LI B R.ARY 
 OF THE
 
 
 ^J0r^t$
 
 (^,t^^ o^.^l
 
 Children's Children 
 
 F/RST VOLUME
 
 Digitized by the Internet Arcinive 
 
 in 2009 witin funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/childrenschildre01muir
 
 CHILDREN'S Children 
 
 A STORY OF TJVO GENERATIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALAN MUIR 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 sMrrn, elder, &: co., 15 Waterloo place 
 
 1879 
 
 [All rights reserved'^
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CO 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 :> 
 
 U\ 
 
 I. D.D. AND M.D 
 
 II. Nurse and Patient .... 
 
 III. 'Wilt Thou have this Man.>' 
 
 IV. 'Birds in their Little Nests' . 
 V. Family Love 
 
 VI. Father and Son 
 
 VII. I Give and Bequeath 
 
 VIII. A Retrogression 
 
 IX. A Retrogression — continued . 
 
 X. A Retrogression — co^ttintied 
 
 XI. The Order of the Story is Resumed 
 
 XI I. Diana is Outwitted .... 
 
 XIII. The Autobiography of Death Bolton 
 
 XIV. The Autobiography of Death Bolton— 
 
 cojiiimied 
 
 I 
 
 i6 
 30 
 45 
 60 
 
 70 
 80 
 92 
 io5 
 120 
 132 
 149 
 164 
 
 182 
 
 i
 
 vi CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XV. The Autobiography of Death Bolton—- 
 
 contmued 196 
 
 XVI. The Autobiography of Death Bolton— 
 
 continued 206 
 
 XVII. The Autobiography of Death Bolton— 
 
 continued . . . . . . .223 
 
 XVI 1 1. A Total Abstainer 243 
 
 XIX. Her Father's Choice . . . .253 
 XX. Sold into Egypt 263
 
 CHILDREN'S CHILDREN 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 D.D. AND M.D. 
 
 * Will your patient die, Doctor ? ' 
 
 * Except there should be a miraculous 
 interposition of Providence he cannot re- 
 cover.' 
 
 The question was asked by Doctor 
 Spout, and answered by Doctor Puff. Doctor 
 Spout was a Doctor of Divinity, and his 
 friend — as appeared from the conversation 
 — a Doctor of Medicine. The physician was 
 a man of portentous aspect, tall, with a pro- 
 
 VOL. L B
 
 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 digious nose ; and, Indeed, his whole frame 
 was gigantic, so far as the structure of bone 
 went, though the covering of flesh laid there- 
 upon was scanty. Doctor Spout, who was 
 minister of a fashionable episcopal chapel, was 
 a short man, rosy and plump, who might have 
 been on good terms with life, only that his 
 outrageous pomposity would scarcely suffer 
 him to be on good terms with anything. 
 These two professional gentlemen were very 
 good friends, as worldly friendship runs ; 
 and, as a large number of highly respectable 
 people departed this life under their joint 
 supervision, they were constantly coming 
 across each other. Doctor Spout would say 
 of Doctor Puff that he was a man who could 
 do everything except restore life ; and this 
 remark being conveyed by some common 
 admirer to the ears of Doctor Puff, he would 
 raise his cane, and hold it horizontally in the
 
 D.D. AND M.D. 3 
 
 air, moving it slowly upwards and downwards, 
 as if he were weighing some matter in his 
 mind, and would say, in his big solemn style, 
 that since the days of Hooker he did not be- 
 lieve there had arisen a divine who gave you 
 the real marrow of our Church — ' sober, sir, 
 no fanaticism : ail calm and elevating ' — as 
 did Doctor Spout. So these two often met 
 over the bed of death ; and it was pleasant to 
 behold the urbanity with which the physician 
 would say that, ' Here, sir, after all, your pro- 
 fession is more potent than mine ; ' while the 
 divine, with a courtly bend of his little 
 barrel-shaped body, and an expostulatory 
 wave of his hand, would reply that, although 
 we could not be quite sure from ecclesiastical 
 history when the age of miracles ended, it 
 had most certainly terminated before the 
 present time. 
 
 These two orentlemen stood tosfether in a 
 
 B 2
 
 4 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 Spacious dining-room, the windows of which 
 looked out upon the park of the city cf 
 Warcaster. The room was long and stately, 
 and furnished in a fashion of gloomy anti- 
 quated grandeur. In the pauses of the conver- 
 sation, a timepiece on the sideboard seemed 
 to tick with unusual gravity and emphasis ; 
 and there was a silence in the house — not 
 the silence of emptiness or repose, but that 
 particular sort which tells you at once that 
 somebody lies dying upstairs. 
 
 ' The case is hopeless, then ?' said Doctor 
 Spout, continuing the subject, as nothing else 
 suggested itself to his mind. 
 
 * The case is hopeless, and has been 
 since the commencement,' replied Puff. 
 * Nothing but strength of will has kept 
 him alive these six weeks. He luill not 
 die, sir : he does not choose to die. That, 
 however, cannot go on for ever : Nature will
 
 D.D. AND M.D. 5 
 
 Step in at last, and h^ve her say in the 
 matter.' 
 
 As he spoke a young lady entered the 
 room. She was richly dressed, but in a very 
 plain way, her intention evidently being to 
 let the world see how stylish she could be, if 
 she cared, and how little she cared to be 
 stylish. Her features were large, and by no 
 means handsome ; and her deportment was 
 that of one who despised feminine softness. 
 She met the polite advances of the gentlemen 
 with responses so cold and brief that, had 
 the two not been equal masters of the art 
 of smiling when one ought to wince, some 
 mortification must have broken out in their 
 faces. 
 
 ' My father will see you now. Doctor 
 Puff,' said the young lady in a voice which 
 had much the same relation to music that her 
 face had to beauty.
 
 6 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 * Might It not be desirable for Doctor 
 Spout to precede me on this particular occa- 
 sion ? ' remarked Puff, well knowing that 
 this respectful offer would not be accepted. 
 
 * My dear sir — my dear sir ! 'cried Spout, 
 raising his hand. ' Such a thing must not be 
 thought of; let the poor body be first 
 attended to.' 
 
 The physician said no more, and followed 
 the young lady out of the room. She led 
 the way upstairs, and he ascended, with 
 great dignity, at the pace of one step to her 
 three. There was no fear of making a noise 
 on these stairs, for they were of stone, and 
 carpeted so that the foot sank deep at every 
 silent step. Far overhead a skylight threw 
 down the brightness of the sunny March 
 afternoon upon the walls, which were orna- 
 mented with wreaths and garlands, wrought 
 in stucco, and tastefully picked out in colours.
 
 D.D. AND M.D. 7 
 
 Amidst all these signs of luxury, there was a 
 desolation about the house, which the bright 
 light did not chase away, but rather increased 
 by contrast. The stately doctor reached the 
 sick man's room, and the young lady, softly 
 opening the door, let him pass in. 
 
 The air was almost stifling, for the win- 
 dows were carefully closed, and a great fire 
 threw its heat into the room, and its big 
 tongues of flame tossed up the chimney. In 
 the very centre and glow of the heat, a large 
 arm chair, v/ith upright sides, was placed, 
 and here sat an old man, wrapped up as one 
 might be who was making a journey on the 
 outside of a coach on a winter day. Little 
 was to be seen of him except a hooked nose, 
 and a pair of wonderful eyes, dark and pierc- 
 ing, and full of life and observation. These 
 looked out from beneath a pair of shaggy 
 brows, and their lieht seemed brighter for
 
 8 children's children. 
 
 their being sunk so deep. The doctor drew 
 a chair to his patient's side, and the patient 
 looked at him fixedly as he sat down, but 
 made no sign of recognition. 
 
 ' What is the report to-day ? ' said Doctor 
 Puff, with his bedside air of importance. 
 
 * Dying,' replied the sick man, in a harsh 
 voice, from which his daughter's must have 
 been imitated. * Dying — nqt dead, and not 
 alive.' 
 
 ' Now, does it occur to you that we can 
 do anything for you ? ' asked Doctor Puff, 
 who seemed to feel some difficulty in dealing 
 with his patient. 
 
 * It occurs to me,' answered the other, 
 speaking laboriously, and making a wry face, 
 as he shifted himself in his chair, ' it occurs to 
 me, that you have attended me for twenty years 
 without doing anything for me, and that you 
 are not very likely to be of much service now.'
 
 D.D. AND M.D. 9 
 
 'We are only servants of Nature,' re- 
 marked Puff, humbly enough. ' We may 
 coax Nature : we cannot domineer over her.' 
 
 * Coax her then ! ' cried the sick man, 
 moving in his seat again, with a gasp and a 
 writhe. ' Coax her to make seventy-two 
 years fifty, and to put vigour into a heart that 
 beats more feebly at every stroke, like the 
 pendulum of a clock which has run down ! ' 
 
 * We can do but little, I fear, sir,' said the 
 physician. 
 
 * You can ; you can ! ' said the patient, 
 showing two long yellow teeth, and snarling 
 like a dog who cannot bite, 'just as much as 
 ever you did. You can look on, and prate, 
 and go away with a guinea in your pocket to 
 some other fool's house.' 
 
 The doctor turned to the young lady. 
 ' He must take his drops every three 
 hours, as before, and the brandy whenever he
 
 lO CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 feels faint. Don't be afraid to give the 
 brandy freely.' And so saying he rose to go. 
 
 ' Good-bye to you,' said the sick man. * I 
 shall not see you again, I dare say. You 
 will be like me some day soon. I could wish 
 to be living then, to see Doctor Puff feeling 
 the pulse of Doctor Puff, and telling him that 
 '' we can coax nature." How much comfort 
 the expiring physician will get out of that. 
 Oh, you will make a fuss over your dying, 
 depend upon it. All doctors do — and all 
 hangmen. Good-bye, and a pleasant death 
 to you — like mine — like mine ! ' 
 
 Doctor Puff left the room without saying 
 another word ; only when he found himself 
 outside the door, he made a peace-offering to 
 his own offended dignity by shrugging up his 
 shoulders, and elevating his eyebrows, in the 
 sight of the young lady, thus expressing his 
 opinion that the patient was in a childish
 
 D.D. AND M.D. II 
 
 State, and must be humoured and pitied. No 
 sooner had he left the house than Doctor Spout 
 was brought into the sick man's presence. 
 
 ' I have come to see you, my dear sir,' he 
 softly began, ' because you have for so long a 
 time attended my ministr}^' 
 
 * I never heard you preach six times in 
 my life,' said the sick man, in the same 
 waspish way that he had met the last visitor. 
 
 * And I wish I had never heard you at all.' 
 
 * You have had a pew in St. Dunstan's 
 Chapel these fifteen years,' said Doctor Spout, 
 disposed mildly to argue the point. 
 
 *Yes — for visitors,' replied the other; 
 
 * and for such members of my family as were 
 fools enough to 2:0.' 
 
 Doctor Spout, knowing his man by repu- 
 tation, showed no surprise or irritation at this 
 unseemly behaviour ; but he sat in silence, 
 for really it was not easy to reopen the con-
 
 I 2 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 versation. The sick man relieved him of 
 that difficulty. 
 
 ' I should not have allowed you to come 
 upstairs,' he said, speaking more freely, and 
 with less appearance of suffering, * only that I 
 wished to tell you that I am dying, and ' 
 
 ' Let us hope not,' cried Spout. 
 
 * Pish ! ' exclaimed the sick man. ' Please 
 spare me that : you know I am dying. I 
 wished to tell you that I believe in your 
 religion just as much as I believe in your 
 friend Puff's medicine — that is, not at all.' 
 
 ' My dear sir,' said Spout, with a soothing 
 motion of his hand, ' you must not say such 
 things. You are worn with suffering, and do 
 not read yourself aright.* 
 
 * My mind is clearer now than ever in my 
 life before,' was the answer. ' Foolery and 
 knavery never seemed so easy to detect. I 
 tell you I am dying — I know it. In a few
 
 D.D. AND M.D. 1 3 
 
 days' time, at most, this shawl around my 
 shoulders will be more of a reality than I. I 
 shall be perished, dissolved, gone. Well 
 now, look here : I have performed all the 
 duties of life. I defy you, or anyone, to 
 show that the choicest of your saints has been 
 more punctual in discharging every proper 
 moral obligation. I can say like your own 
 prophet — '* whose ox or ass have I stolen ? 
 whom have I defrauded or oppressed ? " To 
 all this I simply add that I don't believe one 
 syllable of your religion. Now, Doctor Spout, 
 what have you got to say to a dying man 
 like me ? ' 
 
 *It Is my duty to tell you — my duty,' 
 repeated Spout, marking the word by a 
 severe emphasis, 'that you are in a very 
 alarming position.' 
 
 * But not, you observe, the least 
 alarmed.' The sick man seemed to enjoy
 
 14 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 maliciously the unmistakeable perplexity of 
 the clergyman. * I remember on one occasion 
 you told us in St. Dunstan's Chapel, that an 
 unbeliever could not die in peace. What 
 do you say now ? Will you have the honesty 
 to correct that statement publicly next Sun- 
 day ? I am as much at peace as any dying 
 man can be — more so than many of your 
 saints. Now go, Doctor: lam tired. Not 
 another word, if you please. I know what 
 you would say. Go — go.' 
 
 Little Doctor Spout rose from his seat, 
 and for a moment he seemed to meditate a 
 reply. Perhaps the angry look which the 
 sick man cast at him convinced him that 
 discretion was better than valour, for he said 
 nothing. He, too, however, like Doctor Puff, 
 felt he must vindicate his dignity, and took 
 the opportunity, when bidding the young 
 lady farewell, of saying —
 
 D.D. AND M.D. 1 5 
 
 ' I judged it more prudent not to argue 
 with your father in his present state. But, 
 if he expresses any desire for the consola- 
 tions of rehgion before his decease, send for 
 me.' 
 
 The )'oung lady's only response was a 
 stiff ' Good morning,' and Doctor Spout 
 walked away, smoothing his ruffled self- 
 esteem with such reflections as the case and 
 his own ingenuity suggested.
 
 l6 children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 
 
 The name of the dying man was Robert 
 Bolton. He was the only son of a wealthy 
 merchant, but had never been engaged in 
 trade himself. Indeed, his tastes were the 
 opposite of commercial, and, his patri- 
 mony being very large, there could be no 
 reason why he should pursue an occupation 
 to which his family had already devoted 
 itself for three generations. Robert Bolton 
 loved books, and, like Prospero, he found his 
 library large enough for his ambition. Ac- 
 cordingly he married, and settled down in the 
 city of Warcaster. His wife, whom he loved
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 1 7 
 
 greatly, died in childbed, and he was left 
 with one son, for whom he conceived the most 
 rooted dislike, insisting on regarding him as 
 the cause of his mother's death. Bolton's 
 temper had always been morose, and after 
 the loss of his wife his manners became 
 almost unbearable. He could scarcely meet 
 an acquaintance In the street without letting 
 fly at him some speech of pointed rudeness ; 
 and in company he would wait for an oppor- 
 tunity — or even make the opportunity — of 
 insulting any timid or unprotected guest. 
 This bearish habit caused him to be generally 
 hated; yet — such is the cowardice and ser- 
 vility of society — it procured for him a 
 certain kind of respect; and persons who 
 passed through an interview with him, and 
 were not insulted, felt as if he had paid them 
 a compliment. Bolton was wealthy, and 
 gave good dinners; he was learned, and 
 VOL. I. c
 
 1 8 children's children. 
 
 wrote with considerable ability on historical 
 subjects. By these respectable qualities he 
 obtained, in spite of his brutalities, as much 
 deference and civility as he cared for. Five 
 years after the death of his first wife he mar- 
 ried again, and for a long period was one of 
 the leaders of Warcaster society, his wife—a 
 notable woman in the drawing-room — 
 contriving, as often as he wounded the feel- 
 ings of a guest, to mollify the smarting place 
 with the ointment of her courtesy. At last 
 she too died, having borne a son and a 
 daughter ; and from that time Robert Bolton 
 fell into a secluded way of living, and avoided 
 company, while we may be pretty sure com- 
 pany would be at no great pains to court him. 
 It ought to be added, that in his opinions he 
 was as singular as in his manners, though 
 here his eccentricity ran out in a new form. 
 He was a violent Tory in politics, and in
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 1 9 
 
 religion, as may have been surmised, an un- 
 believer, and even a ' destructive.' But this 
 state of mental amphibiousness was more 
 apparent than real : his political opinions 
 were, in reality, class prejudices, while his 
 thoughts upon religion were genuine convic- 
 tions. 
 
 When Doctor Spout took his leave, Miss 
 Bolton returned to the dining-room, and sat 
 down to resume a half-finished letter, which 
 she had been vainly trying to conclude during 
 a disturbed morning. She had scarcely 
 dipped her pen in the ink before a kind of 
 thumping knock at the door announced a 
 new distraction. Miss Bolton was not natu- 
 rally of a placid disposition, and her face and 
 voice were in concord as she cried out ill- 
 temperedly, ' Come in.' 
 
 The door opened, and a singular figure 
 appeared. A short and stout woman— so 
 c 2
 
 20 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 short and stout that she might have been 
 geometrically described as five feet by two 
 and a half — made her way Into the room with 
 an awkward motion, as If she were shoved 
 from behind. This personage was so far re- 
 markable in mind and body that the reader 
 may pass an idle moment in looking at her 
 portrait. 
 
 Deb Hathway she was lawfully entitled ; 
 but by her equals she was familiarly styled 
 Mother Dumpy, In playful allusion to her 
 outward appearance. Her limbs were massy ; 
 her chest and shoulders of prodigious bulk ; 
 her head was small ; and her nose — which 
 between her eyes scarcely existed at all — 
 threw itself Into abrupt prominence from the 
 centre of her face. To these charms she 
 added a complexion which would have 
 matched that of the ruddiest apple that ever 
 took its colour from the sun, and an aspect of
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 21 
 
 physical strength which might have caused 
 the heart of a prize-fighter to die within him. 
 Her eyes were her most striking feature. 
 The rolHng humour, the natural shrewdness, 
 which those dark dancing orbs displayed, 
 would have drawn off attention from worse 
 defects than any to be found in her homely, 
 honest face. Her speech, of which she was 
 no niggard, offered to the listener such a 
 puzzling succession of west country words 
 and pronunciations, that to many it would 
 have been an unknown tongue, for Deb had 
 never been to school, and the few score 
 words of rough dialect she knew by ear 
 formed her sum of learnino^. But Deb — as 
 her eyes declared — was no common woman. 
 In the sight of an educational reformer she 
 might, indeed, appear little better than a 
 brute. But as heroes lived before Aga- 
 memnon, so women flourished before reading-
 
 22 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 books. Deb had her faculty, and it was for 
 sick-nursing. For miles round, and in many 
 a chamber which she entered with awe — so 
 costly was the furniture, and so awe-inspiring 
 the carpet, in which her broad sole sank 
 deep— Deb bore the character of queen of 
 sick nurses. Spruce ladies'-maids drew their 
 skirts aside in scorn when they met Deb 
 shouldering her way upstairs, and fine foot- 
 men grinned at the disclosures of vast ankles 
 and immeasurable calves which she made in 
 her ascents ; but when once she reached the 
 sick room she was in her own kingdom, and 
 none disputed her authority. At any hour, 
 day or night, whenever duty called. Deb 
 answered the summons. She was always 
 hale and rosy ; the twinkle never departed 
 from her eye ; it was equally impossible for 
 a patient to resist her will or to be angry 
 with her. She could lift a sick man in his
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 23 
 
 bed like a baby, and when the attenuated 
 frame was sinking in upon itself, Deb's 
 brawny breast would prop it up so deftly 
 that he would half believe the strength to be 
 his own. In a word, she accompanied her 
 charges down to the very gate of the grave 
 with unflagging courage and good-humour ; 
 and when they glided through the dark 
 portals, Deb would let fall a few honest tears, 
 and one or more of those rude sentences 
 which set forth the rustic moralist's philosophy 
 of death — 
 
 ' There ! it s what us all must come to — 
 be ent it ? ' 
 
 When Miss Bolton looked up, and saw 
 the in-comer, she smoothed her harsh features, 
 and even suffered a smile to break out on her 
 face. 
 
 * Well, Hath way, have you had some 
 sleep ? ' she asked, for Deb had been trying
 
 24 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 to repair the losses of the night by an after- 
 noon nap. 
 
 Deb mumbled some reply Indistinctly, 
 and stood nervously twitching her apron, like 
 one who has something disagreeable to say. 
 She glanced up at Miss Bolton, and then 
 down at her own hands, and, if any such 
 change were possible In her bright com- 
 plexion, she blushed. 
 
 * I can't stay in this house, miss,' she said 
 at last. 
 
 'What is wrong ? Have any of the ser- 
 vants been rude to you ? ' asked Miss Bolton, 
 knowing that Deb, like Falstaff, was a cause 
 of wit in others. 
 
 ' No, miss, no,' replied Deb sturdily. 
 ' If they was, do you think I should mind ? 
 It's the master : such a orentleman / never 
 saw. He scolds and swears, and you're 
 wrong if you sit still, and wrong if you
 
 KURSE AND PATIENT. 25 
 
 move about. So many bad words I never 
 heard : it's a wonder he remembers them 
 all.' 
 
 * This Is your trouble, is it ? ' said Miss 
 Bolton, with a relieved air. ' You need think 
 no more about the matter. Mr. Bolton 
 means nothing by it : it is his habit. Attend 
 to your duties, and take no notice of what he 
 says.' 
 
 * I can do anything for them that's kind 
 wi' me,' said Deb, shaking her head, ' but I 
 can't be swore at.' 
 
 Miss Bolton fixed her large grey eyes 
 on the nurse, and, after a moment's thought, 
 bid her take a chair. 
 
 ' You have quite enough standing when 
 at your work,' she remarked. * Now, Hath- 
 way, listen to me : I wish you to wait upon 
 my father, because I know you will take 
 good care of him. His manner is new to
 
 26 children's children. 
 
 you, but I can assure you he is all goodness 
 and kindness.' 
 
 ' Is he really, miss ? ' asked Deb, who. 
 was not a courtier. * I should not have 
 known it from himself, miss ! ' 
 
 ' My father,' continued Miss Bolton, 
 clasping her hands and speaking as much to 
 herself as to Deb, ' My father is a perfect 
 man ! I never knew him do anything wrong, 
 — never.' 
 
 Her expression softened, and her eyes, 
 occupied with some scenes that she liked to 
 look upon, and insensible of what was actually 
 at hand, moistened and lit up with a bright- 
 ness that memory alone could have shed 
 upon them, at that particular moment. 
 
 * A few hasty words — a little impatience 
 — what does that denote ? ' she said, after a 
 pause, becoming conscious, as it seemed, 
 that she was not alone. ' All his life he has
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 27 
 
 been making \var against falsehood and folly, 
 and his manner has grown a litde snappish — 
 only his manner. At heart he is now what 
 he always was — kind, because he is just and 
 affectionate, because he is truthful. Don't 
 be uneasy about anything he may say, Hath- 
 wa}' ; you can't understand him, but he 
 means no mischief.' At this i\Iiss Bolton 
 smiled mechanically. 
 
 ' He do swear at me, however,' said Deb, 
 sure of her fact, if of nothing beside. 
 
 ' And what is swearing ? ' replied Miss 
 Bolton, with the air of one talking to a child. 
 * Only a boyish habit, which clings to some 
 people in later life. The words have no 
 meaning, and no one knows that better than 
 my father.' 
 
 Deb Hathway appeared not a little 
 puzzled with this reasoning, which she but 
 faintly comprehended. Like better taught
 
 28 children's children. 
 
 persons, however, she felt the force of the 
 argument most where she least understood it. 
 
 ' Well, miss,' said she, beginning rather 
 to excuse herself, ' I thought I had better 
 speak to you, because you see, miss ' 
 
 * Quite right, Hathway,' cried Miss 
 Bolton graciously. * At any time when you 
 are in a difficulty you must consult me. Be 
 as attentive as you can to Mr. Bolton, and do 
 not mind his hasty words. He is in great 
 pain, and I think he is near his end. He 
 has cares and disappointments of which you 
 know nothing — irritation of mind, which tries 
 him more than any bodily suffering.' 
 
 Miss Bolton's voice became grave, and 
 even pathetic, when she spoke of her father's 
 sufferings ; and though she restrained herself, 
 like one who considered emotion a fault, Deb 
 could see how deeply she was moved. The 
 nurse's rough honest heart melted.
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 29 
 
 * Whoever thinks ill of him, you won't, 
 miss,' she said, breaking out in this sally of 
 admiration before she recollected herself, and 
 then frightened at her own presumption. 
 ' We must do the best we can for him, poor 
 gentleman, while he is here ; and if he must 
 swear, he must ; only I should send for a 
 minister, if I was you, miss, and he might 
 talk to him a bit, and make his mind easy. 
 When my patients goes on like that, I always 
 say — " Send for the minister." ' 
 
 ' I think, Hathway,' said Miss Bolton 
 drily, ' we had better leave Mr. Bolton to 
 himself for the present.'
 
 30 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' WJLT THOU HAVE THIS MAN ? ' 
 
 Deb Hathway left the room, and Miss 
 Bolton sat down once more to her unlucky 
 letter, of which she had written only a few 
 farther lines, when she was again disturbed. 
 This time a servant announced that Mr. 
 Charter was in the drawing-room, and would 
 like to see her. Miss Bolton bade the ser- 
 vant say she would appear directly, and 
 then, throwing herself back in her chair, she 
 put the feather of her pen to her lip, and 
 meditated. 
 
