LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE I 
 6 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE U 
 6 
 
 ^ -^...-....••- ^ y^ --^.^-- ^ ^ 
 
 ^^^<>^^^i 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE U 
 
iZl 
 
 Y OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 
 iY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 i 
 
 UL. /,/. 
 
 >- \ 
 
 fY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Lll 
 
VIZETELLY'S HALF-CROWN SERIES. 
 
 PARIS HERSELF AGAIN. By George Aogustus Sal^. Ninth Edition. -558 
 pages and 350 Engravings. 
 
 " On subjects like those in his present worlc, Mr Sala is at his best." — The Times. 
 
 '' This boolc is one of the most readable that has appeared for many a day. Few 
 Englislimen know so much of old and modern Paris as Mr Sala." — Truth. 
 
 UNDER THE SUN. Essays Mainly Written in Hot Countries. By George 
 
 Augustus Sala. A New Edition. Illustrated with VI page Engravings and an 
 etched Portrait of tlie Author. 
 " There are nearly four hundred pages between the covers of this volume, which 
 means that they contain plenty of excellent reading." — St James's Gazette. 
 
 DUTCH PICTURES AND PICTURES DONE WITH A QUILL. By George 
 
 Augustus Sala. A New Edition. Illustrated with 8 page engravings. 
 '• ;Mr Sala"s best work lias in it something of Montaigne, a great deal of Charles 
 Lamb — made deeper and broader — and not a little of Lamb's model, the accomplished 
 and quaint Sir Thomas Brown. These " Dutch Pictures " and " Pictures Done with a 
 Quill," display to pei-fection the quick eye, good taste, and ready hand of the born 
 essayist — tlicy are never tire-iome." — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN FRANCE UNDER THE REPUBLIC. Social and Satirical 
 Sketches in Paris and the.Provinces. By E. c. Grexville-Murray. Third 
 
 Edition, with a Frontispiece, 
 
 - A very clever and entertaining series of social and satirical sketches, almost French 
 in their point and vivacity." — Contemporary Review. 
 
 " A most amusing book, and no less instructive if read with allowances and under- 
 standing.'- — World. 
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. By E. C. Geenville-Murray. A New Edition. With S 
 page Engravmgs from Designs by F. Barnard. 
 
 " Mr Grenville-Murray's pages sparkle with cleverness and with a shrewd wit, 
 caustic or cynical at times, but by no means excluding a due appreciation of the softer 
 virtues of M'omen and the sterner excellencies of men." — Spectator. 
 
 " All of ]\Ir Grenville-:.Iurray's portraits are clever and life-like, and some of them 
 are not unworthy of a model who was more before the author's eyes than Addison — 
 namely, Thackeray."— r/V(</i. 
 
 A BOOK OF COURT SCANDAL. 
 CAROLINE BAUER AND THE COBURGS. From the German, with two care- 
 fully engraved Porti-aits. 
 •• Caroline Bauer's name became in a mysterious and almost tragic manner connected 
 with those of two men highly esteemed and well remembered in England — Pi'ince 
 Leopold of Coburg, and his nephew, Prince Albert's trusty friend and adviser, Baron 
 Stockmar." — The Times . 
 
 THE STORY OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE, told in Detail for the First 
 Time, a New Edition. By Henry Vizetelly. Illustrated with an autlientic 
 representation of the Diamond Necklace, and a Portrait of the Countess De la 
 Motte engraved on steel. 
 " Had the most daring of our sensational Novelists put forth the present plain un- 
 varnished statement of facts as a work of fiction, it would have been denounced as so 
 violating all probabilities as to be a positive insult to the common sense of the reader. 
 Yet strange, startling, incomprehensible as is the narrative which the author has here 
 evolved, every word of it is true." — Notes and Queries 
 
 GUZMAN OF ALFARAQUE. A Spanish Novel, translated by E. Lowdell. Illus- 
 trated with highly finished Steel Engravings from Designs from Stahl. 
 "The wit, vivacity, and variety of this masterpiece cannot be over-estimated."-^ 
 Morning Post. 
 
In Half-CroLun Monthly Volumes, post 8uo, each uol. containing 
 about 500 pp., bound in cloth, with cut or uncut edges. 
 
 THE MERMAID SERIES. 
 
 '• I lie and dream of your full Meiinaid wine." 
 
 — Fbancis Beaumont to Ben Josson. 
 
 AN UNEXPURGATED EDITION OF 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 UNDER THE GENERAL EDITORSHIP OF 
 
 HAVELOCK ELLIS. 
 
 In the ISIermaid Series are being issued the best plays of the Elizabethan and later 
 dramatists— plays which, with Shakespeare's works, constitute the chief contribution 
 of the English spirit to the literature of the world. The Editors who have given their 
 assistance to the undertaking include men of literary eminence, who have distinguished 
 themselves in this field, as well as younger writers of ability. 
 
 Each volume contains on an average five complete plays, prefaced by an Introductory 
 Notice of the Author. In every instance the utmost pains is taken to secure the best 
 text, the spelling is modernised, and brief but adequate notes are supplied. In no case 
 do the Plays undergo any process of expurgation. It is believed that, although they 
 may sometimes run counter to what is called modern taste, the free and splendid 
 energj' of Elizabethan art, with its extreme realism and its extreme idealism — em- 
 bodying, as it does, the best traditions of the English Drama — will not suffer from the 
 frankest representation. 
 
 VOLUMES NOW READY. 
 
 Containing upwards of 500 pages and an Engraved Portrait of Francis Beaumont. 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. With 
 an Introduction and Notes by J. St Loe Strachev. 
 
 Containing nearly 500 pages and an Etched Portrait of Middleton, 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF THOMAS MIDDLETON. With an 
 Introduction by Algernon Cuarles Swinburne. 
 
 With an Etched FuU-Length Portrait of Alleyne, the Actor, from the Picture at 
 
 Dulwich College, the Third Edition of 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF CHRISTOPHER MARLCWE. Edited, 
 
 with Critical Memoir and Notes, by Havelock Ellis, and containing a General 
 
 Introduction to the Series by J. Addington Symonds. 
 
 Containing 530 pages and an Etched Portrait of Massinger, the Second Edition of 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGER. With a Critical 
 and Biographical Essay and Notes by Arthur Symons. 
 
 TO BE FOLLOWED BY 
 
 The Best plays of CONGREVE, DEKKER, SHIRLEY, 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD, WEBSTER, BEN JONSON, CHAP- 
 MAN, MARSTON, &c. 
 
 VIZETELLY & CO., 42 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 
 
VIZETELL TS ONE- VOL UME NO VELS. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A MERE ACCIDENT 
 
 GEORGE MOORE. 
 
MR GEORGE MOORE S REALISTIC NOVELS. 
 
 Fifth Edition, ivith a Frontispiece. 
 
 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 " Mr George Moore has already proved his right to be considered one of the 
 conspicuous novelists of the day. He can depict human beings in an original and 
 consistent fashion ; he can tell a story well, and he has an excellent eye for 
 effect, so that his novel is picturesque, well constructed, and full of human in- 
 terest." — Athemeitm. 
 
 " The hideous comedy of the man-iage market has been a stock topic with 
 novelists from Thackeray downwards; but Mr Moore goes deep into the yet more 
 hideous tragedy which forms its afterpiece, the tragedy of enforced stagnant 
 celibacy, with its double catastrophe of disease and vice."— Pa?? Mall Gazette. 
 
 Tenth and Revised Edition. 
 
 A MUMMER'S WIFE. 
 
 " An exceedingly clever and powerful book, with two wonderfully-drawn char- 
 acters in it; but I must wani you that it is a study of degradation, masterly but 
 mercilessly done. You are in a moral dissecting-room, watching the demonstra- 
 tion of a brilliant psychological swrgGon."— Truth. 
 
 "A striking book, different in tone from current EngUsh fiction. The woman s 
 character is a verv powerful study." — Athenceum. 
 
 •"A Mummers Wife' is interesting and even absorbing. Mr Moore obsei-ves 
 closely and accurately, describes vividly and unflinchingly. His novel deserves 
 recognition as a serious attempt at something better than tlie ordinaiy fictional 
 frivolities of the dav."— Pa?/ Mall Gazette. 
 
 Fourth Edition. 
 
 A MODERN LOVER. 
 
 " Jlr Moore has a real power of drawing character, and some of his descriptive 
 scenes are capital."— /S7 James's Gazette. 
 
 " It would be difficult to praise too highly the strength, truth, delicacy, and 
 pathos of the incident of Gwynnie Lloyd, and the admirable treatment of the 
 great sacrifice she makes. The incident is depicted with skill and beauty. . . , 
 The world and its ways neither take in this writer, nor do they disgust him. 
 The book is not overdone, is not offensively personal, but is amusing and true.' 
 Spectato): 
 
 YlZETELLY & Co., 42 CATHERINE StEEET, StEAND. 
 
ViZE TELLY'S OnE-VqLUME NoVELS. 
 
 XXYI. 
 
 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 GEORGE MOORE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "a MUMMER'S WIFE,'" "A MODERN LOVER," "A DRAMA IN MUSLIN," ETC. 
 
 LONDON: 
 VIZETELLY &- CO., 42 CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 
 
 BRENTANOS : NEW YORK, WASHINGTON, AND CHICAGO. 
 
 1887. 
 
 ( The Right of Translation is reserved. ) 
 

 TO 
 
 /llb^ ffnenba at Bucftingbam. 
 
 Nearly twenty years have gone since first we met, 
 dear friends ; time has but strengthened our early affec- 
 tions, so for love token, for sign of the years, I bring 
 you this book — these views of your beautiful house and 
 hills where I have spent so many happy days, these 
 last perhaps the hcippiest of all. 
 
 G. M. 
 
 Sa8362'70 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Three hundred yards of smooth, broad, white road 
 leading from Henfield, a small town in Sussex. 
 The grasses are lush, and the hedges are tall and 
 luxuriant. Restless boys scramble to and fro, quiet 
 nursemaids loiter, and a vagrant has sat down to 
 rest though the bank is dripping with autumn rain. 
 How fair a prospect of southern England ! Land 
 of exquisite homeliness and order ; land of town 
 that is country, of country that is town ; land of a 
 hundred classes all deftly interwoven and all waxing 
 to one class — England. Land encrowned with the 
 gifts of peaceful days — days that live in thy face 
 and the faces of thy children. 
 
 B 
 
6 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 See it. The outlying villas with their porches 
 and laurels, the red tiled farm houses, and the 
 brown barns, clustering beneath the wings of beau- 
 tiful trees — elm trees ; see the flat plots of ground 
 of the market gardens, with figures bending over 
 baskets of roots ; see the factory chimney ; there 
 are trees and gables everywhere ; see the end of 
 the terrace, the gleam of glass, the flower vase, the 
 flitting white of the tennis players ; see the long 
 fields with the long team ploughing, see the parish 
 church, see the embowering woods, see the squire's 
 house, see everything and love it, for everything 
 here is England. 
 
 Three hundred yards of smooth, broad, white 
 road, leading from Henfield, a small town in Sussex. 
 It disappears in the woods which lean across the 
 fields towards the downs. The great bluflf heights 
 can be seen, and at the point where the roads 
 cross, where the tall trunks arc listed with golden 
 light, stands a large wooden gate and a small box- 
 
. A MERE ACCIDENT. 7 
 
 like lodge. A lonely place in a densely-populated 
 county. The gatekeeper is blind, and his flute 
 sounds doleful and strange, and the leaves are 
 falling. 
 
 The private road is short and stony. Apparently 
 space was found for it with difficulty, and it got 
 wedged between an enormous holly hedge and a 
 stiff wooden paling. But overhead the great 
 branches fight upwards through a tortuous growth 
 to the sky, and, as you advance, Thornby Place 
 continues to puzzle you with its medley of curious 
 and contradictory aspects. For as the second gate, 
 which is in iron, is approached, your thoughts of 
 rural things are rudely scattered by sight of what 
 seems a London mews. Reason with yourself. 
 This very urban feature is occasioned by the high 
 brick wall which runs parallel with the stables, and 
 this, as you pass round to the front of the house, 
 is hidden in the clothing foliage of a line of ever- 
 green oaks ; continuing along the lawn, the trees 
 bend about the house — a wash of Naples-yellow, 
 
8 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 a few sharp Italian lines and angles. To complete 
 the sketch, indicate the wings of the blown rooks 
 on the sullen sky. 
 
 But our purpose lies deeper than that which 
 inspires a water-colour sketch. We must learn 
 when and why that house was built ; we must see 
 how the facts reconcile its somewhat tawdry, its 
 somewhat suburban aspect, with the richer and 
 more romantic aspects of the park. The park is 
 even now, though it be the middle of autumn, full 
 of blowing green, and the brown circling woods, 
 full of England and English home life. That 
 single tree in the foreground is a lime ; what a 
 splendour of leafage it will be in the summer ! 
 Those four on the right are chestnuts, and those 
 far away, lying between, us and the imperial 
 downs, are elms ; through that vista you can see 
 the grand line, the abrupt hollows, and the bit of 
 chalk road cut zig-zag out of the steep side. Then 
 why the anomaly of Italian urns and pilasters ; why 
 not red Elizabethan gables and diamond casements ? 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 9 
 
 Why not ? Because at the beginning of the 
 century, when Brighton was being built, fragments 
 of architectural gossip were flying about Sussex, 
 and one of these had found its way to, and had 
 rested in, the heart of the grandfather of the pre- 
 sent owner : in a simple and bucolic way he had 
 been seized by a desire for taste and style, and 
 the present building was the result. Therefore it 
 will be well to examine in detail the house which 
 young John Norton of '86 was so fond of declar- 
 ing he could never see without becoming instantly 
 conscious of a sense of dislike, a hatred that he 
 was fond of describing as a sort of constitutional 
 complaint which he was never quite free from, and 
 which any view of the Rockery, or the pilasters of 
 the French bow-window, or indeed of anything 
 pertaining to Thornby Place, called at once into an 
 active existence. 
 
 Thornby Place is but two stories high, and its 
 spruce walls of Portland stone and ashlar work rise 
 sheer out of the green sward ; in front, Doric 
 
10 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 columns support a heavy entablature, and there are 
 urns at the corners of the building. The six 
 windows on the ground floor are topped with round 
 arches, and coming up the drive the house seems 
 a perfect square. But this regularity of structure 
 has on the east side been somewhat interfered with 
 by a projection of some thirty or forty feet — a 
 billiard room, in fine, which during John's minority 
 Mrs Norton had thought proper to add. But she 
 had lived to rue her experiment, for to this young 
 man, with his fretful craving for beauty and exact- 
 ness of proportion, it is an ever present source of 
 complaint ; and he had once in a half humorous, half 
 serious way, gone so far as to avail himself of the 
 " eyesore," as he called it, to excuse his constant 
 absence from home, and as a pretence for shutting 
 himself up in his dear college, with his cherished 
 Latin authors. It was partly for the sake of 
 avenging himself on his mother, whose decisive 
 practicality jarred the delicate music of a nature 
 extravagantly ideal, that he so severely criticised all 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 11 
 
 that she held sacred ; and his strictures fell heaviest 
 on the bow window, looking somewhat like a 
 temple with its small pilasters supporting the rich 
 cornice from which the dwarf vaulting springs. The 
 loggia, he admitted, although painfully out of keep- 
 ing with the surrounding country, was not wholly 
 wanting in design, and he admired its columns of a 
 Doric order, and likew^ise the cornice that like a 
 crown encompasses the house. The entrance is 
 under the loggia ; there are round arched windows 
 on either side, a square window under the roof, 
 and the hall door is in solid oak studded with 
 ornamental nails. 
 
 On entering you find yourself in a common 
 white-painted passage, and on either side of the 
 drawing-room and dining-room are four allegorical 
 female heads : Spring, Summer, Autumn, and 
 Winter. Further on is the hall, with its short 
 polished oak stairway sloping gently to a balcony ; 
 and there are white painted pillars that support 
 the low roof, and these pillars make a kind of 
 
12 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 entrance to the passage which traverses the house 
 from end to end. England — England clear and 
 spotless ! Nowhere do you find a trace of dust or 
 disorder. The arrangement of things is somewhat 
 mechanical. The curtains and wall-paper in the 
 bedrooms are suggestive of trades people and house- 
 maids ; no hastily laid aside book or shawl breaks 
 the excessive orderliness. Every piece of furniture 
 is in its appointed place, and nothing testifies to 
 the voluntariness of the occupant, or the impulse 
 prompted by the need of the moment. On the 
 presses at the ends of the passages, where is stored 
 the house linen, cards are hung bearing this in- 
 scription : " When washing the woodwork the 
 servants are requested to use no soda without first 
 obtaining permission from Mrs Norton." This 
 detail was especially distasteful to John ; he often 
 thought of it when away, and it was one of the 
 many irritating impressions which went to make up 
 the sum of his dislike of Thornby Place. 
 
 Mrs Norton is now crying her last orders to the 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 13 
 
 servants ; and although dressed elaborately as if to 
 receive visitors, she has not yet laid aside her 
 basket of keys. She is in her forty-fifth year. 
 Her figure is square and strong, and not devoid of 
 matronly charm. It approves a healthy mode of 
 life, and her quick movements are indicative of her 
 sharp determined mind. Her face is somewhat 
 small for her shoulders, the temples are narrow and 
 high, the nose is long and thin, the cheek bones 
 are prominent, the chin is small, but unsuggestive 
 of weakness, the lips are pinched, the complexion 
 is flushed, and the eyes set close above the long 
 thin nose are an icy grey. Mrs Norton is a hand- 
 some woman. Her fashionably-cut silk fits her 
 perfectly ; the skirt is draped with grace and pre- 
 cision, and the glossy shawl with the long soft 
 fringe is elegant and delightfully mundane. She 
 raises her double gold eyeglasses, and, contracting 
 her forehead, stares pryingly about her ; and so 
 fashionable is she, and her modernity is so pictur- 
 esque, that for a moment you think of the entrance 
 
14 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 of a duchess in the first act of a piece by Augier 
 played on the stage of the Fran^ais. 
 
 Still holding her gold-rimmed glasses to her eyes, 
 she descended the broad stairs to the hall, and 
 from thence she went into the library. There are 
 two small bookcases filled with sombre volumes, and 
 the busts of Moliere and Shakespeare attempt to 
 justify the appellation. But there is in the 
 character, I was almost going to say in the atmo- 
 sphere of the room, that same undefinable, easily 
 recognizable something which proclaims the pre- 
 sence of non-readers. The traces of three or four 
 days, at the most a week, which John occasionally 
 spent at Thornby Place, were necessarily ephemeral, 
 and the weakness of Mrs Norton's sight rendered 
 continuous reading impossible. Sometimes Kitty 
 Hare brought a novel from the circulating library 
 to read aloud, and sometimes John forgot one of 
 his books, and a volume of Browning still lay on the 
 table. The room was filled with shadow and mourn- 
 fulness, and in a dusty grate the fire smouldered. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 15 
 
 Between this room and the drawing-room, in a 
 recess formed by the bow window, Mrs Norton kept 
 her birds, and still peering through her gold- 
 rimmed glasses, she examined their seed-troughs 
 and water-glasses, and, having satisfied herself as 
 to their state, she entered the drawing-room. 
 There is little in this room ; no pictures relieve the 
 widths of grey colourless wall paper, and the sombre 
 oak floor is spaced with a few pieces of furniture — 
 heavy furniture enshrouded in grey linen cloths. 
 Three French cabinets, gaudy with vile veneer 
 and bright brass, are nailed against the walls, 
 and the empty room is reflected dismally in the 
 great gold mirror which faces the vivid green of 
 the sward and the duller green of the encircling 
 elms of the park. 
 
 Mrs Norton let her eyes wander, and sighing she 
 went into the dining-room. The dining-room is 
 always the most human of rooms, and the dining- 
 room in Thornby Place, although allied to the 
 other rooms in an absence of fancy in its arrange- 
 
16 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 ment, shows prettily in contrast to them with its 
 white cloth cheerful with flowers and ferns. The 
 floor is covered with a tightly stretched red cloth, 
 the chairs are set in symmetrical rows ; with the 
 exception of a black clock there is no ornament 
 on the chimney-piece, and a red cloth screen con- 
 ceals the door used by the servants. 
 
 Mrs Norton walked with her quiet decisive step 
 to the window, and holding the gold rimmed glasses 
 to her eyes, she looked into the landscape as if she 
 were expecting someone to appear. The day was 
 grimy with clouds ; mist had risen, and it hung out 
 of the branches of the elms like a veil of white 
 gauze. Withdrawing her eye from the vague pros- 
 pect before her, Mrs Norton played listlessly with the 
 tassel of one of the blinds. '' Surely," she thought, 
 ''he cannot have been foolish enough to have walked 
 over the downs such a day as this;" then, raising 
 her glasses again she looked out at the smallest 
 angle with the wall of the house, so that she should 
 get sight of a vista through which any one coming 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 17 
 
 from Shoreham would have to pass. Presently a 
 silhouette appeared on the sullen sky. Mrs Norton 
 moved precipitately from the window, and she rang 
 the bell sharply. 
 
 ''John," she said, ''Mr Hare has been going in 
 for one of his long walks. I see him now coming 
 across the park. I am sure he has walked over the 
 downs ; if so he must be wet through. Have a 
 fire lighted in Mr Norton's room, put up a pair of 
 slippers for him : here is the key of Mr Norton's 
 wardrobe ; let Mr Hare have what he wants." 
 
 And having detached one from the many bunches 
 which filled her basket, she went herself to open 
 the door to her visitor. He was however still some 
 distance away, and standing in the shelter of the 
 loggia she waited for him, watched the vague 
 silhouette resolving itself into colour and line. 
 But it was not until he climbed the iron fence which 
 separated the park from the garden grounds that 
 the figure grew into its individuality. Then you 
 saw a man of about forty, about the medium height 
 
18 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 and inclined to stoutness. His face was round and 
 florid, and it was set with sandy whiskers. His 
 white necktie proclaimed him a parson, and the 
 grey mud with which his boots were bespattered 
 told of his long walk. As is generally the case with 
 those of his profession, he spoke fluently, his voice 
 was melodious, and his rapid answers and his bright 
 eyes saved him from appearing commonplace. In 
 addressing Mrs Norton he used her Christian name. 
 
 '' You are quite right, Lizzie, you are quite right; 
 I shouldn't have done it : had I known what a state 
 the roads were in, I wouldn't have attempted it." 
 
 '' What is the use of talking like that, as if you 
 didn't know what these roads were like ! For 
 twenty years you have been making use of them, 
 and if you don't know what they are like in winter 
 by this time, all I can say is that you never will." 
 
 '' I never saw them in the state they are now ; 
 such a slush of chalk and clay was never seen." 
 
 '' What can you expect after a month of heavy 
 rain ? You are wringing wet." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 19 
 
 " Yes, I was caught in a heavy shower as I was cross- 
 ing over by Fresh-Combe-bottom. I am certainly 
 not in a fit state to come into your dining-room." 
 
 " I should think not indeed ! I really believe 
 if I were to allow it, you would sit the whole 
 afternoon in your wet clothes. You'll find everv- 
 thing ready for you in John's room. I'll give you 
 ten minutes. I'll tell them to bring up lunch in 
 ten minutes. Stay, will you have a glass of wine 
 before going upstairs ? " 
 
 " I am afraid of spoiling your carpet." 
 " Yes, indeed ! not one step further ! I'll fetch 
 it for you." 
 
 When the parson had drunk the wine, and was 
 following the butler upstairs, Mrs Norton returned 
 to the dining-room with the empty glass in her 
 hand. She placed it on the chimney piece ; she 
 stirred the fire, and her thoughts flowed pleasantly 
 as she dwelt on the kindness of her old friend. 
 " He only got my note this morning," she mused. 
 "I wonder [if he will be able to persuade John 
 
20 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 to return home." Mrs Norton, in her own hard, 
 cold way, loved her son, but in truth she thought 
 more of the power of which he was the representa- 
 tive than of the man himself : the power to take 
 to himself a wife — a wife who would give an heir 
 to Thornby Place. This was to be the achievement 
 of Mrs Norton's life, and the difficulties that inter- 
 vened were too absorbing for her to think much 
 whether her son would find happiness in marriage ; 
 nor was it natural to her to set much store on the 
 refining charm and the uniting influences of mental 
 sympathies. Had she not passed the age when 
 the sentimental emotions are liveliest ? And the 
 fibre was wanting in her to take into much account 
 the whispering or the silence of passion. 
 
 Mrs Norton saw in marriage nothing but the 
 child, and in the child nothing but an heir — that 
 is to say, a male who would continue the name and 
 traditions of Thornby Place. This would seem to 
 indicate a material nature, but such a misappre- 
 hension arises from the common habit of confusing 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 21 
 
 pure thought — thought which proceeds direct from 
 the brain and lives uncoloured by the material 
 wants of life — with instincts whose complexity 
 often causes them to appear as mental potentialities, 
 whereas they are but instincts, inherited promptings, 
 and aversions more or less modified by physical 
 constitution and the material forces of the life in 
 which the constitution has grown u]) ; and yet, 
 though pure thought, that is to say the power of 
 detaching oneself from the webs of life and view- 
 ing men and things from a height, is the rarest of 
 gifts, many are possessed of sufficient intellec- 
 tuality to enjoy with the brain apart from the 
 senses. Mrs Norton was such an one. After five 
 o'clock tea she would ask Kitty to read to her, and 
 drawing her shawl about her shoulders, would readily 
 abandon the intellectual side of her nature to the 
 seductive charm of the romantic story of James of 
 Scotland ; and while to the girl the heroism and 
 chivalry were a little clouded by the quaint turns 
 of Rossetti's verse, to the woman these were added 
 
 c 
 
22 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 delights, which her quiet penetrating understanding 
 followed and took instant note of. 
 
 " Were mother and son ever so different ? " was 
 the common remark. The artistic was the side of 
 Mrs Norton's character that was unaffectedly kept 
 out of sight, just as young John Norton was care- 
 ful to hide from public knowledge his strict busi- 
 ness habits, and to expose, perhaps a little ostenta- 
 tiously, the spiritual impulses in which he was so 
 deeply concerned : the subtle refinement of sacred 
 places, from the mystery of the great window with 
 its mitres and croziers to the sunlit path between 
 the tombs where the children play, the curious and 
 yet natural charm that attendance in the sacristy had 
 for him, the arrangement of the large oak presses, 
 wherein are stored the fine altar linen and the 
 chalices, the distributing of the wine and water 
 that were not for bodily need, and the wearing of 
 the flowing surplices, the murmuring of the Latin 
 responses that helped so wonderfully to enforce the 
 impression of beautiful and refined life which was 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 23 
 
 his, and which he lived beyond the gross influ- 
 ences of the wholly temporal life which he knew 
 was raging almost but not quite out of hearing. 
 But, however marked may be the accidental 
 variations of character, hereditary instincts are 
 irresistible, and in obedience to them John ne- 
 glected nothing that concerned his pecuniary in- 
 stincts. He was in daily communication with his 
 agent, and the financial position of every farmer, 
 and the state of every farm on his property, were 
 not only known to him but were constantly borne 
 in mind, and influenced him in that progressive 
 ordering of things which marked the administra- 
 tion of his property. He was furnished quarterly 
 with an account of all monies paid, to which were 
 joined descriptive notes of each farm, showing 
 what alterations the past three months had 
 brought, and setting forth the agricultural inten- 
 tions and abilities of the occupier. 
 
 John Norton waited the arrival of these ac- 
 counts with a keen interest : they were a relish to 
 
24 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 his life ; and without experiencing any revulsion of 
 feeling, he would lay down a portfolio filled with 
 photographs of drawings by Leonardo da Vinci — 
 studies of drapery, studies of hands and feet, 
 realistic studies of thin-lipped women and ecstatic 
 angels with the light upon their high foreheads — 
 and cheerfully, and even with a sense of satisfac- 
 tion, he would untie the bald, prosaic roll of paper, 
 and seating himself at his window overlooking the 
 long terrace, he would add up the figures sub- 
 mitted to him, detecting the smallest arithmetical 
 error, making note of the least delay in payment 
 of any money due, and questioning the slightest 
 overpayment for work done. The morning hours 
 fled as he pursued his congenial task ; and from 
 time to time he would let his thoughts wander 
 from the teasing computation of the money that 
 would be required to make the repairs that a 
 certain farmer had demanded, to the unworldly 
 quiet of the sacristy; he would think, and his 
 thoughts contained an evanescent sense of the 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 25 
 
 paradox, of the altar linen he would have to fold 
 and put away, and of the altar breads he would 
 presently have to write to London for ; and mean- 
 while his eyes would follow in delight the black 
 figures of the Jesuits, who, with cassocks blowing and 
 berrettas set firmly on their heads, walked up and 
 down the long gravel walks reading their breviaries. 
 And living thus, half in the persuasive charm of 
 ceremonial, half in the hard procession of account 
 books, the last three years of John's life had 
 passed. On coming of age he had spent a few 
 weeks at Thornby Place, but the place, and 
 especially the country, had appeared to him so 
 grossly protestant — so entirely occupied with the 
 materia] well-to-doness of life — that he declared he 
 longed to breathe again the breath of his beloved 
 sacristy, that he must away from that close and 
 oppressive atmosphere of the flesh. Since then, 
 with the exception of a few visits of a few days he 
 had lived at Stanton College, writing to his mother 
 not of the business which concerned his property, 
 
26 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 but of mental problems and artistic impulses. On 
 business matters he never consulted her ; but he 
 thought it fortunate that she should choose to 
 spend her jointure on Thornby Place, and so save 
 him a great deal of expense in keeping up the 
 house, which, although he disliked it with a dislike 
 that had grown inveterate, he was still unwilling 
 to allow to fall to ruins. 
 
 Mrs Norton, as has been said, was capable of 
 understanding much in the abstract ; so long as 
 things, and ideas of things, did not come within 
 the circle of her practical life, they were judged 
 from a liberal standpoint, but so soon as they 
 touched any personal consideration, they were 
 judged by a moral code that in no way corresponded 
 to her intellectual comprehension of the matter she 
 so unhesitatingly condemned. But by this it must 
 by no means be understood that Mrs Norton wore 
 her conscience easily — that it was a garment that 
 could be shortened or lengthened to suit all 
 weathers. Our diagnosis of Mrs Norton's character 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 27 
 
 involves no accusation of laxity of principle. Mrs 
 Norton was a vv^oman with an intelligence, who had 
 inherited in all its primary force a code of morals 
 that had grown up in the narrower minds of less 
 gifted generations. In talking to her you were 
 conscious of two active and opposing principles : 
 reason and hereditary morality, I use " opposing " 
 as being descriptive of the state of soul that would 
 generally follow from such mental contradiction, but 
 in Mrs Norton no shocking conflict of thought was 
 possible, her mind being always strictly subservient 
 to her instinctive standard of right and wrong. 
 
 And John had inherited the moral temperament 
 of his mother's family, and with it his mother's 
 intelligence, nor had the equipoise been disturbed 
 in the transmitting ; his father's delicate constitu- 
 tion in inflicting germs of disease had merely 
 determined the variation represented by the marked 
 artistic impulses which John presented to the 
 normal type of either his father's or his mother's 
 family. It would therefore seem that any too 
 
28 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 sudden corrective of defect will result in anomaly, 
 and, in the case under notice, direct mingling of 
 perfect health with spinal weakness had germinated 
 into a marked yearning for the heroic ages, for the 
 supernatural as contrasted with the meanness of 
 the routine of existence. And now before closing 
 this psychical investigation, and picking up the 
 thread of the story, which will of course be no more 
 than an experimental demonstration of the working 
 of the brain into which we are looking, we must 
 take note of two curious mental traits both living 
 side by side, and both apparently negative of the 
 other's existence : an intense and ever pulsatory 
 horror of death, a sullen contempt and often a 
 ferocious hatred of life. The stress of mind engen- 
 dered by the alternating of these themes of suffer- 
 ing would have rendered life an unbearable burden 
 to John, had he not found anchorage in an in- 
 vincible belief in God, a belief which set in stormily 
 for the pomp and opulence of Catholic ceremonial, 
 for the solemn Gothic arch and the jewelled joy of 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 29 
 
 painted panes, for the grace and the elegance and 
 the order of hieratic life. 
 
 In a being whose soul is but the shadow of 
 yours, a second soul looking towards the same end 
 as your soul, or in a being whose soul differs 
 radically, and is concerned with other satisfactions 
 and other ideals, you will most probably find some 
 part of the happiness of your dreams, but in inter- 
 course with one who is grossly like you, but who is 
 absolutely different when the upper ways of 
 character are taken into account, there will be — 
 no matter how inexorable are the ties that bind 
 — much fret and irritation and noisy clashing. 
 It was so with John Norton and his mother; 
 even in the exercise of faculties that had been 
 directly transmitted from one to the other there 
 had been angry collision. For example : — 
 their talents for business were identical ; but 
 while she thought the admirable conduct of her 
 affairs was a thing to be proud of, he would 
 affect an air of negligence, and would willingly 
 
30 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 have it believed that he lived independent of such 
 gross necessities. Then his malady — for intense 
 depression of the spirits was a malady with him — 
 offered an ever-recurring cause of misunderstanding. 
 How irritating it was when he lay shut up in his 
 room, his soul looking down with murderous eyes 
 on the poor worm that writhed out its life in view 
 of the pitiless stars, and longing with a fierce wild 
 longing to shake off the burning garment of con- 
 sciousness, and plunge into the black happiness of 
 the grave, to hear Mrs Norton on the threshold 
 uttering from time to time admonitory remarks. 
 
 ^' You should not give way to such feelings, sir ; 
 you should not allow yourself to be unhappy. 
 Look at me, am I unhappy ? and I have more to 
 bear with than you, but I am not always thinking 
 of myself. ... I am in fairly good health, and I 
 am always cheerful ! Why are you not the same ? 
 You bring it all upon yourself ; I have no pity 
 for you. . . . You should cease to think of your- 
 self, and try to do your duty." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 81 
 
 John groaned when he heard this last word. 
 He knew very well what his mother meant. He 
 should buy three hunters, he should marry. These 
 were the anodynes that were offered to him in and 
 out of season. " Bad enough that I should exist ! 
 Why precipitate another into the gulf of being ? " 
 "Consort with men whose ideal hovers between a 
 stable boy and a veterinary surgeon ; " and then, 
 amused by the paradox, John, to whom the chase 
 was evocative of forests, pageantry, spears, would 
 quote some stirring verses of an old ballad, and 
 allude to certain pictures by Rubens, Wouver- 
 mans, and Snyders. " Why do you talk in that 
 way ? " " Why do you seek to make yourself 
 ridiculous ? " Mrs Norton would retort. 
 
 Smiling just a little sorrowfully, John would 
 withdraw, and on the following day he would leave 
 for Stanton College. And it was thus that Mrs 
 Norton's temper scarred with deep wounds a nature 
 so pale and delicate, so exposed that it seemed as 
 if wanting an outer skin ; and as Thornby Place 
 
32 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 appeared to him little more than a comprehensive 
 symbol of what he held mean, even obscene in 
 life, his visits had grown shorter and fewer, until 
 now his absence extended to the verge of the 
 second year, and besieged by the belief that he 
 was contemplating priesthood, Mrs Norton had 
 written to her old friend, saying that she wanted 
 to speak to him on matters of great importance. 
 Now maturing her plans for getting her boy 
 back, she stood by the bare black mantel-piece, 
 her head leaning on her hand. She uttered 
 an exclamation when Mr Hare entered. 
 
 " What," she said, '* you haven't changed your 
 things, and I told 3^ou you would find a suit of 
 John's clothes. I must insist " 
 
 '' My dear Lizzie, no amount of insistance would 
 get me into a pair of John's trousers. I am 
 thirteen stone and a half, and he is not much over 
 ten." 
 
 '' Ah ! I had forgotten, but what are you to do ? 
 Something must be done, you will catch your death 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 33 
 
 of cold if you remain in jonv wet clothes. . . . You 
 are wringing wet." 
 
 '' No, I assure you I am not. My feet were a 
 little wet, but I have changed my stockings and 
 shoes. And now, tell me, Lizzie, what there is for 
 lunch," he said, speaking rapidly to silence Mrs 
 Norton, whom he saw was going to protest again. 
 
 " Well, you know it is difficult to get much at 
 this season of the year. There are some chickens 
 and some curried rabbit, but I am afraid you will 
 suffer for it if you remain the whole of the after- 
 noon in those wet clothes ; I really cannot, I will 
 not allow it." 
 
 " My dear Lizzie, my dear Lizzie," cried the 
 parson, laughing all over his rosy skinned and 
 sandy whiskered face, " I must beg of you not to 
 excite yourself. I have no intention of committing 
 any of the imprudences you anticipate. I will 
 trouble you for a wing of that chicken. James, I'll 
 take a glass of sherry, . . . and while I am eating 
 it you shall explain as succinctly as possible the 
 
34 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 matter you are minded to consult me on, and when I 
 have mastered the subject in all its various details, 
 I will advise you to the best of my power, and having 
 done so I will start on my walk across the hills." 
 
 '' What ! you mean to say you are going to walk 
 home? . . . We shall have another downpour 
 presently." 
 
 ''Even so. I cannot come to much harm so 
 long as I am walking, whereas if I drove home in 
 your carriage I might catch a chill . . . It is at least 
 ten miles to Shoreham by the road, while across 
 the hills it is not more than six." 
 
 '' Six ! it is eight if it is a yard ! " 
 
 '' Well, perhaps it is ; but tell me, I am curious 
 to hear what you want to talk to me about. 
 . . . Something about John, is it not ? " 
 
 " Of course it is, what else have I to think 
 about; what else concerns middle-aged people like 
 you and me but our children ? Of course I want to 
 talk to you about John. Something must be done, 
 things cannot go on as they are. Why, it is nearly 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 35 
 
 two years since he has been home. Oh, that boy 
 is breaking my heart, and none suspects it. If you 
 knew how it annoys me when the Gardiners and 
 the Prestons congratulate me on having a son so 
 well behaved. They know he looks after his 
 property sharp enough, no drinking, no bad 
 company, no debts. Ah ! they little know. ... I 
 would much sooner he were wild and foolish : young 
 men get over those kind of faults, but he will 
 never get over his." 
 
 Mr Hare felt these views to be of a doubtful 
 orthodoxy, but he did not press his opinion, and con- 
 tented himself with murmuring gently that for the 
 moment he did not see that John's faults were of a 
 particularly aggravated character. 
 
 " You do not see that his faults should cause me 
 any uneasiness ! Perhaps it is very lucky he is 
 not here, or yon might encourage him in them. I 
 suppose you think he is doing quite right in spend- 
 ing his life at Stanton College, aping a priest and 
 talking about Gothic arches. Is it a proper thing 
 
36 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 to transact all his business through a solicitor, and 
 never to see his tenants ? Why does he not come 
 and live at his own beautiful place ? Why does he 
 not take up his position in the county ? He is not 
 a magistrate. Why does he not get married ? . . . 
 he is the last ; there is no one to follow him. But 
 he never thinks of that — he is afraid that a woman 
 might prove a disturbing influence in his life ... he 
 feels that he must live in an atmosphere of higher 
 emotions. That's the way he talks, and he is 
 meditating, I assure you, a book on the literature 
 of the Middle Ages, on the works of bishops and 
 monks who wrote Latin in the early centuries. 
 His mind, he says, is full of the cadences of that 
 language. That's the way he writes. He never 
 asks me about his property, never consults me in 
 anything. Here is a letter I received yesterday. 
 Listen : 
 
 '' The poverty of spiritual life amid the western 
 pagans could not fail to encourage the growth of 
 new religious tendencies. An epoch of great 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 37 
 
 spiritual activity had been succeeded by one of 
 complete stagnation, A glance at the literary pro- 
 gress of Rome since Tiberius will show this eman- 
 cipation from national and political considerations, 
 the influence of cosmopolitanism gave to the best 
 specimens of Latin prose of the silver age such 
 riches and variety of substance and such in- 
 dividuality of expression, that Seneca and Tacitus 
 and the letters of Pliny are marked with many 
 modern characteristics. Form and language appear 
 in these writers only as the instrument and the 
 matter wherewith men of genius would express 
 their intimate personality. Here antique culture 
 rises above itself, but, mark you, at the expense of 
 all that is proper to the Roman nation. Cosmo- 
 politan Hellenism forces and breaks down the bars 
 of classical traditions, and, weary of restrictions, 
 these writers first sought personal satisfaction, and 
 then addressed themselves to scholars rather than 
 the people. 
 
 '' ' But Hellenism found its medium in the Greek 
 J> - 
 
38 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 language, rich to satiety, and possessing a syntax of 
 such extraordinary flexibility, that it could follow 
 all evolutions without being shaken in its organism. 
 It was in vain that the Latin literature sought to 
 maintain its position by harking back to the writers 
 anterior to Cicero, those that Hellenism had not 
 touched, and presenting them as models of style ; 
 and thus a new school very fain of antiquity had 
 sprung up, with Fronto for its acknowledged chief 
 — a school pre-occupied above all things by the 
 form ; obsolete words set in a new setting, modern 
 words introduced into old cadences to freshen them 
 with a bright and delightful varnish, in a word, a 
 language under visible sign of decay . . . yet how 
 full of dim idea and evanescent music— a sort of 
 Indian summer, a season of dependency that looked 
 back on the splendours of Augustan yesterdays — 
 an autumn forest.' 
 
 " Did you ever hear such rubbish, or affectation, 
 whichever you like to call it? I should like to know 
 what all that's to do with mediaeval Latin. And then 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 39 
 
 he goes on to complain of the architecture of 
 Stanton College. ... It is, he says, base Tudor 
 of the vilest kind. ' Practical cookery ' he calls it, 
 'antique sauce, sold by all chemists and grocers.' 
 Do you know what he means ? I don't. And 
 worst news of all, he is, would you believe it ? 
 putting a magnificent thirteen century window into 
 the chapel, and he wants me to go up to London 
 to make enquiries about organs. He is prepared 
 to go as far as a thousand pounds. Did you ever 
 hear of such a thinsf ? Those Jesuits are encouraofino- 
 him. Of course it would just suit them if he 
 became a priest ; nothing would suit them better ; 
 the whole property would fall into their hands. 
 Now, what I want you to do, my dear friend, is to 
 go to Stanton College to-morrow, or next day, as 
 soon as you possibly can, and to talk to John. 
 You must tell him how unwise it is to spend 
 fifteen hundred pounds in one year, building organs 
 and putting up windows. His intentions are ex- 
 cellent, but his estate won't bear such extrava- 
 
40 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 gances : and everybody here thinks he is such a 
 miser. I want you to tell him that he should 
 marry. Just fancy what a terrible thing it would 
 be if the estate passed away to distant relatives — 
 to those terrible cousins of ours." 
 
 "Very well, Lizzie, I will do what I can. I 
 will go to-morrow. I have not seen him for five 
 years. The last time he was here I was away. I 
 don't think it would be a bad notion to suggest 
 that the Jesuits are after his money, that they are 
 endeavouring to inveigle him into the priesthood in 
 order that they may get hold of his property." 
 
 " No, no ; you must not say such a thing. T 
 will not have you say anything against his religion. 
 I was very wrong to suggest such a thing. I am 
 sure no such idea ever entered the Jesuits' heads. 
 Perhaps I am wrong to send you to them, ... Now 
 1 depend on you not to speak to him on religious 
 subjects." 
 
CHAPTER IL 
 
 Mrs Norton had known William Hare all her life. 
 She was the youngest daughter, he the youngest 
 son of equal Yorkshire families. Separated by 
 about a mile of pasture and woodland, these families 
 had for generations lived unanimous lives. In 
 England the hunting field, the grouse moor, the 
 croquet and tennis lawn, with its charming adjunct 
 the five-o'clock tea-table, have made life in certain 
 classes almost communal ; and Mrs Norton and 
 William Hare had stood in white frocks under 
 Christmas trees and shared sweetmeats. He 
 often thought of the first time he saw her, wearing 
 a skirt that fell below her ankles, with her hair 
 done up. And she remembered his first appear- 
 ance in evening clothes, and how surprised and 
 delighted she was to hear him ask her if he might 
 have the pleasure of a waltz. 
 
