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t'l B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 v.\ 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/firstlastnovel01whit 
 
FIBST AND LAST 
 
FIEST AND LAST 
 
 % Wobtl 
 
 By F. VEENON WHITE. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY, SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND. 
 
 1873. 
 (All rights of translation and reproduction re&erwd.J 
 
MANCHESTER : 
 
 JOHN HEYWOOD, EXCELSIOR PRINTING WORKS, 
 
 HULME HALL ROAD. 
 
8ct3 ft 
 
 v,l 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 CHIP. TAGZ 
 
 I.— love's young dream ..... 1 
 
 II. — A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY .... 28 
 
 III. — KISS AND BE FRIENDS 64 
 
 IV. — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 79 
 
 V. — CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 90 
 
 VI. — PARTED 108 
 
 VII. — A FRIEND IN NEED . . . . . .185 
 
 VIII.— FAILURE 146 
 
 IX. — A YEAR AFTER 157 
 
 1 
 
 X. — BITTER TIDINGS 183 
 
 XII. — DESTROYING THE PAST ..... 209 
 
 XIII. — A REMEDY IN DEATH 218 
 
 XIV. — TEMPTATION 235 
 
 XV.— ONCE AGAIN 247 
 
 XVI. — HOW WILL IT END ? 269 
 
 XI. — WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR? 194 
 
 
FIEST AND LAST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 'love's young dream/ 
 
 1 Comparatively young in years, but a veteran 
 in political warfare.' Such was the description 
 of the Right Honourable Hugh Childerton 
 Hammersley, Baron Carnmore, as given by 
 those who had watched his brilliant and some- 
 what romantic career. 
 
 On the death of his father, Colonel 
 Hammersley, a man of fashion and a great 
 spendthrift, Hugh found himself the possessor 
 of a remarkably handsome person, eight 
 
 Vol. i— b 
 
2 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 hundred a year (the remnant of what had 
 been as many thousands), and with three 
 tolerably healthy lives between himself and 
 a coronet. He was ambitious and talented ; 
 and ambition and talent are seldom contented 
 with a moderate competence. It clearly 
 therefore became the question, into what field 
 he should direct his energies for the purposes 
 of acquiring fame and increasing his fortune. 
 This problem presented itself just about the 
 time when the agitation for the repeal of the 
 Corn Laws was commencing, and his natural 
 aptitude for politics offered an easy solution. 
 From the age of fifteen every book or pamphlet 
 of a political tendency that fell in his way 
 was devoured with avidity, till, in two or 
 three years, he had become a perfect encyclo- 
 paedia of legislative wisdom, and able to 
 reduce most of the guests at his father's table 
 — men, it must be confessed, not as a rule 
 remarkable for their intellect or powers of dis- 
 putation — to silence, if not to conviction. His 
 proclivities were painfully Radical, embracing 
 many of those new and startling doctrines 
 which had found their way from France, to 
 
'love's young dream.' 3 
 
 raise doubt and distrust in the ordinarily 
 sober minds of Englishmen. 
 
 Had it not been for this unfortunate tend- 
 ency, his powerful connections, both on the 
 father's and mother's side, might have advanced 
 his fortunes considerably ; but it was not to 
 be expected that men who prided themselves 
 on the purity of their descent and the extent 
 of their acres could have aught in common 
 with a daring young degenerate who referred 
 all origin to the common father Adam, and 
 roundly asserted that the possessions on which 
 they based their pretensions to govern the 
 less fortunate portion of mankind were nothing 
 more nor less than plunder wrung from the 
 people by the violence and rapine of their 
 forefathers. 
 
 The gallant colonel, who viewed his son's 
 heterodoxy with as much regret as his careless 
 nature could permit, and who, though neither 
 clever nor talented, had yet possessed a suffi- 
 cient amount of worldly tact and shrewdness 
 to get on very comfortably in life, called Hugh 
 to his bedside in his last moments, and 
 solemnly spake these words : 
 
 I 
 
4 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 1 You are a clever fellow, Hugh, and, with 
 your headpiece, ought to make a creditable 
 figure in the vrorld ; but mark my words, my 
 dear boy, you will never get on i£ you don't 
 make up your mind to drop those confounded 
 Radical ideas. I am sure I don't know where 
 you got them from ; all my family and all 
 your poor mother's family have supported 
 Church and State from time immemorial, and 
 no man succeeds who departs from the tradi- 
 tions of his family. Take my advice, my 
 dear fellow. I have seen something of the 
 world, and it's a very good, comfortable place, 
 if you know how to rub along with its pre- 
 judices and respect w T hat it respects ; but if 
 you are foolhardy enough to run counter to 
 it, you will find it has got a thousand nails 
 to scratch you with, and a thousand tongues 
 to spit its dirty venom on the man who offends 
 it. So my advice to you is, adopt the politics 
 of a gentleman and a Hammersley, and leave 
 these howli nor tinkers and tailors, and all the 
 rest of the discontented devils, to do their own 
 dirty work, without soiling your fingers in it.' 
 
 Hugh could scarcely repress a smile at his 
 
'love's young dream.' 5 
 
 father's selfish and unprincipled, though pro- 
 bably well-meaning, harangue ; but he could 
 not comfort the colonel's last moments with 
 the promise of espousing the politics of a 
 gentleman and a Hammersley; so presumably 
 the latter departed this life with the con- 
 viction that his son was infallibly on the high 
 road to ruin. 
 
 Thus on the death of his father Hugh found 
 himself almost friendless ; his father's hon 
 vivant companions, who had helped to squander 
 the fortune which should have been the son's, 
 turning a cold shoulder to a man whom they 
 perceived to have such little sympathy with 
 their tastes and pursuits. Into politics there- 
 fore he plunged heartily. He was possessed, 
 as I have said, of a commanding presence, and 
 his fiery and sonorous eloquence soon converted 
 the new recruit into a leader among his asso- 
 ciates. No great meeting was complete with- 
 out the presence of the young democrat, and 
 his entrance was the signal for an enthusiasm 
 which it is rarely given to even the most 
 renowned leaders of popular agitation to 
 excite. 
 
G FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 Amidst these busy and stirring scenes he 
 managed to secure time for prosecuting other 
 triumphs in addition to those exclusively 
 political. There were a few great Liberal 
 houses to which his connections and influence 
 outside the walls of Parliament procured him 
 entrance. Chief amongst those who invited him 
 to their banquets and gatherings in the hope of 
 softening down his Radicalism, and securing 
 his unquestioned ability on the side of a more 
 moderate party, was the Earl of Marsdale; 
 and this nobleman had such faith in his own 
 powers of diplomacy that he would often 
 assert to his confidants he had no doubt of 
 succeeding in toning down young Hammersley ■ 
 into a very respectable Whig. 
 
 While, however, the diplomatic earl was 
 congratulating himself on his missionary 
 talent, young Hammersley was exerting his 
 powers of persuasion in a very near quarter — 
 in fact, on the heart of Lady Maud, the earl's 
 third daughter. Young, enthusiastic, romantic, 
 with intellect sufficiently powerful to despise 
 the trammels of conventionality, and discern- 
 ment enough to appreciate the difference 
 
'love's young dream.' 7 
 
 between gold and tinsel, she had fallen 
 desperately in love with Hammersley, who 
 was to the full as enamoured of her. As the 
 Earl of Marsdale's diplomatic hairs would 
 have bristled with indignation at the bare 
 idea of an alliance between a commoner with 
 eight hundred a year and his most beautiful 
 daughter, on whom he relied to make a magni- 
 ficent match, the young couple took the 
 management of then love affair into their 
 own hands, and one morning the fashionable 
 world, and those who, though not fashionable 
 themselves, hang on the movements of those 
 who are, were startled to read of the elope- 
 ment of Lady Maud Anson, the beautiful 
 daughter of the Earl of Marsdale, whose 
 presentation at Court had created such a 
 sensation, with Hugh Hammersley, Esquire. 
 
 Of course, Lord Marsdale was furious, and 
 vowed he would never forgive the child who 
 had so bitterly disappointed him ; nor did he 
 till within a few hours of his death, which 
 took place three years after her marriage ; and 
 then, probably feeling the impiety of earthly 
 resentments in the presence of that great 
 
8 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 Republican, Death, who respects neither 
 crowns nor coronets, he sent for her to his 
 bedside, blessed her tenderly, and left her ten 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 The young couple had lived since their 
 marriage on the eight hundred a year left by 
 the colonel, and though it was a wretched 
 pittance for a woman reared in the lap of 
 luxury, and a man whose tastes and habits 
 were naturally expensive, in spite of his 
 Radical proclivities, yet I don't think either 
 had derived other than unqualified happiness 
 from the step they had taken. One child, a 
 boy, had been born to them, and, fortunately, 
 no other children had followed in his wake. 
 
 Hammersley was a man who was an adept 
 in almost everything that required daring and 
 tact. His wife's ten thousand stirred fresh 
 ambition in him. He was aware that to 
 invest it what is termed safely would have the 
 effect of making very little addition to his 
 income ; he therefore determined to speculate 
 with it in that most dangerous of gambling 
 places, the money market. His own thorough 
 knowledge of financial science, and perhaps 
 
'love's young dream/ 9 
 
 also exceptional good fortune, stood him in 
 such stead that in a year and a half his most 
 sanguine hopes were more than realised, and 
 Lady Maud's ten thousand was trebled. 
 
 He felt now that with economy he could 
 enter Parliament. There was no difficulty in 
 getting returned ; his immense popularity 
 secured an easy defeat of his opponent ; but 
 his political enemies and the neutrals who 
 discussed him in an abstract kind of way were 
 very curious as to the result, well knowing 
 that the House of Commons was a very diffe- 
 rent gathering from a popular assemblage, and 
 auguring that the great democratic leader 
 would find himself out of place in the unac- 
 customed atmosphere. 
 
 To the surprise of most, however, he dis- 
 played considerable tact on his introduction 
 to that august assembly. Although his prin- 
 ciples remained unshaken, he fully recognised 
 the inexpediency of airing theories or enun- 
 ciating dogmas to an audience by whom they 
 would have been instantly hissed down. On 
 his first speech the House was naturally 
 curious to hear a man who had achieved such 
 
10 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 a political reputation outside its doors, and, to 
 the disappointment of those more rabid of his 
 opponents who only waited an opportunity to 
 hiss him down, he spoke calmly and tem- 
 perately, without uttering a word which could 
 have been interpreted into an excuse for 
 annihilating his political existence in that 
 chamber. 
 
 The good impression he had made he culti- 
 vated by yet further efforts, always ready to 
 advocate the popular cause with voice and 
 vote, but never imperilling his advocacy by 
 rash utterances. If the inevitable conse- 
 quence of this temperance was that the more 
 violent of his supporters outside began to look 
 upon him with some distrust as a man whose 
 freedom of thought and speech had been 
 cramped by his elevation, the more sober 
 and sensible saw in him a friend, who could 
 advance their cause better by conciliating 
 temperately with their opponents than by 
 flaunting the flag of defiance in their faces 
 with every mark of open and bitter warfare. 
 
 He was looked upon, therefore, throughout 
 the country and in the House, as a rising man. 
 
'love's young due am.' 11 
 
 He was advanced from one lucrative post to 
 another by the Ministry, and every one pro- 
 phesied a seat in the Cabinet was not far 
 distant, when his cousin, Lord Carnmore, died 
 suddenly from the effects of a fall in the 
 hunting-field, and the two intervening lives 
 having been snapped before in a most con- 
 venient manner, Hugh Hammersley suc- 
 ceeded to the peerage and twenty-five 
 thousand a year. 
 
 The advent of such good fortune to a man 
 who had hitherto experienced so much diffi- 
 culty in making both ends meet, and who, in 
 spite of his utmost efforts, had found his ex- 
 penditure more usually than not outstrip his 
 income, seemed certainly a blessing for which 
 most people would have been exceedingly 
 grateful ; but the one grain of alloy in this 
 otherwise perfect pleasure was that the posses- 
 sion of riches entailed what appeared like 
 political exile. No man of active and busy 
 brain, the most enjoyable part of whose life, 
 the period of high hope and youthful energy, 
 had been passed in politics and amid assem- 
 blages^where politics meant appeal to passions 
 
12 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 and awakenment to enthusiasm, could con- 
 template a retreat into what its admirers 
 term the * first legislative assembly of the 
 world' without something of a prescient 
 shudder. The House of Commons is not, 
 except when some unlucky member stumbles 
 upon one of its most deeply-cherished pre- 
 judices, quite so emphatic in its likes or dis- 
 likes as an assemblage composed exclusively 
 of ' the people'; but still there is an element 
 of masculine vitality in it, which one looks in 
 vain for in its more select and aristocratic 
 neighbour. 
 
 However, it was no use grieving over the 
 inevitable, so he took his seat in the House 
 of Lords, and soon made himself at home 
 there, and achieved oratorical triumphs as 
 great and as appreciated by his hearers in a 
 little less emphatic manner, as those he had 
 gained amid the sympathetic cheers of St. 
 Stephen's. Whether his elevation in rank 
 advanced his claims to greater importance in 
 the eyes of the Government of the day I do 
 not know ; at any rate, six months after the 
 death of his cousin, Lord Carnmore was 
 
'love's young dream/ 13 
 
 offered, and accepted, a seat in the Cabinet. 
 
 Thus, in a few years from his entrance into 
 political life, he had graduated to the highest 
 honours. He had married brilliantly, at least 
 in point of position. Nearly everything he 
 had applied himself to had succeeded beyond 
 even his expectations. Surely his was an 
 enviable lot, when, at thirty years of age, a 
 peer of the realm, the possessor of a fine 
 fortune, a minister, the husband of a beautiful 
 and devoted wife, he had reached the highest 
 rungs of the ladder which so many scarcely 
 less deserving or less talented people are such 
 weary years in climbing. 
 
 But the faithful spirit whose sweet minis- 
 tering had cheered him in the days of com- 
 parative struggle and adversity, was not 
 permitted to enjoy for long the better for- 
 tunes that succeeded. Two years after her 
 husband's accession to the peerage Lady 
 Carnmore died of a low fever, commending 
 with her latest breath her one little boy, six 
 years old, too young to be sensible of the 
 irreparable loss he had sustained, to the care 
 of her eldest married sister. 
 
1-i FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 The death of his wife was the break ing-up 
 of Lord Carnmore. It is popularly supposed 
 that ambition, once ensconced in a man's 
 heart, leaves little room for any other idol ; 
 but Carnmore's nature was essentially 
 romantic : he had even imparted romance to 
 his politics, which are generally considered a 
 subject so very practical. His love for his 
 beautiful wife had been the romance of his 
 life, and their wedded existence, to procure 
 which both had made sacrifices, had only 
 seemed to strengthen the tender ties that 
 bound their hearts together. Had he married 
 one he less loved, or wedded later in life when 
 his fame was made, he might have borne his 
 loss more stoically ; but the dead one had 
 commenced life with his life, had advanced 
 side by side with every step he had made, 
 and the memoiy of the past was so bound up 
 with the memory of her, that it seemed 
 mockery to imagine he could ever forget, or 
 to know otherwise than that henceforth 
 ambition and fame must alone content the 
 heart whose sweetest yearnings were so rudely 
 silenced when they bore her to her grave. 
 
'love's young dream. 5 15 
 
 The sister to whom Lady Carnmore be- 
 queathed the care of her child had married 
 the Marquis of Allerton, a nobleman of great 
 wealth, and of some, though not considerable, 
 political importance. Lord Allerton and his 
 wife had been the only members of the family 
 who had not excommunicated Lady Maud 
 on her imprudent marriage, partly, perhaps, 
 because they felt some sympathy with 
 her proceedings, insomuch as — though forty 
 thousand a year and a marquisate did away 
 with all objections in the late Earl of Mars- 
 dale's eyes — their marriage had been really 
 one of love on both sides. 
 
 Five children, ranging in age from two to 
 twelve, attested the happiness of their wedded 
 relations ; and nothing therefore was more 
 natural than that Lady Allerton should, in 
 compliance with her dead sister's request, 
 take her child to bring up with her own 
 family. 
 
 Hitherto the reader has only seen the 
 bright side of Lord Carnmore's character, as 
 exemplified in his love for his wife, and the 
 affection for his fellow creatures, as displayed 
 
16 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 in his efforts to ameliorate their condition by 
 sweeping and radical reforms ; but, on intimate 
 acquaintance, the dark shades were found to 
 preponderate considerably. From some in- 
 herent defect in his nature, he was always 
 supposing evil in his fellow-beings. The most 
 harmless actions became in his eyes significant 
 of the most deeply-grained villainy, and con- 
 sequently anything good or noble had to 
 undergo a most severe mental scrutiny before 
 it enlisted him as a believer. 
 
 Naturally, therefore, Lady Allerton's readi- 
 ness to undertake the office of mother to his 
 son aroused considerable suspicion in his ever 
 suspicious mind. The heir to twenty-five 
 thousand a year would be no bad match for 
 one of the three daughters with whom she 
 was blessed, and whom she would, of course, 
 be delighted to dispose of to the best 
 advantage. 
 
 Whether this consideration operated, to- 
 gether with her natural kindliness and the 
 affection she had borne her dead sister, in 
 making her evince such promptitude in carry- 
 ing out her request, I do not know. That 
 
'love's young dream/ 17 
 
 the young Frederick Hammersley would be a 
 most eligible parti even for a daughter of the 
 rich Lord Allerton, no one could deny ; that 
 her maternal instincts would induce her to do 
 the best for her children that lay in her 
 power, was equally probable. But I think 
 Lady Allerton had too pure and noble ideas 
 of what marriage should be, to force any one of 
 her daughters into one of those matches which, 
 whatever its eligibility in the eyes of the 
 world, is a sinful covenant, insomuch as it 
 is a union of acres, and titles, and worldly 
 possessions — in short, of everything except 
 hearts. 
 
 However, that which Lord Carnmore had 
 suspected, and which Lady Allerton might at 
 least have hoped, if she had not schemed for, 
 took place. The little Edith Stewart was 
 just a year younger than her cousin when he 
 came to reside under her mother's roof — a 
 beautiful, capricious little elf, with the childish, 
 winning ways that gave promise of the riper 
 fascinations of the woman. Hers was perhaps 
 the highest style of beauty — dark auburn 
 hair, bright hazel ejes f contrasted with the 
 
 Vol. i— c 
 
18 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 most delicate complexion — her features were 
 simply faultless, without that insipidity 
 which often accompanies too regular linea- 
 ments. All the Allerton children could lay 
 claims to be called pretty or handsome, but 
 the first glance would have selected Edith as 
 the flower of the flock. 
 
 Of this fact her youthful cousin seemed to 
 be very fully aware, for a very few days after 
 his installation into the family he evinced his 
 admiration by keeping as much in her 
 company as possible ; nor did the small maiden 
 appear at all unconscious of his attentions, or 
 unwilling to accept them. Thrown together 
 thus by mutual liking, the childish acquaint- 
 ance speedily ripened into a deep . boy and 
 girl attachment, giving every promise of 
 increasing, till it should reach the happy 
 consummation of matrimony. 
 
 Up to the age of fourteen Fred Hammersley 
 had been educated at home, but it was then 
 deemed expedient to send him to Harrow, 
 whither two of his elder cousins had already 
 preceded him. It is almost needless to say 
 that his departure for what seemed an inter- 
 
'love's young dream.' 19 
 
 mlnable period occasioned many a deep and 
 poignant pang to the two small hearts to 
 which it proclaimed separation, and which, 
 probably, felt none the less keenly because 
 they were small. Edith had tried her best 
 to keep np her spirits as the dreaded time 
 drew near, after exhausting all her powers of 
 arithmetic in counting the hours, minutes, 
 and seconds that must elapse before her 
 darling cousin should be restored to her 
 companionship ; but when the sundry pre- 
 parations for departure indicated the close 
 proximity of the inevitable hour, the broken- 
 hearted little maiden could no longer dissemble 
 her emotions. It was quite touching to see 
 how eagerly she followed her young lover 
 about, as if fearful of losing one fraction of 
 the precious moments that remained. A 
 hundred times a day did she exact the most 
 solemn promises as to his punctuality in cor- 
 respondence, and compel him to repeat again 
 and again his vows never to love any other 
 little girl as he loved her. 
 
 Such a profusion of protestations was almost 
 unnecessary, for Fred was to the full as 
 
20 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 enamoured of his beautiful cousin as she of him; 
 and although he betrayed his grief in a less 
 demonstrative and more masculine fashion, it 
 was to be doubted whether parting from the 
 child who had been his companion for eight 
 years was not as painful to him as her. 
 
 The fatal day arrived, and the Honourable 
 Frederick Hammersley set forth to commence 
 his experience as a public school-boy. Edith 
 had purchased a beautiful little Bible as a 
 surprise gift, and at the last moment, her 
 hazel eyes suffused with tears, and her musical 
 little voice choked with the emotion from 
 which she suffered, she presented it to him, 
 with a solemn injunction to always think of 
 her when he looked at it ; and then, bestow- 
 in or on him a shower of kisses, she retreated 
 from sight of the odious carriage that was to 
 take him away, and, going to her own room, 
 buried her head in her hands, and sobbed 
 miserably. 
 
 The soothing effects of time, in conjunction 
 with several visits paid to Harrow on half- 
 holidays, where Edith and her cousin would 
 roam through the somewhat circumscribed 
 
'love's young dream/ 21 
 
 gardens of the King's Head Hotel, holding 
 sweet converse together, sufficed to mitigate 
 the severity of her grief. But the childish 
 hearts were in no whit estranged by the 
 forced separation — on the contrary, rather 
 more closely drawn together ; and the days 
 on which mine host of the King's Head was 
 bidden to hold a private room in readiness 
 for Lady Allerton, as well as that more 
 lengthened period in which the young Har- 
 rovian could go to sleep without being 
 awakened in the morning by that ' dreadful 
 bell,' which pulls them unwillingly out of 
 their beds for the perusal of Cicero and other 
 classical lights, were to be marked with chalk 
 in the young lovers' calendar. 
 
 At Harrow Fred progressed favourably : 
 he had inherited his father's abilities, and he 
 proceeded from one form to another as rapidly 
 as it was possible to do. In less than two 
 years he had obtained admission into that 
 dignified and powerful body, the upper sixth. 
 Nor was he only what is termed, in the 
 elegant vernacular of Harrow, a swJiat, but he 
 was equally great in what the choice spirits 
 
22 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 of the school regard as the summum honum 
 of human ambition — cricket, football, and 
 racquets. His bowling and batting powers 
 soon placed him among the eleven — a band 
 of heroes who were, at least in every period 
 of which I remember, and probably are now, 
 emphatically the gods in whose worship all 
 Harrow is united. What a glorious day was 
 that for Edith when, just turned her fifteenth 
 year, she sat in her mother's carriage, her fair 
 face flushed with pride and emotion, watching 
 intently the proceedings of eleven young 
 gentlemen equipped in flannel, her eyes 
 riveted especially on one figure who was going 
 through a series of sundry eccentric evolu- 
 tions, which in ordinary language is termed 
 bowlmg, but which, to her enraptured vision, 
 seemed to be the most exciting and extraor- 
 dinary performance ever witnessed. How 
 every nerve tingled when the loud shouts of 
 the partisans of the dark blue announced the 
 fall of another enemy's wicket before the 
 irresistible assault of her hero ; and what con- 
 gratulations and laughter at dinner next day, 
 when the match ending easily in favour of 
 
'love's young dream.' 23 
 
 Harrow, Fred Hammersley's claims to the 
 gratitude of his schoolfellows rested on the 
 fact of his having secured eleven wickets, and 
 scored, in the two innings, a total of one 
 hundred and twenty-five runs. 
 
 At eighteen Hammersley proceeded to 
 Oxford, where he stayed about two years, 
 during which time Edith was presented, and 
 created some sensation in the fashionable 
 world by her beauty and powers of fascina- 
 tion. She and her cousin were still as fondly 
 attached to each other, though perhaps they 
 were a little less demonstrative in their 
 affection than in their younger days. The 
 pride of the woman had succeeded to the 
 artlessness of the child, and regulated action 
 and speech into harmony with the notions of 
 maidenly dignity. A great change of charac- 
 ter, too, had slowly taken place in Edith. As 
 a child she had heen wilful and capricious, 
 wilfulness and caprice soon, however, ending 
 in penitence and regret for their indulgence. 
 As she had grown up, these feelings had 
 degenerated into a haughtiness and stubborn- 
 ness, which detracted strangely from the 
 
24 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 fascination which was as great, if not a 
 greater charm than even her beauty. 
 
 In their childish quarrels she had pouted 
 and sulked for a short time, but was never 
 slow in receiving or making overtures for a 
 reconciliation, and always ready, after they 
 had become friends again, to blame her own 
 hastiness and ill-temper as the cause of the 
 disagreement ; but, as she had grown up, this 
 amiable trait had gradually disappeared. No 
 matter whether in the wrong or the right, 
 rarely would she sacrifice her dignity suffi- 
 ciently to sue for peace, and in extending 
 pardon to any offence of her lover she would 
 usually supplement it with the chilling com- 
 mentary, that though she forgave she would 
 never forget. 
 
 I have omitted any description, however 
 slight, of her cousin's character, because I 
 consider this will be best acquired by the 
 reader from his actions as set forth in these 
 pages. He received frequent letters from her 
 while at Oxford, in which she dwelt, with all 
 the enthusiasm of a girl just admitted into 
 the world of gaiety, on the perpetual /#£ es and 
 
'love's young dream.' 25 
 
 parties, her every-day proceedings, the flower- 
 shows she attended, the balls she danced, and, 
 not unfrequently, the attentions and compli- 
 ments she received. Perhaps this latter item 
 was put in, in simple obedience to that spirit 
 of coquetry which is supposed to be inherent 
 in every woman, merely to let her lover know 
 he was not the only one who appreciated her ; 
 but, as if to make amends for any unpleasant- 
 ness this information might cause him, she 
 would add a rider to the effect of how much 
 more she would enjoy her gay existence if 
 he were there to participate in her pleasures 
 too. 
 
 On leaving Oxford, and entering the world 
 of fashion, he found his fair cousin had already 
 established around her a numerous train of 
 admirers — men for the most part of the best 
 kind, whose admiration conferred distinction. 
 Certainly Lady Edith Stewart must have had 
 wonderful powers of fascination, for she con- 
 trived to keep her courtiers very loyal with- 
 out any of those palpable efforts by which the 
 majority of even the most beautiful coquettes 
 are compelled to maintain their rank intact. 
 
26 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 There was no regular engagement between 
 the young couple, Lord Carnmore, whose 
 opinion of his son's choice was by no means 
 favourable, having stipulated that they should 
 wait at least a year to prove the strength and 
 durability of their attachment. Although 
 naturally impatient at the restriction, Fred 
 could hardly help admitting the justice of his 
 father's reasoning when he pointed out to 
 him that there is an immense difference be- 
 tween the feelings of a young girl brought up 
 in comparative seclusion with a companion, 
 whom the want of any others to afford a com- 
 parison or contrast with leads to regard in 
 an affectionate light, and the feelings of the 
 woman, when her experience becomes so much 
 wider, and there is every opportunity of 
 meeting with some one more congenial to her 
 tastes and inclinations. 
 
 Edith, on her side, declared that being 
 engaged or not made no difference. If, she 
 argued philosophically, they loved one another, 
 that was a sufficient tie in itself, and if they 
 should see anyone they liked better, why then 
 they were free to consult their own happiness ; 
 
'love's young dream.' 27 
 
 but, observing a somewhat pained look on her 
 lover's face at this rather careless way of deal- 
 ing with the matter, she took the sting out 
 of it by assuring him that if he cared as 
 much for her as she for him, that could never 
 happen. 
 
 It may, however, be imagined that her 
 evidently deep-rooted habit of flirtation found 
 little favour in the eyes of her cousin. It 
 formed the basis of many quarrels between 
 them, in which she would haughtily insist on 
 her perfect liberty to dq as she pleased ; to 
 which he would retort that she owed him the 
 same duty as if the world had publicly recog- 
 nised them as lovers. 
 
 It will be easily seen from this that there 
 were a few clouds upon the horizon of their 
 loves, which might in time assume formidable 
 size. I shall now no longer weary my readers 
 with more tedious description, but allow them 
 to make the acquaintance of the personages of 
 my story for themselves. 
 

 m 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 
 
 Whatever the justice or plausibility of his 
 other charges against the aristocracy, the most 
 uncompromising Radical can scarcely assert 
 they go through no hard work. That the 
 labour is self-imposed does not lessen its 
 severity ; and certainly the votaries of fashion, 
 in their desire to see and be seen, in their 
 efforts to get themselves off, or their daughters 
 off, display an amount of unwearied application 
 to their voluntary task, that would not con- 
 trast unfavourably with the same quality in 
 those less fortunate of their fellow-creatures 
 who are compelled to toil and spin for the 
 bare necessaries of existence. 
 
 Riches seem to create ennui, and, conse- 
 quently, the necessity of distraction : and it 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 29 
 
 speaks badly for the effects of the highest 
 education that it seems to make those who 
 have enjoyed its benefits disgusted with their 
 own society, and compelled to rely on others 
 for amusement. There is more philosophy 
 than many wot of in that hackneyed old line 
 of the Delectus, ' Opes irrit amenta malorum. 9 
 
 The lamps shine over a good number of 
 presumably brave men, and apparently fair 
 women, assembled in the saloons of Lady 
 Morton, the wife of a political peer, Philip, 
 sixth Earl of Morton, a member of the Cabi- 
 net, and descended from a family whose 
 legislative abilities, such as they were, have 
 ever made them well-known to their country- 
 men. At his house you may be sure of 
 meeting with a pretty good sprinkling of 
 celebrities of all sorts ; for it is not a rendez- 
 vous exclusively reserved for those who attach 
 themselves to the rota fervida of the political 
 chariot. 
 
 That tall-figured man talking to the earl 
 in rather low tones is Lord Carnmore. It is 
 probably some State secret the brother 
 ministers are discussing, for as a younger 
 
30 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 politician approaches them the confidential 
 whispers cease, and the conversation becomes 
 general. Lord Carnmore is still young for a 
 public man — only forty-six ; but his somewhat 
 chequered career and his domestic loss have 
 told on him, and made him look more over 
 fifty than under it ; but in spite of the deep 
 lines on the massive forehead and round the 
 corners of the firm, determined mouth, his 
 features are still sufficiently well preserved to 
 induce the gazer to guess that the youthful 
 sobriquet of ' Handsome Hammersley ' was 
 well deserved. 
 
 That rather good-looking blonde man, with 
 a slight tendency to embonpoint, talking to 
 Lady Alicia Nettlethorp, a veteran flirt, whom 
 four unsuccessful seasons of angling- in matri- 
 monial waters has rendered rather acidulated 
 and irritable towards younger and more 
 attractive rivals, is Mr. Melton, one of the 
 richest commoners in England, and although 
 only twenty -four; a shining light on the turf. 
 He is a very old friend of the Allerton family 
 — indeed some sort of connection by marriage — 
 and a still greater one of Hammersley la, 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 31 
 
 They were at Harrow and Oxford together ; 
 from which latter place Mr. Melton was 
 rusticated a year after he entered for some 
 foolish escapade which the authorities could 
 not be induced to look upon in its proper 
 light. Passionately fond of horses and all 
 appertaining thereto, he immediately turned 
 his' attention to the turf, and his immense 
 fortune was amply sufficient to allow him the 
 gratification of such an expensive taste. 
 
 There is an unmistakable air of geniality 
 and bonhomme about Melton which makes him 
 equally popular among his own and with the 
 gentler sex. He is a friend of nearly all the 
 reigning belles, but no one seems as yet to 
 have succeeded in cultivating more intimate 
 relations than those of friendship with him, 
 although he is, of course, an object of great 
 interest to match-making mammas, who are 
 not insensible to the advantages of sixty 
 thousand a year for their marriageable 
 daughters. 
 
 Lady Alicia is not on duty at the present 
 moment ; she is talking to Melton quietly and 
 unaffectedly, for she has proved some time ago 
 
32 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 that her battery of charms are powerless to 
 captivate the wealthy commoner. Lady Alicia 
 is a very common type in the fashionable 
 world. When she came out she created rather 
 a sensation, for, although not entitled to take 
 first rank as a beauty, she was rather hand- 
 some, with j^lenty of liveliness, and that admir- 
 able gift of small talk and repartee which 
 goes far to secure a social reputation for a 
 woman. She was launched, therefore, under 
 very favourable circumstances, and a tolerable 
 share of offers fell to her lot, but in her 
 opinion they were none of them equal to what 
 her looks and accomplishments entitled her to 
 expect ; and so, in waiting for something better, 
 Lady Alicia, like the discontented animal in 
 the fable, in seeking the shadow lost the 
 substance, and her chances now, with so many 
 rivals in the field, seem small. 
 
 The well-dressed crowd at Lady Morton's 
 are split up, like most other crowds, ill or well 
 dressed, into various groups, the centre of 
 each usually being some man celebrated for 
 his talent, or some woman renowned for her 
 wit or beauty, or probably for a combination 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 33 
 
 of both. But foremost in the field to excite 
 the envy of the women and attract the homage 
 of the men is Lady Edith Stewart. Her 
 warmest admirers stoutly assert her claims to 
 be considered clever, and repeat her bon mots 
 and good things with enthusiastic emphasis ; 
 but I doubt whether there is much depth in 
 Lady Edith's cleverness. She is sharp, and 
 has a fair amount of repartee, which enables 
 her to frequently come off conqueror in verbal 
 amenities with the 'gilded youth' who throno- 
 around her; but there is nothing strong-minded 
 or intellectual in her composition, and those 
 who observe her most closely notice that in 
 the presence of a social ' lion' she relies rather 
 on her charms than her talents to create an 
 impression. 
 
 No inefficient weapon are those same charms 
 either. The most captious critic could find 
 no fault with the perfect beauty of the fairest 
 daughter of the house of Allerton — the 
 daughter whom the world, although in receipt 
 of no official confirmation of the fact, has long 
 ago shrewdly suspected as designed to link 
 the houses of Allerton and Carnmore closer 
 
 Vol. i— D 
 
34 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 together. Little change, save the necessary 
 development time effects on all, has taken 
 place in her since the day when her boy 
 cousin became an inmate of her mothers 
 household. Those who knew the child Edith 
 would recognise her instantly now. The same 
 rich auburn hair, the same ' perfect lips/ on 
 which it had been bliss to at least two men to 
 
 1 Waste their whole heart in one kiss.' 
 and, more powerful yet in its influence than 
 all — than the faultless beauty of face or 
 person — that dangerous gift of fascination, 
 which, from the days of Eve downwards, has 
 made beautiful women so fatal to the peace of 
 mind of those men to whom their glamour 
 and enchantment more often prove a curse 
 than a blessing. 
 
 Licrht-hearted enough she seems now — a 
 queen enthroned in the admiration of her 
 courtiers, exchanging jest and repartee with 
 the throng around her, and, either from vanity 
 or carelessness, conquering, like the fair 
 Francesca — although differing somewhat in 
 nature from that rather pensive maiden — 
 'Hearts she ceased to prize.' 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 35 
 
 The mast favoured among the group, if one 
 may judge by the frequency with which she 
 addresses him in preference to the others, and 
 the appreciative smile which she accords to his 
 sallies, is that ornament to society in general, 
 and the household brigade in particular, Mr. 
 Rochester. This gentleman is considered by 
 his friends, male and female, the handsomest 
 man of his day ; and although objections 
 might be taken to the slightness of his fWire 
 as detracting from the tout ensemble of a 
 * beauty ' man, none could be preferred against 
 his face. If all the stories told of him be 
 true, he has in a short time contrived to deal 
 more havoc among the hearts of susceptible 
 maidens and frail matrons than is usually 
 accomplished by that limited class of creatures 
 who take for their motto in all affaires~de-cceur 
 the Caesarian maxim, ' I came, I saw, I con- 
 quered.' 
 
 Fascinator as Mr. Rochester has been, it 
 seems now as if his own time had come, and 
 that he who had enslaved so many hearts 
 must end by losing his own. His homage to 
 Lady Edith has been characterised by a 
 
3G FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 devotedness never before observed in the care- 
 less insouciant court he has hitherto paid 
 to other women acknowledged as beauties ; 
 and some tongues are heard to whisper that 
 his devotion is not altogether unappreciated. 
 Whether it is that she really likes him better 
 than the herd of more commonplace men who 
 compose her train, or that she thinks him 
 useful to play off against her lover, or because 
 she is proud of the conquest of a man whom 
 she knows so many of her rivals would give 
 anything to attach to themselves, is best 
 known to herself. At any rate, one thing is 
 certain, that, had she not already acquired a 
 reputation for coquetry, which, from its open 
 indulgence, must be necessarily harmless, her 
 encouragement of Rochester has been such 
 that most people would be justified in thinking 
 he was the favoured one. 
 
 I have wandered from the spot where I 
 left Lady Alicia and Melton talking. They 
 are standing near tlfe group of which Edith 
 is the centre, and Melton, perceiving the eyes 
 of the elder beauty fixed in that direction with 
 no particularly amiable expression, remarks — 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 37 
 
 ' Her ladyship has created more sensation 
 than anyone in our time : don't you think 
 so?' 
 
 Lady Alicia smiles : she always does on the 
 least provocation, because it affords her an 
 opportunity of displaying a brilliant set of 
 teeth, which is about her best point ; but, 
 having made this concession to her vanity, 
 there is a sarcastic vibration in her voice as 
 she replies — 
 
 ' She is backed by all the " talent," as they 
 say in the language of sporting circles/ 
 
 'What surprises me/ continues Melton, 
 seeing the subject is somewhat unpleasant to 
 his companion, and mischievously dwelling on 
 it in consequence, 'is how she contrives to 
 keep the ranks of her admirers so intact. A 
 desertion is a most rare occurrence/ 
 
 ' Flirting seems to take with most men, 
 now-a-days,' says Lady Alicia, snappishly. 
 
 * Flirting ! ' answers Melton, with a meaning 
 smile. ' Do I hear aright % A Clodius come 
 to judgment ! How long is it, pray, since 
 you discovered the heinousness of that inno- 
 cent pastime?' 
 
38 FIRST AXD LAST. 
 
 * There's flirting and flirting/ says her lady- 
 ship, with dignity. * I call Lady Edith 
 Stewart's proceedings far too fast to be classed 
 with ordinary flirtation.' 
 
