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 BY PROXY 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 UNIFORM WITH THE PRESENT NOVEL. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo. cloth extra, Illustrated, 2l5. 
 
 MISS MISANTHROPE. By Justin McCarthy, 
 Author of 'Dear Lady Disdain' &c. Third Edition. 
 With 12 Illustrations by Arthur Hopkins. 
 'A brilliant and thoughtful novel.'— Contemporary Review. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo. cloth extra. Illustrated, 2 Is. 
 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST. By E. Lynn Linton, 
 Author of 'Patricia Kemball' &c. Second Edition. 
 With 12 Illustrations by J. Lawson and Hbnby French. 
 
 ' We are inclined to think that in this novel Mrs. Linton has reached a 
 higher artistic mark than in any former one. " The "World Well Lost" is 
 supremely natural.' Nonconformist. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly, W.
 
 ^ Fii-chow lay like a log.'
 
 BY PROXY 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES PAYN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 LOST StR MASSlNGBERD' 'WALTER'S WORD" "WHAT HK COST HER' ETC, 
 
 ' Not in the skj% not iu the midst of the sea, 
 Not in the clefts of the mountains, 
 Is there a spot in the whole world 
 Where a man may be freed from an evil deeJ ' 
 
 Buddhitt Froverb 
 
 4^^3 
 
 WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR HOPKINS 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES— VOL. I. 
 
 CHATTO AND WINDU8, PICCADILLY 
 
 1878 
 
 \^The right of Irandaliou is rtferied]
 
 LOXUOX : PRINTED BY 
 
 SI'OTTISWOOUE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 Ml 
 
 TO 
 
 ^ MY FRIENDS OF THE LUNCHEON TABLE 
 
 ^ 
 
 i THIS BOOK 
 
 nj 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 CORDIALLY DEDICATED 
 
 ' The poftprn handmnde, homelike, but thp plates mostly of China ' 
 V . Garth's Tea-table
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CMAPTEH PAGB 
 
 I. Ox THE Canal 1 
 
 n. A Breeze in the Boat 14 
 
 III. The Joss-HorsE 24 
 
 IV. The Shay-le 36 
 
 V. The Informer 48 
 
 VI. The Gaeden at Richmond 60 
 
 VII. A Bargain ratified 71 
 
 Vm. Mother and Daughter 80 
 
 IX. Mrs. Wardlaw 91 
 
 X. Chinese Justice . . . . 106 
 
 XI. The Prisoner's Hope 125 
 
 XII. A Chinese Prison 136 
 
 XIII. A Sacrifice . 148 
 
 VOL. I. a
 
 X CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER p^^^ 
 
 XIV. Conway's Will I59 
 
 XV. The Bargain 167 
 
 XVI. Last Words 17(5 
 
 XVII. The Survivor Ig9 
 
 XVITT. Unconscious 208 
 
 XIX. Breaking It ^ . . ^ 217 
 
 XX. Vice Vers A 228 
 
 XXI. The Beginnings of Baseness 243 
 
 XXII. A Man of Business . 257 
 
 XXIII. A BITTER Trial 270 
 
 XXIV. Returned . ^ , ^ .• , 284
 
 ILLUS'I RATIONS TO VOL. I. 
 
 , 'Fr-cflow LAY LTKE A I.OG ' . . Frontispiece 
 
 ^ * He was disarmed and throw:?^ upon the Floor' . , To face page 56 
 
 .^A MERE Cell, half UNDERGRorxD ' .... „ 130 
 
 ^*IIe is here. Pennicutce;! ...... „ wO 
 
 ' You H.fNE NOT BROKEN MY HbART ' . . . . „ 242 
 
 ^Father and Son . „ 290 j^9^
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE CANAL. 
 
 THE time is spring-time — the scene the north of China ; or 
 rather that north-eastern portion of the Celestial Empii'e 
 which the few Europeans who have visited it call North. At the 
 date of which we write, it was a much rarer matter to explore the 
 plains of Keang-Soo, the district lying to the north-west of Shanghae, 
 than even now ; it was an excursion which, on the part of the ' Pak- 
 Quei-Tye ' or ' Foreign Devils,' required money, courage, an armed 
 guard, and above all a quietness of demeanour and conduct in the 
 presence of much that was irritating, and more that was ludicrous, 
 which all Europeans, and we fear we must add especially our militaiy 
 fellow-countrymen, do not possess. English ofl&cers in particular, 
 who have been accustomed to the natives of India, are apt to get 
 into trouble with those of China ; the character of ' Pandy ' being 
 very different from that of John Chinaman, and especially of John 
 Chinaman on his own dunghill — far inland, where ' the Barbarians ' 
 — that is to say, all persons belonging to civilised communities — 
 are held not only cheap but contemptible. The fine old quotation, 
 omne ignotum pro magnifico^ is in this instance sadly out of place ; 
 
 VOL. I. , B
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 for though the Chinese know nothing whatever of our particular 
 * tribute-bearing nation,' except that it consists of men without 
 pig-tails ' governed by a lady with large feet,' they do not despise 
 us one whit the less on that account. From the days when the 
 unconscious Lord Macartney went up the Peiho with ' Ambassador 
 bearing tribute from the country of England ' in Chinese upon his 
 flag, until now, the Celestial People have laboured under false im- 
 pressions of us which induce the circumstances of what, in domestic 
 scenes at our police courts, is termed ' aggravation ; ' and when 
 young Englishmen of condition are aggravated, it touches a certain 
 spring in their system which is apt to make them hit out straight 
 from the shoulder. The consequences of this movement, especially 
 in connection with a Mandarin, are exceedingly serious in every part 
 of China except the five treaty ports ; and officers of the English army 
 were therefore very seldom given permission to visit the district of 
 Keang-Soo, notwithstanding the abundance of game it was reputed 
 to possess, and the charms of its local scenery. 
 
 Nevertheless, of the two Englishmen now seated in the covered 
 boat making its slow way up a tributary of the Cha-Ho (other- 
 wise Imperial Canal) upon this moonlit night in spring, one is 
 in the army. He is the younger of the two travellers, but not 
 sufficiently so to make him, as usual, the more interesting of the 
 two. There is only a year or so of difference in the ages of Ealph 
 Pennicuick and Captain Arthur Conway. But except as to years 
 they have little or nothing in common. The Captain is slight 
 though wiry ; his complexion would be fair, if the effects of ten 
 years' broiling under Eastern suns could be removed by the applica- 
 tion of some of those cosmetics, the action of which we know (by 
 the advertisements) is so unfailing ; but then he never uses
 
 ON THE CANAL. 
 
 cosmetics. He has not the money to spare for such luxuries, 
 having to support a wife and child in England, and possessing little 
 more than his pay with which to do it. His face would be comely 
 enough but for a look of care — or rather of the weariness that is 
 the result of care — in his blue eyes : his mouth, notwithstanding 
 the long brown beard, flecked here and there with grey, has a mild 
 and pleasant expression, especially when it smiles : but it smiles 
 rarely : his voice, firm, but gentle almost as a woman's, has a certain 
 melancholy in its tone, such as belongs to men who have missed 
 their mark in life and have no desire to take aim again ; who 
 know how it happened quite well, and what has come of it ; and 
 who, if not content, at least do not complain. He holds a sketch- 
 book in his hand, to which, while conversing with his com- 
 panion, he transfers, from time to time, some picturesque or curious 
 object on the canal bank. He is a man of considerable accom- 
 plishments, as the phrase goes, though they have hitherto been of 
 no practical advantage to him. He can catch a likeness, and place 
 it on paper in a few strokes ; as a young man — that is to say, some 
 twenty years ago, for he is now three-and-forty — he could sing a 
 song with much feeling and expression ; but his singing days have 
 long been over. He has a genuine talent for languages, and, having 
 now resided some three years in the ^ crockery shop,' as his com- 
 panion calls the ' Flowery Land,' can make himself understood in 
 Chinese. Had Captain Arthur Conway possessed a friend suffi- 
 ciently sympathetic (which he does not) to enquire what he had 
 done with his life and opportunities in the world, he would have 
 replied, ' Wasted myself.' The general opinion of his brother-officers 
 was correct, when they remarked to one another, as they had occa- 
 sionally done, that ^ Conway had missed his tip.' 
 
 B 2
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 The general opinion of those who knew Ealph Pennicuick was 
 of quite the contrary kind. He had not ' missed his tip,' if that 
 means any aim whatever to which he had at any time directed his 
 energies. He had always had all he wanted, or almost all ; partly, 
 it is true, because his wants had been of a material sort, with 
 which a large fortune inherited when he came of age had always 
 supplied him ; but also because of his indomitable will. His wish 
 was as much a law to him as that of his Imperial Majesty the Son 
 of Heaven and Vice-Eegent of the Universe, in whose dominions he 
 was now travelling for his own pleasure. A disciple of Lavater 
 would have judged as much from Pennicuick's mouth, the firmness 
 of which, set in its massive jaw, reminded you of the Nineveh 
 marbles ; it was not the jaw alone, however, which associated itself 
 with those steadfast faces of the despots of old, but the beard of 
 inky blackness which, flowing broadly down from his dark face, was 
 clubbed towards the ends and curled upwards as hair appears to 
 have done in Nineveh, alike with bulls and men. Of course Penni- 
 cuick was much respected for this attribute — by which I mean his 
 will and not his beard, though that too he used to say had its 
 attractions for the fair sex — but it did not make him beloved of 
 men. He was not a man to get his name abbreviated from 
 familiarity or affection, but it was abbreviated nevertheless. He 
 was called ' Steel Pen,' and ' Hard Pen,' from his decisiveness of 
 character ; and ' Black Beard,' not so much from his beard as from 
 the characteristics he had in common with the famous pirate of 
 that name. But these things were only said behind his back, 
 while Conway was always ' Connie ' even with the youngest ensign, 
 and, despite his poverty and want of animal spirits, one of the most 
 popular men in his regiment. Pennicuick would have been popular
 
 ON THE CANAL. 
 
 too, perhaps, if he would have taken the trouble to be so, and even 
 as it was his company was sought after by both sexes. For women 
 love a tyrant, and men (who are also cowards in their way) have 
 always a welcome for those who have a sharp tongue, a ready 
 sword, and a large rent-roll. 
 
 These two men had been at College together, where they had 
 both been their own masters and enjoyed themselves; only the one 
 had lived on his income, and indeed within it, while the other had 
 made a hole in his small capital. They had both married for love 
 (after their several fashions), but Pennicuick with the more discre- 
 tion. His wife died in giving birth to her first child — a son — and 
 left her husband with twice the fortune he had possessed before : 
 while Conway's wife had brought him little (or what seemed little 
 to a man of his habits) beyond a daughter, to keep whom and he r 
 it had been necessary for him for the last ten years to exile himself 
 from England. This at least was the view he himself took of it 
 (though always, as T have said, without complaint) ; but, as a matter 
 of fact, he had not been prudent at any time, and had both spent 
 and lost money in piu:suit of pleasure and gain. His friends said 
 that he had never been anybody's enemy but his own ; but his wife, 
 who was very plain-spoken, had not always endorsed that senti- 
 ment. She had occasionally even expressed a contrary one, a 
 circumstance which had perhaps had its influence in keeping them 
 apart. Pennicuick, who was an idle man, had always kept up his 
 acquaintance with Conway — indeed, Mrs. Conway had been a second 
 mother to his boy at a time when he sorely needed maternal solici- 
 tude — and having exhausted the pleasures of Town, and e\en of 
 Europe, he had come out to China for a few months in search of 
 his friend and new excitements. Hong Kong and Shanghae had
 
 £V PROXY. 
 
 soon been exhausted in their turn, and hence this expedition into 
 the interior, the expenses of which were solely defrayed out of his 
 own pocket ; Conway had had nothing to procure but leave of 
 absence from his regiment, which was stationed at the latter city. 
 The position of being ' franked ' by another man is always a delicate 
 if not an absolutely disagreeable one, unless that man is indeed 
 one's friend ; his merely calling himself so having little to do with 
 the matter : and perhaps in the present case that complete though 
 tacit understanding — the total absence of the general principle of 
 ' give and take ' — which underlies all genuine friendship was want- 
 ing. On the other hand, the sense of obligation on Conway's part 
 was greatly lessened by the fact that Pennicuick could have got no 
 one else to accompany him on such a tour, or, even if he could, 
 would probably not have accepted such companionship. There was 
 just enough consciousness of dependence to cause the poorer man 
 to assert himself (which under ordinary circumstances he never 
 did), and to offer an opinion, and stick to it, which he would have 
 been otherwise too indolent to express. Pennicuick, who perceived 
 everything that had the smallest reference to himself, understood 
 this thoroughly, and to do him justice liked the other's society all 
 the better for it. 
 
 He was just now enjoying it particularly, as he leant back in 
 the centre compartment of the boat, with a very large cigar in his 
 iiouth, or in his fingers, according to whether he was the listener 
 or the spokesman. In the prow were the few Chinese soldiers 
 who formed their guard, commanded by Fu-chow their captain ; 
 in the stern were the Chinese boatmen, who worked the vessel in 
 the usual fashion by sculls upon a pivot, and from which labour 
 they never ceased. Except for the movement of the oars, and an
 
 ox THE CANAL. 
 
 occasional snore from the pigtailed warriors who were all asleep, 
 there was no sound to interrupt the talk of the two friends. 
 
 ' They have been at it now for two whole days and nights/ said 
 Conway, ' and are going on, as fresh as ever. It is perfectly mar- 
 vellous.' 
 
 ' That men should snore so,' put in Pennicuick gravely : ' I 
 quite agree with you.' 
 
 ' I mean that men should row so. I saw them at dinner-time 
 eating rice with their chopsticks, which even now I find an almost 
 impossible feat, and still rowing.' 
 
 ' They go deuced slow,' observed the other, in a tone of depre- 
 ciation. 
 
 ' Nevertheless, they will make a boat go farther in twenty-four 
 hours than our best English watermen.' 
 
 ' Possibly : mules and camels will go farther than the horse, 
 and yet the horse is the superior animal. The Chinaman is a 
 brute inferior to all the three.' 
 
 ' That is not the opinion of those who are best acquainted with 
 him.' 
 
 ' You mean that is not the opinion they express, my dear 
 fellow. Men always praise the people they are compelled to have to 
 do with, to excuse their own necessity. A step farther, and we find 
 them cracking up the country they belong to, no matter how 
 absurd may be the boast. You don't suppose any Scotchman, for 
 example, who sings " Scots wha hae," and all the rest of it, would 
 be a Scotchman if he could help it ? ' 
 
 ' Upon my life, I think some of them would,' said Conway, 
 smiling ; for it was well known that Pennicuick was himself of 
 Scotch descent.
 
 8 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' No, no ; there are no mad Scotchmen. Now these Chinese 
 are all mad ; and their madness takes the most contemptible 
 form, that of imbecility. They are like men in their second 
 childhood, when they are like men at all. You will tell me 
 they invented gunpowder — though I believe it was nothing but 
 gunpowder tea — but what use do they make of it, except to fill 
 crackers wherewith to please their gods ? you will also tell me they 
 invented printing, which however nobody, including themselyes, 
 has yet been able to read. What has come of all this early in- 
 genuity ? They are like precocious children with immense heads, 
 from which sanguine persons augur intelligence, but which turns 
 out to be water on the brain. It is astonishing to me that a 
 man of your intelligence does not see through the shallow motives 
 which induce folks to preach up barbarism all over the world. A 
 man goes to St. Petersburg, and because he finds the nobles and 
 the military talking French — which is a positive necessity of the 
 case — avers that it is a second Paris.' 
 
 •• You think that Paris, then, is the focus of civilisation, do 
 you ? ' answered Conway, who was busy pencilling in his sketch- 
 book a tall bridge, in a mulberry plantation, through which they 
 were about to slide. 
 
 ' Certainly not : the man who says that is only not quite such 
 a fool as the other. The civilisation of Paris is but skin-deep. It 
 is, I grant, the Paradise of the Cheap Tripper; but its very 
 luxuries and pleasures — which are its real attractions — can all be 
 procured in London by one who knows where to look, and can 
 afford to pay for them. Even in vice, of which it flatters itself it 
 has the monopoly, it is by no means without rivals.' 
 
 ' You spenk with anthoritv. no doubt,' said Conway drily.
 
 ON THE CANAL. 
 
 'Of course; exjperto crede. I was about to say that your 
 Chinese, for example, run the Parisians very close in this respect — 
 in the drawing of iniquity with a cart-rope ; which I remark is 
 tacitly taken, if not absolutely instanced by observers, as a proof 
 of their civilisation.' 
 
 ' They are certainly most abominably vicious, and, what is 
 worse, inordinately cruel,' assented Conway. 
 
 * The two things are not so far apart as is supposed,' observed 
 Pennicuick with the air of a philosopher. ' Do you remember the 
 prison where we saw the Englishman convicted of half-a-dozen 
 brutal murders, and yet pitied him ? ' 
 
 ' Can I ever forget it ? ' answered Conway with a quick shudder. 
 
 ' Do you remember the prisoners clenched together by a nail 
 through their hands, because there happened to be a deficiency of 
 handcuffs ; and the wretch that was starved to death in the cangue, 
 with his fellow-countrymen keeping guard over him and enjoying 
 it : how even the best off among them clamoured to tis like wild 
 beasts, to give them food ? ' 
 
 ' Pray desist, Pennicuick,' cried the other, with a movement of 
 disgust. ' Why do you dwell upon such hideous things ? ' 
 
 ' Because I hate cant, and more especially in the mouth of an 
 honest man. If these wretches ' — he jerked his left hand to the 
 prow, and then to the stern — ' are to be called human, so much the 
 worse for humanity.' 
 
 ' Gaolers and prisoners do not make a nation, Pennicuick. 
 Yonder boatmen are good fellows enough, I dare say, and for that 
 matter the soldiers too : they work for their families, love their 
 wives and children, and though, as you say, like babies, they cry 
 when you strike them, are not all cowards. I think Fu-chow
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 yonder, for example, behaved very pluckily — and you must allow 
 me to add very properly— when you chucked his daughter under 
 the chin yesterday.' 
 
 ^ How the deuce was I to know it was his daughter ? ' enquired 
 the other sullenly. 
 
 ^ I don't think that is quite the point ; and though, since you 
 say so, I am bound to believe you meant no offence, the man wa& 
 bound to resent it.' 
 
 ' Still, but for you, it would have been unlucky for the man,' 
 answered Pennicuick grimly ; ' for I should certainly have wiped 
 him out. There would have been three hundred and fifty millions 
 of Celestials minus one by this time.' 
 
 ' Then that would have been unlucky for you, my friend, for 
 there would certainly have been two Englishmen minus one, or 
 perhaps we should both have been wiped out. As it is, you have 
 made the man your enemy, which under the circumstances — 
 especially as he is a nephew of a Mandarin — is, to say the least of 
 it, injudicious.' 
 
 'I didn't know he was the nephewof a Mandarin,' said Pennicuick? 
 in a tone of mock penitence. ' I have a very great regard for the 
 Mandarins. Since Humbug must be King, let us revere his High- 
 priest. I don't think anything ever tickled me so much as seeing 
 that high functionary at Yang-chin " saving the sun " during the 
 eclipse. His capers, and his incense ; his prostrations, and his 
 knocking his hairless head upon the ground nine times, all to 
 preserve the great source of light from being devoured by a 
 monster, was a waste of energy which really bordered on the 
 sublime. The ceremony has moreover the immense advantage 
 over the proceedings of nature that it is always completely success-
 
 ON THE CANAL. n 
 
 fill. These " crocks " indeed never own themselves beaten. When 
 they pray for fine weather, and it doesn't come, they put their gods 
 out in the rain to see how they like it : whereas our archbishops 
 and bishops, with a total absence of spirit, go on praying, till 
 (very literally) " all's blue," and adopt no measure of retaliation 
 whatever. I am afraid, however, I am shocking your prejudices. 
 You are a believer in the popular superstition ? ' 
 
 ' I am not a disbeliever in it,' answered Conway gravely. 
 
 ' Is it possible ? Then even these " crocks " have the advantage 
 over you. They have no apprehension that after their lives here 
 are ended — with its prisons, and cangues, and tyranny of all kinds 
 — they are doomed to eternal misery. They have no fear of 
 death whatever : any man who is condemned to die can for a five- 
 pound note — and another to " square " the Mandarin — get some one 
 else to die for him. I have seen such a substitute kneel down, with 
 a cigarette in his mouth, for the executioner to strike his head off.' 
 
 ' I should be no more afraid to die than he, Pennicuick/ 
 answered Conway slowly. 
 
 ' Physically, of course not : you have given your proofs to the 
 contrary, my good fellow. But psychologically you would imagine 
 you ran a risk.' 
 
 ' Perhaps : yet, on my word,' answered Conway, ' but for my 
 wife and Nelly, I would almost chance it. They wouldn't miss my 
 company, it's true,' added he bitterly ; ' but, you see, I can't afford 
 to die just yet, for their sakes.' 
 
 ' Come, come, Conway : you must not talk like that. You are 
 a young man still : yoimger than I. There are years of life before 
 you yet : and where there's life there's hope ; the chances of pro- 
 motion, a stroke of luck at the races '
 
 12 BY PROXY. 
 
 * You said you hated cant, just now/ interrupted Conway. * I 
 •entertain a similar dislike. Let us drop this subject.* 
 
 'By all means. And let us also drop asleep if we can. It 
 must be nearly morning. Good night, old fellow.' 
 
 ' Grood night,' answered Conway gently. 
 
 In a few minutes his companion had his wish : the moonlight 
 glinted in upon his massive features, firmer and sterner than ever 
 in their repose. But Conway slept not. He continued to gaze 
 dreamily forth, on bridge and joss-house ; on the distant hills 
 covered with juniper and pine ; on the plantations with their 
 running streams, half natural, half artificial, that fringed the banks. 
 But though he saw them with his outward eyes he recked not of 
 them. His thoughts were far away, and it was long before slumber 
 visited him. Even then he did not sleep for long. His dreams 
 were weird and monstrous ; they pictured him, with his present 
 companion, sailing up a river, but not in China : they were in 
 Egypt on the Nile, where indeed he had once been. An immense 
 crocodile had clambered into their boat, and opened its mouth to 
 swallow Pennicuick ; he would have struck at it to aid his friend, 
 but the creature turned and spoke : * Beware, rash man ; I am 
 the sacred Dragon of China ; ' and the next instant his jaws had 
 closed upon his victim with a horrid clash. The noise awoke him 
 with a start : it was broad daylight ; his companion was sleeping 
 tranquilly upon the opposite bench, unconscious as it seemed even 
 of dreams; but another face was in the little cabin, projected 
 over the bunk that divided it from the forepart of the vessel, and 
 peering between the curtains above it : a ruddy, hairless face, with 
 twinkling eyes that ordinarily expressed good humour, but which 
 now, fierce and glittering, fixed themselves on Pennicuick's face with
 
 ON THE CANAL. 13 
 
 a look of fiendish malice. Presently a hand was thrust noiselessly- 
 through the curtains, and touched a bruise upon the ruddy face ; it 
 was but a momentary action, but the pantomime was perfect : what 
 it said was, ' White devil, you shall suffer for this ! ' So menacing 
 was the expression indeed that, fearing an immediate onslaught 
 on his friend, Conway leapt to his feet. In that instant the 
 face had withdrawn like a flash of lightning. WTien Conway in his 
 turn looked into the next compartment, the half-dozen soldiers who 
 were his servants were all sunk in slumber, while to all appearance 
 Fu-chow, their captain, was as fast asleep as the rest. So perfect 
 indeed was the simulation of repose — if simulation it was — that 
 Conway doubted whether his senses had not deceived him ; whether 
 the alligator of the Nile and the menacing face of Fu-chow had 
 not been part and parcel of the same vision. But if so, it was 
 curious that he should have seen the man point to his cheek, where 
 the effects of the blow by which Pennicuick had felled him on the 
 previous day were still plainly visible. 
 
 Upon the whole, Conway judged it best to make no stir about 
 the matter.
 
 14 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 A BREEZE IN THE BOAT. 
 
 The morning was a superb one even for spring-time in China, 
 which, unlike that of India, (which has been well described as a hot 
 winter,) or the same cheerless season in England, is like the spring of 
 the Poets. Moreover, it is not a liar pretending to be the herald of 
 summer, and suddenly throwing off the mask in a snow-storm. 
 It is bright and fresh and genial; the air, though cool, being 
 singularly soft ; while the green of the foliage and herbage is be- 
 yond measure beautiful. The flower-beds also, from being, as 
 botanists tell us, very prominently developed in autumn, burst into 
 bloom at the first dawn of spring, so that the jessamine (which 
 grows in great abundance in the district of which we speak) puts 
 forth its yellow even above the snow. No snow, however, save upon 
 the distant hill-tops, was visible to Conway's eyes that morning ; 
 the whole earth blushed like a garden, and made the air one per- 
 fume. Lilacs and pink Judas-trees grew luxuriantly upon the 
 banks ; and out-of-doors, in front of the gay little country houses, 
 were rows of striped camellias. Most beautiful of all, perhaps, were 
 the trees like almond-trees, but bearing gorgeous double blossoms 
 as large as roses, which covered the country as plenteously as May 
 hawthorn in England — and wouldin time become peaches. Although,
 
 A BREEZE IN THE BOAT. 15 
 
 as we have said, there was no snow in the valleys, immense banks 
 of azaleas supplied its place to the ravished eye, while, lest this 
 prodigal show of blossom should still fail to give an idea of nature's 
 wealth, the exquisite wild rose hung in festoons, as though it were 
 some gala day, from every tree. In Arthur Conway the eye was 
 still alive to natural beauties, but the soul, which had once also 
 been alive to them, was dead. For however matters may be with 
 us in another world, in this one the soul is, alas ! with most of us, 
 the first of our attributes to die. As we grow old, its sensations 
 become more and more difficult to excite, and if trouble or disap- 
 pointment have laid heavy hands upon us, this happens early — 
 sometimes ere middle age. What are sights and smells, nay, all the 
 treasures of nature, to one whose mind is occupied with regrets for 
 the past, or with anxieties for the future ? There was even a sort 
 of sadness for the present spectator in all this splendour, because 
 he felt the loss of that which would have made it glorious. As for 
 Pennicuick, it was certainly not worth while to awaken hmi^ to look 
 a,t trees and flowers, which after all would be seen later in the day 
 when he had had his sleep out. But presently the silent highway 
 upon which they were journeying became alive with boats of all 
 shapes and sizes, full of people, while the paved walks upon each side 
 — or towing-path as it would be called in England, where horses are 
 the only beasts of burden — grew almost as populous as the banks of 
 Thames during the University Eace. Then Conway awoke that 
 student of humanity Ralph Pennicuick. 
 
 ' Grood Heavens, what a lot of crocks I ' was his ejaculation ere 
 he plunged his head and face into the canal — the only means of 
 ablution that offered itself. ' What is it all about, Connie ? ' 
 
 ' They are pilgrims bound for the shrine up yonder,' explained
 
 i6 BY PROXY. 
 
 Conway, pointing to a mountain in the foreground, up which a 
 winding road led to a native temple. 
 
 'They are deuced pretty pilgrims, some of them,' observed 
 Pennicuick, scanning approvingly the female occupants of the boats, 
 which their superior speed (for they had several rowers) caused 
 them to overtake one by one. The Celestial ladies, thus alluded 
 to, hung their heads beneath the bold glance of the barbarian, and 
 looked as though they had never been so stared at before: but 
 directly the ' white devils' ' boat had passed they broke out into a 
 merry laugh, which seemed to imply that they had got over the shock, 
 and even forgiven him. They were by no means in what in Europe 
 is understood to be pilgrims' weeds : their dresses were silks and 
 satins, and crapes of brightest colours, but especially blue. Sitting 
 still, they looked like other women, but for their almond eyes ; 
 when they rose and disembarked, however, as many did, the manner 
 in which they tottered across the plank from boat to bank was a 
 spectacle which moved Pennicuick to cynical mirth. 
 
 ' Look at their tootsicums, Connie : their dear little toes all 
 cramped together into a club-foot.' 
 
 ' Hush, Pen, hush. They know what makes you laugh ; and it 
 is no laughing matter for them, poor creatures. From six years 
 of age their lives have been made miserable by this iron law of 
 fashion.' 
 
 ' But why the deuce do they do it ? ' 
 
 ' Why do English ladies wear crinoline ? There was an Em- 
 press of China named Tak-ki who had club-feet and set the fashion. 
 It is, at all events, the only sign of caste in the country, which is 
 surely creditable. The common people do not trouble themselves 
 to go in for it : indeed, no heavy work can be done under such con-
 
 A BREEZE IN THE BOAT. 
 
 ditions. These ladies therefore, we may be sure, all belong to the 
 genteel classes.' 
 
 ' It adds, if not a cubit, several inches to their stature,' observed 
 Pennicuick critically. 
 
 ' Yes : they all stand on tiptoe as it were, though their toes are 
 turned under them. If they don't do it, they cannot aspire to 
 marry into respectable or literary families.' 
 
 'That ''literary" and "respectable" should be convertible 
 terms seems the most curious thing of all,' remarked Pennicuick. 
 
 ' To us, no doubt : but this is the land of literature. The 
 very printed character is held so sacred that Grovernment makes 
 arrangements for picking up aU bits of paper, and even broken 
 crockery that has letters upon it.' 
 
 ' You charm me more and more with every detail of this intelli- 
 gent race, Connie. Is it true that ten thousand candidates volun- 
 tarily submit themselves at every season to a competitive examina- 
 tion ? ' 
 
 ' No doubt : the aspirants, too, are of all ages. I knew an old 
 gentleman of eighty (he had been plucked a good many times, as 
 you may guess) who went up to be examined from Shanghae last 
 year, and died under the operation. He had to take up six books 
 of Confucius.' 
 
 ' Capital name, Confucius,' remarked Pennicuick drily. ' Every- 
 thing here tends in that direction. These hobbling women, these 
 pigtailed men, whose ancestors knew so many things before we 
 knew anything, but who still believe in — what is their god's 
 name ? ' 
 
 ' Ay-tum-foo,' interpolated Conway. 
 
 ' Just so, in a Tom-fool in a temple. The whole thing looks 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 i8 BY PROXY. 
 
 like an allegory, doesn't it ? — the temple of Fame, or something, 
 with its thousands of worshippers, winding up the toilsome path. 
 I'm hanged if I don't think the very hill is out of perspec- 
 tive.' 
 
 The effect of the scene was really very curious, and gave an 
 impression not wholly natural. The temple was perched upon the 
 very top of the mountain ; the paths were cut in zigzag with 
 mathematical precision, and stiffness and formality everywhere 
 pervaded the sacred scene. 
 
 ' I've seen it all somewhere before,' continued Pennicuick, ' but 
 I can't tell where. Oh, now I've got it. It's like a blessed Valen- 
 tine, only instead of the church there is the temple, and instead of 
 the parson there is the priest, and instead of the Happy Couple 
 there are these miserable sinners. Why should we not pay our 
 respects to Ay-tom-fool, like the rest of them ? ' 
 
 ^ By all means, if you like. I will tell Fu-chow to moor the 
 boat.' * 
 
 ' Do : and as you wish to propitiate the beggar, tell him also 
 we are about to become converts to his religion.' 
 
 At the mention of his name by Conway, Captain Fu-chow had 
 presented his flat round face between the curtains : it looked so 
 innocent and so subservient — although out of China one might 
 have thought the subservience a little over-done — that it was im- 
 possible to reconcile it with the look of malignant hate that it 
 had worn — or had seemed to wear — an hour or so before. 
 
 ' Joss Chin-chin topside galow,' said Conway. Fu-chow cast a 
 rapid glance in the direction of the temple, and then towards 
 Pennicuick. 
 
 ' Him talkey largey, talkey strong,' replied he doubtfully.
 
 A BREEZE IN THE BOAT. 19 
 
 ' What is the pippin-faced idiot saying about me ? ' enquired 
 Pennicuick angrily. It was disagxeeable to him to hear Chinese, 
 because he could not understand it : but the Pidgeon English 
 which Fu-chow insisted on talking even to Conway, who could 
 speak the native tongue — just as one's French or Grerman nurse 
 %[^ill talk broken English in preference to her own language — was 
 hateful to him. 
 
 ' Fu-chow is afraid of our going to the temple because you 
 express yourself so strongly upon serious subjects, and generally 
 with disrespect. He is quite right to be careful.' 
 
 ' Tell him I adore Tom-fool — or, at least, am about to do so — 
 and will not breathe a word to his disadvantage ; and when you 
 have quieted his religious scruples, ask him about breakfast.' 
 
 ' Catchery some chow-chow, chop-chop,' said Conway ; where- 
 upon Fu-chow nodded intelligently and withdrew. 
 
 ' Let us have the chops first, Connie,' said Pennicuick, ' and the 
 <jhow-chow, which I suppose means fish, when he has caught it.' 
 
 ' " Chow-chow " is not fish, but food,' explained Conway, laugh- 
 ing ; ' and " chop-chop '' only means dii'ectly : by the time it is 
 ready we shall be opposite the temple, and can drop the anchor.' 
 
 ' By jingo ! ' exclaimed Pennicuick, pointing to the bank, along 
 which some ladies and children were being carried, not in a 
 palanquin, but in separate little baskets swung from a long 
 bamboo. 
 
 ' That's a family equipage,' explained Conway. ' Young Milburn 
 of ours says that when a Chinese woman is carried she is an air- 
 plant; but when she walks she's orchid: he is the wit of the 
 regiment.' 
 
 ' I congratulate the regiment,' said Pennicuick drily ; for, like 
 
 c 2
 
 20 BY PROXY. 
 
 many clever fellows, he did not much appreciate other people's, 
 jokes. ' Confucius, look how they shake hands ! ' 
 
 Some Chinese neighbours on the bank were exchanging a 
 morning greeting, which they accomplished by shaking fheir own 
 hands. Each placed the fingers of one hand over the fist of the 
 other, so that the thumbs met, and then, standing a few feet apart,, 
 raised his hands gently up and down in front of his breast. 
 
 ' Of course it looks ridiculous to us,' said Conway. ' But, on 
 the other hand, they don't slobber one another like the French and 
 Grermans. The women do not even kiss the women.' 
 
 * Then they are ignorant of the niceties of expression in hate 
 and envy,' observed Pennicuick. ' To see a woman kiss a woman 
 whom she doesn't like — and she generally doesn't — is the very 
 height of civilisation. But here comes the chop-chop.' 
 
 ' Excuse me, it is the chow-chow,' said Conway, laughing.. 
 ' Here are fish, fowl, pork, and potato-rice. Veal and mutton are 
 never seen, you know.' 
 
 ' Of course not, because you expect them. Take away these 
 infernal chopsticks, will you ! ' 
 
 This last remark was addressed to the Chinese attendant to 
 whose culinary skill they were indebted for the dainties he had 
 just set before them ; and it seemed to puzzle him immensely. 
 
 ' Too muchey curio,' murmured he to Conway, who could use- 
 the chopsticks with some skill. ' Too muchey bobbery: me plenty 
 fear.' 
 
 ' What the deuce does the creature mean, Connie ? ' The 
 speaker's voice was so full of ire, that the ' creature ' had bolted 
 over the bunk like a deer. 
 
 ' He means that you are much too excited to be sane ; that you
 
 A BREEZE IN THE BOAT. 21 
 
 are apt to kick up a row about nothing at all ; and that your con- 
 duct is calculated to alarm all peaceable people. It seems to me 
 that he has described your character very graphically.' 
 
 ' It seems to me that when I come to understand these graphic 
 people's lingo, it will be the worse for them,' said Pennicuick, 
 sullenly. 
 
 ' Well, you had better wait till you get back to Shanghae — or, 
 better still, to England — and then you can be as ill-natured as you 
 please — with safety.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you, Conway. Are these miserable wretches 
 all your clients, that I am bound to be on my best behaviour to 
 them? I shall behave just as I please, with your good leave.' 
 
 ' Which you will not have.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' Because you are sure to behave badly. You are a man of 
 the world, if ever there was one ; and yet you cannot put up with 
 anyone's peculiarities but your own. We are come here to enjoy 
 ourselves, not to get into any confounded row. If you mean to 
 show temper about every little thing, I shall be sorry I agreed to 
 come with you.' 
 
 Pennicuick swallowed something in his throat which, perhaps, 
 was his temper, for his face at once lost its truculent expression. 
 
 ' I certainly had no intention of making myself disagreeable to 
 you, my dear fellow. You ought to know me better.' 
 
 ' I quite understand that, Pennicuick ; but, unfortunately, your 
 makingyourselfdisagreeable to others has, under the circumstances, 
 a reflex action on myself. If you turn into ridicule, or put in 
 bodily fear, every Celestial we chance to come across — we are likely 
 to have a hot time of it.'
 
 22 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' I confess that I despise tomfoolery and detest extortion,' ob- 
 served Pennicuick curtly. 
 
 ' And yet you have sense enough to make allowances for the one 
 and wealth enough to afford the other. You are not a missionary 
 that you should be angry with these poor people because they 
 worship Mumbo-Jumbo : and if Fu-chow does cheat you out of a 
 thousand " cash," it is after all only twopence halfpenny.' 
 
 To this Pennicuick answered not a word. The reply that came 
 to the tip of his tongue was that it was all very well for Conway 
 not to care about Fu-chow's little embezzlements, since it was not 
 his purse that defrayed them : but he restrained himself. He 
 knew very well, had the position of his companion and himself 
 been reversed, that the other would have been freer with his purse- 
 strings. Pennicuick spent large sums upon his pleasures, but not a 
 shilling more than was necessary to make them completely enjoy- 
 able. He was careful with his money, if not absolutely close ; and 
 for this Conway, he knew, rather despised him. He did not under- 
 stand, however, that his friend hated still more his brusque and 
 bullying ways with the poor Celestials. He was himself a man 
 absolutely indifferent to the feelings of his inferiors, and he did 
 not comprehend that there are natures which resent slights 
 and insults to the poor and dependent almost as much as if 
 they were offered to themselves. Conway had his own faults^ 
 plenty of them : but they did not tend in the same direction as 
 those of his companion, which after all were not so marked to 
 others as they appeared to be in his eyes. Pennicuick was arro- 
 gant, and somewhat grudged expense ; but he was neither a bully 
 nor a miser. It would not have been just to call him cruel. But
 
 A BREEZE IN THE BOAT. 23 
 
 there was a certain grimness about him, not unmixed with humour, 
 such as is commonly seen in the schoolboy ^ ere he grows to pity,' 
 and is an occasional attribute of bard and headstrong men who 
 have good animal spirits.
 
 24 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE JOSS-HOUSE. 
 
 There is one great virtue about the Chinese religion which, in 
 addition to its amazing ludicrousness, makes it attractive to the 
 outsider. It is, externally at least, always allied with the pic- 
 turesque. They build their temples in the most lovely spots that 
 can be selected, and, though their taste is tawdry, it would revolt at 
 the downright ugliness and want of symmetry that distinguish our 
 own Bethels, The temple of Ay-tum-foo, for example, was, as we 
 have said, placed on a hill-top, commanding such exquisite scenery 
 as well might lead human thought from nature up to nature's 
 Grod. That it had quite a contrary effect upon the Chinese 
 pilgrim was an idiosyncrasy. It led him to a certain point, 
 namely the top of a hill — and then into the joss-house, at whose 
 entrance gate sat a wooden lady about sixty feet high, with a per- 
 petual smile upon her face, supposed to be provoked by the vanities 
 of the world. Her august title was Mi-leh-fu (the Gruardian) ; but 
 as an immense pot of incense, to which every visitor contributed a 
 stick or two, dispersed odours all around her, an irreverent spirit 
 might have termed her Millefleurs. That was the name Ralph 
 Pennicuick gave her, directly he had seen and sniffed. She was 
 very handsomely painted and gilded, and had a hole between her
 
 THE JOSS-HOUSE. 
 
 shoulder-blades through which she was supplied with artificial 
 entrails. 
 
 The Chinese, it is said, with reference to their indifiference to 
 human suffering, have no bowels ; but that is not the case with their 
 deities. The gods of the Buddhist Olympus are nothing without 
 them, which are supposed to represent the living spirit ; they 
 generally consist of silver representations of the heart and other 
 internal parts of the anatomy, with pearls and precious stones 
 dropped in by the well-to-do pious ; and during certain inter- 
 national troubles, the British officer, who has improved his mind by 
 the study of native customs, has been known to reap the fruits of 
 it, by taking advantage of the above circumstance. A primrose by 
 a river's brim is to a very large class of persons but a yellow prim- 
 rose ; and a wooden idol covered with gold leaf has similarly 
 nothing but his external charms to recommend him to the ignorant 
 observer. But to minds less superficial, and given to look into 
 things, he may turn up trumps. 
 
 Our two friends found little difficulty in reaching the presence 
 of this goddess (who, after all, only kept the door of the temple) 
 beyond the steepness of the ascent. The crowds of worshippers 
 were much too bent upon their pious object to pay that attention 
 to the strange visitors which is generally given to European 
 strangers. For once, the natives excited far more interest in the 
 latter than did the latter in them. The occasion, indeed, was a 
 supreme one, being Buddha's birthday ; and all the neighbourhood 
 — or certainly every woman — the rich in sedans, the poor on foot, 
 were on their way to do honour to his shrine. The broad paved 
 paths were covered with them, so that progression was not easy ; 
 andespecially since the more devout would suddenly prostrate them-
 
 26 BY PROXY. 
 
 selves at every dozen paces, with the same consequences that follow 
 the same feat of the clown in our pantomimes ; if you were not very 
 careful you fell over them. All the women had baskets containing 
 candles, incense sticks about a foot long with a knob of sawdust 
 paste at the top to make a respectable volume of smoke, and were 
 provided with strings of cash — very ' petty cash ' indeed — to buy 
 prayers with of the priest. Each too, young or old, had a sort of 
 alpenstock to help him up the hill. What was a much less 
 pleasant sight was the swarm of beggars, with every form of 
 disease, who besought the passengers to ' do good deeds ' with a 
 particular reference to their own case. The Englishmen were very 
 lavish — Pennicuick, perhaps, from the recollection of his friend's 
 remark upon his weakness in the direction of economy ; for he dis- 
 liked almsgiving on principle, and had a strong conviction that the 
 sightless eyes, the swollen and maimed limbs, and even the deficiency 
 of them, were all parts of a huge priestly imposture. The habit 
 of indiscriminate charity is greatly insisted upon by the disciples of 
 Buddha, and the generosity of the two strangers gained them much 
 popularity, which a peep at the back of the brain of at least one of 
 them would have considerably impaired. At the gate of the temple 
 — and indeed for the last half-mile of the way up — stalls were erected 
 for the sale of candles, joss sticks, and sycee paper, used in worship ; 
 and as it was shrewdly supposed that the ' white devils ' were want- 
 ing even in these simplest elements of religion, they had been much 
 importuned to buy them ; and here again Pennicuick had done his 
 duty. 
 
 ' Pray take notice of my exemplary conduct, Connie,' observed 
 he when they had reached the top of the hill ; ^ and also that I have 
 distributed at least fourpence among forty scoundrels.'
 
 THE JOSS-HOUSE. 27 
 
 ' Your behaviour is admirable, Pennicuick ; but take care to keep 
 it up in the temple.' A hint that had been called forth by the 
 abrupt transformation of Mi-leh-fu into Millefleurs. 
 
 ' She is the reverse of the proverb " All is not gold that 
 glitters," Connie,' whispered Pennicuick, with reference to her in- 
 terior ; ' for though she is but gold leaf outside, she has gold fruit 
 within her. The first row you have with those crocks, you will 
 come here to practise anatomy, I reckon.' 
 
 ' Hush, Pennicuick, hush : or some folks will be practising 
 vivisection on you.' 
 
 A very unpleasant-looking priest, quite bald, and dreadfully bm-nt 
 about his head — marks of great merit — was regarding his companion 
 with an air which might or might not be Buddhist, but was cer- 
 tainly very unchristian. His duties were apparently similar to 
 those of a verger, since his brethren were all actively engaged in 
 their spiritual calling — that is to say, in chanting, in prostrations, 
 in beating drums, and bells, and balls of wood, or in taking the 
 petty cash from the ladies. In exchange for it they gave what 
 may be called ' drafts from Hades, payable to Bearer : ' the idea 
 being that everybody who comes into the world has contracted 
 debts during his previous transmigration, which will have to be 
 settled (at compound interest; during the next, unless discharged 
 in this, for which these self-appointed ecclesiastical commissioners 
 kindly undertake to arrange. It is rather a less direct system than 
 that of Peter's Pence, but has the same practical effect. Conway 
 explained all these matters in a low voice to his companion, while 
 maintaining a suflSciently reverent air. 
 
 ' Why do the women all hum the musical gamut,' enquired 
 Pennicuick, * " Do, re, mi, fa '' ? '
 
 28 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' Hush ; it is nothing of the kind. They are saying " Na mi 
 o mi tah fuh," which is their great shibboleth. These drafts 
 the priests sell have had those excellent monosyllables chanted 
 over them many thousand times : hence their extraordinary 
 value.' 
 
 ' But what are they doing with those chopsticks, since they 
 have no rice ? ' 
 
 ^ They are not chopsticks : you will observe that they are 
 rounded on one side and flat on the other. The fair petitioners 
 ■chuck them into the air, in the hope that they will come down on 
 the flat side, in which case their prayers will be granted ; but as 
 the rounded side is the heavier, the augury is generally the other 
 way.' 
 
 ' Heads I lose, tails you win,' commented Pennicuick. 
 ' Just so : the laws of gravitation are against the poor creatures. 
 Here is a pilgrim with a better plan ; in that hollow bamboo he 
 has a bundle of sticks, each with a written character upon it, and 
 he will be prosperous or the reverse, according to the stick that is 
 first shaken out.' 
 
 ^ I would practise that in the seclusion of my own apartments,' 
 observed Pennicuick ; ' and after a few goes at it, I'll bet a guinea 
 I'd shake the right stick out first.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately, you don't know which is the right one. The 
 priest interprets it for you ; he has a sort of Fortune-telling book 
 which gives the meaning of the lettered sticks, and, you see, these 
 ;good people are not always satisfied with his decision. They ask 
 their neighbours what they think about it, and whether the re- 
 spected ecclesiastic may not have made some mistake.'
 
 THE y OSS-HOUSE. 29 
 
 ' They chatter worse than people used to do in church in my 
 young days, unless it's all " Do, re, mi, fa " I ' 
 
 ^ You are right. They repeat, perhaps a thousand times over, 
 their monosyllabic shibboleth, but continue to keep up a conversa- 
 tion nevertheless. " Na mi o mi ta fuh. How is your good man ? 
 Do you like your new work ? That girl's feet were not made so 
 small without pinching : thank Heaven, our family were all born 
 so. Na mi mi ta fuhr ' 
 
 ' I can scarcely hear half you say,' said Pennicuick. ' ^\Tiat 
 an infernal row those drums and bells make I ' Besides the smaller 
 instruments that kept up a perpetual concert within the building, 
 an immense drum was being struck at intervals outside the temple, 
 as outside our booths in the old Fair times. 
 
 ^The bells are said to be finer than any we have in England, 
 remarked Conway. 
 
 * Veiy likely : I am sure I wish they vjere in England : then 
 we should have them mellowed by distance : as it is, I believe the 
 drum of my ear has given way. I also find some difficulty in 
 breathing.' 
 
 ' It is only the clouds of incense. We have the same thing in 
 Europe in our Eoman Catholic churches.' 
 
 ' Yes, but as I am never in them that doesn't concern me. — By 
 gad, there's a sensible fellow I ' 
 
 ' Grood Heavens, what are you going to do, Pennicuick ? ' 
 
 ' I am going to have a cigar. This excellent man has just lit 
 his pipe at yonder altar — I never knew the use of candles there 
 before ; and I mean to do the same.' 
 
 The next moment Pennicuick had suited the action to the word ; 
 and without, as it seemed, exciting much comment. The Chinese
 
 30 BY PROXY. 
 
 religion is a curious mixture of devotion and irreverence, and a 
 man will prostrate himself flat before an idol, and then light a 
 pipe at his taper. 
 
 ^Now they may make what noises and smells they like,' said 
 Pennicuick triumphantly. ' I have got my consoler. You may 
 depend upon it, if folks were allowed to smoke in church in 
 England, it would set our respectable Establishment on its legs 
 again. The men would go — because with a cigar one could stand 
 even a sermon — and then of course the women would go even more 
 than ever. When I get home, I mean to go into Parliament upon 
 that platform.' 
 
 His tobacco, for which he had been craving — for to make such 
 a man give up, or even postpone, an accustomed enjoyment is to do 
 him a grievous wrong — put Pennicuick in high good humour. If 
 he took no great interest in the proceedings around him, he showed 
 no signs of boredom. Some things even amused him. One very 
 pious pilgrim struck his forehead upon the paved floor of the 
 temple no fewer than nine times, each time causing a distinct 
 reverberation, notwithstanding the drums. 
 
 ' Why don't he go on ? ' enquired our cynic of his friend. ' Has 
 he cracked it ? ' 
 
 ' No, no. You are most grossly ignorant of the rudiments of 
 his religion. Nine is a sacred number. Nine prostrations, nine 
 ablutions, nine repetitions of a formula, and so on, are necessary for 
 everything important. You have to burn nine joss sticks, for 
 example, before you can see, even with the eye of faith, the sacred 
 ^hay-le.' 
 
 ' Who is he ? ' 
 
 ' It is not a " he " at all. It is one of the most precious relics
 
 THE JOSS-HOUSE. 31 
 
 of Buddha, and supposed to be what the poets call one of the 
 *' pearls that adorn the brow of labour : " in other words, a drop of 
 his perspiration.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, you must be joking. This is too absurd even for 
 Euddha.' 
 
 ' I am perfectly serious : the Buddhists say that there are 
 84,000 pores in a man's body, and that after transmigration he 
 leaves behind 84,000 particles of dust. In the case of Buddha, 
 by resisting evil and reverting to truth, he left instead 84,000 
 relics " as hard and as bright as diamonds." Of these, many have 
 disappeared, but there is one in this very temple of Ay-tum-foo, 
 said to emit the most brilliant colours, if you only look at it in 
 the right light — that is, from a devotional point of view.' 
 
 ' Let us see it, by all means,' cried Pennicuick. 
 
 • That is quite out of the question. Xo Christian need apply, 
 I do assure you.' 
 
 ' You may depend upon it, you can see it, like any other exhi- 
 l^ition, Connie, if you choose to pay the entrance-fee.' 
 
 ' I know that one of the preliminaries is to burn nine sticks of 
 incense to Buddha.' 
 
 ' I will bum ten as soon as look at him — I mean, rather than 
 not look at his relic,' exclaimed Pennicuick enthusiastically. 
 
 ' Well, I confess I shouldn't like to do that,' answered the other 
 gravely. 
 
 ' Why not ? Your scruples astound me. For my part, I 
 should have been a universal worshipper — aPolytheist — if anything 
 could be got by it. I leave gone in for one or two religions. I 
 shall never forget confessing to a good priest at Rome — just to 
 see what it was like, you know ; by jingo, T astonished him. All
 
 32 BY PROXY. 
 
 the hair on his head stood up, till his tonsure looked like a pool 
 in a forest. I have not the least objection to being a Buddhist, 
 or anything else, for half an hour. Indeed, it is just possible — 
 everything is possible — that Buddha may be worth cultivating. 
 I always thought the gentleman who took off his hat to the fallen 
 statue of Jupiter a very sagacious fellow. " If your turn ever 
 comes round again, Mr. Jove, please to remember this salute." — 
 Where is this blessed relic ? ' 
 
 ' It is kept in the shrine at the back of the tqpaple, and can 
 only be seen on application to the high-priest. You might as well 
 ask to see His Celestial Majesty the Son of Heaven himself. Let 
 us come into the garden.' 
 
 The garden of a Chinese temple is always worth a visit. If 
 the natives of the Flowery Land can boast of no other art, they 
 excel in that of landscape gardening. They select as picturesque 
 a spot as they can, and then improve it after their fashion, which, 
 whatever its faults, never interferes with the beauties of nature. 
 These they preserve, while adding those of art — grottoes, bridges, 
 fancy ruins, and pagodas. Their taste for crowding every variety 
 of picturesque object into a small space reminds one (though, it 
 must be allowed, with a difference) of the pictures of Claude. It 
 also reminds the Englishman — or at least it reminded Pennicuick — 
 of the place in which the natives of London are adjured per 
 advertisement, throughout the summer, to pass a Happy Day,, 
 namely, Rosherville Grardens. 
 
 ' It's deuced like Eosherville, is it not, Connie ? ' 
 
 ' Very much,' said Conway, laughing ; ' a sort of cross between 
 the scenery of that establishment and the willow-pattern plate.' 
 
 The grounds were extensive, and made to appear much more
 
 THE y OSS-HOUSE. 33 
 
 so by the manner in which they were laid out. You walked up 
 and down, and round and round, and sometimes through and 
 through (where there were caverns) without much progression. 
 Presently, towards the rear of the temple, the two friends came 
 upon a wooden edifice, which contained a fasting monk. 
 
 * This is the Hermit of Cremome,' observed Pennicuick. 
 
 ' Hush, hush I he is a most sacred personage,' whispered Con- 
 way. ' He has been in these close quarters for nearly three years ; 
 and observe how uncomfortable they are. These long nails driven 
 through the planks project on the inside, to prevent him leaning 
 against the walls. For every thousand cash paid by any pilgrim 
 a nail is taken out, and the old gentleman is made a little more 
 easy. There have been a good many removed to-day, you may be 
 sure.' 
 
 The Englishmen came up to the little pigeon-hole through 
 which the inmate of this dog-kennel received the contributions of 
 the pious, and likewise his scanty supplies of food, and looked in. 
 The saint was seated tailor-fashion on a board, the upper part of 
 his body being upright as an idol. There was a shelf before him 
 with some books — works, probably, of the eternal Confucius. Not 
 only did the pleasures of literature still remain to him — he was 
 taking snuff. With these trifling exceptions, however, he was sup- 
 posed to be quite dead to the vanities of the world. His face 
 was blank and cadaverous ; his long black hair, parted in the 
 middle, flowed down to his waist ; his nails, also, were very long 
 and very black. He had been in his present place of residence for 
 nearly three years, the full time appointed for his voluntary im- 
 prisonment ; but he showed no signs of ' breaking up and going 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 BY PROXY. 
 
 away,' at least in its holiday sense. He looked J very much like 
 breaking up from a physical point of view. 
 
 'This is the biggest fool I have seen yet,' observed Pennicuick, 
 critically. ' Do you think he would have a cigar ? ' The scene 
 was exactly such as one sees every day in the monkey-house in the 
 Zoological Grardens. 
 
 ' I don't think you'd better try him,' said Conway ; ' he may 
 take it as an insult, and ring his alarm bell.' A huge bell was 
 just outside his cell, which he could sound by pushing a piece 
 of wood against it, that was thrust through a hole for that 
 purpose. 
 
 * I didn't see his bell,' ^aid Pennicuick ; ' that's clearly an article 
 of luxury. If he rings for everything he wants, where is his merit ? ' 
 
 ' He never rings for hot water for shaving — nor, to look at him, 
 for any other purpose,' observed Conway, always] maintaining a 
 respectful air. ' I think you'd better let him be.' 
 
 ' No, no : he shall have a cigar. He takes snuff, therefore he 
 can't belong to the Anti-Tobacco Association. Hi, old gentleman ! 
 Have a weed ? ' 
 
 The ascetic lifted his heavy eyes, from which all meaning 
 seemed to be expelled, and then protruded a shrivelled hand, into 
 AVhich Pennicuick dropped a cigar. The next instant he was im- 
 mersed in pious meditation. 
 
 ' I apologise,' observed Pennicuick to this inanimate object ; 
 < you are not such a fool as you look ; though that is not a high 
 compliment, after all. I would have given five pounds, Connie,' 
 added he, grimly, as they pursued their way, ' if that cigar had 
 been a Surprise one.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by a Surprise Cigar ? '
 
 THE JOSS-HOUSE. 35 
 
 ' One of those with a cracker in it, that goes off when you are 
 half way through it. Imagine the effect upon a pious ascetic who 
 has never stirred out of a box like that for three years, or been ac- 
 customed to any sensation beyond what is covered by a pinch of 
 snuff.' 
 
 ' The effect upon us, also, would be rather serious,' observed 
 Conway : ' our lives would not be worth an hour's purchase.' 
 
 ' I don't believe a word of it. I think it would all be put 
 down to Buddha, and would give that old gentleman — if he lived 
 through it — a higher reputation with the faithful than ever.' 
 
 ' Well, I am glad you were not in a position to try the experi- 
 ment. Come, we have got to the end of our tether; there is 
 nothing more to be seen, and it is time to get back to the boat 
 and our dinner.' 
 
 ' Very good : but what is that queer-shaped house standing all 
 alone, at the back of everything, with the gentleman in the yellow 
 robe apparently keeping guard over it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, that is the sancturrt sanctorum, in which the Shay-le, or 
 blessed relic of Buddha, is kept. It is so sacred, you see, that 
 nobody comes near it.' 
 
 ' I mean to see it,' said Pennicuick, confidently ; ' so here goes.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens, man, it's the chief-priest himself.' But before 
 he had finished his sentence, Pennicuick had already presented 
 Jiimself before that august individual. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SHAY-LE. 
 
 It was Arthur Conway's habit on touching foreign soil to begin- 
 to make himself acquainted as far as possible with the language of 
 its inhabitants, and he had given all the greater attention to the 
 Chinese tongue on account of its supreme difficulty ; perhaps he 
 now knew nearly as much about it as an Englishman expensively 
 educated at one of our public schools knows of the Continental 
 languages when he returns from his first tour ; he could ask a few 
 questions — after the fashion of the dialogue-books— and procure 
 for himself the necessaries of life, and he could understand what 
 was said to him pretty well. He exceedingly disapproved of his 
 friend's having anything to say — or rather to gesticulate — to the 
 high-priest of Ay-tum-foo, but he was too loyal to leave him in the 
 lurch; and therefore he hastened to the spot where that enormously 
 important ecclesiastic and his friend were by this time standing 
 together ; the former bowing slightly in the urbane national man- 
 ner, and the latter pronouncing the word ' Shay-le, Shay-le,' in as 
 insinuating a tone as he could compass. 
 