42 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 He went to Oxford to take his degree ; she was 
 taken to London for the season, and towards the 
 end of the third year she married Mr Norton, and 
 w^ent to live at Thornby Place. Through the 
 excitement of the marriage arrangements, and the 
 rapid impressions of her honeymoon, the thought of 
 having for neighbour the playmate of her youth 
 had flitted across, but had not rested in, her mind, 
 and she did not realize the charm that it was for 
 her until one afternoon, now more than twenty 
 years ago, a young curate, bespattered with the 
 grey mud of the downs, had startled her and hei 
 husband by addressing her as Lizzie. Lizzie she 
 had remained to him, he was William to her, and 
 henceforth their lives had been indissolubly linked. 
 Not a week had passed without their seeing each 
 other. There were visits to pay, there was hunting, 
 and then habit intervened ; and for many years, in 
 suffering, in joy, in hope, their thoughts had 
 instinctively looked to each other for reflective 
 sympathy, and every remembrable event was full of 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 43 
 
 mutual associations. He had sat by her when, 
 after the birth of her first and only child, she lay 
 pale, beautiful, and weak on a sofa by a window 
 blown by the tide of summer scent ; and the 
 autumn of that same year he had walked with her 
 in the garden, where the leaves fell like the last 
 illusion of youth under the tears of an incurable 
 grief; and staying in their walk they looked on 
 the house which was to be for evermore one of 
 widowhood. 
 
 Had she ever loved him ? Had he ever loved 
 her ? In moments of passionate loneliness she 
 had yearned for his protection ; in moments of deep 
 dejection he had dreamed of the happiness he 
 might have found with her ; but in the broad day 
 of their lives they had ever thought of each other 
 as friends. He had advised her on the manage- 
 ment of her estate, on the education of her son ; 
 and in his afflictions — in his widowerhood — when 
 his children quickly followed their mother to the 
 grave, Mrs Norton's form, face, and words had 
 
44 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 steadied him, aud had helped him to bear with a 
 life of crumbling ruin. Kitty was now the only 
 one that remained to him. 
 
 Mrs Norton had had projects of wealth and title 
 for her son, but his continued disdain of women 
 and the love of women had long since forced her 
 to abandon her hopes, and now any one he might 
 select she would gladly welcome ; but she whom 
 Mrs Norton would have preferred to all others was 
 the daughter of her old friend. Her son had 
 deserted her, and now all her affections were centred 
 in Kitty. Kitty was as much at Thornby Place as at 
 the Rectory, and in the gaiety of her bright eyes, and 
 in the shine of her gold-brown hair — for ever slip- 
 ping from the gold hair-pins in frizzed masses — Mrs 
 Norton continued her dreams of her son's marriasfe. 
 
 Mr Hare thought it harsh that his daughter 
 should be so constantly taken from him, but the 
 parsonage was so lonely for Kitty, and there were 
 luncheon and tennis parties at Thornby Place, and 
 Mrs Norton took the girl out for drives, and to- 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 45 
 
 gether they visited all the county families. A sus- 
 picion of match-making sometimes crossed Mr 
 Hare's mind, but it faded in the knowledge that 
 John was always at Stanton College ; and to send 
 this fair flower to his great — to his only — friend, 
 was a joy, and the bitterness of temporary loss was 
 forgotten in the sweetness of the sharing. He had 
 suffered much ; but these last years had been quiet, 
 free from despair at least, and he wished to drift 
 a little longer with the tide of this time. Why 
 strive to hasten events ? If this thing was to be, 
 it would be. So he had thought of his daughter's 
 marriage. Fancies had long hung about the con- 
 fines of his mind, but nothing had struck him with 
 the full force of a thought until suddenly he under- 
 stood the exact purport of his mission to Stanton 
 College. He leaned forward as if he were going to 
 tell the driver to return, but before he could do so 
 the lodge-keeper opened the great gate, and the 
 hansom cab rattled under the archway. 
 
 Then he viewed the scheme in general outline 
 
46 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 and in remote detail. It was very simple. Lizzie 
 had been to Shoreham, and had taken Kitty away 
 with her ; he had been sent to Stanton College to 
 beg John Norton to return to Thornby Place, and 
 to say what he could in favour of marriage gene- 
 rally. This was very compromising. He had been 
 deceived ; Lizzie had deceived him. She had no 
 right to do such a thing ; and, striving to deter- 
 mine on a line of conduct, Mr Hare examined 
 abstractedly the place he was passing through. 
 
 In large and serpentine curves the road wound 
 through a wood of small beech trees — so small that 
 in the November dishevelment the plantations were 
 like so much brushwood ; and, lying behind the 
 wind-swept opening, gravel walks appeared in grey 
 fragments, and the green spaces of the cricket field 
 with a solitary divine reading his breviary. The 
 drive turned and turned again in great sloping 
 curves ; more divines were passed, and then there 
 came a long terrace with a balustrade and a view 
 of the open country, now full of mist. And to see 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 47 
 
 the sharp spire of the distant church you had to 
 look closely, and slanting slowly upwards the great 
 plain drew a long and melancholy line across 
 the sky. The lower terrace was approached by 
 an imposing flight of steps, there were myriads of 
 leaves in the air, and the college bell rang in its 
 high red tower. 
 
 The high red walls of the college faced the 
 dismal terraces, and the triple line of diamond- 
 paned and iron-barred windows stared upon the 
 ugly Staffordshire landscape. A square tower 
 squatted in the middle of the building, and out of it 
 rose the octagon of the bell tower, and in the tower 
 wall was the great oak door studded with great nails. 
 
 " How Birmingham the whole place does look," 
 thought Mr Hare, as he laid his hand on an imita- 
 tion mediaeval bell-pull. 
 
 " Is Mr John Norton at home ? " he asked when 
 the servant came. " Will you give him my card, 
 and say that I should like to see him." 
 
 On entering, Mr Hare found himself in a tiled 
 
48 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 hall, around which was built a staircase in var- 
 nished oak. There was a quadrangle, and from 
 three sides the interminable latticed windows 
 looked down on the green sward ; on the fourth 
 there was an open corridor, with arches to imitate 
 a cloister. All was strong and barren, and only 
 about the varnished staircase was there any sign of 
 comfort. There a virgin in bright blue stood on a 
 crescent moon ; above her the ceiling was panelled 
 in oak, and the banisters, the cocoa nut matting, 
 the bit of stained glass, and the religious prints, 
 suggested a mock air of hieratic dignity. And the 
 room Mr Hare was shown into continued this im- 
 pression. Cabinets in carved oak harmonised with 
 high-backed chairs glowing with red Utrecht velvet, 
 and a massive table, on which lay a folio edition of 
 St Augustine's " City of God " and the " Epistol^e 
 Consolitorias " of St Jerome. 
 
 The bell continued to clang, and through the 
 latticed windows Mr Hare watched the divines 
 hurrying along the windy terrace, and the tramp of 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 49 
 
 the boys going to their class-rooms could be heard 
 in passages below. 
 
 Then a young man entered. He was thin, and 
 he was dressed in black. His face was very 
 Koman, the profile especially was what you mic^ht 
 expect to find on a Roman coin- -a high nose, a 
 high cheek-bone, a strong chin, and a large ear. 
 The eyes were prominent and luminous, and the 
 lower part of the face was expressive of resolution 
 and intelligence, but above the eyes there were 
 many indications of cerebral distortions. The fore- 
 head was broad, but the temples retreated rapidly 
 to the brown hair which grew luxuriantly on the 
 top of the head, leaving what the phrenologists call 
 the bumps of ideality curiously exposed, and this, 
 taken in conjunction with the yearning of the laro-e 
 prominent eyes, suggested at once a clear, delight- 
 ful intelligence, — a mind timid, fearing, and 
 doubting, such a one as would seek support in 
 mysticism and dogma, that would rise instantly 
 to a certain point, but to drop as suddenly as 
 
50 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 if sickened by the too intense light of the cold, 
 pure heaven of reason to the gloom of the 
 sanctuary and the consolations of Faith. Let us 
 turn to the mouth for a f mother indication of 
 character. It was large, the lips were thick, 
 but Avithout a trace of sensuality. They were dim 
 in colour, they were undefined in shape, they 
 were a little meaningless — no, not meaningless, 
 for they confirmed the psychological revelations of 
 the receding temples. The hands were large, 
 powerful, and grasping ; they were earthly hands ; 
 they were hands that could take and could hold, 
 and their materialism was curiously opposed to the 
 ideality of the eyes — an ideality that touched the 
 confines of frenzy. The shoulders were square and 
 carried well back, the head was round, with close-cut 
 hair, the straight-falling coat was buttoned high, and 
 the fashionable collar, with a black satin cravat, beau- 
 tifully tied and relieved with a rich pearl pin, set an- 
 other unexpected but singularly charmful detail to an 
 aggregate of apparently irreconcilable characteristics. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT, 51 
 
 '' And how do you do, my dear Mr Hare ? and 
 who would have expected to see you here ? I am 
 so glad to see you." 
 
 These words were spoken frankly and cordially, 
 and there was a note of mundane cheerfulness in 
 the voice which did not quite correspond with the 
 sacerdotal elegance of this young man. Then he 
 added quickly, as if to save himself from asking 
 the reason of this very unexpected visit — 
 
 '' But you have never been here before ; this is 
 the first time you have seen our college. And 
 seeing it as it now is, you would not believe all the 
 delightful detail that a ray of sunlight awakens in 
 that hideous brown monotony, soaked with rain 
 and bedimmed with mist." 
 
 '' Yes, I can quite understand that the college is 
 not looking its best on a day like this. We have 
 had very wet weather lately." 
 
 " No doubt, and I am afraid these late rains have 
 interfered with the harvest. The accounts from 
 the North are very alarming, but in Sussex, I 
 
52 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 suppose, everything was over at least two mouths ago. 
 Still even there the farmers have been losing money 
 for some time back. I have had to make some very 
 heavy reductions. Pearson declared he could not 
 possibly continue at the present rent with corn as 
 low as eight pounds a load. This is very serious, 
 but it is very difficult to arrive at the truth. I 
 want to talk to you ; but we shall have plenty of 
 time presently ; you'll stay and dine ? And I'll 
 show you over the college : you have never been 
 here before, and now I come to reckon it up, I find 
 I have not seen you for nearly five years." 
 
 '' It must be very nearly that ; I missed you the 
 last time you were at Thornby Place, and that was 
 three years ago." 
 
 " Three years ! It sounds very shocking, doesn't 
 it ? to have a beautiful place in Sussex and not to 
 live there : to prefer an ugly red-brick college — 
 Birmingham Tudor ; my mother invented the ex- 
 pression. When she is in a passion she hits on the 
 very happiest concurrence of words ; and I must say 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 53 
 
 she is right, — the architecture here is appallingly 
 ugly ; and I don't think anything could be done to 
 improve it, do you ?" 
 
 " I can't say that I can suggest anything for the 
 moment, but I thought it was for the sake of the 
 architecture, which I frankly confess I don't in the 
 least admire, that you lived here." 
 
 '' You thought it was for the sake of the 
 architecture. ..." 
 
 '' Then why do you not come home and spend 
 Christmas with your mother ! " 
 
 " Christmas ! Well, I suppose I ought to. But 
 it will be hard to bear with the plain Protestantism, 
 the smug materialism of Sussex at such a season ; 
 and when one thinks what the day is commemorative 
 of " 
 
 " You surely do not mean that you would prefer 
 to see the people starving ? If your dislike of Protes- 
 tantism rests only on roast beef and plum pudding. . .^' 
 
 ''No, you don't understand. But I beg your 
 pardon — I had really forgotten. . ." 
 
o4 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 '' Never mind," said Mr Hare smiling ; ''continue: 
 we were talking of roast beef and plum pudding " 
 
 " Well, roast beef and plum pudding, say what 
 you like^ is a very complete figuration of the 
 Protestant ideal. Now let us think of Sussex. . . . 
 The villas with their gables, and railings, and laurels, 
 the snug farm-houses, the market-gardening, but 
 especially the villas, so representative of a sleepy 
 smug materialism. . . Oh, it is horrible ; I cannot 
 think of Sussex without a revulsion of feeling. 
 Sussex is utterly opposed to the monastic spirit. 
 Why, even the downs are easy, yes, easy as one of the 
 upholsterer's armchairs of the villa residences. And 
 the aspect of the county tallies exactly with the 
 state of soul of its people. In that southern county 
 all is soft and lascivious ; there is no wildness, none 
 of that scenical grandeur which we find in Scotland 
 and Ireland, and which is emblematic of the 
 yearning of man's soul for something higher than 
 this mean and temporal life." 
 
 There was rapture in John's eyes. With a quick 
 
 4 
 
 i 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 55 
 
 movement of his hands he seemed to spurn the 
 entire materialism of Sussex. After a pause, he 
 continued : 
 
 '' There is no asceticism in Sussex, there is no 
 yearning for anything higher or better. You — yes, 
 you and the whole place are, in every sense of the 
 word. Conservative — that is to say, brutally satisfied 
 with the present ordering of things." 
 
 " Now, now, my dear John, by your own account 
 Pearson is not by any means so satisfied with the 
 present condition of things as you yourself would 
 wish him to be." 
 
 John laughed loudly, and it was clear that the 
 paradox in no way displeased him. 
 
 " But we were speaking," he continued, '' not of 
 temporal, but of spiritual pains and penalties. Now, 
 anyone who did not know me — and none will ever 
 know me — would think that I had not a care in the 
 world. Well, I have suffered as horribly, I have 
 been tortured as cruelly, as ever poor mortal was. 
 ... I have lain on the floor of my room, my 
 
56 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 lieart dead within me, and moaned and shrieked 
 with horror." 
 
 '' Horror of what ? " 
 
 " Horror of death and a worse horror of life. 
 Few amongst men ever realise the truth of things, 
 but there are rare occasions, moments of super- 
 natural understanding or suffering (which are two 
 words for one and the same thing), when we see 
 life in all its worm-like meanness, and death in its 
 plain, stupid loathsomeness. Two days out of this 
 year live like fire in my mind. I went to my 
 uncle Richard's funeral. There was cold meat and 
 sherry on the table ; a dreadful servant asked me if 
 I would go up to the corpse-room. (Mark the 
 expression.) I went. It lay swollen and feature- 
 less, and two busy hags lifted it up and packed it 
 tight with wisps of hay, and mechanically uttered 
 shrieks and moans. 
 
 '' But, though the funeral was painfully obscene, 
 it was not so obscene as the view of life I was 
 treated to last week. . . . 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 57 
 
 " Last week I was in London ; I went to a place 
 they call the ' Colonies.' Till then I had never re- 
 alised the foulness of the human animal, but there 
 even his foulness was overshadowed by his stupidity. 
 The masses, yes, I saw the masses, and I fed with 
 them in their huge intellectual stye. The air was 
 filled with lines of the most inconceivable flags, 
 lines upon lines of pale yellow, and there were 
 glass cases filled with pickle bottles, and there were 
 piles of ropes and a. machine in motion, and in 
 nooks there were some dreadful lay figures, and 
 written underneath them, ' Indian corn-seller,' ' In- 
 dian fish-seller.' And there was the Prince of 
 Wales on horseback, three times larger than life ; 
 and there were stuffed deer upon a rock, and a Polar 
 bear, and the Marquis of Lome underneath. In 
 another room there were Indian houses, things in 
 carved wood, and over each large placards announc- 
 ing the popular dinner, the buffet, the table d'hSte, 
 at half-a-crown ; and there were oceans of tea, and 
 thousands of rolls of butter, and in the gardens 
 
58 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 the band played ' Thine alone ' and ' Mine 
 again.' 
 
 '' It seemed as if all the back -kitchens and stair- 
 cases in England had that day been emptied out — 
 life-tattered housewives, girls grown stout on porter, 
 pretty-faced babies, heavy-handed fathers, whistling 
 boys in their sloppy clothes, and attitudes curiously 
 evidencing an odious domesticity. . . . 
 
 " In the Greek and Roman life there was an 
 ideal, and there was a great ideal in the monastic 
 life of the Middle Ages ; but an ideal is wholly 
 wanting in nineteenth century life. I am not of 
 these later days. I am striving to come to terms 
 with life." 
 
 '' And you think you can do that best by folding 
 vestments and reviling humanity. I do not see 
 hov7 you reconcile these opinions with the teaching 
 of Christ — with the life of Christ." 
 
 " Oh, of course, if you are going to use those 
 arguments against me, I have done ; I can say no 
 more." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 59 
 
 Mr Hare did not answer, and at the end of a 
 long silence John said : 
 
 '' But, what do you say, supposing I show you 
 over the college now, and when that's done you 
 will come up to my room and we'll have a smoke 
 before dinner ? " 
 
 Mr Hare raised no objection, and the two men 
 descended the staircase into the long stony corridor. 
 The quadrangle filled the diamond panes of the 
 latticed windows with green, and the divine walk- 
 ing to and fro was a spot of black. There were 
 pictures along the walls of the corridor — pictures 
 of upturned faces and clasped hands — and these 
 drew words of commiseration for the artistic 
 ignorance of the College authorities from John's 
 lips. 
 
 " And they actually believe that that dreadful 
 monk with the skull is a real Ribera. . . . The 
 chapel is on the right, the refectory on the left. 
 Come, let us see the chapel ; I am anxious to hear 
 what you think of my window." 
 
60 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 " It ought to be very handsome ; it cost five 
 hundred, did it not ? " 
 
 '' No, not quite so much as that," John answered 
 abruptly ; and then, passing through the communion 
 rails, they stood under the multi-coloured glory of 
 three bishops. Mr Hare felt that a good deal of 
 rapture was expected of him ; but in his efforts to 
 praise, he felt he was exposing his ignorance. 
 John called attention to the transparency of the 
 green-watered skies ; and turning their backs on 
 the bishops, the blue ceiling with the gold stars 
 was declared, all things considered, to be in excel- 
 lent taste. The benches in the body of the church 
 were for boys ; the carved chairs set along both 
 walls between the communion rails and the first 
 steps of the altar were for the divines. The 
 president and vice-president knelt facing each 
 other. The priests, deacons, and sub-deacons 
 followed according to their rank. There were 
 slenderer benches, and these were for the choir ; 
 and from a music-book placed on wings of the 
 
A MF.RE ACCIDENT. 61 
 
 great golden eagle, the leader conducted the 
 singing. 
 
 The side altar, with the rich Turkey carpet 
 spread over the steps, was St George's, and further 
 on, in an addition made lately, there were two more 
 altars, dedicated respectively to the Virgin and St 
 Joseph. 
 
 '' The maid-servants kneel in that corner. I 
 have often suggested that they should be moved 
 out of sight. You do not understand me. Pro- 
 testantism has always been more reconciled to the 
 presence of women in sacred places than we. We 
 would wish them beyond the precincts. And it is 
 easy to imagine how the unspeakable feminality 
 of those maid-servants jars a beautiful impression 
 — the altar towering white with wax candles, the 
 benedictive odour of incense, the richness of the 
 vestments, treble voices of boys floating, and the 
 sweetness of a long day spent about the sanctuary 
 with flowers and chalices in my hands, fade in a 
 sense of sullen disgust, in a revulsion of feeling 
 which I will not attempt to justify." 
 
62 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 Then his thoughts, straying back to sudden 
 recollections of monastic usages and habits, he 
 said : 
 
 ''I should like to scourge them out of this 
 place." And then, half playfully, half seriously, 
 and wholly conscious of the grotesqueness, he 
 added : 
 
 '' Yes, I am not at all sure that a good whip- 
 ping would not do them good. They should be 
 well whipped. I believe that there is much to be 
 said in favour of whipping." 
 
 Mr Hare did not answer. He listened like 
 one in a dark aud unknown place. But, as 
 if unconscious of the embarrassment he was 
 creating, John told of the number of masses 
 that were said daily, and of the eagerness shown 
 by the boys to obtain an altar. Altar service was 
 rewarded by a large piece of toast for breakfast. 
 Handsome lads of sixteen were chosen for acolytes, 
 the torch -bearers were selected from the smallest 
 boys, the office of censer was filled Ity John Norton, 
 
A MKRE ACCIDENT. 63 
 
 aDcl he was also the chief sacristaD, and had charge 
 of the altar plate and linen and the vestments. 
 He spoke of the organ, and he depreciated the 
 present instrument, and enlarged upon some tech- 
 nical details anent the latest modern improve- 
 ments in keys and stops. 
 
 They went up to the organ loft. John would 
 play his setting of St Ambrose's hymn, •'' Veni 
 redemptor gentium," if Mr Hare would go to the 
 bellows, and feeling as if he were being turned into 
 ridicule, Mr Hare took his place at the handle ; 
 and he found it even more embarrassing to give 
 an opinion on the religiosity of the music, than on 
 the archaeological colouration of the bishops in the 
 window. But John did not court any very detailed 
 criticism on his hymn, and alluding to the fact that 
 even in the fourth century accent was beginning 
 to replace quantity, he led the way to the 
 sacristy. 
 
 A.nd it was impossible to avoid noticing that the 
 opening of the carved oaken presses, smelling 
 
64 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 sweet and benignly of orris root and lavender, 
 acted on John almost as a physical pleasure, and 
 also that his hands seemed nervous with delight 
 as he unfolded the jewelled embroideries, and 
 smoothed out the fine linen of the under vest- 
 ments ; and his voice, too, seemed to gain a sharp 
 tenderness and emotive force, as he told how these 
 were the gold vestments worn by the bishop, 
 and only on certain great feast-days, and that 
 these were the white vestments worn on days 
 especially commemorative of the Virgin. The con- 
 sideration of the censers, candlesticks, chalices, and 
 albs took some time, and John was a little aggres- 
 sive in his explanation of Catholic ceremonial, and 
 its grace and comeliness compared with the stiff- 
 ness and materialism of the Protestant service. 
 
 From the sacristy they went to the boys' library. 
 John pointed out the excellent supply of light 
 literature that the bookcases contained. 
 
 '' We take travels, history, fairy-tales — romances 
 of all kinds, so long as sensual passion is not 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 65 
 
 touched upon at any length. Of course we don't 
 object to a book in which just towards the end the 
 young man falls in love and proposes ; but there 
 must not be much of that sort of thing. Here are 
 Eobert Louis Stevenson's works^ ' Treasure Island/ 
 ' Kidnapped/ &c., charming writer — a neat pretty 
 style, with a pleasant souvenir of Edgar Poe running 
 through it all. You have no idea how the boys 
 enjoy his books/' 
 
 " And don't you ? " 
 
 '' Oh no ; I have just glanced at him : for my 
 own reading, I can admit none who does not write 
 in the first instance for scholars, and then to the 
 scholarly instincts in readers generally. Here is 
 Walter Pater. We have his Renaissance ; studies 
 in art and poetry — I gave it myself to the library. 
 We were so sorry we could not include that most 
 beautiful book, ' Marius the Epicurean." We have 
 some young men here of twenty and three and 
 twenty, and it would be delightful to see them 
 reading it, so exquisite is its hopeful idealism ; but 
 
66 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 we were obliged to bar it on account of the story 
 of Psyche, sweetly though it be told, and sweetly 
 though it be removed from any taint of realistic 
 suggestion. Do you know the book ? " 
 
 " I can't say 1 do." 
 
 "Then read it at once. It is a breath of 
 delicious fragrance blown back to us from the 
 antique world ; nothing is lost or faded, the bloom 
 of that glad bright world is upon every page ; the 
 wide temples, the lustral water — the youths appor- 
 tioned out for divine service, and already happy 
 with a sense of dedication, the altars gay with 
 garlands of wool and the more sumptuous sort of 
 flowers, the colour of the open air, with the scent 
 of the beanfields, mingling with the cloud of 
 incense." 
 
 "But I thought you denied any value to the 
 external world, that the spirit alone was worth 
 considering." 
 
 " The antique world knew how to idealise, and 
 if they delighted in the outward form, they did 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. ()7 
 
 not leave it gross and vile as we do when we 
 touch it ; they raised it, they invested it with a 
 sense of aloofness that we know not of. Flesh or 
 spirit, idealise one or both, and I will accept 
 them. But you do not know the book. You 
 must read it. Never did I read with such rapture 
 of being, of growing to spiritual birth. It seemed 
 to me that for the first time I was made known 
 to myself; for the first time the false veil of my 
 grosser nature was withdrawn, and I looked into 
 the true ethereal eyes, pale as wan water and sun- 
 set skies, of my higher self. Marius was to me 
 an awakening ; the rapture of knowledge came 
 upon me that even our temporal life might be 
 beautiful ; that, in a word, it was possible to 
 somehow come to terms with life. . . . You must 
 read it. For instance, can anyone conceive any- 
 thing more perfectly beautiful than the death of 
 Flavian, and all that youthful companionship, and 
 Marius' admiration for his friend's poetry ? . . . . 
 that deliditful language of the third century — a 
 
68 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 new Latin, a season of dependency, an Indian 
 summer full of strange and varied cadences, so 
 different from the monotonous sing-song of the 
 Augustan ag^e ; the school of which Fronto was 
 the head. Indeed, it was Pater's book that first 
 suggested to me the idea of the book I am writing. 
 But perhaps you do not know I am writing a 
 book. . . . Did my mother tell you anything 
 about it ? " 
 
 " Yes ; she told me you were writing the 
 history of Christian Latin." 
 
 '' Yes ; that is to say, of the language that was 
 the literary, the scientific, and the theological lan- 
 guage of Europe for more than a thousand years." 
 
 And talking of his book rapidly, and with much 
 boyish enthusiasm, John opened the doors of the 
 refectory. The long, oaken tables, the great fire- 
 place, and the stained glass seemed to delight him, 
 and he alluded to the art classes of monastic life. 
 The class-rooms were peeped into, the plaj^ground 
 was viewed through the lattice windows, and they 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 69 
 
 went to John's room, up a staircase curiously car- 
 peted with lead. 
 
 John's rooms ! a wide, bright space of green 
 painted wood and straw matting. The walls were 
 panelled from floor to ceiling. In the centre of 
 the floor there was an oak table — a table made of 
 sharp slabs of oak laid upon a frame that was 
 evidently of ancient design, probably early German, 
 a great, gold screen sheltered a high canonical 
 chair with elaborate carvings, and on a reading- 
 stand close by lay the manuscript of a Latin poem. 
 
 " And what is this ? " said Mr Hare. 
 
 '' Oh ! that is a poem by Milo, his ' De Sobri- 
 cate.' I heard that the manuscript was still pre- 
 served in the convent of Saint Amand, near 
 Tournai, and I sent and had a copy made for 
 me. That was the simplest way. You have no 
 idea how diflicult it is to buy the works of any 
 Latin authors except those of the Augustan age. 
 Milo was a monk, and he lived in the eighth 
 century. He was a man of very considerable at- 
 
 F 
 
70 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 tainments, if he were not a very great poet. He 
 
 was a contemporary of Floras, who, by the way, 
 
 was a real poet. Some of his verses are delightful, 
 
 full of delicate cadence and colour. The MS. 
 
 under your hand is a poem by him — 
 
 ' Monies et colles, silvieque et fliimina, fontes, 
 Praeruptseque rupes, pariter vallesque profondte 
 Francorum lugete genus : quod munere christi, 
 Imperio celsum jacet ecce in pulvere mersum.' 
 
 That was written in the eighth century when the 
 
 language was becoming terribly corrupt ; when it 
 
 was hideous with popular idiom barbarously and 
 
 recklessly employed. But even in that time of 
 
 autumnal decay and pallid bloom, a real poet such 
 
 as Walahfrid Strabat could weave a garland of 
 
 grace and beauty ; one, indeed, that lived through 
 
 the chance of centuries in the minds of men. It 
 
 found numberless imitators and favour even with 
 
 the Humanists, and it was reprinted eight times in 
 
 the seventeenth century. This poem is of especial 
 
 interest to me on account of the illustration it 
 
 aftbrds of a theory of my own concerning the un- 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 7l 
 
 consciousness of the true artist. For breakino- 
 away from the literary habitudes of his time, which 
 were to do the gospels or the life of a favourite 
 saint into hexameters, he wrote a poem, ' Hor- 
 tulus/ descriptive of the garden of the monastery. 
 The garden was all the world to the monks ; it 
 furnished them at once with the pleasures and the 
 necessaries of their lives. Walahfrid felt this; he 
 described his feelings, and he produced a chef 
 d'oeuvre." Going over to the bookcase, John took 
 down a volume. He read : — 
 
 " ' Hoc nemiis umbriferum pingit viridissima EutcB 
 SilvLila cserulete, foliis qupe prsedita parvis, 
 Umbellas jaculata brevis, spiramina venti 
 Et radios Phoebi caules transmittit ad imos, 
 Attactiique graves leni dispergit odores, 
 Hsec cum multiplici vigeat virtiite medelce, 
 Dicitur occultis apprime obstare venenis, 
 Toxicaque iiivasis incommoda pellere fibris.' 
 Now, can anything be more charming ? True it is 
 that pingit in the first line does not seem to con- 
 strue satisfactorily, and I am not certain that the 
 poet may not have written fingit Fingit would 
 
7Z A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 Dot be pure Latin, but that is beside the ques- 
 tion." 
 
 " Indeed it is. I must say I prefer the Georgics. 
 I have known many strange tastes, but your fancy 
 for bad Latin is the strangest of all." 
 
 " Classical Latin, with the exception of Tacitus, 
 is cold-blooded and self-satisfied. There is no agita- 
 tion, no fever ; to me it is utterly without interest." 
 
 To the books and manuscripts the pictures on 
 the walls afforded an abrupt contrast. No. 1. ''A 
 Japanese Girl," by Monet. A poppy in the pale green 
 walls ; a wonderful macaw ! Why does it not speak 
 in strange dialect ? It trails lengths of red silk. 
 Such red ! The pigment is twirled and heaped 
 with quaint device, until it seems to be beautiful 
 embroidery rather than painting; and the straw- 
 coloured hair, and the blond light on the face, and 
 the unimaginable coquetting of that fan. . . . 
 
 No. 2. " The Drop Curtain," by Degas. The drop 
 curtain is fast descending ; only a yard of space 
 remains. What a yardful of curious comment, 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 78 
 
 what satirical note on the preposterousness of human 
 existence ! what life there is in every line ; and the 
 painter has made meaning with every blot of 
 colour ! Look at the two principal dancers ! They 
 are down on their knees, arms raised, bosoms ad- 
 vanced, skirts extended, a hundred coryphees are 
 clustered about them. Leaning hands, uplifted necks, 
 painted eyes, scarlet mouths, a piece of thigh, arched 
 insteps, and all is blurred ; vanity, animalism, inde- 
 cency, absurdity, and all to be whelmed into oblivion 
 in a moment. Wonderful life ; wonderful Degas ! 
 
 No, 3. ''A Suburb," by Monet. Snow! the world 
 is white. The furry fluff has ceased to fall, and 
 the sky is darkling and the night advances, drag- 
 ging the horizon up with it like a heavy, deadly 
 curtain. But the roof of the villa is white, and 
 the green of the laurels shaken free of the snow 
 shines through the railings, and the shadows that 
 lie across the road leading to town are blue — yes, 
 as blue as the slates luider the immaculate snow. 
 
 No. 4. '^The Cliff's Edge," by Monet. Blue? 
 
74 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 purple the sea is ; no, it is violet ; 'tis striped with 
 violet and flooded with purple ; there are living 
 greens, it is full of fading blues. The dazzling sky 
 deepens as it rises to breathless azure, and the soul 
 pines for and is fain of God. White sails show 
 aloft ; a line of dissolving horizon ; a fragment of 
 overhanging cliff wild with coarse grass and bright 
 with poppies, and musical with the lapsing of the 
 summer waves. 
 
 There were in all six pictures — a tall glass filled 
 with pale roses, by Renoir ; a girl tying up her 
 garter, by Monet. 
 
 Through the bedroom door Mr Hare saw a nar- 
 row iron bed, an iron washhand-stand, and a prie- 
 dieu. A curious three-cornered wardrobe stood 
 in one corner, and facing it, in front of the prie- 
 dieu, a life-size Christ hung with outstretched arms. 
 The parson looked round for a seat, but the chairs 
 were like cottage stools on high legs, and the angu- 
 lar backs looked terribly knife-like. 
 
 '' Sit in the aim-chair. Shall I get you a pillow 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 75 
 
 from the next room ? Personally I cannot bear 
 upholstery ; I cannot conceive anything more hide- 
 ous than a padded arm-chair. All design is lost 
 in that infamous stuffing. Stuffing is a vicious 
 excuse for the absence of design. If upholstery 
 was forbidden by law to-morrow, in ten years we 
 should have a school of design. Then the neces- 
 sity of composition would be imperative. 
 
 " I daresay there is a good deal in what you 
 say ; but tell me, don't you find these chairs very 
 uncomfortable. Don't you think that you would 
 find a good comfortable arm-chair very useful for 
 reading purposes ? " 
 
 '' No, I should feel far more uncomfortable on a 
 cushion than I do on this bit of hard oak. Our 
 ancestors had an innate sense of form that we have 
 not. Look at these chairs, nothing can be plainer ; 
 a cottage stool is hardly more simple, and yet they 
 are not offensive to the eye. I had them made 
 from a picture by Albert Durer. But tell me, 
 what will you take to drink ? Will you have a 
 
76 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 glass of champagne, or a brandy and soda, or what 
 do you say to an absinthe ? " 
 
 " 'Pon my word, you seem to look after yourself. 
 You don't forget the inner man." 
 
 " I always keep a good supply of liquor ; have a 
 cigar ? " And John passed to him a box of fragrant 
 and richly coloured Havanas. ... Mr Hare took a 
 cigar, and glanced at the table on which John was 
 mixing the drinks. It was a slip of marble, rested, 
 cafe fashion, on iron supports. 
 
 '' But that table is modern, surely ? — quite 
 modern ! " 
 
 '' Quite ; it is a cafe table, but it does not 
 offend my eye. You surely would not have me 
 collect a lot of old-fashioned furniture and pile it 
 up in my rooms, Turkey carpets and Japaneseries 
 of all sorts ; a room such as Sir Fred. Leigh ton 
 would declare was intended to be merely beautiful." 
 
 Striving vainly to understand, Mr Hare drank 
 his brandy and soda in silence. Presently he 
 wnlked over to the bookcases. There were two.: 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 77 
 
 one was filled with learned-looking volumes bearing 
 the names of Latin authors ; and the parson, who 
 prided himself on his Latinity, was surprised, and a 
 little nettled, to find so much ignorance proved 
 upon him. With Tertullian, St Jerome, and St 
 Augustine he was of course acquainted, but of 
 Lactantius, Prudentius, Sedulius, St Fortunatus, 
 Duns Scotus, Hibernicus exul, Angilbert, Milo, &c., 
 he was obliged to admit he knew nothing — even 
 the names were unknown to him. 
 
 In the bookcase on the opposite side of the 
 room there were complete editions of Landor and 
 Swift, then came two large volumes on Leonardo da 
 Vinci. Raising his eyes, the parson read through 
 the titles of Mr Browning's work. Tennyson was in 
 a cheap seven-and-six edition ; then came Swin- 
 burne, Pater, Rossetti, Morris, two novels by Pthoda 
 Broughton, Dickens, Thackeray, Fielding, and 
 Smollett ; tlie complete works of Balzac, Gau tier's 
 Emaux et Camees, Salammbo, L'Assommoir ; 
 add to this Carlyle, Byron, Shelley, Keats, &c. 
 
7« A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 At the end of a long silence, Mr Hare said, 
 glancing once again at the Latin authors, and walk- 
 ing towards the fire : 
 
 '' Tell me, John, are those the books you are 
 writing about ? Supposing you explain to me in a 
 few^ words the line you are taking. Your mother 
 tells me that you intend to call your book the His- 
 tory of Christian Latin." 
 
 '' Yes, I had thought of using that title, but I 
 am afraid it is a little too ambitious. To write the 
 history of a literature extending over at least eight 
 centuries would entail an appalling amount of read- 
 ing ; and besides only a few, say a couple of dozen 
 writers out of some hundreds, are of the sliofhtest 
 literary interest, and very few indeed of any real 
 sesthetic value. I have been hard at work lately, 
 and I think I know enough of the literature of the 
 Middle Ages to enable me to make a selection that 
 will comprise everything of interest to ordinary 
 scholarship, and enough to form a sound basis to 
 rest my own literary theories upon. I begin by 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 79 
 
 stating that there existed in the Middle Ages a 
 universal language such as Goethe predicted the 
 future would again bring to us. . . . 
 
 " Before the formation of the limbs, that is to 
 say before the German and Roman languages were 
 developed up to the point of literary usage, the 
 Latin language was the language of all nations of 
 the western world. But the day came, in some 
 countries a little earlier, in some a little later, when 
 it was replaced by the national idioms. The dif- 
 ferent literatures of the West had therefore been 
 preceded by a Latin literature that had for a long 
 time held out a supporting hand to each. The 
 language of this literature was not a dead language, 
 It was the languao^e of orovernment, of science, of 
 religion ; and a little dislocated, a little barbarised, 
 it had penetrated to the minds of the people, 
 and found expression in drinking songs and street 
 ditties. 
 
 ^' Such is the theme of my book ; and it seems 
 to me that a language that has played so important 
 
80 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 a part in the world's history is well worthy of 
 serious study. 
 
 '' I show how Christianity, coming as it did with 
 a new philosophy, and a new motive for life, in- 
 vigorated and saved the Latin language in a time 
 of decline and decrepitude. For centuries it had 
 given expression, even to satiety, to a naive joy in 
 the present ; on this theme, all that could be said 
 had been said, all that could be sung had been 
 sung, and the Rhetoricians were at work with 
 alliteration and refrain when Christianity came, and 
 impetuously forced the language to speak the desire 
 of the soul. In a word, I want to trace the effect 
 that such a radical alteration in the music, if I may 
 so speak, had upon the instrument — the Latin 
 language." 
 
 " And with whom do 3"ou begin ? " 
 
 " With Tertullian, of course." 
 
 '' And what do you think of him 1 " 
 
 " Tertullian, one of the most fascinating;' char- 
 acters of ancient or modern times. In my study 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 81 
 
 of his writings T have worked out a psychological 
 study of the man himself as revealed through them. 
 His realism, I might say materialism, is entirely 
 foreign to my own nature, but I cannot help being 
 attracted by that wild African spirit, so full of 
 savage contradictions, so fall of energy that it never 
 knew repose : in him you find all the imperialism 
 of ancient times. When you consider that he lived 
 in a time when the church was struggling for 
 utterance amid the horrors of persecution, his mad 
 Christianity becomes singularly attractive ; a passion- 
 ate fear of beauty for reason of its temptations, a 
 fear that turned to hatred, and forced him at last 
 into the belief that Christ was an ugly man." 
 
 " I know nothing of the monks of the eighth 
 century and their poetry, but I do know something 
 of Tertullian, and you mean to tell me that you 
 admire his style — those harsh chopped- up phrases 
 and strained antitheses." 
 
 " I should think I did. Phrases set boldly one 
 against the other ; quaint, curious, and full of 
 
82 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 colour, the reader supplies with delight the con- 
 necting link, though the passion and the force 
 of the description lives and reels along. Listen : 
 
 '' ' Qu9P tunc spectaculi latitude ! quid admirer ? 
 quid rideam ? ubi gaudeam ? ubi exiiltem, spec- 
 tans tot ac tantos reges, qui in coelum recepti 
 nuntiabantur, cum ipso Jove et ipsis suis testibus 
 in imis tenebris congemiscentes ! — Tunc magis 
 tragsedi audiendi, magis scilicet vocales in sua 
 propria calamitate ; tunc histriones cognoscendi, 
 sokitiores multo per ignem ; tunc spectandus auriga, 
 in flammea rota totus rubens, &c.' 
 
 " Show me a passage in Livy equal to that for 
 sheer force and glittering colour. The phrases are 
 not all dove-tailed one into the other and smoothed 
 away ; they stand out." 
 
 '' Indeed they do. And whom do you speak of 
 next ? " 
 
 " I pass on to St Cyprian and Lactantius ; to 
 the latter I attribute the beautiful poem of the 
 Phoenix." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 83 
 
 " What! Claudian's poem?" 
 
 " No, but one infinitely superior. After Lactan- 
 tius comes St Ambrose, St Jerome, and St Augus- 
 tine. Tlie second does not interest me, and my 
 notice of him is brief; but I make special studies 
 of the first and last. It was St Ambrose who 
 introduced sinoino- into the Catholic service. He 
 took the idea from the Arians. He saw the effect 
 it had upon the vulgar mind, and he resolved to 
 combat the heresy with its own weapons. He 
 composed a vast number of hymns. Only four 
 have come down to us, and they are as perfect in 
 form as in matter. You will scarcely find any- 
 where a false quantity or a hiatus. The Am- 
 brosian hymns remained the type of all the hymnic 
 poetry of succeeding centuries. Even Prudentius, 
 great poet as he was, was manifestly influenced in 
 the choice of metre and the composition of the 
 strophe by the Deus Creator omnium. . . . 
 
 '' St Ambrose did more than any other writer of 
 his time to establish certain latent tendencies as 
 
84 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 characteristics of the Catholic spirit. His plead- 
 ing in favour of ascetic life and of virginity, that 
 entirely Christian virtue, was very influential. He 
 lauds the virgin above the wife, and, indeed, he 
 goes so far as to tell parents that they can obtain 
 pardon of their sins by offering their daughters to 
 God. His teaching in this respect was produc- 
 tive of very serious rebellion against wdiat some 
 are pleased to term the laws of Nature. But St 
 Ambrose did not hesitate to uphold the repug- 
 nance of girls to marriage as not only lawful but 
 praiseworthy." 
 
 '' I am afraid you let your thoughts dwell very 
 much on such subjects." 
 
 ''Really, do you think I do?" John's eyes 
 brightened for a moment, and he lapsed into what 
 seemed an examination of conscience. Then he 
 said, somewhat abruptly, " St Jerome I speak of, 
 or rather I allude to him, and pass on at once to 
 the study of St Augustine — the great prose writer, 
 as Prudentius was the great poet, of the Middle Ages. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 85 
 
 '' Now, talking of style, I will admit that the 
 eternal apostrophising of God and the incessant 
 quoting from the New Testament is tiresome to 
 the last degree, and seriously prejudices the value 
 of the ' Confessions ' as considered from the artistic 
 standpoint. But when he bemoans the loss of the 
 friend of his youth, when he tells of his resolution 
 to embrace an ascetic life, he is nervously ani- 
 mated, and is as psychologically dramatic as 
 Balzac. 
 
 '' I have taken great pains with my study of St 
 Augustine, because in him the special genins of 
 Christianity for the first time found a voice. All 
 that had gone before was a scanty flowerage — he 
 was the perfect fruit. I am speaking from a purely 
 artistic standpoint : all that could be done for the 
 life of the senses had been done, but heretofore the 
 life of the soul had been lived in silence — none had 
 come to speak of its suffering, its uses, its tribula- 
 tion. In the time of Horace it was enough to sit 
 in lialage's bower and weave roses ; of the com- 
 
8G A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 munion of souls none had ever thought. Let us 
 speak of the soul ! This is the great dividing line 
 between the pagan and Christian world, and St 
 Augustine is the great landmark. In literature he 
 discovered that man had a soul, and that man had 
 grown interested in its story, had grown tired of 
 the exquisite externality of the nymph-haunted 
 forest and the waves where the Triton blows his 
 plaintive blast. 
 
 '' The whole theory and practice of modern lite- 
 rature is found in the ' Confessions of St Augus- 
 tine ; ' and from hence flows the great current of 
 psychological analysis which, with the development 
 of the modern novel, grows daily greater in volume 
 and more penetrating in essence. ... Is not the 
 fretful desire of the Balzac novel to tell of the 
 soul's anguish an obvious development of the 
 ' Confessions'? 
 
 " In like manner I trace the origin of the bal- 
 lad, most particularly the English ballad, to Pru- 
 dentius, a contemporary of Claudian." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 87 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you trace back our 
 north-country ballads to, what do you call him ?" 
 
 '' Prudentius. I show that there is much in 
 his hymns that recalls the English ballads." 
 