 'I understand,' rejoins her listener, drily. 
 ■ Poor Edith ! I don't think she is aware of 
 the scandal she creates.' 
 
 ' I wonder you don't go mad after her,' says 
 Lady Alicia, sarcastically. ' You seem at 
 present the only man who can talk common 
 sense when her name is mentioned.' 
 
 1 1 played with her when a child, 
 She promised then to be fair,' 
 
 laughs Melton, easily. ■ Perhaps if I had not 
 had the benefit of that early acquaintance, I 
 might have been smitten ; as it is, I am too 
 used to her fascinations to fall a victim.' 
 
 There is silence for a moment ; presently 
 he adds — 
 
 1 1 fancy it is a hopeless case with Rochester ; 
 don't you ? ' 
 
 Lady Alicia pauses a little : it is hard for a 
 disappointed beauty to openly acknowledge 
 the conquests of her rival. 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 39 
 
 f Yes/ she says, slowly, ' I think he's rather 
 hard hit.' 
 
 ' And,' he asks, more hesitatingly — c I know 
 women are such wonderful judges of each 
 other — do you think she returns it at all \ ' 
 
 'I know why you ask that/ returns her 
 ladyship, with a suspicious smile— J in the 
 interests of your jldus Achates, Mr. Ham- 
 mersley ; but, you may take my word for it, 
 she does not care for Rochester in her heart, 
 much as she apparently seems to like him. 
 You can never be deceived, at least, ive can't, 
 when a woman loves a man. You wait till 
 Hammersley comes to-night. You will know 
 well enough when he is in the room by her 
 restlessness ; you will see her eyes furtively 
 watching his every movement ; but you may 
 look a long time before Rochester's proceed- 
 ings create any such interest. And now I 
 have been candid with you, be frank with me : 
 is not Hammersley desperately epris himself?' 
 
 I If you ask me my opinion/ says Melton, 
 gravely, ' I should say he thinks of nothing 
 else day and night.' 
 
 I I am sorry for him,' answers Lady Alicia 
 
40 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 (she is not at bottom at all bad-hearted, only 
 a little soured and disappointed with her own 
 crosses and vexations), ' for he has great 
 talent, and is fitted for something better than 
 making himself love-sick after a nighty, frivo- 
 lous girl/ 
 
 'You are rather hard upon her,' says 
 Melton, protestingly. 
 
 ' I don't wish to be hard upon anyone who 
 doesn't deserve it,' answers Lady Alicia, 
 gravely ; ' but, mark my words, I can read 
 her character as well as if I had been brought 
 up with her from a child. Whoever takes 
 Edith Stewart for a wife will reap more 
 misery than happiness from it. If she does 
 not love her husband she will torment him, 
 and if she loves him she will torment him 
 worse. Whenever she marries you will find 
 I have been a true prophet.' And Lady 
 Alicia, moving away, leaves Mr. Melton to 
 digest her somewhat gloomy prognostications. 
 
 He is not, however, long destined to indulge 
 in his own reflections, for on turning suddenly 
 round he encounters the keen, bright glance 
 of Lord Carnmore, who is just moving off to 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 41 
 
 give the House of Lords a touch of his fiery 
 eloquence. 
 
 ' Well, my young turfite,' he says, plea- 
 santly, for Melton is rather a favourite with 
 him, l has our manoeuvring friend, Lady 
 Alicia, been angling in your quarter V 
 
 ' Gad r answers Melton, somewhat bitterly, 
 6 whenever a woman addresses a man who is 
 cursed with a large fortune, his friends always 
 place the attraction to his fortune, not to him/ 
 
 ' That's the best of being poor and stupid,' 
 says the peer, smilingly. ' You can't be 
 married for your money or flattered for your 
 genius.' 
 
 ' Whenever I feel disposed to take a wife/ 
 remarks Melton, ' I think I shall roam about 
 disguised, like the lord of Burleigh did, and 
 bring home some humble maiden to share my 
 splendour. ' 
 
 1 And be ashamed of her, if she fails to 
 conform herself to her unaccumstomed sphere. 
 King Cophetua and the beggar-maid does not 
 answer now-a-days, I am afraid.' 
 
 ' Perhaps the best thing is not to marry at 
 all,' says Melton. 
 
42 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 ' A wife,' answers Lord Carnmore gravely, 
 1 is either a crown of glory or a crown of 
 thorns : if the former, there's not a greater 
 blessing ; if the latter, scarcely a worse curse. 
 Take an old man's word for it, Melton. There 
 are a few, a very few, women about worth, to 
 use a hackneyed but still forcible expression, 
 their weight in gold. But the more I see and 
 the more I contrast, the more I find that the 
 majority of them are not worth one thought 
 of a good or noble heart.' 
 
 He speaks this very energetically : perhaps 
 his fancies are wandering back long years ago 
 to the one woman who was his ideal, and the 
 like of whom he has failed to meet in his 
 lonely pilgrimage through life since. 
 
 Presently his keen, restless glance, ever in 
 search of something, rests on the group around 
 his future daughter-in-law ; and the rather 
 melancholy expression that was on his features 
 just now gives place to a sarcastic one as he 
 says to Melton : — 
 
 ' The queen of beauty attracting the usual 
 amount of emptyheadedness and coxcombry, 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 43 
 
 noscitur a sociis — fit worshippers at such a 
 shrine. ' 
 
 1 You are rather prejudiced in that quarter, 
 I am afraid/ answers Melton, to whom he has 
 made no secret of his dislike to the approach- 
 ing match. 
 
 ' I am not prejudiced,' returns his lordship 
 (people never are in their own estimation) ; 
 1 but I have lived to my years for no purpose if 
 I can't read some characters that are as patent 
 as the light ; and I say, for the hundredth 
 time, that the man who marries Edith Stewart 
 will rue his infatuation for a pretty face before 
 the honeymoon is at its wane.' 
 
 Nearly the same words as Lady Alicia just 
 employed. Mr. Melton feels rather uncom- 
 fortable for his friend, and he attempts to 
 temporise. 
 
 1 She is young, you know, and perhaps just 
 a little intoxicated with the admiration she 
 meets with everywhere, but I am sure she has 
 a heart.' 
 
 ' A heart ! ' repeats his lordship, contemptu- 
 ously. ' A flirt like that with a heart — bah ! 
 I will tell you what, Melton, if you want to 
 
44 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 prove your friendshijD for my son you will do 
 your best to wean him from this foolish 
 passion, this untutored fancy of a romantic 
 boy.' 
 
 ' This is no boyish fancy, my lord,' he 
 answers, quietly. ' Pardon me for saying so ; 
 but I know Hammersley on this point better 
 than you, and I know his cousin has the 
 power to make or blast his happiness.' 
 
 ' All young men say and think this,' returns 
 the peer, incredulously (it is astonishing, 
 none are harder or more inconsiderate to 
 lovers than those who have loved passionately 
 themselves) ; l but a few months' absence 
 would cure him.' 
 
 Melton shakes his head at this easy and 
 light-hearted manner of disposing of our 
 nearest and dearest affairs, and his lordship 
 retires to electrify the Upper Chamber. 
 
 Lady Edith's admirers have melted away 
 one by one, and she is left alone with Rochester. 
 Near this beautiful creature, whom his whole 
 heart goes out to adore, he can scarcely compel 
 his lips to keep guard over the passion that is 
 surging so fiercely within. He knows his 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 45 
 
 suit is hopeless ; the unerring instinct granted 
 to lovers makes him see that if this girl has a 
 heart, the possession of which he is in moments 
 of bitterness tempted to deny her altogether, 
 it is given to Hammersley. But still he cannot 
 rend his fetters ; he waits with a patient, 
 dog-like fidelity, trusting that some sudden 
 accident, some unexpected revolution of the 
 wheel of fate, may offer him as the only 
 acceptable lover left. 
 
 ' The brilliant train has melted away,' he 
 says in that low musical voice which has won 
 its way to so many women's hearts, ' and the 
 queen of beauty is left with only one poor 
 faithful knight to proffer his homage.' 
 
 ' Faithful knight ! ' returns Edith, mock- 
 ingly, turning on him the brilliant eyes that 
 gleam with no answering love, but with that 
 chilling friendly glance that is almost harder 
 to bear in the utter hopelessness it conveys than 
 the flash of hate or scorn. ' And to how 
 many more besides myself have you perjured 
 yourself in that fashion ? ' 
 
 'However I have perjured myself,' he 
 answers quickly, * I speak nothing but the 
 
46 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 truth now. You must be convinced — no 
 woman in such a case could be blind to it — 
 of the sincerity of my devotion.' 
 
 There is a passionate vibration in his voice 
 as he says this, that would carry conviction 
 to most listeners ; but Edith seems absorbed 
 in her own reflections, and scarcely heeds him. 
 
 ' Do you believe me ? ' he asks, eagerly. 
 
 1 Believe you ! ' she repeats, starting from 
 her reverie. ' I hardly heard what you said. 
 I really don't know ; I have not thought about 
 it.' 
 
 ' Have you a heart \ ' he says fiercely, anger 
 getting the better of his love at this proof of 
 her indifference. 
 
 ' Have I a heart ? ' she answers gaily. 
 * Well, I am not quite sure, but I fancy 
 so, for I feel something beat when I am 
 frightened*' 
 
 ' Fright is the only thing that makes it 
 beat, I suppose ? ' he inquires, sarcastically. 
 
 * Why do you ask ? ' she says, trifling with 
 her fan to conceal a little embarrassment that 
 she cannot help feeling. 
 
 1 Because I imagined, although I dare say 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 47 
 
 I am wrong to do so, that it might occasionally 
 feel a pang of remorse/ he returns, with a 
 sneer. 
 
 1 1 don't understand you/ she answers, 
 rather wondering at this strange manner in 
 one usually so imperturbable and self-possessed 
 as Rochester. 
 
 1 1 mean,' he says, hurriedly, and he speaks 
 like a man who is suffering; under some ter- 
 rible emotion, * that sometimes, when you 
 have nothing in particular to occupy your 
 thoughts, you might think over the unhappy 
 victims (a sneering emphasis here) upon 
 whom you have exercised your fatal fascina- 
 tion ; that you might sometimes wish to 
 recall the words or smiles uttered and given, 
 doubtless, with no intention on your part, but 
 which have sufficed to make fools of them ; 
 that you might, perhaps, be induced to think 
 that the peace of mind of a man who begins 
 by admiring and ends by laving you is not to 
 be played with and cast aside like a toy that 
 has lost its novelty ; that you might remem- 
 ber, and draw from that remembrance a lesson 
 
48 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 for the future, that what is simply to you 
 amusement may be death to them.' 
 
 During the whole of this singular speech 
 she has kept her eyes steadily fixed on the 
 ground, avoiding the searching and impas- 
 sioned gaze that seeks her own ; but now, 
 when he has finished, she raises them proudly 
 and defiantly to his face, and the hot colour 
 mounts angrily into her cheeks as she 
 says — 
 
 1 1 will not affect to misunderstand your 
 words ; I will answer you by asking one 
 question. Have I given to you or to any 
 other of your acquaintance one word or look 
 of encouragement incompatible with my faith 
 to another man ? Have you heard, either 
 from my sex or your own, a whisper that 
 could tarnish my reputation — I will not say as 
 a lady, but as a woman V 
 
 She has turned on him so suddenly that he 
 is fairly taken aback by her angry burst. 
 
 ' I have heard nothing,' he answers gloomily, 
 ' and I accuse you of nothing. I spoke rashly, 
 and perhaps unreasonably, but I did so,' he 
 adds bitterly, ' because I was half mad at the 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 49 
 
 time, and because it is my misfortune that I 
 have a heart which can feel/ 
 
 There is so much of pathos in his tone, that 
 it would win the sympathy of a harder-hearted 
 woman than Edith. 
 
 1 You know I have never deceived you/ she 
 says more gently. ' When you asked me, 
 months ago, I told you my faith and heart 
 were alike given to another, and that even 
 had it not been so I could never have been 
 anything to you but a friend. Have I since 
 that day been guilty of a word or action that 
 could induce you to think I had changed ? ' 
 
 I Oh, no,' he says, the bitterness still in his 
 tone, ' I have no one but myself to blame for 
 my folly ; you have always been hopelessly 
 friendly. I would sooner far you hated me 
 than this, for you ivould think of me then, 
 although it was only bad you thought ; now 
 I know you never remember me a moment 
 after I am gone.' 
 
 I I do like you,' she says frankly — and her 
 steady colour and steadfast glance, as she says 
 it, justify Lady Alicia's assertion that Roches- 
 ter awoke no tender interest in her — * as a 
 
 VoL L — a 
 
50 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 brother or a dear friend. I would prove it 
 gladly if ever you stood in need of friendship. ' 
 
 ' Thanks/ he answers sadly : ' I suppose I 
 must.be content with that.' 
 
 And here, in the midst of a crowd of people 
 watching their neighbours' proceedings, to 
 extract therefrom what theme for scandal they 
 may, was perpetrated this little tragedy 
 between two young people ; the one — to whom 
 it was indeed a tragedy — the next moment 
 mixing among his fellows as gaily and indiffer- 
 ently, to all appearance, as if he had never 
 known the pain of disappointed hopes. 
 
 It is not always those people who go about 
 in sackcloth and ashes, with all the trappings 
 of woe, who have the heaviest burdens to bear. 
 Many an aching heart lies hidden behind a 
 smiling lip ; and I believe the worst sorrows 
 are those which the sorely-stricken never tell 
 to human ear, but shut sadly and resolutely 
 up in their own breasts. 
 
 Scarcely has Rochester concluded his un- 
 satisfactory interview when Hammersley 
 enters from St. Stephen's, whither he was 
 returned as an advanced Liberal to represent 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 51 
 
 the borough of Middleton about six months 
 ago. His debut was very promising, and men 
 whose good opinion carried weight with it 
 were not slow hi confessing that the young 
 politician had inherited a good share of the 
 family ability. 
 
 He exchanges a few words with Melton, 
 who happens to be near the door when he 
 enters, and, after greeting Lady Morton, 
 crosses over at once to his cousin, who 
 perceives immediately, so well has she learned 
 to read every expression of his countenance, 
 that something has occurred in another quarter 
 to ruffle his temper. 
 
 You cannot call Hammersley good or bad 
 looking — -it is the face of a clever man, with 
 clear, resolute, and well-defined features, yet 
 not harmonising sufficiently with each other 
 to constitute beauty. His forehead is high 
 and well-shaped, he has brilliantly- white teeth, 
 and a passably good firm mouth ; but, if he has 
 any pretensions to beauty at all, they lie in 
 his clear dark-blue eyes, which are very 
 penetrating and expressive. Whiskers and 
 hair of a light-brown hue complete the 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 TL11N0IS LIBRARY 
 
52 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 tout-ensemble. His figure is tall and well- 
 proportioned, neither slim nor herculean. 
 
 As I have said, Lady Edith perceives he 
 has been ruffled ; and such is the fact. He 
 had made a very good speech that evening in 
 the House, which had been received with a 
 proper amount of appreciation by his own 
 party ; but in the course of his remarks he 
 happened to make himself rather disagreeable 
 to one of the great men of the Opposition, 
 who, presently rising, indulged in a fair 
 amount of satire at his expense, and concluded 
 by characterising him as ' one of that numerous 
 and daily increasing class of young politicians 
 designated by their lenient friends as rising 
 men, who mistake personalities for argument 
 and presumptuous assertions for authoritative 
 statements.' On this some well meaning 
 gentleman had cried out ' Order. ' Hammersley 
 got up very excited, the Speaker interfered — 
 the honourable member for Middleton was 
 reminded that he had commenced personalities, 
 and a good ten or dozen other interfering 
 legislators put in their say, until the whole 
 matter was wound up by a good-humoured 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 53 
 
 attempt on the part of the leader of the 
 Government to explain away his young sup- 
 porter's meaning, and to convince the right 
 honourable gentleman opposite, &c, &c, after 
 the usual fashion of parliamentary squabbles. 
 
 It is this little occurrence that has disturbed 
 his serenity, and Edith being, for a wonder, in 
 a particularly good temper herself, determines 
 to win him to a softer mood, and accosts him 
 graciously : 
 
 * Have you been electrifying St. Stephen's 
 to-night, Fred V 
 
 Of all subjects she could choose, this is of 
 course the most unpleasant one ; but poor 
 Edith is not aware of this, and only wishes to 
 be amiable. 
 
 1 I don't know about electrifying,' he answers, 
 while the recollection of the ' right honourable 
 gentleman's' sarcasm makes him look and feel 
 Grosser than ever : ' I spoke as I intended ; 
 that's all' 
 
 To this not particularly conciliatory rejoinder 
 Edith returns a short ' Oh,' and relapses into 
 silence. Her cousin's mood, however, soon 
 contrives to provoke her into an aggressive 
 
54 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 frame of mind likewise, and she says coldly : 
 
 ' You don't seem to be overburdened with 
 amiability to-night/ 
 
 ' I have no doubt/ he replies with a sneer, 
 * that my powers of entertaining must seem 
 vastly feeble compared with those of the' 
 numerous throng that attends you before I 
 come/ 
 
 1 1 can't compliment you on them at the 
 present moment, I must say/ she answers 
 curtly. 
 
 ' Your friend Rochester, for one, has been 
 as pleasant as usual, I suppose V he asks, 
 looking at her coldly. 
 
 ' 1 don't know that he has been particularly 
 pleasant, as you call it/ she rejoins, flushing 
 angrily, ' but at any rate he contrived to say 
 something ; he was neither dumb nor sulky. 7 
 And with this rejoinder Edith relapses into 
 sulky dignity herself — a proceeding which has 
 the effect of bringing her lover round, for he 
 says, presently — 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Edith ; I was in a bad 
 temper, I know ; but I was very much annoyed 
 and insulted by H in the House to-night, 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 55 
 
 and, like a brute, I was bound to resent it on 
 the first person with whom I was sufficiently 
 intimate to pick a quarrel. You will forgive 
 me, won't you ? You know you are the last I 
 should wish to offend.' 
 
 His voice is very winning as he says these 
 words ; and his eyes are correspondingly elo- 
 quent as he looks in the fair face of his cousin ; 
 and she, ever in her hates or loves a creature 
 of impulse, cries, almost' before he has finished 
 his apology : . 
 
 ' Of course I will forgivS* you, Fred ; it 
 only makes the ten-thousandth time that you 
 have been unkind to me, and sorry for it 
 afterwards/ 
 
 And so they make it up, at least for this 
 time ; but the course of Hammersley 's serenity 
 has been too roughly disturbed for even 
 Edith's fascinations to restore him to good- 
 humour ; so it is evident that while in this 
 mood a very little will provoke a fresh 
 quarrel. 
 
 There is no modern e gush ' or effervescence 
 about Edith. She does not go into real or 
 pretended raptures over a beautiful piece of 
 
56 . FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 music or poetry, or a splendid painting. A 
 casual acquaintance would be inclined to 
 think she had no very deep feeling, but she 
 is only one of the many exceptions to the 
 fallacy of judging by appearances. There is 
 nothing of the credited coldness of the 
 Northern clime about her ; she either hates 
 or loves, and, whichever she does, it is done 
 heartily and thoroughly. Careless and almost 
 cynically indifferent as she appears to the 
 outward observer, she is at heart as romantic 
 a girl as ever Breathed ; but, perhaps unfor- 
 tunately for herself and for others, her 
 romance is locked up in her own bosom, and 
 none of her friends dream of its existence. 
 Pride, which with her is an unconquerable 
 disease, prevents her from descending to those 
 soft, winning moods which, after all, are so 
 powerful in wooing and retaining a man's 
 love, insomuch as they make woman appear 
 in her true and proper light — dependent on 
 and looking to man for protection. Passion- 
 ately as she loves Hammersley, it is only on 
 rare occasions that she will permit her love to 
 appear, and, more often than not, in spite of 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 57 
 
 these occasional evidences of affection, he finds 
 himself seriously perplexed to determine 
 whether his cousin has or has not outlived 
 the fancy of her childish years. 
 
 To-night Edith is in a sentimental mood — 
 in that sort of mood common to young and 
 ardent lovers when they are prepared to hear 
 1 They know not what of wild and sweet ' 
 
 whispered by the lips they love ; but it is a 
 curious circumstance that these two young 
 people can never be in an agreeable frame of 
 mind together when Edith is fascinating Ham- 
 mersley is correspondingly chilling, and vice 
 versa. 
 
 I don't know what it is that has turned her 
 thoughts in a sentimental direction to-night, 
 except perhaps it has been her conversation 
 with Rochester. At any rate the fact remains, 
 and she presently addresses her cousin : 
 
 ' Fred, does not this remind you of the old 
 times, when we used to sit together as children 
 in the little pavilion at Allerton on summer 
 mornings V 
 
 If he were only decently amiable, here were a 
 good opportunity to dwell on that somewhat 
 
58 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 sentimental period, and deduce from it some 
 pleasant auguries for the future, &c. As it is, 
 the allusion seems to convey more bitter than 
 sweet to him, for he answers with a half sneer — 
 
 ' Two grown-up people sitting together 
 can't look very different, save in the matter 
 of size, from what they appeared when sitting 
 together as boy and girl, but there may have 
 come a great alteration in their relations to 
 each other, which is able to constitute a very 
 wide difference.' 
 
 ' And how are we changed since we were 
 boy -and girl together'?' asks Edith softly; for 
 perhaps she feels there are some grains of 
 truth in her lover's insinuation. 
 
 'Immeasurably,' he answers with a laugh 
 that does not sound like that of a very con- 
 tented lover. l Then you were a girl, ignorant 
 of the world or the admiration that awaited 
 you there ; then you were content with the 
 love and appreciation of one : noiv you are 
 the successful beauty, flattered and courted 
 by those whose admiration should be worthless 
 to a pure heart, but which, it seems, has 
 become necessary to your existence/ 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 59 
 
 There is so much suppressed bitterness in 
 his tone, so much of wounded feeling, as he 
 contrasts the past with the present, that 
 Edith feels conscience-stricken. 
 
 'I know it well enough,' she says, half 
 sadly : ' I have seen it long before you said 
 as much as you have to-night. You don't 
 care for me half as much now as then.' 
 
 He looks at her gloomily, with the eyes 
 from which his momentaiy indignation and 
 disappointment cannot banish the great love, 
 and he says — 
 
 1 God knows, Edith, my love has under- 
 gone no change. You are as dear, if not 
 dearer, to me now as ever ; but can I be as 
 sure of you \ Is the love of the woman the 
 same as the love of the child ? ' 
 
 1 Oh Fred,' she cries passionately, ' how 
 can you ask me? Are men. so blind that 
 they cannot see when they are loved ? Is 
 there so little in common between our natures? 
 Was the spell that drew us together from the 
 first hour we met as children so weak that 
 you fear to trust me now 1 If you think that 
 my heart is to be turned away from its great 
 
60 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 love by the empty praise and flattering 
 nothings of the professional Apollos one meets 
 with in " society," you wrong, not only my 
 faith, but your own worth.' 
 
 I You don't know my character yet, Fred/ 
 she continues, shaking her head at him, with 
 a rather sad smile. ' You think I am flighty 
 and frivolous, and — you need not deny it — 
 heartless too, because I do not speak and act 
 in the manner that girls with less pride do. 
 But you know pride was always my besetting 
 sin, even as a little child, and it is that now 
 which makes me seem cold and haughty, 
 when in reality I am heart-broken and 
 miserable.' 
 
 ' And why,' he asks gravely, ' will you 
 not strive to conquer this pride, which not 
 only raises doubt in those who love and 
 think, therefore, they know you, but, according 
 to your own confession, renders you equally 
 unhappy \ ' 
 
 I I do try,' she says, and her beautiful face 
 looks very earnest as she speaks. ' I do try 
 with all my strength. I feel I am very 
 jealous, and envious, and paltry, and mean, 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 61 
 
 and shall never be loved or respected by those 
 I care for till I am better. I want to be 
 good. Will you tell me how to set about 
 it?' 
 
 ' I have given you my prescription many 
 times before,' he answers, with an impatient 
 shrug of his shoulders, 'but you never give 
 my medicine a fair trial/ 
 
 1 1 am in earnest now,' she answers quickly. 
 ? Do tell me what to do to — to make you like 
 me better, and I will try, upon my honour.' 
 
 1 Give up flirting to begin with,' he says, 
 sternly. 
 
 ' I don't flirt, Freddy,' she replies, stoutly. 
 ' I can't be rude to people because they talk 
 to me, and perhaps — perhaps admire me just a 
 little, you know. Only you are so jealous, 
 you imagine if I laugh with a person I must 
 be desperately smitten with llim. , 
 
 ' I am not the only one who condemns you,' 
 he says, severely. ' You have the character 
 of a coquette in every drawing-room in 
 London.' 
 
 ' And who is it given me by V she answers, 
 poutingly. ' By women who are envious ; by 
 
62 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 men I won't condescend to speak to ; and by 
 a stupid, jealous old lover, who is so absurdly 
 fond of me himself that he fancies everyone 
 else wants to take me away from him/ And 
 as Edith says this she looks up into his 
 somewhat grave countenance with a most 
 fascinating smile. 
 
 ' You may be innocent enough according to 
 your own thinking/ he answers, in nowise 
 mollified by her insinuating manner ; ' but 
 you are none the less culpable in other people's 
 estimation or in mine.' 
 
 * Pooh ! ' retorts Edith, resolving not to be 
 vexed. ' Why should we care for the cackle 
 of superannuated matrons and disappointed 
 maidens ? 
 
 " If you love me as I love you, 
 Nothing but Death shall part us two." 
 
 Be content with that, and don't be always 
 suspecting and doubting, for it really only 
 makes me more wilful.' 
 
 ' Come, Freddy/ she adds presently, calling 
 him by the name he was accustomed to hear 
 from her in childhood, * we have quarrelled 
 
A FASHIONABLE BEAUTY. 63 
 
 enough for one night. Suppose you take me 
 to mamma now, and to-morrow come round 
 early, and (she whispers here) then we'll kiss 
 and be friends.' 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 KISS AND BE FRIENDS. 
 
 A bachelor's apartments are, at their best, 
 dreary, and their aspect is scarcely likely to 
 be improved in the eyes of their owner when 
 he enters them directly after some moral or 
 mental unhinging, such as Hammersley had 
 sustained in the respective arenas of love and 
 politics. Luxurious as would have seemed 
 the bed on ordinary occasions, when sleepi- 
 ness renders a man less fastidious to all sur- 
 roundings, at the present moment it did not 
 appear in the least associated with the idea 
 of repose. I think there is no period in 
 which mental anguish is more terrible to be 
 borne than in that when our earthly cares 
 and troubles are supposed to experience a 
 brief oblivion. In the daytime there is 
 
'kiss and be friends/ 65 
 
 always something occurring which can wean 
 our mind away for a little time from that 
 which troubles it ; but in the night, when 
 there is not a single remnant of human exist- 
 ence left to suggest consolation or disturbance, 
 how vividly are we reminded of the sorrow 
 whose memory we would fain banish from 
 our life ! 
 
 Hammersley dismissed his valet, for the 
 presence of anyone at that moment was an 
 irritation, and, seating himself in an arm-chair, 
 abandoned himself to his own reflections. 
 
 However deeply we love, how much easier 
 it is to doubt the fair one's fidelity than to 
 believe in her faith ; in fact, I think our 
 scepticism increases with the strength of our 
 passion. Hammersley had known Edith from 
 almost a baby. Their childish pleasures had 
 been enjoyed in common, their childish griefs 
 wept together ; but yet at times a doubt 
 would steal across him, in spite of those rare 
 yet earnest moments when her love, breaking 
 down the barrier of maidenly reserve or pride, 
 would declare itself unequivocally in glance 
 and speech, whether it would not have been 
 
 Vol. i — F 
 
66 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 better for his happiness, and perchance for 
 her own, if their lives had been sundered in 
 the first boy and girl dream of love. 
 
 Truly it is only in the privacy of his own 
 chamber that a man's nature can be known 
 for what it is. In general society young 
 Hammersley was considered, save by the one 
 or two who were his intimates, as cold and 
 hard — the last from whom one would have 
 expected passionate love. The world guessed 
 pretty accurately that he and Lady Edith 
 would most likely make a match of it ; but 
 her they regarded as a coquette, and as her 
 lover never displayed any of those spaniel-like 
 attentions in public which some men think it 
 their duty to pay and some women theirs to 
 exact, they augured that it would prove 
 a marriage resembling a great many more 
 contracted in the exalted sphere of fashion — 
 sufficiently promising in a worldly and prudent 
 point of view, but one in which there was little 
 affection on either side. 
 
 So might many have reasoned from mere 
 casual observation. Proud natures display 
 their love as little as possible. With Ham- 
 
'kiss and be friends.' 67 
 
 mersley, as with Edith, pride was so great as 
 to amount to a positive disease, and each 
 would have shrunk beyond all things from 
 the thought that any one of their proceedings 
 before others could have furnished plausible 
 data for indicating that their affections were 
 deeply engaged ; as if such a fact involved a 
 personal humiliation. 
 
 Alas ! through pride came the first murder 
 wrought on the young earth ; through pride 
 fell a goodly proportion of the angels ; and 
 even at tins day how many crimes and — almost 
 as bad as they — how many broken hearts and 
 blighted lives can be traced for their origin to 
 that same most deadly of all moral diseases ! 
 
 Sleep came at last to the eyes of Ham- 
 mersley, and in the morning he awoke in a 
 rather more cheerful mood. His philosophy 
 and common sense returned to his aid. 
 Scarcely very formidable allies these, I fear, 
 when doubt, jealousy, and all the other 
 rancorous family begotten by love are in the 
 field. His horse was brought round, and he 
 turned in the direction of Belgrave-square, 
 in virtue of an appointment to ride in the 
 
68 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 Park with Edith. There was no one in the 
 drawing-room as he entered. The marchioness 
 was not one of those ladies who consider that 
 one of the greatest secrets of preserving health 
 and good looks consists in early rising. The 
 marquis was preparing his equestrian toilet, 
 and the two other members of the riding 
 party, Edith and her sister Florence, were 
 doing the same. 
 
 Edith was the first to make her appearance, 
 probably from a wish to have a few moments 
 alone with her lover, in order to complete the 
 reconciliation begun the night before. If she 
 seemed beautiful in most ordinary costumes, 
 she looked absolutely bewitching in her dark 
 riding-habit, fitting so closely, and revealing 
 to perfection the exquisite symmetry of her 
 figure. It was impossible to be long angry 
 with such a marvellously beautiful creature ; 
 and though all the bitterness aroused by 
 his reflection the previous night was not 
 altogether vanished when he entered the 
 house this morning, I think, when he saw 
 her crossing over to him, with that slightly 
 subdued penitent expression on her face 
 
C KISS AND BE FRIENDS. ' 69 
 
 which he who knew her so well in some things 
 
 © 
 
 read as significant of her eagerness to ' make 
 © © 
 
 it up,' as they say in childish quarrels, his 
 love was many degrees stronger than his 
 resentment. 
 
 He kissed her as usual, and she, returning 
 the caress with just a little extra warmth, 
 said, in the pretty, half-pleading voice that 
 reminded him of their young days, when they 
 were both a little less dignified than now — 
 
 1 We are quite friends again now ; are we 
 notr 
 
 He did not answer for a moment, but looked 
 straight into her dark hazel eyes, which, 
 somehow, did not appear so brilliant as usual 
 this morning. 
 
 6 What is the matter with your eyes i ' he 
 asked ; ' they look so dull. Have you been 
 crying V 
 
 Edith flushed slightly, and half turned 
 away her face from the scrutinising glance 
 that sought her own. 
 
 1 What nonsense ! What should I find to 
 cry about V she said, hurriedly, but by no 
 means assuredly, plucking nervously at her 
 
70 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 riding-whip, with the restlessness that was 
 always observable about her when detected 
 in anything which tended to lower her dignity 
 or pride in her own eyes. 
 
 ' That sounds remarkably like prevarica- 
 tion,' he said, turning his glance in the direc- 
 tion of her retreating countenance. ' Why 
 not confess the truth — yes or no \ ' 
 
 'Well,' she cried, looking up at him re- 
 proachfully, ' I did cry a little bit this 
 morning. I felt in such low spirits, and I 
 was thinking how unkind you were to me 
 last night, and how everybody seems to think 
 badly of me. So, one way and another, I got 
 very miserable, and made a stupid of myself, 
 as your unpleasantly sharp eyes have already 
 discovered.' 
 
 I suppose most people feel a pride in 
 knowing they can exercise an influence over 
 the emotions of others, and this confession of 
 Edith's certainly seemed to put Hammersley 
 into a better humour than before, for he 
 spoke very gently to the fair young creature 
 by his side : 
 
 ' I am sorry, darling, you should be grieved 
 
'KISS AND BE FRIENDS.' 71 
 
 at any fancied unkindness of mine. You 
 know, or ought to know by this time, that 
 my only wish is to make, not mar, your 
 happiness.' 
 
 It was not often that Hammersley made 
 such a pretty speech as this. Deeply as he 
 loved, he was too proud to indulge in those 
 honied phrases and stereotyped compliments 
 which, however worthless they may seem to 
 the ears of really sensible people out of love, 
 are seldom without their effect on those whom 
 love makes so susceptible. His pride stood 
 really in the way of his making himself agree- 
 able. He was horribly afraid, as most proud 
 natures are, of giving more than he received ; 
 and hence Edith often thought him cold and 
 indifferent. She was rather touched by this 
 speech, therefore, for she knew when he ven- 
 tured on a compliment it was almost sure to 
 be sincere from the fact of its rarity. 
 
 'You say so now and then, Fred,' she 
 answered. 'It is not often you condescend to 
 say that little which I suppose every girl has 
 some right to expect from her lover ; but if 
 you only want to make me happy, as you 
 
72 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 express it, why are you always finding fault 
 with me ? why always saying such bitter and 
 unkind things ? ' 
 
 'And when I do say bitter and unkind 
 things/ objected Hammersley, ' do you think 
 they are altogether unmerited V 
 
 'You should not be too hard upon me, 
 Fred,' she exclaimed, petulantly. 'You know 
 I am wayward and wilful, and have been 
 accustomed to be petted and spoiled by every- 
 one since I was a baby ; and if people try to 
 coerce me, it only makes me more determined 
 to have my own way. You know all this, 
 and therefore you should not judge every 
 little word or act, as if I were one of those 
 calm, cold-blooded people, who never say or 
 do a thing without thinking it well over 
 beforehand and thoroughly weighing the 
 consequences.' 
 
 ' And if I school myself so far as to look 
 upon your frequent ebullitions of temper as 
 harmless, will you extend a similar indulgence 
 to my own unfortunate infirmities % ' 
 
 ' Oh, that is very different,' returned the 
 young beauty. ' Anyone can see I only speak 
 
'kiss and be friends/ 73 
 
 and act from pique, but you, you say such 
 bitter, cutting things, they seem as if they 
 had been prepared, were hung ready cut and 
 dried in your own mind months and months 
 before you uttered them/ 
 
 'I am afraid, Edith/ "said her cousin, draw- 
 ing her a little closer to his side, and looking 
 down gravely into her face, 'that, in spite of 
 the years we have " lived and loved together/' 
 we know as little of each other's character as 
 if we were comparative strangers/ 
 
 1 You don't understand me in the least/ she 
 replied, energetically ; ' but I think I know 
 you pretty accurately. I know you are very 
 jealous and exacting, and, last but not least, 
 Fred, very unjust and unkind/ 
 
 There is nothing after all for a woman like 
 the tic quoque argument. It is the very best 
 weapon with which she can parry the often 
 too well-founded attacks of her lover ; and as 
 Hammersley listened to the petulant girl 
 beside him he began to think that he was not 
 perhaps so little to blame in all their quarrels 
 as he had fondly imagined. He bent over 
 her tenderly. 
 
74 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 ' We will make a compact, Edith/ he said. 
 How many had they not made already, only 
 to be dissolved almost immediately by their 
 own want of forbearance to each other's 
 failings ! ' I will try to be always kind hence- 
 forth, if you will promise, on your side, to 
 appreciate my efforts. Is it a bargain ? ' 
 
 She nodded her pretty head in token of 
 assent. 
 
 1 And now,' he added, c since we have settled 
 matters so amicably, let us kiss and be friends.' 
 
 ( We have kissed just now,' she answered, 
 smiliDgly. 
 
 ' Our ordinary salute,' objected her lover ; 
 1 not the kiss of peace. Remember it was you 
 who made the proposal last night.' 
 
 Seemingly nothing loth, Edith lifts her 
 sweet lips to the ones that seek her own ; and 
 they both meet in a long, fervent kiss, un- 
 willing, as it seems, to tear themselves apart ; 
 such a kiss as we can only give in our first 
 passionate youth, when love surges through 
 our veins like the lava flood, and only to one — 
 the one who first converts our boy dreams of 
 love into reality. 
 
'KISS AND BE FRIENDS.' 75 
 
 There are kisses and kisses ; but I think 
 those we give in the first dawn of our youthful 
 feelings stand a thing ' by themselves apart/ 
 The decorous caress we share with the lawful 
 partners we have taken, after we have lost for 
 ever the hopes we indulged in with another — 
 the respectable salute we inflict on sisters, 
 aunts, and all the rest of our friends or family 
 whom it is a duty to embrace — how different 
 from that 
 
 'Long, long kiss, the kiss of love and youth;' 
 
 whose very memory even stirs the old pain, 
 which we fondly hoped was dulled for ever. 
 
 I believe any assembly of decent and 
 worldly mothers will inform me that it is not 
 proper for young people to kiss, much less so 
 passionately as my hero and heroine, before 
 they are engaged ; in fact, some very much 
 dislike the idea of the performance taking 
 place at all until marriage has given the 
 husband a right to indulge in such little 
 weaknesses. I daresay all this is very correct 
 and respectable, but neither Edith nor her 
 lover, I fear, were particularly observant of 
 
76 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 worldly forms and ceremonies. They were 
 rather addicted to make their own impulses 
 and desires their law, in lieu of adopting what 
 other people considered as right. I don't 
 hold that such extreme latitude of opinion 
 leads to much good in the end ; but then, you 
 see, these two young people loved each other 
 passionately, and between such the God who 
 created them has formed a tie — a deep, in- 
 soluble union of soul and heart — that chains 
 forged by human hands can only help to bind 
 more strongly, but whose absence cannot 
 render the compact void in the eye of One 
 greater than this world. 
 
