 
 not to have left it necessary for my wife to say anything to her." 
 
 " It was not ; but she would say what she had to say." 
 
 " And what was it — how did she put it V said Philip, eagerly. " I 
 have known her show dignity enough, but this was a trying occasion. 
 What were her words, do you remember ?" 
 
 " Perfectly. They were these : ' There, there, do not try to talk 
 to me, poor thing, but let us carry you quietly to bed, and then, if the 
 doctor will give you leave, you shall say all that you wish. But, if it 
 will make you more comfortable, I know all you could tell me — all. 
 Now, will you let us carry you upstairs V" 
 
 "Am I in a dream, John Claxton, and is this all nightmare 1 ? I 
 wish I could wake. What was Maria doing while Mrs. Arundel was 
 saying this ?" 
 
 " Lying on the carpet, but half raised up, because Mrs. Arundel 
 had Maria's head against her own knee, and had an arm round her, 
 while she pressed a handkerchief to Maria's lips with her disengaged 
 hand." 
 
 '•'And what had happened?" demanded Philip, now growing greatly 
 excited. 
 
 " Maria had broken a blood-vessel, and fallen to the ground, just 
 before Mrs. Arundel entered." 
 
 iL Poor girl — poor girl — I must — but, Claxton — then Margaret 
 did not know who she was V 
 
 '• She knew all — do I not tell you that she said so? She knew the 
 truth, and more than the truth, for a very cruel lie had been iuvented 
 fcO add to her troubles, and yet, as I say, she acted nobly." 
 
 " Well, it was noble. Knowing all that I know, I repeat, it was 
 noble. If I never see her again in this world, I will say so." 
 
 '• Why the condition?" asked Claxton, calmly. " If you do see her 
 In in this world, and see her daily and hourly for the rest of your 
 you ought never to forget what I have told you." 
 
 " I never shall, Jack. But now that you have let me cross-examine 
 the story out of you, I don't know why, tell me everything, that I 
 may know how to act." 
 
 ' z2 
 
310 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " There is no occasion for you to act in any way." 
 
 '•' Surely that is for me to decide." 
 
 " You will think with me, when I have told you all. In the first 
 place, Maria (do you care to know that her name is now Mrs. Prescott '?) 
 is safely laid away in a most comfortable bedroom at Mr. Keckling's, 
 and a first-rate doctor had paid his visit before I left." 
 
 "And what does he say about her, poor thing?" said Philip. "I 
 cannot help feeling for her, badly as she has behaved. She was very 
 gentle and good in old times — what does he say V 
 
 " That she will die." 
 
 " Poor Maria — poor Maria !" And Philip leaned against the mantel- 
 piece, and thought a good deal about " old times," and his eyes were 
 wet when he turned to his friend, and he did not attempt to hide the 
 fact that they were so. 
 
 " I should have been very sorry not to see that, Philip," 
 said Claxton. " But you must hear some more. Let me say that your 
 father and your wife are completely reconciled, if you can apply the 
 word in a case where there has never been any quarrel, and Mrs. 
 Arundel, I believe, stands higher in his estimation than ever. But 
 that she has taken her place as nurse by the bedside of Maria Prescott, 
 she would have gone to Thanington Square." 
 
 " I am in no mood to be proud, John. But my father had no right 
 to take any side in the affair, and certainly not to ask Margaret to his 
 house, until I gave my consent." 
 
 " If you think so when we have done talking, you can write and say 
 so, and as Mrs. Arundel has not gone to the Square, there is no par- 
 ticular wrong done to you." 
 
 " Go on," said Philip, sadly, " you cannot think how I am cut up 
 about that poor girl. Of course she had her allowance regularly 
 
 enough, and of course she was nothing more to me, but " And 
 
 the tears were again in his eyes. 
 
 " But you cannot forget that she is the mother of your child." 
 
 " What damned talk are you at now ?" said Philip, angrily. 
 
 " Nay, the child — the little girl that you were so fond ot, that you 
 were always going to see, when of course you saw her mother. The 
 daughter whose winning ways had laid so great a hold upon your 
 heart that you utterly neglected the beautiful and engaging son born 
 to yoii in wedlock, and nearly broke your wife's heart by your indif- 
 ference to her and it." 
 
 " You know the whole is a lie." 
 
 " Yes, but Mrs. Philip Arundel did not know it to be so, but 
 believed it all, when she threw herself by the side of Maria to try and 
 help her. It would have been strange if she had not believed it, when 
 an eye-witness was sent to assure her of the fact." 
 
 " Sent— sent — by whom ? By Maria 1 " 
 
 " No, Philip. Maria's death, which is certain, will be mainly due 
 to her having preserved, amid all her folly and vice, a truer love for 
 you than you have ever had for her, seeing that you hasten, at the first 
 hint, to accuse her of a cruel treachery. She dared to make her way into 
 a respectable house, and to confront cold and respectable people, in order 
 to declare the truth about you, and after submitting to a harsh ques- 
 
THE OORDIAN KNOT. 341 
 
 cloning, and to a series of insults, of which I am now ashamed to 
 think I was a witness, she broke out into some passionate words which 
 were too much for her — and there she lay." 
 
 " But who — who in the name of all the devils, was the traitor ?" 
 
 " The same person who took the letter, one of yours to Maria, and 
 placed it in your wife's desk that she might be sure to find it." 
 
 " Who is it ?" said Philip with a fierce oath. 
 
 "The same person who lied to you on the subject of your wife's 
 knowledge of the guilt of her family, and persuaded you that Mrs. 
 Arundel, before her marriage, knew of shame which she concealed 
 from you, when she was as innocent of that knowledge as her own baby." 
 
 Philip's excitement may be imagined, but though white with rage, 
 he restrained himself within bounds. 
 
 " You want evidence that what was told you was false. For that 
 you may, if you cau, ask your wife while you look into her face. But 
 yo\i want evidence that we know you were told that lie. This you 
 may ask, if poor Maria can speak, from her, for she was in the next 
 room, and heai'd every word. As she is dying for telling the truth 
 for you, I suppose you will believe her?" 
 
 " By Heaven !" said Philip in a low, hollow voice, " I am so 
 bewildered, that while you tell me of what I know I have heard, and 
 of a place, and of a secret, I cannot recall the circumstances. I 
 shall know it presently — don't tell me, old fellow, please, or I shall 
 have less confidence in my own memory — surely that is not going?" 
 
 " When you find the room," said Claxton, " get upon a chair, and 
 from the fifth shelf take an old copy of Prynne's Histriomastrix. 
 Open it, and you will find, Maria says, that very letter, placed there 
 by herself, it having been returned to you by your wife, and you hav- 
 ing brought it to a friend, on whose table " 
 
 " That was Alban Cheriton !" exclaimed Philip. 
 
 " You have named your friend. And now you know all, except 
 that he has all along been in love with your wife, and that love has 
 driven him frantic, and hence the series of revenges." 
 
 " Alban Cheriton !" repeated Philip. 
 
 "He wound up the series— nay, you are not listening,but hear this — - 
 by visiting Mrs. Arundel, and frightening the poor dear soul almost 
 out of her senses by proposing to destroy her child and to elope with 
 him to the Continent. He is mad, of course." 
 
 Philip had scarcely heard, or at least understood the last words. 
 
 " My head is very much bewildered," he said. " I shall be all 
 right presently. I will go and sit in the bedroom. Let me alone, 
 old fellow, please, I want to think." 
 
 " And that is exactly what I told you that you would have to do, 
 and had time to do, my dear Philip. But don't go away. Never 
 mind me, while I write some letters, but if you want to ask me any 
 more questions, here I shall be." 
 
 " If I do, I will come out to you," said Philip, and he went into the 
 other room, and locked the door, but quietly, that Claxton might not 
 think himself excluded. We will not follow him. 
 
 ■A noble woman," said John Claxton to himself. "Much too 
 good for him, fine fellow as he is, but that's beside the question." 
 
M% THE GORMAN KNOT. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 AN UNDEBCUEEENT. 
 
 u Mil. Earnshaw," said Harris, " you have the makings of a great 
 man in you, but, like many other gifted persons, you are victim to 
 the besetting sin of the pride of birth. That failing singularly inter- 
 feres with your fortune. If you could only forget tbat your father 
 was a beadle." 
 
 " Mr. Harris," returned Earnshaw, " don't you think you'd belter 
 keep your chaff for them that likes it 1 If we are to do business, we 
 had best make it pleasant." 
 
 " And that, Earnshaw, if you will allow me to drop the courtesy 
 title, is exactly what I desire. Only as at present you seem inclined 
 to take all the advantages of business into your own keeping, and 
 leave me nothing but the work to do, I confess that I am not exactly 
 enthusiastic on the subject." 
 
 " I don't see what you mean, Harris." 
 
 " I will not accuse you of wilful blindness, Mr. Earnshaw, but will 
 speak as if I did not know that you perfectly understand me. You 
 have got a notion, which I dare say is a very just one, that a gentle- 
 man " 
 
 " Don't name names here — don't," said Earnshaw. 
 
 " Here," was a place which neither diplomatists, nor politicians, 
 nor strike-agitators might have selected to discuss a plan or a plot, 
 but which Mr. Reckling's men, Harris and Earnshaw, found quite 
 private enough for their purposes. It was in the neighbourhood of 
 a market, near which the earl, who gave it name, " erected a palace, 
 and lived there in a princely manner," and in which market, later, 
 the gilt tub of Orator Henley glittered, and the charities of Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle were dispensed, the kind-hearted actress being " followed by 
 the acclamations of the inhabitants." Row, of course, nobody but 
 graphic authors and the metropolitan police know where Clare 
 Market is situate. In one of its lanes Mr. Harris and Mr. Earnshaw 
 had no difficulty in finding what others might not have lighted on so 
 readily, namely, the entrance to something which, having a stage, and 
 seats, and spectators, and performers, is entitled to be called a theatre. 
 It would not have occurred to you, passing a squalid-looking public 
 house, very scantly illuminated, and in miserable contrast with the 
 flare, and plate-glass, and gigantic vats of the Gin- Vatican opposite, 
 that by going past a singularly dirty bar, and paying a very small 
 deposit, you would make your way into a temple of the drama ; but 
 she finds humbler homes even than this, and you would have encoun- 
 tered not by any means the chance, but the certainty, of having your 
 head liberally punched by some habitue, did you call this fane by the 
 name given to the temporary erections where the rising generation 
 study histrionics. It was a real theatre, low, small, and rickety, and 
 flavoured with various " liquid odours," as Milton says, besides the 
 dominant scent of the strongest tobacco. Good stout benches, with 
 
THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 343 
 
 backs, and with daps to hold the metallic or ceramic vase, (glass was 
 little afl'ectetl,) held a coarse, but not particularly vicious looking 
 audience. The unskilled mechanic came here, while his superior, the 
 skilled workman, frequented the music hall, and there was a sprink- 
 ling from that inexplicable class of the population who never seem to 
 have anything to do, or at all events never to do it, but iu the day 
 time may be seen gaping in scores round a horse that is down, or a 
 large pane of glass that is broken, or a street that is being repaved, 
 or a chimney that is on fire, or something else which is no business of 
 theirs, in respect of which they can be of no use, and while staring at 
 which they block up the pathway, and often get a half-angry curse 
 from busy men, who hate to see lounging idlers — of the lower class. 
 Some of them were in the theatre we speak of, but they did not 
 appear to take much interest in what was going on, but gazed moonily 
 on their pewter pots, or at their highlows, or at anything but that 
 which it might be supposed they came there to see. Some sailors, by no 
 means noisy, for they had got past that stage of tipsy enjoyment, were 
 sticking stolidly to their pipes, but minding the stage very hard 
 indeed, and occasionally howling out encouragement to the performers, 
 and staggering down to the footlights to reward the artists with beer, 
 until repulsed by the functionary who acted as beer-man, and box- 
 keeper, and general superintendent of the auditory. 
 
 The character of the performances may easily be imagined. The 
 baldest talk, delivered in the worst manner by the most ill-dressed 
 scarecrows going, was relieved by an occasional murder, all far in- 
 ferior to what may be seen at such fairs as the march of intellect is 
 permitting to exist. But the drama was hastily got through, just as 
 an old opera used to be hurried over, when a ballet with a new 
 Cerito or Carlotta Grisi was to be given — alas, I speak of the past. 
 The staple attractions here were evidently the comic song, and the 
 dance, and specimens of this kind of thing, generally very bad, were 
 alternated for an hour or two. The British public is not particular in 
 the quality of its amusement, if you make the said public comfortable 
 while it is being amused, but to give it a bad thing, and a bad seat 
 to see it from, is a direct invitation to it to be abusive. Now here 
 the spectators were, in their way, at tolerable ease, and so were not 
 intolerant. 
 
 "Don't name names here," was Earnshaw's caution to his com- 
 panion, but there did not seem any particular danger of their conver- 
 sation being overheard by anybody who could turn his ears to account. 
 The two men sat at the back row of the theatre, against the wall, and 
 there was an unfilled gap between them and the group of spectators. 
 Harris was smoking and drinking, like a man who was taking his 
 pleasure, but Earnshaw, though in compliance with the custom of the 
 place he had ordered some beer, scarcely partook of it. He was an 
 uncomfortable kind of man, who cannot say a thing and have done 
 with it, but whispers, and fidgets, and recurs to the topic when you 
 have settled it, and never seems aide to clear his mind and turn to 
 his amusement. A very objectionable form of man, and one to be 
 black-balled at any club where one has power to do him that social 
 damage. 
 
