^-^r.t
 
 THE STOOPING LADY
 
 '^ty- 
 
 / 
 
 /
 
 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 By 
 MAURICE HEWLETT 
 
 Author of " The Forest Lovers," 
 
 "Richard Yea and Nay," 
 
 etc., etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1907
 
 Copyright, 1 906-1 90T 
 By Dodd, Mead and Compaxy 
 
 Published September, 1907
 
 LIBKAKY 
 KNIVERSrrY OF CALIFORIS 
 SANTA BARBATtA 
 
 TO 
 
 H. B. H. 
 FROM WHOM IT CAME
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 lAPTEE PAGE 
 
 I In Which We Place the Heroine 1 
 
 II In Which We Bring Her Into Play 10 
 
 III In Which, if You Please, You May 
 
 Contemplate Her Family 21 
 
 rV In Which We Hear prom Her, and 
 OF Her — AND Presently a Cry of 
 the Heart 33 
 
 V In Which, AT Last, We Get the Facts 46 
 VI In Which Lord Rodono Mishandles 
 
 THE Bag and Mr. Ranald the Cat 54? 
 Vll Which Presents the View of Miss 
 
 Harriet Moon 65 
 
 VIII In Which Miss Chambre Veils Her 
 
 Blushes 14* 
 
 IX Which Brings Lord Morfa to Peter- 
 sham 86 
 X In Which We See Family Magnani- 
 mous 96 
 XI Which Forfeits Mr. Touchett the 
 
 Entree 104* 
 
 XII Which Transports Us to La Mancha 114 
 XIII In Which We Raise Our Eyebrows 131 
 XIV In Which We Have Two Noble Suit- 
 ors AT THE Gates 142 
 XV In Which We Stand at the Window 151 
 XVI In Which Sir George Coigne Hears 
 
 the Call of Family 159
 
 VUl 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XVII 
 
 XVIII 
 
 XIX 
 
 XX 
 XXI 
 
 XXII 
 
 XXIII 
 
 XXIV 
 
 XXV 
 
 XXVI 
 
 XXVII 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 XXIX 
 
 XXX 
 
 XXXI 
 
 XXXII 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Which Expounds a New Use for 
 
 One's Mistress 171 
 
 In Which We Hear Scandal and 
 
 Can Judge for Ourselves 185 
 
 In Which We Are Deep in Another 
 
 Romantic Affair 194 
 
 Which Displays a Master-Stroke 208 
 Which Contains a Curious Confes- 
 sion 218 
 In Which Sir George Is Distracted 
 
 BY His Heart-Strings 228 
 
 Which Prepares 240 
 
 In Which She Seals Her Indentures 247 
 In Which Her Call Comes 258 
 
 Which Is of Psyche in the Garden 272 
 Which Deals Chiefly with Mr. 
 
 Ranald's Opinions 281 
 
 Which Reports a Westminster Meet- 
 ing 290 
 Ordeal by Battle 304 
 Which Attacks in Flank 320 
 Which Mrs. George Fox Understands 331 
 In Which the Law Intervenes 339 
 Pillory and Tumbril 348 
 In Which the Hon. Captain Ranald 
 Epilogises 361
 
 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN WHICH WE PLACE THE HEEOINE 
 
 /^N the 21st of January, 1809, Miss Hermia Mary 
 ^-^ Chambre and her brother, Ensign Richard — as the 
 Countess of Morfa's chariot brought them for the first 
 time to Caryll House, St. James's, within those great 
 gates, into that gravelled court where the statue of a 
 late earl stood and admonished London* — on this da}', 
 and on the very threshold of this Sanctuary of the Con- 
 stitution, Miss Chambre, I say, and her brother, a beau- 
 tiful and healthy girl of twenty and a fine young man 
 of rather less, were witnesses to a disagreeable incident, 
 
 * As this monument has now been removed, I feel bound to record 
 the inscription which it bore, long though it be. 
 
 ON 
 
 This Spot 
 
 where formerly stood 
 
 CARYLL HOUSE 
 
 and where 
 
 on the Fourteenth of October 
 
 1688 
 
 The Right Honourable 
 
 Rupert 
 
 Fourth Earl of Morfa Viscount "Wrest 
 
 Baron Rhos and Ruegg K. G., Lord Lieutenant 
 
 and Gustos Rotulorum of Flintshire etc. etc. 
 
 Returned Public Thanksgiving 
 
 to 
 
 Almighty God 
 
 For the Declaration of His Majesty
 
 2 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 a vulgar brawl and scuffle, calling for the interference of 
 the police. 
 
 Orphans, Irish bj a deplorable father's side, and there- 
 fore in crying need of grace, this was the grace they 
 got. Recalled within the pale of Family — that Family 
 which their poor mother had forsworn — they were to see 
 Family put to the blush. A rout of satyrs, a boors' 
 comedy, in which an incensed young giant of the lower 
 classes was hero and two tipsy gentlemen the sport of 
 his heroics ; in which Jacob Jacobs, elderly, gold-laced 
 guardian of the gates, was choragus ; in which footmen 
 in canary yellow and powder, a groom of the chambers, 
 a butler hovering for the carriage, took their cues from 
 him, and wailed, lifted their eyes to Heaven, wagged 
 their polls, called for constables, as he guided them with 
 agitated hands — what a welcome to Britain ! Beyond 
 them and around them — with a ring scrupulously kept 
 
 King William III 
 
 That truly Constitutional Monarch 
 
 and 
 
 FATHER of his COUNTRY 
 
 This Statue 
 
 Has been erected by his admiring 
 
 Descendants to record for the 
 
 Elevation and Instruction 
 
 of 
 
 MANKIND 
 
 His Patriotism his Piety 
 
 and 
 
 His Prescience. 
 
 The lapidary has, in a pardonable enthusiasm, perhaps magnified his 
 
 Lordship's act. What he is stated to have done upon the occasion 
 
 recorded is to have slapped his thigh and said, "Thank God, we've 
 
 dished the Tories!"
 
 WE PLACE THE HEROINE 3 
 
 for the "turn-up" — surged and thundered the mob, in- 
 tent only on the play, with raucous cries directed solely 
 to that, with eyes afire for the rules of the great game. 
 "Time ! Time !" "Let my lord get his wind — Now they're 
 at it — a mill, a mill ! — ding-dong !" "What, you'll rush 
 it, my lord? By God, that's stopped him !" "Six to one 
 on the butcher — I lay." "Keep the ring, gentlemen, 
 please — fobbed him fairly — gone to grass !" It was in- 
 deed at this crowning moment, when one gentleman lay 
 bleeding on his back, and the other, slighter gentleman, 
 "spitfiring like a tomcat," it was afterwards averred, 
 struggled fruitlessly to escape the enemy's grasp of 
 his coat-collar — that the family chariot of the Morfas 
 loomed heavily at the far end of Cleveland Row and, 
 advancing, displayed to the eyes of our young lady 
 and her brother one of the sights of London — as they 
 no doubt supposed it. Hardly seeing what, certainly, 
 was not fit to be seen, no doubt for a second of time 
 those startled eyes of hers gazed upon the havoc, and 
 upon the flushed young Saxon, bareheaded and fair- 
 headed, the hero of it — a noticeable young man per- 
 forming noticeable feats with gentlemen. No doubt 
 but that she too was by him gazed upon in her turn, 
 and that that second of time seemed by seconds too long. 
 These encounters of the eyes stay by one, though in this 
 case there were sights to come. Within the gates lay 
 another — a dead horse, weltering from the issue of a ter- 
 rible wound ; whereat indeed the bright-eyed jNIiss Cham-
 
 4 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 bre shrieked and clung to her brother, and he, after one 
 sagacious look, said, "Staked, Hermy," and then, "Poor 
 devil. So that was the meaning of it." 
 
 And thus 1809, thus London, thus England and Caryll 
 House arrayed themselves to greet two young Carylls 
 (by the mother's side) very newly from Ireland. A mob 
 at the Gates ! A dead and mangled horse within the Pre- 
 cincts ! A tipsy gentleman scrufFed by a butcher's man ! 
 The scene was significant. As the French would say — 
 1809! 
 
 The arrival of the carriage brought order back to some 
 scattered wits. The canary-breeched footmen aligned 
 in the vestibule, the groom of the chambers mounted 
 the inner steps, the butler hovered for shawls. Ser- 
 vants of the Chambre pair — Gibson, a red-cheeked 
 maid, and Simcox, a red-haired valet, descended from 
 the rumble ; Ensign Chambre, tall, slim, and lady-faced, 
 ^ot out and handed out his sister. "Here we are, 
 my dear — Caryll House. What a shindy, eh? Let's 
 get out of it all." But that was not possible to her. 
 
 "Oh, Dick, the poor horse — no, no ! We must find out 
 something. We can't possibly — " She turned to the 
 butler, half in and half out of the carriage, collecting 
 wraps. "What has happened.'' Who killed the horse.'' 
 Who were those people.'' Please to let me know." The 
 butler's head and shoulders came from the interior, 
 deprecating inquiry; his hand humoured his chin. He 
 really could not say ; it was hardly for him to say. Per-
 
 WE PLACE THE HEROINE 5 
 
 haps her ladyship — but he would inquire. Before he 
 could reach that last refuge of Secretaries of State and 
 butlers alike, Miss Chambre had turned to the powdered 
 array. Did any one see what it was? Was any one 
 present? Surely something was known? The giants 
 stiffened and stared ; one was seen to blush, and another 
 betrayed, by a slight twitching of the fingers, that this 
 was the most awkward moment of his life. Miss Cham- 
 bre's eyes, which were grey and very clear, insisted on 
 response ; they had to be met. And so confused mutter- 
 ings were heard, as one giant looked at the other, and deep 
 called unto deep. She caught the words — "His lord- 
 ship" — "young Vernour" — "thirty-guinea 'oss" — "no 
 take-off for an 'oss," and "lashed 'isself into strips.'* 
 She was young, she was impatient, and used to obedience. 
 She stamped her foot. 
 
 "It's very extraordinary that nobody seems able to 
 speak here. I don't understand it at all." Then she 
 turned flashing upon the careworn butler. "Whose is 
 that horse?" 
 
 "I believe — they tell me, miss — it is young Vernour's 
 horse." 
 
 "Oh! And who is he?" The butler looked sideways. 
 
 "He's the butcher, miss." 
 
 "Oh, then that was he — that young man " 
 
 "Yes, miss." 
 
 "And who were the other two, the two cowards attack- 
 ing him?"
 
 6 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 But the butler's agony was now for all to see. 
 "I really — it's not for me, miss — but I'll inquire." 
 "Oh! Inquire!" She stamped again. Her brother 
 was appealed to. Dick must go and find out; she in- 
 sisted on knowing what was the matter; and while Dick 
 stalked out to do her commands she chose to wait, tap- 
 ping her foot in the vestibule, quite regardless of the 
 canary-coloured giants about her, of hovering butler 
 or groom of the chambers at his post. She had had no 
 great experience of these gentry ; she had lived in Ireland 
 all her twenty years, and certainly her poor, pretty, 
 helpless mother. Lady Hermione, whose runaway match 
 with Colonel Chambre — Handsome Dick, Dick of the 
 Gallop, and what-not — had been productive of little 
 comfort besides these two children, certainly her mother 
 had not been able to show her any such state. Why, 
 except for McFinn — coachman in boots by day, foot- 
 man in slippers by night — and the maids — three of them 
 — there had been no indoor service at Chambre's Court. 
 But there may have been traditions, and, of course, there 
 was blood, to go upon. She had her Norman preroga- 
 tive, sa haulte franchise, by the mother's side ; and these 
 stockinged emblems were so much furniture to her — 
 now that she had found out that they could not pretend 
 to be men. Not so to Gibson, her red-cheeked maid — 
 but apparitors, wielders of the torture of silence and sus- 
 pense. Gibson told her young mistress afterwards what 
 she had endured in those awful moments of arrival. "If
 
 WE PLACE THE HEROINE 7 
 
 one of them yallows, Miss Hermy, had advanced a leg 
 or put forth a finger, I should have died with the scream 
 in my throat — so lifelike they was." One sees what she 
 meant. 
 
 When Dick did return, he looked bothered. 
 
 "I can't make much of it out. They all talk at once. 
 There was a row with a butcher about his horse — good 
 horse, too — I could see that for myself. Somebody's 
 been riding it, and staked it. Some gentleman, they 
 say — or, at least, he thought so." Here he grew grave, 
 reserved, made himself as old as he knew. "They do say 
 — but I don't know anything about that. The horse is 
 dead, the fellow's gone to gaol. The two gentlemen will 
 prosecute. Their servants are with them, I believe. At 
 any rate, they've been sent for. They weren't seriously 
 hurt, either of them. I say, Hermy, I do think we might 
 go in — now, 3'ou know." 
 
 But Miss Hermia had opened her ej'es, and wouldn't 
 budge. 
 
 "To prosecute, my dear ! To prosecute the butcher ! 
 How can they prosecute him for staking his own horse ?" 
 
 "You don't understand me. He didn't stake the horse. 
 I thought I had made that clear." 
 
 She did not choose to see. "Very well, then, I suppose 
 they will prosecute him for owning a horse at all. Is 
 that what you mean?" 
 
 Dick put on his Ensign's manner — his last refuge 
 against this sort of attack. "Why, you see, my love, it
 
 8 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 is rather an awkward business. The fellow began it. 
 Of course, the whole affair might have been settled if he 
 had taken it reasonably." 
 
 "Reasonably !" Really, for a girl only two years his 
 senior, she caught him up. "How do you take a staked 
 horse reasonably.''" 
 
 "My dear child, this fellow had hold of a gentleman — 
 of a peer, they say — by the collar, and gave the other 
 no end of a smack on the nose. Well, you know, you 
 can't have that, can you .?" 
 
 Miss Chambre, after staring at her brother for a try- 
 ing moment, turned her back upon him, and walked up 
 the array to the house. She threw him a Parthian shot. 
 "You can have what you deserve — and be called a gentle- 
 man — and not take it like a gentleman — or so it seems." 
 
 Dick followed her nervously. He knew his sister, but 
 he knew more. He knew the names of the two gentle- 
 men ; she must never get at them, whatever happened. 
 But he had his birthright in him, too. "One was a peer, 
 remember — and the other a peer's eldest son. I can't 
 say any more. And they were both drunk — you ought 
 to remember that." She marched on. 
 
 "Pooh !" she threw at him, "I don't believe you. And 
 if it's true, it makes it all horrible." 
 
 "They were drunk as owls," says Ensign Dick. 
 
 "As pigs, you mean," flung back the lady. 
 
 The groom of the chambers mutely implored — his long 
 white face was a study in the tragic: that of a just man
 
 WE PLACE THE HEROINE 9 
 
 contending with circumstances. He turned the handle 
 of a door. "Miss Chambre, my lady. And Ensign 
 Chambre." 
 
 At the further end of a long and dimly lighted room, 
 full of pictures and cut-glass chandeliers and high- 
 backed chairs, there was to be seen Grandmamma Morfa, 
 the withered, the eagle-faced, crutch in hand, enthroned 
 before a sea-coal fire. 
 
 Miss Chambre stepped lightly forward. She walked 
 as young women do who have been free of moor and 
 weather all their lives, carrying her head high. "How do 
 you do, Grandmamma Morfa ?^^ she said, and took up the 
 white old hand to kiss. 
 
 "The better for the sight of 3'ou, my dear," said the 
 great lady, like the wolf in the fable.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN WHICH WE BRING HER INTO PLAY 
 
 ]\/r ISS HERMIA Lad the better of her brother in wits 
 -*- -^as well as in years, and at tongue-work he had never 
 pretended to touch her, even when he had been freer than 
 he was now — with no Ensign's commission burning in his 
 breast-pocket and hobbling every step he took, so to 
 speak, with reminded dignity. Lady INIorfa may not 
 have been entertained, but could not fail to have been 
 instructed by her granddaughter's vivacious narrative 
 of the voyage from Kilbride. She said little, not being 
 herself ever very free of speech, but she listened to every 
 word, and at the end of it, as will be seen at the end of 
 this chapter, proved that she had learned something. It 
 would not have been Miss Hermia's fault if she had not. 
 It had been, then, a stormy crossing, but a quick one, 
 with a following wind. She had not been ill in the least, 
 had been on deck all the time, in oilskins lent her by the 
 captain ; only her hair had got wet — nothing else. But 
 that had been drenched — like seaweed — and had had to 
 be dried before the inn fire at Holyhead. That place 
 had been full of people drinking brandy-and- water ; 
 they, too, had been very kind, making room for her while 
 she knelt and dried her hair. They offered her brandy-
 
 WE BRING HER INTO PLAY 11 
 
 and-water; she got some bread and milk. SImcox and 
 poor, dear Gibson had been dreadfully ill — prostrate! 
 Simcox said that never, in his born days— but she here 
 perceived that Lady Morfa took no interest in Simcox or 
 his days, and pursued her own adventures. What did 
 grandmamma think .f^ It was rather a wet morning, but 
 not very ; so she and Dick rode outside the coach, and put 
 the servants inside. It had been the greatest fun — they 
 saw the dawn, but not in England as they had hoped, for 
 they were still in Wales. The coachman was very kind. 
 He told the guard that Dick was "a bit o' blood," and 
 the guard had said, "Bless your life, that liquor's bound 
 to show" — wasn't that fun? It was three in the morn- 
 ing when they were off, and not a soul out of bed, once 
 past the inn-yard. 
 
 She touched but lightly on the landscape, flashed upon 
 by the coach-lamps and swiftly blotted out ; slumbrous 
 villages, shaly banks, lanes endless and tortuous, long 
 ascents and breakneck gallops down into blackness, 
 gaunt finger-posts to hidden ways — a chance-caught 
 "To Chester," another "To Carnarvon," and then "To 
 Ruthin," where lay, she knew, JNIorfa ]Mawr, the cradle 
 and chief seat of all the Carylls — dripping trees, rivers, 
 narrow bridges. She had lived through the dark upon 
 these, but they were not for her tongue to tell of. Nor 
 how, when the five dark hours had been past, and with the 
 pale winter sun striving with the rain, they had looked out 
 upon the heart of Wales — and there was Ogwen Lake,
 
 12 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 all black under the storm-cloud, and all that litter and 
 slide so shining wet under the splintered mountain: a 
 quarry of slate! Not for her untried speech all this. 
 She spoke rather of their fellow passengers, and as one 
 who knew them well ; the young usher for Rugby, with 
 a painful catch in his breath, who had shown her the por- 
 trait of his mother; the sea-captain homing to wife and 
 child at Wem ; the wine-merchant whose head had nodded 
 on to her shoulder, and whose apologies had been so 
 frequent and profound; and, lastly, and with fervour, 
 she told of Mr. Aloysius Banks. Kind! He had been 
 more than kind — he had gone out of his way to be kind 
 — and had accompanied them to London. 
 
 "Do you mean," asked Lady Morfa here, "that this — 
 ah, person — was going out of his way when he came on 
 to London?" 
 
 Miss Hermia was not so innocent as to fail to under- 
 stand what Lady Morfa meant by a "person." 
 
 "He's not a person — what you would call a person — 
 grandmamma, at all. And, of course, he lives in Lon- 
 don. I am surprised that you don't know him — indeed, 
 he told me that you did. He had met you at Lady 
 Crowland's, he said. He was able to do you some tri- 
 fling service. You bowed. There can be no mistake. 
 Mr. Aloysius Banks, an Edinburgh Reviewer." 
 
 Grandmamma may have meant to name Mr. Banks a 
 personage, but did not look as if she had. She denied 
 his acquaintance. Miss Chambre sketched him freehand.
 
 WE BRING HER INTO PLAY 13 
 
 Ke was extraordinarily ugly, and seemed to feel the 
 cold. His e3'ebrows looked very odd when the rime was 
 thick upon them. He wore a plaid scarf so tightly 
 round his neck that Dick had said, and she could not but 
 agree, that he looked like a skull tied up in crossbones. 
 He had been snappish at first, but they had done their 
 best to make him happier, and she believed they had suc- 
 ceeded. Nobody could have been kinder than he. He 
 was a poet and critic — most severe — but that was forced 
 upon him. He was a Whig, of course ; and he said that 
 all the Ministerial poets, and, above all, the Jacobin 
 poets, were so deplorably bad that he felt it his duty to 
 be stringent. When, said he, you find principle as lax as 
 numbers, morals and sense alike subverted ; when your 
 rhymester is as trite as he is obscure, adds factiousness to 
 dulness, and turns all to blasphemous uses — it is no time 
 for lovers of order to be silent. He had been charged, he 
 said, but unjustly charged, with having caused one 3^oung 
 man to die of mortification, or (as he hoped it might be 
 said) of remorse. IMr. Banks added that he hoped that 
 he should never shrink from his duty to the Constitution, 
 however painful that duty might be. He had the pro- 
 foundest respect for the Constitution and for great 
 families. Anecdotes! He had one for every fine 
 house he passed. There was Sir Tancarville 
 Tancarville's : he had married his cook. Stokeheaton's 
 mansion reminded him of a very sad affair — how young 
 Lord Wilmer had called out Colonel Despard, and how
 
 U THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 the Colonel had shot him; Mr. Banks had to be excused 
 the reason. Then there had been Lady Diana Meon, who 
 ran away with 
 
 "And we saw Wolseley Hall, grandmamma, where papa 
 had often stayed, with Sir Charles. They saw the fall 
 of the Bastille together, you know — but I forgot ! You 
 didn't agree with papa about that. Nor did Mr. Banks, 
 by any means." Lady Morfa considered that that was 
 the best thing she had heard of Mr. Banks so far ; but she 
 did not say so. She was learning this free-spoken 
 granddaughter of hers. 
 
 On the whole, it seemed that Mr. Banks was at his best 
 upon the subject of noble birth and what he called 
 "FraRchise." What had he meant by that, precisely.'' 
 Miss Chambre had asked him. He had explained. 
 Franchise was the liberty which blood conferred, and, in 
 these days, place, since the King, we must not forget, 
 was the Fountain of Honour, and could ennoble by a 
 look. So franchise was liberty — the liberty to be free, 
 and the liberty to rule a free people — a harmony, not a 
 discord of ideas. "I found that difficult," said Miss 
 Hermia. "I asked him what gave the liberty to rule, and 
 he said Place ; what gave Place, and he said Blood." It 
 was puzzling, because there was another kind of Fran- 
 chise — a parliamentary kind, which Mr. Banks refused 
 to discuss, which seemed to make him angry, which, he 
 said, had nothing to do with true Franchise. But let 
 grandmamma consider. A free people had the freedom
 
 WE BRING HER INTO PLAY 15 
 
 to be ruled; Blood and Place had the freedom to rule." 
 She frowned now as she thought of it, but grandmamma 
 refuaed to help* "Bits of blood," were they, had said the 
 coachman to the guard. And then she remembered the 
 butcher's horse. There had been blood there, too. 
 
 All that apart, she owned that she had found Mr. 
 Banks's eulogy of the Carylls rather fulsome. "He knew 
 who we were without our having to tell him. He said 
 that the country still mourned grandpapa, and that 
 Uncle Roddy was very high in the confidence of the 
 Prince of Wales. And then he spoke of you, grand- 
 mamma, and of Uncle Badlesmere, and of all your 
 family. He said that the Botetorts and the Carylls bore 
 the only shields that remained unsullied in England. I 
 told him that I thought that impossible, and that if it 
 were true he ought not to say it to us. Perhaps I ought 
 not to have gone so far — Dick thought not. But he was 
 very charming in what he said about you." 
 
 Lady Morf a took Mr. Banks's charms as best she might. 
 She went so far as to ask what the gentleman had been 
 pleased to say of herself, and accepted with grim 
 acquiescence a tribute to "that combination in her lady- 
 ship's person of exalted birth and enlightened principles 
 which set England, our happy country, apart from all 
 European nations." If her granddaughter did not 
 report him exactly, that is what he had said. Miss 
 Chambre remembered also how he had praised Mr. Fox, 
 the Dukes of Bedford and Devonshire, Lord Lansdo^vne,
 
 16 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Lords Grey and Grenville. Lord Crowland he was proud 
 to call his Maecenas. All this should have endeared him 
 to Lady Morf a, for all these were her allies ; but she was 
 staggered with what followed. Miss Hermia, owning 
 that she knew nothing of these gentlemen, had asked him 
 concerning others — "friends of papa's" — with less happy 
 results. "When I asked him," she said, "if he had 
 known Lord Edward, he said 'Good God!' and had no 
 more to say." 
 
 "I don't wonder," said Lady Morfa, and, like Mr. 
 Banks, said no more; for Lord Edward could only be 
 Lord Edward Fitzgerald, whom she was accustomed to 
 describe as "that little renegade who married the 
 Frenchwoman," and who signified for her the three 
 things in this world most detestable — enthusiasm, slack- 
 ness of fibre, and treachery. She kept a keen ear for 
 Miss Hermia's chatter after that ; but all went passably 
 well until the end. 
 
 "And so, grandmamma, we got to London at last, and 
 met the carriage, and oh ! I must tell you of a most dis- 
 agreeable thing — which I think you ought to know 
 about." 
 
 Out it came, the whole of it, and Lady Morfa bristled 
 and stiff"ened as she heard. A staked horse ! The battle 
 at the gates! The ring, the prostrate gentleman. 
 "Dick tells me he was a gentleman, but I can't believe 
 that. He was tipsy, and one of two. The other I 
 couldn't see, because the butcher had him by the coat-
 
 WE BRING HER INTO PLAY 17 
 
 collar; he was tipsy, too, and, Dick says, a peer. He 
 was using very bad language, but couldn't possibly get 
 away. The butcher was a splendid young man." And 
 then she added, "His eyes give him that proud look. I 
 mean that they see you, and see that you are nothing." 
 
 "You are talking sad rubbish, my dear," said Lady 
 Morfa with decision. "What's all this.'' I've heard 
 nothing of it." 
 
 Dick Chambre, very red and uncomfortable, put in his 
 word. "I don't think it need disturb you, ma'am. It 
 was some vulgar attack. They sent for the constables, 
 and, no doubt, it's all over. I think Hermy was upset." 
 
 If she was, it became her. It gave her starry eyes and 
 a colour of flame ; it lifted her head and gave a thrill to 
 her voice. "No one can bear injustice," she said. "It's 
 horrible. Oh, grandmamma, what do you think.'' 
 They've taken the man to prison because they staked his 
 horse. Why, papa would have — Oh, grandmamma, 
 what can we do.-^" 
 
 Lady Morfa, after blinking and working her tightened 
 lips, put an end to the conversation. "We can do a num- 
 ber of things, my dear, and one of them is to refrain 
 from discussing subjects of which we know little or noth- 
 ing. If you will kindly ring the bell, I'll have you shown 
 your rooms, I'm an old woman, as j-ou see, and not 
 above owning when I'm tired. Ring the bell, my child." 
 
 Miss Hermia was taken in convoy by the housekeeper; 
 but Ensign Dick remained to show his commission, for
 
 18 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 which he had to thank his grandmother, to talk of the 
 Army of Portugal, which he was soon to join, of the 
 levee, of uniforms, of his horses, and other glories of 
 youth. He was a simple, well-spoken lad, much to her 
 ladyship's taste. She liked young men to be good-look- 
 ing, to call her "ma'am," and to agree with her. These 
 were Gary 11 qualities ; and she could manage the Gary lis, 
 or, at least, had never met with one whom she could not. 
 Dick Ghambre proved no exception, and with his help 
 she flattered herself that she could deal with the girl. 
 The girl was Ghambre — that was evident ; but Lady 
 Morfa meant to do her duty by her. What was this wild 
 story of the butcher's horse? What had Dick to say 
 about that.? The unhappy Dick had much to say which 
 nothing would have induced him to reveal. That she 
 guessed; therefore, after letting him flounder and blush 
 into coherence, she gave him his orders. "My dear boy, 
 it's clear that you have great good sense. These vulgar 
 things are not to be wondered at in the time we live in ; 
 insubordination, however, must be checked. I remember 
 that I speak to a soldier. Your sister is excited because 
 she is tired. To-morrow she will have forgotten all 
 about it. Give her my love, and say that I shall excuse 
 her at dinner to-night. Let her have her sleep out — she 
 shan't be called in the morning. And let us have no more 
 talk of fighting butchers and their horses. Truly, a 
 'splendid' young man ! Remember, Richard, we must 
 have no more wild speeches. And th€ less of your Mr.
 
 WE BRING HER INTO PLAY 19 
 
 Aloysius Banks the better. Progers will show you your 
 quarters if you ring. You will find your man, no 
 doubt." So away with Ensign Richard and his com- 
 mission. 
 
 But her ladyship had more to do. After a time of bleak 
 survey of the fire, she rang her handbell. Progers, the 
 careworn butler, the velvet-footed, came in. 
 
 "Ah, Progers," said the lady, "has his lordship 
 returned.?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady. His lordship have returned. His lord- 
 ship have asked me to say that he is feeling himself 
 indisposed, and will not dine." 
 
 "No, no. I will see his lordship presently. Has Dr. 
 Noring been sent for.^*" 
 
 "Dr. Noring is here, my lady. He is with his 
 lordship." 
 
 "Very well. That will do, I think. And— ah, 
 Progers " 
 
 "My lady.?" 
 
 "There was, I understand, a disagreeable scene this 
 afternoon. Vernour, the butcher, was concerned in it," 
 
 "Yes, my lady." Progers of the furrowed brow ! 
 
 "Let orders be given that Vernour is not to call again 
 for custom. Let that be done at once. And let there 
 be no talking about this, if you please. Miss Chambre 
 was greatly upset by the affair. I don't wish anything 
 said to Miss Chambre — or to anybody in the house. 
 Understand that, Progers."
 
 20 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "Very good, my lady." 
 
 Dr. Noring reported that the young Earl of Morfa 
 was suffering from a severe shock to the nervous system, 
 and must have rest. A low diet could do no harm ; but 
 rest was imperative.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN WHICH, IP YOU PLEASE, YOU MAY CONTEMPLATE HER 
 
 FAMILY 
 
 T T is possible that the annals of the politicians may cn- 
 -*■ shrine the person of a stauncher Whig than that of 
 Jane (born Botetort) Countess of Morfa, but if they 
 do I have never heard of it. It is highly improbable ; she 
 was not only all that a Whig should be, she was all that 
 he could ever be and remain a man. She was a Whig of 
 the Whigs, dotting all the i's in the sacred words British 
 Constitution; she was Whiggism incarnate, for she added 
 character to principle, and what she professed, that she 
 was. Where Mr. Fox had doubted, she had affirmed; 
 where Lord Crowland shook his head, she shook her fist ; 
 where my Lord Grey was tempted to enquire, she held her 
 nose. Thus she was the sublimity of the Whig position, 
 which was not one of compromise, but of despair. For 
 the Whigs took kings into favour, not because they were 
 estimable, but because without them the families could 
 not govern; and though many of tliem may have be- 
 lieved it, and some may have said it, I know of none to 
 whom it was so much bone of the bone as to Lady Morfa, 
 of none who said it so stoutly and lived it so hard as she 
 did. 
 She divided mankind, for all purposes, into two classes.
 
 22 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Either you were Family, or you were a person. Collec- 
 tively, you were still Family, unless you were the Mob. 
 It's true she allowed, for convenience, of a third possible 
 class in which either of the categories might be tem- 
 porarily embraced. If, being Family, you happened to 
 earn your living by sword or pen, she might, in her 
 gentler moments, refer to you as of the Executive; if, 
 being of the Mob, you should raise your head by such 
 means into her notice, she would undoubtedly — for she 
 was as incisive as she was frank — call you a Hireling. 
 Here, then, was a sort of limbo for Society, into which 
 fell, naturally. Kings, Archbishops, Secretaries of State, 
 and others — admittedly a makeshift, and due to the com- 
 plexity which the French Revolution had introduced, 
 whereby a Mr. Canning and a Lord Castlereagh might 
 labour side by side. 
 
 In 1809, when we first make her acquaintance, she was 
 in her seventy-second year, and the twentieth of her 
 widowhood; she had married all her daughters — one of 
 them, Miss Chambre's mother, had, to be sure, done that 
 for herself — and was still queen of Caryll House, St. 
 James's, and of all the Caryll Castles and demesnes, 
 until such time as Earl Roderick, her only son and her 
 last-born, should marry into Family and reign alone. 
 In person she was thin, not tall, and very much like an 
 eagle, with a nose sharp, bony, and prominent, with eyes 
 black, hard, and deeply set, which were capable of un- 
 swerving, unblinking, and rather terrible scrutiny of
 
 THE FAMILY 23 
 
 persons and things. She could blink them too, bitterly, 
 when she chose ; and her lips, which were thin, had a way 
 of twitching very elfin to behold. Lastly, she stooped 
 to a crutch, called you "My dear," said exactly what she 
 pleased, never concealed her opinions, and was absolutely 
 candid as to her tastes, which were coarse, and her abhor- 
 rences, which were three. I have mentioned them before : 
 enthusiasm, slackness of fibre, and treachery'to Family. 
 These things really disgusted, and one of them really 
 shocked her. Have I spoken of her religion? She was 
 punctilious in that matter, for she was, of course, an 
 Erastian. It was a question of drill. 
 
 Her parties were renowned, not for their brillianc}- of 
 talk — she smelt enthusiasm in good talkers — but for 
 their severe exclusion of all but the purest of the pure. 
 The Executive were on their best behaviour there, you 
 may well believe. It was said that in certain lights a 
 faint but exquisite tinge of azure was to be seen float- 
 ing over her thronged assemblies, like a bloom upon a 
 budding coppice ; a shot effect, an irradiancc, an aural 
 shimmer of blue. I can easily believe it, but (since even 
 Lady Morfa was human and her parties must be slightly 
 tainted with that failing), I prefer another similitude, 
 which has been happily used of them. Imagine a fish- 
 pond, one of those ovals of dark, still, and lilicd water, 
 marble-rimmed, which j^ou find in old gardens of statues, 
 cypress walks, and deep turf. Just as in that the carp 
 vary in perfection ; while some are of the ruddiest gold,
 
 24! THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 some unfortunately have silver splashes, and some again 
 are so scored with the paler metal that the gold and silver 
 seem to have changed places, and some even have no gold 
 visible, but show all of silver — yet all are undoubted 
 gold-fish, by an ancestry which cannot be denied: so it 
 was in Lady Morfa's drawing-rooms, that though all 
 her guests were Whigs by origin and men of Family 
 by grace,* some were speckled with radicalism, and 
 some desperate players speckled only now with the rem- 
 nants of Whiggery, and some had so basely handled 
 themselves that, but for species, no sign remained. 
 Among these variegated ones are some whom we must 
 reckon with. We may pass Lord Henry Petty by, al- 
 though he must be a INIarquis before our tale is done. 
 But there swam my Lord Sandgate, all gleaming silver, 
 there another white renegade. Captain the Honourable 
 Robert Ranald of the Navy — Member for Westminster, 
 but so finely descended and so much a man that his pedi- 
 gree and (what was odd) his virtues tinged his coat in her 
 Ladyship's eyes. There, too, much at his ease, came 
 and went Lord Rodono, parcce gilt, but saved by a fine 
 gift of raillery. At all of these, and at others like them, 
 Avhom to name would be tedious — Mcrvyn Touchett, 
 Pink Mordaunt, Gell-Gell, Lord Drillstone, and their 
 friends — the Lady of Caryll House looked through rose- 
 coloured glasses, which lent them charitable pretence. 
 But those pale fish beyond them — your baronets Wolse- 
 ley and Burdett, your Squires Whitbread and Colonels
 
 THE FAMILY 25 
 
 Wardle — "my dear, those are impossible persons. I will 
 not know them, and there's an end. As well ask me to 
 have in Cobbett — that man — or your Major Cartwright 
 or precious Parson Tooke." Them you never, never 
 saw in the unruffled pool, where great Cavendish, great 
 Russell, great Crowland, and great Vane oared the deep 
 on golden fins. To be sure, she made an exception — 
 your rire — in favour of Lord Stanhope, the big-nosed, 
 brawny, long-armed peer — Citizen Stanhope of his own 
 dubbing. Him she let in, as Samson of old was led, to 
 make sport. "Citizen.?" she had said, "yes, indeed, that 
 is what the poor man has made of himself. Have him, 
 by all means." She called him Citizen before he could 
 call her one, and never called him anything else until 
 he sickened, and loathed the term. What is more, she 
 treated him as she would have treated an alderman or a 
 royal duke — as he knew very well. 
 
 I find that I have very little to say of the young Earl 
 Roderick, her son. Born late, he had grown up sickly 
 and passably vicious. He was twenty-five years old. 
 Equerry to the Prince of Wales, a Knight of the Garter, 
 and unpopular. Up to the time when this tale begins 
 he had done nothing commendable, and a good deal of 
 which I shall be charitably silent. He had the reputa- 
 tion of being niggardly, and Mr. Sheridan is said to 
 have hated him. The two things are by no means in- 
 compatible, and are very likely connected. 
 
 But I want to direct your attention to the Chambre
 
 26 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 connection, which is of serious moment to you who read, 
 and was the heaviest blow ever dealt at the doughty 
 Countess of Morfa. INIiss Chambre was in this position : 
 Lad}' Morfa was her grandmother and practically her 
 owner for a term of years yet to come. Colonel 
 Chambre, her father, had never had a shilling, not even 
 on the day when he ran off with Lady Hermione Caryll, 
 her mother, made a Scots marriage of it, and prepared 
 to be happy ; but that Lady Hermione had had some 
 thousand pounds a year in her own right. When Colonel 
 Chambre died, in 1807, his widow was not long in follow- 
 ing him — and yet she was not soon enough for his chil- 
 dren's liberties. For between his death and her own, my 
 Lady Morfa interposed a dictatorship, spending a year 
 in Ireland for the purpose, with the result that 
 Lady Hermione disposed of her thousand as follows. 
 Dick, her son, was to have half when he came of age. If 
 he died unmarried, his portion was to be added to the 
 other. But Hermia's share and contingency were not to 
 be hers until she was five-and-twenty, or married with 
 the consent of her grandmother. If she died under that 
 age, or married after the fashion of her mother, her five 
 hundred, or whatever more she might have, was to return 
 into the coffers of the Carylls, whence it came. The 
 money was paltry enough, but the tutorship was not — 
 and that was what Lady Morfa was after. She did not 
 intend, if she could help it, that Hermione's girl should 
 grow up either a pure fool like her mother, or a fool
 
 THE FAJMILY 27 
 
 adulterated with knave, as she was convinced Colonel 
 Chambre, her father, must have been. He was a man 
 whom she as heartily despised as she heartily hated; 
 and certainly, from her point of view, the Colonel's 
 record was not comfortable. He was both enthusiastic 
 and a traitor to Family. He could only have had one 
 other vice — and Lady Hermione had that, poor soul ! 
 
 Colonel Richard Chambre — Dick, Handsome Dick, 
 Firebrand Dick, Dick of the Gallop, all these things 
 they called, who loved, him — was a cadet of a good Eng- 
 lish house settled in Ireland in the planting times. As a 
 boy he had read as he rode, as a young man in the — th 
 Foot, if he had a sword in his right hand he had a book 
 in his left. Yet he served with distinction in the Ameri- 
 can War, got his steps rapidly and with dash, and might 
 have risen high but for two things. At Charleston he 
 came to love Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and it was a fault 
 (I suppose) of his nature to desire to be that which he 
 loved. Hence he found himself sympathising with the 
 rebels, and as good as a rebel himself. Tom Paine did 
 the rest for him. There was no half-way house for the 
 likes of Handsome Dick ; he broke his sword, he threw up 
 his commission ; they say that it was Lord Edward — with 
 a bright eye on France — who persuaded him not to bear 
 arms against his own blood in a quarrel whose issue was 
 certain, but to keep them unrusted, rather, against the 
 time comino-. But for that he would either have settled 
 in America or died for the Americans. As things were,
 
 28 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 he returned to Europe with his beloved friend, with him 
 in due course went into France, improved acquaintance 
 with Tom, and shared in the great design of re-making 
 Britain as the Rights of Man demanded. His EngHsh 
 adventures were not happy, as revolutionaries conceive 
 of happiness. The last king was not hanged in the en- 
 trails of the last priest ; no blood was shed, but quantities 
 of ink ; even the honours of an indictment for sedition 
 were denied him. He consorted with Godwin, and found 
 him squalid, with Mr. Tooke, and thought him unpar- 
 donably dry. However, from that gentleman's house at 
 Wimbledon he did concoct a private adventure, with 
 danger in it, excitement, and, as it turned out, with fruit. 
 From Wimbledon it was that he rode into London on a 
 still summer's night in 1788, tethered his horse, scaled 
 the wall of Caryll House garden, and affixed to it a rope- 
 ladder. At the stroke of midnight pretty Lady Hermi- 
 one, all blushes, terrors, and fluttered heart, fell 
 panting into his arms. He had met her, it seems, but 
 three times in his life, had loved her at sight, and found 
 means to make her love him. He helped her over the 
 wall, put her up behind him, and galloped away to Finch- 
 ley and an awaiting carriage. Dick of the Gallop — this 
 feat was the occasion of the nickname. At Carstairs, in 
 Scotland, he proclaimed her his before God and the inn- 
 keeper's family ; he took her to Roscommon and his house 
 of Chambre's Court ; and next year Hermia Mary was 
 born into the world — a daughter of debate — one hun-
 
 THE FAMILY 29 
 
 dred and one years to a day since Rupert Earl of IMorfa 
 had thanked God pubhcly for the British Constitution. 
 
 The subsequent feats of Galloping Dick did nothing to 
 reconcile him to his mother-in-law. He went back to 
 France, and (Lady Morfa believed) procured the fall of 
 the Bastille ; he showed himself in England in 1794, and 
 was only saved from the High Treason trials of that year 
 by the fact that he was full of schemes for a rebellion in 
 Ireland. The failure of that, its tragic absurdity, its 
 treacheries, hidings, women's clothes, and bedside arrests, 
 above all, the death in delirium of the adored and ador- 
 able little incendiary at the heart of it, went near to 
 breaking Chambre's own heart, and quite broke his spirit. 
 He galloped no more, but cultivated his few acres, bred 
 foxhounds, and gave his children of his best. Hermia 
 Mary (as he always called her) was his favourite; I 
 believe he told her everything he had ever done — and he 
 might well do that, for he had no reason to blush for his 
 misdeeds. He had ever been too ardent to have time for 
 rakehelling; he ate vegetables, and drank water with 
 his wine. Towards the end of his life he took to 
 prophecy, stroking his girl's hair or playing gently with 
 her hand. He had hopes that she would in her person 
 justify all that he had loved and served in the world. 
 Should she, the child of Privilege, show Privilege power- 
 less, before the Rights of Man ! That was his prophecy. 
 "I see you a woman grown, my child ; I see you a lover. 
 Manhood — womanhood — and the call of the heart be-
 
 30 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 tween ; you will never be false to that. Love worthily, 
 love well, love the best. Love truth, love justice, my 
 Hermia Mary ; hate like the devil those three children of 
 his — Cant, False Privilege, and Treachery to the Truth 
 that is in you." Pretty sentiments these for a man to die 
 in, connected by marriage with the House of Caryll! 
 Pretty for Jane Countess of Morfa to see the fire of them 
 still smouldering in his girl's grey eyes. But there it 
 was, though guarded, when that beaked great lady came 
 to Roscommon in 1807. 
 
 She came in her chariot and four, like an eagle that had 
 scented carrion from afar and had swooped directly the 
 watchers had departed. Pretty, tearful Lady Hermione 
 — if she were a watcher — had resigned without a 
 struggle to the rape of her nestlings ; young Dick, a 
 more delicate image of his father, fair-haired, slim, 
 and falcon-like as he had been, swallowed his ensigncy 
 and became a noble Whig; but Hermia Mary kept an 
 open mind. She, too, had something of her father — 
 his hot colouring and his dark grey eyes — but in all else 
 resembled the Carylls. She had their dark tresses, their 
 easy carriage, bold voice, and imperious judg- 
 ments ; she was afraid of nobody, and always 
 spoke the truth. All these things commended 
 her to her grandmother, who loved her order, loved 
 beauty, and loved courage, even when displayed at her 
 own expense. This girl fulfilled all her loves ; she had 
 remarkable beauty of face and person, she showed Family
 
 THE FAIMILY 31 
 
 to the finger-tips ; and she had wit. Lady IMorf a left 
 Ireland full of promises ; Dick was to have his ensigncy 
 — that would get rid of Dick ; but Hermia Mar}^ was to 
 be brought out in London, a Caryll beauty and a Caryll 
 heiress — she would see to that. The times were hopeful. 
 The old king was known to be incurable, the Prince 
 would be Regent. His friends were her friends. There 
 would be a Whig administration, and — here we see the 
 finger of Providence — a child of the House of Caryll 
 would again be Maid of Honour, as she had not been 
 since 1689. Thus Lady Morfa conceived that the Gods 
 of England would dispose and govern the hearts of 
 princes whom the Whigs had set up. One might credit 
 ihem with more grandiose designs ; but there is a story 
 of an Eastern mystic which is to the point. 
 
 This enthusiast, they say, chose out for himself a place 
 in the desert under a palm-tree; and lying there supine 
 and entirely naked, concentrated his sight upon his own 
 navel, and at last, after some thirty years' toil, had the 
 reward of seeing the whole wheeling order of the Cosmos 
 — all Time and all Existence — centred and revolving 
 about that fixed point. And whether your Whig states- 
 man hide himself behind the ramparts of the British 
 Constitution and its spiky frieze of privilege, or within 
 the walls and double gates of Caryll House, St. James's, 
 he is apt to mistake Providence for the gardener, and to 
 see in the soft-footed messengers of his chambers Angels 
 and Ministers of Destiny.
 
 82 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 When Hermia Mary left Ireland it was said that she 
 had emptied the county of its most beautiful woman. It 
 may well be so. I have seen her portrait by Lawrence, 
 which gives a face of high seriousness and rich hues of 
 carmine, ivory, and dark brown. Her figure is certainly 
 exquisite, her hair like a sable cloud. Her rivals in Dub- 
 lin, and afterwards in London, used to say that she had 
 too much composure for a debutante. They all implied 
 by that that she had her own ideas.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN WHICH WE HEAR FROM HER, AND OF HER AND PRES- 
 ENTLY A CRY OF THE HEART 
 
 f^ ARYLL HOUSE, a great pile of building in the 
 ^^ Augustan style, stood in its own garden, surrounded 
 b}' its own spiked wall, and abutted on the Green Park, 
 as nearly as I can judge, somewhere south of the Bridg- 
 water House of our day. You drove in from Cleveland 
 Row between a fine pair of wrought-iron gates, which 
 dragon-crested pillars upheld, which a porter in a lodge 
 jealously guarded, and which no commoner might pass 
 unquestioned and alive. It was said of this porter that 
 he had never, in a service of thirty years, been mistaken 
 in a peer or a peer's son, though he admitted in moments 
 of confidence that he was not so sure as he had been of 
 third generations. Jacob Jacobs was the name of this 
 valuable Argus, and he had been given to understand his 
 value. Once a year, on Saint George's Day, he was 
 bidden to the house by the steward, received into the 
 housekeeper's room, where wine and cake stood upon 
 the table ; and after an interval of not more than half an 
 hour, heralded by two footmen and the butler, Lady 
 Morfa herself appeared, leaning on the arm of her 
 appointed companion for the time. All rose to their
 
 34 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 feet. The butler advanced to the table, poured out a 
 glass of brown sherry, and handed it to her ladyship. 
 She took it, and herself handed it to Jacob Jacobs, who 
 received it with a profound salutation and a careful bow. 
 Meantime, the housekeeper had cut up the cake. 
 "Jacobs," said her ladyship, "I desire that you will drink 
 this to the health of the House. It is Saint George's 
 Day." 
 
 "I thank your ladyship kindly," was the time-honoured 
 reply. "Here's Fame to the House and stability to the 
 British Constitution." Those are difficult words — we 
 know they were made a test case for topers — but Jacob 
 Jacobs had never failed in them yet. He drained his 
 glass, and handed it back to his lady, who retired. The 
 cake and wine might then be consumed by the assistants 
 at the ceremony, no one of whom had ever been graced 
 so highly as this. Once, many years ago, the house- 
 steward (father of the man of 1809) had led her lady- 
 ship out in Sir Roger de Coverley. But that had been 
 after the christening of his present lordship — and that 
 had been in the country, where manners are more relaxed. 
 
 These particulars will serve to show what kind of state 
 was maintained within that massy approach guarded by 
 the privileged Jacobs, and perhaps to explain the fact 
 that it was found to be excessively irksome by Miss 
 Hermia Mary, after the slippered ease, the hunt-break- 
 fasts, the barehead-scampers, and firelight readings of 
 Chambre's Court, after the domestic calm — chicken-rear-
 
 WE HEAR FROM HER 35 
 
 ing, egg-marking, gardening, and what-not of her more 
 recent experience, in the home of Cousin Mary Fox, at 
 sweet Kilbride. In an early letter to this lady — always 
 her dearest friend — we catch some hint of it. "A giant 
 to each door, and a row of white-headed, flaming-breeched 
 giants in the gallery ; a groom of the chambers to herald 
 any silly errand to grandmamma — vexatious, Mary ! I 
 feel like a parcel from the country — fresh butter, per- 
 haps — handed about from man to man, from coach to 
 coach, and delivered at last, greasy and thumbed, to my 
 purchaser. She, of course, gives me over to a secretary 
 or a maid to be opened and put away. 
 
 "Oh, Mary, Mary," she wails in her comical way, "we 
 have six men to feed us, and each man has his office. One 
 hands clean plates, one must touch dirty plates only ; if 
 the butler has toothache, nobody can have any wine. At 
 least, I suppose not, but as yet he has escaped it. We 
 have a clergyman to say our prayers for us — who says 
 twice a day, 'Thou Who didst bring order out of chaos, 
 and say unto Thine Elect, Come, ye blessed, and unto 
 others. Depart ye, bless this noble family, which Thou 
 hast set up, prosper it exceedingly,' &c., &:c. Upon my 
 honour, Mary ! And instead of my dear old Gibby to 
 sit on my bed and scold me while I get ready for it, I am 
 now undressed and put there by a Mrs. JNIoth, and I can't 
 get out of the place at all unless Mr. Jacobs chooses to 
 unlock the gates and somebody goes with me to see that 
 I don't run away. They say, Lord Rodono says, that
 
 36 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Carlton House is a lodge in a garden of cucumbers com- 
 pared with ours, and grandmamma says, 'Very prob- 
 ably.' She calls the royal family 'a horde of Germans,' 
 and says that they eat sausages in the Throne Room. 
 She thinks that very bad, but I see no advantage in being 
 a prince unless you can do as you please — and if you like 
 sausages, why not eat them where you can? We are to 
 go there on Wednesday week, so I shall be able to judge. 
 I shall certainly eat sausages if I'm asked. Dick likes all 
 this parade, or says he does. It makes me think of dear 
 papa, who taught mamma to run away from it, and I cry 
 my eyes out at night sometimes when I know there won't 
 be a footman there to hand a handkerchief or catch my 
 tears in a bottle. Truly, that's the only time I am alone." 
 
 She has something more to say of Mrs. Moth, her new 
 maid. 
 
 "Grandmamma has sent away poor Gibson — there was 
 such a scene ! The dear girl sobbed and clung, vowed 
 she'd be cut off me in pieces ; but 'her ladyship' was not 
 to be moved, so she went yesterday, and now I'm without 
 a friend in England. I'm glad to say that she has gone 
 to her old aunt's at Plashetts — Cousin George Coigne's 
 place in Hertfordshire — and I'm promised faithfully to 
 see her once a year. 'Moth' is the name of my new maid 
 — like a person's in Shakespeare ! Mrs. INIoth. She is 
 a very fashionable young lady, rather pretty, I suppose, 
 with quick black eyes, which she knows how to use, I can 
 sec. She minces her words, calls china chaney, and me
 
 WE HEAH FROM HER 37 
 
 Miss Cheemhre. You should have seen her picking over 
 my clothes, raking about with finger and thumb. She 
 and grandmamma fingered them together, and bickered 
 over them like two hoodie crows. I was furious, but it 
 made no difference. Madame Pekrine, or some name 
 of the sort, was sent for to make me 'fit to be seen' — that 
 will take half-a-dozen gowns at least, according to 
 Moth. If they are to be like some I saw at Lady Jersey's 
 last night I shall die of shame. My sweet cousin, you 
 never saw such gowns, or such absence of gowns — liter- 
 ally abandoned! ]\Irs. Fancourt was there, like Venus 
 rising from the sea-^ — happily somewhere near the waist 
 she thought better of it, and the rest remained under 
 muslin. As for Lady Oxford — but my pen refuses its 
 office — burns my handy 
 
 It is at about this time that we meet with her in some 
 of the gossips, diarists of the time. Lady Susan C — , 
 who had known her in Ireland, writing to the Duchess of 
 L — , "I met Hermy Chambre at D — House, the dear 
 sweet. She was looking lovely — radiant — with her hair 
 done up a la Grecque, and her beautiful shoulders slip- 
 ping in and out of her bodice. Her roses put us wicked 
 old Cockneys to shame. She has a very bold way of 
 speaking, I must say — she always had — and will give 
 Lady M. some trouble, I doubt. I hope she will. That's 
 a proud old mouse-trap of a woman, my dear soul. ..." 
 Mervyn Touchett, too, was greatly taken with her. . . . 
 *'2d February. Dined at Caryll House — a large party —
 
 38 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Sussexes, Badlesmeres, Crowlands, Rogers, of course, 
 Lady Embercourt, Moira and his -flame, Hertford, with- 
 out his, &c., &c. The debutante was in fine verve, col- 
 oured Hke a ripe peach — melting ripe, M. said : a charm- 
 ing as well as a lovely person. Prinny is said by Tom 
 C — to be mightily struck, and she is quite to his taste: 
 beautiful ! She has wit, or, rather, raillery, but can be 
 seriously scornful when she chooses. We talked politics 
 — old Stanhope's perpetual motion about the State of 
 the Nation, condition of the people, and what-not. She 
 said that we talked of England as though it were a 
 'gentleman's scat,' and the people the rabbits in it. 
 Why did we always treat 'the people' en bloc like a head 
 of game ? I replied that Bonaparte had made us think in 
 continents, but that you always heard of a man, how- 
 ever obscure, when he was hanged. 'Yes,' says Miss, 
 raising her fine brows, 'we're all noble when we're dead — 
 all peers then.' Not much in it, of course, but she in- 
 tended to snub me — and did." 
 
 Here you have her, then, as a strong young swimmer 
 breasting the current of London's tide. "I have seen," 
 she writes, "Lord Crowland, Saint Paul's, Westminster 
 Abbey, the lion at Exeter Change, and Madame Catalan!. 
 I put them in the order of their coming, though it is that 
 of my appreciation too. Lord Crowland is strikingly 
 handsome. Do you know the story of his marriage? It 
 is most romantic. He had loved her for years, though 
 she was the wife of another, and finally, when they were
 
 WE HEAR FROM HER 39 
 
 travelling abroad somewhere, his feelings overcame him, 
 and he spoke to her. She confessed the state of her heart, 
 and they have been married quite a long time. . . . There 
 was a divorce, naturally, and I believe a meeting between 
 the gentlemen. I have seen her, too ; she was very kind to 
 me. I think hirn cold, and, though you may not agree, 
 extremely correct. Of course, he is a chief of the Whig 
 clan, which Lord Rodono calls plus royaliste que le roy, 
 because it considers itself to be king of kings. Lord R. 
 is in the House of Commons, and pretends to be a 
 Jacobin; but Captain Ranald — Lord Clanranald's son 
 and a real hero — says that he's nothing of the sort. I am 
 great friends with both of these personages. Mr. Ranald 
 is the bravest man that ever lived since papa and Lord 
 Edward died; he is a sailor and, Lord Rodono says, a 
 pirate. He uses very strong language — hates the Gov- 
 ernment. He says that nothing can be done zvithout 
 pikes." 
 
 She goes about, here to a great house, there to a great 
 assembly — to Almack's, for instance — wondering, watch- 
 ing, judging out of her young clear eyes. She is taken 
 to Court, and kisses the old Queen's hand, and even there 
 can find a moment in which to pity "the poor, faded, kind 
 princesses." She is at Carlton House, kissed by the 
 Prince of Wales. . . . "He was sadly flushed, Mary, and 
 smelt of brandy ; but you could see the ravages of beauty 
 in him — his eyes, for instance, are extraordinary, briglit 
 blue, and not cold, but hot and impetuous, like that
 
 40 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 young butcher's I told you about, who fought two gentle- 
 men at once — and I must say that he was charming. He 
 talked to me, standing, for ten minutes at least, neglect- 
 ing a whole herd of people who were waiting to kiss or to 
 be kissed, and then led me into another room and sat by 
 me on a divan. Grandmamma came, too, of course — she 
 never lets me out of her sight (as if I were a jewel-case on 
 a journey!) — but he hardly noticed her. He talked for 
 nearly half an hour, I suppose, and if I could believe a 
 word he said I should call him a perfect Jacobin. He 
 might lead England to liberty, Mary, if he chose ! He 
 said that he had loved Lord Edward like a blood-brother, 
 and that he loved papa for being on his side. But he 
 owned that, situated as he was with the King and Minis- 
 ters, he could do nothing — as yet. Some day, he said, he 
 hoped and prayed might see him King of the English, 
 not of England, which 'nobody,' he said, most impres- 
 sively, 'has ever been since the death of King Edward the 
 Confessor, my revered ancestor,' This may have been 
 blarney, my dear, to suit my Irish upbringing, but it was 
 very beautiful, and made grandmamma snort. I own 
 that it made me near crying. Then the rather disagree- 
 able but most witty Mr. Sheridan came up, and said some- 
 thing in a low voice, and the Prince kissed my hand be- 
 fore he went off with him. Mr. Sheridan's eyes are burn- 
 ing black. Grandmamma was very gracious as we drove 
 home — said I had had a great success. ..." 
 All very pleasant so far ; but a week later we get a taste
 
 WE HEAR FROM HER 41 
 
 of her quality, where it conflicts with my Lady Morfa's^ 
 I dare not omit it. 
 
 "I have had a passage of arms with grandmamma," she 
 tells her Mary Fox, "rather unpleasant while it lasted, 
 but I got my way. It was all about Harriet Moon, who 
 is her companion and secretary, it seems, though I never 
 knew it before. Well, the day before yesterday, when I 
 came upstairs after luncheon, I found a girl standing, 
 bonneted and pelissed, in the corridor leading to grand- 
 mamma's wing — as if she was waiting for somebody. I 
 hardly glanced at her, but just noticed that she looked 
 thin and pale, and had mournful ej'es, very large — 
 brown, I thought them, and so they are, beautiful eyes in- 
 deed. I read for an hour, and then Moth came to dress 
 me for a drive — and when I went down, there was the 
 girl still standing in the corridor. I asked her. Did she 
 want anything? And she thanked me very nicely, and 
 said, 'Oh, no.' So I drove until it was dusk, and then 
 came back and went upstairs — and there was that poor 
 girl still standing ! This time I asked her if she would 
 not come in and rest in my sitting-room by the fire ; and 
 she refused for a long time. But I insisted, and she be- 
 gan to cry — so I settled it by leading her bodily in. I 
 put her by the fire with her toes on the fender, and sent 
 Moth down to get her some cake and a glass of wine— 
 for she looked famished. 
 
 "The wine revived her. I was as kind to her as I could 
 be, and made her tell me everything. She was Harriet
 
 42 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Moon, she told me, who had been to her people in 
 Shropshire — nursing her mother, I think — and had over- 
 stayed her leave by two or three days. And this, if you 
 please, was 'her ladyship's' way of showing her high dis- 
 pleasure — to keep that miserable girl, after two days and 
 a night in the stage-coach, waiting in the corridor from 
 half -past one to half -past four, without bite or sup. 
 Apart from the savagery of the revenge, apart from the 
 hatefulness of stooping so far for vengeance, think of 
 the terror of that shivering wretch, who dared not move 
 even when the tyrant was out ! It gave me a horror, but 
 made my cheeks burn like fire. I do so detest power used 
 like that. 
 
 "Well, Harriet Moon was in a terrible fright as to what 
 'her ladyship' would say or do when she found out what 
 I had done; and, as it happened, her own woman did 
 come in presently to say that 'Miss Moon was wanted!' 
 I sent a message to say where she was, and that she would 
 come ; and then, as the timid creature was quite white and 
 trembling, I decided to go with her. And I did it — took 
 her arm, and marched into grandmamma's boudoir as 
 bold as you please. I said, 'Grandmamma, I've brought 
 Miss IMoon to you, but you mustn't tease her to-night. 
 You've made her quite ill enough as it is. I think you've 
 been most unkind — and if you are going to be cross with 
 her, I shall punish you.' Of course, I made her think 
 that this was said for impudence, but I meant it. I had 
 a plan — what do you think? I had made up my mind
 
 WE HEAR FROM HER 43 
 
 that, unless she was pleasant to the girl, I should threaten 
 to tell the Prince the whole story ! 
 
 "Grandmamma's head began to shake, as it always does 
 when she's put out ; she shook like a poplar leaf when 
 I told her about the staked horse and the fight at the 
 gates — and she wagged her hand about on her crutch. 
 I could see that she was very vexed with me, but she pre- 
 tended that she hadn't known INIiss Moon was there. 
 She calls her 'Moon' — did you ever hear such arrogance ? 
 She told me to go away, but I said that I could not until 
 she understood that I had insisted on taking Miss Har- 
 riet into my room, &c., &c. And then I went on to talk 
 about all sorts of things, 'in my airy way,' as Cousin 
 George Fox calls it, and made her laugh. That ended 
 it. Harriet came to me late that same night, after I 
 had returned from Almack's, and thanked me. She has 
 pretty ways, and lovely brown eyes — quite lovely. I 
 think she's cowed here, and driven to various conceal- 
 ments and subterfuges, poor, pretty creature. She is 
 two or three years older than I am, but has the spirit of a 
 mouse. The whole affair has made an impression upon 
 me. It is very hateful, I think. How furious my dear 
 papa would have been. I saw him really angry once over 
 some such cold piece of cruelty. 'If you stoop, Hermy,' 
 he said to me once, 'stoop nobly.' " 
 
 Miss Chambre seems here to have begun her champion- 
 ing of the oppressed, and she continued it long. She is 
 to continue it, I tell you fairly, until this book is done,
 
 44. THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 in various ways and by divers expenditures of person, 
 name, and fame. She is to retire from the fray — I scorn 
 concealment; leave that to poor Miss Moon — sane and 
 whole, but not without bruises. Bruises are to be looked 
 for, unless you follow the practice of Hippolyta, Queen 
 of the Amazons. She and her virgin cohorts, we know, 
 maimed themselves before battle. Miss Hermia Mary 
 never stopped for that. 
 
