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OFF THE STAGE 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 IN THEEE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL I 
 
 ITonboK: 
 
 T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 1867. 
 
 [the right of translation is reserved.] 
 
Plisedrus tells us of a fox who found an actor’s mask, but 
 observing it to have no brains cast it from him in contempt. 
 There are human foxes that treat the masks they find with 
 more consideration. They put their own faces into them by 
 wearing them. 
 
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 ‘ TO MY MOTHER 
 
 IS INSCRIBED 
 
 - i THIS FIRST AND YOUNG EFFORT. 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/offstagestoryOOunse 
 
OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Book I. 
 
 THE CONSPIRACY. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 CAPTAIN MORTIMER AND MRS. AUGUSTA 
 ANDERSON. 
 
 There is a certain street lying adjacent to Man- 
 chester Square, whose houses wear in their exte- 
 rior a dark, grimy, and unwholesome look. 
 Anybody acquainted with London, and with the 
 endless locales which comprise the haunts or 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 residences of its numerous society would consider 
 Garley Street (by such a name do I choose to 
 designate it) the exact spot that poor musicians, 
 poor artistes, poor pressmen, and poor authors, 
 would select as a place of habitation. In the 
 winter months, most of the windows, which are 
 all darkened by discoloured blinds drawn across 
 them, have each a small placard, bearing upon it 
 a notice that within furnished apartments for both 
 sexes are to be had. Sometimes from beneath 
 these placards may be detected peering the pale, 
 the wrinkled, or the bewhiskered face of a land- 
 lord or landlady, intent upon the survey of the 
 opposite houses, or speculating upon the move- 
 ments of the ‘‘ party” that walks leisurely down 
 the street, inspecting the windows as he passes. 
 Sometimes the eye encounters the green orbs of a 
 cat meditatively staring through the panes of 
 glass at the emaciated and dusty sparrow that is 
 temptingly seated with its tail towards its enemy 
 on the area railings. Sometimes a window is 
 passed that bears upon it no placard at alk and 
 
CAPT. MOKTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 3 
 
 through whose obscurity may be dimly seen the 
 outline of a table cloth with a party of phantom- 
 like figures seated around it. Sometimes the 
 sounds of a pianoforte, accompanied by a human 
 voice singing, as if it were stifling, may be heard; 
 and sometimes a showily dressed woman, with a 
 profusion of haiiv and a metropolitan colour, raps 
 noisily at a door, and is admitted by a drab ” 
 with bare arms and no cap. 
 
 The whole aspect of Garley Street bespeaks 
 respectable poverty. 
 
 Not the poverty that has seen better days ; nor 
 the poverty that advertises its wants; nor the 
 poverty that is copious in schemes of wealth; 
 nor the poverty that assumes the semblance of 
 means, just as a false front assumes the sem- 
 blance of a shirt ; but the poverty that is diligent 
 and indefatigable; that teaches music at eighteen 
 pence a lesson ; that instructs in drawing for a 
 guinea per quarter; that imparts French, Ger- 
 man, and Mathematics for a pittance per month ; 
 that is apparelled in dusty black clothes, that 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 wears moustachios and long hair, that is vacant 
 of jewellery, unless a ring on the middle finger, 
 that ignores umbrellas, that carries goloshes in 
 its back pockets, and that walks edge- wise 
 through the streets, keeping close to the 
 area-railings, as if it had no right to the 
 middle pavement, with paper parcels under its 
 arms. This is the kind of poverty that Garley 
 Street seems built to harbour; and this is the 
 kind of poverty that mostly applies for single 
 bedrooms in its houses, and that best loves those 
 which possess turn-up ” bedsteads. 
 
 One wet March evening, a man in a cloak, and 
 bending beneath the shelter of an umbrella, 
 turned the corner of Manchester Square, and 
 bend his footsteps in the direction of this street. 
 The wind was so high that the man had fre- 
 quently to stop to jam his hat more securely over 
 his brows, for fear of its being blown away. 
 Each time he did this he had to shift the position 
 of his umbrella, whereupon the rain would dash 
 against his face and run trickling down his neck. 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 
 
 6 
 
 At this the man would mutter an oath, and again 
 bowing beneath his umbrella, walk on. 
 
 It was a thoroughly cheerless night. The wind 
 was cold — cold with that unwholesome chill which 
 every March wind seems to possess after it has 
 deserted the bleak moors or leafless trees of the 
 country, and shouts over the roofs and 
 chimneys of the metropolis. The man shivered 
 a good deal, and shrunk within the cloak, that 
 frequently blew open and exposed his front to 
 the penetrating rain. 
 
 At last he stopped before a door marked No. 9, 
 and employing a latch-key, opened it and en- 
 tered. 
 
 A door at the side of the narrow passage stood 
 partially open, and from it issued the tones of a 
 female voice humming a tune. 
 
 Divesting himself of his hat and cloak, heavy 
 with the wet, the man kicked this door open with 
 his foot, and entering the apartment, slammed it 
 to behind him with a backward blow of his heel. 
 
 A woman was seated in an arm-chair, stroking 
 
6 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 a kitten that stood with arched back upon her 
 lap. She was humming an air as the man came 
 into the room, nor did she cease, or even turn her 
 head at the rude noise caused by the violence 
 with which he had closed the door. 
 
 All at once she struck the kitten a smart blow 
 with her hand, and with a cry the creature leapt 
 from her lap, and fled beneath the table. 
 
 “ The horrid thing has scratched me !” she ex- 
 claimed, rising and examining her hand. Then^ 
 glancing up at the man as if before unconscious 
 of his presence, she added, You here ?” 
 
 Where are my slippers ?” he said, sullenly, 
 taking her seat and commencing to draw off his 
 muddy boots. 
 
 She stooped and drew the articles in question 
 from beneath a sofa, and threw them before him 
 in silence. Then she resumed the examination of 
 her hand. 
 
 She appeared a woman of about four or five 
 and twenty years of age. She was of a com- 
 manding height, and her figure and bust, the 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 7 
 
 proportions of which were visible in the outline 
 of the dark-coloured dress she wore, seemed per- 
 fect, as if from the hand of a sculptor. Her hair, 
 which was dark and of great profusion, hung low 
 upon her forehead, and was negligently looped 
 up behind. The great charm of her face was 
 evidently her eyes. They were large, and 
 lustrous, and black, and shone with a strange, 
 almost supernatural brilliancy from beneath the 
 marble purity of her brow. Veiled by the long 
 lashes that shadowed yet their luminous depths^ 
 every movement of the lids, every glance, served 
 to display the variety of their power and the ex- 
 tent of their possessor’s control over them. As 
 she stood now, with her eyes fixed upon her 
 wounded hand, they wore that expression of fierce 
 beauty which seemeJ, perhaps, natural to them, 
 and which her passing anger suffered them to 
 possess undisguised. To the psychologist it 
 would have been delightful to trace in this 
 woman’s face the more conspicuous features of 
 
8 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 her disposition, for sucli only were confessed. 
 The power visible in the very outline of her fea- 
 tures of assuming the expression that was best 
 adapted for the moment, proclaimed the genius 
 of the great actress. The compressed lips now 
 harmonised admirably with the savage loveliness 
 of her eyes ; but parted in a smile, intuitively an 
 observer could have foreseen the pensive charms, 
 the graceful tenderness, that they would diffuse 
 over the whole countenance. She seemed the 
 embodiment of some Byronic conception of a 
 superb woman; and the genius of antiquity in 
 Augusta Anderson could have perceived its 
 Medea grandly realised. 
 
 Her companion was a youngish looking man, 
 apparently not more than seven or eight and 
 twenty years of age. He was sufficiently good- 
 looking, though his mouth would have marred 
 the otherwise frank expression of his face had he 
 not taken the precaution to conceal it by a thick 
 moustache. There was that in his aspect which 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 9 
 
 rendered it apparent tbat lie could assume the 
 gentleman with infinite success, whenever it 
 pleased him to exert his powers. 
 
 Never mind your hand,” he observed, laying 
 back in his chair, and reposing his slippered feet 
 on the fender. ‘‘ Sit down — I want to talk to 
 you.” 
 
 Augusta drew a chair to the fire, and seated 
 herself before him. 
 
 I must confess you hav’n’t much gratitude,” 
 he continued, after a pause. Though drenched 
 through, with the prospect of a rheumatic fever 
 before me, and all through working for you, you 
 do not even ask me to have a cup of tea, much 
 less have one ready for me.” 
 
 ‘‘ And do you really think to find gratitude in 
 me ?” she said, with a half sneer. 
 
 Certainly. That at least, is due to a brother 
 working so sedulously on behalf of his sister’s 
 welfare as I am.” 
 
 He partly smiled as he spoke, and sarcastically 
 emphasised the word brother. 
 
 B 5 
 
10 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Do you want tea ?” 
 
 “ Yes. I am cold.” 
 
 She touched the bell, and then said, 
 
 “ What have you been doing ?” 
 
 “ Walking in a drenching shower of rain.” 
 
 “ Why didn’t you ride?” 
 
 He placed his hands in his trousers pockets, 
 and turned them inside out. 
 
 “ You have no money ?” 
 
 “ You can see.” 
 
 There was a pause, and then he said, 
 
 “ Have you ?” 
 
 “A little.” 
 
 “ How much ?” 
 
 “ Ten pounds.” 
 
 “ You must give me five.” 
 
 “ You shall have it.” 
 
 She drew out a purse and handed him a five- 
 pound note. He seized it, and, after a brief ex- 
 amination, placed it in his pocket. 
 
 He uttered a noisy laugh as he exclaimed, 
 
 “ Upon my soul, Gussy, you’re not so bad- 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 11 
 
 hearted after all. If I weren’t so comfortable, I’d 
 give you a kiss for that.” 
 
 She glanced at him for a moment with a look 
 of deep aversion, and then slowly suffered her 
 eyelids to droop. 
 
 Bring me a cup of tea/’ he exclaimed to the 
 servant, who, at that moment, entered. Then 
 fixing his e)^es upon his companion, he said, 
 Well, I spent an hour with him this evening.” 
 ^^What him?” 
 
 Your future husband.” 
 
 When am I to be introduced?” she asked, 
 looking at him a little eagerly. 
 
 ^^In time, my dear girl, in time. It won’t do 
 to be precipitate in such a scheme. I must 
 excite him first — pitch him to the proper key, 
 you know. Hang it ! how I praised you ! Grod 
 bless me ! I blush to remember it.” 
 
 What did you say?” 
 
 What did I say ? this • . • • but no. 
 
 I shan’t tell you. Why add to a bottle already 
 
12 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 brimming ? why cause your vanity, already full 
 to the spilling drop, to overflow ?” 
 
 She slightly shrugged her shoulders, as she 
 said, 
 
 “ What did he say, then, since you won’t tell 
 me what you said ?” 
 
 “ I suppose it must have been my eloquence,” 
 he answered, leaning a little forward ; “ but I 
 certainly never before saw a man drink in a 
 woman’s description with so much relish. His 
 face grew flushed, and his eyes were all alight as 
 he said, ‘ And this is your sister. Captain Mor- 
 timer ? ’ ‘ Yes,’ said I, ‘ and deuced proud I am 
 
 of her, too, Mr. Fairlie.’ Whereat he threw 
 himself back in his chair, and muttered some- 
 thing, which, as I suppose he didn’t mean me to 
 hear, I didn’t ask him to repeat.” 
 
 “ Where did you meet him ?” 
 
 “ At the Club.” 
 
 “It was there, I suppose, that you lost the 
 three pounds you went out with this morning 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. IS 
 
 Yes ; to an infernal German at billiards. I 
 took him for a fool, instead of which he proved a 
 ' leg: ” 
 
 I suppose you know,” she remarked, quietly, 
 ^ that having given you that five pounds, the re- 
 maining money is all that there is left ?” 
 
 That would be undoubtedly a very great 
 calamity were I not assured of receiving eighty 
 nine pounds the day after to-morrow.” 
 
 I am glad of it. If you take my advice, 
 when you receive it you will take care of it. It 
 will not do to allow our scheme to be marred by 
 any appearance of poverty in either of us.” 
 
 That is perfectly true. But suppose instead 
 of winning this money at ecarte the other night, 
 I had lost it. What then ?” 
 
 She paused a moment before she answered, 
 
 I could have sold my rings.” 
 
 Which would have fetched you in round 
 numbers about twenty pounds. Well, twenty 
 pounds won’t go far with us, I can tell you ; nor 
 will eighty-nine. We must live through his 
 
u 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 courtship, and dress you up, too, in a manner fit 
 to be wooed. If there comes a change of luck we 
 shall he knocked over. You are one of those 
 Assyrians who must come down to the battle 
 attired in purple and gold. This you know.” 
 
 “ Why purple and gold?” 
 
 “ Simply to ensure victory. You know, if any- 
 body knows, what the person and the face 
 owe to dress. Now, I don’t believe you have a 
 costume in your wardrobe fit to present yourself 
 in ; and such things are not to be had by 
 wishing.” 
 
 “ We had better make some purchases with the 
 money you will receive the day after to-morrow,” 
 she said, rising and advancing to the table. “ If 
 you defer doing so, it will be spent.’’ 
 
 “ I suppose I am at liberty to spend it if I 
 choose ?” 
 
 “ Certainly you are,” she said, quietly, pouring 
 out the tea. Only there are various ways of 
 spending money, some of which, perhaps, are 
 more reckless than others.” 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 15 
 
 tell you what it is,” said Captain Mortimer, 
 I will not allow you to bully me for anything I 
 may choose to do^ Since I make all the money we 
 live upon, I consider myself at liberty to dispose 
 of it as 1 like. I don’t care that ! how it is 
 made, so it is in my pocket. That is exactly what 
 1 have told you fifty times.” 
 
 She had placed a cup of tea by his side, and 
 resumed her chair, with her hands folded upon 
 her lap, and her large eyes fixed upon the fire. 
 
 ^^You havn’t seen this Mr. Fairlie, yet,” he 
 continued ; but I tell you he’s a splendid 
 match, and if secured, worth some thousands a 
 year to you, besides a crack position and a 
 spanking house. Tm working this for you by 
 degrees, as you know. Every time I meet him 
 at the club, I make a point of introducing your 
 name into our conversation, and expatiating upon 
 you with such effect, that I know him now to be 
 madly in love with you, without ever having 
 seen you. All that 1 believe is necessary for sue- 
 
16 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 cess is — first, patience, and next, money. The one 
 I have ; the other — ’’ 
 
 She interrupted him by saying. 
 
 Why don’t you commence the Financial 
 Agency you were speaking of?” 
 
 Simply because I have a position to main- 
 tain until our purpose is effected, and don’t 
 want to damn myself in Fairlie’s eyes^ by coming 
 the Jew game.” 
 
 “ Your eighty-nine pounds,” said she, with 
 her eyes still thoughtfully fixed on the fire, 
 will last you, at all events, until I have been 
 introduced to him. Then it remains for me to 
 make him act as our banker.” 
 
 If you put yourself under an obligation, he’ll 
 be wanting you to repay it ; and we all know 
 what that means. No ! no ! you must wait.” 
 There was a pause, and he continued : 
 
 I must trust to fortune and ecarte^ I suppose 
 it comes to that. You are no less anxious to 
 get rid of me than I am to get rid of you ; more- 
 
CAPT. MOKTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 17 
 
 over, my future has a damned unpleasant, grim, 
 black look upon its face, and this is only a specu- 
 lation of mine to try and make it smile a little, 
 that’s all, though it’s very much like trying to 
 light up a black night with a farthing candle ! 
 However, we are both interested in the issue, 
 and I must continue to work alone, and do all 
 that I can to insure success.” 
 
 There came another pause ; and then again he 
 went on : 
 
 You are a good actress — a social actress, 1 
 mean — and you must exert your histrionic capa- 
 bilities to the utmost, after I have put you in the 
 way of making such exertions profitable. You 
 have to find the genius and I the money ; and it 
 must be done, somehow or other.” 
 
 You seem to harp a good deal on the neces- 
 sity of money. Why should your scheme be so 
 expensive ?” 
 
 He angrily muttered an oath, as he answered, 
 Can’t I cram it into your understanding that 
 by an appearance of comparative wealth alone 
 
18 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 can we make good our road way into that man’s 
 affections ? Before you are introduced to him, he 
 must see you ; and, apparently unobserved by 
 yourself, must madden over those charms which 
 I have predisposed him to admire. This must 
 occur at the theatres, in the park, at the concert, 
 everywhere. And how is this everywhere to he 
 entered, and how is your appearance to be adapted 
 to such an exhibition, without the money, that 
 you think so superfluous ?” 
 
 “ I do n^'t think it superfluous. But I do not 
 see why so much is wanted, at least, for the pre- 
 sent.” 
 
 “ How do you mean, much ? Two or three 
 hundred pounds — do you call that much? You 
 are mad! a single ball-room dress alone will cost 
 you a third of it; and as for the present, it is 
 the present only that we have to fear.” He 
 stamped his foot as he added, “ Your apparent 
 ignorance is more than wilful.” 
 
 She sat with her hands before her, gently 
 rocking herself to and fro in her chair. Now and 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 19 
 
 then she raised her eyes and stole a glance at 
 Mortimer, as he was speaking ; but mostly her 
 gaze was directed downwards, as if there were 
 something repulsive to her in the contact of their 
 glance. 
 
 I told him you were a widow,” said Morti- 
 mer, after a pause, and then he inquired after 
 your age. When I informed him, he sighed and 
 said you were young to be a widow ; he asked 
 me if you had any children. I said no. Ihen 
 he wanted to know who and what your husband 
 had been. I said he had been a military officer, 
 who had died in Bombay.” 
 
 Did he ask for a certificate of his death ?” 
 said Mrs. Anderson, with a sneer. He seems 
 inquisitive enough : next time you go to him, 
 you had better put that old ^ Englishman in 
 India’ in your pocket. Perhaps it may be 
 necessary to convince him by an obituary.” 
 
 He went on making all sorts of inquiries 
 about you,” continued Mortimer, without heed- 
 ing her interruption, ^^with just that sort of 
 
20 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 eagerness I wanted. On parting, he said to me, 
 ‘ I shall hope to have the pleasure of being soon 
 introduced to Mrs. Anderson. I should like 
 her to he acquainted with my daughter, 
 Mary.’ ” 
 
 ‘‘ And how long has he been a widower ?” 
 
 “ I don’t know. Four or five years, I fancy.” 
 “ You consider him good looking, do you 
 not ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Never mind his looks ; he’s wealthy, that is 
 all I care for. Fancy the fellow owning seven 
 merchantmen, each upwards of a thousand tons. 
 Do you know the value they represent ?” 
 
 “ I shall when I possess them,” she answered, 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 He could not disguise the half look of admira- 
 tion with which he regarded her. 
 
 “ There can he no doubt that you are a splen- 
 did woman. Gussy,” he said, “and certain to 
 win him if you go to work the right way.” 
 
 “ We shall separate without a pang, at all 
 
 events.” 
 
CAPT. MORTIMER AND MRS. ANDERSON. 21 
 
 Without a pang,” he returned, coldly. 
 
 As we began, so we shall end.” 
 
 As you began, say; for myself, I confess to 
 once having — bah ! your heart must have been 
 taken out of some marble statue. God never 
 fashioned it.” 
 
 She threw an indescribable glance at him, and 
 then suffering her eyes to droop, murmured, 
 
 ‘‘ And if I had loved you, what would it have 
 mattered ?” 
 
 Nothing,” he answered, with a shrug. 
 
 ‘‘ If there be no love between us,” she said, in 
 a caressing voice, let us not disclaim friend- 
 ship. We are both on the high-road to fortune, 
 and at the same time that I attain the goal, you 
 will reach it too.” 
 
 Ay, to be spurned by you, perhaps, if 1 am 
 not careful.” 
 
 She smiled bitterly, as she answered. 
 
 You always distrusted me, from the very 
 first.” 
 
 And shall continue to do so until the very 
 
22 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 last,” he retorted, with a mocking laugh. ‘‘ But 
 we understand each other, that’s a comfort ; and 
 all that remains for us to do, is to work amiably 
 together.” 
 
 “ Yes ; we both answer each other’s purpose, 
 so let us be friends.” 
 
 She held out her hand to him, and he touched 
 the palm of it with the tips of his two fingers; 
 then rising, she took a candle from the side- 
 board, and lighting it at the fire, left the room. 
 
23 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 YabtlepcoLj as all the world knows, is as pretty 
 a watering-place as may be anywhere found in or 
 out of England. But although all the world 
 knows this, only a very minute portion of it 
 chooses to avail itself of its knowledge by resort- 
 ing there. Hence, up to the present date Yartlepool 
 Wyants the prestige — the marine prestige— that 
 only numbers of visitors can confer upon a town 
 by the sea. 
 
 Nevertheless, though the world is blind to the 
 
24 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 advantages of Yartlepool, nature, who, not being 
 a coquette, can smile in the absence as well as in 
 the presence of man, discovers here a most 
 admirable exterior. 
 
 Standing on the sands at the margin of the sea 
 on a summer’s evening, when the setting sun 
 lights up the purple heavens at your back, and 
 darkens into a liquid blue the skies that in front 
 of you meet the watery horizon, wheresoever you 
 may choose to direct your view, there will it 
 encounter some object, either picturesque, rugged, 
 or quaint. 
 
 The line of coast, irregular in its height, that 
 sweeps away on either side of you, just where 
 Yartlepool is built, abruptly recedes, and forms a 
 sort of rude semi-circle. At the top and about 
 the centre of this, green meadow-lands sweep 
 down to the very edge of the cliff, which is here 
 low and accessible, by reason of the narrow path 
 that skirts its base, and winds up to the green 
 fields above. 
 
 Yartlepool is built all about here. It is com- 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 25 
 
 posed of clumps of houses, which, at the distance, 
 look like toys set down at random by the hand of 
 some giant infant. 
 
 Further back, where the houses thicken a 
 little, there is a street, which, in spite of what 
 its inhabitants may think of it, is, in reality in- 
 considerable. 
 
 True, it has in it an hotel and a post-oflS.ce ; 
 but its pavements are so villanous, itself so 
 rutty, that it is not without a sigh of relief that 
 the pedestrian escapes its corn-wounding support, 
 and emerges into the smoother walks offered to 
 him by the so-called Esplanade, that runs nearly 
 the whole distance of the town, up and down the 
 cliff. 
 
 Along this Esplanade are placed some benches, 
 for what purpose is ignored, unless to yield com- 
 fort to a fat set of coastguards who, one after the 
 other, patrol the walk, carrying great telescopes, 
 and encased in glazed hats and white trousers. 
 
 Of a very hot day, sometimes, these benches 
 may be found occupied by strange parties of 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 0 
 
26 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 people, dwelling with a pleased eye upon the 
 undulating sea, or expatiating Avith all the elo- 
 quence of delight on the charming prospect every- 
 where visible. 
 
 But such parties do not stop long. The passing 
 coastguardsman, who perceives his accustomed 
 bench filled, smiles, for he knows that to-morrow he 
 will find it empty. 
 
 The truth is, people do not remain at Yartle- 
 pool, because they find it tedious. 
 
 This is a source of comfort to the few residents 
 of the place, who make it their business to keep 
 it as dull as possible, and who unhesitatingly 
 reject every proposal made to improve the town, 
 either by a new hotel, by a new establishment for 
 bathing, or in short, by any institution that might 
 at all help to attract such people as now confine 
 their summer migrations to Ramsgate, to Margate, 
 or Brighton. For their one idea of sea-side happi- 
 ness is selectness ; and, to be select, they think it 
 necessary that they should cultivate asceticism. 
 
 It is a remarkable fact that all the coastguard- 
 men of the place were very stout. 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 27 
 
 The joke was become stale now ; but in days 
 of yore the merriment of the most phlegmatic of 
 the Yartlepool spectators was provoked by the 
 spectacle of one fat man in a glazed hat and 
 telescope usurping the place of another fat man 
 in a glazed hat and telescope — and so on, to the 
 number of nine. 
 
 Moreover, all these nine men bore a curious 
 resemblance to each other. They had all red 
 faces, beards, and whiskers ; and all wore that 
 same appearance of an inability to fight, and an 
 incompetency to run. Their use was obscure, and 
 not to be divined by conjecture ; for, as to smug- 
 glers, such things had not been known for years ; 
 and these nine fat men were quite wide-awake 
 enough to know, both from commercial and 
 political statistics, that in the present days of 
 import and export duties the most certain way for 
 any designing caitiff’ to ruin himself would be to 
 commence smuggler. 
 
 The fishermen of the place, of whom there was 
 a pretty fair sprinkling, professed to have a huge 
 
 0 2 
 
28 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 contempt for these coastguardsmen. Contrasted 
 with the great sea-boots, the yellow sou’-westers, 
 the canvass trousers, and thick and coarse 
 Guernsey frocks of the former, the airy garb of 
 the nine stout men certainly appeared highly 
 foppish, and was contemned accordingly. But 
 then this was not the real cause of the animosity 
 that subsisted between these two classes of 
 mariners. The truth was the coastguards thought 
 themselves a trifle better than the fishermen, 
 perhaps from having served each of them some 
 dozen years or so in the King’s or Queen's 
 service ; and in their hours of liberty they were 
 in the habit of resorting to a certain tavern, which 
 was confessedly the rival of another tavern, the 
 accustomed haunt of the fishermen. This, whilst 
 it caused the hosts of the two taverns to eye 
 each other with much animosity, engendered an 
 unamiable feeling between the votaries of their 
 respective shrines ; for it is in the nature of a sailor, 
 it matters not of what kind, to love drink ; and his 
 cup is always cheered by its participation with a 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 29 
 
 stranger, and when that stranger considers himself 
 above that participation, then the sonl of the sea- 
 man is moved to hostile feelings. Ofthe two tavern 
 keepers, he that administered to the thirsty wants 
 of the fishermen, however, fared the best; for 
 one cause of protracted lament amongst the 
 coastguards was the smallness of their pay, which 
 compelled them to limit the contents of their 
 glasses to draughts fearfully disproportionate to 
 the extent and capacity of their stomachs ; 
 whereas, on the contrary the fishermen were fre- 
 quently ^^fiush” of money; and a good haul of 
 fish was synonymous with copious draughts of 
 liquor. So, as the passion of hate is largely 
 influenced by the passion of envy, the enmity of 
 the coastguards’ tavern-keeper far surpassed in 
 virulence that of his rival. 
 
 In a house facing the sea, and surrounded by a 
 green railing, that enclosed as well a neat little 
 front garden artistically planted with flowers and 
 shrubs, dwelt the commander of the nine stout 
 coastguards, Captain Sandboys. 
 
30 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 He, too, was a corpulent man, with very broad 
 shoulders, a red and heavy face, whose radical 
 propensity was to look cheerful, and a pair of short 
 legs, which arching outwards, came under that 
 type of the lower limbs denominated “bow.” 
 
 I would not like to say, for fear of exaggerating, 
 how long he had been a naval officer ; though it is 
 certain that of his fund of anecdotes, all contained 
 . within the limits of his own experience, many 
 told of men whose names to our present genera- 
 tion have long since become historic, and whose 
 actions, recorded by contemporary and even past 
 historians, belonged to those remote times whose 
 annals are best viewed in the monuments of 
 Westminster and St. Paul’s. 
 
 Yet Captain Sandboys was not a very old man ; 
 certainly not much past sixty. He was bald- 
 headed, but the rim of hair that encircled his 
 head over his ears was far from white, as were 
 also those that sprouted from his chin, 
 and mapped themselves irregularly over his 
 cheeks. There was everything of the old seaman 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 31 
 
 about him, but nothing of the commander. 
 Though his frame denoted great muscular vigour, 
 there was exhaled from it a certain air of mild- 
 ness, almost meekness, that counteracted the 
 imposing sturdiness of his limbs, and impressed 
 you with the feeling that there was in this man a 
 benevolence, a softness, that would render him 
 incapable of a single feeling other than could 
 arise in a heart admirable and gentle. 
 
 A bench pretty nearly opposite his house, 
 was the Captain’s accustomed seat in summer, 
 and sometimes in the autumn, when the 
 air was genial enough to suffer him to 
 repose without discomfort With a long clay pipe 
 in one hand, and a newspaper in the other, here 
 would he remain for hours, spelling diligently 
 through his daily journal until he had the com 
 tents almost by heart. 
 
 His politics were apparent in his costume — he 
 clung to the garb of the past, with a vehemence 
 that was truly gratifying. He still persisted in 
 the swallow-tail coat, the waistcoat cut so as to 
 
32 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 expose a frill, and shoes with buckles. But the 
 beauties of the last were obscured by the full- 
 bottomed trowsers, which the tyranny of fashion 
 had compelled him to adopt ; and the waistcoat, 
 also, though gaping for a frill, boasted no longer 
 that snuff- catching ornament of a decayed age. 
 
 Nevertheless, if he could not wear stockings, he 
 had at least the satisfaction of treasuring them up 
 in an old chest, in company with many other 
 relics of an ancient period ; and this was some- 
 times that whimsical man’s delight : to dress 
 himself in the costume of his grandfathers, to 
 strut about the house and consume his breakfast in 
 that garb, and then, as if he almost enjoyed the 
 misery thus unnecessarily created, to wander up- 
 stairs and encase himself in his comparatively 
 modern suit, amidst certain muttered lamenta- 
 tions, not wholly inaudible to his daughter Kate, 
 who would listen and laugh. 
 
 It happened one day that the Captain was seated 
 on his favourite bench, studiously inhaling from 
 the waxed stem of a tobacco-pipe, and apparently 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 33 
 
 lost in the contemplation of the newspaper that 
 lay open on his knee. For one whole hour had 
 he been seated thus, to the no small dissatis- 
 faction of the coastguard on duty, whose corpu- 
 lent limbs pined for the repose that the Captain’s 
 presence denied them. 
 
 Whether he was in a fit of abstraction, or 
 whether he was really engrossed in the perusal of 
 his paper, it is certain that the Captain remained 
 wholly ignorant of the presence of a young girl, 
 who had approached him, and was standing by 
 his side ; nor was it until she laid a light hand on 
 his shoulder that he glanced hastily up, and en- 
 countered the face of his daughter Kate. 
 
 How absorbed you are in that stupid paper, 
 papa,” exclaimed the girl, pettishly ; T declare 
 one would think it was a most exciting story you 
 were reading, instead of some stupid Parliament 
 speech.” 
 
 What is it, Kate ?” asked the Captain, 
 mildly, folding up the paper and stuffing it into 
 his pocket. 
 
 c 5 
 
34 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ It is a letter from Frank,” answered Kate, 
 holding up the missive. 
 
 “ From Frank, eh ?” exclaimed the Captain, 
 eagerly, seizing it and tearing it open. “ When 
 did it come ?” 
 
 “ Just this minute.” 
 
 And Kate took a seat by the side of her father, 
 who having fumbled for his spectacles, now ad- 
 justed them on his nose. 
 
 Coughing so as to clear his throat. Captain 
 Sandboys proceeded to read the contents of the 
 letter aloud. 
 
 “ Ship ‘ Nova Scotia,’ 
 
 “ Plymouth. 
 
 “Deab Governor, 
 
 ‘‘Just arrived with a detachment 
 of — th from Hong Kong. Heartily sick of the 
 whole concern. I shall be jolly glad to get home 
 again. Of course you are well, and of course 
 dear Kate is, too. I hav’nt any time to write 
 much, as ‘ all hands’ has just been piped to strike 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 35 
 
 top-gallant and royal masts; for you know 
 we shall discharge our cargo, live stock, and all 
 here, to-day, and consequently be as crank as an 
 oyster-shell running up Channel. You may ex- 
 pect me with you the day after to-morrow, God 
 willing. 
 
 With endless love. 
 
 Your attached son, 
 
 ^^Fkank Fokbester.” 
 
 That’s just like him,” exclaimed the Captain, 
 glancing at the handwriting with a complacent 
 look ; ^ all hands’ piped to send down top-gal- 
 
 lant and royal masts — a seaman to the core, eh ? 
 I shall be right glad to shake him by the fist, 
 Kate, won’t you?” 
 
 I will, indeed,” answered Kate, whose face 
 wore a smile of delight ; it will be quite re- 
 freshing to have a young man in this dull place.” 
 The Captain eyed her askance for a moment 
 and sighed ; then raising the letter, he recom- 
 menced its perusal. 
 
36 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “I wonder what he means,” said he, after a 
 little, ‘‘hy saying he’s heartily sick of the whole 
 concern ? He’s surely not tired of the sea !” 
 
 “ It seems like it,” said Kate. 
 
 “ Ay, it seems like it,” said the Captain, mus- 
 ingly ; “ but perhaps by the ‘ concern’ he means 
 the soldiers. That’s it, depend upon it ; no sailor 
 likes soldiers, you know.” 
 
 “ Ah !” exclaimed Kate, ‘‘ I think military 
 men are delicious.” 
 
 Something like a sneer, though so shadow-like 
 as hardly to warrant the term, passed over the 
 captain’s mouth as he slightly shrugged his 
 shoulders and placed the letter in his pocket. 
 
 “As the daughter of a sailor, you ought only 
 to have a heart for sailors, Kate,” said he, in a 
 tone of the mildest reproach. 
 
 “ I declare, papa,” said Kate, “ I don’t know 
 what you mean by saying that I should only have 
 a heart for sailors. Are not soldiers quite as 
 good ? they fight for their country, and that’s all 
 sailors do. Indeed, sailors don’t always do that : 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 3T 
 
 I don’t believe they always can, for just look at 
 your nine fat and silly men ! look at those great 
 hulking fishermen sprawling about everywhere, 
 as if they had nothing else in the world to do 
 but to warm themselves in the sun. They are 
 sailors, and what is there to admire in them, I 
 wonder ?” 
 
 Kate,” exclaimed the Captain, solemnly,, 
 with a slight twitching at the extremities of his 
 mouth, never speak against English sailors be- 
 fore me ; you know I don’t like to hear it. As 
 to my men, they’re fat it’s true, but for all that, 
 they are nine as sturdy a set of fellows as ever 
 walked a deck ; and for the fishermen, I should 
 just like to send you out for a trip in one of their 
 boats — a herring or a mackerel trip — that’s all ! 
 You’d very soon find out that to lie basking in 
 the sun isn’t all that they have to do, I can tell 
 you.” 
 
 Still,” said Kate, pouting, I like soldiers. 
 The beauty of them is that they give balls ; now 
 sailors never do.” 
 
38 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ That’s partly true and partly false,” said the 
 Captain, “ for soldiers give halls, I grant ; but so 
 also do sailors. Not perhaps so often : and be- 
 cause why ? they’re not so given to gallivanting. 
 Sailors are men, Kate.” 
 
 Kate said something in a suppressed voice in- 
 audible to the captain, and evidently not compli- 
 mentary to mariners in general ; then aloud, she 
 added, 
 
 “ I wonder if Frank has grown ?” 
 
 “ Of course he has,” said the Captain. 
 
 ‘‘ Handsome, I wonder ?” 
 
 “ Certainly,” responded the Captain, emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 “Let me see — how long has he been gone? 
 fourteen months, about.” 
 
 “ Come a fortnight,” said the Captain. 
 
 “ Oh, I shall be so anxious to see him! I won- 
 der if he’ll bring me home anything, like he did 
 last time ?” 
 
 “ Maybe,” said the Captain. Then rising, he 
 continued, “It’s near tea-time, isn’t it, Kate? 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 39 
 
 I’ll step in and tell Mrs. Peake tke news. It’ll 
 delight the old soul’s heart to know he’s coming, 
 and to prepare his room for him.” 
 
 And, giving his beaver hat a brush the wrong 
 way, he slowly walked towards his house. 
 
 Kate remained for a short while seated, ap- 
 parently lost in reflection. 
 
 She was a remarkably pretty girl, with a large, 
 intelligent eye, and a mass of dark auburn hair, 
 which she wore smoothed over her forehead. Her 
 mouth, which was irreproachable in all things 
 else, displayed a certain weakness of character in 
 its formation, which, in the penetrating observer, 
 might have given rise to doubts as to the young 
 girl’s exact disposition. Not that any one but 
 such an observer, delighting to deduce inferences 
 from the premises based upon an outward ap- 
 pearance, would have remarked this. Bat to such 
 a one there were these qualities palpably confessed 
 — indecision, capriciousness, sensitiveness, and the 
 natural love of womankind, novelty — all embodied 
 
40 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 in the outline of her mouth, with its extremities 
 the slightest degree curved with an expression of 
 the most fascinating scornfulness. 
 
 Frankly, we do not profess ourselves to be 
 believers in physiognomy, much less in phrenology. 
 Nevertheless, we are animated with that decent 
 reverence for both these sciences which is due 
 to every enunciation of mistaken ingenuity. We 
 confess that a bump may sometimes reveal a 
 quality, and a face sometimes a character. But 
 herein we differ from the students of Lavater 
 and Combe ; that, whereas they believe such re- 
 velations to be the rule, we hold them only to be 
 the exceptions, proving nothing. 
 
 Therefore, in the formation of Kate’s mouth, 
 which was a most lovable little one, we should 
 have seen nothing to warrant us suspecting the 
 qualities of her heart, had not her subsequent 
 career compelled us to call attention to the fact, 
 and to unhesitatingly allow merit to the science 
 that could have forseen her future. 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 41 
 
 But as she sat on the bench so recently vacated 
 by her father, with her pretty head resting upon 
 her hand, and her large eyes fixed upon the re- 
 mote horizon, which the receding beams of the 
 setting sun were slowly melting into the deep blue 
 above, none but a cynic could have believed her 
 to be anything else than such as nature had evi- 
 dently destined her — a charming little creature 
 to be loved, to be wooed, and to be won ; a gem 
 to be enshrined in some honest man’s heart, to 
 gladden his life, and by hers to add a virtue or a 
 lustre to that human nature which stern philoso- 
 phers tell us is so vicious and black. 
 
 The figure of the fat coastguard on duty, inter- 
 cepting her view of the sea, recalled her to her- 
 self. Surveying the portly fellow with a look 
 of profound contempt, she muttered to her- 
 self, 
 
 And this is a fine specimen of the class of 
 men whom papa would have me prefer to oflS- 
 cers. Ah ! I am afraid papa is very silly in hia 
 
42 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 opinions, and I am sure this place is most abomi- 
 nably dull and stupid. I shall tell Frank so 
 ■when he comes, and try if I can’t get him to per- 
 suade papa to resign his stupid commission here, 
 and live in London.” 
 
 And with a light frown contracting her fair 
 forehead, she advanced to the garden gate and 
 entered her home. 
 
 The coastguard had turned, and followed with 
 his eye her receding figure. As she disappeared, 
 he jerked himself into her seat with a sigh, or 
 rather grunt, of comfort. 
 
 “ I wish the Capting would catch a cold,” said 
 he, ‘^as would perwent him from a sittin’ out here 
 for so many hours, and a keepin’ me on my legs 
 the whole blessed while, as if legs was made to 
 stand on entirely. His darter ain’t no better, 
 and it’s my opinion, Jim Ledger,” said he, 
 apostrophising himself,* “ that if he keeps that 
 there darter of his imprison ed-like down here, 
 she’ll be bolting one of these fine mornin’s. 
 
CAPTAIN SANDBOYS. 
 
 43 
 
 for she’s just of the age to want what she 
 wants.” 
 
 Saying which, the fat soul levelled his telescope 
 at an imaginary sail on the horizon, and continued 
 steadily gazing at it for some momens. 
 
44 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FRANK Forrester’s antecedents. 
 
 The name of the young man who was expected 
 home by the Captain was Frank Forrester. 
 Though he addressed the Captain as “ governor,” 
 and signed himself his “ son,” no such relation- 
 ship existed between them. Frank was merely 
 the Captain’s prot^g4, and how Fate had brought 
 this about was in the following manner. 
 
 Nineteen years before this story opens, a gentle- 
 man named Forrester fell in love with a lady 
 named Grwyn. Edith Gwyn was then a gover- 
 
FRANK FORRESTER’S ANTECEDENTS. 45 
 
 ness in a family resident in the environs of 
 Yartlepool, and, of course, penniless ; but though 
 Fortune had frowned upon her. Nature, on the 
 other hand, as if to mitigate the severity of her 
 saucy sister’s glance, had smiled, and the result 
 was a young girl remarkably pretty, tender, warm, 
 und lovable. 
 
 No sooner had Mr. Forrester cast his eyes upon 
 her than he became sensible of the power of her 
 oharms ; and, having sought an introduction, 
 commenced at once to play the lover. He had 
 some little difficulty in this, however; for the 
 head of the family, Mrs. Mollux, a prim virago 
 and a Quakeress, fastened so scrutinising an eye 
 upon the movements of her children’s instructress, 
 that the poor girl lived in that constant state of 
 fear which we all know is the inevitable 
 concomitant of watchfulness, especially when that 
 watchfulness is prone to exaggerate or miscon- 
 strue. That the marriage was precipitated by 
 Edith Gwen’s position there can be no doubt, 
 for Mr. Forrester having observed her to be really 
 
46 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 unhappy, at length boldly wrested her from the 
 jurisdiction of the acid Quakeress, and took her 
 to his heart as his companion and his wife. 
 
 Now Captain Sandboys had known Mr. For- 
 rester for a very long while ; indeed, ever since 
 he had first come to Yartlepool, which was at a 
 date too remote to be with safety named. But, 
 though he esteemed him an honest soul and a 
 sincere friend, Forrester had told the Captain 
 nothing of his amour ; and, consequently, when 
 he at last communicated to him the news of his 
 marriage, astonishment sat upon the Captain’s 
 features, and he openly, though mildly declaimed 
 against the folly of such a proceeding. 
 
 “ For,” said he, “ to say nothing of the rash- 
 ness of taking a step which every man knows to 
 be one of the most eventful in his life, with- 
 out first of all giving it a careful and protracted 
 consideration, you are poor, sir ; and poverty in 
 marriage means many children and no bread.” 
 
 “ I am poor, it is true,” answered Forrester, 
 not in the least affronted by the plainness of his 
 
FEANK FOERESTEE’S ANTECEDENTS. 
 
 47 
 
 companion’s speech ; but not so poor as not to 
 be able to give my Edith the comforts that were 
 denied her in her late position as governess. 
 
 That’s all very well,” said the Captain, 
 scratching his head, but why do you go about, 
 sir, to burden your existence with more cares 
 than you can’t help having ? Love at first is like 
 a smooth sea, over which the bark of humanity 
 may sail with ease ; but children are the waves 
 that rise, and if you’re not careful, will shipwreck 
 you, unless you are so trimmed as to meet 
 ’em.” 
 
 The Captain smiled at the copiousness of his 
 fancy, and, perhaps, at the wisdom of his phil- 
 osophy. 
 
 “ For heaven’s sake !” exclaimed Forrester, 
 
 don’t anticipate evil. Sandboys; if it’s to come, 
 come it will ; but let us at least hold our peace 
 until it is on us.” 
 
 The Captain shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 I can live like a king,” said Forrester, on 
 two hundred a year.” 
 
48 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ May be,” muttered tbe Captain. 
 
 ‘‘ Our expenses in this place are very small ; and 
 if the worst comes to the worst, why. I’ll write 
 a novel, or advertise for a clerkship, or any- 
 thing,” said Forrester, easily proposing what 
 at the same moment he knew he should never 
 execute. 
 
 “ All right, my boy,” said the Captain, “ you 
 know best.” 
 
 ‘‘ You don’t seem quite satisfied with me,” said 
 Forrester, with a smile j from the bottom of his 
 heart he loved his friend, and forgave him all his 
 eccentricities. “ But come with me ; I think I 
 can find an eloquence that will persuade you I am 
 not so profoundly foolish as you would have me.” 
 
 And, passing his arm through his companion’s, 
 he directed his steps to his home. 
 
 His wife, who had seen him approach, opened 
 the door, and, on the threshhold, he introduced 
 her to the Captain. 
 
 Ten minutes after this, Captain Sandboys drew 
 Forrester aside. 
 
FRANK Forrester’s antecedents. 
 
 49 
 
 You are quite right,” lie said ; ‘‘ I’m the ass, 
 and you’re the wise man,” with which piece of 
 laconicism, that conveyed at once his admiration 
 of Edith’s charms, and the judgment displayed in 
 his friend’s preference for her, he clasped his 
 white-gloved hands behind him, and walked away 
 in a musing mood. 
 
 Nevertheless, in spite of all this romance, 
 'there was a very great deal of truth in the 
 Captain’s ideas, which he had not all expressed, 
 but which he entertained. On two hundred a 
 year — a paternal legacy, and his whole fortune — 
 Forrester might manage to subsist for a short 
 while ; but such a sum would not go very far in 
 the event of his having children. And this was 
 an event by no means improbable, or even remote, 
 as Edith soon began to discover, and which her 
 husband heard with a delight unmingled with an 
 iota of anxiety. 
 
 Being both alone in the world — that is to say, 
 Edith having only some distant connexions, who 
 wholly ignored her existence, and Forrester, an 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 OFF TflE STAGE. 
 
 elder brother, wbo had come in for the lion’s 
 share of his father’s fortune, and who was then a 
 lieutenant in the — th, serving in Bombay — our 
 couple dwelt for some months in peace, un- 
 harassed by the advice of mothers or aunts, and 
 undisturbed by the visits of cousins or nephews. 
 
 But as every flame causes a shadow, as the 
 brightest orbs have their eclipses, as the purest 
 heaven hath its darkness, so over the brightness 
 of their love stole a gloom that, ere it had well 
 come, was realised in all its intensity. 
 
 A favourite pastime of Forresters’ in the 
 summer months was boating. As a rower he 
 was sufficiently expert, but with a sail he had just 
 enough dexterity to render his navigation danger- 
 ous. He could steer admirably. His eye was 
 accurate, and he could keep the lug-sail of his 
 boat trembling to the wind with the art of a 
 practised helmsman. But then he was ignorant 
 of the weather. He could never calculate upon 
 the force of a coming breeze ; and upon this 
 subject he was often advised by the fishermen. 
 
FRANK Forrester’s antecedents. 
 
 51 
 
 amongst whom he was a great favourite. After 
 his marriage he still persisted in this amusement, 
 and during his absence Edith would suffer great 
 alarm. But he chided her fears, and told her it 
 was cruel to ask him to give up his boating, 
 which was really his chief inducement for residing 
 near the sea. 
 
 One day, when he was absent on one of these 
 excursions, Edith sat by the window working at 
 a smoking cap, which she had promised him for 
 his birth-day. When he had first departed, the 
 weather had been fine and calm, but after a little, 
 the wind rose, and blew in that vague, gusty 
 manner which is so well-known to all sea-side 
 sojourners. There was nothing much, however, 
 to cause Edith any alarm, though, ever and anon, 
 she would bend her head sideways, and steal a 
 furtive glance down in the direction whence she 
 knew her husband would come. Half-an-hour 
 passed away, and presently she heard the mur- 
 mur of voices approaching the house. Throwing 
 open the window, she looked and beheld a crowd 
 
 D 2 
 
 m^wi 
 
 UNIYERSrrr OF ILUNOIJf 
 
52 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of men bearing in their midst a shutter, over 
 which was spread an old sail. Then did an icy 
 terror take possession of her heart, and rigidly 
 erect, with a darkness settling down over her eyes 
 and blotting out by degrees all sights save the 
 one that her agony of terror had conjured up, she 
 remained waiting. 
 
 Why protract the painful story ? Her hus- 
 band’s boat had been capsized, and himself, who 
 was no swimmer, drowned. His body had been 
 recovered by the crew of a fishing smack, who 
 had put off in their boat on witnessing the acci- 
 dent. They had brought him on shore, and, 
 knowing him well, amidst the lamentations of the 
 accompanying crowd, had borne him. to his wife 
 and home. 
 
 That same night Edith was prematurely de- 
 livered of a son. Her last sigh expressed an 
 anxiety to see Captain Sandboys, and the old 
 man, who had been overwhelmed hy the terrible 
 news, hastened to her side, and at her hands re- 
 ceived the sacred pledge of an union so sweetly 
 
FEANK FOERESTEK’s ANTECEDENTS. 
 
 53 
 
 commenced and so abruptly terminated. She 
 died imploring him to be a father to the parent- 
 less little babe; and for eighteen years had 
 he greatly fulfilled her dying request. He was 
 the better able to cherish with tenderness the 
 little offspring of his old friend, for his own wife 
 had but recently presented him with the baby 
 whom we have seen expanded into the charming 
 Kate of our last chapter. Into Mrs. Sandboys^ 
 hands he. delivered the charge of Frank Forres- 
 ter ; and when she died (God rest lier soul!) 
 some four years after, in the fine, stalwart little 
 fellow he found a protegd whom he was perfectly 
 able to take care of himself. 
 
 When Frank was eight years old, Captain 
 Sandboys sent him to be educated at a local 
 school ; and at fifteen, hearing him profess a 
 predilection for the sea, the Captain entered him 
 as a midshipman on board a merchantman 
 trading to China. It was from his second voyage 
 that he was now expected home. 
 
 Great preparations were made to welcome him 
 
64 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 — great at least for Britannia House” (thus was 
 the Captain’s little residence named), where the 
 routine of daily life went on with the same regu- 
 larity that is pursued by the sea in the ebb and 
 flow of its tides. 
 
 Now was Mrs. Peake in her element. Mrs. 
 Peake, the nurse who had been in the Cap- 
 tain’s family for four-and- twenty years, who 
 had dandled Frank many a time in her arms, and 
 taken him for walks when Mrs. Sandboys’ failing 
 health permitted her no longer the performance of 
 that duty. 
 
 Naturally, a woman who had known the boy so 
 long, felt a maternal solicitude for his welfare and 
 comfort; hence, when the news of his return was 
 imparted to her by the Captain, she straightway 
 proceeded to render the two days pending his ap- 
 pearance as truly uncomfortable as any two days 
 could be made by an old woman, eager to evince 
 her affection by noisy anxiety, and by turbulent 
 preparations. 
 
 To Kate, however, all this was thoroughly 
 
FEANK Forrester’s antecedents. 
 
 55 
 
 pleasant. It was a departure from custom, and 
 in this lay the charm. 
 
 She awaited with anxiety the moment that was 
 to set Frank down at the garden -gate; for she 
 expected to meet with novelty in his looks, in his 
 manners, and in his conversation. 
 
 Unrelated as they were, there might have been 
 room for dreams of a little flirtation ; but this 
 never entered the girl’s head. To the fact she 
 was a complete stranger, though with the theory 
 she had long since been made acquainted by the 
 numerous novels which she had devoured ever 
 since her education had been commenced. More- 
 over, she regarded Frank as a brother, for in 
 this she had been instructed by Captain Sand- 
 boys, who never considered Frank in any other 
 lighkthan as that of a son. 
 
66 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN WHICH FEANK IS WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 On the afternoon of the day on which Frank 
 had promised to make his appearance, three faces, 
 all looking in the same direction, occupied two of 
 the front windows of “ Britannia House.” The 
 lower window was placarded with the faces of 
 Captain Sandboys and Kate — the upper with that 
 of Mrs. Peake. 
 
 They were evidently on the look-out for Frank. 
 
 Anybody who had seen the Captain walking 
 some two hours before up and down the espla- 
 
FRANK WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 57 
 
 nade, would hardly have recognised him now ; 
 would hardly indeed have believed that the same 
 individual stood before him. His metamorphosis 
 was singular and complete — as regular and com- 
 plete, indeed, as could possibly be effected by a 
 single individual who, having abandoned his 
 modern garb, had assumed in its stead the quaint 
 costume of a second or third Georgian period. 
 
 For in such wise was the Captain now habited. 
 
 The return of Frank was unquestionably to be 
 held as a feast-day in the Captain’s domestic 
 calendar, and he had dressed himself in the 
 manner he considered most meet for the celebra- 
 tion of such an anniversary. 
 
 Nothing was wanting but the tie-wig, and this he 
 assuredly would have worn, but for the dread of his 
 daughter’s ridicule, which was never more merci- 
 less than when aimed at her father’s eccen- 
 tricities. 
 
 As he stood thus, in his plate-buckled shoes, 
 his coloured stockings curiously discovering the 
 outline of his rounded legs, his long waistcoat and 
 
 D 5 
 
58 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Hs embroidered coat, made to button up close to 
 the neck, he seemed literally to exhale from him an 
 atmosphere of Toryism, and would infallibly have 
 moved to mirth even the most stolid wight that 
 ever surveyed human nature with an eye insensible 
 to its follies. 
 
 What his motive could have been, or what 
 delight he could have found, in thus embodying 
 an obsolete fashion, those alone can accurately 
 conjecture who have the power of prying into the 
 innermost recesses of the human heart, and of 
 divining the springs and causes of its actions. 
 For myself, I am content to relate the truth as I 
 know it to be. 
 
 Nor had Kate been less studious in the adorn- 
 ment of her person, though perhaps coquetry will 
 easily solve the enigma here. 
 
 She looked particularly charming on that after- 
 noon ; and when they had posted themselves at 
 the window, the Captain told her so. 
 
 ‘‘ I am sorry I can’t return you the compli- 
 ment, papa,” Kate had said, scanning with a 
 
TRANK WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 59 
 
 roguish eye the outline of her father’s form. If 
 you only knew how absurd — ” 
 
 Well ?” 
 
 Not absurd, perhaps ; but if you only knew 
 how ill you match that dress, or how ill that dress 
 matches you, I am very certain you would go and 
 take it off, before Frank comes and laughs at 
 you.” 
 
 Are you aware,” the Captain had mildly re- 
 marked, how many great men have worn this 
 costume? Are you conscious of the fact that 
 
 Lord Rodney, Nelson, Sir James ” 
 
 I only know,” Kate pettishly interrupted, 
 that it is worn no longer ; and therefore I 
 think it is ridiculous.” 
 
 Whereupon the Captain had fondly chucked 
 her under the chin, and said, ^^Read Ben Jon- 
 son’s ^ Every Man in his Humour,’ and forgive 
 me.” 
 
 But Jonson’s drama was not of the stuff that 
 Kate was wont to read. Nevertheless, the not 
 unfelicitous application of the title to the Cap- 
 
60 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 taints eccentricity saved him from the somewhat 
 malicious obseiwation that trembled on Kate’s 
 tongue. 
 
 At last Frank came. He had walked from the 
 railway station, and was followed by a sturdy 
 porter, who bore his box on his back. He stood 
 a moment at the gate, and perceiving Kate’s face 
 smiling at him from the window (the Captain had 
 deserted his post for a moment), uttered a cry and 
 ran in. 
 
 Then followed some tumultuous shaking of 
 hands and kissing of cheeks, which was aggra- 
 vated by the presence of Mrs. Peake, who, hav- 
 ing caught sight of Frank at the gate, had come 
 down stairs two steps at the time, and was now 
 the busiest of the group in her queries and in her 
 ejaculations. 
 
 If anyone should ask me which in my ^opinion 
 is the happiest moment of a man’s life, I should 
 answer, that in which he is being welcomed home 
 after a long absence. In opposition to this may 
 be advanced many other moments snatched from 
 
FKANK WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 61 
 
 many other various kinds of delights. But 
 surely a welcome home is the most pure, the 
 most expected, the most delightful, the most 
 genial. If he be a father I appeal to his recol- 
 lection of the faces and the kisses of his children; 
 if he be a son I appeal to his recollection of the 
 grasp of the hand, of the lingering embrace, of 
 the fond caress of his father, of his mother, of 
 the beloved companions of his childhood. If he 
 be a husband I appeal to his recollection of that 
 yearning pressure to the heart of his first, 
 last love — of that pressure so eloquent in its 
 claiming of^ in its clinging to, the restored one, 
 whose presence puts to flight the memory of the 
 vacant past. Be he what he may, for him for 
 whom these acts of tenderness are performed, 
 there is a sweetness in the lovingly profi*ered 
 hand, in the eye that streams with tears of glad- 
 ness, in the outstretched arm that seeks to en- 
 circle the neck, that surpasses all other earthly 
 sweetness in its power to soothe, to gladden, to 
 purify, and to console. Such recollections may 
 
62 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 fade in tlie heart of man, but whilst they yet 
 bloom there is nothing so lovely, so stainless, so 
 unmingled with those other passions of our nature 
 which contaminate or corrupt nearly every other 
 of our earrthly joys. 
 
 The first warm greetings being over, Frank 
 had leisure to survey the group that pressed 
 around him, and the first one his eye naturally 
 encountered was the Captain. 
 
 “ Is that the new coastguard uniform?” asked 
 he, with a sly wink at Kate, who stood watching 
 bim. 
 
 “ Is it not absurd ?” said Kate. 
 
 “ I like it,” answered Frank. 
 
 “ Of course he likes it,” said the Captain ; “ all 
 seamen like what reminds them of the glorious 
 past. My daughter can’t understand my feel- 
 ings,” he added, with a shake of the head. 
 
 “ Oh ! yes, I can,” said Kate ; “ but just 
 imagine being seen in that garb by any stranger ! 
 what would he think ?” 
 
 Well, since you don't like it, I’ll go and take 
 
FKANK WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 63 
 
 it off,” said the Captain, moving towards the 
 door; ‘‘ it was for you I put it on, Frank. Such 
 an important event as your return, after fourteen 
 months’ absence, deserved to be met in a suitable 
 costume. And this, I say, is the most suitable 
 for a sailor. For, as I was telling Kate, the 
 dress that was worn by Lord Rodney, and 
 Nelson, and a host of others, is fit to be worn by 
 me. And, moreover, it’s just the thing to wel- 
 come a sailor in — no matter what that sailor may 
 be; so I told Kate, but since she don’t like it 
 I’ll go and take it off.” 
 
 The old man spoke in a tone of profound 
 gravity, and his face wore an expression of slight 
 annoyance. 
 
 Frank jumped up, and seizing him by the 
 hand, implored him to keep his clothes on. 
 
 So I would,” said the Captain, only 
 
 He paused, and took a side look at Kate. 
 
 Oh ! I am sure T don’t mind it, if Frank 
 doesn’t,” said Kate. 
 
 So, after a little, the Captain was prevailed 
 
64 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 upon to retain tlie costume he so highly valued ; 
 and this being settled, he immediately recovered 
 all his former cheerfulness and spirits. 
 
 During this little scene, Frank had not failed 
 to remark the pretty pettishness with which Kate 
 seemed to make a point of addressing her father, 
 and the Captain’s ready yielding to the influence 
 which his daughter exercised over him. 
 
 As for Frank himself, he was a well-made, fair, 
 sun-burnt‘ faced young man, between eighteen 
 and nineteen years old, with a clear and joyous 
 blue eye, a handsome nose, and teeth that would 
 have adorned the sweetest mouth in female 
 Christendom. He had that glossy brown hair 
 w^hich has the excellent property of becoming the 
 head of either of the sexes it may decorate ; and 
 in the breadth of his chest, and in the shaping of 
 his sides towards his waist, with the smallness of 
 the waist itself, he discovered a vigour that pro- 
 mised in two or three years to become something 
 extraordinary. He was dressed in a midship- 
 man’s uniform — somewhat the worse for wear, 
 
FRANK WELCOMED HOME. 65 
 
 and wanting several buttons — and what with this 
 costume, and the open shirt-collar with its fly- 
 away neck handkerchief, tied low enough to reveal 
 a splendid throat, which, though now red from 
 the sun, showed that its radical propensity was 
 an almost feminine purity of skin, he stood as 
 complete a good-looking midshipman as ever the 
 most ardent lover of that type of mariner could 
 hope to see. 
 
 ^^Well, Kate, pretty as ever,” he remarked, 
 turning round and fixing an admiring eye upon 
 the fair face of the young girl who stood by his 
 side. 
 
 She blushed and said ‘‘ Oh ! Frank.” 
 
 ‘‘ I’ve brought her — ^ what do you think ?” ho 
 continued, addressing the Captain. 
 
 Not the faintest conception,” answered the 
 Captain, crossing his legs. 
 
 A monkey !” said Frank. 
 
 Oh ! where is it?” exclaimed Kate. 
 
 You’ll have it up this evening. One of our 
 hands, who lives here, will bring it with him. 
 
66 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 It’s a female, that’s a comfort, isn’t it, 
 governor ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Ay,” said the Captain ; I don’t like your 
 male monkeys. How is she dressed ?” 
 
 “ She isn’t dressed at all. I could only teac h 
 her to wear a bonnet that I worked her. One of 
 the men made her a crinoline, but the idiot in- 
 sisted on shoving her head through the wires, 
 and nearly choking herself. So I was obliged to 
 let her have her own way.” 
 
 “ Which you’ll be obliged to allow to every 
 creature of the other sex, I can tell you, Frank,” 
 said the Captain, with a wink. “■ Did any of the 
 officers fall in love with her ?” he asked, with as- 
 sumed gravity, and with a glance at Kate. 
 
 “ Our officers, do you mean ?” 
 
 “ Ko ; the military ?” 
 
 “Papa doesn’t like military men, you know, 
 Frank,” said Kate ; “ he always gives them a 
 knock when he can.” 
 
 “Well, I wish I were a military man !” said 
 Frank, with a sigh. 
 
FRANK WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 67 
 
 ^‘You !” ejaculated the Captain. Then with 
 the air of a man who doubts the evidence of his 
 senses, he left his chair, took a turn round the 
 room, and approaching Frank close, repeated, 
 ‘'you?” 
 
 "Well, military or anything, rather than a 
 sailor,” said Frank. 
 
 Kate clapped her hands and cried, " There, 
 papa, two to one against you now.” 
 
 "Then by saying you are sick of the whole 
 concern, you meant that you are tired of the 
 sea?” said the Captain, sitting down. 
 
 " Yes, heartily tired of it. Had I entered the 
 navy I daresay I might have liked it better ; but 
 the merchant service is only fit for dogs which 
 you may be tired of, and which you wish to 
 murder, either by bad treatment, bad food, or 
 drowning.” 
 
 An expression of dismay settled upon the 
 Captain’s features, as he contemplated Frank in 
 silence. At last he said, "And you want to 
 enter the army ?” 
 
68 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ I don’t say that ; but I want to give up the 
 sea.” 
 
 “ And so would I,” said Kate, sympathetically, 
 “ if I w'ere a sailor ; but then I should become a 
 soldier.” 
 
 “ No, I don’t much like soldiers,” said Frank. 
 
 An expression of relief, like the sun breaking 
 through a November fog, took possession of the 
 Captain’s features at these words ; and bending 
 forward, he said, “ And \vhat do you want to 
 do?” 
 
 “To make lots of money, and enjoy myself,” 
 answered Frank, “ which I can never do at sea.” 
 
 “ But how do you propose doing this ?” 
 
 “ By lots of ways. First, there is nothing that 
 pays so well, I am told, as a ham-and-beef shop, 
 and—” 
 
 Kate uttered a short cry, and stared at him 
 with amazement. 
 
 “ As a ham-and-beef shop,” continued Frank, 
 eyeing her with a comical look of earnestness ; 
 “ and I linow linen-drapering pays splendidly 
 
FRANK WELCOMED HOIME. 
 
 69 
 
 for just look at those London West End swells — 
 they’re nearly all linendrapers. Then what can 
 be better than a pastry cook ? Why the fortune 
 to be made out of little boys alone is enormous, 
 to say nothing of those bigger boys and men who 
 slip in sideways and spend a lot of money, and 
 eat quick, as if ashamed of themselves, and run 
 away in capital time to make room for others. 
 Or I could start a museum, and exhibit the inside 
 of decayed and healthy human bodies to inquiring 
 persons. Or come the phrenologist game, and 
 feel heads at so much a bump. There’s lots of 
 money to be made, I can tell you, without suffer- 
 ing at sea for it.’^ 
 
 The Captain, who had taken Frank’s meaning 
 literally— and it is certain that Frank had meant 
 to be literal — remained lost for awhile in re- 
 flection, from which he aroused himself by slowly 
 shaking his head. 
 
 And you are really honest in your dislike of 
 the sea?” he enquired. 
 
 1 am that,” answered Frank. 
 
70 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ But you are not honest in your propositions 
 to make money?” asked Kate, anxiously; “surely 
 you had better remain a sailor, much better, than 
 turn your attention to such vulgar things. The 
 profession of the sea is at all events gentle- 
 manly.” 
 
 “ So I am thinking,” said the Captain. “ But 
 I’ll tell you what, my boy; we’ll dismiss the 
 subject until after dinner — then we’ll go and 
 have a stroll, and we’ll talk it over as we walk 
 along.” 
 
 And he rose to leave the room with somewhat of 
 sadness in his manner, and with much of thought- 
 fulness in his gait. 
 
 “ He is looking very well,” said Frank, gazing 
 at him, as he passed through the door. 
 
 “ Very well, indeed,” said Kate, drawing a 
 chair to his side. Then she added, with a little 
 sigh, “ That is one of the misfortunes of this 
 place. The air makes everybody too well. I 
 declare my red cheeks sometimes stare at me from 
 the looking-glass, in a way that makes me 
 
FRANK WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 71 
 
 positively blush for myself. There is not a parti- 
 cle of sentiment in this air, nor romance either. 
 All is fat, led health. Now, I think it de- 
 testable.” 
 
 ^‘Wait until you’re ill; then you’ll sing a 
 different song, Kate,” said Frank, smiling. 
 
 ^^Oh, it’s all very well for men; but girls 
 oughtn’t to look so healthy. To say nothing of 
 red cheeks being the most unbecoming things in the 
 world, they lend one a look of vulgarity, that 
 is really horrid.” 
 
 Now, shall I tell you the secret of your com- 
 plaint? You are tired of the place; and, because 
 you are discontented, you grumble at its really 
 best charm — its air.” 
 
 W ell ! so would you be tired ofit,ifyouhad lived 
 all your life in it as I have,” she rejoined, with a 
 pout, that lent her face an expression of irritation; 
 
 here I live on, from year’s end to year’s end, 
 seeing no society but papa, and the sickening 
 fishermen and coastguards that hang about the 
 town. There’s the clergyman, I grant, and his 
 
72 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 wife. But is it possible to imagine two persons 
 more stupid than they? and^ as for the curate, he 
 can’t positively open his lips till he gets into the 
 pulpit; and as if he had reserved his whole week’s 
 talk for then, his sermons are so long and tame, 
 that I declare he has driven all my religion out 
 of me.” 
 
 She spoke with a heightened colour, and her 
 eyes had a look as if they were ready to melt 
 away into tears. 
 
 ^‘Well! I can see you are tired of Yartle- 
 pool.” 
 
 Of course I am tired of it. Is a girl’s life to 
 be passed away in a place only fit for convicts — 
 or coastguards? Papa looks at life from his 
 eyes, which are old, but I look at it from miney 
 which are young. Why should I be deprived 
 of all those gaieties and amusements which were 
 only made for such as I, who am ready to enjoy 
 them ? I have never been to a ball in my life. I 
 know nothing of theatres; and, as to the opera, 
 you might just as well ask if I know anything 
 
FRAJTK WELC03IED HOME. 
 
 73 
 
 about the interior of Africa. I wouldn’t mind, 
 if papa were one of those old fogies, so 
 prim and starched, who see immorality and vice 
 in everything that they are too old to enjoy; but 
 he knows all such amusements are innocent, and 
 he knows, too, that all girls enjoy them ; and yet 
 he keeps me locked up in this out-of-the-way 
 place, as if I were never to see more of the world 
 than what the sea and Yartlepool can show 
 me !” 
 
 And she tossed her head with a defiant gesture, 
 and contracted her eyebrows into an expression of 
 threatful meditation. 
 
 Well, Kate, I must honestly confess that I 
 feel for you,” said Frank, compassionately. 
 
 And so would papa, I am sure, if he really 
 knew how I detested this place.” 
 
 And doesn’t he know ?” 
 
 ‘‘ I dare say he may guess something of it, for 
 I am sure my actions have plainly enough 
 betrayed it. But, unless a thing is told him 
 plainly, he never will understand.” 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 E 
 
74 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ And why don’t you tell him plainly ?” 
 
 “ Because I haven’t the courage to. How can 
 I ask him to leave Yartlepool, after he has 
 resided in it for so many years, and resign 
 his commission, after he has held it almost as 
 long ?” 
 
 “ That’s true.” 
 
 “ But you can, though,” said Kate, glancing 
 at him softly out of the corners of her eyes. 
 
 “Can, what?” said Frank, looking up at 
 her. 
 
 “ Can tell him what I can’t : that I am weary 
 of Yartlepool ; that, as a father, he owes mej 
 his child, a duty that he should fulfil ; that he 
 ought to live in London, and introduce me a 
 little into its society and amusements.” 
 
 “ As well as to a husband, eh, Kate ? Isn’t 
 that your meaning ?” 
 
 Kate gave her shoulder a little shrug, and 
 said, 
 
 “ If you like.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Frank, thoughtfully, “ I’ll speak 
 
FEANK WELCOMED HOME. 
 
 75 
 
 to him, if you like ; but I can’t insure success, 
 you know. For you must recollect that in re- 
 signing his commission he resigns a very fair 
 portion of his income.” 
 
 “ Can’t he retire on half-pay ?” 
 
 “I don’t know the rules. But perhaps he 
 can.” 
 
 “ At all events,” said Kate, “ he will have 
 quite enough to live on without his pay, I know ; 
 and, besides, who knows — ” 
 
 She paused abruptly, and blushed a little. 
 
 “ Who knows but that I may pick up a wealthy 
 husband ? Isn’t that what you were going to say ?” 
 asked Frank, laughing. 
 
 She made no answer, but went over to the 
 window, and stood before it, drumming on the 
 glass with her fingers. 
 
 Frank surveyed her for a few moments in 
 silence. He was rather puzzled with the cha- 
 racter she had suddenly revealed to him, and 
 knew not exactly what to make of her. He had 
 always entertained for her just the love that a 
 
 E 2 
 
76 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 brother might have for a sister; but as to a 
 passion of a nature more romantic ever taking 
 possession of him, such a thought had never 
 entered his mind, nor, indeed, had Fate placed 
 them in a position at all likely to inspire it. 
 There was full scope for a flirtation here, and full 
 scope, too, for a marriage; but long intimacy 
 seemed to have forbidden all softer emotions 
 other than might naturally arise from the for- 
 tuitous circumstance that had from childhood 
 connected them. 
 
 Some such thoughts passed through Frank’s 
 mind as he continued contemplating the fair 
 form before him. He loved her very fondly, and 
 would willingly have sacrificed any present en- 
 joyment of his to ensure hers. Moreover, he 
 thought that there was a good deal of truth, after 
 all, in what she had said relative to her confine- 
 ment in the place ; and, after a few moments’ 
 consideration, he resolved upon speaking to the 
 Captain about her. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN WHICH A DECISION IS ARRIVED AT. 
 
 When the dinner was over. Captain Sandboys 
 and Frank Forrester went out for a stroll on the 
 esplanade. Kate had been asked to join them ; 
 but she had declined, making a feigned headache 
 her excuse. The Captain had discarded long 
 since his obsolete costume, and was now ap- 
 parelled in his ordinary every day garb, inclu- 
 ding his buckled shoes. 
 
 The evening was fine and mild for the season 
 of the year. Along the whole extent of the 
 
78 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 horizon, far as the eye could reach on either side, 
 a long, thin roll of vapour was suspended, like a 
 cloud wire-drawn to fit between the sea-line and 
 the sky. Below it a few sails dotted the surface 
 of the water, hushed in the universal repose that 
 seemed from the shore to make a mill-pond of the 
 ocean, whose landward breakers moved softly up 
 and down the sandy beach. The Captain, whose 
 prophetic eye discerned in these signs the threat 
 of an approaching gale, remarked the fact to 
 Frank, communicating it also to a fisherman, who 
 touched his hat at the information, and acquiesced 
 in it with a shake of the head full of wisdom. 
 
 They continued walking for a short while in 
 silence, until the Captain, stopping short, ex- 
 tended his hand towards the sea, exclaiming as 
 he did so, 
 
 “ And so you are going to turn traitor to old 
 Neptune ?” 
 
 ‘‘ In what way ?” asked Frank. 
 
 “ By renouncing him.” 
 
 “There’s nothing very traitorous in that, is 
 
A DECISION ARRIVED AT. 
 
 79 
 
 there?” Frank answered, with a smile. At all 
 events, if I am a traitor, so is he ; for I don’t 
 suppose your friend would mind drowning me — 
 if I only gave him the chance — never mind what 
 faith I might repose in him.” 
 
 But, seriously, what do you propose turning 
 your attention to now ?” 
 
 I hav’n’t the faintest idea ; I want you to 
 suggest something to me.” 
 
 You’d never stick to a desk after having 
 knocked about at sea,” said the Captain, 
 dubiously. 
 
 Wouldn’t I, though ?” answered Frank, laco- 
 nically. 
 
 Ay, you may talk so now,” said the Captain, 
 moving on, but when you came to find yourself 
 imprisoned within four walls, with nothing else to 
 look at but the dirty sky of London, and with 
 nothing else to think of but the open ledger before 
 you, you’d soon begin to sigh again for the jolly 
 life of a British tar I” 
 
 Blow the British Tar I” exclaimed Frank ; 
 
80 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ his jollity is all ashore, in the songs of men- 
 who have never been to sea, and the stories of 
 writers who don’t know a wave from a porpoise. 
 If there is any jollity in being forced to eat bis- 
 cuits full of worms, and meat as hard as iron ; in 
 being compelled to sleep in rows of coflSns called 
 bunks, with the chance of having to turn out at 
 any moment, either to run up aloft in a bitter 
 cold night, and reef topsails, or to find the ship 
 sinking, and all the boats stove in, all I have 
 got to say is, let those who like such jollity go 
 and enjoy it. I’ve had enough of it.” 
 
 “Well,” said the Captain, “if you don’t like 
 it, you don’t like it ; and you must give it up.” 
 Uttering which profound remark, he accelerated 
 his step, as if moved by a passing emotion. 
 
 “ Ihe long and short of it is this,” said Frank ; 
 “ I want to make a fortune, and enjoy myself. 
 How I make it I don’t care a snap, provided I 
 make it honestly. I am young and willing to 
 be industrious, and fancy,” he added, in a pom- 
 pous manner, “ that I have a genius for com- 
 
A DECISION ARKIVED AT. 
 
 81 
 
 merce ; and believe it, too, though I may be 
 laughed at for saying so,” he said, seeing the 
 Captain’s mouth widen into a grin. 
 
 It is all very easy to say you want to make a 
 
 fortune/’ observed the Captain ; but how are 
 
 % 
 
 you going to do it?” 
 
 First of all by going to London, and next by 
 working there.” 
 
 At what ?” 
 
 Frank shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ‘‘ That’s to be found out,” said he. 
 
 Men,” said the Captain, impressively, only 
 make fortunes by degrees ; and when made, they 
 find them useless, for they are too old to enjoy 
 them.” 
 
 Then you would have us all poor ?” 
 
 I would have you a sailor.” 
 
 Which can’t be,” said Frank, emphatically. 
 The Captain sighed, and remained silent. After 
 a pause, he observed. 
 
 One comfort is, you are provided for.” 
 
 E 6 
 
82 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Yes ; thanks to my poor parents and your- 
 self.” 
 
 “ Two hundred a year is a large income to a 
 young man,” said the Captain. 
 
 “ Whilst it lasts,” said Frank. 
 
 “ But it will last, and for ever,” remarked the 
 Captain, misapprehending Frank’s observation. 
 “ It was your grandfather’s legacy to your father, 
 and is as safe as anything can well be, seeing that 
 your capital is invested in the Three and a Half 
 per Cents.” 
 
 “I don’t know anything about that,” said 
 Frank ; “ but it’s a comfort to know that we have 
 it.” 
 
 “ If you go into the City you will have to make 
 yourself acquainted with all that sort of thing,” 
 said the Captain, drily, in the tone of a man who 
 by supposititious difficulties hopes to perplex the 
 scheme that he is not willing to sanction. 
 
 “ I’ll learn it all in four-and-twenty hours,” 
 exclaimed Frank, in a voice of confidence. 
 
A DECISION ARRIVED AT. 
 
 83 
 
 ‘'And he’s capable, too,” muttered the Cap- 
 tain, stealing a proud but covert glance at the 
 fine young fellow by his side. Then raising his 
 voice, he said, “ Did you ever hear speak of a 
 Mr. Fairlie?” 
 
 “ The shipowner, do you mean ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “Very often. Why, we lay alongside of one 
 of his craft at Singapore. And a fine vessel she 
 was, too.” 
 
 “ It strikes me,” continued the Captain, in a 
 musing voice, “ that he may, perhaps, lend us a 
 hand in this difficulty ; either offer you a berth 
 in his office, or give you an introduction to some- 
 one else.” 
 
 “ The very thing,” exclaimed Frank, who 
 already saw himself in perspective at the head of 
 Mr. Fairlie’s firm. 
 
 “ You must know,” said the Captain, “ that 
 my old father was a long while skipper in his 
 father’s employ; he was very much liked, and 
 received the best pay of them all. Without his 
 
84 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 father before him, you know, the present Mr. 
 Fairlie would have been nothing.” 
 
 Frank bowed his head in token of attention. 
 “ It was his father that laid the foundation of 
 the present man’s fortune ; and even in his time 
 there were four ships belonging to the service. 
 The Lord knows how many there are now.” 
 “Six,” said Frank. 
 
 “ That’s two more, then ; and I wonder how 
 many others are being built for him. I remem- 
 ber his father well,” said the Captain ; “ as fine 
 an old fellow as ever you clapped your eyes on, 
 and generous — ah! he was generous. I don’t 
 recollect his son, but when I’ve recalled to him 
 one or two things of his father, whom he always 
 honoured, he’ll know me fast enough, and be 
 almost sure to give you a hand in this matter of 
 changing your profession.” 
 
 The Captain spoke without the enthusiasm 
 with which he was wont to be inspired whenever 
 he proposed any scheme for the future, it mat- 
 tered not of what nature. It was pretty evident 
 
A DECISION AKRIVED AT. 
 
 85 
 
 that the subject of Frank’s quitting the sea was 
 not to his taste. 
 
 But Frank was impervious to the impression 
 conveyed by the old man’s manner of speaking, 
 and was all alive with the new hope that the sug- 
 gestion had awakened in his mind. 
 
 Do you think,” he inquired, that you’ll be 
 able to get away to London, to introduce me to 
 Mr. Fairlie?” 
 
 I don’t see what need prevent me,” said the 
 Captain. ‘‘ Mrs. Peake can take care of Kate, and 
 my coastguards must take care of themselves.” 
 
 ^^Then we’ll start to-morrow,” said Frank, 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 But there was no enthusiasm in the Captain’s 
 voice, as he answered. 
 
 Very well, my boy.” 
 
 There was a short pause, during which time 
 Frank’s mind was running upon the subject of 
 the conversation he had held with Kate. Fancy- 
 ing a favourable moment had arrived in which he 
 might venture upon the insertion of the wedge of 
 
86 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 her private grief into the Captain’s apparently 
 impenetrable understanding, he said, 
 
 “ Is it your intention, governor ” (it was thus 
 he always addressed the Captain), “ to stick to 
 Yartlepool all your life ?” 
 
 “ It will depend upon circumstances,” said the 
 Captain. 
 
 “ What would be most likely to influence your 
 departure ?” 
 
 “ You.” 
 
 “I?” 
 
 “ Yes. If you settle in London I shall settle 
 there, too.” 
 
 “ But for what reason ?” said Frank, a little 
 astonished. 
 
 “ That you may have a home, my boy. Lon- 
 don is a large place, and without a home to a lad 
 it is a desert.” 
 
 Frank wrung the Captain’s hands in silence ; 
 then, in a slightly tremulous voice, he said. 
 
 But you are very much attached to Yartle- 
 pool, are you not ?” 
 
A DECISION AKRIVED AT. 
 
 87 
 
 “Very much indeed. And so should you be; 
 for it is the grave of your parents.” 
 
 The Captain’s heart was certainly full at that 
 moment, for he delivered the concluding words of 
 his remark apparently with an effort. 
 
 “ Then you must not leave it for me,” said 
 Frank. 
 
 “ I shall leave it for Kate as well,” answered 
 the Captain ; “she is tired of it, and wants to be 
 away.” 
 
 Then Captain Sandboys had really divined his 
 daughter’s feelings at last ! 
 
 “ Kate will be very glad to hear this,” re- 
 marked Frank. “ From what I have noticed in 
 her, I gather, as you say, that she is tired of 
 Yartlepool. Well, you can’t blame her.” 
 
 “ No, I don’t blame her, only — ” 
 
 He paused a moment, and laying his hand 
 upon his companion’s arm, the Captain said, 
 
 “Do you notice any change in Kate since 
 you’ve been home ?” 
 
88 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ No,” said Frank, ‘‘ except that she grows 
 prettier.” 
 
 ‘‘ I don’t mean in that way. The change I 
 thought you might have noticed is in her mind — 
 her character — her nature. But then,” said tho 
 Captain, “ you haven’t been home long enough 
 to note it.” 
 
 “ Whatever it is, I hope,” said Frank, “ that 
 it is a change in the right way.” 
 
 The Captain heaved a sigh, and said, 
 
 “ I’ve noticed a long while that my girl has 
 been anxious to cut the place; but then, I 
 haven’t chosen to remark it, because I have a 
 sort of superstition about me in removing her to 
 London. It isn’t a fit school for one of her na- 
 ture. It’s full of all sorts of temptations, Frank ; 
 and for a father, who loves his daughter as I love 
 mine, Frank, I say it isn’t fair to her for me to — 
 to—” 
 
 “ To what?” 
 
 “ To give her a chance of going the road she 
 
A DECISION ARKIVED AT. 
 
 89 
 
 shouldn’t,” said the Captain, fixing an uncertain 
 stare upon his companion’s face. 
 
 She is loyal !” exclaimed Frank ; do not 
 distrust her. She is frank, sincere, and affec- 
 tionate ; and what more can you expect from a 
 girl of her age ? Her only fault is a desire to 
 mingle with the world, and if that’s a fault it is 
 at all events a very common one amongst girls.” 
 
 What you say is very true,” said the Captain, 
 thoughtfully. But in Kate’s character there 
 are a thousand little things which a stranger 
 mightn’t notice, and which I mightn’t either, if 
 I didn’t happen to be her father. But I don’t 
 like to see them. They tell of a mind that isn’t 
 content, and this disturbs me. For if there is a 
 girl upon this earth that ought to be more con- 
 tent than another, Kate’s she. She wants for 
 nothing ; she has a snug house to live in, a 
 beautiful sea to look at, healthy air to breathe, 
 and everything that her heart can desire. But,” 
 said the Captain emphatically, ‘‘ there’s never a 
 woman in this world who, with every conceivable 
 
90 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 wisli gratified, would not yet wish for something 
 more.” 
 
 “ That’s true enough,” said Frank ; “ but air, 
 sea, and snug houses are nothing without society. 
 So Kate thinks, and so I can’t help thinking, 
 too.” 
 
 “Well,’’ said the Captain, with a kind of be- 
 nevolent doggedness, “ if you settle in London, 
 I’ll settle there, too. I’ll tell Kate this, and 
 that may perhaps comfort her.” 
 
 But how about your commission ?” 
 
 “ I’ll resign it.” 
 
 “ But won’t that lessen your income ?” 
 
 “Yes, by nearly two hundred and fifty 
 pounds.” 
 
 “ I think you ought to maturely consider this 
 step before you take it,” said Frank. 
 
 “ There’s nothing to consider. I have enough 
 to live on without my whole pay. I’ll rent a 
 small house somewhere about the west end of 
 London, where you’ll find a home, and where 
 Kate can have an opportunity of seeing some- 
 
A DECISION ARRIVED AT. 
 
 91 
 
 thing of the life she seems so eager to com- 
 mence.” 
 
 Their footsteps had brought them opposite to 
 the gate of the Captain’s house, and as the old 
 man concluded his speech he pushed it open and 
 entered, Frank following him. 
 
 They found Kate seated beside the window 
 cutting the leaves of a new novel, which Mrs. 
 Peake had been despatched to the stationer’s 
 shop, that boasted a small circulating library, 
 three times to fetch, but twice unsuccessfully ; 
 for each time she had returned with the wrong 
 book ; causing Kate, on her second useless return, 
 to inveigh against her silliness in a manner that 
 had sent the old lady out of the room on her 
 third errand in a state of mind the reverse of 
 amiable. On her return with the correct volume 
 she had ventured upon certain words by way of 
 recrimination that had prompted Kate to other 
 certain words, causing quite a little com- 
 bat; and Mrs. Peake had just left the room 
 in a flood of tears, as the Captain entered. 
 

 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Eemarking the angry flush upon Kate’s cheeky 
 he asked her what was the matter. 
 
 “It is Mrs. Peake who is the matter,” she 
 answered, using the paper-cutter with a vehe- 
 mence that sufficiently denoted her irritability j 
 “ she is getting more useless and ridiculous every 
 day.” 
 
 The Captain sighed, and took a seat. 
 
 “ Poor Mrs. Peake,” said he, “ I don’t know 
 what we should do without her, eh, Frank ?” 
 
 “ I don’t know what we shall do by and bye 
 with her,” said Kate, without raising her head. 
 “ If she goes on as she is now, the house won’t 
 be able to hold her.” 
 
 “ What’s been the quarrel ?” asked Frank, 
 approaching her, and peeping at the book that 
 lay upon her lap. 
 
 Kate succinctly informed him, interlarding her 
 brief account with certain expressions by no 
 means complimentary to old age in general, and 
 
 to Mrs. Peake in particular. 
 
 « 
 
 “ You don’t seem to get on with Mrs. Peake,. 
 
A DECISION ARRIVED AT. 
 
 93 
 
 Kate/’ said the Captain, mildly, oyeing his 
 daughter with a melancholy expression, 
 
 ‘‘ She assumes a privilege I really don’t know 
 who or what entitles her to,” answered Kate, 
 
 She doesn’t know her place, and pushes herself 
 impertinently, not only into matters that don’t 
 concern her in the slightest degree, hut into 
 affairs over which you declare I ought to be the 
 mistress alone.” 
 
 And she bent down, and recommenced the em- 
 ployment of her leaf-cutting with redoubled 
 energy. 
 
 The Captain glanced at Frank with a look full 
 of meaning, but remained silent. 
 
 “ There is not the least sympathy between us,” 
 she continued after a pause, and addressing her- 
 self more particularly to Frank ; if I express a 
 desire to live in London she says I ought to be 
 perfectly content where I am, and that London’s 
 a very wicked place. If I say how much I should 
 like to be present at a ball, she pretends to be as 
 much shocked as if she had heard me use some 
 
94 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 dreadful word. As to a theatre, she declares it to 
 he an enormity, little short of I don’t know what 
 kind of wickedness. And in direct opposition to 
 me, because perhaps she knows I am not at all of 
 her way of thinking, she says that I ought to go 
 to church twice a day, and three times of a Sun- 
 day; that I never ought to read novels, which fill 
 my head with empty ideas ; that I ought to be 
 perfectly satisfied with the society that this dull 
 place affords — the stupid old thing means, I sup- 
 pose, the curate, the fishermen, and the coast- 
 guards, for there is no other society that I know 
 of, or at least seems worth knowing. And then 
 she says — fancy her impudence ! — that if ever she 
 hears papa expressing a determination to leave 
 Yartlepool she will do her best — (her best, in- 
 deed !) — to make him remain.” 
 
 And as if this were the- climax of Mrs. Peake’s 
 enormities, and the last assertion that Kate could 
 contemplate or repeat without at least the menace 
 of some physical vengeance, she stamped her 
 little foot, and fell to cutting her book again, as 
 
A DECISION AREIVED AT. 
 
 95 
 
 if really each leaf were the~nose of Mrs. Peake 
 that she was slitting. 
 
 There fell another silence on the trio, and then 
 the Captain spoke. 
 
 “ You need mind Mrs. Peake no longer,” said 
 he, “ we shall be living in London, please God, 
 before long.” 
 
 Kate gave a start, and eyed him with a look of 
 surprise. 
 
 ‘‘ Are you really in earnest, papa ?” she asked. 
 
 “ So far in earnest,” he answered, “ that, good 
 or bad, I have made up my mind to leave Yartle- 
 pool.” 
 
 Kate glanced at Frank, as if inquiring from 
 him a confirmation of her father’s sincerity. 
 
 The glance was eloquent enough to need no 
 verbal interpretation. 
 
 “We are all in earnest,” said Frank. 
 
 “ And do you mean to leave Yartlepool for my 
 sake, papa ?” Kate said, going over to her father 
 and laying her hand upon his shoulder, whilst 
 she looked down into his face with a caressing 
 smile. 
 

 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 For yours and for his,” he answered in a 
 subdued voice^ pointing to Frank. 
 
 A joyous expression lighted up Kate’s features 
 as she answered. 
 
 Oh ! lam so glad.” 
 
 To-morrow,” continued the Captain, Frank 
 and I are going to London to see a gentleman 
 who may be useful to us. Frank is determined 
 to leave the sea, and he is quite old enough now 
 to discern between a congenial and an uncon- 
 genial profession. He will be sure to get settled 
 somehow or other in London, and we will follow 
 him, Kate, and help to provide him with a home, 
 nntil he makes one for himself, or prefers living 
 alone. You will then have your heart’s desire 
 gratified, and live in the city, and mingle with 
 the society you have so long dreamed of.” 
 
 And Frank will be with us, and be able to 
 take me about,” she said, looking at him with 
 laughing eyes. Oh ! won’t it be delicious !” 
 Perhaps the enthusiasm of his child imparted 
 a feeling of a similar nature to the Captain, for 
 he exclaimed, in a voice a little more animated, 
 
A DECISION AERIVED AT. 
 
 97 
 
 It’s for the best, perhaps, after all. And so 
 to London we’ll go.” 
 
 There is a selfishness in our gratification that 
 forbids us remembering the sacrifices others 
 make or have made in order that w e may attain 
 the end we covet. Kate never thought of her 
 father, of the sacrifice he was assuredly about to 
 make to gratify his child’s desire. 
 
 She forgot that in leaving Tartlepool he aban- 
 doned a place that time, friendship, and the 
 satisfaction that only the absence of all anxiety, 
 with the accustomed scenes of a well loved haunt, 
 can impart to old age, had long since endeared to 
 him. Nor did she remember that in deserting 
 his occupation he resigned that which no man 
 willingly resigns —an income earned by an indus- 
 try that did not harass him, and a position that 
 was honourable to him as a man and congenial 
 to him as a sailor. 
 
 But it is a law in the conduct of the human 
 mind always easily to forget what it is not will- 
 ing to remember. Perhaps this law had some- 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 F 
 
OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 thing to do with Kate’s obliviousness to the facts 
 connected with her father, just stated. 
 
 Altogether, this day had been a really lively 
 one for Kate. Four several incidents had oc- 
 curred in the space of no less than five hours : the 
 first being the return of Frank, the second the 
 quarrel with Mrs. Peake; the third. Captain 
 Sandboy’s declaration of leaving Yartlepool ; and 
 the fourth the introduction of the monkey pro- 
 mised by Frank, and brought by a mariner whose 
 beaming face as he stood at the door delivering the 
 chain of the animal into the hands of Frank, was 
 as eloquent as eloquence can possibly be in its 
 appeal, silent or noisy, for money. 
 
 The Captain, after tea, had sunk into a species 
 of melancholy lethargy ; but the gambols and the 
 grimaces of the monkey soon roused him into 
 merriment, and in a very short time after its en- 
 trance he was busy in mimicking its contortions, 
 and torturing it by his grimaces. Ah, never was 
 there such a monkey as this ! Of all ugly monkey 
 faces, surely this monkey had the ugliest. The 
 
A DECISION ARRIVED AT. 
 
 incessant rolling of its quaint eyes, the absence 
 Df at least half its tail, which it had commenced 
 steadily to devour from the moment of its em- 
 barkation at Singapore, in spite of the pitch, the 
 tar, the acid mixtures with which Frank had 
 copiously anointed that ill-used appendage ; the 
 singlarity of its squatting position ; its greediness, 
 that would not suffer it to drop the hot potatoe 
 that Frank had maliciously placed in its paws ; 
 its utter disregard of all conventional regularities, 
 and its profound contempt for all species of human 
 politeness, served before long to set everybody 
 crying with laughter ; nor was the endless joke 
 diminished by the vehemence of the hatred it dis- 
 played the instant it encountered the face of Mrs. 
 Peake, who stood contemplating the novel 
 spectacle with mingled emotions of terror and de- 
 light, behind a chair, and who endeavoured in 
 vain to conciliate the esteem of the innocently 
 outraged animal by the utterance of those noises 
 which women use to calm refractory children, but 
 
 F 2 
 
100 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 whicli the monkey heard with indignation and 
 contempt. 
 
 At all events the unamiahle creature entirely 
 dissipated whatever promise of gloom or animosity 
 that might otherwise have subsisted in the hearts 
 of some in that little family ; affording a lively 
 illustration of our every day life, in which the 
 human monkeys, that are so frequently to be en- 
 countered, serve for a while to dispel the anxiety 
 and care that eyer cloud the heart of every reflec- 
 tive being in the societies of the world. 
 
101 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ME. fIiELIE. 
 
 In a certain street leading out of Pall-Mall, tlie 
 projection of a portico from a handsome building, 
 the entrance to which is rendered accessible 
 by a flight of broad, stone steps, attracts your 
 eye ; and, though you may have constantly 
 passed it, generally invites you to look up. On 
 inquiring the name of this building of the one- 
 armed man who, in buttons and medals, usually 
 takes his stand at the corner of the street, you 
 learn that it is called “ The Civilians’ Club,” and 
 
102 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 on entering it you find that its interior is by no- 
 means unworthy the imposing aspect that salutes 
 you from without. 
 
 On the day following the events recorded in the 
 last chapter, a table in a spacious apartment in 
 this club, devoted to that most pleasing of all 
 English enjoyments — eating, — was occupied by 
 two gentlemen, who, seated opposite each other^ 
 conversed in a low tone across the remains of a 
 luncheon which they had evidently been discuss- 
 ing. The subject of their conversation seemed to 
 possess an unusual amount of interest for one of 
 those two gentlemen ; for every time his com- 
 panion volunteered a remark or replied to a ques- 
 tion, he would bend forward in a listening attitude, 
 and fix his eyes upon the speaker’s features with 
 a look full of curiosity. 
 
 Several of the tables in this room were occupied 
 by members of the club and their friends : the 
 latter of whom, as if awed by the majesty of the 
 place, spoke in subdued whispers, and glanced 
 around them with that kind of wondering gaze 
 
MK. FAIKLIE. 
 
 103 
 
 which we might expect to meet with ia a person 
 not wholly insensible to the grandeur of the past, 
 who should stand, for the first time, in the 
 interior of a pyramid. A table, in somewhat close 
 proximity to the two gentlemen above noticed, was 
 also occupied by a small party ; and this seemed 
 to cause one of the two gentlemen a little uneasi- 
 ness ; for ever and anon he would turn and stare 
 at the party behind him with a gaze of distrust 
 and uncertainty. 
 
 AH at once a short, stout man, with red hair, 
 who had been seated at the end of the room, 
 rose, and leisurely strolling up the apartment, 
 approached the table at which the two gentlemen 
 were seated. 
 
 Veil, Captain Mortimer,” he said, nodding 
 familiarly to the person whom he addressed, 
 ven you vant your revenge ? — hey ?” 
 
 To-night, Mr. Vanderhoff*.” 
 
 To-night it shall be,” said Mr. Vanderhoff; 
 but you must give me ten, for, by Himmel ! 
 you peat me at even.” 
 
104 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Captaiii Mortimer shrugged his shoulders, and 
 addressing his companion, said, “That’s a 
 queer way for a man to take his revenge in 
 billiards, by giving his opponent odds, isn’t it, 
 Mr. Fairlie ?” 
 
 “ I am ashamed to confess,” answered Mr. 
 Fairlie, “ that I know nothing of the rules of 
 billiards ; indeed, I don’t think I ever handled a 
 cue more than twice in my life.’’ 
 
 “ Now, look you, Captain Mortimer,” said Mr. 
 Vanderlioflf, “ we play for revenge ; and ten wass 
 given me py you last time. That wass the score 
 agreed upon, and so that score must pe to-night, 
 hey ? — ^is it so ?” 
 
 “ As you will,” said Captain Mortimer, pour- 
 ing out a glass of sherry. “ At eight to-night I 
 will be with you.” 
 
 Mr. Vanderhoff bowed to them both, and left 
 the table, sauntering down the room with the 
 same leisurely gait with which he had approached 
 them. 
 
 “ Do you know that man ?” inquired Mortimer, 
 
ME. FAIRLIE. 
 
 105 
 
 sipping his wine^ and nodding in the direction of 
 the departing German. 
 
 “ By sight, hut not personally.” 
 
 “ He’s a German, and one of the most violent 
 ‘ screws’ in the world. • He won a few sovereigns 
 from me the other night, and I am utterly 
 astonished to find him generous enough to offer 
 me a revenge ; but you remarked on what 
 terms?” 
 
 “ Perhaps his generosity consists in the hope 
 of making a few more sovereigns out of you, 
 Mortimer,” said Mr. Fairlie, laughing. 
 
 “ Perhaps it does. But I don’t want to quar- 
 rel with him, for I am anxious to get him to 
 subscribe to the request that I am about to pro- 
 pose to the members of the club.” 
 
 ‘‘ And what may that be ?” 
 
 “ Didn’t I tell you? I quite meant to do so. 
 Now, don’t laugh at me, when I inform you that 
 I am going to offer myself as a candidate for the 
 secretaryship of the ‘ Civilians.’ ’ 
 
 “ Indeed !” 
 
106 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “Yes. Halliwell’s going to resign; and as I 
 am not above such work, and, moreover, as it 
 will put a couple of hundred per annum into my 
 pocket, why, I’ve made up my mind to go in for 
 it.” He spoke coolly ; hut he eyed his com- 
 panion’s face, nevertheless, with a stealthy and 
 inquisitive stare. “ You mustn’t think it’s infra 
 digf he continued. “ Many fellows of twice my 
 birth and ten times my position have held such 
 positions.” 
 
 “ I really hope,” said Mr. Faii’lie, with a 
 slight blush, “ that you do not think me capable 
 of esteeming any position that is not dishonour- 
 able — morally dishonourable, I mean, for as to 
 the socialist’s opinion of dishonour, I don’t value 
 it at that,” and he snapped his fingers ; “ I say, 
 I hope that you do not fancy that I consider any 
 position, of which the employment is honourable, 
 unworthy the character of a gentleman, or be- 
 neath the notice of a wise or good man.” 
 
 “ Certainly not. I never could have believed 
 such a thing of you, though it affords me con- 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 107 
 
 siderable gratification to hear you express such 
 just and dignified opinions. But the truth is, I 
 am urged to take this step by the silly solicita- 
 tions of Augusta — my sister, you know — who 
 has got the inexpressibly absurd opinion into her 
 head that any employment, it matters not how 
 slight, is sufficient to keep a man out of mis- 
 chief.” 
 
 “ You will pardon me, I am sure,” said Mr. 
 Fairlie, slightly bowing, if I differ from you 
 by agreeing with Au — with Mrs. Anderson. 
 It is a curious fact,” he continued, musingly, 
 ^^that women are generally more correct in their 
 estimate of life than men. I can only account 
 for this by supposing them to possess a certain 
 intuitive perception of their own that, more or 
 less, defies error. ” 
 
 Their sagacity, T presume, is sharper than 
 ours, simply because their present or future hap- 
 piness is more involved in the consequences of 
 its operations. But we are getting a little too 
 deep now, Mr. Fairlie. You know I am no match 
 
108 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 for you in these matters ; and the only way I can 
 see by which to vindicate myself from the impu- 
 tation of being nonsensical, is by opposing to you 
 my sister Augusta. If you will pardon my 
 saying so, I fancy you will find your match in 
 her.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie smiled, as he answered, 
 
 “ Whenever you feel disposed to sufier me an 
 opportunity to enter the lists with her — though I 
 would infinitely rather he for her — you will al- 
 ways find me ready.” 
 
 “ Whilst on the subject,” said Mortimer, 
 bowing to his companion’s compliment, and 
 extracting from his pocket a paper, which he 
 unrolled and spread upon the table, “perhaps 
 you will kindly add your name to those already 
 subscribed. With such influence as your co- 
 operation will afford me, I have no fear of not 
 securing the secretaryship; and when secured, 
 how delighted poor Gussy will be !” 
 
 In a moment Mr. Fairlie had called for a pen 
 and ink, and had appended his name to the list. 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 109 
 
 By the bye/’ said Mortimerj folding up the 
 paper, and extracting from the pocket in which he 
 deposited it, an envelope, I think I promised 
 you the other day to show you my sister’s like- 
 ness. Here it is, sir.” 
 
 And he handed the portrait to Mr. Fairlie, wha 
 eagerly seized it, and commenced its examination ; 
 Mortimer watched his features in silence. 
 
 She is very lovely,” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, 
 after a pause, still with his eyes intent upon the 
 picture. 
 
 ^^Then you don’t think I have exaggerated in 
 my description of her ?” 
 
 Sir, that would be impossible.” 
 
 ‘‘ But it is, of course, very unfair,” continued 
 Mortimer, pouring himself out another glass of 
 sherry, to a woman to have her appearance 
 pourtrayed in the dull, cold outlines of a carte-de - 
 visite. How, Gussy, strange to say, is, of all 
 women, the one least likely to have justice done 
 to her by the photographer. I say so honestly, 
 Mr. Fairlie ; but you might as well hope to catch 
 
110 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the lustre of the sun as to fix on paper the ex- 
 pression of her eyes — ay, and the expression of 
 her face, too. Her whole countenance is of that 
 singular hind, as I fancy I have told you, that 
 defies imitation, whether by pencil or camera. I 
 have often read in poets of the eyes being the 
 mirror of the spirit; aud as the idea is pretty and 
 exactly expresses my meaning, so I’ll call Grussy’s 
 face the mirror of her spirit. The slightest 
 emotion that clouds or lightens the one is ex- 
 pressed in the other; and, perhaps, to the fact of 
 Gussy being a curious compound of those inner 
 subtleties which everybody tries to write about 
 and which nobody understands, it may be she 
 owes that various expression of face, which, in 
 the eyes of some, constitutes her most essential 
 charm, and which even I, gifted as I am with all 
 a brother’s phlegm, cannot sometimes really help 
 admiring.” 
 