314 THE GORMAN KNOT. 
 
 " Very good, sir," said Harris, " I am schooled. That fellow 
 would not do the clog-dance so badly if he had any notion of time. I 
 can do it better than that, and have done it better, in the presence of 
 distinguished patrons of the legitimate drama." 
 
 Mr. Earnshaw said a very rude thing about clog-dancers and 
 dramas, and said that they had come there for business. 
 
 " Business and pleasure both, my dear sir. I will take the plea- 
 sure, and you shall attend to the business." 
 
 " You have never given a thought to what I said," grumbled 
 Earnshaw. 
 
 " I fancied that, on the contrary, I had shown you that I had 
 thought all through it, and given you my mind upon it. Shall I be 
 coarsely and vulgarly plain with you, my dear Mr. Earnshaw ? — I'm 
 uot to be done." 
 
 "Who wants to do you ?" 
 
 " A gentleman, named Earnshaw, descended from beadles." 
 
 " I don't see how I can offer fairer. You'll get nothing without 
 me." 
 
 " Possibly, but without me you will be in the same position. Let 
 us be open-hearted and candid, Earnshaw, as becomes affectionate 
 friends and boon companions. You hate me bike the devil, or 
 possibly a good deal worse, and you have a right to do so, because 
 you have injured me ; and I, knowing human nature, blame you not. 
 But I don't exactly dote upon you, my dear Earnshaw, and at all 
 events the blindness of my affection does not go to the extent of giving 
 you a chance of cheating me again, you old rascal. Mind that. And 
 now let us swear an eternal friendship." 
 
 " I never wronged you, Harris." 
 
 " Don't tell lies, Earnshaw ; because I don't like that trait in my 
 bosom friend. You have done me many wrongs, and among them 
 was your stealing the letter I wrote to the governor, and so prevent- 
 ing his helping me. You can deny it if you like, and swear to your 
 denial. Pray do if you think it would make you more comfortable, 
 but I shan't believe a word of it. You had better stop from lies, 
 my dear friend, and mend your bid." 
 
 " How can I tell what we may make of it V 
 
 " I don't want you to tell. But I want to be sure that, whatever 
 it may be, this child gets half." 
 
 " One of us must trust the other, Harris." 
 
 " I think so. Therefore, do you trust me, because Pm not in- 
 clined to arrange the trust the other way. Look at that girl — her 
 cheek is raddled like a sheep's back, but she would have a good voice 
 if she had not spoiled it by wetting her throat too much." 
 
 " You could do nothing with the governor." 
 
 " You are afraid to let me try." 
 
 " And time presses. That man A. 8. must have good spies." 
 
 " A. S. — Armandale Spencer. Bother, who's to hear 1 Why do 
 you say he must V 
 
 " Because the reconciliation between a certain lady and her hus- 
 band's father had not taken place twelve hours before he knew 
 of it." 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 345 
 
 " What's the good of humbugging mcl You were his spy, and 
 told him." 
 
 " I swear I did not." 
 
 " Quite right to say so ; but it was so clearly part of your game. 
 You say that he has been quite quiet all the time that Mrs. A. was 
 separate from the Square people." 
 
 " What could he do? His best card was out of his hand "while 
 she was away. Now he picks it up again, and wants to follow suit 
 with himself." 
 
 " Why, Earnshaw, you are quite allegoric. Did your father teach 
 yon imagination from the hatchments?" 
 
 " Don't be a fool, will you ? Don't you see that now she is in 
 favour again, and I suppose will make it up with her husband, now 
 comes the old rascal's turn'?" 
 
 '• Who do you mean? — your own ?" 
 
 "A. S.'s, in course," persevered Earnshaw, in a low whisper. 
 1 [arris tried to keep him off by huge puffs of tobacco smoke, but 
 there was no getting him to sit up and speak out. 
 
 '• I know the governor would do the thing handsome," continued 
 Earnshaw, "if we could make A. S. safe at this particular moment. 
 I have reason to know that he would like him got out of the way 
 before the attempt to bring husband and wife together is made, so 
 that there may be all the less unpleasantness." 
 
 " Reason to know means keyholes." 
 
 " Never mind what it means. It is the fact." 
 
 " Getting a gentleman out of the way is not the easiest thing iu 
 the world, unless it is to be done in the old-fashioned way. Do you 
 want us to invite Mr. Armandale down the dark arches, and give 
 him a topper for luck ? Because, though it would be a very right 
 thing to do to the old scoundrel, I have a preference for somebody 
 else doing it. I am not clear that I have a vocation to go about 
 punishing evil-doers." 
 
 " I don't mind telling you that I have saved money." 
 
 " And are therefore no longer one of the dangerous classes. I am 
 answered, and any way he is not to be finished oif. It is a pity, too." 
 
 "He knows me, or I could do it all myself." 
 
 " But he don't know me." 
 
 " If he has such spies, as it seems he has, he knows everybody that 
 comes to K." 
 
 " You know my belief about his spy, btvt if you stand by that lie 
 you must, in logic, my dearest friend, follow it out and consider that 
 he knows me." 
 
 " We must let in somebody else, and I have my eye upon the 
 man.'' 
 
 "What, that fat sailor? There's no press-gang now, my dear 
 Mr. Earnshaw. It would be a good thing if thero were one, 
 provided it were under proper direction, and did not take anybody 
 that could show he lived honestly. But as that is not the present 
 arrangement " 
 
 " Listen to me," said Earnshaw, sipping his beer. " The parly 
 I mean is a lawyer," 
 
3-1-6 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " Sounds bad." 
 
 " But aiut. He's oue who will act on the square, and will take 
 nothing but his regular bill. There are reasons why he wont." 
 
 " Who's this angelic bloater?" 
 
 " He's a cousin of Mrs. A." 
 
 " I thought that was her cousin, that stern kind of chap, a doctor, 
 that took charge of Zuleika." 
 
 '• This is his brother, who is in law. There are things which I 
 can't tell you, and which don't matter to the business, why he would 
 move heaven and earth to do a good turn to the A.'s, who have a 
 devil of a grievance against the man you saw. And he is a very 
 sharp and determined young chap, and he'll do the thing right well. 
 And as I say, he'll do it for his costs, so whatever the governor 
 thinks the job worth is somebody's and somebody's." 
 
 " But the bargain must be made beforehand, Earnshaw of my soul." 
 
 "You don't know the governor. Very likely he'd make the 
 bargain, and fix a price, and a good one. When the work was done 
 lie would pay the price, and take a receipt in full, and then say that 
 if we had left it to his discretion, he should have given us three times 
 as much." 
 
 " Easy to say." 
 
 " But it would be true. He's an arbitrary cove, but not a bad sort." 
 
 " My dear Earnshaw, we come back to our original point. I will 
 gladly help you in the matter, but you shall not cheat me. You will 
 if you can. The only way that I see to save you from doing your 
 friend a wrong is for us both to see Mr. Keckling together, and tell 
 him that we have a plan in hand ; that if it fails, he hears no more 
 about it ; but if it succeeds, and he thinks it worth reward, the 
 reward is to be equally divided between two gentlemen who have the 
 honour to be his obedient humble servants." 
 
 t( That would blow all. He would decline to have anything to do 
 with it. He's not a person to be served in that way. He would 
 either know all about it, or repudiate it, and kick us out of the house. 
 He's not been in Russia for nothing." 
 
 " I see your game, my beloved friend, but it is no go. Either in 
 your wisdom devise some plan for preventing yourself from cheating 
 me, or your plan and yourself, my dearest Earnshaw, may go to the 
 devil together." 
 
 " Would you fix some price for yourself, and then we could see 
 if it could not be secured to you 1 Then leave me to Q- e t it from K. 
 if I could." 
 
 "With four times as much more. If he pays in this matter 
 at all, he'll pay like a prince. But come, I won't be impracticable. 
 How many fingers, counting thumb, are there on this hand V 
 
 '• Eour more than need be counted in the matter, if you mean 
 business," said Earnshaw, sulkily. 
 
 " Then I will have another pint of ale, and enjoy the performance. 
 Bravo, my girl, very good — very well danced, indeed ; and I daresay 
 it will not be laid to your charge in another world that you were 
 bandy in this. Bravo !" 
 
 " You don't want to be in it ?" asked Earnshaw. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 31-7 
 
 " I don't want to put my foot in it," returned Harris. " When 
 yotir anatomical studies have led you to the conclusion that I have 
 live lingers, come to me and tell me so." 
 
 " Suppose it was so, which it can't by any chance he, what sort of 
 proof would you want from me I" 
 
 " A small one, on thin crisp paper, issued in Threadneedle Street." 
 
 " Rubbish — don't talk rubbish." 
 
 " That is my fancy document, Mr. Earnshaw, and that is my figure, 
 and you will have to deposit that document (don't forget to make up 
 your face for a lie and say you haven't the money, because you told 
 me that you had made a lot, which means a deal more, with you, than 
 live hundred pounds), and it shall be placed where I can get it the 
 day our friend A. S. comes to grief. Now I hate to be bothered with 
 business when I am amusing myself, and I swear I won't say another 
 word about it, and what's more, I wont abate a farthing. You want 
 me very much, or you would not throw in the way of a man you hate 
 the chance of making a shilling. So make up your mind whenever 
 you like, and ask yourself whether you shall agree, and if echo answers 
 in the affirmative, come to your devoted friend Harris. If it don't, 
 go to blazes.'' 
 
 '■ Well, come out, and let's talk somewhere else," said Earnshaw. 
 
 " I shan't. I am in attendance upon a young lady, and when she 
 has done, I propose to myself the honour of seeing her home to supper." 
 
 '•' Where can I see you afterwards ?" 
 
 " Nowhere, until to-morrow." 
 
 Earnshaw looked perfectly wretched at being thus interdicted from 
 re-opening and re-discussing the whole subject, but Harris was inexorable, 
 and puffed smoke at him, answered his remarks with observations on 
 the songs and company, and utterly refused to hear more. Earnshaw 
 was trying to interject one more appeal, when Harris slapped him on 
 the back 
 
 " There she is — applaud, you sir, will you ? Give her a reception." 
 
 And Zuleika bounced upon the stage. 
 
 She was dressed in what is supposed, in such places, to be the 
 costume of a Highlander, and it need hardly be said that a mass of 
 heterogeneous colours which no Highlander ever wore at one time, 
 was surmounted by an ostrich feather such as no Highlander had ever 
 worn at all, some vile paint on her cheeks, and her legs encased in 
 wrinkled and dingy fleshings. So once more presents herself, the 
 incorrigible Zuleika. She had got at length a comfortable home at 
 Maria Prescott's, and it might be thought that she would have gladly 
 remained there, but the vagabond element was too strong in the little 
 Bohemian, and sooner than live in quiet and decency, she availed 
 hi reelf of Maria's disaster to take an informal leave of the premises 
 (not perhaps taking more of her friend's property than many a greedy 
 and respectable woman would take under similar circumstances, if 
 quite sure not to be found out), and she had resumed her former 
 avocations, and become once more a star of the smallest magnitude 
 consistent with stardom. 
 
 Zuleika gave the Highland fling with nmch dash, and was loudly 
 applauded and encored. 
 
348 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " If you're only going with her," said Earnshaw, " I can come with 
 
 you." 
 
 " What do you mean by only her 1 You never saw that fling 
 better done in your life, I know. And I am going to take her home, 
 and I don't mean that either she or I shall be annoyed with business. 
 If you haven't made up your mind, see me to-morrow." 
 
 " There's no time to lose," persisted Earnshaw. 
 
 " Who's losing time, you or I, you old bloke 1 If you choose to say 
 yes, and ten to-morrow, the business is done." 
 
 " Well, will you meet me in Finsbury Circus to-morrow 1" said 
 Earnshaw. 
 
 " "No, unless it is to the business. Finsbury Circus is a pleasant 
 locality, with an extremely handsome building in the centre ; but I 
 am not so fond of architecture as to be dragged all that way unless I 
 am certain that something is to come of it. And now good night, 
 old hoss, I am going round to fetch my young lady. She doesn't 
 like to be kept waiting." 
 
 Poor Zuleika. It was not very good guardianship to which she 
 had again resigned herself. We have heard Harris's history, and of 
 his profligate conduct, and of what led to the child's becoming a 
 vagrant. But he had always retaiued a sense that he had wronged 
 her, and occasionally made, in his way, an effort to raise her out of the 
 dirt, and though such effort was not much appreciated by Zuleika, the 
 man persisted in preserving, amid all his vagrancies and shifts, an 
 idea of responsibility as regarded her. It was the only bit of salt in 
 his nature, but it kept the rest from being so utterly bad as it might 
 have been. He resolved that if Earnshaw came to his terms, he would 
 place the girl in some sort of respectable keeping, and he wondered 
 whether there were boarding-schools from which no young lady could 
 possibly escape. 
 
 Whether Earnshaw screwed himself up to assent to the terms that 
 night, or preferred to dawdle over the arrangement a little longer, is 
 not within my knowledge. 
 