 " In his hymns 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; in the poems that come under such 
 denomination. I confess it is not a little puzzling 
 to find a narrative poem of some five hundred lines 
 or more included under the heading of hymns ; it 
 would seem that nearly all lyric poetry of an essen- 
 tially Christian character was so designated, to 
 separate it from secular or pagan poetry. In Pru^ 
 dentins' first published work, ' Liber Cathemerinon/ 
 we find hymns composed absolutely after the man- 
 ner of St Ambrose, in the same or in similar 
 metres, but with this difference, the hymns of 
 Prudentius are three, four, and sometimes seven 
 times longer than those of St Ambrose. The 
 Spanish poet did not consider, or he lost sight of, 
 the practical usages of poetry. He sang more 
 from an artistic than a religious impulse. That 
 
88 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 he delighted in the song for the song's own sake is 
 manifest ; and this is shown in the variety of his 
 treatment, and the delicate sense of music which 
 determined his choice of metre. His descriptive 
 writing is full of picturesque expression. The fifth 
 hymn, ' Ad Incensum Lucernse/ is glorious with 
 passionate colour and felicitous cadence, be he 
 describing with precious solicitude for Christian 
 archseology the different means of artistic lighting, 
 flambeaux, candles, lamps, or dreaming with all the 
 rapture of a southern dream of the balmy garden 
 of Paradise. 
 
 " Bat his best book to my thinking is by far, 
 ' Peristephanon,' that is to say, the hymns cele- 
 brating the glory of the martyrs. 
 
 '' I was saying just now that the hymns of 
 Prudentius, by the dramatic rapidity of the narra- 
 tive, by the composition of the strophe, and by 
 their wit, remind me very forcibly of our English 
 ballads. Let us take the story of St Laurence, 
 written in iambics, in verses of four lines each. 
 
A MEEE ACCIDENT. 89 
 
 Tn the time of the persecutions of Valerian, the 
 Roman prefect, devoured by greed, summoned St 
 Laurence, the treasurer of the church, before him, 
 and on the plea that parents were making away 
 with their fortunes to the detriment of their chil- 
 dren, demanded that the sacred vessels should be 
 given up to him. ' Upon all coins is found the 
 head of the Emperor and not that of Christ, there- 
 fore obey the order of the latter, and give to the 
 Emperor what belongs to the Emperor.' 
 
 " To this speech, peppered with irony and sar- 
 casm, St Laurence replies that the church is very 
 rich, even richer than the Emperor, and that he 
 will have much pleasure in offering its wealth to the 
 prefect, and he asks for three days to classify the 
 treasures. Transported with joy, the prefect grants 
 the required delay. Laurence collects the infirm 
 who have been receiving charity from the church ; 
 and in picturesque grouping the poet shows us 
 the blind, the paralytic, the lame, the lepers, 
 advancing with trembling and hesitating steps. 
 
90 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 Those are the treasures, the golden vases and so 
 forth, that the saint has catalogued and is going to 
 exhibit to the prefect, who is waiting in the sanc- 
 tuary. The prefect is dumb with rage ; the saint 
 observes that gold is found in dross ; that the 
 disease of the body is to be less feared than that 
 of the soul ; and he developes this idea with a good 
 deal of wit. The boasters suffer from dropsy, the 
 miser from cramp in the wrist, the ambitious from 
 febrile heat, the gossipers, who delight in tale- 
 bearing, from the itch ; but you, he says, addressing 
 the prefect, you who govern Rome,* suffer from the 
 morbus regius (you see the pun). In revenge for 
 thus slighting his dignity, the prefect condemns St 
 Laurence to be roasted on a slow fire, adding, ' and 
 deny there, if you will, the existence of my Yulcan.' 
 Even on the gridiron Laurence does not lose his 
 good humour, and he gets himself turned as a cook 
 would a chop. 
 
 '' Now, do you not understand what I mean when 
 I say that the hymns of Prudentius are an antici- 
 
 * Qui Romam regis. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 91 
 
 pation of the form of the Enghsh ballad ? . . . . 
 And in the fifth hymn the story of St Vincent is 
 given with that peculiar dramatic terseness that 
 you find nowhere except in the English ballad. 
 But the most beautiful poem of all is certainly the 
 fourteenth and last hymn. In a hundred and thirty- 
 three hendecasy liable verses the story of a young 
 virgin condemned to a house of ill-fame is sung 
 with exquisite sense of grace and melody. She is 
 exposed naked at the corner of a street. The 
 crowd piously turns away; only one young man 
 looks upon her with lust in his heart. He is 
 instantly struck blind by lightning, but at the 
 request of the virgin his sight is restored to him. 
 Then follows the account of how she suffered mar- 
 tyrdom by the sword — a martyrdom which the 
 girl salutes with a transport of joy. The poet 
 describes her ascending to Heaven, and casting one 
 last look upon this miserable earth, whose miseries 
 seem without end, and whose joys are of such short 
 duration. 
 
92 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 " Then his great poem ' Psychomachia ' is the 
 first example in mediaeval literature of allegorical 
 poetry, the most Christian of all forms of art. 
 
 " Faith, her shoulders bare, her hair free, ad- 
 vances, eager for the fight. The ' cult of the 
 ancient gods,' with forehead chapleted after the 
 fashion of the pagan priests, dares to attack her, 
 and is overthrown. The legion of martyrs that 
 Faith has called together cry in triumphant unison. 
 .... Modesty (Pudicitia), a young virgin with 
 brilliant arms, is attacked by ' the most horrible of 
 the Furies' (Sodomita Libido), who, with a torch 
 burning with pitch and sulphur, seeks to strike her 
 eyes, but Modesty disarms him and pierces him 
 with her sword. ' Since the Virgin without stain 
 gave birth to the Man-God, Lust is without rights 
 in the world.' Patience watches the fight ; she is 
 presently attacked by Anger, first with violent 
 words, and then with darts, which fall harmlessly 
 from her armour. Accompanied by Job, Patience 
 retires triumphant. But at that moment, mounted 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 93 
 
 on a wild and unbridled steed, and covered with a 
 lionskiu. Pride (Superbia), lier hair built up like a 
 tower, menaces Humility (Mens humilis). Under 
 the banner of Humility are ranged Justice, Fru- 
 gality, Modesty, pale of face, and likewise Sim- 
 plicity. Pride mocks at this miserable army, 
 and would crush it under the feet of her steed. 
 But she falls in a ditch dug by Fraud. Humility 
 hesitates to take advantage of her victory ; but 
 Hope draws her sword, cuts off the head of the 
 enemy, and flies away on golden wings to Heaven. 
 " Then Lust (Luxuria), the new enemy, appears. 
 She comes from the extreme East, this wild 
 dancer, with odorous hair, provocative glance and 
 effeminate voice; she stands in a magnificent 
 chariot drawn by four horses ; she scatters violet 
 and rose leaves ; they are her weapons ; their in- 
 sidious perfumes destroy courage and will, and the 
 army, headed by the virtues, speaks of surrender. 
 But suddenly Sobriety fSobrietas) lifts the standard 
 of the Cross towards the sky. Lust falls from her 
 
94 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 chariot, and Sobriety fells her with a stone. Then 
 all her saturnalian army is scattered. Love casts 
 away his quiver. Pomp strips herself of her gar- 
 ments, and Voluptuousness (Voluptas) fears not to 
 tread upon thorns, &c. But Avarice disguises her- 
 self in the mask of Economy, and succeeds in 
 deceiving all hearts until she is overthrown finally 
 by Mercy (Operatica). All sorts of things happen, 
 but eventually the poem winds up with a prayer 
 to Christ, in which we learn that the soul shall fall 
 again and again in the battle, and that this shall 
 continue until the coming of Christ." 
 
 '' 'Tis very curious, very curious indeed. I know 
 nothing of this literature." 
 
 <' Very few do." 
 
 ''And you have, 1 suppose, translated some of 
 these poems ? " 
 
 '' I give a complete translation of the second 
 hymn, the story of St Laurence, and I give long 
 extracts from the poem we have been speaking 
 about, and likewise from ' Haraartigenia,' which, by 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 95 
 
 the way, some consider as his greatest work. And 
 I show more completely, I think, than any other 
 commentator, the analogy between it and the 
 ' Divine Comedy,' and how much Dante owed 
 to it. . . . Then the ' terza rima ' was un- 
 doubtedly borrowed from the fourth hymn of the 
 ' Cathemerinon.' " . . . 
 
 ''You said, I think, that Prudentius was a con- 
 temporary of Claudian. Which do you think the 
 greater poet ? " 
 
 '' Prudentius by far. Claudian's Latin was no 
 doubt purer and his verse was better, that is to 
 say, from the classical standpoint it was more 
 correct. " 
 
 '' Is there any other standpoint ? " 
 
 '' Of course. There is pagan Latin and Chris- 
 tian Latin : Burns' poems are beautiful, and they 
 are not written in Southern English ; Chaucer's 
 verse is exquisitely melodious, although it will not 
 scan to modern pronunciation. In the earliest 
 Christian poetry there is a tendency to write by 
 
96 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 accent rather than by quantity, but that does not 
 say that the hymns have not a quaint Gothic music 
 of their own. This is very noticeable in Sedulius, 
 a poet of the fifth century. His hymn to Christ is 
 not only full of assonance, but of all kinds of 
 rhyme and even double rhymes. We find the 
 same thing in Sedonius, and likewise in Fortu- 
 natus — a gay prelate, the morality of whose life 
 is, I am afraid, open to doubt. . . . 
 
 " He had all the qualities of a great poet, but 
 he wasted his genius writing love verses to 
 Radegonde. The story is a curious one. Rade- 
 gonde was the daughter of the King of Thuringia; 
 she was made prisoner by Clotaire I., son of Clovis, 
 who forced her to become his wife. On the 
 murder of her father by her husband, she fled 
 and founded a convent at Poictiers. There she 
 met Fortunatus, who, it appears, loved her. It is 
 of course humanly possible that their love was not 
 a guilty one, but it is certain that the poet wasted 
 the greater part of his life writing verses to her 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 97 
 
 and her adopted daughter Agnes. In a beautiful 
 poem in praise of virginity, composed in honour of 
 Agnes, he speaks in a very disgusting way of the 
 love with which nuns regard our Redeemer, and 
 the recompence that awaits them in Heaven for 
 their chastity. If it had not been for the great 
 interest attaching to his verse as an example of 
 the radical alteration that had been effected in the 
 language, I do not think I should have spoken 
 of this poet. Up to his time rhyme had slipped 
 only occasionally into the verse, it had been noticed 
 and had been allowed to remain by poets too idle 
 to remove it, a strange something not quite under- 
 stood, and yet not a wholly unwelcome intruder ; 
 but in St Fortunatus we find for the first time 
 rhyme cognate with, the metre, and used with 
 certainty and brilliancy. In the opening lines of 
 the hymn, ' Vexilla Regis/ rhyme is used with 
 superb effect. . . . 
 
 " But for signs of the approaching dissolution of 
 the language, of its absorption by the national 
 
98 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 idiom, we must turn to St Gregory of Tours. He 
 was a man of defective education, and the lingua 
 Tustica of France as it was spoken by the people 
 makes itself felt throughout his writings. His use 
 of iscere for escere, of the accusative for the ablative, 
 one of St Gregory's favourite forms of speech, pro 
 or quod for quoniaon, conformable to old French 
 porceque, so common for parceque. And while 
 national idiom was oozing through grammatical 
 construction, national forms of verse were replacing 
 the classical metres which, so far as syllables were 
 concerned, had hitherto been adhered to. As we 
 advance into the sixth and seventh centuries, we 
 find English monks attempting to reproduce the 
 characteristics of Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse in 
 Latin ; and at the Court of Charlemagne we find 
 an Irish monk writing Latin verse in a long tro- 
 chaic line, which is native in Irish poetry. 
 
 " Poets were plentiful at the court of Charle- 
 magne. Now, Angilbert was a poet of exquisite 
 grace, and surprisingly modern is his music, which 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 99 
 
 is indeed a wonderful anticipation of the lilt of 
 Edgar Poe. I compare it to Voe. Just listen : — 
 
 " ' Surge meo Domno diilces fac, fistula versus : 
 David amat versus, surge et fac fistula versus. 
 David amat vates, vatorum est gloria David 
 Qua propter vates cuncti concurrite in unum 
 Atque meo David dulces cantate camoenas. 
 David amat vates, vatorum est gloria David. 
 Dulcis amor David inspirat corda canentum, 
 Cordibus in nostris faciat amor ipsius odas : 
 Vates Homerus amat David, fac, fistula, versus. 
 David amat vates, vatorum est gloria David. ' " 
 
 '' I should have flogged that monk — ' ipsius/ 
 oh, oh ! — ' vatorum.' ... It really is too terrible." 
 
 John laughed, and was about to reply, when the 
 clanging of the college bell was heard. 
 
 " I am afraid that is dinner-time." 
 
 '' Afraid, I am delighted ; you don't suppose that 
 every one can live, chameleon-like, on air, or worse 
 still, on false quantities. Ha, ha, ha ! And those 
 pictures too. That snow is more violet than white." 
 
 When dinner was over, John and Mr Hare 
 walked out on the terrace. The carriage waited 
 
100 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 in the wet in front of the great oak portal ; the 
 grey, stormy evening descended on the high roofs, 
 smearing the red out of the walls and buttresses, 
 and melancholy and tall the red college seemed 
 amid its dwarf plantation, now filled with night 
 wind and drifting leaves. Shadow and mist had 
 floated out of the shallows above the crests of the 
 valley, and the lamps of the farm-houses gleamed 
 into a pale existence. 
 
 '' And now tell me what I am to say to your 
 mother. Will you come home for Christmas ? " 
 
 " I suppose I must. I suppose it wonld seem 
 so unkind if I didn't. I cannot account even to 
 myself for my dislike to the place. I cannot 
 think of it without a revulsion of feeling that is 
 strangely personal." 
 
 " I won't argue that point with you, but I think 
 you ought to come home." 
 
 <' Why ? Why ought 1 to come to Sussex, and 
 marry my neighbour's daughter ? " 
 
 " There is no reason that you should marry 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 101 
 
 your neighbour's daughter, but I take it that you 
 do not propose to pass your life here." 
 
 " For the present I am concerned mainly with 
 the problem of how I may make advances, how I 
 may meet life, as it were, half-way ; for if possible 
 I would not quite lose touch of the world. I would 
 love to live in its shadow, a spectator whose duty it 
 is to watch and encourage, and pity the hurryiug 
 throng on the stage. The church would approve 
 this attitude, whereas hate and loathing of humanity 
 are not to be justified. But I can do nothing to hurry 
 the state of feeling I desire, except of course to pray. 
 I have passed through some terrible moments of 
 despair and gloom, but these are now Avearing them- 
 selves away, and I am feeling more at rest." 
 
 Then, as if from a sudden fear of ridicule, John 
 said, laughing : " Besides, looking at the question 
 from a purely practical side, it must be hardly wise 
 for me to return to society for the present. I like 
 neither fox-hunting, marriage, Robert Louis Steven- 
 son's stories, nor Sir Frederick Leighton's pictures ; 
 
 H 
 
102 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 I prefer monkish Latin to Virgil, and I adore Degas, 
 Monet, Manet, and Renoir, and since this is so, and 
 alas, I am afraid irrevocably so, do you not think 
 that I should do well to keep outside a world in 
 which I should be the only wrong and vicious being ? 
 Why spoil that charming thing called society by 
 my unlovely presence ? 
 
 '' Selfishness ! I know what you are going to say 
 — here is my answer. I assure you I administer to 
 the best of my ability the fortune God gave me — I 
 spare myself no trouble. I know the financial 
 position of every farmer on my estate, the property 
 does not owe fifty pounds ; — I keep the tenants up 
 to the mark ; I do not approve of waste and idleness, 
 but when a little help is wanted I am ready to give 
 it. And then, well, I don't mind telling you, but 
 it must not go any further. I have made a will 
 leaving something to all my tenants ; I give away a 
 fixed amount in charity yearly." 
 
 " I know, my dear John, I know your life is not 
 a dissolute one ; but your mother is very anxious. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 103 
 
 remember you are the last. Is there no chance of 
 your ever marrying ? " 
 
 ''I don't think I could live with a woman ; there 
 is something very degrading, something very gross 
 in such relations. There is a better and a purer 
 life to lead ... an inner life, coloured and per- 
 meated with feelings and tones that are, oh, how 
 intensely our own, and he who may have this life, 
 shrinks from any adventitious presence that might 
 jar or destroy it. To keep oneself unspotted, to 
 feel conscious of no sense of stain, to know, yes, to 
 hear the heart repeat that this self — hands, face, 
 mouth and skin — is free from all befouling touch, is 
 all one's own. I have always been strongly attracted 
 to the colour white, and I can so well and so 
 acutely understand the legend that tells that the 
 ermine dies of gentle loathing of its own self, should 
 a stain come upon its immaculate fur .... I 
 should not say a legend, for that implies that the 
 story is untrue, and it is not untrue — so beautiful a 
 thought could not be untrue." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Urns on corner walls, pilasters, circular windows, 
 flowerage and loggia. What horrible taste, and 
 quite out of keeping with the landscape ! " He 
 rang the bell. 
 
 '' How do you do, Master John ! " cried the 
 tottering old butler who had known him since 
 babyhood. " Very glad, indeed, we all are to see 
 you home again, sir ! " 
 
 Neither the appellation of Master John, nor the 
 sight of the four paintings. Spring, Summer, Autumn, 
 and Winter, which decorated the walls of the pas- 
 sasre, found favour with John, and the effusiveness 
 of Mrs Norton, who rushed out of the drawing- 
 room, followed by Kitty, and embraced her son, at 
 once set on edge all his curious antipathies. Why 
 this kissing, this approachment of flesh ? Of course 
 she was his mother. . . . Then this smiling girl 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. lOH 
 
 in the background ! He would have to amuse her 
 and talk to her ; what infinite boredom it would 
 be ! He trusted fervently that her visit would not 
 be a long one. 
 
 Then through what seemed to him the pollution 
 of triumph, he was led into the library ; and he 
 noticed, notwithstanding the presiding busts of 
 Shakespeare and Milton, that there was but one 
 wretched stand full of books in the room, and that 
 in the gloom of a far corner. His mother sat down, 
 and there was a resoluteness in her look and atti- 
 tude that seemed to proclaim, " Now I hold you 
 captive ; " but she said : 
 
 " I was very much alarmed, my dear John, about 
 your not sleeping. Mr Hare told me you said that 
 you went two and three nights without closing 
 your eyes, and that you had to have recourse to 
 sleeping draughts." 
 
 ''Not at all, mother, T never took a sleeping 
 draught but twice in my life." 
 
 " Well, you don't sleep well, and I am sure it 
 
106 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 is those college beds. But you will be far more 
 comfortable here. You are in the best bedroom in 
 the house, the one in front of the staircase, the 
 bridal chamber; and I have selected the largest 
 and softest feather-bed in the house." 
 
 " My dear mother, if there is one thing more 
 than another I dislike, it is a feather-bed. I should 
 not be able to close my eyes ; I beg of you to have 
 it taken away." 
 
 Mrs Norton's face flushed. '' I cannot under- 
 stand, John ; it is absurd to say that 3^ou cannot 
 sleep on a feather-bed. Mr Hare told me you 
 complained of insomnia, and tliere is no surer way 
 of losing your health. It is owing to the hardness 
 of those college mattresses, whereas in a feather- 
 bed " 
 
 " There is no use in our arguing that point, 
 mother, I say I cannot sleep on a feather-bed. ..." 
 
 '' But you have not tried one ; I don't believe 
 you ever slept on a feather-bed in your life." 
 
 " Well, I am not going to begin now." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 1 07 
 
 '' We haven't another bed aired in the house, and 
 it is reallj too late to ask the servants to change 
 your room." 
 
 '' Well, then, I shall be obliged to sleep at the 
 hotel in Henfield." 
 
 " You should not speak to your mother in that 
 way ; I will not have it." 
 
 ''There! you see we are quarrelling already ; I 
 did wrong to come home." 
 
 '' 1 am speaking to you for your own good, my 
 dear John, and I think it is very stubborn of you 
 to refuse to sleep on a feather-bed ; if you don't 
 like it, you can change it to-morrow." 
 
 The conversation fell, and in silence. the speakers 
 strove to master their irritation. Then John, for 
 politeness' sake, spoke of when he had last seen 
 Kitty. It was about five years ago. She had 
 ridden her pony over to see them. 
 
 Mrs Norton talked of some people who had left 
 the county, of a marriage, of an engagement, of a 
 mooted engagement ; and she jerked in a sug- 
 
108 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 gestiou that if John were to apply at once, he ^ 
 would be placed on the list of deputy-lieutenants. 
 Enumeration of the family influence — Lord So-and- 
 so, the cousin, was the Lord Lieutenant's most 
 intimate friend. 
 
 '' You are not even a J.P., but there will be no 
 difficulty about that ; and you have not seen any 
 of the county people for years. We will have the 
 carriage out some day this week, and we'll pay a 
 round of visits." 
 
 " We'll do nothing of the kind. I have no time 
 for visiting ; I must get on with my book. I hope 
 to finish my study of St Augustine before I leave 
 here. I have my books to unpack, and a great deal 
 of reading to get through. I have done no more 
 than glance at the Anglo-Latin. Literature died in 
 France with Gregory of Tours at the end of the 
 sixth century ; with St Gregory the Great, in Italy, at 
 the commencement of the seventh century ; in Spain 
 about the same time. And then the Anglo-Saxons 
 became the representatives of the universal litera- 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 109 
 
 ture. All this is most important. I must re-read 
 St Aldhelm and the Venerable Bede. . . . Now, I 
 ask, do you expect me — me, with my head full of 
 Aldhelm's alliterative verses — 
 
 * Turbo terrain teretibus 
 Quae catervatim cselitus 
 Neque caelorum culmina 
 
 Grassabatur turbinibus 
 Crebrantur nigris nubibus 
 Carent nocturna nebula — ' 
 
 a letter descriptive of a great storm which he was 
 caught in as he was returning home one night. ..." 
 
 " Now, sir, we have had quite enough of that, 
 and I would advise you not to go on with any of 
 that nonsense here ; you will be turned into dread- 
 ful ridicule." 
 
 " That's just why I wish to avoid them . . . 
 but you have no pity for me. Just fancy my 
 having to listen to them ! How I have suffered. 
 . . . What is the use of growing wheat when we 
 are only getting eight pounds ten a load ? . . . But 
 
110 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 we must grow something, and there is nothing else 
 but wheat. We must procure a certain amount of 
 straw, or we'd have no manure, and you can't 
 work a farm without manure. I don't believe in 
 the fish manure. But there is market gardening, 
 and if we kept shops in Brighton, we could grow 
 oiu' own stuff and sell it at retail price. . . . And 
 tlien there is a great deal to be done with flowers." 
 
 " Now, sir, that will do, that will do. . . . How 
 dare you speak to me so ! I will not allow it." 
 And then relapsing into an angry silence, Mrs 
 Norton drew her shawl about her shoulders. 
 
 One of a thousand quarrels. The basis of each 
 nature was common sense — shrewd common sense 
 • — but such similarity of structure is in itself apt to 
 lead to much violent shocking of opinion ; and to 
 this end an adjuvant was found in the dose of 
 fantasy, mysticism, idealism which was inherent in 
 John's character. " Why is he not like other 
 people ? Why will he waste his time with a lot 
 of rubbishy Latin authors? Why will he not take 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 1 1 1 
 
 up his position in the county ? " Mrs Norton asked 
 herself these questions as she fumed on the sofa. 
 
 " I wonder why she Avill continue to try to 
 impose her will upon mine. 1 wonder why she 
 has not found out by this time the uselessness 
 of her effort. But no ; she still keeps on hoping 
 at last to wear me down. She wants me to live 
 the life she has marked out for me to live — to take 
 up my position in the county, and, above all, to 
 marry and give an heir to the property. I see it 
 all ; that is why she wanted me to spend Christ- 
 mas with her ; that is why she has Kitty Hare 
 here to meet me. How cunning, how mean 
 women are : a man would not do that. Had I 
 known it. ... I have a mind to leave to-morrow. 
 I wonder if the girl is in the little conspiracy." 
 And turning his head he looked at her. 
 
 Tall and slight, a grey dress, pale as the wet 
 sk}^, fell from lier waist outward in the manner of 
 a child's frock, and there was a liorhtness, there was 
 brightness in the clear eyes. The intense youth 
 
112 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 of her heart was evanescent ; it seemed constantly 
 rising upwards like the breath of a spring morning 
 — a morning when the birds are trilling. The 
 face sharpened to a tiny chin, and the face was 
 pale, although there was bloom on the cheeks. 
 The forehead was shadowed by a sparkling cloud 
 of brown hair, the nose was straight, and each 
 little nostril was pink tinted. The ears were like 
 shells. There was a rigidity in her attitude. She 
 laughed abruptly, perhaps a little nervously, and 
 the abrupt laugh revealed the line of tiny white 
 teeth. Thin arms fell straight to the translucent 
 hands, and there was a recollection of puritan 
 England in look and in gesture. 
 
 Her picturesqueness calmed John's ebullient dis- 
 content ; he decided that she knew nothing of, and 
 was not an accomplice in, his mother's scheme. 
 For the sake of his guest he strove to make him- 
 self agreeable durino^ dinner, but it was clear that 
 he missed the hierarchy of the college table. The 
 conversation fell repeatedly. Mrs Norton and Kitty 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 113 
 
 spoke of making syrup for the bees ; and their dis- 
 cussion of the illness of poor Dr , who would 
 
 no longer be able to get through the work of the 
 parish single-handed, and would ret[uire a curate, 
 was continued till the ladies rose from table. Nor 
 did matters mend in the library. John's tli oughts 
 went back to his book ; the room seemed to him 
 intolerably uncomfortable and ugly. He went to 
 the billiard-room to smoke a cigar. It was not 
 clear to him if he would be able to spend two 
 months in this odious place. He might offer them 
 to God as penance for his sins ; if every evening 
 passed like the present, it were a modern martyr- 
 dom. But had they removed that horrid feather- 
 bed ? He went upstairs. The feather-bed had 
 been removed. 
 
 The room was large and ample, and it was 
 draped with many curtains — pale curtains covered 
 with walking birds and falling petals, a sort of 
 Indian pattern. There was a sofa at the foot of 
 the bed, and the toilette-table hung out its skirts 
 
114 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 iu the wavering light of the fire. John tossed to 
 and fro staring at the birds and petals. He thought 
 of his ascetic college bed, of the great Christ upon 
 the wall, of the prie-dieu with the great rosary 
 hanging, but in vain ; he could not rid his mind of 
 the distasteful feminine influences which had filled 
 the da}^, and which now haunted the night. 
 
 After breakfast next morning Mrs Norton stopped 
 John as he was going upstairs to unpack his books. 
 '' Now," she said, " you must go out for a walk 
 with Kitty Hare, and I hope you will make 
 yourself agreeable. I want you to see the new 
 greenhouse I have put up ; she'll show it to you. 
 And I told the bailiff to meet you in the yard. I 
 thought you might like to see him." 
 
 " I wish, mother, you would not interfere in my 
 business ; had I Avanted to see Burnes I should 
 have sent for him." 
 
 '' If you don't want to see him, he wants to see 
 you. There are some cottages on the farm that 
 must be put into repair at once. As for interfering 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 1 1 5 
 
 in your business, I don't know how you can talk 
 like that ; were it not for me the whole place would 
 be falling to pieces." 
 
 '* Quite true ; I know you save me a great deal 
 of expense ; but really ..." 
 
 " Really what ? You won't go out to walk with 
 Kitty Hare ? " 
 
 " I did not say I wouldn't, but I must say that 
 I am very busy just now. I had thought of doing 
 a little reading, for I have an appointment with my 
 solicitor in the afternoon." 
 
 " That man charges you £200 a-year for col- 
 lecting the rents ; now, if you were to do it your- 
 self, you would save the money, and it would give 
 you something to do." 
 
 " Something to do ! I have too much to do as 
 it is. . . . But if I am going out with Kitty. . . . 
 Where is she ? " 
 
 " I saw her go into the library a moment ago." 
 
 And as it was preferable to go for a walk with 
 Kitty than to continue the interview with his 
 
116 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 mother, John seized his hat and called Kitty, 
 Kitty, Kitty ! Presently she appeared, and they 
 Avalked towards the garden, talking. She told 
 him she had been at Thornby Place the whole 
 time the greenhouse was being built, and when 
 they opened the door they were greeted by Sammy. 
 He sprang instantly on her shoulder. 
 
 " This is my cat," she said. " I've fed him 
 since he was a little kitten ; isn't he sweet ? " 
 
 The girl was beautiful on the brilliant flower 
 background ; she stroked the great caressing crea- 
 ture, and when she jDut him down he mewed 
 reproachfully. Further on her two tame rooks 
 cawed joyously, and alighted on her shoulder. 
 
 " I wonder they don't fly away, and join the 
 others in the trees." 
 
 " One did go away, and he came back nearly 
 dead with hunger. But he is all right now, aren't 
 you, dear ? " And the bird cawed, and rubbed its 
 black head against its mistress' cheek. '' Poor 
 little things, they fell out of the nest before they 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 117 
 
 could fly, and I brought them up. But you don't 
 care for pets, do you, John ? " 
 
 " I don't like birds ! " 
 
 " Don't like birds ! Why, that seems as strange 
 as if you said that you didn't like flowers." 
 
 *' Mrs Norton told me, sir, that you would like 
 to speak to me about them cottages on the Erring- 
 ham Farm," said the bailiff. 
 
 '' Yes, yes, I must go over and see them to- 
 morrow morning at ten o'clock. I intend to go 
 thoroughly into everything. How are- they getting 
 on with the cottages that were burnt down ? " 
 
 " Eather slow, sir, the weather is so bad." 
 
 " But talking of fire, Burnes, I find that T can 
 insure at a much cheaper rate at Lloyds' than at 
 most of the offices. I find that I shall make a 
 saving of £20 a-year." 
 
 " That's worth thinking about, sir." 
 
 While the young squire talked to his bailiff 
 Kitty fed her rooks. They cawed, and flew to 
 lier hand for the scraps of meat. The coachman 
 
 I 
 
118 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 came to speak about oats and straw. They went 
 to the stables. Kitty adored horses, it amused John 
 to see her pat them, and her vivacity and light- 
 heartedness rather pleased him than otherwise. 
 
 Nevertheless, during the whole of the following 
 week the ladies held little communication with 
 John. He lived apart from them. In the morn- 
 ings he went out with his bailiffs to inspect farms 
 and consult about possible improvement and neces- 
 sary repairs. He had appointments with his soli- 
 citor. There were accounts to be gone through. 
 He never paid a bill without verifying every item. 
 It was difficult to say what should be done with a 
 farm for which a tenant could not be found even 
 at a reduced rent. At four o'clock he came into 
 tea, his head full of calculations of such a complex 
 character that even his mother could not follow the 
 different statements to his satisfaction. When she 
 disagreed with him, he took up the " Epistles of St 
 Columban of Bangor," the " Epistola ad Sethum," or 
 the celebrated poem, " Epistola ad Fedolium," 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 119 
 
 written when tlie saint was seventy-two, and 
 continued his reading, making copious notes in 
 a pocket-book. To do so he drew his chair close 
 to the library fire, and when Kitty came quickly 
 into the room with a flutter of skirts and a sound 
 of laughter, he awoke from contemplation, and her 
 singing as she ascended the stairs jarred the dreams 
 of cloister and choir which mounted from the pages 
 to his brain in clear and intoxicating rhapsody. 
 
 On the third of November Mrs Norton announced 
 that the meet of the hounds had been fixed for the 
 fifteenth, and that there would be a hunt breakfast. 
 
 " Oh, my dear mother ! you don't mean that 
 they are coming here to lunch ! " 
 
 '' For the last twenty years all our side of the 
 county has been in the habit of coming here to 
 lunch, but of course you can shut your doors to 
 all your friends and acquaintances. No doubt 
 they will think you have come down here on 
 purpose to insult them." 
 
 " Insult them ! why should I insult them ? 1 
 
120 A MEUE ACCIDENT. 
 
 haven't seen them since I was a boy. I remember 
 that the hunt breakfast used to go on all clay long. 
 Every woman in the county used to come, and 
 they used to stay to tea, and you used to insist on 
 a great number remaining to supper." 
 
 '' Well, you can put a stop to all that now that 
 you have consented to come to Thornby Place, only 
 I hope you don't expect me to remain here to see 
 my friends insulted." 
 
 " But just think of the expense ! and in these 
 bad times. You know I cannot find a tenant for 
 the Woreington farm. I am afraid I shall have to 
 provide the capital and farm it myself Now, in 
 the face of such losses, don't you think that we 
 should retrench ? " 
 
 " Retrench ! A few fowls and rounds of beef ! 
 You don't think of retrenching when you present 
 Stanton College with a stained glass window that 
 costs five hundred pounds." 
 
 " Of course, if you like it, mother ..." 
 
 " I like nothing but what you like, but I really 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 1 2 1 
 
 think that for you to put down the hunt breakfast 
 the first time you honour us with a visit, would 
 look very much as if you intended to insidt the 
 whole county." 
 
 '' It will be a day of misery for me ! " replied 
 John, laughing ; " but I daresay I shall live 
 through it." 
 
 ''I think you will like it very much/' said Kitty. 
 " There will be a lot of pretty girls here : the Misses 
 Green are coming from Worthing ; the eldest is 
 such a pretty girl, you are sure to admire her. And 
 the hounds and horses look so beautiful." 
 
 Mrs Norton and Kitty spoke daily of invitations, 
 and later on of cooking and the various things 
 that v/ere wanted. John continued to go through 
 his accounts in the morning, and to read monkish 
 Latin in the evening ; but he was secretly nervous, 
 and he dreaded the approaching day. 
 
 He was called an hour earlier — eight o'clock ; 
 he drank a cup of cold tea and ate a piece of dry 
 toast in a back room. The dinino^-room was full 
 
122 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 of servants, who laid out a long table rich with 
 comestibles and glittering with glass. Mrs Norton 
 and Kitty were upstairs dressing. 
 
 He wandered into the drawing-room and viewed 
 the dead, cumbrous furniture ; the two cabinets 
 bright with brass and veneer. He stood at the 
 
 o 
 
 window staring. It was raining. The yellow of 
 the falling leaves was hidden in the grey mist. It 
 ceased to rain. " This weather will keep many 
 away ; so much the better ; there will be too many 
 as it is. I wonder who this can be." A melan- 
 choly brougham passed up the drive. There were 
 three old maids, all looking sweetly alike ; one 
 was a cripple who walked with crutches, and her 
 smile was the best and the gayest imaginable 
 smile. 
 
 " How little material welfare has to do with our 
 happiness," thought John. " There is one whose 
 path is the narrowest, and she is happier and better 
 than I." And then the three sweet old maids 
 talked with their cousin of the weather ; and they 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 123 
 
 all wondered — a sweet feminine wonderment — if he 
 would see a girl that day whom he would marry. 
 
 Presently the house was full of people. The 
 passage was full of girls ; a few men sat at break- 
 fast at the end of the long table. Some red coats 
 passed across the green glare of the park, and the 
 hounds trotted about a single horseman. Voices. 
 " Oh ! how sweet they look ! oh, the dear dogs ! " 
 The huntsman stopped in front of the house, the 
 hounds sniffed here and there, the whips trotted 
 their horses and drove them back. '' Get together, 
 get together ; get back there ; Woodland, Beauty, 
 come up here." The hounds rolled on the grass, 
 and leaned their fore-paws on the railings, willing 
 to be caressed. 
 
 " How sweet they are, look at their soft eyes," 
 cried an old lady whose deity was a pug, and 
 whose back garden reeked of the tropics. '' Look 
 how good and kind they are ; they would not hurt 
 anything; it is only wicked men who teach them 
 to be . . ." The old lady hesitated before the 
 
121 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 word " bad," and murmured sometliiug about 
 killing. 
 
 There was a lady with melting eyes, many children, 
 and a long sealskin, and she availed herself of the 
 excuse of seeing the hounds to rejoin a young man in 
 whom she was interested. There was an old sports- 
 man of seventy winters, as hale and as hearty as an 
 oak, standing on the door-step, and he made John 
 promise to come over and see him. The girls 
 strolled about in groups. As usual young men 
 were lacking. Looking at his watch, the huntsman 
 pressed the sides of his horse, and rode to draw the 
 covers at the end of the park. The ladies followed 
 to see the start, although the mud was inches deep 
 under foot. '' Hu in, hu in," cried the huntsman. 
 The whips trotted round cracking their long whips. 
 Not a sound was heard. Suddenly there was a 
 whimper, " Hark to Woodland," cried the hunts- 
 man. The hounds rallied to the point, but nothing 
 came of it. Apparently the old bitch was at fault. 
 The huntsman muttered something inaudible. But 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 125 
 
 some few hundred yards further on, in an outlying 
 chunp where no one would expect to find, a fox 
 broke clean away. 
 
 The country is as flat as a smooth sea. Chanc- 
 tonbury Ring stands up like a mighty clitf on a 
 northern shore ; its crown of trees is grim. The 
 abrupt ascents of Toddington Mount bear away to 
 the left, and tide- like the fields flow up into the 
 great gulf between. 
 
 " He's making for the furze, but he'll never reach 
 them ; he got no start, and the ground is heavy." 
 
 Then the watchers saw the horsemen making 
 their way up the chalky roads cut in the precipi- 
 tous side of the downs. Rain began to fall, um- 
 brellas were put up, and all hurried home to lunch. 
 
 " Now John, try and make yourself agreeable, go 
 over and talk to some of the young ladies. Why 
 do you dress yourself in that way ? Have you 
 no other coat ? You look like a young priest. 
 Look at that young man over there I how nicely 
 dressed he is ! I wish you would let your mous- 
 
126 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 tache grow ; it would improve you immensely." 
 With these and similar remarks whispered to him, 
 Mrs Norton continued to exasperate her son until 
 the servants announced that lunch was ready. 
 *' Take in Mrs So-and-so/' she said to John, who 
 would fain have escaped from the melting glances 
 of the lady in the long sealskin. He offered her 
 his arm with an air of resignation, and set to work 
 valiantly to carve a huge turkey. 
 
 As soon as the servants had cleared away after 
 one set another came, and although the meet was a 
 small one, John took six ladies in to lunch. About 
 half-past three the men adjourned to the billiard- 
 room to smoke. The girls, mighty in numbers, 
 followed, and, with their arms round each other's 
 waists, and interlacing fingers, they grouped them- 
 selves about the room. Two huntsmen returned 
 dripping wet, and much to his annoyance, John had 
 to furnish them Avith a change of clothes. There 
 was tea in the drawing-room about five o'clock, and 
 soon after the visitors beg^an to take their leave. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 127 
 
 The wind blew very coldly, the roosting rooks 
 rose out of the branches, and the carriages rolled 
 into the night ; but still a remnant of visitors 
 stood on the steps talking to John. His cold was 
 worse ; he felt very ill, and now a long sharp pain 
 had grown through his left side, and momentarily 
 it became more and more difficult to exchange 
 polite words and smiles. The footmen stood wait- 
 ing by the open door, the horses champed their 
 bits, the green of the park was dark, and a group 
 of kissing girls moved about the loggia, wheels 
 grated on the gravel ... all were gone ! The but- 
 ler shut the door, and John went to the library fire. 
 
 There his mother found him. She saw that 
 something was seriously the matter. He was 
 helped up to bed, and the doctor was sent for. A 
 bad attack of pleurisy. John was rolled up in an 
 enormous mustard plaster — mustard and cayenne 
 pepper ; it bit into the flesh. He roared with 
 pain ; he was slightly delirious ; he cursed those 
 around him, using blasphemous language. 
 
128 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 For more than a week be suffered. He lay 
 bent over, unable to straighten himself, as if a 
 nerve had been wound up too tightly in the left 
 side. He was fed on gruel and beef-tea, the room 
 was kept very warm ; it was not until the twelfth 
 day that he was taken out of bed. 
 
 " You have had a narrow escape," the doctor 
 said to John, wdio, well wrapped up, lay back, look- 
 ing very weak and pale, before a blazing fire. " It 
 was very lucky I was sent for. Twenty-four hours 
 later I would not have answered for your life." 
 
 " I was delirious, was I not ? " 
 
 " Yes, slightly ; you cursed and swore fearfully 
 at us when we rolled you up in the mustard 
 plaster. . . . Well, it was very hot, and must 
 have burnt you." 
 
 '' Yes, it was ; it has scarcely left a bit of skin 
 on me. But did I use very bad language ? I 
 suppose I could not help it. ... I was delirious, 
 was I not ? " 
 
 " Yes, slightly." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 129 
 
 " Yes ; but I remember, and if I remember right, 
 I used very bad language ; and people when they 
 are really delirious do not know what they say. Is 
 not that so, doctor ? " 
 
 " If they are really delirious they do not re- 
 member, but you were only slightly delirious . . . 
 you were maddened by the pain occasioned by the 
 pungency of the plaster." 
 
 " Yes ; but do you think I knew what I was 
 saying ? " 
 
 " You must have known what you were saying, 
 because you remember what you said." 
 
 '' But could I be held accountable for what I 
 said ? " 
 
 " Accountable. . . . Well, I hardly know what 
 you mean. You were certainly not in the full 
 possession of your senses. Your mother (Mrs 
 Norton) was very much shocked, but I told her 
 that you were not accountable for what you said." 
 
 "Then I could not be held accountable, I did 
 not know what I was saying." 
 
180 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 *' I don't think you did exactly ; people in a 
 passion don't know what they say ! " 
 
 '' Ah 1 yes, but we are answerable for sins 
 committed in the heat of passion : we should 
 restrain our passion ; we were wrong in the first 
 instance in giving way to passion. . . . But I was 
 ill, it was not exactly passion. And I was very 
 near death ; I had a narrow escape, doctor ? " 
 
 '' Yes, I think I can call it a narrow escape." 
 
 The voices ceased, — five o'clock, — the curtains 
 were rosy with lamp light, and conscience awoke in 
 the langours of convalescent hours. '' I stood on 
 the verge of death ! " The whisper died away. 
 John was still very weak, and he had not strength 
 to think with much insistance, but now and then 
 remembrance surprised him suddenly like pain ; it 
 came unexpectedly, he knew not whence nor how, 
 but he could not choose but listen. Each interval 
 of thought grew longer ; the scabs of forge tfuln ess 
 were picked away, the red sore was exposed 
 bleeding and bare. Was he responsible for those 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 131 
 
 words ? He could remember them all now ; each 
 like a burning arrow lacerated his bosom, and he 
 pulled them to and fro. Remembrance in the 
 watches of the night, dawn fills the dark spaces of 
 a window, meditations grow more and more lucid. 
 He could now distinguish the instantaneous sensa- 
 tion of wrong that had flashed on his excited 
 mind in the moment of his sinning. . . . Then he 
 could think no more, and in the twilight of con- 
 trition he dreamed vaguely of God's great goodness, 
 of penance, of ideal atonements. Christ hung on 
 the cross, and far away the darkness was seared 
 with flames and demons. 
 
 And as strength returned, remembrance of his 
 blasphemies grew stronger and fiercer, and often as 
 he lay on his pillow, his thoughts passing in long 
 procession, his soul would leap into intense suffering. 
 " I stood on the verge of death with blasphemies 
 on my tongue. I might have been called to confront 
 my Maker with horrible blasphemies in my heart 
 and on my tongue ; but He in His Divine goodness 
 
1^2 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 spared me : He gave me time to repent. Am I 
 answerable, my God, for those dreadful words 
 that I uttered against Thee, because I suffered 
 a little pain, against Thee Who once died on the 
 cross to save me ! God, Lord, in Thine infinite 
 mercy look down on me, on me ! Vouchsafe me 
 Thy mercy, O my God, for I was weak ! My sin 
 is loathsome ; I prostrate myself before Thee, I cry 
 aloud for mercy ! " 
 
 Then seeing Christ amid His white million of 
 youths, beautiful singing saints, gold curls and gold 
 aureoles, lifted throats, and form of harp and 
 dulcimer, he fell prone in great bitterness on the 
 misery of earthly life. His happinesses and am- 
 bitions appeared to him less than the scattering 
 of a little sand on the sea-shore. Joy is passion, 
 passion is suffering ; we cannot desire what we 
 possess, therefore desire is rebellion prolonged 
 indefinitely against the realities of existence ; when 
 we attain the object of our desire, we must perforce 
 neglect it in favour of something still unknown, and 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 133 
 
 SO we progress from illusion to illusion. The winds 
 of folly and desolation howl about us ; the sorrows 
 of happiness are the worst to bear, and the wise 
 soon learn that there is nothing to dream of but 
 the end of desire. . . . God is the one ideal, 
 the Church the one shelter from the misery and 
 meanness of life. Peace is inherent in lofty arches, 
 rapture in painted panes. . . . See the mitres and 
 crosiers, the blood-stained heavenly breasts, the 
 loin-linen hanging over orbs of light. . . . Listen ! 
 ah ! the voices of chanting boys, and out of the 
 cloud of incense come Latin terminations, and the 
 organ still is swelling. 
 