 The note deepens from this point, the letters cry. Here 
 is one extract, torn from the girl's heart: "Behind all 
 this enormous parade I seem now and then to be guess- 
 ing, groping after monstrous shapes which evade me — 
 an indifference, an ignorance, a callousness to rights, 
 sufferings, private torture, which almost pass behef. 
 I'll tell you more later, when I know more; just now my 
 heart is on fire. Love me, INIary, love me still, before I 
 am past all loving, and nothing but a silver-papered 
 parcel on a high shelf in a cabinet. Now and till then, 
 your Hermy." 
 
 Here is a "p.p.s.," with a comic wistfulness in it — serio- 
 comic, as I believe. ... "I have seen the place in the 
 wall of the garden over which mamma climbed when dear 
 papa came for her. His horse stood immediately below, 
 in the park. The iron spikes, which he broke off, have 
 never been replaced. I see a glimmer of hope through 
 the gap." Now comes a break of more than a week, and 
 then a real cry of pain. The girl is shocked. . . . 
 
 "Oh, Mary! Oh, Mary! I can hardly write for
 
 WE HEAR FROM HER 45 
 
 shame. You remember what I told 3"ou of the scene out- 
 side the gates — of the murdered horse? You'll never be- 
 lieve me. Those two young men were my Uncle Morfa 
 and his friend, Lord Edlogan. This is literally true. 
 They now own to it. They were tipsy, but that is no 
 excuse for what is going on now. They have sent the 
 owner of the horse to prison, and mean to keep him 
 there without a trial. He's a Radical, I hear. I can't 
 tell you any more just yet. — Your disgraced Hebmia. 
 Mary."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN WHICH, AT LAST, WE GET THE FACTS 
 
 Q^ O we are back again, dead-up against the butcher's 
 *^ horse, and that combat about his carcase which had 
 so discouraged Miss Hermia Mary, and over which the 
 eagle-beaked Countess of Morfa, bhnking her httle 
 angry, intolerable e3'^es, had proposed to herself to take 
 a soaring flight. The facts were perfectly simple. The 
 gentlemen had been lunching, the person had been grossly 
 impudent — what more need be said.'' And at least let 
 notliing whatever be said to an ardent Miss Chambre 
 unstrung by travel. And nothing was said — and yet 
 the affair was not laid. To treat it as though it had 
 never been proved a counsel of perfection, with cir- 
 cumstances fatally against it ; for first Lord Morfa, a 
 sickly youth, fell ill, as we know, and kept his bed, 
 and next Lord Edlogan, his friend — Beauty Edlogan 
 they called him, and Marquis of Edlogan he was, tlie 
 Duke of Wentsland's son — discovered an inflammation 
 of the nose; and, thirdly, the butcher was taken to 
 the King's Bench, and lay there awaiting his charge. 
 Lastly, the worst of all, politicians settled down in 
 clouds, and the various wounds began to fester — and 
 then Lad}^ Morfa lost her temper, and determined not
 
 THE FACTS 47 
 
 to charge the butcher at all, but to keep him where he 
 was. Bj degrees and degrees, the facts obtruded them- 
 selves, by degrees took shape and got themselves in mo- 
 tion, until at last all London seemed to be swirling round 
 a maelstrom-gulf, at bottom of which you might, if you 
 had had a head to look with, have discerned the mangled 
 remains of a horse. Round and round, nearer and 
 nearer in, swirled our actors and a hundred more ; and 
 some of them were sucked down and had to battle for 
 dear hfe to win the free air again, and some went under, 
 heels first, and were known no more — and all because a 
 tipsy gentleman staked a butcher's — ? Not at all, but 
 because Family came into conflict with the Mob, and out 
 of the Mob a head uplifted and discovered itself to be 
 that of a person, not to be treated en bloc, like rabbits 
 in a park. It is a sign of the breaking-up of things old 
 when the Mob — that colluvies — segregates into persons 
 with souls to be lost or won. There's the significant 
 thing for us — ^that the age as we know it was yeasting 
 in the bowl. But let us take the facts of the case, as 
 Miss Chambre got them out, and see how simple they 
 may have been. 
 
 The facts were that Lord Morfa and his friend Ed- 
 logan, after a generous meal together, were about to 
 enter the curricle of the first and proceed to the park, 
 when they saw the famous horse tethered to the railings, 
 and with that eye for a fine young animal which no- 
 body of their acquaintance could refuse them, they ad-
 
 48 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 mired. They did more ; they examined it point by point, 
 and became inflamed by its perfections. They were 
 touched, they were pricked in their honour, they were 
 affronted. Damn the fellow, where did he get such a 
 horse, a blood horse, a pacer.? Put a saddle, which you 
 could call a saddle, on that horse, and a man might air 
 him in the Row. One had seen a fellow on a worse horse 
 in Pall Mall, anr^ aken no notice. It was a start, a 
 rummy go — whose was the horse? Jacob Jacobs, his 
 gates open, touched his hat at this point. It was young 
 Vernour's, the butcher's, my lords. The butcher's ! 
 Damn the butcher — this was no horse for him. Lord 
 Morfa's offended eyes interrogated those of his friend. 
 What the deuce were we coming to ? he required to know. 
 Edlogan briskly said that he must try the horse — and 
 •did. Round and about he cantered, to the admiration 
 of all. A perfect action, a great goer ! The horse had 
 a mouth. Morfa, who was undoubtedly drunk — every- 
 body admitted that — and when drunk very mettlesome, 
 Was now for putting him at the railings round the grass- 
 plat. This kind of horse, he told Edlogan — Irish, he 
 would swear — could jump like a cat. Would Edlogan 
 bet upon it.? Damn it, a man should back his opinion, 
 hey.'' And here Jacob Jacobs, finding himself under the 
 enquiry of his master, again touched his hat and said, 
 "Certainly, my lord." He blamed himself for that after- 
 wards. The carriage-drive, you must know, formed a 
 great circle of grit, and in the midst had an enclosure
 
 THE FACTS 49 
 
 of grass, round about the statue of the prescient Earl 
 Rupert, fenced in by stout iron rails not more than five 
 feet high — close rails, as sharp as spears. 
 
 Lord Edlogan, who owned to having been fresh, but 
 denied that he had been drunk, had laughed his friend 
 to scorn. "You'll cut his head off, Roddy, and break 
 your neck — sure as a gun you will. You've a bad seat at 
 the best, my boy, but when you're dr- nk you've no seat 
 at all," and so on; whereat, and at jeers from beyond 
 the gates, possibly also on a view of the concerned eyes 
 of Jacob Jacobs, anxious for the welfare of a peer, Lord 
 Moi'fa grew hot. Damn the horse ! damn Edlogan ! he'd 
 show what could be done. He flung his caped overcoat 
 to the gate-keeper, and, after a brief but glorious 
 struggle, was able to mount the nervous little animal. 
 He gave him a couple of smacks on the flank with his 
 glove, pushed him with his knees, dug his heels in 
 sharply, and went round the gravel court at an easy can- 
 ter, which he increased to a sort of a gallop as the mur- 
 murs from the gates struck his ears. Jacob Jacobs had 
 got back to his post, lest the mob should invade the 
 sanctuary, "and God knows what next," as he put it. 
 From there he saw, and quaked to see, my lord take a 
 couple of turns, rocking dangerously in his seat ; "and 
 the daylight you could see betwixt liis lordship's fork and 
 the saddle would have mended a Sunday afternoon," said 
 he. But the madness of high blood ! After that turn or 
 two about and about, all of a sudden "his lordship took
 
 50 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 and screwed the boss's head round, and in with his heels ; 
 and he put him at the rails with a short' rem, did his lord- 
 ship." Words failed him here to describe the queer 
 silence that followed, as the gallant little beast did his 
 gallantest. But the run was absurd, the take-off next to 
 nothing-. He swerved as he refused, and disposed of his 
 rider ; but then, as if startled by the howls of the audience 
 he had, he gathered his legs under him and tried the 
 fence. There was no howling now — it was too horrible 
 — nameless. Indeed, though he lashed himself free, it 
 was but to die — and at that moment of glazing eyes the 
 butcher came out from the shrubbery which concealed the 
 tradesman's door. Lord Morfa was by that time at the 
 great gates, very shaky, tense and white, being helped 
 into his overcoat of many capes by his servitor, and 
 Edlogan, half crying with excitement and honest grief, 
 was standing by him, adjuring him "for God's sake" to 
 get out of this. The mob was distracted for the moment 
 by watching what the horse's owner would do. 
 
 His name was Vemour, David Vemour; he was the 
 "son" of Vernour and Son, family butchers, of Brook 
 Street, Hanover Square. He was a fine young man, 
 broad-breasted, tall, and well-made ; he may have been 
 five or six-and-twenty. He was of the Saxon type, blue- 
 eyed, fair-haired; one who flushed easily and had not 
 much to say for himself. Yet it came out afterwards 
 that he was "superior," and something of a public 
 speaker — also that he was a Radical — but even Tories
 
 THE FACTS 51 
 
 might have done what he did. His friends averred that 
 he did not know Lord Morfa b}'^ sight, but most of them 
 were constrained to add that, had he known him, it would 
 have made no difference to his conduct. He was 
 admittedly hot-tempered. 
 
 At first he grew very red, and ran forward to the fallen 
 horse, knelt by it and put his cheek to its nostrils. It 
 was still alive then, but breathing faintly ; it lay in a 
 pool of bright blood — arterial blood. With "a kind of 
 sob," as it was afterwards told to Miss Chambre (and 
 no harm done to his case), he bent his head over his horse 
 — then threw it up, and stiffened at the shoulders as he 
 looked over to the gates to find out with whom he must 
 reckon. He seemed to decide quickly, for he rose to his 
 feet and strode over the gravel ; and he must have been 
 beside himself when he, bare-headed, in his blue frock and 
 apron, could clip the young Marquis of Edlogan on 
 the shoulder, and bring him sharply round as if he had 
 been stung. Good heavens! and had he not been stung.'' 
 
 "Who did that.'"' Jacob Jacobs would swear that he 
 never said "my lord." He never used the word "lord," 
 and only once said "sir." He might have been talking to 
 any common person. 
 
 Edlogan, not liking his tone, which was curt, nor, per- 
 haps, his question, which was to the point, replied, 
 "Couldn't say, my man," and turned his back. It is 
 supposed that he meant to be loyal to his friend — and, 
 at any rate, he had not done it. Whereupon Vernour
 
 h2 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 rounded on Lord Morfa with his "Is that your work, 
 sir?" He was more respectful now, and all might yet 
 have been well had not the mob answered the question. 
 
 " 'Twas my lord as done it. That's your man, 
 butcher," and so on. 
 
 Mo'tf a never looked at him at all ; he swore at large. 
 
 *'Damn it all," said he, "it was the horse's fault, 
 
 and this mob here." 
 
 "I left the horse tethered to the railings," says Vernour, 
 -and Lord Morfa jumped about. 
 
 "Who the hell are you .'' I wish you'd go to the devil," 
 he snapped at him. 
 
 "If I do that," said Vernour, "I take you with me ;" 
 and with that he scruffed the young peer with so firm 
 a grip that nothing in the power of Edlogan, no adjura- 
 tion from the shocked lips of Jacob Jacobs — whose "For 
 the Lord's sake, Vernour, for the Lord of Mercy's sake 
 loose my lord!" should have been double-edged — would 
 induce him to let go. Lord Morfa, not a cleanly young 
 roan, used atrocious language; Lord Edlogan stormed 
 and argued, was heartily ashamed of the whole affair, 
 and the more ashamed he was the more angry he got. 
 "The fellow was unreasonable," he afterwards explained. 
 "He'd have been paid, of course — I'd have paid him if 
 Roddy wouldn't — and I know Roddy don't like to part — 
 but, damn it ! he had him like a rag-doll — and a man 
 can't stand that." Moved by such feelings, he certainly 
 attacked Vernour — and with spirit ; the crowd swarmed
 
 THE FACTS 58; 
 
 and serried for the fight ; a chimnej-sweeper. and an un- 
 shaven man with no voice whatsoever formed and kept a 
 ring. Vernour, with but one hand free, stopped Ed- 
 logan's rushes ; and as the great Caryll chariot came 
 rumbhng in had just sent him on to his hack. In the 
 breathing pause which he obtained his eyes, fierce with 
 battle, met those of Miss Hermia Chambre, dwelt on 
 them, and were dwelt upon. The carriage rolled on, the 
 mob surged and serried ; and Jacob Jacobs, powerless ta, 
 serve his gods, fled wailing for the constables. 
 
 Upon their arrival, David Vernour released his limp, 
 victim and went quietly to the King's Bench. That is the 
 truth of this very disagreeable affair, which her ladyship, 
 wished to ignore, but could not.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 m WHICH LOED EODONO MISHANDLES THE BAG AND MR. 
 EANALD STEOKES THE CAT 
 
 ORD MORFA had kept his room for some days, 
 'and the house his counsel — so well that uncle and 
 niece met, when at last they did meet, in very friendly 
 fashion. Miss Chambre had not the least suspicion that 
 the slight, pale, black-haired, dark-chinned, and suffering 
 young man in a dressing-gown of preposterous elegance 
 had recently been under her eyes swinging like a dead 
 cat in the hold of the flushed butcher. Searching, as she 
 was fond of doing, for character, she seemed to find it 
 in his laconic manner. She liked his "How do, Hermy ?" 
 and two fingers from the sofa, and returned him a cheer- 
 ful "Quite well, thank you. Uncle Morfa," with a stoop 
 downwards, and a fresh cheek to touch his own. She was 
 sorry for the fevered youth, had felt his cheek to be dry 
 and hot, was very ready to excuse his irritability with his 
 mother and his valet, and set herself to work to smooth 
 out his "creases," as she called them. 
 
 There was plenty to say : apart from the coach at Holy- 
 head and Mr. Aloysius Banks, who were ancient liistory 
 by this time, there were the new conjuror, the Prince of 
 Wales, and Madame Catalani singing "God shave the
 
 THE CAT AND THE BAG 55 
 
 King." Lord Morfa, who liked women, liked them to be 
 pretty, vivacious, and, above all, plump — "well covered," 
 as he put it — was certainly amused. He lay back on his 
 cushion, his hands behind his head, and fixed her with 
 his fever-bright eyes. "Good gel — that's capital ! 
 Egad, ma'am, I must keep that for Prinny — oh, he'll be 
 a proud man, by George !" He was certainly pleased 
 — and so her tongue ran on. "And oh. Uncle Morfa, I 
 quite forgot to tell you. As we came in — that first day 
 — there was a fight. ..." Lady Morfa called sharply, 
 "Curtis," and sent the valet to see if the carriage were at 
 the door. . . . His lordship moved uneasily, but did not 
 turn his eyes away, or cease to smile. 
 
 "Yes, a real fight — at the gates. ... . " 
 
 "Dessay,". said his lordship. "They te;ill fight, Hermj', 
 when they're drunk, you know." 
 
 "And they were drunk," said she. "Two of them were ; 
 but one was not. He was a hero, I thought." 
 
 "They fight, you know," he said dreamil}', "like the 
 very devil." So he got her off the line. 
 
 "But he does it without being drunk. ..." 
 
 "Ex officio," said Lady Morfa ; and then, "Come, child, 
 or you'll tire the invalid." 
 
 She rose and looked benevolently down upon her victim. 
 "They took a fine vengeance upon the man who wasn't 
 tipsy," she said. "They sent him to prison for it." 
 
 "Dessay," said Lord Morfa; "where the devil's my 
 man.? Look here, I shall go to sleep, I think." She
 
 56 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 stooped and touched his forehead. "Poor Uncle 
 Morfa !" she said kindly, and went away with her grand- 
 mamma to a party. 
 
 And then she forgot the thing, left it, perhaps, em- 
 balmed in the recesses of her mind — why, how should she 
 remember it between drastic inspections of gowns by her 
 ladyship, visits to Madame Pelerine, visits to Saint 
 Paul's, Lord Crowland's romantic person, Lady Ox- 
 ford's display of charms? Never was such a wliirl as 
 hers — and we were all whirling at once like a set of jug- 
 gler's tops. Dick must go to the levee, she to Bucking- 
 ham House ; Carlton House to follow ; a dinner to meet 
 the Prince ; Wednesday the opera ; Thursday a dinner 
 and a rout ; Friday the Duchess's ball — and so forth. 
 She made her little sensation, she was admired, and she 
 knew it. Let heroes languish in chains in the King's 
 Bench, let Harriet Moon shiver in corridors — but she, the 
 3"oung beauty, would float from rout to rout, and gather 
 her roses, and give them away, 
 
 Mervyn Touchett saw her at R — House. "Saw the 
 little Caryll heiress holding her court. Sedate and glow- 
 ing on a divan, half-a-dozen bucks round about her. 
 Stout men, too — politicians, Tierney, Tom Rodono, 
 Wormwood, and Bob Ranald, very brisk. She waltzed 
 and looked sumptuous." The waltz was stark new that 
 year. . . . "My dear, I have been in a dozen men's 
 arms !" this to Mary Fox. "I'm hot all over. But every- 
 body does it now." In far Kilbride, vrhei'e nobody did
 
 THE CAT AND THE BAG 57 
 
 it, Mary Fox felt worried. There were more serious 
 things to worry about, if she had but known. 
 
 They say that she was a "man's woman" ; and she con- 
 fesses somewhere that she preferred men's society. . , , 
 "The women, ]\[ary, rather horrify me. They preen 
 themselves like pigeons in the sun — and sit apart as if 
 they were in a slave-market. As for the girls, they are 
 dolls ; dolls with palpitations !" She seems to have had a 
 singularly quick judgment, and to have acted upon it 
 without faltering, to have known instantly when she could 
 afford to be frank. She had decided at a glance that she 
 liked Harriet Moon ; and when she met Captain Ranald at 
 a dinner-part}^, though she had never seen him before, she 
 did not scruple to tell him that she was a rebel in grain, 
 almost before he had time to inform her that he was a. 
 Jacobin. 
 
 Captain the Hon. Robert Ranald, a gallant, brick-col- 
 oured, fiery-haired little seaman, whose acts in the high 
 seas, in the mouths of French rivers and in broken Atlan- 
 tic roadsteads form a Saga, was at this time in England^ 
 persecuting the Ministry in the name of common-sense. 
 He was now one of the members for Westminster, and 
 overweeningly popular with the mob. As he was quite 
 without virulence or prejudice, he was detested by the 
 Government, Avhich had both in abundance. They bat- 
 tered him, and made him laugh ; he hammered them, and 
 they were vowed to his ruin. Mr. Croker, it was said, 
 would cheerfully dance at Carlton House for Bob
 
 58 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Ranald's head upon a charger. This spoke a volume for 
 the hero, who confessed himself an outlaw as he handed 
 Miss Chambre down to dinner. 
 
 "I'm home to stop thieving," he told her, "I'm in the 
 House to stop it, and every thief's hand is against me. 
 They don't like the facts, and they don't like me. I 
 pound 'em ; I go on pounding 'em ; I bore 'em to death. 
 Burdett's far too much of a gentleman — besides, he does 
 'em the honour to disapprove of 'em. He thinks 'em 
 villains, and I call 'em fools. So I'm half an outlaw in 
 the minds of Ministers, and half by my own showing. 
 If the fractions add themselves aright. Miss Chambre, 
 you have the arm of a man who must needs be hanged." 
 
 "I have held such arms before, sir," said she. "Lord 
 Edward's was one, and my father's another." 
 
 They were seated by this, but Ranald, having looked 
 quickly at his companion, nevertheless got up and bowed 
 to her. "You are Dick Chambre's daughter, and he was 
 Fitzgerald's friend. I'm happily mated." He began to 
 speak of Ireland, and of Lord Edward, whom he 
 described as the bravest little gentleman and straightest 
 rider he had ever seen in his life. But he was a fool, un- 
 happily, because he let those qualities rule his politics. 
 "You can be too brave — you can be too true to the scent. 
 The pace may kill or the field desert you : you die a 
 lonely death. But in my opinion it is better to die in 
 Newgate with Fitzgerald than to reign with Castlereagh 
 in Pall Mall. The little man was a hero, and a Saint."
 
 THE CAT AND THE BAG 59 
 
 Her cheeks flushed, her eyes were devr3\ "A divine fool 
 — that is what I know. Everybody must know it in 
 time. I can't speak of him without tears — " And then, 
 with a catch in her voice, "]My father was just hke that." 
 
 "Not a doubt of it," he said. "He rode straight and 
 rode hard. But, as you know, and I know, he didn't 
 ride hard enough for the Castle in '98." 
 
 "He broke his horse's heart," said Hermia Mary, "and 
 couldn't get another. . . .. You never knew my father?" 
 He folded his arms, considered them, and his reply. 
 Then he looked her in the face. 
 
 "I know more of him now than I ever did before. I 
 know that he must have broken his own heart as well." 
 Miss Chambre was unable to reply. 
 
 Her neighbour of the right-hand was Lord Rodono, a 
 cheerful, fresh-faced nobleman, eldest son of the Earl of 
 Drem. He was tall, upright, stoutly built, sanguine of 
 complexion, was in Parliament for an obscure burgh, a 
 great admirer of women, and very much esteemed by 
 most of them. His somewhat cold, critical blue eyes, per- 
 haps, gave confidence; his care not to commit himself 
 certainly did. In politics he ranked with the opposition, 
 as became the heir of Drem ; but he dallied, never indis- 
 creetly, with the reformers. Like every man born he 
 talked of himself, and found himself the best joke in the 
 world. He told Miss Chambre that he liked Whig 
 women, but went among the Jacobins for male societ3\ 
 There were, in truth, no male Whigs — that was a con-
 
 60 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 tradiction in terms. A man goes by passion, a woman 
 by feelings. Now you can passionately decree that 
 somebody should wear a gold hat, or passionately at- 
 tempt to knock that off his head: that is as a man is 
 Tory or Radical. "But no man of my acquaintance," 
 he said, "will choose to crown his fellow with straw, 
 and then insist that it's every bit as good as gold — in 
 fact, much better, because it's the same thing, only 
 cheaper. For that charming fantasy we look to your 
 sex. Miss Chambre." 
 
 "But you are a Whig, Lord Rodono ? You crown the 
 King with straw." 
 
 "Pardon me, madam, I am a servant of Whigs," he 
 said, with a bow, which she felt to be too pronounced. 
 
 She avowed herself a Jacobin, and he applauded the 
 confession. A pike would become her ; Bob Ranald was 
 all for pikes. He questioned, however, her grand- 
 mamma's view. The peerage impaled — eh? 
 
 "Grandmamma has never talked politics to me," said 
 Hermia ; but Lord Rodono was looking at the venerable 
 lady, who sat upon their host's right-hand, and was talk- 
 ing of Mr. Clark, that Cytherea of the mart. Thus it 
 was that the cat came out of the bag. 
 
 "How under the eyes of heaven she allowed you to be 
 entrusted to Bob Ranald," he said musingly, "passes 
 belief. She thinks him poisonous, she calls him 'unfortu- 
 nate.' Now that's nonsense, of course — poor Bob's as 
 wholesome as a March gale; but he's not judicial — he
 
 THE CAT AND THE BAG 61 
 
 tliinks with his heart. He's gone red-hot into that affair 
 of yours." 
 
 "What affair of mine.'^" she asked, thinking more of 
 Ranald, whom she admired, than of herself. 
 
 "Oh, the butcher's horse, you know." His eyes 
 twinkled Avith friendly malice, and seemed to have their 
 reward. He brought her round in a flash. 
 
 "My affair. Lord Rodono ! Indeed, it was no affair of 
 mine. It was very hateful." 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I meant of your family's. Your 
 grandmother's— Roddy's affair. And then there was 
 Edlogan's nose — that was in it, too. Very awkward 
 business indeed. Now Bob Ranald " 
 
 But Miss Chambre was now moved in earnest — she was 
 flooded with colour. "Uncle Morfa ! Lord Edlogan ! 
 Do you — can you mean that they — .?" She made him 
 stare. 
 
 "Good God, didn't you know that.? Why, it's all over 
 town. Now I've put my foot in it." 
 
 He certainly had, as far as she was concerned, for she 
 had nothing more to say to him. She was really scan- 
 dalised, but she was startled also — shocked, alarmed. 
 Her feelings were tumultuous — why had this been hid- 
 den from her ? What was going on ? Of what sort were 
 these smooth-voiced, courteous people she was among .-^ 
 Flesh and blood .^^ Her flesh and blood? To grind the 
 faces of the poor — and to smile, and bow, and be witty — 
 and enormously at ease — served on bent knees ! That
 
 62 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 was a veritable cry of the heart when she said, "Oh, Lord 
 liodono, that cannot be true!" 
 
 He had to assure her that it was true, and to make out a 
 case. "The man attacked Roddy before he'd heard what 
 there was to say. Nothing much to say, I grant you — 
 but no doubt he'd have been paid, not the slightest doubt. 
 And, of course, he will be paid in the end — if politics are 
 kept out of it. But he's known to Ministers as a speaker 
 in the Forum, and those sort of places — Crown and 
 Anchor, and all that ; and he attacked a smaller man in 
 his own place — and the constables were fetched, as they 
 ought to have been. They did the rest ; the rest was not 
 Roddy's doing — Roddy was abed. I think that you'll 
 find it will all settle down— unless Bob Ranald makes a 
 hash of it. And, as I tell Roddy, he must keep Sandgate 
 from hearing of it." Such talk as this had no effect on 
 her at all ; she was quick enough to see that the speaker 
 was extenuating, making smihng apologies, as it were, 
 for shutting the prison-doors. "Really, if there's going 
 to be all this to-da— if you'll allow me, I'll just — I feel 
 myself in need of repose !" She grew hot all over as 
 she felt the spiked walls of Caryll House closing in upon 
 her, and, in her mind's eye, saw Jacob Jacobs in his gold- 
 laced hat and shoulder-knots, sorrow upon his face, lock- 
 ing the great gates. Hateful thought — and she the 
 daughter of Dick of the Gallop ! And she who had stood 
 open-armed, warm-bosomed to England ! And this was 
 England ! And these proud eyes of the strong fighter
 
 THE CAT AND THE BAG 63 
 
 — she remembered them now — were to be purbhnded in 
 the dark — while the Carylls smiled at ease! Angry, in- 
 dignant, sore, alarmed, the debutante looked fiercely 
 about her world. 
 
 "Forgive me" — this was Ranald's voice — "I heard 
 Rodono talking. It's true, what he said of mc. I am 
 not judicious. I believe I'm glad of it. If every one 
 were judicious, justice would never be done. I know 
 Vernour, and intend to help him — indeed, I'm bound to 
 that, for he's in my constituency. He's a Westminster 
 freeman, and a fine fellow. No offence to you." 
 
 "Offence — no, no !" She was fingering breadcrumbs, 
 looked very uncomfortable — ^but raised her fine eyes to 
 his. "Captain Ranald, I must not talk about it — now— 
 now that I know — " She couldn't finish ; and then he 
 spoke vehemently to her, but under his breath. 
 
 "This place — ^this country — London, England — is not 
 fit for the likes of you to inhabit. A rat-pit of a coun- 
 try ! Who dares be honest.^ Who can afford it? Privi- 
 lege, privilege, privilege ! There's the sound of your 
 horse's hoofs — and down goes young Vernour. I should 
 like to tell you about him — some day." 
 
 She blushed, but she said, "Tell me now." But he would 
 not say much. 
 
 "When I'm free to speak — when I've got him out. I'll 
 tell you this, though : he's the last man in the world to be 
 served in this way, because he's sensitive. He's quick. 
 He feels himself strong — and that kind get dashed, and
 
 64} THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 hurt tliemselves. They kick at the pricks — and injus- 
 tice, or what's worse, indifference, bites inwards and cor- 
 rodes. They may poison the man through before 
 they've done with him. But there ! he's Mob — and you're 
 Family — and justice must be done, God save us! And 
 they wonder that I'm a reformer — and say that I wield 
 a muck-rake. Well, you must!" 
 
 She was regarding him now so earnestly, was so ab- 
 sorbed that he checked himself. "Let me advise you, 
 keep out of this affair. You can do nothing, absolutely 
 nothing. Nobody can do much but patch-work. We 
 liave to fight with unhallowed swords. You — if 3'ou ever 
 come into battle — must come like Joan of Arc, with a 
 sword pure from the altar. I'll follow you then. Ah, 
 you are going? Good-bye." 
 
 The ladies rose. Hermia took her place with the pro- 
 cession, but, as if by intention, her grandmother waited 
 for her, took her hand, and led her from the room. He 
 saw the girl blush, bite her lip, lower her eyes. 
 
 "All 3^our troubles before you, my dear," he said to him- 
 self. "She'll get mauled, but she'll come out somehow." 
 Then he helped himself to the claret.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 WHICH PRESENTS THE VIEW OF MISS HARRIET MOON 
 
 rr^HAT dinner-party had been in the second week of 
 ■*■ February, at which time also we must place that 
 crying letter of Miss Chambre's to Mary Fox — the 
 "Love me, Mary, love me still" letter — as I suspect; 
 and that other which records the disgraceful truth. 
 Why, being the girl we know her, she did not "have it 
 out" with old Lady Morfa has now to be explained. She 
 had already had a passage of arms with her, the reader 
 will recollect, over the cowering form of Miss Harriet 
 Moon, and had been victorious in that encounter. Here 
 she had a stronger case, and was herself the stronger for 
 victory ; and yet she contented herself with outpourings 
 to a IMary Fox ! 
 
 Well, first of all, she had to make sure of her ground ; 
 she had to find out the whole of the story as we know it 
 now. She must interrogate Jacob Jacobs, Progcrs, a 
 housemaid who had seen the tragedy from an attic win- 
 dow; she must learn that his lordship had been tipsy, 
 and his language "very free." She must find out 
 from Bob Ranald what he had at first withheld, that 
 David Yernour was an exceptional butcher — a politician 
 who was welcome at Wimbledon, a strong speaker, a
 
 66 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 superior young man. He had taught himself French, to 
 read Rousseau, Latin, "to break his teeth on Livy." 
 The Government was said to have an eye on him, and this 
 case of his imprisonment was interesting Cobbett. A 
 "man called Hazlitt" was said to be foaming at the 
 mouth on his account at Winterslow, in Wilts, and Lord 
 Sandgatc, a vehement nobleman, was prepared to use him 
 as a flail for the Westminster threshing-floor, if he could 
 get no better. Ranald had communicated with the pris- 
 oner, had seen him twice, and had heard from him. He 
 showed Miss Chambre a letter from him, excellently 
 turned, firm in tone and full of spirit. She saw, in her 
 mind's eye, the young man writing that — saw the stiff' 
 set of his head, the proud eyes of him which "look 
 through you and see that you are nothing." She was in- 
 tensely interested, full of passion for justice — and yet 
 she did nothing. She did less than nothing : she was even 
 civil to Uncle Morfa, believing him a sorry little knave, 
 and meek to her grandmamma, who, she was sure, was a 
 wicked old woman. She went about as usual from ball 
 to ball, gathering tributes and dispensing smiles. Din- 
 ners to Princes of Wales, signal honours of an alcove, 
 dubious honours of Mr. Sheridan's black eyes, duchesses' 
 routs, compliments to her beauty, men of fashion, wits, 
 dandies, macaronis in circles or half circles about her 
 chair, boxes at the opera, hats off' in the park, queen's 
 kisses, princesses's kisses — all done under the approving 
 eye of an old wolfish grandmamma who — and she knew it
 
 MISS MOON'S VIEW 67 
 
 now — had hated her father, scorned her mother, bullied 
 a thin Harriet, and was deliberately keeping an in- 
 jured man untried in gaol, and intended to keep him 
 there ! There were hours of the day, hours in the night, 
 when Miss Chambre felt her cheeks on fire, and suffered 
 such tumult at the heart that she knew not where to turn. 
 How was this to be explained? Why did her heart beat, 
 and why did she say nothing? The explanation is a 
 simple one, and I am coming to it. 
 
 First of all, it had become certain that Vernour was to 
 be kept in gaol, and not brought to trial until Caryll 
 House chose. She gathered this beyond doubt by over- 
 hearing grandmamma in talk with Uncle Morfa. It 
 was in the library, a long room of many baj^s. She had 
 come in for a book. Lord Morfa stood with his back to 
 the fire ; her ladyship, crutch in hand, was upright in a 
 chair. 
 
 "Do nothing, Roddy." — This was the lady. — "Leave 
 the matter in my hands. The man must be punished in 
 the proper way." 
 
 "Very well, ma'am — only, mind you, I've told ^^ou 
 what's going on. The Radicals have taken it up. Cob- 
 bett's at it, and Sandgate's asking questions in the 
 House." 
 
 "That is excellent. The IMinisters must answer them. 
 No doubt the man's a Jacobin." 
 
 "No doubt at all," said Lord Morfa. "I happen to 
 know he is."
 
 68 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "If anything more is said in the House, I'll see that 
 Mr. Pcrcival is properly instructed. You are ill — Lord 
 Edlogan's ill: nothing can be done. Bail is out of the 
 question." 
 
 "Well, I don't know, ma'am. Upon my honour " 
 
 "Pardon me, Roddy, but I know perfectly well. I have 
 been accustomed all my life to deal with persons of the 
 sort." 
 
 Miss Hermia Mary left the library bookless, and in a 
 tempest of feeling. Nothing she had ever heard of — 
 not Lord Edward's death in Newgate — equalled the pur- 
 posed tyranny of this. What would Captain Ranald say 
 to it ? What, alas ! could he do but impotently rage, 
 and appeal to a pitiless heaven? She paced the long cor- 
 ridors of Caryll House, ranged the suite of drawing- 
 rooms, those famous yellow silk-damask rooms, mirrored, 
 gilt-chaired, glassy-floored: she felt like a panther in a 
 cage. Had her eye roamed that cedared garden and seen 
 that gap in the wall of spikes it is not impossible that she 
 would have fled the shameful scene. Luckily for herself 
 she did not, but did, instead, a much more ordinary thing. 
 She talked ; girls must talk ; and there was nobody but 
 Harriet Moon. Talking to Harriet, she got a slap on 
 the cheek — a tonic slap. 
 
 A thin and pale girl was this Harriet, with abundance 
 of dark hair, a pathetic mouth, and the most pleading 
 brown eyes you ever saw in your life. Bound hand and 
 foot to Lady Morfa, she was a slave who did her best to
 
 MISS MOON'S VIEW 6& 
 
 keep her soul alive in her body, but did it, as she was 
 forced, in furtive ways of her own which did not always 
 commend themselves to her new-found champion. But 
 what little she had been able to win for herself she had 
 won by waiting for it ; she was cautious, because she was 
 timid, and reticent in self-defence. She was really 
 grateful to Hermia, and fond of her as far as she could 
 afford, but she would show neither gratitude nor affec- 
 tion until they were demanded of her. Although she al- 
 lowed herself to be kissed, and liked kissing as much as 
 anybody, she would never kiss back unless she was in- 
 vited. Perhaps she thought to enhance the value of her 
 kisses when they came by this means — ^but Miss Hermia 
 found that sort of thing a bore. And so was it a great 
 bore that Harriet could hardly be forced to speak her 
 real mind. The more of a mind she had the less easily 
 could she be forced. She uttered herself like the per- 
 sonages of modern novels, ending her sentences with, 
 dashes. 
 
 Interrogated, then, with passion upon the butcher's 
 wrongs and rights, she had a very scared look in her 
 brown eyes, and shrank visibly from committing herself 
 upon them. But to direct questions of the Yes or No> 
 order she had to reply that it was all quite true. Her 
 ladyship did intend that Vernour should stop in prison : 
 bail was to be refused, and not a sixpence paid for the 
 horse — for the present. How long could this go on? 
 She really hardly knew. Her ladyship would decide when
 
 70 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 the young man was sufficiently punished. Punished! 
 Yes, Miss Chambre might be assured that punishment 
 was intended. 
 
 Miss Chambre found herself trembling in front of 
 Harriet. 
 
 "Are you sure of this?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Chambre, quite sure." 
 
 "But — oh, heaven! What's to be done?" 
 
 "I really could not say. Miss Chambre." 
 
 Hermia stamped her foot. "You madden me with your 
 *Miss Chambres.* Why, the man's horse was killed — 
 killed by Lord Morf a — killed^ Harriet !" 
 
 Harriet's brown eyes were veiled by her fine, 
 curved lashes. She coloured slightly — a suffusion 
 under the skin; no more. "I have heard that it was 
 so." 
 
 "And do you tell me now that nothing is to be said of 
 that — no admission, no apology?" 
 
 "Apology! Oh, no, indeed — none." Harriet was now 
 bold enough to look at her flaming friend. "Her lady- 
 ship is convinced of a plot — some political conspiracy 
 against the family. I am sure she will do nothing now. 
 Her ladyship is very angry that any fuss has been made 
 — any notice taken at all. Those things — publicity, 
 especially — always make her indignant." 
 
 Hermia shinigged her shoulders. "I think grand- 
 mamma must be out of her senses. I really do, Harriet. 
 She appears to believe that she can treat people worse
 
 MISS MOON'S VIEW 71 
 
 than cattle. I shall tell her so. I shall ! Oh, Harriet, 
 what can I do?" 
 
 Harriet made very free. "If jou please — if you will 
 excuse me — - — " 
 
 *'Yes, yes, of course." 
 
 "I do hope that you will say nothing, do nothing at all. 
 Great harm would come of it. Her ladyship is peculiar, 
 and expresses herself — occasionally — " She succumbed 
 in confusion. Hermia opened her eyes wide. 
 
 "Expresses herself — ! Why should she not? Do you 
 mean against me? Why not? What could she sa}", but 
 call me a little Jacobin, or tell me not to talk rubbish? 
 Do you think I should mind that?" 
 
 No — it evidently was not that; it was worse, much 
 worse. Harriet really could not bring herself to say 
 what it was ; but of this she was sure, Miss Chambre would 
 rue the day when she spoke to her ladyship about Ver- 
 nour's horse. If she had wished to be bayed like a hunted 
 stag, she had her desire ; for now she was made to speak. 
 
 Holding her bosom, staring with her big eyes, she stam- 
 mered out her reading of Lady Morfa's mind. "Her 
 ladyship Avould say — oh, how can I tell you? I have no 
 right — I ought not ! But I wish to save you — you have 
 been so good to me — Hermia ! I may call you that !" 
 She was now in tears, so plainly distressed that it seemed 
 cruel to go on ; but Hermia was unrelenting, though kind 
 about it. 
 
 "Please tell me what you mean, Harriet — and don't sup-
 
 72 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 pose that I shall misunderstand you. I am sure you mean 
 me a service." 
 
 Miss Moon called heaven to witness the purity of her 
 intentions, and with sobs proceeded. "Her ladyship 
 would say — dear Hermia, forgive your friend — that 
 the man was quite a common person, but that, of course, 
 he was very handsome — and that you — that you had re- 
 marked upon that — and — that it was all very evident — " 
 and hereupon she dissolved into a heap on the carpet. 
 
 INIiss Chambre's most baffling quality was her simplicity. 
 It was real simplicity ; she read things as they were spelt. 
 To this uncomfortable avowal of Harriet's, then, she re- 
 plied with a fit of pondering, and the disconcerting ad- 
 mission, "Well, but he was handsome, remarkably so, I 
 thought. And what, pray — .?" but there she stopped in 
 answer to a look from Harriet's eyes, directed at her from 
 the floor — a look which she had never seen in any eyes 
 before, an educated, experienced look — which she could 
 read without any spelling at all, by the instinct which 
 young women have and don't need to learn. And as she 
 received this look, she started as if she had been whipped 
 over the face — started and stared, and stood wondering, 
 while the hot colour slowly tided over her, from the neck 
 upwards to the roots of her hair. And then to her fierce- 
 ness succeeded mildness ; and then she turned and slowly 
 left the room. 
 
 As for Harriet Moon, it is to be observed of her that 
 she rose from the carpet, and for some time after her
 
 MISS MOON^S VIEW 73 
 
 friend had left her walked the room in great agitation, 
 with her arms crossed over her bosom, as if to hug her 
 thought. Her sobbing had ceased, her eyes were bright, 
 but not with tears. Occasionally she lifted them to 
 heaven, or, let me say, the ceiling ; and at such times licr 
 face wore the sort of expression one would look for in 
 that of a virgin martyr.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN WHICH MISS CHAMBRE VEILS HER BLUSHES 
 
 A YOUNG, ardent, and pretty lady may decide that 
 her grandmamma is a vulgar-minded old woman and 
 rather horriblle, and yet, almost in the same flash of in«- 
 dignation, clearly see that the less scope she offers to that 
 vulgar mind the better for all concerned. Love of jus- 
 tice, tp be sure, is a verj'^ fine thing, for the which one 
 should gladly go through fire and water ; but how when 
 the fire is in the cheeks ? How when it's the eyes that are 
 to be drowned? It is a curious thing that the noblest 
 passion of women is the one which they can least bear 
 to have imputed. 
 
 When Miss Hermia Mary decided — as she did without 
 knowing it — that the victim must languish in his chains 
 so far as she was concerned, it cannot be denied that she 
 was right. Burning cheeks, flames of indignation are a 
 credit to a lady, and most becoming ; but she must be sure 
 that the fires are vestal, she cannot aff*o'rd a hint against 
 their honesty. Indeed, the moment that hint is possible, 
 they cease to become honest ; a hard saying, but so it is in 
 this world. Now, at Harriet's interpretation of her 
 grandmamma's mind, Miss Chambre had been first 
 amazed, then scornful, then indignant; but at the dis-
 
 MISS CHAMBRE VEILS HER BLUSHES 75 
 
 covery of her educated look, that piercing look of an 
 intelligence beyond her own, she had blushed and been 
 mild., She had come into conflict with something unsur- 
 mised, and it had quelled her. A seed of doubt had been 
 sown in the garden-plot of her mind. Like Eve in an- 
 other garden long ago, she could no longer be as she had 
 been now that she knew herself. Like Ev>e in that garden 
 of long ago, she ran sheltering into the brake, and made 
 herself an apron of leaves. 
 
 I can't pretend to exhibit w^iat is not to be seen. How 
 can I sa}^ what her private mind was when the wild young 
 creature, panic-struck, was cowering in covert? I don't 
 suppose she dared think at all ; but this much I know, 
 that she was very conscious of changed relations with 
 some of her little world ; that, for once, she went in awe 
 of her grandmother : that she was no longer anxious to 
 hear Captain Ranald upon the superiority of Vernour; 
 that she wished Lord Rodono to talk about himself ; and 
 that, on the other hand, she was dra^vn nearer to Miss 
 Harriet Moon — to become friend rather than patroness., 
 She did what she had never done in her life before — even 
 with Mary Fox— she talked with Harriet of Lord 
 Rodono's attentions, which were becoming marked, and 
 of other allied topics. Love-affairs had been abstractions 
 to her hitherto, the conventions of novelists and poets, 
 about as pertinent to life as the blue roses and blood-red 
 leaves upon the chintzes of 3^our bed. But now you 
 talked of them under your breath, and best in the twi-
 
 76 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 light under the kindly flicker of the fire ; now you became 
 curiously interested; you wondered, you paused to won- 
 der, and with a sigh gave over. And Harriet proved to 
 be an expert; so Harriet grew. The change in Harriet 
 herself, too, was very subtle; a little more decision, a 
 good deal more ease. She was more demonstrative, she 
 kissed more ; sometimes she touched Hermia's check, a 
 little stroking movement; and sometimes her arm would 
 steal round Hermia's waist, and she would whisper. She 
 was very discreet ; there was no question of involving 
 her friend in a common guilty secret; tlie change in her 
 was very subtle, but it was there. 
 
 All this time — not a word to Mary Fox in Kilbride of 
 the ^Tongs of A'^emour and his murdered horse. 
 
 But there may have been another reason for that, since, 
 about this end of February, there arose and spread over 
 London a cloud of thick darkness which may well have 
 swallowed up such troubles. A squalid romance, fester- 
 ing long in semi-secret, came to a head, and was rent. It 
 poisoned the moral atmosphere ; the soul sickened of that 
 which it must breathe or die. What was Honour if a 
 Duke of York could speak of it as his.^^ What was Love 
 if a Mary Ann Clark could enjoy it.'* What was the Jus- 
 tice M'orth whose ministers bandied quips with the crimi- 
 nal; and what Reform when its champions were leagued 
 with a shameless merchant of herself? Stultifying ques- 
 tions which the cleanest had to ask themselves in that 
 tainted London of February and March, when the town
 
 MISS CHAJVIBRE VEILS HER BLUSHES 
 
 t i 
 
 could talk of nothing but Mr. Clark, the Rival Princes, 
 Colonel Wardle, and Lord Sandgate; when Throne, 
 Church, Legislature, and Executive alike uncovered 
 their sores, and there seemed no difference in corruption 
 between arraigners and arraigned. Wliat wonder if a 
 young Eve, cowering in covert, was terrified out of her 
 new-bought knowledge of good and evil, when evil boasted 
 of its goodness, and goodness flaunted its core of evil? 
 In great Whig houses there was much appetite for the 
 offal cast up. The Whigs, like Pilate, had washed their 
 hands, and could afford to be merry at the expense of 
 of Princes and their bought loves. If the Duke had 
 bought Mrs. Clark, might she not buy the Duke.'* And 
 as for the Jacobins, exposing the precious pair, it was 
 not surprising that, chemin faisant, they should expose 
 themselves — bought also, in the very act of buying. 
 Old Lady IMorfa and her friends bickered over the 
 affair like moulting eagles at a carrion, and spared 
 neither age nor sex the details of their feast. It was an 
 age of strong stomachs, but we must suppose that young 
 ones like our Miss Hermia were troubled with qualms. 
 Nothing of the sort could hinder Lady IMorfa. She dis- 
 cussed the Duke of York and the Danae of Gloucester 
 Place in season and out. She said of the Duke — Charles 
 Fitz-Payn reports it — that you could expect no less of 
 persons who could eat — and over-eat — in public than 
 that they should occasionally be sick in public ; and for 
 her part, she failed to see that tlie rehef was more dis-
 
 78 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 gusting than the disease. This was said to Lord Crow- 
 land, who, whatever he may have thought of its taste, did 
 not choose to impugn its truth. But he. was doubtful, 
 he said, whether the present deplorable penance was 
 remedial. "I don't attempt," he said, "to disguise from 
 you my opinion of the Exalted Personage— nor of all 
 such Personages. I think it a safe inference to draw, 
 that a king may be dangerous because he must be ridicu- 
 lous. Now, if by House of Commons' pleasantries you 
 sho,w him to be preposterous, the possible danger be- 
 comes a certainty." 
 
 But Lady Morfa scouted danger. "Dangerous ! To 
 exhibit a poltroon ! How can it be dangerous ? Do we 
 not exist by maintaining it.^^ We brought them in as 
 much for this kind of performance as for any other that 
 I can call to mind at the moment." 
 
 "Helot-kings," murmured Fitz-Payn, who had been 
 dining at the house. "Helot-kings, eli.?" 
 
 "Precisely," said her ladyship, sipping her tea. 
 "Helot-kings sooner than helot-people. We foresaw 
 that in '89." She meant 1689, of course, the date of the 
 Redemption of Mankind. 
 
 Her son, the young Earl, not unconscious that he had 
 been playing helot-peer of late, took a less magisterial 
 view. Caryll House was "precious near" to Carlton 
 House in more senses than one ; and how were the vexa- 
 tions of a Frederick of York going to affect the com- 
 forts of a George of Wales? Roderick of Morfa did
 
 Miss CHAMBRE VEILS HER BLUSHES 79 
 
 not disguise from his circle that his ^oyal friend was un- 
 happy, '^rinny is touched, ma'am," he said openly ; 
 "he's badly hit— he'll take it hard." 
 
 Lord Rodono here observed that he was taking 
 it at Brighton; but the Earl had rnor.e anxieties to 
 consider. 
 
 "What," he cried, turning his suffering face to the 
 ceiling and the chandelier, "What's going to come to 
 Society, ma'am, if women of the town are to be asked 
 about.'' You'll find j^our Mrs. Clark at Lord B — 's and 
 Lord S — 's ; j^ou raise a thousand pound for your Ann 
 Taylor because she had a rip for a father and cried in 
 the witness-box. Damme, and what I say is this, where 
 are we going to be one of these days ? We have our little 
 troubles, you know. We may have tears in the witness- 
 box before long. If they can harry a Prince of the 
 Blood, I s'pose the}^ can harry a peer — eh?" 
 
 *'Never," said Lady ]\Iorf a firmly ; but her son was not 
 appeased. 
 
 "That's what Prinny says, ma'am. And Prinny's 
 right, as he always is — saving 3'our presence." 
 
 "I think that His Royal Highness may leave our af- 
 fairs to me," said Lady Morfa, with great decision, and 
 the conversation dropped by consent. 
 
 If the private sanctities of the most exalted persons are 
 to be outraged, if peers are to be flouted at their own 
 gates, where is the British Constitution, and how is that 
 to stand ? You attack the Throne, j^ou attack the House
 
 80 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 of Lords ; is there not a danger here ? Do you not dis- 
 locate the Fabric ? These were the questions put to Miss 
 Chambre by her early acquaintance, Mr. Aloysius Banks, 
 poet and flail of poets, 
 
 Mr. Banks, hovering on the brink of the great Clark 
 affair and the allied topic of the butchei-'s horse, could 
 not deny himself the privilege of instructing so lovely 
 a being. Moreover, it had been at her intercession that 
 & Norman house, one of the most guarded in London, 
 had opened its great gates to him — not to dine, it's true, 
 hut to a party, to mingle familiarly with those who had 
 dined. He felt a glow, and he exhaled it. 
 
 He pointed out that no number of private wrongs could 
 justify a public wrong; that England was a great na- 
 tion whose citadel had been reared by centuries of heroic 
 suffering. The blood of the martyrs — let it flow, let it 
 flow! Thus would the Ck>nstitution flourish. The body- 
 politic, that wondrous harmony of King — Lords — Com- 
 mons, must endure throughout the ages, cost what it 
 might in the blood of beasts — ^he meant the butcher's 
 horse — or the groans of stricken men — he meant the 
 butcher. The Constitution was a lighthouse on a rock 
 at sea, upholding the ray above tumult and riot, INIen 
 might drown on their floating spars, a ship might 
 founder, and homes be desolate; but they of the House 
 must feed the flame — ^tbeai) duty first and last. Let the 
 appointed vestals — he meant Lords Morf a and Edlogan 
 — see to it. Public opinion would support them, tliough
 
 MISS CHAMBRE VEILS HER BLUSHES 81 
 
 faction should snarl — he meant the butcher — and 
 grudge them service — he meant the butcher's horse. 
 
 Miss Chambre neither flushed nor paled, ha^-ing opin- 
 ions of her OTVTi upon these matters, and being patrician 
 enough to ignore those of a Mr. Banks if thej did not 
 coincide. I think that she was never so inveterate a 
 Caryll as when she played Jacobin. She had no inten- 
 tion of entering debate with Mr. Banks, and when Lord 
 Rodono came up with a bow and a kiss for her hand, 
 she rose, took his arm, and left the philosopher. 
 
 "Wlio's 3'our mortified friend?" she was asked, and 
 explained him, a critic who as good as owned to having 
 slain a poet. Lord Rodono tliought it very possible that 
 he had also eaten him and found that he disagreed; and 
 then he went on to speak of Vernour and his horse. 
 That case was growing to be a scandal ; here was March 
 upon us, and no thought of a trial. It would end by 
 making him a Radical, he said, and then he would move 
 for a Habeas Corpus. "Cobbett's at it now,*' he told 
 her, "and is going to be nast3% I'll tell you how I know 
 that. He's speaking the truth." 
 
 "Do you mean that that is not his practice .f'" 
 
 "This is what I mean. YVIien Cobbett has a bad case, 
 he's not above improving it. He'll drag in the Orders 
 in Council, or the Six Acts, or Smut in the Hops, or the 
 Pension Lists — anything. But here he feels that he has 
 a good one — too good to touch. Fll show you the 
 Register — pretty strong writing. He gives the bare
 
 82 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 facts in twenty lines of print, and no more. I tell you it 
 looks bad. There's to be a shindy. I feel it in the air." 
 
 Miss Chambre no longer faced him as of late — like the 
 young Diana, as he had been pleased to think, as tense as 
 her bowstring. She looked down at her foot tracing pat- 
 flems on the carpet, and with her head thus hung asked 
 him, What she ought to do? 
 
 The question flattered him, for he was falling in lo\^ ; 
 but he had nothing heroic to propose. "Whatever you 
 do will do justice harm. You'll make it worse for the 
 fellow ; and you'll make the very mischief for yourself. 
 Surely you see that? Motives will be imputed. Look 
 at this infernal affair in the House. Do you see that man 
 over there?" She looked in the direction intended, and 
 saw a tall, thin, and pale gentleman with intensely black 
 hair, and eyes like Mr. Sheridan's, who stood talking to 
 nobody in the middle of the room. "That's Sandgate,'* 
 he told her. "That's the fellow who doesn't understand 
 that the Rights of Man won't do here. If he gets to 
 know that you are at loggerheads with your family in 
 this, Sandgate'll make a handle of you without mercy. 
 He's a fanatic — he's dangerous because he's no scruples. 
 He says that if you are for cleaning up the British 
 Constitution you can't afford to wear gloves." 
 
 She had heard of Lord Sandgate, whose conduct in the 
 Clark affair had made scandal ; she observed him with in- 
 terest. He was bowing to a great lady at the moment, 
 stooping over her hand. She remarked upon his air of
 
 MISS CHAiMBRE VEILS HER BLUSHES 83 
 
 breeding. Oh, Rodono would allow that he was a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 "What else can a man be?" said she. 
 
 "Well, he can be a regicide," said Rodono. 
 
 "And is Lord Sandgate a regicide?" 
 
 "Ah, I don't go so far as that. But I will affirm that 
 if he could induce certain distinguished persons to felo 
 de S3, he would be satisfied with the day's work. He's 
 perfectly sincere, mind you, aad that is why he's dan- 
 gerous. He truW believes that Castlereagh is a villain- — 
 which is nonsense ; and is sure that the Wellesle3's have 
 England by the throat. He strangles in his own stock 
 when he remembers it." 
 
 He returned to he<r own affairs, and the more readily be- 
 cause he found a new note in her which charmed him, 
 a note of timidity, of maiden bashfulness, of softness. 
 Beautiful as he had alwa3"s found her, he had sometimes 
 thought her over bold. There was nothing' of the sort in 
 her now. 
 
 "Don't upset yourself," he told her. "I'll do what I 
 can. He must be got out, of course — and he shall be. 
 But I'll muzzle old Cobbett and send Bob Ranald off to 
 sea. I'll do everything — anything — for you." He felt 
 very tender, and stopped himself there; but when she 
 gave him her hand he held it for a moment. 
 
 "You are very kind to me," she said Mhen she had re- 
 covered her hand. "I am grateful, indeed. I feel so 
 much alone here. My people — even my brother — see
 
 84 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 things differently. I have no one to talk with of what 
 papa and I were always full — ^I mean right things, noble 
 things — justice and — equality. Oh!" she cried out, and 
 her eyes filled ; "this is a horrible place." 
 
 It was comical, he felt, though he was a good deal 
 touched by it, A fellow the more in gaol — and a lovely 
 girl in tears for him! What the devil was it all about.'' 
 I think it shows how puzzled he was that he began to 
 want to dispose of her somehow. He advised her to go 
 do^vn to Petersham, to his sister Grizel and her crocuses. 
 She should go down and stay — Grizel would be proud. 
 "Take yourself down there," he said, "and make your- 
 self comfortable. It's a pretty place, and nobody in it 
 but Grizel and the parent." The parent was the Earl 
 of Drem. 
 
 Hermia thanked him. Yes, she would like tliat, if 
 Lady Grizel would not mind and grandmamma would 
 allow it. But grandmamma had ideas about young 
 ladies' escorts. Did Lord Rodono think that Harriet 
 IMoon would do for chaperon? He thought she 
 would do excellently. "I'll tell you what," he said, "I'll 
 drive you down, if you'll come. Let's go and ask my 
 lady." 
 
 Grandmamma was found to be in a good humour. 
 Moon might go, certainly, she said, if Hermia wished it. 
 She had no immediate use for Moon. But Lord 
 Rodono's coachmanship was plainly declined. 
 
 So in due time Miss Hermia went down to Petersham,
 
 MISS CHA^IBRE VEILS HER BLUSHES 85 
 
 to hide and, she hoped, to bury hei* troubles — in the 
 Caryll chariot, with Moth in the rumble ; and found 
 Lady Grizel among her crocuses, a sandy-haired, gentle 
 lady of certain years and fixed views upon marriage. 
 Lord Drem was "somewhere about," spudding daisies on 
 a lawn.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 AVHICn BRINGS LORD MORFA TO PETERSHAM 
 
 13EACEFUL days, balmy of spring, of crocuses, bud- 
 "^ ding lilacs, bursting thorn, live green vistas, suc- 
 ceeded ; days of rest, refreshment, and the readjustment 
 of balances warped by London. The young novice in 
 affairs recovered her tone, and with that her virgin 
 acerbity ; before the end of this chapter she will be found 
 — contacta nulUs ante cupid'mibus — hectoring Harriet 
 Moon, much as her prototj'pe, the Huntress of Arcady, 
 rated the too-fond Callisto. Politics were unknown at 
 Petersham, for Lprd Drem thought of nothing but short- 
 horns and Border antiquities, and to Lady Grizel horti- 
 culture was almost a guilty passion. She was, for the 
 rest, an amiable lady, incurably placid, who apparently 
 set no bounds to her philanthropy. She had Harriet 
 Moon knitting comforters for orphans before she had 
 been in the house four and twenty hours, and bade her 
 guests good-night at ten o'clock to go and sit up until 
 daylight with one of the maids, who had a quinsy and 
 was feverish. But her influence was no mere sedative ; 
 it was corrective and tonic. If she had no predilections 
 for politics, she had no prejudices either. The monu- 
 mental inertia cf the Whigs did not make her angry,
 
 LORD MORFA AT PETERSHAjM 87 
 
 tiie gusty strivings of the reformers after a new heaven 
 and a new earth only made her smile. Silly folk! when 
 the ribes was in flower and the bees hung about it. She 
 was some years older than her brother Rodono, and as- 
 sured Hermia that she had known a great deal more of 
 Lord Edward than he ever had. "I knew him well 
 enough to love him," she said, "and to see tliat he was a 
 perfect little goose. He had his flowers at Frascati, and 
 his Pamela, and his devoted, dear, foolish mamma — what 
 more could the man want?" For all that, she was pleased 
 to know that Rodono had joined the Reformers. Hermia 
 had not known it, but such was the fact. There had 
 been a dinner at Sir Francis's, in Piccadilly, and a meet- 
 ing at the Crown and Anchor, where Rodono, introduced 
 by Mr. Ranald,had spoken — quite well. "It seems that this 
 is your doing, my dear," she continued, "and honestl}' 
 I'm much obliged to you. It will give the dear fellow 
 something to do and keep him out of mischief. Since he 
 left the army he's thought of little but horses. I've been 
 uneasy about him." 
 
 Miss Chambre had been confused at this revelation of 
 her influence, but Lady Grizel seemed to have no doubts. 
 "Tom thinks very highly of you,Hermia,and I cannot see 
 why you should not be told. It is a great thing to make 
 him serious, and no real harm can come to him. He's not 
 like Mr. Ranald at all — not the kind whom they send to 
 the Tower. He's very amusing, but that is because 
 everything amuses him — even politics. I'm sure it's a
 
 88 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 very good thing, since he has to be in Parhament. It 
 wouldn't amuse me at all — at least, it hasn't hitherto. 
 But if Rodono is to be a Refonner, I suppose I must 
 see what I can do." 
 
 Old Lord Drcm took much ojff his daughter's tolerant 
 view. When he had been Rodono's age, he admitted, he 
 had been involved in politics, but now he knew better. "I 
 do not often find myself in agreement with Monsieur Vol- 
 taire," he told Hermia, "but I must say that if everybody 
 was as good a gardener as Grizel there would be no poli- 
 tics, because there would be no time for them. I am told 
 that your bright eyes, my dear, have turned my son to 
 digging other people's ground. It is to be hoped that 
 he'll dig more vigorously there than he has done in his own 
 seed-plot. Curiosity will help him, possibly. No, no, 
 I make no complaints of your brother, Grizel — don't 
 think it. But I fail to see how a young man can remove 
 motes if he has showTi no disposition to engage with 
 beams — the Scriptures are with me, I believe — and 
 I doubt whether much will come of it. A Reformer, 
 you tell me? Well, well, we are all of us that, I 
 hope." 
 
 This was all very wholesome and tonic. It reduced 
 murdered horses to nonual proportions, and bare-headed 
 young heroes too. When Lord Rodono paid the ladies 
 a visit, he found that he could make himself welcome 
 without fresh details of tyranny ; and as he had nothing 
 to report, he was glad to be spared the pains of inven-
 
 LORD MORFA AT PETERSHA:M 89 
 
 tion. He rowed them on the river and talked nonsense — 
 a much better plan. 
 
 But another visitor — shot suddenl}^ out of the blue, in a 
 dog-cart of a bright red colour, with two skittish chest- 
 nuts driven tandem — caused a great commotion among 
 the Petersham crocuses. This was Lord Morf a's appari- 
 tion, not to be accounted for by avuncular interest in Miss 
 Chambre, nor by esteem for Lady Grizel's virtues. How- 
 ever, he came, he descended from his cart wonderfully ar- 
 rayed, was exceedingly affable to the ladies, and full of 
 explanations. He had brought, he said, letters for Hermy 
 and various messages from her grandmother ; he hoped 
 that Lady Grizel would forgive the scant ceremony 
 which he had shown her. But town was monstrously 
 dull, upon his word of honour, and he owned that he had 
 jumped at the chance of doing Hermy a service, prin- 
 cipally because it would serv^e his own purpose exactly. 
 The country was his passion, it would seem ; he was never 
 so happy as when he was at Wrensham or Morfa, or 
 some of his places. Flowers now! No one could help 
 liking flowers. Lady Giizel must give liim some 
 wrinkles ; she must, indeed — and he would take notes. 
 He dared not trust his memory. 
 