 Mr. Charter was a younger son, with two 
 fairly sound lives standing between him and
 
 * WILT THOU HAVE THIS MAN ? ' 3 1 
 
 a large and wealthy estate. He bore two 
 very opposite characters, and the reader, 
 having considered these, may, if he pleases, 
 say for himself, in due time, which suit of 
 opinions fitted the wearer best. Certain of 
 his friends declared that he was a true Chris- 
 tian man, whose life and habits were a per- 
 petual sermon ; that he carried tracts in his 
 pocket wherever he went, and improved 
 every occasion ; that missionary meetings, 
 church work, and schools, all found in ]Mr. 
 Charter an invaluable supporter ; with a 
 multitude of kindred testimonies. Other 
 friends — or perhaps we should say acquaint- 
 ances — would ask, If he was altogether as 
 free with his .money as with his patronage ? 
 If his domestic tempers were of the real 
 Christian pattern, or of any Christian pattern 
 at all ? If there were not stories about cer- 
 tain members of his family lying in sore need
 
 32 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 on the common way of life, while Mr. Piety 
 walked by on the other side ? Some scoffers 
 would even go so far as to ask his admirers 
 whether, after all, they would not prefer 
 praying with him to bargaining with him ? 
 This gentleman, thus variously esteemed, was 
 lookine out for a wife, and had for some time 
 kept his eye on Miss Bolton. Being twelve 
 years her senior, and an old friend of the 
 family, he had nursed her on his knee when 
 her little years might easily have been 
 counted, and her petticoats were only a foot 
 long, and at this time he commenced the 
 practice of calling her by her Christian name, 
 Diana — a practice which at the present more 
 ticklish period he felt pleased to continue. 
 Diana Bolton had very litde of the young 
 woman about her : she despised accomplish- 
 ments, read hard, knew everything, and to 
 crown what may be called her anti -woman-
 
 ' WILT THOU HAVE THIS MAN ? ' 33 
 
 hood, she had a logical mind, and never 
 missed her point in an argument. Still she 
 was a woman, and being so, she soon found 
 out, upon the revival of their friendship, that 
 Mr. Algernon Charter admired her. She was 
 but little moved at the discovery ; indeed, if 
 she had heard the following day that her 
 Algernon was drowned, as dead as Pharoah, 
 she would not have augmented the wateriness 
 of his fate by one solitary tear. For all that 
 she was by no means displeased with him for 
 liking her, and may even have allowed some 
 half-frozen ideas about marrying him, at some 
 time or other, to nestle in her breast. At 
 the present moment the announcement of his 
 name sent a rapid procession of thoughts 
 about the past and the future through her 
 mind. Instinctively she felt that his visit 
 must be matrimonial in its purpose ; and as 
 she sat nibbling the end of her pen, she 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 planned an answer to the proposal which she 
 anticipated. 
 
 Mr. Charter wore solemn black, and Miss 
 Bolton was dressed in colours scarcely less 
 sober ; and the austerity of his expression 
 was in no way relieved by any excellence in 
 his features or figure, while, as has been said, 
 she was in no sense handsome. Their salu- 
 tation, too, was stiff and lifeless ; and alto- 
 gether they looked like persons who might 
 be trusted alone, for any length of time, 
 without the least danger of love coming in 
 as a third party. But that great master can 
 play on all kinds of instruments, and just as 
 a skilful violinist will extract ravishing music 
 from an ancient and faded cremona, so will 
 love snatch up a dry and withered human 
 heart, and fiddle his own particular tune upon 
 it to the amazement of everybody. And at 
 this moment love — or his twin-brother, self-
 
 * WILT THOU HAVE THIS MAN ? ' 35 
 
 love — was making his little bow ready for a 
 performance on the heart of Mr. Algernon 
 Charter. 
 
 He made a few inquiries after the health 
 of his friend Bolton, and shook his head 
 gloomily at each answer. When he had in 
 this way performed the offices of courtesy, he 
 lost no time in passing to the business he 
 had In hand. 
 
 * I am leaving England next week,' he 
 remarked. Miss Bolton felt that by this 
 announcement he was paving the way for 
 another of a more Interesting sort. 
 
 * Are you ? ' she replied. 
 
 ' Yes,' he continued, ' I go for a tour over 
 the Continent — all through Europe in fact — 
 which will occupy the best part of a year.' 
 
 ' Don't you think you had better stay 
 
 longer than that,' observed the lady, 'and see 
 
 everything thoroughly ? ' 
 D 2
 
 36 children's children. 
 
 * Continental travel is not free from dan- 
 ger,' said Mr. Charter, not caring to notice 
 the last remark. ' Change of climate — 
 change of diet — damp beds — to say nothing 
 of more direct sources of peril — all unite to 
 make such pleasures — profitable pleasures 
 though they be — causes of serious anxiety.' 
 
 ' If you are frightened,' said Miss Bolton, 
 ' you had better stay at home.' 
 
 Mr. Charter looked crestfallen, and even 
 annoyed, at these frigid replies. But he 
 kept his temper, as even ill-natured people 
 do when they have an end in view. 
 
 ' I call for a special purpose to-day,' he 
 said, with a serious air. ' I have something 
 to say which, under ordinary circumstances, 
 I should not mention at a time when your 
 feelings must be overwrought.' 
 
 ' Pray do not consider my feelings,' ob- 
 served Miss Bolton, in her stony way. ' I
 
 * \VILT THOU HAVE THIS :\IAN ? ' 2)7 
 
 can give you my whole attention.' At which 
 inspiring words the suitor brightened up. 
 
 He made his proposal. Mr. Charter was 
 quite enough a man of the world to know 
 what note he should strike on such an oc- 
 casion, and no fault could have been found 
 with the speech in which he declared his 
 passion. He told Diana that she was a sensi- 
 ble and solid woman, who might well play the 
 part of companion in life to a man very much 
 his superior. Of beauty, or the passion 
 beauty kindles, he said nothing — and wisely, 
 for Miss Bolton had sternly settled in her 
 own mind that her charms were not per- 
 sonal. Mr. Charter spoke of judgment, and 
 sober views of life, and literary tastes, and 
 true womanliness, and the lady listened. 
 Then, warming a little, he described his own 
 feelings. He was not a man for rhapsody, 
 nor she the woman to regard it ; enough to
 
 38 children's children. 
 
 say he esteemed her, and — loved her. 
 Here Diana Bolton raised her eyes, and 
 regarded him, with no disfavour certainly, 
 yet curiously, and with a faint smile. ' Very 
 well, Mr. Charter,' she said. ' I understand 
 you. I will marry you, if you like.' 
 
 He was scarcely prepared for so sudden 
 a surrender, and mustering up his raptures 
 hastily, found himself something like a 
 general taken by surprise, who calls his 
 forces together all in a hurry and dis- 
 order. ' How fortunate I am,' he cried. 
 * What happiness ! ' and as words failed him 
 at this point he prepared to kiss the lady, for 
 even he knew that in love a kiss can convey 
 a volume of meaning. But Diana did 
 not choose to be kissed just yet. 
 
 ' I said, if you like,' she continued, 
 holding up her hand in a way which signi- 
 fied that the salute must be postponed.
 
 * WILT THOU HAVE THIS MAN ? ' 39 
 
 'When you hear what I am going to say, 
 you will in all probability withdraw your 
 proposal.' 
 
 Mr. Charter was on the point of pro- 
 testinof that nothing: could induce him to 
 change his purpose, but he caught Miss 
 Bolton's cold eye, and the words petrified on 
 his tongue. She marked his hesitation with a 
 smile. 
 
 ' I shall inherit a large fortune,' she 
 began. 
 
 ' For that,' cried Charter loftily, * I care 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' But whoever marries me,' continued she, 
 pursuing her speech, without noticing the 
 interruption, ' must consent to see the bulk of 
 my fortune applied to public uses.' 
 
 It was all In vain that Mr. Charter tried 
 to conceal his consternation at this announce- 
 ment. The most finished disciple in the
 
 40 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 school of Chesterfield could not maintain the 
 graces if the hose of a fire-engine were to begin 
 playing on him suddenly : no more could Mr. 
 Charter preserve his equanimity after such a 
 disclosure. Deeper, and more sarcastic, grew 
 Miss Bolton's smile as she saw the despiserof 
 fortune stammering and reddening under her 
 gaze. 
 
 ' I was right about your proposal, was I 
 not ? ' she asked, refraining from any irony of 
 tone, and making her words more cutting by 
 that very abstinence. 
 
 * Are you going to found a charity ?' asked 
 the discomfited suitor, scarcely knowing what 
 he said. 
 
 * I will be quite candid with you,' replied 
 the lady. ' My father has for several years 
 occupied himself in the composition of a work 
 • — a set of works, I may say — on a subject of 
 the greatest importance. His opinions are
 
 - ■> 
 
 'WILT TTTOU HAVE THIS MAN . 4 1 
 
 not popular, but they are true and wholesome, 
 and will serve the world. However, I need 
 not speak of that. My fortune is to be spent 
 in printing and circulating his books.' 
 
 *But, Diana,' cried the other, recovering 
 himself, ' do you not know that any book 
 which deserves circulation will be sure to cir- 
 culate itself ? ' 
 
 ' I know nothing of the kind,' answered 
 Miss Bolton, losing her temper a little. ' But 
 I am not going to argue that point. I have 
 told you how my fortune is to be used. My 
 husband will touch very little of it — a tenth, 
 perhaps, but no more. Now, Mr. Charter, do 
 you wish me to be your wife ? ' 
 
 * As I told you a moment ago,' he replied, 
 ' I did not seek your money when I made 
 this proposal ' 
 
 'Let us consider that fact settled then,' 
 remarked Miss Bolton.
 
 42 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 ' Nevertheless,' continued he, ' there is 
 another weighty matter, which you have 
 3^ourself introduced. If your resolution about 
 publishing and circulating your father s writ- 
 ings is fixed ' 
 
 ' Consider that settled too,' she cried 
 sharply. 
 
 ' Then,' said Mr. Charter, * it would be 
 my duty to ask what those, writings are, 
 Diana. I have the greatest respect for your 
 father's moral character, biit his opinions are, 
 I fear, not only erroneous, but pernicious. 
 Has he been writing on religious subjects ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly,' answered Miss Bolton. 
 
 ' In that case,' said the other, ' I could be 
 no party to the diffusion of such productions.' 
 
 'You need not be a party to it,' she 
 replied. * I could make all the arrangements 
 for the future before we married, and the 
 subject need never come before you.' She
 
 ' WILT THOU HAVE THIS MAX ? ' 43 
 
 smiled as she said this, and a o^leam of real 
 fun shone for a moment on her harsh, frosty 
 face. 
 
 ' Diana,' said ]\Ir. Charter, shaking his 
 head gravely, ' you must forgive me if I 
 say that you draw a very Jesuitical distinc- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' Algernon,' she answered, looking him 
 full in the face, and speaking with the utmost 
 composure, ' you must forgive me if I say 
 that you have a convenient conscience. I 
 wonder what excuse you would have hit 
 upon for not marrying me, if I had told you 
 that I was going to spend my fortune on 
 Christian missions I However, I think we 
 understand each other. I live for this world 
 because I know of no other ; you ' 
 
 ' Diana,' cried Mr. Charter, ' don't be 
 profane.' 
 
 ' You,' she went on, * talk about another
 
 44 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 world, but you take very good care to keep a 
 tight hold on this.' 
 
 The interview closed coldly, but with 
 tolerable civility. Mr. Charter went his way 
 in very ill humour, muttering to himself 
 peevish complaints against the piercing 
 March wind, which, as it whistled down the 
 dusky street, and found out chinks even in 
 his comfortable clothing, seemed to find out 
 chinks in his temper too. Diana Bolton 
 meanwhile went upstairs, and got ready for 
 dinner, looking as unlike a young lady who 
 had just been solicited in marriage as it was 
 possible for any person of her age to look.
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER IV. . 
 
 ' BIRDS IX THEIR LITTLE NESTS.' 
 
 When, about half an hour later, Miss Bolton 
 entered the dining-room, she was met by a 
 new visitor. At siorht of Diana he came 
 forward, and greeted her heartily, and yet 
 with a certain timidity, as if doubtful how 
 his advance would be met. His misgivings 
 were not unfounded, for when he offered to 
 kiss her, she drew herself back with so 
 morose a look that he at once dropped his 
 hands, which had been stretched out for an 
 embrace. But he began conversation with 
 cheerfulness, taking no notice of her very 
 palpable rebuff. 
 
 He was a little over the middle height,
 
 46 children's children. 
 
 dark, arid decidedly handsome. His forehead 
 was perhaps large in proportion to his other 
 features, but it was well shaped, and his nose 
 and mouth were cut with remarkable beauty. 
 His complexion was high — not rosy, but of 
 that deeper red, just shading into purple, 
 which is the after-glow shed on convivial 
 faces by the ruby rays of wine. He wore 
 clerical attire, and had altogether that par- 
 ticular air of good living and good breeding 
 which we associate, not unkindly, with our 
 clergy. This was Mr. Bolton's eldest son — 
 Death Bolton by name ; for so his father had 
 called him, under the pretence of remembering 
 a distant relative, but really as the first outlet 
 for the dislike which, through his whole life, 
 he nursed against a son whose fault was that 
 he innocently caused his mother's death 
 Strict orders were issued through the house- 
 hold that the child should never be known
 
 ' BIRDS IN THEIR LITTLE NESTS. 47 
 
 by any name except ' Master Death ; ' and 
 when he grew to manhood the same rule 
 was kept in force : all the servants spoke of 
 ' Mr. Death.' 
 
 * Well, Death/ said Diana, laying on the 
 name a particular stress which she never 
 omitted, ' so you have come — at last.' 
 
 * Really, Diana,' said he, with an air of 
 concern, ' I did not understand from your 
 letter that my father was so ill. Indeed, I 
 should not have been here now, only that a 
 friend told me his decease was expected 
 every hour.' 
 
 ' I wrote all that appeared to be neces- 
 sary,' remarked Diana, scarcely concealing 
 her indifference. ' You know it is not my 
 habit to write sensation letters.' 
 
 ' How is he this evening ? ' asked Death. 
 
 ' Much the same.' 
 
 At this point the conversation was in-
 
 48 children's children. 
 
 terrupted by the appearance of the second 
 son, Hercules. He was tall, and, like his 
 brother, good-looking, but there could not 
 have been traced any nearer resemblance 
 between the two. Hercules was of fleshy 
 build, and his face that of a man who liked 
 good feeding and good sleep, and got plenty 
 of both. There was a certain good-nature in 
 his look, but, when you searched out his face, 
 the better part of the expression seemed to 
 evaporate, and what remained was only fat 
 satisfaction with self, and with life. His 
 manner was pompous and artificial, and he 
 shook hands with his elder brother in a way 
 that was half condescending and half apa- 
 thetic : Death Bolton was not a person of 
 much importance in his father s house. 
 
 It was plain that the two juniors con- 
 sidered their elder brother an intruder, and 
 none could have said which seemed harder
 
 * BIRDS IX THEIR LITTLE NESTS.' 49 
 
 to bear, the wordy condescension of Hercules, 
 or the fro ward manner of Diana. Death, 
 however, did not notice either, but talked on 
 pleasantly, though, as he grew more and 
 more at ease, his sister's frowns became 
 darker. She watched, scowling, while he with 
 significant readiness tossed off the glass of 
 wine which accompanied his soup, and when 
 a second glass went as rapidly the way of the 
 first, she tried to let him see the sarcastic 
 smile into which she forced her lips. In this 
 she altogether failed, and presently Death 
 glanced at his empty glass. 
 
 * Tite,' said the observant Diana to the 
 butler, catching at the opportunity, ' pour 
 out Mr. Death's third glass of wine.' 
 
 Death looked up, smiling, as if the thing 
 rather tickled him. 
 
 'Very neat and delicate for a reproof!' 
 he cried. ' But really, Di — ,' — Miss Bolton 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 # 
 
 59 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 winced at the abbreviation — ' I cannot live 
 without a Hberal supply of wine. I work 
 hard, and am by no means as strong as I 
 look. If you would only teach me how to 
 live on water, you would find me a willing 
 pupil.' Death sighed as he spoke, like a 
 man who sees trouble at a distance. 
 
 Whether chemistry, among its other won- 
 derful discoveries, has found out a way of 
 making bitter more bitter by adding sweet 
 to it, it is not for us to say ; certainly Death's 
 reply to her sarcasm, though delivered with 
 the most engaging good-humour, caused his 
 sister to look sourer than ever. She bent 
 over her plate, and for the time abandoned 
 the conversation. Hercules, who had been 
 busy with his dinner until now, and thankful 
 that the others let him alone, noticed the 
 silence, and felt that he must say something. 
 Accordingly, he began to talk about his
 
 * BIRDS IX THEIR LITTLE NESTS/ 5 1 
 
 brother's parish, asking questions, but not 
 listening to the answers, the better to show 
 that he was urbanely stooping to these petty 
 matters because Death had an interest in 
 them. Death, who had not a particle of 
 pretence in his nature, and was beside full 
 of pleasantry, seemed amused rather than 
 annoyed by all this magnificence, and he 
 waited with a smile fluttering about his lips 
 for an opportunity of punishing his brother. 
 
 ' To my mind,' said Hercules, at last, in 
 his heavy, important way, ' you clergy do 
 considerable service. You have the ear of 
 the poor, and I have little doubt that your 
 influence over them tends to keep things 
 quiet between class and class.' 
 
 'We prevent the w^orking class from 
 asking inconvenient questions about the idle 
 class, you mean,' replied Death, with twink- 
 ling eyes. * Only imagine, Hercules, if Tite 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARV 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 CHILDREN S CHILDREN, 
 
 were to begin Inquiring why, in the nature 
 of things, he must stand behind your chair, 
 and you sit upon it ; or why he must get up 
 at six, and be on his feet all day, while you 
 lie in bed till eleven, that you may have 
 strength to open your letters when you come 
 down to breakfast.' 
 
 Diana and Hercules looked at each other : 
 the look said, * How dare this fellow take such 
 liberties ? ' and said it quite as plainly as the 
 type in which the words are now printed. 
 Indignation worked upon the two in opposite 
 ways. Hercules sat speechless, but Diana 
 suddenly found her tongue. 
 
 * It is fortunate that Tite is not in the 
 room,' she said angrily, glancing over her 
 shoulder as she spoke. 
 
 Silence ensued upon this, for Death be- 
 gan to feel ashamed of himself for having 
 fallen into so light a tone when his father
 
 'BIRDS IN THEIR LITTLE NESTS.' 53 
 
 was dangerously ill, and the others would 
 not open their lips. When dinner was ended, 
 Diana turned to her eldest brother, saying 
 snappishly, ' I suppose you want to see your 
 father to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly,' cried Death. ' If only for 
 a minute or two, let me see him.' 
 
 * I shall ask him how he feels,' she re- 
 plied, and left the room. 
 
 The instant she entered her father's room 
 a change passed over her. There was a 
 softness in her movement:, and a gentleness 
 in her voice, which mi^ht have seemed in- 
 credible to anyone who had seen her behaviour 
 at the dinner-table a little while before. A 
 shaded lamp stood on a table beside the great 
 easy chair in which her father was still sitting, 
 and while his face was in partial darkness the 
 light fell broad and strong upon his hands, 
 and a diamond ringf on one finofer shone and
 
 54 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 -Sparkled ; but even the diamond scarcely- 
 shone so brightly as the eyes of the dying 
 man, which In the gloom seemed to have a 
 spectral light of their own. He heard her 
 soft footstep, and brought his head round 
 slowly and painfully to the side where she 
 stood. He did not speak, but his look was 
 full of consciousness and thought. ' How 
 are you now, dear ? ' she asked gently. 
 
 He gazed on at her, and his eyes grew 
 brighter still In their unearthly way, as he 
 collected himself to speak. 
 
 * I am — better,' he said, with gasping 
 pauses between each word. ' Better. That 
 is — nearer the end.' 
 
 Diana drew herself up until her face was 
 out of his sight, and then remained for a 
 moment fixed like a statue. But the anguish 
 she tried to repress would have its way, and 
 she sank down at her fathers side, and
 
 ' BIRDS IN THEIR LITTLE NESTS.' 55 
 
 covered her face with her hands, while the 
 dying man, whose sternness had mehed away 
 Hke his daughter's, put out one hand feebly, 
 trying to touch her head, but he could not. 
 
 * It is the way of all flesh, Diana,' he said. 
 ' So It has been since the world began, and 
 so It will be with thousands that love each 
 other as truly as you and I. And does it 
 matter much ? We take our leave, and I go 
 to my rest. You weep for me. But just 
 think, Diana, how dry are the eyes which 
 wept a thousand years ago — as bitterly as 
 you do now. All will be over soon with all 
 of us. The great consoler is a little nearer 
 to me than to you, but he will be with you 
 soon.' 
 
 She crept closer to him, and taking his 
 hand in her own, laid her face against it 
 softly, and so sat and wept, but said not a 
 word ; and he, exhausted by the effort he had
 
 56 children's children. 
 
 just made, spoke no more. Then Diana 
 quietly put his hand back, and rose to her 
 feet, reheved by her outburst of grief, and 
 more like her usual self. 
 
 ' Death has come to see you,' she said. 
 
 * Come, has he ? ' answered the sick man. 
 ' I don't want to see him/ 
 
 * Not to-night in any case ? ' said Diana, 
 half inquiring. 
 
 ' Certainly not' 
 
 She walked to the door, and touched 
 a little bell, which rang with a low soft 
 chime. The sound reached Deb Hath way's 
 heedful ears, and she came out of the small 
 chamber where she took her short snatches of 
 repose. 
 
 * Deb,' said Miss Bolton in a whisper, 
 ' oro down stairs, and bid Tite tell Mr. D.eath 
 that he cannot come up to-night. Say that 
 it is an unreasonable hour. Then go and
 
 'birds in their little nests.' 57 
 
 have some sleep. I will sit with my father, 
 and watch, for an hour or two.' 
 
 Deb went down, and Diana stole back to 
 her father's side, seating herself on the floor, 
 and resting her head upon the side of his 
 chair. 
 
 * I have come to spend the first half of 
 the night with you, deai,' she said, caressing 
 his hand softly. 
 
 ' But you ought to take rest, little Di,' 
 replied the father, returning her caress. 
 
 * I am taking rest,' she answered. ' There 
 is more rest for me when watching at your 
 side than if I were trying to sleep In my own 
 room. Besides, I can have a nice little nap 
 here.' 
 
 She kissed his hand several times, and 
 could feel him press it faintly back against 
 her lips. Then she laid her head down 
 again, and closed her eyes, her father closing
 
 58 children's children. 
 
 his as well ; and so they remained for a long 
 time without speaking. Diana wished him 
 to think she was asleep, and he could not see 
 the tear that broke from her closed eyelids, 
 and ran down her cheek, telling of the vigilant 
 sorrow that was at work behind her composed 
 features. The fire sank low, and the room 
 darkened, and still they did not speak, for 
 each hoped that the other was sleeping. 
 Suddenly a flame sprang up in the decaying 
 fire, and lit the room, and the faces of father 
 and daughter, with a cheery dancing light. 
 Diana opened her eyes, and looked up. 
 
 ' What a pleasant fire all of a sudden ! ' 
 she cried. 
 
 The blaze tossed about, and played here 
 and there among the smouldering embers 
 which surrounded it, like the grey crumbling 
 walls of some old ruin, and as it flamed away 
 brightly lights and shadows glanced and 
 darted over the ceiline and floor.
 
 'birds IX THEIR LITTLE NESTS.' 59 
 
 'Papa,' said Diana, after they had 
 watched it for some time. 
 
 'What is it, Di ?' 
 
 'I have been thinking that you may 
 recover suddenly, just hke that fire, and live 
 on a long time to be the brightness of my 
 life.' 
 
 *Do you think so?' he replied very 
 feebly. 
 
 And as he uttered the feeble words the 
 bright little flame all at once sank away, and 
 they were left in darkness.
 
 6o children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 
 
 The sunshine of a frosty March morning, 
 which streamed into the comfortable break- 
 fast room, seemed to be a good ally of the 
 fire burning in the grate, for the outside air 
 felt wintry, and the sunlight, dazzling to look 
 at, had no heat in it. 
 
 Everything in the room, carpet, furniture, 
 pictures, and the snowy table covered with 
 china and silver, told of wealth and ease ; and 
 outside the prospect had charms of its own, 
 for the trees glittered in the sun, and the 
 farther landscape, looming through a shining
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 6 I 
 
 mist, offered such a view as few English cities 
 can unfold before their inhabitants. Mr. 
 Bolton's house was built in a choice situation, 
 and cau£:ht a charminof varietv of views, and 
 a stranger might have envied the fortunate 
 possessor of such a mansion, unless, perchance, 
 he had peeped into one particular room, and 
 seen him there, sobbing and gasping his life 
 away. 
 
 Into the bright sunnv breakfast room 
 Diana Bolton had entered twice that morning, 
 but seeinor no one she went out ao^ain. with 
 an impatient exclamation. Neither of her 
 brothers were down yet, though it was nearly 
 ten o'clock ; while she, who had been sitting 
 up more than half the night, was in the mid- 
 dle of her morning's work. Just as the clock 
 struck Death appeared, followed about ten 
 minutes later by Hercules, and both the 
 brothers secretly congratulated themselves
 
 62 children's children. 
 
 on havinof arrived before the inexorable 
 Diana — an agreeable delusion which she took 
 pretty good care to disperse when she joined 
 them. The three sat down to breakfast, 
 looking as uncomfortable and ill-assorted a 
 party as one could imagine, for Death ap- 
 peared ill at ease, Hercules was preoccupied, 
 and Diana seemed in a savage temper. The 
 elder brother, who was a religious man, and 
 thought proper to say grace at every meal, 
 clasped his hands and repeated one of the 
 common forms reverently, during which 
 Diana took particular care to pour out the tea, 
 while Hercules yawned aloud, glancing at his 
 sister to see if this bit of irreverence would 
 at all appease her. Hercules had his own 
 reasons for wishing to be on good terms with 
 Diana that day. 
 
 *HoAv is he this morning?' asked Death, 
 speaking to his sister.
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 6^ 
 
 'No better,' she replied snappishly. 
 
 'Had he a good night ? ' 
 
 ' He had not a good night.' 
 
 Death felt the force of Diana's manner, 
 and asked no more questions. Hercules 
 showed no Interest in the subject, and ate his 
 breakfast with his ordinary appetite, which 
 was, indeed, no ordinary appetite. When he 
 had nearly finished his meal, he looked up 
 and said to his brother — 
 
 Have you come over here to wait it 
 out?' 
 
 ' Wait out w^hat ? My — our father's 
 illness ? ' asked Death. 
 
 Hercules, too much occupied for speech, 
 nodded. 
 
 * I suppose so,' replied Death gravely. 
 
 ' Because you know it may go on long 
 enough yet,' continued the other, leaning 
 back in his chair lazily. ' A month — six
 
 64 children's children. 
 
 weeks— any time. What do you think, 
 Diana ? ' 
 
 ' Everything is uncertain,' she answered. 
 
 * Still I beheve he will linger on for a 
 long period,' said Hercules, persisting in his 
 assertion for his own ends. ' I have quite 
 decided to speak of his state as critical, but 
 not immediately dangerous ; and accordingly 
 I shall make no change in my habits. When I 
 am asked Into society I shall go, just as if our 
 father were in health. We are not to have 
 two mournings — before his death and after.' 
 
 * I suppose you have som3 invitations 
 which you do not wish to decline,' remarked 
 Death. 
 
 'Well,' said Hercules, affecting indiffer- 
 ence, * Penruddocke asked me to dine with 
 him this evening.' 
 
 'Who?' Miss Bolton inquired sharply. 
 She had heard the name clearly enough.
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 65 
 
 ' Penruddocke,' replied Hercules, trying 
 to seem uninterested and indifferent, but 
 failing signally. 
 
 * And are you going to dine with the 
 Penruddockes to-day ? ' demanded Diana in 
 a voice that made her brother quail. 
 
 'So I intend,' he answered. 'In fact, I 
 have written to say I hope to be with them, 
 if my father's state permits me to leave 
 home.' 
 