 But it is certain that on the following afternoon Earnshaw had an 
 interview with Latimer Cheriton, at the young lawyer's office in the 
 city. What passed between Miss Lizzie Pybus's late lover and present 
 husband and Mr. Earnshaw may be gathered from what will appear 
 hereafter ; but here it need only be said that Latimer entered in the 
 most energetic manner into the plan, and proceeded to take the neces- 
 sary steps for carrying it out. And although he was much too astute 
 a young solicitor to confide a professional secret to his wife or any 
 body else upon sentimental grounds, it may easily be imagined that 
 on returning to the pleasant first-floor lodgings in which the young 
 couple had the good sense to resolve to live while Latimer's practice 
 was small (and in which there were seldom fewer than five or six of 
 Lizzie's sisters, whom Latimer Cheriton, at this period of his life, did 
 not consider it a bore to have perpetually in his house), he intimated 
 to Mrs. Latimer that he was likely to have an opportunity of obliging 
 some valued friends of Mrs. Arundel. In exchange for which piece 
 of information Lizzie gave him a kiss, and told him to oblige anybody 
 who could be useful to them, to which he replied by rebuking her for 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 319 
 
 being so mercenary, to which she rejoined by holding up to hira, from 
 behind a curtain, so that the girls could not see it, something small 
 and white — a baby's cap for aught I know — but I am ashamed of 
 wasting paper on such nonsense. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE CONCEALED CARD. ' 
 
 Armandale Spencer xoas well served by his spy, and had early in- 
 telligence of the incidents that occurred at Mr. Keckling's. But for 
 once Mr. Earnshaw was wronged in being charged with having sent 
 Spencer the intelligence, although the former would have done so 
 without the least hesitation, had it appeared to him part of his game 
 to do so. Indeed, when Harris made the suggestion, Earnshaw rather 
 reproached himself that he could say, without falsehood, that the 
 idea had escaped him. Armandale Spencer had bribed another ser- 
 vant of Keckling's, a man who had been under great obligations to 
 his master, both for forgiveness and for liberality, and whose fidelity 
 might therefore have been expected by those who hold the un- 
 scriptural doctrine that you are to believe men will behave well to 
 you if you behave well to them, and who thereby reduce duty to a 
 mere matter of reciprocity. A few well planted pieces of gold gave 
 Armandale the most accurate knowledge of all that went on in 
 Keckling's house, and increased the merit of the old man's kindness 
 to his servant by rendering it of not the least advantage to himself. 
 Perhaps the Reverend Mr. Parneli's Strange Partner walks about 
 even now, with his gradual plumes under a great coat, and redresses 
 the balances of private life. 
 
 Spencer had been baffled, though not discouraged, by the separa- 
 tion of his daughter from her husband, and the check thereby afforded 
 to the prosecution of his plans for resuming a gentleman's place in 
 society. He had full leisure for meditation upon his next campaign 
 before the event occurred which gave him the signal to put his forces 
 in marching order. Perhaps he thought that he had played the bold 
 game rather too boldly, and had overcalculated the timidity of those 
 he had to deal with. Knowing what an exceedingly bad man he was, 
 and how very objectionable it must be to decent persons to associate 
 with him, he had feared to make his approaches in any way that 
 would give them a chance of temporizing. He made a sort of tiger 
 spring, and, as has been seen, he did not exactly secure his prey. 
 But he regarded his having joined himself to Margaret, and in a 
 manner given his fatherly sanction to her flight, and his fatherly pro- 
 tection to her sojourn at Hastings, as a masterpiece of management, 
 and if it had not been for the horrible rudeness of Mr. Keckling 
 in the Hastings interview, and the brutality with which the old 
 Russian tore the veil from the past life of the old Indian, Spencer 
 
350 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 would have begun to hope that he might pursue a gentler policy, 
 and be gradually admitted into society. Indeed, had not Keckling 
 shown his hand, and convinced Armandale that his Oriental history 
 was really known, not merely guessed at, he would have had still 
 stronger hopes of success ; for everybody knows that India is a lorn' 
 way off, that it is a country where the English people scandalize one 
 another a good deal, and like to believe the worst of one another, and 
 that at home, before ostracising a man, we allow him a good while to 
 prove that he really deserves what has been said of him in the East. 
 But when Armandale Spencer recurred to the specific charges made 
 by Keckling, who spoke as from authority, and not as the scribes of 
 scandalous rumours, Margaret's father could not but deem his game 
 a bad one. 
 
 Still, the game was not lost. Margaret's separation from her hus- 
 band had been in some sort balanced by her re-union with her father 
 and now that separation might possibly, Spencer thought, be done 
 away. For he scarcely conceived it possible that a wife would take 
 her husband's mistress to her arms, and yet refuse to be reconciled to 
 the husband himself. So, informed of the scene by Mr. Kecklino-'s 
 grateful footman, who begged an hour to go away and see a sick mother, 
 and to whom his master immediately ordered a bottle of wine to be 
 given for the benefit of that afflicted nonentity, Armandale once more 
 prepared for the encounter. And, like a wise general, he determined 
 to have his whole force ready for action. 
 
 There was one reserve force at which he had more than hinted 
 in his stormy interview with Keckling. He would have preferred 
 not to use it, but still was prepared to do so, if compelled by failure 
 without it. 
 
 Spencer retained his lodgings in Half-Moon Street, holding that 
 it is a good thing to have a respectable address, and to change it 
 as little as possible. But it would not have exactly suited him to 
 introduce into those lodgings the person whom I reluctantly bring 
 upon our scene, but shall willingly dismiss when her brief part is 
 over. 
 
 In the third floor of a poor lodging-house in a street leading from 
 the Hampstead-road, Armandale Spencer had, on his arrival in Eng- 
 land, hastened to place one who had once been the lovely Miss 
 Featherleigh, the belle of Calcutta society. Small resemblance bore 
 the wreck thus consigned to the charge of a mercenary termagant 
 to the young beauty whose ivory forehead, liquid blue eyes, rosy lips, 
 and golden hair had attracted the sensuous Armandale Spencer, and 
 whom, when satiety had succeeded to an ignoble love, her husband 
 had made his victim in even worse fashion. The lithe and graceful 
 figure and the languishing manner were alike gone, and in the degraded 
 looking being, who cared little what was said or done to her, providedshe 
 were permitted to crouch on her mattress and smoke her opium, it 
 would have been impossible for even the eye of love (and no eye of true 
 love had ever rested on that inane loveliness) to recognise her who 
 had secured the hand of one of the cleverest officers in the military 
 service, and then, for a time at least, the regard of one of the ablest 
 of civilians, in the days of her girlhood. But there, carefully im- 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 351 
 
 prisoned by her husband's orders, for he could not afford to lose trace 
 of her, lay in a corner of the mcagerly furnished and miserably dull 
 apartment, the once charming Laura Spencer. 
 
 Armandale had a latch-key to the house in Petcrby-street — he chose 
 to have latch-keys wherever it was possible, hating to be kept at doors 
 and looked at either by passers-by or servants — and he suddenly pre- 
 sented himself in his wife's apartment. As he approached the room 
 a voice, clearly not hers, said — 
 
 " I wont have my mattresses dragged upon the floor, then, and so I 
 tell you, m'm. People who haven't got a stick of their own are 
 always ready to make free with the goods of other folks. I wont 
 have it, so get off of it before I pull you off." 
 
 " 0, let me be, my good woman. I shall not hurt your mattress," 
 pleaded Mrs. Armandale Spencer, almost whiningly. "It's the only 
 way I can be comfortable. Mr. Spencer will pay any damage." 
 
 " I don't know that ; and whether he will or not, I don't choose to 
 have my things illused. Get off at once." 
 
 There seemed something like a struggle, and then came a plaintive 
 cry, half suppressed, from the lady. 
 
 Armandale entered, and found the landlady grasping Mrs. Spencer's 
 arm, and dragging her from the mattress, which the poor woman had 
 pulled to a corner of the room, and throwing a shawl or two upon it 
 had made into the humblest resemblance of the luxurious lowliness of 
 the East. 
 
 Laura first saw him enter, and looked up appealingly. For his own 
 reasons he chose to take her part, a thing not very usual with him. 
 '•' Make her leave me alone. I'm doing no harm," she whined. 
 Armandale struck at the landlady's arm rather sharply with his 
 cane, and as she released Mrs. Spencer and turned round furiously to 
 take her own part, he assailed her with such an awful storm of abuse 
 and blasphemy, got up at the very shortest notice, and without the 
 least anger, that the woman, virago as she. was, after two or three 
 attempts to break in, fairly quailed under the shower of corrosive 
 epithet, and hurst into tears. Armandale then shoved her out of the 
 room, discharging a parting salute of extraordinary virulence, and 
 banging the door after her in a way that shook the house. 
 
 " The canaille never believe that you are in earnest unless you speak 
 rather plainly," he said in a gentle voice. " Ladies know better, and 
 obey you at once, don't they, Laura dear?" 
 
 The woman looked up, in her helpless, stupefied manner ; but it was 
 clear that Armandale had known how to make himself obeyed by her. 
 '■' I did not know you were coming to-day," she said. "Shall they 
 get you anything V And repugnant as all exertion evidently was to 
 her, she scrambled up to get him the best chair in the room, and to 
 dust it for him. 
 
 Armandale accepted this sign of homage, and motioned her back 
 to her shawls. 
 
 " Nothing, thank you, my dear," he said, seating himself. " I called 
 only to know that you were well, and I am glad that I called at a 
 fortunate moment." 
 
 " If you mean to keep me here," said Mrs. Spencer, earnestly, 
 
352 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " please make her let me do as I like in my own room. It is not much 
 to be allowed to lie where one likes, and this mattress can't be a 
 very expensive one. Will you V ' 
 
 "I would send you in the softest featherbed money could buy, my 
 valued Laura," said Armandale, " but that it might injure your health 
 to be too luxurious ; and besides, I hope to put you into another place 
 before long." 
 
 " The churchyard, I hope," said Laura, despairingly. 
 
 "No," said her husband, answering as if to the most matter of fact 
 inquiry. " No. I trust that many a day will dawn before that 
 melancholy duty devolves upon me. Do they take care of you here ?" 
 
 " If they would only let me be. And I took a fancy to go out in 
 the moonlight last night, and she locked me in. The moonlight 
 looked a little like what it used to be in Lucknow, and I thought I 
 should like a stroll. It was very cruel of them not to let me." 
 
 " I am truly sorry, my dear Laura, that you should have been 
 debarred from refreshing any Indian recollections. I should have 
 been enchanted to stroll by your side, as I could have assisted your 
 memory. But unless I can accompany you, perhaps you had better 
 postpone your enjoyment." 
 
 She looked up at him, felt that he was taunting, and ti-ying to pain 
 her, but she had become too callous to heed it much. 
 
 " I hope you will soon accompany my coffin," she said. 
 
 "I am vexed that you insist on conjuring up so painful a scene," 
 replied he, in a tone that was brutal from its mockery of politeness. 
 " Dismiss such a thought, and tell me whether you would like to go 
 out for a drive." 
 
 " I don't care about it." 
 
 " But if I cared about it P 
 
 " I must do as you wish, but I should rather be let alone." 
 
 " Your amiable compliance shall be rewarded by your having your 
 own way. But now listen to me. No, not with closed eyes. Please 
 to kneel up, that I may be quite sure you are attending." 
 
 The woman, with a low murmur, rose up into the attitude he pre- 
 scribed. As she did so, and to steady herself, she hastily put out her 
 hand, and it rested for a moment on his knee as he sat by the couch. 
 It was but for a moment, for he instantly drew his knee from under 
 her hand, and pushed a chair forward to be her support. It was the 
 act of a second, but it told a history. 
 
 " I — I beg your pardon," she said, and what there was left of 
 womanly feeling in her seemed stirred by the insult. 
 
 " A bagatelle," he said, carelessly. " It is forgotten, but do not 
 you forget this. Have a morning-dress and bonnet got ready, so that 
 you can put them on at a quarter of an hour's notice. I will send a 
 milliner to you. I may want you. That is all. Adieu. I will 
 make all right with the beast downstairs." 
 
 She was sobbing as he went out, but she was left " to weep her 
 tears alone." 
 
THE OOKDTAN KNOT. 3">3 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE EMBASSY. 
 
 The medical gentleman, hastily called in to Maria, had at once given 
 a very strong opinion against the poor girl's recovery. The casualty 
 itself, though of a very grave character, he said, was not so severe as 
 to preclude hope, but the condition of the ruifferer was most un- 
 favourable. The usual treatment was adopted, and it was impossible 
 that anything that skill or tenderness could suggest should be want- 
 ing at a couch on one side of which stood Dr. llalstone, and on the 
 other Margaret Arundel. But the hope was against hope. 
 
 Forbidden to utter a word, Maria's impatience to communicate 
 with those about her, but chiefly with Margaret, was at first dis- 
 tressing. She endeavoured to speak with her fingers, but it happened 
 that Mrs. Arundel was not very adroit at this language, and she felt 
 that Maria became excited at her failure to make herself understood. 
 Kindly and earnestly she implored the girl to be calm and still, 
 assured her that all she could say was known ; that she was with 
 those who were resolved, if God permitted it, to effect a cure, 
 but that all depended upon her abject submission to the orders of 
 Dr. Halstone. 
 
 " Will you not, for my sake," said Margaret, in the gentlest 
 whisper, " do what I ask of you V 
 
 Maria faintly smiled, and placed to her pale lips the fair hand of 
 the young wife, in token of resignation. But her eyes wandered, and 
 it was clear that her mind was too restless to permit her body to rest. 
 