 He really did his best to be agreeable, and was so happy 
 that he became so. Hermia had never liked him so well ; 
 he was turned into a frolicsome youth in place of the 
 withered, young-old dandy he showed to be in London. 
 He took the two girls out in the tandem-cart, ate curds
 
 90 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 and whey at Richmond, patted the shorthorns, admired 
 the crocuses, and listened for three-quarters of an hour 
 to Lord Drem's account of his researches into the Raid 
 of the Reidswire, which Ritson had so needlessly ob- 
 scured. When, in the course of the afternoon, Miss 
 Chambre retired to read her letters, she left him under 
 this learned torment, bearing it like a little gentleman. 
 (He called Lord Drem "sir," and she had thought that 
 admirable. ) But when she paused presently in her writ- 
 ing, and looked out of the window, there he was disap- 
 pearing up the long grass walk with Harriet Moon. It 
 was then that Hermia remembered the tell-tale brown 
 eyes. What did this mean.'' 
 
 Lord ]\Iorfa stayed to dinner, sat after it with his host, 
 drank tea with the ladies, heard Harriet sing and Lady 
 Grizel play the harp, and did not take himself away until 
 near ten o'clock. They heard his post-horn after that 
 as far as Richmond Hill. Harriet sat in her friend's 
 room, plainly listening for it — tense and bright by the 
 open window — until Hermia drove her to bed in order 
 that she might get into her own. But there, though she 
 lay snug enough, she was by no means able to sleep. She 
 had seen much in the course of that evening; Uncle 
 ]\Iorfa's attentions were not to be mistaken ; nor, if un- 
 easy fingers, downcast eyes, ajid sidelong looks at the 
 company were any evidence, was it possible to doubt that 
 Harriet was flattered. Poor, foolish Harriet — ^but 
 really, what was to be done.'* Oh, nothing, nothing! "I
 
 LORD MORFA AT PETERSHA^I 91 
 
 can't tilt at all Uncle IMorfa's windmills," she groaned, 
 restless in her bed. "The little wretch sets them up like 
 mushrooms." Well, but was a poor brown-eyed Harriet, 
 who had barely snatched her soul from the talons of a 
 grandmamma, now to place it, a trembling gift, into the 
 paws of an Uncle Morfa, of a crony of the Prince's.'' 
 Very doubtful tales were whispered about this young 
 man — she knew just that much and no more. She re- 
 membered now again his conduct — above all, his ap- 
 pearance — in the Vernour affair. Atrocious ! Did it not 
 stamp him finally? 
 
 And yet he had been charming that afternoon^ — for all 
 the world like a boy home for the holidays. If that, 
 after all, were the real Morfa .f* No — there had been a 
 reason for that. He could stoop to please when he 
 wanted something — all his kind could. He wanted Har- 
 riet, it appeared; did not that prove him a monster.'* 
 Harriet — a little amanuensis — who cried in corridors and 
 had experience behind her eyes. There was another Lord 
 Morfa, wicked, tipsy, passionate. She grew hot all over 
 as the initial scene of her entry into London came back 
 to her. Too surely that was the real jMorfa — that swear- 
 ing, over-dressed lad, swung like a rag-doll by David 
 Vernour — a man, he, if ever there was a man. Start 
 that young man bare in the lists, and he would give an ' 
 account of himself above all the Morfas, Crowlands, 
 Rodonos of this world. Whereas — strip Uncle Morfa of 
 his high-waisted coat and rolled collar, unwind his great
 
 92 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 stock, pull him dowTi from his curricle, and what was 
 there left but a little white-faced boy of unwholesome 
 tastes? Such thoughts as these inflamed her and upset 
 her crocus-resL 
 
 In the morning Harriet, after much hesitation, and, as 
 if driven by a kind of fate, opened upon Lord Morfa's 
 visit. ^ - > "I heard tlie horn at midnight, Hermy," 
 she said — her face not to be seen. She was leaning 
 on tlie ledge of tlie window looking out towards Rich- 
 mond. 
 
 "Then you must have listened for it, my dear," she was 
 briskly told. 
 
 "Oh, Hermy ! indeed " 
 
 "Why should you be hurt? But I think you are a 
 goose, for all that- Why should he blow horns at mid- 
 night ? And he drives like the wind- It is the one thing 
 he can do." 
 
 "Oh, Hermy, you are unfair. But — you think he 
 drove directly to town.^ I could not help fancying. 
 . . . Do you think he did.''" 
 
 "I don't tliiuk about him at alL Why should I.?" 
 
 "No, no — of course not. Why should you.?" 
 
 "Harriet, do you.''" 
 
 The girl turned a blenched faoe from the window where 
 she sat. 
 
 "Oh, never, never, Hermy, I vow to you — oh, never, 
 never, never ! How could I dare to lift up my eyes ? He 
 is most kind to me — all that is kind. I think of him with
 
 LORD MORFA AT PETERSHA:M 93 
 
 gratitude and respect. To me — to such as I am — he 
 must ever be noble — and splendid- Oh, what must you 
 think of me !" 
 
 She was vehemently on the defensive — too vehemently. 
 She looked fierce and tragic — fierce and tragic about 
 Lord jMorf a ! And what on earth did she mean by 
 her "noble and splendid".'' Hermia's hp curved in 
 scorn. 
 
 "Noble ! Splendid ! I don't think you can know what 
 those words mean. Is it possible that you beheve him 
 noble and splendid.'"' 
 
 Harriet quailed. "You mean about — I know what you 
 mean now. I don't understand how you take such an in- 
 terest in — But, of course, in your position — May I say 
 that you are severe.'"' 
 
 "I don't think that you may. IVIr. Vemour has been in 
 gaol for six weeks. And Lord Morfa disports himself 
 here !" 
 
 Harriet could be bold on occasion, it seemed. She de- 
 fended Lord Morfa. "It was because of the indignity ; 
 he could not suffer it. A scuffle — within his own gates !" 
 And now Miss Chambre stared — her Dian look. 
 
 "You use very strange words, I think. Indignit}- ! 
 How can there be indignity done to what has no dig- 
 nity.?" Harriet was driven to her last trench; but she 
 tried a shift or two. 
 
 "You press me hard — not very kindly. I can't an- 
 swer vou, and I oucrlit not. Lord ]\Iorfa is vour rela-
 
 94 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 live — you may say what you please of him ; but he is the 
 son of my benefactress, of my patroness — I will ask you 
 to remember that." 
 
 " Miss Chambre thawed at once. "You dear creature, 
 I'm a wretch — and you're very loyal. That's what I 
 try to be. We see things differently. Forgive me." 
 Harriet was allowed to cry upon her ' bosom — but 
 Hermia had no more to say to her of Lord ]Morfa, or 
 of anybody else. 
 
 That afternoon marks a stage in her career. She went 
 into the library after luncheon, searched for the book of 
 her mind, found it, and never stirred until she had finished 
 it. She read every word, from its sublime initial fallacy 
 to the end of the first part — rhetoric or sophistry, what 
 you choose to call it, it was necromancy to her ; at every 
 strophe of its exalted argument shapes rose, shapes sank, 
 as their essential manhood was revealed beneath their 
 rent vesture. 
 
 "Titles are but nicknames, and every nickname is a 
 title. The thing is perfectly harmless in itself ; but it 
 marks a sort of foppery in the human character, which 
 degrades it. . . . " 
 
 "The French constitution says. There shall be no 
 titles ; and of consequence, all that class of equivocal 
 generation is done away ;. and the peer is exalted into 
 Man. ..." 
 
 "It is properly from the elevated mind of France that 
 the folly of titles has fallen. It has outgrown the baby
 
 LORD MORFA AT PETERSHAM 95 
 
 cloaths of Count and Duke, and breeched itself in man- 
 hood:' 
 
 Breeched itself in manhood ! O rare Tom Paine ! She 
 arose from her perusal and paced the library in a state of 
 indescribable exaltation. She knew that she was trem- 
 bling, and she knew why. The Rights of Man, to what 
 ai*m can carve, or brain wield, or heart command — she 
 owned to them all. The Rights of Woman, what were 
 they? To what heart can crave, and soul need, and body 
 supply. And all these rights could be reduced to two: 
 the Right of JMan to take, and of Maid to give. 
 
 Lady Grizel came to find her out, to take her for a 
 w^alk. They were to go to Twickenham to visit in a 
 clergyman's family. The good man's lady had recently 
 presented him with a child — -a fine little boy. Wholesome 
 descent from the heights for bur young energumen. 
 Lady Grizel might always be trusted for that sort of 
 tiling.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN WHICH WE SEE FAMILY MAGNANIMOUS 
 
 r I "^ HE memory of Jane Countess of Morf a will un- 
 ■*■ doubtedly endure in the minds of all those to whom 
 the Regency day appeals, either as the end of the old or 
 the beginning of the new English order, and substantial 
 justice will be done to her if she is recorded as a strong- 
 hold of Privilege, one of the flanking towers of that 
 Bastille, built in 1688, shaken in 1789, and condemned 
 as unsafe in 1832. A tower she was, one of the last to 
 yield to time and the age, and yielding, when she must, 
 inch by inch. We shall have to see her at it. But as I 
 desire to remind the reader that she was a human being, 
 as well as an Institution, I must declare that she was by 
 no means without some natural emotions. She loved her 
 children and her children's children, and would have 
 fought for them as keenly as any woman born. She had 
 real benevolence, too, for other inhabitants of our globe 
 — ^her cousin Sefton, her friend Lord Crowland, her 
 county neighbour the Duke, and her brother, the 
 IMarquis of Badlesmere. If she stopped there, more or 
 less- — and she did — it was not because she had exhausted 
 the world of objects of interest, but because you can't 
 love people in masses unless you are a philanthropist or
 
 FAMILY INIAGNANIMOUS 97 
 
 a clergyman. She was neither. The world, no doubt, 
 did contain so many millions of souls, souls, indeed, resi- 
 dent in persons whom one met in society or heard of in 
 the House of Lords ; she had no reason to dispute that, 
 and no concern. But these were hirelings, after all — 
 and one does not precisely love one's housemaids. These 
 millions were of the sort whom, in one way or another, 
 one paid to do things for one. A Secretary of State? 
 Well, one pays him. Sir Arthur Wellesley? He is for 
 hire. A king, a king son's, an archbishop, a Chancellor.'' 
 *^My dear lord," she would say in her scissor-tones, 
 "there is no difference in kind between the Prince of 
 Wales and my mantua-maker. Li degree there is much, 
 and highly in favour of Madame Pelerine. She is not 
 nearly so extravagant, and does her work cheerfully." 
 This beincT so, and I do but state it as I find it, it ma^- 
 be conceived how her philosophy had been disturbed of 
 late, since she had been forced to recognise the existence 
 of a person — a tradesman and a butcher — in grief for 
 his son, and of such a man's son in gaol, awaiting his 
 trial. The lion in the fowler's net is a good enough 
 parallel. She ran through a swelling series of shocks ; 
 she had been surprised, amused, amazed, interested, in- 
 credulous, bored by turns. Then presently she grew 
 angry, and at last all her phases of feeling, churning in 
 her bile, drove in and in upon her nature, and she felt 
 nothing but a deep-set resentment at the infamy which 
 dared to threaten her. She was goaded into action. Dis-
 
 98 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 gusted at every step, she ordered the Caryll host ; and her 
 disgust, far from paralysing her efforts, gave them vehe- 
 mency and persistence. Her way was made unex- 
 pectedly easy by the news that Vernour was of the Re- 
 form party ; this had but to be known in the right quar- 
 ter. She never, in so many words, gave Justice the nod ; 
 no direct message was ever sent to any one ; she did her 
 business much too well for that. It got to be understood 
 that young Vernour was a seditious rogue, better in the 
 King's Bench — and there young Vernour lay from Jan- 
 uary until the middle of March. 
 
 She was not vindictive — vengeance upon a tradesman, 
 absurd ! — but she was very angry, and sure that she did 
 Avell. Mr, Aloysius Banks, of The Edinburgh Reviezc, 
 took leave to agree with her. Sharp examples were 
 necessary if persons were to be taught their places in the 
 scheme of polity, in these times above all when Clamour 
 and Faction had combined against Order. If outcry was 
 to be raised against kings, whom Families had estab- 
 lished, how long, pray, before Families themselves were 
 to be arraigned.'' That disgraceful affair of the Duke 
 of York's, now ! Of course, the man deserved what he 
 got, but, of course, half the uproar had been aimed be- 
 yond him — to Windsor and to Brighton. That was to 
 be understood, and she was not one to quarrel with it. 
 No Radical on a tub could^ despise royalty more than 
 that great lady. But she was forced to tell herself over 
 and over again, as she beheld, not without some satis-
 
 FAMILY MAGNANIMOUS 99 
 
 faction of her extreme contempt, the flounderings, snort- 
 ings, and bellowings of that harried Prince-Bishop of 
 York and Osnaburgh, that there but for the grace of 
 God floundered Roderick Earl of Morfa. There, grace 
 of God or none, must he never flounder ! A trial of Vcr- 
 nour, evidence against Vernour, were unthinkable ; an 
 Earl of Morfa in the witness-box ! Forbid it, heaven ! 
 Time after time, then, the young man was remanded, bail 
 refused; and as the Press was too busy to heed him 
 and the Duke of York large in the mob's e^^e, it really 
 seemed that Heaven had gone into partnership with an, 
 old dragon of a countess fighting for her order behind 
 her spiked walls. She held on, and she won. INIarch was 
 all but over, Lord Castlereagh was now the unmasked 
 villain of the hour, when Vernour the elder lost his nerve, 
 drooped his insolent head, made his prayer of humble ac- 
 cess at the tradesmen's gate one windy morning, and was 
 admitted into the presence of an off'ended patron. 
 
 She had expected him, waited for him, and now she had 
 him on his miserable knees. She was very capable of 
 playing out the scene with the majesty of a Siddons ; but 
 she didn't play it at all. It was too real and too serious 
 for histrionics ; she sat holding her crutch, nodding, 
 blinking her fierce eyes, working her lips — no longer 
 angry, but deeply incensed. Vernour the elder, by the 
 door, a fine, upright man, grey-haired and grey-whis- 
 kered, with a lined, dignified old face on him, bowed his 
 head as he humbled himself — a person in the presence
 
 100 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 of Family. "My lady, I ask your pardon for my boy, 
 I ask it on my knees. Indeed I do, my lady — in a bitter 
 day for me. He forgot himself, my lady — my unfortu- 
 nate son. He has a spirit — he is quick " 
 
 A butcher with spirit ! Quick ! This was too much for 
 Lady Morfa. 
 
 "Vemour, you are talking nonsense, and I cannot have 
 ib. It was not spirit, it was insolence. Such things are 
 not to be borae. You see where they may lead — where 
 they must lead." 
 
 He was very feeble now, admitting everything or any- 
 thing. 
 
 "No, my lady, no, it is so. I know that he forgot him- 
 self — and dearly, dearly he's paid for it. Dearly — oh, 
 dearly. Six weeks in gaol, with rips and street-walkers — 
 my boy ! My lady, he's my only son. . . . Why !" — he 
 stared at his offended god — "why, my lady, 'tis enough 
 to make a Radical of the lad. It is indeed." 
 
 "Man," said Lady Morfa, throwing back her head, "he 
 is a Radical. Detestable." 
 
 Vemour shook his. "Ay, my lady, 'tis to be feared. 
 I've known that to come of such a trial. I've known a 
 young man go to gaol through no fault of his own, and 
 come out after serving his time — and if he stop out 
 thereafter 'twill be through no fault of his own. My 
 lady, a man must speak up for his son — and such a son 
 as he's been to me !• A good lad, my lad}^ a clever, studi- 
 ous, spirited "
 
 FAMILY MAGNANIMOUS 101 
 
 Oh, unlucky word! "Veniour, I can't have it, and I 
 will noL Spirited ! Do you know what was done ? Do 
 you know that his lordship was — touched? Touched by 
 your son — touched on the collar?" That was as near 
 to tlie fact as she could get herself to go. "Do you know 
 that Lord Edlogan was also touched — ^touched upon the 
 — ah, person? Do you know what these things mean? 
 They mean Revolution, man ; they mean the breakdo^m 
 of the Constitution. They must be dealt with — and they 
 have been dealt with. If persons act in this way, whole 
 classes of persons may act so ; and society, and decency, 
 and proper order must cease to exist. You are a sensible 
 man, Vernour, and must surely perceive it." 
 
 "Yes, my lady, yes, indeed," says broken old Vernour. 
 
 "Very well. Then don't come to me talking of spirit, 
 because that tells me that you hope to justify what can- 
 not and must not be justified." 
 
 "It has iTiined my son, my lady ; it has gone near to 
 niin me. I've been in business now for forty years — 
 notliing but tlie best families, my lady — and can scarce 
 hold my head up again." 
 
 Her ladyship was not impressed. "I tliink you have 
 held it too high, Vernour, indeed I do. If 3'ou have been 
 taught to hold it more becomingl}' for tlie future, this 
 lesson will not have been without benefit. And your most 
 unliappy son — let him be encouraged by this to learn 
 how to keep his station in life- Latin ! French ! I never 
 heard such nonsense. How can you be surprised that
 
 102 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 he's a Radical? Why, he might be — a pickpocket on 
 these terms. But I have no wish to be harsh, now that 
 you have come to your senses — none at alh I will speak 
 to his lordship, use my influence with Lord Edlogan, with 
 his Grace. I don't suppose that there is any desire to 
 punish you for your son's offence ; and I understand 
 from you now that he is truly penitent, and not likely to 
 indulge his wicked, most wicked feelings of disrespect 
 again. Is that so?" 
 
 "Let me assure your ladyship " 
 
 "Assure me by your actions, Vernour, and let your son 
 assure me. That is all I have to say upon this distress- 
 ing affair. No doubt the young man will now be set at 
 liberty — and may resume his — ah, duties, here and else- 
 where. I have no Avish, I say, to be harsh. And I will 
 speak with his lordship about the horse. Possibly, under 
 the circumstances, he may be willing to consider what 
 might be done." 
 
 "A blood horse — cost me thirty guineas — " old 
 Vernour Avas understood to murmur. Up went Lady 
 Morfa's head again, like the royal standard on a 
 birthday. 
 
 "Thirty guineas ! Oh, ridiculous ! A person — that 
 walk of life — a thirty guinea horse ! Why, my grand- 
 son, Mr. Chambre, gave no more than sixty for his 
 hackney. I am quite at a loss — Oh, ridiculous !" 
 
 "Very good, my lady," says poor Vernour. Lady 
 Morfa was now sick of him.
 
 FAMILY MAGNANIMOUS 103 
 
 "I will speak to his lordship — can make no promise, of 
 course. That is all, I think, Vernour." 
 
 But he had to crawl a little nearer; business was busi- 
 ness still. Her lad3'ship's patronage and custom — .'' 
 Her ladyship reassured him ; he could call as usual. She 
 cut short his gratitude, waved him out, and went away 
 to wash her hands. A very hateful, distressing affair. 
 
 And there, so far as she was concerned, the incident 
 ended; yet just there, in a sense, it may be said to have 
 begun. Famil}', or Franchise (according to Mr. AI03'- 
 sius Banks), is a living thing, with a spirit as well as a 
 body to it, which bloweth where it listeth. We have now 
 to see it take a flight as high as strange. But Vernour 
 the 3'ounger was brought up before the magistrate for the 
 seventh time, and as no evidence was offered against him, 
 and no remand applied for, he was set at liberty. A few 
 mornings later his horse might have been seen tethered to 
 the Caryll House railings, and himself, bareheaded, in 
 blue frock and apron, at the tradesman's door, awaiting 
 custom or riding his tray. And had his lordship passed 
 out or in, not a doubt but that the young man would have 
 touched his forelock — for, business being business, only 
 insensate rage can obscure a lord from British eyes. IMr. 
 Cobbett, it is true, did give a line or two to the thing in 
 the ensuing Register; but the front page was occupied by 
 Lord Castlereagh and the new Reding job. Mutterings, 
 foamings from a man Hazhtt at Winterslow were noth- 
 ing. No ; there was an end of it, certainly, so far as 
 Lady Morfa was concerned.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 WHICH FORFEITS MR. TOUCHETT THE ENTREE 
 
 l^ISS CHAMBRE came back to CaryU House early 
 ■^ -'-in April, in excellent spirits and blooming health. 
 Petersham had done its work. Her checks were glowing, 
 her bosom abud; her wit overflowed. Gentlemen at 
 parties fell befoi-e her like butterflies to a high wind. 
 My Lord Edlogan changed his course of life, and di'ank 
 negus ; Lord Rodono presented a petition to the House 
 of Commons ; Lord Sandgate sought an introduction ; 
 IMr. Banks wrote a poem, "To Miss H. C, on returning 
 to Town." It was even rumoured that tlie Prince of 
 Wales had asked two or three times if she was to be seen 
 yet, and tliat Lady H — was greatly chagrined. She 
 was taken everywhere, and everywhere admired, and 
 seemed to have entirely recovered from her former fever. 
 But there was a good reason for that. The Rights of 
 ]\Ian were drowned in the domestic afi^ections. Dick 
 Chambre, whom she adored, her handsome, gallant Dick, 
 was to sail for Portugal at the end of a week, in tlic 
 same ship that took Sir Arthur; liis uniform, liis servant, 
 his baggage, his sword ; the Bible which he vowed to read, 
 the letter-paper which he swore to cover; the farewell 
 dinners, the farewell pauses, in which only their hearts 
 dared speak — here was enough to fill a sister's mind.
 
 MR. TOUCHETT FORFEITS THE ENTREE 105 
 
 "Some natural tears they shed" — but not many, for 
 Dick was mortally afraid of them, and she kept back hers 
 for his sake, doing violence to her lips also, to her arms 
 and fond heart. Had she hugged him, she would have 
 cried ; had she cried, God knows that he would have 
 broken down. Their last night together was a piercing 
 comedy of reserves, like many a night and day in Eng- 
 land. She was desperately ofF-hand, he savagely 
 matter-of-fact. It was "Good-night, Hermy. Shall I 
 see you in the morning.'^" and "Yes, if I'm not too 
 sleep3^ Good-night." No kisses ; and no tears until 
 the door was shut — and then a stifF-chokered young 
 subaltern on his knees at his bedside: "God bless her — 
 God bless my Hermy — God bless me. Amen !" and a 
 tumble-haired beauty with scalded cheeks, lying anyhow 
 on a couch : "Oh, Dick ! Oh, Dick! What shall I do?" 
 That was the English way of it before the Reform Bill, 
 and perhaps is so yet, unless the Radicals have got at 
 human nature. 
 
 She saw him drive off in his postchaise, into the golden 
 spring mist, without a murmur ; and breakfasted sedately 
 with grandmamma, as became a Caryll by the mother's 
 side. 
 
 Some few nights later the Caryll in her showed its right 
 to franchise, its indefeasible claim to prerogative of 
 choice. You can't blame her — or I cannot. If she had 
 the right to command herself, she had the right to let 
 herself go. Logically, it's not to be denied that if you
 
 106 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 can set up you can also pull down, though custom be 
 against it and its indulgence may well lead on to 
 anarchy. However, here is what happened. 
 
 There was a dinner-party at Caryll House, which was 
 to be followed by the usual assembly. Lady Morfa 
 plumed herself upon these, or would have if she had been 
 a common person, and held them weekly while Parliament 
 was in session. The Whig families rallied, or else, so 
 far as she was concerned, they ceased to be Whigs. In 
 very flagrant cases they ceased to be Families. But 
 the diners were always carefully chosen, and this one was 
 a good specimen of its class ; young men, for Hermia's 
 sake — young men of worth and standing; a few of 
 Morfa's friends, and a politician here and there, with 
 possibly a wit — to give body. Lord Edlogan of the 
 wounded nose was there, a very handsome stripling, not 
 without brains, although he did his best to seem so ; Mr. 
 Horner also, whom Miss Hermia adored, and Lord 
 Rodono, who adored Miss Hermia and did not care, now, 
 who knew it ; and Lord Sandgate was strangely there — 
 but his famil}"^ was undeniable, and the Clark affair had 
 blo^^^l over. Lord Sandgate was presented on this oc- 
 casion, and was to hand Miss Chambre in to dinner. 
 Then there were Lady Diana Topham, whose husband 
 would be a peer some day, and Mrs. Western, who went 
 everywhere, though no one knew why ; Lady Gorges, 
 pretty, swan-necked, and a poetess ; Sir George Coigne, 
 the young Buckinghamshire baronet, a Botetort through
 
 MR. TOUCHETT FORFEITS THE ENTREE 107 
 
 his mother, therefore nephew of her ladyship, and enor- 
 mously rich ; lastly, Lady Barwise, eldest daughter of 
 the house of Caryll, Princess Royal, you might say, of 
 that strait realm — and Mervyn Touchett, the diarist, 
 who was to give the dolorous stroke. Lord Morfa him- 
 self, it so happened, was dining at home, and allowing 
 no one to be unaware of it. It is most certain that INIiss 
 Harriet Moon, suffusing and pahng in the long drawing- 
 room, where she was expected to be both before and after 
 dinner, was aboundingly aware of it. 
 
 Lord Morfa led the talk, as was only natural. It was 
 an age when conversation, to call it so, was apt to run in 
 monologues. There seemed no middle course between 
 that and general hubbub. But it cannot be allowed that 
 the young man was fitted for his task ; he mistook equi- 
 voque for epigram, and anecdote for information. He 
 spoke of persons rather than of things, and his subjects 
 were the more fortunate if they were not present. On 
 this occasion, for instance, his fancy led him to dis- 
 course of M. de Montrond, a too famous gentleman of 
 his own world, in a manner more facetious than respect- 
 ful. He addressed himself, in true Caryll fashion, to his 
 mother at the further end of the long table. 
 
 "Old French!" said he, chuckling — thus they desig- 
 nated M. de Montrond — "he's devilish clever. I know 
 for a fact, ma'am, that he had ten thousand of Seph's 
 money at White's. That's not so bad for a night's 
 work, hey? And he fairly skinned Johffe, I hear."
 
 lOS THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 It was impossible to say whether Lady INIorfa was 
 edifiecL Lord Sefton was a kinsman — but there's noth- 
 ing in that. 
 
 "Monsieur Montrond is very clever," she allowed, "very 
 clever — with his hands." 
 
 Morfa guffawed over his wine, and allowed Lord Sand- 
 gate to take up the tale. 
 
 "He has a tongue, too — old Montrond. Did your lady- 
 ship hear what he said to Pink Mordaunt the other 
 night .f* 'Pink, mon vieux,' says he, 'depechez-vous de 
 reconnaitre ce hon Monsieur Cohhett, ou hientot il ne 
 t'ous reconnaitra pas.' I call that uncommonly neat of 
 Montrond." 
 
 Lady Morfa could see nothing in a story which had 
 Cobbett for a personage, and stared rather blankly at 
 her guest; but it was Cobbett's name which brought 
 about a crisis. Mervj^n Touchett was the instrument — 
 a keen-faced man of thirty, with black hair, good 
 grooming, a hsp, and an appearance studiedly un- 
 picturesque. He had a fine pair of eyes, and knew it, 
 but he had missed Lady Morfa's blank look. His teeth 
 were excellent. 
 
 Leaning now sideways, to avoid a gold epergne, catch 
 Sandgate's eye, and have a view of "the sumptuous Miss 
 Charabre," as he was fond of calling her — "Your Cob- 
 bett, my dear lord," he said with mock severity, "your 
 Cobbett strikes a note." 
 
 "He strikes more than that, Merv3'n," said my lord.
 
 ]\m. TOUCHETT FORFEITS THE ENTREE 109 
 
 "He hardly strikes the stars, though I grant you that 
 he strikes at them. Pray, have you seen the Register?" 
 
 "I always see it," said my lord. "You find it stimu- 
 lating ?" 
 
 "Cayenne," says Touchett. "Morfa, you should look 
 at it. You're in it — you're always in it now." 
 
 "Damn him, I know," Lord Morfa said ; "but you may 
 spare my blushes." 
 
 Lady Barwise peered up, scenting havoc. She hated 
 her bi'other. "Pray, Mr. Touchett, spare Roddy noth- 
 ing of that sort. He blushes so rarely, and is so become 
 by the appearance in every way that I shall insist " 
 
 "Thank you, Louisa. You alwaj^s give a helping 
 hand," said the little lord. 
 
 "I say, Touchett, is Edlogan in too ?" This came from 
 Sir George Coigne, baronet of Bucks, knight of that 
 shire, and man of substance. The hunt was up at that 
 end of the table, but had not yet reached her ladyship's. 
 As for the unhappy Edlogan, he had trusted, blushing, 
 to his luck; but it seemed that he, too, was in. "Yes, 
 yes, Edlogan's in — nose and all that." And then it was 
 that Miss Chambre Ufted her head sharply and began to 
 listen. Lord Rodono, with the eyes of a lover and the 
 mind of one, remembered that look of hers ; Diana's, on 
 the uplands, sighting a quarry, eh ? However that may 
 be, she looked up as suddenly as a cat w^hich hears a 
 rustling in the grass, and, sleek before, is all at once 
 sinewy and intent.
 
 110 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Mr. Touchett, so many eyes upon him, produced from 
 his pocket-book a slip of paper, and threw it in silence to 
 Lord Morfa — who stared at it, but did not take it. 
 
 "I don't want it, Mervyn. It's no sort of use to me," 
 he said. "The thing's done and done with — but Louisa's 
 longing to be at it." Then he picked it up and tossed it 
 forward towards Lady Barwise. 
 
 Rodono gained it, and was about to make a spill of it, 
 for the mercies of the candle. But she stopped that. 
 
 "Please, Lord Rodono, let us know the worst. Mamma, 
 you will allow us?" Her shrill tones silenced the table 
 all over. Lady INIorfa, checked in her conversation with 
 Mr. Horner, must know what this was all about. The 
 whole thing had to be explained to her. Nobody in Lon- 
 don could have done it but Lady Barwise. 
 
 The strain was severe, but the great lady could meet 
 it. She knew this daughter of hers, and did no more 
 than raise her brows. "Cobbett.'' Do you want to hear 
 him crow ? By all means." Slie resumed her conversation. 
 
 The scrap went back to its owner with Lady Barwise's, 
 "Pray read, Mr. Touchett." The unhappy man looked 
 for a direction from his hostess, which he did not get. 
 A turn of a hair would have done — but no ! Lady Morfa 
 was talking about Cintra. 
 
 "Forge ahead, Mervyn," says Lord IVIorfa, and 
 emptied his glass. He signed to Progers that it was 
 empty. The only objection heard was Rodono's. "Why 
 should Mervyn be allowed to be a bore?"
 
 MR. TOUCHETT FORFEITS THE ENTREE 111 
 
 Lord Morfa said, "Tom, behave." Then Mr. Touchett 
 had to read his piece. 
 
 "David Vernour," wrote Cobbett, "has been released 
 from the gaol where the Caryll House gang thought fit 
 to confine him — after six weeks. Mark the clemency of 
 jNIr. Fox's friends. I saw him no later than Tuesday. 
 To his credit, though infinitely to their discredit, he will 
 say little. Every word he withholds is a smear upon the 
 Whig Cabal. As fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my 
 life, an educated, high-spirited, clever, instructed young 
 man, herded with street-walkers, purse-cutters, and shop- 
 thieves for six weeks ; refused a trial ; ruined. No, by 
 Heaven, he is not to be ruined ! In spite of them all, I'll 
 see to that. And why? Because a little atomy Earl of 
 jMorfa, K.G., Baron Rhos, etc., was drunk, and staked a 
 horse for Vernour. Because a Marquis of Edlogan, 
 also drunk, tried a rescue and had his nose punched. 
 Upon my conscience that is all. Now Vernour receives 
 a FREE PARDON from my lady Countess of Morfa, and 
 leaves the King's Bench with as many stains upon his 
 character as she and her cub choose to put there. With 
 my hand upon my heart I say. If this is the way of the 
 Friends of 1688, of the Foxites, Crowland-Houseites, 
 and Grenville-cum-Greyites, give me that of Pitt, Castle- 
 reagh, Wellesley, and Co. Why, my Lord Melville's 
 peculations were gallantry compared to these of her 
 ladyship's. She 'forgives' David Vernour! But I need 
 say no more at present. Indeed, I have said now more
 
 112 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 than Vernour will care about. He's a gentleman — and 
 there's a shrewder blow at them than I can hope to give." 
 
 Mr. Touchett, long before he was through with a task 
 upon which he had so light-heartedly embarked, wished 
 liimself dead. When it was over he knew that, with re- 
 gard to Caryll House, dead he was. Nobody but Lady 
 Barwise had a word to say. 
 
 "Charming for you, Roddy ! Charming !" 
 
 Young Lord Morfa met her chilly eyes and laughed at 
 them. The rest took it in their several ways — Lord Ed- 
 logan with a deep blush. Lord Sandgate, after whistling 
 below his breath, with a gaze steadily at the ceiling, Mr. 
 Horner with extreme misery wliich nothing, he felt, but 
 rapid exercise could abate. Lord Rodono watched his 
 Hermia ; and as for her, in the full presence of that table 
 and of her painted ancestors ranked behind and before it, 
 she flooded with scarlet, and flashed upon her shameful 
 kindred. Lord knows what she might have done or said ; 
 it is certain that she was primed to do or say something. 
 She was in the act to rise when Lord Sandgate took hold 
 of her gown and held her bodily in her place. As she 
 turned upon him in her fury — startled into fury as one 
 is, balked of some vivid purpose, he bade her sit down 
 again. "Keep still — it is madness," was what he said, 
 and saved her. Lady Morfa had seen nothing so far. 
 The girl sank back into her place, and lifted her head no 
 more. 
 
 All this had taken but a half-minute, for all had hap-
 
 MR. TOUCHETT FORFEITS THE ENTREE 113 
 
 pened in the first shock. It was as near an approach to 
 a scene as her ladyship could ever have permitted, and 
 such as it was she stopped it by a recovery little short of 
 sublime. But she hurt Mervj^n Touchett. 
 
 "Gusto spoils your reading, I consider. You roll it on 
 the tongue." Her voice had a croaking sound — rather 
 like the dry rattle of a corncrake. Her only other com- 
 ment was apart to Mr. Homer, that for a barnyard cock 
 it was stoutly crowed. No doubt, to that kind of fowl, 
 the dome of St. Paul's, should he find himself upon it, 
 would seem but a larger dunghill. 
 
 jNIr. Touchett never entered the Carj^ll House gates 
 a sain.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WHICH TRANSPORTS US TO LA MANCHA 
 
 A SPRINKLING of untimely guests were already in 
 "*■ ^ the great drawing-room when the ladies' procession 
 entered it — new-comers, people of little account, per- 
 sons. They seemed to huddle like sheep as the dining 
 party rustled in ; it was almost certain that Mr. Aloysius 
 Banks stamped his forefoot when he heard her lady- 
 ship's crutch. Hermia, at least, told Harriet that she 
 had heard him. She was now very calm, and able to be 
 amused with her fellow-creatures. 
 
 Harriet commented upon the length of dinner. The 
 servants had left the dining-room half an hour ago, and 
 her ladj^ship rarely stayed ten minutes after that. "Mr. 
 Touchett was reading to us," she was told. 
 
 "Really! A poem.?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Chambre, "one might say so. It 
 moved me a good deal. And now I want to run away 
 and think about it. And so I shall if grandmamma 
 doesn't catch me." 
 
 "Oh, Hermy," said her friend, whose Ideas ran in a 
 groove, "Lord Rodono will be so disappointed." 
 
 "I thought he was consoling himself when we left," 
 Miss Chambre said.
 
 LA MANCHA 115 
 
 *'I could see that he was very much put out that you 
 were given to Lord Sandgate." 
 
 "That was selfish of him — for I was very much 
 honoured." 
 
 "You were happy with ?" 
 
 "With Lord Sandgate? Perfectly. He was very kind 
 to me. Adieu, child." She kissed her hand to Harriet 
 and flitted out on the tips of her toes. Tom Rodono, en- 
 tering with the rest of the men in due time, found the 
 rooms full — but emptied of her. Miss Moon took leave 
 to tell him that Hermia had had a dreadful headache. 
 "Don't wonder at it," said he ; and then she had the story 
 out of him. 
 
 Miss Chambre, who never suffered from headache, had 
 an excellent night's rest, having sought it without any 
 fuss of dedication to a cause or a duty. And yet, before 
 she closed her eyes, she had made up her mind as to what 
 must be done. Her prayers were as usual, without a long 
 breath of preparation ; if you had likened her to 
 Antigone she would have been amused. She rose at her 
 usual time, but did not ride as usual, and in the course of 
 the early morning told Harriet Moon that she had some 
 shopping to do, and would like a companion for the 
 walk. 
 
 Harriet showed her evident pleasure, interspersed with 
 the customary apprehensions. Would her ladyship — ? 
 Might not her ladyship — ? That kind of half question 
 was frequent upon Harriet's pale lips. A footman, too,
 
 116 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 seemed almost a necessity ; but Hermia said, Rubbish. 
 She intended to go and be back early ; and — this was to 
 another aposiopesis — No, she had not thought of asking 
 grandmamma, unless Harriet might fall into disgrace. 
 A look into the brown eyes, which had begun to loom, 
 decided that. Very well, then, let grandmamma be asked. 
 
 Leave was obtained, but they must be back by noon. 
 Bond Street was the place "^ Very well ; but in that case, 
 be back by half after eleven. At ten, the pair set out. 
 
 In that day of dangerous elegance, when women's 
 clothes surely fitted as closely to their minds as to their 
 pretty persons. Miss Chambre, by no means unaware of 
 her natural advantages, affected a simplicity and a dar- 
 ing disastrous to mankind. It would be as pleasant to 
 give a picture of herself as of her London, into whose 
 sunny spaces of grass and fleecy skies, among whose old 
 ruddy houses she walked that morning of the fifteenth of 
 April ; for hers was a day when London was still a clean 
 country town and beautiful young women were not afraid 
 to show themselves in it. You may see them in print 
 and picture, in their feathers and fal-lals, their high- 
 waisted, low-bosomed gowns, airing with artful grace 
 their white stockings and their sandals, their Leghorn 
 bonnets and fluttering scarves ; and in some such garb of 
 white and clinging silk you may clothe her, and in some 
 such close bonnet set her ardent face. Heightened as her 
 colour was by some resolve she had, her beauty showed 
 that rich and serious cast which must needs draw all male
 
 LA MANCHA 117 
 
 eyes and yet remain unaffected. She was very ignorant 
 of such a battery. And she had Hved most of her hfe, 
 too, in a country where women still knew how to walk ; 
 she moved easily and well, did not mince her steps. She 
 moved and held herself, in fact, as a girl does who walks 
 to get from one place to another, which is not tlie present 
 fashion. 
 
 They crossed the Green Park and struck into Picca- 
 dilly without much talk. Miss Chambre was noticeably 
 quiet, and parried Harriet's utmost ingenuity. Any- 
 thing direct she answered with "Yes," and "No." She 
 did not know yet what she was going to buy ; no, she was 
 not going to Madame Pelerine's ; she was not going to 
 the bonnet-shop. That was Lord Drillstone who bowed .'^ 
 She had not recognised him. Mr. Touchett's poem of 
 last night.'' She had not said it was a poem. She had 
 said that it had moved her. Oh, had Hermy heard that 
 Mr. Cobbett — by accident .? And then for a moment she 
 had paralysed Harriet with a look. "How do you hear 
 things by accident, Harriet.'"' Miss Moon, finally, with 
 a little sigh, resigned herself to her friend's larger mind 
 and more settled purpose. The Harriets of the world 
 win only by waiting. 
 
 They went north-east by devious and mostly unfre- 
 quented ways to the comer of Brook Street, unnoticed 
 and untroubled ; there Hermia stopped. Harriet noticed 
 at once that her colour was high and her breath quick. 
 
 "Harriet," she said, "I have an errand in a shop near
 
 118 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 here. Go into the bun-shop and wait for me. I'll not be 
 five minutes." The bun-shop was beside them. Through 
 its little panes of bottle-glass you could see the buns 
 arrayed in sticky pyramids, the glasses of sweetstuff, 
 brandy-balls, and bulls-eyes, and cases of jumbles, crisp, 
 curled, and fresh. The girl in charge, ringletted and 
 high-combed, peered through the window to see the fine 
 lady and her companion. 
 
 Harriet, on the verge of a secret, was uneasy. 
 
 "Dearest, what are you going to do? I fear some im- 
 prudence! What shall I tell her ladyship?" 
 
 "You will tell her nothing. I shall have that to do. I 
 am going to her directly I return." 
 
 "Is it—? Ought I not — ? Oh, Hermy, I beseech you 
 to be careful !" 
 
 "I have been caring all night and all this morning," 
 said Miss Chambre. "I hope there's been carefulness 
 enough." Human nature could not bear such things. 
 Harriet thrilled. 
 
 "Where is your errand? I vow that I have guessed it. 
 May I not — ? I do think that you should tell me. Not 
 that I am in the least curious ; I beg you to believe it. 
 But " 
 
 Hermia was looking along Brook Street, and spoke as 
 one in a dream. "I think I cannot tell you — now, or at 
 any time. But no doubt you will hear." 
 
 "Oh, Hermy ! Oh, darling !" 
 
 Hermia now looked at her ; she smiled kindly, but shool^
 
 LA MANCHA 119 
 
 her head, "I think that I must not. It will be better 
 for you — and for me, too — if you don't know it. I am 
 doing what is right. I can assure you of that." 
 
 Harriet bit her lip. "I shall be most unhappy. You 
 don't trust me." 
 
 "No, perhaps not. But it is impossible to me to talk. 
 I have made up my mind. Please go and eat your buns. 
 I'll have one afterwards." Harriet shivered, but obeyed. 
 
 Miss Chambre walked on alone, eastward, to near the 
 Bond Street comer; near enough to it to be able to see 
 the faces of the lounging dandies passing up and down 
 — and to be seen. Hunchbacked Lord Sefton, in his 
 bottle-green coat, saw her and saluted with great formal- 
 ity. Mr. Byng, who was with him, marked the attention, 
 turned, saw her, and off with his hat.' She bowed her 
 head slightly and held back until they were gone on. 
 Little things like these, to her who had never yet walked 
 a London street without escort, made of her venture a 
 journey of knight-errantry. Her heart was in her 
 mouth, and, worse than that, her fears came thronging 
 to her brain. She had been prepared for shame and ter- 
 ror — afterwards, but had counted on doing her errand 
 with a rush. To think it out, to foresee the stages of it 
 were madness ; she simply could not afford it. And to be 
 delayed, checked in the career — to be spoken with, held 
 in talk, put back to the lists, to run anew — ah, no ! Be- 
 fore she could be endangered again, taking now a full 
 breath, she stepped through the little wicket of a shop-
 
 120 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 doorway, and stood in the sawdust, and inhaled the faint 
 odours of the establishment of Vernour and Son, family 
 butchers. 
 
 A pale young man stepped out of a sort of glazed 
 cage and bowed before her. He was in frock and apron, 
 and his hair was as smooth as butter — black butter. 
 Also, he was di*eadfully obsequious. 
 
 "At your service, madam." 
 
 Below her heart-beats and the sea-sound in her ears she 
 heard her own strangled voice. "Is Mr. Vernour 
 within.? Young Mr. Vernour .?" 
 
 The young man's raised eyebrows were intended to 
 show deference, not surprise — but they were disconcert- 
 ing, because they delayed her. "Mr. David, madam.'' 
 I think not, but I will enquire. Permit me, madam." 
 
 He brought forward a chair, on which it was impossible 
 to sit, though her knees were faltering under her. To sit 
 down — here — when at any moment she might have to 
 fly — to hide herself — never, never. In the meantime, 
 the young man had disappeared, and she was alone with 
 her heart-beats and a white-faced clock whose pulsing 
 hammered at her brain. 
 
 He seemed gone half-an-hour, and every throb of the 
 time added to her distress. She had never known before 
 how conspicuous she was, how terribly under enquiry. 
 A street-singer was quavering his endless ballad outside 
 in the street, watching her with an eye which seemed 
 to read her very soul, though no doubt it yearned for
 
 LA MANCHA 121 
 
 nothing more than halfpence. A cart rattled by ; the 
 boy in the tilt stopped whistling when he spied her. A 
 young gentleman drove past in a cabriolet, and the 
 groom dancing behind caught sight of her white dress, 
 and stooped to see her face. And then a closed carriage 
 with two fine horses pulled up short — oh, heaven, she was 
 in a trap ! No — thank God, she need not hide herself — 
 it had gone on. She had determined that nothing should 
 compel her to that shame, but by now her blood was as 
 water. 
 
 When she heard steps within the glass door at the back, 
 the stricken beauty faced her assize. The door yielded 
 the tall figure of a man, but an elderly man. Old Mr. 
 Vernour, grave and grey, was bowing, and rubbing 
 propitiatory hands. He was ridiculously the humble 
 servant of any one with a shilling to spend ; and yet she 
 eyed him as if he was new-risen from the dead. 
 
 "Your servant, madam, your servant. Your ladyship 
 was enquiring for — my son.''" 
 
 "Yes, if you please." 
 
 It hurt Mr. Vernour to deny a lady ; he spoke very seri- 
 ously. "I grieve that he is absent, on his daily business. 
 It is most unfortunate." He looked sideways at her, 
 stroking his chin. "Can I — any message.'' I should be 
 truly honoured." 
 
 It was so impossible as to be almost absurd. She became 
 voluble in excuse. "Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Vernour — 
 indeed, no. I could not dream of troubling you. It is
 
 122 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 of little or no consequence — indeed, it is really nothing 
 — to your son." 
 
 But Mr. Vernour still stroked his chin, not finding him- 
 self at all able to believe that such visits could be nothing 
 to his son. "Should I, madam — could I — mention a 
 name to my son?" 
 
 A name ! The thought of it ! "Oh, no, indeed, I won't 
 trouble you — so small a thing! My name is, of course, 
 nothing to your son. He does not know it, has never 
 heard it." 
 
 "Oh, madam !" ]\Ir. Vernour was shocked at the 
 thought. A lady — a fragrant, floating, white-robed 
 lady of fashion, and his son ignorant ! And he, good 
 man, ignorant himself, as the babe new-born! 
 
 Then, while he could hardly venture to look at her, so 
 discomfited was he, it came upon her with certainty that 
 she must fly. She had done her honest best, and had 
 failed. Her heart sank at the thought that all must 
 be done again. On some day still to come she must face 
 Bond Street again, again pass the wicket, stand, ask, 
 wait, be served by deferential old men — and could she 
 do it.'' She had no notion, but the question did not 
 press. What was urgent was that she should go, and 
 most urgent of all, the ridiculous puzzle of how to go. 
 Should she give her hand to old Mr. Vernour? Would 
 he take it if she did? Or should she bow, smile upon 
 him, thank him? All her self-possession was gone, all 
 her decision ; even her imperative reasons for coming
 
 LA MANCHA 123 
 
 on this errand at all were wasliing away on the ebb. 
 Beauty in distress, helpless, miserable, shamefaced, and 
 absurd — ^there really seemed nothing for it but that 
 refuge of heroines, a tear-storm. And then, as she 
 swayed and turned half, her affair was upon her. 
 There came the canter of a horse, a sudden scour on 
 the cobbles ; and before she could collect her thoughts 
 a tall young man stood bareheaded in the doorway, 
 a tall young man with high colour and very hght hair, 
 and that look of resolute ability upon him which she had 
 once before seen and never forgotten ; and, f rocked and 
 aproned as he was, with his wooden tray under his hand, 
 there was no majesty in England at that hour before 
 wliich she could haye stood so humbly. And yet the 
 relief which his presence gave to her irresolution and dis- 
 comfort was one of the strongest things about him. He 
 was a tower of refuge ; she would fear no more. 
 
 He bowed, and would have passed her, but "David, this 
 lady — " began Vemour, the elder, and waved her into 
 debate with a respectful hand. 
 
 "You wish to see me, madam .^" She raised her eyes to 
 meet his and faltered no more ; for now the hour was 
 come. 
 
 She spoke slowly and deliberately. "Mr. Vemour, I 
 belong to a family which has disgraced itself in j^our 
 eyes and in mine. I am come here to admit it fully, so 
 far as I can, and to beg your pardon. I wish that my 
 grandmother could have come herself, but she is an old
 
 124 THE. STOOPING LADY 
 
 lady, and you must excuse her. And I ought to say that 
 she does not know that I have ventured to see you." The 
 young man made as if he would come to her, but she 
 stopped him. "Of course, I shall tell her immediately 
 what I have done. I should not wish you to suppose that 
 I would deceive her in such a matter. And I must say 
 that I cannot expect your forgiveness for — for an in- 
 tolerable act, but that I cannot gain my own without 
 asking you for it. I hope you will be generous." 
 
 And there she stopped, because she had learned no more. 
 She had trusted to her ardour to give her continuance — 
 which it did not, but played her false. That quick move- 
 ment of his towards her had thrown her out. She had 
 thought he was indignant at a thing done by her in 
 secret, and had made haste to disavow any secrecy. And 
 then it had not been easy to go on ; and now it seemed 
 ridiculous to stop. At this point, too, her eyes fell be- 
 fore Vernour's, though his held their gaze. He had nar- 
 rowed them, they had intensity ; she felt them dreadfully 
 upon her, and drooped under the steady attack. It was 
 a full minute before he spoke. 
 
 "Madam," he then said, "is it possible that you are 
 from ?" 
 
 Her lips faltered the admission, but immediately after- 
 wards, as if ashamed of her weak knees, she held up her 
 head and announced herself distinctly. "I am Miss 
 Chambre. Lady Morfa is my grandmother." 
 
 Once again he deliberated his full time before he said,
 
 LA MANCHA 125 
 
 "I think the Queen of England cannot be a prouder lady 
 than you." He was very still, very trenchant; she 
 thought him angry with her. 
 
 "You think that I have come to insult you. You have 
 every right to think so ; but it is not true." 
 
 If he had thought so, he must have been mad, but there 
 was fire behind his voice when he answered her. And he 
 held his hand up lest she should say any more. 
 
 He said, "I think that you are very proud; and you 
 have made me proud. No greater honour was ever paid 
 to a man. I have done nothing to deserve it — but I 
 shall never forget it." 
 
 It was plain, even to her in her distress, that he was 
 moved. His voice was husky, and his eyes were dim. 
 But he did not for a moment cease to regard her ; without 
 any glimmer of offence he showed that he was absorbed 
 in her. Not her beauty alone could have drawn such 
 an intent scrutiny ; her rank alone would have prevented 
 it. Whether it was the extraordinary nature of her er- 
 rand, or the simplicity with which she had acquitted it, 
 or her dignity in difficulties, or her appeal — something 
 there was which took him out of himself and made him 
 strong while it made her weak. 
 
 Turning at last, but reluctantly, as though he was 
 afraid she might vanish, he spoke to his father. "Father, 
 how am I to prove to this lad}^ what she has done for 
 me.?" 
 
 To old Mr, Vernour the incident had been dreadful. It
 
 126 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 had upset all his theories ; he was not able to do more 
 than shake his head. "I doubt you cannot — I doubt you 
 cannot." He could not lift himself; he seemed to be 
 thoroughly ashamed. "I doubt this is too great an 
 honour for you, my son. I doubt 'twill exalt you too 
 greatly — for your peace of mind." He looked pro- 
 foundly unliappy, spoke towards the sawdust of the 
 floor. 
 
 This humility distressed her, and it appears that the 
 young man must have divined it. The diversion which 
 he proposed was well conceived; it seemed to give her 
 the power of conferring another favour. She remem- 
 bered it afterwards, arid saw how high-bred it had been. 
 He had asked her whether she would consent to make the 
 acquaintance of his mother. "You will add to the obliga- 
 tion which we feel so truly," said he. "You will give a 
 proud son a proud mother." She was very grateful, 
 would gladly go in. 
 
 As he held open the glass door for her, she seemed to 
 pass in beneath his arm. Tliis was the effect, at least, 
 which his height had upon her, and her consciousness of 
 his eyes' downward fire, beating, as it were, hke rays of 
 light upon the lids of her own. She felt like a bird 
 under the hand, fluttering her wings. 
 
 She was ushered into a dusky oval parlour, lit from a 
 skylight. It was extremely neat, stiff, and unoccupied ; 
 it was like a miniature. He begged her to wait there 
 while he found his mother. He pushed further into
 
 LA MANCHA 12T 
 
 the interior, and she heard his plain voice call 
 "Mother — where are jou?'* She did not sit, though 
 she was desperately tired- You don't sit in kings' 
 houses. 
 
 Mrs. Vemour came in, the softer, more blurred copy 
 of her son — tall, largely made, fair and high-coloured, 
 very self-possessed. For her, it was clear, the lovely 
 Miss Chambre and her wild errand had no glamour. 
 She must have been a splendid young woman herself, in 
 her day ; and it was at once apparent that she was a 
 Scot. "Your servant. Miss Chambre," she said sedately. 
 "My son David has told me of the honour done to him. 
 Indeed, he would have gone through more for such a 
 reward at the end of it." To Hermia's renewed protesta- 
 tions she deferred. She was perfectly the lad}' of breed- 
 ing; she waived all injuries and griefs — and yet did not 
 make too little of them, lest she should seem thereby to 
 minimise the act of grace. Her ladyship, she suggested, 
 had been taken aback. It was for her own son she had 
 taken up anus. She hoped that, as a mother, she could 
 understand a motlier's feeling. The affair had ended — 
 and this visit was the happy end. There was no more to 
 be said. . . . 
 
 She fell to discussing her son. He had not been ill- 
 treated ; they had allowed him his books. He was a great 
 scholar; a good son and a great scholar. 
 
 Hermia had heard that, she said, from Mr. Ranald — a 
 friend.
 
 128 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "And a good friend to my son, Miss Chambre. The 
 Honourable Mr. Ranald. My mother was housekeeper 
 to his own lady mother at Drumlaw. 'Twas Lady Clan- 
 ranald gave me my wedding-gown. And Mr. Robert was 
 born that same year in which I was married." Details 
 followed, from which it was made clear that David was 
 fourth child but the only surviving. 
 
 David was a scholar. He had been to the Bluecoat 
 School — had his Latin and Greek. Holy orders had been 
 his desire, but the death of his brother had decided him 
 against it; he had stayed by his father and never com- 
 plained. But he had his interests — his life was very 
 full. His books, his debating. He was a keen politi- 
 cian, staunch for Mr. Cobbett and Reform. He was a 
 Westminster freeholder himself — had his vote. He had 
 taught himself the French, he would trg,vel some day. 
 Meantime, he did his duty and was all that a son should 
 be. 
 
 She owned to his quick temper ; that horse had been the 
 apple of his eye. It was on that horse that he used to 
 ride every Sunday to Feltham, where he had a friend — 
 a nursery gardener. David had many interests, it 
 seemed. 
 
 Cake and wine had been produced while this was going 
 on ; Miss Chambre, now happy and at ease, forgot the 
 time, and did not disguise the interest she felt in these 
 confidences. She tried to express herself as she rose to 
 go. "I should like to tell you, Mrs. Vernour, how proud
 
 LA MANCHA 129 
 
 I am that 3'ou should talk to me like this. I feel — that 
 I ought to be ashamed — to be " 
 
 "It will be a sore day for England when the likes of you 
 are made ashamed, Miss Chambre." 
 
 She then took leave, hoping that she might come again. 
 
 Vernour was at the glass door as she came out. She 
 was very shy. 
 
 "Your mother has been extremely kind," she told him. 
 He bent vehemently towards her, then controlled himself. 
 "But you have been more than kind. You cannot know." 
 
 "No, no — not that." Her eyes appealed. 
 
 "If to give manhood back to a man be not a royal 
 act " 
 
 She spoke her cry from the heart. 
 
 "Don't say those things, please. You rob me of what I 
 hold dear. I hold our honour very dear." 
 
 "You do, indeed," said Vernour. "It is certain that 
 you do." Her eyes filled at his praise. "Madam," he 
 continued, "I speak the truth. You have given me man- 
 hood back. I was like to have lost it on a time, and now 
 I know that I need not. Madam, madam! I could go 
 down on my knees to you." 
 
 "I beg you, I beg you — " This must be ended some- 
 how. "You have been very kind to listen to me — and to 
 make light of what you endured. You have made me 
 happy. I know that you will forgive us. I see that you 
 are generous. You will excuse me if I — " She held 
 out her hand, and Vernour, fiercely red, took, bent over,
 
 130 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 and kissed it. No more was said. She escaped ILke a 
 bird out of a window. Sl>e ate no buns. 
 
 Plomeward, then, hke a bird on the wing, she sped, Har- 
 riet trailing in her wake — not to be talked to. "Don't 
 talk to me, please — I cannot talk now. Yes, yes, I have 
 everything I wanted. No — there are no parcels for you 
 to carry." 
 
 Dandies ogled in vain ; no doffed hats touched her, no 
 beckoning hands from great carriages beguiled her from 
 her thoughts. Arrived at tlie house, she went directly 
 into her grandmother's room and spoke her piece. She 
 found her at her letters. 
 
 "Grandmamma," she said, "I have come to tell you 
 where I have been. I left Harriet in the bun-shop, and 
 went on alone to ]Mr. Vemour's. I saw his son, and 
 begged his pardon for tlie way we had used him. I con- 
 ceived that his due."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IN WHICH WE RAISE OUR EYEBROWS 
 
 T T was much more than tradition witli Lady Morfa 
 "■■ that under no circumstances must there be a scene ; 
 it was rehgion — an act of faith ; it was the only possible 
 unfaltering tribute to her position in the scheme of the 
 Universe, due as much to herself as to the Power that 
 had placed her there. But there is more in it than the 
 instinct which says, I am of tlie Rock ; there was the 
 other, reminding her perpetually. You are not. She was 
 fatahst as well as stoic. 
 
 On the occasion just recorded there was undoubtedly a 
 perceptible pause — a time of heart-panic for the girl, 
 and for the lady a time during which she sat looking 
 into vacancy, motionless except for the bhnking of her 
 white eyelashes, and for a trembhng so slight that it 
 could scarcely have been discerned by anybody, and cer- 
 tainly not by her grandchild. She recovered herself al- 
 most at once. Her tongue went twice to her lips, her 
 hand twitched a little; and then she said, with extreme 
 politeness — 
 
 "Will you have the goodness to repeat yourself, and 
 more slowly ?" Even this concession to the frailty of her 
 age she would have forborne had she been able.
 
 132 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Commanding her nerves, the girl obeyed her, and had 
 the good sense not to add a word to the bare announce- 
 ment. Again Lady INIorfa was silent for a while; and 
 during that pause it is safe to affirm that if by any 
 conceivable act she could have humiliated this child, 
 she would have stooped to use it. There was one — there 
 was one thing she could have said, plainly or by in- 
 nuendo, which might have brought her to her knees ; but 
 it shows how fallible the youngest of us may be, in our 
 interpretation of our neighbours, that Miss Harriet 
 Moon's reading of her in just such a crisis as this was 
 entirely at fault. It never entered Lady Morfa's head 
 that Vernour was a fine young man or that her grand- 
 daughter was a fine young woman. What she saw with 
 blank dismay was a chit of a girl who had upset her au- 
 thority, and done it in so simple a manner that she was 
 powerless to reassert it without becoming absurd. Once 
 before she had been defied, by this child's mother; but 
 Lady Hermione had climbed her wall in the night, had 
 fled the country with Dick of the Gallop — while this 
 Hermia Mary acting, in the broad light of day and 
 Bond Street, had walked out of the gates, and returned 
 to take her punishment. Now, the ' serious thing was 
 that there was no punishment to give her. Anti-climax 
 was unavoidable, since the death penalty was out of 
 date. The baffled lady, driven to temporise, maintained 
 her dignity unruffled. It was all she had left her at the 
 moment.
 
 WE RAISE OUR EYEBROWS 133 
 
 "I think that I understand you," she said; "that is, I 
 hear what jou tell me you have done. Further than that 
 I cannot go. You may have reasons for compromising 
 yourself which — " The girl's lip trembled, but she 
 burst in upon the icy stream 
 
 "Oh, grandmamma, how could you have been so cruel? 
 How could I bear it!" 
 
 "No discussions, please, Hermia." She put up her 
 hand. "Those are out of the question between you and 
 me. You will go to your room, if you please, and remain 
 there until I send for you." 
 
 Miss Hermia had risen to hear her sentence. "I will 
 do as you wish," she said, and turned, and reached the 
 door. There she stopped for a moment, and came swiftly 
 back. 
 
 "I must tell you this — " she spoke with passion. "You 
 will do a great injustice to Harriet if you suppose that 
 she knows anything of what I have done. Nobody knows 
 of it but you." 
 
 "You forget Vernour and his family, I think," said 
 Lady Morfa, and sent the blood to her cheeks. 
 
 "Naturally I don't forget the person to whom I had to 
 go. But neither he, nor Harriet, nor any one in the 
 world knew that I intended what I have done ; nor did I 
 know it until last night. So that Harriet " 
 
 Lady Morfa nodded sharply. "I believe 3'ou. I cannot 
 suppose that you would have told anybody whom j'ou be- 
 lieved to be sane that you intended what you tell me you
 
 134 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 have done. And since you seem to be in doubt, I don't 
 mind assuring you that I am not in the habit of speak- 
 ing to ]\Ioon about your affairs or my own." 
 
 Hermia still stood, hovering, as it were, on the edge of 
 tears, A look or a gesture would have brought her 
 down, her face in the old woman's lap. Her story would 
 have been sobbed out, her wondrous good reasons, and her 
 wondrous bad ones. And it is very possible — I speak 
 with reverence — that Lady Morfa's eyes were danger- 
 ously charged ; that Lady Morfa, had she dared, would 
 have opened her arms. But she could not for the life of 
 her. Hers was that nature which must wear a mask or 
 feel naked. To have tears is as shameful as to be dnuik ; 
 in each case you exhibit yourself as you are, instead of 
 as you intend to be — and that's the unforgivable act. 
 It is a mistake to think that either she or her grandchild 
 was unemotional ; each went vibrating with emotion. The 
 only difference in the pride they both owned to was that 
 where the elder would never admit to feeling what was 
 asked of her, the younger would never deny it. So there 
 stood one with her heart in her hands, and there sat the 
 other with hers in a cage — and the tale goes on. 
 