 He ceased, and, raising his glass to his lips, 
 nodded with a friendly gesture to Fairlie. 
 
 I can quite believe all that you say of her,” 
 
ME. FAIELIE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 said Fairlie, fixiog a look of profound admiration 
 on the portrait he yet held ; such a figure I 
 don’t believe I have ever before seen. What 
 would a sculptor give for it! and when,” he con- 
 tinued, looking earnestly at Mortimer, ^^when 
 are you going to give me an introduction to 
 her?” 
 
 Mortimer laughed, as he replied, 
 
 At the first opportunity I can make or find, 
 Mr. Fairlie.” 
 
 Will you come and dine with me to- 
 morrow ?” 
 
 With the greatest possible pleasure,” said 
 Mortimer, taking out his pocket-book. 
 
 Perhaps,” Mr. Fairlie said, with slight hesi- 
 tation, Mrs. Anderson will honour my house 
 with her presence, providing — ^providing — that is 
 to say, if she will excuse the abruptness of the 
 invitation. We shall be alone, sir. A quiet, 
 domestic party. You can tell her that — perhaps 
 it may act as a slight inducement.” 
 
112 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 I certainly will ; and I think you may 
 depend on seeing her. What address do you say^ 
 Mr. Fairlie ?” 
 
 Number One, Montague Square. We dine 
 at half-past six.” 
 
 We will be with you. And till then, au 
 revoir and Mortimer shook the hand which Mr. 
 Fairlie, who had risen, had proffered him. 
 
 They walked, however, down the room together, 
 and Mortimer shook hands with him again on 
 the doorsteps. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie had hardly left his companion’s 
 side before he returned to him. 
 
 I was about to walk off with property that 
 does not belong to me,” he said, holding out the 
 carte-de-visite, ‘^unless I have your permission 
 to keep it.” 
 
 Oh, keep it by all means,” answered Mor- 
 timer; ^^only don’t let Gussy know that I gave 
 it you, for she will be sure to ^ay that I have been, 
 by my own conduct, making her out as a regular 
 
MR* FAIRLIB. 
 
 113 
 
 flirt to you. Now, you know, women don’t like 
 this character to be given them without having^ 
 honourably earned it for themselves.” 
 
 And with a laugh, the Captain waived his hand 
 to Mr. Fairlie, and re-entered the Club. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie turned his face in a westerly direc- 
 tion and walked home. He was a tall man ; 
 about forty-five years of age, with a mild and 
 amiable cast of countenance, and bald on the top 
 of his head. His features had that negative 
 quality which renders the possessor neither good- 
 looking nor plain. He wore whiskers and a high 
 shirt collar, into which his head seemed to fit 
 with mathematical precision, and in which, 
 indeed, it seemed to find a very substantial 
 support. It was apparent from his features that 
 Care had been very lenient in her handling of 
 him ; and from all appearance it would seem that 
 Time purposed discovering an equal clemency. 
 His forehead was smooth, and the corners and the 
 surroundings of his eyes were unmarked by that 
 peculiar fine and delicate tracery which the great 
 
114 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 artist Time, and the no less ingenious limner Care 
 love to pencil on the faces of mankind. The 
 lower man was rounded with that kind of proportion 
 which proclaims the lover of social ease ; and the 
 whole was adorned in a costume whose fit con- 
 fessed the superiority of the tailor, and whose 
 appearance the taste of the possessor. 
 
 He walked leisurely along the streets, though 
 with a gait and in an attitude that sufficiently 
 demonstrated his meditative humour. Now and 
 then his hand seemed mechanically to wander to 
 his back pocket, in which he had deposited Mrs. 
 Augusta Anderson’s carte-de-visite. But he never 
 drew it forth. His object appeared rather to ani- 
 mate his thoughts, which, to judge from the 
 slight smile upon his lips, were of a nature 
 eminently pleasing, by a contact with the piece 
 of cardboard that bore upon it such a handsome 
 impression. Now and then, however, the smile 
 upon his lips would relax, and a shadow of 
 anxiety pass over his features. His lips at such 
 moments would move as if he were apostrophis- 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 115 
 
 ing some embodied difficulty ; but, on the whole, 
 the pleasing expression predominated, and main- 
 tained its empire to the last; for, when he at 
 length stopped before a fine house at the corner of 
 a square into which his footsteps — by habit rather 
 than by choice — seemed to have directed him, 
 the smile was upon his lips. 
 
 A liveried menial answered his summons, who, 
 on seeing him, bowed and threw the door open 
 to its widest extent to suffer him to pass. 
 
 In this single act was recognised the presence 
 of the master. 
 
 Is Miss Mary in ?” asked Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 Yes, sir ; she is with two gentlemen, sir, who 
 called here about ten minutes or a quarter of an 
 hour ago, and who said they would wait for you, 
 as I told ’em you was likely to be in soon, sir.” 
 Two gentlemen,” said Mr. Fairlie, pausing 
 in the hall. ‘‘ Did they give their names ?” 
 
 I took their cards, in, sir, to Miss Mary. 
 Captain Sandboys was one. I recollect that.” 
 
 ‘‘ Captain Sandboys,” mused Mr. Fairlie, as if 
 
116 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 striving to remember tbe name. “ Where are 
 they ?” 
 
 “ In the drawing-room, sir.” 
 
 Mounting a handsome staircase, the landing at 
 the top of which was illumined by a fine window, 
 Gothic in the quaint devices of its stained glass, 
 Mr. Fairlie pushed a large door open and entered 
 an apartment, sumptuously, though elegantly 
 furnished. 
 
 Furnished in such wise, indeed, that at the 
 first blush it appeared as if the capital of a whole 
 estate had been lavished on its decoration. Every 
 article in the room was eloquent of affluence. 
 Affluence spoke to you from the marble statues 
 in each corner; from the splendid clocks and 
 priceless vases on the mantel-piece, from the 
 numerous valuable and carefully arranged orna- 
 ments on the table, from the chairs, the sofas, the 
 mirrors, the carpets, from the most to the least 
 imposing article that the eye encountered. You 
 seemed to enter into an atmosphere of money. 
 Small silver statues beneath glass covers, albums 
 
ME. FAIRLIE. 
 
 117 
 
 in ivory, inlaid with gold ; candlelabras of so 
 costly an appearance that the mind instinctively 
 condemned the employment of the ingenuity 
 which it felt must have been exerted in their con- 
 struction ; chandeliers so superb, so fragile, so 
 glittering, that there seemed a certain wantonness 
 in even exposing them to the gaze of a servant. 
 Such was the drawing-room at No. 1, Montague 
 Square; and such was the spectacle that could 
 be offered by a man whose means, though large, 
 were inconsiderable when compared to the means 
 of others, but which could yet, by being employed 
 with discretion and taste, produce effects of a 
 nature the most enviable and imposing. 
 
 Captain Sandboys sat nervously at the edge of 
 a sofa in this apartment, gazing round him with 
 a look of admiration and awe. 
 
 On the entrance of Mr. Fairlie, Frank was en- 
 engaged in conversing with a young lady, who 
 sat opposite him, and who was laughing some- 
 what heartily at some remark that Frank had 
 just made. 
 
118 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Anybody who had once seen Mr. Fairlie would 
 have instantly recognised his daughter in this 
 young lady. She bore a striking resemblance 
 to her father, was not a bit better looking nor a 
 bit more plain, though perhaps her features had 
 this advantage over her parent’s — that they were 
 possessed of a certain feminine softness and 
 a certain lady-like appearance w^hich subdued 
 and harmonised them to an expression that pro- 
 voked, in five minutes, your friendship, and, in ten 
 minutes, your affection, though you knew not why, 
 unless, by instinct, you guessed that the disposi- 
 tion proclaimed or concealed by this exterior was 
 worthy of all the good opinion that you could 
 possibly entertain for it. 
 
 Frank and Captain Sandboys rose on seeing 
 Mr. Fairlie, and the latter advancing to within a 
 few paces of him, made him a solemn bow. 
 
 1 know not, sir,” he remarked, ^^how to 
 justify this seeming intrusion upon you, unless 
 by declaring myself at once an old friend of your 
 late lamented father.” 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 119 
 
 Indeed !” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, shaking him 
 loj the hand. Pray resume your seat, sir. Any 
 friend of my poor father is always welcome to 
 my house. Captain Sandboys, Captain Sand- 
 boys,” he continued, musingly, to be sure ! I 
 recollect the name well. The Captain of one of 
 my father’s ships, the ^ Chesapeake,’ I fancy.” 
 You are quite right, sir,” said the Captain; 
 my father was for many years in command of 
 one of Mr. Fairlie’s ships ; and now that you 
 name it, I remember it was the ^ Chesapeake.’ ” 
 And as if the recollection thus awakened had re- 
 called to him a large portion of a remote past 
 almost now forgotten, the Captain fixed a vacant 
 eye on Mr. Fairlie’s face, and seemed as if sud- 
 denly absorbed in reverie. 
 
 And is this your son. Captain Sandboys ?’’ 
 asked Mr. Fairlie, surveying Frank. 
 
 In one sense, yes, sir,” answered the Captain, 
 waking up ; but in another sense, no.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie gave him a puzzled look, which 
 
120 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 was certainly justified by tbe vagueness of the 
 Captain’s answer. 
 
 “ That is to say,” said he, with a view of pre- 
 facing or suggesting the explanation that appeared 
 necessary. 
 
 “ Captain Sandboys means,” said Frank, re- 
 plying to the question, ‘‘ that I was left an 
 orphan when a baby ; and that he has adopted 
 me as his son ever since. But then, it is not be- 
 cause we are not in any way related that we are 
 not the less father and son.” 
 
 The concluding portion of this speech seemed 
 mo re addressed to Mary than to Mr. Fairlie ; and 
 she who had been quietly listening to the conver- 
 sation, with her calm, blue-grey eye fixed upon 
 Frank, acknowledged it by a slight inclination of 
 the head. 
 
 “ Ah ! I see how the matter stands between 
 you,” said Mr. Fairlie, with a good-natured 
 smile. “Well, Captain Sandboys, I hope you 
 have received good treatment at my daughter’s 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 121 
 
 hands during the while you have been waiting 
 for me.” Then rising, he continued, But 
 come; let us go downstairs. If there is one 
 room in the house I dislike more than another, it 
 is this. Its stiffness annoys me; and yet my 
 daughter compels me to see my guests in it.” 
 
 And with a serio-comic shake of the head at 
 Mary, who returned the menace with a quiet 
 smile, he threw open the door, and ushered the 
 two gentlemen out, Mary remaining behind. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie having reached the hall, conducted 
 his visitors into another room, suflSciently spa- 
 cious, and hung around with pictures, some evi- 
 dently the works of masters. Wealth was less 
 obtrusive here, but not less apparent. Upstairs 
 it was sparkling and forward ; here it was solemn 
 and reserved. This was probably owing to the 
 paintings, which were almost all contrived with 
 that sombre colouring which by some is con- 
 sidered the chief excellence in the old limners. 
 
 Motioning the two gentlemen into seats, he 
 took one himself, and assumed an attitude of ex- 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 a 
 
122 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 pectant attention^ which clearly demonstrated his 
 desire to know what was wanted of him. 
 
 No matter how slight the obligation, it is 
 sufficient that it is an obligation to make the 
 man who is about to solicit it, feel a certain un- 
 easiness. 
 
 The Captain fidgetted a little nervously on his 
 chair before he began, and then he said, 
 
 ‘‘ I have taken the liberty, on the score of 
 having been well acquainted with your worthy 
 father, to approach you with a view of getting 
 you to accord me a favour that I am about to 
 ask, and which I hope you will think. neither im- 
 pertinent nor unreasonable.” 
 
 This was a pretty fair commencement, and the 
 Captain glanced at Frank, as if to read his ap- 
 proval in his features. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie made a gesture for him to proceed ; 
 and with a cough, the Captain thus went on : 
 
 My boy Frank — this young gentleman, in- 
 deed — having given up the sea, is anxious to turn 
 his attention to commerce ; so I told him I 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 123 
 
 would bring him along with me to Mr. Fairlie, 
 whom I felt very sure would do everything in his 
 power to assist the friend — shall I say son, sir? 
 — -of a man who once had the honour of boasting 
 the friendship of his father. And that’s the 
 whole story, sir,” said Captain Sandboys, work- 
 ing himself back on the cushion of the chair, off 
 which, in his excitement, he had half wriggled 
 himself. 
 
 A faint smile at the Captain’s visible ner- 
 vousness passed over Mr. Fairlie’s face, as he 
 said, 
 
 ^^Ah, I perfectly understand you; Mr. Frank 
 having tried the sea, thinks he would prefer to be 
 a merchant; and so you’ve come here to consult 
 me on the best way of making him one. Is that 
 it?” 
 
 Precisely,” cried the Captain, charmed at 
 Mr. Fairlie’s penetration. 
 
 And you’re anxious to become a merchant, 
 are you, Mr. Frank ?” said Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 ‘‘ I am anxious to make my fortune, Mr. Fair- 
 
 G 2 
 
124 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 lie/’ answered Frank, ^^but whether as a mer^ 
 chant or as a pieman is immaterial to me, provi- 
 ding I make it.” 
 
 ^^Well, I can tell you how to become a mer- 
 chant, but really cannot suggest any means of 
 assuring you a fortune. Perhaps, however, you 
 think one will follow the other ?” 
 
 Yes, that is unfortunately nature. Now, if 
 we could only subvert the rule, and make the 
 other follow the one, the one would be quite 
 enough then.” 
 
 At this sally, Mr. Fairlie laughed outright, 
 more tickled, possibly by the frank and, withal, 
 M’himsical manner in which it was said, than by 
 the joke itself ; and the Captain said nothing, 
 but looked pleased. 
 
 Do you know anything of business?” asked 
 Mr. Fairlie, suddenly. 
 
 I am sorry to say I don’t,” answered Frank. 
 
 I want him to stick to the sea,” said the 
 Captain; ^^he’s fitter for a yardarm than a 
 desk.” 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 125 
 
 That may be/’ said Frank ; but commend 
 me to the desk.” 
 
 He objects to the food,” said the Captain. 
 
 Now, when I was a lad, I thought salt beef, 
 such as we get it at sea, a delicacy unknown to 
 landsmen.” 
 
 But you think it so no longer, sir ?” said 
 Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 Yes, providing he’s dined first off something 
 good,” said Frank. 
 
 Here Mr. Fairlie laughed again. 
 
 Frank’s manner, that might have displeased 
 some, evidently wrought favourably for him with 
 Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 Since your 'protege insists upon thwarting 
 you, and giving up the sea,” he said, addressing 
 himself to Captain Sandboys, and honestly 
 speaking, I can’t blame him,” he added, half 
 aside ; I shall be most happy to render him all 
 the assistance I can to attain the end he seeks. 
 If you like to attend me at my office to-morrow, 
 between twelve and one, we can talk the matter 
 
126 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 over;” (this to Frank). “There is a vacancy I 
 know, for a clerk, in my firm ; and we’ll test 
 your arithmetic and commercial capabilities, if 
 you are willing to commence it.” 
 
 This was a piece of kindness more grateful, 
 because it was unexpected. 
 
 Both the Captain and Frank thanked Mr. 
 Fairlie heartily for his goodness, and the latter, 
 marking down the number and situation of the 
 office in the City, promised to he there the next 
 day. 
 
 “ But youTl stop and dine with me r” said 
 Mr. Fairlie, as his visitors rose to depart. “ No 
 ceremony, you know; merely a plain family 
 dinner.” 
 
 But they both declined, as the Captain had de- 
 clared that, in the event of Frank being suc- 
 cessful in his application to Mr. Fairlie, he 
 would straightway proceed to look himself out a 
 house. And this being now found necessary to he 
 done, it was but right that Frank should aid and 
 comfort him by his presence in the search. So 
 
MR. FAIRLIE. 
 
 127 
 
 the two left Montague Square on their mission 
 westward, amidst many reiterated thanks, and 
 many exclamations of surprise at a benevolence 
 so unexpected and complete. 
 
 ‘‘ It will end,” said the Captain, whom suc- 
 cess had rendered sanguine, confident, and obli- 
 vious to the annoyance caused by Frank’s deser- 
 tion of the sea ; it will end,” said he, taking 
 his companion’s arm, ^^by your becoming a rich 
 man, as you want to be, and by your marrying 
 that nice girl you were talking so pleasantly to 
 upstairs, and who is an heiress certain.” Then 
 suddenly accelerating his pace, as was his wont 
 when moved by some passing emotion, he looked 
 hard at Frank, and said, But never mind about 
 marrying yet. There’s plenty of time; and — 
 and — if we talk of it, you know, we shall make 
 Kate jealous.” 
 
 Why should she be jealous ?” asked Frank, 
 in a tone of surprise. 
 
 But the Captain vouchsafed no reply ; testify- 
 ing by his silence that he thought that she ought 
 
128 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 to be jealous, because he wanted her to be ; and 
 proclaiming also by it that there was a little 
 secret desire in his heart, the revelation of which 
 should extend no further than to the occasional 
 hint he proposed throwing out. 
 
 And Frank finding no answer, forgot in a few 
 moments to repeat the question. 
 
129 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HAMLET.” 
 
 Mrs. Augusta Anderson had hired a piano for 
 fourteen shillings a month. It was the reverse of 
 a good instrument, being obstinate and worn. 
 Obstinate, because it had defied the genius of a 
 hump-backed tuner to render its chords har- 
 monious ; and worn, because the varnish on the 
 two legs was terribly scratched, and the board 
 just above the two pedals dismally kicked by the 
 wandering feet of many a tuneful hammerer. 
 
 G 5 
 
130 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 But neither of these two defects prevented 
 Mrs. Anderson from playing on it ; and really, 
 whether owing to the delicacy of her fingering, 
 or to the richness of the voice, which she always 
 exerted, as if with a view to drown the dissonance 
 of the accompaniment, she managed to pass it off, 
 on the only two friends who visited her, as a very 
 tolerable instrument. 
 
 These two friends were two Poles (father and 
 daughter), and their name was Sofioski. 
 
 They occupied lodgings in a street not far from 
 the residence of Mrs. Anderson ; and this afforded 
 Mrs. Anderson a frequent excuse to pop in on 
 Maguerite Sofioski, and Maguerite Sofioski to pop 
 in on Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 The two gentlemen connected with these ladies 
 sometimes honoured each other with visits also ; 
 but it must be confessed that M. Sofioski was 
 more frequently in Captain Mortimer’s lodgings 
 than Captain Mortimer was in his ; and the reason 
 was obvious. 
 
 Captain Mortimer was a wary man 3 and 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 131 
 
 honoured those only with his friendship from whom 
 he imagined something now or hereafter was to 
 be gained : and a very short intimacy soon proved 
 to him that nothing was to be gained by a friend- 
 ship with M. Sofloski. Indeed, he had to exercise 
 the utmost vigilance lest something should be lost. 
 For M. Sofloski was an enterprising and ingenious 
 man, full of rich schemes for the aggrandisemeut 
 of his friends, provided, that is to say, they sub- 
 mitted to his care a sum of money, which he 
 usually proportioned to the apparent means dis- 
 coverable (and he was keen at such discoveries) 
 in the exterior and mode of life and occupation 
 of the man he solicited. Or did this fail, their 
 aggrandisement was to be assured by merely 
 purchasing a few shares in some company or other, 
 of which he would call himself a director, 
 though the prospectuses were usually silent upon 
 the subject. 
 
 Now, Captain Mortimer, to M. Sofloski, ap- 
 peared to be a man out of whom something might 
 be made-, and, however vague the hope, as a few 
 
132 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 conversations served to intimate to him, neverthe- 
 less whilst there was hope, perseverance might yet 
 be profitable ; and as M. Sofloski’s daughter served 
 very well as a companion for Augusta Anderson, 
 Captain Mortimer tolerated the man in his own 
 lodgings, and sometimes went so far as to pay 
 him a visit in his ; and always made a point of 
 listening with attention to the Pole’s gorgeous 
 schemes, by which wealth was to be easily 
 amassed, and which merely wanted, to render 
 them complete, the two things which Captain 
 Mortimer never had to bestow — faith and 
 money. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson was seated at the piano I have 
 before described, engaged in the process of 
 elaborating Verdi out of its inharmonious keys, 
 when Captain Mortimer, following the foot which 
 he had employed in kicking open the door, 
 walked in. 
 
 As the entrance or presence of Captain 
 Mortimer never seemed to cause a cessation of 
 any aet which Augusta might happen to be 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 135 
 
 engaged in at the moment, she continued singing 
 without hardly turning her head to note tho 
 cause of the noise. 
 
 Silence!” he roared, flinging his hat down 
 upon the table, don’t you know I’m here, and 
 hate that squalling ?” 
 
 She left the piano, and went over to an arm- 
 chair before the fire, in which she seated herself 
 in silence. 
 
 There was something so tiger-like in her tread, 
 something of such suppressed malignity in her 
 movements, that the oath that trembled at the 
 end of Mortimer’s tongue, and with which he 
 intended prefacing some bitter continuation of his 
 first speech, was suspended, and his lip faltered, 
 as he fixed his eye upon her. 
 
 ^‘Well?” he said, after a little, ‘Miave you 
 nothing to tell me ?” 
 
 She turned her face slowly towards him, and 
 quietly answered — 
 
 No ; and you ?” 
 
 If our fortune were left to yourpndustry, God 
 
134 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 help US !” he said, biting off the end of a cigar.^ 
 Then^ putting his hand in his pocket, he pulled 
 out an envelope, which he jerked into her lap. 
 
 She opened it, and found it to contain a box 
 for Drury-lane theatre. 
 
 It is for to-night,” she said, barely glancing" 
 at it ; am 1 to go ?” 
 
 Of course you are. Sit down at once, and ask 
 the Sofloskis to accompany you.” 
 
 She went over to a little desk, which she 
 opened, and commenced writing. He stood by 
 her side reading what she wrote, and blowing his 
 smoke in her face with the profoundest nonchal- 
 ance. When she had addressed the envelope, 
 he touched the bell and bade the servant take the 
 letter at once. 
 
 And suppose they can’t come?” she said. 
 
 Then you can’t go, that is all.” 
 
 Then after a pause, he said. 
 
 That’s just like you ; to raise difficulties by 
 conjecture. Good God ! as if we weren’t beset 
 by enough without imagining others.” 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 135 
 
 She had resumed her seat by the fire-place, 
 with her hands folded before her, and her attitude 
 slightly drooping. So she always sat when the 
 Captain and she were alone together. 
 
 When will dinner be ready ?” he inquired, 
 abruptly. 
 
 She consulted a little watch that hung at her 
 side, and answered. 
 
 In half an hour.” 
 
 I will have a mouthful with you ; it will 
 serve me for lunch. I dine out to-day.” 
 
 Indeed.” 
 
 This in a tone of utter nonchalance. 
 
 You were to dine out, too. Indeed, I 
 promised to bring you; but you musn’t meet him 
 face to face yet.” 
 
 You are speaking of Mr. Fairlie, I suppose ?” 
 said xVugusta, looking up at him with some de- 
 gree of interest in the expression of her face. 
 
 Of whom else ?” 
 
 And did he ask me to dine with him ?” 
 
136 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Yes ; and I know his disappointment will bo 
 snperb, when he finds me walk in alone. He’s 
 amazingly anxious to make your acquaintance > 
 thanks to me. Well, go to the theatre to-night, 
 and let him have a good look at you ; that is all 
 I want. The play is ‘ Hamlet.’ After the third 
 act you must leave ; you must tell the Sofloskis 
 so, mind. My rising and leaving my box with 
 him will be a signal for you to go, too ; do you 
 understand me ?” 
 
 Perfectly.” 
 
 She did not ask him whether he and Mr. Fair- 
 lie had previously arranged to go to the theatre. 
 She had learnt to place a certain faith in him, 
 and acquiesced in all he said. But her acquies- 
 cence was of that lifeless nature such as may be 
 seen in the inanimate activity of the puppet, 
 whose strings are pulled by the showman. It 
 was this that galled him, and was the chief cause 
 of the war; — clamorous on his side, silent on hers 
 ■ — that was always maintained between them. 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 137 
 
 Toucliing Mr. Fairlie, however, her acquiescence 
 ■was full of life. The scheme 'was grateful to her, 
 and she adopted it willinglj'. 
 
 ‘‘ When does the play commence?” she asked. 
 “ At a quarter to eight. You have got a capi- 
 tal box ; it cost me three guineas. Do you under- 
 stand now the value of money ?” 
 
 “I always understood it.” 
 
 “ What dress have you to go in to-night ?” 
 
 “ The one you bought me in Paris.” 
 
 “ That was three years ago ?” 
 
 “ Yes”. 
 
 “ And what of the fashion ? Isn’t it obso- 
 lete ?” 
 
 “ Not that I know of.” 
 
 “Well, dress as you like, but mind you look 
 well. I don’t think you need be reminded there ; 
 but it is a piece of advice, and don’t fail to profit 
 by it. A very great deal depends upon to- 
 night.” 
 
 “ Have you got the secretaryship of the Club, 
 yet ?” 
 
138 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ I shall know to-morrow. Here comes the 
 servant; what do they say?” he asked, as 
 Augusta opened the reply that was placed in her 
 hands. 
 
 They will come.” 
 
 Very well ; I am going up to dress now. If 
 your friends are not willing to leave after the 
 third act, go away yourself ; my leaving my box 
 will be the signal. Bat I don’t think the 
 Sofloskis will be so rude; they will be sure to 
 accompany you.” 
 
 Saying w^hich, he sauntered out of the room, 
 whistling a tune between his teeth. 
 
 At six o’clock he called a cab, and directed the 
 driver to take him to Montague Square. 
 
 He was conducted to the drawdng-room, where 
 he found Mr. Fairlie seated by himself, occupied 
 in turning over the leaves of an album, but in a 
 manner that plainly showed that he was labour- 
 ing under a little nervousness. On the entrance 
 of Mortimer^ he rose and advanced towards him 
 with outstretched hands. 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 139 
 
 Welcome,” lie exclaimed ; welcome.” 
 
 Then he paused, and stood looking in the di- 
 rection of the door, with an expression full of 
 meaning. 
 
 An angler fishing for trout, skims the surface 
 of the water with his fiy for some time before he 
 suffers the fish to snap at it. There is a great 
 cunning in this ; for he knows that the excite- 
 ment of the victim will ensure its destruction. 
 Something of this art was exercised by Morti- 
 mer; for instead of apologising at once, as he 
 well knew he should do, for the absence of his 
 sister, he exclaimed, 
 
 Mr. Fairlie, the taste expressed in the furni- 
 ture of this room is really wonderful. Will you 
 allow me to congratule you upon it ?” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie smiled feebly and bowed. Then 
 again he turned his eyes in the direction of the 
 door. 
 
 Captain Mortimer stood surveying the room 
 apparently in a state of amazement. All at once 
 he turned to his companion. 
 
140 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ M}’’ dear Mr. Fairlie,” he exclaimed, “ will 
 you pardon my rudeness ? The imposing aspect 
 of this really superbly furnished room has abso- 
 lutely caused me to neglect even common courtesy. 
 Sir, I have to oiler you the excuses of my sister 
 Augusta for her inability to avail herself of your 
 kind invitation to-day.” 
 
 He delivered himself of this speech with a 
 certain pompousness of manner, and fixed his 
 eyes upon Mr. Fairlie, as he concluded it. 
 
 “Then she wnll not be here?” said Mr. Fairlie,. 
 turning pale with disappointment. 
 
 “ I regret to say she will not,” answered Mor- 
 timer, urbanely. “ The truth is, that, unknown 
 to me, she had previously engaged herself to some 
 friends to witness a play at Drury-lane Theatre,, 
 to-night. It is annoying, for, strange to say, as a 
 rule, she hardly goes anywhere. Now, any other 
 night but this, she would have been wholly at 
 your disposal.” 
 
 Mr. Farlie’s disappointment was unquestionably 
 great. He turned his head aside and went over 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 141 
 
 to the table and commenced inspecting the out- 
 side of an album as if anxious to conceal his 
 emotion. A slight smile curled Mortimer’s lips, 
 and then he said. 
 
 But I tell you what I propose, Mr. Fairlie. 
 Since she won’t come to us, what say you if we go 
 to her? We can slip into the theatre, and there I 
 can do myself the pleasure of introducing you to 
 her. Eh? are you willing ?’’ 
 
 The suggestion seemed good — at any rate to 
 Mr. Fairlie; for he looked at his companion with 
 a smile, and said, 
 
 Kothing wull suit me better. I haven’t been 
 to Drury-lane Theatre for a long time. I shall 
 quite enjoy it.” 
 
 “ Then that’s agreed,” said Captain Mortimer; 
 after dinner we’ll jump into a cab and get 
 transported there in ten minutes. By the way, 
 though, I fancy I have heard you speak of a 
 daughter — Miss Fairlie — perhaps she will accom- 
 pany us.” 
 
 Thanks — thanks,” said Mr. Fairlie, a little 
 
142 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 hastily. don’t think Mary cares innch for 
 theatres. Besides, she will have to dress for it — 
 and — perhaps we had better not mention the sub- 
 ject before her. She will think I am going to 
 the club ; and — to tell you the truth, Mor- 
 timer, when I go to the theatre, I love to go en 
 garqony 
 
 Mortimer smiled. 
 
 That is certainly the only way to enjoy life, 
 said he. 1 am lovely woman’s, heart and soul. 
 But then I should come to detest her if I were 
 compelled to burden myself always with her — 
 that is to say, to go about with her like the huge 
 hag on the pilgrim’s back in the pictures in 
 Bunyan’s book.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie laughed. 
 
 Come downstairs,” said he, and I’ll intro- 
 duce you to my daughter.” And the two gentle- 
 men left the room. 
 
 There was a library at the end of the hall, and 
 into this Mr. Fairlie conducted Mortimer. Mary 
 w'as seated before a table reading. She seemed 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 143 
 
 to have been unconscious of the arrival of Captain 
 Mortimer, for after being introduced, she 
 apologised to him for not huviug greeted him 
 before. 
 
 The first thing that struck everybody in Mary 
 was her composure. In a beautiful woman this 
 would have been dignity and majesty ; in Mary 
 it was gentleness and sweetness. There was com- 
 posure in her calm eye that fixed itself quietly 
 on the person she addressed or to whom she was 
 listening; there was composure in each action, no 
 matter how slight ; it was confessed in the least 
 movement of her arm, in her walk, in every atti- 
 tude, in her conversation, in her reveries. She 
 seemed like one of those placid stars that appear 
 destined only for a quiet sky. Peace was ex- 
 pressed in her as supremely as ever it was ex- 
 pressed in a midnight orb ; many would have 
 thought that she could subsist only in an atmos- 
 phere of tranquillity, and would have fancied the 
 pale shades of the cloister to have been the 
 
144 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 sphere of life for which nature had intended 
 her. 
 
 It can he easily comprehended that Mortimer, 
 however admirable his abilities in adapting him- 
 self to the peculiarities of every society in which 
 he was thrown, should, in the presence of this 
 young girl, have found it necessary to exercise a 
 very extraordinary vigilance over himself, to 
 guard his real nature from peeping out at those 
 corners of the disguise, wd^ich baffle the efforts of 
 the most cunning to keep pinned. 
 
 He had hardly been ten minutes in her society 
 before he had learned to fear her. He knew^ not 
 why — it might have been his imagination, it 
 might have been the conscience that makes 
 cowards of us all — but he fancied that in the 
 clear, calm eyes that Mary ever and anon fixed 
 upon him, he could discern a microscope that was 
 prying into the innermost recesses of his heart ; 
 reading every thought born of the passing 
 moment, and anticipating its disclosure with the 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 145 
 
 confidence that accompanies profound penetration. 
 He was conscious of the absurdity of attributing 
 to a mere girl a power that he well knew no 
 experience could attain — no radical genius could 
 impart. 
 
 But this imputed power, which therefore 
 virtually existed for him, compelled him to a 
 a conduct which he had never before practised, 
 bound him down to common-place replies and 
 c ommon-place interrogations, and made him 
 in his heart confess the impotence of the devil 
 within him, when it had to oppose the pure 
 fount of peace, and disguise itself before the 
 holiness of innocence. 
 
 It was not until he left the table that he re- 
 gained his composure, and then Mr. Fairlie asked 
 him what he thought of her. 
 
 A charming girl, indeed I” he answered, with 
 apparent enthusiasm, and clever, too, I should 
 think.” 
 
 She is a good girl,” said Mr. Faiilie, fondly. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 H 
 
146 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ If not a rude question, what may be her 
 age 
 
 “ She is seventeen.” 
 
 So youDg !” 
 
 “ She does not look older, surely !” exclaimed 
 Fairlie. 
 
 “ Oh, dear me, no I” answered Mr. Mortimer, 
 who rightly interpreted Mr. Fairlie's exclama- 
 tion. “But with her, age, is not so much a 
 matter of appearance, as character. That appears 
 wonderfully developed in her, considering she is 
 only seventeen. Why, she has all the steadi- 
 ness and manner of a woman of four or five and 
 twenty.” 
 
 “ She has been motherless for a very long 
 time. This may he one reason for the 
 precocity that seems to surprise you. It is 
 strange,” said Mr. Fairlie, with a slight sigh, 
 “ how ameliorating is the influence of a mother 
 over her daughter. Two girls shall start in the 
 world with exactly the same disposition. The 
 one is without, the other is with a mother. By 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 147 
 
 the time these girls are seventeen their disposi- 
 tions shall be as different from each other as 
 possible. The one shall have the character 
 already formed — every word, every action shall 
 tell of maturity; whilst the other shall still be 
 the girl, dependent, yielding, dubious, and so 
 forth.” 
 
 For my part,” said Mortimer, I am inclined 
 to believe that girls get on better in the world 
 without mothers. As a rule mothers generally 
 stand in the way of their daughters’ happiness. 
 They either don’t want them to marry at all and 
 ^ snub ’ every gallant who comes to make love, or 
 ^Ise they force them into the arms they most dis- 
 like and complete the misery by calling it ^ a for- 
 tunate match.’ But what say if we start ?” he 
 added, looking at his watch. It is nearly eight, 
 and the performance begins at half-past seven.” 
 At that moment a servant brought in a letter, 
 which he handed to Mr. Fairlie. With an 
 apology to Mortimer he hastily scanned its con- 
 tents, and placed it in his pocket. 
 
 H 2 
 
148 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Poor old fellow !” said he. “ Mortimer, did 
 you ever get a letter of thanks ?” 
 
 Mortimer glanced at him as if to divine his 
 meaning, then answered, 
 
 “ If I ever did I cannot recollect it.” 
 
 “ I admitted a young fellow into my firm to- 
 day, called Forrester. His friend, one Captain 
 Sandboys, has written to thank me. I wonder 
 how long his gratitude will last ?” 
 
 “ If it is the gratitude of a human being, and 
 such I suppose your friend. Captain Sandboys to 
 be, it will last precisely as long as a snow fiake 
 will last in the sun. That’s a fact evolved from 
 mine own experience 1” 
 
 “ So much the worse for your experience,” said 
 Mr. Fairlie, smiling; “ such facts are the cancers 
 of the mind. Whilst they are remembered they 
 destroy. You must forget them, and kill 
 them.” 
 
 Mortimer shrugged his shoulders, and passing 
 through the hall door that was held open to them 
 by the servant, they got into the street. 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 149 
 
 Must not Miss Fairlie feel rather lonely in 
 that big house all aJone ; I mean alone, as you 
 are leaving her now ?” asked Mortimer. 
 
 ^^No. On the contrary, she declares she likes 
 to be left alone. But this I hardly believe. I 
 should like to secure a nice companion for her ; 
 one who could appreciate her and understand 
 her, for I am afraid there are some of her own 
 sex who don’t.” 
 
 ‘‘ I should like Gussy to know her,” said Mor- 
 timer, hailing a cab. 
 
 So shotfld I,” said Mr. Fairlie; ^‘but what’s 
 to prevent it ?” 
 
 Nothing at all. I hope she’ll possess that 
 pleasure in a few days.” 
 
 From your description of Mrs. Anderson I 
 fancy she is exactly one whom my daughter would 
 take to at once.” 
 
 Mortimer answered yes, and then turned his 
 head away to conceal the hard smile that writhed 
 his lips, and which even in the uncertain light 
 he dreaded lest his companion should see. 
 
150 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 It was not long before they arrived at the doors 
 of the theatre, and here they held a short con- 
 sultation on the steps. 
 
 “ I think,” said Mortimer, “ that the stalls 
 will do.” 
 
 He was uncertain as to which of them was ex- 
 pected to pay for their admission, and he was 
 anxious to combine economy with the end he had 
 in view, in so far as it would well suit the purpose. 
 
 “ You had much better let me take a box,” said 
 Mr. Fairlie ; “we are then rendered more acces- 
 sible, and at the same time can perform our visits 
 with less difficulty. Now in the stalls it is 
 always a labour to wedge through the obstruction 
 of muslin and crinoline. ” 
 
 “Very true, sir,” said Mortimer. “If you 
 take my advice you will ask for No. 68. It’s a 
 capital box — indeed, the best in the house, to my 
 mind. I know it well.” 
 
 Of course he knew it, for when he had taken 
 the box for his sister in the morning he had seen 
 that No. 68 was almost exactly opposite it. 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 151 
 
 Mr. Fairlie having paid the money — though 
 Mortimer had insisted on paying all, or if not all, 
 at least his share ; but his resolution had been 
 vehemently and successfully opposed by his com- 
 panion, as Mortimer knew it would — they 
 mounted the staircase, and were ushered into 
 their box. 
 
 One hasty glance Mortimer threw opposite^ 
 then suffered his eyes to fall, and appeared to be 
 contemplating the pit. But the glance had 
 satisfied him. Augusta was seated at the side of 
 the box furthest from the stage, her eyes fixed 
 upon the performance, which had commenced. 
 Her splendidly modelled arm lay negligently 
 along the cushion, and she clasped an opera glass 
 which she now suffered to remain unemployed. 
 She looked superb. Her profile was only visible 
 from where our two friends were seated ; but 
 the position of her head was the best calculated 
 to display what could be seen of her in its whole 
 perfection — the grand sweep of hair knotted up 
 
152 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 SO daintily behind, the beautiful outline of her 
 throat and neck, and the perfect contour of her 
 bust in which was placed a single] white flower. 
 On her dress I am incompetent to pass an opinion, 
 not being versed in such matters. But it became 
 her, and I can say no more. 
 
 The bald head of the Pole, M. Sofloski, peered 
 overheratthestage,andbyher sidesat Marguerite, 
 who, though when alone she might have been 
 accounted a pretty girl, opposed to or contrasted 
 with Augusta, was a star to the sun — was, in short, 
 just what an ordinary pretty girl would be when 
 compared to a magnificent woman. 
 
 A piece of declamation had just been concluded, 
 and the declaimer had marched off" the stage to 
 the sound of music. At this moment Augusta 
 slowly turned her stately head, and calmly ran 
 her eye along the opposite boxes. All at once 
 she encountered the form of Mortimer, with his 
 face turned in her direction, and with his com- 
 panion bending towards him as if in the act of 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 153 
 
 speaking, Instantly she averted her gaze, but 
 without a muscle of her face changing, and once 
 more fixed her eyes upon the stage. 
 
 Mortimer had met her glance, and knew that 
 she had seen him. This was enough. He did 
 not wish to be recognised by her friends, so he 
 slightly pulled the curtain to, and sat himselt 
 down within its shadow. 
 
 What Mr. Fairlie had been saying was this — 
 
 ‘‘ What part of the house do you say Mrs. 
 Anderson is in ?” 
 
 She is in one of those boxes opposite.” 
 
 Which one ?” inquired Mr. Fairlie, staring 
 with all his eyes. 
 
 It will amuse me to see if you can find her 
 out,” said Mortimer, seating himself. Then, 
 handing an opera glass to his friend, he said. 
 Look well ; and of all the women opposite, and 
 every box is full, tell me which you think the 
 most worthy of the one I have so often talked to 
 you about.” 
 
154 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Then resting his head in his hand, he appeared 
 to watch the action on the stage. 
 
 “ There is a splendid woman in the box directly 
 opposite to ours,” said Mr. Fairlie, after a leng- 
 thened survey, “ but she is too far for me to 
 recognise her as bearing any resemblance to the 
 carte-de-visite I have of Mrs. Anderson. More- 
 over, I can only catch a side view. Ah ! now 
 she turns. What eyes ! I have you, Mortimer 1 
 That’s your sister for a hundred pounds.” 
 
 “ Which box do you mean ?” and Mortimer 
 peeped out from behind his screen. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie indicated it by a slight gesture of 
 the head. 
 
 “ You are right,” said Mortimer, falling back- 
 wards again, “ that’s my sister Augusta.” 
 
 And with eyes half closed he narrowly watched 
 the expression on Mr. Fairlie’s features, who, 
 with his glasses levelled at Mrs. Anderson, sat 
 almost motionless. 
 
 After a pause, Mortimer said. 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 155 
 
 Well, what is your opinion?” 
 
 She is splendid — splendid !” murmured Mr. 
 Fairlie. 
 
 ‘‘ Then you do not condemn me for exaggera- 
 tion ?” 
 
 “ For exaggeration !” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, 
 lowering his glasses, and turning to his com- 
 panion. “ ni tell you what, Mortimer, I have 
 seen a great many fair and lovely women in my 
 life, but never did I see a woman more fair and 
 lovely than she. What she is near I cannot con- 
 jecture ; what she is there is an embodiment of 
 everything that is grand and beautiful,” 
 
 He spoke so earnestly that Mortimer uttered 
 a short laugh. 
 
 Take care, Mr. Fairlie,” he said, “ or Augusta 
 will make a conquest of you.” 
 
 But the remark seemed to fall unheeded, for 
 once again was Mr. Fairlie busy with his opera 
 glasses. 
 
 At this moment the curtain fell upon the first 
 
156 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 act, and the buzz that followed this movement 
 filled the theatre. 
 
 When Mortimer looked out, he perceived that 
 Augusta had given up her chair to M. Sofloski, 
 and had retired within the box where her outline 
 could only be traced, and whence she was evi- 
 dently regarding unseen the form and features of 
 Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 “ You will permit me the pleasure of making 
 her acquaintance to-night, Mortimer,” said Mr. 
 Fairlie. 
 
 “ Certainly. I was thinking of going round to 
 her after the next act. Will that suit you?” 
 
 “ Admirably.” 
 
 He could now no longer see her, and remained 
 chatting with Mortimer, ever and anon stealing a 
 long glance in her direction. 
 
 In his heart Mortimer cursed Augusta for de- 
 serting her place. He wanted her to he always 
 there, that his companion might drink his fill of 
 her charms. Her withdrawal, however, was evi- 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 157 
 
 dently a little bit of feminine cunning, contrived 
 partly that she might have a good stare at Mr . 
 Fairlie without his perceiving her — for this 
 woman, like every other woman, had curiosity — 
 and partly that by this measure she might excite 
 his expectation when she should resume her 
 position. 
 
 This thought afterwards flashed across her fel- 
 low schemer ; and as he commended it^ it was 
 the reason of his not mentioning it to her subse- 
 quently. 
 
 At the commencement of the overture to act 
 the second, she came forward, and the Pole with- 
 drew to his former seat. Whether purposely or 
 not, she soon entered into an animated conversa- 
 tion with the young girl by her side, and some- 
 times she would turn and look, as if accidentally, 
 in the direction of Mr. Fairlie’s box, disclosing as 
 she did so her flashing eyes — flashing even at 
 that distance, and the white teeth gleaming 
 through her parted lips. 
 
 When act the second was over, Mortimer left 
 
158 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the box, and Mr. Fairlie remained alone. Ho 
 was agitated — as agitated as a man profoundly in 
 love with a stranger can be just before he is 
 about to be introduced to her. But the gallant 
 broke through the restrictions of nervousness^ 
 and he pulled up his collars, and touched up his 
 whiskers and hair, and arranged his cravat, and 
 entered into all those minute improvements very 
 well known to mankind in general, and to beaux 
 or bucks in particular. 
 
 His eye was fastened upon the box opposite, 
 but he observed no movement take place amongst 
 its occupants. When anybody enters from be* 
 hind in such places, it is the signal for every 
 head simultaneously to turn round and see who 
 it is. But beyond the movements incidental to 
 a light conversation, the heads in this case re- 
 mained more or less quiet, and at last the bang 
 of the . orchestra announced that act the third was 
 about to commence. 
 
 Up went the curtain, and at the same moment 
 Mortimer entered. 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 iry 
 
 My mission/’ said lie, in an apologetic tone, 
 has been interrupted by an accident of frequent 
 occurrence in such places as these. Hardly had 
 I left you, when who should I meet but Swann, 
 my old friend Swann , of the — th. He instantly 
 pinned me, and before I knew where I was the 
 performances had begun again. However, we’ll 
 go round together after this act; you know I 
 have mentioned your name to my sister, and, 
 entre nous^ I believe she is awfully anxious to 
 know you. Hem ! ah ! woman, woman !” 
 
 From this apostrophe, it might seem that 
 Swann, of the — th, in other words, that ‘‘ the 
 accident of frequent occurrence in such places,” 
 was in reality nothing more nor less than a glass 
 of whiskey toddy. But this is a mere conjecture, 
 and must be accepted as such. It is not the 
 less certain, however, that such an apostrophe as 
 that uttered by Captain Mortimer, who was 
 rather of an inflammable disposition, might have 
 been provoked by such a cause. 
 
 ^^But does Mrs. Anderson know you are here?” 
 asked Mr. Fairlie. 
 
ICO 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ No ; that’s the beauty of it. I don’t want 
 her to see me, so that we’ll give her a pleasant 
 surprise. You see she doesn’t know you, al- 
 though I fancy she’s looked once or twice in this 
 direction. But what if she has actually noticed 
 you ; won’t it astound her to see you in her box ? 
 to know that the gentleman she has been — eh — 
 hem — is actually Mr. Fairlie himself.” 
 
 And he gave his companion the slyest nudgo 
 in the world in the ribs with his elbow, and sat 
 himself down behind his curtain. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie laughed a gratified laugh, and again 
 employed his glasses in the direction of Mrs. An- 
 derson’s box. 
 
 The third act in Hamlet, as all the world 
 knows, is the most interesting act in the play. 
 The little tragedy within the great tragedy was 
 acted remarkably well on that particular night, 
 and the terror of the king, with the speech of the 
 eccentric hero, were rendered in a manner that 
 “ elicited,” to use the words of the newspapers 
 of the day, “ the most rapturous applause.” Per- 
 haps the power of Shakespeare was never more 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 161 
 
 signally demonstrated than in this : that before 
 long he had attracted the eyes and attention of 
 Mr. Fairlie to himself, even to the transient ob - 
 liviousness of the great witchery that exercised 
 its fascination from the opposite side. Yes, ab- 
 sorbed in the action of the drama, Mr. Fairlie 
 had actually forgotten for a brief while the pre- 
 sence of Augusta Anderson ; and it was not until 
 the curtain had fallen, and the applause was re- 
 echoing, that, drawing a long breath, Mr. Fairlie 
 looked at the box where Augusta had been seated 
 and found — that it was empty I 
 
 Hallo !” he exclaimed, they have left their 
 box.” 
 
 ‘‘ Who ?” asked Mortimer, who had feigned an 
 equal interest in the scene. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson and her party.” 
 
 Captain Mortimer rose and looked out. 
 
 ‘‘ By Jove ! ” he exclaimed, you’re right. 
 But let’s follow them; perhaps they are only 
 walking in the corridor.” 
 
 They hurried out, Mortimer leading, and took 
 the circuit of the box-tier. 
 
162 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ They’re not here,” said Mortimer ; “ perhaps 
 they’re downstairs.” 
 
 And downstairs they went, and stood in the 
 doorway, just as a cab, with a fair arm waving 
 to him from its window, rolled away from the 
 side of the colonnade. 
 
 “Yes, that was Gussy,” said Mortimer. “What 
 on earth takes them off so early ? Is it not pro- 
 voking to miss them like this ?” 
 
 His companion made no reply, but by the 
 fumbling manner in which he drew on his gloves, 
 it was apparent that his feelings were none of the 
 most enviable. 
 
 “Shall we stop and see the play out?” asked 
 Mortimer. 
 
 “ No,” answered Mr. Fairlie, passing his arm 
 through his companion’s ; “ let us call a cab 
 and go home.” 
 
163 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND TO OCCUR A SETTLE- 
 MENT AND A COLLOQUY. 
 
 After the departure of Captain Saudboys from 
 Montague Square, he and Frank had busied 
 themselves with looking out for a little house 
 suitable for their accommodation. They had 
 bent their steps in the direction of Bays- 
 water, but before reaching there had devi- 
 ated into the neighbourhood of St. John’s 
 Wood, where, after a good deal of exploration^ 
 
164 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 they had at length lighted upon a residence that 
 seemed the very precise thing they wanted. 
 
 “ I think,” the Captain had said, complacently 
 gazing around him with both hands fixed in his 
 pockets, “ I think we shan’t find anything better 
 than this. There is a little garden at the back 
 which will amuse Kate to weed and cultivate, 
 and a little garden in the front, which gives the 
 place a wholesome kind of look. Moreover, there 
 are two spare bed-rooms, and the parlour and 
 drawing-room are as cosy as can be. I don’t 
 fancy, Frank, that we can improve upon it.” 
 
 He, nevertheless, refused to give a definite 
 answer until Frank had concluded his business 
 with Mr. Fairlie. The next morning, however, 
 settled both, for Frank had returned to the little 
 hotel in the Strand, at which they had put up, 
 elated with his success, Mr. Fairlie having 
 offered him the vacant clerkship at a commenc- 
 ing salary of ninety-five pounds a year, his duties 
 to commence exactly that day week. Where- 
 upon the Captain had immediately written and 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 165 
 
 posted two letters — one to the agent of the house 
 in St. John^s Wood; the other to Mr. Fairlie, 
 thanking him for his kindness. 
 
 The whole of the week was occupied by Captain 
 Sandboys in furnishing his new home. A good 
 many things had to be purchased^ but then a 
 good deal of his furniture at Yartlepool was ser- 
 viceable. His anxiety was to be settled in London 
 ready for Frank, and the old man worked so 
 energetically and with such effect that before the 
 Saturday had come round, he had actually had 
 Kate and Mrs. Peake transmitted to London, 
 though the house was aL topsy-turvy, and not 
 even a carpet down. But having accomplished 
 so much the rest was comparatively easy, and 
 leaving Mrs. Peake and Kate in charge of the 
 bewildering little house, the Captain returned for 
 a few days to Yartlepool to look after his affairs, 
 and to wait for the result of the resignation he 
 had sent in. 
 
 At last Kate was in London ; and this fact 
 Kate seemed to relish with the most intense 
 
166 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 satisfaction. What there was about London 
 especially to delight her, whether her pleasure 
 arose from the anticipation of joys to come, of 
 plays to be seen, of operas to be known, of balls 
 to be attended, cannot now be known ; but that 
 something of all this was mingled with the cause 
 that inspired the sparkling eye and smiling mouth, 
 may be with the utmost confidence stated. 
 
 Mrs. Peake, however, was quite the contrary 
 of all this. With her — and even had nature not 
 prohibited the first, dissatisfaction would have 
 marred the second — there was neither sparkling 
 eye nor smiling mouth, but lugubriousness and 
 melancholy, and discontent. For the week pre- 
 vious to their departure from Yartlepool she had 
 gone about to her work of packing up and 
 arranging matters, with that kind of solemn and 
 discontented energy with which we might imagine 
 a ghost would exert itself, who was bid to gather 
 up its coffin and the bones of its late mortal tene- 
 ment, and depart from the spot in which it had so 
 long reposed in peace. On her reaching London 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 167 
 
 she sought to ease her irritability by darting many 
 obscure hints, not without a certain exactness, at 
 the Captain, violently dusting the furniture, or 
 thrusting things in their places as she declaimed 
 in language severe, and sometimes sarcastic, 
 against the vices of London, and the weakness 
 of the Captain in deserting Yartlepool for the 
 sakes of two young people who would, mark 
 her, soon weary of the change, and long for the 
 old haunt. 
 
 To this and a good deal more the Captain list- 
 ened without comment, unless the occasional 
 deprecating or protesting wave of his hand could 
 be accepted as such. He was very much attached 
 to Mrs. Peake, and considered that by her long 
 service she had honestly earned the right to ex- 
 press herself as she liked. He did not attempt 
 to argue the question with the old woman, being 
 well aware that she had, from the remotest period, 
 made up her mind that Yartlepool was the only 
 place in the world really fit to be lived in ; and, 
 perhaps, it was because in his heart of hearts he 
 
168 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ■was secretly of a mind with the old nurse that 
 he thought it best to say nothing, lest a word 
 might cause him to commit himself, and render 
 her triumphant by proving him to he of her 
 opinion. 
 
 Time passed, and the day came round that was 
 to usher Frank in to his new capacity. 
 
 The firm of Fairlie had offices in Cannon Street. 
 These offices were well known to the habitues 
 of the City, not only from their name, but from 
 the enormous plates that projected from each side 
 of the door, the inscription upon which could he 
 read some considerable distance down the street. 
 They were very frequently full of beef-faced and 
 sandy- whiskered men, with brass buttons sewn 
 on their blue coats and waistcoats, and wearing 
 caps with badges, or braids of twisted gold wire 
 — captains, chief mates, and second mates, in 
 the employment of the firm of Fairlie, who made 
 all kinds of applications at these offices, and re- 
 ceived all kinds of instructions. It was rather 
 curious and amusing to watch the freemasonry 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 
 
 169 
 
 that subsisted amongst these visitors. They ad- 
 dressed each other with the familiarity of old ac- 
 quaintance, and if they had to wait long before 
 their several requests could be attended to, they 
 would break into little groups, and maintain ani- 
 mated conversations upon the sailing qualities of 
 such and such a vessel, upon the new invention 
 in the shape of a lowering apparatus for boats ; 
 upon the excellence of double topsail yards over 
 the single ; upon an improved principle of keep- 
 ing a log-book ; upon some recent astronomical 
 discovery, or so on. 
 
 The foreman — or to dignify him with a loftier 
 title, the manager — of the firm, was one Mr. 
 Andrew Johnstone, a thin, weak, sallow little 
 Scotchman, keen as a needle, and as sharp, with 
 all that useful implement’s power of minute 
 penetration. In short, it seemed as if nature in 
 making him had been anxious to discover how 
 far it was possible to fashion a human being in 
 the resemblance of a needle. Not beyond the 
 mere conceit conveyed in the idea, that there was 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 I 
 
170 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 any more marked similarity, because Mr. John- 
 stone had only one eye, the other having been 
 extinguished at an early age by the random mis- 
 sile of a careless schoolboy; but in the thinness 
 of his shape, in the clear sharpness of his small 
 voice, in the piercing glance of his one eye, and 
 in the general penetrating peculiarity of every 
 one of his faculties, moral as well as physical, it 
 was that the resemblance lay ; and this so 
 obvious, that it had become a standing joke 
 among the lesser clerks employed beneath him. 
 
 The house of Fairlie commenced business at 
 half-past ten ; and at half-past ten on the morn- 
 ing of the day named by Mr. Fairlie, Frank 
 Forrester presented himself. It was not Mr. 
 Fairlie’s practice of being punctual himself at his 
 offices. Indeed, he frequently abstained from 
 
 t 
 
 appearing at all for a whole day, sometimes two ; 
 and once, but once only, for a whole week. But 
 on this particular morning, some engagements 
 had demanded his presence at the commencement 
 of the day; and therefore, on Frank’s en- 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUT. 171 
 
 trance, the first person his eye rested upon was 
 Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 “ That’s right,” said he, shaking Frank by the 
 hand, and looking up at the clock ; “ punctual to 
 the moment. A capital commencement, and one 
 which, if steadily practised, will certainly lead 
 y'ou to the fortune you have entered the City to 
 make. For you know,” said he, with a smile, 
 “ punctuality is the religion of a business man.” 
 Then, turning to a young man that at that mo- 
 ment emerged from an inner oflSce, he exclaimed, 
 “ Charlie, I want to introduce you to a new as- 
 sociate. Mr. Forrester, this is my nephew, Mr. 
 Charles Seymour.” 
 
 The two young men bowed to each other, and 
 Seymour, clasping the hand that Frank had prof- 
 fered, shook it warmly. 
 
 The least possible assumption of superiority, 
 which was, perhaps, less his fault than the fault 
 of his position, was the only feature in Mr. Fair- 
 lie’s manner that to a stranger would have dis- 
 tinguished him as something more than the two 
 
 I 2 
 
172 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 clerks with whom he stood good-naturedly con- 
 versing. This geniality of demeanour towards 
 those whom the accidents or misfortunes of life 
 had placed in positions inferior to his, was not 
 the least amiable trait in his character, and one 
 that caused him to be regarded almost with 
 affection by those he employed. He was by no 
 means, however a business man in the correct 
 sense of the word. He left the management of 
 his affairs almost entirely to Mr. Johnstone, for 
 he could never have managed them himself. His 
 father had never instructed him in the business 
 which he had bequeathed to him ; and, perhaps, 
 it was owing to this comparative ignorance of 
 the more minute sciences of commerce and to 
 the absence of those idiosyncrasies which in- 
 variably attend this knowledge, and which enter 
 so largely into the composition of your thorough- 
 paced City man, that his manners in the hours of 
 business were precisely those he possessed in the 
 drawing-room, unconstrained by the fact of his 
 having some beneath him whom, because he paid 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 
 
 173 
 
 them for their labour, he was at liberty to insult 
 by a supercilious or arrogant behaviour. 
 
 There is a very great deal more in first impres- 
 sions than people are willing to believe. They 
 are the superstitions that the mind instinctively 
 attaches to the object it surveys ; and like all 
 superstitions they are powerful to infiuence our 
 actions and to regulate our conduct. Nor, when 
 once inspired, are they easily subdued. 
 
 Frank’s first impression of Charlie Seymour 
 was that he was a very good fellow, a complete 
 gentleman, and a man likely to make a true 
 friend. These three notions fiashed across him 
 even as they stood together clasping hands, and 
 how far this intuitive perception of the mind was 
 right we shall see in a future page. 
 
 Perhaps this good opinion so suddenly enter- 
 tained was owing in a great measure to Sey- 
 mour’s exterior, which was, to say the least, pre- 
 possessing. He was a little above the middle 
 height, inclined to be fair, with a fine eye, a well 
 shaped nose, a great quantity of dark auburn, 
 
174 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 curly hair, which was evidently sought to be sub-^ 
 dued into a discreet flatness, but which defied 
 every attempt, and a light moustache small 
 enough to disclose a mouth the expression of 
 which was as full of frankness, candour, and 
 amiability, as any such mouth can possibly ex- 
 press. And every observer knows that the 
 mouth can express a very great deal. 
 
 When Mr. Fairlie had left them, the two young 
 men grew quite communicative, and commenced 
 to exchange confidences, — one of the invariable 
 proofs of an incipient friendship. 
 
 ‘^Then you don’t live at home with your 
 uncle ?” said Frank. 
 
 No. I prefer the independence of lodgings. 
 My rooms are in Harley Street. Here is my ad- 
 dress. You must come and see me.” 
 
 You are very good,” said Frank, pocketing 
 the card ; and you must also come and see me. 
 My old governor — I call him governor, you 
 know, but he is only a sort of guardian — will 
 jump out of his skin to welcome you; and I am 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 
 
 175 
 
 sure Kate, who is Captain Sandboys’ daughter, 
 will thank me for introducing you. We liave 
 only just commenced London life, and I know 
 my people will be gratified if I can only bring 
 home one as a friend out of the countless swarms 
 of strangers that thicken the streets.” 
 
 I suppose/’ said Seymour, bowing his reply 
 to his companion’s invitation, “ that my uncle 
 introduced you to Mary ?” 
 
 No ; we introduced ourselves. I had the 
 pleasure of a very agreeable half-hour’s chat with 
 her whilst waiting for Mr. Fairlie.” 
 
 “ I was thinking,” said Seymour, somewhat 
 thoughtfully, ^Hhat Mary might find in your — 
 sister, shall I call her ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Do you mean Kate ? Oh ! yes, call her my 
 sister, for she is so in one sense. But then why 
 not call her Kate ?” 
 
 Not yet,” answered Seymour, with a grave 
 smile ; the time may come when I shall 
 be sufficiently intimate with you all to claim 
 that favour. But to revert to what I was 
 
176 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 saying. Mary, you know, is my cousin, and 
 therefore I am naturally supposed to feel some 
 interest in her. Now without any suppositions at 
 all, I am greatly interested in her; and I am 
 often pained by thinking how dull the poor child 
 must be all alone in that big house. I don’t 
 suppose she wants a companion, else she would 
 procure one ; but I am very well satisfied she 
 ought to have one, for, with all due deference tn 
 my uncle, — who, I am afraid, does not exactly 
 understand his own daughter’s character — he is 
 not wholly the society which a young girl would 
 select. For you know, all girls have heaps of 
 confidences to impart, which they can only tell 
 each other. It has been my hobby for some time 
 to get Mary a congenial companion, and as she 
 is a thoroughly amiable and good girl, I am sure 
 I shan’t have any difficulty in suiting her. You 
 must therefore introduce me to your sister — I 
 call her your sister, you see — and I’ll ask her to 
 grant me the favour of knowing Mary and being 
 her friend.” 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 
 
 177 
 
 Which she’ll be delighted to do. And by 
 Jove, I’m the man to further your schemes in 
 such a good cause. ’’ 
 
 You mustn’t think that my attachment to 
 Mary,” said Seymour, with a slight blush, is of 
 any other nature than — ” 
 
 Then checking himself, as if the remark he 
 was about to make was quite unnecessary, he 
 said, 
 
 am going to dine with my uncle next 
 Friday. Do you think your friends would join 
 us (yourself included), if my uncle invited 
 them ?” 
 
 I haven’t the least doubt of it,” answered 
 Frank. 
 
 Very well; we will consider that as arranged. 
 It will be a domestic affair ; no dress or fuss, you 
 know.” 
 
 So be it,” said Frank. 
 
 And then their conversation drifted away into 
 other channels. 
 
178 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Now that the nail is well in, we had better 
 clinch it,” said Captain Mortimer, to Mrs. 
 Augusta Anderson, as the two sat together in 
 their room in Garley Sti’eet; ‘‘he has asked us 
 to dinner to-morrow, and we must go.” 
 
 “ Very well,” said Augusta ; “ 1 will go.” 
 
 “ He has seen you now twice in three days, and 
 I suppose you know that it is possible to excite a 
 man to such a pitch, that the next step will bring 
 him to the emotion of disgust.” 
 
 “ That is true,” said Augusta. 
 
 “ If I were more certain of his character, I 
 could act with more confidence,” said Captain 
 Mortimer, biting off the end of a cigar and mak- 
 ing a movement for his companion to get him a 
 light ; “ but you see,” he said, taking the flam- 
 ing spill from her hand, and pausing between his 
 words, as he pufied at his cigar, “ it won’t do to 
 keep a man too long, like Mahomet’s coffin, sus- 
 pended in nothing between two somethings. He 
 evidently wants you — is in love with you, and you 
 had better be introduced to him and see what he 
 says.” 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY, 179 
 
 Then I will accompany you to his house to- 
 morrow,” said Augusta. 
 
 You must be awfully particular in your be- 
 haviour, mind, because we have to meet some 
 strangers. 1 mean,” he said, remarking the in- 
 dignant and contemptuous glance that Augusta 
 threw at him, you must suppress all tendency 
 to spooneying and so forth. Above all, muke 
 friends with his daughter Mary ; if once she has 
 the faintest suspicion of anything, she will play 
 the devil with the whole affair, and ruin us. I 
 wish to heaven I could get that girl out of the 
 way.” 
 
 Why don’t you marry her ?” asked Augusta, 
 cooly, and without a smile. 
 
 Marry her ! ” exclaimed Mortimer, as if 
 thunderstruck at the suggestion. Hem ! Gad ! 
 see her first before you put such idiotic questions.” 
 
 Is she plain ?” 
 
 Oh ! hang her looks ; I don’t value them a 
 bit. But she’s not plain either, though she’s not 
 
180 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 pretty. No ; look into her eyes, then you’ll 
 know what I mean.” 
 
 ‘‘ Have I anything to fear from her ?” asked 
 Augusta, looking up. 
 
 “ Not if you’re clever — and yet, I don’t know. 
 She is possessed of a pair of those cold, passion- 
 less, penetrating eyes, which pierce through 
 every disguise, and make fools of the masker.” 
 
 “ How old is she ?” inquired Augusta. 
 
 “ Not more than eighteen or nineteen, I should 
 say.” 
 
 “ And you think,” exclaimed Augusta, draw- 
 ing erect her fine figure and curling her lips into 
 an expression of profound scorn, “ that this child 
 of eighteen is a match for me ! or perhaps,” she 
 added, after a moment’s pause, and with a slight 
 shrug of the shoulder, “ you are trying to pique 
 me into a greater display of my powers.” 
 
 “ I hope you don’t want to be piqued, as you 
 call it, into the display that you must make if 
 you wish to succeed,” he said, rudely. 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 181 
 
 ^^You need not be alarmed/’ sbe answered ; I 
 shall succeed.” 
 
 I hope you may.” 
 
 There was a pause, and then Captain Mortimer 
 said, 
 
 He was wild enough when you had left the 
 theatre, but he was still wilder yesterday.” 
 
 Do you mean in the Park ?” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 How did I do that?” 
 
 Pretty well,” he answered carelessly. You 
 disappeared at the proper moment ; that was all I 
 cared about.” 
 
 Marguerite was very curious to know the 
 motive of my sudden departure, and — «” 
 
 Oh hang Marguerite !” interrupted Captain 
 Mortimer. What has she to find fault with ? 
 she had — ” 
 
 I didn’t say that she found fault,” interrupted * 
 Augusta. 
 
 ‘‘ The gratification of riding in a brougham 
 which she hadn't to pay for,” continued Mortimer. 
 
182 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Since I hired it for your use, I suppose you had: 
 the liberty to do what you liked with it/’ 
 
 Of course ; and so I did.” 
 
 The fool, in his excitement, actually wanted 
 to take a hansom cab and follow you. But 
 hardly had he made the proposition, when he 
 blushed scarlet, and appeared so embarrassed that 
 to relieve him I pretended not to hear the remark. 
 But I’ve found out that this sort of thing will 
 answer our purpose no more. It has been carried 
 on now exactly long enough, and it’s a matter 
 which, if extended beyond its limits, will end in 
 a failure.” 
 
 So I think,” she said, leaning back in her 
 chair, and playing with her watchguard, there- 
 fore, as this is wholly a matter of business, the 
 sooner it is concluded the better.” 
 
 You are quite right. To-morrow I’ll carry 
 you with me to dine with him. I shall lunch at 
 the club, and will be with you by six. There 
 will be seven or eight of us ; for, besides our- 
 selves, there is to be an old Captain Sandboys 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 18S 
 
 and his daughter, and a clerk. So Fairlie told 
 me. However, we needn’t mind that. Play 
 your game well ; that’s all you’ve got to do. The 
 odds are wonderfully in your favour, and your 
 chief opponent is a fool.” 
 
 “You mean Mr. Fairlie?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 She left she chair and commenced pacing 
 the room backwards and forwards, suggesting, 
 in an extraordinary manner, by her movements, 
 the tiger, as it is expressed by its fierce, lissome 
 beauty and the light, velvet, stealing action of its 
 tread. 
 
 Mortimer did not notice her, his eyes being 
 fixed upon the toes of his boots, which he was 
 reposing upon the fender. 
 
 At last she came to a dead stop, and fixing her 
 eyes upon him, said, 
 
 “ You think I am idle, whilst you are working 
 for me. And I let you think so, because I can - 
 not show you the result of my labour yet. But 
 I tell you that you must not think your brain 
 
184 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 more active than this,” tapping her forehead, 
 because it seems to sleep, and easily adopts 
 every scheme put forward by your ingenuity.” 
 
 “ What now ?” he asked, looking round at her 
 with a slightly wondering expression, 
 
 ‘‘ From the first,” she said, still intently gaz- 
 ing at him, and standing almost motionless upon 
 the spot where she had arrested her footsteps, 
 “ you have told me that this man has a daughter ; 
 now you tell me that she is likely to upset our 
 plans. I tell you that for her, had she even 
 the genius of twenty thousand cunning women 
 concentrated in her mind, I should have, and 
 have no more fear than for the senseless piece of 
 China- work there,” she said , pointing to a little 
 figure on the mantelpiece. 
 
 “ Well, who said that you need be frightened 
 of her ?” Mortimer asked, still looking at her. 
 
 “No one. It’s not that,” she answered, ap- 
 proaching him by a stride, and speaking in a 
 subdued voice ; “ bat she is his only child, and a 
 daughter, and fathers are fond of their only 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY, 185^ 
 
 daughters — very fond, as a rule. She cannot 
 prevent me becoming his wife if I will it ; but 
 she may divide his property with me— divide it ! 
 ay, she may have left to her the greater bulk of 
 it, and would that pay us, Mortimer ?” 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders with a grave kind 
 of contemptous gesture, as he answered. 
 
 You are counting your chickens before 
 they are hatched. Marry him first. These are 
 matters that are easily settled after.” 
 
 Yes,” she said, ‘‘ but one step must follow 
 the other. There are many steps to be taken in 
 this matter, and is it not wise to try and see down 
 them as far as we can, so that when we approach 
 them we may not approach them like fools?” 
 True, if trying were any good. But then it 
 isn’t, and you had much better, therefore, confine 
 yourself to the present. Deal with one thing at 
 a time : you can conquer circumstances so ; but 
 if you attempt to deal with everything at once, 
 circumstances will conquer you.” 
 
 There was a shrewd philosopy in this remark,. 
 
186 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 and it seemed to impress A ugusta as such ; for- 
 she turned and recommenced her pacing to and 
 fro in silence. 
 
 Indeed, they both maintained silence for some 
 time now, evidently being abstracted in thought. 
 The few remarks uttered by Augusta seemed to 
 have opened a new vein of ideas in Mortimer’s 
 mind. The discovery appeared to have excited 
 him too, somewhat; for sometimes he would 
 smile, and sometimes frown, and sometimes his 
 lips would mutter inaudible fancies, and some- 
 times he would turn, as if mechanically, to eye 
 the majestic form of his companion, who still 
 noiselessly paced the room. 
 
 With her, however, if there were any excite- 
 ment, it was wholly unapparent. The marvels 
 and the mysteries of the hidden spirit that stirred 
 within her, found no reflection in her composed 
 features. True, from her eyes a random ray oc- 
 casionally gleamed forth, as if through them 
 only could the pent up spirit find an outlet for 
 the passions with which it was surcharged ; but 
 
A SETTLEMENT AND A COLLOQUY. 187 
 
 the lips, compressed, not as if from determination, 
 hut from a mere effect of habit ; the pale cheek ; 
 the marble brow ; the erect, haughty posture told 
 of nothing of that which was within : told only a 
 tale that could admit of twenty hundred interpre- 
 tations by any one vain or stupid enough to 
 attempt the construction of that which he could 
 not comprehend. 
 
188 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MRS. Anderson’s first introduction. 
 
 Captain Sandboys was at Yartlepool when Kate- 
 had forwarded him the invitation to dine with 
 Mr. Fairlie, and the old man, partly out of desire 
 to please Kate, partly to advance the interests of 
 Frank, and partly to gratify himself, though this 
 was surely but one segment in the circle of his 
 motives, had taken the train to London, and had 
 got home just in time to change his clothes and, 
 start with the two young people. 
 
MRS . Anderson’s first introduction. 189 
 
 They were all in good spirits as they jumped 
 into a cab and were driven off to Montague 
 Square. And Kate especially ; for this was at 
 all events an introduction to London society, and 
 might mean a prelude to innumerable balls 
 and parties, and such like civilised entertain- 
 ments. Besides, there was the little additional 
 excitement consequent upon the prospect of 
 meeting a good looking young man, for Frank 
 had, of course, spoken in raptures of his new 
 friend, Charlie Seymour ; and Kate, as they 
 journeyed along, amused herself by wondering 
 what he was like, and asking Frank indirect 
 questions about him, all the while declaring that 
 her curiosity merely emanated from the fact of 
 his being Frank’s friend, since for her part she 
 didn’t care that for young men’s society. Ah, 
 they might laugh, but if such had been the case, 
 how could she have lived so long at Yartlepool, 
 without ever seeing a young man ? Come, 
 let them answer that, &c., &c., which rightly 
 interpreted, meant that Kate was intensely 
 
190 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 anxious to see and to know Mr. Charles Sey- 
 mour. 
 
 There was something remarkably piquante in 
 Kate’s appearance that evening. I say piquante, for 
 I can find no other word that so exactly expresses 
 my meaning. She was too unsophisticated to he 
 fascinating ; this might follow after the tuition 
 of a few London balls, but fresh as she was from 
 the country, with the seaside bloom yet upon her 
 cheek, and her dress, manners and conversation 
 equally simple and unpretending, she was 
 piquante, and wore that precise look which ad- 
 dresses itself directly to the heart of a Londoner, 
 who, wearied perhaps, of the gas-light belle, 
 seeks refreshment in the charms of a country 
 girl. 
 
 The Captain was clad in a costume neither 
 nautical nor civilian, but something between the 
 two, and on the whole a little incongruous. His 
 face wore a healthy and shining look, and the 
 gratified smile on his lip, and the slightly won- 
 dering expression of his eye, as he sat looking 
 
MRS . Anderson’s first introduction. 191 
 
 out of the cab window, suflBciently proved that, ^ 
 however he may have decried London behind its 
 back, there was something in its presence, with 
 its lighted streets and gorgeous shops, its endless 
 road and pavement traffic, its odd assemblage of 
 extraordinary facts, that was sufficient to compel 
 his admiration, and to enforce an acknowledg- 
 ment of its dignity and greatness, if he would 
 not deny its vices and its fo Hies. 
 
 On arriving at Mr. Fairlie’s house, Kate was 
 duly impressed by the imposing aspect of its ex- 
 terior; and her emotion almost resolved itself 
 into awe as she passed through the hall and 
 mounted upstairs to the drawing-room. Such a 
 big house she had never been in before, and her 
 excitement was proportioned to the novelty of the 
 spectacle that met her gaze. 
 
 They were received by Mary, who was alone, 
 and the Captain proceeded to introduce Kate to 
 her. Presently, Mr. Fairlie entered, and after 
 the same ceremony had been undergone with him, 
 Kate withdrew with Mary to a side table, where 
 
192 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the latter proceeded to spread before her an album 
 wealthy in photographic pictures. The gentle- 
 men, meanwhile, stood conversing in a group 
 round the fire-place. 
 
 There was a visible nervousness in Mr. Fairlie’s 
 manner, which might have been attributed to any 
 cause but the right one. The right one was, 
 however, a fear lest Mrs. Anderson should again 
 disappoint him ; and as he well knew that this 
 would completely upset him, and mar his socia- 
 bility and even politeness for the evening, he 
 awaited with a kind of torturing expectation the 
 arrival of Captain Mortimer. 
 
 “Well, Captain Sandboys,” he exclaimed, in 
 a tone of assumed carelessness, “ so Mr. Forrester 
 has at length commenced a city life, and likes it, 
 too, I fancy.” 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Captain Sandboys, “ and, 
 aided by you, will, I trust, realise in a few years 
 the fortune he is determined to achieve. Eh, 
 Frank ? And, ecod ! I fancy that it must be a 
 splendid fortune indeed that could compensate 
 
MRS. Anderson’s first introduction. 193 
 
 a man’s labouring even two Hours a day at a 
 desk.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie laughed. 
 
 You have a very charming daughter there, 
 Captain Sandboys,” he said, looking towards 
 Kate, whose pretty face, shaded by the thick 
 hair she had tossed off her forehead, was bending 
 over the album that seemed to occupy the whole 
 of her attention. 
 
 You mustn’t call her charming,” said Captain 
 Sandboys, with a gratified smile ; you’ll tickle 
 her vanity, Mr. Fairlie, and that don’t want tick- 
 ling, I assure you — at least, not so long as it has 
 the power of staring into a looking-glass. Call 
 her good, sir, and that will make her good. We 
 always strive to warrant the approbation of 
 others.” 
 
 Very true ; but isn’t your daughter good 
 enough for you ?” 
 
 Oh ! yes ; she is a very good girl, but there 
 i s room for improvement even among the best of 
 
 VOL. T. 
 
 K 
 
194 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 US. Now, she’s a girl, and a girl, sir, is — a 
 girl.” 
 
 This was a fact that there was no disputing, 
 and Mr. Fairlie gravely nodded his acquiescence 
 in the remark. At the same time his face wore 
 that strained look which ever accompanies a man 
 who is expecting and listening, and on the alert 
 for something not yet gained, or seen, or heard. 
 
 “ She would make a nice companion for Mary,” 
 said Mr. Fairlie, after a pause. “I fancy they 
 would suit each other, too.” 
 
 “ That is just what Seymour says,” remarked 
 Frank. 
 
 “ Does Seymour know Miss Kate, then ?” 
 
 “ No, unless from my description, which I 
 fancy was accurate enough ^ at least, as accurate 
 as long intimacy and affection could make it.” 
 
 Ah ! then Seymour knows her from description ; 
 so did he (Mr. Fairlie), but until a very recent 
 time, know Augusta from description. And how 
 potent had that description been in its operations. 
 
MRS. Anderson’s first introduction. 195 
 
 And, as he thought, the same strained look came 
 over his face, and he listened. 
 
 At that moment there came a violent ring at 
 the hall door, and Mr. Fairlie gave a slight start. 
 Good heaven ! what a singular thing is this love ! 
 How many times had Mr. Fairlie heard that bell 
 sounded without the least emotion ! Why should 
 he have been agitated now? 
 
 But he was, and the remark uttered by Captain 
 Sandboys upon the splendid coup cCceil of the 
 apartments in which they stood, fell unheeded on 
 his ear. 
 
 A few moments after, Charlie Seymour entered 
 the room. 
 
 i 
 
 A look that seemed almost of relief relaxed the 
 strained expression on Mr. Fairlie’s face. For as 
 a pleasure protracted is a pleasure gained, so hope 
 deferred — though deferred but for only a little, 
 for it will make the heart sick in time— is hope 
 renewed. 
 
 Here again commenced the ceremony of intro- 
 duction, and whilst the ladies remained where 
 
 K 2 
 
196 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 they were, Kate’s timidity hardly suffering her 
 to steal more than a few glances at the new 
 comer, the group round the fire-place had one 
 more added to it, and had therefore become a 
 little more noisy, because more talkative. 
 
 At last the sound of carriage wheels driving up 
 to, and suddenly stopping before the door, with 
 the usual concomitant of such sounds, a loud 
 peal of the bell, announced the presence of the 
 last of the expected guests. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie endeavoured to disguise his un- 
 easiness beneath an easy exterior, making some 
 jocular remark to Charlie, and appealing to Cap- 
 tain Sandboys to confirm him in it. But his 
 agitation was so visible, that Mary, who at the 
 ring of the bell had glanced at her father, suf- 
 fered an accent of surprise to escape her, and half 
 rose to inquire whether he was ill. But the next 
 moment he had turned to Charlie, with a smile ; 
 and Mary, somewhat perplexed, resumed her 
 seat. 
 
 Then were audible the sounds of persons com- 
 
MRS . Anderson’s first introduction. 197 
 
 ing upstairs ; and the footman throwing open the 
 door, announced, 
 
 Captain Mortimer and Mrs. Anderson.” 
 
 All eyes were instantly directed towards the 
 new arrivals,” and but for the etiquette that 
 restrained the expression of the spectators' emo- 
 tion, it is quite possible that a murmur of admi- 
 ration, more or less loud, would have greeted at 
 least the entrance of the lady. 
 
 There was something almost regal in her ap- 
 pearance, as, lightly leaning on Mortimer’s arm, 
 she advanced gracefully to the centre of the room, 
 and was introduced by her companion to Mr. 
 Fairlie. She was dressed in half mourning, with 
 .her neck and arms exposed, and small jet pen- 
 dants were suspended from her ears, as if, from a 
 kind of coquetry, she had sought by the contrast 
 to more fully reveal the white purity of her skin. 
 A singular, though wondrously becoming head- 
 dress, in shape like a crown, and giving her all 
 the dignity that that imperial decoration im- 
 parts to its wearer, ornamented her head, and 
 
198 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 she had dressed her long sweep of hair as she 
 had worn it on the night when Mr. Fairlie 
 surveyed her from his box at Drury-lane 
 theatre. 
 
 Unquestionably, Mrs. Siddons made a splendid 
 tragic muse ; but had Sir Joshua Eeynolds have 
 had to choose between Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. 
 Siddons for the subject of his fine picture — let me 
 not be doubted, if I declare that, without a 
 moment’s hesitation, he would have decided upon 
 Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 For did her companion seem wholly unworthy 
 the fine woman whose arm he clasped. His. 
 good looks were greatly augmented by a singularly 
 happy manner; a complete air of good breeding;- 
 a self-possession that was without coldness ; and 
 a certain familiarity of address so polished as 
 utterly to dispel every idea of that presumption 
 and boldness which one always more or less at- 
 taches to familiarity in its every phase. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie seemed so agitated by Mrs. Ander- 
 son’s presence, that he positively laboured through 
 
MRS. Anderson’s first introduction. 199 
 
 his duties as a host in making his guests ac- 
 quainted with each other. This being done, he 
 conducted the lady to a seat^ and standing by her 
 side, commenced a conversation with her. 
 
 I am about to ask you to do me a great 
 favour, Mr. Fairlie/’ she said, with a sweet 
 smile, and speaking in a low voice ; ray brother, 
 Captain Mortimer, has spoken to me a great deal 
 of your daughter Mary, and I want you to allow 
 me the pleasure of sitting next to her at dinner, 
 unless by so doing I shall derange the order of 
 your table.” 
 
 It is really most kind of you to make such a 
 request,” answered Mr. Fairlie, attempting in 
 vain to keep his gaze fixed upon the magnificent 
 pair of eyes that seemed to seek his; ^^you must 
 sufifer me to introduce Mary to you again ; this 
 time with less formality. I am most anxious for 
 you to be good friends,” he added, in a voice of 
 which he in vain endeavoured to stifle the ear« 
 nestness. Then, calling his daughter, he said, 
 
200 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ^^You will find her quiet, very quiet; indeed,, 
 repose is the chief trait in her character.” 
 
 Mrs. Anderson’s reply was interrupted by 
 Mary’s coming forward, and Mr. Fairlie drawing 
 her a chair, told her that Mrs. Anderson was 
 anxious to make her acquaintance; whereupon 
 the two ladies commenced a conversation, and 
 Mr. Fairlie drifted away in the direction of Mor- 
 timer, who seemed to be earnestly in conversation 
 with Captain Sandboys. 
 
 The honest Captain’s face was splendidly ex- 
 pressive of the three emotions that generally 
 impress their stamp upon such faces in such 
 society, and in such situations : profound atten- 
 tion to what was being said to him; intense 
 gratification that anything was being said to him 
 at all ; and a certain feeling of dignity and im- 
 portance which may be, perhaps, called the con- 
 comitant of the other two, and the result of every 
 other emotion that may be felt but not ex- 
 pressed. 
 
MRS. Anderson’s first introduction. 201 
 
 When Mary had left Kate, Charles Seymour 
 had supplied the vacancy, and was now engaged 
 in what appeared to be a mutually interesting 
 conversation. 
 
 Such was the order in which the puppets of 
 our little drama were disposed just four minutes 
 before Mr. Fairlie’s servant came to announce 
 that the Dinner was on the table, sir.” 
 
 Ere he had done so, however, Mortimer had 
 turned to Mr. Fairlie, and exclaimed, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 So we have entrapped her at last.” 
 
 Yes,” answered Mr. Fairlie, who had com- 
 pletely recovered his self-possession, or rather 
 composure, and was now apparently all smiles 
 and content. “ Yes.” 
 
 Well, what do you think of her ?” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie clasped his hands in the gesture 
 that implies much more is felt than can be con- 
 veyed, and answered in a low voice, 
 
 ‘‘ She is surpassingly beautiful.” 
 
 Thanks for the compliment, my dear friend, 
 
 K 5 
 
202 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 thanks. Poor Gussy, she is pretty, I must 
 say.” 
 
 “ Pretty 1 you might just as well call her nice f 
 No, sir, the word ‘ pretty ’ was not coined for 
 such as she. Ah ! she has honoured me by her 
 presence ; she has honoured my house ; she has 
 honoured us all.” 
 
 The poor man’s heart was evidently full, for he 
 murmured rather than spoke, 
 
 “ Ay, she has honoured us all.” 
 
 Captain Mortimer waived his hand with a de- 
 precating gesture, and at the same moment the 
 servant popped his head in at the door. 
 
 The order of the procession down to dinner 
 was thus : — 
 
 1. — Mr. Fairlie and Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 2. — Mr. Seymour and Miss Sandboys. 
 
 3. — Captain Mortimer and Miss Fairlie. 
 
 4. — Mr. Forrester, clasping Captain Sandboys’ 
 arm, and making remarks that ever and anon 
 caused the Captain to ooze forth in a laughter 
 that he could not suppress. 
 
203 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 apres diner. 
 
 Whether he thought Mary too young for such 
 confidences, or whether he was dubious as to the 
 manner in which she might receive such a com- 
 munication, it is certain that Mr. Fairlie had 
 maintained silence towards her touching his sud- 
 den passion for Mrs. Anderson, and had merely 
 mentioned her proposed presence at his house 
 en passant^ and in the most careless imagina- 
 
204 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ble way, as if it were nothing at all to him 
 whether she came or not. 
 
 Her father’s attention to the splendid widow, 
 however, during the dinner, was too obvious not 
 to be speedily remarked by her. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson was seated next to Mr. Fairlie, 
 who was at the head of the table, and Mary was 
 seated next to her, an arrangement suggested by 
 i^^ugusta herself. 
 
 Hence the young girl was enabled to note the 
 soft glances and hear the soft speeches which her 
 father was continually bestowing on his com- 
 panion, and which were attended to with an air 
 that showed that they were not only appreciated, 
 but esteemed highly amiable. There was an 
 enigma here, and onS of a nature very perplex- 
 ing. 
 
 The idea of her father ever marrying again, 
 was as remote from Mary’s thoughts as her own 
 marriage was. Yet, as this was the only key to 
 the riddle, so not hitting upon it, Mary vainly 
 
APRES DINER. 
 
 205 
 
 endeavoured its solution by other means, and 
 grew more silent as she grew more thoughtful. 
 
 Captain Mortimer, who was on her left, had 
 several times striven to engage her in conversa- 
 tion ; but whether the topics he started were not 
 sufficiently interesting, or that Mary was too 
 abstracted to pay much attention to his remarks, 
 or that the doubt with which she had from the 
 first inspired the Captain was now revived to 
 check the sprightliness of his conversation, and 
 to interrupt the expression of his thoughts lest 
 in a moment of ardour something too much 
 might be said; whatever might have been the 
 cause it is certain that Mortimer’s conversation 
 was now almost wholly directed to Kate, who was 
 seated between him and Charlie Seymour, though 
 frequently, and with the profound courtesy that 
 marked his every action, would he turn and offer 
 some remark to the inattentive lady by his side, 
 whom he now found almost always watching 
 either her father or Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 So, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, the 
 
206 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 chink of glasses, the explosion of champagno 
 corks, the occasional light laugh of a lady, tho 
 more freij[uent and more boisterous peal from the 
 mouth of Captain Sandboys, and the general 
 hum of several people talking together, the dinner 
 passed off ; and the ladies returned to the draw- 
 ing-room. Then the gentlemen pushed their chairs 
 closer to each other, and formed a pretty compact 
 group at the top of the table, Mr. Fairlie being 
 the nucleus. 
 
 Captain Sandboys, the pleasure of a glass of 
 wine with you,” said Mortimer. 
 
 And the two captains, filling their glasses, 
 bowed to each other. 
 
 I am anxious,” said Mortimer, politely, and 
 with a smile, to dispel the feelings of animosity 
 you cherish against us military men.” 
 
 I suppose it was my daughter, sir, who told 
 you that I entertained such feelings,” remarked 
 the Captain, interrupting the sequel that Morti- 
 mer was about to append to his observation. 
 
 Nay, sir ; you would not have me tell tales 
 
APRES DINER. 
 
 207 
 
 of a lady ! But, Captain Sandboys, I am only 
 joking. I profoundly sympathise in your opinion 
 of military men, as a rule ; for I am sorry to say 
 that the really noble profession of arms is so 
 horribly choked up with 'parvenus and the most 
 intolerable snobs, that if we continue long as we 
 are, the word ^ military ’ will be a term of oppro- 
 brium rather than a title of honour.” 
 
 Sir^ I do not wholly agree with you,” said 
 Captain Sandboys ; I am not so hard upon the 
 army as all that. My real objection to military 
 men is founded upon their assumption. Too 
 often, sir, it is the assumption of the footman, 
 who, because he wears a livery, gazes with con- 
 tempt upon those who are brass-buttonless. But 
 then this is true only of the snobs you have 
 decried : a gentleman knows how to discern be- 
 tween the honour that a flag and a livery can confer. 
 Your real ofiicer is proud of his flag ; your real cox- 
 comb is proud of his livery. Now, my dislike is 
 only of coxcombs.” 
 
208 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ^^That is an admirable distinction, indeed,” 
 said Captain Mortimer, looking towards Mr. 
 Fairlie, with a face expressive of admiration. 
 
 Admirable, indeed. So the coxcomb is proud 
 in his tailor, and the gentleman in his Queen. 
 Bravo ! sir^ I shall cherish your sentiment as a 
 philosophic bon-moV^ 
 
 I am sorry, however,” said Captain Sand- 
 boys, gratified beyond all measure by his com- 
 panion’s praise, that my daughter Kate should 
 have exposed my weakness — at all events to you, 
 sir — to whom as an officer and,” he added, bow- 
 ing, ^^a gentleman, I beg to apologise for the 
 sentiments that my daughter has probably attri- 
 buted to me.” 
 
 Captain Mortimer waved his arm with his 
 favourite deprecating gesture, and at the same 
 time Captain Sandboys handed him a card across 
 the table. 
 
 1 shall be happy, sir,” said he, ‘‘ to welcome 
 you to my house whenever you feel disposed to 
 
APKES DINER. 
 
 209 
 
 honour me with a call. It will give me infinite 
 satisfaction to extend a friendship thus happily 
 commenced.” 
 
 Mortimer pocketed the card, with a polite bow, 
 and, by his manner, expressed an unusual degree 
 of felicity at the invitation. 
 
 What do you think of Mortimer ?” said Sey- 
 mour, aside to Frank. 
 
 “ I think him a very gentlemanly fellow, 
 indeed,” answered Frank, with enthusiasm. 
 
 So do I,” said Seymour ; and he must really 
 be so to have made me confess it after the bad 
 opinion I was inclined to entertain of him. 
 You know this is the first time I have met him.” 
 Indeed. But why bad opinion ?” 
 
 Oh, my cousin Mary has got some silly 
 notion into her head that he is a bad man ; she 
 declares that she can see it in his face. But all 
 girls are alike ; they always see at a glance, or 
 rather fancy they see, something to hate or love in 
 a man on his first introduction. However, he has 
 come recommended to me with this preconceived 
 
210 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 bad opinion that I had entertained of him ; and 
 let him claim all the honour of having entirely 
 dissipated it. For he has certainly done so. I 
 am afraid Mary is too hasty in her judgment.” 
 
 “ And what do you think of Kate ?” 
 
 I am perfectly in love with her,” he answered, 
 laying his hand on his companion’s arm ; “ she is 
 a thoroughly charming girl, and wholly worthy 
 of her good old father ; for you know I am also 
 in love with Captain Sandboys.” 
 
 “ Thanks for your kind opinion : to speak well 
 of Captain Sandboys and his daughter, is to 
 speak well of the two things I most love on 
 earth. Thanks, my friend.” 
 
 And he squeezed Seymour’s hand beneath the 
 table. 
 
 These two young men were evidently now 
 become fast friends. 
 
 ‘‘ I suppose you know,” said Mortimer. “ that 
 I have secured the secretaryship of the club?” 
 
 “ Then I must offer you my congratulation,”^ 
 said Mr. Fairlie. 
 
APRBS DINER. 
 
 211 
 
 Can we not prevail upon you to become a 
 member ?” said Mortimer to Captain Sandboys. 
 
 It is exactly the club to suit you.” 
 
 What is it called?” 
 
 The ' Civilians.’ ” 
 
 And the entrance fee ?” 
 
 Thirty guineas.” 
 
 Captain Sandboys glanced at Mr. Fairlie, with 
 a smile. 
 
 We are not all shipowners, you know, 
 Captain Mortimer,” he said. 
 
 We may become so, though,” answered Mr. 
 Fairlie, with a glance at Frank ; then he added, 
 ^^but, gentlemen, one more glass of wine, and 
 let us join the ladies. Our after-dinner chat has 
 been short ; but though we are very excellent 
 society amongst ourselves, I believe there is not 
 one amongst us who would not exchange his 
 companion for a lady.” 
 
 ^^Hal ha!” laughed Mortimer; ^^have you 
 been reading Petrarch lately, Mr. Fairlie ? Upon 
 
212 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 my soul, you are imbued with all that amorous 
 poet’s gallantry and— shall I add? — sentiment.” 
 “Mr. Fairlie is quite right,” said Captain 
 Sandboys, rising. “ I remember my father, who 
 was an old skipper ” (this to Mortimer) “ in Mr. 
 Fairlie’s father’s employ for a good many years, 
 as complete h sailor as ever rounded the Horn, 
 and how many times he had rounded it with the 
 old ‘ Chesapeake,’ the Lord only knows ; — I say, 
 sir, I remember my old father used to troll forth a 
 song with uncommon enjoyment, one verse of 
 which ran something like this, if I remember 
 right. 
 
 ‘ A pipe is a comfort that’s grown rather common ; 
 But a glass is a joy very grateful to me ; 
 
 Yet a friend is perhaps better than both. 
 
 But a woman, 
 
 A woman — a woman 
 Is worth ’em all three !* 
 
 This was the chorus, sir, and I beg to echo it 
 now.” 
 
APRES DINER. 
 
 213 
 
 There was a general laugh, and, amidst sounds 
 demonstrative of the highest spirits, the gentle- 
 men adjourned to the drawing room. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson was seated at the piano, and 
 Kate stood by her side watching her with an ex- 
 pression of intense admiration. Mary occupied 
 the sofa, and remained with her head leaning 
 upon her hand, looking at the two figures by the 
 piano. On the entrance of the gentlemen, Mrs. 
 Anderson left her seat, turning with a smile to 
 Mr. Fairlie as she did so. 
 
 If we are to disturb you, we will go down- 
 stairs again,” Mr. Fairlie said ; nay,” he con- 
 tinued, gently taking her hand and leading her 
 towards the piano, ^^you must for my — for all 
 our sakes, remain where you were. I can see by 
 my daughter’s face how you have been enchanting 
 her — for she is passionately devoted to music — 
 and why would you deprive us of the pleasure of 
 hearing you ?” 
 
 She suffered herself to be led to the seat she 
 had vacated, and he took Kate’s place by her 
 
214 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 side, she having gone over to Mary. “ Captain 
 Mortimer has spoken to me of your singing,” he 
 said, looking down into her up-turned eyes ; “ he 
 has excited my curiosity to hear you ; will you 
 gratify me ?” 
 
 “ My brother is very naughty to talk so much 
 of me behind my hack,” she returned, bending 
 down her head and playing with one of her brace- 
 lets ; if I did not know him to be sincere, I 
 should fancy there was something almost mali- 
 cious in his most undeserved praises.” 
 
 “ Undeserved, Mrs. Anderson !” 
 
 ■ Yes,” she answered, raising her eyes with a 
 smile ; “ for I am sure he has praised me very 
 far beyond my deserts. But he is fond of me, 
 and this must plead his excuse.” 
 
 “ If Captain Mortimer really need excusing, it 
 is for not having done you justice. But then it 
 would be unfair to censure him for that. To call 
 the sun dazzling, conveys but a very laint idea of 
 its lustre ; yet not more impotant would all words 
 be that should hope to convey your description.” 
 
APRES DINER, 
 
 215 
 
 Am I to accept this as a compliment, or as a 
 stroke of satire, Mr. Fairlie?” she asked^ fixing 
 her splendid eyes upon him, and smiling as she 
 spoke. 
 
 And are you really serious in your enquiry?’’ 
 he said, earnestly. 
 
 Again she bowed her head, and played with 
 her bracelet. No,” she said, I will not be so 
 hard upon you. If you mean it as a compliment, 
 I thank you ; if as a sarcasm, I will not force you 
 to confess it.” 
 
 “ I mean neither one nor the other, madam. I 
 mean it as a truth. A compliment generally 
 means flattery, and flatter}^ always means fiction. 
 I should wTong you therefore by complimenting 
 you. As for being sarcastic, you need never fear 
 me for that. I have not wit enough to attempt 
 it — at all events, with success.” 
 
 It would seem, Mr. Fairlie, that you are now 
 trying to provoke me to do what you so severely 
 reprobate : I mean, compliment you. You must 
 
216 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 not tell me that you have not wit enough to he 
 sarcastic, for I shall not believe you.” 
 
 He was about to make some pretty rejoinder, 
 when his eyes encountered those of Mary, re- 
 garding him from the other side of the room. A 
 sudden troubled emotion came over him, and 
 slightly raising his voice, he asked Mrs. Ander- 
 son to sing him a song. 
 
 The sudden alteration in his tone was imme- 
 diately apparent to the embodied vigilance at his 
 side, and with the rapidity of lightning she had 
 turned — had remarked the eyes of Mary fixed 
 upon her father, and had divined the cause. 
 Strange instinct that guided her to such a faith- 
 ful and rapid conclusion ! The next moment her 
 fingers were sweeping the keys of the piano, and 
 she broke forth into an English melody. The 
 worda of the song were original, and hardly ap- 
 propriate to the singer. But the superb nianner 
 in which she delivered them fully redeemed the 
 error into which a hastiness of selection seemed 
 
APBES DINER, 
 
 217 
 
 to have led her. She had burst forth into song 
 without a moment’s hesitation, and as the first 
 echo of her voice reverberated through the room, 
 there fell a dead silence upon the company, and 
 every ear was strained to catch the words. This 
 is the soDg she sang : 
 
 “ O’er thy waving yellow hair tenderly is streaming 
 
 Falling flakes of radiance from the Queen of Night; 
 
 In thy large and solemn eyes all thy spirit's dreaming, 
 
 Tells a tale of voiceless love, and fills my heart with light. 
 
 “ Sing, 0 sing to me that nameless song ! 0 sing again; 
 
 Sweetly steals upon the night the sounds of music flowing ; 
 
 Breathe again into mine ear that wild and wondrous strain, 
 
 Sing, and fill with melody the fragrant breezes blowing. 
 
 ‘ ‘Turn, 0 turn away from me those eyes so softly shining ! 
 
 I am trembling faint with love, and passion, and desire. 
 
 Raise from off my burning breast thy beauteous head 
 reclining, 
 
 And veil those deep and dreaming orbs of loveliness and 
 fire!’ 
 
 Mr. Fairlie remained motionless some mo- 
 ments after the song had ceased. Captain 
 Sandboys, Kate, and Charlie Seymour had 
 gathered round Mrs. Anderson, and were ex- 
 pressing, in the most unqualified language, the 
 
 VOL. I, 
 
 L 
 
218 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 most unbounded admiration. But Mr. Fairlie 
 remained at the side of the piano, motionless. 
 Had an angel come down from heaven and sang 
 to him the very sweetest production that ever 
 entered into the heart of man to conceive, he 
 could not have been more fascinated, more 
 enthralled, than by Mrs. Anderson’s singing 
 of this simple song. Her beauty, grand before, 
 was now transfigured in his eyes : the song 
 seemed to have effected an apotheosis for the 
 singer. Never did melody achieve a more 
 signal triumph ; never was love, intense, thrill- 
 ing, more passionately awakened in the heart of 
 man ! 
 
 He was aroused from what seemed some 
 ecstatic vision by a light hand laid upon his arm. 
 With a start, he turned, and encountered the 
 smiling face of Captain Mortimer. 
 
 ^^What do you think of the singing?” he 
 asked ; was it good P 
 
 Had Dante heard her, he would have placed 
 her in his Paradise.” 
 
APRES DINER, 
 
 219 
 
 Ha ! ha ! she’s got a fine voice, hasn’t she ?” 
 ^Mt has been said that a fallible being must 
 fail somewhere ; Mrs. Anderson I hold to be in- 
 fallible, for she fails nowhere.” 
 
 Mortimer bowed with a smile, whose hardness 
 he in vain strove to soften. Your compliments, 
 are epigrams,” he said. For this reason I shall 
 more easily retain them, so as to repeat them to 
 her.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie turned to address Augusta, but found 
 her engaged in conversation with Frank. A 
 ■confirmation of the new emotion that had been 
 awakened in him was instantly experienced by the 
 slight pang of jealousy that smote him at the 
 sight. So slight was it, however, that it was in- 
 stantly dismissed by the glance that she gave 
 him as their eyes met. 
 
 And how are you enjoying yourself, my 
 child ?” he said, going over to Mary, who had 
 left Kate’s side, and was now seated alone. 
 
 You seem dull. What is the matter ?” 
 
220 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Nothing that I know of/’ answered Mary, 
 looking up at him with a quiet smile. “ Why do 
 you ask ?” 
 
 “ I do not like to see you alone. What do you 
 think of Mrs. Anderson ?” 
 
 “ She is very beautiful,” answered Mary, 
 evasively. “ But I like Captain Sandboys’ 
 daughter very much. I think we shall get on 
 very well together. She tells me she is settled 
 now in London.” 
 