 In such religious sestheticisms the soul of John 
 Norton had long slumbered, but now it awoke 
 in remorse and pain, and, repulsing its habitual 
 exaltations even as if they were sins, he turned to 
 the primal idea of the vileness of this life, and its 
 sole utility in enabling man to gain heaven. Beauty, 
 what was it but temptation ? He winced before a 
 conclusion so repugnant to him, but the terrors of 
 
 K 
 
134 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 the verge on which he had so lately stood were still 
 upon him in all their force, and he crushed his 
 natural feelings. . . . 
 
 The manifestation of modern pessimism in John 
 Norton has been described, and how its influence 
 was checked by constitutional mysticity has also 
 been shown. Schopenhauer, when he overstepped 
 the line ruled by the Church, was instantly rejected. 
 From him John Norton's faith had suffered nothing ; 
 the severest and most violent shocks had come from 
 another side — a side which none would guess, so 
 complex and contradictory are the involutions of 
 the human brain. Hellenism, Greek culture and 
 ideal ; academic groves ; young disciples, Plato and 
 Socrates, the august nakedness of the Gods were 
 equal, or almost equal, in his mind with the lacer- 
 ated bodies of meagre saints ; and his heart wavered 
 between the temple of simple lines and the cathe- 
 dral of a thousand arches. Once there had been 
 a sharp struggle, but Christ, not Apollo, had been 
 the victor, and the great cross in the bedroom of 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 135 
 
 Stanton College overshadowed the beautiful slim 
 body in which Divinity seemed to circulate like 
 blood ; and this photograph was all that now 
 remained of much youthful anguish and much 
 temptation. 
 
 A fact to note is that his sense of reality had 
 always remained in a rudimentary state ; it was, as 
 it were, diffused over the world and mankind. For 
 instance, his belief in the misery and degradation 
 of earthly life, and the natural bestiality of man, 
 was incurable ; but of this or that individual he 
 had no opinion ; he was to John Norton a blank 
 sheet of paper, to which he could not affix even a 
 title. His childhood had been one of bitter tumult 
 and passionate sorrow ; the different and dissident 
 ideals growing up in his heart and striving for the 
 mastery, had torn and tortured him, and he had 
 long lain as upon a mental rack. Ignorance of the 
 material laws of existence had extended even into 
 his sixteenth year, and when, bit by bit, the veil 
 fell, and he understood, he was filled with loathinc^ 
 
136 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 of life and mad desire to wash himself free of its 
 stain ; and it was this very hatred of natural flesh 
 that precipitated a perilous worship of the deified 
 flesh of the God. But mysticity saved him from 
 plain paganism, and the art of the Gothic cathe- 
 dral grew dear to him. It was nearer akin to him, 
 and he assuaged his wounded soul in the ecstacies 
 of incense and the great charms of Gregorian 
 chant. 
 
 But fear now for the first time took possession 
 of him, and he realised — if not in all its truth, 
 at least in part — that his love of God had only 
 taken the form of a gratification of the senses, a 
 sensuality higher but as intense as those which he 
 so much reproved. Fear smouldered in his very 
 entrails, and doubt fumed and went out like steam — 
 long lines and falhng shadows and slowly dispersing 
 clouds. His life had been but a sin, an abomina- 
 tion, and the fairest places darkened as the exa- 
 mination of conscience proceeded. His thought 
 whirled in dreadful night, soul-torturing contradic- 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 137 
 
 tions came suddenly under his eyes, like images in 
 a night-mare ; and in horror and despair, as a 
 woman rising from a bed of small-pox drops the 
 mirror after the first glance, and shrinks from de- 
 stroying the fair remembrance of her face by pursuing 
 the traces of the disease through every feature, he 
 hid his face in his hands and called for forgiveness 
 — for escape from the endless record of his con- 
 science. With staring eyes and contracted brows 
 he saw the flames which await him who blasphemes. 
 To the verge of those flames he had drifted. If 
 God in His infinite mercy had not withheld him ? . . 
 He pictured himself lost in fires and furies. Then 
 looking up he saw the face of Christ, grown pitiless 
 in final time — Christ standing immutable amid His 
 white million of youths. . . . 
 
 And the worthlessness and the abjectness of 
 earthly life struck him with awful and all-convincing 
 power, and this vision of the worthlessness of 
 existence was clearer than any previous vision. 
 He paused. There was but one conclusion ... it 
 
138 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 looked down upon him like a star — lie would be- 
 come a priest. All darkness, all madness, all fear 
 faded, and with sure and certain breath he breathed 
 happiness ; the sense of consecration nestled in its 
 heart, and its light shone upon his face. 
 
 There was nothing in the past, but there is the 
 sweetness of meditation in the present, and in the 
 future there is God. Like a fountain flowing amid 
 a summer of leaves and song, the sweet hours came 
 with quiet and melodious murmur. In the great 
 arm-chair of his ancestors he sits thin and tall 
 Thin and tall. The great flames decorate the dark- 
 ness, and the twilight sheds upon the rose curtains, 
 walking birds and falling petals. But his thoughts 
 are dreaming through long aisle and solemn arch, 
 clouds of incense and painted panes. . . The palms 
 rise in great curls like the sky ; and amid the 
 opulence of gold vestments, the whiteness of the 
 choir, the Latin terminations and the long abstin- 
 ences, the holy oil comes like a kiss that never 
 dies .... and in full glory of symbol and chant. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 139 
 
 the very savour of God descends upon him . . . 
 and then he awakes, surprised to find such dreams 
 out of sleep. 
 
 His resolve did not alter ; he longed for health 
 because it would bring the realisation of his desire, 
 and time appeared to him cruelly long. Nor could 
 he think of the pain he inflicted on his mother, so 
 centred was he in this thought ; he was blind to 
 her sorrowing face, he was deaf to her entreaty ; he 
 could neither feel nor see beyond the immediate 
 object he had in mind, and he spoke to her in 
 despair of the length of months that separated him 
 from consecration ; he speculated on the possibility 
 of expediting that happy day by a dispensation from 
 the Pope, The moment he could obtain permission 
 from the doctor he ordered his trunks to be packed, 
 and when he bid Mrs Norton and Kitty Hare good- 
 bye, he exacted a promise from the former to be 
 present at Stanton College on Palm Sunday. He 
 wished her to be present when he embraced Holy 
 Orders. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Every morning Mrs Norton flung her black shawl 
 over her shoulders, rattled her keys, and scolded the 
 servants at the end of the long passage. Kitty, as 
 she watered the flowers in the greenhouse, often 
 wondered why John had chosen to become a 
 priest and grieve his mother. Three times out of 
 five when the women met at lunch, Mrs Norton 
 said : 
 
 " Kitty, would you like to come out for a 
 drive ? " 
 
 Kitty answered, '' I don't mind ; just as you like, 
 Mrs Norton." 
 
 After tea at five Kitty read for an hour, and in 
 the evening she played the piano ; and she some- 
 times endeavoured to console her hostess by suggest- 
 ing that people did change their minds, and that 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 141 
 
 John might not become a priest after all. Mrs Norton 
 looked at the girl, and it was often on her lips to 
 say, " If you had only flirted, if you had only paid 
 him some attentions, all might have been different." 
 But heart-broken though she was, Mrs Norton 
 could not speak the words. The girl looked so 
 candid, so flowerlike in her guilelessness, that the 
 thought seemed a pollution. And in a few days 
 Mr Hare sent for Kitty ; and with her departed the 
 last ray of sunlight, and Thornby Place grew too 
 sad and solitary for Mrs Norton. 
 
 She went to visit some friends ; she spent 
 Christmas at the Rectory ; and in the long even- 
 ings when Kitty had gone to bed, she opened her 
 heart to her old friend. The last hope was gone ; 
 there was nothing for her to look for now. John 
 did not even write to her ; she had not heard from 
 him since he left. It was very wrong of the Jesuits 
 to encourage him in such conduct^ and she thought 
 of laying the whole matter before the Pope. The 
 order had once been suppressed ; she did not re- 
 
142 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 member by what Pope ; but a Pope had grown 
 tired of their intrigues, and had suppressed the 
 order. She made these accusations in moments of 
 passion, and immediately after came deep regret. 
 . . . How wrong of her to speak ill of her religion, 
 and to a Protestant ! If John did become a priest 
 it would be a punishment for her sins. But what 
 was she saying ? If John became a priest, she 
 should thank God for His great goodness. What 
 greater honour could he bestow upon her ? Next 
 day she took the train to Brighton, and went to 
 confession ; and that very same evening she plead- 
 ingly suggested to Mr Hare that he should go to 
 Stanton College, and endeavour to persuade John 
 to return home. The parson was of course obliged 
 to decline. He advised her to leave the matter in 
 the hands of God, and Mrs Norton went to bed a 
 prey to scruples of conscience of all kinds. 
 
 She even began to think it wrong to remain any 
 longer in an essentially Protestant atmosphere. 
 But to return to Thornby Place alone was impos- 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 143 
 
 sible, and she begged for Kitty. The parson was 
 loth to part with his daughter, but he felt there 
 was much suffering beneath the calm exterior that 
 Mrs Norton preserved. He could refuse her 
 nothing, and he let Kitty go. 
 
 '' There is no reason why you should not come 
 and dine with us every day ; but I shall not let 
 you have her back for the next two months." 
 
 " What day will you come and see us, father 
 dear?" said Kitty, leaning out of the carriage 
 window. 
 
 " On Thursday/' cried the parson. 
 
 " Very well, we shall expect you," replied Mrs 
 Norton ; and with a sigh she sank back on the 
 cushions, and fell to thinking of her son. 
 
 At Thornby Place everything was soon discovered 
 to be in a sad state of neglect. There was much 
 work to be done in the greenhouse, the azaleas 
 were being devoured by insects, and the leaves 
 required a thorough washing. It was easy to see 
 that the cats had not been regularly fed, and one 
 
144 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 of the tame rooks had flown away. Remedying 
 these disasters, Mrs Norton and Kitty hurried to 
 and fro. There was a ball at Steyning, and Mrs 
 Norton consented to do the chaperon for once ; and 
 the girl's dress was a subject of gossip for a month 
 — for a fortnight an absorbing occupation. Most 
 of the people who had been at the hunt breakfast 
 were at the ball, and Kitty had plenty of partners. 
 These suggested husbands to Mrs Norton, and she 
 questioned Kitty ; but she did not seem to have 
 thought of the ball except in the light of a toy 
 which she had been allowed to play with one even- 
 ing. The young men she had met there had 
 apparently interested her no more than if they had 
 been girls, and she regretted John only because of 
 Mrs Norton. Every morning she ran to see if 
 there was a letter, so that it might be she who 
 brought the good news. But no letter came. Since 
 Christmas John had written two short notes, and 
 now they were well on in April. But one morning 
 as she stood watcliing the springtide, Kitty saw him 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 145 
 
 walking up the drive ; the sky was growing bright 
 with bkie, and the beds were catching flower be- 
 neath the evergreen oaks. She ran to Mrs Norton, 
 who was attending to the canaries in the bow- 
 window. 
 
 " Look, look, Mrs Norton, John is coming up 
 the drive ; it is he ; look ! " 
 
 '' John ! " said Mrs Norton, seeking for her 
 glasses nervously ; " yes, so it is ; let's run and 
 meet him. But no ; let's take him r^^ther coolly. 
 I believe half his eccentricity is only put on because 
 he wishes to astonish us. We won't ask him any 
 questions ; we'll just wait and let him tell his own 
 story. ..." . 
 
 " How do you do, mother ?" said the young man, 
 kissing Mrs Norton with less reluctance than usual. 
 " You must forgive me for not having answered 
 your letters. It really was not my fault ; I have 
 been passing through a very terrible state of mind 
 lately. . . . And how do you do, Kitty ? Have you 
 been keeping my mother company ever since ? It 
 
146 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 is very good in you ; I am afraid you must think 
 me a very undutiful son. But what is the news ? 
 
 '' One of the rooks is gone." 
 
 *' Is that all? . . . What about the ball at Steyn- 
 inof ? I hear it was a great success." 
 
 '' Oh, it was delightful." 
 
 '' You must tell me about it after dinner. Now 
 I nmst 0:0 round to the stables and tell Walls to 
 take the trap round to the station to fetch my 
 things." 
 
 " Are you going to be here some time ? " said 
 Mrs Norton, assuming an indifferent air. 
 
 '' Yes, I think so ; that is to say, for a couple of 
 months — six weeks. I have some arrangements to 
 make, but I will speak to 3^ou about all that after 
 dinner." 
 
 With these words John left the room, and he 
 left his mother agitated and frightened. 
 
 " What can he mean by having arrangements 
 to make ? " she asked. Kitty could of course 
 suggest no explanation, and the women waited the 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 147 
 
 pleasure of the yoimg man to speak his mind. He 
 seemed, however, in no hurry to do so ; and the 
 manner in which he avoided the subject aggravated 
 his mother's uneasiness. At last she said, unable 
 to bear the suspense any longer : 
 
 '' Are you going to be a priest, John, dear ? " 
 
 " Of course, but not a Jesuit. ..." 
 
 " And why ? have you had a quarrel with the 
 Jesuits ? " 
 
 '' Oh, no ; never mind ; I don't like to talk 
 about it ; not exactly a quarrel, but 1 have seen a 
 great deal of them lately, and I have found them 
 out. I don't mean in anything wrong, but the 
 order is so entirely opposed to the monastic spirit. 
 It is difficult to explain ; T really can't . . . What I 
 mean is . . . well, that their worldliness is repug- 
 nant to me — fashionable friends, confidences, med- 
 dling in family affairs, dining out, letters from 
 ladies who need consolation. ... I don't mean any- 
 thing wrong ; pray don't misunderstand me. 1 
 merely mean to say that I hate their meddling in 
 
148 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 family affairs. Their confessional is a kind of mar- 
 riage bureau ; they have always got some plan on 
 for marrying this person to that, and I must say I 
 hate all that sort of thing. ... If I were a priest 
 I would disdain to . . . but perhaps I am wrong to 
 speak like that. Yes, it is very wrong of me, and 
 before . . . Kitty, you must not think I am speaking 
 against the principles of my religion, I am only 
 speaking of matters of " 
 
 " And have you given up your rooms in Stanton 
 College ? " 
 
 " Not yet ; that is to say, nothing is settled 
 definitely, but I do not think I shall go back there ; 
 at least not to live." 
 
 " And you still are determined on becoming a 
 priest ? " 
 
 " Certainly, but not a Jesuit." 
 
 '' What then ? 
 
 '' A Carmelite. I have seen a great deal of these 
 monks lately, and it is only they who preserve some 
 of the old spirit of the old ideal. To enter the 
 
A MEKE ACCIDENT. 149 
 
 Carmelite Chapel in Kensington is to step out of 
 the mean atmosphere of to-day into the lofty charm 
 of the Middle Ages. The long straight folds of 
 habits falling over sandalled feet, the great rosaries 
 hanging down from the girdles, the smell of burning 
 wax, the large tonsures, the music of the choir ; I 
 know nothing like it. Last Sunday I heard them 
 sing St Fortunatus' hymn, . . . the Vexilla regis 
 heard in the cloud of incense, and the wrath of the 
 organ ! . . . splendid are the rhymes ! the first 
 stanza in U and O, the second in A, and the third 
 in E ; passing over the closed vowels, the hymn 
 ascends the scale of sound " 
 
 '' Now, John, none of that nonsense ; how dare 
 you, sir ? Don't attempt to laugh at your mother." 
 
 " My dear mother, you must not think I am 
 sneering because I speak of what is uppermost in 
 my mind. I have determined to become a Carme- 
 lite monk, and that is why I came down here." 
 
 Mrs Norton was very angry ; her temper fumed, 
 and she would have burst into violent words had 
 
 I. 
 
150 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 not the last words, '' and that is why I came down 
 here," frightened her into calmness. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she said, turning round 
 in her chair. " You came down here to become a 
 Carmelite monk ; what do you mean ? " 
 
 John hesitated. He was clearly a little 
 frightened, but having gone so far he felt he must 
 13roceed. Besides, to-day, or to-morrow, sooner or 
 later the truth would have to be told. He said : 
 
 '' I intend altering the house a little here and 
 there ; you know how repugnant this mock Italian 
 
 architecture is to my feelings I am coming 
 
 to live here with some monks " 
 
 " You must be mad, sir ; you mean to say that 
 you intend to pull down the house of your ancestors 
 and turn it into a monastery ? " 
 
 John drew a breath of relief, the worst was over 
 now ; she had spoken the fulness of his thought. 
 Yes, he was going to turn Thornby Place into a 
 monastery. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " if you like to put it in that 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 151 
 
 way. Yes, I am going to turn Thornby Place into 
 a monastery. Why shouldn't I ? I am resolved 
 never to marry ; and I have no one except those 
 dreadful cousins to leave the place to. Why 
 shouldn't I turn it into a monastery and become a 
 monk ? I wish to save my soul." 
 
 Mrs Norton groaned. 
 
 " But you make me say more than I mean. To 
 turn the place into a Gothic monastery, such a 
 monastery as I dreamed would not be possible, 
 unless indeed I pulled the whole place down, and I 
 have not sufficient money to do that, and I do not 
 wish to mortgage the property. For the present I 
 am determined only on a few alterations. I have 
 them all in my head. The billiard room, that addi- 
 tion of yours, can be turned into a chapel. And 
 the casements of the dreadful bow-window might 
 be removed, and mullions and tracery fixed on, and, 
 instead of the present flat roof, a sloping tiled roof 
 might be carried up against the wall of the house. 
 The cloisters would come at the back of the chapel." 
 
152 A MERE ACCIDENT. • 
 
 John stopped aghast at the sorrow he was 
 causing, and he looked at his mother. She did 
 not speak. Her ears were full of merciless ruins ; 
 hope vanished in the white dust ; and the house 
 with its memories sacred and sweet fell pitilessly : 
 beams lying this way and that, the piece of exposed 
 wall with the well-known wall paper, the crashing 
 of slates. How they fall ! John's heart was rent 
 with grief, but he could not stay his determination 
 any more than his breath. Youth is a season of 
 suffering, we cannot surrender our desire, and it lies 
 heavy and burning on our hearts. It is so easy for 
 age, so hard for youth to make sacrifices. Youth 
 is and must be wholly, madly selfish ; it is not 
 until we have learnt the folly of our aims that we 
 may forget them, that we may pity the sufferings 
 of others, that we may rejoice in the triumphs of 
 our friends. To the superficial therefore, John 
 Norton will appear but the incarnation of egotism 
 and priggishness, but those who see deeper will have 
 recognised that he is one who has suffered bitterly, 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 153 
 
 as bitterly as the outcast who lies dead in his 
 rags beneath the light of the iDoliceman's lantern. 
 Mental and physical wants ! — he who may know- 
 one may not know the other : is not the absence of 
 one the reason of the other ? Mental and physical 
 wants ! the two planes of suffering whence the 
 great divisions of maokind view and envy the 
 other's destinies, as we view a passing pageant, as 
 those who stand on the decks of crossing ships gaze 
 regretfully back. 
 
 Those who have suffered much physical want will 
 never understand John Norton ; he will find com- 
 miseration only from those who have realised a 
 l^riori the worthlessness of existence, the vileness 
 of life ; above all, from those who, conscious of a 
 sense of life's degradation, impetuously desire their 
 ideal — the immeasurable ideal which lies before 
 them, clear, heavenly, and crystalline ; the sea into 
 which they would plunge their souls, but in whose 
 benedictive waters they may only dip their finger- 
 tips, and crossing themselves, pass up the aisle of 
 
154 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 human tribulatioD. We suffer in proportion to our 
 passions. But John Norton had no passion, say 
 they who see passion only in carnal dissipation. 
 Yet the passions of the spirit are more terrible 
 than those of the flesh ; the passion for God, the 
 passion of revolt against the humbleness of life ; 
 and there is no peace until passion of whatever 
 kind has wailed itself out. 
 
 Foolish are they who describe youth as a time of 
 happiness ; it is one of fever and anguish. 
 
 Beneath its apparent calm, there was never a 
 stormier youth than John's. The boy's heart 
 that grieves to death for a chorus-girl, the little 
 clerk wdio mourns to madness for the bright life 
 that flashes from the j)oint of sight of his high 
 office stool, never felt more keenly the nervous pain 
 of desire and the lassitudes of resistance. You 
 think John Norton did not suffer in his imperious 
 desire to pull down the home of his fathers and 
 build a monastery ! Mrs Norton's grief was his 
 grief, but to stem the impulse that bore him along 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 155 
 
 was too keen a pain to be endured. His desire 
 whelmed him like a wave ; it filled his soul like a 
 .perfume, and against his will it rose to his lips in 
 words. Even when the servants were present he 
 could not help discussing the architectural changes 
 he had determined upon, and as the vision of 
 the cloister, with its reading and chanting monks, 
 rose to his head, he talked, blinded by strange 
 enthusiasm, of latticed windows, and sandals. 
 
 His mother bit her thin lips, and her face 
 tightened in an expression of settled grief. Kitty 
 was sorry for Mrs Norton, but Kitty was too youDg 
 to understand, and her sorrow evaporated in laugh- 
 ter. She listened to John's explanations of the 
 future as to a fairy tale suddenly touched with the 
 magic of realism. That the old could not exist in 
 conjunction with the new order of things never 
 grew into the painful precision of thought in her 
 mind. She saw but the show side ; she listened 
 as to an account of private theatricals, and in spite 
 of Mrs Norton's visible grief, she was amused when 
 
156 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 John described himself walking at tlie head of his 
 monks with tonsured head and a great rosary hang- 
 ing from a leather girdle. Her innocent gaiety 
 attracted her to him. As they walked about the 
 grounds after breakfast, he spoke to her about pic- 
 tures and statues, of a trip he intended to take to 
 Italy and Spain, and he did not seem to care to be 
 reminded that this jarred with his project for im- 
 mediate realisation of Thornby Priory. 
 
 Leaning their backs against the iron railing 
 which divided the green sward from the park, John 
 and Kitty looked at the house. 
 
 " From this view it really is not so bad, though 
 the urns and the loggia are so intolerably out of 
 keeping with the landscape. But when I have 
 made my alterations it will harmonise with the downs 
 and the flat-flowing country, so Eoglish with its 
 barns and cottages and rich agi^iculture, and there 
 will be then a charming recollection of old England, 
 the England of the monastic ages, before the — but 
 I forgot, I must not speak to you on that subject." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 157 
 
 '' Do you think the house will look prettier than 
 it does now ? Mrs Norton says that it will be 
 impossible to alter Italian architecture into Gothic. 
 ... Of course I don't understand." 
 
 " Mother does not know what she is talking 
 about. I have it all down in my pocket-book. I 
 have various plans. ... I admit it is not easy, but 
 last night I fancy I hit on an idea. I shall of 
 course consult an architect, although really I don't 
 see there is any necessity for so doing, but just to 
 be on the safe side ; for in architecture there are 
 many practical difficulties, and to be on the safe 
 side I will consult an experienced man regarding 
 the practical working out of my design. I made 
 this drawing last night." John produced a large 
 pocket-book. 
 
 " But, oh, how pretty ; will it be really like 
 that ? " 
 
 '' Yes," exclaimed John, delighted ; '' it will be 
 exactly like that ; but I will read you my notes, 
 and then you will understand it better. 
 
158 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 " Alter and add to the front to represent the 
 fa(^de of a small cathedral. This can he done hj 
 building out a projection the entire tvidth of the 
 building, and one storey in height. This ivill be 
 divided, into three arched divisions, topped ivith 
 small gables." 
 
 " What are gables, John ? " 
 
 *' Those are the gables. The centre one (forming 
 entrance) being rather higher than the other gables. 
 The entrance ivoidd be formed luith clustered 
 columns and richly moulded pointed arches, the 
 door being solid, heavy oak, tuith large scroll and, 
 hammered iron hinges. 
 
 " The centre front and, bach would, be carried up 
 to form steep gables, the roof being heightened, to 
 match. The large gable in front to have a large 
 cross at apex." 
 
 *' What is an apex ? What words you do use." 
 
 John explamed, Kitty laughed. 
 
 " The top T have indicated in the drawing. 
 And to have a rose luindoiu. You see the rose 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 159 
 
 window in the drawing," said John, anticipating 
 the question which w^as on Kitty's lips. 
 
 " Yes," said she, '' but why don't you say a 
 round window ? " 
 
 Without answering John continued : 
 
 " The first floor fronts woidd he arcacled round 
 with smcdl columns with carved capitals and 
 pointed arches. 
 
 "At either corner of front, in lieu of present 
 Ionic columns, carry up octagonal turrets ivith 
 pinnacles at top. 
 
 " You see them in the drawing. These are the 
 octagonal turrets." 
 
 '' And which are the pinnacles ? " 
 
 '^ The ornaments at the top. 
 
 '' From the centre of the roof carry up a square 
 toiver with hattlemented parapets and pinnacles at 
 all corners, and flying buttresses from the turrets 
 of the main buildings. 
 
 " The how wlndoiu at side ivill have the old 
 casements removed, and have midlions and tracery 
 
160 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 fixed and Jllled luith cathedrcd glazings, and, 
 instead of the present flat, a sloping roof ivill he 
 carried up and finished against the outer ivall of 
 the house. At either side of hay luindoio hut- 
 tresses ivith moidded water-tables, plinths, &c. 
 
 " From these roofs and the front projections at 
 intersection of small gables, carved gargoyles to 
 carry off water. 
 
 " The billiard-roo'm to be converted into a 
 chapel, hy building a neiu high-pitched, roof" 
 
 " Oh, John, why should you do away with the 
 biUiard-room ; why shouldn't the monks play bil- 
 liards ? You played billiards on the day of the 
 meet." 
 
 '' Yes, but I am not a monk yet. No one 
 ever heard of monks playing billiards ; besides, 
 that dreadful addition of my mother's could not 
 remain in its present form, it would be ludicrous 
 to a degree, whereas it can be converted very 
 easily into a chapel. We must have a chapel — 
 building a high-pitched timber roof, throwing out 
 
A MEKE ACCIDENT. 1 6 1 
 
 an apse at the end, and "putting in mullioned 
 and traceried windoivs filled with stained glass" 
 
 ''And the cloister you are always speaking 
 about, where will that be ? " 
 
 " The cloister will come at the back of the 
 chapel, and an arched and vaulted ambulatory 
 will be laid round the house. Later on I shall 
 add a refectory, and put a lavatory at one end of 
 the ambulatory." 
 
 '' But don't you think, John, you may get 
 tired of being a monk, and then the house will 
 have to be built back again." 
 
 '' Never, the house will be from every point of 
 view, a better house when my alterations are car- 
 ried into effect. Beside, why should I be tired 
 of being a monk ? Your father does not get tired 
 of being a parson." 
 
 This reply, although singularly unconvincing, 
 was difficult to answer, and the conversation fell. 
 And day by day, John's schemes strengthened and 
 took shape, and he seemed to look upon him- 
 
162 A MEUE ACCIDENT. 
 
 self already as a Carmelite. He had even gone 
 so far as to order a habit, it had arrived a 
 few days ago ; and an architect, too, had come 
 down from London. He was the ray of hope in 
 Mrs Norton's life. For although he had loudly 
 commended the artistic taste exhibited in the 
 drawing, and expressed great wonderment at John's 
 architectural skill, he had, nevertheless, when 
 questioned as to their practicability, declared the 
 scheme to be wholly impossible. And the reasons 
 he advanced in support of his opinious were so 
 conclusive that John was fain to beg of him to 
 draw up a more possible plan for the conversion 
 of an Italian house into a Gothic monastery. 
 
 Mr seemed to think the idea a wild one, 
 
 but he promised to see what could be done to over- 
 come the difficulties he foresaw, and in a week he 
 forwarded John several drawings for his considera- 
 tion. Judged by comparison with John's dreams, 
 the practical architecture of the experienced man 
 seemed altogether lacking in expression and in 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 163 
 
 poetry of proportion ; and comparing them with his 
 own cherished project, John hung over the billiard- 
 table, where the drawings were laid out, hour after 
 hour, only to rise more bitterly fretful, more utterly 
 unable than usual to reconcile himself to natural 
 limitation, more hopelessly longing for the unat- 
 tainable. 
 
 He could think of nothing but his monastery ; 
 his Latin authors were forgotten ; he drew fa9ades 
 and turrets on the cloth during dinner, and he went 
 up to his room, not to bed, but to reconsider the 
 diftlculties that rendered the construction of a central 
 tower an impossibility. 
 
 Midnight : the house seems alive in the silence : 
 night is on the world. The twilight sheds on the 
 walking birds, on the falling petals, and in the rich 
 shadow the candle burns brightly. The great 
 bridal bed yawns, the lace pillows lie wide, the 
 curtains hang dreamily in the hallowed light. 
 John leans over his drawings. Once again he 
 takes up the architect's notes. 
 
164 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 '' The interior luould be so constructed as to 
 make it impossible to carry up the central tower. 
 The outer walls would not be strong enough to take 
 the large gables and roof. Although the chapel 
 could be done easily^ the ambulatory would be of 
 no use, as it would lead inobably from the kitchen 
 offices. 
 
 " Would have to reduce work on front faqade to 
 putting in new arched entrance. Buttresses tuould 
 take the place of cohtmns. 
 
 '' The bow-windoiu could remain. 
 
 " TJie roof to be heightened somewhat. The front 
 projection woidd throw the front rooms into almost 
 total darkness!' 
 
 " But why not a light timber lantern tower ? " 
 thought John. " Yes, that would get over the 
 difficulty. Now if we could only manage to keep 
 my front ... if my design for the front cannot be 
 preserved, 1 might as well abandon the whole 
 thinof ! And then ? " 
 
 And then life seemed to him void of meaning 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 105 
 
 and light. He might as well settle down and 
 marry. . . . 
 
 His face contracted in an expression of anger. 
 He rose from the table, and he looked round the 
 room. Its appearance was singularly jarring, shat- 
 tering as it did his dream of the cloister, and up- 
 building in fancy the horrid fabric of marriage and 
 domesticity. The room seemed to him a symbol 
 — with the great bed, voluptuous, the corpulent 
 arm-chair, the toilet-table shapeless with muslin 
 — of the hideous laws of the world and the flesh, 
 ever at variance and at war, and ever defeating 
 the indomitable aspirations of the soul. John 
 ordered his room to be changed ; and, in the 
 face of much opposition from his mother, who 
 declared that he would never be able to sleep 
 there, and would lose his health, he selected a nar- 
 row room at the end of the passage. He would 
 have no carpet. He placed a small iron bed against 
 the wall ; two plain chairs, a screen to keep off the 
 draught from the door, a basin-stand such as you 
 
 U 
 
166 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 might find in a ship's cabin, and a prie-dieii, were 
 all the furniture he permitted himself. 
 
 '' Oh, what a relief ! " he murmured. " Now 
 there is line, there is definite shape. That form- 
 less upholstery frets my eye as false notes grate 
 on my ear ; " and, becoming suddenly conscious 
 of the presence of God, he fell on his knees 
 and prayed. He prayed that he might be 
 guided aright in his undertaking, and that, if 
 it were conducive to the greater honour and 
 glory of God, he might be permitted to found a 
 monastery, and that he might be given strength 
 to surmount all difficulties. 
 
 Next morning, calm in mind, and happier, he went 
 downstairs to the drawing-room, a small book in his 
 hand, an historical work of great importance by the 
 Venerable Bede, intitled Vita heatorum ahhatum 
 WiremuthensiuTn, et Girvensiuem, Benedicti Ceol- 
 fridi, Easteriwini, Sigfridi atque Hoetherti. But he 
 could not keep his attention fixed on the book, it 
 appeared to him dreary and stupid. His thoughts 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 1G7 
 
 wandered. He thought of Kitty — of how beautiful 
 she looked on the background of red geraniums, 
 with the soft yellow cat on her shoulder, and he 
 wondered which of the four great painters, Manet, 
 Degas, Monet, or Renoir would have best rendered 
 the brightness and lightness, the intense colour 
 vitality of that motive for a picture. He thought 
 of her young eyes, of the pale hands, of the sudden, 
 sharp laugh ; and finally he took up one of her 
 novels, '' Red as a Rose is She." He read it, and 
 found it very entertaining. 
 
 But the evening post brought him a letter from 
 
 the architect's head clerk, saying that Mr was 
 
 ill, had not been to the office for the last three or 
 four days, and would not be able to go down to 
 Sussex again before the end of the month. Very 
 much annoyed, John spent the evening thinking 
 whom he could consult on the practicability of his 
 last design for the front, and next morning he was 
 surprised at not seeing Kitty at breakfast. 
 
 '' Where is Kitty ? " he asked abruptly. 
 
l68 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 " She is not feeling well ; she has a headache, 
 and will not be down to-day." 
 
 At the end of a long silence, John said : 
 
 '' I think I will go into Brighton. ... I must 
 really see an architect." 
 
 " Oh, John, dear, you are not really determined 
 to pull the house down ? " 
 
 '' There is no use, mother dear, in our discuss- 
 ing that subject ; each and all of us must do 
 the best we can with life. And the best we can 
 do is to try and gain heaven." 
 
 '' Breaking your mother's heart, and making 
 yourself ridiculous before the whole county, is not 
 the way to gain heaven." 
 
 '' Oh, if you are going to talk like that. . . ." 
 
 John went into the drawing-room to continue 
 his reading, but the Latin bored him even more 
 than it had done yesterday. He took up the 
 novel, but its enchantment was gone, and it appeared 
 to him in its tawdry, original vulgarity. He got on 
 a horse and rode towards the downs, and went up 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 169 
 
 the steep ascents at a gallop. He stood amid the 
 gorse at the top and viewed the great girdle of 
 blue encircling sea, and the long string of coast 
 towns lying below him, and far away. Lunch 
 was on the table when he returned. After lunch, 
 harassed by an obsession of architectural plans, he 
 went out to sketch. But it rained, and resisting 
 his mother's invitation to change his clothes, he sat 
 down before the fire, damp without, and feverishly 
 irritable within. He vacillated an hour between his 
 translation of St Fortunatus' hymn, Quern terra, 
 l^ontiis cethera, and " Red as a Rose is She," which, 
 although he thought it as reprehensible for moral 
 as for literary reasons, he was fain to follow out 
 to the vulgar end. But he could interest himself 
 in neither hj^-mn nor novel. For the authenticity 
 of the former he now cared not a jot, and he 
 threw the book aside vowing that its hoydenish 
 heroine was unbearable and he would read no 
 more. 
 
 '' T never knew a more horrible place to live 
 
170 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 in than Sussex. Either of two things : I must 
 alter the architecture of this house, or I must 
 return to Stanton College." 
 
 ''Don't talk nonsense, do you think I don't 
 know you ? you are boring yourself because Kitty 
 is upstairs in bed, and cannot walk about with 
 you." 
 
 ''I do not know how you contrive, mother, 
 always to say the most disagreeable possible things ; 
 the marvellous way in which you pick out what 
 will, at the moment, wound me most is truly 
 wonderful. 1 compliment you on your skill, but 
 I confess I am at a loss to understand why you 
 should, as if by right, expect me to remain here 
 to serve continuously as a target for the arrows 
 of your scorn." 
 
 John walked out of the room. During dinner 
 
 mother and son spoke very little, and he retired 
 
 early, about ten o'clock, to his room. He was in 
 
 high dudgeon, but the white walls, the prie-dieu, 
 
 - the straight, narrow bed were pleasant to see. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. l7l 
 
 His room was the first agreeable impression of 
 the day. He picked up a drawing from the 
 table, it seemed to him awkward and slovenly. 
 He sharpened his pencil, cleared his crow-quill 
 pens, got out his tracing-paper, and sat down to 
 execute a better. But he had not finished his 
 outline sketch before he leaned back in his chair, 
 and as if overcome by the insidious warmth of 
 the fire, lapsed into fire-light attitudes and medi- 
 tations. 
 
 He looked a little backwards into the blaze; 
 he nibbled his pencil point. Wavering light and 
 wavering shade follow^ed fast over the Roman pro- 
 file, followed and flowed fitfully — fitfully as his 
 thoughts. Now his thought followed out archi- 
 tectural dreams, and now he thought of himself, 
 of his unhappy youth, of how he had been mis- 
 understood, of his solitary life ; a bitter, unsatis- 
 factory life, and yet a life not wanting in an 
 ideal — a glorious ideal. He thought how his 
 projects had always met with failure, with 
 
172 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 disapproval, above all failure .... and yet, and 
 yet he felt, he almost knew there was something 
 great and noble in him. His eyes brightened ; 
 he slipped into thinking of schemes for a monastic 
 life ; and then he thought of his mother's hard 
 disposition and how she misunderstood him, — 
 everyone misunderstood him. What would the 
 end be ? Would he succeed in creating the 
 monastery he dreamed of so fondly ? To recon- 
 struct the ascetic life of the Middle Ages, that 
 would be something worth doing, that would be 
 a great ideal — that would make meaning in his 
 life. If he failed .... what should he do then ? 
 His life as it was, was unbearable .... he must 
 come to terms with life. . . . 
 
 That central tower ! how could he manage it ! 
 and that built-out front. Was it true, as the 
 architect said, that it would throw all the front 
 rooms into darkness ? Without this front his 
 design would be worthless. What a difference it 
 made ! 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 173 
 
 Kitty liked it. She had thought it charming. 
 How young she was, how glad and how innocent, 
 and how clever, her age being taken into con- 
 sideration. She understood all you said. It would 
 not surprise him if she developed into something : 
 but she would marry. . . . 
 
 But why was he thinking of her ? What con- 
 cern had she in his life ? A little slip of a girl 
 — a girl — a girl more or less pretty, that was all. 
 And yet it was pleasant to hear her laugh. That 
 low, sudden laugh — she was pleasanter company 
 than his mother, she was pleasant to have in the 
 house, she interrupted many an unpleasant scene. 
 Then he remembered what his mother had said. 
 She had said that he was disappointed that she 
 was ill, that he had missed her, that .... that 
 it was because she was not there that he had 
 found the day so intolerably wearisome. 
 
 Struck as with a dagger, the pain of the wound 
 flowed through him piercingly ; and as a horse stops 
 and stands trembling, for there is something in the 
 
174 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 darkness beyond, John slirank back, his nerves 
 vibrating like highly-strung chords ; and ideas — 
 notes of regret and lamentation died in great vague 
 spaces. Ideas fell. . . . Was this all; was this 
 all he had struggled for ; was he in love ? A girl, 
 a girl . . . was a girl to soil the ideal he had in 
 view ? No ; he smiled painfully. The sea of his 
 thoughts grew calmer, the air grew dim and wan, 
 a tall foundered wreck rose pale and spectral, 
 memories drifted. The long walks, the talks of 
 the monastery, the neighbours, the pet rooks, and 
 Sammy the great yellow cat, and the green-houses 
 ... he remembered the pleasure he had taken in 
 those conversations ! 
 
 What must all this lead to ? To a coarse affection, 
 to marriage, to children, to general domesticity. 
 
 And contrasted with this .... 
 
 The dignified and grave life of the cloister, the 
 constant sensation of lofty and elevating thought, a 
 high ideal, the communion of learned men, the 
 charm of headship. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. l75 
 
 Could he abandon this ? No, a thousand times 
 no ; but there was a melting sweetness in the other 
 cup. The anticipation filled his veins with fever. 
 
 And trembling and pale with passion, John fell 
 on his knees and prayed for grace. But prayer was 
 sour and thin upon his lips, and he could only beg 
 that the temptation might pass from him. . . . 
 
 " In the morning," he said, " I shall be strong," 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 But if in the morning he were strong, Kitty was 
 more beautiful than ever, and they walked out in 
 the sunlight. They walked out on the green 
 sward, under the evergreen oaks where the young 
 rooks are swinging ; out on the mundane swards 
 into the pleasure ground ; a rosery and a rockery ; 
 the pleasure ground divided from the park by iron 
 railings, the park encircled by the rich elms, the 
 elms shutting out the view of the lofty downs. 
 
 The meadows are yellow with buttercups, and 
 the birds fly out of the gold. And the golden note 
 is prolonged through the pleasure grounds by the 
 pale yellow of the laburnums, by the great yellow 
 of the berberis, by the cadmium yellow of the 
 gorse, by the golden wallflowers growing amid 
 rhododendrons and laurels. 
 
 And the transparent greenery of the limes 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 177 
 
 shivers, and the young rooks swinging on the 
 
 branches caw feebly. 
 
 And about the rockery there are purple bunches 
 
 of lilac, and the striped awning of the tennis seat 
 
 touches with red the paleness of the English 
 
 spring. 
 
 Pansies, pale yellow pansies ! 
 
 The sun glinting on the foliage of the elms 
 
 spreads a napery of vivid green, and the trunks 
 
 come out black upon the cloth of gold, and the 
 larks fly out of the gold, and the sky is a single 
 sapphire, and two white clouds are floating. It 
 is May time. 
 
 They walked toward the tennis seat with its 
 red striped awning. They listened to the feeble 
 cawing of young rooks swinging on the branches. 
 They watched the larks nestle in, and fly out of the 
 gold. It was May time, and the air was bright 
 with buds and summer bees. She was dressed in 
 white, and the shadow of the straw hat fell across 
 her eyes when she raised her face. He was dressed 
 
178 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 in black, and the clerical frock coat buttoned by 
 one button at the throat fell straight. 
 
 They sat under the red striped awning of the 
 tennis seat. The large grasping hands holding the 
 polished cane contrasted with the reedy translucent 
 hands laid upon the white folds. The low sweet 
 breath of the May time breathed within them, and 
 their hearts were light ; hers was conscious only of 
 the May time, but his was awake with unconscious 
 love, and he yielded to her, to the perfume of the 
 garden, to the absorbing sweetness of the moment. 
 He was no longer John Norton. His being was 
 part of the May time ; it had gone forth and had 
 mingled with the colour of the fields and sky ; with 
 the life of the flowers, with all vague scents and 
 sounds ; with the joy of the birds that flew out 
 of and nestled with amorous wings in the gold. 
 Enraptured and in complete forgetfulness of his 
 vows, he looked at her, he felt his being quicken- 
 ing, and the dark dawn of a late nubility radiated 
 into manhood. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 179 
 
 " How beautiful the day is," he said, speaking 
 slowly. ''Is it not all light and colour, and you in 
 your white dress with the sunlight on your hair 
 seem more blossom -like than any flower. I wonder 
 what flower I should compare you to. . . . Shall 
 I say a rose ? No, not a rose, nor a lily, nor a 
 violet ; you remind me rather of a tall delicate pale 
 carnation. ..." 
 
 " Why, John, I never heard you speak like that 
 before ; I thought you never paid compliments." 
 
 The transparent green of the limes shivers, the 
 young rooks caw feebly, and the birds nestle with 
 amorous wings in the blossoming gold. Kitty has 
 taken off her straw hat, the sunlight caresses the 
 delicate plenitudes of the bent neck, the delicate 
 plenitudes bound with white cambric, cambric swell- 
 ing gently over the bosom into the narrow circle of 
 the waist, cambric fluted to the little wrist, reedy 
 translucid hands ; cambric falling outwards and 
 flowing like a great white flower over the green 
 sward, over the mauve stocking, and the little shoe 
 
180 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 set firmly. The ear is as a rose leaf, a fluff of 
 light hair trembles on the curving nape, and the 
 head is crowned with thick brown gold. ''0 to 
 bathe my face in those perfumed waves ! O to 
 kiss with a deep kiss the hollow of that cool 
 neck ! . . ." The thought came he know not 
 whence nor how, as lightning falls from a clear sky, 
 as desert horsemen come with a glitter of spears 
 out of the cloud ; there is a shock, a passing 
 anguish, and they are gone. 
 