 In a few seconds more Miss Chambre was out of the 
 door and upstairs ; and all that Harriet could learn was 
 that she was in her own rooms and would remain there 
 for the present. 
 
 The daily and nightly round of Caryll House was not 
 to be disturbed by the incredible acts of a little Miss
 
 WE RAISE OUR EYEBROWS 135 
 
 Chambre ; but, nevertheless, Lady Morf a was more per- 
 turbed than she could have ever been brought to confess. 
 Metaphorically she may be said to have lifted up her 
 hands at a thing which passed behef. And she saw it, 
 mind you, at its full value ; it was no mere silly gush of a 
 school-girl. Had it been so, a day or two's bread and 
 water would have requited it. No, but it had a symboli- 
 cal force ; it was a surrender of the whole Whig position 
 to a beleaguering horde, whose mass and momentum she 
 felt as keenly as anybody. It was an act of treachery 
 from within quite beyond experience. The man Vemour 
 was a Radical, known to be a Radical, supported by the 
 whole reforming press. She had taken her stand against 
 him from the outset ; she had strained the law — she knew 
 that; she had not disdained the assistance of the official 
 enemy to combat this new invasion, which she could see 
 was far more serious to her order than a whole country- 
 side of Tories. And she had won — she had stooped and 
 won. And now she was betrayed into the hands of her 
 foes in such a way that she could not even cry out against 
 the traitor. She could do nothing; she was perfectly 
 powerless. If she treated Hermia as she deserved, she 
 would exhibit the magnitude of her own defeat; if she 
 overlooked the affair, she would seem to admit the knowl- 
 edge of her own deserts. Never was an ancient and great 
 lady in such a quandary. 
 
 Next, a sudden blow — from an unexpected quarter in- 
 deed — was like to have quelled her. When she told her
 
 136 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 son, as she thought it her duty, what had been done 
 against the house of Caryll, the young lord repHed with 
 the astounding words, "She's a good plucked one, I 
 must say." He went on to add that she had done what 
 he ought to have done long ago — that, by God! he 
 was very much obliged to her, and should tell her so. 
 That he did not was simply due to his mother's 
 positive entreaty. She did not attempt to argue 
 with him upon the 'merits; in fact, he had robbed her of 
 the power to do that ; but she said that if that were done, 
 she should leave London and never return to it — and he 
 gave way. But he frankly told her that he knew he had 
 behaved "damn badly," and that if the fellow had not 
 raised his dander he should have apologised. "Upon my 
 soul, ma'am, it was his due. If I'm a gentleman, as I 
 suppose I am, that's the line of country to follow. But 
 I got cross, and then you got cross — and there's -no 
 going back then. By my soul and body, though !" and 
 here he whistled, his hands deep in his breeches pockets — 
 "by my soul and body, but that gel's a game chicken!" 
 He rose to go. "She's done our work for us, ma'am, 
 and I for one am very much obliged to her. I'm going 
 to Brighton this afternoon — sent for this morning — says 
 he must have me ; so I'll bid you good-bye, ma'am. But 
 when I come back I do hope I shall find Miss Henny on 
 your lap again — I must say that." 
 
 This, too, was more or less the opinion of Lord John 
 Botetort, Lady Morfa's own and favourite brother, to
 
 WE RAISE OUR EYEBROWS 137 
 
 whom in her perplexity she confided the tale. He was a 
 tall, lean-headed gentleman, something of a buck and a 
 viveur, a club-man and great patron of the opera. His 
 white whiskers were close-cut and carefully brushed for- 
 ward, his buckskins were flawless and apparently seam- 
 less, his coat was of bottle-green. "Jane," he said, and 
 confirmed it with an oath, "I'll tell you what it is. That 
 gal's too many for 3"ou — and a fine, free-spoken gal she 
 is. Jack Polperro had just such another — you remember 
 her, and what she did. The whole country knew it — half 
 of 'em saw it, by George ! And he was a farmer — gentle- 
 man-farmer, as they say ; but Jack Polperro was never 
 the same man again. You marry her, Jane, or we shall 
 all be in the papers. By Gad, ma'am, we are in the pa- 
 pers already ! It don't want much in these days to get 
 the mob about your windows or about j^our ears. Look 
 at the Prince — look at him, I say ! Why, when he goes 
 down St. James's Street you'd think 'twas a thief -taker 
 going to be hanged. . . . This fellow of yours, mind 
 you, is a red-hot fellow — speaks in Old Palace Yard — 
 is in with Bob Ranald and Burdett — and all of 'em. I 
 tell you he's the pet of the public, and, mark my words, 
 if you don't look nine ways for Sunday, you'll get her 
 chaired beside him — sure as you're here." 
 
 Lady Morfa looked her bleakest. "I must send her 
 away, John — it's clear." 
 
 "If you send her away, my lady," said her brother, "you 
 send her straight to him — not a doubt of it. And if you
 
 138 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 take my advice, you'll let the fellow alone. The less you 
 handle him the better. You've handled him only too well 
 as it is. Six weeks' chokee! Why, five guineas would 
 have done it — at the start — and what's five hundred to 
 getting in the papers ? No, no — marry the gal out of 
 hand — you'll have no trouble there, and let her husband 
 have the training of her. I wish him joy." 
 
 And then, almost word for word, he echoed his nephew 
 Morfa. "Not but what I admire her, you know. I do, 
 uncommonly. There was pluck in that — the sort of 
 pluck one is pleased to have in the family. Proper pride 
 — what ! a game-bird ! Let me tell you, my lady, that if 
 humble pie has got to be eaten, that's the way to eat 
 it. Bolt it whole, by Gad ! Zounds, sister, Fd marry the 
 girl myself, take her off your hands, if I wasn't her 
 uncle, and be proud of her. The girl who knelt to the 
 butcher, eh.'' Fine thing in its way — you'll have Cruik- 
 shank at it before long, see if you don't. Damn fine 
 thing, and if I could have done it, I would." He was 
 anxious to see Hermia — couldn't do any harm, he sup- 
 posed ; but Lady Morfa was by no means of that opinion. 
 
 The daily and nightly round, however, went on un- 
 disturbed. Great persons came and went, diners, callers ; 
 great assemblies heard the Countess of Morfa announced 
 from hall to stair, from stair-foot to stair-head, and 
 thrilled, or were believed to thrill, as of old. The Earl 
 went to Brighton, unconscious that he had disgraced his 
 family; Lord Crowland did not, perhaps, observe that
 
 WE RAISE OUR EYEBROWS 139 
 
 one pretty girl was absent from the long table, nor Mr. 
 Rogers that there was a laugher the less. Mr. Aloysius 
 Banks, dining at Caryll House for the first time in his 
 vexed progress up the shining ranks of the Constitution, 
 may have regretted that his "lovely friend" could not 
 admire his triumph — but only for a moment. He admired 
 it too sincerely himself to need any assistance. "Lady 
 Morfa, in whose company I happened to be dining," or 
 "dining at Caryll House the other day" — fine phrases. 
 It is possible even that Mr. Banks may have learned 
 something of her escapade — for the thing spread about 
 town, as we shall see — and may have accorded himself a 
 delicate mission with regard to it. There was a para- 
 graph in the Morning Chronicle of a late April issue 
 which seems plausibly his. "Those leaders of faction, 
 whose attacks upon a noble house, by the very excess of 
 their rancour, so singularly failed, have now renewed 
 them in a more insidious form. Having failed to destroy, 
 they now seek to divide. It has been freely said, in jour- 
 nals which it would be unbecoming to name, that," &c., 
 &c. . . . "We are assured by those best entitled to judge 
 that no member of the exalted house in question has tak- 
 en leave of his senses, and need hardly add that, had he 
 done so, Mr. Cobbett would be the last person to be ap- 
 prised of it." Not unskilfully steered, by any means : he 
 may be congratulated. 
 
 But are we, I wonder, to congratulate Miss Harriet 
 Moon, when, not long after the incarceration of her
 
 140 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 friend, she goes up Brook Street on an errand of her 
 own ? That is what she did ; and more : she went unerr- 
 ingly to the wicket-gate of Vernour and Son, and passed 
 it. She braved the pale young man in the glass case, 
 and asked to see Mr. David Vernour. Mr. David was in, 
 and was not long in presenting himself either. She 
 fancied that his face fell ; her o\vn was charmingly apolo- 
 getic. 
 
 She begged pardon for interinipting Mr. Vernour, but 
 imagined that Miss Chambre must have left her sunshade 
 behind her when she called a few days ago. A white silk 
 sunshade, ivory-handled, silk tassels. It was not to be 
 found at Gary 11 House, and it was almost certain that she 
 had had it in her hand. ]Miss ]\Ioon was positive — nearly 
 positive — ^that she had seen it. 
 
 Mv. Vernour denied the sunshade. Not only was it not 
 here, but Miss Chambre had not carried it. Had she 
 asked for it? 
 
 No, Miss Moon could not say that. In fact, she had not 
 been able to see Miss Chambre since that day. Miss 
 Chambre had returned to Caryll House and had at once 
 seen Lady Morfa — since which time she had been in her 
 apartments. Miss Moon's brown eyes were very large 
 at this minute, largely inquiring of the shop and the car- 
 cases of beasts which it contained — largely apprehensive 
 and sympathetic ; and they lighted presently upon Mr. 
 Vemour's and were perceived to be dewj. 
 
 Vernour was observed by her to be very red, and to be
 
 WE RAISE OUR EYEBROWS 141 
 
 frowning. She had reason to complain of his tone, 
 which was short — almost surly. 
 
 "I trust that Miss Chambre is well?" 
 
 "Oh, indeed, I trust she is. She is my dear friend. And 
 she was in the highest spirits on the day of our walk." 
 
 "I need not tell you, madam, that her welfare is much 
 to us here." He spoke with difficulty. 
 
 "No, indeed ; that is very natural," said Miss Harriet. 
 "She is — you will understand — liable to alternations of 
 feeling. Those who love her can allow for that ; but some 
 complain of it. She is not easy to understand." And 
 then Miss Moon sighed.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN WHICH WE HAVE TWO NOBLE SUITORS AT THE GATES 
 
 T N divers ways and by sundry persons the Imprisoned 
 "*■ fair was impressed upon her grandmother until it came 
 really to this, that to keep her confined was almost as 
 preposterous as her offence had been. There's no doubt 
 that the freely expressed opinions of her son and her 
 brother, John Botetort, had shaken the old gentlewoman ; 
 she as good as owned to herself that it would not do for 
 Roddy to return and find his niece still in prison. But 
 before she had been there much more than a week certain 
 things occurred which made her enlargement a question 
 of hours. 
 
 It seems, then, that she had been missed from the dinner- 
 table after all by some of her acquaintance, and that 
 my Lord Sandgate was one who had missed her. A week 
 after her disgrace this gentleman, a widower of five 
 years' standing, a man of substance and weight in the 
 country, called upon Lady Morfa and asked leave in 
 form to pay Miss Chambre his addresses. He frankly 
 admitted that his acquaintance with her was slight and 
 his resolution to improve it sudden. But if he was quick 
 to make up his mind, he dared say that he was slow to 
 change it. His political opinions were well known to her
 
 TWO NOBLE SUITORS 143 
 
 ladyship, and he was not without grounds of belief that 
 Miss Chambre's coincided with them. He believed that the 
 proposals he could make would be found perfectly satis- 
 factory, had no doubt that he should be the most fortu- 
 nate of men, and — paused for a reply. Such a serious 
 offer made Lady Morfa serious. She promised to con- 
 sider it ; she told Lord Sandgate that she was flattered. 
 It was not at all true, but she could hardly say less, 
 knowing in her heart that it ought to be true. The man 
 was a great gentleman and a weighty ; Radical or not, 
 he would assuredly be an earl. And when he left her, 
 which he shortly did in a very dignified manner, she did 
 consider him and his proposal together ; and, though he 
 got no benefit out of that, the girl did, for she had to be 
 considered also. It became a pressing question whether 
 an impertinence beyond belief was sufficient reason for 
 shutting up a very possible peeress. 
 
 A few days later on another gentleman, ignorant of the 
 first offer, came to woo. This was Tom Rodono, another 
 Member of Parliament, another eldest son, a man of 
 fashion and all the rest of it. Lady Morfa now felt that 
 she was being made ridiculous ; and that settled it. 
 
 Lord Rodono, when he was given to understand by 
 Miss Harriet Moon that Hermia Mary was in disgrace, 
 jumped at once to the nature of her offence. He remem- 
 bered her look of fury at the dinner-party, when Mervyn 
 Touchett dined his last at that table. "She's made a 
 scene about Vernour. What a spirit ! What a flame of
 
 144 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 a girl !" He knew that he was in love with her ; he had 
 known it for a long time ; but he didn't guess how much 
 he wanted her until he was told by Lady Morfa that it 
 was out of the question. She was tolerant of him, good- 
 humoured — for, after all, the proposal was not bad — 
 and put on more manner than she generally affected. 
 "My dear lord, your sentiments do you credit. Hermia 
 is very much honoured — very much honoured, I am 
 bound to say. But I must not disguise from you that I 
 have other views — family interests, family claims, in- 
 deed — for the child. She is very young, quite unformed, 
 and rather headstrong — ^that, no doubt, you have seen 
 for yourself ; and, of course, her education has not been 
 all that one could wish. Her poor father — perhaps I 
 need not speak of Colonel Chambre. You know my opin- 
 ion upon subjects in which he — most unfortunately — 
 poor man ! But with regard to Hermia, you will forgive 
 me if I don't mention this kind, this very honourable 
 proposition of yours to her — let us say, for the present, 
 at any rate. The child is not one-and-twenty until 
 October, and is in my charge for another four years. 
 Meantime, I trust so entirely in your discretion and — 
 you will allow me.'* — good sense, that I hope we shall 
 lose none of the intercourse which has been so pleas- 
 ant, not only to Roderick and myself, but to Hermia 
 also." 
 
 He had expected no less. "A thousand thanks, my 
 lady," he said lightly. "No, I hope to see as much of
 
 TWO NOBLE SUITORS 145 
 
 Caryll House as Caryll House will put up with. Don't 
 be afraid that I shall go behind your authority, ma'am. 
 That's not the way of it, I assure you." 
 
 "Of course, of course, my dear lord. I know with 
 whom I have to deal." She was perfectly gracious to 
 the poor gentleman-^who felt more poorly than he cared 
 to own. A waiting game, eh.'^ He was in for a spell of 
 Jacob's wooing. But that rascally Jacob permitted 
 himself consolation which Lord Rodono now felt to be 
 impossible for him. Five years for Hermia ! Yes, but 
 that glorious young creature to be kept five years ! 
 He knew his chance was of the slenderest. Meanwhile, 
 where on earth had old Mother Morfa got her in 
 ward .'' 
 
 He put in a word or two in mitigation of her supposed 
 offence, spoke of his father and sister, who had fallen in 
 love with her. "You might spare her to Grizel now and 
 again, my lady. She'll be safe with her, I know, and 
 be well out of this fly-blown town. No politics at Peter- 
 sham, I promise you." 
 
 That was unlucky. Lady Morfa bristled, became bird- 
 like. "Politics, Lord Rodono ! Politics — and a child in 
 her teens ! No politics anywhere for my granddaughter, 
 I can assure you." 
 
 "Pm with you there, my lady," said Rodono. "It's a 
 grubby business for a lady's fingers." He had said more 
 than he need, as he saw, and took leave. Coming out, he 
 found Harriet close to the door, and made her jump.
 
 146 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "Ha, Miss Harriet, so I've caught you, have I?" He 
 wasn't very fond of this young lady, and allowed himself 
 to be blunt with her. 
 
 Miss Harriet put her hand to her side. "Oh, Lord 
 Rodono, I was just " 
 
 "I know you were. Miss Harriet; I know you 
 were." 
 
 "I made sure that I heard her ladyship's bell. Indeed 
 I " 
 
 "Don't be afraid, my dear. I shan't bite — my teeth 
 are drawn. Let me know if I can be of any use, though I 
 believe you'll have Miss Hermy out before long, and you 
 may tell her that I told you so." 
 
 "But I am not allowed to see her. Lord Rodono — and I 
 don't know what it can have been." This must surely 
 have been added for practice. 
 
 "Nor I, and I wish to heaven I did. I'll send Lady 
 Grizel to her — but she'll be out in a day or two, I 
 fancy." And away he went to his tilbury. 
 
 The two noble gentlemen, unconsciously rival, met in 
 the House that warm afternoon, and yawned together 
 upon the roomy benches of the Opposition. A dreary 
 debate was in progress of the usual kind — of that kind 
 which made Captain Ranald long for a pike, "to end the 
 cackling and get something done." Mr. Peroival was 
 voicing his lamentations over some betrayal of "the gen- 
 erous instincts, the warm-hearted motions so creditable to 
 his right honourable friend;" Lord Castlereagh was
 
 TWO NOBLE SUITORS 147 
 
 trimming his nails ; Mr. Canning, showing his teeth, 
 pretended a smile. The debts of Walcheren were mass- 
 ing, and soon must be met. 
 
 Lord Sandgate handed a Weekly Register, folded, to 
 Rodono. "Seen that, Tom?" Rodono, his hat over his 
 eyes, began to read languidly, but was soon keenly inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "An act of Carylldom has lately come to my notice, 
 an act done to Mr. Vernour the butcher, of which I 
 candidly confess I had not believed that precious house 
 capable. But I was wrong, and offer my apologies — 
 where they are due." j\Ir. Cobbett proceeded to nail 
 down the facts — facts which we know. "Mr. Vernour, 
 in the course of his business, one day last week received 
 a visit from a personage — a young personage of high 
 rank," etc. 
 
 He named no names, he was sedulously reserved. 
 "This," he concluded, "I declare to be a royal act in the 
 true sense of a word sadly out of season just now. And 
 I will say rather, for that reason, that it is an heroic 
 act, worthy of him who served his prisoner on his knees, 
 great Edward's greater son. This, in fact, was an un- 
 commonly spirited affair, conducted by the last Caryll in 
 the world whom one could have thought had dared it. I 
 could give a name if need were — but no! Let me learn 
 from the act and the actors in it to emulate their own 
 modesty ; let nothing I may write infringe upon the 
 sacred prerogative of youth, innocence, and beauty."
 
 148 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Rodono read that twice with heightened colour. It told 
 him all. 
 
 Sandgate was watching him keenly. "Know who that 
 is ?" The other nodded. "It could only be one of them. 
 Yes, yes, I know." And then he jerked his foot out, and 
 let his head sink into his breast. "By heaven ! I can't 
 touch her hem ! I'm not fit — " was his thought ; but to 
 Lord Sandgate he said, "You know that she could 
 do it?" 
 
 Sandgate now nodded. "She could do more than that 
 . . . and that old bitch-wolf has her locked up ! . . . 
 Cobbett must be told — I'll tell him. . . ' . By Gad, sir, 
 we'll shame the old woman into honesty." 
 
 They resumed the subject at Brooks's. Lord Sandgate 
 was for a meeting between Cobbett and Miss Chambre. 
 "I should like to see her catch fire. By heaven, Tom, she 
 could lead an army in the field — or to Windsor ! We'll 
 have our revolution yet." 
 
 Rodono declared himself. "I'm a victim. She's re- 
 cruited me — but I shall have to wait. Mother Morfa 
 won't look at me." 
 
 "Nor at me, damn her !" said his friend. Rodono looked 
 up. "What, you too?" 
 
 "Yes," said Sandgate, "and I feel like wasting the 
 world for a glance of her eyes." This grave gentleman, 
 who sat nursing his leg, was very much in earnest. "It's 
 a great game — to serve the like of her, Tom. She's got 
 the air of a young Amazon — spoiling for it."
 
 TWO NOBLE SUITORS 149 
 
 "War's in her blood, I'll allow you." 
 
 "And service in mine. To hold, as it were, her armour, 
 hand it in piece by piece — the greaves, the cuisses, the 
 breastplate and gorget. Picture her, sir, cap-a-pie! To 
 gird on the sword, and put the spear in the young mailed 
 hand ! " 
 
 "Damn it, Sandgate, I'm with you there ! " 
 
 "I'd like to run at her stirrup," said Lord Sandgate. 
 "She's a Maid of Orleans — she's a Virgin-Saviour — 
 she's one to die for! She's got eyes like a midsummer 
 eve — eyes with fires dancing in 'em — eyes ahght. To 
 have seen her in that butcher's shop!" 
 
 Lord Rodono could not follow his friend so far. "No, 
 no, Sandgate, keep her away from the mob. She's too 
 fine for that. To have done it once — to show her mettle 
 — that's enough. But lead her into this filthy trade we're 
 at, she'll draggle. Cobbett — Cobbett and her! — is he 
 man enough, gentleman enough?" 
 
 "She's a cut above gentlemen, my friend," said Lord 
 Sandgate, very sure of himself; "she's got hands too 
 fine for kid gloves. It's a man she must cope with — a 
 man of ten thousand." 
 
 He grew excited ; he rose and stood, back to the grate. 
 "She shall meet Cobbett and all his men. She shall see 
 old square-cut Cartwright — Burdett — Wolsely — old 
 Tooke, the keen old spider. She shall see the lot, and 
 hear 'em at their bloodiesL I'll back her. Let her be 
 the test — if they pass through lier fire, they're men.
 
 150 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 She's of a rare breed — not a woman, but a flame ! And 
 now I'll go to bed." 
 
 "If she's not a woman, then it's certain that I'm not a 
 man," said Rodono to himself. And back he too stalked 
 to Park Place, where he lodged.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN WHICH WE STAND AT THE WINDOW 
 
 rr^ IME flies as the heart flies. Within six hours of the 
 '■■ Act of Brook Street, Vernour and she, Brook Street 
 itself and the whole wild incredible errand — the Resolve, 
 which had been, as it were, the watching of the arms ; 
 the Dedication, when she rose that morning to her task ; 
 the Sally, the fulfilling of the Vow, the fiery ordeal of the 
 Return — lay whole and composed, a legend, and a golden 
 legend, in her memory. As she put by her arms she felt 
 exceedingly complacent that her task was smoothly done. 
 It had been difficult, more difficult than she had ex- 
 pected ; she did not stay to examine why — all she knew 
 at this first blush of release was that she had triumphed. 
 She had been loyal — so she put it — to her traditions ; 
 she had kept alive in her own breast the flame which her 
 father had kindled there. She had championed the Rights 
 of Man. 
 
 Very much excited, her mind alert, her imagination fly- 
 ing high and far, she flitted to and fro, traversing her 
 little kingdom of two rooms a thousand times. Her 
 thoughts j ust now were entirely pious ; she remembered 
 her father without mourning him any more; her gentle 
 mother, too, to whom every whim of her husband's had
 
 152 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 been a law. She remembered how fine had been Lady 
 Hermione's loyal acceptance of the democratic faith ; 
 she remembered, for instance — and it didn't seem in the 
 least ridiculous — that she had tried to be "Citizen Her- 
 mione," as the colonel was Citizen Chambre, and had 
 only given it up because it was so extremely difficult to 
 say. Another trouble had been that the peasantry would 
 have nothing to do with such freaks of naming ; her 
 father had always been "the Cornel's Honour," and her 
 mother *'My lady." There had been a time — no more 
 than a week ago — when Hermia would have laughed, say 
 with Tom Rodono, over these things ; but now, swiftly 
 roaming her prison, she thought them splendid. They 
 made her heart beat. When she caught sight of her own 
 face, as she passed the looking-glass, she hardly knew 
 herself in this eager, flushed War-Maid, whose grey 
 eyes shone like jet, whose lips were parted and hair 
 streaming free. In the glow and fervency of her 
 thoughts she wrote — standing to do it — to Mary Fox: 
 and how her pen raced over the sheet ! . . . "I am 
 perfectly satisfied I have done right. Don't seek to 
 persuade me otherwise, Mary — scold me if you like, but 
 no sophisms. I have been living these last few hours 
 with papa and mamma — I have seen them as plain as I 
 see this paper. They look kindly at me, their eyes 
 smile — they would stroke my hair, and papa would kiss 
 me, if they weren't ghosts. I have heard again, with 
 perfect distinctness, dear papa's favourite paradox —
 
 WE STAND AT THE WINDOW 153 
 
 Alzcat/s he proud enough to he humble, my Hermy. I 
 am sure that I have pleased him. I don't care what hap- 
 pens to me now." 
 
 She left her letter here because that last half-phrase 
 had struck her as so curiously true that she had to con- 
 sider it. She walked about again, stood at the win- 
 dov.'s — that of her bedroom, which gave on to the walled 
 garden ; that of her boudoir, which showed her the court- 
 yard in front, the statue of Earl Rupert, the locked 
 gates, and the lodge. And it was at this latter window 
 that she made a discovery. She found herself blushing 
 and trembling: very slightly, it's true, but trembling 
 she was, and blushing — and extremely happy. Why was 
 this.'' What had happened.'' She stayed her researches 
 into her own thoughts ; she left her questions un- 
 answered — but she did not cease to put them. 
 
 The legend was rehearsed, that golden legend — step by 
 step to Brook Street, step b}" step of the return. But 
 there was a noticeable hiatus. She always skipped the 
 scene with Vernour where she had passed under his arm 
 into the little parlour, and where she had felt that most 
 peculiar sensation of being a bird fluttering under a 
 hand. She approached it always in her thought with 
 high beating of the heart ; but then she closed her eyes 
 and felt herself burning, and lost herself in the fire — 
 and when she came to herself again, she was either talk- 
 ing of the Clanranald family to Mrs. Vernour or speed- 
 ing homewards, or confronted with grandmamma. There
 
 154 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 was a fierce kind of excitement in this gradual, conscious 
 approach to a forbidden moment, in the tiptoe venture 
 to the very edge, in the peep too long, the slip, the slide 
 downwards to the fiery flood, the momentary drowning ; 
 and then there was the relief of recovery, and the sense 
 of danger past. She lived it over and over again ; time 
 existed no longer. She conned her legend until she had 
 it by heart, until she knew the perilous passages of it, 
 and could judge whether she was capable of reviewing 
 them, or must not. ... If she indulged herself, if she 
 nursed her wound, it's no wonder. What else was she to 
 do? Her heart was, as it were, in her arms, against her 
 bosom. She fondled it. This must be confessed. . . . 
 It was all very secret, very sweet, very foolish and, be- 
 like, very wrong, . . . but if outraged grandmammas 
 lock up fair impertinents as a punishment for temerity, 
 this is the sort of penance the prisoners will perform. 
 
 I don't see why I should make any mystery about a 
 very simple matter. David Vernour, seen by Miss 
 Chambre for a second of time on that day in January 
 when she first came to the home of her raco, had by this 
 end of April assumed the proportions of a hero. It may 
 be granted that he had himself done nothing towards it, 
 if it is granted in return that he had done nothing 
 against it. But to grant me that return is to grant me the 
 M'hole position. It does so happen that in the few moments 
 when he was face to face with the visionary he had 
 carried himself with simplicity and dignity. If he was
 
 WE STAND AT THE WINDOW 155 
 
 no hero, he had not been unheroic. Indeed, it is difficult 
 to see what better a hero himself could have done. Every- 
 thing else had been the young lady's work. She had 
 spun the mist through which he loomed like the Brocken- 
 shadow, enormous and god-like; she had lent the fire 
 which ruddied the dream ; by every effort of hers he 
 had gained; and every new wrong done him by the 
 Carylls had seemed a new virtue in the victim of their 
 spleen. And not only he, but his family, partook this 
 glamour. The Brook Street establishment became a 
 sanctuary, the Brook Street denizens patriarchs. It had 
 never — even in the first moment of reality — entered her 
 head to say, "These people are not as I am." She was 
 too much her father's cliild, and too much the child of her 
 enthusiastic generation for that to be possible. Nothing 
 had offended her, nothing jarred. The men in frocks 
 and aprons, the woman with hands pink and soft from 
 the wash-tub — she had noticed nothing amiss. She had 
 been full of her errand, swept along by it ; and now that 
 it was all over, and she was so triumphantly right, so 
 sure that she had done well — now there was no question 
 of reality at all. David Vernour shone through his blue 
 frock like Apollo through his shepherd-skins — what time 
 he was keeping herds for Admetus, serving his term in 
 proud humility with that Thessalian king. 
 
 Her seclusion was rigid, and might have been irksome. 
 No one was admitted to her but Moth ; and what Moth 
 may have surmised she was too discreet to exhibit. But
 
 156 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 for the first day or two this black-eyed, demure young 
 woman was entirely at a loss to know who "he" might be. 
 It was, of course, obvious that the situation involved a 
 man. If families and persons filled Lady Morfa's world, 
 Moth's contained two classes also — expectant woman and 
 advancing man. Was it Lord Rodono? Was it Mr. 
 Touchctt? She could put two and two together, and 
 had heard of that gentleman's performance at the din- 
 ner-table ; it had gone to swell the great horse-question 
 which had been canvassed in the housekeeper's room with 
 far more freedom than elsewhere. Parties were equally 
 divided down there ; the Jacob Jacobs of the gold-laced 
 hat and black stockings was not quite the same man one 
 might have seen in slippered ease with Mrs. James, with 
 Mr. Progers, and my lord's own man. Mrs. James, the 
 housekeeper, was strongly on the Family side ; so was 
 her ladyship's woman, Mrs. Elkington. Moth, on the 
 other hand, was for Vernour, whose charms of person 
 demanded sympathy, and she hailed his return to the 
 tradesman's door with tender interest. Jacob Jacobs 
 did not disguise that he respected the young butcher, 
 and that he cared not who knew it. It is true that he 
 had been scandalised by that shocking encounter ; but it 
 is also true that he had been impressed by it. For 
 although to lay hands upon a peer is a sacrilegious act, 
 yet to have done so, and not to have been blasted, entitles 
 you to the esteem of your fellow-men. Vernour still lived, 
 and again plied his trade at Caryll House. This was in
 
 WE STAND AT THE WINDOW 157 
 
 itself a career. So a truly religious man might feel 
 towards one who had successfully robbed a church. But 
 neither Jacobs nor Moth had an inkling of the present 
 state of the case. Moth had, in fact, finally decided for 
 Touchett. 
 
 Meantime, on the third day of her imprisonment, Miss 
 Chambre discovered that half-past ten in the morning 
 was the hour of David Vernour's appearance before the 
 gates of Caryll House ; and on the fourth that he was 
 aware of her. This was an act of divination on her part, 
 for on his he never once let her know it. It was as he 
 was tethering his horse, or talking with Jacobs at the 
 gates, that he looked towards the window where she sat ; 
 once inside the court, although he had to cross immedi- 
 ately under it, he kept his eyes to the ground ; nor did 
 he look at her again until he was once more at the horse's 
 head. She was very much puzzled to know how he had 
 learned of her confinement, but assumed that he had 
 guessed it. She saw him every day so long as she re- 
 mained a prisoner, and nothing could have kept her from 
 the window. When she was released at the end of the 
 week, and free of the house and grounds, on the contrary, 
 nothing in the world would have brought her to the gates 
 at half -past ten in the morning. 
 
 But here, in the middle of London, were all the condi- 
 tions of an Italian novel: a window and a secluded lady, 
 a confidential maid, a young man whose business led him 
 daily by the house. The action should have flowed natu-
 
 158 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 rally ; the ladj should lean over the balcony and one day 
 drop a flower; the maid should hear her complaint, and 
 one day confide it to the lover below ; notes should pass, 
 and all the rest be in a concatenation. Nothing of the 
 kind here. The romance endured with the imprisonment 
 and ceased the moment it became easier of fruition ; and 
 as for the notes, they came and went by the post. 
 
 He wrote to her, but after her release, "I beg Miss 
 Chambre to believe that no word from me has occasioned 
 the paragraph in the newspaper. I beg her to do me 
 this act of justice, and to believe me with the greatest 
 respect her obliged servant, D. Vernour." 
 
 She did not hesitate to reply: "Dear Sir: I have 
 seen no paragraphs, but had I seen them, should never 
 have supposed them yours. In any case, I should have 
 been very indifferent to them. I remain, dear sir, yours, 
 much obliged, Hermia Mary Chambre." 
 
 She was released, as I say, after a week, and left her 
 rooms to all appearances her natural self. How far that 
 was true I don't, at this stage of her history, take it upon 
 me to say. Her visions ceased with the opportunity of 
 dreaming, and she sought no more material — indeed, she 
 was careful to avoid it. She never left the house or re- 
 turned to it between half-past ten and a quarter to 
 eleven; and she did not pay another call upon Mrs. 
 Vernour. So much Harriet Moon ascertained — who, for 
 her part, had no scruples about her hours for going out 
 and coming in.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IN WHICH SIR GEORGE COIGXE HEARS THE CALL OF 
 FAMILY 
 
 "^ \ THEN Lady Morf a, under stress of the thought that 
 ' ^ she was keeping in ward a person for which two 
 eldest sons of earls had asked within a few days of each 
 other, released her granddaughter, she knew that she was 
 committed to her last expedient. Unless you are a Catho- 
 lic — with walled convents in the background — there is 
 really no middle course. If you cannot keep a handsome 
 young lady at home, and dare not let her abroad, you 
 must marry and be done with her. She is not a specimen 
 for a museum, after all. Miss Chambre, at any rate, did 
 not appear to consider herself so; but, being enlarged, 
 came forth no whit abashed, said her "Good-morning, 
 grandmamma," very happily, and stooped a fresh, if 
 somewhat pale, cheek to be kissed. Without any desire 
 to blink regrettable facts, she complained of want of 
 exercise, and demanded a horse and squire. The mar- 
 riage-treaty must be faced. 
 
 But the marriage of a Caryll by the mother's side is no 
 light matter — no common affair of instinct and heart- 
 ache. There are high contracting parties to such a 
 marriage, and settlements and minute precautions for the
 
 160 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 proper maintenance of offspring. That which you would 
 blush to remember in the case of Jack and Jill, here you 
 would blush to forget. In a certain sense it is almost 
 vulgar that such an alliance should be opened by a 
 gentleman with a heart-complaint ; it is surely better that 
 the authorities should sound each other, the land-agents 
 having been consulted, and the powers verified. Cer- 
 tainly, Lords Sandgate and Rodono had not advanced 
 their suits by the methods adopted ; in any case, they 
 were ineligible. The Codnor properties were in the west, 
 the Drem estate was miserably cut into by jointures, and 
 was Scotch at the best. There remained Lord Edlogan 
 to consider, son of the Duke of Wentsland and Bryng- 
 win — desirable in every way — but she held him over for 
 the present, and, like a king in a crisis, sent for Sir 
 George Coigne. 
 
 This young baronet of Bucks, summoned by his aunt 
 to form an administration, arrived punctually to the 
 minute, driving his four bays from Plashetts as became 
 so famous a whip. "From Uxbridge under the hour, 
 ma'am, upon my soul; two hours and fifty-five minutes 
 from Wendover Cross— and going like clockwork ! " He 
 was a prosperous young man, uniformly cheerful; he 
 was sandy, red-faced, wholesome, and slim, very neat in 
 the leg. In addition to his coachmanship, which was his 
 great art, he was a certain shot at a woodcock, a keen 
 farmer, not above racing ; he had been seen at more than 
 one mill, backing his fancy man, and could put out a
 
 SIR GEORGE IS SENT FOR 161 
 
 main of cocks for a battle at two days' notice. These were 
 his occupations, pursued with the kind of zest most men 
 have for their diversions. In addition, he owned a bor- 
 ough, always at the service of the Opposition, and a 
 comfortable fifteen thousand a year, all in land. Although 
 he was turned thirty, he had never considered marriage, 
 for (as he explained) with horses and hounds a man's 
 hands are pretty full. He bred both, and had taken 
 prizes. But Lady Morfa was fully sure of him. His 
 mother had never allowed him to forget that she had been 
 a Botetort. The Coignes, of course, were respectable, 
 but no more: an old county family. The baronetcy 
 dated from George II. 
 
 Her ladyship came to the point with more than her 
 accustomed precision — with more, because she was deal- 
 ing with a kinsman, to whom a preface would have been 
 impertinent. Her very first words were really a com- 
 pliment to Family. "Now, George," she said, "I've 
 found a match for you ; and you must be extremely 
 sensible and listen to me." 
 
 "Always do that, aunt — do me the justice," says Sir 
 George, looking at his Hessians. Had he been a com- 
 mon person, you would have sworn that he had whistled 
 as he heard the first words. 
 
 "It's Hermia Chambre," said Lady Morfa; "good 
 blood on both sides, as I am bound to own. I never ap- 
 proved of Dick Chambre, perhaps I need not say — but, 
 after all, he might have been worse. If, for instance, he
 
 162 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 had not run away with poor Hermione, I doubt if any- 
 body else would. And he would certainly have had all 
 Ireland by the ears if he could have kept quiet. But he 
 set up for a wit, poor man — must talk. Heavens ! I can 
 hear him now with his, 'Mark me, madam, a man is not 
 a dumb beast.' He did his best to prove that. He was 
 green wood — all smoke and splutter; but I have never 
 denied his birth. That he had, though I dare say he was 
 heartily ashamed of it. As to Hermia, you know she has 
 nothing of her own — five hundred a year, or something 
 of the kind — but I shall see to that. She's been with me 
 now since Christmas, and I certainly like her, I must say. 
 She's a beauty, I suppose — too full for perfection, per- 
 haps — too mature ; but the fault's on the right side, 
 and " 
 
 "Quite so, quite so," Sir George murmured to his boots, 
 and wondered what might come next. 
 
 "She made a great effect when I brought her out — 
 very gratifjdng. There was a time when I thought 
 
 that the Pr ; but, however — nothing came of 
 
 that." 
 
 "Good Lord! no," said the vexed Sir George. "Too 
 bad." 
 
 "She's full of spirit," her ladyship calmly pursued, 
 "can answer you like a wit at a dinner-table. I know 
 she has courage, though I think she is obstinate and 
 perverse. But that is because she has been brought up 
 anyhow. A year's training will work wonders — and, of
 
 SIR GEORGE IS SENT FOR 163 
 
 course, there's no hurry. What is she? Twenty, I sup- 
 pose — barely that." 
 
 "Ought to take 'em early, aunt, eh.'"' said Sir George, 
 his mind's eye now roaming over his walled paddocks, 
 where slim chestnuts grazed at ease. 
 
 "Well, now, George, I must tell you that she's been 
 greatly admired. The Duke of Sussex said to me — well, 
 you know the kind of thing those creatures say. Their 
 compliments, my dear ! They talk like salesmen ! But 
 I've had two proposals for her — one excellent in many 
 ways, and I've reason to know that the Duke's son has 
 had a thought of her. If it were not for a most un- 
 fortunate occurrence in which she chose to embroil her- 
 self — but the other, I'll tell you in confidence, was Lord 
 Sandgate. Lord Sandgate, the friend of — that man ! 
 My dear George Coigne, I don't wish to flatter you — but 
 between you and Lord Sandgate what choice have I.'"' 
 
 She paused, and her nephew had to take up the tale. 
 Alarmed as he had been, disturbed, and, as he expressed 
 it, "put about," he was by no means at the end of his 
 tether yet. Talk of this sort amused women, and women 
 amused him, so long as they didn't get too close. His 
 aunt was got as close as he cared about, but he thought 
 that careless interest, so to speak, might serve his turn 
 best. Could he not hint the dawning of an idea? Yes, 
 yes, but how the deuce do you do that kind of thing? 
 The old lady was serious, and might take him up short 
 if he was not careful — and talking was such infernal
 
 164 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 nonsense. One of the few trials of his life was the having 
 to say what he wanted, instead of to get it. It is prob- 
 able that his natural manner, which was unemotional, 
 jerky, and genial at once, helped him in this uncomfort- 
 able pass, for it did combine, rather happily, brusquerie 
 and compliment. It should certainly be a great com- 
 pliment to your partner in a conversation that you take 
 compliments as a matter of course. 
 
 He thumbed his waistcoat, stretched his fine legs to the 
 full, cleared his throat, and settled into his stock. "My 
 dear aunt, I take this very kindly in you — upon my life, 
 very kindly indeed. I don't know what I can say, except 
 that, of course, I'd never thought of Hermy Chambre — 
 in that sort of way, you know. Nice gal — fine gal — well 
 set up — rides uncommonly straight, eh.'"' 
 
 This did not take him far. 
 
 "I'm told she rides excellently," said her ladyship, and 
 left it there for him. 
 
 "Hardly know her, you know — eh?" Sir George con- 
 tinued, hammering upon his manner. "Full of breed 
 and all that — full of go and pace — fine action and all 
 that, eh? Family first rate, of course — very young, 
 though — what ?" 
 
 "Virgin soil," said Lady Morfa ; "virgin soil." 
 
 Sir George jumped as though he had been shot, and 
 immediately perceived that that made it worse. Really, 
 his aunt was — eh? But he hastened now to agree. "Not 
 a doubt of it — oh, of course, of course ! My dear aunt !
 
 SIR GEORGE IS SENT FOR 165 
 
 Very charming and all that." Exquisitely uncomfort- 
 able, he felt that no praise from him could be too strong 
 for a lady whom his aunt could so exhibit. "Yes, upon 
 my soul, I always liked the gal — little Miss Hermy — 
 eh ?" This was further than he had meant to go, but his 
 aunt had shocked him. Virgin soil — oh, damn it! 
 
 "Very well," said the lady, "then I suppose that we 
 know where we are." 
 
 "Eh.'*" said he. "Oh, well, aunt, we won't drive her, 
 you know. Never do with a youngster. She'd shy off 
 to a certainty. No, we must go slower than that. I'll 
 turn it over — turn it over in my mind, 3^ou know. 
 We've time enough, as I think you said — we must go 
 slow." 
 
 "It was you who said so," observed her ladyship, 
 "not I." 
 
 "Oh, well, after all, you know — there is plenty of 
 time." His discomfort turned him at bay. "I must 
 really — you'll forgive me, aunt — I must really do some 
 serious thinking here, and consideration, eh.-^ Put on my 
 considering cap, and all that, you know." He paused 
 blankly, and felt constrained to qualify what had sounded 
 to him horribl}" crude. "But she's a fine gal — stout, 
 trim gal — rare colour and all that." She might have 
 been a wine. "So now I think — " He rose, 
 
 "Think of it, George ; that's all I ask," said Lady 
 Morfa, not truthfully, and gave him her hand, which he 
 kissed before he left the presence. At the door he sighed
 
 166 ^ THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 his immense relief. "God Almighty, I thought she'd got 
 
 me 
 
 I" 
 
 In the corridor, down which he stroke briskly, manliood 
 returning at every step, he came suddenly upon Harriet 
 Moon, who, with bent head, seemed to be hurrying about 
 her business. We now find a very different Sir George 
 Coigne — one of quickened colour and assured gallantry. 
 
 "God bless me, it's Miss Moon ! " She looked up like a 
 startled roe, but almost immediately showed him her long 
 lashes. 
 
 "Oh, Sir George, I — " Her hand, which was a very 
 small one, felt hke a caught mouse in his. 
 
 "Upon my life, Miss Harriet, I'm very glad to see you 
 again. I do hope you're very well." 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Sir George." 
 
 "One never sees you here nowadays. You've been 
 missed, I can tell you." 
 
 "I was just going to her ladyship. Sir George, 
 when " 
 
 "Yes, I know — I'm in luck's way. Let's see, how long 
 is it since you were at Plashetts ?^^ 
 
 "Nearly six months," said Harriet quickly and accu- 
 rately. 
 
 "By Gad, is it so long.?" She had regained her hand. 
 "I say, Miss Harriet, do you remember the skewbald.'' 
 And how frightened you were?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. Sir George." 
 
 "I shall never forget that myself so long as I hve in
 
 SIR GEORGE IS SENT FOR 167 
 
 this wicked world," said the baronet, "You took my 
 arm, you know. But j'ou've forgiven me, haven't you?" 
 
 "Oh, surely. Sir George." 
 
 "You know I wouldn't do you any — 3'ou know that I 
 think very much of j^our — good looks, eh?" This was a 
 new Sir George, unknown to his aunt. Miss Moon had 
 nothing to say, and her cast-down eyes moved him 
 strongl}'. He was bound to see them. 
 
 "Miss Harriet — oh, Harriet — " She looked up, plead- 
 ingl}', beautifully, tearfully, and in another moment her 
 hands were caug-ht — and what might have occurred 
 thereupon if Hemiia had not then entered the corridor — 
 Hermia, fresh from her ride — one does not know. That 
 is what happened; Harriet flew. "Oh, how d'ye do, 
 Henny?" said Sir George to his proffered bride. 
 
 "Quite well, thank you, George," said she. "What 
 have you been doing to poor Harriet?" 
 
 Poor Harriet ! The contrast between his own state and 
 that of the divinely dowered Harriet tempted him to 
 chuckle. "I was just telling Miss Moon, you know, she 
 must really bring you down to Plashetts. This weather — 
 we're at our best — with the grass beginning to grow — 
 and all that. And flowers ! Do 3-ou like flowers ? We've 
 any quantity of flowers. I do think you'd be pleased 
 with us ; I do indeed. You go and stay with old Drem — 
 I know you do, because Lady Grizel told me — and it's 
 not fair, you know. Now, really, when will you come 
 down ?"
 
 168 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "You must ask grandmamma," says she. "She has me 
 body and souh" 
 
 "Oh, no, by George !" He was knowing. "Not she ! 
 Don't tell me that. You have a way of your own, I be- 
 lieve. And Tom Rodono says so." 
 
 "You collect your information from that family.'' I 
 don't think he knows much about me." 
 
 Sir George mused. Tom was the man ! That might be 
 captained by an artful one. "Good fellow, Tom," he 
 said, "but he's idle, you know; wants looking after. 
 But, mind you, he's a man you may depend upon — so 
 long as he don't get angry. Never let him get angry." 
 
 "Really!" said Miss Chambre. "What have I to do 
 with his passions.'^" He was going too fast. Damn it, 
 he was making a mess of the thing. 
 
 "Oh, quite so, quite so. What have you? No, no — 
 that's absurd. But about your visit to Plashetts now. 
 I do hope you'll think of that." 
 
 "It's very kind of you, George. I'll see." 
 
 "Do — pray do. Now I must be off. County meeting 
 at Amersham this evening. Reform, and all that. I 
 promised I'd go. Waysford asked me. Must keep up, 
 you know, eh.^" 
 
 "Yes, I hope you'll keep up," says she. "We expect it 
 of you." 
 
 "By George, we're all Whigs here, I know — but Re- 
 form! I'll tell you this, Hermy, between you and me 
 and the doorpost. I don't much like it. That little place
 
 SIR GEORGE IS SENT FOR 169 
 
 of mine, you know — Condover — well, that'd go, you 
 know. Three freeholders besides myself — and one's my 
 bailiff, and the other's his son, and the other's the wood- 
 man. Now, what I say is, that's mine, you know — my 
 grandfather bought it — paid for it. But there you 
 are — I said I'd go, and I will go. And you're quite right 
 about keeping up — that's sport, that is. Well, by-by, 
 Hermy." They touched hands. He added, "I say, 
 though, I do think I'd bring Miss Moon with you — to 
 Plashctts, I mean. My mother likes her." 
 
 She laughed. "Oh, of course, I understand that I 
 should be valueless without " 
 
 "Not at all ! Only too charmed to have you anyhow — 
 what.'^ Lucky to get you, I know. But Miss Moon — 
 she's useful, you know — been there before, knows the 
 ways, and all that. I do think I'd bring her, if I were 
 you." 
 
 "I shall certainly bring her," said Hermia. "Good- 
 bye, Cousin George." 
 
 When she found her friend, she said nothing of Sir 
 George or his proposals, but talked of indifferent 
 things — and then, suddenly, she looked at Harriet, who 
 was very aware of it, and put her arm round her waist, 
 and kissed her. Harriet, after a proper moment of sur- 
 prise, embraced her with both arms, and kissed her back. 
 Nothing was said by them — and nothing need have been 
 said by me, but that I think the little incident marks a 
 step in Miss Chambre's sentimental education.
 
 170 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "Moon I believe to be sly," her ladyship had said upon 
 one occasion, and was no doubt right. But the question 
 is. How is a little thin daughter of nobody to keep her 
 soul her own unless she use the only weapon she has — a 
 pair of melting brown eyes and a fine curtain of lashes 
 over them? These, and a pretty, deferential way, were, 
 so far as I can see, all her simple armoury. To be sure, 
 there was religion ; but it had not come to that yet.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WHICH EXPOUNDS A KEW USE FOR ONE's MISTRESS 
 
 '\/f[ Y Lord Viscount Sandgate was an enthusiast of that 
 ■^ -*■ dangerous sort which can turn all things human 
 and divine to his single purpose, to which nothing is too 
 sacred for use, or fails to get, as it gives, colour and 
 radiance by use. If he was a lover, his love must be so 
 much capital for his ventures ; if he was an adventurer, 
 his ventures must be sanctified by his love. He would 
 have said. My mistress is my pole-star, and I walk in 
 her beam. Yes, but I travel to the pole. The pole of 
 his endeavour was assuredly Revolution, the lantern for 
 his feet of French make. Into this lantern, as a guide 
 for this end, he proposed to place the enkindled heart of 
 the fair Chambre. 
 
 He was not one of those politicians who can plod ; he 
 was vehement and importunate of Fortune. Reform, 
 which had promised so fair in the days of 'O-i, now 
 seemed to him mere patchwork, scarcely worth his while. 
 At best it was but a handle to the axe he longed to wield ; 
 and as time went on, and ministers sat immovable in 
 their places, and the Opposition rootedly asleep in its 
 constitutional fortress, my Lord Sandgate began to 
 pant for the open, and to snatch at any handles he
 
 172 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 could find. It must be admitted that he was not squeam- 
 ish. If Colonel Wardle and the Cyprian of Gloucester 
 Place gave him no qualms, who or what could? He 
 had used these not too cleanly levers so long as they 
 would serve ; and after them ]Mr. Reding, the broker 
 of seats. With the purchased lady he had belaboured 
 the honour of a royal duke, with the gentleman bruised 
 Lord Castlereagh's heel — and so far, good. Now, as 
 it seemed to him, he had the opportunity of striking 
 deeper. Corruption, when all was said, was but a 
 surface sore ; Privilege was a cancer. You must excise 
 that with a knife. Now, suppose that he could inspire 
 his friends with some of the enthusiasm which he had 
 felt for Miss Chambre's gallant deed — suppose, even, 
 that he could egg on that brilliant young leveller to 
 greater havoc — had he not a knife wherewith to slice 
 Privilege.'' He certainly thought so. 
 
 Remember, he was in love with this lady. She Imaged 
 for him the live flame of chivalry, that altar-fire which 
 he could not believe extinguished altogether, and without 
 which he could not hope for any ordered universe. If 
 he chiefly admired her wit and franchise, her high spirits, 
 he was not at all insensible to her beauty, and was clear 
 as to the extraordinary value of her noble birth. He 
 promised himself the raptures of possession as heartily 
 as Tom Rodono or any ordinary man could ever have 
 done, but flattered himself with the vision of a rarer 
 joy — when they two with level breasts should lead the
 
 A NEW USE FOR ONE'S MISTRESS 173 
 
 forces of Liberty into battle, and sit, still side by side, 
 enthroned upon the wreck of kings. The picture is con- 
 fused — for what have thrones to do with Liberty, unless 
 everybody is to have a throne? But it pleased him when 
 he made it ; it gave zest to his efforts when he set about his 
 design of a meeting between his Phrygian goddess, as he 
 strangely called her, and his ally, the stout Mr. Cobbett. 
 
 Nothing could have needed contrivance more nice, but 
 he pursued the plan with such ardour that he was able to 
 manage it towards the middle of June. While Lord 
 Castlereagh was nursing his honour and Mr. Canning 
 his thirst for blood ; while the troops in Walcheren were 
 rotting of dysentery and Sir Arthur Wellesley was push- 
 ing on towards the massacre at Talavera ; while the 
 Prince was getting rid of Mrs. Fitzherbert and Mr. 
 Croker advising Lord Hertford in a very delicate affair, 
 the hospitable Lady Burdett invited Miss Chambre to 
 dine, go to the play, and spend the night at her house in 
 Piccadilly. No opposition was raised by the authorities, 
 nor any expectation in Hermia's breast. It seemed a 
 very ordinary kind of festivity. 
 
 She thought the dinner-party decorous and a little dull. 
 Lord Sandgate was present, no doubt, and she admired 
 him as a spectacle and as a force. He was a tall, slim, 
 aquiline man in those days, inclining to middle age, hope- 
 lessly an aristocrat. What interested her about him was 
 to see how he could turn not only his judgment and wit, 
 but his fine manner and a hundred prejudices also, to the
 
 174. THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 service of his convictions. He was credited with fire, 
 and she knew that he could act with energy — as when he 
 had pulled her back by the gown at a dangerous moment 
 for her; but where did he hide his fire? Outwardly, he 
 was grave and silent ; must he not lack warmth, passion, 
 ardour? Our young lady, who lacked certainly none of 
 these, and had, moreover, full measure of the Irish crit- 
 ical sense, judged him rather a tragical object for the 
 Reformer's ranks. He handed her in to dinner ; but 
 love was no more able than patriotism to break down his 
 reserve. He added nothing to the success of the party. 
 Lord Rodono and his sister did better ; Mrs. Wing and 
 Mr. Engayne, long lovers, did as little as they could. 
 Lady Burdett, very amiable, but rather helpless, ex- 
 hausted her powers in praising Hermia's beauty ; every 
 few minutes she fell into a vague rapture, called her 
 "lovely creature," and recovered. Sir Francis, one of 
 the handsomest men of his day, and one of the most 
 popular, held himself in reserve. No politics were dis- 
 cussed, and at seven o'clock the ladies, with two young 
 men in attendance, went to the pla}'^, the other gentlemen 
 to the House of Commons. 
 
 On returning to supper the scene was changed. The 
 long reception rooms were brilliant; in the end one of 
 all, through open doors was to be seen a round table, 
 covered with silver and glass. It had as a centre-piece a 
 curious, tall gilt ornament which represented a throne 
 upon degrees. Behind that stood a lamp-post — a Ian-
 
 A NEW USE FOR ONE'S MISTRESS 175 
 
 teme — with Its swinging lamp upon the fatally sugges- 
 tive arm ; upon the top of all this imagery was perched 
 a red Phrygian cap made of silk, and made evidently 
 to be worn. What did this "poetry" mean? Tom 
 Rodono, who vowed he was not in the secret, had no 
 notion. Miss Chambre, interested as she was, excited 
 and lively, had none ; and the man, for his part, cared 
 little what she had or had not, so long as he could look 
 at her. She was looking beautiful, there's no doubt, in 
 her white silk gown, with her glowing colour and dark 
 masses of hair. Her eyes, it ha.'' before been observed, 
 had the property of seeming black at night. They were 
 grey, in fact, but at night, when she was excited, they 
 filled up with black, and gleamed like jewels. Sapphires 
 have the same virtue. 
 
 Three guests were expected, and no more. One of 
 them she knew and was glad to see. Captain Ranald, brisk 
 and spruce, made her his best bow, and seemed to pick 
 up his intercourse where he had left it three months ago. 
 He was fresh from the sea, had left Brest Roads but a 
 fortnight ago, landed at Southampton yesterday, trav- 
 elled all night, made a scene in the House of Commons 
 that afternoon, and here he was. "What are we all about 
 here.? Burdett told me nothing but that I should have 
 the pleasure of meeting you again. I have heard great 
 things of you." 
 
 She blushed and smiled. "And did you know that I 
 have heard of you, too.'"'
 
 176 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "No, indeed. You will hear little good of me in Lon- 
 don, from what I can gather." 
 
 "But mine was all good. It was from Mrs. Vernour." 
 
 "Ah ! Yes, indeed. And her praise is worth having. 
 What on earth have we here?" 
 
 The butler had announced "Mr. Hunt," and Lady 
 Grizel had put up her glasses to inspect the owner of so 
 unremarkable a name. A florid gentleman, who bowed 
 too low and too often, and seemed afflicted with excessive 
 heat in the region of the temples, was now in the room ; 
 but why he was there, or on whose bidding, was not ap- 
 parent. It was probably on Lord Sandgate's. He 
 plunged almost immediately into political discussion, and 
 spoke of a Reform meeting at Salisbury as if it had 
 been one of the Six Days of Creation. Shortly after- 
 wards, the butler entered again with a huge man at his 
 heels, broad-shouldered, bluff, and very conscious of his 
 powers. It was hardly necessary for him to be called 
 "Mr. Cobbett" — he was his own best herald. Here, at 
 any rate, was somebody worth study — a leader of the 
 people and a force in the land. Miss Hermia devoured 
 him with her fine eyes. 
 
 He was very much at his ease, and not ungainly in his 
 free-spoken way. He kissed his hostess's hand, clapped 
 that of Sir Francis; had a joke for Ranald, a bow for 
 Rodono, and two or three words in a half whisper for 
 Lord Sandgate. Of Mr. Hunt he took no notice what- 
 ever, but stood, after his first salutations, surveying the
 
 A NEW USE FOR ONE'S MISTRESS 177 
 
 ladles — meditating upon them, as if they had been 
 flowers in his garden-plot, with not unpleasant satisfac- 
 tion. Miss Hermia could not but think that his hands 
 were too deep in his breeches' pockets, his feet too far 
 apart and too firmly planted. Although it was mid- 
 summer, he stood back to the fire, a coat-tail under each 
 arm; and although it was near midnight, he still wore 
 cords and boots. She was ashamed of herself for notic- 
 ing such things, when better things were at hand — for 
 instance. Lord Sandgate's respect for his opinion, and a 
 fine benevolence twinkling in his sharp eyes and creasing 
 his wholesome face. Presently, to her confusion, the man 
 started and looked at his interlocutor. "God bless mc ! 
 You don't tell me that, my lord!" he said, and crossed 
 the room to where she stood. He waited for no formali- 
 ties, but exclaiming as he came, "Let me see face to face 
 the most honest girl in England," had her hand in his 
 in a trice ; took and kept it in his own huge paw. She 
 was blushing hotly, but that became her very well. "My 
 dear young lady, you are an honour to your sex. I've 
 three fine sons at home who, but for the grace of God, 
 might any one of them have been in Vernour's shoes — or 
 frock ; and I know what your act would have done for 
 him. You've exercised the privilege of your sex ; you've 
 made a man, my dear. I declare that I should like to 
 give you the best I have in me to give, and that's the 
 salute of an honest fellow." He looked at her so benevo- 
 lently as he said it, so comically, that she laughed.
 
 178 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "You will make me very proud, sir." 
 
 "Why, then," said he, "pride for ever!" and kissed her 
 fairly. "And now, my lady," he turned to Lady Burdett, 
 "let me hand you to your own supper-table." This he 
 prepared to do without any more ceremony ; but when 
 he found that she chose to go last, he stood aside with 
 good humour, and kept her hand upon his arm with an 
 insistence not to be mistaken. Sir Francis led the way 
 with Hermia Mary, who now began to perceive that she 
 was the guest of the evening. 
 
 The party was a noisy one, more boisterous than merry. 
 Mr. Cobbett talked the whole time ; and so did Mr. 
 Hunt. They talked against each other. Bob Ranald 
 was the only perfectly happy person present; Lord 
 Rodono was sulky. He now had a suspicion of what 
 was to come. All this was, of course, Sandgate's 
 doing, and be damned to him. "Look, I ask you," he 
 said to Mrs. Wing, "look at the demiurgic rascal, 
 who has dragged us all here, and wound us up, and 
 now proposes to sit still while we jig for his amuse- 
 ment. You may say what you please of Miss Hermia's 
 performance — and I, for one, rate it highly. I was like 
 going down on my knees to her when it was done ; but 
 that fellow over there sees in it so much capital. He's 
 an usurious dog — and we shall be well out of this party 
 with our shirts on our backs. Hunt ! Regard Hunt ! 
 He's over-drinking himself. What have we done to be 
 treated hke this by Jack Sandgate — and in another
 
 A NEW USE FOR ONE'S MISTRESS 179 
 
 man's house, if you please ! That's a particular beauty 
 of it all." 
 
 Midway through the meal there came a lull in the 
 talk — or debate, as it was now become ; and in that lull 
 a rather terrible divergence was caused by Mr. Hunt. 
 He leaned over the table, with a solemn expression upon 
 his face. "Miss Chambre — Madam — the honour of a 
 glass of wine with you," she heard. Mr. Ranald looked 
 at the ceiling, Rodono at his own folded arms ; but Sir 
 Francis supplied her glass, and the thing was done. Mr. 
 Hunt was for enlarging upon the theme, but happily 
 could not. The talk flowed over him again and drowned 
 him ; Ranald returned to his sea-stories and Cobbett to 
 forestry; Lord Sandgate watched his puppets jig, and 
 Sir Francis sat urbane, smiling and quiet — meditating, 
 probably, his immediate task. 
 
 In the next lull this fine gentleman, who never failed 
 to do a thing well, however little he may have relished it, 
 rose and made the company a speech. He said that, 
 honoured as he was by the presence of undoubted patriots 
 at his table, he must be permitted to observe that all alike 
 were honoured by the presence of one so young and so 
 intrepid, so diligent to hold the narrow path of honour 
 as the charming lady who came among them to claim 
 her right to alliance in the cause. He need not relate the 
 circumstances, which were fresh in all their minds, under 
 which this lady showed her mettle. They were, he must 
 confess, peculiarly adapted for that display, being of a
 
 180 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 nature which might well have daunted one less nobly 
 equipped. The forces of prestige, high rank, and influ- 
 ence were not alone arrayed against her; nearer and 
 more invincible forces were brought , up to aid them. 
 Single-handed she faced the host, single-handed she 
 showed that no privilege, however chartered, no influence, 
 howsoever founded, could prevail against honour. He 
 would not despair of England, of the Commonwealth, 
 nor of that Reform to which they were all pledged, 
 while such devotion existed in the breast of a young, 
 highly born, and beautiful lady. The Rights of IMan 
 were grounded on reason, religion, and justice. It was 
 due to the piety of woman that they had never been 
 nearer their recognition than they were now in this 
 year, 1809. He asked his friends to join with him in 
 welcoming Miss Chambre to that society, founded by 
 the glorious youth of Home Tooke, cemented by the 
 pains of John Thehvall, that society of which he was 
 proud to be a member — the Society of the Friends of the 
 People. 
 