 1 Edith,' said Hammersley suddenly, after 
 that long sweet caress, ' will you promise me 
 you will never kiss another man like that ? ' 
 
 ' Why do you ask ? ' she replied, rather 
 startled by his energetic manner. ' It will 
 be your fault if ever you give me the chance 
 or the wish/ 
 
 ' God knows/ he exclaimed quickly, ' I 
 would sooner bear anything than part with 
 you of my own free will ; but, somehow, a 
 presentiment will steal across me — and I try 
 
'KISS AND BE FRIENDS.* 77 
 
 to cast it off in vain — that something will 
 soon come between us/ 
 
 1 Why do you delight in tormenting me ? ' 
 she cried passionately, raising her great angry 
 eyes to his face. ' Why are you always 
 indulging in these doleful prognostications of 
 the future \ Why can't we agree together 
 happily and comfortably as other people do \ 
 I am sure no other man ever vexed a girl as 
 you do me/ 
 
 1 Does the idea of our separation torment 
 you so V he asked, quietly, looking searchingly 
 into her eyes. 
 
 1 Of course it does/ she answered, tears of 
 rage, or petulance, or whatever it might be, 
 gathering in her eyes. ' You speak to me, 
 and of me, as if I were destitute of a spark of 
 feeling — as if I were selfishly wrapped up in 
 my own existence, and caring nothing for 
 those who are near to me/ 
 
 1 Sometimes I fancy you have no feeling,' 
 he said, regarding her with considerable doubt 
 on his face. 
 
 1 Oh, Freddy,' she exclaimed, more sorrow- 
 fully than angrily, 'how you do misjudge me! 
 
78 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 Don't you know the old proverb, " still waters 
 run deepest?" When will you learn to trust 
 rne as you should do ? ' 
 
 What Hammersley might have replied to 
 this must be left to conjecture, for at that 
 moment Lord Allerton's step sounded in 
 unpleasant proximity to the lovers. 
 
 1 One more kiss/ he said quickly, conscious 
 that no time was to be lost. ' Kiss and be 
 friends once more, you know.' 
 
 Her lips met his eager ones willingly, and 
 parted only just in time to escape the glance 
 of her father. I think no other man will ever 
 win such a kiss as that from Edith Stewart. 
 
CHAPTER IV. ' 
 
 C A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.' 
 
 A man of intellect is unfortunate in this 
 respect, that he is compelled to despise so 
 much of what he daily sees and hears. It 
 must be a very lenient or a little observing 
 person who, after mixing much in the world, 
 can derive from his experience any very 
 favourable opinion of the majority of his 
 fellow-creatures. Perhaps the general weak- 
 nesses and vices of society are more repellent 
 in the creme de la ere me than elsewhere, from 
 the fact of that oligarchical body arrogating 
 to itself an infallibility in manner and deport- 
 ment which, however much coveted, is never 
 openly claimed by the humbler grades of 
 social life. The aristocrat despises, and per- 
 haps justly, the parvenu who trust in his 
 
80 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 money-bags to buy him into a class superior to 
 his own ; but when we see how these exclusives 
 will fawn and cringe to a greater man of their 
 own sphere, to gratify what may be their 
 ambition, it seems that a philosopher would 
 regard both with an equal amount of 
 contempt. 
 
 Hammersley was a philosopher in this way. 
 He was very sceptical ; and a man who is 
 this, if he persistently follows out his own 
 reasonings, will soon find himself opposed to 
 most of the opinions of his fellows. Nothing 
 was respectable in his eyes merely because 
 it had existed before his time, or because it 
 received the sanction of others. Like most 
 young gentlemen of an unquestionable genius, 
 in which scepticism is a considerable ingredient, 
 he had grand schemes for the amelioration of 
 the world — schemes which most of us discover 
 in due time to be very impracticable, but 
 which, nevertheless, we believe in most im- 
 plicitly in our enthusiastic youth. The rudest 
 shock to experience for a man who has lived 
 all his youth in the ideal and the romantic, is 
 his first mixing among his fellow-creatures. 
 
<A XEW ACQUAINTANCE.' 81 
 
 The narrow aims, the sordid ambitions, the 
 selfishness, the duplicity, the credulity that 
 permeate the mass of humanity, will even 
 disgust the more thoughtful among practical 
 and worldly men. How much more revolting 
 are they then to the pure-minded realist \ 
 
 This revelation which begins at school, and 
 ends only when we have done for ever with 
 our fellows, had rendered Hammersley's creed 
 this — that he honoured mankind, but despised 
 man. He honoured ideal mankind as he 
 pictured it should be, the reflex of the most 
 glorious attributes of its divine Creator : he 
 dispised it as he found it, fallen from that 
 high standard, and striving not after the true, 
 the noble, and the pure, but after those which 
 a diseased and fantastic morality established 
 as such. 
 
 If Hammersley found so much to shock his 
 fastidious notions of right in men, he was still 
 more disappointed in women. A woman in 
 his eyes should have been a type of moral and 
 social perfection, as man of moral and in- 
 tellectual — a being with whom one could 
 associate none but the purest and holiest 
 
 Vol. i— g 
 
82 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 thoughts. It is almost needless to say that, 
 among the daughters of society, he had 
 discovered nothing approaching to his ideal. 
 Passionately as he loved Edith, he knew that 
 she could be no companion to him in the 
 6ense in which he understood the word. 
 It was not that she was completely destitute 
 of that romance which gives a warmth and 
 colouring to even the most commonplace 
 natures, but her romance was that which 
 generally obtains amongst women not ab- 
 solutely cold-blooded, and which can be 
 comprised, very shortly, under the following 
 heads : To have some one who can love them 
 passionately, rejoice in their smiles and 
 tremble at their frowns ; who could, in fact, 
 be a very slave to their caprices. Beyond 
 this purely selfish romance she had none, and 
 
 * 
 
 could not sympathise with the more extended 
 quality in others. The religion of her life 
 was to love and be loved : greatness, talent, 
 power, she desired none of them. 
 
 With Melton, again, much as he liked him, 
 Hammersley found no real companionship. 
 Melton was clever in a certain sense, but it 
 
C A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.' 83 
 
 was the cleverness of the world, of the 
 business-like, practical man ; or, rather, it was 
 just the difference between cleverness and 
 intellect which is so immense when one sees 
 the two compared. It can thus be seen that 
 neither in man nor woman had Hammersley 
 found a real companion, the sweetest privilege 
 of whom is not merely to share in our society, 
 but to participate in our dearest thoughts and 
 aspirations. 
 
 It was one night, shortly after the events 
 recorded in the previous chapter, that Ham- 
 mersley was present at one of those ever- 
 recurring assemblages of the select class known 
 as 'good society.' He was standing alone in 
 a rather out-of-the-way corner, meditating on 
 the scene before him, when he was joined by 
 a brother member, a Mr. Saville. 
 
 This gentleman was the second son of a 
 Yorkshire baronet. A maiden aunt had left 
 tim a very respectable income, which had 
 relieved him from the necessity of working, 
 or pretending to work, for his living. He 
 had entered Parliament in the extreme radical 
 interest ; and though his principles were too 
 
84 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 advanced to secure much chance of what 
 most politicians regard as the goal of political 
 ambition — place — his talents as a debater, and 
 his reputation in literature, gave him a suffi- 
 ciently distinguished position in society. 
 The people who would have suffered most, 
 had his radical theories been put to the test 
 of experience, leniently looked upon them as 
 harmless, and remembered the fact that he 
 was of good family ; that his elder brother 
 had no children ; and that his own income 
 was sufficient to entitle him to respectful 
 consideration amongst any assemblage of 
 manoeuvring mothers. 
 
 Hammersley and he were acquainted 
 slightly ; but this evening he seemed deter- 
 mined to know more of our hero. They 
 exchanged a few remarks on the House and 
 parliamentary matters, and then the conversa- 
 tion fell on the scene before them. 
 
 'I think,' said Saville, presently, 'that the 
 effects of civilisation have been these — an 
 improvement in manners, a deterioration in 
 morals.' 
 
 'You deduce that opinion from the con- 
 
'a new acquaintance. ' 85 
 
 templation of the well-dressed mob before us, 
 I suppose?' replied Hammersley, with a smile. 
 
 ' Perhaps I go too far in affirming it has 
 lowered our morals ; I should rather say it 
 has kept them at a standstill.' 
 
 ' I understand you. You would contend 
 that the uncivilised Indian, with his squaw 
 and his dusky-faced children, are, save in the 
 mere matter of habiliments or the absence of 
 them, no whit inferior to the family of Lord 
 A or Lord B V 
 
 1 Precisely so,' returned Saville. ' Our 
 civilisation is a sham. We raise our hands 
 and shut our eyes at the word "prostitution" ; 
 we deplore what we term the " social evil," 
 and we come here in the market-place of 
 fashion and barter the happiness, the peace, 
 the modesty of our daughters for the glittering 
 baubles and titles of an artificial rank. 
 Marriage of convenience is another name for 
 prostitution.' 
 
 ' You would provoke indignation loud and 
 deep were that spoken to a larger audience,' 
 said Hammersley, smiling. 
 
 ' Nobody condemns himself,' answered 
 
86 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 Saville. ' Society thinks that by tacking a 
 new name to an old vice it can blind other 
 people to its iniquity. It is a hypocrite as 
 well as a knave. It was much the same before 
 the Flood : people ate, drank, and were merry, 
 and shut their eyes to their own wickedness, 
 until the waters, came and swallowed them- 
 selves and their impurities/ 
 
 ' And public opinion, I hope, will some day 
 do for us what the Flood did for them/ said 
 Hammersley. 
 
 ' The work of regeneration is beginning 
 now,' replied Saville. ' Slowly, I confess, but 
 still the wedge is in. Caste is being abolished 
 more and more — barrier after barrier over- 
 thrown. Look at the House of Commons as 
 constituted now. See the enormous number 
 of self-made men, merchants and others, who 
 would have been excluded not long ago. 
 
 © © 
 
 Look at society itself. Wealth walks side by 
 
 side with unblemished lineage and high rank. 
 
 © © 
 
 It will admit all wealth that is not absolutely 
 vulgar. This shows the gradual decay of 
 exclusiveness/ 
 
 'Still/ replied Hammersley, 'I don't see 
 
'A NEW acquaintance/ 87 
 
 that such being the case improves the general 
 condition of mankind. What we consider the 
 highest steps of the social ladder may be more 
 easily climbed by those on the lower rungs ; 
 but are we not climbing in a false direction? 
 Should a man's ambition limit itself to be 
 received among a few people who call 
 themselves society ? ' 
 
 I True/ answered Saville, thoughtfully ; 'it 
 seems that we all become parvenus, each 
 aping his neighbour and losing his own 
 individuality ; but then you can only break 
 down exclusiveness by making exclusiveness 
 common. If you once make society such that 
 it is open to all, it becomes society in the true 
 sense of the word, and ceases to be a class/ 
 
 I I should like to discuss these points with 
 you in a less crowded situation,' said Ham- 
 mersley, smiling. ' This mass of lace, and 
 jewels, and gleaming shoulders, dazzles the 
 eyes, if it may not confuse the understanding/ 
 
 ' Nay/ answered Saville, gaily ; ' they are 
 like subjects to the anatomists ; they are the 
 lay figures on whom we build or unbuild our 
 theories. But if you would prefer tranquil 
 
88 FIEST AND LAST. 
 
 discussion, it is soon done. Are you dis- 
 engaged on Friday ? If so, dine with me then, 
 and we will not separate till we have mapped 
 out some scheme for the better advancement 
 of social wellbeing.' 
 
 Hammersley accepted the invitation with 
 eagerness, for there was something in Saville's 
 earnest, though cynical nature, that touched 
 a congenial chord in his own breast. Beside, 
 it was rather flattering in a man of Saville's 
 age — he was past thirty — to make such pointed 
 overtures to a man eight or nine years his 
 junior. 
 
 They separated almost immediately, for 
 Saville had some other engagement, and 
 Hammersley was waiting till Edith made her 
 appearance. That capricious and popular 
 beauty came soon, and was surrounded shortly 
 by her usual host of admirers ; but on that 
 night she was more indifferent to their homage 
 than usual, and devoted herself assiduously to 
 her lover, doubtless wishing to perpetuate the 
 entente cordiale that had been established 
 between them. 
 
 And with Edith's words ringing in his ears, 
 
'a new acquaintance.' 89 
 
 Edith's bright eyes looking into his own, 
 Hammersley felt that the world was not so 
 disagreeable or so disappointing after all, if 
 we only tried to make the best of it. 
 
 So it is with us all I suppose. Men of the 
 world, romantic dreamers, sages, philosophers, 
 we are all fools in the hands of the baby-boy, 
 Love. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 'clouds on the horizon/ 
 
 The acquaintance commenced between Ham- 
 mersley and Saville soon ripened into one of 
 those friendships which are so rare, because 
 they spring from an intense similarity of 
 thought and feeling. The ordinary friend- 
 ships of the world are like the ordinary 
 marriages : they are the result of suitability 
 in point of rank, occupation, wealth, in all 
 consideration, in fact, which should occupy a 
 very secondary place in either friendship or 
 love. 
 
 The effect of the new acquaintance was in 
 
 a great measure to take him away from Melton, 
 
 who had formerly occupied the position of 
 
 Jidus Achates. But this latter gentleman 
 
 was not easily offended ; and, moreover, the 
 
1 CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON.' 91 
 
 proximity of Ascot and the St. Leger furnished 
 him with such weighty matter for reflection, 
 and necessitated so much personal locomotion, 
 that it was rather a relief than otherwise to 
 find the claims of friendship less exacting. 
 
 Edith had been very gracious of late ; for 
 what particular reason her lover was at a loss 
 to discover ; nor is it probable that she could 
 have assigned one herself. Her nature was 
 so impulsive and impressionable, that her 
 moods would sometimes vary a dozen times a 
 day without her being conscious of the fact. 
 Like all sensitive people, she easily took 
 offence, and in nine cases out of ten imagined 
 it where it was never intended. The fact of 
 it was, Edith had been simply spoiled. From 
 her childhood her marvellous beauty had made 
 her the pet and idol of everyone who knew 
 her ; and when she went out into the world 
 she discovered how easily men will bow the 
 knee to loveliness. She lived in the atmo- 
 sphere of compliments and flattery ; and 
 although she was too sensible not to discount 
 very considerably the language of the ' gilded 
 youth' around her, jet, to a young and 
 
92 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 beautiful woman, all such homage is welcome, 
 because it is an indication of her power. 
 
 It was precisely in this respect that Ham- 
 mersley failed. She scarcely ever heard from 
 him any of those pretty little nothings which, 
 from a lover's lips, can be complimentary but 
 yet sincere. Perhaps had he loved her less, 
 he would have made a more agreeable admirer ; 
 as it was, his pride always stood in the way, 
 urging him not to humiliate himself by 
 betraying a love to which there might be no 
 adequate return. 
 
 They were much alike, these two, after all : 
 both proud natures, haughty and almost cold 
 without, deep and passionate within. Yet this 
 pride of Hammersley's vexed Edith, although 
 it was but the counterpart of her own in- 
 firmity. The course of true love never does 
 run smooth, according to the adage ; but theirs 
 had flowed particularly rough. Some people 
 say they like to quarrel, because the recon- 
 ciliation afterwards is so sweet ; but I think 
 nearly every quarrel leaves a sting behind that 
 no after-reconciliation can obliterate. Harsh 
 words — perhaps harsh truths, but none the less 
 
'clouds on the horizon. 93 
 
 unpalatable because truths — are spoken then, 
 which sink down very deep, and are not 
 forgotten or forgiven because we are told 
 afterwards they were only said in anger. In 
 all love that is marred by such unhappy 
 quarrels a bitterness will subsequently intrude 
 that renders it far from what it should be. 
 
 But when they agreed to bury the hatchet, 
 to hush the ' memory of a thousand wrongs' 
 done by each to the other, they could be very 
 agreeable indeed. It only needed one to take 
 the initiative, and the other was sure to follow. 
 The only pity was that this jDleasant state of 
 affairs was seldom of long duration. 
 
 So Hammersley seemed to think one evening 
 at his aunt's. He had been dining there, and 
 had taken Edith down to dinner. In the 
 drawing-room later on there was a goodly 
 assemblage of the fashionable world, but the 
 young people contrived to secure a corner to 
 themselves where they could enjoy a reasonable 
 hope of an uninterrupted tete-d-tete. 
 
 'It seems to me, Edith,' he said, looking very 
 fondly at the beautiful face beside him, 'that you 
 and I have been very happy together lately.' 
 
94 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 * It all depends upon you/ answered the 
 young lady. * If you are kind and amiable, 
 I follow suit. If you only knew how to treat 
 me for ever like this, we should never have a 
 difference of opinion, much less a serious 
 quarrel.' 
 
 ' You speak so determinedly,' said Ham- 
 mersley, smiling, ' that I begin to have an 
 uneasy suspicion that I alone am to bear the 
 blame of our ever being unhappy.' 
 
 ' No, I don't mean to say that quite,' she 
 answered, rather conscience-stricken at her 
 lover's condemnation of himself : ' I know I 
 am very capricious, and wilful, and worrying 
 sometimes ; but then I should soon come 
 round if you would only humour me. I am 
 like a high-spirited horse — pulling the curb 
 too tightly only makes him more restive; 
 thwarting me only makes me more determined 
 to have my own way.' 
 
 ' I won't dispute your equine simile,' said 
 Hammersley; 'but I want to talk to you on a 
 serious subject. You know that by next month 
 the term of grace in which we are supposed 
 to have learned our own minds will expire.' 
 
'clouds on the horizon/ 95 
 
 1 And then we are to be engaged publicly, 
 if your wicked father will allow us,' said Edith 
 with a pretty pout. 
 
 ' 1 don't suppose my wicked father, as you 
 call him, will refuse his sanction, after my 
 obediently waiting so long.' 
 
 ' I should like to know why he dislikes me 
 so much,' said Edith, with the restless curiosity 
 of her sex. 
 
 ' He does not dislike you, my dear, that I 
 am aware of.' 
 
 "Nonsense! of course he does!' she 
 answered energetically. ' If it had been 
 otherwise, why would he have wanted us to 
 keep in this half-and-half condition, except in 
 the hope that you would get tired of me and 
 marry somebody he liked better?' 
 
 Hammersley did not offer anything to 
 refute this view of the question, so Edith 
 continued — 
 
 ' I wish you would tell me what are his 
 objections to me, Fred. You ought not to have 
 any secrets from your future wife, you know.' 
 
 Hammersley coughed rather uncomfortably 
 at this invitation. 
 
96 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 ' Do tell me,' she said, coaxingly ; c I know 
 he is a nasty, cantankerous old man, and I 
 will promise not to be offended, but I should 
 so like to know what he said to you when you 
 first asked his consent.' 
 
 Thus abjured, Hammersley respected his 
 father's confidence no longer. 
 
 ' Well,' he answered, hesitatingly, ' he said 
 a good many things — a great deal more at the 
 time than I paid any attention to. Besides, 
 he really did not mean them : he would have 
 said the same of any woman. His real 
 objection was not to my marrying you, but to 
 the fact of my marrying at all : he considered 
 there was time enough for that ten years 
 hence.' 
 
 ' Now, Fred,' said Edith, indignantly, ' this 
 is prevarication. I don't care whether he 
 meant what he said or not ; I want simply to 
 know what he did say.' 
 
 ' If you will have it then : first of all he 
 remarked that you were vain ; next he con- 
 sidered you frivolous, and too fond of admira- 
 tion and gaiety to make a husband happy.' 
 
 ' And something else, too ; I know by your 
 
'clouds on the horizon. 97 
 
 face,' said Edith, impatiently. ' Pray let us 
 have the last item — vain, frivolous, fond of 
 admiration and gaiety ! Yes, yes ; what 
 else V 
 
 ' He further hinted,' continued Hammersley, 
 slowly, ' that you seldom read, that you took 
 no interest in intellectual pursuits, and, in fact, 
 insinuated that you would only be a suitable 
 wife to some gay butterfly of fashion.' 
 
 A deep blush rose to Edith's cheek. She 
 was very tender on the point of her intellectual 
 acquirements and deficiencies. Although she 
 affected not to like clever people, she was 
 secretly hurt if anyone imputed to herself a 
 want of cleverness. 
 
 1 In all of which objections, but particularly 
 in the last one, you agreed with him, I 
 presume?' she asked angrily. 
 
 ' My dear Edith,' answered Hammersley, 
 somewhat enjoying the tempest he had raised, 
 ' you promised not to be angry, and you are 
 now testifying your inability to keep your 
 word by visiting the sins of the father upon 
 the children. Why assume my participation 
 in my worthy parent's want of discernment?' 
 
 Vol. i — h 
 
98 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 ' I asked you if you agreed with him/ she 
 repeated obstinately. 
 
 ' 1 did not agree with him as it happened/ 
 was the answer. 
 
 ' But you did not contradict him, I 
 supposed 
 
 ' What was the use ? ' replied Hammersley, 
 provokingly. 'I could scarcely affirm with 
 truth that you were free from vanity ; I 
 could not represent you as a model of staid - 
 ness and decorum ; as for your reading, you 
 never did me the honour to inform me of any 
 literary studies, so I concluded that in that 
 conjecture he was most probably equally 
 sagacious.' He little knew how his assumed 
 indifference was wounding the sensitive heart 
 of his listener. 
 
 1 Thank you a thousand times for your good 
 opinion/ cried Edith, passionatel};, ' which, by 
 the way, I have known long ago. I have no 
 doubt you and your delightful father think 
 me a poor, ignorant, unsophisticated creature, 
 without an idea of my own. If you are so 
 fond of intellectual women, why don't you 
 marry a blue -stocking ? There are plenty about 
 
'CLOUDS ox the horizon.' 99 
 
 not overburdened with lovers or offers. There 
 is your dear friend Mrs. Jerningham opposite. 
 I daresay she will be able to sympathise much 
 better with your ideas and tastes than a 
 person who is so deplorably ignorant as 
 myself.' And, so saying, Edith leaned back in 
 her seat, pretending to look indignant, while 
 in reality every pulse was throbbing with 
 anger at what she considered the heartless 
 injustice of her lover. 
 
 Hammersley was to blame. He knew that 
 by a few kind, gentle words, he could have 
 obliterated the indignation she naturally felt 
 at listening to his father's imcomplimentary 
 description ; but, instead of that, he taunted 
 her further by hinting that he fully endorsed 
 it. He felt he had gone too far ; but the 
 spirit of mischief had full possession of him 
 that night, so, instead of repairing the wrong 
 he had done, he simply increased it. 
 
 ' It seems highly improbable that harmony 
 will be restored between us for some time,' he 
 said, in that indifferent, careless tone which 
 
 30 provoking to a woman ; ' so I think I 
 will follow your advice, and exchange ideas 
 
100 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 with Mrs. Jerningham.' And, leisurely rising, 
 he made his way over to the lady in question. 
 
 Mrs. Jerniwdiam was a widow whom her 
 female acquaintances could not make out to 
 be more than twenty-seven, so the probability 
 is she was more likely under than over that 
 a«"e. At seventeen she had made a marriage 
 of convenience. Mr. Jerningliam was every- 
 thing that could be desired in a husband from 
 a worldly point of view — wealthy, bland, 
 affable, and liberal as to settlements, and 
 when, five years after his marriage, he crowned 
 a fair life with an honourable death (it was 
 gout I believe that laid him with his fathers), 
 most people considered that Flora Jerningham 
 had done better for herself than a good many 
 other equally ambitious young ladies. 
 
 It was generally surmised that, having made 
 a match to please her friends, she would soon 
 contract a fresh alliance to gratify herself; but 
 although only twenty-two, and singularly 
 handsome, Flora refused to entrust her happi- 
 ness to any one's keeping save her own. 
 Since it seems a law that a woman without 
 domestic ties must find or must invent some- 
 
* CLOUDS OX THE HORIZON. 101 
 
 tiling to occupy her, she took to literature, 
 and published a volume of poems, which were 
 well received by the critics and the public, 
 and procured her some importance amongst 
 her own set. She followed up her first success 
 with a second, still more assured, till people 
 began to think that the young widow was a 
 wonderfully clever person, and feted and 
 caressed her accordingly. But though very 
 much admired, she was on the whole rather 
 dreaded ; for her tongue was apt to be biting 
 and merciless on occasions, and at no time was 
 her satire of that good-natured description 
 which leaves little or no sting behind. Most 
 ordinary -minded young ladies found Mrs. 
 Jernino-ham a trifle too sarcastic fcr their 
 companionship, and the young men who could 
 only rely upon their fashionable qualities for 
 a reputation were very cautious not to venture 
 within reach of her conversational powers. 
 Still, in spite of the wholesome fear with 
 which she was regarded by a great portion of 
 those with whom she came in contact, people 
 were glad to get her to their parties, and she 
 received as much homage as usually falls to 
 
102 FIRST AXD LAST. 
 
 the lot of distinguished female authors. With 
 her and Hammersley there was that kind of 
 easy, familiar friendship which is frequently 
 found between two clever people who admire 
 each other's talents, but between whom there 
 could never exist any softer feeling. 
 
 They conversed together for some time, and 
 presently Saville entered. As he was about to 
 pass them Mrs. Jerningham's voice arrested 
 him : 
 
 ■ Mr. Hammersley and I are just discussing 
 wliich is the most absorbing passion, ambition 
 or love. Lend us the assistance of your 
 powerful intellect to decide, Mr. Saville.' 
 
 1 Of ambition/ replied Saville, taking a seat 
 by her side, 'I, in common with every man 
 who has at least the wish, if not the ability, 
 to be better than his fellows, might say some- 
 thing ; but of love I have had no experience — 
 I can only imagine.' 
 
 ' And what do you imagine love to be V 
 asked Mrs. Jerningham, gravely, bending on 
 him her large, dark, eloquent eyes. 
 
 ' A beautiful selfish paradise/ answered 
 Saville, ' the two dwellers in which consecrate 
 
'clouds ox the horizon.' 103 
 
 to each other, and lay at each other's feet, the 
 hopes, the loves, the ambition that should be 
 at the service of mankind ; a state of being 
 that opens the heart to one influence so com- 
 pletely as to deaden it to the introduction of 
 every other ; a bright, beautiful, delusive, 
 unsubstantial dream, but,' he added, with a 
 smile, ' so bright and beautiful that I would 
 tremble at the awakening/ 
 
 1 And this I am to understand is what you 
 could feel, not what you have felt?' inquired 
 Mrs. Jemincrham. 
 
 ' What I could feel were I to meet with my 
 ideal.' 
 
 ' I wish you would describe to us your ideal, 
 Mr. Saville. We will promise you every 
 sympathy.' 
 
 ' Fust of all,' answered Saville, laughingly, 
 1 she must be very, very beautiful.' 
 
 ' Of course,' said Mrs. Jerningham, sarcas- 
 tically. ' No man ever imagined a wife who 
 was not a Venus.' 
 
 * And then, quite as important, if not more 
 so, than her beauty, she must be clever — not 
 obtrusively, conceitedly clever, but, rather, 
 
104 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 that unconscious genius which sees and deter- 
 mines everything rightly without knowing it 
 does anything better than others. She must, 
 lastly, be loving and devoted, capable of sacri- 
 ficing everything for the man she loves, and 
 living only in him and for him. What do you 
 think of my picture V 
 
 'A very pretty sentimental one, indeed,' 
 answered Mrs. Jerningham : ' well enough 
 in poetry and romance, but scarcely to be 
 discovered out of those realms. Shall I tell 
 you your fate, Mr. Saville V 
 
 He bowed his head gravely, in token of 
 assent. 
 
 ' You will meet some one very like your 
 ideal, not exactly similar, for such perfection 
 is impossible, but near enough to make you 
 love her deeply, and — she will not love you 
 in return.' 
 
 Saville flushed slightly. He was a proud 
 man, and the insinuation that he could woo 
 in vain touched his pride. Little did he 
 think that these words, uttered in jest, would 
 some day prove terribly true. 
 
 ' You will prove a false prophet,' he said, 
 
' CLOUDS ON THB HORIZON. 105 
 
 gaily. ' Devotion such as mine will be, when 
 I offer it, must win a return.' 
 
 ' Better live in the ideal altogether/ said 
 Mrs. Jerningham. ' There we cannot be dis- 
 appointed. All our idols there are golden ; 
 it is only when we descend to the real we 
 find them compounded of common clay/ 
 
 ' Human nature cannot subsist upon it/ 
 answered Saville. ' It is very beautiful, and 
 bright, and fantastic, but we weary of it, as 
 Tantalus was weary of being mocked by the 
 tempting fruit that bloomed within his reach. 
 Practical men want practical things/ 
 
 ' In addition to which/ remarked Ham- 
 mersley, joining for the first time since 
 Saville's entrance in the conversation, ' I 
 think if we could all meet with our ideal we 
 should be very disappointed. Too much per- 
 fection is as distasteful as too little. We 
 should be apt to find our perfect ideals too 
 
 "Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null." ' 
 
 1 There spoke the practical lover/ said Mrs. 
 Jerningham, mockingly. ' Mr. Hammersley 
 is in love with a moving, breathing idol ; Mr. 
 Saville worships a dim, visionary deity. I 
 
106 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 wonder which is the happier of the two — the 
 realist or the dreamer V 
 
 Hammersley made some jesting answer, and 
 Edith, watching from where she sat, sur- 
 rounded now by several courtiers, observed 
 her lover's careless talk and laughter with an 
 angry, jealous pain gnawing at her proud 
 heart, for in her eyes it seemed only to indi- 
 cate one fact — that he was fonder of Mrs. 
 Jerningham than her. 
 
 He joined her later on as she was pre- 
 paring to leave. 
 
 ' Edith,', he said, drawing her slightly aside, 
 ' there is no quarrel between us, is there V 
 
 A cold, hard look — a look, could he only 
 have read it aright, as much of wounded affec- 
 tion as of wounded pride — came into her face 
 as she answered — 
 
 ' No more than usual. You seldom contrive 
 to leave very pleasant memories behind.' 
 
 I think there was something both in that 
 look and tone which conveyed reproach, for 
 he asked, more kindly — 
 
 ' I may come to see you to-morrow, may I 
 not?' 
 
1 CLOUDS OX THE HORIZON. ' 
 
 107 
 
 ' If you please/ was the chilling answer. 
 
 And so they parted that night, neither 
 leaving very pleasant memories behind — he 
 thinking her unreasonable, she thinking him 
 unjust. 
 

 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'PARTED.' 
 
 Edith and Hammersley made up their quarrel 
 after a fashion. Alas ! quarrelling and making 
 up had become very frequent of late, so fre- 
 quent that it was easy to foresee how soon 
 the end must come. 
 
 It was patent to Saville, and he used his 
 best efforts to induce Hammersley to initiate 
 some line of conduct which could better keep 
 peace between them ; but although he pro-' 
 mised, and tried to perform it to the best of 
 his ability, a random insulting or sarcastic 
 remark from Edith would scatter his good 
 resolutions to the wind, and render him 
 haughty and unyielding as ever. 
 
 It was at a ball given by the Countess J of 
 Carrick, the wife of Edith's eldest brother, 
 
'parted.' 109 
 
 that the final quarrel took place. Edith, as 
 usual, was undisputed belle of the room, and 
 when she entered there was the usual throng 
 formed round her, and the usual competition 
 for her hand in the ensuing dances. Her 
 ordinary custom — an arrangement made be- 
 tween the two — was, if she chanced to come 
 to any ball before Hammersley made his 
 appearance, to reserve a certain portion of her 
 programme for him. They had had a rather 
 serious quarrel two or three days before, but 
 she magnanimously resolved not to let this 
 interfere with her usual proceeding, and ac- 
 cordingly reserved the accustomed number of 
 vacancies on her card for her lover. To-night, 
 however, he was so late that one of the dances 
 kept for him had already gone by, and still 
 there were no signs of his coming. Of course, 
 such an apparent neglect on his part, when 
 he knew she was sure to be there, increased 
 the resentment of Edith's sufficiently embit- 
 tered feelings towards him. At that moment, 
 when her vexation was at its height, she was 
 joined by Rochester, who was her partner for 
 the next dance. 
 
110 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 This gentleman had still continued his 
 friendly relations with her, for he knew suffi- 
 cient of Edith's character to perceive that she 
 was intensely proud. He had been well 
 enough acquainted with Hammersley in 
 Harrow schooldays to know that his pride 
 was scarcely inferior to that of his betrothed ; 
 and he, therefore, indulged in a reasonable 
 speculation that, with two such similar 
 natures, it was extremely probable there 
 would ultimately arise some quarrel suffi- 
 ciently serious to result in a separation. 
 Hammersley s being out of the way would 
 naturally facilitate his chance. He had 
 already contrived to drop several hints and 
 inuendos about his proceedings with other 
 women, the majority of which were purely 
 his own invention; and although Edith pre- 
 tended to appear indifferent at their recital, 
 he was sufficiently judge of women to know 
 that nothing galls their pride and lessens 
 their love more than any syrcqytoms of neglect 
 in their lovers. Rochester was better than 
 a great many of the men with whom he 
 associated, insomuch as he possessed a heart 
 
'PARTED.' Ill 
 
 and some decree of conscience; and when he 
 perceived Edith's ineffectual attempt to con- 
 ceal her annoyance at his artfully-prepared 
 insinuations, the latter smote him rather 
 sharply, and forced him to think he was 
 playing a mean and shabby part — that he was 
 acting to a man as he would have considered 
 it cowardly in a man to act towards him ; but 
 when these spasms of remorse were past, he 
 generally consoled himself with that con- 
 venient but immoral maxim, 'All is fair in 
 love and war.' 
 
 They took their places in a quadrille. If a 
 man wants to enjoy the gentlemanly process 
 of \dlifying his rival to the woman he loves, a 
 quadrille is as convenient a place as possible 
 for its indulgence. 
 
 ' Mr. Hammersley cannot evidently tear 
 himself away from the opera,' he said care- 
 lessly, looking, however, keenly at his partner 
 to watch the effects of his words. 
 
 Edith flushed slightly, for at that moment 
 her thoughts were straying in the direction of 
 her absent lover. 
 
112 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 ' Is lie at the opera? How do you know ?' 
 she asked. 
 
 Rochester secretly congratulated himself on 
 this stroke. Hammersley had evidently never 
 told her of his intention to go there, and at 
 that omission she would naturally feel annoyed. 
 
 ' For the best of all reasons/ answered 
 Rochester : ' I was there before I came here, 
 and I saw him myself.' 
 
 To this • Edith only responded a slight 
 'Oh!' 
 
 Rochester was determined, however, not to 
 suffer the conversation to be changed, so as 
 soon as the exigencies of the figures would 
 
 © © 
 
 permit him he continued — 
 
 ' I should have thought you would have 
 exhibited more interest in his movements. 
 You never inquired whom he was with.' 
 
 Edith turned on him her beautiful hazel 
 
 eyes with an assumed look of indifference she 
 
 was far from feeling. 
 
 © 
 
 ' Really,' she answered, with a haughty 
 curl of her lip, ' I don't see that because Mr. 
 Hammersley is my cousin it should be my 
 duty to inquire the manner of his goings out 
 
'parted.' 113 
 
 and his comings in, or the company he fre- 
 quents. He is at liberty to choose for himself, 
 I presume, in such matters, without being 
 compelled to take me into his confidence.' 
 
 * Would you be as indifferent to the hus- 
 band's movements as you are to those of 
 the — Forgive me, Lady Edith, I was about 
 to be impertinent, and assume what I do not 
 know. Yet I think you will not deem me so, 
 considering I am well aware what little regard 
 you have for me, if I say that I can guess 
 enough to make me wish I could stand, were 
 it only for an hour, in Hammersley's place.' 
 
 ' Mr. Rochester,' she answered, uneasily, 
 ' is it generous of you to revive this topic, 
 particularly,' she added, with a forced smile, 
 ' in a quadrille, where I cannot possibly escape 
 from you ? Let us forget what — forgive me 
 for speaking so harshly — has been an illusion 
 on your part.' 
 
 ' 1 don't think I offend often, do I V he 
 asked, sadly. ' I love you too deeply, too 
 devotedly, not to comply with your slightest 
 wish ; but you do not know the struggle I 
 have sometimes to keep silence, when I think 
 
 Vol. i— i 
 
114 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 how worthy in every respect one who enjoys 
 the blessing of your love should prove 
 himself/ 
 
 ' Mr. Rochester/ said Edith, with dignity, 
 ' you cannot advance your cause with me by 
 hinting at the unworthiness of your rival. 
 Whatever his faults and deficiencies, I am the 
 best judge of them, and I will permit no third 
 and interested person to interfere between us/ 
 
 True woman to the core ! Edith, however 
 indignant with him herself, would suffer no 
 other to asperse him in his absence. 
 
 1 Faults and deficiencies ! ' said Rochester, 
 sneeringly — ' they are patent enough. If he 
 loved you, would he be absent for a moment 
 when he knew you were here, much less 
 would he waste the time that should be spent 
 at your side in open flirtation with another 
 woman?' 
 
 ' With another woman ! ' echoed Edith, 
 her pride succumbing for the moment to her 
 curiosity. 
 
 ' He dined to-day at the same house as 
 Mrs. Jerningham, and in the evening he was 
 at the opera in her box/ 
 
'PARTED.' 115 
 
 I think if .Rochester could have guessed the 
 fierce pain that tightened round Edith's heart 
 as he told her that, he would have suppressed 
 it, even though it had the merit in his eyes 
 of being a fact open to the observation of 
 every one. 
 
 She had always looked upon Mrs. Jerning- 
 ham as a rival, for no better reason than that 
 which usually prompts sensitive women to 
 form such a conclusion, namely, that she and 
 Hammersley always seemed on easy, familiar 
 terms of friendship when they met. To dine 
 at a place on purpose to meet her — for, of 
 course, he could have no motive in going 
 except that — was bad enough, but to be so 
 enamoured of her society that he must snatch 
 the time which should be given to his betrothed 
 to further enjoy it, was a thought that drove 
 the pi'oud Edith almost beside herself. 
 
 Ptochester perceived the effect of his an- 
 nouncement, and wisely proceeded to change 
 the conversation. But the mischief was done. 
 Edith that night was ready to make any 
 sacrifice by which she could hope to avenge 
 her wounded dignity. 
 