 He left her. So frightened was he at this 
 sudden and singular obsession of his spiritual 
 nature by a lower and grosser nature, whose exist- 
 ence in himself was till now unsuspected, and of 
 whose life and wants in others he had felt, and still 
 felt, so much scorn, that in the tumult of his loathing 
 he could not gain the calm of mind necessary for 
 an examination of conscience. He could not look 
 into his mind with any present hope of obtaining 
 a truthful reply to the very eminent and vital 
 question, how far his will had participated in that 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 1 <S 1 
 
 burning but wholly inexcusable desire by which he 
 had been so shockingly assailed. 
 
 That inner life, so strangely personal and pure, 
 and of which he was so proud, seemed to him 
 now to be befouled, and all its mystery and inner 
 grace, and the perfect possession which was his 
 sanctuary, lost to him for ever. For he could 
 never quite forget the defiling thought ; it would 
 always remain with him, and the consciousness 
 of the stain would preclude all possibility of 
 that refining happiness, that attribute of clean- 
 liness, which he now knew had long been his. 
 In his anger and self-loathing his rage turned 
 against Kitty. It was always the same story — 
 the charm and ideality of man's life always soiled 
 by woman's influence ; so it was in the beginning, 
 so it shall be. . . . 
 
 He stopped before the injustice of the accusa- 
 tion ; he remembered her candour and her gracious 
 innocence, and he was sorry ; and he remembered 
 her youth and her beauty, and he let his thoughts 
 
 N 
 
182 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 dwell upon her. Turning over his papers he came 
 across the old monk's song to David : 
 
 " Surge meo domno dulces fac, fistula versus : 
 David amat versus, surge fac iistula versus, 
 David amat vates vatorum est gloria David. . . ." 
 
 The verses seemed meaningless and tame, but 
 they awoke vague impulses in him, and, his mind 
 filled by a dim dream of King David and Bath- 
 sheba, he opened his Bible and turned over the 
 pages, reading a phrase here and there until he 
 had passed from story and psalm to the Song of 
 songs, and was finally stopped by — " I charge you, 
 O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, 
 that ye tell him that I am sick of love." 
 
 He laid the book down and leaned back in 
 his chair, and holding his temple with one hand 
 (this was his favourite attitude) he looked in 
 the fire fixedly. He was ravaged by emotion. 
 The magical fervour of the words he had just 
 read had revealed to him the depth of his passion. 
 
 But he would tear the temptation out of his 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. . 183 
 
 heart. The conduct of his life had been long- 
 ago determined upon. He had known the truth 
 as if by instinct from the first ; no life was 
 possible except an ascetic life, at least for him. 
 And in this hour of weakness he summoned to 
 his aid all his ancient ideals : the solemnity and 
 twilight of the arches, the massive Gregorian 
 chant which seems to be at once their voice and 
 their soul, the cloud of incense melting upon the 
 mitres and sunsets, and the boys' treble hovering 
 over an ocean of harmony. But although the picture 
 of his future life rose at his invocation it did not 
 move him as heretofore, nor did the scenes he 
 evoked of conjugal grossness and platitude shock 
 him to the extent he had expected. The moral 
 rebellion he succeeded in exciting was tepid, 
 heartless, and ineffective, and he was not moved 
 by hate or fear until he remembered that God 
 in His infinite goodness had placed him for ever 
 out of the temptation which he so earnestly sought 
 to escape from. Kitty was a Protestant. In a 
 
184 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 pang of despair, windows and organ collapsed 
 like cardboard ; incense and arches vanished, 
 and then rose again with the light of a more 
 gracious vision upon them. For if the dignity 
 and desire of mere self-salvation had departed, 
 all the lighter colours and livelier joys of the 
 conversion of others filled the sky of faith with 
 morning tones and harmonies. And then ? . • . 
 Salvation before all things, he answered in his 
 enthusiasm ;- — something of the missionary spirit 
 of old time was upon him, and forgetful of his 
 aisles, his arches, his Latin authors, he went 
 down stairs and asked Kitty to play a game of 
 billiards. 
 
 ''We play billiards here on Sunday, but you 
 would think it wrong to do so." 
 
 '' But to-day is not Sunday." 
 
 " No, I was only speaking in a general way. 
 Yet I often wonder how you can feel satisfied with 
 the protection your Church affords you against the 
 miseries and trials of the world. A Protestant, 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 185 
 
 you know, may believe pretty nearly as little or as 
 much as he likes, whereas in our church every- 
 thing is defined ; we know what we must believe 
 to be saved. There is a sense of security in the 
 Catholic Church which the Protestant has not." 
 
 '' Do you think so ? That is because you do 
 not know our Church," replied Kitty, who was a 
 little astonished at this sudden outburst. " I 
 feel quite happy and safe. I know that our Lord 
 Jesus Christ died on the Cross to save us, and we 
 have the Bible to guide us." 
 
 '' Yes, but the Bible without the interpretation 
 of the Church is . . . may lead to error. For 
 instance ..." 
 
 John stopped abruptly. Seized with a sudden 
 scruple of conscience he asked himself if he, in 
 his own house, had a right to strive to under- 
 mine the faith of the daughter of his own 
 friend. 
 
 " Go on," cried Kitty, laughing, " I know the 
 Bible better than you, and if I break down I will 
 
186 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 ask father. And as if to emphasise her intention, 
 she hit her ball which was close under the cushion 
 as hard as she could. 
 
 John hailed the rent in the cloth as a deliver- 
 ance, for in the discussion as to how it could be 
 repaired, the religious question was forgotten. 
 
 But if he were her lover, if she were going to 
 be his wife, he would have the right to offer her 
 every facility and encouragement to enter the 
 Catholic Church — the true faith. Darkness passes, 
 and the birds are carolling the sun, flowers and 
 trees are pranked with aerial jewellery, the frag- 
 rance of the warm earth flows in your veins, your 
 eyes are fain of the light above and your heart 
 of the light within. He would not jar his happi- 
 ness by the presence of Mrs Norton, even Kitty's 
 presence was too actual a joy to be borne. She 
 drew him out of himself too completely, inter- 
 rupted the exquisite sense of personal enchantment 
 which seemed to permeate and flow through him 
 with the sweetness of health returning to a con- 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 187 
 
 valescent on a spring day. He closed his eyes, 
 and his thoughts came and went like soft light 
 and shade in a garden close ; his happiness was 
 a part of himself, as fragrance is inherent in the 
 summer time. The evil of the last days had 
 fallen from him, and the reaction Avas equivalently 
 violent. Nor was he conscious of the formal 
 resignation he was now making of his dream, nor 
 did he think of the distasteful load of marital 
 duties with which he was going to burden him- 
 self; all was lost in the vision of beautiful com- 
 panionship, a sort of heavenly journeying, a bright 
 earthly way with flowers and starlight — he a little 
 in advance pointing, she following, with her eyes 
 lifted to the celestial gates shining in the distance. 
 Sometimes his arms would be thrown about her. 
 Sometimes he would press a kiss upon her face. 
 She was his, his, and he was her saviour. The 
 evening died, the room darkened, and John's 
 dream continued in the twilight, and the ringing 
 of the dinner bell and the disturbance of dressing 
 
188 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 did not destroy his thoughts. Like fumes of wine 
 they hung about him during the evening, and 
 from time to time he looked at Kitty. 
 
 But although he had so far surrendered himself, 
 he did not escape without another revulsion of 
 feeling. A sudden realisation of what his life 
 would be under the new conditions did not fail to 
 frighten him, and he looked back with passionate 
 regret on his abandoned dreams. But his nature 
 was changed, abstention he knew was beyond his 
 strength, and after many struggles, each of which 
 was feebler than the last, he determined to propose 
 to Kitty on the first suitable occasion. 
 
 Then came the fear of refusal. Often he was 
 paralysed with pain, sometimes he would morbidly 
 allow his thoughts to dwell on the moment when 
 he would hear her say, it was impossible, that she 
 did not and could not love him. The young grey 
 light of the eyes would be fixed upon him ; she 
 would speak her sorrow, and her thin hands would 
 hang by her side in the simple attitude that was so 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 189 
 
 peculiar to her. And he mused willingly on the 
 long meek life of grief that would then await him. 
 He would belong to God ; his friar's frock would 
 hide all ; it would be the habitation, and the Gothic 
 walls he would raise, the sepulchre of his love. . . . 
 '' But no, no, she shall be mine," he cried out, 
 moved in his very entrails. Why should she refuse 
 him ? What reason had he to believe that she 
 would not have him ? He thought of how she had 
 answered his questions on this and that occasion, 
 how she had looked at him ; he recalled every 
 gesture and every movement with wonderful pre- 
 cision, and then he lapsed into a passionate 
 consideration of the general attitude of mind she 
 evinced towards him. He arrived at no conclusion, 
 but these meditations were full of penetrating de- 
 light. Sometimes he was afflicted with an intense 
 shyness, and he avoided her ; and when Mrs 
 Norton, divining his trouble, sent them to walk in 
 the garden, his heart warmed to his mother, and 
 he regretted his past harshness. 
 
190 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 And this idyll was lived about the beautiful 
 Italian house, with its urns and pilasters ; through 
 the beautiful English park, with its elms now with 
 the splendour of summer upon them ; in the plea- 
 sure grounds with their rosary, and the fountain 
 where the rose leaves float, and the wood-pigeons 
 come at eventide to drink ; in the greenhouse with 
 its live glare of geraniums, where the great yellow 
 cat, so soft and beautiful, springs on Kitty's 
 shoulder, rounds its back, and purring, insists on 
 caresses ; in the large clean stables where the 
 horses munch the corn lazily, and look round with 
 round inquiring eyes, and the rooks croak and 
 flutter, and strut about Kitty's feet. It was Kitty ; 
 yes, it was Kitty everywhere ; even the blackbird 
 darting through the laurels seemed to cry Kitty. 
 
 To propose ! Time, place, and the words he 
 shoukl use had been carefully considered. After 
 each deliberation, a new decision had been taken : 
 but when he came to the point, John found himself 
 unable to speak any one of the different versions 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 191 
 
 he had prepared. Still he was very happy. The 
 days were full of sunshine and Kitty, and he mis- 
 took her light-heartedness for affection. He had 
 begun to look upon her as his certain wife, 
 although no words had been spoken that would 
 suggest such a possibility. Outside of his imagina- 
 tion nothing was changed ; he stood in exactly the 
 same relation to her as he had done when he re- 
 turned from Stanton College, determined to build a 
 Gothic monastery upon the ruins of Thornby Place, 
 and yet somehow he found it difficult to realise 
 that this was so. 
 
 One morning he said, as they went into the 
 garden, " You must sometimes feel a little lonely 
 here . . . when I am away ... all alone here 
 with mother." 
 
 " Oh dear no ! we have lots to do. I look after 
 the pets in the morning. I feed the cats and the 
 rooks, and I see that the canaries have fresh water 
 and seed. And then the bees take up a lot of our 
 time. We have twenty-two hives. Mrs Norton 
 
192 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 says she ought to make five pounds. a year on each. 
 Sometimes we lose a swarm or two, and then Mrs 
 Norton is so cross. We were out for hours with 
 the gardener the other day, but we could do no 
 good ; we could not get them out of that elm tree. 
 You see that long branch leaning right over the 
 wall ; well it was on that branch that they settled, 
 and no ladder was tall enough to reach them ; and 
 when Bill climbed the tree and shook them out 
 they flew right away." 
 
 " Shall I, shall I propose to her now ?" thought 
 John. But Kitty continued talking, and it was 
 difficult to interrupt her. The gravel grated under 
 their feet ; the rooks were flying about the elms. 
 At the end of the garden there was a circle 
 of fig trees. A silent place, and John vowed he 
 would say the word there. But as they approached 
 his courage died within him, and he was obliged to 
 defer his vows until they reached the green-house. 
 '' So your time is fully occupied here." 
 " And in the afternoon we go out for drives ; 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 193 
 
 we pay visits. You never pay visits ; you never 
 go and call on your neighbours." 
 
 ''Oh, yes I do; I went the other day to see 
 your father." 
 
 " Ah yes, but that is only because he talks to 
 you about Latin authors." 
 
 " No, I assure you it isn't. Once I have finished 
 my book I shall never look at them again." 
 
 '' Well, what will you do ?" 
 
 " Next winter I intend to go in for hunting. I 
 have told a dealer to look out for a couple of nice 
 horses for me." 
 
 Kitty looked up, her grey eyes wide open. If 
 John had told her that he had given the order for 
 a couple of crocodiles she could not have been more 
 surprised. 
 
 " But hunting is over now ; it won't begin 
 again till next November. You will have to play 
 lawn tennis this summer." 
 
 *' T have sent to London for a racquet and shoes, 
 and a suit of flannels." 
 
194 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 " Goodness me. . . . Well, that is a surprise ! 
 But you won't want the flannels ; you might play 
 in the Carmelite's habit which came down the 
 other day. How you do change your mind about 
 things !" 
 
 " Do you never change your mind, Kitty ?" 
 " Well, I don't know, but not so suddenly as 
 you. Then you are not going to become a monk ?" 
 " I don't know, it depends on circumstances." 
 " What circumstances ? " said Kitty, iunocently. 
 The words '' ivliether you will or luill not 
 have me " rose to John's lips, but all power to 
 speak them seemed to desert him ; he had grown 
 suddenly as weak as melting snow, and in an 
 instant the occasion had passed. He hated him- 
 self for his weakness. The weary burden of his 
 love lay still upon him, and the torture of utter- 
 ance still menaced him from afar. The conversa- 
 tion had fallen. They were approaching the 
 greenhouse, and the cats ran to meet their patron. 
 Sammy sprang on Kitty's shoulder. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 195 
 
 " Oh, isn't he a beauty ? stroke him, do." 
 
 John passed his hand along the beautiful yellow 
 fur. Sammy rubbed his head against his mis- 
 tress' face, her raised eyes were as full of light 
 as the pale sky, and the rich brown head and 
 the thin hands made a picture in the exquisite 
 clarity of the English morning, — in the homeli- 
 ness of the English garden, with tall hollyhocks, 
 espalier apple trees, and one labourer digging 
 amid the cabbages. Joy crystal as the morning 
 itself illumined John's mind for a moment, and 
 then faded, and he was left lonely with the remem- 
 brance that his fate had still to be decided, that 
 it still hung in the scale. 
 
 One evening as they were walking in the 
 park, shadowy in the twilight of an approaching 
 storm, Kitty said : 
 
 " I never would have believed, John, that you 
 could care to go out for a walk with me." 
 
 '^ And why, Kitty ? " 
 
 Kitty laughed — her short sudden laugh was 
 
196 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 strange and sweet. John's heart was beating. 
 " Well/' she said, without the faintest hesitation 
 or shyness, " we always thought you hated girls. 
 I know I used to tease you, when you came 
 home for the first time ; when you used to think 
 of nothing but the Latin authors." 
 
 '' What do you mean ? " 
 
 Kitty laughed again. 
 
 " You promise not to tell ? " 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 This was their first confidence. 
 
 " You told your mother when I came, when 
 you were sitting by the fire reading, that the 
 flutter of my skirts disturbed you." 
 
 '' No, Kitty, I'm sure you never disturbed 
 me, or at least not for a long time. I wish my 
 mother would not repeat conversations, it is most 
 unfair." 
 
 " Mind you, you promised not to repeat what 
 I have told you. If you do, you will get me 
 into an awful scrape." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 197 
 
 '' I promise." 
 
 The conversation came to a pause. Presently 
 Kitty said, '' But you seem to have got over 
 your dislike to girls. I saw you talking a long 
 while with Miss Orme the other day ; and at 
 the Meet you seemed to admire her. She was 
 the prettiest girl we had here." 
 
 '' No, indeed she wasn't ! " 
 
 '' Who was, then ? " 
 
 '' You were." 
 
 Kitty looked up ; and there was so much as- 
 tonishment in her face that John in a sudden 
 access of fear said, " We had better make haste, 
 the storm is coming on ; we shall get wet 
 through." 
 
 They ran towards the house. John reproached 
 himself bitterly, but he made no further attempt 
 to screw his courage up to the point" of propos- 
 ing. His disappointment was followed by doubts. 
 Was his powerlessness a sign from God that he 
 was abandoning his true vocation for a false one ? 
 
 Q 
 
198 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 and a little shaken, he attempted to interest him- 
 self in the re-building of his house ; but the project 
 had grown impossible to him, and he felt he could 
 not embrace it again, with any of the old en- 
 thusiasm at least, until he had been refused by 
 Kitty. There were moments when he almost 
 yearned to hear her say that she could never 
 love him. But in his love and religious suffering 
 the thought of bringing a soul home to the true 
 fold remained a fixed light; he often looked to 
 it with happy eyes, and then if he were alone 
 he fell on his knees and prayed. Prayer like 
 an opiate calmed his querulous spirit, and 
 having told his beads — the great beads which 
 hung on his prie-dieu — he would go down stairs 
 with peace in his heart, and finding Kitty, he 
 would ask her to walk with him in the garden, 
 or they would stroll out on the tennis lawn, 
 racquet in hand. 
 
 One afternoon it was decided that they should 
 go for a long walk. John suggested that they 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 199 
 
 should climb to the top of Toddington Mount, and 
 view the immense plain which stretches away in 
 dim blue vapour and a thousand fields. 
 
 You see John and Kitty as they cross the wide 
 park towards the vista in the circling elms, — she 
 swinging her parasol, he carrying stiffly his grave 
 canonical cane. He still wears the long black coat 
 buttoned at the throat, but the air of hieratic dignity 
 is now replaced by, or rather it is glossed with, the 
 ordinary passion of life. Both are like children, 
 infinitely amused by the colour of the grass and 
 sky, by the hurry of the startled rabbit, by the 
 prospect of the long walk ; and they taste already 
 the wild charm of the downs, seeing and hearing 
 in imagination its many sights and sounds, the 
 wild heather, the yellow savage gorse, the solitary 
 winding flock, the tinkling of the bell-wether, the 
 cliff-like sides, the crowns of trees, the mighty 
 distance spread out like a sea below them with 
 its faint and constantly dissolving horizon of the 
 Epsom Hills, 
 
200 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 '' I never can cross this plain, Kitty, without 
 thinking of the Dover cliffs as seen in mid Channel ; 
 this is a mere inland imitation of them." 
 
 " I have never seen the Dover cliffs ; I have 
 never been out of England, but the Brighton cliffs 
 give me an idea of what you mean." 
 
 ^' On your side — the Shoreham side — the downs 
 rise in a gently sloping ascent from the sea." 
 
 " Yes, we often walk up there. You can see 
 Brighton and Southwick and Worthing. Oh ! it 
 is beautiful ! I often go for a walk there with 
 my friends, the Austen girls — you saw them here 
 at the Meet.". 
 
 " Yes, Mr Austen has a very nice property ; it 
 extends rioht into the town of Shoreham, does it 
 not ? " 
 
 '' Yes, and right up to Toddington Mount, where 
 we are going. But aren't you a little tired, John ? 
 These roads are very steep." 
 
 '' Out of breath, Kitty ; let's stop for a minute 
 or two." The country lay below them. They had 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 201 
 
 walked three miles, and Thornby Place and its elms 
 were now vague in the blue evening. " We must 
 see one of these days if we cannot do the whole 
 distance." 
 
 " What ? right across the downs from Shoreham 
 to Henfield ?" 
 
 " Well, it is not more than eight miles ; you 
 don't think you could manage it ? " 
 
 *' I don't know, it is more than eight miles, and 
 walking on the downs is not like walking on the 
 highroad. Father thinks nothing of it." 
 
 '' We must really try it." 
 
 " What would you do if I were to get so tired 
 that I could not go back or forward ? " 
 
 *' I would carry you." 
 
 They continued their climb. Speaking of the 
 Devil's Dyke, Kitty said — 
 
 '' What ! you mean to say you never heard the 
 legend ? You, a Sussex man ! " 
 
 '' I have lived very little in Sussex, and I used to 
 hate the place; I am only just beginning to like it." 
 
202 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 " And you don't like the Jesuits any more, 
 because they go in for matchmakiDg." 
 
 '' They are too sly for me, I confess ; I don't 
 approve of priests meddling in family affairs. 
 But tell me the legend." 
 
 '' Oh, how steep these roads are. At last, at last. 
 Now let's try and find a place where we can sit down. 
 The grass is full of that horrid prickly gorse." 
 
 '' Here's a nice soft place ; there is no gorse 
 here. Now tell me the legend." 
 
 " Well, I never ! " said Kitty, sitting herself on 
 the spot that had been chosen for her, '' you do 
 astonish me. You never heard of the legend of St 
 Cuthman." 
 
 '' No, do tell it to me." 
 
 " Well, I scarcely know how to tell it in ordinary 
 words, for I learnt it in poetry." 
 
 '' In poetry ! In whose poetry ? ". 
 
 " Evy Austen put it into poetry, the eldest of 
 the girls, and they made me recite it at the 
 harvest supper." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 203 
 
 '' Oh, that's awfully jolly — I never should have 
 thought she was so clever. Evy is the dark -haired 
 one." 
 
 " Yes, Evy is awfully clever ; but she doesn't 
 talk much about it." 
 
 " Do recite it." 
 
 ''I don't know that I can remember it all. 
 You won't laugh if I break down." 
 
 *' I promise." 
 
 The Legend of St Cuthman. 
 
 " St Cuthman stood on a point which crowns 
 The entire range of the grand South Downs ; 
 Beneath his feet, Hke a giant field, 
 Was stretched the expanse of the Sussex Weald. 
 < Suppose,' said the Saint, ' 'twas the will of Heaven 
 To cause this range of hills to be riven, 
 And what were the use of prayers and whinings, 
 Were the sea to flood the village of Poynings : 
 'Twould be fine, no doubt, these Downs to level, 
 But to do such a thing I defy the Devil ! ' 
 St Cuthman, tho' saint, was a human creature. 
 And his eye, a bland and benevolent feature, 
 Kemarked the approach of the close of day, 
 And he thought of his supper, and turned away. 
 Walking fast, he 
 
204 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 Had scarcely passed the 
 First steps of his way, when he saw something nasty ; 
 
 'Twas tall and big, 
 
 And he saw from its rig 
 'Twas the Devil in full diabolical fig. 
 
 There were wanting no proofs, 
 
 For the horns and the hoofs 
 And the tail were a fully convincing sight ; 
 
 But the heart of the Saint 
 
 Ne'er once turned faint, 
 And his halo shone with redoubled light. 
 
 ' Hallo, I fear 
 
 You're trespassing here ! ' 
 Said St Cuthman, ' To me it is perfectly clear. 
 If you talk of the devil, he's sure to appear ! ' 
 
 ' With my spade and my pick 
 
 I am come,' said old Nick, 
 ' To prove you've no power o'er a demon like me. 
 
 I'll show you my power — 
 
 Ere the first morning hour 
 Thro' the Downs, over Poynings, shall roll in the sea.' 
 
 ' I'll give you long odds,' 
 
 Cried the Saint, ' by the gods ! 
 I'll stake what you please, only say what your wish is.' 
 
 Said the devil, ' By Jove ! 
 
 You're a sporting old cove ! 
 
 My pick to your soul, 
 
 I'll make such a hole, 
 That where Poynings now stands, shall be swimming the 
 fishes.' 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 ' Done ! ' cried the Saint, ' but I must away 
 
 I have a penitent to confess ; 
 In an hour I'll come to see fair play- 
 In truth I cannot return in less. 
 My bet will be won ere the first bright ray 
 Heralds the ascension of the day. 
 If I lose !— there will be the devil to pay ! ' 
 He descended the hill with a firm quick stride, 
 Till he reached a cell which stood on the side ; 
 He knocked at the door, and it opened wide,— 
 He murmured a blessing and walked inside. 
 Before him he saw a tear-stained face 
 Of an elderly maiden of elderly grace ; 
 Who, when she beheld him, turned deadly pale, 
 And drew o'er her features a nun's black veil. 
 'Holy father !' she said, ' I have one sin more. 
 Which I should have confessed sixty years before ! 
 I have broken my vows— 'tis a terrible crime ! 
 I have loved you, oh father, for all that time ! 
 My passion I cannot subdue, tho' I try ! 
 Shrive me, oh father ! and let me die ! ' 
 ' Alas, my daughter,' replied the Saint, 
 ' One's desire is ever to do what one mayn't, 
 There was once a time when I loved you, too, 
 I have conquered my passion, and why shouldn't you ] 
 
 For penance I say. 
 
 You must kneel and pray 
 For hours which will number seven ; 
 
 Fifty times say the rosary, 
 
 (Fifty, 'twill be a poser, eh ?) 
 
 205 
 
206 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 But by it you'll enter heaven ; 
 
 As each hour doth pass, 
 
 Turn the hour glass, 
 Till the time of midnight's near ; 
 
 On the stroke of midnight 
 
 This taper light, 
 Your conscience will then be clear.' 
 He left the cell, and he walked until 
 He joined Old Nick on the top of the hill. 
 It was five o'clock, and the setting sun 
 Showed the work of the Devil already begun. 
 St Cuthman was rather fatigued by his walk, 
 And caring but little for brimstone talk, 
 He watched the pick crash through layers of chalk. 
 And huge blocks went over and splitting asunder 
 Broke o'er the Weald like the crashing of thunder. 
 St Cuthman wished the first hour would pass, 
 When St Ursula, praying, reversed the glass. 
 ' Ye legions of hell ! ' the Old Gentleman cried, 
 ' I have such a terrible stitch in the side ! ' 
 ' Don't work so hard,' said the Saint, ' only see, 
 The sides of your dyke a heap smoother might be.' 
 ' Just so/ said the Devil, ' I've had a sharp fit. 
 So, resting, I'll trim up my crevice a bit.' 
 St Cuthman was looking prodigiously sly, 
 He knew that the hours were slipping by. 
 
 ' Another attack ! 
 
 I've cramp at my back ! 
 
 I've needles and pins 
 
 From my hair to my shins ! 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 207 
 
 I tremble and quail 
 
 From my horns to my tail ! 
 I will not be vanquished, I'll work, I say, 
 This dyke shall be finished ere break of day ! ' 
 ' If you win your bet, 'twill be fairly earned,' 
 Said the Saint, and again was the hour-glass turned. 
 And then wdth a most unearthly din 
 The farther end of the dyke fell in ; 
 But in spite of an awful rheumatic pain 
 The Devil began his work again. 
 ' I'll not be vanquished ! ' exclaimed the old bloke. 
 ' By breathing torrents of flame and smoke. 
 Your dyke,' said the Saint, ' is hindered each minute. 
 What can one expect when the Devil is in it ] ' 
 Then an accident happened, which caused Nick at last 
 To rage, fume, and swear ; when the fourth hour had 
 
 passed, 
 On his hoof there came rolling a huge mass of quartz. 
 
 Then quite out of sorts 
 
 The bad tempered old cove 
 Sent the huge mass of stone whizzing over to Hove. 
 He worked on again, till a howl and a cry 
 Told the Saint one more hour— the fifth — had gone by. 
 ' "What's the row 1 ' asked the Saint, ' A cramp in the wrist, 
 I think for a while I had better desist.' 
 Having rested a bit he worked at his chasm, 
 Till, the hour having passed, he was seized with a spasm. 
 
 He raged and he cursed, 
 
 ' I bore this at first. 
 The rheumatics were awful, but this is the worst.' 
 
208 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 With awful rage heated, 
 
 The demon defeated, 
 111 his passion used words that can't be repeated. 
 
 Feeling shaken and queer. 
 
 In spite of his fear, 
 At the dyke he worked on until midnight drew near. 
 But when the glass turned for the last time, he found 
 That the head of his pick was stuck fast in the ground. 
 ' Cease now ! ' cried St Cuthman, ' vain is your toil ! 
 Come forth from the dyke ! Leave your pick in the soil ! 
 You agreed to work 'tween sunset and morn, 
 And lo ! the glimmer of day is born ! 
 
 In vain was your fag, 
 
 And your senseless brag.' 
 Dizzy and dazed with sulphureous vapour. 
 Old Nick was deceived by St Ursula's taper. 
 ' The dawn ! ' yelled the Devil, ' in vain was my boast, 
 That I'd have your soul, for I've lost it, I've lost ! ' 
 ' Away ! ' cried St Cuthman, ' Foul fiend ! away ! 
 See yonder approaches the dawn of day ! 
 -Eeturn to the flames where you were before, 
 And molest these peaceful South Downs no more ! ' 
 The old gentleman scowled but dared not stay. 
 And the prints of his hoofs remain to this day, 
 Where he spread his dark pinions and soared away. 
 
 At St Ursula's cell 
 
 Was tolling the bell. 
 And St Cuthman in sorrow, stood there by her side. 
 
 'Twas over at last, 
 
 Her sorrows were past, 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 209 
 
 111 the moment of triumph St Ursula died. 
 The' this was the ground, 
 There never were found 
 
 The tools of the Devil, his spade and his pick ; 
 But if you want proof 
 Of the Legend, the hoof- 
 Marks are still in the hillock last trod by Old Nick." 
 
 '* Oil ! that is jolly. Well, I never thought 
 the girl was clever enough to write that. And 
 there are some excellent rhymes in it, ' passed he ' 
 rhyming with ' nasty,' and ' rosary ' with ' poser, 
 eh ;' and how well you recite it." 
 
 ^' Oh, I recited it better at the harvest supper ; 
 and you have no idea how the farmers en- 
 joyed it. They know the place so well, and 
 it interested them on that account. They under- 
 stood it all." 
 
 John sat as if enchanted, — by Kitty's almost 
 childish grace, her enthusiasm for her friend's 
 poem, and her genuine enjoyment of it ; by the 
 abrupt hills, mysterious now in sunset and 
 legend ; by the vast plains so blue and so 
 
210 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 boundless : out of the thought of the littleness 
 of life, of which they were a symbol, there came 
 the thought of the greatness of love. 
 
 " Won't you cross the poor gipsy's palm with a 
 bit of silver, my pretty gentleman, and she will tell 
 3^ou your fortune and that of your pretty lady ? " 
 
 Kitty uttered a startled cry, and turning they 
 found themselves facing a strong, black-eyed girl. 
 She repeated her question. 
 
 '' What do you think, Kitty, would you like 
 to have your fortune told ? " 
 
 Kitty laughed. '^ It would be rather fun," she 
 said. 
 
 She did not know what was coming, and she 
 listened to the usual story, full by the way 
 of references to John — of a handsome young 
 man who would woo her, win her, and give her 
 happiness, children, and wealth. 
 
 John threw the girl a shilling. She withdrew. 
 They watched her passing through the furze. The 
 silence about them was immense. Then John spoke : 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 211 
 
 " What the gipsy said is quite true ; I did 
 not dare to tell you so before." 
 
 " What do you mean, John ? " 
 
 '' I mean that I am in love with you, will 
 you love me ? " 
 
 '' You in love with me, John ; it is quite 
 absurd — I thought you hated girls." 
 
 ''Never mind that, Kitty, say you will have 
 me ; make the gipsy's words come true." 
 
 " Gipsies' words always come true." 
 
 " Then you will marry me ? " 
 
 '' I never thought about marriage. When 
 do you want me to marry you ? I am only 
 seventeen ? " 
 
 " Oh ! when you like, later on, only say you 
 will be mine, that you will be mistress of Thornby 
 Place one day, that is all I want." 
 
 '' Then you don't want to pull the house down 
 any more." 
 
 '' No, no ; a thousand times no ! Say you will 
 be my wife one of these days." 
 
212 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 '' Very well then, one of these days . . . ." 
 
 *' And I may tell my mother of your promise 
 to-night ? ... It will make her so happy." 
 
 " Of course you may tell her, John, but I don't 
 think she will believe it." 
 
 " Why should she not believe it ? " 
 
 " T don't know," said Kitty, laughing, '' but how 
 funny, was it not, that the gipsy girl should guess 
 right ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was indeed. I wanted to tell you 
 before, but I hadn't the courage ; and I might 
 never have found the courage if it had not been 
 for that gipsy." 
 
 In his abundant happiness John did not notice 
 that Kitty was scarcely sensible of the importance 
 of the promise she had given. And in silence he 
 gazed on the landscape, letting it sink into and 
 fix itself for ever in his mind. Below them lay 
 the great green plain, wonderfully level, and so 
 distinct were its hedges that it looked like a 
 chessboard. Thornby Place was hidden in vapour, 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 213 
 
 and further away all was lost in darkness that was 
 almost night. 
 
 " 1 am sorry we cannot see the house — your 
 house," said John as they descended the chalk 
 road. 
 
 " It seems so funny to hear you say that, 
 John." 
 
 *' Why ? It will be your house some day." 
 
 " But supposing your Church will not let you 
 marry me, what then . . . ." 
 
 " There is no danger of that ; a dispensation 
 can always be obtained. But who knows. . . . You 
 have never considered the question. . . . You know- 
 nothing of our Church ; if you did, you might 
 become a convert. I wish you would consider 
 the question. It is so simple ; we surrender our 
 own wretched understanding, and are content to 
 accept the Church as wiser than we. Once man 
 throws off restraint there is no happiness, there is 
 only misery. One step leads to another ; if he 
 would be logical he must go on, and before long, 
 
 p 
 
2 L4 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 for the descent is very rapid indeed, he finds 
 himself in an abyss of darkness and doubt, a 
 terrible abyss indeed, where nothing exists, and 
 life has lost all meaning. The Reformation was 
 the thin end of the wedge, it was the first denial 
 of authority, and you see what it has led to — 
 modern scepticism and modern pessimism." 
 
 '' I don't know what it means, but I heard Mrs 
 Norton say you were a pessimist." 
 
 " I was ; but I saw in tmie where it was lead- 
 ing me, and I crushed it out. I used to be a 
 Republican too, but I saw what liberty meant, and 
 what were its results, and I gave it up." 
 
 " So you gave up all your ideas for Catholic- 
 ism. . . ." 
 
 John hesitated, he seemed a little startled, but he 
 answered, '^ I would give up anything for my 
 Church. . ." 
 
 '^What! Me?" 
 
 " That is not required." 
 
 '' And did it cost you much to give up your ideas?" 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 215 
 
 Joliii raised his eyes — it was a look that Balzac 
 would have understood and would have known how 
 to interpret in some admirable pages of human 
 suffering. *' None will ever know how I have 
 suffered/' he said sadly. " But now I am happy, 
 oh ! so happy, and my happiness would be complete 
 if. . . . Oh ! if God would grant you grace to 
 believe. . . ." 
 
 " But I do believe. I believe in our Lord 
 Christ who died to save us. Is not that enough ?" 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Like Juggernaut's car, Catholicism had passed 
 over John's mind, crushing all individualism, and 
 leaving it but a wreck of quaking mysticism. 
 Twenty times a day the spectre of his conscience 
 rose and with menacing finger threatened him with 
 flames and demons. And his love was a source of 
 continual suffering. How often did he ask himself 
 if he were surrendering his true vocation ? How 
 often did he beg of God to guide him aright ? But 
 these mental agitations were visible to no one. 
 He preserved his calm exterior and the keenest eye 
 detected in him only an ordinary young man with 
 more than usually strict business habits. He had 
 appointments with his solicitor. He consulted with 
 him, he went into complex calculations concerning 
 necessary repairs, and he laid plans for the more 
 advantageous letting of the farms. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 217 
 
 His mother encouraged him to attend to his 
 business. Her head was full of other matters. A 
 dispensation had to be obtained ; it was said that 
 the Pope was more than ever opposed to mixed 
 marriages. But no objection would be made to 
 this one. It would be madness to object. ... A 
 rich Catholic family at Henfield — nearly four 
 thousand a-year — must not be allowed to become 
 extinct. Thornby Place was the link between the 
 Duke of Norfolk and the So and So's. If those 
 dreadful cousins came in for the property, Protestant- 
 ism would again be established at Thornby Place. 
 And what a pity that would be ; and just at a 
 time when Catholicism was beginning to make 
 headway in Sussex. And if John did not marry 
 now he would never marry ; of that she was quite 
 sure. 
 
 As may be imagined, these were not the 
 arguments with which Mrs Norton sought to con- 
 vince the Rev. William Hare ; they were those with 
 which she besieged the Brompton Oratory, Farm 
 
2 1 <S A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 Street, and the Pro- Cathedral. She played one off 
 against the other. The Jesuits were nettled at 
 having lost him, but it was agreeable to learn that 
 the Carmelites had been no less unfortunate than 
 they. The Oratorians on the whole thought he was 
 not in their " line "; and as their chance of securing 
 him was remote, they agreed that John would prove 
 more useful to the Church as a married man than 
 as a priest. A few weeks later the Papal sanction 
 was obtained. 
 
 The clause concerning the children affected Mr 
 Hare deeply, but he was told that he must not 
 stand in the way of the happiness of two young 
 people. He considered the question from many 
 points of view, but in the meantime Mrs Norton 
 continued to deluge Kitty with presents, and to 
 talk to everybody of her son's marriage. The 
 parson's difficulties were thereby increased, and 
 eventually he found he could not withhold liis 
 consent. 
 
 And as time went on, John seemed to take a 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 219 
 
 more personal delight ii) life than he had done 
 before. He forgot his ancient prejudices if not his 
 ancient ideals, and, as was characteristic of him, he 
 avoided thinking with any definiteness on the 
 nature of the new life into which he was to enter 
 soon. His neighbours declared he was very much 
 improved ; and there were dinner parties at 
 Thornby Place. One of his great pleasures was to 
 start early in the morning, and having spent a 
 long day with Kitty, to return home across the 
 downs. The lofty, lonely landscape, with its lengthy 
 hills defined upon the flushes of July, came in 
 happy contrast with the noisy hours of tennis and 
 girls ; and standing on the gently ascending slopes, 
 rising almost from the wicket gate of the rectory, 
 he would wave farewells to Kitty and the Austins. 
 And in the glittering morning, grey and dewy, 
 wlien he descended these slopes to the strip of 
 land that lies between them and the sea, he would 
 pause on the last verge where the barn stands. 
 Squire Austin's woods are in front, and they stretch 
 
220 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 by the town to the sleepy river with its spiderlike 
 bridge crossing the sandy marshes. The church 
 spire and roofs show through each break in the 
 elm trees, and higher still the horizon of the sea is 
 shimmering. 
 
 The rectory is rich brown brick and tiles. 
 About it there is an ample farmyard. Mr Hare 
 has but the house and an adjoining field, the three 
 great ricks are Mr Austin's ; the sunlight is upon 
 them, and through the long shadows the cart horses 
 are moving with the drays ; and now a hundred 
 pigeons rise and are seen against the green velvet 
 of the elms, and one bird's wings are white upon 
 the white sea. 
 
 Mr Hare is sitting in the verandah smoking, 
 Kitty is attending to her birds. 
 
 " Good morning, Johu," she cried, '' but I can't 
 shake hands with you, my hands are dirty. Do 
 you talk to father, I haven't a moment. There is 
 such a lot to do. You know the Miss Austins are 
 coming here to early dinner, and we have two 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 2*21 
 
 young men coming from Worthing to play tennis. 
 The court isn't marked yet." 
 " I will help you to mark it." 
 "Very well, but I am not ready yet." 
 John lit a cigar, and he spoke of books to Mr 
 Hare, whom he considered a gross Philistine, 
 although a worthy man. The shadows of the 
 Virginia creeper fell on the red pavement, and 
 Kitty's light voice was heard on the staircase. 
 Presently she appeared, and lifting the trailing 
 foliage, she spoke to him. She took him away, 
 and the parson watched the white lines being 
 marked on the sward. He watched them walk by 
 the iron railing that separated Little Leywood from 
 Ley wood, the Squire's house. They passed through 
 a small wooden gate into a bit of thick wood, and 
 so gained the drive. Mr Austin took John to see 
 the horses, Kitty ran to see the girls who were in" 
 their room dressing. How they chattered as they 
 came down stairs, and with what lightness and 
 laughter they went to Little Leywood. Their 
 
*222 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 interests were centred in John, and Kitty took the 
 foremost place as an engaged girl. After dinner 
 young men arrived, and tennis was played un- 
 ceasingly. At six o'clock, tired and hot with 
 air and exercise, all went in to tea — a high tea. 
 At seven John said he must be thinking of getting 
 home ; and happy and glad with all the pleasant 
 influences of the day upon them, Kitty and the 
 Miss Austins accompanied him as far as the farm 
 gate. 
 
 " What a beautiful walk you will have, Mr 
 Norton ; but aren't you tired ? Seven miles in 
 the morn in Of and seven in the eveninof ! '^ 
 
 '' But I have had the whole day to rest in." 
 
 '' What a lovely evening ! Let's all walk a little 
 way with him," said Kitty. 
 
 " I should like to," said the elder Miss Austin, 
 '' but we promised father to be home for dinner. 
 The one sure way of getting into his black books 
 is to keep his dinner waiting, and he wouldn't 
 dine without us." 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 223 
 
 '^Well, good-bye, clear," said Kitty, ''I shall 
 walk as far as the burgh." 
 
 The Miss Austins turned into the rich trees 
 that encircle Leywood, Kitty and John faced 
 the hill. They were soon silhouettes, and 
 ascending, they stood, tiny specks upon the 
 pink evening hours. The table-land swept about 
 them in multitudinous waves ; it was silent 
 and solitary as the sea. Lancing College, some 
 miles distant, stood lonely as a lighthouse, and 
 beneath it the Ada flowed white and sluggish 
 through the marshes, the long spine of the skeleton 
 bridge was black, and there, by that low shore, 
 the sea was full of mist, and sea and shore and 
 sky were lost in opal and grey. Old Shoreham, 
 with its air of commerce, of stagnant commerce, 
 stood by the sea. The tide was out, the sea 
 gates were dry, only a few pools flashed silver 
 amid the ooze ; and the masts of the tall vessels, — 
 tall vessels aground in that strange canal or rather 
 dyke which runs parallel with and within a few 
 
224 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 yards of the sea for so many miles, — tapered and 
 leaned out over the sea banks, and the points of 
 the top masts could be counted. Then on the 
 left hand towards Brighton, the sea streamed with 
 purple, it was striped with green, and it hung 
 like a blue veil behind the rich trees of Leywood 
 and Little Leywood, and the trees and the fields 
 were full of golden rays. 
 
 The lovers stood on a grassy plain ; sheep were 
 travelling over the great expanses of the valleys ; 
 rooks were flying about. Looking over the plain 
 you saw Southwick, — a gleam of gables, a gleam 
 of walls, — skirting a plantation ; and further away 
 still, Brighton lay like a pile of rocks heaped 
 about a low shore. 
 
 To the lovers life was now as an assortment of 
 simple but beautiful flowers ; and they passed 
 the blossoms to and fro and bound them into a 
 bouquet. They talked of the Miss Austins, of 
 their flirtations, of the Rectory, of Thornby Place, 
 of Italy, for there they were going next month 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 225 
 
 on their houeymoon, The turnip and corn lands 
 were as inconceivable widths of green and yellow 
 satin rolling through the rich light of the 
 crests into the richer shadow of the valleys. And 
 there there was a farm-house surrounded by 
 buildings, surrounded by trees, — it looked like a 
 nest in its snug hollow ; the smoke ascended blue 
 and peacefully. It was the last habitation. Be- 
 yond it the downs extend, in almost illimitable 
 ranges ascending to the wild golden gorse, to the 
 purple heather. 
 
 We are on the burgh. The hills tumble this 
 way and that ; below is the great weald of Sussex, 
 blue with vapour, spotted with gold fields, level 
 as a landscape by Hobbema ; Chanctonbury Ring 
 stands up like a gaunt watcher ; its crown of 
 trees is pressed upon its brow, a dark and im- 
 perial crown. 
 
 Overhead the sky is full of dark grey clouds; 
 through them the sun breaks and sheds silver dust 
 over the landscape; in the passing gleams the 
 
226 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 green of the furze grows vivid. If you listen 
 you hear the tinkling of the bell-wether ; if you 
 look you see a solitary rabbit. A stunted haw- 
 thorn stands by the circle of stone, and by it the 
 lovers were sitting. He was talking to her of 
 Italy, of cathedrals and statues, for although he 
 now loves her as a man should love, he still saw 
 his honeymoon in a haze of Botticellis, cardinals, 
 and chants. They stood up and bid each other 
 good-bye, and waving hands they parted. 
 