 Lord Sandgate sprang to his feet. Nobody had ever 
 seen him so moved. "Madam," he said with warmth, "I 
 salute in your person Divine Compassion ! " and there 
 stopped ; then Mr. Hunt must needs follow him with a 
 "God bless you. Miss Chambre," but Cobbett pulled him 
 down by the coat-tails. "Divine Compassion is good, 
 my Lord Sandgate," said that worthy, "but Divine Right 
 is better — and here's the emblem of it." With that, he
 
 A NEW USE FOR ONE'S MISTRESS 181 
 
 picks the crimson cap off its lamp-post and, coming be- 
 hind her chair, sets it upon Miss Hermia's head. The 
 burning thing rested upon its dark nest, for all the world 
 like the sun of winter setbing into a bank of cloud. The 
 whole company rose and faced her ; her health was given 
 with three times three amid tumultuous applause, in the 
 course of which Mr. Hunt broke three wine-glasses ; and 
 after that, and concerning all that, one at least at the 
 table felt that the less said the better. He had kept his 
 eyes upon the girl, and saw that she was not far from 
 tears. It came upon him on a certain wave of disgust 
 that she might really be gratified at this extraordinary 
 and most unfortunate tribute. And, as everybody con- 
 cerned seemed to be forgetting himself, so did Lord 
 Rodono, probably, when he rose to his feet. 
 
 "Sir Francis, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I believe 
 Miss Chambre would desire me to thank you for the 
 compliment you have paid her." He was here reassured 
 by a grateful glance, and went on. "She is one of those, 
 in my belief, who chooses to do her fine things in her 
 own way and to say little about them. The less, indeed, 
 the better. I do nothing to diminish the value of your 
 comphment when I assert that her good deeds were never 
 published by herself or by the object of them. And I 
 hope I may add that she will be best served and most 
 honoured if her fame goes no further than these walls. 
 She is not one whose charity should be blazed about 
 Piccadilly."
 
 182 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "But it should, my lord," Cobbett struck in, "and it 
 shall — if the sound of it can reach Carlton House." 
 
 Tom Rodono looked very bleak. "Then, Mr. Cobbett, 
 a wrong will be done — and in spite of the lady's 
 friends. Among the sticks with which you beat your 
 dogs, you shall not, by our leave, include Miss 
 Chambre." 
 
 "She has numbered herself," Cobbett thundered, "she 
 has numbered herself. She has whipped Privilege 
 across the chops, and we have dealt a cut for liberty this 
 night which is worth a score of divisions, and ten score 
 of county meetings. Ah !" he cried to her, "ah, my noble 
 young lady, you little thought when you achieved your 
 act of grace that the rebound could carry it hissing over 
 England ! " After that, while Rodono was down, very 
 angry and biting his cheek, Mr. Cobbett held the floor. 
 He spoke of Vcrnour well and eloquently, if one could 
 have cared to hear about the man just now; but the 
 more he said, the worse he made it. The note was a false 
 one, the emphasis made it shrieking-f alse ; it was like 
 a man singing flat and holding the note. Even Sir 
 Francis had had enough of it, and whispered behind 
 Lady Grizel to Sandgate — for God's sake to pull him 
 down. But that was easier said than done, and Lord 
 Sandgate took no notice. What he had done he had 
 done — cosa fatta capo ha. So Cobbett harped away un- 
 hindered : "That sturdy young fellow — that fine, manly, 
 English fellow — a judge of a horse, a very Centaur, my
 
 A NEW USE FOR ONE'S MISTRESS 183 
 
 friends — hounded into gaol," etc., etc. He might have 
 gone on for ever but for Mr. Hunt, of Wiltshire. 
 
 Mr. Hunt, very red and excited, here jumped to his 
 feet and claimed the auditory. He got it by a sudden 
 bang on the table which made Cobbett start. "I de- 
 clare," he said resonantly, "I declare that the honest 
 fellow's wrongs touch my heart. I beg to propose, there- 
 fore, a public subscription for a testimonial of respect 
 to David Vemour, and shall be pleased to put my name 
 down for fifty guineas." 
 
 The thing was getting quite horrible, but yet there was 
 no moving Lord Sandgate. It was neck or nothing with 
 him ; he would have been the first to say that if you go 
 in on the Radical side you mustn't wear thin shoes. Sir 
 Francis would have stopped it if he could ; or Ranald, if 
 he had not feared to make it worse. As for Rodono — 
 "Damn 3'ou, Sandgate, damn you, damn you ! " he 
 groaned to himself. 
 
 There being no reply from any of these gentlemen, Mr. 
 Hunt's proposal fell flat ; and then Cobbett crushed it 
 to powder. 
 
 "Pooh, Hunt !" he said in his magisterial way, "you're 
 a month too late for the fair. Sit down, my good fellow. 
 I have already put a round sum at his disposal, without 
 any fuss, public or private." 
 
 This was a facer, but a worse one was to come. 
 
 "Did he take it?" Miss Chambre asked with seriousness ; 
 and Cobbett, as if he had been stung by a viper, recoiled.
 
 184. THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Tears came smartly to his eyes, and he sat down without 
 another word. Nor did he speak once more that night. 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear, you are the angel on the thresh- 
 ing-floor !" says Rodono to himself. 
 
 The fact was that she, with perfect sincerity of vision, 
 had detected an amiable failing of Mr. Cobbett's. Pan- 
 tisocracy for him was foolishness. He was sure — he was 
 sure all his life long — that any trouble of the lower or- 
 ders could be salved with half-a-crown. 
 
 Here ended a painful episode in Miss Chambre's 
 career. What she herself thought about it it is difficult 
 to tell. She mentions it in a letter to Mary Fox. . . . 
 "Rather a hateful party, very kindly meant. They 
 make too much fuss — and it will all be put down to him 
 . . . Mr. Cobbett. ... I cannot say that he pleased 
 me. He made me angry. ... I believe I answered him 
 sharply once. Mary, the notion ! He off^ered Mr. V. 
 money ! And I must remember that our family brought 
 that upon him with all the rest."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN WHICH WE HEAR SCANDAL, AND CAN JUDGE FOR OUR- 
 SELVES 
 
 T3 Y that same middle of June it is not surprising that 
 ^^ Miss Chambre was being talked about — talked about, 
 looked at, observed — but not as yet shunned. To reach 
 that stage of notoriety it would be necessary that she 
 should be sought elsewhere, by the public, for instance, 
 or by those who served the public. But this had not yet 
 happened, so that the polite world did little more than 
 stand tiptoe at a party to see "that Miss Chambre," or to 
 say that there seemed nothing in her — and consequently 
 nothing in "it." 
 
 Few credited the tale, or, at any rate, its more serious 
 involutions. At the worst it was an eccentricity due 
 to pedigree: "Colonel Chambre, my dear! and Lady 
 Hermione. . . . Lifted her himself over the railings, 
 and took her away pillion." Or, at best, it was politics : 
 "Lord Sandgate vows there was never any one like her. 
 She did it, he says, like an Empress-Queen." The an- 
 swer to that was, "Or like the Duchess Georgiana," and 
 even that did her no hann. Politicians may go very far, 
 we know ; but, politics apart, it did her position good ; 
 for if you are driven to a preposterous parallel it shows 
 that you are at your wits' end for credit.
 
 186 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 And then, as it were, on the heels of the visit to the 
 Vernours, came that absurd supper in Piccadilly, which 
 saved the girl's face. So it was Politics. The whole 
 thing a Jacobin ruse from the beginning — "Politics, my 
 dear ! So I always supposed !" 
 
 In the clubs, it's true, tongues went more gaily. "Bet 
 you she's kissed in a month," was taken ; the book sent 
 for, the entry made. "Colonel Despard bets Lord Mil- 
 ing ten to one in sovs. that Miss H. C. is — " etc. But 
 there's a reason for that. In the clubs they read the 
 newspapers — the Examiner to wit, to say nothing of 
 the Dwarf and the Gadfly and Peeping Tom. The mat- 
 ter was too rich to have been missed by these scavenger- 
 birds, and variations too fruitful. The Lady and the 
 Butcher Boy : that came to be a popular cry, and made 
 a score of ballads which might have floated the thing off 
 into legend — so that in after years one would have read 
 of INIiss Chambre in company of INIolly Legree and the 
 Lass of Richmond Hill ; and so they would, if they had 
 been let alone to deal with it. It was the humourists who 
 could really hurt, and who did their best, you may be 
 sure. How they rang the changes ! Broken hearts 
 and bullocks' hearts, sheeps' heads and sheeps' eyes, 
 cleavers and cleavings, again the Duchess's canvass 
 with the lips: they had heavy hands in 1809; they 
 spanked with the flat palm where we flick with the little 
 finger. 
 
 And prints ! I have before me a caricature where the
 
 SCANDAL 187 
 
 episode is lumped in your face. It's political, but it's 
 more — it's anacreontic. A fine young lady, bountifully 
 enriched in form and hue, a very Hebe, in the tell-tale 
 gown of the period — hiding little, suggesting much — 
 stands with drooping head and hands clasped. She looks 
 like a Circassian in the market-place — exposed. Then, 
 before her, rampant, is a florid 3'outh, frocked and 
 aproned proper. He sharpens his blade on the steel, his 
 starting e3^es are fixed upon her, towards the region 
 of the heart. It's not a bad likeness — makes him resemble 
 the Prince as a young man, high-coloured, square- 
 shouldered and fleshy. From his mouth issues a stream 
 of air which, expanding as it ascends, enfolds a legend. 
 "Cob-it, my hearty," we read, "it's prime meat, this 
 year's lamb. Now, miss, how will you have it cut.'"' In 
 the background Mr. Cobbett, to be guessed by his broad 
 back and gaiters, cries, "Buy, buy, buy !" and exhibits 
 crowned carcases to the mob ; while Captain Ranald, un- 
 mistakable in cocked hat, hacks with his regulation sword 
 at a fine hog labelled "Caryll-cured." To put the whole 
 beyond a doubt is the flagrant title subscribed, "The 
 
 Groom of the Ch re, or Cleaving to the Cleaver." 
 
 This had a great vogue, and one can only hope the fair 
 victim never heard of it. And I don't know whether it 
 appeared before or after IMordaunt's anecdote got about. 
 Pink Mordaunt he is in all the Memoirs. They must 
 have been very near together. 
 What Mordaunt had to say was that towards the end of
 
 188 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 June the girl was walking from Berkeley Square, where 
 she had been visiting, with Lady Barwise, her aunt, and 
 that he, Pink, was escort. The weather was lovely, with 
 the planes of Lansdowne House in their fulness of green 
 — a perfect summer afternoon following a wet morning. 
 Round the corner of James Street came a horse at a can- 
 ter, and upon the horse, well back upon him, the reins 
 loose, sat a fine young man, bareheaded, in blue smock 
 and apron. He pulled up short to let the ladies cross ; 
 but it had been raining and the road was muddy. A 
 spatter covered Mr. Mordaunt's nankeens, a fleck or two 
 showed upon Miss Chambre's muslin. "Damn the lout !" 
 cries Pink, and immediately begs pardon. And as he 
 looks his apologies, says he, he is struck by the expres- 
 sion of Miss Chambre's eyes — fixed and attentive, as if 
 waiting, as if expecting an order ; and he notices the 
 parting of her lips — as if she paused, but did not 
 breathe. She was blushing divinely, she looked splendid, 
 he said — but she was looking at the horseman who had 
 just muddied her dress. 
 
 And then, for his climax, delivered in his best tones, "I 
 give you my word of honour that she bowed to him — 
 bowed, sir, as you or I to the old king. And I'll be shot, 
 Johnny Russell, if he didn't accept it. That's the word, 
 sir: he accepted it, as the Prince might take it from a 
 bargee. You might — " he puff"ed his cheeks out, and 
 you could see why they called him Pink — "you might 
 have knocked me down with a feather-brush — by Gad,
 
 SCANDAL 189 
 
 you might !" This was a story which lost nothing in the 
 telHng, and ran waxing all over town. 
 
 It's a true story. That was the first encounter she had 
 with the redoubtable Vernour after her escapade in 
 Brook Street — and often enough she had wondered when 
 it would come upon her. And when it came, the girl did 
 stiffen, did blush, did watch and wait, did bow her head — 
 and was accepted. She was never asked to justify such 
 proceedings, and had no one to whom to whisper of them 
 — nor Avas she of the sort which lightly confides secrets 
 to bosom friends ; but she would have been perfectly sim- 
 ple about it. He was before her again — she knew him — 
 she bowed. What else.'' That she was glad to see him.'* 
 She was glad. That she had been waiting for it to oc- 
 cur, by accident.'' It must be by accident — that's of 
 course. She might have so contrived as to meet him 
 twice a day at the gates of Caryll House ; his hours were 
 known to the minute. But that could not be. That was 
 for the Mrs. Moths, may we say, the Harriet Moons. 
 But if she thought — and she had thought — she must have 
 known that she would meet him casually, must have spec- 
 ulated on what she would do ; and, being what she was, 
 she would not have faltered. Without pretending to 
 read her heart better than j'ou can, that's how I put it 
 before you. That's my idea. 
 
 As for Vernour, it is true that he bent his head to her 
 when he received her greeting, that he looked at her 
 seriously, that he raised his hand, but not to touch his
 
 190 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 forelock. It all depends on how that was done — whether 
 lightly or with the deference usual from an inferior. 
 Pink Mordaunt said that he jerked it up like a field officer 
 acknowledging a sergeant's salute ; but that may have 
 been one of his after-touches. He was famous for his 
 technique in these matters. 
 
 He added, certainly, details of what followed upon the 
 encounter — sort of memoires pour servir for a sequel. 
 Her great colour, he said, endured up Hay Hill and across 
 Piccadilly ; somewhere past Arlington Street her com- 
 posure came back, and she could give him sally for sally. 
 He had, of course, sprung his rattle at the first glimpse 
 of danger, and kept it going for most of the walk. He 
 was true to the traditions of his caste, you see ; and I 
 hope she was grateful to him. She ought to have been. 
 
 Whatever Lady Barwise may have seen at the moment, 
 she never turned a hair. But she thought proper to 
 speak to her mother. "Mamma, you ought to stop this 
 at once. It is certain to be talked about as it is, and 
 heaven knows what it may lead to. Surely we have had 
 enough of the man's horse ! I do think that we might 
 leave the newspapers to the Royal Family. I'm told that 
 the Duchess of Suss " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Louisa," said her ladyship, "but 
 I cannot think that my family can compete for scandal 
 with the king's. I don't believe a word of your story. 
 If she felt uncomfortable at meeting the man again, it's 
 no wonder — and her own fault. She'll get over that.
 
 SCANDAL 191 
 
 The rest is pure imagination, if it's no worse. I must 
 be allowed to remind you that you never got on with 
 poor Hermione, and are hardly likely to esteem her chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "Her children and Colonel Chambre's, mamma," said 
 Lady Barwise. 
 
 "My grandchildren and your father's, my dear," the 
 high old lady replied. 
 
 There was nothing more to be said, though the impasse 
 was felt to be unworthy of Lad}^ Morfa. And yet Lady 
 Barwise had been justified if she had but known that, 
 as a consequence of this walk, Hermia was sent off 
 to Plashetts to the care of Lady Sarah Coigne, the 
 baronet's mother. She was not sorry to go, and had 
 pleaded for Harriet's companionship ; but Lady Morfa 
 had need of Moon, she said. So Moon remained in town, 
 and solaced her brown eyes with tears, or whatever balm 
 she could come by. 
 
 It Avas after ten days or so at Plashetts that there 
 befell her another adventure of the kind. On this oc- 
 casion she was alone in the great Morfa chariot, driving 
 out to pick up her grandmamma, who had been break- 
 fasting with Lord Sumnor. At the north end of Bond 
 Street a horse had fallen under his j^okc-f ellow ; there 
 was a block ; and in it, on his grey cob, sat Vernour. 
 
 He was close to her now, so close that their hands, 
 stretched out, could have touched, so close that she could
 
 192 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 see the colour of his eyes when for one serious moment 
 hers met them. This time, it's noteworthy, she did not 
 bow, nor did he; but the greeting was the more intense 
 for the muteness of it ; behind the locked Hps of each 
 might be sensed a cry. His — "Oh, I see you there en- 
 throned — and I kneel, I kneel. I am always on my 
 knees !" And hers — "Here am I — what will you have 
 of me?" And then another — "Turn away your eyes. I 
 am afraid." It was she who avoided, for he did not. 
 For how long she sat burning there is not to be guessed ; 
 all that can be said is that her grandmamma had no rea- 
 son to complain of her vivacity when she joined her in 
 the carriage. .Another odd thing: when they were back 
 at the house, and before Jacob Jacobs could lock the 
 gates upon the divinities returned to the shrine, she had 
 run out again, and had given Mother Cole a shilling. 
 
 Mother Cole was a weather- fretted old woman in a black 
 bonnet and shawl, who swept the crossing in Cleveland 
 Row. She was an institution as famous in her quarter of 
 the town as Sir Jeffery Dunstan, Mayor of Garrat, in 
 his. She was the familiar of princes and peers ; it was 
 said of her that Mr. Fox never delivered an important 
 speech in the House without going over the heads of it 
 with Mother Cole. She was a staunch Whig. Lord 
 Rodono had presented Miss Chambre to this celebrity 
 upon an early day, and much familiarity had ensued. 
 
 Matrimony was the sum of her discourse to ladies — 
 matrimony with a wink for maternity : gallantry of that
 
 SCANDAL 193 
 
 to gentlemen — with a wink for frailty. She rarely ac- 
 knowledged Miss Chambre's greetings without a "When 
 is it to be, miss ?" and would shake her head at all laugh- 
 ing denials. On this occasion, whether it was the un- 
 v,'onted shilling, or a light not hitherto seen in the young 
 lady's eyes, or a cheek too rosy, or a flutter in the voice, 
 Mother Cole darted a penetrating glance, and said, "Ah, 
 miss ! ah, my pretty dear ! 'Tis easy seen he's been by." 
 Miss Chambre made no denials, but did not cease to blush. 
 It was ridiculous, it may have been monstrous, but she 
 was not offended.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IN WHICH WE ARE DEEP IN ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 
 
 "PARLIAIVIENT was prorogued at the end of the 
 -*- month, three weeks after Lady Burdett's supper- 
 party to the new heroine of Democracy. Gentlemen 
 of the House of Commons were dismissed to their 
 counties, admonished by a speech from the Throne 
 to carry with them "a disposition to inculcate, both 
 by instruction and example, a spirit of attachment 
 to those established laws and that happy Constitution 
 which it has ever been his Majesty's anxious wish to 
 support," and which his Majesty's Ministers, it was 
 to be understood, did chiefly enable him to support. 
 Of such friends of ours as had counties to which they 
 could repair. Lord Sandgate went into Wilts and Sir 
 Francis no further than Wimbledon. Mr. Ranald re- 
 turned to sea and the harrying of poor Lord Gambler; 
 Lord Rodono, staying in town, broke his promise when 
 he asked Miss Chambre to marry him, but it had not 
 suited Lady Morfa to leave London so early, nor the 
 Earl, her son, to repair to any of his counties. He was 
 now at Brighton with the Prince and Lord Moira, and 
 chose to keep Caryll House open for his occasional visits 
 — ^to a cock-fight, or a dog-fight, to his tailor's, or to a
 
 ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 195 
 
 certain villa in Brompton, where he was known as Cap- 
 tain Graham, and where there was also a Mrs. Graham, 
 who lived chiefly in a pink silk wrapper. Later on in the 
 summer, her ladyship intended for Bath and a round of 
 visits before settling down for the autumn at Wrensham 
 Park, in Leicestershire. Meantime, there remained a 
 party or two, of a late blossoming sort, to be gathered — 
 to which she went and took her grandchild ; at one of 
 which Tom Rodono slipped away from grace. 
 
 Meeting his mistress here, he fell to railing at the 
 Piccadilly fiasco, for which he said somebody ought to 
 have called Sandgate out. She was disposed to defend 
 it, not finding it in her heart to scorn honesty even when 
 it was compounded with shrieking vulgarity ; but he was 
 too sore to allow any justification. He remembered that 
 Sandgate professed to worship what he had trailed in 
 the miry clay. 
 
 "The thing was execrable," he said, "or no ! it would 
 have been execrable if it had not been so ridiculous — as 
 it was, it was merely squalid. ... I don't fancy that 
 you cared for my cutting in. Bless you, I know that 
 it was flattery in its way, and meant to be flattering — 
 but there was too much of it. You can't cat butter out 
 of spoons. I spoke my little piece because I thought you 
 would have felt bound to say something, and wanted to 
 spare you the necessity of dropping to orator Hunt's 
 level, or old Cobbett's. The way it came to me is due 
 to God."
 
 196 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "A jealous God," she said. He took that. 
 
 "Yes — that's truer than you think for. And I made 
 you angry, I fancy — ^but I don't care. It would need 
 more than your anger to keep me from defending you. 
 You shall never be cheapened if I can help it. Orator 
 Hunt— O Lord!" 
 
 She had not liked Mr. Hunt, so said nothing. 
 
 "Those fellows," he ran grumbling on, "ain't demo- 
 crats, you know. You must be a gentleman to be a demo- 
 crat — and a fine gentleman, too." 
 
 "Or a man," said she here, clinging to Tom Paine ; but 
 Tom Rodono wouldn't have it. 
 
 "No; a gentleman. In a matter of give and take — 
 which is all this world, if it's to be habitable — you must 
 be able for either. A man can take, but 'tis a gentleman 
 who can give. Democracy without giving is flat im- 
 possible. Lafayette was a giver, so was your Eddy Fitz- 
 gerald — so's Bob Ranald, and so are you, in the making. 
 So's Burdett, I don't doubt for a moment. But Sand- 
 gate ! Sandgata's as much of a democrat as Bonaparte. 
 . . . There are the old stagers now, whom it might 
 have entertained you to meet — old classics, veterans. 
 Tooke now. Parson Tooke ! a hoary old spider, spinning 
 philosophies, and then, with a microscopic eye, watcliing 
 us try to hve 'em out. Our disasters are his gain — they 
 teach him a deal. They prosecuted him in '94, and 
 might as well have burned St. Paul in effigy. Then 
 there's the Major. God bless the Major! he's more hon-
 
 ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 197 
 
 est than Cobbett, because he has fewer half crowns to 
 spend." 
 
 He reflected humorously, and chuckled at his thoughts. 
 "I'll tell you what, though: you've made an enemy of 
 William. You flicked him on a raw — for, of course, the 
 fact is that Vemour refused his crown-piece. The old 
 bull-frog would never have said a word of it if he hadn't 
 meant to quench the orator. That had to be done, and 
 then you had him. Oh, I love you for it ! The neatest 
 turn of the wrist, and you spitted him like a master of 
 fence." 
 
 She told him she had never meant so much. "He 
 had been very kind to me — I was prepared to esteem 
 him higlily. But — oh, he was dreadfully wrong — to 
 off'er money to and then to talk about it. Horri- 
 ble !" 
 
 "Bad enough for the Duke of York," said Rodono; 
 and then he made his proposal — in the same candid, 
 carefully moderate vein. "Your grandmamma won't 
 hear of me — but if you will, I can bear that. I've 
 enough for two. Don't ask me what I feel for you; 
 you'd waste 3^our time — you can see right through me, 
 I know. And don't ask me what I have to boast of 
 — what pretences to make: they're mighty few. I've 
 done nothing so far. I threw up my commission for 
 the sake of Parliament, to please the parent chiefly. 
 There was our rotten borough, you know — rotting. 
 We'd always been in the House, he told me; and I be-
 
 198 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 lieve him. We are of the sort that, somehow, always is 
 there. At the very outset, I sickened of it. ^Who will 
 show us any good?^ You talk of Pitt and Dundas — ■ 
 but do you think Sam Whitbread's any better? Do you 
 think little Creevy's a patriot .^ Did Wardle hamstring 
 the Duke for the salvation of the country.'' However, 
 I'm not talking politics ; you can make a man of me if 
 you choose. I'm in love with you. Miss Hermia, and I 
 want to get you out of this quagmire. You've a face like 
 a flower and a soul like a spirit of the fire. Give me my 
 way, and you shall bloom for ever in a clean air ; and 
 your flame shall be fed with ambergris and frankincense. 
 Scotch! What do you say.'"' 
 
 There was but one thing to be said, and she said it, 
 though she disliked the giving of pain. She thought 
 him a lively and agreeable companion, and entirely to be 
 trusted; but she had a shrewd perception of the self- 
 esteem underlying his light-hearted words, and the life he 
 proposed to her was not promising. To make a man of 
 him if she chose.'' How could she help recalling him who 
 had assured her with such intensity of truth that 
 she had restored manhood to him also.'' Ah, there 
 had been no mock depreciation of himself in that 
 short-spoken man ! And what else did Tom Rodono 
 propose.'' He was to be minister to an altar, on 
 which she sat and burned. No, no — with Tom for ever 
 extenuating his ministry, she could not burn ; she would 
 "go out." The ministering must be the other way if
 
 ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 199 
 
 she were to live ; and the mere thought of that made her 
 heart leap — and in that leap poor Rodono was dropped. 
 She dismissed him with an assurance of friendship, 
 which he was thankful to take, and an offered hand which 
 he gallantly kissed. He met her on a later day as if 
 nothing out of the common had occurred — which, as far 
 as that goes, it had not ; and she was grateful to him 
 for that, because, to her, something singular had oc- 
 curred. The Violet Intrigue had begun. 
 
 On that very morning, indeed, she received the first of 
 a series of gifts — remarkable for its nature, persistence 
 and mystery of origin — or, as a fact, she received three 
 of them together, for they had begun to arrive two days 
 before. Let me be precise in so singular a matter. Tom 
 Rodono offered her the altar-seat on June 2-ith. It was 
 on June 22d that the Violet Intrigue began. 
 
 A bunch of white violets, a good-sized bunch fresh-and- 
 fresh, was left at Caryll House on the morning of the 
 22d at half-past eight in the forenoon. It was left at 
 the porter's lodge by an elderly woman in a plaid shawl 
 and black bonnet, with the simple message that it was 
 for Miss Chambre, and "particular." The violets, smell- 
 ing of wet hedgerows, were tied together with gardener's 
 bast, and as the gate-porter said, when he was interro- 
 gated, "took him back — ah, and back and back they took 
 him, they did!" He assured Miss Hermia that he had 
 carried them into the house immediately and given them
 
 200 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 to one of the maids with the message as delivered to him, 
 that "they was for Miss Chambre, and particular." He 
 would swear that upon the Book, "before the Judges of 
 Assize and their marshals, and the Grand Jury of Mid- 
 dlesex." To which of the maids? Ah, that was a puz- 
 zler ; for he was getting on in years and took little stock 
 of the maids. Twenty years, fifteen years back, had 
 Miss Hermia asked him ! Now he came to think of it, 
 he did believe it had been to the black-eyed girl whom, on 
 that account, they called Susan — though her name was 
 Hester. He thought so, because he knew her father, who 
 was a market-gardener at Mortlake. Yes, yes, and she 
 had been sweeping the passage at the time ; and he had 
 said — his very words — "My dear, give this here to Mrs. 
 Moth with my compliments, and say it's for Miss 
 Chambre, and very particular." "Very" had been his 
 addition, because "you know what gels are, miss." That 
 was all he knew, except that violets had been brought to 
 the door at the same hour ever since that morning. 
 
 Susan, the black-eyed, owned to having received the 
 violets from Mr. Jacobs. She swore that she had put 
 them on the tray with Miss Chambre's tea, toast, and 
 letters, which Mrs. Moth was to take up. Three morn- 
 ings, including this very morning, she had done the same 
 thing. No; she owned that she had forgotten the mes- 
 sage, that they were particular, or very particular. She 
 was very sorry indeed, and shed tears. 
 
 It was now definitely thrust upon Mrs. Moth, who
 
 ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 201 
 
 evaded with practised ease. How could she have known 
 — she put that to Miss Chambre — that the violets were 
 particular? The first time she saw them she had thought 
 they got there by accident, that one of the maids had 
 dropped them out of her bosom, "or so," when preparing 
 the tea-tray — "for the3' receive such things, Miss Cham- 
 bre, from their friends, as you know ! And they put 
 them — well, where else can they put them, poor crea- 
 tures?" Fine, scornful Mrs. Moth. On the second 
 morning, she owned she had had her doubts, and had 
 made inquiries. No — she had not inquired of Susan, but 
 in the housekeeper's room, of Mr. Progers, the butler, 
 and of Mr. Venning, the head footman, and of the first 
 housemaid; she confessed that she did not "have deal- 
 ings" with the lower servants. The third morning she 
 had been positive that something was intended — "more, 
 I should say, miss, than meets the eye, as they say ;" and 
 so she had brought all three bunches up together. 
 
 The thing was certainly odd, rather romantic in its 
 way. Who was this old woman? Let Jacob Jacobs of 
 the gates inquire. Meantime, the recipient met Lord 
 Rodono after his repulse with a new tenderness, feeling 
 pretty sure that the tribute was his. How extraordinary 
 was man ! Ashamed of himself for the ver}^ thing which 
 could be his least reproach ! Why, this sort of offering, 
 so contemned by your Moths, was exactly aimed at her 
 weakness. Simple, sincere, affectionate, humble things — 
 white violets fresh gathered — left at the gate by an old
 
 202 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 woman — for Miss Chambre, and particular! She was 
 honestly touched, and felt more kindness for Tom 
 Rodono than she could have thought possible. She went 
 out of her way to be kind to the violet-bringer. She 
 wore the latest bunch at her breast, and looked down 
 at it nestling there more than once or twice. Tom also 
 looked, more than once or twice. She wore no other 
 flowers or ornament, and he remarked upon it — and 
 destroyed himself. "Simplex munditiis, eh? I ap- 
 prove," he said. She smiled upon him, very gently. 
 
 "I hoped that you would. They were a present to me 
 this morning. An old lady's." 
 "Oho," said he, "you mustn't tell me that." 
 "Why, what else can I tell you.'' Honestly, an old 
 lady brought them." 
 "Let's hope she's honest. I scent a broker." 
 She blushed. "Lord Rodono, you are not angry with 
 me ?" 
 "God forbid !" 
 
 "You should not be. I count you my friend — you and 
 Grizel, of my best friends. I may prove you yet." 
 "Prove, prove. I ask nothing better." 
 "Well, find out who gives me violets every day." 
 "Every day! Is it so.'* Certainly, I'll do my best — 
 but remember, I assassinate him if I find him." She 
 went happily away with the thought that she had a 
 romantic worshipper somewhere hidden, and that it was 
 assuredly not Tom Rodono.
 
 ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 203 
 
 Jacobs, of the gate, could find out little or nothing 
 from his old lady, who, frightened by his manner, or his 
 gold-laced hat, or gold garter, took refuge in that sure 
 harbour of old ladies, tears. Securely swimming in these 
 familiar waters, she snuffled at ease. She said that she 
 was a poor widow, by name Mrs. Matthews, Mrs. Mat- 
 thews of the Highgate Road, glad to earn her pittance 
 a week by honest courses. The money was paid her 
 in advance for what she had to do — -which was to 
 go to such and such a street corner, receive a bunch 
 of white violets, and take it to Caryll House gate. 
 She did not know the person who gave them to her, and 
 must not say what she knew of — him.'^ As the Lord 
 would have mercy upon sinners, she had not said him or 
 her; she had said 'person, and "person" it must for ever 
 be if she was to earn her money — which was material — 
 and bread at thirteenpence-halfpenny the quartern. God 
 pity the poor ! She told Mr. Jacobs that any further 
 questioning might lose it her; and with that she went 
 aAvay. Next morning, to her visible consternation, she 
 had to hand over her violets to Miss Chambre herself. 
 
 That lady's custom was to ride every summer morning 
 between half-past seven and nine; but to-day she had 
 changed her mind, and returned punctually at the half- 
 hour. She then saw the plaid shawl at the gates, and 
 Jacob Jacobs, stately and remote, pretending that he 
 had no notion what it was doing there. He waved his 
 hand, and was about to explain the phenomenon to ^Nliss
 
 204 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Hermia, who, in her fawn-coloured habit, open at the 
 throat, in her great hat and grey veil, high on her shin- 
 ing horse, looked like a queen of Amazons, able to ride 
 underfoot without ruth a whole phalanx of poor widows 
 from the Highgate Road, The little peering face 
 shrank into the black bonnet, the plaid shawl shivered; 
 its poor tenant was making for the water again — ^that 
 sure harbour of tears. "Oh, miss — oh, my lady, I should 
 say, whatever will become of poor me?" 
 
 "Notliing but good, I am sure," said Miss Chambre. 
 "Are those my violets? Thank you very much." She 
 took them, stooping from her saddle ; carried them to her 
 mouth, and snuffed long at them. "They are as fresh 
 as the day. I never had such a present before. It is 
 most kind of you. I am most grateful." 
 
 "Bless you, my lady ! 'Tis not me that gives them 
 to your ladyship." 
 
 "I suppose not. Why should you ? But will you please 
 to thank the giver for me? It is a very kind thought." 
 
 "Yes, miss, yes, my lady, I will. And proud enough — 
 Lord have mercy! what was I saying?" 
 
 "Don't be afraid — don't say more than you wish to sa}^ 
 Good-bye." She struck through the gates, followed by 
 the groom — then pulled up short. "Stay a moment," she 
 called to the dazzled creature, and turned the horse. 
 "Will you let me — give you something? Will you? 
 For your trouble and kindness, I mean." Horror 
 blenched the peering eyes.
 
 ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 205 
 
 "Oh, no, my lady, I dursn't ! I'm forbidden — It 'ud be 
 the end of me — of my pittance a week. Oh, pray, 
 pray !" 
 
 Miss Chambre coloured. "I beg your pardon. I ought 
 to have known better. Perhaps we shall meet again. 
 I hope so." She turned and rode to the door ; she 
 went upstairs, her violets to her mouth ; wore them that 
 night, and. In fact, got Into the habit of using no other 
 adornment whatsoever. It would be hard to say why 
 the gift pleased her so much — whether it touched some 
 secret spring of romance, or appealed to her passion for 
 simpllclt}^ ; but there is no doubt that she came to count 
 upon white violets for her bosom or hair every evening. 
 The unknown lover had chosen a powerful advocate ; 
 but he remained unknown. 
 
 In Julj', when the Earl of ]\Iorfa went to Ireland on 
 private business of his Prince's, Lady Morfa was to 
 travel in semi-state to Bath, Hermla and the brown-eyed 
 Moon with her. The latter had hopes of the west, which 
 she admitted to nobody, but Hermla, who concealed noth- 
 ing, plainly said that she should miss her violets terribly 
 — an admission which made Miss Moon look arch. She 
 had seen trembling Mrs. Matthews but a few days before, 
 and told her as much. "Good-bj'c, Mrs. Matthews ; I'm 
 going to Bath with my grandmother. I can't hope to 
 see you there, I'm afraid."
 
 206 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "No, indeed, miss, you cannot. But let's hope for 
 happy returns." 
 
 "Let us hope for all sorts of things. I haven't heard 
 from Portugal, from my brother, for a month. He's a 
 wicked boy not to spare me a letter. And that's what I 
 hope for most in the world. Good-bye, Mrs. Matthews." 
 And then the chariot bore her away. Among the fare- 
 wells she did not make was one to Mrs. Vernour, of Brook 
 Street. She had been afraid of meeting Vernour there. 
 
 Bath proved to be very full ; the King's Parade crowded 
 on the fine, cool mornings ; the Pump Room like Al- 
 mack's. One of the first people she met with when she 
 walked abroad was Sir George Coigne, in snufF-brown 
 coat, white breeches, and the neatest pair of boots you 
 ever saw. Harriet Moon betrayed herself by a fierce 
 pressure of the arm. "Oh, Hermy, look, look !" 
 
 "Where then, my dear.? Oh, I see. It's George 
 Coigne," and then she returned the pressure. 
 
 Sir George was all affability. Upon his honour, a sin- 
 gular thing! Quite a happy meeting — no place like 
 Bath for happy meetings, was there now.f* He hoped 
 Miss Moon was very well ; he was charmed to meet Miss 
 Moon — and Cousin Hermy, looking positively radiant. 
 He must positively pay his respects to Aunt Morfa that 
 day. It was pleasant to listen to such enthusiastic bab- 
 ble ; no place like Bath indeed. 
 
 Miss Hermia was undoubtedly radiant — with her own
 
 ANOTHER ROMANTIC AFFAIR 207 
 
 small triumph to sun herself in. Moth had come to her 
 that morning all of a twitter — bursting with confidences, 
 noddings and bridlings. "Guess, if you please, miss, 
 what I have brought you ! Only to think of the devotion 
 of some gentlemen !" 
 
 "My violets?" said sleepy Hermia. "Give them to me." 
 And into her bed they went.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHICH DISPLAYS A MASTER-STROKE 
 
 li^ROM Bath to Bowood, from Bowood to Bramshaw 
 Demesne, where my Lord Sandgate acted the respect- 
 ful lover, and Sir George, whose part was double, had his 
 work cut out for him; from Bramshaw to Wrensham — 
 the Morfa place in Leicestershire — I do not propose to 
 follow Miss Chambre so faithfully as did her daily bunch 
 of violets. I believe that they missed her for some six 
 days out of six weeks, and most of those were days spent 
 on the road. One must suppose that somebody of the 
 household was in the secret— the bridling Mrs. Moth, 
 for instance, perhaps even a grateful Moon- — if one is to 
 account for the fact that an order for flowers, emanat- 
 ing from London, could be obeyed to within a few days 
 in Somerset, in Wilts, and in the Midlands. How else 
 but by private intelligence could the tribute-bringer un- 
 derstand that Lady Morfa would anticipate her visit to 
 Bramshaw by three days and have cut Bowood short by 
 three — just because she did not like the butter there .'^ 
 Nobody of Miss Chambre's exclusive acquaintance could 
 have known of such a vagary ; and yet Moth professed 
 the blankest ignorance ! Miss Moon, strangely enough, 
 was not asked ; and Miss Moon was very intelligent.
 
 A MASTER-STROKE 209 
 
 Perhaps there was a fear that she might at once dispel 
 so absorbing a mystery — I don't know. At any rate, the 
 beleaguering lover, whoever he was, had hit upon siege 
 tactics which the great Marlborough could not have bet- 
 tered. But his master-stroke was delivered at Wrensham 
 Park, where, in the heavy heats of August, there came 
 sorrow upon the lady whom he served. On the 22d of 
 that month the newsboy brought Sir Arthur Wellesley's 
 despatch, which London had had on the 20th. We read 
 in that how the allies had beaten Victor at Talavera and 
 driven liim over the Alberche ; a signal triumph for 
 our arms. But the death-roll was heavy in officers and 
 men, and held the name of Ensign Richard Caryll 
 Chambre, "a promising officer." A parterre of violets 
 would recoil before such a blow as that. 
 
 The house was full of people at the time. The family 
 was in force — Barwises, young and old, including Lord 
 Barwise himself, on his yearly duty by his wife's side; 
 Lord John Botetort, Lady Carinthia Gell-Gell and her 
 flock of Gell-Gells, with those high noses of theirs, which 
 made them so like geese on a common ; Sir George Coigne 
 and his brother Adolphus, a callow youth with a voice 
 on probation ; the Lukyns, on their way to Hawick, Mr. 
 Mordaunt on his to Welbeck — Pownalls, Considines, 
 Trembletts, and a half-score names more. It was pas- 
 sably gay, sketching parties, archery and riding parties, 
 dancing till the small hours and what-not. Of our inti- 
 mates, INIiss Chambre was certainly the happiest of the
 
 210 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 happy, for her fund of common-sense gave her the power 
 of being happy when she chose; and I think that Miss 
 Moon was the most interested. Sir George had brought 
 himself into such a state of love-twitters that his fine legs 
 knocked together at the knees whensoever he found him- 
 self alone with the lady of his worship. Miss Moon, very 
 much aware of it, made it her business to see that he 
 twittered just enough to twitter anon — but no more. 
 And he must never twitter so much that it should be per- 
 ceptible to anybody else — save, perhaps, Hermia. She, 
 her feelings obviously engaged, could be trusted ; and be- 
 sides. Miss Moon, I am sorry to say, having found out 
 that she could trust her friend to the uttermost, had be- 
 gun to despise her somewhat. 
 
 The blow fell first upon her ladyship, who certainly 
 quailed before it. By custom, the postbag was put into 
 her hands by the house-steward, opened in her presence 
 by Harriet Moon, and its contents distributed by her- 
 self ; and on that day fate had brought, side by side with 
 its fatalest, a belated letter from the boy himself de- 
 scribing the passage of the Douro — "rare fun, my 
 dear," he had written, "I swam it !" Lady Morf a, who 
 had put that letter apart, to be handed over in due course 
 to its owner, suddenly stopped Harriet as she was tip- 
 toeing away to deliver it. "Stop," she had called out in 
 a curious, dry voice; and Harriet, looking round, saw 
 her shaking over the Morning Post. "Bring that back 
 to me." Which Harriet did, quaking. Lady Morfa
 
 A MASTER-STROKE 211 
 
 took it, but could not hold it still. "I'll give her that 
 myself — presently," she said. "Get me my smelling- 
 salts, my dear. I want 'em." She had never called 
 Moon "her dear" before. Something had happened. 
 
 The salts revived her. "Thankye, I'm better," she 
 said — and then, impatiently, "Put all those away — I 
 can't see to 'em now. I've something to do. Where's 
 Miss Chambre?" 
 
 "She is riding, my lady, with Miss Honoria and Mr. 
 Mordaunt." 
 
 ."Ah !" That was something like a sob in the harsh old 
 voice. "Well, leave me alone for the present. When 
 Miss Chambre returns, let her come to me. Stay, though 
 — I'll go through those letters first." And so she did, 
 like the stark old Norman that she was. 
 
 She took the best, the onl}' possible line with the girl; 
 nobody can deny it her. "Come to me, my child," she 
 had said, having complete mastery now of her voice and 
 nerve ; and when Hermia came near and put her hand on 
 her shoulder, she went on, "Sit down. I want to talk to 
 you as reasonably as may be." Hermia sat on a stool 
 by her knees, and Lady Morfa, not trusting her hands, 
 hid them in her folded arms and addressed herself. . . . 
 
 She was heard to the end — without a catch of the 
 breath or stir of a finger to stop her; and at the close, 
 after a moment of silence, Hermia said, "May I have my 
 letter, please.?" It was put into her hands, she broke 
 seal, she read it through. Such was her tension at the
 
 212 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 time that I believe she could have read it aloud. 
 Watched by her grandmamma, she sat on looking at the 
 sweet-bitter sheets, and then she said gently, "My dear 
 love ! How he loved it all !" 
 
 Then something snapped: "Oh, granny, granny, what 
 shall I do now?" — and she gave way — her face in the 
 old woman's knees. The rest is sacred — too sacred for 
 me, at least. Lady Morfa, within a year after it, had 
 cause to remember the child who could see her heart's 
 joy shiver, and yet hold up her head. . . . , 
 
 They got the house emptied of all but the most int^ 
 mate. Sir George, very much the gentleman, was one 
 of the first to go. "No place for us, my boy," he said to 
 his brother Adolphus ; "we'll make ourselves scarce." 
 He kissed the hand of his aunt, the fingers of his Harriet, 
 and steered his coach for Wendover, Plashetts, and par- 
 tridges. He took Lord John with him as far as North- 
 ampton, whence that nobleman made his way to New- 
 market. Lady Carinthia repaired to town in order to 
 speed Mr. Gell-Gell towards Baden-Baden; only Lady 
 Barwise remained, she and her immovable Barwises ; and 
 Archdeacon Caryll — the Honourable the Venerable, as 
 Lady Morfa (fine old Erastian!) alwaj's had him ad- 
 dressed — joined the party for consolatory purposes. He 
 was famous for his extemporary prayers. 
 
 Tom Rodono, who was in town, had written her a short 
 letter, dated the 20th, which arrived a day or two later 
 than the news. "If I am truly your friend, I must be
 
 A MASTER-STROKE 213 
 
 thinking cf you now ; and if vou are truly mine, you will 
 know that," he had begun ; and then, with a good deal of 
 adroitness, he had praised the dead Richai'd for being all 
 Chambre and no Caryll — whereas the truth was exactly 
 the other wa3^ Not a scrap of him was Chambre. What 
 would he have said, pray, of his sister's summer exploits? 
 Of the supper at Sir Francis's, the Phr\'gian cap on a 
 Caryll head, of a Cobbett's lips brushing a Caryll 
 cheek? And of other still more dangerous descents, what 
 Avould he have said? She had gone her way with the fire 
 of a Chambre blown b}' a Car^'U pride, and if the truth 
 is to be told, never once in her late crusade had she stayed 
 to consider what Dick would have thought of her doings. 
 Nor did slie think now, as she fought with her sorrow, or 
 laj^ prone on her face and let it do its worst. But she re- 
 plied to Rodono's letter with a gratitude which showed 
 itself plainly. "It is certain that you have a friendship 
 for me, or you could not have said so many things to 
 please me. I try to be like Dick, and to bear his death 
 as he would have borae mine. We loved each other 
 dearlj^, but I hope that need not stop for such a thing as 
 earthly loss. Give Grizcl my best love when 3'ou see her. 
 I shall hear from her soon, I know. Your obliged and 
 grateful Hermia Mary." In a postscript: "Grand- 
 mamma is all that is kind. I don't think I ever under- 
 stood her before. Her, and Grizel, and you — I have 
 many friends." 
 Rodono's letter had come on or about the 24th, and on
 
 214 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 that day also the violets ceased to come. She had not 
 noticed, naturally, that they had been continued for the 
 first two days of her mourning — but she noticed their 
 cessation after a time, and was touched by it. The giver 
 of them, certainly, lost nothing in her regard. On the 
 contrary, that was the first of his fine strokes. 
 
 Her recovery was slow, but need not detain me ; noth- 
 ing of moment to the tale occurred until she returned to 
 town. Lady Morfa kept her at Wrensham through 
 September, a true act of sacrifice on her own part, since 
 she panted to be in London, in the thick of events. Mr. 
 Canning and Lord Castlereagh must quarrel — did quar- 
 rel ; must meet — did meet ; Lord Castlereagh was shot in 
 the thigh ; both Ministers resigned : and she not there 
 to give and exchange nods and winks ! I hope that this 
 may be imputed to her for righteousness, for it was 
 righteous. 
 
 In October, still in pursuit of rational distraction for 
 her girl, she posted further north. Morfa Mawr, the 
 great castle in Flintshire, was opened, and discreetly 
 filled with "family" and close friends. The unavoidable 
 Barwises came, of course ; the Archdeacon carried his 
 dyspepsia, his prayers, and his rhubarb lozenges on with 
 him; the Charles Botetorts were added; and the head of 
 their house. Lord Badlesmere — Marquis of Badlcsmere, 
 no less — stayed for a week. Lady Grizel was made wel- 
 come, and Lord Rodono, considered perfectly safe, was 
 allowed to shoot pheasants. As for Harriet Moon, she
 
 A MASTER-STROKE 215 
 
 was packed off to her mother at Ludlow for her holi- 
 days. 
 
 But in November Whig nature could no longer refrain 
 itself, but wailed so loudly in Lady Morfa's breast that 
 it could not be denied. The Duke of Portland was dead, 
 and the Lord only knew what that might involve. The 
 Prince of Wales had hurried to town ; Lords Grey and 
 Grenville sat in their houses of call, asking to be asked 
 out. Mr. Sheridan was exceedingly busy ; all the Whig 
 captains had flocked to their standards ; the Radicals, 
 with Lord Sandgate to deploy them, hovered on the out- 
 skirts of either camp. Plot and counterplot were thicken- 
 ing the air, and Lady Morf a failed to conceive how strat- 
 egy could be upheld unless she were there to nod and wink. 
 She had heard, also, for certain, that another Duke — he 
 of Devonshire — was inf allibl}' to be married : a Whig — a 
 duke — a Cavendish to be married, and no Caryll to be 
 there.? Forbid that, heaven! The great chariot took 
 to the road ; the weeping skies proclaimed its wisdom. 
 Rural England, dissolving into grey mist, passed by 
 them like a dream, and with the dream went sorrow, and 
 on its heels hope was born again. The lamps, the bustle, 
 the cobbles, and the cries of London proclaimed to our 
 Miss Hermia that she could still live, that she could 
 stand alone — ah, and look for happiness yet to come. 
 Dick was in heaven, and she full young. Dick was in 
 heaven, and she in thriving London and the press of tliis 
 world's business. Her prayers had been said and her
 
 216 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 tears let fall. Dick was in heaven — hey, now, for Lon- 
 don and Reform ! She really did wonder whether the 
 Whigs would come in. 
 
 Jacob Jacobs stood bowing at the gates ; the canary- 
 breeched giants lined the long vestibule. Brown-eyed 
 Miss Harriet, very pretty, very smiling and deferential, 
 came out to curtsey to her ladyship, to be enfolded and 
 kissed by her champion. The dogs came wriggling and 
 wagging about her skirts : great fires, brave lights, closed 
 curtains, a tea-table — a pile of letters — hey, indeed, for 
 London and Reform ! The girl stood for a moment and 
 absorbed all this cheer and substantial comfort. She 
 filled her bosom with its warmth and opened her heart to 
 its allure, what time from their huge gilt frames stately 
 gentlemen and satin-gowned ladies — Vandyckish, Lely- 
 ish, Kncllerian, Reynoldsian — looked benignly down 
 upon another CaryU beauty. Yes, yes, life was good — 
 and Dick in heaven. Life for ever— and love — and Re- 
 form ! 
 
 After tea, Harriet Moon took her upstairs, and when 
 they were in the corridor, half way down it, stopped her 
 unexpectedly, put her arm round her and kissed her close. 
 
 "You happy dear ! you beautiful, happy dear," she 
 said. 
 
 "Foolish child ! you'll squeeze me to death." 
 
 Harriet kissed her again. "Darling, I must tell you 
 something — prepare you for something. A secret! 
 Your violets came acfain this morninir."
 
 •A MASTER-STROKE 217 
 
 Hermia felt that she betrayed herself in more ways than 
 one. Harriet soon found out how her heart was beat- 
 ing. "Yes, indeed. They came this morning — by Mrs» 
 Matthews. Oh, don't you wonder who it can pos- 
 sibly .?" 
 
 "I don't know," says Hermia. "I shall be glad to see 
 them. They welcome me." Harriet renewed her kiss- 
 ings ; and that night Hermia wore her violets in her 
 black gown. It may be admitted that she had cried over 
 them, and held them to her lips. 
 
 The Master-stroke had been dealt.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHICH CONTAINS A CURIOUS CONFESSION 
 
 WHEN the Marquis of Edlogan married a perfectly 
 insignificant and unconsidered Miss Augusta 
 Poyning, of Huntingdonshire, with a fortune of no more 
 than five thousand pounds ; and when Lord Sandgate ur- 
 gently renewed his suit for Miss Chambre's hand, Lady 
 Morfa knew very well that she must bring Sir George 
 Coigne to the point. It was the more pressing because her 
 ground of definitely declining that noble person had been 
 that George Coigne was already brought there. If such 
 a sacrifice to the gods of battle could be predicated of 
 her ladyship for one moment, it might almost appear 
 that she had burned her boats — or her granddaughter's 
 boats. 
 
 But she had not so considered the matter when, in her 
 most urbane, constitutional, '89 manner, one fine hand 
 upon my lord's sleeve, she had taken him into her con- 
 fidence after this fashion. "My dear lord," she had said, 
 "I am sure I can trust you with a little secret — secret for 
 secret, is it not? — and, therefore, don't hesitate to tell 
 you that my hope of some years' standing is about to 
 be realised. You will be the last to misunderstand my 
 satisfaction in a family match. It can only be known to 
 a man of property and position how many difficulties are
 
 A CURIOUS CONFESSION 219 
 
 to be solved in that way — and in no other, so far as I 
 can see. My nephew, George Coigne, is to have Hermia 
 Mary — we hope this season. There is really no reason 
 why he should not have his way in that. It is so hap- 
 pily arranged, nothing could be better. She will have 
 my Botetort property when I die — it would have been 
 her brother's had not Providence seen fit to dispose of the 
 poor lad; as you know, it joins the Coigne place. I be- 
 lieve — Propert gives me to understand — it will near 
 double the rental. It will more than double the acreage ; 
 and a great point with George Coigne is that the shoot- 
 ing will be greatly improved. It will be a different thing 
 altogether, he tells me. So everybody' will be pleased, 
 and Hermia, I think you'll allow, is a very fortunate 
 girl. I make no excuse for wearying you with these 
 domestic concerns ; you have been kindness itself, and I 
 am sure I need not repeat that nothing, literally noth- 
 ing but family interests, family duty, could withhold me 
 from an alliance so gratifying to my family, and so ac- 
 ceptable to the child, as that which you have done me 
 the honour to propose." So there was an end of Lord 
 Viscount Sandgate. 
 
 In saying so much as this, in revealing her settled pur- 
 pose before it had become anything more, she had no 
 reason in the world for supposing that it would not be 
 carried out to the letter. There did not exist in the 
 Caryll-Botetort annals any instance, known to her, 
 where the pleasure of the reigning Caryll or Botetort
 
 220 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 was not punctually and cheerfully performed. Lady 
 Hermione, to be sure, always crops up to break the 
 sequence — but that was an elopement, an'd she had 
 brought her into the fold again when the Colonel was 
 removed. And Lord Sandgate, to whom such a state of 
 mind was very familiar, accepted his repulse like the fine 
 gentleman he was, wished the young couple every hap- 
 piness, begged his respectful duty to Miss Chambre, 
 kissed hands and bowed himself out. He was sincerely 
 in love, and would not own himself beaten yet. "She 
 and I together," he thought, "might lead England a 
 stage nearer. But no ! It's pheasants for ever — eh ? 
 Oh, George Coigne !" 
 
 Meeting Lord Rodono at Brooks's, I fear that he broke 
 a confidence which he could not regard as seriously one ; 
 and that he could not, shows how seriously he regarded 
 his own. 
 
 "I'm a beaten man, Tom," he said. "I'm winged, sir. 
 Mother Morfa's refused me." 
 
 "What! that old game-bird.'"' says Rodono, who some- 
 times played the fool. "I never suspected you in that 
 preserve. Why, she's five-and-seventy." 
 
 "She has the wiles of Circe about her, whatever. Let 
 me tell you that she's made me feel pretty swinish. 
 George Coigne's the man — George Coigne ! She's 
 marrying the loveliest girl in England — the warmest- 
 hearted, the boldest — to a cock-pheasant, by God !" 
 
 Rodono shook his head, knowing better. "No, no,
 
 A CURIOUS CONFESSION 221 
 
 you're out there. George Coigne'll never get her. She 
 won't look at him." 
 
 "The old dragon's settled it, she tells me. The prop- 
 erties march, it seems. And there's the shooting — Oh, 
 heaven, shooting — and Hermia Chambre !" 
 
 Lord Rodono could not approve of his acquaintance's 
 methods, but did not find it possible to deny that, after 
 his manner, he was serious. And if Sandgate chose to 
 unbosom himself, ought not he? So he said, "You are 
 a suitor, are you.^ I hadn't known that; and perhaps I 
 ought to tell you that I am also." 
 
 "I supposed it," said Sandgate; "indeed, I may say 
 that I knew it. Well, I wish you the joy denied to me." 
 
 Tom was touched. "That's very good of you, Sand- 
 gate — but I've been dismissed, by the goddess's self." 
 Lord Sandgate raised his head. 
 
 "Did you .?" 
 
 "But I did. I swore that I would not — but I did it. 
 Oh, she was kindness itself — has a liking for me, I'll 
 swear to that. But it's love, sir, it's love that will open 
 her wings — mark me, nothing else ! And when they're 
 open — she'll soar — she'll tower ! It's not that she's cold, 
 insensible, a jNIarcella for Cervantes's shepherd; she's 
 not been touched, she's folded, has never felt the sun. 
 And, for me, I'm not the god. Oh, she's rare!" 
 
 "She's divine — could set England free !" 
 
 Rodono threw himself deeper into his chair. "Eng- 
 land! — oh, your divided duty. You're but half a lover,
 
 222 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Sandgate — and that won't do. Now I own myself want- 
 ing in the godhke; but, at least, I'm a neck-or-nothing 
 man, and don't give a curse for England." 
 
 "Why should you, Scotchman.-^ But you'll try again.'"' 
 
 "I shall, indeed." 
 
 "Well, I await you. Then, by your leave, I'll break 
 a lance." 
 
 "With her.?" 
 
 "With no other." 
 
 "You are very amiable. I feel that we ought to shake 
 hands upon it." 
 
 "We'll take it as done, Tom. When will you— .'"' 
 
 "To-night. At D House. Do you go.?" 
 
 "No, indeed. I leave you the field." 
 
 Lord Rodono made his essay, with results which set him 
 
 blinking his eyes. It was done in the library of D 
 
 House, late at night. She heard him with gently bent 
 head and gently lowered eyes ; heard him out — and then, 
 with a lovely, tender, friendly look which cut him deeply, 
 quickly rose, took his arm, and, as they Avent out to- 
 gether, leaned her head almost to touch his shoulder. 
 "Dear friend," she said, feeling that she knew him by 
 heart, "you are so good to me — but don't tease me just 
 now. You force me to say what I should not — you make 
 ^ me feel it your due. I am not quite free — now." 
 
 "Oh! Then I must behave myself. I did not guess 
 that."
 
 A CURIOUS CONFESSION 223 
 
 "No, no. Nor did I — until lately ; but now I think 
 that I am sure." He was puzzled ; had thought that he 
 knew all her intimates. She saw him frowning over the 
 problem, and stopped him by the door. 
 
 "You should know at once if — it's very extraordinary 
 — if I knew myself. But " 
 
 Now he stared. "What are you saying to me.^" 
 
 "I am telling you the literal truth — that I am not sure." 
 
 "Of yourself.?" 
 
 "No, no. Of the person." 
 
 "The person!" Lady Morfa's generic term ! 
 
 "Well, I suppose that there must be a person " 
 
 and as he gazed blankly at her, she looked down at the 
 white knot in her bosom. "There's my lover," she said, 
 "and there's my heart. Ask me no more — I am drifting, 
 but I have confidence. I am verj' happy — and you may 
 wish me joy. I believe that." 
 
 Psyche ! Psyche, and the Unknown God ! 
 
 After that, he had a grim interest in watching from 
 afar Lord Viscount Sandgate run his career and break 
 his lance against the violet shield. No bones were broken, 
 but the politician was unhorsed. She liked him less, 
 respected him more than his brother in opposition ; she 
 felt the honour of his regard, and told him so. "You 
 make me very proud, Lord Sandgate," she had said ; and 
 he — "But you may make me the proudest man in Eng- 
 land." When she shook her head, he knew that he was 
 on his back. He never asked her again ; but would al-
 
 224 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 ways declare that he could not cease to love her. He 
 did not discuss his failure with Rodono, nor did that 
 gentleman impart to him any hint of the curious con- 
 fidence he had himself received. Lord Rodono had never 
 cared for Sandgate's way of involving love in political 
 ambitions, and could never really forgive him for the 
 supper-party in the Piccadilly house — to which, rightly 
 or wrongly, he attributed all that was now fast ap- 
 proaching. He withdrew himself, therefore, from his 
 colleague's society ; and Sandgate, a very proud man, 
 was not slow to perceive it and to make it exceedingly 
 easy. 
 
 As to Miss Chambre's confession, that had been per- 
 fectly true. She had known, from the day she returned 
 to London, that she was deeply engaged ; and from the 
 moment of surrender had not ceased to triumph in the 
 completeness of it. With whom was she, then, in love.^ 
 She couldn't tell. She ignorantly worshipped — but 
 loyally, with unswemdng faith and unfailing thankful- 
 ness. The veiled lover breathed — she knew that much ; 
 he lived and breathed — through violets. All that they 
 signified, all that their coming, all that their ceasing to 
 come, and coming again, as it were, on the surging of 
 the flood — all that he was. Constant, curiously subtle, 
 mysterious, reticent, delicate, modest yet direct; there 
 •she was sure of him ; he could have been modelled after 
 that pattern. He would be very strong — that's of 
 •course ; strong not only to do, but to refrain from doing,
 
 A CURIOUS CONFESSION 225 
 
 when doing would be flagrant. He would never tire, 
 never falter in his purpose, never change in his plan ; 
 his delicacy would make him subtle, and his modesty 
 keep him on continual guard — and yet, she was sure of 
 this — when the time came, he would bluntly declare his 
 
 passion — there would be no "May I ? Dare I ? 
 
 Might I hope -?" but instead, "Girl, I love you; 
 
 come." And that was to be a lover indeed — and to such 
 a lover she was proud to yield. She declared to herself 
 that she would follow him all over the world, "in a white 
 petticoat," like the love-lorn lady of olden time. Tall or 
 short, dark or fair, noble or simple — these accidents 
 never troubled her at all. That he was gentleness itself 
 was certain. Could such a tribute ever have been paid 
 by a clown to a lady "H 
 
 What of her earlier concern.'' What of the timid eyes 
 and flushing cheeks with which she had hitherto faced 
 the man whose cause she had espoused .f' She could aff'ord 
 to smile to herself now when she remembered that Vernour 
 had been able to trouble her heart's ease ; and, what's 
 more, she had been able to meet him frankly and pleas- 
 antly ; to accost him in the court, to nod to him in the 
 street, and to admire him for what she understood him 
 to be rather than for what she had made of him out of 
 her own enthusiasm. To Captain Ranald, who had come 
 back from sea, she had often spoken of the 3'oung man ; 
 she had been to see his mother, too, and spent an hour 
 very happily there; and then one day, not long before
 
 226 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 she made her strange confession to Rodono, she had met 
 Vernour himself face to face and talked with him as an 
 equal. 
 