 “ And Mrs. Anderson : don’t you think you 
 could get on with her ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh ! I think so,” answered Mary. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie eyed her in silence for a moment ; 
 then stooping down, he kissed her pale forehead, 
 and abruptly left her. Mrs. Anderson was now 
 alone, for Frank had joined Captain Sandboys, 
 and as Mr. Fairlie left Mary, they had gone up to 
 her. 
 
 “ For the sake of my brother’s praise, I really 
 hope my singing has not disappointed you, Mr. 
 
APEES DINEP5. 
 
 221 
 
 Fairlie,” Mrs. Anderson said, as the gentleman 
 addressed drew a chair to her side, and seated 
 himself. 
 
 ‘‘ I have already expressed my opinion upon it 
 to Captain Mortimer. To praise you,” he 
 answered, “ as you deserve to be praised, I am 
 afraid you would think fulsome. As I cannot 
 possibly convey to you my feelings on the sub- 
 ject, I think my wisest course will be to suffer 
 my silence to proclaim what I think. For in 
 some instances, silence is far more expressive 
 than the most eloquent language.” 
 
 She regarded him for a moment in silence: 
 then she said “ Do you know, Mr. Fairlie, I am 
 very curious to know what your daughter M ary 
 thinks of me ?” 
 
 “ My daughter Mary ?” 
 
 “ Yes. I admire her beyond all expression ; 
 and I love to know the opinions that those whom 
 I admire have of me.” 
 
 “ Her friendship with you,” said Mr. Fairlie, 
 slightly embarrassed, “ is too recent for her to be 
 
222 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 able to form an opinion of you, though I am very 
 sure she will be highly gratified to hear what 
 your opinion is of her.” 
 
 I am always cautious in making friends, ’’she 
 said, “for I cannot sometimes guarantee my 
 reception. To be repelled, is painful even to 
 the mildest people, but to the haughty it is in- 
 tolerable. ” 
 
 “ But you do not surely mean to say,” ex- 
 claimed Mr. Fairlie, speaking hurriedly and 
 earnestly, with the least shade of irritation in his 
 manner, “that Mary has— has — ” 
 
 “ Eepelled me ! Oh ! dear me no ; I was 
 merely anxious to ascertain her opinion of me, 
 that I might know how far I was likely to be 
 successful in my advances towards gaining her 
 friendship.” 
 
 An expression of relief passed over Mr. Fairlie’s 
 face, as he answered, 
 
 “ I am sur e I can guarantee her friendship for 
 you, providing you will allow me to guarantee 
 your friendship for her.” 
 
APRES DINER. 
 
 223 
 
 Then pray do so, for I am really most anxi- 
 ous to become better acquainted with her. She 
 is a girl quite after my own heart ; and perhaps 
 this arises from a difference of dispositions — at 
 least, as far as I can discern hers. As for me, 
 Mr. Fairlie, you must know I am very naughty.” 
 Naughty ?” 
 
 Yes ; you know I like to have my own way, 
 and I am inclined to be capricious : and though” 
 (in a soft voice) I am docile enough with those 
 I love, yet when 1 am opposed by strangers, I 
 am thought overbearing and haughty^ and all the 
 rest of those little wickednesses, which the world 
 always attributes to those who do not or cannot 
 precisely conform to its rules of thought and 
 habit.” 
 
 Surely there is nothing prettier in the world 
 than to hear a charming woman rehearse her in- 
 firmities and blame herself for weaknesses of 
 which she is secretly proud. At least so I think, 
 and so thought Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 He made some gravely courteous reply, and 
 
224 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 became more entangled every moment in tbe 
 complicated meshes of love. 
 
 And thus in conversation, and music, and 
 laughter, and imparted confidences, and love 
 sighs, and secret depressions, and light-hearted 
 gaiety, the evening wore away, and Mr. Fairlie’s 
 guests rose to depart. 
 
 ‘‘ I shall often hope to have the pleasure of 
 seeing you now,” said Mr. Fairlie, as he handed 
 Augusta into a cab. “ Mary will be always too 
 charmed to have you with her any or every even- 
 ing; for she is alone and young, and will doubly 
 profit from your society.” 
 
 “ You may depend upon my bringing her 
 round,” Mortimer answered, from the interior of 
 the cab ; “ and if we should ever come to burden 
 you with too much of our society, let me antici- 
 pate the necessary apology by advancing the hos- 
 pitality you have shown us this evening as our 
 excuse.” 
 
 And they drove oflf. 
 
 “ For such a Helen,” murmured Mr. Fairlie,. 
 
APRES DINER. 
 
 225 
 
 mounting tlie staircase to join his other guests, 
 who were in the act of bidding good-bye to 
 Mary, “ I would lay siege to the town of Troy 
 all alone !” with which classical fancy, he entered 
 the, to him, vacant drawing-room. 
 
226 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 As this had been Kate’s first entree into society, 
 it had impressed her accordingly, and on de- 
 scending to breakfast the following morning, she 
 eagerly commenced a review of the evening’s 
 proceedings. 
 
 “ Mr. Fairlie,” said Captain Sandboys, 
 “ treated us in the most princely manner ; and I 
 think it behoves us to return his hospitality. We 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 227 
 
 must give him a dinner party — not a dinner party, 
 I mean a dinner.” 
 
 But we can’t ask him here only to meet 
 himself,” said Kate. 
 
 We can have Mary,” suggested Frank, ^^and 
 Captain Mortimer ; and with ourselves that will 
 be quite as many as this room can hold.” 
 
 That’s true,” said the Captain ; however, 
 we’ve got some time to think over it yet.” 
 Weren’t the rooms beautiful ?” said Kate. 
 
 ^^Yes,” said Frank, ^^particularly the draw- 
 ing'-room ; and didn’t Mrs. Anderson look 
 splendid ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh ! magnificent. Ah !” said Kate, with a 
 sigh, I wish I had her eyes.” 
 
 Well, for the matter of that,” said Frank, 
 would just as soon have yours.” 
 
 ‘Mf I thought you sincere, I would thank you, 
 Frank ; but whether sincere or not, let me tell 
 you one thing, which perhaps you will like to 
 know : I caught Mrs. Anderson several times 
 
228 
 
 OFf THE STAGE. 
 
 looking at you so earnestly, tkat I am almost 
 sure ske wants to make love to you.” 
 
 “Well, let ker go akead,” said Frank, grati- 
 fied. 
 
 “ Ske is a splendid woman,” murmured tke 
 Captain, kuttering a piece of toast. 
 
 “ It strikes me tkat Mr. Fairlie’s a little gone 
 in tkat direction,” said Frank. 
 
 “ I am sure of it,” answered Kate ; “ indeed, I 
 laugkingly said so to your friend, Mr. Sey- 
 mour.” 
 
 “ And wkat did ke say ?” 
 
 “ He looked a little grave, tkat’s all ; ke made 
 no reply, and soon after ckanged tke sukject.” 
 
 “ Hum ! well, Mr. Ckarlie may look grave or 
 not as ke likes ; it is a fact, but I suppose it 
 meets not witk favour from tke other branches 
 of tke family. And wkat do you think of 
 Ckarlie ?” 
 
 “ I think ke is very good looking.” 
 
 “ Well, I am glad of that. It is a comfort to 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 229 
 
 know that my friend has borne me out in some- 
 thing of my recommendation.” 
 
 But he is so quiet, and talks so deeply. I 
 suppose he is a genius ; for I declare I didn’t 
 understand half of what he said.” 
 
 What did he talk to you about?” asked the 
 Captain. 
 
 Oh, I can’t recollect exactly; but I know he 
 used some big words, one of which was, I re- 
 member, met — met — met something. I declare 
 I forget it now.” 
 
 Metamorphosis ?” suggested the Captain. 
 No,” said Kate. 
 
 Metempsychosis,” said Frank. 
 
 Oh ! dear, dear no!” exclaimed Kate. 
 
 Fancy my understanding such huge words I ” 
 Was it metaphysics?” asked the Captain. 
 
 ^‘Yes — yes,- it was metaphysics,” answered 
 Kate ; that was one of the words he introduced.” 
 I suppose he mistook you for a clever girl^” 
 said the Captain, with a dry smile, and fancied 
 the subject would be grateful to you.” 
 
230 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “Did he introduce any hard words in his 
 conversation with you ?” asked Kate, simply . 
 
 “Not that I know of,” answered the Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 “ Then it is pretty evident,” said Kate, “ that 
 he didn’t mistake you for a clever man !” 
 
 “ It is merited,” murmured the Captain, clos- 
 ing his eyes. 
 
 “Now, Captain Mortimer,” continued Kate, 
 “who isn’t, perhaps, so good-looking as Mr. 
 Seymour, has twice his conversational powers, 
 and is really most amusing.” • 
 
 “Did he introduce any hard words?” asked 
 Frank. 
 
 “ Not one,” answered Kate, enthusiastically j 
 “ on the contrary his language was as delightful 
 as could be. He was telling me all about the 
 opera, and the last new play at some theatre or 
 other — I forget which now ; and what I like best 
 about him is his compliments. I don’t mean 
 that I think them true ; but his manner of put- 
 ting them is so delicious, really one could listen 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 231 
 
 to him all night. He might repeat the same 
 compliment fifty times, and yet each time he 
 would express it in a different way, always ren- 
 dering it more piquante. Now, I know you will 
 laugh, hut in my humble opinion, there is far 
 more genius in this kind of talk than in anything 
 learned or solemn.” 
 
 ^^The difference between Captain Mortimer 
 and Mr. Seymour,” said the Captain, impres- 
 sively, is this : one is a man of the world, the 
 other is not. The first, from policy, reduces his 
 talk to the level of the understanding of his 
 hearers ; the other has not yet learned how to do 
 this. In a few years time, Mr, Seymour will 
 probably as much delight you as Captain Morti- 
 mer. They are both good fellows, however ; and 
 Mortimer I think a perfect gentleman.” 
 
 He told me,” said Kate, that you had 
 asked him to call, and he intends doing so,” 
 
 I shall be very glad to see him,” said the 
 Captain, “ and his sister, too, if he likes to bring 
 her.” 
 
232 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Oh !” exclaimed Kate, fancy Mrs. Ander- 
 son in this little house ! wouldn’t it be grand ?” 
 
 “ Grand indeed !” said the Captain, “ but I 
 know some things that would be grander.” 
 
 “ What ?” asked Kate. 
 
 The Captain paused and looked at her with 
 an indefinable expression ; then with a smile, he 
 said, 
 
 “ A ship on fire would be grander.” 
 
 “ Oh !” said Kate. 
 
 “ Off to the City?” asked the Captain of Frank, 
 who had risen from the table. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Frank. “ And I am going to ask 
 Charlie round to see me to-morrow night.” 
 
 “ Do,” said the Captain, “ and I hope he’ll be 
 able to come.” 
 
 This had been the conversation at one break- 
 fast table on the morning after the events detailed 
 in the last chapter. In another house, there also 
 took place another conversation on the same 
 topic. 
 
 Almost immediately after the departure of the 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 233 
 
 guests, Mary had retired to bed. Mr. Fairlie had 
 endeavoured to engage her in conversation, but 
 she had declared herself to be so fatigued that, 
 after a few commonplace remarks, he had suffered 
 her to retire. For himself he sat up alone until 
 a late hour, musing over the events of the even- 
 ing, and endeavouring to penetrate the obscurity 
 of the future, a glimpse of which had been re- 
 vealed to him as if illumined by the momentary 
 flashing of the torch of love. 
 
 His thoughts were now wholly directed to the 
 object that absorbed his attention. Brief as had 
 been his acquaintance with Mrs. Anderson, he 
 had, from the first moment of his taking her hand, 
 made up his mind to marry her. There was 
 less of love in the influence that she had so sud- 
 denly acquired over him, than of fascination. 
 This must have been, for he was wholly ignorant 
 of her character and disposition ; and love — love 
 pure, devout; love as it is expressed by the poets, 
 and dreamed of by the young ; love as it is sym- 
 
234 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 bolised by the mystic arrow that penetrates the 
 heart, and the heart alone, else its wound endures 
 not — such love can only base its claims upon an 
 intimate knowledge of the inner life of the idol 
 of its worship. But though there be but one 
 kind of love, there are a thousand imitation s of 
 it, and not the least powerful in its representa- 
 tion is fascination. Perhaps fascination i s the 
 avant courier of love. Perhaps love cannot exist 
 without fascination ; but fascination can exist 
 without love, and ofttimes is it mistaken for the 
 passion it represents. 
 
 Eminently was Mrs. Anderson a woman to 
 fascinate ; and eminently was Mr. Fairlie a man 
 to be susceptible of such fascination. She ex- 
 haled from her the bewitching influence that is the 
 attribute of noble beauty. It seemed as if a magic 
 circle were drawn round her — like the horizon 
 round a ship — which moved when she moved, 
 and within which few could step without instantly 
 confessing the force of this invisible power. This 
 subtle enchantment — the enchantment of the 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 235 
 
 serpent for the woman — operated more powerfully 
 upon some than others. 
 
 As the moon at its full affects the brain of those 
 incapable of opposing its baleful glare, so there 
 were some whom this woman had the power of 
 influencing in a manner no less direct, madden- 
 ing their minds with the glances of her intoxi- 
 cating eyes, and crazing their brains with the 
 wildly passionate fancies of a killing love. 
 
 Intent upon his purpose, but with the calmer 
 mood that her absence had restored to him, Mr. 
 Fairlie sat contemplating in silence the probable 
 effect of his meditated step. He feared the 
 silent reproof of his child ; but this was his only 
 fear. For the dead, he thought not of the one 
 who had left his side. His was no fanciful im- 
 agination to round his love dreams with super- 
 stition, and to correct^ by the imagined feelings 
 of her who could feel no more, the ebullitions of 
 his newly-wrought passion. But in the peace 
 and silence of the night, amidst that feeling of 
 loneliness which a darkling spacious room strikes 
 
236 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 upon the heart of its solitary occupant, he could 
 not choose but survey the past, and in the 
 ghostly vision of the departed years, he beheld 
 his old thoughts and emotions leaping into life, 
 and threatening and menacing and upbraiding 
 him for the traitorous passion that had come now 
 to usurp the seat of a sleeping love. 
 
 But the fancy passed, and the present, lovely 
 as Circe holding to his lips her enchanted cup, 
 smiled upon him, and by its smile seemed to shed 
 a ray of glory on the shadows of the future. His 
 misgivings as to the way in which Mary would 
 hear his communication alone affected him ; and 
 he resolved early on the morrow morning to make 
 her acquainted with his feelings, and so accustom 
 her to the prospect of the new companion that 
 he had made up his mind should speedily become 
 mistress of his house. 
 
 On meeting at breakfast, he observed Mary to 
 be pale, as if from the effects of a sleepless night. 
 But no agitation marked her manner — all was 
 composure and peace, though, perhaps, the clear 
 
SOME CONVEKSATION. 
 
 237 
 
 eye had something of sadness in its expres- 
 sion. 
 
 Mary,” said Mr. Fairlie, lying down 
 the newspaper he had been perusing, how do 
 you feel this morning?” 
 
 I am quite well, papa.” 
 
 No headache after your little quiet flirtation 
 with Mr. Frank Forrester, eh?” he said, forcing 
 a dubious laugh. 
 
 She coloured up a little, and glanced at him for 
 a moment in silence ; then she said, quietly. 
 
 What do you mean, papa ? I am not aware 
 of having flirted with Mr. Forrester.” 
 
 Bah !” he exclaimed, “ and what if you had ? 
 Th ere would have been no harm in it. Love was 
 made for the young, and not only for the young, 
 for all capable of experiencing its feelings. 
 Don’t you know,” he added, in a tone of gaiety, 
 ^ ‘ what a witty Frenchman once observed ? That 
 the only thing that distinguished man from the 
 beast is his power of making love at any given 
 moment. Come, you need not blush. I am not 
 
238 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 one of your rigid disciplinarians who suppress the 
 feelings of the heart, which are only planted by 
 Nature that they may grow. Girls will be girls 
 and men will be men.” 
 
 There was something strangely different in all 
 this from his ordinary manner of addressing his 
 daughter. But there was human nature in it. 
 Entangled himself in love’s labyrinth, he thought, 
 by involving his daughter in the same gentle 
 snare, to more easily secure her forgiveness when 
 he should confess himself. It was the philosophy 
 embodied in the single line — 
 
 A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.” 
 
 She had divined his feelings from the first 
 moment of his addressing her ; she perceived in 
 his manner what he was about to communicate, 
 and she remained silent, waiting for him to 
 speak. 
 
 Yes,” he said, after a little, girls will be 
 girls, and men will be men. This is not too 
 obvious not to contain some sound wisdom. It is 
 
SOME CONVEBSATION. 
 
 239 
 
 a hackneyed remark, but one that it would do 
 well for the severe moralist to bear in mind. W hy 
 should we not follow the bent of our own natures ? 
 We are horn with predilections, and they are 
 fools who seek to determine them to uncon- 
 genial courses. If a man loves, let him love. 
 It is nature speaking, and who can silence 
 her ?” 
 
 “ None can silence her — none need silence her,” 
 said Mary ; “ but her words are capable of many 
 interpretations. What we fancy to be love is not 
 always love.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie laughed. 
 
 “ You talk,” said he, “ as if you had the ex- 
 perience of forty years to support your conclusions. 
 But you are right. Love is not always love — at 
 least to the inexperienced. But it cannot deceive 
 one of my age.” 
 
 “We are told,” answered Mary, quietly, “that 
 it is generally those of your age whom it does 
 deceive.” 
 
240 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Who tells US this?” said Mr. Fairlie^ a little 
 quickly. 
 
 “ Wise men in all ages.” 
 
 “ Who, as a rule, are generally the greatest 
 fools in all ages — in matters, at least, of love. Of 
 course, wise men, as they are called, are mostly 
 men of genius ; and there never was a true genius 
 who was not gifted with the strongest passions. 
 So they go astray and ridicule themselves, and 
 all others of their own years, for the follies which 
 they alone commit. It is the mediocre intellect 
 that is cool and dispassionate, and that can pene- 
 trate its own feelings with the most truth, because 
 they are always placid enough to suffer their 
 “depths to be detected.” 
 
 He evidently meant to imply that he belonged 
 to the last-mentioned order, and so Mary under- 
 stood him. But she held her peace, and he con- 
 tinued, 
 
 “ But you have not told me what you thought 
 of my friends last night — I mean Captain Morti- 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 241 
 
 mer and his sister. They are nice people, are 
 they not?” 
 
 “ It is enough that you say they are to make 
 them so to me.” 
 
 But his mind was now made up, and he was 
 not to be diverted by any such ambiguous replies. 
 
 ‘‘ I flattered myself,” he said, ‘‘ that you would 
 have liked Captain Mortimer. He is a most 
 gentlemanly man ; to say nothing of that special 
 recommendation so valued by women, which he 
 carries in his face. I mean his good looks.” 
 
 “ If I liked him,” answered Mary, “ I am afraid 
 it would not havC been on that score, for I do not 
 much admire him. But then personal appearances 
 have very little weight with me.” 
 
 “ All all events,” said Mr. Fairlie, biting his 
 lip to suppress a momentary feeling of irritation, 
 ‘‘ if you do not like the brother, you must at least 
 admire the sister. You cannot, at all events, 
 but confess Mrs. Anderson to be a very lovely 
 woman.” 
 
 “Yes, I think her very fascinating indeed.” 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 M 
 
243 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ Ay, and amiable, too. You would think so 
 if you beard the manner in which she expressed 
 herself towards you. But, with the instinct of a 
 woman, she guessed that she might not be, per- 
 haps, considered wholly amiable by you, and 
 therefore, confidentially asked me how she might 
 best go to work to secure your friendship.” 
 
 “ What object can she have in possessing my 
 friendship ?” 
 
 “Never mind her object,” answered Mr. 
 Fairlie, with some degree of asperity, “it is 
 sufficient that I want you to make friends with 
 her, and I hope you will do so.” 
 
 The slight twitching at the extremities of 
 Mary’s mouth proved the pang her father’s 
 manner had occasioned her. Unable now to keep 
 her gaze fixed upon him, she suffered her head to 
 droop upon her breast, and remained silent. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie now made a pause. He was 
 evidently revolving in his mind how best to pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 “ I think it right,” he at length began, “ that 
 
SOME CONVEESATION. 
 
 243 
 
 you should be made acquainted at once with my 
 intention as regards Mrs. Anderson. Though 
 sudden — perhaps, surprisingly sudden to you — she 
 has inspired me with an affection for her that can 
 only he gratified by my making her my wife. 
 And this I propose doing — providing, that is to 
 say, she will accept me as a husband.” 
 
 Mary gave a sudden start, and turned even 
 paler than she was before. Then, in a low, hurried 
 voice, she said, 
 
 “ And are you really in earnest, papa ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Do you think me capable of joking upon a 
 subject so serious? I am in earnest; and in 
 communicating this subject to you, I believe I am 
 performing that duty which you, as my child, 
 demand from me.” 
 
 “ Come,” he continued, seeing her remain 
 silent, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, as if 
 in a fit of abstraction, “ have you nothing to say 
 to me ? Surely you cannot condemn this step— - 
 I say condemn; because it is thus perhaps 
 you would have me construe your silence. Mrs. 
 
 M 2 
 
244 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Anderson is everything that the most exacting 
 mind could wish to see expressed in a woman. 
 She is young, she is beautiful, she is amiable, she 
 is eager to woo your friendship — what more would 
 you have ? I shall be all the better for a com- 
 panion whom I can treat with the confidence 
 of a husband ; and you will be all the better for 
 one whom you can consider as a sister and a 
 friend. With her in the house we shall see 
 more society — and this is what I like ; for what 
 use is all my money if we two are to spend it 
 alone ?” 
 
 But Mary did not open her lips or change her 
 attitude as if to reply. This apparent coldness 
 struck deep to the father’s heart, and he cried 
 aloud, in a voice in which the tones of tenderness 
 and rage were strangely mingled, 
 
 ‘‘ Mary, do you assume this manner on pur- 
 pose to anger me? Are you still an infant, 
 that you seem incapable of comprehending what 
 I tell you? What motive can you possibly 
 have in listening with such coldness to what you 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 245 
 
 must know is now the dearest wish of my heart ? 
 Answer me — tell me, what means this silence ?” 
 
 She raised her eyes and glanced at him, with a 
 brief, quick look ; then unclasping a locket, con- 
 taining a likeness of her dead mother, that she 
 wore suspended round her neck, she opened it 
 and laid it before him. 
 
 His eye fell upon it, and instantly his manner 
 became agitated. The ordinarily amiable expres- 
 sion of his face became lost in the frown that 
 contracted his brows, and, abruptly rising from 
 his seat, he commenced pacing the room with a 
 rapid, irregular step. 
 
 Still in silence, she took up the locket, and 
 replaced it by its ribbon round her throat. 
 
 She had performed these two simple, but im- 
 pressive actions, with such solemnity, that Mr. 
 Fairlie, as if struck with sudden surprise, paused, 
 and fixed his eyes upon her face to read there the 
 thoughts she seemed unwillingly to speak. 
 
 Then, in a subdued voice, he said. 
 
 Why do you recall your mother to me at this 
 
246 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 moment. She is dead — God rest her soul I — 
 leave her in peace.” 
 
 “ Could you revive the love you once felt for 
 her,” said Mary, “ you would think her memory 
 sweet enough to cherish without bestowing your 
 affections on another.” 
 
 “ Are you jealous of Mrs. Anderson ?” he 
 asked, angrily ; “ is it a fear lest she should 
 come and usurp the position you have hitherto 
 occupied in my house, that causes you to oppose 
 her admission ? If such be your thoughts, dis- 
 miss them. I would not have a child of mine 
 dishonoured by such meanness.” 
 
 “ It is not of her that I am jealous,” Mary 
 answered; “it is of your happiness.” 
 
 “ My happiness !” he exclaimed, still with the 
 same angry tone ; “ how can you be anxious for 
 that which you seem so eager to mar? If you 
 were the dutiful child such a speech as you have 
 now made would lead one to think, instead of 
 this foolish manner of hearing what I have to tell 
 you, you would congratulate me upon the pro- 
 
SOME CONVERSATION. 
 
 247 
 
 bability of my adding something of happiness to 
 the life which, God knows, is short and miserable 
 enough in this world. No, tell the truth. What 
 is your objection to Mrs. Anderson? it is 
 grounded upon some better reason than that of 
 my happiness.” 
 
 “ I have no other objection at all against her,” 
 Mary answered quietly, though in a tone that 
 plainly discovered how agitated — agitated almost 
 to tears, was the heart that was now throbbing so 
 painfully within her. ‘‘ She is not fitted for 
 you — I am certain of it. You are ignorant of her 
 past — of her character — of everything concerning 
 her. You are about to ally yourself to a woman 
 of whose disposition you know nothing. How 
 can you tell but that she may be an adventurer— 
 a schemer — .” She paused, silenced by an ex- 
 cited gesture from her father. 
 
 “ I will not suffer you to speak thus of her !” 
 he cried, in a now thoroughly angry voice ; 
 “ what ! you, whom I always took to be so 
 charitable, so gentle, so quiet, so good — you to 
 
248 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 blast a woman’s fair character by imputing to her 
 imaginary vices; by environing her with sup- 
 posititious evil ! Why should she be all this 
 that you say? What right have you even to 
 hint such suspicions ? Mary, this is no less dis- 
 honouring to you than to me. I deeply, deeply 
 regret that such thoughts should ever have found 
 lodgment in your heart. But let us say no more 
 upon the subject. If this is all that you can ad- 
 vance to support your objection, do not expose 
 your weakness by speaking it. Let it remaia 
 buried in secret. Reflection may perhaps aid you 
 to correct what I will not pain you by calling 
 wickedness !” And without looking at her, he 
 marched out of the room, not without a certain 
 secret satisfaction, in spite of his rage, at the 
 manner in which he had “ broken the ice,” and 
 by so doing, given himself greater liberty of 
 action. 
 
 Mary remained motionless for some moments 
 after her father’s departure. Then, as if mechan- 
 ically, directed to the action by her train of 
 
SOME CONVERSATION, 
 
 219 
 
 thought, her hands unclasped the locket from 
 her throat, and she laid it open on the table before 
 her. The next moment her head was bowed over 
 the likeness of her mother, and she was weeping 
 the most scalding tears that ever stained the 
 cheek of a young girl. 
 
260 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET BOW. 
 
 “ I am going tMs evening,” said Captain Mor- 
 timer, standing before a looking glass and ar- 
 ranging his cravat, “ to see that old fellow we 
 met the other night at Fairlie’s — Captain Sand- 
 boys. He gave me his card, and I think I shall 
 avail myself of his invitation — not for his sake — 
 the old sea lubber, but for his daughter’s, with 
 whom, to tell you the truth, I am head over ears 
 in love.” 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW. 
 
 251 
 
 He addressed these words to Mrs. Anderson^ 
 who having just come in from a walk, was divest- 
 ing herself of her bonnet at the other end of the 
 room. 
 
 1 should have thought,” she replied, that 
 it would have answered your purpose better to 
 have taken me round to Mr. Fairlie’s. You 
 know I cannot go by myself ; yet it is impera- 
 tive that I should often be with him now.” 
 
 Not exactly. ‘ Absence makes the heart 
 grow fonder,’ you know. Never give anybody 
 too much of anything. Nothing is easier than a 
 surfeit to a man in love. You ought to know 
 this, if anybody should ; for heaven knows, it has 
 been rendered apparent enough by — by — ” 
 
 By whom ?” 
 
 By your humble servant,” he said, bowing 
 with mock gravity, ^^and — ^j’’ourself.” 
 
 That is true,” she answered coldly. Then 
 with a bitter laugh, she added Certainly we 
 furnish a splendid illustration of the emotion of 
 love, as expressed by human nature.” 
 
252 
 
 OFF THE STAGE, 
 
 He jerked himself into an arm chair, shrugging 
 his shoulders as he did so. “ You are really such 
 a splendid woman, Gussy,” he said, “that I 
 hardly know which is the more delightful sensa- 
 tion of the two — loving or hating you. Moore’s 
 lines capitally apply to you — 
 
 ‘ So whether we’re on or we’re off. 
 
 Some witchery seems to await you j 
 To love you is pleasant enough — 
 
 But oh ! ’tis delicious to hate you !’ 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! you see the bad usage of the world 
 hasn’t quite knocked out of me all my old love of 
 poetry.” And he bit off the end of a cigar, and 
 began to smoke. His companion did not answer 
 him, and after a few moments’ silence, he said — 
 “ I’ll take you to Montague Square to-morrow 
 night. If you’re clever, you’ll return to Gariy 
 Street, betrothed to him.” 
 
 “ More curious things than that have occurred,” 
 she rejoined, showing her teeth in the hard 
 smile that divided her lips. 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET HOW. 
 
 253 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mortimer ; perhaps he may die 
 and leave you all his property.” 
 
 “ Perhaps he may,” she answered, drily. 
 
 “ Then well go what is vulgarly called ‘ snacks’, 
 in polite language, ‘ halves.’ Egad I and very 
 well oflf you’ll be with your half, as I shall be 
 with mine.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes ; but he’s not dead yet.” 
 
 “ Not yet, I am glad to say. He mustn’t die 
 before you call him husband. That will be two 
 you’ve had in your life — three, in one sense. 
 Lucky woman !” 
 
 She glanced at him for a moment to remark 
 the sneer with which these words were 
 accompanied, and then she answered “ my first 
 lover was a gentlemen, and my last I believe to 
 be a gentleman, too. Come, 1 flatter myself I 
 have been more fortunate than many women, to 
 have had the luck to meet with two gentlemen 
 out of three lovers.” 
 
 “Yon omit me from your list, for which I 
 thank you,” he said, ill dissembling his rage at 
 
254 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the sarcastic manner in which she had uttered 
 her remarks. “ Fortunately, however, for me, I 
 really do not believe you are capable of distin- 
 guishing between a gentleman and a snob. In- 
 deed I am confirmed in my thesis by having 
 heard you once call that coxcomb Haig, of the 
 — th, a gentleman.” 
 
 “ I think so still,” she said. 
 
 ‘‘Ha! ha!” he laughed. “After that, your 
 bad opinion of me is the best compliment you 
 could pay me.” 
 
 “ At any rate,” she replied, in the same im- 
 perturbable voice, “you considered him a gentle- 
 man until he horsewhipped you in the billiard 
 room at .” 
 
 He turned almost purple with rage, as he 
 shouted “ If ever you recall that cursed afiair 
 again. I’ll knock you down, by G — !” And he 
 sprang to his feet, and actually menaced her with 
 his fist. 
 
 She did not flinch, but motionlessly remained, 
 surveying him with a light smile, full of scorn. 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW. 
 
 255 
 
 “ I do not know,” he muttered aloud, resum- 
 ing his seat, and moodily glaring into the fire, 
 “ why I work for the ungrateful harlot. By 
 heavens ! I would rather forego my chance in 
 this affair, so that I might have the satisfaction 
 of kicking her into the street, and making her 
 earn her bread upon the pavementj as she is only 
 fit to do.” 
 
 “ Such threats do not frighten me,” she 
 answered, especiall}’’ when I have had the 
 honour of being told by you that I am capable of 
 earning a hundred pounds a day.” And she ut- 
 tered a short laugh of the bitterest contempt. 
 
 His lips moved inarticulately for a moment, 
 and then he turned to her. ‘‘ Why do you want 
 to quarrel ?” he said ; “ think you that your po- 
 sition is so secure that you can afford to quarrel 
 with me ?” 
 
 “ I think nothing at all,” she retorted coolly ; 
 “ when you attack me with your insults, my de- 
 fence is recrimination. You are generally — nay, 
 always the aggressor in our quarrels, and I were 
 
256 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 indeed something less than flesh and blood to 
 stand by and hear your speeches unmoved.” 
 ‘'Well, let us cry peace !” he said, assuming a 
 caressing tone of voice ; “ we both want each 
 other’s assistance, and they must be fools who 
 fight whilst they are drowning.” 
 
 “ I am always for peace,” said Augusta. And 
 she turned to a book that lay upon the table, and 
 commenced glancing over its pages. Probably, 
 however, without any other purpose than to con- 
 ceal the vindictive gleam of her eye from her 
 companion, who had turned his chair round, and 
 now sat confronting her. 
 
 His was a disposition, however, not to be much 
 ruffled by such scenes. He had been immensely 
 irritated, of that there can be no doubt, but use 
 had hardened or blunted the sensibilities of his 
 nature ; like an animal, he forgot the cause of 
 his pangs as soon as their irritation had subsided. 
 
 “We are great fools,” said he, “to be con- 
 stantly having such rows. Fortunately, how- 
 ever, we do not sufier them to interfere with our 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW. 
 
 257 
 
 purposes. They are pimples upon^ the skin, 
 causing a moment’s annoyance, but by no means 
 affecting the health of the body.” And he ut- 
 tered a complacent laugh at his own pretty simile. 
 
 To-morrow,” he continued, will do for Mr. 
 Fairlie’s. To-night I want to visit old Sandboys. 
 What did you think of his daughter ?” 
 
 Augusta shrugged her shoulders with a gesture 
 of contempt. 
 
 She is tolerably pretty and intolerably simple. 
 However, as she can help neither, she is not to be 
 blamed.” 
 
 ^^Well, I must confess that I am in love with 
 her. And I intend telling her so before long.” 
 You will have a rival.” 
 u IP” 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 In who53 ?” 
 
 In young Seymour.” 
 
 ‘‘ How do you know ?” 
 
 ‘^By the faculty that nature lends to every 
 woman — penetration. ” 
 
258 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ But what have you penetrated ?” 
 
 “ Quite enough to know that young Seymour 
 is in love with Miss Sandboys.” 
 
 “ You are devilish sharp to have found it out 
 so soon. That is all I have to say.” 
 
 “ But you will find that I am right,” she said, 
 fixing her eyes on the volume she held. 
 
 He remained thoughtful for some moments, and 
 then said, 
 
 “Well, so much the better if he is. Any op- 
 position will call me out. Now the girl is too 
 simple to provoke me in her radical state to any 
 exertion of my art of pleasing.” 
 
 “ Do you propose matrimony, then?” 
 
 “ Lord knows what I propose. I must settle 
 some of these days, and when you are off my 
 hands, which you will soon he, I shall then he 
 alone, and certain to pine in solitude. If this 
 little woman suits me, I might he induced to 
 settle down with her. If not — but we shall see — 
 we shall see.” 
 
 Augusta gave him a searching look, and said. 
 
NO, NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW. 
 
 25y 
 
 ^‘And you really mean to tell me tliat that 
 child is the person to suit you as a wife?” 
 
 Why not?” he rejoined with a shrug, ^^we 
 men, you know, take the oddest fancies into our 
 heads. To tell you the truth,” he added, sig- 
 nificantly, am rather sick of your worldly 
 minded women. Their arts are so numerous that 
 their life is a mere tissue of deception from 
 beginning to end. There is no trusting them ; 
 for they only love you to work you wrong, and 
 their hate is so compounded of other passions, 
 that you never find in them what I call solid and 
 honest enmity. Now, in a young girl of the Miss 
 Sandboys genus, you are at least sure of her 
 affection. She employs no art to prove her love, 
 and therefore, when she declares or reveals it, 
 you know^ that it is, at all events, honest.” 
 
 But do you think. Captain Mortimer,” said 
 Augusta, looking him fall in the face, that you 
 are a man likely to win the confidence of such a 
 girl as you mention ?” 
 
 ^‘That remains to be proved.” 
 
260 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 She continued looking at him for somo 
 moments in silence ; then suddenly letting her 
 eyes droop, she said, bowing to him, 
 
 “ I wish you every success in your new 
 passion.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” he answered, returning her bow, 
 “ and allow me to wish you every success in 
 yours.” Then to himself he said, “ I believe the 
 idiot is actually jealous.” 
 
 But the idea seemed so preposterous, that even 
 as he thought, he shook his head, glancing as he 
 did so at his companion, who sat with her face 
 leaning over the book on her lap, concealing by 
 her attitude the light smile that curled her 
 superbly-shaped lip. 
 
 On that evening Frank had brought Charlie 
 Seymour home with him to St. John’s Wood to 
 dinner. This was the first guest No. 19, Violet 
 Eow, had had the honour of receiving — at least, 
 during its occupancy by Captain Sandboys —and 
 as the event had been expected, some small pre- 
 paration had been made to do it fitting honour. 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW 
 
 261 
 
 In the morning the Captain had said to Kate, 
 ^^What shall we give Mr. Seymour to eat to- 
 day ?” 
 
 To which Kate had answered, 
 
 ■ I really don’t know, papa. But you ought to 
 give him something nice, for it is a long way to 
 come for a dinner.” 
 
 That’s very true,” the Captain had said, 
 ^ an d therefore I think we will give him a boiled 
 leg ^ mutton, underdone, and caper sauce.” 
 
 Now this happened to be a favourite dish with 
 the Captain ; and the honest soul thought, be- 
 cause he liked it, all the world liked it. 
 
 But Kate had objected to this repast as being 
 vulgar, and had suggested in its stead, a nice 
 piece of codfish, a pair of fowls, a little pastry, and 
 some fruit. 
 
 Now the Captain, who had been brought up on 
 beef, rum, and dough, naturally entertained a 
 just contempt for poultry in every form — barring 
 the turkey on Christmas Day, — conceiving such 
 food to be one of thoseKrench innovations, which 
 
262 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 were not only rapidly undermining the constitu- 
 tion of the country, but the constitution as well 
 of Englishmen. Whereupon a little dispute had 
 followed Kate’s suggestion, the Captain declaim- 
 ing in favour of beef or mutton, whichever she 
 liked, and she holding her ground with regard to 
 her fish and poultry. And as usual in such cases, 
 Kate won the day. 
 
 Kate’s dinner was therefore set before Sey- 
 mour, who entered with Frank at about six 
 o’clock, receiving at the moment of his crossing 
 the threshold of the door a loud and hearty wel- 
 come from the Captain. 
 
 “ My only regret,” said the latter, “ is that 
 you haven’t brought Miss Fairlie with you.” 
 
 “ And I am sure she will regret it equally when 
 she hears that I have been here,” answered Sey- 
 mour, looking at Kate. “You know it is a 
 hobby of mine. Captain Sandboys, to see Maiy 
 and your daughter fast friends. I have guaranteed 
 Mary profiting from the companionship.” 
 
 “ No compliments — no compliments !” cried the 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET KOW. 
 
 263 
 
 Captain. Now Kate, you wicked rogue, tell 
 Mr. Seymour you won’t be complimented.” 
 
 ‘‘ I should be depriving myself of a very great 
 pleasure if I forbade him,” answered Kate, 
 artlessly. 
 
 ‘‘ Ha ! ha !” laughed the Captain. Put that 
 in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Seymour,” nudg- 
 ing him in the ribs; now, how are we to con- 
 strue that, into a compliment or a truth ?” 
 
 Dinner’s ready, please,” said Mrs. Peake,' 
 putting her head in at the door, to the annoyance 
 of Kate, who had particularly requested the 
 clean little housemaid to announce the fact. For 
 she knew Mrs. Peake never said Sir. ” 
 
 Seymour gallantly gave his arm to Kate, and 
 marshalled by the Captain, they adjourned to the 
 little parlour. 
 
 The Captain had too much good taste to com- 
 ment upon the contrast his plain little house 
 offered to Mr. Fairlie’s. Kate, however, felt it, 
 and slightly blushed when Seymour, whom she 
 thought spoke ironically, said. 
 
264 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘You are really very cosy here, Captain 
 Sandboys.” 
 
 “ Ay, that we are ; but you should have seen us 
 at Yartlepool,” the Captain answered. 
 
 “ Oh, pray don’t talk of Yartlepool ! Of all 
 the dull places — ” Kate began. 
 
 “ Now, Kate, you know my weakness. Not a 
 word against Yartlepool, sailors, or coastguards,” 
 the Captain interrupted. 
 
 Kate began to mope at being thus put down, 
 and Frank remarking it, said, 
 
 “ Seymour, the pleasure of a glass of wine 
 with you. Good health to you — and Kate, here’s 
 your good health ; and all the harm I wish you is 
 that you may be soon married.” 
 
 Kate blushed and smiled, and Seymour, with a 
 1 augh, asked if he might consider himself included 
 in the wish. 
 
 “ Certainly,” said Frank. “ Eh, governor ?” 
 
 “ Ah, don’t talk of marriage,” said the Captain, 
 heaving a sigh and looking hard at Frank. 
 “ Don’t talk of marriage.” 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET KOW. 
 
 265 
 
 Well, now, I think marriage a very jolly 
 thing,” said Frank. 
 
 And so do I,” said Seymour, laughing. 
 ^^And what’s your opinion of it. Miss Sand- 
 boys ?” 
 
 She’ll tell you in about ten years time,” said 
 the Captain. 
 
 Such was a sample of the conversation during 
 the dinner; not highly intellectual, it will be 
 granted, but lively enough to keep everybody in 
 good spirits ; and of such conversations, this, after 
 all, is the real end. 
 
 Presently, Kate left the room, and went up* 
 stairs, where soon after she was heard playing 
 the piano. This was a signal for the two young 
 gentlemen to follow her, which they did, leaving 
 Captain Sandboys to the forty winks which are 
 always so grateful to stout men after a meal. 
 
 Though the Captain’s drawing-room was very 
 small, it was very cosy ; and though there was 
 but very little glimmer about it, either in the 
 shape of glass or gilt, nevertheless its furniture 
 
 VOL. T. 
 
 N 
 
266 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 was neat and convenient. Its windows over- 
 looked the two small gardens in the front and 
 back, and the greenery, thus perceptible, added 
 something of a grace to the whole that Montague 
 Square did not quite possess. 
 
 “Now, Kate,’’ said Frank, approaching the 
 piano, “ sing Mr. Seymour a song.” 
 
 “Oh, I can’t,” said Kate; “at least, not so 
 soon after dinner.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes you can I” remarked Frank. “ Come, 
 give us one of the skipper’s favourite nautical 
 ballads. Unless, perhaps, Seymour, you’d like an 
 Italian air.” 
 
 “ I’d rather have one of the skipper’s favourite 
 nautical ballads,” said Seymour. 
 
 “ Very well, and she’ll sing you one. Kate, 
 give us that song beginning ‘ When the moon is 
 in the sky, and the ocean sings a tune, and the 
 something passes by;’ you know the one I 
 mean.” 
 
 Kate looked at him for a moment, and then 
 ^ave Seymour a timid little glance. Then, mus- 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET EOW. 
 
 267 
 
 tering up her courage, she struck the piano, and 
 commenced singing the song that Frank had 
 suggested. 
 
 Her voice was like her face— pretty. It was 
 full of freshness, too— the freshness of girlhood — 
 and this considerably helped to improve it. Her 
 execution on the piano was not very remarkable ; 
 for her small hand could hardly reach an octave ; 
 and when she attempted one there seemed some- 
 thing malicious in the weak way in which her 
 little finger struck its note, as if that wee ap- 
 pendage rebelled against the uses to which it was 
 being put. 
 
 When she had concluded her carol, Seymour 
 was loud in his exclamations of gratitude. And, 
 indeed, he seemed, and probably was, as sincere, 
 and spoke with as much earnestness, as if she 
 had conferred a long craved-for boon upon him. 
 
 ‘‘ I am truly sorry that Frank did not ask yon 
 to bring Miss Fairlie with you,” said Kate, to 
 Seymour. 
 
 “ I am sure my cousin will not thank you for 
 
 N 2 
 
268 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 calling Her Miss Fairlie,” said Seymour ; how- 
 ever, I will leave it to her to instruct you to call 
 her Mary.” 
 
 ‘‘ If I were she, I should be so dull in that big 
 house with only papa as a companion. But then 
 she told me that she likes quietude ; and that a 
 book is the companion she most loves.’’ 
 
 “ And she is sincere, too,” said Seymour. “ It 
 is reserved for you, however, providing you will 
 take the trouble to do so, to jirove her wrong ; to 
 prove, in fact, that though paper and print are 
 all very well in their way, a heart to love, and 
 friendly ears to impart one’s confidences to, are 
 infinitely better.” 
 
 “ But I suppose she’ll be having Mrs. Ander- 
 son as a companion soon ; will she not, Mr. Sey- 
 mour ?” Kate asked, not without a little curiosity, 
 and without perceiving the gesture that Frank 
 made as if to silence her. 
 
 Seymour instantly looked grave, and re- 
 plied, 
 
 I am afraid Mrs. Anderson is not exactly the 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET HOW. 269 
 
 person whom Mary would chose as a companion. 
 Not but that she is pretty — indeed, lovely, and 
 apparently amiable and ladylike,” he added; 
 
 but Mary is a very singular girl; she is very sus- 
 ceptible of first impressions, and, I regret to say, 
 suffers herself to be infiuenced by them in a man- 
 ner she should certainly correct.” 
 
 ^^Then she does not like Mrs. Anderson?” 
 said Kate. How curious ; now I could throw 
 myself at her feet, and almost worship her.” 
 
 You ?” 
 
 Yes. Oh ! I think such beauty was only 
 born to have homage offered it. If I had my 
 way, all our kings and queens should be the 
 handsomest men and women in the land. I am 
 sure I could be more loyal to a handsome king 
 or queen than to a plain one, and Royalty knows 
 the value of outward splendour — splendour of 
 appearance, and so forth. But a magnificent 
 pair of eyes in a queen would have a greater 
 effect than all her diamonds. For just look at 
 Mary Stuart. And as to a king, if he wero 
 
270 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 downright handsome, I declare I shouldn’t care 
 that whether he had royal blood in him or 
 not.” 
 
 Frank and Seymour laughed loudly at this 
 sally, and Frank declared that Kate ought “ to 
 go in for an aristocracy of beauty.” 
 
 “ So she does,” answered Seymour, ‘‘ for she 
 is ambitious.” 
 
 Kate smiled, and said, 
 
 “Fancy Mrs. Anderson a queen! why, we 
 should have chivalry revived in England; and 
 wouldn’t that be delicious ?” 
 
 “ Fancy Captain Sandboys in armour,” said 
 Frank. 
 
 “ Well, I daresay stouter men than papa wore 
 armour in the olden times, Mr. Frank,” said 
 Kate saucily. “ At any rate, I am sure Henry 
 VIII. was quite as stout.” 
 
 “ Now, isn’t she learned?” said Frank, with a 
 wink at Seymour. 
 
 “Ay,” thought Seymour, to himself, “and 
 fascinating, too.” 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW. 
 
 271 
 
 But what is Mary’s objection to Mrs Ander- 
 son?” asked Kate. 
 
 Seymour hesitated a little, and glanced at 
 Frank. In truth he had communicated to Frank 
 in the morning what Mary had communicated to 
 him on the preceding evening — her conversa- 
 tion with her father, and his assurance with re- 
 gard to his uniting himself with Mrs. Anderson. 
 Seymour had heard the news with some degree of 
 dismay — with the dismay, indeed, with which we 
 all listen to the news which is full of importance, 
 and which, at the same time, is wholly unex- 
 pected ; and which, further, we know know not 
 whether to regard as ominous or not. 
 
 Frank could not at first entirely enter into his 
 feelings, for he confessed that he saw nothing 
 either very singular or dreadful in a man of Mr. 
 Fairlie’s age taking to himself a second wife, and 
 that wife a splendid and apparently amiable 
 woman. But when Seymour had conveyed to 
 him the feelings of Mary upon the subject ; when 
 
272 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 he had set before him the probable unhappiness 
 such an alliance might be the means of causing 
 her; perhaps partially, if not wholly, separating 
 her from her father, whose love she had been 
 taught to consider as centred in herself ; and, in 
 addition to all this, which was selfish, her unsel- 
 fish fear lest her father should find in Mrs. Ander- 
 son an uncongenial mind and disposition; a 
 laxity of character which might just as well be,, 
 considering that Mr. Fairlie was wholly ignorant 
 of everything, save her beauty, connected with 
 the woman ; Frank began to ponder the matter 
 over, and at last came to the same conclusion at 
 which Seymour had at once arrived : that the step 
 was hasty and ill-advised ; and that certainly some 
 time ought to be suffered to elapse, ere a design 
 so pregnant with happiness or misery, and which 
 might be the mere result of a passionate and 
 transient enthusiasm, should be put into execu- 
 tion. But as it was not his business, Frank kept 
 his thoughts to himself, merely observing that he 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET KOW. 
 
 273 
 
 heartily sympathised with Mary in her dubious 
 position, and truly hoped that everything would 
 prove for the best. 
 
 Kate’s question, however, had revived the 
 subject in his mind ; and in order to save his 
 friend the trouble or pain of answering her, he 
 diverted the conversation into an entirely dif- 
 ferent channel. 
 
 At about eight o’clock in the evening there 
 came a loud rap at the door, and shortly after, 
 the servant announced Captain Mortimer. The 
 little family and its guest had long since assem- 
 bled in the parlour, where, shortly before the 
 arrival of Mortimer, they had been disturbed in 
 a game of whist (Seymour and Kate being part- 
 ners) by the presence of the servant with the tea- 
 tray. 
 
 Kate was just in the act of pouring out the 
 steaming beverage, and the three gentleman had 
 just drawn their chairs to the table to devour the 
 toast and muflSns that so temptingly provoked 
 
 N 5 
 
274 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 their appetites, 'when Captain Mortimer walked 
 in. 
 
 “ Well, now, this is an unexpected pleasure,” 
 cried the Captain, rising and grasping his visitor 
 hy the hand. ‘‘ Welcome, welcome to our ‘lonely 
 cot I’ ” he added, half singing the sentence. 
 
 Mortimer shook hands with everybody all 
 round, very heartily, indeed, but more heartily, 
 if possible, with Seymour, whom he did not pro- 
 fess the least surprise at seeing. 
 
 “ You see I am a man of my word, Captain 
 Sandboys,” said he ; “I told you I would come 
 and look you up ; and here I am.” 
 
 “ Yes, there you are,” said the Captain ; “ and 
 right glad are we all to see you ; and how is your 
 lovely sister ?” 
 
 “And so you admire her, too, do you. Cap- 
 tain ?” said Mortimer. “ ’Pon my honour. Gussy 
 ought to consider herself wondrously lucky. 
 People form so many different notions as to 
 beauty, that really any woman in whose charms 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET KOW. 
 
 275 
 
 even six people are agreed, ought to esteem 
 such unanimity the highest possible compli- 
 ment.” 
 
 But there can be surely no difference of opinion 
 as to Mrs. Anderson’s beauty, Captain Morti- 
 mer?” said Kate. 
 
 I am afraid you will think me very heretical, 
 Miss Sandboys,” he answered, ^^when I tell 
 you that though I sufficiently admire Grussy, lam 
 by no means so enthusiastic about her, as I be- 
 lieve I should be.” 
 
 ^^Ah, but brothers never much admire their 
 sisters, you know,” said Seymour ; at least, so 
 sisters say.” 
 
 That’s very true, Mr. Seymour,” said Morti- 
 mer, courteously ; Gussy realises by no means 
 my idea of beauty.” 
 
 ^^Then, if she doesn’t, who will?” asked 
 Frank. 
 
 Mortimer shrugged his shoulders ; then stole 
 a covert glance at Kate, who was looking at 
 him. 
 
276 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ And what is your idea of beauty ?” said Cap- 
 tain Sandboys. 
 
 “ That is a diflScult question to answer, Cap- 
 tain. I believe there is an ideal — a bidden con- 
 ception of loveliness within us, that does not 
 make itself known until the object that most 
 nearly represents it, calls it into activity. I be- 
 lieve that the curious emotions we feel on wit- 
 nessing some master-piece of art or nature, are 
 the result of this inner and unexpressed concep- 
 tion of ours being at length realised. But then, 
 this is a mere theory of mine, and may or may 
 not be true. However, before I can give expres- 
 sion to my idea of beauty — I mean perfect beauty 
 — I must first of all see it. The soul by itself 
 cannot express its own emotions. It is sympa- 
 thetic and perceptive, and can only realise its 
 own fancies by its sympathy and perception. It 
 must look into nature, as the moon looks into 
 the ocean, before it can see its own type of 
 loveliness embodied and represented.” 
 
 “ Is your tea sweet enough. Captain Mortimer?” 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VOILET ROW. 
 
 277 
 
 asked Captain Sandboys, who had completely lost 
 sight of the speaker’s meaning just five seconds 
 after he had commenced. 
 
 Mortimer thanked him, and said it was, 
 
 Kate turned irritably to her father, with a light 
 frown at his unseasonable question, and Frank, 
 who had been listening with close attention to 
 Mortimer, said, 
 
 But surely you must admire one kind of 
 what the world calls beauty more than another. 
 Now, Captain Sandboys meant by his question to 
 ask what kind you most admire ?” 
 
 Yes, that’s what I meant,” said the Captain 
 supposing that Mortimer had wholly misappre- 
 hended his meaning. 
 
 There is equal difficulty in answering that 
 question/’ said Mortimer, smiling. Supposing 
 I tell you that I admire fair people more than 
 dark, or dark people more than fair, I tell you 
 nothing. Nor do I add anything to my mean- 
 ing by giving you a sketch of the face I best love, 
 the colour of its eyes, the shape of its nose and 
 
278 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 mouth, the contour of the head, and outline of 
 the chin and throat. Expression has everything 
 to do with living beauty, and who can define ex- 
 pression?” 
 
 “ Perfectly true,” said the Captain, to whom 
 the speaker was now intelligible. 
 
 “ But since,” continued Mortimer, with another 
 covert glance at Kate, “ you are anxious to know 
 my idea of beauty, I will endeavour to give it you 
 as briefly as I can. I am, of course, speaking of 
 women ; and this is what a girl ought to have — 
 to please me, at least. First of all, her hair 
 must be of a colour neither too dark nor too fair 
 — let us call it auburn — for that is surely the 
 very perfection of all colour for the hair. Her 
 eye must be a dark blue —a colour always sung by 
 poets, and rarely met with in real life ; but which, 
 when encountered, always tells of soul — soul in 
 the highest, noblest sense of the word. Next, 
 her complexion must be delicate and pure, her 
 nose Attic — which means Grecian, you know. Cap- 
 tain — her figure well developed, and of the middle 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VOILET ROW. 
 
 279 
 
 height, and I hold small feet and hands to be in- 
 dispensable. Her conversation must be ndwe and 
 a rtless ; simplicity must breathe in all her actions ; 
 each grace must be unstudied, and her laugh 
 must be as genuine as the cause that provokes it. 
 As girls who have been brought up remote from 
 the town can alone discover these charms, so 
 whenever 1 wish to see these and a good many 
 other unexpressed notions of girlhood beauty, or 
 rather prettiness, embodied, I must seek it, and 
 will doubtless find it in a country girl.” 
 
 It was apparent to all, even to Captain Sand- 
 boys, and most apparent to Kate, that she had 
 been the subject of this description. Indeed, as 
 far as appearance went, including something, too, 
 of the manners, Kate had been exactly expressed 
 in Captain Mortimer’s speech. And this was so 
 obvious that the girl hung down her head, and a 
 silence almost ominous, because of its suddenness, 
 crept over the company, and they remained look- 
 ing at each other, and awaiting the observation 
 that no one seemed willing to make. 
 
280 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 At last Seymour said, 
 
 ‘‘ Tou must allow me, Captain Mortimer, to 
 congratulate you upon your taste. It is admir- 
 able, and I entirely agree in its justness.” 
 
 “And so do I,” said Frank, glancing at Kate, 
 “ though by saying so I hope you will not think 
 I disavow the beauty of Mrs. Anderson, which in 
 its way I conceive to be finer than the beauty you 
 have described.” 
 
 “ Oh ! far, far finer,” said Kate. 
 
 “ I suppose,” said Mortimer to Frank, with a 
 laugh, “ that Tom Moore’s notion of beauty is 
 yours. You know what he says ? 
 
 ‘ Your glass may be purple and mine may be blue, 
 
 But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, 
 
 The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue 
 Deserves not the comfort they shed o’er the soul.’ ” 
 
 Which simply means that to Tom Moore, as to 
 yourself, all colours are equally acceptable.” 
 “Well,” said Captain Sandboys, “ let us con- 
 gratulate ourselves upon having had a very 
 eloquent discussion on the subject of beauty.” 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW. 
 
 281 
 
 Thanks to Captain Mortimer,” said Kate. 
 
 Or rather thanks to you/’ said Mortimer, 
 gallantly, for I think it right. Miss Sandboys, 
 to confess that to you at least is due the honour 
 of having suggested, or rather inspired us with 
 the topic.” 
 
 Kate slightly blushed, and, in a whisper, said 
 to Frank, who was seated on her left. 
 
 Did I not tell you how admirably he compli- 
 mented ?” 
 
 Captain Sandboys, however, with the instinct 
 of a father, was dubious of these compliments,^ 
 knowing not exactly how to interpret them. But, 
 on the whole, he was gratified, feeling, perhaps, 
 that they were indirectly as much levelled at him 
 as at his daughter. 
 
 Kate seemed very much to enjoy Captain Mor- 
 timer’s society. To do him justice, he was a 
 most sociable and lively companion, and his con- 
 versation was regulated with that keen discrimin- 
 ation which is perhaps more than all else charac- 
 
282 
 
 OFf’ THE STAGE. 
 
 teristic of the true man of the world. I mean that 
 discrimination which suffers everybody to havo 
 his say, and to depart satisfied that he has ac- 
 quitted himself in a really admirable manner, 
 which he attained by starting topics which all 
 were able to discuss ; saying enough to impress 
 everybody with his own sense and judgment, and 
 leaving the rest to be argued or commented upon 
 by his companions. 
 
 His conversation, however, was more particu- 
 larly addressed to Kate. Before five minutes 
 had elapsed he became sensible of the truth of 
 Augusta’s remark — that he had a rival in Sey- 
 mour. And as his first impression of Kate was 
 by no means impaired by this interview with her, 
 he endeavoured his utmost to render himself 
 pleasing to her, laughing at her remarks when 
 they were lively enough to warrant such a recep- 
 tion, agreeing with her in every observation she 
 thought fit to make, constantly complimenting 
 her in an oblique manner, though perfectly Intel- 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW, 
 
 283 
 
 ligible to her, and testifying, by the most un- 
 equivocal signs, how thoroughly charmed he was 
 with her conversation, her manners, her appear- 
 ance, and her society. 
 
 There can be no doubt whatever that Captain 
 Mortimer was in love with her ; neither can there 
 be any doubt that Kate was as much pleased with 
 the marked attention he had paid her. He was 
 attracted towards her by her simplicity, by what, 
 in a plain girl, would have been called rusticity, 
 but what in Kate was an artlessness rendered 
 doubly piquante by the grace and by the 
 prettiness by which it was expressed. She, 
 on the other hand, was attracted towards him 
 by his worldly manner, by his position (for 
 she was devoted to the army) by his complete 
 air of good breeding, and by the courtesy in 
 which he never failed when addressing her. These 
 arts or powers combined, necessarily operated 
 with great effect upon the heart of the simple- 
 minded girl ; for she accepted his attentions not 
 only as a compliment to her charms but to her 
 
284 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 mind; and this was a notion, it will be allowed,, 
 really very gratifying to her vanity. 
 
 Nevertheless, her coquetry would not suflEer 
 her to appear wholly engrossed by the atten- 
 tion of Mortimer. To Seymour she was as 
 amiable as she was to his rival ; perhaps even 
 more so ; — whether actuated thereto by the 
 pretty maliciousness which sometimes forces 
 women to appear distant or cool to those towards 
 whom their hearts are secretly inclined ; or by a 
 doubt whether she had better not extend her 
 favours towards one in whom, as a friend of 
 Frank, she felt more cofidence than towards the 
 other, of whose character and antecedents she- 
 was wholly ignorant. 
 
 It was not until a rather late hour that Sey- 
 mour rose to depart. But Captain Mortimer still 
 sat on ; and even went so far as to remain after 
 Kate had retired, declaring that if there was one 
 thing he loved better than another, it was a quiet 
 glass of grog with a man, who, like Captain 
 Sandboys — and he felt proud to be able to include- 
 
NO. NINETEEN, VIOLET ROW. 
 
 285 
 
 in his remark Mr. Frank Forrester — was a 
 traveller and an observer, and, therefore, certain 
 to prove a good fellow. 
 
 “ Well,” said Captain Sandboys, barring and 
 locking the hall door for the night, I am not 
 disappointed in Mortimer; he seems a very 
 decent fellow.” 
 
 Ay,” answered Frank, enthusiastically, 
 like him immensely.” 
 
 I prefer your friend Seymour, however,” said 
 the Captain, he is more quiet and more gentle- 
 manly.” 
 
 That’s true, though I can’t allow that he is 
 more gentlemanly than Mortimer.” 
 
 Perhaps not — perhaps not; I fancy, however, 
 he is a little sweet upon Kate.” 
 
 ‘‘ So I fancy they both are.” 
 
 ^^And which do you fancy Kate likes best?”" 
 said the Captain. 
 
 I couldn’t possibly say,” said Frank. 
 
 The Captain looked at him hard for a moment 
 and sighed. Then he said. 
 
286 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ I wonder if either of them will ever propose 
 to her?” 
 
 “ If they’re in love with her they wDl, certain.” 
 ‘‘ Well,” said the Captain, still gazing at Frank, 
 “if it ever comes to that, and no one asks her 
 hand whom I like better, why, Seymour shall 
 have her.” 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 T. 0. Newby, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendisli Square, London^ 
 
OFF THE STAGE 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 T. 
 
 ITonkn : 
 
 CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 
 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 1867. 
 
 [the right op translation is reserved.] 
 
OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND A DECLARATION OF 
 LOVE. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie was seated alone in his dining- 
 room. The dessert was yet upon the table, and a 
 decanter of wine stood by his side, and between his 
 fingers he held an unlighted cigar ; for it was Mr. 
 Fairlie’s custom of an afternoon, or rather of an 
 evening, to smoke in his dining-room; firstly, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 because he liked it, and secondly, because there 
 \^ as nobody in the world to object to it. His feet 
 reposed upon a chair opposite, and his eyes were 
 fixed upon the glowing embers in the grate, so 
 that his attitude expressed meditation as much as 
 his mind was lost in it. 
 
 Mary and Seymour had been dining with him, 
 but the conversation had been light and unfre- 
 quent, and nothing had been said upon the sub- 
 ject that secretly was busy in everyone’s thoughts. 
 Very shortly after the meal was concluded, Seymour 
 left the house to keep an appointment he had 
 made the preceding day ; and Mary retired to 
 the library, where she was now sitting, conning, 
 with a vacant eye and absent mind the pages of a 
 volume ; her forehead supported by her hand, her 
 face expressive of sadness, and her whole attitude, 
 like her father's in the dining-room, betokening 
 contemplation. 
 
 Since the conversation they had held together, 
 touching Mr. Fairlie’s views concerning the brilliant 
 widow, Mrs. Augusta Anderson, a coolness had 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 3 
 
 arisen between the father and the child, and 
 though the one had endeavoured to make a few 
 advances towards regaining the affection that 
 seemed now slowly ebbing away from her, the 
 other had repelled them with a frigidity of de- 
 meanour that had left her no consolation but tears 
 and regrets. 
 
 In searching into the springs and causes 
 t)f human action we are often morti fied to 
 find that what we frequently assume to be an 
 origin, is in reality but a result ; and as our 
 reasoning on such matters must be wholly con- 
 ducted on a priori principles, many substrata of 
 ends must be penetrated ere the means can be 
 revealed, or the motive investigated. There is, 
 however, in the human heart a multitude of pas- 
 sions which, when separately considered, lead us 
 by steps to the knowledge we would attain ; and 
 it is in the careful analysation and minute dis- 
 section of them in their combined form that the 
 psychologist can alone hope to determine the 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 essential and profound origin that inspired them 
 with vitality and suggested their operations. 
 
 The motives of Mr. Fairlie, in the assumption 
 of his new character were various and obscure. 
 Though, in his heart of hearts his love for Mary 
 might liave been as pure and as sincere as it had 
 ever been through all the years prior to his intro- 
 duction to Mrs. Anderson, yet its brightness had 
 become eclipsed by the new love that had been 
 awakened within him ; and while the vigour of 
 this infant passion seemed in a measure to 
 alienate from his affections her in whom had 
 been centred so long all the liveliest affection of 
 the parent, the breach was yet widened, and the 
 new emotion yet supported by the unfavourable 
 manner in which Mary had received his commu- 
 nication, by her unhappy revival of his recollec- 
 tion of that dead love which either his supersti- 
 tion or his nature had momentarily converted into 
 a menace of his future, peace, and by her conduct 
 altogether, which he had interpreted into a declar- 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 5 
 
 ation of war against the now sole and most 
 cherished object of his life, —his passion for 
 Mrs. Anderson, Moreover, the lurking feeling 
 of doubt as to the correctness of the step he had 
 made up his mind to take, that attended him in 
 all his contemplations, conspired still further to 
 confirm him in his angry feelings towards his 
 child; and perhaps to the aggregate of these 
 various emotions might have been owing the 
 cause that served in a few days, almost hours, to 
 transform the gentle and amiable father into the 
 irritable and repelling man. 
 
 He sat alone now, eyeing the fire in a moody 
 kind of manner, holding betsveen his fingers his 
 untasted cigar, which sometimes he half raised 
 to his lips, as if he designed smoking, then sud- 
 denly letting it fall again, as his thoughts bore 
 him remote from his intention. 
 
 He had all the feelings of being a guilty man, 
 yet what was his guilt? Perhaps it was his 
 daughter’s opposition that made him feel this. 
 There was something in the calm and meekness 
 
6 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of her disposition ; in the clearness and accuracy 
 of her views ; in the tender trustfulness of her 
 affection for him, which made him feel that what- 
 ever might be her opinion, it could not be wrong; 
 and though he argued to himself and proved, as 
 far as clear arguments went, in the most Satisfac- 
 tory way, that his love for Mrs. Anderson was, at 
 all events, sincere ; that the proofs she had given 
 of her amiability and talents would have satisfied 
 the most cynical critic ; that in uniting himself to 
 her, he was taking the step that ninety-nine men 
 out of every hundred would have taken in his 
 position ; that Mary’s hostility towards her, and 
 her objection to the marriage might emanate 
 from the jealousy he had before hinted to her in 
 her presence ; yet the secret conviction in his 
 mind — though he knew not why — that Mary was 
 right, inspired him with doubt, and made him 
 feel very much like a guilty man. 
 
 Half an hour had elapsed since he had thus 
 resigned himself to the contemplation of his- 
 thoughts and the fire-place. It was now quite 
 
A DECLAEATION OF LOVE. 
 
 7 
 
 dark, the embers in the grate throwing out only 
 a sufficient light to render the darkness visible. 
 The servant had once opened the door to light 
 the gas, but perceiving his master seated alone 
 and motionless, he concluded he was asleep, and 
 retired for fear of disturbing him. 
 
 Once again the door opened, and this time 
 Mary came in; so quietly, however, that Mr. 
 Fairlie did not even seem to hear the creak of 
 the handle as it was turned. Like the servant, 
 she too, believed him to be asleep ; and so on tip- 
 toe she stole to a sofa in the corner of the apart- 
 ment, and seated herself. 
 
 At last Mr. Fairlie made a movement as if to 
 light his cigar, and perceiving him to be awake, 
 Mary said. 
 
 Will you not have the gas lighted?” 
 
 He started and turned round, but it was too 
 dark to perceive her. 
 
 Is that you, Mary ?” he asked. 
 
 ^^Yes, papa.’^ 
 
8 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ 1 fancied I was alone ; how long have you 
 been here ?” 
 
 “ About five or six minutes. I came in very 
 quietly, thinking you were asleep ; that is why I 
 suppose you did not hear me.” 
 
 “ Oh !” and he turned himself again round to- 
 wards the fire, and proceeded to light his cigar. 
 Then he said, “ What time is it ?” 
 
 ‘‘About seven o’clock.” 
 
 “ So late!” 
 
 Another pause ; then, 
 
 “ What amusement can yen find sitting here 
 in the dark ? I should have fancied the library 
 would have suited you better.” 
 
 “ I thought you might feel dull, and I came 
 to keep you company ; but when I found you, as 
 I thought, asleep, I seated myself here — ” 
 
 “ To meditate, I suppose, like I have been 
 meditating,” he interrupted. “ Ah, it is a bad 
 thing is that meditation in a young girl : it is 
 bad enough in one of my age ; but it renders 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 9 
 
 the young unhappy, because it is not natural to 
 them.” 
 
 “ Meditation does not render me unhappy,” 
 said Mary. 
 
 Perhaps not,” he answered, drily ; but then 
 you must confess that you possess a rather 
 puzzling disposition — pleased when others are 
 dissatisfied, and dissatisfied when others are 
 pleased.” 
 
 She made no answer, and after another silence 
 he said. 
 
 Did you tell Charlie our conversation the 
 other day ?” 
 
 Which conversation do you refer to?” 
 
 The one we held relative to your strange 
 opinion of Mrs. Anderson.” 
 
 I did.” 
 
 I thought so ; I detected it in his manner to- 
 day at dinner. Well, I suppose he is of your 
 opinion ?” 
 
 I did not ask him, papa.” 
 
 But I can see it,” he answered, in a voice of 
 
 B 5 
 
10 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 slight irritation ; he would have congratulated 
 me, else. He would have expressed himself 
 gratified at the prospect of my happiness, and by 
 bis kindly greeting have confirmed me in my 
 intention of securing it ; but it matters not/’ he 
 added, lowering his voice, let the old ones go ; 
 there are new ones to be gained.” 
 
 Charlie, I believe, likes Mrs. Anderson,’^ 
 said Mary. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson ought to feel very highly 
 complimented,” he answered, without turning 
 his head. 
 
 I should like her, too/’ said Mary, if — ” 
 
 If what ?” this time confronting the direction 
 whence her voice proceeded. 
 
 ‘‘ If she were about to assume any other posi- 
 tion than that which she is destined to occupy.” 
 Drop the subject !” he cried, angrily. You 
 have already said too much. If your motive 
 in coming to me was to tell me this, you would 
 have acted more wisely to have stayed away.” 
 
 She rose from her seat and went over to him, 
 and threw her arms around his neck. 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 11 
 
 Oh ! father/’ she murmured, is it your 
 will that we should be enemies? have you 
 cherished me through ail the long years that we 
 have lived together to kill me at last by unkind- 
 ness? to banish me from your heart? Have 
 pity upon me ; speak as you once used to speak 
 to me !” 
 
 I wish to be your friend, Mary,” he answered, 
 huskily, but you would force me to become 
 your enemy.” 
 
 would not force you, papa,” she said, 
 clinging to him, with her hot tears half choking 
 her utterance ; you do not understand me, in- 
 deed, you do not. Any — anybody you love I 
 
 would welcome with open arms ; I would strive 
 to make her my friend, if but for your sake. 
 But for her — her — her, whom you will bring 
 here as your wife, with the memory of my own 
 dead mother green in my heart, her against 
 whom my heart rebels — I know not why — her, 
 this stranger, and her brother, to whom you are 
 about to confide your happiness — ” 
 
12 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 A passionate burst of tears interrupted the con- 
 clusion of her incoherent speech, and raising 
 herself from her father’s neck, she stood swaying 
 herself before him, her bosom heaving with the 
 convulsive sobs that she in vain sought to suh - 
 due. 
 
 Her father was sorely perplexed at this con- 
 duct. Such tears were unusual to Mary ; when 
 she wept, her tears flowed from her in silence, 
 but now she seemed to be possessed with a per- 
 fect storm of passionate sorrow. Was it ominous 
 of that future whose depths he had yet to sound ? 
 He could not chide her as she stood before him 
 thus ; and yet he did not strive to comfort her. 
 Her embrace and appeal had softened his heart 
 towards her ; but her subsequent and incoherent 
 language had qualifled the emotion and left it 
 doubtful whether it would take root and become 
 a new love in his heart, or resolve itself into the 
 stubborn anger that ever follows all opposition 
 that is apparently unreasonable. 
 
 At that moment, there came a loud ring at the 
 
A DECLABATION OF LOVE. 
 
 13 
 
 door bell, and with a start, Mr. Fairlie left bis 
 chair and looked out of the window ; then he came 
 back to the side of Mary. 
 
 It is Mrs. Anderson and her brother,” he- 
 said ; you need not meet them unless you 
 like.” 
 
 ‘‘ I will meet them by and bye,” Mary an- 
 swered, in a voice yet trembling with her recent 
 emotion; I cannot show myself in my present 
 state. You must tell them that I have a head- 
 ache, and that I am lying down. Perhaps five or 
 ten minutes’ Tepose will restore me.” 
 
 Very well. Wait, do not leave the room yet ; 
 they are going upstairs.” 
 
 In a few moments the servant entered to an- 
 nounce the visitors, and Mr. Fairlie left the room 
 to join them. 
 
 They had been shown up to the drawing-room, 
 but Mr. Fairlie declared that he always felt more 
 hospitable in his dining-room, and therefore 
 begged them to descend. 
 
 I have taken the liberty, Mr. Fairlie,” said 
 
14 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Mortimer, to bring Gassy round to you to- 
 night, to see Miss Fairlie. For myself, I regret 
 to say that I have an appointment with an old 
 brother officer of mine at the Club, and shall 
 therefore be compelled to absent myself for an 
 hour or two. I hope you will not consider it a 
 liberty.” 
 
 ‘‘ Certainly not. Captain Mortimer,” said Mr. 
 Fairlie, bowing. 
 
 With your permission,” continued Mr. Mor- 
 timer, I will call and fetch my sister. She is 
 so timid, that I do not believe she would dare 
 venture in a cab alone, would you. Gussy ?” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie glanced at the fine woman who was 
 seated in the chair he himself had so recently 
 vacated, and could hardly help thinking that that 
 man must have a good deal of courage who should 
 venture to attack her. 
 
 Oh, I am not so timid as all that,” answered 
 Mrs. Anderson, smiling, but I must confess 1 
 like to have a companion with me in the streets 
 of London at night.” 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 15 
 
 Well, darling, take care of yourself,” said 
 Mortimer, pathetically. Au revoir^ Mr. Fairlie y 
 make my best compliments to your charming 
 daughter.” 
 
 And lightly kissing the tips of his fingers, he 
 left the room, Mr. Fairlie ringing the bell for the 
 servant to show him out. 
 
 Perhaps of all the passions, love is the most 
 ungenerous in its dealings with men, for it places 
 them in predicaments that equally display its 
 malice and its disregard for the dignity of its 
 votaries. To a young lover, the position that 
 Mr. Fairlie then occupied, might have been ac- 
 cepted with rapture ; but Mr. Fairlie, who was 
 an old one, surveyed it wdth a feeling of doubt 
 and uncertainty that fell little short of actual dis- 
 comfort. Had his being left alone with the 
 object of his attachment been the result of a 
 series of circumstances ; had he advanced towards 
 this climax of bliss by slow gradations, all would 
 doubtless have been well ; but to have it sud- 
 denly thrust upon him — to find himself face to 
 
16 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 face and alone with the one who had engrossed 
 his thoughts for some considerable time, in a 
 manner so totally unexpected and unprepared 
 for, somewhat astonished him, and lapsed him 
 immediately into that dubious state of mind 
 which, as it lies between solid pleasure and sub- 
 stantial discomfort, may be said to be about as 
 unenviable a feeling as can possibly take pos- 
 session of the human soul. 
 
 Of course, not the shadow of a suspicion 
 crossed his mind that this circumstance might 
 have been planned and brought about by the 
 machinations of human ingenuity — by the 
 machinations indeed of those in the presence of 
 one of whom he now stood. He naturally at- 
 tributed it to fate — and doubtless, fate had a very 
 great deal to do with it ; but not in such a direct 
 manner, perhaps, as Mrs. Anderson and her 
 colleague. 
 
 He would have given anything for Mary to be 
 present. He would not have kept her long — say 
 ten minutes, and then she would have been at 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 17 
 
 liberty to go. He wanted something to lean 
 against, that he might cross his arms and appear 
 at his ease. He wanted conversational support 
 — something to appeal to and to appeal from — 
 something to divide the attention that was now 
 centred in two — two, of whom he was one. Hot 
 but that he was not perfectly a match for Mrs. 
 Anderson, as far as talk went. He felt that. 
 But then he loved ; and love is potent to shackle 
 the most noisy tongue, and to weaken the most 
 well-strung nerves, and to distort facts, and to 
 upset confidence, and to subvert natures, and 
 to change the faces of things, and to make men 
 fools and fools men ! 
 
 I hope Mary— if you and she will permit 
 me to cal] her Mary — is quite well,’" said Mrs. 
 Anderson. 
 
 “ I am sorry to say she is not, Mrs. /.nderson. 
 She is sutfering from a headache, and — headaches 
 are very disagreeable things.’^ 
 
 Ah, they are, indeed !” sighed Mrs. Ander- 
 son. am a martyr to them; therefore, I 
 
18 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 know well what they are. But shall I not have 
 the pleasure of seeing her to-night?” 
 
 “ Oh, I hope so. When she hears that you 
 are here, she will, doubtless, make an effort to 
 rise. At present, she is lying down.” 
 
 ‘‘ Poor dear girl ! You seem very much at- 
 tached to each other, Mr. Fairlie,” 
 
 Mr, Fairlie gave a dry cough, and fixed his 
 eyes on vacancy. Then, after a short pause, he 
 said, sighing as he spoke, Mary is a good girl ; 
 but — but — sometimes she acts, or thinks, I 
 should rather say, in opposition to my wishes ; 
 and this irritates me. We do not love to have 
 our heart’s best wishes opposed by anyone, much 
 less by those whom we fancy are interested in 
 our happiness.” 
 
 “We do not, indeed,” said Mrs. Anderson, 
 with a sigh, bending her splendid eyes with a 
 mournful and absent expression, first on Mr. 
 Fairlie, then on the ground. 
 
 “ But perhaps the fault lies less with others 
 than with ourselves — at least, if fault there be,” 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 19 
 
 said Mr. Fairlie, who was now rapidly regaining 
 his conSdence, as the ardour of his passion was 
 increased by the presence of Mrs. Anderson, 
 aided perhaps by the very solitude that had at 
 first been his misgiving. ^^To ourselves, the 
 happiness we picture is glowing and superb — by 
 others, it is contemplated without rapture, and is 
 therefore without brilliance. We judge of what 
 we see from our own point of view ; and, there- 
 fore, I am less hasty in condemning those who 
 do not see with our eyes.” 
 
 But had this been the p*hilosophy that ani- 
 mated his conduct towards his daughter ? 
 
 Tour observation is so true, that it is really 
 worth remembering, Mr. Fairlie,” said Mrs. 
 Anderson, dazzling him with her smile and her 
 teeth. I do not wish to pay you a compliment 
 by excepting you from the rule ; but how seldom 
 do we meet persons from whose conversation we 
 may profit, either in wisdom or in wit?” 
 
 But the whole of this speech was a very ex- 
 cellent compliment ; and coming, as it did, from 
 
20 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the lips of the woman he loved, it caused a 
 thrill of delight to pass through Mr. Fairlie’s 
 breast. 
 
 I shall always/’ he said, bowing low, re- 
 member my remark with the liveliest satisfaction, 
 and cherish it as the best to which I have ever 
 given utterance, and only because it has been 
 applauded by you.” 
 
 He was rewarded for this with another smile ; 
 and then, in a hesitating tone of voice, she said, 
 You will not think me too inquisitive, Mr. 
 Fairlie, if I ask you whether Mary’s headache is 
 the result of any— any— ^domestic — indeed/’ she 
 abruptly continued, I can hardly bring myself 
 to ask a question that may appear so rude ; but 
 I am so greatly interested in her, that I would 
 willingly incur the odium of being thought too 
 curious, if I could but be the means of restoring 
 peace and — ■” 
 
 She paused, with a glance of fascinating shy- 
 ness at Mr. Fairlie, and then slightly bowed her 
 head, as if she felt she had said too much. 
 
A DECLAEATION OF LOVE. 
 
 21 
 
 He was silent some moments ere lie replied, 
 ns if lie were striving to suppress the emotions 
 that crowded thick and warm upon him, choking 
 his utterance. At last, he said, 
 
 It would he hopeless for me, Mrs. Anderson, 
 to attempt to express to you how deeply I feel 
 your goodness in your profession of attachment 
 to Mary ; but I blush to own to you that she 
 does not deserve such kindness. She is un- 
 worthy of it! she cannot appreciate it! But 
 why should I conceal anything from you now ?” 
 he continued, speaking almost hoarsely, and with 
 rapidity, and rising from his seat as he spoke. 
 
 G.od knows ! it has been no wish of mine that 
 anything of enmity should ever subsist between 
 me and my child; but when she opposes me in 
 my dearest wish— when she throws obstacles in 
 the way of its attainment, by suggesting; — but 
 why, oh ! why should 1 insult you ? — you that I 
 cherish as the dearest of all that I hold dear in 
 this world ? You, who have engaged my 
 affections, my admiration, my heart, my love. 
 
22 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 from the first moment our eyes encountered each 
 other’s glances? Why should I proclaim my 
 daughter’s folly at the expense of your honour ? 
 — your honour^ that is as dear to me as the light 
 of day ! Now — now that my tongue is loosened 
 — now that there is no witness but God and your- 
 self — now, ere my passionate emotions overpower 
 me and silence me in the inner accents of that 
 mighty passion, whose language cannot be ex- 
 pressed — now, at your feet, let me tell thee, thou 
 empress of my heart, thou queen of beauty, 
 thou fairest of thy sex and purest of all loveli- 
 ness that ever inspired the heart with earth’s 
 loveliest passion — here, at thy feet, let me tell 
 thee that I love thee !” And flinging himself 
 down before her, he grasped her hand, which he 
 wildly pressed to his lips, gazing up into the 
 face that was bowed low enough over his, for 
 him to feel the warm moisture of her lips play- 
 ing upon his cheek. 
 
 At the same moment, a loud cry filled the 
 apartment, and Mr. Fairlie leaped to his feet in 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 23 
 
 time to witness the form of Mary falling pros- 
 trate to the ground. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 He told me/’ said Mortimer, as he and Mrs. 
 Anderson returned home that evening from 
 Montague Square, ^^that he had proposed to 
 you, and that he was the happiest man in exist- 
 ence, because you had accepted him.” 
 
 That is quite true,” said Mrs. Anderson. 
 ^^Well, your fortune is made,” said Captain 
 Mortimer ; and now I am going to tell you 
 something : the day after your return from the 
 honeymoon—the Lord save the mark ! — I shall 
 want three thousand pounds from you.” 
 
 ^^You shall have it,” Augusta answered, 
 coolly. 
 
 I may be lenient, perhaps, and not often 
 trouble you ; but I think it right to tell you now 
 and at once that, whenever I do come down upon 
 you, it will be for never less than a thousand.” 
 
 It is pleasant at least to feel that there is 
 
24 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 some remote prospect of yonr being lenient/’ 
 said Mrs. Anderson, with a short laugh. 
 
 You are right ; the prospect is remote — ay, 
 as remote as the event of my marrying an 
 heiress, which is probably the only thing that 
 would call my leniency into existence ; and this 
 is not very likely — at least, if all goes well with 
 little Kate Sandboys.” 
 
 But then you may die ; and the grave, you 
 know, makes us all lenient, in spite of our- 
 selves.” 
 
 Something in the tone of her voice sent a 
 cold shudder through his frame ; and as his eyes 
 encountered the great flashing orbs that were 
 directed tow^ards his, he turned ghastly pale, and 
 shrunk away from her, close, quite close up into 
 the corner of the cab in which they were seated. 
 
 And very glad,” he muttered, through his 
 clenched teeth, would you be to see me in my 
 grave ; but, damn you ! your gladness won’t kill 
 me, though !” 
 
 She pretended not to hear him ; but said, I 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 25 
 
 •would much rather that you would fix upon some 
 stated sum — that by discharging it, we might 
 hold ourselves mutually quit of all obligations.” 
 
 Perhaps you would,” he answered, coarsely ; 
 but then that wouldn’t suit me. A bank is 
 the most convenient thing in the world ; and you 
 shall be my banker. Besides, supposing I were 
 to say that I wanted fifty thousand pounds of 
 you, what then?’ 
 
 There would be no harm at all in your saying 
 it,” she answered, ironically, for I don’t sup- 
 pose you would get it. When you reach such 
 figures as those, any quantity of O’s after them 
 ure just as possible.” 
 
 D your impertinence !” he growled ; 
 
 how often I wish that you were a man, that I 
 might give you the horsewhipping my fingers so 
 itch to bestow.” 
 
 She looked at him for a moment in silence, 
 then burst out into a long, loud, half* shrieking 
 laugh, so full of contempt, and hatred, and 
 bitterness, and so devoid of mirth, that almost 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 c 
 
26 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 meclianically he raised his hands to his head, as 
 if to shut his ears to the sound. 
 
 You horsewhip me!” she cried, I were 
 a man !’’ and again she burst forth into her long, 
 tormenting laugh. 
 
 Mortimer ground his teeth ; but remained 
 silent. Perhaps cowardice choked the torrent of 
 wTath that foamed from his heart, for he felt 
 that, if much more were said, there would be a 
 murder committed that night. 
 
 So they suffered themselves to be jogged on in 
 silence for a long way, each wrapped in thought 
 and apparently regardless of the other’s presence. 
 Perhaps, however, it was a fear lest his exaspera- 
 tion might tempt him to certain disclosures, or to 
 certain actions povverful enough to completely 
 shiver the magnificent mirror of the future she 
 was now contemplating, that caused Mrs. Ander- 
 son at last to break the silence. Certainly she 
 thought him a coward, and she drove him wild 
 by letting him understand that she thought so ; 
 but then she knew that a coward is infinitely more 
 to be feared than a brave man. 
 
A DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 27 
 
 “ There was quite a scene with that wretched 
 child of his when he proposed to me,” she said. 
 "“The idiot fainted away, and had to be put to bed. 
 You may believe that this did not much delight 
 me.” 
 
 He was silent for some moments before he 
 replied to her, and she thought that he did not 
 intend to answer. At last he said, 
 
 You must be careful how you act before that 
 girl. She is no idiot — whatever you may call 
 her.” 
 
 “I believe that; but if she is not an idiot, I 
 will make her feel like one. It requires a wise 
 man to know his own folly ; and if this girl has 
 wisdom, so much the better. She will more 
 deeply appreciate her own imbecility — and me!” 
 and she compressed her lips so tightly, that they 
 became bloodless. 
 
 ‘ ‘ But how did she happen to be in the room 
 at the time? did Mr. Fairlie profess his love 
 before her ?” 
 
 “ Ho ; she must have entered at the moment 
 
28 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 that he flung himself before me. Then she 
 uttered a loud scream, and sank upon the floor. 
 I daresay this action rather puzzles you.” 
 
 “ By no means; it merely helps to confirm me 
 in my suspicions. That girl dislikes you and 
 suspects us. At the sight of her father on his 
 knees before you she fainted. Nothing can be 
 more obvious.” 
 
 You are quite right,” said Mrs. Anderson. 
 “ Mr. Fairlie told me enough to lead me to 
 believe that his daughter objects to the match. 
 But what can be the reason of her dislike to me ? 
 she can know nothing of the past.” 
 
 “ How did you know that Mr. Fairlie loved 
 you before he declared himself?” 
 
 “ How did I know? why all his actions pro- 
 claimed it.” 
 
 “ Exactly. It was revealed in his exterior. 
 Very well,” he said, fixing his eyes upon her, 
 this girl know's you by your exterior — can read 
 you through all your disguises, just as you could 
 read Fairlie’s love, or any man’s love, through 
 
A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 29 
 
 his. She can see your character proclaimed in 
 your face, ay, in spite of your mastery over your 
 eyes and your smiles. Well, reading you as she 
 does, do you not think her justified in her 
 opinions of you ? By God !” he continued, 
 there are some who have this power of looking 
 into the very depths of the heart. She has it— 
 you can see it in her eye ! Ah, she is no idiot — 
 never mind what you call her.” 
 
 A contemptuous smile writhed the lips of Mrs. 
 Anderson ; and she was about to reply, when the 
 cab suddenly drew up before their door in Garley 
 Street. 
 
30 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A PLAIN DINNEE. 
 
 Whethee Kate loved Captain Mortimer or not^ 
 she was certainly flattered by his attentions. He 
 had more than once given her to understand that 
 his only motive in coming to the house was to see 
 her ; and this she quite believed, for she had not 
 a high enough opinion of her father to fancy that 
 such a man as Captain Mortimer would call so 
 often only to see him. 
 
 As yet, Kate had by no means realised the 
 
A PLAIN DINNER. 
 
 31 
 
 visionary schemes of happiness that she had 
 promised herself were to be pursued in London. 
 The Captain, anxious enough, though but for his 
 daughter's sake, to cultivate society, very soon 
 found out that it was a design more easy in the 
 theory than in the practice. Not that he would 
 have found any difficulty providing he had taken 
 the proper steps to accomplish it. But he would 
 not join any club, he would not call upon Captain 
 Mortimer, where there was at least a chance of 
 making some new friends — at least, so thought 
 Kate; and as the very few steps he did take 
 were all in the wrong direction, so Kate saw no 
 more of society in London than she had seen at 
 Yartlepool. 
 
 Now this considerably annoyed her. Even the 
 very few whom she had already met, had suffi- 
 ciently attested by their admiration or attention 
 the power of her charms ; and she very reason- 
 ably concluded that ^what could please two or 
 three would please a multitude ; what delighted 
 Captain Mortimer and Mr. Seymour would 
 
32 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 delight innumerable other beings perhaps better 
 looking, more wealthy, and in more enviable 
 positions. 
 
 Kate at heart was in reality a very curious 
 girl. She was a compound of passions both good 
 and bad; full of repentance, yet always irritable; 
 chafing with impatience to attain some object or 
 other — some want — which even she herself could 
 not express, but which she believed existed, and 
 which she knew could alone fill the void in her 
 heart that yearned to be satisfied. Frequently she 
 would question herself upon her wishes, and inquire- 
 what they really were. But the answers were 
 vague and dubious ; she could not tell what she 
 wanted, neither could she say that she was dis- 
 satisfied with her present lot ; for her father was 
 all that tenderness and love could make him ;. 
 her home was cosy and undisturbed by domestic 
 cares or troubles ; her whole occupation was how 
 best to amuse herself, and what now really should 
 have added to her contentment was — she had two 
 lovers, and both good looking ! Perhaps rest- 
 
A PLAIN DINNER. 
 
 33 
 
 lessness of disposition would have solved the 
 mystery; a longing for change — a desire for 
 something not possessed ; a desire that would in- 
 crease with the attainment of every object 
 sighed for, and last whilst the power of the heart 
 to desire at all lasted. 
 
 Such a characteristic, however, was by no 
 means peculiar to Kate. We have all at heart a 
 secret desire, though of the nature of that desire 
 we may he wholly ignorant. But there is an un- 
 expressed want within us that is as familiar to 
 us as the pulsation of our heart. It is a craving 
 stronger at sometimes than at others ; and when 
 we come to reflect how best we can satisfy it, we 
 find ourselves puzzled and at a loss, for whilst the 
 desire is expressed the object it covets is without 
 a name. In a young girl, however, it is dangerous 
 to humour the whim. It must be expressed if it 
 cannot be obliterated ; for if suffered to enlarge 
 itself it cankers the heart, infects the mind with 
 irritability and restlessness, and corrupts all 
 present happiness by its eager expectancy 
 
 c 5 
 
34 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 for that which the future never seems to 
 supply. 
 
 Unquestionably there w^ere a great many solid 
 things which Kate might reasonably enough have 
 wanted. Moreover, it cannot less be doubted 
 that they may have engrossed a very large share 
 of her attention, and so have contributed to that 
 peevishness which was so conspicuous in her when 
 alone with her father. As to Captain Sandboys, 
 he summed up everything in the w'ord marriage. 
 He plainly, though in silence, perceived his 
 daughters discontent, and concluded, and 
 perhaps not without a certain justice, that a 
 husband was the only medicine that could possibly 
 minister to her mind. These thoughts, however, 
 he kept to himself from motives, if not wise, at all 
 events sincere. 
 
 One evening Frank returned from the City, 
 bringing Seymour with him. The Captain’s 
 quick eye instantly discerned something different 
 from usual in their manners ; but he held his 
 peace until Frank should think fit to tell him 
 what it was. After dinner, however, when Kate 
 
A PLAIN DINNEK, 
 
 35 
 
 had left the room, Sej^mour, turning to the Cap- 
 tain said, 
 
 It is useless to keep as a secret what must 
 very soon become known; therefore, Captain 
 Sandboys, although it may not interest you, it 
 may amuse you to hear that my uncle is engaged 
 to be married.” 
 
 The Captain gave a slight start, and exclaimed, 
 ^‘That will make two wives, then?” 
 
 Yes, two wives that he’s had.’" 
 
 The Captain made such a comical face that, in 
 spite of himself, Seymour burst out into a laugh. 
 
 I suppose you consider one to be enough in 
 a man’s lifetime?” he said. 
 
 Yes,” answered the Captain, ‘^and even that 
 sometimes is one too many. But, if not a rude 
 question, who is to be the happy one? Do I 
 know her ?” 
 
 And you mean to say that you can’t guess ?” 
 said Frank. 
 
 The Captain gave him a puzzled look and 
 scratched his head. 
 
36 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ I have it !” he cried, after a little. It’s Mrs. 
 Anderson, for a thousand pounds.” 
 
 “ Yes, it is Mrs. Anderson,” said Seymour. 
 
 The Captain gave a low whistle, by which 
 he meant to convey his astonishment, and for 
 which, the moment he had delivered himself of it 
 he apologised. 
 
 ‘‘ But I dare say,” said he, they will be very 
 happy together.” 
 
 “ I hope so, I am sure,” said Seymour. 
 
 “ And when does the marriage come off ?” 
 
 “ I don’t know. Before long, I suspect.” 
 
 “ Frank, the sherry stands with you. Well, Mr. 
 Seymour, what is your opinion of this alliance ?” 
 "I am afraid my opinion is not worth having^ 
 Captain Sandboys,” answered Seymour, evasively, 
 with rather a melancholy shake of the head. 
 
 “ But I am sure it is, though,” said the Cap- 
 tain. ‘‘ However, I will not press you for it. 
 Here’s to you, sir, and a long life to you,” and 
 with a friendly nod, the old soul despatched a 
 glass of wine. 
 
A PLAIN DINNER. 
 
 37 
 
 There was a little silence, interrupted by the 
 Captain striking a match against the sole of his 
 boot to light a great pipe with that he had fetched 
 down from the mantelpiece. At that moment 
 Kate passed through the hall singing, and entered 
 the back garden. 
 
 Seymour glanced at Frank with a smile. 
 
 am afraid. Captain Sandboys, you will 
 think me a very great intruder, converting as I 
 do your house almost into my home,’^ Seymour 
 said, and I am afraid your opinion of me as an 
 intruder will not be improved by the suggestion I 
 am about to make to you.” 
 
 As for intruding, Seymour, all that I can tell 
 you is that nothing would delight me more than 
 to see you take up your quarters in my house 
 altogether.” 
 
 A light blush overspread Seymour’s face at 
 these words, and he looked out through the win- 
 dow at the garden in which Kate was then stand- 
 ing with her back towards the house. 
 
 How sensible I am of your kindness and 
 
38 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 hospitality, Captain Sandboys,” he answered,, 
 “let my frequent visits to your house prove. For, 
 unfortunately for me, I am cursed with what is 
 usually called a very sensitive nature, and am 
 therefore not easily prevailed upon to go where I 
 feel that I am not always welcome.” 
 
 “ Well, Seymour, let’s cry a truce to civilities,” 
 said the Captain, who cordially detested compli- 
 ments in any shape ; “and what, may I ask is the 
 proposal you were about to make to me ?” 
 
 “ I will be frank with you. Captain Sandboys, 
 for I feel that I can trust you — ay, trust you as a 
 father.” 
 
 The Captain bowed, with an effort to reirress 
 the slow smile that widened his mouth, and rip- 
 pled over his roseate features. 
 
 “ You must know,” continued Seymour, “ that 
 I am very devotedly attached to my cousin Mary. 
 We were children together, just as Frank here, 
 and your daughter have been. Consequently 
 her pleasures and her unhappinesses are equally 
 mine; and though perhaps I cannot always sym- 
 
A PLAIN DINNER. 
 
 pathise with her in the former, I at least en- 
 deavour my best to comfort her in the latter.” 
 
 ‘‘ For which, sir, I honour you,” said the Cap- 
 tain, extending his hand to him, ^^as I honour 
 everyone with a heart large enough to com- 
 passionate the sorrows of his fellow creatures.” 
 
 It will be useless for me to disguise the 
 fact,” continued Seymour, that Mary contem- 
 plates her father’s approaching union with great 
 dissatisfaction. It is not that she is so wanting 
 in affection for him that she would not welcome 
 whatever might contribute to her father’s happi- 
 ness. But with an instinct or an .insight into 
 character that I claim for Mary as being peculiar 
 to her, she looks with a suspicious eye on Mrs. 
 Anderson and her brother — persons of whose 
 antecedents nothing is known, and whom, so she 
 informs me, she really believes to be nothing 
 more nor less than a pair of adventurers.” 
 
 At this suspicion Captain Sandboys opened 
 wide his eyes, and fixed them with an inquisitive 
 stare on Frank’s face, as if to divine what he 
 
40 
 
 Ol'P THE STAGE. 
 
 thought of the matter. Seymour, however, had 
 no sooner paused, than he recollected that Cap- 
 tain Mortimer was in one sense a friend of the 
 Sandboys ; that indeed he was very intimate 
 with Kate, and whilst he knew him to he a candi- 
 date for her affections, might, for all he could 
 tell, he really liked by her. His generous nature 
 shrunk to take a mean advantage of a rival 
 behind his back. He did not think for a moment 
 that his observations might be misconstrued by 
 his listeners ; it was enough for him that he had^ 
 though innocently, lent his countenance to w'hat 
 w'as really but very little short of an accusation 
 against Mortimer’s character, and he hastened to 
 repair the wrong, in so far as he at least was 
 concerned in it. 
 
 I would have you remember. Captain Sand- 
 boys, that this is but a mere supposition on the 
 part of Mary, with which she endeavours to 
 account for a prejudice that, highly as I value her 
 good, her many noble qualities, I cannot but con- 
 sider as unreasonable. 1 1 is far more likely than 
 
A PLAIN DINNER. 
 
 41 
 
 not to be the reverse of true. Indeed, as far as I 
 am concerned, I must confess to a prejudice in 
 favour of both Captain Mortimer and his sister. 
 They are both amiable and polished in their man- 
 ners ; she is, perhaps, the most lovely woman I 
 ever saw, and as a companion and a gentleman, 
 t believe Captain Mortimer will not be easily 
 matched.’’ 
 
 It has been hundreds of times said, and 
 I must say it once more, that the roughest 
 exterior sometimes conceals the most 
 delicate and sensitive nature. This was emi- 
 nently true of Captain Sandboys. By intuition, 
 rather than knowledge, he guessed the motives 
 that had given occasion to the above speech, and 
 perhaps because he himself was a man, who, on a 
 similar occasion, would have acted precisely in 
 the same manner, he appreciated Seymour’s 
 generosity to its widest extent, and instantly ele- 
 vated him in his estimation twenty degrees above 
 the position he had hitherto occupied. 
 
 And if I were Captain Mortimer,” said he,. 
 
42 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ I would value that compliment above all that I 
 ever in my life received. You meant it as a 
 truth, and in the sincerity with which you spoke 
 it lies the charm.” 
 
 At that moment the door was pushed half-open, 
 and Kate popped her head in. “ How long are 
 you going to sit over your silly wine, Frank ?” 
 she exclaimed, with a glance at Seymour ; “ you 
 know I am all alone up-stairs.” 
 
 “ Why, we thought you were amusing yourself 
 in the garden,” said Frank. 
 
 “ Yes, a pretty place at this time of the day, 
 and in this month of the year, to amuso myself 
 in ! I merely went out to see if the ants had 
 eaten the sugar I sprinkled over their nest.” 
 
 Now, Kate,” cried the Captain, ‘‘ you must 
 not encourage those ants ; if you feed ’em like 
 that, they will by and bye overspread the whole 
 place, and we shan’t be able to get a flower to 
 grow'. I told Jim” (Jim was a man who came 
 with a rake and a spade once a week to smoke his 
 pipe in empty vacuity, for there was nothing to 
 
A PLAIN DINNER. 
 
 43 ^ 
 
 be done), ‘Ho destroy them with boiling M'ater. 
 Now, what’s the use of your doing to-day what 
 you undo to morrow ?” 
 
 Jim’s a cruel, hard-hearted man,” said Kate, 
 and I told him so yesterday, and I’ll tell him so 
 again, when he comes next week.” 
 
 ‘‘ Poor Jim !” said Frank. 
 
 Now, Frank, do make haste and come up- 
 stairs. I want Mr. Seymour to hear my new 
 waltz.” And her head left the door. 
 
 Seymour half rose, as if to follow her, but re- 
 collecting he had something to tell the Captain, 
 he resumed his seat. 
 
 The Captain sat smoking his pipe with stolid 
 enjoyment, his eyes fixed on Seymour, with an 
 expression that said ‘‘ I am all attention.” 
 
 ‘‘ I v/as speaking of Mary’s prejudice with re- 
 gard to Mrs. Anderson,” said Seymour. ‘^Mary, 
 unfortunately for her own peace, is too frank a 
 girl to conceal her feelings, and you may, there- 
 fore, readily understand that they were soon 
 rendered apparent to her father. He, of course,. 
 
44 ^ 
 
 \ 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 resented them, and this, I am sorry to say, ha» 
 given a rise to some little unhappiness.’’ 
 
 I understand,” said the Captain, nodding for 
 him to go on. 
 
 ‘‘ I should not bore you. Captain Sandboys, 
 with these details, which cannot, of course, 
 possess much interest for you, did I not believo 
 that in you I had discovered a man who might be, 
 and whom I believe willing to be, of great assist- 
 ance to me at this moment.” 
 
 If I can serve you in any way, either by 
 purse, by advice, or by body, command me,” said 
 the warm-hearted Captain. 
 