 Night was coming on apace, a long way lay 
 still before him, and he walked hastily ; she being 
 nearer home, sauntered leisurely, swinging her 
 parasol. The sweetness of the evening was in 
 her blood and brain, and the architectural beauty 
 of the landscape — the elliptical arches of the hills 
 — swam before her. But she had not walked many 
 minutes before a tramp, like a rabbit out of a 
 bush, sprang out of the furze where he had been 
 sleeping. He was a gaunt hulking fellow, six feet 
 high. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 227 
 
 '' Now 'aven't you a copper or two tor a poor 
 fellow, Missie ? " 
 
 Kitty started from him frightened. '' No, I 
 haven't, I have nothing .... go away." 
 
 He laughed hoarsely, she ran from him. " Now, 
 don't run so fast, Missie, won't you give a poor 
 fellow something ? " 
 
 '' I have nothing." 
 
 '' Oh, yes you 'ave ; what about those pretty 
 lips ? " 
 
 A few strides brought him again to her side. 
 He laid his hand upon her arm. She broke her 
 parasol across his face, he laughed hoarsely. She 
 saw his savage beast-like eyes fixed hungrily upon 
 her. She fainted for fear of his look of dull 
 tigerish cruelty. She fell .... 
 
 When shaken and stunned and terrified she 
 rose from the ground, she saw the tall gaunt 
 figure passing away like a shadow. The wild 
 solitary landscape was pale and dim. In the 
 fading light it was a drawing made on blue 
 
228 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 paper with a hard pencil. The long undulat- 
 ing lines were defined on the dead sky, the 
 girdle of blue encircling sea was an image of 
 eternity. All now was the past, there did not 
 seem to be a present. Her mind was rocked 
 to and fro, and on its surface words and phrases 
 floated like sea weed. ... To throw her down 
 and ill - treat her. Her frock is spoilt ; they 
 will ask her where she has been to, and how she 
 got herself into such a state. Mechanically she 
 brushed herself, and mechanically, very mechani- 
 cally she picked bits of furze from her dress. She 
 held each away from her and let it drop in a 
 silly vacant way, all the while running the 
 phrases over in her mind : " What a horrible man 
 ... he threw me down and ill-treated me ; my 
 frock is ruined, utterly ruined, what a state it is 
 in ! I had a narrow escape of being murdered. I 
 will tell them that . . . that will explain ... I had a 
 narrow escape of being murdered." But presently 
 she grew conscious that these thoughts were 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 220 
 
 fictitious thoiiglits, and that there was a thought, 
 a real thought, lying in the background of her 
 mind, which she dared not face, which she could 
 not think of, for she did not think as she desired 
 to ; her thoughts came and went at their own 
 wild will, they flitted lightly, touching with their 
 wings but ever avoiding this deep and formless 
 thought which lay in darkness, almost undiscover- 
 able, like a monster in a nightmare. 
 
 She rose to her feet, she stasfSfered, her sio^lit 
 seemed to fail her. There was a darkness in 
 the summer evening which she could not account 
 for ; the ground seemed to slide beneath her feet, 
 the landscape seemed to be in motion and to be 
 rolling in great waves towards the sea. Would 
 it precipitate itself into the sea, and would she 
 be engulphed in the universal ruin ? ! the sea, 
 how implacably serene, how remorselessly beautiful ; 
 green along the shore, purple along the horizon ! 
 But the land was rolling to it. By Lancing 
 College it broke seaw^ard in a soft lapsing tide, in 
 
 9 
 
230 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 front of her it rose in angry billows ; and Le}^- 
 wood hill, green, and grand, and voluted, stood 
 up a great green wave against the waveless 
 sea. 
 
 '' What a horrible man ... he attacked me, ill- 
 treated me. . . what for ? " Her thoughts turned 
 aside. " He should be put in prison. . . If father 
 knew it, or John knew it, he would be put in 
 prison, and for a very long time. . . Why did he 
 attack me ? . . . Perhaps to rob me ; yes, to rob me, 
 of course to rob me." The evening seemed to 
 brighten, the tumultuous landscape to grow still, 
 To rob her, and of what ? . . . of her watch ; where 
 was it ? It was gone. The happiness of a dying 
 saint when he opens arms to heaven descended 
 upon her. The watch was gone . . . but, had she 
 lost it ? Should she go back and see if she could find 
 it ? Oh ! impossible ; see the place again — impossible ! 
 search among the gorse — impossible ! Horror ! She 
 would die. to die on the lonely hills, to lie stark 
 and cold beneath the stars ! But no, she would 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 231 
 
 not be found upon these hills. She would die and 
 be seen no more. to die, to sink in that beautiful 
 sea, so still, so calm, so calm — why would it not 
 take her to its bosom and hide her away ? She 
 would go to it, but she could not get to it ; there 
 were thousands of men between her and it. . . . An 
 icy shiver passed through her. 
 
 Then as her thoughts broke away, she thought of 
 how she had escaped being murdered. How thank- 
 ful she ought to be — but somehow she is not 
 thankful. And she was above all things conscious 
 of a horror of returning, of returning to where she 
 would see men and women's faces . . . men's faces. 
 And now with her eyes fixed on the world that 
 awaited her, she stood on the hillside. There was 
 Brighton far away, sparkling in the dying lio>ht ; 
 nearer, Southwick showed amid woods, wind in o- 
 about the foot of the hills ; in front Shoreham rose 
 out of the massy trees of Leywood, the trees slanted 
 down to the lawn and foliage and walls, made spots 
 of white and dark green upon a background of blue 
 
232 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 sea ; further to the right there was a sluggish 
 silver river, the spine of the skeleton bridge, a spur 
 of Lancing hill, and then mist, pale mist, pale grey 
 mist. 
 
 '' I cannot go home," thought the girl, and acting 
 in direct contradiction to her thoughts, she walked 
 forward. Her parasol — where was it ? It was 
 broken. The sheep, how sweet and quiet the}^ 
 looked, and the clover, how deliciously it smelt, . . 
 This is Mr Austin's farm, and how well kept it is. 
 There is the barn. And Evy and Mary, when would 
 they be married ? Not so soon as she, she was going 
 to be married in a month. In a month. She 
 repeated the words over to herself ; she strove to 
 collect her thoughts, and failing to do so, she walked 
 on hurriedly, she almost ran as if in the motion to 
 force out of sight the thoughts that for a moment 
 threatened to define themselves in her mind. 
 Suddenly she stopped ; there were some children 
 playing by the farm gate. They did not know that 
 she was by, and she listened to their childish prattle 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 233 
 
 unsuspected. To listen was an infinite assuage- 
 ment, one that was overpoweringly sweet, and for 
 some moments she almost forgot. But she woke 
 from her ecstacy in deadly fear and great pain, for 
 coming along the hedgerow the voice of a man 
 was heard, and the children ran away. And she 
 ran too, like a terrified fawn, trembling in every 
 limb, and sick with fear she sped across the meadows. 
 The front door was open ; she heard her father 
 calling. To see him she felt would be more than 
 she could bear ; she must hide from his sight for 
 ever, and dashing upstairs she double locked her 
 door. 
 
CHAPTER VI I. 
 
 The sky was still flushed, there was light upon 
 the sea, but the room was dim and quiet. The 
 room ! Kitty had seen it under all aspects, she 
 had lived in it many years : then why does she look 
 with strained eyes ? Why does she shrink ? No- 
 thing has been changed. There is her little narrow 
 bed, and her little bookcase full of novels and 
 prayer-books ; there is her work-basket by the fire- 
 place, by the fireplace closed in with curtains that 
 she herself embroidered ; above her pillow there 
 is a crucifix ; there are photographs of the Miss 
 Austins, and pictures of pretty children cut from 
 the Christmas Numbers on the walls. She starts 
 at the sight of these familiar objects ! She 
 trembles in the room which she thought of as 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 285 
 
 a haven of refuge. Why does she grasp the rail 
 of the bed — why ? She scarcely knows : some- 
 thino' that is at once remembrance and suspicion 
 
 o 
 
 fills her mind. Is this her room ? 
 
 The thought ended. She walked hurriedly to 
 and fro, and as she passed the fuchsia in the 
 window a blossom fell. 
 
 She sat down and stared into dark space. She 
 walked languidly and purposelessly to the ward- 
 robe. She stopped to pick a petal from the 
 carpet. The sound of the last door was over, 
 the retiring footfall had died away in the dis- 
 tance, the last voice was hushed ; the moon was 
 shining on the sea. A lovely scene, silver and 
 blue ; but how the girl's heart was beating ! She 
 sighed. 
 
 She sighed as if she had forgotten, and ap- 
 proaching her bedside she raised her hands to 
 her neck. It was the instinctive movement of un- 
 dressing. Her hands dropped, she did not even 
 unbutton her collar. She could not. She re- 
 
236 A MERE ACCIDENT, 
 
 sumed her walk, she picked up a blossom that 
 had fallen, she looked out on the pale white sea. 
 There was moonlight now in the room, a ghastly 
 white spot was on the pillow. She was tired. 
 The moonlight called her. She lay down with her 
 profile in the light. 
 
 But there were smell and features in the glare 
 — the odour was that of the tramp's skin, the 
 features — a long thin nose, pressed lips, small 
 eyes, a look of dull liquorish cruelty. And this 
 presence was beside her ; she could not rid her- 
 self of it, she repulsed it with cries, but it came 
 again, and mocking, lay on the pillow. 
 
 Horrible, too horrible ! She sprang from the 
 bed. Was there anyone in her room ? How 
 still it was ! The mysterious moonlight, the sea 
 white as a shroud, the sward so chill and 
 death-like. What ! Did it move ? Was it he ? 
 That fearsome shadow ! Was she safe ? Had 
 they forgotten to bar up the house ? Her 
 father's house ! Horrible, too horrible, she must 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 23? 
 
 shut out this treacherous light — darkness were 
 better. . . . 
 
 The curtains are closed, but a ray glinting 
 between the wall and curtain shows her face 
 convulsed. Something follows her : she knows 
 not what, her thoughts are monstrous and obtuse. 
 She dares not look round, she would turn to see 
 if her pursuer is gaining upon her, but some in- 
 vincible power restrains her. . . . Agony ! Her 
 feet catch in, and she falls over great leaves. 
 She falls into the clefts of ruined tombs, and her 
 hands as she attempts to rise are laid on sleep- 
 ing snakes — rattlesnakes : they turn to attack 
 her, and they glide away and disappear in moss 
 and inscriptions. 0, the calm horror of this region ! 
 Before her the trees extend in complex colonnades, 
 silent ruins are grown through with giant roots, 
 and about the mysterious entrances of the crypts 
 there lingers yet the odour of ancient sacrihces. 
 The stem of a rare column rises amid the branches, 
 
288 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 the fragment of an arch hangs over and is sup- 
 ported by a dismantled tree trunk. Ages ago 
 the leaves fell, and Avithered ; ages ago ; and now 
 the skeleton arms, lifted in fantastic frenzy against 
 the desert skies, are as weird and symbolic as the 
 hieroglyphics on the tombs below. 
 
 And through the torrid twilight of the ap- 
 proaching storm the cry of the hyena is heard. 
 
 Flowers hang on every side, — flowers as strange 
 and as gorgeous as Byzantine chalices ; flowers 
 narrow and fluted and transparent as long Venetian 
 glasses ; opaque flowers bulging and coloured with 
 gold devices like Chinese vases, flowers striped 
 with cinnamon and veined with azure ; a million 
 flower -cups and flower chalices, and in these as 
 in censers strange and deadly perfumes are melt- 
 ing, and the heavy fumes descend upon the girl, 
 and they mix with the polluting odour of the 
 ancient sacrifices. She sinks, her arms are raised 
 like those of a victim ; she sinks overcome, done 
 to death or worse in some horrible asphyxiation. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 239 
 
 And through the torrid twilight of the approach- 
 ing storm the cry of the hyena is heard. His 
 claws are upon the crumbling tombs. 
 
 The suffocating girl utters a thin wail. The 
 vulture pauses, and is stationary on the white and 
 desert skies. She strives witli her last strength 
 to free herself from the thrall of the great lianas, 
 and she falls into fresh meshes. . . . The claws are 
 heard amid the ruins, there is a hirsute smell ; 
 she turns with terrified eyes to plead, but she 
 meets only the dull liquorish eyes, and the breath 
 of the obscene animal is on her face. 
 
 Then she finds herself in the pleasure 
 grounds of Thornby Place. There are the ever- 
 green oaks, there is the rosary flaring all its 
 wealth of red, purple, and white flowers, there is 
 the park encircled by elms, there is the vista 
 filled in with the line of the lofty downs. For 
 a moment she is surprised, and fails to understand. 
 Then she forgets the change of place in new sensa- 
 tions of terror. For across the park something 
 
240 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 is coming, she knows not what ; it will pass her 
 by. She watches a brown and yellow serpent, 
 cubits high. Cubits high. It rears aloft its 
 tawny hide, scenting its prey. The great coiling 
 body, the small head, small as a man's hand, the 
 black beadlike eyes shine out upon the intoxicat- 
 ing blue of the sky. The narrow long head, the 
 fixed black eyes are dull, inexorable desire, con- 
 scious of nothing beyond, and only dimly conscious 
 of itself. Will the snake pass by the hiding girl ? 
 She rushes to meet it. What folly ! She turns 
 and flies. 
 
 She takes refuge in the rosary. It follows 
 her, gathering its immense body into horrible 
 and hideous heights. How will she save her- 
 self? She will pluck roses, and build a wall 
 between her and it. She collects huge bou- 
 quets, armfuls of beautiful flowers, garlands 
 and wreaths. The flower-wall rises, and hop- 
 ing to combat the fury of the beast with purity, 
 she goes to where beautiful and snowy blossoms 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 241 
 
 grow in clustering millions. She gathers them 
 in haste ; her arms and hands are streaming 
 with blood, but she pays no heed, and as the 
 snake surmounts one barricade, she builds an- 
 other. But in vain. The reptile leans over 
 them all, and the sour dirty smell of the scaly 
 hide befouls the odorous breath of the roses. The 
 long thin neck is upon her ; she feels the horrid 
 strength of the coils as they curl and slip about 
 her, drawing her whole life into one knotted and 
 loathsome embrace. And all the while the roses 
 fall in a red and white rain about her. And 
 through the ruin of the roses she escapes from 
 the stench and the coils, and all the while the 
 snake pursues her even into the fountain. The 
 waves and the snake close about her. 
 
 Then without any transition in ylace or time, 
 she finds herself listening to the sound of rippling 
 water. There is an iron drinking cup close to 
 her hand. She seems to recognise the spot. It 
 is Shoreham. There are the streets she knows 
 
242 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 80 well, the masts of the vessels, the downs. But 
 suddenly something darkens the sunlight, the 
 tawny body of the snake oscillates, the people 
 cry to her to escape. She flies along the streets, 
 like the wind she seems to pass. She calls for 
 help. Sometimes the crowds are stationary as if 
 frozen into stone, sometimes they follow the snake 
 and attack it with sticks and knives. One man 
 with colossal shoulders wields a great sabre; it 
 flashes about him like lightning. Will he kill 
 it ? He turns and chases a dog, and disap- 
 pears. The people too have disappeared. She 
 is flying now along a wild plain covered with 
 coarse grass and wild poppies. When she glances 
 behind her she sees the outline of the little coast 
 town, the snake is near her, and there is no one 
 to whom she can call for help. But the sea is 
 in front of her, bound like a blue sash about the 
 cliff's edge. She will escape down the rocks — 
 there is still a chance ! The descent is sheer, but 
 somehow she retains foothold. Then the snake 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 24o 
 
 drops, she feels his weight upon her, and both 
 fall, fall, fall, and the sea is below them. . . . 
 
 With a shriek she sprang from the bed, and 
 still under the influence of the dream, rushed to 
 the window. The moon hung over the sea, the 
 sea flowed with silver, the world was as chill as 
 an icicle. 
 
 '' The roses, the snake, the cliff's edge, was it 
 then only a dream ? " the girl thought. '' It was 
 only a dream, a terrible dream, but after all only 
 a dream ! " In her hope breathes again, and she 
 smiles like one who thinks he is going to hear 
 that he will not die, but as the old pain returns 
 when the last portion of the deceptive sentence 
 is spoken, so despair came back to her when re- 
 membrance pierced the cloud of hallucination, and 
 told her that all was not a dream — there was 
 something that was worse than a dream. 
 
 She uttered a low cry, and she moaned. Cen- 
 turies seemed to have passed, and yet the evil 
 
24+ A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 deed remained. It was still night, but what 
 would the day bring to her ? There was no 
 hope. Abstract hope from life, and what blank 
 agony you create ! 
 
 She drew herself up on her bed, and lay with 
 her face buried in the pillow. For the face 
 was beside her : the foul smell was in her nostrils, 
 and the dull, liquorish look of the eyes shone 
 through the darkness. Then sleep came again, 
 and she lay stark and straight as if she were 
 dead, with the light of the moon upon her face. 
 And she sees herself dead. And all her friends 
 are about her crowning her with flowers, beauti- 
 ful garlands of white roses, and dressing her in 
 a long white robe, white as the snowiest cloud in 
 heaven, and it lies in long straight plaits about 
 her limbs like the robes of those who lie in marble 
 in cathedral aisles. And it falls over her feet, 
 and her hands are crossed over her breast, and 
 all praise in low but ardent words the excessive 
 whiteness of the garment. For none sees bnt 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 245 
 
 she that there is a black spot upon the robe 
 which they believe to be immaculate. And she 
 would warn them of their error, but she cannot ; 
 and when they avert their faces to wipe away 
 their tears, the stain might be easily seen, but 
 when they turn to continue the last offices, folds 
 or flowers have mysteriously fallen over the stain, 
 and hide it from view. 
 
 And it is great pain to her to feel herself thus 
 unable to tell them of their error, for she well 
 knows that when she is placed in the tomb, and 
 the angels come, that they will not fail to per- 
 ceive the stain, and seeing it they will not fail 
 to be shocked and sorrowful, — and seeing it they 
 will turn away weeping, saying, " She is not for us, 
 alas, she is not for us !" 
 
 And Kitty, who is conscious of this fatal oversight, 
 the results of which she so clearly foresees, is 
 grievously afflicted, and she makes every effort to 
 warn her friends of their error : but in vain, for there 
 appears to be one amid the mourners who knows 
 
 R 
 
24 G A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 that she is endeavouring to announce to them the 
 black stain, and this one whose face she cannot 
 readily distinguish, maliciously and with diabolical 
 ingenuity withdraws attention at the moment when 
 it should fall upon it. 
 
 And so it comes that she is buried in the stained 
 robe, and she is carried amid flowers and white 
 cloths to a white marble tomb, where incense is 
 burning, and where the walls are hung with votive 
 wreaths and things commemorative of virginal life 
 and its many lovelinesses. But, strange to say, 
 upon all these, upon the flowers and images alike 
 there is some small stain which none sees but she 
 and the one in shadow, the one whose face she 
 cannot recognise. And although she is nailed fast 
 in her cofiin, she sees these stains vividly, and the 
 one whose face she cannot recognise sees them too. 
 And this is certain, for the shadow of the face is 
 sometimes stirred by a horrible laugh. 
 
 The mourners go, the evening falls, and the wild 
 sunset floats for a while through the western 
 
A MERK ACCIDENT. 247 
 
 Heavens ; and the cemetery becomes a deep green, 
 and in the wind that blows out of Heaven, the 
 cypresses rock like things sad and mute. 
 
 And the blue night comes with stars in her 
 tresses, and out of those stars a legion of angels liuat 
 softly ; their white feet hang out of the blown folds, 
 their wings are pointed to the stars. And from out 
 of the earth, out of the mist, but whence and how 
 it is impossible to say, there come other angels dark 
 of hue and foul smelling. But the white angels 
 carry swords, and they wave these swords, and the 
 scene is reflected in them as in a mirror ; and the 
 dark angels cower in a corner of the cemetery, but 
 they do not utterly retire. 
 
 And then the tomb is opened, and the white 
 angels enter the tomb. And the coffin is opened, 
 and the girl trembles lest the angels should discover 
 the stain she knew of. But lo ! to her great joy 
 they do not see it, and they bear her away through 
 the blue night, past the sacred stars, even within the 
 glory of Paradise. And it is not until one whose 
 
248 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 face she cannot recognize, and whose presence 
 among the angels of Heaven she cannot com- 
 prehend, steals away one of the garlands of white 
 with which she was entwined, that the fatal stain 
 becomes visible. The angels are overcome with a 
 mighty sorrow, and relinquishing their burden, they 
 break into song, and the song they sing is one of 
 grief; and above an accompaniment of spheral 
 music it travels through the spaces of Heaven; and 
 she listens to its wailing echoes as she falls, falls, — 
 falls past the sacred stars to the darkness of terres- 
 trial skies, — falls towards the sea where the dark 
 angels are waiting for her ; and as she falls she 
 leans with reverted neck and strives to see their 
 faces, and as she nears them she distinguishes one 
 into whose arms she is going ; it is, it is — the . . . 
 
 " Save me, save me !" she cried ; and bewildered 
 and dazed with the dream, she stared on the room, 
 now chill with summer dawn ; the pale light broke 
 over the Shoreham sea, over the lordly downs and 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 249 
 
 rich plantations of Leywood. Again she murmnred, 
 it was only a dream, it was only a dream ; again 
 a sort of presentiment of happiness spread like light 
 through her mind, and again remembrance came 
 with its cruel truths — there was something that 
 was not a dream, but that was worse than the 
 dream. And then with despair in her heart 
 she sat watching the cold sky turn to blue, the 
 delicate bright blue of morning, and the garden 
 grow into j^ellow and purple and red. There lay 
 the sea, joyous and sparkling in the light of the 
 mounting sun, and the masts of the vessels at anchor 
 in the long water way. The tapering masts were 
 faint on the shiny sky, and now between them and 
 about them a face seemed to be. Sometimes it was 
 fixed on one, sometimes it flashed like a will o' the 
 wisp, and appeared a little to the right or left of 
 where she had last seen it. It was the face that 
 was now buried in her very soul, and sometimes 
 it passed out of the sky into the morning mist, 
 which still heaved about the edges of the woods ; 
 
250 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 and there she saw somethiDg grovelling, v^rouching, 
 crawling, — a wild beast, or was it a man ? 
 
 She did not weep, nor did she moan. She sat 
 thinking. She dwelt on the remembrance of the 
 hills and the tramp with strange persistency, and 
 yet no more now than before did she attempt to 
 come to conclusions with her thought ; it was 
 vague, she would not define it ; she brooded over it 
 sullenly and obtusely. Sometimes her thoughts 
 slipped away from it, but with each returning, a 
 fresh stage was marked in the progress of her 
 nervous despair. 
 
 So the hours went by. At eight o'clock the 
 maid knocked at the door. Kitty opened it 
 mechanically, and she fell into the woman's arms, 
 weeping and sobbing passionately. The sight of 
 the female face brought infinite relief ; it interrupted 
 the jarred and strained sense of the horrible ; the 
 secret affinities of sex quickened within her. The 
 woman's presence filled Kitty with the feelings that 
 the harmlessness of a lamb or a soft bird inspires. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ''But what is it, Miss, what is it? Are you 
 ill ? Why, Miss, you haven't takeu your things 
 off; you haven't been to bed." 
 
 '' No, I lay down. ... I have had frightful 
 dreams— that is all." 
 
 '' But you must be ill, Miss ; you look dread- 
 ful. Miss. Shall I tell Mr Hare ? Perhaps the 
 doctor had better be sent for." 
 
 ''No, no; pray say nothing about me. Tell 
 my father that I did not sleep, that I am going 
 to lie down for a little while, that he is not to 
 expect me down for breakfast." 
 
 " I really think. Miss, that it would be as well 
 for you to see the doctor." 
 
 " No, no, no. I am going to lie down, and I 
 am uot to be disturbed." 
 
252 A IMERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 " Shall I fill the bath, Miss ? Shall I leave 
 hot water here, Miss ? " 
 
 '' Bath. . . . Hot water. . ." Kitty repeated 
 the words over as if she were striving to grasp a 
 meaning which was suggested, but which eluded 
 her. Then her face relaxed, the expression was 
 one of pitiful despair, and that expression gave 
 way to a sense of nausea, expressed by a quick 
 contraction of the eyes. 
 
 She listened to the splashing of the water, and its 
 echoes were repeated indefinably through her soul. 
 
 The maid left the room. Kitty's attention was 
 attracted to her dress. It was torn, it was muddy, 
 there were bits of furze sticking to it. She picked 
 these off, and slowly she commenced settling it : 
 but as she did so, remembrance, accurate and 
 simple recollection of facts, returned to her, and 
 the succession was so complete that the effect 
 was equivalent to a re-enduring of the crime, and 
 with a foreknowledge of it, as if to sharpen its 
 horror and increase the sense of the pollution. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 253 
 
 The lovely hills, the engirdling sea, the sweet 
 glow of evening — she saw it all again. And as 
 if afraid that her brain, now strained like a body 
 on the rack, would suddenly snap, she threw up 
 her arms, and began to take off her dress, as 
 violently as if she would hush thought in abrupt 
 movements. In a moment she was in stays and 
 petticoat. The delicate and almost girlish arms 
 were disfigured by great bruises. Great black 
 and blue stains were spreading through the skin. 
 
 Kitty lifted up her arm : she looked at it in 
 surprise; then in horror she rushed to the door 
 where her dressing gown was hanging, and wrapped 
 herself in it tightly, hid herself in it so that no 
 bit of her flesh could be seen. 
 
 She threw herself madly on the bed. She 
 moved, pressing herself against the mattress as if 
 she would rub away, free herself from her loathed 
 self. The sight of her hand was horrible to her, 
 and she covered it over hurriedly. 
 
 The maid came up with a tray. The trivial 
 
254 A MERE ACCJDENT. 
 
 jingle of the cups and plates was another suffering 
 added to the ever increasing stress of mind, and 
 now each memory was accompanied by sensations 
 of physical sickness, of nausea. 
 
 She slipped from the bed and locked the door. 
 Again she was alone. An hour passed. 
 
 Her father came up. His footsteps on the stairs 
 caused her intolerable anguish. On entering the 
 house she had hated to hear his voice, and now 
 that hatred was intensified a thousandfold. His 
 voice sounded in her ears false, ominous, abomin- 
 able. She could not have opened the door to 
 him, and the effort required to speak a few words, 
 to say she was tired and wished to be left alone, 
 was so great that it almost cost her her reason. 
 It was a great relief to hear him go. She asked 
 herself why she hated to hear his voice, but be- 
 fore she could answer a sudden recollection of 
 the tramp sprang upon her. Her nostrils recalled 
 the smell, and her eyes saw the long, thin nose and 
 the dull liquorish eyes beside her on the pillow. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 25 5 
 
 She got up and walked about the room, and 
 its appearance contrasted with and aggravated the 
 fierceness of the fever of passion and horror that 
 raged within her. The homeliness of the teacups 
 and the plates, the tin bath, painted yellow and 
 white, so grotesque and so trim. 
 
 But not its water nor even the waves of the 
 great sea would wash away remembrance. She 
 pressed her face against the pane. The wide sea, 
 so peaceful, so serene !. Oblivion, oblivion, for 
 the waters of oblivion ! 
 
 Then for an hour she almost forgot ; sometimes 
 she listened, and the shrill singing of the canary 
 was mixed with thoughts of her dead brothers and 
 sisters, of her mother. She was waked from her 
 reveries by the farm bell ringing the labourers' 
 dinner hour. 
 
 Nia^ht had been fearsome with darkness and 
 dreams, but the genial sunlight and the con- 
 tinuous externality of the daytime acted on her 
 mind, and turned vague thoughts, as it were, into 
 
25 G A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 sentences, printed in clear type. She often thought 
 she was dead, and she favoured this idea, but she 
 was never wholly dead. She was a lost soul wander- 
 ing on those desolate hills, the gloom descending, 
 and Brighton and Southwick and Shoreham and 
 Worthing gleaming along the sea banks of a purple 
 sea. There were phantoms — there were two 
 phantoms. One turned to reality, and she walked 
 by her lover's side, talking of Italy. Then he dis- 
 appeared, and she shrank from the horrible 
 tramp ; then both men grew confused in her 
 mind, and in despair she threw herself on her 
 bed. Raising her eyes she caught sight of her 
 prayer-book, but she turned from it moaning, for 
 her misery Avas too deep for prayer. 
 
 The lunch bell rang. She listened to the foot- 
 steps on the staircase ; she begged to be excused, 
 and she refused to open the door. 
 
 The day grew into afternoon. She awoke 
 from a dreamless sleep of about an hour, and 
 still under its soothino^ influence, she pinned up 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 257 
 
 her hair, settled the ribbons of her dressing 
 gown, and went downstairs. She found her father 
 and John in the drawing-room. 
 
 " 0\\, here is Kitty!" they exclaimed. 
 
 '' But what is the matter, dear ? Why are 
 you not dressed ? " said Mr Hare. "But what is 
 the matter. . . . Are you ill ? " said John, and 
 he extended his hand. 
 
 ''No, no, 'tis nothing," she replied, and avoiding 
 the outstretched hand with a shudder, she took 
 the seat furthest away from her father and lover. 
 
 They looked at her in amazement, and she at 
 them in fear and trembling. She was conscious 
 of two very distinct sensations — one the result 
 of reason, the other of madness. She was not 
 ignorant of the causes of each, although she was 
 powerless to repress one in favour of the other. 
 Both struggled for mastery and for the moment 
 without disturbing the equipoise. On the side 
 of reason she knew very well she was looking 
 at and talking to her dear, kind father, and that 
 
258 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 the young man sitting next him was John Norton, 
 the son of her clear friend, Mrs Norton ; she knew 
 lie was the young man who loved her, and whom 
 she was going to marry, marry, marry. On the 
 other side she saw that her father's kind benign 
 countenance was not a real face, but a mask which 
 he wore over another face, and which, should the 
 mask slip — and she prayed that it might not — 
 would prove as horrible and revolting as — 
 
 But the mask John wore was as nothing, it 
 was the veriest make believe. And she could 
 not but doubt now but that the face she had 
 known him so long by was a fictitious face, and as 
 the hallucination strengthened, she saw his large 
 mild eyes grow small, and that vague dreamy 
 look turn to the dull liquorish look, the chin 
 came forward, the brows contracted . . . the 
 large sinewy hands were, oh, so like ! Then 
 reason asserted itself; the vision vanished, and she 
 saw John Norton as she had always seen him. 
 
 But was she sure that she did ? Yes, yes — 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 259 
 
 slie must not give way. But her head seemed 
 to be growing lighter, and she did not appear to 
 be able to judge things exactly as she should ; a sort 
 of new world seemed to be slipping like a painted 
 veil between her and the old. She must resist. 
 
 John and Mr Hare looked at her. 
 
 John at length rose, and advancing to her, said, 
 " My dear Kitty, I am afraid you are not well. . /' 
 
 She strove to allow him to take her hand, but 
 she could not overcome the instinctive feeling 
 which, against her will, caused her to shrink 
 from him. 
 
 " Oh, don't come near me, I cannot bear it ! " 
 she cried, "don't come near me, I beg of 3^ou." 
 
 More than this she could not do, and giving way 
 utterly, she shrieked and rushed from the room. 
 She rushed upstairs. She stood in the middle of 
 the floor listening to the silence, her thoughts 
 falling about her like shaken leaves. It was as if 
 a thunderbolt had destroyed the world, and left her 
 alone in a desert. The furniture of the room, the 
 
2 GO A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 bed, the chairs, the books she loved, seemed to have 
 become as grains of sand, and she forgot all connec- 
 tion between them and herself. She pressed her 
 hands to her forehead, and strove to separate the 
 horror that crowded upon her. But all was now one 
 horror — the lonely hills were in the room, the grey 
 sky, the green furze, the tramp ; she was again 
 fighting furiously with him ; and her lover and her 
 father and all sense of the world's life grew dark in 
 the storm of madness. Suddenly she felt something 
 on her neck. She put her hand up . . . 
 
 And now with madness on her face she caught 
 up a pair of scissors and cut otf her hair : one after 
 the other the great tresses of gold and brown fell, 
 until the floor was strewn with them. 
 
 A step was heard on the stairs ; her quick ears 
 caught the sound, and she rushed to the door to 
 lock it. But she was too late. John held it 
 fast. 
 
 '' Kitty, Kitty," he cried, " for God's sake, tell 
 me what is the matter ! " 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 261 
 
 '' Save me ! save me !" she cried, and she forced 
 the door against liim with her whole strength. He 
 was, however, determined on questioning her, on 
 seeing her, and he passed his head and shoulders 
 into the room. His heart quailed at the face he 
 saw. 
 
 For now had gone that imperceptible some- 
 thino- which divides the life of the sane from that 
 
 o 
 
 of the insane, and he wdio had so long feared lest a 
 woman might soil the elegant sanctity of his life, 
 disappeared forever from the mind of her wdiom he 
 had learned to love, and existed to her only as 
 the foul dull brute who had outraged her on the 
 hills. 
 
 "Save me, save me! help, help!" she cried, 
 retreating from him. 
 
 " Kitty, Kitty, wdiat do you mean? Say, say — " 
 
 " Save me ; oh mercy, mercy ! Let me go, and 
 
 I will never say I saw you, I will not tell anything. 
 
 Let me go ! " she cried, retreating towards the 
 
 window, 
 
 s 
 
2G2 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 '' For Heaven's sake, Kitty, take care — the 
 window, the window !" 
 
 But Kitty heard nothing, knew nothing, was 
 conscious of nothing but a mad desire to escape. 
 The window was lifted high — high above her head, 
 and her face distorted with fear, she stood amid the 
 soft greenery of the Virginia creeper. 
 
 " Save me," she cried, " mercy, mercy !" 
 
 '' Kitty, Kitty darling ! " 
 
 The white dress passed through the green leaves. 
 John heard a dull thud. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 And the pity of it ! The poor white thing lying 
 like a shot clove, bleeding, and the dreadful blood 
 flowing over the red tiles. . . . 
 
 Mr Hare was kneeling by his daughter when 
 John, rushing forth, stopped and stood aghast. 
 
 " What is this ? Say — speak, speak man, 
 speak ; how did this hap^Den ? 
 
 '' I cannot say, I do not know ; she did not 
 seem to know me ; she ran away. Oh my God, I 
 do not understand ; she seemed as if afraid of me, 
 and she threw herself out of the window. But she 
 is not dead. . ." 
 
 The word rang out in the silence, ruthlessly 
 brutal in its significance. Mr Hare looked up, his 
 face a symbol of agony. '' Oh, dead, how can you 
 speak so. . . " 
 
264 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 John felt his being sink and fade like a 
 breath, and then, conscious of nothing, he helped 
 to lift Kitty from the tiles. But it was her 
 father who carried her upstairs. The blood 
 flowed from the terrible wound in the head. 
 Dripped. The walls were stained. When she 
 was laid upon the bed, the pillow was crim- 
 son ; and the maid-servant coming in, strove to 
 staunch the wound with towels. Kitty did not 
 move. 
 
 Both men knew there was no hope. The maid- 
 servant retired, and she did not close the door, 
 nor did she ask if the doctor should be sent 
 for. One man held the bed rail, looking at 
 his dead daughter ; the other sat by the window. 
 That one was John Norton. His brain was 
 empty, everything was far away. He saw 
 things moving, moving, but they were all so 
 far away. He could not re - knit himself with 
 the weft of life ; the thread that had made him 
 part of it had been snapped, and he was left 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 265 
 
 struggling in space. He knew that Kitty had 
 thrown herself out of the window and was dead. 
 The word shocked him a little, but there was no 
 sense of realisation to meet it. She had walked 
 with him on the hills, she had accompanied him as 
 far as the burgh ; she had waved her hand to 
 him before they walked quite out of each other's 
 sight. They had been speaking of Italy ... of 
 Italy where they would have spent their honey- 
 moon. Now she was dead ! There would be no 
 honeymoon, no wife. How unreal, how impossible 
 it all did seem, and yet it was real, yes, real 
 enough. There she lay dead ; here is her room, 
 and there is her book-case ; there are the photo- 
 graphs of the Miss Austins, here is the fuchsia with 
 the pendent blossoms falling, and her canary is 
 singing. John glanced at the cage, and the song 
 went to his brain, and he was horrified, for there 
 was no grief in his heart. 
 
 Had he not loved her ? Yes, he was sure of 
 that ; then why was there no burning grief nor 
 
266 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 any tears ? He envied the liard-sobbing father's 
 grief, the father who, prostrate by the bedside, 
 held his dead daughter's hand, and showed a face 
 wild with fear — a face on which was printed so 
 deeply the terror of the soul's emotion, that John 
 felt a supernatural awe creep upon him ; felt that 
 his presence was a sort of sacrilege. He crept 
 downstairs. He went into the drawing-room, and 
 looked about for the place he had last seen her 
 in. There it was. . . . There. But his eyes 
 wandered from the place, for it was there he had 
 seen the startled face, the half mad face which 
 he had seen afterwards at the window, quite 
 mad. 
 
 On that sofa she usually sat ; how often had 
 he seen her sitting there! And now he would 
 not see her any more. And only three days ago 
 she had been sitting in the basket chair. How 
 well he remembered her words, her laughter, and 
 now . . . now ; was it possible he never would 
 hear her laugh again ? How frail a thing is 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 267 
 
 human life, how shadow-like ; one moment it 
 is here, the next it is gone. Here is her work- 
 basket ; and here the very ball of wool which he 
 had held for her to wind ; and here is a novel 
 which she had lent to him, and which he had 
 forgotten to take away. He would never read it 
 now ; or perhaps he should read it in memory of 
 her, of her whom yesterday he parted with on 
 the hills, — her little puritan look, her external 
 girlishness, her golden brown hair and the sudden 
 lauofh so characteristic of her. . . . She had lent 
 him this book — she who was now but clay ; she 
 who was to have been his wife. His wife ! The 
 thought struck him. Now he would never have 
 a wife. What was there for him to do ? To turn 
 his house into a Gothic monastery, and himself into 
 a monk. Very horrible and very bitter in its sheer 
 grotesqueness was the thought. It was as if in 
 one moment he saw the whole of his life sum- 
 marised in a single symbol, and understood its 
 vanity and its folly. Ah, there was notliing for 
 
268 A MF.RE ACCIDENT. 
 
 him, no wife, no life. . . . The tears welled up 
 in his eyes ; the shock which in its suddenness 
 had frozen his heart, began to thaw, and grief 
 fell like a penetrating rain. 
 
 We learn to suffer as we learn to love, and it 
 is not to-day, nor yet to-morrow, but in weeks 
 and months to come, and by slow degrees, that 
 John Norton will understand the irreparableness 
 of his loss. There is a man upstairs who crouches 
 like stone by his dead daughter's side ; he is 
 motionless and pale as the dead, he is as great 
 in his grief as an expression of grief by Michael 
 Angelo. The hours pass, he is unconscious of 
 them ; he sees not the light dying on the sea, 
 he hears not the trilling of the canary. He 
 knows of nothing but his dead child, and that 
 the world would be nothing to give to have 
 her speak to him once again. His is the hum- 
 blest and the worthiest sorrow, but such sorrow 
 cannot affect John Norton. He has dreamed too 
 much and reflected too much on the meaning of 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 269 
 
 life ; hia suffering is too original in himself, too 
 self-centred, and at the same time too much 
 based on the inherent misery of existence, to 
 allow him to project himself into and suffer with 
 any individual grief, no matter how nearly it 
 might be allied to him and to his personal 
 interest. He knew his weakness in this direc- 
 tion, and now he gladly welcomed the coming 
 of grief, for indeed he had felt not a little 
 shocked at the aridness of his heart, and 
 frightened lest his eyes should remain dry even 
 to the end. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered that the Miss Austins 
 had said that they would call to-morrow early for 
 Kitty, to take her to Leywood to lunch. . . . 
 They were going to have some tennis in the 
 afternoon. He too was expected there. They 
 must be told what had occurred. It would be 
 terrible if they came calling for Kitty under 
 her window, and she lying dead ! This slight 
 incident in the tragedy wrung his heart, and the 
 
270 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 effort of putting the facts upon paper brought 
 the truth home to him, and lured and led him 
 to see down the lifelong range of consequences. 
 The doctor too, he thought, must be warned of 
 what had happened. And with the letter tell- 
 ing the sad story in his hand, and illimitable 
 sorrow in his soul, he went out in the evening 
 air. It was just such an evening as yester even- 
 ing — a little softer, a little lovelier, perhaps ; 
 earth, sea, and sky apj^eared like an exquisite 
 vision upon whose lips there is fragrance, yet in 
 whose eyes a glow of. passion still survives. 
 
 The beauty of the last hour of light is upon 
 that crescent of sea, and the ships loll upon the 
 long strand, the tapering masts and slacking ropes 
 vanish upon the pallid sky. There is the old 
 town, dusty, and dreamy, and brown, with ne- 
 glected wharfs and quays ; there is the new town, 
 vulgar and fresh with green paint and trees, and 
 looking hungrily on the broad lands of the Squire, 
 the broad lands and the rich woods which rise 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 271 
 
 up the hill side to the barn on the limit of the 
 downs. How beautiful the great green woods 
 look as they sweep up a small expanse of the 
 downs, like a wave over a slope of sand. And 
 there is a house with red gables where the girls 
 are still on the tennis lawn. John walked through 
 the town ; he told the doctor he must go at once 
 to the rectory. He walked to Leywood and left 
 his letter with the lodge-keeper ; and then, as if 
 led by a strange fascination, he passed through 
 the farm gate and set out to return home across 
 the hills. 
 
 '' She was here with me yesterday ; how 
 beautiful she looked, and how graceful were her 
 laughter and speech," he said, turning suddenly and 
 looking down on the landscape ; on the massy trees 
 contrasting with the walls of the town, the spine- 
 like bridge crossing the marshy shore, the sails of 
 the mill turning over the crest of the hill. The 
 night was falling fast, as a blue veil it hung down 
 over the sea, but the deep pure sky seemed in one 
 
272 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 spot to grow clear, and suddenly the pale moon 
 shone and shimmered upon the sea. The landscape 
 gained in loveliness, the sheep seemed like 
 phantoms, the solitary barns like monsters of the 
 night. And the hills were like giants sleeping, 
 and the long outlines were prolonged far away into 
 the depths and mistiness of space. Turning again 
 and looking through a vista in the hills, John 
 could see Brighton, a pale cloud of fire, set by the 
 moon-illumined sea, and nearer was Southwick, 
 grown into separate lines of light, that wandered 
 into and lost themselves among the outlying hollows 
 of the hills ; and below him and in front of him 
 Shoreham lay, a blaze of living fire, a thousand 
 lights ; lights everywhere save in one gloomy spot, 
 and there John knew that his beloved was lying 
 dead. And further away, past the shadowy marshy 
 shores, was Worthing, the palest of nebulae in these 
 earthly constellations ; and overhead the stars of 
 heaven shone as if in pitiless disdain. The blown 
 hawthorn bush that stands by the burgh leaned out. 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 273 
 
 a ship sailed slowly across the rays of the mooD. 
 Yesterday they parted here in the glad golden sun- 
 light, parted for ever, for ever. 
 
 " Yesterday T had all things — a sweet wife and 
 happy youthful days to look forward to. To-day I 
 have nothing ; all my hopes are shattered, all my 
 illusions have fallen. So is it always with him who 
 places his trust in life. Ah, life, life, what hast 
 thou for giving save cruel deceptions and miserable 
 wrongs ? Ah, wdiy did I leave my life of contem- 
 plation and prayer to enter into that of desire. . . 
 Ah, I knew, well I knew there was no happiness 
 save in calm and contemplation. Ah, well I knew ; 
 and she is gone, gone, gone ! " 
 
 We suffer differently indeed, but we suffer 
 equally. The death of his sweetheart forces one 
 man to reflect anew on the slightness of life's 
 pleasures and the depth of life's griefs. In the 
 peaceful valley of natural instincts and affections he 
 had slept for a while, now he awoke on one of the 
 high peaks lit with the rays of intense conscious- 
 
^ 
 
 274 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 ness, and he cried aloud, and withdrew in terror at 
 a too vivid realisation of self. The other man wept 
 for the daughter that had gone out of his life, wept 
 for her pretty face and cheerful laughter, wept for 
 her love, wept for the years he would live without 
 her. We know which sorrow is the manliest, 
 which appeals to our sympathy, but who can 
 measure the depth of John Norton's suffering ? It 
 was as vast as the night, cold as the stream of 
 moonlit sea. 
 