 She had been in the company of Lady Grizel Tumbull, 
 on a duty walk in the INIall. There it was that she sud- 
 denly came upon Captain Ranald — with him David Ver- 
 nour in a black suit. Everything had followed very 
 simply. Ranald had bowed, had introduced "my friend, 
 Mr. Vernour — Lady Grizel Turnbull" ; then Vernour 
 had made his boM^, and Miss Chambre had offered him her 
 hand. Ranald had plunged into rattling sea-talk with 
 Lady Grizel, prodding the grass as if it had been Mr. 
 Croker; Hermia, bold in company, had opened to Ver- 
 nour. 
 
 "You make a holiday?" He regarded her seriously. 
 "No — not that. I am on a committee with Mr. Ranald. 
 But I have left business." 
 
 "Ah ! and you leave London ?" 
 
 "Yes. I am going into Wiltshire. Lord Sandgate has 
 offered me a farm." Her thoughts were wide ; presently 
 she asked him a question. 
 
 "You heard of my brother's death?" 
 
 He bowed gravely. "Yes. I had heard. He died well 
 — as he had lived." 
 
 "Yes, I believe it. Yet he was made to live." 
 
 "He did live," said Vernour simply. "His death was 
 life — to him." 
 
 "That is well said. You were in London at the time.''"
 
 A CURIOUS CONFESSION 227 
 
 "I am always in London. Yes, I read it — and thought 
 of you." 
 
 She had no answer read}^ for that. She asked him, Had 
 he spoken at Westminster? He had, it seemed, and was. 
 to speak again soon. But poHtics just now seemed to 
 her a foohshness. 
 
 She said, "Mr. Ranald doubts the value of speeches." 
 
 "So do I," he agreed, "but we make wa}^ by holding 
 the people back. We must win on those terms." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you must win." She looked at him, and then 
 away. "You are strong." 
 
 "We get stronger every day — by holding back. You 
 head up your waters — and one day " 
 
 She laughed here, feeling the triumphant certainty. 
 "Oh, that day !" 
 
 "It will be a day on which to live," he said. "May I 
 be on the crest of the breaking wave !" 
 
 Once again she found courage to meet his intent re- 
 gard, and to smile her sympathy. "You, too, love 
 battle." 
 
 "I hate war," he told her; "but I love fighting — with 
 my head." 
 
 "With your head.?" 
 
 He paused, and she had to search for his answer. It 
 came slowly. "My heart, if you will. That instructs 
 my head." She looked at the ground.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 IN WHICH SIR GEORGE IS DISTRACTED BY HIS HEART- 
 STRINGS 
 
 IN the meantime, the bringing of Sir George Coigne to 
 a point caused yisible agony to that cheerful and pros- 
 perous gentleman of Bucks ; caused beads of sweat to 
 break out upon that candid front, and a perfectly nor- 
 mal heart to knock irregularly at a perfectly fitting 
 waistcoat. The "going," as he put it, was so exceedingly 
 nice : how not to offend his aunt, how not to lose his Har- 
 riet — how, above all, to adjust his theory of fine man- 
 ners, which, according to him, lay absolutely in agreeing 
 with every word addressed to you, with his assumption 
 that if a man of thirty thousand a year could not choose 
 his own wife, damn it all, who could ? 
 
 But here was hard work for a good, easy man. " 'Pon 
 my life, aunt, I'm very much gratified — highly grati- 
 fied. There's nothing in life would please me more than 
 to meet you m this. That property, Encombe, More- 
 hays, and all that — oh, it marches with me all the way, 
 I'll not deny. Fine property! Fine woods and planta- 
 tions — wants thinning, though; I meant to have told 
 your man about that, last time I was there. It's a very 
 handsome offer, very handsome indeed, by Jove ! And, as
 
 SIR GEORGE'S HEARTSTRINGS 229 
 
 you know, I always liked Hermy — full of spirit, full of 
 dash, alive up to the chin — eh? Oh, Lord, yes!" He 
 was failing fast ; could hardly see the brown eyes of his 
 attraction — and upon Hermia's account he had posi- 
 tively no more to say. 
 
 Nor did her ladyship need him to say any more. "Very 
 well, then, George, that's settled, I suppose?" was how 
 she proposed to close the discussion. 
 
 "Eh? Settled?" He was shocked. "Well, you know, 
 aunt, a man must have time, you know." 
 
 "It is usually the lady who asks for that," she said 
 drily. But he leaped at it. 
 
 "That's what I meant, you know — exactly. Course she 
 must! Very proper. And I'll tell you what I feel about 
 it — that a man ought to cJioose his time. She'd shy off 
 at once if I — if I rushed her at it, and all that. No, no ; 
 one goes tenderly at these things. I'm certain of that — 
 dead certain it's the wise plan." 
 
 "It's not at all my wish to dictate to you, George — 
 that 3'OU know. Let it be understood that you do speak 
 to Hermia and I will see to my part of the arrange- 
 ments." And then she saw fit to mention Lord Sand- 
 gate's renewed offer of the other day, and her own act 
 of boat-burning. "So 3'ou see, George, you are, as it 
 were, upon your honour !" 
 
 Sir George Coigne's e3'es stared roundly in his head. 
 Really, his aunt was a high lady — "put's a man on his 
 honour as easy as I'd put one on his back. And Sand-
 
 230 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 gate, poor devil ! Bad luck, that — damned bad luck all 
 round! What I'd give my head to be out of, he'd give 
 his to be in with — and if that don't make this world out a 
 pretty queer kind of place, I'll be shot." Thus he mused 
 as he drove home in the dusk, and then fell to dreaming 
 of his slim Harriet, and to picture her peering haplessly 
 out of a window towards the North. "The sweetest, 
 gentlest creature ! The kindest girl ! Shall I play false 
 to a little heart like hers .'' Dare I turn my back on those 
 little kissed hands.? By heaven and earth, if my hon- 
 our's at stake, it's for her — and no other." Thus 
 greatly the baronet testified of his love. 
 
 I am one of those — one, I know, of a minority — who 
 think it possible that a lady's eyes can be too large ; dif- 
 fering here from Mr. Romney and Monsieur Greuze. I 
 am sure that Harriet's were too large, beautiful as they 
 were, deep and velvety brown. But they loomed, posi- 
 tively, in her face, which was small and thin, and not re- 
 markably well shaped : too broad in the brow, too sharp 
 in the chin, with cheek-bones prominent enough to earn 
 her the name of the Death's Head Moth among those 
 who were untouched by her peculiar charm. Eyes apart, 
 her mouth was very pretty : she had those features to 
 her credit, and her courteous, deprecating ways. She 
 was thin, with no figure to speak of, timid and low-voiced, 
 sparing in the use of her fine eyes. She was, however, 
 very intelligent. 
 
 Here is a proof of her intelligence : shortly after this re-
 
 SIR GEORGE'S HEARTSTRINGS 231 
 
 cent visit of Sir George's she had sought Hermia out, 
 and piece by piece had confided to her the whole story 
 of her entanglement with Lord IMorfa, which, upon her 
 showing, did not, after all, amount to very much. There 
 had been interviews, certainly, and meetings — in the 
 Mall and elsewhere ; there had been kisses — "Oh, what 
 must you think of me? Oh, Hermy, how can I tell 
 you these things !" But — and she laid stress upon this — 
 there had been no letters. The affair — she called it "at- 
 tentions" — had begun soon after her taking duty with 
 her lad^'ship — a time when, she said, she had hardly 
 dared refuse Lord Morfa's gallantry, and would not 
 have known how to do so. Since his unexpected visit to 
 Petersham — he had kissed her then, when they were look- 
 ing at the guinea-pigs — she had hardly seen anj'thing 
 of him ; had heard he was entangled elsewhere, felt noth- 
 ing but esteem for him, as the son of her patroness, etc. 
 She was much more serious than she had been, and re- 
 gretted that the cloister was forbidden by the English 
 Church. Questioned as to her other affair with Sir 
 George Coigne, she made it evident that it stood on a 
 different level. It had been very honourable on the gen- 
 tleman's part: a first meeting at Wrensham, a twisted 
 ankle, a visit and a drive in a dog-cart at Plashetts, and 
 an interrupted avowal in town. No more than that, she 
 vowed. 
 
 This was the state of Miss Moon's affairs when Sir 
 George swoi-e that he would be true to her.
 
 232 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 The oath may have been supererogatory, and it may 
 have been fine : in the latter case, it urgently required the 
 test of deeds. Yes — but what deeds were open to a 
 3' oung man oppressed with a theory of manners ? So far 
 as he could see, there was but one thing to be done — 
 make a clean breast of it to his cousin Hermy, and throw 
 himself upon her generosity. He returned to London, 
 therefore, and wrote to her requesting an interview in the 
 Mall, if she could find it convenient to walk there on some 
 fine morning, "suitably accompanied." He prided him- 
 self upon a phrase which was not only eminently proper, 
 but might cause her to select for duenna his IMoon. This 
 Hermia would have done — for she was benevolent if her 
 intelligence was not great in these matters — had not his 
 Moon excused herself. She vowed that she could not 
 possibly meet Sir George just yet — that she needed time 
 to reflect — that he had not led her to suppose — and the 
 usual half -phrases more. So Hermia went out with Mrs. 
 Moth in waiting. 
 
 Sir George's agitation was such that he lost grip of his 
 theory of manners. A hasty "Upon my soul, Hermy, 
 this is more than common kind of you," was all he could 
 manage before he plunged into the thick of his matter. 
 
 "Your grandmother's a wonderful old woman, you 
 know — masterful ! By the Lord, she's made things awk- 
 ward for me — and for you, too, you know — oh, yes, 
 3'ou're in it, deep! and I'm quite aware that it's worse 
 for 3'ou — don't flatter myself, eh? Oh, she's a rare one!
 
 SIR GEORGE'S HEARTSTRINGS 233 
 
 I remember very well poor old Uncle Morfa — fine man 
 he was in his prime, and when he was let alone — he needed 
 that, I must say — two-bottle man, regular as gun-fire — 
 I remember his saying to me once — Well, well, he's 
 gone to his rest, eh? And — well, Hermy, my dear, the 
 thing is, what are we to do — eh?" 
 
 "I have no notion," she admitted ; "nor shall I ever 
 have, unless you begin at the beginning." 
 
 "I know, I know — that's the right thing," said the poor 
 baronet. "Nothing like candour in these things. Your 
 grandmother carries it too far, though. Candid ! She 
 uses a club — she la3^s you down! Eh? Like a pipe of 
 port, by George! Why, she said to me of you — when 
 we were talking one day last season — Oh, Lord! — well, 
 never mind that. But — look here, Hermy, I'll ask 
 3'ou right out, and have done with it. How's Miss 
 Moon?" 
 
 "So that's the beginning, is it? She's very well, I 
 think." 
 
 "Hermy, I adore that lady. I've been head and shoul- 
 ders in it this two years ; constant as — anytliing. I 
 could kneel at her feet, I do believe — it 'ud do me good, 
 good! And I'd do it — that I'm ready to swear to — any- 
 where, by heaven ! " 
 
 "You wouldn't swear it to grandmamma," she said, and 
 sobered him. 
 
 "No," he said, "no, I wouldn't. That's just it. We've 
 got to the point at last. I wouldn't, you know. She's
 
 234 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 extraordinary — she has a way of putting you on your 
 honour — No ! I'll be shot if I know how to do that. But 
 I do think it's a queer state of — And look here, Hermy, 
 you know — there's more in this than meets the eye." 
 
 "If it is ever to reach my eye, George," said she, "you 
 must explain yourself." 
 
 Then, to her quiet amusement, he told her the tale — to 
 her amusement, because her grandmother, she thought, 
 might as well have commanded the sun to shine by night 
 as that this round-faced, consternated baronet should 
 marry her. Her grandmamma and her placid disposi- 
 tion ! Why, when her fate was fixed — when in a few 
 hours' time her violets — her lover — would be lying on 
 her breast! She wore them always at night, and there 
 were ritual ceremonies connected with their putting on 
 and off into which I shall not pry. Poor Cousin George 
 Coigne, protesting now elaborately that "of course, noth- 
 ing could have been more flattering — of course, I need 
 not say how sensible I am of the honour — " ; and then, 
 with a veritable groan, he broke down with, "I say, 
 Hermy, you know, this is uncommonly awkward for both 
 of us" — and she hastened to assure him that she took 
 all his sensibilities for granted, and that, so far as she 
 was concerned, the less he expatiated on them the better. 
 She said that she was not inclined to marry just yet, and 
 that, when she did, she should not allow grandmamma to 
 dictate to her. Let him consider Harriet with her now, 
 and not vex himself with grandmamma's absurdities.
 
 SIR GEORGE'S HEARTSTRINGS 235 
 
 Thus she calmed the agitated gentleman, who grew ex- 
 tremely docile all at once, and took the law as she laid it 
 down. Harriet, she told him, was very well disposed 
 towards him, but for her sake he must do nothing rash. 
 
 Oh, upright judge! Nothing could have pleased him 
 better. "No, no, by Jove! you're right there — notliing 
 abrupt, eh? Spoil everything — leave all that for the 
 present. Play what we call the Fabian game — eh?" He 
 saw himself a Fabius, wearing down Aunt Morfa by 
 masterly impassivity. 
 
 On one point, though, Hermia was firmer than he rel- 
 ished. If her grandmamma spoke to her about it, she 
 should tell the truth. 
 
 "What, all of it — eh? Would you do that, do you 
 think?" cried Fabius. 
 
 "Yes, all of it — so far as it concerns me. Of course, I 
 shan't speak of Harriet." 
 
 "Good Lord, no !" 
 
 "No. But I shall say that you have spoken to me, and 
 that I have told you it's out of the question." 
 
 He shook his head. "She won't like that, Hermy. 
 That's not her country at all." 
 
 "I'm very sorry — but what else can I do?" 
 
 He looked at her sideways. "Well — you could say, 
 you know, that you were thinking it over — ^turning it 
 about in your mind. That's what I should say — like a 
 shot." 
 
 "But I'm not turning: it about."
 
 236 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "Oh, of course, of course — naturally — the thing's ab- 
 surd. But — Miss Harriet's awkwardly placed, don't you 
 see?" 
 
 "I can't tell a fib. Cousin George — really, I can't do 
 that." He took off his hat to her. 
 
 "Hermy, you are splendid, by George ! You make me 
 feel a — young hound, 'pon my soul. And I do hope 
 you'll forgive me for troubling you with these affairs of 
 mine — and believe that I put them all in your hands 
 with — a great deal of pleasure, by Jove ! — and con- 
 fidence, and all that. I don't know what to do for the 
 best — except that I must see Miss Harriet. Yes, I must 
 see her, cost what it may. When I think of what she has 
 to put up with — there — in that great black house — with 
 that nodding old woman — Oh, Lord ! " He shut his eyes 
 for a moment. "Look here," he said, when he had 
 opened them again, "I'll go to her now — I declare I don't 
 care a curse — I beg your pardon, Hermy." 
 
 She was sorry for him, and said, "Let me go to her 
 first — speak to her first. Trust me to help you all I 
 can." 
 
 "I'd trust you with my immortal soul," said Sir George, 
 feeling sure that he had one. And then he kissed her 
 hand, and allowed Mrs. Moth to resume possession. 
 
 Lady Morfa had nothing to say to her granddaughter 
 of any disposition made of her hand or heart ; but Har- 
 riet, it appeared, had a great deal to say — and a great
 
 SIR GEORGE'S HEARTSTRINGS 237 
 
 deal more than she had been able to say so far. Harriet 
 knelt at Hermla's knees and wept ; Harriet kissed and 
 clung ; and at last she made a clean breast of every- 
 thing — or so it seemed. But it is to be remarked of her 
 that all her confessions had had the air of finality about 
 them, as if they exhausted the subject. 
 
 "Oh, I was very wicked — I know — I know — " she 
 wailed. "He paid me marked attentions" — this, of course, 
 was Lord Morfa — "and I was pleased — very pleased. It 
 made me feel stronger, more able to bear — I was nobody 
 here- — and her ladyship treated me like a servant. 
 Hermy ! " her eyes were looming, "how would you like to 
 be called Chambre? I was always Moon — it made me 
 shiver. So then — I must tell you — I used to know when 
 he was coming — or going — and we used to meet. And 
 when he was kind to me, I felt altogether grateful and 
 couldn't refuse him what he — what we — what I told you, 
 Hermy, he did to me. I never loved him — no, I vow that 
 I did not ; and all is over now between us — yes, all, all ! 
 He was very fitful; sometimes I thought he was inter- 
 ested in me — especially when he came down to Petersham, 
 and left Lord Drem, and asked me to show him the 
 guinea-pigs — and — what I told you before happened. 
 But then — very often — he seemed not to remember me 
 at all. And now he's gone — and I declare that I am 
 glad. Oh, it's better so — much better — for me." 
 
 "I think so too," said Hermia, rather drily. "I fancied 
 that we were to talk of Sir George."
 
 238 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "Sir George was different," Harriet said composedly. 
 "Sir George always acted towards me like a prince. 
 But — " and she hid her face again, "oh, but Lord 
 Morf a was a prince ! " 
 
 "Very much a prince," said Hennia. 
 
 Harriet looked up, vehement and white. "It is all quite 
 over. He cares nothing for me. I know where he goes — 
 I know everything — I tell you, everything. Don't ask 
 me any more." 
 
 *'No, indeed, my dear," said Hermia. "Lord Morfa has 
 no interest for me." 
 
 "Sir George is very kind," said Harriet, presently. 
 "Any girl would be proud — " and then she burst into 
 tears and implored her darling Hermy to temporise with 
 Lady Morfa — which was precisely what had been re- 
 fused to Sir George. But Harriet's argument, that a 
 girl in her position must be very careful, was a strong 
 one. If she were to run away with Sir George, said 
 Harriet, how could he respect her any more? How 
 could she respect herself.? Hermia, child of runaway 
 parents though she were, had no respect for that form of 
 marriage. Why run away.'' But when she remembered 
 the Fabian Sir George, and looked, not without some 
 contempt, on the deplorable Harriet, she saw that no 
 other marriage was open to them. She consented, finally, 
 to temporise with her grandmother — to this extent that 
 she would reply to any commands of hers that nothing 
 could be done until she was out of mourning for her
 
 SIR GEORGE'S HEARTSTRINGS 239 
 
 brother. Harriet's gratitude for so small a concession 
 seemed disproportionate ; and, after all, no temporising 
 was called for. Lady Morfa had methods of her own 
 which did not recognise a Fabian policy.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 WHICH PREPARES 
 
 UT her own affairs now called to her, with urgent 
 need of her championship. At the end of February 
 she fell ill of the influenza, and had so much fever that 
 she took to her bed, and consoled herself with "Marmion" 
 and her violets. I don't know that she was, by ordinary, 
 a great reader of poetry ; but I am very sure that at this 
 time she was a great maker of it. I shall not attempt to 
 relate all the pretty, foolish pranks she played with her 
 daily gift; they were doubtless much as maidens of old 
 had used. When, for instance, Campaspe had the boy-god 
 on her lap, and no one by, I trow she fondled him and 
 coaxed for a wound ; or when Lesbia and her sparrow 
 sat alone, were the kisses less instant? So if Hermia 
 played with her violets and lived with them a life of faery, 
 who's to wonder, or to blame? They made fragrant 
 both her waking and her sleeping hours, crimsoned all 
 her dreams of day and night. It may well have been 
 during this time of quickened senses and imagination 
 fever-fed that she staked her heart upon the issue which 
 was now so near. 
 
 I say that she indulged herself — and she did when she 
 made of her own will the admission to Harriet Moon
 
 WHICH PREPARES 241 
 
 which had been drawn out of her by the constancy of 
 Tom Rodono. Harriet sat with her a good deal, and 
 noted the violet-play with a very perspicacious eye. The 
 flowers were never drawn from the bosom and laid upon 
 the lips, to be returned presently and hidden in their 
 nest, but Harriet saw the manoeuvre and wisely smiled. 
 But what she knew, or may have known, or may have 
 guessed, she did not say. She hovered about them after 
 her manner — "Darling, your flowers console you?" she 
 would ask, and if Hermia, violets at her mouth, smiled 
 behind them, or smiled with her bright eyes, Harriet 
 would nod and look wise — and presently she would sigh. 
 "You should be happy, dearest, I think — to be loved so 
 long." 
 
 To this, on one day or other, Hermia answered, "I am 
 perfectly happy. I believe I want no more of life than 
 this." 
 
 "But He will want more," said Harriet, and Hermia, 
 dreamy, asked, "He. ^ Who is he.? Are you — is it — sure 
 that your He is not a she.?" 
 
 Harriet said that she was sure. "Then I am not," says 
 Hermia, "and what is more, I don't wish to be. If I am 
 loved, and can love, what more do I need.?" 
 
 This was rubbish, but Harriet did not say so. She 
 asked presently whether her dearest friend had ever 
 thought who it was that loved her so secretly, and whom 
 it was she loved.? Yes, said Hermia, she had thought. 
 
 "And you know nothing.?"
 
 242 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 She was snuffing at her flowers, but her eyes were steady 
 on her friend, ' "I know nothing certainly ; nothing I 
 could talk about." 
 
 "And yet you are — in — Oh, Hermy ! " 
 
 She admitted it. "Yes, I am in love, but I don't know 
 with whom — not certainly." 
 
 "But — dearest — I don't at all understand you now." 
 
 "How should you ?" said Hermia — then she held up her 
 flowers. "He has sent me these for nine months. I cannot 
 but be grateful, I cannot but be humble to such a lover 
 as that. I am grateful — I love him dearly. I am 
 humble — I would obey him in everything. No one in 
 the world has ever been loved like this — in the dark." 
 Then she remembered. "Yes, there was one woman who 
 was loved in the dark. Her name was Psyche." 
 
 "A fable, darling ! Psyche is the soul." 
 
 "Well," said Hermia, "and haven't I a soul?" 
 
 Such talk — of souls and their love-aff'airs — was highly 
 unprofitable to Harriet Moon ; she was rather shocked, 
 rather scandalised. No confession she had ever made of 
 love-lorn baronets or kisses given and received before 
 guinea-pigs could be so damaging as this. 
 
 "Dearest Hermy," she said, "you make me unhappy. I 
 entreat you to reflect." 
 
 "I have reflected, my dear," said Hermia. "I am re- 
 flecting now." 
 
 "No, indeed, you are not. You are kissing your vio- 
 lets."
 
 WHICH PREPARES 243 
 
 "They kiss me." 
 
 "This person," said Harriet, "have you never thought? 
 It might be anybody — quite undesirable. Surely, surely, 
 you see." 
 
 She nodded. "I do see — that you can imagine it being 
 somebody impossible. You think it might be — Progers, 
 for instance — or one of the men-servants?" 
 
 "No, darling, you wrong me. I think nothing so ab- 
 surd. But I do think — " She paused. Yes, she must 
 say it. "I do think that — possibly — it might be — young 
 Mr. Vemour ! " 
 
 Hermia,who was in a stare, did not answer immediately ; 
 but she laid her violets on the bed. "Yes," she said, "I 
 have thought of that. I have wondered. Some day I 
 may ask him. But it makes no difference that I can 
 see." 
 
 "No difference! Dearest!" 
 
 "None at all. Either one loves or one doesn't; either 
 one is loved, or is not. And if one is loved in so beautiful 
 a way that must mean that the lover is noble. And if 
 one loves — even if one loves an impossible person, as you 
 say — if one loves with all one's heart, and is grateful, 
 and is humble — there can be no harm. At least, I can 
 see none." 
 
 Harriet stooped over the bed and embraced her, held 
 her close in her arms. "Darling, tell me all ! You love 
 Mr. Vernour. You do ! I know it." Hermia kissed her. 
 
 "You should be told if I could tell you. I love the
 
 244 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 giver of my flowers — and have loved him since October. 
 Perhaps longer; but it was in October that I knew it 
 for certain." 
 
 "In October?" 
 
 "Yes. When we came back to town — and you brought 
 me my flowers — and I was glad." She stirred in Har- 
 riet's arms, and snuggled down. "I cried," she said in a 
 whisper, "and kept them with me all night. They have 
 never left me since." And then she took them up, kissed 
 them, and put them in her bosom. 
 
 Hermia knew, though Harriet did not, that Mr. Ver- 
 nour was still in London. Moth had brought her that 
 news — that he had inquired how she did, and that he in- 
 quired every day. On one occasion he brought her some 
 flowers — purple and white anemones — which he told 
 ]\Ioth were from his mother "for Miss Chambre, with her 
 respects," and came from Feltham. She remembered 
 presently that he had a friend there — a nursery gar- 
 dener — and that he used to ride the chestnut thither on 
 Sundays. A message was sent to him by Moth that she 
 thanked him for calling, and begged her kind love to 
 Mrs. Vernour. 
 
 He no longer called for orders, Moth said, as he had 
 retired from business, and was intending for the country. 
 He came "like a gentleman," she said, and described his 
 appearance as being very like that of the Prince of 
 Wales — but not so plump. He still came, of course, to 
 the tradesman's door; but Moth had heard that he was
 
 WHICH PREPARES 245 
 
 becoming a great politician, and had spoken at a West- 
 minster meeting with "Sir Francis and the Honourable 
 Captain Ranald, and others of the nobility — all in favour 
 of Reform, miss, and what a shame it was." When she 
 recovered herself sufficiently to go downstairs and see 
 compan}^, she heard of that Westminster meeting — from 
 Mr. Ranald. There had been a great to-do ; they talked 
 of prosecuting Sir Francis. 
 
 She asked him, Had Vernour spoken.'^ 
 
 "Yes," he said, "and well. We should like some more 
 of his sort. He's one of those men who say httle and 
 imply much. And he knows his power and how to hus- 
 band it. He's for a waiting game." 
 
 "I am sure he's very strong," she said. 
 
 "If he is," said Ranald, "he owes it to you." 
 
 "Tome.?" 
 
 "To no other. He began to speak in public after that 
 trouble of his, in which, if you'll let me say it, you played 
 a fine part. I should like to put it that he saw, from 
 what you did, that a cause which could breed such an act 
 was a cause worth talking about. And though he's no 
 great talker, as I say, he makes a fine show. He can 
 restrain himself. He's a gentleman." 
 
 "I am sure that he is," said Miss Hermia. 
 
 Having ascertained from Moth that Vernour had gone 
 into the country, beyond all doubt, she felt that she 
 might safely pay a visit to Brook Street ; and so she
 
 246 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 did, taking Harriet with her. The lady received her 
 with great simplicity, and talked at length about her 
 remarkable son. He had received a handsome offer from 
 Lord Sandgate of a grazing farm in the Avon Valley, 
 and was now gone down to inspect it. There was little 
 doubt but that he would accept it. His father was will- 
 ing, and David had never been happy in business. His 
 heart was in the land, and in books. As for politics, no 
 doubt he was for Reform ; but Mrs. Vernour hoped that 
 he would lose his zest for public speaking. 
 
 "He's quick-spirited. Miss Chambre, and means what 
 he says. And he makes enemies, I fear. Captain Ranald, 
 who is his best friend, makes them, too ; but people will 
 take from a lord's son more than they will from a trades- 
 man. They say, It's only his fun, of such as Mr. Robert ; 
 but of my boy, they judge that he's bitter — which is far 
 from the truth. He will be sorry to have missed your 
 visit. Miss Chambre, really sorry. He thinks — he never 
 forgets what you did for him." At parting, she took 
 leave to congratulate the young lady. "I hear talk of a 
 wedding. Miss Chambre — and a great ball that is to 
 come. I hope that I may wish you joy." 
 
 Hermia laughed. "My grandmother, you mean. You 
 must wish her joy of the ball."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 IN WHICH SHE SEALS HER INDENTURES 
 
 npHE Countess of Morfa's ball, "to have the honour 
 ■^ of meeting His Royal Higlmess," was fixed for the 
 fifteenth of April, and was to be preceded by a banquet of 
 forty persons carefully and rigidly selected. Each assem- 
 bly in its kind was to be such as comported with the great- 
 ness of the house of Caryll ; but collectively the two were 
 to be more. They, were to declare to the world the alliance 
 which her ladyship contemplated, the marriage of Miss 
 Hermia Mary Chambre with Sir George Coigne, Bart., 
 of Plashetts, in Bucks, which she had decreed. And the 
 great world so understood it to be, without any official 
 announcement in the Morning Post. Whether Lady 
 INIorfa had her doubts of her granddaughter's docility, 
 or whether, perhaps, she had no doubts, I cannot say: 
 all that I know is that she spoke not one word to the 
 young lady mostly concerned of the plans she had made 
 in a matter vitally interesting to most young ladies. 
 Miss Chambre, as we know, had her own opinion by this 
 time of love and marriage and such-like, and had come 
 to a very clear understanding with Sir George Coigne. 
 She would, therefore, have viewed with great calm tliese 
 elaborate preparations to herald an event which could
 
 248 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 never by any possibility^ occur, if her private and curious 
 affairs had not made them of singular moment to her. 
 But as these were, she was strangely uneasy and excited 
 by a certainty which she had that this particular day and 
 this pai'ticular party were to bring her sharply to a 
 crisis. 
 
 At half -past six on the evening of this day she was in 
 her dressing-room and in the hands of Mrs. Moth. Her 
 coiffure was nearlj- done, for Moth had been deft over 
 the coiHng and curling of the most beautiful hair in 
 London, as she heartily declared it. The Greek fashion 
 was then in vogue — a high top-knot, with broad fillet to 
 hold it, side curls, and — for this occasion — stiff white 
 feathers must be added; for the court demanded them. 
 This, I say, was nearly done: her dress of black and 
 silver lay over a chair; her silver scarf with it — in a 
 moment or two more she must stand up to be dressed; 
 but in the meantime she sat with her thoughts — wonder- 
 ing and searching into the warm dusk for any sign 
 which might reveal "o hither and with whom she jour- 
 neyed. 
 
 This haunted, wonder-charged journey, which she had 
 been making in secret places for so long, had changed 
 of late. Formerly, she had wandered without inile or 
 purpose ; but there had been times when the world about 
 her seemed real again ; when the men and women with 
 whom she talked, whose hands touched hers, were able 
 to affect her with pleasure or distress, with admiration or
 
 SHE SEALS HER INDENTURES 249 
 
 disgust. The}^ had at least as much claim to reality as 
 those shrouded, flitting forms which peopled her dream- 
 world. Thus she had been able to be sorry for Sir 
 George's perplexities, and to be grieved by Harriet's 
 sobbed confessions, to be kind to Tom Rodono, and 
 moved by the force of Bob Ranald. But now — of late — 
 all these had receded further and further into the mists. 
 She could still hear their voices, muffled and far-off; 
 still see, or think to see, their foolish, peering, staring, 
 agitated faces as they bobbed up and down in assembly — 
 but the}' were nothing, they were dreams of old da3's, 
 ghosts like her father and mother and poor Dick, un- 
 profitable, touching, unavaihng memories. Really and 
 actually now she was living terribly, sweetly, in a secret 
 companionship — sought out, wooed by an unknown lover, 
 who now had won her and was about to claim his wages. 
 She thought that she was being led, now, at this dusky 
 hour of what, in the old world, men called the fifteenth 
 of April — was being led, as by the hand, from court to 
 court of some wonderful, empty house. She could have 
 described to you — if you had suddenly startled her with 
 the question — the walls and coffered ceilings, the arch- 
 ways and pavements and flowers and fountain-basins of 
 this windowless house; she could have told you of the 
 long journeying and of the certainty which awaited her 
 at the end of it. She could not see who guided her ; she 
 could only feel, not see, the strong hand in which her 
 own lay contented. There was no one visibly beside her ;
 
 250 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 yet one was there, and had her in an invisible hand. No 
 voice spoke to her: there was no need of speech when 
 her heart held the certain sense. "Come, my bride, this 
 house is thine and mine. This is the house of love, and 
 the hour of it has come upon thee." 
 
 Words of terrible sweetness they were: she had heard 
 them all day, and had not dared to answer, "Yes, I will 
 come. See, my lord, I am here : do with me as thou wilt." 
 No voice had he who spoke, and she needed none to 
 answer. Shy as a bride, and glad in her own beauty, 
 which had found such favour, she paced slowly the empty 
 rooms, that fair house, with downcast eyes and glowing 
 cheeks. She had no thought of drawing back ; she was 
 passive now. Striving, daring, contending in the world 
 were all done. She had reached that point where the 
 woman gives over, is possessed; and her heart swelled 
 with the pride of perfect surrender to the sovereign will. 
 
 The chatter of Moth, the quick-glancing, quick- 
 fingered tire-woman, was like the twitter of sparrows in 
 the eaves to one who watches through the dawn for some 
 one to come home. If she heard it, she had no heed for 
 it. My lord, said Moth, had returned. What lord? 
 Why, my Lord Morfa, of course — what other lord had 
 Moth? — my lord had returned to town with the Prince, 
 and would be here to receive His Royal Highness. It 
 appeared, however, that his lordship would not dine — in 
 fact, he had sent word by Mr. Pigott, his servant, that 
 he was unavoidabh' detained. This was extraordinary —
 
 SHE SEALS HER INDENTURES 251 
 
 in Moth's opinion. Her ladyship had said very httle, but 
 everybody knew that she was much offended: her lady- 
 ship said least when she was most offended, as everybody 
 knew. ]Moth took upon herself to commiserate Miss 
 jMoon, who must now be enduring her ladyship at her 
 worst. A place had to be filled at the last moment — and 
 Miss Moon, it was understood, had been bidden to send 
 for Mr. Banks. Mr. Banks? Who was Mr. Banks.? 
 Why, surely Miss Chambre would remember that sallow, 
 thin gentleman with black nostrils — "like open graves," 
 said Moth — whom Miss Chambre had met on a coach and 
 asked to the house. Her ladyship esteemed Mr. Banks, 
 Moth believed, and made him useful "in the newspaper 
 way." He had influence, they said ; he was listened to ; 
 and, of course, he would do anything for her ladj'ship. 
 This was a great day for Mr. Banks. Was he coming.^ 
 Why, of course he was coming. She should hope so. It 
 was a command — to meet His Roj^al Highness. 
 
 To these facts of more or less importance INIiss Chambre 
 gave no heed. It may be doubted whether she heard 
 them; and certain it is that she did not appreciate her 
 Uncle Morfa's absence from the banquet as, say, Miss 
 Harriet ]\Ioon would have done. Her thoughts held her 
 in thrall. She was living elsewhere and apart ; walking 
 in invisible company, led by an invisible hand to her sure 
 and certain destiny. 
 
 Prevision, second-sight, fore-knowledge, whatever you 
 choose to call it, may be guessed at. Yet, when she found
 
 252 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 herself convinced, as she had found herself ever since 
 her admissions to Harriet Moon, that her time was at 
 hand, she had had something to go upon, some rough 
 logic of the head to support, if that were needed, the 
 infallible sophistry of the heart. Those admissions had 
 been made some two weeks ago, but every day and every 
 night following upon them had but added to her cer- 
 tainty that her fate overshadowed her. Her flowers had 
 come exactly as usual — at the same hour, by the same 
 hand. She had untied them herself, and every time she 
 did it she had separated the stalks with trembling fingers 
 which expected momentarily to light upon some written 
 word lying concealed. But there had been nothing at 
 all ; and here she had found the ground of her inference, 
 or ground for many. 
 
 If the giver of her violets were near her, in London, 
 say ; if, indeed, he lived at all and could learn the things 
 that concerned her, then he must know by common 
 rumour what this fifteenth of April imported for her and 
 her affairs. And if — she reasoned — if this night and its 
 violet-gift passed without a sign, he (supposing that he 
 lived at all) must surely know that he would have no 
 further right to send her flowers, as men and women 
 judge these things. For men and women say that to 
 send flowers daily to a maiden is a declaration of love, 
 and to send them daily to a plighted maid is the act of 
 a robber. 
 
 The thought had smitten her suddenly one day. Say
 
 SHE SEALS HER INDENTURES 253 
 
 that from the fixed night he ceased to send them, what 
 should she do — now that he had brought her to this 
 pass? Now that she had given herself; was, as she 
 verily believed, handfasted to him? For was she not? 
 Her flowers had lain in her bosom all night, and night 
 after night ; her flowers and all that they signified to her, 
 which was more than any mere flowers could ever signify. 
 They had been free of her lips, her tears, her breast, and 
 her side ; and not without disgrace, only as a maid un- 
 done could she now stand before the world ; as one who 
 had sufi^ered love and repaid love with love, and was now 
 forsaken — like Psyche, hke Psyche who had also loved 
 and been loved in the dark. She pictured herself dis- 
 mayed and forlorn, wandering footsore, dishevelled, with 
 a bleeding heart, the streets, the squares, the parks of 
 London, looking for the Unknown who had taught her 
 love, betrayed, shamed, and left her. These were hot 
 and incredible thoughts : yet were he mortal man or god 
 such must be her portion if the only sign vouchsafed her 
 were the ceasing of her flowers. 
 
 And if, in spite of a declared engagement, they did not 
 cease to come, and she must learn by that that this lover 
 of hers was not a mortal man at all, then how ttrrible 
 was her destiny, how strange, how sweet! What must 
 happen to her then — to her, the free, the proudly con- 
 fident, the clear speaker of truth and well-spring of 
 honour? How could she appear as wife, who had a secret 
 lover? How could she give to a husband, a man, that
 
 254 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 right which the god in flower-shape had had of her and 
 still chose to claim? She must remain unmarried, could 
 not dare to marry. It would be mortal sin. Maids be- 
 fore now have had strange lovers : Oreithyia was mated 
 to the North Wind, and one had a river to husband, and 
 one a swan — it had remained for her, Hermia Mary, to 
 discern the overshadowing which all women love and 
 dread in the woody scent of wet flowers. . . . 
 
 To this strange state of mind was she now brought, 
 and under the stress and fever of it now she suffered her- 
 self to be dressed. 
 
 It grew dusk apace, but she would not have the candles ; 
 so in half lights the shimmering gown was slipped over 
 her head, the fillet and the scarf put in place. With 
 vague eyes she stood up, searching the misty eve as it 
 gathered about the trees in the garden, while the maid 
 hovered over her, patting and adjusting, peering and 
 judging, turning her about before the glass. Com- 
 pleted, adorned to the last hook and eye, she stood up, a 
 picture of delicate, serious beauty, a bodily perfection of 
 white and pale rose, which her black robe made to seem 
 fragile as the petals of a flower, informed, however, by 
 a mystery not of the world, which held together her 
 sober lips and filled her large eyes with dark. Nothing 
 remained to be done to her but to fix her flowers : let Mrs. 
 Moth now see to that. 
 
 They were in a glass of water on the table, still untied ; 
 for on this crowning day, when all must be put to the
 
 SHE SEALS HER INDENTURES 255 
 
 touch, she had not dared yet to search them. The sign 
 must be there to-day, or — nay, but it must needs be 
 there. And yet so much hung upon that need that she 
 had not dared to see. And as Moth was busy with them 
 now — a pin in her mouth, and eager fingers at the tie — 
 she felt herself grown white to the lips, and sick with the 
 waiting and the fear. . . . 
 
 "My word of honour ! Oh, miss ! " It was over. The 
 blood surged back and beat at her temples. He had 
 spoken ; the sign was there ! 
 
 "Oh, miss ! What next, I say ! Oh, miss — " Words 
 failed her, but she held up a folded slip. 
 
 "Give it me, please," she said steadily, not looking at 
 it, and took, opened, and read it. She held it high to 
 get the light, and while she read, Moth fixed and was 
 pinning the flowers. 
 
 "T/iis night, and for ever. Or nevermore." 
 
 That was the whole of it. It steadied her. 
 
 She freed herself from Moth's fingers. "Take them 
 out, Moth, please. Put them on the table, and leave me. 
 I shan't want you any more." Wondering, the maid 
 unfastened the bunch, and while her mistress stood at 
 gaze in mid-floor, her slip of paper in her hand, she 
 returned to the table to lay it down. Suddenly she 
 gasped, and said sharply, "Lord have mercy upon us ! 
 who's that.?" 
 
 Hermia awoke from her trance. "Of whom do you 
 speak.'' What do you mean.'"'
 
 256 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Moth chattered to herself, and peered out of the win- 
 dow. She could only say, "Down there — in the gar- 
 den — alone. There's some one there. Oh, miss, you 
 know best, but I tell you that I'm afraid." 
 
 Hermia, who wore a fixed face, went to the window and 
 looked out. The garden was murky in the dusk of a 
 warm April day ; yet there could plainly be seen the 
 tall and motionless figure of a man, cloaked and hatted, 
 who stood alone there on the lawn. For a few moments 
 she watched him, trembling. Then she motioned the 
 maid to go away, and Moth retired without a word. 
 
 Hermia was shaking now, and panting, but she was 
 not frightened. What unnerved her was the coming of 
 the moment of choice, expected, and with certainty, so 
 long. It had come. The Unknown Lover was there, 
 the unknown country at the door, the journey must 
 begin. She stretched out her left hand to touch the 
 dressing-table, and it fell upon the softly crisp heads of 
 violets. She took up the bunch in her hand, but it fell 
 to her side. "This night, and for ever. Or nevermore." 
 She knew what that meant ; that it was for her to choose. 
 Trembling, failing at the knees, breathless, in distress, 
 with a crying pain at her heart, she watched and waited, 
 while the room grew darker and darker, and the garden 
 below could hardly be seen. She looked to the place 
 where she had seen her lover stand, searched for him, 
 found him, lost him again, until her eyes felt on fire. If 
 she wore his violets that night, she was sealed to be his.
 
 SHE SEALS HER INDENTURES 257 
 
 Would she do it? Dared she? Why, was she mad ! She 
 beHeved that she would be worse than mad — impious — if 
 she disobeyed. 
 
 A knock at the door made her start and clap a hand to 
 her side. "Who's there?" 
 
 Harriet opened the door. "Dearest, what's this? Why 
 are you in the dark ? Are you not ready ? Her ladyship 
 has sent me for you. Lord and Lady Crowland are here. 
 They say that Sir Francis has been arrested and taken 
 to the Tower. And oh, Hermy, Lord Morfa " 
 
 "Go away, please," said Hermia, in a whisper. "Go 
 down and say that I'm coming." Harriet pouted, but 
 obeyed. 
 
 She must act at once; there was no time to lose. Dis- 
 obedience never entered her head ; all her hesitation had 
 been that of a swimmer by the brink of the flood. She 
 struck a match and lighted two of her candles with a 
 steady hand. She had calmness enough at command to 
 wait while the wicks flared, sank, and catching the wax, 
 rose serenely into power. Then she pinned the white 
 violets at her bosom, and, a candlestick in each hand, 
 went deliberately to her window and stood there. 
 
 She stayed a few minutes facing the dark ; then turned 
 and went downstairs. She had scaled her indentures, 
 was now bound apprentice. And as she went down the 
 broad stair her heart seemed to fill her whole body, even 
 to drowning her. ,
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IN WHICH HER CALL COMES 
 
 A PRIEST newly from his altar-rites, with the dew of 
 -^^^ sacrifice still upon him, set down in the midst of some 
 squalid brawl — contested election, city meeting — might 
 have the feelings of consternation and dismay which 
 possessed Miss Chambre, fresh from her window and her 
 dark, seethed in the great Morf a banquet. And he would 
 have the same consolation of hugging to his heart the 
 memory and the promise known fully to him alone. If 
 his eyes were wide and very bright, if his lips were close, 
 if his tongue refused him, it were no wonder. In his 
 eyes the vision would stay ; mystery would lock his 
 mouth and keep his tongue from declaring vain things. 
 The apprentice in love went through the ceremony of 
 dining in the company of forty persons, all fashionable 
 and all Whigs ; she gave her arm to Sir George Coigne, 
 smiled on Lord Sandgate, curtseyed to a prince of the 
 blood, tasted soup, sipped wine, answered questions, 
 seemed, indeed, to be present, and looked excessively 
 beautiful — though she was not very responsive. She 
 was living elsewhere, at a fever-rate, in a shrouded gar- 
 den, in still night air — or she was swept along a flooded 
 stream, in water which was warm and sweet — in which
 
 HER CALL COMES 259 
 
 her limbs failed her, in which, drifting, she drowned. 
 Swift, smooth, irresistible motion ; she was conscious 
 mostly of that. Her hands were folded, her eyes closed, 
 she felt ; she knew not whither she went, and cared 
 nothing. For above and about her, fanning her brows, 
 blowing upon her eyelids, was a form whose magnitude 
 she could not guess — and "Come. I have chosen thee ; 
 come. Thou art mine, and I am thine — now and for 
 ever," was the music in her ears. 
 
 What, then, if a royal personage should enunciate laws 
 of nature at the top of his voice and the table? She 
 would not hear them. "I tell you, ma'am, the country 
 was never more respected abroad. Our good old King, 
 secure in the sanctities of family life . . . Avhat,''" 
 "My brother Kent, ma'am, may be trusted to fulfil his 
 duty, I hope. Church and King is the cry . . . the 
 nobility staunch, the Commons ..." Oh, crackling 
 of thorns under pots ! What had she to do with Lords 
 and Commons.-^ 
 
 Mr. Aloysius Banks, with a crowing voice, might have 
 been heard blaring loyalty over the board. "What said 
 Mr. Burke, sir.? What said that true patriot.? 'We fear 
 God — we look with awe to kings — with affection to 
 Parliaments — with duty to magistrates — with reverence 
 to priests — and with respect to the nobility.' " That 
 should have been gracious to a royal car, and likely was ; 
 and it should have been interesting to watch Lady 
 Morfa's nodding head receive it. "With awe to kings"
 
 260 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 — she bowed low ; "with reverence to priests" — she raised 
 her eyebrows as her head made the concession ; "and 
 with respect to the nobihty" — she tossed her feathers 
 upwards before her final inclination. It was very right 
 that these should be the opinions of the Burkes and 
 Bankses of this world, but almost an affectation of hu- 
 mility for a Lady Morf a to agree with them. 
 
 Lord Sandgate capped Mr. Banks with Tom Paine, for 
 the benefit of his beauteous neighbour. "The duty of 
 man ... a wilderness of turnpikes, through which he 
 is to pass by tickets ! " You are a Painite, I know, Miss 
 Chambre. Was she.'* She smiled upon him and allowed 
 him to believe it. Had there really been a time when 
 she had been this or that.'^ Lord Sandgate talked of Sir 
 Francis, whom he had that morning escorted to the 
 Tower, at the head of some thousands of frantic persons. 
 "You would have said it was a Roman triumph. Miss 
 Chambre; and I'm inclined to think that it was. At 
 least the Government can only afford a {cw more such 
 victories. Bob Ranald came back rubbing his hands. 
 He says nothing .could have been better. If privilege 
 strains so far, it will snap — and suicide is better 
 than assassination ; more decent at least." And so he 
 ambled on, the contented nobleman, and she said Yes, 
 or No. 
 
 Upon her other side were Sir George and his troubles. 
 He felt fatally prominent, and feared to commit him- 
 self deeper with every breath. He knew what that
 
 HER CALL COMES 261 
 
 offer of liis arm was to imply, and what the whole 
 festival implied. He sat at meat a marked man. From 
 the crimson flock walls, out of their gilt cornices, 
 from beneath their coronets, the ranked Carj^ls in 
 their purple and ermine, their shimmering satin, in their 
 full wigs, lace collars, ruffs, steel corselets, peak-bearded, 
 love-locked, ample-bosomed, fiercely stayed and hooped, 
 as the case might be — a double row of Carylls 
 watched him out of level, unfaltering eyes. He was 
 not an imaginative man, but he fairly cowered. God 
 in heaven, what was he doing, this free-dealing, friendly 
 baronet of Plashetts.'^ Was he a man? Why did he 
 not break away, and seek out his love? His heart 
 was out of the room in the thin hands of a lady — a 
 brown-ej'ed slip of a girl, with a piteous mouth and 
 courteous ways. Oh, he should be by her side, braving 
 the world — but here he was, drinking brown sherry and 
 sajung, "Yes, sir," to a roj^al duke. Out upon him, 
 recreant! "Hermy, you stand by us — eh? This is hot 
 work, you know. I'm all for peace and quiet, you know — 
 that's how a man gets through his day's round. By 
 heaven, I never bargained for this." She was gentle with 
 him, poor creature though she saw him. 
 
 "You will see Harriet in the ball-room. She is to be 
 there, I know." 
 
 "Watched, though ! Tied hand and foot ! Gad, what 
 a life for a lovely — I say, Hermy, what shall we do for 
 her? This is awful ! "
 
 262 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Was this a man ? Oh, if he only knew, if he only knew 
 where, with whom she stood now ! "Really, Cousin 
 George," she broke out, "I cannot understand you. 
 You are your own master, dependent upon nobody, 
 and yet — You have but to ask her — surely you see 
 that?" 
 
 He shook his head desperately. "Can't have a fuss, 
 you know, Hermy. Never do. Aunt Morfa's head of 
 the family — our family as well as yours — not actually, 
 of course, because Uncle Badlesmere's the man ; but she's 
 older than him by a deal, and she's always had her own 
 way. No, no — can't break with the family if we can 
 avoid it. Why, bless my soul, my mother was the 
 youngest of eleven ! " 
 
 *'You talk as if we were all children together." 
 
 "Well, there's that, of course — I see your point. But 
 the family — no, no. We must think of something better 
 than a fuss." 
 
 "A fuss ! Why should there be a fuss ?^* She simply 
 had no more to say. Sir George sighed, and went back 
 to his dinner. 
 
 "Where's Morfa.'"' Lord Sandgate enquired. "Wasn't 
 he to be here.'"' He was told the facts about Lord 
 Morfa. 
 
 "My lady won't like that." 
 
 "She doesn't. One can see that she doesn't." One 
 could. 
 
 "I think that Morfa should be pulled up — indeed, I do.
 
 HER CALL COMES 263 
 
 He's wild — he's In a wild set. He's a fool, saving your 
 respect, but he's not bad all through. One of these days 
 he'll be caught hold of — by a woman. And that'll save 
 him." She thought of Harriet ; and as the ladies rose 
 and left the dining-room that thought went with her, 
 mingled with her own. Harriet, too, might have her 
 wondrous secret life ; on Harriet's pale lips, on Harriet's 
 brown eyes the mystery might have been laid. Entering 
 the ball-room, last of a long procession, the first persons 
 she saw were Lord Morf a, making his bow to the Duchess 
 of Wentsland, and Harriet Moon, flushed and downcast, 
 standing by her patroness. Had these two been together 
 long.f* Was this why he had refused to dine.'' 
 
 Among the gentlemen, where Archdeacon Caryll had 
 taken the host's chair and was beaming, speechless and 
 helpless, upon his rapidly intoxicating Prince, a painful 
 ordeal was in process. Sir George Coigne had been 
 called up to the right of the great personage, and was 
 receiving congratulations upon his approaching mar- 
 riage. The lady was approved, in terms more warm 
 than agreeable. "His Royal Highness's expressions," 
 said the Archdeacon afterwards, "were not lacking in 
 ardour. They testified to the — ah ! — vivacity of his sen- 
 sibihties; but they did not, my dear Jane, show that 
 delicacy of touch for which the heir to the throne is so 
 deservedly beloved." Sir George owned to an intimate 
 friend that he had never felt worse in his life. "Damn 
 it, those princes, you know — what ? They give a twist —
 
 264 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 eh? Must have mustard with their mutton — cayenne on 
 their buttered toast. It's all very well, my dear Clare, 
 but that sort of thing sickens a man. I shall bolt for 
 Gretna— I'll be shot if I don't." 
 
 "Will the lady go, George?" 
 
 "I know, I know," said Sir George, wringing at his 
 nail, "and there's the racket: family racket, county 
 racket. Too much to ask of any girl — eh? That's what 
 I feel about it." 
 
 "Depends on her, of course," says the youthful Clare, 
 prematurely wise. "I should have said that Miss 
 Hermia " 
 
 "Oh, bless you, she'd go — like a bird. Why, she's said 
 so ! But not with me, my boy ; not with me." He spoke 
 in a whisper, behind his wine-glass. 
 
 "Oil ! Beg pardon," said his friend. "I thought she 
 was the lady." 
 
 "So you might, God knows! But if she ain't? Not 
 many girls would face what my Cousin Hermy would — 
 and think nothing of. Nor should she be asked, in my 
 opinion. But I'm talking !" 
 
 "Not at all, George, not at all," his friend assured 
 him. "Naturally, it goes no further." 
 • "God Save the King" in the great hall made the gentle- 
 men move. "God bless me, have we sat so late? That's 
 my brother," cried the great man. He was got to 
 his feet, and swayed out into the gallery to meet his 
 Prince.
 
 HER CALL COjMES 265 
 
 It was eleven o'clock when the Prince came — in semi- 
 state. Six horses drew him instead of twelve, and it is 
 possible that there was rather less hooting because there 
 were rather fewer sightseers ; but there was enough to 
 render very necessary the services of a brass band which, 
 for drowning purposes, had been ambushed in the 
 court. When he entered the hall, with Lords Hertford, 
 Conyngham, and Moira, with jNIr. Sheridan and 
 others of his friends, he was flushed and nois}', but not 
 tipsy. 
 
 The Morfa clan and the Badlesmere clan received him 
 in the inner hall, at the foot of the great stair. Her lady- 
 ship in Botetort emeralds and Caryll diamonds, Morfa 
 with his garter — these were in the centre of the galax}' ; 
 and about them the tributary lights, a nameless, high- 
 nosed herd of Gells, Coignes, Barwises, Lukyns, Bote- 
 torts, Carylls, and heaven knows who. Head above most 
 of these there stood a troubled, rosy-faced baronet from 
 Bucks — and beside her ladyship's self the grave, glow- 
 ing, beautiful Hermia Mary, hot and deep as a ruby in 
 her black and silver setting, with her knot of white violets 
 rising and falling with her breast. So seriously slie 
 looked at her advancing Prince, you might have thought 
 her his judge; so scornfully curved her lip you must 
 have known it. What to her was the advance and boister- 
 ous cordiality of this overflowing personage, this young 
 Silenus of creased eye-sockets, and of the colour of pink 
 paint? Was she to curtsey, kiss the hand of this be-
 
 266 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 ribboned, fuddled, bloated man of forty — and her heart, 
 her will and soul out there in the cedared garden, quiver- 
 ing under the calm eyes of a god? 
 
 But here he was, exceedingly disposed to make himself 
 agreeable. "By God, Roddy, I'm late," he declared. 
 " 'Twas Moira kept me, I'll swear. Madam," and he 
 looked heavily at Lady Morf a, "you must blame the wits, 
 not me." 
 
 "Impossible, sir, to blame one without the other," said 
 her ladyship, whose curtsey was a thing to ponder: the 
 bared edge of a razor would not have been finelier avoided 
 by a naked foot. But he was determined to be pleased, 
 and sure that he pleased. "Ha, Mr. Archdeacon — ha, 
 Badlesmere, this is a meeting of friends — all Whigs 
 here, hey .'' We must have you at Carlton House, Badles- 
 mere — we don't see enough of you. Lady Conyngham 
 asked after you the other night; she did, upon my soul. 
 Lady Barwise, I'm very glad to see you — very glad, 
 indeed." He shook hands with Sir George and con- 
 gratulated him effusively ; begged to be presented, and 
 when he saw the fair betrothed remembered her at once. 
 "By my honour, the lovely Jacobin! Why, why, Miss 
 Chambre and I are old cronies — we met — let me see — 
 don't tell me that you forget it, young lady. And I've 
 heard of you — where now? INIoira, what was that I 
 heard of Miss Chambre? Devilish good thing that was — 
 
 Oho ! I have it. Brook Street ! — cleaving to the By 
 
 heaven, Coigne, you must keep your wife out of Brook
 
 HER CALL COMES 267 
 
 Street. No dealings with that firm — hey?" And on he 
 rattled, perfectly satisfied with himself. 
 
 She made no answer, but leaned her cheek and let him 
 touch it ; she curtseyed deeply, and when he claimed her 
 for a quadrille, did her part with a stiff recollectedness 
 which piqued him not a little. She was moving, in fact, 
 as one in a dream; and so she went through her duties 
 of the night — dancing with this man and that: Tom 
 Rodono, Lord Edlogan, the Honourable John, and the 
 Honourable James, it mattered not a bit. In the midst 
 of the blare and bustle, the loud voices of great men, the 
 whisperings of men aspiring, and the bowings of those 
 whose glory was to creep — catching sight of Harriet 
 Moon at a window, and struck to contrition by her woe- 
 begone look, she left her partner with an excuse, and 
 went directly to her. Harriet saw her coming, and 
 seemed to shrink. Hermia did not hesitate. "Harriet," 
 she said, "have you anything to say to me?" 
 
 The brown eyes dilated, the pretty mouth faltered. 
 "Anything to say? Oh, Hermy, why should I?" 
 "You are the best judge. Is all well with you.^*" 
 "Yes, yes, very well. Why do you ask me?" 
 "I feel anxious. I can hardly say why — but I have 
 thought much of you. Will you not confide in me? I 
 am your friend." 
 
 Harriet was moved, and seemed on the point of speak- 
 ing — but she checked herself and looked down. "I think 
 I have told you all," she said.
 
 268 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "All, Harriet?" • 
 
 "Hush!" said Harriet, "Somebody is coming for 
 you." A young man came up. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Miss Cliambre ; Lady Morfa sent 
 me to tell you that she is going down to supper. His 
 Royal Highness has begged that you will honour his 
 table." 
 
 "I'll come," said Hermia, and went away with him. 
 
 The inexpressible twenty minutes which followed may 
 be passed over. If she had been in possession of herself, 
 able to contrast her real and her unreal existence, the 
 world in which her soul walked and that in which her 
 body sat, it must have made her laugh aloud. She 
 formed one of a table of six persons : the brother princes, 
 who talked loudly, and tripped up each other's stories; 
 Sir George Coigne, most miserable of men, searching the 
 supper-room with strained eyes for his Harriet, who was 
 not there ; Lady Morfa, hardly at pains to conceal her 
 contempt for the society she was in ; Lady Badlesmere, 
 steadily eating and drinking ; and she, this secretly be- 
 witched, secretly rapt, spell-bound, beautiful girl: was 
 there ever such a supper-table? It was interrupted by 
 an equerry, whose message, testily heard, proved urgent. 
 The Prince swore heartily, but nevertheless got up and 
 took his leave. The whole company rose, and with "God 
 Save the King" and a prodigious pawing and scraping 
 of horses. His Royal Highness was got on to the road. 
 By that time Hermia had escaped.
 
 HER CALL COMES 269 
 
 She had observed that Lord Morfa, against all eti- 
 quette, had not been in attendance during supper, and 
 that Harriet was not to be seen either. Couple this with 
 his absence from dinner and presence in the drawing- 
 room — throw in the girl's abject look and refusal to 
 speak — all her suspicions came back: Harriet must be 
 found. She passed through the almost empty ball-room, 
 tried the card-room, the yellow saloon, oval drawing- 
 room, the library. Here she was assailed by a draught 
 of fresh, pure air which blew in from an open window. 
 Beyond that lay the balcony — ^beyond that the garden, 
 where her soul walked. Her own affairs possessed her 
 heart and mind, and, jealous of rivalry, usurped the little 
 corner in each where Harriet still held out. 
 
 She went out through the window, and immediately, as 
 it seemed, the blaring world of princes and crackling 
 thorns was shut out. The balcony was empty, the night 
 was before her, the enchanted garden, and the garden 
 gods. Her own thoughts resumed their realm, her own 
 body went prone to receive back her soul. She stood 
 wonderingly, face to face with the night. 
 
 Forthright she looked into the velvet dark, with beating 
 heart and parted lips, living at ease in the enormous 
 peace of the silence. After the glare, the glitter, and 
 the brawl, the lapping and supping, the crunching of 
 ortolans' bones, the leering looks and bragging tongues 
 — here, deeply in the violet night, beyond the trees, seen 
 only by the stars, the unknown lover abode, he who spoke
 
 270 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 in the fragrance of flowers, and was the veiled Eros, the 
 hidden spouse. She, Psyche, had given her pledge — and 
 he might be here — he must be here — to claim it of her. 
 
 She was highly excited, but not afraid. Her breath 
 was quick, but her eyes undimmed, her gaze constant and 
 untroubled. She knew that she was not alone. He was 
 there — and she sure of it. She stood and waited, holding 
 her breath, holding the ledge of the balcony with her 
 two hands. She stood for some moments thus, hearing 
 the wild music of her heart. And then, out of the en- 
 vironing night she heard herself called — whether from 
 near or far she did not know ; she heard her own name, 
 called twice — "Hermia, Hermia Mary." 
 
 She answered — not moving from her place — "I am 
 here." 
 
 Now the speaker was nearer — but not to be seen. "You 
 have decided.-^ You have chosen.''" 
 
 "Yes, yes. You know it." 
 
 "I may serve you still.''" 
 
 "You know it." 
 
 "I would serve you for ever?" 
 
 "I am not worthy." 
 
 "I have served you for a year." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You will hear me? At dawn.?" 
 
 "Yes, I will come." 
 
 "I shall be here at dawn." 
 
 "I will come to you."
 
 HER CALL COMES 271 
 
 *'You accept my flowers?" 
 "You know that I have accepted them.'* 
 "Stay no longer now. Good-night." 
 "Good-night." 
 
 She knew that he was gone; but she stayed where she 
 was, motionless, possessed, and held.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 WHICH IS OF PSYCHE IN THE GARDEN 
 
 T T would not be an easy thing to describe the wave of 
 -■■ high exaltation which carried Miss Hermia Mary to her 
 bed and prevented her from sleeping in it. One might, 
 perhaps, more surely gauge the consternation of a break- 
 fast-table in far Kilbride when it received as a bolt from 
 the blue heaven the letter whose writing occupied a good 
 part of her vigil. For she slept not at all, but stood for 
 near an hour at her window, drinking, as it were, the 
 wonders of the night, lay wide-eyed upon her bed for 
 another, in a state of warm, still acquiescence in her fixed 
 destiny, and after that composed the extraordinary letter 
 from which I am about to quote. 
 
 "It is right that I should tell you first of all the world, 
 my dearest friend, that my affections are deeply engaged, 
 even while, in the same breath, I have to confess that I 
 do not certainly know the name of the object of them, 
 and am not certainly aware that I have ever seen him. 
 What I may guess, or what I may believe, it would not 
 be proper to say ; in a very few hours I shall know aU — 
 in the meantime, I know enough to assure you of this. 
 