 There is always this difficulty in dealing with the Buddhist 
 priest (which cynics may say is not wholly confined to ecclesiastics of 
 that persuasion), namely, that although he may be one of the most
 
 THE SHAY-LE. 37 
 
 venerable and pious of human beings, it may also happen that he 
 may be very much the reverse of all this, and indeed a most super- 
 .lative scoundrel. The reason of this is that some persons embrace 
 the sacred profession from the most secular of reasons. The com- 
 pletely shaven head, the burns and bruises that are generally to be 
 seen sprinkled over them in plentiful patches, and the austerity 
 which distinguishes their lives and keeps them apart from other men, 
 offer great opportunities for disguise. So that before now very 
 considerable criminals have escaped punishment, and even lived for 
 the rest of their lives in the odour of sanctity, by assuming the vovrs 
 and habit of the priesthood. Imagine the case of one's meeting 
 the Archbishop of Canterbury, and not being quite sure that his 
 Grrace of Lambeth had not at one time experienced the gaol discipline 
 of neighbouring Millbank. However, the probability of the high- 
 priest of Ay-tum-foo's being all that he should be was of course 
 far greater than the reverse : though the fact of his having a finger 
 or two burnt off (in excess of zeal), as well as his other self-inflicted 
 injuries, was perhaps a suspicious circumstance: ('for being so 
 particular religious, why that, you see, puts persons on their guard ;') 
 he had a sort of beadle's mace in one hand, and a human skull in 
 the other, and in his gown of yellow silk looked altogether a re- 
 markable object 
 
 ' Lawya-lawya,' commenced Conway, not of course that this 
 individual was a lawyer, but because that is the mode of address 
 used to a high-priest; 'we are two Englishmen who have come 
 from far to see this famous temple.' Here Conway had uncon- 
 sciously placed the good priest in a position of much embarrassment, 
 for the polite way of the Chinese is to underrate anything of their 
 own, and to exaggerate the possessions of their interlocutor. If
 
 38 .BY PROXY. 
 
 the temple had been the priest's private mansion he would, for 
 example, have answered, ' You have given your honourable selves 
 unnecessary trouble in coming to see my wretched hovel.' But as 
 it was the house of his god he could scarcely speak of it in a 
 depreciatory way. Upon the whole he judged it better to take a< 
 general view of matters. 
 
 ^ After all, oh Christians, your religion and that of Buddha are 
 alike as melons.' 
 
 Conway translated this would-be compliment to his friend, who 
 took it in a more literal sense than the good priest had probably 
 intended. 
 
 ' Quite right : tell him he's a very sensible fellow, and that I 
 quite agree with him. And then ask him to show us the relic' 
 Conway accomplished this with much delicacy and caution, but the 
 high-priest lifted up both staff and skull in shocked negation. Such 
 a proposition was impossible : even his own people, as the English- 
 man might have observed, had not ventured within the sacred 
 precincts of the Shay-le, which had been exhibited to the Faithful 
 at sunrise that morning, positively for the last time until next 
 feast-day. The precious casket which contained it could never 
 be opened without an act of adoration in the form of a burnt offer- 
 ing; and even if it were, it could not be seen by white devils — he 
 apologised for having no other name for them — because it was 
 only visible to the eye of Faith. 
 
 ^ Look here, Connie : I mean to see it,' persisted Pennicuick.. 
 ' Tell the old beggar that I am a convert to the Buddhist faith- 
 Here are my joss sticks, which I am prepared to sacrifice as the 
 law directs : it will be a hona-jide transaction. And, I say, just
 
 TBE SHAY-LE. 39 
 
 add that I should like to give five pounds or so to the keeper of 
 the shrine.' 
 
 This audacious speech Conway transiated as insinuatingly as his 
 slender knowledge of Chinese enabled him to do, and, much to his 
 surprise, the priest took it in good part. Five English pounds 
 represent a very considerable sum in the Flowery Land, and no 
 doubt he recalled to mind how much could be done with them to 
 the glory of Buddha. In the great hall of gods, adjacent to the 
 temple, there was more than one deity from whom very literally 
 the gilt was a good deal rubbed off ; and who had scarcely enough 
 in his inside to maintain the ' vital principle,' or, as we say, to 
 keep body and soul together. There is nothing so distressing to a 
 high-priest — wounding at once his aniour-'propre and his esprit 
 de corps — as to see his gods out of repair. Of course there was a 
 difficulty as to the genuine adhesion of Mr. Ealph Pennicuick to 
 Buddhism ; the unyielding and somewhat contemptuous expression 
 of his countenance did not, it must be confessed, impress one 
 with the idea of a devotee ; but there he was, at all events, a pro- 
 fessing believer, with one of his joss sticks already lighted ; and 
 does not Confucius himself lay it down as an axiom that we are 
 to believe in a man's professions until they have been shown to be 
 false ? Moreover, at this supreme moment, Pennicuick produced 
 his purse, which, being of network, showed the glint of sovereigns. 
 
 ' Heaven forbid,' said the good priest, ' that I should quench 
 any man's pious zeal.' And with a grave inclination of his head he 
 led the way to the little bell-shaped edifice in which the precious 
 Shay-le was deposited. Conway remained where he stood, not al- 
 together at his ease. Without having the good nature that belongs 
 to high spirits, his friend had a turn for mischief, which in his
 
 40 BY PROXY, 
 
 younger days had led him into some serious scrapes, and which 
 even now occasionally exhibited itself; his remark about the ' sur- 
 prise cigar ' showed the way his thoughts had been tending, and it 
 was just possible that he designed to play some absurd trick upon 
 the high-priest to recompense himself for having let the hermit 
 slip so easily through his fingers. Above all it puzzled Conway to 
 account for his friend's giving so large a sum to see a relic — things 
 for which he always expressed the utmost contempt — unless he had 
 some whim of Ms own to serve at the same time. 
 
 It was, therefore, with no slight sense of relief that after a few 
 minutes he saw Pennicuick emerge from the shrine, and part com- 
 pany with the priest, apparently on the best of terms. 
 
 ' Well, Penn, and what was it ? Or are you bound to secresy 
 upon a subject so tremendous ?' enquired Conway, laughing. 
 
 ' My dear fellow, there are a dozen of them, and all rubbish, 
 was his friend's reply. ' Let us get home, for I am downright sick 
 of Buddha and all his works.' 
 
 There was something strange in the speaker's manner that 
 convinced his hearer that sondething had happened within the last 
 few minutes of an unexpected or surprising kind. If the other had 
 had the least grain of superstition in him, Conway might have even 
 supposed that he had been impressed by some seemingly super- 
 natural incident ; so grave and serious was his air. However, after 
 a few minutes, Pennicuick proceeded to tell what had happened 
 without further importunity ; and as it certainly appeared that he 
 had got very little for his five pounds, perhaps, thought Conway, it 
 was that which made him look so serious. 
 
 What Pennicuick had seen at the shrine of Ay-tum-foo appeared 
 to have been much the same as is seen at similar institutions nearer
 
 THE SHAY-LE. 41 
 
 home : the small bones of a saint or two, and even the shavings 
 of a toe-nail of Huang Ing Huk, the goddess of mercy ; which is 
 all that is left of her in China. 
 
 ' But you surely saw the Shay-le, the relic of Buddha ? ' observed 
 Conway. 
 
 ' Well, I don't know whether I did or not,' answered the other 
 drily. ' The thing was in a small wooden pagoda, almost dropping 
 to pieces with age, which the priest unlocked for me with every 
 sign of reverence. I looked in and understood him to say that 
 the thing lay at the bottom ; I saw nothing for some time, and 
 then — whether it was fancy or not, T will not swear — I did seem to 
 see something sparkling. It may have been a bit of glass, or even 
 the sparks from one's own eyes that are struck out from too much 
 staring into darkness.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you are still a sceptic, Penn. The received opinion 
 of the sacred Shay-le is that it emits coloured light, and that no 
 fire will burn nor diamond-headed hammer bruise it. It is also 
 sometimes surrounded by a halo " as big as a cart-wheel." ' 
 
 ' The last was not the case to-day, I will positively swear,' said 
 Pennicuick : ' and as for the rest of the Shay-le's attributes, I will 
 take your word for them.' And no more was said about the 
 matter. 
 
 The two friends dined in the boat, as usual, and afterwards some 
 cormorant-fishing was got up for their delectation. The rivers, 
 canals, and even the pools in China are alive with fish. Xothing 
 is more common than to see a native catching them with his hands, 
 not as we do when tickling trout, with infinite pains and caution, 
 but quite otherwise. He strikes the water sharply, the noise and 
 shock of which cause the fish to take refuge in the mud, where he
 
 42 BY PROXY. 
 
 feels them with his feet, and then dives down after them. While- 
 the boat of the Englishmen lay at anchor, their rowers had provided 
 them with a fish course by this simple means ; but the cormorant 
 business was really a high-class performance. In the present case,, 
 there were no fewer than a dozen of these birds, which at a word 
 from their master left the small craft that carried them, and spread 
 themselves over the canal, the sea-green eyes of each fixed at once 
 upon its finny prey, and hardly had they cloven the water than they 
 reappeared with the prize in their sharp notched bills. Most curious 
 of all, if the fish was too large for one to convey to his master, the 
 others came to his assistance, and captured it by their united efforts. 
 A collar of straw, carefully arranged round the upper part of the 
 neck, prevented the thing, as the gossips say, ' from going any 
 farther,' and ensured his returns to the proprietor. 
 
 The sport was amusing even to Conway who had seen it be- 
 fore, while its ingenuity extorted Pennicuick's admiration. 
 
 ' I am glad you find something to praise in China at last,' said 
 Conway. 
 
 ' I admire its cormorants, my dear fellow : which seem to be 
 very numerous.' 
 
 ' Still, however clever you allow the birds to be, their masters 
 who taught them must have a still larger share of credit. Besides,, 
 it is not so very clever to fish for other people, with a ring round 
 your neck which prevents your deriving any advantage from your 
 own exertions.' 
 
 ' How can you talk such nonsense, Connie, with the recollection 
 of what we have seen to-day so fresh in your mind ? The relations 
 between priest and people are here accurately symbolised, except 
 that the situation is reversed. The priests are the cormorants who^
 
 THE SHAY-LE. 45 
 
 compel the people to fish for them, with a ring — or a rope — round 
 their necks.' 
 
 ' It seems to me you are still sore at having spent those five 
 pounds upon the representative of Ay-tum-foo,' said Conway slily.- 
 ' I don't think you got much for your money.' 
 
 ' That's true,' said Pennicuick, with a grim smile. 
 
 ' Yet, upon my life, I believe you got more than you bargained 
 for, Penn, up yonder.' And Conway pointed to the distant hill 
 crowned by the temple. ' Did they make you a real Buddhist after 
 some unpleasant form of initiation such as is said to prevail among 
 Freemasons ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Pennicuick indifferently : ' also perhaps not.' 
 
 ' Shall we stay where we are for the night or move along, Penn V 
 enquired his companion presently. ' The Mandarin to whom I have 
 got the letter of introduction lives about six miles up stream, and 
 it is too late — except for official visits — to make our call upon him. 
 It would be better therefore to stay here, and go on in the morn- 
 ing, especially as all the fun is to come over again at sunrise to- 
 morrow ' 
 
 ' What fun ? ' interrupted Pennicuick. 
 
 ' ^^^ly, the pilgrimage to the temple, and your sacred Shay-le.' 
 
 ' Why, that old priest in yellow said it would not be shown till 
 the next feast-day ? ' exclaimed Pennicuick. 
 
 ' Yes, but when he said that, his reverence had not given way 
 to your solicitations ; moreover, to-morrow is a feast-day, though 
 one of less importance than to-day. But you seem to be tired of 
 it all, and rather in a hurry to get away. Of course we can go on 
 to-night if you please.' 
 
 ' I don't care twopence whether we do or not,' answered Penni-
 
 44 BY PROXY, 
 
 cuick. There was a look of doggedness, almost of defiance, in his 
 tone, that annoyed Conway, and not the less because it was wholly 
 unaccountable. He was not a man to put up with another's 
 caprices or sullenness. 
 
 ' I care as little as you do. We will stay here then,' he answered 
 curtly. 
 
 The reply seemed of small consequence enough ; but the value 
 of words, like that of pictures, is sometimes nought at first, 
 and afterwards turns out to be priceless. In this case that 'We 
 will stay here then' of Arthur Conway's proved a Sentence of 
 Death. 
 
 Nothing, however, could be more peaceful, or less indicative of 
 evil, than the scene wherein it was spoken. The pilgrims had all 
 departed, leaving no tokens of their presence on land or water. 
 The priests were at their solitary vespers, or perhaps counting the 
 * cash ' that had been received during the day. The beggars had 
 shrunk away into clefts and caves, to refresh themselves with sleep 
 for the resumption of operations on the morrow. The soldiers and 
 boatmen were either asleep or silently smoking : or perhaps both : 
 for though there is a theory in Europe that people do not enjoy 
 tobacco in the dark or with their eyes shut, it does not hold good 
 in China. The very birds of the air were silent. Conway got out 
 Jiis desk and began to write at the little table. 
 
 * Hullo, Connie ? You are not going to keep a journal 
 surely ? ' 
 
 ' No. I am writing home.' 
 
 ' Oh dear ! What an excellent husband ! ' remarked Pennicuick. 
 There was a touch of satire in the tone that did not escape the
 
 THE SHAY-LE. 4^ 
 
 other's ears. The colour came into his cheek, as he answered 
 coldly, ' I am writing to Nelly.' 
 
 • There can be no great hurry about it, my dear fellow, as we 
 shall not be back at Shanghae for six weeks.' 
 
 ' There may be some opportunity of sending a letter, and I 
 make a point of writing by every mail.' 
 
 ' You astonish me. ^\Tiat the deuce do you find to say ? ' 
 
 ' To my daughter ? Well ; I tell her everything that I think 
 will interest her which I hear or see.' 
 
 ' Grood Heavens ! I think I see myself writing in the same 
 style to Raymond. " China is a large and populous country : it is 
 governed by an Emperor called the Son of Heaven. The amount 
 of tea drunk in Shanghae alone is estimated at a million pounds." 
 He would not much care for that, I think. My own style is, 
 " Dear Eay, —Shall be home in August or thereabouts. In the 
 mean time, draw on me as usual." Why, you have not seen your 
 Nelly for these ten years.' 
 
 ' No ; and it may be ten years more before I do see her. It 
 is the more necessary therefore to do aU I can to keep my memory 
 green with her.' 
 
 ' I see.' 
 
 Nothing more was said. Conway went on with his letter, which 
 occupied him for a long time ; when he had finished — or rather, 
 when he had written it up to the latest date, for it was never des- 
 tined to be finished — he looked up, and saw by the dull light of 
 the cabin lamp that his friend had fallen asleep. Then he turned 
 in himself, and was soon sunk in slumber. 
 
 But Pennicuick was only feigning sleep. When he found him- 
 self no longer under the observation of his friend, he took some-
 
 46 BY PROXY. 
 
 thing out of his })reast pocket, and, softly rising, held it beneath 
 the rays of the lamp. It was a large and solid piece of glass or 
 crystal cut into facets, and resembled a drop from a chandelier. 
 It emitted a light so bright and sparkling that one almost expected 
 it to be accompanied with sound. There was a sound, though it 
 did not come from this object ; it was like the faint movement of 
 a ring that slides upon a bar. Pennicuick's face darkened in an 
 instant, then grew very ' set ' and hard ; he dropped his right hand 
 noiselessly into his shooting -jacket pocket, and moved towards the 
 curtains that separated the cabin from the front compartment. 
 He parted them softly with the finger that still held the piece of 
 crystal, and looked forth with keen and steadfast eyes. Beneath 
 him lay six sleeping men ; the five soldiers, and their commander 
 Fu-chow. It was the same scene as that which Conway had looked 
 upon on the morning of that very day, and with the like suspicion. 
 Only there had not been such menace in his eyes as now gleamed 
 from those of his friend. 
 
 They took in the whole six soldiers at a glance, but fixed them- 
 selves on Fu-chow. The round-faced captain lay nearest to him ; 
 his pig-tail was towards him ; his face, half averted, lay on its pillow- 
 mat, to all appearance in sound sleep. The others were snoring, 
 however, and this man was not. Pennicuick drew his hand up out 
 of his pocket and with it a six-barrelled revolver. The moon- 
 light shone brightly on the steel, as he levelled it at the head of 
 Fu-chow. 
 
 Then on the silence broke sharply a sudden click. No one 
 moved, and therefore, reasoned Pennicuick, no one heard it. 
 
 If Fu-chow had heard, with the muzzle of that deadly weapon 
 within two feet of him, he must surely have made some movement
 
 TBE SHAY-LE. 47 
 
 — which in that case would have been the last he would have ever 
 made. But Fu-chow lay like a log, or an apple branch with one 
 great round fruit upon it, the cheeks of which retained their red. 
 Then Pennicuick replaced his weapon in his pocket, dropped the 
 curtain, and again fell to regarding the object in his left hand. 
 He had now apparently new views respecting it, for he pushed 
 aside the mat that at night filled the place of cabin window, and 
 leant thoughtfully over the moonlit wave. Should he drop the 
 crystal or should he not ? It was heavy for its size — which was 
 about that of one of the glass rests that are used at dinner tables 
 to support the carverV knife and fork — and at the bottom of the 
 canal, as had been shown that day by the fishermen, was a deep 
 laver of mud into which it would quickly sink. He held it be- 
 tween his fingers with that intent, but at that moment the moon- 
 beams struck upon it, and like steel on flint evoked a thousand 
 sparkles ; red, blue, and emerald green, they flashed on his admir- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 ' It is not an opal,' he murmured ; ' what the deuce is it ? T 
 will wear it, hidden, like an amulet, here in China ; and when I 
 get home to Pall Mall, I'll have it set for a scarf-pin. I wonder 
 what the jeweller will say to it, and whether it is worth the five 
 pounds.' 
 
 Though, as we have said, like a drop from a chandeUer, this 
 crystal had no hole through it ; but there was a little ridge sunk 
 round the middle, and about this Pennicuick wound a thread of 
 silk, and suspended it round his neck, and next his skin. ' It is 
 like a charm that fools wear,' he muttered to himself; 'I wonder 
 whether it will bring me good luck or bad.' And then he too lay 
 down and fell asleep.
 
 48 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE INFORMER. 
 
 Different as the two Englishmen were in almost all particulars^ 
 they differed also in this, that Pennicuick, though he was much the 
 stronger, and could keep awake night after night, if it were neces- 
 sary, was a heavy sleeper ; while Conway was a light one. The 
 passing by of the first pilgrim on the paved towing-path the next 
 morning awoke him, and he at once got up and looked about him. 
 The first object his eyes rested on was Fu-chow, just stepping from 
 the boat to shore. 
 
 ' Where are you going, captain ? ' 
 ' Topside-galow, much plenty walk before chow-chow.' 
 ' Not a bit of it ; there is no time for going up hill. And as 
 to chow-chow, we mean to take that with his Excellency the red- 
 buttoned mandarin.' 
 
 He had produced his watch in corroboration of the first part of 
 this statement, for an illustration is the best sort of language to 
 all aliens ; but the captain appealed to it as a witness on the other 
 side. 
 
 ' One piecey hand look plenty time for chin-chin.' 
 ' Yes ; but the other hand says No. You can chin-chin here 
 just as well as at that blessed temple, and in short you sha'n't go.
 
 THE INFORMER. 
 
 49 
 
 ' Chop-chop,' pleaded Fu-cbow, and moved his legs like Mr. Payne 
 of pantomimic celebrity, to express rapidity of movement. 'One 
 young man walkey, no step.' 
 
 ' I don't care how quick a young man can walk. We are going 
 on with the boat at once.' 
 
 ' What is that dancing ape about ? ' inquired Pennicuick, roused 
 by the noise of the argument, and putting his head out of the 
 shoreward cabin. Fu-chow skipped back into the boat with all the 
 celerity of which he had just been boasting. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing,' said Conway. 'I am only telling him to move 
 on, since we mean to breakfast with the mandarin.' 
 
 ' To be sure, with old red-button. He will give us " frogs and 
 snails and puppy dogs' tails," no doubt ; but what is enlargement of 
 the liver compared with that of the mind ?' Then, with a supercilious 
 glance at the pilgrims : ' So all this Ay-tum-foo tomfoolery is 
 beginning again, I see. What surprises me is the egotism of these 
 idiots in each imagining that he possesses a soul.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he does,' said Conway drily. 
 
 ' Well, of course it is possible ; but you must allow even in that 
 case that it can't be possibly worth saving.' 
 
 Although it was almost certain that the mandarin to whom 
 they had been recommended would presently ask them to breakfast 
 (for, though by no means hospitable to strangers, the Chinese pay 
 considerable attention to persons who have letters of introduction), 
 the two Englishmen thought it prudent to take what is called a 
 ' summer oyster.' Oysters are v^ery plentiful in the Flowery Land 
 in^ the proper season, and during the remainder of the year a 
 substitute — thanks, we believe, to ' barbarian ' ingenuity — has 
 been discovered for them. The yolk of an ^^g is put into a wine- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 BY PROXY. 
 
 glass ; a few drops of water and as many of vinegar are added, with 
 salt and pepper. Then the recipient ' shuts his eyes and opens his 
 mouth,' as in the nursery game of our childhood, and ' Heaven 
 sends him,' or seems to send him, an oyster. 
 
 Pennicuick approved of this delicacy in his unenthusiastic 
 manner, and appeared in better spirits than on the previous evening : 
 he acknowledged that his temper had not been what it should 
 have been on that occasion, which he attributed to being shut up in 
 a horrid boat ; and now that they were on their way again, he grew 
 animated and full of talk. His quick eye roved hither and thither 
 and found a theme for sprightly scorn wherever it fell ; on the tea- 
 farms that now began to sprinkle the banks, where every parasitic 
 plant was ' Twining '^ ; on the family tombs with their groups of 
 pines or junipers (there's another hearse and feathers'); on the 
 blocks of granite cut into forms of gigantic animals, in imitation, 
 as he affirmed, of the antediluvian department of the gardens of the 
 Crystal Palace ; and on the pagodas, the idea of which he maintained 
 was derived from Kew. Presently glancing nearer home, he noticed 
 that the number of soldiers in attendance upon them was diminished. 
 
 ' There are but five men here, and there should be six,' observed 
 he in a quick tone of anger. 
 
 ' Fu-chow, how is this ? ' inquired Conway, who as usual saw no 
 reason for such excitement. It had happened more than once that 
 some of their guards had got out and walked beside the boat. 
 
 Fu-chow seemed to think that this was the case now ; for he 
 gazed earnestly along the footpath, as if expecting to see the truant 
 following them, ere he replied : ' Man plenty dirtey, plenty wash. 
 
 * He says the fellow has stopped to bathe,' explained Conway. 
 
 ^ A celebrated tea-firm in London is so called, Cousin Jonathan.
 
 THE INFORMER. 51 
 
 ' He is a liar,' said Pennicuick grimly ; ' they never wash — 
 Tou, sir, come here.' 
 
 *Fu-chow came up close to the bunk that separated the two 
 compartments, and stood face to face with his enemy. The con- 
 trast between the two men — typical as it was, too, of their respec- 
 tive races — was very remarkable : the European, unyielding, 
 confident, and implacable ; the Asiatic, dismayed, conciliatory, and 
 full of guile. 
 
 ' Do not strike him,' cried Conway quickly. 
 
 ' I don't intend to do so,' answered the other. ' But if I do 
 strike him I shall kill him. Please say to him that he had better 
 tell the truth.' Conway had seen his friend in ' tempers ' more than 
 once ; but never in one like this, which was all the more terrible 
 because of its calmness. He himself was more than annoyed ; he 
 -was indignant with Pennicuick, and made up his mind that this sort 
 of thing should cease, or he would return to Shanghae alone, and 
 leave his companion to get on without him as he could ; but for 
 the present he restrained himself, for he knew that the captain's 
 life was in danger. 
 
 ' See here, Fu-chow, my friend is displeased because you have 
 told him a lie. He says he will cut your pigtail off if you tell him 
 another.' For the first time the Chinaman lost colour ; the red 
 faded from his cheek and left it yellow. To lose his pigtail would 
 have been far worse than to lose life itself, and this ' white devil ' 
 was capable of any extremity of outrage. 
 
 ' I ask once more, where is that soldier gone ? ' said Pennicuick. 
 Fu-chow understood the question as though it had been addressed 
 to him in the purest accent of Pekin. 
 
 E 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOiS
 
 52 BV PROXY. 
 
 ' Young joss pidgeon man went to chin-chin at morning 
 time.' 
 
 ' He says the soldier is a pious young fellow, and went off to 
 the temple when we started,' explained Conway; ^he will rejoin, 
 us, no doubt, at the mandarin's, where he knows we are to stop.' 
 
 Pennicuick nodded as if satisfied, and Fu-chow assumed his 
 usual post at the extreme fore part of the boat, of which he formed 
 as it were the figure-head. 
 
 At the same moment there fell on the clear air the distant 
 sound of a great bell tolled with rapidity and at unequal intervals. 
 
 ' What is that, Connie ? ' inquired Pennicuick, with an unusual 
 display of interest. 
 
 ' I suppose it is the great bell at the temple ; we heard it 
 yesterday, though it is true not rung so irregularly. Perhaps a 
 part of those five pounds of yours has gone in drink to the 
 ringers.' 
 
 Pennicuick smiled, not very pleasantly ; that piece of extrava- 
 gance was perhaps a sore subject ; or perhaps his eye resting for the 
 moment on Fu-chow, caused him to show his teeth. 
 
 More tombs, more tea-farms, more pagodas, and presently a 
 villa residence on the riverside, which would have astonished a 
 Thames tourist, accustomed though he is to various styles of archi- 
 tecture. Imagine a Swiss cottage, painted very brightly, and 
 with gilt bells hanging from the verandahs, that shone in the sun 
 and tinkled in the breeze : in front a garden with grottoes and 
 fishponds ; on one side, and a little to the rear, what in England 
 would have been a coach-house and stables, but was in this instance 
 a ' Hall of Ancestors,' where the memory of one's great-grandfather 
 was a never-tiring subject of devotional exercise. On the other
 
 THE INFORMER. 
 
 53 
 
 side of the villa a similar range of buildings, the ' Hall of Educa- 
 tion,' or, as we should say, the schoolroom, where the children of the 
 proprietor take in Confucius with their mothers' milk. This was 
 1:he residence of Twang-hi, the mandarin. 
 
 The boat was pulled ashore and one of the soldiers despatched 
 to his Excellency, bearing the Englishmen's credentials : the letter 
 of introduction from their Shanghae acquaintance, and a piece of 
 cardboard of bright vermilion, eight inches long by four wide, 
 which was Conway's visiting card. His name was on the centre, 
 and in one comer, in Chinese, the words, ' Your stupid younger 
 brother bows his head in salutation.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't like children,' observed Pennicuick fi'ankly, ' but 
 to call these people children is to pay them far too high a compli- 
 ment. Does the fool who lives in this gimcrack edifice — the proper 
 place of which is at the top of a twelfth- cake — wear a peacock's 
 feather, I wonder ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not : that is reserved for even greater men. He 
 boasts of the red button only.' 
 
 ' Then he is not allowed to swallow gold-leaf when the Emperor 
 grants his gracious permission to him to die ? ' 
 
 ^ I am not sure, but I think he can only strangle himself with 
 a silken cord,' answered Conway gravely. ' Now, whatever you do, 
 Penn,when we come into this gentleman's presence, don't you laugh 
 — see, here is his master of the ceremonies.' 
 
 Down the steps of the gimcrack villa, like an actor out of a 
 stage castle a trifle too small for him, was seen descending a 
 solemn personage, with a wand in his hand, and a similar address 
 <iard, only a trifle bigger, to that which had been handed in. He 
 was attired in a blue dressing-gown, so full in its make as almost
 
 54 ^y PROXY, 
 
 to give a suspicion of crinoline, and wore upon his head a sort ©f" 
 inverted butter-dish, which wobbled as he moved. As he drew near 
 the boat, he shook his own hands with cordiality, and then placed, 
 them reverently on his stomach. 
 
 ^My master,' said he, ' is doubtful whether he shall presume tO' 
 receive the trouble of your honourable footsteps.' 
 
 * Confound him ! then he won't give us any breakfast,' observed 
 Pennicuick, when this sentence had been translated to him. 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! that is only his form of invitation,' explained 
 Conway. ' Tell the great Twang-hi, whose reputation reaches 
 beyond the seas, that we crave permission to look upon him.' 
 
 This reply was evidently expected, as with a profound obeisance- 
 the master of the ceremonies moved his wand and marched before 
 them towards the mansion, like a drum-major at the head of a 
 regiment. 
 
 As they drew near the house, they perceived a number of paper 
 lanterns hanging from the eaves of the verandah, each inscribed 
 with the name of the proprietor ; and, on the triple door being set 
 wide, Twang-hi himself seated at the end of the entrance-hall. He 
 was a man barely of middle age, but endowed with great gravity of 
 demeanour, though, as Pennicuick thought, by no means with more 
 than was needed to carry off his gown of office, with the tablets of 
 the law worked on the breast, his necklace of huge beads that 
 descended below his middle, and his mandarin's hat with the red 
 button conspicuous on its summit, exactly like a dish-cover with 
 its knob. 
 
 He rose on the approach of his guests, with a ' Tsing-tsing ! ' 
 (' Hail ! hail I '), then addressed Conway, who, he seemed to divine- 
 at once, was the one endowed with talking powers.
 
 THE INFCRMER. 
 
 55 
 
 ' What is joiir honourable age ? ' 
 
 ' My worthless number is about five-and-forty.' 
 
 ' Does the venerable man enjoy happiness ?' 
 
 ' My father is happy, I trust ; being in the abodes of the 
 blessed.' 
 
 For the moment Twang-hi showed some symptoms of embarrass- 
 ment. He had concluded from his visitor's age that his father 
 was alive, and by this mistake had perhaps awakened sorrowful 
 memories. Conway therefore at once came to the rescue by 
 asking in his turn : ' Is your honourable wife living ? ' 
 
 ' The mean person of the inner apartment is still in life,' was 
 the uncomplimentary but conventional reply. 
 
 ' How many worthy young gentlemen have you ? ' 
 
 ' Fate has been unpropitious to me in that particidar. I have 
 but one hug^ 
 
 'He is, however, doubtless doing credit to your Excellency in 
 his education.' 
 
 ' I believe that the lazy little beggar has learned a few cha- 
 racters.' 
 
 Thus they continued for several minutes,- each one underrating 
 himself and his own possessions, while exaggerating the importance 
 of everything pertaining to the other ; and then pipes and coffee 
 were brought in. With these came several attendants, each of whom 
 performed a different sort of obeisance, corresponding to his posi- 
 tion in the household. There are no fewer than eight gradations of 
 salutation, from the mere clasping of the hands to the knocking the 
 head nine times upon the floor, so that there was a good deal 
 pantomimic action. To Conway's great relief, this seemed to have no 
 effect upon the risibility of his friend, who indeed was looking very
 
 56 BY PROXY, 
 
 grave. His hearing, like his other physical senses, was especially 
 acute, and certain sounds of shouting and tumult without had 
 reached him. Presently the number of the attendants in the 
 room became augmented ; among them were some of the soldiers 
 from the boat, but there were also other soldiers. 
 
 The mandarins in China, as Conway was aware, have no 
 ' business hours,' as we term them, but are subject at any time to 
 have the claims of justice urged upon them ; therefore the sud- 
 den appearance of two police officials followed by their myrmidons 
 did not occasion any alarm to him. Pennicuick, on the other hand, 
 grew, not alarmed, indeed — for to fear he might with truth be said 
 to be a stranger — but suspicious of danger. He maintained an air 
 of politeness, but his stern face grew dark, and he mechanically 
 pushed his chair back to the wall. 
 
 With a wave of his hand, as if to bespeak his visitors' pardon 
 for his momentary neglect of them, the mandarin turned slowly to 
 the foremost police official, who addressed him with an excite- 
 ment very unusual ; for an inferior in China is to his superior 
 always respectful, even to the very carriage of his pigtail. It 
 was plain that something had happened to override even the 
 national regard for ceremony. 
 
 So rapidly did the man speak, that Conway was unable to 
 gather any sense from his words except that it was some sort of 
 accusation, and his astonishment was great indeed on seeing the 
 mandarin suddenly turn round and point towards his friend. At 
 the same moment, as if in obedience to the signal, he saw Fu-chow 
 emerge from the crowd, with several soldiers, and make a rush at 
 Pennicuick. Quick as thought, the latter leapt from his seat and 
 drew a revolver from his pocket ; the next instant Fu-chow, for
 
 THE INFORMER. 
 
 57 
 
 •certain, would have been sent to Hades, and in all probability the 
 mandarin after him, had not Conway, with a warning cry of ' Mad- 
 man I what would you do ? ' struck the muzzle of the weapon upwards, 
 so that the bullet buried itself harmlessly in the roof of the apart- 
 ment. Before Pennicuick could recover himself, a dozen men were 
 on him, and he was disarmed and thrown upon the floor. A 
 soldier on either side of Conway had also seized each an arm, though 
 he made no sign of resistance. 
 
 ' We are Englishmen, Twang-hi,' he exclaimed in a loud voice, 
 * and claim the protection of our flag.' 
 
 ' If what I have just heard is true,' returned the mandarin, ' the 
 Son of Heaven himself could scarcely protect yonder wretch. He 
 has committed a sacrilege more impious than has yet entered into 
 the brain of man to execute.' 
 
 'This is some tenible mistake or lying charge, your Excel- 
 lency.' 
 
 ' Mistake I ' cried the mandarin in a tone of horror ; ' look 
 yonder ! ' 
 
 Conway looked, and beheld the treacherous Fu-chow holding in 
 his open palms, with a mixture of malignant joy and superstitious 
 reverence, a shining something, like the drop of a chandelier. 
 
 ' It is the sacred Shay-le of Buddha, barbarian devil ! ' con- 
 tinued Twang-hi, ' that your comrade has stolen from its ten- 
 thousand-year-old shrine.' 
 
 ' It is impossible I ' cried Conway, in tones almost as horror- 
 stricken as those of the other ; for he well knew the heinous nature 
 of such an outrage in Chinese eyes, and also its consequences. * I 
 saw him place it round his neck last night,' put in Fu-chow, ' and 
 Jiave just taken it from thence with my own hands.'
 
 58 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' Pen, is this true ? ' cried Conway in a tone of agony, — 
 * that you took away the Shay-le ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, it's true enough,' returned Pennicuick, speaking with some 
 difficulty from the number of Chinese upon his chest, but still with 
 a certain characteristic scorn. ' I was a fool to do it, of course, and 
 I am sorry for it ; but not half so sorry as that you made me- 
 miss that whey-faced scoundrel Fu-chow with my first barrel.' 
 
 Not a syllable of this, of course, was intelligible to those wha 
 heard it, except that Fu-chow caught the sound of his own name. 
 As he did so, the same look of vindictive fury came into his face 
 that Conway had noticed in it on that night when the captain 
 had played the spy. 
 
 ' You would not turn traitor, surely, and destroy those who have- 
 fed you ? ' pleaded Conway desperately. 
 
 ' No,' said Fu-chow slowly ; ' only, the guilty must needs be 
 punished. His Excellency here, as my father the mandarin has in- 
 formed me, is one whose justice never fails. I will tell him you are 
 a good man ; how you defended my daughter from this devil, and 
 have twice saved my life from him ; and how you revere Buddha,, 
 and know nothing of this vile and impious sacrilege.' 
 
 ' And yet it was my friend, and not I,' urged Conway, ' whose 
 hand has fed you.' 
 
 ' Ay, and struck me,' whispered Fu-chow fiercely, and touching 
 for an instant his scarred cheek. ' See, yonder, what he has taken,, 
 and reckon what he is like to pay for it.' 
 
 He pointed to the family altar, erected, as usual, in the hall,, 
 and on which by this time a priest from the temple had placed the 
 missing Shay-le with every demonstration of reverence . The faces-, 
 of all the spectators, including even those of the soldiers who had'
 
 THE INFORMER. 59. 
 
 just been employed in binding Pennicuick's limbs with ropes, ex- 
 pressed a superstitious awe. 
 
 ' How much shall I get for this, as they say at the Old Bailey, 
 Connie ? ' inquired the prostrate Pennicuick, taking advantage 
 of the solemn silence ; ' I suppose that friend of yours — whom you 
 will do me the justice to say I always took for a scoundrel — will 
 tell us as much as that.' 
 
 Conway murmured a few words to the captain, who answered 
 in the same low tone, but with a look which fortunately Pennicuick 
 could not see. 
 
 ' You will be fined and perhaps imprisoned, he says,' answered 
 Conway cheerfully. 
 
 It was an effort for him to speak with hope, for what the 
 captain had hissed into his ear was this : ' As sure as that is the 
 Shay-le of Buddha, he will be Cut into Ten Thousand Pieces.' Such 
 is in China the punishment invariably inflicted on those who com- 
 mit sacrilege, as Conway was well aware ; but no less did the corro- 
 boration of the fact from Fu-chow's lips cost him a shudder. Far 
 from European aid, and in the heart of a hostile and superstitious 
 people — even had he had no personal enemy to urge the law upon 
 its cruel course — Ealph Pennicuick was surely doomed.
 
 60 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 THE GARDEN AT RICHMOND. 
 
 Welcome everywhere as is the spring, it is nowhere hailed with 
 more genuine satisfaction than in the outlying neighbourhoods near 
 London, where so many families reside in reality to be spared 
 the London rent, but professedly because the country is ' so delight- 
 ful,' or ' so much more healthy for the dear children.' As for the 
 healthiness, that is a matter to be settled between the Eegistrar- 
 Greneral (who holds a different opinion) and themselves ; but as to 
 the delightfulness, we believe that under cross-examination they 
 will withdraw that statement except as regards the summer months. 
 From October to March there is not a man whose house is thus 
 located, and whose business or pleasure lies in town, that does not, 
 rising early in the morning, curse his fate ; and again, when prema- 
 turely leaving some hospitable roof, or the theatre before the play 
 is finished, because he has to ' catch the train.' This difficult feat 
 has to be accomplished so often, and at such inconvenient hours, 
 and in such winds, and snows, and rains, that a hundred times he 
 vows that, as soon as he can g-et that hateful suburban mansion off 
 his hands, he will come and dwell in Piccadilly. His wife and 
 daughters too, during his absence the whole day in town, find 
 Twickenham or Kichmond, Hampton or Norbiton, as the case may
 
 THE GARDEN AT RICHMOND. 6r 
 
 be, excessively dull ; especially so as regards the young ladies, since 
 all the young gentlemen go off to town with their elders, and leave 
 these localities in the same state as the cities of old, which a 
 general levy of the nation in the field has left guarded only by 
 women and children, and a few quite ' ineligible ' old fogies. This 
 is the invariable state of things during the winter ; but with the 
 return of spring the young men return from town by earlier trains 
 for a row on the river, and other country joys, in which 
 ladies can partake. Paterfamilias, too, finds getting up ' with the 
 lark ' no longer a fiction, and appreciates that bird's society ; and 
 in the evening, after the din and smoke and toil of London, takes 
 kindly to the green earth and budding trees, and likens the family 
 garden at home, however small, to that of Eden. Some of the 
 gardens are very small indeed. Let us introduce the reader to 
 one of them, with an apology for the scantiness of the accommo- 
 dation. It is situated at Eichmond, not by the river-side, where 
 gardens are large and houses costly, but somewhere near the old 
 church in the back pait of the town, of wliich fashionable London 
 frequenters of the 'Star and G-arter' and the ' Castle ' know nothing 
 at all. It is a quiet old-world locality, the inhabitants of which 
 should be by rights (if appearance has rights) reduced gentlefolks, 
 or at the worst ' decayed ' clergy. It is dull, but not dreary ; com- 
 fortable, though cheap ; and has certain picturesque features of its 
 uwn, not of the tumbledown sort born of absolute decadence, but 
 which belong to genteel old age, and the absence of a vulgar flush 
 of ready money. There are no fountains, nor fishponds, nor any of 
 those pocket conservatories which attach themselves to the side of 
 our brand-new villas as if they were being treated for pleurisy — with 
 blieters ; the gardens are long strips of greensward, not very much
 
 ■62 BY PROXY. 
 
 "broader, some might scornfully say, than the strips of carpet rolled 
 forth from the portals of town mansions on ball nights to save 
 white satin shoes from contact with the pavement ; but they are 
 ^reen in spring-time nevertheless, and often boast a crop of daisies, 
 that outshines all the patterns of the upholsterers. They are quite 
 private too, being shut in by high brick walls of very old standing, 
 whereon are trained peach-trees and pear-trees, which, though sel- 
 dom giving any account of themselves such as would be received 
 in Covent Garden, bear here and there a cherished fruit or two, 
 ^hich is reserved by the proprietor for great occasions, and de- 
 scanted on as ' home-grown.' 
 
 In one of these gardens, on the selfsame spring morning, as it 
 happens, on which Arthur Conway, thousands of miles away, is 
 paying with his friend that fatal visit to the mansion of his trans- 
 parency Twang-hi, his daughter Nelly is sitting before an easel, 
 in front of her mother^s house ; she is painting a picture of it in 
 water-colours for her far-away father, whose artistic talent and 
 something more she has inherited, and she calculates that it will 
 reach him, some three months hence or so, upon his birthday. He 
 has never seen the house ; for when he left his wife and child, years 
 and years ago, they were in lodgings in London, where they had 
 continued to live on until lately, when some slight change for the 
 better in his circumstances enabled them to remove to Richmond. 
 To what that change was owing Nelly does not know, nor even does 
 her mother. Papa is reticent about such matters. He is always 
 poor, but sometimes a little less so than at others ; and then the wife 
 and child at home, or ' his belongings,' as he lightly calls them, 
 always derive advantage from it. The quarterly cheque to Mrs. 
 Oonway has another twenty pounds in it, and Nelly gets some
 
 THE GARDEN AT RICHMOND. 63 
 
 pretty ornaments from China to wear in her bright brown hair or 
 around her shapely neck, which sets her thinking what this dear 
 distant papa is like, whom she has not seen since she was a little 
 child, but who never forgets her. The cheque sometimes comes to her 
 mother without a letter, but for herself there are always some loving 
 lines by the China mail that fill her with unuttered yearnings. The 
 subject of her father is not one upon which her mother encourages 
 her to speak. That there is ' nothing absolutely wi'ong ' about papa, 
 she is well convinced, but she also knows that mamma and he 
 are not quite in accord. This gives her affection for him a tinge 
 -of sorrow, which does not, however, abate it. She has been told by 
 some of her fathers friends that she is the ' very image of him,' 
 but that does not help her much towards picturing him to herself. 
 He cannot, for example, be only a few inches more than five feet 
 high ; wear brown hair in masses about his forehead, and in a heap 
 at the back of his head ; have hands so ridiculously small that he 
 is obliged to ask for his gloves as ' first child's size ' instead of any 
 number known to adults ; all which are among the personal cha- 
 racteristics of * his image.' Were Xelly inclined to be vain, which 
 is not the case, she might have given a more favourable description 
 of herself. She is small, it is true, but light and bright as a fairy. 
 How that little head, set so airily on its slender neck, can carry such 
 a harvest of gold-brown hair, awakens wonder ; her brown eyes, too, 
 are very large for her face, gi^^rig almost the impression of one of 
 those charming initial letters which magnify the female graces in 
 ' Punch ; ' though, after all — as one looks at them — who would have 
 them smaller? Softer and brighter they could not be; if you 
 borrowed a pair of any bird to prove it, and placed them beside 
 Nelly's, you would own yourself in the wrong. As sweetly as any
 
 64 BY PROXY. 
 
 bird, whom heartless man has robbed of sight to make its song 
 more ravishing, does Nelly sing ; and here, too, is a wonder how 
 so frail a body can trill forth such far-sounding melodies as are now 
 filling the spring air around her. When she works alone with her 
 brush or pencil, it is her habit so to sing ; and the two occupations 
 harmonise together like the voice and the instrument. 
 
 ' My dear Nelly, I do hope you are not putting your paint- 
 brush in your mouth,' exclaimed an agitated female voice, and at 
 the same moment an elderly lady appeared at the top of the little 
 flight of steps that led down from the dining-room window to the 
 garden. As Nelly was in full song at the time, the question ap- 
 peared a little superfluous, but she hastened to reply to it never- 
 theless. 
 
 ' No, mamma, dear ; I hope I gave up that practice once for 
 all when Mrs. Wardlaw bought me my first " grown-up " paint-box, 
 nearly five years ago.' 
 
 ' My dear child, it feels very cold,' resumed Mrs. Conway, with 
 a lady-like little shudder ; ' there is nothing so treacherous as these 
 warm days in early spring, as you will come to know when you 
 have lived as long as I have, and got the sciatica through sitting 
 out in them. I think you had much better paint indoors.' 
 
 ' But, my dear mother, I can't paint the outside of the house 
 from the inside,' returned Nelly, laughing. ' Now, do come down 
 and see how I am getting on.' 
 
 Mrs. Conway frowned, not that she was at all annoyed, but 
 because she always did frown when invited to do anything. It was 
 her standing protest against the unsatisfactoriness of life and all 
 its acts, of the world and all its ways. Like her daughter, 
 she was small, though by no means slight, and doubtless had
 
 THE GARDEN AT RICHMOND. 65 
 
 been at one time a pretty piquant little woman, though 
 never, like her, of the spiritual sort ; but years and cares had 
 furrowed her brow, and set their marks upon her generally. Her 
 light eyes, from being constantly thrown up in astonished repro- 
 bation, had assumed a permanent position of amazement, though 
 still capable of further movement in the same direction. If 
 annoyed, thwarted, or astonished — to all three of which conditions 
 of mind she was very prone — her hands and eyes flew up together, 
 like those of a mechanical doll ; only, it was not necessary to press 
 any particular spring, for she was all spring. 
 
 Her complexion was very fair and good, and she would have 
 looked comparatively young, but for those furrows and for the 
 wrinkles about her mouth, where a painful smile was working (for 
 you couldn't call it playing) in sign that for all that had come and 
 gone to her in the way of sorrow, and for all the unsatisfactoriness 
 of the scheme of creation, she was, thank Heaven, still cheerful. 
 But it was no more like real cheerfulness than a gas-fire is like 
 one of wood or coal. Her father, a plain blunt man, with a turn 
 for drollery, used to say of her when a child, that she had got ' the 
 Toos.' She was always too hot or too cold, or the weather was ; 
 and all about her were too hard, or too rude, or too unsympathising ; 
 and she never forgave him that little joke, though it was greatly 
 appreciated by the rest of the family. The poor man went to his 
 gmve, she was wont to say, without ever knowing what his poor 
 daughter suffered ; which, so far as any particular ailment was 
 concerned, was certainly true. If she had ever heard of the 
 poet's advice to ' suffer and be strong ' — which she had not — she 
 would have retorted that ' it was all very well for a great rough 
 man like him, but she would just like to see him trying to 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 BY PROXY. 
 
 bear for half an hour what she had had to bear all day and 
 every day of her life, not to mention her nervous headaches. 
 Nobody could call her repining who knew the meaning of words ; 
 but any other poor creature in her position would be sorely 
 tempted to inquire why such misfortunes befell ^6r, who had really 
 not the physical strength to endure them.' Mrs. Conway was 
 really a kind-hearted good woman, and yet men had been known 
 to say that, if there was no other woman in the world, they could 
 never have married her : but this was after the days of her piquant 
 prettiness had passed away ; during that time she had had wooers 
 enough, for in addition to her personal charms she had had some 
 trifling attractions in the three per cents, though, to do her (and 
 him) justice, they had weighed as nothing with Arthur Conway. 
 Speculations as to what on earth could have induced this or that 
 man to marry this or that woman are always idle when indulged 
 in twenty years after the catastrophe. In this case it was only 
 certain that Mrs. Conway still had her virtues ; and among them 
 this important one, that she had done her duty by her child. Tt is 
 easier perhaps to be a good mother than a good wife ; but, at all 
 events, Nelly and her mamma were not only united by a bond of 
 the most genuine affection, but — which does not always happen, 
 even under those favourable circumstances — ' got on ' together per- 
 fectly well. 
 
 The eddies and ripples upon the surface of her mother's cha- 
 racter, perplexing and misleading as they were to superficial 
 observers, did not hinder the girl from seeing the clear pure stream 
 that ran below them ; and, moreover, she had discovered, what 
 scarcely anyone else suspected, that, although strangely deficient 
 in what is very properly called Cv^mmon sense, her mother vvas
 
 THE GARDEN AT RICHMOND. 67 
 
 possessed of an intuitive sagacity that shone forth on occasion with 
 great keenness, though it lay for the most part in the scabbard of 
 disuse. 
 
 ^Well, mamma, dear, what do you think of it?' inquired 
 Nelly, when Mrs. Conway had stood regarding her picture for some 
 moments, with her hand over her eyes, and her head on one side at 
 the critical angle. 
 
 ' Well, it's like the house, of course ; indeed, I should know it 
 almost an3rwhere : it strikes me, however — though it's only my 
 opinion, which goes for nothing, of course, — that it is rather out of 
 the perpendicular.' 
 
 ' Nay, that 's not a matter of opinion, but of fact, mamma ; 
 here's the ruler ; now, if you place it along the line here, you will 
 see it's as straight as can be.' 
 
 ' I only meant that the copy differed from the original, my 
 dear ; it is the house that's out of the perpendicular, that's all,' 
 observed Mrs. Conway confidently. 
 
 ' Indeed, I hope not, mamma,' said Nelly, laughing ; * because 
 you know we have got it for a year.' 
 
 ' And nothing more likely, my dear, than that it should come 
 down before the time expires. These old houses often do. How- 
 ever, I had no choice in the matter ; I never have.' 
 
 * You don't regret coming here, dear mamma, I hope,' said 
 Nelly, with a gravity which I am afraid was not wholly genuine. 
 ' I am sure it was very nice of papa to get us out of those dreary 
 London lodgings. I do hope he will be pleased with this picture of 
 our new home, and that it will come as a little surprise to him 
 very near his birthday ; perhaps upon the very day.' 
 
 ' Well, that will depend upon the mails, my dear,' observed 
 
 F 2
 
 6S BY PROXY. 
 
 Mrs. Conway with sudden stiffness. ' And as to a surprise, how can 
 there be anything of the sort when your father knows we are here ? '' 
 
 ' I merely meant as far as the present goes, mamma.' 
 
 Then there was the little silence that follows upon the intro- 
 duction of an unwelcome topic. 
 
 ' Well, I hope you won't spoil your things, Nelly, with these 
 horrid paints,' observed Mrs. Conway presently. ' Oil never comes 
 out, remember, and that is the only spring dress I can afford you 
 this year.' 
 
 ' I will be very careful, dear mamma. It isn't oil, however ; it 
 is a water-colour drawing.' 
 
 ' My dear, it's paints, and that's the point ; as for its being a 
 water-colour, as you call it, and at the same time a drawing — that 
 is ridiculous.' 
 
 ' It is the name that it always goes by in art, mamma.' 
 
 ' Very likely, my dear ; I only observed that it was ridiculous.' 
 
 And if all the members of the Eoyal Academy, including its 
 associates, honorary lecturers, and the chaplain, had been collected 
 together in that back garden, Mrs. Conway would have still main- 
 tained her opinion. 
 
 ' I suppose we shall see nothing of Mr. Raymond Pennictiick 
 now that we have come out of town,' continued she, after a pause. 
 
 ' Well, mamma, we have only been here a week, and he is 
 working hard at Lincoln's Inn, you know. It can scarcely be ex- 
 pected that he can look in upon us at Richmond so often as when 
 we were in Grower Street.' 
 
 ' I did not say anything about " so often," my dear. To-day 
 is Saturday, when even the humblest clerk is given a half-holiday ; 
 and Raymond is his own master, and could come if he chose. Not
 
 THE GARDEN AT RICHMOND. 69 
 
 that I want him, goodness knows. If he feels no wish to ^'isit us 
 — if he forgets that when he was an orphaned child I was a second 
 mother to him — let him stop away.' 
 
 ' He was not an orphan, surely, mamma,' said Nelly, smiling. 
 
 ' Now, that's what I call hair-splitting,' returned Mrs. Conway 
 •quickly. ' He was worse than an orphan ; for a man that has a 
 bad father is more to be pitied than one who has none. The child 
 was utterly neglected. I don't believe Ralph Pennicuick cared 
 one fourpenny-piece whether it lived or died. But there, men are 
 all alike ; self, self, self is all they think about from the cradle to 
 the grave.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, I cannot believe that ! ' 
 
 ' Of course not ; I didn't believe it myself when I was your 
 age, but I have come to learn it by experience. You imagine, I 
 dare say, that Raymond, for example, is a high-principled, un- 
 selfish, dutiful young gentleman ; and I grant he seems all that. 
 But a woman can no more judge of a man's character before she 
 marries him, than you can tell how a house is furnished by looking 
 at the outside walls. Seeing that it's our first Saturday in our new 
 house, and that we know none of our neighbours except Mrs. 
 Wardlaw, one would think it would be only common civility in 
 Raymond to run down. But, no ; it is too fine a day to waste on 
 that, especially when the whitebait season has just begun at 
 G-reenwich — my goodness gracious, there's the front-door bell ! 
 Now, you mark my words, that's Mrs. Wardlaw. She has come to 
 lunch ; and we have nothing in the house but that cold leg of lamb, 
 and the mint sauce has been thrown away by that idiot Jenny.' 
 
 ' I don't think that will much distress Mrs. Wardlaw, mamma,* 
 said Nelly quietly.
 
 70 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' Ah, that shows how little you are acquainted with human 
 nature ; you imagine that because she was not brought up, as I have 
 been, to all the delicacies of the season, she won't miss her mint 
 sauce. But not a bit of it ; she'll say to Perkins, " Mint sauce," 
 as naturally as, when cold beef is before one, you would say^ 
 " Mustard, Perkins ; " and then Perkins will look at me, and I 
 sha'n't know where to look ; or as likely as not she will blurt out, 
 " Please, marm, it's all throw'd away." I must say it's very incon- 
 siderate of Mrs. Wardlaw Law, bless me, it's Eaymond ! Why^ 
 
 my dear boy, who would have thought of seeing you ! ' 
 
 ' Well, I should have hoped you would, Mrs. Conway,' 
 answered a cheery voice. ' It surely required no great gift of pro- 
 phecy to foretell that out of Lincoln's Inn, upon the last day of 
 the week, being a holiday, should come one who useth the pen 
 and wasteth the ink, even unto Richmond. Forgive my Eastern 
 imagery, but our chief is engaged in the great case of Ramchunder 
 
 versus Jeejeebhoy ! and we are all May I come down ? ' 
 
 ' Stop, sir ! ' cried Nelly, as Mr. Raymond Pennicuick, a very 
 handsome young gentleman of nineteen or twenty, stood salaaming 
 in oriental fashion at the top of the steps. ' First tell us whether 
 you can eat cold lamb without mint sauce for luncheon ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Nelly, there is nothing that I could not eat — and I 
 may even add drink — this morning, for I have walked every step 
 of the way from London ; I am stakving.' 
 
 ^ There, mamma,' cried Nelly, ' that will be a relief to your 
 
 mind ' But Mrs. Conway had already vanished, on hospitable 
 
 thoughts intent, into the kitchen department ; and the two young- 
 people were left under the necessity of making themselves agree- 
 able to one another.
 
 A BARGAIN RATIFIED. 71 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A BARGAIN EATIFIED. 
 
 Eatmond Pennicuice: was dark like his father, but without his 
 stem and almost truculent expression. His eyes were not black, 
 but hazel ; and, in place of that astonishing black beard his father 
 wore, he had a slight moustache and a smooth chin. The people 
 who caUed the elder 'hard Pen,' sometimes called the younger 
 ' soft Pen ; ' not that he was weak and yielding, but because he was 
 gentle and conciliatory. His behaviour as a son, too, was exem- 
 plary ; and, since it is by no means fashionable to be filial, this was 
 set down by some to want of strength of mind. As a matter of 
 fact, Raymond had a good deal of independence of character, though 
 mitigated in expression by a strong sense of duty as respected his 
 parent, and by the gift of charity as regarded others. It was this 
 latter quality which had won him the esteem of Mrs. Conway, whose 
 recent denunciation of him Nelly had set down at its just value. 
 She had not even taken the trouble to defend him against her 
 mother's accusations, which were like the charges of a pet goat, 
 made in wilfulness and not in malice. At that very moment she 
 was assisting Jenny in the basement story to cook a sweetbread for 
 her favourite.
 
 72 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' What a charming picture, Nelly ! But, dear me — it will be 
 finished too late.' 
 
 ' Why, you don't even know, you silly boy, for what it is in- 
 tended ! ' 
 
 ' Why, of course, for exhibition at the Koyal Academy. And 
 to-day is closing day.' 
 
 ' Raymond, you're a tease. This picture is intended, sir, for a 
 birthday present for somebody.' 
 
 'Dear, dear, I am so sorry to have precipitated matters. I 
 had no notion you were intending anything so kind. It happens 
 on June 4, you know — same day as that of Greorge III., which is 
 curious and interesting. But now I know of it, you may just as well 
 give it to me as soon as it is done. It is for me, is it not, Nelly ? ' 
 ' It certainly is not^ sir ; nothing was further from my inten- 
 tion. The picture is for dear papa ; it will go out on the 14th of 
 this month, and reach him, I hope, just in time. Don't you think 
 it will please him ? ' 
 
 ' If it doesn't, I'll take it off his hands,' answered Eaymond, 
 regarding it with admiration. ' It pleases me uncommonly.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but you are not an artist as he is, and, in short, know 
 nothing about it.' 
 