116 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 She had an opportunity presently of in- 
 dulging her jealous anger. The Marquis of 
 
 C entered and requested as many dances 
 
 as she would give him. Generally speaking, 
 he only got one, so numerous were the claims 
 upon Edith ; but this night she had left four 
 vacant places for Hammersley, one of which 
 had already gone through his lateness. Her 
 resolution was taken in an instant. She 
 allowed the marquis to fill up two, and only 
 kept one for her lover. She knew she could 
 offer a man of his proud temperament no more 
 deadly insult than this; and, the moment after 
 she had done it, something whispered to her 
 that she had gone too far, but the next instant 
 pride and resentment came to her aid, and she 
 rejoiced in thinking she could wound him as 
 deeply as he had wounded her. 
 
 A few moments after Hammersley entered 
 from the opera. He had stayed there later 
 than he meant, because it happened to be his 
 favourite music, not from any special delight 
 he experienced in Mrs. Jerningham's society ; 
 and, unwitting of what had taken place in his 
 absence, he crossed over quickly to Edith with 
 
'parted.' 117 
 
 his usual question of ' Have you kept my 
 dances % ' 
 
 Eager as she was to prevent herself from 
 betraying the cause of her offence, she could 
 not repress one lightning flash of her indignant 
 hazel eyes, and her lip would curl scornfully 
 as she answered, in a tone as indifferent as she 
 could assume — 
 
 1 1 scarcely expected you would be here to- 
 night.' 
 
 The signs of vexation on the fair, proud face 
 that he had learned to read pretty well by 
 this time, were not lost upon him, but he was 
 puzzled to understand how the fact of his 
 beincr a little late could account for such 
 unaccustomed coldness, and his voice was not 
 in consequence pitched in the most conciliatory 
 key as he said — 
 
 ' I don't think you have had to charge me 
 often with neglecting my engagements with 
 you. Why should you be so particularly 
 doubtful of my promise to-night ? ' 
 
 Perhaps, if she had told him the real 
 reason, it might have led to an avowal of 
 her dislike to Mrs. Jerningham, and then, by 
 
118 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 the easy transition characteristic of lovers' 
 explanations, to a more assured renewal of 
 love and confidence. But Edith, unfortu- 
 nately, was no adept at the ' soft answer that 
 turneth away wrath.' Her genius lay rather 
 in the opposite direction. She had a knack, 
 peculiar to most proud and sensitive women, 
 of converting a slight misunderstanding into 
 a serious quarrel. Nothing could be more 
 contemptuously indifferent than her manner, 
 particularly to a man who was certainly in 
 the dark as to the how and why of his 
 offending, as she replied — 
 
 'Oh! I really don't know why; only you 
 know yourself you are very inconsistent at 
 times.' 
 
 Her lovers glance grew very cold and stern, 
 as he gazed on the fair face — so very fair, 
 even in its unreasoning anger — of the woman 
 he loved so passionately. 
 
 ' Edith,' he answered, coldly, ' I cannot 
 affect to understand you. Your words and 
 actions are so often riddles to me, that I can 
 scarcely have any surprise left for fresh 
 enigmas ; but all this time, I beg to remind 
 
1 PARTED.' 119 
 
 you, that you have not thought fit to answer 
 my question.' 
 
 * Oh ! your dances,' she said, carelessly. ' I 
 have kept a waltz in case you came. I was 
 so pestered by everyone, that I really could 
 not keep any more ; besides, truly, I did not 
 expect you at all to-night, as it was so late.' 
 
 In spite of his habitual self-command, the 
 hot, angry blood rose for an instant to his 
 cheek as she told him this. It was a trifle 
 perhaps, but the hopes and happiness of lovers 
 are made up of trifles, and in all the quarrels — 
 lately become so frequent — that had passed 
 between them, he had never doubted her 
 love so much as he did at that moment. 
 
 ' I ought to be grateful to you for that 
 concession,' he said, with a bitter sarcasm in 
 his tone. 'When there are so many other 
 admirers with such greater claims to con- 
 sideration ready to offer their homage, it 
 is a great privilege for your future husband 
 to be permitted one dance.' 
 
 He moved haughtily away when he had 
 said this, and left Edith alone with her own 
 reflections, whatever they might be. They 
 
120 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 were not very pleasant, poor child ! if the 
 truth could have been told. She had wounded 
 her lover, but she had wounded herself as 
 deeply ; for, where the love is mutual, we can 
 rarely hope to deal death to the other's 
 happiness without its being quickly followed 
 by the suicide of our own. 
 
 Edith's hand was presently claimed by 
 a gay guardsman, and Hammersley was 
 soon apparently interested in a conversation 
 with the fair and vivacious Countess of 
 
 E ; but, in spite of his companion's 
 
 colloquial talents, which were of no mean 
 order, there was a dull pain at his heart 
 which the most honied words of another were 
 powerless to dispel. In that gay throng of 
 society's most best and beautiful he saw but 
 one face, he heard but one voice — the face 
 that had looked on him so coldly, the voice 
 that had wounded him so cruelly. 
 
 He watched her furtively, from time to 
 time, amid the mazy circles of the dancers — 
 watched to see if he could detect one shadow 
 of remorse or repentance on her face that could 
 reassure him of her love. No. She was 
 
' PARTED. 121 
 
 dancing as gaily and unconcernedly as if the 
 breaking of hearts was too ordinary a pastime 
 for her to trouble herself one moment about. 
 
 Unable any longer to sustain even the 
 semblance of conversation, he rose and moved 
 a little further away. At that moment Edith 
 returned from the dance in which he had been 
 watching her, and seated herself at a little 
 distance from him, near enough, however, 
 for him to overhear everything that was 
 said. 
 
 Rochester was standing close by her, and 
 just as he was about to make some remark 
 the Marquis of C hurried up. 
 
 ' Lady Edith,' he said, quickly, * I shall 
 have to forego the pleasure of my two dances 
 with you. My brother has been taken 
 suddenly ill, and I have just received a 
 message to come to him immediately/ And, 
 bidding her good-night, the marquis hurried 
 away. 
 
 Mr. Rochester was not slow in profiting 
 himself of the opportunity. 
 
 ' You have got two dances vacant now,' he 
 said, in his most persuasive tones. ' Do give 
 
122 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 tliem to me. Let me enjoy a piece of good 
 fortune for once.' 
 
 Edith hesitated for a moment. Her loyalty 
 to her lover was still strong, although he 
 had so deeply offended her. Should she keep 
 this one for him now ? But then the thought 
 flashed across her — suppose he was engaged 
 for the very one she had kept for him ? What 
 a humiliation for her ! Besides, had he not 
 left her with upbraiding on his lips, when he 
 ought to have, sued to her for pardon ? The 
 next moment she suffered Rochester to 
 inscribe his name in lieu of the departed 
 marquis. 
 
 Hammersley had heard every word of this 
 brief negotiation, and such a further proof of 
 his betrothed's falseness confirmed his doubts. 
 Come what might, he determined that night 
 to have the truth from Edith, and if the truth 
 was as he suspected, to renounce her for ever. 
 
 The next dance was the solitary waltz she 
 had had the grace to keep for him. He made 
 one final effort to avert the catastrophe he 
 felt was impending. 
 
 ' Edith,' he said, suddenly, in the midst of 
 
'parted.' 123 
 
 the inspiring strains of the Soldaten Lieder, 
 ' there must have been some reason for your 
 strange coldness to-night. Will you be frank 
 and tell me ? Better do so than let us mis- 
 understand each other perhaps for the rest of 
 our lives.' 
 
 There was a passionate eagerness in his 
 voice that vibrated to the core of Edith's 
 heart, already longing, perhaps, to be recon- 
 ciled ao-ain, had it not been for that stubborn 
 pride which has broken so many hearts ere 
 now. 
 
 ' Don't worry so,' she answered pettishly ; 
 1 1 have no reason to give.' 
 
 That chilling answer froze back all the 
 tenderness in her lover's breast. During the 
 rest of the waltz he never uttered another 
 word, but, at its conclusion, he led her into 
 an adjoining room, which, from its isolated 
 position, seemed especially made for confi- 
 dential tete-d-tetes, and, dropping her arm, 
 faced her with a hard, stern look — a look that 
 boded ill for the result of their interview. 
 
 She knew by his face that the crisis was 
 coming, but not for worlds would she, in her 
 
124 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 present mood, have betrayed a wish to avert 
 it. She stood the picture of haughty indif- 
 ference. Supremely beautiful, with a rich, 
 gorgeous beauty that time alone could rob of 
 its magical charm, and hard, cold, and un- 
 lovable as she looked at that moment, his 
 heart gave a great convulsive throb to think 
 that, in a few minutes, such beauty might be 
 nought to him save a bitter memory of what 
 could have been. 
 
 ' Edith,' he said at length, ' we have, un- 
 fortunately, had too many quarrels — quarrels 
 which may, perhaps, have wearied you of my 
 society, and made my love seem distasteful. 
 God knows, had it lain in my power to avert 
 them, I would have done so, but I cannot 
 admit that all the fault has been on my side. 
 This misunderstanding to-night is, neverthe- 
 less, much more serious than any that has 
 arisen before. You can scarcely deny your 
 coldness, yet you refuse to assign me the 
 cause. I am left to find it for myself.' 
 
 He paused a moment, expecting some 
 denial, or, at least, some explanation, but 
 no answer came. Her slender fingers were 
 
'parted.' 125 
 
 plaving restlessly with the sticks of her fan, 
 and her face was slightly turned away. He 
 continued — 
 
 1 If I had never known you from childhood 
 — if you had never confessed you loved me — 
 if I had been a mere stranger, smitten with 
 your beauty and offering my homage among 
 the crowd of your other admirers — could it 
 have been possible for me to mistake your 
 indifference to-night, would it not have told 
 me in unmistakable language that I could 
 have never hoped to win your heart ? Between 
 us, situated as we are, it is different. I am 
 your accepted lover — not recognised openly as 
 such by the world, but your lover by virtue 
 of the compact between our own hearts. Tell 
 me, Edith, has your conduct to-night the same 
 significance in our case that it would have 
 had in the one I just quoted to you ? Is it 
 meant to tell me that our love has been a folly 
 and a mistake, and that it must be ended 
 now ? ' 
 
 The words were gentle enough, but the 
 manner was very stern, and her proud nature 
 revolted against even the semblance of dicta- 
 
12G FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 tion. Besides, had she not good cause to 
 suspect his faith \ WLat more probable than 
 that the very lips which were accusing her now 
 had an hour ago whispered the language of 
 love to her rival? At that thought she 
 hardened directly. The glance that met her 
 betrothed's was hard and defiant. 
 
 ' As you choose/ she answered. ' You are 
 at liberty to interpret it in which way you 
 please.' 
 
 1 That means to say/ he said, his eyes 
 flashing with the anger it was almost impos- 
 sible to repress, 'it is a matter of perfect 
 indifference to you whether we part or 
 not.' 
 
 Oh, Edith ! one moment of hesitation 
 there — one word, one ambiguous phrase, that 
 could have told him the truth of that way- 
 ward heart, and what an eternity of misery 
 might have been spared to your two lives ! 
 As it was, she answered almost before her 
 lover had finished the question — 
 
 ' Yes, it is a matter of total indifference.' 
 
 That reply, seemingly so sincere, as indeed 
 it might have been in her then mood, stung 
 
'parted/ 127 
 
 him more than any previous taunt. His face 
 grew deadly pale, with the unconquerable 
 emotion of wounded pride, and his voice 
 sounded unutterably changed ashe answered — ■ 
 
 1 It is well at all events you have spoken 
 the truth. I am thankful for the candour 
 that has saved me from the curse of wedding 
 a loveless bride. Henceforth, it shall be my 
 task to despise and forget the folly that made 
 me dream of our union as a possibility. 
 Farewell, Lady Edith. When I remember 
 you — which I trust may be seldom, for yours 
 is not a memory that should cause one pang 
 to a true man's heart — it shall be as the pure- 
 minded and generous girl, before the poisonous 
 teachings of the world and the flattery of its 
 most worthless worshippers converted you 
 into a heartless and unlovable woman.' 
 
 He was gone, while the sound of his voice 
 was still ringing in her ears ; gone, with bitter 
 taunt and upbraiding on his lip, telling her 
 that she was worthless and unworthy to be 
 loved ; gone, without one sigh of regret to the 
 memory of their buried love. 
 
 The emotion she had felt throughout that 
 
128 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 interview and at its climax, emotion none the 
 less deep because it was so carefully sup- 
 pressed, was sufficient to have killed a woman 
 in whom pride was a less dominant character- 
 istic. Still, mistress of herself as she was, the 
 keen eyes of Rochester detected something 
 amiss as she re-entered the ball-room alone. 
 
 ' Lady Edith,' he said, offering his arm, 
 ' unattended by even the humblest cavalier, 
 and looking as pale as a ghost ! Wherefore this 
 extraordinary combination of circumstances V 
 
 Edith's sole answer was a short nervous 
 laugh, so obviously forced that it stimulated 
 her companion's curiosity. 
 
 He regarded her gravely. 
 
 ' Forgive my impertinence in questioning 
 you,' he said ; ' but pardon me if I repeat — 
 (His voice faltered skilfully here.) You are 
 so very dear to me, that what affects your 
 hc.ppiness must, by reflection, affect mine. 
 Something unusual must have occurred 
 to-night to produce a change in one (for the 
 life of him he could • not forego the paltry 
 malice of indulging in a sneer) so generally 
 superior to emotion.' 
 
'tarted/ 129 
 
 She scarcely observed his finishing sarcasm — 
 at any rate, failed to understand or resent its 
 meaning ; her thoughts were busy elsewhere. 
 But at that moment it was pleasant to have a 
 sympathetic listener ; so she answered, after 
 a moment of hesitation, speaking quickly, as 
 if ashamed of the confession of her weakness — 
 
 * I have been a little annoyed just now/ 
 
 1 1 can guess the cause,' said Rochester. 
 ' 1 saw Hammersley lead you away with no 
 particularly pleasant expression on his coun- 
 tenance. I presume the tete-a-tete was not 
 in consequence remarkably agreeable/ 
 
 1 Remarkably disagreeable would be nearer 
 a true description,' answered Edith, with that 
 same nervous laugh, which she trusted would 
 convince her listener of her utter indifference 
 to the event she was narrating. 
 
 ' Have you quarrelled seriously ? ' he asked ; 
 a great feeling of joy, that he scarcely dared 
 as yet to acknowledge to himself, breaking 
 over him at the hope that his powerful rival 
 might have been effectually disposed of. 
 
 ' So very seriously/ answered Edith, in an 
 as unconcerned tone as she could assume, 
 
 Vol i -k 
 
130 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 ' that it is to be the last quarrel in which we 
 are ever likely to indulge.' 
 
 * You are parted, then ? ' he said very 
 quietly. 
 
 Edith's only response was a rather indis- 
 tinct ' yes/ and they both continued silent for 
 some time. He was the first to speak. 
 
 ' And yet you love him still, I suppose ? ' 
 he asked. That question dispelled her reserve. 
 After all there are moments when the proudest 
 woman will expose her heart. 
 
 * I did love him passionately/ she answered ; 
 a strange, fierce, glittering light in her eyes — a 
 light that made her companion rather fearful 
 for the moment that the scene had turned her 
 brain — ' so passionately, that if my death 
 could have purchased his safety, I would have 
 bade adieu to life cheerfully. I can scarcely 
 say now whether I hate or love him. I think 
 it must be hate, because he taunted me 
 bitterly when he left. But this I can tell 
 you for certain, that if, by pronouncing one 
 word, I could bring him back to my feet, I 
 would sooner cut out my tongue than utter it/ 
 
 It was a strange, inexplicable speech ; rather 
 
'parted.' 131 
 
 incomprehensible, even to Mr. Rochester, 
 whose experience in female psychology had 
 been by no means limited. But with this, as 
 a practical philosopher, he did not care to 
 meddle. His object was to win her for 
 himself. 
 
 ' Since it is all over between you,' he said — 
 ' at least, I suppose I understand your nature 
 sufficiently well to predict you will never be 
 reconciled ? ' 
 
 1 Never!' said, or rather sibilated, Edith 
 from between her firm, white teeth, 'never! 7 
 
 ' Since, then, it is all over between you,' he 
 continued, 'is it possible that I may have any 
 hopes V 
 
 1 Mr. Rochester,' she replied, gravely, ' the 
 reply I gave to that question some time ago 
 must be my answer now. I like and respect 
 you as a friend, but there can be nothing 
 further between us.' 
 
 ' Do you intend to keep so faithful to his 
 memory;' he inquired, sneeringly. 
 
 ' Do I look like the broken-hearted damsel 
 we read of in romances ? ' she answered, with 
 a more natural smile than she had yet worn. 
 
132 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 Then, speaking more seriously : ' No, I do not 
 intend to remain single all my life. Wearing 
 the willow is not my rdle. I shall marry 
 some day — make a highly desirable match, 
 from a worldly and every other point of view, 
 and settle down into the typical British 
 matron.' 
 
 'You dislike me so that the thought of our 
 union is hateful to you/ he said, sadly. 
 
 'If I married vou,' she answered, with a 
 sudden resumption of passionate earnestness 
 in her voice, 'you are so connected with the 
 events of this hideous night, that I could 
 never exorcise the demon of memory from my 
 life. Had you not told me what you did 
 to-night we should never have parted. 
 When I marry, I must have new scenes — a 
 new existence — to make me forget the past. 
 With you, yourself would be a living witness 
 of all I strove to bury in oblivion.' 
 
 'Lady Edith,' he answered, his pride roused 
 by this time, ' I will never trouble you on 
 this subject again. I perceive too plainly I 
 can never hope to be anything to you. The 
 lover is buried — -may I hope to be still your 
 
'PAKTED.' 133 
 
 friend. Believe me, I will prove a true 
 one. I will even so far forget my own 
 interests as to do all I can to bring about 
 your happiness with my rival/ 
 
 ' I accept your friendship/ she said, touched 
 by his earnestness. ' For your generous offer 
 I thank you, but it cannot be. I have been 
 frank with you to-night : forget, if you can, 
 that Edith Stewart confided to you the secret 
 of her heart, as I will try to forget I ever had 
 one to confide. Henceforth it is not strange 
 if other people find me really what he called 
 me to-night — heartless and unlovable/ 
 
 There was the faintest possible quiver in 
 her voice as she said this, but she suppressed 
 it instantly, and for the rest of the evening it 
 would have required a close observer to have 
 remarked that she was less gay and animated 
 than usual. 
 
 There is something very noble, after all, in 
 men or women who bear their burden un- 
 complainingly and unsuspected of the world. 
 Who can refuse his meed of admiration to 
 that noble picture which Aytoun has given us 
 of the stern widow of the murdered M'Gregor, 
 
134 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 whose tribute to the dead is not the tears and 
 sobs which the weak daughters of Clanronald 
 weep over their slaughtered kin, but the 
 burning, passionate words which promise a 
 deep and deadly revenge on the false Southron. 
 Hammersley had left Lady Carrick's imme- 
 diately after his parting with Edith. On his 
 way home he passed Saville's lodgings, and 
 saw his brougham waiting at the door. For 
 a moment his impulse was to go in, but, on 
 second thoughts, he resolved to wait till the 
 morning for the unpleasant news that he had 
 to communicate. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 'a feiexd in need. 1 
 
 Saville had arrived at the Countes3 of 
 Carrick's a short time after Hammersley had 
 left, and was surprised not to find his friend 
 there. He called on him the next morning, 
 and found him just concluding breakfast. 
 Salutations over, he inquired the reason of 
 his early departure the night before. 
 
 It was rather painful to enter into explana- 
 tions, but it might as well come first as last. 
 Besides, he was sure of Saville's sympathy. 
 
 1 My dear fellow/ he said, shrugging his 
 shoulders, ' you know pretty well by now 
 who is the general controller of my move- 
 ments. My departure last night was to be 
 traced to the agency of that ornament to the 
 heau mo nde, Lady Edith Stewart.' 
 
136 FIKST AND LAST. 
 
 Now that his friend regarded him more 
 closely, he detected something rather unusual 
 in his appearance and manner. There was 
 the evidence of a sleepless night in his eyes, a 
 marked change in his voice. 
 
 'Another quarrel, I suppose?' he questioned, 
 briefly. 
 
 ' Another quarrel,' repeated Hammersley, 
 rising and taking a cigar, which he lighted 
 and smoked at rapidly with quick, deep pulls. 
 It is an unpleasant thing exposing one's heart 
 even to the most intimate friend. 
 
 ' More serious than usual ? ' again ques- 
 tioned his friend. 
 
 Hammersley took a meditative pull, and 
 then, holding the cigar at arm's length, 
 examined it critically, as if his whole attention 
 were absorbed by the little brown weed. This 
 assumed indifference did not deceive Saville ; 
 he became rather impatient of such dis- 
 simulation. 
 
 ' Come, Hammersley,' he said, ' don't try 
 to persuade me that you don't care a straw 
 for what happened last night. Your acting 
 is a little too forced to deceive me. It might 
 
'a friend in need/ 137 
 
 succeed perhaps with people who don't know 
 you so well as I. Let me hear the whole 
 truth — the why, the when, the how.' 
 
 1 My acting is rather forced, is it ? ' answered 
 Hammersley, with an uneasy laugh. ' You 
 want to hear the whole truth. Well, then, 
 listen. Last night. Edith Stewart and I 
 parted for ever. How do I look this 
 morning; — like a broken-hearted, miserable 
 wretch, or like a man who has enough good 
 sense in him to hold a woman's love at what 
 it is worth, and to regard a woman's faithless- 
 ness as a normal condition of her nature \ 
 Come, Saville, you are a keen observer, 
 which of the two pictures is my portrait ? ' 
 He had thrown away his cigar as he said this, 
 and was looking at his companion with grave, 
 moody eyes, and a half-sarcastic, half-mournful 
 smile upon his lips. 
 
 Saville paused a moment before he answered; 
 then he said — 
 
 1 If it be true that you and Edith Stewart 
 have parted for ever, 1 think I know your love 
 for her well enough to predict that, however 
 you may be able to mask your grief from the 
 
138 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 eyes of others, it will be long ere you 
 succeed in banishing her image from your 
 heart/ 
 
 ' You are right, Saville,' he answered. ' You 
 are superior to the shallow idiots who make a 
 science of suspicion, and know nothing, after 
 all, of the nature they pretend to gauge. You 
 can read a man's heart through the mask that 
 pride puts on in hope to shield it from the 
 prying eyes of the curious world. I suppose 
 we all hare, or have had in our lives, a fond 
 dream that it was death to shatter. I have 
 had mine, and it was shattered when we 
 parted last night.' 
 
 He buried his face in his hands, and went 
 on speaking slowly, more like a man talking 
 to himself than addressing another : 
 
 ' A man's whole life and happiness blighted 
 by a little word of one woman ! How ridicu- 
 lous and unmeaning it sounds ! Why, out of 
 the millions upon earth, should one creature 
 have the power given her to blast and destroy 
 the existence of another \ Are there no other 
 eyes as bright, no other lips as soft, as those of 
 our " love's young dream ? " I wonder if a 
 
'A FRIEND IN NEED.' 139 
 
 new passion will ever bring me a Lethe for 
 the old love/ 
 
 Saville was perplexed for an answer. The 
 disappointment of lovers was a malady for 
 which he had never yet found himself obliged 
 to prescribe a remedy. But before he could 
 invent one Hammersley answered his own 
 question. 
 
 'No, no/ he said, speaking more quickly 
 and energetically, as if the thought of a future 
 love stung him bitterly ; ' I could never renew 
 that dream. The freshness of the first emo- 
 tions, the virginity of the heart, are fled for 
 ever. I may gaze again into glorious eyes, I 
 may kiss again ruby lips, but in the glance 
 there will be no rapture, in the kiss no 
 passion/ 
 
 He ceased, and, removing his hands from 
 his face, addressed his friend with a smile. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Saville,' he said. ' It 
 is too bad of me making you listen to my 
 maudlin commonplaces, and trusting to yoiu* 
 good-nature not to interrupt me. But lovers, 
 as you will discover if you have to do with 
 many more of them, are a tiresome and weary- 
 
140 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 ing race. Let us talk of other matters than 
 my misfortunes/ 
 
 ' I would rather talk of them/ answered 
 Saville, earnestly. 
 
 ' Are you really interested % What pos- 
 sible attraction can you find in the recital of 
 my woes ? You have never been in love 
 yourself.' 
 
 1 Oh, yes, I have,' said Saville, smiling ; 'in 
 love with an ideal all my life, which some day 
 I hope to find realised ; and, therefore, I have 
 the greatest sympathy for you/ 
 
 * Thanks very much. Sympathy is not such 
 a bad medicine, I begin to think — a kind of 
 tonic for the miserable, which braces them up 
 for a bit into a kind of artificial cheerfulness, 
 subsiding as soon as the dose is forgotten to 
 be repeated. But, seriously, what is there to 
 discuss ? We have parted — I am unhappy — 
 she is probably happy. Such are the facts of 
 the case. What possible consolation can you 
 hope to extract from these uncompromising 
 materials ? ' 
 
 ' We have parted !' echoed Saville incredu- 
 lously. ' You speak as if the decisions of two 
 
'a friend in need/ 141 
 
 angry, hot-headed lovers were as unalterable 
 as the laws of the Medes and Persians. I 
 wonder how many married couples, enjoying 
 the utmost domestic felicity at the present 
 moment, have not frequently undergone 
 that harrowing performance known in lover's 
 phraseology as " parting/' ' 
 
 ' We were not hot-headed, nor even angry 
 over it ; on the contrary, exceedingly cool 
 and business-like. I put it to her whether it 
 was a matter of total indifference if we parted 
 or not ; and she answered it was, without a 
 vestige of malice or pique in her voice or 
 manner. ' 
 
 ' That is to say, because she did not storm 
 and rave, and denounce, but conducted herself 
 like a well-bred young woman, you come to 
 the conclusion that she was not angry. Girls 
 of Edith's stamp, let me tell you, are most 
 angry when they appear most cold.' 
 
 ' But, granting I admit that, Saville, would 
 any woman who loved a man ever so little 
 suffer him to leave her, when one word from 
 her could make it up between them ? ' 
 
 ' Girls like Edith, I repeat, would do pre- 
 
142 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 cisely the opposite to what sensible people 
 like you and I would. Biting off the nose to 
 avenge the face is an operation that affords 
 them the greatest satisfaction. If you will 
 relate to me the beginning of this embroglio, 
 I will undertake to prove to you that every 
 item of her conduct is in strict accordance 
 with our preconceived notions of her character.' 
 
 Thus urged, Hammersley told him all that 
 he knew. At the conclusion Saville was 
 radiant. 
 
 ' Nothing is clearer/ he exclaimed, trium- 
 phantly : c you come to the ball late — you 
 offer no apology — Edith naturally imagines 
 someone else was the attraction — she is too 
 proud to say so, but takes the only revenge 
 in her power by pretending indifference to 
 your society, in the same manner as you have 
 shown indifference to hers — you are annoyed, 
 and tell her so — she has not yet recovered 
 her temper — she makes no attempts at recon- 
 ciliation — you wax angrier — say hard tilings — 
 this, joined to the previous wrong, inflames 
 her more — you, exasperated, hint at parting — 
 she keeps up the farce — and you both part — 
 
'A FRIEND IX NEED.' 143 
 
 loving each other all the while, and each fully 
 convinced that the other does not care a 
 straw. Does that seem clear ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid not,' answered Hainmersley, 
 shaking his head sadly. 'It sounds plausible; 
 but I know Edith Stewart better than you.' 
 
 * Lovers, as a general rule, know the least 
 of each other/ said Saville, coolly. ' It is the 
 mutual friend, like myself, who has got some 
 wits left, who can see through it all. If you 
 leave it in my hands, I will engage to bring 
 you together again.' 
 
 ' No,' cried Hammersley, proudly ; ' I will 
 not humiliate myself by begging her to 
 return.' 
 
 ' What humiliation is there in it ? You 
 won't appear at all. I am the good fairy 
 who is to arrange everything. Trust to my 
 diplomacy. I will not compromise her pride 
 or yours in the negotiation.' 
 
 Hammersley paused a moment, the tempta- 
 tion was so strong. Saville went up to him 
 and put his hands on his shoulders. 
 
 1 Tell the truth, man,' he said. ' You love 
 Edith Stewart to distraction — she loves you. 
 
144 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 You shake your head, but I am sure of it. 
 Which is best, to waste your life in vain regret 
 and repining, or to swallow your pride for 
 once, and receive happiness in exchange ? 
 Now, which is your decision ? ' 
 
 ' If,' answered Hammersley, hesitatingly, 
 'if you could contrive to let her know I 
 should be glad of a reconciliation without 
 letting her see that I was too eager for it — 
 you understand me, Saville ? ' 
 
 1 Most fully,' returned his friend, smiling. 
 ' Your amour-projore shall be respected in my 
 hands. Ladv Edith will be at the Countess 
 of G '3 to-night. I will take an oppor- 
 tunity to open my mission there. Don't you 
 think it would be as well if you put in an 
 appearance \ It might suggest that you 
 could not keep away from her presence, &c, 
 &c., and have a good effect.' 
 
 1 No ; I don't think I will come,' said 
 Hammersley, a slight flush suffusing his cheek. 
 f The fact of it is, she might be flirting des- 
 perately with some one else, and I could not 
 stand that. You see, it will take me a little 
 
C A FRIEND IN NEED.' 145 
 
 time to accustom myself to remember that I 
 have no control over her now/ 
 
 1 Very well/ answered Saville. ' Where 
 shall I see you to-night to report on the 
 result 1 ' 
 
 ' Here as well as anywhere/ was the reply ; 
 and for the present that subject was concluded 
 between them. 
 
 Vol. i— L 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 * FAILURE.' 
 
 The drama of human life goes on pretty much 
 the same whatever the private trials and 
 troubles of the actors concerned therein. The 
 curtain draws up and finds most of them at 
 their respective posts ; though we can scarcely 
 guess the anguish of some obliged to present 
 themselves there. 
 
 With smiling lip and aching heart, Edith 
 Stewart played her character of fascinating 
 
 beauty at the Countess of G 's the next 
 
 night. The usual crowd of worshippers poured 
 their dull flatteries and whispered their con- 
 ventional nothings ; but more than one pair 
 of keen eyes noticed the look of abstraction 
 and weariness that would occasionally creep 
 
'FAILURE.' 147 
 
 over the fair face, even as she received, to 
 surfeiting, that which is most dear to everv 
 woman's heart — unqualified admiration. 
 
 Saville entered later. He took little enjoy- 
 ment in these gatherings of the beau-Tnonde, 
 this empty glare and glitter of fashion, in 
 which the jaded votaries of pleasure find 
 compensation for the uselessness of their 
 lives. But even the wisest of men occasionally 
 come into contact with what they despise. 
 Moreover, he was not cynical enough to wholly 
 despisehuman nature, he rather compassionated 
 it ; and he found it much the same in every 
 rank, except, perhaps, in the upper circles, 
 where it had a little more gloss than else- 
 where. 
 
 He took advantage of a temporary vacuum 
 in the region of Edith's admirers to approach 
 the young beauty. Saville, on the whole, was 
 rather a favourite of hers ; in fact, he was 
 well-established in the good graces of the fair 
 sex altogether. Although undeniably hand- 
 some, he had never condescended to the petty 
 arts or vanities of the typical 'beauty man.' 
 He seldom complimented, and never flattered; 
 
148 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 but there was an innate chivalry and tender- 
 ness in his manner, either in addressing or 
 speaking of women, that enabled these in- 
 stinctive judges of character to discern those 
 natural qualities which the professed i ladies ' 
 man more often simulates than possesses. 
 
 1 Lady Edith,' he said, with a winning 
 smile, ' I know I am asking a great favour, 
 and I don't doubt I shall create a hundred 
 and one enemies by your granting it. Will 
 you give me five minutes' confidential conver- 
 sation, as I have something important to 
 communicate?' 
 
 She bowed her head in acquiescence, and, 
 rising, took his arm. They ensconced them- 
 selves in a situation sufficiently retired to 
 prevent their conversation being intruded on. 
 Edith guessed well enough the nature of his 
 communication, and the workings of her heart 
 at that moment would have been a study for 
 the most learned in soul anatomy. 
 
 Saville was slightly embarrassed at first, but 
 the interest he took in his mission soon 
 restored his customary self-possession. 
 
 ' It is a delicate subject, perhaps, on which 
 
'FAILURE.' 149 
 
 I am about to enter,' he said in a low voice ; 
 * but my friendship for your cousin, and my 
 concern for his future happiness, must be my 
 excuse. I am not guilty of exaggeration, 
 Lady Edith, when I say that that happiness 
 is in your hands. I have seen him this 
 morning, and much as his pride would have 
 made him conceal his disappointment before 
 the eyes of another, even of his most intimate 
 friend, I was keen enough to penetrate the 
 mask and discover how deeply he felt. I 
 questioned him, with some difficulty at first, 
 it is true, but ultimately I obtained a full 
 explanation of your quarrel. Am I not right 
 in saying there has been misunderstanding on 
 both sides ? ' 
 
 Edith was silent. Could she confess the 
 real origin of the quarrel — her suspicions of 
 Mrs. Jerningham ? She could scarcely confess 
 them to herself, certainly not to a comparative 
 stranger. Saville took her silence for assent, 
 and continued — 
 
 ' In all these quarrels,' he said easily, ( mis- 
 interpretations arise, anger usurps the place 
 of reason, and analyses in a rough and rude 
 
150 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 fashion. I am no stranger to the depth or 
 the long duration of Hammersley's love for 
 you. May I hope, Lady Edith, that I may 
 be the means of reconciling hearts that should 
 never have been severed ? ' 
 
 Oh ! how Edith's heart throbbed at that 
 question ! Her destiny was in her own hands, 
 to decide by one little word. What wonder 
 if, for a moment, old sweet memories of the 
 past came flooding upon her — if for a moment 
 she dared to long for the touch of a ' vanished 
 hand,' for the ' sound of a voice ' that her 
 own lips had forbade to address her again ? 
 But, then, as swiftly following in the wake 
 of those purer emotions came that which was 
 the curse and shipwreck of her life — the stub- 
 born pride which tempted even the high 
 natures of heaven to rebellion. 
 
 She put her chance of happiness from her, 
 calmy and deliberately as it seemed to her 
 amazed listener, only he did not comprehend 
 the frenzy and insanity of that indomitable 
 pride, mingling with love* which compelled her 
 to sacrifice her happiness to the devouring 
 Moloch she had created. There did come a 
 
'failure.' 151 
 
 time when Saville learned what love was, and 
 found it akin to madness. 
 
 'Mr. Saville,' she answered, clearly and 
 distinctly — acute as were her listener's ears 
 he could not detect a tremor in her voice — ' I 
 thank you sincerely for the kindness which 
 has prompted you to assume the ungrateful 
 office of mediator between my cousin and me. 
 But I have taken nry determination, and I 
 announce it to you, calmly and deliberately, 
 without the least admixture of momentary 
 pique or anger that would excite any hope of 
 my subsequently recalling it — henceforth, 
 Frederick Hammersley and I can be nothing 
 to each other.' 
 
 Saville was fairly surprised. His knowledge 
 of the female character had been pretty exten- 
 sive, both theoretically and practically, but 
 the inscrutable calm of this young girl com- 
 pletely baffled him. He looked at her long 
 and steadily to see if one movement of the 
 impassive features would give him a clue to 
 the enigma of her conduct, but they betrayed 
 nothing to his gaze. When he spoke there 
 was a ring of resentment in his voice. 
 
152 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 'And this,' he said, forgetting in his anger 
 how he had promised not to compromise his 
 friend's pride, ' is the message I must take 
 back to your cousin ! He awaits me to-night, 
 with his heart full of love, and yearning for 
 the words that shall tell him he has not loved 
 in vain. Must I say to him instead those 
 words which will break it \ If you have one 
 spark of love left for him, can you — could any 
 woman who still retains her sex's feelings 
 within her — consign him to such a future \ ' 
 
 The language of reproach or accusation was 
 the worst one to hold to Edith. 
 
 1 Mr. Saville,' she said, haughtily, ' if my 
 cousin sent you here to seek my forgiveness, 
 I know enough of him to be sure that he 
 would not entrust a comparative stranger with 
 the duty of reproaching me in case of failure. 
 Allow me to remind you that a third party 
 can know little of the rights of a quarrel save 
 from the persons concerned. You have not 
 yet heard my story, and, without the key 
 which that could afford you, you must be 
 content to let my conduct remain inexplicable. 
 Any interpretation you put upon it will, 
 
'failure/ 153 
 
 doubtless, be far from a real solution of the 
 mystery.' 
 
 Saville was not easily abashed, and he had 
 enjoyed considerable practice in colloquial 
 encounters, but the energetic language of the 
 haughty beauty proved rather exacting to his 
 powers of reply, 
 
 ' Since I have had the misfortune to offend 
 you/ he answered, coldly, ' we will conclude 
 this interview. I would not do so yet were 
 there the least chance of accomplishing the 
 mission on which I came to-night ; but that 
 seems at present impossible.' 
 
 1 Utterly impossible, either now or at any 
 future time,' said Edith, firmly. 
 
 With this conclusive rejoinder, Saville es- 
 corted her back, and left the Countess of 
 
 G 's, after lingering a little while to 
 
 ponder over his interview ; then took his way 
 rather dispiritedly to the apartments of his 
 friend. 
 
 Hammersley was awaiting him, and endea- 
 vouring to elude the feelings of suspense by 
 steady application to a meerschaum, from which 
 he sent forth great clouds into the night. 
 
154 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 The face of Saville, as he presented himself 
 at the door, was sufficient announcement. 
 
 ' A failure V he questioned, very briefly, of 
 his friend. 
 
 A slight bend of the head confirmed the 
 truth of his surmise. 
 
 ' Did I not tell you I knew Edith Stewart 
 better than you I ' he asked presently. ' But, 
 at any rate, let me have the particulars of the 
 interview.' 
 
 Saville told him all. . At the conclusion he 
 said — 
 
 ' I am afraid I bungled it a little by letting 
 my temper get the best of me, but, really, she 
 was so cold-blooded that restraint was out of 
 the question.' 
 