 Diana looked at her brother as few 
 except herself could look, and she had the 
 satisfaction of seeing him change colour, and 
 show every sign of extreme uneasiness. 
 Now it so happened that Death, who was 
 not the most observing of men, did not 
 notice this exchange of glances between his 
 brother and sister ; and without any malicious 
 intention, he made a remark which, at that 
 particular moment, was more exasperating to 
 
 VOL. L F
 
 66 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 Hercules than the most insulting sarcasm 
 could have been. 
 
 * I hear your name mentioned in rather 
 close connection with Madeline Penrud- 
 docke,' he said. ' In fact, when I denied 
 that there was anything but friendship be- 
 tween you, I was rallied for keeping your 
 secret so well. I was told that everyone in 
 Warcaster looked on your engagement as 
 accomplished.' 
 
 * What do you say now, Hercules ? ' 
 demanded Diana emphatically. 
 
 ' People will talk, you know,' he answered, 
 covered with confusion. ' Can I help old 
 maids' gossip, or am I to regulate my conduct 
 by it ? A pretty state of things indeed ! ' 
 
 * There is no truth in the report, then ? ' 
 said Death, still ignorant of the fires his 
 words had kindled. 
 
 * Truth ! ' ejaculated Diana, before Her-
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 6^ 
 
 cules could speak. ' Madeline Penruddocke 
 — why, Hercules, if you married that woman 
 I should — I should ' she broke off sud- 
 denly. ' But there is no fear,' she added, laying 
 her clenched hand on the table, and master 
 ing- her excitement. ' No fear.' 
 
 * Then I can say that Hercules himself 
 contradicts the report,' said Death, now 
 beginning to perceive that he had raised a 
 disagreeable question, and wishing to get rid 
 of it. 
 
 'Say that /contradict it,' cried Diana, in 
 another outburst of fury. ' xA.nd let Hercules 
 contradict me if I am wrone.' 
 
 She waited for a moment, looking at 
 him, and in that way defying him to speak ; 
 and when she had satisfied herself that he 
 was afraid to correct her, she rose from her 
 chair, and stalked out of the room, her 
 heavy eyebrows frowning down over a face 
 
 F2
 
 68 children's children. 
 
 whose every feature expressed rage and de- 
 termination. Death looked on in speechless 
 wonder. 
 
 * What made you mention that report ? ' 
 asked Hercules, turning on his brother 
 angrily when the door closed. ' What busi- 
 ness is it of yours ? ' 
 
 ' I see I have made an awkward mistake,' 
 replied Death mildly. ' I am very sorry, 
 but just ask yourself how could I have fore- 
 seen it. Even now I do not understand why 
 Diana is so vexed.' 
 
 * She has chosen a wife for me,' said Her- 
 cules, ' and, what is worse, she has convinced 
 our father that her choice is wise.' 
 
 * The lady is not your choice, then,' said 
 Death. ' Who is she ? ' 
 
 ' Do you remember Harriet Strawbridge ?' 
 asked Hercules, with a serious and disturbed 
 face.
 
 FAMILY LOVE. 69 
 
 'Harriet Strawbrldge I ' repeated Death, 
 and he said nothing more, for the name so 
 tickled his fancy that he burst into a laugh, 
 while Hercules looked at him half in vexation, 
 but half in approval too, for the laugh was a 
 testimony to the absurdity of the scheme. 
 
 * Don't ask me to marry you — that's all,' 
 cried Death, laughing on. 
 
 ' It is preposterous, is it not .-^ ' said the 
 other, speaking to his brother with unusual 
 freedom and friendliness. 
 
 Before Death could reply the door 
 opened, and Tite walked in : 
 
 ' You are to go upstairs, Mr. Death,' he 
 said, ' immediately.'
 
 70 children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 Night and day the sick man sat in his chair. 
 His disease was heart complaint, complicated 
 with other disorders, and he could not lie 
 down, even for an hour, without putting his 
 life in danger, or greatly increasing his 
 sufferings. So he sat in the one position 
 always, propped up on each side, and wrapped 
 and muffled until nothinof could be seen of 
 him except his nose, and the eyes, which 
 watched everything that passed with a steady 
 intense look, like that of a captive eagle. 
 
 A peculiar odour filled the room when 
 Death entered. His father was now reduced
 
 FATHER AND SON. 7 1 
 
 to a species of pharmaceutical dram-drinking, 
 having to support himself with incessant 
 glasses of ether or other powerful mixtures ; 
 and just now, in expectation of the coming 
 interview, he had fortified himself with a dose 
 01 particular strength. He fixed his eyes 
 upon his son, but made no sign of recognition ; 
 and when Death took his hand he did not 
 return his warm pressure in any w^ay. Death 
 was used to coldness from his father, but 
 this stony indifference, at such a time, 
 shocked him, and for a while he could not 
 speak. 
 
 ' I have come to see you,' he said at last, 
 nervously. 
 
 ' Because you know I am dying,' replied 
 the father, never lifting his eyes from his 
 son's face. 
 
 ' You are very ill,' said Death, ' but not 
 dying, I hope.'
 
 72 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 * What do you want with me now ? ' 
 asked the sick man, without showing the 
 smallest feeling of any kind. 
 
 ' Nothing — nothing in particular,' an- 
 swered Death, who seemed to find it hard to 
 restrain his tears. * I thought you might like 
 to see me.' 
 
 * I have seen you, then,' said the father, 
 with a bitterness in his voice, which even 
 extreme weakness did not conceal. ' I am 
 quite satisfied.' 
 
 ' Have you nothing to say to me ? ' in- 
 quired Death, stooping over him a little. 
 
 Bolton made a sudden movement, as if 
 he would rise, and gazed bitterly at his son 
 as he answered : 
 
 ' I had something to say — I hoped to say 
 it, but I cannot speak. Go — you have seen 
 me — go.' 
 
 ' Father,' cried Death," dropping on his
 
 FATHER .\XD SOX. 73 
 
 knees, and seizing his father's hand. ' do I 
 desen^e this ? ' 
 
 The sick man began to gasp for breath, 
 and tried to speak, but his Hps moved 
 uselessly, while with a strange mixture of 
 feebleness and rage he motioned with his 
 hand towards the door. 
 
 ' You will kill him I ' cried Diana, stepping 
 forward. ' Do as he bids you. Do }-ou 
 want to kill your father outright. Death ? 
 she added, when he still lingered. 
 
 ' It is cruel — it is wicked,' said Death, 
 wildly. ' Diana — father — what does this 
 mean ? ' 
 
 He looked at his sister, but her eyes 
 flashed fire, and when he turned to his father 
 he saw the thin lips moving on in voiceless 
 upbraiding, while the quivering hand still 
 pointed to the door. 
 
 ' Leave the room I ' cried Diana, grasping
 
 74 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 his arm. * I must interfere. You shall 
 not stay another instant.* And as she spoke 
 she pushed her brother away. 
 
 Death made no resistance, and she, 
 holding his arm, led him to the door, and 
 before he knew it he was thrust out, and he 
 heard the key turned in the lock with a sharp 
 click, which told him not to hope for re- 
 admittance. 
 
 Diana flew to her fathers side, and pour- 
 ing out a fresh glassful of his cordial held it 
 to his mouth. He swallowed it with great 
 difficulty, and sinking back, gasped and panted 
 for several minutes in a way which certainly 
 showed that his daughters fears for his life 
 were not unfounded. But after all this he 
 grew composed again, and spoke more firmly 
 than before. 'Gone — is he?' he asked, giving 
 a long sigh, as if a load had been removed 
 from his breast.
 
 FATHER AND SON. 75 
 
 *Yes,' replied Diana, with a short snarling 
 triumphant kind of laugh. 'He is gone. 
 And the door is locked behind him.' 
 
 * Then I shall never see him again,' said 
 her father. ' Let me forget that I ever saw 
 him at all.' 
 
 Diana thought it better to keep him 
 perfectly quiet after his excitement, and went 
 to the other end of the room, affecting to be 
 occupied there. Presently she heard her 
 father call her, and upon coming back saw 
 that he looked very pale. 
 
 ' Bend your head and listen to me— listen 
 carefully — don't lose one word,' he said 
 laboriously. 
 
 She put her arm round him, and bowed 
 her head close to his mouth. 
 
 ' When I am dead,' he continued, ' you 
 will find yourself in a position that will 
 surprise you — and surprise Hercules too.
 
 76 children's children. 
 
 You will have a great deal under your 
 control. Diana, you are to make me a 
 promise.' 
 
 'Anything you ask/ she replied. 
 
 * You are never to give Death one pound 
 — one shilling. You are never to help or 
 succour him in any way.' 
 
 * I never will,' answered Diana solemnly. 
 'Not if he were starving at your door,' 
 
 continued her father. 
 
 ' Not if he were starving at my door,' she 
 repeated. 
 
 * That is enough,' he said. ' My mind is 
 easy now. I have said everything. I have 
 only to die.' 
 
 He put his head against her shoulder, 
 
 resting it there, and she stroked his white 
 
 hair with her hand, and kissed it softly. So 
 
 . they remained for a long time — indeed, this 
 
 was his favourite posture — and he gently
 
 FATHER AND SOX. 77 
 
 dropped asleep. His daughter watched him 
 while he slept, listening to every breath and 
 marking the smallest change of his features 
 with unmistakeable solicitude and tenderness. 
 At one time a very sweet expression stole 
 over his features, as if he were dreaming of 
 something that pleased and softened him, but 
 after about a quarter of an hour he opened 
 his eyes, and Diana saw a look there the like 
 of which she had never seen before, either in 
 him or in any living being — a look full of pain 
 and supplication. 
 
 * Father — dearest,' she cried, clasping him 
 more closely, ' are you worse ? Can you 
 speak ? ' 
 
 He motioned faintly with his hand — the 
 old motion which she well knew : he wanted to 
 say something. 
 
 ' Tell me — whisper to me — I can hear the 
 lowest breath,' she said, speaking in his ear.
 
 78 children's children. 
 
 " He turned about a little way — scarcely 
 an inch — in the direction of the door, and 
 beckoned with his finger. 
 
 'Can he want ki7nV said Diana to her- 
 self. ' Do you want to see Death again ?' she 
 cried aloud. 
 
 His eyes rolled up to hers, bright, and 
 clear, and painfully intense in their expression 
 of some feeling which tried hard to utter 
 itself; and looking at her steadfastly he seemed 
 to gather his whole strength together, and 
 gave one nod of his head in reply. 
 
 She let him go gently, and opening the 
 door called Deb Hath way. It was an arrow 
 in her heart that her father should wish to 
 see his eldest son again, especially at a time 
 like this, but if he had asked her to die 
 for him she would have complied without a 
 murmur. 
 
 ' Go down stairs, Hathway,' she cried,
 
 FATHER AND SON. 79 
 
 * quick ! Tell Mr. Death his father wishes 
 to speak with him.' 
 
 ' The Lord have mercy on us ! ' ex- 
 claimed Deb, not looking at Miss Bolton at 
 all, but across the room to the sick man's 
 chair. ' He will never speak to anyone 
 again.' 
 
 And Diana, turning round, saw her 
 father's head lying lifelessly on his breast.
 
 8o children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ' I GIVE AND BEQUEATH.' 
 
 The funeral was dreary, even for a funeral. 
 A heavy penetrating rain fell incessantly ; 
 the cemetery chapel struck coldly on the 
 shivering mourners as they entered it ; the 
 service consisted of a series of nasal anti- 
 phones, droned to and fro between parson 
 and clerk, for Hercules would not join in it, 
 and the elder son, troubled with certain 
 thoughts about the dead, felt the language of 
 faith and resignation stick In his throat when 
 he tried to utter It. The clergyman and his 
 subordinate hurried from the grave-side] to 
 the vestry under one umbrella, as soon as
 
 ' I GIVE AND BEQUEATH.' St 
 
 the last words were spoken ; the two sons 
 looked once at the coffin, Ivlnof far below, 
 and walked silently to their coach ; the rain 
 drizzled on doggedly ; and so Robert Bolton 
 was laid to rest. 
 
 Since her father's death, Diana had not 
 been seen even by her brothers, and they 
 were surprised upon their return to find her 
 seated In the dining-room, in company with 
 the family lawyer. 
 
 'When business has to be done,' she said, 
 calmly interpreting her younger brother's 
 look of wonder, ' feeling must be set aside. 
 Mr. Piatt has no doubt explained to you that 
 my father's particular wish was, that not the 
 smallest hint of the nature of his will should 
 escape until after his funeral.' 
 
 ' I know that without explanation,' cried 
 Hercules, with ominous rudeness. 
 
 'I am glad to hear it,' continued the 
 
 VOL, I. G
 
 82 children's children. 
 
 sister. ' One word more, and then I shall 
 ask Mr. Piatt to read the will to us. Of the 
 contents of it — so far as particulars go — I 
 know nothing. As to its general scope, my 
 father let fall something a few minutes before 
 he died, which leads me to think that it leans 
 strongly in my favour. It may be well for 
 me — In anticipation of any possible disap- 
 pointment on your parts— to say that, ex- 
 cepting the hint I speak of, I am as Ignorant 
 of this will as either of you.' 
 
 ' On that subject I shall form my own 
 opinion,' said Hercules. 
 
 ' Allow me to say,' added Diana severely, 
 * that I have not made this statement be- 
 cause I treat you as having any autho- 
 rity to judge in the matter. I wish to 
 prevent misunderstanding. Whatever my 
 father has done I shall accept, because I 
 ought, and you will accept It, because you
 
 * I GIVE AND BEQUEATH.' S^ 
 
 must. I think we are quite ready now, 
 Mr. Piatt; 
 
 Mr. Piatt, who had prudently plunged 
 into his papers when this little prologue com- 
 menced, now opened the will, and began to 
 read it with the air of a man who is in a 
 position which enables him to be cool and 
 collected while he is agitating the feelings of 
 others. The document was long and wordy, 
 of course, but not very intelligible, and Her- 
 cules, after listening to every syllable of it 
 with undivided attention, found himself at 
 the close unable to understand his own posi- 
 tion. That portion which concerned Death 
 was plain enough. He was to receive a 
 legacy of ten pounds — to be paid immediately, 
 if he required it, for such was the malicious 
 instruction which followed the bequest. 
 
 When this cruel announcement was made 
 Death turned pale, and rising from his seat 
 
 G2
 
 84 children's children. 
 
 walked to the window. He had great self- 
 control, and for a moment tried to rally his 
 spirits by assuring himself that this blow 
 would not crush him altogether. But the 
 facts of his life were too palpable for even 
 that momentary illusion, and he saw, and 
 confessed in his own thoughts, that the words 
 he had just heard marked him out for ruin. 
 Perhaps, if the stroke had been lighter, he 
 might have showed more outward agitation. 
 But he was not disturbed by any conflict 
 of hope and fear. Despair possessed him 
 wholly, and he returned to the table with 
 a composed manner which surprised him- 
 self. 
 
 Meanwhile one or two questions had dis- 
 closed to Hercules the substance of that 
 portion of the will which concerned him. 
 He was left, in various forms, property 
 amounting to ten thousand pounds.
 
 * I GIVE AND bequeath; 85 
 
 ' Are you sure that is the total value ? ' 
 he inquired, with a rapidly falling face. 
 
 * Quite sure,' the lawyer answered. 
 
 * Your late father went over the several items 
 with me, and such was the sum he assigned 
 to you.' 
 
 ' But my father was worth a hundred 
 thousand pounds, if he was worth ten,' cried 
 Hercules. 
 
 * Your late father was worth, as nearly as 
 possible, eighty thousand pounds,' said Mr. 
 Piatt, confidently. 
 
 ' Let it be eio^htv thousand then,' roared 
 Hercules. ' Am I, his son, to have only ten 
 out of it ? ' 
 
 ' Remember the legacy your eldest 
 brother has received, sir,' replied the lawyer. 
 
 * A legacy, let me say, which I wrote most 
 unwillingly, and not without a warm pro- 
 test.'
 
 86 children's children. 
 
 * Be so good, Mr. Piatt,' remarked Diana 
 haughtily, ' as to confine yourself to the busi- 
 ness before us. My brother Hercules does 
 not perceive in what manner the remainder 
 of the property is appropriated. Will you 
 explain the matter to him ? ' 
 
 ' The remainder is left to his daughter 
 Diana,' said Mr. Piatt, looking into the will 
 as he spoke. ' Every penny— absolutely.' 
 
 ' To Diana ! ' repeated Hercules, turning 
 upon his sister. ' How have you poisoned my 
 father's mind against me ? ' 
 
 ' Now, now, now ! ' cried the lawyer, 
 raising both hands, 'let me explain the 
 reasons which led your late father to adopt 
 this course towards you. He expressly laid 
 the whole matter before me, and, still more, he 
 desired me to detail the particulars to you 
 after his decease. Shall I enter into the 
 matter now, or explain it to you in private ? '
 
 ' I CxIVE AND bequeath/ S*/ 
 
 ' Say anything you have to say,' replied 
 Hercules sulkily. 
 
 ' Your father,' continued Mr. Piatt, ' was 
 led to believe that you had some intention of 
 asking Miss Penruddocke to be your wife. 
 Indeed, he suspected that you had already 
 asked her privately, and had been accepted 
 by her. He conceived a great aversion to 
 that young lady — I must say without any 
 reasonable cause that I can conjecture.' 
 
 ' Mr. Piatt,' said Diana again, * it will be 
 convenient if you confine yourself to facts. I 
 am not aware that your conjectures can throw 
 much light on my father's estimate of his 
 acquaintances.' 
 
 ' As you please,' answered the lawyer 
 civilly, for he was not going to quarrel with 
 a rich client. 'In any case, sir, your late 
 father's words to me were — " As Miss Pen- 
 ruddocke is fond of my son, she may keep
 
 88 children's children. 
 
 him with her money, but he certainly shall 
 not keep her with mine.'" 
 
 * I understand — I understand,' cried Her- 
 cules ; * I know by whose persuasion and 
 misrepresentation all this has been brought 
 about. We shall see, however. Wills have 
 been upset before now by proving undue 
 influence.' 
 
 * There has been no undue influence in 
 this case,' said Mr. Piatt, shaking his head, 
 and smiling quietly. 
 
 * Hercules,' said Diana sternly, ' I shall 
 not answer your insinuations ; you are excited, 
 and I make allowance for you ; but let me tell 
 you that the only person who has used undue 
 influence in the matter is yourself. You have 
 been self-willed, and weak, and not par- 
 ticularly candid.' 
 
 * I shall marry Miss Penruddocke in spite 
 of you,' cried he.
 
 * I GIVE AND BEQUEATH.' 89 
 
 * I doubt that, Hercules,' she repHed, ' you 
 will think better of It ; or If you do not, she 
 will.' 
 
 At this point Death looked up. He had 
 not been listening to the previous conver- 
 sation ; indeed, a far angrier dispute would 
 have failed to arouse him, absorbed as he was 
 with his own affairs. He had become very 
 pale, and his voice was low and uneven. 
 ' Why has my father treated me so ? ' he 
 asked, addressing the lawyer. Diana made a 
 gesture of impatience. 
 
 *You must be aware,' said Mr. Piatt, 
 speaking gently, for he saw that Death bore 
 his misfortune with dignity, ' that your late 
 father never loved you as a father ought to 
 love a son.' 
 
 ' Really, Mr. Piatt ' Diana began. 
 
 ' Quite right,' said the lawyer, making a 
 little apologetic bow to her, * I am, perhaps,
 
 90 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 going- too far. The painful circumstances 
 connected with your birth ' 
 
 ' And 3^our lifelong disregard of your 
 father's wishes/ cried Diana, breaking fiercely 
 into the dialogue. 'Your opinions — your 
 views of life — your choice of a profession — 
 everything about you — were repugnant to 
 him. He treated you as any just father 
 would treat a son who outraged his wishes — 
 he left you to feed on the husks you have 
 chosen. You, I suppose, expected the fatted 
 calf, and the best robe ! ' 
 
 ' See here, Diana,' said Hercules, roused 
 by his own wrongs into a hasty sympathy 
 with his brother. ' You go beyond all bounds. 
 Death must find his position painful enough 
 without your violence. I won't have any 
 more of this — upon my soul I won't ! ' 
 
 ' You won't ! ' retorted Diana, rising and 
 stamping her foot. * Pray what have you to
 
 * I GIVE AND BEQUEATH. 9 1 
 
 say in the way of will or won't in this house ? 
 Do you remember that you are under my 
 roof now ? Sympathise with Death else- 
 where, if you please — divide your portion with 
 him, if you feel he has been hardly used. In 
 this house I am mistress, and I tell you now, 
 that not another syllable on the subject of my 
 father's wall shall be spoken in my presence.' 
 Mr. Piatt, w^ho was again busy wath his 
 papers, elevated his eyebrows in a kind of 
 acted soliloquy upon this clinching speech. 
 Death looked too heart-broken for disgust ; 
 Hercules stood gazing on his sister in dumb 
 amazement ; and she walked across the room 
 with a martial step, and pulled the bell so 
 furiously that the house rang with a hundred 
 noisy peals.
 
 92 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A RETROGRESSION. 
 
 Madeline Penruddocke was a fine woman. 
 It is true that any malicious rival might have 
 picked her to pieces, feature by feature, for 
 she was not a beauty in the Book of Beauty 
 sense; but she was tall, well-shaped, and 
 plump ; her movements were full of energy, 
 and not deficient in grace ; she had a lively 
 wit, easy, though perhaps rather masculine 
 manners, and she was a mistress of the art of 
 dress. In this last particular she possessed 
 other resources besides good taste, for her 
 fortune was ample, and she was never forced, 
 like too many of her gentle sex, to decline a 
 becoming dress with a sigh, when the price
 
 A RETROGRESSION. 93 
 
 came to be mentioned. Dress is no small 
 part of a woman's charms, and women well 
 know it, or they would despise finery as 
 heartily as any male moralist. Fashion, too, 
 may be absurd, but, somehow, a woman who 
 is fashionably dressed always looks the better 
 for it. Now to the attractions of a fairly agree- 
 able person, Miss Penruddocke added the 
 faculty of dressing herself so that, while she 
 always had a style of her own, she always 
 had the fashionable style too ; and in one way 
 or another she managed to secure an amount 
 of admiration which would have turned the 
 head of a weak woman. Madeline was not 
 weak. She liked admiration, but would not 
 be intoxicated by it. 
 
 She was an orphan, and had lived for 
 many years in the house of a bachelor uncle, 
 a retired officer, who, being a person of kindly 
 disposition, but of timid and pliable character,
 
 94 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 had long ago suffered her to pass from under 
 his guardianship, and, indeed, had allowed 
 himself to pass under hers. Madeline ruled 
 not only herself, but her uncle and his house- 
 hold. This came about, however, not be- 
 cause she was impatient of control, or 
 imperious towards others, but simply by that 
 kind of gravitation which settles the relative 
 position of persons who are associated ; 
 without any struggle of the weak against the 
 strong, if these latter will only be still, and 
 let nature's laws fight for them. The uncle 
 and niece had never quarrelled in their lives. 
 As to managing Madeline, or trying to make 
 her do one thing if she expressed any inclina- 
 tion to do another, he would as soon have 
 thought of issuing orders to the Commander- 
 in-Chief ; and as their relative force of will 
 was in proportions somewhat like to those 
 existing between the physical strength of a
 
 A RETROGRESSION. 95 
 
 child of four years and that of a race-horse, he 
 was in his submission wiser than he knew. 
 It must be added that ^ladehne used her 
 strength discreetly. She loved her uncle, and 
 petted him beyond measure — as she might 
 have petted a kitten, however, and with as 
 little notion that he was in any sense her 
 superior. 
 
 They entertained freely, and were of 
 course entertained in return. i\Iiss Pen- 
 ruddocke acquired, at an unusually early age, 
 that ease and urbanity which are produced 
 by intercourse with society, when the pupil, 
 far from being troubled by any suspicion of 
 inferiority, is consciously on an equality with 
 all comers. In her provincial way she was 
 a queen of society, and as she had a fair share 
 of good nature, and an uncommon supply of 
 good sense, she maintained her position with 
 dignity, and became a capital hostess and the
 
 96 children's children. 
 
 liveliest of guests. In her own drawing- 
 room she contrived to make her friends shine, 
 and in the drawine-rooms of her friends she 
 shone herself ; and, in short, by sound judg- 
 ment and knowledge of the ways of good 
 society, she made herself more agreeable and 
 useful than many women who far excelled 
 her in talents and looks, and perhaps in 
 virtues ; for Madeline, though a very good 
 young woman as life goes, was not a heroine, 
 nor a prodigy of any sort. She had a certain 
 amount of good feeling, which formed her 
 character up to a particular point ; common 
 sense then carried the work forward ; and when 
 common sense began to fail, good breeding 
 took up the structure and completed it. So 
 Ave find houses, solidly built in the lower 
 storeys, while the highest part — or garrets — 
 are lightly fabricated, and in spite of that 
 furnish very tolerable accommodation.
 
 A RETROGRESSION. 
 
 97 
 
 For some time Madeline Penruddocke 
 and Diana Bolton had been enemies. Under 
 no circumstances would they have liked each 
 other, but a special complication of events 
 was needed to bes^et and nourish the defined 
 ill-will which they felt each for each. To say 
 which was more in fault would not be easy ; 
 but without any doubt Madeline fired the first 
 shot. Diana's bookish talk, and her ungainly 
 manners — which were ungracious as well as 
 ungainly — repelled and annoyed a young 
 woman who excelled in the feminine arts of 
 accomplishments, dress, and carriage ; and 
 who lived to give pleasure and to be pleased, 
 without any idea of being learned, or of 
 analysing the nature of things. On a par- 
 ticular occasion, and in the presence of a large 
 company, Miss Penruddocke so far forgot 
 herself as to let slip a sarcasm upon Miss 
 Bolton's taste in dress, which she maliciously 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 children's CHI: REN. 
 
 pointed by adding a compument upon her 
 learning and mental depth. This ill-natured 
 speech was carefully repo-l .d to Diana by 
 one who heard it uttered. Diana s indignation 
 was unbounded. She adouled the unhealthy 
 plan of bottling up her ni ;e, and as a con- 
 siderable time passed bt ore she had an 
 opportunity of retaliating , her resentment 
 became violent indeed. A t last the hour for 
 revenge came — or rather, ]3iana thought so. 
 She met her enemy in con pany one evening, 
 and Miss Penruddocke, \ ho was an accom- 
 plished musician, took part in a vivacious 
 argument upon the education of women, 
 defending the common i -ejudice which re- 
 commends them to aim at xcellence chieBy in 
 music, painting, and si ch delicate arts. 
 Diana Bolton said no thing, but looked 
 thundery, especially whe 1 Madeline brought 
 the laughter to her side: by a lively sally of
 
 A RETROGRESSION. 99 
 
 wit. Soon, however, a guest, who was 
 contending In the opposite cause, uttered a 
 satirical sentiment, which Miss Penruddocke 
 declared he had borrowed from Rochefou- 
 cauld ; and at this point Miss Bolton, inter- 
 posing with a bitterness which surprised 
 everybody, declared that the words in ques- 
 tion were to be found in Shaftesbury's 
 " Characteristics! She added, with outrageous 
 rudeness, that a person so ill-informed as to 
 confound the two authors would do well to 
 be silent when education, in any form, was 
 being discussed. Everybody looked amazed, 
 and a painful silence followed. Miss Pen- 
 ruddocke, who was no wide reader, had In 
 all probability never heard of Shaftesbury 
 in her life ; but It so happened that in this 
 case she was sure of her fact, having, indeed, 
 met the quotation that very morning. So 
 on the spot she declared herself to be right, 
 
 H 2
 
 lOO CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 and Miss Bolton replied, more contemptuously 
 than before, that she was surely wrong, and 
 turned scornfully away. The quarrel as it 
 stood was, in Sir Lucius O'Trigger's phrase, 
 a very pretty one, but one of those persons 
 who never will let well alone, managed to 
 hunt up in the library a copy of Rochefou- 
 cauld's maxims, and produced it publicly^ 
 convicting Diana Bolton of having made a 
 mistake. To her nothing could have been 
 more mortifying. In a literary dispute, 
 which she herself had provoked, she was 
 worsted by one who did not pretend to 
 literature, and whom she personally disliked. 
 She apologised to Miss Penruddocke with 
 her lips, and hated her for ever after. 
 