 ' That's quite true, dear ; yet somehow one feels what's good. 
 There will be scores of pictm-es of old red-brick houses, in sunny 
 gardens, at the exhibition this year, which will not please me so 
 well as this ; which will only please me, perhaps, because they are 
 like this.' 
 
 Nelly stepped back a pace or two from her easel, and executed 
 a curtsey down to the very ground. 
 
 ' Spare my blushes, sir ; you overwhelm me quite.'
 
 A BARGAIN RATIFIED. 73 
 
 ' I did not mean a mere empty compliment, Nelly,' answered 
 the young man gravely. ' Everything done by those little hands 
 of yours is dear to me.' 
 
 ' That takes the gilt off the criticism though, Mr. Raymond,' 
 answered Nelly steadily. 
 
 ' Well, I confess I can't criticise in your presence. I can only 
 admire. You say " spare my blushes ; " but I can't spare one of 
 them. I can't, indeed.' 
 
 ' My dear Eaymond, I think you are mistaking the day,' said 
 Nelly gravely. 'It is not February 14; and it's not the 1st of 
 April.' 
 
 ' No ; April-fool's day is past, but I am not the less a fool on 
 that account. I knoiv I'm a fool to expect any such happiness to 
 befaU me as I have now in my mind. Still, I must tell you what 
 it is that I dare to hope, though I think you can guess.' He had 
 taken her by the hand and led her gently to the bottom of the 
 little garden, out of earshot of anyone in the house. 
 
 ' I am not a good hand at guessing, Raymond,' answered she ; 
 *■ and as for your hope — I am sure you will say nothing to pain me ; 
 and it would pain me very much if you asked for anything I could 
 not give.' 
 
 She wore no blushes now. Her fairy face had lost all its bloom, 
 and looked so exquisitely delicate, with here and there a faint blue 
 vein, as to remind you of Shelley's lily of the vale : 
 
 AMiom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
 That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
 Through its pavilions of tender green. 
 
 But except for her paleness there was no token of passionate love.
 
 74 BY PROXY. 
 
 Her look was firm, her eyes were resolute : it was only her tone 
 that was tender, though that was steadfast too. 
 
 ' You can give me what I am about to ask, if you will, Nelly.' 
 She stood quietly in front of him without reply. If he must speak, 
 he must, and she must hear him. But her answer was ready, and 
 he knew, or ought to know, what it needs must be. She had been 
 apprehensive of late of the very question (for she well knew what 
 it was) that he was about to put, and had done her best to avoid 
 it. She had striven to show him, by her frankness and freedom 
 from constraint, that they were brother and sister yet, as they had 
 always been ; but her very precautions (as she had thought them) 
 had, it seemed, only fanned his flame. 
 
 ' We have known one another for all our lives, dear,' he began 
 in a tremulous tone that betrayed the weight of feeling with whicb 
 it was freighted ; ' we have loved one another all our lives — or at 
 least / have loved you — as children together, as boy and girl, as 
 man and woman. There has never been a thought of my heart in 
 connection with you which has not been one of love. It has not 
 been a fancy, Nelly, for your fair face — though that is beautiful 
 enough to turn the head of a wiser man ; but I know you 
 altogether, how fair and pure you are ; and, darling, I worship 
 you.' 
 
 ' Eaymond, I cannot listen to this : I cannot bear to hear it- 
 You are paining me more than words can express.' 
 
 ' It will be soon over, Nelly, once and for all ; have patience 
 with me. I was just speaking of my birthday ; when that day 
 arrives I shall be twenty-one, when men are their own masters.' 
 
 ' Some men,' said Nelly quietly ; ' not you, Eaymond.' 
 
 ' You mean that I shall be still dependent on my father. Thai
 
 A BARGAIN RATIFIED. 7S 
 
 will be so, I admit. But I have thews and sinews, and wits like 
 other men, who have no other inheritance. I am taking, you see^ 
 the most unfavourable view of my own prospects.' 
 
 ' You are right so far, Eaymond, for it is the correct one,' 
 answered the girl gravely. ' If you went counter to your father's 
 wishes, you would have your thews, and sinews, and wits where- 
 with to support yourself, and that would be all.' 
 
 ' You would be afraid, then, to trust to those, if those were all I 
 had to ofifer ? ' 
 
 * It is unnecessary to discuss that question, Ea3Tnond,' said 
 Nelly, with a touch of dignity and even a tinge of scorn. ' No 
 woman, worthy of the name, would permit a man to beggar him- 
 self for her sake.' 
 
 ' But if I got my father's permission to ask you to be my wife ? ' 
 
 ^ That is another question which need not be discussed ; you 
 know, as well as I do, that you would never get it.' 
 
 ' At all events, let me try to get it. I will write by this next 
 mail to him, and tell him how dearly I love you ; how my hopes 
 of happiness are centred in you alone ; how little we should require 
 — you and I — to live upon. I will appeal to him by the friend- 
 ship he bears your father ; by the affection that he owes to me, his 
 only son. I will say ' 
 
 ' Is it possible that you can be so mad, Raymond, knowing 
 what your father is ? ' interrupted the girl impetuously. ' You 
 would have bitter cause to repent such folly, and might even find 
 repentance itself too late.' 
 
 ' My father is a hard man, you think, but he is surely human,' 
 answered Raymond bitterly. ' It is your mother who has set you 
 against him so.'
 
 76 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' I am not set against him, Eaymond ; but I am resolute to see 
 things as they are.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that you will not permit me to tell him 
 that you have consented to be my wife ? ' 
 
 ' I do mean to say that.' 
 
 ' Great Heaven ! then you do not love me ? ' He literally stag- 
 gered back as from a physical blow : his face was white with the 
 whiteness of despair ; his eyes had the pained look which comes into 
 those of some loving animal whom its master chides. Yet it was 
 not in tones of pity, but rather of indignation, that the girl 
 replied : 
 
 ' It is cruel of you, Eaymond, to put me to the question thus. 
 What can it avail you to wring such a confession from me ? Is it 
 manly to endeavour to do so from any woman who cannot be your 
 wife ? Do you wish to make a boast of me as one among the many 
 girls that you might have wedded if you wished? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Nelly, Nelly, who is cruel now ? ' 
 
 ' I am sorry, very sorry, Eaymond ; I did not mean to be cruel. 
 But there are some things — you don't understand what a girl's heart 
 is. No ; I can't let you tell your father that I will marry you, if he 
 will graciously permit it. We Conways are very poor, but we 
 are proud. I also have a father, not rich like yours, but whose 
 good opinion is worth much to me ; and I know how he would 
 feel upon this subject. Mr. Pennicuick and he are, it is true, old 
 friends ; but it is an unequal friendship, Eaymond. It is not one 
 of those, I mean, which knows on one side nothing of favour, and 
 on the other nothing of obligation. Such a proposition as you have 
 in your mind would be its death-blow. The bond between our 
 fathers is not, as I have said, so very strong, yet each is to the
 
 A BARGAIN RATIFIED. 
 
 77 
 
 other the best friend he has. Have you the right to sunder 
 them?' 
 
 ' I never looked upon the matter in that light, Nelly,' answered 
 the young man dejectedly. ' I was only thinking of myself, I 
 own.' 
 
 ' There you do yourself injustice, Raymond ; for you were 
 thinking of both of us.' 
 
 'WTienI said "myself,"! implied that, Nelly,' answered he 
 simply : ' I never think of myself without thinking of you. How- 
 ever, I will not pain you further. Since you refuse me permission 
 to add your entreaties to mine — alas, I have annoyed you again ! — 
 I meant to say, since you forbid me to urge your own consent as 
 an argument in my behalf, I must do my best to move' my father 
 without it.' 
 
 She shook her head and smiled sadly. 
 
 ' You are not angry with me, Xelly ? ' 
 
 ' No, Eaymond ; but I am very, very sorry. AVe were so happy 
 together as brother and sister ' 
 
 ' And so we shall be still,' put in Raymond eagerly. ' If my 
 father consents, all will be well ; and if he refuses, matters will be 
 no worse than they have been. Do you think, after what you have 
 said, that I shall persecute you with my importunities ? Indeed, I 
 never will. There, that is a bargain.' 
 
 ' With all my heart,' said Nelly. 
 
 'Nay, don't say that. Only it's a bargain ; and when bargains 
 are struck at Lincoln's Inn, Nelly, there is a form of ratification' — 
 a little arbour stood at the extremity of the lawn, and behind it ran 
 the path ; they had reached the spot where this arbour intervened 
 between them and the house, and shut them out from observation
 
 78 BY PROXY. 
 
 — ' we cannot sign it here, but we can seal it. Witness my act and 
 deed.' He stooped down and kissed her cheek, which was pale and 
 cold. ' The other party to the contract does the same at Lincoln's Inn.' 
 
 ' No, Kaymond.' 
 
 The touch of his lips had been too much for her ; she could not 
 trust herself to kiss him in return, lest she should have thrown her 
 arms round his neck and clung there. She had seemed cold and 
 prudent, but it had been only for his sake ; for in truth she loved 
 him, and with a fervour undreamt of by himself, though, as we 
 bave seen, he had taken her love for granted. If he had known 
 what was passing through her mind — or rather, what was not pass- 
 ing, for it had its dwelling there — he might perhaps have 
 scattered all her resolution to the wind. But he was young, 
 and a woman's heart is only read by man after years of study, and 
 rarely, even then, aright. If her mother had seen her at that 
 moment, she would have made a shrewder guess how matters stood 
 with her. Perhaps it was maternal instinct that brought her at 
 this juncture to the top of the stone steps, with the news that 
 lunch was on the table. 
 
 ' Come in at once, young people,' cried she authoritatively. 
 ' I have got a sweetbread for you, Eaymond,' added she, as they 
 drew near, ' because you're a good boy. He has been good, has he 
 not, Nelly ? ' for her quick eye at once detected that there was 
 something amiss. ' You have not been quarrelling ? ' 
 
 « No mamma ; we have only had a difference of opinion. 
 Eaymond has been good enough, but not very wise.' 
 
 ' Well, one can't expect everything in a man, my dear : for my 
 
 pa^-t from what I've seen of them — I should be glad to compound 
 
 for goodness.'
 
 A BARGAIN RATIFIED. 79 
 
 ' You pay me but a doubtful compliment,' laughed Raymond, 
 ■*' and even that at the expense of my sex.' 
 
 ' Nothing is ever done at their expense,' replied Mrs. Conway 
 tartly. ' It is we poor women who have to pay for everything — 
 ^nd especially for compliments.'
 
 8o BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 It could not be said of Mrs. Conway, as it has been laid down 
 of women in general, tbat she was ' variable,' and not to be de- 
 pended upon ; for her temper was of that character that nobody 
 ever thought of trusting to it. It was bad, and always bad ; and 
 showed itself in its worse colours upon the topic of sovereign man, 
 against whom she was in a chronic state of rebellion. To her 
 daughter, however, she was almost always kind ; and there was 
 one exception to her general antagonism to the other sex in favour 
 of Raymond Pennicuick. She would abuse him, as we have seen, 
 even behind his back, but she had in reality a very genuine affec- 
 tion for him, as indeed was natural enough, for she had nourished 
 and tended him when a forlorn and forsaken child ; and when he 
 grew up he had shown himself not ungrateful. He was the only 
 man that could ' put up ' with her humours and caprices, and not 
 even solace himself for his forbearance by making fun of them. 
 It annoyed him to hear his father speak of her, as he often did, as 
 ' that infernal woman ;' though he was much too wise to advance 
 any arguments in her favour, the only effect of which would have 
 been to intensify the other's ungenerous epithets. When he had 
 occasionally expressed his sense of Mrs. Conway's kindness towards
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 8i 
 
 himself, Ralph Pennicuick had answered with a sneer equal to a 
 folio. 
 
 That there was no love lost between them was notorious ; and 
 it was even whispered that Ealph had given a helping hand to 
 widen the breach between Conway and ' the woman that owned 
 him,' as his friend called her. But the reason of this exceeding 
 dislike was known to none except themselves ; the world at large 
 only knew that it was reciprocal. Even Nelly could not under- 
 stand how it was that her mother had not only no good word for 
 her father's friend, but rarely mentioned him without contempt or 
 abhorrence. If he had really come between her father and mother, 
 and separated them, that of course was cause enough to explain 
 anything ; but she did not believe this to be the case. The friend- 
 ship between the two men was not, in her opinion, sufficiently strong 
 to have effected this. Her mother's dislike of the elder Pennicuick 
 was something quite extraordinary, and would sometimes even 
 cause her to fly out at Rajraond. ' What's bred in the bone,' she 
 would say, ' will come out in the flesh. The son of such a man 
 as that must inherit some evil taint, depend upon it. He can't 
 belong to his mother only.' 
 
 Raymond's mother had died, as we have said, within a year of 
 her marriage ; but not before she had made friends of all her 
 husband's friends, and even of some of his enemies. She was a 
 gentle, quiet creature, as timid as a gazelle, and who filled all who 
 beheld her with love and pity. Perhaps it was more pity than love 
 that moved Mrs. Conway's heart towards her ; pity, while alive, 
 because she had married such a heartless wretch as she believed 
 Ralph Pennicuick to be ; and pity, after her death, because his 
 harshness and wickedness had been the cause of it. This was not 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 BY PROXY. 
 
 literally true, but where is the woman that hates who is rigidly 
 particular to stick to truth in her denunciations ? Unfortunately 
 for Eaymond, so far as Mrs. Conway was concerned, he was physi- 
 cally like his father, and this aroused her acrimony ; but upon the 
 whole, as has been seen, he was a favourite with her. It puzzled 
 outside people a good deal as to whether she was throwing her 
 daughter at Eaymond Pennicuick's head or not. Of course that 
 would seem probable. He was the son and heir of a rich man, who, 
 though only of middle age and of an iron constitution, was given 
 to adventure and travel. He might be struck down by yellow 
 fever in the West Indies, or by a tiger in the East ; or might be 
 ' scraped to death with oyster-shells among the Caribbees,' at any 
 time. His long absences in foreign parts gave her many oppor- 
 tunities of bringing the young people together, and she seemed to 
 avail herself of them. But, on the other hand, it was not the way 
 to win the good graces of the young man to speak so bitterly 
 against his father, not indeed in his presence, but so openly that he 
 could hardly fail to be aware of it. It puzzled Nelly herself to 
 reconcile these inconsistencies in her mother's conduct, though the 
 matchmaking part of the matter never crossed her mind. The 
 very topic of China, necessarily a familiar one since her father had 
 been there so long, was now distressing to her when Eaymond and 
 her mother were present, since it naturally suggested ids father, 
 who had gone out some six months back to join his friend. She 
 was always fearing an explosion ; and the more so because Eay- 
 mond seemed to have so little apprehension of it, and would chat 
 about mandarins, and dragons, and pigtails, with the nonchalance 
 of an Irishman who smokes his pipe while sitting on a powder- 
 barrel.
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 ' You heard from the " Flowery Land " last mail, of course, 
 Mrs. Conway?' observed he, after having done full justice to the 
 sweetbread and the cold lamb. 
 
 ' My daughter had a letter,' answered the lady frigidly. 
 
 ' The captain is well, I hope ? ' 
 
 ' He seemed to be the same as usual.' 
 
 ' I concluded as much from my father's silence upon the point.' 
 Mrs. Conway gave a short laugh, which, if translated, would have 
 said, ' You are quite wrong there. If his friend had been dead, he 
 would not have given himself the trouble to mention it.' 
 
 ' My governor's letters,' continued the young man, turning to 
 Nelly, ' are of the same length as those I used to write to your 
 mother from my first school.' " My dear Mrs. Conway, — I hope 
 you are very well. I have a new top. It is three weeks and two 
 days to the holidays. Believe me to be yours afifectionately, 
 Raymond Pennicuick." I dare say she remembers the style.' 
 
 ' I have no need to tax my memory, my dear boy, for I have 
 got the letters,' observed Mrs. Conway. 
 
 ' What ! the school ones ? ' 
 
 ' All that you ever wrote to me. It is quite a little collection 
 of love-letters — and the only one I have.' 
 
 This was an example of Mrs. Conway's embarrassing way. 
 When she was to all appearance in high good humour, nay, even 
 tender and affectionate, she would all of a sudden burst out into 
 complaint and denunciation. Her last remark implied, of com'se, 
 that her husband never wrote to her with affection. 
 
 ' And how does Mr. Pennicuick like China ? ' inquired NeUy 
 hurriedly, the disagreement between her parents being always 
 a most painful theme to her. 
 
 G 2
 
 84 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' Oh, he doesn't say much about it. He had only just arrived 
 in " the crockery shop," as he calls it ; and he doesn't go in for 
 descriptions. But for the postmark, his letter might have come 
 from his own chambers in the Albany.' 
 
 ' That is so different from papa. He gives us a picture — some- 
 times a real picture, but always a word-painting — of where he is, 
 and all about him.' 
 
 'Don't say "us," Nelly, I beg,' interposed Mrs. Conway 
 stiffly ; ' he writes very fully to you' 
 
 ' Nay, he means the letter to do for both of us, mamma,' 
 answered the girl ; ' for what is mine of course is yours. He goes 
 into such detail (but always interesting, you know, because every- 
 thing in China is so queer and strange), that we can imagine 
 exactly how he lives, and who are his friends and neighbours. In 
 his last budget, there was a good deal about Mr. Pennicuick, who 
 had just arrived. They were going together up the country — into 
 the heart of it — in a sort of barge, and were anticipating ever so 
 much fun.' 
 
 ' My governor only wrote,' said Eaymond, " we are going right 
 through the shop " (that is, the crockery shop) ; and spoke of his 
 seven friends that were to accompany him, namely, his revolver 
 (which has six barrels) and your father.' 
 
 'Dear me! I hope they will have no need of revolvers,' ex- 
 claimed Nelly with agitation. ' I thought the Chinese had be- 
 come quite friendly to us.' 
 
 'So they have,' answered Eaymond quickly. 'There is no 
 sort of danger to mere tourists and pleasure-seekers. But my father 
 never travels without his revolver ; carries it about with him all
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, 85 
 
 day like a pocket-handkerchief, and puts it under his pillow at 
 night, like a Dent's repeater.' 
 
 ' If I were he, I should be always afraid of its going off,' said 
 Nelly with a little shudder. 
 
 ' Nay, rather, it is other people who are always afraid of its 
 going off,' observed her mother grimly. 
 
 ' Just so,' remarked Eaymond, laughing ; ' and it makes him 
 very much respected, he says, in foreign parts. That reminds me, 
 by-the-by, that I must be going off myself, having promised some 
 men to pull up to Hampton Court at three.' 
 
 Perhaps he would not have been so careful to keep that ap- 
 pointment had his inter\'iew with Nelly ended differently. It 
 would have been much pleasanter than rowing — or even steering — 
 to have wandered about Eichmond Park with her, with his arm 
 in hers, or perhaps occasionally round her dainty waist, as an en- 
 gaged couple. He was as resolute as ever to win her for his wife, 
 but for the present it seemed they were still to remain brother and 
 sister ; and after what had just passed between them — just at first 
 — that connection was a little embarrassing, notwithstanding he had 
 said that ' matters would be no worse than they had been.' Matters 
 were akeady worse, or at all events quite different ; and, though 
 he was neither chilled nor piqued, he felt that for that afternoon^ 
 at least, he had better go elsewhere. Nelly understood his feel- 
 ings, though perhaps she gave him credit for a little annoyance, 
 for her manner at parting was doubly kind. 
 
 ' You wiU come again on Saturday, Pay ' — she had not so abbre- 
 viated his name since as boy and girl together they had been 
 ' Ray ' and * NeU,' which had been objected to by the authorities as 
 they grew up as too suggestive of ' So ho,' and ' Down charge.' It
 
 86 BY PROXY. 
 
 was tender, and at the same time it implied the old relations, when 
 their thoughts of marriage were limited to the gorgeous nuptials 
 of princes and princesses in fairy tales. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I will certainly come,' said Eaymond. 
 
 ' And then, if there is lamb, there shall be mint sauce, I promise 
 you,' observed Mrs. Conway. ' Of course you will say you didn't 
 miss it; but man is man, and one must consider his palate 
 What was the matter with him, Nelly ? Why did he go ? ' 
 
 She put this question when he had gaily taken leave of them 
 and left the house. 
 
 ' He had an appointment ' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! I mean, what was his real reason ? You said he had 
 not been wise in what he had been speaking about in the garden ; 
 that you had had some difference of opinion ; what was it ? ' 
 
 ' Mamma,' answered Nelly, blushing violently, ' Eaymond asked 
 me to be his wife.' 
 
 A gleam of triumph lit up the elder lady's face. ' Indeed ! ' cried 
 she ; ' I should not have thought he had had the courage. I mean, 
 of course, because of his tyrant father. And when is it to be ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, how can you ask such a question ? He wished 
 to marry me as soon as he came of age, and should be what he 
 called his own master ; as if that could ever be while Mr. Penni- 
 cuick is alive. I convinced him of the madness of such a project, 
 and then he pressed me to give my promise in case his father 
 should consent ' 
 
 ' It was you who were mad, not he,' interrupted Mrs. Conway 
 angrily. ' Do you suppose his father would do anything of the sort ? 
 Don't you know he is a brute, a miser, a man that has never had any 
 feeling but for himself, nor a single thought beyond the gratification
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 of his own wishes ! Don't you know that he stints the lad even as it 
 is ; that his only idea connected with him is to get him off his hands, 
 to see him provided for by some rich marriage ! You didn't surely de- 
 mean yourself by an acceptance conditional on such a contingency?' 
 
 ^I did not demean myself, mamma, I hope, in any way,' 
 answered the girl, drawing up her fairy form to almost womanly 
 height. ' I told him that such a proposition was out of the 
 question, and not to be discussed ; that my consent was not to be 
 alluded to in any communication he might make to Mr. Penni- 
 cuick, and that I strongly disapproved of any such communication 
 at all. I represented to him that it would annoy my father as 
 much as it would enrage his own, and probably cause a breach in the 
 friendship that had so long existed between them.' 
 
 ' Tut tut ! that is no matter. But you were right enough not 
 to compromise yourself. He will be twenty-one — yes — on June 4th, 
 I ought to know it, for it was the death-day of his poor mother.' 
 
 ' Mamma, you cannot be serious ! ' 
 
 ' I am quite serious ; it is you who seem to be playing the 
 fool. I thought you loved this Kaymond Pennicuick.' 
 
 ' I do love him,' answered the girl, with a deep blush, but in 
 firm and confident tones. '- 1 love him too well to allow him to 
 become a beggar for my sake.' 
 
 ' The sacrifice woidd not have been so great,' observed Mrs. 
 Conway drily. ^ He will have three hundred pounds a year of his 
 own, out of his mother's money, when he comes of age ; in fact, 
 the very sum that his fa-ther allows him now. It was fixed at that 
 amount, no doubt, that when the young man came into his own the 
 elder should not feel the loss of the income.'
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' I don't think Eaymond can be aware of this,' said Nelly 
 thoughtfully ; ' are you sure^ mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I am quite sure ; though Eaymond, as you say, 
 knows nothing about it. It is so like his father to make him think 
 as long as possible that he is entirely dependent upon him. I 
 would have told him long ago myself, but that I thought it better 
 not to do so, for his own sake. Now, however, I will tell him.' 
 
 She seated herself at a little writing-table and opened her desk. 
 
 ' Mamma, I beg of you not to do so. If you tell him this, he 
 will do something rash.' 
 
 ' He would be down to-morrow morning, no doubt, if you call 
 that rash.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't want him here to-morrow morning. The three 
 hundred a year, which will make such a difference to him, makes 
 none to me. He shall never be disinherited on my account ; I 
 swear it. Don't you see that the knowledge of this comparative 
 independence would make him bolder as respects his father, and 
 he would write — what he says he means to write — in a less filial 
 spirit ? Then there would be a quarrel between Mr. Pennicuick and 
 his son on my account.' 
 
 ' Yes, I see all that. It would have the effect of opening the 
 lad's eyes to his father's character, which must happen sooner or 
 later ; a little sooner, well, why not ? ' 
 
 ' Because chiefly, or at all events for one thing, there would not 
 only be a quarrel, but Eaymond would be the sufferer. I will no 
 more be the cause of his being disinherited than of his being 
 beggared. The effect of your telling him what you propose would 
 be but to give him false hopes and to make him importunate. I 
 hope, dear mamma, you will respect my wishes.'
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 * Why shouldn't the poor boy know what belongs to him ? ' in- 
 quired Mrs. Conway in a tone of irritation. 
 
 * Nay, he has only three months to wait ; and since you have 
 concealed the intelligence from him so long, why divulge it now ? 
 Besides, there may be some mistake ; your authority may have 
 deceived you.' 
 
 ' He certainly would have, if there had been anything to gain 
 by deceiving me, for it was Ealph Pennicuick himself.' 
 
 ' What ! Did Mr. Pennicuick make you his confidant, mamma ? ' 
 
 * Oh, yes : when little Eaymond was in my charge, matters 
 were very different,' observed Mrs. Conway drily. 
 
 ' But you never liked Mr. Pennicuick even then, did you?' 
 
 ' Never. And I hate him now more than ever,' added she 
 with vehemence, 'because he stands between my daughter and 
 her happiness. Why is it that such men live on, and prosper ? I 
 never hear those words in the Litany, " From plague, pestilence, 
 and famine, from battle, murder, and sudden death," without 
 wondering which evil fate will overtake him. It must be so at 
 some time, surely. Let us hope he will meet with his deserts in 
 China, where men, they say, are hard and cruel — like himself.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, mamma ! ' cried Nelly, appalled by the passionate 
 violence of her mother's manner even more than by her words, ' do 
 not talk like that, lest you bring some judgment down upon our- 
 selves. Think if anything should happen to dear papa instead.' 
 
 ' There is Mrs. Wardlaw coming down the road,' retiu-ned the 
 elder lady, who was seated by the window ; ' she intends, no doubt, 
 to call upon us. Pray go upstairs, and wash away those tears.' 
 
 Mrs. Conway's manner had become indifferent at once at the 
 mention of her husband ; the topic had always a chilling, nay, a
 
 90 BY PROXY. 
 
 refrigerating effect upon her ; so much so, indeed, that Nelly some- 
 times thought or hoped that it was to some extent exaggerated and 
 artificial ; that the coldness between her parents was not quite so 
 intense as one of them at least would have it to be believed. 
 To-day, above all days, in which it had lain in her power to have 
 won a husband for herself had she been so minded, did the sense 
 of this estrangement between her father and mother cause Nelly 
 an especial pain. It seemed more shocking even than at other 
 times that such a state of things could ever come about between 
 man and wife ; they had been lovers once, she knew, in days when 
 they were young ; but the days were gone by for ever, and their 
 love, it seemed, likewise. It was very, very sad ; so sad, that ere 
 she could wash away her tears, as directed, others came ; and it 
 was many minutes before she could present herself in the little 
 drawing-room with the bright face and the suimy smile that were 
 as fit and proper a welcome for good Mrs. Wardlaw as a salute of 
 twenty-one guns is for crowned lieads.
 
 MJ^S. WARDLAW. 91 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MES. TTATtDLATV. 
 
 It is notoriously the custom with the best story-tellers to let 
 their characters speak for themselves : to Mcket them with ad- 
 jectives such as * good,' for example, instead of making them estab- 
 lish their own right to it, is the same sorry device as is adopted by 
 early painters (not the ' old masters,' but the very young ones) 
 who scrawl ' man,' ' woman,' ' tree,' below their counterfeit present- 
 ments of those objects, in order to prevent mistakes arising from 
 their own defects of execution. But I have written ' good ' Mrs 
 Wardlaw on our first introduction to that personage, because you 
 had only to look at her to be convinced at once that she had a 
 title to that epithet, if good humour, good temper, and good nature 
 combined have any claim to it. It is curious that in the system 
 of Lavater the point of ' age ' is so slightly dwelt upon, when it is 
 in fact the keynote of the whole of it. Just as an artist finds it 
 easier to take the set and pronounced features of elderly persons 
 than the comparatively unformed faces of the young, so it is with 
 the student of character; he can, in fact, only judge with certainty 
 of men's minds from their faces when they have passed life's meridian. 
 By that time the habitual smile or frown has become stereotyped ; 
 greed or generosity, duplicity or frankness, and even to some ex-
 
 92 BY PROXY. 
 
 tent wisdom or folly, have written their autographs upon their 
 possessors with more or less of distinctness. Care and toil, indeed, 
 may cause us to pass a harsh judgment ; for we sometimes ascribe 
 their work to that of moroseness ; but after forty it is very difficult 
 for any gentleman who is a scoundrel to appear like an honest man. 
 The kind heart, too, glows through the genial countenance no 
 matter how coarse the grain, how weather-beaten the skin, like 
 the light through a horn lantern. 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw's ruddy face was the incarnation of kindness.; 
 and, though her majestic proportions forbad any approach to 
 sprightliness, she had a dancing eye. Judged by a Mayfair 
 standard, her appearance might have been set down as vulgar ; 
 (between ourselves, I have seen leaders of fashion quite as un- 
 fortunate in that respect, but in them it is called ' a majestic 
 appearance ') ; she looked, said her enemies (for in this wicked world 
 how could so excellent a soul be without them ?) ' like a house- 
 keeper : ' but what is better than a good housekeeper, I should like 
 to know, except indeed a good cook ? It was a matter of surprise 
 among some who had the privilege of Mrs. Conway's acquaintance 
 how so exclusive and lady-like a being could have got to know so 
 stout and florid a personage as Mrs. Wardlaw, who was also (and 
 by no means distantly) ' connected with trade.' 
 
 The captain's wife had always held her head up — metaphorically 
 — very high, and when circumstances had prevented her from 
 continuing to move in the best circles, had kept herself to herself, 
 and ceased to move at all. Lodgings in Grower Street (however 
 convenient with regard to omnibuses) are not adapted for this sort 
 of motion, and while residing in them she had therefore been station- 
 ary. Yet it was during that period, and now some years ago, that
 
 MRS. IVARBLAW. 93 
 
 the acquaintance with Mrs. Wardlaw had been formed, not indeed by 
 Mrs. Conway, but by Nelly herself. 
 
 Wearied with reading, and practising on the piano, the girl was 
 amusing herself one day during the absence of her mother by 
 looking out of the dining-room window — her pretty chin resting 
 on the top of the blind, her little nose flattened against the pane 
 — when an accident occurred just opposite the door. An omnibus 
 had stopped to ' drop ' a lady passenger, and not stopping long 
 enough had dropped her in the road, from which, with an obstinacy 
 which the conductor denoimced as ' cussed,' sh^ refused to stir. 
 When one weighs sixteen stone, and sprains an ankle, it is diffi- 
 cult to put even one's best leg foremost. The stout lady was 
 evidently helpless, and in great pain, and promised a gratuitous 
 entertainment to the public more gratifying, because less fleeting, 
 than Punch, or organs ; but as the sudden crowd closed around 
 her, a young girl followed by a maid-of-all-work appeared upon 
 the scene : * Bring the lady into our house,' cried she excitedly. 
 
 ' Who's to do it, miss, without a windlass ? ' 
 
 'I have got a shilling,' said Xelly (of which she was quite 
 certain, it being her whole stock of pocket-money), and she held 
 it between her small finger and thumb. The power of the lever 
 is as nothing compared with that of a visible coin. Four sturdy 
 men seized the prostrate lady and carried her like a feather into 
 Nelly's parlour, and retired with the price of four quarts of beer 
 among them. 
 
 ' Where is it you are hurt, madam ? ' inquired Nelly tenderly. 
 
 ' I have broken my leg, my dear ; send for my doctor — Dr. 
 Walsh, of Russell Square.' 
 
 Short as was the distance, and quickly as the doctor took to
 
 94 BY PROXY. 
 
 traverse it, he found the patient and her little hostess already on 
 intimate terms. 
 
 ' You have had a bad fall, but it is into good hands, I see,' 
 said he, when he had made his examination of the ankle, round 
 which Nelly had wrapped some wet rags. 
 
 « She is a little angel,' exclaimed Mrs. Wardlaw rapturously. 
 
 * She is a little doctor, which is almost the same thing,' an- 
 swered he smiling. ' We shall get you home in half an hour.' 
 But Mrs. Wardlaw remained on the sofa for a much longer time, 
 awaiting Mrs. Conway's return home. 
 
 ' I could not leave your roof,' she said when that lady arrived, 
 ' without expressing my sense of the kindness with which I have 
 been treated by your sweet little daughter. I am sure John also 
 — that is my husband : we live in the square close by — will never 
 rest till he has thanked you.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to thank us for, madam,' replied Mrs. Conway 
 with stiffness. Her visitor's appearance did not impress her favour- 
 ably ; the ' h ' in the word ' husband ' had not been so distinct as 
 could be wished ; the name of John had a plebeian sound ; more- 
 over, it was annoying — though quite in consonance with the un- 
 satisfactoriness of things in general — that a person of this descrip- 
 tion should live in the square, while she, Mrs. Conway, to whom 
 the first circles had once been open, lived in the street, and in 
 lodgings. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Wardlaw perceived that she was snubbed. 
 
 ' I take the liberty to kiss your dear little daughter,' said she, 
 ' because I have no words to speak my gratitude to her, Mrs. 
 Conway, and of course no other means of expressing it. If there 
 were any such means, or if a time should ever arrive when John
 
 MRS. WARDLAIV. 95 
 
 Wardlaw — he is in the timber trade, ma'ani, at present, but is 
 about to retire — I should know what to be about ; it will be as 
 much as I can do, I know, to keep him from stepping round and 
 thanking her in person.' 
 
 ' I am sure my Nelly has been thanked enough, Mrs. Ward- 
 law.' 
 
 ' John will not think so, ma'am ; and he is so fond of children, 
 though unhappily we have none of our own, and wh^ I come to 
 tell him of your daughter's kindness and of the good sense beyond 
 
 her years ' 
 
 ' Indeed, you will make her vain,' put in her hostess peremp- 
 torily ; ' children are so easily spoilt.' 
 
 ' And how I should like to spoil you, my darling ! ' exclaimed 
 Mrs. Wardlaw, putting her arms about the child in farewell. 
 ' No, I don't want your help, little one : I should br^ak you all 
 to pieces, if I leant upon you. Jessie's arm will do.' And so 
 with the maid's support she hobbled to the hired brougham that 
 had been waiting for her hours ago, as though time had not been 
 money ; and departed, leaving the aforesaid Jessie in possession of 
 a glittering medallion, which, upon consulting with more experi- 
 enced friends, she discovered to be a half-sovereign piece. 
 
 No news came from their late patient to the dwellers in 
 Grower Street, far less any personal visit from her ' John ; ' and 
 Mrs. Conway rather repented of the sharp way in which she had 
 put a stop to any such communication ; a few messages, backwards 
 and forwards, would not have injmed her own quondam position 
 in the fashionable world; nor was it, on the whole, a wise 
 proceeding to have thus quenched the incipient liking of their 
 wealthy neighbour for Nelly. This last consideration, however.
 
 96 BY PROXY. 
 
 weighed but little with Mrs. Conway ; no material reasons ever 
 did when set in the balance against her prejudices. Moreover^ 
 though it is possible that, in a future state of existence, this lady 
 might possibly be induced, under pressure of Ehadamanthus, to 
 admit that on one or two occasions she had committed during her life 
 — say — an error of judgment; as to allowing that she was wrong, 
 there were no imaginable conditions, either of circumstance or 
 being, under which she could have been brought to such a con- 
 fession. 
 
 In all probability the relations between Mrs. Wardlaw and the 
 Conways would have ended with that first interview, but that in a 
 few days Nelly asked permission to make inquiry after the wounded 
 lady at her house ; nor would the intimacy have gone far perhaps 
 even then but that the child went unaccompanied by her mother, 
 though bearing from her a pretty gift in the shape of a posy of 
 hothouse flowers. That Mrs. Conway should have thought of 
 them, and given half-a-crown for them, and arranged them with 
 her own tasteful hands, notwithstanding her previous discourtesy, 
 was quite in keeping with her character ; it was not done with 
 the least feeling of making amends ; but since the visit was to be, 
 it was well that the obligation which had already proceeded from 
 her side should remain there — nay, be intensified. The lady in the 
 square had her advantages ; and that was all the more reason why 
 she should not have the whip-hand of the lady in the street. 
 Unconscious of these subtle and philosophic reasons, little Nelly 
 took her nosegay to the big house in Eussell Square, where the 
 invalid was lying, in the immensity of the back drawing-room, on 
 a sofa which, compared with that in Grower Street, was a very Bed 
 of Ware.
 
 MRS. WARDLAW.. 97 
 
 ' You look more like a good fairy than ever,' cried Mrs. 
 Wardlaw, which, as to size, in contrast to those spacious surround- 
 ings, she did indeed. ' You cannot be flesh and blood, but some 
 lovely little ornament for the mantel-piece in china.' 
 
 * Papa's in China,' returned Nelly roguishly, ' not I.' 
 
 ' And so ready too with her little tong-ue ! ' exclaimed her 
 hostess rapturously. ' What a pretty nosegay ! and with your ma's 
 compliments, is it ? Well, I'm sure it's very kind o^ your ma. 
 Yes, my ankle's better ; all the better for seeing you, I do believe ; 
 you're as welcome as the spring vi'lets. Won't she be a pocket 
 Venus when she's full-growed, John ? ' Xelly looked round, and 
 saw a jolly-looking old gentleman, stouter and iiiddier even than 
 Mrs. Wardlaw, regarding her with approving eyes ; he had come 
 out of the front drawing-room, while she had been talking with 
 his wife, and it evidenced well indeed to the deep pile of the 
 carpet that his steps had not been heard. ' So that's your young 
 friend, is it ! ' said he, rattling the loose silver in his capacious 
 pocket with one hand, and laying the other lightly upon Nelly's 
 head. 'She's a very nice little lot.' 
 
 ' Lot, indeed. A very much nicer one than you ever saw in auy 
 of your auction-rooms, I reckon,' returned his lady, with what 
 seemed somewhat uncalled-for severity. 
 
 ' Yes, a rare article,' continued the old gentleman critically ; 
 ' quite unique, I should say ; late the property of — but her father's 
 alive, ain't he ? ' 
 
 * Of course he is ; didn't you hear the dear child say he was in 
 China?' 
 
 ' That's a long way off,' observed Mr. Wardlaw gravely, as 
 though hesitating to admit even the existence of a gentleman at so 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 BY PROXY. 
 
 great a distance. *But then her mother's in Grower Street,' 
 added he cheerfully ; ' that's close enough, anyway ; and there's not 
 a better neighbourhood for chance " finds " in London.' 
 
 If Nelly was at a loss to perceive the opportuneness of these 
 observations of her host, she was not the first person who had been 
 thus puzzled. Mr. Wardlaw's weakness was attendance at sales by 
 auction, at which he spent most of his leisure time, and most of 
 his surplus money. They had the same attraction for him which 
 the billiard- room and the racecourse have for another class of men, 
 though without any evil result save an infinity of bad bargains. 
 His purchases, indeed, would have been cheap at the money, had 
 he wanted them, but, being continuous and of a wildly miscella- 
 neous character, his accumulations could be scarcely considered as 
 good investments. He would buy sables enough to set up a fur shop, 
 and which got the moth before he got a purchaser for them ; or 
 French clocks by the dozen, which remained on his hands till their 
 year's warranty had expired, and with it their powers of motion ; or 
 claret by the hogshead, which ' only wanted keeping to be a first- 
 class wine,' but which somehow went sour during the process. An 
 advertisement of a great sale was an irresistible invitation to him ; 
 the roving eye of the auctioneer had a fascination for him such as 
 that of the snake is said to exercise over his feathered prey ; and the 
 fall of the hammer was as the rattle that immediately precedes 
 its doom. 
 
 After all, as Mrs. Wardlaw was well aware, her husband's 
 weakness was one for which most wives would be very willing to 
 compound, and more especially since he could afford it. 
 
 If he made a few bad bargains, there were some very good ones
 
 MRS. WARDLAW. 99 
 
 made for him by the house in the City wherein he was a nominal 
 partner. 
 
 The phrase ' a nice little lot ' he had applied to Nelly was a 
 great compliment from him, and his good opinion was confirmed on 
 further acquaintance. Nobody could say, considering how often 
 he bid for things which were not desiderated by other people, that 
 Mr. Wardlaw had no opinion of his own ; and, once foiined, he 
 stuck to it. 
 
 And so it came about that the girl made to herself two warm 
 and faithful friends in this honest couple. 
 
 Even Mrs. Conway was in time brought to endure them, though 
 she never forgot her own superior position, or permitted poor ^Irs. 
 Wardlaw to forget it. As to the old gentleman, it was difficult 
 to make him understand how his wife should be inferior to any 
 living woman ; but he was all the easier to patronise from his 
 very obtuseness. Moreover, he won Mrs. Conway's heart by a 
 characteristic criticism he passed upon Mr. Pennicuick, the elder, 
 with whom he became (very distantly) acquainted through his 
 new friends. He pronounced him to be ' rather a scratch lot,' and 
 more likely to be ' bought in ' than to awaken public competition. 
 On the other hand, he took to Raymond Pennicuick from the first, 
 and would have put him up to many good things at ' Grarraway's ' 
 and ' Christie's,' but for his wife's veto, who looked upon those 
 respectable establishments as haunts of temptation to which no 
 young man should be exposed. As time rolled on, so did Mr. 
 Wardlaw's wealth — increasing like a snow-ball, till at length it 
 enabled him to retire from business, when he took a country-house 
 at Richmond, a fact which had formed a very strong inducement 
 to the Conways to pitch their tent in the same locality. 
 
 h2
 
 loo BY PROXY. 
 
 Both families were new-comers, but the latter was the later 
 arrival, which had permitted Mrs. Wardlaw to pay the first call 
 upon Mrs. Conway ; if their positions had been reversed, that lady 
 would have probably taken advantage of it to delay her visit in 
 order to make it evident that she was not dependent upon the 
 other's acquaintance, or in any way ' eaten up with those Wardlaws.' 
 Notwithstanding all which rubbish, the two elder ladies had a 
 sincere regard for one another, not to mention the common bond 
 of affection which Nelly formed between them. 
 
 The present occasion was only the second visit which Mrs. 
 Wardlaw had paid Mrs. Conway and her daughter since they had 
 been installed in their new home, but she had been obliged to wait 
 for Mrs. Conway's return call, and had replied to it on the very 
 next day. 
 
 ' Why, how is it you have not come in your carriage ? ' inquired 
 that lady condescendingly. ' Nelly and I were quite looking for- 
 ward to seeing you come in " state." ' 
 
 ' Well, the fact was, it seemed too ridiculous, Mrs. Conway, 
 considering what a short distance I had to come ; and I want to 
 get used to the thing — which I can't do j ust yet — before I call on 
 you. It is very kind of John, of course, to give me such a fine 
 coach and horses, not to mention the coachman (who has got a wig, 
 my dear Nelly, made I believe of spun silk), but at present I 
 don't feel much to enjoy them. Thursday — that was the first 
 day — was a great trial to me, dear Mrs. Conway.' 
 
 ' A trial ? Why a trial, Mrs. Wardlaw ? ' inquired the other 
 sweetly ; though knowing perfectly well to what her friend was 
 alluding. 
 
 ' Well, I dare say to you who have been brought up among
 
 MRS. WARDLAW. loi 
 
 carriage-people, and are used to all their ways, it would have been 
 nothing ; but it was not only that the thing was strange to me, 
 but everybody about me ]i-(iQiij that it was strange. I felt all of a 
 twitter at the grandeur and novelty of it, but still more so because 
 Jane and Susan, who had lived with a mistress without a carriage 
 all these days, must have known I was in a twitter. When 
 Charles (that's the new footman) came into the room with his 
 " ]Ma'am, the carriage is at the door," it was something so dreadful 
 that I had almost a mind to say, " Then send it away again." 
 ^^^lat I did say, however, was "Very good," with a quiet wave of 
 the hand that I had practised in my own apartment before the 
 pier-glass. I knew that Jane and Susan would be looking out of 
 window at the new carriage, but I was not prepared for what I did 
 see, over the dining-room blind, which was nothing less than 
 Charles himself performing a dance like a wild Indian before the 
 two girls in the area, to express his sense of enjoyment of the 
 whole proceeding. The coachman sat immovable except for a 
 slight wobble w^hich pervaded his frame and extended to his wig. 
 When I appeared at the front door you might have taken them 
 both for graven images ; and I hope I looked grave and dignified 
 myself. Only unhappily, in my hurry and nervousness, and also 
 because of my fine train (which is longer than the long clothes I 
 wore as a baby), I put my foot in my gown as I stepped into the 
 carriage, and fell flat on the floor of it.' 
 
 For Nelly this narrative had nothing but amusement, but 
 Mrs. Conway received it austerely : she did not like jokes upon 
 any subject ; and felt it deplorable that a person unaccustomed to 
 keeping a carriage should find in her own incompetence to assume 
 the ways of ' society ' a theme for mirth.
 
 102 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' You will become used to your new position in time, no doubt,' 
 said she ; ' but in the mean while you must be careful to maintain 
 your dignity before your servants.' 
 
 ' But it is so difficult to do that upon all-fours,' pleaded the 
 good lady, still shaking with laughter at the recollection of her 
 late catastrophe ; 'and after all, when one does meet with misfor- 
 tunes, the best plan, I do believe, is to laugh at them.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Mrs. Conway, who had never tried that plan. 
 ' You must have been exceptionally fortunate, I think, to have 
 been able to do so.' 
 
 ' Well, yes ; I have no reason to complain,' assented Mrs. 
 Wardlaw simply. ' Though sometimes John is very trying. What 
 do you think he did only yesterday, for example ? He brought 
 down to be stored away in our new house — which, if somewhat 
 larger than we need, is certainly not meant for a dry-goods store — 
 a gross of tambourines.' 
 
 ' Of tambourines ! ' echoed Nelly, laughing. ' Is Uncle John ' 
 [she used to call him uncle as a child, notwithstanding some 
 opposition upon the part of her mamma, and still continued so 
 to do because she knew that to drop the assumed relationship 
 would pain him] ' going to learn that instrument ? ' 
 
 ' Of course not, my dear ; and if he was , he could not practise 
 on one hundred and forty-four at once. He has bought them be- 
 cause he says they were an excellent bargain. Now, what would 
 you do, Mrs. Conway, if your husband were to bring you home 
 twelve dozen of tambourines ? ' 
 
 • I should burn them ; but he would never venture,' added the 
 other haughtily, ' to commit such an act of folly.' 
 
 ' Well, of course it is foolish of John ; but then, on the other
 
 MRS. WARDLA W. 103 
 
 hand, he is no sort of trouble to me as some husbands are ; he never 
 interferes with matters of the house, and though he worries me 
 sometimes with his insisting on my doing this and that — on my 
 having this carriage, for instance, which I didn't want, and which 
 will only make me fatter, yet I know it was meant in nothing but 
 kindness, and to save my old legs.' 
 
 Mrs. Conway shrugged her shoulders ; the expression, ' to save 
 my old legs,' was very distasteful to her ; a woman who could use it 
 was certainly unworthy of a carriage. 
 
 ' Dear Uncle John ! ' said Nelly softly, ' he is always thinking 
 how to please people.' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, he is not clever, but he is kind. I only hope 
 you will have as good a husband. He is never away from home ; 
 we have not been separated for twenty-four hours since we married. 
 Of course,' added Mrs. Wardlaw, with precipitation, for she saw the 
 wrinkles deepening on the forehead of her hostess, ' that is impossible 
 in many cases. Your own dear papa, for instance, is obliged to be 
 away, but that is for your sakes.' 
 
 Mrs. Conway smiled bitterly. Poor Mrs. Wardlaw grew redder 
 and redder, and so very warm that the colour came out of her 
 bright blue gloves. Only one means of conciliation presented itself. 
 She disliked to speak ill of anybody, but to abuse Mr. Pennicuick 
 was always a sure way to Mrs. Conway's favour : so she resolved to 
 sacrifice that gentleman upon the altar of friendship. 
 
 ' What I meant to say against men lea\T^ng their homes and 
 families was when they do so of their own free wills, from love of 
 travel as they call it, but which is often only a cloak for selfishness. 
 What a mistake it is, for example, in that Mr. Pennicuick to leave
 
 I04 BY PROXY. 
 
 his son, and his country, and his parish church, to go gadding 
 about in foreign parts ! ' 
 
 ' I cannot say that I agree with you, Mrs. Wardlaw,' observed 
 Mrs. Conway coldly. ' I think Mr. Pennicuick is quite right. 
 The mistake he makes — and which those like him make who sepa- 
 rate themselves from their own flesh and blood, to live abroad— is 
 this, that they ever trouble themselves to come liome again.' 
 
 'Oh dear !' murmured Mrs. Wardlaw under her breath. She 
 felt as though she had broken some priceless article which could not 
 be replaced, and for which mischance no apology could be made. 
 ' Do you know, Nelly, I think it's going to rain ; so I had better 
 get home while I can.' 
 
 She rose and made her adieux to her hostess, who received 
 them with frigidity. Nelly accompanied her to the hall door. 
 
 * My dear child,' whispered the departing visitor, ' I am afraid 
 I have put your mamma out. What could I have said that set 
 her off so ? Can it possibly have been the tambourines ? Perhaps 
 your dear papa used to play upon them.' 
 
 ' No, no ; mamma is not very well to-day : that is all.' 
 
 ' But that would never make her say that he needn't trouble 
 himself to return home.' 
 
 ^Hush, hush : she didn't mean it.' 
 
 ' Of course not ; but even to say it, with your poor dear papa 
 all among those pigtailed savages ! why, if anything was to happen 
 to him, she would never forgive herself — I've not upset you^ 
 darling, I do hope. I can see there's soiniething the matter.' 
 
 ' No, no. I shall be better presently. Grood-bye, dear Mrs. 
 Wardlaw, and love to Uncle John.' 
 
 It was not often that Nelly Conway ' broke down ; ' but that
 
 AfRS. JVARDLAW, 105 
 
 afternoon had been a very trying one to her. She had been more 
 moved by Kaymond's proposal than she had owned even to herself ; 
 the neces^ity of rejecting it had disheartened her, and made her 
 strangely subject to depressing influences. That allusion of Mr^. 
 AVardlaw's to her father — the very echo of the sentiment she had 
 herself expressed but a few minutes before — filled her with a vague 
 sense of foreboding ; how dreadful it would be if ' anything was to 
 happen to him,' and she were never to see the loving face which 
 she had pictured to herself so often, partly from memory, partly from 
 the personal description which he had penned to her half in jest! 
 She knew this was weakness, but she was just now too weak to 
 battle against it. It was her wont, when her mother was irritable 
 or in low spirits, to do her best to comfort her, but on this 
 occasion she shrank from the dutiful task. There were two topics 
 — Eaymond and her father — which for the time were too painful 
 to her to be discoursed upon ; and they were the very ones that her 
 mother would probably select. 
 
 She passed by the parlour door, and went up into her own 
 room : not ' to have a good cry,' as is the way with some girls, but 
 to think matters out, and if possible compose her mind. She did 
 think of many things both sad and strange. But the wild, wander- 
 ing, audacious thought itself sometimes falls short of the reality ; 
 and so it was with Nelly Conway as she dwelt anxiously upon her 
 father's and her lover's future, or dreamily forecast her own.
 
 io6 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTEK X. 
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 
 
 There is but one step, it is often said, between the Sublime and 
 the Eidiculous : a downward one, and taken very quickly ; but the 
 shock is far greater when the step is taken the other way, and we 
 stumble wp from the Ridiculous to the Sublime. I remember a 
 masked ball, in a certain place, where men and women were 
 grinning and jigging together, without a serious thought among 
 them, when suddenly above the brazen roar of the band there 
 rose a shrill terrified shriek of ' Fire ! ' What happened on the 
 occasion in question need not be here narrated ; but it was dwelt 
 upon by the annalists of the day as transcending all that has 
 been written of the cowardice of human nature. Had they been 
 there themselves, perhaps they would have helped to illustrate it. 
 It was a spectacle, at all events, calculated to inspire pity as well 
 as contempt. To be brought face to face with Death without 
 warning is awful even to the wretched ; but to meet him at a 
 harlequinade, with our cap and bells on, is an ordeal terrible to 
 the bravest. 
 
 It was something of this nature that had happened to Ealph 
 Pennicuick, when he found himself felled and bound in the hands 
 of the despised Chinese. He had conceived so intense a disdain
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 107 
 
 for them, he had been accustomed to regard them so entirely as 
 disagreeable children, that even his dislike of them had been 
 mitigated by their insignificance ; and now, in a moment, all his 
 views were changed. The very ridicule he had expended on them 
 seemed to have been paid back to him again ; he could not 
 understand how he had ever entertained it ; his heart had room 
 for nothing in regard to them save rage, and hate, and horror. 
 For though his courage, or his pride, forbad him to give the 
 least sign of fear, he was as well aware as Conway himself that he 
 was doomed to death. It was surprising that so sagacious a man, 
 and one in general so careful of his own well-being, should have 
 given way to a temptation that would only have been attractive, 
 as one would think, to a midshipman or a schoolboy, and the 
 consequences of succumbing to which were ob\iously so tremendous. 
 It was, however, his very love of self, which never permitted him 
 to deny it a gratification, however fleeting, combined with what 
 in a younger man would have been the love of mischief, but was in 
 him a malicious impulse, that had induced him to steal the 
 Shay-le. The sudden impulse to deprive thousands of ignorant 
 devotees, and scores of lying priests, of the most precious and 
 most ancient relic their temple possessed, had seized upon him 
 while the Chief-priest's attention was engaged in exhibiting some 
 other sacred object, and it had proved too strong to be resisted. 
 When he had done it, his repentance had been as rapid as his 
 crime ; he had perceived the extreme danger of his position, and 
 would perhaps willingly have withdrawn from it had retreat been 
 possible. On the other hand, the Shay-le would not be inquired for 
 again till the next feast-day, which he understood would not occur 
 for several weeks, and by that time he would be safe enough
 
 io8 BY PROX\. 
 
 among his fellow-countrymen. And with what pride and pleasure 
 would he exhibit this concentration of Chinese sanctity, this 
 crystallised essence of Buddha himself, to admiring friends! If he 
 had not made a reputation for himself already for audacity and 
 coolness, the possession of this relic and the story of its capture 
 would have secured one. At first, as I have said, he had had his 
 doubts, which had given his manner that constraint which his 
 friend had observed : but, before he reached the boat, the matter 
 had thoroughly recommended itself to him. When Conway 
 informed him that the priest had indirectly deceived him, and 
 that the morrow was another feast-day on which the Shay-le would 
 probably be again exhibited, his mind once more misgave him. 
 For it was plain that the loss of the relic would be at once dis- 
 covered, and on whom was suspicion so likely to fall as upon 
 himself? He even took it from its hiding-place, as we have seen, 
 with the half-intention of dropping it into the river, and so 
 getting rid of all evidence against him ; but the thing had shone 
 so, that it struck him it might be really a precious stone ; and he 
 was a man to whom gems were gems, and money money. More- 
 over, pride came to his ruin. He had got possession of this 
 blessed ' curio,' and he was not going to part with it, come what 
 would. A resolve once taken with him became adamant. It was 
 clear that the sooner they left the neighbourhood of the temple 
 the better ; yet just because Conway had unconsciously observed, 
 * You seem in a hurry to get away,' Pennicuick had obstinately 
 denied it; nay, even though, as has been seen, he had a suspicion that 
 he had been watched by Fu-chow, so strong that if the Chinese 
 captain had given a sign of wakefulness that night, he would have 
 .shot him dead, he had not been deterred from his purpose to retain
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 109 
 
 his prize. The thought that any harm might arise to his com- 
 panion out of his own recklessness did not enter into his mind ; 
 but it would have been all the same if it had ; for if Ealph 
 Pennicuick was not to be moved from a course of action by a con- 
 sideration of the coDsequences to himself, it is certain that he 
 would not be so fiom any fear of what might happen to other 
 people. Hard, insolent, selfish as he was, however, even the 
 sternest moralist might have felt pity for him now. A few days 
 at furthest, to be spent in a noisome prison and to be ended by 
 a lingering death of unimaginable pain, were all that would 
 probably remain to him of life. In the contemplation of which, 
 a better man might have been forgiven if all thought of ' and after 
 death the judgment ' was overwhelmed and lost. 
 
 And yet, all hopeless and helpless as Pennicuick was, not a 
 muscle quivered, nor did the steadiness of his keen eyes abate 
 one jot, as he looked round about him upon his keen-eyed foes. 
 The Chinese, some say, are not cruel; but this only means 
 that they do not take the same active delight in cruelty as some 
 more savage communities ; they are totally insensible to the 
 sufferings of their fellow-creatures. They knew that the English- 
 man was about to undergo one of the most horrible punishments 
 even in their horrible code ; but that did not cause them to regard 
 him with any special interest. One of their own countrymen 
 would have failed to arouse it under similar circumstances, 
 and far less this barbarian. What made their almond eyes so 
 bright and wondering as they gazed upon their captive was the 
 immensity of his crime. They could not understand what Buddha 
 could have been about to have permitted so great an impiety as 
 the abstraction of a portion of his own anatomy, without some
 
 no BY PROXY. 
 
 signal and immediate revelation of his wrath. Here was the man 
 alive and unscathed who had stolen the sacred Shay-le, and 
 carried it round his neck as a girl her beads ; and there was the 
 precious relic itself, on an open plate upon the altar, twinkling in 
 a subdued manner (by reason of the paper windows) as though the 
 sacrilege that had disturbed its ten thousand years of venerable 
 seclusion was rather a joke than otherwise. Anger and pity were 
 equally absent from the flat smooth faces that surrounded the 
 prostrate prisoner, with one exception. The countenance of 
 Fu-chow, in general not more significant than that of most of his 
 countrymen, expressed quiet malice — an unsatisfied grudge. As 
 Pennicuick's gaze rested upon it, he knew- -quite as surely as if 
 the man had told him — that it was to him that he was indebted 
 for this catastrophe : that he had tried to leave the boat that 
 morning to give information of the sacrilege, and failing in that 
 attempt had sent one of his men to do so. This did not arouse in 
 him any remembrance of his own conduct ; of the insult he had 
 put on the man's daughter, or of his threats and harshness to the 
 man himself, which had hourly kept alive and ministered to his 
 rancour; but it filled him with a yearning never to be satis- 
 fied, and like the craving of a strong man for food or drink, 
 to be allowed one minute — only one — with his arms free, or 
 even his hands, and that smooth traitor's throat within reach of 
 them. 
 