 " If you will be very good," said Margaret, after watching her 
 anxiously for some time, " I will let you say a very few words. Ah ! 
 no," she said, laying her hand upon the girl's mouth, " not so. 
 Silence, now ; and I will come back directly." 
 
 She brought a little porcelain slate and a pencil. It was charac- 
 teristic of our thoughtful Margaret that she took care that the 
 pencil would write well, and also that she did so before she entered 
 the room, and allowed the impatient patient to see what was in hand. 
 
 Maria's eyes brightened as the tablet was placed in a convenient 
 position, and Margaret, supporting her hand, guided it to the slate. 
 
 Then there came a flush over the girl's brow, and this Margaret 
 did not understand, or attributed it to a wrong cause. In truth, it 
 was a pang of womanly vanity, that even then made itself felt. 
 Maria knew that she wrote an ill-regulated hand, and was not con- 
 fident even about her spelling ; and these she was going to expose to 
 an accomplished rival. 
 
 •• Xuw, only a very few words, you know," said Margaret, softly. 
 
 The tone was so sweet, and the perfect sincerity of the speaker, in 
 her expression of anxiety for her charge, was so clear, that Maria's 
 eyes filled with tears, and they had to be wiped away before she 
 could begin. 
 
 " Any marks will do," said Margaret. "No one can possibly write 
 
 PART XII. A A t 
 
354- THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 comfortably in such a position, but I shall be able to make out the 
 meaning." Maria wrote — 
 
 " How good you are to me." 
 
 " I will take away the slate directly," said Margaret, in a low voice, 
 "if you exert yourself to write anything of that sort. If you wish 
 to make me nappy, you will be obedient and good. Everybody is 
 most anxious that you should get well, and we will all do anything 
 in the world for you. And we are sure that you feel kindly to me 
 and all of us. So no need of writing about that. Only, if there is 
 anything you wish for " 
 
 Maria wrote — 
 
 " / shall die, but I will be good." 
 
 Margaret's soothing words, in answer to this, need not be set down. 
 She had not heard Dr. Halstone's own decision on the case, and 
 into its report to her Mr. Arundel had perhaps infused more hope 
 than the doctor's language quite warranted. It was natural that a 
 little addition should be again made by Margaret, and she poured 
 into the girl's ear assurances that her life depended on her observance 
 of orders. 
 
 But Maria's faint smile testified that she knew better. 
 
 " / will be good,''' she wrote again. 
 
 "Is there any home care upon your mind?"' suggested Mrs. 
 Arundel. " Will you write down anything, and we will send there. 
 I know the address ; never mind that." 
 
 The girl looked up wonderingly, having forgotten that Boosey had 
 been at the house. The Ayah would, a second time, have aim 
 found her way thither blindfolded. 
 
 " There is (hat child" — Maria began, but Mrs. Arundel .stayed her 
 hand. 
 
 "She shall be sent to directly — told that you are ill — but in a 
 place of safety — desired to conduct herself properly, and — shall we 
 send her, or the servant, a little money to go on with ?" 
 
 "No need. But if you will send the message *' 
 
 " It shall be done immediately," said Mrs. Arundel, stopping the 
 writer the moment her meaning was known. 
 
 " 1 was very rude to " 
 
 "Bude to nobody, dear child," said Margaret, caressingly. "Do 
 you not know that we are all deeply your debtors (and I am most of 
 all) for your coming to tell us that we had been deceived. Think 
 of nothing, except that you have done us all a great service, and we 
 will not even thank you for it until you get well. Now, will you 
 try to sleep 'I I will be in the room — I will not go away at all, and 
 I will show you how to call me to you, if you wish it." 
 
 And, tying one end of a slight ribbon to a little toy-bell (a play- 
 thing' of Duke's) which she suspended from the hook of a watch arch- 
 stand, on a table — it is a tiny detail, but I want you to know how 
 helpful she was — she fastened the other end to a finger of her patient. 
 
 " There," she said ; " now, that little tinkle is made in a moment, 
 and another will bring me to you with the slate. Surely, you will 
 now be able to slop '" 
 
 Maria laid her hand gratefully on that of Margaret, and looked 
 beggingly at the slate. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 355 
 
 "Must I I Well, ouly this once, then, until you have slept." 
 
 Marin wrote — 
 
 " If 1 die in the night, tviU you Mas me be/ore lltey lake me away" 
 
 " You will not die in the night, dear,'' said Margaret, with tears in 
 her eyes. "God put it in your heart to do a brave and kind thing, 
 and we may hope that lie will let you live to see the good j'ou have 
 done. But will you not let me kiss you now ?" 
 
 Maria would then have spoken, and Margaret saw it, and laid her 
 hand once more on the girl's lips, and then kissed her forehead and 
 check. No, woman, not as if she were in charity exposing herself to a 
 contamination which she would brave, but could not help feeling, but 
 as an angel sent with a message of love to some sorrowing and wan- 
 dering mortal might, in compassion and sympathy, touch the brow 
 of the earth-born, in sign that what the Master had loved, His would 
 love too. 
 
 Then, darkening the room, Margaret gave a final pressure of Maria's 
 hand, and withdrew to a sofa, whence she watched for some time, and 
 was at last rewarded by hearing the breathing which tells of sleep. 
 And then Margaret knelt to pray. Maria was not forgotten in her 
 prayer, but the day had brought forth much that called for the young 
 wife's petitions on her own behalf, and long was her review of the 
 events of that day, and earnest her prayer that all might be swayed 
 for good to those whom she loved. 
 
 Had she known how Philip, her husband, was employed at that 
 same hour, I think that her heart would have fairly overflowed. 
 
 Three days passed, and Maria still lay, tended with every care, but 
 ht'r case making no apparent advance or retreat. Not so the interests 
 of others of whom we have spoken. 
 
 " A father always knows too much and too little of his son, they 
 say, Philip," said old Mr. Arundel to the latter, as they sat down in 
 the library, after giving a solemn pledge to Blanche and Geraldine 
 that they would soon come up to coffee. 
 
 This was the day following the scene at Mr. Reckling's. Mr. 
 Arundel had sent word to his son that the sooner they met the 
 better, and Philip was entirely of the same opinion. Once in the 
 house, he was a prisoner without parole, for his sisters l'efused to 
 listen lo any terms that implied his leaving them again — 
 
 "Unless," said Geraldine, " it is to fetch his wife here." 
 
 For they, in spite of all their adoration of Philip, had never been 
 able to believe that Margaret was to blame, and when their father 
 told them as much as it was proper to tell single young ladies, namety, 
 that it had been discovered that the parties had been at a sort of 
 cross-purposes, and untruths had been used in order to widen the 
 breach, it was with great difficulty that the Contingent could be re- 
 strained from charging into Mr, Keckling's house, and at once carrying 
 off .Margaret in triumph. 
 
 Philip looked grave, but said nothing to this, and followed his 
 father to the library. 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 THE GORMAN KNOT. 
 
 " I am sure I ought to have had no secrets from you, my dear 
 father," replied Philip. 
 
 " Perhaps," said the old gentleman, with an attempt at unusual 
 gravity, though he was much too happy to be grave, and much too 
 wise to be didactic, "it might be as well to say that you ought to 
 have had no secrets but such as you could properly tell your father, 
 sir. But I suppose young men are all alike." 
 
 O the comfort those eight words have been to generations on 
 generations of forgiving parents ! O the loophole by which they have 
 escaped from the duty of making any special protest against wrong ! 
 On the whole I am not so sure that the sentiment has worked so well 
 for young women, and that its being popular has not had something 
 to do with a certain social evil, which the police find it difficult to keep 
 out of the sight of Respectability. But the belief may certainly be 
 called a real blessiug to fathers, and mothers too, unless they have 
 old-fashioned notions. 
 
 "We will not talk upon the subject more than we can help," said 
 Mr. Arundel, " but I may say that if I had known that person before 
 the affair was broken off, I should have been very unhappy about 
 you, my boy. I mean, that I should have thought her a person whom 
 you might find it painful to shake off at all." 
 
 "Was it not V said Philip, with real feeling. 
 
 " I need not ask you if you did all that was proper." 
 
 "John Claxton managed it all. I thought that the kindest way, 
 as he knew all about it. He decided what I should do. You know 
 that he is the man to insist on what is right." 
 
 " Yes, all very fine. And he could come here, and sit opposite, 
 and drink my wine, and take your hint to go away with you for a 
 cigar at the club, and know all the time where you were going. But 
 I suppose half the fathers in London are in my case, or will be, so we 
 must not complain. Well, your friend, Mr. Jack Claxton, has told 
 you everything." 
 
 " Everything, he says. And I come to you, my dear father, for 
 advice. You'd throw something at me, I suppose," said the son, lay- 
 ing his hand affectionately on his father's shoulder, " if T were to say 
 how I thank you for your whole conduct and kindness." 
 
 " Why, I have been such a brute and tyrant to you all my life, that 
 I don't wonder you are surprised at my behaving as you would wish, 
 eh, Philip." 
 
 " By Jove, sir, if there were more fathers like you " 
 
 " There would be more sons like you, eh ? But are you sure that 
 is so very desirable a thing '] Well, yes it is, my boy," said the old 
 man, looking pixmdly at his son, " and if there were nobody worse 
 than you in the world, we should get on very well. God bless you. 
 1 only hope all the wild oats are sown now." 
 
 " Every grain, sir." 
 
 " Then there's no great harm done. I hope that poor girl wont die ; 
 the doctors are very fond of predicting the worst, in order to make 
 you think more of the cure, and if she recovers, we will see what can 
 be done for her. I dare say that with some money she could get a 
 good husband in Australia. We'll see to that, of course, and now to 
 
THE GORDIAU KNOT 357 
 
 dismiss the subject, and come to one of a very different kind, I mean 
 how to make amends to a loving heart that we have wronged." 
 
 Which was, of course, utterly and entirely different. But we think 
 —as Sheridan's soldiers in the play proposed to argue — in platoons. 
 Don't blame a man for feeling as his regiment feels. 
 
 " What course do you advise ?" said Philip. " I would gladly put 
 myself entirely in your hands. I know that you have learned to love 
 Margaret as you do one of the girls upstairs." 
 
 " Almost, I believe," said the father, "and I think almost will be 
 quite, when I see her making you perfectly happy. Well, do you 
 authorize me to speak for you f 
 
 " I entreat it." 
 
 " You wont mind my saying to her that you own you have been a 
 good deal in the wrong. Indeed, if I like to put that part rather 
 strongly, you wont repudiate me ?" 
 
 " My dear father !" 
 
 " Mind you, I don't say that you have been a good boy, if you 
 have not been a very bad one ; but I don't put it on that ground ; 
 but I'm older than you, Philip, and therefore of course I know more 
 of women." 
 
 Equally of course, Philip in his private mind assented to this. 
 
 " They like to be generous, they have liberal natures, Philip, and 
 they would rather have something handsome to do in the way of for- 
 giveness, than forgive little niggling wrongs. It's not so with us; we 
 prefer to be injured slightly to being injured largely. They don't, 
 because they can come out with a whole gush of pardon. So I shall 
 not try to explain away your errors, Mr. Philip, but tell your wife 
 you own everything ; and see what she will say to that." 
 
 '• I hope that she will say, Where is he 1" 
 
 " I'm sure she will. You speak rather doubtfully, Philip. We are 
 reversing parts ; it is seldom the old man that is sanguine and the 
 young one gloomy." 
 
 " I have had, perhaps, more opportunity of understanding Margaret's 
 nature, my dear father." 
 
 " Certainly ; but still I say, Philip," said Mr. Arundel, gravely. 
 
 " I am not going on a fool's errand ? There is not anything secret 
 from me, no downright offence that a wife ought not to be asked to 
 forgive ! You are my son and a gentleman, and therefore it is im- 
 possible there can be anything that came under her eye ; but there 
 has been nothing — in a word, you have not been a guilty hus- 
 band !" 
 
 " Did I ever tell you a lie, sir F 
 
 " Never, my boy, thank God." 
 
 " I wont begin now," said Philip. " You know everything about 
 me ; and [ leave my cause in your hands. But I tell you frankly 
 that I think my best hope of a reconciliation taking place is in 
 Margaret's feeling that she has been in the wrong." 
 
 " Which you think I" 
 
 " I did think so. I own that I thought her much in the wrong. 
 I make all allowance for feeling; but a woman is not justified in 
 leaving her husband's house upon any question of mere feeling. U 
 
358 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 she wrote down every wrong, article by article, for Doctors' Commons, 
 could you lay your finger on one of them, and pronounce for a separa- 
 tion ? I was very careless, neglectful, irritable ; I left her alone a 
 good ileal ; I stayed out late at night ; I was once seen behind the 
 scenes at the opera when she thought I was somewhere else ; once or 
 twice I had more wine than was good for me ; and before I married 
 I had lived — as nine men out of ten live, while the tenth lives worse. 
 Is there anything in all that, and I have put it strongly against myself, 
 that justifies a wife in separating T 
 
 " Not if women were reasonable beings, my dear Philip ; but re- 
 member, they are not. They don't reason, and they do foolish things. 
 But I do not think I shall do any good by trying to throw blame on 
 Margaret." 
 