 1 You are right,' returned Hammer sley ; 
 ' she is cold-blooded. The world has turned 
 her into an emotionless woman, and yet what 
 a darling child she was ! ' 
 
 They remained silent for some moments. 
 At last Hammersley spoke — 
 
 ' I shall go abroad in a few days. Three 
 or four months among other scenes and other 
 people will cure me of this folly. I suppose 
 
' FAILUHE.' 155 
 
 one can't reoret for ever. Every wound will 
 heal with time.' 
 
 'It is the best plan,' answered Saville ; 
 'and, if you like, I will accompany you. I 
 am rather weary of London, and the mob that 
 calls itself society. We will go together, and 
 seek something nobler and more faithful than 
 the loves of worldly girls.' 
 
 Hammersley's eyes brightened at the pros- 
 pect. He grasped Saville's hand warmly. 
 
 ' Thanks — a thousand thanks ! ' he said. 
 1 1 did not lhke to ask you. for I thought you 
 might object to be burdened with a love-sick 
 comrade ; but I promise you I won't intrude 
 my woes upon you. Whenever I feel particu- 
 larly retrospective. I will retire into my own 
 apartment and have the fit out.' 
 
 So it was arranged between them thev 
 should start in a week. Hammersley wrote 
 a farewell letter to the Marchioness of Aller- 
 ton, explaining why he did not come to 
 her house to bid her good-bye, and had an 
 interview with his father, who offered him 
 consolation after the fashion of parents who 
 are secretly rejoiced at the circumstance they 
 
156 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 are called upon to deplore ; and next day he 
 and Saville turned their backs upon the gay 
 metropolis for a season. 
 
 1 My dear boy/ said the latter, philosophi- 
 cally, as they paced the platform for a few 
 minutes before the train started, ' we must 
 all have some facer once in our life. On the 
 whole, I think, considering it is bound to 
 come some time, you are more fortunate in 
 having it now and getting over it young, 
 than in waiting uncomfortably in continual 
 expectation.' 
 
 ' Getting over it is the principal thing/ 
 returned Hammersley, with a rather sad smile. 
 ' If we are all our lifetime accomplishing that, 
 the later it comes the better. At any rate, I 
 have one comfort left — ■ 
 
 " Whate'er betides, I've known the worst." ' 
 
 At that moment the bell rang, and in 
 another few minutes the train steamed out of 
 the station with its human cargo. But few, 
 I think, bore a heavier heart on that long 
 journey than the man who was turning his 
 face from all he loved so well. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 'a year after.' 
 
 If a jury of match-making matrons had been 
 impanelled to solemnly declare the most 
 eligible parti in England for their marriage- 
 able daughters, I think they would have 
 unanimously returned a verdict in favour of 
 the Earl of Ardross. 
 
 The reasons for giving this gentleman the 
 preference were considerable. To begin with, 
 he was fabulously wealthy ; the extent of 
 his possessions was almost beyond the reach 
 of ordinary arithmetic. Not one of his 
 numerous female friends had ever ventured 
 to describe his income in fi gi ires, for fear of 
 falling far short of the veritable total. His 
 chief residence, or rather what had been the 
 chief residence of the former earls — for him- 
 
138 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 self, lie preferred a less pretentious domicile 
 in the North of England — was the annual 
 resort of pilgrims from all parts of the British 
 dominions, who considered that their tourist 
 education would be wofully defective if they 
 had not contemplated the beauties and 
 splendours of Ardross Abbey. His capital was 
 practically inexhaustible, for his father had 
 died when he was six months old, and from 
 then till he was twenty-one his revenues had 
 been invested in various and most lucrative 
 channels. 
 
 But the young earl had other recom- 
 mendations besides the wealth, which of itself 
 was sufficient to place him beyond the reach, 
 of rivalry. He was good-looking. Mothers, 
 in speaking of him to their daughters, pardon- 
 ably exaggerated this into handsome. He 
 had a magnificent figure, with the thews and 
 sinews of an athlete. He was a mighty rider 
 across country — a crack shot — he could handle 
 a bat with most amateurs — could take a turn 
 at the gloves with a professional, and compel 
 that worthy to exert himself considerably to 
 come off best in the encounter. He had been 
 
t i ^-r^ < -r, a nmm ' 
 
 A YEAR AFTER. 159 
 
 captain of the Eton Eight, and had rowed 
 stroke in the Oxford boat in the year when 
 the light-blue collapsed so utterly before its 
 powerful rival. Take him all in all, Guy/ 
 Earl of Ardross, was a man on whom Fortune 
 had lavished many gifts. There was only one 
 thing needed to complete his happiness ; that 
 item was — a wife. 
 
 It was through no want of attention on 
 the part of his numerous female friends and 
 acquaintances that he had not procured this 
 blessing up to the present time. He was 
 regarded as the lawful prey of every match- 
 making mother in the three kingdoms. He 
 was the big fish at whom every well-brought- 
 up young maiden was instructed to throw her 
 line. Beautiful girls, fascinating girls, strong- 
 minded girls, fascinating widows, had all had 
 a fling at him; but still the stout heart of the 
 mighty earl succumbed not to the feminine 
 batteries so incessantly directed against it. 
 
 For the last year he had been roaming on 
 the Continent, accompanied by a friend. 
 Perhaps his main object in travelling was to 
 obtain a brief respite from matrimonial per- 
 
160 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 secution. He could scarcely hope to secure 
 that anywhere. His reputation had preceded 
 him in every European capital. The society 
 of Paris, Vienna, Berlin, received the dis- 
 tinguished young foreigner with open arms. 
 Not a few married ladies were perfectly 
 willing to enter into negotiations with him 
 on their own account ; and at last he came to 
 the conclusion that, since fate had precluded 
 him from enjoying anything like peace in 
 this world, he might as well be victimised in 
 his own land as anywhere else. Accordingly, 
 he turned his steps towards England. 
 
 Great was the rejoicing in Belgravian 
 mansions when this cheerful news reached 
 the ears of the wary mothers, who were ever 
 on the watch for their beloved young. Deeper 
 grew the whisperings of anxious relations ; 
 more carefully was mapped out the campaign 
 of each matrimonial general, as the days rapidly 
 sped by that were to bring the Earl of Ardross 
 back to his native shores. 
 
 He had reached the mature age — at least, 
 
 for such an eligible parti — of twenty -five. 
 
 I During the years that his sayings and doings 
 
C A YEAR AFTER.' 161 
 
 had been the property of the world, even 
 scandal, usually no respecter of persons, had 
 been very lenient with his name. He was 
 scarcely credited with the ordinary follies and 
 vices of youth. Certainly, it was known that 
 he had supported two of the most noted 
 members of the demi-monde in the first years 
 of his career ; but then, as it was charitably 
 urged, a young man of his enormous wealth 
 must get rid of it somehow, and the only 
 wonder, among even the most austere, was 
 that he had contented himself with two. 
 Such temperance was rare, very rare, among 
 the fashionable youth of the day. By all 
 means, permit the young earl to enjoy the 
 benefit of his abstemiousness in a better 
 reputation than his fellows. 
 
 At length the time arrived when the utmost 
 efforts of interested rivals could not prevent 
 him from meeting Edith Stewart. Malicious 
 eyes darted covert glances of hatred — angry 
 ds rattled fans to conceal the agitation on 
 maternal countenances — when they saw the 
 young beauty receive with her sweetest smile 
 the compliments of the hitherto unconquered 
 
 Vol. i — m 
 
162 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 earl. An awful, undefinable presentiment 
 seemed to pervade the hungry crowd of fishers 
 for the broad lands of Ardross, that the fasci- 
 nating daughter of the house of Allerton was 
 destined to carry off the prize for which they 
 had wrangled so keenly among themselves. 
 That night the earl was assiduous in his 
 attentions. Those who were interested — and 
 their name was legion — watched with sicken- 
 ing anxiety a gleam of tenderness in the great 
 brown eyes when they turned towards Edith, 
 which the utmost attention on the part of 
 others had never awakened. Time seemed 
 to confirm the infatuation, and, when the earl 
 was reported among the visitors at Allerton, 
 the most sanguine of mothers looked upon her 
 chance as hopeless. 
 
 What Edith's feelings upon the subject 
 really were it is perhaps difficult to say. 
 Ordinary young ladies, with well-trained 
 affections, would, of course, have considered it 
 impossible that any woman could help being 
 in love with the Earl of Ardross, if he pro- 
 posed to her. If a pleasing face and person, 
 with heaven knows how many thousands a 
 
{ A YEAR AFTER/ 1G3 
 
 year, could not command affection, what, in 
 the name of common — I mean worldly — sense, 
 could ? One thing, at any rate, was certain — 
 she treated him with more courtesy than 
 she was wont to exhibit to the rest of her 
 admirers. Whether it was really a second 
 love, or a mere liking, or, perhaps, a grati- 
 fication of female vanity in securing the 
 splendid matrimonial prize for which there 
 had been such desperate competition, is a 
 problem that, perhaps, she could scarcely 
 answer satisfactorily to herself. 
 
 The earl went down to Allerton with a 
 settled purpose : that was, to propose. But, 
 in cases where a certain conventionality has 
 surrounded the actors in their love affairs, 
 where every word and action has been more 
 or less guarded, in order to escape the inquisi- 
 tiveness of the world, this proposing is easier 
 said than done. Besides, the poor man had 
 really not enjoyed much experience among 
 the women of his own class. It was like 
 playing with edged tools to flirt with any of 
 those young damsels on whose backs the 
 matrimonial ticket was so legibly inscribed. 
 
164 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 For him there had been no whispered com- 
 pliments, no soft pressures of the hand, none 
 of those little attentions which, whatever the 
 gratification they afford at the time to the 
 recipient, are never, in ordinary cases, con- 
 strued into a serious meaning. The Earl of 
 Ardross had been compelled, for his own 
 safety, to leave such innocent, yet withal not 
 unpleasing, pastime to those more fortunate of 
 his male acquaintance who were not encum- 
 bered with an ancient title and a fabulous 
 fortune, and were consequently objects of no 
 solicitude to the select phalanx of manoeuvring 
 mothers. 
 
 He had hung back rather longer than he 
 had intended, because the role of lover was so 
 new to him ; but when he went down to 
 Allerton he determined that few days should 
 elapse before he had screwed up his courage 
 to the sticking-point, and asked Edith Stewart 
 to be his wife. 
 
 Fortune, who ever favours the resolute, 
 smiled on him the third morning of his arrival, 
 by directing his steps to the library, where 
 Edith was sitting alone, engaged in the 
 
f A YEAR AFTER.' 165 
 
 perusal of one of the romances of the day. 
 He had not expected to find her there, and 
 this sudden encounter rather took him aback, 
 for, although his nerves were strong enough 
 on ordinary occasions, that blind little 
 god — Love — somehow contrives to make 
 poor weak mortals of the strongest of us at 
 times. 
 
 Edith, on seeing him enter, put down her 
 novel, and the earl stammered some rather 
 unintelligible apology for disturbing her. It 
 was really pitiable to see a fellow of his great 
 thews and sinews so confounded before this 
 slight, fragile girl. 
 
 i Pray come in,' she said, with a rather 
 mischievous twinkle in her eye, for his 
 embarrassment was obvious to her, and she 
 was woman enough to enjoy her triumph. 
 ' You are not disturbing me hi the least ; on 
 the contrary, I should be very glad if you 
 would take compassion on me with a long 
 chat. Keading gets very slow after a little 
 while — does it not ? ' 
 
 This was a general proposition to which 
 Ardross, in spite of his affection, did not feel 
 
166 FIRST AXD LAST. 
 
 bound to commit himself. He, therefore, 
 compromised. 
 
 1 Perhaps,' he remarked dubiously, ' your 
 book was not very interesting.' 
 
 c I don't know,' she answered carelessly ; 
 * my sister Florence raves on it, I believe ; 
 goes into ecstasies over the heroic portion, and 
 dissolves into tears at the sentimental. I 
 confess it has not affected me to either 
 extreme.' 
 
 ' You must be difficult to please,' said 
 Ardross. He was not great at small-talk 
 with erratic-minded young ]adies like Edith. 
 The women from whom he had hitherto 
 endured such persecution had been of rather 
 a commonplace nature and intellect, and 
 conversation had flowed evenly and mono- 
 tonously along. He began to fear this inter- 
 view would tax his powers considerably. 
 
 ' You are right,' she replied, with a merry 
 laugh, that served to render her absolutely 
 bewitching in the eyes of her adorer — ' you 
 are right, Lord Ardross. I daresay you may 
 have heard me called eccentric and wayward 
 by many people. Do you know, I believe I 
 
C A YEAR AFTER/ 167 
 
 betray all this in my manner. I am such a 
 strange girl, I cannot be pleased with the 
 ordinary things that give delight to most 
 women brought up in the world. Their 
 definition of happiness seems to be a splendid 
 income — a magnificent house — continual fes- 
 tivities. Now, these don't constitute hap- 
 piness at all in my idea.' 
 
 1 And how would you define it then ? ' asked 
 the earl, gravely. These last sensible remarks 
 pleased him. He had been surfeited so with 
 riches, and worshipped' so on their account, 
 that he began to despise them a little himself. 
 
 * Oh, I scarcely know,' answered Edith, 
 with a slight blush. { I fear I am too 
 romantic and fairy- dreaming for this world. 
 I could be very happy in a bright little home 
 — not very poor, you know — I don't think I 
 am fitted quite for poverty — but just com- 
 fortable, with (here the blush grew deeper) 
 a few friends who loved me, and whom I 
 could love.' 
 
 1 You must have friends ? ' he inquired, 
 tenderly. He felt he was coming very near 
 the point. 
 
1G8 FIRST AKD LAST. 
 
 ' Of course/ said Edith, laughingly. ' You 
 would not have me live all by my poor 
 miserable self, would you \ ' 
 
 He drew his seat closer. 
 
 'Not if I could help it/ he said, very 
 meaningly. 
 
 Edith blushed anew, and kept her eyes 
 steadfastly fixed on the pattern of the carpet 
 which adorned her father's library. The earl 
 had got so far — he was thinking how he 
 should get further. Presently he proceeded : 
 
 ' Edith,' he said, taking her hand — he had 
 heard of this being done on such occasions, 
 and thought it might prove the beginning of 
 a good understanding — ' I cannot tell you 
 how I admire all that you have just spoken. 
 It is such a relief to find some honourable 
 sentiments left among the women, whose good 
 instincts the world does its best to taint. 
 But it is not alone for this I love you : I 
 have loved you from the first moment I saw 
 you. You said, just now, you must have 
 friends about you who must be dear to you. 
 Will you let me be one of those friends — will 
 
'A YEAR AFTER.' 1G9 
 
 you let me be the dearest ? Edith, will you 
 be my wife ? ' 
 
 He spoke it very gently and very tenderly. 
 It was not the passionate wooing to which 
 every fibre of her heart had throbbed in the 
 days gone by, but there was a ring of man- 
 liness, of sincerity, in his pleading. She 
 scarcely thought herself right in throwing 
 away such a love. 
 
 She raised her head, and looked for a 
 moment into the earnest eyes bent upon 
 her face. 
 
 1 1 will,' was all she answered, in a low 
 voice, and then she bent her head down once 
 more. 
 
 On this acceptance of his suit, the Earl of 
 Ardross ought decidedly, according to all 
 precedent on such occasions, to have kissed 
 his betrothed ; but, as I have hinted before, 
 he was not a very audacious ]over, and, more- 
 over, there was a grave expression on Edith's 
 countenance that did not seem provocative of 
 kissing. However, he considered this as the 
 usual line of conduct adopted by young ladies 
 under the same circumstances, and was con- 
 
170 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 sequently in no wise mortified to find his 
 rapture unreciprocated. 
 
 ' My darling,' he said gently, ' you shall 
 never repent your choice, if I can help it. I 
 will do my best to make your life happy and 
 contented.' 
 
 She freed herself from the arm which he 
 had rather timidly insinuated round her 
 waist, and faced him with a strange, restless 
 look in her dark, speaking eyes. 
 
 ' Listen to me, Lord Ardross,' she said, 
 quickly. ' I will marry you because I like 
 you — because I think you good, and brave, 
 and honourable — because I am sure you will 
 make a kind and indulgent husband to the 
 woman you love. You believe me, do you 
 not?' 
 
 The earl was a little astonished by this 
 burst, but he thought it best to say ' yes.' 
 
 ' And if,' she continued, quickly, ' if it 
 should ever reach your ears that people — 
 tittle-tattling, scandal-mongering" women or 
 envious girls — have said I married you for 
 your title and wealth, you will not believe it ; 
 and if, at any time, we should have a quarrel 
 
'a year after/ 171 
 
 or disagreement, you will not let that enter 
 your thoughts to embitter your heart against 
 me, will you ? ' 
 
 She waited with a kind of feverish anxiety 
 for his answer, as if it would lift a load off 
 her. She had not to wait longf. 
 
 ' Of course not, my darling, 5 he said, very 
 earnestly. ' Have I not your word for it ? 
 And I would sooner believe in that simple word 
 than in the oaths of the rest of the world. 
 Will that content you, Edith ? ' 
 
 ' You are very good and kind to me/ she 
 answered, in a low voice ; ' I will do my best 
 to make you happy too.' 
 
 Emboldened by this, the earl brought his 
 lips to those of Edith and gave her his first 
 kiss. She did not shrink from it, although, 
 perhaps, at that moment her thoughts were 
 wandering far away from him who gave it. 
 
 ' And now, darling/ he said, when he had 
 finished the caress — very sweet it was to him, 
 for she was the first woman he had ever 
 loved — ' I will break the news to your father. 
 Will you tell Lady Allerton ? ' 
 
 A bend of the head was Edith's answer, 
 
172 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 and, in a few moments, the earl left to seek 
 the marquis. 
 
 Left to herself, Edith walked slowly to the 
 window, from whence a magnificent view of 
 the park was to be obtained. The window 
 itself opened on to a terrace, at the right-hand 
 side end of which, close to the library, was 
 fashioned a small arbour. Edith walked to it 
 and sat down on the seat inside, the same 
 grave, rather weary look upon her face. As 
 her eyes wandered restlessly round they rested 
 at length on some letters engraven on the 
 nearly worn-out wood post that formed the 
 entrance to the arbour. What she saw was 
 the figure of a heart, evidently rudely cut out 
 with a penknife, and the letters ' F. E.' en- 
 twined together. They were almost illegible, 
 and another person would not have taken the 
 trouble to decipher them. 
 
 But she knew them well, and at that sight 
 a flood-tide of bitter memories came rushing 
 over her. How she remembered that calm 
 summer evening, in that very arbour, when 
 Hammersley had asked her the same question 
 that the Earl of Ardross had asked her a few 
 
'a year after.' 173 
 
 minutes ago ! How she had recollected him 
 saying, when he had finished carving their 
 names, ' Nothing in this world shall ever part 
 us, shall it, my darling ? ' And her answer had 
 been, * I will be true to you all the days of 
 my life ! ' 
 
 O God ! how had she kept that solemn 
 promise, which she made with the bright 
 stars of heaven shining' down as witnesses of 
 her vow, with her eager lips clinging to his 
 in mute confirmation of the passionate love 
 with which her heart was full ? How could 
 she hope for peace with another man when 
 those dumb accusing letters, carved long ago, 
 were fronting her with the reproach that she 
 had destroyed, not only her own happiness, 
 but that of him whose life was bound up in 
 her love ? 
 
 At that hour the hearts of many would 
 have been filled with envy at the good 
 fortune of the betrothed to the Earl of 
 Ardross. Could they have seen her a few 
 moments after he had left her, her bosom 
 heaving with passionate sobs — could they 
 have read in that broken heart the remorse 
 
174 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 which came too late to give her happiness — I 
 think they would not have purchased even a 
 coronet at the expense of such misery. 
 
 Lord Allerton's consent was easily obtained. 
 He was not a man who troubled himself much 
 about domestic matters. He left those to the 
 care of his wife, while he looked, or fancied 
 he looked, after the affairs of his country. 
 As the marchioness had suspected for some 
 time the direction events were taking, and 
 had duly communicated her suspicions to her 
 husband, he guessed Lord Ardross's errand 
 immediately, and accorded him a most satis- 
 factory interview. 
 
 Edith shortly afterwards communicated the 
 news to her mother, in a more business-like 
 way than that in which most young girls 
 confide such an interesting secret to their 
 mammas ; and Lady Allerton did not trouble 
 her with any questions. She guessed pretty 
 well that it was no deep love which had 
 dictated her acceptance of the earl's offer, and 
 in such a case the least said the better. 
 Perhaps, in her own heart, she would still 
 have preferred her nephew as a son-in-law, 
 
'a year after. 175 
 
 for, being brought up so long in her home, 
 she had grown to love him almost as one of 
 her own children. But the reticence of 
 Edith, whenever she had alluded to her 
 absent cousin, and her refusal to relate the 
 particulars of that interview at Lady Carrick's 
 which had resulted in their separation, pre- 
 vented her from hinting at a renewal of their 
 intimacy. Moreover, she was one of a school, 
 unusual among mothers, who consider that 
 lovers are the best people to manage their 
 own affairs, and that the interference of others 
 only tends to make matters worse. 
 
 ' It is a splendid match from every point of 
 view in which the world induWs, and I 
 expect the number of those who will envy you 
 the possession of Lord Ardross is legion. Of 
 course, you would not have accepted him 
 unless you had liked him ? ' 
 
 Such was the slight 'feeler' that Lady 
 Allerton put out to try and ascertain the 
 extent to which her daughter's feelings were 
 concern ed 
 
 ' I should never commit the unpardonable 
 sin of marrying a man I did not like, mamma,' 
 
176 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 she answered, briefly, but very decidedly, and 
 to the day of her marriage her mother knew 
 no more than that. There was very little 
 confidence between Edith and any member of 
 her family, except, perhaps, her younger sister 
 Florence, who perfectly idolised her. The 
 others were proud of her, but, to tell the 
 truth, she was not a lovable girl in the 
 general acceptance of the term. She could 
 love, and love passionately, with an ardour 
 and self-sacrifice that savoured more of the 
 fiery southern than the colder and more 
 regulated northern temperament, but she 
 could not distribute her affections ; her 
 heart could hold but one idol at a time, and 
 it engrossed the whole worship of her nature. 
 
 The same night Florence came into her 
 sister's room for the usual little good-night 
 chat that is so great an institution among the 
 fairer portion of humankind. Florence knew 
 more- of Edith's real heart than anyone, and 
 she had considerable misgivings in her own 
 mind as to the perfect sincerity of the morn- 
 ing's betrothal. 
 
 She was a veiy beautiful girl, of a softer, 
 
'A YEAR AFTER.' 177 
 
 but less brilliant, beauty than Edith, with 
 gentle, pleading blue eyes, which would not 
 take long to win their way to a man's heart. 
 She stole gently up to her sister, and put her 
 arms caressingly round her neck. 
 
 ' Are you quite happy, darling ? ' she 
 whispered, as she kissed her. 
 
 6 Are not young ladies who are going to be 
 married generally happy, Flory ? ' said Edith, 
 with a short, forced laugh. 
 
 ' That is not an answer to my question. I 
 want to know if you are happy by " yes " or 
 " no," ' answered Florence, persistently. 
 
 Edith paused a moment and indulged in a 
 little sigh — a rather desponding sign for one 
 who, according to the conventional phrase, 
 should have been the happiest of women. 
 
 * Tolerably so, I think, dear ; as happy as I 
 ever shall be in this world, I expect/ she 
 said, with a suspicion of tears in her voice. 
 She had been receiving congratulations all 
 da}^, and they are sometimes hard to bear 
 when people do not know on what they are 
 congratulating. She was to marry a man she 
 liked — one whom, perhaps, in time she could 
 
 VoL i— n 
 
178 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 learn to love ; but by that act she was shut- 
 ting herself out for ever from the man to whom 
 her heart still clung passionately, in spite of 
 her pride and resentment ; and every con- 
 gratulation reminded her keenly of it. 
 
 Florence looked sadly at her sister for a 
 moment ; she knew her moods so well. Then 
 she said, timidly — 
 
 ' You don't care for Lord Ardross as you 
 did for Fred, I am sure.' 
 
 * Oh, Florence, dear ! ' exclaimed Edith, 
 turning towards her with real tears in her 
 eyes this time ; ' do not, if you love me, 
 speak that name again. It has been my 
 constant prayer every night since we parted 
 that I may banish it from my thoughts, as I 
 have done from my tongue, and God knows 
 for what reason he will not grant it.' 
 
 She bowed her head in her hands in the 
 mute, despairing attitude of grief, and the hot, 
 heavy tears, for the second time that day 
 rolled down her cheeks. She went on speak- 
 ing sadly and slowly, as if every word cost 
 her a heart-pang : 
 
 'I loved him with all my soul and strength — 
 
C A YEAR AFTER/ 179 
 
 loved him so passionately that I was madly 
 jealous of him, that I spent every moment he 
 was away in wishing eagerly for his return, 
 and reproached him in my own heart for every 
 hour he knowingly passed from my side. I 
 would have followed him to the end of the 
 world — through poverty, and humiliation, and 
 disgrace — if his constant love had been the 
 reward of my sacrifice. I would have sooner 
 renounced for him life, reputation, everything 
 that a woman is taught to reverence, than 
 have been the bride of the noblest emperor in 
 Christendom. Do you think, Florence, that 
 such love as that comes twice in our life % Do 
 you think a woman has room for two such 
 idols in one heart ? ' 
 
 Never had Edith confessed as much as this 
 before. Never had Florence learned for 
 certain the depth of the passion which she 
 had suspected was still cherished for her 
 absent cousin. 
 
 ' Oh, Edith, darling ! ' she said, ' if this be 
 true, for heaven's sake pause while there is 
 yet time. Do not give your hand where you 
 cannot bestow your heart. It is not too late 
 
180 FIEST AND LAST. 
 
 to retrieve the past and be reconciled to 
 Fred.' 
 
 ' Hush, Florence/ answered her sister, 
 sternly. * That can never be. Even were I 
 to know that he loved me still, I would not 
 renew our acquaintance ; for to love him again 
 as I loved him then would be a curse, not a 
 blessing. God grant, child, that your heart 
 may never know such a wild, unholy passion 
 for any man as that which has made a ship- 
 wreck of my life.' 
 
 'But what compels you to make a shipwreck 
 of your life?' exclaimed Florence, pleadingly. 
 
 ' Pride,' interrupted her sister — and, as she 
 uttered the word, at that moment she looked 
 superbly beautiful, for pride spoke not less in 
 her tone than in the dark flash of her eye, 
 the haughty curl of her chiselled lip — 'pride, 
 Florence, which, in me, is even stronger than 
 love.' 
 
 The weaker nature of the younger girl was 
 abashed before the intenser one of her sister. 
 
 ' You may sacrifice your own happiness to 
 your pride, if you choose,' she said timidly, 
 ' but you have no right to break other people's 
 
'A YEAR AFTER/ 181 
 
 hearts with it. If you still love Fred better 
 than any other man, it is cruel in you to 
 marry anybody but him/ 
 
 1 He may have forgotten me now,' answered 
 Edith bitterly. ' Men have such short 
 memories. ' 
 
 1 That you cannot tell till you see him,' 
 said Florence obstinately ; * and seeing him is 
 easily managed.' 
 
 \ No, no, Flory dear — a thousand times no ! ' 
 exclaimed Edith, pleadingly, putting her arms 
 round her sister's neck. 
 
 ' You must not, you really must not, speak 
 of him any more. I have been foolish to-night, 
 very foolish. I cannot account for my weak- 
 ness, except, perhaps, that I am a little 
 excited and disposed to think over the past 
 more than I should at another time. There 
 now, darling, don't say another word. I tell 
 you I am very fond of Guy, and I shall be 
 most happy as Lady Ardross. Now, there 
 dear, do go to bed — I feel so sleepy — good 
 night ! ' 
 
 And, with these words, Edith pushed her 
 sister out of the room ; but through the long 
 
182 
 
 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 weary niglit she turned restlessly in fitful 
 slumbers, and every time she woke from her 
 troubled dreaming this was the thought that 
 sprung first from consciousness — c I wonder if 
 he will be sorry when he hears I ' 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 'bitter tidings/ 
 
 Nearly nine months had elapsed since Ham- 
 mersley and Saville had left London. They 
 had proceeded straight to America, Saville 
 Ion ^ having entertained a desire to visit that 
 land of liberty, and judge for himself of the 
 worth of their institutions. As he recorded 
 his impressions in a book which obtained a 
 great circulation and provoked an immense 
 amount of criticism, both favourable and 
 adverse, it is useless wearying the reader with 
 their recapitulation. 
 
 To him the tour afforded unfeigned pleasure, 
 and had he had a more cheerful companion, it 
 would have been a double enjoyment ; but 
 truth compels me to state that his disappoint- 
 ment had rendered Hammersley very gloomy. 
 
184 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 At times lie would have strange and ex- 
 aggerated bursts of cheerfulness, and then 
 he would display an almost boyish enthusiasm 
 and exuberance of spirits in and at every- 
 thing. But these fits were very occasional : 
 his general demeanour was excessively morbid. 
 He seemed better when in society or moving 
 about, for it is solitude and stagnation that 
 are most favourable to melancholy. Saville 
 had not been without hopes that a fresh love 
 affair might wean his thoughts from the past ; 
 but, though he got on most admirably with 
 the American ladies, and confessed that in 
 point of piquancy and fascination they were 
 in no wise inferior to their English sisters, 
 still no particular one was sufficiently charming 
 to renew the emotions of love for a second 
 time, and Saville reluctantly came to the 
 conclusion that time would be the only 
 physician to cure his friend's wound. 
 
 They were sitting together one night at 
 their hotel, in New York, about three days 
 before returning to the Continent, when a 
 letter arrived for Hammersley, from Melton. 
 This worthy person was pretty frequent in 
 
'bitter tidings/ 185 
 
 his correspondence with his friend, detailing 
 to him all the news and gossip that he 
 imagined would interest an exile from fashion- 
 able life. Hammersley read on through a 
 variety of easy chit-chat, till he came to the 
 following portion : 
 
 1 1 have a piece of news to communicate to 
 you, which, I fear, will not prove very 
 pleasant, but as you are sure to hear of it 
 immediately, I may as well tell you as anyone 
 else. The present topic of the day is the 
 engagement of Edith Stewart to Ardross, the 
 young Croesus, whom all the women have 
 been trying to get for the last two years. He 
 is very hard hit, and, I hear from Lady Aller- 
 ton, wishes the marriage to take place as soon 
 as possible. I have seen Edith several times 
 since her engagement, but cannot make out 
 her real sentiments on the subject. It is 
 remarked that she has dropped flirtation to a 
 great extent ; but whether this is owing to 
 the earl's influence, or because she considers 
 it time to grow decorous, I don't know. I 
 hope by this time you have quite recovered 
 
186 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 your penchant in that quarter. I don't pre- 
 tend to much philosophy, but this I will 
 say — that no woman in the fashionable world 
 is worth breaking one's heart for. 
 
 'There is always some consolation for those 
 who attach themselves to the worship of 
 beauty. Thank heaven, as soon as one star 
 sinks a fresh constellation is sure to rise. The 
 moment Ardross's attentions to Edith became 
 a matter of certainty, a new debutante appeared 
 on the scene in the person of a Miss Maud 
 Hilton, whom her admirers declare to have 
 been the most magnificent thing out, " barring 
 none." Without joking she is a most superb 
 creature. Her face is simply perfection. She 
 is fair, with glorious golden hair, and deep 
 blue eyes on which a poet would rave. She 
 is also clever — that is to say, she manages to 
 shut up some of the silly gentlemen in a 
 manner that must make them feel wonderfully 
 uncomfortable. I am afraid she is too superior 
 a being for me, or else I might have had a try 
 to take unto myself a wife like my neighbours. 
 Malicious people are heard to say that the real 
 reason of Edith's acceptance of Ardross was 
 
'bitter tidings.' 187 
 
 her fear of her new rival. I scarcely think 
 this, however, for Edith is not one to strike 
 her colours while there is a chance of victory 
 left, and I would have backed her still at 
 evens to do as much execution as " the 
 Hilton." If you would take my advice, you 
 would start at once for London, in order to 
 try conclusions with the new-comer. I am 
 sure she is a romantic girl, and I am also 
 pretty certain she feels very little save con- 
 tempt for a considerable portion of the men 
 whom the worthy mammas regard as eligible/ 
 
 He read on mechanically to the end, but 
 the only portion that presented any interest 
 to him was the paragraph that told of Edith's 
 betrothal. When he had finished he handed 
 the letter to Saville, pointing with his finger 
 to that part which he especially wished him 
 to read. 
 
 His friend read it through very slowly, and 
 then flung it down with a contemptuous 
 gesture. 
 
 ' You must forget her after this,' he said. 
 ' You have proved her unworthiness now.' 
 
188 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 Hammersley hid his face in his hands 
 for a moment, before replying, then he said — 
 
 'And this is to be the end of our love! 
 For six months, Saville, I have endured 
 torture — the torture of a broken heart. The 
 one thing that has buoyed me up has been 
 the hope that I might return after awhile and 
 find her still true. I garnered up in my 
 memory every vow she had made me — I 
 treasured the recollection of every little act of 
 love in those old days when my heart and 
 pulse throbbed to the music of her voice, and, 
 I said to myself, I will yet be comforted. No 
 woman who spoke such words — who lavished 
 such caresses — can perjure herself so as to 
 become the bride of another/ 
 
 ' Tush ! ' said Saville, scornfully. ' The 
 world laughs at lovers' perjuries. In an age 
 when the writer recants his opinions, and the 
 statesman betrays his party, for gold, how can 
 you expect a poor, weak, silly girl shall keep 
 herself pure ? ' 
 
 His friend scarcely heeded him, but con- 
 tinued in the same low, deep voice, as though 
 talking to himself : 
 
'bitter tidings.' 189 
 
 ' I thought there must have been some 
 reason, at which neither you nor I guessed, to 
 have accounted tor her coldness that night ; 
 and I fancied if I gave her time for her 
 resentment to cool, we might be reconciled 
 yet ; and now to find that I am as indifferent 
 to her as the merest stranger whose hand she 
 touches in a dance ! ' 
 
 He spoke with the concentrated passion of 
 a strong man, with the bitterness of a wronged 
 man. It is a hard lesson for love to learn, 
 this disbelief in a woman's purity. 
 
 Saville scarcely knew how to console such 
 a grief, but he did his best. 
 
 1 Come, my dear fellow,' he said cheerfully, 
 1 it is no use making the matter worse than it 
 is. Because Edith marries another man, that 
 is no proof she never loved you — nay, no 
 proof that she may not love you still' 
 
 ' So much the worse ! ' exclaimed Ham- 
 mersley. ' If she marries him, still loving me, 
 is she less an adulteress at heart than if her 
 name were the common talk of the town? 
 The world speaks with loathing and disgust 
 of the wretched women who walk the streets 
 
190 FIRST AXD LAST. 
 
 for their livelihood — women whom, in ninety- 
 nine cases out of a hundred, poverty has 
 compelled to infamy. Bah ! What is the 
 immense difference between them and the 
 pampered daughters of fashion ? How much 
 for the purity of the wife for whom Ardross 
 will pay down his gold and silver ? He will 
 purchase the right of looking lovingly into 
 eyes that have gleamed with passion for 
 another — of kissing lips that have been tainted 
 a thousand times with the caresses of his 
 rival. After that, give me the wanton of the 
 cafe and the pavement, who, if she has no 
 virtue, has, at any rate, sufficient sense of 
 decency left not to assume it.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' said Saville, expostulatingly 
 — he began to fear disappointment had turned 
 his friend's brain — 'you are surely arguing 
 most illogically. If what you advanced were 
 true, nine-tenths of the women would be 
 adulteresses, simply because they did not 
 marry their first lover.' 
 
 'And nine-tenths of them deserve the 
 brand,' answered Hammersley, impetuously. 
 ' Bah ! Saville ! you are a man of liberal ideas, 
 
'BITTER tidings. 101 
 
 but you are sadly cramped and narrowed still 
 in some of your social notions. i on hold 
 with the common belief of the world, that, 
 long as the mere form be pure, there is no 
 The Xew Testarner.it might have taught you 
 better. What said the Preacher of new id 
 and social reforms in His day I You remember 
 His definition of an adulteress — "She that 
 lusteth after a man in her heart.''" The 1 
 of you modern radicals are sadly behind the 
 Teacher of Galilee.' 
 
 Saville was somewhat confounded at this 
 accusation of tame-spirited radicalism. He 
 had never thought very deeply on the subject 
 of women, and he was. therefore, not so indio*- 
 nant at their heartless 
 
 ' I don't feel equal to discussing the question 
 with you to-night, 1 he said, good-humouredly, 
 'nor do you seem in a very agreeable frame of 
 mind for argument. You look as if you would 
 have little hesitation in murdering Edith or 
 any other woman who had married anybody 
 but her first lover.' 
 
 ' My dear Saville,' answered Hammersley, 
 rather more cheerfully, 'forgive me if I tell 
 
192 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 you that no one can sympathise with a dis- 
 appointed man unless he knows what love is. 
 I have your own word for it that you never 
 felt it, and you cannot, therefore, possibly 
 understand what I am suffering. I am per- 
 fectly aware of the folly of caring any longer 
 for a woman who has treated me so badly. 
 In time, perhaps, the memory of her faithless- 
 ness may prove my best cure. I may be able 
 to look in her face and take her hand without 
 one sigh of regret to the past. At this 
 moment, when I look into my heart, I find 
 nothing there but blank and bitter desolation.' 
 
 He faltered at the last words, and those 
 tears which a man weeps so rarely rose for a 
 moment to his eyes, but he conquered the 
 weakness instantly, and got up from his seat. 
 
 ' It would be useless stopping with you 
 now, Saville,' he said ; ' I am no fit company 
 for anyone. To-morrow I shall have learned 
 to bear my disappointment as a man should. 
 It is the suddenness of the blow that stuns. 
 I will say " Good-night " now.' 
 
 Saville pressed his hand without saying a 
 word, and, after he had left, sat a long time 
 
'bitter tidings/ 193 
 
 musing. He roused himself with a start from 
 his reverie. 
 
 ' I hope to heaven/ he muttered to himself, 
 ' I shall never know such love as is eating 
 that poor fellow's heart away/ 
 
 As he rose from his chair he caught sight 
 of Melton's letter, which Hammersley had 
 left on the table. He took it up and read it 
 over again, dwelling with some interest on 
 that portion which related to Miss Hilton. 
 