 That same evening Hercules Bolton, 
 looking at the brilliant Madeline, and mindful 
 of her fortune, thought to himself what a very 
 fine wife she would make. She quickly per-
 
 A RETROGRESSION. IQI 
 
 ceived his admiration ; and partly to show 
 that she did not identify him with his sister, 
 but more because he was good-looking, and 
 she Hked a bit of flirtation, she encouraeed 
 his advances. As, however, she had no 
 serious thoughts of letting the affair go far- 
 ther, she cooled a little before they parted ; and 
 when Hercules ventured, in saying ' Good- 
 bye,' to press her hand with that particular 
 squeeze which lovers understand, she let her 
 palm and fingers slip through his lifelessly. 
 The next morning in her sprightly way she 
 asked her uncle, as they sat at breakfast, 
 what he thought of Hercules Bolton, and 
 with much laughter, but not a sign of a blush, 
 declared that he was in love with her. 
 
 ' What do you say to that ? ' she asked 
 gaily. 
 
 ' What do you say to it, my dear ? ' re- 
 plied Colonel Penruddocke, who looked par-
 
 102 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 ticularly limp, and drooped over his breakfast 
 like a willow. 
 
 * I want your advice,' cried Madeline, 
 laughing more heartily than before. 
 
 * If you want that you shall have it,' said 
 the Colonel gravely, for he never joked him- 
 self, and never saw other people's jokes. ' If 
 you really like the young man, I dare say 
 there will be nothing against him.' 
 
 * But suppose I do not like him, uncle ? ' 
 she remarked. 
 
 * If you don't like him, my dear,' he re- 
 plied, ' in all probability there will be some- 
 thing against him. In fact, my dear, there 
 is something against every young man.' 
 
 Nothing more was said on the subject, 
 and, had it not been for Diana herself, the 
 love-affair would have ended with the in- 
 nocent encounter of that one night. But 
 from some unguarded remark which Hercules
 
 A RK TROGRESSION. IO5 
 
 let fall, his sioicr began to suspect that he 
 admired Madeline Penruddocke. At the 
 bare notion of her enemy becoming her 
 brother's wife, Diana's wrath rose to a dan- 
 gerous pitch, though for a time she retained 
 sufficient power over herself to refrain from 
 any expressio i of feeling. A few days 
 later, however, she unexpectedly came upon 
 her brother : he street, and found him 
 engaged in a liv'ely chat with the dashing 
 Madeline. A sudden rush of vexation swept 
 every consid^^ration of prudence from her 
 mind, and as to the restraints of good-breeding 
 Diana never slirank from casting these aside 
 when so inclln '. She flew up to her brother, 
 and addressed him so angrily that for the 
 moment she -• uced him to an almost mes- 
 meric state of ; passivity ; and before he re- 
 covered his S' rses, she walked him away at 
 her side, his head hanging down, as if he
 
 I04 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 were a truant schoolboy returning to the rod. 
 She darted a vindictive look at Miss Pen- 
 ruddocke, but took care not to salute her, and 
 the discomfited Hercules could only gasp an 
 awkward * Good-bye ' as he was carried away 
 captive. 
 
 Diana had won a victory, but it was one 
 of those victories which are more fatal than 
 defeats. Had she that afternoon left Made- 
 line in undisturbed possession of Hercules, 
 the heiress would never have thought seriously 
 of marrying him. But women — and men too 
 — are every day taking steps in life from pure 
 rivalry and contradiction, which they would 
 never take from inclination. Madeline Pen- 
 ruddocke brushed off her indignant surprise, 
 and, tossing her head scornfully, went her 
 way. But in her heart she resolved to do, 
 out of dislike for Diana, and to triumph over 
 her insolent opposition, what out of regard
 
 A RETROGRESSION. IO5 
 
 for Hercules she would never have done. 
 Perhaps she was not aware that she had 
 gone so far, even in her thoughts. But the 
 balance had turned. The prize was for 
 Hercules from that hour, whenever it suited 
 him to claim it.
 
 io6 children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A RETROGRESSION — Continued, 
 
 Diana watched her brother closely. As time 
 went by evidence accumulated, and she soon 
 felt convinced that Hercules still harboured 
 the design she dreaded. Where the affec- 
 tions are concerned every woman is a seer- 
 Hercules fancied he kept his secret safely, 
 while he was betraying himself, by words, 
 looks, or other signs, a score of times each 
 day. At this juncture the elder Bolton's 
 health began to fail, and Diana, suspecting 
 that her brother was waiting for his father s 
 death to accomplish his purpose, determined
 
 A RETROGRESSION. 10'/ 
 
 to out-manoeuvre his sleepy plans. She 
 consulted her father in her own abrupt and 
 self-confident way. 
 
 * Hercules ought to get married,' she 
 said, as they were driving out together one 
 afternoon. 
 
 ' Married ! ' exclaimed her father, greatly 
 surprised, for Diana and he had opinions 
 which were not favourable to the holy estate 
 of matrimony. ' And why in the world 
 should he do that ? ' 
 
 * Because he is not fit to choose a wife for 
 himself,* replied Diana. 
 
 * I cannot see the reasoning,' remarked 
 her father. 
 
 ' Hercules ought to get married for this 
 reason,' she repeated. ' If he marries now, 
 you can take care that he shall marry wisely ; 
 but if he waits until he is his own master, he 
 will make a fool of himself.'
 
 io8 children's children. 
 
 * And who is he to marry ? ' the old man 
 asked. 
 
 ' Harriet Strawbridge,' replied Diana 
 energetically. 
 
 Bolton senior looked at his daughter to 
 see if she were serious ; and reading in her 
 face a very determined intention, he pru- 
 dently restrained the smile that was rising 
 to his lips. Even he stood in awe of his 
 daughter's temper. 
 
 * Hercules and Harriet will make a good 
 pair,' continued Diana calmly. * Hercules 
 is a noodle, and Harriet is a well-read 
 woman.' 
 
 Her influence over her father was un- 
 bounded, and in the course of an hour's 
 conversation she had persuaded him that, if 
 Hercules married Miss Penruddocke, she — 
 Diana — would be miserable for life. When 
 this fact had been driven home, she aroused
 
 A RETROGRESSION. IO9 
 
 her father's fears by declaring that all her 
 recent observations led her to believe that 
 Madeline had made a conquest of foolish, 
 helpless Hercules. After this it was easy 
 enough to prove that her choice of Harriet 
 was sagacious, for Miss Strawbridge was 
 wealthy ; and, for reasons that will soon 
 appear, she was likely to look with favour on 
 any tolerable suitor. As Diana helped the 
 old man out of the carriage, she felt that 
 Hercules was in her power. The strong will 
 of her father had been secured for her side, 
 and what could her brother do but submit ? 
 
 A less courageous person than Diana 
 would have feared to choose Miss Straw- 
 bridge to compete with so brilliant a young 
 lady as Madeline. Harriet Strawbridge was 
 most decidedly not an attractive woman. Her 
 age was thirty-seven, but time was not guilty 
 of stealing her charms, for during ten years
 
 no children's children, 
 
 her complexion and features had not changed 
 in the shghtest degree. She was preter- 
 naturally thin, and on the hottest summer 
 day her hands were cold to the touch, — not 
 cool, but cold, with the coldness of a corpse. 
 She seldom smiled, and in all probability 
 had never shed a human tear since her 
 nursery days. So frigid she was and in- 
 accessible—so remote from common life and 
 passion — that, in spite of her fortune, she had 
 never been asked in marriage ; and, indeed, 
 this was the first time that any of her friends 
 thought of her in such a connection. She 
 was severely clever ; well-read, as Diana 
 said ; the aversion of most men, and the 
 terror of male butterflies and blockheads, 
 whose frivolities she would rebuke by a 
 knife-like elevation of her thin upper lip, 
 which was, indeed, her own particular smile. 
 Altogether Harriet looked like the In-
 
 A RETROGRESSION. Ill 
 
 habitant of some other world, and that a 
 world where marrying was unknown. 
 
 But when Diana, without the smallest 
 circumlocution, asked her friend if she would 
 feel disposed to marry Hercules, Harriet 
 laughed a kind of flattered laugh. She 
 seemed to relish the notion, and her con- 
 versation became less bookish and more 
 human on the spot. The pair of friends 
 talked the matter over with great care, and it 
 was not until they had almost exhausted the 
 subject that Harriet, struck by a natural 
 thought, inquired how Hercules had dis- 
 covered his passion, and what he had said. 
 
 ' He has never said anything,' replied the 
 supreme Diana. 
 
 'Really, Diana!' exclaimed Miss Straw- 
 bridge, less surprised, however, than might 
 have been expected. * Perhaps he never will 
 say anything.'
 
 112 children's children. 
 
 * I shall take care of that,' was the reply. 
 'Is it, then, your idea and not his ? ' cried 
 
 Harriet. 
 
 * It is my idea,* answered Diana. * Does 
 that make any difference to you ? * 
 
 ' No,' replied Harriet, shaking her head, 
 and speaking slowly as she weighed the 
 matter. ' It makes no difference to me.' 
 
 The undaunted Diana now turned her 
 guns upon Hercules himself. Without the 
 slightest warning, and maintaining an air of 
 equal determination and confidence, she an- 
 nounced to him that he must marry, and that 
 soon. Hercules could scarcely believe his ears. 
 
 ' Why must I marry ? ' he asked. 
 
 * Your father wishes it,' she replied. 
 'Indeed!' cried he uneasily. 'Pray 'has 
 
 my father chosen a wife for me ? ' He meant 
 in his clumsy way to be ironical, but never 
 was irony more misplaced.
 
 A RETROGRESSION. II3 
 
 ' Of course he has chosen a wife for you/ 
 answered Diana, dehghted to meet her 
 brother on his own ground. ' It would be 
 unreasonable of him to insist on your marr}- 
 ing, if he had not done so/ 
 
 *Well,' said Hercules, swallowing his 
 surprise and vexation in one great gulp, * I 
 hope I shall like the lady.' 
 
 * I hope you will,' said Diana, fixing her 
 eyes upon him in a menacing way. ' If not, 
 it might be awkward.' 
 
 Hercules looked as if he would have 
 liked to swear at his sister above all thines, 
 but he did not dare to exhibit any sign of 
 feeling which might provoke her. Indeed, his 
 heart beat with apprehension as he asked the 
 next question : 
 
 'May I know my intended's name ? ' 
 
 ' Harriet Strawbridge,' answered his 
 sister, in the most business-like manner. 
 
 VOL. 1. I
 
 114 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 The look of amazement and dismay that 
 broke out on Hercules' face so struck Diana, 
 and so quickened her sense of triumph, that 
 she could scarcely keep her countenance. But 
 levity was not her besetting sin, and she did 
 not let the least symptom of her secret enjoy- 
 ment come to the surface, but confronted her 
 brother, rigid, unbending, and relentless. 
 
 * Confound you — it, I mean,' cried Her- 
 cules, beginning in anger, but sinking at once 
 to remonstrance. ' Is there no other woman 
 in England you could think of ? ' 
 
 * Harriet Strawbridge is your father's 
 choice,' said Diana deliberately. ' Are you 
 in love with anybody else ? ' 
 
 ' I am not in love with her, and never 
 shall be,' replied he. 
 
 ' That is not of any particular importance,' 
 said Diana coldly. * Marrying her is your 
 father's affair ; loving her is your own.'
 
 A RETROGRESSION. II5 
 
 ' But I might as well marry a fish — a 
 frog — a stone,' cried Hercules, who was 
 growing desperate. 
 
 ' For anything I can see, nine marriages 
 out of ten would be happier if one of the 
 parties were a stone,' was the hopeless 
 response. 
 
 ' But everybody is not of your way of 
 thinking,' said Hercules, who seemed to feel 
 his sister's powerful will coiling round and 
 round him with irresistible strength. ' Let 
 me choose a wife for myself, and I shall marry 
 when you please.' 
 
 ' I dare say,' replied Diana, with a smile 
 of intense acidity. ' I suppose your choice 
 would fall on Miss Penruddocke ?' 
 
 ' And why not ? ' roared Hercules, em- 
 boldened by despair. 'She is flesh and blood 
 at least. Harriet Strawbridge is a shadow 
 
 — an apparition — a ghost. Oh, confound it, 
 I 2
 
 ii6 children's children. 
 
 Di, you can't be In earnest. Besides/ he 
 added, catching at a new thought with a sud- 
 denly brightening face, ' she would not have 
 me. She is a great deal too clever — too 
 fastidious, you know — she never would marry 
 me/ 
 
 ' I have settled that point,' remarked the 
 tormentor. 
 
 * You don't mean to say you have asked 
 her to marry me ! ' cried Hercules, turning 
 pale. 
 
 * Certainly I have,' replied Diana, ' and 
 she says she will.' 
 
 For the second time she had to repress 
 a smile, so blank, so terror-struck was her 
 brother's face. But her business was to 
 enforce obedience, and not to amuse herself ; 
 and she kept her features as stern and hard' 
 as flint. 
 
 ' All those matters are settled,' she con-
 
 A RETROGRESSION. llj 
 
 tinued. ' Of course, as a matter of form, 
 you must make your own proposal. But 
 there is not any fear that the offer of your 
 hand will be refused. Harriet is coming 
 here to-morrow to spend the day. I shall 
 leave her in the drawing-room by herself for 
 half-an-hour, and give orders that no one 
 is to be admitted. At that time you must 
 go in to her, and say what has to be 
 said. You need not be long about it. 
 She will expect you, and I shall take care 
 to tell her beforehand what is going to 
 happen.' 
 
 Hercules looked at her, struggling be- 
 tween the spirit of rebellion and the spirit of 
 fear. 
 
 * First of all, I am to marry whether I like 
 it or not,' he said. 
 
 Diana bowed her head and tightened her 
 lips.
 
 I [8 children's children. 
 
 ' And next, I am to marry Harriet Straw- 
 bridge, whether I Hke her or not ? ' 
 
 ' It is your father s will.' 
 
 * And if I refuse ? ' demanded he. 
 
 ' The consequences of that I do not wish 
 to foretell,' said Diana gravely. ^ I suppose 
 you know that Death is to be disinherited ? ' 
 
 ' I have never heard so, but I fully expect 
 it,' answered her brother. * Why do you 
 mention that just now ? ' 
 
 ' You will be the eldest son.' 
 
 ' Of course I shall,' cried Hercules, with 
 a little of his stupid, supercilious air. ' For 
 the life of me I cannot see what that has to 
 do with Miss Strawbridge.' 
 
 ' It has to do with your obedience to your 
 father's will,' cried Diana, now looking upon 
 him with eyes of fire. ' Either you marry 
 Harriet, or — well, I had better say no 
 more.'
 
 A RETROGRESSION. II9 
 
 * Say on,' exclaimed the other. * Say- 
 on. Either I many Miss Strawbridge or — 
 what ? ' 
 
 'You shall b-: disinherited, like your 
 brother Death.'
 
 120 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A RETROGRESSION — contimied. 
 
 Harriet Strawbridge appeared the follow- 
 ing day at the house of her friend, in smarter 
 attire than she had ever worn before, her 
 bonnet being, for her, a miracle of gaiety and 
 colour. There was an exaltation in her 
 manner, and even a tinge of blood suffused 
 her yellow cheeks. In a word, the severely 
 intellectual being, who until now frowned 
 upon the affections, had, at the prospect of 
 an offer, thawed into womanhood — ungainly 
 womanhood, it is true, but still the most 
 genuine possible with her. She was pre- 
 occupied, and during luncheon would scarcely
 
 A RETROGRESSION. 121 
 
 answer when spoken to ; but now and then 
 her eyes strayed to where Hercules sat, and 
 as their glances met she affected confusion, 
 and he seemed overwhelmed with dismay. 
 Harriet thought that this was nervousness, 
 and quite the proper thing; but Hercules felt 
 that his sister's eyes were upon him, and 
 between actual sensations of misery and 
 attempts to seem unconcerned, the unhappy 
 young man was brought to the border of 
 insanity. Diana sat at the end of the 
 table, saying very little, but expressing in 
 her manner all that words could have said, 
 and a great deal beside. Bolton senior, who 
 seldom came down before dinner, had made a 
 special point of appearing on this occasion ; 
 and though, like his daughter, he said but 
 little, he addressed Harriet Strawbridge with 
 a warmth and courtesy which convinced 
 Hercules that Diana only spoke too truly
 
 122 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 when she declared that her father desired the 
 marriage. 
 
 When the two ladies rose to leave the 
 table, old Mr. Bolton also stood up, and, 
 having opened the door with unusual 
 ceremony, followed them out of the room, 
 and did not return. Hercules waited for a 
 moment, expecting his father to reappear ; 
 but perceiving that he was to be left alone, he 
 applied himself to the decanter as a prepara- 
 tion for the troubles which were in store for 
 him. His solitude was soon disturbed by his 
 sister, who turned the door-handle violently, 
 and entered the room again, with the air of 
 one who meant to strike terror by her very 
 looks. 
 
 ' Come, Hercules,' she said, ' Harriet is 
 ready.' 
 
 He rose, and went after her. Perhaps, 
 the wine had reduced him to a state of stu-
 
 A RETROGRESSION. I23 
 
 pldity, for he did not speak a word, but 
 ascended the stairs at her side in silence. 
 Diana judged from his dumb obedience that 
 her point was already as good as gained. Ac- 
 cordingly, when she threw the drawing-room 
 door open, and discovered to Hercules the 
 charming Harriet, who was seated in an easy 
 chair, she looked more graciously at her 
 brother, and said in a softened voice — 
 
 ' I shall be engaged for half an hour : I 
 leave Harriet in your care.' 
 
 And she withdrew, and shut the door. 
 The next moment she reappeared, but only for 
 a second, saying : 
 
 * Remember ; half an hour.' 
 
 Upon which she closed the door emphati- 
 cally, as if to signify that the happy pair would 
 not again be disturbed. 
 
 Diana looked at her watch as she went 
 down stairs, and saw that it was twenty
 
 124 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 minutes . to three. At ten minutes past that 
 hour her fingers were upon the handle of the 
 drawing-room door again, and without any 
 warning she walked in upon her pair of lovers. 
 A smile was on her face, but it vanished 
 quickly, and she turned to Hercules with her 
 blackest frown. One glance told her that her 
 wishes had not been carried out. 
 
 Cross, soured, and flushed with vexation, 
 Harriet Strawbridge sat on in the same chair, 
 affecting to be engaged with a book, while 
 Hercules, looking the picture of irresolution 
 and discomfort, stood poring over a curiously 
 carved ivory paper knife which he held in his 
 hand. Harriet cast so reproachful a look at 
 her friend, and Hercules was so obviously 
 afraid to look at her at all, that Diana needed 
 no speech to explain the state of affairs. The 
 proposal had not been made, and she had 
 been trifled with and humiliated, not only
 
 A RETROGRESSION. I 25 
 
 In the presence, but In the service of her 
 friend. 
 
 * Harriet,' she said In a terrible voice, ' I 
 am afraid you have found my brother a poor 
 companion. Come to my room.' 
 
 She wrenched the handle of the door as if 
 It were a Hving thing which could feel her 
 wrath ; and when her friend had passed out, 
 closed the door with a crash that made 
 Hercules, and the room Itself, tremble. 
 
 *What a tigress she is,' he muttered to 
 himself, scarcely daring to look up at the 
 door through which she had gone. 'Why 
 can I not face her and conquer her ? She is 
 only a blustering woman after all. Any man 
 can subdue a woman, if he tries.' 
 
 Hercules, however, did not try. Instead 
 of opposing his sister openly, he endeavoured 
 hy stratagem to gain a little time, hoping that 
 In the meanwhile the chapter of accidents —
 
 126 children's ciiildrex. 
 
 in other words, his father's death — might 
 deliver him out of her hands. He made the 
 most abject apologies for his treatment of 
 Harriet Strawbridge, and protested that, at 
 some future day, he would ask her to marry 
 him. This was the merest pretence, and 
 Diana saw into its motive. Hercules was 
 terrified lest she should use her almost un- 
 bounded influence with his father to carry 
 into effect her threat of disinheritance ; and 
 marking the old man's daily faiHng health, he 
 computed that he might deceive his sister, 
 and quell her suspicions by clever excuses 
 and procrastinations, promising one day to 
 make Harriet his wife. 
 
 ' And once my father is dead, and the 
 property mine, we shall see which of us can 
 bluster best — we shall see, Wolf ! ' said the 
 refined and ingenuous young man, who re- 
 venged himself secretly on his sister by giving
 
 A RETROGRESSION. I 27 
 
 her the names of the wildest and most savasfe 
 beasts. ' I shall enjoy a scene with you 
 when my turn comes.' 
 
 Diana was, of course, not deceived. The 
 chances in favour of Hercules were few and 
 slender. His mind was sleepy, dogged, and 
 self-satisfied ; and he was too profoundly 
 possessed with a sense of his astuteness to 
 distrust even the clumsiest pretexts that were 
 of his own devising. He thought that the 
 game was secure long after it had been 
 hopelessly lost. Diana did not, in so many 
 words, ask her father to disinherit Hercules; 
 and she took care not to be directly informed 
 that a will had been drawn up with a pro- 
 vision to that effect. When she assured her 
 brothers and the lawyer that she was igno- 
 rant of the contents of the will, she spoke 
 literal truth. But she knew, substantially, 
 that neither Death nor Hercules would come
 
 128 children's children. 
 
 in for the bulk of the property, and she could 
 guess the rest. In this way, then, the family 
 history of the Boltons had advanced to the 
 crisis when, after the reading of the will, 
 Diana in her trenchant manner asserted her 
 supremacy in the house which Hercules had 
 already begun to call his own. 
 
 Death departed that afternoon. Hercules, 
 whose selfish sympathy had evaporated, bid 
 him a sulky farewell, and Diana refused to 
 see him again. No sooner had he left the 
 house than she sent an imperious message to 
 Hercules, bidding him to come to her at 
 once ; and he, seeing that his hopes in life 
 now to a great extent depended on her good- 
 will, obeyed submissively. He even asked 
 her pardon for the language he had used 
 that morning. She, in her hard matter-of- 
 fact way, observed that by-gones were 
 by-gones, and that if he would behave
 
 A RETROGRESSIOX. I 29 
 
 prudently in the future, she would forget the 
 past. At the mention of this condition 
 Hercules — perhaps involuntarily — frowned, 
 upon which his sister frowned too — more 
 severely than he. 
 
 * I am now mistress of seventy thousand 
 pounds,' said she. ' My father's original 
 intention was to leave me only thirty, and 
 you were to have had the remainder.' 
 
 She paused, and Hercules bowed his 
 head, humbly enough, as a sign of attention. 
 
 * I regulated my plans in life on the sup- 
 position that I was to have thirty thousand 
 pounds under my control,' she continued. 
 ' I require no more. Your father wished 
 you to marry Harriet Strawbridge. Her 
 fortune, as you know, is considerable. In 
 addition to it you shall receive from me the 
 day you marry her forty thousand pounds, 
 and you — or your heirs — shall inherit my 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 property at my death. Now, Hercules, will 
 you make her your wife ? ' 
 
 Never was a man so perplexed. He 
 loved money, and he hated Harriet Straw- 
 bridge ; he had a liking for Madeline 
 Penruddocke, and he feared his sister. Here 
 he stood, confronted by a question which he 
 must answer, and it seemed ruin to say ' No,' 
 and misery to say ' Yes.' For a moment he 
 settled the matter by saying nothing. Diana 
 saw his hesitation, and resolved to press her 
 point. 
 
 * Yes or no : will you or will you not ? ' 
 she said. ' I must have an answer before 
 you leave the room.' 
 
 In sheer despair Hercules caught at her 
 last words. 
 
 'Give me until this time to-morrow,' he 
 cried. * My mind is upset by all that has 
 happened to-day. In twenty-four hours
 
 A RETROGRESSION. I31 
 
 I shall be more collected. Give me that 
 time and — and — I have no doubt I shall do 
 all you require.' 
 
 She looked hard at him, but for once 
 failed to interpret his countenance, and she 
 foolishly thought that he was safe, and in 
 her power. 
 
 * I am satisfied,' she sai-d. ' I shall 
 expect your answer at this hour to-morrow.' 
 
 K2
 
 1^2 CHILDREN S CHILDREX. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 
 
 In his extremity, Hercules hit upon a way of 
 escape. Up to the present time he had not 
 been able to discover whether Madeline 
 Penruddocke would marry him or not ; and 
 he was, from his peculiar position, unable to 
 resolve his doubt by the old-fashioned and 
 obvious method of asking her. Now, how- 
 ever, it occurred to him that he might win 
 her by one bold movement. Why not ask 
 her to marry him ; show how much he had 
 suffered for her sake ; enlist his present 
 difficulties into the service of his suit; 
 flatter her vanity ; throw himself upon her
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 1 33 
 
 loving-kindness ; become prospective master 
 of her fortune ; and defy his sister ? It was 
 true, that by marrying Harriet Strawbridge 
 he would secure altoi^fether a much larger 
 sum of money than Madeline, wealthy 
 though she was, would bring with her. 
 But Hercules, though not likely to play the 
 fool for affection's sake, had sufficient 
 humanity to prefer the ripe and womanly 
 Madeline, with a handsome fortune, to the 
 frozen and ghostly Harriet, on any terms 
 that could have been expressed in figures. 
 