 Then I will command you,” said Seymour, 
 smiling. And I will shortly tell you how. My 
 uncle will certainly marry Mrs. Anderson ; of 
 that, there can be no doubt. Now, I know as 
 well as possible that Mary can never get on with 
 her. The moment Mrs. Anderson, whom I take 
 to be a high-spirited woman, and, I fear resent- 
 ful — though this, of course, is a mere surmise — I 
 say the moment she hears or discovers what 
 
A PLAIN DINNER. 
 
 45 
 
 Mary’s feelings were towards her prior to her 
 marriage, it will he surely a signal for constant 
 warfare and unhappiness. Now this must not 
 be. Any harsh treatment I am certain would 
 break Mary’s heart, for she is yielding and timid, 
 and no more able to confront such a woman as 
 Mrs. Anderson, than I am to confront a steam 
 ongine.” 
 
 But is it likely that her father would stand 
 by and see her ill-treated ?” asked the Captain. 
 
 She is his only child, and — a girl. Now these 
 two facts make a thousand to one against such a 
 probability.” 
 
 For Mr. Fairlie to marry at all shows the in- 
 fluence that Mrs. Anderson must exercise over 
 him,” answered Seymour. How great must 
 her powers of fascination be to provoke a man 
 into wooing and wedding her after so ridiculously 
 short an acquaintance — and that man a widower, 
 too, and one who was tenderly devoted to his first 
 wife, and who, even now, dwells upon her memory 
 with profound affection !” 
 
46 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 The Captain muttered a “humph !” and glared 
 tit Frank, who glared back, thinking, perhaps, 
 that this was the best thing he could do under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 “ It is quite probable/’ continued Seymour, 
 “ that this fascination will last much longer than 
 the honey-moon. When one of my uncle’s age, 
 loves, his love endures longer than the love of a 
 yoting man — at least, as a rule.” 
 
 “ That’s true,” interrupted Frank. 
 
 “ T don’t know that,” said the Captain. “But 
 we’ll argue the question by and bye.” 
 
 “Mary, tenderly as her father used to love 
 her, w'ould stand but a poor chance against the 
 new enchantment. She would feel any neglect 
 cruelly, and this I do not want her to feel. So 
 I’ll tell you. Captain Sandboys, what l am going 
 to take the liberty of proposing to you. Your 
 daughter is just the companion that I would select 
 for Mary. They will get on capitally together, 
 and Miss Sandboys’ flow of spirits (here the Cap- 
 tain coughed), will very soon dissipate all Mary’s 
 
A PLAIN DINNER, 
 
 47 
 
 melancholy. Now, what will you think of me, 
 when you hear me ask you to allow her to spend 
 Bome time with you here.” 
 
 Think !” cried the Captain ; why, ITl think 
 that if she will really come, my house couldn’t 
 have a greater honour done it. Ecod!” he 
 chuckled, half-rising from his seat, I’ll go and 
 tell Kate to write and post an invitation to your 
 cousin at once.” 
 
 Seymour grasped the old man by the hand. 
 
 Thanks, thanks,” he murmured ; ‘‘ this is in- 
 deed kind of you. One moment — Mary is quite 
 ignorant of my intention, and I should not care 
 for her to hear that is was I who proposed it. I 
 w^ant her to consider this as a mere visit, from 
 one friend’s house to another. If once she saw 
 through the motive, she might think it looked 
 very much like a separation from her father, and 
 that might determine her to decline it.” 
 
 ‘^1 understand you,” said the Captain, sinking 
 back thoughtfully in his chair. 
 
 ‘^I will go to her myself when your invitation is 
 
48 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 posted, and urge her to accept it. Moreover, 
 conveyed in this manner, there will appear noth- 
 ing suspicious in it to her father, who might 
 otherwise refuse to let her leave him.” 
 
 As he concluded,the sounds of some one stamp- 
 ing overhead were audible. 
 
 “ That is Kate’s foot, or rather heel,” said 
 Frank. “ She’s knocking for us to go to her.” 
 
 ‘‘ You and Seymour,” said the Captain, “ had 
 better talk the matter over with her, and get her 
 to write the letter at once. She’ll enter into 
 your views with rapture. Seymour, you can dis- 
 pense with an old fogey’s society for an hour or 
 so, can’t you ? I am going to take a nap, and 
 Frank, tell Kate not to play too noisily.” 
 
 And he turned his arm-chair towards the fire- 
 place and composed his legs upon a foot- stool as 
 the two young men rose from the table and left 
 the room. 
 
49 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ]N WHICH THE OLD STORY IS REPEATED. 
 
 I HAD half made up my mind to go to bed/' 
 said Kate, as Seymour and Frank entered the 
 apartment ; it would really have served you both 
 right. Now, Mr. Seymour, I appeal to you. Do 
 you not consider that custom of the gentlemen 
 remainiug at table after the ladies have retired, 
 most ungallant and unprincipled.’’ 
 
 Most ungallant indeed,” said Seymour, em- 
 phatically. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 He would have agreed with her at that moment 
 in any remark she had chosen to make — aye, even 
 to calling black white, and agreed with her con- 
 scientiously, too. 
 
 “ Then why do you countenance it by your 
 practice?” she asked, with a wicked smile. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said Seymour, simply. 
 
 “ Come, Seymour,” said Frank, “ confess that 
 it is the jolliest practice out. It makes men 
 mellow, and renders them fitter for the women 
 afterwards.” 
 
 “ For the women ! You always call them 
 the women,” said Kate. 
 
 “ Well, then, for the ladies.” 
 
 “ I don’t know that,” said Kate. “ I think 
 your half-hours after dinner render you all, as a 
 rule, very unfit for the women ! Your eyes grow 
 weak and your gait doubtful, and your language 
 more doubtful still.” 
 
 ‘‘Hear her!” said Frank, “she says this of 
 me !” 
 
 “ No I don’t ; I speak of all you men.” 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 51 
 
 Men ! You always call them men!” said 
 Frank, imitating her voice and manner. 
 
 She gave him a gentle box on the ears for his 
 trouble, and Seymour laughed out and said he 
 deserved it. 
 
 Thank you,” said Frank, sitting down. 
 
 Now I’ll play you my waltz if you two will 
 dance,” said Kate, going to the piano. 
 
 ^^All right,” said Frank, standing up, ‘‘go 
 ahead.” 
 
 Bang went the piano, and Frank, seizing Sey- 
 mour round the waist, the two young men went 
 hopping about the room in the highest state of 
 glee, utterly oblivious to the fact that an elderly 
 sleeper in the room beneath had begged them to 
 tell Kate not to play too noisily. 
 
 The result may be easily anticipated. In a 
 few moments the door opened, and the beaming 
 face of the Captain, shining from beneath the 
 shadow of a napkin that had been carefully laid 
 over his head, looked in upon them with an ex- 
 pression of some amazement. 
 
 D 2 
 
52 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Ten thousand pardons,” exclaimed Seymour, 
 going over to him, and panting heavily from his 
 recent exertions ; we had quite forgotten you ; 
 other wise^ you may believe we shouldn’t have 
 made so much noise.’’ 
 
 ^^All right; all right!” said the Captain, 
 heartily. I am grateful to you for having 
 awakened me from a most dismal nightmare, 
 though, perhaps, the awakening was as awful as 
 the dream. Kate, no more pork-chops for break- 
 fast. I am certain they don’t agree with me.” 
 
 Any remark of this kind always irritated Kate. 
 
 In the present instance, perhaps, she was justi- 
 fied in answering him only with a bang on the 
 piano. For, after all, what young lady likes to 
 have her name uttered in connection with a pork- 
 chop before her admirer ? 
 
 The Captain, perceiving himself to be de trop^ 
 very shortly retired to compose himself once more 
 to sleep, and the two young men gathered round 
 Kate and commenced a conversation. 
 
 It is needless to say that Kate was quite en- 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 53 
 
 chanted at the prospect of having Mary to spend 
 some time with her. She declared she would sit 
 down that moment and write the invitation ; but , 
 recollecting that her desk was downstairs, and 
 that by visiting it she might awaken her father 
 and provoke him to appear amongst them again, 
 she said she would wait until after tea. 
 
 The time slipped away, and seven o’clock was 
 hammered by a little time-piece somewhere in 
 the house. Still our three remained where they 
 had at first seated themselves, apparently as happy 
 and as contented as possible, and completely fal- 
 sifying the law that declares that three persons 
 are no company. At first Kate had been the 
 chief talker; and very brilliantly had she ac- 
 quitted herself — at least, so had thought Seymour. 
 Sometimes she joked, and to Seymour never were 
 joke§ more genuinely lively. Sometimes she 
 uttered a repartee, perhaps to some sly remark of 
 Frank : and to Seymour never was a repartee 
 expressed with greater pungency. Sometimes 
 she laughed, and to Seymour the music of her 
 
64 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 laughter was infinitely more subtle and har- 
 monious than anything ever composed by any of 
 the greatest composers. To Seymour, it was with 
 her as it had been with the sage in ‘‘ Rasselas” 
 — ‘‘ she spoke, and attention watched her lips ; 
 she reasoned, and conviction closed her periods.” 
 Insensibly, however, the tables had been turned, 
 and it was Seymour who now spoke, and Kate 
 who listened. Indeed, Seymour appeared to 
 Kate to have shown himself in a more amiable 
 light that evening than he had ever been seen in 
 before. He had by turns been lively, witty, 
 wise, and jovial. He had danced — he would even 
 have sung, hut for Captain Sandboys, who slept 
 below. Some of his jokes had been really very 
 excellent, and the not unfrequent flashes of wit 
 that gilded his conversation proved how keen 
 was his observation, how lively his sensibility 
 of the ridiculous, and how far he was superior to 
 his years, both in his thoughts and in his know- 
 ledge. 
 
 Alas I it was an evil hour in which Seymour 
 
TEE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 55 
 
 was first introduced to Kate. Surely nature 
 never fashioned two beings of such dissimilar 
 characters, whom it was the will of fate should be 
 brought together. Yet, to his young eyes, to 
 his young heart, pregnant with that stern nobility 
 which amongst the ancients made gods, amongst 
 the moderns heroes and martyrs, of men, to his 
 young imagination, illumined by the splendours 
 of its own creation, Kate appeared clothed in 
 that perfection with which love delights to pic- 
 ture the idol of its worship, and which, whilst it 
 excites as an allurement, serves also as a conceal- 
 ment of that inner life, an ignorance of which is 
 too frequently the'poison that embitters and cor- 
 rupts every realisation of love’s hope in the 
 future. 
 
 1 have spoken of Seymour’s nobility, and this 
 was certainly the distinctive feature of his char- 
 acter. It is hard to define the exact meaning of 
 the word as I would here have it applied, for as it 
 accurately expresses what it is meant to express, 
 so all definitions must fall short of or exceed its 
 
66 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 precise meaning. I mean by this kind of nobility 
 not the lofty bearing, the imposing address, the 
 calm grandeur, the almost physical attributes 
 which are always associated with the word ; but 
 its very essence, that is contained in the expres- 
 sion, the meaning, the application ; that seems 
 to be exhaled as if it were contained in its very 
 union with the object it addresses, the subject it 
 discourses ; an immateriality subtly felt, almost 
 inappreciably experienced ; felt like the power of 
 love, that intoxicates us, and we know not why; 
 experienced like the rapture of devout contempla- 
 tion that ennobles us, and yet all unconsciously 
 to ourselves. 
 
 It is this quality that, when addressed to and 
 appreciated by a congenial spirit, exalts love to 
 a refinement few have had the felicity to ex- 
 perience. To a woman of a soul formed like 
 his, Seymour would have been an object of adora- 
 ation, as she would have been an object of adora- 
 tion to him. Wanting this, he knelt to the 
 first whom his heart selected— and he knelt to 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 57 
 
 Kate, who was as ignorant of his real nature as 
 he was of hers —to Kate, who, even had that 
 nature she dreamt not of been exposed to her, 
 would have disregarded it from sheer want of 
 sympathy; or, contemplating it, would have 
 contemplated it as a bird might contemplate Jove 
 throned on Olympus — seeing the man, but ignor- 
 ing the god. 
 
 And yet, who could censure Kate for not com- 
 prehending what was comprehensible but to a 
 very few ? Surely this capability of appreciating 
 whatever there is of nobleness and greatness, of 
 dignity and beauty, in the many spirits that we 
 daily confront, is not so common amongst men 
 that its absence is to be condemned in a single 
 and inexperienced girl. And yet, perhaps, this 
 is a power not to be gained by observation, or to 
 follow the acquisition of knowledge. If it were, 
 all experience would help to confirm those hidden 
 bonds of unity that lie secreted amidst the fancies 
 and the actions of mankind. It would detect the 
 sympathy that it now denies ; it would applaud 
 
68 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the action that it now condemns ; it would help 
 the design that it now opposes ; congeniality 
 of spirit would he more diffused, because ex- 
 perience would interpret the word, the gesture, 
 the silence, into what they severally meant to 
 express ; or, rendered dubious by their ambiguity, 
 would penetrate beyond the expression, and ap- 
 prehend at a glance the pure motive. 
 
 But like the knowledge within us which is 
 called taste, and which regulates pur likes and 
 our dislikes, our predilections and our enmities, 
 by the infallible standard of reason and truth, so 
 this power of appreciation is intuitive ; is born 
 with the emotions that variously distinguish our 
 species ; not to be acquired by any adventitious 
 means, and possessed as rarely as every other 
 advantage is possessed, that owes its origin and 
 its development wholly to nature, and whose 
 spontaneous application is the test of its per- 
 fection. 
 
 I trust that my reader will not consider these 
 remarks as digressive. Had Seymour’s been a 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 59 
 
 nature capable of being expressed by his senti- 
 ments, I should have compelled him to have 
 spoken himself into an acquaintance with the 
 reader ; but the word does not always convey the 
 motive ; and of such characters as his the motives 
 can alone impart the knowledge. 
 
 The room had now become so dark that Kate 
 left her chair, and lighted two candles that were 
 placed on each side of the piano. 
 
 We will go downstairs presently,” she said, 
 to Seymour, therefore there is no occasion to 
 light the gas.” 
 
 Now, shall I tell you why she doesn’t light 
 the gas, Seymour ?” said Frank. 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 Because she’s growing economical and 
 Frank laughed. 
 
 Now this happened to be the reverse of true, 
 for Kate was anything but economical both in 
 her views and in her practice. 
 
 “ Thanks for your irony, Mr. Frank,” said she, 
 but I’ll be even with you before the evening is 
 
60 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 gone. You mustn’t believe him,” she continued, 
 turning to Seymour ; “ he talks the greatest non- 
 sense of anybody I ever heard.” 
 
 “ And you mean to say,” cried Frank, “that 
 you don’t think it a compliment to he called 
 economical ?” ‘ 
 
 “ Certainly not. I detest meanness in any shape 
 or form. And after all, what is economy hut a 
 form of meanness ?” 
 
 “ After that,” said Frank, rising, “ I’ll go.” 
 
 “ Go on,” said Kate. 
 
 Whether Frank thought that she really wanted 
 him to go, or that he began to consider that, per- 
 haps after all, three persons together, of whom 
 one was a girl, and the other two young men, 
 were one too many, it is certain that he said, 
 
 “ Seymour, will you excuse me for a few 
 minutes? I want to get a letter written and 
 posted before eight ; but I shan’t be long. I 
 believe I can leave you very safely in Kate’s 
 hands.” 
 
 It was quite true that he had a letter to write, 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 61 
 
 and that he was anxious for that letter to reach 
 its destination the first thing on the following 
 morning. I do not mean to say, for I am not 
 quite sure, that the idea of writing that letter 
 would have flashed across him but for the cir- 
 cumstance that provoked it. 
 
 Kate, who secretly doubted whether it was 
 quite right for her to be left alone with a young 
 man, in an apartment illumined only by two 
 candles, asked him why he need write the letter 
 now. 
 
 ‘‘ Because,” said he, pulling out his watch, it 
 is getting on for eight; and you know the post 
 closes at that time.” 
 
 And pray who is this important letter for?’’ 
 
 It was for his outfitter, telling him to send up 
 a portmanteau that had been Jeft at his ware- 
 house. 
 
 Though of no more mome nt than this, Frank 
 pulled a long face, and mysteriously saying. 
 
 Wouldn’t you like to know ?” left the room. 
 
62 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Isn’t it a strange boy ?” said Kate. 
 
 “ Ay, and a good boy, too,” answered Sey- 
 mour. “ Happy will that girl be who secures 
 him for a husband. That heart of his is wonder- 
 fully full of affection.” 
 
 “ Do you really think so?” said Kate, looking 
 at him, inquiringly. “ I daresay you will think 
 it very odd,” she added, in a musing tone of 
 voice, “ that though we have been brought up 
 as children together — and we a.re now both pretty 
 old — and though we are not in the least way con- 
 nected, yet we have never even had so much as a 
 flirtation together.’’ 
 
 Seymour dared not smile, for her eye was upon 
 him. But the profound simplicity with which 
 she uttered the remark, almost compelled him 
 into a laugh, though at the same time that sim- 
 plicity inexpressibly enchanted him. 
 
 “ You will be surprised, I daresay,” he said, 
 “ to hear me commend him for it. I am no 
 advocate for flirtation. Let a man love or not 
 
THE OLD STOKY KEPEATED. 
 
 63 
 
 love. Flirtation always injures those who deal 
 in it. It hardens the young heart, and, in time, 
 divests love of its highest dignity — its purity.^’ 
 Oh ! I think a little flirtation now and then 
 to be very innocent, Mr. Seymour ; don’t you ?” 
 It is innocent amongst those used to it. 
 Thieving is innocent amongst thieves ; unbelief 
 is innocent amongst sceptics ; but to the young 
 and fresh heart they are both equally danger- 
 ous.” 
 
 But you surely don’t think flirting so bad as 
 thieving?” exclaimed Kate, with a gesture of 
 surprise. 
 
 I really don’t know,” said Seymour, thought- 
 fully. You must always proportion the wrong 
 of a vice to the evil of its results.” 
 
 Yes. But what evil is there in the result of 
 flirtation ?’’ 
 
 ^^I will tell you. The ancients represented 
 love as a little boy-god, with a bow and arrows. 
 I should prefer seeing it represented as a maiden 
 beautiful and meek, with something holy in the 
 
64 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 expression of her face, and with a light sweet 
 smile upon her lips, half pensive, half persuasive, 
 and yet withal a smile that should impart confi- 
 dence and a kind of holy rapture to the hearts of 
 her worshippers. The conceptions of Cupid and 
 Bacchus, as embodied by the ancients, bear too 
 close a connexion to please me. Love should be 
 as Dante painted his Beatrice — holy and beauti- 
 ful, and all tenderness, which perhaps Beatrice 
 is not ; but, like Beatrice, she should have the 
 power of conducting her follower from the pur- 
 gatory of those lighter pains, and doubts, and 
 jealousies which possess all hearts, and mingle 
 their bitters with the sweets of the first stages of 
 love, into the heaven of serenity and purity,, 
 where all is peace, and whose divinity should be 
 Love itself.” 
 
 She was listening attentively to him, without 
 a smile, and with her large eyes fixed with a kind 
 of wondering expression on his face. 
 
 “ But what the world calls flirtation is but a 
 mere mocking semblance of this purity. Half of all 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 65 
 
 human love is comj^osed of facts, and the other 
 half of illusions, and the sweeter part of love is 
 that composed of illusions. Sometimes this imma- 
 terial portion of our passion becomes actually 
 realised by the force of our imagination ; and the 
 delusion is transformed into reality. But this 
 semblance, called flirtation, is full of mockeries. 
 It impoverishes the affection, as all affection 
 must be impoverished, when it finds the vainness 
 of each and all of its most cherished fancies. 
 For, believe me, there is seldom more than one 
 playing in the apparently double game of flirta- 
 tion. One is almost always deceived— the other 
 is almost always the deceiver. Then let those 
 who can sympathise with the bitterness of the 
 deceived join with me in decrying this mockery 
 so often mistaken for love.” 
 
 Aye,” said Kate, thoughtfully; but are you 
 not exaggerating its effects ? How long does the 
 love inspired by a flirt last?” 
 
 If it be love — and why should it not be? — it 
 will last long enough to embitter life with the 
 
66 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 memory of a fancy cherished, and found false. 
 Ah ! Miss Sandboys, there is more in love than 
 is believed. The old mock it, because they can 
 no more experience it ; the young play with it, 
 because they undervalue it. It is not by its 
 
 pleasures that it is known ; it is by its bitter- 
 nesses.” 
 
 ‘‘You really talk, Mr. Seymour, as if you, 
 yourself, had been victimised by this passion.” 
 
 “ I am afraid,” he answered, with a smile, 
 “ that you will not thank me for a conversation 
 that I am sure must sound to you very much like 
 a long homily. But,” he went on, resuming his 
 serious manner, “ it has been long a silly fancy 
 of mine to picture to myself some ideal of per- 
 fection, some embodiment that should unite in 
 itself every human charm which we are capable 
 of imagining. I have long dreamed of such a 
 being, and perhaps catching the notion from my 
 waking thoughts, my slumbers have often helped 
 me to vividly realise it. It is extraordinary what 
 emotion I have witnessed on seeing it. In my 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 67 
 
 sleep I have called upon, and prayed to it ; and 
 one dream I particularly remember, in which it 
 presented itself before me with so sad and melan- 
 choly a mien, with eyes so tearful in their expres- 
 sion, and its attitude so full of a sorrow that 
 appeared to me to amount almost to agony, that 
 I burst into tears, and, man as I am, sobbed 
 piteously, until my very passion broke the charm 
 and awakened me.’’ 
 
 And what shape,” Kate asked, now greatly 
 interested, did this form assume ? Have you 
 ever met with it in real life ?” 
 
 He did not answer her for some moments, and 
 thinking he had not heard her question she 
 repeated it. 
 
 Perfection,” he replied, cannot be realised 
 in this world. My ideal is as perfect as my 
 human fancy can create it.” 
 
 I suppose,” she said, with a smile, that you 
 created it as a sort of visionary model for a wife. 
 The nearer a woman approaches this ideal of 
 
68 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 yours in excellence, the better you would like- 
 her.” 
 
 He bowed his head as he answered, 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ You see I am not so dull after all as papa and 
 Frank would make me out to be,” Kate exclaimed, 
 with a merry laugh. 
 
 “ Dull ? who can call you dull ?” 
 
 “ Oh ! I don’t know. I suppose I must be 
 stupid, otherwise why should papa tell me I am ? 
 Still, you see, I guessed the meaning of your 
 ideal, and I consider that quite a feather in my 
 cap. I suppose, Mr. Seymour, I am at liberty to 
 boast of it ?” 
 
 “ Aye, and at liberty to boast of something 
 more — if it merits the boast,” he said, gravely. 
 
 “ And what may that be ?” she asked. 
 
 “ That you,” he exclaimed passionately, bend- 
 ing forward, and gently seizing her hand ; “ that 
 you are the nearest realisation of that ideal I have 
 yet met — probably shall ever meet.” 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 69 
 
 The action had been so sudden that she had 
 not time to withdraw her hand, and even her 
 half- movement of surprise was restrained by the 
 arm that had encircled her waist. 
 
 “ Tell me,” he was murmuring in her ear ; 
 
 tell me if I am permitted to love you ? Tell 
 me if I may clasp thus and for ever her who has 
 inspired me with all the pure, deep love that she 
 — and such as she alone — can inspire. Ah ! how 
 vain, how idle are all words to express that which 
 only the homage, the devotion, the adoration of 
 a life time can convey! You. cannot know my 
 love — you cannot read my heart I Can 1 hope to 
 make them intelligible to you? Kate, I love 
 you I Love you as only those can love, who in 
 silence and apart have watched and dreamed of 
 that idol, at whose feet love itself could sit and 
 smile for ever ! Tell me, my darling, that you 
 love me ! tell me that the half-spoken passion, 
 too powerful, too thrilling, too intense to be ex- 
 pressed in words, is appreciated by you — is 
 reciprocated by you ! I am a very fool at vows I 
 
70 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Yet if I dare swear by tbe little hand I clasp, 
 by the form that I embrace, by the deep emotion 
 to which my tongue refuses utterance, by every 
 recollected gladness of the past, by every beckon- 
 ing hope in the future, if I dare swear by these 
 signs, sacred to me as my faith and no less 
 cherished, to guard, to comfort, to adore you as 
 my wife— will you hear me, will you believe me — 
 will you promise me that happiness, all priceless 
 now as thou art to me ?’ ’ 
 
 He ceased, overwhelmed with his emotion, and 
 speechless, but bending over the young girl, whose 
 face, as if by instinct, had sought the conceal- 
 ment of his breast. 
 
 She remained silent — silent *in the sweet 
 amazement that filled her heart. There had been 
 no time for her to refiect — there was even no 
 time for refiection now. This was the first love 
 speech that had ever been poured into her ears, 
 and the strange, though soft, agitation with 
 which it filled her heart, suspended thought, and 
 held all consideration in check. Did she love 
 
THE OLD STOKT EEPBATED. 
 
 71 
 
 him? She asked not and knew not. Did she 
 know the tremendous influence that the little 
 answer that trembled on her lip could exercise 
 over her future ? The future was dark to her — 
 so was the present. Life was suddenly trans- 
 formed into love ; and beyond and without this 
 love she saw not, she felt not, she heard not. 
 Oh ! but she had drunken deep of love’s fascina- 
 ting potion. The voice of him who had asked 
 her for herself, made rich by the music of the 
 love notes it conveyed, vibrated through her 
 being, and hushed in a kind of agitated silence 
 the memories it should have provoked, the emo- 
 tions it should have awakened, the decision it 
 should have inspired. 
 
 Again it broke upon her ear, saddened by her 
 silence, yet ever wildly passionate, and breathing 
 all the eloquence of a yearning spirit. And then 
 come the timid whispered answer, the answer 
 telling him that he was loved — that she would be 
 his wife. 
 
 He still retained his embrace of her ; but his 
 
72 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 lips had sought the cheek that coyly strove to 
 avoid their contact by nestling in his bosom, and 
 for awhile they remained together thus in 
 silence. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and freeing herself 
 with a start from her lover’s embrace, she fled 
 from the apartment just as Frank entered it. 
 
 “ Kate ! Kate !” he called. 
 
 But she did not pause to answer, and with a 
 surprised look Frank turned to Seymour. 
 
 “ What ails the girl ?” he said. “ Here I have 
 come to tell her that Mrs. Anderson is down- 
 stairs, and the silly thing runs away from me. 
 By the way, Seymour, I must apologise to you 
 for my long absence. The governor and I have 
 been having a chat downstairs, which would pro- 
 bably have been continued, but for the interrup- 
 tion of our visitors.” 
 
 “ And what do you think I have been doing 
 said Seymour. 
 
 It was too dark for the expression of his face 
 to be seen; though had Frank perceived it he 
 
THE OLD STORY REPEATED. 
 
 73 
 
 Y^ould probably have correctly answered bis 
 friend’s query. 
 
 1 can’t guess.” 
 
 I have been making love.” 
 
 Lord bless us !” exclaimed Frank, I would 
 never have believed you guilty of such a folly. 
 And^ pray, with what result ?” 
 
 This,” answered Seymour, approaching his 
 friend, and extending his hand, Kate Sandboys 
 has promised to be my wife.” 
 
 Frank started, and remained for a moment 
 silent. Then suddenly wringing the proffered 
 hand, he said. 
 
 If that be true, I thank Grod for having given 
 Sandboys’ daughter so worthy and good a 
 fellow.” 
 
 Then you favour me?” said Seymour. 
 
 Heart and soul.” 
 
 And the Captain ?” 
 
 Has long given his consent. This surprises 
 you : but from the first moment he set his eyes 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 E 
 
74 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 upon you, he said, ‘ that is the man I should like 
 to have for a son-in-law.’ ” 
 
 This was not strictly correct, hut correct enough 
 to contain as much truth as all such assertions 
 reasonably require. 
 
 “ Then 1 am happy, indeed,” said Seymour. 
 
 “ This quarter of an hour,” said Frank, “ has 
 effected two rather curious things for us. You 
 have found a wife, and I an uncle. But we will 
 say nothing on either subject just now. Let us 
 go downstairs, and see what our visitors have to 
 say for themselves.” 
 
 And they left the room. 
 
75 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IN WHICH INVITATIONS ARE GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 It may, perhaps, occur to many of my readers as 
 being somewhat strange that Captain Sandboys 
 should have suffered his daughter to remain alone 
 upstairs so long with Seymour, without once in- 
 truding upon them with a view of seeing what 
 they were about. To such, however, as may con- 
 sider the matter in this light, perhaps the follow- 
 ing explanation may not be wholly unsatisfac- 
 tory. 
 
 When Frank left the drawing-room he went 
 
 E 2 
 
76 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 downstairs, and commenced writing his letter. 
 To this young man there appeared nothing very 
 outrageous in his leaving Kate alone with his 
 friend ; on the contrary, he really believed him- 
 self to be doing them a kindness by ridding them 
 of his presence ; and though not in the least 
 piqued by his somewhat abrupt dismissal by 
 Kate, he considered the injunction considerably 
 too obvious, not to be unhesitatingly acted 
 upon. But even supposing this not to have been 
 exactly the reason of his departure, he had too 
 much confidence in his friend, esteemed him too 
 much a gentleman, not to implicitly believe that 
 his conduct before Kate would not have been 
 regulated by the same precision of demeanour 
 and deference of address that so eminently dis- 
 tinguished him in the presence of others. 
 Whether Seymour’s subsequent conduct, how- 
 ever, absolutely justified his friend’s opinion, 
 some may, perhaps, think fit to dispute ; but for 
 myself, certainly confess that my opinion is 
 with those who believe that it did. 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 77 
 
 The Captain still snored in his arm-chair ; and 
 moving on tiptoe so as not to disturb him, Frank 
 went to his desk and commenced writing. 
 
 Now this letter took him exactly five minutes 
 to concoct, to seal, and to address ; and when this 
 is deducted from the quarter of an hour which 
 Seymour spent with Kate — (for it was neither 
 more nor less than this, though perhaps it may 
 appear more ; but then let ns remember that it 
 does not take a quarter of an hour for a man to 
 propose) — I say, when this is deducted, ten 
 minutes will be found to remain. And in these 
 ten minutes, this is what occurred. 
 
 Hardly had Frank concluded his task when a 
 double rap at the door at once awakened the 
 Captain, and announced the postman. 
 
 Hallo !” said the Captain, rubbing Lis eyes, 
 and yawning ; you there, Frank ? what time is 
 it?” 
 
 Frank told him, and then the Captain asked 
 for Kate and Seymour. 
 
 Frank’s reply was interrupted by the entrance 
 
78 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of the servant, who placed a letter in the Cap- 
 tain’s hand. 
 
 The Captain inspected the envelope for some 
 minutes in silence ; then he said, 
 
 “ Well, this is strange, too. Here’s a letter 
 with the Sydney post-mark upon it, and it has 
 been first addressed to Yartlepool. Now, who 
 can it he from, I wonder ?” 
 
 “ Open it,” said Frank, “ and then you’ll see.” 
 Of this solid piece of advice the Captain availed 
 himself; but still some delay ensued, for his 
 glasses were missing, and the Captain had so 
 many pockets about him, and he would so per- 
 sist in diving into every one hut the right, that 
 it was always a matter of minutes — not of 
 moments, but minutes — ere the search was re- 
 warded by discovery. 
 
 “ Let me read it,” said Frank, impatiently. 
 
 “ No, I’ll read it in a minute,” answered the 
 Captain, who was not exempt from that petty 
 jealousy which allows no one but the recipient of 
 a letter to peruse it first. 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 79 
 
 At last the spectacles were found, and on the 
 first glance at the signature the Captain uttered 
 an exclamation of astonishment. 
 
 “Well,” said he, laying it down upon his knees, 
 “ of all extraordinary things — why, whom do you 
 think it’s from ?” 
 
 “ Heaven alone knows !” said Frank. 
 
 “ Why,” said the Captain, again perusing the 
 signature, “ from Basil Fori’ester. I suppose 
 you know who that is ?” 
 
 “ Some connexion of mine, I presume, from 
 the name ?” said Frank. 
 
 “Your poor father’s brother — ^your uncle,” 
 said the Captain. 
 
 “ Dear me,” said Frank, excitedly ; “ and 
 what does he say ?” 
 
 “ This,” said the Captain. And he read as 
 follows : — 
 
80 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ ‘ Pitt Street, Sydney, 
 
 ‘New South Wales, 
 
 “ ‘ December 10th, 18 — . 
 
 « < jjy Yeey Dear Captain Sandboys, — 
 
 “ ‘ To address you after an interval of 
 so many years, with all the uncertainty of my 
 letter not finding you, is, I am afraid, but an 
 useless proceeding. For presuming you still to 
 be living, and still resident in the old place, it 
 seems to me hardly probable that you will recol- 
 lect me. But I must chance it, as I have made 
 a point of chancing everything in life, and leave 
 the issue to fate. 
 
 “ ‘ If you recollect me at all, you will recollect 
 me as the brother of Frank Forrester, who, I am 
 aware, claimed you for many years as a friend. I 
 left England some twenty odd years ago to join 
 my regiment (I was then serving in the army) at 
 Bombay. I remained in that country for thir- 
 teen years but at the expiration of that time, I 
 resigned my commission and departed for Aus- 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 81 
 
 tralia, for reasons that it could hardly interest 
 you to learn. 
 
 ^ To-morrow I leave this place (Sydney) for 
 London. With my brother expired the only 
 relation I am conscious of having on earth. That 
 I may have the pleasure of shaking you by the 
 hand, and hearing from the lips of the man 
 whom, in many letters^ he told me he so valued 
 as a friend, whatever news can be communicated 
 to me of my brother, shall be one of the chief 
 motives to direct me to Yartlepool as soon as 
 possible after my return to England. Till then, 
 
 ^ Believe me, 
 
 ‘ Ever truly, yours, 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ Basil Forrester.’ ” 
 
 ^^Well, do you know,” said Frank, as the 
 Captain laid the letter thoughtfully down, I 
 consider this to be a really very singular circum- 
 stance. Fancy an uncle of mine, of whose exist- 
 ence I was wholly ignorant, turning up at this 
 time of day ! and pray, who is he ?” 
 
82 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Basil Forrester was your father’s brother,’^ 
 said the Captain. When your father first came 
 to live at Yartlepool, Basil Forrester, then a 
 young man, came down to spend a few days with 
 him. It was thus that I came to know him. 
 He was about to join his regiment at Bombay, 
 and when he left Yartlepool I never saw nor 
 heard more of him. Your father seemed to for- 
 get him, being engrossed, I suppose, with that 
 love affair, of which you were the result.” 
 
 You must not tell my uncle this, though,” 
 said Frank ; he won’t be pleased to know how 
 utterly forgotten he was.” 
 
 He couldn’t have been quite forgotten,” said 
 the Captain, for he speaks here of having re- 
 ceived several letters from your father. But the 
 mystery is, how the deuce he comes to recollect 
 me so well. How, I had quite forgotten him.” 
 
 Of coarse he knows nothing about me,” said 
 Frank. 
 
 ‘‘ Evidently not. By jingo ! won’t he be as- 
 tonished to see a full-grown young nephew hop- 
 
lOTITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 83 
 
 ping about him, when he comes here? for he 
 will be sure to get our address at Yartlepool.” 
 
 I wonder if he’s married?” said Frank. 
 Didn’t you hear me read that with his brother 
 had expired the only relation he had in the world ? 
 Now,- if he were married, I don’t suppose he could 
 say this.” 
 
 Unless his wife happened to be dead.” 
 
 Well, in that case it would amount to the 
 same thing as saying he was not married. But 
 I say, Frank,” said the Captain, where’s 
 Kate?” 
 
 Upstairs,” said Frank. 
 
 Has Seymour left?” 
 
 No. He’s upstairs with her.” 
 
 Now it was exactly at this moment, when the 
 Captain was about to make some remark, though 
 of what nature must for ever remain left to con- 
 jecture, that there came a pretty smart rap at the 
 door, accompanied by a ring at the bell, and 
 Frank exclaimed, 
 
84 
 
 Ol’P THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Hallo ! I wonder who that can he ? It can’t 
 be Basil Forrester, surely.” 
 
 Absurd as was the notion, as might have easily 
 been seen by a reference to the date of the letter 
 just received, the conjecture awakened a moment- 
 ary feeling of excitement in the minds of both of 
 them; and the Captain, rising from his chair, 
 nervously clasped his hands together under his 
 coat-tails, and fixing himself before the fire, 
 awaited the entrance of the visitor in silence. 
 
 Instead of Basil Forrester, however, it proved 
 to be Captain Mortimer and Mrs. Anderson ; and 
 just shaking them by the hand as he passed 
 through the door, Frank ran upstairs to announce 
 their arrival to Kate. 
 
 And having offered this explanation, which I 
 really hope will be considered satisfactory, I now 
 consider myself at liberty to go on with my 
 story. 
 
 “ Really, Mrs. Anderson,” said the Captain, 
 bowing and motioning his visitors into chairs. 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 85 - 
 
 it is most kind of you to pop in upon us in 
 this friendly manner — so much more cosy than 
 the solemn formality of an afternoon call.” 
 
 You must thank me for this,” said Mortimer, 
 glancing at himself in the looking-glass. Gussy 
 wanted to make one of those ceremonious calls, 
 but I said No ! Sandboys is a seamen, and a man 
 of the world. Asa seaman, he detests ceremony; 
 and as a man of the world, he knows what it 
 is worth. Am I right?” 
 
 I don’t know about being a man of the 
 world,” said the Captain, ^^but as a sailor, I 
 heartily agree with you. There is such falseness 
 in ceremony that who would not despise it ?” 
 Just then Kate entered rather hurriedly^ 
 but perceiving strangers to be present drew back, 
 a little embarrassed. Her cheeks were flushed 
 from her recent excitement, which lent quite a 
 fresh brilliancy to her eyes. Very charmingly 
 pretty she looked indeed, as she stood hesitating 
 for a moment at the door. 
 
86 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Captain Mortimer instantly rose and shook 
 hands with her, then led her up to Mrs. Ander- 
 son. 
 
 “You know Miss Sandboys, Gussy, do yon 
 not ?” he said. 
 
 “ I have had that pleasure,” answered Mrs. 
 Anderson, making room beside her for Kate to 
 he seated. “ Have we not met at Mr. Fairlie’s ?” 
 
 Kate said ‘‘yes and felt very small by the side 
 of the majestic woman who addressed her. 
 
 “ By the way,” said the Captain, “ young Sey- 
 mour — Mr. Fairlie’s nephew, you know, ma’am — 
 is spending the evening with us. I wonder where 
 he is ?” 
 
 “ Upstairs, papa,” said Kate. 
 
 “Ay, ay! I say, Kate,” said the Captain, 
 “ what have you been doing all alone upstairs 
 with Mr. Seymour, eh ? Flirting, eh ? Ah I” 
 said he, turning to Mortimer, “girls are sad 
 things, sir, sad things.” 
 
 Kate blushed scarlet, and her embarrassment 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 87 
 
 grew positively painful when, in timidly glancing 
 up, she perceived Mortimer’s eye to be fixed 
 upon her. 
 
 Ah ! Captain Sandboys,” said Mrs. Anderson, 
 with a smile, girls are never sad things until 
 you naughty men make them sad.” 
 
 I quite agree with you, ma’am,” said the 
 Captain, emphatically. We are naughty. We 
 are like children,” he said, fiourishing his arms. 
 
 Nature, who is our mother, gives us dolls, 
 which are women — ” 
 
 Dolls !’^ ejaculated Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 To play with,” continued the Captain, smil- 
 ing his apology for not heeding her interruption. 
 
 We, morally speaking, ma’am, take out their 
 eyes and pull off their arms and legs, and melt 
 their noses, and then fiing ’em aside, calling them 
 as we do so, sad things. But you have your re- 
 venge upon us, ma’am, you have your revenge 
 upon us.” 
 
 ^^And pray how?” said Mrs. Anderson; if 
 constant submission to you be our revenge then 
 
88 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 we are revenged. But that is the only revenge- 
 we take.” 
 
 Captain Mortimer and Captain Sandboys both 
 looked at each other at this remark, and, as if 
 urged by one common impulse, both pulled sim» 
 ultaneously a very wry face. 
 
 “ I have secured the truant at last, governor,” 
 said Frank, pushing open the door, and entering 
 arm-in-arm with Seymour; ‘‘here he is, and his 
 plea is that he kept away on purpose that he 
 might not disturb you in your nap. Now, as I 
 know this to be true, my verdict is not guilty,, 
 and so ends the matter.” 
 
 Seymour’s eye instinctively sought Kate, who 
 was glancing at him from beneath the shadow of 
 Mrs. Anderson, with an appealing look. It was evi- 
 dent she was frightened he might say something 
 that would again call up her blushes. But 
 then she was ignorant of Seymour’s character. 
 
 “ And am I to consider myself as having acted 
 rudely ?” asked Seymour, seating himself after 
 his greetings with the two visitors. 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 89 ^ 
 
 We will have a court-martial and investigate 
 the matter/’ said the Captain, eyeing him with a 
 twinkling eye. 
 
 Frank, however, who plainly perceived Kate’s 
 embarrassment, hastened to change the conversa- 
 tion by turning the tables on the Captain. 
 
 Instead of sitting upon Seymour,” said he, 
 ^^what say if we sit upon the governor?” 
 
 What is his crime ?” asked Mortimer. 
 
 ‘^Sleeping, when he ought to have been 
 awake,” answered Frank. 
 
 Gentlemen and ladies,” said the Captain, 
 gravely, let my excuse be obesity.” 
 
 Hear him !” cried Frank. 
 
 Let my excuse, also, be custom,” said the 
 Captain. 
 
 Then the prisoner is discharged,” said Mor- 
 timer ; for what human being can oppose two 
 such forces ?” 
 
 All this caused some merriment, and Kate 
 began to feel more at her ease. Ever and anon 
 Seymour would dart at her a look full of signifi- 
 
90 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 cance, which was returned by one equally intelli- 
 gible. Once in a pause of the conversation, when 
 Seymour was smiling at her, he encountered the 
 gaze of Mortimer fixed upon him. When their 
 glances first met there was something almost 
 terrible in the expression of that of Mortimer ; 
 hut immediately on finding himself regarded, the 
 look melted into a smile, and some pleasant re- 
 mark escaped his lips. 
 
 Kate also frequently met his gaze ; hut for her 
 it always wore a thoughtful, almost melancholy 
 expression. There was also something wistful 
 and inquiring about it, as if some secret were 
 sought to be conveyed, or some secret asked to 
 be revealed. She knew not why, hut at such 
 moments a feeling of dizziness would seize her ; 
 an unexpressed dread would possess her heart, as 
 if it quailed in the foreboding shadow of some 
 dark trouble, and instinctively her eyes sought 
 the face of Seymour, as if to extract from its 
 smiling happiness the comfort she craved for,, 
 though for what she knew not. 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 91 
 
 Ah ! ’tis a strange instinct that of the human 
 heart of anticipating the woe that too surely 
 comes ! Happiness ignores it ; why should it be 
 reserved for sorrow ? Is it a prophetic power 
 imparted to us by the fiend, to extend yet the 
 suffering that is always too protracted ? What 
 are the smiles of hope compared to the darkness 
 thrown by the coming event ? Hope, alas, is no 
 vaticinator ! it is a prophet — but it is a false one. 
 He tells us of joys which are in reserve for us ; 
 but who experiences these joys ? But that por- 
 tentous terror, when felt, that speaks the ap- 
 proaching woe, deceives not. It is an oracle 
 whose terrible whispers are as true as the wailing 
 of the wind that tells us of the rising tempest. 
 
 The evening passed as all such evenings pass, 
 in conversation, in gravity, and in mirth. 
 
 Captain Mortimer, however, was by no means 
 the society he usually was. He seemed more the 
 listener than the talker, and though his laugh 
 was frequent there was one in that room, and but 
 one alone, who remarked in it an absence of that 
 
92 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 heartiness which, whether feigned or real, ren- 
 dered it always so flattering and so pleasant. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson, however, very well knew the 
 cause of this. To her there was something 
 delicious in that man’s depression. To know 
 that he loved, and to know that his love was 
 successfully opposed by a rival — ah ! how exult- 
 ing grew her heart at the thought. God ! how 
 she hated him ! Was there the least wrinkle 
 in that creature’s face that she would not have 
 had obliterated so as not to be reminded of 
 the scorn that crazed her soul ? What torment 
 to her lurked in every attitude of his ! what 
 torment in every action, in every gesture, in 
 every smile, in every accent ! So would she have 
 had him transformed into some iron statue, now, 
 as he smiled or frowned, as he bent low or raised 
 himself erect, that in his inanimate coldness she 
 might have hurled her hatred at him, and wildly 
 laughed to know that he was powerless to return- 
 her scorn ! But living, she durst not confront 
 him. Sometimes the biting anger of her heart 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 93 
 
 vented itself in the mocking laugh or withering 
 sarcasm ; but the terror subdued her, bowed her 
 down at his feet into silent acquiescence, into 
 uncomplaining bitterness. Yet what was there 
 to fear in him ? 
 
 But when God or the devil sends such spirits 
 as hers into the world, their incarnation is equal 
 to the power that animates them. To have 
 watched her seated in Captain Sandboys’ little 
 parlour, entering into the passing merriment of 
 the moment, or quietly conversing with Kate ; 
 now answering some question of Mortimer, now 
 laughing at some sally of Frank ; who would 
 have divined that he was in the presence of such 
 an actress as seldom graces the stage of any 
 theatre ? How surpassingly active were those 
 eyelids of hers, in giving expression to the splen- 
 did orbs they defended ! How frequent and 
 various the smile upon her lips, that now made 
 tender, now sad, and always fascinating the 
 beauty of the face it illumined! How artless 
 her language, how unstudied her movements, 
 
94 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 how graceful her attitudes I Surely this was a 
 wonderful woman ! 
 
 But though unapparent to all but one, to this 
 one there was something electrifying in the fact. 
 Not once, hut often, had Frank’s admiring gaze 
 been returned by her with a glance not to be 
 mistaken — not even by him whose fancied in- 
 feriority deemed itself unworthy and incapable 
 of provoking such regard. She had been making 
 love to him with her eyes, and their eloquence 
 was not impaired because it was not aided or in- 
 terpreted by speech. Yet, by that wonderful art, 
 known only to such women, she had permitted 
 him to experience no conviction. So subtle had 
 been the fancies awakened in his heart by her 
 glances that nothing was determined, nothing 
 definite ! all was vague, misty, confused, imma- 
 terial to his mind ; but material to that inner 
 consciousness of the soul that divines even when 
 the subject of its divination is more impalpable 
 than the thin, clear air. 
 
 He dared not believe it, yet he could not doubt 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 95 
 
 it. Speeches were conveyed to him not alone by 
 her eyes, hut by her smiles, her gestures, the 
 graceful movement of her head. Her whole 
 body was eloquent of the subtle passion it sought 
 to express ; and he looked on her, and perceived 
 her feelings as Balshazzar looked and perceived 
 the hand-writing on the wall, ignorant of its 
 meaning, but conscious of its existence. 
 
 But it was now late, and Mrs. Anderson rose 
 to leave. 
 
 ‘‘lam going to ask you to do me a great 
 favour. Captain Sandboys,” she said ; “ will you 
 allow your daughter Kale to spend the evening 
 with me on Friday?” 
 
 It was then Wednesday. 
 
 “ With the greatest happiness,” said the 
 Captain. 
 
 “ Mr. Forrester,” she said, turning to Frank, 
 “ I hope you will do us the pleasure of joining 
 our little party. 1 am not going to ask Miss 
 Sandboys whether she will come or not, as I will 
 take no refusal.” 
 
96 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Kate smiled and said “ste would be most 
 happy.” 
 
 “ And I shall be equally charmed, ” said 
 Frank. 
 
 “ And may we have the pleasure of including 
 you, Mr. Seymour ?” she said. 
 
 “ Unfortunately I have an engagement on. 
 Friday evening, otherwise you may be sure I 
 should gladly accept your invitation,” said 
 Seymour, glancing at Kate. 
 
 “ But can’t you postpone it?” asked Kate. 
 
 “ I am afraid not, but I will try.” 
 
 The Captain gave a dry cough, as much as to 
 say that he had noticed Kate’s solicitude to have 
 Seymour with her. 
 
 At all events,” said Mortimer, turning to the 
 Captain, “ you will at least compensate us for the 
 absence of Mr. Seymour by your presence.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I am an old fogey, and am much better 
 out of the way,” answered the Captain. 
 
 ‘‘ Nonsense, papa,” said Kate. 
 
 “Well, I tell you what I’ll do. If you will 
 
INVITATIONS GIVEN AND ACCEPTED. 
 
 97 
 
 allow me, I’ll drop in towards tlie close of tlie 
 evening — eh, Kale ? and we can return home to 
 gether. What say. Captain Mortimer?” 
 
 ‘‘ Pray please yourself, sir,” answered Morti- 
 mer ] come when you will, we can always assure 
 you a welcome.” 
 
 . I think we go in the same direction, do we 
 not?” said Mrs. Anderson to Seymour. 
 
 I think we do/’ said Seymour. 
 
 That’s right,” said Mortimer, in the most 
 friendly manner. ‘‘ We’ll have a cigar en routed 
 Then ensued some shaking of hands, and 
 reiterated hopes of meeting again on the Friday 
 evening. 
 
 God bless thee, my darling,” whispered 
 Seymour, turning to Kate; I am coming to see 
 Captain Sandboys to-morrow. By the bye, I 
 have told Frank.” 
 
 And with a squeeze of the hand he went into 
 the night after the others, who stood waiting for 
 him on the pavement. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 F 
 
98 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 MARY. 
 
 The effect on Mary of witnessing her father on 
 his knees before Mrs. Anderson has been shown; 
 she had fainted, and was immediately conveyed 
 to bed amidst the clamour of two housemaids 
 and the cook, who had been summoned to her 
 assistance. 
 
 Though anticipation had long since helped her 
 to conceive the fact she so dreaded, yet there was 
 something in this abrupt realisation that proved 
 
MARY. 
 
 99 
 
 too mucli for her. The blow had struck upon her 
 heart with resistless force, and many a long day 
 passed ere its recollection faded away with the 
 dull, vibrating pain that it communicated. 
 
 During the greater part of the following day, 
 she remained confined to her room, her father 
 •only visiting her once, early in the morning, 
 and then remaining with her but for a few mo- 
 ments. 
 
 In the silence of her bed-chamber, she eagerly 
 sought to question her heart upon the hostility 
 it evinced, in spite of her, to her father’s marriage 
 with Mrs. Anderson. Yet this feeling was not 
 less enigmatical to her than it might have been 
 to others. She thought to account for it by at- 
 tributing it to an unreasonable prejudice ; and 
 prejudice it doubtless was in one sense, though 
 this solution did not satisfy her. There can be 
 no prejudice without a cause, even though that 
 cause be not always discoverable. Now there was 
 actually no cause for her dislike to Mrs, Ander- 
 son ; on the contrary, she had every reason to be 
 
 F 2 
 
100 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 pleased with her. There was no selfishness in 
 Mary’s disposition to grudge the woman the 
 position of mistress in the house where she had 
 so long reigned herself. This, for many such 
 cases of dislike, might have been deemed a suffi- 
 cient explanation; but with Mary it went for 
 nothing. Even to Mrs. Anderson she would 
 have cheerfully resigned whatever association 
 had endeared, or affection had rendered valuable, 
 to her in the world, could she have prevented 
 this marriage. It was a higher emotion than all 
 this that paled the girl’s cheek, and fixed within 
 her quiet eye the sad expression that speaks the 
 silent sorrow of the heart. She would have saved 
 her father, at any sacrifice. She would have 
 wrested him from the fascination of Mrs. Ander- 
 son, and forced him into the groove of his old 
 life by those wild appeals which she felt her 
 heart bursting within her to utter. Up to that fatal 
 moment — that moment which presented her with 
 the spectacle of her kneeling father, and which 
 lapsed her heart into night and nothingness, she 
 
MARY. 
 
 101 
 
 had fondly cherished the hope that something 
 might arise to divert him from his purpose. She 
 had chalked out to herself a new line of conduct 
 that might check him in his meditated step, and 
 woo him back to his love— his child’s love, the 
 memory of his wife’s love — that wife, now a saint 
 in heaven, so revered by Mary, who oft of late in 
 her dreams had beheld those old sweet eyes look- 
 ing down from the clouds, troubled at the apos- 
 tasy that was being enacted beneath. She had 
 hoped that this love, re-awakened in his heart, 
 might influence him to the renunciation of his 
 new passion. She had fancied that there was 
 eloquence enough in her thoughts, when they 
 had found expression, to revive in him the 
 emotions which before had ever rendered him 
 the kind and good man, the loving and amiable 
 father. 
 
 Yet was he not so now ? what was there now 
 different in his disposition that had not been 
 compelled by her opposition ? and to whom and 
 
102 
 
 OFF THE STA0E. 
 
 what was she opposed ? to Mrs. Anderson and his. 
 marriage with her. 
 
 Why? 
 
 Ah, why ! let that troublous instinct in the 
 heart which forces it to its groundless likes and 
 dislikes, be the reply. Unsatisfactory enough, 
 but infallible as that mysterious natural power 
 that influences alike every orb in every universe 
 in space, directing and controlling, and mighty 
 with the secret mightiness of an invisible deity. 
 
 But are we to ridicule such instincts because 
 we cannot comprehend their natures? Surely 
 they were imparted to us for some wise purpose, 
 and what can that purpose be but to aid the com- 
 mon reason that argues its progress by experience 
 and analogy, by a more subtle perception or con- 
 sciousness of a delicacy susceptible of the im- 
 pression of things remote and hidden, and not to 
 be dreamt of by the grosser faculties of our 
 minds? Like the scent of the hound to its 
 sagacity, like the hearing of the deer to ita 
 
MARY. 
 
 103 
 
 terror, like tke swiftness of the antelope to its 
 flight, is this mysterious instinct to the mind. 
 It seems like the one real spark snatched from 
 the skies by the ancient god, teaching us by its 
 subtlety of that power which God has in a more 
 or less degree imparted to His prophets, and 
 which is expressed in Him, supreme, essential, 
 entire. 
 
 For the whole of that day, Mary saw but little 
 \ 
 
 of her father. She found him alone when she 
 descended in the evening, and when he raised his 
 face towards her, she observed that it wore an 
 expression of melancholy; this was, however, 
 instantly subdued and replaced by a light frown 
 and a somewhat haughty curl of the lip. 
 
 I hope you are better,” he said. 
 
 I feel weak,” Mary answered, in a trembling 
 voice, ^^but I am better since the morning.” 
 
 He turned to the book he was perusing, and 
 fixed his eyes upon it in silence. Five minutes 
 passed away thus, and not a word was spoken by 
 either. Painfully audible was the ticking of the 
 
104 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 large bronze clock upon tbe mantelpiece, and the 
 very fire burnt with a sad and cheerless look, as 
 if conscious of the emotions of those it was in- 
 tended to comfort. 
 
 At last Mr. Fairlie closed the book with a 
 gesture of impatience, as if his attention refused 
 to fix itself upon the meaning of the passages his 
 eye encountered. He threw himself back in his 
 chair, and crossing his legs, folded his hands 
 upon his knee. In this position he surveyed 
 for awhile in silence the features of his daughter, 
 who seemed lost in contemplation of the fire-place.. 
 At last he said, 
 
 Yours is a very remarkable nature ; it is 
 full of mysteries. I wonder where you got it 
 from ?” 
 
 She started and looked up at him, and an- 
 swered. 
 
 Why do you think it full of mysteries ?” 
 
 How many girls of your age, T wonder,” he 
 said, quietly, would care to lead the life you 
 do ? always absorbed in thought, heedless of the* 
 
MARY. 
 
 105 
 
 busy life that is waging its eternal strife around 
 you, without a desire to participate in its plea- 
 sures or its pains, and apparently unconscious 
 of those things called existence and animation.” 
 If I love solitude," answered Mary, “ it is 
 from no fault of mine. What has life to tempt 
 me to abandon the peace I so love?” 
 
 Happily for the interests of mankind, all are 
 not of your notions. If they were, instead of 
 houses we should have caves ; instead of healthy 
 food, herbs and fruit ; instead of social happiness, 
 discontent and peevishness ; for these last are 
 always engendered by loneliness.” 
 
 Solitude is seldom adopted but by those who 
 love it,” said Mary; and where there is conge- 
 niality there is always happiness.” 
 
 ^^You should become a Roman Catholic and 
 enter a convent,” said Mr. Fairlie. The only 
 music fit for you is the music of convent bells. 
 The life of a nun would wondrously realise your 
 idea of happiness ; the world doesn’t intrude much 
 upon the privacy of the cloisters.” 
 
 F 5 
 
106 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ If I were a Roman Catholic, that is the life 
 I would choose.” 
 
 ‘‘ I thought so ; well, go and get perverted. 
 There is nothing to stop you : you have my sanc- 
 tion,” he exclaimed, bitterly. 
 
 “ Father !” 
 
 “ Father ! aye, father me not in reproach. 
 You, who have not the interests of your earthly 
 father at heart, need not much heed the interests 
 of your heavenly Father. A dutiful and affec- 
 tionate child is religion’s noblest illustration ; it 
 is God’s purest work. Neglect your earthly 
 parent, and your heavenly Parent will neglect 
 you. Bah ! the Almighty better loves one filial 
 act of devotion than all the prayers that unap- 
 parent cant can offer him.” 
 
 He ceased, and thinking perhaps that he had 
 spoken too bitterly, abruptly continued, 
 
 “ There is no value in solitude, either to God 
 or man. We must accept life on the terms in 
 which it is given to us ; we are placed in this 
 world to mingle with one another, and to abstract 
 
MARY. 
 
 107 
 
 onrselves is to act disobediently. Which think 
 you is the most acceptable to God, the ring of 
 the bell that summons a host of cowled recluses 
 to worship, or the ring of the honest woodman’s 
 axe that fells the tree that shall give warmth and 
 protection to his fellow creatures ?” 
 
 Some are not fitted to mingle with the world. 
 It is cruel to drive them into occupations or plea- 
 sures for which, by constitution or habit, they are 
 unadapted.” 
 
 This is the cry of the coward, but not the 
 thought of the brave man or woman. How true 
 was that remark made to the superior of a French 
 convent ! ‘ that she was there from the fear of 
 vice, not from the love of virtue.’ Ah I there is 
 infinite cowardice in all such abstraction. It is 
 moral suicide ; it is quitting the world we have 
 not courage to confront. And this is true of all 
 seclusion. Let the young mingle v/ith the young, 
 the old with the old ; let there be heartiness and 
 fellowship of feeling between man and man, be- 
 tween woman and woman. There is the germ of 
 
108 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the love most loved by God in such intercourse. 
 Out on those paltry knaves who hide their heads 
 in closets and cells ! Give me the man who 
 vigorously grasps his spoke of the wheel, and 
 adds his efforts to turn the mighty machine 
 which all the world is ever occupied in turn- 
 ing !” 
 
 He spoke with great warmth, flourishing his 
 hands, and bending forward towards Mary, with 
 flushed face and excited manner. 
 
 There was a sound philosophy in this which 
 Mary had too much good sense to oppose; bat 
 she well knew the direction in which his argu- 
 ments were tending, and she did not attempt 
 to divert him from the subject. 
 
 “No,” he continued, falling back in his chair, 
 “ solitude is all very well when our occupations 
 compel us to be alone ; but why should a man 
 force himself to be a recluse when his predilec- 
 tions are for the world, and for those pleasures 
 which philosophers decry, because they are too 
 old to enjoy them, but of which the young know 
 
MARY. 
 
 109 
 
 the value, as they prove by their eagerness to 
 taste them? God knows, our lives are short 
 enough and miserable enough, without curtailing 
 them by leaving ourselves no joys to remember, 
 and without adding to their misery by self- 
 created calamities or self-imposed evils ! I want 
 society ; I have never sought it, because first of 
 all your mother objected to it, and then you 
 took up her cry. But I’ll be a hermit no 
 longer !” 
 
 I have never presented any obstacle to your 
 collecting friends about you,” said Mary, gently. 
 
 Not openly, but tacitly you have. I knew 
 your objection, and to gratify you I humoured it. 
 Fool that I was ! now that I wish you to humour 
 me, you oppose me. So much for a child’s 
 gratitude !” 
 
 Mary began to tremble. She was alarmed by 
 her father’s violence, and made a movement as if 
 to leave the room. 
 
 You need not remain !” he exclaimed, noticing 
 the action. You are quite right to go ; your 
 
no 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 presence only angers me, and tempts me to ob 
 servations which I afterwards regret.” 
 
 The tears rose to Mary’s eyes, and she made a 
 violent effort to repress them. But without avail j 
 they overflowed, and soon followed the short,, 
 thick sob so terrible to hear in the young breast. 
 
 Her father did not notice her, but seemed 
 intent upon the book that he had again taken up. 
 Silently, and pressing her hand to her heart to 
 restrain its emotion, Mary rose, and, gliding out 
 of the apartment, sought the silence of her bed- 
 room. 
 
 So passed the time, and every hour seemed 
 now to widen the breach that too surely separated 
 the father and child. 
 
 Two days passed away, during which time Mrs. 
 Anderson twice visited the house, though Mary 
 never saw her. Once she came with her brother, 
 and when they went away Mr. Fairlie went with 
 them. Once she came by herself, and Mr. 
 Fairlie escorted her himself home in his 
 brougham. 
 
MARY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 On the evening of the second day a letter was 
 placed in Mary's hands, which she opened, and 
 read as follows ; — 
 
 19, Violet Row, 
 
 St. John’s Wood. 
 
 dearest Miss Fairlie, — 
 
 Or if you will permit me to write instead, 
 My dearest Mary, for I detest all ceremony, and 
 Miss Fairlie sounds so ceremonious, you know,— 
 papa, and myself and Frank (and especially my- 
 self), are all so anxious for you to come and 
 spend some time with us in our quiet little house. 
 Will you come, dear? of course it will seem odd, 
 my asking you to leave your beautiful house for 
 the small concern we live in, but then we 
 do so want you, and we shall have such pleasant 
 evenings together ; for you know papa, though 
 rather rough, is very funny, and Frank is awfully 
 nice, especially at a round game. And I have such 
 secrets to tell you, that is to say if I hav’n’t been 
 
112 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 anticipated by Mr. Charlie— now arn’t you sur- 
 prised at my calling him Mr. Charlie ? Do not 
 write to say you will not come, for I shan’t take 
 your letter in. And so, with my dear love, 
 
 Ever believe me. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 Kate.” 
 
 In spite of Mary’s melancholy, she could not 
 forbear laughing at this somewhat droll effusion, 
 and her first impulse was gladness at the prospect 
 of being able to leave her sorrows for awhile 
 behind her, or to forget them amidst new scenes 
 and smiling faces; but a feeling of sadness 
 almost as instantly overspread her heart, even at 
 the idea of leaving her father. She was tenderly 
 attached to him. Never once had they been 
 separated longer than for a day in their lives, and 
 to leave him now alone with his bitterness 
 towards her, companionless, as it were, in that 
 big house — would it not add one more smart to 
 the wound that he had told her she had already 
 
MARY. 
 
 iia 
 
 inflicted ? Ay, she was tenderly attached to him. 
 All her heart yearned to reclaim the love that 
 had so suddenly ebbed away; and though the 
 harshness, the violence, the quick temper of the 
 man might have subverted many a softer nature 
 than hers, and transformed her affection into^ 
 anger or contempt, her fond eyes penetrated 
 through the harsh disguise in which circum- 
 stances had hidden him, and perceived the one 
 same father, unchanged, as he had ever been. Ah, 
 what disastrous effects can arise from the minu- 
 test causes ! Had Mr. Fairlie never joined the 
 club — and of a connection so common, who could 
 have foreseen the results? — Captain Mortimer 
 and he would still have been strangers ; and but 
 for Captain Mortimer, what would he have known 
 of Mrs. Anderson — of Mrs. Anderson, the cause of 
 all Mary’s grief — of Mrs. Anderson, whose alliance 
 with her father her heart refused to sanction ? — 
 Heigho ! 
 
 So thought Mary, still holding Kate’s letter in 
 her hand. But presently her thoughts took an- 
 
114 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 other direction. Perhaps her absence might, 
 awaken new emotions in her father’s heart. 
 When he missed her familiar face, her remem- 
 bered voice, her greetings constant as the rising 
 and the setting of the sun, he might relent 
 towards her, write for her to come back and com- 
 fort him with her presence, and in the overflowing 
 of his revived love drown the bitter recollection 
 of the past, and once again be her own beloved 
 father ! But would this occur whilst he was still 
 held captive to Mrs. Anderson’s charms ? Had he 
 the power, had he the will, had he the desire, to step 
 beyond the circle of her fascination ? Alas ! he 
 had knelt to her, and kneeling must have plighted 
 his troth. No; the decree of Pate had gone 
 forth, and it was irrevocable. What was Mary to 
 do? 
 
 She thought, and after long consideration,, 
 decided upon accepting Kate’s invitation. 
 
 She went downstairs to acquaint her father 
 with the circumstance, and to write her reply. 
 On approaching the library she heard the sound 
 
MARY. 
 
 115 
 
 of cousin Charlie Seymour’s voice, and, somewhat 
 thankful for his presence, that would obviate the 
 feeling of restraint she now experienced when 
 alone with her father, she pushed open the door 
 and entered. " ' 
 
 Seymour was standing before Mr. Fairlie,^ 
 grasping his hand, and exclaiming, in a voice 
 broken with emotion, 
 
 ^^God bless you for your goodness, uncle. 
 Alas ! how can I hope to repay you for it.” 
 
 Mr.' Fairlie instantly perceived the form of 
 Mary^ standing irresolutely in the door, as if un- 
 certain whether to advance or retire, and pointed 
 to her. 
 
 Seymour turned, and seeing who it was, ran 
 towards her and kissed her. 
 
 Oh, Mary !” he exclaimed, seizing her by the 
 hand and leading her towards her father, help 
 me to thank him for his great kindness. The 
 only obstacle in the way of my happiness is re- 
 moved, and all owing to his benevolence.” 
 
116 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Tut, tut !” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, waving hig 
 hand, “you are quite welcome, Charlie, quite 
 welcome. But you have rather bewildered Mary, 
 so you had better take her aside and explain what 
 it all means.” 
 
 “ No, I will tell it to her here, I will tell it to- 
 her before you,” said Seymour, excitedly. “ Mary, 
 Mary !” he exclaimed, extending his hands 
 towards her, with his face radiant with happiness, 
 “ congratulate me, darling Mary, — I am engaged 
 to he married !” 
 
 This unexpected announcement gave Mary such 
 a start, that she instinctively grasped the erlge of 
 the table for support, whilst, in a tremulous 
 whisper, she asked, 
 
 “ To whom ?” 
 
 “To the sweetest child in Christendom — to 
 little Kate Sandboys.” 
 
 There was a moment’s pause, then laying her 
 hand in Seymour’s, Mary said, in the same low^ 
 whisper. 
 
MARY. 
 
 117 
 
 And you are happy, Charlie ?” 
 
 ‘^Supremely,” answered Seymour, with a 
 glance at his uncle. 
 
 She approached him, and tenderly kissed his 
 forehead, and then, in silence, seated herself in 
 the arm-chair — her usual seat. He drew a chair 
 to her side, and, taking her hand, said. 
 
 But that is only a part of what I have to tell 
 you. You do not know what your father has 
 offered to do for me. Now listen. I saw old 
 Captain Sandboys to-day, and he said — but I 
 won’t tell you what he said, for he paid me a 
 very high compliment, and concluded by telling 
 me I was welcome to his child. The poor old 
 fellow had tears in his eyes as he said this, and, 
 strange to say, he told me a secret. It appears 
 that he had set his heart upon having Frank 
 Forrester as his son-in-law ; for he is devotedly 
 attached to the boy. But his delicacy would 
 never allow him to divulge this cherished hope ; 
 and you may imagine how disappointed his poor 
 heart must have felt when, as day after day went 
 
118 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 by, he saw no other attachment than such as had 
 always subsisted, arising between them.” 
 
 He paused and directed a glance at his uncle. 
 Mr. Fairlie had closed his eyes, and appeared to be 
 sleeping. Lowering his voice, Seymour continued, 
 “ Captain Sandboys and I then entered into 
 one of those discussions which always preface 
 matrimonial schemes. We talked of money; but 
 I found the Captain had no more than a thousand 
 pounds to give his child — which is about fifty 
 pounds a year— and as for me, I told him honestly 
 that all that I had was about two hundred and 
 ten pounds a year ; ninety-five, you know, being 
 my salary at Cannon Street, and the other hun- 
 dred and fifteen being my lather’s fortune which 
 I come into in three weeks’ time. Now, idiotically, 
 I had never thought over this part of the arrange- 
 ment, and although the Captain — to his honour be 
 it said — made no opposition, I very stoutly de- 
 clared I would never wed his child to such a mean 
 income as that. Fancy how brave I must have 
 been !” 
 
MARY. 
 
 119 
 
 Mary gave him a soft smile, and he went on — 
 Secretly, however, I made np my mind to see 
 my uncle on the subject. I knew his generosity, 
 and perhaps this confidence made me so brave. 
 So I came here at once — not without a dreadful 
 sinking at the heart — and what do you think has 
 been the result?” 
 
 I cannot guess.” 
 
 “ Your father — mark me ! — ^your father told me 
 I was down in his will for eight thousand pounds. 
 And this money he has offered me now !” And 
 as if the thought were too much for him, he 
 rose, and again grasped Mr, Fairlie by the hand. 
 
 “ Stop !” said his uncle to him, for a minute ; 
 
 1 want to whisper something to you.” Then in 
 Seymour’s ear he said, The only return I shall 
 ask you for my gift is this : make Mary sanction 
 my marriage with Mrs. Anderson. This done, I 
 shall be happier. Now, her opposition is the 
 only cloud in my sky. I have assisted you in 
 your happiness— assist me in mine.” 
 
 A thoughtful look overspread Seymour’s face, 
 
120 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 and in a low tone he said, “ Can you hope that I 
 shall accomplish what you have failed to do ?” 
 
 “ It may be attempted,” was the reply. “ I 
 cannot ash you to do more.” 
 
 At that moment Mary said, “ I have received 
 an invitation from Kate to spend some time with 
 her at St. John’s Wood. Are you willing for me 
 to go, papa?” 
 
 “ You may please yourself,” he answered. 
 “Kate wants you very much, I know,” said 
 Seymour. 
 
 “ Then you had better go,” said Mr. Fairlie. 
 Mary, without a word, sat down to her desk, 
 und commenced writing her reply. 
 
 “ You must let her remain with them until 
 after your marriage,” whispered Seymour. 
 “ Aided by Kate, I shall hope to be successful in 
 bringing you both together. If once she feels 
 that you still love her — ” 
 
 “ On second consideration,” interrupted Mr. 
 Fairlie, with an irritable gesture, “ you had bet- 
 ter say nothing to her. If her heart does not 
 
HAKY. 
 
 121 
 
 teach her to be dutiful, leave her alone. She 
 shall not be taught otherwise.” 
 
 ‘‘ But this state of things must not be allowed 
 to last, uncle. She is your child — ” 
 
 “ And I am her father,” Mr. Fairlie exclaimed, 
 raising his voice, “We both know what we ex- 
 pect of each other, and let the one who fails 
 suffer !” 
 
 Mary turned at the sound of his voice, but 
 without saying a word, handed her letter to 
 Seymour. 
 
 “ And when do you promise to be with them?” 
 
 “ The day after to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Very well. Kate and I will come and fetch 
 you. Good bye, uncle, a thousand thanks for 
 your goodness.” 
 
 But he received no reply, Mr. Fairlie giving 
 him a sulky nod as he left the room. 
 
 “ Poor Mary !” thought Seymour. “ Never 
 mind. It was a good idea of mine to get her in- 
 vited to the Sandboys. There she will, at all 
 events, be happier. And Kate ...” 
 
 VOL. II. , Q 
 
122 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A “bound game.” 
 
 Mrs. Anderson had requested the society of both 
 Mr. Fairlie and his daughter for Friday night — 
 “just for a round game, and to meet the Sand- 
 boys” — but knowing full well that Mary would 
 never accompany him to Garley Street, he had 
 refused for her, urging, as a plea, ill-health. But 
 he did not mention this to his daughter, and so 
 Mary heard nothing at all about it. He also had 
 refused, but from very difierent motives. The 
 
A ROUND GAME. 
 
 123 
 
 truth was, he thought he should feel rather em- 
 barrassed with Mrs. Anderson before others. He 
 couldn’t make up his mind as to what conduct he 
 could, with most safety, adopt. Like most men 
 of his age, who are invariably sensitive in all 
 matters of love, he was terrified lest by any 
 action he should provoke ridicule — if not ex- 
 pressed, at all events felt, and both were equally 
 painful. Moreover, there were several other mo- 
 tives of a similar nature, hardly worth the 
 trouble of enumerating, that concurred in mak- 
 ing Mr. Fairlie refuse what had been otherwise 
 to him a great pleasure. But after all he was 
 going to see enough of her by and bye, and what 
 mattered Friday evening in particular? 
 
 There was a substratum of policy in this little 
 movement of Mrs. Anderson, though visibly all 
 was innocence and a simplicity almost primitive. 
 But then Mrs. Anderson went through the 
 world as if she had been inspired by the 
 spirit of Machiavelli. She was so in the 
 habit of working from design, thac there 
 
 G 2 
 
124 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 was strategy in lier minutest movement; the 
 very quiver of her eyelids seemed busy with a 
 scheme; and when, as it sometimes occurred, 
 Nature asserted its sway, and bade her act without 
 first of all having exercised her judgment, if she 
 noted the fact, it always caused her a momentary 
 regret. 
 
 In the present instance, however, there was 
 nothing very profound in her schemes. A certain 
 position in society was now guaranteed her ; the 
 next step was to make friends with all worthy of 
 being made friends of ; and it was natural that 
 the first she selected for this purpose should he 
 those in a more or less degree connected with her 
 assured position. Such, for instance, was Sey- 
 mour; such, too, her sagacity foresaw, would 
 soon be Kate, and in a measure, such too, was 
 Captain Sandboys. So though her policy here 
 was far from being grand, it was equally remote 
 from being contemptible. 
 
 The Sofloskis had been asked, not because they 
 promised to he of any use, but because it was ne- 
 
A ROUND GAME. 
 
 125 
 
 cessary that her other guests should not only- 
 have the pleasure of meeting themselves. Mor- 
 timer h^d at first objected to the presence of the 
 Pole, though willing enough enough to sanction 
 the appearance of his daughter. But Mrs. Ander- 
 son had asked him who else was to be invited ? 
 and as he did not know, he finally came to the 
 conclusion that the Pole, perhaps, was better than 
 nobody. 
 
 Kate and Frank were very warmly greeted by 
 Mrs. Anderson on their arrival, and were forced 
 into chairs, and made as much of as if they were 
 thoroughly important and necessary links in the 
 chain of Mrs. Anderson’s intentions. 
 
 Kate’s first glance was for Seymour. She felt 
 that she should be angry if he did not come, for 
 after all, he had no business to be absent from 
 her now that they were engaged. Moreover, she 
 felt rather proud to have an incipient husband 
 hovering about her ; for every woman likes to 
 match, if she cannot excel, those of her own sex ; 
 and if Kate could not approach Mrs. Anderson, 
 
126 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 as far as face and figure went, she would at all 
 events equal her in one fact — they were both to 
 be married. Now she wanted Seymour, 'that his 
 presence, as it were, might serve as a confirma*- 
 tion of this fact, and she felt sure that she would 
 be annoyed if he did not come. 
 
 “ I esteem your visit, Miss Sandboys,” said 
 Captain Mortimer ; ‘‘ not only a happiness, but 
 an honour. Perhaps it is right that I should 
 apologise to you for the size of our rooms. And 
 yet I do not know why I should advance myself 
 as an advocate for the shortcomings of the archi- 
 tect of these buildings.” 
 
 “ Ah !” said Mrs. Anderson, glancing softly at 
 Frank, “ we cannot all afford to live in Montague 
 Square.” 
 
 “ No, I am sorry to say we can’t,” said Morti- 
 mer ; “ though even if we could, I do not think 
 I should leave this neighbourhood. Though sunk 
 in its reputation,” he continued, pompously, “not 
 from the people who now inhabit it, but from the 
 absence of the noblemen who once dwelt in the 
 
A ROUND GAME. 
 
 127 
 
 neighbourhood, this locale yet includes amongst 
 its residents many a good family ; and, compared 
 with its houses, the paltry snail-shells they are 
 constructing for rich tailors and patent medicine 
 mongers down further west, are mere farthing 
 rush-lights opposed to the sun.” 
 
 ^^That is quite true,” said Mrs. Anderson, nod- 
 ding complacently at Kate. 
 
 ^^The truth is,” said Frank, anxious to say 
 something, we don’t know how to build houses 
 now-a-days.” 
 
 ‘‘ Perfectly true, Mr. Forrester,” said Mor- 
 timer ; building, like the drama, has become a 
 lost art. But when my friend Sofloski comes 
 he’ll talk to you on this subject. It will sound 
 strange, but I dare swear that that man is ac- 
 quainted with every builder in London.” 
 
 “ Indeed ?” 
 
 Yes, and moreover he has long — ” What 
 Mortimer was about to say was interrupted by a 
 loud knock at the door. 
 
 ^^Here they are !” exclaimed Mrs. Anderson. 
 
128 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Which conjecture proved quite correct, for 
 shortly after the Pole and his daughter entered 
 the room. 
 
 “ Fell, Captain,” cried M. SoflosM, “ and how 
 are you ? Ah ! Mrs. Anderson, always plooming ; 
 Aein I” 
 
 Mrs. Anderson smiled her reply, and proceeded 
 with much grace through the ceremony of mak- 
 ing her guests known to each other. Then they 
 all cosily ensconced themselves in chairs about 
 the room, and the conversation began to flow un- 
 interruptedly. 
 
 “ I do hope Seymour, or I will call him Charlie,” 
 said Mrs. Anderson to Kate, “ will be here. He 
 is such an agreeable young man.” 
 
 Kate slightly coloured up with a conscious 
 blush, and said, 
 
 “ Yes, I hope he will come.” 
 
 “ Of course Captain Sandboys will be here 
 later,” said Mrs. Anderson. “Dear Captain 
 Sandboys ; your papa has quite won my heart.” 
 
 “ Do not tell him so,” answered Kate with a 
 
A ROUND GAME. 
 
 129 
 
 little laugh, or he may go and boast of it to 
 Mr. Fairlie.” 
 
 Mrs. Anderson tapped Kate gently over the 
 hand, and said, 
 
 For shame !” and laughed the slyest and 
 most modest little laugh ever laughed. 
 
 VVe were talking of modern houses, M. 
 Sofloski,” said Mortimer, when you came in. 
 We were saying how contemptible they were, 
 compared to the old buildings.” 
 
 So I tink,” said M. Sofloski. We puild no 
 longer,” he said, waving his hands. 
 
 ‘‘ No ; we build no longer,” said Mortimer. 
 
 And dat is what makes me tink,” said M. 
 Sofloski, drawing his chair closer to the two 
 gentlemen, who were seated side by side, dat a 
 grand financial success is yet to be achevL I 
 have spoken about it to my friends in ze Zity, 
 and dey all say it is splendid.” 
 
 Mortimer, who well knew what was coming, 
 made a gesture of impatience, and turned as if to 
 address himself to Kate, who sat looking at Mar- 
 
 G 5 
 
130 
 
 OFF THK STAGE. 
 
 guerite Sofloski, and thinking how quiet she 
 was. 
 
 “ Dere is in dis country,” continued M. So- 
 floski, not noticing Mortimer’s movement, and 
 addressing himself more particularly to Frank, 
 ‘‘von grand number (A 'parvenus.'" 
 
 “ Yes,” said Frank. 
 
 “ Dey are fealthy tradesman — tailor, hatter, 
 linen draper, and all like dat. Fell, day make 
 enormous richesses, dey want big houses to live 
 in, for dey ape ze nobility, and where are dey to 
 go ?’ ’ 
 
 And he threw himself back in his chair with 
 arms outstretched before him, and waited for 
 Frank to answer, who said he could’nt tell. 
 
 “ Nor can dey tell,” said M. Sofloski, leaning 
 forward again; “ I say dey ought to be able to 
 tell, and I fill tell you how. A company is started 
 vid shares at fifty pound, say — and capital, von 
 hondred tousand, or two hondred tousand, or tree 
 hondred, or four, or vat you fill. Fell, dey puy 
 land in some good quartier of London, and day 
 
A BOUND GAME. 
 
 131 
 
 construct a square of houses. Now, dis you fill 
 say has been done, but T say no. I fould have 
 dese houses puilt^ not like zey puild ze 
 houses now, but like zey used to puild in ze old 
 time. I fould take ze model of my interior from 
 ze best old houses in London, and ze outside from 
 dem, too. My square should be better dan Grros- 
 venor Square, or Berkeley, or any great square 
 now. Fell, I would give the corner house to a 
 poor nobleman, who would be glad to take it, for 
 noting — ay,” he said, expostulating with his 
 hand, for noting. It would pay well. Fen 
 Mr. Smitt, a tailor, hear that my lord Malbrook, 
 or vat you fill, live in my square, he fill come 
 and live dere too. Mr. Smitt is fealthy, and I 
 will charge him enormous rent. But he vill not 
 care for dat. He vill pay all I charge ; for it 
 will be someting for him to say dat he live in a 
 square vid my lord Malbrook, vich is a better 
 square than Grosvenor or Berkeley. Now, ven 
 all my houses are let vat you tink fill be ze 
 profit?” 
 
132 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Oh ! never raind about the profit, M. So- 
 floski,” exclaimed Mortimer, impatiently ; “ the 
 ladies declare they don’t understand a word of 
 what you are talking about.” 
 
 “ I beg ze ladies ten tonsand pardon,’’ ex- 
 claimed M. Sofloski ; then, to Frank, he half 
 whispered, “ What you tink fill be ze profit?” 
 
 “ Do you take tea or coffee, M. Sofioski ?” asked 
 Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 “ I fill take coffee, if you please,” said M. 
 Sofloski ; then, to Frank, he said, “ Hein ! vat 
 you tink ?” 
 
 But Frank had left his seat to assist Mrs. 
 Anderson at the table, and M. Sofloski, rather 
 angry, relapsed into silence. 
 
 When the tea things had been cleared away, 
 a “ round game” was proposed, and a pack of 
 cards being provided, the company went and dis- 
 posed themselves in the order that liked them 
 best. 
 
 Between Mrs. Anderson and Marguerite sat 
 Frank, between Marguerite and Kate sat Mor- 
 
A ROUND GAME. 
 
 133 
 
 timer, between Kate and Mrs. Anderson sat M. 
 Sofloski. Nothing could be better — ^but Kate 
 wanted Seymour. 
 
 When people are disposed to be merry, a very 
 great deal of mirth can be extracted from a 
 round game. It exactly conforms to everybody’s 
 innocent idea of enjoyment. For the young can 
 flirt and the old can win or lose, and elderly 
 gentlemen can crack old jokes at the expense 
 of elderly wives, and gentlemen of a greener 
 age can say sly things to pretty listeners ; and 
 all this can occur without interrupting the pro- 
 gress of the game. Everybody is at liberty to 
 talk, and, therefore, everybody is pleased. 
 
 At the head of this particular round game was, 
 unquestionably. Captain Mortimer. His jokes 
 were the most frequent, his talk the most in- 
 cessant, his laugh the most copious of all. Frank, 
 too, added his share to the general hilarity. But 
 then, for frequency, he fell far short of his host. 
 Nevertheless, what he did say was usually good, 
 and if he did not so often provoke laughter as 
 
134 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Mortimer, when it was excited by him it was 
 more convulsive than hearty. M. Sofloski was 
 innocently droll— -unconsciously funny, He said 
 ludicrous things without a smile, thinking them 
 honestly to be serious. Once or twice he en- 
 deavoured to entrap Frank into a commercial 
 discussion, but the design was rendered abortive 
 by Mortimer. 
 
 The strange idea that had flashed though 
 Frank’s mind — that Mrs. Anderson was in love 
 with him — though it had been as speedily dis- 
 missed as possible, was revived with all its 
 wonderment during the game. As he was seated 
 next to her, he had not so many opportunities 
 of meeting her gaze. But when she turned her 
 head to answer or address him, her fine eyes 
 flashed upon his with an expression there was 
 no mistaking. Several times he had noted the 
 strange contrast of their expression when speak- 
 ing to him and to others. To others they as- 
 sumed all that brilliancy and liveliness with which 
 she so well knew how to possess them ; to 
 
A BOUND GAME, 
 
 135 
 
 him their expression would instantly change — 
 they seemed to melt into a tenderness almost 
 voluptuous — almost sensual, but of a sensuality 
 refined by their loveliness. Yet, strange to say, 
 Mrs. Anderson had awakened no other emotion 
 in Frank’s heart than admiration, and latterly 
 astonishment that had something in it of terror. 
 He contemplated her with the delight of a man 
 contemplating some masterpiece of art. In the 
 smile or seriousness of her face he beheld a 
 noble beauty, multiplied or varied by the power 
 of expression ; but without penetration enough 
 to perceive the histrionic genius which lay as it 
 were at the root of this fascination, he was satis- 
 fied to survey her with that quiet delight with 
 which all material beauty inspires the heart. 
 
 That vanity which prompts an implicit credence 
 in all professions of admiration was wholly absent 
 from the mind of Frank. There was a candour 
 in his nature that instinctively denied the truth 
 of a compliment. Bred in the rough school of a 
 midshipman’s berth, he had long since been made 
 
136 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 acquainted with, all his infirmities, and with all 
 his good qualities ; and while he had sense enough 
 to amend as much as he could the former, he had 
 a keen appreciation enough of the latter to know 
 pretty well how much they were worth, and what 
 influence on his future they were likely to 
 exercise. 
 
 However strange this character of a young man 
 may appear, its probability will not be questioned 
 by those to whom experience has taught the 
 nature of the discipline at sea. A man is much 
 less isolated on board a ship than many may be- 
 lieve ; and it requires no very keen observer to 
 bring home from a trip across the water a far 
 more extensive knowledge of human nature, and 
 a deeper insight into his own character, than he 
 would have gained by making both his especial 
 study for years on shore. 
 
 It was quite easy, therefore, for him to reject 
 the assumption made by Mrs. Anderson’s manner 
 towards him on the first evening at St. John’s 
 Wood; but to ignore the fact now would have 
 
A BOUND GAME. 
 
 1ST 
 
 been ridiculous, since every glance confirmed 
 the vague belief^ and told him that he had actually 
 made a conquest of the splendid creature by his 
 side. 
 
 She made love to him, however, rather through 
 the medium of his inner consciousness than 
 through that of his grosser senses. There was 
 no determining the subtlety of the passion with 
 which she was herself inspired, and which she 
 sought to inspire. Yet there was something 
 more tangible about it now, than there had been 
 at first. Indeed he could no longer doubt it, 
 whatever his own humble opinion of himself 
 might suggest to him. Such was the power of 
 her eyes and lips, which, unaided by words, could 
 express the passion which they alone, perhaps, 
 could best express. 
 
 This was all very bewildering to Frank. He 
 was man enough to feel fiattered by her silent 
 attentions, and yet boy enough to be completely 
 ignorant of the drift of their meaning. Each 
 
138 
 
 OJi'F THE STAGE. 
 
 glance of hers made him thoughtful and puzzled. 
 He returned them without any of the eloquence 
 with which they came fraught to him ; and yet 
 she seemed neither rebuked nor annoyed by his 
 passionless gaze. Aye, what did it all mean? 
 Was she trying an experiment on him? 
 
 When the round game was concluded, Kate 
 went to a sofa and seated herself alone. She 
 was really very irritated with Seymour 5 and, as 
 was usual with her when irritated, she became 
 reserved and distant. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson had collected Marguerite, M. 
 Sofloski, and Frank around her ; and Mortimer, 
 seeing Kate by herself, went up to her and com- 
 menced a conversation. 
 
 “ And may I ask the cause of Miss Sandboys 
 sequestering herself in this manner ?” he asked, 
 with a smile. 
 
 It was not likely that she was going to tell 
 him, so she answered, and with some truth, that 
 the round game had fatigued her. 
 
A ROUND GAME. 
 
 139 
 
 “ I am really very sorry for that. Perhaps 
 you have a headache ? Will you allow me to 
 fetch you something that may relieve you ?” 
 
 “ Thank you. Captain Mortimer, I am perfectly 
 well. I suspect that I must have over-laughed 
 myself.” 
 
 “ Come, that is, at any rate, a very capital 
 evil. Certainly, I would rather die from over- 
 laughing than from over- weeping.” 
 
 “ And so would I.” 
 
 “ Fortunately for us mortals, however,” he 
 said, “ neither of them is very prone to kill.” 
 
 ‘‘ But sorrow has surely killed a great many 
 people.” 
 
 “ That all depends upon its nature. I agree 
 with you that there are some sorrows bitter 
 enough to kill. The only question is how many 
 do they kill ?” 
 
 “ And what do you think the most bitter kind 
 of sorrow?” 
 
 “ Love that is honest and unrequited — love 
 
140 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 that is as pure as the ancient dove that flew 
 wearily about and could not find a resting- 
 place.” 
 
 There was something in the tone of his voice 
 that caused her to start. It w'as a compound of 
 bitterness, and tenderness, and despair. It was 
 so new in him, that she strained her memory to 
 know whether she had ever noticed it in him 
 before. 
 
 “Women, we are told, often die of this grief; 
 and that is the only grief that I will allow they 
 can die of. Men, however, are denied the merit 
 of being so tender-hearted. But this is a mis- 
 take. There are some men who have hearts 
 that can confront every calamity but this — that 
 can go through the worlcT uninjured — at least, in 
 their strength — ^by all the scorn and wrong that 
 life can heap upon them ; but this is a woe before 
 which they are powerless. Touched by this, 
 they break and die !” 
 
 “And who would injure them?” Kate said. 
 
A BOUND GAME. 
 
 141 
 
 Surely, there is such nobleness in the very 
 thoughts of such hearts, that love would be 
 enforced, where it could not be commanded.” 
 
 I believe you,” Mortimer exclaimed ; you, 
 I am sure, would not wound one of them; at 
 least, not consciously.” 
 
 ‘‘1 thank you for your good opinion, and I 
 flatter myself that it is deserved.” 
 
 Deserved? — aye, deserved indeed.” He 
 paused a moment, and then, lowering his voice, 
 as if to disguise something of the passion it 
 conveyed, he said, Miss Sandboys — Kate, do 
 not be alarmed by what I am going to say. 
 You are the first of all the women I have ever 
 encountered, in my progress through life, who 
 has inspired me with a passion I know to be 
 pure, generous, unselfish, honest. You, too, are 
 the first woman who has ever provoked me from 
 my very heart of hearts, to breathe my soul, in 
 the words, ^ I love you !’ ” 
 
 He spoke hurriedly, and, towards the con- 
 clusion of his speech, thickly, and made a move- 
 
142 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Hient which, the moment after, he restrained, as 
 if he were about to grasp her hand. 
 
 She was terribly agitated and alarmed, and 
 knew not what to say or do. Hers was not one 
 of those hearts whose inherent dignity leaps into 
 life, in cases of such emergency, and triumphantly 
 bear their possessors through the ordeal. She 
 could have fainted; she could have burst into 
 tears ; she could have fled his presence ; but 
 what was she to answer him? She felt his 
 fervid eyes to be upon her, and she felt also that 
 there was something in the glance that exacted 
 a reply. Ah ! why had she isolated herself 
 thus? 
 
 In a low, trembling voice, broken by her agi- 
 tation, she muttered, rather than spoke, 
 
 “ I do not know what to answer you ; I can 
 only say that I have promised to be the wife of 
 another.” 
 
 He did not move for some time after she had 
 said this ; and, thinking that he might not have 
 beard her, she stole a wistful, fearful glance at 
 
A EOUND GAME. 
 
 143 
 
 his face. His head was lowered upon his breast, 
 and his eyes were fixed on the ground. So stir- 
 less was he, that he seemed like a corpse — rigid, 
 inanimate. 
 
 As Kate’s eyes left his face, they encountered 
 those of Mrs. Anderson. A light smile sat upon 
 her lips, and instantly, on finding herself re- 
 marked, she averted her gaze. 
 
 All at once Mortimer turned abruptly to her. 
 
 Will you pardon me for having told you my 
 secret ?” he murmured. I was rash — foolish; 
 but I loved you. Yes, by the great God above 
 us, I loved you. You were — you are, dear to me. 
 You were the first to awaken in my heart an 
 emotion, I knew not it was capable of experien- 
 cing. I have tasted the sweetness of a first, best, 
 pure love, alas I to have it snatched from me. 
 Pity me, if you cannot love me !” 
 
 She made him no answer; but by the heaving 
 of her bosom, it was apparent how deeply she 
 was moved. 
 
 He continued in the same low, hurried voice : — 
 
144 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ But you may have loved me. Perhaps my 
 place iu your heart was usurped by a rival, who 
 anticipated me in my declaration ! But why 
 should I ask this ? Ah ! if I could believe that 
 you would have loved me, if — tell me — tell me, 
 could you have loved me — could you ? Is there 
 anything that could have rendered me worthy of 
 your love? Oh! speak to me.” 
 
 She barely breathed the words she seemed 
 herself terrified to hear : 
 
 “ I could have loved you.” 
 
 ‘‘Then I am happy. I will ask no more. 
 Henceforth I will live alone, cherishing in my 
 momory, as things never to be forgotten, your 
 loved words I So, let the pain cease — the 
 trouble be forgotten; at least, with you. One 
 further boon I crave, — you will not suffer my 
 frankness to debar me your society in the 
 future ?” 
 
 Still, in the same breathing tone, she replied, 
 “ You will always be welcome, wherever I am.” 
 “ It is enough. Let this secret be buried in our 
 
A BOUND GAME. 
 
 145 
 
 iiearts. The world — the empty, drivelling, sneer- 
 ing world, shall know nothing of it. You must 
 forget me ; and I — ” He paused, and turning 
 to her, he said, Though all satisfaction, all 
 honour due to your beauty may pass away, or be 
 -accounted by you vain and idle, cherish this one 
 thought — a gem in the crown of your living 
 -sweetness, that might be envied by the most 
 peerless beauties that ever adorned the world — 
 you were the first to awaken in the heart of a 
 cold, worldly man, an emotion that might have 
 done honour to a saint in Heaven !” and, abruptly 
 rising, he stalked over to where the others were 
 seated. 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Captain 
 Sandboys and Seymour entered the room. Not 
 the least trace of the passion that had so recently 
 waged a confiict in his heart was visible in 
 Mortimer’s features, as he stepped forward, and 
 politely greeted his two fresh guests. 
 
 Kate remained seated, and in a few minutes 
 her betrothed joined her. 
 
 VOL. IL H 
 
146 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ You are pale,” he said, gazing fondly at her. 
 “ The room is, perhaps, too warm for you ?” 
 
 “No, my paleness is only the result of too 
 much laughing at Frank’s jokes ; but how is it 
 that you did not come before ?” 
 
 “ A young friend of mine is leaving for India 
 to-night, and I faithfully promised that I would 
 come and bid him farewell. He lives at St. 
 John’s Wood, not far from Violet Row, and so I 
 was enabled to join the Captain, whom I just 
 caught leaving for here. But you are certainly 
 pale, darling. What is it ?” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” she answered, forcing a smile, 
 “ anxiety to know where you were, and what you 
 had been doing.” 
 
 He was so gratified by the mere thought, that 
 he passionately raised her hand to his lips, and 
 impressed a kiss upon it. Just as he did so, he 
 caught the eye of Mortimer, who, with a smile, 
 nodded to him, and continued a conversation he 
 was having with Captain Sandboys. 
 
 “ Mortimer’s a good fellow, isn’t he ?” Sey- 
 
A BOUND GAME. 
 
 147 
 
 mour said. “ I wonder what on earth can be 
 the cause of Mary’s prejudice towards both him 
 and his sister ?” 
 
 “ Doesn’t she like them ?” 
 
 “ Not at all; and they are, I suppose, the only 
 people in the world she does not like. Secretly, 
 this is the reason I asked your father to invite 
 her to his house. She is very unhappy now, and 
 will be ten times as unhappy when Mrs. Ander- 
 «on becomes Mrs. Fairlie. But you must say 
 nothing to her on the subject. When we are 
 married she shall come and stop with us — that’s 
 to say, if you will allow her to, darling.” 
 
 Their conversation was interrupted by Captain 
 Sandboys, who coming up to them, asked Kate 
 what was the matter with her. 
 
 ‘‘ Was it a lovers’ quarrel?” 
 
 “ Why, what do you think can he the matter, 
 papa ?” said Kate, testily. 
 
 “ You look pale, my child ; that’s all. But 
 come, I think it time now that we took our de- 
 parture.” 
 
148 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Nonsense !” exclaimed Mortimer, who ap- 
 proached them. “You’re going to stay for a 
 glass of grog, Captain, I know.” 
 
 The Captain agreed to this; hut it was not 
 long before he went away, being secretly doubt- 
 ful as to Kate’s health, and frightened with the 
 atmosphere of Garley Street, which he fancied did 
 not quite agree with her. 
 
 And with their departure concluded the social 
 evening and “ round game ” in Mrs. Anderson’s 
 lodgings. 
 
EXPIATION. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 To the pen alone may be allowed the glory of 
 commanding the two dreaded monarchs whom all 
 else obey — Death and Time. With one stroke it 
 can summon or dismiss the first ; with another 
 can extend or contract the second. This useful 
 prerogative of the pen being naturally at the 
 
150 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 service of its employer, to the humblest scribe 
 therefore belongs this power, which monarchs 
 might envy, and which I am now about to exert 
 in calmly and frigidly dismissing two months 
 from the calendar of this work. 
 
 But though two months are dismissed, they go 
 pregnant with events of infinite consequence to 
 the conduct and interest of this story ; and when 
 my reader discovers how necessary it is, he will, 
 perhaps, pardon me in indulging myself in a brief 
 retrospection. 
 
 A fortnight after the circumstance that con- 
 cludes my first hook, Mr. Fairlie united himself 
 to Mrs. Anderson. The marriage was conducted 
 on the most simple arrangements, the guests 
 being few and select, for the most part connec- 
 tions of Mr. Fairlie living in remote parts who 
 were invited up to take a share in the ceremony, 
 for the labour of which they were recompensed 
 with a hearty breakfast, and then returned satis- 
 fied with their day’s exploits to their distant 
 homes. 
 
INTROBUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 151 
 
 It was but natural to suppose that Mary would 
 have been called upon to assume the character of 
 a bridesmaid to Mrs. Anderson; and whether 
 willingly or not this invitation she would have 
 accepted, but for a severe illness contracted by her 
 melancholy, which, attacking her some few days 
 after her arrival at St. John’s Wood, kept her 
 confined to her room. Though Mr. Fairlie was 
 angry enough at an occurrence for which fate had 
 only to answer, on the whole he concluded that it 
 was perhaps all for the best. Indeed, he had 
 secretly doubted whether it would not be better 
 to dispense with all ceremony, and have the wed- 
 ding very privately conducted, lest Mary by her 
 presence might cause a “ scene,” and subvert the 
 tranquillity which he was so anxious should 
 attend him in his happiness. But now, this one 
 essential dread being obviated, the affair passed 
 off quietly enough, and the happy couple departed 
 for Nice to enjoy at once the sweets of the honey- 
 moon and the fragrant airs of the Mediterranean 
 
 sea. 
 
152 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary remained at St. John’s 
 Wood. 
 
 The example set by his uncle was very speedily 
 followed by the nephew. The same month that 
 had risen over the marriage of Mr. Fairlie, de- 
 parted smiling over the marriage of Charlie Sey- 
 mour ; and that month was May, the loveliest of 
 the train of the year. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie was not present at his nephew’s 
 wedding, not having returned from his honey- 
 moon. Seymour, from very dutiful motives, had 
 written to know whether he should defer his 
 marriage until his uncle should have re-appeared 
 amongst them ; hut Mr. Fairlie, in his reply, had 
 told him not “ to wait,” as his return was un- 
 certain, his enjoyment at Nice being such as in all 
 probability would induce him to prolong his stay 
 to an indefinite period. 
 
 So Charlie and Kate joined hands without 
 him ; and perhaps his absence was very well 
 compensated by the presidency of Captain Sand- 
 boys, who, tearfully hearty, officiated right ex- 
 
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 153 
 
 cellentljj making some capital speeches and 
 getting rather inebriated ere the departure of the 
 smiling pair, whether to drown in semi-uncon- 
 sciousness the pangs of separation from his 
 child, or to celebrate in a manner worthy an old 
 seaman the most important event (after his own 
 marriage) in his life. 
 
 Mary, whose health was now restored, acted 
 the part of a bridesmaid. Captain Mortimer was 
 also present, as were also Frank and a naval 
 officer from Yartlepool. The names of the other 
 guests, including the bridesmaids, I have not been 
 able to ascertain. 
 
 The wedding tour of this little couple did not 
 last longer than a fortnight. They went off 
 somewhere to the lakes, the usual resort of 
 English newly-married pairs, when they do not 
 eave their own coantry ; and when they returned 
 they settled themselves down in a house about 
 half an hour’s walk from Violet Row, where they 
 were living at the time this, the scond part of my 
 story opens. 
 
 H 5 
 
154 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Captain Sandboys had all along said that when 
 Kate was married he would return to Yartlepool. 
 Now, however, that Kate was married, he was 
 undecided how to act. There was nothing to 
 keep him in London now, beyond the capability 
 that his presence there afforded him of being able 
 to frequently see his child. He pretty well 
 guessed, however, that after a time fathers as well 
 as mothers begin to pall upon the sensibilities of 
 married children. N ew associations, new anxieties, 
 new hopes, a new life soon seem to win their 
 affection from the past, and to concentrate it with 
 more fixedness upon the existence of the present. 
 His sagacity told him this, thought his heart 
 would not allow it ; and between the conflict of 
 these two feelings, his judgment remained sus- 
 pended, and left him undecided. 
 