 Fu-chow, who read this desire in his eyes quite plainly, moved 
 softly across the room, and stooping down, with quite a winning 
 smile, whispered something in his ear. ' I understood you, my 
 friend, quite well,' returned Pennicuick quietly, ' though I am 
 unacquainted with your charming language.' But he put the
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 
 
 word that had been whispered into a pigeon-hole of his mind, that 
 he might presently obtain its interpretation. 
 
 The next moment he was picked up by four soldiers, and 
 carried, as though he were already dead, into a neighbouring 
 chamber. This was what in an English country gentleman's house, 
 who is a magistrate, would have been termed the justice-room, 
 where poachers undergo preliminary examination (in which they 
 are by no means cautioned not to criminate themselves), and the 
 parentage of callage love-children is humorously investigated ; in 
 China, where everything is as magnificent as sound can make it, it 
 was the Hall of Audience, where the proceedings are conducted 
 in accordance with the dignity of its title. 
 
 At a high broad desk set out with writing materials, the 
 mandarin had already taken his seat, with secretaries, clerks, and 
 even an interpreter (who did not understand English) in at- 
 tendance ; and two lictors with whips — used not as formal 
 instruments of punishment, but merely in a casual way to clear 
 the road for his Eminence, when he moved in his sedan abroad. 
 On the desk was Twang-hi's official seal, and a cup containing 
 tallies, to be thrown down on the ground to indicate how many 
 stripes with the universal bamboo he considered to be adapted for 
 any culprit brought before him. The bamboo stood up against 
 the wall, along with a board with two round grooves for com- 
 pressing the ankles, in order to expedite confession, and five 
 round sticks arranged to squeeze the fingers with the like object. 
 Above these instruments of persuasion hung several inscriptions, 
 like the Scripture texts in the bedrooms of some professing Chris- 
 tians (and with about as much practical efifect), recommending the 
 exercise of mercy.
 
 112 BY PROXY. 
 
 Despite these formal shows, and not a little tawdry ornamenta- 
 tion, the room was as dirty as a' police-court in a low neighbour- 
 hood. There was of course no counsel on either side ; none such 
 are in any case permitted to appear ; nor are the witnesses even 
 sworn — a precaution the less necessary since no oath has up to this 
 date been discovered which is binding upon the Chinese conscience ; 
 indeed, if among the wise sayings of Confucius the phrase ' first 
 catch your conscience' does not appear, his system of morality as 
 regards the Celestial race is singularly deficient and unelemental. 
 Moreover, the witnesses are not bound to appear against the 
 prisoner during any subsequent proceedings. It cannot be urged 
 against the Chinese code that these most necessary and innocent 
 persons are kept hanging about in draughty courts, as under our 
 own system, not knowing when they will be called upon, and 
 uncertain of everything except that they are the only persons in 
 the case who are being put to inconvenience without remuneration^ 
 In China, to prevent all this, and especially to insure their 
 attendance, witnesses, prosecutor, and prisoner, are all committed 
 to gaol together in readiness for the assizes. 
 
 In the present case there was but one witness pure and simple,. 
 a Buddhist priest, who had seen the two Englishmen go up towards 
 the pagoda where the Shay-le was kept ; for Fu-chow, although his 
 revelation of what he had seen in the cabin would prove fatal 
 enough, even if the relic had not been found upon the prisoner's 
 person, assumed to himself the position of prosecutor. His 
 glibness in his own tongue was surprising ; and as he had taken 
 the precaution to preface his observations with the statement that 
 his father was a mandarin, the great Twang-hi condescended to 
 attend to them ; otherwise (and this is a plan which we might
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 113 
 
 borrow with great advantage), when witnesses are tedious or even 
 too florid in their testimony, the bamboo is applied to theni^ to 
 compel terseness. 
 
 Conway listened with all his ears ; but his scanty knowledge 
 of the Chinese tongue placed him in much the same position as 
 that of a gentleman learning short -hand who endeavom-s to set 
 down the words of a fluent speaker ; before he had thoroughly 
 mastered the meaning of the first sentence, the orator was three 
 sentences ahead of him. He could only gather vaguely that 
 Fu-chow was extolling his father, whose dignity and position he 
 described as only inferior to that of Twang-hi himself; and that 
 he then proceeded to describe his own devotion to the principles 
 of morality and religion, which had caused him to watch with 
 caution (or in other words to play the spy upon) this barbarian 
 blasphemer, whose cup of enormities, long filled to the brim, had 
 at last been made to run over by this imparalleled act of sacrilege. 
 He also observed that the references to himself were exculpatory 
 and even favourable, which afforded him some comfort upon his 
 friend's account as well as upon his own, since, had he also been 
 included in the accusation, he would have been powerless indeed 
 to give him aid. 
 
 "What he missed the sense of, and which was likely to escape 
 him from its original view of the matter, was the two pictures 
 drawn of him and Pennicuick by the Chinese captain and contrasted 
 with one another. He himself was described as a military person- 
 age of distinction, revered by his fellow-countrymen, and even 
 respected, as was proved by his letter of introduction, by Chinese 
 officials at Shanghae of such rank as to enjoy the personal acquaint- 
 ance of Twang-hi himself. He was guileless, pious, and passionately 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 BY PROXY. 
 
 attached to the memory of his parents : whereas this Pennicuick, 
 on the other hand, was a mere hanger-on of society, unknown to 
 persons of respectability, and one whom he (Fu-chow), albeit 
 imperfectly acquainted with the barbarian language, had with his 
 own ears heard speak disrespectfully of mandarins, of their buttons, 
 their peacock's feathers, and in short of every institution calculated 
 to arouse reverence and respect in the mind of man. That the 
 prisoner was wicked and dangerous, in fact, had been long 
 abundantly clear to him, though the crime of which he now stood 
 committed did, Fu-chow confessed, transcend everything of which 
 he had suspected him to be capable. 
 
 To all this impassioned eloquence Twang-hi listened with a 
 sublime gravity, not to be emulated by flesh and blood ; indeed, he . 
 looked more like the mandarins we see in England, not constructed 
 of those fleeting materials, who stand at the doors of tea-shops, and 
 point rigidly to the legends in the window concerning the piices 
 of Congou or Hyson. Only at intervals he would slowly and 
 solemnly incline his head, so much after the manner of an automa- 
 ton chess-player that Conway almost expected to hear the click in 
 the machinery as he did so. Presently, however, cutting Fu-chow's 
 eloquence not short indeed, but very abruptly, he signed to his 
 two lictors, and in a moment Pennicuick was on his knees in front 
 of the desk with these two personages on either side of him, and 
 apparently hanging on to him by his ears. They were not hurting 
 him at present, but were prepared to twist them at a moment's 
 notice in case the culprit proved refractory in the matter of con- 
 fession, or generally failed to gratify expectation. Conway also 
 noticed for the first time that there was a neat plot of flint-stones
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 115 
 
 on the floor, to which a kneeling prisoner might be removed, by 
 no means to his convenience, if he showed any tardiness of speech. 
 
 'Let the culprit say what he has got to say for himself,' 
 observed the mandarin ; ' and do you, sir ' (this with a courteous 
 inclination of his head to Conway), 'interpret it to us in the 
 interests of justice.' 
 
 ' He calls upon you, Pennicuick, for your defence,' said Conway 
 hurriedly. 'Tell him you were ignorant of the gravity of 
 your crime ; that you are exceedingly sorry ; and above all that 
 you have lots of money wherewith to make expiation to the 
 temple for the wrong committed, and — especially — to recompense 
 his Excellency for the trouble you have caused him.' 
 
 ' I will see him damned first, Connie,' was the fierce reply. 
 ' The revolver is lying on the right-hand side of his desk beneath 
 those papers. I will give you a thousand pounds ' 
 
 'You are throwing away your life, Pennicuick,' interrupted 
 Conway, ' by every moment of silence, and the least show of resist- 
 ance would throw away mine. I adjure you to say something 
 conciliatory, and above all to offer as huge a bribe as it is in your 
 power to pay without application to Shanghae.' 
 
 ' I am not to be frightened, Conway, by this juggler's threats. 
 And I will not submit to extortion,' answered Pennicuick sternly. 
 ' Tell him I am underneath the protection of the British flag, and 
 woe betide him ' 
 
 Twang-hi lifted up his hand for silence, and at the same moment 
 something happened to the speaker's ears which somehow com- 
 pelled obedience. The agony was so excessive that it might have 
 extorted a shriek from the strongest man, but not a sound broke 
 from the prisoner's lips. His friend, attracted by the mandarin's 
 
 i2
 
 ii6 BY PROXY. 
 
 eye, did not even know what had taken place, nor did the stubborn 
 pride of Pennicuick permit him to reveal the humiliation he had 
 suffered. 
 
 ' My friend wishes to say, your Excellency,' said Conway, very 
 slowly, not only that he might be understood, but to give himself time 
 to manufacture suitable arguments, 'that he is overwhelmed with 
 horror and penitence, on account of the outrage he has committed. 
 He had no idea of the sacredness of the Shay-le, or of the value set 
 upon it by so many religious persons. He is prepared to pay to the 
 utmost of his power in atonement for the foolish frolic (as he thought 
 it) of which he has been guilty. If any offering to the temple, 
 or endowment for the priests ' — a look of such intense negation 
 came into the mandarin's face, that Conway would have left that 
 line, and glided off to another branch at once, even without the 
 words that accompanied it. 
 
 ' Is it conceivable,'interruptedTwang-hi, pointing to Pennicuick, 
 ' that this wretch imagines that Buddha needs his dirty money, or 
 that his priests would accept in his cursed name, as expiation for Wi 
 infamous a sacrilege, any pecuniary recompense whatever ? If it 
 was possible to enhance such unparalleled wickedness as he has 
 committed, he has done so by this proposal.' 
 
 Here the audieiice all raised their hands in admiration of his 
 Excellency's noble sentiments, with the exception of the Buddhist 
 priest himself, who looked morose and disappointed. Like a High 
 Church rector who has been decorating his chancel, he was thinking 
 of restorations, and how conveniently a little heretical money 
 would have come in just then. 
 
 ' There is no reason, Tvvang-hi,' said he, ' why this unhappy 
 reprobate should not do something in the way of repairs to our
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 117 
 
 holy temple, before expiating in torments that fall far short of his 
 deserts his abominable crime. In the Fire-lake that awaits him 
 hereafter it may be some consolation to his wretched soul that he 
 has contributed to so pious a work.' 
 
 ' What the deuce are they jabbering about, Connie ? ' inquired 
 Pennicuick fretfully. ' I have five hundred pounds or so on board 
 the boat ; and if you will not let me have a shot at them, I suppose 
 there is nothing for it but to pay.' His ears were still in pain, and 
 the friction of his knees against the flint-strewn floor was getting 
 intolerable. 
 
 ' My friend has made me a communication, yom- Excellency,' 
 said Conway gravely, ' which is of great importance, but must be 
 addressed to your private ear.' 
 
 ' In the Hall of Audience there are no secrets,' returned the 
 mandarin austerely ; ' the works of justice must be seen of men. 
 Nevertheless, that the whole truth of the matter should be known, 
 approach and speak.' 
 
 *• Then ensued the scene which is so often witnessed in our 
 Courts of Chancery, when a married woman is admitted, in sight 
 of all, to converse with the Lord Chancellor on the bench of justice ; 
 their whispers having reference (as is charitably understood) solely 
 to the disposal of her property without dictation from her 
 husband. 
 
 • That my friend has committed a great crime, Twang-hi, is 
 true, though it was done in ignorance and error ; but penetrated 
 as he is with a sense of its enormity, it almost equally distresses 
 him to have put your Excellency to so much trouble and incon- 
 venience. "How shall I recompense this wise and merciful 
 functionary," is the question that now agitates his bosom, " for the
 
 ii8 BY PROXY. 
 
 attention which he has bestowed upon this affair?" I adjure 
 your Excellency to condescend to accept two hundred pounds of 
 English money.' 
 
 If the countenance of Twang-hi could have been capable of ex- 
 pressing a greater gravity and sense of official responsibility than 
 it did already, it expressed it now, as he solemnly looked round the 
 court. 
 
 ' You are a good man,' he whispered in a low tone, ' and your 
 feelings do you honour. I will take the two hundred pounds of 
 English money.' 
 
 ^ And your prisoner will go free ? ' 
 
 ' Nay. I have not the power to set him at liberty. The offence 
 he has committed is far too grave. His sentence will be pro- 
 nounced by the governor of the province, and will without doubt 
 be such as is awarded to all who commit sacrilege. The Emperor 
 himself could not save him from the post and the knife.' 
 
 ' You will at all events permit me to communicate with his 
 friends at Shanghae ? ' 
 
 ' By no means,' answered the mandarin coolly. ' It would 
 cost me my position, and perhaps my head. It has been proclaimed 
 that there is to be no more truckling to barbarians. Your friend 
 there is as good as dead already.' 
 
 ' If this be so, what advantage will he derive from the little 
 present of which I have already spoken ? ' 
 
 ' He will be spared the great distress of seeing his innocent 
 friend thrown into prison with himself, in a few days to suffer 
 the same condign punishment. You will have access to him 
 while in gaol, and may even enjoy the melancholy pleasure of 
 witnessing his execution. Then you shall depart in peace, and tell
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. . 119 
 
 your fellow-countrymen all that has happened, in one of their 
 so admirable newspapers.' 
 
 ' But this man is not only a person of wealth, Twang-hi, but of 
 much importance. His death will be avenged by the men of his 
 own nation ; and not only you, and everyone who has had a hand 
 in it, but the country at large, will be held responsible.' 
 
 ' I have said you were a good man,' observed Twang-hi coldly ; 
 ' but you will not permit me to add, a wise one. The argument you 
 advance, if it were of real importance, would recommend that you 
 should both be killed, since dead men do not make a fuss about 
 their fate. But, in fact, it is quite worthless. If a native of this 
 country goes to England, and commits a crime, he is punished by 
 the law of the land. You do not say to yom-selves. What will the 
 Celestials think about it ? Perhaps the idea of the anger of 
 the Emperor, the Son of Heaven, has but little effect upon you. 
 What is sauce for the duck, says Confucius, is sauce for the drake. 
 Moreover, even supposing there should be a national disturbance 
 about this fellow, Dhulang here, my private residence, is a long way 
 up the country, and, to speak freely, I should not care one cash about 
 the matter. On the other hand, I should risk my head by omitting 
 to send the case before the governor, and I value my head at a con- 
 siderably higher figure than two hundred pounds of English money. 
 Nevertheless, for that sum I will make things as comfortable as 1 
 can, having heard a satisfactory report of you from Fu-chow (who is 
 the nephew of a friend of mine), and also because I believe you to be 
 a good man. If things had been less agreeably managed, your friend 
 would have had his ankles squeezed for him, and his fingers 
 pinched, perhaps, not to mention the bamboo. " What we have 
 escaped," says Confucius, " may well be reckoned as gain." '
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' How long, Twang-hi, will the messenger whom you send to the 
 governor of the province take to go and return ? ' 
 ' About eight-and-forty hours.' 
 
 ' And if the sentence should be ' — Conway was a brave man, 
 but a certain creeping of the flesh here seized him — ' should be.,' 
 he continued, ' as you apprehend, when will it be executed ? ' 
 
 ' It must be put into effect at once. T shall have no choice in 
 the matter, but be personally responsible for the least delay. The 
 affair is not in my hands, but in those of Imperial justice. I con- 
 clude you have the money you spoke of in the boat ? ' 
 
 ' Your Excellency shall have it at once,' said Conway gravely. 
 ' In the mean time I have your solemn promise that I shall have 
 unrestrained communication with my friend, and that he will be 
 treated with kindness ? ' 
 
 ' As to that, dear sir,' replied Twang-hi, with blandness, ' he will 
 have to make his own arrangements. I can only see that no wrong 
 is done here in my own court ; " men's consciences are in their own 
 private keeping," says Confucius, and I have heard, unofficially, 
 that our gaoler makes his little perquisites. I am thus frank with 
 you because I wish you well, and believe you to be a good man.' 
 
 Then Twang-hi arose, and, in the name of tlie Emperor, the 
 Son of Heaven, announced that he, for his part, washed his hands 
 of the barbarian blasphemer, and left him to be dealt with by the 
 mercy of the governor of the province. 
 
 This phrase, as Conway was well aware, corresponds in China 
 with the euphonious terms in which heretics were wont to be 
 recommended to the attentions of the Holy Office, and is always 
 fatal to the prospects of a prisoner. 
 
 At this juncture Ralph Pennicuick was twitched up by. the
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 121 
 
 arms from his kneeling posture, and, followed by two soldiers with 
 drawn swords, the points of which almost touched his retreating 
 figure, was hurried from the room. Conway would have hastened 
 after him, hut the master of the ceremonies interposed. 
 
 ' It is the desire of Twang-hi,' said he, with great politeness, 
 * that an immediate opportunity should be afforded you of return- 
 ing to your boat, and making the arrangements about which you 
 expressed anxiety.' 
 
 Conway would have remonstrated, but the mandarin had dis- 
 appeared, nor was even Fu-chow to be seen, being, in fact, in his 
 character of prosecutor, already on his way to prison. For the 
 rest, the malignity that was expressed upon the countenances of 
 all, especially on that of the scowling priest, evidenced the futiKty 
 of any appeal. There was nothing for it but to accompany the 
 major-domo to the boat. 
 
 ' His Excellency, your master, has given orders, I presume, 
 that after I have made my compliments ' — as delicate a phrase as 
 he could think of for greasing the hands of justice — ' I shall be at 
 liberty to visit my friend ? ' 
 
 ' Except the words of wisdom which have just fallen from his 
 mouth, like the pure and sparkling drops of yonder foimtain,' said 
 the major-domo serenely, 'his Excellency has kept silence.' 
 
 This gentleman, as is always the case with persons in his posi- 
 tion in China, was devoted to literature ; he had a very pretty 
 turn for poetic imagery, and a talent for iteration from the 
 classics, and would, under less auspicious circumstances, and in a 
 barbarian clime such as our owti, have probably been an art- 
 critic. 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that the word of Twang-hi is as your
 
 122 BY PROXY. 
 
 mock money ? ' inquired Conway, his patience, which was consider- 
 able, on the brink of giving way, notwithstanding his familiarity 
 with the national methods of procedure. 
 
 ' Speak not disrespectfully of that which is burnt before the 
 gods,' answered the other reproviDgly. ' Twang-hi wishes you 
 well. But his hands are washed of you. It is henceforth the 
 pride and pleasure of Kushan to take charge of your esteemed 
 interests. You will be kept under guard on board the boat until 
 your friend has met with the fate awarded to him, unless any solid 
 reason should chance, by the will of Heaven, to be advanced to the 
 contrary.' 
 
 ' Would a " tael," ^ Kushan, be a solid reason ?' 
 ' A tael is what is given to-day upon the Sacred Hill to every 
 beggar,' observed the major-domo abstractedly. 
 
 ' Then a sycee — let us say of five taels — is at your service.' 
 ' There is no weight in it,' replied the other, holding out his 
 finger as if balancing a feather ; ' it would almost float in the air. 
 When one has ten taels in the hand, then indeed we say, " Ah, 
 there is something ! " ' 
 
 ' When I behold the face of my friend again, Kushan, thou 
 shalt have ten taels.' 
 
 ' Good. Human joys are but as the skippings of a sparrow, 
 yet the face of a friend is a sweet spectacle. " Sunder not man from 
 his brother," says the Best and Wisest. I will myself accompany 
 you to the gaol when the business that we have on hand is 
 concluded.' 
 
 Kushan was not only literary, but (which is rare in persons of 
 that class) a man of business. He accompanied Conway to the 
 
 ' Something over an ounce of silver, or a little more than a dollar in value. *
 
 CHINESE JUSTICE. 123 
 
 cabin, and assured himself of the value of the notes and bullion 
 which the latter paid over to him for the mandarin on behalf of 
 his friend. 
 
 ' These will go to Shanghae at once to be realised, I suppose,' 
 observed Conway. 
 
 Kushan nodded. ' Delay is deprecated by the Wise,' he said. 
 
 ' And for how many taels could a letter be taken with them by 
 a siu*e and private hand ? ' 
 
 ' It is hopeless,' answered the philosopher, with a sigh of un- 
 mistakable regret. ' To do business, and at the same time to 
 benefit humanity, is an opportunity that rarely offers itself. That 
 gentleman yonder,' he pointed towards the coui't, indicating 
 Pennicuick, ' will be dead before your messenger could go two days' 
 journey; and those who sent him would smart for it. You will 
 say that you meant nothing, that you only intended to send a 
 messenger to yom' wife to say the weather is beautiful. But you 
 should not pull up your stockings in a melon field ; people always 
 think you are stealing.' 
 
 ' My friend is very rich, Kushan,' pleaded Conway earnestly. 
 ' If time were given me, I could make it worth the while even of 
 the lord of the province to take a merciful view of the case.' 
 
 ' You could not buy his head, and that is what he would lose 
 by such a course,' returned the other coolly. ' You think I paint 
 a snake and add legs. On the contrary, I understate the matter. 
 No-human power can save the man ; and it is not likely, under the 
 circumstances' — here a quiet smile crossed the grave face of the 
 speaker — ' that Buddha will interfere in his favour.' 
 
 ' Then what advantage, in Heaven's name, do we gain by all 
 this expenditure ? '
 
 124 BY PROXY. 
 
 'For yourself, immunity and escape; for your friend — well, 
 when one is on his death-bed there is sometimes mitigation from 
 pain. A fish may sport in the kettle though his life will not be 
 long. By the by, I conclude that he has money in his pocket.' 
 
 ' In his pocket ? No ; I think not.' 
 
 ' What, has he gone to gaol without money ? That is like 
 going to sea without sails ; he will not get on at all.' 
 
 ' But they will not venture to ill-treat him in spite of the 
 mandarin's orders to the contrary ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid it is possible that, by this time, the honourable 
 person about whom we are discoursing may^ave been made ex- 
 ceedingly uncomfortable.' 
 
 The face of Kushan expressed so much more even than his 
 words, that Conway did not lose a moment in providing himself 
 with funds, and starting with the major-domo for the prison.
 
 THE PRISONERS HOPE. 125 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE PRIS0^^ER'S HOPE. 
 
 The ChiDese themselves, who ought to be the best authorities 
 upon the matter, indicate their gaols by the same name as that 
 which they give to the infernal regions. When a man has been 
 
 committed to prison, they say, ' He is gone to ,' the short for 
 
 Grehenna, concerning which locality their views are identical with 
 those entertained by our own theologians. These places of 
 durance are built for the accommodation of prisoners only ; and as 
 witnesses and prosecutors are sent thither as well as the accused, 
 the consequence is over-crowding. The inmates also suffer another 
 sort of squeezing at the hands of the oflBcials. The gaolers receive 
 from Grovernment a mere pittance, and make up their income by 
 perquisites, which are wrung from those who are so unfortunate as 
 to fall into their hands. 
 
 Conway and Pennicuick had both beheld with their own eyes 
 the condition of these miserable beings, during a visit which 
 curiosity had led them to take to a certain prison on their road, 
 and they had been each impressed in their several ways, ' It is a 
 nice world,' was Pennicuick's observation. ' Thousands of persons 
 in it, mostly innocent, are suffering slow tortures in these places 
 day and night. What has become of all the principles of eternal
 
 126 BY PROXY 
 
 justice, and so forth? ' It would be unjust to say that he felt no 
 pity ; but there had nevertheless been something satisfactory to 
 his feelings in this corroborative testimony (as he considered it) to 
 the non-existence of a Supreme Benevolence. 
 
 Conway had kept silence ; for unhappy persons, when not base 
 enough to derive pleasure from the greater misery of their fellows, 
 are rendered by the contemplation of it still more depressed. 
 
 ' Your view of the case,' Pennicuick had continued, in his bitter 
 way, ' is that matters are redressed hereafter. You allow that such 
 a state of things as we have just been witnessing would be a 
 reproach to any government calling itself divine, except for the 
 doctrine of compensation. All these poor tortured friendless beings 
 are to go to heaven. Yet, I suppose, their being in prison, even 
 in China, does not argue that they are more virtuous than the rest 
 of their lying, thieving fellow-countrymen who happen to be at 
 large. Why should they therefore go to heaven? and if not, 
 why should they be thus oppressed on earth ? ' 
 
 ' I am not the Creator, Pennicuick.' 
 
 ' You are His apologist ; and I ask you if this is justice, and 
 (especially) mercy ? ' 
 
 ' I reply, in the words of Scripture, that He is in Heaven, and 
 we are on earth ; and that, being equally ignorant of the riddle of 
 human fate and destiny, it is no use asking questions of one 
 another about it.' 
 
 ' Well, it is something that you don't fold your hands, Connie, 
 and, looking smug and submissive, observe that whatever is is right. 
 Let us light our cigars, and forget all about it.' 
 
 Conway had not forgotten all about those unimaginable horrors of 
 which he had been a witness, but their impression had grown faint
 
 THE PRISONERS HOPE. 127 
 
 and vague upon the retina of his mind, just as happens to all of us 
 — except some Mrs. Fry (who is cne in a million) — when we have 
 visited any scene of misfortune, such as a workhouse, or a limatic 
 asylum, in which, nevertheless, many thousands of our fellows con- 
 tinue to live on. 
 
 When now, in company with the dignified Kushan, he reached 
 the gate of the gaol, it was with no greater apprehension concerning 
 the present position of his friend than that his own absence might 
 have distressed him, since he would not know how long thev might 
 be kept apart. His mind, too, was monopolised by the ultimate 
 fate of Pennicuick, which, he was only too sure, was sealed, and 
 which it was become, bethought, his painful duty to break to him. 
 
 Although, as we have said, the man was not very dear to him 
 as a friend, his unhappy position seemed to beget a deamess, or 
 rather, perhaps, to revive all those feelings of regard he had once 
 entertained for him in youth. The memory of their old college 
 days together welled up from his still kindly heart into his eyes, 
 as he thought of this man and the bitter end that awaited him. 
 "WTiat an end it was for so masterfid and proud a spirit ! If his 
 sentence had been death — mere death — that would have been sad 
 enough ; but no soldier would have looked down the muzzle of the 
 guns that were to kill him more steadfastly, he was well aware, 
 than would Ralph Pennicuick. But that he should be bound to a 
 post, and hacked to pieces by savage hands — faugh I His soul 
 sickened at the contemplation of it. It seemed too hideous and 
 terrible a thing to happen. And yet it was certain to happen. 
 
 They were standing before a long low building of but two 
 stories high— or rather of one story and a half, for the basement 
 was half sunk, and only showed the tops of certain barred windows
 
 128 BY PROXY. 
 
 without panes, through which, even to where they stood, came a 
 sickly effluvium that seemed to poison the spring air. 
 
 ' Why do they not open the gate, Kushan ? They have both 
 heard and seen us.' 
 
 ' That is the very reason,' answered the other quietly. ' They 
 are making preparations for your honourable visit. Here is the 
 governor of the prison himself, who, in general, only receives in 
 person those who have committed murder.' 
 
 The individual whose appearance had suggested this doubtful 
 compliment was a tall athletic man, attired in a loose grey gown, 
 and very little else, his legs being bare, and even his arm sleeves 
 rolled up to the elbow, but wearing a button on his cap denoting 
 the sixth degree of rank, an unusually high one for a person of his 
 calling. He was a little under middle age — not old enough in 
 fact to wear a beard, a privilege which is not awarded in China to 
 young men — but without that hirsute appendage he looked 
 truculent and forbidding enough. His small eyes, in particular, 
 were cruel as well as cunning, and his voice had a harsh strident 
 ring, in strong contrast to the mellifluous accents of the major- 
 domo. 
 
 ' This is not the day for visits,' said he to Conway. ' You can- 
 not be admitted without an order from the mandarin.' 
 
 Conway put his hand in his pocket and pulled out two taels 
 of silver. The major-domo looked up at the sky, as if in admira- 
 tion of that work of nature ; the governor of the gaol (which stood 
 in the open country) turned his eyes towards the distant moun- 
 tains, at the same time holding out his hand, hollowed for the 
 reception of the expected bribe. The whole scene reminded one 
 of a borough election as it used to be in England.
 
 THE FRISON'ER'S HOPE. 129 
 
 ' You wish to see your friend, I suppose ; it is contrary to rule, 
 but perhaps I may effect it/ 
 
 ' The general interests of humanity,' observed Kushan, ' should 
 overbear particular enactments, and lenity should be practised 
 where it does not encourage crime.' 
 
 The chief gaoler nodded approval of these noble sentiments. 
 
 ' The Englishman has been made comfortable, and placed in a 
 room by himself,' said he ; ' but such advantages are rare.' 
 
 'He who gives him comfort will be well rewarded,' said 
 Conway. ' My friend here will tell you that I have the means of 
 paying for every privilege that is granted to him.' 
 
 ' You should have sent word of that when he first came,' ob- 
 served the gaoler drily. ' However, there is no harm done : he 
 has been subjected to a little discipline, but he will enjoy himself 
 all the more when you tell him it will not occur again.' Here he 
 smoothed his chin — a very superfluous operation — and in so doing 
 displayed upon his forefinger Pennicuick's signet ring. 
 
 ' Oh, the ring ! ' said he, perceiving that Conway's eye had 
 caught sight of it ; 'the poor man had nothing else wherewith to 
 "discharge his entrance fee. It may be redeemed, however, at a 
 just valuation. Enter. Your friend is in the farther chamber.' 
 
 The gate opened on a passage, the walls of which were mere 
 iron gratings, through which could be seen the prison yards, 
 crowded with their half-naked and squalid inmates ; at the end 
 was a low door, which the gaoler unlocked, signing to Conway to 
 pass in. 
 
 The chamber was so dark that he could but just perceive the 
 short flight of steps that led down into it ; it was in fact but a 
 mere cell, half underground, and contained nothing in the way of 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 I30 
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 furniture save a low wooden bed like a fishmonger's slab. Upon 
 this was stretched, or rather was huddled up, a human form, 
 whom his stumbling and somewhat noisy ingress had failed to 
 rouse. 
 
 ' Pennicuick, Ealph Pennicuick, it is I,' said Conway, in vague 
 alarm. It was only an hour or so at farthest since he had stood 
 beside his friend in the house of the mandarin, and had seen him 
 depart in evil plight indeed, but in health and courage. And now 
 the man lay before him, motionless and almost shapeless, with his 
 e3^es staring wildly at the wall. 
 
 ' Is it really you, Connie ? ' answered the other, but without 
 stirring a muscle. ' I was afraid we should not meet again. No, 
 no^ don't touch me ' — Conway had striven to take the hand that lay 
 nearest to him ; ' I am one bruise.' 
 
 ^ What, in the devil's name, have they done to you, Penn ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; never mind now. What I want is, above 
 everything — will you swear to get it me, Conway ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I will ; whatever it is.' 
 
 ' It is the bottle of laudanum out of my writing-case.' 
 
 Then in a moment Conway knew what had happened. His 
 unhappy friend had been put to the torture, and wished to guard 
 against the possibility of its recurrence. Under such circum- 
 stances he would perhaps have sympathised with the request in any 
 case ; but with the knowledge of what must needs await Pennicuick 
 in the end he by no means repented of his promise. His ideas 
 were sufficiently unconventional to see nothing worse in taking 
 poison to avoid a lingering death than in taking chloroform to 
 kill the pains of an ' operation.' 
 
 ' You shall have the bottle, my dear fellow,' said he cheerily,
 
 A mere cell, half underg7'ound^
 
 THE PRISONERS HOPE. 131 
 
 ^ just for a satisfaction to your mind ; but I have taken measures 
 that in future no hurt shall he clone you in tliis accursed den. I 
 had no idea, since the mandarin had passed his word you should be 
 kindly treated, that such an outrage could be possible. I did but 
 go to the boat to get 200^. that Twang-hi demanded, I must say, for 
 very scant service ; but perhaps he might hav(3 made it worse for 
 both of us, and I thought ' 
 
 ' If you had gone through what I have suffered for these last 
 three hours ' — interrupted Pennicuick with a bitter gi'oan. 
 
 ' My dear old Penn, you have not been here an hour.' 
 
 * It seems a lifetime, Conway. As for money,' continued 
 Pennicuick peevishly, ' I would give all T possess in the world to 
 get clear of these devils. It was because I had no coin about me 
 that they hung me up by an arm and a leg — it seems so simple, 
 but oh. Heaven, the agony of it ! My wrist and ankles are in 
 flames, and the rest of me is a cold jelly.' 
 
 And indeed, in spite of the closeness of the cell, the face and 
 forehead of the unhappy man were wet and cold. 
 
 ' Take this,' said Conway, putting a flask of brandy, which, 
 hardly knowing why, but with a vague sense that it might be use- 
 ful, he had thrust into his pocket on leaving the boat, to his com- 
 panion's lips. 
 
 ' Ah, that is life I ' gasped Pennicuick gratefully. ' I am no 
 longer a jelly ; I am rising in tlie scale of development, and feel 
 more like a turkey that has been boned. You are quite right 
 al:)out hell, Conway — there is such a place, for I have been in it. 
 And now tell me about that hound of a mandarin, and what is to 
 be done with me.' 
 
 ' It seems tlie matter does not lie in his hands, Penn,' answered 
 
 K 2
 
 132 BY PROXY. 
 
 Conway gravely. ' It has been referred to the governor of the 
 province.' 
 
 'Then give him 20,000^., in the fiend's name, and let us get 
 home,' cried Pennicuick vehemently. ' I tell you that money is no 
 object to me — none. I must get home.* 
 
 ' Indeed, Penn, I have done my best. I have offered, on your 
 behalf, any sum the man would name ; but my answer is that it 
 would be useless ; that the taking that infernal Shay-le is a sacri- 
 lege that cannot be atoned for by any bribe ; that it would cost 
 the governor's life to compromise the matter.' 
 
 'You are deuced cool about it, Conway,' said the. other re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 ' Do not say that, Penn. I endeavour to keep cool, as you call 
 it, for your sake ; that I may have my wits about me to take 
 advantage of the least turn in the cards. So help me Heaven, I 
 would give my right hand to see you out of this, and safe at 
 Shanghae.' 
 
 'I do believe you, Connie. Forgive me.' There was a long 
 silence, during which Conway was not ashamed to show the grief 
 that consumed him. 
 
 ' Don't do that, pray don't,' said Pennicuick. ' It is no use cry-, 
 ing over spilt milk. Of course, I have been a fool, and shall have 
 a high price to pay for my folly. You do think a price will pay 
 for it, don't you ?* Tell me the truth.' 
 
 ' While there is life, Penn, there is hope.' 
 
 ' I understand,' said the other gravely. ' These devils mean 
 to take my life. Well, we must all die some day.' 
 
 There was resolution in his tone, but no resignation. It was 
 plain that the man, bold as he was, thought it very hard to die.
 
 THE PRISONERS HOPE, 133 
 
 The expression of his eyes, as he stared at the blank wall, was that 
 of anger as well as despair. 
 
 ' If I had only hold of him — of his windpipe — with my teeth,' 
 he murmured grimly, * then I should die content. ^Vhere is he?' 
 ' Do you mean Fu-chow ? He is in the prison somewhere, I 
 believe. Don't waste a thought on him.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, he is in the prison ; he spoke to me. By the by, 
 tell me what is meant by the words " Ling-chih," Connie.' 
 
 Conway felt himself growing cold ; his tongue clave to the 
 roof of his mouth. 
 
 ' Come, have courage,' said Pennicuick. ' After all, it is not 
 your affair but mine. I wish to know the worst. What is " Ling- 
 chih"?' 
 
 ' It is a Chinese punishment.' 
 
 ' I know that ; what does it mean ? that a man is boiled alive, 
 or starved to death, or what ? ' 
 
 ' It means literally " cut into ten thousand pieces." ' 
 ' How is that done?' 
 
 ' I believe the poor wretch is tied to a post, and hacked about 
 with a knife. Why speak of such horrors ? ' 
 
 ' I will cease to do so when you have brought me the laudanum. 
 In the mean time the matter concerns me a good deal, for such 
 is to be my sentence. I gathered that much for a certainty from 
 the enjoyment in Fu-chow's face when he comm.unicated it to me 
 in Chinese.' 
 
 Conway was silent. He had no comfort to give, and he did 
 not wish to speak of Fu-chow. But, sitting on the wretched pallet, 
 he laid his hand upon his friend's head with a tenderness that a 
 woman might have envied.
 
 134 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' You will do everything that can be done, I am sure, Conway,' 
 continued the other with unwonted softness ; ' and you will not 
 forget the laudanum.' 
 
 ' Certainly not. Though I trust in Heaven there may be no 
 need for using it.' 
 
 ' I trust in you^ said Pennicuick significantly ; ' and I have a 
 plan. The decree for " Ling-chih " will come, no doubt, and 
 somebody must go through with it. But these wretches will do 
 anything for money ; not being Christians, like you, old fellow ' — 
 here he smiled after his old fashion — ' they are not afraid of 
 death. Of course, the torture must be taken into the account and 
 paid for ; let it be so. Why should I not purchase a substitute ? ' 
 
 The suddenness of this proposition put Conway's ideas to flight. 
 It was so audacious, and also, as it struck him for the moment, so 
 immoral. If he himself at least had committed any crime, he felt 
 sure that he could not have permitted an innocent man to die for 
 him. At the same time, the life of a Chinese was by no means in 
 his eyes what that of an Englishman would have been. Moreover, 
 it was not as if any compulsion was to be exercised ; it was a 
 simple contract. Every man who is a soldier, for the sake of a 
 soldier's pay, may be said to sell his life ; why not on the scaffold 
 as in the field ? Still, for the moment the suo^o-estion startled 
 him. 
 
 ' Do you see any difficulties ?' inquired Pennicuick impatiently. 
 ' The chief gaoler and his subordinates can be squared, and the 
 mandarin has already shown his hand. It must, therefore, be a 
 mere question of figures. Where the pinch will be is about the 
 time. These fellows will not take my bare word, of course ; we 
 must send to Shanghae for something in the way of security for
 
 THE PRISONERS HOPE, 
 
 135 
 
 the monej. But time can be bought like anything else, I 
 suppose.' 
 
 A keen admiration for his friend's wits began to mix with 
 Conway's pity. WTiat a clever fellow he must be to have thought 
 out all this in his miserable and shaken condition ; not concealing 
 his own danger from himself, but selecting at once the only pos- 
 sible course that could avert it ! 
 
 ' I am pretty well off, Connie,' continued Pennicuick, m a tone 
 half jesting, half constrained ; he was conscious that, to account 
 for certain economies, he had always represented himself as less 
 wealthy than he really was. ' Even 20,000?. would not break me.' 
 
 ' I can easily believe that, my dear fellow,' answered Conway 
 drily. 'It is a large sum, but not too large to give for a man's 
 life.' 
 
 ' For my own life, no, begad. But that of a Chinaman is very 
 different. Of course, no Englishman would part with his life at all, 
 however high the offer. But my impression is that you will get 
 your native substitute for a song — say, a fifty-pound note ; while the 
 rest of the money will go among the ofiBcials. "VMien do you think 
 this infernal decree will arrive ? ' 
 
 ' The mandarin told me that he expected the reply from the 
 governor of the pro\T.nce in eight-and-forty hours.' 
 
 ' Well, that will be my death doom, so we have no time to 
 spare. You had better at once sound these scoundrels about pro- 
 viding a substitute. And, for Heaven's sake, Connie, in case the 
 luck goes all against me, remember the laudanum.'
 
 136 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CHINESE PRISON. 
 
 A MORE willing mind to save his friend than that of Arthur 
 Conway, or a niore loyal heart, did not exist in any man ; but, if 
 their circumstances had been reversed, it is no discredit to him to 
 say that Pennicuick would have been the better man to conduct the 
 matter now in hand. With the fellow- creatures he had to deal with 
 ■ — which means, as it too often does at home, to contend against — 
 three things were above all things necessary : audacity, unscrupu- 
 lousness, and a profound belief in the vileneps of human nature. In 
 all three of these qualities Conway was wanting. He was brave, 
 and had once been reckless enough, but he had lost much of his 
 ' go ' and vigour ; though his morality was by no means of a milk- 
 and-water type, he was a man of honour ; and he entertained the 
 erroneous idea that there was some sort of good in almost every 
 man. Matters were, therefore, against him as a plenipotentiary 
 about to transact with Chinese officials, but on the other hand he 
 felt that he had a personal well-wisher in Fu-chow. True, this man 
 had betrayed his friend, and was indeed the immediate cause of 
 his misfortune ; but tliis was no reason why he should not make 
 use of him to mitigate the mischief he himself had wrought. He 
 had had his revenge, and might now prove susceptible of other
 
 A CHINESE FjRISON. 137 
 
 passions. If help lay anywhere, it was to be obtained, Conway 
 thought, through this man's agency ; and it was to him — the last 
 man in the world that Pennicuick would have looked to — that his 
 thoughts turned upon leaving his unhappy friend. 
 
 At the cell door he found the chief gaoler ; a sycophantic smile 
 sat on his evil face, the consequence probably of some recent pri- 
 vate conversation with Kushan, and he rubbed his huge hands 
 softly together to express conciliation. 
 
 ^ My friend has been ill-treated,' said Conway coldly. 
 
 * They have stretched him a bit, honourable sir, but he will 
 come round with a little hog's lard, which shall be applied 
 immediately. In the meantime, can I oblige you in any way ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, in many ways ; and you will find it to your advantage — 
 much to your advantage — so to do. In the first place, I must see 
 Fu-chow, the prosecutor in this case, and immediately.' 
 
 ' Grood ; there is a small fee ' 
 
 ' You shall be paid in a lump sum for everything. It is not a 
 question of a tael or two. Do you understand ? ' 
 
 There was no doubt that this gentleman understood. The 
 characteristics of the wolf which had heretofore distinguished him 
 disappeared from his cruel face at once, and were replaced by those 
 of the fox ; he looked keen, but in high good-humour, like 
 Reynard when he has a fat turkey slung on his shoulder, and is 
 trotting homewards with the best of appetites. 
 
 ' There is nothing which is more agreeable to my feelings,' he 
 said, ' than to see everything run smooth with honourable persons 
 in my establishment ; when things run otherwise, there is no one 
 to blame but themselves. Mistakes,' added he, with a sudden 
 recollection of his treatment of Pennicuick, ' will sometimes occur
 
 138 BY PROXY, 
 
 in the inferior departments, for the master's eye cannot be every- 
 where ; but that is only to say we are human.' 
 
 It is one of the small aggravations of Chinese misrule that 
 almost all officials of any rank are ' literates ; ' they have gained 
 their position by ' cram ' of the philosophic kind, which gives their 
 conversation a touch of the Tartuffe or the Joseph Surface. To hear 
 this half-naked villain excusing himself on the ground of humanity 
 would have been grotesque if it had not been so outrageous. 
 
 He placed a whistle to his lips, and blew a long shrill call, 
 which produced the under-gaoler, a facsimile of himself except 
 that he was of a slightly more brutal type, and had less clothes on ; 
 lie wore nothing, in fact, but a pair of linen drawers reaching to 
 his middle. 
 
 ' Sheer Singh, take this honourable person to see the com- 
 mander Fu-chow.' 
 
 The answer was delivered so rapidly that Conway could not 
 catch it. 
 
 The chief gaoler broke out into a grim smile. 
 
 ' Sheer Singh thinks the commander had better come to you 
 unless you are in a great hurry.' 
 
 ' I have no time to lose,' observed Conway. 
 
 The chief gaoler nodded, and walked away ; but Sheer Singh, 
 with a great key in his hand, stood with his face turned heaven- 
 ward in serene abstraction, like a fiendish St. Peter. 
 
 Conway knew by this time what was meant by this contempla- 
 tive attitude, and at once produced some pieces of silver, which 
 the other seized on greedily and transferred to his mouth, where 
 they stuck out on one side, like a nut in the cheek of a monkey. 
 It was plain by the look of gratified greed in his small eyes that
 
 A CHINESE FHISON, 139 
 
 it was a bigger nut than he had expected, and Conway inaproved 
 the occasion by telling him that he should have as much again if 
 his conduct gave satisfaction. 
 
 The next moment the gate in the grating was unlocked, and 
 he was ushered into the prison yard. This was full of people all 
 sitting or lying on the bare earth in various stages of despondency. 
 Not one was either walking or standing, for this was the ' poor ' 
 ward, every inmate of w^hich had been ' squeezed,' and squeezed in 
 vain, until they had very literally no leg to stand upon. Some 
 had suffered, as Pennicuick had done, from ' the frame of the flower- 
 ing eyebrow,' so called from its resemblance to a bird of that 
 name which in captivity is tied by a short string to its perch, to 
 and from which it continually flies and returns ; others had 'gravsped 
 the peach,' a cant term applied to suspension by the armpit ; and 
 others had ' stood in the cage,' a place just high enough to stand 
 in with no support save from a slab under the chin, and the tips 
 of the toes. These wretched creatures, bruised and nerveless as 
 they were, gazed with interest at the barbarian stranger, and broke 
 into a low droning chatter as the two passed by. Conway under- 
 stood now the hesitation of his companion to admit him, for tor- 
 tures of this kind, though always practised upon prisoners who 
 cannot pay their footing, are in fact illegal. The chief gaoler, on 
 the other hand, did not hold himself responsible for these out- 
 rages, though he benefited by them, and perhaps was not dis- 
 pleased that the Englishman should have the opportunity of seeing 
 with his own eyes how unpleasant things might be made for his 
 friend, unless good reasons were advanced for a more tonic treat- 
 ment. To Conway, as we know, the existence of these horrors 
 was not unknown ; but from that very circumstance, since he un-
 
 I40 BY PROXY, 
 
 derstood them, or their coDsequences, at a j^lance, they hlled him 
 with the greater loathing. To leave not a stone standing of such 
 a den of torment, and to sow the spot with gunpowder, became an 
 appreciable aspiration, as he looked shudderingl}^ around him; 
 but the general wretchedness it was out of his power to assuage, 
 and he felt he should be fortunate indeed if even the particular 
 object with which he had come to that hateful place could be 
 attained. 
 
 ' It was necessary to bring you here,' explained his guide, 
 guessing his thoughts, or some of them, from the expression of 
 his countenance, ' because your business did not, it seems, admit of 
 delay ; and to bring the commander into your honourable presence 
 ^ould have taken time, since he has been put to bed.' 
 ' Put to bed ? why, it is still early morning.' 
 ' Yes,' grinned the other, ' but Fu-chow was tired.' 
 They had reached a cell door at the end of the yard, which 
 his companion now unlatched, and, warning him to stoop his head, 
 made signs that he should enter. Conway did so, and found him- 
 self in a similar apartment — except that it was sunk a little lower, 
 and therefore received still less light — to that in which he had 
 just left his friend. An earthenware oil lamp which stood on the 
 floor dispelled the dusk of the cell and showed a bed apparently 
 similar to that occupied by Pennicuick. Its occupant, who was 
 undoubtedly Fu-chow, was lying on his back stiff and rigid as a 
 corpse ; nor did the entrance of his two visitors cause him to move 
 a muscle, or breatlie a word. 
 
 ' We give this gentleman a lamp, you see,' explained Sheer 
 Singh, with the air of a man apologising for a luxury, • because he 
 informs us he is highly connected. His father, so he says, is a
 
 A CHINESE PRISON. 141 
 
 raandarin, and personally acquainted with his Excellency Twang-hi; 
 and though we have no proof of this, we are willing to take his 
 honourable word. He gives us also to understand that his fees 
 will be forthcoming, but in the mean time, as we have not seen 
 the colour of his money, he is detained here — in rather close cus- 
 tody — until his friends can be communicated with.' 
 
 ' And yet he is not accused of any crime,' observed Conway. 
 * Certainly not,' answered the other coolly. ' He has no right 
 here, as you say, at all ; and therefore it is all the more necessary 
 that he should pay for his lodging. At present he is quite com- 
 fortable, but in an hour or two he will feel the desirability of a 
 change of posture, and begin to wish his friends would discharge 
 his debts.' 
 
 By this time Conway perceived that the unfortunate ' com- 
 mander,' as Fu-chow was called, or called himself, was by no means 
 lying at his ease. He was stretched on a level slab of wood through 
 which little boards came up at right angles which contined his 
 neck, wrists, and ankles. Thus pegged down — for they fitted very 
 closely — he was of course unable to move a hair's breadth, and be- 
 came conscious of Conway's presence only when he had reached 
 his bed and stood immediately beside him. 
 
 ' I am sorry to see you in so ill a plight, Fu-chow,' observed he 
 gravely, ' though indeed you have deserved little pity at my hands.' 
 ' You catch yoiu- fish, and throw away the net,' said the pri- 
 soner, speaking slowly and with difiiculty. 
 
 ' If you mean I have been ungratefLd,' returned Conwav, ' what 
 shall be said of you, who have eaten your master's bread and have 
 betrayed him ? ' 
 
 ' He and I are now quits,' resumed the other sullenly ; ' but as
 
 142 BY PROXY. 
 
 for you, why are you free to come iind go ? Why are you not lying 
 here, as I am, or being squeezed as he is ? Would it not have 
 been as easy to witness against both of you as against one ? Yet 
 for my daughter's sake, and because you were kind to me, I remem- 
 bered you for good when I remembered him for evil.' 
 
 ' Well, so far as I am concerned, Fu-chow, I am obliged to you, 
 and I hope to show it. And as for Mr. Pennicuick, since you say 
 that you are quits with him, there is no need for further bitter- 
 ness on either side. From henceforth let us help one another. 
 What is the sum in which you are indebted to this man for fees ? ' 
 
 ' Two taels of silver,' interposed the gaoler laconically. Then, 
 seeing Conway putting his hand into his pocket, he added hastily, 
 ' and half a tael for the extra accommodation.' 
 
 ' Oh, for the bed ! I see. Well, here's the money ; so unloose 
 him.' 
 
 A few strokes of the huge key knocked out the wedges that 
 confined Fu-chow to his pillowless couch ; but though free, it was 
 by no means an easy matter for him to rise. Even that hour or 
 so of excessive constraint had stiffened every joint, and planted an 
 ache in every bone. Yet, but for Conway's interference, he would 
 have been doomed to lie upon that bare board, already become a 
 rack of agony, for days and nights. 
 
 ' Perhaps, my friend, as I wish to have some private talk with 
 Fu-chow,' observed Conway to the gaoler, ' you will leave us alone 
 together.' 
 
 ' It is not usual to grant such an indulgence,' answered Sheer 
 Singh with a doubtful air ; but the next moment he had left the 
 cell, with a similar swelling in his left cheek to that which had 
 interfered with the lines of beauty in his right. Conway had
 
 A CHINESE PRISON. 143 
 
 learnt by this time the one efficacious treatment for all Chinese 
 scruples. 
 
 ' Well, Fu-chow, you feel better now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I feel better ; but yonder fellow,' pointing to the door 
 which had just closed upon tho gaoler, ' will presently feel much 
 worse. All the time I was lying there, I have been thinking of 
 what will fit him best ; and it shall be the shirt.' 
 
 ^ The shirt ? ' exclaimed Conway, wondering that the man 
 should think of clothing his enemy, though indeed he stood much 
 in need of garments. 
 
 ' Yes, the wire shirt ; it fits quite closely, you see ; you pull it, 
 and the skin comes through, and then a razor is run over the 
 outside. That shall be Sheer Singh's suit when my father the 
 Mandarin comes to hear of what has been done to his son.' 
 
 The expression of Fu-chow's face was absolutely fiendish in its 
 fury : his words, too, were all the more malignant from the tardy 
 and unctuous tone in which they were delivered. Above all, he 
 had an air of insulted nobility beneath which Conway hardly 
 recognised the prompt attendant, who had served him on board the 
 boat, and showed no sign of pride save in his fancied proficiency in 
 the English tongue. His sense of dignity had been offended by 
 Pennicuick, but it was plain that it had been outraged infinitely 
 more by his treatment at the hand of his fellow-countryman. 
 
 ' Look you, because I am poor,' he continued, wetting his dry 
 lips with his tongue, in a manner very suggestive of a serpent's 
 flicker, ' they have dared to treat me in this manner. They do 
 not understand that, though my father has been discontented 
 with my conduct, he has not disowned me. They do not believe
 
 144 ^y PROXY. 
 
 a man who wears tlie three-eyed feather can have a son who is 
 poor.' 
 
 ' It is no longer necessary for him to be poor, if he will only be 
 obliging,' observed Conway with significance. ' I know one who 
 will give five thousand taels of silver for an act of good service, and 
 yet not think he has paid too much for it.' 
 
 ' Five thousand taels ! ' repeated Fu-chow slowly. 'That tastes 
 
 very nice. 
 
 ' Yes, and you shall have it in your own mouth, F'u-chow, like 
 that scoundrel yonder, if you will accomplish what I am about to 
 ask of you.' 
 
 ' I will do anything for you that lies in my power,' answered 
 Fu-chow simply, ' and that chop-chop, even without the five 
 thousand taels.' 
 
 A childish smile had replaced the scowl upon his pasty face, 
 and Conway felt that he could believe him. 
 
 ' Well, my friend's interests are my interests just now, Fu-chow, 
 and in advancing them you will be obliging me.' 
 
 P\i-chow shook his head ; the sentiment was too subtle for him ; 
 and as for its practical application, that was altogether outside his 
 experience. Conway was compelled to put the case in a more 
 material form. 
 
 ' If I were in my friend's position, you would do your best for 
 me, would you not ? Well ; do it for him instead of me, and while 
 he pays you with moneys I will pay you with thanks from my very 
 heart.' Conway laid his hands upon that organ. If Pennicuick had 
 been by, he would have said, ' There is nothing like pantomime 
 for your savages ; ' and indeed gesture helped out the halting 
 words.
 
 A CHINESE PRISON 145 
 
 ' Grood master,' said the Chinaman, bat without a touch of 
 softness, ' all this care of yours is labour in vain. The decree for 
 " Ling-chih '' will come to-morrow or next day, as sure as the sun. 
 Not I, nor my father (though he wears the three-eyed feather), 
 nor Twang-hi, nor the lord of the province, no, nor the Emperor, ^ 
 the Son of Heaven himself, could save this man, since he has com- 
 mitted sacrilege. Though, indeed,' he added, dropping his voice, 
 ' money can do something.' 
 
 ' That is what I want to come to,' said Conway eagerly, 
 ' What can it do, and how can it be applied ? ' 
 
 * Well, a good sum must be given to the executioner, who will 
 then strike a vital part with the first blow, and kill your friend at 
 once ; he will be put out of his misery on the instant instead of 
 being cut to pieces alive. If he had been a warrior, like yourself, 
 his gall-bladder would have been afterwards sold for a charm, for 
 it gives courage ; but being what he is, why, that operation will be 
 dispensed with.' 
 
 It was plain by the unctuous manner in which he lingered over 
 these details that Pennicuick's impending fate was even yet by no 
 means distressing to him to contemplate, and it was with difficulty 
 that Conway could restrain his disgust. What pained him, how- 
 ever, still more, was the confidence with which Fu-chow spoke of 
 the sentence being carried out, and of the impossibility of its 
 being interfered with. He could not but remember that the 
 Mandarin Twang-hi had expressed himself to the same effect, and 
 almost in the same words. As for the mitigation hinted at, the 
 victim would have a better resource in the bottle of laudanum 
 than in the humanity of the executioner. ' My friend is as brave 
 a man as ever drew breath, Fu-chow,' said he gravely, ' though he 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 BY PROXY. 
 
 does not chance to wear a sword. But life is dearer to us English- 
 men than it is held in China. In this country, I know, it is not 
 difficult to buy it if the temptation is great enough. In short ' 
 (and here Conway felt the colour rising in his cheek in spite of 
 himself), ' the proposition of my friend is that he should purchase a 
 substitute.' 
 
 ' The punishment of" Ling-chih " is no ordinary death,' observed 
 the Chinaman immediately. 
 
 'Nor would the bribe be an ordinary one,' put in Conway 
 *the executioner would of course be feed in the manner you 
 suggested. When I mentioned five thousand taels, that would be 
 your reward alone for bringing this matter to a satisfactory issue. 
 There would be more money forthcoming for other services.' 
 
 « It is an offer that makes one's mouth water,' said Fu-chow with 
 a tender sigh. ' But, unhappily, it can benefit nobody.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that no substitute could be found ? ' 
 ' Not at all ; I could get you fifty for a few taels a head, with- 
 out looking beyond these walls. But then they would be all 
 Chinese. The execution must take place in public. Do you 
 suppose that any fellow-countryman of mine could be made to 
 look like an Eno'lishman ? Even if you could bribe everybody all 
 round, from the lord of the province downwards, which in truth 
 would not be impossible, you could not deceive 20,000 spectators. 
 No one would run the risk of trying to do it. If there was an 
 Englishman in gaol here, why, then everything could be managed 
 nicely ; even if he did not voluntarily consent to it, he could be 
 gagged and " Ling-chihed " in the place of your friend, and the 
 public would be none the wiser. But as it is, the planHs valueless. 
 By this time every worshipper in the temple^ has heard of the
 
 A CHINESE FJilSON. 147 
 
 sacrilege that has been committed, and has resolved to witness its 
 ■expiation. When one is in the oven, it is useless to kick ; there is 
 nothing left for yom- friend, I do assure you, but resignation. 
 \Mien all is over, Twang-hi will no doubt permit you to put up 
 some memorial to him, which will be a comfort to his family.' 
 
 L 2
 
 148 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A SACRIFICE. 
 