 I wonder whether there was such a thing 
 as fate in his utterance of that wish, and 
 taking up the letter immediately afterwards. 
 Little did he dream, as he read on, of the web 
 of miseiy and remorse that was soon to begin 
 its weaving, and indissolubly connected with 
 that very man whose grief he had just pitied, 
 never thinking that it was the counterpart of 
 what he should suffer himself. 
 
 VoL i -o 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 'WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR V 
 
 The season had commenced. The world of 
 fashion rode in the Park in the morning, and 
 drove in the afternoon ; dined, danced, or 
 otherwise diverted itself in the evening ; thus 
 making life rather resemble a treadmill in its 
 constant round of the same pleasures. The 
 usual number of young men had been ruined, 
 and compelled to drop out of the society to 
 which they had hitherto proved such orna- 
 ments ; the ordinary amount of reputations 
 had been besmirched by proceedings in the 
 Divorce Court ; but such were only the black 
 spots in the sun of existence — the ' naughty 
 boys' of grown-up life whose refractory 
 behaviour will always be more or less a scandal 
 to their better-conducted neighbours. 
 
'WHO IS }IY NEIGHBOUR?' 195 
 
 Lady Edith was frequently in the Row, with 
 the Earl of Ardross invariably in attendance. 
 She was fond of anything that had a dash of 
 excitement in it. Had she been left to her 
 own devices, I believe she would have 
 inaugurated a ladies' ' four-in-hand club,' and 
 led the procession from the Magazine to a 
 convivial dinner at Richmond with the greatest 
 elan. Fortunately, she was not sufficiently 
 her own mistress to enable her to thus set at 
 defiance the ordinary conventionality of her 
 sex. 
 
 It had been observed by many of the lynx 
 eyes which envy had rendered more keen, 
 continually watching Edith, that she had 
 altered very much since her engagement. 
 
 In truth, a great change had come over 
 that young lady. In her pre-engaged days 
 she had been noted for a certain kind of well- 
 bred insolence, occasionally indulged in 
 towards the more conceited of her admirers, 
 but especially clearly defined to her own sex, 
 which had made her numerous detractors 
 amoncr the latter, and a few am one the 
 
 CD ' O 
 
 opposite gender. This, except for an occasional 
 
196 FIRST AXD LAST. 
 
 flash or two of the ' old Adam/ had entirely 
 disappeared. The most empty-brained young 
 recruit, recently enrolled in the ranks of 
 fashion, might utter his tepid twaddle without 
 much fear of the li^htninor sarcasm which 
 silliness formerly provoked immediately from 
 the scornful lips of Edith Stewart. Moreover, 
 instead of maintaining a state of solitary 
 grandeur, as it had been her custom hitherto — 
 tolerating none but her own liege subjects, 
 and a few of those servile natures of her own 
 sex which always pay court to a successful 
 beauty, probably in the hope that they may 
 come in for the crumbs which fall from the 
 rich man's table — she now condescended to 
 friendly relations with other potentates. Her 
 enemies pretended this was merely the affec- 
 tation of humility ; that, in so doing, she 
 was really boasting of her triumph in having 
 carried off the best prize of the season. But 
 I think the scandal-loving cliques were 
 wrong here, and I fancy the real meaning 
 of that marked change in Edith was simply 
 that she was trying to become a better 
 woman. 
 
'WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?' 197 
 
 I once heard a good judge of human nature 
 lay it down as an almost indisputable axiom 
 that a disappointment made a good woman 
 better and a bad one worse. It was not 
 altogether at fault with regard to Edith 
 Stewart. In the depths of her nature she 
 had many good and noble qualities — not of 
 a very wide and comprehensive character, 
 perhaps, for common hands would have been 
 powerless to charm them forth. It wanted 
 the open sesame of the magician, Love, to give 
 them to the light in all their rich warmth and 
 colourino*. But she was free from that 
 inevitable accompaniment to weak natures, 
 fickleness. Forgetfulness was a word unknown 
 in the vocabulary that expressed her feelings ; 
 and, though they had parted in anger, and 
 absence, with the constant round of fresh 
 faces, fresh scenes, and, one would have 
 imagined, fresh thoughts, had presented 
 every opportunity for oblivion of that youth- 
 ful dream, that parting had left a void in her 
 heart, which had scarcely ached more bitterly 
 in the first agony of their separation than, as 
 the more that time wore on, the more did it 
 
198 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 tell her that no one could supply the lost 
 lover's place. 
 
 Ardross had heard such accounts of her 
 flirting, and of her general capriciousness in 
 all the relations of social life, that he had 
 almost felt afraid at first of the responsibility 
 attached to undertaking such a girl for a wife. 
 But this alteration in her whole conduct was 
 so charming that the man was scarcely to be 
 blamed if — taking her beauty and position 
 and everything into consideration — he delibe- 
 rately arrived at the conclusion that he had 
 won a paragon. Besides, the infatuation 
 common to lovers made him attribute all this 
 wonderful change to his own powers of 
 fascination. 
 
 Edith, certainly, was sweetness itself to her 
 lover, for I think she liked him as well as she 
 could be expected to like anyone after that 
 first most passionate love. There was a 
 manliness and a heartiness about him which 
 made him shine in very favourable contrast 
 to the blase and emotionless beings who form 
 the ordinary cream of society, and it was, 
 therefore, no wonder that a girl of her 
 
'who is my neighbour V 199 
 
 thoroughly Bohemian temperament should be 
 attracted by such a nature, especially when 
 coupled with such devoted love to herself. 
 
 Mr. Rochester took the matter of the 
 engagement very coolly, as his acquaintances, 
 who suspected his penchant for Edith, unani- 
 mously concluded, being wrong in this par- 
 ticular, as most acquaintances are in every 
 opinion they form of a man's private feelings 
 and emotions. Rochester had been brought 
 up in the fashionable world, and he had 
 learned its one useful accomplishment — the 
 faculty of making one's countenance an inscru- 
 table mask. But underneath that veneer of 
 refinement and polish there lurked a nature 
 almost savage in its intensity — a nature deep, 
 powerful, passionate, at strange variance with 
 the exquisitely-chiselled, calm features of the 
 noblest type of God's most noble physical gift, 
 beauty. 
 
 The etiquette of ordinary acquaintance de- 
 manded that he should congratulate Ardross. 
 He did so with apparent frankness and 
 heartiness, although, if a wish could kill, he 
 would have slain where he stood the man who 
 
200 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 was about to enjoy that which he would have 
 perilled life and soul to win for himself. To 
 Edith he simply expressed a hope that she 
 would never repent her choice — a dubious 
 congratulation at the best — and asked if her 
 eno-ao-ement had rendered it necessary that 
 they must discontinue their friendship. 
 
 To this Edith had unhesitatingly answered 
 in the neo-ative. Although she shuddered at 
 the thought of Rochester for a husband, she 
 liked him well enough as a friend : and friend- 
 ship is always particularly dear to a woman 
 who has outlived love through age or disap- 
 pointment. After ratifying their innocent 
 compact anew, he went on talking on indif- 
 ferent subjects in such a calm manner that 
 Edith herself was almost perplexed to make 
 out whether her engagement concerned him as 
 little as his manner would lead her to assume. 
 
 rb is a peculiar feature in women, that they 
 never like to let an old admirer go. I do not 
 say this in any reproach to Edith for the 
 awful catastrophe which followed ; for no 
 woman is bound to sacrifice herself for a man 
 she does not like, however passionate may be 
 
'WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR V 201 
 
 the love he bears to her. But this I will 
 assert, in spite of the objurgations that are 
 sure to be showered on me from every quarter, 
 male and female alike — flirting is a most 
 reprehensible amusement. It looks very pretty 
 and interesting on a croquet lawn or in a 
 ballroom, this harmless little pastime — these 
 soft whispers, these coquettish glances, these 
 accidental pressures of the hand ; and in 
 ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they lead 
 to no bad result — a quiet broken heart or two 
 the only untoward incident. But there are a 
 few paragraphs we light on in our newspapers, 
 a few awe-stricken words we hear whispered 
 in our drawing-rooms, that give the dark side 
 of the picture, that epitomise the history of 
 an awful despair — of one human life sacrificed 
 to the folly or vanity of another. 
 
 It was a short time before the day when 
 the marriage was fixed to take place that 
 Rochester one night at Lady Carrick's alluded 
 to the subject again. These two, when he 
 congratulated her being the first, were the 
 only occasions on which he ever spoke con- 
 cerning it. 
 
202 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 They were sitting near each other in the 
 drawing-room, on the occasion of a small 
 family dinner, to which he and Melton had 
 been the only strangers invited. Ardross was 
 to return to town that evening and come on 
 to Lady Carrick's ; but it wanted a good half- 
 hour to the time when he was expected to 
 arrive, and Rochester consequently enjoyed 
 the luxury of monopolising her till the lawful 
 claimant should take possession. 
 
 She had been singing, and he had dutifully 
 turned over the pages for her. When she had 
 finished, he took a chair near the music stool 
 and leaned slightly on the ledge of the piano, 
 from whence he could enjoy an undisturbed 
 view of the beauty which had affected him so 
 fearfully. 
 
 How well she could recall afterwards every 
 detail of that interview : the others talking 
 in low tones at the far end of the great 
 drawing-room ; the handsome, calm-looking 
 face so close to her own ; she carelessly trifling 
 with some pieces of music as he spoke. 
 
 These were the first words with which he 
 commenced the conversation : 
 
'who is :my neighbouk?' 203 
 
 1 The time draws near to renounce the 
 pomps and vanities of the world ; in other 
 words, to become Lady Ardross.' 
 
 Edith laughed slightly : even her laugh was 
 a trifle sadder than it used to be. 
 
 ' One would think I was about to enter a 
 nunnery, instead of the holy, and, I hope, 
 cheerful, state of matrimony, by the lugubrious 
 manner in which you advert to it/ 
 
 1 I suppose even you do not look upon it as 
 an every-day occurrence, too common to pro- 
 voke the slightest reflection ; or do you fancy 
 that it is a tiring to be contracted lightly, to 
 be drawn upon your life as easily as you 
 would pull a glove on your hand ? ' 
 
 The beautiful deep blue eyes were looking 
 into her s mournfully and half angrily, as if he 
 thought her unconcerned tone were an insult 
 to his great love. 
 
 She shifted her eyes uneasily from his 
 steady gaze. * You are becoming very severe 
 all of a sudden,' she said, petulantly. ' The 
 other night I heard you delivering a long 
 tirade to the effect that a woman ouidit to 
 search her heart diligently when she married. 
 
204 FIllST AND LAST. 
 
 How long is it, pray, since you have grown 
 so proper ! Did you always search your 
 heart before you tried to steal other 
 people's ? ' 
 
 ' I have grown " proper," as you call it, 
 through bitter experience,' he answered, with 
 a deep complaining anger in his tones. ' I 
 know too well the curse of blighted hopes. 
 God be my witness — I would not trifle with 
 another's happiness now.' 
 
 ' Now, this is too bad,' she said, gently, for 
 a vast pity had come into her heart for the 
 deep, misguided love. ' You will pain me and 
 yourself too by dwelling on the past. Why 
 will you oblige me to repeat what I have said 
 so often before, that I like you as a friend — no 
 one better, nay, so well — but I cannot marry 
 you, nor ever could ? I know all your kind- 
 ness and goodness ; but, even if I myself could 
 commit the sin of giving you my hand without 
 my heart, would you be contented with a 
 loveless wife, who shrunk from your love, who 
 fled at your presence ? ' 
 
 Hard, plain truths to be spoken these, but 
 he had grown used to them now, and loved 
 
'WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR V 205 
 
 her none the less because her determination 
 was as firm as ever. 
 
 * No,' he answered. ' Unhappy as I am 
 without you, I would be ten times more 
 miserable if you came to me without love. I 
 would wait for you patiently till you were 
 wrinkled, and old, and grey, for your beauty 
 could never fade in my eyes. There is no 
 human peril I would not brave, no human 
 obstacle I would not surmount, if I could hope 
 thereby to win you ; but it must be your heart, 
 not your hand, that I had won.' 
 
 She was silent at this. Her words could 
 only inflame, not soothe, his grief, and she 
 remained with her eyes fixed upon a piece of 
 music, but sorely troubled at heart. She was 
 casting in her mind as to whether she had not 
 to bear some blame in this mad infatuation — 
 if chance words or looks of apparent encourage- 
 ment might not have drawn him on deeplier 
 than had they never been uttered. I think 
 in that hour Edith's conscience was not free 
 from some guilty pangs. 
 
 Well has beauty been termed a fatal gift. 
 When the devil planned the guilt of our first 
 
20 G FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 parents, it was through the lips of a lovely 
 woman that he whispered the words of 
 temptation ; and from the day when the 
 flaming swords of the cherubim barred the 
 gates of Eden to their race, glowing eyes and 
 sweet lips have lured men to madness, to 
 dishonour, and to death. 
 
 Rochester spoke again presently, rousing 
 himself from a rather long musing. 
 
 * Regrets are useless,' he said. ' The wisest 
 of men cannot recall the past — -they can only 
 forget it. Every man has not the strength 
 to do that. Your fate is sealed, and/ he 
 added in a lower tone, as if muttering to 
 himself, ' mine soon will be.' 
 
 At that moment she thought he only 
 alluded to her marriage. Later on she com- 
 prehended the awful significance of those last 
 words. 
 
 ' Ptegrets, as you say, are useless,' she said 
 cheerfully. 'In a few days I shall be Lady 
 Ardross. I intend then to settle down into a 
 model of decorum, and renounce flirtation 
 and all other kindred abominations for ever ; 
 
'WHO is my NEIGHBOUR?' 207 
 
 but you and I can always continue good 
 friends, can we not, Edward?' 
 
 It was the first time she had ever called 
 him by his Christian name, and, self-possessed 
 man of the world as he was, that word, 
 spoken by her lips, sent a red flush to 
 his cheek. At that moment he was as 
 little master of himself as the veriest 
 schoolboy. 
 
 * We will be friends,' he said, quietly, 'and, 
 if I can possibly be good Christian enough, I 
 will not hate your husband.' 
 
 ' Love your neighbour as yourself,' laughed 
 Edith. 
 
 ' And who is my neighbour?' asked Roches- 
 ter, sarcastically. ' Uriah, the Hittite, and 
 King David lived in very close proximity, 
 but I don't expect he had much love for 
 the man who robbed him of his one ewe 
 lamb.' 
 
 At that moment Lady Carrick advanced to 
 interrupt their confidential tete-d-tete. 
 
 ' I forgot one thing I had to tell you,' he 
 said, hurriedly. ' I intend to send you my 
 wedding present after your marriage, instead 
 
208 
 
 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 of before. It is a mere whim of mine. It 
 makes no difference to you, I suppose?' 
 
 Before she could reply her sister-in-law 
 came up. She knew afterwards how well he 
 kept his word. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ' DESTROYING THE PAST. ' 
 
 A marriage is a pleasant affair to look upon. 
 The gay dresses, the happy faces of bride and 
 bridegroom (for, I think, on such occasions 
 the principal actors in the performance try to 
 look beaming, whatever may be their private 
 sentiments on the subject), the convivial 
 breakfast, and perhaps the encouragement it 
 gives to go and do likewise, are an attraction 
 in themselves, even if one is a most ordinary 
 acquaintance. There certainly seems an uncle- 
 finable charm in a wedding to the outside 
 public, for the sight of the white favours is 
 always sufficient to draw together a crowd, 
 whose thorough sympathy with the proceed- 
 ings is quite refreshing. Even the rapid 
 
 Vol. i— p 
 
210 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 butcher boy — not a being whom one at first 
 sight would credit with an overpowering 
 amount of sentiment — arrests his progress for 
 the nonce, and becomes totally oblivious of 
 the requirements of his master's customers ; 
 and the milliner's or dressmaker's assistant is 
 far too much of a woman to think of stirring 
 from the spot till she has obtained a satis- 
 factory view of the bride and her dress. 
 
 Two such comets in the sphere of fashion as 
 Edith and Lord Ardross were bound to have 
 a grand wedding. St. George's was, of course, 
 the church chosen, and all the cream of 
 London notables were bidden, Royalty itself 
 being represented among the guests. 
 
 Were I to give my own opinion on the 
 subject of marriages, I should say they can 
 never be conducted too quietly. Where there 
 is real love on both sides it is naturally a 
 matter of rejoicing; but the joy that two 
 young people feel in undertaking such a 
 solemn compact, in entering on a new life 
 together till death do them part, is too sacred 
 for others to mingle or pretend to mingle in. 
 
 Such, I am aware, are not the sentiments 
 
'destroying the past.' 211 
 
 entertained by the majority of fashionable 
 people. With them every opportunity of 
 display lost seems a sin. 
 
 I believe in her heart Edith disliked all this 
 pomp and pageantry that surrounds marriage, 
 but in her position she could scarcely insist 
 upon being united to her lover quietly, so she 
 prepared herself to become for a few hours 
 the one object of curiosity and observation to 
 the one thousand and one people bidden to 
 the wedding. 
 
 She was alone in her room the night before 
 her marriage. She had dismissed her maid, 
 and in the grate a low fire was burning, which 
 she had ordered to be lighted for a purpose. 
 I think the reflections of any girl must have 
 a slight tinge of solemnity when the time 
 draws near for her entering on what is prac- 
 tically a new existence. Edith, in spite of 
 her apparent gaiety, was really more of a 
 melancholy than a cheerful temperament, and 
 to-night her thoughts, as she sat musing 
 before the fire, must have been rather sad, for 
 every now and then a tear would steal slowly 
 from the bright eyes that looked ashamed of 
 
212 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 themselves the moment it was shed. Even, 
 in the privacy of her own chamber pride was 
 still the dominant characteristic. 
 
 She rose presently and took from her desk 
 two large packets of letters in the same hand- 
 writing. They were each tied up with a 
 j}iece of blue ribbon, and she began to untie 
 them slowly. She could not destroy them at 
 once — scarcely any woman could have done 
 so under the circumstances — but, drawing her 
 chair closelier to the fire to which they were 
 soon to be consigned, began glancing through 
 them one after another. 
 
 There were first the boyish letters, written 
 when he first went to Harrow, telling her 
 again and again how he missed her, and found 
 by absence how dearly he loved her ; waxing 
 manlier in tone as he advanced in age. Then 
 there came the letters from Oxford — some 
 before their betrothal, but the greater number 
 after. What passionate, loving letters they 
 were ! And then, presently, she came to the 
 last one he had written from there. It was 
 perhaps the shortest of the whole collection — 
 for it had been written two days before his 
 
'destroying the past/ 213 
 
 •return — and, after telling her to expect him 
 by the mid-day train, it went on — 
 
 • Sometimes do you know, Edith, I almost 
 think my happiness must be a dream. I have 
 lived all my life, from the childish days when 
 I first loved you, on the hope that you might 
 some day be my wife ; but now that I have 
 your word for it, I almost feel doubtful. I 
 feel, like a miser with his treasure, that I must 
 continually have you in sight, lest some evil 
 fate should steal you from me. Oh, Edith 
 darling, I pray night and day that you will 
 be true, for, were you to prove false now, it 
 would break my heart.' 
 
 That was the paragraph which she read 
 over twice. She had other letters, more 
 passionate in tone, more flattering to her 
 vanity perhaps, but there was a ring of deep 
 love in that which was worth them all. 'For, 
 were you to prove false now, it would break 
 my heart.' Never had that sentence come 
 home to her as it did on that nio-ht. She had 
 proved false to him, her conscience told her, 
 
214 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 oh, how bitterly ! She had rejected the 
 overtures he made for reconciliation when 
 he had sent Saville as his intercessor, 
 and to-moiTOw she was about to afford him 
 the crowning proof of her faithlessness by 
 wedding- another. Her thoughts wandered 
 to where he might be now — in some foreign 
 land most likely, breaking his heart at her 
 treachery. 
 
 I believe had Florence come in at that 
 moment and offered to bring Hammersley back 
 to her feet, she would have gone away with 
 him, to the utter oblivion of the earl and 
 everything connected with the marriage so 
 near. But as she sat there, her conscience 
 and her love pricking her so sorely, she knew 
 that it was too late to repair the error of her 
 life now. When the tempting fruit was 
 within her reach she would not stretch her 
 hand to gather it ; now that she hungered 
 and thirsted for it, it was far, far beyond her 
 grasp. 
 
 She dropped the letters in the fire one 
 by one, watching them burn till the heedless 
 
'destroying the past.' 215 
 
 flame destroyed their secrets, until she came 
 to that last one. 
 
 1 1 may keep this one, I think,' she mur- 
 mured to herself. ' It will be the only letter 
 I shall have from him for a memory. If Guy 
 discovered it he could not mind very much. 
 We are dead to each other now, and, were we 
 to meet, my marriage will dig a gulf between 
 us that neither can ever cross. I think I may 
 rescue this from the flames.' 
 
 The wish to do it was strong, but the 
 thought of the loyalty she owed to the man 
 whom to-morrow she was to call husband 
 finally conquered. She dropt it into the 
 steady flame. 
 
 She watched it consume, and then suddenly 
 buried her face in her hands with a great cry. 
 
 ' Oh, my own darling ! ' she moaned, scarcely 
 recognising the uselessness of the wish in her 
 agony, ' come back to me, for my heart is 
 breaking without you ! ' 
 
 I think few girls whom the morrow was to 
 make brides had a more miserable vigil than 
 Edith Stewart on the night before she became 
 Lady Ardross. 
 
216 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 But the next morning found her beautiful 
 and self-possessed as ever. If her heart was 
 broken, no one but herself should know it. 
 They tricked her out in her finery ; and, 
 certainly, when the admiring eyes of her 
 friends rested upon her, they were fain to 
 confess that the earl would have to seek 
 far for a lovelier or a more fascinating 
 bride. 
 
 His lordship had also got himself up with 
 scrupulous care. Unfortunately, public opinion 
 has reduced men to a sober attire very different 
 from that of the days when the luckless Sir 
 Peter Teazle discovered his wife in the house 
 of the immaculate Joseph. The picturesque- 
 ness of coloured coats, embroidered linen, 
 knee breeches, and buckles has disappeared, I 
 fear never to return ; but the clothes the earl 
 wore came from Poole's, and were turned out 
 with all the finish and elegance of that cele- 
 brated artist. 
 
 Neither of the performers betrayed any 
 nervousness. Edith's responses were uttered 
 in a rather low but firm tone, and the earl 
 pronounced his ' I will' with an energy and 
 
'destroying the past/ 217 
 
 heartiness that inferred he had nothing to be 
 ashamed of in the transaction. 
 
 After the ceremony the guests returned to 
 Lord Allerton's, where, in the language of 
 newspapers, they sat down to a splendid 
 de/Suner. Mr. Rochester was there, handsome 
 and calm-looking as ever, and to him it fell to 
 propose the bridesmaids, a task of which he 
 acquitted himself gracefully, and with a 
 tolerable amount of the wellbred facetiousness 
 which is considered correct on such occasions. 
 
 In the due course of time the ' happy pair' 
 left for Luton Castle, where they were to 
 spend their honeymoon, and then the guests 
 rapidly dispersed. In shaking hands with the 
 bride, Rochester had found time to whisper — 
 
 ' You shall be sure to have your present.' 
 
 There was a peculiar look on his face as he 
 said that, which she could not help remarking; 
 but so many were around her bidding her 
 adieu that she could not reply. 
 
 Rochester's first proceeding on leaving Lord 
 Allerton's was to hail a hansom and drive to 
 the Euston Station, in order to catch the next 
 train for Harrow. What he did there I must 
 leave for another chapter. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 'A REMEDY IN DEATH.' 
 
 Grenvil Rochester was extremely like his 
 brother, only he was not so handsome, and, 
 although only seventeen, the taller of the 
 two. He had been sent to Harrow before he 
 was fifteen, and his mother, his only surviving 
 parent, was not without hopes that he would 
 take a high position in the school. Abilities 
 he undoubtedly had. When he thoroughly 
 set to work to learn anything he could do it 
 quicker than most boys of his age ; but, 
 unfortunately, his energy was not in propor- 
 tion, and he was not long at Harrow before 
 he allowed the seductions of cricket, racquets, 
 and football, in all of which he was an adept, 
 to interfere materially with those good resolu- 
 
'a remedy in death.' 219 
 
 tions with which he had quitted the maternal 
 wing. But, still, if his progress was not so 
 brilliant as had been anticipated, it was 
 eminently respectable. He managed to work 
 up at the rate of a form a quarter, and was 
 now, after two years sojourn, landed in the 
 ' upper fifth ' — one remove below that exalted 
 body of beings, the ' sixth/ 
 
 Mr. Rochester, junior, was in a particularly 
 good temper on this particular Thursday. 
 His amiability was to be ascribed to two very 
 good reasons. The first was that two days 
 ago he had been put in the school ' eleven ' as 
 first choice ; and the first choice in the Harrow 
 ' eleven ' is regarded with as much awe and 
 reverence by the school generally as that 
 which, in grown-up society, a member of the 
 blood royal would meet with at the hands 
 of the ' genteel' population of Hackney or 
 Dalston. In the second place, his brother 
 had written to say he would be down that 
 afternoon, and such an advent meant a good 
 dinner at the King's Head, with as much 
 champagne and other wines as was consistent 
 with discretion. On the receipt of his 
 
220 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 brother's epistle, he had immediately repaired 
 to the King's Head, and consulted his own 
 judgment in the choice of the viands. This 
 being off his mind, he waited with great com- 
 placency at the door of the inn for signs of 
 his visitor. 
 
 He was not long in appearing. A fly came 
 rattling along the narrow High-street, passing 
 crowds of afternoon loungers giving a stimulus 
 to their appetites in the shape of ices, tarts, 
 and other schoolboy and not very wholesome 
 delicacies, at the various confectioners' which 
 abound so liberally, and deposited Rochester 
 in front of his brother. 
 
 They shook hands in the quiet, undemon- 
 strative manner in which Englishmen usually 
 greet their dearest friends, and then sauntered 
 into the garden behind the inn, and deposited 
 themselves in one of the little alcoves which 
 the proprietors of the King's Head provide so 
 liberally for their guests. 
 
 Grenvil was bursting to tell his news. 
 
 ' I have been put into the " eleven," he 
 said, looking with calm pride at his brother, 
 yet not without an inward conviction that he 
 
'A REMEDY IN DEATH. ' 221 
 
 would betray great emotion at the announce- 
 ment. 
 
 In this, however, he was mistaken. At that 
 moment a much more startling occurrence than 
 this would not have interested him. He turned 
 round, however, with a faint show of interest. 
 
 ' I am very glad to hear it, and congratulate 
 you most heartily,' he said ; and after he had 
 uttered it he remembered the pride with 
 which he had communicated to his admiring 
 friends, a few years ago, the same distinction 
 conferred on himself. These little vanities all 
 seemed so worthless now. 
 
 ' What choice were you \ ' he asked, pre- 
 sently. 
 
 ' First/ answered Grenvil, slowly and 
 so]emnly. 
 
 ' Then you are more a hero than ever,' 
 exclaimed his brother, cheerfully. * You must 
 be quite a shining light here.' 
 
 Grenvil's modesty did not permit him to 
 make answer to this. In his own private 
 mind he considered himself a very shining 
 illumination, but he had the grace to keep it 
 to himself. 
 
222 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 The cricket subject was exhausted. Roches- 
 ter was evidently too busy with other thoughts 
 to feign an interest in it, and they sat silent 
 for a little while, till Grenvil adverted to the 
 topic that was all-absorbing to his brother. 
 
 ' How did you enjoy the wedding this 
 morning ? ' he asked. 
 
 It was the thought of that which had been 
 haunting him all the day, sitting by his side 
 at the marriage feast, clinging to him as he 
 rode down on the train, the mad rush of which 
 through the air was not so swift as the rapid 
 sense of his own agony coursing like serpent 
 stings through his brain. 
 
 Assuredly it must have been madness — 
 madness of the most subtle kind — as he sat 
 there facing his young brother, with that 
 deadly purpose in his heart, yet with such 
 calmness in his eye and on his tongue ; not a 
 frenzy that required padded walls and fetters 
 to restrain its paroxysms, but the madness of 
 a deep and almost savage nature, in which 
 one bitter disappointment, brooded over night 
 and day, had ousted reason from its throne. 
 
 Have we not read of good and saintly men — 
 
f A REMEDY IN DEATH.' 223 
 
 men whose lives from their cradle have been 
 one white page of purity and peace — thus 
 suddenly transformed into the very opposite 
 by some word or act of another that has found 
 out the weak spot in their saintly armour — the 
 one open sore where the drop of poison can 
 be instilled that turns their whole nature 
 into gall, and makes of them criminals or 
 madmen \ 
 
 Was it then such a marvel that Rochester — 
 a man whose aimless, purposeless life had been 
 purified by no early trial or suffering ; to 
 whom religion and belief were but a name, or 
 at best words the deep, grand significance of 
 which he never cared to understand — was it, 
 I say, such a marvel that his weak nature 
 shrank from dragging on a life of blighted 
 hopes and broken heart, which so many holier 
 and stronger men have found insupportable ? 
 
 His brother's question struck upon his 
 thoughts, as the knife of a surgeon pro- 
 bing a wound, but he answered calmly : 
 ' The ceremony went off with great eclat. 
 The bride looked lovely— the bridegroom 
 handsome — the dresses were magnificent — 
 
224 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 and, in brief, everbody behaved beautifully/ 
 He laughed as he said this ; but his brother, 
 dreaming of bats and balls, or of something 
 equally worthless, did not notice the bitterness 
 in that laugh. 
 
 ' It must have been very jolly,' he said, in 
 a sort of grumbling voice. ' How I should 
 have liked to have been there. What a 
 change life must be, after poking down in this 
 musty old hole of a school. Didn't you find 
 it so when you left?' 
 
 1 1 did find a great difference, as you say/ 
 answered his brother, with a quiet significance 
 that the other did not then comprehend ; ' but 
 I doubt if I was really better off. I was very 
 happy here : my wants were easily satisfied, 
 and my little vanities, such as they were, soon 
 gratified.' 
 
 Grenvil could not understand his brother's 
 depreciation of the delights obtainable in 
 ' life/ as he termed it. 
 
 ' I suppose you have got tired, because you 
 have had so much of it V he answered. ' You 
 have gone the whole pace, as they say ; but I 
 should find it awfully jolly to be continually 
 
f A REMEDY IN DEATH.' 225 
 
 in a round of gaiety and pleasure, and flirting 
 with a lot of pretty girls/ 
 
 'You might fall in love with one of the 
 pretty girls/ said Rochester, with a peculiar 
 smile. 
 
 'All the better,' answered Grenvil, cheer- 
 fully. ' I should think nothing could be 
 jollier than to fall in love with a girl who 
 liked me.' 
 
 1 And suppose the young lady had the bad 
 taste not to like you : what then?' 
 
 ' In that case,' returned Grenvil, with the 
 easy philosophy of inexperienced youth, ■ I 
 should transfer my affections to someone who 
 could. There's a Jack for every Jill, and 
 vice-versa, I suppose ; isn't there ? ' 
 
 1 Affections are not transferred so easily as 
 you imagine, my dear boy/ said his brother, 
 1 as you will learn perhaps some day. You 
 have evidently got to buy your experience/ 
 
 Mr. Grenvil did not reply to this, but he 
 was nevertheless not convinced, although 
 reduced to silence. Like the country mouse 
 who wanted to be fashionable, he could not 
 understand that a quiet life, with no dangers 
 
 Vol. i— q 
 
226 FIRST AXD LAST. 
 
 or emotions to threaten or harass, is preferable 
 to a more turbulent existence where pleasure 
 and pain are too inextricably mingled for 
 anything like comfort. 
 
 Presently they sauntered down to the 
 cricket-field for want of something better to 
 do. There was the usual ' sixth-form game ' 
 going on, from his participation in which 
 Grenvil had excused himself on account of 
 his brother's visit. All that was happening 
 seemed like a dream to Pochester : those 
 eager, running figures — those sounding strokes 
 of the bat — the flying away of the ball — the 
 concourse of youthful faces in the field and by 
 the pavilion — the buzz of talk and laughter 
 continually borne upon his ears. It seemed 
 strange to him, so utterly changed from what 
 he was, that the world, the happy, cheerful 
 world, could go on the same now that Edith 
 Stewart was lost to him for ever. 
 
 There he sat on the steps of the pavilion 
 with his brother, his handsome face and 
 figure attracting the glance of many of the 
 boys, who took in admiringly the perfection 
 of his dress, and everything which denoted 
 
C A REMEDY IX DEATH.' 227 
 
 him, in their language, a 'swell;' and, all the 
 while, they were gazing on a most miserable 
 man — a man who, at that moment, was taking 
 almost his last look at ' sun, and earth, and 
 sky ' — at God's and Nature's splendour — who, 
 in a few hours, would face his Maker, with an 
 awful sin upon his soul — the sin of taking 
 away the life which belongs to Hirn who 
 gave it. 
 
 The bell rang for six o'clock ' bill,' as the 
 calling over was termed, and Grenvil, who 
 had leave of absence, walked back with his 
 brother to the King's Head to dinner. 
 
 It was a very silent meal, but the absence 
 of conversation did not distress Grenvil very 
 much. The viands were ample and various, 
 and he had, therefore, more leisure in which 
 to do them justice. A good dinner was not a 
 luxury he enjoyed every day, for Harrow 
 masters are not proverbial for pampering the 
 appetites of those committed to their charge. 
 There is a Spartan-like simplicity in their 
 commissariat that often requires a large 
 amount of the Spartan sauce, hunger, to 
 render it palatable. 
 
228 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 After dinner, which took some time in dis- 
 cussing — not that Rochester protracted the 
 banquet on his own account, he only dallied 
 with the dishes that afforded such unfeigned 
 gratification to his brother, who was far too 
 busy to notice the other's want of appetite — 
 they smoked. Smoking was strictly against 
 the rules, and any gentleman detected in the 
 abominable act was liable to be * interviewed ' 
 by the head master ; and in some cases — 
 where his position in the school was not 
 sufficiently high to protect his person from 
 sacrilege — to be summarily birched, or, as 
 the Harrow vernacular hath it, 'swiped/ 
 Grenvil, however, being of an audacious 
 nature — with scant respect in his composition 
 for the powers that be — indulged in the 
 forbidden fruit, and trusted to chance to 
 escape detection by the olfactory nerves of 
 such men in authority as he might happen 
 to meet. 
 
 It was early in the summer, and ' locking- 
 up ' was at eight. At ten minutes to, just as 
 the summoning bell began to ring, Rochester 
 rose to go. His brother accompanied him as 
 
'A REMEDY IN DEATH.' 229 
 
 far as the chapel, and there bade him ' good- 
 bye/ 
 
 He walked rather slowly towards the station 
 after his brother had left him, till, in a few 
 seconds, he came to a turning facing fields. 
 He entered these by a gate placed at the 
 head of a footpath, and then rapidly quickened 
 his pace. 
 
 He had known that walk well in his Harrow 
 schooldays. It led straight on to a little 
 wooden railway bridge, on the sides of which 
 boys, with that mania for operating with a 
 penknife which seems inherent in Englishmen, 
 were fond, and are so still, I dare say, of 
 carving their names. As he neared the bridge 
 he turned off in the direction of the left, and 
 at last reached an embankment from which 
 there was an easy descent to the rails 
 below. 
 
 It was growing very dusk, but he looked 
 cautiously about to see if there was anyone 
 near watching him. Then, apparently satisfied, 
 he crept gently down the smooth slope, and 
 stood upon the ' down ' line. When he had 
 done this he pulled out his watch ; the dusk 
 
230 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 had come on so rapidly that he was obliged to 
 peer closely into it. 
 
 * About ten minutes more,' he muttered to 
 himself, ' and it will be here/ 
 
 He flung away the cane he had carried with 
 him, and sat on the slope with folded arms, 
 waiting for Death. 
 
 And it had come to this ! This spoiled 
 darling of society, whom women had petted 
 for his beauty, whom men had envied for his 
 success, had come here to die by himself, with 
 not a human hand near to save or succour 
 him — to die lone and friendless as the veriest 
 vagrant that perished by the roadside ! And 
 he had calmly elected to die thus from the 
 moment when he had known Edith Stewart 
 was lost to him. He had hoped against hope 
 to win her, and, when hope was snatched from 
 him, he had deliberately chosen between death 
 and the blankness of life without her. He 
 had chosen this terrible death because he 
 thought it would be the most certain and 
 instantaneous, and perhaps because he thought 
 such a ghastly end would strike some remorse 
 
'A REMEDY IX DEATH.' 231 
 
 and pity at last into the heart of the woman 
 he had loved in vain. 
 
 The minutes seemed to drag into hours as 
 he sat there waiting in that horrible suspense. 
 Suddenly he fancied he heard a sound. He 
 stooped and placed his ear to the rails. Yes, 
 sure enough, there it was — the noise growing 
 nearer and distinct er every second. He drew 
 himself up again, and looked in the dusk 
 towards London. Yes, there it was ahead — 
 the mighty engine, with its lamps shining like 
 balls of fire in the dusk stillness of the night. 
 There it was, racing along at awful speed, 
 fearful in its great, resistless strength, ready 
 to crush the life out of any obstacle in its 
 rushing path. 
 
 Who shall say if in that moment, when he 
 stood face to face with the ghastly presence of 
 Death, some natural weakness did not rise 
 within him, prompting him to flee from the 
 grim embrace so ready to clutch him, coun- 
 selling him that in life itself there might yet 
 be oblivion for shattered hopes, and fond 
 dreams so falsely realised ? If such there was, 
 he conquered it. 
 
232 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 It was close on him, the wheels grinding 
 along with a terrible grating noise, the huge 
 engine sending forth clouds of black smoke. 
 He bent down quickly and placed his head 
 over the rails, leaving the neck free to be 
 crushed. He had scarcely done so when it 
 was upon him, its fiery breath playing over 
 him, the awful grinding noise close to his ears. 
 Another instant — almost a lifetime to the 
 prostrate figure stretched there — and the 
 unconscious monster sped on its way, crushing 
 in its passage, the life out of one of the fairest 
 of God's creatures. 
 