 "I cannot tell what you will think of me, but I do be- 
 lieve that you will understand what I cannot explain,
 
 PSYCHE IN THE GARDEN 273 
 
 and that your love will enable you to see as reasonable 
 what might appear incredible. I remember when we used 
 to have our twilight talks at dear Kilbride, we often 
 wondered together what my portion would be. We talked 
 of husbands — never of lovers ; I don't know why. I used 
 to say that I should marry a soldier like dear papa — and 
 now — oh, it is most wonderful ! 
 
 "Mary, I have been silently, mysteriously, and con- 
 stantly loved since the twenty-second of June last year. 
 That has been proved to me by such a service as no girl 
 can ever have had before; in such a way and by such 
 means that it is impossible to doubt either the sincerity 
 of my lover or the marvellous delicacy of his declaration. 
 He told me, however, but two hours ago, that he had loved 
 me for a year — that is, for I am sure he is incapable of 
 the smallest deviation from the truth, from the fifteenth 
 of April. That might give me a clue to his person — and 
 I do think that it does ; but in such a matter you will not 
 ask me for surmises, but for certainties. IVIy dearest, 
 I tell you two. The first is that I am beloved ; the second, 
 Mary, that I love. I know now that I have loved him, 
 or his violets — for he sent me white violets, every day, 
 at the same hour — since October, when darling Dick 
 died. What a proof of sensibility In my lover, that on 
 the day when the dreadful news came my violets ceased, 
 and were withheld until I returned to town In October. 
 When I missed them, Mary, I was troubled without 
 knowing why ; I could not understand why they should
 
 274 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 mean so much to me. But in October, when they were 
 renewed — when I found them here awaiting my return — 
 and when I shed tears — happy tears of pride and grati- 
 tude — then, indeed, I understood well enough what had 
 befallen me. I took my violets to my heart, I kissed 
 them often, they never left me ; I could not falter after 
 that. I did it in spite of myself, and they became a 
 part of myself, indispensable. No, indeed, I could not 
 falter. Nor shall I falter when, in a few hours' time, 
 as soon as the light begins, I go out of this house to 
 meet my lover face to face — and my light begins ! 
 
 "He spoke to me last night out of the dark. I was on 
 the balcony ; for I knew he was in the garden below, and 
 went to him, and waited for him to speak. He called me 
 by my name, twice. 'Hermia,' he called, and then 'Hermia 
 Mary,' as if he knew that they who loved me best al- 
 ways called me so. I told him that there I was — taking 
 all things for granted in a simple way which, I am con- 
 vinced, could never be possible for any two persons who 
 had not been drawn together by fate. He asked me to 
 come to him in the morning, at dawn — and the dawn is 
 just at hand, Mary ; I can see the grey light in the sky; 
 and at the first flush I go. When you receive this, you 
 will pray for me — or, no ; you will give thanks to God 
 that your Hermia Mary is happy. Happy I shall as- 
 suredly be — for I am extraordinarily happy now — and 
 proud to suffer whatsoever may be in store for me. 1 
 may be far from here — for if he calls me, I shall follow
 
 PSYCHE IN THE GARDEN 275 
 
 him ; or perhaps I shall be locked up again, as I was, 
 you remember, when grandmamma disapproved of me. 
 I may have to endure even worse — I may estrange all 
 my friends (except you!), make a scandal — I don't 
 know. But I know this very well, that I shall never fal- 
 ter now, and never look back. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mary, my dearest friend! I wish that I 
 might go out to my happy destiny strengthened by 
 your kiss ; but do you pray for me always, as I do for 
 you, and I don't feel alone. . . . It is almost light, and 
 I have not been to bed at all. How could I sleep ? How 
 can I rest.'* What need have 1? Good-bye; the dawn is 
 here! 
 
 "Your own Hermia Maey." 
 
 Having sealed this letter, she made her preparations ; 
 rinsed her face and hands in cold water, put order to 
 her hair, dressed herself, pinned her violets upon her, 
 covered herself with a cloak and hood, and went quietly, 
 but without any carefulness to be quiet, along the 
 drowsy corridors, down the ghostly stair, through echo- 
 ing halls and muffled saloons to the garden-door. This 
 she must unbolt and unbar with difficulty. It was about 
 five o'clock upon a still morning. 
 
 The shadowless grey light saluted her, the cool dawn 
 air fanned her cheeks, and playing upon her, caused her 
 to shiver and draw closer the cloak she had on. She shut 
 the door behind her, not as yet daring to look for whom
 
 276 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 she knew to be awaiting her. So also, with lowered eyes, 
 she went down the steps which gave to the terrace, 
 crossed that, and descended the next flight, stood upon 
 the grass, and waited there, not yet lifting her head, 
 holding still the hems of her cloak close about her with 
 a quiet hand. Her hesitation was momentary. She 
 lifted a burning face, she looked forward with misty 
 eyes. She saw a tall figure motionless in the shadow, by 
 the cedar, and went staidly down to meet it. 
 
 He was cloaked and booted, but his head was bare. He 
 watched her come, watched intently ; his lips were pressed 
 together, his eyelids did not blink. He was like a carven 
 man whose regard is fixed as the sculptor willed it, whose 
 thoughts are as unfathomable as you please because they 
 must be your own. He did not move forward to meet 
 her, nor bow his head, nor show any sign at all. And 
 when she stood, as now she did, at some three paces 
 away, her eyes were as firm and unwinking as his own. 
 So each gazed at the other for some seconds — and then 
 she gave up the strife, and looked down. 
 
 He spoke to her. "You have chosen to come — knowing 
 what you knew.^*" 
 
 Her voice Avas very low. "I thought it your right." 
 
 "Right !" he said, "I have no rights but what I have 
 had from you. And you have dared to give me another. 
 You have dared, because you dare all things." 
 
 "No," she answered, "not all things. I must tell you — 
 that I cannot receive your gifts — now that I know that
 
 PSYCHE IN THE GARDEN 277 
 
 they are yours — without confessing to you that I am 
 grateful. I dare not do that. That is why I have 
 come." 
 
 "I asked you," he said, "but I hardly hoped " 
 
 Then she looked at him again, for a moment — and pres- 
 ently spoke as if to herself. 
 
 "You must have known that I would come." 
 
 He seemed to have no answer ready, but stood as one 
 whose mind is whirled about. 
 
 "I put everything to the touch — ^to win or lose — it was 
 forced upon me. I could not last — could not endure. It 
 was the act of a coward, of a desperate man — I thought 
 that you must know by now — the tnith was blazed on ray 
 face. I thought all London knew that the clown had 
 hfted up his eyes to the highest. And so I reward your 
 
 gracious act — your act of pure nobility " he 
 
 stopped with a cry of despair, and she made as if she 
 would go to him. 
 
 "Don't accuse yourself, I beg of you — for I may not 
 be able to tell you what I ought." 
 
 He had recovered his self-possession, and spoke quietly. 
 "I will ask you to listen to me. It is all I have the right 
 to ask' you. I have loved you for a year since yesterday 
 — since that day when, of your own generosity, you 
 came to my poor house — where I was — disgraced — and 
 approved and gave me back my manhood. From that 
 moment of that day I was yours altogether ; and I own 
 to you that the fact in me was so proud and glorious a
 
 278 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 fact that I did not strive against it. No, but I set my- 
 self to work to be worthy so splendid a state. What 
 harm could I do you — if you knew nothing of it? Who 
 could deny me the right to bend my knee ? I tell you now 
 that I rode about my business — mine, of all businesses in 
 the world ! — like a knight of old time shining in the sun. 
 Had I stayed thus, could I have blamed myself? or could 
 you blame me?" 
 
 Her lips moved to answer him, but he stayed her. 
 "Not yet — not yet." 
 
 He continued: "I made no declaration then — and had 
 I kept my senses I should never have made one. I know 
 that I fell away, was false to the glory of my beginning. 
 But madness seized me. You met me — you knew me 
 again — you bowed your head — and, God help me ! I lost 
 mine." 
 
 Again she stopped him. "You have no need to excuse 
 
 yourself — pray " He held up his hand: "I beseech 
 
 you!" and she begged his pardon. 
 
 "I do believe that when I made my sign — which meant 
 what wickedness, what arrogance, what gross presump- 
 tion you will — it was in such a way that you could not 
 be compromised, could not feel yourself bound in any 
 kind of honour to consider who it was who so declared 
 himself. You were free then, as you are now, to bestow 
 your generosity as you please. For even now I ask no 
 more of you than leave to tell you the truth. I do ask 
 that — I must ask that. Will you let me tell you?"
 
 PSYCHE IN THE GARDEN 279 
 
 "Tell me," she said, whispering. 
 
 "The truth is this," he said, "that I love you and am 
 your man. And now I am content to go, and never see 
 you again." 
 
 He stood waiting, having dared his uttermost. The 
 girl's dignity w^rapped her closely. "I do not ask you 
 to go. You must do as seems to you best — as seems 
 right to you. I trust j^ou entirely." 
 
 "You must not trust me," he said, "with such an answer 
 as that. I am a man, and I love you. Do you hear me 
 say that, and then give me leave to remain ? To send you 
 flowers .f^" 
 
 She was in great trouble now, though she bore it 
 stilly. "I don't know how to answer you," she said ; "I 
 think you do me great honour." He saw that she was 
 trembling ; but pity does not enter into a man at such 
 a time. 
 
 "Honour, as you understand it, as I believe it — it is not 
 for me to say. All honour should be yours from all 
 men — and yet love should be something. Is it nothing 
 to you to be loved by a man.^* Then manhood and love 
 are nothing. High-born as you are, delicate and rare, 
 and sweet of blood as you are — faring softly — of a race 
 unknown to mine — for all this, which you can never 
 lose, I offer you a man's love. I am neither fool, 
 nor knave, nor coward — and if you give me the right 
 I will serve you before all your world, and claim 
 you, too. And I will make bold to add this — that I
 
 280 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 will content you if you give me the right. What do 
 
 you say?" 
 
 She could not answer. 
 
 "Hermia, what do you say ?" She shivered a little, and 
 folded her cloak about her. 
 
 "You must know what I must say," she said. "I am 
 yours, and will come when you call me. I will go where 
 you bid me. I will follow you over the world." Vernour 
 took a stride forward; she held out her surrendering 
 hand. He knelt on both his knees, and kissed it. Then 
 he rose, bowed, and left her.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 WHICH DEALS CHIEPLY WITH MB,. KANALd's OPINIONS 
 
 T T PON a time of wild elation, when her blood, 
 ^-^ thought, and senses were swirling together down a 
 mill-race, Moth intervened, the bright-eyed and intelli- 
 gent Moth, to see if she were stirring and would ride. It 
 was eight o'clock. 
 
 "God bless me, miss!" 
 
 She took everything literally now. "Yes, yes, oh. Moth, 
 he has blessed me." 
 
 Moth was alert in a moment. "It's to be hoped so, in- 
 deed, miss, though as a humble Christian I say it. Little 
 enough we know of such things, save and except that 
 women have the worst in the long of it. Your pardon, 
 miss, but whoever have dressed you this morning?" 
 
 "I dressed myself — as you see." 
 
 "See ! I could have seen it blindfold, miss, if you will 
 excuse the liberty. Your hair! Miss Hermia, will you 
 ride.?" 
 
 "Certainly, I shall ride. But I should like some tea 
 first, if you please. I am thirsty." 
 
 She was fed, she was dressed, and she rode out, her man 
 behind her, into the blue and gold, the mist, the glory and 
 tender promise of London April. It all seemed personal
 
 282 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 to her, she took it as a message, as an augury, the fool- 
 ish child. Entering the park, she spurred her horse and 
 galloped to her heart's content. Faster than four hoofs 
 flew her high thoughts. 
 
 Tom Rodono, who, for her sake, forswore late hours 
 and got himself into the saddle betimes that he might see 
 and perhaps speak with her, watched her fly past him, 
 veil and hair streaming like pennons behind her. A 
 nymph of the chase ! He was wrong. She was a nymph 
 in chase, an unharboured deer. 
 
 She passed him more slowly the second time round, saw 
 him, and reined up. Friends with all the world, she felt 
 especially tender towards him. "What demon possesses 
 you this morning.'"' he asked her. "You ride like a 
 creature of the storm." 
 
 She felt that she must hold herself in check, lest she 
 blaze her secret to the world. "I suppose it is that I am 
 very well. At least, I have blown away the memories of 
 last night." 
 
 "A great party ! All the Whig world and all its wives." 
 
 "Is there a Whig world? I had forgotten it." 
 
 "There are more worlds in this old globe than you know 
 of, young lady." 
 
 She laughed. "I suppose so. Yes — I am sure there 
 are." She then found that she had been dealing with a 
 world whose inhabitants wei'e reduced to two. 
 
 They spoke of Sir Francis, capitulated and in the 
 Tower. What was to come next.'' There was to be a
 
 MR. RANALD'S OPINIONS S83 
 
 great Westminster meeting — would she care to go? 
 Bob Ranald was to speak — "and your man, Vemour." 
 Her man, Vernour ! She could have laughed aloud. Of 
 course, she would go — of course, she must. 
 
 "It could be easil}^ arranged," says Tom. "Grizel will 
 take you, and I'll be in charge. You shall dine in 
 Clarges Street, and we'll make a part3^" 
 
 She rode home to breakfast — to find her flowers, but no 
 letter, no further sign. It was clear that she was to 
 wait, say nothing, do nothing. Her first impulse had 
 been to give battle to her grandmother ; but she supposed 
 now that he intended to do that himself. 
 
 Reaction followed hard upon her crowning hour; she 
 became restless and miserable, not that she doubted him 
 for a moment, but that her powers of endurance should 
 be so frail, that her desire of sight, speech, and touch 
 should be so overmastering, that her violets should be 
 no comfort to her — these things frightened her. She 
 felt lonely — like Ariadne whom the god Bacchus had 
 loved for one burning hour, and then forsaken. She felt 
 a traitor to what had been loveliest in her love — her hap- 
 piness in the unkno^vm lover, who was hidden in the woody 
 fragrance of violets. Like Psyche, she had sought to 
 see his face, and like Eros he had shone upon her, once, 
 and now was gone. 
 
 She knew not what to do, in whom to confide. She went 
 half-way to Brook Street to see his mother, but found
 
 284 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 her resolution fail her, lest he should be there. Some 
 grain of pride left in her — which she felt to be her shame, 
 but could not ignore — bade her believe that she would 
 sooner die than seek him anywhere. Under these circum- 
 stances, she found her drill-routine of dinners, assem- 
 blies, routs, and balls unspeakably flat, until b}^ chance 
 she met Mr. Robert Ranald, and learned that he would 
 talk, of his own accord, of Vernour. Apart from this 
 pleasing trait, she was not long in discovering that he was 
 worth listening to for his own sake ; and she was a little 
 shocked with herself to find that she could be interested 
 in politics — in the fight at long odds which all whom she 
 had ever loved had been waging for so long as she could 
 remember. It savoured, to her, of disloyalty that she 
 could care for anything in the world beside Vernour. 
 Nevertheless, Mr. Ranald, or Captain Ranald, as he 
 actually was, approved himself to her sympathies as well 
 as her understanding. 
 
 He was in great spirits, as alwa3'S when fighting uphill ; 
 he smiled awry, wrinkled his forehead, chuckled, rubbed 
 his hands together. He had a burnt brown seaman's 
 face ; his skin looked as if it had been strained taut with 
 keys — like a drum — and had cracked and slightly blis- 
 tered at the bones. He was very lean and very big- 
 boned, but exceedingly healtliy. 
 
 He confessed to her now that he had a task on hand 
 which might very well put the capstone on his monument 
 of discredit. "Burdett is hated by Ministers," he said.
 
 MR. RANALD'S OPINIONS 285 
 
 "whom he irritates, but the understrappers respect him 
 because he's rich. Now, I'm poor, for a lord's son, so 
 the smaller fry can afford to hate me ; and they work on 
 the others. Where Burdett goes to the Tower, they 
 might have me in the pillory — and, perfectly hon- 
 estly, I wish they would. It's a barbarous form of 
 torment ; but, by heaven, I should be the last man to 
 have it!" 
 
 "My dear Miss Chambre," he said to her on one of these 
 meetings of theirs, "you may thank God you were not 
 born into the world with an eye for windmills. I'm not 
 so sure, by the bye, that you were not — I seem to remem- 
 ber something." This made her laugh and blush. "It's 
 very well to laugh," he said, "and I allow the sport is 
 rare — but the thing gets on to the brain and breeds a 
 maggot. Very soon it comes about that j-ou see men 
 as mills walking, and parade the streets of this town, 
 lance in rest, looking for 'em. What on earth have I 
 got to do with rotten boroughs and rogues in chief seats ? 
 Nothing in the world ; my business is piracy. I went into 
 the House as a seaman because I couldn't stand the fleec- 
 ing of the finest fellows and direst fools in England by a 
 set of Quaker scoundrels not fit to scrape their boots — 
 and here I am dancing before King Mob in the hope of 
 getting old Percival's head on a charger." 
 
 He spoke of Vernour, calling him, as Rodono had, 
 "your man, Vernour." He thought he would go fur. 
 "He's got fire in reserve ; he banks it. I think that he
 
 286 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 does you credit, and may do you more. I suppose you 
 see nothing of him?" She admitted, not much. "Well," 
 he said, "it so happens that I've seen a fairish deal. He's 
 young — I dare say that he might be six-and-twenty — 
 but he's capable, and his father is well off ; so the young 
 man has his freedom; he's a freeman of Westminster, 
 one of my 'lambs.' The fact is that he behaved very well 
 indeed in that business of your grandmother's — mons- 
 trous bit of tyranny that was, saving her presence. Be- 
 fore I knew you — before I had that honour of meeting 
 you at Caryll House — Cobbett told me something of the 
 case, and made my blood boil. I don't mind telling you 
 now. Well, I was in more than two minds to raise a de- 
 bate in the House about that affair ; I suspected the very 
 mischief was in it — Carlton House, York House, God 
 knows what house. Windmills, my dear Miss Chambre — 
 infernal things they are ! Your man came to see me, 
 and to beg me not to move. He made me some mystery, 
 mentioning no names, mind you — said that ample amends 
 had been done — not money, not a horse, not custom — far 
 greater honour had been done him than that; he had 
 received a gift beyond price, incalculable, et cetera. I 
 confess, I didn't know then what the young man meant, 
 but I do now. You made a man of him, jNIiss Chambre, 
 and now he acts like a man. He's going to speak at our 
 meeting — you'll hear him. He's educated himself — 
 he's rough — but he has the soul of a gentleman — God 
 bless me! what am I talkino- about .'^ — he has the soul of
 
 MR. RANALD'S OPINIONS 287 
 
 a man." She was all in a glow ; tears brimmed her 
 eyes. 
 
 "The soul of a man speaks," was all that she could trust 
 herself to say. He put up his hand. 
 
 "Don't flatter me. I'm a lunatic. My name is Bob 
 Quixote." 
 
 "That was the name of a man and a gentleman," said 
 she. , 
 
 "Yes, we'll remember that. And mind you this : it's the 
 fools who do the work of the world, and the wise who 
 profit. So you may choose." 
 
 She looked serious and most beautiful. He obsersed 
 her eyes and thought he had never seen any more wonder- 
 ful grey light. She was like the Sibyl, new from com- 
 merce Avith the divine. 
 
 "I think I have chosen. I know that I have." 
 
 He smiled. "You join our company.'"' 
 
 *'0h," she said, "I shall be called a fool, most certainly." 
 
 She was to accompany the Clarges Street party to the 
 Crown and Anchor meeting; she was to dine and sleep 
 there. Lady Morfa had no care for the opinion of West- 
 minster freeholders in any event, and her only stipula- 
 tion was that Sir George Coigne should accompany the 
 ladies. So he was to be included. Another person who 
 intended to be present was Mr. Aloysius Banks, who had 
 become of late very much the servant of Caryll House. 
 Lady Morfa, finding him useful, had permitted him to
 
 288 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 take up the duties of jackal, and listened to him with 
 a mixed air of amusement and contempt which she did 
 not attempt to conceal. When he told her that he 
 thought it his business to be there, she replied that 
 she thought so too. "You are a philosopher, my good 
 sir," she said, "and can only formulate wisdom out 
 of the ravages of folly. Go by all means, and observe 
 fools." 
 
 "Did your ladyship chance to hear," said Mr. Banks, 
 *'that the young man, Vemour, was to be one of the 
 speakers ?" 
 
 Her ladyship had not heard that, and was not sure that 
 she remembered his name. So, at least, she said. 
 
 Mr. Banks enlarged upon Vemour. A young man of 
 extreme opinions and dangerous license. The Govern- 
 ment had him in mind. He had been befriended, he said, 
 by persons of consequence — by Lord Sandgate, Captain 
 Ranald, Sir Francis, and others of even greater rank. 
 He went no further, because he saw that her ladyship 
 was now perfectly aware of what he was saying ; but he 
 added that, in his own opinion, it was the business of all 
 those whose abihty to serve the State was the sole measure 
 of their right to do so — of those who, like himself, pre- 
 tended to no natural right — it was their business, he had 
 been saying, to report scrupulously upon any symptom 
 of irregularity in those wise provisions which, etc., etc. 
 1 have followed him further than his patroness already, 
 and shall cut him short by her assistance.
 
 MR. RANALD'S OPINIONS 289 
 
 "You mean,"^ said Lady Morfa, "that you are going 
 to take notes of what thiS young man says?" 
 
 "I conceive my duty to be so, madam, unless your lady- 
 ship " He paused, expectant. 
 
 "My dear man," said her ladyship, "what do you sup- 
 pose your conceptions have to do with me ?"
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 WHICH REPORTS. A WESTMINSTER MEETING 
 
 fT^HEY arrived early, and sat in the front row of the 
 -■■ gallery? six ladies all in black, with hoods and veils, 
 and since Sir George at the last moment had cried off, only 
 Tom Rodono to mount guard over them. Miss Chambre 
 recalled to mind Lady Mary Wortley's description of a 
 harem at the mosque. In course of time the veils were 
 put back, but until that was done the one spot of light 
 furnished by the bevy was a knot of white violets which 
 one of them wore at the breast, and would not have cov- 
 ered for all the world. They chattered and laughed 
 among themselves, these fine, adventurous and calm-eyed 
 ladies ; watched the arrivals and quizzed them, saw that 
 Lord Rodono was uncomfortable, and spared him noth- 
 ing. Mrs. Western vowed she would wave her handker- 
 chief to the first man who named the Princess of Wales ; 
 and presently Vernour was mentioned and provoked curi- 
 osity. Everybody knew him and his tale ; Hermia was 
 begged to point him out. He was to speak .^ Then he 
 would be on the platform and they could all see him. 
 Was he really like the man in that horrible print.'' If 
 so, he must be handsome, Lady Ogmore thought. Her- 
 mia, very composed outwardly, took all this with great
 
 A WESTMINSTER MEETING 291 
 
 simplicity. As for Lord Rodono, he prepared himself 
 for the worst. Here he was with six handsome and fear- 
 less ladies on his hands, and an almost certain rumpus. 
 He had seen, but said nothing of certain Government 
 men dotted about the hall — one of whom he knew was in 
 receipt of pay. It was Hermia herself who saw and 
 called attention to Mr. Aloysius Banks, whose checked 
 muffler up to his chin made him a conspicuous object. 
 ]Meantime, the room was filling fast. 
 
 The leaders were on the hustings, they led in the body 
 of the hall, a tense and fervent assembly. Rodono, who 
 knew men, saw that there was hardly anybody present 
 who did not in his own way show himself braced for a 
 tussle. There was much variety: it was what you would 
 call a representative gathering. Blue-coated, nankeen- 
 breeched, prosperous traders leaned both hands solidly 
 upon their walking-sticks, and chatted after their way — 
 a few words snapped out at a time, a whisper behind the 
 hand, received with a nod. Sharp-faced men in black 
 smalls, with neat black legs and neater shoes, proved 
 brisker; they were full of jokes and of relish for jokes: 
 lawyers from the Hall, attorneys from Abingdon 
 Street were these. They exchanged snuff-boxes, capped 
 each other's puns, passed them on with nudges, and 
 knew everybody worth knowing. Watermen filled a 
 double row, red-faced and observant. It was one of 
 them who called for three cheers for the ladies when our 
 friends appeared, and led them, with one cheer more for
 
 292 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 the handsomest. Behind them, closer packed, was a 
 rougher sort — frieze-coated or long-waistcoated men in 
 woollen stockings and highlows, who all kept heavy 
 sticks between their knees, and had lowering brows and 
 dogs' restless eyes. These were of the famous Westmin- 
 ster pack — chairmen, hackney-coachmen, stable hands, 
 potmen, tinkers, costers, night-porters. They could be 
 trusted to do anything, from chairing a candidate to 
 breaking a Minister's windows, as they might be moved. 
 They had many names : had been "Wilkes and Liberty 
 men," "Fox's men," and now they were Burdett's men 
 and Ranald's. One might be sorry for the Government 
 spy whose head came within range of their blackthorns. 
 Hermia saw Vernour come in presently and make a way 
 to the middle of the hall. He had a fine, leisurely 'way of 
 pushing through a crowd, kept his head high and his 
 shoulders very square, and leaned a little forward so that 
 his weight might tell. She saw him the moment he en- 
 tered, and hardly took her eyes off him again, but could 
 not be sure whether he had discovered her presence or 
 not. One of the strongest attractions he had for her 
 was his seeming power of fitting her into a scheme of 
 many things which all seemed equally important ; so that 
 she could never say that she was more to him than other 
 interests. She was certain just now, for instance, that 
 had she stood immediately before him and said, "I am 
 here," he would have greeted her with ceremony, asked 
 how she did, and have turned then to the real business of
 
 A WESTMINSTER MEETING 293 
 
 his evening. And the odd thing is that she loved him 
 the better and admired him the more for this shared 
 throne which he accorded her. 
 
 He stood easily in his place, taking off his scarf and 
 caped coat, and nodded here and there to an acquaint- 
 ance. With one or two he shook hands, but only when 
 the salutation was thrust upon him ; he never volunteered 
 it. She saw a little black-browed man lean over from 
 the lawyer's row and hold his hand out, and that Vemour 
 added an inclination of the head as he took it. With 
 others he was less concerned. The frieze coats had 
 thumped with their sticks when he passed them, and Mr. 
 Aloysius Banks stood up to have a good look at him. 
 He was certainly considered at the Crown and Anchor. 
 
 Captain Ranald, who had received a storm of cheering 
 on his entry, came off the hustings to speak to Vemour. 
 The young man rose at his approach, bowed, and stood 
 deferentially, listening to what was told him. He plainly 
 demurred to some part of his instructions, and argued 
 the difficulty with a calm persistence which got him his 
 way. She who watched him so keenly was struck by the 
 contrast between this pair, and, as you may guess, gave 
 him the honours. The peer's son was all fire and vivacity, 
 full of action of the hands and play of feature ; the other 
 held himself in reserve, and was stiff- When he spoke, 
 he used no gestures. He seemed to be bending to an in- 
 ferior ; and she did not fail to notice that he got his way. 
 
 So it was with the speeches which followed: she could
 
 294 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 criticise Ranald, and found plenty of fault with him. 
 He disappointed her, and the more so because she knew 
 of what stuff he was ; she had hoped that he would be as 
 direct on the platform as he had been at the dinner-table ; 
 that he would be trenchant, and deal his strokes with the 
 gallantry which he certainly possessed. She had to own 
 him stilted and ornate while he was handling what was 
 really to the point, and only himself when he came, as 
 llodono said he was bound to come, to the Navy and the 
 supply of seamen. He was cogent, weighty, and impres- 
 sive ; but he roused no more enthusiasm at the close than 
 he had at the beginning of his speech — and to do that is 
 to fail. The truth, I suspect, is that the two sorts of men 
 who are natural on a platform are the deeply modest 
 man, who dares be nothing less, and the deeply conceited 
 man who cares not to be anything more. Between these 
 two extremes are all the varieties of human capacity. 
 This gallant gentleman respected his hearers and his 
 cause and, without over-valuation, respected himself; 
 but he clung to the traditions of oratory as to a good 
 coat for Sundays. Probably he would as soon have ap- 
 peared on the quarter-deck of his ship without uniform 
 as have addressed the Westminster electors in anything 
 short of the periods of Mr. Burke. 
 
 Mr. Wardle succeeded him, Mr. Gwillym Wardle, fa- 
 mous friend of Mrs. Clark, who had no rhetorical scru- 
 ples, and hesitated not to talk of rotten boroughs, place- 
 men, royal pensioners, and the like. He it was who
 
 A WESTMINSTER MEETING 295 
 
 earned the promised handkerchief, for he spoke with 
 faltering voice of the Princess of Wales, as of a lady 
 "as beautiful as she was unhappy, and as unhappy as she 
 was royal," and raised a roar of agreement. Mr. War- 
 die, in fact, succeeded in what he had intended. He made 
 the auditory mischievous, when he gave them an inkling 
 of their power. ^^Aj, gentlemen," he cried, "shout for 
 that poor lady ! And I would that the thunder of your 
 resentment could be heard across the way, and further 
 yet — across the park, gentlemen — as one of these days 
 it will be heard. And then, gentlemen, and then — God 
 help 'em !" None of this was very wise talk ; but it was 
 excitii^g enough. By the time Vernour rose for his turn 
 it was plain that mischief was afloat. 
 
 He stood up in his place and held his head high ; and 
 the gesture contributed not a little to an effect which to 
 one at least of his audience was overwhelming. It is not 
 often that one's preconception of character is borne out 
 by evidence so various as outward bearing and audible 
 speech may be. But Vernour seemed — proved himself — 
 to Miss Chambre to be all of a piece. She had built him 
 up from a moment's glimpse of his stiff head and hot 
 eyes ; she had pictured him then as a man of destiny. 
 Nothing she had ever seen or heard of him had detracted 
 from that image. In his own shop — with the stuff of 
 his business about him — he had never compromised; in 
 the garden of her great house, it had been she who had 
 gone to him, and he who had waited for her to come ; and
 
 296 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 now, lastly, here, he spoke to the people as to her in the 
 garden, in a manner assuredly innate. He was quiet, 
 plain, succinct, with much in reserve. He had all the 
 effect of meaning more than he said — which in oratory 
 is the great effect ; and he seemed to be in a position to 
 threaten and to have certain knowledge which would 
 make threats good. The thrilling undercurrent of per- 
 sonal triumph — she may have fancied that. . , . "I my- 
 self have felt the hand of tyranny on my neck, I my- 
 self have been pushed into the mire — but by the grace of 
 God I am here to tell you so. If there is anything harder 
 to bear than undeserved shame, I know not what it may 
 be. It makes men mad, it makes them as wicked as their 
 oppressors — and so the devil's work goes on. . . . What 
 sustained me, lifted me up from the pit of degradation 
 where I was soused is to you no matter, though to me it 
 is all the world ; but in kind the same solace is with that 
 great man whom the tyrants of England think to have 
 drowned. They have not drowned him, for you are hold- 
 ing up his head. They are here, listening to you and me. 
 They dare us to save our hero's hfe . . . let them dare, 
 but if they are wise they will stop in time. ..." The 
 audience was stirred with this piece of news ; heads turned 
 curiously ; men looked at their neighbours ; at the bot- 
 tom of the hall somebody cried out, *'Damn the spies !" 
 
 Vernour ended with a device which he may perhaps have 
 got out of the Latin Syntax- "The people is enormously 
 patient — we may pride ourselves on that — and it is slow.
 
 A WESTMINSTER MEETING 297 
 
 We may pride ourselves on that, too — for this slowness 
 and this patience are signs of enormous strength. Woe 
 upon him who tempts the people ! He will flog one man 
 
 too many, imprison one man too long, and then " 
 
 He stopped in a dead silenc:e ; it was a fine rhetorical 
 trick. His eyes shone, his head was high. He com- 
 posed his voice to finish. "And then — all over, gentle- 
 men, all over! That is revolution." He sat down, and 
 there was a short silence before the storm began. 
 
 It began with a vague, indefinable stir, half shuffling of 
 feet, half humming of voices all confused together ; and 
 then, no one knew exactly how, one man had another by 
 the neck, three or four jumped up at once in different 
 parts of the hall, crying "To hell with the spies ! To 
 hell with 'em!" The room seemed aswarm with white 
 faces and tossing arms, and there was a continuous roar 
 like that of the wind at night. Captain Ranald could bo 
 seen gesticulating from the hustings, but not heard ; 
 Mr. Wardle was buttoning his coat. Vcrnour, ]\Iiss 
 Chambre watching him, stood with his arms folded, look- 
 ing on what he had done — as if he had known as much 
 before — his brows knitted, his chin sunk in his breast. 
 
 Rodono made her jump by his words in her car. She 
 had been far away. "We'll be out of this, I think, while 
 we've time." The ladies rose and followed him down the 
 stair; it would be necessary for them to enter the room 
 and creep along by the wall to the door; but they were 
 too late. The constables were in, using their staves, and
 
 298 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 the place was like the trenches with the bayonets at work. 
 "Get back, get back," Rodono called over his shoulder, 
 but Miss Chambre was already beside him, clear of the 
 door ; and almost immediately the lights were blown out. 
 Rodono held the gallery-door, and his womankind clung 
 together behind it. The fighting had settled down to 
 serious work ; the only sounds to be heard were grunts, 
 groans, and deep breathing, with now and then the 
 thwacks of a club, and a curse or cry of rage. 
 
 Whether Miss Chambre was frightened or not I cannot 
 say for certain. All I know is that she leaned with her 
 back to the wall, in complete darkness, and made no effort 
 to gain the shelter of Lord Rodono's back. Her position 
 was not without danger, for fighting or scuffling was 
 going on so close to her that at times her cloak was swept 
 forward or backward, and she might very well have been 
 drawn into the thick of it ; her foot was trodden ; at any 
 moment she could have become involved. How long she 
 could have remained safely there, how long she did re- 
 main, neither she knew, nor do I ; but she heard herself 
 called, distinctly, by name — out of the dark, as before 
 when she had stood waiting on the balcony — out of the 
 dark, "Hermia — Hermia Mary," and she answered, "I 
 am here," and held out her hands. They were caught, 
 and b}'^ them she was dra^Ti from her place ; her form was 
 gained, she was enclosed in a strong clasp, she was 
 caught up against a strong breast. "My love, my love, 
 Hermia !" Strong breath fanned her face, her lips were
 
 A WESTMINSTER MEETING 299 
 
 possessed — and for a crowning moment she lost con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 "Come, I will take jou out of this," Vernour said, and 
 she knew that he could prove his words. Held closely bj 
 his arm about her waist, she was half lifted, half led into 
 the air. It was a dark, warm and wet spring night ; a 
 hot wind coming in squalls, scudding rain. The cobbles 
 gleamed under the flicker of lamps which swung and 
 tossed as the gust caught them. In the crowd about the 
 door, and in the semi-darkness of the night, his arm still 
 held her closely ; but as they got free of people he let 
 her go, and they walked together in silence, she, at least, 
 very incapable of speech. 
 
 When he spoke, it was in his ordinary, carefully-con- 
 tained tone. "You are hurt.'* You are frightened.'' 
 That's not possible." 
 
 "No, no — not frightened." For her life she could not 
 have said more. Nothing in the world frightened her but 
 himself. He praised her courage. 
 
 "I was a fool to say what I knew could not be true. 
 Nothing could frighten you." 
 "No," she said — "nothing now." 
 He looked at her. "Why did you sigh?" 
 "Because you praise me. Because I am happy." 
 He threw his head up and laughed. "The good rea- 
 son ! The best ! Come, I will escort you to your door. 
 You are in Clarges Street?" 
 "Yes — but how did you ?"
 
 300 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "It is my business to know everything about you. You 
 have to be sensed wlierever you may be. You have given 
 me leave to do that." 
 "Am I to have my flowers — still ? Now ?" 
 "Surely," he said. "You are to have them till I die." 
 She thought this a wonderful thing — and told him so. 
 What she did not add — perhaps she did not realise it yet 
 — was that she wanted no more flowers. They, which 
 had meant so much, now meant little; but she opened 
 her cloak and showed him. "See," she said, "my 
 badge." 
 
 *'I saw it long ago. I gloried in you for that. Will 
 you take my arm?" She put her hand lightly upon it, 
 and they went on together, so. 
 
 They walked slowly^ — there was every reason not to 
 hurry ; they talked little, and she found out that her own 
 class talks too much. There was no awkwardness in 
 silence ; it seemed to her, still trembling from his embrace, 
 still conscious of her kissed lips, that there could never 
 have been a day when she had not been in love with Ver- 
 nour. If love was new to her, so was he. He was out- 
 side all her experience; she had known men strong, but 
 not in this way. They expressed it by speech, he by re- 
 fraining from speech. If they loved her, they told her 
 so ; but she believed the more in this man's love the less he 
 said of it. So she walked in miracle, in touch with a 
 miraculous being, with a heart too full even for wonder. 
 She would have walked into the Thames had he chosen
 
 A WESTMINSTER MEETING 301 
 
 it, or up to a cannon's mouth. She discussed nothing, 
 unless he opened upon the subject — neither plans, nor 
 the past ; but she did ask him how he had found her, and 
 thrilled at his answer: "I knew where you were at every 
 moment of the evening. I saw you come down to the 
 door." 
 
 "But you did not look at me ; you never did." 
 
 "Did I not?" He laughed. "I am always looking at 
 you. I am looking at you now. I am loving you now. 
 I will tell you what I think." 
 
 "Tell me, please." 
 
 "I think that after to-night I must see you always." 
 
 "Yes." He said no more, and she could not. It seemed 
 that she must be for ever kept upon the edge of bliss. 
 
 She took no thought for the morrow, since he, the mas- 
 ter of her mind, proposed to her none. She did not ask 
 him what she was to say to her grandmother; that lady 
 did not enter her head. She walked by his side — a girl 
 in the spring — utterly contented; and it was not until 
 they were near the door of the house in Clargcs Street 
 that she remembered her needs. Her needs ? The single 
 need, which was to know when she could see him again. 
 But then, as he made no proposals, it was necessary to 
 stop him. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "we are here !" 
 
 "Yes, we must go our ways now." 
 
 "Will you come no further.''" 
 
 "I shall take you to the door. It is close by us now."
 
 302 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Her hand pressed his arm — he stooped to her. "My 
 love," he said, "my love !" 
 
 "I am to lose you now — it is hard. When will you come 
 again ?" 
 
 He thought for a moment. "It is very needful to sec 
 you soon. Something must be done — settled. I will 
 come into the garden to-morrow night at ten — if you — 
 if it will be possible." 
 
 "Possible ! Oh, yes. I will be there." 
 
 He told her, "It must be for the last time. This can- 
 not go on — on this footing. Now, good-bye. No, no — 
 I must not " 
 
 She held out her hand to him without a word, and he 
 kissed it. He was plainly seen to kiss it by Captain 
 Ranald and Lord Rodono, who were on the doorstep of 
 the house in Clarges Street. How much more these 
 gentlemen had collected it would not be easy to guess. 
 
 "Thank God she's safe, at least," said Ranald, and ran 
 down to meet her. "Good Lord, Miss Chambre — and 
 thank the good Lord ! We have had half London hunt- 
 ing for you. Rodono and I have just got in — we've been 
 everywhere." 
 
 "Thank you. Captain Ranald — I was perfectly safe all 
 the time. I found a friend, or rather he found me : Mr. 
 Vernour." 
 
 "Yes," said Ranald, very slowly — "yes, I believe that 
 you are safe with Vernour." 
 
 Rodono held the door open for her, anxious ladies were
 
 A WESTMINSTER MEETING 303 
 
 in the hall. "Is she ? Have you ? Oh, my 
 
 dearest, my dearest child!" She was enfolded, kissed, 
 and made much of. But Lord Rodono's chilly eyes 
 looked through her into the wall beyond, seeing nothing. 
 They were like the eyes of a fish, had never been colder. 
 
 "Thank you. Lord Rodono, for hunting me," she said, 
 as she ran into the arms of Mrs. Western. 
 
 "Tom," said Ranald, as he buttoned his great-coat, "I'll 
 take you with me to Brooks's, I think. It'll do you 
 good." So they went together.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 OBDEAL BY BATTLE 
 
 T ORD RODONO, at Brooks's with his friend, had 
 "^^^been clear as to what he intended to do, so clear and 
 clear in such a way that Ranald could hardly intervene. 
 After all, it was true that Tom was in love ; and a man in 
 love may do more than a man out of it. Ranald, when he 
 was pressed, could not admit that he was in love with the 
 lady. He was neutral, he said, not greatly caring 
 whether she married Vemour or not, so long as she mar- 
 ried the man of her heart. "I'm not at all in love with 
 her," he said, "but I like her well enough to hope that her 
 marriage will be made in heaven, and not in Caryll 
 House. I like her very much indeed ; I admire her spirit 
 and good sense ; I think she's as handsome a young 
 woman as London contains. I think mj^self a fool that I 
 am not over head and ears in love — but there I stop. 
 The fact is, I'm not a romantic man, I'm not a philander- 
 ing man. No offence to you, though." 
 
 Lord Rodono, very stiff and staring, consumed brandy 
 and water steadily, stopping only to glare at the fire, 
 strengthen the fold of his arms and tap his foot on the 
 carpet. "This is more than scandalous, upon my heart 
 and conscience. I'm more shocked than I can say. She!
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 305 
 
 that peerless, that splendid — Dick Chambre's girl — fine 
 descent on both sides — Fitzgerald blood, Caryll, Bote- 
 tort — she! and a damned, mouthing Radical butcher! 
 Oh, God, Ranald — it hiakes Othello of me.'* 
 
 "Don't let it make lago, my friend," said Ranald ; "you 
 overdo that battening business — which is sickly work for 
 a man of your parts. The fellow's not a butcher any 
 more, but as good as you or I. For that matter, I believe 
 him to be a good deal better." He looked down upon the 
 incensed man rigid in his chair. "I think 3^ou may make 
 mischief, Tom — I do, indeed. I know the man, and you 
 don't. I tell you again, he's a fine fellow — a man of 
 strength. Could 3'Ou or I have spoken as he did.'' An- 
 swer for yourself. I know very well that I could not. 
 In what makes a man essentially a gentleman he's well 
 found. I'll go bail for him, Vernour would never stoop 
 to a blackguardly thing." 
 
 Lord Rodono glared at him. "Has he not, by heaven ! 
 Has he not repaid her finely for her generosity.'* An- 
 swer me that." 
 
 Ranald thought for a moment before he took up the 
 challenge. He plunged his hands deep in his breeches 
 pockets. "Upon my honour," he said, "I think she'll 
 make him a good wife." Up jumped Rodono, breath- 
 ing short. "Do you care to laugh at me, Ranald?" 
 
 "No, I do not. I mean what I say. I believe in her 
 more than you do, after all, it seems to me ; for I'm dead 
 certain that she'd never let a man touch her unless she
 
 306 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 liked him, nor would like a man unless he were a fine 
 one. I could say no more for my sister — and it ought 
 to come from you rather than me. I confess I don't 
 understand your sort of love, Rodono. You say, I adore 
 this lady, I believe her to be all that is excellent in women 
 — on condition that she loves me. The moment she 
 chooses for somebody else, you cease to believe in her, 
 but go on loving. My good friend, you'll forgive me for 
 saying that that is more like craving than loving." 
 
 Lord Rodono regarded him coldly, and then turned on 
 his heel. "I wish you good-night, Ranald," he said over 
 his shoulder as he went. It's ill reasoning with an angry 
 man. Ranald let him go. 
 
 The meeting took place in the garden, at the appointed 
 hour. Her ladyship had dined abroad, and Hermia was 
 to be escorted to join her at eleven, then to be taken to a 
 party at Lady Crowland's. Dining alone — for Harriet 
 was away — she had fidgeted herself into a fever for the 
 keeping of her tryst; and this made her very shy and 
 very humble. Her lover's conduct drove her bashful- 
 ness out of her. He was grave and unapproachable. 
 "My love," he said, "I am greatly to blame for this un- 
 derhand way in which I lead you. I beg your pardon ; 
 there shall be no more." 
 
 Frightened out of her wits, she begged him to explain 
 
 himself. Did he — could he mean ? Oh, no, no, he 
 
 could not mean She was timid, but with all the world
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 307 
 
 at stake she drew near and touched him on the arm. He 
 gave a short cry, and took her. She gave him her Hps, 
 which he had made his already. He strained her to his 
 breast. Quite out of herself, she lay weeping In his arms. 
 
 He mastered his transport, with another cry which 
 sounded as if he were angry, and would have put her 
 away ; but now she would not go. The fountain of her 
 heart was unsealed now ; her lips had been conquered, 
 her waist made prisoner. Hugging her chains, she must 
 give him all — nay, she could not be denied that bliss. So 
 it was, "Hold me, oh my love, kiss me, touch me. Let 
 me know myself yours." For a moment he yielded to her 
 desire, but only for a moment. Resolutely then he put 
 her from him and told her that they must meet no more 
 until they could meet the world. Even she acknowledged 
 the difficulty there, and had to own that she didn't know 
 how to go to work. He said, with his head high, that he 
 should wait upon her ladyship in the morning, and then 
 she had to tell him how far out of the question that was. 
 "They will insult you, and I couldn't bear that." 
 
 "Better me than you, my dear," said he ; but she denied 
 it. 
 
 "I know granny very well. She will not hurt me at all ; 
 she will be very cold ; she will send me to my room and 
 keep me there — I shall stop in it — as I did before when — 
 I saw you for the first — no, for the second time. In the 
 end she will either forget me, and I shall walk out, or 
 she will open the door for me herself and tell me to do as
 
 308 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 I please. You know, David, that I am of age. But I 
 must tell you one thing — if you take me, you will take 
 a beggar. I have a little money now — more since my 
 darling brother died — ^but it all goes if I don't marry 
 granny's choice." 
 
 "My love," he said, "I want none of your mone3^ I am 
 well enough in money — but I shall need all your for- 
 bearance. You know me as I am — you have seen me as I 
 
 must be " His broken voice made her cry ; she could 
 
 have kneeled to him. She came to him, took his hand, 
 lifted it and kissed it. *'My King David — my king of 
 men." He put his arm about her very gently, and, 
 stooping, kissed her lips. "You will make me a king 
 yet, my love. I will be — I can be whatever you choose 
 to have me. Now leave me, my soul — I will see your 
 grandmother in the morning — and you again when I 
 have earned you." 
 
 This was so serious that she had at all costs to stop it, 
 by telling him that she intended to have the story out to- 
 night. "Come, if it seems good to you, David, to-morrow. 
 I assure you that you will do me harm if you do. I can 
 bear that — I can bear anytliing you bid me ; but you will 
 hurt me very much — I must tell you that." In the end, 
 he gave in. He would not come until he was sent for; 
 he promised her. 
 
 Then he was all for going, with as little ceremony as 
 might be — and she all for keeping him by her. All the 
 witcher}'^ of woman was now at her command — and when
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 309 
 
 she couldn't move him, she threw herself upon him, sob- 
 bing and imploring — "Once, David — please, once ! Oh, 
 what shall I do ! What shall I do !" 
 
 He put his hands upon her shoulders and gently held 
 her Siway. "My dear, you mustn't cry, you mustn't, in- 
 deed. No, no — I'm very nearly lost — but now I'll never 
 give in. Hermia, listen to me now. I'm strong again, 
 thank the Lord. I love you so- well that I dare not touch 
 you until we have told our tale to the world. You won't 
 ask me — you Avill never ask me. Oh, I know you — you 
 will never ask me. If you love me now, you will go in." 
 
 She stopped her crying at once, and of her own accord 
 stepped back out of his reach. "Yes, I will obey you. 
 I beg your pardon. Good-night." She turned and went 
 to the house without looking behind her. 
 
 Vernour watched her as far as the light could discover 
 her to him, and waited for the door to close upon her be- 
 fore he left the garden. Then he went to the gap in the 
 wall — Lady Hermione's gap, not yet repaired — and 
 jumped for it, pulled himself up, and dropped into the 
 park, almost at the feet of a tall gentleman, waiting 
 there, evidently for him — a gentleman in a cocked hat 
 and cloak, distinguishable by a white muffler round his 
 neck. It was so obvious, his awaiting, that Vernour 
 waited also. 
 
 The stranger had a harsh and stem voice. "A word 
 with you — you who are in and out like a thief." 
 
 "Who are you that speak so to me.^"
 
 310 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 He was answered, "One with a right. My name is 
 TurnbuU. They call me Lord Rodono." 
 
 Vemour inclined his head ever so slightly. "I have 
 heard of your lordship. For the sake of what I have 
 heard, I will tell you this. The last thief in and out of 
 here was Colonel Chambre, and I have the word of his 
 daughter for it." 
 
 This was a palpable hit. Lord Rodono had no immedi- 
 ate reply. When he found one, he felt that it was lame. 
 
 "The cases are not on a level, Vernour. Colonel Cham- 
 bre was my friend, and a gentleman. He was in all re- 
 spects her ladyship's equal. You have no such preten- 
 sions, I understand." 
 
 "I have no pretensions at all, my lord, save those which 
 I can claim from having found favour in Miss Chambre's 
 eyes." 
 
 "We will leave names out, if you please. I have used 
 none, and will use none but my own and yours. I deny 
 your right to anything but chastisement." 
 
 "Chastisement, my lord !" said Vernour quickly. 
 ^'Chastisement from ?" 
 
 "From me, sir." 
 
 "What right have you to chastise me?" 
 
 "The right which you have to defend yourself. I am a 
 friend and frequenter of this house. It is my business 
 to defend any in it who have no other defenders." 
 
 Vernour said, "There are other, more natural de- 
 fenders," and gave his opponent an advantage.
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 311 
 
 "The natural defenders are dead, sir," said Rodono; 
 "as you ought — as you seem to have known." Then Vcr- 
 nour recovered his ground. 
 
 "I ought to have remembered that, my lord. You are 
 right there. But they being dead, I beg leave to tell 
 your lordship that I am now the natural defender 
 of " 
 
 "Damn you ! be silent." 
 
 "I was silent," said Vernour, "until your lordship in- 
 terrupted me." Lord Rodono bit his lip. 
 
 "Vernour," he said then, "this is to stop. Li my opin- 
 ion, you have betrayed the greatest honour ever paid to 
 a man of your station ; you have repaid generosity by the 
 basest ingratitude. You have given treachery for con- 
 fidence ; you are a cheat and a thief." 
 
 "I cannot take those words from you. Lord Rodono," 
 said Vernour very quietly, "and I must ask you to with- 
 draw them." 
 
 "On the contrary," said Rodono, "I shall repeat them. 
 You are a traitor, a cheat, and a thief." 
 
 "]My lord," Vernour said, "you must fight me for 
 that." 
 
 "I fight with gentlemen, sir. Not with butchci's." 
 
 "Don't let my trade stand in your way, my lord. It 
 should not, for it was your own." 
 
 His lordship started, "You are impudent, my man, as 
 well as a rogue, I see." 
 
 "Sir," said Vernour, "j'ou were a soldier, I've been told.
 
 312 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 What difference there may be between us seems to be to 
 my credit. I made sheep bleed, you made men bleed. I 
 carved joints — you carved limbs. You butchered your 
 own kind, you slew men. I made men live. Now, my 
 lord." 
 
 "Damn him, he's right there," said Lord Rodono to 
 himself. 
 
 "jNIy lord," said Vernour, "you force me to make a 
 boast of my trade — ^though it is no longer mine — because 
 you disparage me upon grounds not worthy of your 
 occupation. If you had told me I was a vile fellow — 
 a coward, a glutton, a beast, it would have been better, 
 for you might have believed it upon some report. But 
 you know I am none of those, and you choose to say that 
 my rank is not of your own, therefore you will not fight 
 me. I think that you should leave that plea to persons 
 who have no other defence. I am as honest as yourself, 
 m}'^ lord, and no readier with my hands, I dare swear. 
 Why, sir, you protect yourself in the manner of my Lord 
 Morfa, who, having staked my horse and damned me for 
 a tradesman, cried out, in his own forecourt, that he 
 dared such a blackguard lay hands on a lord. I am no 
 more bound to listen to you with such a plea in your 
 mouth than I was to listen to him. If I am to believe 
 you a man of the sort, and go from you now, you will 
 call me a coward, and say that I shirked an encounter. 
 If I am to credit your behaviour of this occasion, such 
 blame from you will be better than your praise. I
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 313 
 
 wish jou good-night." He turned and walked a few 
 steps of his way home; but Lord Rodono followed 
 him. 
 
 "Vernour," he said, "I'll fight you if you please." 
 
 "'Where.''" says Vernour. 
 
 "Why, we'll go in the park, I think," said his lordship. 
 "W^e'll be snug enough there." 
 
 "Come along, ray lord," the other replied. So they 
 went. 
 
 Across the Knightsbridge Road, with its scattered 
 edging of little white villas in their gardens, lay Hyde 
 Park, behind a low fence of post and rail. Save for a 
 transient cry now and then from some outcast wandering 
 there, the place seemed a desert. Li the midst of a grove 
 of elms these two young men stripped to the shirt and 
 fought, but before they began, Vernour said, "Bear me 
 witness, my lord, that I do this against my will. But 
 so it is that you have put more scorn upon me than I can 
 bear, honoured as I have been of late, glorified as I am 
 now. For this reason I must fight with you — but I'd 
 ask a favour of your lordship, to shake hands before we 
 begin." 
 
 "I won't refuse that," said the young lord. They shook 
 hands and faced each other. 
 
 They were much of a height, but in girth the butcher 
 was the finer man, and in length of reach, in wind and 
 agility unquestionably the finer. Lord Rodono had 
 science — every man had in that day ; this was not the
 
 314 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 first time he had stripped for battle ; Vernour had, per- 
 haps, less — but he had the cooler temper. 
 
 They fought three rounds, during the first of which 
 Rodono did all the work he was able, and Vernour had 
 as much as he could do to stop him without savagery. 
 It may have lasted four or five minutes, and need not 
 have taken two. Rodono's wind — ^none too good — failed 
 him, and in the end he fell. The second was shorter. 
 Rodono made a rush, and was stopped ; he made another 
 in which he closed ; a brief mill finished him, and again he 
 fell. In the third round Vernour, who was perfectly 
 fresh, forced the fighting — ^honestly wishing to be merci- 
 ful — beat down his man's guard and caught him under 
 the chin with his left. Lord Rodono fell once more, and 
 lay still. 
 
 "Are you hurt, my lord.^* Are you hurt?" Vernour 
 was kneeling by him now, hovering and anxious. Rodono 
 presently sat up. "No, no, not at all. You've done 
 your business very well. Help me up, will you?" He 
 did ; the two shook hands. 
 
 "Now I'll tell you, Vernour," said Rodono, "that I am 
 a suitor for the hand of the lady to whom you pretend." 
 Vernour said nothing; so he went on. "That gives me 
 no right to use words to you which you properly resented 
 — and punished ; but I am not able to agree with you in 
 the suitability of the arrangement you propose. I am 
 quite sincere in saying that I shall oppose this match 
 tooth and nail, simply on this ground, that it will end in
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 315 
 
 misery, and a kind of life which no lad}^, brought up 
 as this lady has been, ought to be called upon to face. 
 What influence I have will be used against you, and you 
 will wrong me if you think I do it for my own pros- 
 pects. You will wrong me, I say." 
 
 "I will never wrong your lordship," said Vemour 
 quickly. "I believe what you tell me. Now, let me tell 
 your lordship this. That lady has given me proof un- 
 deniable that I have won her heart. She has told me that 
 I did that without speaking with her more than once, 
 or seeing her more than thrice. I admit that I courted 
 her, after she had paid me great honour, by a way of 
 my own. But I never hoped to win her, and I should 
 have continued my courtship until she asked me to stop, 
 whether she was to be lost or won. Courtship ! It was 
 not that in the beginning — it was like the homage you 
 pay to your king ! It was not until I saw that she wore 
 my flowers " 
 
 "What !" cried Rodono, staring. "It was you — those 
 wliite violets ! By God, man, you're a poet, I see." 
 
 "You flatter me, my lord," said Vernour. "I'm no poet. 
 But I had to offer the best thing I could find to the 
 noblest being I had ever dreamed of. She'll have them 
 till I die." 
 
 "I see that I've been floored by a proper man," said 
 Lord Rodono. "I'll think this out. Good-night." 
 They shook hands and parted. So much for ancient 
 chivalry, not dead, the reader perceives, in 1810.
 
 816 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Men fight for women, women for their souls. Hermia, 
 in a tremble of excitement, waited for her grandmother 
 outside the house in Bruton Street, where her ladyship 
 had dined, knowing full well that her battle was to come. 
 Her suspense had to endure, as best it might, through an 
 hour or more of chatter and gallantry at Crowland 
 House — Tom Moore's effervescence, Sidney Smith's 
 acidity, Mr. Rogers's astringency, and Mr. Greville's 
 asperity. When they were in the great chariot, rum- 
 bling home through the empty Kensington roads, she 
 plunged into her subject headlong. She spoke too fast, 
 because her breath failed her. She had learned her open- 
 ing by heart, but got it wrongly. 
 
 "I think it right to tell you, grandmamma, that I have 
 been asked — that for some time past I have been thinking 
 — great attentions have been paid me by a gentleman — 
 and I have — I have allowed " 
 
 "Your cousin, George Coigne, I suppose you mean," 
 said her ladyship ; but Hermia said that it was not. "I 
 know that you had the thought in your head that George 
 and I might be married ; but as you said nothing to me 
 about it, I didn't like to tell you that it was out of the 
 question." 
 
 *'0h, indeed," said Lady Morfa, in her ordinary voice. 
 Those who suppose that she would alter that by a quar- 
 ter-tone to answer, say, the Last Trumpet, do not know 
 yet the Queen Mother of the Carylls. It was dark in the 
 carriage, and not possible to see the stiffening old head,
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 317 
 
 or the blinking of the fierce old eyes. "Oh, indeed ! 
 Then, pray, who is this gentleman?" 
 
 "It is a gentleman whom I have met but two or three 
 times, though I know a great deal of him — otherwise, 
 and esteem all that I know. For nearly a year he has 
 sent me flowers — you may have seen them." 
 
 "No, my dear," said Lady Morfa, "I assure you 
 that this is the first I have heard of it, though, no 
 doubt, I am the only person in the house who is 
 ignorant." 
 
 "I fancy that you are," said Miss Chambre. "I have 
 worn them daily or nightly ever since they began to 
 come. White violets." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Lady Morfa, "now I think I have no- 
 ticed them. Please to go on." 
 
 "The gift, the continuance of it, the nature of it — and 
 other things about it — touched me greatly. I thought 
 of it often ; and so, when the giver of it spoke to me, 
 I consented to hear him — and I must consider myself en- 
 gaged. Of course, I know very well " 
 
 "What I suppose you know by this time, though I have 
 no proof of it, is this gentleman's name?" 
 
 "Grandmamma, that's not quite fair, because, if you 
 remember, I told you that I knew a great deal about him. 
 I know it perfectly well, and so do you — ^but you won't 
 like it at all, I'm afraid. I must tell you first that I have 
 thought very seriousl}'^ about it — it is very strange, but 
 I think I have been — interested in him for a long, long
 
 318 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 time. And now I have passed him my word, and can never 
 give him up. He is Mr. David Vernour." 
 
 Lady Morfa started. "You are mad," she said. 
 
 "No, no, I can't allow that. I love him dearly." 
 
 Lady Morfa certainly shivered — ^but it was her every- 
 day voice which said, "I am much obliged to you for this 
 news." And then she said nothing more. Hermia was 
 on the point to speak more than once — but each time 
 checked herself. Of what use to speak ? She knew what 
 was to be done to her. 
 
 As the carriage entered the gates. Lady Morfa did 
 speak. She said, "Will you have the goodness to remain 
 in your room to-morrow until I see you.'' I shall have 
 something to say." 
 
 "Yes, granny, certainly." 
 
 She said also, "Good-night, granny," as she went up- 
 stairs, but got no reply. 
 
 Lady Morfa had a command for her maid. "I wish to 
 speak to Moth here before she goes to bed ; and to-mor- 
 row morning let Miss Moon see me so soon as she leaves 
 her room." 
 
 Mrs. Moth came fluttering in to find her ladyship bolt 
 upright in her chair before the fire. 
 
 "Moth," said the Queen Mother, "you will leave this 
 house to-morrow morning. The steward will have your 
 wages ready for you. You will get no character from 
 me but a true one ; and, therefore, I advise you not to 
 apply for It."
 
 ORDEAL BY BATTLE 319 
 
 "Very good, mj lady," faltered Mrs. Moth, curtseyed, 
 and withdrew. 
 
 To Harriet Moon the same fate was decreed. "You 
 will leave this house by midday. You will have no com- 
 munication with any person here except Mr. Hanse, who 
 will pay you what is due." 
 
 "Yes, ray ladj'," the brown-eyed girl whispered, curt- 
 sej^ed, and withdrew. But it is to be stated of her that 
 a communication was made — not with Mr. Hanse.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 WHICH ATTACKS IN FLANK 
 
 "IV/rRS. GEORGE FOX, that bosom friend of Her- 
 -^ -■■mia's, had come post-haste to town, anxious to 
 know the worst. She arrived two or three days only after 
 the girl's imprisonment, and saw Lady Morf a. A charm- 
 ing, motherly, kind-eyed woman, soft and round and 
 purring, was Mrs. George Fox. 
 
 "Oh, Lady Morfa, I have had such an uncomfortable 
 letter from Hermy that I haven't been able to rest for 
 worrying about it. Pray, pray, tell me what it means." 
 
 "It means," said Lady Morfa, "that she proposes to 
 disgrace my name." 
 
 "Oh, but that is terrible — ^that is not possible !" 
 
 "It is, unfortunately, very possible, and it would be 
 terrible if she were to do it. But she will not." 
 
 Mrs. Fox was nearly speechless, but luckily she was 
 curious. 
 
 "I feared — when I received her letter — the letter, I as- 
 sure you, of one — I hardly know — of one fixed in pur- 
 pose — of one under a terrible fate! Lady Morfa, who 
 is this man ? She mentioned no name — she even said that 
 she was not sure " 
 
 "I can imagine that she would not care to mention it.
 
 AN ATTACK IN FLANK 321 
 
 It is a tradesman — a tradesman's son. He is a Radical — 
 I don't give that as an excuse, far from it." 
 