 Although PM-chow's view of Pennicuick's position was precisely- 
 identical with that of Conway, the latter could not bring himself 
 to communicate it to his friend. He had returned to him after 
 his conference with their late attendant and told him of the 
 difficulty in the way of procuring a substitute, but did not speak 
 of it as insuperable. He also affected to hope that the expected 
 reply from the governor of the province might not, after all, be 
 fatal to his hope of life. He was not a clergyman, whom duty 
 compelled to prepare his friend for death ; he felt himself rather 
 in the place of a physician whose mission is to cheer even where 
 he cannot cure. At the same time, it pained him to see the very 
 effect which his own conduct was designed to promote. Pennicuick 
 was no longer suffering in body ; he had been rubbed down with 
 hog's lard, and that simple remedy had certainly relieved his pains ; 
 cushions had been brought in which made his bed tolerably com- 
 fortable ; he had taken some refreshment, and was well supplied 
 with cigars ; and in these better circumstances his spirits had 
 risen. 
 
 « I feel that I shall win out of this yet, Conway,' he said ; ' and 
 if so, I shall never forget how you have stuck by me. It was all
 
 A SACRIFICE. 149 
 
 my own fault that I got into this mess, and it will be all by your 
 credit if I get out of it.' 
 
 ' I have done very little, my dear fellow : I wish I could do 
 more.' 
 
 ' Well, you have set matters in train, at all events. Perhaps, 
 as you say, the sentence may be a light one after all, when it will 
 be easy enough to square matters. And if the worst comes to the 
 worst, I cannot but believe that such a big sum as I am prepared 
 to give will, somehow or other, make matters all right. Why, for 
 20,000/., even in England, a man might get off most things.' 
 
 The inappositeness of this speech was remarkable considering 
 the intelligence of the speaker, and Conway did not fail to note 
 it. It was clear that his poor friend was clinging to a straw, and 
 absolutely without an argument for the faith that was in him. 
 At one time he would talk almost boisterously of the fun they 
 would have when they got back to Shanghae, and the next minute 
 would advert to the precaution about which he had before been 
 so importunate to the exclusion of all other considerations : ' You 
 will not forget the laudanum, Connie.' 
 
 Conway brought him, in the course of the evening, the bottle 
 that contained it, and continued with him until long beyond the 
 usual hour for closing the gaol to visitors. Pennicuick had been 
 removed by that time to a room in the chief gaoler's i.ouse, and 
 before his friend left him for the night was made, generally, as 
 comfortable as circumstances permitted. And it was curious 
 what a change this improvement in his position wrought in the 
 prisoner's mind. He bade his friend ' good-bye ' quite cheerfully, 
 a somewhat anxious request to see him the first thing in the 
 morning being the only sign, of disquietude he exhibited. The
 
 ISO BY PROXY. 
 
 fact is, though he did possess great courage, it was, as is often the 
 case, in part the result of a lack of imagination ; matters material 
 — a good dinner, a good bed, and present immunity from incon- 
 venience — went farther with him than they would have done with 
 a more delicate organisation. The physical outrage to which he 
 had been subjected had for the time demoralised him, but now 
 that its effects had vanished he was himself again ; resolute, hope- 
 ful, and secretly sustained by the conviction that he was a man 
 not born to be put out of the world by such base agencies as- 
 threatened him. Above all, he had great trust in the wonder- 
 working powers of money. And even if his friend had dwelt upon 
 the F.pecial difficulty of his case, instead of ignoring it — on the 
 superstition which, shocked at his crime, demanded its expiation, 
 and before which even the highest officers of the state were 
 compelled to bow in at least apparent reverence — it is prob- 
 able that his sceptical mind could have still insisted that such 
 arguments tended at worst to put the price of his escape a little 
 higher. 
 
 Arthur Conway was buoyed up by none of these delusions. 
 His knowledge of the national character corroborated all that 
 Twang-hi and Fu-chow had said of the hopelessness of his friend's 
 case. When he went for the laudanum, he had sought and ob- 
 tained a few minutes' interview with the Mandarin, and had 
 openly spoken with him on the question of providing a substitute. 
 He had promised largely in Pennicaick's name, and found the 
 Mandarin even more willing than Fu-chow had been to sell his 
 good offices : but he had plainly told him that the thing could 
 not be done. If a wealthy native had been in tlie place of the 
 culprit, it would have been possible (though very dangerous) to
 
 A SACRIFICE. 151 
 
 effect his escape in the way proposed. But as matters stood, the 
 plan was hopeless. Ralph Pennicuick naust die. 
 
 At the very moment Conway received this answer, his daughter 
 was listening to the offer of his friend's son in the old garden at 
 Richmond. The same sun which shone that day upon the mud 
 walls of the Chinese gaol with its hopeless inmates, shed its 
 glories on that peaceful river and fair scene which had often 
 gladdened Ralph Pennicuick's eyes, on the terraces of the ' Star 
 and Garter.' If Mrs. Conway could have known in what straits 
 he lay that day, even she would have hesitated to let loose her 
 tongue against him. We should all moderate our rancour on 
 many occasions, did welknow what was going on in the world while 
 we so speak. On the next day, the last one that was fattd to 
 have hope in it for the wretched man, Xelly and her mother were 
 at the peaceful parish church together, not knowing that there 
 was special need of prayer for anyone connected with them ; per- 
 haps Xelly paid a devouter attention than usual to the appeal ' for 
 those who travel by land or by water,' thinking of her father 
 journeying in that far country; but the words ' upon all prisoners 
 and captives ' fell without meaning on her ear. Raymond was 
 dining at the Trafalgar at Greenwich that day with a few friends. 
 He had been the first to leave the table to smoke his cigar in the 
 balcony, and as he sat alone, listening to the beat of a great 
 ocean-bound steamer, it set him wondering what his father out in 
 China would say upon the receiyjt of the letter that he had written 
 to him the preceding night, announcing his intention of asking 
 Nelly's hand in marriage on his coming of age ; what his father 
 would say, whose sentence at that very moment had reached the
 
 152 BY PROXY. 
 
 hand of the Mandarin at Dhulang : ' Death, by the Ling-chih, 
 within eight-and-lbrty hours.' 
 
 It had been arranged by Conway that he should be sent for, on 
 some pretence connected with the supply of victuals on board the 
 boat, as soon as the news arrived, should it come when he was in 
 his friend's company. And so it happened. 
 
 ' Well, since it is so late, Conway, you need not trouble to re- 
 turn till to-morrow morning,' said Pennicuick ; ' that is, unless — 
 unless you should have heard anything. I begin to think that 
 this delay on the part of our deputy-lieutenant, or whatever he 
 is, augurs well ; if he had meant to be nasty, he would have been 
 quicker ; don't you think so ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Conway. He could not even add, as usual, 
 * Let us hope so.' He felt that hope was gone, even before he saw 
 the gaoler's face, who was awaitiug him outside the door. 
 
 ' It has come,' said that official ; 'and is what I told you it 
 would be ; you will hear all about it from the Mandarin.' The 
 man was perfectly callous as to the fact and its consequences, but 
 the matter had an interest for him, because so much fuss had been 
 made about it ; he would very gladly have had a hand — well 
 filled with dollars — in his prisoner's escape, had it been possible. 
 But even now there would be some pickings. 
 
 ' I will speak to the executioner to-night,' added he, as his 
 guest left the gaol ; 'you may rely upon it that his lirst stroke 
 shall do the trick.' 
 
 Conway did not reply even by a nod. He felt like a man who, 
 walking in his sleep, has suddenly been awakened in a position of 
 extreme danger. A chaos of nightmare thoughts were thronging 
 his brain, and yet he was face to face with a still worse reality.
 
 A SACRIFICE. 153 
 
 Twang-hi had nothing to tcii him but the bare fact of the 
 arrival of the decree. He was probably as indifferent about the 
 matter as the gaoler had been, but his superior education suggested 
 a few words of polite condolence. To him, too, there were still 
 remaining some slight contingencies of profit. 
 
 It would doubtless be a satisfaction to learn, he said, that on 
 the hill behind his (Twang-hi's) dwelling-place, there was a solitary 
 spot with fir-trees suitable for the erection of a monument to a 
 beloved friend, which was at Conway's service at a fair price to 
 the proprietor. 
 
 To the Chinese mind, the tomb is of more consequence than 
 life itself, and the Mandarin was as much scandalised as di tap- 
 pointed to find that this genial offer met with no response. 
 
 ' My friend,' said Conway gravely, 'is not one who will re- 
 ceive satisfaction from your proposal ; and, for my par£, I have 
 no heart to consider it. My desire is to do him service while he 
 is alive. You cannot save him, you say ; can you extend his span 
 of life?' 
 
 ' The decree enacts within forty-eight hours. A few hours per- 
 haps may be added under pretence of the tardiness of the mes- 
 senger — but not without strain upon the strict principles of justice.' 
 
 ' Every hour shall be paid for, Twang-hi, if delay is indeed all 
 that money can purchase ?' And he looked towards the Mandarin 
 with a lingering hope, 
 
 ' Honourable sir, I assure you by the bones of my ancestors 
 that nothing more can be done. The Englishman must die. The 
 wliole country round demands it, and expects it. I have been 
 already urged to name the hour of execution ; but that, as I have 
 said, may be deferred a little.'
 
 154 BY PROXy. 
 
 Then Conway took his way to the boat, still moored as on that 
 fatal morning at the garden steps, and descended into the cabin, 
 so solitary and silent, and yet which reminded him in its every 
 object of the companionship of his friend. The moon had risen 
 and was shining with such singular brightness that he had no 
 need to light his lamp ; it had so shone, he remembered, on the 
 Southampton Water on the night when he had left old England 
 years ago. • He had come away in dudgeon, and had indeed made 
 up his mind that his departure should be ' for good.' He could 
 not go back again, he had said — he did not even call it ' home 
 again ' — to be tormented and reproached by that shrew his wife ; 
 though at the same time he confessed that he had deserved re- 
 proach. He had been very foolish and very selfish in those days, 
 for he had dissipated not only his own fortune, but almost all her 
 little dowry. She was not a woman to forgive this, or let her 
 husband forget it. He loved his little daughter ; but his wife was 
 always throwing, as it were, the child in his face, and accusing 
 him of having made a beggar of her. What was worse was that 
 she had told the truth, or little worse than the truth. But for his 
 love of pleasure, and especially of that derived from the card-table, 
 his Nelly would have had the reversion of a comfortable com- 
 petency — two or three hundred a year of her own. But now, ' if 
 anything should happen to him,' her mother and she would have 
 a hard matter to live. The girl whom he pictured to himself so 
 fair and delicate — nay, whom he knew to be so, for had he not 
 her photograph in his desk ? — and whom he knew too, by her 
 loving letters, to be so tender and true, would have in all pro- 
 bability to go out as a governess, among strangers ; to meet with
 
 A SACRIFICE. T55 
 
 coldness, perhaps rudeness, and to eat the bitter bread of depend- 
 ence all her life, thanks to her father's misdoings. 
 
 This misery had often pressed upon his mind, but never so 
 bitterly as of late, for an especial reason — though he had so ill- 
 conducted himself of old, he had of late years done his best to 
 remedy the mischief he had committed. He had lived, so far as 
 it was possible for an officer so to live, upon a very crust, in order 
 to save money for the woman he had wi'onged and her child ; and 
 the child at least had become very dear to him. Her school- girl 
 letters, and still more those she had written to him more recently, 
 were what he loved to read (though he was a great reader) more 
 than Ms most favourite books ; and he was always picturing to 
 himself how she looked and how she spent her days. It was with 
 an exquisite delight that he had found himself in a position to 
 improve her mode of life a little by installing her in the house at 
 Eichmond ; but stern moralists would not have praised him for 
 his kindness, since the power to confer it had been placed in his 
 hands by an unusual run of good luck at cards. It had been so 
 good and so continuous, that it was not likely even at the con- 
 siderable points at which he was accustomed to play at the houses 
 of his civilian acquaintance at Shanghae —for he was too wise to 
 play in the regiment except for shillings — that he would have to 
 refund so large a sum ; indeed, he had a hundred pounds or so still 
 over, with which he had made up Ms mind to commence insuring 
 his life. Of course this ought to have been done long ago ; but so 
 ought many, many other things. It is something even to begin 
 to amend our ways. It so happened, however, that Conway's good 
 intentions had been frustrated in an unexpected manner. 
 
 The medical agent of the insurance office to which he had
 
 156 BY PROX^. 
 
 applied had ' refused his life,' as not being worth having. In Eng- 
 land, he said, his chances of existence might he good enough, but 
 too much had been taken out of his constitution to render it probable 
 that he would live to be an old man except under very favourable 
 circumstances, among which could not be reckoned the Chinese 
 climate. This refusal had been a great blow to Conway. He had 
 long made up his mind that when an opportunity did occur he 
 would repair, in this way (as far as it was safe for him so to do, as 
 respected his power of paying the premiums), the wrong that he 
 had done his child. The information that his health was shattered 
 did not move him, so far as it concerned himself, in the least. Ex- 
 cept to see his daughter, all ambition had long ago left him ; life 
 held no other promise for him ; and since even that seemed as far 
 off fulfilment as ever, it had lost all its dearness. What had life 
 to give him, that it should be dear ? Nothing, certainly, that it had 
 not given him already ; old pleasures without the old appetite, and 
 very few of them. He could afford, in fact, no other pleasure than 
 that of the card-table, occasionally diversified by that of the race- 
 course, and in neither could he afford to lose. The idea that the 
 comforts of his wife and child depended partly upon such gains, 
 shocking as it may be to the moralist, redeemed them in his own 
 eyes. He saw no more harm in standing on doubtful cards at loo 
 than respectable men see in speculating on the Stock Exchange. 
 His principles were all astray, though perhaps his heart was sounder 
 than that of others who have more to say for themselves, morally 
 speaking. He was, or had been, a spendthrift, a man of pleasure --- 
 nay, almost a rake — a card-player, a person of very undomestic 
 habits, and he never went to church except at the head of his com- 
 pany. With more than considerable talents, he had in fact wasted
 
 A SACRIFICE. 157 
 
 the precious gift of life. Thoiigh no hero in anyone's eyes, and 
 least of all in his own, he had always, however, done his duty as 
 a soldier, not from the highest motives perhaps, but still from 
 a good one : namely, that what one is bound to do one has no 
 right to shirk. For the rest, he was kind, generous to a fault — 
 so much so, that the economies he now practised for the sake of 
 others were hateful to him — brave as a lion, and gentle as a 
 child. His disposition was formed for love, but love, by some 
 freak of Fate, had been denied to him. He had married in haste, 
 and repented, not at leisure, but almost immediately. It had been 
 a case of love at .first sight, which often proves at second sight — 
 and still more, as the sight becomes accustomed to the near view 
 of the beloved object — to be no love at all, but a momentary in- 
 fatuation which costs the happiness of two lives. 
 
 Such was Arthur Conway ; a man who, under brighter circum- 
 stances, would have shone in the world ; but who, as it was, would 
 never shine ; who, far from shining, would glimmer on, disre- 
 putably rather than otherwise, an exile from his country and his 
 home, with the one pure desire of his life ungratified, till the 
 prophecy of the insurance agent should come to pass. That pro- 
 phecy, which had rendered his attempt to provide for his loved one, 
 and to remedy the wrong he had done her mother, void, had 
 seemed the last drop in his full cup of bitterness. He had started 
 on the present expedition partly to oblige his friend, but also partly 
 to save money, since, until he returned to his regiment, he would 
 be incurring no expenses ; but it had not been au expedition of 
 pleasure to begin with, and how miserably was it about to end I 
 
 These thoughts, and many others, and all devoid of cheer, 
 crowded on x\rthur Conway's mind as he sat alone at the open
 
 158 BY PROXY. 
 
 window of the cabin, watching the moonlight on the level stream. 
 How calm and quiet it was, yet how much calmer up yonder in the 
 blue sky, among the quiet stars. 
 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling-, and the weary are at rest ! — 
 
 was the line that haunted him as he gazed out upon them. How 
 weary of the world he, was, and how he longed to be at rest ! 
 Then, all of a sudden, a thought shot through him, swift as light- 
 ning, and, like it, of livid brightness : ' Ealph Pennicuick is doomed 
 to die, and would give 20,000L for a substitute. Why should T 
 not take the money, and die for him — and my Nelly ? '
 
 COJVJVAY'S WILL. 159 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 conwat's will. 
 
 By persons who pride themselves upon their ' ballast,' Arthur 
 Conway would without doubt have been termed ^ a creatm-e of im- 
 pulse ; ' and to a certain extent this was true ; but, unlike the class 
 of men thus designated, his impulses were lasting. And this was 
 especially the case with his good impulses. When he did think of 
 doing an unselfish act, he at once put it into effect, where a better 
 man would often ' tliink it over,' and, upon mature consideration, not 
 do it. Perhaps Conway thus acted from a doubt of his o-wn con- 
 stancy, or from a sense that he had many ' back payments ' of the 
 kind to make, and had better not have another score set down to 
 his discredit ; but at all events so it was. He never went from his 
 word to another man, nor broke — to himself — a determination he 
 had once formed for good. This extraordinary resolve of his to sell 
 his life at a great price for the benefit of his belongings, instead 
 therefore of ^ passing through his mind,' as so many fine notions of 
 self-sacrifice do pass with many of us, remained there, as much a 
 settled plan as though he had been 1 evolving it for years. The 
 obstacle that would have occurred to most men in such a case, that 
 Pennicuick would not consent to such an arrangement, did not 
 occur to him, because he knew his friend so well. However the
 
 i6o BY PROXY, 
 
 man might seem to struggle against such a temptation, he would, 
 Conway felt, give way at last ; the view that would present itself 
 to Pennicuick's mind would, after the first words of grateful acknow- 
 ledgment, be of the most sensible and matter-of-fact description. 
 ' This poor devil has little to live for, whereas I have a great deal : 
 it is deuced hard lines on him to have to put his neck in a halter 
 for another man ; but he cannot do better with himself as regards 
 his daughter, to benefit whom seems to be the one wish of his 
 heart ; it's like drawing for the militia ; one man finds it to his 
 advantage to serve, and another to purchase a substitute.' 
 
 This estimate of his friend's views (though he felt his mood was 
 bitter) would turn out, Conway was persuaded, to be essentially 
 correct. He had long ago lost his illusions ; and now, within a 
 few hours of his end, it was not likely any of them should return. 
 The poet's statement that no one is such a prey to dull despondency 
 that he can resign this ' pleasing anxious being ' without a sigh, is 
 not of universal application ; his being was so ' anxious ' to poor 
 Conway, and so little ' pleasing,' that lie could not sigh about it ; 
 but before leaving the ' warm precincts of the cheerful day,' it was 
 natural that he should cast a lingering though not a longing look' 
 behind. 
 
 He opened his old desk and spread out the contents before 
 him ; there were some twenty letters in it, almost all from Nelly, 
 with one or two from his wife. The former were all long ones ; 
 some containing whole pages of mere childish prattle, but singu- 
 larly frank and tender ; about the weather and her walks ; about 
 a caged bird she had purchased witli the guinea he had sent her 
 on her birthday, years ago ; about a visit to the Zoological 
 Gardens, where she had seen some creatures that had come from
 
 CON WATS WILL i6i 
 
 China, such perhaps as he saw every day at large ; about a visit to 
 the play. These little nothings — which all ended with her ' dearest 
 love,' and hopes to see him home — were cruel daggers now, and 
 pierced his heart. It was worse still, when, growing older, she be- 
 wailed his absence, and spoke of her affection for the kind father who 
 was always reaching out his hand from far to give her pleasure ; 
 of how nice dear Eaymond was, and of how much they saw of him, 
 though their home in Grower Street could scarcely be attractive to 
 the bright young fellow ; of Mrs. Wardlaw's kindness, and how 
 often she talked about her papa to the good-natured old lady, 
 whom she was sure he would like ' when he came home ' — that was 
 always dwelt upon — if it was only because she spoilt his Nelly so. 
 There were tender fears, too, that he was pinching himself as to 
 money matters, in order to provide indulgences for her and dear 
 mamma at home. [' She shall never hnow^ he murmured to him- 
 self, while the hot tears rolled down his sunburnt cheeks that had 
 been strangers to them for many a year, ' she shall never know.'] 
 In her last letter she had sent her photograph, and over that he 
 hung in a burst of grief. How beautiful she was ; how good and 
 
 true she looked ; how he had dreamt of seeing her one day he 
 
 knew not when, but some day surely — and clasping her to his 
 loving heart I And now that would never be. The idea was 
 almost unendurable. He dared not even write to her one word of 
 farewell. At such a time he could not write a lie ; and if he told 
 the truth, he would be embittering the very life to secure whose 
 happiness he was about to die. Even as it was, she would weep 
 for him ; those bright eyes would be dim for many a day, after the 
 news got home. For she had looked forward too, sweet soul, to 
 seeing him. And that would never be. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 i62 BY PROXY. 
 
 Then he took the letters one by one, tore them up into small 
 pieces, — so sharp was the pain as he did it, that it was the ' Ling- 
 chih ' (thought he bitterly) already for him, — and cast them out of 
 the window ; but over the photograph he pored and pored, and could 
 not part from it, as from the letters, but placed it next his heart, 
 the only treasure he — who was to die so rich — had left to him. 
 For a little this unmanned him quite ; but there was something, 
 as he knew, to make his purpose firm again, and which he had 
 reserved with that intent. The letters of his wife still lay before 
 him, and these, he was well aware, would steel his heart, and 
 give him courage ; for they were arguments, keen, strong, and un- 
 compromising, upon the other side. They might not have seemed 
 so to a less sensitive mind, nor even to a well-regulated one, con- 
 scious of having given cause of offence, but to Arthur Conway 
 they were powerful incentives to the act he had in contemplation. 
 They were not vituperative in their language, although there was 
 a sharp hit now and then ; but the whole tone of them— even to 
 their very brevity — was that of reproach. If there was a gleam of 
 affection beyond the ' My dear Arthur ' and ' Your affectionate 
 
 ^ife ' and now and then there was — the effect of it was at once 
 
 erased — it almost seemed designedly — by the next sentence. If 
 Mrs. Conway permitted herself to express a hope that her husband 
 was comfortable in his circumstances, she added an intimation that 
 it was more than he deserved ; if she dropped an apprehension that 
 he might be lonely, she took care to guard against the possibility 
 of a mistake that he had anybody to blame for it but himself ; if 
 she lamented his exile, she reminded him that with ordinary pru- 
 dence there would have been no necessity for it. This is the sort 
 of behaviour that has driven some married men out of their minds.
 
 CONIVAV'S WILL. 163 
 
 and many more out of their homes ; to one of Conway's type it 
 was torture. He was remorseful for what he had done, and did 
 not need such vulgar reminders ; he felt confident (and perhaps 
 with justice) that had he been in his wife's place he could never 
 have ' gone on ' in this aggravating style against one who had ex- 
 pressed sorrow for his misdeeds, and had gone into volantary exile 
 to atone for them. A man endures some things in a woman because 
 she is his wife, but for that very reason other sins of hers appear 
 less pardonable. ' The woman is a shrew ' was Conway's verdict 
 upon her ; though he knew she had good qualities ; and it was 
 this last knowledge that gave her the power of being so unpleasant. 
 Every line of her handwriting cost him a pang, though of a very 
 different sort from that inflicted by the correspondence of his 
 daughter : he had taken the best way to put himself out of love 
 with life in the perusal of this second batch of letters, which, like 
 the others, he presently tore up and cast away. 
 
 So certain was he, by this time, of what would be his course of 
 conduct, that he then sat down and remade his will : the old one 
 was already in his desk, so that he had but to copy the legal form ; 
 but the sums at his disposal were different indeed from what they 
 had been. To his wife he left the dowry he had squandered — he 
 made especial reference to that fact — and also the same amount of 
 property he had himself possessed at the date of his marriage. 
 She could therefore have nothing to complain of in the way of 
 loss. To his daughter he left the residue, amounting to 1 6,000/. 
 He hesitated as to making some statement which should account 
 foi' his possession of the sum, but in the end determined to omit it. 
 He had been always a truthful man, and the idea of his last act on 
 earth being a lie revolted him. Besides, Pennicuick was a much 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 BY PROXY. 
 
 better hand at making up a story than he, and would have no 
 scruples about it : he might say that he had realised this fortune 
 on the race-course, or in a speculation upon tea or opium; only he 
 must be careful to show that this had happened recently. It 
 would be terrible that his wife and daughter should imagine he 
 had been in the enjoyment of this wealth for any time, and yet 
 had not shared it with them. His friend (with the gaoler, perhaps) 
 would be a witness to this will, and therefore the properest person 
 to explain it. This might be a little difficult ; but after all, when 
 money is left, the recipients are not very curious as to how it came \ 
 though, when money is lost, folks are very importunate to know 
 what has become of it. 
 
 His worldly affairs being thus disposed of and those belonging 
 to him well provided for, he began for the first time to look his 
 own fate in the face. He had no doubt that, for a few hundred 
 pounds which Pennicuick had with him, and for the expenditure 
 of which he could repay himself if he chose out of his own 
 (Conway's) property at Shanghae, the officials could be bribed 
 to make the proposed substitution ; but it might be necessary, for 
 the deception of the public, that he should actually suffer the cruel 
 punishment the law had decreed ; the escape from it by laudanum, 
 though easy enough to the real culprit, might not be open to him- 
 self, on account of the investigations that it would necessitate, the 
 risk of which the Mandarin and the rest would be unwilling to 
 face. He might have no choice but to trust to the purchased 
 humanity of the executioner. Viewed in this light, his case was 
 even worse than Pennicuick's had been, and it had seemed to him 
 a few hours ago that the position of Pennicuick had been very 
 terrible. Curiously enough, now that he himself stood in
 
 CONIVATS WILL. 165 
 
 his friend's place, there was no terror in it, except for the 
 physical fear in connection with the execution itself. Without 
 being what would be considered, by a meeting of Convocation, 
 orthodox, Conway entertained a wholesome faith that matters 
 would be better arranged for him upon the other side of 
 the grave than he had arranged them for himself on this ; 
 after all, there could be but an hour's intense pain, at moot — 
 probably it would last but a second — to be followed by an eter- 
 nity of — what he felt would to him be Heaven, even though there 
 shoud be nothing better — Rest ; there would be no more carking 
 cares, nor vain regrets, nor unsatisfied longings, and Xelly's life 
 would be made smooth for her. 
 
 These reflections were interrupted by the retm-n of the soldiers 
 and sailors to the boat, who in the daytime now went where they 
 would, passing only the night on board ; it was understood, how- 
 ever, that they were to hold themselves in readiness to return to 
 Shanghae with the surviving Englishman when his friend should 
 have expiated his offence against the law. From their unwonted 
 loquacity, more than from what he actually overheard, Conway 
 judged they had already become acquainted with the nature of the 
 Lieut-enant-Governor's sentence, and that it gave them no little 
 satisfaction. A few hours ago he would have felt indignant against 
 them for this brutality towards ' poor Pennicuick,' though he was 
 well aware that the latter's manners had been the reverse of con- 
 ciliatory ; but, as it was, it mattered nothing. They would be 
 aware, of course, of the substitution of his friend for himself; but as 
 that would be done under authority, he knew that they would be 
 far too wise to stir in the matter from any abstract devotion to the 
 principles of justice.
 
 i66 BY PROXY. 
 
 If expectation might ever plead excuse for wakefulness, it will 
 be thought that it might have done so that night with Arthur 
 Conway ; but such was not the case. The anxieties that had 
 hitherto haunted his pillow were now in fact laid to rest, and tlie 
 personal apprehensions that occupied their place were altogether 
 disproportionate to them. He desired to sleep, not so much to 
 forget his woes, as to gain strength and courage for the endurance 
 of them : and he soon fell into a tranquil slumber, from which (as 
 generally happens to those who have cause to wake) he woke long- 
 before his usual hour. A task lay before him such as has rarely 
 fallen to the lot of man to undertake, and the time allotted to him 
 between that present hour and the commencement of eternity — or 
 mere ' cold obstruction,' as the case might be — was short indeed. 
 Upon one thinghe was resolverl : that neither by bribes nor persuasion 
 would he endeavour to move the Mandarin to postpone the execu- 
 tion. He was too sensible — and it may be added, perhaps, too self- 
 conscious — to underrate the greatness and rarity of the sacrifice he 
 was about to make ; but he felt like a man who has some painful 
 operation to undergo, and wishes to have it over, rather than 
 like one who, about to lose it, clings to dear life.
 
 THE BARGAIN. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE BARGAIN. 
 
 Early as it was when Arthur Conway took his way that morning 
 to the prison where his friend lay, but which he had resolved 
 was henceforth to be his own dwelling-place, there were people in 
 that land of Morning already astii\ On a waste piece of ground 
 adjoining the gaol, the existence of which had somewhat excited 
 his curiosity— for in China it is unusual to see any spot unculti 
 vated— a knot of natives were collected, one of whom was raised 
 above the others on a ladder. As he drew near he heard the 
 ' thump thump ' of a wooden mallet, and perceived that they were 
 fixing into the earth a post about eight feet high. He felt a 
 sickness at his heart, and knew that his face grew pale as he ap- 
 proached these men— for the object of their preparations was plain 
 to him — but nevertheless he gave them a ' good morning.' 
 ' This is the execution ground, I suppose, my friends ? ' 
 « Yes,' answ^ered one subserviently, ' and this is the post for the 
 " Ling-chih " to-morrow. There will be half the province come to 
 see it, but there will be ever so good a view for your honourable 
 worship from the roof of the gaol yonder.' 
 
 There was no intentional cruelty in the man's speech: he 
 knew the destined victim was Conway's friend; but since the
 
 i68 BY PROXY. 
 
 executicn was to be, he thought it was probable that he would wish 
 to witness the spectacle. There is a great deal of philosophy in 
 China besides that which is cultivated by the learned, and as- 
 tonishingly little sentiment. 
 
 Conway found his friend — who was usually a late sleeper — very 
 much awake, and in a state of anxiety the expression of which he 
 strove in vain to conceal. He had discovered by some behaviour of 
 the under-gaoler on the preceding night that the decree from the 
 lieutenant-governor had arrived, but had been too proud — or 
 perhaps too nervous — to inquire what it was. 
 
 'I am sure it has come, Connie. Why was I not told at 
 once ? ' 
 
 ' Because I wished you to pass as good a night as might be 
 possible, Penn,' answered his friend gravely. 
 
 ' The news is bad, then, is it ? ' 
 
 ' It is as bad as can possibly he, Pennicuick.' 
 
 *It is not to be that infernal " Ling-chih," surely.' 
 
 * Yes, that is the sentence.' 
 
 Pennicuick turned very pale, and sat down on his little bed. 
 He seemed to swallow something twice or thrice in his throat 
 before he spoke. 
 
 ' And wlien is it to be, Conway ? ' 
 
 ' That is not quite certain. It will probably be to-morrow, but 
 the Mandarin will, I think, consent — for a consideration — to put it 
 oli for a little; perhaps a day or so.' 
 
 Pennicuick made an impatient movement with his hands. ' No,' 
 said he ; ' if the d d thing is to be done, let it be done quickly. 
 
 It was strange, Conway thought, that he did not even allude to 
 the plan cf the feub&titute, alout which he had been apparently so
 
 THE BARGAJA, 169 
 
 confident a few hours ago, notwithstanding that the difficulty of 
 procuring one had been stated to him. Perhaps the fact was that 
 he had never really had much hope cf it. 
 
 ' How long will it last ? ' inquired Pennicuick presently ; * I 
 mean, the pain of the thing.' Then Conway told him what Fu- 
 chow had said about feeing the executioner. 
 
 ' Well, well, that is no matter,' said Pennicuick grimly. * The 
 scoundrels shall have no more of my money. I am independent 
 of them, so far, thanks to what I have here ; ' and he tapped his 
 waistcoat pocket where lay the bottle of laudanum. Curiously 
 enough, Conway had for the moment forgotten the laudanum, 
 which would certainly not have happened had he had his friend's 
 case only to think about, and not his own. 
 
 ' Still, it's deuced hard lines, Connie, to die like a dog, and 
 twenty times worse than a dog, at the hands of these idiots.' He 
 uttered a fierce oath and gnashed his teeth. 
 
 Still Conway did not speak ; it was not that he did not pity 
 his friend, and was willing enough to put an end to his apprehen- 
 sions. But he felt that it was necessary for his purpose to bide 
 his time. In that supreme hour, all pretences, all delusions, were 
 swept away from his mind ; he felt that it was within the bounds 
 of possibility that if Kalph Pennicuick were cognisant of his 
 friend's necessities he might drive a bargain with him even for his 
 life. At last the other touched upon the desired topic. 
 
 ' It is the fact, then, that these scoundrels could not be bought 
 even with 20,000^. ? I should have thought that such a sum as 
 that would have induced Twang-hi himself to take my place.' 
 
 ' It would be easy enough, Pennicuick, for such a sum, to bribe 
 these men all round, and of course to find a substitute ; but, as I
 
 ryo .BY PROXY. 
 
 gave you to understand last night, no Chinese could carry out the 
 deception. The trick would be discovered at once, and all who 
 connived at it would be punished.' 
 
 ' That is only a question of risk, which again is a question of 
 " How much," ' urged Pennicuick. ' Sooner than lose my skin, I 
 would pay 30,000^. Think of what such a fortune would be in 
 England — how much more, then, in China ! ' 
 
 * No money would do it, Pennicuick ; unless some European 
 could be induced to die for you.' 
 
 ' That is as much as to say " You're a dead man," ' answered 
 Pennicuick stolidly. 
 
 ' Not quite. I know one Englishman who would not shrink — 
 at least, I think so — with such a prize in view, from such a sacrifice.' 
 
 ' What matters, since he is not here ? ' 
 
 ' He is here, Pennicuick ; he stands before you.' 
 
 ' You ! Fou, Conway ? Are you mad ? ' 
 
 'No, Penn, although things have gone with me almost ill 
 enough to drive me mad. To me life has long been valueless, 
 except for a hope that draws no nearer to its fulfilment. I had 
 wished to see my dear daughter before youth and beauty had 
 passed away from her ; but, if I die for you, I must be content to 
 feel that, in so doing, I purchase for her ease and comfort. I owe 
 her mother, too, some reparation. The 20,000^. — you spoke just 
 now of 30,000^., but the first sum will suffice — that you were pre- 
 pared to give to some Chinaman, will be given to your friend in- 
 stead ; a change with which you will not be inclined to quarrel. 
 Some more money will be necessary, doubtless, to induce the 
 authorities to consent to the substitution ; but that, I think, may 
 be^arranged for a small sum. We are like enough — being both
 
 THE BARGAIN, 17 1 
 
 Englishmen — to pass for one another on the scaffold ; for it will 
 perhaps be necessary for me to go thither. It is not certain that 
 that easy way of going out of the world — the laudanum — will be 
 open to me, as it was for you. It will probably be made a sine 
 qua non that I should be made a show of. Do you hear that 
 hammering, Penn, outside ? They are putting the pobt into the 
 earth, to which I shall be tied before the torment.' 
 
 * Conway, I can't permit it,' exclaimed Pennicuick suddenly : 
 his face was pale and wet, and his voice greatly agitated. ' AVhat 
 will they say at home when they come to hear that I let you die 
 for me ? ' 
 
 ' They must never know it at home, Pennicuick. I must for- 
 feit the last poor privilege of writing one line of Farewell — lor a 
 lie I could not write. You must explain it all — what way you 
 please. They threw me into prison, say at once, and cut off all 
 communication between us ; I was allowed no writing materials ; 
 you will have time enough between this and when you see — when 
 you see my Nelly, to invent the best excuse. The truth would 
 kill her. I should have thrown my life away, since the money for 
 which I sold it for her sake would never give her pleasure. Do 
 you follow me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I am listening. I do not say 1 will consent, Connie. It 
 seems a baseness, somehow.' 
 
 ' It is not a baseness if I wish it : if I had rather die and make 
 my daughter happy, than live on, and know her to be poor and 
 wretched. It is a voluntary act on my part ; it is not as if you 
 asked me to make the bargain.' 
 
 ' That is true,' said Pennicuick, moistening his dry lips. 
 
 ' Of course that makes all the difference,' continued Conway.
 
 172 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' I have looked at the matter all round, and am not acting on the 
 impulse. Here is my will, in which I have left the 20,000^. as 
 though it were already mine. It shall be witnessed, and then you 
 will take charge of it and give it into my wife's liands. There will 
 be nothing more to give of mine — not one line of my hand- 
 writing, no word of Grood-bye.' Here Conway's voice broke down 
 for the first time. 
 
 ' But my dear Connie, supposing this sad matter should be thus 
 arranged, how is your possession of so much money to be ac- 
 counted for ? ' 
 
 ' I have thought of that, of course ; but you have a better head 
 than mine for invention. Say I made some fortunate investment 
 in opium, don't say I won it on the turf, if you can help it ; it 
 will have been gained honestly enough, and hardly enough. Heaven 
 knows. There is something in the Bible about dying for one's 
 friend. " Yet for a good man some would even dare to die," I 
 think it runs. Though' (here he smiled) 'I am not quite sure 
 about the application.' 
 
 'Well, it don't much matter as to whether I am a good man, 
 Connie. You are not dying for me, you see, but for my money.' 
 
 * That is no doubt one way of putting it,' said Conway drily. 
 He had accurately forecast what would be his friend's view of this 
 matter, and had divested himself of all illusions with respect to 
 him, but he had not expected him to use so calculating a style in 
 the very acceptance of his sacrifice. He knew that the affair 
 would have presented itself in this gross light to Pennicuick 
 sooner or later ; but that he should thus view it, so immediately, 
 with the sound of the preparations for his friend's death ringing 
 in his very ears, disgusted him, and his face betrayed it.
 
 THE BARGAIN. 173 
 
 ' I am not underrating the service you propose to do for me, 
 Conway,' said the other apologetically. 'If you are saying to 
 yourself that I would not do as much for you, if our positions 
 were reversed, you are quite right. Still, to a poor man — that is, 
 to a man whose family is poor — 20,000^. is a great heap of money.* 
 
 ' No doubt,' answered Conway scornfully. ' One might even 
 say that it is a good deal more than some people's lives are 
 worth.' 
 
 'That sarcasm cuts both ways, Connie. Come, don't let us 
 quarrel at such a time as this. If your offer is genuine, I accept 
 it, and there's an end. I am deeply and most unfeignedly obliged 
 to you for it ; but I protest against being compelled to look upon 
 it solely as an act of self-sacrifice. For if, as you have suggested, 
 my own life may not be valuable to the community, still I have 
 some self-respect, and that I should lose utterly if I were to pic- 
 ture myself as escaping from this calamity at your expense, with- 
 out, as it were, value received on your part. Even as it is, I own 
 to having serious scruples ; it is not a matter on which any man 
 can congratulate himself.' 
 
 ' I do not wish you to feel any sense of obligation, Penniciiick,' 
 answered the other coldly. ' There is no time, even if I had the 
 desire, for the discussion of the sentimental aspect of the affair. 
 iNIy hours are numbered, and I cannot afford to waste them.' 
 
 ' Conway, old fellow, you do me wrong,' said Pennicuict 
 frankly. ^ You do not understand my feelings ; it is hard thai 
 you should compel me to confess that I feel ashamed of myself, 
 but so it is. A man ought to take the consequences of his own 
 acts upon his own shoulders, and not shift them to those of his 
 friend ; I feel that, I do indeed. Yes.' Here he began to walk
 
 174 BY PROXY. 
 
 rapidly to and fro. 'I feel that when the thing is done, I shall 
 not be able to look other men in the face, as I used to do. In 
 what I said about the money, I was only trying to excuse myself. 
 Shake hands. Now, look you, you shall not die if I can help it. 
 Make what arrangements about the substitution you please, but 
 above all things stipulate for delay. Offer what you like — five 
 pounds an hour, or ten — and then I will set off at once for Shang- 
 hae, and, if money can do it, I will return to save you.' 
 
 ' In which case I shall have risked my life for nothing,' observed 
 Conway coldly. 
 
 ' No ; not so. I will pay you ' — he hesitated — ' yes, I will pay 
 you for the risk all the same ; it is not blood-money. I do not 
 believe the worst will happen — Fu-chow is your friend, and the Man- 
 darin ; they will do more for you than for me ; I confidently expect 
 that you will procure such a reprieve as may give me time to obtain 
 your pardon through the Embassy ; if so, you will have the money 
 for yourself ; if, on the other hand, I do not return in time to save 
 you, there will be the 20,000Z. for your family.' 
 
 ' Very good : I agree to that.' 
 
 In his heart of hearts Pennicuick was well aware that there 
 was no such hope as that he spoke of ; and Conway knew that he was 
 aware of it. The latter quite understood that the alternative had 
 suggested itself to his companion as a salve to his conscience ; as. a 
 something that should mitigate the unpleasantness of leaving his 
 friend at the very foot of the scaffold. In his bitterness, he even 
 felt that it might be an excuse for departing with a whole skin, 
 as soon as the necessary permission should be purchased from the 
 Mandarin, and placing himself in safety. But it was of no use, 
 and would only make matters more painful, to impute these
 
 THE BARGAIN. 
 
 75 
 
 motives. It was better to say simply, ' I agree to that,' than to 
 •expose the futility of the arrangement. 
 
 It was fortunate that Conway's estimate of his friend's char- 
 acter had been already made, and correctly made : otherwise, the 
 manner in which his offer of a life for a life had been accepted 
 would have been indeed disappointing. As matters were, it was 
 perhaps advantageous to him that no element of sentiment was to 
 "be introduced into the affair, beyond what belonged to it, and 
 -which had no reference to Pennicuick. It left his mind more firm 
 and free for the transaction of the necessary arrangements with 
 the authorities.
 
 176 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTEK XVI. 
 
 LAST WOKDS. 
 
 In China almost everything is possible to one who j&ghts justice 
 with a full purse. Conway had failed, it is true, to persuade the Man- 
 darin to save the life of his friend in one way, but he accomplished it 
 in the other. Twang-hi, who had been incorruptible when the scheme 
 menaced his own safety, allowed himself to be won over by another 
 one hundred pounds to countenance a plan which, although it had 
 its risks, was not very likely to be dangerous, since all concerned in 
 it had their good reasons — mostly in silver money — for helping to 
 delude the lieutenant-governor, and (especially) the public. If 
 one barbarian chose to die in place of another barbarian, that was. 
 not Twang-hi's affair, except as regarded the price charged for per- 
 mitting the exchange. All he insisted upon was that somebody 
 should undergo the punishment of the ' Ling-chih ' within forty- 
 eight hours of the receipt of the sentence — unless some very excellent 
 reasons (in gold) should be advanced for a little delay. One 
 single day's reprieve he might be induced, he thought, to grant in 
 the interests of mercy, and at the rate of 51, an hour. But 
 of this Conway did not care to avail himself. Not one day, nor 
 ten, would have sufficed for his friend to have gone to, and returned 
 from, Shanghae : all loophole of escape that way was barred.
 
 LAST WORDS. 177 
 
 Thirty-six hours, then — or, if the destined victim should alter his 
 mind and open his purse, — perhaps sixty hours of life were all that 
 was now left to Arthur Conway. On his departure from the 
 audience chamber of the Mandarin he was almost embraced by 
 Kushan, to whom his Excellency had communicated the English- 
 man's chivalric purpose. 
 
 ' You are about, honourable sir, to perform one of the noblest 
 of human acts. In China, where philosophy is respected, it 
 is common enough that a man should die for his friend [he might 
 have added, ' or even for a stranger '] ; but being, as you are, a bar- 
 barian, the sacrifice is infinitely more creditable to you.' 
 
 Conway did not express himself as flattered by this gentleman's 
 good opinion, nor take the trouble to undeceive him as to his own 
 motives ; he only bowed in an abstracted manner — indeed, his 
 mind was sufficiently occupied with other matters — and would 
 have passed out of the house, had not the master of the cere- 
 monies again addressed him. 
 
 ^ Grold is emptiness, silver is emptiness, honourable sir ; how after 
 death can we retain them in our grasp ? The thing remains, the 
 man departs.' 
 
 ' Very true, Kushan ; but I am in a hurry.' 
 
 ' Too much haste is sometimes the handmaid of delay.' 
 
 ' What is it, Kushan ? Speak your real meaning, my good 
 friend, if you have any.' 
 
 * There is but one thing real,' answered the other blandly ; 
 ^ namely, the effect of virtuous deeds leaving their lasting impress 
 on an individual being. If you wish to go to heaven, you must 
 observe several things ; notably, not to destroy your children ; not 
 to sing on the twelfth or thirtieth of the month ; and never to 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 BY PROXy. 
 
 spit with your face to the north star. Above all things, be muni- 
 ficent to the learned ; if a man is also a scholar, he may always do 
 us an ill turn.' 
 
 ' How so, Kushan ? ' 
 
 ' Such men have the gift of writing, and their messages are 
 borne afar, though they themselves remain in one place. It is 
 like employing a bird of the air, since he who carries their news 
 may not even know from whence it comes.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Conway ; ' an anonymous letter such as would dis- 
 arrange my plan might reach the governor of the province, unless 
 a certain precaution is taken.' 
 
 ' Heaven alone knows what may happen,' observed Kushan with 
 pious unction. ' What you hint at, however, appears to me not 
 improbable.' 
 
 ' I confess, Kushan, that it had not been my intention to pur- 
 chase your silence, on account of the opinion I entertained of your 
 learning and morality ; but since you have expressed a wish for 
 more money, it shall be gratified. I hope this will prove to my 
 advantage.' 
 
 ' When a person has been guilty of a wicked thought,' returned 
 Kushan calmly, ' and afterwards repents and does the right thing, 
 he will in due time be certainly rewarded.' 
 
 * There was once a philosopher,' said Conway, producing his 
 purse, ' of great renown in my own land, of whom you remind me 
 much.' 
 
 ' I dare not presume to rival such a reputation,' answered the 
 other ; ' but what was his honourable name ? ' 
 
 ' His name, my friend,' said Conway, as he pressed three taels 
 into the other's hand, ' was Pecksniff.'
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 179 
 
 The major domo gravely entered Mr. Pecksniff's name in his 
 tablets, and announced his intention of burning a little incense 
 once a fortnight to that sage's memory. 
 
 The gaoler and his myrmidon, Sheer Singh, were found even 
 more amenable to the new arrangement than Conway had expected. 
 Since the Mandarin, their immediate superior, was in favour of 
 the exchange of culprits, it was not, they said, for them (as they 
 pocketed their hush-money) to express objections. It therefore 
 remained only to secure the silence of Fu-chow, who had been by 
 this time officially acknowledged by his distinguished parent, and 
 was held in much respect accordingly by those who had been his 
 gaolers ; though still up at the prison, he was now a free man, 
 the arrival of the sentence of death having settled the case and 
 done away with the necessity of his safe keeping. Even in 
 England, where the judges are incorruptible, it is often found 
 practicable to arrange matters Avith a prosecutor, so that this last 
 transaction seemed to Conway to be the easiest to effect of all. 
 It proved, however, to be the most difficult. Fu-chow protested 
 with indignation that nothing should induce him to connive at 
 the escape from justice of one who had outraged both human 
 and divine institutions by stealing the sacred Shay-le. His line of 
 argument seemed to be so similar — in its high tone and moral 
 sublimity— to that of Kushan and his master, that Conway at once 
 took out his purse. 
 
 But Fu-chow, with a dignified gesture of refusal, replied, 
 * Honourable sir, you mistake. In no case would I take your 
 money, to whom I am already under such obligations.' 
 
 ' But it is not my money,' interposed Conway ; ^ my friend of 
 course pays for the whole transaction.'
 
 i8o BY PROXY 
 
 ' Possibly, but the matter is not one to be settled in that way 
 at all. A man who has committed so heinous a crime must not 
 be permitted to purchase impunity by a merft fine ; not to mention 
 that it is also proposed to punish another in his stead, who is inno- 
 cent, and what is more,' added Fu-chow naively, ' for whom I have 
 a high regard.' 
 
 « I am aware of it, Fu-chow, and I thank you ; but you must 
 understand that it is at my request this exchange is made. You 
 are thwarting me in a purpose that I have near at heart.' 
 
 ' The punishment for sacrilege is to be cut into ten thousand 
 pieces,' observed Fu-chow quietly. 
 
 * Ah ! you deceived me, then,' cried Conway, ' when you said my 
 friend and you were quits. You are still his enemy, and desire his 
 destruction. There lies the root of your objection.' 
 
 ' He shall die,' said Fu-chow ; 'he and no other ; my mind is 
 fixed upon that score.' 
 
 ' It is contrary to your faith, Fu-chow, as to mine,' pleaded Con- 
 way, ' to nourish such bitter revenge against a fellow-creature. I ac- 
 knowledge that this man has misbehaved himself towards you ' 
 
 Fu-chow waved his hand as if to put that suggestion by. ' It is 
 not that at all,' said he. 
 
 ' You are thinking of your daughter, and of the insult this 
 man put upon her.' 
 
 ' A man may think what he likes,' said Fu-chow sententiously, 
 ^ provided that his actions are in accordance with the law.' 
 
 ' Listen, my friend,' said Conway, ' and remember, as you do 
 so, that I did you a good service in the matter to which you have 
 referred. I, too, have a daughter, young, fair, but whom, unlike 
 you, I shall never see again. I do not say so because I am about
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 iSi 
 
 to die. It would be all the same if I lived. I shall be — always — 
 too poor to go home to see her. She is herself almost penniless, 
 and the thought of her being so, of the slights — perhaps the 
 insults — she may suffer from the rich in consequence, is wormwood 
 to me. Do you understand ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed ; for I also am a father.' 
 
 * Well, if I succeed in this plan of substituting myself for my 
 friend, I shall receive from him a large fortune — that is to say, my 
 daughter will do so. She is dearer to me far than life. To ensure 
 her well-being, to place her above the reach of poverty, has been 
 the dream of my existence ; but, had I lived, it could have been 
 only a dream. Xow there is at last — at a small sacrifice, for I am 
 not in love with life, Fu-chow — a certainty of its being realised. If 
 you oppose yourself to it, you will be doing me an ill turn indeed 
 for such good services as you may owe me. If you have any gTati- 
 tude in your heart towards me, if you have a genuine love for 
 your own daughter, you will listen to my entreaty, who am pleading 
 on behalf of mine.' 
 
 For more than a minute Fu-chow kept silence ; his flat bare 
 face, which in general exhibited only a good-natured vacuity, 
 looked grave and even thoughtful. He was evidently giving his 
 whole mind to the situation. 
 
 At last he said, ' If I consent to this, I must be well 
 paid — I mean, really well ; better than Twang-hi and the rest of 
 them.' 
 
 Up to that moment Conway had believed this man to be moved 
 by that touch of nature which is said to make the whole world 
 kin ; but somehow he wished that to his parting view this particular 
 specimen of humanity had shown himself in a less sordid light
 
 i82 BY PROXY. 
 
 His disgust at finding him as grasping as the rest of his fellow- 
 countrymen was considerable. 
 
 'It is, then, a question of money with you, after all,' said he, 
 coldly. ' Well, my friend is not in a position to haggle ; but if 
 you mean to be greedy, you must be content to wait till he reaches 
 Shanghae. A man doesn't carry his whole fortune in his pocket.' 
 
 ' What I require, I must have at once,' answered Fu-chow 
 doggedly. ' Your friend will not want money for his travelling 
 expenses, since he will have the boat at his disposal. If he doesn't 
 choose to pay up handsomely, he shall not go at all. How much 
 was given to the Mandarin ? ' 
 
 *In all, 200^. English ; but 100^. was paid in the first instance 
 to ensure to my friend civil treatment in the prison. You your- 
 self know best with what result.' 
 
 ' I do not care one cash how the man was treated,' answered 
 Fu-chow bluntly. ' It is a subject that doesn't interest me. What 
 I have to say is that I also must have 200^. for connivance in the 
 scheme proposed. He may either give it. or keep it and suffer the 
 " Ling-chih." These are my lowest terms.' 
 
 ' I have already said, Fu-chow, that we are in your hands,' 
 answered Conway coldly. ' We have no choice but to submit to 
 your exactions, which however are, in my opinion, infamous.' 
 
 Fu-chow was a plain man, even for a Chinese, but he had 
 beautiful teeth. These he now showed. ' You think so ? ' said he, 
 good-naturedly. ' Well, in affairs of business there are generally 
 two opinions.' 
 
 ' You shall have the 200Z.,' said Conway. He had neither time 
 nor patience to argue the matter ; nor, indeed, did the amount of 
 the bribe concern him very nearly. It was not to be expected,
 
 LAST WORDS. 183 
 
 under the circumstances, that he should be very solicitous about 
 details. 
 
 ' I conclude,' continued he, ' that you will not now return with 
 my friend to Shanghae.' 
 
 * Certainly not,' said Fu-chow drily. ' I have had quite enough 
 of that gentleman. It would have pleased me to see the last of 
 him out yonder ' (here he pointed with his thumb in the direction 
 of the execution ground) ; * but as it is, I shall still stay.' 
 
 ' To see the last of me, I suppose,' thought Conway bitterly. 
 ' Well, it is no matter ; only I had fallen into the error of mistak- 
 ing this brute for a man.' 
 
 It was curious how this misconception affected him ; he was 
 annoyed to find that his friend's view of their late attendant was a 
 more correct one than his own. 
 
 The fact was, his mind was eminently just, very remarkably so 
 considering his circumstances and manner of life; and he had con- 
 trived up to that point not only to make allowances for this man, 
 who had betrayed his employer and was about to be the cause of 
 his own destruction, but even to think well of him. He managed, 
 however, to stifle his disgust. 
 
 ' Well, if you get this money, Fu-chow, you will at least make 
 such final arrangements as may be necessary ; I mean, as to the 
 departure and safe conduct of my friend. It is his desire to start 
 for Shanghae at once.' 
 
 ' I can well believe it,' returned the captain, with a con- 
 temptuous smile. ' I will do all that is necessary, so soon as I 
 touch the money. I would rather have it in my hands, you see, 
 than a promise from this good gentleman in my ear for ten times 
 as much.'
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 It would have been very difficult to explain to Fu-chow what 
 is understood by the phrase ' a man of honour,' even had Conway 
 felt inclined to attempt that feat. As it was, he only said, ' You 
 shall have your 200^., sir ; ' and turned upon his heel. 
 
 Within half an hour he had kept his word, and the last 
 obstacle had been removed to his friend's escape and to his own 
 destruction. 
 
 "When Conway returned to Pennicuick with the news that the 
 exchange had been effected, the latter was greatly moved. The 
 actual state of the case — the positive reality that his friend was 
 about to die for him — had perhaps not struck him before with its 
 full force. Just as when he had been awaiting his own sentence 
 he could hardly realise the idea that it could be his death doom^ 
 so up to this time it had probably seemed something too monstrous 
 and horrible that his friend should be actually sacrificed in his 
 stead. For the moment, since the people had been excited by his 
 thoughtless act, it might have been necessary to make some show 
 of severity ; but the authorities could surely never contemplate 
 the execution of a British subject of position for such an offence, 
 in earnest. So he had reasoned, or endeavoured to reason, in his 
 own case ; and when this hope had turned out to be hopeless and 
 the case had become his friend's, he had said to himself, ' It will 
 be easier for Conway to get out of this scrape than it was for me ; 
 he can speak these scoundrels' language, and make friends of 
 them. They will, surely, never carry matters to extremity with 
 him, especially as they will be aware of his innocence.' They two 
 would somehow still get back again together to Shanghae, and 
 the whole adventure would serve for them to talk about over their 
 cigars.
 
 LAST WORDS. 185 
 
 But it was different now that Conway had come back with a 
 pale grave face, saying, ' You are free, Pennicuick ; get you gone, 
 while you may, at once.' 
 
 ' And you ? ' 
 
 ' I am to suffer death to-morrow evening. You will think of 
 me, Penn, when the hour arrives, and say a " God be with you." 
 Don't let us talk of it, however ; for I would wish to play the man 
 before these people.' 
 
 ' Great Heaven ! Do you mean to say they will do it ? ' 
 
 ' They will unquestionably do it. It is settled.' 
 
 ' But not to-morrow ! You have surely made arrangements for 
 -delay? I have money enough left to purchase that; I will not 
 lose one instant in getting help, and ' 
 
 ' It is useless, Pennicuick. You have not much money left. 
 Everybody, inclusive of our friend Fu-chow, has. been as greedy as 
 a pike. And even if it were otherwise, the money would be 
 thrown away. Help is out of the question. A few hours of life — 
 for that could be all it would purchase — are of no moment to me. 
 Since I am to die, the quicker death comes the better.' 
 
 * Oh, Connie ! This is too terrible ! ' 
 
 For a moment the hard heart of the man had melted within 
 him. 
 
 ' You have got my will, Pennicuick, which we will now have 
 -witnessed. It rests with you to see that its conditions are made 
 •effectual. I put my confidence in you, being persuaded that you 
 will not wrong a dying man.' 
 
 ' And a man who is also dying in my stead,' put in Pennicuick. 
 
 Conway had not expected him to exhibit such feeling — his 
 voice was not only tender and solemn, but even reverent.
 
 i86 BY PROXY, 
 
 'I need add nothing more, then, on that head,' continued 
 Conway, when the formality had been completed by help of the 
 gaoler. 'Tell her — tell Nelly — that my last thoughts were for 
 her. I have fancied of late, from something in her letters — 
 nothing distinct — but to me, who have studied them well, there 
 seems a strain of tenderness in relation to your son Raymond. Of 
 course, under other circumstances, this could never have borne 
 fruit. I do not blame you for that ; it is your nature, Pennicuick^ 
 to exaggerate the claims of wealth : I say, had Nelly been poor, I 
 know this would have been out of the question. But now, since 
 she is rich — at your expense, you will say, but surely also at 
 mine — there need be no such objection. I may be mistaken in 
 this matter altogether, but if the young people love one another,, 
 Penn, let them marry.' 
 
 For a moment Pennicuick did not answer ; he had not suspected 
 the fact of which his friend informed him, and under other cir-^ 
 cumstances it would have incensed as well as surprised him : 
 but it was no time for anger now. Moreover, what Conway had 
 said was reasonable enough. Pennicuick's chief objection, indeed 
 the only one, to such a match, would have been Nelly's poverty : 
 and she would be now no longer poor. 
 