 The day after the wedding there came to 
 Luton Castle a small box for Lady-.Ardross. 
 Inside it was a gold locket with the monogram 
 E. P. set in diamonds, and a paper attached 
 to it in Pochester's handwriting : ' The 
 wedding present promised by me.' At the 
 bottom of the box was a letter, which Edith 
 opened with a strange presentiment of dread. 
 It was as follows : — 
 
C A REMEDY IN DEATH.' 233 
 
 1 My darling Edith, — 
 
 * You are my darling still. I may call you 
 so now, for I shall not offend in word or deed 
 again ; and even in the last moments of the 
 death which I deliberately seek you will be 
 my only thought. God grant that, in the 
 world to which I am going, there will be 
 forget fulness for such a mad love as was 
 never before felt by mortal man. I do not 
 write this to reproach you. Mine was the 
 folly, and mine will be the penalty. All I 
 ask of you, Edith — my dying request it is I 
 make — keep this locket I send you in memory 
 of me, and, if you can, preserve some little 
 pity in your heart for the fate of the man 
 whose misery it has been that he loved you 
 " not wisely, but too well." ' 
 
 There was no signature at the bottom, but 
 she knew the handwriting, and the evening's 
 telegrams confirmed the truth of what he had 
 threatened. 
 
 There were sore hearts and weeping eyes 
 enough for Edward Rochester, for his beauty 
 had made him well-beloved of many women > 
 
234 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 but I doubt if any shed more bitter, and 
 none such remorseful, tears, as the woman 
 whose fatal charms had lured him to his own 
 undoing. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ' temptation/ 
 
 1 If one wants to get rid of blue devils, by all 
 means come to Paris. There is a gaiety per- 
 vading the people, the streets, everything, in 
 fact, that is positively infectious. If a man 
 feels melancholy in London, there is everything 
 ready to induce him to cut his throat ; but 
 here one feels as if life could be made pleasant 
 for ever/ 
 
 So spoke Hammersley to Saville, a week 
 after their arrival in the ' capital of nations ;' 
 and his friend cordially echoed the sentiment. 
 
 A few days after Melton had communicated 
 to him the news of Edith's engagement 
 Hammersley's ma]ady had decidedly taken a 
 favourable turn. He seemed to 'think it was 
 of no use sighing over the inevitable. His 
 
236 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 spirits flowed, if not with their former 
 buoyancy, at least much more cheerfully and 
 uniformly than at any period since he had left 
 England. How far this change was real, or 
 but another symptom of the danger and 
 insidiousness of his disease, the sequel will 
 show. 
 
 At any rate, he began to fancy himself that 
 he was recovering from the memory of his old 
 love. He watched himself narrowly, scruti- 
 nising carefully every thought and feeling, to 
 discover if they were less engrossed and 
 sensitive on the one subject, in much the same 
 manner as the consumptive patient will note 
 the slightest diminution of his cough, the 
 faintest degree of extra strength, and deduce 
 from such favourable symptoms some hope 
 that he may yet cheat the grave. 
 
 There was a good sprinkling of English 
 society in Paris at the time they arrived, and 
 as neither Ha.mmersley nor Saville were 
 particularly addicted to loneliness, they 
 readily participated in such gaiety as their 
 own countryfnen and their French acquaint- 
 ance afforded them. 
 
'temptation.' 237 
 
 Amongst other English visitors was the 
 Countess of GlengarhT with her son, the earl, 
 and her two daughters, the Ladies Florence 
 and Mary Arden. The countess was aunt to 
 Rochester, on his mother's side, and from her 
 Hammersley heard a fuller account of his 
 unhappy death. 
 
 It had been hushed up as much as possible, 
 and the inquest had resulted in the usual 
 verdict of temporary insanity. To the outside 
 public a suicide more or less was of little 
 consequence ; but in his own circle there 
 were a good many who had guessed pretty 
 shrewdly at the reason of his ghastly ending. 
 His attentions to Edith had been observed by 
 nearly every one. These would not, perhaps, 
 have been so much an evidence themselves, 
 only there were some other facts to support 
 them. In his confidentitil moods Rochester 
 had confided to his mother and to three or 
 four of his most intimate friends, the intensity 
 of his passion for Edith ; and when the news 
 of his suicide, on the very evening of the 
 wedding, was circulated round, these latter 
 readily came forward to solve the mystery in 
 
238 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 the satisfactory manner in which most people 
 deal with their dead friends' memory, i.e., 
 commiserating them with a pronounced pity, 
 that is in itself a suggestion of what fools they 
 made of themselves. 
 
 Whether true or not, ordinary people had 
 no means of judging. Rochester had never 
 hinted even the possible contemplation of 
 such an end ; but, taking all the circumstances 
 into consideration, it looked true, and this was 
 quite enough for that rather large circle of 
 busybodies who were only too glad to get hold 
 of a nice tangible scandal about Edith. More 
 than one old dowager and spiteful maiden 
 pursed up their envious lips with inward satis- 
 faction at the pleasant prospect they derived 
 from the first tale of misery with which her 
 name was connected ; and old Lady Kintosh, 
 whose daughter, the Honourable Flora 
 McTavish, had been especially pertinacious 
 in her pursuit of the Earl of Ardross, insinu- 
 ated without scruple to her intimates, that 
 ' that girl would set the world talking a great 
 deal more yet.' 
 
 Malicious old dowager ! How prophetic 
 
'temptation. 239 
 
 she was in her spite. Poor Edith ! she was 
 not at all popular with her own sex. I think 
 a good many of them would have liked to 
 ostracise her altogether ; but she was too 
 powerful for that ; her connections had too 
 firm a foothold in the world of fashion. The 
 Marchioness of Allerton and her daughter-in- 
 law, the Countess of Carrick, were acknow- 
 ledged leaders of ton. No aspirant for fashion 
 was duly qualified till he had received his 
 diploma from their houses ; so that those lesser 
 luminaries who revolved around the great 
 planets could not dare to openly disdain one 
 so nearly allied to them. Moreover, Edith 
 had a very staunch band of supporters in the 
 men, and, however much people might have 
 deemed it safe to show coldness to her as 
 Edith Stewart, her position as the wife of 
 Lord Ardross placed her far above their like 
 or dislike. 
 
 And she had determined to take up her 
 position right royally. She had married him, 
 and she would derive all the benefits she 
 could from her husband's wealth and status. 
 As Lady Ardross she could aspire to lead, to 
 
240 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 be, not to follow, the fashion ; and the privileges 
 of her position she was resolved to exercise to 
 the utmost. Next season should witness the 
 assumption of her new dignity. 
 
 The death of Rochester had at first been 
 a violent shock to her, the more especially so 
 because she could not altogether divest herself 
 of a certain amount of remorse in the trans- 
 action. She had denied his suit the moment 
 he had pressed it ; but had she not given him 
 a tacit encouragement at first, which, although 
 regarded by her as a mere necessity of flirta- 
 tion, might have led many a wiser man into 
 the belief that she cared for him? It was a 
 keen blow when it came first upon her, but it 
 had worn off. Pity she had plenty for the 
 dead man lying in that early grave, but love 
 she had never had ; and the most sympathetic 
 of us soon recover a grief in which the heart — 
 the only thing that can keep it alive — has no 
 share. 
 
 It is a bitter truth, this cold indifference of 
 the world to all but its own immediate in- 
 terests, but one which experience very soon 
 teaches us. Rochester had given his life for 
 
* TEMPTATION. 241 
 
 the love he bore her, yet, in a few years, 
 almost his memory would pass away from the 
 woman he had worshipped so madly. 
 
 To Hammersley the whole affair, when the 
 news reached him, first through the news- 
 papers, and then more fully through the 
 letters of Ins friends, was almost inexplicable, 
 or, if to be explained at all, explained in a 
 manner that left him more than ever in the 
 dark as to Edith's real nature. He had never 
 been without suspicion that the handsome face 
 and person of Rochester had made more im- 
 pression on her than she would have cared to 
 avow. This suspicion was especially confirmed 
 on the night when they parted, when she 
 gave to Rochester those two dances which 
 were on his part the teterrima causa belli; 
 but then, again, read by the light of recent 
 events, this could scarcely be correct. There 
 was little doubt that he loved her, and he was 
 the last man to refrain from asking for what 
 he sought. If she had returned his affection, 
 as Hammersley had hitherto believed, surely 
 she would have married him. As it was, she 
 had wedded another man ; and hence arose the 
 
 Vol. i. — r 
 
242 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 question which, steeled as he thought himself 
 now, would shoot a jealous pang through his 
 heart every time he asked it — ' If she refused 
 the man I thought she loved, how dearly 
 must she love the man she calls her husband 
 now ? ' 
 
 Yet, he fancied himself cured now — poor 
 deluded mortal! He fancied he could take 
 Edith Stewart's hand, and look in Edith 
 Stewart's eyes, without one regretful memory 
 to the past. But when he asked himself that 
 little catechism, he began to feel fearful that 
 the old demon of love was lying, not crushed 
 and powerless, but only slumbering and 
 couchant for a fresh spring. 
 
 He was soon to have an opportunity of 
 testing his strength or weakness. Lord and 
 Lady Ardross were to arrive in Paris in a few 
 days, and take up their quarters at the Hotel 
 de Morny for a week, or a fortnight, or a 
 month — as long in fact as it suited their 
 humour, or rather her's, for Ardross gave way 
 to her in everything. 
 
 In fact, he felt himself the happiest of men. 
 He Lad a beautiful wife, and he believed she 
 
'temptation.' 243 
 
 loved him. Nor was he much to blame in tliis 
 supposition, since everything that had hap- 
 pened had tended to confirm it. She had 
 shown him Rochester's letter, and had 
 expressed, with many tears, her remorse at 
 ever having given him any encouragement 
 that could have excited the slightest hopes. 
 What was the earl to conclude from this save 
 one thing, that evidently she would not marry 
 a man she did not love ? She had married 
 him ; therefore she loved him. What more 
 satisfactory conclusion could he arrive at? 
 In fact, I am not sure whether in his heart of 
 hearts he was not rather proud to think he 
 had a wife whose fascinations could prove so 
 fatal to other men. 
 
 And Edith liked her husband, for he was 
 good, and gentle, and kind ; and, as I have 
 said, a great change had come over her. She 
 had learned to appreciate love and kindness 
 better than was her wont in the old davs, 
 and the most envious who saw thtm a few 
 months after their marriage were fain to 
 confess that they must wait a little for the 
 scandal that was to set the spiteful tongues 
 
244 FIHST AND LAST. 
 
 of the world discussing her name arid fame 
 once more. 
 
 They were coming to Paris ; and that 
 information was more interesting to Ham- 
 mersley than he would have cared to 
 acknowledge to any one except that best of 
 confidantes — self. If he was strong, as he 
 imagined, should he leave or stay % If he 
 left, of course the thought of her could not 
 possibly haunt him; but if, on the other hand, 
 he stayed, should he not show her better by 
 that act his utter indifference ? He felt sure 
 he could leave ; oh, yes, quite sure. But, still, 
 it would be a great triumph to let her see for 
 herself that the heart she had trampled on 
 was not broken ; for her to meet him con- 
 tinually in society, exchange common-place 
 remarks with him, and tell, by his hopeless 
 friendliness, that the past was so forgotten 
 that he did not care enough even to resent it. 
 
 So he reasoned to himself, and so have 
 reasoned many more men similarly situated. 
 They do not know that a woman's power over 
 a man who loves her is limitless. The 
 rhetoric of bright eyes and soft lips has more 
 
'TEMPTATION. 245 
 
 influence than the eloquence of the wisest, 
 { charm they never so wisely.' 
 
 Hammersley and Saville were sitting at 
 their hotel after breakfast on the morning 
 after the Earl of Ardross and his wife had 
 arrived. Saville was busily engaged writing 
 a most important chapter in his forthcoming 
 political work ; his friend was smoking. Pre- 
 sently, seemingly weary of the enforced still- 
 ness, he took his cigar from his mouth and 
 spoke. 
 
 'I tell you what, Saville, it is a crying 
 shame to waste a beautiful morning like this 
 indoors. Leave those musty old facts, and 
 let us make an excursion to St. Cloud.' 
 
 Saville looked up with refusal plainly written 
 on his countenance. 
 
 1 My dear fellow,' he answered, ' I can't 
 help the weather. My genius won't keep till 
 wet mornings. At the present moment my 
 brain is bursting with mighty thoughts, and 
 I must commit them to paper as soon as I 
 can. If I were to keep them till to-morrow, 
 I should find they were evaporated.' And, so 
 saying, he bent down resolutely to his desk. 
 
246 
 
 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 i Very well, then,' answered Hammersley, 
 1 1 am not going to make a martyr of myself 
 on the altar of friendship. I shall go alone; 
 so take care of yourself in my absence.' And 
 therewith he went up to his room to prepare 
 himself for a drive to St. Cloud, leaving his 
 friend hard at work cracking his political nuts. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 'ONCE AGAIN.' 
 
 In about half-an-hour Mr. Hammerslej des- 
 cended to the hotel-door, and found his mail- 
 phaeton waiting for him. He was a first-rate 
 judge of horseflesh, and the two magnificent 
 chesnuts that he usually drove in it had cost 
 their owner no insignificant sum. Even Sir 
 Talbot Mostyn — that great authority in equine 
 matters, whose drag led the procession of the 
 Four-in-Hand Club — was obliged to confess 
 that Hammersley's ' turn-out ; was a neat- 
 looking thing. 
 
 The pace of the thoroughbreds, if left to 
 themselves, was extremely fast, but this 
 morning: their owner did not choose to in- 
 dulge them in their own way. He drove 
 
248 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 them comparatively slowly along the road to 
 St. Cloud — not an easy task to do either, for 
 they had not been out for two days, and they 
 pulled hard and steadily at the reins which 
 their master held so firmly. 
 
 The fact was, he had come out that morning 
 more to enjoy the drive and have a little 
 undisturbed reflection than from any particular 
 desire to view the beauties of St Cloud afresh ; 
 so he was in nowise disposed to let the ches- 
 nuts whirl him along at their own pace, and 
 land him at his destination before he had got 
 his ' think ' well over. 
 
 So he drove them along slowly, the pace, 
 however much they chafed at it, displaying 
 their superb action to perfection, and pro- 
 voking the encomiums of those passers-by 
 who were sufficient judges of horseflesh to 
 appreciate the pair stepping so proudly and 
 statelily along. 
 
 I need scarcely say that the subject of their 
 owner's thoughts was — Edith Stewart. He 
 had never really ceased to think of her since 
 the day they parted. She had been so inter- 
 woven with his life that, even absent from him, 
 
'once again.' 249 
 
 she seemed a part of Lis present being — a 
 kind of undefined spirit hovering around him, 
 and entering more or less into every thought 
 of the past or future. But since he had 
 known she was coming to Paris he had 
 thought of her with greater intensity than 
 ever, except, perhaps, in those first miserable 
 days of their separation. 
 
 He was speculating, as he drove along to 
 St. Cloud, as to the probable result of their 
 meeting again. He was wondering whether 
 the sight of him once more would recall the 
 old love to her heart ; and then — his face 
 flushed here with the keen emotion of the 
 thought — if it were so, should he prove elo- 
 quent enough to induce her to repair the 
 wrong she had done him by inflicting a deeper 
 on the man she called her husband. 
 
 He did not put it in these words to himself, 
 he only characterised repairing her wrong to 
 him as leaving her husband. In his eyes, the 
 Earl of Ardross was the robber who had stolen 
 his treasure from him, and, in taking it back, 
 he deemed he was only recovering his own. 
 He did not stop to inquire whether Ardross. 
 
250 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 had ever known that he was taking what had 
 belonged to another. 
 
 Hammersley was not a good, nor, where 
 his own feelings were concerned, a just man. 
 His conscience was his law, his passions his 
 impulse. He hated injustice in others. Had 
 he lived in the time of Louis XVI., he would 
 have sided with the people against the tyranny 
 of the nobles. Had he been a patrician in the 
 days of Ilienzi, he would have been the first to 
 lift his voice against the vices and crimes of 
 his own order. But where he had his own 
 injuries to redress, his own insults to avenge, 
 he did not pause to stay his hand from the in- 
 nocent in his passionate search after the guilty. 
 
 He could spare neither in hate nor love. 
 The peace of a good man's household could be 
 no obstacle where his sense of wrong was 
 aroused. He would have scrupled at no 
 sacrifice himself for the woman whom he 
 sought without scruple to dishonour, but he 
 would exact the sacrifice from her as well. 
 Had he seduced Edith from her husband's 
 hearth, it would seem but justice that Ardross 
 should suffer as he had suffered. 
 
c OXCE AGAIN.' 251 
 
 I daresay many of my readers will here lay 
 the book down in disgust, and designate these 
 as the feelings of a heartless, selfish sensualist. 
 I do not defend them ; but I entreat you to 
 remember that few of us are just reasoners 
 where the fiercest and strongest passions of 
 our nature are so deeply interested as his 
 were. We can see the beam in our brother's 
 eye readily enough, but the best of us have 
 but a very dim inkling of the mote that is 
 festering in our own. 
 
 Slowly as he had driven, the distance to St. 
 Cloud seemed nothing as he drew up at the 
 entrance to the park, and threw the reins 
 down. So absorbed was he in his own 
 thoughts that he scarcely noticed a small 
 phaeton, of the description usually driven 
 by ladies, drawn by a splendid pair of 
 ponies, and a diminutive groom, in perfect 
 keeping with the equipage, standing at their 
 head. 
 
 He lighted a cigar and strolled into the 
 park. He had come, as I have said, not to 
 "View the palace again, but merely for some- 
 thing to do ; so he wandered on, indifferent 
 
252 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 where lie went so long as he managed to pass 
 the time. 
 
 He' turned at last down an avenue, at the 
 far end of which was a seat. He could discern 
 at the distance the figure of a woman, evi- 
 dently its sole occupant. She had her back 
 turned towards him, and all that he could tell 
 at first was that it was too slight and fragile 
 to be that of a woman much beyond her first 
 youth. As he neared her he caught a slight 
 glimpse of her profile. You can judge of his 
 astonishment when he recognised in the 
 solitary occupant of that seat the woman who 
 had been engrossing his thoughts all the 
 morning. 
 
 His first impulse was to go back. He had 
 been revolving for a long time the manner in 
 which he should meet her ; but, now that she 
 was so very near, he felt his courage fail him 
 a little. The next moment, however, he 
 became ashamed of his weakness, and, flinging 
 away his cigar, advanced to where she was 
 sitting. 
 
 She had her eyes cast down and turned* 
 from him, apparently in deep thought. She 
 
'OXC£ AGAIN.' 253 
 
 must have heard his step upon the gravel, but 
 probably did not think it worth while to look 
 to whom it belonged, until she heard a voice 
 exclaim clearly and distinctly — 
 
 ' Lady Ardross ! ' 
 
 It seemed ages since she had heard that 
 voice, but she recognised it again in the first 
 syllable it uttered. She rose hurriedly, her 
 face first suffusing with a deep crimson, and 
 then, turning deadly pale, she held out her 
 hand mechanically. 
 
 ' Mr. Hammersley ! ' she said, simply ; but 
 she could not keep her voice steady over 
 these two words, and she could not meet the 
 eyes tlu t ware looking at her searchingly. 
 
 He noted her embarrassment, and it increased 
 his self-possession. He held her hand in his 
 for a minute, and stooped slightly down 
 to look into the eyes she held averted from 
 his own. 
 
 'My presence seems to have startled you,' 
 he said, in a low voice. ' I must apologise 
 for such a sudden interruption.' 
 
 ' You were certainly the last person I 
 expected to meet here,' she answered, with an 
 
254 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 assumption of ease in her manner which 
 seemed at strange variance with her emotion 
 of the moment before. 
 
 ' You do not believe in ghosts, then ? ' he 
 asked, gravely. 
 
 ' Believe in ghosts ! ' she repeated, her eyes 
 still turned from his. ' I do not understand 
 you.' 
 
 He laughed a low, short laugh, with a 
 tinge of irony in it. ' Am I not a ghost of 
 your past life ? ' he asked — ' a memory that 
 occasionally haunts, although I know it does 
 not trouble, you?' 
 
 She laughed, too, at this ; she was trying 
 to rally herself. 
 
 ' At any rate,' she answered, ' you are not 
 a very formidable " bogie," and I was never 
 given to superstition.' 
 
 They stood silent for some time, till Edith 
 resumed her seat, and said — 
 
 ' Will you sit down a little while till ray 
 husband (she spoke that word with crimson- 
 ing cheek) returns? He has only gone for a 
 little investigation round the park, and I 
 should like to introduce you to him ; that 
 
'ONCE AGAIX. 2.53 
 
 is to say, if you have no other engagement.' 
 
 ' I have no better engagement, thank you,' 
 he answered coolly, and sat down beside 
 her. 
 
 1 Edith ? ' he said gravely, ' or must it be 
 Lady Ardross ? ' He paused here for an 
 answer. 
 
 She looked up at him for the first time, and 
 a trace of her old girlish vivacity seemed 
 visible in her, as she answered quickly — 
 
 ' Edith, of course. It would be absurd for 
 people brought up together as children to be 
 as formal as strangers at a ball.' 
 
 ' Edith it shall be then,' he said. ' Well, 
 the question I was going to ask you was this : 
 It is most probable that we shall be con- 
 tinually crossing one another's path in life 
 till we die. The world of good society is so 
 very limited that it would be almost impos- 
 sible to escape. Shall we, under these cir- 
 cumstances, remain friends, or has your 
 marriage made it necessary that we should 
 meet as strangers ? ' 
 
 * Certainly not,' she answered. * We shall 
 be friends, of course, and the best of friends, 
 
256 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 I hope. My marriage can offer no possible 
 obstacle. ' 
 
 I The best of friends ! ' Perhaps the poor 
 child believed it when she said it. She- 
 underrated the great gulf that separates 
 friendship from love. 
 
 ' So be it then,' he said. ' It is a bargain. 
 Let us shake hands on it. Friends may 
 shake hands, I suppose ? ' 
 
 She placed her small gloved hand in his 
 without a word, and the very contact sent a 
 thrill through his frame. Poor, deluded 
 mortal ! Yesterday he had believed himself 
 cured of his love for Edith Stewart ; to-day 
 the tones of her voice, the pressure of her 
 hand, woke passion once more in every fibre. 
 
 They sat silent for some seconds after that 
 ratification of the compact, and then Ham- 
 mersley said — 
 
 I I did not send you a letter of congratu- 
 lation, because I was not sure whether, as 
 soon as you recognised the handwriting, you 
 would condescend to read it. Permit me to 
 make up for my omission now/ 
 
 ' Thank you,' she answered, simply, to her 
 old lover. 
 
f OXCE again/ 257 
 
 'You don't seem to appreciate my polite- 
 ness,' he said, lightly, 'if one may judge 
 from your exceedingly brief acknowledgment. 
 I think it a great sacrifice to ignore one's 
 feelings so gracefully as I have done. It is 
 not a pleasant thing for a man to congratulate 
 the woman he loved himself on her marriage 
 with some one else. Do you fancy it is V 
 
 She made no answer to that question. 
 
 * Have you no idea of the truth of what I 
 say, Edith V he asked again. 
 
 She was compelled to reply this time. 
 
 1 1 don't know,' she said, hurriedly and rather 
 nervously : ' I was never placed in a similar 
 position.' 
 
 Hammersley at this laughed rather good- 
 humouredly. 
 
 'You are a true woman, Edith,' he said. 
 ' You will not criminate yourself, if you pos- 
 sibly can help it.' 
 
 She laughed slightly at this too ; but there 
 was a want of the true ring" in her merriment. 
 It seemed rather to proceed from a sense of 
 obligation to contribute some share to the 
 tete-d-tete. The forced effort to do so did not 
 
 Vol. i— s 
 
258 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 escape the observation of her companion. He 
 looked keenly at her as he said — - 
 
 1 You seem to have lost something of your 
 old vivacity, Edith ? ' 
 
 She coloured ever so faintly at that remark. 
 As a rule, her emotions did not find vent, like 
 those of a dairymaid, in blushing, but perhaps 
 she had reasons for the slight carnation that 
 dyed her cheek then, reasons not unconnected 
 with the man beside her. 
 
 ' I have changed rather lately ; at least, so 
 a good many people tell me/ she answered, 
 shyly. ' I expect,' she added, in a more 
 amused and careless manner, ' I thought it 
 was time to settle down into a steady, respec- 
 table member of society/ 
 
 ' Saul among the prophets,' said her cousin, 
 sarcastically. ' And how long, pray, has this 
 change " come o'er the spirit of your dream % * 
 Is matrimony to answer for the metamor- 
 phosis I ' 
 
 ' Very likely,' she answered, quietly. The 
 difference in her old lover's tone when he 
 spoke of her marriage was too marked to 
 escape her. He had cared enough for her to 
 
'once again/ 259 
 
 resent it, that was evident, and I fancy her 
 woman's vanity and her woman's heart derived 
 a little gratification from this palpable fact. 
 She had given him that quiet answer in order 
 to further arouse his jealousy. 
 
 He accepted the bait. In the game which 
 he had mapped out to himself to play with 
 Edith Stewart he had resolved he would force 
 her to show her hand first ; but they had 
 scarcely been five minutes together ere the 
 woman's superior finesse had exposed his. 
 
 1 Lord Ardross must be a person of singular 
 powers of persuasion/ he said, all the jealousy 
 and bitterness at the past speaking in his 
 voice. ' Such a conversion is nothing short 
 of a miracle. It is a pity we have not a few 
 more missionaries with his ability among 
 our fashionable women, to change them so 
 readily from frivolous maidens into sober 
 matrons/ 
 
 She had gone too far. The bitterness with 
 which he spoke those words told her well 
 enough how deeply he was pained ; and, out 
 of very pity for that love which she had 
 madly thrown away, she could not let him 
 
260 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 think that another had had more influence 
 over her than ever he possessed. 
 
 1 1 think you are wrong in ascribing it 
 altogether to Lord Ardross's influence,' she 
 answered, softly. ' Of course, when I married, 
 I had resolved not to vex a husband in the 
 same way as (the eyes were downcast again 
 here, and the cheeks crimsoning slightly) 
 I might have done a lover ; but I fancy I 
 was a little prepared to turn good on my own 
 account, before I enjoyed the benefit of his 
 assistance/ 
 
 That little admission might mean much or 
 nothing ; told, too, in such a hesitating way. 
 To a sanguine lover it might have served as a 
 peg on which to hang some hopes of success ; 
 to a doubting one, it left him almost as much 
 in the dark as ever. 
 
 * You have really turned good then ? ' he 
 asked, gravely. 
 
 ' Good to what I was, I think/ she said, 
 with a smile. 
 
 1 And what does the attainment of such 
 perfection imply ? ' he continued — ' renuncia- 
 tion of the errors of former ways, flirtation, 
 
'ONCE AGAIN.' 261 
 
 breaking the hearts of your own admirers, and 
 turning those of the admirers of others from 
 their allegiance ? " These were thy gods, 
 Israel ; " were they not ? ' 
 
 1 1 am afraid so,' she answered quietly. It 
 was a pretty correct catalogue of the besetting 
 sins of her maidenhood. 
 
 * And you have really given up flirting ? ! 
 he asked incredulously. 
 
 c Really and truly/ she replied gravely : 
 4 1 never flirt now/ 
 
 It was not the coquetry of a pretty woman, 
 assuming a virtue to which she had no pre- 
 tensions : truth spoke in her voice and in her 
 eyes. Her lover paused a moment before 
 he said — 
 
 ' It would have been much better if you 
 had given it up long ago/ 
 
 1 Heaven knows, it would have been better ! ' 
 she answered, with a sudden energy and 
 passion that startled her listener. 
 
 He scarcely knew how to interpret that 
 sudden burst. Did it betray remorse for the 
 folly which had cost them their parting, or 
 was it the memory of that other victim lying 
 
2G2 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 far off in his self-made grave, lured to his own 
 undoing by her fatal beauty, which smote her 
 conscience so sharply ? Aye ! could he have 
 read Edith's heart at that moment, he would 
 have known it was remorse for the living, not 
 the dead lover, that had stirred her up to that 
 bitter self-accusation. 
 
 1 Repentance comes too late in your case ; 
 as, in fact, it usually does in everything/ he 
 said, sternly. ' You preferred the short-lived 
 folly. It had its bright side, doubtless, while 
 it lasted. You can hardly complain because 
 now you have the picture reversed. Remorse 
 is the usual penalty that weakness pays for 
 the unworthy things it sets its heart upon/ 
 
 Surely Edith was changed. She suffered 
 him to upbraid her now without a word of 
 protest, whereas in the old days it would 
 have provoked a storm of indignation. But 
 then it was only lately she had learned the 
 * unworthiness ' of the things she had set her 
 heart upon in comparison with a true man's 
 love. 
 
 They had not much more time left to 
 converse together, for in a few moments the 
 
'OXCE AGAIN. 263 
 
 earl came up the avenue. He discovered one 
 more added to the company he expected to 
 find, but this fact did not discompose him in 
 the least. He was one of those very rare 
 specimens of humankind — a man who could 
 love very deeply without being afflicted by 
 that painful complaint, jealousy. This was, 
 doubtless, more owing to his open, straight- 
 forward, and bonhomme temperament than to 
 personal vanity, or to the most implicit confi- 
 dence in his wife, undeniably great as the 
 former, and completely trusting as the latter, 
 were. Had he seen Edith surrounded by a 
 hundred men, night after night, his equa- 
 nimity would never have been disturbed in 
 the slightest degree. Caesar's wife was above 
 suspicion. There is no question but that such 
 husbands are a great blessing. 
 
 Edith introduced Hammersley to her hus- 
 band with a certain amount of shyness, which, 
 however, was happily not noticed by Ardross, 
 and only dimly surmised by her cousin. Her 
 code of honour was purer than her lover's, and 
 she rather shrank in her own heart from 
 assisting in such a mockery as friendship 
 
2G4 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 between men who, had Ardross known all, 
 must be rivals to the death. 
 
 The earl was very delighted to make the 
 acquaintance of his wife's cousin. He was a 
 good, genial soul, and would have been 
 gratified to know anyone furnished with such 
 good credentials as were afforded by Edith's 
 recommendation ; and Hammersley murmured 
 something expressive of pleasure too, not very 
 distinctly though, for the words somewhat 
 choked him. He could not feel charitably 
 towards the man who enjoyed what he had 
 hoped to win for himself once, who could kiss 
 the lips on which a short time ago he had 
 pledged his faith. Nor was it unnatural this 
 feeling. We don't like to see a favourite dog 
 or bird receiving from another the kindness 
 we used to show to them ; and, certainly, a 
 woman on whom we centred all our hopes of 
 life and happiness is of more value than ' many 
 sparrows.' 
 
 The earl began to talk of St. Cloud, and 
 thence, by an easy divergence, passed to the 
 affairs of France. He was of the same politics 
 as Hammersley ; not so pronounced, certainly, 
 
'ONCE AGAIN.' 2G5 
 
 but still a good Liberal, with an ' enlightened 
 self-interest ; ' and on that topic he got on well 
 with him. But his eloquence, I fear, was 
 rather lost on his listener, for the one question 
 that Hammersley kept repeating to himself, 
 and trying to answer, was — ' Does she, can 
 she, love this man she calls her husband ? ' 
 
 He was a fine, stalwart figure, tolerably 
 good-looking — such a man as many women 
 would be proud to love. But he knew Edith's 
 romantic temperament. There was no romance 
 about Ardross ; he could never have ascended 
 to poetry in his loves or hates ; he was 
 simple, plain, and straightforward ; and, 
 therefore, it seemed strange to Hammersley, 
 knowing his cousin so well, that she could 
 love him. 
 
 Happily, such doubts did not disturb the 
 mind of Lord Ardross. He fancied himself 
 beloved, and that was enough. He was not 
 one of those exacting lovers (I am afraid 
 women like such the best though) who are 
 perpetually gauging the affections of those 
 they love. I don't think he had once asked 
 his wife if she cared deeply for him : he had 
 
26 G FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 taken what she said when she accepted him 
 as sufficient proof; and everything that had 
 occurred since had only tended to confirm 
 the favourable impression with which he 
 commenced. 
 
 At length Hammersley thought it time to 
 go. The earl and his wife intended to look 
 over the palace, and he was in no humour 
 to accompany them ; so he offered his 
 adieux. 
 
 The earl, however, was not going to let 
 him off so easily. 
 
 'I suppose,' he said, laughingly, f the pros- 
 pect of exploring the palace alarms you. 
 Well, in that case, we will excuse you ; but, 
 if you have no better engagement, I must 
 insist upon your dining with us this evening 
 at our hotel, or, if not to-night, on the first 
 opportunity/ 
 
 ' I have no better engagement,' returned 
 Hammersley, slowly — he had a little hesitation 
 at thrusting his head so soon into the lion's 
 very den — ' but I can hardly accept it at once, 
 for this reason : I have no wife to consult 
 about my arrangements, but I have a friend, 
 
'once again/ 2G7 
 
 and we are engaged to dine together to-night.' 
 
 Before the earl could reply, his wife anti- 
 cipated him. 
 
 ' Mr. Saville is with you, is he not ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 Her cousin bowed his head. 
 
 ' Then if he will come, bring him too. We 
 shall be most happy to see him/ 
 
 ' By all means,' added Lord Ardross. ' I 
 should be extremely glad to make Mr. Saville's 
 acquaintance. He is a man of whom I have 
 heard a great deal ; so pray induce him to 
 accompany you/ 
 
 1 1 don't expect I shall have much diffi- 
 culty,' said Hammersley, with a smile. ' A 
 bachelor dinner of two is not so attractive. I 
 can promise you to bring him/ 
 
 ' In that case au revoir till the evening/ 
 And the earl shook hands heartily with him, 
 while Edith laid her hand for a second in his, 
 as if she feared her husband would detect a 
 deeper significance in hftr salutation to her 
 cousin than she was willing to acknowledge to 
 herself. 
 
 So Hammersley drove back from St. Cloud, 
 
2G8 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 with a strange feeling almost akin to happiness 
 upon him. The earl had tempted him to 
 enter his house. Was he responsible now if 
 affairs should turn out as he was not without 
 a hope they should ? Yet this frankness of 
 Ardross troubled him a little. He would 
 rather have met him as an open foe than as 
 an unsuspecting friend, utterly ignorant of the 
 causes of his rival's hate. 
 

 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 'how will it end?' 
 
 Hammersley found his friend stretched at 
 full length upon the sofa smoking a cigar, with 
 all appearance of comfort and contentment on 
 his features and in his attitude. He had just 
 been concocting, or rather had just finished 
 concocting, a somewhat lengthy chapter on 
 the subject of peasant proprietors, and he was 
 now reclining, after his great mental fatigue, 
 and digesting his arguments with great inward 
 satisfaction. 
 
 1 Well, old fellow ! ' he exclaimed, in a 
 genial tone, as Hammersley entered the apart- 
 ment, 'how have you enjoyed yourself? Did the 
 chesnuts pull, as usual, like two young steam- 
 engines ? ' Saville had driven them once, and 
 that solitary experience had been enough for 
 
270 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 him. Pie had no notion of making an exertion 
 of pleasure. ' When I drive,' he had remarked 
 to their owner on returning, ' I like a pair of 
 rational animals, who are wise enough to 
 study their own and their master's interests 
 by going at a reasonable pace, not a couj^le of 
 fiery young devils who seem bent on pulling 
 your arms out of their sockets.' 
 
 ' Much the same,' answered Hammersley, 
 carelessly ; then, bursting with his news, he 
 added, eagerly, ' Saville, I have had such an 
 adventure since I saw you.' 
 
 His friend looked at him keenly. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, slowly, ' I must say you 
 look as if something out of the common had 
 ruffled your serenity. To put it plainly, you 
 appear excited.' 
 
 ' Guess what it was ? ' interrogated the 
 other. 
 
 Mr. Saville reflected ; but, somehow, the 
 peasant proprietors would mingle with his 
 ideas, so his reflections were not much to the 
 purpose. 
 
 ' A petticoat is at the bottom of it, I 
 suppose I ' he said, sagaciously. 
 
'how will it end?' 271 
 
 ■ Eight/ nodded Hammersley ; ' it lias to 
 do with a petticoat.' 
 
 ' Then I give it up/ answered Saville. ' My 
 brain has been exercised rather severely this 
 morning, and my talent for guessing conun- 
 drums become impaired in consequence. ' 
 
 Hammersley placed his elbows upon the 
 table and leaned forward. 
 
 1 1 have met a very old friend/ he said, 
 briefly. 
 
 * A very old friend ? ' repeated Saville. ' I 
 have it/ he exclaimed, eagerly : * Edith, for a 
 thousand pounds.' 
 
 Hammersley nodded his head in confirma- 
 tion of his friend's surmise. 
 
 1 Where did you meet her ? ' questioned 
 Saville. 
 
 ' In the park at St. Cloud/ was the answer. 
 
 * Why she only arrived in Paris yesterday. 
 What was she doing there % ' 
 
 * Admiring the beauties of nature, I pre- 
 sume ; at least, she seemed to be absorbed in 
 a deep reverie about something or other when 
 I came upon the scene.' 
 
 * She was with her husband, of course ? ' 
 asked Saville. 
 
272 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 1 Not at first. I walked promiscuously 
 down one of the avenues and perceived a 
 solitary figure sitting on a bench at the 
 bottom. I did not pay much attention to it 
 at first ; but, on obtaining a nearer view, I 
 found it was not so unfamiliar. You may 
 guess my surprise when, on turning round, she 
 disclosed the features of Edith Stewart that 
 was, Lady Ardross that is/ 
 
 1 Well, and what were your proceedings 
 when you recognised her ? ' 
 
 ' She rose hurriedly, and we shook hands. 
 She seemed rather nervous and embarrassed 
 at our sudden rencontre ; but I talked a little 
 on different matters, and then we sat down 
 together and had some more conversation, till 
 her husband came up. I was introduced to 
 him, and he received me most cordially ; for 
 what possible reason I cannot conceive. The 
 upshot of it was that, when I left them, he 
 invited me to dinner, and afterwards you ; and 
 her ladyship warmly seconded the invitation.' 
 
 * A very pretty little adventure,' said 
 Saville, when he had concluded his narration. 
 ' And what is Crcesus like ? ' 
 
'how will it end?' 273 
 
 1 From a first impression," answered Ham- 
 mersley, thoughtfully, ' I should say Croesus 
 was a man of that extraordinarily genial 
 nature which overflows upon everything and 
 everybody around him. Heaven knows, he 
 has not much reason to be polite to me.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he is not acquainted with certain 
 passages in his wife's past history,' said 
 Saville, with a smile. 
 