 It was a strange thing, however, that no sooner 
 had the old man lost one daughter than he found 
 another at his side, more amiable, more affection- 
 ate, more tender, and infinitely more solicitous 
 for his comfort and happiness. Some weeks had 
 
INTRODUCTOKY CHAPTER. 
 
 155 
 
 passed since Mary’s arrival at the Captain’s house, 
 and still the day of her departure was supposed 
 to remain unfixed. He knew not how it had 
 come to pass, but this young girl had sown a seed 
 of affection in his heart, which the short time 
 they had been together had brought to maturity. 
 For her to leave him would have been to uproot 
 this flower - of love, would have been to render 
 him desolate ; she seemed as a star that had 
 risen upon the gloom that followed his separation 
 from Kate. The lonely beam directed to his 
 heart illumined it. The rough old man, pure in 
 spirit as the light he now loved, looked up and 
 met its cheering, almost holy beauty, with de- 
 lighted gaze. He hugged the new affection to 
 his soul, and fancied that God had sent this girl 
 to fill the absent place of the daughter the world 
 had taken from him. 
 
 She took a delight in tending him. She read 
 to him in the vacant hours of the day or night, 
 accompanied him in his walks, fulfilled the in- 
 numerable little duties that his age required, and 
 
156 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 whicli had always been neglected by Kate ; and 
 by their fulfilment, suggested wants of which, 
 as they had never been satisfied before, the grati- 
 fication was now doubly grateful. 
 
 The melancholy engendered by her father’s 
 step, helped even further to render more subdued 
 the disposition that had been subdued enough 
 before. She knew not what her future had to 
 offer her, and its vagueness awakened in her 
 heart an anxiety that with her, as with all such 
 natures, took the form of thoughtfulness and 
 silence; but her thoughtfulness could not express 
 her feelings, nor could her silence wholly dis- 
 guise them. The Captain, who well knew the 
 cause of her sorrow, mourned in secret with her ; 
 and long ransacked his mind for some antidote 
 that might cleanse her bosom from the perilous 
 stuff that weighed upon it. 
 
 There had been a secret dream in his heart 
 that he might perhaps be able to bear Mary away 
 to Yartlepool. He fancied that the quietude of 
 the place would help to soothe her, and with her 
 
INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER, 
 
 157 
 
 by bis side he imagined that the absence of Kate 
 would be less felt. 
 
 But the dream vanished on the return of Mr. 
 Fairlie. He wrote for his daughter to come and 
 meet him, and all at once the Captain found him- 
 self alone. It was true be had Frank, but Frank 
 was all day away from him, and when the evening 
 came what inducement was there for him to stay 
 at home ? 
 
 After some deliberation the Captain decided 
 upon remaining in London. After all, those 
 whom he held most dear on earth were there ; 
 and to depart for Yartlepool would be almost 
 wholly to abandon them. 
 
 And so with our characters thus disposed — 
 with the Fairlies at Montague Square and Mary 
 with them, with the Seymours half an hour’s walk 
 from the place of Captain Sandboys’ residence ; 
 and with my reader acquainted with the events of 
 the two months so frigidly dismissed — I will go 
 on with the story. 
 
158 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HTTSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 Captain Mortimer had said to Mrs. Anderson^ 
 now Mrs. Fairlie, 
 
 “ The day after your return from the honey- 
 moon — the Lord save the mark ! — I shall want 
 three thousand pounds from you.” 
 
 And on the evening of the day of their return 
 she was seated alone with her husband in the 
 dining-room. 
 
 There can be.no question that Mr. Fairlie’s 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 159 
 
 heart almost apotheosised the object of its love. 
 To him his wife was a divinity, regal and magni- 
 ficent, to be loved with no common love, and to 
 be adored with no common adoration. So far 
 from possession weakening the force of his affec- 
 tion, each day seemed only to render him more 
 abject in the passion that from the first had 
 rendered him slave enough. What hardened 
 him in this intellectual servility, if T may be 
 allowed the expression, was the utter absence of 
 all jealousy. For jealousy, by a paradox peculiar 
 only to that emotion, ennobles love even whilst 
 it degrades it. The truth was, during his resi- 
 dence at Nice he had very closely watched her — 
 watched her with the passion that is quick at 
 detection, and ever prone to exaggerate. He had 
 seen her in the society of men, handsome, gay, 
 even fascinating ; he had watched her diffuse her 
 smiles with that singular sweetness she so well 
 knew how to exercise ; he had observed the pro- 
 found admiration which her appearance every- 
 where provoked; but amidst sucl^^inducements, 
 
160 
 
 OFF THE STAGE, 
 
 not even had he detected the least expression in 
 her face, the least dimple in her smile, the least 
 glance of her eye, that could cause him the 
 slightest pang — that could awaken in him the 
 most shadowy terror lest he had espoused a beau- 
 tiful woman of whom the mere recognition of the 
 admiration she called forth was to inspire his 
 heart with torments, which time would render a 
 hell ! Thus the very essence of wedded love, 
 confidence, was communicated ; and there was 
 something grovelling in the passion that was even 
 yet animated by security. 
 
 Alas ! might I parody a well-known line : — 
 
 ‘ ‘ On wliat foundation stands tlie lover’s pride !” 
 
 It is a dangerous passion tliat, which is enlarged 
 by the heart to its utmost boundaries. Nature, 
 when she formed our emotions, created them in a 
 circle. Each segment embodies an opposite 
 quality, and in pursuing the round we are amazed 
 to find how opposed are those passions we enter 
 and desert. Love is a segment bordered on 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 161 
 
 either side by hate and by indifference. Let not^ 
 the lover push his passion too far, lest he enter 
 the provinces that are hostile to it. 
 
 The separation of Mr. Fairlie from his daughter 
 had something in it of the result which Mary had 
 foreseen. He greeted her with far more tender- 
 ness than he had for a long while discovered, and 
 placing her hand in his wife’s had said, with a 
 pathos more melodramatic than natural. 
 
 Let the hands that now grasp each other be 
 an emblem of the two hearts of the wife and 
 daughter, who must henceforth be one in love.” 
 
 Mary’s feelings towards her were very well 
 known to Mrs. Fairlie. She detested her for 
 them, and detested her the more because she felt 
 her prejudice was baseless. She well knew that 
 she had given her no tangible cause of dislike ; 
 and though her own sagacity informed her that 
 the young girl before her was possessed of a 
 penetration, or instinct, hardly inferior to hers, 
 she was enraged to think that her hostility should, 
 emanate from such a cause — though a cause that 
 
162 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 her conscience told her was rather more thart 
 justified. 
 
 As for Mary, she had previously made up her 
 mind to meet her stepmother with as much good 
 grace as her candid nature would suffer her to 
 assume. Now that the fact was irrevocable, she 
 perceived the uselessness of any longer declaim- 
 ing against it ; and there was much of tenderness 
 for her father in the motive that prompted the 
 quiet and melancholy smile, with which she 
 returned Mrs. Fairlie’s embrace. 
 
 She had retired to bed early, and in depressed 
 spirits. She would willingly have remained with 
 Captain Sandboys, and in her heart perceived 
 that the little abode at St. John’s Wood assured 
 her of far more happiness than she could ever 
 find again at her own home. She had been 
 thrown, too, a good deal with Frank, and in the 
 silence of her bedroom she found her thoughts 
 recur to him in a manner marked enough to 
 make her even more than ordinarily meditative. 
 
 She had left the husband and the wife alone 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 163 
 
 together, downstairs. Mrs. Fairlie had expostu- 
 lated with her for retiring so soon ; but her father 
 had received her embrace in silence. 
 
 I am afraid, Gussy,” he said, you will find 
 Mary a rather curious girl. She is very affec- 
 tionate, and — a rather opposite quality you will 
 say — very perverse.” 
 
 ‘^We are all perverse when we are young. 
 But, tell me, what has provoked her perversity?’ ’ 
 
 Now no one, not even Mary, better knew that 
 she herself was the cause of this than Mrs.. 
 Anderson. Perhaps she was anxious to put her 
 husband to the pain of dissembling an unplea- 
 sant truth ; perhaps she was eager to have a ver- 
 bal confirmation of that of which she was already 
 intuitively certain ; perhaps it was a little 
 feminine caprice. But I make a mistake ; this 
 woman never acted from caprice. 
 
 It was certain that Mr. Fairlie had not yet 
 told her, nor meant to tell her of Mary’s feelings 
 towards her, though he had once hinted them. 
 In reality he was ashamed of them. There was 
 
164 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 sometMng so unjust in the prejudice that he was 
 almost disgusted at it. And for once, and for 
 once only, did Mrs. Fairlie lose the opportunity 
 which she was subsequently compelled to create. 
 What that opportunity was we shall see. 
 
 “ Oh !” he answered carelessly, “ her perver- 
 sity shows itself in a number of small things. 
 She was always remarkable for it, even as a child. 
 You see her mother died when she was young, 
 and fathers,” he said, with a smile, ‘‘are not 
 always skilful in the handling of their daughters* 
 characters.” 
 
 “But what is the cause of that restraint 
 which I notice between you and Mary? Does 
 she not love you ?” 
 
 “I believe she does,” he answered. 
 
 “ Then perhaps you do not love her ?” 
 
 “ My whole heart was hers once ; but a beau- 
 tiful woman has come and robbed her of it 
 leaving her — ah ! how much ?” 
 
 And he bent his eyes with a fond look uport 
 his wife’s face. 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 165 
 
 Then I am sure she cannot love the beautiful 
 robber.” 
 
 To this Mr. Fairlie made no reply. He had 
 suddenly experienced the idea that this was posi- 
 tively the cause of Mary’s dislike to Mrs. Fairlie. 
 Why was he such a simpleton as to make a 
 mystery of what should have been clear as 
 daylight? Was he not better acquainted with 
 the human heart not to know that it is possible 
 for an antipathy to take root without any per- 
 ceptible cause ? He should have studied 
 psychology, as it was expressed in himself ; and 
 in the reason of his own emotions sought the 
 reason of his daughter’s. 
 
 Mrs. Fairlie perceiving her husband to be 
 silent, left her chair and commenced pacing the 
 room. This was a peculiarity of the woman, as 
 if any protracted state of rest were inimical to 
 her feelings. 
 
 Her husband followed her with his eyes, prov- 
 ing by the expression on his face that she was 
 
166 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 not very remote from his thoughts. All at once 
 she stopped. 
 
 “ Harry,” she said, “ I am going to ask you to 
 do me a favour.” 
 
 “ Is it to give you my life ? for it is yours, 
 darling.” 
 
 “ In the favour I am about to ask you,” she 
 said, “ lies another favour. But I won’t puzzle 
 you. I want you to promise me that you will 
 not ask me the reason of my request.” 
 
 “ Do not ask me to promise anything,” he 
 answered, “ for I have promised you everything. 
 What is your request ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Your cheque for three thousand pounds.” 
 
 His voice did not falter, as calmly looking her 
 in the face, he said, 
 
 “ When do you want it to he made payable ?” 
 
 “ To-morrow.” 
 
 He left his chair, and unlocking the drawer 
 of an escritoire extracted a cheque book, one of 
 whose leaves he fdled up with the required 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 167 
 
 amount. He handed it to her, and then resumed 
 his seat. 
 
 “ I am not sure,” he said, “ whether I have 
 that amount in my bank. But I will go to them 
 to-morrow, and order them to pay it.” 
 
 She folded up the cheque in silence, and placed 
 it in her purse. Then approaching him, she 
 knelt down before him, and laid her hands in 
 his. 
 
 “ Harry,’’ she whispered, looking up at him, 
 her lovely eyes half shadowed by the drooping 
 lids, “ I believe you really love me !” 
 
 ’Twas Juno kneeling to a City man ! Ah, 
 what thought the gods of their indiscreet 
 absentee ? 
 
 He stooped and kissed her upturned marble 
 brow. As his lips came in contact with the white 
 coldness, a shiver passed through his frame, and 
 his hands shook. 
 
 “ You tremble,” she said; ‘‘what is the matter 
 with you ?” 
 
 “ Your beauty makes me mad ! it intoxicates 
 
168 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 me. Rise, if you would not see me crazy. God 1 
 why was such loveliness sent on earth to 
 bewilder such things as I!” 
 
 And the infatuated man released himself from 
 her clinging embrace, and with an almost hag- 
 gard face, left his chair, and followed the example 
 his wife had set him, by pacing to and fro the 
 room. 
 
 A bitter smile writhed the lips of Mrs. Fairlie, 
 almost immediately replaced by one of softness. 
 
 “ I am happy, indeed, to have won such love 
 from you,” she murmured, looking towards him ; 
 but is not the dream too bright to last ?” 
 
 “ With me — no,” he passionately exclaimed ; 
 but with you — alas ! there is no brightness in 
 your dream. I have all to fear ; but you — the 
 earth must pass away, ere you can be absent from 
 my thoughts.” 
 
 “ But what have you to fear ?” 
 
 He smote himself violently on the breast, as 
 he answered, * 
 
 “Myself!” 
 
EUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 169 
 
 You fear yourself?” 
 
 Ay, — for how can I hope— I, a creature that 
 compared to you, am but a weed compared to the 
 richest flower of the valley ! a shadow compared 
 to brightness ! nothing compared to something 1 
 — how can I, so mean, so contemptible when op- 
 posed to your transcendant beauty — how can Ihope 
 to merit a continuance of that love which you 
 have declared for me, which I feel you now pos- 
 sess, but which a few months — a few weeks — a 
 few days, may obliterate from your heart, leaving 
 in its place only a loathing and a scorning ?” 
 
 A tear glittered on her eyelash, as sbe an- 
 swered, in a voice broken with emotion, 
 
 Harry, you wrong me — you wrong me.” 
 
 Do I ?” he exclaimed, darting forward and 
 seizing her by the hand. Ah ! God grant that 
 1 do. But have I not just grounds for fear? 
 AVhat is there in me to merit the devotion that 
 my heart craves for, and of which the denial 
 would kill me ? But I am talking wildly 1 I 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 I 
 
170 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 frighten you ! OhI forgive me! If you know 
 not the greatness of my love, you must not con- 
 demn me. If you do, you must pity me.^’ 
 
 She seemed to be growing weary of this scene, * 
 though she did not discover her weariness. But 
 she exclaimed, in a lighter voice, 
 
 You will confess, at all events, that Cassar 
 had no very great personal attractions. Yet 
 Cleopatra was the most lovely woman in Egypt — 
 perhaps in the world —and she loved him.” 
 
 He was a conqueror — he was an emperor — he 
 brought the recommendation so dear to all 
 women, of a mighty fame. He was rendered 
 beautiful by the halo of glory with which he had 
 surrounded himself. Who but Caesar would have 
 conquered Cleopatra ?” 
 
 Then let me be Cleopatra,” she exclaimed, 
 flashing her eyes upon him, and drawing her 
 superb figure to its full height ; and be you my 
 Caesar. You have conquered me; perhaps you 
 alone could have done this.” 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 171 
 
 And truly, liad Mr. Tennyson seen her at that 
 moment, he would have included her in his 
 
 Dream of Fair Women.” 
 
 1 am content,^’ he said. My passion makes 
 a fool of me.” 
 
 • And it certainly had ; for a wise man never 
 undervalues himself in the presence of the 
 woman he loves. 
 
 And this little serio-comedy being played out, 
 Mr. Fairlie assumed his more natural character, 
 and they commenced a connubial conversation. 
 
 The next morning, at twelve o’clock. Captain 
 Mortimer received a letter addressed to the lodg- 
 ings which he still occupied in Garley Street, 
 On opening the envelope he discovered the en- 
 closure to be a cheque for three thousand pounds. 
 On seeing it, his satisfaction expressed itself in a 
 loud exclamation of delight. 
 
 By heaven I” he said ; but this is pro- 
 digious. What a fortune I found in that woman. 
 Ay — ay — ay — three thousand pounds ! and how 
 much more? And how punctual she is, too! 
 
 I 2 
 
172 
 
 oyp THE STAGE. 
 
 Three thousaod pounds !” he continued, holding 
 the cheque out before him. “ By jingo ! I can 
 hardly realise it. And for what?” and an echo 
 in his heart said, *' For what?” 
 
 The next day beheld Captain Mortimer in 
 apartments in Jermyn-street, St. James’, with a 
 deposit account of two, and a running account of 
 one thousand pounds lodged at a neighbouring 
 bank. But he still held his post as honorary 
 secretary at the Civilians’ Club. 
 
:73 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN WHICH FRANK FORRESTER MEETS WITH AN 
 UNCLE, AND THE READER WITH A NEW 
 CHARACTER. 
 
 The absence of Mary was very keenly felt by Captain 
 Sandboys. Indeed, her nature had wrought so 
 favourably upon him, that, even in the short time 
 they were together, she had almost come to 
 divide his affection with his own daughter. The 
 feelings of the father would hardly allow Kate to 
 be inferior to Mary in any single point ; but from 
 
174 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the secret depths of his heart there arose a voice 
 that denied his belief, and told him that had 
 Kate possessed but a mere reflection of the gentle 
 spirit of Mary, she had been of a very difierent 
 disposition. 
 
 But, however vicious mankind may be, it is 
 certainly not in the nature of the human heart to 
 reflect upon the infirmities of those it loves in 
 their absence. 
 
 Now, that Kate was separated from her father, 
 his affection for her, though not more intense, 
 was, at all events, more uniform and constant. 
 Virtually, perhaps, it had never varied; but 
 sometimes those frequent and passing moods of 
 sulkiness or displeasure with which Kate had 
 been possessed, would slightly upset the equa- 
 nimity of the Captain’s affection; he would an- 
 swer her mildly, but with a certain sadness ; for 
 at such times her future would rise before him, 
 and he would ponder the influence her disposi- 
 tion was likely to exercise over it. But now — 
 now that she was removed from him, he forgot 
 
FRANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 175 
 
 her failings, and remembered only her virtue. 
 He was constantly missing her ; and in his ab- 
 stracted moods would often find himself wonder- 
 ing where she was — then would arouse himself 
 with a start, and remember that she would return 
 no more. 
 
 No more ? Ah ! who can say no more in this 
 world ? who can tell of the repeated sorrows or 
 joys, the repeated loves or hates, the repeated 
 hopes or despairings that the morrow may bring 
 or inspire ? No more ? So the lover weeps the 
 love that he shall awake and find. So the 
 mourner thrills at the prospect of losing the woe 
 that the morrow shall restore. So the savage 
 looks upon the eclipsed sun, and thinks it for 
 ever quenched. Alas ! the only one supreme 
 No More of Life is Ceath. This is the blackness 
 no light can illumine ; this is the presence before 
 whom hope is dumb, and sorrow tearless. 
 
 How the Captain managed to pass the time 
 away it would be difficult to conjecture. Exist- 
 ence must have worn a very different aspect to him 
 
176 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 from that in which it presented itself at Yartle- 
 pool. There the sea alone furnished him with an 
 object of contemplation for hours. Though 
 wholly innocent of all romantic or poetic fancies, 
 there was, nevertheless, a deep poetry in this old 
 man’s love of the sea. It had a music for him in 
 its many voices, which might have been inaudi- 
 ble to ears even boasting the poetic faculty ; he 
 contemplated in its ceaseless tides an emblem of 
 that restlessness so congenial to him, whose early 
 life had been spent in flitting to and fro the 
 broad world, like the sea-bird whose freedom, un- 
 impaired by age, he ever envied. It was difficult 
 for him to reconcile Frank’s present mode of life 
 with his own ideas of what life should be. Ah I 
 how he sighed to be like Frank — young ! What 
 would he have given to have wiped off forty solid 
 years of his spent life from Time’s cynical score ? 
 It was not because he was not good nor wise that 
 he surveyed the approach of age with a feeling of 
 distrust. It was his own goodness and wisdom 
 that taught him the brightness of the world he 
 
FRANK MEETS WITH AN UNQLE. 
 
 177 
 
 was slowly leaving. He had spent many a happy 
 day in it ; he had footed merrily over the broad 
 acres that formed it ; and had seen how green, 
 how beautiful, how bright was the orb that mis- 
 anthropes decry, and cant condemns. His 
 spirit, too, spurned the approach of time. Why 
 was its immortal vigour coffined within the frail 
 frame whose motions it animated ? Why not 
 have been begotten with a form enduring as the 
 heart and soul it enshrined ? Why should the 
 laughing spirit within him, fre>sh and vigorous 
 now as at the first hour of its birth, have been 
 subject to the vicissitudes and decay that attended 
 its material tenement ? to those vicissitudes and 
 that decay which it was its attribute to ignore ? 
 Wiser men have felt or asked this question, and 
 who has replied ? 
 
 The days flitted by, and it was now the month 
 of June. The little back garden was neglected 
 now ; for who was to keep it trimmed ? One or 
 two flowers planted by Kate in the early spring, 
 were now budded out into their full luxuriance, 
 
178 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 and these the Captain took a special delight in 
 tending himself, except when Kate would visit 
 him, which occurred sometimes twice, sometimes 
 thrice a week, when she herself would discharge 
 the duty she exclusively claimed as her own, and 
 wander about the garden with a watering can 
 in her hand. 
 
 One day, or rather one evening. Captain Sand- 
 boys and Frank sat alone, smoking their pipes 
 after dinner. The Captain was in a contempla- 
 tive mood, as was evident by the speculative way 
 in which he inhaled his smoke and by the vacant 
 eye which occasionally directed itself at Frank. 
 It was too warm for a fire, though this was a com- 
 fort or discomfort which the Captain would wil-^ 
 lingly have countenanced all the year round, no- 
 thing delighting the honest soul more than to 
 repose his feet upon the fender, and to contem- 
 plate the shifting scenes expressed in the red 
 glow of the coals. 
 
 Have you been to see the Fairlies lately 
 asked he, breaking the silence, and knocking the 
 
FKANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 179 
 
 ashes out of his pipe, which he proceeded to re- 
 fill. 
 
 I was with them last night,” said Frank. 
 That is what made me so late. How was it 
 that I didn’t see you this morning ?” 
 
 “ I overslept myself, that was all. And Mary 
 — what of Mary?” 
 
 Oh, she is very well. Not very happy, how- 
 ever, I expect.” 
 
 So I am afraid, ’’said the Captain, slowly 
 shaking his head. 1 should like to get her 
 back here again. I don’t know why, but since 
 she told me there was something about Mrs. Fair- 
 lie that she didn’t like, I’ve been considering the 
 matter over, and have come to the conclusion that 
 there is something about her not to be liked.” 
 
 Oh ! come, that must be prejudice, governor. 
 At any rate she always treated you well.” 
 
 May be, may be. Perhaps Mary has pre- 
 judiced me. But I love that girl, ah ! almost as 
 much as Kate. But I say, did you ever hear any- 
 
180 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 thing of Mrs. Fairlie’s past life ? Who was her 
 husband, I wonder ?” 
 
 “ Why, a man of the name of Anderson, I sup- 
 pose. Of course — it was Lieutenant Anderson, 
 Seymour told me. He was killed somewhere out 
 in India. The announcement of his death, amidst 
 a heap of others, appeared in some local paper or 
 other. So Mortimer told Seymour, and so Sey- 
 mour told me.” 
 
 “ Humph !” and the Captain continued smoking 
 in silence for some few moments. At last he 
 cried somewhat abruptly, “ Kate’s happy, I 
 think.” 
 
 “ As a bird,” said Frank. And so she ought 
 to be.” 
 
 “ Yes ; she’s got a good husband. It was all 
 for the best, after all, that I left Yartlepool. Had 
 we remained. Kale would still have been single. 
 Now it was not in the nature of that girl to remain 
 single long.” 
 
 “ Nor is it in the nature of any girl that I know 
 
FRANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 181 
 
 of. They all want to get married, and try their 
 hardest, too. Sometimes you hear a woman pre- 
 dending to despise matrimony. Now I always 
 make a rule of considering such a woman disap- 
 pointed. She has either felt love without any re- 
 sult, or she has never succeeded in procuring a 
 lover.” 
 
 ‘‘ That’s very true,” said the Captain, com- 
 placently. Frank, you are beginning to get 
 more experienced in life.” 
 
 “ I don’t know about that,” answered Frank. 
 “ But the best of the fun is, that if you tell a 
 girl that such and such a one of her own sex has 
 been running down marriage, she’ll be sure to 
 turn up her nose at her, and declare she’s 
 envious.” 
 
 “ That’s true, again,” said the Captain. ‘‘And 
 yet I don’t know,” he added, more thoughtfully ; 
 “ there are some exceptions to this rule.” 
 
 “ No, I won’t allow a single exception,” said 
 Frank. 
 
 “ Mary, for instance.” 
 
183 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ But Mary would marry to-morrow, if sli© 
 found a man to her liking.” 
 
 “ Do you think so,” said the Captain, more 
 thoughtfully still. So thoughtfully, that Frank 
 examined him for a moment with somewhat of 
 astonishment in his gaze. Why,” he exclaimed,. 
 “ surely — ^you — ” 
 
 “ You what ?” 
 
 “ You don’t intend to say that you are going 
 to propose to her ?” 
 
 The very supposition caused the Captain to be- 
 come as red in the face as a poppy. ‘‘ I !” he 
 cried. “ God bless your heart and soul, no 1 
 What made you fancy such a thing ?” 
 
 “ Your manner, that was all.” 
 
 “ I marry again !” said the Captain. “ 1, with 
 one leg in the grave, and with an old love there, 
 too, — I take a young girl like Mary for a wife !” 
 And by the expression of his face, it seemed du- 
 bious to Frank whether he was about to laugh or 
 cry. 
 
 “ It was only my joke,” said Frank, soothingly. 
 
FjRANK meets with an uncle. 
 
 183 
 
 “ Ha ! ha I” said the Captain, with a laugh, 
 without much mirth, ‘‘and not a bad joke, 
 either.” Then resuming his gravity with a sud- 
 denness that proved his laugh to have been not 
 quite sincere ; “ no, I didn’t quite mean that — 
 but I did mean something.” 
 
 “ And what was it ?” asked Frank. 
 
 The Captain reflected a moment ere he an- 
 swered. “ I suppose,” said he, “ that Seymour 
 told you what I told him ?” 
 
 “ What did you tell him ?” 
 
 “ Why, about my whim to see you Kate’s hus- 
 band. 
 
 “ Yes, he did,” answered Frank, slightly 
 colouring. 
 
 “ I can tell you now,” continued the Captain, 
 “though I couldn’t tell you before, that that wish 
 was one very much cherished by me. However, 
 Heaven willed it to be otherwise, and I suppose 
 it is all for the best,” he said, devoutly. 
 
 “ I always loved her as a sister,” said Frank, 
 “ and always shall.” 
 
184 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ But not as a wife ? All right, my son. We 
 can’t bend our affections as we like. But I am 
 going to tell you of another secret that has lately 
 sprung up in my heart, and which, now that the 
 other is useless, I cherish with as much fondness.” 
 
 “ Does it concern me ?” asked Frank. 
 
 “ It does,” said the Captain. 
 
 “And what is it?” said Frank. 
 
 “ There is nothing to prevent me telling you — 
 no feeling of delicacy and so forth. It isn’t as if' 
 she were my daughter. Well, you know Mary ?” 
 said the Captain, with something of hesitation in 
 his manner. 
 
 “ Very u'ell, indeed,” answered Frank, smiling 
 at the question. 
 
 “ That girl is a pattern of excellence,” con- 
 tinued the Captain. “ If I were a poet, I might 
 he able to compare her, and with the greatest 
 justice, to lots of things that are bright, and 
 beautiful, and pure. Well, Frank, this new and 
 cherished wish of mine is — ” 
 
 “What?” 
 
FRANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 
 That she should be your wife.” 
 
 This time Frank coloured more deeply, and, 
 then he answered — 
 
 I am not worthy of her.” 
 
 Oh yes, you are/’ said the Captain. 
 
 She is a sweet girl, and — ” Frank paused^ 
 and rising, went towards the window, and looked 
 out without concluding his remark. 
 
 At that moment a loud summons at the 
 door reverberated through the house, and the 
 Captain and Frank simultaneously exclaimed. 
 Who’s that, I wonder ?” 
 
 The question found a reply in the entrance of 
 the servant, who delivered a card to the Captain. 
 
 He glanced at it, and uttered a short exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 Good Heavens ! it is Basil Forrester. Ask 
 him to walk in.” 
 
 In a few moments the door was again opened, 
 and Mr. Basil Forrester entered. 
 
 He was a tall, fine-looking man, with a 
 black beard and moustache, and an aquiline 
 
186 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 nosG; that lent to his face a highly intel- 
 lectual look. Two straight lines between his 
 eyebrows, so clearly defined as to render them 
 almost a deformity, imparted to his counten- 
 ance an expression of great severity, and his 
 forehead, which was broad and imposing, pre- 
 sented, on a near inspection, a strange appear- 
 ance by the delicate tracery of minute lines that 
 almost wholly covered it. In his wide shoulders 
 and deep chest were displayed signs of a pro- 
 digious vigour, as well physical as constitutional, 
 and though some j^ears past the meridian of life, 
 it was evident, by the elastic tread and upright 
 bearing, how vigorous a foe time had found, and 
 was yet to find in him. 
 
 And so, sir,” said the Captain, I have the 
 honour of shaking by the hand the brother of my 
 old, my valued friend, Frank Forrester?” 
 
 You have, sir,” said Forrester, w^armly re- 
 turning his greeting. But I am afraid you do 
 not remember me, although my recollection of 
 you is as distinct as possible. Ah ! many years^ 
 
FRANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 187 
 
 have fled since I last shook you by the hand, 
 Captain Sandboys !” 
 
 ^^Many indeed,” sighed the Captain; *^and 
 now, sir,” he continued, glancing at Frank, ^^per- 
 mit me the pleasure of introducing you to one of 
 whose existence you are probably unaware. I 
 refer, sir, to your nephew, Frank Forrester’s son 
 —and . this is he.” And he motioned towards 
 Frank. 
 
 Forrester started, and turned rapidly towards 
 Frank . 
 
 You do not mean to tell me, Captain Sand- 
 boys, that my brother was ever married?” he re- 
 marked, half incredulously. And yet how can 
 I doubt the fact ? Why, it is my brother himself 
 — what a likeness !’^ And he held out his hand 
 to Frank. This is indeed a happiness,” he 
 continued, rendered more intense because it was 
 so completely unexpected. I thought I was alone 
 in the world. But to And one so closely allied to 
 me as yourself — my own flesh and blood,” — and 
 without concluding his remark, he left his chair^ 
 
188 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 and, drawing Frank gently towards the window,, 
 fell to perusing his face ; then he turned to 
 Captain Sandboys. 
 
 “ You remember my brother ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Eemember him ! God bless your heart and 
 soul !” exclaimed the Captain. “ I have his face 
 before me as distinctly as I have yours. Eemem- 
 ber him ! ay, and shall always remember him, 
 whilst I have power to remember myself.” 
 
 ‘‘ Is not the likeness marvellous ?” exclaimed 
 Forrester, gazing at Frank. I never in my life 
 beheld anything so wonderful.” 
 
 “ Ay, hut your uncle never saw your mother 
 Frank,” said the Captain, ‘‘nor did you. Ah! 
 sir,” to Forrester, “ he has his mother’s eyes !” 
 
 “ And you do not recollect your mother,” said 
 Forrester. 
 
 “ I recollect neither of my parents,” answered 
 Frank ; “ my father died before I was born, and 
 my mother soon after. I have only known one 
 parent in this world — and thei’e he sits.” And 
 he pointed to the Captain. 
 
I^RANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 189 
 
 Forrester rose and took Sandboys by the 
 hand. 
 
 Nothing that man can say or do, can repay 
 such benevolence as you have displayed,” he said. 
 
 I can only thank you for your goodness to my 
 brother’s orphan from my heart — from my heart, 
 and in the name of my dead brother.” 
 
 Sir, sir,” exclaimed the Captain, waving his 
 hand with an appealing movement, ‘‘ I thank 
 you for what you have said, but it is neither 
 merited nor expected. I do not even consider 
 that I have a right to employ a cant expression 
 and say, ^ I have only performed my duty;’ for 
 there is no duty attached to the fulfilment of the 
 obligations that such men as Frank Forrester 
 impose, and such men as his son require.” 
 
 We have both lived too long in this world,” 
 said Forrester, not to know the value of mere 
 verbal gratitude. It is an infliction that always 
 pains me, and therefore one which I will spare 
 you. Honest, unselfish kindness is so rare 
 in this world, that the world knows not how to 
 
190 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 recompense it; it can only commend it to the 
 care of Him to whom all hearts are known, and 
 from whom no secrets are hid.” 
 
 There was in this man’s voice and manners a 
 certain melancholy which impressed itself upon 
 you by degrees, first arousing your attention and 
 then fixing it. United to his address, which was 
 captivating and polished, it wrought for him a 
 kind of interest in the breasts of his hearers, 
 which the mere efi’ect of his language and his 
 presence alone would have failed to inspire. It 
 seemed to have a subduing influence upon the 
 haughty character, that you might have felt cer- 
 tain had else animated the almost rugged majesty 
 of his appearance. It told of a secret sorrow, 
 that to one of a weaker spirit might have been 
 an agony, but, repelled or suppressed by the iron 
 wall of an inflexible mind, was resolved into the 
 subdued low pain, the effect of which was the 
 melancholy apparent in each gesture and ac- 
 cent. 
 
 He appeared to take a keen delight in con- 
 
FEANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 191 
 
 TersiDg witli Frank. The solitary spirit,perhaps, 
 had long felt the want of some living tie that 
 should connect him with that past from which he 
 had been so abruptly severed, and which dwelt 
 now in his fancy like a vision or a dream. Fre- 
 quent and anxious were the questions he put to 
 the Captain concerning his brother, and to each 
 reply he listened with the profoundest attention. 
 
 For himself, he seemed reserved upon the sub- 
 ject of his own history. What he had communi- 
 cated to the Captain in his letter, was all that he 
 communicated now. He declared that he had 
 grown sick of the army, after having attained a 
 certain eminence in it; and believing that he 
 could improve his position by the pursuits of 
 commerce, he had united his little capital with 
 that of a friend, and had commenced merchant 
 in Calcutta. His business in a short time began 
 to flourish, and after awhile he went to Sydney 
 as a representative of the house in which he was 
 a partner. Fortune favoured him even more in 
 Australia than it had done in India ; before long, 
 
192 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 he disunited himself from his firm and com- 
 menced for himself, and grew prosperous as time 
 went on. Subsequently feeling an ardent desire 
 to revisit England, he had advertised his busi- 
 ness for sale, and had been bought out” at a 
 high price by a wealthy merchant, to whom he 
 had for some time been a formidable rival. Hav- 
 ing now disposed of all that could possibly 
 retain him in Australia, he had returned home 
 without any design of leaving it again. 
 
 Even yet more succinctly than this, had he 
 imparted these facts to the Captain ; but upon 
 the subject of his domestic life he was totally 
 silent. Whether he were a widower or whether 
 he had left his wife behind him ; whether he had 
 any children, or whether circumstances had 
 separated him from his family, and left him vir- 
 tually the lonely man he complained of having 
 been, the Captain and Frank could only conjec- 
 ture. Nor was either of them very willing to 
 intrude his questions upon him, partly from a 
 natural delicacy and partly from his manners. 
 
FRANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 193 
 
 which, though all heartiness and courtesy, yet 
 seemed to promise a repulse to the curiosity 
 that might prove objectionc.ble. 
 
 “ And how did you manege to find us out?’' 
 asked the Captain. 
 
 “ I went to Hartlepool after my arrival at 
 London, believing you still to be there; and 
 having made some inquiries, I was directed to the 
 coastguard station, wheite I was furnished with 
 your address.” 
 
 “ Poor old Yartlepool,” sighed Captain Sand- 
 boys. 
 
 “ And pray may I ask your reason for leaving 
 it ?” asked Forrester. 
 
 “ Why, for the sake of that boy there,” an- 
 swered the Captain, pointing at Frank ; “ he was 
 a sailor once, but he wanted to make his fortune, 
 and thought, and perhaps rightly, that the City 
 of London was the only place to make it in. So 
 I said, ‘ well, since you’re going to London, I’ll 
 go there, too.’” 
 
 VOL. n. 
 
 K 
 
19 . 4 ; 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 " And look at the result,” said Frank ; “ Kate’s 
 married to begin with.” 
 
 “ That’s very true,” said the Captain ; and 
 then to Forrester, “ Kate is my daughter, sir. 
 She has lately got spliced to a very nice young 
 fellow called Seymour. You must do her the 
 honour of paying her a visit ; she’ll be charmed 
 to see her brother Frank’s uncle. They always 
 look upon each other as brother and sister.” 
 Forrester asked Frank a good many questions 
 about his circumstances and his schemes for the 
 future; and listened very complacently to the 
 vision Frank communicated to him of the fortune 
 he meant one day to realise. 
 
 “ 1 hope you will allow me, Frank — an uncle’s 
 privilege — to take an interest in you,” said For- 
 rester. I little expected to meet with such a 
 fine young fellow whom I should have the honour 
 of calling nephew. Ah ! Captain Sandboys, we 
 live in a strSnge world.” 
 
 “ Strange, indeed !” echoed the Captain, from 
 the depths of his heart. 
 
FBANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE. 
 
 19o 
 
 ‘‘You must suffer me,” continued Forrester, 
 addressing Frank, “ to accompany you in one of 
 your visits to Mr. Fairlie, tkat I may thank him 
 for his kindness to you. I know his firm very 
 well, having had some dealings with it. I in- 
 tend to claim him now as my son,” he said, lay- 
 ing his hand upon his nephew’s shoulder, and 
 speaking to the Captain; “you won’t object to 
 that, will you ?” 
 
 “Ah! sir,” said the Captain, “life is but a 
 game of come and go. Friendships are made 
 and friendships are lost. Affections take root 
 and are then torn up. Our children first leave 
 us, and then we leave them. So we go on, sir, 
 and yet what is the use of complaining ?” 
 
 “ But I won’t be so hard upon you,” said For- 
 rester ; ‘‘ I do not mean to intrude upon you to 
 separate. My object is to add one more to the 
 happy circle of which you are the centre. Cap- 
 tain. It is enough for me that I have found an 
 old friend and a young relation ; only let me be 
 one with you, I shall ask no more.” 
 
 K 2 
 
1C6 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Sir,” said the Captain, “ we cordially welcome 
 you to our midst. I am a plain man, as you may 
 see. I have no pretensions — I say so honestly — 
 and I make no professions that I do not feel ; 
 and I say this honestly, too. As an old friend, I 
 welcome you; as Frank Forrester’s brother, I 
 welcome you more.” 
 
 And the old man held out his hand, which was 
 grasped by his visitor, and shaken as if there had 
 been malice in the shake, so painful was the 
 hearty, though iron gripe. 
 
 “ I am stopping at ’s Hotel, in Piccadilly, 
 
 Frank,” said his uncle, on rising to take his de- 
 parture ; “ can you come and lunch with me to- 
 morrow at one ?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes.” 
 
 “ I want to have a long talk with you.” Then 
 to Captain Sandboys he added, “ we shall often 
 meet now, I hope ; I am going to look out for a 
 house somewhere or other, and perhaps you will 
 lend me your assistance in the search. I trust 
 we may have many a pleasant hour together yet.” 
 
FRANK MEETS WITH AN UNCLE, 
 
 197 
 
 And nodding in the most friendly manner, 
 he shook them both by the hand, and went 
 away. 
 
 “ Well,” said the Captain, “ there’s one thing 
 certain about him; he’s a gentleman.” 
 
 Frank emiled proudly and said, 
 
 “ Was my father like him?” 
 
 “ Somewhat,” answered the Captain. 
 
 Then pausing for a moment, he approached 
 Frank and whispered in his ear, 
 
 “ He was better looking.” 
 
 “ Then,” said Frank, ‘‘ he must have been a 
 very handsome man.” 
 
 “And he was,” answered the Captain, filling 
 a glass of brandy and water ; “ and not only a 
 handsome, but a good man. But you’ve found 
 a friend in your uncle, you may be sure of that. 
 If he doesn’t leave you his fortune, you may 
 hang, draw, and quarter me.” 
 
198 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 A LUNCHEON IN PICCADILLY. 
 
 Punctual to the hour named, Frank presented 
 himself at the door of his uncle’s hotel, in Picca- 
 dilly. A smiling waiter ushered him into the 
 coffee-room, at a side-table in which he found his 
 uncle seated. 
 
 “ Ah ! here you are,” said Forrester, rising 
 and shakiug hands with him ; “ and I hope you 
 have brought a good appetite with you. As 
 G. P. E. James, in one of his novels, would say, 
 
A LUNCHEON IN PICCADILLY. 
 
 199 
 
 ^ Such cheer as this house of entertainment 
 affords, is now before you ; an’ you have a mind, 
 fall to’t right merrily, praising always the gods 
 for their bounty.’ ” 
 
 Fortunately for Frank, he was possessed of 
 one of those felicitous appetites, that never need 
 a second invitation. The luncheon being before 
 him, he complied with his uncle’s request, by 
 falling to’t with zeal, Forrester, opposite to 
 him, surveyed him with a smile of singular 
 sweetness, owing, perhaps, to the contrast 
 offered by the somewhat forbidding features it 
 illumined. 
 
 It seems so strange,” he said, to be in the 
 presence of one so nearly connected with me ; 
 and yet one — as Captain Sandboys said — of 
 whose very existence I was ignorant, until last 
 night.” 
 
 If I am strange to you,” said Frank, with a 
 laugh, ^^how much more strange must you be to 
 me ? It is only a question of time with you 
 since last you saw your relations ; but with me it 
 
200 
 
 OFF THD STAGE. 
 
 is a matter of eternity. By which, I mean that 
 I never saw a relation before I saw you, in my 
 life.” 
 
 “And of the two, perhaps, your fate is the 
 most to he envied,” answered Forrester, some- 
 what gloomily. “ Most of us who know our 
 parents, only know them that we may de- 
 plore their loss. You, at least, were saved this 
 bitterness.” 
 
 “ Ay,” said Frank ; “ but perhaps they might 
 have bequeathed some sweet memory to me, that 
 would have cheered me through life, and have 
 illumined the gloom that nothing else would 
 illumine. A mother’s love must be a pleasant 
 thing for a man to look back upon in his later 
 years. What thoughts must it revive — what 
 dreams awaken ! What old fancies, long for- 
 gotten, must throng at the bidding of such a 
 recollection ! Often have I imagined such a 
 thing; and often wondered what my feelings 
 would be, if I were permitted to look upon the 
 mother God never suffered me to see. ’ 
 
A LUNCHEON IN PICCADILLY, 
 
 201 
 
 “ These are pretty thoughts, my boy, these are 
 pretty thoughts. Cherish them, for they ennoble 
 the heart, and make us think well of the world, 
 which tries its hardest to make us think bad of 
 it.” 
 
 “ But there may be a good deal of fancy in all 
 this,” said Frank ; and I am almost sure there 
 must be. Perhaps, had I lived with my mother, 
 as other men have lived with theirs, I might not 
 dwell so fondly and tenderly upon her memory ; 
 at least, if I may presume my own conduct from 
 the conduct of others ; and I know not why I 
 should be different from everybody else.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, you must not think this of all men,” 
 said Forrester. “ I believe that the memory of 
 a mother or father’s love is a green spot upon the 
 heart of the hardest of our race ; and there are 
 many hard ones amongst us, as life will teach 
 you, ere she has done with you. Take the City 
 man, whose whole soul is absorbed in one end — 
 the acquisition of wealth; whose every faculty 
 seems engrossed, whose every virtue seems lost, 
 
 K 5 
 
202 
 
 OFF TEE STAGE. 
 
 ' in the one master-passion of his existence. 
 Speak to him of his mother or his father, and the 
 momentary emotion will tell you that you have 
 struck the only chord in his heart that yet 
 vibrates. Take the rake, the knave, the thorough- 
 paced villain, the murderer ; take men represent- 
 ing every gradation of vice and wickedness : 
 they may he wholly lost to all sense of religion ; 
 they may laugh at the teaching their hearts once 
 adored — at the cross upon whose steps their 
 knees once pressed — at the God before whom 
 they once humbled themselves in worship ; but 
 the fount in their bosom has yet one tear for 
 the memory of a mother’s love — the steeled 
 heart has yet one emotion for the recollection 
 of a father’s goodness.” 
 
 “You are right,” exclaimed Frank, carried 
 away by the force of his uncle’s manner ; “ and 
 when the heart can think with coldness upon a 
 parent’s devotion, it is no longer a man who 
 possesses it; yet there are such hearts.” 
 
 “ Yes, there are such hearts. Heaven had 
 
A LUNCHEON IN PICCADILLY, 
 
 203 
 
 devils before God ejected thenij and the world 
 has them now, and they are suffered to roam 
 about untouched.” He spoke almost savagely, 
 and the smile that he had hitherto worn, was 
 lost in the threatening expression and frown 
 that his eyes and forehead suddenly assumed. 
 
 But Frank did not observe this, having turned 
 his head to watch a Hindoo servant, who at 
 that moment entered the room, and took up his 
 position at a table opposite them. When again 
 he looked at his uncle, the frown had been re- 
 placed by the old smile. 
 
 That is my servant/’ said Forrester, nodding 
 at the black man. Here, Ali !” he called to 
 him. 
 
 The Hindoo approached his master with a 
 soft, cat-like tread, less the movement of a man 
 than the gliding of a serpent. 
 
 ^^This is my nephew, Ali,” said Forrester. 
 
 Is he like Ali’s master ?” 
 
 Ali made his obeisance to Frank by clasping 
 his hands over his forehead, and stooping low 
 
204 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 before him. Then rising, he glanced at him 
 from the corner of his brilliant eyes, and showed 
 a row of gleaming teeth. 
 
 “ He is like master,” he answered, in a soft, 
 flute-like voice. 
 
 “ Do you know what a nephew means, Ali ?” 
 
 “ The young Sahib is master’s brother’s son,” 
 answered Ali. 
 
 “ Quite right,” said Forrester. Now you 
 may go.” 
 
 The Hindoo retired to the opposite table, at 
 which he seated himself, with his eyes fixed upon 
 his master. 
 
 “ That fellow,” said Forrester, “ has been in 
 my service eight years. I owe him a debt of 
 gratitude, for he once saved my life — at least, if 
 there is anything to be grateful for in such a 
 kindness. His recompense has been my permit- 
 ting him to remain in my service. This he con- 
 siders recompense enough, and I have never 
 taken the trouble,” he said, carelessly, “ to dis- 
 pute the matter with him. He followed me to 
 
A LUNCHEON IN PICCADILLY. 205 
 
 Australia, and he has followed me to England, 
 where, however, I am inclined to believe he won’t 
 remain long. Our grey skies and sooty fogs 
 don’t suit such complexions as his.” 
 
 “ How he keeps his eyes upon you,” remarked 
 Frank, rather surprised at the Hindoo’s main- 
 taining, for such a time, his most imperturbable 
 gaze. 
 
 He watches my actions like a dog,” answered 
 Forrester, without turning his head, “ and serves 
 me with the same fidelity. He anticipates all 
 my commands by watching my lips, and 1 often 
 find a gesture sufficient to interpret my wants to 
 him. He is a singular being ; he comprehends 
 my signals with such sagacity and rapidity, that 
 by merely holding up my finger to him now in a 
 peculiar manner, he would lay you dead at my 
 feet, before you had time to utter a cry,” 
 
 “ Egad !” said Frank, eyeing the Hindoo with 
 much curiosity, “ if I were at all inclined to be 
 nervous, now’s the time to discover my weak- 
 
 ness. 
 
206 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Forrester laughed good-naturedly. “ You 
 needn’t be frightened; he wouldn’t take your 
 life, now that he knows you are of the same 
 flesh and blood as his master. I am only telling 
 you these things to show you the peculiarity of 
 the fellow. One marked physical characteristic 
 of his is his stupendous power of leaping. His 
 hound is like a tiger’s — it is terrific. Come> 
 that you may not think us the companions of 
 the old Jiisopian jumper, I’ll give you a sample 
 of his skill. The room is clear. Here, Ali.” 
 
 Ali approached his master. 
 
 “The Sahib wants you to jump for him. 
 Look ! take those four tables towards the door ; 
 there is an open space at the end that will clear 
 you.” 
 
 Without a word, Ali made towards the spot 
 indicated. 
 
 He’ll break his neck,” said Frank. “ Don’t 
 make him do that ! Why, the distance you have 
 given him to jump is fully twenty feet ; and 
 what space is there for a run ?” 
 
A LUNCHEON IN PICCADILLY. 
 
 207 
 
 Watch him. He does not want to run; his 
 power is to concentrate his strength, and to leap 
 from the spot on which he is standing. Did he 
 run, there would be no merit. As to its being 
 twenty feet, you are wrong; it is nearer thirty.” 
 He made a signal to the Hindoo, who was 
 standing looking towards him. Doubling his 
 fists and clenching his teeth with a vehemence 
 that half started his eyes from his head, and 
 made the veins about his temples stand out 
 through the skin like strained whipcord, Ali 
 slowly lowered his body, until his hams were 
 almost touching the fioor; in this squatting 
 position he remained for some seconds; then, 
 like a fiash of light, he bounded through the 
 air, and alighted some feet beyond the centre of 
 the open space towards which he had directed 
 himself. 
 
 Frank uttered a loud cry of astonishment. 
 
 Stupendous indeed !” he exclaimed. 
 
 You must recollect he has his clothes on,” 
 said Forrester; ^^had he been naked, he would 
 
208 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 have accomplished half that distance again with 
 greater ease.” 
 
 Meanwhile the Hindoo had resumed his seat, 
 with his strangely bright eyes fixed upon his 
 master. 
 
 “ You do not applaud him,” said Frank. 
 
 “ He knows I am pleased,” Forrester rejoined ; 
 “ to speak would be merely to repeat what he 
 has already seen in the glance I gave him. Do 
 you understand now how he could kill a man ?” 
 
 “ Perfectly !” exclaimed Frank, still lost in 
 amazement. ‘‘ It was incredible. There is a 
 grand fortune to he made out of that man.” 
 
 “ And so you are bent upon making your for- 
 tune, eh?” 
 
 “ If I can.” 
 
 “ By commerce ?” Forrester asked with a smile. 
 
 “ By commerce, if possible. If not I’ll go in 
 for an heiress.” 
 
 Forrester’s face darkened as he said, 
 
 “ No ; do not do that. Leave marriage, leave 
 women alone.” 
 
A LTOTOHEON IN PICCADILLY. 
 
 209 
 
 “ Ah 1 1 see,” said Frank, with a laugh. “You 
 are — to use a hard word which I remember learn- 
 ing at school — a misogynist.” 
 
 “ A woman-hater, no. A marriage-hater, 
 yes.” 
 
 “ What is the difference ? Your dislike of one 
 must emanate from your dislike of the other.” 
 
 “ No ; women are good to speak to, to amuse 
 you, to polish you — but not to love.” 
 
 “ I wish Captain Sandboys were here. You’d 
 see how eloquently he would confute you. Ah ! 
 uncle (you see how familiar the word uncle seems 
 to me !) I must own a sneaking kindness for the 
 sex, and so must you. Come, come !” 
 
 “ I am sincere,” answered Forrester, gloomily. 
 “ When I was your age your opinion of women 
 was mine. Now — ” 
 
 “And now?” 
 
 He did not reply for some moments, except 
 with a slight shrug of the shoulders. At last, 
 fixing his eye upon his nephew, he said, 
 
 “ You would naturally wish to know the reason 
 
210 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of my sentiments, since no sixcli sentiments are 
 entertained without some reason or other. Well, 
 my motive in ashing you to come and see me to- 
 day was to tell you a story connected with my 
 life. Are you willing to be at the pain of hear- 
 ing me ?” 
 
 ‘‘If it is likely to give you pain do not com- 
 mence it.” 
 
 “ On the contrary. It will relieve me. For a 
 long while it has been a secret hidden here,” he 
 said, pressing both his hands to his breast; 
 “lying like a dead weight on my heart, pressing' 
 down the life, the vigour, out of it, and all be- 
 cause 1 have not had the courage to communicate 
 it to another. Ah ! the confession of one’s secret 
 sorrows to the ear of a friend is a wondrous balm 
 to the soul.” 
 
 He ceased, and after a few moments’ pause,, 
 resumed, 
 
 “ Why have I not spoken my past suffering 
 out before? Why? — because where could I find 
 the man worthy of bearing with me my secret 
 
A LUNCHEON IN PICCADILLY. .2 1 I 
 
 grief? But I have found him in you. You can 
 feel for me— you must feel for me ! for does not 
 the same blood course through your veins ? Does 
 not the vitality of one common origin operate upon 
 our hearts and animate our spirits to kindred sym- 
 pathies and kindred emotions ? Pardon me,” he 
 continued, subduing his rising voice, and laying 
 his arm gently upon Frank’s arm, if I speak 
 too energetically — if I suffer my feelings to get 
 the better of me. Recollect that for many years 
 this secret has been sealed within my very heart 
 of hearts — spoken to none — and spoken now for 
 the first time.” 
 
 A feeling akin to awe crept over Frank as he 
 surveyed his uncle. The constantly varying ex- 
 pression of the face, the sweetness of the forced 
 smile, the angry gleam of the eye, the contrac- 
 tion of the brow, the convulsive motion of the 
 hands and head, all displayed the inner workings 
 of the man who was about to rudely pluck from 
 his heart the one torturing secret — the one deep- 
 fanged cancer, whose pain had become a part of 
 
212 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 his life, and whose imbedding had been the work 
 of years. 
 
 Neither of them spoke for some minutes. It 
 seemed as if Forrester were recollecting his efforts 
 to carry him through the exertion he had imposed 
 upon himself At last he turned and met the 
 eyes of the Hindoo, that were ever fixed upon him. 
 The glance appeared to arouse him, for confront- 
 ing Frank, in a low but firm voice he commenced 
 his recitah 
 
213 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FOBEr:0TEE’S STOEY. 
 
 “ Twenty-one years ago a young lieutenant left 
 England to join his regiment, then serving in 
 Bombay. He had been home for six months on 
 sick leave, and was far from anxious to re-visit 
 those climates which accommodated themselves so 
 badly to his health. But, being the son of a 
 father comparatively poor, his means compelled 
 him to persevere in the profession he had origin- 
 ally adopted. 
 
214 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ For some years he remained in India, some- 
 times employed on active service, and sometimes 
 engaged in occupations no more lively than the 
 vacant routine of a garrison life. , But illness 
 again sent him home, and he had then serious 
 thoughts of quitting the army altogether. 
 
 “ This intention, however, he did not carry out, 
 for on recovering his health he again set sail for 
 India. 
 
 “ During the voyage he made the acquaintance 
 of an elderly lady, who was carrying her daughter 
 with her to Bombay, ostensibly for her health, 
 but in reality to secure her a husband ; very justly 
 concluding that any girl, possessed even of 
 mediocre charms, would be esteemed an acquisi- 
 tion, and probably soon mated, in a country where 
 English women are as scarce as Englishmen are 
 numerous — and both equally despotic, 
 
 “ The name of these persons was Cleveland. 
 
 “ What object Mrs. Cleveland could possibly 
 have had in bearing away her daughter from her 
 own country it would be hopeless to conjecture ; 
 
foreester’s story. 
 
 215 
 
 for a girl more lovely and brilliant it would have 
 been difficult anywhere to encounter ; and her 
 matrimonial chances would have been just as 
 secure in England as in India. Mrs. Cleveland, 
 however, was not a lady, and this might have had 
 a good deal to do with it. Though not down-^ 
 right vulgar, her appearance and language were 
 dreadfully against her. She was fat and coarse, 
 and her command of the English tongue was so 
 far arbitrary as to dismiss every ^ h ’ as super- 
 fluous, and to frequently involve the pronuncia- 
 tion of the ^ V ’ with that of the ^ w.’ ” 
 
 Forrester paused, and the faintest smile, that 
 was almost a sneer, wrinkled the extremities of 
 his mouth. But instantly his face resumed its 
 dark and severe expression. 
 
 Whether she knew herself not to be a lady, 
 or whether her daughter had instructed her in the 
 fact, I cannot say; but certain it is that her only 
 motive in leaving could have been to visit a 
 country where the rapacity of the men for a pretty 
 girl would have made them willing to overlook 
 
216 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the deficiencies of the parent. Now in England, 
 by such a class as that with which Mrs. Cleve- 
 land aspired to connect her daughter, vulgarity 
 in a mother-in-law is not so easily tolerated. 
 
 “ Madeline Cleveland, on the other hand, was 
 ' as totally opposite to her mother as delicacy and 
 refinement are to vulgarity and coarseness. Her 
 manners were essentially lady-like, and her con- 
 versation was regulated with an art that proved 
 her, even at that age, to be possessed of a very 
 fair knowledge of the human character. She en- 
 tertained the profoundest contempt for her mother. 
 Though she did not openly ridicule her, she tes- 
 tified in every way but by speech, her utter scorn. 
 And with such women speech is not always the 
 most eloquent exponent of their feelings. 
 
 “To a just man, such conduct would have been 
 particularly repulsive. That Mrs. Cleveland was 
 her mother should have been enough for this girl, 
 to enforce at least an appearance of the respect 
 she could not, perhaps, feel. And in any other 
 girl it would have been repulsive. But such an 
 
foreestee’s story. 
 
 217 
 
 air of encliantmeiit hung about Madeline, so fas- 
 cinating were her appearance and address, that the 
 spell-bound heart forgave her even this enormity 
 — the most despicable and offensive, next to blas- 
 phemy, in either man or woman — and, like the 
 spots on the sun, either saw not or would not see 
 this stain upon her nature in the splendour with 
 which she was environed. 
 
 “ It was not long before our young lieutenant 
 began to feel a passion for Madeline Cleveland; 
 and ere the voyage was concluded, they were 
 betrothed. 
 
 “ This young lieutenant was myself.” 
 
 Forrester paused, and wiped his forehead with 
 his pocket-handkerchief. Frank’s eyes re- 
 mained riveted on his face. 
 
 “ I will not disguise it — I loved Madeline to 
 distraction. My love was idolatry, it was wicked, 
 it was devoting the worship that should have 
 been offered to my Maker, to this woman. You 
 who have never loved, you cannot understand me. 
 Love ! what do half the men who talk of love know 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 L 
 
•218 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of it ? How dare they prate of their idle passion, 
 and boast their dreams of bliss, fashioned of fan- 
 cies sickly, insensible, mean, worm-like ! Pools I 
 Would they chant the praises of this love had they 
 interpreted its terrible significance as I, as such 
 as I, have interpreted it? Would they exalt this 
 living curse, clothed with a god-like name, the 
 better to conceal its horrible nature, had their 
 spirits writhed under its fangs as mine has done ? 
 Ay, let those who dream of love paint her as an 
 incarnate loveliness, rising amidst the music of 
 the sleepy waters, whose foam she rivals. But 
 let those who have experienced her, those who 
 know her in her agony, picture her as a fury let 
 loose from hell to agonise the faithful spirit, and 
 to scorch the heart with the burning brand that 
 she thrusts into every open breast.” 
 
 He shook with the torrent of his passion, and 
 his clenched fist idly beat the air as he concluded. 
 Frank was appalled by the vehemence of his 
 utterance and gesticulation, and sat speechless, 
 knowing not how to act. The Hindoo at the op- 
 
Forrester’s story. 
 
 219 
 
 posite table remained motionless, bis gleaming 
 eye only speaking the emotion awakened by bis 
 master’s excitement. 
 
 As if to calm bimself, Forrester arose and com- 
 menced pacing the room, biting bis lips, and with 
 his arms tightly folded across his breast Frank 
 devoutly wished that somebody would enter, if 
 only to check his uncle a little in his display of 
 passion. Moreover, in spite of himself, there was 
 something about the Hindoo, who now glared at 
 him during his master’s peregrinations, that he 
 did not contemplate with very much delight. 
 To speak the truth, there was a little discomfort 
 about everything just then. The very solitude 
 of the coffee-room had, or seemed to have, some- 
 thing ominous about it. 
 
 Such rage as Forrester’s, however, is very soon 
 exhausted. He came to the table and resumed 
 his seat, and without preface or apology, somewhat 
 abruptly, though in a much more subdued manner, 
 continued thus : — 
 
 On my reaching Bombay, I learnt, to my sur- 
 
 L 2 
 
S20 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 prise, that my regiment was likely to be ordered 
 to China — Whampoa,! fancy was the name of the 
 place — to reinforce the troops already stationed 
 there. To have been separated from Madeline 
 then would have destroyed me. Yet, to have 
 wedded her at once and carried her off to the 
 yellow fevers of the Celestial Empire would have 
 been worse than madness. After some little time, 
 and with great difficulty, I effected an exchange 
 into a regiment newly arrived at Bombay. This, 
 of course, cut off all my hopes of soon returning 
 to England — hopes that might perhaps have been 
 gratified had I remained in the — th. But the 
 presence of Madeline had transformed India into 
 a paradise for me. The country seemed all at 
 once to have assumed a completely new aspect. 
 Where young love first alights, there everything 
 — no matter how dark before — ^grows gay and 
 bright and beautiful. 
 
 “ Love is the scene-painter on this world’s 
 stage. How sudden and splendid are the pictures 
 it suffers us to witness ! How dismal and rapid 
 
fokrester’s story. 
 
 221 
 
 is their toppling into reality — into reality made 
 doubly terrible by contrast ! 
 
 Madeline and her mother fixed upon a small 
 house in the suburbs of the town ; and here they 
 lived quietly enough, for besides being poor, now 
 that her daughter was engaged, Mrs. Cleveland 
 did not trouble herself with the society she had, 
 undoubtedly, come out to cultivate. 
 
 I was as much with them as my duties would 
 suffer me to be. Our nuptials were fixed, and 
 the time was rapidly approaching when they 
 should be celebrated. Ah ! I was gay indeed in 
 those days. I seemed to breathe an atmosphere 
 of happiness. And yet, in what was I happy but 
 in my servility ? I followed Madeline about like 
 a dog. I could have crouched at her feet, and 
 have grovelled there for ever. She was my queen, 
 my empress, my divinity. I was surpassingly 
 proud of her. Whenever I encountered any of 
 my friends with her on my arm, my heart leapt 
 exultingly, to think how far more blest was I 
 
222 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 than they. I knew they envied me, and my 
 spirits danced at the conviction. 
 
 “ There was a yourg fellow of the name of 
 Graham in my regiment, to whom, though con - 
 siderably my junior, I was attracted by his gentle- 
 manly manners and conversation, that ranged 
 many degrees above that ordinarily to be heard 
 in the mess room. He was poor, and yet he wore 
 his poverty with such address that the frequent 
 taunt that clumsy indigence invariably provokes 
 was wholly withheld from him. Yet he was by 
 no means a favourite with his brother officers. 
 Perhaps there had been something in his ante- 
 cedents that operated to the prejudice with which 
 he seemed regarded ; something might have 
 occurred prior to my joining the regiment. 
 But whatever the reason, I took no pains to 
 discover it, either by inquiries or conjecture. 
 I alone seemed his friend. We exchanged confi- 
 dences. He told me of many of his early love 
 escapades, and I told him of Madeline. 
 
fokresteb’s stort. 
 
 223 
 
 “ One day he came to me with a delighted face, 
 holding a letter in his hand. 
 
 “ ‘ My dear Forrester,’ he said, ‘ pray con- 
 gratulate me. This letter, just received, informs 
 me that an old aunt of mine has died, and left 
 me five thousand pounds. The trustees have 
 advised their banking colleagues here, and I am 
 at liberty to draw for the whole sum at once. Is 
 not such an occurrence charming ? and does it 
 not recall to you Byron’s verse, who assures us 
 that though many things are sweet, the unex- 
 pected legacy of some old lady is sweeter still ?” 
 
 “ I warmly congratulated him upon his fortune, 
 and, agreeably to a promise made the day before, 
 took him with me to Mrs. Cleveland, and intro- 
 duced him to Madeline. I had expected that he 
 would have been loud in his admiration of her to 
 me, but to my surprise and disappointment, his 
 praise was hardly luke-warm, he merely offering 
 a few comments upon her most attractive charms, 
 and then changing the subject. 
 
224 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Time passed, and I became Madeline’s 
 husband. 
 
 “ I will not weary you with an account of my 
 transports — of how I thought and how I acted. I 
 was her husband, and I was happy. 
 
 “ Having thus secured a husband for her 
 daughter, Mrs. Cleveland now made up her mind 
 to return to England. The resolution was sud- 
 den, and three days would have seen it put into 
 execution ; when, on the morning prior to her 
 departure, she was found dead in her bed. A 
 post-mortem examination proved her death to 
 have arisen from apoplexy. 
 
 “ I was greatly shocked by the suddenness of 
 this event, and expected that my wife would at 
 least have discovered some slight emotion. But 
 I was disappointed. She received the intelligence 
 with frigid indifference, and my passion, which 
 every hour was increasing, would not suffer me 
 to expostulate with her. 
 
 “ One day, much to my astonishment, Graham 
 
fokrestek’s story. 
 
 225 
 
 came to me and told me he had ‘ sold out.’ Ho 
 had been eflfecting this so quietly that not a soul 
 amongst us was aware of the fact, and when he 
 commuaicated it to me I was struck with surprise. 
 He told me he was sick of military life, and of 
 India. He had made up his mind to return to 
 England, and there live upon the income afforded 
 him by his aunt’s bequest. Whether from his 
 disposition^ or whether from his poverty, he said, 
 he was well aware that he was no favourite ; 
 and this considerably added to the disgust with 
 which his profession had inspired him. His 
 resolution, he concluded, was unalterable. He 
 was not so devoted to his country as to sacrifice 
 his life, or if not life, at all events the best part 
 of it, for its interests ; and as all love should be 
 reciprocal, he did not see much use in serving a 
 sovereign whom he had never even seen, and who 
 probably, were he to meet him, \YOuld pass him 
 without notice, perhaps with contempt. 
 
 Such were this man’s reasons for quitting 
 
 L 5 
 
226 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the army, and I believe them to have been sincere. 
 Yet I regretted his leaving us. I had become 
 positively attached to him, and since I had com- 
 menced a domestic life— in other words, since I 
 had taken a little house at a convenient distance 
 from the barracks, for my wife and myself 
 — he had been a great deal with us. His con- 
 duct towards Madeline was always regulated 
 by the profoundest courtesy and deference ; but 
 her appearance had no visible effect on him what- 
 ever, This, I confess, somewhat piqued me ; but 
 though it displeased my vanity it saved my 
 jealousy, and — ah ! it was subtly done ! 
 
 “ There came news one day of a slight disaffec- 
 tion having become apparent in some native 
 troops, stationed some twenty or thirty leagues 
 up the country; and I was sent in command of a 
 detachment to the spot. I apprehended no per- 
 sonal risk, and therefore parted with my wife 
 with no other regrets than such as naturally fol- 
 low all separation from those we love. I conjee- 
 
Forrester’s story. 
 
 227 
 
 tured my return to be in a few days — almost 
 hours — and kissing away the tears that plentifully 
 bedewed Madeline’s cheek, I left her. 
 
 Three days elapsed, however, before my 
 return. Our appearance had been sufficient to 
 inspire the natives with awe ; but I thought it 
 advisable to protract our stay, eager as 1 was to 
 return, that I might give the cowed rebels an 
 opportunity of stating the cause of their dissatis- 
 faction, and liaving it inquired into. 
 
 On my arrival at Bombay, as soon as my 
 duties had been performed, I hastened to my 
 home, there to clasp my wife to my heart, and 
 to assure her by my presence of my safe return. 
 To my profound amazement I found the house 
 closed, all the shutters up, and not a human 
 being to be seen. Terrified by a spectacle of 
 which I did not pause to inquire the reason, I 
 hammered loudly and long at the door, for at 
 least a quarter of an hour in vain. At last I 
 heard the jar of bolts being withdrawn, and 
 
228 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 finally an old native woman, whom I had retained 
 in my service from sheer charity, responded to 
 my summons. On seeing me she uttered an ex- 
 clamation of delight, and ‘ salaamed ’ to the 
 earth. 
 
 “ ‘ What does all this mean ?’ I cried to her. 
 ‘ Where is my wife ? is she well ?’ 
 
 “ The beldame answered with a stupid stare, 
 and replied in her native dialect, 
 
 “ ‘ Does not the master know ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ Know what ?’ I shouted, half mad with 
 terror. 
 
 “ ‘ Mistress,’ answered the woman, trembling, 
 ‘ left for Europe the day before yesterday. 
 She—’ 
 
 “ But I heard no more. With a wild cry I 
 sped from the house, and rushed to the residence 
 of Graham. His house was also closed. He 
 too had left for Europe. They had gone off to- 
 gether, and I was left alone !” 
 
 Forrester pa, used. His head sunk low upon 
 
Forrester’s story. 
 
 229 
 
 his breast, and his body inclined abruptly forward. 
 Frank thought he was about to faint^ and with a 
 trembling hand poured him out a glass of wine. 
 But his uncle pushed it from him. 
 
 ‘‘ It is nothing/’ he said, drawing the back of 
 his hand across his forehead, and raising his head. 
 
 The recollection of that moment’s agony is as 
 torturing as the agony was itself. Do not mind 
 me. I can speak calmly now.” 
 
 He bit his underlip until it was bloodless, and 
 a terrible expression swept over his face. Then 
 leaning forward, in a voice almost wholly 
 passionless — ^ voice that seemed to writhe 
 through his lips, as if an iron will were slowly 
 crushing its utterance within — he thus pro- 
 ceeded : — 
 
 In the first delirium of passion that followed, 
 the blow seemed to be light. I grew philosophic; 
 I moralised ; I said ^ God’s will be done,’ and I 
 thought it for the best. Not until some time 
 after did I realise it to its full extent ; and then 
 
230 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the consciousness that seemed to have been dulled 
 by the pain, awakened itself with a keener sensi- 
 bility, and I imagined that my heart would 
 burst. 
 
 “ My first dream was vengeance. But consi- 
 deration showed me its uselessness. What 
 revenge could I take ? Appeal to the law ? I 
 would rather have appealed to an Indian idol. 
 Steep my hands in the blood of my wife’s seducer ? 
 Yes — I might have done that ; but how was I to 
 track them? How could I have followed them 
 in the pursuit they would have surely led me — I, 
 who was then poor ? I knew not how to act — 
 what to do ! I threw up my hands to the skies, 
 and appealed to my Maker to kill me as I prayed. 
 What then had life to offer me ? How withered, 
 how sere, grew the world as I gazed upon it — so 
 green, so bright, so sweet before ! 
 
 “ But my misfortune soon became known — my 
 shame was published, ere I was even conscious 
 that it was shame. Then came pity — pity, that 
 
Forrester’s story. 
 
 231 
 
 hypocritical condoler, whose curious hands ever 
 open wider the wound it pretends to heal. Pity 
 — ah ! I was not born to be pitied ! 
 
 “ You know the rest. What I told Captain 
 Sandboys was the sequel of this narrative. One 
 thing only I omitted to tell him, and it was this. 
 The moment my resignation had been accepted, 
 I inserted an announcement of my death in four 
 papers. Virtually dead I was to the world, 
 though living. And dead I wanted to be to her. 
 When my Indian friends saw the announcement 
 they were thunder-struck, and asked me if it 
 were a hoax. I replied that it must be a mis- 
 take. ' And a strange mistake, too,’ I said, ‘for 
 it has been pointed out to me in no less than four 
 papers, of which two are European.’ They 
 thought it a coincidence, and the subject was 
 dropped.” 
 
 “ Such is my secret,” continued Forrester, 
 gently taking Frank by the hand. “ And now 
 let me anticipate your condolences, by asking'you 
 to be silent. Compassion, even when it flows 
 
232 
 
 Ol’F THE STAGE. 
 
 from one so dear to me as yourself, pains me. 
 Do not let this story pass beyond yourself ; nor 
 ever let it be revived between us. I would bury 
 it with the years that are dead, and so forget 
 it.” 
 
 “ It was a terrible blow,” said Frank. 
 
 “ For one who loved as I loved, yes ; but there 
 are some who would long ago have forgotten it. 
 A thousand thanks for your patient attention. 
 You may, perhaps, like to know my motive in 
 telling you this. I will give it you. You are 
 my nephew, but I consider you also my son. 
 You are the offspring of a brother whose recol- 
 lection restores to me many a happy year now 
 obscured in the past. I little thought of finding 
 you ; but having found you, I would have you 
 know me — love me. And this you could not do, 
 until you had learned the secret that so imma- 
 turely lined this forehead, and imparted to this 
 face its repelling expression. But come, we will 
 go out ; and mind, not a word of this to even 
 Captain Sandboys. What you now know, you 
 
fokeesteb’s story. 
 
 233 
 
 alone I intended should know, hut none else.” 
 And passing his arm through Frank’s, they left 
 the hotel; the Hindoo, who had never once 
 moved since he had seated himself after his 
 leap, rising and following his master at a dis- 
 tance. 
 
234 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A GLIMPSE AT MARBIAGE LITE. 
 
 Seymour, we know, had taken a house just half 
 an hour’s walk away from Captain Sandboys. It 
 was precisely the kind of house that a young mar- 
 ried couple on five hundred a year would have 
 taken ; and it had been furnished exactly in the 
 manner that such a young couple on such an in- 
 come should have furnished it. 
 
 Kate now was become a very important per- 
 son. She was mistress of three things : herself,. 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 235 
 
 her house, and her husband ; and to find herself 
 all at once invested with this power, made her 
 veritably esteem herself to have arrived at that 
 state of life when she was Somebody at last. 
 
 True, she had always been Somebody before. 
 But then her position as Miss Sandboys had 
 been, comparatively speaking, without pomp — 
 without the recommendation of impressive facts. 
 She had regulated her father’s household for him, 
 with an authority very little qualified by the 
 lesser authority of Mrs. Peake ; she had domi- 
 neered over the Captain in a way that sufficiently 
 testified to his amiability, and to her knack in 
 bringing him to her way of thinking ; she had 
 long since assumed the empire of herself, and 
 suffered her thoughts or fancy to expatiate in 
 provinces that the rigorous education of a severe 
 parent might have forbidden her. But, in spite 
 of all this, she was still the girl supposed to be 
 ignorant of life ; she was still the child subject to 
 the dominion of her father ; she was still Kate 
 
236 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Sandboys, whom the Captain did not much like 
 to walk out alone, whose conversation was to be 
 dictated by a prudence from which she could not 
 well divest herself until she wa s married ; in a 
 word, whose whole conduct was governed by the 
 restraint that the fact of her being still a girl 
 inexorably imposed upon her* 
 
 But now all was changed. The shell of the 
 chrysalis had fallen, and the butterfly was on the 
 wing. The girl had become a woman, not by 
 time, but by circumstances; not by age, but bjr 
 position. And her blushing honours were now 
 doubly grateful to her, coming as they did after 
 the ascetic existence she had been compelled to 
 lead at Yartlepool. Her feelings were the feel- 
 ings of the boy who abandons for the first time 
 the blouse for the jacket, or the infant cap for 
 the manly hat. They were the feelings of those 
 of the sterner sex who, peering into the mirror, 
 abruptly discover the promise of a moustache or 
 a beard. They were the feelings we all hava 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MAKHIED LIFE. 
 
 237 
 
 when we find importance growing on us ; when 
 we have shaken off the influence of home, and 
 commenced man or woman. 
 
 This of Kate Seymour the woman ; but of Kate 
 Seymour the wife, a good deal more has to be 
 added. 
 
 She had hitherto been a girl little given to 
 meditation. Mentally she had seldom advanced 
 an hour beyond the present, and the past was 
 only remembered that it might by contrast im- 
 prove that present. But since her marriage she 
 had become infinitely more thoughtful ; she in- 
 dulged herself in frequent fits of abstraction, and 
 by degrees her face lost the girlish buoyancy of 
 expression, and took the pensive cast of her 
 mind. 
 
 Seymour observed this, not without a certain 
 regret. He, as most others would have done, 
 naturally attributed this change to the new phase 
 of life on which she had entered. He fancied 
 that she had come to contemplate it with more 
 seriousness than she had hitherto done ; he did 
 
238 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 not believe for a moment that she regretted the 
 step she had taken in uniting herself to him. 
 ^nd he did not believe it, because she had given 
 him no cause to believe it. On the contrary, her 
 conduct towards him was all that he — the hus- 
 band-lover — could desire. She was affectionate, 
 she was tender; by a thousand little acts she 
 sought to prove her love, and he was happy. 
 Still, he observed this meditative tendency taking 
 possession of her with regret. He would have 
 had her always as he wooed her ; the laughing, 
 light-hearted girl ; the coquette, the romp. She 
 had many a smile for him yet ; but mingled with 
 her mirth was a melancholy, imperceptible, per- 
 haps, to all but to the quick intelligence of his 
 faithful heart. 
 
 For her, she well knew how she was loved by 
 him ; yet she did not appreciate that love as it 
 deserved. She could not comprehend its steady 
 intensity, because she might have ignored it in 
 herself ; she valued the diamond, not because it 
 was priceless, not because it was pure, but be- 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MAEEIED LIFE. 
 
 239 
 
 cause it flaslied and sparkled before her, and 
 pleased her. There was a frivolity in her nature 
 that prevented her from settling dewn into a calm 
 e stimation or appreciation of the possessions that 
 were hers. And yet over her spirit, light, almost 
 reckless as it was in its essence, there was steal- 
 ing the gloom of a melancholy that she sought not 
 to dispel from herself, but to disguise from her 
 husband. 
 
 Once when he had entered unexpectedly from 
 the City, he found her in tears. She blushed 
 when she saw him, and dashing the glittering 
 drops away with her hand, looked up at him 
 with her smile. But he had sprang to her side. 
 
 “ My darling crying I tears in my Kate’s eyes ! 
 tell me, my own, what is it ?” 
 
 She hesitated a moment, ere she answered, and 
 glanced quickly around her. A book was lying 
 upon the table, and she pointed to it. 
 
 “ I have just been reading a little pathetic bit 
 in that story,” she answered ; “ and I was silly 
 enough to cry over it.” And then, she continued 
 
240 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 hurriedly, as if ashamed of the falsehood ; “at 
 least, it was partly that book and partly a curious 
 feeling. Oh J Charlie, don’t ask me what made 
 me cry. I don’t know what it was. I can’t ex- 
 plain the feeling to you. It was a sudden weak- 
 ness — ” 
 
 She abruptly paused, and turned her head 
 away, as if she could not bear to meet his calm, 
 loving glance. 
 
 “ But are you sure you are well, Kate ?” he 
 asked anxiously. “ I will send for a doctor.” 
 
 “ Oh! no, no!” she exclaimed, laying her hand 
 upon his arm, and looking up at him; “ I am 
 quite well, I am quite well. Do not send for a 
 doctor ; it would be useless. See, I am smiling 
 now. One moment I cry, and the next I laugh. 
 You must forgive us little women all our infirmi- 
 ties. We do a great deal that we do not mean to 
 do, and yet that we can’t help doing. Like the 
 dogs in Doctor Watts’ song, ‘ It is our nature 
 to.’ Now, how can I be ill if I talk so gaily as 
 this, or sad, either.” 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MAREIED LIFE. 
 
 241 
 
 He stooped, and lovingly kissed ker on her 
 forehead; then, uttering some fond remark, he 
 left the room. 
 
 As the door closed upon him, a shudder passed 
 over her frame, as if a sudden cold had struck 
 her and made her shiver. 
 
 Once again, they were seated one evening in 
 their little parlour. It was late, and Kate was 
 only sitting up because her husband had asked 
 her to keep him company whilst he smoked a 
 cigar. 
 
 Mortimer had been spending an hour or two 
 with them, having ^^ooked them up” at the 
 request of Seymour, whom he had met in Regent 
 Street on the preceding day. 
 
 Kate was pale and silent, evidently in one of 
 those abstracted moods which had grown familiar 
 to her now. 
 
 Seymour sat opposite to her, smoking peace- 
 fully away at his cigar, sometimes raising his foot 
 to scratch the back of a little poodle — Kate’s 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 M 
 
242 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 property — that snored with its nose through the 
 fender. 
 
 At last, he said, 
 
 ‘‘Mortimer has asked me to put my name 
 down for the ‘ Civilians’ Club.’ The entrance 
 fee is rather stiff; but he ensures my being 
 elected. I think I shall do so, for I am anxious 
 to cultivate a little society (for your sake, as I 
 know you are fond of it) ; and this I believe, is 
 the best and speediest way of bringing men about 
 you.” 
 
 Kate did not answer him for some moments, 
 and then she said, 
 
 “ You had better not do this.” 
 
 “Why, darling?” 
 
 “ Oh, I fancy it would be safer not.” 
 
 “ But why ?” 
 
 Again she paused. 
 
 “ I would prefer you entering the club on any- 
 body else’s recommendation but Captain Mor- 
 timer’s,” she said. 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MABEIED LIFE. 
 
 243 
 
 ‘'Why, I thought you liked Captain Morti- 
 mer,” he exclaimed, with a surprised smile. 
 
 She turned a shade paler as she answered, 
 “Yes, he is very nice as a friend; but — but, 
 Charlie, I would rather that you were under no 
 obligations to him.” 
 
 '' My pretty one,” he answered, gaily, “ no 
 obligations are incurred by a man’s entering a 
 club on another’s recommendation. It is a mere 
 question of general suffrage and fee.” 
 
 “ There are many other clubs that you might 
 belong to but the ‘ Civilians,’ are there not?” 
 
 “ Aye, lots ; but I like the ' Civilians ’ simply 
 because I know one of its members ; and his 
 acquaintance will enable me to become soon on 
 a friendly footing with all the rest.” 
 
 “But what character does Captain Mortimer 
 bear in the club ?” she asked, not without some 
 hesitation. 
 
 “Why, I can’t say,” he rejoined, “since I 
 have never taken the trouble to inquire. But 
 
 M 2 
 
244 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 wliat cTiaracter should you fancy he was likely to 
 hear, since you ask the question ?” 
 
 She gave her shoulders a timid little shrug, 
 as she answered, ‘‘ I cannot tell more than you.” 
 “ If I might draw my conclusions from what I 
 see of him outside,” continued Seymour, ‘‘ I 
 should fancy he must be very much liked. Cer- 
 tainly, he seems to possess all the recommenda- 
 tions that help a man to please ; he is lively, he 
 is gentlemanly, he is amiable, and, I doubt not, 
 honourable. Now, each of these is an advantage 
 which always procures friends.” 
 
 “ Still,” she said, trembling, “ I would rather 
 not have you join that club.” 
 
 “ Very well, my darling. Since you do not 
 wish me to, I won’t ; hut I want you to have 
 society, and have it you shall.” 
 
 Her eyes again sought the carpet ; and then, 
 stealing a glance at him, she murmured, “ You 
 are very good to me, Charlie.” 
 
 “ Good to you !” he exclaimed, “ Ah ! if I 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MARRIED LIFE. 24C 
 
 dared treat you as my heart suggests, I would 
 fall at your feet and worship you as the embodi- 
 ment of that deep, pure love I feel for you. 
 Kate, Kate,” he said, shaking his head gravely, 
 ^^you do not know how I love you.” 
 
 do,” she answered, almost passionately; 
 
 I know all your love for me. You are good 
 —you have a noble heart. Oh !” she murmured, 
 pressing her hand to her breast, had I your 
 goodness — had I your heart !” 
 
 She spoke too indistinctly for him to hear : bat 
 he rose and went over to her, and knelt down 
 before her. 
 
 Kate, my wife, my darling,” he said, look- 
 ing up into her face, you are melancholy ; of 
 late I have noticed many a time a passing sad- 
 ness creep over you, and banish the smile that 
 played upon your lips. Open your heart to me — 
 to me, your own love, your husband, to me — who 
 clasped you in my arms before God, promising 
 to smile with you in your smiles, to weep with 
 you in your tears, to comfort you in your sor- 
 
246 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 row, to be happy with you in your joys ; speak 
 to me, tell me your suffering !” 
 
 She made him no answer, but bowing her head 
 upon his shoulder, she burst into tears. 
 
 He was greatly agitated and perplexed, and 
 encircled her in his arms and strove to comfort 
 her. He called upon her to stay her tears and 
 tell him her sorrow. For a moment he fancied 
 that she might doubt his love, and hurriedly re- 
 viewed the past to see if he had omitted any act 
 of tenderness, or if he had been at all cold in his 
 manners towards her. His fancy, curious to 
 seek the reason of her conduct in his own heart, 
 sought not to question her. To question ! great 
 heaven ! to question w'ould have been to doubt ? 
 And what could he doubt ? could he doubt her 
 purity ? Yea, rather would he have doubted the 
 serenity of the stars ; rather the tranquillity of 
 the grave ; rather the promise of an immortal 
 heaven ! 
 
 She soon grew calm, and, as in the former in- 
 stance, she chased his fears away by the smile 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 247 
 
 she wrought upon her lips. She hushed every 
 thought by her assurance that of old she was 
 troubled with these strange fits, which she said 
 a doctor had called hysteria ; and for the 
 cause, she bade him not search for it in her 
 mind, but in her constitution, where lurked the 
 seeds of this feminine disease^ but which she felt 
 assured would wear itself out in time. 
 
 And thus she pacified him, and he grew cheer- 
 ful, and kissed away the glittering tears upon 
 her eyelash. 
 
 Was it experience, or was it a poetic frenzy 
 that dictated the satirical chorus in Samson 
 Agonistes ?” Be it what it might, let no man 
 nor woman either, deny the truth of this : — 
 
 It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit. 
 
 Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, 
 That woman’s love can win or long inherit; 
 
 But what it is, hard is to say*— 
 
 Harder to hit 
 
 (Which way soever men refer it) . 
 
 Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day 
 Or seven, though one should musing sit. 
 
248 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Is it for that such outward ornament 
 
 Was lavished on their sex, that inward gifts 
 
 Were left for haste unfinished, judgment scant, 
 
 Capacity not raised to apprehend 
 Or value what is best 
 
 In choice ; but oftenest to affect the wrong? 
 
 Or was too much of self-love mix’d — 
 
 Of constancy no root infix’d. 
 
 That either they love nothing or not long ?’* 
 
 To Seymour now, such little scenes were the 
 gossamer clouds upon Love’s young heaven, sail- 
 ing softly away, or vanishing even as they rose. 
 But in later days he remembered them as the 
 heralds of the black midnight that was about to 
 blot his life into nothingness — and remembered 
 them with the same fierceness that the felon re- 
 members the hand that seared his quivering 
 fiesh with the enduring brand and agony of his 
 shame. 
 
 Mortimer was a frequent visitor with the Sey- 
 mours now. Not so frequent as to appear an 
 intruder; though, after a time, he pretended 
 this to be his fear. He regulated his calls ” 
 with the discrimination of a man who, knowing 
 his society to be liked, yet is also aware that 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 249 
 
 even the most delightful persons grow wearisome 
 when too much is seen and heard of them. 
 
 Kate also occasionally accompanied her hus- 
 band in his visits to Montague Square. Here 
 she sometimes met Frank, who appeared now on 
 the most intimate terms with the family. Mrs. 
 Fairlie was always most gracious in her recep- 
 tions of the young wife ; and once— whether to 
 try an experiment (for she was very fond of ex- 
 periments) or whether to seek for a confirmation 
 of her own belief — she took an occasion to rally 
 her upon her vieux amour (as she called it) for 
 her brother. Captain Mortimer. 
 
 Come,” she exclaimed to Kate, who, at the 
 mention of Mortimer’s name, instead of growing 
 red had turned pale, and had maintained silence, 
 I know very well you liked him ; or, at any 
 rate, if you didn’t like him, he liked you. I 
 call it liked, to save your wifely ears from a softer 
 name.” And she gave a merry laugh. 
 
 Keally, Mrs. Fairlie,” said Kate, endeavour- 
 ing, in vain, to assume a reserved and dignified 
 
 M 5 
 
250 
 
 OFF THE STAGE, 
 
 air, “ this is hardly the fittest subject you could 
 select upon which to exercise your wit. You 
 can scarcely need this,” she said, exposing her 
 wedding ring, “ to remind you of the different 
 position I have assumed since the days to which 
 you refer and she grew even paler as she 
 paused. 
 
 “ You are not surely angry with me !” ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Fairlie, in a caressing manner, 
 laying her hand upon the girl’s shoulder. “ If I 
 have caused you pain, you must forgive me, for, 
 believe me, it was quite unintentional.” 
 
 “You have given me no pain,” said Kate, 
 forcing a smile ; “ only — ” 
 
 “ Only what ?” Then seeing she did not 
 answer, Mrs. Fairlie said, laughingly, “come, 
 you must not plead the feelings of a wife, and 
 say I have wounded you there. For, after all, 
 surely matrimony is not such a state of servitude, 
 that we poor wives are to be prohibited bestowing 
 an occasional thought upon an old lover. For 
 my part, had I found my first husband so 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MARKIED LIFE. 
 
 251 
 
 rigorous, you may be sure I shouldn’t have 
 taken a second.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh ! pray do not think that I am so precise 
 in my views as all that !” said Kate, 
 
 “ I should think not, Mrs. Seymour. Precision 
 in all rules of conduct is odious. There are cer- 
 tain general laws laid down for us to adopt, which 
 society compels us to conform to. These laws, I 
 suppose, are useful, and therefore good. But 
 when society attempts to prohibit or restrain our 
 fancies, then good bye to all happiness. Slavery 
 can go no further. And yet there are men who 
 would attempt this if they thought their attempt 
 would prove successful.” 
 
 Kate did not answer. She was thinking over 
 what she had just heard. 
 
 Unfortunately for me,” continued Mrs. Fair- 
 lie, I was born a deadly enemy to all oppression, 
 I argued, and argue still, that nature, who knows 
 far better what is good for us than ourselves, did 
 not impart to us our predilections or desires, that 
 we should thwart them, or act contrary to their 
 
252 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 suggestions. After all, why should we treat the 
 heart differently from the manner in which we 
 treat our mouths ? When our mouths object to 
 food we cannot prevail upon ourselves to swallow 
 it. But we overrule all the objections of our 
 heart simply because society compels us to. 
 What our mouths like we give them when we 
 can; but we may not treat our hearts so 
 kindly.” 
 
 Kate nodded her attention, and Mrs. Fairlie 
 continued, 
 
 “ Society, or, if you will, our husbands, keep us 
 just like school girls. As a school girl you are 
 obliged to take food you don’t like ; and in after 
 years husbands or society make us do the same 
 thing, only in a different way. Grooves are cut 
 for us through life in which we are to travel, 
 whether we like it or not ; if we deviate in the 
 least degree from this odious track the world 
 shuts its modest eyes, and wrinkles up its modest 
 nose and tells us we are wicked. But in what are 
 we wicked ? In adopting the suggestions of the 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MAKRIED LIFE. 253^ 
 
 heart — suggestions which are in reality the 
 whisperings of a wise nature ? Supposing I am 
 married, and yet love another man — one whom I 
 loved before I married my present husband? 
 May I not think of him, pray, without being 
 called bad names ? Aye, and may I not love him 
 too ? Who is to prohibit me ? Ugh ! how I 
 hate the word precision. It means so much and 
 so little. But I’ll not be precise ! let the world 
 think or say what it likes. Whilst my heart has 
 life it shall treasure up its own secrets ; aye, and 
 live upon them, too !” 
 
 And she turned her flashing eyes upon Kate 
 with an expression of fine scorn. 
 
 This, it must be confessed, was a rather curious 
 philosophy for a young girl-wife to be instructed 
 in. Whether she did not fully grasp its mean- 
 ing, or whether her heart secretly inclined itself 
 to the views thus plainly enunciated, it is certain 
 that Kate did not show any resentment at Mrs. 
 Fairlie’s frank mode of speech ; but on the con- 
 trary, by a timid yes ” here and there inserted. 
 
254 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 confessed herself to be, if not a believer in, at 
 least no enemy to Mrs. Fairlie’s opinions. 
 
 When they went away Seymour said, 
 
 “ I bave asked Mary to spend a few days with 
 us. Sbe bas promised to come to-morrow. You 
 bave no objection, bave you?” 
 
 Kate hesitated a moment, and then said, 
 
 ‘‘ No.” 
 
 “ That ‘ no ’ wasn’t cheerful, sweet. Come, if 
 you object, I’ll postpone ^her visit.” 
 
 No, I don’t object at all,” said Kate. 
 
 After a pause he said, 
 
 “ There you are, in one of your thoughtful fits 
 again. I do believe you are maturing some 
 scheme to dazzle us, or the world, with.” 
 
 She looked up at him with a frightened ex- 
 pression in her eyes, and said, 
 
 “ Why, what scheme do you think I am cap- 
 able of maturing ?” 
 
 “ Lots, lots !’’ he answered, cheerfully. “But 
 I have it, you are meditating an epic poem I 
 You are going to give England a female Milton I 
 
A GLIMPSE AT MARRIED LIFE. 
 
 255 - 
 
 Ha ! ha ! Oh ! Kate, Kate, what a lovable little 
 poet you’ll make ! Come, tell me ; is it an. epic 
 poem ?” 
 
 And could he have caught hut one brief glimpse 
 of the future, he would have found that his fondly 
 silly conjecture was more likely to he realised 
 than it could have entered his heart to conceive ; 
 that the girl by his side, though no poet, was 
 maturing that which enters into the province of 
 the poet — not an epic poem, but a tragedy ! 
 
256 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 Whether it was owing to Frank’s hearty, jovial, 
 and yet withal gentlemanly manners, his candid 
 speech, and his good looks, or whether it waa 
 that the delight Mr. Forrester experienced in 
 having found one relation after an interval of so 
 many years, during which time he had considered 
 himself, like the ancient mariner, ‘‘all, all alone,” 
 inspired the feeling that had taken possession of 
 his breast ; or whether, as is certainly more pro- 
 bable, it was due to a combination of the above 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 257 
 
 facts, it is certain that Frank’s uncle, considering 
 the comparatively short time they had known 
 each other, had taken a great and undisguised 
 liking to him, so much so that he soon began to 
 communicate this affection to Frank, who having 
 now, as it were, become possessed of the secrets 
 of Forrester’s heart, very shortly discovered what 
 an excellent heart it was. 
 
 Doubtless Forrester’s object in thus early im- 
 parting to his nephew the story we have heard 
 him recite in a former chapter, was that it might 
 furnish him with an excuse or explanation of the 
 strange moodiness and uncontrollable fits of 
 melancholy, which, in spite of himself, would 
 frequently possess him. To these moods Frank 
 soon became accustomed ; whatever curiosity he 
 might have felt to inquire into their cause had 
 been anticipated; and whilst he acknowledged 
 the obligation of his uncle’s confidence, it served 
 to rivet those bonds of affection which a few 
 hours’ conversation had been found sufficient to 
 forge. 
 
258 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 That Forrester had believed in the efficacy of 
 confession to heal or comfort the wounds of the 
 heart, cannot he doubted. A priestly benediction, 
 however, would not have satisfied him. To have 
 solicited the assistance of another to supplicate 
 that divine comfort which he himself was fully 
 capable of imploring, he would have accounted 
 ridiculous. His rugged nature could have found 
 no solace in the muttered blessings of supersti- 
 tion. The balm imparted by the sympathy of a 
 congenial spirit was what he had desired ; and 
 this at last he thought he had found in Frank. 
 
 And in a very great measure he had done so. 
 Frank’s was just the kind of sympathy he loved. 
 There might have been pity in it, but its pity was 
 not of th*e sort that degrades the object it com- 
 miserates. He beheld in his uncle a good and 
 virtuous man, possessed of qualities that, blunted 
 as they were by his misfortunes, yet betrayed the 
 worth of the nature of which they were the attri- 
 butes. He perceived in him the elevated thinker, 
 the enlarged mind, the iron will that had so long 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 259 
 
 wrestled with the secret solFering that consumed 
 him ; the stern spirit, not irritably chafing in its 
 pain, but subdued in its self-imposed resignation 
 — a resignation almost terrible, because so inimical 
 to the nature that had thus voluntarily shackled 
 itself with its restraint. All this he saw, and 
 though perhaps unintelligible to him, had he en- 
 deavoured to express it, he was conscious of its 
 existence by the manner in which his own spirit 
 shaped itself to his, participated in its emotions, 
 and whispered its sympathy. 
 
 This was the sympathy Forrester conjectured 
 he might meet with; this was the sympathy 
 of which he had long felt the want ; this was the 
 sympathy, his dream of which he now for the first 
 time saw realised. 
 
 And, let me add, this is the kind of sympathy 
 that all noble minds — noble, I mean as regards 
 their essence, as regards the radical lofty quali- 
 ties which, whether developed or not, are the 
 stamp which nature aflSxes to her masterpieces, 
 and which she abandons to the world to exalt or 
 
260 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 to degrade, to refine or to repress — this is the 
 kind of sympathy such minds exact ; and rarely 
 do they meet with it, for their exactions are 
 productive only when applied to congenial spirits. 
 This was the sympathy that Byron coveted, and 
 which he found not ; this was the sympathy that 
 all his creations might have craved for, but in 
 vain. Manfred sought it in the phantoms of the 
 universe, but it was not there. Conrad watched 
 for it in the wildly beautiful eyes of his Medora, 
 and perceived in its stead only the sweet love 
 that was but as a shadow of what he wanted. 
 Childe Harold travelled a world over, and amidst 
 the ruin of empires, or the hum of populous 
 cities, waited for it, and it came not. The Griaour 
 was hut a type of the lonely soul, panting, idly 
 panting for its own expression in the revelation 
 of a congenial mind. Shelley’s wild apostrophe 
 to his, 
 
 ‘'Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood!” 
 
 was the cry of a soul turning from the beating- 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 261 
 
 hearts in which he found no fellowship, to the 
 mutely eloquent glories of the world in which he 
 lived — to those glories, eloquent of the sympathy 
 for which he thirsted, which he had found in their 
 silence, but which he had rather met with in the 
 least accent of the human voice, in the least 
 grasp of the human hand, in the least pressure 
 to the human heart ! 
 
 Some few days after his arrival Forrester said 
 to Frank, 
 
 I want you to procure leave from your em- 
 ployer for a day or so, as I am anxious that you 
 should help me to fix upon a house. Since you 
 are to live in it as well as I, I think it only fair 
 that you should take a part in deciding upon one 
 most likely to suit us.” 
 
 But Captain Sandboys,” said Frank ; I 
 cannot leave the poor old man alone. How 
 terribly ungrateful he would think me, after 
 owing so much to him to desert him, as it were, 
 when perhaps he most needs my companion- 
 ship. For you must remember that without 
 
262 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 me he would be literally alone, having neither 
 wife nor child.” 
 
 “You are right,” said Forrester, gloomily. “I 
 have tasted the bitterness of solitude long enough, 
 and know it too deeply to be the means of hold- 
 ing the poisoned cup to any man’s lips, much 
 less to such a man as Captain Sandboys. But 
 then his would not be the loneliness of desertion, 
 such as mine has been. There would be no 
 recollection of ingratitude, no memory of out- 
 raged faith, no pain of that kind to embitter his 
 moments of lonely meditation. He laid a loving 
 wife in the grave. That separation may have 
 been sad, but his sadness can be sweetened by a 
 prayer offered upon the mound that marks her 
 resting place. But I — ” 
 
 He paused, and made a movement, as if to 
 tear himself away from the recollections thus 
 provoked. 
 
 “ But,” he continued, forcing a grave smile, 
 why need we talk of loneliness or separation ? 
 What is to prevent us all three living together ? 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 263 
 
 Other bachelors — and are we not bachelors? — 
 have done the same thing before ; why should we 
 not do it?” 
 
 “ Ah ! that would be splendid !” said Frank, 
 ^^and just the thing to suit the governor^ I 
 know.” 
 
 ‘‘ He and 1 are old friends,” said Forrester ; 
 
 at least too old to allow any feelings of delicacy, 
 or nonsense of that kind^ to interfere with our 
 plans. Perhaps he has an independent spirit, 
 and might object to what he might consider an 
 eleemosynary arrangement. If so, let him pay 
 his share.” 
 
 I am sure he would insist upon that. This 
 is an objection my knowledge of his character 
 helps me to anticipate. Therefore it is easily 
 obviated by presuming his share of payment to 
 be an arranged thing.” 
 
 Very good. And now,” said Forrester, ^‘1 
 have a word or two to say to you upon the sub- 
 ject of yourself. Firstly, I am anxious to hear 
 
^64 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 from you definitely and plainly what your schemes 
 are for the future ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Upon my soul,” said Frank, laughing, “ I 
 have stated them so often to others, who have 
 asked me the question, that I am almost ashamed 
 to repeat thein ; at least till I have made some 
 small advance towards their realisation.” 
 
 ‘‘ With one design of yours you have acquainted 
 me; that is of making your fortune. This, 
 however, though it sounds remarkably well, is 
 but, at the best, a somewhat ambiguous state- 
 ment of a man’s intention. Eveiybody who 
 commences life, commences it either to make a 
 fortune, or to improve what he already has. 
 Before he can do this, however, he must first of 
 all know the road which he intends to take to 
 lead to the end he covets. Now, which is 
 yours ?” 
 
 “ Business, I suppose,” said Frank, bluntly. 
 
 “ You mean commerce. You are now in a 
 merchant’s office— pray, at what salary ?” 
 
JTJDGMEKT BT INTUITION. 
 
 265 
 
 “ At a hundred and twenty pounds a year. 
 They gave me a ‘rise’ of ten pounds last 
 month.” 
 
 “ Come, that is very fair. But let me ask you 
 what is the use of your one hundred and twenty 
 pounds a year ?” 
 
 “ The use of it ?” exclaimed Frank, staring. 
 “ Why to live on, I suppose.” 
 
 “ Bah !” 
 
 “ But then I have two hundred a year of my 
 own besides.” 
 
 “ Which gives you an income of three hundred 
 and twenty. Now deduct from this sum one 
 hundred and twenty, and add in its place five hun- 
 dred, and you get a total of seven hundred pounds 
 a year. Now which would you rather have, this 
 or your present income ?” 
 