 He did not arrive home till late, and having told 
 his mother what had happened, he instantly 
 retired to his room. Dreams followed him. The 
 hills were in his dreams. There were enemies 
 there ; he was often pursued by savages, and he 
 often saw Kitty captured ; nor could he ever evade 
 their wandering vigilance and release her. Again 
 and again he awoke, and remembered that she 
 was dead. 
 
 Next morning John and Mrs Norton drove to 
 the rectory, and without asking for Mr Hare, they 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 2/0 
 
 went up to her room. The windows were open, 
 and Annie and Mary Austin sat by the bedside 
 watching. The blood had been washed out of the 
 beautiful hair, and she lay very white and fair 
 amid the roses her friends had brought her. 
 She lay as she had lain in one of her terrible 
 dreams — quite still, the slender body covered by 
 a sheet, moulding it with sculptured delight and 
 love. From the feet the linen curved and marked 
 the inflections of the knees ; there were long flow- 
 ing folds, low-lying like the wash of retiring water ; 
 the rounded shoulders, the neck, the calm and 
 bloodless face, the little nose, and the beautiful 
 drawing of the nostrils, the extraordinary waxen 
 pallor, the eyelids laid like rose leaves upon the 
 eyes that death has closed for ever. Within the 
 arm, in the pale hand extended, a great Eucharis 
 lily had been laid, its carved blossoms bloomed in 
 unchanging stillness, and the whole scene was like 
 a sad dream in the whitest marble. 
 
 Candles were burning, and the soft smell of 
 
276 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 wax mixed witli the perfume of the roses. For 
 there were roses everywhere — great snowy bou- 
 quets, and long lines of scattered blossoms, and 
 single roses there and here, and petals fallen and 
 falling were as tears shed for the beautiful dead, 
 and the white flowerage vied with the pallor and 
 the immaculate stillness of the dead. 
 
 The calm chastity, the lonely loveliness, so 
 sweetly removed from taint of passion, struck 
 John with all the emotion of art. He reproached 
 himself for having dreamed of her rather as a 
 wife than as a sister, and then all art and all 
 conscience went down as a broken wreck in the 
 wild washing sea of deep human love : he knelt 
 by her bedside, and sobbed piteously, a man whose 
 life is broken. 
 
 When they next saw her she was in her coffin. 
 It was almost full of white blossoms — ^jasmine, 
 Eucliaris lilies, white roses, and in the midst of 
 the flowers you saw the hands folded, and the face 
 was veiled with some delicate filmy handkerchief 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 277 
 
 For tlie funeral there were crosses and wreaths 
 of white flowers, roses and stephanotis. And the 
 Austin girls and their cousins who had come from 
 Brighton and Worthing carried loose flowers. How 
 black and sad, how homely and humble they 
 seemed. Down the short drive, through the iron 
 gate, througli the farm gate, the bearers stagger- 
 ino- a little under the weio^ht of lead, the little 
 cortege passed two by two. A broken-hearted 
 lover, a grief-stricken father, and a dozen sweet 
 girls, their eyes and cheeks streaming with tears. 
 Kitty, their girl-friend was dead, dead, dead ! The 
 words rang in their hearts in answer to the mourn- 
 ful tolling of the bell. The little by-way along 
 which they went, the little green path leading over 
 the hill, under trees shot through and througli 
 with the whiteness of summer seas, was strewn 
 with blossoms fallen from the bier and the dolent 
 fingers of the weeping girls. 
 
 The old church was all in white ; great lilies 
 in vases, wreaths of stephanotis ; and, above all, 
 
 T 
 
278 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 roses — o'reat cfarlands of white roses had been 
 woven, and they hung along and across. A 
 blossom fell, a sob sounded in the stillness ; and 
 how trivial it all seemed, and how impotent to 
 assuage the bitter burning of human sorrow : how 
 paltry and circumscribed the old grey churcli, with 
 its little graveyard full of forgotten griefs and as- 
 pirations ! This hour of beautiful sorrow and roses, 
 liovv long will it be remembered ? The coffin 
 sinks out of sight, out of sioht for ever, a snow- 
 drift of delicate bloom descending into the earth. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 From the Austin girls, whose eyes followed him, 
 from Mr Hare, from Mrs Norton, John wandered 
 sorrowfully away, — he wandered through the green 
 woods and fields into the town. He stood by the 
 railway gates. He saw the people coming and 
 going in and out of the public houses ; and 
 he watched the trains that whizzed past, and he 
 understood nothing, not even why the great bar of 
 the white gate did not yield beneath the pressure of 
 his hands ; and in the great vault of the blue 
 sky, white clouds melted and faded to sheeny 
 visions of paradise, to a white form with folded 
 wings, and eyes whose calm was immortality. . . . 
 A train stopped. He took a ticket and went 
 to Brighton. As they steamed along a high em- 
 bankment, he found himself looking into a little 
 
280 A MEKE ACCIDENT. 
 
 suburban cemetery. The graves, the yews, the 
 sharp church spire touching the range of the 
 hills. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to 
 dust, and the dread responsive rattle given back 
 by the coffin lid. He watched the group in 
 the distant corner, and its very remoteness and 
 removal from his personal knowledge and con- 
 cern, moved him to passionate grief and tears. . . 
 He walked through the southern sunlight of the 
 town to the long expanse of sea. The mundane pier 
 is taut and trim, and gay with the clangour of 
 the band, the brown sails of the fishing boats wave 
 in the translucid greens of water ; and the white 
 field of the sheer cliff, and all the roofs, gables, 
 spires, balconies, and the green of the verandahs are 
 exquisitely indicated and elusive in the bright air ; 
 and the beach is strange with acrobats and comic 
 songs, nursemaids lying on the pebbles reading 
 novels, children with their clothes tied tightly 
 about them building sand castles zealously ; see 
 the lengthy crowd of promenaders — out of its 
 
A MERE ACCIDENT. 281 
 
 ranks two little spots of mauve come running to 
 meet the advancing wave, and now they fly back 
 again, and now they come again frolicking like 
 butterflies, as gay and as bright. 
 
 Under the impulse of his ravening grief, John 
 watched the spectacle of the world's forgetfulness, 
 and the seeming obscenity horrified him even to 
 the limits of madness. He cried that it mis^ht 
 pass from him. Solitude — the solemn peace of 
 the hills, the appealing silence of a pine wood 
 at even ; how holy is the idea of solitude, find 
 it where you will. The Gothic pile, the apostles 
 and saints of the windows, the deep purples and 
 crimsons, and the sunlight streaming through, and 
 the pathetic responses and the majesty of the 
 organ do not take away, but enhance and 
 affirm the sensation of idea and God. The quiet 
 rooms austere with Latin and crucifix ; John could 
 see them. Fondly he allowed these fancies to 
 linger, but through the dream a sense of reality 
 began to grow, and he remembered the narrow- 
 
282 A MERE ACCIDENT. 
 
 ness of the life, when viewed from the material 
 side, and its necessary promiscuousness, and he 
 thought with horror of the impossibility of the 
 preservation of that personal life, with all its 
 sanctuary-like intensity, which was so dear to 
 him. He waved away all thought of priesthood, 
 and walking quickly down the pier, looking on the 
 gay panorama of town and beach, he said, " The 
 world shall be my monastery." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PIUNTERS. EDINBURGH. 
 
VIZETELLY & CO.'S LATEST PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THEOPHILE GAUTIER'S FAMOUS ROMANCE OF LOVE AND PASSION. 
 
 Handsomely printed on vellum-texture paper, with Chapter headings and tailpieces 
 in various tints, and with 17 high-class Etchings from designs by Toudouze. 
 Price 10s. 6d. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN. 
 By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 
 
 " Gautier is an inimitable model. His manner is so light and true, so i-eally 
 creative, his fancy so alert, liis taste so happy, his humour so genial, that he makes 
 illusion almost as contagious as laughter." — Mr Henry James. 
 
 Handsomely printed in crown Svo, and illustrated with 16 page Engravings, 3s. 6d. 
 
 PAPA, MAMMA, AND BABY. 
 By GUSTAVE DROZ. 
 
 Translated without abridgment from the ViOth French Edition. 
 
 •'The story of the com-tship of the pair is exquisitely realistic and charmingly 
 attractive, and this praise must also be given to the various pictures of tlieir married 
 life. Of course the book is highly sensuous, yet this general tone is relieved by so 
 many passages of a neutral affection, and by a style at once so light, graceful, and 
 humorous, that even a prude might hesitate to condemn it. The intimitc galante of 
 life, the lover who is a husband, and the wife who is in love M'ith the man she has 
 married, have never before been so attractively ^omivny&A."— Pictorial World. 
 
 New One-Volume Novel, at all the Libraries. 
 
 THE MEADOWSWEET COMEDY. 
 
 By T. a. Pinkerton, Author of " Upton-on-Tliamcs." 
 
 " The book is distinctly a good, one, and one quite to be read through at a sitting. 
 -Academy. 
 "The plot is one of love and intrigue, well constructed." — Scotsman. 
 
 In crown Svo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 MY BROTHER YVES. 
 
 A BRETON SEA-FARING STORY. 
 By PIERRE LOTI. 
 
 Translated fro in t/ie 18ih Frtnch Edition by Mary P. Fletcher. 
 
 NEW REALISTIC STORY. 
 In crown Svo, 2s. 6d. 
 
 A CITY GIRL. 
 By JOHN LAW. 
 
 ■•The book abounds in pathetic sfeues, and the central studies of the city girl and 
 her lover are worked out with Zola-like fidelity." — St Strphcn'.'; Review. 
 
 " Mr Grant, the Radical, with his rabid ideas and his loosely held moral ;, is perhaps 
 the best character in the book." — Whitehall Review. 
 
NEW ONE-VOLUME NOVELS. 
 
 A KOVEL OF JEWISH LIFE. 
 
 Dr PHILLIPS: A Maida Vale Idyll. By Frank Danby. Crown 
 
 8vo. 7s. 6d. Second Edition. -» 
 
 " ' Dr Phillips ' will make a sensation second to none that has yet been made in the 
 world of fiction. It touches on a subject which heretofore has remained a closed book 
 to our modern novelist, that is, the sect Judaic; and, thanks to the genius of the 
 author, not one word will be said by his critics of the almost revolting subjects that 
 have animated his tragedy, while they will find nothing but praise for the genius, 
 power, effect, and tact which he displays throughout."— TFAiYe^a^^ Review. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE IRONMASTER." 
 
 CLOUD AND SUNSHINE (Noir et Rose): Two Love Stories. By 
 
 Geokges Ohnet. From the 60th French Edition. Crown Svo. 3s. (id. 
 CELEBRATED RUSSIAN NOVEL. 
 
 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY AND THE GAMBLER. By Fedor 
 
 DosTOiEFFSKY, Author of " Crime and Punishment." Crown Svo. 5s. 
 " The plot is skilful, and the keen satire with which Russian provincial life is 
 delineated renders the work full of interest. . . . The story fascinates by its truth and 
 its strangeness." — Scotsman. 
 
 COUNT TOLSTOI'S MASTERPIECE. 
 
 Second Edition, in 1 voL Svo, 780 pp. , 7s. 6d. 
 ANNA KARENINA; a Russian Realistic NoveL By Count Lyof 
 
 Tolstoi. 
 " To siiy that the book is fascinating would be but poor praise. It is a drama of life, 
 of whicli every page is palpitating with intense and real life, and its grand lesson, 
 ' Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,' is ever present." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Second Edition, in 3 vols. , 5s. each. 
 WAR AND PEACE. By Count Lyof Toltsoi. 
 
 1. Before Tilsit. 2. The Invasion. 3. The French at Moscow. 
 
 "Incomparably Count Tolstoi's greatest work is 'War and T&&cq: "Saturdaij 
 Review. 
 
 " Count Tolstoi's magnificent ViOy€\..'"—AthencHuin. 
 
 " Count Tolstoi's admirable work may be warmly recommended to novel readers." 
 — ;S7 James,' Gazette. 
 
 Second Edition, in crown Svo, with Portrait and Memoir, 5s. 
 INJURY AND INSULT. By Fedor Dostoieffsky. 
 
 "A masterpiece of fiction. The author has treated with consummate tact the 
 difficult character of Natasha, ' the incarnation and the slave of passion.' She lives 
 and breathes in these vivid pages." — Moi'iiing Post. 
 
 Third Edition, in crown Svo, 450 i^p., 6s. 
 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT : A Russian Realistic NoveL By Fedor 
 
 DOSTOIEFFSKY. 
 
 " ' Crime and Punishment' is one of themost moving of modern novels."— Athenceum. 
 
 " In our opinion Dos toieff sky's finest work is ' Crime and Punishment.' He sounded 
 
 the lowest depth of human nature, and wrote with the power'of_a master."— Spectator. 
 
 With Frontispiece and Memoir, in 1 vol., 3s. 6d. 
 
 A HERO OF OUR TIME. By M. U. Lermontoff. 
 
 '" A IIcvo of our Time' is utterly unconventional, possesses a weird interest all 
 its own, and is in every wiiy a remarkable romance." — Spectator. 
 
42, Catiierine Street, Strand, 
 March, 1887. 
 
 yizETELLY & co:s 
 
 NEW BOOKS, 
 AND NEIV EDITIONS. 
 
 THEOPHILE GAUTIER'S FAMOUS KOMAXCE OF LOVE AND PASSION. 
 
 Ha mlsomchj printed on velluin-te.vture pajjcr, with Chapter headiuqs and tailpieces in 
 
 various tints, andvjith 17 high-class Etchings from designs by Toudouze. 
 
 Price 10s. 6d., eleganth/ hound.. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN. 
 
 By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 
 " Gaiitier is an inimitable model. His manner is so light and true, so really creative bis fancy 
 so alert, bis taste so happy, his humour so genial, that be makes illusion almost as contagious as 
 laugbter. — Mr. Hexry James. 
 
 In crown Svo, Illustrated with jmge Engravings, price 'is. 6d., attractively ho%md. 
 
 fk?k, MAMMA, AND BABY. 
 
 By GUSTAVE DKOZ. 
 Translated without abridgment from the 130th French Edition. 
 
 ''^lon^'^^nr Guf^i^vQ T)voz is the painter of a slightly factitious state of society which toys 
 with pleasant vices hke the eighteenth century played at pastorals. One must read his master- 
 piece-Monsieur, Madame et Bebe '-to understand all the painted grace of that circle No 
 ?w>ni ""i"? k"* a trifle exaggerated, but the artist's great merit bes in his having depicted 
 ^haiacters which will certainly bve as excellent studies of the society of the period "-Emile 
 
 „, A 'i'7^^ ^^^^^ °^ *?^, courtship of the pair is exquisitely realistic and charmingly attractive, 
 and like pnuse must also be given to the various pictures of their married life. Of course the 
 book IS highly sensuous, yet this general tone is relieved by so many passages of a neutral afiFec- 
 tion, and by a style at once so ight, graceful, and humorous, that even a prude might hesitate 
 to condemn it. Ihe nainuW gaJnnte of life, the lover who is a husband, and the wife who is inlove 
 Tfo^M ^"*" ^^^ married, have never before been so attractively purtn.yed. "—i^vcforifl?' 
 
 NEW BOOK BY THE AUTHOR OF "A MUMMER'S WIFE." 
 To be Ready during- April, 
 
 In crown Svo, price -35. 6d. 
 
 A MERE ACCIDENT: A Eedistic Story. 
 
 By GEORGE MOORE. 
 
 NEW WORK BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE IRONMASTER." 
 In crown Svo, 'is. 6d. 
 
 CLOUD AND SUNSHINE. (Woir et Eose.) 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 
 Translated icith the Authors sanction from the 60fh French Edition by 
 Mrs. Helen Stott, 
 
2 VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 NEW NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE IRONMASTER." 
 To be Ready during- June. 
 
 In Crown 8vo, 2:>rice 7s. 6d. 
 
 WILL. (Volonte.) 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 
 In Picture Cover, Is. With Humorous Illustrations by Lancelot Speed. 
 
 KING SOLOMON'S WIVES : Or the Mysterious Mines. 
 
 By HYDER ragged, 
 AuTHOii OF "He, She, or It?" "Guess!" &c. 
 
 In croicn 8vo, 2s. Qd. 
 
 A CITY GIRL. A Realistic Story. 
 
 ]Z\ JOHN LAW. 
 
 NEW REALISTIC NOVELS. 
 
 M. EMILE ZOLA'S NEAV NOVEL. 
 To toe Ready during- June. 
 
 In Crown 8vo, tviih Page I/lustrations, Price 
 
 THE SOIL. (La Terre.) 
 
 By EMILE ZOLA. 
 
 FLAUBERT'S MASTERPIECE. 
 In crown 8vo, beaut if idly printed on vellutn-texture paper, and Illustrated with 
 J -,_ Six Etchings, by French Artists, vrice 6s., elegantly bound. 
 
 MA'DAME BOVARY: Provincial Manners. 
 
 By GUSTAVE FLAUBERT. 
 
 Translated by Er.EAXoii AIahx-Avelixg. With an Introduction and Notes of the 
 3)roceedings against the author before the "Tribunal Correctionnel" of Paris. 
 M. EMILE ZOLA ON "MADAME BOVARY." 
 
 " The first characteristic of the naturalistic novel, of which ' Madame Bovary ' is the type, is 
 the exact repro>lncMon of life, tlie absence of every romantic elenaent. The scenes themselves are 
 every day ones ; but the author has carefully sorted and bahmced them in such a way as to make 
 his work a monument of art and science. It is a true picture of life presented to us in an admira- 
 bly selected frame. All extraordinary invention is therefore banished from it. One no longer 
 eiicuuntera in its pages children marked at their birth, then lost, to be found again in the last 
 chapter ; nor secret drawers containing documents which come to light at the right moment for 
 the purpose of saving persecuted innocence. 
 
 "The whole of 'Madame Bovary,' even in it^ slightest incidents, possesses a heartrending 
 interest — a new intei*est, unknown prior to the appearance of this book — the intei-est of reality, 
 of the drama of daily life. It grips your very vitals with an invincible power, like some sceue 
 you have witnessed, some event which is actually happening before your eyes. The personages 
 of the story are among your acquaintances, 3'ou have assisted at their proceedings twenty times 
 over. You are in your <.wn sphere in this work, and all that transpires is even dependent upon 
 your surroundings. It is this which causes such jirofound emotion." 
 
 BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE ON "MADAME BOVARY." 
 
 " Flaubert wrote his great masterpiece 'Madame Bovary' deliberately in his maturity; and 
 the notoriety which carried him with it into the law-courts, made him a martyr in a society that 
 was by no means fastidi<ius. Seldom before has an author concentrated such care and thought on 
 a single work. Each separate chapter is wrought out with an exa:tness of elaboration to which 
 the i)ainting of the Dutch school is sketchy and superfici d." 
 
VI ZE TELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS ^ NEW EDITIONS. 3 
 
 NEW REALISTIC tAO\/E\.S—cmitinued. 
 In crown %vo, with Ornamental Initials and Vignettes, and a Portrait of the Author, 
 EtcJied by Bocourt/?-o?h a drawing by Flaubert's niece. Price 6s. 
 
 SALAMBO. 
 
 By GUSTAVE FLAUBERT. 
 Translated from the French "Edition definitive " by J. S. CHARTEES, 
 
 AND prefaced BY AN EsSAY ON FlaUBERT's WoRKS. 
 
 Press Opinions on Mr. J. S. Chartres's Translation of " Salambo." 
 
 " Some little while ago there was published an extraordinary bad translation of Flaubert" s 
 * Salambo' [by M. French Sheldon]. By some moans (there are so many of these means) it was 
 puffed as even in our time few if any books so bad have been puffed. Names of all sorts and 
 conditions of men ('the highest authorities in the land,' said the advertisement) were pressed 
 into its service. And hand in hand with the puflSng went some dark warnings against other 
 possible translations, which would inevitably be spurious, infamous, and I know not what else, 
 i'he reason of this warning is now clear. Another tranlsation has ap[)eared, done by Mr. J. S. 
 Chartres, and published by Vizetelly, which is much superior to its predecessor."— T/^e World. 
 
 " We are able to declare that this second translation, the work of Mr. Chartres, and 
 published by Messrs. Vizetelly, is very much the better of the two."— Saturday Review. 
 
 hi crown 8w, xcith Efchlnqs by Muller, from designs by Jeanniot. Pric; Qs. 
 
 GERMINIE LACERTEUX. 
 
 By EDMOND and JULES DE GONCOUET. [in April. 
 
 " 'Germinie Lacektel'x' fixes a date in our contemporary literature. For the first time 
 ;he lower classes are studied by writers who are masters of observation and style. And I repeat 
 t is not a question of a more or less interesting story, but of a complete lesson of moral and 
 .bysical anatomy. The novelist thi-ows a woman on to the slab of the amphitheatre, the first 
 ■voman that comes to his hand, the servant girl crossing the street with her apron on ; he 
 patiently dissects her, shows each muscle, gives full play to the nerves, seeks for causes 'and 
 •elates results ; and this sufiices to uncover a whole bleeding corner of liumanity. The reader 
 'eels the sobs rising in his throat, and it happens that this dissection becomes a heartrending 
 spectacle, full of the highest morality.' —Em ile Zola. 
 
 TWELFTH THOUSAND. 
 With 32 highly finished ^mge Engravings, cloth gilt, price 3s. 6d. 
 
 SAPPHO: Parisian Manners. 
 
 By ALPHOXSE DAUDET. 
 Unabridged Translation from the 100th French Edition. 
 
 "The book may, without exaggeration, be described as a glowing picture of Parisian life 
 vith all its diversity of characters, with its Bohemian and half- world cn-cies that are to be found 
 lowhere else ; with all its special immorality, in short, but also with the touch of poeti-y that 
 aves it from utter corruption, and with the keen artistic sense that preserves its votaries from 
 bsolute degradation." — I>ail!/ Telegraph. 
 
 %♦ VIZETELLY «£• CO.'S Edition of SAPPHO'' is the only complete one. 
 't contains every line of the original icork and ffty pages more matter than any other. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^Shortly. In croicn 8vo. Price 3.9. 6d. j U7iiform icifh " A Cruel. 'E'SIGMA "" 
 
 \ CRUEL ENIGMA. A LOVE CRIME. 
 
 By PAUL BOURGET. 
 
 By PAUL BOURGET. 
 
 Translated without abridgment from, Translated with abridgment from the 
 
 the ISth French Edition. I nth French Editicn. 
 
4 VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEIV BOOKS &- AE IV EDITIONS. 
 
 Specimen of the Engravings in DAUDET'S "SAPPHO." 
 
 "Alone in the little garden of the restaurant they were kissing each other and eating their 
 fish. All at once, from a rustic arbour built among the branches of the plane-tree at whose foot 
 their tabic was set out, n loud and bantering voice was he ird : ' I say, there, when you've done 
 
 billing and cooing ,' and the leonine face and ruddy beard of Cuoudal the sculptor appeared 
 
 through an opening in the woodwork of the hut." 
 
VIZKTEr.LY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 5 
 
 NEW ONE-VOLUME NOVELS. 
 
 A NOVEL OF JEWLSH LIFE. 
 In crown ^vo, price Is. Qd. 
 
 DR. PHILLIPS : A Maida Vale Idjll. 
 
 By frank DANBY. 
 
 In crown Svo, price 7s. 6d. 
 
 THE MEADOWSWEET COMEDY. 
 
 By T. a. PINKEKTON. [Readi/ in April. 
 
 In crown Sua, price oS. 6d. 
 
 MY BROTHER YVES. 
 
 By PIEKRE LOTL 
 Translated from the 17th French Edition. \_Rradij in April. 
 
 Third Edition, in crown 8?-o, price "is. Gd. 
 
 DISENCHANTMENT. 
 
 By F. MABEL ROBINSOX. 
 AUTHOR OF "MR. BUTLER'S WARD." 
 " ' Disenchantment ' is a novel of considerable powei*. There is not one of the characters which 
 does not become more and more an actual man or woman as one turns the pa^fes. . . . The 
 book is full of hiimour and the liveliest and healtliiest appreci ition of the tender and emotional 
 side of life, and the accuracy — the almost relentless accuracy— with which the depths of life are 
 sounded, is startling- in the work: of an almost unknown writer." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ■'Some of the scenes are given with remarkably impressive power. . . . The book is altogether 
 of exceptional interest as an original study of many sides of actual human nature." — The Graphic. 
 
 Fifth Edition, in croton 8ro, ivith Frontispiece, price 6s. 
 
 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 By GEOBGE MOORE. 
 Author of "A Mummer's Wife," "A Modern Lover," &c. 
 
 "Mr. George Moore's work stands on a very much higher plane tlian the facile fiction of the 
 circulating libraries. The hideous comedy of the marriage-market has been a stock tojiic with 
 novelists from Thackeray- dt'Wnwards ; but Mr. Moore goes deep into the yet more hideous tragedy 
 which forms its afterpiece, the tr.tgedy of enfoiced stagnant celibacy, with its double catastrophe 
 of disease and vice." — Pall Mali Gazette. 
 
 In crown Sro, pirice 5s. 
 
 ICARUS. 
 
 By the Author of "A Jaunt in a Junk." 
 
 "A dever book with an original and ingenious idea. . . - Well fitted to amuse the leisure of 
 men ?nd women of the ^\or\d"— Morning Post. 
 
 •' The tale is admirably told." — St. Stephen's Review. 
 
 In crown 8vo, price 5s. 
 
 IN THE CHANGE OF YEARS. 
 
 By FELLSE LOVELACE. 
 " The author is but too true to human nature, as Thackeray and other great artists have been 
 before her." — Academy. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO/S NEW BOOKS cS- NEIV EDITIONS. 
 
 THE NOVELS OF FEDOR DOSTOIEFFSKY. 
 
 Translated from the Original Russian. 
 Tliird Edition. In croicn 8vo, 450 pages, jJrice 6s. 
 
 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT. 
 
 A EUSSIAN REALISTIC NOVEL. 
 By FEDOR DOSTOIEFFSKY. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 The Athenseum. 
 " Outside Russia the name of Fedor Dostoieffsky was till lately almost unknown. Yet Dostoieffsky 
 is one of the most remarkable of modern writers, and his book, ' Crime and Punishment,' is one 
 of the most mo\ing of modern novels. It is the story of a murder and of the punishment which 
 dogs the murderer ; and its effect is unique in fiction. It is realism, but such realism as M. Zola 
 and his followers do not dream of. The reader knows the personages— strange, grotesque, terrible 
 personages they are-more intimately than if he had been years with them in the flesh. He is con- 
 strained to live their lives, to suffer their tortures, to scheme and resist with them, exult with 
 them, weep and laugh and despair with them ; lie breathes the very breath of their nostrils, and witli 
 the madness that comes upon them he is afflicted even as tliey. This sounds extravagant praise, no 
 doubt ; but only to those who have not read the volume. To those who have, we are sure that it 
 will appear rather under the mark than otherwise." 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " The figures in the grand, gloomy picture are a handful of men and women taken haphazard from 
 the crowd of the Russian capital. They are nearly all poor. The central flgure in the novel is one 
 of those impecunious ' students,' the outcomes of whose turbulent brains have often been a curse 
 
 where they were intended to be a blessing to their country. Sonia is a flgure of tragic pathos 
 
 A strange fascination attracts Raskolnikoff to seek her out in lier own lodgings, a bare little room in 
 an obscure street of St. Petersburg ; and there, in the haunt of impurity and sin, the harlot and the 
 assassin meet together to read the story of Lazarus and Dives. In that same den Rodia confesses 
 his crime, and, in anguish almost too deep for Avords, the outcast girl implores the criminal, for 
 God's sake, to make atonement." 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 " In our opinion Dostoieflfsky's finest work is ' Crime and Punishment.' Though never Zolaesqi;e, 
 DostoielTsky is intensely realistic, calls a spade a spade with the most uncompromising frankness. 
 He describes sin in its most hideous shapes ; yet he is full of tenderness and loving-kindness for its 
 victims, and shows us that even the most abandoned are not entirely bad, and that for all there is 
 liope — hope of redemption and regeneration. Dostoieffsky sounded the lowest depths of human 
 nature, and -wrote with the power ot a master. None but a Russian and a genius could draw such a 
 character as Rodia Raskoluikott',,who has been aptly named the 'Hamlet of the Madhouse.'" 
 
 The World. 
 
 "The publisher has done good work in publishing ' Crime and Punishment,' a translation of Dostoi- 
 effsky's much-praised novel— a little over-i^raised, perhaps, but a strong thing, beyond all question." 
 
 Westminster Review. 
 •' 'Crime and Punishment' is powerful, and not without a certain weird fascination." 
 
 Second Edition, hi C7'oivn-S'V0, with Portrait and Memoir. price 5s. 
 INJURY AND INSULT. By Fedor Dostoieffsky. 
 
 Translated from the Original Russian by F. "Whishaw, 
 
 " That ' Injury and Insult' is a yiowerful novel few will deny. Vania is a marvellous character. 
 Once read, the book can never be forgotten." — -S'^ Stephen's Reriev. 
 
 " A masterpiece of fiction. The author has treated with consummate tact the difficult character 
 of Natasha ' the incarnation and the slave of passion.' She lives and breathes in these vivid pages, 
 and the reader is drawn into the vortex of her anguish, and rejoices when she breaks free from her 
 chain."— il/or?uu^ I'ost. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 7 
 
 In crov)ib 8ro, price 5s. 
 
 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY, & THE GAMBLER. 
 
 Translated from the Original Russian by F. Whishavv. 
 
 " There are three Russian novelists who, though, with one exception, little known out of their own 
 country, stand head and shoulders above most of their contemporaries. In the opinion of some not 
 indifferent critics, they are superior to all other novelists of this generation. Two of them, 
 Dostoietfsky and Turgenietf, died not long ago, the third, Lyof Tolstoi, still lives. The one with the 
 most marked individuality of character, probably the most highly gifted, was unquestionably 
 'Dostoieffsky."—Spectatur. 
 
 To be followed by 
 
 THE IDIOT. THE BROTHERS KARAMASOFF. 
 
 UNCLE'S DREAM, & THE PERMANENT HUSBAND. 
 
 THE NOVELS OF COUNT LYOF TOLSTOL 
 
 Cou^T Tolstoi's Masterpiece. 
 
 ^ccowl Edition. In One Volume, Svo, 780_2x<^c5, 7s. Qd. 
 
 ANNA KARENINA: A Eussian Kealistic Novel. By 
 
 Count Lyof Tolstoi. 
 
 " To say that the book is fascinating would be but poor praise. It is a drama of life, of which 
 every page is palpitating with intense and real life, and its grand lesson, ' Vengeance is Mine, I will 
 repay,' is ever present."— P(tZi Mall Gazette. 
 
 " It has not onlv the very hue of life, but its movement, its advances, its strange pauses, its 
 seeming reversions 'to former conditions, and its perpetual change, its apparent solations, its 
 essential solidarity. It is a world, and you live in it while you read, and long afterwards. - 
 Harper's Monthly. 
 
 Count Tolstoi's Great Realistic Novel. 
 Secmid Edition. In Three Vols., 5s. each. 
 
 WAR AND PEACE. By Count Lyof Tolstoi. 
 
 1. BEFORE TILSIT. 2. THE INVASION. 3. THE FRENCH AT MOSCOW. 
 
 " Incomparably Count Tolstoi's greatest work is ' War and Peace.' "Satunknj Review. 
 
 " Count Tolstoi's magnificent uoveV—Athenceum. 
 
 " Count Tolstoi's admirable work may be warmly recommended to novel readers. His pictures 
 of Imperial society— the people who move round the Czar— are as interesting and as vivid as his battle 
 scenes." — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 " The interest of the book is not concentrated in a hero and a heroine. The other personages arc 
 studied with equal minute elaboration . . . and pass before us in scenes upon which the author 
 has lavished pains and knowledge. He describes society as it appears to a calm, severe critic. He 
 understands and respects goodness, and sets before us all that is lovable in Russian domestic lile. 
 —Pall Mall Gazette. ^ 
 
 }Fith Frontispiece. In One Volume, 2>s. 6d. 
 
 A HERO OF OUR TIME. By M. U. Lebmontoff. 
 
 " Lermontoff's genius was as wild and erratic as his stormy life and tragic end. But it had the 
 true ring, and his name is enrolled among the literary immortals of his country. ' A Hero of Our 
 Time' is utterly unconventional, possesses a weird interest all its own, and is m every way a 
 remarkable roma,nce."—Spectator. 
 
 Uurifig May, in crown Svo, with a Portrait ayid Memoir of Count Tolstoi, j^rice 5s. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. BOYHOOD, AND YOUTH. 
 
THE MERMAID SERIES. 
 
 " I lie and dream of your full Mermaid wine." 
 
 Master Francis Beaumont to Ben Jonson. 
 
 Now Publishing, 
 
 In Half-Crown monthly vols., post 8vo. Each volume 
 
 containing from 400 to 500 pages, bound in cloth with cut or uncut edges. 
 
 An Unexpurgated Edition of 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE OLD DRAMATISTS, 
 
 Undrr the General Editorship of HAVELOCK ELLIS. 
 
 LTHOUGH a strong and increasing interest is felt to-day in the great 
 Elizabethan dramatists who are grouped around Shakespeare, no satisfac- 
 tory attempt has hitherto been made to bring their works before the 
 public in a really popular manner. With the exception of such monu- 
 mental and for most readers inaccessible editions as those of Dyce and 
 BuUen, they have either been neglected or brought out in a mutilated and 
 inadequate form. Some of the most delightful of them, such as Middleton 
 V and Thomas Heywood, and even Beaumont and Fletcher are closed to all, save 
 the few, and none of them are obtainable in satisfactory editions at moderate prices. 
 In the Mermaid Series it is proposed to issue the best plays of the Elizabethan 
 and later Dramatists, those plays which, with Shakespeare's, constitute the chief 
 contribution of the English spirit to the literature of the world. The Editors who have 
 given their assistance to the undertaking include men of literary eminence, who have 
 already distinguished themselves in this field, as well as younger writers of ability. The 
 first volume will contain a general introduction by Mr. J. A. Symonds, dealing with the 
 Elizabethan Drama generally, as the chief expression of English national life at one of 
 its points of greatest power and expansion. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS <S- NEW EDITIONS. 9 
 
 Each volume will contain on an average five complete Plays, prefaced by an Intro- 
 ductory Notice of the Author. Great care will be taken to ensure, by consultation among 
 the Editors, that the Plays selected are in every case the best and most representative — and 
 not the most conventional, or those which have lived on a merely accidental and traditional 
 reputation. A feature will be made of plays by little known writers, which although often 
 so admirable are now almost inaccessible. The names of the Editors will be sufficient 
 guarantee for the quality of the selection. In every instance the utmost pains will be taken 
 to secure the best text, the spelling will be modernised, and brief but adequate notes 
 will be supplied. 
 
 In no case will the Plays undergo any process of expurgation. It is believed that, 
 although thay may sometimes run counter to what is called modern taste, the free and 
 splendid energy of Elizabethan art, with its extreme realism and its extreme idealism — 
 embodying, as it does, the best traditions of the English Drama— will not suffer from the 
 frankest representation. 
 
 Carefully etched Portraits of those Dramatists of whom authentic portraits exist 
 will be given as frontispieces to the various volumes, and every pains will be taken to 
 ensure typographical accuracy and excellence, and to produce the series in a satisfactory 
 manner in every respect. 
 
 'Now ready — 
 MARLOWE. Edited by Havelock Ellis. With a General 
 Introduction by J. A. Symonds. 
 
 To he followed by 
 MASSINGER. Edited by Arthur Symons. 
 MIDDLETON. With an Introduction by A. C. Swinburne. 
 BEAUMONT and FLETCHER (2 vols.). Edited by J. St. 
 
 LoE Strachey. 
 DEKKER. Edited by Ernest Rhys. 
 WEBSTER AND CYRIL TOURNEUR. Edited by J. A. 
 
 Symonds. 
 SHIRLEY. Edited by Edmund Gosse. 
 ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM and other Plays attributed to 
 
 Shakespeare. Edited by Arthur Symons. 
 OTWAY. Edited by the Hon. Roden Noel. 
 FORD. Edited by Havelock Ellis. 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. Edited by J. A. Symonds. 
 
 Also by CONGREVE, BEN JONSON (2 vols.), CHAPMAN, 
 MARSTON, WILLIAM ROWLEY and FIELD, 
 DRYDEN, WYCHERLEY, LEE, &c. 
 
lo VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 NEW STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE CHEVELEY NOVELS." 
 In Crown 8ro, attractively bound, price 35. 6d. 
 
 HIS CHILD FRIEND. 
 
 By the Author of **A Modern Minister," "Saul Weir," &c. 
 
 " Is told tenderly and with graphic skill. All the characters are well and truthfully drawn. 
 — Amdcmy. 
 
 A STORY OF THE STAGE. 
 
 In Crown -Svo, with eight tinted page engravings, price 2s. Gd. 
 
 SAVED BY A SMILE. 
 
 By JAMES SIKEE. 
 
 Second Edition. In crown Sro, with page engravings, price 2s. 6d. 
 
 MY FIRST CRIME. 
 
 By G. mace, former " Chef de la Surety " of the Paris Police. 
 
 " An account by a real Lecoq of a real crime is a novelty among the mass of criminal 
 novels- with which the world has been favoured since the death of ihe great originator Gaboriau. 
 It is to M. Mac^, who has had to deal with real joges d' instruction, real ageiits de la silrele, and real 
 murderers, that we are indebted for this really interesting addition to a species of literature 
 which has of late begun to pall." — Saturday Revitw. 
 
 A BOOK FOR THE PRESENT CRISIS. 
 
 Second Edition. In croicn 8vo, paper cover, price Is. , or cloth, Is. Gd. 
 
 IRISH HISTORY FOR ENGLISH READERS. 
 
 By WILLIAM STEPHENSON GREGG. 
 
 "The history is one that every Englishman ougld to read. As an outline to be filled up by 
 v der reading it is an admirable little laook." — Literary World. 
 
 Shortly will he published in SliilUng Volumes, icith p)icture covers, 
 
 CAPITAL STORIES. 
 
 The Earlier Volumes will Inx'Lude : 
 
 THE CHAPLAIN'S SECRET, by leon de tinseau. 
 AVATAR. By theophile gautier. 
 
 {The above ivork evidently suggested ''Doctor Jel'yll and Mr. Hyde.'') 
 
 COLONEL QUAGG'S CONVERSION; and Other Stories. 
 
 By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 
 THE MONKEYS' REVENGE, by leon gczlan. 
 
 THE MARCHIONESS'S TEAM, by l^on de tinseau. 
 
VIZE TELLY &> COJS NEW BOOKS &- AEIV EDITIONS, ii 
 MR. E. C. GRENVILLE-MURRAY'S WORKS. 
 
 Third and Chr.:ipcr Edition, in post 8vo, 431 pp., Kith numerous Fage and other 
 Engravings, handsomchj hound, price 5s. 
 
 IMPRISONED IN A SPANISH CONVENT: 
 
 AN ENGLISH GIRL'S EXPEUIENCES. 
 
 '* Intensely fascinating. The fxyjose is a remarkable one, and as readable as remarkable." — 
 Societ". 
 
 " Excellent specimens of tbeir author in his best and bricrhtest mr^d.'' — Athenc^um. 
 
 " lliglily dniuiitic." — Scuisucan. •• Strit^iugly interesting."' — Literuiy JVorld. 
 
 " Instead of the meek cooing dove with naked feet and a dusty face who had talked of dying 
 for me, I had now a bright-eyed rosy-cheeked companion who had cambric pocket-handkerchiefs 
 with violet scent on them and smoked cigarettes on the aly/'—Fcige 75. 
 
 New and CJicaper Edition, Two Vols, large post 8w, attractively hound, price los. 
 
 UNDER THE LENS: SOCIAL PHOTOGRAPHS. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH ABOUT 300 ENGRAVINGS BY WELL-KNOWN ARTISTS. 
 CONTENTS: — JILTS — ADVENTURERS AND ADVENTURESSES - HONOURABLE 
 GENTLEMEN (M:P.s)-PUBLIC SCHOOLBOYS AND UNDERGRADUATES- SPENDTHRIFTS 
 — BOME WOMEN I HAVE KNOWN— ROUGHS OF HIGH AND LOW DEGREE. 
 
 " Bi-illiant, highly-coloured sketches. . . . containing beyond doubt some of the best writing 
 that has come from Mr. Grenville-Murray's pen."— S<. Jameo'* Gazette. 
 
 " Limned audaciously, unsparingly, and with much ability."— jrorM. 
 " Disthiguished by their pitiless fidelity to nature."— Sociefj/. 
 
JJIK T=HOE(tG C 
 
 At the Eton and Harrow Ci.icket INIatch : /rem " UNDER THE LENS. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO.'S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDTTIONS. 13 
 
 MR. E. C. GRENVILLE-MURRAY'S "^ORKS- continued. 
 
 Seventh Edition, in x>ost Svo, handsomely bound, price Is. Qd,. 
 
 SIDE-LIGHTS ON ENGLISH SOCIETY: 
 
 ^hctdjc£l from Hiff, ^odal autJ Satirical. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH NEARLY 300 CHARACTERISTIC ENGRAVINGS. 
 CONTENTS :-FLIRTS. — ON HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE. — SEMI- 
 DETACHED WIVES.— NOBLE LORDS.— YOUNG WIDOWS.— OUR SILVERED YOUTH, 
 OR NOBLE OLD BOYS. 
 
 " This is a startling book. The volume is expensively and elaborately got up ; the writing is 
 bitter, unsparing, and extremely clever." — Vanity Fair. 
 
 "Mr. Grenville-Murray sparkles very steadily throughout the present volume, and puts to 
 excellent use liis incomparable knowledge of lite and manners, of men and cities, of appearances 
 and facts. Of his several descants upon English types, I shall only remark that they are 
 brilliantly and dashingly written, curious as to their matter, and admirably readable." — Truth, 
 
 "No one can question the brilliancy of the sketches, nor affirm that ' Side-Lights ' is aught but 
 
 a fascinating book The book is destined to make a great noise in the world." — Wliitehall 
 
 Review. 
 
 Til ird Edition, with Frontispiece and Vignette, price 2s. 6d. 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN FRANCE UNDER THE 
 REPUBLIC : 
 
 SOCIAL AND SATIRICAL SKETCHES IN PARIS AND THE PROVINCES. 
 
 " Take this book as it stands, with the limitations imposed upon its author by circumstances, 
 
 and it will be found very enjoyable The volume is studded with shrewd observations on 
 
 French life at the present day." — Spectator. 
 
 " A very clever and entertaining series of social and satirical sketches, almost French in their 
 point and vivacity." — Contemporary Review. 
 
 " A most amusing book, and no less instructive if read with allowances and understanding." 
 -Wirrld. 
 
 ' ' Full of the caiistic hiimour and graphic character-pain tincf so characteristic of Mr. Greuville- 
 Murray's work, and dealing trenchantly yet lightly with almost every conceivable phase of 
 sDcial, political, official, journalistic and theatrical Uie." Society. 
 
[4 VIZ E TELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &> NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 MR. E. C. GRENVILLE-MURRAY'S VJORKS-continucd. 
 
 Second Edition, in large Svo, tasteftilly hou7id, with gilt edges, price 10s. M. 
 
 FORMING A HANDSOME VOLUME FOR A PRESENT. 
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. 
 
 Illustrated with 54 tinted Page Engravingit, frovi Dexigits hg Fked. Bahnard 
 
 
 THE riCU ^V1T0^V (reduced from tlie original engraviiip). 
 
 "Mr. Grenville- Murray's pages sparkle with cleverness and -with a shrewd wit, caustic or 
 cynical at times, but by no means excluding a due appreciation of the softer virtues of women 
 and the sterner excellences of men. The talent of the artist (Mr. Uaniard) is akin to that of the 
 author, and the result of the combination is a book that, once taken up, can hardly be laid down 
 until the last page is perused. "—S/)ecm<or. 
 