 ' Probably not. Edith was never very 
 great at confessions, and perhaps she fancied 
 such confidences might destroy her hopes of 
 becoming Lady Ardross. Not that I fancy he 
 is addicted to jealousy : he seems almost too 
 good-natured to suspect anybody.' 
 
 ' Trusting being ! Such guileiessness is most 
 refreshing in the nineteenth century,' said 
 Saville, sarcastically. ■ But you have not told 
 me much about her ladyship. How did she 
 receive you ? With open arms — I mean meta- 
 phorically, of course — or with a stately dignity, 
 befitting a present wife and probable mother ? ' 
 
 1 To confess the truth, Saville,' answered 
 Hammersley, ' that is more than I can tell 
 myself. Edith is such an unaccountable being, 
 
 Vol. i — T 
 
274 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 that I defy the devil himself to make her out. 
 She was decidedly nervous and embarrassed — 
 that was palpable enough ; but whether it was 
 due to the mere suddenness of our meeting, 
 or to some little remnant of affection and re- 
 morse still buried in a corner of her heart, I 
 really cannot guess any better than you could.' 
 
 ' She is not subject to embarrassment as a 
 rule, I should say,' rejoined Saville, thought- 
 fully ; ' she has been too well trained for that. 
 Fashionable etiquette does not permit the 
 exhibition of vulgar emotion.' 
 
 ' I really cannot tell/ repeated Hammersley, 
 ' whether she loves me still or not, or, further, 
 whether she cares for her husband. Ardross 
 is the last kind of man I should have fancied 
 Edith would choose, unless, of course, she 
 merely married him for position. But, in the 
 first place, I don't think she is mercenary 
 enough to marry a man solely for social advan- 
 tages ; and, secondly, she must have had chances 
 of men in as good, if not higher, position than 
 Ardross, though not so wealthy perhaps.' 
 
 ' I am afraid it is a riddle I can't solve, 
 seeing I know so little of the lady's real 
 
'HOW WILL IT END?' 275 
 
 character or feelings,' said Saville, drily. 'But 
 I want to know about you : Has the sight of 
 her set fire to the little flame again, or has 
 Lady Ardross cured you of Edith Stewart ? ' 
 
 Hammersley looked down a moment, as if 
 ashamed of his weakness. Then he answered, 
 slowly : 
 
 ' I may as well tell the truth now as later 
 on. I thought yesterday I was cured. I 
 knew I could never love another as I had 
 loved her, but I thought my love would be 
 buried with her girlhood — that it could not be 
 revived in the wife. When I saw her again 
 to-day — when I took her hand in mine and 
 looked in her eyes again — I found my mis- 
 take. I knew that I loved her as madly as 
 ever, if not more so, for the very reason that 
 the barrier between us seemed greater. I 
 knew once more that Edith Stewart — I cannot 
 call her by that other cursed name — was born 
 to be my bane through life.' 
 
 He burjed his face between his hands, in 
 the abject despair of a man who knows and 
 curses his own weakness, yet cannot conquer 
 it. Yesterday he had seemed so strong in his 
 
276 FIRST AXD LAST. 
 
 armour of fancied indifference ; to-day he felt 
 so utterly powerless with the hurt that a 
 woman's bright eyes and a woman's low voice 
 had dealt to his peace. 
 
 * I am sorry, deeply sorry, for this meeting,' 
 said Saville, gravely. ' Had I thought there 
 still dwelt such fire in the old embers, I would 
 have counselled you to put miles and miles 
 between yourself and her. Far better that it 
 should be so. You love her madly, and even 
 were she to requite your passion a thousand- 
 fold, what remains but a deeper misery for your 
 sundered lives ? Her marriage has created a 
 gulf, over which neither can pass. You are more 
 divided now, though you stood side by side, 
 than if mountains and seas rose between you/ 
 
 ' She may yet repair the wrong she has 
 done me,' said Hammersley, in a low voice. 
 ' Marriage bonds can be broken ! ' 
 
 1 What ! ' exclaimed Saville, in a voice, the 
 sternness of which rather startled his listener, 
 prepared as he was for an outburst at that 
 intimation. ' Is it possible that I can under- 
 stand you ? Do you hint at the possibility of 
 Edith's bringing dishonour on her husband ? 
 
'how will it end?' 277 
 
 Is your cruel love to be satisfied with nothing 
 short of such sacrifices as her fair fame and 
 his peace? Is this the love you pretend — a love 
 that would take advantage of her weakness to 
 make her play the harlot ? I blush for you, 
 man — that you, an English gentleman, should 
 stand here calmly plotting the destruction of 
 a woman's soul to gratify your selfish lust ! ' 
 
 ' You only see one side of the question,' 
 answered Hammersley, bitterly. ' You pity 
 him — you only think of his sufferings. Give a 
 thought now to mine. What do you think I 
 have felt since I knew that my hopes and 
 heart were alike blighted ? Do you fancy I 
 have a shred of compassion for the man who 
 has come between us ; whose every caress is 
 laid upon lips at whose bidding I would lay 
 down my life ; whose hand clasps that which I 
 would peril damnation itself to win ? Had I 
 not the first right to her ? Was she not mine 
 by a compact more holy and binding than the 
 hollow mockery which a hired priest mumbled 
 over their heads ? I tell you/ he cried, pas- 
 sionately, l he is the adulterer, not I. I only 
 seek to take back what he has robbed me of.' 
 
278 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 He spoke with the intense, burning pas- 
 sion that had been slumbering and smoul- 
 dering within his breast for the long, weary- 
 months he had been debarred a sight of her face. 
 
 ' I don't understand your code of morals/ 
 answered Saville, coldly. ' You are heated 
 now, and probably exaggerate both what you 
 feel and wish ; but what I inferred just now I 
 will repeat in plainer terms. If you go to that 
 man's house, sit at his table, look in his face, 
 take his hand, while you are calmly and deli- 
 berately plotting his wife's dishonour, I tell you 
 you are an unprincipled, selfish scoundrel, and 
 a man from whom every honest fellow-creature 
 would shrink with loathing and disgust.' 
 
 He spoke this last sentence sternly, with 
 rather a tinge of passion in his sternness, for 
 he hated injustice, whether social or political ; 
 and this seemed to him a foul wrong. 
 
 At the end of his speech, Hammersley 
 burst out into a laugh. So incongruous did 
 it seem in contrast to his emotion of the 
 moment before, that Saville was almost 
 inclined to charitably ascribe his objectionable 
 morality to brief mental derangement. 
 
'how will it end?' 279 
 
 f My dear fellow/ he said, lightly, 'pray 
 don't get upon stilts about the unfortunate 
 Lord Ardross. I have no doubt he is the 
 happiest of men, and his wife the most 
 immaculate of countesses. I don't expect for 
 a moment that our relations will ever cause 
 any scandal, or lose me the friendship and 
 esteem of such a highly moral gentleman as 
 yourself. I like to go into heroics occa- 
 sionally before you, for it really is a charming 
 spectacle to see you in such virtuous indig- 
 nation as you displayed just now/ 
 
 ' You may be mad, or you may not/ 
 answered Saville, scarcely mollified by this 
 last speech. l In my own opinion, your 
 conversation for the last ten minutes has had 
 a strong flavour of Bedlam and strait-waist- 
 coats ; but I know this for certain : your 
 meeting with Edith this morning cannot, 
 considering your feelings towards her, result 
 in much good, and may be productive of 
 considerable harm, if not positive sin. I 
 should be glad now to be able to give a guess 
 as to how it will end/ 
 
 'True,' said Hammersley, getting up and 
 
280 FIRST AND LAST. 
 
 walking to the mantelpiece, from whence he 
 surveyed his friend with rather an amused 
 expression. f That is the problem, is it not ? 
 Given a married woman and a single man, the 
 former of whom did love once, and the latter 
 loves still ; given, moreover, abundant oppor- 
 tunities of meeting again — how will it end? 
 I am afraid we can't say D. E. F. to it yet ; 
 but suppose we set about the first step towards 
 its elimination by dining together to-night at 
 Lord Ardross's ? ' 
 
 ' I will go with you/ answered Saville, 
 spitefully, ' if it is only to see how you behave 
 yourself, and, if necessary, to give his lordship 
 a hint in time ? ' 
 
 ' Don't trouble yourself, my dear boy,' said 
 Hammersley, easily ; ' the normal temperature 
 of Edith's passions is about ten degrees below 
 freezing point. It is only on rare occasions 
 they get up to summer heat, and they will 
 have to be considerably above that before she 
 shocks the world in general, and you in par- 
 ticular, by eloping with her old lover.' 
 
 John Heywood, Excelsior Printing Works, Hulme Hall Road, Manchester. 
 
(MARCH, 187J 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLETS 
 
 IsTIEW 
 
 PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY, Publisher, 
 
 10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
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 Cross, and the terse condensed humour of the conversations. There is a jovial 
 gaiety about the book from beginning to end that is essentially colonial, and it will 
 » >e welcomed in the many homes whence some son or brother has gone to engage in 
 the struggle for wealth in the busy Australian Colonies it so well describes, a* 
 well u by all who can appreciate the well-told tale of a hard-fought fight." — 
 Morning Po&t. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 THIRST AND LAST. By F. Vernon-White. 2 vols., 21s. 
 /^ OLDEN MEMORIES. By Efme Leigh. 2 vols., 21s 
 
 GRAYWORTH : a Story of Country Life. By Carey 
 Hazlbwood. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 " Carey Hazlewood has a keen eye for character, and can write well. 
 The contrast between the practical and the ideal life, as exemplified in 
 the characters of Dr. Perry and Mr. Benson, the over-conscientious 
 curate, is admirably drawn." — Examiner. 
 
 '■ Many traces of good feeling and good taste, little touches of quiet 
 humour, denoting kindly observation, and a genuine love of the 
 country." — Sta udn rd. 
 
 " There is something idylic in the chapter in which Abel Armstrong's 
 wo.,ing is described, and nothing could be prettier than the way in 
 which Miss Mary Anna Brown contrives to let the simple-minded 
 curate understand that she loves him, and that unless he returns her 
 love she must die." — Atheaccum. 
 
 FATHERLAND. By Madame Von Oppen. 2 vols., 
 
 21s. 
 
 N 
 
 T)ERCY LOCKHART. By F. W. Baxter. 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 " A bright, fresh, healthy story The book is eminently 
 
 readable. . . . Some readers will perhaps wish that it filled three 
 volumes instead of two. It is not often that we see ground for echoing 
 such a wish, but in the present instance it is both just and natural to 
 do so." — Standard. 
 
 '" Mr. Frank Baxter, unfortunately some time deceased, w. 
 member of the locally-influential and much-respected family in Dundee 
 of that name, and devoted himself in the intervals of business to literary 
 an interesting work of fiction, fresh, br< healthful 
 
 in style and moral, we heartily commend ' Percy Lockhart.' " — L 
 burgh Oovrant. 
 
 " After the perfumed atmosphere of many recent novels, it is really 
 refreshing to get a breath of mountain air. The author writes like a 
 gentleman.'' — Athena urn. 
 
 "The novel altogether deserves praise. It i in tone, interest- 
 
 ing in plot and incident, and generally so well wi'itten that it 
 would be able justly to find fault with it." — v 
 
 "Few better novels in these days rind their way into circula 
 libraries, and we cannot d mbt its su y which holds the 
 
 reader, though it has no clash of sensationalism — if graphic portrait) 
 of character, and lively, thoughtful, and instructive colloquies, and 
 animated and accurate descriptions of varied see: . le a work of 
 
 fiction to favourable reception — this one ha 1 claim.'' — DumLe 
 
 Courier. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 R 
 
 AVENSDALE. 3 vols., 31s. Gd. 
 
 "A well-told, natural, and wholesome Btory." — Standard. 
 
 " This powerfully-writl en tale is founded on facts connected with that unsettle 
 
 period of Ir1 p h history which succeeded the Rebellion of 1798 The 
 
 interest of a well-managed and very complicated plot is sustained to the end ; 
 
 and the fi thy tone of the book, as well a.s the command of lanj 
 
 possessed by its avithor in such a remarkable degree, will insure for it a 
 popularity, as it contrasts strongly with the vapid and sentimental, as well as 
 wi*!i tlic sensational publications so rife at the present day." — Morning Post. 
 
 ■■ The story gives us a tolerable idea of Ireland just after the Union, anil i- 
 singularly free from exaggeration of every sort. The unsettled state of society at 
 that time is brought clearly before us. After the lapse of two generations there 
 i« no im p r o pr i ety in bringing on to the scene some of the actors in the exciting 
 drama which took place at the close of the last century ; and life is given to 
 story by the introduction of many of those who played at that time prominent 
 
 parts in Irish history It is fairly interesting, and thoroughly whole 
 
 some in tone."— Athem 
 
 " No one con deny merit to the new writer of this romance. . . . To write 
 of the Gaelic people, who are, perhaps, inconveniently asserting themselves all 
 over the world, in the style that was popular thirty years ago, would be too 
 flagrant an anachronism. Notions of the Irish are yearly more and more con- 
 i ; and opinions concerning their merits and prospects are in so transitional 
 a state thai perhaps, in some Irish circles, old estimatesjire generally 
 
 dismissed as obsolete. Let us praise the author of ' Ravensdale ' for perceiving 
 this. His peasants are not 'men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.' 
 lie avoids the patois, so rankly racy of the soil, which has been generally used in 
 Irish fiction ; nor does he indulge in the conventional ' local colour ' so wonderful 
 right an 1 depth that there is nothing like it in other human societies. . . . 
 It is free from vulgarity and immorality, from tricks of style and imitation of 
 those dealers in Irish fiction who, from Pynes Moryson to the author of ' Realities 
 of Irish Life,' have done irreparable mischief by using the arts of caricature, and 
 every method of insincerity, to increase the antagonism between English and 
 Irish modes of life, and impede that mutual acquaintance which might have 
 secured mutual respect." — Saturday R< vii w. 
 
 THE SEDGEBOROTJGH WORLD. By A. Farebrother. 
 2 vols., 21s. 
 " There is much cleverness in this novel. . . . There is certainly promise- 
 in the author." — Graphic. 
 
 "There is no little novelty and a large fund of amusement in 'The Sedge- 
 borough World.'" — illustrated London Nt 
 
 s 
 
 ONS OF DIVES. 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 " The novel has merit, and is very readable," — Echo. 
 
 " A well-principled and natural story." — Athenoeum. 
 
 "A fair, readable, business-like, weU-ending love story The volumes 
 
 ).. ax no autl i 8 none, but that does not interfere with the interest of them." — 
 Illustrated London News. 
 
 "A good and well told story of modern life, with characters that interest and 
 
 ■a plot that stimulates The novel is to be commended ; and readers in 
 
 „ ireh of amusi ment will do well to place its name in their lists." Sunday Time* 
 
 "The reader is not taken into scenes of poverty or wretchedness, but kept in 
 rich drawing-roonis and well-appointed country houses, while every character in 
 •whom any intei est can be taken reaches the height of good fortune and happiness 
 before leaving the stage." — Globe. 
 
 " A pleasant and readable little story The incidents are natural, 
 
 and the plot, though slight, is well contrived and well worked out, so that they 
 may be fairly left to the reader's own quiet investigation and judgment. "- 
 Sta i" lard. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 THE SURGEON'S SECRET. By Sydney Mostyn. 
 Crown 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 "A most exciting novel — the best on our list. It may be fairly- 
 recommended as a very extraordinary book." — John Bull. 
 
 "A stirring drama, with a number of closely-connected scenes, in 
 which there are not a few legitimately sensational situations. There 
 are many spirited passages." — Public Opinion. 
 
 THE TRUE STORY OF HUGH NOBLE'S FLIGHT. 
 By the Authoress of " What Her Face Said." 10s. 6d. 
 
 "A pleasant story, with touches of exquisite pathos, well told by 
 one who is master of an excellent and sprightly style." — Standard. 
 
 " An unpretending, yet very pathetic story. . . . We can con- 
 gratulate the author on having achieved a signal success." — Graphic. 
 
 " The observation of men and women, the insight into motives, the 
 analysis of what is called character, all these show that half a century's 
 experience has not been thrown away on the writer, and through her 
 may suggest much that will be appreciated by her readers." — Athenaum. 
 
 TT7AGES : a Story in Three Books. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 WEIMAR'S TRUST. By Mrs. Edward Christian. 
 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 WILL SHE BEAR IT ? A Tale of the Weald. 3 vols., 
 31s. 6d. 
 
 " This is a clever story, easily and naturally told, and the reader's 
 
 interest sustained throughout A pleasant, readable book, 
 
 such as we can heartily recommend as likely to do good service in the 
 dull and foggy days before us." — Spectator. 
 
 " Written with simplicity, good feeling, and good sense, and marked 
 throughout by a high moral tone, which is all the more powerful from 
 never being obtrusive The interest is kept up with increas- 
 ing power to the last." — Standard. 
 
 " The story is a love tale, and the interest is almost entirely confined 
 to the heroine, who is certainly a good girl, bearing unmerited sorrow 
 with patience and resignation. The heroine's young friend is al.-'> 
 attractive. ... As for the seventh commandment, its breach is not 
 even alluded to." — Athenccum. 
 
 " There is abundance of individuality in the story, the characters are 
 all genuine, and the atmosphere of the novel is agreeable. It is really 
 interesting. On the whole, it may be recommended for general 
 perusal." — Sunday Times. 
 
 " A story of English country life in the early part of this century, 
 thoroughly clever and interesting, and pleasantly and naturally told. 
 
 In every way we entertain a very high opinion of thin 
 
 book." — Graphic. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand 
 
Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 NOTICE-TO PROMOTERS OF THE TEMPERANCE CAUSE, ETC. 
 
 THE INSIDIOUS THIEF: 
 
 A TALE FOR HUMBLE FOLKS. 
 
 BY ONE OF THEMSELVES- 
 
 Crown 8vo, 5s. Second Edition. 
 
 " Ought to be in the hands of every temperance lecturer and 
 missionary in the kingdom, and in every Mechanics' Institute library, 
 for it is an able, interesting, and persuasive volume on the evils of strong 
 drink, that cannot fail to do much good." — Court Circular. 
 
 u Have we here a new writer or a practised hand turned to a new 
 subject? In either case we congratulate ourselves upon our good 
 fortune. We do not hesitate to characterise ' The Insidious Thief' as 
 a most original and powerful book The only disappoint- 
 ment felt on concluding the perusal of the last chapter was that a 
 story so humorous and pathetic, so powerful and absorbing, had come 
 to an end." — The Templar. 
 
 " Few will take it up without going right through it with avidity, and 
 without being converted to teetotalisin — feeling a deeper hatred to that 
 frightful and damnable vice which works such terrible results. . . . 
 Our temperance readers ought to get this book and lend it to all their 
 friends." — Literary World. 
 
 " The power with which this story is wrought out is very remarkable, 
 and its pages literally sparkle with home truths and loving sympathies. 
 From the first chapter to the last the interest of the reader is unflag- 
 gingly sustained. The characters are full of life, energy, and reality. 
 We take to our hearts, as it were, the eccentric old sailor, Uncle Wood. 
 
 . . . We heartily recommend ' The Insidious Thief ' to all who 
 wish to do battle with the iniquitous and evil -propagating drinking 
 customs of our age. It will arm them with many a keen and trenchant 
 weapon for the battle that must be fought." — Ew/lish Good Templar. 
 
 "'The Insidious Thief is a protest against the prevalent abuse of 
 strong drinks. We see on the title page that it is a 'Tale for Humble 
 Folks, written by One of Themselves ; ' and, we think, the simple 
 earnestness of the style will bring its advice home to its readers among 
 the lower classes. The author does not fall into the common error of 
 condemning every man who drinks a glass of beer — that wholesale 
 condemnation does a great deal more harm than good. There are some 
 humorous touches in it, and the character of Uncle Wood, the sailor, 
 is excellently drawn. . . . We recommend this volume warmly to 
 our readers. It is excellently printed and elegantly bound." — Lloyd's 
 Weekly Newspaper. 
 
 u We are bound to say that it is in some respects very powerful, and 
 in no sense the ' ordinary temperance tale' — if ty that is meant a hash 
 of weak and unnaturally overdrawn portraits and long inconsequent 
 BermonLsings. This story is carefully written, and clearly by a practised 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tincley's Publications. 
 
 band, who knows low life well, both in its worst and best aspects, and 
 who can artistically select and condense, and thus gain forcible dramatic 
 effects, not unrelieved occasionally by a self-controlled humour, which 
 would be sardonic now and then, were it not that it is purified by the 
 unmistakable presence of a certain patient wisdom which waits for 
 results. Here and there this writer, when dealing with certain types, 
 reminds us, in his recurring sudden quaintness of touch, of Mr. Henry 
 Holbeach ; and again, in his power of deepening an impiession by a 
 
 subtle representation of detail, of Mr. Farjeon A book of 
 
 this sort should be tested by the whole impression produced ; and in 
 this respect it stands the test well — better than any other temperance 
 story we remember to have read. It is, in truth, valuable also inr 
 practical hints ; and, in the best form, sets forth lessons which most of 
 us would be better to remember, with regard to adverse influences at 
 work among the struggling classes." — Nonconformist. 
 
 " Here is an excellent temperance tale from the pen of a ready and 
 powerful writer, issued by a publisher not connected with the temperance 
 movement. The tale is one of great interest, and deserves the hearty 
 patronage of the temperance public." — The Temperance Record. 
 
 11 The thief here pourtrayed is that very insidious one, drink — or the 
 habit of drinking — which, in truth, robs a man of everything. Written 
 for humble folks, by one of themselves, the story cannot fail to have a 
 good and wholesome influence among the class for whom it is intended. 
 One good feature in it, as distinguished from temperance stories 
 generally, is that, though it paints the drunkard's fate as black as 
 possible, it restores him repentant to his friends and to his position in 
 society." — Standard. 
 
 " A very remarkable tale concerning a man who. being in a respectal le 
 situation, lost it, and brought himself and his family to ruin by 
 drunkenness ; and afterwards recovered himself by total abstinence. 
 
 The author displays considerable power of narration, and 
 
 i a rries the reader along with unflagging interest to the end 
 
 We should be glad to see a new and cheaper edition obtaining (what it 
 well deserves) a large circulation. The graphic faculty of the author, 
 as displaj-ed in m<.re than one character and scene, should be cultivated 
 and encouraged, and particularly when it is exercised in a good cause." 
 — The Watchman. 
 
 " This is described on the title page as 'A Tale for Humble Folks by 
 One of Themselves,' but it may be read with interest by all conditions of 
 people, find with advantage to some of them. The tale is told with 
 genuine feeling always, and occasionally with a quaint humour which 
 readers will admire. There are some admirably drawn characters 
 
 introduced " — The News of the World. 
 
 " This is a temperance tale of more than ordinary ability 
 
 He (the author) writes with an earnestness and vigour which cannot 
 
 fail to make a profound impression on his readers Many 
 
 of the characters are well drawn, and much humour is developed in the 
 sketch of Uncle "Wood — a second edition, on a small scale, of the 
 inimitable Captain Cuttle." — The Leeds Mercury. 
 
 " In plain and simple language, without the hast attempt at literary 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 1C, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
10 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 art or adornment, the author of this brief story tells the history of a 
 family of which he was the eldest son. The story is that of a clerk in 
 humble circumstances, whose home consists of two rooms in the heart of 
 the city of London. Here, with his young wife and two children, he enjoys 
 much true domestic happiness, until he becomes acquainted with the 
 1 insidious thief.' .... He falls ; and the chapters in which this 
 part of the story is told lead us to expect something much more care- 
 fully worked out, fuller in detail, and aboundiug in dramatic writing, 
 
 from the pen of this author at a future day The book is 
 
 right in tone, and sufficiently entertaining to make readers desire a 
 further acquaintance with its writer. Temperance people ought to 
 have their attention called to the Insidious Thief, which will form an 
 excellent addition to the stock of tales advocating their principles." — 
 Tin Derby Mercury. 
 
 " The style is homely but graphic ; the characters are clearly 
 drawn : one of them, Uncle Wood, is decidedly an original. . . . 
 The interest of the tale is well sustained, and the lesson taught will, 
 no doubt, make it as useful as it is entertaining." — The Alliance News. 
 
 " ' The Insidious Thief ' is a well-told temperance story — not much 
 as a tale, and failing of poetical justice ; but excellently and skil- 
 fully pointing a moral. It is evidently written by one well acquainted 
 with life, and possessing considerable literary skill. We should 
 rejoice for it to find its way to the home of every working man, 
 and of many who, like the hero, move in a higher sphere of social 
 life." — British Quarterly Review. 
 
 " That a second edition of a book, written by an unknown pen, has 
 been called for in the course of a very few months — nay, of not many 
 weeks, is a ciicumstance to provoke curiosity, if not to induce 
 respect. 
 
 " The great feature and fault of all temperance tales written down 
 to the 'League' level is, the necessity which seems laid upon the 
 authors to make all their dramatis personce live, and move, and have 
 their being in an atmosphere of drink. The effect, if not morally 
 appalling, is at least physically nauseating. . . . The ' Insidious 
 Thief ' is a story written in avowed hostility to strong drink ; but it 
 conducts the campaign after other tactics than those of the ' Hope 
 Brigade.' . , . One thing about the present story stands forth in 
 happy contrast to the general destruction assigned to victims in tem- 
 perance tales : the unhappy prey seems to be rescued from the 
 clutch at last, and the book sets with the gentle mellow light of 
 peace upon the page. 
 
 " Natural, graphic, with an imploring pathos, and a naive, human- 
 hearted inspiration, the story is on the whole excellent. It can 
 hardly fail to do good ; it cannot by any possibility do ill. . . . 
 The great, the engrossing character, is the presiding good genius of 
 the scene, Uncle Wood, an old ' salt.' He has a strong resemblance 
 to the redoubted ' Captain Cuttle,' is every whit as outre, and has, 
 every throb, as kind a heart 
 
 " An acquaintance with this novel no one can regret, whatever his 
 principles, whateverhis position." — The Stirling Journaland Advertiser. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 11 
 
 PUTTYPUT'S PROTEGEE; 
 
 on, 
 ROAD, RAIL, AND RIVER: 
 
 A HUMOROUS STORY IN THREE BOOKS. 
 
 BY HENRY GEORGE CHURCHILL. 
 
 1 Vol. Crown Svo (uniform with " The Mistress of Langdale Flail"), wit 
 14 Illustrations by Wallis Mackay. Post hoc, 4s. Second Edition. 
 
 THE FOURTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 1. The Voyage of Discovery (Frontispiece). 
 
 2. The Escape from Bortonbrook Ayslum (Vignette). 
 
 3. In a Garret near the Sky. 
 
 4. The Happy Family. 
 
 5. The Road ! Hunted Down ! Gone Away. 
 
 6. The Lucky Number. 
 
 7. Bob Bembrow's Party. 
 
 8. Bob and Dollops. 
 
 9. The Devonsherry Brothers. 
 
 10. A Waif from the Ocean. 
 
 11. Slitherem thinks Half a Loaf better than no Bread. 
 
 12. The Dissolution of Partnership. 
 
 13. The Particular Purpose. 
 
 14. The River ! All's Well that Ends Well. 
 
 " Admirably got up as regards paper, printing, and binding. . . 
 Readable and interesting; very much superior to the ordinary ruck of 
 rubbish which loads the shelves of the circulating libraries." — Court 
 Circular. 
 
 " There is a class of readers that this novel will suit to a nicety. It 
 is full of incidents and episodes. Fur those fond of light reading it 
 possesses peculiar advantages. If it be true, as we often hear, that 
 tastes differ on most subjects, there will be considerable difference of 
 opinion as to the merits of ' Puttyput's Protegee.' " — Weekly Times. 
 
 " It is impossible to read ' Puttyput's Protegee' without being reminded 
 at every turn of the contemporary stage, and the impression it leaves on 
 the mind is very similar to that produced by witnessing a whole 
 evening's entertainment at one of our popular theatres." — Echo. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10 ; Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
12 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 IT O T I c :e 
 
 Ju-t published, in one handsome volume, with Frontispiece and 
 Vignette by Percttal Skkltox. Price Four Shillings, post free. 
 
 THE 
 
 MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL: 
 
 A ROMAN* i: OF THE WIST RIDING. 
 
 BY ROSA MACKENZIE KETTLE, 
 
 Author of " Smugglers and Foresters," " Fabian's Tower," etc. 
 
 [From THE SATURDAY REVIEW.) 
 
 Generally speaking, in criticising a novel we confine our observations 
 to the merits of the author. In this case we must make an exception, 
 and say something as to the publisher. The Mistress of Langdalc Hall 
 does not come before us in the stereotyped three- volume shape, with 
 rambling type, ample margins, and nominally a guinea and a half to 
 pay. On the contrary, this new aspirant to public admiration appears 
 in the modest guise of a single graceful volume, and we confess that 
 we ;.re disposed to give a kindly welcome to the author, because we 
 may flatter ourselves that she is in some measure a prottjte of our own. 
 A few weeks ago an article appeared in our columns censuring the 
 prevailing fashion of publishing novels at nominal and fancy prices. 
 Necessarily, we dealt a good deal in commonplaces, the absurdity of the 
 fashion being so obvious, We explained, what is well known to every 
 one interested in the matter, that the regulation price is purely illusory. 
 The publisher in reality has to drive his own bargain with the libraries, 
 who naturally beat him down. The author suffers, the trade suffers, 
 and the libraries do not gain. Arguing that a palpable absurdity must 
 be exploded some day unless all the world is qualified for Bedlam, we 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 13 
 
 felt ourselves on tolerably safe ground when we ventured to predict an 
 approaching revolution. Judging from the preface to this book, we 
 may conjecture that it was partly on our hint that Mr. Tinsley has 
 published. As all prophets must welcome events that tend to the 
 Hj<eedy accomplishment of their predictions, we confess ourselves grati- 
 fied by the promptitude with which Mr. Tinsley has acted, and we 
 heartily wish his venture success. He recognises that a reformation so 
 radical must be a work of time, and at first may possibly seem to defeat 
 its object. For it is plain that the public must first be converted to a 
 proper regard for its own interests ; and, by changing the borrowing 
 for the buying system, must come in to bear the publisher out. He 
 must look, moreover, to the support and imitation of his brethren of 
 the trade. We doubt not he has made the venture after all due deli- 
 beration, and that we may rely on his determination seconding his 
 enterprise. All prospectuses of new undertakings tend naturally to 
 exaggeration, but success will be well worth the waiting for, should it 
 be only the shadow of that on which Mr. Tinsley reckons. He givee 
 some surprising figures ; he states some startling facts ; and, as a 
 practical man, he draws some practical conclusions. He quotes a state- 
 ment of Mr. Charles Reade's, to the effect that three publishers in the 
 United States had disposed of no le3s than 370,000 copies of Mr. Reade's 
 latest novel. He estimates that the profits on that sale — the book being 
 published at a dollar — must amount to £25,000. Mr. Reade, of course, 
 has a name, and we can conceive that his faults and blemishes may 
 positively recommend themselves to American taste. But Mr. Tinsley 
 remarks that if a publisher could sell 70,000 copies in any case, there 
 would still be £5>000 of clear gain ; and, even if the new system had a 
 much more moderate success than that, all parties would still profit 
 amazingly. For Mr. Tinsley calculates the profits of a sale of 2,000 
 copies of a three volume edition at £1,000, and we should fancy the 
 experience of most authors would lead them to believe he overstates it. 
 It will be seen that at all events the new speculation promises bril- 
 liantly, and reason and common sense conspire to tell us that the 
 reward must come to him who has patience to wait. Palmam qui 
 meruit ferat, and may he have his share of the profits too. Meanwhile, 
 here we have the first volume of Mr. Tinsley's new series in most legible 
 type, in portable form, and with a sufficiently attractive exterior. The 
 price is four shillings, and, the customary trade deduction being made 
 to circulating libraries, it leaves them without excuse should they deny 
 it to the order of their customers. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand- 
 
H Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 We should apologise to Miss Kettle for keeping her waiting while we 
 discuss business matters with her publisher. But she knows, no doubt, 
 that there are times when business must take precedence of pleasure 
 and conscientious readers are bound to dispose of the preface before 
 proceeding to the book. For we may say at once that we have found 
 pleasure in reading her story. In the first place, it has a strong and 
 natural local colouring, and we always like anything that gives a book 
 individuality. In the next, there is a feminine grace about her pictures 
 of nature and delineations of female character, and that always makes a 
 story attractive. Finally, there is a certain interest that carries us 
 along, although the story is loosely put together, and the demands on 
 our credulity are somewhat incessant and importunate. The scene is 
 laid in the West Riding of Yorkshire ; nor did it need the dedication of 
 the book to toll us that the author was an old resident in the county. 
 With considerable artistic subtlety she lays her scenes in the very con- 
 fines of busy life. Cockneys and professional foreign tourists are much 
 in the way of believing that the manufacturing districts are severed 
 from the genuinely rural ones by a hard-and-fast line ; that the demons 
 of cotton, coal, and wool blight everything within the scope of their 
 baleful influence. There can be no greater blunder ; native intelligence 
 might tell us that mills naturally follow water power, and that a b» tad 
 stream and a good fall generally imply wooded banks and sequestered 
 ravines, swirling pools, and rushing rapids. Miss Kettle, as a dweller in 
 the populous and flourishing West Riding, has learned all that of course. 
 She is aware besides of the power of contrast ; that peace and solitude 
 are never so much appreciated as when you have just quitted the bustle 
 of life, and hear its hum mellowed by the distance. Romance is never 
 so romantic as when it rubs shoulders with the practical, and sensation 
 "piles itself up" when it is evolved in the centre of commonplace 
 life 
 
 Although, however, the story unquestionably often loses in interest 
 by the very efforts made to excite it, still it is interesting, and very 
 pleasantly written, and for the sake of both author and publisher we 
 cordially wish it the reception it deserves. 
 
 " The most careful mother need not hesitate to place it at once in 
 the hands of the most unsophisticated daughter. As regards the 
 publisher, we can honestly say that the type is clear and the book well 
 got up in every way." — Athenceum. 
 
 " There is a naturalness in this novel, published in accordance with 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 Mr. Tinsley's very wholesome one-volumed .system, which will av 
 many quiet readers. We will just express our satisfaction at the 
 portable and readable size of the book.'' — ^j 
 
 "The Mistress of Langdale Hall" is a bright and attract!, 
 which can be read from beginning to end with pleasure." — Daily N 
 
 A charming 'Romance of th grace and 
 
 pleasing incil !*nguage is smooth with -ut being 
 
 forcible, and is quiet and sparkling, in character with the nature of her 
 novcL ' ' — Public Opin io n . 
 
 " The story itself is really well told, and some of the characters are 
 delineated w> midnesE The tone of the book is 
 
 high. The writer shows considerable mastery of her art."- — N> 
 form 
 
 "It is a go ith abundant interest, and a purity of tho 
 
 and language which is much rarer in novels than it ought to be. The 
 volume is handsomely got up, and contains a well-drawn vignette and 
 frontispiece." — S 
 
 "S t nly is it writ ith - e and good feeling, it is n 
 
 dull, while at the same time it is quite devoid of sensationalism or 
 extravagance. It -Teals with life in th . g, and the descrii <l 
 
 of the authoress show a real affection for the rich woodlands and 
 hills, and still more for the quaint old mansions of Yorkshire." — Globe. 
 
 " The book is admirably got up, and contains an introductory circular 
 by the publish Service Gas. 
 
 "The book is a model of what a cheap novel should be." — I 
 Ushers' Circular. 
 
 "A circular from the publisher precedes the opening of the novel, 
 wherein the existing conditions of novel-publishing are concisely set 
 forth. It is ably and smartly written, and forms by no means the 
 least interesting portion of the contents of the volume. We 
 recommend its perusal to novel readers generally." — Welshman. 
 
 " Few will take up this entertaining volume without feeling compelled 
 to go through with it. We cannot entertain a deal b as to the I 
 of this novel, and the remarks made by the publisher in his prefatory 
 circular are of the most sensible and practical kind." — Hull Pa 
 
 "For this district the 'Mistress of L ir._rdale Hall' has a peculiar 
 interest." — Ts^ 1 * Mercury* 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 
16 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 NOTICE-SECOND EDITION OF "ANOTHER WORLD." 
 
 In 1 vol. Post 8vo, price 12s. 
 
 ANOTHER WORLD; 
 
 OR, 
 
 FRAGMENTS FROM THE STAR CITY OF MONTALLUYAH. 
 BY HERMES. 
 
 " A very curious book, very clearly written Likely to 
 
 contain hints on a vast number of subjects of interest to mankind." — 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 " Hermesis a really practical philosopher, and utters many truths 
 that must be as useful to this sublunary sphere as to those of another 
 world. ... Of his powers of narrative and expression there can 
 be no doubt." — Morning Post. 
 
 " A romance of science. . . . Few volumes that have ever come 
 under our hands are more entertaining to read or more difficult to 
 criticise." — Sunday Times. 
 
 " We can recommend ' Another World ' as decidedly clever and 
 original." — Literary World. 
 
 " Whether one reads for information or for amusement, ' Another 
 World ' will attract and retain the attention. It reminds one some- 
 what of Swift's ' Gulliver,' without the grossness and the ill-nature." — 
 Standard. 
 
 " ' Another World ' can be safely recommended as sure to afford 
 amusement, combined with no little instruction." — Echo. 
 
 " ' Hermes ' is to be congratulated upon having written with much 
 ingenuity and descriptive power. The book will doubtless attract, 
 as, indeed, it deserves, a good deal of attention." — Court Circular. 
 
 " . . . . We might quote much more, and fill many columns 
 from this curious work, but we have, probably, said enough to 
 stimulate the curiosity of our readers, who will, we have no doubt, 
 speedily procure it, and pursue for themselves the fanciful and 
 elaborate descriptions of the author. Many amusing and clever 
 suggestions are embodied in its pages, and we cannot help suspecting 
 that some of the ingenious speculations regarding the Star Worlds 
 are intended by the author as good-humoured satires upon the 
 familiar institutions of this hum-drum every-day life of ours." — Era. 
 
 Samusl Tinsloy, 10, Southampton Street, Strand. 
 

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