 “ How can you ask me?” said Frank, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders. 
 
 “ Well, it is yours, providing — ” 
 
 “ Providing what?” 
 
 “ That you throw up your beggarly clerkship, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 N 
 
266 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 and devote a little of your time and society to 
 your uncle, who wants it.” 
 
 And he held out his hand. 
 
 “ Your generosity is overpowering,” exclaimed 
 Frank, warmly seizing the protFered hand. 
 
 But how can I accept it ? How can I, a sturdy 
 fellow, come and live unblushingly on a man upon 
 whom I have no other claims than those of 
 relationship ?” 
 
 “ And pray what more urgent claims can you 
 desire ? I tell you your scheme of wealth is use- 
 less. This is the sort of life to which you would 
 destine yourself: to slave early and late, at a 
 desk, for the mere beggarly pittance which your 
 submission to others exacts for you. By and 
 bye, perhaps, to prosper a little, and if you are 
 successful to grow wealthy as you grow old. But 
 you must not think that the wealth you gain will 
 at all satisfy you — never mind what it may be. 
 On the contrary you will still continue toiling, 
 until your decayed brain and limbs refuse to 
 work any more. Meanwhile you have wasted the 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 267 
 
 hey day of your life in the smoky scenes of the 
 city, and your sole enjoyment has been the enjoy- 
 ment the most degrading to the mind of man — I 
 mean the enjoyment of making money. I say 
 that all this would occur to you, simply because 
 it occurs to almost every man occupied in a com- 
 mercial life. And I see not why you should 
 make any exception to what may be taken as a 
 general rule.'’ 
 
 But if such were your notions of business, 
 why did you commence it ?” 
 
 Perhaps I should not have done so, had I not 
 begun with a rather successful speculation in 
 cotton. Moreover my prosperity was too rapid 
 and rare to be quoted as an example. Then again, 
 you must remember I was always my own master; 
 and besides,” he added, his brow darkening, I 
 was driven into it.” 
 
 These views, it must be confessed, were rather 
 strange. And so they appeared to Frank. But Mr. 
 Forrester by no means meant what he said. His 
 object was to seduce Frank from the life to which 
 
 N 2 
 
268 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 he thought him wedded, hy disgusting him with 
 it. And his success was equal to his endeavours. 
 
 There is no doubt,” said Frank, thoughtfully, 
 ‘‘ that the life of a city clerk is not the most en- 
 joyable life in the world. But it is better than 
 the sea, though.” 
 
 “ Yes, I agree with you there. Bat it is better 
 than the sea in the same way that drowning is 
 better than hanging. No, Frank, a clerk’s life 
 is no life for you.” 
 
 “ But,” said Frank, “ I cannot think of living 
 upon you. And yet, if I desert the city, what 
 is to be done ?” 
 
 “ And why can’t you think of living upon me, 
 as you call it? Listen to me, Frank. Once 
 upon a time the idea of having a son was a most 
 ■cherished fancy with me. To have trained him 
 in my own way, to have instructed him in all 
 that was generous, noble, good ; to have watched 
 each early implanted quality slowly developing 
 itself, tended by the love that had itself planted 
 it — ah ! such was one of those visionary schemes 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 269 
 
 — tlie fondest, the brightest— with which in my 
 earlier, happier hours I was wont to amuse my- 
 self. But this design, suggested by resolves as 
 noble as they were sincere, was all at once ruth- 
 lessly shattered. I awoke from the dream to 
 find it grown wholly impracticable ; and the 
 abrupt departure of this innocent ambition left 
 one more void in my heart, aching enough even 
 then ! But it is in your power to relieve me, at 
 least in this pang. You will not deny me ! To 
 whom now has my heart, in her desolation, to 
 turn, but to yourself? to you— my brother’s son 
 and mine, if you will permit me to call you 
 so!” 
 
 He paused, and laid his hand with a gesture 
 full of fatherly love upon the boy’s shoulder. 
 Frank looked up and met his gaze fixed upon 
 him with an expression of profound affection. 
 In silence he seized his uncle’s hand and wrung 
 it. 
 
 Do with me what you will!” he exclaimed, 
 in a voice tremulous with emotion. We two 
 
270 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 are both alone in this world — alone as regards 
 that common origin which connects families in 
 one sacred inviolable bond. Why should I deny 
 you ? you who have offered me yourself as my 
 father — I offer you myself as your son.” 
 
 A look of indescribable sweetness illumined 
 the features of Forrester. 
 
 “ Henceforth, then,” he said, “ we are one. 
 Come, let us visit your more than father, 
 acquaint him of our plans, and ask his advice and 
 opinion. He is a good man ; and he must be 
 with us.” 
 
 It was six o’clock when they arrived at St. 
 John’s Wood; and they found the Captain with 
 his face flattened against the window, hungrily on 
 the look out for Frank, dinner having been ready 
 for half an hour. The explanation, however, 
 with which he was immediately furnished, very 
 soon served to wrinkle his honest face into a con- 
 gratulatory smile ; and striking his hand into 
 Forrester’s, he exclaimed, 
 
 “Well, sir, let me tell you this. In adopting 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 271 
 
 your nephew Frank as a son, you adopt one of 
 the most honest, best hearted, manly young 
 fellows in the world.” 
 
 Nevertheless, after he had thus expressed him- 
 self he grew pensive, and fixed his eyes on Frank 
 with a melancholy stare. 
 
 Frank, who at once conjectured his feelings, 
 proceeded to acquaint him of Forrester’s inten- 
 tion of taking a house for them all three to live 
 in. He expatiated in glowing terms upon the 
 jollity of such an arangement, and impatiently 
 watched the old man’s face as he concluded. 
 
 The Captain shook his head. 
 
 No,” said he, now that you’re going to 
 leave me, Frank, I’ll return to Yartlepool. You, 
 after alj, were the chief link that connected me 
 with London, and now that this is broken, I’ll 
 be off.” 
 
 Frank, fearing that his objection might emanate 
 from the cause he had stated to Forrester, said 
 that it was agreed that he should share a portion 
 of the expenses in their new home. 
 
 But the Captain still shook his head. 
 
272 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ It ain’t that,” said he : “ no. I’m weary of 
 London, and shall return to the old spot. It 
 will be an object for you and Kate, and Charlie, 
 often to run down to the sea-side— and perhaps 
 you might occasionally prevail upon — upon poor 
 Mary to accompany you in your visits.” 
 
 “ Mary ?” said Forrester ; “ I thought. Captain, 
 that you had only one daughter ?” 
 
 Frank explained the matter to him, and For- 
 rester repeated that he would like to be intro- 
 duced to the Fairlies. 
 
 “I’m off to Liverpool to-morrow,” said he, “ on 
 a matter of business. But on my return I will 
 accompany you to Montague Square. By the 
 way, I should much like to know your married 
 daughter. Captain Sandboys. Are we likely to 
 find her in to-night if we call?” 
 
 “ Sure,” said the Captain. “Frank, you must 
 take your uncle round. Kate will be charmed to 
 receive him.” 
 
 “ Perhaps you will accompany us. Captain,” 
 said Forrester. 
 
 But tbe Captain said no, being afraid of in- 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 273 
 
 creasing a slight cold, from which he was suffer- 
 ing; and so our couple left for the Seymours 
 without him. 
 
 It was just the night for a half-hour’s walk, 
 and they travelled pretty briskly along, smoking 
 their cigars and chatting as they went. Their 
 conversation principally concerned Captain Sand- 
 boys. 
 
 I am afraid,” said Frank, the poor old man 
 will feel very lonely at Yartlepool. I wish to 
 goodness we could prevail upon him to stop with 
 us.” 
 
 So do I; and perhaps he may when he has 
 considered the matter a little. By the way, why 
 doesn’t he get the Miss Mary, whom I heard him 
 speak of, to keep him company ?” 
 
 So she would, I am sure, only I am afraid 
 her father wouldn’t allow her to leave her home 
 for any length of time.” 
 
 Her father ? Mr. Fairlie — ah ! true. She is 
 Fairlie’s daughter, of course. I remember you 
 telling me. Is she a nice girl, Frank ?” 
 
 N 5 
 
274 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ To you, wlio profess to despise women, slie 
 might not be ; but to me, who am not quite so 
 cynical, she appears, and is, the sweetest girl I 
 have ever met — sweet, I mean, as to character and 
 so forth. She is not pretty, and yet somehow or 
 other, after you have been ten minutes or a quar- 
 ter of an hour in her society, you begin to think 
 her quite good looking. However, you’ll have an 
 opportunity of judging for yourself this evening. 
 You’ll meet her at the Seymours, for Charlie told 
 me she was stopping with them.” 
 
 “ But why do you and Sandboys call her poor 
 Mary for ? Her father is wealthy. "What is 
 there to compassionate in her?” 
 
 “ Oh ! it’s a long story,” answered Frank. 
 “ Too long, at all events, to tell you now. I’ll 
 let you have it as we go home to-night.” 
 
 They had approached within a few doors of 
 their destination. Suddenly a man passed them 
 walking rapidly. He did not seem to notice them 
 as he went by. Frank stopped and turned 
 around. 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 275 
 
 What are you looking at?” asked Forrester* 
 I thought so. I fancied I knew his walk/’ 
 Frank said. Oh! it is only Captain Mortimer, 
 who I presume has just left the Seymours.” 
 ^^And who is Captain Mortimer?” 
 
 Fairlie’s brother-in-law. I mean by that 
 that Captain Mortimer’s sister is the present Mrs. 
 Fairlie.” 
 
 Thanks for your explanation of the word,” 
 said Forrester, with a smile. 
 
 Just then Frank drew up, and pushing 
 open a small iron gate, advanced up a slip of a 
 walk to the hall door, his uncle following. 
 
 ‘‘I must introduce you to Mortimer,” said 
 Frank, during the pause between the summons 
 and the appearance of the servant. He is a 
 very gentlemanly fellow, and I fancy you’ll like 
 him,” 
 
 What is he a captain in ?” 
 
 On my soul, I have never asked him.” 
 Forrester smiled drily. 
 
 Every man’s a captain now-a-days,” he said. 
 
276 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ The esquire used to be thought the fashion, but 
 the military prefix has displaced it. However, I 
 have no doubt that your captain is all that you 
 say.” 
 
 They found Mary and Seymour just sitting 
 down to a game of backgammon. Kate occupied 
 a sofa by herself. She held a book in her hand, 
 but she did not seem to be reading. But the 
 book and the backgammon board were both dis- 
 carded on the entrance of the new comers. For 
 Frank only, this commotion would not have 
 taken place ; but the presence of Forrester was an 
 event. 
 
 “ I have heard a great deal of you from papa,” 
 said Forrester, gravely smiling and taking a seat 
 by the side of Kate. “ You will be surprised to 
 hear that I knew your excellent and worthy 
 father long before you came into this world to 
 brighten it with your smiles and your beauty.” 
 
 ‘‘ So Frank told me,” said Kate, pleased with 
 the compliment, and at once coming to the con- 
 clusion that Forrester was a very charming man. 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 277 
 
 I do not question the truth of your observa- 
 tion as regards her beauty, Mr. Forrester,” laugh- 
 ingly exclaimed Seymour, advancing towards 
 them and laying his hand on his wife’s shoulder 
 as he spoke; but as for the smiles, let me tell 
 you they have all gone. My naughty girl persists 
 now in irritating me by her melancholy face. 
 Can you suggest me a cure for this fell malady ?” 
 Name me the cause, and I will try, Mr. 
 Seymour,” answered Forrester, glancing from the 
 happy face of the husband to that of the wife, 
 from which the light smile that had momentarily 
 curled her lip had vanished. 
 
 ‘‘ What shall I tell him, Kate ?” asked Sey- 
 mour, stooping his ear down to his wife’s mouth, 
 and slyly laughing as he did so. 
 
 Tell him that my melancholy is — your fancy,” 
 answered Kate, once again forcing a smile, but 
 averting her eyes from the penetrating gaze that 
 Forrester had fixed on her. 
 
 Come, come,” said Seymour, rising, there 
 can be no fancy in a screwed up little mouth, 
 
278 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 and down-cast, pensive eyes.’’ Then, observing' 
 the half appealing glance that she threw at him, 
 he added, ‘‘ But to speak the truth, Mr. Forrester, 
 we haven’t been married very long, and after all 
 some allowances must be made for a young lover’s 
 imagination.” 
 
 The lightest sigh escaped the lips of Forrester, 
 hut, light as it was, she had heard it, and turned 
 to look at him. An expression of sadness had 
 overclouded his face, and involuntarily she again 
 averted her eyes from the glance that seemed to 
 pierce her. She was frightened at the stern 
 severity in his features, at the cold penetration 
 she marked in his eye. They were new to her, 
 and her cheek paled in their presence,, though she 
 knew not for why. 
 
 Meanwhile Seymour had started the conversa- 
 tion on another topic ; and she was thus tem- 
 porarily relieved from the embarrassment by Mr. 
 Forrester’s attention being diverted from her to 
 her husband. 
 
 Frank had seated himself beside Mary, and 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 27 & 
 
 whilst the conversation of which we have recorded 
 a fragment was being held at one end of the room, 
 this was the conversation that was being held at 
 the other. 
 
 . Yon are looking much better than you were. 
 Miss Fairlie/’ said Frank, ^^and I am charmed 
 to see it,” he added, gallantly. Ah ! you have 
 inspired Captain Sandboys with a wonderful 
 affection for you.” 
 
 ‘‘ He at least knows that it is fully recipro- 
 cated.” 
 
 ‘‘ Indeed he does. The one supreme wish of 
 his heart is — what do you fancy ?” 
 
 She slightly coloured, as she answered, 
 
 I cannot guess.” 
 
 That he may be allowed one day the happi- 
 ness of being able to adopt you as his daughter. 
 But this a great secret. Poor old man ! he is 
 full of quaint ideas.” 
 
 Mary was silent. The blush had left her cheek 
 a shade paler than it was before. 
 
 Captain Sandboys,” continued Frank, ^‘has 
 
280 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 spoken so much about you to my uncle, Mr. For- 
 rester, that he is quite eager to make your ac- 
 quaintance. You must permit me the pleasure 
 of introducing you to him when their conversa- 
 tion is concluded. Dear me !” he continued, 
 glancing at the group opposite, do look how 
 excitedly Charlie is declaiming ! Ha ! ha ! I 
 know what his theme is.” 
 
 ‘‘ What?” asked Mary. 
 
 Why, Kate — his wife, his darling, etcetera, 
 of course !” and again he uttered a merry laugh.. 
 
 But the girl at his side answered his merriment 
 with a low sigh. 
 
 Miss Fairlie,” he exclaimed, turning to her, 
 yon are sighing. Now, it is a maxim of mine 
 that young ladies should never sigh until they 
 have arrived at a certain age — which I call, in 
 round numbers, forty-five. Therefore, am I im- 
 pertinent in asking you the reason of your little 
 sigh, just uttered ?” 
 
 I will tell you,” she said seriously ; for 
 from the first moment I had made up my mind 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 281 
 
 that you were the best to whom I could commu- 
 nicate the secret. I have disco veered Kate,” she 
 added, lowering her voice almost into a whisper, 
 ^^is unhappy.” 
 
 He started, and instantly grew grave. 
 
 Unhappy !” he exclaimed. Are you sure. 
 Miss Fairlie ? Do not mistake the caprices of an 
 unsettled temper for unhappiness.” 
 
 No,” she replied, with a calm gravity that 
 impressed Frank with the truth of what she was 
 saying; she is unhappy, and — I know the 
 cause.” 
 
 ^^You have found that out?” he exclaimed, 
 with surprise, 
 have.” 
 
 And what is the cause ?” 
 
 It is — Captain Mortimer.” 
 
 All his levity had completely deserted him. He 
 was even graver now than she was. 
 
 It is impossible — impossible !” he murmured. 
 
 How can Captain Mortimer affect her peace ?” 
 This is a terrible suspicion even to entertain^ 
 
282 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 much more to utter,” she said ; ‘‘ but it is true — 
 true — oh ! do not mistake me,” she cried, appeal- 
 ingly. ‘‘ This is no fancy of mine, no empty preju- 
 dice such as I am thought to entertain against 
 Mrs. — Mrs. — ” she could hardly pronounce the 
 word, “ Fairlie. Oh ! why was I gifted with 
 this power of seeing things, of comprehending 
 things that so distress — so terrify me ?’’ 
 
 “Pray calm yourself. Miss Fairlie,” he said, 
 himself inspired with the strange dread she was 
 experiencing. “ Tell me, have you any reason — 
 have you seen anything that has induced you to 
 form this conclusion ?” 
 
 “ I have formed no conclusion ; I dare not,” 
 she answered, in a hurried, trembling whisper. 
 “ But she does not love her husband; she loves 
 — oh ! how can I utter it ? she loves — I know 
 she loves this Mortimer. It is before me ! I see 
 it apparent in each action, in each smile, in each 
 mood of thoughtfulness : and oh ! those moods of 
 thoughtfulness ! you, who know her so well, tell 
 me — tell me, what cause but one could produce- 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 283 
 
 such a sudden change in this gay, light-hearted 
 girl?” 
 
 And her eyes trembled with that strange bril- 
 liancy which forebodes tears. 
 
 The bare hint of such a suspicion agitated 
 Frank too much to suffer him now a moment’s 
 cool deliberation. His terror, lest it might be 
 true, frightened him as much as if he had been 
 the husband of the girl. In his momentary 
 powerlessness, he seemed to lean for support 
 upon Mary, and eagerly asked her what course 
 was to be adopted. 
 
 She, equally agitated a few seconds before, 
 had now become calm. 
 
 “You, who are his intimate,” she replied, 
 “ you must put him on his guard against that 
 man. You must caution him as to the probable 
 motives of bis frequent visits.” 
 
 “ He was heie this evening, was he not ?” 
 
 “He was; but only for a short time. He 
 had an appointment at his club, so he said.” 
 
284 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ I thought SO ; we met him as we came along.”' 
 “ Charlie is all faith — all truthfulness,” she 
 continued ; “ you must speak to him with all the 
 delicacy which I know you can exert. Besides,, 
 you know him so well ; he would not take such 
 a caution amiss from you, whereas from others,, 
 from even me, he would resent it with anger.” 
 He bowed his head, and she continued, sub- 
 duing always her voice, which was now firm and 
 clear : — 
 
 “ You must advise him to leave England for 
 awhile with her. He must take her for a tour 
 somewhere ; anywhere — anywhere out of that 
 man’s presence. Ah ! if you had watched him 
 as I have watched him ; seen them together ; 
 noted her in his presence — ” 
 
 Slie almost shuddered, and unconsciously 
 averted her face from Kate, who accidentally 
 glanced at her from the other side. 
 
 At that moment, Forrester rose and advanced 
 towards Frank. 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 285 
 
 ’'^Silence now,” she rapidly whispered, almost 
 authoritatively. You know how to act; I leave 
 all to your judgment.” 
 
 And he bowed his head with the submissive 
 gesture of a man who has received the commands 
 of a superior mind. 
 
 Frank having introduced his uncle to Mary, 
 left them alone and went over to the others. He 
 strove hard to conceal the emotion Mary’s un- 
 expected communication had awakened in him, 
 and he partially succeeded. Seymour, however, 
 observing the slight melancholy that he could 
 not wholly disguise, rallied him a little upon it, 
 and declared that he was in love, winking at Kate 
 as he said so, and glancing significantly in the 
 direction of Mary. 
 
 But Frank’s real terror was for Captain Sand- 
 boys. Somehow or other, Sejmour seemed not 
 to be so present to his mind as the Captain. 
 Should anything go wrong with Kate .... he 
 dared not think of it. He strove to banish the 
 feeling in mingling with the cheerful conversa- 
 
286 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 tion with which Seymour entertained him ; but 
 «ver as he regarded Kate, abstracted, pale, heed- 
 ing not the remarks that fell from her husband’s 
 lips, a conviction of the truth of Mary’s suspicion 
 would rush upon him and strangle the rising 
 laugh in his throat. 
 
 When they left the house, Frank asked For- 
 rester his opinion of Mary. 
 
 “ She is a charming lady-like girl,” he an- 
 swered, with something almost of enthusiasm in 
 his manner ; ‘‘ she has completely won my 
 heart. Twenty such as she would redeem the 
 whole sex !” 
 
 Frank was also about to ask his opinion of 
 Kate, hut a strange dread all at once seized 
 him. He dared not— could not pronounce her 
 name. 
 
 Before parting, his uncle held him by his hand 
 for awhile in silence ; he seemed to be lost in 
 thought. At last he said, gravely, 
 
 ‘‘ Frank, not a word to the Captain of what you 
 Jaave noticed to-night in his daughter ?” 
 
JUDGMENT BY INTUITION. 
 
 287 
 
 I ?” exclaimed Frank, astounded. 
 
 Yes, you have noticed what I have noticed. 
 She is unhappy, and her love for her husband, if 
 ever she felt any, is gone.” 
 
 Frank shuddered. 
 
 Has Mary said — ” 
 
 Said what?” 
 
 Then seeing he did not reply, Forrester con- 
 tinued, 
 
 Mary has said nothing; but this heart,” 
 striking his breast, ^Uhis intelligence has, and 
 so has yours. Come, we- are not fools ; she may 
 be reclaimed, but he must be careful. If her 
 husband would save her — away with her! far 
 uway to the world’s end, to a spot remote from 
 man : where, if she must love anybody else but 
 him whom she swore before her God to love, let 
 her turn to the wild beast. That will save her 
 husband from jealousy I” 
 
 He laughed almost fiercely, then altering his 
 voice by subduing it, he added. 
 
288 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ But not a word to the Captain, Frank ; not 
 a word to him.” 
 
 And abruptly wringing his nephew’s hand, he 
 walked away. 
 
 END OF VOL. II. 
 
 T. 0. Newbjj 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square, London, 
 
OFF THE STAGE 
 
 A STOKY. 
 
 IN TEHEE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 
 
 30, WELBECK STKEET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 1867. 
 
 [the right op translation is reserved.] 
 
OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE WILL OF A MAN’cAN OPEBATE 
 UPON THE WILL OP A WOMAN. 
 
 Mbs. Faiblie had just come in from a drive in 
 her open carriage with two horses. She had been 
 out driving alone, for who had she to go with 
 her ? Mr. Fairlie had talked bigly of society to 
 Mary before he married Augusta, but somehow 
 or other, instead of cultivating the society he 
 
 VOL. in. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 had not, he insensibly began to lose the society 
 he had. And of this, the reason was sufficiently 
 obvious. 
 
 He had wanted his wife to accompany him in 
 a social tour — that is to say, he had wanted her 
 to call with him upon a list of certain friends, 
 which he had written down ; but from motives of 
 which she did not volunteer the explanation, 
 Mrs. Fairlie had, to use an expressive vulgarism, 
 backed out of it.” This had been quite enough 
 for Mr. Fairlie. He had not pressed her ; on the 
 contrary, he had implored her (though quite un- 
 necessarily) to please only herself, and not to mind 
 him. For the yes and no of the divinity at whose 
 feet he worshipped were laws to him, as rigidly 
 enforced by love as ever civil laws were enforced 
 by a local magistrate. 
 
 And in all sincerity, it was perfectly im- 
 » 
 
 material to him whether he had society or not. 
 His world had dwindled into a microcosm ; its 
 pleasures and its societies were all combined in 
 in a single word. His wife was his universe ; 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 3 
 
 ;and it booted not to bim wbat occurred beyond 
 ber. 
 
 It is therefore needless to say that when society 
 found be did not come after it, it did wbat 
 society will generally do in all sucb cases, — it 
 left bim alone. Now and then a stray card would 
 be placed in tbe footman’s bands ; but when tbe 
 nwner of that card found bis politeness or friend- 
 liness not to be reciprocal, be first grew indig- 
 nant, next contemptuous, and finally, obliterated 
 the name of Fairlie from bis recollection. 
 
 Why Mrs. Fairlie shrank from the society that 
 «very other woman courts ; why she advanced as 
 ber excuse that ber whole happiness was in ber 
 home, that ber husband was all the society she 
 eared for, and that she was loth to have ber 
 domestic peace interrupted by ball and dinner- 
 party invitations, are questions not easily to be 
 answered. That ber reasons, whatever they were, 
 were good— at least, good as concerned herself— 
 those only will dispute who are ignorant that 
 this woman never acted without a purpose ; that 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 her whole conduct was regulated by motives as 
 secret and deep as her eyes ; and that if her rea- 
 soning ever failed her, it was not for want of 
 skill in adjusting possibilities, and projecting a 
 series of reasonable conjectures to the object in 
 the future for which she endeavoured, but because 
 her whole scheme was subverted by one of those 
 perplexing difficulties which, as they cannot be 
 foreseen, so they cannot possibly be obviated. 
 
 She had just come in from a drive in that car- 
 riage, to which she was as much devoted as she 
 could be devoted to anything. It was such a 
 delightful carriage ! and the horses were two 
 such adorable creatures ! There was something 
 so delicious in leaning back upon the soft cush- 
 ions and feeling herself carried through the air 
 with the consciousness that so many eyes were 
 watching her, so many of her own sex envying 
 her, and so many of the other sex admiring. She 
 knew that she looked better in that carriage than 
 in or out of anything else. How could she tell 
 but that she might be mistaken for some great 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 5 
 
 personage? for some ^^lady of quality?” She 
 knew none of the nobility by sight, but she felt 
 certain that there was no duchess, countess, 
 baroness, honourable, or lady in the land, and 
 especially in that piece of land which comprises 
 in its limits the parks and the neighbourhood of 
 St. James’, whom she could not fully equal, as 
 far as the exterior of herself, her carriage, her 
 horses, and her servants went. And this was the 
 thought most constantly in her mind when she went 
 out driving. 
 
 On this particular day she happened to be all 
 alone in the house. Mr. Fairlie had left town 
 for a place some thirty or forty miles away from 
 London, to look over an estate which he had 
 seen advertised for sale, and which, from its de- 
 scription,, he concluded might furnish him with 
 a very tolerable investment. He had wanted his 
 wife to accompany him, saying the trip would do 
 her good; but she had declined, on the plea of a 
 slight indisposition, and he had left without 
 her. 
 
6 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Mary, as we know, was witk the Seymours j 
 and Mrs. Fairlie had said to herself in the morn- 
 ing, 
 
 “ I will dine to-day at two o’clock ; at half- 
 past three I will go out for a drive ; I will return 
 some time between six and seven ; I will then 
 have tea, and for the rest of the evening I must 
 leave that to shift for itself.” 
 
 Such had been her programme for that day ; 
 and she had now arrived at the moment when 
 she was to have tea. 
 
 She had never been left alone before by her 
 husband ; and as she sat in the parlour, occasion- 
 ally glancing round the handsome apartment, with 
 its elegant furniture and valuable pictures, a feel- 
 ing akin to what Caesar might have felt when the 
 Eoman crown was offered him took possession of 
 her, and her lip curled with the complacent smile 
 that tells how satisfied the smiler is with his 
 achievements. 
 
 “ From Garley Street to Montague Square,’” 
 she said to herself, “ was a great stride. From 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 7 
 
 lodgings at sixteen shillings a week to a house 
 whose rental is — I fancy — nearly four hundred 
 pounds a year, is a step upon which I really be- 
 lieve that I have some reason to pique myself. 
 And,” she continued, biting her nails in her 
 thoughtfulness, and fixing her eyes upon the 
 silver tea-pot that shone upon the table, the 
 success would be downright triumphant, were it 
 not for that contemptible little enemy of mine, 
 Mary, who, however, with all her arts could not 
 oppose my admission. ’Pon my word,” she 
 mused, a light frown gathering upon her fore- 
 head, ’twas positively too absurd her supposing 
 that her infant prejudice was potent enough to 
 bar these doors to me, and strangle the feelings 
 I had inspired her father’s heart with. And yet 
 her prejudice is curious enough ; I even allow its 
 merit for truth. But the fool must act with 
 more cunning if she fancies that by persisting 
 in it she can injure me with her father. Ugh ! 
 there’s an enemy to contend with ! It is as 
 
8 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Immiliating as if 1 were crowing my victory 
 over a ctild.” 
 
 She paused, and drew in a short breath, beat- 
 ing time with her foot to a tune that escaped her 
 lips. Then she made herself a cup of tea, and 
 perhaps there was something in the silver tea- 
 pot, as she handled it, that caused her to resume 
 the thoughts which had been interrupted by the 
 unpremeditated tune. 
 
 “How does she stand with her father? I have 
 undermined her with him enough. Heaven knows ! 
 but the affection that makes the flesh cling to its 
 own may be too strong for me. If be loves her 
 still, and yet knows it not ; if in his heart there 
 lingers any remains of the devotion that subsisted 
 between them before I came, a quiet death-bed 
 will destroy me. I, who am now empress of his 
 heart, should also be empress of his fortune. She 
 would not prevent me usurping the one throne ; 
 but the other — bah ! it is a mere question of 
 time— of time, and of that same cunning which. 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 9 
 
 if I had employed it in scenes of greater moment, 
 would have gained for me an historic renown. 
 Curses on the fate/’ she muttered, almost aloud, 
 and with intense bitterness, that binds me 
 down to this mean, this narrow walk of life ! 
 Why was I not born in that position which, ere I 
 can now attain it, all my beauty will be faded. 
 There are wings to the spirit within me that 
 might expand and soar in a region less narrowed 
 by those petty hopes and fears which keep me 
 here — in this state — ^bowed to the earth, to work 
 with the sublety of the snake that cannot 
 mount, instead of acting with the decision and 
 majesty of the eagle that regards with contempt 
 from its superb height the clumsy movements of 
 earth-grovelling fools.” 
 
 Mrs. Fairlie’s thoughts were now evidently run- 
 ning into heroics. What further grandeur of 
 declamation I might have had to record, I know 
 not, had she not been suddenly interrupted by 
 the sounds of a cab stopping at the door, followed 
 by the brisk ringing of the hall bell. This im- 
 
 B 5 
 
10 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 mediately pnt all lier lofty fancies to flight ; and 
 smoothing the composure that had become some- 
 what ruffled, she awaited the entrance of the new 
 comer in silent expectation. 
 
 It proved to be Captain Mortimer, who, in the 
 presence of the servant, saluted Mrs. Fairlie with 
 great show of politeness, and who, on the depar- 
 ture of the servant, flung himself into a chair 
 with very little ceremony indeed. 
 
 What brings you here?” asked Mrs. Fairlie, 
 glancing at him with a look of mingled anxiety 
 and distrust. I didn’t expect to see you in the 
 least.” 
 
 I suppose not,” he answered. However, 
 here I am, though I purpose stopping only for a 
 short time, having my cab at the door ; which 
 fact or facts, I presume, fair lady, you hear with- 
 out regret?” 
 
 No, I am always glad to see you,” she an- 
 swered drily. 
 
 Yes, with the gladness with which I suppose, 
 the felon contemplates the approach of his 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 11 
 
 executioner. Ha! ha! but a truce to all jocu- 
 larity. Fairlie told me at the club yesterday that 
 he was leaving to-day for the country, after an 
 estate ; so I thought I would take an opportu- 
 nity during his absence of paying you a brotherly, 
 a friendly, and a short visit. What think you of 
 my kindness 
 
 What do you require?” she asked, endea- 
 vouring in vain to conceal her anxiety. 
 
 He replied by holding up his hands before him, 
 with six of his fingers outspread. 
 
 Which means ?” she said. 
 
 Count,” he answered. 
 
 What do you mean ? I do not comprehend 
 you. Pray explain yourself,” she said, with some 
 show of irritation. 
 
 How many fingers amiholding up?” he asked. 
 
 Six.” 
 
 Very good. Now, do you mean to tell me 
 that you have all at once grown so dull as not to 
 be able to immediately interpret this most signifi- 
 cant symbol ?” 
 
12 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Do you want money.” 
 
 There/’ he exclaimed, shrugging his shouU 
 ders ; this queen of sagacity at last compre- 
 hends me.” 
 
 ^^And you want six hundred pounds?” she 
 asked, dubiously. 
 
 Again he shrugged his shoulders, with a 
 lengthened Bah !” 
 
 Then, with a melo-dramatic flourish of his 
 hand, he pointed round the apartment. 
 
 Behold,” he exclaimed, “ all these beautiful 
 things. Survey those pictures, eloquent of wealth ; 
 this furniture, so expressive of means ; these car- 
 pets, these curtains, these thousand and one 
 emblems of a right excellent banking account ; 
 survey them, and tell me how you can And the 
 heart to pollute their presence with the vile, the 
 vulgar expression of hundreds !” 
 
 ‘^You have been drinking,” she exclaimed^ 
 with a look of disgust. 
 
 Lafitte ; on my word and honour only 
 Lafitte,” he answered. 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 13 
 
 Will you tell me what you want?” she said, 
 angrily. 
 
 Again he held up his hands before her. 
 
 Try once more,” said he. 
 
 She left her chair, and commenced pacing the 
 room with a hurried and irritated step, but 
 deigned him no reply. 
 
 ^^Ah,” said he, the brightness of the queen 
 of sagacity is getting dulled. She understands 
 signs no longer; she must have words. Be it so : 
 I want six thousand pounds of you.” 
 
 She halted and confronted him with an alarmed 
 loot. 
 
 Six thousand pounds !” she exclaimed. 
 
 At last, you understand me. Yes,*^six thou- 
 sand pounds.” 
 
 It is impossible.” 
 
 He rose, and approaching her close, laid his 
 hand upon her arm. 
 
 Some months ago,” he half whispered, 
 
 had I told you that you would have exchanged 
 the mean and humble apartments 'of Garley 
 
14 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Street for this palace, you would have ridiculed 
 me. But you see it has come to pass. Fifty 
 years ago, had our old periwigged grandfathers 
 been told that their post-chaises, which travelled 
 at six miles an hour, would be replaced ere long 
 by machines that should convey them nine times 
 that distance in the same time, they would have 
 locked their informant up in Bedlam. Woman ! 
 I tell you there is nothing impossible in this 
 world. I want six thousand pounds of you. 
 Give it me.” 
 
 She seemed half frightened at his manner, for 
 she wrested her arm away from the grasp that 
 had tightened on it, and resumed her seat, re- 
 peating, however, as she did so, 
 
 It is impossible.” 
 
 Nonsense !” he cried, almost fiercely; I 
 must have it.” 
 
 You had three thousand from me not long 
 ago. You promised not to come again upon me 
 for some time. Why do you break your word 
 for, thus ?” 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 15 
 
 No word is broken. But this word is given. 
 I mean that when you have given me this cheque, 
 you shall hear no more from me in this world.” 
 She became suddenly plunged in thought, an d 
 throwing himself into his chair, he remained 
 watching her in silence. 
 
 At last she glanced up at him. 
 
 It is impossible that I can get this money 
 from him all at once. It must be done by de- 
 grees.” 
 
 That will not do,” he answered, doggedly ; 
 ‘‘ I must have it all at once. Come, remember 
 the penalty, and let that sharpen your inge- 
 nuity.” 
 
 She turned deadly pale, but made no answer, 
 again appearing lost in thought. After some 
 moments’ silence, she said. 
 
 When do you want this money?” 
 
 ‘‘ Almost immediately.” 
 
 ^^Will a fortnight do for you?” 
 
 No ; nor yet a week.” 
 
 I swear you shall have it in a fortnight.” 
 
16 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 And I swear I must have it long before.” 
 Then/’ she said, in a dead, cold tone, that 
 caused him to start, you cannot have it before 
 a fortnight. At the expiration of that time, I 
 swear to give it you. If this will not please you, 
 do your worst.” 
 
 You mean to say,” he asked, in a more con- 
 ciliatory voice, that you cannot get this money 
 out of him before a fortnight ?” 
 
 ^'No.” 
 
 ^^What has become of all your powers of 
 pleasing — your fascination ?” 
 
 They still exist. Nevertheless, I cannbt do 
 what you require.” 
 
 There was no mistaking the determined manner 
 in which she now spoke. 
 
 He appeared greatly embarrassed, and checked 
 himself in one or two efforts to address her. 
 
 At last he said, 
 
 ^^Am I to accept this as definite?” 
 
 As definite,” she said, coldly. 
 
 He glanced irresolutely at her, and said. 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 17 
 
 ‘‘ I shall have left the county before a fort- 
 night.” 
 
 It matters not where you are/’ she answered, 
 without testifying any surprise at his communi- 
 cation. ‘^On this day fortnight I swear that a 
 cheque shall be forwarded to you for this amount. 
 If this contents you, good ; if not — ” and she 
 shrugged her shoulders without concluding her 
 remark. 
 
 ^^Are you honest?” he suddenly exclaimed, 
 leaning forward and glaring at her from beneath 
 his contracted brows. ^^If you are playing me 
 false, by Q — ! the very grave shan’t ease you of 
 the suffering I will bring upon you!” 
 
 She went to a side table and brought away a 
 Bible, which she held up before him. 
 
 I swear,” she exclaimed, impressively, by 
 this Book that I am honest in what I say. On 
 this day fortnight you shall receive, or have sent 
 to you, the amount for which you ask me. I 
 swear it.” 
 
18 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 The suddeness of this action startled, though 
 it seemed to satisfy him. 
 
 If it must he so,” he said, rising, let it he. 
 You shall hear from me before then, and I will 
 give you my address. If I do not hear from you 
 punctually on the day named, in four-and-twenty 
 hours after you will have me at this house — and 
 you know why.” 
 
 She howed her head in token of acquiescence, 
 and without a word he swung himself out of the 
 room. Soon after she heard the sounds of cah- 
 wheels rolling away. 
 
 For at least twenty minutes after his departure 
 she remained wrapped in thought ; her form as 
 motionless, her features as rigid in the first dark, 
 terrible expression that had fastened upon them^ 
 as if she had been suddenly transformed into 
 some marble statue, expressive of savage medita- 
 tion. Yet, notwithstanding this apparent rigidity 
 of the lineaments of her face, a strange haggard- 
 ness imperceptibly commenced to steal over them.. 
 
THE OPEKATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 19 
 
 Her thoughts, whatever their nature, seemed all 
 at once to have assumed the power of time, mak- 
 ing darker the darkness under her eyes, hollowing 
 her cheeks, and contracting the corners of her 
 mouth into wrinkles which might as well 
 have been mistaken for age, as for that which 
 they really represented — the terrible passions 
 that were then rendering chaotic her mind. Had 
 her husband seen hei at that moment, he would 
 have thought her some witch, possessed with the 
 power of adding fresh years to those permitted 
 her by nature. And in one sense was she acting 
 the witch — transforming her mind into a species 
 of cauldron, in which she was throwing all hates, 
 all passions, all despair, all hope, and stirring and 
 stirring until the hideous shape for which she was 
 labouring arose from out the seething darkness 
 in the form of crime. 
 
 All at once she left the chair and touched the 
 bell. As she did so she encountered her face in 
 the looking-glass, and a shiver passed over her. 
 She asked the servant for a candle, and when it 
 
20 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 was brought she quitted the room and glided al- 
 most noislessly upstairs. 
 
 Entering her husband’s bedroom, she placed 
 the candle on a bureau and bolted the door.. 
 Then she went to an iron safe that stood in the 
 corner of the room, and, drawing a key from her 
 pocket, opened it. 
 
 In this safe Mr. Fairlie was in the hahit of 
 keeping all his most important documents. He 
 kept the key of it himself with a scrupulous care. 
 He never confided it to another’s keeping, and at 
 night placed it beneath his pillow with his 
 watch. 
 
 This was a caution th at had by no means de- 
 lighted Mrs. Fairlie. His vigilance awakened 
 her curiosity. It was the curiosity of Bluebeard’s 
 wife for the fated room. He had once told hoj. 
 that it contained papers of no value to any one 
 but to himself. But this did not satisfy her. It 
 was enough for her that the contents of the safe 
 were a secret. One day she asked Mortimer what 
 was the best way of opening a drawer of which. 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 21 
 
 «lie had lost the key, without having occasion to 
 break the lock. 
 
 “ Have a locksmith to examine it,” he said. 
 
 “ Is there no other way than this?” she asked, 
 carelessly. 
 
 He glanced at her suspiciously, and said, 
 
 “Yes. You can take the impression of the 
 lock in wax. A locksmith will be able to make 
 you a key from the impression, if it is neatly 
 executed. But the first plan is the best.” 
 
 She thought it w^as, too. So one day when her 
 husband was away in the City, she sent for a 
 locksmith, and told him to make her a key for the 
 safe. It happened to be an old fashioned lock, 
 the safe itself having been the property of Mr. 
 Fairlie’s grandfather, The job was not difficult, 
 “ but, ma’am,” said the blacksmith, “ it will take 
 a long time forging.” 
 
 “ Will it require fitting?” she asked. 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Very well. Call always at about five o’clock 
 
22 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 in the evening, and ask to see me. If I am not 
 in, go away and return the next day.” 
 
 By the exertion of such caution, Mrs. Fairlie 
 had been enabled to provide herself with a key, 
 without having recourse to the more dangerous 
 expedition of pilfering her husband of his. More- 
 over, now that this was in her possession, she 
 would be always enabled to ascertain the contents 
 of the safe at any moment her curiosity might 
 suggest. This key she had fetched from the 
 locksmith during her drive that day. She, there- 
 fore, now employed it for the first time. 
 
 But its employment was accompanied in her 
 with no beating heart or trembling hand. On 
 the contrary, it was with the profoundest sanff 
 Jroid that she felt the inside of the lock yield to 
 her pressure, and beheld the lid fall open. But 
 still her coolness could not save her from the 
 slight trepidation with which she contemplated 
 the papers thus suddenly exposed to her view — 
 whether her anxiety to discover the fact for which 
 
THE OPERATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 23 
 
 she had taken all this trouble inspired her with a 
 feeling akin to alarm, or whether it was positively 
 the fear that almost invariably accompanies the 
 eommission of an act unsactioned or prohibited. 
 
 Narrowly inspecting the position of each roll 
 of parchment or paper, she drew it forth, and 
 after a rapid examination of its contents, replaced 
 it as she had found it with the most scrupulous 
 care. Her anxiety grew more visible as the apparent 
 absence of what she sought seemed to promise 
 her disappointment. She was evidently a novice 
 at this kind of business, for she seemed wholly 
 incapable of guessing at the nature of the papers 
 by their exterior, but was compelled to draw off 
 the brown pieces of elastic that contained them, 
 and unroll them in all the stiffness that long 
 disuse had lent them. 
 
 A frown of angry disappointment had rested on 
 her features, and she was about to replace the 
 door of the safe, when suddenly her eye fell upon 
 a roll of white paper that lay half hidden, half 
 revealed, in the corner. Seizing it, she carefully 
 
24 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 drew it out, and as she did so she perceived it 
 to be labelled with these two words — “ My 
 Will.” 
 
 “At last !” she murmured, placing the candle, 
 now with a trembling hand, by her side, and un- 
 rolling the small manuscript that she held. 
 
 Its perusal occupied her ten minutes. When 
 she had read half way down the first sheet, a 
 slow, triumphant smile divided her lips and 
 lighted up her eyes ; her breathing grew short 
 and hard ; hut the papers, which had shivered in 
 her first grasp, were now motionless. Her 
 attitude remained stirless until she had devoured 
 the whole of the contents of the will, then, with 
 a quick movement, she passed the elastic over the 
 roll, and cautiously thrust it in the spot whence 
 she had extracted it. Locking the safe, she 
 placed the key in her pocket, and with a hard, 
 cruel, triumphant smile writhing about her lips, 
 she took the candle in her hand, and opening the 
 bed-room door, passed in silence downstairs. 
 
 She gained the parlour, and stood for a few 
 
THE OPEKATION OF THE WILL. 
 
 25 
 
 moments opposite the looking-glass confronting 
 herself. 
 
 It is yours !” she murmured, apostrophising 
 the cruel face that glanced at her with a smile 
 full of malignity and triumph; laugh now — 
 be happy now — this is permitted to success. 1 
 to have crawled into his doting heart, blotting 
 out by my presence this love of many years ! I 
 to have dropped the poison of my love into the 
 affection of the father, and to have transformed 
 its sweetness into the bitterness of dissembled 
 dislike ! I to have crushed beneath my conquer- 
 ing tread this puny opposer of my schemes — 
 made formidable, though, by the cursed fleshly 
 link that connects her to him ! Oh ! to have 
 drowned him thus in the sea of love conjured 
 up by my eyes ! The fool ! What would be the 
 use of such as him, unless to furnish stepping 
 stones of fortune to such as I ? But so much is 
 gained ; and an end is yet to be accomplished.” 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 0 
 
26 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 
 
 Captain Sandboys liad returned to Yartlepool. 
 He had resumed his pipe and his paper and his 
 strolls on the promenade, and secretly wondered 
 how he could ever have deserted such comforts. 
 But he had returned divested of the authority 
 that had before his departure rendered him some- 
 body of importance in the place. He was no 
 longer captain of the coastguard. Another man 
 now fulfilled the duties of that honourable position, 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 27 
 
 and, as if the Board of Admiralty had really for 
 once shown itself capable of a joke, the man it had 
 appointed was wholly the opposite to Captain 
 Sandboys, even to the very legs, which instead of 
 being oval, like those of his predecessor, were 
 what is called ^^knock-kneed” — meeting at the 
 middle joints, and projecting angularly on either 
 side of him, and terminating in a pair of very 
 broad and long shoes. He was thin, and short, 
 and sallow, with a long face and an irascible 
 temper, and very soon learnt to make himself 
 detested by the nine men under his command, 
 who deplored his presence with as much hearti- 
 ness and pathos as any nine fat men similarly 
 circumstanced could have easily discovered. 
 
 Nevertheless, in this Jittle irascible gentleman 
 — irascible only towards those whom he deemed 
 susceptible of the influence of his irascibility — 
 Captain Sandboys found a very tolerable com- 
 panion, predisposed to respect, and profoundly 
 attentive to, and frequently acquiescent in, his 
 declamation. Something, therefore, of the edge 
 
 0 2 
 
28 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of liis feeling of loneliness was taken off by this 
 companionship ; and though for the first three or 
 four days the Captain — in spite of the solicitude 
 of Mrs. Peake^ now, by the way, in her element 
 — felt sufficiently dulb after that time he grew 
 more accustomed to Kate’s absence, and compen- 
 sated himself by anticipating the delight he 
 should experience when she should pay him a 
 visit. 
 
 Meanwhile at home, or rather in London, 
 Frank had taken up his quarters with his uncle 
 at the hotel in Piccadilly, pending the completion 
 of the house which Mr. Forrester was now busily 
 engaged upon in furnishing. 
 
 He was somewhat dispirited by the departure 
 of dear old Captain Sandboys, though he was 
 satisfied that he would be more at his ease 
 at Yartlepool than had he remained with them 
 in London. He was possessed, however, of an- 
 other melancholy, which had been inspired by 
 Mary’s communication concerning Kate and 
 Captain Mortimer, and his own fears lest some 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS EECEIVEU. 29 
 
 calamity should befall the girl whom he held as 
 his sister, and the husband whom he loved almost 
 as a brother. 
 
 He was certainly disposed to place great faith 
 in Mary’s judgment, for he plainly perceived that 
 in the sweetness of her disposition there could 
 not possibly exist any of those meaner feelings 
 which are but too often the basis of all prejudice. 
 The unquestioning trust which he reposed in her 
 opinions and conjectures doubtless emanated from 
 a cause that had predisposed him to an equally 
 favourable opinion of her, even had she not been 
 what his own penetration perceived her to be : I 
 mean the cause of love. Destitute of that vague 
 and not always worthy feeling of romance which 
 compels the young heart to exact from the object 
 of its devotion the graces of beauty, it cannot 
 be wondered that Frank should perceive in Mary 
 a girl possessed of mental attractions equally 
 fascinating with those exterior charms which are 
 but too frequently the only provocation love has 
 to offer. He surveyed in her a being made up of 
 
30 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 tenderness, affection, and those noble qualities 
 which mark the possession of an enlarged and 
 virtuous mind. He was perhaps too young to 
 reason with that astuteness necessary to conjec- 
 ture with accuracy the probabilities of the future; 
 but it wanted not experience to whisper to him 
 that this girl was of all others the best adapted 
 for a wife , and that the pure, almost holy, affec- 
 tion that she was capable of inspiring would sup- 
 ply with greater sweetness the absence of a more 
 vigorous passion, and illumine with greater ten- 
 derness his progress to the final goal through the 
 obscure, unbeaten wilderness of the future, than 
 the more animated love whose torch might have 
 become extinguished, even before the arrival of 
 the hour when its light might be most wanted. 
 
 Nor had Captain Sandboys’ reiterated expres- 
 sions of affection for her, failed in something of 
 the result for which they were probably intended. 
 To the warm eulogies of a man whom he so loved 
 and honoured Frank* could not long listen un- 
 moved ; and his silent acquiescence was certainly 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 31 
 
 less prompted by the secret leaning of his heart 
 than by the emphatic admiration of the speaker. 
 
 But now his mind was engrossed to the exclu- 
 sion almost of all things else, by thoughts of the 
 danger that he fancied was menacing Ka te. The 
 confirmation Mary’s doubts had received in 
 Forrester’s almost similar warning, increased his 
 agitation. He had held a consultation with his 
 uncle upon the subject^ and he had been advised 
 by him to adopt the course suggested by Mary, as 
 the one most likely to obviate the misfortune that 
 would but too surely ensue were the present suf- 
 fered to pass neglected. 
 
 But,” Frank had remarked, ^^if the danger 
 be so apparent to Miss Fairlie, why should it not 
 be equally so to Seymour ? He, at any rate, we 
 might suppose to have eyes to perceive what 
 others not interested might hardly notice.” 
 
 ^Mle is devoted to her, you tell me?” said 
 Forrester. 
 
 Too much so, I am afraid,” aswered Frank. 
 ^^Then,” said Forrester, ^^if he loves her with 
 
32 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 this engrossing passion, it is quite enough to dull, 
 aye, to blind his sight. The man whose eyes are 
 fixed constantly on a bright body sees only the 
 object and the brightness of the object he is 
 regarding. He is dead to all things else.” 
 
 “ True ; but he will also see the clouds which 
 approach near enough to menace this bright- 
 ness.” 
 
 “ No. He sees not the clouds until the bright- 
 ness is obscured ; then suddenly he starts as from 
 a dream, and finds the object he was contemplat- 
 ing with such admiration, gone.” 
 
 Then, with a deep melancholy in the expression 
 of his face, Forrester said, 
 
 “ You, Frank, you speak only from theorj’^, 
 but I — I speak from experience. This is a dis- 
 ease life has taught me to know. The symptoms 
 may baffle all skill, but they cannot escape my 
 detection. I told you my fears at the first j I 
 repeat them to you now. If you want to save 
 your friend and Captain Sandboys’ daughter, go 
 and speak to him as a brother — acquaint him of 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 33 
 
 his danger. If he refuses or neglects your advice 
 you have done all you can — you can do no more. 
 You must pray to the Almighty to save him ; 
 for if he is crazed with human love, no human 
 effort can save him.’^ 
 
 Frank soon found an opportunity of speaking 
 to Seymour. But he approached the subject with 
 considerable trepidation. At best, this self- 
 imposed task was one of the most ungrateful he 
 could have chosen. Whether his surmises proved 
 true or false he well knew that, unless he exer- 
 cised the utmost caution and delicacy, he would 
 inflict such a wound upon Seymour’s heart as no 
 time could obliterate, no affection forget. He 
 knew this, because he knew himself how he 
 should feel in sijch circumstances; but he also 
 determined to permit no such feelings to obstruct 
 him in what he considered his duty ; and, right 
 or wrong, the execution of that duty proved him 
 to be possessed of that kind of courage which 
 heroes cannot always boast. 
 
 c 6 
 
34 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 On the evening of the day following his con- 
 versation with Forrester, Frank called upon 
 the Seymours, and after sitting some short time 
 with Kate, he suggested to Seymour the enjoy- 
 ment of a cigar in a little back room, which had 
 been converted into a kind of miniature library. 
 
 “ Oh ! we can smoke here,” said Seymour ; 
 ‘‘ Kate doesn’t mind.” 
 
 “ I know. Still, let us go into the other room. 
 I want to have a chat with you.” 
 
 Kate glanced up at him at these words, but 
 meeting his gaze instantly averted her eyes. It 
 was not likely that she could have suspected his 
 intention ; but thoughts of wrong, though they 
 do not make the heart more sagacious invariably 
 make it very suspicious. 
 
 “ Come, out with your secret, Frank !” ex- 
 claimed Seymour. “We are all friends here, arn’t 
 we, Kate ?” 
 
 “ I hope so,” said Kate. 
 
 “ Eeally,” said Frank, somewhat confused, 
 “ there is no secret at all in the matter. Can’t 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 35 
 
 we have a little quiet chat together without there 
 being any mystery connected with it ?” 
 
 “ Very well !” exclaimed Seymour, rising and 
 passing his arm through Frank's. ^^We must 
 humour these children, Kate, mustn’t we ? Come 
 along, old man. Now for our cigar, and mysteri- 
 ous chat.” 
 
 And with a merry laugh he half dragged Frank 
 out of the room. 
 
 Nothing was said upon the subject for some 
 time, Frank preferring to wait until the conver- 
 sation, which was at first trivial and common- 
 place, should diverge into a channel that might 
 itself suggest the topic. 
 
 An opportunity presented itself at last, by 
 Seymour asking Frank how he thought Kate was 
 looking. 
 
 He could not directly answer that he thought 
 she was looking pale and melancholy, so he re- 
 plied somewhat evasively, 
 
 Oh ! pretty well, 1 fancy. I think, however, 
 a change of air would do her good.” 
 
36 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ So I think. I have asked her to leave town 
 with me for awhile ; hut she declares that she 
 would rather remain where she is, and so I let 
 her be. Now, however, that the Captain has 
 returned to Yartlepool, I daresay she may be in- 
 duced to take a run down there before long. You 
 don’t think her looking so well as she ought to 
 be, and neither do I. She’s thinner and paler, 
 and more thoughtful than of old.” 
 
 “ Then you have noticed all this ?” exclaimed 
 Frank, 
 
 “ Yes. It is apparent enough to me, but when 
 I remark it to her she declares it is all my fancy. 
 And perhaps it is.” 
 
 “I wish it were!” said Frank, somewhat 
 gloomily. “ No. There may be a little fancy 
 in it ; but there is also a good deal of 
 truth.” 
 
 There’s a mournful face you’re pulling ! 
 Don’t let Kate see it, or she will protest that you 
 are wanting to make her a hypochondriac.” 
 
 “ My dear Seymour, pray be serious. This is 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 37 
 
 of more consequence than you think. Kate is 
 not well.” 
 
 Surely she ought to be the best judge of this 
 matter, and she declares she is.” 
 
 ^^Then you must not believe her.” 
 
 ^^What!” cried Seymour, insist upon her 
 calling herself ill when she declares she is quite 
 well ! Come, my good boy, come — here, your 
 cigar is out.” 
 
 ‘‘ What is the use of her disguising what nature 
 reveals ? What is the use of her telling you she 
 is well when her face distinctly pronounces her to 
 be ill ?” 
 
 If I thought she was really ill,” said Seymour, 
 growing more thoughtful, I would have medical 
 advice; but then, Frank, I have offered to do 
 this, and she rejects my proposition with disdain. 
 It was only the other day that she said, ^ Have 
 you so much money that you can afford to waste 
 it upon physicians ? and have you so much affec- 
 tion that you persist in making me out ill when 
 I am in good health ?’ Now what could I say or 
 do after this ?” 
 
38 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ But let me ask you a question or two. Do 
 you really think her ill or not ?” 
 
 Seymour mused awhile in silence. 
 
 “ I am so devoted to her, Frank,” he said, at 
 last, “ that when I sometimes think she is ill, 
 and then hear her say she is not, I cannot help 
 fancying that my love has a gr§at deal to do with 
 her malady ; in other words, that my heart 
 prompts me to suppose evil where no evil exists. 
 You must remember that affection, such as mine, 
 is very imaginative.” 
 
 “ That I allow. But when I tell you that she 
 is ill, you will, at least, consider my opinion 
 hardly so biased as yours.” 
 
 “Well?” 
 
 “ But you do not answer me. Do you think 
 her ill or not?” 
 
 “ Not ill ; that is too hard a word. But T 
 fancy that she is not quite so well, perhaps, as 
 she ought to be.” 
 
 “ And to what cause do you attribute this in- 
 disposition ?” 
 
 He had tried to render his voice firm, but it 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 39 
 
 trembled at the close ; and with a slight start, 
 Seymour leaned forward, and anxiously eyed him. 
 
 “ Attribute it ?” he said. “ Why, how do you 
 mean ? Surely — ” he paused, and his face sud- 
 denly became pale. 
 
 “ Is there a secret in all this ?” he exclaimed, 
 in an agitated manner. ‘‘ Has she led you to 
 believe that — that — ” 
 
 “ I know what you would say,” said Frank, 
 endeavouring to suppress his emotion; “that 
 she is secretly unhappy with you. No, Charlie ; 
 no. God forbid ! She has led me to believe no- 
 thing ; it is my heart — my fears !” 
 
 “And what does your heart tell you?” ex- 
 claimed Seymour, rising, and proudly confront- 
 ing his friend. “ Does it tell you of anything 
 wrong of her — of my wife? If so,” he added, 
 with' great dignity, “do not speak it. Before 
 you can touch her heart, you must first pierce 
 mine.” 
 
 “ Charlie, hear me !” cried Frank, almost 
 piteously. “ Eesume your seat — be calm. Oh ! 
 
40 
 
 OFi' THE STAGE. 
 
 do not misinterpret wliat I am going to say to 
 you. It is a cruel, cruel task I have imposed 
 upon myself. But you — Kate — ” he bowed his 
 head, as if he were about to weep. 
 
 But Seymour did not move. He remained 
 motionlessly confronting his friend, with the same 
 proud bearing he had at first assumed. 
 
 ‘^Answer me,” he said, in an almost haughty 
 voice. “ Does what you are about to say concern 
 Kate?” 
 
 “ It does.” 
 
 “ Is it to her prejudice ? Does it concern her 
 — her — honour ?” 
 
 His voice faltered as he spoke the word. 
 
 “ No ; have patience. Hear me quietly. I 
 would caution you simply against a man whom 
 you esteem a friend, but who may be playing the 
 part of a snake in the grass.” 
 
 ‘‘ Do you mean Captain Mortimer ?” 
 
 “ I do,” answered Frank, eagerly. 
 
 “ Is this a conjecture of yours, or are you cer- 
 tain of what you say ?” 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 41 
 
 Have you not yourself noticed — ” 
 
 Tell me,” repeated Seymour, loudly stamp- 
 ing his foot in his angry impatience ; is this a 
 conjecture or a certainty ?” 
 
 Frank would not resent this manner. He had 
 expected some such humiliation, and he had pre- 
 pared himself to endure it. 
 
 It is a conjecture,” he answered. 
 
 Very good. Now, such a man as Mortimer 
 can only injure me through my wife. In con- 
 jecturing his infamy, you conjecture my wife’s 
 dishonour. And in blasting her as you do, by 
 this thought, you blast me. Now, tell me this 
 boldly to my face ; tell me that you think Kate 
 Seymour’s honour — virtue — wifeliness —so fragile 
 as to be broken by such a man as Mortimer — a 
 man whom you have dishonoured by your con- 
 jecture~tell me this boldly to my face, and I 
 will call you a liar !” 
 
 And literally grinding his teeth in his rage, he 
 approached Frank close, and glared at him in the 
 face. 
 
42 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Frank did not move from his seat. As far as 
 strength went, he was powerful enough to have 
 lifted Seymour by one arm, and dropped him 
 from the window ; and for bis courage, he would 
 have confronted unappalled the greatest danger 
 that could have been opposed to him. But in 
 the broad and massive chest of this young man, 
 almost giant as he was, God had placed a heart 
 soft and gentle as a woman’s. It was shame 
 alone that restrained the tear that he could else 
 have shed at the spectacle he now contemplated ; 
 at this noble spectacle of a boy — ^for Seymour was 
 no more — hurling back the half-expressed sus- 
 picion that menaced his wife’s honour ; forgetting 
 friendship, obligations, all, to shield the being 
 whom he loved so tenderly from the lightest 
 breath of doubt, even though that doubt had 
 fallen from the lips of one who was all her 
 brother, from the lips of one who was all his 
 friend. 
 
 “ I have pained you,” murmured Frank ; 
 “ forgive me ! I may be wrong ; may the great 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS RECEIVED. 43 
 
 Fatlier above us grant that I am wrong. For- 
 give me !” 
 
 “Forgive you!” answered Seymour, slowly, 
 and almost scornfully. “ Forgive you for wrong- 
 ing her. Oh ! had you torn my heart from my 
 breast, and trampled it under your foot ; had you 
 heaped insult upon insult on me alone ; had you 
 done — had you said anything but this. Oh, God ! 
 that doubt of her should have come from you — 
 from you, who with myself should have stood up 
 in her defence, and dared to the death the wretch 
 th at should have spoken but a word of all the 
 wrong, the bitter, cruel wrong you have thought, 
 and all but expressed.” 
 
 He bowed his head, and the convulsive sob 
 th at seemed to tear his breast, too plainly spoke 
 his emotion. 
 
 Frank gazed irresolutely at him; and then, 
 suddenly, as if urged by a sudden pelin, seized 
 his hand and wrung it. 
 
 “ I will leave you,” he said, “ but not in bit- 
 terness. I have loved you — I love you still, with 
 
44 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 all a brother’s love. I do not ask your pardon 
 for what I have done ; you cannot blame me. 
 God, who knows the secret of my heart, knows 
 that what I have done was done for the love of 
 her whom you tell me I have wronged. Oh ! 
 may that pure love so grandly expressed in you, 
 never meet with the pang against which I have 
 foolishly, though God knows honestly, striven to 
 guard you.” 
 
 He dashed away the tear that, in spite of him, 
 had risen to his eye, and turned to depart. He 
 paused at the door, and gazed sorrowfully upon 
 the friend whom he was thus leaving. One 
 glance, one movement would have brought him 
 back — on his knees, to pray for the forgiveness 
 that his gentle heart yearned for. But it 
 came not. 
 
 Seymour sat motionless, his eyes rivetted to 
 the ground, and his face expressive of the scorn 
 with which he uttered his last speech. 
 
 Then, in silence, Frank left the room, passing 
 stealthily through the hall, that he might not 
 
A CAUTION, AND HOW IT WAS KECEIYED. 45 
 
 make his depar ture known to Kate ; and opening 
 the street door went out into the night. 
 
 There was no bitterness in his heart ; all was 
 sorrow. Yet he could not chide himself for the 
 part he had thus voluntarily performed. He had 
 acted for the best ; he had acted, not only in ac- 
 cordance with his own wishes,but with the wishes 
 of the two in whose judgment he reposed so much 
 confidence. What should he tell Mary when he 
 saw her? Should he call at Montague Square — 
 for which place she had Jeft St. John’s Wood the 
 preceding afternoon — and communicate to her the 
 result of his conversation with her cousin? If 
 there were any truth in her suspicions of Morti- 
 mer’s design, should he desert the young couple 
 he so fondly loved, because one of them would 
 not listen to him? Was he to ingloriously leave 
 circumstances to the care of fate instead of 
 valiantly endeavouring, in spite of his own 
 lacerated pride and feelings, to disarm the foe 
 ere it should rush in upon them to conquer ? 
 
 He knew not what to do. Poor fellow ! there 
 
46 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 was no less suffering in his heart at that moment 
 than there was in the heart of him from whom he 
 had been so rudely separated. But intuitively 
 his thoughts turned to Mary. He would take 
 counsel of her ; she should advise him. And he 
 made up his mind that in the morning he would 
 visit her. 
 
 Ah ! if supplication had availed to avert from 
 the hearts of the young husband and wife the 
 poisoned dart of fate with which they were even 
 now menaced, surely the prayer for their safety 
 and peace that was uttered by the spirit of this 
 boy, as he walked towards his house beneath the 
 star-lit night, would have won mercy for them 
 from Him to whom it was directed. 
 
47 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FKANK KECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 
 
 The next day Frank had a talk with his uncle 
 upon the events detailed in the last chapter. 
 Forrester, who was what is called an early 
 man,” had been up and breakfasted before Frank 
 had left his bed, and had been occupied during 
 the morning at his new house, from which he 
 had just returned in time for a two o’clock 
 lunch. 
 
 ‘‘ You can do no more,” he said, as Frank 
 
48 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 concladed his narration. “ Even now, perhaps, 
 you have done too much.” 
 
 “ But having done so much, would it not be 
 better to persevere ? Should he not be urged 
 at least, to remove his wife for a while from Lon- 
 don ? If he will not permit me to speak to him, 
 I can urge this by letter. ” 
 
 “You have first of all to consider,” said For- 
 rester, thoughtfully, “ what grounds you have 
 for this hypothesis of yours. If Mrs. Seymour, 
 be really true to her husband, the expression of 
 your conjectures may result only in inflaming his 
 heart against an innocent woman. If, on the 
 other hand, she be false — ” 
 
 He paused. 
 
 “ Well?” 
 
 Forrester shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “ Hark you, Frank,” he said; “when a woman 
 has made up her mind to go to the bad, there is 
 only one cure for her.” 
 
 “ And what is that?” 
 
 “ Death.” 
 
FBANK BECEIYES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 49 
 
 Better, far better that she should die,” ex- 
 claimed Frank, with more bitterness than he was 
 wont to display, than that she should live to 
 break the noble hearts of her father and her hus- 
 band.” 
 
 You are right. But such women unfortu- 
 nately do not die. Heaven or hell protracts their 
 existence, that they may prove the scourge of 
 every man who is fool enough to trust them.” 
 ^^But I would save Kate!” cried Frank, 
 piteously. 
 
 She has not fallen yet.” 
 
 No — but she may — she may. Better women 
 —more resolute women than she have fallen.” 
 
 What sort of a man is this Captain Mor- 
 timer?” 
 
 Oh, I can’t tell you. Once I thought him a 
 gentlemanly, good fellow. — But now — ugh! — ” 
 €ind Frank paused and shuddered. 
 
 ^^Well?” 
 
 Well, now I hate him.” 
 
 And why ?” 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 D 
 
0 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Do not ask me. Is it not enougli that he 
 should even inspire me with the thought that he 
 is likely to menace the peace of those two ?” 
 
 ‘‘ To hate him ? Yes. But then, five days 
 ago you did not hate him ; and still Mrs. Sey- 
 mour, or rather Mr. Seymour’s peace was as much 
 menaced as it is now.” 
 
 Frank blushed a little. 
 
 I confess to a prejudice,” he said. ^^But is 
 not all this now enough to prejudice any man 
 against its promoter, whether innocent or not ?” 
 But what now is there?” 
 
 What now? Why, here is Captain Sand- 
 boy’s daughter, likely to — no, I won’t say likely ; 
 but at all events, here is Kate, my sister Kate, 
 involved in one of the most delicate affairs in the 
 world. Here am I Charlie Seymour’s enemy, 
 after having first insulted him and then deserted 
 him without gaining his forgiveness. There is 
 Charlie Seymour himself, doubtless tormented 
 by the thought with which I have inspired him. 
 Here, in short, we all are, topsy-turvy, like a 
 
FKANK KECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 61 
 
 midshipman’s chesty everything atop and nothing 
 at bottom — and yet you ask what now there is !” 
 
 In spite of himself, Mr. Forrester could hardly 
 forbear a smile at his nephew’s excited manner 
 and quaint mode of expression. 
 
 ^‘And now,” said he, “ permit me to analyse this 
 ^ now ’ as you call it, and see who after all is the 
 Teal promoter. Two days ago all was peace and 
 happiness. Seymour was quite satisfied with his 
 wife, and his wife, let us presume,” he said, 
 slightly coughing, so as to disguise the hesitation 
 with which he pronounced these words, quite 
 satisfied with him. Captain Mortimer was 
 esteemed a fine gentleman, and received as a 
 friend by all. By and bye, a young gentleman 
 steps in with some surmises, and communicates 
 his doubts of a wife’s character, or honour, or 
 virtue, or what you will, to her husband. Then, 
 of course, ensues a clamour, which, however, pre- 
 sently subsides, leaving all at peace but the radi- 
 cal cause or agitation. Am I right ?” 
 
 D 2 
 
52 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 "^Bat did you not yourself advise nae to cau- 
 tion Charlie?’^ exclaimed Frank. 
 
 I did.” 
 
 Yery well ; and I have done so.” 
 
 And with what result ?” 
 
 Torment to myself.” 
 
 Exactly. You have acted once on my ad- 
 vice without any result. Try my advice again, 
 and you will doubtless find it more profitable.” 
 And what is your advice?” 
 
 Leave well alone.” 
 
 But is it well?” 
 
 It was, until you dirtied what was clear by 
 stirring up the mud at the bottom. Bah ! there 
 is mud at the botttom of all things. Wise men 
 do not agitate what is already calm.” 
 
 Frank was rather dubious as to what view he 
 should take of his uncle’s arguments. There 
 was a substratum of acrimonious irony at the 
 root of all his remarks that served to perplex 
 Frank even more than the opposite views which 
 
FRANK RECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 53 
 
 he had heard him express. To have urged him 
 to a course which he so soon after condemned 
 was, it must be confessed, somewhat enigmati- 
 cal. But the real truth of the matter was this : 
 since his visit to the Seymours, Forrester, though 
 he had found no reason to change his first 
 opinion of Kate, had arrived at the conclusion 
 that very little good could come by any one — 
 by even such an intimate friend as Frank — in- 
 termeddling in the matter. But having advised 
 him, he imagined that a hint, like a spark upon 
 touchwood, might illumine Seymour’s mind to a 
 more penetrating survey of the two characters — 
 Mortimer’s and Kate’s — with which he had to 
 deal. It was an ignorance, however, of Sey- 
 mour’s nature that had led him into this mistake. 
 He little knew the noble mind that lurked 
 beneath that quiet and unpretending exterior. 
 Had he done so his own knowledge of the world 
 would have sufficiently informed him of the 
 vainness of hoping to arouse in that young man’s 
 heart the only sentiment that could possibly 
 
54 
 
 OFF THE STAGE, 
 
 defeat whatever intentions Mortimer might be 
 maturing — ^jealousy. But no sooner had Frank 
 communicated to him his story, than the truth 
 flashed suddenly upon him. He saw the hope- 
 lessness of all adventitious means of averting 
 the conclusion, be it what it might. He knew 
 that the antidote could alone be extracted from 
 the bane; that in the dissension of two such 
 hearts could the remedy be found that should 
 work the cure. And he knew, moreover, that it 
 could only be found by those most deeply con- 
 cerned— by the husband and the wife. 
 
 To avoid having Frank further implicated in a 
 matter that in which way soever it might re- 
 sult, would infallibly redound to his discredit, 
 caused him to completely alter the tone of his 
 dialectics ; his shrewdness immediately perceived 
 the inutility of any further proceeding of Frank 
 in the matter, and that he might radically cure 
 whatever tendency that yet lurked in him to mix 
 himself up in the affair, he employed the means 
 usually adopted by men of the world — or 
 
FEANK RECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 55 
 
 rather by observers of the human heart ; he en- 
 deavoured to disgust him by an exposure of his 
 own folly. 
 
 It was not reserved for his arguments, how- 
 ever, to be of much service to him to whom 
 they were addressed. Events were now crowding 
 rapidly upon all the personages of this little 
 drama, incapacitating from action all but those 
 whom they most chiefly concerned, and render- 
 ing all conjectures, all designs, all arguments vain 
 and ridiculous. 
 
 But so far, Frank knew but little of what the 
 future had in store for those he most loved. 
 Whether Kate was really in danger or not, he would 
 willingly have resigned a good deal of his hap- 
 piness, possessed as well as promised, to have 
 seen Kate fairly out of the country ; or at all 
 events out of London. Now that suspicion was 
 busy in his mind — a suspicion no more to be 
 stifled than the natural whispers of conscience^ 
 all that he had noticed of her waywardness of 
 disposition, of her thousand little caprices, of the 
 
56 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 general tenour of her conduct towards her father,, 
 came to fortify his doubt and to accuse him for 
 neglecting any measures that he could suggest 
 or enforce to avert even the bare possibility of a 
 calamity. 
 
 These were the thoughts that followed his uncle’s 
 argument against his mixing himself up with 
 the domestic feelings or fancies of the young 
 couple. And doubtless they would have led him 
 into a further discussion of the matter, had not 
 a waiter entered at the moment he was about 
 to resume the subject, and informed him that a 
 lady desired to speak to him. 
 
 She’s in the ladies’ room, sir,” said the 
 waiter. 
 
 lady!” exclaimed Frank. ^^Who the 
 deuce can it be, I wonder I” 
 
 Forrester shook his head, with a grave smile. 
 
 What is she like ?” inquired Frank. 
 
 ‘^She has a veil down, sir,” said the waiter. 
 
 But she seems purty-like,” he added, with an 
 obsequious grin. Ain’t tall— about so ’igh,” 
 
FRANK RECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 57 
 
 holding his hand from the ground on a level with 
 his ear. 
 
 You had better go and see who it is,” 
 suggested his uncle. “ Be careful, Frank ; be 
 careful.” 
 
 Frank was too much perplexed to laugh. Who 
 could it be ? and who on earth was likely to 
 come to his hotel — or knew his address ? 
 
 He followed the waiter into the apartment in 
 which the lady had been shown, and saw her 
 standing at the window looking into the street. 
 Though her back was towards him, he knew her 
 in a moment. It was Mary. 
 
 ^^Miss Fairlie!” he exclaimed, hastily advanc- 
 ing towards towards her and taking her by the 
 hand. “ I little expected this happiness — pray 
 be seated.” 
 
 She made him no answer, but throwing up the 
 thick veil that concealed her features discovered 
 her face marked with the traces of a profound 
 and recent sorrow. Her eyes were red with 
 weeping, and, as he glanced at her in surprise and 
 
 D 5 
 
68 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 grief, her mouth quivered as if she were again 
 about to burst into tears. 
 
 You must be surprised at this most extraor- 
 dinary visit, ’’she exclaimed, in a voice tremulous 
 with repressed emotion. I have no excuse to 
 make. Several times I turned back, and long I 
 stood hesitating whether I should enter or not. 
 But why should I disguise it ? it was my only 
 alternative ; and — oh ! Mr. Forrester, do not 
 judge me harshly for this — for what may seem 
 such a want of propriety ! Hear me — hear me, 
 first ! Had Captain Sandboys been in London, I 
 should have gone to him. Wanting him, I am 
 forced to come to you.” 
 
 He led her gently to a chair, and seating him- 
 self by her side, implored him to tell her how he 
 could serve her. 
 
 I have no friend but one left,” she said. 
 ^^He is Captain Sandboys — I have come to ask 
 you to take me to him.’’ 
 
 To Captain Sandboys !” exclaimed Frank, 
 and your father — ” 
 
FRANK RECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 59 
 
 She threw a look upwards as she answered, 
 
 He is no more my father.” 
 
 By her voice Frank thought for a moment that 
 Mr. Fairlie was dead. He turned pale and be- 
 came too agitated to address her. 
 
 She seemed to divine his feelings, for she said, 
 We have quarrelled — a bitter, terrible quarrel. 
 He has cursed me. He has told me to consider him 
 no longer a father — he did not drive me from his 
 house; but I left him, because if I had stayed 
 this day out with him my heart would have 
 broken !” 
 
 And the cause of all this ?” asked Frank, 
 greatly distressed. 
 
 She could not answer him for some moments, 
 for her voice was choked by the thick sobs that 
 seemed to convulse the frame. In silence Frank 
 turned to a Railway Guide Book, and glancing 
 over its pages perceived that an express train left 
 for Yartlepool at twenty minutes past three. It 
 was then half-past two. 
 
 I will take you at once to Yartlepool,” he 
 
60 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 said. The Captain will be truly glad to wel- 
 come you. He need not be apprised of your 
 visit. It being so completely unexpected will 
 delight him the more. You will be at peace 
 there. Miss Fairlie.” 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Forrester,” she exclaimed, a blush 
 suffusing her pale and worn features, what must 
 you think of me for this visit ! what could have 
 driven me to it but — but my utter desola- 
 tion !” 
 
 Miss Fairlie,” he exclaimed, gently taking 
 her hand, and speaking in a low, serious voice, 
 what construction but the highest that all 
 human acts can possibly win, do you think I 
 could put upon any of your actions ? To appeal 
 to me now in — in your distress, is to pay me the 
 highest, the most grateful compliment I can 
 ever hope to receive. To have had the honour 
 of befriending you, even in this trifling manner, 
 will be more cherished by me than any other 
 event that has occurred, and is likely to occur 
 in my life.” 
 
FRANK RECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 61 
 
 She murmured her thanks in an inaudible 
 voice, and he continued, 
 
 I had long foreseen that some such event as 
 this would grow out of your further communion 
 with your family. But there is one heart — one 
 heart tliat is more devoted to you — whom you 
 have inspired with more profound affection than 
 even you yourself may perhaps credit. Come, 
 we will go to him ; he will receive you — aye, with 
 all the love with which he would receive his own 
 child.” 
 
 He rose and touched the bell. 
 
 Go and tell Mr. Forrester that I would 
 like to see him for a moment/’ he said to the 
 waiter. 
 
 In a few moments after Mr. Forrester entered 
 the apartment ; he started at seeing Mary, and 
 then approaching her, greeted her with profound 
 courtesy. To this quick-witted man a glance 
 was suflScient to proclaim the whole matter. He 
 had heard indirectly from Frank of her unhappi- 
 ness at home in consequence of her father’s 
 
62 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 second marriage; and in the sad and tearful face 
 of the young girl he as distinctly read the (U^ 
 nouement of the domestic drama, as if it had been 
 verbally proclaimed to him. 
 
 Frank hurriedly told him of his abrupt depar- 
 ture to Yartlepool, whispering at the same time 
 a scanty outline of his reason ; but scanty as it 
 was, Forrester had very soon filled up the outline 
 with almost the full details of the matter. 
 
 Very well/ he said ; and you will be back 
 to-morrow ?” 
 
 Perhaps to-night,” answered Frank ; I shall 
 content myself merely with seeing Miss Fairlie 
 safe in the Captain’s hands.” 
 
 And so saying, he left the room to make one 
 or two trifling preparations for his journey. 
 
 Mary had concealed the agitation that Forres- 
 ter’s presence imparted to her, by letting her 
 veil fall again over her face. The poor girl was 
 terribly embarrassed ; her sensitiveness had con- 
 demned the only step that the pressure of cir- 
 cumstances had suggested to her or suffered her 
 
FKANK RECEIVES A VISIT FROM A LADY. 63 
 
 to take. What would these two men think of 
 her? Might not her actions be misinterpreted? 
 might they not be considered positively improper, 
 much less discreet ? 
 
 Aye, poor girl ! there were a thousand and one 
 of thy own sex ; a thousand and one prim viragos, 
 prim precisionists, orthodox conventionalists, 
 rigid disciplinarians, school mistresses at hearty 
 impenetrably select in their exterior^ that would 
 have condemned thee ! Yet wouldst thou have 
 cared for such condemnations as these ? But not 
 of the two to whom thy misfortunes had directed 
 thee, must thou have thought these things. They 
 could comprehend thee. One knew thy heart 
 too well to profane its purity by the most shadow- 
 like doubt ; the other knew life too well not to 
 have penetrated with accuracy into the springs 
 and causes of thy action, and in thy motives 
 have discerned the same purity that was ex- 
 pressed in thy young, gentle eyes. To these 
 there was nought of impropriety in thy action ; 
 these two had noble hearts and represented 
 
64 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 all other noble hearts in this world. From 
 such interpretation thou hadst nothing to fear, 
 and for the rest their interpretation was value- 
 less ! 
 
65 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IN WHICH FRANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 To describe the Captain’s various emotions of 
 delight^ surprise, gratification, sympathetic sor- 
 row, and so forth, on seeing Frank and Mary 
 enter the little parlour at Britannia House,” 
 must be attempted by a more cunning pen than 
 that wielded by me. Now he was dumbfounded 
 by surprise^ now voluble with joy, now querulous 
 in his indignation at Mr. Fairlie’s treatment of 
 Mary, now emphatic in his commendation of 
 
66 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Mary’s treatment of Mr. Fairlie. But over all 
 these vicissitudes of his mind brooded one un- 
 mistakeable feeling of delight at his having at 
 last got Mary at Yartlepool, and without more 
 ado, Mrs. Peake was at once set to work to get 
 everything ready and comfortable for the welcome 
 though unexpected guest. 
 
 ^^And now,” said Captain Sandboys, every 
 part of him smiling that was capable of express- 
 ing a smile, come what may, Mary, here’s our 
 home. And I know nothing likely to upset this 
 except an earthquake ; and such things,” said 
 he, complacently looking around him, ‘‘ are, for- 
 tunately for the inhabitants of these parts, not 
 common amongst us.” 
 
 Mary had told Frank the circumstances of the 
 eruption in her home, as they came along. The 
 story was short, as there was nothing much to 
 tell. Her father, on her return from the Sey- 
 mours, had hardly deigned to regard her ; accus- 
 tomed as she was to his coldness, there was 
 something even yet more chilling in his conduct 
 
FKANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 67 
 
 now. He never addressed her, and his manners 
 were more repelling, his answers more abrupt, 
 his whole demeanour more expressive of an un- 
 controllable dislike than she had ever remarked 
 in him before. There was a limit even to Mary’s 
 patience, and the time came at last when she 
 resolved to endure it no longer; in short, she 
 made up her mind to ask him what it all meant, 
 and so either effect a reconciliation by an explana- 
 tion, or leave him altogether for Captain Sand- 
 boys. Her reason, she said, in selecting Captain 
 Sandboys, was simply because she could remem- 
 ber nobody else so likely to afford her the pro- 
 tection and assistance she needed. She could 
 not return to the Seymours, for she had learnt to 
 make herself disliked by Kate; this, though 
 unknown to Seymour, was apparent enough to 
 her. Whether Kate naturally objected to her, 
 or whether she fancied that Mary suspected her, 
 it is certain that by many a little feminine act, 
 appreciated by and only known to women, she 
 had succeeded in rendering her house as uncom- 
 
68 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 fortable to Mary as in all decency she could 
 possibly well do. To return^ therefore, was out 
 of the question. As for her other relatives, they 
 all lived far away, and were known to her only 
 by name. Captain Sandboys was the only friend 
 her saddened thoughts suggested to her ; and if, 
 as she anticipated, an explanation with her father 
 should result in a serious denouements then she 
 resolved to seek him. 
 
 And the denouement came, and with more 
 abruptness than she could have conceived ; all 
 argument was out of the question. He stormed 
 at her , he cursed her. She did not in the least 
 recognise him ; he was literally transformed into 
 a bold, bad man.” hlever was a metamorphosis 
 more sudden, more complete. Never did the 
 human heart more quickly yield to the apparent 
 devil that possessed it. 
 
 To conjecture the cause of this inconceivable 
 animosity was useless. She could only attribute 
 it to his absorbing devotion to his wife: a love 
 that engrossed his mind to the exclusion of every- 
 
FRANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 69 
 
 thing else, rendering that which was once 
 cherished detestable; and more detestable, because 
 it had sought to oppose what he considered now 
 to be his present happiness. 
 
 The poor girl’s narrative was interrupted by 
 frequent sobs, and she seemed to be wholly 
 prostrated by the severity of the blow that had 
 befallen her. It is sad enough to lose a father 
 in death : it is terrible to lose him in life. 
 
 By the time, however, that she had arrived at 
 Yartlepool, she had grown comparatively calm ; 
 at least, calm enough to repeat to Captain Sand- 
 boys the circumstances that had brought her 
 there, without the display of emotion that had 
 characterised her same recital to Frank. 
 
 But Frank had told his uncle he should return 
 that night ; and rather regretting the promise, 
 as he felt so very comfortable where he was, he 
 commenced to consult his watch, and to talk of 
 being in time to catch the last train.” 
 
 And what are you going to do with the last 
 
70 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 train when you have caught it?” asked the 
 Captain. 
 
 “ Why, go hack in it to London, I suppose.” 
 
 “ What, to-night !” 
 
 “ Yes, to-night.” 
 
 “ No you don’t,” said the Captain, with much 
 show of warmth; “you don’t leave my roof to- 
 night, I can tell you.” 
 
 “ But I told my uncle I would return,” cried 
 Frank. 
 
 “ Eeturn, after Mrs. Peake has been at the 
 trouble of making you up a bed, and getting 
 everything snug and cosy for you ! Very well, 
 sir ; there is such a thing as ingratitude in this 
 world, after all.” 
 
 “ But — ” began Frank, laughing. 
 
 I’ll hut you !” said the Captain ; “ here, what 
 is your uncle’s address ? I’ll send the servant 
 round with a telegram ; that ’ll ease you and him, 
 too.” 
 
 Frank didn’t need very much pressing: and 
 
FRANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 71 
 
 so after feigning a little stubbornness for awhile, 
 he with great assumption of reluctance permitted 
 the telegram to be despatched, and himself pre- 
 vailed upon to remain. 
 
 Between them both they succeeded in cheering 
 Mary up a pretty good deal. The Captain, in 
 his honest, emphatic manner, first took care to 
 impress upon her mind that she was in the hands 
 of a Father, whom he believed loved her, and 
 who would befriend her with more zealous care 
 than ever she could hope to meet with in an 
 earthly father. And upon this devout basis, he 
 proceeded to erect a system of consolatory philo- 
 sophy, as wholly free from all cant as the heart 
 was that suggested it, and yet constructed with 
 very fair ingenuity, embracing in its scope many 
 original views and many sound illustrations, 
 which seemed to strike Mary as being good, and 
 which served to render her first very thoughtful, 
 and then less melancholy. 
 
 Then, aided by Frank, he commenced a dis- 
 cussion upon topics wholly remote from this very 
 
72 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 unpleasing subject ; and with an art which none 
 but those who heard him would have given him 
 credit for possessing, he contrived that the con- 
 versation should be of such a nature as might 
 not only interest her, but induce her to mingle 
 in it. 
 
 Of course, Captain Sandboys was eager in his 
 inquiries after Kate; and this naturally plunged 
 Frank again into the sea of doubt and perplexity 
 from which Mary’s more immediate trouble had 
 for awhile rescued him. He, however, succeeded 
 in disguising his feelings, and answered the 
 Captain with all the cheerfulness that he could 
 possibly sum up for the occasion. 
 
 He had not yet found an opportunity of ac- 
 q uainting Mary with the result of his interview 
 with Seymour. Her own sorrows had sufficiently 
 engrossed their attention during their journey, 
 and he was studious that the Captain should be 
 kept entirely out of the secret. Indeed, he 
 wanted to caution Mary at once, lest by the least 
 word about Kate she might excite the Cap tain’s 
 
PRANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 73 
 
 curiosity into the more searching inquiries which 
 would not admit of such easy evasion. But she 
 retired early, and so he was fain to content him- 
 self with waiting for the morrow. 
 
 The morrow came, a calm and lovely day. As 
 Frank stood at his bedroom window, gazing upon 
 the broad sea that lay, smooth as a lake, almost at 
 his feet, and watching the morning sun flashing 
 with diamond-like lustre upon the blue water, he 
 could not help thinking after all that the Captain 
 was right, and that there was something in such 
 a scene worth all the roar and the splendour of 
 London. How his thoughts flew back to the 
 past — to his old profession — to that ocean upon 
 whose surface he had sailed round — and how far 
 beyond, the horizon he was then contemplating ? — 
 to a lower and sunnier world ! How changed 
 everything was since then ! from a poor midship- 
 man, un wotting of his future, to the heir of a 
 wealthy uncle, who had turned up all at once so 
 jollily ! And Kate — on his honour, he could 
 almost fancy he saw her walking along that 
 
 VOL. III. E 
 
74 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 esplanade there, sometimes looking this way and 
 sometimes that, and evidently restless, and tired 
 of the life she was leading. Married now ! and 
 
 what was her future to be ? 
 
 And Mrs. Fairlie ! why did his thoughts all at 
 once turn to Mrs. Fairlie? what was she to him 
 or he to her ? Yet he had often thought of her. 
 He had often wondered what she could have 
 meant by giving him those wonderful glances 
 which even now thrilled him through to remember. 
 He had often met her since, but she had never 
 looked at him as she had looked then. True, her 
 husband was present. But — was there any mis- 
 chief in her glance ? She was a splendid woman. 
 What could she have seen in him to admire ? 
 But did she admire him? He had fancied so 
 once — the thing was so obvious; but it had 
 passed away, and the thought had only once or 
 twice recurred to him since. But if ever eyes 
 had spoken love, her eyes had spoken love to 
 him. But what made the fancy leap again into 
 life so suddenly ? he thought he had forgotten it. 
 
FRANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 75 
 
 Ah ! it must have been the glitter of the sun 
 upon the water. There was just such a tremu- 
 lous flashing in her eyes, and — hallo ! that was 
 Captain Sandboys calling him. 
 
 Frank, ahoy ! breakfast, my hearty, break- 
 fast!'’ 
 
 Ay, ay I” echoed Frank. 
 
 And with a last glance at that delicious sea, he 
 went downstairs. 
 
 Mary was down before him. Her night’s rest 
 seemed to have refreshed her. All her agitation 
 was passed. Her countenance was sad, but sad 
 with that calm sadness which seemed almost 
 natural to her. Her eyes, too, had resumed their 
 old sweet expression, and the least flush upon the 
 otherwise transparent whiteness of her cheek 
 proved that even the mouthful of sea-breeze she 
 had inhaled had already commenced to do her 
 good. 
 
 What a glorious view,” she was saying to 
 the Captain as Frank entered. ‘‘ Ah I if London 
 could only boast such weather as this 1” 
 
 E 2 
 
76 
 
 OFF THE STAGE, 
 
 '' Upon my soul, you don’t deserve sucli a 
 day,” said the Captain, turning to Frank ; I 
 know if I were the clerk of the weather, what I 
 would do.” 
 
 “ What would you do ?” asked Frank. 
 
 “ Why, I’d souse you in a thunderstorm the 
 moment you got outside, just to pay you out for 
 leaving the old place.” 
 
 Thanks,” said Frank. “ And now let’s to 
 breakfast, for I am anxious to have the pleasure 
 of escorting Miss Fairlie about the place a little, 
 before I leave.” 
 
 “ Yes, we will all go out together,” said the 
 Captain. 
 
 And when the breakfast was concluded, out 
 they went. 
 
 The day promised to be hot, and the Captain 
 wore upon his head a very large, broad-brimmed 
 hat, “ to protect his complexion,” Frank said. 
 Even Mary could hardly forbear a smile at the 
 quaint figure the old gentleman cut. ‘‘It be- 
 comes you, however, very well,” she said. Just 
 
FBANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 77 
 
 as if anything wouldn’t have become a face that 
 exhaled such jollity, such benevolence, such 
 goodness ! 
 
 ‘^Not a word. Miss Fairlie, of Kate before the 
 Captain,” Frank had hurriedly whispered to her 
 as they passed through the door ; and Mary had 
 answered the caution with a slight inclination of 
 the head. 
 
 The Captain expatiated in terms almost grandi- 
 loquent upon the beauties of Yartlepool and the 
 advantages of a sea side residence. 
 
 “ I have only one thing to regret,” said he, 
 
 now.” 
 
 And pray what is that?” asked Frank. 
 
 No, sir,” answered the Captain, in a tone of 
 mock severity, ITl not address myself to you; 
 for I know I shall find no sympathy. Miss 
 Fairlie, will you do me the favour of looking at 
 that being seated on the first bench there.” 
 
 Do you mean that coastguard?” 
 
 Yes. Very well; now, if there is one thing 
 
78 
 
 OFF THE stage. 
 
 that would add to my happiness more than 
 another, it would be to see those nine stout fellows 
 banished the place.” 
 
 Why, governor?” asked Frank. 
 
 “No, sir, I won’t address myself to you. 
 Because, Miss Fairlie, the sight of them recalls 
 me to the time when I was their commander. 
 Then I was somebody of importance. I was a 
 local magnate. I was looked up to. The fisher- 
 men would assemble in clusters and whisper as I 
 passed, ‘ That is Captain Sandboys. ’ Madam, 
 there was an exhilarating feeling about it. Now 
 I pass, and the fishermen contemplate me with- 
 out concern. The parson does not bow to me with 
 the deference that my position formerly exacted ; 
 and perhaps the worst of all is that those very 
 nine men, who, when I first reappeared amongst 
 them, used to touch their hats to me, now see me 
 go by without stirring. ” 
 
 There was positively a pathos about the old 
 man’s declamation, and Frank, who well knew ho 
 
FEANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 79 
 
 had been in a more or less degree the cause of the 
 Captain having resigned his commission, remained 
 silent. 
 
 Now I’ll just illustrate what I was saying,’^ 
 continued the Captain. We’ll walk by that fat 
 fellow on the bench there, and I’ll bet anybody a 
 hat he don’t stir.” 
 
 They approached the coastguard slowly, Mary 
 and Frank both secretly amused at the Captain’s 
 manner. As they drew nearer, the fellow hoisted 
 one leg up along the length of the bench, as it to 
 ensure his sole possession of the seat. The 
 Captain grew red in the face, but made no 
 remark. The coastguard sat immovable until 
 they were opposite him ; then, by degrees, a slow, 
 fat smile broke out over his face, and he made a 
 motion with his head, as if he were nodding at his 
 old commander. 
 
 The Captain’s patience was sorely tried by this 
 piece of impudence. He made a movement as if 
 he were about to suddenly sit upon the man and 
 squeeze him beneath his own weight. But 
 
80 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 whetier such were his intentions or not, he all at 
 once accelerated his pace, and when he was out 
 of the man’s hearing he turned to Mary. 
 
 “ There !” said he. 
 
 “ Bah !” said Frank. “ And supposing he had 
 touched his cap to you, would it have added one 
 year to your life, made you one whit the happier, 
 improved the appearance of the world, made the 
 skies bluer — ” 
 
 “ Peace I” said the Captain. “ The scoundrel 
 should have known better manners.” 
 
 This was the hardest word that Frank had ever 
 remembered him applying to any man. He 
 paused, for he knew the Captain was as irritated 
 as it was possible for him to be. 
 
 All at once a very short man turned the corner 
 of the esplanade (the boarding of which had 
 hidden him), and advanced towards them with, 
 one hand outstretched. 
 
 “ And how are you. Captain Sandboys ?” cried 
 he, when he was near enough to render his voice 
 audible without a shriek. 
 
FRANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 81 
 
 ‘‘ Hallo ! Potts ; and how are you, sir ?” said 
 the Captain. My nephew — humph — Miss 
 Fairlie, rather, and now my nephew — ladies first, 
 sir. And how are you, sir?” 
 
 Then turning to Frank and Mary, he said. 
 Captain Potts, my successor.” 
 
 After which he shook hands with them. 
 
 ‘‘ There’s a queer little fellow/’ whispered 
 Frank to Mary. Ecod ! he’s taken the Cap- 
 tain’s arm. Look at his knees ! ha ! ha!” Then 
 observing Mary not to smile^ he continued, No, 
 Pm wrong. I shouldn’t ridicule the poor little 
 fellow’s deformity. But see I they’ve walked on 
 before us. Ha I ha I I know the Captain’s blow- 
 ing him up about the conduct of his men. Shall 
 we follow them. Miss Fairlie?” 
 
 But do what she could Mary could not restrain 
 the quiet laugh that was provoked by the odd 
 spectacle of the two men complacently walking 
 on in front of her. The contrast of the lower 
 limbs, together with the proportions of the two 
 figures, would have excited the merriment of the 
 
82 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 demurest saint in the spiritual calendar; and 
 Frank, perceiving her to laugh, thought he was 
 entitled to laugh too. 
 
 But their eyes soon grew accustomed to the 
 curious spectacle, and their thoughts very soon 
 became more sober. But it was astounding what 
 good that laugh did to Mary ! 
 
 The first topic that suggested itself was natur- 
 ally Kate. Mary listened to what Frank had to 
 communicate to her, and as he concluded, deeply 
 sighed. 
 
 “ My only hope,” said Frank, “ is, that your — 
 or rather our, — conjectures are wrong.” 
 
 Mary shook her head mournfully, hut made no 
 answer. 
 
 “ On my return to London,” returned Frank, 
 “ I shall hasten to Charlie, and implore his for- 
 giveness for what I have said to him. I was 
 much to blame— very much to blame. As my 
 uncle truly observes, if there be mud at the bot- 
 tom of clear water, what right have I to stir it 
 up ? And supposing that I should really have 
 
FRANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 S3 
 
 wronged Kate by my suppositions, heaven only 
 knows what might — what may be the conse- 
 quence of my words. Suppose I should have 
 taught him to suspect her — to grow jealous, and 
 so lose his peace of mind.” 
 
 Do not fear,” said Mary. You have acted 
 well. May heaven protect them, and may the 
 future, as you say, prove our suspicions wrong.” 
 
 ^^And you. Miss Fairlie, how good must be 
 your heart to feel for others, when you yourself 
 are suffering so much.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ Suffering teaches us compassion,” answered 
 Mary. 
 
 But not to those who are selfish. Suffering 
 only makes them think more of their own hard 
 fate, not of the hard fate of others. But I have 
 no fear for you ; your father’s heart will turn to 
 you, as surely as the sunfiowe r turns to the sun. 
 He will miss you before long; he will want 
 you.” 
 
 She gave him a quick, brief glance, and 
 answered, He has cursed me !” 
 
84 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ And wliat if he has ! Curses, even father’s 
 curses, cannot injure such hearts as yours. 
 Curses can only take effect through God, and God 
 would not have you injured.” 
 
 Her lips slightly quivered, but she made him 
 no answer. 
 
 Their footsteps had led them unconsciously to- 
 wards the further end of the esplanade. The 
 Captain and his companion had long since turned 
 and passed them, though disregarded, so earnest 
 were our young couple in discussing Kate, and 
 had now disappeared. Only the distant outline 
 of the seated coast-guard was visible. Yet still 
 they walked on until they came to the verge of the 
 cliff that suddenly projected, and here Frank 
 proposed to rest ihemselves. The grass was dry 
 and inviting, and Mary, probably fatigued, 
 accepted her companion’s proposition. 
 
 Most romancists generally try to introduce a 
 moon into their love scenes, and certainly a moon 
 is a very poetical accessory. Nevertheless it is 
 possible that there can be quite as much romance 
 
FKANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 85 
 
 in a profession of love by the light of the sun, as 
 beneath the more subduing influence of the Queen 
 of Night. To Frank, however, who was, I am 
 sorry to say, almost dead to every sentiment of 
 romance, it mattered little where, or in what 
 circumstances, he expressed himself. A blue sky 
 was as good to him as a black, and the absence 
 of the stars as comfortable as their presence. 
 What his heart prompted him to say, he said, and 
 out it came, insensible alike to rain or sunshine, 
 to winter bleakness or summer splendour. 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Fairlie,” said he, somewhat abruptly, 
 after a few common-place remarks touching the 
 beauty of the scenery, &c., will you allow me 
 to call you Mary ?” 
 
 The question startled her, for she eyed him 
 shyly, and then dropping her gaze, said 
 “ Certainly, Mr. Forrester.” 
 
 But if I call you Mary, you must call me 
 Frank.” 
 
 If you would like me to do so, I will call you 
 Frank,” she said, gently. 
 
86 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ It is curious,” said he, thoughtfully, ‘‘though 
 I have often heard my name pronounced before, I 
 never heard it sound so sweetly as when you said 
 it then.” 
 
 A slight blush suffused her cheeks, and her 
 fingers commenced twirling some blades of 
 grass at her side. 
 
 “ Mary,” said he, softly, and somewhat bash- 
 fully, “ your heart must feel very dull and 
 lonely. I wish I could take all your pain from 
 you, and put it into my own heart. I am strong 
 and can bear it.” 
 
 She averted her face to hide the little tear that 
 had mounted to her eyes at these simple words. 
 
 “ I am a plain, free kind of fellow, Mary,” he 
 said, making a bashful movement, as if to take 
 her hand, and restraining himself, “ I have 
 nothing in me to recommend myself to so good 
 and sweet a girl as yourself' — but — but — Mary, 
 will you forgive me if I tell you that I love 
 you ?” 
 
 Her head bowed itself lower upon her breast. 
 
FRAKK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 87 
 
 and she made him no reply. He thought she was 
 angry with him, and he fixed his eyes wistfully 
 upon her. 
 
 ‘‘ I would tell you, Mary, that T love you,” he 
 continued, “ because there is something in your 
 calm eyes and your gentle manner — and Mary,” 
 he said, interrupting himself, and taking her 
 passive hand, ‘‘you will not find me all the 
 rough fellow that you may think me. Look at 
 me, Mary ; tell me that you are not angry with 
 me.” 
 
 She turned her head slowly, and gently look- 
 ing at him, answered, “ I am not angry with you, 
 Frank.” 
 
 “ Then tell me that you love me. That is all I 
 want to know. I ask you no more.” 
 
 She endeavoured to speak firmly, though her 
 voice trembled in spite of her, as she answered — 
 “ Frank, I am poor.” 
 
 “And that makes me love you all the more.” 
 
 “ My father will discard me ; 1 have no mo- 
 ther ! my father, though living, is dead 
 
88 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 to me. I am an orphan — desolate. You 
 
 must not love me.” And she burst into a violent 
 fit of weeping. 
 
 Anything but a woman crying, to such a heart 
 as Frank’s ! He could stand a good deal — but 
 that he could not stand. 
 
 “ Then you will not let me love you, because 
 you are poor !” he exclaimed, piteously, ‘‘ because 
 you are an orphan. Oh, this is cruel. If you 
 were ten thousand times poorer than you are, — if 
 you were ten thousand times the orphan than you 
 are, I would love you all the more, aye,” he said, 
 energetically, ten thousand times the more.” 
 
 She turned her face towards him, all streaming 
 as it was with her tears. There was an unutterable 
 love expressed for him in her eyes — he could not 
 mistake it. In an instant he had clasped her to 
 his heart, and she was silently weeping upon his 
 shoulder; but her tears now were tears of joy. 
 