 " I don't wish it, sir, for I am sure I feel that I have been exceed- 
 ingly foolish, and that she has a great deal on her side. I only sug- 
 gest to you that our case is not a bad one." 
 
 " If I am happy enough to make all right, Philip, you will never 
 let her feel that you thought her wrong. I am thinking of your 
 future happiness." 
 
 " If we unite again," said Philip, " I shall be a wiser man, I wont 
 say a better one, and I shall know how to set a truer value on 
 the wife I have gamed. Is not that something for a man to say ; 
 but I would say it to no man in the world but one." 
 
 " What is settled V asked Geraldine and Blanche, in a breath, 
 as their father and brother entered the drawing-room. 
 
 " Who goes for Margaret," asked Geraldine, " and have you ordered 
 the brougham V 
 
 " Philip goes, I suppose," said Blanche, " O, make haste, and then 
 we can have a great talk with her before we go to bed." 
 
 " Not quite so fast, my loves," said Mr. Arundel. " Nothing- 
 will be done to-night ; but to-morrow I hope that we may all be 
 happy." 
 
 " I don't like delays," said Geraldine ; " but I suppose you both 
 know best." 
 
 " We humbly think so, Diney, dear," said papa, putting his arm 
 round her waist. 
 
 " Yes," said Blanche ; "but I know one thing, and that is, that 
 if anybody I cared about had quarrelled with me, and they did not 
 hurry and make it up the very hour and minute that they knew they 
 might, they might not find it quite such easy work to make it up 
 at all." 
 
 " You are quite right, Blanche," said Philip, looking at her kindly, 
 " and I should agree with you if it were not for some other considera- 
 tions of which you are not aware. In fact, you don't quite know all 
 the circumstances."| 
 
 " I hate circumstances," said Blanche. 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 359 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 ALEXANDER. 
 
 Mb. ArmandALE Spexcer opened his batteries, but with no particular 
 effect. He wrote to request au interview with Mr. Arundel, and that 
 senator's private secretary intimated, in a curt note, that his chief's 
 time was too much occupied to permit him to see the applicant, but 
 that any written explanation of his wishes should be duly attended to. 
 This suggestion by no means met Mr. Spencer's views. He endeavoured 
 to throw himself in Mr. Arundel's way in the lobby of the House, but 
 Mr. Arundel seeing him, suddenly took so lively and intense an interest 
 in the conversation of an Irish acquaintance who wanted an under- 
 secretary of stateship, or a tide-waiter's place, or any other trifle 
 Arundel might happen to have about him, that the interview (to the 
 astonishment of the delighted Milesian) was prolonged until the divi- 
 sion bell gave his patron an excuse for hurrying into the chamber. 
 Armandale took the hint. 
 
 He then called upon Mr. Claxton, and found that gentleman at 
 chambers, but Mr. Claxton saw nobody who did not send in his card, 
 and when Mr. Spencer's card came in, Mr. Claxton was too much 
 engaged to see Mr. Armandale Spencer. The latter, of course, at once 
 comprehended the defence that was going to be made against him, 
 abandoned tentatives, and resolved on opening his feu cVenfer upon 
 the Arundelian Sebastopol. 
 
 Marmaduke Arundel, eager to achieve his object, and re-unite his 
 son and daughter-in-law, lost no time in presenting himself at Mr. 
 Recklings house. He sent up word to Margaret that he was there, 
 and Mrs. Arundel, placing a trusty nurse as sentinel by the bedside of 
 Maria, came down to her father-in-law. 
 
 "And our poor patient V he asked, after affectionately kissing her. 
 
 "She is very quiet, poor thing," said Margaret, "and that is well. 
 Every hour that she remains so, the stronger our hope may become. 
 But it is a terrible peril." 
 
 " Hope on, my love, and I trust you may be rewarded for your 
 kindness ami nobleness." 
 
 " Pray don't call anything I have done by that name, papa." 
 
 The last word sounded one of good omen to the ambassador. Bat it 
 perhaps only signified that Margaret's warm heart prompted her at once 
 to resume affectionate relationship with those who had been kind to her. 
 
 " I shall call it what I please, and think it what I please too," said 
 
 Mr. Arundel. " And lirst let me deliver a double message with which 
 
 i am charged, or else I shall never be forgiven. 1 am to give the 
 
 ite and united loves of Blanche and Geraldine, and — no, the rest 
 
 of the message I will tell you presently." 
 
 Margaret coloured, and then said, smilingly, that she would return 
 an answer to the whole message when she had had it. 
 
 ••And now, dear," said Mr. Arundel, " I want to have, a little talk 
 with you where we are quite sure not to he interrupted. Have you 
 any little boudoir of your own here, for 1 wanl to be awfully mysterious." 
 
 '• Certainly," said Margaret, " Mr. Keckling has kindly given me 
 
3G0 THE G0RD1AN KNOT. 
 
 rooms altogether upstairs. The poor thing is in one of them, and my 
 little orrery, as Duke calls it, is next. I am so sorry that Duke is out 
 for a walk -with his nurse, but he will be home at one o'clock to his 
 dinner." 
 
 " Then I hope I shall see him, dear fellow. By all means let us go 
 upstairs." 
 
 Margaret conducted him to the pretty little room which she had 
 spoken of, and the name whereof her child bad corrupted as she has 
 told — the original, by no means a piece of sentiment by our ex- 
 dissenter, but a whim of Mr Keckling's, being, of course, the oratory. 
 It was really one for Margaret, however, as may be imagined. Some 
 fragmentary toys, which no mother can ever quite succeed in keeping 
 out of her card-basket, and work-box, and china, or any other place 
 where they have no business to be, made Arundel think of old times 
 and young faces in his own household, and of an older and sweet face 
 whose owner used in vain to remonstrate against dolls on the drawing- 
 room mantelpiece, and the intrusion of Noah and his red and rigid 
 family among Chinese ivories and Parian statuettes. 
 
 "Any one in the next room ?" he asked. 
 
 " Nurse and poor Maria," said Mrs. Arundel, softly ; " but if I 
 shut the door between they cannot hear us." 
 
 " Send nurse down stairs, please." 
 
 " If you wish it," said Margaret. " But I must arrange for hear- 
 ing my patient." 
 
 She returned, glad to say that Maria was asleep, but she had put 
 the bell-ribbon within her reach. And closing the door, she took her 
 seat, not without considerable trepidation, for she had naturally guessed 
 something of the nature of Arundel's errand. 
 
 This too, he thought he might take for granted. 
 
 " And now, my dearest child, for I have alwaj's thought of you as 
 mine, ever since a certain day when we were at church together, and 
 I may say before that, I suppose that you know what is in all our 
 minds, and that it is the same thing which is in your mind too." 
 
 " I can hardly mistake what you mean," said Margaret, who began 
 to feel a most unheroinelike inclination to have a cry. 
 
 " It would be, then, a most delightful thing if we both arrived at 
 the same conclusion without a great deal of talk about it. When 
 people all love one another, they have not need of many words to clear 
 up a misiinderstanding." 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, not exactly knowing what she was saying. 
 
 " Now, dearest Margaret, I am an old man, and I suppose that my 
 days are not likely to be very long in the land. All the happiness I 
 can have in this world now — since I have lost a wife whom I loved 
 better than my life — is in the happiness of my children, and they must 
 not deny me that comfort, for God knows I have not deserved that 
 they should be unkind to me." 
 
 Margaret caught at his hand, impulsively, but did not speak. 
 
 " Perhaps I have not quite so much right to make this appeal to you, 
 dear, for though you are my child to all intents and purposes, I have 
 not been able, time has not been allowed me, to do much for you — 
 but I think you know how the old man loves you i" 
 
THE GOUDIAN KNOT. 361 
 
 •' Vnii liavc been all kindness," said Margaret, with the tears coming 
 
 Oil. 
 
 " Well, then, if yon believe in my love, dear child, you must believe 
 what I tell you.'' 
 
 " Why, of coui'se I will," said Margaret, looking up at him through 
 wet eyes, but with one of her curiously naive expressions of surprise. 
 Utterly unheroic. 
 
 " Then you must believe me when I say that there is one who loves 
 you even better than I do, as he ought. My dear child, Philip, your 
 husband, is as devoted to you as he ever was in any hour of your life. 
 And when I have said that, and you have believed it, is there a great 
 deal more to say before I come to my girls' message V 
 
 He rose, placed his arm round her, and raised her to his side. Her 
 head rested on his heart, and she sobbed audibly. He thought the 
 game was won. Some men think that when a woman begins to 
 cry, she gives in, but it is not always so. Sometimes you smite the 
 rock and the waters gush forth, but the rock remains just where it 
 was before the outburst. 
 
 "Then," he said, after a pause, during which he continued to embrace 
 her fondly, "I will finish that message." 
 
 " No," said Margaret, looking up with a face full of distress, but 
 still as if she had something she meant to say; "please do not, dear 
 papa, because I cau guess at all its kindness." 
 
 " Is that a reason, dear ?" said Arundel. 
 
 " But it would be very painful to have to send an answer " 
 
 " That is exactly what they forbid you to do, my darling. You are 
 to bring an answer, or rather to be an answer." 
 
 " Yes, I know, I felt it was that, dear girls," said Margaret, " and 
 
 you must give them my dearest love, and . Papa," she said, 
 
 wiping her eyes, and speaking with a sad firmness, "you wish me to 
 come home to you, and I must not." 
 
 " I do indeed, my love, and so do we all, and that you should come 
 home, as you rightly call it, and will always I hope feel it, — that you 
 should come home directly." 
 
 "And meet " 
 
 "All." 
 
 " It cannot be," said Margaret, in the same sorrowful tone. 
 
 " My dear child, do you think that I have any claim to ask you 
 why you should say this ? If you do " 
 
 "You have a right, every right to ask me everything," said Mar- 
 garet ; ''• but if you would take what I say without making me give 
 you any more pain, for I am sure I do 
 
 " You do indeed, love, though unwillingly. But if it is only pain to 
 myself, I cau bear that, and perhaps do good by bearing it. Tell me, 
 then, why I should not, as I fondly hoped to do, take you back with 
 me to the Square this very hour." 
 
 •• Must I say?" 
 
 " I ask you, dear, because I hope to show you that your reason is 
 not a good one." 
 
 " Philip does not love me," said Margaret, with an effort. "Ho 
 never really loved me, and I— I — am so miserable. 1 
 
362 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Again Arundel pressed her to his heart. 
 
 " Dear love," he said, " this is an idle dream, a ghost that you are 
 conjuring up to frighten away your own happiness. You have lived 
 out of the world, my love, and therefore you may listen to one who has 
 lived in it. It rarely happens that in the early part of married life 
 there does not come one of these clouds, especially when the acquaint- 
 ance has not been long, and the match is a love-match, as yours, my 
 dearest, I rejoice to say, was. It is no light or easy thing for two 
 beings to learn to comprehend one another so thoroughly as to become 
 one, the work is a delicate one, and if it is disturbed by any accident, 
 there are tears, and distress, and a belief that all is over. But if 
 husband and wife are truly good, and ordinarily trustful, the storm 
 breaks, and passes away, and they are thenceforth one till death, and 
 beyond it." 
 
 " If they have loved," murmured Margaret. 
 " And you loved Philip ! " 
 " O, so well, so dearly," said she, with a shiver. 
 " And you love him still ! " 
 
 " I will love him till 1 die," said Margaret, " but I can never be 
 his wife again. I know that he does not love me, and I could not 
 again bear what I have gone through. O, to be the constant com- 
 panion of one for whom you would give your life if it could save him 
 from a grief, and to feel that his eyes looked coldly on you, and yet 
 not so coldly as his heart — I cannot bear it. Papa," she said 
 passionately, " I am making no charge against Philip. He thought 
 he loved me, and did not, but I acquit him of blame. I hope, I pray 
 that he nor you nor any one thinks so meanly of me as to suppose 
 that any of a number of small things — I am ashamed to speak about 
 them — could be in my memory or make me angry with him. They 
 Avere cruel only as proofs that he cared not for me. I would 
 never have resented them, I would never have let him even try to 
 explain them away. It was the one burning, bitter conviction that he 
 did not love me that drove me from him — is there not some story 
 about a living man chained for his crimes to a dead man — what is 
 that to a living loving heart chained to one that is ice and stone to 
 
 it. Do not ask me any more, dear, dear Mr. Arundel " 
 
 "What !" he said, mournfully ; "papa no longer." 
 " Yes, papa a hundred times," she said, clinging to him ; " but do 
 not. I have told you all the fearful truth. Now pity me, and love 
 me, if you can." 
 
 "Love you, dearest, yes, to the last. But will you refuse to 
 believe a father, when he speaks to you of his son. Philip loves you 
 deeply and well. He always did, but he loves you now more than 
 ever. Sorrow and thought have done much with him. Will you 
 refuse to believe me ?" 
 
 " You will break my heart," said Margaret, " but you can never 
 alter the truth. All the love that Philip had for woman," she said in 
 
 a low voice, " was given " 
 
 The tinkling of a very small bell, rung violently, was heard by both. 
 "Was given there," said Margaret, extricating herself from his 
 arms, and hastening to the door between the rooms. 
 
THE GORMAN KNOT. 363 
 
 She opened it. and close to it lay Maria, who had crawled from her 
 bed, and to the door, but was unable to do more. She held the 
 ribbon in her hand, and looked up at Margaret like a child who 
 knows it has merited rebuke. 
 