 Having to act rapidly, he acted wisely. 
 He had not time to make a fool of himself. 
 He wrote a short note to Madeline, in which, 
 after a pathetic allusion to his late bereave- 
 ment, he went on to sa)' that a most extra- 
 ordinary, and to him bewildering, occurrence 
 forced him to ask her advice on a matter of 
 the greatest importance to himself. If her
 
 134 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 counsel was to be of any practical value he 
 must have It at once. Could she see him at 
 twelve the next morning ? This little note 
 was artful enough. By discreetly refraining 
 from any allusion to the real purpose of his 
 visit, Hercules averted the danger of a 
 refusal, or a procrastination, which might 
 have been as disastrous as a refusal. Made- 
 line never suspected that he was going to- 
 propose to her. She believed that in some 
 difficulty he was flying to her, for advice or 
 assistance which his sister could not or 
 would not give. The idea of defeating or 
 supplanting Diana In any way was quite 
 enough for Madeline : she penned a little 
 letter, with an unguarded warmth of friendl)' 
 expression, and said she would be delighted 
 to see Mr. Bolton on any occasion whatever. 
 Hercules felt greatly elated upon re- 
 ceiving this auspicious reply, but as he lay
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 1 35 
 
 awake that night, preparing the morrow's elo- 
 cution, a new difficulty rose upon his slowly- 
 revolving mind. His habits were expensive, 
 and odious as Harriet was to him, he confessed 
 that he would prefer marrying her to facing 
 comparative poverty, or even to running the 
 risk of picking up a more agreeable woman 
 Avith a competent fortune. Consequently 
 Hercules was prepared, if Madeline refused 
 to marr}' him, to return to his sister, and 
 accept her terms and Harriet. All this \vas 
 very prudent, but it did not look heroic ; and 
 Hercules wished to play the hero before his 
 Madeline. Was he to tell her that he had 
 rejected his sister's offer, and nobly flung her 
 bribe at her feet ? Nothing could be prettier 
 or more effective, and the fact that the state- 
 ment was untrue did not cause Hercules to 
 hesitate about making it, because, he argued, 
 as he turned uneasily from his right side to
 
 136 children's children. 
 
 his left, 'men must propose, and if they didn't 
 tell lies they could not propose — at least, no 
 woman would listen to them.' 
 
 In this way he reconciled the falsehood 
 to his conscience, but immediately a new diffi- 
 culty arose. How could he, after this declara- 
 tion, press Madeline to give him an immediate 
 reply ? Suppose she were to promise an 
 answer when she had consulted her friends, 
 or in a week, or a month, what would his 
 position be, with the grim Diana waiting for 
 him at home, with her watch in her hand ? 
 
 * And the worst of it is,' cried Hercules, 
 giving his pillow an impatient tug, ' these 
 women never will say yes at once — or very 
 few of them. I dare say Harriet Strawbridge 
 would answer one back quickly enough,' and 
 he groaned. 
 
 The alternative to this heroic but unapt 
 representation of his conduct was the ignoble
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 1 37 
 
 admission that, unless Madeline rescued him, 
 he must marry Miss Strawbrldge. To con- 
 fess this, he felt, would never do. 
 
 ' In fact,' said he, rolling round upon his 
 right side again, ' I don't see how I am to put 
 it. If I tell her the truth, I shall look like a 
 fool ; and if I don't, I may be made one. ' 
 
 At last, however, Hercules settled upon a 
 line of action which was truly sagacious. 
 Dull as he was, he had noticed that Madeline 
 and Diana hated each other. He resolved 
 to relate at great length how Diana, suspect- 
 ing the quarter towards which his affections 
 pointed, had plotted his ruin. He would not 
 mention the name of Miss Strawbridge, but 
 simply say that his sister had offered him forty 
 thousand pounds if he promised not to marry 
 Madeline. This would make, without any 
 doubt, a telling announcement. Then he 
 would cast himself at the lady's feet, and
 
 138 children's children. 
 
 trusting to the excited state of her 
 feelings, beseech her to reward his devotion 
 by promising, on the spot, to marry him in due 
 time. Hercules thought all this over a great 
 many times, rehearsed it, decided that it 
 would do, and at last fell asleep, and forgot 
 his troubles and hopes until the next morning. 
 His plan succeeded. He was in effect 
 appealing to Madeline's vanity, but he did 
 not perceive this, and the most effective part 
 of his scheme was the work, of chance. Per- 
 haps it would be more accurate to say that 
 fierce Diana, by her imprudent conduct, had 
 made his undertaking easy. Diana had 
 challenged Madeline to fight with her for the 
 possession of Hercules, and Madeline was too 
 fatally-spirited to maintain the indifference 
 which would have been, under the circum- 
 stances, equally dignified and wise. So, from 
 ridiculous vanity, this young woman, who
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 1 39 
 
 was quite as sensible as the majority of her 
 sex, promised to marry a man whom she did 
 not love, and who was in all respects her in- 
 ferior. 
 
 The love-scene is no concern of ours. It 
 was a heavy affair, and unworthy of the 
 queenly Madeline. But so life runs awa}- : 
 good women marry sots ; beauties cast them- 
 selves into the arms of blockheads ; marriage, 
 which mi^ht be and ouQrht to be the sweet 
 flower of life, growing out of the past, and 
 having promise for the future, sinks In nine 
 cases out of ten into an affair of selfishness 
 or chance. Madeline, coming of a gentle and 
 healthy family, and herself a pattern for bright- 
 ness of mind and oreneral viq-our, ouorht to 
 have married a strong, cultivated, and clever 
 man, and she would probabl)- have become the 
 mother of stalwart and noble sons, who 
 would have enriched the world. She chose
 
 140 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 as a husband this empty, selfish noodle, and 
 from that moment the glory of her life was 
 gone. 
 
 Hercules returned to his sister's house 
 excited and triumphant. He had not only 
 won a victory, he had broken his chain as 
 well, and henceforth the eyes beneath which 
 he had quailed so often would no more make 
 him afraid. He looked forward with a truly 
 ignoble pleasure to his first defiance of Diana. 
 He rubbed his hands together as he foresaw 
 her anger and vexation, and kept his own 
 indignation warm for the battle, by thinking 
 of Harriet Strawbridge, and the monstrous 
 marriage which had so nearly been forced 
 upon him. 
 
 He took care to wait upon his sister at 
 the appointed moment, for he knew her 
 punctual habits ; and he hugged himself as 
 he reflected how she would interpret his
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. I4I 
 
 punctuality as signifying readiness to obey 
 her. He was not mistaken : Diana raised 
 her eyes as he came in, and smiled upon him 
 graciousl)'. 
 
 ' I think I can read something in your 
 face/ she said. 'You have decided upon 
 marriage.' 
 
 ' I have/ he answered. 
 
 Diana grew wonderfully bright. 
 
 ' You are a good brother/ she cried, 
 seizing his hand. ' I made a request that 
 might well have seemed unreasonable, but I 
 have your welfare in view. That I am not 
 acting selfishly, my conduct shall show. From 
 this da}- you stand in the position of eldest 
 son, and the sum which would have been 
 yours by inheritance if this marriage had 
 taken place in your father's lifetime, I shall 
 give you. I believe also that my father 
 would have willed to you this house and its
 
 142 children's children. 
 
 contents : they are yours now, because you 
 have obeyed him.' 
 
 Hercules began to feel that it would be 
 difficult, after this handsome speech, to 
 treat his sister in the rough way which he 
 had intended. His resolution seemed to slip 
 away, and he hesitated and reddened : 
 
 ' You are most generous,' he said, * but ' 
 
 ' Hercules,' said Diana, in her self- 
 possessed way, ' I am only just, nothing 
 more. It is quite true that in law this pro- 
 perty might be mine for ever, but according to 
 your father's real wish it ought to be yours 
 when you marry Harriet. So it shall be. And 
 don't, I beg you, talk about my generosity : 
 I have yet left more — far more — than I shall 
 ever want' 
 
 Hercules made a desperate effort. 
 
 ' I am going to marry,' he said, * but not 
 Miss Strawbridge.'
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 1 43 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' cried Diana. 
 
 * I mean this,' replied Hercules, growing 
 bolder, even before his confession had been 
 made. 'It is unreasonable to expect me 
 to marry Miss Strawbridge. I love Miss 
 Penruddocke, and I have asked her to be my 
 wife.' 
 
 * What was her answer ? ' inquired Diana. 
 
 * She promised to marry me.' 
 
 No words could describe Diana's state at 
 that moment so well as those of Scripture : 
 ^ she was full of fury, and the form of her 
 visage was changed.' In spite of her great 
 power of will she was a woman of un- 
 controllable temper, and her fits of anger 
 were terrible to witness. She turned white 
 and trembling before she spoke, overpowered 
 by the very approach of her passion, and 
 Hercules himself cowered as he watched the 
 onset of this gust of rage, which seemed
 
 144 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 ready to carry Diana away, as a leaf Is carried 
 by the wind. 
 
 ' Don't agitate yourself,' said he, with lips 
 as white as hers. 
 
 ' You have defied me, I see,' she cried, 
 not even hearing what he said. * You are 
 going to take your own way in life. Under- 
 stand then, that from this day I renounce 
 you : )'ou are my brother no longer. Made- 
 line Penruddocke shall never take me by the 
 hand ; and as for you — poor self-satisfied 
 numskull ! — you shall not be shielded even 
 for an hour from the punishment you deserve. 
 I stand in your father's place, and I shall let 
 it be publicly seen that you are a rebel and 
 an alien. You leave this house at once. 
 You shall not sleep here another night.' 
 
 ' Consider, Diana,' pleaded Hercules, who 
 had no longer any thought of striving with 
 her. ' Don't lay all this bare before the
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 1 45 
 
 servants. Let us keep our quarrels to our- 
 selves/ 
 
 ' Once for all, then/ screamed she, con- 
 fronting him with eyes that flamed, and 
 stamping her foot on the floor again and 
 again, as if nothing could utter the fury she 
 felt, ' will you marry Harriet ? ' 
 
 * I cannot : I am bound,' replied Hercules 
 In a tone that supplicated forbearance. 
 
 * You are not bound : you can free your- 
 self. Wretch as that woman is she Is too 
 high-spirited to tie you down to a fool's 
 promise such as you gave her. Will you 
 marry Harriet — yes or no ? ' 
 
 ' No,' cried Hercules, roused by her 
 taunts. * I should as soon marry a mummy. 
 Have I said enough ? Now listen,' he added, 
 seeing her walk towards the bell-rope, ' con- 
 sider our position in society. Don't expose 
 yourself and me to the gossip of servants.' 
 
 VOL, I. L
 
 146 children's children. 
 
 A violent rinorlnof of bells far below 
 was all the answer he received, and in a 
 moment Tite appeared, breathless with his 
 race upstairs. 
 
 ' Tite,' said the mistress of the house, in 
 a loud, stern voice, ' I have ordered Mr. 
 Bolton to leave my house at once. What- 
 ever assistance he may require in packing 
 up what belongs to him he must have. I 
 am not particular about the hour he leaves, 
 so long as he is gone before night.' 
 
 Tite, who did not as yet know the nature 
 of his late master's will, or Dianas position 
 in the house, looked at Hercules in amaze- 
 ment and incredulity. * What ! ' cried Diana, 
 furious at the sight of the man's hesitation, 
 ' do you wish to leave the house too ? If 
 not, obey my orders. Hercules, you can 
 command Tite's services for the rest of the 
 day. Go, and let me see you no more.'
 
 THE ORDER OF THE STORY IS RESUMED. 1 47 
 
 * One word you shall hear,' roared Her- 
 •cules, who was now fully himself. * You are 
 a supplanter and a cheat. You have robbed 
 me of my inheritance, and now you use your 
 power in a way that is enough to make my 
 father rise from his grave.' 
 
 * Don't take his name into your lips,' 
 'cried she, as if she really thought him pro- 
 fane. 
 
 'Why not?' he went on. * His name is 
 more mine than yours. Not take his name 
 into my lips indeed ! I shall do what I 
 please, and I shall say the name was never 
 •disgraced until it was borne by his daughter.' 
 
 ' Have you done ? Go,' said she, grown 
 calmer. 
 
 ' Yes, I shall go,' replied Hercules, look- 
 ing at the butler, as he prepared to fire his 
 parting shot. ' Come, Tite, you will have a 
 kind mistress and a happy home.' 
 
 I.?
 
 148 children's children. 
 
 As , a first and last expression of liberty 
 in that house, he closed the door upon his 
 sister with a violence which she herself could 
 not have exceeded, and which brought one 
 or two flakes of plaster from the ceiling. 
 
 And so broke up the household of Robert 
 Bolton.
 
 T49 
 
 CHAPTER XII. . 
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. 
 
 At the end of twelve months Madeline and 
 Hercules were married. To the bride the 
 wedding day was not bright, for during the 
 period of courtship she had many oppor- 
 tunities of studying the character of her 
 future' husband ; and she knew that there 
 was little in him to admire, and less to love. 
 Had she been a less honourable woman, she 
 would have picked a quarrel, and broken off 
 the engagement ; but Hercules, in his dull, 
 cunning way, foresaw that danger, and took 
 care to remind her, almost every day, that 
 he had sacrificed his worldly prosperity for
 
 150 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 her sake. Besides, he kept his sulky temper 
 in check, knowing that after marriage he 
 would have abundant opportunities of being 
 disagreeable without any damage to his pros- 
 pects. He soon found out that Madeline 
 did not love him, and he acted warily. He 
 well knew that so long as he behaved himself 
 properly, and maintained fairly the conven- 
 tional exterior of an accepted lover, she 
 would not retreat from her engagement, how- 
 ever ungracious it might become. It is one 
 of the odd spectacles of this world to see 
 knaves coolly calculating on a strict sense 
 of honour in others, as the chief condition 
 which shall secure the success of their 
 schemes. Hercules did not think any the 
 worse of himself because he relied on Made- 
 line's honour as the safeguard of his own 
 mean and selfish plans ; and he so impressed 
 her with the conviction that he was weak and
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. 151 
 
 she Strong, that, full of confidence in her 
 power to rule over him, and in spite of the 
 protests of her solicitors, she married without 
 securing her large fortune by any deed of 
 settlement. 
 
 Immediately upon their marriage they 
 started for a long tour on the Continent. 
 From the day when Diana drove Hercules 
 out of the house, the brother and sister had 
 not spoken, and would pass each other in the 
 street without a sign of recognition. Made- 
 line, growing quite disgusted with this odious 
 behaviour, which Hercules secretly enjoyed, 
 though he pretended to deplore It, suggested 
 that they should go abroad, and travel for 
 two or three years, until Diana's anger had 
 subsided ; and as her husband fell in with 
 the proposal, they departed, and Diana 
 neither saw nor heard anything more of 
 them. She lived on by herself in the old
 
 152 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 house, and was so little seen or noticed in the 
 city, that her very existence came to be half- 
 forgotten or unknown. 
 
 At last the gossips of Warcaster were 
 reminded of her presence in their midst by 
 an advertisement, which announced the sale 
 of the mansion of the late Robert Bolton, 
 Esquire, under the instructions of his 
 daughter. Soon a story crept out that 
 she was going to live in Florence, and had 
 resolved to leave Warcaster for ever. For 
 that nobody cared, but there were many 
 guesses as to who the next tenants of the 
 house would be. It was a stately mansion, 
 fit for a duke, and having noble reception 
 rooms, it was just the house for a wealthy 
 man who liked to entertain his neighbours. 
 A short time before the day of sale a second 
 advertisement appeared, giving notice that 
 the property had been sold by private con-
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. 1 53 
 
 tract, and now indeed every tongue was busy, 
 asking and wondering who the new-comer 
 could be. At this time a strange rumour 
 reached the ears of Miss Strawbridge, which 
 so excited her interest that she (whose usual 
 chit-chat consisted of the latest novelties in 
 philosophy and the more astringent kinds of 
 literature) flew to her friend Diana, and 
 asked in breathless haste who it was that had 
 bought the house. 
 
 ' I have no idea,' replied Diana, with the 
 utmost indifference. * Mr. Piatt told me 
 that he himself did not know, as the business 
 had been transacted through an agent, of 
 whose respectability and competence he felt 
 satisfied.' 
 
 * You have not heard the report then ? ' 
 inquired Harriet. 
 
 ' I hear no reports,' said Diana. 
 
 * Nor I, except now and then,' replied the
 
 154 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 Other. * But this concerns you very nearly.. 
 I was told this morning, on good authority, 
 that the name of the purchaser is Hercules 
 Bolton.' 
 
 * What ! ' cried Diana, showing all her 
 teeth in one great snarl. 
 
 * Your brother Hercules,' continued Har- 
 riet. ' He is the unknown purchaser.' 
 
 * He shall never set a foot in this house,* 
 screamed Diana, jumping off her chair, and 
 pacing the room wildly. ' I will cancel the 
 sale.' 
 
 * Can you cancel it, my dear ? ' asked her 
 cooler friend. ' I know something of these 
 things.' 
 
 * I shall pay money — damages — anything,' 
 exclaimed the furious Diana. ' In this house 
 he shall never set his foot' 
 
 ' My dear, be calm,' reasoned Harriet, 
 who was the grand-daughter of a lawyer, and
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. 1 55 
 
 had a kind of inherited instinct in such mat- 
 ters. ' Are the title-deeds handed over ? ' 
 
 ' They are ; I beHeve they are,' cried 
 Diana in despair. 
 
 * Then,' remarked Harriet, who bowed to 
 fact in every case, ' you have no remedy. 
 You must gulp down your vexation, my dear,' 
 she added feelingly. 
 
 * No remedy ! ' said Diana, striking her 
 clenched fist into her open palm. ' Then I 
 shall set fire to the house, and burn it to the 
 ground.* 
 
 ' Would that be altogether prudent ? * 
 asked the less agitated friend, and Diana saw 
 that she was talking wildly, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 Harriet Strawbridge never made a mis- 
 take, and Diana soon discovered that her 
 brother had secured the house beyond all 
 possibility of dispute. To her this was an
 
 156 children's children. 
 
 unspeakable mortification. She had resolved 
 — not without a pang — to let her father's 
 home pass into the hands of strangers ; but 
 the idea of his son, who did not honour his 
 memory or obey his will, living under that 
 sacred roof was to her almost agonising. 
 Strangers, not having known, could not 
 desecrate those familiar rooms, but Diana 
 fancied Hercules sitting in the dining-room 
 where her father had so often presided, or 
 sleeping in the room where he died, and she 
 felt much the same horror that a pious Chris- 
 tian might feel at the idea of a revel being 
 held over an altar. To such an extent had 
 she carried her reverence for her father's 
 memory, that before making arrangements 
 for the sale of the house she had re-papered 
 and painted every room, to efface as much as 
 possible the associations which hallowed the 
 . place to her. Thus she had at last recon-
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. 1 57 
 
 ciled herself to the picture of strangers in 
 those venerated scenes, but they must be 
 strangers indeed ; and one of the motives 
 which urged her to close with this par- 
 ticular purchaser was the belief that he had 
 never heard her father's name. To discover 
 Hercules under this mask, and to realise 
 that he had secured the house beyond recall, 
 was the sorest mortification she had ever 
 felt. 
 
 It was irrevocable, and she prepared to 
 submit as calmly as she could. The greater 
 portion of the furniture had gone with the 
 house, but she had reserved for herself the 
 chair in w^hich her father died. About an 
 hour before the time fixed for her departure 
 she went up to the room that had been his, 
 and wheeling his chair over to the spot 
 where he had breathed his last, she sat down 
 to meditate ; and then the heart of this
 
 158 children's children. 
 
 jnysterious and Implacable woman melted, 
 and she cried like a child. 
 
 * Father, dearest father,' she murmured 
 through her tears. ' Gone for ever ! yet 
 always at my side. Let the memory of your 
 life be strength to me. Let me be as truth- 
 ful, as impatient of all pretence, even the 
 fairest, as you were. Live again in me, if it 
 be only weakly, and for a little while, that I 
 may carry on your work in this vain, hypo- 
 critical world. Truth, father, and nothing 
 but truth for me, though I trample under 
 foot the pious dreams of a deceived and self- 
 deceiving race. Right, and nothing but 
 right, though I blight what the weak and 
 thoughtless call the human affections. Go 
 with me, sacred image, from this house. 
 Follow me, strengthen me, direct me. 
 Though all who bear your name dishonour 
 you, and the world laughs at your philosophy.
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. 1 59 
 
 I shall love you, worship you, live according 
 to your will, and die with your name upon 
 my lips.' 
 
 She had passed into a kind of trance, 
 when a knock at her door recalled her to 
 common life. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' she called out harshly, for 
 the interruption irritated her. 
 
 She was told that a gentleman wished to 
 speak with her upon urgent and private 
 business, and being now herself again, she 
 bid the servant say that she would come 
 down immediately. Upon entering the half 
 dismantled drawing-room she was met by a 
 person whose face was strange to her, and 
 whose address was homely and timid. The 
 face was indeed a remarkably sweet one, but 
 sweet faces did not greatly affect Miss Bolton, 
 and she demanded ' with a frown what the 
 visitor wanted.
 
 i6o children's children. 
 
 ' I come from your brother, ma'am,' he 
 said, with an air of increasing diffidence. 
 
 ' From Hercules Bolton ? ' cried Diana 
 in a terrible voice. 
 
 * No, ma'am,' he answered, ' I come from 
 the Reverend Death Bolton.' 
 
 ' I don't know him,' said Diana abruptly. 
 
 * I am aware, ma'am,' continued the 
 stranger, * that an unhappy difference has 
 arisen in your family. Pardon my alluding 
 to that matter. Mr. Bolton knows nothing 
 of my coming to you, but I feel that I am 
 doing my duty. He is dying, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Or thinks he is,' remarked the sister. 
 * Is there a doctor in attendance ? ' 
 
 * Certainly, ma'am, and has been this 
 month past.' 
 
 ' What do you want with me then ? ' 
 asked Diana in the coldest of voices. 
 
 * I want you to visit him — to comfort him
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. l6l 
 
 — to nurse him — to be a sister to him/ cried 
 the other, quite forgetting his respect in 
 his excitement. * Mrs. Bolton died a short 
 time ago, and he is left alone, excepting the 
 little new-born baby that is always at his 
 side.' 
 
 * I heard of Mrs. Bolton's death,' said 
 Diana, ' and I had also heard some rumour 
 of the husband's illness. If I had thought 
 proper to visit him I should have done so, 
 without any suggestion from a stranger, ' By 
 the way,' she added, looking sharply at her 
 visitor, 'who are you, that you should interest 
 yourself in the matter ? ' 
 
 ' I am one of his churchwardens,' he 
 replied. * Excuse me, ma'am, he is a gentle- 
 man that everybody loves, and it is enough to 
 melt a heart of stone to see him wasting away 
 hour by hour, and his heart bleeding for the 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1 62 children's children. 
 
 baby that will soon be without any protector 
 except the Lord,' he added, with unpretend 
 ing piety. 
 
 Diana stood in silence a moment. ' A 
 new-born baby ? ' she said, looking at the 
 churchwarden with thoughtful eyes. 
 
 * Three months old, ma'am ; the sweetest 
 little girl you ever saw.' 
 
 * And the father — is he really dying ? ' 
 inquired Diana. 
 
 * The doctor says he may live a month or 
 two,' said the other, shaking his head. ' Re- 
 covery is impossible.' 
 
 ' The father is anxious to find a protector 
 for the infant, you said, did you not ? ' 
 continued Diana, whose manner had quite 
 changed. 
 
 * If he knew the baby would be cared for 
 he would die in peace,' the honest church- 
 warden answered.
 
 DIANA IS OUTWITTED. 1 63 
 
 ' Be it SO, then/ said Diana. * Your visit 
 is well-timed. I shall be with Mr. Bolton 
 to-morrow morning.' She turned away, and 
 the visitor made a low bow and retired. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 
 
 The parish of which Death Bolton was vicar 
 lay in the heart of a midland town, and his 
 house, a large and gloomy one, stood at the 
 top of an unfrequented street. Diana arrived 
 here about two o'clock in the afternoon, and 
 on giving her name, she was shown into a 
 large drawing-room, which presented a 
 curious spectacle, for although the furniture 
 was dusty and disordered, there were on 
 every side abundant signs of taste and care. 
 But the taste and care belonged to the past, 
 and the dust and disorder to the present ;
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 165 
 
 the room seemed the emblem of a decaying 
 family. 
 
 Diana had no sooner seated herself, but 
 an elderly housekeeper entered the room, 
 and approaching her with an appearance of 
 great deference, as if her character and name 
 were well-known in the house, said that Mr. 
 Bolton had just fallen asleep. Upon making 
 inquiries Diana learned that her brother, 
 who was fast sinking in consumption, had 
 suffered for some weeks past from restless- 
 ness and sleeplessness, and would wander 
 from room to room, now writing, now read- 
 ing, now watching his new-born child, but 
 never quiet for ten minutes together. He 
 had spent all that morning at his desk, and a 
 little while before had thrown himself upon 
 his bed, where he now lay in a deep sleep. 
 The doctor had just called, and left the 
 strictest orders that his patient was not to be
 
 1 66 children's children. 
 
 disturbed, and that the most profound stillness 
 was to be maintained through the house. 
 Having detailed this information, the house- 
 keeper, glancing round the disordered room, 
 said that the library was more comfortable, as 
 a fire was burning there ; and added, that if 
 the visitor would go to that room at her con- 
 venience, luncheon would be shortly served. 
 All this Diana heard in her stony way, and 
 when it was ended, she said that she wished 
 to stay the night, and would like to be shown 
 to her room. 
 
 In about half an hour she came down 
 stairs, and asked for the library. She was 
 told that Mr. Bolton still slept, and did not 
 give the least symptom of waking ; at which 
 she coldly remarked that it was not sur- 
 prising. She then walked into the library 
 and sat down to her luncheon. During the 
 meal she only spoke once. When the maid
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 67 
 
 who waited upon her asked if she Avould take 
 some wine, she levelled one of her sourest 
 glances at the young woman, and said 
 with marked emphasis, ' Water — nothing but 
 water.' For Diana knew her brother's weak- 
 ness, and resolved to improve the occasion. 
 
 When she found herself alone, Diana 
 began to look round the library, which was 
 well furnished with books, and had an air of 
 far greater comfort than the drawing-room. 
 That Death was a man of wide and elegant 
 reading was evident from his bookshelves. 
 Theological and ecclesiastical literature were 
 well represented, but still in that reasonable 
 proportion to more general studies which 
 would indicate a taste not kept within pro- 
 fessional bounds. Perhaps, indeed, the long 
 rows of dramatic authors which ran through 
 shelf after shelf might have scandalised a 
 purist ; while as for Diana, who loved to
 
 1 68 children's children. 
 
 sneer at the narrow education of pious 
 people, she noted these signs of breadth of 
 reading with impatience. Philosophy had its 
 particular shelf, and science also. But Diana 
 observed that poetry was conspicuously ab- 
 sent. Not that she could find fault with this 
 defect, for in her mind there was no such 
 thing as a poet's corner. 
 