 ' I will be no obstacle to Raymond's views as to your daugh- 
 ter,' replied he presently, Hhough I was unaware they tended 
 that way ; there will, as you say, be now no great inequality in the 
 way of money between them ; since, until my death — after this 
 considerable diminution in my fortune — he can expect but little 
 from me.' 
 
 A shadow flitted across Conway's face : the allusion to the 
 price he had sold his life for pained him, for it showed a grudging
 
 LAST WORDS, 187 
 
 spirit. Moreover, it seemed hard that this man should talk so 
 quietly about his future arrangements, while he himself had for 
 his future but a few hours, and those to be passed in prison, and 
 then to be ended miserably. 
 
 ' Let us cut this short, Pennicuick. There is nothing more of 
 importance to be said, and such talk is painful to both of us. The 
 boat is ready, and the men. There is a sedan at the door, so 
 that you can get on board without being seen. Twang-hi has given 
 orders for my — that is, for your — return to Shanghae immediately. 
 You will do as you please about returning hither ; it will be a 
 useless as well as a troublesome matter, and I absolve you from it.' 
 
 ' I shall return as soon as it is humanly possible,' said Penni- 
 cuick earnestly. 
 
 ' If you do so, and they have left my bones out yonder — as is 
 their custom, I believe — put them underground, somewhere. 
 Just take precautions that the details are not known at home. 
 You will say, " He was executed." ' 
 
 ' You forget ; here is the laudanum, Conway.' He passed over 
 to him the little bottle. 
 
 ' Thanks : I doubt, however, if I shall use it. It is suicide, 
 after all, and you know I have always had my scruples.' 
 
 ' If I thought you would be so weak as to let these wretches 
 torture you, I swear I would not leave you I' cried Pennicuick. 
 ' Even as it is, I feel like a murderer.' 
 
 ' Then I ought to feel like a robber,' said Conway, smiling, 
 ' since I take your 20,000^. Come, good-bye, Penn ; ' and he held 
 out his hand. 
 
 ' Grood-bye, Connie.' 
 
 There were real tears in Pennicuick's eyes. This man was
 
 i88 BV PROXY. 
 
 the only friend —even to be called sucb. — that he had ever had ; 
 and he had brought death upon him. 
 
 ' I shall come back,' he continued, ' and not without hope. 
 But if they have put you to death — then this I swear, one man at 
 least shall pay for it. As sure as the sun is in the sky, I will kill 
 Fu-chow.' 
 
 ' Then my death will be of no service, since yours must follow.' 
 
 ' Not at all. I shall take my opportunity. Nobody will ever 
 know about it but Fu-chow himself. I will strangle that devil 
 very slowly, and put him under water.' 
 
 ' To appease my manes ? ' inquired Conway, with a sad smile. 
 
 But Pennicuick did not smile : his face was terrible in its fury. 
 There was no use in reasoning with him, and besides (though at 
 present he was unaware of that), Fu-chow was not going to be his 
 companion any more. 
 
 The two friends grasped hands for the last time. 
 
 ' You will remember, Penn, all that I have charged you with ? ' 
 
 ' How is it possible that I should forget it ? ' 
 
 ' Say something kind for me to my wife ; and tell dear Nelly 
 how I loved her.' He threw himself on the couch, and, with a 
 sign that his friend should leave him, turned his face to the 
 wall.
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 189 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE SURYIVOR. 
 
 Pennicuick left the cell, closing the door softly behind him. In 
 the corridor he found the head gaoler waiting for him, 
 
 ' Put your cloak about your face,' he said, ' so as to hide 
 your black beard. The sedan is at the door and will take you 
 to the boat. The sooner you are on board and off, the 
 better.' 
 
 Pennicuick understood nothing of this speech, but the gestures 
 which accompanied it were intelligible enough. He lost no time 
 in obeying the hint. His heart was full of sorrow for his friend, 
 but that did not dull his wits ; he felt that it behoved him to 
 take care that Conway did not die in vain — that his own escape, 
 that is, should be made secure. 
 
 Muffling himself in his cloak, he stepped into the sedan, with 
 which the bearers immediately began to trot. In a few minutes 
 he was at the garden steps that led down to the canal. He felt a 
 cool breath that was inexpressibly grateful to him, for it was the 
 air of freedom. Then, still using the same precautions, he entered 
 his cabin, drew the curtains, and locked the door. At the same 
 moment the boat began to move on its homeward journey. Peer- 
 ing cautiously through the window, he saw the Mandarin's house
 
 I90 BY PROXY, 
 
 beginning to recede, then the pine-trees on the hill behind it, 
 then, afar off, the roof of the gaol. 
 
 The sense of humiliation was receding too, and giving place to 
 one of exultation. If an Englishman had been with him, or had 
 been even left behind him, cognisant of the means by which he 
 had escaped, and with power to speak of it, it would have dashed 
 his spirits : but no one could ever know what had really hap- 
 pened. He was safe and without a stain so far as the world — his 
 world — was concerned. He had still, notwithstanding the huge 
 sum he was pledged to pay as the price of his freedom, a con- 
 siderable fortune. Many years of life yet lay before him, and he 
 would enjoy them none the less by reason of his late bitter expe- 
 rience. 
 
 Then his eyes rested on the vacant couch which was Conway's, 
 and he felt a sting of reproach. Poor Connie ! How different 
 would his thoughts be in that infernal prison, with the shadow of 
 that dread To-morrow hanging over him. He would take the 
 laudanum of course when it came to the pinch — but even so, 
 Death was Death. How beautiful looked the green earth, and the 
 bright sky ; and Conway would never see them more ! 
 
 Along the roadway by the river a horseman was passing at 
 full speed. He knew by his dress that he was a government 
 messenger. This gave him a momentary apprehension ; for his 
 nerves were not as they had been before the Torture. He knew 
 now why brave men had succumbed to the Eack and Screw, be- 
 trayed their fellows, or even made false accusations against them. 
 Then appeared the Temple where he had committed the foolish 
 outrage that had cost his friend his life, and himself a fortune. 
 His lips framed a bitter curse, and he plunged his hand mechanic-
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 
 
 19T 
 
 ally into the pocket of his jacket. His revolver, however, was in 
 the custody of Twang-hi. He felt that it would cost him some- 
 thing to keep his hands quiet when Fu-chow should present him- 
 •self, who was doubtless among the soldiers who were chatting 
 together forward, behind the curtain. Dearly as he loved money, 
 and grievously as he had been despoiled of it, he would have given 
 a thousand pounds that moment (he said to himself) to meet 
 Fu-chow in some desert place alone. He preferred to think of 
 that to thinking of his friend's position ; and when driven to do 
 the latter, he avoided looking at it in its true light. He would 
 be still in time to return and save him. He sat down, and 
 mapped out in his mind exactly what was to be done on reaching 
 Shanghae, so that not a moment should be lost. He would go to 
 the Consul and the Commandant, and through their influence pro- 
 cure an order to stay Conway's execution, which should be sent off 
 by express. Then he would, if possible, procure a pardon for the 
 •culprit, and also a safe conduct for himself, and armed with these 
 would return at once, as he had promised. Though he had been 
 so lately compelled to acknowledge to himself that Conway's doom 
 was sealed, there had now arisen within him a ray of hope sufficient 
 at least to make him strain every nerve to save liim. 
 
 Supposing that the difficulties of the case were not absolutely 
 insuperable, Ealph Pennicuick was indeed just the man to over- 
 •come them. He was prompt and vigorous ; was well acquainted 
 -with the official and military mind, and with the scruples of each ; 
 and had no scruples of his own. Nor was he now disposed, to do 
 him justice, to spare his purse, or endeavour to release himself from 
 so huge an obligation. Under these circumstances Pennicuick 
 grudged every hour spent upon the journey; fretted and fumed in the
 
 192 BY PROXY. 
 
 solitary cabin to which prudence still confined him ; and consigned 
 the Chinese nation to eternal perdition a thousand times a day. A 
 thrill of vague disappointment seized him when he discovered that 
 Fu-chow was not on board ; yet he confessed to himself it was better 
 that it should be so, since he could hardly have kept his hands ofif 
 him, and to have touched him would, without doubt, have been to 
 kill him. 
 
 In five days, thanks to incessant urging of his laborious boat- 
 men, Pennicuick came in sight of the city. He presented himself 
 at once at the British Consulate, and stated what had happened, 
 substituting of course Conway's name for his own, and pleading 
 the lightness of his offence and the severity of the threatened 
 punishment. In half-an-hour, accompanied by the Consul, he pre- 
 sented himself at the door of the Grovernor of Shanghae, and was 
 admitted to that great official's presence. The Mandarin listened 
 to all he had to say with the most benignant face. ' The laws of 
 China,' he said, ' were flawless as its ministers were incorruptible, 
 but the highest attribute of the Emperor, the Lord of Heaven, was 
 mercy. If the case were laid before his supreme Majesty, it was 
 possible that something might be done.' 
 
 ' But meanwhile we are losing the most precious time.' 
 
 ' That is true,' said the Grovernor. ' But in virtue of my high 
 office I can grant a reprieve subject to his Majesty's confirmation. 
 You will take this yourself. I will despatch messengers on " horses 
 of a thousand li " to Pekin, and from thence the imperial reply 
 shall be sent straight to the Mandarin at Dhulang, at whose house 
 you will receive it.' 
 
 By this plan not an hour would be lost, and Pennicuick 
 hastened to express his acknowledgments. The Chinese are
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 193 
 
 slow at writing, but the form of reprieve was at hand, and the 
 governor had but to sign and seal it. 
 
 ' We shall save poor Conway yet/ cried Pennicuick as they left 
 the palace. 
 
 ' Let us hope so,' returned the Consul drily. 
 
 ' Well, at all events the governor has shown himself anxious to 
 do what he can : what did he mean by horses of a thousand li ? ' 
 
 * The horses used by the government carriers are so called ; some 
 of them will cover that distance — about 200 English miles — in a 
 single day. These carriers carry hens' feathers to indicate their 
 pressing business, and everyone is bound to hasten them on their 
 way by all means in his power.' 
 
 * I saw one myself upon the road,' mused Pennicuick , ' But 
 why not send one of these to precede me at Dhulang with the 
 reprieve ? ' 
 
 'No; don't let that document out of your sight. It is 
 better to be a little later, and in possession of it, than to trust it 
 to native hands. I know these people well ; the Governor was too 
 civil by half, and, what is a very bad sign, even dropped no hint 
 about expenses.' 
 
 'Do you mean to say that he will not perform his pro- 
 mise ? ' 
 
 ' No. He will do everything that costs him nothing and at 
 the same time gives him a good character with Europeans ; but, 
 judging from his manner, I warn you not to be too hopeful.' 
 
 In a few hours after his arrival in Shanghae Pennicuick was 
 once more departing from it, in company with two brother-officers 
 of Conway's — Major Eoss, an old campaigner, and Lieutenant 
 Milburn, a young fellow with whom Conway was a great favourite ; 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 he had once got himself into a boyish scrape which might have been 
 very serious but for the captain's interference. Conway was very 
 popular in his regiment, and the news of his dangerous position 
 had been received with the sincerest sorrow, indignation, and sur- 
 prise. Of course they were all for rescuing their comrade sword 
 in hand ; England was bound to declare war with China if a hair of 
 his head was injured ; and in the mean time let the regiment 
 march to Dhulang and claim its captain. But the Consul and even 
 the Commandant held a different opinion. The responsibility upon 
 the latter's shoulders was very great, and he had other things to 
 consider than the life of one man. It was more than doubtful 
 whether the execution even of a British officer, who had confess- 
 edly outraged the feelings of the natives and broken the law of 
 the land, would be held as a casus belli by his government. 
 Moreover, it was certain that any movement on Dhulang, sup- 
 posing it were possible to reach the place with the handful of men 
 at his disposal, would be far too late to effect its object. Even 
 greater than the indignation of Conway's brother-officers at hear- 
 ing of his position was, as I have said, their surprise ; and this last 
 feeling was a source of intense annoyance to Pennicuick ; he did 
 ' not like being told, as he was told a dozen times a day by his two 
 companions, that they could not understand how a fellow like 
 Conway could possibly have got into such ' a hole.' It was so un- 
 like him to have played the fool under any circumstances ; but 
 knowing the Chinese character, as he did, so well, it was absolutely 
 unaccountable to them how he could have committed such an 
 outrage. 
 
 ' I can only tell you v^hat occurred,' said Pennicuick doggedly. 
 ' I suppose it was some impulse of the moment.'
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 
 
 ^95 
 
 'Conway is the most prudent fellow out/ answered the Major, 
 
 * and wholly without devilry.' 
 
 ' I believe there has been some cursed mistake/ said Milburn ; 
 
 * and if so, I hope it will be taken up at home. Nobody but a 
 Chinese would have dreamt of harming poor old Connie ; and 
 nothing would please me better than having to go in at such 
 brutes.' 
 
 ' There I agree with you,' said Pennicuick ; and he swore a ter- 
 rible oath to that effect, which won him more favour with his com- 
 panions than all they had yet seen of him. It was clear that he 
 was very much in earnest to avenge Conway's fate, however it 
 should have been brought about, and he had without doubt plenty 
 of pluck. It was no wonder that under such circumstances, and 
 considering his late experiences, he was somewhat stern and sombre, 
 and unlike the man whom (Jonway had introduced to their society 
 a few weeks ago ; nor indeed, though they had good hopes of the 
 success of their mission, were they themselves in good spirits. 
 They travelled as quickly as it was possible, but the time passed 
 wearily enough till the boat once more touched Twang-hi's garden 
 steps. They had taken the precaution to bring with them an in- 
 terpreter, and accompanied by him the three Englishmen at once 
 stepped on shore. It was early morning, the same time or nearly so 
 when Pennicuick had landed last there, with his friend ; but on this 
 occasion no stately major-domo came forth to greet them. The 
 house showed no sign of welcome, and silence reigned throughout 
 the place. 
 
 ' I thought these people were astir at sunrise,' remarked the 
 Lieutenant. 
 
 ' They sleep, or seem to sleep, when it suits them,' answered 
 
 o 2
 
 196 BY PROXY. 
 
 Pennicuick gravely. A terrible presentiment had taken possession 
 of him. He felt somehow that the horrible deed he had dreaded 
 had been done, and that the Mandarin and his household, observing 
 their arrival, kept within doors to avoid them. The gate of the 
 court was locked, and there was no answer to their repeated 
 summons. 
 
 ' We are wasting time,' said he ; ' let us go to the prison at 
 once, and learn the worst.' 
 
 'But we can do nothing until the Mandarin has seen and 
 countersigned the reprieve,' said the Major. 
 
 ' Yes, we can learn whether the reprieve is of any service.' 
 
 His voice had a solemnity in it which chilled his companions. 
 As for Pennicuick himself, the place in which, he stood, the road 
 which he traversed (and which was the same along which he had 
 been hurried by the soldiers from Twang-hi's hall of justice), were 
 like the scenes in a dream which we dream over again — vague, 
 unstable, and yet familiar. Not a living creature was to be seen ; 
 but presently, in the middle of a waste plot of ground they saw a 
 solitary figure standing. 
 
 ' It is a statue,' said one. 
 
 ' It is an idol,' suggested another. 
 
 It was, however, a dead man tied to a post. 
 
 They approached it with awe and horror ; but they had still a 
 hope that this victim to justice or barbarity might prove to be a 
 native, for indeed such spectacles are not uncommon in China. 
 The corpse was frightfully disfigured ; it had, if not ten thousand 
 cuts, at least many hundreds, evidently from their size inflicted by 
 the sword of the executioner. The skin fell in flaps from the 
 forehead over the eyes, from the cheek over the chin ; the whole
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 197 
 
 body was, in fact, one gaping wound. Unrecognisable, however, 
 as were the features, it was plain that the victim had been a 
 European. 
 
 ' Great Heaven, can this be Conway ? ' groaned Milburn. They 
 were all three deeply moved. They had turned away their faces 
 in disgust ; but the interpreter, who had no such fine feelings, was 
 examining the body with minuteness. 
 
 ' It is an Englishman,' observed he quietly. ' He has suffered 
 the " Ling-chih." Did your friend wear rings ? ' 
 
 ' He had one on the second finger of his left hand,' said Penni- 
 cuick. 
 
 ' I thought so. The executioner has cut that finger off in order 
 to obtain the ring.' 
 
 Pennicuick turned his back on the man, and walked hastily 
 away, accompanied by his two companions. 
 
 ' I will have blood for blood for this,' cried he between his 
 teeth. ' What an end ! ' 
 
 ' Poor dear Connie I ' sighed the Lieutenant. 
 
 ' England will see to it,' observed the Major gravely. ' If ever 
 there was a just cause for war, this is surely one.' 
 
 Pennicuick felt his face flush like fire. He understood how 
 base he woidd feel if his friend's memory should be charged with 
 such a national disaster. He pictured a war between two great 
 nations arising fi-om his own practical joke. 
 
 At this moment a tall figure was seen slowly coming from the 
 direction of the Mandarin's house. He had a staff in his hand, 
 apparently black and white ; small slips of paper were, however, 
 pasted upon it. His attire was of hemp cloth with a tinge of 
 yeUow.
 
 198 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' This person,' said the interpreter, ' is a mourner.' 
 ' Ask him if he knows who this man was whom they have mur- 
 dered here,' said Pennicuick sternly. 
 
 ' I know,' answered the stranger, when the question had been 
 put. ' It is the Englishman who stole the blessed Shay-le. May 
 Buddha forgive him ! ' 
 
 * What is the most insulting thing that I can say to this man ? ' 
 inquired Pennicuick, when this reply had been translated to him. 
 
 * You are the dead man's friend,' continued the stranger. ^ I 
 recognise you, though my face has become strange to you through 
 grief. He was a good man, notwithstanding the crime, which he 
 has expiated. We burnt incense to him ; we gave him money ; 
 there has been a sufficiency of rice laid at his feet every morning.' 
 
 ' He means since the gentleman has been dead,' explained the 
 interpreter. 
 
 ' He had better stop, or I shall kill him,' exclaimed Pennicuick. 
 
 ' Nay, nay,' interposed the Major with an angry gesture. ' Let 
 us hear what the scoundrel has to tell us.' 
 
 ' You are like a calf without a ring in his nose,' observed 
 Kushan (for he it was), looking at Pennicuick benignly. 
 
 ' I shall not translate that,^ murmured the interpreter paren- 
 thetically. 
 
 ' A toad in a well cannot perceive the whole heavens. Your 
 ideas are contracted. To be angry with us is to be angry with 
 Heaven. We did (I repeat) what we could for this unhappy man. 
 My master, Twang-hi (who loved him), is overcome with sorrow, 
 and can see no one in consequence. But there was nothing for him 
 but to obey the commands of the lord of the province in seeing the 
 execution carried out.'
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 199 
 
 * The man is so far right,' observed the Major, when this 
 speech had been explained to them ; ' his master's duty was to 
 obey orders, as I trust it will be ours to hang the lord of the 
 province, and all the rest of them.' 
 
 ' ^NTien did it happen ? ' inquired Pennicuick, motioning towards 
 the ghastly spectacle, to which, however, he did not venture again 
 to turn his gaze. 
 
 Kushan shut his eyes, and assumed an attitude of consideration. 
 ^ This is the ninth day since the execution.' 
 
 ' That is certainly a lie,' exclaimed the Major. 
 
 ' It is the date at which the poor fellow was condemned to die,' 
 observed Pennicuick doubtfully. 
 
 ' Then he is trying to square facts which are incompatible. 
 I have seen men who have been killed in action, and nine days 
 afterwards ' 
 
 ' I imderstand,' interrupted Pennicuick, with a shudder. 
 
 * Look here, Kushan ; if you tell any more lies, I will kill you. 
 When did your filthy people murder this Englishman ? ' 
 
 ' An upright heart does not fear demons,' murmured Kushan, 
 rather to bolster his own courage than with any intention of defi- 
 ance, since he added immediately, ' Perhaps the poor man perished 
 later. Let us say eight days ago.' 
 
 ' At all events he was dead when the Grovemor of Shanghae 
 issued the reprieve,' observed Pennicuick ; ' and no doubt he knew 
 that it would be so. What liars and hypocrites all these wretches 
 are!' 
 
 ' Do you see yonder grove of pine-trees on the hill-side ? ' in- 
 quired Kushan, in a mellifluous voice. ' It was the desire of your 
 departed friend to be laid there, beneath their soothing murmur.'
 
 2 00 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' It is possible that he is now speaking the truth,' observed 
 Pennicuick. ' Conway did, I remember, express some wish to that 
 effect; 
 
 ' Then let us lay him there,' said the Major. ' It is the least 
 we can do to carry his last wish into effect, and it is all, alas ! that 
 can be done.' 
 
 Kushan, having been informed of this intention, expressed his 
 serene approval. 
 
 * One cannot carry an olive on the pate of a priest, but one can 
 do something. To pay the funeral rites to those who are dear to 
 us is one of the 1,300 meritorious deeds. In the mean time, in the 
 name of my master, I invite you to his house while the coffin is 
 being prepared and the grave dug.' 
 
 The three Englishmen, glad enough of any excuse for leaving 
 the scene of so terrible a tragedy, accepted this invitation. 
 
 ' Where is Fu-chow ? ' inquired Pennicuick of Kushan in his 
 gentlest tones. 
 
 'Fu-chow — Fu-chow?' echoed the major-domo, striking his 
 smooth forehead. 'Ah, I remember; he was the officer in 
 command of your guard of soldiers. Did he not return with you 
 to Shanghae ? ' 
 
 'No, he did not,' answered Pennicuick. 'If he could be 
 persuaded to do so — that is, to return with us now — I would 
 pay a handsome sum to the person who brought about such an 
 arrangement.' 
 
 ' Ah, you miss him : ' remarked Kushan blandly. ' It is unhap- 
 pily, however, useless to climb trees in search of fishes. If he did 
 not return with you, I don't know what became of him. China is 
 very large ; if a man slips away, he is gone for ever. Here is my
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 201 
 
 master's house. Please to walk towards the dining-chamber. You 
 will find chickens and goat's flesh, with a steak of the water-ox.' 
 
 It was a gloomy meal, and the guests had but small appetite 
 for the dainties that were set before them. Kushan, who presided 
 at the board, delivered himself of innumerable aphorisms, mostly 
 of a lugubrious kind, to which, however, nobody listened. The 
 two officers conversed together in a low tone concerning their dead 
 friend. Pennicuick sat silent, full of sorrow, and rage, and self- 
 reproach. 
 
 It was felt by everybody to be a relief when an attendant appeared 
 to summon them to the funeral. This would have taken place on 
 that very day, even if the Englishmen had not arrived, so that all 
 preparations had been made for it. 
 
 Only, as the pajmaent of expenses was now assured, the pro- 
 ceedings were of a more ambitious character. A life-size figure 
 made of bamboo and covered with red paper, like a military Gruy 
 Faux, was carried by the two leading members of the procession, 
 to indicate the calling of the deceased ; this was intended to 
 be consumed beside the grave. Xext came two men with large 
 white lanterns, on one of which was inscribed ' a hundred children,' 
 on the other ^a thousand grandchildren,' in compliment to the 
 dead man's supposed descendants. Next, was a band of music playing 
 solemn airs. Then came men scattering mock money — white and 
 yellow bits of tin with holes through them — to open the road, i.e, 
 to propitiate the spirits who might be guarding the way to Heaven. 
 And last the coffin, varnished, and adorned with red paper. 
 
 The absurdity of these arrangements increased rather than de- 
 tracted from the melancholy of the three mourners. It seemed 
 an additional calamity that to their unhappy friend could be given
 
 202 BY PROXY. 
 
 neither a military burial, nor the simple rites of home ; these 
 foolish gewgaws which were intended to do him honour appeared 
 to be an insult to his memory. But there was no time for any 
 alteration in the matter, even if it could have been satisfactorily 
 effected. 
 
 When the coffin was put into the grave young Milburn handed 
 something to his superior with a blush at his own kindly foresight. 
 It was an English prayer-book. The Major nodded approval, and 
 read from it the service for the dead. When the grave had been filled 
 in, Kushan stepped forward and inquired whether anything else could 
 be done. His plausible and unctuous manner resembled greatly 
 that of an undertaker at home, but his attire was different ; he had 
 exchanged his hempen garment for a silk one of brightest yellow. 
 
 ' Put up a headstone with that name upon it,' said Pennicuick, 
 handing him a slip of paper. ^ What is it in all in which I shall 
 then be indebted to you ? ' 
 
 Kushan named a sum which must have been certainly 
 sufficient for all expenses, and Pennicuick paid it without a word. 
 
 ' Shall I now conduct these honourable personages to their 
 boat ? ' inquired Kushan, through the interpreter. 
 
 ' Not yet,' said Pennicuick. ' I wish first to visit the prison.' 
 
 Kushan turned up the whites of his eyes. ' Houses are empti- 
 ness,' he said, ' when they have been exchanged for the lonely 
 mound outside the city wall.' 
 
 Nevertheless he led the way to the gaol. 
 
 They once more passed by the spot, where the post now stood 
 without its ghastly burden ; and on this occasion they took notice 
 how the ground and turf had been lately trodden down, as if by a 
 great multitude.
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 203 
 
 ' There were 50,000 persons to witness the " Ling-chih," ' ex- 
 plained Kushan, in answer to the Major's inquiry. 
 
 The governor of the gaol received them with great urbanity^ 
 Pennicuick's quick eye detected on this man's finger, not only 
 his own signet-ring, but that of his deceased friend ; but upon the 
 whole he judged it better to utter no remonstrance. 
 
 It was not expedient to make this personage his enemy who, 
 though he did not know his power over him, held a secret in his 
 hands the betrayal of which would have been his social ruin. In 
 even speaking with him, in fact, he ran a great risk, but his prudence 
 was overborne by a certain insatiable curiosity. He wished to 
 know whether his unhappy friend had taken advantage of the 
 means in his possession to obtain a painless death, or whether he 
 had really undergone the agonies of the torture. 
 
 That the execution had taken place proved nothing; since that 
 would have happened — in order to deceive the public — had the 
 victim been dead or alive. It was necessary to proceed with cau- 
 tion in his inquiries. 
 
 ' Did my friend leave any message behind him ? ' asked Penni- 
 cuick. 
 
 ' He left nothing but his clothes,' was the reply ; ' they have 
 passed into the legal possession of Sheer Sing, the turnkey, who 
 is now wearing them : he might nevertheless, however, be per- 
 suaded to give them up.' 
 
 Pennicuick shook his head, with a gesture of disgust. He 
 felt his fary rising against this man, who had been the cause of a 
 frightful humiliation being inflicted upon him. ' I perceive he 
 also left his ring,' said he sternly. 
 
 ' Yes. He gave it to me as they led him forth to death,' re-
 
 204 ^y PROXY. 
 
 plied the gaoler with imperturbable face, ' as a testimony to my 
 kindness towards him. I would never part with such a memento 
 — unless for a very considerable consideration.' 
 
 ' How much ? ' inquired Pennicuick. 
 
 The gaoler named a sum greatly in excess of the value of the 
 trinket; Pennicuick at once produced the money, and received 
 the article in exchange. 
 
 ' Perhaps you would like to buy back your own ring also?' said 
 the gaoler persuasively ; ' it is of greater cost, and has also memo- 
 ries of a tender nature connected with it. The regard I entertain 
 for yourself is very genuine.' 
 
 ' You may keep it, and — and welcome,' said Pennicuick, swal- 
 lowing his wrath with a great effort. 
 
 ' As you please,' answered the other gravely. ' By the by, 
 there was a little bottle found in your friend's chamber, full of 
 some dark liquid, and untouched. It is perhaps a cordial.' 
 
 'You and Sheer Sing can drink that between you,' said 
 Pennicuick quietly. ' Now answer me this question truly ; did 
 my poor friend suffer much ? or were those precautions taken 
 about which he spoke to you ? ' 
 
 ' Those precautions were taken,' answered the gaoler ; ' it is 
 very well you spoke of them, for I paid the executioner two taels 
 out of my own pocket for that purpose, which had escaped my 
 memory. It was well earned, too ; your man was dead in a second, 
 I do assure you.' 
 
 Pennicuick gave him the money as before, then turned upon 
 his heel without a word. 
 
 ' Let us go,' said he to his companions. ' This fellow makes 
 me sick.'
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 205 
 
 ' You have been paying through the nose, as it seems to me, 
 for everything,' observed the Major, as they retraced their steps. 
 
 ' No doubt. They are all cheats as well as murderers. But 
 what do a few pounds matter more or less ? I would have given 
 five hundred to learn what that scoundrel just told me, that Con- 
 way did not suffer pain.' 
 
 ' This man is a good fellow, after all,' observed the Major to 
 Milbum presently, in a low tone. 
 
 ' I am not sure,' answered the young man doubtfully. ' He 
 has a cold-blooded way with him, and gives me the idea of wishing 
 to get the whole affair out of his mind.' 
 
 ' Grad, I can't blame him for that,' said the Major, with a shudder. 
 
 Kushan took leave of his three visitors at the boat-side with a 
 stately salaam to each. 
 
 To Milburn he said, ' Youth is vanity.' 
 
 To the Major he said, ' Reform yourself, that you may reform 
 others.' 
 
 To Pennicuick he said, ' May you and your whole family be 
 jammed into one coffin !' 
 
 As all these remarks were accompanied by the same sweet 
 smile, and the interpreter was already on board, they did not pro- 
 duce any particular effect. 
 
 All were sombre and silent throughout the voyage ; but Pen- 
 nicuick hardly uttered a word. The two officers were thinking 
 of their dead friend's fate, and of what steps it was probable 
 would be taken to avenge it ; Pennicuick, too, thought of these 
 things, but also of others. It was difficult to move him from what 
 appeared to be a species of lethargy ; but he was roused from it 
 on one occasion.
 
 2o6 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' I suppose,' said the Major, as the three sat smoking together 
 •on the morning of the day they reached Shanghae, ' that our poor 
 friend has not left much behind him in the way of money.' 
 
 ' Sir ? ' said Pennicuick ; ' I beg your pardon. You were 
 saying ' 
 
 ' I was referring to what Conway may have had to leave behind 
 him. I am afraid it will not be much.' 
 
 * Just so ; I dare say,' answered Pennicuick abstractedly. 
 
 The Major stared at him. 
 
 ' We thought you would know all about it,' explained Milburn 
 simply. ' Conway has spoken to me about his family more than 
 once. He has only one daughter ; let us hope he has been at least 
 enabled to provide for her.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed ; let us hope that,' said Pennicuick. ' One can- 
 not know anything for certain, however, just at present.' 
 
 And he again relapsed into silence. 
 
 ' Now, if I were a rich man like that fellow,' observed the 
 Lieutenant presently to the Major, ' I would take care that my 
 friend's only daughter should not be unprovided for in any way.' 
 
 'My dear boy,' answered the Major, ' you think that because 
 you are not a rich man. If you had as much money to spend as 
 Pennicuick, you would perhaps be as close-fisted.' 
 
 ' He paid everything very handsomely up yonder, however,' re- 
 marked Milburn. 
 
 ' But how do you know he won't deduct it out of Conway's 
 little property ? It is my opinion — taking everything I have 
 seen of him one with another — that he is a deuced hard lot.' 
 
 ' I'm glad he isn't in the regiment,' answered the Lieutenant, 
 with a glance of great disfavour at the subject of these remarks.
 
 THE SURVIVOR. 207 
 
 Whether Pennicuick was a hard lot or not, he certainly did 
 not deserve the imputation of intending to charge his friend's 
 estate with the money he had just expended on his account. He 
 was quite ready to pay that, and would have been so had it been 
 thrice as much. But what he vjas thinking of, with his hand resting 
 on his breast pocket in which lay his dead friend's will, was whether 
 20,000Z. was not too large a sum to pay away without a scrap of 
 paper being in existence to compel him to do so — and when even 
 the verbal promise he had given to that effect had been passed to 
 a dead man. He had been thinking over the matter for four days, 
 and it was now become necessary to make up his mind about it 
 one way or the other. The question that had just been put to 
 him — ' What has Conway left behind him ? ' — would be put again 
 by others, and would have to be answered definitely. In that case, 
 which reply should he give, ' He has left 20,000?.,' or, ' He has left 
 next to nothing ' ?
 
 2o8 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS. 
 
 Lincoln's Inn, alfhoagh it doubtless has its merits, is, viewed as 
 a dwelling-place, not an enticing spot. Its chambers have, to my 
 eye at least, an aspect especially unliveable. That they are good 
 to read in, good to write in, good to make money in, I do not dis- 
 pute ; but I would rather not sleep in them, nor eat in them. When 
 the day's work is over, it is well to leave them, and breathe a little 
 fresh air. They are a part of the necessary toil and moil of life, 
 but by no means of its cheerful serenity. They are dull without 
 being quiet (for the tliunder of Chancery Lane ever booms above 
 them), and their look-out is for the most part melancholy and 
 devoid of interest. There are trees, indeed, of goodly height — a 
 whole avenue of them, leading from wall to wall, in a most disap- 
 pointing manner : and there is one large grass-plot, which has, how- 
 ever, the air of a drying-green that attempts to be ornamental. On 
 this abuts Stone Buildings, which may therefore lay claim to com- 
 mand foliage and verdure. But it is not a cheerful block of 
 residences, nor would one's sense of the fitness of things be out- 
 raged if one were told it was a workhouse or a barrack. Neverthe- 
 less, if I must needs live in Lincoln's Inn , I would live in Stone 
 Buildings, where a first floor is as highly rented, I suppose, as any
 
 UNCONSCIOUS. 209 
 
 twenty-roomed house in the suburbs with a garden and a double 
 coach-house. In this ' dusky purlieu of the law,' though by no 
 means on the first floor, lived or ' kept ' (for he was young enough 
 to retain his university phrases) Kaymond Pennicuick. He had a 
 large sitting-room looking down on the green, a bed-room, a 
 clerk's room, and a very small nondescript apartment, so wretched 
 and rayless that it seemed appropriate for suicidal purposes and 
 nothing else. The furniture of this suite, which had been passed 
 on, from inmate to inmate, so long, that it might have served the 
 student days of the Lord Chancellor, was mouldy and moth-eaten, 
 and looked all the worse from its contrast with the articles of modern 
 luxury Eaymond had brought with him from his college rooms. 
 The easy chair, the fire-screen (a triumph of Nelly's skill in 
 needlework) and the volumes of Thackeray and Dickens were like 
 new cloth patched on an old garment, and he himself in his youth 
 and comeliness looked the brightest patch of all. It was small 
 matter to him that the carpet was worn and that the rugs bore the 
 marks of coals both hot and cold ; or that when his gaze through 
 the open window left the elms and the grass, it had nothing but 
 chimney-pots to rest upon. When one is young, nmless one is a 
 very exceptional sort of fool, the mind is not affected by furniture ; 
 and the look-out from one's windows is of small importance, when, 
 beyond it, the world is lying before us. 
 
 Eaymond Pennicuick, therefore, had no grudge against his father 
 for having placed him in this dreary spot ; he had, indeed, only 
 murmured against the parental fiat on one occasion, when it had 
 removed him from college before his time. He had, it is true, 
 been by no means studious, and would certainly not have distin- 
 guished himself in the honour list ; but he would have taken his 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 2IO BY PROXY. 
 
 ordinary degree, like other young men in his own ' set,' and he 
 had not been told that more was expected of him. Yet his father 
 had removed him suddenly from his college joys, protesting that 
 he had wasted time enough, and must now buckle to the business 
 of life. The real reason of this was unknown to the young fellow, 
 though it had lain quite on the surface ; a run of ill luck on the 
 turf had for the time made money scarce with his father, and by 
 way o^f retrenchment he had withdrawn his son from the university, 
 the educational advantages of which, let us charitably add, he did 
 not perhaps very highly estimate. It was very unusual with him 
 to lose, for he was a book-maker, and always stood to win ; but on 
 this occasion a certain nobleman who had long been an ornament 
 of the sporting world, and who was Pennicuick's principal debtor, 
 had levanted. The most prudent mind cannot guard against a 
 catastrophe of this kind, which for some months compelled Ealph 
 Pennicuick to lodge under the same roof with his son. He need 
 not have done so, of course, since he could have procured any 
 amount of money ; but it was one of his caprices — he called it ' a 
 principle '— never to borrow a shilling, or spend one above his in- 
 come. For a time Raymond rather resented this abrupt separation 
 from his university friends, but in London there are compensations 
 to be found for most things by a genial young fellow of position. 
 He was even more content when his father placed him in the 
 chambers at Stone Buildings, and himself retired to the agreeable 
 privacy of the Albany. There had not been the least disagreement 
 between them ; Raymond's sense of duty was too strong for that ; 
 but he had felt himself de trop, like a boy who is forced to remain 
 with his seniors after dinner, when the ladies have gone into the 
 drawing-room.
 
 UNCONSCIOUS. 
 
 ' Youth and age,' the poet tells us, ' cannot live together ; ' but 
 the reasons he gives were by no means those which disinclined 
 Ealph Pennicuick to live in lodgings with his son. If there was 
 no absolute ' incompatibility of disposition,' such as nowadays so 
 often sunders husbands and wives, they had few ideas in common. 
 
 Ealph Pennicuick hated argument — that is, any expression of 
 opinion contrary to his own ; and therefore, since Kaymond was 
 quite incapable of hypocrisy, he had often to remain silent. 
 Similarly, in writing to his father, he was aware that no distasteful 
 topic must be broached ; a knowledge that tends to make corre- 
 spondence brief, though not always easy. 
 
 Unhappily, it had become necessary to Raymond to break 
 through his usual rule. He had ventured to address his father 
 upon a subject which would certainly not find favour in his eyes, 
 and the letter had been posted, and was now on its way. Upon 
 the contents of it, and on the manner in which they were likely 
 to be received, Raymond was now thinking, as he sat alone in his 
 chambers smoking his after-breakfast cigar. He did not, like 
 other young men of his day, smoke pipes in preference ; in which 
 respect, as in a few others, he showed himself his father's son. 
 Hq liad a natural taste for what was most expensive, though with- 
 out the vulgarity of liking things because they were dear. 
 
 ' What will he say — what will he do — when he gets my letter ? ' 
 were the thoughts in his mind, as he sat at the open window 
 watching the clouds above the elm-trees and listening to the chirps 
 of the sparrows. ' If Nelly will have me, I will marry her, what- 
 ever he does or says, that's certain.' Here again he was his father's 
 son. ' But without his consent it will be difficult to obtain hers. 
 She is so unselfish that she will never see the matter in its true 
 
 p 2
 
 BY PROXY. 
 
 light ; lier very love for me — sweet heart ! — will prevent it.' He 
 rose and paced the room, with a glow upon his handsome face ; he 
 was recalling his last interview with her in the garden at Eichmond. 
 Presently his eye wandered to the dusty rows of law books that 
 lined one side of the apartment. ' If I had but expectations,' 
 muttered he, ' if there was an entail which I could cut off, and 
 so render him a service, I might win him over. But I have no- 
 thing — no plea to urge with him, except that my happiness is wrapt 
 up in her : and there he will not believe me.' He did not say, 
 'and he will care nothing for that,' which some sons would have 
 said, and which would in his case have been no more than the truth. 
 Even in his bitterness, his sense of filial duty restrained his tongue. 
 In this, Kaymond Pennicuick's disposition was peculiar. There 
 are many men who have a keen sense of filial and fraternal respect, 
 and who have even a strong regard for their more distant relatives 
 (quite independent of their merits), and who, with all this, have 
 scarcely any affection in them. It is doubtful, indeed, whether 
 this devotion to their own family does not arise from egotism. 
 Fathers and brothers are dear to such men because they are of 
 their own blood, and as it were a part of themselves. The dear- 
 ness is literally of the heart — or rather, of the arteries. It is an 
 anatomical attachment. Their love, if they boast of such a posses- 
 sion at all, is self-love. It is scarcely going too far to say that — 
 with the exception of his love for his mother — a man's power of 
 loving is in inverse ratio to his devotion to his elder and contem- 
 poraneous relatives. The more ' clannish ' people are, the less they 
 have generally, of geniality, friendship, and general benevolence. 
 But with Eaymond this was not so. He had the ' piety ' of the 
 ancients as well as the kindliness of the moderns. If he did not
 
 UNCONSCIOUS. 213 
 
 absolutely love his father, he did his best to do so, and persuaded 
 himself that he had succeeded ; and, if he found it impossible to 
 respect him, he at least respected his authority. And notwith- 
 standing this, a more generous and affectionate young fellow than 
 Raymond did not exist. His heart and his conscience were alike 
 tender. He had not, indeed, much cleverness ; he had probably 
 never uttered ' a good thing ' intentionally in all his life. But lie 
 had said very many pleasant things, which go much farther to- 
 wards making a man popular. His popularity had had one effect, 
 which, had he known of it, would have given him genuine pain ; 
 it set people contrasting him with his father, much to the latters 
 disadvantage. Everybody said how ill Ralph the elder behaved 
 to Raymond the younger ; how short of money he kept him ; what 
 little natural affection he showed for him ; and generally, how 
 much better a son he had in Raymond than he deserved. The 
 young man knew that his father was disliked and feared much 
 more than he was admired ; but he did his best to counteract this 
 feeling ; no one had ever heard him complain of the manner in 
 which he had been treated ; and when any opportunity for praise 
 of his father was offered to him, he never failed to take advantage 
 of it. It was not his fault that it so often sounded like apology. 
 For his own part, he had avoided all causes of offence with him, 
 and bowed to his every wish, even to his caprices. But now a 
 cause of offence had come which could not be avoided. He did 
 not repent that he had sent that letter asking permission to offer 
 his hand where his affections had been already bestowed, but he 
 was full of misgivings about its reception. He was not afraid of 
 the effects of his father's anger, as most sons in his position would 
 have been afraid ; he did not di'ead disinheritance, the cutting off
 
 214 BY PROXY. 
 
 of the supplies, &c., but he feared the anger itself, not as a coward 
 would have done, but as one who fears a quarrel because of his 
 regard for his antagonist. 
 
 ' I ani very young,' he had written, ' to urge anything counter 
 to your wishes, as I apprehend this request may be : but my heart 
 is set upon the matter, and will not be moved. Neither Nelly 
 nor I are extravagant in our tastes ; a small income will suffice 
 for us : not more to begin with, perhaps, than the sum you are 
 at present so good as to allow me. With such an incentive to 
 exertion I shall set to work at my profession in earnest, and trust 
 not to be a burden to you.' 
 
 If he had known that in a few months the 300Z. a year to 
 which he had alluded would become his own, he would, of course^ 
 have worded his communication differently ; but the tone would 
 have been the same. No sense of independence would have made 
 him undutiful. Upon the whole the letter was very simple, 
 honest, and dignified ; though it unconsciously betrayed the fact 
 that he was aware of his father's selfishness. He knew that he 
 should be reproached with his youth, inexperience, ignorance of his 
 own mind, &c. ; but that the real objection to his plan would 
 lie in its being expensive. His father had always insisted 
 upon the importance of a young fellow's becoming independent ; 
 and had, moreover, pointed out that the best and shortest 
 way of accomplishing this desirable object was to marry an 
 heiress. If Ralph Pennicuick's morality was not of any high 
 type, he could not at least be accused of hypocrisy. 
 
 It was nearly a week since Eaymond had called upon Mrs. Con- 
 way and her daughter, which was a longer time than he had ever 
 suffered to elapse between his former visits ; he had felt a little
 
 UNCONSCIOUS. 215 
 
 sensitive about Nelly's reception of him on that occasion, and 
 still more embarrassment as to the position in which he now 
 stood as her avowed yet unaccepted lover ; but he meant to go 
 down to Richmond that very day. The longer he was away, 
 the more awkward, he felt, would be their next meeting; and 
 besides, it was his greatest happiness in life to be with her. It 
 was arranged that, pending his father's decision, they were to be as 
 brother and sister ; and though that was not the relationship he 
 most desired, it was a very agreeable one. He was not of those 
 unhappy persons who can enjoy nothing unless they get all they 
 want ; and he would have been very willing indeed to make 
 the most of his opportunities before any decided veto could 
 arrive from his father, but for Xelly's sake. He felt that it would 
 be wrong to irrevocably engage her affections unless marriage 
 were to follow ; and he was sure that she would be resolute against 
 it, if his father's consent were not obtained. 
 
 Still, as he left his chambers in his summer garb, and with a 
 flower in his button-hole, there was a radiance in his face that 
 only a certain tender expectancy can bestow, and which is very 
 different from the smirk of satisfaction that sits upon us in later 
 life, when we are about to make a coui^ in the City ; it contrasted 
 strongly with the expression usually worn by the inmates of 
 Stone Buildings, and especially with that upon the face of his 
 fellow-lodger, Beaumont, whom he happened to meet upon the 
 stairs. They were merely acquaintances, though they lived under 
 the same roof, and were almost contemporaries. Beaumont read 
 much harder; he reported legal cases for the papers; and he 
 took to his profession kindly, which could not quite be said of 
 Pennicuick.
 
 2i6 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' Hullo, Beaumont ! you look as if the Long Vacation were done 
 away with. There has nothing gone wrong with you, I hope.' 
 
 ' No, nothing. You are playing the truant early ; you have 
 not even read the newspaper yet, I'll warrant.' 
 
 ' I have read all that is interesting in it ; that is, your admir- 
 able reports. The weather is too fine for work, and I am off — 
 somewhere up the river.' 
 
 It was a proof of the seriousness of his intentions with re- 
 spect to Nelly that he did not say to Kichmond. Even the young 
 do not wear their hearts upon their sleeves when there is a con- 
 junction of hearts. He ran down-stairs with a merry laugh ; but 
 Beaumont, as he leant over the banisters watching him, grew 
 graver than before. 
 
 * He has not seen it,' he muttered, ' and I have not the pluck 
 to tell him.' 
 
 As Eaymond stepped across the court to Chancery Lane, where 
 there are always cabs to be found, he came upon two men, who 
 stopped their talk at his approach. One he knew just enough to 
 nod to him. When he had passed by, this one said to his com- 
 panion, 'That is the son of the very man in question.' 
 
 ' Why, he looks more as if he were going courting than as 
 if ' 
 
 * Hush ! It is evident he knows nothing about it, poor devil ! ' 
 ' Waterloo Station ! — Kichmond line ! ' cried Raymond to his 
 
 cabman.
 
 BREAKING IT. 217 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 BREAK I^'G IT. 
 
 If it is true that one's ears bui'n while others are talking of us 
 in our absence, Eaymond Pennicuick's ears ought to have been 
 very red upon his road to Eichmond that morning. And, curiously 
 enough, those who were talking of him were tlie very folks he was 
 about to visit. 
 
 When Mrs. Conway and her daughter came down to breakfast, 
 the latter, as usual, had made the tea, while the former had taken 
 up the paper. She was fond of news of all kinds, and it was one 
 of her very few pieces of personal extravagance to have the ' Times ' 
 ' to read ' for the first two hours every day. Under such circum- 
 stances, it was only reasonable that during that interval she should 
 read it all, and get her money's worth out of it. She was one of 
 those terrible people who XDill read their newspapers aloud, and 
 poor Nelly had to listen to her. First came the Births, Deaths, 
 and Marriages, to which the young lady did not object — the female 
 niind (perhaps from the earliest ages) takes an interest in the 
 'Hatch, Match, and Despatch' of its fellow-creatures — and then the 
 general news of all descriptions, beginning with the Eoyal Family's 
 walking on the slopes. But there was sometimes a pause between 
 the extracts from the supplement and those from the main body
 
 2i8 BY PROXY. 
 
 of the paper. This, as Nelly was well aware, was when there was 
 news from China, which her mother always ignored, as not havings 
 any interest for her, but somewhat inconsistently always read to 
 herself before everything else. 
 
 On this occasion, however, Mrs. Conway did not make this 
 
 exception. ' Grood Heavens ! ' she cried aloud in a voice that made 
 
 her daughter utter also a little cry ; ' Ealph Pennicuick is dead ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, how shocking ! ' exclaimed Nelly ; ' let us hope 
 
 it is not true.' 
 
 ^ Yes, it is true ; see here.' Her fat hands trembled with such 
 excitement that Nelly had to take the paper from her to read the 
 statement. 
 
 'By telegraph. Hong Kong, May 4. — English officer named 
 Pennicook has been put to death by the Chinese in the province 
 of Keangsoo. His companion has arrived at Shanghae.' 
 ' It says " Pennicook," ' said Nelly faintly. 
 ' That is a mistake, of course, in the telegram, as also the word 
 officer. It is Ealph Pennicuick, no doubt. Thank God, your 
 father's safe.' 
 
 This was the first time that Mrs. Conway had ever suffered herself 
 to be surprised into any expression of solicitude upon her husband's 
 account, and she evidently regretted it as soon as it was uttered. 
 
 ' It was very thoughtless and selfish of him to go with such a 
 companion on such a journey. You see it says " put to death " — 
 that is, by law. No doubt the man did something that roused the 
 anger of the natives.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, what does it signify ? is it not enough that they 
 have killed him ? We cannot be sure, however, that such a cata- 
 strophe has happened. There is no telegraph between Shanghae
 
 BREAKING IT. 219 
 
 and Hong Kong, and this may be a mere rumour. As you say, 
 however, thank Grod dear papa is safe/ 
 
 * Xo doubt he is safe enough/ replied Mrs. Conway, adding 
 something in an undertone, which Nelly did not or would not 
 catch, about ' nought never coming to harm.' 
 
 ' How terribly this will shock poor Ray ! ' sighed Nelly, with a 
 little outburst of tears ; she was glad to weep on Raymond's 
 account, since she could not do so upon his father's. ' He was 
 always such a good son.' 
 
 ' I have known good sons who were not worth much in other 
 respects,' observed Mrs. Conway, still repentant of her tenderness. 
 ' However, we shall soon see what he is made of. He will be his 
 own master now.' 
 
 ' And very sorry he will be that it is so,' observed Nelly. 
 
 ' No doubt he will — for a day or two. That will be only decent. 
 I am not so interested, however, in his filial feelings as I am as to 
 whether he will keep his promise or not.' 
 
 ' ^^^lat promise, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Well, it may not be exactly a promise : but it was only a 
 week ago, I believe, that he asked you to be his wife.' 
 
 ' And I refused him, mamma. Raymond is quite free to do as 
 he pleases. But how can you think of such things with such news 
 as this before you ? Poor Mr. Pennicuick murdered, perhaps tor- 
 tured, by those dreadful people I I feel as if it were a judgment 
 upon us for what was said the other day about people " not troubling 
 themselves to come home." ' 
 
 ' As / said it, my dear,' answered Mrs. Conway drily, ' the 
 judgment, as you call it, has, I suppose, fallen upon me. And^ 
 thank goodness, I have strength to bear it.'
 
 220 BY PROXY, 
 
 There was something in Mrs. Conway's manner not only callous 
 and cruel, but, as it seemed to Nelly, almost triumphant in its 
 malice. She could not restrain a shudder as she listened to her. 
 
 ' I am sorry to shock you so, my dear,' continued Mrs. Conway 
 quietly. ' I dare say I appear very unfeeling. However, since I 
 am your mother, try to persuade yourself that I may have some 
 good reasons for not making myself unhappy because this man is 
 dead. Of course I am sorry that it has happened in this way ; but 
 I do not pretend to be sorry that it has happened. It is better 
 for everybody, especially for his son, who has hitherto been his 
 slave ; he will now obtain his freedom.' 
 
 ' At a great price,' sighed Nelly. It seemed to her a terrible 
 thing that a son should be made happy by his father's death ; and 
 yet she was aware that this would in some measure come to pass 
 in the present instance. 
 
 Her mother rose, and, patting her softly on the head, said ten- 
 derly, ' You are a good girl, my darling, too good for this world, 
 or at all events for any man in it. Dry your eyes and eat your 
 breakfast.' Then she left the room, leaving her own meal untasted. 
 Once in the passage, and beyond the observation of her 
 daughter, Mrs. Conway's face grew not only grave but pained. 
 This was not from distress of mind, however, but of body. She 
 leant against the wall with her hand upon her side, and uttered a 
 low groan. ' This must not kill me,' murmured she to herself. 
 ' I must get over it somehow, or he will have the better of me yet. 
 Tortures ! he could not have suffered worse than I have done 
 during the last five minutes. It is the heart, no doubt. It 
 would be curious indeed if I should die " heart-broken " upon his 
 account.'
 
 BREAKING IT. 221 
 
 She looked up at the stairs, which were steep for so old- 
 fashioned a house, and shook her head. Then she moved very 
 slowly and without noise into a room on the same floor at the back 
 of the breakfast-room, and separated from it by folding-doors. 
 
 Her face expressed the anxiety of a person who has a wound in 
 some \atal part, which has been stanched insecurely, and who is 
 afraid of its bleeding afresh. Like most women — which, poor souls, 
 is fortunate for them — she had a capacity for bearing pain. She 
 could be as secretive about it as the Spartan boy with his fox ; but 
 it sometimes betrayed itself by ' temper.' 
 
 'The doctor said " perfect rest," ' she murmured; 'I will lie 
 down here.' She placed herself cautiously upon the sofa, and 
 remained there without movement. Presently her face became 
 calm, and her lips began to move without sound slowly. You 
 would have said she was some good woman at her prayers. She 
 was not praying, but going through a certain scene in her mind 
 that had occurred in her pre^us life, and which had indeed a 
 sort of prayer for its conclusion. Could you have understood such 
 silent speech (as the deaf and dumb do), her last words would have 
 run thus : ' Dead, dead in his sins. May Grod forgive him as I do I ' 
 
 Xelly, quite unconscious of her mother's propinquity, remained 
 meanwhile in the front room. She had obeyed tlie mandate as to 
 drying her eyes, but not that as to eating her breakfast. She felt 
 as if a morsel of bread would have choked her. Her sorrow for 
 what had happened was very genuine, though it was not for the 
 chief sufferer's sake at all. She was horrified that a man like 
 Pennicuick, vicious and heartless as she understood him to be, 
 should have been thus suddenly cut off from life. She was not 
 naturally conventional, and that she took in this instance a con-
 
 4222 BY PROXY. 
 
 ventional view was proof how little her feelings were really cou- 
 -cerned. Under ordinary circumstances no one was quicker than 
 herself to perceive the absurdity of such phrases as ' hurried before 
 the judgment-seat of Heaven,' ' cut off in his sins,' &c., &c., as 
 though his Maker were unable to take the circumstances of a man's 
 death into account. But now she took refuge in these common- 
 places. It was less painful to her to let her thoughts dwell upon 
 the dead man than upon his son, because of the latter's relations 
 ivith herself; but they did revert to him, nevertheless, and to 
 herself in connection with him. She strove in vain to shut out 
 from her view that he was now in a position to offer his hand to 
 her with a certainty of its being accepted. She had no doubts of 
 his good faith whatever ; she knew that he had in fact plighted 
 it to her, notwithstanding what she had said to her mother about 
 his being a free man ; but she felt that with this news of death no 
 such anticipation of bliss should mingle. Through the gloom of 
 these tidings, however, there glinted in upon her bright streaks of 
 light ; thoughts of herself as Raymond's wife, of her mother's 
 satisfaction and comfort, and of her father's return to England, 
 which might now — since he would be relieved of all expenses upon 
 her account — be looked upon as certain. Even when those die who 
 are near to us, thoughts of personal advantage will thus intrude ; 
 how much more, then, when we derive benefit from the removal 
 from the world of those to whom we are indifferent. 
 
 It was Nelly's practice after breakfast to repair to her easel, 
 which stood in a little room opening from her own bed-chamber 
 and dignified by her mother by the title of * the studio ; ' but this 
 morning she remained below stairs, with a book in her hand — 
 ivhich she did not read — and with the fatal newspaper on her
 
 BREAKING IT. 223 
 
 knees. She had known ]\Ir. Pennicuick as a child knows her 
 father's friend who is not her own friend. She had had a vague 
 dislike and distrust of him, either instinctive, or engendered by 
 her mother's views of the man, but she had never hated him — his 
 relationship to Raymond, if not his intimacy with her father, had 
 forbidden that — nor did she fear him, for it was not in her nature 
 to fear. Others there were, however, as she was well aware, who 
 feared him ; and, mingled with her horror at what had happened, 
 she experienced a sort of wonder (which would have flattered him) 
 that so masterful a man should so ignobly perish — should have 
 been put to death by such despicable creatures as she understood 
 the Chinese to be. 
 
 She was still plunged in these conflicting and uncanny 
 thoughts, when a footstep that she well knew was heard on the 
 flags outside ; the little gate swung back upon its hinges, pushed 
 by an impatient hand, and then the visitor sprang up the steps of 
 the front door. There was no need for her to look out of window. 
 It was Eaymond Pennicuick — come to tell her of the misfortune 
 that had befallen him. That would have been bad enough. But 
 when she heard his eager voice, inquiring whether they were at 
 home, she knew that a worse thing awaited her. He did not as 
 yet know what had happened, and she would have to tell him. 
 Her mother from the next apartment heard him likewise, and drew 
 the same conclusion. It was hard on her daughter that she should 
 be left to break such news, but she felt herself to be physically 
 unequal to such a task, or even to move from her present position. 
 There was nothing for her but to lie where she was — and listen ; 
 for every word spoken aloud in the next room was audible. 
 
 ' Why, Nelly dear, this is a happy chance ! I thought by
 
 224 ^y PROXY. 
 
 this hour you would have been engaged on some immortal work 
 upstairs, and that the greatest interest would be necessary to gain 
 speech with you. But, what is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, Ray — at least, there is ' she cast her eyes down at 
 
 the newspaper, in hopes that he would guess that it was there her 
 sorrow lay ; but he quite misunderstood the cause of her gravity, 
 
 ' I am afraid you are still annoyed with me, Nelly ; you are 
 apprehensive I shall resume the subject upon which I spoke to 
 you last week. You need not fear it. I have written to my 
 father to express my fixed intentions regarding you. I have said 
 my happiness is only to be found in your love. But in the mean 
 time, we are to be as brother and sister. Is it not so ? ' He spoke 
 with such volubility that slie had not the power to interrupt him. 
 The very pitifulness in her sweet face doubtless led him on. 
 