 "O, Maria," cried Mrs. Arundel, ''how very sad, how very cruel!" 
 
 It was not a hard task for Margaret to raise the wasted form of the 
 poor girl from the ground, but when she sought to replace her in the 
 bed, Maria resisted, and pointed to a chair. 
 
 Mrs. Arundel feared to contest the point, lest the wilful girl should 
 begin to speak. She placed Maria in a large easy chair, and covering 
 her with a dressing-gown and shawls, whispered earnest reproach. 
 Maria smiled and demanded her slate. 
 
 " You don't deserve it, indeed/' said Margaret. " How can you be 
 so unkind ? " 
 
 " / am a bad tiling" wrote Maria. 
 
 Margaret rubbed out the words. "Why did you not ring for mc, 
 as I asked you ?" she said, as one talks to a child. "And why will 
 you not let me put you back in bed 1 " 
 
 '■ Will you do something I ash?" 
 
 " Anything, oidy let me have my own way with you." 
 
 " Promise ? " 
 
 " I promise. Now then, I will wheel the chair to the bedside." 
 
 "S ml jl»- l^/iilip,'' wrote Maria, most distinctly, as if to give em- 
 phasis to her words. 
 
 Margaret started, and the writing swam before her. 
 
 " Maria," she exclaimed, and then instantly recollecting herself , 
 " Ah, not a word." 
 
 The exclamation reached and alarmed Mr. Arundel, who hurried in. 
 
 " What is it \ Can I be of use 1 Not in bed, my poor girl — surely 
 that is not right." 
 
 Maria pointed to the slate in Mrs. Arundel's hand, and the senator's 
 gold eye-glass was in requisition in an instant. He caught the words, 
 and looked doubtfully at Margaret. The sufferer beckoned impatiently 
 for the slate. 
 
 " Will yo>i refuse a dying girl ? " 
 
 "No," said Mr. Arundel, "it would be wicked and cruel to refuse." 
 
 W hat a conflict of emotion Margaret endured at being thus sud- 
 denly placed in a new and strange position, may be imagined by those 
 who have the skill to analyse sensation. I will not even linger to 
 ask whether the demand was utterly hateful to her. Mr. Arundel 
 led her aside, yet not without a kind and deprecatory gesture to 
 Maria, 
 
 "It is most painful that this should be asked," he said, in a low 
 voice; "but I cannot see how — in humanity, not to say as Christians, 
 we can deny it. She is dying, my dear child, Dr. Halstone spoke 
 far more plainly to us than perhaps you are aware, and to refuse " 
 
 "Ho what is right," said Margaret, hurriedly, and all in a tremble 
 she went back to the bedroom. 
 
 Mr. Arundel gent back his carriage to Thanington Square, with 
 orders to his servants to hurry thither as fast as horses and speed could 
 take them, and to bring Mr. Philip. He well knew that Philip 
 
864 THE G0RD1AN KNOT. 
 
 would be traversing the library, eager for his father's return. As the 
 carriage rattled off, Mr. Keckling came out of the parlour to Mr. 
 Arundel. 
 
 "Just come here," said Keckling, taking the other into the hat* 
 room on the other side of the hall. " This is pleasant at such a time." 
 
 " What next T said Arundel. 
 
 "That infernal Armandale Spencer is in there," pointing towards 
 the parlour. 
 
 Arundel cursed Spencer with as honest and elaborate an oath as 
 has often devoted a hated enemy to the great Enemy. 
 
 " Amen," said Keckling, " and the hottest place in it ; but mean- 
 time he is there. And that's not the worst. I told you of the atrocious 
 threat uttered at Hastings." 
 
 " His wife T 
 
 '•' By * * """, she's there. Such a wretch. He has brought her 
 to show that there is such a person, whom he can introduce all 
 over London as the mother of Margaret Arundel. O, to call this 
 beastly country a civilized one, while there is no dealing with such a 
 ruffian as that. if we were in Russia, with such bankers' accounts 
 as yours and mine to draw upon." 
 
 It was clearly the duty of a part of the Constitution to have pro- 
 tested against this sentiment, but I am sorry to say that Mr. Arundel 
 cordially joined in the old merchant's wish. 
 
 " But will he take money ?" said Arundel. 
 
 " No, he will be introduced into society. He is good enough to say 
 that if that is done in his own case, he will make no stipulation of the 
 kind about his wife, who will give no tixmble ; but if he is not at 
 once invited to your house and mine, to begin, he will at once cause 
 such paragraphs to appear in the papers as shall spread the whole 
 scandal, and this he will keep up as long as he lives." 
 
 " He has been trying to get at me " 
 
 " He said so, with some exceedingly rude remarks upon your 
 childishness in thinking that such devices as you employed could 
 keep off a man who was in earnest." 
 
 " You think there is no buying him off?" 
 
 " I am ashamed to tell you what terms I have offered. I suppose 
 that he has a hoard." 
 
 '•' Well, can we get a little time, to consider his terms ?" 
 
 "No, he says he will have an answer at once, and has been good 
 enough to fix the clay on which he proposes that I shall have my first 
 dinner party in his honour." 
 
 " The scoundrel. By Jove, they have been quick," said Arundel 
 as the rattle of wheels was heard. 
 
 " Who p 
 
 " I sent for Philip. That poor girl wants to see him before she 
 dies " 
 
 " Good Heaven, he must not meet Spencer !" 
 
 They hastened into the hall, as the door opened. But it was not 
 the carriage, nor was it Philip ; but a cab, with three men inside, 
 and one who had been liding beside the driver. 
 
 The others alighted, and two faces were unkuowu to either of the 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 865 
 
 gentlemen. Not so that of the third, who was the young lawyer, 
 Latimer Cheriton. 
 
 " Outside 1 , Batty," said a vigorously made, though slight niau, who 
 seemed to have some blue about him somewhere, though when you 
 did not look at him you could hardly say where. 
 
 They entered the house, shutting out their companion. 
 
 " Mr. Keckling," said Latimer, " I won't say I am sorry this hap- 
 pens here, as no matter where a scoundrel is trapped, but we meant 
 to have had him in Half Moon-street. He went out early. Is he in 
 there f 
 
 " There is but one scoundrel in the world, Mr. Cheriton," said 
 Arundel, " but you can't mean him." 
 
 " Armandale Spencer," said Latimer. 
 
 " No, is he the game ?" exclaimed the old gentleman, delighted. 
 " In there, in there." 
 
 " All right, Mr. Arundel," said the man with blue, respectfully 
 touching his hat. 
 
 " I seem to know you," said Mr. Arundel. 
 
 " Know you quite well, sir, and most of the other gentlemen of the 
 House." 
 
 At this moment the parlour door opened, and Armandale Spencer 
 came out into the hall. He knew none of the new comers, but in- 
 stinct told him that the conclave was not designed for his benefit and 
 advantage. 
 
 " Our time is limited, Mr. Keckling," he said, " as we have several 
 calls to make." 
 
 " I am afraid they must stand over, sir," said the man with blue. 
 
 " You are under some mistake," said Spencer, calmly. 
 
 " This is Mr. Armandale Spencer," said Keckling, with extra dis- 
 tinctness. 
 
 " Quite so," said the officer, with politeness. " We have a cab, 
 Mr. Spencer. I suppose nothing more need be said to a man of 
 business." 
 
 Armandale Spencer behaved exceedingly well. He turned livid 
 with rage, and glared like a tiger round on the party, all of whom 
 he supposed to be in league against him. Then, instead of bursting 
 out with an explosion, like that which had annihilated the Hamp- 
 stead Road landlady, he put on his hat, and said, quite pleasantly, 
 
 "Embarrassing, simply because, you see, Mrs. Spencer is with 
 
 me." 
 
 " Mrs. Spencer shall be conveyed to her residence. I undertake 
 that," said Latimer. 
 
 " Most kind, but one naturally hesitates to entrust one's wife to 
 the care of an entire stranger." 
 
 Latimer was going to speak. But there would have been some 
 awkwardness in his announcing that he had just helped to arrest liis 
 cousin's father on a criminal charge. Keckling stopped him. 
 
 " I am not a stranger to you, Mr. Spencer. I will undertake the 
 duty." 
 
 "Then, sir, I am perfectly at ease. Forgive my weakness, if I spare 
 mvself the pain of an agonizing parting, and leave it to you to break 
 
366 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 
 
 the news to my adoring wife. I am at your service, sir,"' he said. 
 " I will write to you, Mr. Keckling. Adieu.'" 
 
 As the officers escorted their captive to the cab, the Thanington 
 Square carriage dashed up, and in another moment Philip was on the 
 pavement. 
 
 " One moment," said Armandale Spencer, placing his arm in that 
 of the man with blue. " Let me shake hands with that gentleman/' 
 
 And before Philip was aware of what he was about, he had let his 
 hand go into that of his father-in-law-. 
 
 " My dear Philip," said Armandale, " how well you are looking. 
 I should have known you anywhere, from your likeness to your dear 
 little boy. I have an important engagement to keep, but you will 
 find your mother-in-law Mr. Reckling's guest, and it will make her 
 heart dance with joy and gladness to embrace you. Excuse my being- 
 obliged to be off." 
 
 And the officers drove away with Mr. Spencer, before Philip, whose 
 mind had been on a very different subject, had time to regain his 
 recollections. He dai'ted into the house, where his father awaited 
 him. 
 
 " You sent for me," said Philip, laying his hands delightedly on his 
 father's shoulders, and that means victory. Where is she i" 
 
 He looked so unfeignedly delighted, that his father could hardly 
 bear to damp his happiness, but there was no help for it ; and in a 
 few words he explained why Philip had been summoned. 
 
 The young husband turned deadly pale. 
 
 " Yet it is with Mai-garet's consent," he said, after a pause. 
 
 "It is by Margaret's desire," replied his father. 
 
 "I have no choice," said Philip Arundel. "Margaret has a right 
 to command this trial. Would you — will you say that I am here?'' 
 
 A few minutes later, and two men and two women were in that 
 chamber together. 
 
 Margaret had been unable to prevail on Maria to return to the bed. 
 I will not say what thought on the girl's part induced her to prefer 
 receiving Philip, for the last time, in the attitude and place she had 
 chosen. There l'ise in the heart of a loving woman, some subtle 
 thoughts of kindness which few men appreciate in all their delicacy. 
 Philip never knew what especial pang of memory Maria designed 
 to save him. I will not say that the thought did not occur to 
 Margaret. 
 
 Philip bent his head as he entered the room that held his wife, 
 and her who had once been as a wife to him. He had not expected 
 to find Margaret there. I know not whether she had designed to be 
 absent during the interview, but the girl had claimed her promise to 
 concede "anything," and had prayed that she would stand by her 
 side. And there stood Margaret, agitated, pale, but beautiful — and 
 there sat Maria, far calmer, but with the death-sign upon her yet 
 charming face. And to them came, under what circumstances, the 
 husband and the lover 1 
 
 Margaret trembled so violently, that the dying girl was conscious 
 of her agitation, and for a moment they reversed their places, and 
 Maria, with a smile and a touch on the hand of Margaret, sought to 
 
THE C.ORDIAN KNOT. 3G7 
 
 assure her that she had nothing to fear from having permitted such 
 an interview. 
 
 Mr. Arundel was, naturally, the first to speak. 
 
 " Philip," he said; "I have told you under what circumstances 
 your presenoe has been asked hero. The poor sufferer whom you see 
 is. of course, not allowed to utter a word, but if the sight of you can 
 afford her " 
 
 The man of the world, once in the presence of actual sorrow, had 
 little powers of endurance. His words broke off, and he turned 
 away, and affected to gaze intently upon a beautiful drawing, by Mrs. 
 Arundel, that hung upon the wall. It was a copy of a celebrated 
 picture — the Magdalen at the feet of the Lord. 
 
 Maria signed for her slate. 
 
 Forgive me everyth/mg. J shall never trouble you again. 
 
 Philip's instinct as he read the words was to seize the hand of 
 Maria, and ask her pardon for all wounds he might have inflicted on 
 her. But there stood his wife, for whoso sake it had all been done. 
 What words could he use? 
 
 " Can you hesitate ¥' said Margaret, with as much calmness as she 
 could infuse into her voice. " Do you not take her hand V 
 
 Thus bidden, Philip clasped the wasted hand which in other 
 
 days but what matter such recollections. And he strove to say 
 
 such things as in other days he would have said without striving. 
 And Maria allowed him to finish his hopes that ere long she might 
 be able to support conversation, and his prayers that she would allow 
 herself to be guided by the orders of doctors and nurses. It was the 
 last and only revenge she took upon her faithless lover to let him 
 for a few moments labour and struggle to utter what man might well 
 say to woman, but what it is hard to say with man's wife listening to 
 every syllable. 
 
 Then she wrote again. 
 
 You have been very <jooiJ. God bless you. Will you see me buried ? 
 And wiU you have some Chrise — / never could spell it, but you knoiu 
 how fond I ivas of them. Please plant some over me. 
 
 Philip hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. 
 
 / know you, will. May it be so ? These last words she addressed 
 to Margaret. 
 
 " All shall be as you wish, poor child," said Margaret, crying 
 freely. " But will you not comfort him. Say — no, no — write three 
 words to him, write that you, forgive him" 
 
 "Forgive him. He was always the kindest and ." 
 