 As she thus wandered round the room, 
 her eye fell upon a writing table, where lay a 
 manuscript book which seemed to have been 
 lately used. This book Diana took up and 
 opened, listlessly at first, but as she turned 
 over one or two leaves, her face grew more 
 attentive. Soon she seated herself, and, 
 going back to the beginning of the writing, 
 commenced to read with an appearance of 
 the utmost interest. The handwriting was 
 her brother's, and when she perceived what 
 the book contained she glanced over her
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 1 69 
 
 shoulder to assure herself that the door was 
 shut, so that she could not be observed, and 
 became instantly absorbed in the pages 
 before her, which were nothing less than an 
 autobiography^ written by her brother. The 
 purpose of it Diana did not as yet perceive, 
 but the subject was to her most interesting, 
 and, running over the pages, she tried to 
 calculate if she could get through it before 
 her brother awoke. 
 
 The Autobiography of Death Bolton, 
 
 ' It is not often that one in the prime 
 of life, and in full possession of his facul- 
 ties, sits down to record his experience 
 of the world and man, knowing while he 
 writes that his connection with both must, 
 before many weeks, be dissolved. It is true, 
 that persons under sentence of death, or per- 
 sons who have determined to commit suicide,
 
 170 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 Stand in a position something like that which 
 I describe ; but my state cannot be compared 
 with theirs. I leave the world, not under 
 legal condemnation, nor in any misanthropic, 
 life-hating frame of mind. My life has been 
 in many ways a painful one, but it has been 
 relieved with snatches of exquisite delight ; 
 and although my dearest affection lies in the 
 grave, and calls me to follow, there is un- 
 folding in this world a new love, which in- 
 creases in power and sweetness every day. I 
 am not afraid to die, and I could be well con- 
 tent to live. Die I must, however, for disease 
 has already fixed my fate ; and in this temper, 
 and surrounded with such conditions, I am 
 writing down my experience of human 
 existence. 
 
 'Shall I not add another word? Dear 
 daughter — little Susan, whose eyes, now closed 
 in the sweet sleep of infancy, shall, as I hope,
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. I 7 I 
 
 at a distant day read these pages, not as a 
 child, nor as a girl, but with the judgment 
 and feeline of a woman — I write for vou. 
 You will never know a father's care or a 
 mother's tenderness, but if your life lasts, and 
 my plans for you are carried out — and I 
 believe they will be carried out — you will 
 some day know a little about the love which 
 brought you into being, and which will surely 
 watch over you from the invisible world — if 
 that is permitted — and follow your steps 
 onwards and onwards, until the veil drops, 
 and your mother and father take you into their 
 arms again. 
 
 ' It is for you I write, little baby daughter, 
 sleeping by my side ; and no eye will read 
 these lines until you — then grown into a 
 woman — open this book, and learn a little 
 about your father and mother, whose bodies 
 so many years ago returned to dust. Think,
 
 172 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 Susan — ^thlnk, daughter — as you now read this 
 page, that your Hfe was the pledge and seal of 
 the purest and most passionate love that ever 
 bound two hearts together. 
 
 ' Like you, darling, I never knew my 
 mother, and with sorrow I add, like you, I 
 never knew my father. He lived for others, 
 but he never lived for me. The reason of 
 this cruel alienation I did not understand 
 during his lifetime, but after his dea'th I dis- 
 covered that I became the object of his dislike, 
 because In giving birth to me my mother died. 
 Had I known that my father's aversion to 
 me was rooted in his unchanging devotion 
 to my dead mother, I should have rever- 
 enced his unkindness, instead of rebelling 
 at it.' 
 
 When she came to these words Diana 
 made a grimace, which signified annoyance 
 and disofust. She seemed as if she would
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. I "] ^ 
 
 fling the book away, but restrained herself and 
 read on. 
 
 * My mother ' — so the manuscript con- 
 tinued — ' must have been a woman that could 
 have secured any man's devotion. Her 
 portrait used to hang in my father's study, 
 and before I was four years old it was my 
 habit to steal in there, and gaze upon her. I 
 believe her very life and soul descended from 
 the canvas, and mixed with mine, for all 
 through my childhood and youth — loveless 
 except for her — she seemed to be at my side. 
 She was the mother of the little child who 
 looked up at her with wondering fondness. 
 She was the mother of the boy, and her calm 
 and sacred eyes were always fixed upon him, 
 so that he could never be base or vulgar ; and 
 she was the mother of the young man, half a 
 companion, treated with the gay tenderness 
 with which at such a time a handsome
 
 I 74 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 mother may be treated In actual life, and 
 half worshipped, as Roman Catholics wor- 
 ship their Madonnas. My Madonna she was 
 indeed — the image of all sacredness, sweet- 
 ness, gentleness, and womanly love. 
 
 ' Let me recall that picture. It must 
 have been a particular whim which led the 
 artist to paint it as he did, for I have never 
 seen another like it, and yet it was a truly 
 artistic piece of work. She wore a blue hat, 
 with wide brim, and a great knot of blue at 
 the top, while the string, looped carelessly 
 under her left ear, streamed freely downwards. 
 On each side three white feathers spread out, 
 making the whole head-dress very large, as 
 was, I suppose, the fashion of the day. Her 
 auburn hair clustered round her temples in 
 little curls, not stiff, but soft and graceful as the 
 young tendrils of a vine. Here it was that 
 the artist broke into the fancy I mentioned,
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. I 75 
 
 for instead of carrying out the figure in 
 costume, he painted only the neck and the 
 tips of the shoulders, and these without a 
 trace of dress, all in their pimple beauty, 
 glowing as it were with lovely life. The nose 
 was straight, the mouth — deliciously pouting, 
 a grown man would have said — seemed to me 
 to be always parting into a kiss for her little son, 
 coaxing him upward to press the ripe warm 
 loving lips. The eyes were large and blue, 
 arched over with brows of the finest shape ; 
 and I think their clear, firm, high look gave 
 me my first idea of a purity which dishonour 
 could never breathe upon, and a loftiness of 
 spirit which would not stoop from its eleva- 
 tion for all the world could give. That was 
 my mother — loved, admired, adored, through 
 her picture by her lonely child ; and, in- 
 deed, I believe that my affection for her 
 planted in me the sentiment which, for happi-
 
 176 children's children. 
 
 ness or pain, has been the master-passion of 
 my life. 
 
 * I speak of a master-passion ; there has 
 been another force at work in my Hfe, which 
 from my earHest days has exercised an 
 ominous control over me. I was weakly in 
 my youth, and although I assumed in my 
 later years an aspect of tolerable health and 
 vigour, I never gained that robust and in- 
 grained vitality which belongs to those who 
 are to live long and strenuously. I went 
 through a succession of diseases in childhood, 
 and these complaints were mysteriously ag- 
 gravated by a susceptibility to excitement, 
 which induced fits of frequent delirium. 
 The lightest symptoms of fever were, in my 
 case, accompanied by visions, fancies, de- 
 lirious whims, which flew across my brain 
 with inconceivable swiftness and variety. 
 Even my common dreams were strange,
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. I 77 
 
 vivid, giving glimpses of faces the like of 
 which I had never seen, or causing me to be 
 agitated by passions of which I knew nothing. 
 The very life of my heart began in a dream, 
 while I was yet a very little child. I could 
 not have been more than six years old when 
 I dreamed that I saw a young and beautiful 
 woman standing beside my bed. In some 
 marvellous way I ceased to be a child for the 
 moment. In my dream I was a man, but 
 — though I knew that much — I could by no 
 means interpret the sensation I felt running 
 in my veins, like the blood of a new delight- 
 ful life. I can identify the sensation now ; it 
 was that which a grown man experiences 
 when he looks at a lovely woman — that 
 enamoured admiration which takes the 
 nature captive — but how should a little child 
 be capable of such an emotion ? Alas, I was 
 born with a fatal warmth of disposition which, 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 children's children. 
 
 almost before infancy ended, began beating 
 up through my constitution with prophetic 
 energy. Shall I call such a disposition fatal ? 
 It is true that by it my life has been darkened 
 and roughened ; but its almost creative 
 power gave me a mother in my days of 
 childish orphanhood, and set before m.e in 
 boyhood a girl clad not alone in her own 
 pure sweet beauty, but in a thousand ideal 
 charms which my fancy cast about her. 
 That was your mother, my darling, who, per- 
 haps, while I write is looking down upon her 
 husband and her daughter — her daughter, 
 who will never on earth know 2^ mother's or 
 a father's love. 
 
 ' Let me not wander, for I have much to 
 tell you. This dream-form — this visionary 
 woman — was for years my visitor, and that 
 in the strangest way. First, however, I 
 must remark that about this time my sister
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 79 
 
 was born — my father having married a 
 second time. I was a stranger in the house, 
 no one cared for me ; indeed, everyone 
 scolded and spurned me, so that I lived 
 something the life of a dog, who is used to 
 kicks and hard words, and crouches in 
 corners, grateful to the person who passes 
 him by without a blow. Day after day, a 
 little lonely, sorrowing child, I would creep 
 into my father's study and look up at my 
 mother, who always seemed to pity me, and 
 restore me to calmness and quiet. Once 
 — how well I remember — I met my father 
 on the stairs, as he was going out to ride, 
 and in my hurry to avoid him I stumbled at 
 his feet ; upon which he gave me a smart 
 box upon the ear, and told me I was always 
 in the way. He passed out, and I, with a 
 bursting heart, went to cry as usual beneath 
 my mother's picture ; and here, wearied out
 
 i8o children's children. 
 
 at last, I curled myself up in a great arm 
 chair, and fell asleep. How long I slept I 
 cannot tell, but awakening at the sound of 
 voices, I saw two of the women servants 
 standing before the fire, one of whom held a 
 bundle in her arms. They whispered and 
 nodded to each other for a moment, glancing 
 at me while they did so, and at last she who 
 held the bundle put it before me, and draw- 
 ing aside a blanket, showed me my baby 
 sister. Whether they meant to frighten me 
 or not, I cannot tell, but I know that I 
 screamed with terror. The child had a 
 profusion of black hair, and the ugliest and 
 most forbidding face I ever saw, so that, 
 although seen only for a moment, it printed 
 itself upon my memory with a fidelity that 
 made it for years an image of repulsiveness 
 and horror.'
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. l8l 
 
 Diana laid the book on her lap, and threw 
 herself back in her chair with a bitter trium- 
 phant smile, and continued for a time in that 
 attitude, pondering what she had read.
 
 1 82 children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE Autobiography of death bolton 
 {continued^ 
 
 'Your aunt Diana' — thus the memoir 
 went on — * will never be beautiful, but it is 
 only justice to say that her face in girlhood 
 and later life was not by any means such as 
 I have described it in infancy. The shock 
 which this sudden view of her gave me did 
 not pass away for several years ; indeed, 
 I might rather say that the impression 
 deepened as time went on. I must have 
 been sickening that day for one of my feverish 
 attacks, and no doubt my nerves were, even 
 for me, in an unusually sensitive state. In the 
 evening I became ill, and had to be sent to bed,
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 83 
 
 where I remained many days, and during all 
 that time I was haunted by this hideous baby 
 face, which — more especially in my moments 
 of delirium — almost scared me out of my life. 
 The room would seem to darken all of a 
 sudden, and immediately the face, with its 
 damp locks of raven hair, would appear 
 above me, forcing me to scream out in an 
 agony of fear. The fever passed off in a few 
 days, and the vision with it, but you will not 
 be surprised when I tell you, that in my 
 childish way I connected the disorder with 
 my sister, and believed that the sight of her 
 had made me ill. Under this notion I be- 
 came possessed of the most acute fear of 
 seeing her face again, and, as I dared not 
 confess what I felt, I passed my days in 
 making all sorts of contrivances by which I 
 might avert, or postpone, the dreaded sight, 
 which I knew must sooner or later break
 
 184 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 upon me again. Thus, from the time of her 
 birth my sister was in my eyes an object 
 not of love but of terror.' 
 
 (Here Diana smiled again.) 
 
 ' Her very face became a horrible element 
 of my existence. What I am going to relate 
 will seem fanciful and impossible, but it is 
 strictly true. For seven or eight years 
 following, as often as I fell ill — ^which 
 happened repeatedly — the feverish delirium, 
 from which I invariably suffered, brought 
 with it, as a symptom which recurred several 
 times each night, that strange impression of 
 a darkening of the room, and the presence of 
 the face scowling down upon me, who lay 
 motionless with fear. Nor was this all. 
 There followed, with undeviating regularity, 
 the appearance of that beautiful woman of 
 which I told 3/0U just now, and from before 
 her the hateful face would fly, and I would
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 1 85 
 
 He lapped in a warm sweet light, and with an 
 indescribable sense of safety and peace 
 diffused through my whole being. This 
 alternative vision repeated itself year after 
 year, with surprising reality and identity. 
 At last it ceased, as I thought for ever ; but 
 when I was fifteen — lying, as was believed, 
 upon my dying bed — once more my room 
 grew black, and I found myself shuddering 
 beneath the old frightful face. Then, after 
 an interval of horror, there spread before my 
 eyes the soft light which always foreran the 
 pleasant vision ; the horror fled away, and 
 the beautiful form and countenance which 
 had cheered me so often bent over me as^ain. 
 From that hour I began to mend ; but the 
 double vision was gone, and it never returned, 
 except once, and then indistinctly. 
 
 * I have said that my devotion to my 
 mother's portrait implanted in me, at a
 
 1 86' children's children. 
 
 remarkably early age, a habit of admiring 
 women. I cannot remember the time when 
 the sight of feminine beauty did not affect 
 me, though in a way which was then quite 
 incomprehensible to myself. A curious 
 accident of what I may call my early educa- 
 tion helped to fix and strengthen this habit 
 When I was about nine years old, the 
 Arabian Nights fell into my hands, and I 
 read it greedily. To this day I trace in my 
 tastes and feelings the influence of that singu- 
 lar book. These tales — as most people know 
 — are bathed in the idea of beauty ; but it is 
 beauty either feminine or artificial, as dis- 
 tinguished from what is called the beauty of 
 Nature. So far as I remember, the interests 
 of 'the reader are from first to last detained 
 within the circle of human loveliness ; archi- 
 tecture, groves, fountains, precious stones, 
 are indeed freely displayed before him, but
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 1 87 
 
 woman is the centre of all ; and woman prized 
 and admired for her beauty's sake. Exclusion 
 of all qualities of mind and character, except 
 such sprightliness, constancy, or tenderness in 
 affairs of the heart as are necessary to ani- 
 mate women into subjects for love-stories, is 
 the method of the tales. This was the first 
 work of fiction I read. It was the earliest 
 presentation made to me of woman in her 
 relations with man, and it affected me so 
 powerfully that, after I had read the Arabian 
 Nights, woman became to me — I was still a 
 little child — a thing of beauty, a being 
 created for delight; and the sex, thus re- 
 garded, rose gradually before me as the 
 supreme object of life. 
 
 ' I have dwelt so long upon this matter 
 because the fact may extenuate much that 
 will appear wilful or wild in my subsequent 
 history. Nothing farther in my childhood is
 
 1 88 children's children. 
 
 worthy of record. My early life was never 
 made happy. Two years after my sister, a 
 son was born in our house, and, as my 
 brother and sister grew older, the vexations 
 of my home were aggravated. It was a joy- 
 ful day for me when I was sent to school, 
 and from that time the darkest periods of the 
 year were those which most boys hail with 
 joy, I mean the holiday seasons. 
 
 * My favourite amusement when I was at 
 home was boatinsf ; and a small river, which 
 in its course ran through the estate of a friend 
 of my father, gave me an opportunity of gra- 
 tifying my taste in this particular. At home 
 no one asked where I went, or what I did, 
 and these were pleasant days when I took 
 my dinner with me, and spent the long golden 
 hours from summer morning until evening 
 upon the water. Every turn and winding of 
 that river, every glimpse of the hills and woods,
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 89 
 
 which one saw rolling away on either side in 
 endless variety, is depicted before me now. 
 I have seen each view in all lis^hts and in 
 every sort of weather, for that river was my 
 companion and friend during several years. 
 There were shady spots here and there which 
 gave delightful shelter from the sun, and in 
 those places I have lain moored hour after 
 hour, watching the water run by, or listening 
 to the singing birds, in happy forgetfulness 
 of home and its troubles. But I do not 
 mention this river because of these recollec- 
 tions. It played a more important part in 
 my life than cheering a few lonely boyish 
 days. 
 
 ' In one place the river widens out into a 
 shallow lake-like expanse, where the bottom 
 is gravelly, and the clear stream runs merrily 
 over the stones. Here too the river divides 
 for a space, making by its parting the prettiest
 
 190 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 little island that ever was seen, arid this island, 
 you may suppose — grassy, and fragrant with 
 wild flowers — was a favourite landing place 
 with me. I was rowing quietly towards it one 
 day, when I was surprised by seeing an empty 
 boat floating down the stream in my direction. 
 At the same time I heard a girl's voice, call- 
 ing out in the most supplicating tones — 
 
 ' '* Oh, if you please, stop it; bring it back." 
 ' I looked up. On the edge of the island, 
 which measured perhaps twenty yards by five, 
 stood a little girl, of thirteen or fourteen, as I 
 guessed. She was dressed in white, and 
 wore a dainty little hat, and her feet and 
 ancles were bare — indeed, I believe she was 
 standing in the water. It was evident that she 
 had rowed herself across to the island, and 
 that while she was amusing herself her boat, 
 an old flat-bottomed barge, had slipped its 
 cable, and was now lazily coursing down the
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. I9I 
 
 river, leaving her in an agony of distress. 
 As soon as she saw me look up; she cried out 
 again, with redoubled supplication, " Do catch 
 it, if you please ; what shall I do ? " 
 
 ' How proudly a youth performs his first 
 act as deliverer of the sex which has hitherto 
 been his guardian, if not his ruler ! The op- 
 portunity was a brave one for a lad like me. 
 I could not help stopping to admire the 
 young girl, even before I tried to help her — 
 she looked so pretty, standing with her dress 
 raised cautiously, and the water still playing 
 over her little white feet, while her face and 
 eyes were all excitement and alarm. To 
 secure the dull old boat, which came hulking 
 downwards, was only the work of a moment, 
 and very soon I towed it back to the island 
 where the little girl, quite forgetting her naked 
 feet, danced on the shore for joy. She had 
 auburn hair, blue eyes, a mouth better
 
 192 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 moulded, perhaps, to express tenderness 
 than to illustrate the laws of beauty, but 
 pretty enough meanwhile ; in a word, she was 
 the image of my mother, so far as I could 
 fancy that dear being a little child. I forgot 
 everything for a moment ; I had never seen 
 anyone so lovely before, and no doubt I 
 seemed awkward enough. 
 
 ' " Let me row you back," I managed to 
 say at last ; " you will never get over in this 
 boat." 
 
 ' '' Oh, no, thank you," she answered. Her 
 voice had a silvery ring, and she uttered 
 each word with a clearness that struck me as 
 remarkable in so young a person. '* I can row 
 myself quite nicely." 
 
 ' '' Never mind that, come with me," I 
 said. " I shall take you over and then go 
 back for the boat." 
 
 * She looked at me, and something in her
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 93 
 
 girlish eyes met something in my boyish 
 eyes that set my heart beating. Then she 
 glanced round, and, seeing we were alone, 
 said with half a blush and half a smile : 
 " Very well ; I shall come, but you must be 
 ver^' quick." 
 
 'At the word she sprang into my boat, 
 holding my hand. Until that moment she 
 never remembered her feet, and she turned 
 red as a rose upon seeing the condition she 
 was in. Had I not been quite as nervous 
 as she, I might have enjoyed her desperate 
 attempts to cover her toes with her dress, 
 but I felt so bashful that I had not the pre- 
 sence of mind even to eke out the passage ; 
 indeed, I rowed as if in a race, and put her 
 on shore in a twinklino^. 
 
 ' She had to wait for her shoes and 
 stockings until the old boat where they lay 
 was brought over, and even then she tried to 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 hide her naked feet, until I, seeing her con- 
 fusion, rowed away, carrying her image in 
 my heart, enHvened by a smile which she 
 gave as I disappeared round the bend of the 
 river. 
 
 ' From that hour I lived a new life. That 
 little girl became the idol and the dream of 
 my heart ; and now that she is with the 
 angels of God, it is my chief happiness to 
 think that, during all the years which ran 
 between that time and the moment of our 
 final separation, I never saw beauty in any 
 woman except when something reminded me 
 of her ; I never ceased to love her, or 
 divided my affections with any other. And 
 fully she repaid me. I have been what the 
 world calls an unfortunate man, and I am 
 now descending to an early grave, but for all 
 that I have drunk deep of happiness ; indeed, 
 I lived too intensely to live long. Our
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 95 
 
 married life, amidst all its troubles, was a 
 feast of ever fresh delights. Let others live 
 after their own hearts, and be prosperous, as 
 prosperity goes. I have had joy enough, 
 and to spare ; my cup has run over.' 
 
 Diana read these words with the harshest 
 of frowns, and made an impatient movement 
 in her chair ; but she glanced at the timepiece 
 and resumed her reading. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON 
 
 (continued), 
 
 ' The records of a boyish love, however con- 
 stant,' thus the manuscript continued, ' read 
 fooHshly, and I shall relate this part of my 
 story as briefly as possible. For two years 
 and a half I never saw my little sweetheart 
 again, though morning and evening her form 
 was before me. At last I met her in the 
 street, driving with an elderly lady in an 
 open carriage. She went by rapidly, but I 
 had time to recognise her, and I guessed 
 then (and knew some time after) that she 
 also recognised me. She wore deep black 
 and looked pale ; indeed, her mother had just
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 97 
 
 died, and, like myself, she was left to the 
 care of a father who regarded her with in- 
 difference, if not with dislike. I took care to 
 observe the carriage and horses, and after a 
 little inquiry discovered my dear one's name. 
 I heard it with a leaping heart — Susan 
 Frere. I felt as if she were already mine 
 when I knew her name. 
 
 * She lived about two miles from the town, 
 and by walking the road that led to her 
 house for several hours every day I managed, 
 during these holidays, to see her seven times. 
 Twice she was walking, like myself, but the 
 other glimpses were snatched as the carriage 
 drove by. Nevertheless, I flattered myself 
 that my admiration was no longer altogether 
 a secret ; I even thought she returned my 
 looks with earnestness, thouq-h no doubt this 
 was but fancy. 
 
 ' I went back to school. On my next
 
 198 children's children. 
 
 return home I found that Miss Frere had 
 left England, and three years elapsed before 
 I saw her face again ; but never can I forget 
 the circumstances of that meeting. I had 
 left school and commenced my studies at 
 Oxford, and had there made the acquaintance 
 of a young man of my own age, named 
 Molton, who, without being in any remark- 
 able degree clever or brilliant, was one of 
 the most engaging persons I ever met. He 
 was diminutive and very neatly built, with 
 small delicate hands and feet ; and his gay, 
 refined address carried out in the most 
 agreeable way the rather feminine cast of his 
 form and features. His conduct was irre- 
 proachable ; indeed, while lively and fascina- 
 ting to a remarkable degree, he discovered at 
 all suitable times a detestation of vice, which 
 was the more marked because his ordinary 
 manners were full of the repose which belongs
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 1 99 
 
 to men of high breeding. For some reason, 
 which I never understood, he took a fancy 
 to me when he first sa\v me, and was at con- 
 siderable pains to get introduced to me ; 
 while for my part I was eager enough to 
 pursue an acquaintance which was pleasing 
 in itself, and flattered my vanity besides. 
 Our friendship was interesting, and I recall 
 it with that mingled pain and delight which 
 we feel when reviewing the happy past ; 
 but I w^ill not enlarge upon that subject. 
 Molton asked me to visit him at his home 
 during the vacation, and I — delighted to 
 escape from my father's rigid supervision — 
 accepted the invitation wath joy. 
 
 * Molton's home was at the seaside, near a 
 coast which is in places rough and rocky, but 
 elsewhere along its rough indented line there 
 are many small bays, where the curved beach 
 is delightfully smooth, and the waters break
 
 200 children's children. 
 
 in waves of the clearest blue upon the round 
 gravel. Nothing could be more secluded 
 than these nooks, and when one came upon 
 such a scene of peace and solitude, after a 
 climb around precipitous rocks, and cliffs 
 which frowned hundreds of feet overhead, the 
 contrast was most picturesque and romantic. 
 Molton was the only child of aged parents, 
 and the house was quiet even to dulness, but 
 the utmost freedom was accorded to a visitor, 
 who might occupy his time as he liked best. 
 In my case this liberty was made more com- 
 plete by the fact that my friend was reading 
 hard, and spent a considerable p^rt of each 
 day over his books, leaving me to walk, or 
 ride, or fish, as my fancy led me. I enjoyed 
 this kind of life immensely, and hardly 
 thought that anything could increase my 
 satisfaction, until a simple accident taught me 
 how elastic is the scale of human happiness.
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 20I 
 
 and how soon the pleasure of the most 
 contented mind may be augmented and 
 quickened. 
 
 * My favourite pastime was to roam along 
 the shore, climbing round one rocky point 
 after another, and diverting myself with 
 slippery ascents and hair-breadth leaps, in 
 which I considered myself to excel, having a 
 firm foot and a quick eye. I was crossing a 
 rugged heap of rocks covered with seaweed, 
 and, to test my skill, resolved that in my flight 
 I would not falter a moment, but raise one 
 foot as soon as I put the other down. I had 
 almost finished my exploit, and the next bound 
 would have landed me on the smooth beach, 
 when at an unlucky step I lost my footing, 
 and fell with great force upon the rock, 
 whence the next moment I rolled down upon 
 the sand. Here I lay motionless for a while, 
 indeed, I must have been stunned, and when
 
 202 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 I recovered myself a little and attempted to 
 move, I felt such excruciating pain that I was 
 forced to cry out. I soon found that I could 
 not rise, and exhausted with the effort and 
 the suffering I fell back, and became un- 
 conscious again. 
 
 ' It may have been a mere act of uncon- 
 scious recollection — or it may have been a 
 fragment of my old habitual vision — but, 
 without any doubt, as I lay there, the dark 
 horrid face that haunted my childhood seemed 
 to swoop down upon me, like a flying bird, 
 and vanish as swiftly as it appeared. Imme- 
 diately after came the inexplicable feeling of 
 relief and calmness, and the beautiful, familiar 
 face gazing at me with angelic sweetness. 
 