 ' You must not reckon upon your father, dear Raymond, she 
 faltered out, ' for anything ; for alas ! you have no father.' 
 
 ' Ah, that comes from your mother's view of him,' replied he 
 impatiently ; ' she thinks the governor an unnatural parent, which 
 would be rather hard lines upon him, if he were affected by it. 
 She believes he thinks too much of No. 1, but who doesn't? He 
 has, no doubt, a will of his own ; but it is not immutable ; and 
 if anybody can move it, it will be surely you. I think if he saw 
 you pleading for us ' 
 
 ' You do not understand, dear Raymond ; your father will 
 never see either of us again ; at least, if this report be true — which 
 may not be the case — ' here she put the newspaper into his hand ; 
 ' there ia still a hope that it may be mere rumour : and the Chinese 
 news ' 
 
 ' Good God ! ' exclaimed Raymond in a low suppressed tone.
 
 BREAKING IT. 225 
 
 He had read the telegram, and stood like one transfixed. ' My 
 poor, poor father I ' 
 
 Xelly had run to the sideboard, and from the cellaret produced 
 a glass of sherry. Some girls would have sought to com- 
 fort their lover in another way, and dearly would she have liked 
 to do so ; but would not that have been to take advantage of him 
 for her own benefit ? She could let him see how sorry she was for 
 him without that. 
 
 'There is no telegraph, Eaymond, from Shanghae, whence this 
 report has come, to Hong Kong : there is an error as to your 
 fathers name and profession, and the whole thing may be there- 
 fore a mistake.' She did not think it was, but she knew that such 
 an idea would help to break the blow to him. 
 
 'It is possible,' said Eaymond slowly ; 'yet I feel the news is 
 true. What does your mother think about it ? I should have 
 more confidence in her judgment than in my own in such a 
 case.' 
 
 "While thev still stood too^ether, but not touching; one another 
 — he had put his arm half round her waist and then withdrawn it, 
 because to be happy at such a moment seemed a sin to him — Mrs. 
 Conway entered. 
 
 ' This is a bad blow to you, my dear Raymond,' said she 
 softly. 
 
 He took her hand, but without his usual cordiality. Though 
 he had expressed a wish for her opinion, her presence was, in fact, 
 imwelcome to him, for had she not been his father's foe ? 
 
 ' I feel it, Mrs. Conway, very deeply.' 
 
 ' I am sure you do, because you are a good son.' She felt she 
 was paying a compliment to him at the expense of the dead man ; 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 BY PROXY. 
 
 but she could think of nothing more appropriate to say : she was 
 a woman who never told a lie to mitigate matters, though she had, 
 at least on one occasion in her life, omitted for that reason to tell 
 the truth. 
 
 ' You have nothing to reproach yourself with for your conduct 
 to your father, which is what few sons can say.' 
 
 ' I am thinking of him, and not of myself,' replied Kaymond 
 coldly. ' What is your opinion about this telegram ? Do you 
 think it is really true ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid it is so. At least, I have no reason to doubt it.' 
 
 ' But the thing may be exaggerated ; my father may have got 
 
 into trouble with the natives, and be in prison, and yet not ' 
 
 he hesitated — he could not say, ' and yet not dead.' 
 
 ' The telegram says, " His companion has arrived at Shanghae," 
 observed Mrs. Conway gravely ; ' my husband would never have 
 left him in such a plight as you suggest.' 
 
 There was neither pride nor affection in her tone ; but she 
 spoke as one who is stating an undeniable fact : and yet she 
 seemed to repent of having even thus far borne witness to her hus- 
 band's virtues, for she added significantly, ' No one ever accused 
 Arthur Conway of not sticking to his friends' 
 
 Nelly knew very well that this remark had a suppressed 
 antithesis with respect to her mother herself, and she showed her 
 consciousness of it by a pained look. 
 
 Eaymond only understood that a hope had been rudely dis- 
 pelled. 
 
 ' I think I will go home,' said he, rising slowly from his seat. 
 
 'I should have thought you would have found more com- 
 fort here, Eaymond, among your old friends, at a time like
 
 BREAKING IT. 227 
 
 this,' observed Mrs. Conway reproachfully, ' than in your solitary 
 chambers.' 
 
 Raymond shook his head, and, looking mechanically towards 
 Nelly, answered sadly, 
 
 ' You are right, Mrs. Conway ; but I am right too. I shall go 
 back to town, and telegraph to Hong Kong at once for confirma- 
 tion or otherwise of this evil news. In the mean time, Grod bless 
 you both I ' 
 
 He shook hands cordially with the women, and in the same 
 way with each. There was a lingering pressure of the fingers 
 (usual with him in Nelly's case), that is the hall-mark of Love, 
 and distinguishes it from that other precious metal. Friendship ; 
 but his thoughts were (or he strove his best to keep them so) upon 
 his father's unhappy fate, and his own bereavement. 
 
 ' There must have been something good about Mr. Pennicuick, 
 after all,' observed Nelly, when the young man had gone, 'or his 
 loss would not excite such genuine sorrow even in a son.' 
 
 ' Eobespierre had a landlord, who wept for him when he was 
 guillotined, answered Mrs. Conway drily. ' And besides, Eaymond 
 mourns because it is his duty to do so.' 
 
 Q 2
 
 2 28 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTEK XX. 
 
 VICE VERSA. 
 
 When Eaymond got back to London, he found the town alive 
 to the misfortune that had happened to him. ' Outrage on an 
 Englishman in China ; ' ' An English gentleman put to death by the 
 Chinese ; ' ' A casus belli with China,' formed the great attrac- 
 tion of the contents of the day's papers, and was posted up on the 
 hoardings, and exposed in the largest print at the corners of the 
 streets. He averted his eyes from these advertisements of his 
 sorrow as much as he could, and yet they had a certain fascina- 
 tion for him ; nor could he resist buying an evening paper, which 
 promised ' further particulars ' of the catastrophe. He took it up 
 with him to his chambers, and opened it with a feverish expecta- 
 tion he could scarcely have explained. It was to the last degree 
 improbable that any such details could have come to hand ; nor 
 was any newspaper editor likely to be a better judge of the au- 
 thenticity of the telegram than the Conways or himself. The 
 journal in question, however, took the truth of the news for 
 granted, and merely used it as a peg whereon to hang one of 
 those social or personal paragraphs which are now so common. 
 ' Tlie lamented and untimely fate of our fellow-countryman in
 
 VICE VERSA. 229 
 
 China ' was the excuse for half a column of biography. There 
 were very few facts in it, but the mistake as to the victim being a 
 military man was corrected. He was spoken of as being well- 
 known in Club circles, and as having at one time given promise of 
 a political career. His abilities were described as ' remarkable,' 
 and, of course, he was ' universally respected.' He had left be- 
 hind him a son, who was still a minor, but who would succeed to 
 the very considerable property of the deceased. 
 
 That last sentence gave a pang to the heir, which would pro- 
 bably have been incomprehensible to the man who wrote it. ' I am 
 rich, I am free to marry the girl of my choice,' thought Raymond, 
 * thanks to the murderers of my father.' He had no doubt that 
 ' the natives ' had killed him — probably in some barbarous and 
 shocking fashion — without the pretence of justice. 
 
 \Mien Beaumont came up that evening to condole with him 
 on his loss, Raymond felb that it was in fact to congratulate him. 
 The advantages he derived from his father's misfortune were, for the 
 time, almost abhorrent to him. This did not arise from remorse — from 
 liis ever having speculated upon such an event in his own mind 
 — but it did partly arise from the circumstance that others had so 
 speculated. He knew that Mrs. Conway had — for one : the pity 
 that she had often expressed for him by reason of his father's neg- 
 lect, or of his niggardliness with respect to money, recurred to him 
 now with exceeding bitterness. He was one of that rare class 
 who, however they have knocked about in the world, retain their 
 sensitiveness. 
 
 He had sent a telegram to his father's bankers at Hong Kong, 
 demanding an immediate reply ; but he did not know when that 
 might be expected ; nor did he entertain much hope of its contra-
 
 23© BY PROXY. 
 
 dictiDg the previous despatch in any important particular. There 
 was nothing for him but to sit at home and wait. 
 
 In the mean time, he was not without visitors. Many came 
 to see him in his trouble ; in part, perhaps, because it was of that 
 sort which ends in material prosperity, but not a few out of genuine 
 regard, for Eaymond was very popular. Among others came the 
 family lawyer, whom, since his errand was one of business, he re- 
 ceived with but scanty welcome. In talking of his late father's 
 affairs, he experienced much the same feeling as he would have 
 done in taking his father's purse from his pocket after death : nay, 
 it was even worse, since he was not certain that he of whose effects 
 he was thus in a manner taking possession was actually deceased. 
 However, as the lawyer bluntly said, Eaymond's attention to such 
 matters could not affect the fact one v/ay or the other, and he felt 
 it his duty to put him into possession of certain particulars. 
 
 There were responsibilities of a delicate nature which he shrank 
 from continuing to undertake without consultation with the dead 
 man's heir, although he was still in his legal infancy. These were 
 by no means satisfactory in a moral point of view ; but what, 
 perhaps, gave the young man greater pain, was the revelation of his 
 father's wealth. It seemed impossible that the reasons that had 
 been advanced to him from time to time for the necessity for 
 economy could have been founded on fact ; and if not, they were 
 mere excuses for parsimonious conduct. In particular, there was a 
 sum of no less than 20,000^. in a separate investment, of which 
 Eaymond had never so much as heard : and it was the knowledge 
 of this fact, no doubt, that led Ealph Pennicuick to name that pre- 
 cise amount as what he was willing to pay to the Chinese authori- 
 ties by way of bribe, when lie was first thrown into prison.
 
 VICE VERSA. 231 
 
 It is common enough, alas I that sorrow for our dead finds 
 mitigation in the revelation of the mourned one's unworthiness : 
 and something of this sort began unconsciously to affect Raymond's 
 mind. He still felt a poignant pity and regret for his father's 
 fate, but the burden of his grief was lightened, and after a while 
 bis thoughts grew free to roam in other directions, and the first 
 object towards which they tm^ned was Xelly. His heart was 
 heavy, but he had a right, like other mourners, to look for comfort ; 
 and where was it to be found, if not in the companionship of the 
 girl he loved ? 
 
 Nearly a fortnight had now elapsed since he had tele- 
 graphed to the bankers at Hong Kong, and their silence could be 
 taken as nothing less than a corroboration of the original de- 
 spatch. It was become only a question of time when he should 
 leave his seclusion and seek consolation from the quarter to which 
 he naturally looked for it. He had heard nothing from Richmond 
 since his visit, and one evening he took up his pen, and wrote to 
 Mrs. Conway that he should call upon her on the ensuing day. 
 That night he had happy dreams, and woke in the morning, for the 
 first time since he had received intelligence of his calamity, without 
 any sense of its oppression. How could it be otherwise, when the 
 morning was to be devoted to his tale of love, and when he knew 
 how willing to listen would be that ear into which he was to pour it ? 
 
 He had breakfasted, and was about to ^tart, when his clerk 
 brought in a telegram. The colour of its envelope at once informed 
 him that it was not a message of the ordinary kind. It was doubt- 
 less the long-expected reply from China. Then for a moment all 
 his old feelings of regret and pain recurred to him. He almost 
 experienced a remorse for tlie errand on which he wns about to s^art
 
 232 BY PROXY. 
 
 as he stood with the document in his hand, which he knew would 
 be the corroboration of his bereavement. With a sigh he opened 
 the envelope — and then sat down, aghast, struck with a wild as- 
 tonishment at the first words ! ' From Ealph Pennicuick, Hong 
 Kong, to Raymond Pennicuick, Lincoln's Inn, London.' So ran 
 the words. There was no doubt about it. His father was alive, 
 and had himself sent the message. For a moment he could read 
 no further, overcome with an amazement that was perhaps not all 
 delight. Then he read on : ' Conway killed by Chinese in revenge 
 for insult to an idol. Break the news to family. I start for Eng- 
 land by to-morrow's steamer.' 
 
 Conway dead : Nelly's father dead : and he, Eaymond, com- 
 missioned to break the news to her ! It was terrible — for the mo- 
 ment it even seemed more terrible than the news she had broken 
 to him. The horror of it was enhanced by its contrast with the 
 words he had had in his mind to tell her — and which now perhaps 
 would never be told. In his own case there had been some hope — 
 indeed, the hope had been since realised ; but in the present 
 matter there could be none. The tidings had come from the only 
 man who was cognisant of what had happened, who had perhaps 
 even seen the catastrophe with his own eyes — the survivor. 
 
 Eaymond Pennicuick had a very tender heart ; one of the 
 reasons, perhaps, why women loved him — though they love many 
 heartless fellows also ; and he felt altogether unequal to the duty 
 thus suddenly imposed upon him. It was very easy for one, 
 thousands of miles away, to write, ' Break the news to the family ; * 
 but very difficult for the man that had to do it. It was not, he 
 bethought him, a man's task at all. It was a woman's rather, 
 since it was women only that the matter concerned ; and then
 
 VICE VERSA. 233 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw at once occurred to him as the proper person to 
 undertake.it. She was kind-hearted, but by no means weak; 
 she had, he thought, good judgment ; and it was certain that she 
 was very fond of Nelly. He took off his mourning garments — by 
 no means with the rapture which he had pictured to himself he 
 would feel in finding that they were out of place, that his father 
 was, after all, alive and well ; and went out upon his unexpected 
 errand. It did not strike him that people might stare to see him 
 going about in coloured clothes. His thoughts were wholly fixed 
 upon those bereaved ones he was about to visit ; and upon their 
 changed circumstances. They had been always poor; but would 
 they not now be still poorer ? Surely his father, who was, it 
 seemed, so rich, would never permit his lost friend's wife and 
 daughter to feel the stings of poverty. He knew, however, that 
 their new position would make his father still more antagonistic 
 to his views respecting Xelly ; and also that Nelly on her part 
 would be less disposed than ever to act counter to his will. Upon 
 the whole, though he would not have admitted it, he certainly felt 
 more wretched than when he had thought his father was dead. 
 
 On arriving at Eichmond, he drove straight to Coromandel 
 Lodge, the residence of Mr. John Wardlaw, and which had been so 
 called from a very successful speculation in which his house had 
 been once engaged in Coromandel wood, a substance of which he was 
 nevertheless entirely ignorant. It was a very handsome house, 
 quite new, with all the latest improvements, such as you seldom see 
 in the country except in the neighbourhood of London. No doubt 
 the beauties of park and woodland, of field and river, are much 
 better viewed through vast windows of plate glass than through 
 those scantier ones of the old pattern ; but, up to the present
 
 234 ^y PROXY, 
 
 time at least, some prejudice is entertained in favour of the more 
 picturesque and old-fashioned style. It was so entertained by 
 Raymond, who, notwithstanding the sad topic that filled his mind, 
 could not but observe the spick-and-span newness as well as the 
 splendour of the Wardlaws' country mansion. The entrance gates 
 were fresh painted ; the very gravel sweep was newly laid down, 
 and showed no other traces of wheel-marks than those made by 
 Mrs. Wardlaw's new carriage. Mr. Wardlaw always walked 
 to and from the station. He complained that the cushions of his 
 wife's equipage were too ' slippy,' and that the rug afforded him 
 no such secure foothold as the board of the omnibus to the box 
 seat of which he had been so long accustomed. The master of 
 Coromandel House was still engaged most days in the City, not- 
 withstanding his retirement from active commercial life, and it 
 was so on this occasion. 
 
 Raymond was ushered into the drawing-room, and informed 
 that Mrs. Wardlaw would be with him in a few minutes. It was 
 a handsome room, though perhaps a little too gorgeous in the way 
 of paint and gilding, and commanded a lovely view of the winding 
 Thames ; the garden sloped down so steeply from the windows that 
 they seemed to look directly out upon the glittering stream, already 
 alive with its flotilla of pleasure boats. Everything spoke of 
 wealth and luxury, and even of beauty. Raymond knew how little 
 the owners of all this splendour cared about it, and especially how 
 little she cared for it for whom it had been purchased. John 
 Wardlaw was really pleased that his wife should possess everything 
 that money could bring : but all this magnificence, and perhaps 
 even the picturesque beauties that accompanied it, were ' quite 
 thrown away,' as she expressed it, upon honest Mrs. Wardlaw, who
 
 VICE VERSA. 235 
 
 was never wholly without the feeling of Christopher Sly in the 
 play. It was ' very nice ' of John to go to such expense upon her 
 account, but these things were ' too good for the likes of her.' 
 Eaymond could not help reflecting how comfortable a little of this 
 superfluous luxury would have made some one else, who would have 
 known how to appreciate it ; not that Xelly was fond of grandeur 
 in any form, but she had that artistic temperament which takes 
 pleasure in colour and glow, and knows how to enjoy, where others 
 only plume themselves upon the cost. 
 
 Presently his hostess entered the room, in gorgeous hues as to 
 her raiment, but with a countenance toned do"svn to meet the 
 victim of domestic affliction. Eaymond did not notice the incon- 
 gruity, but her woman's eye at once perceived that he was in 
 coloured clothes. 
 
 ' I am come to you, dear Mrs. AVardlaw, upon a very sad 
 errand.' 
 
 ' I am sorry for that, Mr. Raymond. I had begun to hope ' 
 
 She looked at hi? summer cravat, and hesitated. 
 
 ' One trouble has departed only to make room for another,' 
 said he gravely. ' My father, I am thankful to say, is alive and 
 well ; the news that reached us of his death has been contradicted 
 by his own hand.' 
 
 ' That must be a great comfort to you,' said Mrs. Wardlaw 
 mechanically. What at once occurred to her mind was that the 
 course of true love, which had been running so smoothly of late 
 with her young favourite, would now meet with new obstacles. 
 
 ' With these good tidings, however, come some sad news. 
 Captain Conway has met the fate which was attributed to my 
 father : he has been put to death in China.'
 
 236 ^P PROXY. 
 
 ' Captain Conway dead ! What will my darling do ? ' cried 
 Mrs. Wardlaw ; and she plumped down on the sofa, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 ' I knew you would feel for her, — that is why I came to you. 
 I felt sure you would help me to — to — break it to her.' 
 
 ' And the widow, the widow ! ' continued the good lady, sob- 
 bing in great gasps and plunges, like a steam-engine just set 
 going ; ' it will be worse for her than for her daughter, Mr. Eay- 
 mond, because, you know, they were not good friends.' 
 
 ' Just so,' he answered slowly. He had not as yet thought of 
 that, his mind being fixed so much on Nelly ; but now he ac- 
 knowledged to himself that the task imposed on him would be even 
 more painful than he had anticipated. 
 
 ' I hope, I do hope, dear Mr. Eaymond, that this sad news will 
 be — will have some set-off against it, for you and Nelly.' 
 
 ' I fear not, Mrs. Wardlaw : but this is no time to think of 
 that, in any case.' 
 
 ' Nay, but it is the very time. Of course, you can't talk of 
 marriage in the same breath with death. But you can show by 
 your manner that you have a right derived from Nelly to comfort 
 both of them ; they will then understand that, though their 
 natural protector, and their breadwinner, is taken from them, 
 you have put yourself in his place. They will not have other 
 miserable things to worry them besides this evil news.' 
 
 ' To comfort them is what above all things I should wish to do, 
 Mrs. Wardlaw.' 
 
 ' Where there's a will, there's a way, Mr. Eaymond.' 
 
 She had dried her eyes, and was regarding him with a keen, 
 almost a suspicious, glance.
 
 VICE VERSA. 237 
 
 'Not always,' replied he gravely. ' If you mean, am I willing 
 to marry Nelly ' 
 
 ' Yes, that is what I do mean,' interrupted his companion. 
 
 ' Willing I I would give my right hand to do it,' he continued 
 vehemently. ' I would marry her to-morrow, if she would have 
 me. How can you suppose that it could be otherwise ? ' 
 
 ' That's well said,' observed Mrs. Wardlaw approvingly. ' That 
 looks, as John says, like business. I was afraid you might not 
 be so eager, because she was poor.' 
 
 ' I don't know why you should have entertained that fear,' said 
 Eaymond. There was a dignity in his tone of which the young 
 man was himself unconscious, but that made his companion 
 wince. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Mr. Raymond,' said she ; ' I believe you 
 are a real good sort, and almost good enough for Nelly herself. 
 But John does lay such a stress on money, that he wins one over 
 to believe in it, even in yom' case. But if such are your feel- 
 ings, which I do not doubt, why don't you get the knot tied at 
 once — I mean, so soon as she recovers herself from this sad news — 
 and before your pa comes home ? There is a difficulty about 
 getting his permission, is there not? Well, why not marry with- 
 out it, and ask for his blessing instead ? ' 
 
 Raymond could not restrain a smile at this advice, which was 
 delivered with the gravest and most matronly air. 
 
 ' The difficulties of which you speak, my dear Mrs. Wardlaw, 
 are not in my eyes insurmountable ; it is Nelly who considers 
 them to be so.' 
 
 ' I see ; she is afraid of making Mr. Pennicuick angry upon 
 his son's account. Most girls would rim that risk if their inclina-
 
 238 BY PROXY. 
 
 tion went the same way : but Nelly is an angel. And now I shall 
 have to break her heart. Well, well, I will put on my bonnet at 
 once, and get it over.' 
 
 'I had better go with you, I suppose, Mrs. Wardlaw,' said 
 Raymond hesitatingly. 
 
 ' Yes : you will not be so useful as I had hoped you might be ; 
 but the sight of you will be something.' 
 
 In other circumstances such an observation could hardly have 
 been pleasing, but Eaymond liked this plain-speaking lady all the 
 more for the manner in which she thus ignored him, because it 
 was for Nelly's sake. 
 
 She had her bonnet on, as she promised, ' in a jiffy,' and the 
 two started together on foot for Mrs. Conway's house. Thinking 
 of the scene that lay before them, they both walked on in silence, 
 which was broken only once by Mrs. Wardlaw. 
 
 ' You must not think me a fool because I am crying,' sobbed 
 the good lady ; ' I want to pucker my face up and make my eyes 
 red, that Nelly may know that something has happened. If you 
 could cry too, it would be a good thing; but there! — it's so seldom 
 that a man can do anything really useful.' 
 
 If Raymond could not shed tears, it was not because he was 
 not unhappy enough. As he drew near the house that he was 
 about to darken with the shadow of death, his knees trembled 
 under him with the fear that is the worst of fears, though it is no 
 disgrace — the apprehension of the pain that he must needs injflict 
 upon the heart he loved. Nelly was at the window looking 
 dreamily forth, perhaps for Raymond himself, and her quick eye at 
 once perceived them. They could see too, by her change of 
 countenance, that she augured the importance of their errand.
 
 VICE VERSA. 
 
 239 
 
 Her own hands quietly opened the front door to them, and> 
 after a silent salutation of them both, she led them into the 
 nearest sitting-room with a grave air. 
 
 'Mamma is ill, Eaymond; she has not been herself, as Mrs, 
 Wardlaw knows, ever since ' her eye rested inquiringly, appre- 
 hensively, upon the young man's face, and it was with a hesitating 
 voice that she concluded her sentence, • ever since your sad news 
 came.' 
 
 ' His news was false, Xelly,' interposed Mrs. Wardkw softly. 
 ' But what is true is worse — worse a great deal for you and your 
 poor mother. Mr. Eaymond has had a telegi'am from China this 
 morning — from his father ' 
 
 ' Hush, hush ! ' whispered the young girl, turning deadly pale ; 
 ' mamma is coming downstairs.' 
 
 Her step was at the door as she spoke — the heavy inelastic 
 tread that speaks not only of physical weight, but of depression 
 of mind; and the next moment she stood before them. 
 
 ' Ah, Eaymond, so you are come at last I We were half think- 
 ing of coming up to town, and bringing you down with us by force 
 of arms. You should not have allowed sorrow to be so long your 
 sole companion. — What is the matter? Some new misfortune has 
 happened, to judge by your long faces. WTiat is it ? ' And she 
 looked impatiently towards her daughter. 
 
 ' I don't know, mamma,' answered Xelly, white and trembling. 
 ' But I am afraid there is bad news.' 
 
 ' Then why are they so slow to tell it ? ' inquired Mrs. Conway, 
 confronting her visitors with an air that was almost menacing. 
 ' Are we such strangers to misfortune that you need be afraid to 
 break it to us ? If there was anything pleasant to tell, there
 
 240 BY PROXY. 
 
 would be some reason for your hesitation, since, being so unused to 
 good news, it might kill us outright ; but if it is bad ' 
 
 ' It is very bad, dear Mrs. Conway,' put in Mrs. Wardlaw 
 gently. 
 
 ' Well, Nelly is here, and the kitchen chimney is not on iire, 
 continued the other sharply ; ' so it can't be so very shocking.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! ' said Nelly faintly, ' you forget there is dear 
 papa.' 
 
 'No, my dear, I don't forget. I wish sometimes I could. 
 Your papa is in Shanghae, and has no doubt lost his money. He 
 is always losing either his own or other people's. We shall have 
 to move out of this house, no doubt, and live again in wretched 
 lodgings. I am disgusted, of course, but not surprised.' 
 
 ' Captain Conway is not at Shanghae,' whispered Mrs. Wardlaw 
 hoarsely. ' He never returned thither. Mr. Pennicuick has 
 telegraphed ' 
 
 ' What, Ealph ? ' interrupted Mrs. Conway quickly. ' Is Ralph 
 alive ? Then there has been some plot, some falsehood.' 
 
 ' It was a mistake of the newspapers. The two gentlemen 
 were together ; and one of them had the misfortune to provoke 
 the natives by some disrespect towards one of their idols.' 
 
 ' That was Ealph,' observed Mrs. Conway confidently ; ' that 
 was Ralph Pennicuick all over.' 
 
 ' Indeed it was not so,' continued Mrs. Wardlaw. ' The tele- 
 gram is quite precise, and comes to Raymond from his father.' 
 
 ' Is he dead ? ' whispered Nelly to Raymond. Then, reading 
 his answer in his face, she fell back on the sofa with her eyes 
 closed. 
 
 ' What have you been telling Nelly ? ' inquired Mrs. Conway
 
 VICE VERSA. 241 
 
 angrily. 'I won't have her made miserable by lying messages 
 from anybody.' 
 
 ' Indeed, indeed, dear Mrs. Conway,' cried Kaymond, ' this is 
 no lie. I wish to Heaven it were ; I would give all I have ' 
 
 ' Show me the telegram,' interrupted Mrs. Conway impe- 
 riously. 
 
 Kaymond had the document in his pocket, but was by no means 
 inclined to produce it. The terms of it had struck him as curt, if 
 not absolutely unfeeling ; it was not a message to put into the 
 hands of those the dead man had left behind him. Besides, this 
 unhappy woman did not as yet seem to understand that her husband 
 was dead, that she was a widow, and her daughter fatherless. 
 Nevertheless, since words were utterly wanting to him, he pro- 
 duced the paper and placed it in Mrs. Conway's hand. She read 
 it aloud, in a hard, mechanical voice. 'From Ealph Pennicuick, 
 Hong Kong, to Eaymond Pennicuick, Lincoln's Inn, London. 
 — Conway killed by Chinese in revenge for insult to an idol. 
 Break the news to family. I start for England by to-morrow's 
 steamer.' 
 
 ' I suppose tliat is true,' said Mrs. Conway scornfully, • about 
 his starting for England. Such men as he generally do come 
 back. But as for the rest of it, it is false.' 
 
 ' But how can it be false, dear Mrs. Conway ? ' urged Mrs. 
 Wardlaw piteously. 
 
 ' It is false, I teU you,' cried the wretched woman : ' first, 
 because Ralph Pennicuick writes it; and secondly, because the 
 thing he states is an impossibility. Arthur Conway is a man I 
 know quite well, being my husband ; and I tell you it is not in his 
 nature to have insulted those people as described. " Break the 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 BY PROXY. 
 
 news to his family." Well, sir, you have done your mission ; and 
 when you tell him that you did so, add that you were not believed. 
 " Break the news ;" yes, you have broken it, and my daughter's 
 heart ; but you have not broken mine.' 
 
 She stood with one hand pressed to her side, while her face 
 twitched and quivered with inward pain ; with the other hand she 
 pointed to the door. 
 
 ' We had better go,' whispered Mrs. Wardlaw to Eaymond, 
 who had thrown himself on his knees beside the sofa like some 
 devotee at the feet of a pictured saint — for Nelly was quite un- 
 conscious of his presence. He got up, and obeyed her without a 
 word. Mrs. Conway spoke to neither of them as they went out, 
 but stood rigidly with her hand extended till the door had closed. 
 
 ' This is sadder than anything I could have imagined, Mrs. 
 Wardlaw,' murmured Eaymond to his companion, when they found 
 themselves on the road again. ' Is that unhappy woman mad ? ' 
 
 * No, no ; the worst is over with her. She has got her 
 daughter in her arms by this time. But your presence was 
 insupportable.' 
 
 ' My presence ! What have / done ? ' 
 
 * Nothing. It is useless to discuss the matter; it is simply 
 that you have the misfortune to be your father's son.' 
 
 * But she does not believe even now that her husband is dead.' 
 ' Yes, she does. She knew it the moment she saw us. But she 
 
 believes there has been some foul play. Of course it is not so ; 
 but that matters little when a woman has a prejudice. Leave Mrs. 
 Conway to herself, and Nelly to me ; they will both, please Grod, 
 come round in time.'
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 
 
 It has been stated by a classical poet, and has been therefore 
 extremely quoted, that no one becomes very base upon a sudden ; 
 but, if that be so, it is nevertheless certain that some people 
 take a but short time in effecting the change. Their baseness, like 
 a good housemaid's grate, is ' ready laid,' and only requires the 
 match of temptation to be struck on the box of opportunity to set 
 it in a blaze. There were but six days between the time that 
 Ralph Pennicuick had seen the dead body of his friend hanging 
 on the post where he was butchered, and the afternoon on which 
 he arrived at Shanghae, and during that brief interval he had made 
 up his mind to keep the 20,000^. that had been the price of his own 
 safety. This determination did not appear to him, of course, in 
 the same light that it does to us. Except in the working out of 
 some great revenge, no man probably beholds his own wickedness 
 in its true proportions. The murderer does not say to himself, 
 * I murdered So-and-so for five shillings that I knew he had in his 
 pocket ; ' but, ' I wanted So-and-so's five shillings, and he was 
 very obstinate about it, and a scuffle ensued which ended most 
 disastrously for him.' 
 
 Similarly, Ralph Pennicuick would by no means have admitted 
 
 b2
 
 244 BY PROXY. 
 
 that he was about to cheat the dead and rob the living. He was 
 only going to abstain from the performance of a promise that was, 
 at the best, quixotic. In a moment of irrational apprehension he 
 had offered to give 20,000^. to get out of a certain difficulty ; and 
 Conway had taken his words as though they had been an agree- 
 ment on stamped paper. 
 
 If he had said, ' I would give a million,' the other might just as 
 well have claimed the million. The sum in which he was morally 
 indebted was too large (he said to himself) to be seriously con- 
 sidered as a pecuniary debt. Moreover, one must not only con- 
 sider the intention of a testator, but also, as in the case of ' pious 
 founders,' the results that are likely to flow from the proposed dis- 
 position of his property. Conway's desire was to make his daughter 
 bappy ; but had he selected the due means to effect it, in making 
 her an heiress ? She had been brought up in a simple quiet way, 
 and the possession of all this money would be an embarrassment 
 rather than a benefit to her, while it would expose her to the 
 seductions of every fortune-hunter. If Conway himself had had 
 time to reflect upon the matter, he would probably have come to 
 the same conclusion ; he would have considered ten thousand 
 pounds, or even five thousand, a much more suitable sum. To be 
 sure, he had spoken of some attachment between his daughter and 
 Eaymond, and Pennicuick himself had expressed some opinion not 
 absolutely antagonistic to the young people's union ; but the con- 
 fusion of affairs had been such that no deliberate judgment could 
 be formed on any matter ; things were said and done, in fact, under a 
 sort of compulsion — under which circumstances, in the eye of the 
 law itself, agreements are not considered binding. Of course, if 
 Nelly had had 20,000^. of her own, she would have been a suitable
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 245 
 
 match for his son, but that her father-in-law should supply the dower 
 — should take such a sum, as it were, out of one pocket to put into 
 the other — was practically absurd. Twenty thousand pounds was a 
 thousand a-year for ever. 
 
 Unfortunately, no middle course was open to him. If he 
 was to produce Conway's will at all, he must pay the whole 
 sum. His friend would never have bequeathed such a fortune 
 unless the money had somehow been his to leave. It was a 
 question, therefore, of whether he should discharge the debt, or 
 totally ignore it. 
 
 Ralph Pennicuick did not hesitate, by this time, to look all 
 these contingencies more or less in the face ; but the motives that 
 were attracting him, he shut out of sight as much as possible. In 
 particular he evaded this one ; that if he discharged this obligation, 
 he should be emiching — and at his own expense — Mrs. Conway, 
 a woman who hated him. She could not harm him, but it was 
 not prudent to put arms — that is to say, money — in the hands of 
 an enemy. She was proud and stififnecked enough, as it was, 
 without being rendered independent. Perhaps if she had been 
 dead, and Nelly had alone been concerned in the matter, Ralph 
 Pennicuick would not have listened to the devil — self — within 
 him. Even as it was, he did not, as we have said, propose to him- 
 self to rob the widow and the orphan. He would not give them 
 their due, but he would give them — well, a good deal — and all in 
 the way of kindness and generosity. The idea of playing the 
 patron to Mrs. Conway was very pleasant to him; if she rejected 
 his gifts, which he believed would be the case, that would be her 
 own look-out ; he would have all the^^more to give to Nelly, whicli 
 her mother could hardly dissuade her from accepting, and yet
 
 246 BY PROXY. 
 
 which would lay herself under the very obligation which she had 
 resented. 
 
 When matters so incidental as these occurred to EalphPennicuick, 
 we may be sure that he had made his mind up as to the main 
 question. He had fully resolved to become a thief, and, what was 
 worse for him, in his heart of hearts, he knew it. The world, which 
 credits what is done, is blind to all that might have been, in another 
 sense than that contemplated by the poet. To its broad view there 
 are the people outside Newgate and the people inside. But there 
 are many persons who have earned a chamber in that building who 
 are much better lodged than those within it, and who, considering 
 their comparative freedom from temptation, much more deserve 
 to be there. The man who destroys a will that has been made to 
 his disadvantage may be committed to prison by a Lord Mayor of 
 London who has been equally felonious, in a moral sense, by taking 
 advantage of a will which ought to have been destroyed ; but the 
 former gentleman (if he is not used to destroying wills) feels a shock 
 in the actual commission of the crime which the latter is spared. 
 
 The will of Arthur Conway which Ealph Pennicuick still 
 carried in his breast-pocket was a burden to him such as the honest 
 reader can hardly imagine. During the whole of his journey to 
 Shanghae he had only one opportunity of perusing it quite alone, 
 but he remembered every word of it. It was witnessed by himself 
 and the governor of the gaol, and from the latter fact he had act- 
 ually endeavoured to lay this flattering unction to his own soul — 
 that since the witness was a Chinese, he was probably not cognisant 
 of what he was doing, and therefore the document was illegal. It 
 would be therefore no crime to destroy it. This probably com- 
 forted him for nearly a whole day — if to dull the pain of con-
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OE BASENESS. 247 
 
 science can be called to comfort ; when he suddenly recollected 
 that if there was no will at all, Conway's wife and daughter would 
 inherit his property. So far as he was concerned, the money there- 
 fore would — even in the eye of the law — be still owing to him. 
 
 Valueless as the document might be, it was, however, a serious 
 incubus to him. So long as it was not destroyed, he had not yet 
 crossed the Eubicon — except in thought — between right and wrong ; 
 and so far it was a sedative to his anxious mind ; but on the other 
 hand its existence was a material danger. If read by any eyes 
 save his own it must needs give rise to wonder if not suspicion. 
 It would astonish anyone who knew Arthur Conway to read that 
 he had left 20,000Z. behind him ; but even that would be more easy 
 to believe than that he had been mad when he executed the will. 
 
 On the last day of their journey. Major Ross and Peimicuick 
 had left the boat, to walk for a few miles across the country and 
 rejoin it at a certain place, while Milbmna remained on board 
 writing letters. Ealph had changed his coat for a lighter one, and 
 not till he had gone some distance did he remember that he had 
 forgotten to take out the will which was left in the pocket of the 
 coat in the cabin. Suppose Milbm-n should look in the coat 
 and read the will ! No apprehension of course could have 
 been more wild and gToundless ; but the guilty are frightened 
 at a shadow. Milburn was a gentleman and a man of honour ; 
 but the young are proverbially curious, and if such a thing were to 
 happen, he, being Conway's friend and admirer, would be of all men 
 the most dangerous to be possessed of such a secret. He had also 
 actually made inquiry as to what the dead man was likely to 
 have left behind him. The moralist who said that lying should be 
 avoided because it was ' such a strain upon the memory,' might
 
 248 BY PROXY. 
 
 have extended his warning to all crimes on the ground of their 
 exacting nature. The criminal must needs be always vigilant, yet 
 always suspicious ; he ca;n never take precautions enough, nor be too 
 prudent in his very precautions. The risks he runs may be infini- 
 tesimally small, but the danger, if discovery should occur, magnifies 
 them to colossal proportions. 
 
 Up to that hour it had seemed to Pennicuick that the de- 
 struction of the will would have secured him complete immunity, 
 but from henceforth this was far from being the case. If he now 
 destroyed the will, or failed to produce it, it might be that that 
 very circumstance would at least to one man in the world be a 
 proof of his villany. The fear of exposure was so terrible to him, 
 that it almost drove him back into the path of honesty which even 
 yet lay open to him. He would still be a rich man, even if he did 
 disburse that 20,000^. ; but then it was such a large sum, and 
 money was so dear to him, not only for what it commanded, but 
 for its own sake. Moreover, though it was true he might still be 
 honest, Koss and Milburn would think it at least strange that he 
 should not only have kept secret his friend's testamentary instruc- 
 tions, but also led them to imagine that they were right in sup- 
 posing he had died poor. Thus silence itself was fraught with 
 danger ; while speech — admission of any kind — absolutely bristled 
 with it. And yet to speak, to answer questions, to supply explana- 
 tions, was now become so necessary ! 
 
 As to the mere narrative — the statement of what had happened 
 at the temple and the prison — that was easy enough. In a great 
 law case in our own country, during which there had been a more 
 than usual amount of perjury, it was observed that no fewer than 
 eight persons gave a coherent account of a certain dinner at which
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 249 
 
 the defendant was said to have been entertained, and on which feet 
 hung a most important issue ; they all described the afifair in 
 detail, and all the particulars tallied with one another so accurately 
 that it was impossible to believe (what was, however, the actual feet) 
 that not one of these witnesses had ever before set eyes on the man 
 in question. This miracle was managed by the attorney for the 
 defence, who gave a dinner to these eight witnesses with himself in 
 the chair, and all they had to do was to associate all that was done 
 and said, not with him, but with his client. The formula was pre- 
 cisely the same ; they had only to put A for B. Thus, in Penni- 
 cuick's case, he had but to substitute Conway for himself, and there 
 was no fear of his story containing any contradictions. Even its 
 inconsistencies were not of fact — though there were inconsistencies. 
 1^0 one who knew Conway, for example, could understand how he 
 could have committed such an act as the stealing of the Shay-le. 
 To have done that, it would be justly argued, a man must be pos- 
 sessed of the spirit of recklessness — or he must be malicious. Now, 
 Conway, though an agreeable companion and a general favourite, 
 was by no means of a rollicking disposition ; his beha^iour was 
 quiet, his spirits, if equable, were never high ; and, indeed, it was 
 understood that the poor fellow 'pulled a very heavy boat' as 
 respected domestic and pecuniary matters, and had enough 
 to trouble him. He was prudent, too, notwithstanding that he 
 had a weakness for cards and horses, and never ran any risk 
 that could be avoided. How, then, could he have risked — and lost 
 — his life in the indulgence of a mischievous whim ? 
 
 Then, as to malice, never was man more devoid of it. Those 
 who knew him best, too, were aware that, though by no means a 
 religious man himself, he respected religion, of whatever kind, in
 
 2SO BY PROXY. 
 
 others, and it was to the last degree unlikely that he should have 
 committed an offence that was an outrage on the feelings of our 
 entire nation. 
 
 These were objections which Ralph Pennicuick had to meet on 
 all sides upon his arrival at Shanghae, but which he made no 
 effort to combat. After a severe mental struggle, he had destroyed 
 the will, and so far ' burned his boats.' No retreat lay open to 
 him along the broad straight road of honour, though it was still 
 in his power to make restitution for the wrong he had committed 
 by putting Conway's wishes into effect. Every hour, however, 
 made this more difficult ; since, after looking into his friend's 
 affairs, he must needs say whether he died rich or poor, and act 
 accordingly. He could scarcely make over 20,000L to the widow 
 and her daughter as a free gift, even if they would have accepted 
 it. Such hypocrisy would have been almost as abominable as the 
 contemplated robbery itself, and there would also be the loss of 
 the money. That of course was the keystone of the whole edifice 
 of fraud and crime that Pennicuick was building up, and which 
 -every day grew larger and larger, as is usual with such buildings ; 
 an outwork of lies had to be thrown out here, and another there, to 
 defend the citadel, till at last he could scarcely emerge from the 
 work of his own hands to draw a breath of fresh air. His specious 
 excuses to himself, his reasons for his wrong, were all moonshine — 
 or rather limelight, for there was nothing natural about them ; the 
 main fact was, that he could not bring himself to part with the 
 money, since there was none to compel him, or reproach him for 
 keeping it. 
 
 It is not to be supposed, however, though he had escaped from 
 the hands of his enemies with a whole skin and a comparatively
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OE BASENESS. 251 
 
 undiminished purse, that Ealph Pennicuick felt triumphant or even 
 satisfied. A man can be selfish, greedy, and even altogether bad, 
 without such a consciousness of the fact as is disturbing to his mind ; 
 but he cannot be a scoundrel without knowing it : and this know- 
 ledge is — just at first, at all events — exceedingly disturbing. 
 
 Moreover, Pennicuick's sensibilities were still alive. Every re- 
 ference to Conway's fate was painful to him, to an extreme degree. 
 Great pangs of remorse shot through him on each occasion of 
 them ; and the pain he could not conceal was set down by those 
 who observed it to tenderness and friendship, which made their 
 sympathy intolerable. 
 
 It was agreed on all sides— even by Milburn himself, who did 
 not like him — that Pennicuick had behaved ' deuced well about 
 poor Conway.' He had paid his money right and left to ensure 
 his comfort in prison ; had spared no trouble or expense to obtain 
 his pardon ; and had done all he could, when his friend was dead, 
 to do honour to his memory. It was quite understood that he 
 would never look to the widow for any of these expenses ; and, 
 though he was rich, he was known to ' stick to his money,' so that 
 his generosity was the more commendable. The miUtary gentle- 
 men who were addicted to sport did not forget, too, that Penni- 
 cuick's expedition up the country had been cut short by his friend's 
 misfortune, and all the fun he had promised himself turned into 
 misery, which they said was ' rather rough ' on Pennicuick, who, 
 instead of shooting 'a jolly lot of game among the hills,' had now 
 to concern himself with business afi'airs in relation to his dead 
 friend. In one particular, however, Conway's friends were not in- 
 clined to approve of Pennicuick's conduct. He was not so solicitous 
 as they thought he ought to be to ' make a row at the embassy '
 
 252 BY PROXY. 
 
 about what had happened. The British minister ought to be urged 
 to communicate with his government, who should require Conway's 
 murderers to be given up to justice. If this was refused, then let 
 there be war. To this Pennicuick replied that he was the best 
 judge of his own responsibility in the matter ; and that, while he 
 lamented what had occurred as deeply as any man, he could not 
 bring himself to state that murder had been done. Conway had 
 fallen a victim, it is true, to Chinese superstition, but everything- 
 had been done in course of law. He could not in honesty give 
 such evidence as might be made a casus belli. 
 
 ' But, at all events, these beggars should be made to give com- 
 pensation to the widow,' urged the gentlemen of the mess-table. 
 
 ' As to that,' said Pennicuick modestly, ' I will myself take 
 care that she at least suffers no pecuniary loss from the misfortune 
 that has befallen her.' This assurance earned him golden opinions ; 
 and when, after a very few days, it was found that Arthur Conway 
 had died worth next to nothing, everyone took comfort because of 
 this friend that had the power and will to serve the dear ones he 
 had left behind. It could even be said that those who knew most 
 about Ealph Pennicuick at Shanghae had the best opinion of 
 him. But then only very few people had any personal knowledge 
 of him : while a good many — indeed, the whole English-speaking 
 population — had heard something of his adventures. On the oc- 
 casion of his first return to Shanghae, however, so little had been 
 known for certain about the matter, that a rumour had got about 
 — and, as we have seen, had reached Hong Kong — that it was 
 Pennicuick and not Conway who had been put to death. It was 
 easily accounted for enough, since the two names were mentioned 
 together, and those who knew Conway took it for granted that the
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 253 
 
 other man must have been the one in the scrape; but the error 
 was a great annoyance to the real survivor. Just as a criminal 
 is sometimes convicted by help of a piece of evidence that 
 happens to be in itself false, so by a mere accident Pennicuick 
 found that part imputed to him in the catastrophe which he had 
 actually played ; and though his own reappearance in the flesh 
 soon set the matter right at Shanghae, the other story had by that 
 time gone elsewhere, beyond the reach of such personal contradic- 
 tion, and had received the usual additions and exaggerations on its 
 way. Worse than all, as he discovered on his arrival at Hong Kong, 
 this rumour had actually been telegraphed to England ; and, had 
 they not taken great pains to ascertain the truth before replying to 
 Eaymond's inquiry, his own bankers might have confirmed the first 
 report, so strongly were they assured on all sides of its correctness. 
 
 The terms of Ealph Pennicuick's telegram to his son had been, 
 as we have seen, concise and cold enough ; he was, in fact, greatly 
 troubled at the error that had taken place, to the probable effects of 
 which, in the way of gossip and scandal, he was keenly alive ; and, 
 moreover, he felt the extreme need of caution. He had nut yet 
 shaped out for himself the course to be adopted in relation to Mrs. 
 Conway and her daughter, when he should return to En gland, though 
 he had vague ideas of being very patronising and munificent. The 
 breach of faith he had committed began itself, indeed, already to 
 sit more lightly on his conscience ; but there were matters in con- 
 nection with it that he had not considered — a few weeks ago, in 
 fact, he would have thought them beneath consideration — but 
 which now gave him great annoyance, and even distress of mind. 
 
 Everything that had relation to the dead man was a source of 
 mental trouble to him. It had been painful to him, as we have
 
 254 ^y PROXY. 
 
 seen, to describe, even after his own fashion, the details of Conway's 
 misadventure and death ; and, though his actual remorse showed 
 signs of mitigation, this feeling by no means wore out with time ; 
 it weighed, too, upon his mind like lead that he would have to go 
 over the whole matter again when he reached England, and, what 
 was worse than all, to Mrs. Conway herself. Though he had tele- 
 graphed curtly, ' Break it to the family,' he thought of the task he 
 had thus imposed upon his son for many an hour. He pictured 
 to himself again and again Nelly's silent agony, and her mother's 
 artificial composure, under which would be even sharper pangs at 
 work than in her daughter's case. He had the sagacity to com- 
 prehend how much worse would these fatal tidings fall upon their 
 ears from the circumstance of their having already received the 
 false report. Ealph Pennicuick entertained no ' illusions ' respect- 
 ing either himself or his fellow-creatures. It must have been an 
 uncommonly good piece of news to Mrs. Conway and the girl to 
 hear that he was dead and gone : that woman had always hated 
 him, and had probably not even taken pains to conceal her satis- 
 faction at his fate. Nelly would have said ' How shocking ! ' and 
 then they would have both set to work to discuss what money he 
 had left behind him, and how long Eaymond would wait out of 
 decent respect till he came to see them — and propose. He had 
 been so wrapt up in self, and so little observant of his son's be- 
 haviour, that he had guessed nothing of the attachment between 
 the young people, till Conway's last request had suggested it to 
 his mind ; but now he perceived how his death would have made 
 the course of true love run smooth, and how his being alive must 
 be resented as an obstacle to it. In picturing all this, he showed 
 great acumen ; and if he failed altogether in representing to him-
 
 THE BEGINNINGS OF BASENESS. 255 
 
 self the feelings of his son, it was not for want of cleverness. He 
 prided himself on his ability to ' put himself in the place of other 
 people ' — in quite another sense from that wherein he had just 
 given proof of his powers in poor Conway's case — but he could 
 not penetrate Raymond's nature, the dutiful simplicity of which 
 was altogether unintelligible to him. He saw his son wearing a 
 mask of sorrow, but in reality congratulating himself that he was 
 his own master, and had come into his father's kingdom ; and 
 though he allowed that this state of things was natural, he re- 
 sented it. 
 
 He was coming home, in short, in a bad humour with himself 
 and everybody else, and also, for the first time in his life, in bad 
 health. For what could it be but some touch of indigestion, or 
 other vulgar malady, that had rendered him of late so nervous ? 
 
 ' Xerves ' had been heretofore a thing unknown to him — now 
 the least thing sudden or unexpected startled him. When he 
 was in Conway's quarters at Shanghae, for example, packing up 
 some of his dead friend's little ' belongings ' — a few books, half-a- 
 dozen drawings, &c. — the following circumstance had occurred. 
 He had been looking at a sketch which called to mind some scene 
 upon the fatal journey they had taken together, and was just 
 placing it along with the rest, when he suddenly became conscious 
 that some one was standing behind him. It was, in fact, Conway's 
 servant, whose entrance had not attracted his observation, and 
 nothing was less extraordinary than his being there. Yet it was 
 full a minute before Ralph Pennicuick could bring himself to turn 
 round and look the man in the face. He did not believe that 
 dead men rose even in the other world, and much less therefore in 
 this and yet — well, of course it was only liver, but these ridi-
 
 256 BY PROXY. 
 
 culous apprehensions were recurrent. He spoke to the regimental 
 surgeon on the matter, in a guarded manner and without men- 
 tioning names, and that gentleman had affirmed that he was ' a 
 cup too low,' and recommended a little stimulant. Pennicuick, 
 always moderate in his mode of life, because enjoyment was a 
 science with him, had accordingly begun to take a few drops of 
 brandy. But even this did not effect a complete cure. When he 
 went into his cabin on board the steamer, the first thing he saw 
 there was a coffin with ' Arthur Conway ' upon it. An absurd 
 delusion enough, since it was only poor Conway's black portmanteau 
 which had been placed there by mistake instead of his own ; but 
 the same weird terror had seized him as on the previous occasion, 
 and he acknowledged to himself that Ealph Pennicuick was not 
 the man he had been. ' That infernal climate ' had no doubt 
 .affected him, and a few days at sea would make all right.
 
 A MAN OF BUSINESS. 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A MAN OF BUSINESS. 
 
 Whatever may be said of woman's disadvantages, she possesses 
 the great gift, denied to the male, of believing or disbelieving 
 certain things according to her own desires. The evidence of her 
 own senses, and of all human and even divine testimony, goes for 
 next to nothing when she once takes a thing into her head. ' If 
 an angel from heaven were to tell me so-and-so,' she says (it 
 generally relates to her husband), ' I should not believe him ; ' 
 and there is little doubt but that she would not. INIan, weak 
 creature, gives up his illusions when experience has proved them 
 baseless— there are examples of his having even parted with his 
 prejudices ; but woman, like a rock amid a world of waters, is deaf 
 to the universal voice — whether it come in lap or roar — and 
 remains immovable. Even if her belief is undermined by the 
 incessant beat of the wave, the result as respects others is the 
 same, since she never confesses it. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Conway had made up her mind — it was a small 
 parcel, but exceedingly compact — that her husband was not dead. 
 Her chief reason (though, in truth, reason had very little to do 
 with it) was, that the news came from Ralph Pennicuick, who 
 n(so she put it to herself without circumlocution) was a liar. 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 BY PROXY. 
 
 She would have believed, if it had been possible, that Pennicuick 
 was dead ; she wanted to believe it very much, and she had 
 believed it — both excellent causes for an immutable faith. But 
 since he had apparently telegraphed to his son in person, and was 
 coming home in the next steamer, she was obliged to give way in 
 that one particular. All the more steadily, however, did she 
 cling to her other fixed idea. Pennicuick would return to England 
 with a lie in his mouth about her husband. His statement that 
 his friend was dead was almost evidence to her that he was alive ; 
 and as to this story of his having been put to death for an outrage 
 upon Chinese religious feeling, if the sun had turned black in 
 corroboration of such an assertion, she would only have concluded 
 that Pennicuick had found means to apply tar or caustic to the 
 sun. While poor Nelly, therefore, was overwhelmed with grief and 
 pity for the loss of her father, her mother maintained an inviolable 
 calm which was set down by the little world around her as proof 
 of her want of feeling. 
 
 ' All we can say is,' said the more charitable, ' that it is better 
 than hypocrisy, since it is certain she never cared for her husband.' 
 
 But even these persons allowed that such conduct was indecent. 
 For many days she would not even go into mourning, and, when 
 persuaded so to do by her daughter, assumed her widow's weeds 
 under protest. 
 
 ' I tell you, your father is alive, child ; nor should I give up 
 my conviction to your importunities, but that it suits me to wear 
 mourning, because of other things that have happened.' 
 
 Nelly was well aware that her mother referred to her disap- 
 pointment about Ealph Pennicuick, and to the change in her own 
 fortunes brought about by that gentleman's being still in the flesh.
 
 A MAN OF BUSrNESS. 
 
 259 
 
 For it was one thing to poor Xellj to have had her grief on 
 account of the loss that had befallen her lover mitigated by the 
 thought of their assured union ; and quite another to have her 
 wretchedness on her fathers account enhanced bv the knowledofe 
 that Eaymond was removed from her still more completely than 
 before. And yet in both cases she strove her best to be unselfish. 
 She wept for her parent's fate upon its own account, and only 
 thought of her own in relation to him. She was miserable because 
 she was never to see him more ; never to know how the dear 
 bronzed face was changed from that whose likeness hung in the 
 drawing-room, and a copy of which she had taken for her own 
 little room. It had been the dream of her young life to welcome 
 him to England, and to effect a reconciliation between him and 
 her mother, so that his home should be home indeed. She had 
 fancied there were misconstructions, misunderstandings, between 
 her parents, that her eyes, quickened by Love, might penetrate, and 
 which she might smooth away, and that they might all be, one 
 day, happy together ; and all this was over now. The kind heart, 
 that, though so far away, had beaten, she knew, in sympathy with 
 her own, was pulseless ; the father would never clasp his child to 
 his arms ; the husband was dead, and the breach between him and 
 the woman he had sworn to love and cherish was not to be healed 
 in this world. 
 
 It was not quite so bad for Nelly as for some bereaved ones, 
 whom everything about them reminds of their calamity. There 
 were not those unmistakable links between her father's memory and 
 the ordinary life at home which exist in most cases, and the snapping 
 of each of which costs a sharp pang ; but such few things as were 
 connected with him had from their very rarity an unusual signi- 
 
 s 2
 
 26o BY PROXY. 
 
 ficance. His letters were sacred treasures, and the perusal of any 
 of them now carried her beyond the hounds of ordinary sorrow ; 
 she perceived, for the first time with distinctness, how the dead 
 man had been bound up in that distant daughter of his, and what 
 unaccustomed pains he had taken to show his love for her, and to ask 
 her confidence. How strange it was that he, a soldier, among such 
 stirring and alien scenes, should have striven to enter into her childish 
 thoughts, and interest himself in her homely wishes 1 What a gentle 
 heart must this man have had who, reaching his brown hand as it 
 were across the world, took her own little palm in his and pressed 
 it so tenderly ! In particular, it struck her, how generous was the 
 nature that never took advantage of the love it had evoked for 
 itself, to persuade her to take his side in the domestic quarrel. 
 He could not write to her, as fathers should do, of her mother, but 
 he never used an expression that could be construed as one of dis- 
 respect. Yet Nelly's sense of justice prevented her even now from 
 iDeing her father's partisan. 8he understood how the very love he 
 had shown for her must have been gall and wormwood to her 
 mother, for whom he had expressed none, and yet she herself had 
 never suffered for it. Her mother had never betrayed a spark of 
 jealousy, though bitter things had escaped her lips upon her own 
 account. And her silence now had an immense significance. Its 
 meaning was, in spite of her reiterated assurances that she knew 
 herself to be no widow,- that she had in truth a secret doubt about 
 it. Kalph Pennicuick might have lied to her as to the circum- 
 stances of her husband's death, and yet have told the truth as to 
 the fact. And in time there was confirmation of this. The 
 scanty income of Mrs. Conway and her daughter was paid through 
 an army agent at certain dates, and an instalment became pre-
 
 A MAN OF BUSINESS. 261 
 
 sently due. As it did not arrive, the widow wrote to the agent, 
 and his reply was that his esteemed client Captain Conway was 
 dead, and that there would be no more remittances. He probably 
 thought that the widow's application for the money was either the 
 most impudent proceeding that had been ever heard of west of 
 Temple Bar, or that it afforded the strongest proof within his ex- 
 perience of the ignorance of the female mind respecting business 
 matters. 
 
 Mrs. Conway put the letter into her daughter's hand, and ob- 
 served quietly, ' This does not alter my opinion, Nelly ; but I 
 suppose we must now act as you suggested.' 
 
 This was in reference to Nelly's proposal that they should con- 
 sult Mr. Wardlaw as to their affairs ; on the sale of their furniture, 
 and the realisation of what other little property they possessed ; 
 and generally upon the subject of their means of livelihood. 
 
 ' Shall we go together, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' No, dear ; I think, as the Wardlaws are your friends rather 
 than mine, you had better go alone.' 
 