 "A Radical — ah!" It was a good deal of excuse to 
 Mrs. Fox. "Herray's ideas, you know, Lady Morfa ! 
 Well, it is just what poor Lord Edward would have done 
 — justF' 
 
 "To my mind," said her ladyship, "it is very much 
 what Lord Edward did do — if he didn't do worse — but I 
 can hardly enter into such matters with you." 
 
 "No," said the anxious lady, not knowing what other 
 reply was expected of her. 
 
 "You can suppose," continued her ladyship, "that this 
 intelligence was unwelcome. I cannot say that it was un- 
 expected. Arrangements had been made for an alliance 
 eminently suitable to my granddaughter's position and 
 prospects. Sir George Coigne, my nephew — everything 
 that one could wish — a really fine property — a powerful 
 county influence — ^but I need not fatigue you with par- 
 ticulars." 
 
 "Pray spare yourself, dear Lady Morfa." 
 
 "I have taken proper steps to protect this unfortunate 
 girl against herself and her seducers " 
 
 "Oh, pray, pray !" cried Mrs. Fox, but Lady 
 
 Morfa was not to be prayed. 
 
 "I say her seducers, for I think there were more than 
 one. I have dismissed her waiting-woman and a young 
 person who had stood for some years in a confidential 
 capacity to me personally, but with whom, I am sorry
 
 322 THE STOOriNG LADY 
 
 to say, Hermia had chosen to become unduly intimate. 
 Nothing could really have been expected of such an in- 
 timacy but what has happened. That person left my 
 house the day after I had been told what was going on. 
 I think that she regretted the return she had made me for 
 a good deal of kindness, one way with another. What I 
 propose to do now is to apply to the Lord Chancellor to 
 have the girl made a ward of court." 
 
 "Very wisely, no doubt," murmured Mrs. Fox — and 
 then with clasped hands and a tear in the voice she 
 urged, "Oh, Lady Morfa, may I — might I — see her.'' 
 I love her so dearly — we are such old friends." 
 
 "Really, I will ask you not to hope for that at pres- 
 ent," said her ladyship. "No good could be expected — ■ 
 at present — from any such kindness as I am sure you 
 meditate. I have not yet seen her myself. Seclusion, 
 thought (I hope), repentance " 
 
 "Prayer," the other lady suggested, at random. 
 
 "Prayer? All, no doubt — very right and proper," said 
 her ladyship loftily — but she didn't like it. Any sug- 
 gestion that application could be addressed elsewhere 
 than to herself offended her a good deal. 
 
 That really closed the discussion. Mrs. Fox took her 
 leave, with the statement that she should remain in town 
 for some few weeks — at the house of her cousin. Lord 
 Naliir — a respectable, though Irish viscount. 
 
 A particular bitterness of Lady Morfa's had not been
 
 AN ATTACK IN FLANK 323 
 
 mentioned by her, and could never have been mentioned 
 by her to any Mrs. Fox. It is doubtful whether a Marquis 
 of Badlesmere — a Botetort and her brother — or an Hon- 
 ourable Venerable — an Archdeacon and a Caryll — could 
 have been told a secret so mortifying. It was that both 
 her son and nephew — the head of the Carylls and Sir 
 George Coigne — had shown much more concern over the 
 dismissal of Miss Harriet Moon than for Hermia Mary's 
 desperate disgrace. Lord INIorfa had turned very white 
 when he heard it. At the Vemour story he had chuckled 
 —"What a go !" he had said. "Hope that stilted beast 
 Sandgate will feel happy. Nastyish for Tom — eh, 
 ma'am? By Gad, I must let Prinny know about 
 this. That man Vemour — did you hear, ma'am? — he's 
 a champion, by Gad ! He is, though. He had a battle 
 on Stockbridge Down with Exeter Jack, and knocked 
 him out in three rounds ! No wonder Beauty got his 
 nose dabbed! ^ly word, though — Hermy, eh? Well, 
 
 that beats the cocks — by Gad, it does " And more 
 
 to the same elementary effect. 
 
 But when his mother told him of condign punishment 
 upon the sly Moon, he turned sick white. "You've done 
 that! You've sent her packing! Oh, I don't — I can't 
 
 !" Then, after a pause, "I tell 3^ou, ma'am, you've 
 
 made mischief. You'd no business to interfere." 
 
 "Interfere, Roderick I" 
 
 "Well — what I mean is — you've made mischief — dam- 
 nable mischief ! No, no — I can't hear you — I can't talk
 
 SM THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 about Miss Moon to you. Look here, ma'am — that was 
 an infernal shame ! She was innocent as a babe unborn 
 — and you know that very well. You never liked her — 
 you know you didn't ; and she was afraid of you, and 
 showed it, and you bulhed her. Poor little girl — ^poor 
 little Harriet ! I tell you what it is, ma'am, Pm upset — 
 I'm downright ill at such infem — at such injustice. 
 Tyranny, I call that — rank tyranny!" 
 
 "Roderick, Roderick — my son ! what are you saying to 
 me?" 
 
 "I'm telling you what I think of what you've chosen to 
 do. Wreak your vengeance on the family, ma'am, if 
 you please. You've shocked me — I wouldn't have had 
 such a thing done in my house for ten thousand pound 
 — I wish you joy of your work. Lady Morfa — and good- 
 morning to you." He had gone out of the room — she 
 heard him shouting for his man — and she had not been 
 able to move. His valet came anxiously to her. "His 
 lordship's compliments, my lady, and he wishes for the 
 keys of the corridor." Positively so ; and she had sent 
 them. He must have gone to see Hennia — and she let 
 him go. He had left the house — his trunks (a round 
 dozen of them) followed with his secretary in a hackney- 
 coach, his valet on the box — and she not able to move ; 
 and she had seen no more of him. This made her very 
 ill ; but Sir George's tears — yes, his round eyes had 
 brimmed over, the man — a Botetort and a baronet —
 
 AN ATTACK IN FLANK 325 
 
 had fairly blubbered over the wrongs of a Moon — this, 
 very fortunately, strengthened her. She found herself 
 again, as they say; and the close imprisonment of 
 Heraiia Mary went on. 
 
 The child's friends, meantime, were active, for the 
 story was all about the town. Tom Creevy was heard 
 whispering and chuckhng about it to Mr. Sheridan at 
 Brooks's ; but he stopped when Lord Sandgate came into 
 the room. "Sandgate's been hit" — he told his friend — 
 "badly hit, he's been. I happen to know," What was 
 there Tom Creevy did not happen to know? Mighty 
 little, I suspect. 
 
 It was Mrs. Fox who took the tale to Lady Grizel — 
 to whom her brother Rodono had vouchsafed nothing of 
 it; but for all that Lady Grizel had had it, in a letter 
 from the disgraced girl herself — a letter written that 
 first night of her incarceration, and actually in Moth's 
 pocket at the moment of her dismissal ; and IMoth had re- 
 lated all that the letter did noL Hermia's letter had 
 been very short: 
 
 "Dearest Grizel: I must tell you how proud and 
 happy I am to have won the love and respect of ]\Ir. Ver- 
 nour. I have been engaged to him for ten days, and 
 every moment since then has but added to the honour he 
 has done me. I hope I shall make him a good and obe- 
 dient wife. I shall try my hardest, and know he will be
 
 326 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 very patient. Granny is horrified — ^but that makes no 
 difference. With fondest love, 
 
 "Ever your Hebmy. 
 "P.S. — If you think that my news would interest dear 
 Lord Drem and your brother, will you tell them how 
 proud I am?" 
 
 That was a difficult letter to deal with. Old Lord Drem 
 said that he didn't understand it; such things had not 
 been done in his time — at least, he could only recollect 
 one case — that of Sophia Weyburn who had married a 
 Glasgow notary — and there had been cogent reasons for 
 that. All he could say was that it pointed to a very ex- 
 ceptional young man, or a very exceptional young lady. 
 Lord Rodono said nothing, but his sister saw the chill 
 settle on his blue eyes. As for herself, her feelings may 
 perhaps be gathered from her reply — which never 
 reached its address: 
 
 "Dearest : I can hardly answer your beautiful letter — 
 for beautiful it is, whatever one may think of its news. 
 My dear, what am I to say about that? All I can urge 
 upon you is reflection, serious and ample reflection. I 
 know your ideas, how truly democratic you are, and per- 
 haps I ought to be able to follow you, and indeed in 
 opinion I do — ^but in judginent, dearest love, I cannot, 
 at present. How much can you, how little do you not, 
 know of Mr. V.? Pray think of this, and do nothing
 
 AN ATTACK IN FLANK 327 
 
 precipitate. Dear papa was very kind. You know the 
 Drum-Major's way! I have told Tom — I thought it 
 kinder. He said nothing — but he was very much moved. 
 At any rate, you have three friends in this house — and 
 always will have. Count upon us, my love, I implore 
 you. I shall try to prevail upon Lady M. to let me see 
 you for a minute — or even to speak with you through 
 the key-hole! Darling Hermy, my heart is wae for 3'ou. 
 
 "Grizel." 
 
 This letter was not opened, but was left with otliers ad- 
 dressed to the prisoner on her ladyship's escritoire. 
 
 Upon that same escritoire, upon a day to be shortly 
 named, lay two other letters in Lady Morfa's hand, 
 scaled with the Caryll seal, one addressed to Thomas 
 Vemour — Brook Street — and the other to the Marquis 
 of Badlesmere, K.G., of which letter I shall not speak 
 further than to say that it requested that nobleman to 
 invoke the powers of Lord Eldon in her favour. The 
 letter to Vemour the elder ran thus : 
 
 "The Countess of Morfa has to inform T. Vernour that 
 his visits to Caryll House for custom must instantly 
 cease. Her ladyship believes that Vernour will under- 
 stand the reason of this order, and has further to say 
 that any appearance of either Thomas or David 
 Vemour will be followed by an action for trespass. The 
 Countess of Morfa cannot condescend to particulars of 
 offences peculiarly abominable which have rendered
 
 328 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 summary measures necessary. Caryll House, April 30th, 
 1810." 
 
 Now for the reason why that letter was never sent. 
 
 On the morning of April 30tli — Hermia having been 
 imprisoned for some ten days — a Mr. Custance called at 
 Caryll House and was introduced into Lady Morfa's 
 room; a grave, elderly man, considerably bald, low- 
 voiced, sententious, and a lawyer. He made a ceremoni- 
 ous bow at the door ; he advanced, as it were, soft- footed 
 to the middle of the room; bowed again, with his hat 
 
 covering his heart. "Madam," he said, "my lady " 
 
 and then he came near to the table and made his final 
 bow. 
 
 "Be seated, sir," said Lady Morfa, but with a wave of 
 his hat he excused himself. 
 
 "My lady," he said, "I am my Lord Morfa's accredited 
 agent in a matter of some consequence to his lordship 
 and of some interest to yourself." Lady Morfa did not 
 look at him. 
 
 "Lord Morfa's agents are familiar to me, by name, at 
 least. I don't recollect that yours is one of them." 
 
 "My lady," said Mr. Custance, and produced his pocket- 
 book, and drew from it a card, "here are my credentials 
 — or some of them. The writing upon this card will be 
 very familiar to your ladyship." The card bore the 
 name of Mr. Oliver Custance, Doctors' Commons, and 
 over that "Introduced upon my particular affairs. 
 Morfa."
 
 AN ATTACK IN FLANK 329 
 
 Lady Morfa moistened her lips as she put the card 
 down. "I will listen to you, sir," she said, "but must beg 
 you to be brief." 
 
 "Madam," said Mr. Custance, "I will be brief. I need 
 not, I think, refer at any length to the circumstances — 
 distressing as they must have been — under which my 
 noble client felt it his duty " 
 
 "No, sir," said her ladyship, "you need not. I beg tliat 
 you will make no reference whatever to any matter which 
 is not your immediate concern. I asked you to be brief, 
 and you threaten to be lengthy. Have the goodness to 
 inform me of your actual business here." 
 
 "My lady " Mr. Custance was disturbed. 
 
 "Your business, sir, if j^ou please." 
 
 *'I will obey you, my lady. I have the honour to inform 
 your ladyship that your son, my Lord Morfa, was mar- 
 ried yesterday by special license to Miss Harriet INIoon. 
 Lord and Lady Morfa have repaired to Brighton for a 
 short visit, but propose returning to town shorth' — I 
 think to a house in Curzon Street, but am not yet fully 
 
 advised. My lady, I regret this abrupt " There h.e 
 
 stopped, because he observed that Lady ^Morfa's head 
 was sunk and nodding helplessly to her breast. Dull 
 purple suffused her cheeks, her breath came shuddering 
 and thick. Mr. Custance crossed the room rapidly and 
 pulled the bell. Assistance was not long in coming. Her 
 ladyship was got to bed ; and Hcrmia Mary left her 
 prison to watch by her grandmother's side.
 
 330 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 From that silent bedside, in the watches of the night, 
 she wrote to Vernour : 
 
 "My grandmamma is very ill, and I must not leave her 
 yet, though she has been cruel to you and to me. You 
 have my heart, and can direct my will, but I know that 
 you will ask nothing of me which I ought not to do. 
 Write to me, and tell me that you trust me. Nothing can 
 keep me from you when you call me. Hermia Mary." 
 
 Next day she was in the arms of Mary Fox.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 WHICH MRS. GEORGE FOX UNDERSTANDS 
 
 T ADY BARWISE was extremely surprised to find 
 ■"-^herself in any sort of agreement with a Mrs. George 
 Fox. "The Chambre connection — but really a person of 
 proper feeling. That most unhappy child — impossible 
 that she should remain here for a moment. Dearest 
 mamma is so sensitive — and they say that the Prince — so 
 altogether I was thankful to get rid of her; and IMrs. 
 Fox was perfectly reasonable, and very kind about it." 
 IMrs. Fox had, in fact, jumped at a proposal which she 
 would have hesitated herself to open. The culprit was 
 given over to her ; she had her safely now in her Bromp- 
 ton lodgings, where for a time she was seldom out of 
 her arms. 
 
 After the first cooings and tear-minglings — with 
 "There, then, my precious, you are safe with your 
 Mary — cry your fill" — she had attempted gentle ad- 
 monitions of that sort which any good woman, with how- 
 soever fine an ardour she have embraced matrimony, al- 
 ways feels constrained to give. No wife, we may sup- 
 pose, ever forgets the plunge into the dark which has 
 preceded her happiness ; and no girl ever believes in it. 
 Therefore, so long as Mrs. Fox confined herself to plati-
 
 332 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 tude her doctrine was accepted with dociKty. Her friend 
 was too young to deal with generahties, and accepted 
 them as the insignia of matrons. But when the good 
 lady was forced, by honest belief, to go further, when it 
 became evident that she frankly deplored the betrothal, 
 Miss Hermia became the amazon; and it was a fierce 
 young face that hfted from Mary's bosom, and a pair 
 of scornful eyes which made Mary's to quail. 
 
 "Unworthy ! You call him unworthy ! " 
 
 "His position, dearest. Think of his position — and 
 yours ! " 
 
 "Why should I think of what my mother gave no 
 thought to? Would you have called my father un- 
 worthy?" 
 
 "Your father, my darling, was my own cousin." 
 
 "Well, everybody must be somebody's cousin, I sup- 
 pose. If I am to be careful of your cousins, Mary, I do 
 think you should remember ]Mr. Vernour's." 
 
 "Your father was undoubtedly a gentleman," said Mrs. 
 Fox. 
 
 To which she replied, "And so is Mr. Vemour, without 
 any kind of doubt." 
 
 "Not in the eyes of the world, Hermy." 
 
 The girl's own eyes grew dreamy, and her voice sounded 
 tired. *'The world! I had forgotten it. Where is the 
 world? Inside the Gary 11 House gates, I believe — de- 
 fended by Jacob Jacobs. Surely I came out of it when 
 I came to you ! " After which there was nothing imme-
 
 MRS. FOX UNDERSTANDS 333 
 
 diately to be done — by the likes of Mrs. Fox — but to kiss 
 her ; and presently to take up the burden again. 
 
 There was, you see, the romantic side to this affair ; and 
 Mary Fox, a long and patient traveller in the Pays du 
 Tendre, was allured into occasional peeps at her old 
 haunts — whose whispering groves, whose rills and thick- 
 ets still had power to charm. Having the case before 
 her, put with an impassioned oratory which I shall not 
 attempt to rehearse, she had to confess that conduct 
 more irreproachably delicate than that of the violet- 
 bearer could not be conceived. It partook of the mar- 
 vellous, even ; for how did a Brook Street tradesman — 
 and of his trade of all trades in the world ! — how did such 
 a one conjure up white violets all the year round.'' Pass, 
 as Hermia calmly passed, the nursery-gardener at Felt- 
 ham — to what research it pointed ! To what an instinct 
 for the elegant ! Yes, and to what nice passion ! When 
 she was told as a fact that her Hermy had fallen in love 
 with a posy of flowers, she had, in her present mood, no 
 difficulty in believing it. She could understand that, she 
 could imagine it. There was Boccaccio's tale — Lisabetta 
 fondling her pot of basil : yes, she could thrill at such a 
 tale ! But by so much as you heighten the lure of that, 
 by so much the more must the truth revolt. When the 
 mystery was unlocked, when the veiled lover stood before 
 her as he was — what then .? Here her young friend con- 
 founded her by a dazzling admission, for she simply said 
 that she then knew she had been in love before — "be-
 
 334 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 cause, Mary, I was so happy, and liked to think of him." 
 Yes, yes, indeed, that was the way of it — that was the 
 glorious estate. One "liked to think of him" ! But if 
 one had been thinking of a violet-bearer, clothed in the 
 mossy fragrance of his tribute, shy and rare himself as 
 that in which he hid — and then — oh, heaven ! — the white 
 flowers brushed aside, he stood up, garbed in his dreadful 
 uniform ! What then, child ? 
 
 "Then," said Hermia, "I remembered that I had liked 
 to think of him before." 
 
 "Before ! Then you had — oh, my dearest ! " 
 
 "I had seen him, of course, Mary. He was tTie very 
 first person I saw when I came to London." And thus it 
 gradually appeared to have been a case of love at first 
 sight — kindled by a chance spark — a vision of proud 
 eyes and a stiff head ; blown upon by a visit to Brook 
 Street ; set ablaze by subsequent meetings — ah me ! 
 "Harriet told me long ago that I was interested in him 
 because I admired him," she said. "I was angry with 
 her and thought she had a common mind ; but you see 
 that she was right. I didn't know it . . . but she was 
 perfectly right." 
 
 She was able to speak of Brook Street by-and-by — 
 almost to explain Brook Street. She had been praised 
 for courage, she said, and named Lord Sandgate; as a 
 matter of truth, she had been "dreadfully afraid. But it 
 had to be done, you see," she went on. "I couldn't help 
 doing it — I was drawn there — and now — and now I know
 
 MRS. FOX UNDERSTANDS 335 
 
 why." Democracy, indeed! Mary Fox began to know 
 why, too. 
 
 Talking of that visit, she skirted the inner truth, or 
 delayed her search for it. She said that her prevalent 
 feeling, while she waited there in the shop, had been one 
 of burning humiliation that she should be doomed, in her 
 poor finery, to bring disgrace upon an honest place. 
 "Imagine it ! " she cried. "My silly silks — my silly shoes 
 which dared not be wetted — my feathers and ribbons! 
 And then he came riding up, full of real business, dressed 
 for it " 
 
 "Ah ! " Mrs. Fox gasped. 
 
 "Dressed for it — ^his working clothes — no pretence 
 upon him ! " She turned her indignant face to her friend. 
 *'WTiat right had I — what right has any person in the 
 world, Mary, to act a doll at a child's tea-party.'* To 
 play about, to trifle, and hinder the work of the world ! 
 Oh, I was utterly ashamed ! I felt that I was despicable, 
 worse than nothing before him." 
 
 "But he did not, I imagine." 
 
 "He was more than kind, he was noble; but he could 
 not deny his own nature. He could not stoop to me, or 
 make concessions. That is so wonderful in him, I think. 
 I had seen it before when he stood up alone — inside the 
 gates here — doing justice — inflexibly — with blood on his 
 face. I felt the power of him break me down. I could 
 have knelt to him." 
 
 "Dearest, I fear, I fear that you did."
 
 336 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "No, indeed. He would not have allowed it; and that 
 made it all the worse, that I must pretend to confer and 
 he to receive a favour. Favour from me to him! Oh, 
 Mary, I went home burning — to my degradation, as I 
 supposed. To be driven about in a carriage, splashing 
 mud in the face of honesty with my hoofs and wheels ; to 
 be herded in a pack, among men who drank too much 
 and women who wore too little ; to gape at a conjurer, at 
 pictures, at women jigging; to be fed by powdered 
 giants, and be sung to by hired Italians ! What a life 
 to lead in a busy world ! I was spared all that by grand- 
 mamma, who locked me up — and gave me time to think of 
 him. But in a day or two I had to go on with it all, as if 
 nothing had happened. But, Mary, something had hap- 
 pened, something very wonderful. ..." She frowned 
 at Mary Fox, biting her red lip. "I don't see why one 
 should do all this — I don't see how one dare do it, if one 
 feels, if one knows that men and women are leading real 
 lives outside ; working, being happy in their work. They 
 sing, Mary, as they go about their business. You hear 
 them in the streets. Some of them used to whistle as they 
 came to the house, and Jacobs always stopped them at 
 the gates. No whistling at Caryll House — a sort of 
 church ! Oh, it's all wrong, it's all wrong ! But now it's 
 over, for me." 
 
 There spoke, perhaps, her father's child, and her 
 mother's ; offspring of that night's work in '88, when 
 the silken lady of the Carylls rode pillion in the dark
 
 MRS. FOX UNDERSTANDS 337 
 
 behind the man who had dared to break his sword. Had 
 not this girl, too, caught at Reahty by the knees? 
 
 The struggle went on with varying fortunes. Mary 
 Fox was only half convinced, when the little sophist 
 gained an unlooked-for arm for her warfare. She was 
 able to confront the poor lady with a dilemma when the 
 Earl of Morfa returned to town and brought his countess 
 with him. The noble pair took a furnished house in 
 Curzon Street — since nothing could, of course, be done 
 to the dowager's detriment — and there they throve, in 
 spite of all conclusions. The Family remained true to its 
 patriarchal principle, that it is the male who ennobles. 
 What then ? A Countess Harriet is certainly a countess, 
 while a Mrs. Hermia is a butcher's wife. Mary Fox, 
 accepting that, gave her beloved a rhetorical advantage 
 which she made the most of. Take hold of which prong 
 you will, here are two, says Hermia. Either Harriet, 
 who had been nobody, was made somebody by Uncle 
 Roddy ; or Uncle Roddy, who was supposed to be some- 
 body, was made nobody by Harriet Moon. In the for- 
 mer case, why should she and Vemour between them not 
 be somebody? In the latter, why should Uncle Badles- 
 mere and Uncle John Botetort, and Aunt Carinthia, and 
 Aunt Barwise, and Aunt Sarah Coigne, and even poor 
 dear Uncle Bernard, all flock to Curzon Street and pay 
 their respects to — nobody ? Here were two horns for the 
 impaling of jMary Fox, who, for her part (as the lawyers 
 say), "confessed and avoided." She took Hermia, in-
 
 338 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 deed, on the girl's initiative, to wait upon the new coun- 
 tess, an agitating encounter in more ways than one. 
 There was quite an assembly ; the Earl not present. 
 Countess Harriet used her fine eyes with tact. She was 
 exceedingly kind to her former friend ; but naturally 
 nothing was said about Hermia's affairs or her own. 
 There were no confidences, and never could be again — 
 because they had been all upon Harriet's side, and nearly 
 all untrue. It was Miss Chambre's first appearance in 
 the world since her disgrace-, and she bore the trial with 
 a simplicity and complete absence of shamefacedness 
 which enchanted Mrs. Fox. But women are not self- 
 conscious. Look, for instance, at the Countess Harriet 
 chatting with Sir George Coigne, and contrast the two. 
 
 "Harriet told fibs," Hermia owned as they walked home- 
 wards, over the park to Brompton, "and very nearly 
 made me tell one. I suppose she had to defend herself 
 with what she had. And she always had fibs, I fancy. 
 She certainly led me to suppose that she would marry 
 George Coigne — and him, too, poor man." 
 
 So much, so far as I am concerned, of the Countess 
 Harriet, who had not, perhaps, done so badly for her 
 little hand. Sir George Coigne, the gossips say, was 
 there a great deal ; but she never gave him the slightest 
 encouragement. I believe that she made Earl Roderick 
 an excellent wife. And now for serious news.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IN WHICH THE LAW INTERVENES 
 
 T T was Ranald who told it to her — after she had been a 
 ■*■ week at Brompton — that Vemour and two others with 
 him had been arrested, and lay in Newgate, for inciting 
 to riot at the Westminster meeting. It touched his own 
 honour, he said, nearly ; he had done his best to get in- 
 cluded in the charge. It had been his meeting, convened 
 in his own constituency, on behalf of his colleague, for 
 which he alone was responsible. He had offered to stand 
 his trial, but no notice had been taken ; and neither he 
 nor Wardle would be touched. Of course, he would de- 
 fend the men — she might rely upon him. 
 
 Her calmness was remarkable ; for though she had not 
 had a word from her lover since her avowal and disgrace, 
 and for the two days before this news had not received 
 her violets, she had been unalterably cheerful, extraordi- 
 narily happy — singing about the house, sewing, gossip- 
 ing with Mary Fox, shopping— and had seen no omens 
 even in the absence of her flowers. The intelligence 
 ought to have knocked her over, she ought to have winced 
 or paled; but it did neither. On the contrary, her 
 colour had quickened, her eyes flashed. "Absurd ! " she 
 had said. "He will be acquitted." Then Ranald was
 
 340 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 bound to tell her his fears. Sandgate and he would do 
 all that was possible, but she ought to prepare herself 
 for a bad verdict. There had undoubtedly been what 
 amounted to a riot ; windows had been broken ; an in- 
 former had been mauled, a constable hurt, not seriously, 
 but they would make the most of it. Vemour had been 
 the first to speak of spies ; he had pointed his finger, 
 and mutterings had followed. Not much in that, but it 
 would count against him. The worst of all was that 
 Ministers intended to get a conviction. They had been 
 after one for years, ever since old Tooke's triumph ; and 
 the haste with which they were pushing on now showed 
 what they thought of their chances. There would also 
 be other influences at work — she would understand that. 
 
 She did. "You mean my family's?" 
 
 He nodded. "Badlesmere is dead against you. And, of 
 course, her ladyship " But she stopped him there. 
 
 "Grandmamma knows nothing of it. I am sure of 
 that." 
 
 "Well," he said, "I hope you are right. Then Roddy 
 will be generous, perhaps." 
 
 "Generous, Mr. Ranald ! " 
 
 "Well, your Vernour pommelled him, you know, m his 
 own court — and Roddy's young, and as sensitive as most 
 youths." 
 
 She waived Roddy and his youth, having other things 
 to think of. 
 
 "Mr. Ranald," she asked, "ought I to go to him?"
 
 THE LAW INTERVENES 341 
 
 "He won't hear of it. He didn't want me to tell you 
 of this — in fact, he said, 'Here's the end of it,' directly 
 he saw me. I talked him over into seeing that you must 
 needs have the news sooner or later — and better from a 
 friend than an enemy. But he has a horror of involving 
 you in the business, as is only reasonable; and I think 
 that 3"ou should humour him." 
 
 Her eyes were full. "Of course, I am involved — of 
 course, it is my right to be involved. But I won't go un- 
 til he sends for me. How long before they ?" 
 
 "Not long. They are in a hurry. He'll be taken before 
 the magistrates in a month, and committed. They'll 
 oppose bail, undoubtedly, but we'll try for it." 
 
 "And then .?" 
 
 "Trial next term, for certain. Ellenborough sits — that 
 is settled." 
 
 She stared at the day, and at the days to come. "Lord 
 Ellenborough! It means — no hope." 
 
 "Ahnost that — in these times. You will need all your 
 courage — courage for two." 
 
 "I have the courage of two," she said. "I have 
 his." 
 
 She wrote him a letter, which Ranald took. "One word 
 from you, and I come. I am free here with jNIary Fox, 
 who would take me to and from 3^our prison. I am in 
 your hands, at your knees, and have no fear but to dis- 
 please or trouble you. Oh, my love, I am proud that I 
 can sit here and wait. Hermia Mary — j-ours,"
 
 342 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Ranald put it into his breast-pocket. "He shall have 
 it, trust me. Let me say that I admire your spirit, and 
 find it well mated. Good-bye for the moment." He 
 kissed her hand. 
 
 It was that high spirit that won over Mary Fox, and 
 vanquished all her doubts. No tears, no brooding, no 
 quarter asked of heaven. "If they imprison him, he 
 will bear it, and so must I. The time will pass — we are 
 both quite young. And in any case we must have waited. 
 I am grandmamma's property for five years — no, for 
 four years more. That means that I should have been 
 a sort of prisoner — not allowed to speak or write to him. 
 Well, I should have borne that, and so would he." This 
 girl was of heroic build — this girl of the thrust bosom 
 and starry eyes. She won friends fast, as the story be- 
 came known, though they were not of the kind who 
 could have been acceptable at Caryll or Crowland House. 
 Of her old allies, Lady Grizel was for her. Lord Sand- 
 gate, of course, and Ranald. Sir Francis wrote to her 
 from the Tower, and the veteran Parson Tooke from his 
 Wimbledon cavern. These things elated her — or she 
 made the most of them. Nobody knew with what loom- 
 ing shapes she fought when she was alone ; for there 
 were no signs of the strife in the morning when she ap- 
 peared at the breakfast table and kissed her Mary Fox. 
 It was at that hour that she made what she could of her 
 friends and alliances. She saw Ranald nearly every day ; 
 his devotion was exemplary.
 
 THE LAW INTERVENES 343 
 
 Vemour and his companions were committed, having 
 reserved their defence. No bail could be allowed. She 
 had not been present, by his desire, or command, as she 
 chose to call it — for just now when he was powerless and 
 shadowed by infamy, her loyalty would have made him 
 out a despot, if he had not taken that high road of his 
 own accord. But he had written to her the night before 
 he was to appear, a letter — not long — which shows 
 clearly that arrogance had grown upon him with dis- 
 grace. Terseness was his vein, and a repression of feel- 
 ing which might well have seemed cavalier to a less pliant 
 mistress. 
 
 "My beloved," he wrote, "I must bid you farewell for 
 a season which must be long, and shall be as much longer 
 as you please. They will condemn me, I am sure; but 
 that is little. There is another assize in which I am 
 judge, jury, and pi'isoner, and in which I condemn my- 
 self. I shall ask no reprieve here. What I have of yours 
 you will never take from me; but what you have left I 
 will never take from you unless you bid me. Your 
 lover." 
 
 She didn't see that it was an arrogant letter, that the 
 signature in particular was extremely arrogant. It as- 
 sumed entire dominion, not only of her heart and destin}', 
 but of the hearts and needs of all men. "Your lover" ! 
 And she with a dozen lovers ! It was on a par with the 
 Yo el Rey of Spanish kings. Yet the poor girl kissed it 
 often, and wore it faint in her bosom.
 
 344 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 As for the preliminaries, Ranald gave her an account 
 of them. Only one witness had been called — a ]\Ir. 
 Banks, a critic and historian. Mr. Banks? she had 
 echoed, a Mr. Alojsius Banks? Yes, that was the 
 party — cavernous kind of a man with a booming voice, 
 who "deemed it to have been his painful duty to be pres- 
 ent at an assembly of persons who" — that sort of a man. 
 
 She said that she knew him. He was the first English- 
 man she had spoken with upon landing, two years ago. 
 "I have met him since, too. He used to come to the 
 house. I asked granny to send him a card for a party. 
 I believe he dined. I thought he liked me." 
 
 "He likes your family," said Ranald; but she did not 
 catch the implication. 
 
 Banks, he thought, would be an awkward customer. 
 There was this about his testimony which he did not tell 
 her. He had seen Banks come into court between two 
 noble lords. The Marquis of Badlcsmere was one — Lady 
 Morfa's brother — and Lord Barwise the other. Lady 
 Morfa's son-in-law. Now, how could Banks be cross- 
 examined with effect if you had to leave out Lords 
 Badlesmere and Barwise, and their relations with the 
 witness? Banks was an informer, of course — ^but who 
 were his principals ? Not the executive, Ranald thought ; 
 he was not of their camp. Then it must be Caryll House, 
 acting through Lords Badlesmere and Barwise ; and, in 
 that case, the defence was tongue-tied. 
 
 The defence did what it could. Sir Samuel Romilly
 
 THE LAW INTERVENES 345 
 
 had been retained, and Mr, Brougham. Then darkness 
 settled down upon the Brompton lodgings, and Mary- 
 Fox lost flesh, anxious for her friend. 
 
 The case came on in June — middle of June — and made 
 some stir, because, in spite of everything Ranald could 
 do, the accessory facts became known. London rang 
 with them : the newspapers, the ballad-sellers, the print- 
 sellers, all the "damned tinker's pack of curs" were on to 
 it, and noses down, tracked the scent. It made for the 
 popularity of Vernour, as Ranald owned; it settled his 
 private affairs ; it made the prospects of Mr. Banks less 
 rosy. liOrd Sandgate took it upon himself to overlook 
 the briefs : Mr. Banks's noble friends were not forgotten. 
 He did more. He instructed Cobbett, he instructed the 
 Examiner, and in a speech which he made in the City on 
 the eve of the trial he did not scruple to allude to the 
 romantic circumstances under which this accomplished 
 young man and hopeful citizen became involved in a 
 snare of public malice and private rancour to parallel 
 which he must needs have searched the Register of Let- 
 tres de cachet, happily burned with their partner in in- 
 famy, the Bastille. The town caught at the allusion 
 and wormed out the romantic circumstances. Back came 
 the butcher's horse, the visit to Brook Street ; back the 
 "Lad in blue," and the "Lady in white" ; back the famous 
 print, "Cob-it, my hearty ! " And this was the eve of 
 the trial. 
 
 She watched out the day with Mary Fox. She did not
 
 346 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 cry, but she could not pretend to courage. She had far 
 rather have been present: the thing was how to get 
 through the hours. At twelve o'clock she got up and 
 went for a walk ; but she had the fancy that everybody 
 was looking at her and had to come back. It is the fact 
 that she had seen the unhallowed print in a bookseller's 
 window, and was unnerved by it. She told Mary that if 
 somebody had slupped her on the cheek, she would have 
 got her courage back. And so it happened: somebody 
 did. 
 
 At five, or half after, from her window she saw Mr. 
 Ranald ride up to the door, and turned to wait for him, 
 holding her heart. 
 
 He was shown in, and she received him standing. No 
 greetings passed. 
 
 "You will need your courage," he said. 
 
 She had nothing to say. 
 
 "They've found him guilty, the hounds — ^but we've 
 got old Banks into the mire." Her eyes asked, not her 
 lips. 
 
 "The thing is atrocious. lEllenborough ! Lieking his 
 lips before he began — like a wolfish usher with his cane. 
 Miss Chambre, he has six months and a fine of £250." 
 
 She laughed aloud. "That! Tons!" 
 
 He added, "There's more. He's to stand three hours 
 in the pillory, and put all England to shame. By God, I 
 wish I were in his shoes ! We'd bring down Northumber- 
 land House about their ears."
 
 THE LAW INTER\"ENES 347 
 
 This was her slap on the face. The hot blood spread. 
 "When is this to be?" 
 
 "To-mon'ow week, at Charing Cross. Oh, the ingenu- 
 ity of these rascals ! The House rises that day — do you 
 see? If there's a row, they can do their work quietly — 
 no questions asked — and Burdett comes out, too. Oh, 
 they've worked it well. A row there'll be. But you 
 must be out of this." 
 
 "I shall go, of course," she said; and he could have 
 kissed her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 PILLORY AND TUMBRIL 
 
 T ORD RODONO was the first to hear of it. He was 
 ■^"^in the lobby of the House, which was about to be pro- 
 rogued by a king's speech, and had just divided. In these 
 days he had lived very much to himself, unknown to his 
 usual haunts, missed alike at Brooks's, Newmarket, Crow- 
 land House. He held by the House of Commons, be- 
 cause a man must do something, and because he felt that 
 he must stay on, somehow, and "see the end." He knew 
 all about the trial, natural!}^, and the end of it ; he raged 
 over the scandal, and loathed all the actors in it. Hermia 
 herself was cheapened and soiled — and yet "the pity ! 
 the pity ! " He had not been face to face with her since 
 that evening in the spring when she was brought to 
 Clarges Street by Oh, damn it, the thing was hide- 
 ous! 
 
 But he had followed everything since his battle with 
 Vernour, when he had acknowledged the man's integrity ; 
 he had known where Hermia was living, had allowed 
 Ranald to talk of her and her prospects, had seen Ranald 
 getting deeper and deeper into her graces, and deeper 
 and deeper into need of them. Bob Ranald was "one of 
 us" by now. Not in the running — nobody had a ghost
 
 PILLORY AND TUMBRIL 349 
 
 of a chance beside that accursed butcher — but running, 
 apparently, for glory and honour — for the sake of her 
 whom he called the "starriest girl in all England." 
 Rodono felt that he could have been Ranald's best man 
 with pride and thanksgiving ; but the butcher — oh, God ! 
 No, a woman, to be perfect in his eyes, must be unspotted 
 from the world, cloistered and approached only on the 
 knees — by all men but one. 
 
 Some such thoughts as these — constant with him at the 
 time — filled him now as he ground his heel into the pave- 
 ment and sunk his hands deeper into his breeches pockets. 
 
 "She's mired herself — she's draggled — faugh! what a 
 maid fell there ! Bewitched, besotted, beguiled, betrayed ! 
 What a high head — and down it droops ! What a bold 
 flight — toppled, shot in the breast ! " 
 
 A man came through the lobbies, rather breathless, 
 news in his face. He was triumphant over his little grain 
 of knowledge. 
 
 Rodono stood alone, his hat over his eyes, and the new- 
 comer caught sight of him. Something was wrong with 
 Tom, who cut his old friends — now, if one could wake 
 him up ! One might try. The man of news stopped. 
 
 "I say, Tom, my boy, there's a rare row — Cobbett's at 
 it — and the Orator, foaming at the mouth." 
 
 "Ah!" said Rodono, "I dare say. What else? Any- 
 thing new? Where's your row, Cassonby?" 
 
 "Charing Cross — over the butcher's carcase." That 
 pricked him.
 
 350 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "What do you mean — carcase? They've not ?" 
 
 Mr. Cassonby tossed his whiskered face. "Good Lord, 
 no. Otherwise. They're ready to break up the pillory. 
 She's there, you know." 
 
 "She.?" What eyes Rodono had! Cold steel! Mr. 
 Cassonby knew better than to quote the ballads, of wliich 
 he had a stock. ^ 
 
 "Miss Chambre's there," he said. "Facing 'em all. 
 They treat her like a queen." 
 
 Tom Rodono was certainly in Queer Street, as Mr. 
 Cassonby informed the next man he met. "I was telling 
 him a devilish good story — putting it devilish well, too — 
 for I was moved, sir, dammy, I was moved — and off he 
 goes as if shot from a gun. I saw the lady come — she's 
 been there three-quarters of an hour. Came with Bob 
 Ranald — on the arm of Bob — and a veiled friend. Bob 
 clears the road as he'd clear decks. 'Way there, my lads, 
 way there,' says Bob, humouring the fellows — you know 
 Bob ! So she comes up through a lane of them as if she 
 was at a drawing-room — and stands underneath the 
 stage, and faces 'em all. And Bob — httle Bob — he keeps 
 a clear space for her — marches up and down, true 
 quarter-deck fashion. Oh, it was rare ! They cry three 
 cheers for 'Lady Vernour,' if you please. Lady Ver- 
 nour ! They marry her and raise her to the peerage all 
 in a breath — that's what we're coming to with our 
 blessed Reform. The mob'll make peers when they've 
 unmade a few. You'll see. . . . Lady Vernour! . . .
 
 PILLORY AND TUMBRLL 351 
 
 Up comes old Cobbett on horseback — they give him room 
 enough — and rope enough, hey? He was haranguing 
 when I left. But she was rare — never flinched, never 
 bhnked — just did what she had to do — and stuck to it, 
 sir — kept on with it-" 
 
 All this Tom Rodono had missed; but going down 
 Westminster Hall he could not miss Lord Sandgate, who 
 met him fuU. 
 
 They had not had much to say to each other of late, 
 and what there had been to say bore no reference to Miss 
 Chambre's affair. Lord Sandgate was by nature re- 
 served, and in consequence suspicious of reserve in other 
 men's dealings with him. He had striven hard in Ver- 
 nour's defence, the reader knows, and had made so bold 
 as to drag in the Caryll House faction for the scarifying 
 of Mr. Banks. He suspected, not without reason, that 
 Rodono did not praise him for this, and kept out of his 
 colleague's neighbourhood. He would have passed him 
 now with a nod had not something in the fierce striding 
 of the man caught his attention — something fell in his 
 purpose. As it was, he stopped him. 
 
 "Where are you going, Tom ?" 
 
 Rodono met his eye without, at first, seeming to recog- 
 nise him ; but he, too, stopped, and a dullish hue of grey 
 spread over his face. Rodono, his temper lost, had a devil. 
 
 "You've a right to know, I suppose. I'm going to 
 her."
 
 352 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "Ha! Where is she?" 
 
 "At your pillory, my lord. Where you drove her 
 to be." 
 
 "You have no right to say that — but I can't quarrel 
 with you now. I come with you." 
 
 "You can do as you please," said Rodono. Before they 
 had reached the Horse Guards, they could hear the roar- 
 ing of the mob at Charing Cross. 
 
 Squalid splendour, or homely strength, whichever you 
 please, have always marked our country, which can 
 choose to rule a share of two worlds from a little 
 brown house in Downing Street. Squalor beyond de- 
 scription vile was spread broad over the field at Char- 
 ing Cross where, on that midsummer day, the pageant 
 of an offended realm was displayed. And yet the scene 
 as viewed from afar did not lack in force of character. 
 From the entry of Whitehall you might have seen it en- 
 acted in dumb show, by creatures less than men ; for the 
 ground ran up from Westminster, and no staging, no 
 crucificial gallows could make headway against the great 
 mass of Northumberland House. So our two gentlemen 
 saw it, as a scene, above the swarming masses of men, 
 between tossing flags, caps in the air, flung-up hands — 
 dumbly done amidst a hubbub of hoarse voices — waxing 
 and waning like a heavy sea — now angry, gathering, and 
 low — hooting Castlereagh or Canning — and anon swell- 
 ing into a roar of cheers as some popular name was
 
 PILLORY AND TUMBRIL 353 
 
 thrown upon the waves. Above and beyond all this, upon 
 a wooden platform stood the crosses, as they seemed ; the 
 ffm-shaped gallows-trees wherefrom three fixed faces 
 stared, and six hands drooped helpless and unhappily 
 white. About stood the sheriffs' officers and the con- 
 stables — a short person in a gown and cocked hat seemed 
 to be reading a proclamation ; and at the further fringe 
 of the crowd a broad-shouldered rider, his hat waving in 
 his hand, was roaring himself hoarse in rivalry. The 
 windows of the ducal house were full — ladies were there, 
 and gentlemen — some in uniform. The rest was sun- 
 glare, dust, and flung-up arms ; and over all the rising 
 surge of noise, now angry, now wild in triumph. 
 
 "Come," said Lord Sandgate, "or we shall be too late.'* 
 Rodono needed no prompting ; he was in front, battling 
 a way through. The outskirts here were easy — dandies 
 on horseback making bets — traders with limp ballads, 
 wet from the press, chariots, with ladies standing on the 
 box-seat, a juggler v-ith a white rabbit, pick-pockets, 
 beggars, and harsh-faced women, draggle-tailed and 
 tousle-haired. Beyond this fringe Rodono had to use 
 his shoulders, then his voice. He descended to working 
 with his own name, and was rewarded with a "God bless 
 you, my lord," and room made. He was not known — but 
 Lord Sandgate fared better. "Let my lord go through 
 — ^the people's friend" — and a cheer for Reform. 
 
 It was Sandgate at last who led the way ; his name 
 carried further than his title — but it could not work
 
 354 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 miracles. To cleave that jammed mass of sweating, 
 roaring humanity he must use a sharper weapon, and 
 not scruple. "Let us pass, if you please — we are going 
 to the lady. We are friends — let us pass." "Lady Ver- 
 nour! God bless her ladyship! Make room — make 
 room ! " Thus they made their way, and saw the stout 
 Captain Ranald striding up and down the cockpit he had 
 cleared — saw his alert, authoritative eyes, his squared 
 jaw, his weathered cheeks — heard his comfortable 
 "Steady there, my lads, and keep the peace" — and saw 
 then the pale girl, in her white dress, a veil about her 
 brows, standing calm, unfaltering, and steady-eyed — 
 like Mary at the foot of the cross. 
 
 The bitterness, the shamefulness, the gall ! Rodono 
 went white to the lips. He turned on Sandgate and 
 smote him with his anger. "You've done this, you 
 damned procurer ; you're answerable for this ! " His 
 voice was a sword. 
 
 But Lord Sandgate did not flinch. "I'll answer you 
 an3rwhere but here. At present we've a dut}'^ — to her. 
 If I did, I'm proud of it." He hoped that he was. 
 
 She made no sign when they came and stood one on 
 each side of her and her veiled friend, Mary Fox ; it 
 seemed that she had got beyond the stage of conscious- 
 ness ; as though all her nerves and faculties, bent before 
 to the one task of endurance, were now set hard; as 
 though she stood because she was stiffened. No one 
 spoke. Gradually Rodono also stiffened, and lost his
 
 PILLORY AND TUMBRIL 355 
 
 burning sense of wrong done. The million-eyed, surg- 
 ing, hoarsely murmuring sea tossed before him unheeded ; 
 he, too, was learning how best to endure. Of them all, 
 the one person who kept his wits about him was the fever- 
 taut Ranald. 
 
 There was plainly no danger to be feared from those 
 in front. The beauty, the stillness, and the dignity of 
 the young girl held the mob's eyes and subdued its 
 tongue. It would as soon have intruded upon one 
 dead. But the pressure from behind was very serious, 
 and from the sides came now and again an ugly sound. 
 On the steps of the Golden Cross over the Strand, speaker 
 after speaker stood up — shouted, gesticulated, pointed 
 this way and that, all in dumb show, and was answered 
 by a roar. No stones were thrown, and there was, on 
 the whole, more good-humoured admiration for the vic- 
 tims than rage against the officers. This was the state 
 of affairs at half-past four, when Rodono had been with 
 her half an hour. There was another hour to go yet; 
 and a diversion was approaching from Cockspur Street — 
 a four-horse open chariot was making its way through 
 the crowd at the back. You could see now and again 
 the fretful crests of the horses, the bobbing white hats 
 of postilions, the heads of the two footmen, with staves, 
 swaying behind; and above all this the coachman in 
 three-cornered hat and wig. You could tell by the bend- 
 ing of his shoulders that he was humouring his cattle, 
 and in a mortal terror.
 
 356 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 The crowd divided — some hats went off, there was some 
 cheering, but not much. Anyhow, there was no hooting, 
 and the liveries were not scarlet. Rodono, who had 
 thought one of the Princesses might have blundered into 
 the thing, or that one, in particular, might have chosen 
 to brazen her case before such a mob, was puzzled and 
 intrigued. Was it a rescue? Was it — could it be — ? 
 By the Lord Harry, but it was ! The carriage came on 
 by inches at a time — and now he could see the single, 
 nodding occupant. Her dowager ladyship of Morf a was 
 come to take her share, and his heart went out to the old, 
 white eagle-face. "By God, the old wolf will fight for 
 her cubs ! " 
 
 The Morfa chariot it was which made its way to the 
 foot of the scaffold. Even so Hermia had to be told. 
 Ranald told her, after he had exchanged a word or two 
 with her ladyship. 
 
 The old Countess, after nodding and blinking at her 
 girl — and in vain — had beckoned him up. "Get her in, 
 Mr. Ranald. She can't stop here." 
 
 "I fear, my lady, that she means it. I can't force her." 
 
 "Ask her to speak to me. Let this be stopped." 
 
 "I'll ask her." 
 
 He spoke to her, he touched her on the arm. "Your 
 grandmother wishes to speak to you. She has come 
 here." Hermia seemed to awake out of her dream at 
 that.
 
 PILLORY AND TUMBRIL 357 
 
 "Where is grandmamma?" 
 
 "Here — in the carriage." 
 
 "Give me your arm, please." He took her up. The 
 mob craned and surged, then swept back to give lier 
 place. 
 
 "Hermia, child," said her ladyship, "I implore you to 
 come with me." 
 
 She shook her head. "Not now, granny — not yet." 
 The old lady moistened her dry lips. 
 
 "I'm an old woman, my dear — and I ask it of you." 
 Hermia had tears in her eyes, for the first time that day. 
 
 "You know that I would come — if I could. Oh, granny, 
 my place is there ! " 
 
 "We cannot argue — we cannot talk of these things, 
 my child." 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "I have come for j^ou — I have brought myself so far — 
 and I am an old woman." 
 
 "Dearest granny — if I could ! But — ah, you must not 
 ask me to leave — David." Shaking head and blinking 
 eyes — the old eagle of a woman. Old as she was, she 
 whipped herself forward. 
 
 "I wish to say — I have come to say — that I knew noth- 
 ing of this. I have been ill. They told me nothing." 
 
 She had never supposed it — had not been told of 
 Banks's alliances. Truth and candour beamed in her 
 eyes, as she answered, "No, no, granny. I am sure — I 
 am quite sure." But she would not come — she could not.
 
 358 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Therefore, Lady Morfa sat it out, and Hermia went 
 back to her post. 
 
 The dragoons, who had been sent for at half-past three, 
 came down Cockspur Street, and were first seen by Ver- 
 nour — the midmost of the cruciform wretches, staring 
 there dry-tongued and dizzy. He made inarticulate 
 noises in his throat, which were heard by a constable, 
 and, oddly enough, attended to. The man was a good 
 fellow. 
 
 "'Are you ill, Mr. Vemour? Are you ill, sir?" 
 
 "No, no," said Vernour. "The soldiers. Take her 
 away. Get her away." 
 
 Ranald saw him contorting up there, and went to him. 
 No one stopped him. He mounted the platform. Ver- 
 nour repeated his order. "Tell her to go — it is my 
 desire. There is terrible work coming." Ranald looked, 
 and saw it coming. Plain enough to his practised eye. 
 The people had faced the soldiery, but did not budge. 
 Oaths and fierce cries from the midst were heard. The 
 officer in command had a restive horse; here were the 
 elements of something grim. 
 
 "Yes, yes, Vernour ; she ought to go — and the car- 
 riage, too. Good God, that old dragon of a lady ! You 
 desire her — ^to go ?" He motioned with his eyes — he was 
 nearly done. Ranald went down and spoke to Hermia, 
 who looked up in alarm, and wavered, swayed about. 
 
 She recovered in a moment, and wavered no more. She 
 went up the ladder, in a tense silence from all who could
 
 PILLORY AND TUMBRIL 359 
 
 see her; Ranald followed. She had a little phial of 
 brandy in her hand, and went to him with it. She fed 
 him, drop by drop, and whispered to him — none heard 
 what she said. She succoured the other two, one of 
 whom, a mere boy, was bending at the knees. 
 
 Ranald spoke to the sheriff. "Take these men down, 
 sir. There'll be murder here." The sheriff was very 
 much perplexed. 
 
 "I can't take orders from you, Mr. Ranald." 
 
 "You get them straight from hell, I think. How much 
 more of this is there to be .?" 
 
 He got no answer, and expected none. He saw that 
 the stones were flying — and remarked also that the mur- 
 mur was lulled so that you could hear the sharp order 
 of the officer, and the rattle of arms, as the men obeyed. 
 "By God, they're going to fire ! " 
 
 A man galloped up to the officer and spoke to him. 
 Immediately afterwards, a stone hit him on the head — 
 Ranald saw him cower sideways and clap up his hand to 
 his face. 
 
 All heads were turned towards the coming battle; the 
 crowd, led as it always is by its front, was pushing 
 towards the dragoons. Vernour gasped out his com- 
 mand — "Go, Hermia, go ! " — two of the constables spoke 
 to her. Orders were peremptory — she must leave the 
 platform. She turned — she dared not look at her lover, 
 for fear of his terrible, tortured face and glazing eyes — 
 but she was wild, and knew not what she was doing. She
 
 360 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 raised her face — a pale, tragic face it was — and kissed 
 the helpless hand near her ; and then suffered herself to 
 be led away. 
 
 She was not a moment too soon. By the time she had 
 been put into the carriage with Mary Fox, and the 
 horses turned to Whitehall, the mob was surging up to 
 meet the dragoons — the scaffold and its burden were 
 almost deserted. She saw — it was the last thing she 
 saw — the three crosses stand up against Northumber- 
 land House, as it were in a desert place ; and then she 
 fainted. She did not hear the volley which ended the 
 day's work. Ranald had to tell her of that, and said 
 that he had never guessed before what a coward he was.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 IN WHICH THE HON. CAPTAIN RANALD EPILOGISES 
 
 CLOSE with what scattered notes I have left, to ac- 
 count as best I can for the remaining maiden years of 
 Miss Chambre's Hfe. Her story, however, so far as my 
 present purposes are concerned, was virtually told with 
 the shot which ended Vemour's earthly course. She lived 
 them, I understand, mainly, if not altogether, in the 
 country : at Wrensham, whither the Dowager Lad}' jNIorf a 
 retreated before the advance of the new Countess; in 
 Ireland, with the George Foxes ; rarely at Petersham ; 
 and, for one visit certainly, in the west of Scotland, where 
 Lord and Lady Clanranald occupied a scarred fortalice 
 ■ — "as poor as rats and as keen as rats-bane," was the 
 description of his parents given her by Captain Ranald, 
 heir of the ragged demesne. "A pair of old ravens," 
 some other wag termed them, "sitting on a scaur, looking 
 sideways for death." They were very kind to the girl, 
 and liked her. They reported her docile and affectionate. 
 Docile and affectionate ! — Hermia Mary ! This must 
 have been, the reader sees, a long time after her fiery 
 ordeal. It was, in fact, nearly three years afterwards, 
 when Bob Ranald's hopes were high, and the wounded 
 amazon more resigned to her lot.
 
 2Q2 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 Poor young Vemour, shot by a chance ball of that vol- 
 ley which she had not heard, was forgotten by the world 
 which had been ready to make much of him, given a 
 favouring star. There had been an inquest, at which 
 Ranald made a scene, and did his best to get committed ; 
 there had been regrets from the Home Office, and a talk 
 of prosecution — but none followed. The law officers 
 were clear on the points ; it could not be denied that the 
 Riot Act had been read, stones thrown, the cheek of a 
 sheriff of Middlesex cut open. Besides, who did the 
 deed? How can you indict a squadron? Was it to be 
 supposed that any hand had been murderously, deliber- 
 ately levelled at a man tied in the pillory ? Nothing was 
 done ; as Ranald had said, the day had been well chosen. 
 Parliament was up that day ; Sir Francis was enlarged ; 
 within a week Mr. Cobbett was standing to answer a 
 charge of libel, and within three weeks he was in gaol. 
 These were timely diversions, and confounded the pop- 
 ular party. Vernour was no longer a handle for Lord 
 Sandgate's battle-axe. Lord Sandgate, indeed, dropped 
 him. Better for his uses an imprisoned Cobbett than a 
 dead Vernour. 
 
 But my Lord Sandgate could not so easily drop Tom 
 Rodono, whose affair with him marks the end of a pain- 
 ful scandal. It had a paragraph in The Morning Post, 
 and half a column in the Examiner. The Morning 
 Chronicle, which was the Whig organ, did not notice it 
 at all. The gentlemen met on Wimbledon Common, on
 
 CAPTAIN RANALD SUMS UP 363 
 
 the morning of that day on which they buried Vernour ; 
 Lord Morfa was Rodono's second. They exchanged a 
 shot apiece, and Sandgate fired first — but wide. Rodono 
 hit him in the shoulder, and, it is thought, nicked the 
 bone. However, both combatants rode off the ground, 
 after expressing themselves in becoming terms. 
 
 After the dismal rites were done, she fell into a state of 
 listlessness and apathy. She did not cry (not being of 
 the sort that gets relief that blessed way), and was per- 
 fectly amiable, but she was without a will of her own — 
 except on one point, and that an odd one. Nothing could 
 tempt her to leave her grandmother for long, not even 
 the wooing of JNIary Fox, of green Kilbride, and the 
 sweet, wet gales of Roscommon ; she who had so stoutly 
 played the rebel was now an ardent Loyalist. True, the 
 fierce old woman was somewhat broken; true that she 
 quailed before the brown-eyed little Cotmtess Harriet and 
 her array. "Moon-struck," they said, the stern old 
 warrior ; and it's certain that she never met her daughter- 
 in-law in this world. So that ft may have been pity which 
 touched the rebel heart — and, if so, that's to its credit ; 
 but I believe that it was admiration. Steel fires steel. I 
 believe that it was the spectacle of the nodding old eagle 
 enduring the shame of London — the gaping, the nudg- 
 ing, the tongues in the cheeks — which spoke to her, as 
 it were, with a voice : Here is a franchise worthy of your 
 esteem, and here a pride above your own. Bend youjr 
 knee, Norman.
 
 364< THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 The Hon. Captain Ranald, while pursuing his political 
 adventures, kept an eye open to what chances he might 
 have of possessing his bruised goddess. He knew that 
 they could only improve with time; but he intended to 
 have her, if waiting patiently could help him. It was 
 her spirit he loved, he told himself — the spirit she had 
 once had — though her beauty, to his mind, was enhanced 
 by the pale and pensive cast it wore. With these things 
 won, he vowed that he should be content. "She'll never 
 love me, I know," he told his friend ClifFe Jenyns, the 
 traveller and poet. "She's the kind that gives once, and 
 gives all. If I get her, it will be like marrying a nun." 
 
 "Not it, my boy," said the genial Cliffe, "if you are the 
 man I believe you." But Ranald shook his head. "I'm 
 not romantic, but I can see the vestal in her. God bless 
 you, why do you suppose she tumbled into that young 
 man's arms?" 
 
 "Fine fellow, you tell me, fine figure of a young man. 
 Had parts — spoke well, could think — is that what you 
 mean ?" 
 
 Ranald snapped his fingers. "Pooh, sir, nothing of the 
 , sort ! His greatest chance with her was that she knew 
 nothing about him. It was all gossamer-web of her own 
 spinning. The business was done on that visit of hers 
 to Brook Street — you remember, I told you about that 
 at the time — to apologise. Well, she was in a great 
 fright, and no wonder. He got the benefit of that — 
 don't you see? She was there to sing small, and she be-
 
 CAPTAIN RANALD SUMS UP 365 
 
 came small ; the smaller ^he, the greater he. As she 
 stooped, he towered up, higher and higher. She pro- 
 jected him as a god, and god he remained to the end of 
 the chapter. All a generous figment of her brain — I'm 
 sure of it. . . . 
 
 "Mind you, I knew Vernour well, and admired him. 
 He had character — a quiet force ; and it did so happen 
 that he could make use of it. Politics ! they had nothing 
 to do with the matter. She knew no politics except by 
 hearsay ; if she had any leanings herself, it was towards 
 aristocracy. She was one to the tips of her finger-nails. 
 No; he struck her imagination, and she chose — as 
 queens used to choose. As for him — damn it, he was a 
 male." 
 
 Cliffe Jenyns laughed. "What are you. Bob, for in- 
 stance — politician or male?" 
 
 "I don't say. It's not come to that — and I suppose 
 I'm a gentleman. What I mean is this — that there's a 
 field which politics can't touch, a fund in this old world 
 which will outlive science and all our blessed systems. I 
 agree with Tom Paine, of course — as far as he goes. If 
 a man is not finer than a king, God help the monarch^' ; 
 and if he is, why, God will stand aside. So down goes 
 the monarchy at the proper time. But there's a Right of 
 Man unconsidered by Tom ; and I say that she lent her- 
 self to the proving of it. She submitted, she stooped to 
 be the. test case. And, by God, she proved it." 
 
 "Do you mean that the eternal male ?"
 
 366 THE STOOPING LADY 
 
 "I do. He was no more than that essentially — splendid 
 brawn. But she was the Divinity who submitted to a 
 man — for us men. Democracy in practice ! She took us 
 a step beyond the Rights of Man, which we're all prating 
 about, to the Rights of Nature, which will outlast all 
 politics and politii:ians — when she, the noble, free-moving 
 creature, in her own way, worked out the Right of Man — 
 of any man who is one — to choose his mate. Other 
 things being equal — as they were here — no caste can 
 stand out against that. Had she been an archduchess, it 
 would have made no difference." 
 
 "Your course is clear," said Jenyns. "Advance, man, 
 and choose." 
 
 "Not now. She gave him all — as they do, my friend, 
 as they do — and once for all. I shall get a shell, but I 
 shall take it." 
 
 He stared at the fire, then broke out again. "She's the 
 sort that must give, that thrives only so. She has 
 breasts ; she must feed the hungry. She stoops from 
 her high seat and sheds heaven upon us ; and it's not 
 one in ten thousand that sees the condescension, the 
 magnanimity, the extraordinary bounty. The Stooping 
 Lady ! The Stooping Lady ! That's what I call her. 
 . . .. I'll tell you what it is, Cliff e ; she'd have me to- 
 morrow if she thought I w»as broken.'* 
 
 He was right there. 
 
 THE END.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 50»/!-l,'63(D4743s8)476
 
 3 1205 02043 0474 
 
 iiiiiiiiiS^^^^
 
 •>>>y' 
 
 Sx^t'^^^t-^; 
 
 "ttf>i' 
 
 •JjJj!^? 
 
 
 Kr 
 
 
 |l^.rs>;v>.:-i^ 
 
 
 
 
 C'j 
 
 
 Rki 
 
 ^H^>'?>'^ 
 
 
 
 ;!;'^;5;i 
 
 tk^' 
 
 >vt*i>j^i; 
 
 ►t 
 
 
 
 
 lti^ 
 
 
 !$^ 
 
 J% 
 
 ^IJ