 ' But, wonderful to tell, instead of growing 
 more shadowy as my senses slowly regathered 
 themselves, the face became clearer and more 
 actual. I felt warm breath upon my cheek.
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 203 
 
 My full consciousness returned, and I saw the 
 rocks around me, and the blue sky overhead, 
 and I heard the waves breaking close to my 
 feet; and at last I perceived, with inde- 
 scribable surprise and agitation, that there 
 was above me — no visionary face, but — a 
 living woman, bending down with kind and 
 anxious eyes. 
 
 ' Shall I ever forget her look ? I think if 
 every other vestige of the incidents of my life 
 were obliterated from my memory, that face 
 would still remain, for surely it printed itself 
 deeper than anything beside that I ever felt 
 or saw. A face complete in beauty — a 
 character promised in the face — a life, fore- 
 shadowed in the expression which shone with 
 truth and love — all this I saw in that 
 awakening moment. I saw my wife, and in 
 her I saw the promise of our wedded life. 
 
 ' Daughter, shall I paint your mother's
 
 204 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 countenance and her form as, swifter than 
 thought itself it seemed, she was then dis- 
 closed to me ? She seemed no other than 
 the woman of my dreams in real flesh and 
 blood. Auburn hair, a skin marvellously 
 white, eyes so blue that they might have 
 been cut out of the sky that spread above 
 her, a mouth trembling into perfection of 
 shape as she began to speak, a figure whose 
 round and graceful lines seemed rather to 
 create than to fulfil ideas of symmetry. This 
 was the sight which greeted my returning 
 senses. You will not be surprised to hear 
 that I looked on in wonder and speechless 
 admiration. 
 
 ' *' I saw you fall," she said ; " are you 
 very much hurt ? " 
 
 * I could not answer : surprise was turning 
 into another sensation, which completely 
 overmastered me.
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 205 
 
 '"Can you not speak?" she continued ; 
 ''what can I do for you? try to answer me." 
 
 ' Little the kind creature guessed what it 
 was that held my breath, and almost my 
 reason, in suspense ; and when I spoke at 
 last — faintly, and not yet, I suppose, with full 
 consciousness — she had good reason for 
 surprise. 
 
 ' " Susan," I gasped, " where have you 
 come from ? " 
 
 ' She drew back in amazement, but the 
 next moment I saw that she recognised me, 
 and the colour that overspread her lovely 
 face told me, somehow, that her heart was 
 mine.'
 
 2o6 children's children. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON 
 
 (continued), 
 
 Diana, with an air of great austerity, peeped 
 at the two or three leaves immediately suc- 
 ceeding, and turned them over contemptu- 
 ously, resuming the narrative at the point 
 where it appeared to her that the outburst of 
 sentiment had spent its greatest force. 
 
 * Miss Frere — let me give her that name 
 for once — was visiting friends who lived 
 about a mile off, and who, being new-comers, 
 had not yet made the acquaintance of the 
 Moltons, a fact which was fortunate rather 
 than the contrary for us, as lovers. She, like 
 myself, had several hours in each day at her
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 207 
 
 own disposal, and I leave you to guess how — 
 yielding to my persuasion — she spent those 
 happy intervals. Poor girl, in response to 
 my first transports, she confessed more than 
 was prudent, and once in the possession of 
 the secret of her heart, I took advantage of 
 my knowledge, and so pressed her that she 
 granted me many an interview which cost her 
 dear sensitive conscience painful misgivings. 
 Her ties of duty w^ere not, perhaps, so strong 
 as those of many a daughter, but she had a 
 profound sense of honour, and I believe there 
 w^as a tinge of bitterness for her even in the 
 rapture of those early meetings. There was 
 no such bitterness for me. Golden days of 
 one and twenty ! After all, when every 
 credit has been given to strength of will and 
 constancy of affection, the hard fact remains, 
 that love thrives best in an ideal world. 
 Pounds, shillings, and pence — cares — the
 
 2o8 children's children. 
 
 battle of life, In short, and the sober experience 
 which it brings — are not the atmosphere in 
 which love breathes freely. It is in youth, 
 when sorrow is far away, and the capacities 
 for enjoyment are fresh, and the colours of 
 imagination untarnished by contact with 
 reality — then we know what it is to love. 
 The affections which in later life are usually 
 divided among children or friends flow in all 
 their sweetness and strength towards one 
 being only. Bright world of early love ! 
 From its blissful precincts sorrow and sighing 
 flee away. Why has the sea for m.e a music 
 which may change its note but is always full 
 of deep harmonies ? It must be because while 
 Susan and I made love we were listening all 
 the time to the ever-changing music of the 
 waves. When they broke softly on the shore, 
 where we sat hand in hand, the voice of the 
 waters seemed to mingle with my own, and
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 209 
 
 carry the words in which I told my love into 
 her ears ; and once or twice when the weather 
 was stormy we walked that beach together, 
 and as the billows beat upon the rocks, and 
 shot up in pillars of spray, she would cling 
 closer to my side. The sea was our com- 
 panion as we made love, and a suggestive 
 companion we found it. 
 
 ' Her mother, as I have already told you, 
 had been dead for some years, and her father 
 having lately married again, her home, like 
 my own, was unhappy. Of course we con- 
 doled with each other, and the similarity of 
 our troubles drew us more closely together. 
 Indeed, I progressed with the audacity of 
 youth and inexperience, and before our 
 acquaintance was a week old I had asked her 
 to be my wife. Here our difficulties began. 
 I told my friend Molton the whole story, and 
 he, while showing the warmest interest in 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2IO CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 the affair, pointed out to me the Imprudence 
 of pursuing an attachment in this secret way. 
 His knowledge of life far exceeded my own, 
 and he conveyed his opinions in the most 
 delicate manner, so that I could not but listen 
 to his advice. He urged that, when I re- 
 turned to my home, I should ignore this 
 accidental and temporary acquaintance, and 
 obtain an introduction to Miss Frere in 
 an ordinary way ; and then communicate 
 the fact of my affection for her, first to my 
 own father and then to hers. I fell In. with 
 this suggestion the more readily because the 
 mere mention of it seemed to relieve my 
 darling from a thousand perplexities and 
 fears, and, having arranged all, and the time 
 fixed for my return to my home being come, 
 we met for one parting walk and talk, at the 
 scene of our first encounter and interview. 
 V Susans step-mother had joined her two
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 2 I I 
 
 or three days before, and, as subsequently 
 appeared, she found out, or at least began to 
 suspect, that her daughter had a secret. Mrs. 
 Frere was an officer's child, and from her 
 youth had been notorious for two qualities — 
 an ungovernable temper, and an ardent 
 desire for a husband. Until she was forty- 
 five, in spite of a series of flirtations carried 
 out in a truly military spirit, she did not 
 attain to the state of matrimony, and no 
 doubt this delay had served to exasperate 
 the natural seventy of her disposition. When 
 at last she became mistress of a family, she 
 was a mistress indeed. Stories were cir- 
 culated a few years later which told how the 
 lady, in her more exalted moods, would 
 flourish a carving-knife around the face of 
 her lord and master, because he failed to see 
 her point in an argument ; and in other 
 respects she conducted herself so violently, 
 
 P 2
 
 212 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 that he — who was by no means a craven- 
 spirited man — quailed before her. She was 
 handsome, strongly built, and her colour was 
 high, appearing on each cheek in a large irre- 
 gular patch, with uneven edges, like a flag 
 which had been tattered in successive actions. 
 At the particular juncture I have just described 
 this terrible woman became the spy upon 
 our courtship, and unhappily she came upon 
 us at the very tenderest moment of our leave 
 taking. I shall not try to describe the scene 
 that followed. Mrs. Frere, exulting in her 
 discovery, but inflamed with rage, swept the 
 weeping girl from my side, refusing with the 
 utmost scorn to listen to my explanations, 
 and pouring upon me a volley of reproaches 
 and threats. Susan, overwhelmed with 
 terror, did not dare to look up, and so for the 
 time we parted. 
 
 * With a thousand heroical projects in my
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 213 
 
 mind for the rescue of my beloved one, I re- 
 turned to Molton's home, where I told him 
 the story of our misfortune. His advice was 
 as usual calm and sensible, and he added to 
 It the great kindness of accompanying me to 
 Warcaster to help me through my approach- 
 ing trial. 
 
 * If Mrs. Frere had been capable of cool 
 reflection, she would have perceived that her 
 discovery was one which might be turned to 
 a useful end. She wished above all things 
 to get her step-daughter married, so as to 
 rid herself of an incumbrance, and it ought to 
 have occurred to her that a match between 
 Susan and myself was not an unreasonable 
 Idea, though perhaps premature. She would 
 not, however, for any consideration of pru- 
 dence, forget or forgive the slight we had put 
 upon her maternal dignity. We had kept a 
 secret from her, and she, by her penetration,
 
 214 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 had brought it to light ; reparation or atone- 
 ment on our part was impossible now, and 
 she would have her revenge. Accordingly 
 she had no sooner reached her own home 
 than she related the whole affair to her 
 husband, taking care to heighten the effect of 
 her narrative by every artifice of invention 
 and malice. In a word, she dispatched her 
 husband to my father in a mood of the most 
 dangerous excitement and anger, and, as you 
 may suppose, the interview between the two 
 was short and furious. My father at his best 
 was snappish and overbearing, and accus- 
 tomed to demand from others the most 
 complete deference and submission. To be 
 upbraided as Mr. Frere ventured to upbraid 
 him was an event in his life which had few 
 parallels or none, and he became so trans- 
 ported with rage that the two very nearly 
 came to blows, and when they parted it was
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 2 I 5 
 
 Upon such terms as rendered any future ^ 
 friendly approach impossible. In due time 
 the remainder of my father's wrath was 
 discharged upon my head. He swore 
 that if I ever again exchanged a word with 
 Miss Frere, much less entertained a thought 
 of marrying her, my fate as his son was 
 sealed. He did not imagine that I could 
 resist his will, and so, refusing to hear me 
 speak, he drove me from the room. 
 
 ' Broken-hearted I went to Molton, who 
 was staying at the hotel which is now called 
 *' The County," but was then known as the 
 " White Horse." Molton was the most kind 
 and consoling friend that could have been 
 found for such an occasion. He expressed 
 great sympathy with me, but he mingled with 
 this many gay and hopeful remarks, all con- 
 ceived and uttered in a style of gay, delicate 
 humour, for which he was, among all the
 
 2j6 children's children. 
 
 men I have known — and all the women too — 
 unrivalled. Insensibly, under the charm of 
 his conversation, my spirits rose, and when 
 he asked me to dine with him, although 
 two hours before I had wished for the 
 grave, I accepted the invitation cheerfully, 
 and began to feel some signs of a coming 
 appetite. 
 
 * What is so pleasant as sunshine after 
 storm ? To this hour I remember that cosy 
 dinner, and the thousand lively sayings of my 
 friend, who tried by every means to cheer 
 and reassure me. The wines of that once 
 renowned house were some of the best in 
 England, and my state of mind led me to 
 drink with imprudent freedom, while Molton, 
 who on another occasion would have given 
 me a gentle hint that I must not forget myself, 
 seemed to think that this night an extra glass 
 would not hurt me. At last, however, by a
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 2 I 7 
 
 polite device he contrived, as he believed, to 
 draw me from the table before any harm had 
 been done. There was a concert in the 
 Assembly Room of the hotel that evening, 
 and he proposed that we should enjoy the 
 music for an hour, and upon my consenting 
 he left the room to see about the tickets. He 
 returned with them in his hand, and did not 
 perceive that during his absence I had been 
 again making free with the decanter. I still 
 retained decent self-control, and walked with 
 him to the concert-room, where we took our 
 seats in the front row. No sooner had I sat 
 down, however, than my head began to swim, 
 and the lio^hts danced around me. For a 
 little while I knew that I was going to be 
 drunk, and felt nervous and miserable, but 
 this disagreeable sensation soon passed away, 
 and I became no longer conscious of uneasi- 
 ness, or afraid of committing any imprudence.
 
 2i8 children's children. 
 
 Hereupon ensued the scene whicl) I shall try 
 to relate. 
 
 * The concert was classical. Only instru- 
 mental music was permitted, and this of a 
 severe sort. The performers occupied a 
 raised platform, not at the end but in the 
 centre of the room, and the company sat all 
 round, so that everybody saw everybody. 
 The instruments were being timed as we took 
 our places — how well, in spite of my swim- 
 ming senses, I remember all that passed ! — and 
 their squeaking and wheezing and grunting 
 were no doubt taken for a scientific introduc- 
 tion by others of the audience beside myself ; 
 for the symphony was so truly classical that I 
 was not a little puzzled to decide when the 
 tuning ended and the music began. This 
 perplexity I might assign to another cause 
 had not the facsimile of it arisen on other 
 occasions in my life, when the confusion
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 2I9 
 
 could not have been complicated by wine. 
 At present I did not attempt to listen, but 
 amused myself with looking at the company. 
 Straight opposite to me sat an old lady, 
 dressed for young, and twinkling all over with 
 diamonds. At a distance of six or eight 
 yards I could distinguish that her hair was 
 false, and that she was very old, very wrinkled, 
 and very sour. Her hands were folded, and 
 she sat erect, frowning, as I thought, on 
 the really young and pretty women who sat 
 around her. In some mysterious way this old 
 lady interested me, and I watched her for a 
 considerable time and with greater freedom 
 than was quite proper, but Indeed propriety 
 was suspended for me during the rest of that 
 night. After a while I turned to look at a 
 lady who sat next but one to this glittering 
 antiquity, and my heart leaped as I recognised 
 Mrs. Frere. At the second glance I saw that
 
 220 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 my Susan was sitting in the intermediate 
 place, guarded, it appeared, by her mother 
 and this old spangled dragon, who I learned 
 afterwards was a widowed aunt. 
 
 * Susan wore a plain white dress, open at 
 the neck, and her beautiful arms were bare, 
 and without any ornament, as surely they 
 needed none. Except for a girdle of ribbon 
 which, after binding her waist, fell down the 
 front of her dress, she was in all respects una- 
 dorned, and her youth and beauty were not 
 in stronger contrast with the hag at her side 
 than was the simplicity of her attire with the 
 costly and artificial apparel of the other. 
 Susan looked quite cast down, and sat with 
 her gaze fixed on the ground, an equal picture 
 of loveliness and grief, and as I watched her 
 with a burning heart — from the moment I saw 
 her I saw nothing beside — I perceived a tear 
 running down her cheek. She brushed it
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 221 
 
 hastily away and raised her head, fearing, 
 I suppose, that her sorrow might provoke 
 a rebuke. As she looked up she saw me 
 for the first time, and before she knew what 
 she was about she had given me an Inde- 
 scribable glance of love. 
 
 * I was myself no longer. Wine had 
 already exalted my spirits, and effaced con- 
 ventional proprieties from my mind. The 
 sight of Susan's tear had nearly overcome me, 
 and this look finished the work. Caught up 
 as It were in a whirlwind of feeling, I sprang 
 from my seat, and bounded across the dais, 
 upsetting the first fiddle In my course, and 
 imparting thereby to the presto finale move- 
 ment of the symphony an unlooked for viva- 
 city. Hearing nothing, and seeing one object 
 only, I threw my arms around Susan's neck, 
 and covered her with kisses. 
 
 ' Little kaleidoscope fragments of what
 
 2 22 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 followed I remember, but nothing more. I 
 saw the blood mantling her face and neck, but 
 I caught a look from her eyes, even in her 
 amazement and agitation, which I would not 
 have missed for worlds. I knew that the 
 music stopped. I saw people rising from 
 their seats, and I heard a whole flight of 
 ejaculations from every side. My old friend 
 in her diamonds started up. and screamed, 
 '' Keep your hands off me, young man ! " Then 
 Molton was at my side — and all the rest was 
 a blank.'
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX 
 
 [contimied), 
 
 * That,' said Diana to herself, with a curling 
 lip, ' is your account of a drunken brawl, 
 which disgraced you, and, what was of more 
 consequence, your family with you. If the 
 rest of your story is not more accurate than 
 this passage, your own Arabian Nights would 
 scarcely surpass it for invention/ After this 
 reflection she beijan to read ao^ain : 
 
 ' I shall not follow out the vicissitudes of 
 our courtship, which was a mixture of rough 
 and smooth, such as befits true love. During 
 the next two years I had many stolen inter- 
 views with my dear one, and was able to keep
 
 2 24 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 Up a tolerably regular correspondence with 
 her, through the fidelity — or, as Mrs. Frere 
 would have called it, the perfidy — of one of 
 the maids. Susan s life became most unhappy. 
 During one of our meetings she detailed 
 to me a number of petty persecutions and 
 miseries which she had lately undergone 
 through the malice of her step-mother, and I 
 seized the opportunity, and persuaded her to 
 promise that she would fly from her home, 
 and become my wife. At this time I was in 
 Holy Orders, and I confess that, even under 
 the circumstances, I was wrong to propose 
 such a step, but we were violently in love, 
 and had been driven to desperation. I made 
 every preparation with the utmost secrecy, 
 arranging that Susan should fly to a remote 
 hamlet in Wales, where she was to live with 
 an old woman, who had been nurse to her 
 mother, until we could become man and wife.
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 225 
 
 She insisted on travelling by herself, to avoid 
 scandal as far as possible, nor would she per- 
 mit me to see anything of her on the day of 
 her flight, except for a few moments. All 
 our preparations were completed, and it was 
 agreed that I should meet her at five o'clock 
 in the morning with a carriage-and-pair, which 
 was to convey her to a railway station five 
 miles outside the city. From thence she and 
 her faithful maid resolved to travel by them- 
 selves, and I was not to see her face again 
 until our wedding-day. How my heart beat 
 at the word ! 
 
 * Five o'clock came, that balmy July morn- 
 ing, and I was in readiness at the appointed 
 spot. A church stood hard by, and the last 
 stroke of the hour still vibrated in the quiet 
 air when I saw the dear girl appear. In a 
 moment I was at her side ; and seeing her 
 bathed in tears, I poured out all the tender 
 
 VOL. L Q
 
 2 26 children's children. 
 
 assurances of coming love and happiness that 
 the occasion and her presence could suggest. 
 But, in the midst of my protestations, she bid 
 me pause and listen to her. I shall never 
 forget the inexpressible sweetness and gentle- 
 ness of her manner as she took my hand. 
 
 ' " I cannot go, dearest," she said. '' We 
 have been foolish to think of such a thing. 
 Let us wait, and trust in God." 
 
 ' Even to you I could not impart the se- 
 crets of her soul which she confided to me at 
 that time. She had thought the matter over 
 during the night, and had decided that it 
 would be wicked to leave her home in this 
 clandestine way. Nothing could shake her 
 resolution, which seemed composed at once 
 of the most delicate and the most inflexible 
 materials. She kissed me as if she had done 
 me an injury, and would supplicate forgive- 
 ness, but at the same time she maintained her
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 22 7 
 
 purpose In spite of all my arguments and 
 -entreaties. In short, she was an angel — a 
 perfect blending of tenderness and rectitude. 
 The morning wind that went lightly by us 
 was not sweeter than her breath, nor the early 
 skies purer than her guileless soul. She left 
 me at last, and I loved her more than ever 
 for her modesty and truth. Perhaps by her 
 words and bearing she had cooled the fever- 
 ishness of my passion, but I felt as if she was 
 of all women the most womanly, and I vowed 
 to myself as she vanished from my sight that 
 my heart, which an instant before had been 
 beating against hers, should never beat for 
 another. It never did. Let those who will 
 rehearse the raptures of a roving affection. I 
 tried married love and single devotion, and 
 tasted joys which no poet ever sung. 
 
 ' Three months later we were married — 
 against the wishes of our friends on both 
 
 Q2
 
 2 28 children's children. 
 
 sides, it is true — but still openly, and without 
 fear of reproach. And now came the fatal 
 mistake of my life. 
 
 ' " We shall be very poor, shall we not ? '" 
 my darling asked me on the evening of our 
 wedding-day ; for she was full of common 
 sense, and would look life in the face. 
 
 * " Certainly not," cried I, assuming a 
 spirited air. 
 
 * *' I am not afraid of poverty," the dear 
 being continued. *' Do not fancy because 
 papas way of living is so luxurious that I 
 cannot endure hardship. You shall find me 
 a cheaper wife," cried she, laughingly, *' than 
 any poor curates daughter. Plain things 
 will be a novelty to me, and when you are a 
 bishop I can turn fine lady again." 
 
 ' I cannot describe the enchanting assur- 
 ances with which she enforced her protesta- 
 tions that, as my companion and helper, an}'
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTOX. 2 29 
 
 kind of life would be agreeable to her. Un- 
 fortunately I dissembled with her, and, by 
 artful phrases and glowing expectations as 
 to my future prospects from my father, I 
 persuaded her that we might commence a 
 style of living which, if not positively luxu- 
 rious, was yet equally above our necessi- 
 ties and our means. I determined that she 
 should never know poverty, and, thank God, 
 she never did know it; but I feel now that in 
 not allowino^ her to share to the full the diffi- 
 cultles of her husband's life I wronged her, 
 and irreparably Injured my ov/n prospects. 
 However, if I did not love your mother wisely, 
 I at least loved her well. Here in a few 
 words let me — even If I weary you — say that 
 no man ever had a more devoted or delight- 
 ful companion. By this time she had grown 
 more womanly in her appearance, and her 
 figure was slightly but not ungracefully stout ;
 
 230 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 indeed, plumpness brought out more fully the 
 singular symmetry of her neck and shoulders. 
 Her hair was abundant, and its rich auburn,, 
 together with a skin of excessive whiteness, 
 made a charming contrast. I have looked at 
 your little baby features by the hour as you 
 lie at my side, and I try to trace 3^our mo- 
 ther there. Her mouth is yours — a mouth 
 scarcely beautiful, perhaps, except to me — 
 and you have her forehead to a nicety. God 
 shield your face from shadow and sorrow, my 
 darling, in the long days to come, when father 
 as well as mother shall be far away. 
 
 'Just before my marriage I had been 
 appointed to the vicarage of Danbury. The 
 post was an important one ; and not a little 
 surprise was expressed that the Bishop should 
 have promoted so young a man to it. Two 
 things had, however, conspired to bring this, 
 about : the living was a poor one, and I had
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 23 I 
 
 already been favoured with the approval of 
 my Bishop on account of what he termed my 
 eloquence. Now let me tell you a secret. 
 The benefice did not yield to the incumbent 
 quite a hundred a year when the various 
 charges were paid, and our annual expendi- 
 ture was not much less than eight hundred. 
 At the time of my marriage I was master of 
 four thousand pounds, part of my own mother's 
 fortune : Susan was penniless ; and thus, by 
 a simple calculation, you will see that within 
 four years after our marriage I had reason 
 to feel seriously anxious about our future. 
 Twice I had tried to effect a reconciliation 
 with my father, and each time I was received 
 with a sort of ironical forbearance which — 
 more than any violent speech could have 
 done — convinced me that I had little to 
 expect from him. All this time your mother 
 knew nothing of my approaching embarrass-
 
 232 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 ments, and actually imagined that we lived 
 upon our income. I was on the point of 
 telling her the whole truth, when the news 
 that my father was dangerously ill opened 
 before me a prospect of relief from my 
 anxieties. I could neither feel nor affect 
 deep sorrow at the thought of losing one 
 whose only paternal relations with me had 
 been tyrannical ; and I never suspected that 
 he would altogether disinherit me. When, 
 after his death, I learned that he had left me 
 only ten pounds I was petrified, and in one 
 moment of bitter agony realised the folly of 
 my conduct since our marriage. It was too 
 late, however. Neither from my brother nor 
 from my sister could I expect help, or even 
 sympathy, for they never really loved me. I 
 was an outcast, and ruin stared me in the 
 face. In spite of this, however, I did not tell 
 your mother of our misfortune. She had
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 233 
 
 begun to show symptoms of delicate health, 
 and I postponed the dreaded disclosure from 
 day to day, and from month to month. My 
 stock of money was not yet exhausted, and I 
 was compelled again to defer any revelation 
 on the subject, when my dear girl told me 
 that she was going to add to the cares of a 
 wife those of a mother also. 
 
 ' On the day that you were born I broke 
 into my last hundred pounds. What a 
 terrible disclosure hung over my darling 
 Susan's head ! How I struggled, against my 
 breaking heart, to seem as proud as she, 
 happy mother, felt ! Fortunately, before the 
 gloom of my thoughts became unbearable, a 
 ray of hope appeared, and I was spared the 
 pain of a disclosure which would have ago- 
 nised your mother, and that — as the event 
 showed — at a time when the vicissitudes of 
 life were soon to affect her no more.
 
 234 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 ' In a letter which I wrote to my true 
 and constant friend Molton announcing your 
 birth I had, against my will, and without my 
 being aware of it, discovered so great a 
 depression of spirits, that he, whose instinct 
 was as quick as a woman's, at once perceived 
 that something was wrong. He hurried to 
 me, and declared his misgivings with the 
 most generous earnestness, and my pride and 
 reticence could not long withstand his affec- 
 tionate solicitude. I forgot my manhood and 
 his, and, casting myself into his arms, told, 
 amidst sobs and tears, the secret that for two 
 years had weighed upon my heart. He com- 
 forted me with angelic tenderness ; and when 
 the violence of my anguish had abated, he 
 made a proposal to me the generosity of which 
 fairly took away my breath. Its nature I must 
 not disclose even to you, for I am bound to 
 perpetual secrecy on the subject. This, how-
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 235 
 
 ever, I may say— not for many years will you 
 read what I am now writing — if ever you 
 know either Molton himself, or any that bear 
 his name, remember that your mother's last 
 days were shielded from inexpressible grief, 
 and — for so it will be — your own infancy and 
 youth nourished b}' the goodness of your 
 father's friend. But, to confine myself to the 
 present incidents of my narrative, I may say 
 that I was now enabled to postpone the dis- 
 closure of my embarrassments until a more 
 suitable time, and to look forward to making 
 it then under circumstances of mitigated 
 severity. I breathed again. My spirits 
 returned, and the fears vanished from my 
 mind like clouds before spring sunshine. I 
 felt assured that the same Providence which 
 had saved my darling from this impending 
 misery would guard her when the hour of 
 trial again drew near. Little I thought, as I
 
 236 children's children. 
 
 watched her bending over her baby In all the 
 fresh loveliness of early motherhood, how 
 soon she was to be snatched away from 
 earthly sorrow and joy. 
 
 * You were now six weeks old ; and as 
 your mother did not progress so rapidly as 
 we wished, the doctor proposed a visit to the 
 seaside, whither it was arranged we should 
 all go together. I had made suitable ar- 
 rangements for the care of my parish, and 
 was ready to start, when a friend came to 
 me with an important face and informed me 
 that the Duke of Warminster, who had a 
 valuable living to give away, had formed the 
 intention of hearing me preach, as my name 
 had been mentioned to him as a likely person 
 for the vacant benefice. The next Sunday 
 had been fixed upon by his Grace for this all- 
 important event. Of course absence was not 
 to be thought of My darling was in the
 
 THE AL'TOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 237 
 
 Utmost exaltation of spirits. She had the 
 most unaffected and unwavering confidence 
 in my powers, and felt as sure of the Duke s 
 good will as if it had been already secured. 
 She, with yourself and her maid, started for 
 the sea, and I was to follow on Tuesday, 
 She did not doubt but on that day she should 
 hear the good news of my appointment from 
 my own lips. I see her now, waving her 
 hand as we parted, her eyes shining with 
 pride, and joy, and hope. Sweet angel of my 
 life ! before Tuesday morning dawned she 
 was with her Redeemer. Had she been 
 here what different tidings would have 
 reached her ! 
 