 Mary, darling,” he was whispering to her, 
 you have made me very happy. My own sweet, 
 dry those tears now. No unkindness shall cause 
 
FhANK COMMITS HIMSELF. 
 
 89 > 
 
 your gentle heart one pang again. All shall be 
 love now, and happiness. Dry those tears, my 
 own. With me as your protector, as your 
 husband, you need have no fear of what the 
 world can do to you. Ah ! but my girl has suf- 
 fered much.” 
 
 ‘‘ She has suffered much, but this moment 
 recompenses her for all her unhappiness. Your 
 girl,” she said softly, glancing up at him shyly, 
 and again hiding her blushing face upon his 
 shoulder, has long loved you in secret, 
 Frank.” 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ % 
 
 And may tlie great Father in heaven bless 
 you, my children,” said the Captain, wiping his 
 eyes. ‘‘Ah ! Frank, this is a happy moment for 
 me. After Kate, Mary was the wife I wanted 
 you to take, and you have won her. God blesa 
 you both.” 
 
 “ And may I call you father?” said Mary,, 
 passing her arm around his neck. 
 
eo 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Aye,” he answered, “ has not my heart long 
 acknowledged you as a daughter. By that heart, 
 Mary, but you are a good girl !” 
 
 “ Take good care of her whilst I am away,” 
 said Frank. “By Jove, but Yartlepool has all 
 at once become the brightest spot on earth to 
 me.” 
 
 “And when will you return?” asked Mary. 
 
 “As soon as ever I can, darling. I must see 
 my uncle, and tell him all about this. Ah, he 
 loves you too, Mary.” 
 
 “ And so does everybody !” cried the Captain. 
 “ I thank God for having been permitted to live 
 to see both you, no — my girls happy. He may 
 call me away to Him now when He wills. I 
 am willing to die, for have I not lived to see all 
 that my heart could wish to see ?” 
 
 Poor old man ! willingly indeed wouldst thou 
 have died couldst thou but have seen what in a 
 few days hence thy future had to offer thee ! 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. FAIRLIE BEGTNS TO FEEL UNWELL. 
 
 “ You think to find me one of those soft idiots 
 willing to put up with every impertinent piece of 
 extravagance that their children may think fit to 
 fiing at them ! But I tell you, you grossly deceive 
 yourself if you think so. I know your tricks ! I 
 know the contemptible envy that lurks in you, 
 which you cannot subdue, but which you 
 endeavour to disguise beneath a solicitude for my 
 happiness ! My happiness ! why, if I were in my 
 
92 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 coffin to-morrow, you would be the first to shout 
 and dance over my grave ! My happiness — much 
 you care for it ! You, who since your return have 
 made me more irritable than I ever remember 
 having been during my life. Bah ! but I am 
 sick of you. You have totally extinguished the 
 remaining spark of the affection that yet sub- 
 sisted in spite of your outrageous objection to my 
 wife. But why should I put up with it ? am I 
 not master here ? Are you — an infant — to wrest 
 my authority from my hands and put your foot 
 upon my neck ? whilst I like a slave am to remain 
 passive beneath your heel, instead of, as a father, 
 resenting your treatment with anger ! I’ll have 
 no more of it, I say; let us separate. My 
 happiness in life is not be marred by the pre- 
 sence of an ungrateful child, I can tell you !” 
 
 And as Mr. Fairlie concluded this peroration of 
 a very fierce and certainly ungen tlemanly philippic 
 that he had levelled at his daughter, he started 
 from his seat and bounced out of the room. 
 
 He bounced out of the room, and jerking his^ 
 
MR. FAIRLIE BEGIKS TO FEEL UNWELL. 93 
 
 hat off the peg in the hall, bounced out into the 
 
 * 
 
 street, and with a face red with rage made his 
 way into the city. 
 
 He remained in a rage all the way down Cannon 
 Street ; and remained in a rage for one whole 
 hour after he had arrived at Cannon Street. He 
 went and hid himself away in his little back 
 nflSce; and tried to forget his wrath in poring 
 over the contents of a huge ledger. He did not 
 want to speak to any of the clerks, for he very 
 well knew that more froth than words in his 
 present state of mind would escape his lips if 
 once he opened them. And his rage did not 
 prevent him from experiencing an anxiety not to 
 make himself ridiculous. 
 
 But isolation has a wonderfully subduing influ- 
 ence over a man’s temper. There are many 
 curious links in the chain of thought that occu- 
 pies the attention for an hour. Eising as it 
 were from the soul, -and slowly travelling round 
 the heart, one feeling follows another, and every 
 fresh one presents a different aspect from that 
 
OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 S4 
 
 •whicli has preceded it. By degrees the tempest 
 in Mr. Fairlie’s bosom subsided ; upon the 
 troubled waves of his mind, isolation had com- 
 menced to pour a little oil — first came inditfer- 
 ence, then consideration, and with consideration, 
 of course, regret. 
 
 Yes. After an hour’s tumultuous thoughts he 
 began to regret his hastiness — at least his vanity 
 called it hastiness ; but truth whispered it to be 
 positive wickedness. His conscience commenced 
 to prick him. His mind became like a foot that 
 is tortured with what is called “ pins and needles.” 
 Certainly his daughter had merited his anger, but 
 not all the treatment that he had discovered. 
 What had been her crime ? he could not tell. 
 But somehow or other she had grown obnoxious 
 to him. He never felt at his ease in her society. 
 There was a lasting reproach in her calm eye that 
 tortured him. Moreover, she and his wife could 
 n ot get on together. He had not much noticed 
 this — but Mrs. Fairlie had told him so ; and he 
 believed her. How could such a glorious crea- 
 
ME. FAIRLIE BEGINS TO FEEL UNWELL. 95 
 
 ture as his wife assimilate with such a girl as 
 Mary? Was she not justified in what she had 
 said of the girl ? in those doubts which she had 
 expressed as to whether Mary’s professions of 
 attachment to her father could really be sincere, 
 emanating, as they did, from one whose conduct 
 in obstructing her father’s scheme of happiness 
 by her professed prejudice to the object of his 
 devotion, was so completely at variance with the 
 excuses she offered to palliate it ? 
 
 When, however, he settled down into a calm 
 survey of all the circumstances of the case, 
 he sought, but sought in vain, for the motive 
 that had actuated his conduct towards Mary. 
 Was it his wife’s dislike for her that he had 
 imbibed? — a dislike sought not to be con- 
 cealed by the artful woman (whom the reader 
 may easily conjecture as the busy spirit of 
 all these movements), who justified herself by 
 saying that it had been provoked by Mary’s 
 prejudice towards her in the first instance. He 
 would not allow himself to confess this, because 
 
OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 there was something a little too unnatural in the 
 thought. Besides, however servile his love 
 might he for the woman, his vanity, ,or that 
 insignificant portion of it that yet remained, 
 would not willingly allow him to credit her con- 
 trol over him to be such as could influence his 
 personal, determined hostility towards his child. 
 But whether his vanity allowed this or not, such 
 was absolutely the case ; and had not love richly 
 confused everything in a more or less degree con- 
 nected with his wife, no doubt, in the feelings of 
 Mrs. Fairlie towards Mary, he would have per- 
 ceived the cause of the prejudice with which he 
 was now animated. 
 
 Nevertheless consideration had brought regret, 
 and possessed with this feeling, he resolved on 
 his return home to compensate her for his bitter- 
 ness by some show of kindness, which, if he could 
 not feel, he would at least assume. 
 
 On reaching his house therefore, his first 
 inquiry was for Mary. But he learned with sur- 
 prise that she had herself left soon after his 
 
ME. FAIKLIE BEGINS TO FEEL UNWELL. 97 
 
 departure, and had not returned. Concluding 
 that she might have gone to the Seymours, he 
 sat himself down with his wife to dinner ; but 
 his uneasiness was too visible to escape her eye. 
 
 “ Those constant quarrels between yourself and 
 Mary, Henry,” said she “ are very painful to 
 me to witness.” 
 
 “ And why, my love ?” asked he ; “ surely a 
 father has a right to correct his child.” 
 
 “ Certainly ; and more especially such a father 
 as yourself. But then they particularly distress 
 me, for I am well aware that, indirectly, I am 
 more or less the cause of them. Ah !” continued 
 she with a sigh, better I had never met you, 
 Henry, than that I should have stepped in to 
 separate two such hearts as yours.” 
 
 “ Gussy,” he answered, “ rather than not have 
 met you, I would have forfeited the claims the 
 most cherished of those I formerly loved could 
 have had on me. No,” he added, with a fond 
 smile, “ who would not relinquish Purgatory for 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 F 
 
93 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Heaven ? Who could not forego all other claims 
 to win such a woman as yourself?” 
 
 “ Flatterer ! flatterer ! ” she murmured, half 
 closing her eyes. 
 
 And truly in one sense has Mary become my 
 Purgatory,” he said, “ for she has been leading 
 me anything but an agreeable life for the last 
 few months.” 
 
 “ And where is she now ?” she asked. 
 
 “1 have no idea. But in all probability with 
 the Seymours.” 
 
 After a pause she said, in a careless tone of 
 voice, 
 
 “ I haven’t seen young Frank Forrester for 
 some time. I wonder what has become of him ?” 
 
 “ He has left us in the city, you know.” 
 
 “ Has he?” she exclaimed. 
 
 “ Oh yes ; some four or five days since I re- 
 ceived a letter from him, telling me that he had 
 renounced commerce from reasons which he 
 would call upon me and disclose,” 
 
MR. FAIRLIE BEGINS TO FEEL UNWELL. 99 
 
 A curious expression all at once took posses- 
 sion of her features, and as suddenly vanished. 
 But it left her a shade paler. 
 
 ‘‘ I suppose he is going to do what all young 
 ones do,” she said — get married ?” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie shrugged his shoulders ; at the 
 same moment his face grew deadly white, and he 
 clapped his hand to his heart. 
 
 Good God !” he ejaculated. 
 
 His wife, noticing the alteration in his face, 
 left her chair, and went round to him. 
 
 What is the matter?” she asked, in a tone 
 of agitation. 
 
 It was a terrible pang,” he muttered, breath- 
 ing heavily, and yet striving to smile through 
 the look of alarm that had overspread his features. 
 I thought I was a dead man.” 
 
 But tell me — what was it ?” she asked, in a 
 yet more agitated manner. 
 
 A pain in my heart — that was all. But it 
 was terrible whilst it lasted. God ! it seemed as 
 if a knife had been driven into me.” 
 
100 
 
 OJb'F THE STAGE. 
 
 “ How you frightened me, Henry,” she ex- 
 claimed, smiling at him. “ I suppose it was a 
 spasm.” 
 
 ‘‘ I suppose so, too,” he answered. “ But 
 Heaven save me from any more of them!” 
 
 She resumed her seat with a sweet smile upon 
 her lips, as if the discovery that there was no 
 cause for alarm greatly delighted her. 
 
 “You have been eating something that has 
 disagreed with you,” said she. “ You must really 
 be more careful, Henry.” 
 
 He shook his head, as if to imply that he was 
 not aware of having eaten anything ; but he did 
 not speak. He had undoubtedly received a shock, 
 for his face was very pale. 
 
 After dinner he went and laid himself down 
 upon the sofa. He complained of not feeling 
 quite so well as usual ; and his wife came and 
 seated herself beside him. 
 
 “ Ah ! Henry,” said she, “ you must not fancy 
 yourself ill because you have a little shooting 
 pain in your heart. Everybody is subject to such 
 
MR. FAIRLIE BEGINS TO FEEL UNWELL. 101 
 
 things. I myself, for instance, am often troubled 
 with them.” 
 
 ‘^But, darling, I don’t feel so well as I usually 
 am. Very likely the cause is what you say — I 
 have been eating something that has disagreed 
 with me.” And he assumed a thoughtful look, 
 as if he were trying to recall his precise diet 
 throughout that day. 
 
 “ You will be quite well to-morrow,” said she. 
 ‘‘ Would you like me to read to you a little ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; but I don’t want to tire you.” 
 
 How could I ever tire in ministering to your 
 happiness ?” said she, half shutting her eyes at 
 him. 
 
 He squeezed her hand, and fetching a book she 
 commenced its perusal aloud. She was a capital 
 reader. She entered so completely into the spirit 
 of her author, Her modulated voice seemed to 
 intangibly impersonate the characters of the fic- 
 tion that she had taken up ; and her dramatic 
 instinct lent a force to each conception which it had 
 else certainly wanted. Mr. Fairlie always counted 
 
102 
 
 OFF THE STAOE. 
 
 her reading to him as a very great treat. He 
 would fix his eyes upon her when she commenced, 
 and upon her they would remain until she had 
 concluded. His whole attitude bespoke his pro- 
 found attention, and sometimes his face would 
 wear that eager look, as if he were striving to 
 avoid losing the least accent that floated from 
 her lips. 
 
 On this occasion, however, though he seemed 
 anxious enough to suffer his attention to be cap- 
 tivated by the sounds of the divinity at his side, 
 his thoughts were frequently absent, some- 
 times upon himself, sometimes upon Mary. 
 He was restless to know what the pang in his 
 heart meant, and also where his daughter was. 
 Of these two thoughts the latter, perhaps, was 
 the more engrossing. He was certainly very 
 sorry for having spoken so bitterly to her. He 
 felt the shame that follows a man who has for- 
 gotten himself. Even sinking the daughter, he 
 had no right to address a woman as he had 
 addressed her. It was unmanly as well as un- 
 
MR. FAIRLIE BEGINS TO FEEL UNWELL. 103 
 
 mannerly. Then, as he thought, the sounds of 
 his wife’s clear voice filling the room would again 
 attract his attention, and the spirit of love, as he 
 gazed upon her, would again enter his heart and 
 blot out from his mind all thoughts but of the 
 splendid woman whom he called wife. 
 
 For her part she had at once noticed his dis- 
 traction, but she feigned not to observe it. She 
 well knew what he was thinking about, and 
 though always master of her voice, that betrayed 
 not what was else passing within her, her brain 
 was busy in devising fresh arguments to wholly 
 alienate the father from the child. 
 
 The evening wore itself away, yet there came 
 no letter from Mary, Her father retired to bed 
 in a state of perturbation that he did not seek to 
 conceal, though he did not proclaim the cause. 
 His feeling of illness, too, by no means tended to 
 calm his agitation, and Mrs. Fairlie finding that 
 she could not stem the settled current of his 
 thoughts, resolved to quiet his mind by humour - 
 ing it. 
 
104 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 On the following morning he said that he felt 
 himself better, hut on leaving his room he was seized 
 with another abrupt and terrible pain in the heart. 
 So severe was the wrench that he had to grasp 
 the banisters to save himself from falling. His 
 wife hearing the sudden cry he emitted, ran out 
 with much show of terror, and implored him to 
 let her send for a doctor, assuring him, however, 
 that he had no cause for alarm, as such pains were 
 so frequent with her that she had come to despise 
 them. He answered that there was no occasion 
 for medical assistance to be brought to the house, 
 but, he added, if he were again seized with the 
 pain he would go in his carriage and consult his 
 physician. 
 
 He had hoped to see a letter from Mary await- 
 ing him on the breakfast table ; but he was dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 ‘‘What can have become of the girl?” he 
 asked his wife when she entered the room. 
 
 “ Whatever has become of her,” answered Mrs. 
 Fairlie. “ I must confess that I am greatly sur- 
 
MR. FATRLIE BEGINS TO FEEL UNWELL. IOC 
 
 prised at her not having communicated with you 
 before. There is a contempt in such protracted 
 silence that one certainly does not expect to meet 
 with in a nature like Mary’s.” 
 
 You are right,” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, with 
 some show of irritation. Whatever may have 
 been the provocation she received, she has cer- 
 tainly no right to treat me in a manner which in 
 anybody else I should consider insulting.” 
 
 And so I can hardly help thinking,” said Mrs. 
 Fairlie. However, I dare say she is cosy 
 enough with some one of her friends or other, 
 and will hardly thank you for your solicitude.” 
 And with such employment of the spur upon the 
 galled flanks of Mr. Fairlie, Augusta soon won 
 him over to his old feeling of anger against Mary. 
 Nevertheless, he awaited, with an expectation he 
 vainly sought to subdue, the intervening appear- 
 ances of the postman as he came ringing his way 
 down the square. 
 
 His indisposition was slowly gaining ground 
 upon him ; but his heart had given him for the 
 
 F 5 
 
106 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 present no more shocks. When he told his wife 
 how unwell he felt, she playfully answered him 
 that he was only telling her so to frighten her, 
 since she declared she never saw him looking 
 better than he did then since she had known him. 
 Men, such as Mr. Fairlie, will go a long way to 
 avoid being thought hypochondriacal ; and though 
 his wife had sufficiently proclaimed to him that 
 she thought him such, he was by no means eager 
 to confirm her in her belief by appealing to 
 medical aid, more especially since she told him 
 that he was looking so well. Nevertheless, he 
 made up his mind that unless he felt better on 
 the morrow he would covertly solicit the advice 
 of his physician. 
 
 At half-past six that evening a letter was placed 
 in his hands from Mary. It was very brief.* She 
 asked no forgiveness ; it conveyed no upbraiding. 
 She simply stated the course she had adopted, and 
 begged him to order her luggage to be despatched 
 to Yartlepool. 
 
 This letter was a splendid fulcrum for the lever 
 
MR. FAIRLIE BEGINS TO FEEL UNWELL. 107 
 
 of Mrs. Fairlie’s designs. She expatiated with 
 such ingenious eloquence upon it that her husband 
 vowed that he would have no more to do with 
 his child. He had been half inclined to write to 
 her and assure her that he retracted the curse he 
 had passed upon her ; for he had fancied that the 
 recollection of his words would have tortured her 
 in a manner that his heart, as a father, could not 
 permit. But her letter was so cool, Mrs. Fairlie’s 
 eloquence so convincing, and his own feeling still 
 so warm, that having ordered her luggage to be 
 sent, he tore her letter up into little bits with a 
 resolution never to see her again. 
 
108 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN WHICH SOMETHING NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY IS 
 ENACTED. 
 
 Though Mary and the Captain had both united 
 in their entreaties to prevail upon Frank to re- 
 main at Hartlepool another day, his anxiety to 
 be with his uncle, whom he knew considerably 
 felt his absence, forced him away and brought 
 him to London on the evening of the day follow- 
 ing his departure from it. 
 
 It was too late for him to call upon the Sey- 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 10^ 
 
 mours, though to effect a reconciliation with his 
 old friend was now the wish of his heart. More- 
 over, he was anxious to be once more on visiting 
 terms with him, in order that he might pro- 
 vide himself with an opportunity of watching 
 Mortimer and Kate, and seeing how far their 
 mutual deportment served to justify Mary in her 
 suspicions to him, and. him in his interrupted 
 counsel to Seymour. 
 
 Doubtless many others in Frank’s position, 
 after the treatment he had received at Seymour’s 
 hands, would have relapsed into an indignant 
 silence and suffered matters to take their own 
 course, confident, at all events, that whatever 
 might occur they would receive no very material 
 injury from the consequences. 
 
 It may have been a cause of lamentation to 
 Frank in his after years that he had not been 
 born possessed of one of those felicitous natures 
 which frigidly incline themselves in the direction 
 of sorrow, or in such direction where they fancy 
 its aid may be wanted, but, finding themselves 
 
no 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 either not long enough, or strong enough, or 
 willing enough, or charitable enough, to reach the 
 object they make a feint to succour, shrink again 
 w'ithin themselves, and pass on their way rejoicing 
 that at least something good has been attempted. 
 
 Certainly these are the natures most to be 
 envied; for a fear lest an indiscreet zeal of 
 charity should be productive of no other comfort 
 to themselves than repentance, or in others than 
 ingratitude, very frequently restrains them in the 
 action that might inconvenience themselves, and 
 prohibits the exercise of that benevolence which, 
 exerted, might profit only those for whom it is 
 intended. 
 
 Mr. Forrester received Frank with a hearty 
 welcome, declaring that he had felt quite lonely 
 without him. 
 
 ‘‘ And how is the Captain ?” said he. 
 
 Frank told him he was quite well, and then his 
 uncle inquired after Mary. 
 
 Frank slightly blushed as he answered that her 
 spirits were lighter, and that the Captain’s delight 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 at receiving her had considerably mitigated her 
 grief at her father’s treatment. 
 
 Poor girl !” said Forrester. What can have 
 been the cause of her quarrel with her father 
 
 “ I cannot divine the cause ; though I strongly 
 suspect Mr. Fairlie’s marriage has a good deal to 
 do with it.” 
 
 ^^Ha! second marriages almost invariably 
 mean unhappiness to the offspring of the first. 
 And what kind of a woman is Mrs. Faiiiie ?” 
 
 She is very beautiful/’ said Frank, ^^and— ” 
 That’s quite enough,” said his uncle, inter- 
 rupting him. ^^Mr. Fairlie is a middle-aged 
 man, and ‘ a fool at forty is a fool indeed !’ If 
 his wife has succeeded in captivating him, fare- 
 well to all his daughter’s claims upon his love.” 
 She has done more than captivate him,” said 
 Frank ; she has enchanted him. Even I, who 
 pretend to be no very shrewd observer, have 
 noticed this.’^ 
 
 ‘‘ Poor Mary !” sighed Forrester. Then he 
 
112 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 added, in a thoughtful manner, “ But she has 
 done wrong, I think, in leaving her home.” 
 
 “ Why ?” 
 
 “ Because she should have remained to remark, 
 if possible, if there be any underhand movements 
 in this sudden alienation of her father. Second 
 wives are full of schemes, Frank. Far be it from 
 me to throw any suspicion upon Mrs. Fairlie, 
 whom I have not yet had the pleasure of even 
 seeing ; but there is never any smoke without fire, 
 and it is impossible that Mary alone could have 
 inspired her father’s heart with this sudden ab- 
 horrence for her.” 
 
 ‘‘ That is very true,” answered Frank. “ But 
 let her father, or her secret enemies, whoever they 
 may be, do their worst. She is safe now.” 
 
 “ With Captain Sandboys?” 
 
 “ And with me.” 
 
 “ How do you mean, with you ?” 
 
 “ I mean that I have asked her to be my wife, 
 and she has told me she will be. And now. 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TKAGEDY. 
 
 113 
 
 uncle/^ said FraDk, holding out his hand, will 
 you also prove her friend by sanctioning my pro- 
 posal to her ?” 
 
 His uncle looked at him with surprise for a 
 moment, then, suddenly grasping his hand, he 
 answered, 
 
 ^^And you have really asked her to be your 
 wife ?” 
 
 Ay, that I have,” 
 
 Then,” exclaimed Forrester, whatever folly 
 you may commit during the rest of your life, you 
 will at least have the satisfaction of remembering 
 one wise action. Your choice does honour to 
 your heart. I heartily congratulate you.” And 
 he cordially wrung Frank by the hand. 
 
 But she is poor,” said Frank. 
 
 How do you know?” 
 
 She told me so.” 
 
 Then let that fact stand as one more virtue 
 added to the many she already possesses.” 
 
 Uncle,” exclaimed Frank, again shaking him 
 
114 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 by the hand, it is, indeed, kind of yon to speak 
 thus of her.'’ ' 
 
 My boy,” answered his uncle, let me tell 
 you that you will find a true wife in that girl x 
 one, not of obtrusive devotion, but whose affec- 
 tion will always be apparently proportioned to 
 your wants, whilst her heart will ever remain in- 
 spired with the love that you have awakened in 
 her. You have acted wisely in wooing her; she 
 has acted wisely in accepting you.” 
 
 My next task must be to see her father,” 
 said Frank. “ I am determined to have it out 
 with him, and see what he has to say for him- 
 self. If his affection for her has been corrupted 
 by any underhand work, hang me if I won’t find 
 it out. I consider Mary my wife now , and who 
 has a better right to champion a woman’s cause 
 than her husband ?” 
 
 “ No one ; at least, such a woman as this. But 
 in championing the claims of some women, you 
 find, after a time, that you are only championing^ 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 115 ^ 
 
 their vices. However, I’ll tell you what I will 
 do; if you like, we’ll walk round to Montague 
 Square to-morrow afternoon ; you can introduce 
 me to your friends, and I’ll see what I can do in 
 investigating the cause of this domestic tur- 
 moil.” 
 
 Will you ?” cried Frank, eagerly. That 
 will be kind of you, indeed. You know I have 
 implicit faith in your judgment; though, with 
 all due deference to your sagacity, I fancy that 
 you are a little prejudiced against women.’" 
 
 When a man,” answered Forrester, gloomily, 
 ^^has been injured by one of a species, it matters 
 not whether human or animal, he learns to 
 dread — aye, to hate the whole of that species for 
 ever after. A dog is a faithful creature ; but if 
 you have ever been bitten severely by one, you 
 will come to always detest and shrink from every 
 dog that you meet. What makes the misan- 
 thrope ? Not men, but a man ! not the multitude 
 which he knows not, but the once cherished 
 friend by whom he has been cruelly treated. Aye,^ 
 
116 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 a species is easily damned in the eyes of a 
 wronged man.” 
 
 ^^Well,” said Frank, with a smile, ^^you 
 have my permission to despise every woman but 
 one ; that one, however, you must love.” 
 do love her,” answered Forrester. 
 have given you my opinion of her, and I mean 
 all that I say. To-morrow you must introduce 
 me to her father, and the moment I have become 
 intimate enough to commence an attack, I will 
 see if it be not possible to bring about a recon- 
 ciliation ; or, if not this, a revelation, at least, of 
 some of the motives of his alienation.” 
 
 After this they separated. 
 
 Frank, on rising the following morning, was 
 half inclined to go at once to the Seymours. 
 Though perfectly prepared for a cold reception, 
 he was resolved to warm his friend into forgive- 
 ness and into his old friendship by certain en- 
 treaties, which he had already prepared, and cer- 
 tain arguments which, by dint of thought, he 
 had very well matured. His prospect was frus - 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TKAGEDY. 
 
 117 
 
 trated, however, by the request of his uncle, that 
 he would accompany him to see how capitally the 
 new house was progressing, an invitation he 
 could not very easily refuse. Moreover, he fan- 
 cied that the evening was, perhaps, the best time 
 for him to see Seymour ; and so he resolved to 
 wait until after his visit to the Fairlies. 
 
 As his uncle had said, the new house was get- 
 ting on capitally indeed. A good deal of the 
 furniture was already in, and though the absence 
 of carpets, curtains, and pictures, gave the rooms 
 a rather bleak look, it was apparent that they 
 only needed the addition of these conveniences to 
 form themselves into a most comfortable and 
 elegant abode. 
 
 Forrester seemed quite at home in his self- 
 imposed duties. He bustled about the house, 
 superintending the labours of the different work- 
 men, giving orders how to do this, consulting 
 Frank upon the propriety of that, and entering 
 heart and soul into the various businesses of up- 
 holsterer, carpenter, picture-hanger, and polisher. 
 
118 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ And when completed,” said he, standing in 
 the centre of the drawing-room, and complacently 
 gazing around him, “ it will furnish a very cosy 
 home for you and Mary, Frank. You must let 
 me have a bed- room in it, and the use of a sitting 
 room. That is all that I shall want.” 
 
 “ I don’t know about the sitting-room,” said 
 Frank ; “ but we’ll see.” 
 
 And then, as if urged to the act and words by a 
 sudden emotion, he clasped Forrester’s arm, ex- 
 claiming, 
 
 “ Ah ! what a noble, generous heart it is.” 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said his uncle, “ what sort of 
 a house Mary has been accustomed to in Montague 
 Square ; but it occurs to me that this one will 
 not wholly discredit her husband, eh ? But 
 come, it is three o’clock ; we’ll first go to the 
 hotel, and then you shall take me to the Fair- 
 lies.” 
 
 Some hour or so after this they left Piccadilly 
 €n route for Montague Square. 
 
 It was a fine day, and the streets were thronged. 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 119 
 
 with people, eager to avail themselves of the 
 bright sun to execute their commissions in shop- 
 ping, or to stretch their legs in a atroll. The 
 roads were full of carriages, or rather vehicles, 
 varying from the costermonger’s cart, drawn by 
 the panting donkey, to the pompous quality 
 uquipage with its prancing horses and its be- 
 wildered flunkies. The noise was incessant and 
 confusing, and our couple had some difficulty in 
 forcing their v/ay through the shoals of persons 
 that drifted irregularly up and down the pave- 
 ments. 
 
 We read,” said Forrester, of the ancients 
 pouring out on house and hill top to do honour 
 to an eclipse. The good people of London seem 
 to celebrate the appearance of the sun pretty 
 nearly in the same manner. How soon would a 
 shower of rain send these innumerable butterflies 
 to their bowers.” 
 
 They had now emerged from the busy thorough- 
 fare into a comparatively quiet street, at the end 
 of which Frank said was Montague Square. They 
 
120 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 walked on, and just as tkey had turned the cor- 
 ner, a carriage with two horses rattled by them. 
 It was occupied by a lady, who lay negligently 
 hack on the cushions, and whose face, half-shaded 
 by a parasol, was turned towards them as she 
 passed. 
 
 Forrester, who had been looking in the direc- 
 tion of the carriage, suddenly grasped his com- 
 panion’s arm, just as Frank had pulled off his hat 
 in reply to a bow received by him from the lady. 
 
 Frank looked up into his uncle’s face to see 
 what was the matter, and as he did so, he uttered 
 an exclamation of alarm. 
 
 “ Good heaven !” he said, “ what is the matter 
 with you ? Are you unwell ?” 
 
 “ Yes — a passing sickness — that was all,” 
 answered Forrester, feebly. Then laying his 
 hand to his side he commenced breathing 
 heavily. 
 
 ‘‘ There is a chemist’s shop — let’s go in,” said 
 Frank, anxiously. “ Perhaps you may get 
 something that may relieve you.” 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TEAGEDT. 
 
 121 
 
 — let me be quiet for a moment, that is 
 
 all.” 
 
 Then after a few moments’ silence, during 
 which they remained standing on the pavement, 
 Forrester continued, 
 
 “ There, I am better now. You must not 
 mind me. It is an old Indian complaint of mine, 
 this.” 
 
 He paused and looked at his watch. 
 
 “ That was Mrs. Fairlie,” said Frank. “ Did 
 you not see me bow to her ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Forrester, averting his face. 
 
 Again there was a silence, during which time 
 Forrester feigned to be intent upon an examina- 
 tion of his watch. At last Frank grew impa- 
 tient. 
 
 “ What say, uncle ? — shall we go on ?” 
 
 Forrester turned his head towards him to 
 reply. The deadly paleness had passed from his 
 cheek ; the expression of his face was terribly 
 stern, and his lips were almost bloodless in the 
 
 VOL. ni. 
 
 G 
 
122 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 fierceness with which he had compressed them. 
 Nevertheless, he forced a smile, as he said, 
 
 “ You must pardon me, Frank. I do not think 
 I can go to Montague Square to-day.” 
 
 “ But why ?” 
 
 “ Stupidly I forgot that I had made an appoint- 
 ment with a man in Regent Street at half-past 
 four. It is too important to admit of my absence. 
 To-morrow I will go with you to the Fairlies.” 
 
 A look of disappointment passed over Frank’s 
 face. 
 
 “ But there is nothing to prevent your going,” 
 continued his uncle. “At any rate, you can 
 always sound Mr. Fairlie upon the subject of his 
 daughter. Moreover, I wantyou to do me a service 
 with him.” 
 
 “ And what is it?” 
 
 “ You know my black servant, Ali ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ The fellow wants to leave my service. Of 
 course, I cannot object to his going ; but common 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 123 
 
 gratitude for past services compels me to see him 
 fixed in some other position before I discharge 
 him. The man is an ass to leave me. However, 
 let him have his own way.” 
 
 But how can I assist you ?” 
 
 ‘^Ask Mr. Fairlie, or his wife,” continued 
 Forrester, carelessly, whether they would like to 
 have a veritable Hindoo in their house. You 
 need not mention my name, though you can tell 
 them that he was in the employment of an uncle 
 of yours, and that he can furnish them with 
 credentials if they deem them requisite. He 
 makes a capital page, and is eminently unique in 
 his ways. Try to prevail upon them to take 
 him ; you will be rendering me a great service by 
 so doing.” 
 
 Very well,” said Frank. I am sure Mrs. 
 Fairlie will be pleased with the idea. I’ll men- 
 tion it to her, and persuade her if I can.” 
 
 Thanks. Adieu ! YouTl come back to the 
 hotel, won’t you ? And by the way, let me re- 
 peat that you had better not mention my name 
 
 G 2 
 
124 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 with regard to AH, or, indeed with regard to any- 
 thing else. I want to come before Mr. Fairlie as 
 a complete stranger ; that is to say, I do not 
 want you to anticipate your introduction by 
 saying a word about me ; else he might suspect 
 the motive of my visit and be out to me when I 
 called. Now, how is Mary to be assisted if her 
 father renders himself invisible ? do you see ?” 
 “Perfectly,” said Frank, deceived by the 
 plausibility of his uncle’s manner. “If I can 
 find an opportunity I shall just broach the subject 
 of Mary ; and then I can tell you what he said of 
 her.” 
 
 “ Very well. Once more, adieu.” 
 
 And they parted. 
 
 Frank was very much disappointed at his 
 uncle’s abrupt departure. Though he was suffi- 
 ciently willing to believe that he had really an 
 appointment in Eegent Street, he could not help 
 fancying that his sudden illness had something to 
 do with this unexpected postponement of the 
 visit. He did not pause to conjecture whether 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 125 
 
 his indisposition might not be owing to some 
 other cause than the natural one to which 
 Forrester had attributed it, but turning the 
 corner of the Square, he proceeded up the steps 
 of the house, and pretty noisily employed the 
 knocker. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie he was told was in bed, being very 
 severely indisposed. Mrs. Fairlie, however, had 
 just returned from a drive and would be down 
 very shortly. Frank was uncertain whether to 
 stop or go away. He had called principally to 
 see Mr. Fairlie. However, he remembered his 
 promise to his uncle, and therefore remained to 
 speak to Mrs. Fairlie on the subject. 
 
 He was kept waiting some five or six minutes, 
 at the expiration of which time Mrs. Fairlie en- 
 tered, apologising to him for her absence. 
 
 1 am so sorry,” said Frank, to hear of Mr. 
 Fairlie’s illness. It is very sudden. I hope there 
 is nothing dangerous in it ?’ ’ 
 
 Mrs. Fairlie shook her head. 
 
126 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ My poor dear husband,” said she, “ is cer- 
 tainly poorly j but no, I cannot, will not believe 
 he is in danger, or that bis illness even promises 
 danger.” 
 
 “And what does bis doctor say?” 
 
 “ Ob !” she answered pettishly, “ the doctors 
 are so silly. I do believe bis physician made him 
 worse by frightening him. He complains merely 
 of a pain in the chest, and you know everybody 
 is more or less subject to such things. However 
 Dr. Strainger having felt his pulse and asked him 
 some questions, drew a very long face and advised 
 him to go home and compose himself. Now there 
 was nothing very alarming either in his advice or 
 in the prescription which was written for him ; 
 and yet whether he was frightened by the doctor’s 
 face or not, he must needs take to his bed on his 
 return home, and I do believe that his feelings 
 have regularly worked him into a bad illness. 
 Oh ! what horrid people those doctors are !” 
 
 “ But why did Mr. Fairlie subject himself to 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TEAGEDY. 
 
 127 
 
 the annoyance of such advice ? I daresay change 
 of air would have done him more good than all 
 the physic in the world.” 
 
 ‘‘ That is just what I said. But no— he would 
 insist upon going to this doctor, whom I consider 
 little better than a quack. However, I have per- 
 suaded him to change this alarmer for a Doctor 
 Hunt, whom. I kno w to be a very clever man, and 
 he is now under his care. I think it was very 
 cruel of him to go to this Doctor Strainger at all,” 
 she added, pouting, for he knows how I suffer 
 when he is unwell.” Then in a more lively voice 
 she said, ‘‘ but did I not see you with a com- 
 panion just now, Mr. Forrester ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes. He left me before I knocked at the 
 door. By the way, now that you mention him, I 
 may as well tell you the little commission he has 
 given me to execute. Do you like black servants, 
 Mrs. Fairlie?” 
 
 Negroes do you mean ?” 
 
 No — East Indians. I ask you this, because 
 my friend — indeed he is my uncle — has lately 
 
128 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 returned from abroad, and he has a Hindoostanee 
 man-servant, for whom he is anxious to secure a 
 place. And he asked me to recommend him to 
 you.” 
 
 ‘‘And shall 1 be obliging you if I take him ?” 
 she asked, softening her voice and giving him a 
 glance that brought the blood to his cheek, 
 though he knew not exactly why. 
 
 “ Eeally,” he began, a little confused, “ you 
 will certainly be obliging me — or rather my uncle 
 through me : which, however is much the same 
 thing.” 
 
 “ For you, then, I will do it. Let him come here 
 to-morrow morning, and I will engage him.” 
 
 “ This is most kind of you.” 
 
 “ Not in the least,” she said, again glancing 
 at him, and modulating her voice into a soft 
 sweetness. “ You have great claims upon me, 
 Fr — Mr. Forrester.” 
 
 “ I !” exclaimed Frank, with a start. 
 
 She held her head down, and commenced play- 
 ing with her watch-chain in silence. 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 1.9 
 
 Greatly astonished at her manner, he sat eye- 
 ing her without speaking for some moments ; 
 then observing every fresh second of silence 
 added to his embarrassment, he said, 
 
 I was very anxious to see Mr. Fairlie. But 
 I suppose he is too unwell for me to visit him 
 now — ah! of course — you tell me he is in bed 
 “ Yes ; he is in bed,” she answered. 
 
 Then suddenly she exclaimed, 
 
 ^^And what have you to say to him?” 
 
 The question was sufficiently blunt ; but there 
 was no ^bluntness in the way in which she put 
 it. 
 
 “ I wished to have a little conversation with 
 him upon the subject of — of^ — ” 
 
 He paused, and yet quite unwillingly to 
 himself. 
 
 Mary ?” she asked, fixing her large eyes upon 
 him with a penetrating look. 
 
 He answered “ Yes.” 
 
 And you are interested in her ?” she inquired, 
 striving to conceal the anxious tone of her voice. 
 
130 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ It pains me,” he rejoined, evasively, to see 
 a father separated from his daughter without any 
 apparent cause. Mary, even if she tried, could 
 not awaken in her father the sudden dislike with 
 which Mr. Fairlie seems to he all at once in- 
 spired.” 
 
 “ But are you sufficiently acquainted with her 
 character to know this?” Mrs. Fairlie asked, in 
 the same subdued, restless manner. “ There are 
 two sides to the curtain of the domestic drama. 
 You who are before it — how do you know what is 
 going on behind it ?” 
 
 “ But Mary of herself is too amiable, too 
 gentle to cause her father willingly a pang. It 
 only needs, I am sure, a little quiet discussion to 
 reawaken all his old affection for her.” 
 
 “ Mary is not all that you think her,” said Mrs. 
 Fairlie, with the least show of irritation. “ But 
 whether she be good or bad,” she softly added, 
 “ she is fortunate, indeed, to have won you over 
 as her advocate.” 
 
 “ Mary is not bad,” said Frank, with a little 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 131 
 
 warmth. “ Whatever her nature may be called, 
 it is wholly opposed to wrong, and to the wrong 
 feelings which are common to too many hearts.” 
 And does she know that you take this interest 
 in her?” Mrs. Fairlie exclaimed, her cheeks sud- 
 denly growing pale, and her whole manner ex- 
 pressing an uncontrollable agitation. 
 
 “ She does,” Frank replied. 
 
 Mrs. Fairlie rose, and approaching him close, 
 looked him in the eyes. 
 
 ‘‘ And she loves you,” she exclaimed, her lips 
 faltering as she spoke. 
 
 Frank was completely bewildered by this 
 strange conduct. She had approached him al- 
 most in a menacing manner, and he could no 
 more keep his eyes fixed upon the settled gaze 
 of her hashing orbs than he could have done 
 upon the sun that streamed so lazily through the 
 rich scarlet curtains, illumining the apartment in 
 a soft, voluptuous, vague light. Seeing that he 
 gave her no answer, she asked again in a low, 
 thrilling voice, 
 
132 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ And does slie love you ?” 
 
 “ She does ; at least, I believe so,” he an- 
 swered. 
 
 ‘‘ And you !” she exclaimed, passionately, ap- 
 proaching him even nearer, and almost over- 
 powering him by the splendour of her presence, 
 ‘‘ you, tell me, do you love her ?” 
 
 ‘‘ We are betrothed,” he answered. 
 
 She uttered a short, thick scream, that sounded 
 to him more like a sob, and almost fiercely grasped 
 him by the hand. 
 
 “ It must not be !” she exclaimed, hoarsely, 
 “ it must not be ! she shall not be my rival ; she 
 shall not come between us ! What, have you 
 not read it in me, that you should fly me now ? 
 have I not expressed it to you long ago, by signs 
 1 thought intelligible to the heart that seemed 
 to beat to the same music as mine ! Forego me 
 for her, the abandoned, the desolate, the pauper. 
 Oh ! it must not be ; would you have me force 
 the meaning from my mouth that you cannot in- 
 terpret in my eyes ? Oh ! Frank, Frank, you 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TKAGEDT. 
 
 133 
 
 have won me — ^you have conquered ; you, all un- 
 known to yourself, have gained a victory over 
 one whom kings might kneel to without a blush 
 — Frank, I love you.” 
 
 She did not relax her grasp of his hand, but 
 tottering, as if she were about to faint, she slowly 
 drooped until she was on her knees before him. 
 
 He remained stupefied — motionless — a very 
 statue in all save the burning blush that mantled 
 his cheeks, and that proved that there was a 
 living heart within him. He would have shaken 
 her from him and fled — fled to the world’s end, 
 away from the object that, from its first queenli- 
 ness, had suddenly grown loathsome to him. 
 Not the gratified vanity of the boy, not the emo- 
 tions, not the pleasurable pains, not the love 
 that her great eyes could not have failed to have 
 awakened in the most rigid hearts, could sup- 
 press the quick horror that leapt to life at the 
 spectacle he now contemplated ; that leapt to 
 life and urged him to fly far, far from the mad- 
 dening terrible spectacle he contemplated. 
 
134 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 But like Daphne, his limbs seemed suddenly 
 to have taken root ; within him he was all mad- 
 ness to escape — without, he remained stirless, 
 cold, almost inanimate. 
 
 And still she continued whispering to him, 
 hurriedly breathing the words that seemed to 
 pour like a fiery stream from her speaking lips. 
 
 ‘‘ What can she be to you ?— she — compared to 
 me, the little satellite of a glorious orb ? What 
 is there in her worth the winning? You do not 
 speak to me ! I will he your wife ; my husband 
 will die. My wealth shall be yours . . . but I 
 love you ! Oh ! weigh those words ! think from 
 what lips, from whose lips they come ! I, who 
 have spoken them before in jest, now speak them 
 in truth. I, who have loved none before, tell 
 you that I love you now ! Do you think me 
 mad ? I swear then that you have crazed my 
 brain. But speak to me ! . . . This is not the 
 first time that you have learnt my secret ! My 
 eyes spoke it to you, hut you would not hear ; 
 my sighs expressed it, but you were deaf to 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 135 
 
 their eloquence ! the very air in which I moved 
 wafted the secret to you, but you would not be 
 instructed ! Do you blame me now for telling 
 my thoughts in words ? Ah ! fool, it should 
 have been told before. I might have kept you 
 then —kept you from her whom I envy now as I 
 never envied before ; whom I could hate as 
 woman never yet was hated by her rival. Speak 
 to me . . 0 you are silent !” 
 
 Her voice grew tremulous, her breath came in 
 short, convulsive sighs, as she said again. 
 
 Speak to me — you are silent !” 
 
 With a vast effort he released his hand from 
 her grasp and sprang to his feet ; then stooping, 
 he raised the kneeling woman from the ground 
 and conducted her respectfully, but in silence, to 
 her chair. She could not look up at him ; her 
 head hung wearily upon her breast : yet ever and 
 anon her lips would move, and she would breathe 
 rather than say. 
 
 You are silent — speak to me I” 
 
136 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Speak to her ! dared he trust his tongue to 
 utter the words that he could have spoken I 
 Speak to her ! could he have told her that in- 
 stead of the love she sought, she had communi- 
 cated to his heart a loathing and a terror ! Speak 
 to her! aye, he could have cried aloud in the 
 bitterness of his heart, and have reproached her 
 as the faithless, the unwifely, the unwomanly I 
 
 After a long silence, he muttered, in a low 
 trembling voice, 
 
 “Mrs. Fairlie, let this scene be buried — for- 
 gotten — a thing, a terror of the past I But — ^you 
 as a wife, I as a betrothed — we must not meet 
 again.” 
 
 He had expected that she would have leapt 
 upon him like a tiger ; but she did not move. 
 She merely said, in a faint whisper, 
 
 “ You do not love me — ^be it so ? I am not 
 angry with you.” 
 
 There was such a pathos in her voice that, in 
 spite of himself, a feeling of compassion took 
 
NOT UNLIKE A TRAGEDY. 
 
 137 
 
 possession of his heart. He would have left her 
 then ; but after this touch of nature he could not 
 depart without one little word of kindness . 
 
 But she interrupted him by holding out her hand. 
 
 Come near me/’ she said, ^^you are not 
 frightened of me?” 
 
 He laid his hand in hers and insensibly she 
 drew him towards her. There was a moment’s 
 pause, during which time her disengaged hand 
 seemed fidgetting about in her pocket. But he 
 did not notice this ; he was preparing in his mind 
 a soothing word of farewell. 
 
 All at once she leapt to her feet. The gleam 
 of a blade fiashed in the air for a moment, and 
 then she brought it full down upon his chest. 
 But not to kill him, as she had intended ; for he 
 was as quick as she was. He had arrested the 
 blow with his iron arm, though not in time to 
 escape the slight flesh wound which it had in- 
 flicted, and which served as an earnest to show 
 what the blow would have been had it not been 
 frustrated by such strength as his. 
 
138 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 The massive gripe of his hand caused her fin- 
 gers to open, and the weapon, which proved to be 
 a small pocket dagger, fell to the ground. With 
 a short sob of pain, caused by his grasp, she sud- 
 denly tossed her hands up in the air and fainted. 
 
 He bore her to the sofa, and then glanced 
 around him for something that might revive her. 
 He would not summon the servant, though he 
 knew not exactly what her apparent lifelessness 
 might mean. A smelling-bottle stood upon the 
 mantelpiece, and this he hastened to employ. 
 Then his eye lighted upon a jar in which was 
 placed a bouquet. He sprinkled some of the 
 water from the jar upon her forehead, and before 
 long she uttered a sigh, and her eyes half opened. 
 He now considered he had sufficiently performed 
 his duty. So with a glance almost of pity at 
 the lovely human tigress before him, he picked 
 the dagger up from the floor, and placing it in his 
 pocket, left the house. 
 
13 ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HOW FORRESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. 
 
 He left tlie house, or rather, to speak from his 
 own impressions, the house left him; for his mind 
 was in such a state of bewilderment that he 
 seemed even unconscious of the mechanical move- 
 ment of his legs, and was only aware that some- 
 thing was in motion and that he was progressing 
 in the direction of Piccadilly, though whether 
 Piccadilly was coming towards him, or he was 
 going towards it, was equally a matter of doubt, 
 
140 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 which his thoughts did not suffer him to pause 
 and inquire into. 
 
 As for suffering the details of this scene to 
 pass his lips, this he had made up his mind from 
 the first not to do. Yet never did man before so 
 much feel the want of a sympathetic ear into 
 which he might pour his various emotions. His 
 mind, like a bag, seemed bursting from being 
 overstuffed. Such a deal had been generated in 
 that small but elastic receptacle, that want of 
 space had compelled its superfluities into his 
 throat ; for such was the only way in which he 
 could account for the choking sensation that tor- 
 mented him all the way home. 
 
 What did it all mean ? How had it all com- 
 menced? How was it all to end ? Vainly did he 
 ask himself all these questions ; he only knew 
 that he had been made love to against his will ; 
 and because he had chosen to assert his right as a 
 thinker, he had been nearly killed. But what 
 the deuce was there in him that could bring such 
 a lovely woman on her knees — aye, actually on her 
 
HOW FORBESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. 141 
 
 knees before him ? He couldn’t tell. It was all 
 very fine calling it caprice. Caprice is a very 
 pretty word which people employ as an infallible 
 solution to every enigma of the female heart. 
 But there was no caprice here. It was a case of 
 downright passionate love. It was love as he had 
 often seen it exemplified in dismal stage tragedies ; 
 and it was love he had often met with in novels, 
 and treated as ridiculous because he had deemed 
 such a passion improbable. 
 
 Now what was there in him to render him 
 worthy of being stabbed ? How he would like to 
 ask his uncle that question ! But then he very 
 well knew what his uncle would reply. He 
 would shrug his shoulders with his hard, bitter 
 smile, and would point, perhaps, at the sun and 
 say, Look ! explain to me the nature of the 
 force that keeps that molten orb suspended in 
 nothing. You cannot ? Very good. You have put 
 to me a question equally perplexing ; you have 
 asked me the explanation of a natural enigma ; 
 an enigma that has baffled the united philosophic 
 
142 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 genius of every age and country. My answer is 
 yours : ‘ J cannot.’ ” 
 
 Over this chaos of his mind, however, hovered 
 the spirit of Mary. She stood before him, dis- 
 embodied, to tranquillise his feelings and to 
 awaken in his heart the secret gladness that, 
 however gloomy life might be, one pure, bright 
 star would shine always over him to cheer him 
 with its love, to inspirit him with its calmness. 
 And yet, what effect would this scene have upon 
 her future? Would it serve to embitter Mr. 
 Fairlie against her, and so widen the already wide 
 breach that existed between the father and the 
 child ? Alas ! he feared that all reconciliation was 
 now at an end. He dreaded the influence of Mrs. 
 Fairlie over her husband, and cursed the impulse 
 that had directed his footsteps to Montague 
 Square. 
 
 Mr Forrester had a private sitting-room in 
 his hotel ; and Frank not finding him in the 
 coffee-room sought him in this apartment. 
 
 He found him seated at the table, his head re- 
 
HOW FOERESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. 143 
 
 posing on liis hand, and absorbed in a profound 
 reverie. 
 
 N 
 
 On seeing his nephew he started from his medi- 
 tative attitude, exclaiming, 
 
 So here we are ! Well, dinner will soon be 
 ready.” 
 
 Oh, don’t talk of dinner !” exclaimed Frank, 
 sinking into a chair. “ I have no more appetite 
 than that table.” 
 
 ‘‘ Why, what’s the matter with you ?” Mr. 
 Forrester said, fixing a penetrating look on his 
 nephew’s face. 
 
 “ Oh, nothing — nothing,” said Frank. 
 
 I never knew a man utter the word nothing 
 in the tone of voice in which you have just ex- 
 pressed it, who didn’t mean a great deal more 
 than something. Come, something has occurred ; 
 but if it is a secret let it remain so.” 
 
 ‘‘ It is a secret,” said Frank. 
 
 ‘‘ Then do noWmpart it to me. The man who 
 can’t keep his own secrets cannot reasonably ex- 
 pect that others will keep them for him. This, I 
 
144 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 think, the Duke de la Eochefoucauld says. But 
 tell me, what of Ali ?” 
 
 “ Ali must remain where he is,” said Frank. 
 
 “ Do they not want him, then ?” 
 
 “ I only saw Mrs. Fairlie. She promised to 
 take him at first — but I couldn’t think of asking 
 her to take him now.” 
 
 “ Nevertheless he must go, whether you think 
 so or not. But I want to ask you a question or 
 two before I resume the subject of Ali. How 
 was it that you didn’t see Mr. Fairlie? Was he 
 out ?” 
 
 “ No ; he was in bed.” 
 
 “ What ! Then he sleeps during the day as 
 well as the night !” 
 
 “ No. He is ill.” 
 
 “ Of what?” 
 
 “ Lords knows !” exclaimed Frank, a little 
 irritably. Then, as if regretting even this slight 
 display of temper, he said, ‘‘ Pray excuse any 
 show of warmth in me, uncle. But I have been 
 awfully put out.” 
 
HOW FOERESTEH DISCOVERED FRANK’s SECRET. 145 
 
 And as lie said this he left his chair and went 
 over to the window. 
 
 As he passed him, Forrester noticed the point 
 of a dagger peeping out of his hinder pocket. A 
 little dark spot, which he knew at once to be 
 blood, tarnished the otherwise silvery gleam 
 which the steel emitted. 
 
 ‘‘ Frank,” he said, come and seat yourself. I 
 have much to say to you.” 
 
 There was a tone of command in his voice, and 
 with a glance of surprise Frank resumed his 
 seat. 
 
 ^^What is Mr. Fairlie ill of?” continued 
 Forrester. 
 
 Frank briefly acquainted him of all he knew of 
 the matter, adding also his conversation with Mrs. 
 Fairlie upon the subject. 
 
 Forrester listened to him in silence. When he 
 had concluded he said, 
 
 And how does Mrs. Fairlie express herself 
 concerning his illness ?” 
 
 Just decently — no more nor less.” 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 H 
 
146 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ Oh ! very well, and you say she was willing 
 to take Ali at first?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 ‘‘ Did she raise any objection after ?” 
 
 “No. The subject was dropped soon after it 
 had been started.” 
 
 “ Then the only objection to my servant getting 
 a situation with them is yours ?” 
 
 “ Yes. But then I have reasons for objecting, 
 which, perhaps, if you knew them, you would 
 think just.” 
 
 “ You need not tell me them, for I know 
 them.” 
 
 “ You know them !” exclaimed Frank, with a 
 start of surprise. Then he added, increduously, 
 “ But it is impossible.” 
 
 “ Nevertheless, T will tell- you them, if you will 
 listen to me.” 
 
 Frank gazed wonderingly at his uncle, but 
 without reply. 
 
 “ In the first instance,” continued Forrester, 
 “ Mrs. Fairlie, who is a splendid woman, paid 
 
HOW FOKRESTER DISCOVERED FRANk’s SECRET. 147 
 
 you a very high compliment by professing her 
 love for you.” 
 
 Frank started and stared with astonishment. 
 
 ‘‘ But it was unreasonable for her, as a married 
 woman to suppose that you could listen to her 
 vows of attachment whilst her husband, a man 
 for whom you always entertained a certain respect, 
 lay in bed only a few yards from you. This, I 
 say, was unreasonable enough, but it became 
 downright absurd when we include in our view 
 of the subject the fact that you were engaged to 
 be married to a girl whom she has ruined.” 
 
 Frank turned pale. He thought his uncle was 
 the devil. 
 
 Unfortunately, however, for this model of 
 connubial chastity, she addressed a young man 
 whose virtuous soul revolted at the spectacle of a 
 married woman supplicating his love. His cold- 
 ness struck her to the heart. Being a woman 
 inspired with the spirit of a fiend, she thought 
 your assassination alone could counterbalance 
 the deadly wound that your contempt had inflicted 
 
 H 2 
 
148 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 on her pride. She, therefore, drew a dagger and 
 stabbed yon. Now, if you take my advice, you 
 will go and wash your wound. I will give you 
 an ointment that will quickly heal it.” 
 
 The terror of Frank was too real to admit of a 
 doubt. His hair was almost erect on his head. 
 His cheeks were quite white, and his eyes were 
 opened to their fullest extent. 
 
 “ Then you must have followed me !” he cried. 
 But, no — I should have seen you. Yet where 
 did you secrete yourself? Good heavens I it is 
 wonderful.” 
 
 Forrester shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “ When I left you,” he answered, coolly, I 
 returned to this hotel — to this room; and here 
 I have been sitting ever since.” 
 
 Frank shook his head. 
 
 It is impossible,” he muttered. “ You must 
 have been somewhere in the room.” 
 
 Whilst he spoke his uncle caught sight of the 
 slit caused by the point of the dagger in his 
 waistcoat. He rose and approached him. 
 
HOW FORRESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’s SECRET. 1 49 
 
 Let me look at your wound,” he said. I 
 am an old soldier, and well know the value of the 
 adage ^a stitch in time saves nine.’ Nothing is 
 more apt to mortify than a neglected dagger- 
 wound.” 
 
 Wondering always, but obeying mechanically, 
 Frank opened the front of his shirt, and found 
 it all stained with blood. His uncle inspected 
 his chest for a few moments in silence. 
 
 It is all right,” said he. A mere flesh 
 wound. I can tell that by the copious suffusion 
 of blood. Do you feel at all weak ?” 
 
 Not in the least.” 
 
 Thanks to your constitution. Gad ! Frank, 
 you have a splendid chest. ’Twould have been 
 a thousand pities to have had it marred by the 
 knife of an adultress. No questions yet,” he con- 
 tinued, interrupting his nephew’s inquiry. Go 
 and get this washed, change your linen, and I’ll 
 apply some of my wonderful ointment to it.” 
 Then he muttered, aside, It was well aimed ; 
 right over the heart !” 
 
 The time employed in the performance of these 
 
150 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 operations was not long. After an absence of 
 ten minutes they had again resumed their seats, 
 Frank, however, though far more comfortable in 
 the flesh, still very uncomfortable in the spirit. 
 
 “And now,” said he, “ will you explain to me 
 a mystery that perplexes me more than ever the 
 Sphynx did the ancients ?” 
 
 A curious smile lighted up for a moment the 
 severity of Mr. Forrester’s face. 
 
 “ Listen,” he continued, after a short pause, 
 “ My servant Ali must go to the Fairlies ; he 
 must get a situation with them, and remain with 
 them until I want him back with me again.” 
 “Very well,” said Frank, “you can try it ; 
 but I am sure, after what has occurred, Mrs. 
 Fairlie would not receive him.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not alone, but aided by your recom- 
 mendation she will. Therefore, you must write,” 
 he said, rising and fetching down a desk, which 
 he opened and placed before his companion, “ the 
 letter which I will dictate to you. Now, when 
 you are ready.” 
 
 Frank shrugged his shoulders. He appeared 
 
HOW FORRESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. *151 
 
 to have caught the habit from his uncle, and he 
 meant to express by it now a certain recklessness 
 as to his actions, a heedlessness of what he might 
 do, feeling assured that his uncle was in league 
 with a superior power, and that it would be use- 
 less opposing his demands. 
 
 This was the letter that Forrester dictated : — 
 
 ‘‘ Madam, 
 
 To address you after what has occurred 
 may appear an indiscretion susceptible of a 
 thousand interpretations ; and I hardly know 
 whether I am justified in taking up my pen for 
 any other motive than for that of expressing to 
 you the deep feeling of sorrow with which I re- 
 view the past, and recall the scene so recently 
 enacted. Madame, I love you. I have loved you 
 long — loved you with all that passionate emotion 
 which only such goddesses as yourself are capable 
 of inspiring. Yet, madam, how could I dare 
 proclaim my secret? How could I possibly com- 
 municate those feelings of which the very 
 
152 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 utterance must have dishonoured the wife* 
 and degraded the man? Was it possible 
 for me to give credit to your assurance of 
 love for me, all unworthy as I am of this 
 honour? Whatever, madam, my vanity might 
 have whispered, my dread lest your conduct 
 might only be a test of my honour compelled me 
 to the course I adopted. Wherein lies the 
 grandeur of honour but that it may conform it- 
 self to such beauty as yours, and become yet 
 more dignified by its alliance with loveliness? 
 I am young, though not too young to know 
 that the highest love exacts the highest conduct 
 from the object of its devotion. How was I to 
 interpret your confession? though my heart 
 secretly exulted at the thought, yet a dread lest 
 even a fleeting recognition of that which my 
 fear told me might be but a test to assure your- 
 self of my character, silenced the accents that 
 had else informed you how more than recipro- 
 cated was the passion of which you have conferred 
 a lasting honour upon me by the confession. 
 
HOW FORRESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. 153 
 
 But let not my conduct interrupt the exercise 
 of that benevolence of which the profound 
 knowledge partly instructs me now to address 
 you. The bearer of this letter is a young Hindoo 
 for whom I now venture to solicit a ratification 
 of your promise made to me at an early stage 
 of our interview. Madam, 1 have a double 
 motive in begging you to grant me this favour. 
 His connexion with yourself will enable me to 
 perform through him what regret of the past 
 renders me (at least for the present) unable to 
 perform for myself. I would employ him as a 
 link to connect two whom perhaps motives, weak 
 and conventional, must force apart until circum- 
 stances assist one of them to kneel at the feet 
 of, and implore the forgiveness of the other. 
 
 I am. Madam, 
 
 With the profoundest respect, 
 
 Yours ever sincerely, 
 
 Frank Forrester.” 
 
 Whilst he wrote he was all amazement. His 
 
164 
 
 OFF THK STAGE. 
 
 uncle’s power of divination seemed supernatural. 
 He liad dictated a letter as if he himself had 
 been the chief actor in the scene, from the con- 
 sequences of which he was exonerating himself. 
 
 “ But supposing she shows this to Mary ?” 
 Frank cried, in piteous accents. 
 
 “ Do you think I would lead you into any em- 
 barrassment ?” asked Forrester. 
 
 Frank was silent ; nevertheless he was tor- 
 menting himself with secret conjectures. 
 
 Forrester touched the bell. He remained 
 silent until a waiter entered the apartment, then 
 he ordered Ali to be sent to him. 
 
 In a few moments the Hindoo stood at the 
 door. 
 
 “ Put this letter in your pocket, Ali,” said 
 Forrester. “ To-night at half-past eleven 
 come into my room and receive my instruc- 
 tions.” 
 
 Ali “ salaamed,” and went away. 
 
 “And you are still mystified?” asked For- 
 rester. 
 
HOW FORKESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. 155 
 
 Yes.” 
 
 Forrester gave a painful smile. 
 
 Tell me/’ he said, where does Captain 
 Mortimer live ?” 
 
 Frank named his address in Jermyn Street. 
 
 You' know I have never seen this man ; 
 nevertheless I think I can describe him to you.” 
 
 1 believe you can do anything/’ said Frank, 
 emphatically. 
 
 In the first place Captain Mortimer is some- 
 thing above the middle height.” 
 
 He is.” 
 
 He is fair, with a blue eye, a well shaped 
 nose, a large moustache, and a coarse, sensual 
 underlip, which sometimes reveals itself when he 
 laughs heartily.” 
 
 Frank nodded in dull astonishment. 
 
 He has an excellent address, gentlemanly and 
 courteous. He has a certain fund of wit, and his 
 language is far from being unpolished. Alto- 
 gether he is a very attractive man, and is no less 
 pleasing to those of his own sex than to women.” 
 
156 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ You know him !” cried Frank. 
 
 “ Perfectly well. He was once a brother officer 
 of mine.” 
 
 An expression, almost of terror, swept over 
 Frank’s face. The real facts of the case began 
 dimly to reveal themselves to him. 
 
 “ And his name is not Mortimer ?” 
 
 “ No — it is Graham !” 
 
 Frank paused. Then, in a low terrified voice, 
 he half gasped, 
 
 ‘‘And Mrs. Fairlie — ” 
 
 “ Is my WIFE I” replied his uncle, in a cold, 
 dead voice. 
 
 Frank leapt to his feet, and grasped Forrester 
 by the arm. 
 
 “ You are sure of this — sure,” he exclaimed, 
 in a broken voice ; “ and Mr. Fairlie — Mary — ” 
 
 “ Shall both be saved ; do not fear. Do you 
 understand now how I found out your secret ?” 
 
 Frank buried his face in his hands, and shud- 
 dered. 
 
 “ It is terrible !” he murmured. 
 
HOW FORKESTER DISCOVERED FRANK^S SECRET. 157 
 
 She stabbed you with a dagger,” continued 
 Forrester. You will be surprised to hear that 
 it was 1 who gave it her. If you examine it 
 you will perceive the hilt to be of Indian work- 
 manship.” 
 
 Frank drew it out of his pocket, and glanced 
 at it. Then with a cry he flung it to the end of 
 the room. 
 
 ‘‘ When I perceived that dagger,” continued 
 Forrester, coldly, peeping out of your pocket, I 
 knew perfectly well that it could only have been 
 employed for one parpose — murder. Moreover, 
 I knew of only one likely to employ it for such a 
 purpose — my wife, who was the possessor. I 
 immediately began to reflect upon the motive 
 that could have urged to such a use of it, and my 
 knowledge of her character furnished me with a 
 clue to the whole secret. It does not take mo 
 long to unravel such entanglements !” 
 
 But you will go and denounce her ?” 
 
 ''Wait.” 
 
158 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ But this Graham — this Mortimer — he passed 
 as her brother.” 
 
 Forrester shrugged his shoulders without a 
 reply. 
 
 “ And Kate !” continued Frank, excitedly ; 
 “ oh ! I must fly and save her from this scoundrel. 
 I will go at once.” 
 
 And he rose as if to leave the room. 
 
 “ Stop !” exclaimed Forrester. After dinner 
 I will accompany you to the Seymours. I can 
 speak much more to the purpose than you can.” 
 
 “ Oh yes ! you must come,” murmured Frank. 
 “ 1 shall be in torture until that villain is un- 
 masked.” 
 
 “ To-morrow morning I shall call on him my- 
 self,” continued Forrester, speaking dispassion- 
 ately, but with a strange, flerce gleam in his eye. 
 Then he added, “ This is truly very curious ! that 
 I should have been connected with people so in- 
 timate with this pretty pair, and yet never to have 
 met either of them. But there is a Providence 
 
HOW FORRESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. 159 
 
 that shapes our ends. We have only to wait 
 now.” 
 
 “ But it is death to wait !” cried Frank. 
 “ Every moment may hasten the calamity.” 
 Forrester consulted his watch. 
 
 “ It is now six o’clock,” he said. “ At half- 
 past seven we shall be with the Seymours. 
 During this hour and a half nothing can occur 
 that has not already occurred. We shall either 
 be too late, or we shall be in plenty of time. 
 Come, let us go down to dinner.” 
 
 But dinner as regarded Frank was a mere 
 empty mockery. His food was left barely tasted. 
 He had fared too heartily upon the events of the 
 last few hours for any other kind of food to pro- 
 voke anew his appetite. Forrester, on the con- 
 trary, despatched his meal with as much calmness 
 as if nothing had occurred. To Frank, who, had 
 such a revelation as he had just heard been fore- 
 told him, would have expected his uncle to have 
 met it with a reception the reverse of what he 
 now discovered, this frigid conduct was quite 
 
160 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 amazing. He Temembered tbe storm of passion 
 that had accompanied Forrester’s communication 
 of his secret, — of the events of his past life ; 
 events which time in a more or less degree had 
 divested of their sting, and which, as new scenes 
 and occurrences diverted the engrossed attention 
 of his mind, promised to slowly relapse into for- 
 getfulness. Yet now that they had again taken 
 form and stood embodied in all the sternness of 
 an even yet more terrible reality, he contemplated 
 them without ^emotion, and pursued the ordinary 
 occupations of every day life with as much sang 
 froid as if there were nothing in the least to 
 cause him any agitation. 
 
 This conduct, however, in spite of his wonder- 
 ment, Frank could not survey without a feeling 
 akin to admiration. It provoked him to repose 
 more faith in the administration of his uncle, 
 feeling sure that coldness amidst such exciting 
 circumstances must bQ closely allied to intrepidity 
 and a correct judgment. 
 
 Little was said during the dinner, each being 
 
HOW FORRESTER DISCOVERED FRANk’s SECRET. 161 
 
 apparently too much occupied with his own 
 thoughts to converse. 
 
 As soon as they rose from the table, Frank, all 
 eagerness to get to St. John’s Wood, hurried 
 upstairs to adjust his toilet prior to leaving the 
 hotel. His uncle slowly followed him. 
 
 They were about to descend when a waiter 
 brought a letter up to them, which he delivered 
 to Frank. Glancing at the handwriting, he 
 observed it to be Seymour’s, and an indescribable 
 feeling took possession of his heart. He clutched 
 the table to steady himself, and then turned to 
 his uncle. 
 
 Is that from Seymour?” asked Mr. Forrester. 
 
 It is,” answered Frank, in a low, trembling 
 voice. 
 
 An expression of ineffable compassion swept 
 over Forrester’s face. He took his hat off and 
 seated himself. 
 
 Read it,” he said ; it may save us a fruit- 
 less journey.” 
 
 Frank broke the seal with a shivering hand^ 
 
162 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 and opening' the enclosure read in a low, almost 
 gasping voice, as follows : — 
 
 “My old, dear Friend, 
 
 “ I have done you a great wrong — I write to 
 gain your forgiveness. Had I listened to you I 
 might have been saved. But it is too late now. 
 Kate has left me; she has gone away with 
 Mortimer. Would you have me write my bitter- 
 ness ? Oh God ! why was I born to have my 
 heart broken by the one I so loved ! No more — 
 I can write no more. My old friend, pray for me. 
 I spoke harshly to you — -forgive me. May God 
 Almighty bless you and her poor old father. I 
 go to revenge myself, not on her but him. Fare- 
 well — perhaps for ever. 
 
 “ Your broken-hearted friend, 
 
 ‘ ‘ Charles Seymour. ’ ’ 
 
 This letter was stained with tears, and yet it 
 bore traces of having been written in a desperate 
 hurry. 
 
HOW FORRESTER DISCOVERED FRANK’S SECRET. 163 
 
 Frank had no sooner concluded it, than he let it 
 fall, and dashed his hand against his forehead. 
 His legs tottered, his body swayed to and fro for 
 a moment, and ere his uncle had time to dart 
 forward and catch him, he had fallen prostrate on 
 the floor. 
 
164 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 feank’s teip to yaetlepool. 
 
 When Frank recovered the consciousness of 
 whicli the fatal intelligence from Seymour had 
 bereft him, he found himself in bed, with his 
 uncle beside him, holding his hand. 
 
 Such a succession of shocks received in so short 
 a time was more than even his iron constitution 
 could stand. The last — the most dreaded — the 
 realisation of the horror that had, more or less,, 
 filled his mind since the subject had been 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool. 
 
 165 
 
 broached, fell upon him like a thunderbolt ; and 
 perhaps not the most eloquent and pathetic de- 
 clamation could have more accurately expressed 
 the effect of this intelligence upon his heart than 
 his swooning. 
 
 With his awakening returned the agony of the 
 conviction that all was not a dream, and his first 
 thoughts were for Captain Sandboys. 
 
 Poor old man ! this will break his heart.’' 
 
 It is, indeed, terrible,” replied his uncle ; 
 but compose yourself with the recollection that 
 the bitterness of even worse griefs than this has 
 been subdued by time.” 
 
 Oh ! how cruel is this conduct. Why— why 
 have married him, if she did not love him ? Why 
 have united herself to such a noble heart as his 
 only to break it ?” 
 
 She was a woman. Think you that this is 
 the only noble heart that has been broken by her 
 species?” said Forrester, with fierce bitterness. 
 
 And I might have saved them both,” mur- 
 mured Frank. Why was I so easily diverted 
 
166 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 from a purpose my heart told me was correct. Oh ! 
 Mary, how true are all your fears.” 
 
 “ And do you fancy, poor hoy, that you could 
 have saved them,” exclaimed Forrester, com- 
 passionately. “ Do you know what you would 
 have had to contend against ?’’ 
 
 “ But I should have permitted myself to have 
 been obstructed by nothing,” exclaimed Frank. 
 “ If Seymour would not bear her away from that 
 fellow’s arts, I should have done so.” 
 
 “ Do you hope to dam a torrent with your fin- 
 ger?” said Forrester, almost sarcastically. “Do 
 you hope to incline the world from its eternal 
 orbit with a kick of your puny foot ? Do you 
 hope to change the heart that is born with vice 
 by the petty opposition of theoretical virtue? 
 You are young — therefore your regrets are noble. 
 But in an older man I would listen to them with 
 astonishment— with contempt — with the con- 
 tempt that I would listen to the regrets of an 
 idiot who has failed to build a pyramid of cards. 
 Frank, I tell you you could have done nothing. 
 
fkank’s tkip to yaktlepool. 
 
 167 
 
 You might have warned Seymour of his danger ; 
 but he would again have spurned you ; had you 
 insisted, he might have struck you. You might 
 have abducted his wife, but you would have been 
 merely transplanting vice from one part to 
 another. What to her — what to such as her — is 
 this Mortimer or Graham more than another? 
 She would have deserted her husband whether 
 this or any other scoundrel had assisted her in 
 her desertion. Bah ! I do not blame the man. 
 There are always two in such games, but there is 
 only one real villain. When a woman deserts 
 her husband, where, think you, lodges the great- 
 est vice? in the man who flies with the wife, or 
 in the wife who flies from her husband ? I tell 
 you ’tis a paltry sympathy that which pities the 
 woman because she is a woman. Shall we sit 
 motionless beneath the hand that tears our hearts 
 from our bosom, and flings them bleeding at our 
 feet, because it is not so strong as ours ? Away 
 with such puling sentimentality I Give me none 
 
168 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of your theories. Let those who hape suffered 
 speak.” 
 
 There was less of warmth in his manner than 
 his words might imply ; nevertheless there was 
 an intense bitterness in the tone of his voice, and 
 towards the conclusion of his speech, Frank felt 
 his hand tightening upon his. 
 
 “ But how can a righteous Heaven suffer such 
 a scoundrel as that Graham to live ?” exclaimed 
 Frank, passionately. 
 
 “ Bah ! he is more serviceable than you think. 
 Bad wives are cancers in our sides. Such men 
 are like lancets that cut them from us. The pain 
 is in the application, and we cannot curse them 
 for easing us of our growing diseases.” 
 
 But this was no philosophy for Frank. He 
 knew well enough, too, that it was no philosophy 
 for his uncle. He silently shook his head, and 
 then abruptly exclaimed, 
 
 “ But Captain Sandboys ! Who is to be the 
 bearer of this news to him ? I cannot.” 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool, 169 
 
 His uncle made no reply. 
 
 Frank scanned his features eagerly, and ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 You — you who know the world so well — you 
 who can probe the heart without wounding it — 
 will you communicate this to him? You can do 
 so, oh ! much better than I.” 
 
 But Forrester shook his head. 
 
 It is impossible for me to leave London,” he 
 said. How, would you have me desert my wife, 
 after having so recently found her?” and he 
 laughed bitterly. Then he added, No. If 
 Captain Sandboys were here, I would gladly per- 
 form the unpleasant duty you require of me. 
 But I cannot absent myself now.” 
 
 Then,” said Frank, piteously, I whom he 
 so loved — I whom he cherished through many a 
 long year, when, without him, I should have 
 been an orphan, left to the mercy of a cold world 
 — I, then, am reserved to communicate to him a 
 pang the most bitter that can afflict the heart of 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 I 
 
no 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 a parent — a pang, too, the recollection of which 
 he will always associate with me.” 
 
 “ We cannot better hear our misfortunes than 
 from the lips of those whom we love,” his uncle 
 said gravely. “ Frank, you must be a man — act 
 like a man. This is only one of a thousand pain- 
 ful duties that you will he called upon to fulfil 
 ere life has done with you. Strive to acquit 
 yourself in it as well as you can. The rest leave 
 to the Almighty. This poor old man has never 
 deserted God in his days of happiness. God will 
 not desert him in the hour of his aflliction.” 
 Frank submissively bowed his head. 
 
 “ I will do my best,” he murmured. 
 
 The next morning he left for Yartlepool. 
 
 Before his departure, his uncle said to him, 
 
 “ Your letter has had the effect I anticipated ; 
 Ali has just returned, and informed me that he 
 commences his duties at the Fairlies this after- 
 noon.” 
 
 Frank was, however, too much occupied with 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool. 
 
 171 
 
 his own thoughts to pay much attention to these 
 words. He merely wondered for a moment why 
 his uncle was so eager to procure his servant a 
 situation in Montague Square, and immediately 
 after his mind had directed itself again to the 
 object of his visit at Yartlepool. 
 
 What was he to say ? how was he to act ? 
 was he right in making such haste to acquaint 
 the Captain with his appalling news ? Should 
 he not have waited for a few days to see if any 
 oircumstances might occur to mitigate the severity 
 of the blow ? But then, might not Mary think 
 his protracted absence strange ? What excuse 
 could be made to her ? But even if he did wait, 
 was it not improbable that anything would occur 
 to obviate the deep pain of his communication ? 
 Seymour had started in pursuit of the pair, and 
 might not weeks elapse before anything would be 
 heard of them ? Meanwhile, supposing the Cap- 
 tain should come to town, and find their house 
 vacant, or write a letter — two — three letters, and 
 get no reply, what answer could be possibly made 
 
 I 2 
 
172 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 to his inquiries ? what was he to say? how was 
 he to act ? 
 
 Such were the questions suggested to Frank 
 by his position ; but whatever might have been 
 the replies, they would have been all now too 
 late, for this deliberation did not come until he 
 had taken his seat in the train, and was being 
 whirled towards Yartlepool at some thirty-five 
 miles an hour. 
 
 The truth is, his mind had been too confused 
 to think with accuracy. He had asked himself 
 vaguely most of these questions before ; but 
 questions are useless, unless met with replies ; 
 and replies he had none to offer. 
 
 One comfort, however, was present to his mind. 
 There was always Mary to appeal to. He would 
 take counsel of her before he said a word upon 
 the subject to the Captain. She, who had with 
 such certainty conjectured the disastrous event, 
 might, at least, suggest the best means of lessen- 
 ing the evil of imparting it. 
 
 It was almost dark by the time he arrived at 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool. 
 
 173 
 
 Yartlepool. But it was an evening of remark- 
 able stillness and beauty. Even he, immersed 
 as he was in the consideration of his pending 
 difficulties, could not help remarking as he 
 walked along the ineffable serenity expressed by 
 the deep, dark blue of the cloudless skies, and 
 the flashing of the joyous stars as they leaped 
 into their brilliant thrones. Upon his ear, too, 
 as he advanced, smote those rude musical 
 sounds, which the sea audibly emits a long way 
 off; and perhaps it was the combination of these 
 soothing graces that subdued his mind from its 
 first agitation, and recalled to him the words of 
 his uncle, which he found himself repeating : — 
 This poor old man has never deserted God in 
 his days of happiness ; God will not desert him 
 now in the hour of his affliction.” 
 
 There was no light apparent in the Captain’s 
 little house as he approached it. He pushed 
 open the gate — that gate so often opened before 
 by Kate — and noiselessly stole up the walk. 
 
174 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Then he entered the house, and peeped into the 
 little parlour. 
 
 Mary was seated alone before the fire-place ; 
 her face faintly illumined by the half-extinct 
 embers of a dying fire. She sat quite still, evi- 
 dently lost in thought, her form slightly inclined 
 forward, and her cheek gently reposing upon her 
 hand. 
 
 A profound emotion of love possessed Frank’s 
 heart at this spectacle. He could have darted 
 forward and clasped her in his arms, but fear lest 
 the sudden movement might frighten her re- 
 strained him. And yet, even as he gazed, a 
 calmness stole over him ; in the stir less girl be- 
 fore him, he beheld an embodiment of that peace- 
 fulness which every heart in the time of its afflic- 
 tion turns to, for comfort and tranquillity ; he con- 
 templated in her, as if by intuitive perception, the 
 perfect woman, the perfect wife — the perfect 
 woman in the feminine grace and meek beauty 
 of her heart and spirit ; the perfect wife in the 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool. 
 
 175 
 
 virtue, the devotion, the loving patience, that 
 the future seemed to render already apparent to 
 him. 
 
 And she was his— his, to call his own ! his, to 
 know that she loved him. He made a move-* 
 ment, and she turned with a start ; then, catching 
 sight of him, she uttered an exclamation of de- 
 light, and with a timorous glance fled to his 
 side. 
 
 Oh ! Frank, how glad I am to see you ! how 
 quietly you came. You wanted to frighten me — 
 naughty boy.” 
 
 Darling, I have been watching you for five 
 minutes, and could have frightened you easily if 
 I liked. But where is the Captain?” 
 
 He is out ; but I expect him in shortly. We 
 are sure to find him on one of the benches on the 
 esplanade ; shall we go to him ?” 
 
 No ; let us sit here for awhile.” 
 
 His voice trembled a little, and then he said. 
 Did you expect me?” 
 
 Not to-day. But I knew you wouldn’t re- 
 
176 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 main away long. I was just thinking of you 
 when you came in.” 
 
 She paused for a moment, and added, 
 
 “Let me light the lamp.” 
 
 “No; I prefer talking to you in the dusk.” 
 
 “ But I want to see your face ; something,” 
 she said, putting her hand in his, “ in the tone 
 of your voice frightens me. I will not ask you 
 what it is ; for I am sure that if you wanted me 
 to know it, you would tell me. But still I want 
 to see your face ; I can tell your thoughts then.” 
 “ My darling,” he sadly answered, “ there is 
 no occasion to see my face to learn my thoughts 
 — to learn what I have to tell you. Come and 
 sit down ; I want your advice, for I have much 
 to talk to you about — and all, too, before the 
 Captain returns.” 
 
 She resumed the chair in silence from which 
 she had risen, and he seated himself on a stool 
 at her feet ; then placing his elbows on her lap, 
 he reclined his face in his hands, looking anxi- 
 ously up into her face. 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool. 
 
 177 
 
 ^‘You have come to tell me of Kate?” she 
 whispered. 
 
 I have.” 
 
 Has she left him?” 
 
 ^^She has.” 
 
 She abruptly pressed her hand to her hearty 
 and remained silent for some moments. Then 
 glancing fearfully around, as if terrified lest the 
 Captain might have unexpectedly entered, she 
 bent down her head and whispered. 
 
 Tell me — I am strong, and can bear all you 
 have to say — tell me, how did it happen?” 
 
 In a low voice, broken by his emotion, he 
 briefly acquainted her of the contents of Sey- 
 mour’s letter, but more than this he knew not. 
 He had come, he said, to ask her advice upon the 
 subject, whether he should acquaint the Captain 
 with the circumstance or not. 
 
 She became instantly wrapped in thought ; 
 during which time Frank wistfully eyed her fea- 
 tures, rendered indistinct by the gloom, as if 
 eager to catch their expression. 
 
 I 5 
 
178 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 At last she said, 
 
 “ Yes, he had better be told ; he must know 
 it sooner or later. V/hy not at once ? He would 
 consider it cruel if we should keep him in ignor- 
 ance of it, even for a day. We like to know the 
 worst at once ; every succeeding pang is then less 
 keen.” 
 
 “ Oh ! but I can never tell him,” murmured 
 Frank ; “ I have not the courage : I cannot ; 
 poor, poor old man !” 
 
 “ I will tell him,” said Mary. 
 
 “ You ! Oh ! thanks, thanks ; yes — yes, why 
 did I not think of you before ? I might have 
 written to you, and you could have gently broken 
 the news to him ; but I have been confused — be- 
 wildered. Ah ! what a deal has happened within 
 the last forty-eight hours.” 
 
 “ I will go at once,” said Mary, rising ; he 
 need not know that you are here for the present. 
 When he enters, you can add your consolation to 
 mine ; he loves you, Frank, and your presence 
 will help to soothe him.” 
 
fkank’s trip to tartlepool. 
 
 179 
 
 He pressed her hand in silence ; he well knew 
 the courage that was expressed by the young girl 
 in the promptitude of this determination. 
 
 She ran into another room, and throwing a 
 shawl over her shoulders, left the house. He 
 watched her pass through the garden gate and 
 walk towards the cliff, until the deepening gloom 
 shut her figure from his gaze ; then he commenced 
 pacing to and fro the room. 
 
 This sudden wresting from his hands a duty, 
 the anticipation of the fulfilment of which had 
 filled him with dismay and apprehension, awoke 
 in his heart for this young girl a feeling of pro- 
 found admiration. He did not pause to conjec- 
 ture that the motive of this act was undoubtedly 
 that of devotion to her lover — a devotion already 
 ripe, and that discovered itself by thus volun- 
 tarily imposing upon the heart of a girl an obli- 
 gation from the discharge of which the sensitive- 
 ness or the tenderness of the man shrunk. 
 Afterwards he remembered it, and the recollection 
 served to add one more drop to the cup of love 
 
180 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 that was even then overflowing; but now he 
 caught himself dwelling upon the fact only with 
 grateful astonishment. Yet he well knew how 
 far more competent was she to make such a dis- 
 closure than he ; his nervousness — a nervousness 
 emanating wholly from the deep sensibility of 
 his heart — would, he felt assured, have caused 
 him to blunder over the tale, and so aggravate 
 the wound which the first word would inevitably 
 inflict. But she would employ all her tender- 
 ness ; all that wonderful tact, common to most 
 women, and eminently characteristic in Mary, 
 to deaden the bitterness of her communication. 
 He reposed the faith in her that a man places in 
 a great physician, to whose care he consigns 
 some well-beloved friend. One thought alone 
 tormented him ; was he not rather premature in 
 his announcement ? should he not rather have 
 waited, as his feelings suggested to him on the 
 railway, at least a few days before disclosing a 
 fact of which he dreaded the effects of the com- 
 munication ? 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool. 
 
 181 
 
 But regrets now were idle ; all was undoubtedly 
 for the best. The very fact of his not meeting 
 the Captain on his entrance, seemed like a pro- 
 vidential intei’position that delegated to better 
 hands, a duty, the delicacy of which his own 
 sensitive nature might have marred. 
 
 For twenty minutes he remained alone, his 
 agitation not permitting him to remain still for 
 more than a moment, but now forcing him into 
 a chair, now attracting him to the window, now 
 compelling him to and fro the room. 
 
 At last the door opened, and Mrs. Peake en- 
 tered to light the lamp ; she uttered a cry of 
 astonishment at seeing Frank, and imagined him 
 for a moment to be a ghost. She was, however, 
 soon undeceived, and then she fell to embracing 
 him and expressing her delight at seeing him. 
 For the first time in his life, Frank felt the old 
 lady’s presence to be heartily irksome ; he wished 
 to be alone, and was by no means eager for the 
 Captain to return whilst she was there. More- 
 over, he rightly anticipated a terrible explosion 
 
183 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of grief when Kate’s fall should be told her ; so 
 it was with a feeling almost akin to pure delight 
 that he beheld her depart after an interview of 
 five minutes, which seemed to him so many days. 
 
 Mrs. Peake, on lighting the lamp, had drawn 
 the blinds ; he could therefore no longer see out. 
 He seated himself in the chair vacated by Mary, 
 and strained bis attention to hear when they 
 should approach. At last the sounds of foot- 
 steps became audible, slowly, almost laboriously 
 moving along. Then the click of the gate being 
 closed, and the shuffling of feet coming up the 
 walk, followed, and in a few moments after. Cap- 
 tain Sandboys, leaning on the arm of Mary, 
 entered the apartment. 
 
 The colour had entirely vanished from the old 
 man’s cheeks ; his face was haggard, his eyes dry 
 and staring, and his whole form trembling as if 
 veritable old age had at last struck him. He 
 glanced for a moment wildly at Frank, then sunk 
 into a chair and extended his hand. 
 
 Frank came over and grasped it. His heart 
 
Frank’s trip to partlepool. 
 
 183 
 
 was too full to speak. He looked towards Mary 
 as if a sight of her would inspire him with 
 courage ; but her averted face plainly told him 
 that her resolution to repress her emotion would 
 fail her if she met his gaze. 
 
 And this is true ?” hoarsely whispered the old 
 man, fixing his tearless eyes upon Frank. ‘‘ Has 
 she really dishonoured me — dishonoured her hus- 
 band — dishonoured is it true ?” 
 
 Frank suffered his head to droop upon his 
 breast, with a gesture full of silent despair. 
 
 ‘‘ She/’ continued the old man, pointing at 
 Mary, would not let me curse her, and she is 
 right. Why should I curse my child ? It was I 
 that gave her being — she is my own fiesh and 
 blood. I am the guilty one. Ah !” he exclaimed, 
 suddenly pressing his hand to his forehead, is 
 her dead mother with her now? What would 
 the poor woman have said to this? She died 
 blessing her, poor, poor old woman, and I — shall 
 I curse her ? Let her be/’ he muttered, with a 
 frown of irritation, ‘‘ she must not be cursed.” 
 
184 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Mary came to his side, and kneeling, seized 
 him gently by the hand. She did not speak; she 
 did not attempt to offer him one word of consola- 
 tion. The richest poetry in such scenes she knew 
 to he the bleakest common-places. She merely 
 looked up into his eyes with an expression full of 
 ineffable love, and tenderness, and compassion. 
 
 He bent his head and kissed her on the brow. 
 When he rose a tear glittered in his eye. Frank 
 was almost glad to see it. He knew that by tears 
 alone can the full heart cleanse itself of its peril- 
 ous stuff without breaking ; and he had been ter- 
 rified at first by the dry, lack-lustre look of the 
 father’s eyes. 
 
 “ It is well !” murmured the Captain. “ There 
 is a great God above us. He will punish the 
 wicked — He will pity the wretched. I leave my 
 child to Him. My wisdom is not His.” 
 
 ‘‘ She will be restored to you,” said Mary. 
 
 “ In her coffin ! Ah ! happier were she now 
 beneath some quiet mound, where I, her father, 
 might offer up my thanks to God that the ashes 
 
Frank’s trip to yartlepool. 
 
 18 & 
 
 beneath me lived and died in purity. But it has 
 been otherwise ordained ; I will not repine.” 
 And he shook his head slowly as he murmured — 
 
 I will not repine.” 
 
 Mary left the kneeling posture and stole gently 
 to the end of the room, whence she returned 
 bearing a little Bible. Again she knelt, and 
 opening the Holy Book at the fifth chapter of 
 St. Matthew, commenced reading aloud. 
 
 Frank noticed the action in silence. He re- 
 mained standing, with his face bowed in his hand, 
 and as the gentle voice of his betrothed fell upon 
 his ear, laden with the holy comfort of the words 
 she read, one by one the tears commenced to 
 trickle through his fingers and fall to the ground. 
 
 There was a deep wisdom in Mary’s simple 
 action. For the wound which God had infiicted 
 she sought a balm in the words which God had 
 spoken. She who out of her own heart might 
 have uttered the meekest words of comfort, yet 
 knew the inefficacy of all human language to ease 
 the throes of the bruised mind. She knew, too^ 
 
186 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 how deep was the faith implanted in the old man’s 
 heart ; how profound, how noble the sense of his 
 religion. Unrecommended by professions, devoid 
 of all cant, it yet shone a pure, small ray, 
 illumining his mind and subduing and toning his 
 fancies and emotions to the harmony of a just and 
 honourable life — a gentle and benevolent conduct. 
 
 And truly there was a deep meaning and a deep 
 realisation in the words that Forrester had spoken 
 — “ This poor old man has never deserted God in 
 his days of happiness ; God will not desert him 
 now in the hour of his affliction.” 
 
187 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 RETROSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 The conduct of Seymour towards his wife had 
 not varied in the least since his interview with 
 Frank . After the departure of his friend^ — though 
 then his friend no more — he remained alone in his 
 little hack room at least twenty minutes, to suffer 
 his indignation to cool ere he returned to Kate. 
 He had considered himself terribly aggrieved; 
 he had considered the conduct of Frank to have 
 been in the last degree insulting; more, he con- 
 
188 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 sidered it mean, base, unworthy a gentleman and 
 a man of honour. In any other person he would 
 have attributed it to the most contemptible mo- 
 tives ; but, in spite of his irritation, his heart forced 
 him to confess that whatever Frank’s motive might 
 have been, it could not be despicable. Neverthe- 
 less, he could not, or would not, believe that 
 there was anything generous or just in it ; and he 
 marvelled at the assurance that enabled Frank to 
 hint even a suspicion of a wife in the presence of 
 a husband so devoted to her. 
 
 “ I can never again consider him in the light 
 of a true friend,” he thought to himself. “ No 
 matter what object he might have had, it was 
 unpardonable for him to suggest a topic that 
 might have resulted in inspiring my heart with 
 jealousy and for ever blasting my peace of mind. 
 And how dared he ever breathe a word against 
 my darling ! — against a girl as pure in heart and 
 spirit as the angels, who we are taught to believe 
 are all purity !” and once again he relapsed into 
 indignant moodiness. 
 
RETKOSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 189 
 
 Presently the door opened, and Kate put her 
 head in. 
 
 Won’t you two come in to tea?” she inquired. 
 Then seeing her husband alone, she asked ‘‘ Where 
 is Frank ?” 
 
 He has gone away, dear.” 
 
 But he did not bid me good bye.” 
 
 He was in a hurry,” answered Seymour, 
 evasively. He merely came to see me on a little 
 matter connected with ourselves. But tea is 
 ready you say ? well, let us go and have some.” 
 And kissing his wife, he put his arm around her 
 waist and walked with her so to the parlour. 
 
 Whether she suspected something or not — and 
 she could hardly help conjecturing something 
 wrong as much from Frank’s abrupt and unusual 
 departure as from her husband’s features, which 
 still bore the traces of his recent agitation, — it is 
 certain that she made no further inquiries, but 
 when tea was over sat down with her husband to 
 a game of backgammon. 
 
 The evening drifted away, and the only differ- 
 
■J90 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ence that Kate could detect in Seymour’s man- 
 ner was that his expressions of endearment were 
 more frequent and his affection more marked than 
 she had hitherto observed. So Kate’s mind was 
 set at rest upon the only score that was at all 
 likely to excite its distrust. 
 
 Although Seymour’s means were sufficient to 
 render him wholly independent of all occupation, 
 he nevertheless pursued his duties in Mr. Fairlie’s 
 office with the same unremitted diligence. As 
 he had never avowedly opposed his uncle’s mar- 
 riage with Mrs. Anderson, and as he and Kate 
 remained on very friendly terms with the couple, 
 Mr. Fairlie, some week or so after his return from 
 the honeymoon at Nice, had rewarded him by ad- 
 vancing him to a very superior position in his 
 firm ; indeed one that gave him the control of the 
 whole business during the absence of the proprie- 
 tor. This generosity had been peculiarly appre- 
 ciated by Seymour, to whom every hundred 
 pounds added to his fortune was a consideration, 
 mow that he had commenced husband. Visions 
 
BETROSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 191 
 
 of a carriage and footman for Kate very soon 
 followed his increase of salary ; and his position 
 carried with it also the promise that in the 
 absence of a son, Mr. Fairlie might be induced to 
 take him in” as a partner in the ‘‘ concern.” 
 Not that Seymour was possessed of the least 
 ambition as regarded himself. As a single man 
 he had lived comfortably on a sum a trifle over 
 one hundred a year, and he had found it fully 
 equal to all his wants. But now wealth promised 
 additional happiness to Kate ; and what was plea- 
 sure to her, was pleasure to him. Therefore of 
 an evening he was wont sometimes to expatiate to 
 his wife on the promises of his future ; the man- 
 sion in which they would live, the carriages in 
 which they would drive, the society in which they 
 would mingle. Andjif he succeeded in provoking 
 a smile from her he was happy. 
 
 He felt glad that Frank had left Cannon 
 Street ; for after his interview it would have been 
 painful and distressing to have encountered him. 
 On the following morning, however, he found his 
 
192 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 indignation a good deal subsided ; though, still 
 there lurked all the sensitiveness of the smart 
 that he had received, and which yet galled him 
 sufficiently to have induced him to have passed 
 Frank with a frigid bow had they met. 
 
 One or two evenings after he called at Montague 
 Square. He had asked Kate to occompany him, 
 hut Kate had pleaded a very frequent plea with 
 her — a headache, and with a kiss he had left her 
 to herself. 
 
 He had heard of his uncle’s indisposition, and 
 this had directed his visit to the house. He 
 found Mr. Fairlie on the sofa in the dining-room, 
 having just left his bed, to which he had confined 
 himself all day. Mrs. Fairlie was seated by his 
 side, being apparently engaged in reading to him. 
 He was much grieved at his uncle’s altered ap- 
 pearance. His face looked haggard and worn, as 
 if from the effect of constant pain, and his hands 
 had fallen away from their original plumpness to 
 the transparency and thinness of a consumptive 
 patient’s. 
 
BETROSPBCTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 193 
 
 In answer to his inquiry, Mr. Fairlie told him 
 that he felt better. But he still complained of a 
 pain in the region of his heart. 
 
 “ I do not know what I should do without 
 Gussy,” he said, smiling tenderly at his wife. 
 
 She is my constant companion. See how kind 
 she is — always at the side of her complaining 
 husband.” 
 
 Mrs. Fairlie gently laid her hand on his mouth 
 with a low, musical laugh. 
 
 “ And how does Kate treat you ?” asked Mr. 
 Fairlie. 
 
 “ As Mrs. Fairlie treats you,” answered 
 Seymour. 
 
 “ Then you may safely boast of having a good 
 wife.” 
 
 “ Do you ever hear from Mary now?” asked 
 Seymour, after a pause. 
 
 A frown contracted Mr. Fairlie’s brows as he 
 answered shortly, 
 
 “Never.” 
 
 VOL. nr. ' K 
 
194 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ^^But tlien you do not write to her, Henry,” 
 said Mrs. Fairlie. 
 
 It is her place to write to me. She never 
 answered my last letter. You talk of ingrati- 
 tude,” he exclaimed, angrily, turning to Seymour, 
 
 would you believe that this child of mine has 
 positively never taken the least notice of a letter 
 I wrote her acquainting her of my illness ! Who 
 would have believed that through all these long 
 years I have been nourishing a viper only to have 
 it sting me I” 
 
 Seymour was very much distressed. He could 
 not doubt the truth of what Mr. Fairlie had said ; 
 and yet how unlike was this conduct to the Mary 
 ,he remembered of old 1 
 
 Had he known, however, that this letter, which 
 Mrs. Fairlie had promised to post, had never been 
 sent, it is possible he would have found the solu- 
 tion of what he considered a very unpleasing 
 enigma. 
 
 During the course of the evening Mrs. Fairlie 
 
KETKOSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 195 
 
 had occasion to touch the bell, and a Hindoo 
 replied to the summons. When he was gone 
 Seymour asked who he was. 
 
 He was recommended to me by young Frank 
 Forrester/’ Mrs. Fairlie answered, carelessly. 
 
 To gratify our mutual friend I took him in, and 
 I find him very smart and respectful. Strange 
 to say, I have a weakness for black servants. You 
 know I was in India for a short time. And 
 Henry, who objected to the poor lad at first, now 
 begins to like him. He only came to us yesterday 
 morning.” 
 
 objected to him. Gussy,” exclaimed Mr. 
 Fairlie, because I didn’t know that you were 
 so much prepossessed in his favour. But when I 
 found out that you liked him I began to like 
 him too,” and he languidly smiled. 
 
 Soon after this Seymour took his departure. 
 On leaving, a strange agitation took possession of 
 him. His hand seemed to retain his uncle’s in a 
 lingering grasp, and he gazed earnestly and 
 fondly upon the face of one who, whatever may 
 
 K 2 
 
196 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 have been his faults, had proved at least a bene- 
 factor to him. Ashamed of an emotion that he 
 could not define and of which he knew not the 
 cause, he recovered himself with a violent effort, 
 and stooping to his uncle’s ear he whispered, “ I 
 wish I could see you and Mary friends again, as 
 you once were, and as you ought always to be.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie gazed upon the gentle, handsome 
 features of his nephew for a moment with an ex- 
 pression of sadness, and then slowly shook his 
 head. Nevertheless there was a quiver at the 
 extremities of his mouth, as he did so, and Mrs. 
 Fairlie, who was keenly watching him at the time, 
 turned her face away to hide the slight paleness 
 that had suddenly come over it. 
 
 This was the last time the nephew and the 
 uncle were to ever look upon each other again in 
 this world. 
 
 On arriving at his home he learnt that Kate 
 had retired, some few minutes before his entrance, 
 to bed. This he attributed to the headache of 
 which she had before complained, but before 
 
RETKOSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 197 
 
 going np to see her he inquired of the servant 
 whether anybody had called during the evening. 
 Yes, sir ; Captain Mortimer was here.” 
 
 How long did he remain ?” 
 
 Not long, sir ; about half an hour. He first 
 of all asked for you, but hearing you was out, he 
 was just leaving, when he asked if Missis was in. 
 And then he said, as he had walked pretty far, he 
 just stepped in for a minute.” 
 
 Thank you.” 
 
 He remained after the servant had retired for 
 some moments leaning against [the corner of the 
 table, immersed in thought. All at once the 
 strange feeling that had possessed him in the 
 presence of Mr. Fairlie again agitated his mind ; 
 a vague terror, an indescribable horror, seemed 
 to suspend for awhile the pulsation of his heart. 
 He dashed his hand to his forehead, to recover 
 the energy that seemed subsiding into a torpor 
 and found it damp and cold. What did it mean? 
 For a moment he fancied it might be the presage 
 of a coming illness. Had he caught cold ? was 
 
198 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 it a fever ? But the pain was mental, though it 
 communicated itself to his body with a power 
 that for a moment appeared to convulse him. He 
 poured himself out some brandy, but his hand 
 shook with such violence that twice he was com- 
 pelled to lower the glass to the table ere he could 
 raise it to his lips. 
 
 He turned and confronted himself in the look- 
 ing-glass, and found his cheeks to be white, 
 ghastly. He grew almost terrified. There was 
 something so unusual to him in all this, that the 
 * very vainness of his efibrts to conjecture the 
 cause filled him with a momentary alarm. 
 
 He sought to compose himself by pacing to 
 and fro the room, and in a measure he succeeded. 
 Then he lighted a cigar, but the tobacco seemed 
 flavourless to him. 
 
 It was his habit, when he felt his mind at all 
 disordered of an evening, to calm his fancies by 
 looking at the stars. There was nothing of 
 astrology in the notion ; there was infinitely more 
 of poetry. He believed that they exercised a 
 
RETROSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 199 
 
 serene influence over his spirit; that they im- 
 parted to him a calm as wonderful and as mys- 
 terious as themselves; and he believed this 
 because he had often experienced it. As a boy 
 nothing more delighted him than to contemplate 
 alone and in silence these diamonds on the brow 
 of eternity. In fancy he would soar to the small 
 rich orbs which his eye would select, and standing 
 midway thus between the earth and God, would 
 dwell with a holy enthusiasm upon the countless 
 beauties of the night. All sorts of strange ideas 
 would take possession of him during these vigils. 
 His mind would recur to the father whom he had 
 never seen— to the mother whom he had known 
 only to know no more. He would picture them 
 as angels, as holy beings in broad white wings 
 and sweet faces, and crowns upon their heads ; 
 and he singled out of the skies two bright stars — 
 close together — which he called their homes ; and 
 on these stars his eyes would chiefly linger. He 
 had another childish fancy, too, that the little 
 star at the feet of the other two was destined for 
 
200 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 him when he should rejoin his parents. But after 
 his marriage with Kate, the man in years, though 
 still the boy in heart, had changed his destined 
 place of abode for one by the side of which was 
 another star ; and these always close to those of 
 his parents. For in heaven how could he be 
 separated from his girl-wife ? 
 