 " Until I came," said Margaret, passionately. " Write that you 
 forgive me, will you not 1 I knew nothing of — of — it all, but it is 
 no light matter to come between a heart and its love. I know you 
 ha\ e forgiven me." 
 
 " / love you," wrote Maria. " Perhaps, if I go to Heaven, we map 
 b >th love him, there. See how he is crying." 
 
 '■ Philip," said Margaret, " do not agitate her. She is very weak." 
 
 •• She is very strong" wrote Maria, rapidly, and with a smile. 
 
 '• We pray that you may become so," said Philip, with the tears in 
 his voice, " But pray, pray be guided " 
 
3GS THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 " / have one more petition. Will you grant it ? Only one." 
 
 " What can we do V said both in a breath. 
 
 " Let me see you kiss one another." 
 
 Was it to be wondered at that they hesitated, and looked at her, 
 rather than at each other. She gazed at them for a moment or two, 
 and then colour came over face and brow. 
 
 " / humbly beg your pardon. It was presumption, I beg your par- 
 don. It is not for such as me to " 
 
 But Philip's eyes had followed her words, and he took the slate 
 from her, and held it before Margaret. 
 
 " Can you bear this, Margaret V he said, gently. 
 
 Once more Philip Arundel held his wife in his arms. Once more 
 his lips met hers. 
 
 "Who says I am not strong?" cried Maria, too impatient to 
 write. The sound of her voice instantly separated them, and they, 
 with Arundel, bent over her, imploring her silence. 
 
 " I am strong," she repeated, but it was veiy feebly. " Stronger, 
 sir, than even you, for while I was crouching at that door I listened 
 to all that you said, and I thought that what you could not do, poor 
 Maria would try. And I have done it. They will never part any 
 more. In all my life I have done one good thing. O, me, what is 
 that to set against all the rest V 
 
 " Poor child," said Mr. Arundel, " this must be stopped. Will you 
 not be silenced, if not for your own sake, for the love you have for 
 those around you." 
 
 Maria dropped her hands as if in token of submission, and her face 
 wore a very pleasant smile. She was still for a few moments, when 
 the fresh young voice of a child, joyously exclaiming "Mamma," was 
 heard outside, as was that of a nurse seeking to hush a noise that 
 might disturb the patient. 
 
 " 0, might I see your child ?" she hastily wrote. " 0, do let me, and 
 then I will go to bed and trouble no one again." 
 
 Margaret hastened to fetch in little Duke, radiant with health and 
 spirits, and gaily adorned with the dainty finery in which young 
 mothers love to array their children. 
 
 The boy had begun his delighted prattle, but it was stilled as 
 he gazed wonderingly at the group in the bedroom. His grand- 
 lathers white hair first caught his eye, but then he recognised the 
 figure of his father, who had not been seen by him for so many a 
 day, and who had turned sadly from the others. 
 
 " Why, it's my papa," screamed out the child, struggling from his 
 mother's arms, and scampering to Philip ; for whom, despite the 
 father's indifference, Duke had a singular liking. 
 
 Philip took him up, kissed him warmly, and said — 
 
 "The poor lady is ill, my love, very ill. We must not disturb 
 her." 
 
 " But I shall go and kiss her," said Duke ; " that will do her good. 
 It does mamma good for me to kiss her when she is going to cry." 
 
 He went back, not noisily, to Maria, and held up his little rosy 
 mouth for her salute. 
 
 "God bless you! God bless you, darling!'' cried Maria, wildly 
 
THE GORDIAN KNOT. 309 
 
 excited, and throwing her arms round the child ; " and if God will 
 
 let a poor mother meet her own lost baby in heaven, perhaps he 
 
 O my Willy, my little, little Willy !" 
 
 It was over. She fell back, and died, with her lover's child at her 
 knees. 
 
 Mr. Arundel was the first to recover self-possession ; and his first 
 act was to hurry the astonished child from the room. Margaret, with 
 a wild cry, threw herself into her husband's embrace. They were once 
 more united, and it was in the solemn presence of the Sacrament of 
 Death. 
 
 CHAPTER THE LAST. 
 
 SOME EXDS OF A CUT KNOT. 
 
 I aji sure that all my readers are too well-bred, and too kindly con- 
 siderate, to imitate the vulgarians of the theatres ; who, when the 
 last important point in the play or opera has been made, get up, 
 and begin hatting and shawling, and going out, and either disturbing 
 the performers, or leaving them to finish to bare benches. I shall be 
 attended to most obligingly while I am briefly dismissing the more 
 prominent of the actors and actresses in the drama on which the 
 curtain is about to fall. 
 
 And first we will clear the stage of all rascaldom. I wish I might 
 do this in the summary way in which I once saw a terrible melo- 
 drama concluded at a place of entertainment formerly, but not then, 
 under the command of the Lady of the silver laugh, which laugh 
 gladdens audiences no more — need I to any man who has reached 
 years of discretion name the name of Nisbett 1 All the personages, 
 evil and good — but what good and evil they had been working I 
 could in no sort comprehend then, nor can I conjecture now — had 
 mingled on the stage, the back of which was the dwai'f wall of a 
 country churchyard. Presently into that churchyard marched, 
 Indian file, divers soldiers, who, levelling their muskets over the wall, 
 and letting fly, did show themselves such apt judges of right and 
 wrong, that when the smoke cleared off, all the wicked, to the number 
 of, I think, about half-a-dozen, lay dead, while all the good were 
 hugging, and blessing, and giving one another in marriage. If we 
 could make war on that principle, I suppose that even Mr. Bright 
 would not object to it. But we cannot ; nor can even I so get rid of 
 my bad people. I must give them separate sentence. 
 
 Alban Cheriton was seen no more for some months. During this 
 time he had wandered, it is supposed, about the country — how sub- 
 sisting, no person could tell. But at the end of that period a letter 
 was received by his father at St. Oscars, informing him that his son 
 had permitted a recruiting officer to enlist him in the army, but when 
 the .sergeant, proud of his handsome but haggard recruit, had taken 
 
 PART XII. B B 
 
370 THE GORDIAN KNOT, 
 
 him before the magistrate to be attested, the soldier burst out into a 
 frantic oration, abused the sergeant for a kidnapper and the justice 
 for an accomplice, and having nearly strangled one of the constables 
 who sought to restrain him, evinced such unmistakeable insanity that 
 he had to be conveyed to the asylum for the district. His afflicted 
 father at once caused him to be removed to private care, but his 
 malady was found to be of the worst character ; and the once bril- 
 liant and sceptical Alban Cheriton is now alternately a raving maniac, 
 and a still more pitiable, sobbing, crouching, whining idiot. It is 
 needless to say that he is treated with all kindness and wisdom, but 
 the best prayer that even his mother can make for him is that he 
 " may be delivered from this body of death." 
 
 We parted with Armandale Spencer as he was being conveyed to 
 one of her Majesty's safe places. Why he was thus taken away at 
 the moment when he was dictating terms to the Arunclel-Keckling 
 alliance, may be imagined from the conversation held between Mr. 
 Earnshaw and Mr. Harris in the theatre near Clare-market. The 
 former had the merit of devising a scheme, which the latter aided 
 him most effectually to carry out. Earnshaw, feeling that Mr. Keck- 
 ling was losing sight of his value, determined either to restore him- 
 self to consideration or obtain a guerdon which should render him 
 indifferent to a master's future favours. It will be remembered that 
 in the early part of our tale it was mentioned that Mr. Keckling 
 had despatched this person to India to obtain information respecting 
 the parents of his favourite and 'protegee. Earnshaw gave his em- 
 ployer most of the details he had gathered, but, like a prudent man, 
 he kept some of them to himself, and he deemed that the portions he 
 had embezzled might be available for his plan. Therefore, with the 
 assistance of Harris, he concocted a set of charges against Mr. Ar- 
 mandale Spencer, in connexion with a daring attempt to do upon a 
 small scale that which men of business remember was all but suc- 
 cessful upon a large one, some years ago — namely, to victimize simul- 
 taneously a number of banks, by the presentation of forged letters of 
 credit. I am unable to say whether Armandale Spencer was actually 
 guilty in the matter. I am inclined to think that he had fully intended 
 to be, but had backed out from suspicion of his proposed accomplices. 
 Be this as it may, his two enemies, with the assistance of the dates, 
 documents, and other evidence procured by Earnshaw in India, did 
 put together so evil-looking a case, supported by affidavits which 
 they framed and were of course prepared to swear to — affidavits de- 
 signed to supply everything that might be wanting in the structure 
 of their narrative — that when the whole was submitted by Mr. 
 Harris, in the most businesslike and plausible manner, to Latimer 
 Cheriton, that young and eager lawyer entertained no suspicion that 
 he had a good deal more than the truth before him. And on the 
 representation of the grave Earnshaw, (whom he knew,) that the 
 proceedings for the extirpation of Armandale Spencer would be very 
 gratifying to Margaret's friends, though they did not wish to appear 
 as vindictive agents against her father, Latimer dashed at his work 
 with all the delight of an energetic lawyer. Armandale was ai'rested, 
 as we have seen. 
 
THE OOHDIAN KNOT. 371 
 
 The first thought of most men would have been vengeance ; but 
 Mr. Spencer was wiser, and his first thought was bail. He of course 
 at once required this at the hands of Mr. Arundel and his son, but 
 their reply was unfavourable. This was of the less consequence, as 
 the committing magistrate refused to take bail at all. 
 
 Thus -\\ ithin four walls, and with no probability of getting out of 
 them until after a trial which, if it did not convict him of the alleged 
 crime (and I fancy his recollection helped him to some awkward 
 particulars of which Harris and Earnshaw were ignorant), would 
 certainly brand him with some marks that would exclude him from 
 London society, Armandale Spencer considered that it was best to 
 eschew revenge and make terms. Now had the Arundels prosecuted, 
 this might have been difficult ; but luckily he had to do with two 
 men who were not over-scrupulous. 
 
 Bref } in order to save all scandal, an arrangement was made. The 
 Arundels had nothing to do with it beyond Mr. Arundel's handing 
 Mr. Keckling a blank cheque on Messrs. Coutts. As it was never 
 presented, it may be imagined that whatever disbursements were 
 effected, Mr. Keckling himself chose to make, out of his jealous love 
 of Margaret. Neither had Mr. Keckling anything to do directly 
 with the negotiations, beyond sending Mr. Latimer Cheriton a hint 
 that any further zeal was unnecessary, and a very handsome piano- 
 forte to the lawyer's pretty Lizzie. But somehow, it chanced that 
 when that invaluable institution for impeding justice, the grand jury, 
 had to consider what they should write upon the bill that set out 
 Mr. Spencer's errors, there happened to be such an absence of evi- 
 dence that the Grandeur in question could inscribe only a negative 
 record. Mr. Armandale Spencer was discharged from royal custody, 
 and made instant and honest preparations for leaving England, the 
 more rapidly that a certain sum of money, and by no means a small 
 one, was to be paid to him by Messrs. Earnshaw and Harris on the 
 deck of the American steamer, five minutes before she left Liverpool. 
 He was, of course, to be accompanied by his unhappy wife. 
 
 I wish that I had not to write the words which I have now to set 
 down. But in a Wolverhampton newspaper of not very old date 
 appears the following paragraph : — ■ 
 
 " It having been determined to drain and clear a long-abandoned 
 mine, the shaft of which is on Granthorp Heath, about four miles 
 from Chartley-in-the-Wold, in order to discover whether it had not, 
 as is believed, been far too hastily given up after the owner's bank- 
 ruptcy, some thirty years since, the necessary steps have been taken. 
 When the water had been pumped out, and the miners descended, 
 they found, among the masses of rubbish, old iron, and other things 
 that had from time to time fallen or been hurled into the pit, the 
 skeleton of a woman, apparently of rather advanced life. Some frag- 
 ments of what were probably the unfortunate creature's garments 
 were also found, but in such a state as to make identification im- 
 possible. There is no clue whatever to the mystery, no informa- 
 tion is obtainable of any person answering such a description having 
 disappeared within the memory of any of the inhabitants of the dis- 
 trict, and at present the conclusion is that the remains are those of 
 
372 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 some unfortunate tramp or gipsy, who, bewildered on a dark night on 
 the remote and desolate moor, had accidentally been precipitated down 
 the unprotected shaft." 
 
 Such was the natural solution of the mystery. But there was one 
 man, then thousands of miles away, and living in luxury in an 
 American State, who, if he ever saw that paragraph, knew that the 
 writer was mistaken. That man could tell how, having settled the 
 day of meeting two other men on board the packet, he had departed 
 from London, taking with him the wretched woman whose life had 
 been one long degradation, thanks to the cold wickedness of the 
 man who had wedded her. How, with some carelessly spoken 
 pretext about not over-fatiguing an invalid, he had broken the 
 Liverpool journey by stopping half way, and how he had contrived 
 to bring the unsuspecting woman into the Black Country, of which 
 he had managed to learn enough for his devilish purpose. He could 
 tell how craftily he had lured her on until they were beyond the 
 reach of other eyes and ears, when his savage commands to her to 
 " Come on," and the horribly dreary aspect of the desolate moor, on 
 which the shadows were darkening, awakened suspicion of his pur- 
 pose. That her terror only incensed him, that threats and blows 
 followed, and that at length the poor over-awed creature trembled 
 after him as he strode onwards to where a sign, some old woodwork 
 ominously (yet with false omen) resembling a gibbet, told him that 
 he had found the place he sought. Then, if he dared, he could tell 
 of the last supplications of the miserable woman — the once beautiful 
 Laura — for a few hours of life, of a ruffianly clutch and rush to the 
 pit's mouth — of a hideous and agonized shriek as he launched his 
 living burden down the awful abyss, and of the dull, shuddering 
 sound, a moment later, as the suddenly disturbed water closed upon 
 the victim. But he would not tell it, for he resumed his journey 
 alone ; and having received his bribe, he sailed, a rich and unencum- 
 bered man, to a home in the West. I know not whether Satan has 
 yet claimed his own. 
 