 * I must tell you myself — lest, perhaps. In 
 days to come some harsh tongue should de- 
 scribe }'Our father s infirmity in order to cause 
 you shame — that I had become too fond of 
 wine. Let me explain. A drunkard, or
 
 238 children's children. 
 
 even Intemperate, I never could be called, 
 but frail and uneven health had led me to 
 trust to wine for undue support. Almost 
 insensibly I had formed the habit of spurr- 
 ing myself to the performance of my public 
 duties by free use of wine. Three causes 
 — care, weakness, especially of that sort 
 called nervous, and heavy work — contributed 
 to make this habit indispensable to the suc- 
 cessful discharge of my duties in church ; 
 and whenever any particular call was made 
 upon my voice or brain my method of reply- 
 ing was by " winding myself up " — to use that 
 ungraceful phrase — with stimulants. 
 
 ' On the present occasion I felt I must 
 preach with my utmost ability, and I had but 
 little time for preparation. The Duke was a 
 scholar and a man of judgment, who would 
 duly appreciate force of thought, accuracy of 
 expression, and sound sentiment. It was
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 239 
 
 now Saturday evening, and I looked forward 
 with some apprehension to preparing a 
 critical sermon In so short a time. How- 
 ever, my companion and friend was at hand, 
 and, with a bottle of good Burgundy at my 
 side, I sat down at my desk and fell to work. 
 I need not prolong the description. My ser- 
 mon was not finished until two o'clock on 
 Sunday morning, and I threw myself upon 
 my bed for a few hours of feverish sleep. 
 
 ' When I awoke In the morning my skin 
 burned like fire and my head was beating 
 fearfully. A cold bath, or a dose of strong tea, 
 might have saved me. But I reasoned that, 
 on this day of all days I must be careful not 
 to try any unusual kind of treatment. Wine 
 had never failed me hitherto. I resolved to 
 trust It once more, and drank several glasses. 
 As the hour of service drew near, feeling 
 alarming debility and nervousness creep over
 
 240 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 -me, I drank again. I do not distinctly 
 remember what followed. I can recall my- 
 self gazing from my study window at the 
 church clock, in a kind of stupor ; and then I 
 remember crossing the churchyard ; but all 
 that ensued (to my shame I say it) I learned 
 from a compassionate friend, and I shall here 
 relate it to you. It is better that you should 
 hear the unvarnished truth from me, than 
 listen in after-life to a garbled and malicious 
 story.' 
 
 Here, to Diana's great disappointment, 
 the writing ended. It was evident that the 
 autobiography was not yet completed. She 
 let the book fall on her lap, and for the 
 first time seemed to ponder what she had 
 read with an air of genuine interest. Her 
 reverie was a long one, but it was disturbed 
 by a knock at the door, and, looking up, she 
 saw her visitor of the previous evening. He
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF DEATH BOLTON. 24 I 
 
 bowed to her with more deference than ever, 
 and stood waiting for her to speak. 
 
 * You said that you were Mr. Death 
 Bolton's churchwarden, I beheve ? ' said 
 Diana. 
 
 * One of them, ma'am,' replied he. ' Vicar's 
 churchwarden.' 
 
 ' Be so good as to tell me/ continued 
 Diana, with the utmost composure, ' the full 
 particulars of his going into church in a state 
 of intoxication.' 
 
 The honest churchwarden blushed as if 
 the offence had been his own. 
 
 ' You heard of that misfortune then, 
 ma'am } ' said he. ' Perhaps nothing of all 
 his kindness and goodness in this parish has 
 reached your ears, only this one unhappy 
 accident.' 
 
 ' You may imagine,' said Diana, * that I, 
 as his sister, am anxious to learn all par- 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 :242 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 ticulars of such an occurrence. Please let me 
 hear them without any comments of your 
 •own. He was drunk, to begin with. What 
 followed ? * 
 
 In spite of his humility the churchwarden 
 darted an angry glance at the lady ; but, like 
 one who had the instinct of obedience in 
 him, he took a seat with a nervous air, and 
 began to speak.
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A TOTAL ABSTAINER. 
 
 ' The story,' said the churchwarden, * is 
 simple and easily told. Had it not been that 
 in this parish, as everywhere, there are 
 people who delight in malice, the whole affair 
 might have been hushed up. It was an 
 accident and nothing more. J\Ir. Bolton had, 
 on short notice, to preach an important 
 sermon, and he was already exhausted with 
 work and anxiety. Feeling somewhat faint 
 when the hour of service approached, he took 
 a little wine, and, as he had eaten no break- 
 fast, this produced a most extraordinary 
 effect upon him. The moment he came into 
 
 R 2
 
 244 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 ihe vestry, where myself and three other 
 friends were waiting for him, we saw that 
 something was wrong. His face was flushed, 
 and his voice thick, and as he tried to speak 
 he sank or fell into a chair, helpless and 
 almost unconscious. At first we thought he 
 was in a fit, but the real state of the case 
 became evident very shortly. Of course we 
 felt agitated. No other clergyman could be 
 found, and the congregation were already 
 assembled for service ; and the Duke of War- 
 minster, who was coming for the purpose of 
 hearing the vicar preach, had just been shown 
 into a seat. Nothing, however, could be 
 done, and we^had to dismiss the congregation. 
 When all was quiet, we carried the vicar 
 across to this house, and put him to bed, and 
 I assure you, ma'am — so much is he beloved 
 — that not one of us would even whisper to 
 the other that the vicar was intoxicated^
 
 A TOTAL ABSTAINER. 245 
 
 though we all knew It. We talked about 
 illness — sudden illness — and even tried to 
 think it miorht have been so. But the stor\ 
 got wind in spite of us, and the vicars 
 character was blasted. 
 
 ' Mr. Bolton is the kindest of men, but he 
 is ruined, ma'am — ruined. He knew it too, 
 as soon as he came to himself, and a broken- 
 hearted man he was ; though even then, all 
 his care was for his good lady, not for him- 
 self He did not know that his regrets on 
 her account were vain ; but so it was. Before 
 that Sunday night closed, she had got beyond 
 the reach of scandal and wicked tongues ; for, 
 having met with a slight accident on her 
 journey, through a runaway horse, she was 
 seized with an attack of heart-complaint, and 
 died before the doctor could get to the house. 
 She was weak, and the shock had been too 
 much for her. I was with the vicar when the
 
 246 children's children. 
 
 news came in ; but I had better not describe 
 that scene, ma'am.' 
 
 * Thank you,' said Diana ; ' there is no 
 occasion.' 
 
 ' Grief gave him the finishing stroke/ 
 continued the good churchwarden, so wrapt 
 up in his story that he did not notice Diana's, 
 stony face : * the same evening he was taken 
 ill with bleeding from the lungs, and after two 
 or three days, when the blood had stopped 
 a little, the doctors held a consultation, and 
 found that his lungs were partly gone already. 
 He could not attend his lady's funeral, but a 
 friend went for him — one Mr. Molton — who 
 came to see him as soon as he heard of his 
 illness ; and I took the liberty of asking that 
 I might be there. I believe we were both 
 real mourners. It was a trying day for the 
 vicar, but he got through it wonderfully, and 
 the baby seemed to comfort him. He lay in
 
 A TOTAL ABSTAINER. 247 
 
 bed for a fortnight, and then one day the 
 doctor, seeing how weak he was, recommended 
 him to take a Httle wine. '' I am dying, am 
 I not ? " said he, looking the doctor full in the 
 face. 
 
 * The other hesitated. 
 
 * " Don't be afraid to tell me," cried the 
 vicar, " am I to die or live ? " 
 
 ' " You will not live," said the doctor. 
 
 * There stood by the bed a small table 
 upon which was a decanter filled with brandy, 
 and right opposite was a large looking-glass. 
 The vicar said not a word, but he snatched 
 up the decanter, and sent it flying into the 
 glass with a fearful crash. The doctor leaped 
 from his seat, and, thinking his patient was 
 mad, made as if he would hold him down in 
 the bed. The vicar smiled, quietly enough. 
 
 ' ** Don't be frightened, doctor," he said. 
 ' ''What have you done that for ?" asked
 
 248 children's children. 
 
 the doctor, looking at the shivered glass, 
 down which the brandy was dripping. 
 
 * " To make a mark on my mind," answered 
 the vicar, who was far more composed than 
 the other. " I am to die ; that is settled ; and 
 another drop of wine or brandy shall never 
 cross my lips, if all the doctors in England 
 bid me take it." ' 
 
 * That was bravely done ! ' cried Diana, 
 with a face that flashed admiration. ' If he 
 had been more like that through life ' 
 
 * He was gentle, ma'am — gentle as a 
 woman ; but he had the lion in him for all 
 that,' said the churchwarden. ' Well, there is 
 little farther to tell. His friend, Mr. Molton, 
 has been here ever since, and spends hours 
 ^^nth. him every day. But he is sinking, 
 ma'am — sinking fast ; and I made bold to ask 
 you to come to him, because I know how 
 short his time is.'
 
 A TOTAL ABSTAINER. 249 
 
 * You did well,' remarked Diana, * and I 
 am obliged to you.' 
 
 As she spoke the door was opened again, 
 and a lady entered the room, followed by a 
 gentleman. Diana looked up. Madeline and 
 Hercules stood before her. 
 
 Diana's face, which had been a little soft- 
 ened, grew furious at this sight, and rising 
 from her seat she put her chair before her, 
 and glared at the intruders as from behind a 
 parapet. Hercules turned excessively red, 
 and tried to clear his throat in a pompous 
 way, but he was evidently frightened and 
 confused. Madeline, however, had more 
 nerve, and better breeding. 
 
 * This is a surprise to us all, I suppose,* 
 said she, advancing to Diana, and holding 
 out her hand ; ' let us try to make it an 
 agreeable one.' 
 
 * I don't know you,' cried Diana, savagely.
 
 250 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 dropping her hands at her sides, and standing 
 Hke a statue. 
 
 ' I am sorry if I have made a mistake/ 
 said MadeHne. And then, feeHng she had 
 done enough, she sat down calmly, to the 
 great exasperation of Diana, who felt 
 awkward in any quarrel where civility was 
 maintained unbroken. No sarcasm would 
 have stung her so deeply as this quiet retort 
 of propriety upon rudeness. 
 
 ' Diana,' said Hercules, approaching her 
 with a diffident and even apprehensive air^ 
 ' let me beg you ' 
 
 ' I don't know you either,' she screamed, 
 stamping her foot. ' You were my brother 
 once. I disown you. Never speak to me 
 again.' 
 
 It was a painful moment, and the poor 
 churchwarden looked as if he meditated flight ; 
 but just at this juncture the door was opened
 
 A TOTAL ABSTAINER. 25! 
 
 once more, and a stranger to the Boltons 
 entered the room. He was small and slight; 
 but remarkabl)' handsome, and he saluted 
 them with a politeness which w^as not any the 
 less graceful for being grave, and even severe. 
 
 * You have come to see your brother/ he 
 said. ' I am glad there has been no farther 
 delay, for I do not think he has many days to 
 live.' 
 
 ' People must judge for themselves as to 
 their engagements,' said Diana. ' I could 
 not come before. Business must be 
 attended to.' 
 
 Molton bowed. 
 
 ' I hope you will not think that I assume 
 too much in your brother's house,' he said. 
 * My friend is very, very feeble, and he 
 wishes me to remain at his side during his 
 interviews with you. I hope my presence 
 will not be disagreeable.'
 
 252 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 * I have nothing to say/ repHed Diana, 
 'that might not be said before the whole 
 town.' 
 
 Molton bowed again and left the room, 
 saying that he would see if his friend was 
 awake, and equal to an interview.
 
 25, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HER father's choice. 
 
 When Diana entered the sick-room she 
 found her brother lying upon his bed, partly 
 dressed, and with the cradle in which his 
 baby daughter slept close at his side. Molton 
 was in the room, but appeared to be occupied 
 at a writing-table which stood in the window. 
 Death looked fearfully pale, and the few 
 movements he made were feeble and painful ; 
 but, with the sweet courtesy which was a 
 part of his nature, he welcomed his sister 
 gracefully. How the two sprang from the 
 same father might have been a curious
 
 254 CHTLDRENS CHILDREN. 
 
 question for a philosopher learned in the 
 science of descent. Even in his prostration 
 Death smiled upon his sister, and tried to 
 say something about his pleasure at seeing 
 her in his house ; but she, quite unaffected 
 by his gentleness or his pitiable weakness, 
 walked up to his bedside, and there took her 
 stand, with no more sign of feeling than if 
 she had been a figure of whalebone. 
 
 * You are surprised to see me,' she began, 
 in a voice so loud and harsh that Molton 
 glanced up from his writing. 
 
 * I am pleased as well,' said Death. ' I 
 hope you find the house comfortable, and 
 that you have everything you require.* 
 
 * My wants are few,' replied Diana. 
 
 * It is kind to come to see me now,' said 
 Death, laying emphasis on the last word, as 
 if he signified that all the past .might be 
 forgotten.
 
 HER FATHERS CHOICE. 255 
 
 ' I come here on business,' she answered. 
 * Let me be quite plain with you, Death. I 
 promised my father that I never would be- 
 friend you, and I never will.' 
 
 A look of unspeakable sorrow crossed 
 Death's face, but the sorrow was such as 
 Diana could not understand. Meanwhile she 
 noticed that Molton glanced up again, and 
 this time with an impatient movement. 
 
 ' You chose your road in life,' continued 
 Diana, * and you chose it in defiance of your 
 father. You are coming to the end now, 
 and are able to see your folly without my 
 pointing it out. Besides, this is scarcely the 
 time to dwell upon such matters. You are 
 near your death ' 
 
 * Really, I think ' Molton cried, start- 
 ing up. But Diana interrupted him : 
 
 ' I thought my brother knew the truth. 
 In any case he ought to know it.'
 
 256 children's children. 
 
 ' Don't be uneasy, Harry,' said Death, 
 with a faint smile ; ' I understand my sister.' 
 
 * I came here,' she continued, when 
 Molton had resumed his seat, ' to make a pro- 
 posal to you. I have thrown off Hercules, as 
 you perhaps know, and I have a large fortune 
 to dispose of. After your death I shall 
 adopt your daughter' — here Diana touched 
 the cradle with her foot— ' and she shall 
 inherit the family wealth. What do you 
 say ? ' 
 
 Death looked perplexed and troubled, and 
 did not reply with the alacrity which might 
 have been expected. 
 
 ' How long will it take you to make up 
 your mind ? ' asked Diana, finding that he 
 kept silence. ' I should have thought the 
 offer one to be snapped at' 
 
 ' Diana,' said Death, gazing at her with a 
 quiet earnest look which somehow made her
 
 PIER FATHERS CHOICE. 257 
 
 feel uneasy even In her hardness, ' I have 
 already found a guardian for my little girl. 
 My friend here will watch over her.' 
 
 * Will your friend make her the heiress of 
 fifty or seventy thousand pounds ? ' demanded 
 Diana. 
 
 ' No,' replied Death In a slow, thoughtful 
 way, as if he pondered every word he spoke. 
 ' Let me ask, Diana, if I consent to this pro- 
 posal, will you allow him to share an equal 
 guardianship with yourself ? ' 
 
 * Most certainly not,' Diana replied in a 
 clinching voice. 
 
 * And will you instruct my child in all 
 your particular opinions, and teach her the 
 views of life and religion which you yourself 
 entertain ? ' continued Death, In the same 
 grave, cautious way. 
 
 * Most certainly I shall,' she answered 
 again. 'It is for the special purpose of 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 CHILDRENS CHILDREN. 
 
 training her in these opinions, as you call 
 them, that I wish to obtain control over 
 her.' 
 
 * In that case, Diana,' said Death, 'there 
 is an end of the matter. I thank you for 
 your honourable frankness in stating your 
 intentions ; and for your kind designs for my 
 baby's future I thank you also. But she 
 must be brought up in the faith in which her 
 mother and her father lived and died.' 
 
 Diana made a grimace. 
 
 * This is a time for plain speaking, Death,' 
 she said. ' Have you ever asked yourself 
 what is the practical relation between this 
 faith and the life which goes on coincidently 
 with it ? Why should we mince matters ? 
 You lived in this faith, and are going to 
 die in it, you say; but remember you are 
 dying a drunkard's death.' 
 
 'Once for all, I declare,' cried Molton,
 
 HER FATHERS CHOICE. 259 
 
 fairly leaping from his chair, ' I will not 
 allow ' 
 
 He was interrupted, this time by his 
 friend. 
 
 * Leave my sister to me,' said Death, 
 whose voice grew suddenly stronger. ' Diana,' 
 he cried, turning on her a look in which pity 
 and contempt were mixed, ' I had rather 
 die a drunkard's death than live and have 
 the tongue that could utter such a speech as 
 that you have just made.' 
 
 At this point Hercules came into the 
 room. He advanced to his brother's bed- 
 side, and seemed at least to try to express 
 some feelinor in a face not used to that sort of 
 ^ork. ' I am sorry to hnd you so poorly,' he 
 said, taking his brother's hand. ' I ought to 
 have come to see you before now, and I 
 •would have done so, had I known your state. 
 Upon my soul I would.'
 
 26o children's children. 
 
 Death looked up at his brother with eyes 
 quite full of tears, and his lips quivered with 
 emotion. He tried to speak, but, failing in 
 the attempt, took the hand of Hercules in his 
 own, and kissed it as if it had been the hand 
 of a woman whom he loved. 
 
 * There, old fellow — there,' said Hercules 
 gently ; for although he could not by any 
 means interpret Death's gush of feeling, the 
 sight of it lifted him into a higher mood ; ' you 
 must not distress yourself. We never got on 
 as boys, you know, but we are men now, and 
 forget all that.' 
 
 Even the selfish Hercules found himself 
 bending over his brother, trying to cheer him. 
 Those whose natures are noble and finely 
 cast, have but to live to raise others to their 
 level, for a time at least. Molton hid his 
 face in his hands, while affecting to be busy
 
 HER father's choice. 26 1 
 
 with his letter. Diana alone stood unmoved 
 and unmovable. 
 
 ' It is time for me to take my leave,' she 
 said. ' I have done what I had to do.' 
 
 ' I hope then,' said Hercules, releasing 
 his hand from his brother's grasp, ' that you 
 have acted kindly to Death.' 
 
 * I tried to act kindly to his child, but I 
 was not permitted to do so,' she replied. ' A 
 mistake has been made — there is, however, 
 time to repair it.' She looked at the sick man 
 and paused. 
 
 ' I cannot consent,' answered Death, who 
 seemed suddenly to grow feeble again. ' Say 
 no more about it.' 
 
 * Let it be so,' said Diana ; and she walked 
 out of the room. 
 
 ' What did she want to do ? ' inquired 
 Hercules, addressing Molton for the first time.
 
 262 children's children. 
 
 Molton was about to explain, when a 
 sudden exclamation from Death called him to 
 the bedside. Overcome by weakness and 
 excitement he was sinking Into a swoon, and 
 everything else was forgotten by Molton, 
 whose sole thought was to reanimate his 
 friend ; for already on two occasions Death 
 had nearly expired in a fainting fit. Quite 
 an hour elapsed before he was restored, and 
 when Hercules went down stairs he found 
 that his sister had already departed — of 
 course without taking any notice of Madeline.
 
 263 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SOLD INTO EGYPT. 
 
 Three weeks after this interview Death 
 Bolton breathed his last. His friend Molton 
 remained with him to the end, and when 
 Hercules came to the funeral he found that 
 by his brother s will Molton was appointed 
 sole executor, and guardian of the little baby 
 girl. To Hercules, who made a pretty 
 shrewd guess as to the state of Death's affairs, 
 this was far from being a disappointment : 
 the child would have been an encumbrance, 
 and winding-up the estate could not have been 
 an agreeable task. So Hercules would not 
 regard this arrangement as any affront, but
 
 264 children's children. 
 
 accepted it thankfully, like a man of the world. 
 He looked into his brother's grave with an 
 expression of momentary sorrow, and then — 
 having bid Molton a courteous good-bye — 
 went his way, and forgot from that hour that 
 he ever had a brother, or that he had still a 
 niece who bore his name. 
 
 His own life soon became overcast. A 
 fate which seemed to hang over the wives 
 of the house of Bolton sent Madeline also 
 to an early grave. About a year after the 
 death of her brother-in-law she died herself, 
 and with her a little daughter to whom she 
 had just given birth ; and Hercules was left 
 with one son, who was then three years old. 
 Contrary to the expectations of his friends 
 he did not marry again, but lived on in 
 Warcaster, finding such companionship as he 
 required at his clubs, and rather shunning 
 society, especially the society of women. He
 
 SOLD INTO EGYPT. 265 
 
 grew more pompous and empty and selfish as 
 time went on ; and but that his son kept some- 
 thing in the shape of affection aUve in his heart, 
 he would have sunk into an egotist of the worst 
 type. He was proud of his boy, however, 
 and to say the truth the boy was handsome, 
 clever, and generally promising ; and as every- 
 body declared that young Penruddocke had 
 a future before him, Hercules was quite con- 
 tent to believe it Knowing that he was not 
 clever himself, he took comfort in the reflec- 
 tion that he had deputed his son to discharge 
 his intellectual obligations to society. He 
 spared no expense upon his boy's education, 
 and had perception enough to see that the 
 money he spent was not thrown away ; and as 
 for the lad, though he was self-indulgent and 
 luxurious in his habits, he plied his book mean- 
 while, and all his teachers praised him. His 
 character, too, had traits which were attractive,
 
 266 children's chiluren. 
 
 and might become excellent. His sympathies, 
 were quick and his tastes refined, and he 
 tried very hard to be a gentlemanly boy ; but 
 his companions said that, for all his airs, 
 Penruddocke Bolton could play you a low 
 trick, if it suited his purpose. 
 
 The boy was fifteen when his father, who- 
 was a greedy and speculating man, and had 
 made several rash financial ventures, found 
 that his property was fast turning into worth- 
 less paper. Hercules Bolton did in this 
 emergency what many a heady man did 
 before him : he converted his withering 
 shares and bonds into other sorts of stock, 
 framed to delude the unwary and seduce the 
 desperate by the promise of frantic percent- 
 ages. His affairs, having gone so far in the 
 regular course, pursued it to the end. The 
 new investments went the way of the old, and 
 Hercules saw beggary staring him in the face.
 
 SOLD INTO EGYPT. 267 
 
 At this juncture his thoughts turned to 
 Diana. For more than ten years he had 
 heard nothing of her, and he had good reasons 
 for fearing that by this time she might have 
 shrunk into some secret place, where she could 
 not be discovered. She had left England 
 twelve years ago with the expressed intention 
 of living and dying in a foreign land ; and 
 when Hercules, quite by accident, heard of her 
 about two years after her departure, she was 
 living in a small village on the skirts of Rouen. 
 To that address he now wrote, scarcely hoping 
 that the letter would ever reach her, but to 
 his surprise he received an immediate reply. 
 The hand was unmistakable even on the 
 envelope, though a remarkable change had 
 passed over it ; for instead of being straight 
 and vigorous, it was laboured, as if written 
 in pain. Indeed, in one of her short 
 sentences, Diana said that she had been at
 
 268 children's children. 
 
 the point of death, and was now but slowly 
 recovering. Hereupon the letter turned to 
 business, and as she was a woman of the 
 fewest words, her own will best serve the 
 purpose of our narrative. 
 
 ' You are insolvent, you say : I wonder 
 you have not been so long ago. You want me 
 to help you, and I will do it on one condition. 
 Your son is now but fifteen, and whatever 
 vices his education may have implanted 
 cannot be ineradicable. I require you to 
 surrender his future instruction, and the 
 whole concerns of his future life, absolutely 
 into my hands. He may spend two separate 
 months in the year with you, but during that 
 time, as at every other, the tutor whom I 
 shall select to superintend his education must 
 remain with him. That person will receive 
 instructions from me from time to time, and 
 he will be, besides, one in whom I can place
 
 SOLD INTO EGYPT. 269 
 
 independent confidence. Your son shall 
 never see me, nor I him ; while as to your- 
 self, if I ever learn that you make the 
 slightest attempt, direct or indirect, to visit me, 
 or to know anything about me, you shall at 
 once and for ever forfeit my favour, and shall 
 find yourself a bankrupt indeed. You may 
 write to me as often as you please at this 
 address : if I should be away from the place, 
 your letters will be fonvarded to me. 
 
 * Subject to your obedient fulfilment of 
 these conditions, I shall make you an allow- 
 ance of fifteen hundred a year, and take upon 
 myself the entire expense of my nephew's 
 maintenance and education. The money 
 shall be paid quarterly, and in case of my 
 death you will not be left penniless. But, 
 remember, you are to act with implicit 
 obedience in all the particulars I have now 
 laid down, or may lay down in time to come.
 
 270 CHILDREN S CHILDREN. 
 
 _None will be unreasonable, but the smallest 
 neglect of any will be to you the bitterest 
 slip you have made in the course of a weak 
 •and misguided life.' 
 
 To say that Hercules accepted this pro- 
 posal would be a meagre way of writing a 
 story. He was grown stout by this time, 
 and averse to motion, but he danced round 
 his dining-room, waving the letter in his hand 
 like a school-boy, or still more like a maniac. 
 His credit was saved, for which he cared not 
 a little. His pleasures and luxuries would be 
 continued, for which he cared a very great 
 deal. As to the surrender of his son, or 
 what it might involve, he never gave that a 
 thought. The danger had been too great, 
 and the relief was too complete and unex- 
 pected, for any nice scrutiny of details. 
 Hercules said ' Thank God ! ' to himself; and 
 then he vowed a vow that he would never
 
 SOLD INTO EGYPT. 27 1 
 
 break his contract with his sister ; and there- 
 upon, feeling that he had duly acknowledged 
 his good fortune in all proper quarters, he 
 became once more the dull, self-sufficient, 
 well-fed, and selfish man he had been in the 
 days of his prosperity. 
 
 The engagement on both sides was punc- 
 tually fulfilled in all its articles, and now time 
 went on its even way. Diana wrote oc- 
 casionally to her brother, and regularly to 
 her nephew, but neither ever saw her ; and 
 thus year ran after year, until more than 
 twenty had shed their blossoms and their 
 rain upon the grave where Death and Susan 
 Bolton were lying side by side. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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