 These were silly fancies ; but then every man 
 in the depths of his heart has some such child- 
 like ideas. 
 
 He went to the window now, and unbarred the 
 shutter. The night was still and close. He had 
 found it warm as he cam e along from Montague 
 Square, but since then the atmosphere had grown 
 more oppressive. It was without elasticity — 
 without buoyancy. Overhead the stars were out, 
 though shining with a sickly lustre ; but in the 
 west the skies were black, and as he looked 
 a distant flash of lightning rent the gloom, 
 followed soon after by the ominous rumbling of 
 thunder. 
 
 The approaching storm might account for the 
 
RETROSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 201 
 
 depression of Seymour’s spirits. This, then, was 
 the key to the riddle. And he grew almost light 
 hearted, as what had been a mystery remained a 
 mystery no longer. 
 
 He looked up at the stars, and almost pitied 
 them to think how soon their light would be 
 quenched by the horrid blackness that menaced 
 them. But his eyes were chiefly attracted to the 
 west. There was something fascinating to him 
 in a thunderstorm. Every now and then the 
 lightning would leap from its Cimmerian goal 
 and illumine in its ghastly glare the rugged piles 
 of clouds, that looked like dense volumes of 
 smoke rolling up from the side of the world. At 
 first there was a music in the thunder, like the 
 melody emitted by the sea when at a distance. 
 But as it gathered strength it grew discordant, 
 as if striving to rival by its roar the subtle fero- 
 city of the lightning that leaped nearer and nearer 
 towards the solitary watcher. 
 
 Seymour remained at the window, gazing on 
 the tempest as it thickened round him, mindless 
 
 K 5 
 
202 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 of the wind that had risen, and now came stream- 
 ing towards him in long wailing gusts, flinging 
 every now and then the huge tempest drops, like 
 tears dropped by the heavens in their agony, in 
 his face. 
 
 The storm was now over the great city, and 
 as if the thunder had found an echo in each 
 house and street, its peals were continuous and 
 crashing. The wind, bearing on its wings 
 showers of hail and rain, added its shouts to the 
 elemental uproar ; the heavens seemed overspread 
 with one sheet of dazzling fire ; and still Seymour 
 remained at his post, fascinated by the gorgeous, 
 terrifying scene, his heart beating tumultously in 
 his breast; his mouth half open, as if drinking in 
 the reviving, animating blast; and his soul thrill- 
 ing with those splendid emotions which only such 
 tempests can communicate, and which, perhaps, 
 only such souls can experience. 
 
 All at once he turned. Some impulse urged 
 him to look behind him, and he beheld his wife 
 standing speechless at the door. She beckoned 
 
KETROSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 203 
 
 to him when she perceived that he had seen her, 
 and he instantly ran towards her. 
 
 ^^Is not this grand?” he cried, pointing 
 through the open window. 
 
 Oh ! come away — come away !” she ex- 
 claimed, cowering and shrinking behind him, and 
 then clapping her hands to her eyes, as a bright 
 stream of lightning poured into the room, mak- 
 ing the gas blue by the contrast of its own 
 brilliance. 
 
 You must not be frightened, darling,” he 
 said, clasping her wrists, and kissing her mouth 
 under them. The lightning has too much 
 respect for beauty to harm you.” 
 
 Oh ! shut the window,” she murmured, in a 
 terrified voice. ‘‘ We shall both be struck dead.” 
 Observing her to be really seriously alarmed, 
 he went to the window and refastened the shut- 
 ters ; not, however, without a last look at the 
 black sky. Then approaching her, he said. 
 
 Is not this worth all your theatrical sights ?” 
 I was wondering where you were,” she 
 
204 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 said ; “ I didn’t hear you come in. I thought 
 you might have been caught in this horrible, 
 storm.” 
 
 “ Do you call it horrible, fairy ? It has done 
 me worlds of good. Ten minutes ago I felt 
 quite down-hearted ; now I am as lively as 
 possible.” 
 
 “ It is quite wicked,” she said, ‘‘ to dare the 
 storm like this. You actually tempt the light- 
 ning to strike you.” 
 
 “ And what a glorious death to die !” he ex- 
 claimed. “ To be annihilated by the spark that 
 poor Prometheus endured the torments of Hades 
 to wrest from the sky. Now do you know — but 
 before I go on I must beg your pardon for hav- 
 ing spoken such a big word as Prometheus to a 
 shivering little creature like you — but do you 
 know, that if I had to choose a death — ” 
 
 “ Come,” she exclaimed, with a shudder, 
 plucking him by the arm, “ I shall catch cold if 
 I stop here — and I am frightened to go upstairs 
 alone.” 
 
EETROSPECTION AND A TEMPEST. 
 
 205 
 
 “ Well/’ he exclaimed, with a laugh, “it is 
 the business of a husband to protect his wife. 
 And if the lightning attempts to harm you— 
 you’ll see how I’ll pay it out.” 
 
 And throwing his arm around her neck they 
 left the room. 
 
206 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A ^'LIGHT AND A PURSUIT. 
 
 ‘‘La raison^’’ says Vauvenargues, “ rougit des 
 penchants dont elle ne pent rendre compte,"" 
 
 But the heart delights iu them. Reason, which 
 is a conformation of the intellectual powers to the 
 rules of experience, is ashamed of any emotion 
 likely to subvert those rules ; she knows their 
 value, and can only argue her way to the future 
 hy the analogy that they supply ; hut the heart 
 instantly yields to the imperial mandates of its 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PUESUIT. 
 
 207 
 
 own suggestions. It revels in the passions which 
 reason can only repress or subdue ; and whilst 
 reason is governed by the voice of conscience, an 
 authority adduced from experience, the heart in 
 secret traces the circle of the passions, and mocks 
 the laws that limit the understanding to con- 
 ventional practices. 
 
 The truth of this position is sufficiently con- 
 firmed by the conduct of Kate Seymour. Had 
 she chosen to solicit the aid of reason to deter- 
 mine the right or wrong of the course she was 
 then meditating, doubtless it would have supplied 
 with cogent arguments the faithful suggestions 
 of which the absence of a true affection for her 
 husband left her vacant. But she preferred the 
 voice of passion to that of intelligence. There 
 was nothing to alarm her in the blush of her 
 reason; there was much to seduce her in the 
 emotion of her heart. 
 
 Yet there must have been something terrible 
 in the vice that could have prompted her to desert 
 a husband so devoted, so affectionate, so gentle. 
 
208 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 It was not as if her memory would have provided 
 her with a harsh word, an angry look, a sulky 
 pause, an instance of even a passing absence of 
 affection, to fortify her in her resolution to 
 abandon him. The past, as far as he had been 
 concerned, was serene and unruffled ; not so much 
 as a transient sigh had disturbed its tranquillity ; 
 all was love and devotion ; love, such as it is the 
 dream of every noble heart to bestow ; devotion, 
 such as it is the hope of every virtuous spirit to- 
 deserve. 
 
 Would harsh treatment, would malignant ex- 
 pressions, would blows have served to keep her 
 at his side ? Would the inglorious tyranny that 
 brutal force exercises over its weaker opponent or 
 ally have assisted to rivet the link that a pure 
 and loving conduct could not forge ? Yet, who 
 can say that such natures are not of a piece with 
 the animal that bites and worries the caressing 
 hand, and crouches with licking tongue at the 
 feet of him who threatens it with the suspended 
 rod? Physiologists trace resemblances in the 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PURSUIT. 
 
 209 
 
 human features to the lineaments of different 
 species of brutes ; let the psychologist go further, 
 and, by his explorations, furnish us with the 
 treatment that such idiosyncrasies demand. 
 
 The stormy night was only the harbinger of a 
 fair and lovely day. Up rose the sun, dissipat- 
 ing by its effulgence every vestige of the mid- 
 night’s sulphureous conflict ; but there were few 
 breakfast-tables in London, on that morning, at 
 which the thunderstorm was not discussed. No 
 doubt it had been a terrible night, and many a 
 worthy citizen shook his head and remarked so 
 as he passed his friend on his way to business. 
 
 At half-past nine, Seymour left as usual for 
 Cannon Street. His wife had not risen when he 
 departed, and he had contented himself with giv- 
 ing her a kiss and advising her to remain where 
 she was. It had dispersed the extraordinary 
 agitation of which he had felt himself a prey, 
 leaving him even more brisk and cheerful than 
 ordinary. 
 
210 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Ifc occurred to him on his way to the City that 
 Kate would perhaps like a box for the opera on 
 that night. Music then was in its full swing at 
 Covent Garden. A row of celebrated names 
 graced every wall and ornamented every public- 
 house front ; and the bill-sticker aided the voice 
 to achieve distinction for the singer. He entered 
 a library, and procured a cosy little stage-box 
 which he knew Kate would like, because she would 
 then have a near view of the actors. He thought 
 it rather selfish, however, for two to occupy a 
 box large enough to contain five ; so, on his 
 arrival in Cannon Street, he addressed a letter to 
 Mortimer, asking him to join them, and to get,, 
 if he could, Mrs. Fairlie to accompany him. He 
 added that he and Kate would call for them at 
 Montague Square at eight. 
 
 He remained in excellent spirits throughout 
 the day. The opera-box was a capital idea, he 
 thought. Kate had been once or twice to the 
 theatre, and professed herself enchanted with the 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PURSUIT. 
 
 211 
 
 singing, and he knew that the pleasure would be 
 greater in this instance because it was wholly 
 unexpected. 
 
 Once or twice, perhaps, the least sadness stole 
 over him when his eye encountered the desk at 
 which Frank had so often sat. His generous 
 nature was pained by this quarrel, though he felt 
 the provocation to be too great not to have been 
 indignantly resented. Nevertheless, he had long 
 regarded Frank as his brother. He it was who 
 had first introduced him to Kate ; he it was who 
 had vehemently abetted the match ; he it was 
 whose uniformity of good temper and amiability 
 had endeared him to his friend. And, after a 
 fashion, he was Kate’s brother. But had he been 
 justified in saying what he did ? Had Mortimer 
 ever given the least grounds for such a terrible, 
 degrading suspicion ? Had Kate’s conduct 
 fluctuated in the least from that which had always 
 enchanted her husband ? True, she had for a long 
 while appeared depressed in spirits, but then 
 latterly she had rallied, and in a more or less^ 
 
212 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 degree regained her old vivacity. And, after all, 
 what did her depression mean ? She had given 
 her husband no cause to doubt the strength of her 
 attachment, and why, therefore, should he have 
 availed himself of Frank’s surmises to attribute 
 it to the last, worst cause that his heart could 
 possibly con ceive ? Was Kate to be wholly ex- 
 empt from those fits of moodiness which possess 
 others of an equal gaiety of disposition, without 
 exciting the least alarm or even remark ? A 
 thousand innocent causes might occur to produce 
 such a temperame nt ; causes no more to be sus- 
 pected of moral wrong than the fits of anger in 
 the baby that clenches its puny fist and smites its 
 mother’s lips. 
 
 Such were the considerations of a heart that 
 knew not jealousy. Such were the conclusions 
 of a man who would rather have believed in the 
 morrow’s dissolution of the material universe 
 than that Kate — his wife — his darling — was 
 about to betray him. 
 
 Yet was not jealousy sent into the world to avert. 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PURSUIT. 
 
 213 
 
 or to assist in averting, such results as I am now 
 ubout to write ? Not the most obscure, or appar- 
 ontly unreasonable passionof the heart can be want- 
 ing in contributing its share to the general good. 
 How immaterial soever the link, it yet connects 
 the mighty chain of causes and effects that reaches 
 from earth to heaven. It is an invisible wheel 
 in the subtle machinery of circumstances. With- 
 out it the scheme of the great Designer would be 
 imperfect. Is he then to be envied who is born 
 without jealousy ? Let my reader decide. 
 
 Seymour’s impatience to return home did not 
 suffer him to employ his legs, as he usually did, 
 though the distance was sufficiently great; he 
 jumped into a cab, taking care to ensure speed, by 
 telling the coachman to drive fast. The truth 
 was it was then half-past five, and there was no 
 time to be lost if he was anxious to keep his ap- 
 pointment at Montague Square. His demand, 
 however, for speed was by no means complied 
 with. Not that the cabman did not ply hia 
 
214 
 
 ^OFF THE^STAGE. 
 
 whip with as much zeal, and 'certainly with as 
 much acrimony, as the chief of a circus. But the 
 horse was dogged, his front legs weak, his feet 
 slippery, and his motion slow and irregular ; 
 moreover, he seemed possessed of a strange love 
 for side streets, and a court with an archway ap- 
 peared as tempting a spectacle to him as a bundle 
 of hay. 
 
 But even cab horses are not exempt from the 
 application of the old saw, “That the longest 
 ways have turnings at last and dismissing the 
 irritating vehicle as soon as he could, Seymour 
 pursued the remainder of the distance — a quarter 
 of a mile or so— on foot. 
 
 On reaching his home, he entered the parlour, 
 expecting to see Kate occupying her usual posi- 
 tion at the window, either sewing or reading. 
 Not finding her, he concluded that she might have 
 gone out and not yet returned. Nevertheless, he 
 was surprised at not seeing the cloth laid for 
 dinner — the usual hour of that meal being six 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PURSUIT. 
 
 215 
 
 o’clock — and it then being some six or eight 
 minutes past. ^He touched the bell to inquire 
 the reason. 
 
 A servant answered the summons. 
 
 ^‘^How is it that dinner is later to-day than 
 usual?” 
 
 Missis went away this morning, sir, and said 
 she would not be home to dinner. We thought 
 she was going with you, sir, and that’s why we 
 didn’t lay the cloth.” 
 
 And where has she gone to ?” Seymour asked. 
 
 She didn’t leave no message, sir ; she took a 
 black box with her in the cab, and we made sure 
 she was gone oflf to you, sir.” 
 
 A deadly coldness took possession of his heart. 
 He turned perfectly white ; and yet what was 
 there to fear ? 
 
 ‘‘ What time did she leave?” 
 
 I think it was about half-past eleven, sir, 
 this morning.” 
 
 Did she not leave word where she was going 
 
 to?” 
 
216 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 The servant grew alarmed at his manner. 
 
 “ITl ask the cook,” she said. “ I didn’t 
 kelp the cabman with the box, sir. It was the 
 cook.” 
 
 “ Go and tell her to come here.” 
 
 She left the room and he remained standing 
 near the table, clutching it now, for the terrible 
 agitation of the preceding evening was upon him, 
 grasping his heart with a more deathlike hold 
 than before. 
 
 Yet still — what was there to fear ? 
 
 Presently the cook and the housemaid both 
 entered the room. 
 
 “ Do you know where Mrs. Seymour has gone 
 to?” he asked, forcing his voice into a seeming 
 coldness. 
 
 “ I heard her tell the cabman to drive to Jermyn 
 Street, sir,” said the cook. 
 
 He leapt from his attitude and clutched the 
 woman fiercely by the shoulder. 
 
 “ Are you sure of this ?” he cried. 
 
 The cook shrunk away terrified from him. 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PURSUIT. 
 
 217 
 
 “ Yes, sir, I am sure,” she exclaimed, in 
 piteous accents. “ I didn't know there was any 
 harm, or I wouldn’t have helped her to pack 
 up.” 
 
 “ To pack up !” he half-shouted. What did 
 she pack up ?” 
 
 “ Why, sir, her things for travellin’ — she told 
 me she was going to travel. She didn’t say where, 
 nor with whom. She left a note for you on your 
 dressing-table, sir. I’ll go and fetch it.” 
 
 “ Stop !” 
 
 He dashed by them and bounded furiously up- 
 stairs. His eyes instantly alighted on a little 
 envelope addressed to himself. The handwriting 
 was confused, in some parts almost illegible. This 
 is what he read : 
 
 “ I have left you because I cannot be happy 
 with you. You have too good a heart for me. I 
 am unworthy of it — I cannot appreciate it. You 
 will be happier without me, and will soon learn 
 to forget me. I will not tell you that I have 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 L 
 
218 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 never loved you. But you will be less pained by 
 my absence when I say that I no longer love you. 
 That is why I leave you. Two people can never 
 be happy together unless the love of the one is 
 returned by the other. I cannot return your love, 
 and I would not wrong your noble heart by pre- 
 tending to love you when I do not. Farewell for 
 ever. From 
 
 Kate.” 
 
 He dashed his hand to his forehead, and 
 laughed aloud. ’Twas a hideous illusion ; ’twas 
 a horrible joke ! He dashed his hand to his fore- 
 head and cried, “ She will return to me! this 
 is to frighten me !” He read the letter again, 
 and then glanced round the room with an eye 
 whose glare promised insanity. “ She will return 
 to me ! but ’twas wicked of her to frighten me 
 thus !” Then he pressed his hand to his heart 
 and listened. He crept to the door and stealthily 
 opened it, and listened. Was not that her tiny 
 tread upon the stair ? She was coming to him ! 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PUESUIT. 
 
 219 
 
 coming to laugh at his fright with that sweet 
 laughter that was music to his ear. He glanced 
 around the room. Might she not be hidden 
 somewhere here ? He stole to the cupboard and 
 
 peeped into it. He knelt and looked under the 
 bed. He would call her. He went to the door 
 and cried ‘‘ Kate ! Kate !” Why did she not 
 answer him ? Where was she ? She had gone 
 to Jermyn Street. He returned and once more 
 perused the letter. Then all at once the terrible 
 conviction that she had really left him smote his 
 heart. He entwined his fingers in his hair, and 
 turned his face, upon which was graven the lines 
 of agony, up to heaven. Then in a low, wailing, 
 sobbing voice he cried, “ She has gone from me ! 
 she has gone from me !” and, bowing his head, 
 he fell prostrate to the ground. 
 
 The servants heard him fall, and hastened up- 
 stairs to his assistance. When they beheld him 
 prone and motionless upon the floor, they thought 
 he had suddenly died, and one rushed away to 
 secure medical aid. The other dashed water 
 
220 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 in his face, and chafed his temples ; and 
 under this treatment he soon revived. He 
 opened his eyes wide, and gazed about him with 
 a bewildered stare ; then he slowly staggered to 
 his feet, and sunk — with a weary sigh, and with 
 his hands clasped to his forehead — into a chair. 
 He remained thus for five minutes — motionless, 
 unheeding the anxious ^and speculating stare of 
 his servant. 
 
 At last he rose, and went painfully downstairs. 
 The hot tears fiowed plentifully down his cheeks, 
 and he seated himself before a desk and commenced 
 to write. When he had concluded, he gave the 
 letter to the servant to be posted on the following 
 morning. It was addressed to Frank Forrester. 
 
 He placed a cheque-book in his pocket, and 
 hade the servant pack a carpet bag for him. 
 Whilst she was engaged in this performance, he 
 left the house, and presently returned with a 
 cab. He enveloped himself in a shawl and great 
 coat, and taking the carpet hag from the servant’s 
 hands, leaped into the vehicle, and ordered the 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PURSUIT. 
 
 221 
 
 cabman to drive to Jermyn Street. The servant 
 asked him for orders, but be made no reply, 
 merely shouting to the driver to make haste and 
 be off. 
 
 He appeared cold, listless. The faculties of 
 his mind seemed benumbed. His thoughts were 
 the thoughts of a dreamer — inconsequential, not 
 consecutive. One solicitude alone he seemed to 
 have ; this was to make haste ; and so ever and 
 anon he shouted to the driver who, in obedience 
 to his command, lashed his horse into a con- 
 tinuous gallop. 
 
 On his reaching Jermyn Street, he knocked at 
 the door of a house, and demanded to see Cap- 
 tain Mortimer. 
 
 He has left us, sir,” was the reply. 
 
 ‘‘ Where has he gone to ?” 
 
 I don’t know, sir. A lady called here for 
 him this morning, and he went away with her.” 
 Had he any luggage ?” 
 
 “ K portmanteau, sir.” 
 
 Was it labelled?” 
 
222 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ I didn’t notice, sir.’ 
 
 He drew out of his pocket a couple of sove- 
 reigns. 
 
 ‘‘ If you can furnish me with the slightest clue 
 as to the terminus to which he directed the cab- 
 man to drive, these are yours.” 
 
 She was a common maid-of-all-work, and her 
 eyes glistened as she looked at the money. It 
 was exactly a fourth of her wages for the year. 
 What ribbons, what finery did those two yellow 
 circles contain. 
 
 “ Will you walk in, sir ?” 
 
 “ Yes. Take me up to his room.” 
 
 She closed the door, and conducted him through 
 a dark passage, upstairs to a first floor. 
 
 His eye swiftly glanced around the apartment, 
 and then he entered the adjoining bedroom. 
 
 Meanwhile, the servant had gone downstairs 
 to make enquiries. 
 
 He opened the drawers in a bureau, and in the 
 top one he saw lying a Bradshaw’s Guide Book. 
 Swift as lightning he seized upon it, and examin- 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PUES0IT. 
 
 223 
 
 ing it. One of the leaves of the volume had been 
 pressed down, and at this page the book opened 
 of itself. It opened at the leaf devoted to the 
 South Eastern Railway, and half way down the 
 margin there was a pencil mark. It indicated a 
 train that left London Bridge for Folkestone at 
 five minutes past twelve. 
 
 He crammed the book in his pocket, and ring- 
 ing the bell, went downstairs. 
 
 The servant met him in the passage. 
 
 “ Well, what have you found out ?” 
 
 “ Nothing, sir.” 
 
 “ Never mind ; here are your two sovereigns. 
 Open the door.” 
 
 He entered the cab, leaving the servant ex- 
 ceedingly dubious as to his state of mind, and 
 told the cabman to drive him to London 
 Bridge. 
 
 When the cab was in motion, he extracted 
 the guide book from his pocket, and proceeded 
 to examine more minutely the turned-down 
 page. 
 
224 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 He observed that there was a train for Folke- 
 stone at forty-five minutes past seven. This he 
 made up his mind to take. His inspection of 
 the book was rewarded by no other discovery ; and 
 he was about replacing it in his pocket, when his 
 eye suddenly encountered some figures marked in 
 pencil, on the margin of the back part of the 
 cover. Some of the figures were obscure by 
 reason of their being entered upon a part of the 
 paper occupied by the picture of an hotel with 
 gardens. Nevertheless, he deciphered this : — 
 
 £. 
 
 }} 
 
 )) 
 
 }) 
 
 s. d. 
 
 22 6 
 22 6 
 
 He thoughtfully regarded them for some 
 moments. All at once an idea struck him. He 
 referred to the turned-down page, and consulted 
 the fares. He found that a first-class through 
 
A FLIGHT AND A PUESUIT. 
 
 225 
 
 ticket to Boulogne was twenty-two skillings and 
 sixpence. Two tickets would therefore be two 
 pounds five shillings. Next, he turned to the 
 cab fares. From Piccadilly Circus to London 
 Bridge was two shillings and sixpence. There 
 was an extra sixpence for the luggage, and one 
 shilling was devoted to the guard for the privi- 
 lege of smoking. The total was, therefore, two 
 pounds and nine shillings. 
 
 Their place of destination was now known to 
 him. They had gone to Boulogne, and thence in 
 all probability to Paris. 
 
226 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 BOULOGNE- SUR-M ER. 
 
 From the first moment of his discovery that Kate 
 had left him until now, when he was being 
 whirled through the night towards Folkestone, 
 one distinct desire alone appeared to have taken 
 possession of him — to make haste. All other 
 consciousness seemed to have been suspended in 
 an absorbing eagerness for speed. To get to her, 
 to grasp her, to hurry her away with him any- 
 where — anywhere! These were the ^erce whispers 
 of a heart otherwise torpid. 
 
BOULOQNE-SUR-MEK. 
 
 227 
 
 Though he had acted throughout with a cer- 
 tain keenness, it was the keenness of instinct 
 rather than of reason. Though there was deci- 
 sion in all his actions, it was not the decision of 
 a just thinker : of a reasoner, exploring his way 
 through the future by wise conjectures and an 
 admirable scheme. It was a decision wrought 
 by calmness growing out of cold despair, frigidly 
 impulsive ; not impulsive with the frenzied 
 promptings of madness, urging him to desperate 
 courses remote from the object he sought. Had 
 such been the case, he might have done what 
 many other men have done in such instances ; 
 he would have hurried away beneath the broad 
 skies in the pursuit of his wife, knowing not 
 where to seek, but mad to find her ; he would 
 have wandered desolate through strange places, 
 have made inquiries of strange people, have 
 been muttered at as he passed, and pointed out 
 as a madman, and finding his hurry to be always 
 fruitless, have silenced the torture within him by 
 death. But the suddenness of the blow had 
 
228 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 numbed the faculties that, when they are goaded 
 by misery render men insane. Thought beneath 
 it fell prone, weak, powerless. His motion was 
 directed by instinct ; and his instinct here 
 served him better than his reason would have 
 done. 
 
 But his eagerness for speed was now being 
 gratified; the panting engine fled through the 
 night, scattering in its iron path the red-hot cin- 
 ders that flashed upon the windows of the car- 
 riages as they rushed by them. It was a glo- 
 rious speed at which they were travelling ! How 
 station after station flashed by like meteors ! 
 How joyous the shrill scream of the engine that 
 mocked the stationary spectators on the platform 
 watching the illuminated rumbling line whirl by 
 them, with the red faces of the stokers lighted up 
 by the glow of the furnace, and then the red 
 lights on the hindmost carriage melt like glow- 
 worms, and grow tiny sparks in the black dis- 
 tance ! 
 
 An emotion almost exhilarating filled the heart 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. 
 
 22a 
 
 of the desolate young husband. Who could 
 escape such a pursuer ? Time itself was outdone 
 by this velocity. In another hour now he would 
 be at Folkestone ; and he fixed his eyes upon the 
 faint outline of the carriages, marked upon the 
 sandy track by the streak of moon on the other 
 side, and planted his feet against the opposite 
 seat and pushed with clenched teeth, as if that 
 would accelerate the motion that was not yet 
 swift enough for him. 
 
 Folkestone at last ! The platform was almost 
 deserted, for it was not a tidal train, and the few 
 passengers it carried were going on to Dover. 
 He leaped from his seat, and grasping his carpet 
 bag, hurried into the town ; he entered a small 
 hotel, and addressed a girl seated within the 
 bar. 
 
 Did a gentleman and lady arrive here this 
 morning by the train that left London at five 
 minutes past twelve ?” 
 
 What was they like, sir?’’ 
 
 He described them, and the girl answered. 
 
230 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “No.” 
 
 Another and a larger hotel was opposite. He 
 entered this and put the same questions to a 
 waiter, who was lounging in the doorway. The 
 waiter hurried in to make inquiries ; presently he 
 reappeared with the same answer Seymour had 
 before received. 
 
 “ No, sir.” 
 
 “ What other hotel is there here ?” 
 
 “ There’s a big hotel on the cliff, sir, facing the 
 sea ; but ours is the most moderate, and you’ll 
 find it worry comfortable.” 
 
 He did not stop to hear what the waiter was 
 going on to say, but hurried off down the street 
 that led to the cliff. Presently he entered upon 
 an esplanade, and to his right he perceived the 
 “ big hotel,” looking like barracks in a square 
 front garden. 
 
 He hastened up the gravel walk that led to 
 the entrance, and made the same inquiries of a 
 man with spectacles, seated in a kind of box desk, 
 near a glass door. 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER, 
 
 231 
 
 “ What were their names, sir ?” asked the man, 
 turning to a ledger. 
 
 “ Never mind their names ; they may have 
 changed them. This is their description.” And 
 again he described them. 
 
 The man thought he was a detective, and be- 
 came even more civil. He touched a bell, and 
 another man appeared ; they talked in a whisper 
 together, and then the first man turned round to 
 Seymour and said, 
 
 “ The parties you describe, sir, dined here to- 
 day ; they left by the four o’clock boat for 
 Boulogne.” 
 
 “ Are you sure they left for Boulogne ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, sir ; you took their luggage down for 
 ’em, didn’t you, Jim ?” 
 
 “ Yes, I was the man,” answered Jim. 
 
 “ Is there a boat for Boulogne to-night ?” asked 
 Seymour, 
 
 Man 1 shook his head. 
 
 “ No, sir, not to-night j there’s one to-morrow 
 morning at half-past eight.” 
 
232 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Give me a room here for to-night. Here’s- 
 my bag.” 
 
 “ Will you take some tea, sir ?” 
 
 “ Yes, give me a cup of tea.” 
 
 “Will you walk into the coffee-room, sir?' 
 That door, please sir, to the left.” 
 
 “ Call me to-morrow at seven. Be particular, 
 for it is absolutely necessary that I should catch 
 the half-past eight o’clock boat.” 
 
 He entered the coffee-room and seated himself 
 at a table. Then he drew out his “ Bradshaw,” 
 and commenced its inspection. He found 
 that the boat that left for Boulogne at four, 
 arrived at six. There was a train to Paris at 
 seven, which did not reach its destination until 
 forty minutes past eleven. 
 
 “ They will not take it,” he mused. " She 
 will be too tired. They will remain at Boulogne 
 to-night. I may perhaps catch them to-morrow 
 morning. What time does my boa" arrive?” 
 
 He consulted his book, and found the time 
 marked to be half-past ten. Then, again, he 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. 
 
 233 ^ 
 
 turned to the Paris trains, and saw that one left 
 at seven in the morning, one at nine, and another 
 at a quarter to eleven. 
 
 He replaced the book in his pocket and re- 
 mained motionless, with his head leaning upon 
 his hand, and his eyes fixed on the table. His 
 face was cold and white as marble. An expres- 
 sion of settled despair had taken possession of it, 
 and had become rigid through its incorporation 
 with the lineaments of his face. His eyes were 
 tearless, and vacant, and bloodshot; and his lips 
 were compressed into a look that spoke more than 
 all words of internal and consuming agonv. 
 
 He was disturbed by the entrance of the waiter 
 with his tea. He drank several cups, and then, 
 calling for a candle, went up into his room. He 
 did not undress, but threw himself on his bed as 
 he was. He tried to sleep ; but when two o’clock 
 sounded from a neighbouring bell, he was still 
 OTake. He rose, and commenced to pace the 
 room, with folded arms, and head inclined upon 
 his breast. For an hour he continued his rest- 
 
234 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 less walk, then returned to his couch, and onco 
 more tried to sleep. At four o’clock he fell inta 
 a death-like slumber. Yet, all dreamless as he 
 lay, his hands were clenched, his lips compressed, 
 his face strung into a tortured expression, and 
 the veins about his throat were swollen, as if he 
 were choking. 
 
 At six o’clock he rose and, after bathing his 
 face, went downstairs. It was a fine morning, 
 and he sallied forth to the cliff to breathe the 
 fresh sea air. In the harbour he perceived 
 the steamer that was to carry him across 
 the expanse of blue that lay stretched, with- 
 out a ripple, before him, with the smoke from 
 her recently-lighted fires lazily curling up to the 
 sky. He strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of 
 the remote shores of France, which he knew were 
 visible on a clear day. But the horizon was 
 hazy in the morning mist, and a few distant sails 
 alone broke the monotony of the even line. After 
 an hour’s pacing listlessly to and fro the smooth 
 esplanade, he returned to the hotel, and ordered 
 
BOULOGNE-SUfl-MEE. 
 
 235 
 
 breakfast. But nothing more than a cup of 
 coffee passed his lips. 
 
 At last eight o’clock sounded, and, wrapping 
 himself up in his great coat, he walked down to 
 the steamer. He took a seat by the side of the 
 paddle-box, and with folded arms and bowed 
 head, remained in that position during the whole 
 journey. There was a mere sprinkling of passen- 
 gers, and mostly foreigners, enveloped in shawls 
 and smoking cigarets. These passed him to and 
 fro ; but one or two Englishmen amongst them 
 after a while commenced curiously eyeing him, 
 and continued their impertinent gaze until the 
 slight motion of the vessel drove them to a con- 
 templation of themselves over the vessel’s side. 
 
 Gradually the brown cliffs of France appeared 
 to emerge from out the hazy horizon. The 
 Frenchmen began to talk about Le Cap Grisnez 
 and Wim6reux, and grew more vehement in 
 their shrugs and grimaces as the steamer ap- 
 proached her destination. By-and-bye, the out- 
 line of the pepper-box^ cathedral in the Haute- 
 
236 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Ville became visible, followed soon after by the 
 piers, like two black lines projecting towards the 
 advancing vessel. Next the sands opened upon 
 them, with rows of bathing machines, apparently 
 piled one above the other, backed by the large hotel,, 
 with its name upon the roof, the whole flanked 
 by the arid cliffs, with the cross of Jesu-FlagUU 
 marking its outline against the brilliant sky. 
 
 Then the steamer glided into the harbour, 
 followed by two or three boys on the pier, who 
 tried to keep up with it by hard running, but who 
 were very soon beaten, and left behind, pale and 
 panting. Before many minutes the boat was 
 securely made fast to the jetty, and a ladder 
 lowered on board, amidst the cries and exclama- 
 tions of a number of Frenchmen, who were as 
 clamourous as if the spectacle of a steamer was 
 wholly new to them, and as if lowering a ladder 
 were an event to be celebrated by the utmost 
 possible confusion and talk. 
 
 Seymour was the flrst to land, and, pausing a 
 moment as if in reflection, he walked along the- 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MEK. 
 
 237 
 
 port^ and entered the first hotel he encountered. 
 What he had done at Folkestone he had made up 
 his mind to do here. It was necessary to know 
 whether the runaway couple had visited the 
 place, and to ascertain this, he had resolved to 
 make inquiries at every house they were at all 
 likely to have put up at. So far he was certain 
 that they had left Folkestone for Boulogne. But 
 if they had quitted Boulogne, where should he 
 pursue them ? The figures upon the guide-book 
 seemed to indicate Paris. But then the calcula- 
 tion was based upon the money necessary for 
 through- tickets, and was it likely they had con- 
 tinued their journey on the same day ? 
 
 But it would not do to pause and consider. He 
 had come to wrest Kate away from the arms of 
 her seducer ; he had come to revenge himself 
 upon the wretch who had broken his heart. 
 Rapidity of action now could alone avail him. 
 Every second was precious p for the track was yet 
 warm, and if he suffered it to grow cool he would 
 miss the pursuit. 
 
238 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 He hailed a Jidcre and bade the man drive him 
 to every hotel in the town. The vehicle was 
 closed; hut even without this precaution the 
 wrapper round his throat that half concealed his 
 face, and his hat pulled low over his forehead 
 sufficiently disguised him even from a near 
 inspection. 
 
 On his way he passed a gunmaker’s shop ; and 
 he ordered the cabman to stop. He got out, and 
 entering the boutique told the man that he wanted 
 a pair of pistols. 
 
 The shopman produced a case, which he sub- 
 mitted to his customer’s inspection. Seymour 
 raised one of them and examined it. The 
 weapon was light, and of English make. 
 
 “ Can I try it ?” he asked. 
 
 “ Certainly. If monsieur will step into the 
 garden at the back he will find a little target, 
 employed by me as a test for the carry of my 
 pistols.” 
 
 “ Load this then, and I will accompany you.” 
 
 The man charged the weapon, and conducting 
 
BOULOGNE-SUK-MER. 
 
 239 
 
 tis customer througli the shop led him into an 
 oblong piece of ground, surrounded with walls. 
 Against the furthest wall was placed a battered 
 target. The man dipped a brush into a pail of 
 whitewash, and painted the centre circle white. 
 
 What is that for?” Seymour asked. 
 
 The target was too much riddled before, for 
 monsieur to make certain of his ball. Now there 
 can be no mistake.” 
 
 I do not want your target,” Seymour said. 
 In England we do not aim at big white patches. 
 That twig there, projecting above the wall will do 
 for me. Give me the pistol.” 
 
 He took the weapon, and pointing it at the 
 minute branch, pulled the trigger. The man 
 looked, and saw that the twig had disappeared. 
 
 ‘‘Ha f v^Vla quelque chose du bonT he 
 murmured, with a shrug of admiration. 
 
 Seymour ordered him to load the two pistols, 
 and make him up a packet of ammunition. Then 
 thrusting these articles in his pocket he resumed 
 his seat in the fly. 
 
240 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 The town was traversed, but without effect. 
 None of the hotels had entertained the persons 
 he described. He made the same inquiries even 
 at one or two inns in some back streets, but to 
 no purpose. He grew sick at heart : he did not 
 know what to do. He consulted his watch, and 
 found the time to he a quarter to two. There 
 was a train, he knew, that left for Paris at a 
 quarter to three. He would take this. 
 
 Paris was a huge wilderness in which to search 
 about for two persons whose very names he could 
 not state, for he was sure they must have changed 
 them. But he had left England to find his wife. 
 He would search Europe for her : what else was 
 there for him to do ? His wish was to him a life 
 in death. His past was death — his future was 
 death. Existence had become a tomb; his wish 
 to find his wife was the only lamp that illumined 
 it. 
 
 The principal street in Boulogne is called the 
 Grande Eue. At the top of this steep thorough- 
 fare is an archway that leads you under the ram- 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. 
 
 241 
 
 parts into a portion of tlie town called tlie Haute 
 Ville. There are no hotels here. There are 
 shops and private residences and a few estaminets^ 
 but the hotels are all confined to the other side 
 of the ramparts. 
 
 Knowing this the driver had not extended his 
 explorations into this part at all. When Seymour 
 had pointed out the archway or tunnel he had 
 shaken his head and answered that there was no 
 use in driving there ; and Seymour had^ there- 
 fore, suffered him to remain in the lower town. 
 
 Finding his inquiries constantly answered in 
 the negative, he had discharged the cabman^ and 
 determined to traverse the town on foot, until it 
 was time for him to be at the railway station. 
 After wandering about for some time his steps 
 led him to the archway he had before remarked, 
 and passing through it he found himself in 
 a street leading into a large open square fronting 
 a venerable church. Several streets diverged 
 from this square into the country beyond, and 
 taking the first one he noticed, he proceeded to 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 M 
 
242 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 saunter slowly down it, narrowly inspecting each 
 house as he passed. 
 
 Almost at the end of this street he noticed a 
 goodly sized house standing detached from its 
 lesser brethren, and bearing upon its front the 
 words “ Simmond’s Boarding House.*’ He 
 paused on facing it, as if he had a mind to enter. 
 But the improbability of a man like Mortimer 
 putting up at such a dingy looking house in such 
 an out-of-the-way part of the town, suddenly 
 occurred to him ; and anticipating the reply that 
 use had now made him consider inevitable, he 
 turned on his heel and bowing his head in his 
 shawl slowly pursued his way. 
 
 All at once the sound of wheels approaching 
 caused him to remark that the street was narrow; 
 and he shrank into a door way to sutler the vehicle, 
 whatever it was, to pass. 
 
 It was an ordinary fiacre, with two horses 
 which the driver had urged into a lazy gallop, and 
 which now came turning the angle of the n arrow 
 street with that sharpness which renders French 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER, 
 
 243 
 
 driving always so peculiar and precarious. The 
 carriage was open and the occupants lay back in 
 their seats with as much dignity as if they had 
 been driving in a grand turn-out” down 
 Kegent Street. The horses, the driver, and the 
 carriage were all very dusty ; by which it was 
 evident that they had been out for a long drive. 
 
 They did not notice Seymour, for they had 
 passed him too quickly. But rapid as had been 
 their passage he had seen them. His eyes half 
 started from his head, his hands grasped the edge 
 of the wall against which he was leaning, and a 
 stifled murmur, half a shriek, half a sob, broke 
 from his lips. 
 
 The occupants of the carriage were Mortimer 
 and Kate. 
 
 He darted out from his corner with the inten- 
 tion of pursuing them. His hands were clenched, 
 his sinews strained, his head thrown back for a 
 long pursuit. Kapid as was their pace he would 
 overtake them. It mattered not where they 
 might lead him to ! Into the town, into the 
 
 M 2 
 
244 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 peopled streets, among tlie gaping public — be 
 would leap into the flying vehicle — tear the 
 accursed villain from the side of his wife and 
 hurl him beneath the wheels of the carriage. 
 But hardly had he taken one step forward, when 
 the fiacre suddenly stopped before the boarding- 
 house he had so recently noticed. Then like a 
 flash of lightning a new idea took possession of 
 him. He shrunk, he cowered beneath his flrst 
 shelter, and remained hidden so, until he heard 
 the carriage drive away. Then he looked out and 
 saw that it was empty. 
 
 For ten minutes he remained motionless in his 
 resting-place. His hands convulsively grasped 
 the pistols in his pocket, and an expression of 
 terrible ferocity settled upon his eyes. He did 
 not notice the face opposite that was con- 
 templating him with a look of surprise and 
 curiosity, as if anxious to divine the motive of a 
 man remaining so long in one attitude, and in 
 such a strange place. A thousand spectators 
 might have assembled around him and gazed 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. 
 
 245 
 
 upon him. He TOuld have been ignorant of their 
 presence. He was exciting a nature that shrunk 
 from revenge, to vengeance by the recollection of 
 past and present wrong ; and he ground his teeth 
 as the past arose before him and pointed at him 
 with contemptuous pity. 
 
 Presently he left his corner, and with a sly^ 
 creeping step, approached the boarding-house. 
 The door was shut and he knocked loudly, then 
 shrunk within the shadow of the porch to prevent 
 his being seen from the windows above and on 
 each side of him. 
 
 A man-servant opened the door ; on seeing a 
 stranger with a carpet-bag, he obsequiously 
 bowed and anticipated the request that he fancied 
 was about to be made, by assuring him that they 
 had very comfortable rooms. 
 
 I shall want a room,” said Seymour, in a 
 low voice. But there are some friends of mine 
 stopping here, and I called to see them ; a young 
 gentleman and his wife. They came last 
 night.” 
 
624 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ Oui, monsieur. You mean Captain and Mrs. 
 Williams?” 
 
 Seymour nodded. Are they in ?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; just returned from a drive. Let 
 me take monsieur’s bag. Will monsieur walk 
 upstairs ?” 
 
 “ Yes — ^but first, have they a private room ? I 
 do not care to enter amongst strange persons in 
 this guise.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, monsieur. They have a charming 
 little apartment on the first etage." 
 
 “ Then lead the way.” 
 
 “ But first would not monsieur like to see his 
 bed room ?” 
 
 “ No. Take me to my friends. I will look at 
 your bed-rooms after.” 
 
 The man bowed, and led the way upstairs. 
 On the first fioor he paused and said, ‘‘ This is 
 their sitting-room, monsieur.” And he knocked. 
 
 A voice within, exclaimed in English, “ Come 
 in.” Seymour recognised it as Mortimer’s. 
 
 He turned the handle of the door and walked 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. 
 
 247 
 
 in, shutting it behind him. Without looking at 
 the inmates of the apartment, he turned the key 
 in the lock, and extracting it, placed it in his 
 pocket. Then he looked up. 
 
 Kate was seated on a sofa by the side of the 
 window. She looked pale and delicate and far 
 from well. Mortimer stood opposite to her, and 
 by the attitude which he still retained (astonish- 
 ment at the extraordinary conduct of the strange 
 visitor not suffering him to lose it), he seemed 
 to have been addressing her. Seymour had kept 
 his hat on his head, and this with the shawl 
 round his throat for some few moments seemed 
 to keep him effectually disguised. His eyes — in 
 days of old easily recognised — were inflamed by 
 passion and altered by despair. Folding his arms 
 he confronted Mortimer, without speaking. 
 
 There must have been something familiar to 
 Kate in the attitude he had assumed ; for, utter- 
 ing a cry, she threw her hands up before her, and 
 shrunk away, though with her terrified eyes fixed 
 upon him. 
 
248 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Mortimer turned starply to her^ then instantly 
 directed his gaze again upon Seymour. 
 
 At last he said, stroking his moustache, and 
 endeavouring, beneath a bold address, to hide the 
 alarm that had taken possession of him, 
 
 ‘‘ And pray who the devil are you, sir, that you 
 venture to intrude upon this lady’s — upon my 
 presence with your hat on ? And how dare you 
 lock the door ?” 
 
 Without reply, Seymour took his hat off and 
 threw it on the ground. Then he untwisted his 
 shawl, and pulled off his great coat. 
 
 “ Do you know me now ?” he said. 
 
 Mortimer grew livid, and stumbled backwards 
 a step. Kate, with a low, sobbing wail, buried 
 her face in her hands, and threw herself prostrate 
 upon the sofa. She could not meet her husband’s 
 gaze. But she need not have feared this. He 
 did not even turn his eyes in her direction, hut 
 kept them fixed upon Mortimer. 
 
 “ Fellow 1” he exclaimed, in a low, trembling, 
 almost hissing voice. “ You are a scoundrel — a 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. 
 
 249 
 
 wretch— a villain, that, could I have reckoned 
 upon this speedy meeting, I would have branded 
 on the forehead with the searing-irons that I 
 should have brought with me for the purpose. 
 Coward ! viper ! slave !” and he spat in his face. 
 
 Mortimer did not move. He was paralysed — 
 deadened by this sudden presence of the man he 
 had so wronged. How had he found them out ? 
 Yesterday he was in London^ and to-day — -there 
 was something supernatural in it. Had he been 
 suddenly armed with the power of God or the 
 devil? Was he still a man ? 
 
 But do you think I have come to upbraid 
 you? By the living heaven^ I would rather 
 stand me upon the edge of hell and upbraid the 
 veriest fiend among the hellish crew. You have 
 robbed me of that which I hold dearer than my 
 life. I will not ask you for that which your 
 dastard heart holds dearer than your honour.” 
 He suddenly drew a pistol from his pocket and 
 levelled it at the head of Mortimer. 
 
 The wretched man started with terror. His 
 
250 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 eye-balls protruded from tbeir sockets, his hair 
 stood erect upon his head, he clasped his tremb- 
 ling hands before him, and fell upon his knees. 
 
 “ Do not kill me ! I am a sinner ! Do not send 
 me into the presence of my Grod with all my 
 wickedness upon my soul. You have a noble 
 heart — ^you can pity — you can spare. Oh ! spare 
 me ! I have done you a cruel wrong. On my 
 knees I implore your forgiveness. Spare me ! 
 Oh ! do not kill me !” and he burst into tears. 
 
 Kate had now reared herself rigidly upon the 
 sofa. She watched her husband’s movements 
 with that wild, horrified expression in her eyes 
 which great painters always give to crime, and 
 which follow the spectator as he moves about, 
 and which haunt him for a long while after. 
 
 At the sight of his foe upon his knees suppli- 
 cating him for mercy, a grim smile parted the 
 lips of Seymour that had hitherto been com- 
 pressed in agony. He lowered the point of his 
 pistol, and Mortimer staggered to his feet. 
 
 There ensued a short pause. Then Seymour 
 
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. 
 
 251 
 
 took the other pistol out of his pocket and pushed 
 it across the table. 
 
 To shoot you, all defenceless as you are, would 
 be murder. I will not murder you. I will treat 
 you as a man. Take up that pistol — plant your- 
 self at the other end of the room. When I say 
 ^now’ fire.’’ 
 
 Spare me I” murmured Mortimer. 
 
 ^^What! you will not fight me !^’ exclaimed 
 Seymour, astonishment at such abject cowardice 
 gaining a temporary ascendancy over his other 
 passions. You will not fight m e !” 
 
 Take your wife ; she is anxious to return to 
 you. By God! I have not injured her. She is 
 pure. Take her ! I will leave you — you shall 
 see me no more.” 
 
 A frown of supreme irritation and utter con- 
 tempt settled upon Seymour’s face. 
 
 Listen I” he said. I will give you five 
 minutes. If you do not take up your pistol and 
 plant yourself where I tell you at the expiration 
 of that time, I will shoot you like a dog that you 
 
252 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 are where you stand. My word is passed. Make 
 your peace with God, for I swear that you shall 
 not leave this room alive. Now prepare your- 
 self.” 
 
 He took out his watch and fixed his eyes upon 
 it. 
 
 With a stealthy movement, Mortimer suddenly 
 jerked the pistol from the table, and, levelling it 
 at Seymour, fired. The movement had been too 
 sudden for him to intercept it. The ball struck 
 him in the breast, and with a wild bound in the 
 air, he fell with both his legs doubled up beneath 
 him. A groan of agony broke from his lips, and 
 for a moment his eyes closed. All at once he 
 raised himself on one arm, and took aim at 
 Mortimer. The dastard was transfixed; his 
 eyes were wild with horror, and large beads of 
 perspiration in that supreme moment burst from 
 his forehead. For some moments Seymour kept 
 his pistol pointed at him. Then he pulled the 
 trigger. There was a bright flash and a loud 
 concussion, and with a wild scream Mortimer 
 
BOULOGNE -SUR-MER. 
 
 253 
 
 clapped his hand to his hearty and, bowing his 
 head, fell dead upon the floor. 
 
 There was a sound of many feet hastening from 
 all parts of the house ; and presently the handle 
 of the door was tried and loud cries demanded 
 admittance. But there was no reply. They 
 loudly cried again and again, and thumped with 
 flst and foot — but still, all silence. 
 
 Then the door was suddenly burst open, and an 
 affrighted crowd rushed in. 
 
 They beheld two dead men prone upon the 
 floor. Upon the form of one lay a woman in a 
 swoon. She clung so tightly to the corpse whose 
 neck she had embraced, that they had to use 
 violence to open her Angers. On searching the 
 pockets of the body she ha d clasped, they found 
 a card, upon which was written, Mr. Charles 
 Seymour.” 
 
254 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 TN WHICH OCCURS WHAT IS COMMONLY CALLED, 
 “a pretty piece of BUSINESS.” 
 
 On the day following his departure for Yartle- 
 pool, Prank again returned to London. The 
 Captain, thanks to the unwearying solicitude of 
 Mary, had grown more resigned. She watched 
 him with that quick eagerness to minister to each 
 fresh emotion of grief, the soothing word, the 
 quiet tenderness, that seldom fails in the object 
 it endeavours. She read to him, she comforted. 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 255 
 
 she raised his hopes in spite of himself, that 
 Kate would return to him, and redeem the 
 grievous’error of the past by a profound repent- 
 ance. She herself hardly believed this ; never 
 theless, she well knew that the affection of the 
 father triumphed over the bitterness of the man ; 
 she well knew that he yearned to clasp her again 
 to his heart as his child, though he might shrink 
 from her with horror as the wife ; she was eager, 
 too, to keep alive this affection which she knew 
 existed, and she strove to animate it by whisper- 
 ing to him hope. 
 
 Frank had told her nothing of her father’s ill- 
 ness. He was unwilling to complicate sorrow by 
 any new importation of grief ; and so Mary’s 
 tenderness for the Captain remained uninter- 
 rupted by a communication that would have in- 
 fallibly driven her to the bedside of her parent. 
 
 It was in compliance with the Captain’s ex- 
 press wish that Frank had returned to London so 
 soon. The old man, whom weakness alone pre- 
 vented from unconsciously joining Seymour in 
 
256 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the pursuit of Kate, had asked Frank to go to 
 St. John’s Wood and look after the affairs of the 
 little household so suddenly broken up. He was 
 also to make whatever inquiry he could, and furnish 
 him at Yartlepool with all the information he 
 could gather. 
 
 On his arrival Frank repaired to Piccadilly. 
 His uncle was out, and leaving word at the hotel 
 for him that he had returned to London and would 
 be with him in the afternoon, Frank made his 
 way to St. John’s Wood. 
 
 Seymour had now been absent two days. The 
 servants were in a great state of excitement, not 
 knowing at all how to act. The house had been 
 left open, nothing had been packed up, everything 
 was just as it had ever been — the master and the 
 mistress alone being wanting. 
 
 The servants were overjoyed to see somebody 
 who promised at last to set their cares at rest. 
 From them Frank learnt all the particulars of 
 Kate’s flight and Seymour’s abrupt departure j 
 and as one of the servants had heard him tell 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 257 
 
 the cabman to drive to Jermyn Street^ Frank re- 
 solved to go to the ex-apartments of Mortimer, 
 and ascertain all that could be told him there of 
 Seymour. 
 
 Meanwhile he thought the best thing that could 
 now be done was to discharge one of the servants 
 and leave the other to mind the house. He pro- 
 mised her he would be responsible for her wages 
 until the return of her legitimate master ; and 
 then aided by her he went over the house, collect- 
 ing the plate and locking it away, turning the 
 pictures to the walls, covering the furniture, 
 bolting all the doors except those of the kitchen 
 and the servant’s bedroom, and doing all that he 
 thought Seymour would like to have done during 
 his absence. 
 
 There was a good deal of work in all this, and 
 it gave Frank employment for the greater part of 
 the day. At the conclusion of his labours he 
 found himself at a loss to know what to do with 
 the huge bunch of keys supplied him by the 
 abundant locks. Conceiving them, however, to 
 
258 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 be safer in his possession than in anybody else’s, 
 he thrust them into his pocket, and hailing a 
 cab, bade the man drive him to Jermyn Street. 
 
 Here he saw the same maid-of-all-work to 
 whom Seymour had given the two sovereigns ; 
 and the recollection of that unexpected and mu- 
 nificent gift was yet very green in her heart. The- 
 moment she learnt that Frank had come to make 
 inquiries after this generous donor, her gratitudo 
 broke forth in loud praises of his beneficence ; and 
 she vehemently protested that “ he was the most 
 nicest, most well-behaved, most civillest gentle- 
 man she had ever seen.” This little woman evi- 
 dently thought that such a man was only fit to be 
 celebrated in a redundancy of superlatives. 
 
 Nothing very satisfactory, however, was to be 
 elicited from her. When Frank asked her 
 if she had heard Seymour give any directions to 
 the cabman she said that he had certainly ordered 
 him to go somewhere ; and she was almost certain 
 that that somewhere was a railway station ; “ but 
 whether it was the South Heastern, or the South 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 259 
 
 Western, or the North London, or somethink, she 
 could not tell.” 
 
 So Frank went away a very little wiser than 
 when he had come. On reaching the Hotel he 
 found his uncle not yet returned ; so pending his 
 appearance, therefore, he sat himself down and 
 wrote a long letter to Mary, giving her a circum- 
 stantial account of all his doings, and asking her 
 to acquaint the Captain of the same. Just as he 
 had concluded, Forrester entered the room. 
 
 Here you are !” he cried. I am glad you 
 have come back. Had I not seen you here, I 
 was off again to send you a telegram to Yartle- 
 pool.” 
 
 What for ? Has anything of importance oc- 
 curred during my absence ?” asked Frank. 
 
 Yes. A very important discovery. But first 
 tell me of the poor old Captain. How does he 
 bear the blow ?” 
 
 Bravely. The first shock was severe, but he 
 is getting over it, and by the aid of Mary I hope 
 he will be all right in a few days. But she has in- 
 
260 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 flicted a wound upon his heart of which I believe 
 no time will ever heal the wound.” 
 
 Men should be born with hearts of adamant ; 
 insensible alike to the blows of a wife or child. 
 Had 1 not been detained on very important busi- 
 ness in town — a business that concerns no less 
 aperson than my wife, alias Mrs. Fairlie — I should 
 have gone shares with young Seymour in his 
 schemes of revenge upon the betrayer of his 
 honour and peace. But Seymour is a match for 
 him. He will ferret the fellow out, though he 
 secretes himself in hell — his legitimate home — for 
 protection.” 
 
 But what revenge can poor Seymour take? 
 His wife must henceforth be dead to him. They 
 can never again live together. Therefore what is 
 the use of a pursuit that can result in no good ?” 
 And do you not call vengeance good ?” 
 
 Do not call it vengeance — call it retribu- 
 tion. Seymour, I believe, has too noble a heart 
 to stoop to revenge. If he meets the scoundrel 
 he will meet him as a man ” 
 
A PEETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 261 
 
 Impossible. A man can only be treated as 
 such when he acts like a man. Does a murderer 
 receive the treatment of a man when we hang 
 him ? If he did, instead of being suspended to a 
 beam he would be permitted the chance of saving 
 his life in equal conflict. He might flght a duel 
 with the judge — or the opposite counsel— or one 
 of the jury ; and if he killed his opponent he 
 might be enlarged. This would be treating him 
 as a man. No. Equity does not only exist in 
 courts of law. There is a tribunal in every 
 human heart before which is arraigned the wrongs 
 that have been done it. Its justice is regulated 
 by conscience. When the punishment we inflict 
 is disproportionate to the evil that provokes us, 
 our conscience as surely accuses us of injustice 
 as we do any magistrate who inflicts unnecessary 
 punishment. But God himself would sanction 
 any revenge that this outraged husband might 
 take upon the debaucher of his wife. And 
 yet ” 
 
 And yet what?” asked Frank, observing his 
 uncle to pause. 
 
262 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Forrester shrugged his shoulders. “Vice,” 
 he said, “ is only created by voluntary submis- 
 sion to it. The serpent was harmless until Eve 
 listened to its words. To submit, therefore is to 
 create ; and the creation of evil is surely more 
 vicious than the incitement. Men are not all 
 horn Josephs; but,” he added, with a con- 
 temptuous laugh, “there are few who escape 
 being Potiphars !” 
 
 Frank knew his uncle to be slowly drifting 
 into one of his bitter moods ; and therefore has- 
 tened to change the subject. 
 
 “ But about this telegram — tell me, what did 
 you want me so particularly for ?” 
 
 Forrester paused before he answered, “ I 
 wanted you — and still want you — to take me 
 round to the Fairlies, to-night.” 
 
 “ What ! ” exclaimed Frank, with a start, 
 “ after what has occurred ? it is impossible for 
 me to present myself before her.” 
 
 “ Nevertheless, disagreeable as may be the 
 undertaking, you must come.” 
 
 Frank shook his head. “ I wouldn’t disoblige 
 
A PHETTT PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 263 
 
 you for the world, uncle,” said he, but this is 
 a matter you must really permit me to have my 
 own way in. It would be impossible for me to 
 face her — as impossible as for her to face me.” 
 Impossible for her to face you !” exclaimed 
 Forrester, with a loud scornful laugh. ‘‘ My boy, 
 I see you have yet to learn her character. What 
 do you think likely to prevent her facing you ?” 
 Why, the whole of the occurrence— the recol- 
 lection of — ” 
 
 ‘‘ Your contempt ? Bah ! she loves you all the 
 more for it. The very attempt to stab you proved 
 her passion. Such women are like tigers, they 
 make love grinding their teeth and showing their 
 claws. No, she loves you as much as she hates 
 you. There are but few vicissitudes in such 
 minds ; and they always run in extremes. You 
 have nothing to fear ; the mercury of her passion 
 will mount the moment she meets your glance.” 
 Then he half muttered. If it has time to 
 mount.” 
 
 “ But after that letter you dictated,” expostu- 
 
264 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 lated Frank, “ whick you know was no more an 
 expression of my feelings than that table there 
 is an expression of your face ; after my silence, 
 when with the assistance of Ali I could easily 
 have communicated with her — no, I would much 
 rather not go. To meet her would be to revive a 
 recollection much better forgotten. It is useless 
 to inflict unnecessary pain ; and I shall suffer 
 quite as much as she.” 
 
 Forrester surveyed him attentively for a mo- 
 ment. Then he said, 
 
 “ And you really object introducing me to this 
 house, in short, to my wife ?” 
 
 “ You know very well why I object,” answered 
 Frank, deprecatingly. 
 
 “ Without you,” said Forrester, “ I cannot 
 possibly present myself before Mr. Fairlie. Com- 
 mon courtesy compels me to have an introduc- 
 tion ; and laziness suggests another reason ; by 
 your simply introducing me as your uncle, I shall 
 be saved a rigmarole of explanation. I want to 
 impress upon your mind, however, that it is ab- 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 265 
 
 iBolutely imperative that I must be at that house 
 to-night.” 
 
 Frank grew curious. He had been long eager 
 to know the course his uncle proposed to adopt 
 with regard to his wife. But other matters had 
 hitherto so engrossed his mind, that the desire 
 in a measure had been dismissed. But his 
 uncle’s manner now revived it. 
 
 “ If it be really so imperative,” he began. 
 
 “Come,” interrupted his uncle, “you are 
 going to make a favour of what I’ll prove to you, 
 in half a dozen words, to be an unalterable neces- 
 sity. In the first place, I must ask you if you 
 are anxious to see Mary reconciled with her 
 father ?” 
 
 “ Of course I am,” said Frank, eagerly. 
 
 “ Of course you arej for, besides rendering the 
 poor girl happy, it will result in her becoming 
 possessed of the whole of her father’s means.” 
 
 “ That’s true,” said Frank j “ I never thought 
 of that.” 
 
 “ In the second place, Mrs. Fairlie, alias Mrs. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 N 
 
266 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Anderson, alias Mrs. Forrester, occupies now a 
 false position. This must not be permitted. It 
 is a law of this land that a woman cannot have 
 more than one husband at a time. Two subject 
 her to the charge of bigamy, and to its attendant * 
 punishments, which vary in proportion to the 
 nature of the charge. It is possible that Mr. 
 Fairlie might escape the penalty by advancing 
 proofs of my death ; for you know that I died in 
 a newspaper.” 
 
 “Yes, and she knows it, too; for Seymour 
 informed me that Mortimer had told him that his 
 sister — his sister ! — was in possession of the paper 
 containing the announcement.” 
 
 “ This I anticipated. Very good; number two 
 of my reasons for going there to night, is to 
 gently advise her to depart from the roof beneath 
 which she has no business. If she refuses to 
 take my advice, then I must try if she may not 
 be induced to accompany me.” 
 
 Frank remained silent. Though speaking 
 without excitement, there was a hard, bitter. 
 
A PBETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 267 
 
 almost terrible tone in Forrester’s voice, that 
 made him shudder. It was full of menace, yet 
 without anger ; there was ferocity in it, yet un- 
 marked by even a passing spasm of wrath. It 
 -expressed the passion that the tiger embodies, 
 when with flaming eye fixed on its unconscious 
 prey, and tail silently fanning the air, it crouches 
 preparatory to its terrible spring. 
 
 Lastly,” he continued ; and, perhaps the 
 motive the most urgent is, to try to save Mr. 
 Fairlie’s life. For,” he added, coolly, he is 
 dying.” 
 
 Dying !” exclaimed Frank, turning white as 
 he thought of Mary. 
 
 ^^You shall judge for yourself. Now, will 
 you introduce me to this gentleman, to-night ?” 
 
 ^^You can save his life,” murmured Frank. 
 
 Ah, you are full of mysteries. But I will ac- 
 company you.” 
 
 Very good; I shall leave here at half-past 
 
 seven. 
 
268 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 It wanted a quarter of an hour to that time 
 when they rose from dinner. 
 
 During the meal, Forrester had been grave 
 and silent, evidently wrapped in deep thought, 
 and giving laconic replies to Frank’s queries. 
 Sometimes his lips had moved as if he were re- 
 hearsing a part to be performed. He was pale, 
 hut his face was unmarked by anxiety. An ex- 
 pression of subdued fierceness had settled on his 
 eye, and his lips were tightly compressed, ren- 
 dering even more ominous the frown that had 
 long contracted his forehead. But stern, almost 
 savage as he looked, it only served to render more 
 imposing the massive face, and broad and iron 
 frame. 
 
 Frank trembled as they approached the Fairlies’ 
 house ; he was nervous, and there was certainly a 
 good deal in the circumstance that attended his 
 position to warrant the emotion. He felt safe 
 enough with his uncle; for he well knew that 
 whatever he was now about to do would not have 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 269 
 
 been done without great deliberation. But he 
 trembled for himself ; to meet the flashing eyes 
 of the woman whose love he had shrunk from ; 
 to encounter the haughty sneer of her superb lip, 
 which he felt would greet him ; to stand quaking 
 like a repentant beau before the mistress 
 whose presence alone seemed over-powering 
 enough to crush him. All these probabilities 
 mightily displeased him. He heartily regretted 
 he had been prevailed upon to quit the peaceful 
 precincts of his hotel, and gazed upon Forrester 
 with a profound feeling of envy at the composure 
 and self-possession exhibited in his exterior. 
 
 Yet of the two, Forrester had by far the 
 best right to tremble. To say nothing of the 
 course of action he had meditated, and which he 
 had intended to pursue, it was amply sufficient 
 that he was about to meet a woman — a wife, who 
 imagined him dead ; whom he had not seen for 
 years ; who had deserted him with a heartless- 
 ness which even now, at this distance of time, he 
 could not recall without a sudden clenching of 
 
270 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 the teeth. Yet, he sat as frigid, as silent as if 
 all rage had long since passed from his heart, 
 leaving nothing behind it but inanity — dark- 
 ness. 
 
 To Frank’s inquiry if Mr. Fairlie were within, 
 the servant answered that he was too unwell to 
 see visitors. 
 
 ‘‘ Is he out of his bed ?” asked Forrester. 
 
 “Yes, sir; but he hasn’t been down longer 
 than half an hour. 1 expect he’ll be going up 
 soon again,” 
 
 Frank looked at Forrester. A secret hope that 
 this would send them away inspired him, but he 
 was quickly undeceived. 
 
 “ Show us in,” said Forrester ; “I have come 
 professionally to see him. My young friend here 
 has informed me of his illness ; never mind our 
 names.” 
 
 The servant, a man in livery, looked at him 
 inquisitively for a moment; doubtless had he 
 been alone, Forrester would have been refused 
 admission. But Frank’s face was familiar to the 
 
A PKETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 271 
 
 man^ and this he considered a sufficient guaran- 
 tee for what he had been told. So with a bow, 
 he ushered them into the hall, and tapping at 
 the parlour door by the side, threw it open, and 
 allowing the two gentlemen to walk in, closed it 
 again. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie was reclining upon the sofa, and 
 as the visitors entered, he turned his face towards 
 them with an impatient and irritable glance. He 
 was alone in the room; but the tea-tray was 
 upon the table, and an open volume that lay be- 
 side it, sufficiently demonstrated that Mrs. Fairlie 
 had just left the apartment, and that she might 
 be shortly expected back. 
 
 Frank had not seen Mr. Fairlie for some days, 
 and the change in his appearance was so remark- 
 able as to strike him with amazement. His 
 cheeks were sunk, though slightly flushed ; be- 
 neath the eyes there was a hollow rim, quite 
 black, whilst the eyes themselves were illu- 
 mined with a brilliancy that was almost start- 
 ling. 
 
272 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 On perceiving a stranger in the room, he 
 attempted to rise ; but the effort pained him, for 
 he sank back again as if in the last stage of ex- 
 haustion. 
 
 “ You must allow me to introduce you to my 
 uncle, Mr. Fairlie,” said Frank, anxious to say 
 something, and plainly perceiving how heartily 
 unwelcome they were ; “ you have probably 
 heard me mention his name — Mr. Forrester,” 
 Forrester inclined himself with a stately bow, 
 and approaching Mr, Fairlie, he said, 
 
 “ You will of course, consider this a very in- 
 trusive visit, Mr. Fairlie ; but, sir, I have heard 
 of your illness from my nephew, and I am vain 
 enough to believe that I have the power to pre- 
 scribe to you a remedy that will effectually cure 
 you. This is the motive of my vigit ; and this, 
 
 * sir, must be my apology.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie shook his head, and then motioned 
 his visitors into seats. Forrester drew a chair by 
 the side of the sick man, and attentively examined 
 his face. 
 
A PEETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 273 
 
 You come too late^ sir,” said Mr. Fairlie ; 
 my physician was with me to-day, and by his 
 desponding looks, he gave me but little cause to 
 hope. But I thank you for your visit.” 
 
 He tried to speak courteously, but it was 
 plain how irritated he was by their presence. 
 
 Your physician is named Dr. Hunt?” said 
 Forrester. 
 
 He is, sir.” 
 
 Frank started. How did his uncle know this ? 
 
 He is a young man,” continued Forrester, 
 and you have only employed him during this 
 illness ?” 
 
 That is true, sir.” 
 
 You first sought the advice of your old 
 medical man. Dr. Grainger, but at the solicita- 
 tions of Mrs. Fairlie, you changed him for Dr. 
 Hunt?” 
 
 I see, sir,” said Mr. Fairlie, glancing at 
 Frank, as if he thought -him his uncle’s inform- 
 ant, that you are not a stranger to my 
 affairs.” 
 
274 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 “ I must tell you, sir,” continued Forrester, 
 coolly, without noticing Mr. Fairlie’s remark, 
 “ that this Dr. Hunt, to whom you have confided 
 the care of your health, is a quack — an impostor. 
 
 He lives in Street, and is very well known 
 
 to be one of the best medical murderers in Lon- 
 don : a murderer, at least, as regards an ignor- 
 ance of his profession, which is surprising.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie started ; the flush left his cheek, 
 and he fixed his eyes upon Forrester’s face with 
 a frightened and wandering look. 
 
 “ Are you sure of what you say, sir ?” he ex- 
 claimed in a hurried voice. “ My symptoms, he 
 assured me — ’’ 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. 
 Fairlie entered ; she had heard the ring at the 
 hall bell, but knowing that all visitors were 
 denied admittance, she had not expected to meet 
 anyone in the parlour. Her surprise must there- 
 fore have been great, especially when she per- 
 ceived Frank ; Forrester, not turning as she 
 entered, and therefore not disclosing his features. 
 
A PEETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 275 
 
 But so consummately did this fine actress veil 
 whatever emotions might have agitated her heart, 
 that not a muscle of her face moved, not the 
 least transient expression altered the instant 
 smile she had assumed. She gracefully ap- 
 proached Frank, who had risen on her entrance, 
 and taking him by the hand, remarked how glad 
 she was to see him, having thought that he had 
 determined to cut his old friends. 
 
 There was something so amazing in the assur- 
 ance of this woman, that Frank remained for a 
 moment dumb-foundered. He could not articu- 
 late the words that courtesy compelled him to 
 utter, but with a low bow sought to conceal his 
 agitation. 
 
 At the first sounds of her voice, Forrester had 
 bowed his head to conceal the expression of his 
 face from Mr. Fairlie. For a few moments he 
 remained thus ; then he stood up, calm, collected, 
 imperturbable as the woman before him. At the 
 same time, Frank muttered some words of intro- 
 duction, and with a dignity in which lurked the 
 
276 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 essence of the most exquisite mockery, the hus- 
 band and wife bowed to each other. 
 
 She knew him in a moment ; the recognition 
 was instantaneous. The past rushed like a flash 
 from the skies upon her : then vanished, leaving 
 only one recollection — that she had thought him 
 dead, and — that it was a mistake ! Here existed 
 no superstition to shrink from, and quail before 
 what it deemed a ghost. Here lurked no airy 
 romantic visions to invest every surprise with a 
 mystical meaning. Actuality — fact was the mar- 
 row of her mind. The enigma was solved with 
 her even ere she had duly considered it. She 
 had thought him dead, and — it was a mistake ! 
 
 But what did that mistake involve ? what cared 
 she ? that second had made her reckless — reckless 
 only of the future. The present must now be 
 her care ; and the graceful smile, and the un- 
 faltering lip, and the cheek whose blushes and 
 palenesses seemed at her disposal, plainly, won- 
 drously evinced how that present was being 
 tended. 
 
A PKETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 277 
 
 For a brief while Forrester thought that she 
 had not recognised him ; but the illusion was 
 dissipated by one meaning look of her eyes. 
 
 Did he recognise her? She knew not, she 
 cared not. What was the object of this visit? 
 to unmask her ? be it so. But until the mask 
 was torn from her front, she would wear it ! 
 
 Frank perceived at a glance the storm that 
 threatened, and shrunk away into a corner, as if 
 to save himself. Forrester stood proud and col- 
 lected — so proud, that his wife involuntarily com- 
 pared the emaciated form of Mr. Fairlie with 
 him ; and so collected that, in spite of her own 
 powers, she was surprised, ah, she envied, his. 
 
 The weak voice of Mr. Fairlie was the first to 
 break the stillness. There were still traces of his 
 first irritation in it^^ but subdued now by the 
 presence of his wife. 
 
 Mr. Forrester has kindly called to offer me a 
 prescription, by which he declares he can cure me. 
 Of course, sir,” he said, turning to Forrester, I 
 could not think of commencing it until I have 
 
278 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 my doctor’s advice upon the subject. And,” 
 addressing bis wife, ‘‘ Mr. Forrester declares 
 Dr. Hunt to be an arrant quack. Did you know 
 this. Gussy ?” 
 
 Sbe glanced at FoiTester. His eye was upon 
 ber, and in spite of berself, ber cbeek blanched. 
 “Are you sure he is a quack, Mr. Forrester?” 
 sbe said. 
 
 “Madame, I have no more doubt upon the 
 subject than you.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie started at this rudeness, and turned 
 to examine bis visitor. Then be looked to Frank, 
 as if seeking an explanation of this strange con- 
 duct from him. 
 
 “ I am sure that I do not think so then,” she 
 answered, haughtily. “ Dr. Hunt is a man of 
 reputation, and would resent such an imputation, 
 did he happen to hear it.” 
 
 Forrester shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “ What is the nature of your complaint ?” he 
 asked Mr. Farlie. 
 
 “ You must really excuse me, sir,” answered 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 279 
 
 Fairlie, imitating his wife’s hauteur^ but your 
 conduct — my wife — this house — ^in short, sir, I do 
 not comprehend you. We are accustomed to 
 politeness in England.” 
 
 ^^You do not name me your illness,” said 
 Forrester, coolly. Cannot your physician find a 
 title for it ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Mr. Frank Forrester,” exclaimed Mr. Fairlie, 
 in as great a rage as his weakness would suffer 
 him to feel, will you inform your uncle that I 
 am not in the habit of being questioned by 
 strangers? Will you tell him that there is in 
 this country a certain etiquette which gentlemen 
 agree to conform to in each other’s presence, and 
 in the society of ladies ?” 
 
 Again Forrester shrugged his shoulders, and 
 fixed his eyes upon his wife, who boldly returned 
 the gaze. Then he turned to Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 Since you will not tell me your illness, you 
 must permit me to conjecture it, and correct me 
 if my suspicions prove wrong. First for your 
 
280 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 symptoms. You have, for some time, suffered 
 from heat and dryness of the mouth and throat — 
 occasionally a slight delirium — giddiness — nausea 
 — pains in the chest — impaired vision — frequent 
 stupor and lethargy. You have found your eyes 
 brilliant, with a dilated pupil, that strangely en- 
 larged the iris. Sometimes you have felt as if 
 you were intoxicated, and sometimes you have 
 been subject to attacks of hysteria. Am I 
 correct ?” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie uttered an exclamation of amaze- 
 ment. His anger had passed. He fancied him- 
 self in the hands of a great physician. 
 
 “ Sir,” he cried, “ these are exactly the symp- 
 toms that I have been telling Doctor Hunt occur 
 to me. But he smiles at them, and assures me 
 they must be my fancy.” 
 
 ‘‘ These symptoms,” continued Forrester, in 
 the same cool manner, “ have been more aggra- 
 vated as time went on.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie nodded. His attention to what 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 281 
 
 was being said to him had caused him to rear 
 himself up on one arm. Suddenly he fell back 
 as if exhausted. 
 
 Yon are dying,” said Forrester. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie groaned. 
 
 ^^Nevertheless,” continued Forrester, ^4t is 
 not too late to save you. Only you must 
 desist from the medicine that you are taking, 
 because — ” 
 
 He paused, and fixed his eyes on his wife» 
 She had grown almost livid ; her self-possession 
 had wholly deserted her. Her hands were trem- 
 bling and her lips incoherently muttered. 
 
 Because why ?” Mr. Fairlie asked. 
 
 Because,” said Forrester, his eye still fixed 
 upon his wife, because it contains atropia — the 
 alkaloid of bella-donna, one of the deadliest of 
 poisons.’’ 
 
 With a cry Mr. Fairlie started from the sofa, 
 and stood upon his feet. 
 
 Who is poisoning me ?” he shrieked. 
 
 Forrester coldly pointed to his wife. 
 
282 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ That woman there.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie turned to look at her, and as he did 
 so, she leaped from her chair, and confronted tho 
 two men. 
 
 “ It is a lie ! an infamous, wicked lie ! Wretch I 
 why do you tell such lies of a wife to her hus- 
 band ?” 
 
 He knew she was acting, and a low, con- 
 temptuous laugh burst from his lips. He went 
 over to the bell and rang it in a peculiar manner. 
 The sounds had hardly died away, before Ali, the 
 Hindoo, stood at the door. 
 
 “Come in,” said Forrester, “and lock the 
 door.” 
 
 The Hindoo turned the key, and approached 
 his master. 
 
 Forrester put his hand into his pocket, and 
 pulled out a minute phial, containing a little 
 white crystalline substance. Forrester held it 
 up before the Hindoo. 
 
 “ Where did you find this ?” he asked. 
 
 The reply of the Hindoo was interrupted by 
 
A PKETTY PIECE OP BUSINESS. 
 
 283 ' 
 
 Mrs. Fairlie. She leaped upon Forrester, and 
 wresting the phial from his hands, dashed it to 
 pieces on the ground. 
 
 Then she fell upon her knees, and grovelled 
 before him. 
 
 Forgive me!” she cried, “he is not dead; 
 I am not a murderess — do not hand me over to 
 the law. I am wretched — I am wicked — ^but 
 spare me ! Once you had a generous lleart —you 
 loved me ! I am still your wife ! you cannot 
 trample upon me I remember our love — forgive 
 me I” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie remained rigidly erect, watching 
 this spectacle with his eyes distended as if he 
 were a maniac. A light yellow froth oozed out 
 of the corners of his mouth, and his two hands 
 convulsively grasped each other. The hand of 
 death was on his heart, yet still he remained 
 motionless, standing and watching. 
 
 “ You see,” said Forrester, turning to him, 
 “ that your wife calls me husband. Having once 
 deserted me, she now thinks fit to acknowledge 
 
284 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 me. Be it so, I will claim the privilege of a 
 husband, and take her from one whose kindness 
 she has so well repaid by murder. Ali, fetch a 
 cab.” 
 
 The Hindoo left the room ; and, at the same 
 moment, Mr. Fairlie pressed his hand to his 
 forehead, and fell backwards upon the sofa. 
 
 “ He is dead !” cried Frank, darting to hia 
 side, and seizing him by the hand. 
 
 '‘No, he is not dead,” said Forrester, ap- 
 proaching and bending over him. “ He has 
 fainted, but we must be careful. It may end in 
 death.” 
 
 He went and violently pulled the bell. Then, 
 turning to his wife, who stood motionlessly look- 
 ing on, he said, 
 
 “ Go and make your prepartions to leave with 
 me at once.” 
 
 Without a word she turned upon her heel, and 
 left the apartment. 
 
 A servant who answered the summons was 
 immediately despatched for a doctor. 
 
A PKETTT PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 285 
 
 Meanwhile, Forrester, by dint of applying 
 such restoratives as were at hand, succeeded in 
 restoring the wretched man to consciousness ; and 
 pending the appearance of the doctor, assistance 
 was called^ and he was carried to bed. 
 
 In less than ten minutes the servant returned 
 with a medical man — a surgeon. . He examined 
 the patient, and prescribed for him. Neverthe- 
 less, there was something in the sick man’s ap- 
 pearance which caused him to shake his head 
 dubiously. He made some inquiries, which For- 
 rester replied by saying that he strongly sus- 
 pected Mr. Fairlie had been dosing himself with 
 belladonna. 
 
 This hint confirmed the surgeon in his sus- 
 picions. He immediately wrote the ordinary 
 prescriptions for such cases of poisoning, and 
 promised to attend the patient through the 
 night. 
 
 Frank also volunteered to remain with him. 
 
 Forrester went downstairs to seek his wife, 
 but she was not to be seen. He sent the ser- 
 
286 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 vants about tbe bouse to summon ber, but sbe 
 was nowhere visible. Higb and low, like tbe 
 messengers after tbe workhouse boy, they sought 
 her, but in vain. 
 
 An idea occurred to Forrester. Tbe cab that 
 Ali bad fetched, tbe Hindoo bad told him was 
 waiting outside. He went to the hall door, and 
 opened it ; tbe cab was gone. There was a police- 
 man standing at tbe corner of tbe square, and he 
 called to him. 
 
 “ How long have you been here ?” 
 
 “ A quarter of an hour, sir.” 
 
 “ Did you notice a cab standing here some 
 short time since ?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir.” 
 
 “Who sent it away?” 
 
 “ No one that I knows of, sir. A lady got in, 
 and cabby druv off.” 
 
 He gave the man a shilling, and re-entered the 
 house with a grim smile upon his face. Then he 
 told a servant to call Frank down to him. 
 
 When Frank appeared, he said to him. 
 
A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. 
 
 287 
 
 My wife has gone.” 
 
 Where to ?” 
 
 ‘‘ I know not. She dreads my resentment ; she 
 fancies that I will charge her with this attempted 
 crime, and make her expiate in a gaol the suffer- 
 ing she has inflicted on me.” 
 
 ‘‘ But you would not have done this ?” 
 Forrester shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 My heart would not have prevented me ; but 
 my name would. No ; I should have taken her 
 from this house, have offered her a night’s lodg- 
 ing in my hotel, and to-morrow morning have 
 given her a cheque, with an injunction to 
 leave the country at once. I would have com- 
 pelled her departure by menacing her with the 
 law, if she persisted in remaining.” 
 
 It is a shocking affair from beginning to 
 end,” said Frank. “ Ali, then, you placed here 
 as a spy upon her ?” 
 
 Yes, little suspecting he would have supplied 
 me with such information. My real motive in 
 placing him was to see if he could discover any- 
 
288 
 
 OFF THB STAGE. 
 
 thing likely to account for Mr. Fairlie’s aliena- 
 tion from Ms daughter. However, Mary has 
 nothing more to fear from her now ; of that you 
 may be very sure. With this woman disappears tbe 
 cause of many evils present, and that were likely 
 to come. But my evening’s exploits have 
 fatigued me. I shall return to my hotel. Mr. 
 Fairlie is now in very good hands ; I saw that at 
 a glance. I think you do right to stop with him. 
 Well, good-bye for the present.” 
 
 He wrung his nephew’s hand and left the 
 bouse. 
 
289 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IN WHICH THIS CHAIN OF CIRCUMSTANCES IS 
 WOUND UP. 
 
 Throughout the long night Frank remained by 
 the bed-side of Mr. Fairlie. A pitiable thing it 
 was to hear the poor man in his ravings; for 
 after passing a night sometimes asleep, some- 
 times awake, sometimes unconscious, he was 
 seized at four in the morning with an attack of 
 delirium, and shrieked loudly now for his wife, 
 now for his daughter, and now for that honour 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 o 
 
£90 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 ■which he seemed to think had been "wrested from 
 him by the conduct of his wife. 
 
 As the morning advanced he grew more calm, 
 and at about seven o’clock dropped into an ap- 
 parently easy slumber. The surgeon contem- 
 plated the sick man for awhile in silence, then, 
 turning to Frank, who was anxiously watching 
 the expression of his face, he shook his head. 
 
 “ I do not think he will outlive the day,” he 
 said. “ Has he any family ?” 
 
 ‘‘ He has a daughter,” said Frank, sadly. 
 
 “ Then she had better be summoned to him if 
 she wants to bid him farewell on earth. Who is 
 his solicitor ?” 
 
 Frank, from his having been connected with 
 the firm, knew the solicitor’s name, and he asked 
 the surgeon if he thought it necessary to have 
 him to the house. 
 
 “ I think it is. He can always wait below. You 
 know, if he should be wanted, a relapse may 
 Gome, and before he can reach the house the 
 j)atient may expire.” 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 291 
 
 Frank seated himself, and wrote the message, 
 which he directed a servant to carry to the tele- 
 graph office. It did not take him long to concoct 
 the lawyer’s telegram, but for Mary’s it was 
 another thing. What could he say? What 
 excuse could he offer for bringing her so suddenly 
 to town ? He dared not tell her the truth, for he 
 was afraid that the sudden shock would prove too 
 much for her. After some deliberation this is 
 what he sent : — 
 
 “ Important matters demand your instant pre- 
 sence at Montague Square. Do not fail to come. 
 Take the first train for London.” 
 
 He returned to Mr. Fairlie’s bed-chamber, and 
 resumed his seat by the side of the bed. The 
 surgeon had returned to his home for a short 
 time, leaving his patient in the slumber that had 
 seized upon him. 
 
 Frank contemplated the poor man with sorrow. 
 What a terrible change had been wrought upon 
 him within the last ten days. Who, in that 
 emaciated face, those thin hands, that mouth 
 
 o 2 
 
292 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 puckered with the constant pain that had so long 
 possessed him, could have recognised the once 
 sleek, smiling, healthy Mr. Fairlie? And how 
 had this change been effected ? A shudder passed 
 over Frank as he remembered that the woman 
 who had planned the murderous scheme was his 
 uncle’s wife — his own aunt. 
 
 After some time Mr. Fairlie began to move a 
 little uneasily. Then he opened his eyes and 
 fixed them upon Frank. Their bewildered, terri- 
 fied expression had gone, but they still gleamed 
 with unnatural brilliancy, lending his face a 
 mocking, almost repulsive look. 
 
 “ How do you feel now ?” asked Fairlie, softly. 
 
 “I feel easier. The emetics have done me 
 good. This is very kind of you to watch by me.” 
 His lips quivered, and he pressed his hand to his 
 forehead. 
 
 “You will soon recover your health, Mr. Fair- 
 lie,” said Frank, doing battle with the fears with 
 which the surgeon’s words had inspired him. 
 
 “ She was cruel, cruel !” murmured the sick 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 293 
 
 man. I loved her tenderly. All that her heart 
 could desire I gave her. Oh ! she has wronged 
 me ! She has deceived me !” 
 
 Yes ; and her deceit was never more cruelly 
 exercised then when she alienated the father 
 from the child. Ah ! she robbed you of a sweet 
 comforter in your sorrows in separating you from 
 Mary.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie started at the name, and, gazing 
 eagerly at Frank, exclaimed, 
 
 I have wronged her — I have wronged her ! 
 Oh ! let me see my child ; I have bitterly wronged 
 her.” 
 
 I have sent for her,” answered Frank. She 
 will be with you before the day is gone.” 
 
 She must be quick,” he muttered. Then, 
 after a pause, he said, Send for Charlie.” 
 Frank turned pale. Mr. Fairlie as yet knew 
 nothing of what had occurred. Should he tell 
 him now, in his present weak state, of the pain- 
 ful circumstances ? If he were dying it would be 
 only embittering his last pang. Should he re- 
 
294 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 cover, there was always time then to acquaint 
 him with Mortimer’s crime. 
 
 “ Seymour,” he answered, “ has left town. I 
 know not when he is likely to return. Had he 
 anticipated your illness, I am sure he would have 
 remained.” 
 
 Mr. Fairlie moved restlessly in his bed. 
 
 “ I feel myself sinking,” he murmured. “Oh 1 
 what a blow ! She was a wretch. Why did I love 
 her ? Why did we ever meet? She was murder- 
 ing me for my fortune. I see it all now.” 
 
 He paused, then pointing to a coat that hung 
 upon a peg, he hurriedly said, 
 
 “ Feel in that pocket, you will find a key.” 
 Frank rose and did as he was desired. 
 
 “ Go and open that safe,” continued Mr. 
 Fairlie, in the same hurried voice, “ and fetch me 
 a small roll of white paper you will find lying at 
 the back.” 
 
 It was his will, and the identical one that Mrs. 
 Fairlie had perused with her smile of triumph. 
 He hastily opened it, and glancing over its con- 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 295 
 
 tents he tore it up and scattered the pieces over 
 the bed. 
 
 He had partly raised himself in his excitement, 
 and now he sank back again upon his pillow with 
 a groan. His eye still remained extraordinarily 
 brilliant, but his face each moment assumed more 
 and more the aspect of a corpse’s. He remained 
 for a long while silent. At last he said in a low, 
 hoarse whisper. 
 
 Send for Mr. Ladstone.” 
 
 This was his solicitor. Thinking he might 
 have arrived, Frank went downstairs just as that 
 gentleman rung at the bell. In a few moments 
 he conducted him to the bedside of the sick 
 man. 
 
 Then he left the apartment, and planting him- 
 self at the parlour window remained anxiously 
 awaiting Mary. 
 
 Before long, however, he was again called up- 
 stairs. The lawyer wanted him to append his 
 name to a new will that had been drawn up dur- 
 ing his absence. He glanced rapidly over it and 
 
296 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 saw that with the exception of some legacies, 
 amongst which his name figured, the whole of 
 the property was left to Mary and Charles 
 Seymour. 
 
 Mr. Fairlie motioned to the lawyer to with- 
 draw. When he was gone he turned to Frank 
 with a sickly smile lighting up his pinched 
 features, 
 
 “ My death redeems the error of my love for 
 that heartless woman : this will redeem the error 
 of my conduct towards my poor child.” 
 
 At that moment Frank fancied he heard the 
 sounds of a cab stopping at the door. He was 
 not mistaken, for presently a peal at the hall bell 
 sounded through the house. 
 
 He turned to Mr. Fairlie. 
 
 “ Mary is arrived,” he said. 
 
 He extended his hands towards him, and mur- 
 mured, 
 
 “ Let her come to me.” 
 
 Frank hastily left the room. On the stairs he 
 met Mary coming up. She was pale and anxious. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 297 
 
 My father,” she asked. 
 
 Frank could not speak. He took her by the 
 hand, and in silence led her into Mr. Fairlie’s 
 bedroom. 
 
 At the sight of his poor, pale face, she started 
 and paused. Then bursting into tears she fled 
 into the arms that were opened to receive her. 
 
 Mary,” murmured the sick man, I have 
 wronged you — forgive me ! I cursed you — Oh 
 God ! the curse has fallen upon myself ! I am 
 dying — forgive me !” 
 
 She could not answer him. She pressed him 
 to her heart, her tears bedewing the thin features 
 that were now fast settling into that white, 
 passionless look, which death impresses upon the 
 dead man’s face. 
 
 “ You must live, father I” at last, she cried.. 
 
 Oh ! live for me, for my love, for this heart 
 that has been so long vacant for want of you. 
 Oh ! do not leave me — leave me after such 
 bitterness ! Oh ! why did we ever separate ?” 
 
 o 5 
 
298 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 A tear started from the dying man’s eyes. He 
 raised his hand, and murmured, 
 
 “ May that God into whose presence I am now 
 hastening protect thee, my own, my only, my 
 darling child!” 
 
 Frank approached and knelt by the bedside. 
 His eyes were full of tears that chased each 
 other down his cheeks. 
 
 The sick man extended his arms and encircled 
 Mary’s neck in their embrace. His lips moved 
 for a moment, as if endeavouring to give expres- 
 sion to one more word of love, then suddenly he 
 smiled, his eyes directed themselves to heaven, 
 then half-closed, his head fell backwards, his 
 lower jaw dropped — he was dead. 
 
 » « « * « 
 
 Our scene changes to Yartlepool. 
 
 Five days had elapsed since Mary had left the 
 Captain. During that time Frank had written to 
 him, informing him of the death of Mr. Fairlie, 
 and the preparations for the funeral, which com- 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 29 & 
 
 polled Mary’s presence in London. He added 
 that the moment the melancholy ceremony was 
 over he would return with Mary to Yartlepool, 
 for her sorrow was such as not only to enforce a 
 change of scene, but to seek in silence and the 
 companionship of the Captain the restorative 
 that the bustle of London and the scenes that 
 constantly reminded her of her father, denied 
 her. 
 
 Had he been well enough, Captain Sandboys 
 would have proceeded to London to aid in the 
 last solemn and mournful duties demanded by 
 him, who after this could demand no more. But 
 his spirits were broken, his health impaired, 
 his buoyancy depressed. He needed all the rest 
 he could get, and that rest the funeral would have 
 seriously interrupted. 
 
 It was a calm and lovely evening. A round, 
 bright moon shone with tremulous brilliancy over 
 the placid sea, smiling in its sleep. A deep re- 
 pose seemed to have fallen upon the face of 
 nature, and the only sound that interrupted the 
 
300 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 universal stillness was the musical movement of 
 the light waves that softly chased each other up 
 and down the beach. 
 
 The Captain sat contemplating this scene from 
 his accustomed seat. A tear glistened in his eye, 
 for he was thinking of his lost child. He had 
 heard nothing of her since she had fled her hus- 
 band, and he believed her to be dead. All the 
 past arose before him; he saw her, the little 
 prattling infant, in her mother’s arms ; then the 
 growing girl demurely dressing her doll or chasing 
 butterflies before him in their walks together 
 through the country ; then the young lady pon- 
 dering over the scenes of a recently read romance, 
 and by a thousand signs discovering her uneasiness 
 at the restraint of her sea-side residence ; then the 
 wife prettily pompous in her new cares and new 
 home; then — he dashed the tear from his eye 
 and, rising slowly, walked towards his little 
 home. 
 
 But she was still his daughtor — still his Kate. 
 If she were dead, where was her grave that he 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 301 
 
 might make a pilgrimage to it, old and weary as 
 he was, and kneeling upon the mound hallowed 
 by a father’s love, pray to his God to forgive the 
 frailities of Ohe child whose ashes now reposed 
 beneath him ? She had sinned, but his heart 
 had forgiven her. Every tear-drop that her con- 
 duct had wrung from his heart, was but an 
 emblem of that sacred love not marred by wrong 
 but melted by pity. There was more than beauty 
 in it, there was divinity; that divinity which 
 makes the father’s, the mother’s heart the most 
 sacred thing on earth. 
 
 He entered his home and seated himself by the 
 window in his little parlour. The moon poured 
 its flood of light through the glass, besilvering 
 the form and features of the old man, whose up- 
 turned face watched it slowly sailing through the 
 deep blue. What peace was expressed in that 
 shining orb ! How remote was it from the vice 
 and the wrong and the cruelty, and the crimes of 
 men ! Yet equally impartial in its smiles 
 — brightening alike the homes of joy and of 
 
302 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 sorrow ; the poor man’s hut, the prince’s palace ; 
 the bed of pain and death, the repose of youth, 
 health, and peace ! how levelling, too, its rays !’ 
 caring what for human grandeur ? a philosophic 
 orb, that could smile at all for which men pant 
 and yearn, or sigh and weep — all that makes human 
 felicity or majesty ; all that makes human agony 
 or inferiority ! An expressive orb, that by its 
 equally distributed light told the lesson of death — 
 told that men in their graves were all equal to the 
 eyes that looked upon them from the heavens ! 
 
 He was disturbed in his reverie by a deep sigh 
 at the door. He turned, but the brilliance of the 
 moon had rendered his eyes incapable of pene- 
 trating the hazy obscurity of the room. He saw 
 nothing, and thinking it fancy, he once more 
 turned his face towards the window. 
 
 Again the deep sigh smote his ears, and, starting, 
 he beheld a veiled form standing motionless in 
 the centre of the room. He rubbed his eyes and 
 stared. It was no illusion. He heard a low 
 murmur, breathing the word “ Father I” and with 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 S03 
 
 a cry he leaped from his seat, and folded his 
 daughter to his breast. 
 
 He raised the veil from her face, and bade her 
 speak to him. But she answered not. She bowed 
 her head and shrunk from him, and, falling on 
 her knees, clasped his feet. 
 
 My child !’' he cried, ^^look up at me. You 
 are forgiven. Shrink not from me. Kate, oh ! 
 my Kate, my heart has long since forgiven 
 you.” 
 
 But she did not attempt to rise. She re- 
 mained clasping his feet, murmuring inaudibly^ 
 amidst sobs that threatened each moment to 
 break her heart. 
 
 He stooped, and tenderly raised her and bore 
 her to a couch. Then kneeling beside her, he 
 commenced chafing her hands in his, calling 
 upon her to speak to him. 
 
 Oh ! father,” she exclaimed at last, ‘‘ I have 
 prayed God to let me die. I have sinned — I am 
 only fit for the grave.” 
 
304 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 Noj no/’ he answered, you shall live. You 
 have won my forgiveness. I will earn for you the 
 forgiveness of your husband. He is looking for 
 you, Kate ; he is searching the wide world to find 
 you. Does not that speak his love ? and can you 
 doubt forgiveness where such love exists?” 
 
 A low sob of agony broke from her lips, and, 
 pressing her hand to her heart, she fell back in a 
 swoon. 
 
 Mrs. Peake was instantly summoned to her 
 assistance. When the worthy old lady perceived 
 Kate, she burst out into a loud fit of crying ; but 
 the Captain, beseeching her to stifle her grief 
 until his daughter was revived, she instantly set 
 to work, and, aided by the Captain, conveyed the 
 fainting girl to bed. 
 
 The Captain remained beside her, clasping 
 her hand, with his eyes fixed upon her face. He 
 knew that she had only fainted, and he knew, 
 too, that it was the mere effect of excitement, 
 acting upon a young and delicate constitution. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 305 
 
 His conjectures were verified. Before long she 
 had regained her consciousness, and became more 
 calm as the time wore on. 
 
 Then the Captain asked her to tell him her 
 story. She immediately became agitated and 
 terrified ; but the gentle tone of her father re- 
 assured her^ and in a low, broken voice, she com- 
 municated to him all the particulars of her flight 
 and the terrible event that followed it. 
 
 The Captain listened to her with breathless 
 attention. His face wore an expression of hor- 
 ror, and as she concluded, he fell upon his knees, 
 and offered up a deep and earnest prayer. He 
 prayed God to have pity upon his desolate and 
 erring child ; he implored His compassion for 
 the young husband who had died so piteous a 
 death ; and he prayed that he who had brought 
 such affliction into the hearts of so many might 
 find mercy at that judgment-seat, before which 
 he should have to stand. 
 
 His devotion comforted him. He arose, and 
 in silence clasped his daughter to his heart, and 
 
306 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 in that mute pressure she recognised all that old 
 love which no suffering had subdued, no wrong 
 diminished. 
 
 But little more remains to he told. When 
 Mary and Frank arrived at Yartlepool, they were 
 amazed to find Kate once more at home with her 
 father. They listened to the narrative communi- 
 cated by the Captain in silence. They were 
 deeply affected by his recital of the death of poor 
 Charles Seymour, and mourned his loss, with all 
 the sincerity that only such natures as his can 
 provoke, and which only such natures deserve. 
 Kate had dreaded the rebuke of Mary ; but her 
 tenderness and the sympathy which, in spite of 
 all her sorrows, could not be refused her, falsified 
 her fears and soothed her agitation. Indeed, 
 Mary did more than anybody else to inspire her 
 with calmness, and mitigate the severity of her 
 conscience. Nevertheless there was a worm in 
 her heart that would not die, and throughout the 
 years that remained for her to spend on earth, 
 the smart of its sting was always felt, as if it 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 307 
 
 mocked the balm that repentance and religioa 
 sought to impart. 
 
 Three months after this Frank and Mary were 
 married. Forrester had prepared their house for 
 them ; and a Very handsome house it was ; as 
 elegant and convenient as good taste and plenty 
 of money could possibly make it. Their espousal 
 was performed in private, grief at her father’s 
 loss which was still recent, preventing Mary 
 from choosing any other celebration of the event 
 than such as was necessary to unite them, 
 
 Forrester had proposed to live with them. 
 But after some consideration he fancied he might 
 be in their way ; and therefore told Frank that 
 he had made up his mind to domicile himself in 
 a hotel, that being the most convenient thing in 
 the world for a single man. But Frank insisted 
 upon his remaining with them, growing quite 
 indignant in his arguments, and declaring that 
 if his uncle went to a hotel he would go to a hotel 
 too. This settled the question, and after the. 
 
308 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 newly-married couple’s honeymoon Forrester 
 joined them in their handsome residence, which 
 for the information of my readers, I will say was 
 at Kensington, charmingly overlooking the 
 gardens. 
 
 The Captain remained at Yartlepool, his whole 
 time occupied with Kate, comforting her, walking 
 with her, and doing all he could to minister to 
 the grief that preyed upon her mind. Sometimes 
 he would receive a visit from Frank and Mary 
 during the summer months ; and these occasions 
 were celebrated by the old man with as much 
 pomp and circumstance as the dimensions of his 
 house and the extent of his means would permit. 
 How long he lived, and at what age he died, I 
 know not. But I am well aware that he survived 
 the period at which this tale concludes by a good 
 many years. 
 
 For a long time nothing was heard of 
 
 Gussy the subject was a sore one to 
 Forrester, and therefore never broached. He- 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 309 
 
 evidently remembered her only with disgust; 
 and I believe his most frequent prayer was that 
 he should never meet her again. 
 
 One day, however, Frank entered the room in 
 which his uncle was seated, holding in his hand 
 a theatrical paper, which he was in the habit of 
 reading. There was a sly twinkle in his eye as 
 he handed the paper to Forrester bidding him 
 read a certain paragraph in one of its columns 
 which he indicated with his finger. 
 
 Forrester started, and for a moment frowned. 
 The paragraph in question was headed “ Mrs. 
 Augusta Forrester,” and proceeded in some- 
 what grandiloquent terms to expatiate upon the 
 success of that young lady’s debut at a pro- 
 vincial theatre in the character of Lady 
 Macbeth.” It went on to describe her physique 
 and face with much minuteness of detail, and 
 concluded by congratulating the public upon 
 having gained in Mrs. Augusta Forrester an 
 actress that bade fair to out-Siddons Mrs. Siddons. 
 
310 
 
 OFF THE STAGE. 
 
 After reading it, Forrester shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 “ There can he no doubt as to who she is, can 
 there?” said Frank. 
 
 “None whatever. Well, she’s at liberty to 
 use my name, since I once gave it to her. And,” 
 said Forrester, with a light satirical smile 
 playing about his mouth, “ in my opinion she 
 has found her native element at last ; for I can’t 
 help believing that she has been a great deal too 
 long ‘off the stage.’ ” 
 
 TEE EKE. 
 
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