 " All of Mr. GrenviUe-Murray's portraits are clever and life-like, and some of them are not 
 unworthy of a model who was more befoie the author's eyes than Addison— namely, Thackeray.' 
 
 " Mr. Grenville-Murray's sketches are genuine studies, and are the best things of the kind 
 that have been published since 'Sketches by Boz,' to which they are siiperior in the sense in 
 which artistically executed character portraits arc superior to caricatures."— 67. James's Gazett". 
 
 '• No book of its class can be pointed out so admirably calculated to show another generation 
 tbe foibles and pecuharities of the men and women of our times."— Morninj Post. 
 
 An Edition of "PEOPLE I HAVE MET" is published in smaH Svo, 
 with Frontispiece and other page Engraving's, price 2s. 6d. 
 
 In post 8fo, 150 engravings, cloth gilt, price 5s. 
 
 Jilts and other Sohal Photographs. 
 
 Uniform vith the above. 
 
 Spendthrifts and other Social Photographs. 
 
VIZETELLY &- COJS NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS.it, 
 
 MR. GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA'S WORKS. 
 
 It was like your imperence to come smoucbin' round here, Ux^kiug after de white folks' wa&hin.' 
 
 In One Volume, demij Sfo, 560 2)ccges, price 125., the Fifth Edition 0/ 
 
 AMERICA REVISITED, 
 
 FROM THE BAY OF NEW YORK TO THE GULF OF MEXICO, & FROM LAKE MICHIGAN 
 TO THE PACIFIC, including a sojourn among the mormons in salt lake city. 
 
 IliliUSTBATED WITH NEARLY 400 ENGEAVINGS. 
 
 "In 'America Revisited' Mr. Sala is seen at his very best; better even than in hia Taris 
 book, more evenly geni;il and gay, and with a fresher subject to handle."— World. 
 
 " Mr. Sala's good stories lie thick as plums in a pudding throughout this h mdsome work."— 
 Fall Mall Gazette. 
 
i6 VIZETELLY &- CO:S AE IV BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 MR. G. A. S ALA'S WORKS— coTt^mwecZ. 
 
 In demy ?)V0, handsomely printed on hand-Tnade paper, with the Illustrations on 
 India paper mounted {only 250 copies printed), ptrice 10s. Qd. 
 
 UNDER THE SUN: 
 
 ESSAYS MAINLY WRITTEN IN HOT COUNTRIES. 
 
 A New Edition, containing several Additional Essays, with an Etched Portrait 
 of the Author by Bocourt, and 12 full-page Engravings. 
 
 "There are nearly four liuudred pages between the covers of this volume, v^rhich means that 
 they contain plenty of excellent reading."— S(. James's Gazette. 
 
 Unifwm with the above, with Frontispiece and other Page Engravings. 
 
 DUTCH PICTURES, and PICTURES DONE 
 WITH A QUILL. 
 
 The Graphic remarks : " We have received a sumptuous new edition of Mr. G. A. Sala'swell- 
 known 'Dutch Pictures.' It is printed on rough paper, and is enriched with many admirable 
 illustrations." , , t -u j 
 
 " Mr. Sala's best work has in it something of Montaigne, a great deal of Charles Lamb— made 
 deeper and broader— and not a little of Lamb's model, the accomplished and quaint Sir Thomas 
 Brown. These ' Dutch Pictures ' and ' Pictures Done with a Quill ' should be placed alongside 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes's inimitable budgets of friendly gossip and Thackeray's 'Roundabout 
 Papers.' They display to perfection the quick eye, good taste, and ready hand of the born 
 essayist— they are never tiresome." — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 UNDER THE SUN, and DUTCH PICTURES AND PICTURES DONE 
 WITH A QUILL are also published in crown %vo, price 2s. 6rf. each. 
 
 quip 
 
 TJiird and Cheaper Edition, in demy %vo, cloth gilt, price 65. 
 
 A JOURNEY DUE SOUTH; 
 
 TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF SUNSHINE, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 MARSEILLES, NICE, BASTIA, AJACGIO, GENOA, PISA, BOLOGNA, 
 VENICE, ROME, NAPLES, POMPEII, &c. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH 16 FULL-PAGE ENGRAVINGS BY VARIOUS ARTISTS. 
 
 " In ' A Journey due South' Mr. Sala is in his brightest and cheeriest mood, ready with 
 and jest and anecdote, brimful of allusion ever happy and T^&t." —Saturday Review. 
 
 Eighth Edition, in crown Svo, 558 pages, attractively hound, price 2s. ed., 
 or gilt at the side and with gilt edges, ^s. 
 
 PARIS HERSELF AGAIN. 
 
 By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 WITH 350 CHARACTERISTIC ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRENCH ARTISTS. 
 
 "On subjects like those in his present work, Mr. Sala is at his best."— T/ie Times. 
 
 «' This book is one of the most readable that has appeared for many a day. Few Englishmen 
 know so much of old and modern Paris as Mr. Sala."— TrwiA. 
 
 '"Paris Herself Again' is infinitely more amusing than most novels. There is no style so 
 chatty and so unwearying as that of which Mr. Sala is a master."— 27ie World. 
 
BUCK OF THE KEGENCY : jro7n ''DUTCH pictures: 
 
 " Mr. Sala's best work has in it sometliing of Montaigne, a great deal of Charles Lamb— made 
 deeper and broader— and not a little of Lamb's model, the accomplished and quaint Sir Thomas 
 Brown. These ' Dutch Pictures ' and ' Pictures Done With a Quill ' &hould be placed alongside 
 Oliver WendeU Holmes's inimitable budgets of friendly gossip and Thackeray's 'Roundabout 
 Papers.' They display to perfection the quick eye, good taste, and ready hand of the born 
 essayist — they are never tiresome." —/oiiy Telegraph. 
 
 
 
1 8 VIZETELLY &- CO.'S NEW BOOKS <S- NEW EDITIONS. 
 VIZETELLY'S ONE-VOLUME NOVELS. 
 
 CHEAP EH ISSUE. 
 
 " The idea of publishing cheap one-volume novels is a good one, and we wish the series every 
 success." — Saturday Review. 
 
 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 FIFTH EDITION. 
 
 THE IRONMASTER; OR, LOVE AND PRIDE. 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 
 TRANSLATED WITHOUT ABRIDGMENT FROM THE 146th FRENCH EDITION. 
 
 " This work, the greatest literary success in any language of recent times, has already 
 yielded its author upwards of £12,000." 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 NUMA ROUMESTAN ; OR, JOY ABROAD AND 
 GRIEF AT HOME. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY Mrs. J. G. LAYARD. 
 
 " ' Numa Roumestan ' is a masterpiece ; it is really a perfect work ; it has no fault, no weak- 
 ness. It is a compact and harmonious whole. " — Mr. Henry James. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 THE CORSARS; OR, LOVE AND LUCRE. 
 
 By JOHN HILL, Author or " The Waters of Marah," "Sally/' &c. 
 
 " It is indubitable that Mr. Hill has produced a strong and lively novel, full of story, cha- 
 racter, situations, murder, gold-mines, excursions, and alarms. The book is so rick in promise 
 that we hope to receive some day from Mr. Hill a romance which will win every vote." — 
 
 Huturdaji Review. 
 
 The Book that made M. Ohnet's reputation, and was crowned by the French Academy. 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 PRINCE SERGE PANINE. 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. Author of "The Ironmaster." 
 
 TRANSLATED, WITHOUT ABRIDGMENT, FROM THE 110th FRENCH EDITION. 
 
 "This excellent version is sure to meet with large success on our side of the Channel." — London 
 Figaro. , 
 
 BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN. 
 
 By INA L. CASSILIS, Author of "Society's Queen," &c. 
 
 " An ingenious plot, cleverly himd\ed."—Jthenceum. 
 
 " The interest begins with the first page, and is ably sustained to the conclusio-a."—Edinhiirgh 
 Courunt. _ 
 
 ROLAND; OR THE EXPIATION OF A SIN. 
 
 By ARY ECILAW. 
 
 " A novel entitled 'Roland 'is creating an immense sensation in Paris. The first, second, 
 and third editions were swept away in as many days. The work is charmingly written."— 2'Ae 
 World. 
 
VIZE TELLY &-> CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 19 
 
 VIZETELLY'S ONE-VOLUME HOMEI.S— continued. 
 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 XTNTH EDITION, CAREFULLY REVISED, AND WITH A SPECIAL PREFACE. 
 
 A MUMMER'S WIFE, a Eealistio Novel. 
 
 By GEORGE MOORE, Author of "A Moderx Lover." 
 
 " A striking book, different in tone from current English fiction. The woman's character is 
 a very powerful study." — Athenceum. 
 
 "A Mummer's Wife, in virtue of its vividness of presentation and real literary skill, may be 
 regarded as a representative example of the work of a literary school that has of late years 
 attracted to itself a good deal of notoriety." — Spectator. 
 
 "' A Mummer's Wife' holds at present a unique position among English novels. It is a 
 conspicuous success of its kind." — Graphic. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 COUNTESS SARAH. 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET, Author of "The Ironmaster." 
 
 TRANSLATED, WITHOUT ABRIDGMENT, FROM THE 118th FRENCH EDITION. 
 
 " The book contains some very powerful situations and first-rate character studies." — 
 Whitehall Renew. 
 
 " To an interesting plot is added a number of strongly-marked and cleverly drawn characters." 
 —Society. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 MR. BUTLER'S WARD. 
 
 By MABEL ROBINSON. 
 
 " A charming book, poetically conceived, and worked out with tenderness and insight."— 
 Atliemi'um. 
 
 "The heroine is a verj' hajDpy conception, a beautiful creation whose affecting history is 
 treated with much delicacy, sympathy, and command of all that is touching." — Illuslrated Neics. 
 
 " AU the characters are new to fiction, and the author is to be congrat\ilated on having made 
 
 so fuU and original a haul out of the supposed to be exhausted waters of modem society " 
 
 — Graphic. 
 
 THE THREATENING EYE. 
 
 By E. F. knight, Author of "A Cruise in the Falcon." 
 
 "There is a good deal of power about this romance." — Graphic. 
 
 •' FuU of extraordinary power and originaUty. The story is one of quite exceptional force and 
 impressiveness." — Manchester Examiner. 
 
 THE FORKED TONGUE. 
 
 By R. LANGSTAFF DE HAYILLAND, M.A., Author of " Enslaved," &c. 
 
 " In many respects the story is a remarkable one. Its men and women are drawn with power 
 and without pity ; their follies and their vices are painted in unmistakable colours, and with 
 a skill that fascinates. "—6'ocie<i/. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 A MODERN LOVER. 
 
 By GEORGE MOORE, Author of "A Mummer's Wife." 
 "Mr. Moore has a real power of drawing character, and some of his descriptive scenes are 
 
 capital."— S(. James's Gazette. . ^ ^, ^ j_, 
 
 " It would be difficult to praise too highly the strength, truth, delicacy, and pathos of the- 
 
 incident of Gwynnie Lloyd, and the admirable treatment of the great sacrifice she; makes. The 
 
 incident is depicted with skill and he-Auty. "—Sjoectator. 
 
" Kiss me, dear," said Atheuaid. 
 
 Jn large crown 8ro, beautifully priyded on toned pa'per, price 5s., or handsomely 
 
 hound with gilt edges, suitable in every way for a present, 6s. 
 
 An Illustrated Edition of M. Ohnet's Celebrated Novel. 
 
 THE IRONMASTER; OR, LOVE AND PRIDE. 
 
 Co^TAINING 42 Full-Page Engravings by French Artists, Printed 
 Separate from the Text. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 21 
 VIZETELLY'S ONE VOLUME UOyE\-S— continued. 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 PRINCE ZILAH. 
 
 By JULES CLARETIE. 
 
 Translated from the 51th French edition. 
 "M. Jules Claretie has of late taken a conspicuous place as a novelist in France."— Times. 
 
 THE TRIALS OF JETTA MALAUBRET. 
 
 (NOIRS ET ROUGES.) 
 By victor CHERBULIEZ, of the French Academy. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY THE COUNTESS G. DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD 
 " ' Jetta Malaubret ' deals with the experiences of a young girl who is taken from a convent 
 and deliberately planned into a sort of society caloilated to teach her the utmost possible amount 
 of worldly wisdom— to say nothing of worse things— in the shortest possible time. The char- 
 acterization and dialogue are full of piquancy and cleverness."— A'ocieiy. 
 
 In post 8vo, with numerous Page and other Engravings, cloth gilt, 2^rice 2s. 6d. , 
 
 NO ROSE WITHOUT A THORN, 
 
 AND OTHER TALES. 
 
 By r. C. BUENAND, H. SAVILE CLABKE, E. E. FEANCILLON, ic. 
 
 C-' 
 
 " By the aid of the chimney with the register up Mrs. Lupscombe's curiosity was, to 
 certain extent, gratified." — Page 19. 
 
 Inmost %vo, with numerous Page and other Engravings, cloth gilt, price Zs. Qd. 
 
 THE DOVE'S NEST, 
 
 AND OTHER TALES. 
 By JOSEPH HATTON, RICHARD JEFFERIES, H. SAYILE CLARKE, &c. 
 
22 VrZETELLY &- CO.'S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 ZOLA'S POWERFUL REALISTIC NOVELS. 
 
 TRANSLATED WITHOUT ABRIDGMEXT. 
 
 Illustrated avith Page Engravings by French Artists. 
 In crown 8vo, 2>i'ice Qs. each. 
 
 Mr. HENRY JAMES on ZOLA'S NOVELS. 
 
 " A novelist with a system, a passi'in.ite rtonvictioii, a great plan — incontestable attributes of 
 M. Zola — is not now to be easily fotmd in England <>r the United States, where the stoiy -teller's 
 art is almost exclusively leminine, is mainly in the hands of timid (even when very accomplished) 
 women, whose acquaintance with life is severely restricted, and who are not conspicuous for 
 general views. The novel, moreover, among ourselves, is almost always addressed to young 
 unmarried ladies, or at least always assumes them to be a large part of the novelist's public. 
 
 "This fact, to a French story-teller, appears, of course, a damnable restriction, and M. Zola 
 would probably decline to take au st^rleux any work produced under such unnatural conditions. 
 Half of life is a sealed book to youns^ unmarried ladies, and how can a novel be worth anything 
 that deals only with half of life? These objections are perfectly valid, and it may be said that 
 our English system is a good thingr for viryins and boys, and a bad thing for the novel itself, 
 when the novel is regarded as something more than a simple jew d e-^prit. And considered as a 
 composition that treats of Ufe at large and helps us to know." 
 
 NANA. 
 
 From the Vllth French Edition. 
 
 THE "ASSOMMOIR." (The P,eKKU.to"XASA.") 
 From the 97th French Edition. 
 
 PIPING HOT! (POT.BOU,LLE, 
 
 F7'om the 6^rd French Edition. 
 
 GERMINAL; OR, MASTER AND MAN. 
 
 From the A7th French Edition. 
 
 THE RUSH FOR THE SPOIL, la cur^e., 
 
 From the 'Mth French Edition. 
 
 THE LADIES' PARADISE. (TheSequeUo"ru.,.«HoT!") 
 
 From the 60th French Edition. 
 
 ABBE MOURET'S TRANSGRESSION. 
 
 From the 31st French Edition. 
 
 THERESE RAQUIN. 
 
 The above Works are published without Illustrations, price 5s. each. 
 
 HIS MASTERPIECE? ,l.^uvre. 
 
 With a Portrait of Vi. EMILE ZOLA, Etched by Bocourt. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 23 
 
 ZOLA'S REALISTIC V\OyE]JS— continued. 
 
 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. 
 
 From the 2Uh French Edition. 
 
 HOW JOLLY LIFE IS! 
 
 From the iith French Edition. 
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS. 
 
 From the 2ord French Edition. 
 
 A LOVE EPISODE. 
 
 From the 52nd French Edition. 
 
 HIS EXCELLENCY EUGENE ROUGON. 
 
 From the 22nd French Edition. \_ShorthJ. 
 
 FAT AND THIN, (le ventre de par.s.) 
 
 From the 2ith French Edition. [In May. 
 
 The following are published, in large octavo, price 7s. 6d. per Vol. 
 
 Each Volume contains aboiot 100 Engravings, half of which are page-size. 
 
 1. NANA. 2. THE ASSOMMOIR. 3. PIPING HOT. 
 
 Designs by BELLENGER, BERTALL, CLAIRIN, GILL, YIERGE, &c. 
 
 THE BOULEVARD NOVELS. 
 
 Pictures of French. Morals and Manners. 
 
 In small 8vo, attractively hound, price 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 NANA'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Bv ALFRED SIRVEN and HENRI 
 LEVERDIER. 
 
 Frov} the Zbth French Edition. 
 
 ODETTE'S MARRIAGE. 
 
 By ALBERT DELPIT. 
 
 From the •22nrf Frenrh Edition. 
 
 THE VIRGIN WIDOW. 
 
 THE YOUNG GUARD. ^^- ^^- matthey. 
 
 BV VAST-RICOUARD. A LADIES' MAN. 
 
 From the Ibfh French Edition. Bv GUY DE MAUPASSANT. 
 
 From the oOth French Edition. 
 
 THE WOMAN OF FIRE 
 
 By ADOLPHE BELOT. 
 
 Fnvi the 30th French Edition. 
 
 SEALED LIPS. 
 
 Bv F. DU BOISGOBEY. 
 
24 VI ZE T ELLY &- CO.'S hEW BOOKS &- NEIV EDITIONS. 
 
 VIZETELLY'S HALF-CROWN SERIES. 
 
 PARIS HERSELF AGAIN. By George Auglstus Sala. Ninth 
 
 Edition. 558 pages and 350 Engravings. 
 
 " On subjects like those in his present work, Mr. Sala is at his best."— T/ie Times. 
 
 " This book is one of the most readable that has appeared for many a day. Few English- 
 men know so much of old and modern Paris as Mr. Sala."— Trui/i. 
 
 UNDER THE SUN. Essays Mainly Written in Hot Countries. 
 
 By George Augustus Sala. A New Edition. Illustrated with 12 page Engravings and au 
 etched Portrait of the Author. 
 
 "There are nearly four hundred pages between the covers of this volume, which means 
 that they contain plenty of excellent reading. "-.S^. James's Gazette. 
 
 DUTCH PICTURES and PICTURES DONE WITH A QUILL. 
 
 By George Augustus Sala. A New Edition. Illustrated with S page Engravings. 
 
 "Mr. Sala's best work has in it something of Montaigne, a great deal of Charles Lamb- 
 made deei)er and broader- and not a little of Lamb's model, the accomplished and quaint Sir 
 Thomas Brown. These 'Dutch Pictures' and ' Pictures Done with a Quill,' display to per- 
 fection the quick eye, good taste, and ready hand of the boru essayist— they are never tire- 
 some." — Da ily Telegraph. 
 
 HIGH LIFE IN FRANCE UNDER THE REPUBLIC. Social 
 
 avd Satirical Sketch b.s in Paris and the Provinces. By E. C. Grenville-Miirray. 
 Third Edition, with a Frontispiece. 
 
 "A very clever and entertaining series of social and satirical sketches, almost French in 
 their point and vivacity." -Conteviporary Eeriew. 
 
 " A most amusing book, and no less instructive if read with allowances and understand- 
 ing. "-JFo,W. 
 
 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. By E. C. Grenville-Murray. a New 
 
 Edition. With 8 page Engravings from Designs by F. Barnard. 
 
 "Mr. Grenville-Murray's pages sparkle with cleverness and with a shrewd wit, cau.stic or 
 cynical at times, but by no means excluding a due appreciation of the softer viitues of women 
 and the .sterner excellencies of men."— Spectator. 
 
 " All of Mr. Grenville-Murray's portraits are clever and life-like, and some of them are 
 not unworthy of a model who was moie before the author's eye than Addison- namely, 
 Thackeray."— r/H^/i. 
 
 J BOOK OF COURT SCANDAL. 
 CAROLINE BAUER AND THE COBURGS. From the German, 
 
 with two carefully engraved Portraits. 
 
 "Caroline Bauer's name became in a mysterious and almost tragic manner connected 
 with those of two men highly esteemed and well remembered in England- -Prince Leopold 
 of Coburg, and his nephew, Prince Alberts trusty friend and adviser. Baron Stockmar."— 
 The Ti'ines. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE, Told in Detail 
 
 for the First Time. A New Edition. By Henky Vizetelly. Illustrated with an authentic 
 representation of the Diamond Necklace, and a Portrait of the Countess de la Motte, engraved 
 on st-eel, and other Engravings. 
 
 " Had the most daring of our sensational novelists put forth the present plain 
 unvarnished statement of facts as a work of fiction, it would have been denounced as 
 so violating all probabilities as to be a positive insult to the common sense ot the reader. 
 Yet strange, startling, incomprehensible as is the narrative which the author has here 
 evolved, every word of it is true."— iVores and Queries. 
 
 GUZMAN OF ALFARAQUE. A Spanish Kovel, translated by 
 
 E. Lowdell. Illustrated with highly tinislied steel Engravings from Designs by Stahl. 
 
 "The wit, vivacity and variety of this masterpiece cannot be over-estimated."— Jfornmo 
 Post. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 25 
 
 Jn large 8vo, 160 pages and 130 Engravings, price Is. 
 
 GORDON AND THE MAHD 
 
 An Illustrated Narrative of the Soudan War. 
 
 This wonderfully good shilling's worth should command a wide sale." — Illustrated News. 
 In paper covers, \s. each ; or cloth gilt, 2s. Qd. 
 
 Patter Poems. 
 
 Humorous and Serious, for Read- 
 ings AND Recitations. 
 By WALTER PARKE. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. LEITCH. 
 
 '"Patter Poems' include many sparkling 
 and merry lays, well adapted for recitation 
 and sure of the approval of the audience." 
 — Saturday Review. 
 
 THE 
 
 Comic Golden Legend. 
 
 By WALTER PARKE. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. LEITCII. 
 
 "The stories are told in bright and luminous 
 verses in which are dexterously wrcjugbt 
 parodies of a good many present and some 
 past ■pvets." —Scotsman. 
 
 Songs of Singularity. 
 
 By WALTER PARKE. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH 60 ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 In paper covers, Is. ; or in parchment binding, gilt on side, 2s. Qd. 
 ADMIRABLY SUITED FOR PRIVATE REPRESENTATION. 
 
 THE PASSER-BY. 
 
 A Comedy in One Act. 
 
 By FRANCOIS COPPEE, of the French Academy. 
 
 Translated by Luigi, Author of "The Red Cross," &c. 
 
 " A translation exceedingly well done." — Whitehall Review. 
 
 NEW SATIRICAL POEM, BY A WELL-KNOWN POET. 
 
 In crown 8vo, price \s. 
 
 LUCIFER IN LONDON, 
 
 and HIS reflections on life, manners, and the prospects of society. 
 
 "Decidedly witty and original."— Sitwrfay Timet. 
 In croivn 8vo, price 2s. 6d. 
 
 IN STRANGE COMPANY. 
 
 By JAMES GREENWOOD (the " Amateur Casual"). 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR, ENGRAVED ON STEEL. 
 
26 VI ZE TELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 VIZETELLY'S SIXPENNY SERIES OF AMUSING 
 AND ENTERTAINING BOOKS. 
 
 CECILE'S FORTUNE, by f. du boisgobey. 
 
 THE THREE-CORNERED HAT. bv p. a. de alarcox. 
 
 THE BLACK CROSS MYSTERY, by h. coekrak 
 
 THE STEEL NECKLACE, by f. du boisgobey. 
 
 THE GREAT HOGGARTY DIAMOND, by av. m. thackeray. 
 
 CAPTAIN SPITFIRE. AND THE UNLUCKY TREASURE. 
 
 By p. a. de ALARCOX. 
 
 MATRIMONY BY ADVERTISEMENT; Axd Other ADVEXTUKrs 
 
 OF A JouitXALiST. V>x C. (i. PAYXE. FMgravings. 
 
 VOTE FOR POTTLEBECK! The Story of a Politician in 
 Love. By C. G. PAYKE. Eh <j ravings. 
 
 YOUNG WIDOV/S. By E. C. GRENYILLE-MURRAY. bO Engravivgs. 
 
 THE DETECTIVE'S EYE. by f. du boisgobey. 
 
 THE STRANGE PHANTASY OF DR. TRINTZIUS. by 
 
 auguste yitu. 
 
 A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY, by w. m. thackeray. 
 THE RED LOTTERY TICKET, by f. du boisgobey. 
 
 Will be ready shortly— 
 
 THE FIDDLER AMONG THE BANDITS, by Alexandre 
 
 DUMAS. 
 
 TARTARIN OF TARASCGN. by alphoxse daudet 
 THE PRIMA DONNA'S HUSBAND, by f. du boisgobey. 
 THE ABBE CONSTANTIN. by ludoyic haleyy. 
 IHE RESULTS OF A DUEL, by f. du boisgobey. 
 
 other Volumes are in Preparation. 
 
 In One Voliimr, large imperial %vo, jJrice 3s., or single numbers price 6d. each, 
 
 THE SOCIAL ZOO; 
 
 Satirical, Social, and HuMonous Sketches by the Best Writkks. 
 Cojnously Illustrated in many Styles by well-known Artists. 
 our gilded youth. By E. C. Grenville-Murrat. 
 nice girls. By R. Mounteney Jephsox. 
 XOBLE lords. ByE. C. Grenville-Murray. 
 flirts. By E. C. Grenville-Murray. 
 our SILYERED youth. ByE. C. Grenville-Murray. 
 MILITARY MEX AS THEY AVERE. ByE. Dyne Fe.ntuN. 
 
VIZETELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEIV EDITIONS. 27 
 
 / h,>i ^ 
 
 
 In demy ito, liandsomely i^rintcd and hound, iciih gilt edges, ^;?-icc 12-5. 
 
 A HISTORY OF CHAMPAGNE; 
 
 WITH NOTES ON THE OTHER SPARKLING WINES OF FRANCE. 
 By henry VIZETELLY. 
 
 Chevalier of the Order of FranzJosef. 
 
 WINE juror for great BRITAIN AT THE VIENNA AND PARIS EXHIBITIONS OF 1873 AND 1S78. 
 
 Illustrated with 350 Engravings, 
 
 FROM ORIGINAL SKETCHES AND PHOTOGRAPHS, ANCIENT MSS., EARLY PRINTED 
 BOOKS, RARE PRINTS, CARICATURES, ETC. 
 
 " A very agreeable medley of bisbory, anecdote, geograpbical description, and sucb like 
 matter, distinguisbcd by an accuracy not often found in such medleys, and illustrated in the 
 most abundant and pleasingly miscellaneous fashion."— Z)aii.;/ News. 
 
 "Mr. Henry Vizetelly's handsome book about Champagne and other sparkhng wmes of 
 France is full of curious information and amusement. It should be widely read and appreciated.' 
 — Saturday Review. c r^^u > • 
 
 "Mr. Henry Vizetellv has written a quarto volume on the 'History of Champagne, in 
 which he has collected- a large number of facts, many of them very curious and interesting. Many 
 of the woodcuts are excellent."— J 'Jie^ret/m. ^ . y . • a. i • *.i 
 
 " It is probable that this large volume contains such an amount of information touching tne 
 subject which it treats as cannot be found elsewhere. How competent the author was for the 
 task he undertook is to be inferred from the functions he has discharged, and from the excep- 
 tional opportunities he enjoyed."— 7//?(s^ratoZ LowZou A^eit's. 
 
 "A veritable cAUion de luxe, dealing with the history of Champagne from the time of the 
 Romans to the present date. . . . An interestinar b«ok, the incidents.and details of which are 
 very graphically told with a good deal of wit and humour. The engravings are exceedingly well 
 executed."— The Wine and .SjnHt News. 
 
28 VIZETELLY &- COJS NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 v 
 
 "7-^ ."-' 3- . - 
 
 
 m 
 
 MR. HENRY VIZETELLY'8 POPULAR BOOKS ON WINE. 
 
 a:i^"^^^'-c^^^^^^^^^ discourses brightly and discriminatingly on erns and bouquets and the 
 amerent Jiuropean vineyards, most of which he has evidently visited."— TAe Times? 
 
 ''Mr Henry Vizetelly's books about different wines have an importance and a value far 
 greater than will be assigned them by those who look merely at the price at which they are 
 puDJisnea. — Siinday Times. 
 
 Price Is. 6d. ornamental cover ; or 'Is. M. in elegant cloth hinding. 
 
 FACTS ABOUT PORT AND MADEIRA, 
 
 GLEANED DURING A TOUR IN THE AUTUMN OF 1877. 
 
 By henry VIZETELLY, 
 
 Wine Jukor for Great Britain at the Vienna and Paris Exhibitions of 1873 and 1878. 
 With 100 Illustrations from Original Sketches and Photographs. 
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 Price Is. 6d. ornamental cover; or 2s. 6d. in elegant cloth binding. 
 
 FACTS ABOUT CHAMPAGNE, 
 
 AND OTHER SPARKLING WINES. 
 
 Collected dttring numerous Visits to the Champagne and other Viticultural Districts 
 
 OF France and the Principal remaining Wine-producing Countries of Euroee. 
 
 Illustrated with 112 Engravings frona Sketches and Photographs. 
 
 Price Is. ornamental cover ; or Is. Qd. cloth gilt. 
 
 FACTS ABOUT SHERRY, 
 
 GLEANED IN THE VINEYARDS AND BODEGAS OF THE JEREZ, & OTHER DISTRICTS. 
 Illustrated with numerous Engravings from Original Sketches. 
 
 Price Is. in ornamental cover ; or Is. 6d. cloth gilt. 
 
 THE WINES OF THE WORLD, 
 
 CHARACTERIZED AND CLASSED. 
 
VIZ E TELLY &- CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 29 
 
 In small post 8w, ornamental scarlet covers, Is. each. 
 
 THE GABORIAU AND DU BOISGOBEY 
 SENSATIONAL NOVELS. 
 
 " Ah, friend, how many and many a while 
 They've made the slow time fleetly flow, 
 And solaced pain and charmed exile, 
 BoiSGOBEY and Gaboriau ! " 
 
 Ballade of Railway Novels in " Longman's Magazine." 
 
 IN PERIL OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 " A story of thi-illing interest, and admirably translated."— Sitwday Times. 
 
 THE LEROUGE CASE. 
 
 '• M. Gaborian is a skilful and brilliant writer, capable of so diverting the attention and 
 interest of his readers that not one word or line in his book will be skipped or read care- 
 lessly."— Haihpshlre Advertiser. 
 
 OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY. 
 
 "The interest is kept up throughout, and the story is told graphically and with a good 
 deal of art." — London Figaro. 
 
 LECOQ THE DETECTIVE. Two Vols. 
 
 "In the art cf forging a tangled chain of complicated incidents involved and inex- 
 plicable until the last link is reached and the whole made clear, Mr. VVilkie Collins is 
 equalled, if not excelled, by M. Gaboriau." — Brighton Herald. 
 
 THE GILDED CLIQUE. 
 
 "Full of incident, and instinct with life and action. Altogether this is a most 
 fascinating book." — Hampshire Advertiser. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF ORCIVAL. 
 
 "The Author keeps the interest of the reader at fever heat, and by a succession of 
 unexpected turns and incidents, the drama is ultimately worked out to a very plea- 
 sant result. The ability displayed is xinqnestionahle."— Sheffield Independent. 
 
 DOSSIER NO. 113. 
 
 " The plot is worked out with great skill, and from first to last the reader's interest is 
 never allowed to flag." — Bumbarion Herald. 
 
 THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES.' 
 
 THE SLAVES OF PARIS. Two Vols. 
 
 "Sensational, full of interest, cleverly conceived, and wrought out with consummate 
 skill." — Oxford and Cambridge Journal. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE. Two Vols. 
 
 " 'The Catastrophe' does ample credit to M. Gaboriau's reputation as a novelist of 
 vast resource in incident and of wonderful ingenuity in constructing and unravelling 
 thrilling vaystevies."— Aberdeen Journal. 
 
 THE COUNT'S MILLIONS. Two Vols. 
 
 "To those who love the mysterious and the sensational, Gaboriau's stories are irre- 
 sistibly fascinating. His marvellously clever pages hold the mirror up to nature witu 
 absolute fidelity ; and the interest with which he contrives to invest hia oharaoters provea 
 that exaggerat'on is unnecessary to a master." — Soc'etij. 
 
30 VIZ E TELLY &-> CO:S NEIV BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 INTRIGUES OF A POISONE.R. 
 
 " The wonderful Sensational Novels of Emile Gaboriau. "—Gio&e. 
 
 THE OLD AGE OF LECOO, THE DETECTIVE. Two Vols. 
 
 " The romances of Gaboriau and Du Boisgrobey picture the marvellous Lecoq and other 
 wonders of shrewdness, who piece together the elaborate details of the most complicated 
 crimes, as Professor Owen with the smallest bone as a foundation could reconstruct the 
 most extraordinary animals." — Standard. 
 
 IN THE SERPENTS' COILS. 
 
 "This is a most pioturesque, dramatic, and powerful sensational novel. Its interest 
 never flags. Its terrific excitement continues to the end. The reader is kept spell- 
 bound." — Oldham Chronicle. 
 
 THE DAY OF RECKONING. Two Vols. 
 
 " M. du Boi.sgobey gives us no tii-esome descriptions or laboured analyses of character; 
 under his facile pen plots full of incident are quickly opened and unwound. He does 
 not stop to moralise; all his art consists in creating intricacies which shall keep the 
 reader's curiosity on the stretch, and offer a full scope to his own really wonderful 
 ingenuity for unravelling."— 2'i'fties. 
 
 THE SEVERED HAND. 
 
 " The plot is a marvel of intricacy and cleverly managed surprises."— liYcrory World. 
 " Readers who like a thoroughly entangled and thriUing plot will welcome this novel 
 with avidity."— Brusto/ Mercury. 
 
 BERTHA^S SECRET. 
 
 " ' Bertha's Secret ' is a most effective romance. We need not say how the story end-s, 
 for this would spoil the reader's pleasure in a novel which depends for all its interest on 
 the skilful weaving -and unweaving of mysteries." — Times. 
 
 WHO DIED LAST? OR THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. 
 
 "Travellers at this season of the year will find the time occupied by a long journey 
 pass away as rapidly as they can desire witli one of Du Boisgobey's absorbing volumes in 
 their hand." — London Figaro. 
 
 THE CRIME OF THE OPERA HOUSE. Two Vols. 
 
 " We are led breathless from the first page to the last, and close the book with a 
 thorough admiration for the vigorous romancist who has the courage to fulfil the true 
 function of the story-teller, by making reflection subordinate to action." — Aberdeen 
 Journal. 
 
 Lately published Volumes. 
 
 THE RED BAND. Two VoR-THE GOLDEN TRESS. 
 
 FERNANDE'S CHOICE -THE NAMELESS MAN. 
 
 THE PHANTOM LEG.-THE ANGEL OF THE CHIMES. 
 
 THIEVING FINGERS.-THE CONVICT COLONEL. 
 
 HIS GREAT REVENGE. '2 Vois.-A RAILWAY TRAGEDY. 
 
 THE MATAPAN AFFAIR. - A FIGHT FOR A FORTUNE. 
 
 THE GOLDEN PIG ; OR, THE IDOL OF MODERN PARIS. 2 Vols. 
 
 PRETTY BABIOLE.-THE CORAL PIN. Two Vols. 
 
 THE THUMB STROKE. -THE JAILER'S PRETTY WIFE. 
 
VIZ E TELL V-&^ CO:S NEW BOOKS &- NEW EDITIONS. 31 
 
 In dciiblc volumes, bound in scarlet cloth, 2^rice Is. M. cade 
 NEW EDITIONS OF THE 
 
 GABORIAU AND DU' BOISGOBEY 
 SENSATIONAL NOVELS. 
 
 1-THE MYSTERY OF ORCIVAL, AND THE GILDED CLiaUE. 
 
 2.— THE LEROUQE CASE, AND OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY. 
 
 3.-LEC0a, THE DETECTIVE. 4.-THE SLAVES OF PARIS. 
 
 5.— IN PERIL OF HIS LIFE, AND INTRIGUES OF A POISONER. 
 
 6.-DOSSIER NO. 113, AND THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BA- 
 TIGNOLLES. 7.— THE COUNT'S MILLIONS. 
 
 8.— THE OLD AGE OF LECOQ, THE DETECTIVE. 
 
 9.-THE CATASTROPHE. 10,-THE DAY OF RECKONING. 
 
 11.— THE SEVERED HAND, AND IN THE SERPENTS' COILS. 
 12. -BERTHA'S SECRET, AND WHO DIED LAST ? 
 
 13.-THE CRIME OF THE OPERA HOUSE. 17.-THE CORAL PIN. 
 14.-THE MATAPAN AFFAIR, AND A FIGHT FOR A FORTUNE. 
 15.-THE GOLDEN PIG. 18.-HIS GREAT REVENGE. 
 
 16.— THE THUMB STROKE, AND PRETTY BABIOLE. 
 19.— JAILERS PRETTY WIFE, AND ANGEL OF THE CHIMES. 
 20.-A RAILWAY TRAGEDY, AND THE CONVICT COLONEL. 
 2 1. -THE PHANTOM LEG, AND THIEVING FINGERS. 
 
 In small 2)o.st 8i"0, ornamental covers. Is. each ; in cloth, Is. <dd. 
 
 VIZETELLY'S POPULAR FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF THE BEST EXAMPLES OF RECENT FRENCH 
 FICTION OF AN UNOBJECTIONABLE CHARACTER. 
 
 " TTie?/ are hooks that may he safeli/ left lying uhnit where the ladies of the family can pick them ujy 
 and read them. The interest tlinj create is happily not of the vicious sort at all." 
 
 Sheffield Independent. 
 
 FROMONT THE YOUNGER & RISLER THE ELDER. By 
 
 A. Daudet. 
 
 " The series stai-ts well with M. Alphonse Daudet's masterpiece." — Atlirmcuin. 
 
 "A terrible story, powerful after a sledge-harnmer fashion in some parts, and won- 
 derfully tender, touching, and pathetic in others, the extraordinary popularity whereof 
 may be inferred from the fact that this English version is said to be ' translated from the 
 fiftieth French edition.' " — Illustrated London Xcus. 
 
 SAMUEL BROHL AND PARTNER. By v. Cherbuliez. 
 
 " Those who have read this singular story in the original need not be reminded of that 
 sipreraely dramatic study of the man who lived two lives at once, even within himself. 
 The reader's discovery of his double nature is one of the most cleverly managed of sur- 
 prises, and Samuel Brohrs final dissolution of partnership with himself is a remarkable 
 stroke of almost pathetic comedy."— 27; e Graphic. 
 
 THE DRAMA OF THE RUE DE LA PAIX. By A. Belot. 
 
 "A highly ingenious plot is developed in 'The Drama of the Rue de la Paix ' in 
 which a- decidedly interesting and thrilling narrative is told with great force 'and 
 passion, relieved by eprightliuess and tenderness." — Illustrated Londjn Aetcs. 
 
 MAUGARS JUN10R>= 'By A. Tseuriet. 
 
 One of the most charming novelettes we have read for a long time."— Literary World. 
 
32 VIZETELLY Z" CO.'S NEW BOOKS &• NEW EDITIONS. 
 
 'Nk'i'Nk^X) DOSIA, & THE GENEROUS DIPLOMATIST 
 
 By Henry Greville. 
 
 "As epigrammatic as anything Lord Beaconsfield has ever written."— //amps/ii/ 
 Tdegraph. 
 
 A NEW LEASE OF LIFE, & SAVING A DAUGHTER"; 
 
 DOWRY. By E. About. 
 
 '"A New Lease of Tife ' is an absorbing story, the interest of which is kept up to th 
 very end." — Dublin. Evening Mail. 
 
 "The story, as a flight of brilliant and eccentiic imagination, is unequalled in itf 
 
 peculiar way." — The <:raphic. 
 
 COLOMBA, & CARMEN. By P. m^rim^e. 
 
 "The freshness and raciness of ' Colomba is quite cheering after the stereotjrped three 
 volume novels with which our circulating libraries are crammed."— /i«?(7o^ Times. 
 
 " ' Carmen ' will be welcomed by the lovers of the sprightly and tuneful opera th 
 heroine of which Minnie Hauk made so popular. It is a bright and vivacious story." — Life. 
 
 A WOMAN'S DIARY, & THE LITTLE COUNTESS. Bj 
 
 0. .Feuillet. 
 
 " Is wrought out with masterly skill and affords reading, which although of a slightl; 
 sensational kind, cannot be said to be hurtful either mentally or morally." — Ditmbarto] 
 Herald. 
 
 BLUE-EYED META HOLDENIS, & A STROKE OF DIPLO- 
 
 MACY. By V. Cherbuliez. 
 
 " ' Blue-eyed Meta HoHenis ' is a delightful tale." — Civil Service Gazette. 
 
 "'A Stroke of Diplomacy' is a bright vivacious story pleasantly told." — Hampshir 
 
 Advertiser. 
 
 THE GODSON OF A MARQUIS. By A. Theuriet. 
 
 " The rustic personages, the rural scenery and life in the forest country of Argonne 
 are painted with the hand of a master. From the beginning to the close the interes 
 of the story never flags." — Life. 
 
 THE TOWER OF PERCEMONT & MARIANNE. By Georgi 
 
 Sand. 
 
 " George Sand has a great name, and the ' Tower of Percemont ' is not unworths 
 
 of it."— Illustrated London News. 
 
 THE LOW-BORN LOVER'S REVENGE. By v. Cherbuliez. 
 
 " ' The Low-boni Lover's Revenge ' is one of M. Cherbuliez's many exquisitely wi ittei 
 productions. The studies of human nature under various influences, especially in thi 
 cases of the unhappy heroine and her low-bom lover, are wonderfully effective." — Illns 
 t rated LondoR News. 
 
 THE NOTARY'S NOSE, AND OTHER AMUSING STORIES, 
 
 By E. About. 
 
 •'Crisp and bright, full of movement and interest." — Brighton Herald. 
 
 DOCTOR CLAUDE ; OR, LOVE RENDERED DESPERATE. 
 
 By H. Malot. Two vols. 
 
 " We have to appeal to our very first flight of novelists to find anytiiing so artistic it 
 English romance as these books." — Dublin Evening Mail. 
 
 THE THREE RED KNIGHTS; OR, THE BROTHERS' 
 
 VENGEANCE, By P. F^val. 
 
 " The one thing that strikes us in these stories is the marvellous dramatic skill of tie 
 writers." — Sheffield Independent. 
 
 Eradbury. Agnow, & Co., fl^iators, Whitcfriafo 
 
„,„ „, „,,,^„ 14 DAY USE 
 
 "' "'^'^ "return to desk from which borrowed 
 
 m .:^^. LOAN DEPT. 
 
 RENEWALS ONLY — TEL. NO. 642-3405 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 2 /, 
 
 RENEWALS ONLY 
 
 ^^g_AUG27j9fifi^ 
 
 iN- 
 
 stacks 
 
 TY Of CUIFORI- 
 
 REC'D LD 
 
 FEB14W7Q#1 
 
 ?l 
 
 Tef. No. 642 >340S - 
 
 mi3 '68 
 
 OCT J^W't M 
 
 FFR 
 
 1 1970 
 
 Lie 
 
 RESERVE BOOK DEPARTMENT 
 
 
 m 
 
 \ '70 
 
 -SP^Nl 
 
 ^^ffl 
 
 4jaAN_ 
 
 DP- 
 
 -::>-r. 
 
 
 1^ OF CALIfORNI 
 
 LD 21A-38m-5,'68 
 (J401slO)476B 
 
 General Library b 
 
 University of California ^ 
 
 Berkeley '' 
 
 "I- uniicnojiT u^ UALimHNIA LIB 
 
 
 ..•:?g?S3^... (51\_ym 
 
 ^::?:k^ri^^ 
 
KiwXW 
 
 QJJ 
 
 FHE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFi 
 
 
 rHE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFI 
 
 HE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF GALIFC 
 .<:^^^T§^.. <5V.vrD y::^^ro'^