 Enough of the wicked and the ill-fated. Meliora canamus. 
 
 The re-union of Philip and Margaret, so strangely brought about, 
 proved the happiest event of their lives. Philip became a graver and 
 more thoughtful man, and began to discover something of the real 
 beauty and nobleness of the character of her whom he had married 
 only for her attractions and amiability. And as he gradually sobered 
 down day by day, and learned that the true dignity of married life, 
 as well as its true happiness, is found in wedlock's happy union of a 
 demand for our best energies, with a proffer of our best repose, his 
 views deepened and expanded until he began to conceive something of 
 the meaning of the word Home. That knowledge once gained, the rest 
 is easy ; and Margaret, loved and loving, had seldom cause even to 
 murmur into his ear the affectionate remonstrance that was the very 
 strongest argument— save a kiss — that she ever employed to her 
 husband. Their child grows in strength and beauty, but as it is 
 dangerous for a child to grow up under such circumstances, sharing 
 

THE (iOKDIAN KNOT. 373 
 
 the undivided love and admiration of its parents, I believe that there 
 are reasons for supposing that there will be a modification of Duke's 
 position at no very distant date. 
 
 JohnClaxton, having pretended to be a barrister long enough to please 
 his wealthy uncle, to whom he posted many Parliamentary blue books 
 (which he got from Mr. Arundel for nothing, and which have cost so 
 much at Westminster that they are mildly charged for at St. Martin's* 
 le-Grand, so there was no extravagance in the matter), was informed 
 by his uncle that the sooner a young man married the better. Mr. 
 Claxton immediately communicated this piece of information to Miss 
 Geraldine Arundel, by whom it was very favourably received, and 
 they spent the honeymoon at Burford Bridge ; and I should think 
 it would almost be worth anybody's while to marry for the sake of 
 doing the same thing. Blanche Arundel still owns that pretty name, 
 but from something I noticed at Brighton — however, that is her 
 business. 
 
 Nobody, I suspect, wants to hear any more about Aunt 
 Henrietta and her unlucky husband. Yet if she had not made 
 Margaret take oft' her bonnet when she shot at the target, Philip 
 Arundel might not have been stricken to the heai't ; and therefore, 
 whatever happiness he and his wife enjoy, Aunt Henrietta, for one, 
 considers that they owe to her. Whether they share in that belief 
 I will not say ; they do not encoimige her visits to their house (I 
 ought to have said that they have got such a nice house in South 
 Kensington, and may often be seen looking at the national pictures, 
 and hoping they will never be moved again), but they often send her 
 presents when she is in trouble. And once, to the great dissatisfac- 
 tion of Duke's pretty and orderly nurse, that child was, at Aunt 
 Henrietta's urgent appeal, permitted to spend a day — not in Gowcr- 
 street, the Spencers have had to vacate half-a-dozen places since 
 Gower-street, but somewhere in those regions — whence he returned, 
 having had exactly everything in the world to eat and drink that 
 he ought not to have had, having torn his red Knickerbocker breeches 
 (well, they are that, and not trousers), and having learned a con- 
 versational invocation to the Deity, used without intentional im- 
 propriety by many vulgar women, but, as may be imagined, no part 
 of Margaret's vocabulary. So he is never to go there any more. 
 Aunt Henrietta has by no means grown less self-indulgent, nor does 
 she quote Shakspeare and Byron less than she used to do. It is 
 justice to her to say that she tried to make amends for the un- 
 happy present bestowed by her upon the young couple at the wedding 
 breakfast, by making a silversmith take the waiter's salver in part 
 payment for a handsome teapot, which she caused him to send to 
 .Margaret, promising to pay him the balance — rather more than half the 
 price — in a fortnight or so. As she omitted this little operation, the 
 tradesman waited six months, and then sent in his bill to Philip, 
 who paid it. Some people do make presents that way. I suppose I 
 need not say much about her husband, except that he continues to 
 maintain that nobody understands the currency question but himself, 
 and rather vexed with Mr. Arundel that he will not got him 
 examined before a Parliamentary Committee. 
 
374 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Mr. Arundel is as happy as a kind-hearted gentleman, in pros- 
 perous circumstances, and with loving children about him, can usually 
 manage to he in this vale of tears. He gives extremely good dinners, 
 and Philip usually sits opposite to him, and is thought to have a very 
 neat hand at carving venison. The senator has not yet decided upon 
 handing over the representation of Shackleby to his son ; and there 
 are perhaps two reasons why Philip will not sit for that borough. 
 The one is that a young Mr. Ellington, who came of age about the 
 time that the Coamings deputation came to town (and so disgrace- 
 fully permitted themselves to be made horribly drunk by Philip), is 
 looked on in the borough as the man who should succeed Mr. Arundel, 
 inasmuch as young Ellington keeps hounds, and would spend a 
 great deal of money in the place. JSTow, if I must tell, it was this 
 same young Ellington that I saw at Brighton riding with Blanche. 
 But there is another reason, besides a probable family arrangement, 
 why Philip will not sit for Shackleby, and that is, that I am led to 
 believe that the name of that borough will appear in a disagreeable 
 schedide to the Reform Bill of 1860, unless an attorney in the place, 
 who has great power, powr cause, over a certain Minister, puts on the 
 screw very tight indeed. We shall see. But Margaret does not care 
 about Philip's going into Parliament, and likes him to spend his 
 evenings either with her at home or with her in society. 
 
 Apropos of which I must mention one thing. Mrs. Arundel has 
 never for a second reproached her husband for anything that we have 
 reproached him very heartily for ; and she has always scolded him 
 heartily, in her way (which has been described), for any attempt at 
 self-accusation. But the other night — she is fond of the Opera just 
 now, and says that it gives her pleasant excitement without too much 
 fatigue — Philip and Margaret were in a pit-box, seeing the beginning 
 of the ballet, which does not much amuse her ; but she insists on 
 staying because Philip is fond of it. Suddenly, as some nymphs gave 
 way right and left, on came, with a run and a bound, the very girl 
 whom Margaret had seen Philip shawling on the night of the day he 
 had pretended he was goiug fishiug. You may imagine that Mar- 
 garet, though she had seen her for an instant only upon that occasion, 
 recognised her in another instant now. Philip did not ; and his wife 
 perceived that he did not. If he had known her, and seemed at all 
 annoyed or uncomfortable, Margaret wo - " .„ve never said a word 
 on the subject ; but seeing that he ha<.. forgotten his Cynthia of a 
 minute, his beautiful wife, whose restored health had brought back as 
 much of her girlish playfulness as is becoming in a matron, thought 
 there was no harm in saying, slily — 
 
 " Philip, dear, I hope the gentleman who ought to be standing 
 somewhere with that pretty girl's shawl is not gone fishing." 
 
 Philip Arundel looked at her quite unconscious of her meaning ; 
 and then seeing the laughing expression in his wife's eyes, he perceived 
 that she had some fun in her words. Then his memory helped him ; 
 and he made a grasp at the play -bill. But this Margaret would not 
 let him have ; and his efforts to satisfy himself whether the dancer 
 were really the personage of his flirtation amused her greatly. He 
 
the gohdian knot. 375 
 
 managed, however, to get a glance at one of the ajlches that hang in 
 the lobbies, as he took Margaret to the carriage. 
 
 " You see I have a better memory than you, love," she said, as they 
 drove off. " I always told you so ; but you will contradict." 
 
 n You have shown it to-night, dear, certainly," said Philip. 
 
 " Do you think I would remember anything to vex you V she 
 whispered. 
 
 His reply was a kiss, which was returned. 
 
 " But it is a shame," said Margaret, " for she is really too pretty to 
 be so soon forgotten ; and you might have thrown her my bouquet 
 if you had liked." 
 
 " Then they are not the flowers I gave you." 
 
 " No, indeed ; or nobody in the world should have them. Mr. 
 Keckling sent this in afterwards, so I put yours into water — why, 
 did you not notice, sir 1 I hope you are not losing all your taste for 
 pretty girls and pretty flowers." 
 
 Philip's reply was so dreadfully affectionate that I think it would 
 look spooney on paper, but you see the terms they are on again. I 
 could tell you of graver and loftier conversation between them, but 
 we have had almost enough of gravity, and I want you to know mat 
 they were as cheerful after all their troubles as if they had never had 
 any. Cheerfulness is the only really good omen for our future, and 
 with that omen I dismiss them to resume their path in life. They 
 have both learned many things since they found, as they thought, 
 that road so nicely gravelled and made smooth for them when they 
 came out at the church-door. 
 
 It had been predicted by poor Alban that wicked little Zuleika 
 was going to die, but I am exceedingly happy to think that I have 
 not the duty of describing the fulfilment of that prophecy. The 
 reason is that she is not dead at all, but dancing with very great 
 applause at one of the east-end theatres, where she slangs all the 
 authorities most wofully, but is very good at protecting more timid 
 girls half as tall again as herself from any impertinence on the part 
 of the underlings of the theatre. There is just the chance that she 
 may keep herself proper and marry a decent man ; but though I should 
 rejoice in the event, I should be very sorry, I think, to be the decent 
 man. Zuleika states that all the good that is in her nature was 
 aroused by her being taken, as you remember she was, to see the man 
 hanged. But I do not myself believe that, and I think that if ex- 
 ternal agency had anything to do with it, her heart was perhaps a 
 little awaked by her having been for some time under the care of poor 
 Maria. 
 
 Earnshaw was unfortunately done about the Spencer business. 
 He paid Harris, who refused to believe that the other had not 
 obtained a very much larger share of the reward. It was not 
 the case, however. Mr. Keckling, who had his own ideas as to the 
 whole affair, but kept them to himself, gave Earnshaw a small 
 present which just covered his travelling expenses, and then re- 
 mained obstinately silent as to any further gratuity. And Earnshaw 
 knew very much better than to ask it, and be turned out of the 
 
376 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 house. He made frantic efforts to get Harris to give him back 
 at least half the money he had paid him, but Harris is inexorable, 
 and advises the son of the beadle to apply for a place under Govern- 
 ment, as the scions of the aristocracy are always provided for. 
 
 The old gentleman himself is very well and very happy. He does 
 not care very much about any of the Arundels, whom he rather 
 considers to have deprived him of Margaret, but still he is very 
 courteous to them, and curiously enough he has learned to like Philip 
 the best, after having hated him so handsomely in other days, as we 
 have seen. But then this change may be set down to the influence of 
 Mrs. Arundel, who loses no opportunity of persuading her old friend 
 that her husband is a pattern of everything which a husband ought 
 to be. So Keckling comes a good deal to the house at South Ken- 
 sington, and brings Duke the most preposterously expensive presents, 
 which of course his mamma takes away from him at the earliest 
 opportunity that the abstraction can be performed without a howl, 
 and is keeping them until he is old enough to know their value. He 
 often gives Philip expensive books and maps ; and as for Margaret, 
 she is obliged to abstain from praising anything she has seen, if it is 
 moveable, for it is pretty sure to be brought home to her in a few 
 days. When Margaret remembers that for tins generous and in- 
 valuable acquaintance she is really indebted to Aunt Henrietta, it is 
 not wonderful that she retains very kind and grateful feelings towards 
 that large lady, and looks deprecatingly at Philip when he speaks of 
 her as a hippopotamus. 
 
 And now, last of all, let me say one word of those whom, I hope, 
 few will fail to consider the persons of our story by whom the highest 
 and the best principles are least imperfectly carried out in daily life. 
 Henry Cheriton and his wife continue to set out in their walk 
 and conversation the peace, the consolations, the hope of those 
 who truly hold The Faith. One direful affliction has fallen upon 
 them, and heavy indeed was the blow — perhaps the weaker one 
 of the twain will find her earthly sojourn shortened by the sufferings 
 endui'ed in that trial time. But they sorrow not as those that have 
 no hope. In the active duties of a busy life, in the exercise of kind- 
 ness and charity to all around them, they find solace from painful 
 memories, and in the love and the prosperity of their surviving chil- 
 dren, Latimer and Bertha, they find an actual and an enduring 
 happiness. And it was a day never to be forgotten by either of the 
 two women, when Margaret, brought down to St. Oscars by her hus- 
 band, was once more clasped to her aunt Nelly's embrace ; and when, 
 in traversing tenderly and affectionately over the past, and making 
 gentle and sad reference to the letter in which poor Alban had im- 
 plied that Margaret had sinned, Eleanor Cheriton repeated the words 
 she had used when those ill-tidings came. Her child had been taught 
 to pray. 
 
 And chrysanthemums are planted over the Creature's quiet grave. 
 Sat is vixit. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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