 Nelly knew very well that it was not to escape a disagreeable 
 conversation that her mother had thus deputed the matter to her, 
 but to be spared the humiliation of owning herself even by impli- 
 cation in the wrong. She could hardly consult upon arrangements 
 to be made in consequence of her husband's death, and yet main- 
 tain her theory that he was alive. So, after their slender midday 
 meal was over, Nelly, dressed in her deep black garb, and with the 
 grave slow step that only genuine grief can teach the young and 
 healthful, took her way to their friendly neighbours. It was now 
 nearly five weeks from the date of her father's death, and since 
 that tidings had been brought to them by Kaymond she had not
 
 262 BY PROXY, 
 
 seen him. We may say at once that this was not his fault. He 
 had hesitated to intrude upon their calamity for the first few days, 
 and then had written to Mrs. Conway to ask leave to visit them. 
 She had declined to see him for the present, at the same time in- 
 timating that when they felt equal to a second interview she would 
 give him notice, and up to this time he had heard nothing further. 
 Mrs. Conway had penned her letter without consultation with her 
 daughter, or even letting her know that she had heard from Eay- 
 mond ; her distrust and hatred of Ealph Pennicuick were just then 
 so extreme, that they had almost extended to the young man him- 
 self ; his presence at all events would remind her of his father, and 
 was therefore unwelcome to her. But when Nelly had expressed 
 her quiet surprise at Eaymond's absence, Mrs. Conway did not con- 
 ceal the step she had taken, though she hid her two reasons for it. 
 ' Since this man is coming back so soon, my dear, I think it wise to 
 keep Eaymond at a distance. There may be nothing — as you tell 
 me — but friendliness between you, but that Ealph Pennicuick will 
 never believe. I do not wish him to reproach us in our stricken 
 state with laying a trap to catch his boy.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, how would it be possible for us — nay, for any- 
 body — to think of such things so soon ' Here she stopped, 
 
 remembering that her mother did not admit the premisses alluded 
 to, and half afraid that she should have angered her — as had been 
 more than once the case — by assuming them. But it was with 
 quiet calm that Mrs. Conway answered, ' You speak in ignorance, 
 Nelly — judging of others by your own standard. You are one 
 of those who think they see good in everybody when it is only the 
 reflection of their own proper feelings. To suppose that Ealph 
 Pennicuick would take such a small thing as his friend's death
 
 A MAN OF BUSINESS. 263 
 
 into account, in ascribing a motive to our actions, shows a simple 
 faith indeed. He will find us in the dust, but let us not give him 
 an opportunity of treading us under foot.' 
 
 ' Only do not let Raymond think us unkind,' pleaded Nelly. 
 
 ' I care nothing what he thinks, nor what anybody thinks* 
 I — - ' then came the symptoms familiar to her daughter by this 
 time — the hand pressed upon the side, and the face of pain, and 
 the break of speech in its full tide. 
 
 ' Everything shall be done as you please, dear mamma,' said 
 Nelly soothingly. ' Pray, pray, do not distress'yourself.' 
 
 And from that moment she had made no mention of Eaymond. 
 The motives that actuated her mother were unintelligible to her ; 
 it seemed to her inconsistent that a few weeks ago she should have 
 seemed to advocate her immediate marriage with her lover with- 
 out his father's consent, and that now, because Mr. Pennicuick 
 was coming home, she was to be even deprived of his son's friend- 
 ship. She did not understand that a middle course in relation 
 to Ealph Pennicuick was as impossible to her mother as it is to 
 the drunkard with respect to wine. She could keep him at a 
 distance and treat him with scom, or she could act in flat defiance 
 of him. But she could not be on such terms with him as would 
 give opportunity for patronage, or for the imputation of interested 
 conduct. 
 
 No doubt the sense of separation from Eaymond made Nelly's 
 heart more heavy than it would have been ; but her thoughts for 
 the present were almost monopolised by her recent loss. The 
 errand on which she was now bound to Coromandel House was sad 
 and serious enough, but her calamity so outweighed the results of 
 it that she did not as yet realise them ; in her knowledge that she
 
 264 BY PROXY 
 
 was bereaved she forgot that she might be also penniless. She 
 had timed her visit so as to find the master of the house at home^ 
 without reference to the canonical hours for ' calling ; ' and expected, 
 as usual, to be at once ushered into the dining-room, to find Mr, 
 Wardlaw with a handkerchief cast decently over his face, as was his 
 custom after dessert, and his wife — knitting-needle in hand — keep- 
 ing guard over his slumbers. 
 
 Upon this occasion, however, she was shown into the library, 
 where perhaps was to be seen the very newest collection of books on 
 view anywhere ; for in London, literature — with the exception of 
 the catalogue of the auction marts — had been neglected by Mr, 
 Wardlaw, while in the country he had understood a library to be a 
 sine qua non^ and had provided himself with one well furnished, 
 and thirty feet by twenty in length, accordingly. In a few minutes 
 her hostess entered the room, with a face in which Nelly was quick 
 to read not only sympathy for her own case, but a personal trouble. 
 ' My darling, this is indeed kind of you, and like the old times,' 
 she said. ' To keep aloof from one's true friends when misfortune 
 overtakes one is a bad plan ; but I know it is not your fault that 
 we have seen so little of one another lately ; and as for your 
 mother, I will say nothing more than that I am thankful that she 
 has let you come at last.' 
 
 ' She has not only let me come, but sent me, Mrs. Wardlaw ; 
 though my visit is not, I confess, without a selfish object. I am 
 come to consult your husband about my poor father's affairs.' 
 
 'Very good ; he will be delighted to see you, and will give you, 
 I am sure, the best advice in his pov/er. We shall find him in 
 the drawing-room, and, I hope, awake.' 
 
 She led the way into the room in question, where at the
 
 A MAN 01^ BUSINESS. 265, 
 
 dessert-table — Nelly noticed with surprise that it was laid for 
 three — sat Mr. Wardlaw, with a glass of spirits and water before 
 him, a beverage he much preferred to wine. 
 
 'Now sit down, my dear, and take an orange,' said he, pat- 
 ting Nelly's head as if she were a child ; ' you're as welcome 
 as nutmeg to punch in this house, and always will be ; how's 
 your ma ? ' 
 
 ' Mamma is pretty well as to health, Mr. Wardlaw ; though in 
 grievous trouble, as you may imagine. A new cause of worry 
 to her cropped up this morning, in the fact of Messrs. Boxe & Co. 
 declining to pay her quarter's allowance, on account of my poor 
 father's death. It was nothing more than what was to be ex- 
 pected, of course ; but you know my mother's views ; and now that 
 matters have come to a crisis, she has sent me here to ask your 
 counsel. She says that I know as much about poor dear papa's 
 affairs as she does, but indeed I know very little ; and it seems to 
 me that all that can be done at present is to make arrangements 
 about our house. Of course we cannot afford to live there, in any 
 case ' 
 
 ' And why not ? ' put in Mrs. Wardlaw ; ' you must live some- 
 where, Nelly, and why not there ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid that our landlord will say " he does not see the 
 necessity,"' said Nelly smiling. 'The house does not require 
 much " keeping up," it is true, but it requires an income of some 
 sort — and I don't know that we have any.' 
 
 ' You must have got sometJdng^ Nelly,' said Mrs. Wardlaw 
 confidently. ' But there, John will tell you all about it.' 
 
 ' My dear, I must have the facts before me,' said Mr. Wardlaw, 
 with the air of a man who only needs the raw materials to indite
 
 266 BY PROXY. 
 
 an epic. ' In the first place, Nelly, what does your father's will 
 say?' 
 
 ' We don't even know if dear papa left a will, Mr. Wardlaw.' 
 
 ' A will ! of course he left a will ! ' answered the merchant. 
 * The only question is whether the will is in England.' 
 
 ' But if he had nothing to leave ? ' said Nelly simply. 
 
 ' Stuff and nonsense ! everybody has something,' said Mr. 
 Wardlaw. ' The idea of your mother being in such a state of 
 helpless ignorance, Nelly ! she must be worse than m/y wife. She 
 always seemed to me a sensible, prudent woman, too.' 
 
 ' She is very careful and prudent, Mr. Wardlaw, so far as has 
 been possible for her ; but there were reasons — I think you will 
 understand them — why she has not pressed dear papa of late as to 
 our pecuniary position ; they were not on confidential terms, and 
 the subject of money ' 
 
 ' Of course, my dear,' interrupted Mrs. Wardlaw, willing to 
 spare her favourite what she knew would be a painful explanation ; 
 ^ that is intelligible enough.' 
 
 ' Not to me, my dear, I confess,' observed her husband drily. 
 *" Whether I were confidential with a party or not, I should insist 
 upon knowing how my affairs stood. As matters are, then, you 
 don't really know whether your father has left five thousand pounds 
 or fivepence ? You can tell me, I suppose, at least whether his 
 life was insured ? ' 
 
 'It was not so when he left England, nor has he mentioned 
 having insured his life in any of his letters. You see,' said Nelly, 
 in mitigation, as Mr. Wardlaw beat the air with his hands in 
 horrified dismay, ' dear papa found it hard enough to save out of 
 his professional income ' (the poor girl knew nothing about his
 
 A MAN OF BUSINESS. 267 
 
 successes at play, or the little thoroughbred he had ' financed ' for 
 a couple of racing seasons) ' to support his wife and daughter, and 
 had nothing to put by for an insurance premium.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Mr. Wardlaw, in a tone that suggested that it was 
 a bad look-out indeed. 
 
 'You will wonder what I come to consult you about, ]Mr. 
 Wardlaw,' continued Nelly, with a ghost of a smile, ' since it ap- 
 pears ' 
 
 'Nay, my dear, I don't wonder,' interposed Mr. Wardlaw 
 kindly ; ' it is the most natural thing in the world that you should 
 do so. And though, of course, until the China mail comes in, 
 nothing certain can be known of your affairs, I can perhaps be of 
 help in the mean time.' 
 
 ' That is what we thought,' answered Nelly eagerly. ' It was 
 you who were so kind as to take the house for us ; you will know 
 what to advise us as to giving it up. We have got it for the year, 
 mamma understands.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; you have undoubtedly the right of remaining in it 
 for the year,' 
 
 ' But it is not paid for up to the end of the twelve months ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw's face was a study ; she had moved behind her 
 young friend, and was making the most eloquent signals to her 
 husband to answer the girl in the affirmative. 
 
 ' Paid for ! ' echoed the merchant, with a clumsy laugh. ' Oh 
 yes, I paid for it myself — that is, of course, with your father's 
 money.' 
 
 ' Then we have a roof over our heads at least,' said Nelly, 
 with a sigh of relief. ' You see, if we had had to move at once 
 into small lodgings, we should have had to part with all our furni-
 
 268 BY PROXY. 
 
 ture, and there are some things — though it is only a fancy — that 
 I should be loth to part with, unless it were absolutely necessary.' 
 
 'Which it never will be,' put in Mrs. Wardlaw confidently. 
 ' Do you suppose there is not a room to keep things for you at 
 Coromandel House ! ' 
 
 ' What Miss Nelly is thinking of is that she may be obliged 
 to dispose of some superliuous articles,' observed the merchant 
 gravely. 
 
 ^ Then she ought to be ashamed of herself,' put in Mrs. Ward- 
 law indignantly, ' since she ought to know that she has friends as 
 would not stand by and see it done.' 
 
 'Nay, wife, the young lady is right. It is better to look 
 matters in the face, and make up one's mind to a thing when it 
 has to be done.' 
 
 ' That is what I am striving to do,' said Nelly simply ; ' to 
 begin a new sort of life, where pleasure may still be pleasure, but 
 a source of profit also. In case poor mamma is left with nothing 
 — absolutely nothing, I mean — I think — indeed, I know that I can 
 earn sufficient by my pencil, or rather my paint-brush, to supply 
 our modest needs. I have already made inquiries at an artist- 
 colourman's in town, who puts pictures for sale in his window ; 
 and I am not without hopes. I confess it is an immense relief to 
 me to find that we can stay on for a time at least in our present 
 quarters, since I could scarcely do my work so well in such lodg- 
 ings as we had, for example, in Gower Street. And oh, Mr. Ward- 
 law, I am so much obliged to you ' 
 
 ' Pooh, pooh ! for nothing at all. Why, what have I done ? ' 
 inquired the merchant with an aggrieved air, as though some im^ 
 puted misconduct of his own had melted the poor girl to tears.
 
 A MAN OF BUSINESS. 269 
 
 ' It is your kindness,' sobbed poor Xelly. ' I see you are so 
 sorry for us.' 
 
 ' I am sorry for your changed circumstances, my dear,' said 
 the merchant, patting her head, as she took her leave, ' that is, so 
 far as you yourself are concerned, and of course your mother like- 
 wise ; but personally, and from a commercial point of view, my 
 wife and I have cause to be pleased. We see our way to getting 
 some excellent pictures, by an artist we have long admired, dirt 
 cheap — cheaper even than at an auction.' 
 
 *He shall pay their weight in gold for them, my dear,' cried 
 Mrs. Wardlaw indignantly. 
 
 ' The market price — the market price, and a little under on 
 account of personal friendship,' answered her husband, waving her 
 away with his toddy-spoon. ' The great principles of buying in 
 the cheapest market, and taking advantage of the necessities of 
 the vendor, are cardinal points.' 
 
 'You are a greedy, gTasping, selfish wretch, John,' cried Mrs. 
 Wardlaw, ' to talk like that even in fun. Come along, my dear, 
 and don't waste another smile on him.' 
 
 Oh, rare and blessed gift of kindliness I what matters it in 
 what guise you come to the bruised human heart ? The rough 
 but genial humour of the honest merchant touched poor Nelly as 
 deeply as his wife's sympathetic tears. When' we are in trouble, 
 and find friends are true, the benefit is infinite, since it seems to 
 us a sign that Grod also has not forsaken us. And that visit to 
 Coromandel House had for Xelly the same sweet solace that is 
 found at shrines.
 
 270 By PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 
 
 'You must not mind John, dear,' said Mrs. Wardlaw, as she 
 took Nelly's hand and led her with a gentle violence from the 
 front door, to which she was tending, into the library once more. 
 
 ' Mind him ! ' said Nelly, with a smile. ' Indeed, I only mind 
 him in the sense of liking him very much.' 
 
 ' Well, I shall not believe that, if you run away from the house 
 as though you were in a huff, and don't give me a minute's talk to 
 myself. How nice my pretty pet does look,' added she, holding 
 the girl at arm's length and sighing, ' even in her black things ! ' 
 
 ' I do not feel nice, dear Mrs. Wardlaw. I am very unthankful, 
 I fear, for the good of the past, and very resentful of the evil to 
 come.' 
 
 ' And quite right too,' exclaimed Mrs. Wardlaw impulsively ; 
 ^ or, rather, it's only natural. It does seem very hard that a bright 
 little innocent creature like you should suffer so, now, doesn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Well, I don't think it ever struck me quite in that light, dear 
 Mrs. Wardlaw,' said Nelly, laughing ; ' but of course it seems 
 hard. My sense of loss, however, will wear away in time, I suppose, 
 and poverty is a burden that soon fits itself to the back.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm not so certain about that, Nelly. I wouldn't admit
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 271 
 
 as much to John for a fifty-pound note, but I will confess to you 
 that I never got over the discomfort of those omnibuses. It was 
 necessary, or I thought it was, to use them at one time, but I had 
 rather have walked the whole distance if my legs could have done 
 it. Never was more dismay and discomposure bought for two- 
 pence or threepence than I got for my money. In the first place, 
 there were *' Pickpockets, male and female, beware ! " staring me in 
 the face, at the bottom of the table of fares. I never picked a 
 pocket in my life, and the insult used to bring the blood into my 
 face to begin with.' 
 
 ' But, surely,' said Xelly, laughing, ' that notice is meant for 
 the honest people.' 
 
 ' I don't know which way it is to be read, my dear ; but it is 
 just as bad to be put on your guard against everybody that sits 
 next or opposite to you. Then I was always as much afraid of 
 losing my purse as of ha\ing it stolen, for what would become of 
 me when I got out, and couldn't pay ? Still I went on with those 
 omnibuses — out of principle, my dear — until I had that accident 
 opposite your house in Grower Street. Then says John, "Now, in 
 future you take cabs." But, lor, that was nearly as bad as the 
 other. Hansoms of course I would no more have trusted myself to 
 than to winged griffins, but the very first four-wheeler I engaged to 
 bring me home from a friend's house, where I had been to tea, took 
 me right away among strange streets, and presently down a steep 
 place into darkness, and then stopped. When I expected nothing 
 less than to be robbed and murdered, the man put his head into the 
 window, and said, " This is my mews ; and I am a-going to put a 
 fresh horse into the shafts, that's all." But it was nearly enough 
 to do for me. Then again I had sad colds at that time, and used to
 
 272 BY PROXY. 
 
 lose my voice. I could hail a cab, of course ; but when I had to say 
 where I wished to go to, it was very embarrassing- Many a time 
 have I gone quite close to the wheel and beckoned the man to lean 
 his head down that I might whisper in his ear, and his only reply 
 has been to drive off wildly, and almost over my toes, thinking 
 perhaps I was a mad woman and wanted to bite him.' 
 
 ' Well, now you have got a carriage of your own, Mrs. Wardlaw, 
 :all your troubles are over,' said Nelly, who, though her mind was 
 fixed on serious matters, had a great stock of patience and good 
 temper, and knew that as a listener she was conferring happiness 
 on her hostess. 
 
 ' Not all, my dear, I do assure 3^ou, as I was afraid you would 
 see by my red eyes when you entered the house. I'm fairly 
 ■worrited to death about them tambourines.' 
 
 ' What tambourines ? ' 
 
 ' Why, that gross of them as I told you John picked up at 
 ■some auction, and brought home with him six months ago. One 
 hundred and forty-four tambourines all blocking up my store cup- 
 board ! Well, since it was so long since he bought the things, I 
 began to hope he had forgotten all about them ; and the fact is, I 
 put them into a sale which I saw advertised in John's paper. And 
 now, only think, they have all come back again on my hands.' 
 
 ' What, couldn't you sell them ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! I sold them fast enough, but unfortunately it was 
 John that bought them. Bought his own tambourines, my dear, 
 at an advance of a shilling apiece, as I'm a sinful woman ! ' 
 
 ' And does not he know what he has done ? ' 
 
 ' Not a bit of ic ; and it makes me so miserable, because I've got 
 to tell him. He says, " Here's another gross of tambourines, my
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 273 
 
 dear ; a little dearer than the last, I am sorry to say, but it would 
 never do to let the price go down." ' 
 
 At this Nelly could no longer restrain herself, but broke into 
 a hearty laugh — such as had not escaped her since her first day of 
 mourning. 
 
 ' That's music,' said Mrs. Wardlaw, laughing too ; ' and there's 
 one within hearing of it, who will rejoice in it even more than I do. 
 Nelly dear, I've been a-talking about this, and that, and the other^ 
 but nothing — except the tambourines — has had any real hold upon 
 me. I was striving to keep your heart up, and to turn it mayhaps, 
 if I could see the chance, to listen to one as loves you dearly. 
 Eajonond Pennicuick is waiting in the boudoir yonder for one 
 clasp of your hand — if that is all you will give him.' 
 
 ' Eaymond here ! ' said Xelly, with a flush of anger as well as 
 of distress ; ' why was I not told at first ? ' 
 
 ' Because I was afraid you might have gone away, my darling, 
 from a mistaken sense of what was right. Of course he did not 
 know you were coming. He was dining with John and me, not 
 as I believe because we are much attraction for him, but simply 
 because we are your neighbours and friends, and like to talk about 
 you. When he heard you were at the door, he was for running 
 away, lest his presence should give you pain. But I said, " No I 
 you just wait here till I talk to her a bit, and she'll see you, never 
 fear." And you will see him, won't you, Xelly ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I will see him.' 
 
 She had gTOwn pale again, now, and calm. Indeed, Mrs. 
 AVardlaw thought she had never seen her ' bright little fairy,' as 
 she was wont to call her, so quiet and resolute-looking. 
 
 ' You are not going to be hard upon the poor lad, I trust,' said 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 ^y PROXY. 
 
 she apprehensively. ' I hoped I had put a little life and spirit 
 into you ; if it is not a good time for him to see you, let him bide 
 awhile, or he will lay all the blame upon my shoulders.' 
 
 ' It is as good a time now, Mrs. Wardlaw, as any time will be.' 
 ' Lor, my dear, you talk as if you were an old woman ; and 
 life is but beginning with you.' 
 
 ' I know it,' said Nelly gravely ; though, indeed, she felt as if 
 
 life — or all that was worth living for — was finished rather than 
 
 beginning. ' Where is Raymond ? ' 
 
 '^ Mrs. Wardlaw rose and opened a door that communicated with 
 
 her boudoir, an apartment which had been put to its first use that 
 
 day. As she never wrote, nor read, for pleasure, nor played on any 
 
 musical instrument, nor had any intimate acquaintances with 
 
 whom to en}oj Si tete-a-tete, the room was a superfluous luxury; 
 
 but this afternoon it had offered an asylum to Raymond Pennicuick, 
 
 where he had been placed in honourable imprisonment until it 
 
 should be decided whether Nelly was to see him or not. He had 
 
 guessed pretty accurately the cause of her long silence, but that 
 
 had only made it the more insupportable to him. If his visits 
 
 were unwelcome now, when he was his own master, how much less 
 
 welcome would they be after his father's return, when it would be 
 
 taken for granted that he was subject to his dictation. As Mrs. 
 
 Wardlaw had stated with such characteristic humility, it was for 
 
 some news of Nelly, some hint perhaps as to her position with 
 
 respect to himself, that he had called that day at Coromandel 
 
 House, where of course he had been pressed to stay to dinner. And 
 
 now, by a stroke of fortune — which might be good or bad — an 
 
 opportunity was afforded him of getting an explanation of the 
 
 state of affairs from Nelly's own lips.
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 275 
 
 The room was as elegant as the upholsterer's art could make 
 it — with dainty hand-paintings on the walls and ceilings, which 
 (as that astute tradesman had himself observed) had 'removed the 
 apartment beyond the domain of upholstery,' while a mag-nificent 
 stretch of landscape was commanded from the open windows ; but 
 neither the view without nor the scene within had attracted 
 Raymond's attention. He stood with his hand upon the central 
 table, waiting and watching for the summons that he felt would 
 come, but to which he had looked forward by no means with 
 delighted expectation. His eyes would indeed be gladdened by 
 the sight of Nelly — it was a physical impossibility that it should 
 be otherwise ; but the words of her lips might be far indeed from 
 those he longed for. He had begun to understand her backward- 
 ness to accept his proffered love since the change that had fallen 
 on his own fortunes. If she really thought it her duty to oppose 
 his wishes upon the groimd of his father's disapprobation of their 
 union, there was small chance of his winning her, for that objec- 
 tion was not likely to be removed. He had thought it possible, when 
 he had asked her permission to quote her own consent among the 
 arguments he was about to make use of to his father ; and of course, 
 when he had thought his father was dead, the'marriage had seemed 
 certain ; the question had become one of ' how soon ' only. But 
 from this last height of assurance his fall had been as severe as it 
 was sudden. All the objections of his father had once again pre- 
 sented themselves to his mind, accompanied with a certain preju- 
 dice of the force of which he had not taken much account. He 
 had long understood that Mrs. Conway and his father were 
 antagonistic ; so much so, that he and the Captain could hardly 
 have been such close friends had the pillars of domestic peace 
 
 T 9.
 
 276 BY PROXY. 
 
 at home been unshaken; but he had thought this enmity lay 
 mainly on the lady's side — was one of those unreasoning prejudices 
 which women so often entertain, and which in her case amounted 
 to mania. But now he had begun to think this hate was recipro- 
 ■cated. The terms of his father's telegram occurred to him again 
 and again, and always with a renewed impression of hardness and 
 antagonism. 'Conway killed by Chinese. Break the news to 
 family.' The curtness of it almost bordered upon cruelty. In- 
 deed, to his morbid apprehension, it seemed to have been couched 
 purposely in that hard style, not to save a few sovereigns — which 
 liad probably been his father's chief motive — but to express a fixed 
 hostility. And at the back of all this there was the ominous 
 silence of Nelly herself for the last five weeks. 
 
 Thus it was that with no high-wrought expectation Kaymond 
 saw the boudoir door open, and reveal the girl he loved by the side 
 of his hostess. That she smiled upon him, and shook his hand so 
 frankly, were no longer the good omens he would have taken them 
 for a while ago ; if she had hung back and looked embarrassed or 
 even sorrowful, he would have liked it better, for these friendly 
 signs might well belong to that role of 'sister' which she had 
 already announced her intention of playing. 
 
 ' I shall leave you young people together to make your own 
 explanations,' said Mrs. Wardlaw. ' I suppose you have no objection 
 to be left alone with him, Nelly ? ' 
 
 This was by no means said in a light vein. She understood 
 that there was a kink in the cable of true love, so serious that 
 electric communication was suspended; and she was not sure 
 whether a private interview with Kaymond would at present be 
 agreeable to the girl.
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 277 
 
 'I have certainly no objection,' said Xelly gTavely. 'WTiy 
 should I have ? ' 
 
 The question was addressed to ^Irs. Wardlaw, as she left the 
 room, but Raymond replied to it. 
 
 ' I know not why, indeed, Nelly ; but it does seem as though 
 you did entertain objections to see me. Do you know it is five 
 weeks since we met last ? ' 
 
 ' I know it is a long time, Eaymond ; I have felt it to be very 
 long, believe me.' 
 
 ' You would have seen me, then, if the choice had lain with 
 yourself?' said Raymond eagerly. 
 
 ' Yes, I think so. I would not so long have delayed the — the 
 explanation, as ]Mrs. Wardlaw calls it, between us, — which must 
 needs have come sooner or later. Matters are not as they were, 
 Raymond, when you and I spoke to one another' — she hesitated, 
 and a faint flush overspread her cheek— ' that afternoon in the 
 garden. They were not favoiu-able to the wish you were so good 
 as to express, even then ; I did not even then share the hope that 
 you entertained ' 
 
 ' But you shared the wish,' put in Raymond pleadingly ; 
 ' whatever you are going to say, at least do not retract yom* own 
 confession.' 
 
 ' I deny that I confessed to you anything, Raymond ; and I 
 am sure you are not so cruel as to put me to the question now. 
 As things stood at that time, I repeat, the probability of what you 
 desired being accomplished was very small. It has now dwindled 
 into nothing.' 
 
 ^ Who says that ? who has a right to say it ? ' inquired Raymond 
 quickly.
 
 278 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' I say it, Raymond ; I who have a right above all others to 
 speak upon this matter, since my life — or the peace of my life — 
 depends upon it. These are selfish words, you may say ; Heaven 
 knows that they are not so : but you are welcome to believe them 
 selfish. If my mother and I were but poor, and my father were 
 yet alive to be a bond in some sort between your father and our- 
 selves, your love for me would be likely to meet with opposition from 
 him ; how, think you, would he regard it now, when we are not 
 only poor but penniless, and the tie — slender at best — is snapped 
 that bound him to us ! ' 
 
 * There is at least a hope,' urged Raymond ; ' why stifle it ? ' 
 
 ' No, Raymond, there is no hope ; and even if there were, that 
 is, even if your father could be induced to give his consent, and to 
 make you some allowance such as would be fitting — you understand, 
 I hope, that I am speaking of your position, not of mine — I say, 
 even then I doubt whether my mother would permit me to accept 
 his bounty. It may be prejudice ; but it is no use to combat it, 
 and she is my mother, the only being to whom my duty is now 
 owed.' 
 
 'Yet love is duty too, dear Nelly,' pleaded Raymond; 'and 
 though to my sole parent I also owe obedience, and have never 
 shrunk from paying it, yet, in this case, I claim to be my own 
 master ; no man, not even a father, has a right to destroy the 
 happiness of another. If I had anything — were it but enough to 
 buy food and clothing and a roof to cover us — of my own, I would 
 work, I would slave for you till better times, and in the mean while 
 our poverty would be happiness. But since. Heaven help me ! I 
 have nothing certain — I cannot, I dare not, ask you to run a risk 
 so perilous.'
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 279 
 
 He spoke with vehemence, and trembled as he spoke, moved 
 with o'ermastering love. Xelly trembled too; for had he but 
 known it, she was on the very verge of passion's giddy height, 
 while he thus held out his arms to her. 
 
 Her mother, as will be remembered, had informed her that 
 Eaymond would have an income of his own — though he was him- 
 self unaware of it — when he should come of age. If be had known 
 it, how vehemently would he have m-ged his suit I When he 
 should come to know it, how quickly would he renew his appeal I 
 It was the foreknowledge of this that had caused her to lay such 
 weight upon her mother's prejudice against his father, though 
 indeed it had weight enough of its own. In her mother's present 
 temper — and it was to the_last degTee unlikely that it would suffer 
 mitigation — an alliance with Raymond, if it included the permis- 
 sion of the elder Pennicuick, would mean a practical separation 
 from her remaining parent. The question that Eaymond had put, 
 •' Had anyone a right, even a parent, for a mere personal whim, to 
 destroy tiie happiness of her offspring?' had at least as great a 
 force with her as with himself. Indeed, it had a greater, for her 
 disposition was less dependent, though not less filial. She knew 
 how her heart would make common cause with his, when he should 
 say, ' I am free to marry you ; I have enough for both, though not 
 to spare. Let us be happy.' But in accepting him she felt that 
 she would be destroying for him all that is included in what the 
 world calls prospects. Thanks to her, he would be a poor man all 
 his life, and alienated from the father to whom he had hitherto 
 been an exemplary son. Had she a right to force him to this 
 sacrifice, because she loved him ? or was it not because she loved him 
 that she ought to save him from himself — from the results of his
 
 28o BY PROXY. 
 
 own generous passion ? The answer was plain to her ; and it must 
 be given him now — at once — while his strongest arguments could 
 not be urged against her. Yet every word she was about to use 
 would be a dagger-thrust in her own breast. 
 
 ' Eaymond,' she said, ' there was no need to speak as you have 
 spoken ; I know your nature to its core. There is no man whom I 
 esteem so much, or ever will be, or for whom I would do more than 
 I would for you ; but the one thing I will not do, so help me 
 Heaven ! is to consent to your own ruin. Listen to me, for what I 
 say will never be recalled or altered. If you find it impossible to 
 keep the word you passed to me six weeks ago, and behave to me 
 as a dear friend and brother, I will not see you again. I have 
 suffered — well, no matter what — from your absence from us during 
 our late calamity. When the heart is sorrowful and very heavy, 
 it yearns for friendship, and the more when it has but one or two 
 friends. But I can bear your absence for ever, better than a repeti- 
 tion of such scenes as these. If you speak to me of love again, Eay«^ 
 mond — it wounds me to the quick to say so, but I mean it — then 
 speech between us two will be over ; you will have spoken to me 
 for the last time.' 
 
 ' The last time I ' echoed the young man, like one who cannot 
 believe his ears. ' She will have spoken to me for the last time ! ' 
 
 ' Such is my fixed and positive resolve — a harsh one, you will 
 say, but even harshness is sometimes necessary to secure obedience. 
 Upon one side stand you and your love ; upon the other — forgive 
 me for speaking of them as antagonistic, for it needs must be 
 so — stand myself and my future. My mother and I are absolutely, 
 as I understand, without resources, and from henceforward we shall 
 both be dependent for the means of existence upon my personal
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 281 
 
 exertions. I shall need all my wits, all my courage, all my strength^ 
 for this battle of life, for which I shall be armed with but a poor 
 pencil and paint-brush. Do you not see, dear Kaymond, how 
 necessary it will be for me to be at least in freedom ? If, in addition 
 to what is required of me, I am tied and bound to you, by an engage- 
 ment however contingent upon circumstances, how is it possible 
 that I can be my own mistress ? All my thoughts and all my time 
 will be bespoken by the work before me ; I could not afford — to 
 put the matter on its lowest ground, but still upon a high one,. 
 since another will be dependent on me — to have my mind disturbed 
 by hopes so tender.' 
 
 ' But other girls, dear Nelly,' pleaded Eaymond, ' find strength 
 and motive in such hopes.' 
 
 ' Then I am not as other girls, or at least,' she added hastily^ 
 ' the circumstances in which I am placed compel me to be different.. 
 1 know what is good for you, Eaymond, and what is possible for 
 me. Pray understand that I am resolute about this matter. You 
 must promise me to be henceforth as my brother only, or we must 
 be strangers altogether.' 
 
 ' But if my father does consent to our marriage, and gives u& 
 fitting means, and if your mother should abate her unreasonable 
 prejudices, in that case at least, darling, you will promise to be 
 mine ? ' 
 
 ' I will promise nothing, Raymond,' answered the girl vehe- 
 mently. ' It is cruel of you to demand it. What you ask i& 
 nothing less than a confession of love from one who has forbidden 
 you to speak of love. If I should answer " yes," I should be bound 
 to you as though all those impossible events of which you speak had 
 actually taken place. It is not my wish to be so fettered, and still
 
 282 BY PROXY. 
 
 less so to fetter you. You are a free man, to marry whom you 
 please.' 
 
 Raymond shook his head with a sad smile, but she went on 
 without regarding it. ' And I also am free to begin my new life of 
 labour — not in happiness indeed, but at least without the distrac- 
 tion and distress of groundless hope. Here is my hand, Raymond, 
 a hand that has work to do in the world.' 
 
 Raymond took her hand, surely the whitest and tiniest that ever 
 had to do with work, and pressed it in both his own. 
 ' Grood-bye — sister,' said he, tenderly. 
 ' Grood-bye — brother,' answered she firmly. 
 ' But I thought brothers and sisters always kissed one another, 
 Nelly?' 
 
 The innocent simplicity of tlie young rascal's tone would have 
 made his fortune in a stage play. 
 
 ' I don't think that is necessary,' said she, turning very white. 
 ' Then I won t ask it,' replied he with gravity, as he opened the 
 door for her, and bowed her out. 
 
 Lover though he was, he was secretly delighted that she had 
 not kissed him ; for it seemed somehow to signify that she was not 
 quite prepared to play her part in the new relations she had her- 
 self established between them. 
 
 Nelly made no attempt to see her hostess, but started for 
 home at once ; she had done her duty — or what she believed to be 
 her duty — and in doing it had shown, as she flattered herself, no 
 sign of weakness ; but it had in fact cost her very dearly. Her 
 comfort was that it had been in truth for Raymond's sake, and not 
 her own, that she had given him up : but it was but cold comfort. 
 Light as her frame was, her limbs trembled under it, as she took her
 
 A BITTER TRIAL. 283 
 
 solitary way, and she felt depressed in mind as she was weak in 
 body. The work before her in the world had seemed pleasant 
 enough when it had been play, but it had had but small attraction 
 for her in itself. Toil without pleasure, life without love, seemed 
 henceforward to be her lot. 
 
 By the time she reached home, she had summoned up a smile 
 to meet her mother, but it was a relief to her to learn that she had 
 retired to her own room, ' not wishing to be disturbed for an hour 
 or so,' as the servant said. She threw herself on the sofa in the 
 little drawing-room, and saying to herself, ' I will be strong and 
 patient,' burst into tears ; they were very bitter tears, but they did 
 her good. The first thing she noticed, when the last had been 
 shed, and she had dried her eyes, was that there was a space upon 
 the wall where her father's picture had been wont to hang. She 
 understood at once that her mother had taken it upstairs with her, 
 and^also that it was a tacit confession on her part that she was 
 indeed bereaved.
 
 284 BY PROXY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 EETURNED. 
 
 As the time drew on for the return of his father from China. 
 Raymond Pennicuick began to be greatly excited, and so strangely 
 that the state of his feelings was unintelligible even to himself. 
 That he was pleased to be about to see the parent whom he had 
 mourned as dead, alive and well, he took for granted ; but some- 
 thing so very bitter was mixed with his cup of happiness, that 
 the result was an ill flavour. It was not only that Captain Conway 
 was dead, or had met his death under circumstances that must 
 needs have been horrible and distressing, though of their precise 
 nature he had not been as yet informed ; but the consequences 
 that had resulted from the false telegram oppressed him in various 
 ways. It had been terrible to hear that his father was no more ; but 
 it was also terrible to find that his own marriage with Nelly, which 
 that sad circumstance had seemed to ensure, was now farther off 
 than ever. Nelly, indeed, as we have seen, thought it so out of 
 all human probability, that she had forbidden the subject to be 
 alluded to, and professed to have banished hope itself. And finally,, 
 there were those revelations of the family lawyer, which that 
 gentleman probably regretted as much as Raymond himself did. 
 Raymond had, of course, suspected much of what he was now
 
 RETURNED. 285 
 
 compelled to know, but he had always given his father the benefit 
 of all doubts, and this dutiful charity was no longer possible. 
 The secrets he had thus incidentally learnt were not, indeed, crimes : 
 they were only what society smiles at as peccadilloes ; but there 
 were certain pecuniary arrangements in connection ^vith them, 
 which made it necessary he should be acquainted with these 
 matters, that he could not but regard as mean. And those arrange- 
 Luents had, of course, been made by his father himself. It was 
 most unfortunate that he should have become possessed of such 
 particulars at the very time when the springs of duty were some- 
 .vhat dry, and he had most need of his filial respect. And yet — so 
 'oyal was the young fellow's nature — the less he respected, 
 :he more he felt compelled to obey his father. He had portrayed 
 ro himself that scene of amval at Southampton : the sight of the 
 .'essel as it neared the docks, the meeting on the deck, the tete- 
 \-tete dinner at the ' Sun ; ' but, as it happened, these pictures 
 turned out, as such so often do, but so many mental mirages — 
 illusions of anticipation. Eaymond got a telegram from his father 
 from Cairo, in his usual concise style : ' Shall be at my rooms in 
 he Albany on the 14th to dinner.' It was clear by the date that he 
 vas coming overland, which was rather surprising. Ralph Pennicuick 
 :iever spent money extravagantly, unless to give himself pleasure, 
 iiid a sea voyage had been hitherto always preferable in his eyes 
 ro a journey by railway. Raymond did not flatter himself that 
 ohis haste could be caused by a desire on the traveller's part to 
 clasp his only son in his arms, but he did venture to hope that it 
 night be owing to some consideration for the Conways. His 
 ■ather must know how the widow and orphan yearned to hear 
 particulars concerning their lost one ; not, indeed, the details of
 
 286 BY PROXY. 
 
 his decease, which, on the contrary, it would be well to spare 
 them, but how he looked and spoke in those last hours, and what 
 fond farewells he might have sent them. It was important, too, 
 for them to know as early as possible of what worldly goods (if 
 any, alas !) he had died possessed. 
 
 On the day and near the hour appointed, Eaymond turned his 
 steps to his father's chambers. He had been there more than 
 once of late to see that everything was in order for his arrival — a 
 work of some supererogation, since Mr. Pennicuick's valet, Hatton, 
 was already installed there, who had a keen eye for his business, 
 sharpened by twenty years' experience of his master's ways. Most 
 men of fortune, when they go abroad, take their body-servants 
 with them ; but, in this case, the master, though bent on pleasure, 
 had always a frugal mind. He allowed the man a certain sum, 
 which did not, however, amount to the board wages usually de- 
 manded by gentlemen's gentlemen, and, to use his own expression, 
 let him ' run loose.' It was like turning a horse out to grass when 
 you have no present use for him. And Hatton was of such a 
 patient and contented nature — or seemed to be so — that he never 
 missed his corn. It was wonderful how well, considering Pennicuick's 
 harsh and overbearing character, master and man got on together; 
 and though opportunities were by no means wanting to the latter 
 to ' better himself in other situations, he stuck where he was. If 
 Ralph Pennicuick happened to say some morning, as he poured, 
 himself out his cup of coffee, ' I am going to Egypt this afternoon ; 
 put my things to-rights here, and give the key of my rooms to 
 the porter,' Hatton only replied, ' Very good, sir.' If the master 
 chose to name the date of his return, the man was always sure to 
 be at his post a day or two beforehand ; and if otherwise, Mr.
 
 RETURNED. 287 
 
 Hatton was always ' to be heard of ' at the ' Coach and Horses, 
 Grroom Street.' Whether he was Jew or Christian, married or 
 single, his master never inquired and never knew. I was once 
 acquainted with a very stately and perfect butler who left his 
 situation Cand quite right too) because his employer evinced no 
 sympathy with him : ' I ain't 'ad a word o' kindness, my lady,' 
 said he, ' since I 'a bin in your service, and it's love, it's love, it's 
 love, as makes the world go round.' But Mr. Hatton was not of 
 this sentimental nature. Grreat confidence, however, was reposed 
 in him by his master — so much so, that people used to express their 
 astonishment at it ; but Ralph Pennicuick was one who would 
 soon have discovered if he was being robbed, and would certainly 
 not have hesitated to prosecute the offender to the bitter end. 
 
 Hatton was a wiry little fellow, of middle age, who only by the 
 most scrupulous care could prevent himself from appearing ' horsey ;* 
 but as it was, he looked the quiet impassive confidential valet to 
 perfection. He was always very civil to Raymond, but not without 
 a touch of patronage ; and I am afraid he did not think very highly 
 of his intelligence. ' The young un runs wonderful well in harness 
 with his governor, considering,' he would remark to his intimates, 
 ' but they ain't anything of a match. One is a couple of hands 
 higher than the other in point of wits.' 
 
 From the terms of which frank criticism it must not be hastily 
 concluded that Mr. Hatton was (while on service) otherwise than 
 polished, grave, and reticent. 
 
 Mr. Pennicuick's chambers in the Albany were on the first 
 floor, and in that portion of the building which, if you did not 
 know in how fashionable a spot you stood, and also if it were but a 
 trifle cleaner, you might take for a model prison. It seems as
 
 288 BY PROXY. 
 
 though, posted in the upper gallery, an intelligent warder might 
 observe all that came and went, and all that was done in the great 
 •echoing place ; in which case he would have needed to be a warder 
 •of philosophic temperament, and who would not have minded 
 sitting up occasionally very far into the small hours. 
 
 Like all the rest, the chambers in question were guarded by 
 double doors, and when the outside one was closed, or ' sported ' as 
 it is termed at college, it not only said ' not at home,' but meant 
 it. The inmate might be within, but there was no means of dis- 
 turbing him at his devotions, or any other private pursuit in 
 ■which he might be engaged. To be sure, in some instances, as in 
 this case, there was a little staircase within, leading to the valet's 
 room, but it was as much as that gentleman's gentleman's place 
 was worth to go out or in at unseasonable times. When the 
 master would be private, the man was himself in quarantine. 
 
 The outer door was now open, and the inner, with its smart 
 little brass knocker and bell handle (the bell of which, as in a 
 stage play, tinkled immediately on the other side), presented itself 
 to Eaymond ; but this he set down to the fact of Hatton's presence. 
 He had rarely been more astonished than he was when, in answer to 
 his summons, the man appeared, and, with a voice unusually grave 
 and low, observed : 
 
 ' Master is come, sir.' 
 
 ' What ! my father here already ! ' said Eaymond. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, sir, more than two hours ago : he almost took 
 mie by surprise,' — by which Mr. Hatton meant to express the very 
 -extremity of the unforeseen. Then he added, in a little lower tone 
 ^ You will see a great alteration in him, Mr. Raymond.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Does he not look well ? '
 
 RE2 URNED. 289 
 
 ' Well, it is not only that ; he looks altogether out of conditiou. 
 He's been shuck, sir, you may depend upon it, sadly shuck.' And 
 Mr. Hatton put his finger significantly (but very deferentially) to 
 his nose, to express that that opinion was a confidential com- 
 munication. 
 
 ' I daresay he is tired with his long journey, Hatton,' answered 
 the young fellow ; and the next moment he was ushered into the 
 traveller's presence. 
 
 For an instant Eaymond hardly knew his father, so grizzled 
 had the black beard become, and so shiTinken was the sunburnt 
 face on which it grew. The eyes in particular had a wavering 
 and indecisive look which he had never seen in them before. The 
 whole appearance of the man suggested not only fatigue but 
 worry. 
 
 * Well, Eaymond, my boy, how are you ? ' The voice even 
 was changed ; it had lost its habitual coldness ; and if not genial, 
 was at least conciliatory. Its tone, joined with his father's looks, 
 at once went to Raymond's heart. 
 
 ' I am very glad to see you home, sir, though sorry for the 
 cause that has cut short your travel. You must have come very 
 fast, without giving yourself much time for rest, I fear.' 
 
 ' What, 1 look fagged, do I ? Well, that is like enough. 
 The heat on the voyage was frightful ; after that cursed steamer 
 even the railway carriage seemed like paradise ; and when I got in 
 it, I stopped there and came right on.' 
 
 * I am sure you must want rest and quiet, and you will find it 
 here. Everybody is out of London.' 
 
 ' Ah, I suppose so ; the men are gone to the moors, and the 
 VOL, I. M
 
 90 BY PROXY. 
 
 women after them. What is your news? — remember, I know 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' Well, sir, I have not been much interested of late in public 
 matters, the tidings from yourself and about yourself having mono- 
 polised my attention.' 
 
 ' About myself? What do you mean ? ' 
 
 Ealph had been standing at the open window, with his eyes 
 fixed on the flower-box that stood in it ; but now he turned them 
 sharply on his son. 
 
 ' I mean the telegram that came by mistake, and for some time 
 was of course believed, that the catastrophe which befell poor 
 Captain Conway ' 
 
 'Ah, had happened to me,' interrupted Ealph Pennicuick 
 
 indifferently. ' To be sure, I had forgotten that. I must seem 
 
 like the man in the poem, who died and came back to receive but 
 
 an iron welcome. 
 
 The hard heir strides about his lands, 
 And will not yield them for a day. 
 
 It must have been deuced unpleasant for you to find you had 
 to disgorge.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir, I did not feel that,' said Eaymond. ' There are 
 heavier losses in the world than money losses.' 
 
 ' You think so, do you ? ' Ealph Pennicuick was himself again 
 as he said that. Contempt for the sentiment expressed, and for 
 the person expressing it, were both conveyed in that short sentence. 
 
 ' Yes, sir, I do,' said Eaymond boldly. ' I think money a very 
 inferior commodity as compared with affection.' 
 
 ' Ah, you have never had enough of the former article to appre- 
 ciate it, my boy. Unfortunately, what is enough for one^that is,
 
 RETURNED. 291 
 
 if the one has been accustomed to his little conaforts — is not 
 enough for two, or you would have had a wider experience.' 
 
 Eaymond did not reply. He could not help thinking of the 
 lawyer's revelation to him — about which, of course, he could say 
 nothing — respecting that 20,000L over and above that of which 
 he knew his father to be possessed ; the phrase ' not enough for 
 two ' seemed wofally out of place. His father must surely have 
 enough, at all events, to place in competence the widow and daughter 
 of his best friend. He was longing to speak upon that subject, 
 and it seemed strange that the opportunity had not been already 
 afforded him — that his father had not yet let fall one word concern- 
 ing the sad incident which had brought him prematurely home. 
 
 In the next sentence, delivered after a long pause, however, his 
 father made allusion to it. 
 
 ' How are poor Conway's widow and daughter ? ' 
 
 ' They are well in health, sir ; that is, so I hear from Mrs. Ward- 
 law, for I have seen but little of them myself of late ; but of course 
 they are dreadfully cut up, and besides ' 
 
 ' How is it that you have seen so little of them ? ' interrupted 
 Ralph Pennicuick curtly. 
 
 ' Well, sir, partly her bereavement, and partly, I am afraid, the 
 possibility of a change for the worse in her circumstances, have made 
 Mrs. Conway disinclined for the society of even her old friends.' 
 
 ' Ay, a morose woman ; that was always her character. And 
 the girl?' 
 
 'Xelly is very courageous, and makes up her mind for the 
 worst ; she actually thought of giving drawing lessons, and earning 
 her own living by her pencil, if such a course should be necessary, 
 which I most sincerely trust will not be the case,'
 
 292 BY PROXY. 
 
 ' Certainly not ; she need do nothing of the kind,' answered 
 Ealph Pennicuick emphatically. 
 
 ' I am delighted to hear you say so, father. I could not believe 
 that Captain Conway had left no provision for their wants; it 
 would have been most sad ' 
 
 ' Who said he had left provision ? ' interrupted the other 
 angrily. ' What provision do you suppose a captain in a marching 
 regiment, who had always to live abroad to support his family, was 
 likely to leave ? When I said his daughter need not support her- 
 self by her own exertions, it was because I, his friend, intend to 
 take that burden upon me.' 
 
 ' That is very kind of you, sir,' said Eaymond ; ' but ' 
 
 ' But what ? Is there anything so extraordinary in an act of 
 liberality, or do you think it extraordinary that your father should 
 be the man to do one ? ' 
 
 He spoke with heat and very excitedly. Eaymond answered, 
 quietly enough, ' I am not surprised — far from it — at your offering 
 to assist them, sir ; and indeed I took it for granted that you would 
 do so.' 
 
 ' Quite right, quite right,' replied the other ; ' though, mind you, 
 I acknowledge no claim.' 
 
 ' Beyond the claim of friendship, of course not. I am sure you 
 will proffer your assistance with all delicacy ; but from what I have 
 noticed, I am apprehensive that they will have scruples in accepting 
 it. That is why I feel disappointed that it seems they have no 
 means of their own.' 
 
 ' Of course it would be better if everybody could leave their 
 wives and children well provided for,' returned Ealph Pennicuick 
 testily. ' Unfortunately, only one person in a thousand can do so.
 
 RETURNED. 293 
 
 Conway, as we all know, was not one of the fortunate exceptions. 
 You speak of the scruples of his family ; why should they have 
 scruples ? ' 
 
 ' It is not '' they," but one of them, of whom I was thinking. 
 I do not agree with you that Mrs. Conway is morose ; but she is 
 rather peculiar, and ' 
 
 ' She hates me like the devil — probably more than the devil — 
 if that is what you mean by being " peculiar," ' interrupted the 
 other. 
 
 Eaymond was greatly embarrassed by this outburst, for he felt 
 that what had been said was true. At the same time, it was cre- 
 ditable to his father that, in spite of his knowledge of Mrs. Con- 
 way's feelings towards him, he had the intention to benefit her. 
 
 ' Antipathies are often removed by kindness, sir,' said he gently ; 
 ' though of course I was not alluding to anything of the kind ; I 
 referred to her independence of spirit, which would probably make 
 her hesitate to receive a mere bounty.' 
 
 ' She can either take it or leave it, for that matter ; her obsti- 
 nacy shall not affect my good intentions. I will settle some sum 
 upon her daughter which will be sufficient for both of them.' 
 
 ' You are very good,' said Eaymond, and that doubtful phrase 
 for once really expressed his feelings. But at the same time he 
 was far from satisfied that this benevolent scheme would bring 
 forth fruit. He knew that Nelly shared in some degree her 
 mother's independence of character, if not her antipathies, and 
 would be slow to take her bread from another's hand ; moreover, he 
 felt that, as a dependent on his father's bounty, she would in his 
 eyes be less eligible than ever as a wife for his son. He had 
 intended to speak upon that matter, if any opening had offered
 
 294 BV PROXY. 
 
 itself, if his father had expressed that sorrow and tenderness for 
 the family, and for his friend's memofy, which he had ventured to 
 hope ; but the moment, it was clear, Was far from opportune. 
 There was a certain harshness in his father's tone, even when 
 speaking of his own good intentions towards the widow and her 
 daughter, that warned Eaymond to postpone the pleading of his 
 cause. Between the time that must elapse before the letter he had 
 written to China could return and reach his father's hands, there 
 would surely be better opportunities 5 only meanwhile he could 
 not speak to Nelly on the subject, and she was sure to construe 
 his silence as significant of failure. 
 
 Dinner had been brought in by this time, and while Hatton 
 waited, it seemed natural enough that the conversation should be 
 confined to general subjects. Mr. Pennicuick appeared to be more 
 interested in politics than had been customary with him of late 
 years, and expressed his intention of sitting for a borough, if a 
 good one (by which he meant a bad one) should happen to offer 
 itself. But when the repast was over and they were left alone, he 
 still abstained from speaking of the catastrophe that had befallen 
 his friend. At this, Eaymond, who knew his father to be far from 
 sentimental, was greatly surprised, and as the evening wore on he 
 felt it incumbent on himself to broach the subject. 
 
 ' I promised, as soon as I should have seen you, to run down to 
 Kichmond,' said he tentatively, ' in case you yourself should be 
 imable to do so*' 
 
 ' Ah, very good. Perhaps you may be able to sound Mrs. 
 Conway as respects her acceptance of the — the allowance we were 
 speaking of; I should wish to behave handsomely in the matter; 
 what do you say to 300L a year ? '
 
 RETURNED. 295 
 
 If Ralph Penuicuick, who of course was not aware that Ray- 
 mond knew of that ' nest ^^y^y ' of 20,000/., expected an outburst of 
 applause at this munificence, he must have been disappointed ; the 
 young man only answered with gravity, ' It will, I think, be quite 
 sufiBcient. Their tastes are very simple, and they have always 
 been accustomed to live upon a little.' 
 
 ' Yes, but a little which is given as of right becomes a good 
 deal, let me tell you, when it is given voluntarily,' observed the 
 elder Pennicuick. ' You speak as if 300/. a year was to be picked 
 up at every street corner. I named that sum, however, because I 
 thought it a fitting one ; if you think it less than it ought to be, 
 I will add another hundred.' 
 
 Raymond looked up surprised, not, indeed, even now at the 
 extent of his father's liberality, which to his eyes seemed moderate 
 enough, but at the efi"ect of his own words. It occm-red to him little 
 less than astounding that any arguments of his, and far less any 
 mere hint or intimation, should have altered his father's \dews, and 
 especially upon a matter of money. Hitherto, upon the few occa^ 
 sions when he had ventured to propose a freer disbursement of 
 cash, whether in his own favour or that of others, he had met with 
 a steadfast and contemptuous resistance. 
 
 ' I think it would be very gracious, father, to leave the ladies 
 their choice. You could say they are the best judges of their own 
 requirements, and that either 300/. or 400/. a year would be equally 
 convenient to you.' 
 
 ' It is absurd to pretend there is no difiference between 3 and 4,' 
 answered the other testily ; * but make the offer your own way. I 
 intend to act for their benefit, of course, but I don't desire any 
 thanks — mind that^ he added sharply. 'I don't wish them to
 
 296 BY PROXY. 
 
 feel any sense of obligation, and still less do I wish them to 
 express it.' 
 
 The sentiment was not out of keeping with his father's cha- 
 racter ; he was a man who did not care for thanks (and, to say 
 truth, he seldom earned them), but the vehemence of his words 
 and manner struck Raymond, as remarkable. 
 
 ' Of course, sir,' said he, smiling, ' they will not thank you if 
 you don't like it. But are they not to hear your kind intentions 
 towards them from your own lips ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I have no time at present to go down to Richmond. I 
 have a great deal to do in London. You can say everything for me.' 
 ' But I have nothing to say, father. With the exception of this 
 generous offer, which I will take on myself to make known to 
 them, since you wish it, I have absolutely nothing to tell them : I 
 mean, as to Captain Conway's death. Of course they will be ex- 
 pecting particulars.' 
 
 ' What nonsense ! Did I not telegraph the particulars ? Women 
 don't want to have their minds harrowed by dreadful descriptions, 
 surely. The poor fellow was put to death ; is not that enough, 
 even if it had happened in a civilised country ? Do you not un- 
 derstand that, since it was in China, the details are terrible ? 
 and into Ralph Pennicuick's face there came a look of horror that 
 seemed, as it were, to illustrate his words. 
 
 ' Still, sir, they will ask questions : I mean, as to what he said 
 at the last.' 
 
 ' I did not see him at the last. Did you not hear that I 
 hurried off to Shanghae in hopes to get a pardon for him ? ' 
 
 'Yes, sir, everybody speaks of your strenuous efforts to save 
 your friend : that part of the tidings seems the only one with any
 
 RETURNED. 297 
 
 truth in it that at first reached us : though, as it was reported, it 
 was Conway who was at Shanghae, and you who were condemned 
 to death. But you look pale, father. I am sure you are fatigued 
 with your long journey, and no doubt this topic is distressing to you.' 
 
 * It is noi^ sir,' exclaimed Ealph Pennicuick angrily ; ' that is, 
 of com*se it is not a pleasant topic, but I hope I can speak of it 
 like a man. On the other hand, it did strike me that it was a 
 very shocking one to discuss with Mrs. Conway and her daughter.' 
 
 * There is no doubt of that, father. It would make the 
 matter easier for me, and, what is of more consequence, less painful 
 to them, if I had any message to deliver.' 
 
 ' There was none,' interrupted Ralph Pennicuick curtly ; 
 - nothing, at least, but his blessings and farewells ; you can 
 imagine them, and say them yourself. The whole thing took 
 place in a few hours — I mean, from when he was arrested to the 
 time I started off to Shanghae.' 
 
 ' He left no written word, then — nor any will ? ' 
 
 ' Will ? What is the use of a will, when a man has nothing 
 to leave ! Of his efifecttf, such as they were, I took charge myself, 
 and they are coming by the steamer. You would not have had 
 me bring half-a-dozen great packing-boxes to the Albany, I 
 suppose ? ' 
 
 It was evident to Eaymond that his father was labouring under 
 excessive irritation, doubtless produced by the unusual heat of the 
 weather and exhaustion of travel, and he felt that he could do no 
 better than leave him to his repose. He therefore took his 
 leave, promising to look in the next evening and give him an 
 account of his reception by the widow and her daughter. 
 
 ' Do, boy, do,' said Ralph in a conciliatory tone ; * I shall be
 
 298 BV PROXY. 
 
 glad to hear about them, and shall be especially pleased if you 
 persuade them to accept my proposition ; the annuity will be paid 
 without grudging, and let there be no fuss about it ; and — yes, you 
 may say this — after Mrs. Conway's death, it will be continued to 
 the girl/ 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDOS : PRIXTFD BY 
 
 8POTTISWOODK AND CO., N KW-STRKK T SQCARK 
 
 AXD PAUI.IAMKNT STRKKT 
 
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